V -] 
 
'j^^yi^o 
 
GOLDEN TREASURY SERIES 
 
 t^z (golden ^veasur^ 
 
 Sccont) Series 
 
THE 
 
 GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 SELECTED FROM THE BEST SONGS AND LYRICAL 
 
 POEMS IN THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE 
 
 AND ARRANGED WITH NOTES 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANCIS T. ^'PALGRAVE 
 
 LATE PROFESSOR OF POETRY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD 
 
 SECOND SERIES 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 LONDON : MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD. 
 1897 
 

 Copyright, i8p7 
 
 BY THK MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
TO THE MEMORY OF 
 
 ALFRED LORD TENNYSON 
 
 KY WHOM THE FIRST SERIES 
 
 OF THE GOLDEN TREASURY WAS 
 
 KINDLY SUPERVISED 
 
 AND IN GRATITUDE FOR HIS 
 
 INVARIABLY FAITHFUL FRIENDSHIP AND COUNSEL 
 
 THROUGH FORTY YEARS AND MORE 
 
 THIS BOOK 
 
 IS SADLY AND AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED 
 
The Vignette — The Muse and her Genius — reproduces a 
 design by Raphael Sanzio engraved in chiar' oscuro 
 by a contemporary artist. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 In the former volume of this selection our lyrical 
 poetry was brought down to 1850 (including hence 
 six of the greatest poets who have ennobled the 
 century), but limited also to the work of writers no 
 longer alive in 1861. We have hence now to retrace 
 the stream, beginning with a period nearly corre- 
 sponding to what has been called the Victorian, 
 during part of which Wordsworth in solitary grandeur 
 was the one surviving link between those whom we 
 now almost think of, as poets ancient and modern. 
 The two ages in fact overlap. And it was therefore 
 my first wish to include in the same volume the later 
 risen of our stars. 
 
 But this plan proved impossible. A decided pre- 
 ference for Lyrical poetry, — to which in all ages the 
 perplexed or overburdened heart has fled for relief 
 and confession, — has shown itself for sixty years or 
 more; an impulse traceable in large measure to the 
 increasingly subjective temper of the age, and indeed 
 already in different phases foreshown by Shelley and 
 by Wordsworth. From this preference (whilst the 
 national or commemorative Ode has become rare), 
 followed also a vast extension in length of our lyrics : 
 their work is apt to be less concentrated than that 
 of their best predecessors, classical or English : 
 whilst, concurrently, they have at the same time often 
 taken a dramatic character, rarely to be found before; 
 though Dryden's Alexander'' s Feast and Gray's Bard 
 are splendid exceptions in our earlier poetry. Lastly, 
 while during the first quarter of the century Keats, 
 Shelley, Byron, died in actual or comparative youth, 
 ix 
 
within my present range England has been favoured 
 with the long lives and persistent powers of our two 
 most eminent singers, whilst few of real promise have 
 been cut off prematurely. 
 
 Hence, also, despite this whole volume dedicated to 
 a harvest of song more copious than even that famed 
 Elizabethan outflowering, it has not been possible to 
 renew the attempt made in the former book, wherein 
 with but three or four exceptions on the ground of 
 length, all our best lyrics (so far as I could judge) 
 were gathered : and a selection only from the finest 
 work of our greater Victorian poets (so far as my 
 choice may have been happy) can alone be offered 
 here. It should therefore be remembered that many 
 famous and favourite beauties must inevitably be 
 wanting from the present portrait gallery : but I have 
 tried to make the specimens characteristic of each 
 writer's genius. Despite, however, the wide difference 
 between the work, for example, of Browning and 
 Tennyson, the present series, as representing only the 
 spirit of less than a single century, wears a certain 
 monotony of character compared with the vast range 
 of style exhibited in the earlier volume. Yet — and 
 yet — after all, this little book, as I turn the pages 
 over, seems to have a variety and wealth of power and 
 beauty, which, its range considered, is wonderful. 
 
 This second Treasury has cost thrice the labour of 
 the first. For nothing, it need scarcely be said, is 
 harder than to form an estimate even remotely accurate 
 of our own contemporary artists, whatever the sphere 
 of their art. This difficulty, in the former book, was 
 far less. For its contents, the verdict of Time had 
 been already largely given, and I had also that 
 invaluable assistance which my Dedication acknow- 
 ledges. I may however add (asking pardon for 
 egotism) that the best endeavour within my power 
 has been made to hold the balance even between 
 substance and form, the figure or the drapery, — and 
 beauty always the last impression, — by spreading the 
 choice over three or four years during which the poets 
 have been searched and read over, and the results 
 noted at many months' interval. Some check on a 
 choice necessarily imperfect, and indeed convincing 
 
 X 
 
only when the verdict of Time has been given, — it is 
 hoped may thus have been gained. But a personal 
 element always remains, too often refusing to be 
 excluded; especially in case of early favourites, and 
 the haunting music which has seized on our youth, 
 and passed perhaps physically into the very nerves or 
 whatever may be that mysterious organ of Memory 
 which transacts its secret and inexplicable life within 
 the soul's furthest recesses. 
 
 The selection has been brought, near as I can 
 venture, to our own day. But, especially in case of 
 those later singers whose course is not yet run, it is 
 all too soon even to attempt a valuation. Many 
 indeed and bright are the blossoms springing up 
 among us, though nightshade and yewberries be not 
 absent. It were, however, presumption if we attempted 
 with the microscope of criticism to classify these 
 growths, or decide whether they belong to the chil- 
 dren's * Adonis Garden ' of cut flowers, or the true 
 •immortal amaranth.' This I leave to other hands 
 than mine in the far-off summers. I have however 
 tried my best to fill the book with such Underwoods 
 (to take Jonson's phrase) as the early Roman poet 
 Naevius spoke of ' wherein the copse-wood is sown 
 by natural process, not planted; ' 
 
 Ingenio arbusta ubi nata sunt, non insita : 
 
 — a definition, more than two thousand years old, 
 of the strange spell which lifts verse into poetry 
 which it would be difficult to improve. — But here 
 that wearisomely familiar ' tastes differ ' warns that 
 no invitation to its critical exercise more liberal 
 and alluring can be held out, than is offered by a 
 selection like the present. One of the worldly-wise 
 Goethe's best aphorisms was that his opinion on any 
 matter was immensely strengthened if he found it 
 accepted by any one fellow-creature. But I cannot 
 hope even as much acceptance for this book. Varie- 
 ties in taste, often deeply rooted and strenuously held, 
 will lead every reader to condemn me for omissions 
 and inclusions: inevitably, and rightly. For such 
 judgments reveal the power which poetry, our own 
 recent poetry in especial, holds over us. They testify 
 
to life. All the leniency that can be asked is the 
 reflection that to love the rose need not carry with 
 it scorn of the lily; while the flowers of the Victorian 
 domain are so multitudinous and so nobly large in 
 the blossoin, — like those sixty-leaved roses which 
 Herodotus, two thousand and more years since, heard 
 of in the king's garden below Mount Bermion, — that 
 a limited, an imperfect garland only can be collected 
 within the garth allowed me. 
 
 It is my pleasant duty here to give thanks once 
 for all to the copyright proprietors or publishers who 
 have kindly permitted me to transfer their treasures, 
 sometimes almost too graspingly, to the enrichment 
 of this Anthology. Should any claims have been 
 overlooked by inadvertence I ask forgiveness. Spe- 
 cial acknowledgments will be found in the notes. 
 
 I deeply regret, and every reader will regret with 
 me, that I am not able to adorn my pages with 
 examples of Mr. A. C. Swinburne's brilliant lyrical 
 gift. 
 
 After the lapse of six-and-thirty years to complete 
 a book brings with it an inevitable sadness: the 
 longing for the irrevocable ; the sigh for the old 
 familiar faces; — of his, perhaps, here above all, 
 who privileged me to dedicate to his honoured name 
 that first volume to vi'hich he gave such invaluable 
 aid : it is a feeling such as that to which Goethe, in 
 one of his most beautiful lyrics, gave expression, — 
 
 Sie horen nicht die folgenden Gesange, 
 Die Seelen, denen ich die ersten sasng: — 
 
 Yet I may hope perhaps for new friends to replace 
 the lost. Kind readers! — if I have the fortune to 
 find such — may this little selection, like the former, 
 with whatever deficiencies, be the draught tempting 
 you to approach, in their free fullness, the inexhaust- 
 ible and invigorating fountains, old and new, of Eng- 
 land's Helicon. 
 
 F. T. P. 
 February 1 897 
 

 ODE 
 
 We are the music makers, 
 
 And we are the dreamers of dreams, 
 Wandering by lone sea-breakers. 
 
 And sitting by desolate streams ; — 
 World-losers and world-forsakers. 
 
 On whom the pale moon gleams : 
 Yet we are the movers and shakers 
 
 Of the world for ever, it seems. 
 
 With ^yonderful deathless ditties 
 We build up the world's great cities. 
 
 And out of a fabulous story 
 
 We fashion an empire's glory : 
 One man with a dream, at pleasure, 
 
 Shall go forth and conquer a crown : 
 And three with a new song's measure 
 
 Can trample a kingdom down. 
 
The Golden Treasury 
 
 We, in the ages lying 
 
 In the buried past of the earth, 
 Built Nineveh with our sighing, 
 
 And Babel itself in our mirth ; 
 And o'erthrew them with prophesying 
 
 To the old of the new world's worth ; 
 For each age is a dream that is dying, 
 
 Or one that is coming to birth. 
 
 A. O' Shaughnessy 
 
 II 
 
 CRADLE SONG 
 
 What does little birdie say 
 In her nest at peep of day ? 
 Let me fly, says little birdie, 
 Mother, let me fly away. 
 Birdie, rest a little longer, 
 Till the little wings are stronger. 
 So she rests a little longer, 
 Then she flies away. 
 
 What does little baby say, 
 In her bed at peep of day? 
 Baby says, like little birdie. 
 Let me rise and fly away. 
 Baby, sleep a little longer, 
 Till the little limbs are stronger. 
 If she sleeps a little longer, 
 Baby too shall fly away. 
 
 A. Lord Tennyson 
 
 III 
 
 LETTTS GLOBE 
 
 When Letty had scarce pass'd her third glad year, 
 And her young, artless words began to flow, 
 One day we gave the child a colour'd sphere 
 Of the wide earth, that she might mark and know, 
 
Second Series 
 
 By tint and outline, all its sea and land. 
 
 She patted all the world ; old empires peep'd 
 
 Between her baby fingers ; her soft hand 
 
 Was welcome at all frontiers. How she leap'd, 
 
 And laugh'd, and prattled in her world-wide bliss ; 
 
 But when we turn'd her sweet unlearned eye 
 
 On our own isle, she raised a joyous cry, 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, I see it, Letty's home is there ! ' 
 
 And, while she hid all England with a kiss, 
 
 Bright over Europe fell her golden hair. 
 
 C. Tennyson- Turner 
 
 IV 
 
 THE SURPRISE 
 
 As there I left the road in May, 
 
 And took my way along a ground, 
 
 I found a glade with girls at play. 
 
 By leafy boughs close-hemm'd around, 
 
 And there, with stores of harmless joys, 
 
 They plied their tongues, in merry noise; 
 
 Though little did they seem to fear 
 
 So queer a stranger might be near ; 
 
 Teeh-hee ! Look here ! Hah ! ha ! Look there I 
 
 And oh ! so playsome, oh ! so fair. 
 
 And one would dance as one would spring, 
 
 Or bob or bow with leering smiles. 
 
 And one would swing, or sit and sing. 
 
 Or sew a stitch or two at whiles, 
 
 And one skipp'd on with downcast face, 
 
 All heedless, to my very place. 
 
 And there, in fright, with one foot out, 
 
 Made one dead step and turn'd about. 
 
 Heeh, hee, oh! oh! ooh ! oo ! — Look there! 
 
 And oh ! so playsome, oh ! so fair. 
 
 Away they scamper'd all, full speed. 
 By boughs that swung along their track, 
 As rabbits out of wood at feed, 
 At sight of men all scamper back. 
 
The Golden Treasury 
 
 And one puU'd on behind her heel, 
 
 A thread of cotton, off her reel, 
 
 And oh ! to follow that white clue, 
 
 I felt I fain could scamper too. 
 
 Teeh, hee, run here. Eeh I ee ! Look there ! 
 
 And oh ! so play some, oh ! so fair. 
 
 W. Barnes 
 
 ISEULT'S CHILDREN 
 
 — They sleep in shelter'd rest. 
 Like helpless birds in the warm nest, 
 On the castle's southern side ; 
 Where feebly comes the mournful roar 
 Of buffeting wind and surging tide 
 Through many a room and corridor. 
 — Full on their window the moon's ray 
 Makes their chamber as bright as day. 
 It shines upon the blank white walls, 
 And on the snowy pillow falls, 
 And on two angel-heads doth play 
 Turn'd to each other — the eyes closed. 
 The lashes on the cheeks reposed. 
 Round each sweet brow the cap close-set 
 Hardly lets peep the golden hair ; 
 Through the soft-open'd lips the air 
 Scarcely moves the coverlet. 
 One little wandering arm is thrown 
 At random on the counterpane, 
 And often the fingers close in haste 
 As if their baby-owner chased 
 The butterflies again. 
 This stir they have, and this alone ; 
 But else they are so still ! 
 
 — Ah, tired madcaps ! you lie still ; 
 But were you at the window now. 
 To look forth on the fairy sight 
 Of your illumined haunts by night. 
 
Second Series 
 
 To see the park-glades where you play 
 Far lovelier than they are by day, 
 To see the sparkle on the eaves, 
 And upon every giant-bough 
 Of those old oaks, whose wet red leaves 
 Are jeweli'd with bright drops of rain— 
 How would your voices run again ! 
 And far beyond the sparkling trees' 
 Of the castle-park one sees 
 The bare heaths spreading, clear as day 
 Moor behind moor, far, far away, ' 
 
 Into the heart of Brittany. 
 And here and there, lock'd by the land, 
 Long inlets of smooth glittering sea. 
 And many a stretch of watery sand ' 
 All shining in the white moon-beams— 
 But you see fairer in your dreams ! 
 
 M. Arnold 
 
 THE DESERTED GARDEN 
 
 I mind me in the days departed. 
 How often underneath the sun. 
 With childish bounds I used to run 
 To a garden long deserted. 
 
 The beds and walks were vanish'd quite 
 And wheresoe'er had struck the spade, 
 The greenest grasses Nature laid. 
 To sanctify her right. 
 
 I call'd the place my wilderness ; 
 For no one enter'd there but I. 
 The sheep look'd in, the grass to espy. 
 And pass'd it ne'ertheless. 
 
 The trees were interwoven wild, 
 And spread their boughs enough about 
 To keep both sheep and shepherd out, 
 But not a happy child. 
 
The Golden Treasury 
 
 Adventurous joy it was for me ! 
 I crept beneath the boughs, and found 
 A circle smooth of mossy ground 
 Beneath a poplar tree. 
 
 Old garden rose-trees hedged it in, 
 Bedropt with roses waxen-white, 
 Well satisfied with dew and light, 
 And careless to be seen. 
 
 Long years ago, it might befall, 
 When all the garden flowers were trim, 
 The grave old gardener prided him 
 On these the most of all, — 
 
 Some Lady, stately overmuch, 
 Here moving with a silken noise. 
 Has blush'd beside them at the voice 
 That liken'd her to such. 
 
 Or these, to make a diadem. 
 She often may have pluck'd and twined ; 
 Half-smiling as it came to mind, 
 That few would look at them. 
 
 Oh, little thought that Lady proud, 
 
 A child would watch her fair white rose, 
 
 When buried lay her whiter brows. 
 
 And silk was changed for shroud ! — 
 
 Nor thought that gardener (full of scorns 
 For men unlearn'd and simple phrase,) 
 A child would bring it all its praise. 
 By creeping through the thorns ! 
 
 To me upon my low moss seat. 
 Though never a dream the roses sent 
 Of science or love's compliment, 
 I ween they smelt as sweet. 
 
 It did not move my grief, to see 
 The trace of human step departed. 
 Because the garden was deserted, 
 The blither place for me ! 
 
Second Series 
 
 Friends, blame me not ! a narrow ken 
 Hath childhood twixt the sun and sward : 
 We draw the moral afterward — 
 We feel the gladness then. 
 
 And gladdest hours for me did glide 
 In silence at the rose-tree wall : 
 A thrush made gladness musical 
 Upon the other side. 
 
 Nor he nor I did e'er incline 
 To peck or pluck the blossoms white — 
 How should I know but that they might 
 Lead lives as glad as mine ? 
 
 To make my hermit-home complete, 
 I brought clear water from the spring 
 Praised in its own low murmuring, — 
 And cresses glossy wet. 
 
 And so, I thought my likeness grew 
 (Without the melancholy tale) 
 To ' gentle hermit of the dale,' 
 And Angelina too. 
 
 For oft I read within my nook 
 Such minstrel stories ! till the breeze 
 Made sounds poetic in the trees, — 
 And then I shut the book. 
 
 If I shut this wherein I write, 
 I hear no more the wind athwart 
 Those trees,— nor feel that childish heart 
 Delighting in delight. 
 
 My childhood from my life is parted, 
 My footstep from the moss which drew 
 Its fairy circle round : anew 
 The garden is deserted. 
 
 Another thrush may there rehearse 
 The madrigals which sweetest are ; 
 No more for me !— myself afar 
 Do sing a sadder verse. 
 
The Golden Treasury 
 
 Ah me, ah me ! when erst I lay 
 In that child's-nest so greenly wrought, 
 I laugh'd unto myself and thought 
 ' The time will pass away.' 
 
 And still I laugh'd, and did not fear 
 But that, whene'er was past away 
 The childish time, some happier play 
 My womanhood would cheer. 
 
 I knew the time would pass away ; 
 And yet, beside the rose-tree wall, 
 Dear God, how seldom, if at all 
 Did I look up to pray ! 
 
 The time is past : — and now that grows 
 The cypress high among the trees, 
 And I behold white sepulchres 
 As well as the white rose, — 
 
 When wiser, meeker thoughts are given, 
 And I have learnt to lift my face. 
 Reminded how earth's greenest place 
 The colour draws from heaven ; — 
 
 It something saith for earthly pain. 
 But more for Heavenly promise free, 
 That I who was, would shrink to be 
 That happy child again. 
 
 E. B. Browning 
 
 VII 
 
 BLACKMWORE MAIDENS 
 
 The primwrose in the sheade do blow, 
 
 The cowslip in the zun. 
 The thyme upon the down do grow, 
 
 The clote where streams do run ; 
 An' where do pretty maidens grow 
 
 An' blow, but where the tow'r 
 Do rise among the bricken tuns, 
 
 In Blackmwore by the Stour. 
 
Second Series 
 
 If you could zee their comely gait, 
 
 An' pretty feaces' smiles, 
 A-trippen on so light o' waight, 
 
 An' steppen off the stiles ; 
 A-gwain to church, as bells do swing 
 
 An' ring 'ithin the tow'r, 
 You'd own the pretty maidens' pleace 
 
 Is Blackmwore by the Stour. 
 
 "If you vrom Wimborne took your road, 
 
 To Stower or Paladore, 
 An' all the farmers' housen show'd 
 
 Their daughters at the door ; 
 You'd cry to bachelors at hwome — 
 
 ' Here, come ; 'ithin an hour 
 You'll vind ten maidens to your mind. 
 
 In Blackmwore by the Stour.' 
 
 An' if you look'd 'ithin their door, 
 
 To zee 'em in their pleace, 
 A-doen housework up avore 
 
 Their smilen mother's feace ; 
 You'd cry — ' Why, if a man would wive 
 
 An' thrive, 'ithout a dow'r, 
 Then let en look en out a wife 
 
 In Blackmwore by the Stour.' 
 
 As I upon my road did pass 
 
 A school-house back in May, 
 There out upon the beaten grass 
 
 Wer maidens at their play ; 
 An' as the pretty souls did tweil 
 
 An' smile, I cried, ' The flow'r 
 O' beauty, then, is still in bud 
 
 In Blackmwore by the Stour.' 
 
 W. Barnes 
 
10 The Golden Treasury 
 
 VIII 
 
 LITTLE SOPHY BY THE SEASIDE 
 
 Young Sophy leads a life without alloy 
 Of pain ; she dances in the stormy air ; 
 While her pink sash and length of golden hair 
 With answering motion time her step of joy ! 
 
 Now turns she through that seaward gate of heaven, 
 That opens on the sward above the cliff, — 
 Glancing a moment at each barque and skiff, 
 Along the roughening waters homeward driven ; 
 
 Shoreward she hies, her wooden spade in hand, 
 Straight down to childhood's ancient field of play, 
 To claim her right of common in the land 
 Where little edgeless tools make easy way — 
 A right no cruel Act shall e'er gainsay. 
 No greed dispute the freedom of the sand. 
 
 C. Temiy son- Turner 
 
 IX 
 
 THE PET NAME 
 
 I have a name, a little name, 
 
 Uncadenced for the ear, 
 Unhonour'd by ancestral claim, 
 Unsanctified by prayer and psalm, 
 The solemn font anear. 
 
 It never did, to pages wove 
 For gay romance, belong. 
 It never dedicate did move 
 As * Sacharissa,' unto love — 
 * Orinda,' unto song. 
 
Second Series II 
 
 Though I write books, it will be read 
 
 Upon the leaves of none, 
 And afterward, when I am dead, 
 Will ne'er be graved for sight or tread, 
 
 Across my funeral stone. 
 
 This name, whoever chance to call, 
 
 Perhaps your smile, may win ; 
 Nay, do not smile ! mine eyelids fall 
 Over mine eyes, and feel withal 
 
 The sudden tears within. 
 
 Is there a leaf that greenly grows 
 
 Where summer meadows bloom, 
 But gathereth the winter snows. 
 And changeth to the hue of those. 
 If lasting till they come ? 
 
 Is there a word, or jest, or game, 
 
 But time encrusteth round 
 With sad associate thoughts the same ? 
 And so to me my very name 
 
 Assumes a mournful sound. 
 
 My brother gave that name to me 
 WTien we were children twain ; 
 
 When names acquired baptismally 
 
 Were hard to utter, as to see 
 That life had any pain. 
 
 No shade was on us then, save one 
 
 Of chestnuts from the hill — 
 And through the wood our laugh did run 
 As part thereof ! The mirth being done. 
 
 He calls me by it still. 
 
 Nay, do' not smile ! I hear in it 
 
 What none of you can hear ! 
 The talk upon the willow seat, 
 The bird and wind that did repeat 
 
 Around, our human cheer. 
 
The Golden Treasury 
 
 I hear the birthday's noisy bliss, 
 
 My sisters' woodland glee, — 
 My father's praise, I did not miss, 
 When stooping down he cared to kiss 
 
 The poet at his knee ; — 
 
 And voices, which to name me, aye 
 
 Their tenderest tones were keeping ! — 
 To some, I never more can say 
 An answer, till God wipes away 
 In heaven, these drops of weeping. 
 
 My name to me a sadness wears ; 
 
 No murmurs cross my mind : 
 Now God be thank'd for these thick tears, 
 Which show, of those departed years, 
 
 Sweet memories left behind ! 
 
 Now God be thank'd for years enwrought 
 
 With love which softens yet ! 
 Now God be thank'd for every thought 
 Which is so tender, it hath caught 
 
 Earth's guerdon of regret ! 
 
 The earth may sadden, not remove, 
 
 Our love divinely given -; 
 And e'en that mortal grief shall prove 
 The immortality of love 
 
 And lead us nearer Heaven. 
 
 E. B. Browning 
 
 THE TOYS 
 
 My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes 
 
 And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, 
 
 Having my law the seventh time disobey'd, 
 
 I struck him, and dismiss'd 
 
 With hard words and unkiss'd, 
 
 His Mother, who was patient, being dead. 
 
Second Series 1 3 
 
 Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, 
 
 I visited his bed, 
 
 But found him slumbering deep. 
 
 With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet 
 
 From his late sobbing wet. 
 
 And I, with moan. 
 
 Kissing away his tears, left others of my own ; 
 
 For, on a table drawn beside his head, 
 
 He had put, within his reach, 
 
 A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone, 
 
 A piece of glass abraded by the beach 
 
 And six or seven shells, 
 
 A bottle with bluebells 
 
 And two French copper coins, ranged there with 
 
 careful art, 
 To comfort his sad heart. 
 So when that night I pray'd 
 To God, I wept, and said: 
 Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath, 
 Not vexing Thee in death. 
 And Thou rememberest of what toys 
 We made our joys, 
 How weakly understood 
 Thy great commanded good, 
 Then, fatherly not less 
 
 Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, 
 Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, 
 ' I will be sorry for their childishness.' 
 
 C. Paf?7iore 
 
 XI 
 
 THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers. 
 
 Ere the sorrow comes with years ? 
 They are leaning their young heads against their 
 mothers, — 
 
 And that cannot stop their tears. 
 
14 The Golden Treasury 
 
 The young lambs are bleating in the meadows ; 
 
 The young birds are chirping in the nest ; 
 The young fawns are playing with the shadows ; 
 
 The young flowers are blowing toward the west — 
 But the young, young children, O my brothers, 
 
 They are weeping bitterly ! — 
 They are weeping in the playtime of the others, 
 In the country of the free. 
 
 Do you question the young children in the sorrow, 
 
 Why their tears are falling so ? — 
 The old man may weep for his to-morrow 
 
 Which is lost in Long Ago — 
 The old tree is leafless in the forest — 
 
 The old year is ending in the frost — 
 The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest — 
 
 The old hope is hardest to be lost ; 
 But the young, young children, O my brothers, 
 
 Do you ask them why they stand 
 Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers, 
 
 In our happy Fatherland ? 
 
 They look up with their pale and sunken faces, 
 
 And their looks are sad to see. 
 For the man's grief abhorrent, draws and presses 
 
 Down the cheeks of infancy — 
 
 * Your old earth,' they say, ' is very dreary; ' 
 
 ' Our young feet,' they say, ' are very weak ! 
 Few paces have we taken, yet are weary — 
 
 Our grave-rest is very far to seek. 
 Ask the old why they weep, and not the children, 
 
 For the outside earth is cold, — 
 And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering. 
 And the graves are for the old. 
 
 * True,' say the young children, ' it may happen 
 
 That we die before our time. 
 Little Alice died last year — the grave is shapen 
 
 Like a snowball in the rime. 
 We look'd into the pit prepared to take her — 
 
 Was no room for any work in the close clay : 
 From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her, 
 Crying, " Get up, little Alice ! it is day." 
 
Second Series 1$ 
 
 If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower, 
 
 With your ear down, little Alice never cries ! — 
 Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her, 
 
 For the smile has time for growing in her eyes, — 
 And merry go her moments, lull'd and still'd in 
 
 The shroud, by the kirk-chime ! 
 It is good when it happens,' say the children, 
 ' That we die before our time. 
 
 ' For oh,' say the children, * we are weary. 
 
 And we cannot run or leap — 
 If we cared for any meadows, it were merely 
 
 To drop down in them and sleep. 
 Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping — 
 
 We fall upon our faces, trying to go ; 
 And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping, 
 
 The reddest flower would look as pale as snow. 
 For, all day, we drag our burden tiring. 
 
 Through the coal -dark, underground — 
 Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron 
 
 In the factories, round and round. 
 
 ' For, all day, the wheels are droning, turning, — 
 
 Their wind comes in our faces, — 
 Till our hearts turn, — our head, with pulses burning, 
 
 And the walls turn in their places — 
 Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling — 
 Turns the long light that droppeth down the wall — 
 Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling — 
 All are turning, all the day, and we with all. — 
 And all day, the iron wheels are droning ; 
 
 And sometimes we could pray, 
 "O ye wheels," (breaking out in a mad moaning) 
 
 " Stop ! be silent for to-day ! " ' 
 
 Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers. 
 
 To look up to Him and pray — 
 So the blessed One, who blesseth all the others, 
 
 Will bless them another day. 
 They answer, ' Who is God that He should hear us. 
 
 While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirr'd ? 
 When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us 
 Pass by, hear"ng not, or answer not a word ! 
 
1 6 The Golden Treasury 
 
 And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding) 
 
 Strangers speaking at the door : 
 Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him, 
 
 Hears our weeping any more ? 
 
 * But, no ! ' say the children, weeping faster, 
 
 • He is speechless as a stone ; 
 And they tell us, of His image is the master 
 
 Who commands us to work on. 
 Go to ! ' say the children, — ' Up in Heaven, 
 
 Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find. 
 Do not mock us ; grief has made us unbelieving — 
 
 We look up for God, but tears have made us blind.' 
 Do you hear the children weeping and disproving, 
 
 O my brothers, what ye preach ? 
 For God's possible is taught by His world's loving — 
 
 And the children doubt of each. 
 
 They look up, with their pale and sunken faces, 
 
 And their look is dread to see. 
 For they mind you of their angels in their places, 
 
 With eyes meant for Deity ; — 
 
 * How long,' they say, ' how long, O cruel nation, 
 
 Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's 
 heart, — 
 Stifle down with a mail'd heel its palpitation. 
 
 And tread onward to your throne amid the mart ? 
 Our blood splashes upward, O our tyrants. 
 
 And your purple shows your path ; 
 But the child's sob curseth deeper in the silence 
 Than the strong man in his wrath ! ' 
 
 E, B. Browning 
 
 XII 
 
 OUR MARY AND THE CHILD MUMMY 
 
 When the four quarters of the world shall rise. 
 Men, women, children, at the Judgment-time, 
 Perchance this Memphian girl, dead ere her prime, 
 Shall drop her mask, and with dark new-born eyes 
 
Second Series ij 
 
 Salute our English Mary, loved and lost ; 
 
 The Father knows her little scroll of prayer, 
 
 And life as pure as His Egyptian air ; 
 
 For, though she knew not Jesus, nor the cost 
 
 At which He won the world, she learn'd to pray ; 
 
 And though our own sweet babe on Christ's good 
 
 name 
 Spent her last breath, premonish'd and advised 
 Of Him, and in His glorious Church baptized, 
 She will not spam this old-world child away, 
 Nor put her poor embalmed heart to shame. 
 
 C. Tennyson- Turner 
 
 XIII 
 
 MARGARET LOVE PEACOCK 
 
 THREE YEARS OLD 
 
 Long night succeeds thy little day : 
 O, blighted blossom ! can it be 
 
 That this gray stone and grassy clay 
 Have closed our anxious care of thee ? 
 
 The half-form'd speech of artless thought, 
 That spoke a mind beyond thy years, 
 
 The song, the dance by Nature taught, 
 The sunny smiles, the transient tears, 
 
 The symmetry of face and form, 
 The eye with light and life replete. 
 
 The little heart so fondly warm, 
 The voice so musically sweet, — 
 
 These, lost to hope, in memory yet 
 
 Around the hearts that loved thee cling. 
 
 Shadowing with long and vain regret 
 The too fair promise of thy Spring. 
 
 T. L. Peacock 
 
1 8 The Golden Treasury 
 
 THE WAIL OF THE CORNISH MOTHER 
 
 They say 'tis a sin to sorrow, 
 That what God doth is best ; 
 
 But 'tis only a month to-morrow 
 I buried it from my breast. 
 
 I thought it would call me Mother, 
 The very first words it said : 
 
 O, I never can love another 
 
 Like the blessed babe that's dead. 
 
 Well ! God is its own dear Father ; 
 
 It was carried to church, and bless'd ; 
 And our Saviour's arms will gather 
 
 Such children to their rest. 
 
 I will make my best endeavour 
 That my sins may be forgiven ; 
 
 I will serve God more than ever : 
 To meet my child in heaven. 
 
 I will check this foolish sorrow, 
 For what God doth is best — 
 
 But O, 'tis a month to-morrow 
 I buried it from my breast ! 
 
 R. S. Hawker 
 
 It was her first sweet child, her heart's delight 
 And, though we all foresaw his early doom, 
 We kept the fearful secret out of sight ; 
 We saw the canker, but she kiss'd the bloom. 
 
 And yet it might not be : we could not brook 
 To vex her happy heart with vague alarms. 
 To blanch with fear her fond intrepid look. 
 Or send a thrill through those encircling arms. 
 
Second Series 19 
 
 She smiled upon him, waking or at rest : 
 She could not dream her little child would die : 
 She toss'd him fondly with an upward eye ; 
 She seem'd as buoyant as a summer spray, 
 That dances with a blossom on its breast, 
 Nor knows how soon it will be borne away. 
 
 C. Tennyson- Turner 
 
 XVI 
 
 IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL 
 
 EMMIE 
 
 Our doctor had call'd in another, I never had seen 
 
 him before. 
 But he sent a chill to my heart when I saw him come 
 
 in at the door, 
 Fresh from the surgery-schools of France and of other 
 
 lands — 
 Harsh red hair, big voice, big chest, big merciless 
 
 hands ! 
 Wonderful cures he had done, O yes, but they said 
 
 too of him 
 He was happier using the knife than in trying to save 
 
 the limb, 
 And that I can well believe, for he look'd so coarse 
 
 and so red, 
 I could think he was one of those who would break 
 
 their jests on the dead, 
 And mangle the living dog that had loved him and 
 
 fawn'd at his knee — 
 Drench'd with the hellish oorali — that ever such 
 
 things should be ! 
 
 Here was a boy — I am sure that some of our children 
 
 would die 
 But for the voice of Love, and the smile, and the 
 
 comforting eye- 
 Here was a boy in the ward, every bone seem'd out of 
 
 its place — 
 Caught in a mill and crush'd — it was all but a hope- 
 less case : 
 
20 The Golden Treasury 
 
 And he handled him gently enough ; but his voice 
 
 and his face were not kind, 
 And it was but a hopeless case, he had seen it and 
 
 made up his mind, 
 And he said to me roughly * The lad will need little 
 
 more of your care. ' 
 'All the more need,' I told him, 'to seek the Lord 
 
 Jesus in prayer ; 
 They are all His children here, and I pray for them 
 
 all as my own : ' 
 But he turn'd to me, ' Ay, good woman, can prayer 
 
 set a broken bone ? ' 
 Then he mutter' d half to himself, but I know that I 
 
 heard him say 
 * All is very well — but the good Lord Jesus has had His 
 
 day.' 
 
 Had ? has it come ? It has only dawn'd. It will 
 
 come by and by. 
 O how could I serve in the wards if the hope of the 
 
 world were a lie ? 
 How could I bear with the sights and the loathsome 
 
 smells of disease 
 But that He said ' Ye do it to Me, when ye do it to 
 
 these ' ? 
 
 So he went. And we past to this ward where the 
 
 younger children are laid : 
 Here is the cot of our orphan, our darling, our meek 
 
 little maid ; 
 Empty you see just now ! We have lost her who 
 
 loved her so much — 
 Patient of pain tho' as quick as a sensitive plant to 
 
 the touch ; 
 Hers was the prettiest prattle, it often moved me to 
 
 tears. 
 Hers was the gratefullest heart I have found in a 
 
 child of her years — 
 Nay you remember our Emmie ; you used to send her 
 
 the flowers ; 
 How she would smile at 'em, play with 'em, talk to 
 
 'em hours after hours ! 
 
Second Series 2i 
 
 They that can wander at will where the works of the 
 
 Lord are reveal'd 
 Little guess what joy can be got from a cowslip out of 
 
 the field ; 
 Flowers to these * spirits in prison ' are all they can 
 
 know of the spring, 
 They freshen and sweeten the wards like the waft of 
 
 an Angel's wing ; 
 And she lay with a flower in one hand and her thin 
 
 hands crost on her breast — 
 Wan, but as pretty as heart can desire, and we 
 
 thought her at rest, 
 Quietly sleeping — so quiet, our doctor said ' Poor 
 
 little dear, 
 Nurse, I must do it to-morrow ; she'll never live 
 
 thro' it, I fear.' 
 
 I walk'd with our kindly old doctor as far as the head 
 
 of the stair, 
 Then I return'd to the ward ; the child didn't see I 
 
 was there. 
 
 Never since I was nurse, had I been so grieved and 
 
 so vext ! 
 Emmie had heard him. Softly she call'd from her 
 
 cot to the next, 
 
 * He says I shall never live thro' it, O Annie, what 
 
 shall I do ? ' 
 Annie consider 'd. 'If I,' said the wise little Annie, 
 
 * was you, 
 I should cry to the dear Lord Jesus to help me, for, 
 
 Emmie, you see, 
 It's all in the picture there : " Little children should 
 
 come to Me." ' 
 (Meaning the print that you gave us, I find that it 
 
 always can please 
 Our children, the dear Lord Jesus with children about 
 
 His knees. ) 
 
 * Yes, and I will,' said Emmie, * but then if I call to 
 
 the Lord, 
 How should He know that it's me ? such a lot of beds 
 in the ward ! ' 
 
22 The Golden Treasury 
 
 That was a puzzle for Annie. Again she consider'd 
 
 and said : 
 * Emmie, you put out your arms, and you leave 'em 
 
 outside on the bed — 
 The Lord has so much to see to ! but, Emmie, you 
 
 tell it Him plain. 
 It's the little girl with her arms lying out on the 
 
 counterpane. ' 
 
 I had sat three nights by the child — I could not 
 
 watch her for four — 
 My brain had begun to reel — I felt I could do it no 
 
 more. 
 That was my sleeping-night, but I thought that it 
 
 never would pass. 
 There was a thunderclap once, and a clatter of hail on 
 
 the glass, 
 And there was a phantom cry that I heard as I tost 
 
 about. 
 The motherless bleat of a lamb in the storm and the 
 
 darkness without ; 
 My sleep was broken besides with dreams of the 
 
 dreadful knife 
 And fears for our delicate Emmie who scarce would 
 
 escape with her life ; 
 Then in the gray of the morning it seem'd she stood 
 
 by me and smiled, 
 And the doctor came at his hour, and we went to 
 
 see the child. 
 
 He had brought his ghastly tools : we believed her 
 
 asleep again — 
 Her dear, long, lean, little arms lying out on the 
 
 counterpane ; 
 Say that His day is done ! Ah why should we care 
 
 what they say ? 
 The Lord of the children had heard her, and Emmie 
 
 had past away. 
 
 A. Lord Tennyson 
 
Second Series 23 
 
 XVII 
 
 THE MOTHER'S DREAM 
 
 I'd a dream to-night 
 As I fell asleep, 
 Oh ! the touching sight 
 Makes me still to weep : 
 Of my little lad, 
 Gone to leave me sad, 
 Aye, the child I had, 
 But was not to keep. 
 
 As in heaven high, 
 I my child did seek, 
 There, in train, came by 
 Children fair and meek. 
 Each in lily white, 
 With a lamp alight ; 
 Each was clear to sight, 
 But they did not speak. 
 
 Then, a little sad, 
 Came my child in turn, 
 But the lamp he had. 
 Oh ! it did not burn ; 
 He, to clear my doubt, 
 Said, half turn'd about, 
 ' Your tears put it out ; 
 Mother, never mourn,' 
 
 W. Barnes 
 
 XVIII 
 
 SIMPLE NATURE 
 
 Be it not mine to steal the cultured flower 
 From any garden of the rich and great. 
 
 Nor seek with care, through many a weary hour, 
 Some novel form of wonder to create. 
 
24 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Enough for me the leafy woods to rove, 
 
 And gather simple cups of morning dew, 
 Or, in the fields and meadows that I love, 
 
 Find beauty in their bells of every hue. 
 Thus round my cottage floats a fragrant air. 
 
 And though the rustic plot be humbly laid, 
 Yet, like the lilies gladly growing there, 
 
 I have not toil'd, but take what God has made. 
 My Lord Ambition pass'd, and smiled in scorn ; 
 I pluck'd a rose, and, lo ! it had no thorn. 
 
 G. J. Romanes 
 
 'DE G US TIB US ' 
 
 Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees 
 
 (If our loves remain). 
 
 In an English lane. 
 
 By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies. 
 Hark, those two in the hazel coppice— 
 A boy and a girl, if the good fates please, 
 
 Making love, say, — 
 
 The happier they ! 
 Draw yourself up from the light of the moon, 
 And let them pass, as they will too soon, 
 
 With the bean-flowers' boon, 
 
 And the blackbird's tune. 
 
 And May, and June ! 
 
 What I love best in all the world 
 Is a castle, precipice-encurl'd. 
 In a gash of the wind-grieved Apennine. 
 Or look for me, old fellow of mine 
 (If I get my head from out the mouth 
 O' the grave, and loose my spirit's bands. 
 And come again to the land of lands), — 
 In a sea-side house to the farther South, 
 Where the baked cicala dies of drouth. 
 And one sharp tree — 'tis a cypress — stands, 
 By the many hundred years red-rusted. 
 Rough iron-spiked, ripe fruit-o'ercrusted, 
 
Second Series 25 
 
 My sentinel to guard the sands 
 
 To the water's edge. For, what expands 
 
 Before the house, but the great opaque 
 
 Bkie breadth of sea without a break ? 
 
 While, in the house, for ever crumbles 
 
 Some fragment of the frescoed walls, 
 
 From blisters where a scorpion sprawls. 
 
 A girl bare-footed brings, and tumbles 
 
 Down on the pavement, green-flesh melons, 
 
 And says there's news to-day — the king 
 
 Was shot at, touch'd in the liver-wing, 
 
 Goes with his Bourbon arm in a sling : 
 
 — She hopes they have not caught the felons. 
 
 Italy, my Italy ! 
 
 Queen Mary's saying serves for me — 
 
 (When fortune's malice 
 
 Lost her — Calais) — 
 
 Open my heart and you will see 
 
 Graved inside of it, ' Italy. ' 
 
 Such lovers old are I and she : 
 
 So it always was, so shall ever be ! 
 
 R. Browning 
 
 XX 
 
 MY EARLY HOME 
 
 Here sparrows build upon the trees, 
 
 And stockdove hides her nest ; 
 The leaves are winnow'd by the breeze 
 
 Into a calmer rest ; 
 The black-cap's song was very sweet, 
 
 That used the rose to kiss ; 
 It made the Paradise complete : 
 
 My early home was this. 
 
 The redbreast from the sweet-briar bush 
 Drop't down to pick the worm ; 
 
 On the horse-chestnut sang the thrush, 
 O'er the house where I was born : 
 
26 The Golden Treasury 
 
 The moonlight, like a shower of pearls, 
 Fell o'er this ' bower of bliss,' 
 
 And on the bench sat boys and girls : 
 My early home was this. 
 
 The old house stoop'd just like a cave, 
 
 Thatch'd o'er with mosses green ; 
 Winter around the walls would rave, 
 
 But all was calm within ; 
 The trees are here all green agen, 
 
 Here bees the flowers still kiss, 
 But flowers and trees seem'd sweeter then 
 
 My early home was this. 
 
 /. Clare 
 
 XXI 
 
 TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA 
 
 I wonder do you feel to-day 
 
 As I have felt, since, hand in hand. 
 
 We sat down on the grass, to stray 
 In spirit better through the land. 
 
 This morn of Rome and May ? 
 
 For me, I touch'd a thought, I know. 
 
 Has tantalized me many times, 
 (Like turns of thread the spiders throw 
 
 Mocking across our path) for rhymes 
 To catch at and let go. 
 
 Help me to hold it ! First it left 
 The yellowing fennel, run to seed 
 
 There, branching from the brickwork's cleft, 
 Some old tomb's ruin ; yonder weed 
 
 Took up the floating weft. 
 
 Where one small orange cup amass'd 
 
 Five beetles, — blind and green they grope 
 
 Among the honey-meal : and last. 
 Everywhere on the grassy slope 
 
 I traced it. Hold it fast ! 
 
Second Series 27 
 
 The champaign with its endless fleece 
 
 Of feathery grasses everywhere ! 
 Silence and passion, joy and peace, 
 
 An everlasting wash of air — 
 Rome's ghost since her decease. 
 
 Such life there, through such lengths of hours, 
 
 Such miracles perform'd in play, 
 Such primal naked forms of flowers, 
 
 Such letting Nature have her way 
 While Heaven looks from its towers ! 
 
 How say you? Let us, O my dove, 
 
 Let us be unashamed of soul, 
 As earth lies bare to heaven above ! 
 
 How is it under our control 
 To love or not to love ? 
 
 I would that you were all to me. 
 You that are just so much, no more. 
 
 Nor yours, nor mine, — nor slave nor free ! 
 Where does the fault lie ? what the core 
 
 Of the wound, since wound must be? 
 
 I would I could adopt your will. 
 
 See with your eyes, and set my heart 
 
 Beating by yours, and drink my fill 
 
 At your soul's springs, — your part, my part 
 
 In life, for good and ill. 
 
 No. I yearn upward, touch you close. 
 Then stand away. I kiss your cheek. 
 
 Catch your soul's warmth, — I pluck the rose 
 And love it more than tongue can speak — 
 
 Then the good minute goes. 
 
 Already how am I so far 
 
 Out of that minute ? Must I go 
 
 Still like the thistle-ball, no bar. 
 
 Onward, whenever light winds blow, 
 
 Fix'd by no friendly star ? 
 
28 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Just when I seem'd about to learn ! 
 
 Where is the thread now ? Ofif again ! 
 The old trick ! Only I discern — 
 
 Infinite passion, and the pain 
 Of finite hearts that yearn. 
 
 R. Browning 
 
 XXII 
 
 THE BROOK 
 
 I come from haunts of coot and hern, 
 
 I make a sudden sally, 
 And sparkle out among the fern, 
 
 To bicker down a valley. 
 
 By thirty hills I hurry down, 
 Or slip between the ridges, 
 
 By twenty thorps, a little town. 
 And half a hundred bridges. 
 
 Till last by Philip's farm I flow 
 To join the brimming river, 
 
 For men may come and men may go. 
 But I go on for ever. 
 
 I chatter over stony ways, 
 In little sharps and trebles, 
 
 I bubble into eddying, bays, 
 I babble on the pebbles. 
 
 With many a curve my banks I fret 
 By many a field and fallow. 
 
 And many a fairy foreland set 
 With willow-weed and mallow. 
 
 I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
 To join the brimming river, 
 
 For men may come and men may go. 
 But I go on for ever. 
 
Second Series 29 
 
 I wind about, and in and out, 
 
 With here a blossom sailing, 
 And here and there a lusty trout, 
 
 And here and there a grayling. 
 
 And here and there a foamy flake 
 
 Upon me, as I travel 
 With many a silvery waterbreak 
 
 Above the golden gravel. 
 
 And draw them all along, and flow 
 
 To join the brimming river, 
 For men may come and men may go, 
 
 But I go on for ever. 
 
 I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 
 
 I slide by hazel covers ; 
 I move the sweet forget-me-nots 
 
 That grow for happy lovers. 
 
 I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 
 Among my skimming swallows ; 
 
 I make the netted sunbeam dance 
 Against my sandy shallows. 
 
 I murmur under moon and stars 
 
 In brambly wildernesses ; 
 I linger by my shingly bars ; 
 
 I loiter round my cresses ; 
 
 And out again I curve and flow 
 
 To join the brimming river. 
 For men may come and men may go. 
 
 But I go on for ever. 
 
 A. Lord Tennyson 
 
 XXIII 
 
 THE GLORY OF NATURE 
 
 If only once the chariot of the Morn 
 
 Had scatter'd from its wheels the twilight dun, 
 But once the unimaginable Sun 
 Flash'd godlike through perennial clouds forlorn, 
 And shown us Beauty for a moment born : 
 
30 The Golden Treasury 
 
 If only once blind eyes had seen the Spring 
 Waking among the triumphs of midnoon, 
 But once had seen the lovely Summer boon, 
 Pass by in state like a full robed king, 
 The waters dance, the woodlands laugh and sing : 
 
 If only once deaf ears had heard the joy 
 
 Of the wild birds, or morning breezes blowing, 
 Of silver fountains from their caverns flowing, 
 
 Or the deep-voiced rivers rolling by, 
 
 Then Night eternal fallen from the sky : 
 
 If only once weird Time had rent asunder 
 
 The curtain of the Clouds, and shown us Night 
 Climbing into the awful Infinite, 
 
 Those stairs whose steps are worlds above and under, 
 
 Glory on glory, wonder upon wonder ! 
 
 If Lightnings lit the Earthquake on his way 
 But once, or Thunder spake unto the world ; 
 The realm-wide banners of the Wind unfurl'd ; 
 
 Earth-prison'd Fires broke loose into the day ; 
 
 Or the great Seas awoke — then slept for aye ! 
 
 Ah ! sure the heart of Man too strongly tried 
 By godlike presences so vast and fair, 
 Withering in dread, or sick in love's despair, 
 Had wept for ever, and to Heaven cried, 
 Or struck with lightnings of delight had died. 
 
 But He though heir of immortality. 
 
