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THE UNIVERSITY OF 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 AT CHAPEL HILL 
 LIBRARY 
 
 PURCHASED @N THE 
 \ 
 
 DR. AND MRS. 
 JOSEPH EZEKIEL POGUE 
 ENDOWMENT FUND 
 
0 
 
 _ THE LIBRARY OF THE 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 AT CHAPEL HILL 
 
 ENDOWED BY THE 
 
 DIALECTIC AND PHILANTHROPIC 
 
 BOCIEIIES 
 
 — ~ PRL138 
 S 
 
 «3B 
 | P6 
 
This book is due at the LOUIS R. WILSON LIBRARY on the 
 last date stamped under “Date Due.” If not on hold it may be 
 
 renewed by bringing it to the library. 
 
 DATE DATE 
 DUE _ ea DUE 
 + Say ’ 
 
 my 240 
 DEC 192006; | 
 
 RET. 
 
fo EM 8 
 
 BY THE LATE 
 
 ISA BLAGDEN 
 
 WITH A MEMOIR 
 
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 1 yhoo 
 DS ae 
 
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 EDINBURGH AND LONDON 
 MDCCCLXXIII 
 
-STORY OF TWO LIVES, . : 
 
 CONTENTS. f 
 
 MEMOIR, P 7 ‘ : : : } 
 
 THE INVITATION, . A : ; : ; 
 WILD FLOWERS, : 
 
 ROME. 1870, . ; : ‘ : ; 
 
 THE CHURCH OF THE GESU, .. 
 L’ARICCIA—I. DEATH IN LIFE, : ; ‘ 
 L’ARICCIA—II. LIFE IN DEATH, 3 ‘ ’ 
 A LIVING PICTURE SEEN IN VIA FELICE, ROME, 
 SAY WHICH WERE BEST, . 3 , 
 ORPHANHOOD, : : : ; 
 
 A LOVE RHAPSODY, . i ‘ 
 
 THE MORNING MOON, ; ‘ 
 
 DESPONDENCY, : ; A : ; 
 
 REPROOF, ‘ : i 
 
V1 CONTENTS. 
 
 STANZAS, . : : : é 
 ROME FROM THE RIPETTA,  . : : ; : 
 THE STUDIO, . : : : : 
 THE ANGELS OF LIFE, . : 5 : : : 
 THE SEVEN CHORDS OF THE LYRE, . : : ; 
 THE WRECKED LIFE, : ; 
 TO GEORGES SAND, . 2 : ; ; : : 
 
 MESMERISM: A DEATH-BED CONFESSION, . 
 
 -MY MONOGRAM, : : 5 : : ; : 
 ALICE, . : : : ‘ : 
 TO DEAR OLD BUSHIE, . : : : : ; 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS, . : ; : : é 
 
 DIALOGUE BETWEEN TWO FRIENDS, : ; ‘ 
 
 ON THE ITALIAN COLOURS BEING REPLACED ON THE 
 PALAZZO VECCHIO, . : ; F : : 
 
 THE SEASONS IN ITALY : SPRING—WINTER, . , 
 
 A LOVE POEM, : ; : ; : ; 
 
 A ROMAN STREET, . ; : : 
 
 A PORTRAIT FROM MEMORY, . ‘ E ; ’ 
 
 DEFEATED, ; : : : : : ; : 
 
 106 
 112 
 126 
 128 
 132 
 154 
 137 
 
 142 
 145 
 149 
 155 
 161 
 164 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 It is in obedience to the dictates of affection, and in 
 compliance with the wishes of those who share that sen- 
 timent with me, that I have undertaken to edit the 
 poems contained in this volume. Some of them have 
 already appeared, at various dates, in ‘All The Year 
 Round, ‘Once A Week,’ and the ‘ Athenzeum,’ whilst 
 the first and longest, “The Story of Two Lives,” was 
 printed in ‘Fraser’s Magazine’ in 1864. I have to 
 acknowledge the courtesy of the proprietors of those 
 periodicals in permitting me to include them in the 
 present collection. 
 
 The gifted and virtuous authoress, whose death last 
 winter filled the widest circle of friends I have ever 
 heard of one person possessing, with feelings of the 
 deepest pain, was known to the public rather as a novel- 
 ist than as a poetess ; ‘The Cost of a Secret,’ and ‘Agnes 
 Tremorne,’ though by no means the first in merit of her 
 stories, having secured on their appearance an excep- 
 tional amount of attention. But neither the talents nor 
 the tastes of Isa Blagden found their fitting field in the 
 modern novel, which depends for its success either on 
 skilfully-constructed plot, on highly-finished portraitures 
 
Vili MEMOIR. 
 
 of character, or on a realistic rendering of the superficial 
 aspects of society. When she wrote a novel, she wrote 
 less for the purpose of amusing the public than, in a ‘ 
 word, of liberating her own soul; and she discovered, 
 as many others have done, that neither the vehicle em- 
 ployed, nor the audience addressed, easily lends itself to 
 instruction. Her real genius and strength lay, 1 am 
 persuaded, in poetical composition. Such, too, was her 
 own. conviction ; and it is to be regretted that, whatever 
 her other moral qualities, she lacked the solidity and 
 continuity of purpose to devote herself wholly to the 
 service of the Muses, irrespectively of that encourage- 
 ment and applause with which only a few fortunate 
 individuals, so employed, have ever been indulged in 
 their lifetime. Still, like the fountain of Trevi, the 
 sacred Hippocrene compels those who have once tasted 
 of its refreshing waters to thirst for them evermore ; and 
 it must not be supposed that this little volume contains 
 more than a selection from her poems. I can testify 
 to her anxious desire that they should some day be 
 given to the world in a collected and permanent form ; 
 nor do I doubt, had she lived, that she would have 
 satisfactorily performed the task which is now neces- 
 sarily executed with incompleteness. My office has 
 been limited to selection, arrangement, and correction of 
 proofs. I should not have felt justified in venturing 
 upon any but indispensable alterations, even though I 
 might have fancied that my friend would have con- 
 curred in my suggested emendations. 
 
MEMOIR. 1X 
 
 I hope it will not be esteemed impertinent, if I take 
 upon myself to say that I think highly of many of 
 these poems. Not only are they, in my opinion, some- 
 times faulty in form, and still more frequently wanting 
 in finish—two qualities she professed not to rate very 
 highly—but, what is singular, they likewise occasionally 
 lack melodiousness, upon which she laid great stress in 
 estimating the work of others. But they have all the 
 essentials of poetry. Poetry is thought completely fused 
 in the crucible of feeling, and by one and the same opera- 
 tion wrought into metrical form. Now, what was most 
 remarkable even in the ordinary conversation of Isa 
 Blagden, and, I may add, what was exceedingly tantalis- 
 ing to the merely positive order of mind, was that she 
 appeared incapable of thought apart from feeling. To 
 me, as I believe to most of her acquaintances, it was 
 her characteristic charm. Anybody less sentimental, in 
 the depreciatory sense of that epithet, never existed ; 
 but she poured around the commonest matter an at- 
 mosphere of sentiment, or, more strictly speaking, of 
 feeling, which appeared to set it ina fuller light, and 
 to give it completeness, robbing it always of its naked 
 hardness, and not unfrequently of its blunt injustice. 
 It was a faculty which the judicious always envied her, 
 even though it sometimes made her appear inconsistent, 
 or, at least, Inconsequent ; a result at which we need 
 not wonder, seeing how the reconciliation of things 
 equally true, as of persons equally good, is in this world 
 now and then an impossible task, even to that catholic 
 