 With mortal dust too feeble for the sight, 
 
 Draws through a veil God's overwhelming light — 
 
 Use arms the soul ; anon there moveth by 
 
 A more majestic Angel — and we die. 
 
 F. Tennyson 
 
Second Series 31 
 
 XXIV 
 
 RESUSCITATION OF FANCY 
 
 The edge of thought was blunted by the stress 
 Of the hard world ; my fancy had wax'd dull, 
 All nature seem'd less nobly beautiful, — 
 Robb'd of her grandeur and her loveliness ; 
 
 Methought the Muse within my heart had died, 
 Till, late, awaken'd at the break of day, 
 Just as the East took fire and doffd its gray, 
 The rich preparatives of light I spied ; 
 
 But one sole star — none other anywhere — 
 A wild-rose odour from the fields was borne : 
 The lark's mysterious joy fiU'd earth and air, 
 And from the wind's top met the hunter's horn ; 
 The aspen trembled wildly, and the morn 
 Breathed up in rosy clouds, divinely fair ! 
 
 C. Tennyson- Turner 
 
 XXV 
 
 SUNSET WINGS 
 
 To-night this sunset spreads two golden wings 
 
 Cleaving the western sky ; 
 Wing'd too with wind it is, and winnowings 
 Of birds ; as if the day's last hour in rings 
 
 Of strenuous flight must die. 
 
 Sun-steep'd in fire, the homeward pinions sway 
 
 Above the dovecote-tops ; 
 And clouds of starlings, ere they rest with day, 
 Sink, clamorous like mill-waters, at wild play, 
 
 By turns in every copse : 
 
 Each tree heart-deep the wrangling rout receives, — 
 
 Save for the whirr within. 
 You could not tell the starlings from the leaves ; 
 Then one great puff of wings, and the swarm heaves 
 
 Away with all its din. 
 
32 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Even thus Hope's hours, in ever-eddying flight, 
 
 To many a refuge tend ; 
 With the first light she laugh'd, and the last light 
 Glows round her still ; who natheless in the night 
 
 At length must make an end. 
 
 And now the mustering rooks innumerable 
 
 Together sail and soar, 
 While for the day's death, like a tolling knell, 
 Unto the heart they seem to cry, Farewell, 
 
 No more, farewell, no more ! 
 
 Is Hope not plumed, as 'twere a fiery dart ? 
 
 And oh ! thou dying day, 
 Even as thou goest must she too depart. 
 And Sorrow fold such pinions on the heart 
 
 As will not fly away ? 
 
 D. G. Rossetti 
 
 XXVI 
 
 THE STEAM THRESHING-MACHINE 
 
 WITH THE STRAWS-CARRIER 
 
 Flush with the pond the lurid furnace burn'd 
 At eve, while smoke and vapour fiU'd the yard ; 
 The gloomy winter sky was dimly starr'd. 
 The fly-wheel with a mellow murmur turn'd ; 
 
 While, ever rising on its mystic stair 
 In the dim light, from secret chambers borne, 
 The straw of harvest, sever'd from the corn, 
 Climb'd, and fell over, in the murky air. 
 
 I thought of mind and matter, will and law. 
 And then of him, who set his stately seal 
 Of Roman words on all the forms he saw 
 Of old-world husbandry : / could but feel 
 With what a rich precision he would draw 
 The endless ladder, and the booming wheel ! 
 
 C. Tennyson- Turner 
 
Second Series 33 
 
 ON THE DBA TH OF A FA VO URITE CANAR Y 
 
 Poor Matthias ! Wouldst thou have 
 More than pity ? claim'st a stave ? 
 —Friends more near us than a bird 
 We dismiss'd without a word. 
 Rover, with the good brown head, 
 Great Atossa, they are dead ; 
 Dead, and neither prose nor rhyme 
 Tells the praises of their prime. 
 Thou didst know them old and gray, 
 Know them in their sad decay. 
 Thou hast seen Atossa sage 
 Sit for "hours beside thy cage ; 
 Thou wouldst chirp, thou foolish bird, 
 Flutter, chirp — she never stirr'd ! 
 What were now these toys to her ? 
 Down she sank amid her fur ; 
 Eyed thee with a soul resign'd — 
 And thou deemedst cats were kind ! 
 — Cruel, but composed and bland. 
 Dumb, inscrutable and grand, 
 So Tiberius might have sat. 
 Had Tiberius been a cat. 
 
 Birds, companions more unknown. 
 Live beside us, but alone ; 
 Finding not, do all they can. 
 Passage from their souls to man. 
 Kindness we bestow, and praise, 
 Laud their plumage, greet their lays ; 
 Still, beneath their feather'd breast. 
 Stirs a history unexpress'd. 
 Wishes there, and feelings strong, 
 Incommunicably throng ; 
 What they want, we cannot guess. 
 Fail to track their deep distress — 
 Dull look on when death is nigh, 
 Note no change, and let them die. 
 
 D 
 
34 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Was it, as the Grecian sings, 
 Birds were born the first of things, 
 Before the sun, before the wind, 
 Before the gods, before mankind, 
 Airy, ante-mundane throng — 
 Witness their unworldly song ! 
 Proof they give, too, primal powers, 
 Of a prescience more than ours — 
 Teach us, while they come and go, 
 When to sail, and when to sow. 
 Cuckoo calling from the hill, 
 Swallow skimming by the mill. 
 Swallows trooping in the sedge. 
 Starlings swirling from the hedge, 
 Mark the seasons, map our year. 
 As they show and disappear. 
 But, with all this travail sage 
 Brought from that anterior age. 
 Goes an unreversed decree 
 Whereby strange are they and we, 
 Making want of theirs, and plan. 
 Indiscernible by man. 
 
 M. Arnold 
 
 XXVUI 
 
 ORARA 
 
 A TRIBUTARY OF THE CLARENCE RIVER 
 
 The Strong sob of the chafing stream. 
 
 That seaward fights its way 
 Down crags of glitter, dells of gleam. 
 
 Is in the hills to-day. 
 
 But far and faint a gray-wing'd form 
 Hangs where the wild lights wane — 
 
 The phantom of a bye-gone storm, 
 A ghost of wind and rain. 
 
 The soft white feet of afternoon 
 
 Are on the shining meads ; 
 The breeze is as a pleasant tune 
 
 Amongst the happy reeds. 
 
Second Series 35 
 
 The fierce, disastrous, flying fire, 
 
 That made the great caves ring, 
 And scarr'd the slope, and broke the spire, 
 
 Is a forgotten thing. 
 
 The air is fiill of mellow sounds ; 
 
 The wet hill-heads are bright ; 
 And, down the fall of fragrant grounds, 
 
 The deep ways flame with light. 
 
 A rose-red space of stream I see, 
 
 Past banks of tender fern ; 
 A radiant brook, unknown to me. 
 
 Beyond its upper turn. 
 
 The singing silver life I hear, 
 
 Whose home is in the green 
 Far-folded woods of fountains clear, 
 
 Where I have never been. 
 
 Ah, brook above the upper bend, 
 
 I often long to stand, 
 Wliere you in soft, cool shades descend 
 
 From the untrodden land : — 
 
 But I may linger long, and look, 
 
 Till night is over all ; 
 My eyes will never see the brook, 
 
 Or strange, sweet waterfall. 
 
 The world is round me with its heat. 
 
 And toil, and cares that tire ; 
 I cannot with my feeble feet 
 
 Climb after my desire. 
 
 H. C. Kendall 
 
 XXIX 
 
 SONG OF PALMS 
 
 Mighty, luminous, and calm 
 
 Is the country of the palm, 
 
 Crown'd with sunset and sunrise, 
 Under blue unbroken skies. 
 
36 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Waving from green zone to zone, 
 Over wonders of its own ; 
 Trackless, untraversed, unknown, 
 
 Changeless through the centuries. 
 
 Who can say what thing it bears ? 
 
 Blazing bird and blooming flower, 
 Dwelling there for years and years, 
 
 Hold the enchanted secret theirs: 
 Life and death and dream have made 
 Mysteries in many a shade, 
 Hollow haunt and hidden bower 
 Closed alike to sun and shower. 
 
 Who is ruler of each race 
 Living in each boundless place, 
 
 Growing, flowering, and flying. 
 Glowing, revelling, and dying ? 
 Wave-like, palm by palm is stirr'd, 
 And the bird sings to the bird. 
 And the day sings one rich word, 
 
 And the great night comes replying. 
 
 Long red reaches of the cane, 
 Yellow winding water-lane. 
 
 Verdant isle and amber river, 
 Lisp and murmur back again. 
 
 And ripe under-worlds deliver 
 Rapturous souls of perfume, hurl'd 
 
 Up to where green oceans quiver 
 In the wide leaves' restless world. 
 
 Many thousand years have been. 
 
 And the sun alone hath seen, 
 
 Like a high and radiant ocean, 
 All the fair palm world in motion ; 
 
 But the crimson bird hath fed 
 
 With its mate of equal red, 
 
 And the flower in soft explosion 
 
 With the flower hath been wed. 
 
Second Series 37 
 
 And its long luxuriant thought 
 Lofty palm to palm hath taught, 
 
 While a single vast liana 
 All one brotherhood hath wrought, 
 
 Crossing forest and savannah, 
 Binding fern and coco-tree, 
 
 Fig-tree, buttress-tree, banana, 
 Dwarf cane and tall maritl. 
 
 A. O' Shaitghnessy 
 
 XXX 
 
 WINTER 
 
 I, singularly moved 
 To love the lovely that are not beloved, 
 Of all the Seasons, most 
 Love Winter, and to trace 
 The sense of the Trophonian pallor on her face. 
 It is not death, but plenitude of peace ; 
 And the dim cloud that does the world enfold 
 Hath less the characters of dark and cold 
 Than warmth and light asleep, 
 And correspondent breathing seems to keep 
 With the infant harvest, breathing soft below 
 Its eider coverlet of snow. 
 Nor is in field or garden anything 
 But, duly look'd into, contains serene 
 The substance of things hoped for, in the Spring, 
 And evidence of Summer not yet seen. 
 On every chance-mild day 
 That visits the moist shaw. 
 The honeysuckle, 'sdaining to be crost 
 In urgence of sweet life by sleet or frost, 
 'Voids the time's law 
 With still increase 
 
 Of leaflet new, and little, wandering spray ; 
 Often, in sheltering brakes. 
 As one from rest disturb'd in the first hour, 
 Primrose or violet bewilder'd wakes, 
 And deems 'tis time to flower : 
 
3S The Golden Treasury 
 
 Though not a whisper of her voice he hear, 
 
 The buried bulb does know 
 
 The signals of the year, 
 
 And hails far Summer with his lifted spear. 
 
 C. Patnwre 
 
 XXXI 
 
 LYXMOUTH 
 
 Around my love and me the brooding hills, 
 Full of delicious munnurs, rise on high, 
 
 Closing upon this spot the summer hlls, 
 
 And over which there rules the summer sky. 
 
 Behind us on the shore do\sTi there the sea 
 Roars roughly, like a fierce pursuing hound ; 
 
 But all this hour is calm for her and me ; 
 And now another hill shuts out the sound. 
 
 And now we breathe the odours of the glen, 
 And round about us are enchanted things ; 
 
 The bird that hath blithe speech unknown to men, 
 The river keen, that hath a voice and sings. 
 
 The tree that dwells with one ecstatic thought, 
 Wider and fairer growing year by year, 
 
 The flower that flowereth and knoweth nought, 
 The bee that scents the flower and draweth near. 
 
 Our path is here, the rocky winding ledge 
 
 That sheer o'erhangs the rapid shouting stream ; 
 
 Now dips down smoothly to the quiet edge, 
 ^^^lere restful waters lie as in a dream. 
 
 The green exuberant branches overhead 
 Sport with the golden magic of the sun, 
 
 Here quite shut out, here like rare jewels shed 
 To fright the glittering lizards as they run. 
 
Second Series 39 
 
 And wonderful are all those mossy floors 
 
 Spread out beneath us in some pathless place, 
 
 Where the sun only reaches and outpours 
 
 His smile, where never a foot hath left a trace. 
 
 And there are perfect nooks that have been made 
 By the long growing tree, through some chance turn 
 
 Its trunk took ; since transform'd with scent and shade 
 And fiU'd with all the glory of the fern. 
 
 And tender-tinted wood flowers are seen, 
 
 Clear starry blooms and bells of pensive blue, 
 
 That lead their delicate lives there in the green— 
 What were the world if it should lose their hue ? 
 
 Even o'er the rough out-jutting stone that blocks 
 The narrow way some cunning hand hath strewn 
 
 The moss in rich adornment, and the rocks 
 
 Down there seem written thick with many a rune. 
 
 And here, upon that stone, we rest awhile, 
 
 For we can see the lovely river's fall, 
 And wild and sweet the place is to beguile 
 
 My love, and keep her till I tell her all. 
 
 A. 0' Shaiighnessy 
 
 XXXII 
 
 THE SONG OF EMPEDOCLES 
 
 And you, ye stars. 
 
 Who slowly begin to marshal. 
 
 As of old, in the fields of heaven, 
 
 Your distant, melancholy lines ! 
 
 Have you, too, survived yourselves? 
 
 Are you, too, what I fear to become ? 
 
 You, too, once lived ; 
 
 You too moved joyfully 
 
 Among august companions. 
 
 In an older world, peopled by Gods, 
 
 In a mightier order. 
 
 The radiant, rejoicing, intelligent Sons ot Heaven. 
 
40 The Golden Treasury 
 
 But now, ye kindle 
 Your lonely, cold-shining lights, 
 Unwilling lingerers 
 In the heavenly wilderness, 
 For a younger, ignoble world ; 
 And renew, by necessity, 
 Night after night your courses, 
 In echoing, unnear'd silence, 
 Above a race you know not — 
 Uncaring and undelighted. 
 Without friend and without home ; 
 Weary like us, though not 
 Weary with our weariness. 
 
 M. Arnold 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY 
 
 Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the hill ; 
 Go, shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes ! 
 No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed. 
 Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats, 
 Nor the cropp'd herbage shoot another head. 
 But when the fields are still. 
 And the tired men and dogs all gone to rest, 
 And only the white sheep are sometimes seen 
 Cross and recross the strips of moon-blanch'd 
 green. 
 Come, shepherd, and again begin the quest ! 
 
 Here, where the reaper was at work of late — 
 In this high field's dark corner, where he leaves 
 
 His coat, his basket, and his earthen cruse. 
 And in the sun all morning binds the sheaves, 
 Then here, at noon, comes back his stores to 
 use — 
 Here will I sit and wait, 
 While to my ear from uplands far away 
 The bleating of the folded flocks is borne. 
 With distant cries of reapers in the corn — 
 All the live murmur of a summer's day. 
 
Second Series 41 
 
 Screen'd is this nook o'er the high, half-reap'd field, 
 And here till sun-down, shepherd ! will I be. 
 
 Through the thick corn the scarlet poppies peep, 
 And round green roots and yellowing stalks I see 
 
 Pale pink convolvulus in tendrils creep ; 
 And air-swept lindens yield 
 Their scent, and rustle down their perfumed showers 
 
 Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid, 
 
 And bower me from the August sun with shade ; 
 And the eye travels down to Oxford's towers. 
 
 And near me on the grass lies Glanvil's book — 
 Come, let me read the oft-read tale again ! 
 
 The story of the Oxford scholar poor, 
 Of pregnant parts and quick inventive brain, 
 
 Who, tired of knocking at preferment's door, 
 One summer-morn forsook 
 His friends, and went to learn the gipsy-lore. 
 
 And roam'd the world with that wild brotherhood, 
 
 And came, as most men deem'd, to little good, 
 But came to Oxford and his friends no more. 
 
 But once, years after, in the country-lanes. 
 Two scholars, whom at college erst he knew, 
 
 Met him, and of his way of life enquired ; 
 Whereat he answer'd, that the gipsy-crew, 
 
 His mates, had arts to rule as they desired 
 The workings of men's brains. 
 And they can bind them to what thoughts they will. 
 
 ' And I,' he said, ' the secret of their art, 
 
 When fully learn'd, will to the world impart ; 
 But it needs heaven-sent moments for this skill.' 
 
 This said, he left them, and return'd no more. — ■ 
 But rumours hung about the country-side, 
 
 That the lost Scholar long was seen to stray, 
 Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied, 
 
 In hat of antique shape, and cloak of gray. 
 The same the gipsies wore. 
 Shepherds had met him on the Hurst in spring ; 
 
 At some lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors. 
 
 On the warm ingle-bench, the smock-frock'd boors 
 Had found him seated at their entering. 
 
42 The Golden Treasury 
 
 But, 'mid their drink and clatter, he would fly. 
 And I myself seem half to know thy looks, 
 
 And put the shepherds, wanderer ! on thy trace ; 
 And boys who in lone wheatfields scare the rooks 
 I ask if thou hast pass'd their quiet place ; 
 Or in my boat I lie 
 Moor'd to the cool bank in the summer-heats, 
 'Mid wide grass meadows which the sunshine fills. 
 And watch the warm, green-muffled Cumner hills, 
 . And wonder if thou haunt'st their shy retreats. 
 
 For most, I know, thou lov'st retired ground ! 
 Thee at the ferry Oxford riders blithe. 
 
 Returning home on summer-nights, have met 
 Crossing the stripling Thames at Bab-lock-hithe, 
 Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet, 
 As the punt's rope chops round ; 
 And leaning backward in a pensive dream. 
 And fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers 
 Pluck'd in shy fields and distant Wychwood 
 bowers, 
 And thine eyes resting on the moonlit stream. 
 
 And then they land, and thou art seen no more ! — 
 Maidens, who from the distant hamlets come 
 To dance around the Fyfield elm in May, 
 Oft through the darkening fields have seen thee roam. 
 Or cross a stile into the public way. 
 Oft thou hast given them store 
 Of flowers — the frail-leaf 'd, white anemony, 
 
 Dark bluebells drench'd with dews of summer 
 
 eves. 
 And purple orchises with spotted leaves — 
 But none hath words she can report of thee. 
 
 And, above Godstow Bridge, when hay-time's here 
 In June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames. 
 
 Men who through those wide fields of breezy grass 
 Where black-wing'd swallows haunt the glittering 
 Thames, 
 To bathe in the abandon'd lasher pass, 
 Have often pass'd thee near 
 
Second Series 43 
 
 Sitting upon the river bank o'ergrown ; 
 
 Mark'd thine outlandish garb, thy figure spare, 
 Thy dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted air — 
 
 But, when they came from bathing, thou wast gone ! 
 
 At some lone homestead in the Cumner hills, 
 Where at her open door the housewife darns, 
 Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a gate 
 To watch the threshers in the mossy barns. 
 
 Children, who early range these slopes and late 
 For cresses from the rills. 
 Have known thee eying, all an April-day, 
 The springing pastures and the feeding kine ; 
 And mark'd thee, when the stars come out and 
 shine. 
 Through the long dewy grass move slow away. 
 
 In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood — 
 Where most the gipsies by the turf-edged way 
 
 Pitch their smoked tents, and every bush you see 
 With scarlet patches tagg'd and shreds of gray. 
 
 Above the forest-ground called Thessaly — 
 The blackbird, picking food. 
 Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all ; 
 
 So often has he known thee past him stray. 
 
 Rapt, twirling in thy hand a wither'd spray. 
 And waiting for the spark from heaven to fall. 
 
 And once, in winter, on the causeway chill 
 
 Where home through flooded fields foot-travellers go. 
 
 Have I not pass'd thee on the wooden bridge, 
 Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the snow. 
 Thy face tow'rd Hinksey and its wintry ridge ? 
 And thou hast climb'd the hill, 
 And gain'd the white brow of the Cumner range ; 
 Turn'd once to watch, while thick the snowflakes 
 
 fall. 
 The line of festal light in Christ-Church hall- 
 Then sought thy straw in some sequester'd grange. 
 
 But what — I dream ! Two hundred years are flown 
 Since first thy story ran through Oxford halls. 
 
44 The Golden Treasury 
 
 And the grave Glanvil did the tale inscribe 
 That thou wert vvander'd from the studious walls 
 
 To learn strange arts, and join a gipsy-tribe; 
 And thou from earth art gone 
 Long since, and in some quiet churchyard laid — 
 
 Some country-nook, where o'er thy unknown grave 
 
 Tall grasses and white flowering nettles wave, 
 Under a dark, red-fruited yew-tree's shade. 
 
 — No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours ! 
 For what wears out the life of mortal men ? 
 
 'Tis that from change to change their being rolls; 
 'Tis that repeated shocks, again, again. 
 
 Exhaust the energy of strongest souls 
 And numb the elastic powers. 
 Till having used our nerves with bliss and teen, 
 
 And tired upon a thousand schemes our wit, 
 
 To the just-pausing Genius we remit 
 Our worn-out life, and are — what we have been. 
 
 Thou hast not lived, why should'st thou perish, so ? 
 Thou hadst 07ie aim, one business, one desire ; 
 
 Else wert thou long since number'd with the dead ! 
 Else hadst thou spent, like other men, thy fire ! 
 
 The generations of thy peers are fled, 
 And we ourselves shall go ; 
 But thou possessest an immortal lot, 
 
 And we imagine thee exempt from age 
 
 And living as thou liv'st on Glanvil's page, 
 Because thou hadst — what we, alas ! have not. 
 
 For early didst thou leave the world, with powers 
 Fresh, undiverted to the world without. 
 
 Firm to their mark, not spent on other things ; 
 Free from the sick fatigue, the languid doubt. 
 Which much to have tried, in much been baffled, 
 brings, 
 O life unlike to ours ! 
 Who fluctuate idly without term or scope, 
 
 Of whom each strives, nor knows for what he 
 
 strives, 
 And each half lives a hundred different lives ; 
 Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, in hope. 
 
Second Series 45 
 
 Thou waitest for the spark from heaven ! and we, 
 Light half-believers of our casual creeds, ^ 
 
 Who never deeply felt, nor clearly will'd, 
 Whose insight never has borne fruit in deeds, 
 
 Whose vague resolves never have been fulfill d ; 
 For whom each year we see 
 Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new ; 
 
 Who hesitate and falter life away. 
 
 And lose to-morrow the ground won to-day— 
 Ah ! do not we, wanderer ! await it too ? 
 
 Yes, we await it !— but it still delays, 
 
 And then we suffer ! and amongst us one, 
 Who most has suffer'd, takes dejectedly 
 His seat upon the intellectual throne ; 
 And all his store of sad experience he 
 Lays bare of wretched days ; 
 Tells us his misery's birth and growth and signs, 
 And how the dying spark of hope was fed. 
 And how the breast was soothed, and how the 
 head, 
 And all his hourly varied anodynes. 
 
 This for our wisest ! and we others pine, 
 
 And wish the long unhappy dream would end. 
 
 And waive all claim to bliss, and try to bear ; 
 With close-lipp'd patience for our only friend, 
 Sad patience, too near neighbour to despair- 
 But none has hope like thine ! 
 Thou through the fields and through the woods 
 dost stray. 
 Roaming the country-side, a truant boy. 
 Nursing thy project in unclouded joy, 
 And every doubt long blown by time away. 
 
 O born in days when wits were fresh and clear. 
 And life ran gaily as the sparkling Thames ; 
 Before this strange disease of modern life. 
 With its sick hurry, its divided aims, 
 
 Its heads o'ertax'd, its palsied hearts, was rite- 
 Fly hence, our contact fear ! 
 
46 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood ! 
 Averse, as Dido did with gesture stern 
 From her false friend's approach in Hades turn, 
 
 Wave us away, and keep thy solitude ! 
 
 Still nursing the unconquerable hope, 
 Still clutching the inviolable shade. 
 
 With a free, onward impulse brushing through, 
 By night, the silver'd branches of the glade — 
 
 Far on the forest-skirts, where none pursue, 
 On some mild pastoral slope 
 Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales 
 
 Freshen thy flowers as in former years 
 
 With dew, or listen with enchanted ears. 
 From the dark dingles, to the nightingales ! 
 
 But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly ! 
 For strong the infection of our mental strife. 
 
 Which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest ; 
 And we should win thee from thy own fair life, 
 
 Like us distracted, and like us unblest. 
 Soon, soon thy cheer would die. 
 Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfix'd thy powers. 
 
 And thy clear aims be cross and shifting made ; 
 
 And then thy glad perennial youth would fade. 
 Fade, and grow old at last, and die like ours. 
 
 Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles ! 
 — As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea. 
 
 Descried at sunrise an emerging prow 
 Lifting the cool-hair'd creepers stealthily, 
 The fringes of a southward-facing brow 
 Among the Aegaean isles ; 
 And saw the merry Grecian coaster come, 
 
 Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine. 
 Green, bursting figs, and tunnies steep'd in 
 brine — 
 And knew the intruders on his ancient home. 
 
 The young light-hearted masters of the waves — 
 And snatch'd his rudder, and shook out more sail j 
 
 And day and night held on indignantly 
 O'er the blue Midland waters with the gale, 
 
Second Series 47 
 
 Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily, 
 To where the Atlantic raves 
 Outside the western straits ; and unbent sails 
 There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets 
 
 of foam, 
 Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come ; 
 And on the beach undid his corded bales. 
 
 M. Arnold 
 
 let the solid ground 
 Not fail beneath my feet 
 
 Before my life has found 
 
 What some have found so sweet ; 
 Then let come what come may. 
 What matter if I go mad, 
 
 1 shall have had my day. 
 
 Let the -sweet heavens endure. 
 Not close and darken above me 
 
 Before I am quite quite sure 
 That there is one to love me ; 
 
 Then let come what come may 
 
 To a life that has been so sad, 
 
 I shall have had my day. 
 
 A. Lord Tennyson 
 
 XXXV 
 
 SOULS BEAUTY 
 
 Under the arch of Life, where love and death. 
 Terror and mystery, guard her shrine, I saw 
 Beauty enthroned ; and though her gaze struck awe, 
 
 I drew it in as simply as my breath. 
 
 Hers are the eyes which, over and beneath. 
 
 The sky and sea bend on thee, — which can draw, 
 By sea or sky or woman, to one law. 
 
 The allotted bondman of her palm and wreath. 
 
48 The Golden Treasury 
 
 This is that Lady Beauty, in whose praise 
 
 Thy voice and hand shake still, — long known to 
 thee 
 By flying hair and fluttering hem, — thebeat 
 Following her daily of thy heart and feet, 
 How passionately and irretrievably. 
 In what fond flight, how many ways and days ! 
 
 D. G. Rossetti 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 AMATURUS 
 
 Somewhere beneath the sun, 
 
 These quivering heart-strings prove it, 
 Somewhere there must be one 
 
 Made for this soul to move it ; 
 Some one that hides her sweetness 
 
 From neighbours whom she slights, 
 Nor can attain completeness. 
 
 Nor give her heart its rights ; 
 Some one whom I could court 
 
 With no great change of manner, 
 Still holding reason's fort, 
 
 Though waving fancy's banner ; 
 A lady, not so queenly 
 
 As to disdain my hand. 
 Yet born to smile serenely 
 
 Like those that rule the land ; 
 Noble, but not too proud ; 
 
 With soft hair simply folded, 
 And bright face crescent-brow'd. 
 
 And throat by Muses moulded ; 
 And eyelids lightly falling 
 
 On little glistening seas, 
 Deep-calm, when gales are brawling, 
 
 Though stirr'd by every breeze ; 
 Swift voice, like flight of dove 
 
 Through minster-arches floating, 
 With sudden turns, when love 
 
 Gets overnear to doting ; 
 
Second Series 49 
 
 Keen lips, that shape soft sayings 
 
 Like crystals of the snow, 
 With pretty half-betrayings 
 
 Of things one may not know ; 
 Fair hand, whose touches thrill. 
 
 Like golden rod of wonder. 
 Which Hermes wields at will 
 
 Spirit and flesh to sunder ; 
 Light foot, to press the stirrup 
 
 In fearlessness and glee, 
 Or dance, till finches chirrup, 
 
 And stars sink to the sea. 
 
 Forth, Love, and find this maid, 
 
 Wherever she be hidden : 
 Speak, Love, be not afraid. 
 
 But plead as thou art bidden ; 
 And say, that he who taught thee 
 
 His yearning want and pain. 
 Too dearly, dearly, bought thee 
 
 To part with thee in vain. 
 
 W. Johnson-Cory 
 
 XXXVII 
 
 ZULEIKA 
 
 Zuleika is fled away, 
 
 Though your bolts and your bars were strong ; 
 A minstrel came to the gate to-day 
 
 And stole her away with a song. 
 His song was subtle and sweet. 
 It made her young heart beat. 
 
 It gave a thrill to her faint heart's will, 
 And wings to her weary feet. 
 
 Zuleika was not for ye. 
 
 Though your laws and your threats were hard 
 The minstrel came from beyond the sea, 
 
 And took her in spite of your guard : 
 E 
 
50 The Golden Treasury 
 
 His ladder of song was slight, 
 
 But it reach'd to her window height ; 
 
 Each verse so frail was the silken rail 
 From which her soul took flight. 
 
 The minstrel was fair and young ; 
 
 His heart was of love and fire ; 
 His song was such as you ne'er have sung, 
 
 And only love could inspire : 
 He sang of the singing trees, 
 And the passionate sighing seas, 
 
 And the lovely land of his minstrel band ; 
 And with many a song like these 
 
 He drew her forth to the distant wood. 
 
 Where bird and flower were gay, 
 And in silent joy each green tree stood ; 
 
 And with singing along the way, 
 He drew her to where each bird 
 Repeated his magic word, 
 
 And there seem'd a spell she could not tell 
 In every sound she heard. 
 
 And singing and singing still. 
 
 He lured her away so far. 
 Past so many a wood and valley and hill. 
 
 That now, would you know where they are ? 
 In a bark on a silver stream. 
 As fair as you see in a dream ; 
 
 Lo ! the bark glides along to the minstrel's song, 
 While the smooth waves ripple and gleam. 
 
 And soon they will reach the shore 
 
 Of that land whereof he sings, 
 And love and song will be evermore 
 
 The precious, the only things ; 
 They will live and have long delight 
 They two in each other's sight, 
 
 In the violet vale of the nightingale, 
 And the flower that blooms by night. 
 
 A. O' Shaughnessy 
 
Second Series 51 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 AT THE CHURCH GATE 
 
 Although I enter not, 
 Yet round about the spot 
 
 Ofttimes I hover ; 
 And near the sacred gate, 
 With longing eyes I wait. 
 
 Expectant of her. 
 
 The Minster bell tolls out 
 Above the city's rout 
 
 And noise and humming ; 
 They've hush'd the Minster bell ; 
 The organ 'gins to swell : 
 
 She's coming ! she's coming ! 
 
 My Lady comes at last, 
 Timid and stepping fast 
 
 And hastening hither, 
 With modest eyes down-cast : 
 She comes — she's here — she's pass'd. 
 
 May heaven go with her ! 
 
 Kneel undisturb'd, fair Saint ! 
 Pour out your praise or plaint 
 
 Meekly and duly ! 
 I will not enter there 
 To sully your pure prayer 
 
 With thoughts unruly. 
 
 But suffer me to pace 
 Round the forbidden place, 
 
 Lingering a minute ! 
 Like outcast spirits who wait 
 And see through heaven's gate 
 
 Angels within it. 
 
 W. M. Thackeray 
 
52 The Golderi Treasury 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 THE BIRTH-BOND 
 
 Have you not noted, in some family 
 
 Where two were born of a first marriage-bed, 
 How still they own their gracious bond, though fed 
 
 And nursed on the forgotten breast and knee ? — 
 
 How to their father's children they shall be 
 In act and thought of one goodwill ; but each 
 Shall for the other have, in silence speech. 
 
 And in a word complete community ? 
 
 Even so, when first I saw you, seem'd it, love, 
 That among souls allied to mine was yet 
 
 One nearer kindred than life hinted of. 
 
 O born with me somewhere that men forget. 
 And though in years of sight and sound unmet, 
 
 Known for my soul's birth-partner well enough ! 
 
 D. G. Rossetti 
 
 LISTENING 
 
 She listen'd like a cushat dove 
 
 That listens to its mate alone : 
 
 She listen'd like a cushat dove 
 
 That loves but only one. 
 
 Not fair as men would reckon fair, 
 Nor noble as they count the line : 
 Only as graceful as a bough. 
 
 And tendrils of the vine : 
 Only as noble as sweet Eve 
 
 Your ancestress and mine. 
 
 And downcast were her dovelike eyes 
 And downcast was her tender cheek ; 
 Her pulses flutter'd like a dove 
 To hear him speak. 
 
 C. G. Rossetti 
 
Second Series 53 
 
 XLI 
 
 SOMEWHERE OR OTHER 
 
 Somewhere or other there must surely be 
 The face not seen, the voice not heard. 
 The heart that not yet — never yet — ah me ! 
 Made answer to my word. 
 
 Somewhere or other, may be near or far ; 
 
 Past land and sea, clean out of sight ; 
 Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the star 
 That tracks her night by night. 
 
 Somewhere or other, may be far or near ; 
 
 With just a wall, a hedge, between ; 
 With just the last leaves of the dying year 
 Fallen on a turf grown green. 
 
 C. G. Rossetti 
 
 Ask me no more : the moon may draw the sea ; 
 The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the 
 
 shape. 
 With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape ; 
 But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee ? 
 Ask me no more. 
 
 Ask me no more : what answer should I give ? 
 I love not hollow cheek or faded eye : 
 Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die ! 
 
 Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live ; 
 Ask me no more. 
 
 Ask me no more : thy fate and mine are seal'd : 
 I strove against the stream and all in vain : 
 Let the great river take me to the main : 
 No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield ; 
 Ask me no more. 
 
 A. Lord Tennyson 
 
54 The Golden Treasury 
 
 ZUMMER AN' WINTER 
 
 When I led by zummer streams 
 
 The pride o' Lea, as naighbours thought her, 
 While the zun, wi' evenen beams, 
 Did cast our sheades athirt the water ; 
 
 Winds a-blowen, 
 
 Streams a-flowen, 
 
 Skies a-glowen ; 
 Tokens ov my jay zoo fleeten, 
 Heighten'd it, that happy meeten. 
 
 Then, when maid an' man took pleaces, 
 
 Gay in winter's Chris'mas dances, 
 Show en in their merry fe'aces 
 
 Kindly smiles an' glisnen glances ; 
 Stars a-winken, 
 Day a-shrinken, 
 Sheades a-zinken ; 
 Brought anew the happy meeten, 
 That did meake the night too fleeten. 
 
 W. Barnes 
 
 XLIV 
 
 LULLABY 
 
 The rook's nest do rock on the tree-top 
 
 Where vew foes can stand ; 
 
 The martin's is high, an' is deep 
 
 In the steep cliff o' zand. 
 
 But thou, love, a-sleepen where vootsteps 
 
 Mid come to thy bed. 
 
 Hast father an' mother to watch thee 
 
 An' shelter thy head. 
 
 Lullaby, Lilybrow. Lie asleep ; 
 
 Blest be thy rest. 
 
Second Series 55 
 
 An' zome birds do keep under ruffen 
 
 Their young vrom the storm, 
 
 An' zome wi' nest-hoodens o' moss 
 
 An' o' wool, do lie warm. 
 
 An' we wull look well to the house ruf 
 
 That o'er thee mid leak. 
 
 An' the blast that mid beat on thy winder 
 
 Shall not smite thy cheak. 
 
 Lullaby, Lilybrow. Lie asleep ; 
 
 Blest be thy rest. 
 
 W. Barnes 
 
 XLV 
 
 If thou must love me, let it be for nought 
 
 Except for love's sake only. Do not say 
 
 ' I love her for her smile . . . her look . . her way 
 
 Of speaking gently, ... for a trick of thought 
 
 That falls in well with mine, and certes brought 
 
 A sense of pleasant ease on such a day ' — 
 
 For these things in themselves, Beloved, may 
 
 Be changed, or change for thee, — and love so wrought, 
 
 May be unwrought so. Neither love me for 
 
 Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry, 
 
 Since one might well forget to weep who bore 
 
 Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby. 
 
 But love me for love's sake, that evermore 
 
 Thou may'st love on through love's eternity. 
 
 E. B. Browning 
 
 XLV I 
 
 If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange 
 And be all to me ? Shall I never miss 
 Home-talk and blessing, and the common kiss 
 That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange, 
 When I look up, to drop on a new range 
 Of walls and floors . . another home than this ? 
 Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is 
 Fill'd by dead eyes, too tender to know change ? 
 
56 The Golden Treasury 
 
 That's hardest ! If to conquer love, has tried, 
 To conquer grief tries more ... as all things prove : 
 For grief indeed is love, and grief beside. 
 Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love — 
 Yet love me — wilt thou ? Open thine heart wide, 
 And fold within the wet wings of thy dove. 
 
 E. B. Browning 
 
 XLVII 
 
 WILLOWWOOD 
 
 I sat with Love upon a woodside well. 
 Leaning across the water, I and he ; 
 Nor ever did he speak nor look'd at me, 
 
 But touch'd his lute wherein was audible 
 
 The certain secret thing he had to tell : 
 Only our mirror'd eyes met silently 
 In the low wave ; and that sound came to be 
 
 The passionate voice I knew ; and my tears fell. 
 
 And at their fall, his eyes beneath grew hers ; 
 And with his foot and with his wing-feathers 
 
 He swept the spring that water'd my heart's 
 drouth. 
 Then the dark ripples spread to waving hair. 
 And as I stoop'd, her own lips rising there 
 
 Bubbled with brimming kisses at my mouth. 
 D. G. Rossetti. 
 
 XLVIII 
 
 JEANE 
 
 We now mid hope vor better cheer. 
 My smilen wife o' twice vive year. 
 Let others frown, if thou bist near 
 
 Wi' hope upon thy brow, Jeane ; 
 Vor I vu'st lov'd thee when thy light 
 Young sheape vu'st grew to woman's height 
 
 An' I do love thee now, Jeane. 
 
Second Series 5^ 
 
 An' we've a-trod the sheenen bleade 
 Ov eegrass in the zummer sheade, 
 An' when the leaves begun to feade 
 
 Wi' zummer in the weane, Jeane ; 
 An' we've a-wander'd drough the groun' 
 O' swayen wheat a-turnen brown, 
 An' we've a-stroll'd together roun' 
 
 The brook an' drough the leane, Jeane. 
 
 An' nwone but I can ever tell 
 Ov all thy tears that have a-vell 
 When trials meade thy bosom zwell, 
 
 An' nwone but thou o' mine, Jeane ; 
 An' now my heart, that heaved wi' pride 
 Back then to have thee at my zide, 
 Do love thee mwore as years do slide, 
 
 An' leave them times behine, Jeane. 
 
 W. Barnes 
 
 XLIX 
 
 Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand 
 Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore 
 Alone upon the threshold of my door 
 Of individual life, I shall command 
 The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand 
 Serenely in the sunshine as before. 
 Without the sense of that which I forbore, . . 
 Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land 
 Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine 
 With pulses that beat double. What I do 
 And what I dream include thee, as the wine 
 Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue 
 God for myself, He hears that name of thine, 
 And sees within my eyes, the tears of two. 
 
 E. B. Browning 
 
58 The Golden Treasury 
 
 I thought once how Theocritus had sung 
 
 Of the sweet years, the dear and wish'd-for years, 
 
 Who each one in a gracious hand appears 
 
 To bear a gift for mortals, old or young : 
 
 And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, 
 
 I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, 
 
 The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, . . 
 
 Those of my own life, who by turns had flung 
 
 A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware, 
 
 So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move 
 
 Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair ; 
 
 And a voice said in mastery while I strove, . . 
 
 * Guess now who holds thee ? ' ' Death ! ' I said. 
 
 But, there, 
 The silver answer rang — ' Not Death, but Love.' 
 
 E. B. Browning 
 
 LI 
 
 KEEPING A HEART 
 
 If one should give me a heart to keep, 
 
 With love for the golden key, 
 The giver might live at ease or sleep ; 
 It should ne'er know pain, be weary, or weep, 
 
 The heart watch'd over by me. 
 
 I would keep that heart as a temple fair. 
 
 No heathen should look therein ; 
 Its chaste marmoreal beauty rare 
 I only should know, and to enter there 
 I must hold myself from sin. 
 
 I would keep that heart as a casket hid 
 
 Where precious jewels are ranged, 
 A memory each ; as you raise the lid. 
 You think you love again as you did 
 Of old, and nothing seems changed. 
 
Second Series 59 
 
 How I should tremble day after day, 
 As I touch'd with the golden key, 
 Lest aught in that heart were changed, or say 
 That another had stolen one thought away 
 And it did not open to me. 
 
 But ah, I should know that heart so well, 
 
 As a heart so loving and true, 
 As a heart that I held with a golden spell, 
 That so long as I changed not I could foretell 
 
 That heart would be changeless too. 
 
 I would keep that heart as the thought of heaven, 
 
 To dwell in a life apart, 
 My good should be done, my gift be given. 
 In hope of the recompense there ; yea, even 
 
 My life should be led in that heart. 
 
 And so on the eve of some blissful day. 
 From within we should close the door 
 On glimmering splendours of love, and stay 
 In that heart shut up from the world away, 
 Never to open it more. 
 
 A. G" Shaughnessy 
 
 LI I 
 HOME A T LAST 
 
 Now more the bliss of love is felt. 
 Though felt to be the same ; 
 
 'Tis still our lives in one to melt, 
 Within love's sacred flame : 
 
 Each other's joy each to impart. 
 Each other's grief to share ; 
 
 To look into each other's heart, 
 And find all solace there : 
 
 To lay the head upon one breast. 
 To press one answering hand. 
 
 To feel through all the soul's unrest, 
 One soul to understand ; 
 
6q The Golden Treasury 
 
 To go into the teeming world, 
 The striving and the heat, 
 
 With knowledge of one tent unfurl'd 
 To welcome weary feet : 
 
 A shadow in a weary land, 
 
 Where men as wanderers roam : 
 ■ A shadow where a rock doth stand — 
 The shadow of a Home. 
 
 G. J. Romanes 
 
 SUDDEN LIGHT 
 
 I have been here before, 
 
 But when or how I cannot tell : 
 I know the grass beyond the door, 
 
 The sweet keen smell, 
 The sighing sound, the lights around the shore. 
 
 You have been mine before, — 
 How long ago I may not know : 
 
 But just when at that swallow's soar 
 Your neck turn'd so, 
 Some veil did fall, — I knew it all of yore. 
 
 Has this been thus before ? 
 
 And shall not thus time's eddying flight 
 Still with our lives our love restore 
 In death's despite, 
 And day and night yield one delight once more ? 
 
 D. G. Rossetti 
 
 LIV 
 
 NEVER THE TIME AND THE PLACE 
 
 Never the time and the place 
 And the loved one all together ! 
 
 This path — how soft to pace ! 
 This May — what magic weather ! 
 
Second Series 6i 
 
 Where is the loved one's face ? 
 In a dream that loved one's face meets mine, 
 But the house is narrow, the place is bleak 
 Where, outside, rain and wind combine 
 With a furtive ear, if I strive to speak, 
 With a hostile eye at my flushing cheek, 
 With a malice that marks each word, each sign ! 
 O enemy sly and serpentine, 
 
 Uncoil thee from the waking man ! 
 Do I hold the Past 
 Thus firm and fast 
 Yet doubt if the Future hold I can ? 
 This path so soft to pace shall lead 
 Thro' the magic of May to herself indeed ! 
 Or narrow if needs the house must be, 
 Outside are the storms and strangers : we — 
 Oh, close, safe, warm sleep I and she, 
 — I and she ! 
 
 R. Browning 
 
 LV 
 
 THE BROOK- SIDE 
 
 I wander'd by the brook-side, 
 
 I wander'd by the mill, — 
 
 I could not hear the brook flow, 
 
 The noisy wheel was still ; 
 
 There was no burr of grasshopper, 
 
 Nor chirp of any bird, 
 
 But ' the beating of my own heart 
 
 Was all the sound I heard. 
 
 I sat beneath the elm-tree, 
 
 I watch'd the long, long shade. 
 
 And as it grew still longer, 
 
 I did not feel afraid ; 
 
 For I listen'd for a footfall, 
 
 I listen'd for a word, — 
 
 But ' the beating of my own heart 
 
 Was all the sound I heard. 
 
62 The Golden Treasury 
 
 He came not, — no, he came not, — 
 The night came on alone, — 
 The little stars sat, one by one, 
 Each on his golden throne ; 
 The evening air pass'd by my cheek, 
 The leaves above were stirr'd, — 
 But ' the beating of my own heart 
 Was all the sound I heard. 
 
 Fast silent tears were flowing. 
 When something stood behind, — 
 A hand was on my shoulder, 
 I knew its touch was kind : 
 It drew me nearer — nearer, — 
 We did not speak one word, 
 For ' the beating of our own hearts 
 Was all the sound we heard. 
 
 R. M. {Milnes) Lord Houghton 
 
 LVI 
 A PAUSE 
 
 They made the chamber sweet with flowers and 
 leaves. 
 And the bed sweet with flowers on which I lay j 
 While my soul, love-bound, loiter'd on its way. 
 
 I did not hear the birds about the eaves. 
 
 Nor hear the reapers talk among the sheaves : 
 Only my soul kept watch from day to day, 
 My thirsty soul kept watch for one away : — 
 
 Perhaps he loves, I thought, remembers, grieves. 
 
 At length there came the step upon the stair, 
 
 Upon the lock the old familiar hand : 
 Then first my spirit seem'd to scent the air 
 
 Of Paradise ; then first the tardy sand 
 Of time ran golden ; and I felt my hair 
 
 Put on a glory, and my soul expand. 
 
 C. G. Rossetti 
 
Second Series 63 
 
 The mighty ocean rolls and raves, 
 To part us with its angry waves ; 
 But arch on arch from shore to shore, 
 In a vast fabric reaching o'er, 
 
 With careful labours daily wrought 
 By steady hope and tender thought, 
 The wide and weltering waste above — 
 Our hearts have bridged it with their love. 
 
 There fond anticipations fly 
 To rear the growing structure high ; 
 Dear memories upon either side 
 Combine to make it large and wide. 
 
 There, happy fancies day by day. 
 New courses sedulously lay ; 
 There soft solicitudes, sweet fears. 
 And doubts accumulate, and tears. 
 
 While the pure purpose of the soul. 
 
 To form of many parts a whole, 
 
 To make them strong and hold them true. 
 
 From end to end, is carried through. 
 
 Then when the waters war between, 
 Upon the masonry unseen, 
 Secure and swift, from shore to shore. 
 With silent footfall travelling o'er. 
 
 Our sunder'd spirits come and go, 
 Hither and thither, to and fro, 
 Pass and repass, now linger near. 
 Now part, anew to reappear. 
 
 With motions of a glad surprise, 
 We meet each other's wondering eyes, 
 At work, at play, when people talk, 
 And when we sleep, and when we walk. 
 
64 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Each dawning day my eyelids see 
 You come, methinks, across to me, 
 And I, at every hour anew 
 Could dream I travell'd o'er to you. 
 
 A. H. Clough 
 
 LVIII 
 
 SILENT NOON 
 
 Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass, — 
 The finger-points look through like rosy blooms : 
 Your eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams and 
 glooms 
 
 'Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass. 
 
 All round our nest, far as the eye can pass. 
 Are golden kingcup-fields with silver edge 
 Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn-hedge. 
 
 'Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass. 
 
 Deep in the sun-search'd growths the dragon-fly 
 Hangs like a blue thread loosen'd from the sky : — 
 
 So this wing'd hour is dropt to us from above. 
 Oh ! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower, 
 This close-companion'd inarticulate hour 
 
 When twofold silence was the song of love. 
 
 D. G. Rossetti 
 
 LIX 
 
 NUNC A MET QUI NUNQUAM AMAVIT . 
 
 'Twas when the spousal time of May 
 
 Hangs all the hedge with bridal wreaths, 
 And air's so sweet, the bosom gay 
 
 Gives thanks for every breath it breathes. 
 When like to like is gladly moved, 
 
 And each thing joins in Spring's refrain, 
 ' Let those love now, who never loved ; 
 
 Let those who have loved love again ; ' 
 
Second Series 65 
 
 That I, in whom the sweet time wrought, 
 
 Lay stretch'd within a lonely glade, 
 Abandon'd to delicious thought 
 
 Beneath the softly twinkling shade. 
 The leaves, all stirring, mimick'd well 
 
 A neighbouring rush of rivers cold, 
 And, as the sun or shadow fell. 
 
 So these were green and those were gold ; 
 In dim recesses hyacinths droop'd. 
 
 And breadths of primrose lit the air, 
 "Which, wandering through the woodland, stoop'd 
 
 And gather'd perfumes here and there ; 
 Upon the spray the squirrel swung, 
 
 And careless songsters, six or seven, 
 Sang lofty songs the leaves among. 
 