».4 MEMOIR. 
 
 charity of which her heart was a never-failing fountain. 
 To all such charges of inconsistency or inconsequence 
 she was merrily insensible, and would close an argument — 
 in which, from the mere syllogistic point of view, she 
 had perhaps not emerged a victor, with two or three 
 rapid nods of the head, and the exclamation, “Ah! 
 well!” as though she were addressing her own breast, 
 and appealing to a grandly illogical but truly celestial 
 tribunal within. I remember well holding a contro- 
 versy with her on one of those subjects that dip into the 
 inner life, as we sat among the roses and the vines, a 
 few days before our dear Florence held its sixth cente- 
 nary of the birth of Dante. We differed; she failed to 
 convince me, and I failed equally to shake her. Finally, 
 she enunciated something I did not even understand, 
 and I said so frankly. “Never mind,” she replied, 
 “you will understand it some day.” And she was right. 
 Alas! she can reprove us thus wisely and quietly—no 
 more. 
 
 This ever-present, ever-flowing feeling, which was the 
 main charm of her conversation, seems to me to be 
 strikingly noticeable—though I almost think in a slight- 
 ly less degree, probably because we naturally expect to 
 find it there—in her poetry. She is resolutely on the 
 side of the angels. Yet she soars into no ethereal region, 
 Her Muse walks the familiar world of human passion 
 and suffering, ilumining the journey with the light of 
 a compassionate lantern lit at heavenly lamps. Her 
 creed is the old one of the valley of tears that leads to 
 
MEMOIR. Xi 
 
 the celestial mountain ; yet she is far from being alien 
 to joy. In the supreme and exhilarating beauty of the 
 material world she revels like “the shrill cicale, people 
 of the pine,” the sound of whose light-hearted chirrup 
 was so grateful to her ears. In no one I have ever 
 known were joyousness, that special appanage of the 
 ancient world, and melancholy, that heavy inheritance 
 of modern times, so evenly and equitably blended. All 
 that was most precious in Pagan feeling, and all that is 
 most sacred in Christian sentiment, were absorbed and 
 assimilated by her nature. She had a thoroughly sen- 
 suous soul ; an eye, ear, heart, exquisitely alive to beauty 
 of sound and scent, of sky, mountain, sea, city, or human 
 face. She gloried in the gorgeous apparel of the exter- 
 nal world, just as—many will remember—she delighted 
 in bright textures and vivid colours for female adorn- 
 ment. Indeed, could her innate tastes have been thor- 
 oughly indulged, she would have striven to add to 
 Greek beauty of form an oriental splendour of decora- 
 tion. She exulted inall that could boast the vital power 
 of loveliness. You never met her but she was full of 
 some fresh subject of enthusiasm—a book, a countenance, 
 or some natural prospect. I have heard more than one 
 of her friends describe her as bird-like; and even a 
 stranger would have found something apt in the com- 
 parison, by reason of her singularly small figure and 
 sprightly manner. But I suspect that what really sug- 
 gested the idea was the completeness of her accord with 
 surrounding nature, and more especially with the scenery 
 
Xli MEMOIR. 
 
 that girt her Tuscan home. She had, indeed, the wings 
 of the bird; surely she had the voice; and truly may 
 I add, she had the fond brooding breast. 
 This was the beautiful Pagan side of her, that found 
 full space and scope in Italy, that second and greater 
 Greece, and which sought expression in two especially 
 of the poems in this collection—“ The Invitation,” and 
 “ Wild Flowers.” But whilst she was conspicuously 
 endowed with those light-seeking gifts and qualities 
 which Christianity, and Protestant Christianity more 
 especially, has shown itself rather too eager to. put under 
 a bushel, hers no less, and in a no less striking degree, 
 were those virtues that do good by stealth, and which 
 Christianity has so justly exalted; the gifts and fruits of 
 the Spirit, as opposed to the Pagan gifts and fruits of 
 the flesh,—love, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, good- 
 ness, and faith. Thus, while she had in no degree 
 rejected the precious inheritance bequeathed to us by 
 sub-Olympian times, but gave witness in a thousand 
 ways that great Pan is not dead, she was pre-eminently 
 the child, too, of the Christian era, and was thus, in very 
 truth, the heir of all the ages. For she was a Christian 
 in every sense of the word; by her adherence to its 
 creed, though always, be it understood, in its most 
 catholic and comprehensive form, but still more by 
 her steady and cheerful exercise of the virtues it espe- 
 cially inculeates. Inexhaustible patience and resigna- 
 tion to her own sufferings, inexhaustible sympathy and 
 help for the afflictions of others, boundless toleration 
 
MEMOIR. Xill 
 
 for their weaknesses and boundless forgiveness for their 
 sins,—these were the credentials which proved her a 
 disciple of the divine teaching of the Galilean Lake. 
 Many, indeed, of her intimate friends sat apart, in the 
 terse language of Mr Tennyson, “holding no form of 
 creed, but contemplating all.” But so large was her 
 own interpretation of doctrines which easily lend them- 
 selves to narrow and exclusive views, that her belief 
 seemed almost to comprehend their inability and refusal 
 to accept it; and, of a certainty, it never caused the 
 faintest shadow of alienation or division to intervene 
 between herself and any human being. For, after all, 
 practical benevolence was her Religion. She united with 
 the sensuous love of sounds that are quite independent 
 of man’s condition and fortunes, of the song of birds, of’ 
 the ripple of streams, of the tumbling of torrents, of the 
 roll of the sullen thunder, the finest moral ear for “ the 
 still sad music of humanity.” She was attuned to every 
 possible note of wail, and answered it with quick-throb- 
 bing sympathy. No matter what might be at the 
 moment her own occupations, her own plans, or the 
 demands of her own interest, she quitted them on the 
 instant at the invitation of helplessness. She was 
 always under arms at the call of compassion. She 
 worked hard, and lived, in great measure, by the exer- 
 cise of her pen ; but neither absorption in the task, nor 
 what others would have deemed the absolute necessity 
 of not being interrupted till it was completed, delayed 
 her step for a second when it was summoned to the 
 
X1V MEMOIR. 
 
 bedside of suffering. I well remember how busy she 
 was in the spring of 1865, yet with what alacrity she 
 assisted me, weary after seven months even of the streets ; 
 of Florence, to bivouac in an unfurnished villa outside 
 the Porta Romana, and not far from the Villa Giglione 
 she herself then tenanted ; lending or finding me linen, 
 plate, and crockery, and pressing into the service the 
 handsome barefooted daughters of the Podere that ad- 
 joined it, one of whom used to compute the length of 
 time one’s eggs for breakfast should be left in boiling 
 water, by counting two hundred beats of her pulse. No 
 sooner had she established me in this somewhat primi- 
 tive mode of life, than she was summoned into the city 
 to tend Theodosia Trollope in what proved to be the 
 last days of her long but only too early decline; I quickly 
 following, and taking up my abode in the Villino Trol- 
 lope, in order to aid in distracting from his bereavement 
 my valued friend, the well-known author of ‘The History 
 of the Commonwealth of Florence.’ I cannot but think 
 that it will be agreeable to Mr Browning, if I also record 
 that she performed the same pious offices for his illus- 
 trious wife, England’s, indeed the world’s greatest poetess ; 
 and that she was bound to both of them by the ties of 
 the warmest affection, admiration, and regard. 
 
 These two qualities which we have called respec- 
 tively Pagan and Christian,—qualities which the unwise 
 imagine to be conflicting, but which the understanding 
 know to be the completion one of the other,—are 
 reflected as fully in Isa Blagden’s poems as they were 
 
MEMOIR. XV 
 
 in her life. If she had written only those seven exqui- 
 site sonnets, to be found at pages 93-97 of this volume, 
 and which she entitled the “ Seven Chords of the Lyre,” 
 such would have been equally the case, and I should 
 equally have been able to claim for her the character and 
 dignity of a true poet. Mark with what subtlety yet 
 distinctness of touch she strikes the first chord! What 
 is it? Aspiration : aspiration for a beneficent activity 
 which shall have its guerdon on earth and in heaven, 
 by spanning both with the arch of Fame. What is the 
 second? Love: love that is described as transfiguring the 
 whole being, making the arid to bloom, the dark places 
 to shine, even as the moon does, when it arises, on the 
 earth. What is the third? Joy: joy that treads the 
 shore of the blest isles, and that holds love’s lilies in 
 its clasp. Can the notes of delight and exultation 
 ascend higher? Alas! they have touched the topmost 
 height ; and here for a moment they pause, ere the 
 decrescendo movement begins. The fourth sonnet—the 
 fourth of the Seven Chords of the Lyre—is Doubt; 
 doubt described as 
 ‘* Malignant asp, more envious than the cloud 
 
 That sears the glories of the summer sky, 
 
 And brings fou] tempests where was golden calm !” 
 doubt that defeatureth the beauty of that soft domain, 
 and “wars with love, till love itself depart.” And now 
 note with what exquisite accuracy of touch and estima- 
 tion, with what penetration into the finer facts of life, 
 with what fulfilment of the Pagan creed of delight by the 
 
XvVl _ MEMOIR. 
 
 new dispensation of Christian grief and patience, she 
 balances and completes the chords of Aspiration, Love, 
 and Joy, which hang on the sunny side of Doubt, with — 
 those of Sorrow, Endurance, and Faith, which compose 
 and weigh down the other. Through Sorrow, which 
 gives out perfume, even as does trampled grass—through 
 Endurance, which would blush to be weaker than the 
 lone star, which looks forth singly on a dark world— 
 she attains the goal of Faith ; and with this soft, yet 
 confident cadence, she closes the strain : 
 
 ‘¢ Know that the soul which breathes immortal breath, 
 Stronger than joy, stronger than grief, must be, 
 And-trample both, to reach, O God, to Thee!” 
 
 Apart from the literary merits of these sonnets—and 
 they appear to me, more especially the sonnet “ Endur- 
 ance,” to be not unworthy of Wordsworth—they are of 
 special value to us as embodying her view of life, of the 
 relations of God and man, of earth and heaven. They 
 are the beautiful epitome of her Creed ; and all she ever 
 said, did, or wrote, buttress this central edifice of her 
 soul. The same doctrine is inculcated in the remark- 
 able poem on the interview which once took place 
 between Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Georges Sand, 
 and which wrung from the former two memorable 
 sonnets. We find it again in “The Angels of Life ;” 
 and it is writ small, and with a pretty quaint conceit, 
 in the lines on “ My Monogram :” 
 
 ** Circles of love and of pleasure, 
 Barred by a cross of flame, 
 
MEMOIR. XVil 
 
 Unite, and divide, and measure, 
 The letters which form my name, 
 
 Through yearning, fruition, and loss, 
 To make duty my goal and my aim, 
 
 As the circles are held in the cross ! 
 My life’s motto is writ in my name.” 
 
 The first impression of life is that it was made for joy. 
 That is the impression of the child. The second impres- 
 sion is, that it was made for joy, through love. That is 
 the impression of youth, which some fortunate natures 
 retain through early manhood. Then comes the terrible 
 discovery that joy, even if found, and so found, is not 
 permanent. Then the road of life which we all traverse 
 thus far together, divides into two branches, one of which 
 tempts with its cynical simulations of real happiness, 
 and the other of which is plainly marked “sorrow and 
 duty,” but which holds out the promise of a celestial 
 bourne of eternal calm. It is narrow and long, this 
 last ; and few there are that find it. It was found, and 
 resolutely travelled to the end, by the impassioned but 
 pious authoress of these poems, wherein the solemn 
 journey is faithfully mirrored. Let us devoutly hope 
 that she was not moving on footsore to a mirage; yet 
 even were that so, I cannot doubt that she chose 
 the better part. But it should never be forgotten that 
 such a choice, though comparatively easy to the com- 
 pounds of clay and locomotive power, whom we call 
 men and women, is superlatively arduous to the ex- 
 
XVill MEMOIR. 
 
 ceptional few with whom Love is a consuming passion, 
 and Genius an unquenchable torch. The subject of this 
 memoir had a joy-loving frame, a throbbing soul, and - 
 a soaring mind. She combined in herself the qualities 
 both of Martha and of Mary, and she superadded to 
 these the prodigal tenderness of Magdalen without her 
 errors. This is the supremest praise that can be given 
 to a woman ; but those who knew Isa Blagden know that 
 I do not exaggerate. 
 
 She first settled in Florence in 1849, and that fairest 
 and fullest spot of Earth was her adopted home till the 
 day of her death. Nay, she resides there still, under 
 the spiral cypress-shadow which stretches athwart the 
 tombs of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and Theodosia 
 Trollope. Thus she was present at the entombment of 
 Italy’s hopes of liberty and unity at the close of one | 
 decade, and at their glorious and final resurrection to- 
 wards the close of the next. She even lived to see 
 Rome delivered, and raised to its proper dignity as the 
 capital of the new Kingdom. As her poems testify, 
 she took the warmest interest in the fortunes of the 
 beautiful and now prosperous land. But there was one 
 drop of bitterness reserved for her share in the political 
 exultation so many of us have felt. Like Elizabeth 
 Barrett Browning, whose sentiments are recorded in the 
 ‘Poems Before Congress,’ she entertained an enthusiastic _ 
 admiration for Napoléon III, which many friends of 
 Italy shared but in marked moderation, and some did 
 not share at all. In the days of that monarch’s pros- 
 
MEMOIR. X1X 
 
 perity, it was all very well for us to turn her portrait 
 of him with his face to the wall, as the best mode of 
 notifying to her that we had called at the Villa Giglione 
 or the Villa Castellani—she moved to the latter in 
 1868—and had not found her at home. But when the 
 famous points now's began to show themselves on the 
 imperial horizon, it became necessary to treat the sub- 
 ject with gravity ; and when, finally, the Second Empire 
 disappeared amid the smoke and surrender of Sedan, 
 it had to be avoided altogether. I grieve to think that 
 so loving and generous a soul should have experienced 
 real grief from what I cannot but regard as a well-merited 
 catastrophe. That it caused her suffering deep and long, 
 I know; and it is certainly remarkable that her own 
 death, almost a sudden one, should have occurred im- 
 mediately after the announcement of that of the ex- 
 Emperor. The last lines she ever wrote were on that 
 event; and they are omitted from this volume, not. 
 only because the poem was left incomplete, but because 
 I have found much of it, even as far as it goes, quite 
 undecipherable. 
 