 Fit for their only listener. Heaven. 
 
 C. Patmore 
 
 LX 
 
 Birds in the high Hall -garden 
 When twilight was falling, 
 
 Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud, 
 They were crying and calling. 
 
 WTiere was Maud ? in our wood ; 
 
 And I, who else, was with her, 
 Gathering woodland lilies. 
 
 Myriads blow together. 
 
 Birds in our wood sang 
 Ringing thro' the valleys, 
 
 Maud is here, here, here 
 In among the lilies. 
 
 I kiss'd her slender hand. 
 She took the kiss sedately ; 
 
 Maud is not seventeen. 
 But she is tall and stately. 
 F 
 
66 The Golden Treasury 
 
 I to cry out on pride 
 
 Who have won her favour ! 
 
 Maud were sure of Heaven 
 If lowHness could save her. 
 
 1 know the way she went 
 
 Home with her maiden posy, 
 For her feet have touch'd the meadows 
 And left the daisies rosy. 
 
 Birds in the high Hall-garden 
 Were crying and calling to her, 
 
 Where is Maud, Maud, Maud ? 
 One is come to woo her. 
 
 Look, a horse at the door, 
 And little King Charley snarling : 
 
 — Go back, my lord, across the moor, 
 You are not her darling. 
 
 A. Lord Tennyson 
 
 A LOVE SYMPHONY 
 
 Along the garden ways just now 
 
 I heard the flowers speak ; 
 The white rose told me of your brow, 
 
 The red rose of your cheek ; 
 The lily of your bended head. 
 
 The bindweed of your hair : 
 
 Each look'd its loveliest and said 
 
 You were more fair. 
 
 I went into the wood anon. 
 And heard the wild birds sing. 
 
 How sweet you were ; they warbled on. 
 Piped, trill'd the self-same thing. 
 
 Thrush, blackbird, linnet, without pause, 
 The burden did repeat. 
 
 And still began again because 
 You were more sweet. 
 
Second Series 67 
 
 And then I went down to the sea, 
 
 And heard it murmuring too, 
 Part of an ancient mystery, 
 
 All made of me and you : 
 How many a thousand years ago 
 
 I loved, and you were sweet — 
 Longer I could not stay, and so 
 
 I fled back to your feet. 
 
 A. O' Shaughnessy 
 
 LXII 
 
 FAR— FAR— A WA V 
 
 (for music) 
 
 What sight so lured him thro' the fields he knew 
 As where earth's green stole into heaven's own hue, 
 Far — far — away ? 
 
 What sound was dearest in his native dells ? 
 The mellow lin-lan-lone of evening bells 
 
 Far — far — away. 
 
 What vague world- whisper, mystic pain or joy, 
 Thro' those three words would haunt him when a boy, 
 Far — far — away ? 
 
 A whisper from his dawn of life ? a breath 
 From some fair dawn beyond the doors of death 
 Far — far — away ? 
 
 Far, far, how far? from o'er the gates of Birth, 
 The faint horizons, all the bounds of earth, 
 
 Far — far — away ? 
 
 What charm in words, a charm no words could give ? 
 O dying words, can Music make you live 
 
 Far — far — away ? 
 A, Lord Tennyson 
 
68 The Golden Treasury 
 
 THE * OLD, OLD SONG ' 
 
 When all the world is young, lad, 
 
 And all the trees are green ; 
 And every goose a swan, lad. 
 
 And every lass a queen ; 
 Then hey for boot and horse, lad. 
 
 And round the world away ; 
 Young blood must have its course, lad, 
 
 And every dog his day. 
 
 When all the world is old, lad. 
 
 And all the trees are brown ; 
 And all the sport is stale, lad, 
 
 And all the wheels run down : 
 Creep home, and take your place there, 
 
 The spent and maim'd among : 
 God grant you find one face there 
 
 You loved when all was young. 
 
 C. Kingsley 
 
 ON A PHOTOGRAPH 
 
 Since through the open window of the eye 
 The unconscious secret of the soul we trace, 
 And character is written on the face. 
 
 In this sun-picture what do we descry? 
 
 An artless innocence, and purpose high 
 
 To tread the pleasant paths of truth and grace. 
 To tend each flower of Duty in its place. 
 
 Smile with the gay and comfort those who sigh. 
 
 Dear maiden, let a poet breathe the prayer 
 That God may keep thee still, in all thy ways, 
 
 Spotless in heart as those in face art fair ; 
 And may the gentle current of thy days 
 
 Make music even from the stones of care. 
 And murmur with an undersong of praise. 
 
 R. Wilton 
 
Second Series 69 
 
 OLD JANE 
 
 I love old women best, I think: 
 
 She knows a friend in me, — 
 Old Jane, who totters on the brink 
 
 Of God's Eternity ; 
 Whose limbs are stiff, whose cheek is lean, 
 
 Whose eyes look up, afraid ; 
 Though you may gather she has been 
 
 A little laughing maid. 
 
 Once had she with her doll what times. 
 
 And with her skipping-rope ! 
 Her head was full of lovers' rhymes, 
 
 Once, and her heart of hope ; 
 Who, now, with eyes as sad as sweet, — 
 
 I love to look on her, — 
 At corner of the gusty street, 
 
 Asks, ' Buy a pencil. Sir ?* 
 
 Her smile is as the litten West, 
 
 Nigh- while the sun is gone ; 
 She is more fain to be at rest 
 
 Than here to linger on : 
 Beneath her lids the pictures flit 
 
 Of memories far-away : 
 Her look has not a hint in it 
 
 Of what she sees to-day. 
 
 T. Ashe 
 
 LXVI 
 
 WAGES 
 
 Glory of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song. 
 Paid with a voice flying by to be lost on an endless 
 sea — 
 Glory of Virtue, to fight, to struggle, to right the 
 wrong — 
 Nay, but she aim'd not at glory, no lover of glory 
 she: 
 Give her the glory of going on, and still to be. 
 
70 The Golden Treasury 
 
 The wages of sin is death : if the wages of Virtue be 
 dust, 
 Would she have heart to endure for the life of the 
 worm and the fly ? 
 She desires no isles of the blest, no quiet seats of the 
 just, 
 To rest in a golden grove, or to bask in a summer 
 sky: 
 Give her the wages of going on, and not to die. 
 
 A. Lord Tennyson 
 
 LXVII 
 
 THE MEN OF OLD 
 
 I know not that the men of old 
 
 Were better than men now. 
 Of heart more kind, of hand more bold, 
 
 Of more ingenuous brow : 
 I heed not those who pine for force 
 
 A ghost of Time to raise, 
 As if they thus could check the course 
 
 Of these appointed days. 
 
 To them was life a simple art 
 
 Of duties to be done, 
 A game where each man took his part, 
 
 A race where all must run ; 
 A battle whose great scheme and scope 
 
 They little cared to know. 
 Content, as men at arms, to cope 
 
 Each with his fronting foe. 
 
 Man now his Virtue's diadem 
 
 Puts on and proudly wears, 
 Great thoughts, great feelings, came to them, 
 
 Like instincts, unawares : 
 Blending their souls' sublimest needs 
 
 With tasks of every day. 
 They went about their gravest deeds, 
 
 As noble boys at play. 
 
 R, M. (Milnes) Lord Houghton 
 
Second Series 7 
 
 LXVIII 
 
 MAGNA EST VERITAS 
 
 Here, in this little Bay, 
 Full of tumultuous life and great repose. 
 Where, twice a day. 
 
 The purposeless, glad ocean comes and goes. 
 Under high cliffs, and far from the huge town, 
 I sit me down. 
 
 For want of me the world's course will not fail ; 
 When all its work is done, the lie shall rot; 
 The truth is great, and shall prevail, 
 When none cares whether it prevail or not. 
 
 C. Patmore 
 
 LXIX 
 
 THE SUN'S SHAME 
 
 Beholding youth and hope in mockery caught 
 From life ; and mocking pulses that remain 
 When the soul's death of bodily death is fain ; 
 
 Honour unknown, and honour known unsought ; 
 
 And penury's sedulous self- torturing thought 
 
 On gold, whose master therewith buys his bane ; 
 And long'd-for woman longing all in vain 
 
 For lonely man with love's desire distraught ; 
 
 And wealth, and strength, and power, and pleasant- 
 ness. 
 Given unto bodies of whose souls men say. 
 None poor and weak, slavish and foul, as they : — 
 
 Beholding these things, I behold no less 
 
 The blushing morn and blushing eve confess 
 The shame that loads the intolerable day. 
 
 Z>. G. Rossetti 
 
^Z The Golden Treasury 
 
 LXX 
 
 SIC ITUR 
 
 As, at a railway junction, men 
 Who came together, taking then 
 One the train up, one down, again 
 
 Meet never ! Ah, much more as they 
 Who take one street's two sides, and say 
 Hard parting words, but walk one way : 
 
 Though moving other mates between. 
 While carts and coaches intervene. 
 Each to the other goes unseen ; 
 
 Yet seldom, surely, shall there lack 
 Knowledge they walk not back to back. 
 But with an unity of track, 
 
 Where common dangers each attend, 
 And common hopes their guidance lend 
 To light them to the self-same end. 
 
 Whether he then shall cross to thee. 
 
 Or thou go thither, or it be 
 
 Some midway point, ye yet shall see 
 
 Each other, yet again shall meet. 
 
 Ah, joy ! when with the closing street, 
 
 Forgivingly at last ye greet ! 
 
 A. H. Clough 
 
 LXXI 
 
 NEXT OF KIN 
 
 The shadows gather round me, while you are in the 
 
 sun : 
 My day is almost ended, but yours is just begun : 
 
Second Series 73 
 
 The winds are singing to us both and the streams are 
 
 singing still, 
 And they fill your heart with music, but mine they 
 
 cannot fill. 
 
 Your home is built in sunlight, mine in another day : 
 Your home is close at hand, sweet friend, but mine is 
 
 far away : 
 Your bark is in the haven where you fain would be : 
 I must launch out into the deep, across the unknown 
 
 sea. 
 
 You, white as dove or lily or spirit of the light : 
 
 I, stain'd and cold and glad to hide in the cold dark 
 
 night : 
 You, joy to many a loving heart and light to many 
 
 eyes : 
 I, lonely in the knowledge earth is full of vanities. 
 
 Yet when your day is over, as mine is nearly done, 
 And when your race is finish'd, as mine is almost 
 
 run, 
 You, like me, shall cross your hands and bow your 
 
 graceful head : 
 Yea, we twain shall sleep together in an equal bed. 
 
 C. G. Rossetti 
 
 LXXII 
 
 THE SPECTRE OF THE PAST 
 
 On the great day of my life — 
 On the memorable day — 
 
 Just as the long inward strife 
 Of the echoes died away, 
 Just as on my couch I lay 
 Thinking thought away ; 
 
 Came a Man into my room, 
 
 Bringing with him gloom. 
 
74 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Midnight stood upon the clock, 
 
 And the street sound ceased to rise ; 
 
 Suddenly, and with no knock, 
 Came that Man before my eyes : 
 Yet he seem'd not anywise 
 My heart to surprise. 
 
 And he sat down to abide 
 
 At my fireside. 
 
 But he stirr'd within my heart 
 Memories of the ancient days ; 
 
 And strange visions seem'd to start 
 Vividly before my gaze, 
 Yea, from the most distant haze 
 Of forgotten ways : 
 
 And he look'd on me the while 
 
 With a most strange smile. 
 
 But my heart seem'd well to know 
 That his face the semblance had 
 
 Of my own face long ago 
 
 Ere the years had made it sad. 
 When my youthful looks were clad 
 In a smile half glad ; 
 
 To my heart he seem'd in truth 
 
 All my vanish'd youth. 
 
 Then he named me by a name 
 
 Long since unfamiliar grown, 
 But remember'd for the same 
 
 That my childhood's ears had known ; 
 
 And his voice was like my own 
 
 In a sadder tone 
 Coming from the happy years 
 Choked, alas, with tears. 
 
 And, as though he nothing knew 
 Of that day's fair triumphing, 
 
 Or the Present were not true, 
 Or not worth remembering. 
 All the Past he seem'd to bring 
 As a piteous thing 
 
 Back upon my heart again, 
 
 Yea with a great pain : 
 
Second Series 75 
 
 * Do you still remember the winding street 
 In the gray old village ? ' he seem'd to say ; 
 
 • And the long school days that the sun made 
 
 sweet 
 And the thought of the flowers from far away ? 
 And the faces of friends whom you used to meet 
 In that village day by day, 
 — Ay, the face of this one or of that ? ' he said, 
 And the names he named were names of the dead 
 Who all in the churchyard lay. 
 
 * And do you remember the far green hills ; 
 
 Or the long straight path by the side of the stream ; 
 Or the road that led to the farm and the mills, 
 And the fields where you oft used to wander or 
 
 dream 
 Or follow each change of your childish wills 
 Like the dance of some gay sunbeam ? ' — 
 Then, alas, from right weeping I could not refrain. 
 For indeed all those things I remember'd again, — 
 As of yesterday they did seem. 
 
 And I thought of a day in a far lost Spring, 
 
 When the sun with a kiss set the wild flowers free ; 
 
 When my heart felt the kiss and the shadowy wing 
 
 Of some beautiful spirit of things to be, 
 
 Who breathed in the song that the wild birds sing 
 
 Some deep tender meaning for me, — 
 
 Who undid a strange spell in the world as it were, 
 
 Who set wide sweet whispers abroad in the air, — 
 
 Made a presence I could not see. 
 
 • O for what have you wander'd so far — so long ? ' 
 Said the voice that was e'en as my voice of old : 
 
 ' O for what have you done to the Past such wrong ? 
 Was there no fair dream on your own threshold ? 
 In your childhood's home was there no fresh 
 
 song ? 
 — Was your heart then all so cold ? 
 Why, at length, are you weary, and lone and sad, 
 But for casting away all the good that you had 
 With the peace that was yours of old ? 
 
76 The Golden Treasury 
 
 * Have you wholly forgotten the words you said, 
 When you stood by a certain mound of earth, 
 When you vow'd with your heart that that place you 
 
 made 
 The last burial-place for your love and your mirth. 
 For the pure past blisses you therein laid 
 Were surely your whole life's worth ? — 
 O, the angels who deck the lone graves with their 
 
 tears 
 Have cared for this, morning and evening, for years, 
 But of yours there has been long dearth : 
 
 * In the pure pale sheen of a hallow'd night, 
 When the graves are looking their holiest, 
 You may see it more glistering and more bright 
 And holier-looking than all the rest ; 
 
 You may see that the dews and the stars' strange 
 
 light 
 Are loving that grave the best ; 
 But, perhaps, if you went in the clear noon-day, 
 After so many years you might scarce find the 
 
 way 
 Ere you tired indeed of the quest : 
 
 * For the path that leads to it is almost lost ; 
 And quite tall grass-flowers of sickly blue 
 
 Have grown up there and gather'd for years, and 
 
 tost 
 Bitter germs all around them to grow up too ; 
 For indeed all these years not a man has crost 
 That pathway — not even You ! ' — 
 But alas ! for these words to my heart he sent. 
 For I knew it was Marguerite's grave that he meant, 
 And I felt that the words were true. 
 
 A. 0^ Shaughnessy 
 
Second Series *J*I 
 
 LXXIII 
 
 LOCKSLEY HALL 
 
 Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis 
 
 early morn : 
 Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon 
 
 the bugle-horn. 
 
 'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the cur- 
 lews call. 
 
 Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locks- 
 ley Hall ; 
 
 Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the 
 
 sandy tracts, 
 And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. 
 
 Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went 
 
 to rest. 
 Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West. 
 
 Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the 
 
 mellow shade. 
 Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver 
 
 braid. 
 
 Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth 
 
 sublime 
 With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of 
 
 Time ; 
 
 When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land 
 
 reposed ; 
 When I clung to all the present for the promise that 
 
 it closed : 
 
 When I dipt into the future far as human eye could 
 
 see ; 
 Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that 
 
 would be. 
 
yS The Golden Treasury 
 
 In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's 
 
 breast ; 
 In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself 
 
 another crest ; 
 
 In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd 
 
 dove ; 
 In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to 
 
 thoughts of love. 
 
 Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be 
 for one so young, 
 
 And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observ- 
 ance hung. 
 
 And I said, ' My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the 
 
 truth to me. 
 Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to 
 
 thee.' 
 
 On her pallid cheek and forehead came a colour and 
 
 a light, 
 As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern 
 
 night. 
 
 And she turn'd — her bosom shaken with a sudden 
 
 storm of sighs — 
 All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel 
 
 eyes — 
 
 Saying, ' I have hid my feelings, fearing they should 
 
 do me wrong ; ' 
 Saying, ' Dost thou love me, cousin ? ' weeping, ' I 
 
 have loved thee long.' 
 
 Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his 
 
 glowing hands ; 
 Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden 
 
 sands. 
 
 Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the 
 
 chords with might ; 
 Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in 
 
 music out of sight. 
 
Second Series 79 
 
 Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the 
 
 copses ring, 
 And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fulness 
 
 of the Spring. 
 
 Many an evening by the waters did we watch the 
 
 stately ships, 
 And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the 
 
 lips. 
 
 O my cousin, shallow-hearted ! O my Amy, mine no 
 
 more ! 
 O the dreary, dreary moorland ! O the barren, barren 
 
 shore ! 
 
 Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs 
 
 have sung, 
 Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish 
 
 tongue ! 
 
 Is it well to wish thee happy ? — having known me — 
 
 to decline 
 On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart 
 
 than mine ! 
 
 Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level day by 
 
 day. 
 What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathise 
 
 with clay. 
 
 As the husband is, the wife is : thou art mated with a 
 
 clown, 
 And the grossness of his nature will have weight to 
 
 drag thee down. 
 
 He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent 
 
 its novel force, 
 Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his 
 
 horse. 
 
 What is this ? his eyes are heavy : think not they are 
 
 glazed with wine. 
 Go to him : it is thy duty : kiss him : take his hand 
 
 in thine. 
 
So The Golden Treasury 
 
 It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is over- 
 wrought : 
 
 Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy 
 lighter thought. 
 
 He will answer to the purpose, easy things to under- 
 stand — 
 
 Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with 
 my hand ! 
 
 Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's 
 
 disgrace, 
 Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last 
 
 embrace. 
 
 Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength 
 
 of youth ! 
 Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living 
 
 truth ! 
 
 Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest 
 
 Nature's rule I 
 Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead 
 
 of the fool ! 
 
 Well— 'tis well that I should bluster !— Hadst thou 
 
 less unworthy proved — 
 Would to God — for I had loved thee more than ever 
 
 wife was loved. 
 
 Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but 
 
 bitter fruit ? 
 I will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be at 
 
 the root. 
 
 Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length of years 
 
 should come 
 As the many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging 
 
 rookery home. 
 
 Where is comfort ? in division of the records of the 
 
 mind? 
 Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew 
 
 her, kind ? 
 
Second Series 8i 
 
 I remember one that perish'd : sweetly did she speak 
 
 and move : 
 Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to 
 
 love. 
 
 Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love 
 she bore ? 
 
 No — she never loved me truly : love is love for ever- 
 more. 
 
 Comfort ? comfort scorn'd of devils ! this is truth the 
 
 poet sings, 
 That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering 
 
 happier things. 
 
 Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart 
 
 be put to proof, 
 In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on 
 
 the roof. 
 
 Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring 
 
 at the wall. 
 Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows 
 
 rise and fall. 
 
 Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his 
 
 drunken sleep. 
 To thy widow'd marriage-pillows, to the tears that 
 
 thou wilt weep. 
 
 Thou shalt hear the ' Never, never,' whisper 'd by the 
 
 phantom years, 
 And a song from out the distance in the ringing of 
 
 thine ears ; 
 
 And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness 
 
 on thy pain. 
 Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow : get thee to thy 
 
 rest again. 
 
 Nay, but Nature brings thee solace ; for a tender voice 
 
 will cry, 
 'Tis a purer life than mine ; a lip to drain thy trouble 
 
 dry. 
 
 G 
 
82 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Baby lips will laugh me down : my latest rival brings 
 
 thee rest. 
 Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the 
 
 mother's breast. 
 
 O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not 
 
 his due. 
 Half is thine, and half is his : it will be worthy of the 
 
 two. 
 
 O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty 
 
 part, 
 With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a 
 
 daughter's heart. 
 
 * They were dangerous guides the feelings — she herself 
 was not exempt — 
 
 Truly, she herself had suffer'd ' — Perish in thy self- 
 contempt ! 
 
 Overlive it — lower yet— be happy ! wherefore should 
 
 I care ? 
 I myself must mix with action^ lest I wither by 
 
 despair. 
 
 What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon 
 
 days like these ? 
 Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to 
 
 golden keys. 
 
 Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets 
 
 overflow. 
 I have but an angry fancy : what is that which I 
 
 should do ? 
 
 I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's 
 
 ground. 
 When the ranks are roll'd in vapour, and the winds 
 
 are laid with sound. 
 
 But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that 
 
 Honour feels. 
 And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each 
 
 other's heels. 
 
Second Series 83 
 
 Can I but relive in sadness ? I will turn that earlier 
 
 page. 
 Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous 
 
 Mother-Age ! 
 
 Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the 
 
 strife, 
 When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of 
 
 my life ; 
 
 Yearning for the large excitement that the coming 
 
 years would yield, 
 Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's 
 
 field. 
 
 And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer 
 
 drawn, 
 Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a 
 
 dreary dawn ; 
 
 And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him 
 
 then. 
 Underneath the light he looks at, in among the 
 
 throngs of men : 
 
 Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping 
 
 something new : 
 That which they have done but earnest of the things 
 
 that they shall do : 
 
 For I dipt into the fiiture, far as human eye could 
 
 see, 
 Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that 
 
 would be ; 
 
 Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic 
 
 sails. 
 Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with 
 
 costly bales ; 
 
 Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd 
 
 a ghastly dew 
 From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central 
 
 blue ; 
 
84 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Far along the world-wide whisper of the south- wind 
 
 rushing warm, 
 With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the 
 
 thunder-storm ; 
 
 Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle- 
 flags were furl'd 
 
 In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the 
 world. 
 
 There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful 
 
 realm in awe. 
 And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal 
 
 law. 
 
 So I triumph'd ere my passion sweeping thro' me left 
 
 me dry. 
 Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the 
 
 jaundiced eye ; 
 
 Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out 
 
 of joint : 
 Science moves, but slowly slowly, creeping on from 
 
 point to point : 
 
 Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion creeping 
 nigher. 
 
 Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly- 
 dying fire. 
 
 Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing purpose 
 
 runs. 
 And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the process 
 
 of the suns. 
 
 What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his 
 
 youthful joys, 
 Tho' the deep heart of existence beat for ever like a 
 
 boy's ? 
 
 Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger 
 
 on the shore. 
 And the individual withers, and the world is more and 
 
 more. 
 
Second Series 85 
 
 Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears 
 
 a laden breast, 
 Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of 
 
 his rest. 
 
 Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the 
 
 bugle-horn. 
 They to whom my foolish passion were a target for 
 
 their scorn : 
 
 Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd 
 
 string ? 
 I am shamed thro' all my nature to have loved so 
 
 slight a thing. 
 
 Weakness to be wroth with weakness ! woman's 
 pleasure, woman's pain — 
 
 Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shal- 
 lower brain : 
 
 Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match'd 
 
 with mine. 
 Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto 
 
 wine — 
 
 Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, for 
 
 some retreat 
 Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began 
 
 to beat ; 
 
 Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil- 
 
 starr'd ; — 
 I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's 
 
 ward. 
 
 Or to burst all links of habit — there to wander far 
 
 away. 
 On from island unto island at the gateways of the 
 
 day. 
 
 Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and 
 
 happy skies. 
 Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots 
 
 of Paradise. 
 
86 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Never comes the trader, never floats an European 
 
 flag, 
 Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the 
 
 trailer from the crag ; 
 
 Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy- 
 fruited tree — 
 Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of 
 
 There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this 
 
 march of mind, 
 In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that 
 
 shake mankind. 
 
 There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have scope 
 
 and breathing space ; 
 I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my 
 
 dusky race. 
 
 Iron-jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, and they 
 
 shall run, 
 Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances 
 
 in the sun ; 
 
 Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows 
 
 of the brooks, 
 Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable 
 
 books — 
 
 Fool, again the dream, the fancy! but I know my 
 
 words are wild. 
 But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian 
 
 child. 
 
 I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious 
 
 gains. 
 Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with 
 
 lower pains ! 
 
 Mated with a squalid savage — what to me were sun or 
 
 clime ? 
 I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time — 
 
Second Series 87 
 
 I that rather held it better men should perish one by- 
 one, 
 
 Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's 
 moon in Ajalon ! 
 
 Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward 
 
 let us range, 
 Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing 
 
 grooves of change. 
 
 Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the 
 
 younger day : 
 Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. 
 
 Mother- Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when 
 
 life begun : 
 Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, 
 
 weigh the Sun. 
 
 O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set. 
 Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my fancy 
 yet. 
 
 Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley 
 
 Hall! 
 Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the 
 
 roof-tree fall. 
 
 Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening over 
 heath and holt. 
 
 Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunder- 
 bolt. 
 
 Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire 
 
 or snow ; 
 For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go. 
 A. Lord Tennyson 
 
88 The Golden Treasury 
 
 LXXIV 
 
 STRANGERS YET 
 
 Strangers yet ! 
 After years of life together, 
 After fair and stormy weather, 
 After travel in far lands, 
 After touch of wedded hands, — 
 Why thus join'd ? Why ever met, 
 If they must be strangers yet ? 
 
 Strangers yet ! 
 After childhood's winning ways, 
 After care and blame and praise. 
 Counsel ask'd and wisdom given, 
 After mutual prayers to Heaven, 
 Child and parent scarce regret 
 When they part — are strangers yet. 
 
 Strangers yet ! 
 After strife for common ends — 
 After title of '-old friends,' 
 After passions fierce and tender. 
 After cheerful self-surrender, 
 Hearts may beat and eyes be met. 
 And the souls be strangers yet. 
 
 Strangers yet ! 
 Oh ! the bitter thought to scan 
 All the loneliness of man : — 
 Nature, by magnetic laws, 
 Circle unto circle draws, 
 But they only touch when met. 
 Never mingle — strangers yet. 
 
 R. M, {Milnes) Lord Houghton 
 
Second Series 89 
 
 QUA CURSUM VENT US 
 
 As ships, becalm'd at eve, that lay 
 With canvas drooping, side by side, 
 
 Two towers of sail at dawn of day 
 
 Are scarce long leagues apart descried ; 
 
 When fell the night, upsprung the breeze, 
 And all the darkling hours they plied. 
 
 Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas 
 By each was cleaving, side by side : 
 
 E'en so — but why the tale reveal 
 
 Of those, whom year by year imchanged, 
 
 Brief absence join'd anew to feel, 
 Astounded, soul from soul estranged ? 
 
 At dead of night their sails were fill'd. 
 And onward each rejoicing steer'd — 
 
 Ah, neither blame, for neither will'd, 
 Or wist, what first with dawn appear'd ! 
 
 To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain. 
 Brave barks ! In light, in darkness too, 
 
 Through winds and tides one compass guid 
 To that, and your own selves, be true. 
 
 But O blithe breeze ! and O great seas, 
 Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, 
 
 On your wide plain they join again, 
 Together lead them home at last : 
 
 One port, methought, alike they sought, 
 One purpose hold where'er they fare, — 
 
 O bounding breeze, O rushing seas ! 
 At last, at last, unite them there ! 
 
 A. H. Clotigh 
 
90 The Golden Treasury 
 
 LXXVI 
 
 A SUMMER NIGHT 
 
 In the deserted, moon-blanch'd street, 
 How lonely rings the echo of my feet ! 
 Those windows, which I gaze at, frown, 
 Silent and white, unopening down, 
 Repellent as the world ; — but see, 
 A break between the housetops shows 
 The moon ! and, lost behind her, fading dim 
 Into the dewy dark obscurity 
 Down at the far horizon's rim, 
 Doth a whole tract of heaven disclose ! 
 
 And to my mind the thought 
 Is on a sudden brought 
 Of a past night, and a far different scene. 
 Headlands stood out into the moonlit deep 
 As clearly as at noon ; 
 The spring-tide's brimming flow 
 Heaved dazzlingly between ; 
 Houses, with long white sweep. 
 Girdled the glistening bay ; 
 Behind, through the soft air, 
 The blue haze-cradled mountains spread away. 
 The night was far more fair — 
 But the same restless pacings to and fro, 
 And the same vainly throbbing heart was there, 
 And the same bright, calm moon. 
 
 And the calm moonlight seems to say : 
 Hast thou then still the old unquiet breast, 
 Which neither deadens into rest. 
 Nor ever feels the fiery glo^v 
 That whirls the spirit fro fn itself away. 
 But fluctuates to and fro. 
 Never by passion quite possess'd 
 Atid nez'cr quite benunib'd by the wcrhV s sway?- 
 And I, I know not if to pray 
 Still to be what I am, or yield and be 
 Like all the other men I see. 
 
Secotid Series 
 
 91 
 
 For most men in a brazen prison live, 
 Where, in the sun's hot eye, 
 With heads bent o'er their toil, they languidly 
 Their lives to some unmeaning taskwork give, 
 Dreaming of nought beyond their prison-wall. 
 And as, year after year, 
 Fresh products of their barren labour fall 
 f'rom their tired hands, and rest 
 Never yet comes more near. 
 Gloom settles slowly down over their breast ; 
 And while they \.xy to stem 
 The waves of mournful thought by which they 
 
 are prest. 
 Death in their prison reaches them, 
 Unfreed, having seen nothing, still unblest. 
 
 And the rest, a few, 
 Escape their prison and depart 
 On the wide ocean of life anew. 
 There the freed prisoner, where'er his heart 
 Listeth, will sail ; 
 
 Nor doth he know how there prevail, 
 Despotic on that sea. 
 Trade-winds which cross it from eternity. 
 Awhile he holds some false way, undebarr'd 
 By thwarting signs, and braves 
 The freshening wind and blackening waves. 
 And then the tempest strikes him ; and between 
 The lightning-bursts is seen 
 Only a driving wreck, 
 
 And the pale master on his spar-strewn deck 
 With anguish'd face and flying hair 
 Grasping the rudder hard, 
 
 Still bent to make some port he knows not where. 
 Still standing for some false, impossible shore. 
 And sterner comes the roar 
 Of sea and wind, and through the deepening 
 
 gloom 
 Fainter and fainter wreck and helmsman loom, 
 And he too disappears, and comes no more. 
 
 Is there no life, but these alone ? 
 Madman or slave, must man be one ? 
 
92 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Plainness and clearness without shadow of stain ! 
 Clearness divine ! 
 
 Ye heavens, whose pure dark regions have no sign 
 Of languor, though so calm, and, though so great, 
 Are yet untroubled and unpassionate ; 
 Who, though so noble, share in the world's toil, 
 And, though so task'd, keep free from dust and soil ! 
 I will not say that your mild deeps retain 
 A tinge, it may be, of their silent pain 
 Who have long'd deeply once, and long'd in vain — 
 But I will rather say that you remain 
 A world above man's head, to let him see 
 How boundless might his soul's horizons be. 
 How vast, yet of what clear transparency ! 
 How it were good to abide there, and breathe free ; 
 How fair a lot to fill 
 Is left to each man still ! 
 
 M. Arnold 
 
 THE SILENT VOICES 
 
 When the dumb Hour, clothed in black 
 Brings the Dreams about my bed. 
 Call me not so often back, 
 Silent Voices of the dead. 
 Toward the lowland ways behind me, 
 And the sunlight that is gone ! 
 Call me rather, silent voices. 
 Forward to the starry track 
 Glimmering up the heights beyond me 
 On, and always on ! 
 
 A, Lord Tennyson 
 
Second Series 93 
 
 LXXVIII 
 
 THE FUTURE 
 
 A wanderer is man from his birth. 
 He was born in a ship 
 On the breast of the river of Time ; 
 Brimming with wonder and joy 
 He spreads out his arms to the light, 
 Rivets his gaze on the banks of the stream. 
 
 As what he sees is, so have his thoughts been. 
 Whether he wakes, 
 Where the snowy mountainous pass, 
 Echoing the screams of the eagles, 
 Hems in its gorges the bed 
 Of the new-born clear-flowing stream ; 
 Whether he first sees light 
 Where the river in gleaming rings 
 Sluggishly winds through the plain ; 
 Whether in sound of the swallowing sea — 
 As is the world on the banks, 
 So is the mind of the man. 
 
 Vainly does each, as he glides. 
 Fable and dream 
 
 Of the lands which the river of Time 
 Had left ere he woke on its breast. 
 Or shall reach when his eyes have been closed. 
 Only the tract where he sails 
 He wots of ; only the thoughts. 
 Raised by the objects he passes, are his. 
 
 Who can see the green earth any more 
 As she was by the sources of Time ? 
 Who imagines her fields as they lay 
 In the sunshine, unworn by the plough? 
 Who thinks as they thought. 
 The tribes who then roam'd on her breast, 
 Her vigorous, primitive sons ? 
 
94 The Golden Treasury 
 
 What girl 
 Now reads in her bosom as clear 
 As Rebekah read, when she sate 
 At eve by the palm-shaded well ? 
 Who guards in her breast 
 As deep, as pellucid a spring 
 Of feeling, as tranquil, as sure ? 
 
 What bard, 
 At the height of his vision, can deem 
 Of God, of the world, of the soul, 
 With a plainness as near, 
 As flashing as Moses felt 
 WTien he lay in the night by his flock 
 On the starlit Arabian waste ? 
 Can rise and obey 
 The beck of the Spirit like him ? 
 
 This tract which the river of Time 
 Now flows through with us, is the plain. 
 Gone is the calm of its earlier shore. 
 Border'd by cities and hoarse 
 With a thousand cries is its stream. 
 And we on its breast, our minds 
 Are confused as the cries which we hear. 
 Changing and shot as the sights which we see. 
 
 And we say that repose has fled 
 For ever the course of the river of Time. 
 That cities will crowd to its edge 
 In a blacker, incessanter line ; 
 That the din will be more on its banks, 
 Denser the trade on its stream. 
 Flatter the plain where it flows, 
 Fiercer the sun overhead. 
 That never will those on its breast 
 See an ennobling sight, 
 Drink of the feeling of quiet again. 
 
 But what was before us we know not. 
 And we know not what shall succeed. 
 
 Haply, the river of Time — 
 As it grows, as the towns on its marge 
 
Second Series 95 
 
 FJing their wavering lights 
 On a wider, statelier stream — 
 May acquire, if not the calm 
 Of its early mountainous shore, 
 Yet a solemn peace of its own. 
 
 And the width of the waters, the hush 
 Of the gray expanse where he floats, 
 Freshening its current and spotted with foam 
 As it draws to the Ocean, may strike 
 Peace to the soul of the man on its breast — 
 As the pale waste widens around him. 
 As the banks fade dimmer away. 
 As the stars come out, and the night-wind 
 Brings up the stream 
 Murmurs and scents of the infinite sea. 
 
 M. Arnold 
 
 SLEEP AT SEA 
 
 Sound the deep waters : — 
 
 Who shall sound that deep ? — 
 Too short the plummet, 
 
 And the watchmen sleep. 
 Some dream of effort 
 
 Up a toilsome steep ; 
 Some dream of pasture grounds 
 
 For harmless sheep. 
 
 "White shapes flit to and fro 
 
 From mast to mast ; 
 They feel the distant tempest 
 
 That nears them fast : 
 Great rocks are straight ahead, 
 
 Great shoals not past ; 
 They shout to one another 
 
 Upon the blast. 
 
96 The Golden Treasttry 
 
 Oh, soft the streams drop music 
 
 Between the hills, 
 And musical the birds' nests 
 
 Beside those rills ; 
 The nests are types of home 
 
 Love-hidden from ills. 
 The nests are types of spirits 
 
 Love-music fills. 
 
 So dream the sleepers, 
 
 Each man in his place ; 
 The lightning shows the smile 
 
 Upon each face : 
 The ship is driving, — driving, — 
 
 It drives apace : 
 And sleepers smile, and spirits 
 
 Bewail their case. 
 
 The lightning glares and reddens 
 
 Across the skies ; 
 It seems but sunset 
 
 To those sleeping eyes. 
 When did the sun go down 
 
 On such a wise ? 
 From such a sunset 
 
 When shall day arise ? 
 
 ' Wake,' call the spirits : 
 
 But to heedless ears : 
 They have forgotten sorrows 
 
 And hopes and fears ; 
 They have forgotten perils 
 
 And smiles and tears ; 
 Their dream has held them long, 
 
 Long years and years. 
 
 'Wake,' call the spirits again : 
 
 But it would take 
 A louder summons 
 
 To bid them awake. 
 Some dream of pleasure 
 
 For another's sake ; 
 Some dream forgetful 
 
 Of a lifelong ache. 
 
Second Series 97 
 
 One by one slowly, 
 
 Ah, how sad and slow ! 
 Wailing and praying 
 
 The spirits rise and go ; 
 Clear stainless spirits 
 
 White, as white as snow ; 
 Pale spirits, wailing 
 
 For an overthrow. 
 
 One by one flitting, 
 
 Like a mournful bird 
 Whose song is tired at last 
 
 For no mate heard. 
 The loving voice is silent, 
 
 The useless word ; 
 One by one flitting 
 
 Sick with hope deferr'd. 
 
 Driving and driving 
 
 The ship drives amain : 
 While swift from mast to mast 
 
 Shapes flit again. 
 Flit silent as the silence 
 
 Where men lie slain ; 
 Their shadow cast upon the sails 
 
 Is like a stain. 
 
 No voice to call the sleepers. 
 
 No hand to raise : 
 They sleep to death in dreaming 
 
 Of length of days. 
 Vanity of vanities. 
 
 The Preacher says : 
 Vanity is the end 
 
 Of all their ways. 
 
 C. G. Rossetti 
 
98 The Golden Treasury 
 
 LXXX 
 
 NORTHERN FARMER 
 
 OLD STYLE 
 
 Wheer 'asta bean saw long and mea liggin' 'ere 
 
 aloan ? 
 Noorse ? thoort nowt o' a noorse : whoy, Doctor's 
 
 abean an' agoan : 
 Says that I moant 'a naw moor aale : but I beant a 
 
 fool : 
 Git ma my aale, fur I beant a-gawin' to break my 
 
 rule. 
 
 Doctors, they knaws nowt, fur a says what's nawways 
 
 true : 
 Naw soort o' koind o' use to saay the things that a do. 
 I've 'ed my point o' aale ivry noight sin' I bean 'ere. 
 An' I've 'ed my quart ivry market-noight for foorty 
 
 year. 
 
 Parson's a bean loikewoise, an' a sittin' 'ere o' my bed. 
 * The amoighty's a taakin o' you ^ to 'issen, my friend,' 
 
 a said, 
 An' a towd ma my sins, an's toithe were due, an' I 
 
 gied it in hond ; 
 I done moy duty boy 'um, as I 'a done boy the lond. 
 
 Larn'd a ma' bea. I reckons I 'annot sa mooch to 
 
 lam. 
 But a cast oop, thot a did, 'bout Bessy Harris's barne. 
 Thaw a knaws I hallus voated wi' Squoire an' choorch 
 
 an' staate. 
 An' i' the woost o' toimes I wur niver agin the raate. 
 
 An' I hallus coom'd to 's choorch afoor moy Sally wur 
 
 dead, 
 An' 'card 'um a bummin' awaay loike a buzzard-clock ^ 
 
 ower my 'ead, 
 
 1 ou as in hour. 2 Cockchafer. 
 
 [For fuller glossary, see Notes.] 
 
Secoftd Series 99 
 
 An' I niver knaw'd whot a mean'd but I thowt a 'ad 
 
 summut to saay, 
 An' I thowt a said whot a owt to 'a said an' I coom'd 
 
 awaay. 
 
 Bessy Harris's barne ! tha knaws she laaid it to 
 
 mea. 
 Mowt a bean, mayhap, for she wur a bad un, shea. 
 'Siver, I kep 'um, I kep 'um, my lass, tha mun under- 
 
 stond ; 
 I done moy duty boy 'um, as I 'a done boy the lond. 
 
 But Parson a cooms an' a goas, an' a says it easy an' 
 
 freea, 
 * The amoighty's a taakin o' you to 'issen, my friend,' 
 
 says 'ea. 
 I weant saay men be loiars, thaw summun said it in 
 
 'aaste : 
 But 'e reads wonn sarmin a weeak, an' I 'a stubb'd 
 
 Thurnaby waaste. 
 
 D'ya moind the waaste, my lass ? naw, naw, tha was 
 
 not born then ; 
 Theer wur a boggle in it, I often 'eard 'um mysen ; 
 Moast loike a butter-bump,^ fur I 'eard 'um about an' 
 
 about. 
 But I stubb'd 'um oop wi' the lot, an' raaved an' 
 
 rembled 'um out. 
 
 Reaper's it wur ; fo' they fun 'um theer a-laaid of 'is 
 
 faace 
 Down i' the woild 'enemies'^ afoor I coom'd to the 
 
 plaace. 
 Noaks or Thimbleby — toaner ' 'ed shot 'um as dead 
 
 as a naail. 
 Noaks wur 'ang'd for it oop at 'soize — but git ma my 
 
 aale. 
 
 Dubbut loook at the waaste : theer warn't not feead 
 
 for a cow ; 
 Nowt at all but bracken an' fuzz, an' loook at it now — 
 
 1 Bittern. 2 Anemones. 3 One or other. 
 
lOO The Golden Treasury 
 
 Warnt worth nowt a haacre, an' now theer's lots o' 
 
 feead, 
 Fourscoor ^ yows upon it an' some on it down i' seead.^ 
 
 Nobbut a bit on it's left, an' I mean'd to 'a stubb'd it 
 
 at fall, 
 Done it ta-year I mean'd, an' runn'd plow thruff it 
 
 an' all, 
 If godamoighty an' parson 'ud nobbut let ma aloan, 
 Mea, wi' haate hoonderd haacre o' Squoire's, an' lond 
 
 o' my oan. 
 
 Do godamoighty knaw what a's doing a-taakin' o' mea ? 
 I beant wonn as saws 'ere a bean an' yonder a pea ; 
 An' Squoire 'ull be sa mad an' all — a' dear a' dear ! 
 And I 'a managed for Squoire coom Michaelmas thutty 
 year. 
 
 A mowt 'a taaen owd Joanes, as 'ant not a 'aapoth o' 
 
 sense, 
 Or a mowt 'a taaen young Robins — a niver mended a 
 
 fence : 
 But godamoighty a moost taake mea an' taake ma now 
 Wi' aaf the cows to cauve an' Thurnaby hoalms to 
 
 plow ! 
 
 Loook 'ow quoloty smoiles when they seeas ma a 
 
 passin' boy, 
 Says to thessen naw doubt * what a man a bea sewer- 
 
 loy!' 
 Fur they knaws what I bean to Squoire sin fust a 
 
 coom'd to the 'All ; 
 I done moy duty by Squoire an' I done moy duty boy 
 
 hall. 
 
 Squoire's i' Lunnon, an' summun I reckons 'ull 'a to 
 
 wroite, 
 For whoa's to howd the lond ater mea thot muddles 
 
 ma quoit ; 
 Sartin-sewer I bea, thot a weant niver give it to 
 
 Joanes, 
 Naw, nor a moant to Robins — a niver rembles the 
 
 stoans. 
 
 1 ou as in hour. 2 Clover. 
 
Second Series loi 
 
 But summun 'ull come ater mea mayhap wi' 's kittle 
 
 o' steam 
 Huzzin' an' maazin' the blessed fealds wi' the Divil's 
 
 oan team. 
 Sin' I mun doy I mun doy, thaw loife they says is 
 
 sweet, 
 But sin' I mun doy I mun doy, for I couldn abear to 
 
 see it. 
 
 What atta stannin' theer fur, an' doesn bring ma the 
 
 aale? 
 Doctor's a 'toattler, lass, an a's hallus i' the owd taale ; 
 I weant break rules fur Doctor, a knaws naw moor 
 
 nor a floy ; 
 Git ma my aale I tell tha, an' if I mun doy I mun 
 
 doy. 
 
 A. Lord Tennyson 
 
 LXXXI 
 
 NORTHERN FARMER 
 
 NEW STYLE 
 
 Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters 
 
 awaay ? 
 Proputty, proputty, proputty — that's what I 'ears 'em 
 
 saay. 
 Proputty, proputty, proputty — Sam, thou's an ass for 
 
 thy paains : 
 Theer's moor sense i' one o' 'is legs nor in all thy 
 
 braains. 
 
 Woa — theer's a craw to pluck wi' tha, Sam : yon's 
 
 parson's 'ouse — 
 Dosn't thou knaw that a man mun be eather a man or 
 
 a mouse ? 
 Time to think on it then ; for thou'll be twenty to 
 
 weeak.^ 
 Proputty, proputty — woa then woa — let ma 'ear mysen 
 
 speak. 
 
 1 This week. 
 
102 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Me an' thy muther, Sammy, 'as bean a-talkin' o' thee; 
 
 Thou's bean talkin' to muther, an' she bean a tellin' it 
 me. 
 
 Thou'U not marry for munny — thou's sweet upo' par- 
 son's lass — 
 
 Noa — thou'll marry for luvv — an' we boath on us 
 thinks tha an ass. 
 
 Seea'd her todaay goa by — Saaint's daay — they was 
 
 ringing the bells. 
 She's a beauty thou thinks — an' soa is scoors o' gells, 
 Them as 'as munny an' all — wot's a beauty? — the 
 
 flower as blaws. 
 But proputty, proputty sticks, an' proputty, proputty 
 
 graws. 
 
 Do'ant be stunt : ^ taake time : I knaws what maakes 
 
 tha sa mad. 
 Warn't I craazed fur the lasses mysen when I wur a 
 
 lad? ■ 
 But I knaw'd a Quaaker feller as often 'as towd ma 
 
 this: 
 * Doant thou marry for munny, but goa wheer munny 
 
 An' I went wheer munny war : an' thy muther coom 
 
 to 'and, 
 Wi' lots o' munny laaid by, an' a nicetish bit o' land. 
 Maaybe she warn't a beauty : — I niver giv it a thowt — 
 But warn't she as good to cuddle an' kiss as a lass as 
 
 'ant nowt ? 
 
 Parson's lass 'ant nowt, an' she weant 'a nowt when 
 
 'e's dead, 
 Mun be a guvness, lad, "or summut, and addle '^ her 
 
 bread ; 
 Why? fur 'e's nobbut a curate, an' weant niver git 
 
 hissen clear. 
 An' 'e maade the bed as 'e ligs on afoor 'e coom'd to 
 
 the shere. 
 
 1 Obstinate. 2 Earn. 
 
Second Series 103 
 
 'An thin 'e coom'd to the parish wi' lots o' Varsity debt, 
 Stook to his taail they did, an' 'e 'ant got shut on 'em 
 
 yet. 
 An' 'e Hgs on 'is back i' the grip, wi' noan to lend 'im 
 
 a shuvv, 
 Woorse nor a far-welter'd ^ yowe : fur, Sammy, 'e 
 
 married fur luvv. 
 
 Luvv? what's luvv? thou can luvv thy lass an' 'er 
 
 munny too, 
 Maakin' 'em goa togither as they've good right to do. 
 Could'n I luvv thy muther by cause o' 'er munny laaid 
 
 by? 
 Naay — fur I luw'd 'er a vast sight moor fur it : reason 
 
 why. 
 
 Ay an' thy muther says thou wants to marry the lass, 
 Cooms of a gentleman burn : an' we boath on us 
 
 thinks tha an ass. 
 Woa then, proputty, wiltha ? — an ass as near as mays 
 
 nowt^ — 
 Woa then, wiltha ? dangtha ! — the bees is as fell as 
 
 owt.^ 
 
 Break me a bit o' the esh for his 'ead, lad, out o' the 
 
 fence ! 
 Gentleman burn ! what's gentleman burn ? is it shillins 
 
 an' pence? 
 Proputty, proputty's ivrything 'ere, an', Sammy, I'm 
 
 blest 
 If it isn't the saame oop yonder, fur them as 'as it's the 
 
 best. 
 
 • 
 Tis'n them as 'as munny as breaks into 'ouses an' steals, 
 Them as 'as coats to their backs an' taakes their regu- 
 lar meals. 
 Noa, but it's them as niver knaws wheer a meal's to 
 
 be 'ad. 
 Taake my word for it, Sammy, the poor in a loomp is 
 
 bad. 
 