 Though Italy was the land of her adoption, she enter- 
 tained so warm a love for her English friends, that she 
 visited this country as often as she could afford to do 
 so. But, as she used to say, it took her three years to 
 get her finances in order again, after such an indul- 
 gence, But even whilst here, her heart was at Bello- 
 sguardo ; and, as Byron makes Dante say in his exile 
 
 she 
 b 
 
XxX MEMOIR. 
 
 “¢, , . Envied every dove its nest and wings 
 That waft her where the Apennine looks down 
 On Arno.” 
 
 One year when she visited us, she brought with her 
 her Italian maid, Irene, a handsome wild creature, who 
 spent the days in singing Tuscan stornellz, and munch- 
 ing yet unripe apples in our Kentish orchard. The two 
 little poems, already alluded to, of ‘“‘ Wild Flowers” and 
 “The Invitation,” express even with scarcely sufficient 
 ardour the feeling of exultation and delight with which 
 
 “her face was ever turned from the Northern Sea to 
 ** Opal tints on hill and plain, 
 Lithe green reeds with lifted spear, 
 Purple grapes ‘mid ripening grain.” 
 
 Her own abode in the Villa Castellani, modest as it 
 comparatively was, invariably filled one with admira- 
 tion and envy, whether by reason of its commodiousness, 
 the beauty and retirement of its pretty garden, the 
 excellence of its site, or the unequalled glory of its 
 prospect. On one side was Florence itself, that dream 
 in marble; on the other, the broad middle valley of 
 the Arno, every rood of it visible to the eye even to 
 where it narrows into the defile of La Golfina, fat with 
 centuries of industrious yet beautiful cultivation, and 
 studded with fair campanili and villas, 
 
 ‘* Par che il terren ve le germogli come 
 Vermene germogliar suole e rampolli ;” 
 
 A, 
 
 a plain, which “ to look on is to love.” There she wrote 
 her poems, and cultivated her anemones and tulips tall, 
 
MEMOIR. SOx 
 
 her sweet verbenas, her roses, and against the walls her 
 vines ; imprisoning the sunshine in the long oval mus- 
 cat-flavoured grapes, and loving to garner the huge 
 bunches till some friend from England arrived to be 
 cured of the vulgar notion that hothouse grapes are 
 finer or more luscious than any grown in the open air 
 between the Alps and the sea. How well I remember 
 climbing a ladder, she the while steadying it—for it was 
 monstrously rickety, as such things are apt to be in Italy 
 —bringing down from the rafters of an outhouse the 
 bunches she had stored so long, and helping her to bear 
 them in triumph tosome sceptical Britons, For nothing 
 delighted her so much as hospitality, and she exercised 
 it with a constant but ever unpretentious liberality. So 
 large and comprehensive was her own humanity, that 
 she would sometimes make the mistake of bringing fire 
 and water together, and yet expecting them to fuse. 
 Yet she herself possessed some secret charm, which 
 enabled her to fuse equally well with either. She was 
 a living disproof of Gay’s aphorism, that a favourite 
 has no friends. She was a universal favourite ; and no 
 firmer band of friends ever surrounded man or woman. 
 Though she had all the gifts which we usually associate 
 with a recluse, she was entirely without the moroseness 
 or exclusiveness which often accompanies that character. 
 She was remarkably fond of society, and there was not a 
 house in Florence or its neighbourhood where she was 
 not the most welcome of guests. I had the happiness of 
 first making her acquaintance in a ball-room in that city, 
 
XXil MEMOIR. 
 
 though she had then for some time ceased to be among 
 the dancers. She had that “ non so ché” which attracted 
 everybody to her, high and low, young and old, dis- 
 tinguished and obscure, ambitious and meek, alike. It 
 was rarely that any one of consequence in the world 
 of letters or of art paid ever so short a visit to Florence 
 without making her acquaintance ; and whether English, 
 French, Germans, or Americans touched her threshold, 
 the same genial “salve” greeted them. She never 
 seemed to suffer from either of those two disastrous 
 ~ diseases of modern social life—ennuz or boredom ; and 
 her patience with stupid people made one ashamed. But 
 with truly congenial spirits her wit was delightful, her 
 sprightliness irresistible, her conversational fervour in- 
 exhaustible. The news, “ Isa is coming,” invariably 
 filled with an almost childlike delight a certain Florence 
 circle, whose members are now, alas! scattered to the 
 four cold winds. She never departed without leaving a 
 blank. 
 
 Nor was the tenderness of her heart limited to her 
 own species. I might say that she turned her house 
 into a hospital for dogs, were it not that none of them 
 were, in any sense of the word, invalids. But they had 
 been dogs in distress at some period or other, and their 
 misery had caused her first acquaintance with, and final 
 adoption of them. I remember her writing to me in 1866, 
 after a visit she had paid to Venice, and in the letter she 
 described how she had rescued a poor poodle from the 
 clutches of some boys, who, after shaving it till it resem- 
 
MEMOIR. XXlli 
 
 bled a white rat, were about to drown it in the Grand 
 Canal. She took it back to Florence with her, and 
 christened it after the Queen of the Adriatic; “and thus,” 
 she added, “I hear Venezia, Venezia, all day long.” 
 Another member of the canine saved, a truly friendly 
 fellow, was christened “Keeley, or the low comedian,” 
 from his singularly unaristocratic, not to say comic 
 appearance. A highly unpopular member of her dog 
 
 y) 
 
 community was “Teddie,” who snapped at the whole 
 world except its dear mistress, and seemed to be of Con- 
 rad’s opinion when addressing Medora, “I cease to love 
 thee, when I love mankind.” One year when she spent 
 the hotsummer months at the Bagni di Lucca, she made 
 the entire journey at considerable expense, by vetturino, 
 because the “ Livorno-Empoli-Firenze ” railway line 
 would not allow her to have her dogs in the railway 
 carriage with her ; and her description of the journey in 
 a private letter, written at the time, was humorously 
 descriptive of the intelligent companionship she had 
 chosen. It was her wish that, whenever she died, her 
 dogs should be saved by an easy euthanasia from the 
 “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,” which she 
 felt sure would befall them in less considerate keeping. 
 Her habitual cheerfulness, that finest and most benefi- 
 cent form of social charity, and which invariably beamed 
 out from her at the sight of a human being, doubtless 
 screened from the world at large, as it was only meet it 
 should, the cloud of heavenly melancholy which, as any 
 one who reads her poems attentively will perceive, 
 
XX1V MEMOIR. 
 
 largely veiled her life. Her spirits were too finely 
 touched for her existence to be altogether a happy one ; 
 yet she was far too noble to seem to be unhappy. She- 
 turned out a silver lining on the night, though pain 
 and oftentimes gloom shrouded her soul within. “ Life,” 
 she said to a friend, when she was in England last 
 year, “ is one long disappointment.” No doubt the words 
 were uttered in a mood of exceptional depression, but on 
 the whole they expressed the speaker’s mind. I record 
 them with no hesitation or scruple, for they need not 
 ‘trouble those who knew Isa Blagden. She did not, like 
 some people, insist on her right to be happy, or accuse 
 the Divine Government when the claim was not allowed. 
 As she understood life and its conditions, pain, sorrow, 
 and disappointment necessarily play an important part 
 in it. She relished joy as few can ever have relished it ; 
 but when the wings were not permitted to exult, the 
 breast was resigned, and she usually found in minister- 
 ing to the wounds of others a more than partial for- 
 getfulness of her own. Chateaubriand has observed 
 that sorrow is the strongest pledge of our immortality ; 
 and in Isa Blagden’s heart the two things were steadily 
 associated. But I know that she wished much to 
 survive, spiritually also, on this side of the dark line ; 
 and I cherish the hope that there may lurk something 
 in this little volume which will perpetuate and gratify 
 her yearning. 
 
 ALFRED AUSTIN. 
 
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THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. 
 
 I.—HIS LIFE. 
 | Scene—An English Park. Time—Evening. | 
 
 My long deep swoon is o’er—I dimly feel 
 
 These palsied senses wake ; and now, the wheel 
 
 Of Time, so long fast-locked, revolves again,— 
 
 Again I live through all that past of pain : 
 
 - Regret and longing, shame, resentment, pride, 
 
 Conscience—too long suppressed, too oft defied— 
 
 Unite to sting me ; every writhing nerve 
 
 Thrills into torture, till my senses swerve 
 
 Perplexed and racked. Life founders in the shock ; 
 
 The mast is down . . . the ship has struck a rock. 
 A 
 
2 THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. 
 
 When first this terror all my soul o’ercame, 
 
 I sate with her, the lady of my name. 
 
 ’Mid this convulsion of all Time and Space 
 How strange to think of that familiar face ! 
 
 The haughty features and the large bright eyes, 
 So keenly steadfast in their cold surprise. 
 
 Her jewelled fingers, white and thin, turned o’er 
 The journal of the day—no more! no more! 
 
 It all returns, the words are burning here, 
 
 And fall like molten lead upon my ear. 
 
 She read with languid, slow, indifferent tone, 
 
 Calm as a child, who throws in, one by one, 
 
 Pebbles, deep down into some mighty lake, 
 
 Reckless what stormy echoes they may wake. 
 
 Sudden she spoke, half pity, half disdain— 
 
 ‘ Poor thing, how much she must have borne of pain! 
 
 Found dead, none knew her home, her name, her 
 age ; 
 
 One of those outcasts!” . . . rustled here the page, 
 
 Scorned by the dainty hand, the proud lip curled 
 
 As she read on: “ Poor outcast of the world ! 
 
 If killed by grief, disease, or hunger, none 
 
 Would ever know, for she had. died, alone ; 
 
THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. 3 
 
 But one poor relic, in her hand held fast, 
 This squalid misery with some brighter past 
 Must once have bound —a soiled, torn heron’s 
 
 Pima)... 
 God! what white Presence shivered through the room? 
 “‘ How strangely pale you look! are you not well?” 
 She rose and left me. 
 
 Ah! what bell 
 
 Was that she touched that rang so sharp a sound, — 
 Vibrating down the walls, and from the ground, 
 Louder and louder till it clove my brain, 
 Which throbbed and throbbed, and echoed it again ? 
 Who groaned? Not I—I firmly laid my hand 
 Upon a chair; I could each pulse command. 
 But why should all things glow with sudden fire, 
 Or fade in sudden darkness ? why require 
 To grope my way around by sense of touch, 
 As if I could not trust my sight as much ? 
 Did no accusing phantom enter there, 
 Shadowy, impalpable, yet deathly fair ? 
 Could those few words, read in that smooth, chill tone 
 Root up my being—leave it all o’erthrown ? 
 And o’er the ruin did an angel come, 
 
 And roll away the stone from my heart’s tomb? 
 
4 THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. 
 
 I had, methought, bridged o’er my young despair— 
 I dreamed my prosperous manhood had no share 
 In that vain past—the records of that day 
 
 Hid (fool to think so) with that past away ! 
 
 But memory lives wherever has been guilt— 
 
 The stain remains where’er the wine is spilt ! 
 
 And though so hushed and still the present seemed 
 At times beneath its wave, strange shadows gleamed : 
 I looked with more of self-contempt than pain, 
 And proudly turned to busy life again. 
 
 All soft emotions I have long represt— 
 
 What need of garlands on a mailed breast ? 
 
 So best ; so marble hard my heart has grown 
 
 That what was foliage once, is now but stone, 
 
 Life petrified to flint. But what shines there ? 
 Why do I tremble thus? Art still so fair? 
 Woman! did I love thee? Speak—speak! was thine 
 That death she read of ? was that love-gift mine ? 
 That heron-plume ! are these the eyes, the mouth 
 Whose wooing sweetness passion-filled my youth ? 
 Why dost thou rise before me thus? Adored, 
 
 Thy bare white arm uplifted as a sword, 
 
 What seek’st thou at my hands? was’t not a Fate— 
 Betrayed, undone—did Love wrong more than Hate? 
 
THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. 5 
 
 We loved. She was an orphan, poor and young, 
 My mother’s ward ; we to each other clung, 
 Playmates for years in yon dark ancient hall. 
 
 We loved, were parted, who dares blame our fall ? 
 I bore a wealthy, old, patrician name, 
 
 My mother swore it should be kept from shame ; 
 She thrust her from my side. Forgive me, Sweet! 
 Would God that day I perished at thy feet ! 
 
 Time passed, and with it love. Alas! since then 
 My life has been as lives of other men : 
 
 Pleasure and pride, ambition, some success, 
 
 And a heart flattered into selfishness. 
 
 The past I soon forgot, as all men can : 
 
 Didst thou? but thou wert woman ; I a man. 
 
 And once again we met ; pearls gemmed thy hair, 
 Thy wasted cheek was pale, but yet how fair ! 
 
 _ Doubting and eager, in thy hollow eyes 
 
 Methought I saw a struggling memory rise. 
 
 I turned away. ‘ Thank Heaven,” I said, “I’m free, 
 I have outgrown that weakness.” Pharisee ! 
 Because I flung a flower upon the road 
 
 For other men to trample—I thanked God ! 
 
6 THE STORY OF TWO LIVES, 
 
 Less sullied thou in body, soul, and heart, 
 Than I, who acted the self-righteous part ; 
 Better the impulse of some warm, wild sin 
 Than the world’s mildew, rotting all within ; 
 Better a torrid than an arctic sky ; 
 
 Better a fever than a leprosy! 
 
 I sought once more my old ancestral hall ; 
 
 All was so changed, it dared no ghosts recall. 
 Where the impassioned boy ? the gentle girl ? 
 There stood my bride, the daughter of an earl. 
 All praised the decent order of my life, 
 
 My graceful children, and my stately wife. 
 None saw but I, that where my daughters played, 
 There stood among them an appealing shade ; 
 None knew that where their girlish voices sung, 
 A softer music in my ears had rung. 
 