 1 Or fow-welter'd, — said of a sheep lying on its back. 
 2 Makes nothing. 3 The flies are as fierce as anything. 
 
I04 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Them or thir feythers, tha sees, mun 'a bean a laazy 
 
 lot, 
 Fur work mun 'a gone to the gittin' whiniver munny 
 
 was got. 
 Feyther 'ad ammost nowt ; leastways 'is munny was 'id. 
 But 'e tued an' moil'd 'issen dead, an 'e died a good 
 
 un, 'e did. 
 
 Loook thou theer wheer Wrigglesby beck cooms out 
 
 by the 'ill ! 
 Feyther run oop to the farm, an' I runs oop to the mill; 
 An' I'll run oop to the brig, an' that thou'll live to see ; 
 And if thou marries a good un I'll leave the land to 
 
 thee. 
 
 Thim's my noations, Sammy, wheerby I means to 
 
 stick ; 
 But if thou marries a bad un, I'll leave the land to 
 
 Dick.— 
 Coom oop, proputty, proputty — that's what I 'ears 'im 
 
 saay — 
 Proputty, proputty, proputty — canter an' canter awaay. 
 
 A. Lord Tennyson 
 
 LXXXII 
 
 ST. JOHN BAPTIST 
 
 I think he had not heard of the far towns ; 
 Nor of the deeds ,of men, nor of kings' crowns; 
 
 Before the thought of God took hold of him, 
 As he was sitting dreaming in the calm 
 
 Of one first noon, upon the desert's rim. 
 Beneath the tall fair shadows of the palm. 
 All overcome with some strange inward balm. 
 
 He number'd not the changes of the year. 
 The days, the nights, and he forgot all fear 
 
 Of death : each day he thought there should have 
 been 
 
Second Series 105 
 
 A shining ladder set for him to climb 
 
 Athwart some opening in the heavens, e'en 
 To God's eternity, and see, sublime — 
 His face whose shadow passing fills all time. 
 
 But he walk'd through the ancient wilderness. 
 O, there the prints of feet were numberless 
 
 And holy all about him ! And quite plain 
 He saw each spot an angel silvershod 
 
 Had lit upon ; where Jacob too had lain 
 The place seem'd fresh, — and, bright and lately 
 
 trod, 
 A long track show'd where Enoch walk'd with God. 
 
 And often, while the sacred darkness trail'd 
 Along the mountains smitten and unveil'd 
 
 By rending lightnings, — over all the noise 
 Of thunders and the earth that quaked and bow'd 
 
 From its foundations — he could hear the voice 
 Of great Elias prophesying loud 
 To Him whose face was cover'd by a cloud. 
 
 A. O'Shaughnessy 
 
 Heaven overarches earth and sea. 
 
 Earth-sadness and sea-bitterness. 
 Heaven overarches you and me : 
 A little while and we shall be — 
 Please God — where there is no more sea 
 Nor barren wilderness. 
 
 Heaven overarches you and me. 
 
 And all earth's gardens and her graves. 
 
 Look up with me, until we see 
 
 The day break and the shadows flee. 
 
 What though to-night wrecks you and me 
 If so to-morrow saves ? 
 
 C. G. Rossetti 
 
Io6 The Golden Treasury 
 
 THE TRANCE OF TIME 
 
 In childhood, when with eager eyes 
 The season-measured years I view'd, 
 All, garb'd in fairy guise. 
 Pledged constancy of good. 
 
 Spring sang of heaven ; the summer flowers 
 Bade me gaze on, and did not fade ; 
 Even suns o'er autumn's bowers 
 Heard my strong wish, and stay'd. 
 
 They came and went, the short-lived four ; 
 Yet, as their varying dance they wove, 
 To my young heart each bore 
 Its own sure claim of love. 
 
 Far different now ; — the whirling year 
 Vainly my dizzy eyes pursue ; 
 And its fair tints appear 
 All blent in one dusk hue. 
 
 Then what this world to thee, my heart ? 
 Its gifts nor feed thee nor can bless. 
 Thou hast no owner's part 
 In all its fleetingness. 
 
 J. H. Card, Newman 
 
 LXXXV 
 
 OUR DEAD 
 
 Sometimes I think that those we've lost, 
 
 Safe lying on th' Eternal Breast, 
 Can hear no sounds from earth that mar 
 
 The perfect sweetness of their rest ; 
 But when one thought of holy love 
 
 Is stirr'd in hearts they love below. 
 Through some fine waves of ambient air, 
 
 They feel, they see it, and they know. 
 
Second Series 1 07 
 
 As rays unseen — abysmal light — 
 
 Are caught by films of silver salt 
 When these are set to watch by night 
 
 The wheelings of the starry vault, — 
 So may the souls that live and dwell 
 
 In one great soul, the Fount of all, 
 Feel faintest tremblings in the sphere 
 
 On which such footsteps gently fall. 
 No evil seen, no murmurs heard, 
 
 No fear of sin, or coming loss, 
 They wait in light, imperfect yet, 
 
 The final triumphs of the Cross. 
 
 Duke of Argyll 
 
 LXXXVI 
 
 'RETRO ME, SATHANAr 
 
 Get thee behind me. Even as, heavy-curl'd, 
 Stooping against the wind, a charioteer 
 Is snatch'd from out his chariot by the hair, 
 So shall Time be ; and as the void car, hurl'd 
 Abroad by reinless steeds, even so the world : 
 Yea even as chariot-dust upon the air, 
 It shall be sought and not found anywhere. 
 Get thee behind me, Satan. Oft unfurl'd. 
 Thy perilous wings can beat and break like lath 
 Much mightiness of men to win thee praise. 
 Leave these weak feet to tread in narrow ways. 
 Thou still, upon the broad vine-shelter'd path, 
 Mayst wait the turning of the phials of wrath 
 For certain years, for certain months and days. 
 D. G. Rossetti 
 
io8 The Golden Treasury 
 
 LXXXVII 
 
 UP-HILL 
 
 Does the road wind up-hill all the way ? 
 
 Yes, to the very end. 
 Will the day's journey take the whole long day ? 
 
 From morn to night, my friend. 
 
 But is there for the night a resting-place ? 
 
 A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. 
 May not the darkness hide it from my face ? 
 
 You cannot miss that inn. 
 
 Shall I meet other wayfarers at night ? 
 
 Those who have gone before. 
 Then must I knock, or call when just in sight ? 
 
 They will not keep you standing at that door. 
 
 Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak ? 
 
 Of labour you shall find the sum. 
 Will there be beds for me and all who seek ? 
 
 Yea, beds for all who come. 
 
 C. G. Rossetti 
 
 LXXXVIII 
 
 MOTHER COUNTRY 
 
 Oh what is that country 
 
 And where can it be. 
 Not mine own country, 
 
 But dearer far to me ? 
 Yet mine own country, 
 
 If I one day may see 
 Its spices and cedars. 
 
 Its gold and ivory. 
 
 Oh what is a king here, 
 Or what is a boor ? 
 
 Here all starve together 
 All dwarf 'd and poor ; 
 
Second Series 109 
 
 Here Death's hand knocketh 
 
 At door after door, 
 He thins the dancers 
 
 From the festal floor. 
 
 Oh what is a handmaid, 
 
 Or what is a queen ? 
 All must lie down together 
 
 Where the turf is green, 
 The foulest face hidden. 
 
 The fairest not seen ; 
 Gone as if never 
 
 They had breathed or been. 
 
 Gone from sweet sunshine 
 
 Underneath the sod, 
 Turn'd from warm flesh and blood 
 
 To senseless clod, 
 Gone as if never 
 
 They had toil'd or trod, 
 Gone out of sight of all 
 
 Except our God. 
 
 And if that life is life, 
 
 This is but a breath, 
 The passage of a dream 
 
 And the shadow of death ; 
 But a vain shadow 
 
 If one considereth ; 
 Vanity of vanities. 
 
 As the Preacher saith. 
 
 C. G. Rossetti 
 
 LXXXIX 
 
 ST. AGNES' EVE 
 
 Deep on the convent-roof the snows 
 Are sparkling to the moon : 
 
 My breath to heaven like vapour goes 
 May my soul follow soon ! 
 
The Golden Treasury 
 
 The shadows of the convent-towers 
 
 Slant down the snowy sward, 
 Still creeping with the creeping hours 
 
 That lead me to my Lord : 
 Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 
 
 As are the frosty skies, 
 Or this first snowdrop of the year 
 
 That in my bosom lies. 
 
 As these white robes are soil'd and dark 
 
 To yonder shining ground ; 
 As this pale taper's earthly spark, 
 
 To yonder argent round ; 
 So shows my soul before the Lamb, 
 
 My spirit before Thee ; 
 So in mine earthly house I am. 
 
 To that I hope to be. 
 Break up the heavens, O Lord ! and far, 
 
 Thro' all yon starlight keen. 
 Draw me. Thy bride, a glittering star. 
 
 In raiment white and clean. 
 
 He lifts me to the golden doors ; 
 
 The flashes come and go ; 
 All heaven bursts her starry floors, 
 
 And strows her lights below, 
 And deepens on and up ! the gates 
 
 Roll back, and far within 
 For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits. 
 
 To make me pure of sin. 
 The sabbaths of Eternity, 
 
 One sabbath deep and wide — 
 A light upon the shining sea — 
 
 The Bridegroom with his bride ! 
 
 A. Lord Tennyson 
 
Second Series ill 
 
 xc 
 THE BLESSED DAMOZEL 
 
 The blessed damozel lean'd out 
 
 From the gold bar of Heaven ; 
 Her eyes were deeper than the depth 
 
 Of waters still'd at even ; 
 She had three lilies in her hand, 
 
 And the stars in her hair were seven. 
 
 Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, 
 
 No wrought flowers did adorn, 
 But a white rose of Mary's gift, 
 
 For service meetly worn ; 
 Her hair that lay along her back 
 
 Was yellow like ripe corn. 
 
 Herseem'd she scarce had been a day 
 
 One of God's choristers ; 
 The wonder was not yet quite gone 
 
 From that still look of hers ; 
 Albeit, to them she left, her day 
 
 Had counted as ten years. 
 
 (To one, it is ten years of years. 
 
 . . . Yet now, and in this place. 
 Surely she lean'd o'er me — her hair 
 
 Fell all about my face. . . . 
 Nothing : the autumn fall of leaves. 
 
 The whole year sets apace. ) 
 
 It was the rampart of God's house 
 
 That she was standing on ; 
 By God built over the sheer depth 
 
 The which is Space begun ; 
 So high, that looking downward thence 
 
 She scarce could see the sun. 
 
 It lies in Heaven, across the flood 
 Of ether, as a bridge. 
 
The Golden Treasury 
 
 Beneath, the tides of day and night 
 
 With flame and darkness ridge 
 The void, as low as where this earth 
 
 Spins like a fretful midge. 
 
 Around her, lovers, newly met 
 
 In joy no sorrow claims, 
 Spoke evermore among themselves 
 
 Their rapturous new names ; 
 And the souls mounting up to God 
 
 Went by her like thin flames. 
 
 And still she bow'd herself and stoop'd 
 
 Out of the circling charm ; 
 Until her bosom must have made 
 
 The bar she lean'd on warm, 
 And the lilies lay as if asleep 
 
 Along her bended arm. 
 
 From the fix'd place of Heaven she saw 
 
 Time like a pulse shake fierce 
 Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove 
 
 Within the gulf to pierce 
 Its path ; and now she spoke as when 
 
 The stars sang in their spheres. 
 
 The sun was gone now ; the curl'd moon 
 
 Was like a little feather 
 Fluttering far down the gulf ; and now 
 
 She spoke through the still weather. 
 Her voice was like the voice the stars 
 
 Had when they sang together. 
 
 (Ah sweet ! Even now, in that bird's song, 
 
 Strove not her accents there. 
 Fain to be hearken'd ? When those bells 
 
 Possess'd the mid-day air. 
 Strove not her steps to reach my side 
 
 Down all the echoing stair ?) 
 
 * I wish that he were come to me, 
 
 For he will come,' she said. 
 ' Have I not pray'd in Heaven ? — on earth, 
 
 Lord, Lord, has he not pray'd ? 
 
Second Series 113 
 
 Are not two prayers a perfect strength ? 
 And shall I feel afraid ? 
 
 * When round his head the aureole clings, 
 
 And he is clothed in white, 
 I'll take his hand and go with him 
 
 To the deep wells of light ; 
 We will step down as to a stream, 
 
 And bathe there in God's sight. 
 
 ' We two will stand beside that shrine, 
 
 Occult, withheld, untrod. 
 Whose lamps are stirr'd continually 
 
 With prayer sent up to God ; 
 And see our old prayers, granted, melt 
 
 Each hke a little cloud. 
 
 * We two will lie i' the shadow of 
 
 That living mystic tree 
 Within whose secret growth the Dove 
 
 Is sometimes felt to be. 
 While every leaf that His plumes touch 
 
 Saith his Name audibly. 
 
 ' And I myself will teach to him, 
 
 I myself, lying so. 
 The songs I sing here ; which his voice 
 
 Shall pause in, hush'd and slow, 
 And find some knowledge at each pause, 
 
 Or some new thing to know.' 
 
 (Alas ! We two, we two, thou say'st ! 
 
 Yea, one wast thou with me 
 That once of old. But shall God lift 
 
 To endless unity 
 The soul whose likeness with thy soul 
 
 Was but its love for thee ?) 
 
 ' We two,' she said, ' will seek the groves 
 
 Where the lady Mary is. 
 With her five handmaidens, whose names 
 
 Are five sweet symphonies, 
 Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, 
 
 Margaret and Rosalys. 
 
114 The Golden Treasury 
 
 * Circlewise sit they, with bound locks 
 
 And foreheads garlanded ; 
 Into the fine cloth white like flame 
 
 Weaving the golden thread, 
 To fashion the birth-robes for them 
 
 Who are just born, being dead. 
 
 ' He shall fear, haply, and be dumb : 
 
 Then will I lay my cheek 
 To his, and tell about our love, 
 
 Not once abash'd or weak : 
 And the dear Mother will approve 
 
 My pride, and let me speak. 
 
 * Herself shall bring us, hand in hand, 
 
 To Him round whom all souls 
 Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumber'd heads 
 
 Bow'd with their aureoles : 
 And angels meeting us shall sing 
 
 To their citherns and citoles. 
 
 * There will I ask of Christ the Lord 
 
 Thus much for him and me : — 
 Only to live as once on earth 
 
 With Love, only to be. 
 As then awhile, for ever now 
 
 Together, I and he.' 
 
 She gazed and listen' d and then said, 
 Less sad of speech than mild, — 
 
 * All this is when he comes. ' She ceased. 
 
 The light thrill'd towards her, fiU'd 
 With angels in strong level flight. 
 Her eyes pray'd, and she smiled. 
 
 (I saw her smile.) But soon their path 
 Was vague in distant spheres : 
 
 And then she cast her arms along 
 The golden barriers. 
 
 And laid her face between her hands, 
 And wept. (I heard her tears. ) 
 
 D. G. Rossetti 
 
Second Series 115 
 
 xci 
 SONG OF AN ANGEL 
 
 At noon a shower had fallen, and the clime 
 Breathed sweetly, and upon a cloud there lay 
 One more sublime in beauty than the Day, 
 
 Or all the Sons of Time ; 
 
 A gold harp had he, and was singing there 
 Songs that I yearn'd to hear ; a glory shone 
 Of rosy twilights on his cheeks — a zone 
 
 Of amaranth on his hair. 
 
 He sang of joys to which the earthly heart 
 Hath never beat ; he sang of deathless Youth, 
 And by the throne of Love, Beauty and Truth 
 
 Meeting, no more to part ; 
 
 He sang lost Hope, faint Faith, and vain Desire 
 Crown'd there ; great works, that on the earth 
 
 began, 
 Accomplish'd ; towers impregnable to man 
 
 Scaled with the speed of fire j 
 
 Of Power, and Life, and winged Victory 
 
 He sang — of bridges strown 'twixt star and star — 
 And hosts all arm'd in light for bloodless war 
 
 Pass, and repass on high ; 
 
 Lo ! in the pauses of his jubilant voice 
 
 He leans to listen : answers from the spheres, 
 And mighty paeans thundering he hears 
 
 Down the empyreal skies : 
 
 Then suddenly he ceased — and seem'd to rest 
 His godly-fashion'd arm upon a slope 
 Of that fair cloud, and with soft eyes of hope 
 
 He pointed towards the West ; 
 
 And shed on me a smile of beams, that told 
 Of a bright World beyond the thunder-piles, 
 With blessed fields, and hills, and happy isles, 
 
 And citadels of gold. 
 
 F. Tennyson 
 
Il6 The Golden Treasury 
 
 A CHRISTMAS HYMN, 1837 
 
 It was the calm and silent night ! — 
 
 Seven hundred years and fifty-three 
 Had Rome been growing up to might, 
 
 And now was Queen of land and sea ! 
 No sound was heard of clashing wars ; 
 
 Peace brooded o'er the hush'd domain ; 
 Apollo, Pallas, Jove and Mars, 
 
 Held undisturb'd their ancient reign, 
 In the solemn midnight 
 Centuries ago ! 
 
 'Twas in the calm and silent night ! 
 
 The senator of haughty Rome 
 Impatient urged his chariot's flight, 
 
 From lordly revel rolling home ! 
 Triumphal arches gleaming swell 
 
 His breast with thoughts of boundless sway 
 What reck'd the Roman what befell 
 
 A paltry province far away, 
 In the solemn midnight 
 Centuries ago ! 
 
 Within that province far away 
 
 Went plodding home a weary boor : 
 A streak of light before him lay, 
 
 Fall'n through a half- shut stable door 
 Across his path. He pass'd — for nought 
 
 Told what was going on within ; 
 How keen the stars ! his only thought ; 
 
 The air how calm and cold and thin. 
 In the solemn midnight 
 Centuries ago ! 
 
 O strange indifference ! — low and high 
 Drowsed over common joys and cares : 
 
 The earth was still — but knew not why ; 
 The world was listening — unawares ; 
 
Second Series 117 
 
 How calm a moment may precede 
 
 One that shall thrill the world for ever ! 
 To that still moment none would heed, 
 Man's doom was link'd no more to sever 
 In the solemn midnight 
 Centuries ago ! 
 
 It is the calm and solemn night ! 
 
 A thousand bells ring out, and throw 
 Their joyous peals abroad, and smite 
 
 The darkness, charm'd and holy now ! 
 The night that erst no name had worn, 
 
 To it a happy name is given ; 
 For in that stable lay new-born 
 
 The peaceful Prince of Earth and Heaven, 
 In the solemn midnight 
 Centuries ago. 
 
 A. Domett 
 
 XCIII 
 
 THE LOSS OF THE 'BIRKENHEAD': 
 
 SUPPOSED TO BE TOLD BY A SOLDIER WHO 
 SURVIVED 
 
 Right on our flank the crimson sun went down ; 
 The deep sea roll'd around in dark repose ; 
 When, like the wild shriek from some captured town, 
 A cry of women rose. 
 
 The stout ship Birkenhead lay hard and fast, 
 Caught without hope upon a hidden rock ; 
 Her timbers thrill'd as nerves, when through them 
 pass'd 
 The spirit of that shock. 
 
 And ever like base cowards, who leave their ranks 
 In danger's hour, before the rush of steel, 
 Drifted away disorderly the planks 
 From underneath her keel. 
 
ii8 The Golden Treasury 
 
 So calm the air, so calm and still the flood, 
 That low down in its blue translucent glass 
 We saw the great fierce fish, that thirst for blood, 
 Pass slowly, then repass. 
 
 They tarried, the waves tarried, for their prey ! 
 The sea turn'd one clear smile ! Like things asleep 
 Those dark shapes in the azure silence lay, 
 As quiet as the deep. 
 
 Then amidst oath, and prayer, and rush, and wreck, 
 Faint screams, faint questions waiting no reply. 
 Our Colonel gave the word, and on the deck 
 Form'd us in line to die. 
 
 To die ! — 'twas hard, whilst the sleek ocean glow'd 
 Beneath a sky as fair as summer flowers : — 
 All to the boats ! cried one : — he was, thank God, 
 No officer of ours ! 
 
 Our English hearts beat true : — we would not stir : 
 That base appeal we heard, but heeded not : 
 On land, on sea, we had our Colours, sir. 
 To keep without a spot ! 
 
 They shall not say in England, that we fought 
 With shameful strength, unhonour'd life to seek ; 
 Into mean safety, mean deserters, brought 
 By trampling down the weak. 
 
 So we made women with their children go. 
 The oars ply back again, and yet again ; 
 Whilst, inch by inch, the drowning ship sank low, 
 Still under steadfast men. 
 
 — What follows, why recall ? — The brave who died. 
 Died without flinching in the bloody surf, 
 They sleep as well beneath that purple tide, 
 As others under turf : — 
 
 They sleep as well ! and, roused from their wild grave, 
 Wearing their wounds like stars, shall rise again. 
 Joint-heirs with Christ, because they bled to save 
 His weak ones, not in vain. 
 
 F. H. Doyle 
 
Second Series 119 
 
 xciv 
 THE BRITISH SOLDIER IN CHINA 
 
 Last night among his fellow-roughs 
 
 He jested, quaff 'd and swore : 
 A drunken private of the Buffs, 
 
 Who never look'd before. 
 To-day, beneath the foeman's frown, 
 
 He stands in Elgin's place, 
 Ambassador from Britain's crown, 
 
 And type of all her race. 
 
 Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught, 
 
 Bewilder'd, and alone, 
 A heart, with English instinct fraught, 
 
 He yet can call his own. 
 Ay ! tear his body limb from limb ; 
 
 Bring cord, or axe, or flame ! — 
 He only knows, that not through him 
 
 Shall England come to shame. 
 
 Far Kentish hopfields round him seem'd 
 
 Like dreams to come and go ; 
 Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleam'd, 
 
 One sheet of living snow : 
 The smoke above his father's door 
 
 In gray soft eddyings hung : — 
 Must he then watch it rise no more, 
 
 Doom'd by himself, so young ? 
 
 Yes, Honour calls ! — with strength like steel 
 
 He put the vision by : 
 Let dusky Indians whine and kneel ; 
 
 An English lad must die ! 
 And thus, with eyes that would not shrink, 
 
 With knee to man unbent, 
 Unfaltering on its dreadful brink 
 
 To his red grave he went. 
 
 — Vain, mightiest fleets of iron framed ; 
 
 Vain, those all-shattering guns ; 
 Unless proud England keep, untamed, 
 
 The strong heart of her sons ! 
 
I20 The Golden Treasury 
 
 So, let his name through Europe ring — 
 
 A man of mean estate 
 Who died, as firm as Sparta's king, 
 
 Because his soul was great. 
 
 F. H. Doyle 
 
 xcv 
 THE SANDS OF DEE 
 
 * O Mary, go and call the cattle home, — 
 
 And call the cattle home, 
 
 And call the cattle home 
 
 Across the sands o' Dee ! ' 
 The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, 
 
 And all alone went she. 
 
 The creeping tide came up along the sand. 
 
 And o'er and o'er the sand, 
 
 And round and round the sand, 
 
 As far as eye could see ; 
 The blinding mist came down and hid the land — 
 
 And never home came she. 
 
 ' Oh, is it weed or fish or floating hair — 
 
 A tress o' golden hair, 
 
 O' drowned maiden's hair, 
 
 Above the nets, at sea ? 
 Was never salmon yet that shone so fair 
 
 Across the stakes on Dee.' 
 
 They row'd her in across the rolling foam, 
 
 The cruel crawling foam, 
 
 The cruel hungry foam, 
 
 To her grave beside the sea : 
 But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, 
 
 Across the sands o' Dee. 
 
 C. Kingsley 
 
Second Series 12] 
 
 xcvi 
 LOST ON SCHIHALLION 
 
 Shepherd 
 
 Oh wherefore cam ye here, Ailie ? 
 
 What has brocht you here ? 
 Late and lane on this bleak muir and eerie, 
 
 A wild place this to be 
 
 For a body frail as ye, 
 Wi' the nicht and yon storm-clouds sae near ye. 
 
 Ailie 
 
 Oh dinna drive me back, 
 
 I canna leave my track, 
 Though nicht and the tempest should close o'er me. 
 
 The warld I've left behind. 
 
 And there's nocht I care to find 
 Save Schihallion and high heaven that are afore me. 
 
 Shepherd 
 
 Oh speak nae word o' driving, 
 
 But wherefore art thou striving 
 For the thing that canna be, puir Ailie ? 
 
 Ye had better far return, 
 
 Where the peat-fires bienly burn, 
 And your friends wait ye down at Bohalie. 
 
 Ailie 
 
 The warld below is cauld and bare. 
 
 Up yonder's the place for prayer ; 
 There the vision on my soul will break clearer, 
 
 My friends will little miss me. 
 
 And there's only One can bless me, 
 To Him on the hill-top I'll be nearer. 
 
 Shepherd 
 
 Schihallion's sides sae solid and steep. 
 And his snow-drifts heap on heap. 
 What mortal would dream the nicht o' scaling ? 
 
122 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Gin the heart pray below, 
 From nae mountain-top will go 
 Your prayer to heaven with cry more prevailing. 
 
 A Hie 
 
 Weak am I and frail, I ken. 
 
 But there's might that's not of men 
 To bear me up — sae na mair entreat me ; 
 
 Be the snow-drifts ne'er sae deep, 
 
 I have got a tryst to keep 
 Wi' the angels that up yonder wait to meet me. 
 
 The Shepherd home is gone, 
 
 And she went on alone ; 
 Night cam, but she cam not to Bohalie ; 
 
 They socht her west and east 
 
 Neist day and then the neist 
 On Schihallion's head they found puir Ailie. 
 
 Stiff with ice her limbs and hair. 
 
 And her hands fast closed in prayer. 
 And her white face to heaven meekly turning ; 
 
 Down they bore her to her grave. 
 
 And they knew her soul was safe 
 In the home for which sae lang she had been yearning. 
 
 /. C. Shairp 
 
 XCVII 
 
 THE BALLAD OF KEITH OF RA VELSTON 
 
 The nmrmur of the mourning ghost 
 That keeps the shadowy kine ; — 
 
 Oh, Keith of Ravelston, 
 The sorrows of thy line ! 
 
 Ravelston, Ravelston, 
 
 The merry path that leads 
 Down the golden morning hill 
 
 And through the silver meads ; 
 
Seco7td Series 123 
 
 ■ Ravelston, Ravelston, 
 
 The stile beneath the tree, 
 The maid that kept her mother's kine, 
 The song that sang she ! 
 
 She sang her song, she kept her kine, 
 
 She sat beneath the thorn, 
 When Andrew Keith of Ravelston 
 
 Rode thro' the Monday morn. 
 
 His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring. 
 
 His belted jewels shine ! — 
 Oh, Keith of Ravelston, 
 
 The sorrows of thy line ! 
 
 Year after year, where Andrew came, 
 Comes evening down the glade ; 
 
 And still there sits a moonshine ghost 
 Where sat the sunshine maid. 
 
 Her misty hair is faint and fair. 
 She keeps the shadowy kine ; — 
 
 Oh, Keith of Ravelston, 
 The sorrows of thy line ! 
 
 I lay my hand upon the stile, 
 
 The stile is lone and cold, 
 The burnie that goes babbling by 
 
 Says nought that can be told. 
 
 Yet, stranger ! here, from year to year. 
 She keeps her shadowy kine ; — 
 
 Oh, Keith of Ravelston, 
 The sorrows of thy line ! 
 
 She makes her immemorial moan, 
 She keeps her shadowy kine ; — 
 
 Oh, Keith of Ravelston, 
 The sorrows of thy line ! 
 
 S. Dobell 
 
124 The Golden Treasury 
 
 XCVIII 
 
 MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS 
 
 When the young hand of Darnley lock'd in hers 
 Had knit her to her northern doom — amid 
 The spousal pomp of flags and trumpeters, 
 Her fate look'd forth and was no longer hid ; 
 A jealous brain beneath a southern crown 
 Wrought spells upon her ; from afar she felt 
 The waxen image of her fortunes melt 
 Beneath the Tudor's eye, while the grim frown 
 Of her own lords o'ermaster'd her sweet smiles — 
 And nipt her growing gladness, till she mourn'd, 
 And sank, at last, beneath their cruel wiles ; 
 But, ever since, all generous hearts have burn'd 
 To clear her fame, yea, very babes have yearn'd 
 Over this saddest story of the isles. 
 
 C. Tennyson- Turner 
 
 xcix 
 
 THE FORSAKEN MERMAN 
 
 Come, dear children, let us away ; 
 Down and away below ! 
 Now my brothers call from the bay, 
 Now the great winds shoreward blow, 
 Now the salt tides seaward flow ; 
 Now the wild white horses play. 
 Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. 
 Children dear, let us away ! 
 This way, this way ! 
 
 Call her once before you go- 
 Call once yet ! 
 
 In a voice that she will know : 
 ' Margaret ! Margaret ! ' 
 Children's voices should be dear 
 (Call once more) to a mother's ear ; 
 Children's voices, wild with pain — 
 Surely she will come again ! 
 Call her once and come away ; 
 
Second Series 125 
 
 This way, this way ! 
 
 * Mother dear, we cannot stay ! 
 
 The wild white horses foam and fret.' 
 
 Margaret ! Margaret ! 
 
 Come, dear children, come away down ; 
 Call no more ! 
 
 One last look at the white-wall'd town, 
 And the little gray church on the windy shore ; 
 Then come down ! 
 
 She will not come though you call all day ; 
 Come away, come away ! 
 
 Children dear, was it yesterday 
 We heard the sweet bells over the bay ? 
 In the caverns where we lay. 
 Through the surf and through the swell, 
 The far-off sound of a silver bell ? 
 Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, 
 Where the winds are all asleep ; 
 Where the spent lights quiver and gleam, 
 WTiere the salt weed sways in the stream. 
 Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round. 
 Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground ; 
 Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, 
 Dry their mail and bask in the brine ; 
 Where great whales come sailing by, 
 Sail and sail, with unshut eye. 
 Round the world for ever and aye ? 
 When did music come this way ? 
 Children dear, was it yesterday ? 
 
 Children dear, was it yesterday 
 (Call yet once) that she went away? 
 Once she sate with you and me. 
 On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea. 
 And the youngest sate on her knee. 
 She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well, 
 WTien down swung the sound of a far-off bell. 
 She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea ; 
 She said : * I must go, for my kinsfolk pray 
 In the little gray church on the shore to-day. 
 'Twill be Easter-time in the world — ah me ! 
 And I lose my poor soul, Merman ! here with thee.' 
 
126 The Golden Treasury 
 
 I said : ' Go up, dear heart, through the waves ; 
 Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea 
 
 caves ! ' 
 She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay. 
 Children dear, was it yesterday ? 
 
 Children dear, were we long alone ? 
 * The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan ; 
 Long prayers,' I said, * in the world they say ; 
 Come ! ' I said ; and we rose through the surf in the 
 
 bay. 
 We went up the beach, by the sandy down 
 Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall'd 
 
 town ; 
 Through the narrow paved streets, where all was 
 
 still. 
 To the little gray church on the windy hill. 
 From the church came a murmur of folk at their 
 
 prayers, 
 But we stood without in the cold bloAving airs. 
 We climb'd on the graves, on the stones worn with 
 
 rains. 
 And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded 
 
 panes. 
 She sate by the pillar ; we saw her clear : 
 ' Margaret, hist ! come quick, we are here ! 
 Dear heart,' I said, ' we are long alone ; 
 The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.' 
 But, ah, she gave me never a look, 
 For her eyes were seal'd to the holy book ! 
 Loud prays the priest ; shut stands the door. 
 Come away, children, call no more ! 
 Come away, come down, call no more ! 
 
 Down, down, down ! 
 Down to the depths of the sea ! 
 She sits at her wheel in the humming town, 
 Singing most joyfully. 
 Hark what she sings : * O joy, O joy, 
 For the humming street, and the child with its toy ! 
 For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well ; 
 For the wheel where I spun, 
 And the blessed light of the sun ! ' 
 
Second Sej-ies iz'j 
 
 And so she sings her fill, 
 
 Singing most joyfully, 
 
 Till the spindle drops from her hand, 
 
 And the whizzing wheel stands still. 
 
 She steals to the window, and looks at the sand, 
 
 And over the sand at the sea ; 
 
 And her eyes are set in a stare ; 
 
 And anon there breaks a sigh. 
 
 And anon there drops a tear. 
 
 From a sorrow-clouded eye. 
 
 And a heart sorrow-laden, 
 
 A long, long sigh ; 
 
 For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden 
 
 And the gleam of her golden hair. 
 
 Come away, away, children ; 
 Come, children, come down ! 
 The hoarse wind blows coldly ; 
 Lights shine in the town. 
 She will start from her slumber 
 When gusts shake the door ; 
 She will hear the winds howling, 
 Will hear the waves roar. 
 
 We shall see, while above us 
 The waves roar and whirl, 
 A ceiling of amber, 
 A pavement of pearl. 
 Singing : ' Here came a mortal, 
 But faithless was she ! 
 And alone dwell for ever 
 The kings of the sea.' 
 
 But, children, at midnight. 
 When soft the winds blow. 
 When clear falls the moonlight, 
 When spring-tides are low ; 
 When sweet airs come seaward 
 From heaths starr'd with broom, 
 And high rocks throw mildly 
 On the blanch'd sands a gloom ; 
 Up the still, glistening beaches, 
 
12^ The Golden Treasury 
 
 Up the creeks we will hie, 
 
 Over banks of bright seaweed 
 
 The ebb-tide leaves dry. 
 
 We will gaze, from the sand-hills, 
 
 At the white, sleeping town ; 
 
 At the church on the hill-side — 
 
 And then come back down. 
 
 Singing : ' There dwells a loved one, 
 
 But cruel is she ! 
 
 She left lonely for ever 
 
 The kings of the sea.' 
 
 M. Arnold 
 
 c 
 
 THE 'REVENGE' 
 
 A BALLAD OF THE FLEET 
 
 At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, 
 
 And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from 
 away : 
 
 * Spanish ships of war at sea ! we have sighted fifty- 
 three ! ' 
 
 Then sware Lord Thomas Howard : ' 'Fore God I am 
 no coward ; 
 
 But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of 
 gear. 
 
 And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow 
 quick. 
 
 We are six ships of the line ; can we fight with fifty- 
 three ? ' 
 
 Then spake Sir Richard Grenville : * I know you are 
 
 no coward ; 
 You fly them for a moment to fight with them again. 
 But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick 
 
 ashore. 
 I should count myself the coward if I left them, my 
 
 Lord Howard, 
 To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain.' 
 
Second Series 129 
 
 So Lord Howard past away with five ships of war 
 
 that day, 
 Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer 
 
 heaven ; 
 But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from 
 
 the land 
 Very carefully and slow, 
 Men of Bideford in Devon, 
 And we laid them on the ballast down below ; 
 For we brought them all aboard. 
 And they blest him in their pain, that they were not 
 
 left to Spain, 
 To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the 
 
 Lord, 
 
 He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship 
 
 and to fight, 
 And he sail'd away from Flores till the Spaniard 
 
 came in sight, 
 With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather 
 
 bow. 
 ' Shall we fight or shall we fly ? 
 Good Sir Richard, tell us now, 
 For to fight is but to die ! 
 
 There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set.' 
 And Sir Richard said again : ' We be all good 
 
 English men. 
 Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the 
 
 devil. 
 For I never turn'd my back upon Don or devil yet.' 
 
 Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a 
 
 hurrah, and so 
 The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the 
 
 foe. 
 With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety 
 
 sick below ; 
 For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left 
 
 were seen, 
 And the little Revenge ran on thro' the long sea-lane 
 
 between. 
 
 K 
 
130 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Thousands of their soldiers look'd down from their 
 
 decks and laugh'd, 
 Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad 
 
 httle craft 
 Running on and on, till delay'd 
 By their mountain-like San Philip that, of fifteen 
 
 hundred tons. 
 And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning 
 
 tiers of guns, 
 Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd. 
 
 And while now the great San Philip hung above us 
 like a cloud 
 
 Whence the thunderbolt will fall 
 
 Long and loud, 
 
 Four galleons drew away 
 
 From the Spanish fleet that day, 
 
 And two upon the larboard and two upon the star- 
 board lay. 
 
 And the battle-thunder broke from them all. 
 
 But anon the great Saft Philip, she bethought herself 
 
 and went 
 Having that within her womb that had left her ill 
 
 content ; 
 And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us 
 
 hand to hand. 
 For a dozen times they came with their pikes and 
 
 musqueteers. 
 And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that 
 
 shakes his ears 
 When he leaps from the water to the land. 
 
 And the sun went down, and the stars came out far 
 over the summer sea, 
 
 But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and 
 the fifty- three. 
 
 Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built 
 galleons came. 
 
 Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle- 
 thunder and flame ; 
 
 Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with 
 her dead and her shame. 
 
Second Series 13 1 
 
 For some were sunk and many were shatter'd, and 
 
 so could fight us no more — 
 God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the 
 
 world before ? 
 
 For he said ' Fight on ! fight on ! ' 
 Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck ; 
 And it chanced that, when half of the short summer 
 
 night was gone, 
 With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck. 
 But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly 
 
 dead. 
 And himself he was wounded again in the side and 
 
 the head, 
 And he said ' Fight on ! fight on ! ' 
 
 And the night went down, and the sun smiled out 
 
 far over the summer sea. 
 And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us 
 
 all in a ring ; 
 But they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd 
 
 that we still could sting, 
 So they watch'd what the end would be. 
 And we had not fought them in vain, 
 But in perilous plight were we. 
 Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain. 
 And half of the rest of us maim'd for life 
 In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate 
 
 strife ; 
 And the sick men down in the hold were most of 
 
 them stark and cold. 
 And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the 
 
 powder was all of it spent ; 
 And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side ; 
 But Sir Richard cried in his English pride, 
 ' We have fought such a fight for a day and a 
 
 night 
 As may never be fought again ! 
 We have won great glory, my men ! 
 And a day less or more 
 At sea or ashore, 
 We die — does it matter when ? 
 
132 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Sink me the ship, Master Gunner — sink her, split her 
 
 in twain ! 
 Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of 
 
 Spain !' 
 
 And the gunner said ' Ay, ay,' but the seamen 
 
 made reply : 
 ' We have children, we have wives. 
 And the Lord hath spared our lives. 
 We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to 
 
 let us go ; 
 We shall live to fight again and to strike another 
 
 blow,' 
 And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the 
 
 foe. 
 And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore 
 
 him then, 
 Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard 
 
 caught at last, 
 And they praised him to his face with their courtly 
 
 foreign grace ; 
 But he rose upon their decks, and he cried : 
 ' I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant 
 
 man and true ; 
 I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do : 
 With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Grenville die ! ' 
 And he fell upon their decks, and he died. 
 
 And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant 
 
 and true, 
 And had holden the power and glory of Spain so 
 
 cheap 
 That he dared her with one little ship and his English 
 
 few ; 
 Was he devil or man ? He was devil for aught they 
 
 knew, 
 But they sank his body with honour down into the 
 
 deep, 
 And they mann'd the Revenge with a swarthier alien 
 
 crew, 
 And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her 
 
 own : 
 
Second Series 133 
 
 When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke 
 
 from sleep, 
 And the water began to heave and the weather to 
 
 moan, 
 And or ever that evening ended a great gale 
 
 blew, 
 And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earth- 
 quake grew. 
 Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their 
 
 masts and their flags, 
 And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot- 
 
 shatter'd navy of Spain, 
 And the little Revenge herself went down by the 
 
 island crags 
 To be lost evermore in the main. 
 
 A. Lord Tennyson 
 
 CI 
 
 THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE 
 
 Half a league, half a league, 
 
 Half a league onward, 
 All in the valley of Death 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 ' Forward, the Light Brigade ! 
 Charge for the guns ! ' he said : 
 Into the valley of Death 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 * Forward, the Light Brigade ! ' 
 Was there a man dismay'd ? 
 Not tho' the soldier knew 
 
 Some one had blunder'd : 
 Their's not to make reply, 
 Their's not to reason why, 
 Their's but to do and die : 
 Into the valley of Death 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
34 ^^^ Golden Treasury 
 
 Cannon to right of them, 
 Cannon to left of them, 
 Cannon in front of them 
 
 Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
 Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
 Boldly they rode and well. 
 Into the jaws of Death, 
 Into the mouth of Hell 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 Flash'd all their sabres bare, 
 Flash'd as they turn'd in air 
 Sabring the gunners there. 
 Charging an army, while 
 
 All the world wonder'd : 
 Plunged in the battery-smoke 
 Right thro' the line they broke ; 
 Cossack and Russian 
 Reel'd from the sabre-stroke 
 
 Shatter'd and sunder'd. 
 Then they rode back, but not 
 
 Not the six hundred. 
 
 Cannon to right of them. 
 Cannon to left of them. 
 Cannon behind them 
 
 Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
 Storm'd at with shot and shell. 
 While horse and hero fell, 
 They that had fought so well 
 Came thro' the jaws of Death, 
 Back from the mouth of Hell, 
 All that was left of them. 
 
 Left of six hundred. 
 
 When can their glory fade ? 
 O the wild charge they made ! 
 
 All the world wonder'd. 
 Honour the charge they made ! 
 Honour the Light Brigade, 
 
 Noble six hundred ! 
 
 A, Lord Tennyson 
 
Second Series 135 
 
 CII 
 
 HERVA KIEL 
 
 On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred 
 
 ninety-two, 
 Did the English fight the French, — woe to France ! 
 And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through 
 
 the blue, 
 Like a crowd of frighten'd porpoises a shoal of sharks 
 pursue. 
 Came crowding ship on ship to Saint-Malo on the 
 Ranee, 
 With the English fleet in view. 
 
 'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in 
 full chase ; 
 First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, 
 Damfreville ; 
 Close on him fled, great and small. 
 Twenty-two good ships in all ; 
 And they signall'd to the place 
 * Help the winners of a race ! 
 Get us guidance, give us harbour, take us quick — 
 
 or, quicker still, 
 Here's the English can and will ! ' 
 
 Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt 
 
 on board ; 
 * Why, what hope or chance have ships like these 
 to pass ? ' laugh'd they : 
 ' Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage 
 
 scarr'd and scored, — 
 Shall the Formidable here, with her twelve and eighty 
 guns, 
 Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow 
 way. 
 Trust to enter — where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty 
 tons, 
 And with flow at full beside ? 
 Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. 
 
136 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Reach the mooring ? Rather say, 
 While rock stands or water runs, 
 Not a ship will leave the bay ! ' 
 
 Then was call'd a council straight. 
 Brief and bitter the debate : 
 ' Here's the English at our heels ; would you have 
 
 them take in tow 
 All that's left us of the fleet, link'd together stern and 
 
 bow, 
 For a prize to Plymouth Sound ? 
 Better run the ships aground ! ' 
 
 (Ended Damfreville his speech.) 
 ' Not a minute more to wait ! 
 Let the Captains all and each 
 
 Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the 
 beach ! 
 France must undergo her fate. 
 
 ' Give the word !■' But no such word 
 Was ever spoke or heard ; 
 
 For up stood, for out stepp'd, for in struck amid all 
 these 
 — A Captain ? A Lieutenant ? A Mate — first, second, 
 third ? 
 No such man of mark, and meet 
 With his betters to compete ! 
 
 But a simple Breton sailor press'd by Tourville for 
 the fleet, 
 A poor coasting-pilot he, Herve Riel the Croisickese. 
 
 And ' What mockery or malice have we here ? ' 
 
 cries Herve Riel : 
 'Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, 
 fools, or rogues? 
 Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the 
 
 soundings, tell 
 On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell 
 'Twixt the offing here and Greve where the river 
 disembogues ? 
 Are you bought by English gold ? Is it love the 
 lying's for ? 
 
Second Series 137 
 
 Morn and eve, night and day, 
 Have I piloted your bay, 
 Enter'd free and anchor'd fast at the foot of Solidor. 
 Burn the fleet and ruin France ? That were worse 
 than fifty Hogues ! 
 Sirs, they know I speak the truth ! Sirs, beHeve 
 me there's a way ! 
 Only let me lead the line. 
 
 Have the biggest ship to steer, 
 Get this Formidable clear. 
 Make the others follow mine. 
 
 And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I 
 know well. 
 Right to Solidor past Greve, 
 
 And there lay them safe and sound ; 
 And if one ship misbehave, — 
 
 — Keel so much as grate the ground, 
 Why, I've nothing but my life, — here's my head ! ' 
 cries Herve Riel. 
 
 Not a minute more to wait, 
 ' Steer us in, then, small and great ! 
 Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron ! 
 cried its chief. 
 Captains, give the sailor place ! 
 
 He is Admiral, in brief. 
 Still the north-wind, by God's grace ! 
 See the noble fellow's face 
 As the big ship, with a bound. 
 Clears the entry like a hound. 
 
 Keeps the passage, as its inch of way were the wide 
 seas profound ! 
 See, safe thro' shoal and rock, 
 How they follow in a flock. 
 Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the 
 ground, 
 Not a spar that comes to grief ! 
 The peril, see, is past. 
 All are harbour'd to the last, 
 And just as Herve Riel hollas * Anchor ! ' — sure as 
 
 fate, 
 Up the English come, — too late ! 
 
138 The Golden Treasury 
 
 So, the storm subsides to calm : 
 They see the green trees wave 
 On the heights o'erlooking Greve. 
 Hearts that bled are stanch'd with balm, 
 
 • Just our rapture to enhance, 
 
 Let the English rake the bay. 
 Gnash their teeth and glare askance 
 
 As they cannonade away ! ' 
 'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the 
 
 Ranee ! 
 How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's counte- 
 nance ! 
 Out burst all with one accord, 
 ' This is Paradise for Hell ! 
 Let France, let France's King 
 Thank the man that did the thing ! ' 
 What a shout, and all one word, 
 
 ' Herve Kiel ! ' 
 As he stepp'd in front once more, 
 Not a symptom of surprise 
 In the frank blue Breton eyes, 
 Just the same man as before. 
 
 Then said Damfreville, ' My friend, 
 I must speak out at the end, 
 
 Though I find the speaking hard. 
 Praise is deeper than the lips : 
 You have saved the King his ships, 
 
 You must name your own reward. 
 'Faith, our sun was near eclipse ! 
 Demand whate'er you will, 
 France remains your debtor still. 
 Ask to heart's content and have ! or my name's not 
 Damfreville.' 
 
 Then a beam of fun outbroke 
 On the bearded mouth that spoke, 
 As the honest heart laugh'd through 
 Those frank eyes of Breton blue : 
 
 * Since I needs must say my say, 
 
 Since on board the duty's done, 
 And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it 
 but a run ? — • 
 
Second Series 1 39 
 
 Since 'tis ask and have, I may — 
 
 Since the others go ashore — 
 Come ! A good whole hoHday ! 
 
 Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle 
 Aurore ! ' 
 
 That he ask'd and that he got, — nothing more. 
 
 Name and deed alike are lost : 
 Not a pillar nor a post 
 
 In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell ; 
 Not a head in white and black 
 On a single fishing- smack, 
 
 In memory of the man but for whom had gone to 
 wrack 
 All that France saved from the fight whence Eng- 
 land bore the bell : 
 Go to Paris : rank on rank 
 
 Search the heroes flung pell-mell 
 On the Louvre, face and flank ! 
 
 You shall look long enough ere you come to Herve 
 Kiel. 
 So, for better and for worse, 
 Herve Riel, accept my verse ! 
 In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once more 
 Save the squadron, honour France, love thy wife the 
 Belle Aurore ! 
 
 R. Browning- 
 
 cm 
 
 THE LABORATORY: 
 
 ANCIEN REGIME 
 
 Now that I, tying thy glass mask tightly, 
 May gaze thro' these faint smokes curling whitely, 
 As thou pliest thy trade in this devil's-smithy — 
 Which is the poison to poison her, prithee ? 
 
140 The Golden Treasury 
 
 He is with her, and they know that I know 
 
 Where they are, what they do : they beheve my tears 
 
 flow 
 While they laugh, laugh at me, at me fled to the 
 
 drear 
 Empty church, to pray God in, for them ! — I am 
 
 here. 
 
 Grind away, moisten and mash up thy paste, 
 Pound at thy powder, — I am not in haste ! 
 Better sit thus, and observe thy strange things. 
 Than go where men wait me and dance at the King's. 
 
 That in the mortar — you call it a gum ? 
 
 Ah, the brave tree whence such gold oozings come ! 
 
 And yonder soft phial, the exquisite blue. 
 
 Sure to taste sweetly, — is that poison too ? 
 
 Had I but all of them, thee and thy treasures, 
 What a wild crowd of invisible pleasures ! 
 To carry pure death in an earring, a casket, 
 A signet, a fan-mount, a filigree basket ! 
 
 Soon, at the King's, a mere lozenge to give, 
 And Pauline should have just thirty minutes to live ! 
 But to light a pastile, and Elise, with her head 
 And her breast and her arms and her hands, should 
 drop dead ! 
 
 Quick — is it finish'd ? The colour's too grim ! 
 Why not soft like the phial's, enticing and dim ? 
 Let it brighten her drink, let her turn it and stir, 
 And try it and taste, ere she fix and prefer ? 
 
 What a drop ! She's not little, no minion like me ! 
 That's why she ensnared him : this never will free 
 The soul from those niasculine eyes, — say, ' No ! ' 
 To that pulse's magnificent come-and-go. 
 
 For only last night, as they whisper'd, I brought 
 My own eyes to bear on her so, that I thought 
 Could I keep them one half minute fix'd, she would fall 
 Shrivell'd ; she fell not ; yet this does it all 1 
 
Second Series 141 
 
 Not that I bid you spare her the pain ; 
 Let death be felt and the proof remain : 
 Brand, burn up, bite into its grace — 
 He is sure to remember her dying face ! 
 
 Is it done ? Take my mask off ! Nay, be not morose; 
 It kills her, and this prevents seeing it close : 
 The delicate droplet, my whole fortune's fee ! 
 If it hurts her, beside, can it ever hurt me ? 
 
 Now, take all my jewels, gorge gold to your fill, 
 You may kiss me, old man, on my mouth if you will ! 
 But brush this dust off me, lest horror it brings 
 Ere I know it — next moment I dance at the King's ! 
 
 R. Brownmg 
 
 THE RED THREAD OF HONOUR 
 
 Eleven men of England 
 
 A breast-work charged in vain ; 
 Eleven men of England 
 
 Lie stripp'd, and gash'd, and slain. 
 Slain ; but of foes that guarded 
 
 Their rock-built fortress well. 
 Some twenty had been master'd, 
 
 ^^^len the last soldier fell. 
 
 The robber-chief mused deeply, 
 
 Above those daring dead ; 
 'Bring here,' at length he shouted, 
 
 ' Bring quick, the battle thread. 
 Let Eblis blast for ever 
 
 Their souls, if Allah will : 
 But We must keep unbroken 
 
 The old rules of the Hill. 
 
 * Before the Ghiznee tiger 
 Leapt forth to burn and slay ; 
 
 Before the holy Prophet 
 
 Taught our grim tribes to pray ; 
 
142 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Before Secunder's lances 
 
 Pierced through each Indian glen ; 
 
 The mountain laws of honour 
 Were framed for fearless men. 
 
 * Still, when a chief dies bravely, 
 
 We bind with green one wrist — 
 Green for the brave, for heroes 
 
 One crimson thread we twist. 
 Say ye, oh gallant Hillmen, 
 
 For these, whose life has fled, 
 Which is the fitting colour, 
 
 The green one, or the red ? ' 
 
 * Our brethren, laid in honour'd graves, may wear 
 Their green reward,' each noble savage said ; 
 
 'To these, whom hawks and hungry wolves shall 
 tear. 
 Who dares deny the red ? ' 
 
 Thus conquering hate, and stedfast to the right. 
 Fresh from the heart that haughty verdict came ; 
 
 Beneath a waning moon, each spectral height 
 RoU'd back its loud acclaim. 
 
 Once more the chief gazed keenly 
 
 Down on those daring dead ; 
 From his good sword their heart's blood 
 
 Crept to that crimson thread. 
 Once more he cried, ' The judgment, 
 
 Good friends, is wise and true, 
 But though the red be given. 
 
 Have we not more to do ? 
 
 * These were not stirr'd by anger, 
 
 Nor yet by lust made bold ; 
 Renown they thought above them, 
 
 Nor did they look for gold. 
 To them their leader's signal 
 
 Was as the voice of God : 
 Unmoved, and uncomplaining, 
 
 The path it show'd they trod. 
 
Second Series 143 
 
 * As, without sound or struggle, 
 
 The stars unhurrying march, 
 Where Allah's finger guides them, 
 
 Through yonder purple arch, 
 These Franks, sublimely silent, 
 
 Without a quicken'd breath. 
 Went, in the strength of duty. 
 
 Straight to their goal of death. 
 
 * If I were now to ask you. 
 
 To name our bravest man, 
 Ye all at once would answer, 
 
 They call'd him Mehrab Khan. 
 He sleeps among his fathers. 
 
 Dear to our native land, 
 With the bright mark he bled for 
 
 Firm round his faithful hand. 
 
 * The songs they sing of Roostum 
 
 Fill all the past with light ; 
 If truth be in their music. 
 
 He was a noble knight. 
 But were those heroes living, 
 
 And strong for battle still. 
 Would Mehrab Khan or Roostum 
 
 Have climb'd, like these, the Hill ? ' 
 
 And they replied, ' Though Mehrab Khan was 
 brave. 
 
 As chief, he chose himself what risks to run ; 
 Prince Roostum lied, his forfeit life to save, 
 
 Which these had never done.' 
 
 * Enough ! ' he shouted fiercely ; 
 
 ' Doom'd though they be to hell. 
 Bind fast the crimson trophy 
 
 Round BOTH wrists — bind it well. 
 Who knows but that great Allah 
 
 May grudge such matchless men, 
 With none so deck'd in heaven, 
 
 To the fiends' flaming den ? ' 
 
144 '^^^^ Golden Treasury 
 
 Then all those gallant robbers 
 
 Shouted a stern ' Amen ! ' 
 They raised the slaughter'd sergeant, 
 
 They raised his mangled ten. 
 And when we found their bodies 
 
 Left bleaching in the wind, 
 Around both wrists in glory 
 
 That crimson thread was twined. 
 
 F. H. Doyle 
 
 cv 
 
 THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR 
 
 Come, see the Dolphin^s anchor forged — 'tis at a 
 
 white heat now ; 
 The bellows ceased, the flames decreased — though on 
 
 the forge's brow, 
 The little flames still fitfully play through the sable 
 
 mound. 
 And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking 
 
 round, 
 All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only 
 
 bare ; 
 Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the 
 
 windlass there. 
 
 The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black 
 
 mound heaves below. 
 And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every 
 
 throe : 
 It rises, roars, rends all outright — O, Vulcan, what a 
 
 glow ! 
 'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright — the high sun 
 
 shines not so ; 
 The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful 
 
 show ; 
 The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy 
 
 lurid row 
 Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before 
 
 the foe : 
 
Secojid Series 145 
 
 As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing 
 
 monster, slow 
 Sinks on the anvil — all about the faces fiery grow ; 
 ' Hurrah ! ' they shout, ' leap out — leap out ; ' bang^ 
 
 bang the sledges go ; 
 Hurrah ! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and 
 
 low — 
 A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing 
 
 blow, 
 The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the rattling 
 
 cinders strow 
 The ground around : at every bound the sweltering 
 
 fountains flow, 
 And thick and loud, the shrinking crowd at every 
 
 stroke pant, ' Ho ! ' 
 
 Leap out, leap out, my masters ; leap out, and lay 
 
 on load ! 
 Let's forge a goodly anchor — a bower thick and 
 
 broad ; 
 For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode, 
 And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous 
 
 road — 
 The low reef roaring on her lee — the roll of ocean 
 
 pour'd 
 From stem to stern, sea after sea ; the mainmast by 
 
 the board ; 
 The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove 
 
 at the chains ! 
 But courage still, brave mariners — the bower yet 
 
 remains. 
 And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye 
 
 pitch sky high ; 
 Then moves his head, as though he said, ' Fear noth- 
 ing — here am I.' 
 Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand 
 
 keep time ; 
 Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's 
 
 chime : 
 But while you sling your sledges, sing — and let the 
 
 burthen be, 
 The anchor is the anvil-king, and royal craftsmen we ! 
 L 
 
146 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Strike in, strike in — the sparks begin to dull their 
 
 rustling red : 
 Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will 
 
 soon be sped. 
 Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich 
 
 array, 
 For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch 
 
 of clay ; 
 Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry crafts- 
 men here, 
 For the yeo-heave-o' and the heave-away, and the 
 
 sighing seamen's cheer ; 
 When, weighing slow, at eve they go — far, far from 
 
 love and home ; 
 And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the 
 
 ocean foam. 
 
 In Uvid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at 
 
 last; 
 A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat was 
 
 cast. 
 O trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life 
 
 like me. 
 What pleasures would thy toils reward, beneath the 
 
 deep green sea ! 
 ' O deep Sea-diver, who might then behold such sights 
 
 as thou ? 
 The hoary monster's palaces ! methinks what joy 
 
 'twere now 
 To go plumb plunging down amid the assembly of the 
 
 whales, 
 And feel the churn'd sea round me boil beneath their 
 
 scourging tails ! 
 Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea- 
 unicorn, 
 And send him foil'd and bellowing back, for all his 
 
 ivory horn ; 
 To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade 
 
 forlorn ; 
 And for the ghastly-grinning shark to laugh his jaws 
 
 to scorn ; 
 
Second Series 1 47 
 
 To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid 
 
 Norwegian isles, 
 He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallow'd miles; 
 Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls ; 
 Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the far-astonish' d 
 
 shoals 
 Of his back-browsing ocean-calves ; or, haply in a 
 
 cove. 
 Shell-strewn, and consecrate of old to some Undine's 
 
 love. 
 To find the long-hair'd mermaidens ; or, hard by icy 
 
 lands, 
 To wrestle with the Sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands. 
 
 O broad-arm'd Fisher of the deep, whose sports can 
 
 equal thine ? 
 The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy 
 
 cable line ! 
 And night by night, 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by 
 
 day, 
 Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game 
 
 to play — 
 But shamer of our little sports ! forgive the name I 
 
 gave — 
 A fisher's joy is to destroy — thine office is to save. 
 O lodger in the sea-kings' halls, couldst thou but 
 
 understand 
 Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that 
 
 dripping band. 
 Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about 
 
 thee bend. 
 With sounds like breakers in a dream blessing their 
 
 ancient friend ? 
 Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger 
 
 steps round thee, 
 Thine iron side would swell with pride ; thou'dst leap 
 
 within the sea ! 
 
 S. Ferguson 
 
148 The Golden Treasury 
 
 HERODIAS 
 
 Her long black hair danced round her like a snake 
 Allured to each charm'd movement she did make ; 
 
 Her voice came strangely sweet ; 
 She sang, ' O, Herod, wilt thou look on me — 
 Have I no beauty thy heart cares to see ? ' 
 And what her voice did sing her dancing feet 
 
 Seem'd ever to repeat. 
 
 She sang, ' O, Herod, wilt thou look on me ? 
 What sweet I have, I have it all for thee ; ' 
 
 And through the dance and song 
 She freed and floated on the air her arms 
 Above dim veils that hid her bosom's charms : 
 The passion of her singing was so strong 
 
 It drew all hearts along. 
 
 Her sweet arms were unfolded on the air, 
 They seem'd like floating flowers the most fair — 
 
 White lilies the most choice ; 
 And in the gradual bending of her hand 
 There lurk'd a grace that no man could withstand ; 
 Yea, none knew whether hands, or feet, or voice, 
 
 Most made his heart rejoice. 
 
 A. C Shaughnessy 
 
 CVII 
 
 * ITALIA, 10 TI SALUTO !' 
 
 To come back from the sweet South, to the North 
 Where I was born, bred, look to die ; 
 
 Come back to do my day's work in its day, 
 Play out my play — 
 Amen, amen, say I. 
 
Second Series 149 
 
 To see no more the country half my own, 
 
 Nor hear the half familiar speech, 
 Amen, I say ; I turn to that bleak North 
 Whence I came forth — 
 
 The South lies out of reach. 
 
 But when our swallows fly back to the South, 
 
 To the sweet South, to the sweet South, 
 The tears may come again into my eyes 
 On the old wise, 
 And the sweet name to my mouth. 
 
 C. G. Rossetti 
 
 CVIII 
 
 HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD 
 
 Oh, to be in England 
 
 Now that April's there. 
 
 And whoever wakes in England 
 
 Sees, some morning, unaware, 
 
 That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf 
 
 Round the elm -tree bole are in tiny leaf, 
 
 While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough 
 
 In England — now ! 
 
 And after April, when May follows. 
 And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows ! 
 Hark, where my blossom'd pear-tree in the hedge 
 Leans to the field and scatters on the clover 
 Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent spray's edge — 
 That's the wise thrush ; he sings each song twice over, 
 Lest you should think he never could recapture 
 The first fine careless rapture ! 
 And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, 
 All will be gay when noontide wakes anew 
 The buttercups, the little children's dower 
 — Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower ! 
 
 R. Browning 
 
150 The Golden Treasury 
 
 CIX 
 
 LOVE AMONG THE RUINS 
 
 Where the quiet-colour'd end of evening smiles 
 
 Miles and miles 
 On the solitary pastures where our sheep 
 
 Half-asleep 
 Tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or stop 
 
 As they crop — 
 
 Was the site once of a city great and gay, 
 
 (So they say) 
 Of our country's very capital, its prince 
 
 Ages since 
 Held his court in, gather'd councils, wielding far 
 
 Peace or war. 
 
 Now — the country does not even boast a tree. 
 
 As you see 
 To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills 
 
 From the hills 
 Intersect and give a name to, (else they run 
 
 Into one) 
 
 Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires 
 
 Up like fires 
 O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall 
 
 Bounding all, 
 Made of marble, men might march on nor be prest, 
 
 Twelve abreast. 
 
 And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass 
 
 Never was ! 
 Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreads 
 
 And embeds 
 Every vestige of the city, guess'd alone, 
 
 Stock or stone — 
 
Second Series 151 
 
 Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe 
 
 Long ago ; 
 Lust of glory prick'd their hearts up, dread of shame 
 
 Struck them tame ; 
 And that glory and that shame alike, the gold 
 
 Bought and sold. 
 
 Now, — the single little turret that remains 
 
 On the plains, 
 By the caper overrooted, by the gourd 
 
 Overscored, 
 While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks 
 
 Through the chinks — 
 
 Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time 
 
 Sprang sublime, 
 And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced 
 
 As they raced, 
 And the monarch and his minions and his dames 
 
 View'd the games. 
 
 And I know, while thus the quiet-colour'd eve 
 
 Smiles to leave 
 To their folding, all our many-tinkling fleece 
 
 In such peace. 
 And the slopes and rills in undistinguish'd gray 
 
 Melt away — 
 
 That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair 
 
 Waits me there 
 In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul 
 
 For the goal. 
 When the king look'd, where she looks now, 
 breathless, dumb 
 
 Till I come. 
 
 But he look'd upon the city, every side. 
 
 Far and wide, 
 All the mountains topp'd with temples, all the glades' 
 
 Colonnades, 
 All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts,— and then. 
 
 All the men ! 
 
152 The Golden Treasury 
 
 When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand, 
 
 Either hand 
 On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace 
 
 Of my face, 
 Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech 
 
 Each on each. 
 
 In one year they sent a million fighters forth 
 
 South and North, 
 And they built their gods a brazen pillar high 
 
 As the sky, 
 Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force — 
 
 Gold, of course. 
 
 O, heart ! oh, blood that freezes, blood that burns ! 
 
 Earth's returns 
 For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin ! 
 
 Shut them in. 
 With their triumphs and their glories and the rest. 
 
 Love is best ! 
 
 R. Browning 
 
 THE SKYLARK 
 
 How the blithe Lark runs up the golden stair 
 
 That leans thro' cloudy gates from Heaven to 
 Earth, 
 And all alone in the empyreal air 
 
 Fills it with jubilant sweet songs of mirth ; 
 How far he seems, how far 
 
 With the light upon his wings, 
 Is it a bird, or star 
 
 That shines, and sings ? 
 
Second Series 1 53 
 
 What matter if the days be dark and frore, 
 
 That sunbeam tells of other days to be, 
 And singing in the light that floods him o'er 
 In joy he overtakes Futurity ; 
 Under cloud-arches vast 
 
 He peeps, and sees behind 
 Great Summer coming fast 
 Adown the wind ! 
 
 And now he dives into a rainbow's rivers, 
 
 In streams of gold and purple he is drown'd, 
 Shrilly the arrows of his song he shivers. 
 
 As tho' the stormy drops were turn'd to sound ; 
 And now he issues thro', 
 
 He scales a cloudy tower, 
 Faintly, like falling dew. 
 His fast notes shower. 
 
 Let every wind be hush'd, that I may hear 
 
 The wondrous things he tells the World below, 
 Things that we dream of he is watching near, 
 Hopes that we never dream'd he would bestow ; 
 Alas ! the storm hath roll'd 
 
 Back the gold gates again. 
 Or surely he had told 
 All Heaven to men ! 
 
 So the victorious Poet sings alone, 
 
 And fills with light his solitary home, 
 And thro' that glory sees new worlds foreshown. 
 And hears high songs, and triumphs yet to come ; 
 He waves the air of Time 
 
 With thrills of golden chords, 
 And makes the world to climb 
 On linked words. 
 
 What if his hair be gray, his eyes be dim, 
 
 If wealth forsake him, and if friends be cold, 
 Wonder unbars her thousand gates to him, 
 Truth never fails, nor Beauty waxes old ; 
 More than he tells his eyes 
 Behold, his spirit hears, 
 Of grief, and joy, and sighs 
 'Twixt joy and tears. 
 
154 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Blest is the man who with the sound of song 
 Can charm away the heartache, and forget 
 The frost of Penury, and the stings of Wrong, 
 And drown the fatal whisper of Regret ! 
 Darker are the abodes 
 
 Of Kings, tho' his be poor, 
 "While Fancies, like the Gods, 
 Pass thro' his door. 
 
 Singing thou scalest Heaven upon thy wings, 
 
 Thou liftest a glad heart into the skies ; 
 He maketh his own sunrise, while he sings, 
 And turns the dusty Earth to Paradise ; 
 I see thee sail along 
 
 Far up the sunny streams, 
 Unseen, I hear his song, 
 I see his dreams. 
 
 F. Tennyson 
 
 CXI 
 
 THE GIRT WOAK TREE THAT'S IN 
 THE DELL 
 
 The girt woak tree that's in the dell ! 
 There's noo tree I do love so well ; 
 Vor times an' times when I wer young, 
 I there've a-climb'd, an' there've a-zwung, 
 An' pick'd the eacorns green, a-shed 
 In wrestlen storms vrom his broad head. 
 An' down below's the cloty brook 
 Where I did vish with line an' hook, 
 An' beat, in playsome dips and zwim.s, 
 The foamy stream, wi' white-skinn'd lim's. 
 An' there my mother nimbly shot 
 Her knitten-needles, as she zot 
 At evenen down below the wide 
 Woak's head, wi' father at her zide. 
 An' I've a played wi' many a bwoy, 
 That's now a man an' gone awoy ; 
 Zoo I do like noo tree so well 
 'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell. 
 
Second Series 
 
 An' there, in leater years, I roved 
 Wi' thik poor maid I fondly lov'd, — 
 The maid too feair to die so soon, — 
 When evenen twilight, or the moon. 
 Cast light enough 'ithin the pleace 
 To show the smiles upon her feace, 
 Wi' eyes so dear's the glassy pool, 
 An' lips an' cheaks so soft as wool. 
 There han' in han', wi' bosoms warm, 
 Wi' love that burn'd but thought noo harm, 
 Below the wide-bough'd tree we past 
 The happy hours that went too vast ; 
 An' though she'll never be my wife, 
 She's still my leaden star o' life. 
 She's gone : an' she've a-left to me 
 Her mem'ry in the girt woak tree ; 
 Zoo I do love noo tree so well 
 'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell. 
 
 An' oh ! mid never ax nor hook 
 Be brought to spweil his steately look ; 
 Nor ever roun' his ribby zides 
 Mid cattle rub ther heairy hides ; 
 Nor pigs rout up his turf, but keep 
 His Iwonesome sheade vor harmless sheep ; 
 An' let en grow, an' let en spread, 
 An' let en live when I be dead. 
 But oh ! if men should come an' veil 
 The girt woak tree that's in the dell, 
 An' build his planks 'ithin the zide 
 O' zome girt ship to plough the tide, 
 Then, life or death ! I'd goo to sea, 
 A sailen wi' the girt woak tree : 
 An' I upon his planks would stand, 
 An' die a-fighten vor the land, — 
 The land so dear, — the land so free,— 
 The land that bore the girt woak tree ; 
 Vor I do love noo tree so well 
 'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell. 
 
 W. Barnes 
 
 155 
 
5^ The Golden Treasury 
 
 TELL-TALE FLOWERS 
 
 And has the Spring's all glorious eye 
 
 No lesson to the mind ? 
 The birds that cleave the golden sky — 
 
 Things to the earth resign'd — 
 Wild flowers that dance to every wind — 
 Do they no memory leave behind ? 
 
 Aye, flowers ! The very name of flowers, 
 That bloom in wood and glen. 
 
 Brings Spring to me in Winter's hours, 
 And childhood's dreams again. 
 
 The primrose on the woodland lea 
 
 Was more than gold and lands to me. 
 
 The violets by the woodland side 
 Are thick as they could thrive ; 
 
 I've talk'd to them with childish pride 
 As things that were alive : 
 
 I find them now in my distress — 
 
 They seem as sweet, yet valueless. 
 
 The cowslips on the meadow lea. 
 
 How have I run for them ! 
 I look'd with wild and childish glee 
 
 Upon each golden gem : 
 And when they bow'd their heads so shy 
 I laugh'd, and thought they danced for joy. 
 
 And when a man in early years, 
 How sweet they used to come, 
 
 And give me tales of smiles and tears. 
 
 And thoughts more dear than home : 
 
 Secrets which words would then reprove — 
 
 They told the names of early love. 
 
Second Series 157 
 
 The primrose turn'd a babbling flower 
 
 Within its sweet recess : 
 I blush'd to see its secret bower, 
 
 And turn'd her name to bless. 
 The violets said the eyes were blue : 
 I loved, and did they tell me true ? 
 
 /. Clare 
 
 CXIII 
 
 ODE ON A FAIR SPRING MORNING 
 
 Oh, see how glorious show, 
 
 On this fair morn in May, the clear-cut hills, 
 
 The dewy lawns, the hawthorns white, 
 
 Argent on plains of gold, the growing light 
 
 Pure as when first on the young earth 
 
 The faint warm sunlight came to birth. 
 
 There is a nameless air 
 
 Of sweet renewal over all which fills 
 
 The earth and sky with life, and everywhere. 
 
 Before the scarce seen sun begins to glow. 
 
 The birds awake which slumber'd all night long, 
 
 And with a gush of song, 
 
 First doubting of their strain, then full and wide 
 
 Raise their fresh hymns thro' all the country side ; 
 
 Already, above the dewy clover. 
 
 The soaring lark begins to hover 
 
 Over his mate's low nest ; 
 
 And soon, from childhood's early rest 
 
 In hall and cottage, to the casement rise 
 
 The little ones with their fresh morning eyes. 
 
 L. Morris 
 
158 The GoUen Treasury 
 
 CXIV 
 
 Ay EVENING SCENE 
 
 The sheep-bell tolleth curfew-time ; 
 
 The gnats, a busy rout. 
 Fleck the warm air : the dismal owl 
 
 Shouteth a sleepy shout : 
 The voiceless bat, more felt than seen, 
 
 Is flitting round about. 
 
 The aspen leaflets scarcely stir ; 
 
 The river seems to think ; 
 Athwart the dusk, broad primroses 
 
 Look coldly from the brink, 
 ^^'here, listening to the freshet's noise, 
 
 The quiet aittle drink. 
 
 The bees boom past ; the white moths rise 
 
 Like spirits from the ground ; 
 The gray flies hum their wear}- tune, 
 
 A distant, dream-like sound : 
 And far, far oft", to the slumb'rous eve, 
 
 Bayeth an old guardhound. 
 
 C. Patmore 
 
 cxv 
 NIGHT 
 
 An hour, and this majestic day is gone ; 
 
 Another messenger flo^\-n in fleet quest 
 Of Time. Behold I one winged cloud alone. 
 
 Like a spread dragon overhangs the west, 
 
 Bathing the splendour of his crimson crest 
 In the sun's last suffusion, — he hath roU'd 
 
 His N-ast length o'er the dewy sky, imprest 
 With the warm dyes of many-colour'd gold, 
 ^Mlich, now the sun is sunk, wax faint, and gray, and 
 old. 
 
Seccmd Series 159 
 
 And now the Mfx>n, bursting her watery prison, 
 Heaves her full orb into the azure clear, 
 
 Pale witness, from the slumVx:ring sea new-risen, 
 To glorify the landscajie far and near. 
 All l^auteous things more Ijeautiful appear ; 
 
 The sky-crown'd summit of the mountain gleams 
 (Smote by the star-point of her glittering spear) 
 
 More steadfastly, and all the valley seems 
 
 Strown with a softer light, the atmosphere of dreams. 
 
 How still I as though Silence herself were dead, 
 
 And her wan ghr^st were floating in the air ; 
 The Moon glides o'er the heaven with printless tread. 
 
 And to her far-off frontier doth repair ; 
 
 O'er-wearied lids are closing everywhere ; — 
 All living things that own the touch of sleep. 
 
 Are l^jeckon'd, as the wasting moments wear, 
 Till, one by one, in valley, or from steep, 
 Unto their several homes they, and their shadows, 
 creep. 
 
 C. WhUehead 
 
 ex VI 
 AFTER MANY YEARS 
 
 The song that once I dream'd about, 
 
 The tender, touching thing. 
 As radiant as the rose without — 
 
 The love of wind and wing ; 
 The perfect verses to the tune 
 
 Of wooflland music set. 
 As beautiful as afternoon, 
 
 Remain unwritten yet. 
 
 It is too late to write them now — 
 
 The ancient fire is cold ; 
 No ardent lights illume the brow, 
 
 As in the days of old. 
 
[6o The Golden Treasury 
 
 I cannot dream the dream again ; 
 
 But, when the happy birds 
 Are singing in the sunny rain, 
 
 I think I hear its words. 
 
 I think I hear the echo still 
 
 Of long forgotten tones, 
 When evening winds are on the hills, 
 
 And sunset fires the cones. 
 But only in the hours supreme, 
 
 With songs of land and sea, 
 The lyrics of the leaf and stream, 
 
 This echo comes to me. 
 
 No longer doth the earth reveal 
 
 Her gracious green and gold ; 
 I sit where youth was once, and feel 
 
 That I am growing old. 
 The lustre from the face of things 
 
 Is wearing all away ; 
 Like one who halts with tired wings, 
 
 I rest and muse to-day. 
 
 There is a river in the range 
 
 I love to think about ; 
 Perhaps the searching feet of change 
 
 Have never found it out. 
 Ah ! oftentimes I used to look 
 
 Upon its banks, and long 
 To steal the beauty of that brook 
 
 And put it in a song. 
 
 I wonder if the slopes of moss, 
 
 In dreams so dear to me — 
 The falls of flower and flower-like floss — 
 
 Are as they used to be ! 
 I wonder if the waterfalls. 
 
 The singers far and fair. 
 That gleam'd between the wet, green walls. 
 
 Are still the marvels there ! 
 
Second Series i6i 
 
 Ah ! let me hope that in that place 
 
 The old familiar things 
 To which I turn a wistful face 
 
 Have never taken wings. 
 Let me retain the fancy still, 
 
 That, past the lordly range, 
 There always shines, in folds of hill. 
 
 One spot secure from change ! 
 
 I trust that yet the tender screen 
 
 That shades a certain nook 
 Remains, with all its gold and green, 
 
 The glory of the brook. 
 It hides a secret to the birds 
 
 And waters only known — 
 The letters of two lovely words — 
 
 A poem on a stone. 
 
 Perhaps the lady of the past. 
 
 Upon these lines may light, 
 The purest verses and the last 
 
 That I may ever write. 
 She need not fear a word of blame ; 
 
 Her tale the flowers keep ; — 
 The wind that heard me breathe her name 
 
 Has been for years asleep. 
 
 But in the night, and when the rain 
 
 The troubled torrents fills, 
 I often think I see again 
 
 The river in the hills : 
 And when the day is very near, 
 
 And birds are on the wing, 
 My spirit fancies it can hear 
 
 The song I cannot sing. 
 
 H. C. Kendall 
 
 M 
 
1 62 The Golden Treasury 
 
 CXVII 
 
 THE GIRT WOLD HOUSE 0' MOSSY 
 STWONE 
 
 Don't talk ov housen all o' brick, 
 
 Wi' rocken walls nine inches thick, 
 
 A-trigg'd together zide by zide 
 
 In streets, wi' fronts a straddle wide, 
 
 Wi' yards a-sprinkled wi' a mop. 
 
 Too little vor a vrog to hop ; 
 
 But let me live an' die where I 
 
 Can zee the ground, an' trees, an' sky. 
 
 The girt wold house o' mossy stwone 
 
 Had wings vor either sheade or zun : 
 
 An' there the timber'd copse rose high. 
 
 Where birds did build an' heares did lie, 
 
 An' beds o' greygles in the lew. 
 
 Did deck in May the ground wi' blue. 
 
 An' there by leanes a-winden deep, 
 
 Wer mossy banks a-risen steep ; 
 
 An' stwonen steps, so smooth an' wide, 
 
 To stiles an' vootpaths at the zide. 
 
 An' there, so big's a little ground. 
 
 The gearden wer a-wall'd all round : 
 
 An' up upon the wall wer bars 
 
 A-sheaped all out in wheels an' stars, 
 
 Vor vo'k to walk, an' look out drough 
 
 Vrom trees o' green to hills o' blue. 
 
 An' there wer walks o' peavement, broad 
 
 Enough to meake a carriage -road. 
 
 Where steately leadies woonce did use 
 
 To walk wi' hoops an' high-heel shoes. 
 
 When yonder hollow woak wer sound, 
 
 Avore the walls wer ivy-bound, 
 
 Avore the elems met above 
 
 The road between em, where they drove 
 
 Their coach all up or down the road 
 
 A-comen hwome or gwain abroad. 
 
Second Series 163 
 
 The zummer air o' thease green hill 
 'V a-heav'd in bosoms now all still, 
 An' all their hopes an' all their tears 
 Be unknown things ov other years. 
 
 W. Barnes 
 
 CXVIII 
 
 A VANISHED VILLAGE 
 
 Is this the ground where generations lie 
 
 Mourn'd by the drooping birch and dewy fern, 
 And by the faithful, alder-shaded burn, 
 
 Which seems to breathe an everlasting sigh? 
 
 No sign of habitation meets the eye; 
 Only some ancient furrows I discern. 
 And verdant mounds, and from them sadly learn 
 
 That hereabout men used to live and die. 
 
 Once the blue vapour of the smouldering peat 
 From half a hundred homes would curl on high, 
 
 While round the doors rang children's voices sweet ; 
 Where now the timid deer goes wandering by, 
 
 Or a lost lamb sends forth a plaintive bleat, 
 And the lone glen looks up to the lone sky. 
 
 R. Wilton 
 
 cxix 
 
 RETURN TO NATURE 
 
 On the braes around Glenfinnan 
 Fast the human homes are thinning, 
 And the wilderness is winning 
 
 To itself these graves again. 
 Names or dates here no man knoweth, 
 O'er gray headstones heather groweth, 
 Up Loch-Shiel the sea-wind bloweth 
 
 Over sleep of nameless men. 
 
164 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Who were those forgotten sleepers ? 
 Herdsmen strong, fleet forest-keepers, 
 Aged men, or widow'd weepers 
 
 For their foray-fallen ones ? 
 Babes cut off 'mid childhood's prattle, 
 Men who lived with herds and cattle, 
 Clansmen from Culloden battle, 
 
 Camerons, or Clandonald's sons ? 
 
 Blow ye winds, and rains effacing ! 
 Blur the words of love's fond tracing ! 
 Nature to herself embracing 
 
 All that human hearts would keep : 
 What they knew of good or evil 
 Faded, like the dim primaeval 
 Day that saw the vast upheaval 
 
 Of these hills that hold their sleep. 
 
 /. C. Shairp 
 
 cxx 
 
 THE TWO DESERTS • 
 
 Not greatly moved with awe am I 
 To learn that we may spy 
 Five thousand firmaments beyond our own. 
 The best that's known 
 
 Of the heavenly bodies does them credit small. 
 View'd close, the Moon's fair ball 
 Is of ill objects worst, 
 A corpse in Night's highway, naked, fire-scarr'd, 
 
 accurst ; 
 And now they tell 
 
 That the Sun is plainly seen to boil and burst 
 Too horribly for hell. 
 So, judging from these two, 
 As we must do, 
 
 The Universe, outside our living Earth, 
 Was all conceived in the Creator's mirth, 
 Forecasting at the time Man's spirit deep, 
 To make dirt cheap. 
 
Second Series 165 
 
 Put by the Telescope ! 
 
 Better without it man may see, 
 
 Stretch'd awful in the hush'd midnight, 
 
 The ghost of his eternity. 
 
 Give me the nobler glass that swells to the eye 
 
 The things which near us lie, 
 
 Till Science rapturously hails, 
 
 In the minutest water-drop, 
 
 A torment of innumerable tails. 
 
 These at the least do live. 
 
 But rather give 
 
 A mind not much to pry 
 
 Beyond our royal-fair estate 
 
 Betwixt these deserts blank of small and great. 
 
 Wonder and beauty our own courtiers are. 
 
 Pressing to catch our gaze, 
 
 And out of obvious ways 
 
 Ne'er wandering far. 
 
 C. Patmore 
 
 PHILOMELA 
 
 Hark ! ah, the nightingale — 
 
 The tawny-throated ! 
 
 Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a burst ! 
 
 What triumph ! hark ! — what pain ! 
 
 O wanderer from a Grecian shore, 
 Still, after many years, in distant lands. 
 Still nourishing in thy bewilder'd brain 
 That wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken, old-world pain- 
 Say, will it never heal ? 
 And can this fragrant lawn 
 With its cool trees, and night. 
 And the sweet, tranquil Thames, 
 And moonshine, and the dew, 
 To thy rack'd heart and brain 
 Afford no balm ? 
 
1 66 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Dost thou to-night behold, 
 Here, through the moonhght on this English grass, 
 The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild ? 
 Dost thou again peruse 
 With hot cheeks and sear'd eyes 
 The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame ? 
 Dost thou once more assay 
 Thy flight, and feel come over thee, 
 Poor fugitive, the feathery change 
 Once more, and once more seem to make resound 
 With love and hate, triumph and agony. 
 Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale ? 
 Listen, Eugenia — 
 How thick the bursts come crowding through the 
 
 leaves ! 
 Again — thou hearest ? 
 Eternal passion ! 
 Eternal pain ! 
 
 M. Arnold 
 
 CXXII 
 
 EVENING MELODY 
 
 O that the pines which crown yon steep 
 Their fires might ne'er surrender ! 
 
 O that yon fervid knoll might keep. 
 While lasts the world, its splendour ! 
 
 Pale poplars on the breeze that lean, 
 
 And in the sunset shiver, 
 O that your golden stems might screen 
 
 For aye yon glassy river ! 
 
 That yon white bird on homeward wing 
 Soft-sliding without motion. 
 
 And now in blue air vanishing 
 Like snow-flake lost in ocean, 
 
 Beyond our sight might never flee. 
 
 Yet forward still be flying ; 
 And all the dying day might be 
 
 Immortal in its dying ! 
 
Second Series 167 
 
 Pellucid thus in saintly trance, 
 
 Thus mute in expectation, 
 What waits the earth ? Deliverance ? 
 
 Ah no ! Transfiguration ! 
 
 She dreams of that ' New Earth ' divine, 
 
 Conceived of seed immortal ; 
 She sings ' Not mine the holier shrine, 
 
 Yet mine the steps and portal ! ' 
 
 A. de Vere 
 
 CXXIII 
 
 A FAREWELL 
 
 Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea. 
 
 Thy tribute wave deliver : 
 No more by thee my steps shall be, 
 
 For ever and for ever. 
 
 Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, 
 
 A rivulet then a river : 
 No where by thee my steps shall be, 
 
 For ever and for ever. 
 
 But here will sigh thine alder tree, 
 
 And here thine aspen shiver ; 
 And here by thee will hum the bee, 
 
 For ever and for ever. 
 
 A thousand suns will stream on thee, 
 A thousand moons will quiver ; 
 
 But not by thee my steps shall be. 
 For ever and for ever. 
 
 A. Lord Tennyson 
 
1 68 The Golden Treasury 
 
 cxxiv 
 A DIRGE 
 
 Naiad, hid beneath the bank 
 
 By the willowy river-side, 
 Wliere Narcissus gently sank, 
 
 Where unmarried Echo died. 
 Unto thy serene repose 
 Waft the stricken Anteros. 
 
 Where the tranquil swan is borne, 
 
 Imaged in a watery glass, 
 Where the sprays of fresh pink thorn 
 
 Stoop to catch the boats that pass. 
 Where the earliest orchis grows. 
 Bury thou fair Anteros. 
 
 Glide we by, with prow and oar : 
 
 Ripple shadows off the wave. 
 And reflected on the shore 
 
 Haply play about his grave. 
 Folds of summer-light enclose 
 All that once was Anteros. 
 
 On a flickering wave we gaze. 
 Not upon his answering eyes : 
 
 Flower and bird we scarce can praise. 
 Having lost his sweet replies : 
 
 Cold and mute the river flows 
 
 With our tears for Anteros. 
 
 W. Johnson- Cory 
 
 cxxv 
 
 TO A FRIEND 
 
 Who prop, thou ask'st, in these bad days, my mind ?- 
 He much, the old man, who, clearest-soul'd of men, 
 Saw The Wide Prospect, and the Asian Fen, 
 And Tmolus hill, and Smyrna bay, though blind. 
 
Second Series 169 
 
 Much he, whose friendship I not long since won, 
 That haking slave, who in Nicopolis 
 Taught Arrian, when Vespasian's brutal son 
 Clear'd Rome of what most shamed him. But be his 
 
 My special thanks, whose even-balanced soul, 
 From first youth tested up to extreme old age, 
 Business could not make dull, nor passion wild ; 
 
 \Vho saw life steadily, and saw it whole ; 
 The mellow glory of the Attic stage. 
 Singer of sweet Colonus, and its child. 
 
 M. Arnold 
 
 CXXVI 
 
 AN INVOCATION 
 
 I never pray'd for Dryads, to haunt the woods again ; 
 
 More welcome were the presence of hungering, thirst- 
 ing men. 
 
 Whose doubts we could unravel, whose hopes we could 
 fulfil. 
 
 Our wisdom tracing backward, the river to the rill ; 
 
 Were such beloved forerunners one summer day 
 restored. 
 
 Then, then we might discover the Muse's mystic hoard. 
 
 Oh, dear divine Comatas, I would that thou and I 
 Beneath this broken sunlight this leisure day might lie ; 
 Where trees from distant forests, whose names were 
 
 strange to thee. 
 Should bend their amorous branches within thy reach 
 
 to be, 
 And flowers thine Hellas knew not, which art hath 
 
 made more fair, 
 Should shed their shining petals upon thy fragrant 
 
 hair. 
 
 Then thou shouldst calmly listen with ever-changing 
 
 looks 
 To songs of younger minstrels and plots of modern 
 
 books, 
 
170 The Golden Treasury 
 
 And wonder at the daring of poets later born, 
 Whose thoughts are unto thy thoughts as noon-tide is 
 
 to morn ; 
 And little shouldst thou grudge them their greater 
 
 strength of soul, 
 Thy partners in the torch-race, though nearer to the 
 
 goal. 
 
 As when ancestral portraits look gravely from the 
 
 walls 
 Upon the youthful baron who treads their echoing 
 
 halls ; 
 And while he builds new turrets, the thrice ennobled 
 
 heir 
 Would gladly wake his grandsire his home and feast 
 
 to share ; 
 So from Aegaean laurels that hide thine ancient urn 
 I fain would call thee hither, my sweeter lore to learn. 
 
 Or in thy cedarn prison thou waitest for the bee : 
 Ah, leave that simple honey, and take thy food from 
 
 me. 
 My sun is stooping westward. Entranced dreamer, 
 
 haste : 
 There's fruitage in my garden, that I would have thee 
 
 taste. 
 Now lift the lid a moment : now, Dorian shepherd, 
 
 speak : 
 Two minds shall flow together, the English and the 
 
 Greek. 
 
 W. Johnson- Cory 
 
 CXXVII 
 
 SONG OF CALLICLES IN SICIL Y 
 
 Far, far from here, 
 The Adriatic breaks in a warm bay 
 Among the green Illyrian hills ; and there 
 The sunshine in the happy glens is fair, 
 
Second Series 171 
 
 And by the sea, and in the brakes, 
 
 The grass is cool, the sea-side air 
 
 Buoyant and fresh, the mountain flowers 
 
 More virginal and sweet than ours. 
 
 And there, they say, two bright and aged snakes, 
 
 Who once were Cadmus and Harmonia, 
 
 Bask in the glens or on the warm sea-shore, 
 
 In breathless quiet, after all their ills ; 
 
 Nor do they see their country, nor the place 
 
 Where the Sphinx lived among the frowning hills. 
 
 Nor the unhappy palace of their race. 
 
 Nor Thebes, nor the Ismenus, any more. 
 
 There those two live, far in the Illyrian brakes ! 
 They had stay'd long enough to see. 
 In Thebes, the billow of calamity 
 Over their own dear children roll'd. 
 Curse upon curse, pang upon pang, 
 For years, they sitting helpless in their home, 
 A gray old man and woman ; yet of old 
 The Gods had to their marriage come. 
 And at the banquet all the Muses sang. 
 
 Therefore they did not end their days 
 
 In sight of blood ; but were rapt, far away, 
 
 To where the west-wind plays, 
 
 And murmurs of the Adriatic come 
 
 To those untrodden mountain-lawns ; and there 
 
 Placed safely in changed forms, the pair 
 
 Wholly forget their first sad life, and home, 
 
 And all that Theban woe, and stray 
 
 For ever through the glens, placid and dumb. 
 
 M. Arnold 
 
 CXXVIII 
 
 CALLICLES BENEATH ETNA 
 
 Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts, 
 Thick breaks the red flame ; 
 All Etna heaves fiercely 
 Her forest-clothed frame. 
 
[72 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Not here, O Apollo ! 
 Are haunts meet for thee. 
 But, where Helicon breaks down 
 In cliff to the sea, 
 
 Where the moon-silver'd inlets 
 Send far their light voice 
 Up the still vale of Thisbe, 
 O speed, and rejoice ! 
 
 On the sward at the cliff-top 
 Lie strewn the white flocks, 
 On the cliff-side the pigeons 
 Roost deep in the rocks. 
 
 In the moonlight the shepherds, 
 Soft lull'd by the rills, 
 Lie wrapt in their blankets 
 Asleep on the hills. 
 
 — What forms are these coming 
 So white through the gloom ? 
 What garments out-glistening 
 The gold-flower'd broom ? 
 
 ^\^^at sweet-breathing presence 
 Out-perfumes the thyme ? 
 What voices enrapture 
 The night's balmy prime ? — 
 
 'Tis Apollo comes leading 
 His choir, the Nine. 
 — The leader is fairest, 
 But all are divine. 
 
 They are lost in the hollows ! 
 They stream up again ! 
 What seeks on this mountain, 
 The glorified train ? — 
 
 They bathe on this mountain. 
 In the spring by their road ; 
 Then on to Olympus, 
 Their endless abode. 
 
Second Series 1 73 
 
 — Whose praise do they mention ? 
 Of what is it told ?— 
 What will be for ever ; 
 What was from of old. 
 
 First hymn they the Father 
 Of all things ; and then, 
 The rest of immortals, 
 The action of men. 
 
 The day in his hotness. 
 The strife with the palm ; 
 The night in her silence. 
 The stars in their calm. 
 
 M. Arnold 
 
 cxxix 
 'FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE' 
 
 Row us out from Desenzano, to your Sirmione row ! 
 
 So they row'd, and there we landed — ' O venusta 
 Sirmio ! ' 
 
 There to me thro' all the groves of olive in the sum- 
 mer glow, 
 
 There beneath the Roman ruin where the purple 
 flowers grow. 
 
 Came that ' Ave atque Vale ' of the Poet's hopeless 
 woe, 
 
 Tenderest of Roman poets nineteen-hundred years 
 ago, 
 
 * Frater Ave atque Vale ' — as we wander'd to and fro 
 
 Gazing at the Lydian-laughter of the Garda Lake 
 below 
 
 Sweet Catullus's all-but-island, olive-silvery Sirmio ! 
 
 A. Lord Tennyson 
 
174 The Golden Ti-easury 
 
 cxxx 
 
 THYRSIS 
 
 A Monody, to commemorate the author's friend, 
 Arthur Hugh Clough, who died at Florence, 1861 
 
 How changed is here each spot man makes or fills ! 
 In the two Hinkseys nothing keeps the same ; 
 
 The village street its haunted mansion lacks, 
 And from the sign is gone Sibylla's name, 
 
 And from the roofs the twisted chimney-stacks — 
 Are ye too changed, ye hills? 
 See, 'tis no foot of unfamiliar men 
 
 To-night from Oxford up your pathway strays ! 
 
 Here came I often, often, in old days — 
 Thyrsis and I ; we still had Thyrsis then. 
 
 Runs it not here, the track by Childs worth Farm, 
 Past the high wood, to where the elm-tree crowns 
 The hill behind whose ridge the sunset flames? 
 The signal-elm, that looks on Ilsley Downs, 
 
 The Vale, the three lone weirs, the youthful 
 Thames ? — 
 This winter-eve is warm, 
 Humid the air ! leafless, yet soft as spring. 
 The tender purple spray on copse and briers ! 
 And that sweet city with her dreaming spires, 
 She needs not June for beauty's heightening, 
 
 Lovely all times she lies, lovely to-night ! — 
 Only, methinks, some loss of habit's power 
 
 Befalls me wandering through this upland dim. 
 Once pass'd I blindfold here, at any hour ; 
 
 Now seldom come I, since I came with him. 
 That single elm-tree bright 
 Against the west — I miss it ! is it gone ? 
 
 We prized it dearly ; while it stood, we said. 
 
 Our friend, the Gipsy- Scholar, was not dead ; 
 While the tree lived, he in these fields lived on. 
 
Second Series 175 
 
 Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here, 
 
 But once I knew each field, each flower, each stick; 
 
 And with the country-folk acquaintance made 
 By barn in threshing-time, by new-built rick. 
 
 Here, too, our shepherd-pipes we first assay'd. 
 Ah me ! this many a year 
 My pipe is lost, my shepherd's holiday ! 
 
 Needs must I lose them, needs with heavy heart 
 
 Into the world and wave of men depart ; 
 But Thyrsis of his own will went away. 
 
 It irk'd him to be here, he could not rest. 
 He loved each simple joy the country yields. 
 
 He loved his mates ; but yet he could not keep, 
 For that a shadow lour'd on the fields, 
 
 Here with the shepherds and the silly sheep. 
 Some life of men unblest 
 He knew, which made him droop, and fill'd his head. 
 
 He went ; his piping took a troubled sound 
 
 Of storms that rage outside our happy ground ; 
 He could not wait their passing, he is dead. 
 
 So, some tempestuous morn in early June, 
 
 When the year's primal burst of bloom is o'er, 
 
 Before the roses and the longest day — 
 When garden-walks and all the grassy floor 
 
 With blossoms red and white of fallen May 
 And chestnut-flowers are strewn — 
 So have I heard the cuckoo's parting cry. 
 
 From the wet field, through the vext garden-trees, 
 
 Come with the volleying rain and tossing breeze : 
 The bloom is gone, and with the bloom go II 
 
 Too quick despairer, wherefore wilt thou go ? 
 Soon will the high Midsummer pomps come on, 
 
 Soon will the musk carnations break and swell. 
 Soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon, 
 
 Sweet-William with his homely cottage-smell, 
 And stocks in fragrant blow ; 
 Roses that down the alleys shine afar, 
 
 And open, jasmine-muffled lattices. 
 
 And groups under the dreaming garden-trees, 
 And the full moon, and the white evening-star. 
 
176 The Golden Treasziry 
 
 He hearkens not ! light comer, he is flown ! 
 What matters it ? next year he will return, 
 
 And we shall have him in the sweet spring-days, 
 With whitening hedges, and uncrumpling fern, 
 
 And blue-bells trembling by the forest-ways, 
 And scent of hay new-mown. 
 But Thyrsis never more we swains shall see ; 
 
 See him come back, and cut a smoother reed, 
 
 And blow a strain the world at last shall heed — 
 For Time, not Corydon, hath conquer'd thee ! 
 