 Yon woods glare vengeful red in day’s decline, 
 
 For there, a young bright life was poured like wine ! 
 
 When from the church pealed loud the hour of 
 
 prayer, 
 
 I entered with a self-applauding air ; 
 
THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. fi 
 
 Observance of these rites to God is due, 
 My station claims my presence in my pew ; 
 I doubt the dogma, but respect the form, 
 Nor yawn unless the tedious day be warm. 
 I gravely hear of life, of sin, of death, 
 
 And sanction give to Him of Nazareth : 
 Religion is a social state machine ; 
 
 A fence to keep the untutored herd within. 
 I listen, and I hear unmoved the doom— 
 
 1) 
 
 *¢ Woe, woe to him through whom offences come ! 
 
 But now the frozen surface of the stream 
 Breaks wide ; below, the heaving waters gleam. 
 How quietly I have recalled all this, 
 
 And yet, between me and this Past there is 
 
 A murdered Life! What is it that I feel? 
 
 I think I swooned, and still my senses reel. 
 What chance divorced me from my Life? uptorn 
 From all which made my life until this morn. 
 I rushed into the air exhausted, spent ; 
 
 My wife, saw she I staggered as I went ? 
 
 My stainless wife, that she should live to have 
 
 A husband weeping o’er a wanton’s grave ! 
 
* 
 
 8 THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. 
 
 But why, if thou wert vile, and lost, and weak, 
 
 Should I thus suffer? I adjure thee, speak ! 
 
 Here must have been some early warp towards. 
 sin, 
 
 And soon or late the self-same course had been. 
 
 Had we not loved the end had been the same... . 
 
 Ah no! that le is burnt out as with flame. 
 
 ’Twas JI who sinned, ’twas i who failed thy 
 trust ; 
 
 I the forsworn, the perjured, false, unjust ; 
 
 On me the guilt of thy betrayal lies; 
 
 I led thy virtue down the slope to vice. 
 
 Am I at last to this conviction brought ? 
 
 What fearful horror in that damning thought ! 
 
 The pseudo-virtues which I claim as mine, 
 
 My cold decorums, and the bigot line 
 
 By which I nicely gauged all human act— 
 
 Shrivel before the terror of this fact. 
 
 Large is my ruin, utter and complete, 
 
 The world’s vain creeds are ashes at my feet. 
 
 I tear this grass, I fling it to the sky, 
 
 My hollow faith, its paltry forms defy— 
 
 I blaspheme God, and Fate, and Man, and all, 
 
 Because she fell as such must ever fall. 
 
THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. 9 
 
 I glance on high at yon relentless heaven, 
 
 Its stern attesting witness has been given, 
 
 And there is sentence in its silence. Where 
 Obtain remission from my doubts? The air 
 
 Is void of answer ; all is still; no sound 
 
 Save ripe loose acorns rustling to the ground 
 
 With sudden, muffled, fall . . . and, hark! a song 
 Borne faintly by the echoes. While among 
 
 The wild dark coverts of this haunted wood 
 
 I’ve crept to die, by vengeful shades pursued, 
 
 My wife is singing in our home ; so wide 
 
 The fate-drawn rifts which soul from soul divide. 
 Strange, how those notes seem searching to be heard, 
 Ringing and sharp, like dagger-thrusts, each word ; 
 Strange, too, how that clear crystal voice of hers 
 Chills the fond pathos of the quaint old verse : 
 “Youth, Love, and Death,” persistently repeat 
 
 The echoes that refrain, ‘‘ Sweet, angel sweet.” 
 Must then the inexorable third come in, 
 
 Where’er the first their Orphic rhyme begin ?— 
 Alas ! that concord—one poor life fulfilled, 
 
 That mournful sequence one poor heart has stilled ; 
 And I am hastening to the self-same fate, 
 
 I break the tardy hinges of the gate, 
 
10 THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. 
 
 Await me Love! enfranchised on that shore, 
 
 The world’s false claims assert their rule no more! — 
 I dare not live. I dare not once again 
 
 Fold round my soul those weary bonds of pain, 
 And, with a hideous mockery, resume 
 
 My life of yore—a dead man from the tomb. 
 
 My voice sounds strangely for familiar speech— 
 And how through these remorseful spasms reach 
 
 _ The polished jargon, which must be the food 
 
 Of worldly needs. I would not if I could! 
 
 I dare not now deceive myself ; I know 
 
 I never loved her as I love her now. 
 
 I love her with her shame ; I love her sin ; 
 
 Not the pure child who first my love did win, 
 
 But the lost woman, fallen, desperate, 
 
 Brute passion’s hireling slave, the purchased mate 
 
 Of villains, and of fools, a mark for scorn ; 
 
 Not the white flower which from my youth was 
 torn, 
 
 But the poor ravaged weed, which I flung down 
 
 To be a byword for the virtuous town. 
 
 I try to image thee as thou wert then ; 
 
 I see thee, prey and toy of dastard men. 
 
THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. 11 
 
 Was that soft, golden hair all faded, dim? 
 
 Did those poor eyelids, “neath their swollen rim, 
 
 Lose the arch sweetness of that bending curve 
 
 Which gave those eyes their delicate reserve ? 
 
 Was it all marred and broke, that tender line 
 
 Of the small throat, so soft, so white, so fine ? - 
 
 How impotent is Life! I would give all— 
 
 My fair possessions, and my ancient hall, 
 
 My stainless name, the world’s so just esteem, 
 
 All that my pride could hope, ambition’s dream— 
 
 To wander through some lawless misery, 
 
 Forlorn, and homeless, and. outcast . . . with 
 Thee ! 
 
 To clasp once more the form upon that bed, 
 
 In its soiled rags. My God! found dead, found 
 dead ! 
 
 Night’s darkness gathers o’er the accusing skies, 
 
 The boding stars await a sacrifice— 
 
 I must arise from this damp tear-stained ground, 
 
 Where all my life seems bleeding through one 
 wound. 
 
 I would each pang were prelude of disease, 
 
 Some fierce and mortal fever, which should seize 
 
12 THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. 
 
 Me, sweeping onwards with its fatal power. 
 Too late, too late, I have lived o’er that hour— 
 By my own hand I’ve sworn to die—(what shout 
 
 Of devil mirth)—my sin has found me out. 
 
 I pause ; I would not startle from her nest 
 Yon timid bird, low hovering to her rest, 
 Low calling to her young and to her mate— 
 -I now know pity, tenderness—too late 
 Dost thou assert thyself. Oh, broken heart! 
 Oh mad! oh fool! oh blind! thou wert, thou art. 
 
 Still there: nay look not on me thus, Adored !— 
 Thy bare white arm uplifted as a sword,— 
 
 With all that questioning sorrow and despair. 
 Those eyes wild weeping, loosely streaming hair— 
 That death in life, that terror, that surprise, 
 
 As on that day of parting sacrifice. 
 
 Through Time, through Space, through all Eternity, 
 Must I still hear that wild, remorseful cry— 
 
 It speaks my doom, e’en as I reach the goal, 
 
 It is my curse—‘‘ Oh man, restore my soul !” 
 
THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. Is 
 
 II.— HER LIFE. 
 
 [Scene—A London Street. Time—Evening.] 
 