 Alack, for Corydon no rival now ! — 
 
 But when Sicilian shepherds lost a mate, 
 
 Some good survivor with his flute would go, 
 Piping a ditty sad for Bion's fate ; 
 
 And cross the unpermitted ferry's flow, 
 And relax Pluto's brow, 
 And make leap up with joy the beauteous head 
 
 Of Proserpine, among whose crowned hair 
 
 Are flowers first open'd on Sicilian air, 
 And flute his friend, like Orpheus, from the dead. 
 
 O easy access to the hearer's grace 
 
 WTien Dorian shepherds sang to Proserpine ! 
 
 For she herself had trod Sicilian fields. 
 She knew the Dorian water's gush divine. 
 
 She knew each lily white which Enna yields, 
 Each rose with blushing face ; 
 She loved the Dorian pipe, the Dorian strain. 
 
 But ah, of our poor Thames she never heard ! 
 
 Her foot the Cumner cowslips never stirr'd ; 
 And we should tease her with our plaint in vain ! ■ 
 
 Well ! wind-dispersed and vain the words will be. 
 Yet, Thyrsis, let me give my grief its hour 
 
 In the old haunt, and find our tree-topp'd hill ! 
 Who, if not I, for questing here hath power ? 
 
 I know the wood which hides the daffodil, 
 I know the Fyfield tree, 
 I know what white, what purple fritillaries 
 
 The grassy harvest of the river-fields. 
 
 Above by Ensham, down by Sandford, yields, 
 And what sedged brooks are Thames's tributaries ; 
 
Second Series 177 
 
 I know these slopes ; who knows them if not I ? — 
 But many a dingle on the loved hill-side, 
 
 With thorns once studded, old, white-blossom'd 
 trees, 
 Where thick the cowslips grew, and far descried 
 High tower'd the spikes of purple orchises, 
 Hath since our day put by 
 The coronals of that forgotten time ; 
 
 Down each green bank hath gone the ploughboy's 
 
 team. 
 And only in the hidden brookside gleam 
 Primroses, orphans of the flowery prime. 
 
 WTiere is the girl, who by the boatman's door 
 Above the locks, above the boating throng, 
 
 Unmoor'd our skiff when through the Wytham 
 flats. 
 Red loosestrife and blond meadow-sweet among. 
 And darting swallows and light water-gnats, 
 We track'd the shy Thames shore ? 
 WTiere are the mowers, who, as the tiny swell 
 Of our boat passing heaved the river-grass, 
 Stood with suspended scythe to see us pass ? — 
 They all are gone, and thou art gone as well ! 
 
 Yes, thou art gone ! and round me too the night 
 In ever-nearing circle weaves her shade. 
 I see her veil draw soft across the day, 
 I feel her slowly chilling breath invade 
 The cheek grown thin, the brown hair sprent 
 with gray ; 
 I feel her finger light 
 Laid pausefully upon life's headlong train ; — 
 The foot less prompt to meet the morning dew. 
 The heart less bounding at emotion new. 
 And hope, once crush'd, less quick to spring again. 
 
 And long the way appears, which seem'd so short 
 To the less practised eye of sanguine youth ; 
 And high the mountain-tops, in cloudy air. 
 The mountain-tops where is the throne of Truth, 
 Tops in life's morning-sun so bright and bare ! 
 Unbreachable the fort 
 
178 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Of the long-batter'd world uplifts its wall ; 
 
 And strange and vain the earthly turmoil grows, 
 And near and real the charm of thy repose, 
 
 And night as welcome as a friend would fall. 
 
 But hush ! the upland hath a sudden loss 
 Of quiet ! — Look, adown the dusk hill-side, 
 
 A troop of Oxford hunters going home. 
 As in old days, jovial and talking, ride ! 
 
 From hunting with the Berkshire hounds they 
 come. 
 Quick ! let me fly, and cross 
 Into yon farther field ! — 'Tis done ; and see, 
 Back'd by the sunset, which doth glorify 
 The orange and pale violet evening-sky, 
 Bare on its lonely ridge, the Tree ! the Tree ! 
 
 I take the omen ! Eve lets down her veil, 
 
 The white fog creeps from bush to bush about. 
 
 The west unflushes, the high stars grow bright, 
 And in the scatter'd farms the lights come out. 
 
 I cannot reach the signal-tree to-night. 
 Yet, happy omen, hail ! 
 Hear it from thy broad lucent Arno-vale 
 
 (For there thine earth-forgetting eyelids keep 
 
 The morningless and una wakening sleep 
 Under the flowery oleanders pale), 
 
 Hear it, O Thyrsis, still our tree is there ! — 
 
 Ah, vain ! These English fields, this upland dim. 
 
 These brambles pale with mist engarlanded, 
 That lone, sky-pointing tree, are not for him ; 
 
 To a boon southern country he is fled. 
 And now in happier air, 
 Wandering with the great Mother's train divine 
 
 (And purer or more subtle soul than thee, 
 
 I trow, the mighty Mother doth not see) 
 Within a folding of the Apennine, 
 
 Thou hearest the immortal chants of old ! — 
 Putting his sickle to the perilous grain 
 In the hot cornfield of the Phrygian king, 
 
Second Series 1 79 
 
 For thee the Lityerses-song again 
 
 Young Daphnis with his silver voice doth sing ; 
 Sings his SiciHan fold, 
 His sheep, his hapless love, his blinded eyes — 
 And how a call celestial round him rang, 
 And heavenward from the fountain-brink he 
 sprang, 
 And all the marvel of the golden skies. 
 
 There thou art gone, and me thou leavest here 
 Sole in these fields ! yet will I not despair. 
 
 Despair I will not, while I yet descry 
 'Neath the mild canopy of English air 
 
 That lonely tree against the western sky. 
 Still, still these slopes, 'tis clear. 
 Our Gipsy-Scholar haunts, outliving thee ! 
 
 Fields where soft sheep from cages pull the hay, 
 
 Woods with anemonies in flower till May, 
 Know him a wanderer still ; then why not me ? 
 
 A fugitive and gracious light he seeks, 
 Shy to illumine ; and I seek it too. 
 
 This does not come with houses or with gold, 
 With place, with honour, and a flattering crew ; 
 
 'Tis not in the world's market bought and sold — 
 But the smooth-slipping weeks 
 Drop by, and leave its seeker still untired ; 
 
 Out of the heed of mortals he is gone. 
 
 He wends unfoUow'd, he must house alone ; 
 Yet on he fares, by his own heart inspired. 
 
 Thou too, O Thyrsis, on like quest wast bound ; 
 Thou wanderedst with me for a little hour ! 
 
 Men gave thee nothing ; but this happy quest, 
 If men esteem'd thee feeble, gave thee power, 
 If men procured thee trouble, gave thee rest. 
 And this rude Cumner ground. 
 Its fir-topped Hurst, its farms, its quiet fields, 
 Here cam'st thou in thy jocund youthful time, 
 Here was thine height of strength, thy golden 
 prime ! 
 And still the haunt beloved a virtue yields. 
 
i8o The Golden Treasury 
 
 What though the music of thy rustic flute 
 Kept not for long its happy, country tone ; 
 
 Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy note 
 Of men contention-tost, of men who groan, 
 
 Which task'd thy pipe too sore, and tired thy 
 throat — 
 It fail'd, and thou wast mute ! 
 Yet hadst thou alway visions of our light, 
 
 And long with men of care thou couldst not stay. 
 And soon thy foot resumed its wandering way, 
 Left human haunt, and on alone till night. 
 
 Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here ! 
 'Mid city-noise, not, as with thee of yore, 
 
 Thyrsis ! in reach of sheep-bells is my home. 
 — Then through the great town's harsh, heart- 
 wearying roar. 
 Let in thy voice a whisper often come, 
 To chase fatigue and fear : 
 Why faintest thou ? I wander' d till I died. 
 Roam on I 7 he light we sought is shining still. 
 Dost thou ask proof? Our t7-ee yet crowns the 
 hill. 
 Our Scholar tj'avels yet the loved hill-side. 
 
 M. Anwld 
 
 CXXXI 
 
 AMPHIBIAN- 
 
 The fancy I had to-day, 
 Fancy which turn'd a fear ! 
 
 I swam far out in the bay, 
 
 Since waves laugh'd warm and clear. 
 
 I lay and look'd at the sun, 
 The noon-sun look'd at me : 
 
 Between us two, no one 
 
 Live creature, that I could see. 
 
Second Series i8i 
 
 Yes ! There came floating by 
 
 Me, who lay floating too, 
 Such a strange butterfly ! 
 
 Creature as dear as new : 
 
 Because the membraned wings 
 
 So wonderful, so wide, 
 So sun-suff"used, were things 
 
 Like soul and nought beside. 
 
 A handbreadth over head ! 
 
 All of the sea my own. 
 It own'd the sky instead ; 
 
 Both of us were alone. 
 
 I never shall join its flight, 
 For, nought buoys flesh in air. 
 
 If it touch the sea — good-night ! 
 Death sure and swift waits there. 
 
 Can the insect feel the better 
 For watching the uncouth play 
 
 Of limbs that slip the fetter, 
 Pretend as they were not clay ? 
 
 Undoubtedly I rejoice 
 
 That the air comports so well 
 With a creature which had the choice 
 
 Of the land once. Who can tell .-* 
 
 What if a certain soul 
 
 Which early slipp'd its sheath, 
 
 And has for its home the whole 
 Of heaven, thus look beneath, 
 
 Thus watch one who, in the world. 
 Both lives and likes life's way. 
 
 Nor wishes the wings unfurl'd 
 
 That sleep in the worm, they say ? 
 
 But sometimes when the weather 
 Is blue, and warm waves tempt 
 
 To free oneself of tether, 
 And try a life exempt 
 
1 82 The Golden Treasury 
 
 From worldly noise and dust, 
 In the sphere which overbrims 
 
 With passion and thought, — why, just 
 Unable to fly, one swims ! 
 
 By passion and thought upborne. 
 One smiles to oneself—' They fare 
 
 Scarce better, they need not scorn 
 Our sea, who live in the air ! ' 
 
 Emancipate through passion 
 And thought, with sea for sky, 
 
 We substitute, in a fashion. 
 For heaven — poetry : 
 
 Which sea, to all intent, 
 
 Gives flesh such noon-disport 
 
 As a finer element 
 Affords the spirit-sort. 
 
 Whatever they are, we seem : 
 Imagine the thing they know ; 
 
 All deeds they do, we dream ; 
 Can heaven be else but so ? 
 
 And meantime, yonder streak 
 Meets the horizon's verge ; 
 
 That is the land, to seek 
 
 If we tire or dread the surge : 
 
 Land the solid and safe — 
 To welcome again (confess !) 
 
 When, high and dry, we chafe 
 The body, and don the dress. 
 
 Does she look, pity, wonder 
 At one who mimics flight, 
 
 Swims — heaven above, sea under, 
 Yet always earth in sight ? 
 
 /?. Browning 
 
Second Series 183 
 
 O life, O death, O world, O time, 
 O grave, where all things flow, 
 
 'Tis yours to make our lot sublime 
 With your great weight of woe. 
 
 Though sharpest anguish hearts may wring, 
 
 Though bosoms torn may be, 
 Yet suffering is a holy thing ; 
 
 Without it what were we ? 
 
 R. C. Archbishop Trench 
 
 CXXXIII 
 
 CONSOLATION 
 
 Mist clogs the sunshine. 
 Smoky dwarf houses 
 Hem me round everywhere ; 
 A vague dejection 
 Weighs down my soul. 
 
 Yet, while I languish, 
 Everywhere countless 
 Prospects unroll themselves, 
 And countless beings 
 Pass countless moods. 
 
 Far hence, in Asia, 
 
 On the smooth convent-roofs, 
 
 On the gilt terraces. 
 
 Of holy Lassa, 
 
 Bright shines the sun. 
 
 Gray time-worn marbles 
 Hold the pure Muses ; 
 In their cool gallery. 
 By yellow Tiber, 
 They still look fair. 
 
184 The Goldejt Treasury 
 
 Strange unloved uproar 
 Shrills round their portal ; 
 Yet not on Helicon 
 Kept they more cloudless 
 Their noble calm. 
 
 Through sun-proof alleys 
 In a lone, sand-hemm'd 
 City of Africa, 
 A blind, led beggar, 
 Age-bow'd, asks alms. 
 
 No bolder robber 
 Erst abode ambush'd 
 Deep in the sandy waste ; 
 No clearer eyesight 
 Spied prey afar. 
 
 Saharan sand- winds 
 Sear'd his keen eyeballs ; 
 Spent is the spoil he won. 
 For him the present 
 Holds only pain. 
 
 Two young, fair lovers. 
 Where the warm June-wind, 
 Fresh from the summer fields, 
 Plays fondly round them, 
 Stand, tranced in joy. 
 
 With sweet, join'd voices, 
 And with eyes brimming : 
 * Ah,' they cry, ' Destiny, 
 Prolong the present ! 
 Time, stand still here ! ' 
 
 The prompt stern Goddess 
 Shakes her head, frowning ; 
 Time gives his hour-glass 
 Its due reversal ; 
 Their hour is gone. 
 
Second Series 185 
 
 With weak indulgence 
 Did the just Goddess 
 Lengthen their happiness, 
 She lengthen'd also 
 Distress elsewhere. 
 
 The hour, whose happy 
 Unalloy'd moments 
 I would eternalize, 
 Ten thousand mourners 
 Well pleased see end. 
 
 The bleak, stern hour, 
 Whose severe moments 
 I would annihilate, . 
 Is pass'd by others 
 In warmth, light, joy. 
 
 Time, so complain'd of, 
 Who to of one man 
 Shows partiality. 
 Brings round to all men 
 Some undimm'd hours. 
 
 M. Arnold 
 
 CXXXIV 
 
 RABBI BEN EZRA 
 
 Grow old along with me ! 
 
 The best is yet to be. 
 The last of life, for which the first was made : 
 
 Our times are in His hand 
 
 Who saith ' A whole I plann'd, 
 Youth shows but half; trust God: see all nor be afraid ! ' 
 
 Not that, amassing flowers, 
 
 Youth sigh'd ' Which rose make ours, 
 Which lily leave and then as best recall?* 
 
 Not that, admiring stars, 
 
 It yearn'd ' Nor Jove, nor Mars ; 
 Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends 
 them all ! ' 
 
1 86 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Not for such hopes and fears 
 
 Annulling youth's brief years, 
 Do I remonstrate : folly wide the mark ! 
 
 Rather I prize the doubt 
 
 Low kinds exist without, 
 Finish'd and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. 
 
 Poor vaunt of life indeed. 
 
 Were man but form'd to feed 
 On joy, to solely seek and find and feast : 
 
 Such feasting ended, then 
 
 As sure an end to men ; 
 Irks care the crop-full bird ? Frets doubt the maw- 
 cramm'd beast ? 
 
 Rejoice we are allied 
 
 To That which doth provide 
 And not partake, effect and not receive ! 
 
 A spark disturbs our clod ; 
 
 Nearer we hold of God 
 Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe. 
 
 Then, welcome each rebuff 
 
 That turns earth's smoothness rough, 
 Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go ! 
 
 Be our joys three-parts pain ! 
 
 Strive, and hold cheap the strain ; 
 Learn, nor account the pang ; dare, never grudge the 
 throe ! 
 
 For thence, — a paradox 
 
 Which comforts while it mocks, — 
 Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail : 
 
 What I aspired to be. 
 
 And was not, comforts me : 
 A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the 
 scale. 
 
 What is he but a brute 
 
 Whose flesh has soul to suit, 
 Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play ? 
 
 To man, propose this test — 
 
 Thy body at its best. 
 How far can that project thy soul on its lone way ? 
 
Second Series 187 
 
 Yet gifts should prove their use : 
 
 I own the Past profuse 
 Of power each side, perfection ever}' turn : 
 
 Eyes, ears took in their dole. 
 
 Brain treasured up the whole : 
 Should not the heart beat once ' How good to live 
 and learn ? ' 
 
 Not once beat ' Praise be Thine ! 
 
 I see the whole design, 
 I, who saw power, see now love perfect too : 
 
 Perfect I call Thy plan : 
 
 Thanks that I was a man ! 
 Maker, remake, complete, —I trust what Thou shalt 
 do!' 
 
 For pleasant is this flesh ; 
 
 Our soul, in its rose-mesh 
 Pull'd ever to the earth, still yearns for rest ; 
 
 Would we some prize might hold 
 
 To match those manifold 
 Possessions of the brute, — gain most, as we did best ! 
 
 Let us not always say 
 
 ' Spite of this flesh to-day 
 I strove, made head, gain'd ground upon the whole ! ' 
 
 As the bird wings and sings. 
 
 Let us cry ' All good things 
 Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh 
 helps soul ! ' 
 
 Therefore I summon age 
 
 To grant youth's heritage, 
 Life's struggle having so far reach'd its term : 
 
 Thence shall I pass, approved 
 
 A man, for aye removed 
 From the develop'd brute ; a god though in the germ. 
 
 And I shall thereupon 
 
 Take rest, ere I be gone 
 Once more on my adventure brave and new : 
 
 Fearless and unperplex'd. 
 
 When I wage battle next. 
 What weapons to select, what armour to indue. 
 
l88 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Youth ended, I shall try 
 
 My gain or loss thereby ; 
 Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold : 
 
 And I shall weigh the same, 
 
 Give life its praise or blame : 
 Young, all lay in dispute ; I shall know, being old. 
 
 For note, when evening shuts, 
 
 A certain moment cuts 
 The deed ofif, calls the glory from the gray : 
 
 A whisper from the west 
 
 Shoots—' Add this to the rest. 
 Take it and try its worth : here dies another day.' 
 
 So, still within this life, 
 
 Though lifted o'er its strife. 
 Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last, 
 
 ' This rage was right i' the main. 
 
 That acquiescence vain : 
 The Future I may face now I have proved the Past.' 
 
 For more is not reserved 
 
 To man, with soul just nerved 
 To act to-morrow what he learns to-day : 
 
 Here, work enough to watch 
 
 The Master work, and catch 
 Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true 
 play. 
 
 As it was better, youth 
 
 Should strive, through acts uncouth. 
 Toward making, than repose on aught found made : 
 
 So, better, age, exempt 
 
 From strife, should know, than tempt 
 Further. Thou waitedest age : wait death nor be 
 afraid ! 
 
 Enough now, if the Right 
 
 And Good and Infinite 
 Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own, 
 
 With knowledge absolute. 
 
 Subject to no dispute 
 From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone. 
 
Second Series 189 
 
 Be there, for once and all, 
 
 Sever'd great minds from small, 
 Announced to each his station in the Past ! 
 
 Was I, the world arraign'd, 
 
 Were they, my soul disdain'd, 
 Right ? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at 
 last! 
 
 Now, who shall arbitrate ? 
 
 Ten men love what I hate, 
 Shun what I follow, slight what I receive ; 
 
 Ten, who in ears and eyes 
 
 Match me : we all surmise, 
 They this thing, and I that : whom shall my soul 
 believe ? 
 
 Not on the vulgar mass 
 
 Call'd ' work,' must sentence pass, 
 Things done, that took the eye and had the price ; 
 
 O'er which, from level stand. 
 
 The low world laid its hand. 
 Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice : 
 
 But all, the world's coarse thumb 
 
 And finger fail'd to plumb. 
 So pass'd in making up the main account ; 
 
 All instincts immature, 
 
 All purposes unsure. 
 That weigh'd not as his work, yet swell'd the man's 
 amount : 
 
 Thoughts hardly to be pack'd 
 
 Into a narrow act. 
 Fancies that broke through language and escaped ; 
 
 All I could never be, 
 
 All, men ignored in me. 
 This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher 
 shaped. 
 
 Ay, note that Potter's wheel. 
 That metaphor ! and feel 
 Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay, — 
 
190 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Thou, to whom fools propound, 
 When the wine makes its round, 
 * Since life fleets, all is change ; the Past gone, seize 
 to-day ! ' 
 
 Fool ! All that is, at all, 
 
 Lasts ever, past recall ; 
 Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure : 
 
 What enter'd into thee, 
 
 That was, is, and shall be : 
 Time's wheel runs back or stops : Potter and clay 
 endure. 
 
 He fix'd thee mid this dance 
 
 Of plastic circumstance, 
 This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest : 
 
 Machinery just meant 
 
 To give thy soul its bent. 
 Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impress'd. 
 
 What though the earlier grooves 
 
 Which ran the laughing loves 
 Around thy base, no longer pause and press ? 
 
 What though, about thy rim, 
 
 Scull-things in order grim 
 Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress ? 
 
 Look not thou down but up ! 
 
 To uses of a cup, 
 The festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal, 
 
 The new wine's foaming flow, 
 
 The Master's lips a-glow ! 
 Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what need'st thou 
 with earth's wheel ? 
 
 But I need, now as then. 
 
 Thee, God, who mouldest men ; 
 And since, not even while the whirl was worst, 
 
 Did I, — to the wheel of life 
 
 With shapes and colours rife. 
 Bound dizzily, — mistake my end, to slake Thy thirst : 
 
Second Series 191 
 
 So, take and use Thy work : 
 Amend what flaws may lurk, 
 What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim ! 
 My times be in Thy hand ! 
 Perfect the cup as plann'd ! 
 Let age approve of youth, and death complete the 
 same ! 
 
 R. Browning. 
 
 CXXXV 
 
 THE GUARDIAN-ANGEL: 
 
 A PICTURE AT FANO 
 
 Dear and great Angel, wouldst thou only leave 
 
 That child, when thou hast done with him, for 
 me ! 
 
 Let me sit all the day here, that when eve 
 Shall find perform'd thy special ministry. 
 
 And time come for departure, thou, suspending 
 
 Thy flight, mayst see another child for tending, 
 Another still, to quiet and retrieve. 
 
 Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more, 
 From where thou standest now, to where I gaze, 
 
 — And suddenly my head is cover'd o'er 
 
 With those wings, white above the child who prays 
 
 Now on that tomb — and I shall feel thee guarding 
 
 Me, out of all the world ; for me, discarding 
 
 Yon heaven thy home, that waits and opes its 
 door. 
 
 I would not look up thither past thy head 
 
 Because the door opes, like that child, I know, 
 
 For I should have thy gracious face instead, 
 
 Thou bird of God ! And wilt thou bend me low 
 
 Like him, and lay, like his, my hands together, 
 
 And lift them up to pray, and gently tether 
 
 Me, as thy lamb there, with thy garment's spread ? 
 
192 The Golden Treasziry 
 
 If this was ever granted, I would rest 
 
 My head beneath thine, while thy healing hands 
 
 Close-cover'd both my eyes beside thy breast. 
 
 Pressing the brain, which too much thought expands, 
 
 Back to its proper size again, and smoothing 
 
 Distortion down till every nerve had soothing, 
 And all lay quiet, happy and suppress'd. 
 
 How soon all worldly wrong would be repair'd ! 
 
 I think how I should view the earth and skies 
 And sea, when once again my brow was bared 
 
 After thy heaHng, with such different eyes. 
 O world, as God has made it ! All is beauty : 
 And knowing this, is love, and love is duty. 
 
 What further may be sought for or declared ? 
 
 Ji. Browning 
 
 cxxxvi •^ 
 PROSPICE 
 
 Fear death ? — to feel the fog in my throat, 
 
 The mist in my face, 
 When the snows begin, and the blasts denote 
 
 I am nearing the place. 
 The power of the night, the press of the storm, 
 
 The post of the foe ; 
 Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, 
 
 Yet the strong man must go : 
 For the journey is done and the summit attain'd, 
 
 And the barriers fall, 
 Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gain'd. 
 
 The reward of it all. 
 I was ever a fighter, so — one fight more, 
 
 The best and the last ! 
 I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, 
 
 And bade me creep past. 
 No ! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers 
 
 The heroes of old. 
 Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears 
 
 Of pain, darkness and cold. 
 
Second Series 
 
 193 
 
 For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, 
 
 The black minute's at end, 
 And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, 
 
 Shall dwindle, shall blend, 
 Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, 
 
 Then a light, then thy breast, 
 O thou soul of my soul ! I shall clasp thee again, 
 
 And with God be the rest ! 
 
 R. Browning 
 
 CXXXVII 
 
 Say not, the struggle nought availeth, 
 The labour and the wounds are vain, 
 
 The enemy faints not, nor faileth, 
 
 And as things have been, things remain. 
 
 If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars ; 
 
 It may be, in yon smoke conceal'd 
 Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, 
 
 And, but for you, possess the field. 
 
 For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, 
 Seem here no painful inch to gain, 
 
 Far back, through creeks and inlets making. 
 Comes silent, flooding in, the main. 
 
 And not by eastern windows only, 
 
 When daylight comes, comes in the light ; 
 
 In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, 
 But westward, look, the land is bright. 
 
 A. H. Clough 
 
 CXXXVIII 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 TO ASOLANDO 
 
 At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time, 
 
 When you set your fancies free. 
 Will they pass to where — by death, fools think, im- 
 
 prison'd — 
 Low he lies who once so loved you, whom you loved so, 
 — Pity me ? 
 o 
 
194 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken ! 
 
 What had I on earth to do 
 With the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly ? 
 Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I drivel 
 — Being — who ? 
 
 One who never turn'd his back but march'd breast 
 forward, 
 Never doubted clouds would break, 
 Never dream'd, though right were worsted, wrong 
 
 would triumph. 
 Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, 
 Sleep to wake. 
 
 No, at noonday in the bustle of man's work-time 
 
 Greet the unseen with a cheer ! 
 Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be, 
 'Strive and thrive !' cry 'Speed, — fight on, fare ever 
 There as here ! ' 
 
 R. Browning 
 
 CXXXIX 
 
 CROSSING THE BAR 
 
 Sunset and evening star, 
 
 And one clear call for me ! 
 And may there be no moaning of the bar, 
 
 When I put out to sea. 
 
 But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 
 
 Too full for sound and foam, 
 When that which drew from out the boundless deep 
 
 Turns again home. 
 
 Twilight and evening bell, 
 
 And after that the dark ! 
 And may there be no sadness of farewell, 
 
 When I embark : 
 
Second Series 195 
 
 For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place 
 
 The flood may bear me far, 
 I hope to see my Pilot face to face 
 
 When I have crost the bar. 
 
 A. Lord Tennyson 
 
 IN LOVE'S ETERNITY 
 
 My body was part of the sun and the dew, 
 
 Not a trace of my death to me clave, 
 There was scarce a man left on the earth whom I 
 knew, 
 
 And another was laid in my grave. 
 I was changed and in heaven, the great sea of blue 
 
 Had long wash'd my soul pure in its wave. 
 
 My sorrow was turn'd to a beautiful dress. 
 
 Very fair for m.y weeping was I ; 
 And my heart was renew' d, but it bore none the less 
 
 The great wound that had brought me to die, 
 The deep wound that She gave who wrought all my 
 distress ; 
 
 Ah, my heart loved her still in the sky ! 
 
 My soul had forgiven each separate tear 
 She had bitterly wrung from my eyes ; 
 But I thought of her lightness, — ah ! sore was my 
 fear 
 She would fall somewhere never to rise, 
 And that no one would love her, to bring her soul 
 near 
 To the heavens, where love never dies. 
 
 She had drawn me with feigning, and held me a day ; 
 
 She had taken the passionate price 
 That my heart gave for love, with no doubt or delay, 
 
 For I thought that her smile would suffice ; 
 She had play'd with and wasted and then cast away 
 
 The true heart that could never love twice. 
 
196 The Golden Treasury 
 
 And false must she be ; she had follow'd the cheat 
 That ends loveless and hopeless below ; 
 
 I remember'd her words' cruel worldly deceit 
 When she bade me forget her and go. 
 
 She could ne'er have believed after death we might 
 meet, 
 Or she would not have let me die so. 
 
 I thought, and was sad : the blue fathomless seas 
 Bore the white clouds in luminous throng ; 
 
 And the souls that had love were in each one of 
 these; 
 They pass'd by with a great upward song : 
 
 They were going to wander beneath the fair trees, 
 In high Eden — their joy would be long. 
 
 How sweet to look back to that desolate space 
 When the heaven scarce ?7iy heaven seem'd ! 
 
 She came suddenly, swiftly, — a great healing grace 
 Fill'd her features, and forth from her stream'd. 
 
 With a cry our lips met, and a long close embrace 
 Made the past like a thing I had dream'd. 
 
 Ah Love ! she began, when I found you were dead, 
 I was changed, and the world was changed too; 
 
 On a sudden I felt that the sunshine had fled. 
 And the flowers and summer gone too ; 
 
 Life but mock'd me ; I found there was nothing 
 instead, 
 But to turn back and weep all in you. 
 
 When you were not there to fall down at my feet, 
 
 And pour out the whole passionate store 
 Of the heart that was made to make my heart 
 complete, 
 In true words that my memory bore, — 
 Then I found that those words were the only words 
 sweet, 
 And I knew I should hear them no more. 
 
Second Series 197 
 
 Ah, yes ! but your love was a fair magic toy, 
 That you gave to a child, who scarce deign'd 
 
 To glance at it — forsook it for some passing joy, 
 Never guessing the charm it contain'd ; 
 
 But you gave it and left it, and none could destroy 
 The fair talisman where it remain'd. 
 
 And surely, no child, but a woman at last 
 Found your gift where the child let it lie. 
 
 Understood the whole secret it held, sweet and vast, 
 The fair treasure a world could not buy ; 
 
 And believed not the meaning could ever have past, 
 Any more than the giver could die. 
 
 She ceased. To my soul's deepest sources the sense 
 Of her words with a full healing crept. 
 
 And my heart was deliver'd with rapture intense 
 From the wound and the void it had kept ; 
 
 Then I saw that her heart was a heaven immense 
 As my love ; and together we wept. 
 
 A. 0' Shaiighnessy 
 
 THREE SEASONS 
 
 * A cup for hope ! ' she said. 
 
 In springtime ere the bloom was old : 
 The crimson wine was poor and cold 
 By her mouth's richer red. 
 
 * A cup for love ! ' how low, 
 
 How soft the words ; and all the while 
 Her blush was rippling with a smile 
 Like summer after snow. 
 
 ' A cup for memory ! ' 
 Cold cup that one must drain alone : 
 "While autumn winds are up and moan 
 Across the barren sea. 
 
198 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Hope, memory, love : 
 Hope for fair morn, and love for day, 
 And memory for the evening gray 
 
 And solitary dove. 
 
 C. G. Rossetti 
 
 CXLII 
 
 HALF TRUTH 
 
 The words that trembled on your lips 
 
 Were utter'd not — I know it well ; 
 The tears that would your eyes eclipse 
 
 Were check'd and smother'd, ere they fell ; 
 The looks and smiles I gain'd from you 
 
 Were little more than others won. 
 And yet you are not wholly true, 
 
 Nor wholly just what you have done. 
 
 You know, at least you might have known, 
 
 That every little grace you gave, — 
 Your voice's somewhat lower'd tone, — 
 
 Your hand's faint shake or parting wave, — 
 Your every sympathetic look 
 
 At words that chanced your soul to touch, 
 While reading from some favourite book. 
 
 Were much to me — alas, how much ! 
 
 You might have seen — perhaps you saw — 
 
 How all of these were steps of hope 
 On which I rose, in joy and awe, 
 
 Up to my passion's lofty scope ; 
 How after each, a firmer tread 
 
 I planted on the slippery ground, 
 And higher raised my venturous head, 
 
 And ever new assurance found. 
 
 Maybe, without a further thought, 
 It only pleased you thus to please. 
 
 And thus to kindly feelings wrought 
 You measured not the sweet degrees ; 
 
Second Series 199 
 
 Yet, though you hardly understood 
 Where I was following at your call, 
 
 You might — I dare to say you should — 
 Have thought how far I had to fall. 
 
 And thus when fallen, faint, and bruised, 
 
 I see another's glad success, 
 I may have wrongfully accused 
 
 Your heart of vulgar fickleness : 
 But even now, in calm review 
 
 Of all I lost and all I won, 
 I cannot deem you wholly true. 
 
 Nor wholly just what you have done. 
 
 R. M. [Milnes) Lord Houghton 
 
 CXLIII 
 
 NESS UN MAGGIOR DO LORE . . 
 
 They seem'd to those who saw them meet 
 The worldly friends of every day. 
 Her smile was undisturb'd and sweet, 
 His courtesy was free and gay. 
 
 But yet if one the other's name 
 In some unguarded moment heard, 
 The heart, you thought so calm and tame, 
 Would struggle like a captured bird : 
 
 And letters of mere formal phrase 
 Were blister'd with repeated tears, — 
 And this was not the work of days. 
 But had gone on for years and years ! 
 
 Alas, that Love was not too strong 
 For maiden shame and manly pride ! 
 Alas, that they delay'd so long 
 The goal of mutual bliss beside ! 
 
The Golden Treasury 
 
 Yet what no chance could then reveal, 
 And neither would be first to own, 
 Let fate and courage now conceal, 
 When truth could bring remorse alone. 
 
 R. M. {Milnes) Lord Houghton 
 
 CXLIV 
 
 A TOCCATA OF GALUPPPS 
 
 O, Galuppi, Baldassaro, this is very sad to find ! 
 
 I can hardly misconceive you ; it would prove me 
 
 deaf and blind ; 
 But although I take your meaning, 'tis with such a 
 
 heavy mind ! 
 
 Here you come with your old music, and here's all 
 
 the good it brings. 
 What, they lived once thus at Venice where the 
 
 merchants were the kings, 
 Where St. Mark's is, where the Doges used to wed 
 
 the sea with rings ? 
 
 Ay, because the sea's the street there ; and 'tis arch'd 
 
 by . . . what you call 
 . . . Shylock's bridge with houses on it, where they 
 
 kept the carnival : 
 I was never out of England — it's as if I saw it 
 
 all! 
 
 Did young people take their pleasure when the sea 
 
 was warm in May ? 
 Balls and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to 
 
 mid-day 
 When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, 
 
 do you say ? 
 
Second Series 201 
 
 Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so 
 
 red, — 
 On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell-flower 
 
 on its bed, 
 O'er the breast's superb abundance where a man 
 
 might base his head ? 
 
 Well, (and it was graceful of them) they'd break talk 
 
 off and afford 
 — She, to bite her mask's black velvet, he, to finger 
 
 on his sword, 
 While you sat and play'd Toccatas, stately at the 
 
 clavichord ? 
 
 What ? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths di- 
 
 minlsh'd, sigh on sigh. 
 Told them something? Those suspensions, those 
 
 solutions — ' Must we die ? ' 
 Those commiserating sevenths — ' Life might last ! we 
 
 can but try ! ' 
 
 •Were you happy?' — * Yes.' — 'And are you still as 
 
 happy ? ' — ' Yes. And you ? ' 
 — ' Then, more kisses ! ' — ' Did / stop them, when a 
 
 million seem'd so few? ' 
 Hark ! the dominant's persistence, till it must be 
 
 answer'd to ! 
 
 So an octave struck the answer. O, they praised you, 
 
 I dare say ! 
 * Brave Galuppi ! that was music ! good alike at 
 
 grave and gay ! 
 I can always leave off talking, when I hear a master 
 
 play.' 
 
 Then they left you for their pleasure : till in due time, 
 
 one by one, 
 Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds 
 
 as well undone, 
 Death came tacitly and took them where they never 
 
 see the sun. 
 
202 The Golden Treasury 
 
 But when I sit down to reason, think to take my stand 
 
 nor swerve, 
 While I triumph o'er a secret wrung from nature's close 
 
 reserve, 
 In you come with your cold music, till I creep through 
 
 every nerve. 
 
 Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a 
 
 house was burn'd — 
 ' Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent 
 
 what Venice earn'd ! 
 The soul, doubtless, is immortal — where a soul can be 
 discern'd. 
 
 * Yours for instance, you know physics, something of 
 
 geology. 
 Mathematics are your pastime ; souls shall rise in 
 
 their degree ; 
 Butterflies may dread extinction, — you'll not die, it 
 
 cannot be ! 
 
 * As for Venice and its people, merely born to bloom 
 
 and drop, 
 Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly 
 
 were the crop : 
 What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing 
 
 had to stop ? 
 
 * Dust and ashes ! ' So you creak it, and I want the 
 
 heart to scold. 
 Dear dead women, with such hair, too — what's become 
 
 of all the gold 
 Used to hang and brush their bosoms? I feel chilly 
 
 and grown old. 
 
 R, Browning 
 
Second Series 203 
 
 IF SHE BUT KNEW 
 
 If she but knew that I am weeping 
 
 Still for her sake, 
 That love and sorrow grow with keeping 
 
 Till they must break, 
 My heart that breaking will adore her, 
 
 Be hers and die ; 
 If she might hear me once implore her, 
 
 Would she not sigh ? 
 
 If she but knew that it would save me 
 
 Her voice to hear, 
 Saying she pitied me, forgave me, 
 
 Must she forbear ? 
 If she were told that I was dying. 
 
 Would she be dumb? 
 Could she content herself with sighing ? 
 Would she not come ? 
 
 A. O' Shaughnessy 
 
 CXLVI 
 
 SONG 
 
 Has summer come without the rose. 
 
 Or left the bird behind ? 
 Is the blue changed above thee, 
 
 O world ! or am I blind ? 
 Will you change every flower that grows. 
 
 Or only change this spot. 
 Where she who said, I love thee, 
 
 Now says, I love thee not ? 
 
 The skies seem'd true above thee. 
 
 The rose true on the tree ; 
 The bird seem'd true the summer through, 
 
 But all proved false to me. 
 
204 The Golden Treasury 
 
 World ! is there one good thing in you, 
 Life, love, or death — or what ? 
 
 Since hps that sang, I love thee, 
 Have said, I love thee not ? 
 
 I think the sun's kiss will scarce fall 
 
 Into one flower's gold cup ; 
 I think the bird will miss me, 
 
 And give the summer up. 
 O sweet place ! desolate in tall 
 
 Wild grass, have you forgot 
 How her lips loved to kiss me. 
 
 Now that they kiss me not ? 
 
 Be false or fair above me. 
 
 Come back with any face. 
 Summer ! — do I care what you do ? 
 
 You cannot change one place — 
 The grass, the leaves, the earth, the dew, 
 
 The grave I make the spot — 
 Here, where she used to love me. 
 
 Here, where she loves me not. 
 
 A. O Shaughnessy 
 
 CXLVII 
 
 DEPARTURE 
 
 It w^as not like your great and gracious ways ! 
 
 Do you, that have nought other to lament, 
 
 Never, my Love, repent 
 
 Of how, that July afternoon. 
 
 You went. 
 
 With sudden, unintelligible phrase, 
 
 And frighten'd eye, 
 
 Upon your journey of so many days 
 
 Without a single kiss, or a good-bye ? 
 
 I knew, indeed, that you were parting soon ; 
 
 And so we sate, within the low sun's rays, 
 
 You whispering to me, for your voice was weak, 
 
 Your harrowing praise. 
 
 Well, it was well. 
 
Second Series 205 
 
 To hear you such things speak, 
 
 And I could tell 
 
 What made your eyes a growing gloom of love, 
 
 As a warm South-wind sombres a March grove. 
 
 And it was like your great and gracious ways 
 
 To turn your talk on daily things, my Dear, 
 
 Lifting the luminous, pathetic lash 
 
 To let the laughter flash. 
 
 Whilst I drew near, 
 
 Because you spoke so low that I could scarcely hear. 
 
 But all at once to leave me at the last. 
 
 More at the wonder than the loss aghast, 
 
 With huddled, unintelligible phrase, 
 
 And frighten'd eye, 
 
 And go your journey of all days 
 
 With not one kiss, or a good-bye. 
 
 And the only loveless look the look with which you 
 
 pass'd : 
 'Twas all unhke your great and gracious ways. 
 
 C. Patrnore 
 
 CXLVIII 
 
 SONG 
 
 I made another garden, yea, 
 
 For my new love ; 
 I left the dead rose where it lay, 
 
 And set the new above. 
 Why did the summer not begin ? 
 
 Why did my heart not haste ? 
 My old love came and walk'd therein, 
 
 And laid the garden waste. 
 
 She enter'd with her weary smile, 
 
 Just as of old ; 
 She look'd around a little while, 
 
 And shiver'd at the cold. 
 Her passing touch was death to all, 
 
 Her passing look a blight : 
 She made the white rose-petals fall. 
 
 And turn'd the red rose white. 
 
206 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Her pale robe, clinging to the grass, 
 
 Seem'd like a snake 
 That bit the grass and ground, alas ! 
 
 And a sad trail did make. 
 She went up slowly to the gate ; 
 
 And there, just as of yore. 
 She turn'd back at the last to wait, 
 
 And say farewell once more. 
 
 A. O' Shatighnessy 
 
 CXLIX 
 
 THE LOST MISTRESS 
 
 All's over, then : does truth sound bitter 
 
 As one at first believes ? 
 Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitter 
 
 About your cottage eaves ! 
 
 And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly, 
 
 I noticed that, to-day ; 
 One day more bursts them open fully 
 
 — You know the red turns gray. 
 
 To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest ? 
 
 May I take your hand in mine ? 
 Mere friends are we, — well, friends the merest 
 
 Keep much that I resign : 
 
 For each glance of the eye so bright and black. 
 Though I keep with heart's endeavour, — 
 
 Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back, 
 Though it stay in my soul for ever ! — 
 
 Yet I will but say what mere friends say, 
 
 Or only a thought stronger ; 
 I will hold your hand but as long as all may, 
 
 Or so very Uttle longer ! 
 
 R. Browning 
 
Second Series 207 
 
 CL 
 
 ECHO 
 
 Come to me in the silence of the night ; 
 
 Come in the speaking silence of a dream ; 
 Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright 
 
 As sunlight on a stream ; 
 Come back in tears, 
 O memory, hope, love of finish'd years. 
 
 O dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet, 
 Whose wakening should have been in Paradise, 
 
 Where souls brimful of love abide and meet ; 
 Where thirsting longing eyes 
 Watch the slow door 
 
 That opening, letting in, lets out no more. 
 
 Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live 
 My very life again though cold in death : 
 Come back to me in dreams, that I may give 
 Pulse for pulse, breath for breath : 
 Speak low, lean low, 
 As long ago, my love, how long ago. 
 
 C. G. Rossetti 
 
 CLI 
 
 GREATER MEMORY 
 
 In the neart there lay buried for years 
 Love's story of passion and tears ; 
 Of the heaven that two had begun, 
 
 And the horror that tore them apart, 
 When one was love's slayer, but one 
 
 Made a grave for the love in his heart. 
 
2o8 The Golden Treasury 
 
 The long years pass'd weary and lone, 
 
 And it lay there and changed there unknown 
 
 Then one day from its innermost place, 
 
 In the shamed and the ruin'd love's stead, 
 Love arose with a glorified face, 
 
 Like an angel that comes from the dead. 
 
 It uplifted the stone that was set 
 
 On that tomb which the heart held yet ; 
 
 But the sorrow had moulder'd within, 
 
 And there came from the long closed door 
 A clear image, that was not the sin 
 
 Or the grief that lay buried before. 
 
 The grief it was long wash'd away 
 In the weeping of many a day ; 
 And the terrible past lay afar. 
 
 Like a dream left behind in the night ; 
 And the memory that woke was a star 
 
 Shining pure in the soul's pure light. 
 
 There was never the stain of a tear 
 On the face that was ever so dear ; 
 'Twas the same in each lovelier way ; 
 
 'Twas the old love's holier part, 
 And the dream of the earliest day 
 
 Brought back to the desolate heart. 
 
 It was knowledge of all that had been 
 
 In the thought, in the soul unseen ; 
 
 'Twas the word which the lips could not say 
 
 To redeem and recover the past ; 
 It was more than was taken away 
 
 Which the heart got back at the last. 
 
 The passion that lost its spell. 
 The rose that died where it fell, 
 The look that was look'd in vain, 
 
 The prayer that seem'd lost evermore, 
 They were found in the heart again, 
 
 With all that the heart would restore. 
 
Second Sej'tes 209 
 
 And thenceforward the heart was a shrine 
 
 For that memory to dwell in divine, 
 
 Till from life, as from love, the dull leaven 
 
 Of grief-stain'd earthliness fell ; 
 And thenceforth in the infinite heaven 
 
 That heart and that memory dwell. 
 
 A. O' Shaughnessy 
 
 I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless — 
 
 That only men incredulous of despair, 
 
 Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air, 
 
 Beat upward to God's throne in loud access 
 
 Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness 
 
 In souls, as countries, lieth silent, bare. 
 
 Under the blenching, vertical eye-glare 
 
 Of the absolute Heavens. Deep-hearted man, express 
 
 Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death ; 
 
 Most like a monumental statue set 
 
 In everlasting watch and moveless woe. 
 
 Till itself crumble to the dust beneath. 
 
 Touch it : the marble eyelids are not wet — 
 
 If it could weep, it could arise and go. 
 
 E. B. Browning 
 
 CLIII 
 
 THE BROKEN HEART 
 
 News o' grief had overteaken 
 Dark-ey'd Fanny, now vorseaken ; 
 There she zot, wi' breast a-heaven. 
 While vrom zide to zide, wi' grieven, 
 Veil her head, wi' tears a-creepen 
 Down her cheaks, in bitter weepen. 
 There wer still the ribbon-bow 
 She tied avore her hour ov woe. 
 An' there wer still the ban's that tied it 
 
 Hangen white. 
 
 Or wringen tight, 
 In ceare that drown'd all ceare bezide it. 
 
The Golden Treasury 
 
 When a man, wi' heartless slighten, 
 Mid become a maiden's blighten, 
 He mid cearelessly vorseake her, 
 But must answer to her Meaker ; 
 He mid slight, wi' selfish blindness, 
 All her deeds o' loven-kindness, 
 God wuU waigh 'em wi' the slighten 
 That mid be her love's requiten ; 
 He do look on each deceiver. 
 
 He do know 
 
 What weight o' woe 
 Do break the heart ov ev'ry griever. 
 
 W. Barnes 
 
 CLIV 
 
 PARTING 
 
 Too fair, I may not call thee mine : 
 
 Too dear, I may not see 
 Those eyes with bridal beacons shine ; 
 
 Yet, Darling, keep for me — 
 Empty and hush'd, and safe apart, 
 One little corner of thy heart. 
 
 Thou wilt be happy, dear ! and bless 
 Thee : happy mayst thou be. 
 
 I would not make thy pleasure less ; 
 Yet, Darling, keep for me — 
 
 My life to light, my lot to leaven, 
 
 One little corner of thy Heaven. 
 
 Good-bye, dear heart ! I go to dwell 
 
 A weary way from thee ; 
 Our first kiss is our last farewell ; 
 
 Yet, Darling, keep for me — 
 Who wander outside in the night, 
 One little corner of thy light. 
 
 G. Massey 
 
Second Series 21 1 
 
 CLV 
 
 THE MAID'S LAMENT 
 
 I loved him not ; and yet now he is gone 
 
 I feel I am alone. 
 I check'd him while he spoke ; yet could he speak, 
 
 Alas ! I would not check. 
 For reasons not to love him once I sought, 
 
 And wearied all my thought 
 To vex myself and him : I now would give 
 
 My love, could he but live 
 Who lately lived for me, and when he found 
 
 'Twas vain, in holy ground 
 He hid his face amid the shades of death. 
 
 I waste for him my breath 
 Who wasted his for me : but mine returns, 
 
 And this lorn bosom burns 
 With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, 
 
 And waking me to weep 
 Tears that had melted his soft heart : for years 
 
 Wept he as bitter tears. 
 Merciful God! Such was his latest prayer, 
 
 These may she never share ! 
 Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold. 
 
 Than daisies in the mould, 
 Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate, 
 
 His name and life's brief date. 
 Pray for hini, gentle souls, whoe'er you be, 
 
 And, O, pray too for me ! 
 
 W. S. Landor 
 
 CLVI 
 
 LOVESIGHT 
 
 When do I see thee most, beloved one ? 
 When in the light the spirits of mine eyes 
 Before thy face, their altar, solemnize 
 
 The worship of that Love through thee made known ? 
 
212 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Or when in the dusk hours (we two alone), 
 Close-kiss'd and eloquent of still replies 
 Thy twilight-hidden glimmering visage lies, 
 
 And my soul only sees thy soul its own ? 
 
 O love, my love ! if I no more should see 
 Thyself, nor on the earth the shadow of thee. 
 
 Nor image of thine eyes in any spring, — 
 How then should sound upon Life's darkening slope 
 The ground-whirl of the perish'd leaves of Hope, 
 
 The wind of Death's imperishable wing ? 
 
 D. G. Kossetti 
 
 CLVII 
 
 A FAREWELL 
 
 With all my will, but much against my heart, 
 
 We two now part. 
 
 My Very Dear, 
 
 Our solace is, the sad road lies so clear. 
 
 It needs no art, 
 
 With faint, averted feet 
 
 And many a tear, 
 
 In our opposed paths to persevere. 
 
 Go thou to East, I West. 
 
 We will not say 
 
 There's any hope, it is so far away. 
 
 But, O, my Best, 
 
 When the one darling of our widowhead, 
 
 The nursling Grief, 
 
 Is dead. 
 
 And no dews blur our eyes 
 
 To see the peach-bloom come in evening skies, 
 
 Perchance we may, 
 
 Where now this night is day, 
 
 And even through faith of still averted feet, 
 
 Making full circle of our banishment. 
 
 Amazed meet ; 
 
 The bitter journey to the bourne so sweet 
 
 Seasoning the termless feast of our content 
 
 With tears of recognition never dry. 
 
 C. Patmore 
 
Second Set-ies 213 
 
 CLVIII 
 
 SONG OF THE OLD LOVE 
 
 When sparrows build, and the leaves break forth, 
 
 My old sorrow wakes and cries, 
 For I know there is dawn in the far, far north, 
 
 And a scarlet sun doth rise ; 
 Like a scarlet fleece the snow-field spreads. 
 
 And the icy founts run free, 
 And the bergs begin to bow their heads, 
 
 And plunge, and sail in the sea. 
 
 O my lost love, and my own, own love. 
 
 And my love that loved me so ! 
 Is there never a chink in the world above 
 
 Where they listen for words from below ? 
 Nay, I spoke once, and I grieved thee sore, 
 
 I remember all that I said. 
 And now thou wilt hear me no more — no more 
 
 Till the sea gives up her dead. 
 
 Thou didst set thy foot on the ship, and sail 
 
 To the ice-fields and the snow ; 
 Thou wert sad, for thy love did nought avail, 
 
 And the end I could not know ; 
 How could I tell I should love thee to-day, 
 
 Whom that day I held not dear ? 
 How could I know I should love thee away 
 
 When I did not love thee anear ? 
 
 We shall walk no more through the sodden plain 
 
 With the faded bents o'erspread. 
 We shall stand no more by the seething main 
 
 While the dark wrack drives o'erhead ; 
 We shall part no more in the wind and the rain. 
 
 Where thy last farewell was said ; 
 But perhaps I shall meet thee and know thee again 
 
 When the sea gives up her dead. 
 
 y. Ingelow 
 
214 ^'^^ Golden Treasury 
 
 CLIX 
 
 A DREAM OF AUTUMN 
 
 I heard a man of many winters say, 
 • ' Sometimes a sweet dream comes to me by night, 
 Fluttering my heart with pulses of dehght, 
 In glory bright as day ; 
 
 ' 'Tis not the stir of manhood, nor the pain, 
 
 The flood of passions, and the pomp of Hfe, 
 The toils, the care, the triumphs, and the strife, 
 
 That move my soul again ; 
 
 * Ah ! no, my prison-gates are open thrown, 
 
 There is a brighter earth, a lovelier sun, 
 One face I see, I hear one voice, but one, 
 'Tis She, and She alone ! 
 
 * It is a golden morning of the spring, 
 
 My cheek is pale, and hers is warm with bloom. 
 And we are left in that old carven room, 
 And she begins to sing ; 
 
 * The open casement quivers in the breeze, 
 
 And one large muskrose leans its dewy grace 
 Into the chamber, like a happy face, 
 And round it swim the bees ; 
 
 * Sometimes her sunny brow she loves to lean 
 
 Over her harp-strings ; sometimes her blue eyes 
 Are diving into the blue morning skies, 
 Or woodland shadows green ; 
 
 * Sometimes she looks adown a garden walk 
 
 Whence echoes of blithe converse come and go, 
 And two or three fair sisters, laughing low, 
 Go hand in hand, and talk. 
 
 * And once or twice all fearfully she gazed 
 
 Up to her gray fore-fathers, grim and tall, 
 With faded brows that frown'd along the wall. 
 And steadfast eyes amazed. 
 
Second Series 
 
 215 
 
 ' She stays her song ; I linger idly by ; 
 
 She lifts her head, and then she casts it down, 
 One small, fair hand is o'er the other thrown, 
 
 With a low, broken sigh ; 
 
 ' I know not what I said ; what she replied 
 Lives, like eternal sunshine, in my heart ; 
 And then I murmur'd, Oh ! we never part. 
 
 My love, my life, my bride ! 
 
 * And then, as if to crown that first of hours, 
 
 That hour that ne'er was mated by another. 
 Into the open casement her young brother 
 Threw a fresh wreath of flowers. 
 
 ' And silence o'er us, after that great bliss, 
 
 Fell, like a welcome shadow ; and I heard 
 The far woods sighing, and a summer bird 
 
 Singing amid the trees ; 
 
 * The sweet bird's happy song, that stream'd around. 
 
 The murmur of the woods, the azure skies. 
 Were graven on my heart, though ears and eyes 
 Mark'd neither sight nor sound. 
 
 * She sleeps in peace beneath the chancel stone. 
 
 But ah ! so clearly is the vision seen. 
 The dead seem raised, or Death hath never been, 
 Were I not here alone. 
 
 ' Oft, as I wake at morn, I seem to see 
 
 A moment, the sweet shadow of that shade, 
 Her blessed face, as it were loth to fade, 
 
 Turn'd back to look on me.' 
 
 F. Tennyson 
 
2i6 The Golden Treasury 
 
 SILENCES 
 
 'Tis a world of silences. I gave a cry 
 
 In the first sorrow my heart could not withstand ; 
 I saw men pause, and listen, and look sad, 
 As though an answer in their hearts they had ; 
 
 Some turn'd away, some came and took my hand, 
 For all reply. 
 
 I stood beside a grave. Years had pass'd by ; 
 
 Sick with unanswer'd life I turn'd to death, 
 And whisper'd all my question to the grave, 
 And watch'd the flowers desolately wave. 
 
 And grass stir on it with a fitful breath, 
 For all reply. 
 
 I raised my eyes to heaven ; my prayer went high 
 Into the luminous mystery of the blue ; 
 
 My thought of God was purer than a flame, 
 
 And God it seem'd a little nearer came, 
 
 Then pass'd ; and greater still the silence grew, 
 
 For all reply. 
 
 — But you ! If I can speak before I die, 
 
 I spoke to you with all my soul, and when 
 
 I look at you 'tis still my soul you see. 
 
 Oh, in your heart was there no word for me ? 
 
 All would have answer'd had you answer'd then 
 
 With even a sigh. 
 
 A. O'Shaughnessy 
 
 CLXI 
 
 AMELIA 
 
 Whene'er mine eyes do my Amelia greet 
 It is with such emotion 
 As when, in childhood, turning a dim street, 
 I first beheld the ocean. 
 
Second Series 217 
 
 There, where the little, bright, surf-breathing town, 
 That show'd me first her beauty and the sea, 
 Gathers its skirts against the gorse-lit down 
 And scatters gardens o'er the southern lea. 
 Abides this Maid 
 
 Within a kind, yet sombre Mother's shade. 
 Who of her daughter's graces seems almost afraid, 
 Viewing them ofttimes with a scared forecast, 
 Caught, haply, from obscure love-peril past. 
 Howe'er that be, 
 She scants me of my right. 
 Is cunning careful evermore to balk 
 Sweet separate talk, 
 And fevers my delight 
 By frets, if, on Amelia's cheek of peach, 
 I touch the notes which music cannot reach, 
 Bidding ' Good-night ! ' 
 
 Wherefore it came that, till to-day's dear date, 
 I cursed the weary months which yet I have to wait 
 Ere I find heaven, one-nested with my mate. 
 
 To-day, the Mother gave. 
 To urgent pleas and promise to behave 
 As she were there, her long-besought consent 
 To trust Amelia with me to the grave 
 Where lay my once-betrothed, Millicent : 
 ' For,' said she, hiding ill a moistening eye, 
 * Though, Sir, the word sounds hard, 
 God makes as if He least knew how to guard 
 The treasure He loves best, simplicity.' 
 
 And there Amelia stood, for fairness shown 
 Like a young apple-tree, in flush'd array 
 Of white and ruddy flower, auroral, gay. 
 With chilly blue the maiden branch between ; 
 And yet to look on her moved less the mind 
 To say ' How beauteous ! ' than ' How good and 
 kind ! ' 
 
 And so we went alone 
 By walls o'er which the lilac's numerous plume 
 Shook down perfume ; 
 Trim plots close blown 
 With daisies, in conspicuous myriads seen, 
 Engross' d each one 
 
2i8 The Golden Treasufy 
 
 With single ardour for her spouse, the sun ; 
 
 Garths in their glad array 
 
 Of white and ruddy branch, auroral, gay, 
 
 With azure chill the maiden flower between ; 
 
 Meadows of fervid green. 
 
 With sometime sudden prospect of untold 
 
 Cowslips, like chance-found gold ; 
 
 And broadcast buttercups at joyful gaze, 
 
 Rending the air with praise, 
 
 Like the six-hundred-thousand-voiced shout 
 
 Of Jacob camp'd in Midian put to rout ; 
 
 Then through the Park, 
 
 Where Spring to livelier gloom 
 
 Quicken'd the cedars dark. 
 
 And, 'gainst the clear sky cold, 
 
 Which shone afar 
 
 Crowded with sunny alps oracular. 
 
 Great chestnuts raised themselves abroad like cliffs of 
 
 bloom : 
 And everywhere. 
 
 Amid the ceaseless rapture of the lark, 
 With wonder new 
 
 We caught the solemn voice of single air, 
 ' Cuckoo ! ' 
 
 And when Amelia, 'bolden'd, saw and heard 
 How bravely sang the bird. 
 And all things in God's bounty did rejoice. 
 She who, her Mother by, spake seldom word, 
 Did her charm'd silence doff. 
 And, to my happy marvel, her dear voice 
 Went as a clock does, when the pendulum's off. 
 Ill Monarch of man's heart the Maiden who 
 Does not aspire to be High- Pontiff too ! 
 So she repeated soft her Poet's line, 
 ' By grace divine. 
 
 Not otherwise, O Nature, are we thine ! ' 
 And I, up the bright steep she led me, trod, 
 And the like thought pursued 
 With, ' What is gladness without gratitude, 
 And where is gratitude without a God ? ' 
 And of delight, the guerdon of His laws, 
 She spake, in learned mood ; 
 
Second Series 219 
 
 And I, of Him loved reverently, as Cause, 
 
 Her sweetly, as Occasion of all good. 
 
 Nor were we shy, 
 
 For souls in heaven that be 
 
 May talk of heaven without hypocrisy. 
 
 And now, when we drew near 
 The low, gray Church, in its sequester'd dell, 
 A shade upon me fell. 
 
 Dead Millicent indeed had been most sweet, 
 But I how little meet 
 To call such graces in a Maiden mine ! 
 A boy's proud passion free affection blunts ; 
 His well-meant flatteries oft are blind afiVonts ; 
 And many a tear 
 
 Was Millicent's before I, manlier, knew 
 That maidens shine 
 As diamonds do, 
 Which, though most clear, 
 Are not to be seen through ; 
 And, if she put her virgin self aside 
 And sate her, crownless, at my conquering feet. 
 It should have bred in me humility, not pride. 
 Amelia had more luck than Millicent, 
 Secure she smiled and warm from all mischance 
 Or from my knowledge or my ignorance, 
 And glow'd content 
 With my — some might have thought too much — 
 
 superior age, 
 Which seem'd the gage 
 Of steady kindness all on her intent. 
 Thus nought forbade us to be fully blent. 
 
 ^^^lile, therefore, now 
 Her pensive footstep stirr'd 
 The darnell'd garden of unheedful death. 
 She ask'd what Millicent was like, and heard 
 Of eyes like her's, and honeysuckle breath. 
 And of a wiser than a woman's brow. 
 Yet fill'd with only woman's love, and how 
 An incidental greatness character'd 
 Her unconsider'd ways. 
 But all my praise 
 Amelia thought too slight for Millicent, 
 
220 The Golden Treasury 
 
 And on my lovelier-freighted arm she leant, 
 
 For more attent ; 
 
 And the tea-rose I gave, 
 
 To deck her breast, she dropp'd upon the grave. 
 
 * And this was her's,' said I, decoring with a band 
 
 Of mildest pearls Amelia's milder hand. 
 
 ' Nay, I will wear it for her sake,' she said : 
 
 For dear to maidens are their rivals dead. 
 
 And so, 
 She seated on the black yew's tortured root, 
 I on the carpet of sere shreds below, 
 And nigh the little mound where lay that other, 
 I kiss'd her lips three times without dispute. 
 And, with bold worship suddenly aglow, 
 I lifted to my lips a sandall'd foot, 
 And kiss'd it three times thrice without dispute. 
 Upon my head her fingers fell like snow. 
 Her lamb-like hands about my neck she wreathed, 
 Her arms like slumber o'er my shoulders crept, 
 And with her bosom, whence the azalea breathed, 
 She did my face full favourably smother. 
 To hide the heaving secret that she wept ! 
 
 Now would I keep my promise to her Mother ; 
 Now I arose, and raised her to her feet. 
 My best Amelia, fresh-born from a kiss, 
 Moth-like, full-blown in birthdew shuddering sweet, 
 With great, kind eyes, in whose brown shade 
 Bright Venus and her Baby play'd ! 
 
 At inmost heart well pleased with one another, 
 What time the slant sun low 
 Through the plough'd field does each clod sharply 
 
 show, 
 And softly fills 
 
 With shade the dimples of our homeward hills, 
 With little said, 
 
 We left the 'wilder'd garden of the dead, 
 And gain'd the gorse-lit shoulder of the down 
 That keeps the north-wind from the nestling town, 
 And caught, once more, the vision of the wave, 
 Where, on the horizon's dip, 
 A many-sailed ship 
 Pursued alone her distant purpose grave ; 
 
Second Series 221 
 
 And, by steep steps rock-hewn, to the dim street 
 
 I led her sacred feet ; 
 
 And so the Daughter gave, 
 
 Soft, moth-like, sweet, 
 
 Showy as damask-rose and shy as musk, 
 
 Back to her Mother, anxious in the dusk. 
 
 And now ' Good-night ! ' 
 
 Me shall the phantom months no more affright. 
 
 For heaven's gates to open, well waits he 
 
 Who keeps himself the key. 
 
 C. Pat more 
 
 CLXII 
 
 O that 'twere possible 
 
 After long grief and pain 
 
 To find the arms of my true love 
 
 Round me once again ! 
 
 When I was wont to meet her 
 In the silent woody places 
 By the home that gave me birth, 
 We stood tranced in long embraces 
 Mixt with kisses sweeter sweeter 
 Than anything on earth. 
 
 A shadow flits before me, 
 
 Not thou, but like to thee : 
 
 Ah Christ, that it were possible 
 
 For one short hour to see 
 
 The souls we loved, that they might tell us 
 
 W'hat and where they be. 
 
 It leads me forth at evening, 
 
 It lightly winds and steals 
 
 In a cold white robe before me. 
 
 When all my spirit reels 
 
 At the shouts, the leagues of lights, 
 
 And the roaring of the wheels. 
 
The Golden Treasury 
 
 Half the night I waste in sighs, 
 Half in dreams I sorrow after 
 The delight of early skies ; 
 In a wakeful doze I sorrow 
 For the hand, the lips, the eyes, 
 For the meeting of the morrow, 
 The delight of happy laughter. 
 The delight of low replies. 
 
 'Tis a morning pure and sweet. 
 And a dewy splendour falls 
 On the little flower that clings 
 To the turrets and the walls ; 
 'Tis a morning pure and sweet, 
 And the light and shadow fleet ; 
 She is walking in the meadow, 
 And the woodland echo rings ; 
 In a moment we shall meet ; 
 She is singing in the meadow 
 And the rivulet at her feet 
 Ripples on in light and shadow 
 To the ballad that she sings. 
 
 Do I hear her sing as of old, 
 
 My bird with the shining head, 
 
 My own dove with the tender eye ? 
 
 But there rings on a sudden a passionate cry. 
 
 There is some one dying or dead, 
 
 And a sullen thunder is roll'd ; 
 
 For a tumult shakes the city, 
 
 And I wake, my dream is fled ; 
 
 In the shuddering dawn, behold, 
 
 Without knowledge, without pity, 
 
 By the curtains of my bed 
 
 That abiding phantom cold. 
 
 Get thee hence, nor come again, 
 Mix not memory with doubt, 
 Pass, thou deathlike type of pain. 
 Pass and cease to move about ! 
 'Tis the blot upon the brain 
 That will show itself without. 
 
Second Series 223 
 
 Then I rise, the eavedrops fall, 
 And the yellow vapours choke 
 The great city sounding wide ; 
 The day comes, a dull red ball 
 Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke 
 On the misty river-tide. 
 
 Thro' the hubbub of the market 
 
 I steal, a wasted frame, 
 
 It crosses here, it crosses there, 
 
 Thro' all that crowd confused and loud, 
 
 The shadow still the same ; 
 
 And on my heavy eyelids 
 
 My anguish hangs like shame. 
 
 Alas for her that met me. 
 
 That heard me softly call. 
 
 Came glimmering thro' the laurels 
 
 At the quiet evenfall. 
 
 In the garden by the turrets 
 
 Of the old manorial hall. 
 
 Would the happy spirit descend, 
 From the realms of light and song, 
 In the chamber or the street, 
 As she looks among the blest. 
 Should I fear to greet my friend 
 Or to say ' Forgive the wrong,' 
 Or to ask her, ' Take me, sweet, 
 To the regions of thy rest ' ? 
 
 But the broad light glares and beats, 
 
 And the shadow flits and fleets 
 
 And will not let me be ; 
 
 And I loathe the squares and streets. 
 
 And the faces that one meets, 
 
 Hearts with no love for me : 
 
 Always I long to creep 
 
 Into some still cavern deep. 
 
 There to weep, and weep, and weep 
 
 My whole soul out to thee. 
 
 A. Lord Tennyson 
 
224 '^^^^ Golden Treasnty 
 
 CLXIII 
 
 TO THE END 
 
 I wonder if the Angels 
 
 Love with such love as ours, 
 If for each other's sake they pluck 
 
 And keep eternal flowers. 
 
 Alone I am and weary, 
 
 Alone yet not alone : 
 Her soul talks with me by the way 
 
 From tedious stone to stone, 
 A blessed Angel treads with me 
 
 The awful paths unknown. 
 
 If her spirit went before me 
 
 Up from night to day, 
 It would pass me like the lightning 
 
 That kindles on its way. 
 I should feel it like the lightning 
 
 Flashing fresh from Heaven : 
 I should long for Heaven sevenfold more, 
 
 Yea and sevenfold seven : 
 Should pray as I have not pray'd before, 
 
 And strive as I have not striven. 
 
 She will learn new love in Heaven, 
 
 ^^^^o is so full of love ; 
 She will learn new depths of tenderness 
 
 Vs\\o is tender like a dove. 
 
 Her heart will no more sorrow, 
 
 Her eyes will weep no more : 
 Yet it may be she will yearn 
 And look back from far before : 
 Lingering on the golden threshold 
 
 And leaning from the door. 
 
 C. G. Rossetti 
 
Seco7id Series 225 
 
 CLXIV 
 
 THE ONE HOPE 
 
 When vain desire at last and vain regret 
 Go hand in hand to death, and all is vain, 
 What shall assuage the unforgotten pain 
 
 And teach the unforgetful to forget ? 
 
 Shall Peace be still a sunk stream long unmet, — 
 Or may the soul at once in a green plain 
 Stoop through the spray of some sweet life-fountain 
 
 And cull the dew-drench'd flowering amulet ? 
 
 Ah ! when the wan soul in that golden air 
 Between the scriptured petals softly blown 
 Peers breathless for the gift of grace unknown, — 
 Ah ! let none other alien spell soe'er 
 But only the one Hope's one name be there, — 
 Not less nor more, but even that word alone. 
 
 D. G. Rossetti 
 
 CLXV 
 
 A DEAD ROSE 
 
 O Rose ! who dares to name thee ? 
 No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet ; 
 But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubble-wheat, — 
 
 Kept seven years in a drawer — thy titles shame 
 thee. 
 
 The breeze that used to blow thee 
 Between the hedge-row thorns, and take away 
 An odour up the lane to last all day, — 
 
 If breathing now, — unsweeten'd would forgo thee. 
 
 The sun that used to smite thee, 
 And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn. 
 Till beam appear'd to bloom, and flower to burn, — 
 
 If shining now, — with not a hue would light thee. 
 Q 
 
226 The Golden Treasury 
 
 The dew that used to wet thee, 
 And, white first, grow incarnadined, because 
 It lay upon thee where the crimson was, — 
 
 If dropping now, — would darken where it met thee. 
 
 The fly that lit upon thee. 
 To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet, 
 Along thy leafs pure edges, after heat, — 
 
 If lighting now, — would coldly overrun thee. 
 
 The bee that once did suck thee. 
 And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive, 
 And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive, — 
 
 If passing now, — would blindly overlook thee. 
 
 The heart doth recognize thee, 
 Alone, alone ! The heart doth smell thee sweet, 
 Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete — 
 
 Though seeing now those changes that disguise thee. 
 
 E. B. Browning 
 
 CLXVI 
 
 LOST DA YS 
 
 The lost days of my life until to-day. 
 
 What were they, could I see them on the street 
 
 Lie as they fell ? Would they be ears of wheat 
 Sown once for food but trodden into clay ? 
 Or golden coins squander'd and still to pay ? 
 
 Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty feet ? 
 
 Or such spilt water as in dreams must cheat 
 The undying throats of Hell, athirst alway ? 
 
 I do not see them here ; but after death 
 God knows I know the faces I shall see. 
 
 Each one a murder'd self, with low last breath. 
 * I am thyself, — what hast thou done to me ?' 
 
 * And I — and I — thyself,' (lo ! each one saith,) 
 ' And thou thyself to all eternity ! ' 
 
 D. G. Rossetti 
 
Second Series 227 
 
 CLXVII 
 
 THE SUMMER IS ENDED 
 
 Wreathe no more lilies in my hair, 
 For I am dying, Sister sweet : 
 Or, if you will for the last time 
 
 Indeed, why make me fair 
 
 Once for my winding-sheet. 
 
 Pluck no more roses for my breast, 
 For I like them fade in my prime : 
 Or, if you will, why pluck them still. 
 
 That they may share my rest 
 
 Once more for the last time. 
 
 Weep not for me when I am gone, 
 Dear tender one, but hope and smile : 
 Or, if you cannot choose but weep, 
 
 A little while weep on. 
 
 Only a little while. 
 
 C. G. Rossetti. 
 
 CLXVIII 
 
 RETURNING HOME 
 
 To leave unseen so many a glorious sight. 
 To leave so many lands unvisited, 
 To leave so many worthiest books unread. 
 Unrealized so many visions bright ; — 
 
 Oh ! wretched yet inevitable spite 
 Of our brief span, that we must yield our breath. 
 And wrap us in the unfeeling coil of death, 
 So much remaining of unproved delight. 
 
 But hush, my soul, and vain regrets, be still'd ; 
 Find rest in Him who is the complement 
 Of whatsoe'er transcends our mortal doom, 
 Of baffled hope and unfulfill'd intent ; 
 In the clear vision and aspect of whom 
 All longings and all hopes shall be fulfill 'd. 
 
 R. C. Archbishop Trench 
 
228 The Golden Treasury 
 
 CLXIX 
 
 IN A LONDON SQUARE 
 
 Put forth thy leaf, thou lofty plane, 
 
 East wind and frost are safely gone ; 
 With zephyr mild and balmy rain 
 
 The summer comes serenely on ; 
 Earth, air, and sun and skies combine 
 
 To promise all that's kind and fair : — 
 But thou, O human heart of mine, 
 
 Be still, contain thyself, and bear. 
 
 December days were brief and chill, 
 
 The winds of March were wild and drear. 
 And, nearing and receding still, 
 
 Spring never would, we thought, be here. 
 The leaves that burst, the suns that shine, 
 
 Had, not the less, their certain date : — 
 And thou, O human heart of mine, 
 
 Be still, refrain thyself, and wait. 
 
 A. H. Clough 
 
 LASCIATE OGNI SPERANZA . . . 
 
 I am ! yet what I am who cares, or knows ? 
 My friends forsake me, like a memory lost. 
 I am the self-consumer of my woes, 
 They rise and vanish, an oblivious host, 
 Shadows of life, whose very soul is lost. 
 And yet I am — I live — though I am toss'd 
 
 Into the nothingness of scorn and noise. 
 
 Into the living sea of waking dream, 
 
 Where there is neither sense of life, nor joys. 
 
 But the huge shipwreck of my own esteem 
 
 And all that's dear. Even those I loved the best 
 
 Are strange — nay, they are stranger than the rest. 
 
Second Series 
 
 229 
 
 I long for scenes where man has never trod — 
 For scenes where woman never smiled or wept — 
 There to abide with my Creator, God, 
 And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept, 
 Full of high thoughts, unborn. So let me lie. 
 The grass below ; above, the vaulted sky. 
 
 J. Clare 
 
 CLXXI 
 THE BOURNE 
 
 Underneath the growing grass, 
 
 Underneath the living flowers. 
 Deeper than the sound of showers : 
 There we shall not count the hours 
 
 By the shadows as they pass. 
 
 Youth and health will be but vain. 
 Beauty reckon'd of no worth : 
 There a very little girth 
 Can hold round what once the earth 
 
 Seem'd too narrow to contain. 
 
 C. G. Rossetti 
 
 CLXXII 
 
 SONG 
 
 When I am dead, my dearest, 
 
 Sing no sad songs for me ; 
 Plant thou no roses at my head, 
 
 Nor shady cypress tree : 
 Be the green grass above me 
 
 With showers and dewdrops wet ; 
 And if thou wilt, remember, 
 
 And if thou wilt, forget. 
 
230 The Golden Treasury 
 
 I shall not see the shadows, 
 
 I shall not feel the rain ; 
 I shall not hear the nightingale 
 
 Sing on, as if in pain : 
 And dreaming through the twilight 
 
 That doth not rise nor set, 
 Haply I may remember, 
 
 And haply may forget. 
 
 C. G. Rossetti 
 
 CLXXIII 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN OF TEARS 
 
 If you go over desert and mountain, 
 Far into the country of sorrow, 
 To-day and to-night and to-morrow, 
 
 And maybe for months and for years ; 
 
 You shall come, with a heart that is bursting 
 For trouble and toiling and thirsting. 
 
 You shall certainly come to the fountain 
 
 At length, — to the Fountain of Tears. 
 
 Very peaceful the place is, and solely 
 For piteous lamenting and sighing. 
 And those who come living or dying 
 
 Alike from their hopes and their fears ; 
 Full of cypress-like shadows the place is, 
 And statues that cover their faces : 
 
 But out of the gloom springs the holy 
 
 And beautiful Fountain of Tears. 
 
 And it flows and it flows with a motion 
 
 So gentle and lovely and listless. 
 
 And murmurs a tune so resistless 
 To him who hath suffer'd and hears — 
 
 You shall surely — without a word spoken. 
 
 Kneel down there and know your heart broken, 
 And yield to the long curb'd emotion 
 That day by the Fountain of Tears. 
 
Second Series 231 
 
 For it grows and it grows, as though leaping 
 Up higher the more one is thinking ; 
 And ever its tunes go on sinking 
 
 More poignantly into the ears : 
 
 Yea, so blessed and good seems that fountain, 
 Reach'd after dry desert and mountain. 
 
 You shall fall down at length in your weeping 
 
 And bathe your sad face in the tears. 
 
 Then, alas ! while you lie there a season, 
 
 And sob between living and dying. 
 
 And give up the land you were trying 
 To find 'mid your hopes and your fears ; 
 
 — O the world shall come up and pass o'er you ; 
 
 Strong men shall not stay to care for you, 
 Nor wonder indeed for what reason 
 Your way should seem harder than theirs. 
 
 But perhaps, while you lie, never lifting 
 Your cheek from the wet leaves it presses, 
 Nor caring to raise your wet tresses 
 
 And look how the cold world appears, — 
 O perhaps the mere silences round you — 
 All things in that place grief hath found you, 
 
 Yea, e'en to the clouds o'er you drifting. 
 
 May soothe you somewhat through your tears. 
 
 You may feel, when a falling leaf brushes 
 
 Your face, as though some one had kiss'd you, 
 Or think at least some one who miss'd you 
 
 Hath sent you a thought, — if that cheers ; 
 Or a bird's little song, faint and broken, 
 May pass for a tender word spoken : 
 
 — Enough, while around you there rushes 
 
 That life-drowning torrent of tears. 
 
 And the tears shall flow faster and faster, 
 Brim over, and baffle resistance. 
 And roll down blear'd roads to each distance 
 
 Of past desolation and years ; 
 
 Till they cover the place of each sorrow, 
 And leave you no Past and no morrow : 
 
 For what man is able to master 
 
 And stem the great Fountain of Tears ? 
 
232 The Golden Treasury 
 
 But the floods of the tears meet and gather ; 
 
 The sound of them all grows like thunder : 
 
 — O into what bosom I wonder, 
 Is pour'd the whole sorrow of years ? 
 
 For Eternity only seems keeping 
 
 Account of the great human weeping : 
 May God, then, the Maker and Father — 
 May He find a place for the tears ! 
 
 A. O' Shanghtiessy 
 
 CLXXIV 
 
 THE WRECK 
 
 Hide me, Mother ! my Fathers belong'd to the church 
 
 of old, 
 I am driven by storm and sin and death to the ancient 
 
 fold, 
 I cling to the Catholic Cross once more, to the Faith 
 
 that saves, 
 My brain is full of the crash of wrecks, and the roar 
 
 of waves, 
 My life itself is a wreck, I have sullied a noble name, 
 I am flung from the rushing tide of the world as a 
 
 waif of shame, 
 I am roused by the wail of a child, and awake to a 
 
 livid light, 
 And a ghastlier face than ever has haunted a grave by 
 
 night, 
 I would hide from the storm without, I would flee 
 
 from the storm within, 
 I would make my life one prayer for a soul that died 
 
 in his sin, 
 I was the tempter. Mother, and mine was the deeper 
 
 fall ; 
 I will sit at your feet, I will hide my face, I will tell 
 
 you all. 
 
 He that they gave me to. Mother, a heedless and 
 
 innocent bride — 
 I never have wrong'd his heart, I have only wounded 
 
 his pride — 
 
Second Series 233 
 
 Spain in his blood and the Jew dark-visaged, stately 
 
 and tall — 
 A princelier-looking man never stept thro' a Prince's 
 
 hall. 
 And who, when his anger was kindled, would venture 
 
 to give him the nay ? 
 And a man men fear is a man to be loved by the 
 
 women they say. 
 And I could have loved him too, if the blossom can 
 
 doat on the blight, 
 Or the young green leaf rejoice in the frost that sears 
 
 it at night ; 
 He would open the books that I prized, and toss them 
 
 away with a yawn, 
 Repell'd by the magnet of Art to the which my nature 
 
 was drawn, 
 The word of the Poet by whom the deeps of the world 
 
 are stirr'd, 
 The music that robes it in language beneath and 
 
 beyond the word ! 
 My Shelley would fall from my hands when he cast a 
 
 contemptuous glance 
 From where he was poring over his Tables of Trade 
 
 and Finance ; 
 My hands, when I heard him coming, would drop from 
 
 the chords or the keys, 
 But ever I fail'd to please him, however I strove to 
 
 please — 
 All day long far-off in the cloud of the city, and there 
 Lost, head and heart, in the chances of dividend, consol, 
 
 and share — 
 And at home if I sought for a kindly caress, being 
 
 woman and weak. 
 His formal kiss fell chill as a flake of snow on the cheek : 
 And so, when I bore him a girl, when I held it aloft 
 
 in my joy, 
 He look'd at it coldly, and said to me * Pity it isn't a 
 
 boy.' 
 The one thing given me, to love and to live for, glanced 
 
 at in scorn ! 
 The child that I felt I could die for — as if she were 
 
 basely born ! 
 
234 The Golden Treasury 
 
 I had lived a wild-flower life, I was planted now in a 
 
 tomb ; 
 The daisy will shut to the shadow, I closed my heart 
 
 to the gloom ; 
 I threw myself all abroad — I would play my part with 
 
 the young 
 By the low foot-lights of the world — and I caught the 
 
 wreath that was flung. 
 
 Mother, I have not — however their tongues may have 
 
 babbled of me — 
 Sinn'd thro' an animal vileness, for all but a dwarf 
 
 was he, 
 And all but a hunchback too ; and I look'd at him, 
 
 first, askance, 
 With pity — not he the knight for an amorous girl's 
 
 romance ! 
 Tho' wealthy enough to have bask'd in the light of a 
 
 dowerless smile, 
 Having lands at home and abroad in a rich West- 
 Indian isle ; 
 But I came on him once at a ball, the heart of a 
 
 listening crowd — 
 Why, what a brow was there ! he was seated — speak- 
 ing aloud 
 To women, the flower of the time, and men at the 
 
 helm of state — 
 Flowing with easy greatness and touching on all things 
 
 great, 
 Science, philosophy, song — till I felt myself ready to 
 
 weep 
 For I knew not what, when I heard that voice, — as 
 
 mellow and deep 
 As a psalm by a mighty master and peal'd from an 
 
 organ, — roll 
 Rising and falling — for, Mother, the voice was the 
 
 voice of the soul ; 
 And the sun of the soul made day in the dark of his 
 
 wonderful eyes. 
 Here was the hand that would help me, would heal 
 
 me — the heart that was wise ! 
 
Second Series 235 
 
 And he, poor man, when he learnt that I hated the 
 
 ring I wore. 
 He helpt me with death, and he heal'd me with sorrow 
 
 for evermore. 
 
 For I broke the bond. That day my nurse had brought 
 
 me the child. 
 The small sweet face was flush'd, but it coo'd to the 
 
 Mother and smiled. 
 'Anything ailing,' I ask'd her, 'with baby?' She 
 
 shook her head. 
 And the Motherless Mother kiss'd it, and turn'd in 
 
 her haste and fled. 
 
 Low warm winds had gently breathed us away from 
 
 the land — 
 Ten long sweet summer days upon deck, sitting hand 
 
 in hand — 
 When he clothed a naked mind with the wisdom and 
 
 wealth of his own. 
 And I bow'd myself down as a slave to his intellectual 
 
 throne. 
 When he coin'd into English gold some treasure of 
 
 classical song, 
 When he flouted a statesman's error, or flamed at a 
 
 public wrong. 
 When he rose as it were on the wings of an eagle 
 
 beyond me, and past 
 Over the range and the change of the world from the 
 
 first to the last. 
 When he spoke of his tropical home in the canes by 
 
 the purple tide. 
 And the high star-crowns of his palms on the deep- 
 wooded mountain-side. 
 And cliffs all robed in lianas that dropt to the brink of 
 
 his bay, 
 And trees like the towers of a minster, the sons of a 
 
 winterless day. 
 * Paradise there ! ' so he said, but I seem'd in Paradise 
 
 then 
 With the first great love I had felt for the first and 
 
 greatest of men ; 
 
236 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Ten long days of summer and sin — if it must be 
 
 so — 
 But days of a larger light than I ever again shall 
 
 know — 
 Days that will glimmer, I fear, thro' life to my latest 
 
 breath ; 
 ' No frost there,' so he said, ' as in truest Love no 
 
 Death.' 
 
 Mother, one morning a bird with a warble plaintively 
 
 sweet 
 Perch'd on the shrouds, and then fell fluttering down 
 
 at my feet ; 
 I took it, he made it a cage, we fondled it, Stephen 
 
 and I, 
 But it died, and I thought of the child for a moment, 
 
 I scarce know why. 
 
 But if sin be sin, not inherited fate, as many will 
 
 say. 
 My sin to my desolate little one found me at sea on a 
 
 day, 
 Wlien her orphan wail came borne in the shriek of a 
 
 growing wind. 
 And a voice rang out in the thunders of Ocean and 
 
 Heaven ' Thou hast sinn'd.' 
 And down in the cabin were we, for the towering 
 
 crest of the tides 
 Plunged on the vessel and swept in a cataract off from 
 
 her sides, 
 And ever the great storm grew with a howl and a 
 
 hoot of the blast 
 In the rigging, voices of hell — then came the crash of 
 
 the mast. 
 ' The wages of sin is death,' and there I began to 
 
 weep, 
 ' I am the Jonah, the crew should cast me into the 
 
 deep. 
 For ah God, what a heart was mine to forsake her 
 
 even for you.' 
 'Never the heart among women,' he said, 'more 
 
 tender and true.' 
 
Second Series 237 
 
 * The heart ! not a mother's heart, when I left my 
 
 darling alone.' 
 
 * Comfort yourself, for the heart of the father will 
 
 care for his own.' 
 'The heart of the father will spurn her,' I cried, ' for 
 
 the sin of the wife, 
 The cloud of the mother's shame will enfold her and 
 
 darken her life.' 
 Then his pale face twitch'd ; ' O Stephen, I love you, 
 
 I love you, and yet ' — 
 As I lean'd away from his arms — ' would God, we had 
 
 never met ! ' 
 And he spoke not — only the storm ; till after a little, 
 
 I yearn' d 
 For his voice again, and he call'd to me ' Kiss me ! ' 
 
 and there — as I turn'd — 
 
 * The heart, the heart ! ' I kiss'd him, I clung to the 
 
 sinking form. 
 And the storm went roaring above us, and he — was 
 out of the storm. 
 
 And then, then, Mother, the ship stagger'd under a 
 
 thunderous shock, 
 That shook us asunder, as if she had struck and crash'd 
 
 on a rock ; 
 For a huge sea smote every soul from the decks of 
 
 The Falcon but one ; 
 All of them, all but the man that was lash'd to the 
 
 helm had gone ! 
 And I fell — and the storm and the days went by, but 
 
 I knew no more — 
 Lost myself — lay like the dead by the dead on the 
 
 cabin floor. 
 Dead to the death beside me, and lost to the loss that 
 
 was mine. 
 With a dim dream, now and then, of a hand giving 
 
 bread and wine, 
 Till I woke from the trance, and the ship stood still, 
 
 and the skies were blue. 
 But the face I had known, O Mother, was not the 
 
 face that I knew. 
 
238 The Golden T?-easnr}> 
 
 The strange misfeaturing mask that I saw so amazed 
 
 me, that I 
 Stumbled on deck, half mad. I would fling myself 
 
 over and die ! 
 But one — he was waving a flag — the one man left on 
 
 the wreck — 
 
 * Woman ' — he graspt at my arm — * stay there ' — I 
 
 crouch'd upon deck — 
 *We are sinking, and yet there's hope : look yonder,' 
 
 he cried, ' a sail ' 
 In a tone so rough that I broke into passionate tears, 
 
 and the wail 
 Of a beaten babe, till I saw that a boat was nearing 
 
 us — then 
 All on a sudden I thought, I shall look on the child 
 
 again. 
 
 They lower'd me down the side, and there in the boat 
 
 I lay 
 With sad eyes fixt on the lost sea-home, as we glided 
 
 away, 
 And I sigh'd, as the low dark hull dipt under the 
 
 smiling main, 
 
 * Had I stay'd with him, I had now — with him — been 
 
 out of my pain. ' 
 
 They took us aboard : the crew were gentle, the captain 
 
 kind ; 
 But / was the only slave of an often-wandering mind ; 
 For whenever a rougher gust might tumble a stormier 
 
 wave, 
 
 * O Stephen,' I moan'd ' I am coming to thee in thine 
 
 Ocean-grave.' 
 
 And again, when a balmier breeze curl'd over a peace- 
 fuller sea, 
 
 I found myself moaning again ' O child, I am coming 
 to thee.' 
 
 The broad white brow of the Isle — that bay with the 
 
 colour' d sand — 
 Rich was the rose of sunset there, as we drew to the 
 
 land : 
 
Second Series 239 
 
 All so quiet the ripple would hardly blanch into spray 
 At the feet of the cliff; and I pray'd — ' my child ' — 
 
 for I still could pray — 
 ' May her life be as blissfully calm, be never gloom'd 
 
 by the curse 
 Of a sin, not hers ! ' 
 
 Was it well with the child ? 
 
 I wrote to the nurse 
 WTio had borne my flower on her hireling heart ; and 
 
 an answer came 
 Not from the nurse — nor yet to the wife — to her maiden 
 
 name ! 
 I shook as I open'd the letter — I knew that hand too 
 
 well — 
 And from it a scrap, dipt out of the ' deaths ' in a 
 
 paper, fell. 
 ' Ten long sweet summer days ' of fever, and want of 
 
 care ! 
 And gone — that day of the storm — O Mother, she 
 
 came to me there. 
 
 A. Lord Tennyson 
 
 ELLEN BRLNE OF ALLEN BURN 
 
 Noo soul did hear her lips complain, 
 An' she's a-gone vrom all her pain, 
 An' others' loss to her is gain, 
 For she do live in heaven's love ; 
 Vull many a longsome day an' week 
 She bore her ailen, still, an' meek ; 
 A-worken while her strangth held on 
 An' gulden housework, when 'twer gone. 
 Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn 
 Oh ! there be souls to murn. 
 
 The last time I'd a-cast my zight 
 Upon her feace, a-feaded white, 
 Wer in a zummer's mornen light 
 In hall avore the smwold'ren vier, 
 
240 The Golden Treaswy 
 
 The while the childern beat the vloor, 
 In play, wi' tiny shoes they wore, 
 An' call'd their mother's eyes to view 
 The feats their little limbs could do. 
 Oh ! Ellen Brine ov AUenburn, 
 They childern now mus' murn. 
 
 Then woone, a-stoppen vrom his reace. 
 Went up, an' on her knee did pleace 
 His hand, a-looken in her feace. 
 An' wi' a smilen mouth so small, 
 He said, * You promised us to goo 
 To Shroton feair, an' teake us two ! ' 
 She heard it wi' her two white ears, 
 An' in her eyes there sprung two tears, 
 Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn 
 Did veel that they mus' murn. 
 
 September come, wi' Shroton feair, 
 But Ellen Brine wer never there ! 
 A heavy heart wer on the meare. 
 Their father rod his hwomeward road. 
 'Tis true he brought zome fearens back, 
 Vor them two childern all in black ; 
 But they had now, wi' playthings new, 
 Noo mother vor to shew em to, 
 Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn 
 Would never mwore return. 
 
 W. Barnes 
 
 CLXXVI 
 
 GOING HOME 
 
 The ancient river glimmer'd in its bed. 
 High overhead the stars of Egypt burn'd, 
 When our slow-dying Edith join'd the dead ; 
 She whom the Arab and the Nubian mourn'd : 
 How in the shadow of old Thebes we wept, 
 And down the long-drawn Nile from day to day 
 Her sweet face gone — her bright hair hid away— 
 Save what the ring or gleaming locket kept ; 
 
Second Scj'ies 241 
 
 And, when we felt the Midland waters rise 
 Beneath our keel, and England nearer come — 
 'Mid our forecasting questions and replies, 
 Back came the sorrow like a sad surprise ; 
 Those dear white cliffs would never greet her eyes, 
 Nor her cheek flush, to find herself at home. 
 
 C. Tennyson- Turner 
 
 CLXXVII 
 
 IN MEMORIAM 
 
 'Tis right for her to sleep between 
 Some of those old Cathedral walls, 
 
 And right too that her grave is green 
 With all the dew and rain that falls. 
 
 'Tis well the organ's solemn sighs 
 
 Should soar and sink around her rest, 
 
 And almost in her ear should rise 
 
 The prayers of those she loved the best. 
 
 'Tis also well this air is stirr'd 
 By Nature's voices loud and low. 
 
 By thunder and the chirping bird. 
 And grasses whispering as they grow. 
 
 For all her spirit's earthly course 
 
 Was as a lesson and a sign 
 How to o'errule the hard divorce 
 
 That parts things natural and divine. 
 
 Undaunted by the clouds of fear, 
 
 Undazzled by a happy day, 
 She made a Heaven about her here, 
 
 And took how much ! with her away. 
 
 R. M. {Milnes) Lord Houghton 
 
242 The Golden Treasury 
 
 CLXXVIII 
 
 TO , ON HER SISTER'S DEATH 
 
 O Thou, whose dim and tearful gaze 
 Dwells on the shade of blessings gone ! 
 
 Whose fancy some lost form surveys, 
 Half-deeming it once more thine own ; 
 
 O check that shuddering sob, control 
 That lip all quivering with despair ; 
 
 The thrillings of the startled soul 
 
 That wakes and finds no loved one there. 
 
 Yet though no more she share, her love 
 Thy way of woe still guides and cheers ; 
 
 And from her cup of bliss above 
 
 One drop she mingles with thy tears. 
 
 /. Kebk 
 
 CLXXIX 
 
 CONSOLATIONS IN BEREAVEMENT 
 
 Death was full urgent with thee. Sister dear, 
 
 And startling in his speed ; — 
 Brief pain, then languor till thy end came near — 
 Such was the path decreed. 
 The hurried road 
 To lead thy soul from earth to thine own God's 
 abode. 
 
 Death wrought with thee, sweet maid, impatiently : — 
 
 Yet merciful the haste 
 That baffles sickness ; — dearest, thou didst die. 
 
 Thou wast not made to taste 
 Death's bitterness. 
 Decline's slow-wasting charm, or fever's fierce distress. 
 
Second Series 243 
 
 Death came unheralded : — but it was well j 
 
 For so thy Saviour bore 
 Kind witness, thou wast meet at once to dwell 
 On His eternal shore ; 
 
 All warning spared, 
 For none He gives where hearts are for prompt change 
 prepared. 
 
 Death wrought in mystery ; both complaint and cure 
 
 To human skill unknown : — 
 God put aside all means, to make us sure 
 It was His deed alone ; 
 
 Lest we should lay 
 Reproach on our poor selves, that thou wast caught 
 away. 
 
 Death urged as scant of time : — lest, Sister dear, 
 
 We many a lingering day 
 Had sicken'd with alternate hope and fear, 
 
 The ague of delay ; 
 
 Watching each spark 
 Of promise quench'd in turn, till all our sky was dark. 
 
 Death came and went : — that so thy image might 
 
 Our yearning hearts possess. 
 Associate with all pleasant thoughts and bright, 
 
 With youth and loveliness ; 
 Sorrow can claim, 
 Mary, nor lot nor part in thy soft soothing name. 
 
 Joy of sad hearts, and light of downcast eyes ! 
 
 Dearest, thou art enshrined 
 In all thy fragrance in our memories ; 
 For we must ever find 
 
 Bare thought of thee 
 Freshen this weary life, while weary life shall be. 
 
 J. H. Card. Newman 
 
244 The Golden Treasury 
 
 CLXXX 
 
 RIZPAH 
 17— 
 
 Wailing, wailing, wailing, the wind over land and 
 
 sea — 
 And Willy's voice in the wind, * O mother, come out 
 
 to me.' 
 Why should he call me to-night, when he knows that 
 
 I cannot go? 
 For the downs are as bright as day, and the full 
 
 moon stares at the snow. 
 
 We should be seen, my dear ; they would spy us out 
 
 of the town. 
 The loud black nights for us, and the storm rushing 
 
 over the down, 
 When I cannot see my own hand, but am led by the 
 
 creak of the chain, 
 And grovel and grope for my son till I find myself 
 
 drench'd with the rain. 
 
 Anything fallen again ? nay — what was there left to 
 
 fall? 
 I have taken them home, I have number'd the bones, 
 
 I have hidden them all. 
 What am I saying ? and what are you ? do you come 
 
 as a spy ? 
 Falls ? what falls ? who knows ? As the tree falls so 
 
 must it lie. 
 
 Who let her in ? how long has she been ? you — what 
 
 have you heard ? 
 Why did you sit so quiet ? you never have spoken a 
 
 word. 
 O — to pray with me — yes — a lady — none of their 
 
 spies— 
 But the night has crept into my heart, and begun to 
 
 darken my eyes. 
 
Second Series 245 
 
 Ah — you, that have lived so soft, what should yoti 
 
 know of the night, 
 The blast and the burning shame and the bitter frost 
 
 and the fright ? 
 I have done it, while you were asleep — you were only 
 
 made for the day. 
 I have gather'd my baby together — and now you may 
 
 go your way. 
 
 Nay, — for it's kind of you, Madam, to sit by an old 
 
 dying wife. 
 But say nothing hard of my boy, I have only an hour 
 
 of life. 
 I kiss'd my boy in the prison, before he went out to 
 
 die. 
 * They dared me to do it,' he said, and he never has 
 
 told me a lie. 
 I whipt him for robbing an orchard once when he 
 
 was but a child — 
 'The farmer dared me to do it,' he said; he was 
 
 always so wild — 
 And idle — and couldn't be idle — my Willy — he never 
 
 could rest. 
 The King should have made him a soldier, he would 
 
 have been one of his best. 
 