 I wander up into the crowded street, 
 
 I hear the rolling wheels, the busy feet, 
 
 I see the misty rings, round lamps, which shine 
 Far in the distance, as a double line 
 
 Of clouded brightness, piercing night’s dim track, 
 (Glittering like nails upon a coffin black) — 
 And am no more afraid, for life is here ; 
 
 Below, I am alone, with Death and Fear. 
 
 How oft I’ve paused, when all was not yet o’er, 
 Where yon red globes, above the druggist’s door, 
 Warned me that I could enter in, and find 
 
 Lhe cheaply purchased end of all ; unbind 
 
 This chain of life, which then held strong and fast— 
 
 T now can wait ; that guilty wish has passed. 
 
 Jhe air revives me, and I lose the dread 
 Which haunts me when alone. When I am dead 
 
] 
 
 14 THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. 
 
 I shall not be more lone and still than there, 
 In that damp cellar gloom—no fire, no air— 
 Although, so near, the gaudy, reckless town 
 
 In its triumphant life heaves up and down. 
 
 I always feared the darkness as a child. 
 
 A child? could J have ever been a child ? 
 
 Light-hearted, innocent, and glad and free ? 
 
 One such long since I knew . . . was she like me? 
 
 Did I love snowdrops, and the lambs in spring ? 
 
 The little birds, each soft and helpless thing? 
 
 I could be gentle then . . . ah me! how strange, 
 
 These thoughts rise, now, to torture and avenge! 
 
 They say that drowning men can thus recall 
 
 Their whole lives through, as sinking, slow, they 
 fall ; 
 
 Are the wild waters closing o’er my head, 
 
 That thus I see the Past before me spread ? 
 
 I see the terrace gleaming in the sun, 
 
 The golden plain ere reaping was begun, 
 
 The church-tower hid beneath close ivy sheaves, 
 
 The pigeons fluttering o’er the moss-grown eaves, 
 
 The garden bright, with summer’s sweetest flowers, 
 
 Its quaint pleached walks, its gold laburnum bowers : 
 
THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. 15 
 
 I see the jasmine’s white and dainty graces, 
 
 Black hollyhocks, with laughing negro-faces, 
 
 The red geranium’s ardent crest of flame, 
 
 And mignonnette, from which he took myname... . 
 I see a girl amid those flowers at play— 
 
 A boy is near—two human buds, whose May 
 
 Has ripened with the flowers—both, how fair ! 
 Was he the boy ? was I the girl, who there 
 
 Stood hand in hand? Then did that road begin 
 Which led from Eden to a world of sin. 
 
 My parents served his mother. From their grave 
 She took me to her home, and swore to save 
 My life from all their lives, she said, had borne. 
 Oh, better had I lived as poor, forlorn 
 
 As thou, my mother ; better on thy bier 
 
 Had I been slain, than sent to perish there ! 
 The lady kept me in her ancient hall 
 
 (There was my Paradise, and there my fall) 
 Until she found her son dared love me—then 
 She banished me. He followed, and again 
 
 She came between us. Did I love or hate 
 When I sent back her bounty? Oh, too late 
 
16 THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. 
 
 I felt remorse, and grief, and shame, and scorn— 
 The veil was rent, the fond illusion torn! 
 
 Oh, not to share in innocence and ease, 
 
 But only for bare life, on bended knees 
 
 I prayed for service, work ; but hunted, tossed, 
 
 From depth to depth, the world proclaimed me 
 lost. 
 
 -’T was sin to be a coward as I was ; 
 
 I was afraid to starve ; I thought the laws 
 
 Were harsh and stern ; men spoke of prisons, or 
 
 Would mocking point where frowned the workhouse 
 door, 
 
 But none gave help. Oh, in that fearful coil 
 
 Which like a whirlpool sucked me in, I know 
 
 Each phase of suffering, from the wretched toil 
 
 Which keeps out Death, but gives not Life : to sew 
 
 Whole days, whole nights; week after week to 
 seam 
 
 Till walls and floors whirl round as in a dream ; 
 
 To that despair which finds even this withdrawn . . 
 
 ‘Some ebb in trade.” Oh, why are women born! 
 
 After long years I saw him once again, 
 
 I was so stunned, I scarcely felt the pain ; 
 
THE STORY OF TWO LIVES, 17 
 
 I trembled not, but, calm, I met his eye, 
 
 Which scanned me through, and yet I did not die. 
 No love was in my life, I learned “to smile 
 Beneath the gas,” my heart all cold the while ; 
 Deaf, dumb, and blind, a prey to passions rude ; 
 Alas! I had no home, no bed, no food! 
 
 I strove to ’scape from this accursed state 
 
 One dismal eve, I stood beside a gate, 
 
 It was a “ Refuge,” and I trembling rung... 
 
 “ No room—all full ;’’ the iron portal swung, 
 And I was left without—and that hope died— 
 
 In vain three more, my weary footsteps tried : 
 
 At last the workhouse.* Oh my God! the shame, 
 The Board of Guardians and their cruel blame ; 
 The terrors of those cells, that dread dark ward, 
 Its jeering blasphemies, its vice ignored, 
 Unguessed, by even such as I till then . . 
 
 Is there a lower Hell? Yet righteous men 
 
 Have dreamed that here was refuge, peace, reform, 
 A shelter from the world’s inclement storm. 
 Herded together, ruled by gyve and rope, 
 
 Evil grew rampant, evil with no hope 
 
 il Vide ‘ Uncommercial Traveller.’ 
 B 
 
18 THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. 
 
 Here or hereafter, strong enough to save 
 
 The soul alive in that unresting grave ! 
 
 I know not how I left, or where I went, 
 
 All impulse, courage, energy, were spent— 
 Warped as by fire, both age and sex effaced, 
 (That lava holds no trace of woman’s breast), 
 
 I lost all shame ; I robbed—or begged for food, 
 
 And “homeless ’mid a thousand homes I stood.” 
 
 How oft beneath the vast and echoing arch, 
 Which strides across the river’s stately march, 
 I’ve crawled to lay my weary hopeless head, 
 While loud above I heard the City’s tread ! 
 With sinking pulse, and dizzy, swimming brain, 
 Torn by stiff aching cramps, and racked with pain, 
 Haunted by feverish dreams, while far below, 
 Lulling, and cool, I heard the waters flow— 
 
 A moment to feel tempted, then to shrink 
 Back, back from that beguiling, awful, brink ; 
 The start—recoil—the tottering to one’s feet— 
 Once more, once more, into the hideous street, 
 Blindly to grope back into life anew... 
 
 Father, forgive, we know not what we do! 
 
THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. 19 
 
 As I one night was pacing to and fro, 
 
 A woman met and spoke to me ; though low 
 
 Her voice, her words had power to probe, yet heal, 
 
 Mild, yet incisive, bright and strong as steel. 
 