 But he lived with a lot of wild mates, and they never 
 
 would let him be good ; 
 They swore that he dare not rob the mail, and he 
 
 swore that he would ; 
 And he took no life, but he took one purse, and when 
 
 all was done 
 He flung it among his fellows — I'll none of it, said my 
 
 son. 
 
 I came into court to the Judge and the lawyers. I 
 
 told them my tale, 
 God's own truth — but they kill'd him, they kill'd him 
 
 for robbing the mail. 
 They hang'd him in chains for a show — we had always 
 
 borne a good name — 
 To be hang'd for a thief— and then put away — isn't 
 
 that enough shame ? 
 
246 The Golden Treasury 
 
 Dust to dust — low down — let us hide ! but they set 
 
 him so high 
 That all the ships of the world could stare at him, 
 
 passing by. 
 God 'ill pardon the hell -black raven and horrible 
 
 fowls of the air, 
 But not the black heart of the lawyer who kill'd him 
 
 and hang'd him there. 
 
 And the jailer forced me away. I had bid him my 
 
 last good-bye ; 
 They had fasten'd the door of his cell. ' O mother ! ' 
 
 I heard him cry. 
 I couldn't get back tho' I tried, he had something 
 
 further to say, 
 And now I never shall know it. The jailer forced me 
 
 away. 
 
 Then since I couldn't but hear that cry of my boy that 
 
 was dead. 
 They seized me and shut me up : they fasten'd me 
 
 down on my bed. 
 * Mother, O mother ! ' — he call'd in the dark to me 
 
 year after year — 
 They beat me for that, they beat me — you know that 
 
 I couldn't but hear ; 
 And then at the last they found I had grown so stupid 
 
 and still 
 They let me abroad again — but the creatures had 
 
 worked their will. 
 
 Flesh of my flesh was gone, but bone of my bone was 
 
 left— 
 I stole them all from the lawyers — and you, will you 
 
 call it a theft ? — 
 My baby, the bones that had suck'd me, the bones 
 
 that had laugh'd and had cried — 
 Theirs ? O no ! they are mine — not theirs — they had 
 
 moved in my side. 
 
 Do you think I was scared by the bones? I kiss'd 
 
 'em, I buried 'em all — 
 I can't dig deep, I am old — in the night by the church- 
 yard wall. 
 
Second Series 247 
 
 My Willy 'ill rise up whole when the trumpet of judg- 
 ment 'ill sound, 
 
 But I charge you never to say that I laid him in holy 
 ground. 
 
 They would scratch him up — they would hang him 
 
 again on the cursed tree. 
 Sin ? O yes — we are sinners, I know — let all that be, 
 And read me a Bible verse of the Lord's good will 
 
 toward men — 
 
 * Full of compassion and mercy, the Lord ' — let me 
 
 hear it again ; 
 
 * Full of compassion and mercy — long-suifering.' Yes, 
 
 yes ! 
 
 For the lawyer is born but to murder — the Saviour 
 
 lives but to bless. 
 ^^'11 never put on the black cap except for the worst 
 
 of the worst, 
 And the first may be last — I have heard it in church 
 
 — and the last may be first. 
 Suffering — O long-suffering — yes, as the Lord must 
 
 know. 
 Year after year in the mist and the wind and the 
 
 shower and the snow. 
 
 Heard, have you ? what ? they have told you he never 
 
 repented his sin. 
 How do they know it ? are they his mother ? are you 
 
 of his kin ? 
 Heard ! have you ever heard, when the storm on the 
 
 downs began. 
 The wind that 'ill wail like a child and the sea that 
 
 'ill moan like a man ? 
 
 Election, Election and Reprobation — it's all very 
 
 well. 
 But I go to-night to my boy, and I shall not find him 
 
 in Hell. 
 For I cared so much for my boy that the Lord has 
 
 look'd into my care, 
 And He means me I'm sure to be happy, with Willy, 
 
 1 know not where. 
 
248 The Golden Treastiry 
 
 And if he be lost — but to save 7?iy soul, that is all 
 
 your desire : 
 Do you think that I care for my soul if my boy be 
 
 gone to the fire ? 
 I have been with God in the dark — go, go, you may 
 
 leave me alone — 
 You never have borne a child — you are just as hard as 
 
 a stone. 
 
 Madam, I beg your pardon ! I think that you mean 
 
 to be kind. 
 But I cannot hear what you say for my Willy's voice 
 
 in the wind — 
 The snow and the sky so bright — he used but to call 
 
 in the dark, 
 And he calls to me now from the church and not from 
 
 the gibbet — for hark ! 
 Nay — you can hear it yourself — it is coming — shaking 
 
 the walls — 
 Willy — the moon's in a cloud Good-night. I am 
 
 going. He calls. 
 
 A. Lord Tennyson 
 
 CLXXXI 
 
 ANASTASIS 
 
 Tho' death met love upon thy dying smile, 
 
 And staid him there for hours, yet the orbs of sight 
 
 So speedily resign'd their aspect bright. 
 
 That Christian hope fell earthward for awhile, 
 
 Appall'd by dissolution ; but on high 
 
 A record lives of thine identity ! 
 
 Thou shalt not lose one charm of lip or eye ; 
 
 The hues and liquid lights shall wait for thee. 
 
 And the fair tissues, wheresoe'er they be ! 
 
 Daughter of heaven ! our grieving hearts repose 
 
 On the dear thought that we once more shall see 
 
 Thy beauty — like Himself our Master rose — 
 
 So shall that beauty its old rights maintain. 
 
 And thy sweet spirit own those eyes again. 
 
 C. Tennyson- Turner 
 
Second Series 249 
 
 THE AFTERNOTE OF THE HOUR 
 
 The hour had struck, but still the air was fill'd 
 
 With the long sequence of that mighty tone ; 
 
 A wild Aeolian afternote, that thrilFd 
 
 My spirit, as I kiss'd that dear headstone ; 
 
 A voice that seem'd through all the Past to go — 
 
 From the bell's mouth the lonely cadence swept, 
 
 Like the faint cry of unassisted woe, 
 
 Till, in my profitless despair, I wept ; 
 
 My hope seem'd wreck' d ! but soon I ceased to 
 
 mourn ; 
 A nobler meaning in that voice I found, 
 Whose scope lay far beyond that burial-ground ; 
 'Twas grief, but grief to distant glor}- bound ! 
 Faith took the helm of that sweet wandering sound, 
 And turn'd it heavenwards, to its proper bourne. 
 
 C. Tennyson- Turner 
 
 CLXXXIII 
 
 MARY— A REMINISCENCE 
 
 She died in June, while yet the woodbine sprays 
 Waved o'er the outlet of this garden-dell ; 
 Before the advent of these Autumn days 
 And dark unblossom'd verdure. As befel, 
 I from my window gazed, yearning to forge 
 Some comfort out of anguish so forlorn ; 
 The dull rain stream'd before the bloomless gorge, 
 By which, erewhile, on each less genial morn. 
 Our Mar)' pass'd, to gain her shelter'd lawn, 
 With Death's disastrous rose upon her cheek. 
 How often had I watch'd her, pale and meek. 
 Pacing the sward ! and now I daily seek 
 The track, by those slow pausing footsteps worn, 
 How faintly worn I though trodden week by week. 
 C Tennyson- Turner 
 
250 The Golden Treasury 
 
 CLXXXIV 
 
 MARY 
 
 CONTINUED 
 
 And when I seek the chamber where she dwelt, 
 
 Near one loved chair a well-worn spot I see, 
 
 Worn by the shifting of a feeble knee 
 
 While the poor head bow'd lowly — it would melt 
 
 The worldling's heart with instant sympathy ; 
 
 The match-box and the manual, lying there, 
 
 Those sad sweet signs of wakefulness and prayer, 
 
 Are darling tokens of the Past to me : 
 
 The little rasping sound of taper lit 
 
 At midnight, which aroused her slumbering bird : 
 
 The motion of her languid frame that stirr'd 
 
 For ease in some new posture — tho' a word 
 
 Perchance, of sudden anguish, follow'd it ; 
 
 All this how often had I seen and heard ! 
 
 C. Tennyson-Turner 
 
 CLXXXV 
 
 'IF I WERE DEAD' 
 
 ' If I were dead, you'd sometimes say, Poor Child ! ' 
 
 The dear lips quiver'd as they spake. 
 
 And the tears brake 
 
 From eyes which, not to grieve me, brightly smiled. 
 
 Poor Child, poor Child ! 
 
 I seem to hear your laugh, your talk, your song. 
 
 It is not true that Love will do no wrong. 
 
 Poor Child! 
 
 And did you think, when you so cried and smiled, 
 
 How I, in lonely nights, should lie awake, 
 
 And of those words your full avengers make ? 
 
 Poor Child, poor Child ! 
 
 And now, unless it be 
 
 That sweet amends thrice told are come to thee, 
 
 O God, have Thou no mercy upon me ! 
 
 Poor Child ! 
 
 C. Patmore 
 
Second Series 25 1 
 
 CLXXXVI 
 
 LOVE AFTER DEATH 
 
 There is an earthly glimmer in the Tomb : 
 
 And, heal'd in their own tears and with long sleep, 
 My eyes unclose and feel no need to weep ; 
 But, in the corner of the narrow room. 
 Behold Love's spirit standeth, with the bloom 
 
 That things made deathless by Death's self may keep. 
 O what a change ! for now his looks are deep, 
 And a long patient smile he can assume : 
 While Memory, in some soft low monotone, 
 Is pouring like an oil into mine ear 
 The tale of a most short and hollow bliss, 
 That I once throbb'd indeed to call my own, 
 Holding it hardly between joy and fear, — 
 And how that broke, and how it came to this. 
 
 A. O Shaughnessy 
 
 CLXXXVII 
 
 RE ADEN OV A HEAD-STWONE 
 
 As I wer readen ov a stwone 
 In Grenley church-yard all alwone, 
 A little maid ran up, wi' pride 
 To zee me there, an' push'd a-zide 
 A bunch o' bennets that did hide 
 A verse her father, as she zaid. 
 Put up above her mother's head. 
 To tell how much he loved her. 
 
 The verse wer short, but very good, 
 I stood an' larn'd en where I stood : — 
 * Mid God, dear Meary, gi'e me greace 
 To vind, lik' thee, a better ple'ace. 
 Where I woonce mwore mid zee thy feace ; 
 An' bring thy childern up to know 
 His word, that they mid come an' show 
 Thy soul how much I lov'd thee.' 
 
252 The Golden Treasury 
 
 * Where's father, then,' I zaid, * my chile ?' 
 
 * Dead too,' she answer'd wi' a smile ; 
 ' An' I an' brother Jim do bide 
 
 At Betty White's, o' t'other side 
 O' road.' ' Mid He, my chile,' I cried, 
 ' That's father to the fatherless. 
 Become thy father now, an' bless, 
 An' keep, an' lead, an' love thee.' 
 
 Though she've a-lost, I thought, so much, 
 Still He don't let the thoughts o't touch 
 Her litsome heart by day or night ; 
 An' zoo, if we could teake it right, 
 Do show He'll meake His burdens light 
 To weaker souls, an' that His smile 
 Is sweet upon a harmless chile, 
 When they be dead that lov'd it. 
 
 W. Barnes 
 
 CLXXXVIII 
 
 PLORATA VERIS LACHRYMIS 
 
 O now, my true and dearest bride. 
 Since thou hast left my lonely side. 
 My life has lost its hope and zest. 
 The sun rolls on from east to west, 
 But brings no more that evening rest, 
 Thy loving-kindness made so sweet. 
 And time is slow that once was fleet. 
 
 As day by day was waning. 
 
 The last sad day that show'd thee lain 
 Before me, smiling in thy pain, 
 The sun soar'd high along his way 
 To mark the longest summer day, 
 And show to me the latest play 
 Of thy sweet smile, and thence, as all 
 The days' lengths shrunk from small to small, 
 My joy began its waning. 
 
Second Series 253 
 
 And now 'tis keenest pain to see 
 WTiate'er I saw in bliss with thee. 
 The softest airs that ever blow, 
 The fairest days that ever glow, 
 Unfelt by thee, but bring me woe ; 
 And sorrowful I kneel in pray'r. 
 Which thou no longer, now, canst share, 
 As day by day is waning. 
 
 How can I live my lonesome days ? 
 How can I tread my lonesome ways ? 
 How can I take my lonesome meal ? 
 Or how outlive the grief I feel ? 
 Or how again look on to weal ? 
 Or sit, at rest, before the heat 
 Of winter fires, to miss thy feet, 
 
 When evening light is waning. 
 
 Thy voice is still I loved to hear, 
 
 Thy voice is lost I held so dear. 
 
 Since death unlocks thy hand from mine, 
 
 No love awaits me such as thine ; 
 
 Oh ! boon the hardest to resign ! 
 
 But if we meet again at last 
 
 In heav'n, I little care how fast 
 
 My life may now be waning. 
 W. Barnes 
 
 IN THE VALLEY OF CAUTERETZ 
 
 All along the valley, stream that flashest white, 
 
 Deepening thy voice with the deepening of the night, 
 
 All along the valley, where thy waters flow, 
 
 I walk'd with one I loved two and thirty years ago. 
 
 All along the valley, while I walk'd to-day, 
 
 The two and thirty years were a mist that rolls away ; 
 
 For all along the valley, down thy rocky bed. 
 
 Thy living voice to me was as the voice of the dead. 
 
 And all along the valley, by rock and cave and tree, 
 
 The voice of the dead was a living voice to me. 
 
 A. Lord Ten?tyson 
 
254 The Golden Treasury 
 
 cxc 
 'BREAK, BREAK, BREAK' 
 
 Break, break, break, 
 
 On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! 
 And I would that my tongue could utter 
 
 The thoughts that arise in me. 
 
 O well for the fisherman's boy, 
 
 That he shouts with his sister at play ! 
 
 O well for the sailor lad. 
 
 That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 
 
 And the stately ships go on 
 
 To their haven under the hill ! 
 But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand. 
 
 And the sound of a voice that is still ! 
 
 Break, break, break, 
 
 At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 
 But the tender grace of a day that is dead 
 
 Will never come back to me. 
 
 A. Lord Tennyson 
 
 ^cfonb ^«ric3 
 
NOTES 
 INDEX OF WRITERS 
 
 AND 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
NOTES 
 
 PAGE NO. 
 
 I I In this and a certain number of other poems 
 portions, large or small, have been omitted 
 (as in the earlier volume) where the piece 
 could be thus brought, it is hoped, to a 
 closer lyrical unity : or where the immensely 
 increased length of the Victorian lyrics (as 
 stated in the Preface) outran the limited 
 space. 
 
 8 7 dote, water-lily : tuns^ chimneys. 
 
 9 — Paladore, old traditional name for Shaftes- 
 
 bury : en, him ; tiveil, toil. 
 
 12 lo This, with other poems in the same style 
 and metre, is taken from Patmore's Un- 
 known Eros. They are of a very singular 
 and attractive originality : full of powerful 
 thought, and a peculiar passionate intensity. 
 But it is not always easy to follow their 
 strongly-marked symbolical character, which 
 occasionally may approach paradox. 
 
 17 12 scroll of prayer : 'The extract from the 
 Book of the Dead, which was put into the 
 hands of the deceased ' : C T. T. 
 
 19 16 Emmie. * It should be remembered that this 
 is a Httle drama, in which the Hospital Nurse, 
 not the Poet, is supposed to be speaking 
 throughout. The two children, whose story 
 was published in a Parish magazine, are the 
 256 
 
Notes 257 
 
 PAGE NO. 
 
 only characters here described from actual 
 life ' : (written on the authority of A. T., 1884). 
 19 16 St. I oorali, also curari and woorali : a 
 drug extracted from Strychnos toxifera : It 
 acts by paralyzing the nerves of motion, 
 whilst the sensitiveness remains unimpaired. 
 
 23 17 In its sweet simplicity worthy of Blake's 
 
 Songs of Innocence. 
 
 24 19 The poems by Robert Browning are here 
 
 reprinted by permission of his son R. Bar- 
 rett Browning, and of Messrs. Smith, Elder 
 & Co. 
 
 25 20 Clare, born and bred in a day-labourer's 
 
 cottage, struggling with bitterest poverty, 
 by these experiences became a poet of the 
 poor in an almost unique sense. His mind 
 failed, and the best of his verse (to which 
 all our examples belong) was in truth writ- 
 ten during lucid intervals, while he was con- 
 fined in an asylum. It has hence an almost 
 unapproachable sadness ; he reverts always 
 with pathetic yearning to the village scenes 
 of a youth, which now shone before him 
 like a vision of lost happiness. 
 32 26 It is in his command of pathos (witness 
 Nos. 12 and 15), in his exquisite precision 
 of language, his perfect art, that Charles 
 seems to resemble his next younger brother 
 Alfred. This sonnet exemplifies his curious 
 skill in painting, and almost animating into 
 life, the mechanical appliances of the farm. 
 In the last six lines he refers to Vergil, 
 thinking of the 
 
 arbuteae crates et mystica vannus lacchi, 
 
 and the picture of the plough which fol- 
 lows : {Georg. I, 166). 
 34 27 JVas it: For this skilfully written passage 
 Arnold refers us to 11. 465-485 in the Birds 
 of Aristophanes. But he was most indebted 
 to the splendid dithyrambic ode, 11. 685- 
 
25S ^'otes 
 
 PAGE KO. 
 
 723. Arnold's affectionate interest and in- 
 sight into the animal world is well shown 
 in this (and other) poems, written near the 
 close of his too brief lifetime. 
 34 2S The Qarence is a small river in the north- 
 em part of Xew South Wales. — This fine 
 poem might be called an Australian Yarrow 
 Unzisited. The writer presently says, 
 
 The slightest glimpse of yonder place 
 
 Untrodden and alone, 
 Might wholly kill that nameless grace. 
 
 The charm of the Unknown. 
 
 He was himself Australian ; his life short 
 
 and unhappy. — This poem, with a few 
 others, is taken from that useful and inter- 
 esting collection, The Poets and the Poetry 
 of the Century; edited by Mr. A. H. Miles. 
 
 36 29 St. 5 And the fiou'er in soft explosion : when 
 
 the seed is ripe for fertilizing and the an- 
 thers burst. One who knew the poet well 
 writes, ' His love for and observation of 
 Nature was extraordinary from earliest child- 
 hood,' and was expanded by his employ- 
 ment in the Natural History pro\-ince of 
 the British Museum. 
 
 Arthur O'Shaughnessy's metrical gift seems 
 to me the finest, after Tennyson's, of any 
 of our later poets : he has a haunting music 
 all his own. Within a narrow range of in- 
 terests and experience, he is also high in 
 pure passionate imagination : he has to the 
 full the Ecstasy which Plato requires in the 
 true poet: although wasted too often in 
 fanciful extravagance and a gloom due to 
 personal misfortune, — Among our Victorian 
 poets, he and William Barnes, I will venture 
 the opinion, have met with the least due 
 recognition of their eminent powers. 
 
 37 30 ^ 5 Trophonian pallor : Refers to a cave- 
 
 oracle at Lebadaea in Boeotia so gloomy and 
 
Notts 
 
 259 
 
 haunted by supernatural terror that those 
 who entered it were said never to have smiled 
 again- 
 40 33 Alfred Tennyson rated the Scholar Gipsy 
 as Arnold's finest poem. His explanatory 
 note follows: 'There was very lately a lad 
 in the University of Oxford, who was by his 
 poverty forced to leave his studies there;' and 
 at last to join himself to a company of vaga- 
 bond gipsies. Among these extravagant 
 people, by the insinuating subtility of his 
 carriage, he quickly got so much of their 
 love and esteem as that they discovered to 
 him their mystery. After he had been a 
 pretty while exercised in the trade, there 
 chanced to ride by a couple of scholars, who 
 had formerly been of his acquaintance. They 
 quickly spied out their old friend among the 
 gipsies; and he gave them an account of the 
 necessity which drove him to that kind of 
 life, and told them that the people he went 
 with were not such impostors as they were 
 taken for, but that they had a traditional 
 kind of learning among them, and could do 
 wonders by the power of imagination, their 
 fancy binding that of others: that himself 
 had learned much of their art, and when he 
 had compassed the whole secret, he intended, 
 he said, to leave their company, and give the 
 world an account of what he had learned.' — 
 Glanvil's Vanity of Dog?natizing, 1 66 1. 
 
 48 36 Amaturus, with Xos. 124, 126, is reprinted 
 
 from lonica, by permission of the publisher, 
 Mr. G. Allen. 
 
 49 37 This lovely song is a kind of counterpart to 
 
 Hood's Fair Imz, but in a more impassioned 
 key. 
 54 43 In its simple brightness and airy music Barnes 
 here touches the Elizabethan lyrical chord; 
 but goes beyond it in depth of feeling. L. 4 
 athirt. athwart. 
 
26o Notes 
 
 56 48 1. 5 vu'st, first. 
 
 58 50 Theocritus has no correspondent passage. 
 The allusion may be to the fragmentary Idyll 
 iii, ascribed to Bion of Smyrna. 
 
 65 60 This simple love-song, which even Tennyson 
 
 never surpassed in beauty, is at the same 
 time curiously dramatic. The lover's little 
 wood borders on the high trees and Hall of 
 Maud's father, who is expecting there the 
 * new-made ' lord, his intended son-in-law. 
 Maud meanwhile has ventured to cross the 
 boundary, and the birds form a kind of chorus 
 to the meeting : those in * our wood ' re- 
 joicing that she is * here,' the rooks on the 
 other hand inviting her to the Hall and the 
 rival suitor. — It is a wonder of art how 
 Tennyson has set forth the whole situation, 
 and the romance of first-love, in so few 
 words. But not one of them is wasted. 
 
 66 — St. 2 Many poets have thought it a beautiful 
 
 touch to speak of a girl's footsteps as too 
 light to bend the flowers. Tennyson has 
 here given a finer image through plain truth 
 to the structure of the daisy, the crimson 
 florets which encircle the underside of the 
 blossom. Poetry of beauty so pure and un- 
 alloyed as this must surely have poured itself 
 forth from 'The Mind's internal Heaven.' 
 
 69 65 Ashe's tender little ditty, without a trace of 
 imitation, recalls Wordsworth's best early 
 simple sentiment. It is reproduced by per- 
 mission of Messrs. G. Bell & Sons, 
 
 71 69 With this noble sonnet compare Shakespeare's 
 
 Tired with all these, for restful death I 
 cry . . . 
 
 81 73 \. ^ the poet sings : 
 
 Nessun maggior dolore 
 Che ricordarsi del tempo felice 
 Nella miseria. — Dante, Inferno, C. v. 
 
Notes 261 
 
 PAGE NO. 
 
 ^7 73 !• 6 <2 cycle: any number of years of what is 
 popularly described as Chinese immobility. 
 
 92 77 The poet's last lines, dictated on his deathbed. 
 If a friendship of near half a century may 
 allow me to say it, those solemn words, As 
 sorrowfiil, yet always rejoicing, give the true 
 key to Alfred Tennyson's inmost nature, his 
 life and his poetry. 
 
 98 80 In this and the next poem Tennyson's own 
 
 notes have been retained. The additional 
 glossary following was written at his sugges- 
 tion or dictation. 
 
 St. I ''asta bean, hast thou been : thoort, 
 thou art : mo'dnt ^a, may not have. St. 2 a 
 says, he says : point, pint. St. 3 ''issen, Him- 
 self: towd, told: boy, by. St. 4 a ma' bed, 
 he may be : cast oop, cast up against me. 
 
 99 — St. 5 ozvt, ought. St. 6 ^siver, howsoever : 
 
 boy ^um, by him. St. 7 stubbed, broke up 
 for cultivation. St. 8 moind, remember : 
 boggle, bogle, haunting spirit : the lot, the 
 piece of waste land : ra'dvedan^ 7'embled, tore 
 up and threw away. St. 9 kedper's it ivur, 
 it was the keeper's ghost : at ^soize, at the 
 assizes. St. 10 dubbut, do but. 
 
 100 — yaws, ewes. St. 1 1 ta-year, this year : hadte 
 
 hoonderd, eight hundred. 
 
 — — St. 12 thiitty, thirty. St. 13 a moost^ He 
 
 must: cauve, calve: hodlms, small mounds. 
 St. 14 quoloty, gentry: thessen, themselves: 
 seiverloy, surely. St. 15 hozvd, hold. 
 
 101 — St. 16 kittle, boiler: huzzin'' an"" 7nadzin\ 
 
 worrying with hiss and amazing. St. 17 
 ^todttler, teetotaller : a^ s hallus V the ozvd 
 tadle, is always telling the same old story : 
 foy, fly. 
 
 — 81 St. 2 craw to pluck, affair to dispute : wod, 
 
 go slower, lad. 
 
 102 — St. 6 as ^ant nozvt, as has nothing. St. 7 
 
 ivednt, wont : ligs, lies. 
 
 103 — St. 8 shut on, clear of: V the grip, in the 
 
262 Notes 
 
 little draining ditch. St. 10, burn, born. St. 
 II esh, ash. 
 
 104 81 St. 13 ammost, almost: Hd, hidden away: 
 tued an'' fiioiVd, put himself in a stew and 
 toiled. St. 14 run oop, his land ran up : 
 brig, bridge. 
 
 107 85 11. 1-4. The allusion is to stellar photo- 
 graphy; the light rays from stars invisible to 
 us through their immense distance chemi- 
 cally affect the sensitive plate. This is a 
 beautiful instance of scientific fact trans- 
 formed into poetry. A. Tennyson affords 
 many analogous examples. 
 
 116 92 Alfred Domett left England for New Zea- 
 
 land (of which colony he became Prime 
 Minister) in 1842: 'His departure was 
 apparently somewhat sudden. Robert 
 Browning, his intimate companion and 
 friend,' celebrated it in the lively verses 
 
 What's become of Waring, 
 Since he gave us all the sHp? 
 
 The fine specimen of his poetry here given 
 was published in 1837. 
 
 117 93 This text exhibits the author's final revision. 
 
 The Birkenhead, steam troop-ship, struck 
 near Simon's Bay, Cape of Good Hope, 
 Feb. 25, 1852. Four hundred and thirty- 
 eight officers, soldiers, and seamen were 
 lost : including the mihtary commander, 
 Colonel Seton of the 74th. 
 119 94 'Some Seiks, and a private of the Buffs 
 [the East Kent regiment], having remained 
 behind with the grog-carts, fell into the 
 hands of the Chinese, On the next morn- 
 ing, they were brought before the authori- 
 ties, and commanded to perform the Kotou. 
 The Seiks obeyed; but Moyse, the English 
 soldier, declaring that he would not prostrate 
 himself before any Chinaman alive, was 
 immediately knocked upon the head, and 
 
Notes 263 
 
 PAGE NO. 
 
 his body thrown on a dunghill.' — China 
 Correspondent of the * Times.^ This inci- 
 dent took place during the English cam- 
 paign of i860. Lord Elgin was then our 
 ambassador to China. 
 
 121 96 latte, alone: bienly, cheerfully: sclid^ slip- 
 pery: the nicht, to-night: gin, if. — The 
 event dates not long before 1874 ; the 
 woman was a poor Highlander. Schihallion 
 is a stern and lofty mountain in central 
 Perthshire. 
 
 128 100 Tennyson in this poem has had in view the 
 animated description of the sea-fight (1591) 
 left us by Grenville's kinsman, Sir Walter 
 Ralegh. 
 
 133 loi The Charge at Balaclava (25 Oct. 1854) 
 lasted twenty-five minutes, and left more 
 than two-thirds of our men dead or wounded. 
 
 139 103 The worst spirit of the Renaissance, in 
 Italy and in France (and not without con- 
 temporary followers among us), breathes 
 through this terribly powerful poem. 
 
 141 104 This incident was 'told to the author by the 
 late Sir Charles Napier.' The British attack, 
 like that at Balaclava, was made under an 
 order misunderstood : see These were . . . 
 As without ... p. 142-3. The fortress, 
 Truckee, was considered impregnable. The 
 temper of Mehrab Khan is admirably ren- 
 dered by the lines placed in his mouth 
 by Sir F. H. Doyle in a brief ode to his 
 honour : they recall Lovelace's Althea : 
 
 The noble heart, as from a tower. 
 
 Looks down-on life that wears a stain; 
 
 He lives too long, who lives an hour 
 Beneath the clanking of a chain. 
 
 144 105 This nobly, if roughly, energetic ballad 
 raises a regret that the writer should have 
 so largely given away his genius to the 
 attempt to vivify the ancient Irish legends, 
 
264 Notes 
 
 I'AGE NO. 
 
 scattered over as they are with beauty, to 
 English readers. It must be feared they 
 are too remote, too lost from tradition, for 
 that process. 
 
 sledges, sledge-hammers : bower, one of the 
 . large naval anchors, hung at the vessel's 
 bows ; whence spoken of as a hammock : 
 the chains, lower fastenings of the shrouds 
 into her sides: cat or cathead, projecting 
 timber on which the anchor is hung : lubber, 
 clumsy, lazy. 
 
 148 107 When the Grecian generals, after the Per- 
 sian fleet had been ruined at Salamis, met 
 to settle who deserved the first and the 
 second prizes for valour, the story runs 
 that each man gave for himself his first 
 vote, his second for Themistocles. If the 
 civilized nations of the world met to decide 
 in like wise for the best and the next best 
 country, would not their second votes, with 
 our impassioned poetess, Salute Italy, — so 
 giving her the virtual primacy? 
 
 154 III doty, covered with water-lilies: zot, set: 
 leaden, leading : jjiid, might. Let me ex- 
 press a hope that the (really very) slight 
 difficulties offered by the Dorset speech 
 will not hinder true lovers of poetry from 
 making friends with this genuine, original, 
 exquisite Singer? — If they once do so, it 
 will be a friendship for life. 
 
 162 wj greygles, wild hyacinth: leiv, shelter, lee: 
 
 ''V a-heav' d, have heaved. 
 
 163 118 'Composed at the Old Burying Place, 
 
 Glencripisdale.' 
 168 124 Anteros, in this admirably musical dirge, 
 
 seems used to signify Love unrequited. 
 — 125 the old man. Homer: 'The name Europe, 
 (EupwTrrj, the wide prospect) probably de- 
 scribes the appearance of the European 
 coast to the Greeks on the coast of Asia 
 Minor opposite. The name Asia, again, 
 
Notes 265 
 
 PAGE NO. 
 
 comes, it has been thought, from the fens 
 of the marshy rivers of Asia Minor, such 
 as the Cayster or Maeander, which struck 
 the imagination of the Greeks living near 
 them. (M.A.) That halting slave; the 
 semi-Stoic Epictetus, banished from Rome 
 by Domitian : the most practical teacher 
 of the ancient world, and beyond Aurelius 
 in his religious instincts, in his more cheer- 
 ful philosophy. Singer of sweet Colonus : 
 Sophocles. 
 169 126 Comatas : a shepherd poet whom the bees 
 came to feed when imprisoned, because the 
 Muses had touched his lips with nectar. 
 Cf. Theocritus, Id. vii. 
 
 173 129 Tennyson visited this peninsula with his 
 
 son Hallam in 1883. He has here united 
 allusions to the little poem addressed by 
 Catullus to his country home, and to his 
 lament over a beloved brother, — two of the 
 most exquisite lyrics in all literature, — in 
 a lyric itself worthy to stand beside them. 
 
 174 130 Thy r sis. A. H. Clough died 13 Nov. 1861. 
 
 'Throughout this poem there is a reference 
 to the preceding piece, The Scholar Gipsy^ 
 Clough left Oxford in spring, 1848, breaking 
 away with delight ' from what he felt to be 
 the thraldom of his position ' there, and 
 recommencing work at University Hall, 
 London, in Oct. 1849. Here, however, 
 * he could not rest ' ; the old sense of thral- 
 dom returned. These movements are, in 
 some degree, beautifully yet fancifully rep- 
 resented in Thyrsis. But reference to the 
 Life of Clough (prefixed to his Poems, 1869) 
 shows that Arnold, yielding perhaps to the 
 idealizing character of Elegiac poetry, when 
 cast in Idyllic form, has given a far too 
 gloomy general picture of Clough's career. 
 From his youth, indeed, his verse had little 
 of the ' happy, country tone ' ascribed to it. 
 
266 Notes 
 
 PAGE NO. 
 
 the moral and religious problems of life 
 weighing already on his meditative, tremu- 
 lously sensitive nature : and it was really in 
 the later happy years which followed his 
 marriage that the ' troubled sound ' ceased 
 to be the leading note of his poetry, and 
 so far from becoming * mute,' to that time 
 his most pleasing, his brightest verse, 
 largely belonged. 
 184 133 Strange unloved uproar: This poem was 
 
 * written during the siege of Rome by the 
 French, 1849.' 
 
 191 135 The picture, here assigned to Guercino (to 
 judge by the photograph issued by the 
 Browning Society), is most probably the 
 graceful work of a pupil : it has more tender- 
 ness, less strength, than that Master's work. 
 
 '^91 138 Asolando is the title given by R. Browning 
 to his last volume. 
 
 194 139 St. 2, 1. 3 Tennyson here refers to his De Pro- 
 fundis, — 'Out of the depths, my child ' . . . 
 
 203 145 Of If she but knew . . ., as of Nos. 146, 
 148, and others by poor O'Shaughnessy, 
 might be said, in Sir H. Wotton's words 
 upon Milton's early lyrics, Ipsa mollities, — 
 
 * sweet tenderness itself.' This hardly known 
 poet often treats the main subject of his song 
 with an originality, a pathos, so singular, 
 that it might be thought Love had never 
 before been sung of. He constantly reminds 
 us of his favourite musician, sharing with 
 Chopin that exquisite tenderness of touch, 
 the melody, the delicacy (which Ruskin 
 gives as the note of all the highest art), 
 ascribed to that fascinating composer. 
 
 207 150 Miss Rossetti, in that circle of sentiment and 
 of thought within which she generally moves, 
 has an invention so fertile, such a nimble 
 wit, as the old phrase has it, a power of 
 impressing unity upon the idea of each little 
 song so perfect, that no poet dealt with 
 
Notes 267 
 
 PAGE NO. 
 
 in this book, with exception of Alfred 
 Tennyson, has rendered choice more per- 
 plexing, or, probably, to many among her 
 many admirers, more unsatisfactory. 
 Her singularly original genius, like 
 O'Shaughnessy's, tempts to discussion. 
 But these notes have perhaps indulged too 
 much in what might be better left to the 
 reader's discernment. 
 
 240 176 * A death in the Thebaid.' 
 
 241 177 'Salisbury, Nov. 1843': on the death of 
 
 Mrs. Edward Denison, wife to the Bishop. 
 
 242 179 'Oxford, April, 1828': written after the 
 
 sudden death of Miss Newman. The ex- 
 quisite tenderness of her honoured brother 
 sighs through this pathetic dirge. 
 
 244 180 This tale is placed in the eighteenth century, 
 when the barbarous custom of hanging 
 certain criminals in chains was common. 
 One such gibbet stood till later days (ac- 
 cording to J. M. W. Turner's plate in his 
 Liber Sitidiorum) upon Hindhead Hill 
 opposite Haslemere. 
 
 248 181 7'hou shalt jiot lose: Compare Petrarch, 
 speaking of souls in heaven, 
 
 Tanti volti che '1 Tempo e Morte han guasti 
 Torneranno al lor piu fiorito stato. 
 
 251 187 en,\t: wzV, might, may. 
 
 252 — litsome, lightsome. 
 
 253 189 one I loved: Arthur Hallam : Written after 
 
 Tennyson's visit to the Pyrenees, summer of 
 1861. 
 
INDEX OF NAMES 
 
 Argyll, George Douglas Campbell, Eighth Duke of ( ) 
 
 85 
 -Arnold, Matthew (1822—1888) 5, 2T, 32, 33, 76, T8, 99, 121, 
 
 125, 127, 128, 130. 133 
 AsuE, Thomas (1836—1889) 65 
 
 -Barnes, William (1801-1S86) 4, 7, 17, 43, 44, 48, 111, 117, 153, 
 
 175, 187, 188 
 ,-^ROWNiNG, Elizabeth Barrett (1809—1861) 6, 9, 11, 45, 46, 49, 
 
 50, 152, 165 
 Drowning, Robert (1812—1889) 19, 21, 54, 102, 103, 108, 109, 
 
 131, 134, 135, 136, 138, 144, 149 
 
 Clare, John (1793—1864) 20, 112, 170 
 -Plough, Arthur Hugh (1S19— 1861) 57, 70, 75, 137, 169 
 
 >^obell, Sidney (1824—1874) 97 
 Domett, Alfred (1811—1887) 92 
 Doyle, Sir Eraucis Hastings (1810-1888) 93, 94, 104 
 
 Ferguson, Sir Samuel (1810—1886) 105 
 
 Hawker, Robert Stephen (1804—1875) 14 
 Houghton, Richard Monckton (Milnes), Lord (1809—1885) 55, 
 67, 74, 142, 143, 177 
 
 Ingelow, Jean (1830—1897) 158 
 
 Johnson-Cory, William (1823—1892) 36, 124, 126 
 
 Keble, John (1792—1866) 178 
 Kendall, Henry Clarence (1841—1882) 28, 116 
 ^ KiNGSLEY, Charles (1819—1875) 63, 95 
 
 Landor, Walter Sayage (1775—1864) 155 
 
 Masse Y, Gerald ( ) 154 
 
 Morris, Sir Lewis ( ) 113 
 
270 Index of Names 
 
 — Newman, John Henry, Cardinal (1801—1890) 84, 179 
 
 _ O'Shaughnesst, Arthvir William Edgar (1844—1881) 1, 29, 31, 
 37, 51, 61, 72, 82, 106, 140, 145, 146, 148, 151, 160, 173, 186 
 
 -^-Patmore, Coventry (1823—1896) 10, 30, 59, 68, 114, 120, 147, 
 157, 161, 185 
 Peacock, Thomas Love (1785—1866) 13 
 
 Romanes, George John (1848—1894) 18, 52 
 -4I0SSETTI, Christina Georgina (1830—1894) 40, 41, 56, 71, 79, 
 
 83, 87, 88, 107, 141, 150, 163, 167, 171, 172 
 ..JlossETTi, Gabriel Charles Dante (1828—1882) 25, 35, 39, 47, 
 
 53, 58, 69, 86, 90, 156, 164, 166 
 
 Shairp, John Campbell (1819—1885) 96, 119 
 
 —Tennyson, Alfred, Lord (1809—1892) 2, 16, 22, 34, 42, 60, 62, 
 66, 73, 77, 80, 81, 89, 100, 101, 123, 129, 139, 162, 174, 180, 
 189, 190 
 
 Tennyson, Frederick ( ) 23, 91, 110, 159 
 
 — Tennyson-Turner, Charles (1808—1879) 3, 8, 12, 15, 24, 26, 
 
 98, 176, 181, 182, 183, 184 
 'Thackeray, Wiiliam Makepeace (1811—1863) 38 
 Trench, Richard Chenevix, Archbishop (1807—1886) 132, 168 
 
 '^ere, Aubrey de ( ) 122 
 
 Whitehead, Charles (1801—1862) 115 
 Wilton, Richard ( ) 64, 118 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 ' A cup for hope 1 ' she said 197 
 
 A wanderer is man from his birth 93 
 
 All along the vallej', stream that flashest white .... 258 
 
 All's over, then ; does truth sound bitter 206 
 
 Along the garden ways just now 66 
 
 Although I enter not 51 
 
 And has the Spring's all glorious eye 156 
 
 And when I seek the chamber where she dwelt .... 250 
 
 And you, ye stars 89 
 
 An hour, and this majestic day is gone 158 
 
 Around my love and me the brooding hills 8S 
 
 As, at a railway junction, men T2 
 
 As I wer readen ov a stwone 251 
 
 Ask me no more : the moon may draw the sea .... 58 
 
 As ships, becalm 'd at eve, that lay 89 
 
 As there I left the road in May 8 
 
 At Flores in the Azores Sir Kichard Grenville lay . . . 128 
 
 At noon a shower had fallen, and the clime 115 
 
 At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time . ... 198 
 
 Beholding youth and hope in mockery caught .... 71 
 
 Be it not mine to steal the cultured flower 28 
 
 Birds in the high Hall-garden 65 
 
 Break, break, break 254 
 
 Come, dear children, let us away 124 
 
 Come, see the Dolphiii's anchor forged — 'tis at a white 
 
 heat now 144 
 
 Come to me in the silence of the night 207 
 
 Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early morn 77 
 
 Dear and great Angel, wouldst thou only leave .... 191 
 
 Death was full urgent with thee. Sister dear 242 
 
 Deep on the convent- roof the snows 109 
 
 Does the road wind up-hill all the way 108 
 
 Don't talk ov housen all o' brick 162 
 
 Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awaay . 101 
 
 Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers ... 13 
 
272 Index of First Lines 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Eleven men of England 141 
 
 Far, far from here 170 
 
 Fear death ?— to feel the fog in my throat 192 
 
 Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea 167 
 
 Flush with tlie pond the lurid fui-nace bum'd 32 
 
 Get thee behind me. Even as, heavy-curl'd 107 
 
 Glory of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song 69 
 
 Go, for they call you, she] 'herd, from the liill 40 
 
 Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand 57 
 
 Grow old along with me 185 
 
 Half a league, half a league 133 
 
 Hark ! ah, the nightingale 165 
 
 Has summer come without the rose 203 
 
 Have you not noted, in some fsimily 52 
 
 Heaven overarclies earth and sea 105 
 
 Here, in this little Bay 71 
 
 Here sj>arr()ws build upon the trees 25 
 
 Her long black hair danced round her like a snake .... 148 
 
 Hide me. Mother ! my Fathers belong'd to tlie church of old 232 
 
 How changed is here each spot man makes or fills ... 174 
 
 How tlie blithe Lark runs up the golden stair 152 
 
 I am ! yet what I am who cares, or knows 228 
 
 I come from haunts of coot and hern 28 
 
 I have a name, a little name 10 
 
 I have been here bef >re 60 
 
 I heard a man of many winters say 214 
 
 I know not that the men of old 70 
 
 I loved hini not ; and yet now he is gone 211 
 
 I love old women best, I think 69 
 
 I made another garden, yea 205 
 
 1 mind me in tlie days departed 5 
 
 I never pray'd for Dryads, to haunt the woods again . . . 169 
 
 I sat with Love u]ion a wood side well 56 
 
 I, singularly moved 37 
 
 I tell ynu, hopeless grief is passionless 209 
 
 I think he had not heard of the far towns 104 
 
 I thought once how Theocritus had sung 58 
 
 I warder'd by the brook-side 61 
 
 I wonder do you feel to-day 26 
 
 I wonder if the Angels 224 
 
 I'd a dream to-nisht 23 
 
 If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange 55 
 
 'If I were dead, you'd sometimes say, Poor Child' .... 250 
 
 If one should give me a heart to keep 58 
 
 If only once the chariot of the Morn 29 
 
 If she but knew that I am weeping 203 
 
 If thou must love me, let it be for nought 55 
 
 If you go over desert and mountain 230 
 
 In childhood, when with eager eyes 106 
 
Index of First Lines 273 
 
 PAGE 
 
 In the deserted, mooii-blanch'd street 90 
 
 In the heart there lay buried for years 207 
 
 Is this the ground where generations lie 163 
 
 It was her first sweet child, her lieart's delight 18 
 
 It was not like your great and gracious ways 204 
 
 It was the calm and silent night . . . . " ll(j 
 
 Last night among his fellow-roughs 119 
 
 Long night succeeds tliy little day 17 
 
 Mighty, luminous, and calm 35 
 
 Mist clogs the sunshine Ib3 
 
 My body was part of the sun and the dew 195 
 
 My little Son, who look'd from thuut,htful eyes 12 
 
 Naiad, hid beneath the bank 168 
 
 Never the time and the jilace 60 
 
 News o" grief liad overteaken 209 
 
 Noo soul did hear her lips complain 239 
 
 Not greatly moved with awe am 1 164 
 
 Now more the bliss of love is felt 59 
 
 Now that I, tying thy glass mask tightly 139 
 
 O, Galuppi, Baldassaro, this is very sad to find 200 
 
 O let the solid ground " 47 
 
 O life, O death, O world, O time . 183 
 
 ' O Mary, go and call the cattle home 120 
 
 O now, my true and dearest bride 252 
 
 O Rose ! who dares to name thee 225 
 
 O that the pines which crown yon steep 166 
 
 O that 'twere possible 221 
 
 O Thou, whose dim and tearful g;ize 242 
 
 Oh, see how glorious show I57 
 
 Oh, to be in England 149 
 
 Oh what is that country 108 
 
 Oh wherefore cam ye here, Ailie 121 
 
 On the braes around Glenfinnan 163 
 
 On the great day of my life 73 
 
 On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two 135 
 Our doctor had call'd in another, I never had seen him 
 
 before 19 
 
 Poor Matthias ! Wouldst thou have 33 
 
 Put forth thy leaf, thou lofty plane 22S 
 
 Right on our flank the crimson sun went down 117 
 
 Row us out from Desenzano, to your Sirmione row .... 173 
 
 Say not, the struggle nought availeth 193 
 
 Slie died in June, while yet the woodbine sprays 249 
 
 She listen'd like a cushat dove ' 52 
 
 Since through the open window of the eye '. 68 
 
 Sometimes I think that those we've lost 106 
 
 T 
 
THE 
 
 Golden Treasury Series. 
 
 Uniformly printed in iSnw, with Vignette Titles 
 engraved on Steel. 
 
 NEW AND CHEAPER EDITION, $i.oo EACH VOL, 
 
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 The Golden Treasury of the Best Songs and Lyrical Poems. 
 By F. T. Palgrave. 
 
 Bacon's Essays. By W. Alois Wright, M.A. 
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 The Children's Garland. Selected by Coventry Patmore. 
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 The Fairy Book. By the author of "John Halifax, Gentle- 
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 A Book of Worthies. Written anew by the author of the 
 " Heir of Redclyffe." 
 
 A Book of Golden Thoughts. By Henry Attwell. 
 
 The Cavalier and his Lady. 
 
 Scottish Song. Compiled by Mary Carlyle Aitken. 
 
Deutsche Lyrik. Selected by Dr. Buchheim. 
 
 Chrysomela. A Selection from the Lyrical Poems of Robert 
 Herrick. Arranged by Francis Turner Palgkave. 
 
 Selected Poems of Matthew Arnold. 
 
 The Story of the Christians and Moors in Spain. By 
 
 Charlotte M. Yonge. 
 
 Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare. Edited by the Rev. A. 
 
 AiNGER. 
 
 Poems of Wordsworth. Chosen and edited by Matthew 
 Arnold. 
 
 The Essays of Joseph Addison. Chosen and edited by John 
 Richard Green. 
 
 The Trial and Death of Socrates. Translated into English 
 by E. J. Church, M.A. 
 
 Poems of Shelley. Edited by Stopford a. Brooke. 
 Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus. In English Prose. By 
 Andrew Lang, M.A. 
 
 Poetry of Byron. Chosen and arranged by Matthew Ar- 
 nold. 
 
 Sir Thomas Browne's Religlo Medici, etc. Edited by W. 
 A. Greenhill. 
 
 The Speeches and Table-talk of the Prophet Mohammed. 
 
 Chosen and translated by Stanley Lane Poole. 
 Selections from the Writings of Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 Edited by Sidney Colvin. 
 Selections from Cowper's Poems. With an Introduction 
 
 by Mrs. Oliphant. 
 Letters of William Cowper. Edited by Rev. W. Benham. 
 The Poetical Works of John Keats. Edited by Francis 
 
 Turner Palgrave. 
 
 Children's Treasury of English Song. Edited by F. T. 
 Palgrave. 
 
 The Pheedrus, Lysis, and Protagoras of Plato. Trans- 
 lated by Rev. J. Wright. 
 
 Balladen und Romanzen. Edited by C. A. Buchheim, Ph.D. 
 
 Lyric Love. Edited by William Watson. 
 
 The Art of Worldly Wisdom. By Balthasar Gracian. 
 
 Golden Treasury Psalter. Being an Edition, with briefer 
 Notes, of The Psalms, Chronologically Arranged by Four 
 Friends. 
 
 TheolOgia Germanica. Edited by Dr. Pfeiffer. Trans- 
 lated from the German by Susanna Winkworth. With a 
 Preface by the Rev. Charles Kingsley. New idition. 
 
 Selections from the Poems of A. H. Clough. 
 
 The Christian Year. By John Keble. With Introduction 
 by Charlotte M. Yonge. 
 
Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
 Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
 Treatment Date: Jan. 2009 
 
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