 She told me she had been to the far East, 
 
 Had traced the steps of each Evangelist— 
 
 Had stood where once stood wide the Temple 
 door, 
 
 And where our Jesus spoke, ‘‘ Go, sin no more.” * 
 
 One eve, she said, as slow the sun went down, 
 
 She saw, as there she paused and mused alone, 
 
 A shepherd, bearing back into the fold 
 
 A little yearling lamb, all starved and cold, 
 
 And tired and bleeding, for its truant feet 
 
 Had rambled from green paths and meadows sweet 
 
 Until it reached the Dead Sea’s bitter wave, 
 
 Where the foul waters fouler deserts lave ; 
 
 But there it had been found, and thence brought 
 home 
 
 With gentlest care and love—‘“‘ Thus God says come, 
 
 To you ; will you not come, my child? for see, 
 
 The same Good Shepherd seeks for you and me.” 
 
 * Vide ‘ Cities of the Past.’ 
 
20 THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. 
 
 Her outstretched hand upheld me for a time. 
 
 I found a service. Was it such a crime 
 
 That I concealed my past—my present state 
 
 From all my former guilt to separate ? 
 
 Some old companions found me; whence I came 
 Was thus betrayed ; they called me by my name, 
 And I stood helpless—for that name was known— 
 
 The door was shut, and I was bid “ begone !” 
 
 I was not worse than others. Through my tears 
 I heard a cry which told of sharper fears— 
 
 A ery more wild and desperate than my own. 
 
 I saw a girl flung down upon a stone, 
 
 Sobbing with fright—I almost feared to speak, 
 But went towards her ; and she raised a meek 
 And tear-stained face, with pleading, clinging trust— 
 “Oh! will you help me?” What a stormy gust 
 Of wrath and hatred rose within me then 
 
 ’Gainst all this rigid world of righteous men! 
 Outcasts and homeless—here, two human lives 
 Were left to perish ; yet these men had wives 
 And sisters ; little girls upon their knee... 
 But have no pity ; must she end like me? 
 
THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. 21 
 
 She was an orphan, by the parish placed 
 
 With a bad mistress, artful, vile, unchaste, 
 
 Who had ill-treated, starved her, then had bid 
 
 Her do, with drunken oaths, what others did. 
 
 She had refused, had been thrust out, and now 
 
 She was so frightened, blushes dyed her brow. 
 
 She had a friend—far off—if she could reach 
 
 Her house she would be safe. With timid speech 
 
 She told me this, then pointed to her dress— 
 
 No bonnet—cloak—and she was penniless. 
 
 Her tears fell faster—‘‘ I must beg,” she said ; 
 
 *“‘T know not where to-night to, lay my head.” 
 
 I gave her the poor trifle I had saved ; 
 
 My shawl I gave her ; I too long had braved, 
 
 More lightly clad, the winds, the rain, the night, 
 
 To fear them now. Her pure child’s face shone 
 bright 
 
 With joy—“ I owe you more than life,” she said. 
 
 “Tell me your name.” I silent shook my head. 
 
 Then for a moment was that frank young mouth 
 
 Pressed close to mine. Oh God! how my lost 
 youth 
 
 Rose from its tomb, as those fresh lips pressed mine ! 
 
 I drank each kiss as dying men drink wine. 
 
Dg THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. 
 
 She hastened on, and I, alone once more, 
 Felt calm. The bitterness of death was o’er. 
 I'd given my all—but she was saved ; for me 
 It mattered nought—could I more wretched be ? 
 As I thus stood—a sharp and piercing pain 
 Shot through my side—again, and once again— 
 As if a knife was searching through my breast, 
 To find my heart, and give its tumult rest. 
 
 -It passed, and left a sense of dim release, 
 
 I knew that pain was harbinger of peace. 
 
 I found a shelter on that very night— 
 
 A, cellar loathsome, dark, but with the right 
 
 Of solitude, I need no more ; by day 
 
 I earn, or beg, a trifle, then I stay 
 
 Quite still, exhausted, for long hours—no pain— 
 
 No care—in this last conflict I shall gain. 
 
 Sometimes I creep up for a little air, 
 
 As now ; but rarer grows the wish, more rare. 
 Some of my old, impatient restlessness 
 
 Stirred in my heart to-night—beneath my dress 
 It throbs like a poor hunted thing, which fears, 
 And madly still resists the leaguered spears ; 
 
THE STORY OF TWO LIVES, 23 
 
 Fights its hard fight for life, as stags, they say, 
 Wounded to death, will yet keep death at bay. 
 
 And thus I come once more, for air and light, 
 It was so piteous in that dreary night ; 
 
 And then, perchance, some kindly passer-by 
 Will speak some word to soothe me, ere I die, 
 If not, in yon poor street, I think I know 
 
 A friend, to whom undoubting I could go 
 
 For help in this last hour ;—a labouring man 
 And poor, but kind, as oft we poor ones can 
 
 Be kind to one another. Though so late, 
 
 He will be working still ; they cannot wait 
 Who need his work—his hard, ill-omened trade, 
 To make the coffins of the pauper dead. 
 
 Tis here, the shutter is not closed—I see. 
 
 Let me look in. He’s working. By his knee, 
 I see her well, in matron-beauty stands 
 
 A woman ; and a baby’s tiny hands 
 
 Are clasped around her neck. Could I have been 
 A wife and mother! Oh my God !—what sin 
 To murmur now !—all is, and must be, best. 
 
 And yet—and yet—a baby on my breast 
 
24 THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. 
 
 Had been a shield secure, a hope, an aim. 
 
 The long-spent ashes kindle into flame 
 
 At the bare thought. Dare I repine at Fate ? 
 Oh! hush, poor broken heart,—too late, too late ! 
 
 How wide my thoughts are wandering to-night ! 
 These three I gaze on dimly in the Jight, 
 - Through that small dusty pane—recall to me 
 A famous picture of a group of three, 
 Seen in that grand old chapel of the Hall, 
 Over the altar set, midst tapers tall— 
 Painted by Raphael, so the legend saith— 
 The Virgin and the Babe of Nazareth. 
 This scene recalls that picture—parent love— 
 The emblem and the type of God’s great Love— 
 The glory will fill up my darkness, I, 
 Soothed by its sweetness, now, can calmly die. 
 I will not enter in—poor friends, I go— | 
 May God bless both—I need no kind word now. 
 I will go down to my dark home again. 
 What! do these stiffening fingers still retain 
 In their loose hold, this soiled, torn, heron’s plume,— 
 Pledge of a love that led me to this doom? 
 
THE STORY OF TWO LIVES, 95 
 
 ‘< Tt was his crest,” he said, which I should wear, 
 
 And laughing placed it waving in my hair ; 
 
 He swore to leave all else, whate’er might be, 
 
 If I but sent that plume, to fly to me. 
 
 I dared not send it.—I am now alone; 
 
 May God forgive him as I long have done! 
 
 I know there has been wrong, but mine seems 
 worst— 
 
 The guilt, the blame, be mine—I have no thirst 
 
 For aught but to forgive, and be forgiven ; 
 
 I cling for mercy to God’s feet-—Oh Heaven !— 
 
 How that fair picture deepens in the night! 
 
 I hear a voice—I see a radiant light— 
 
 A hand held out which stills this aching breast— 
 
 “Come unto me, and I will give you rest.” 
 
26 
 
 THE INVITATION. 
 
 Ir I called thee, wouldst thou come, 
 Love, across the Northern Sea, 
 
 From thy dark and rugged home 
 Back to Italy and me? 
 
 Here the sky is blue, intense ; 
 Here the Arno’s lingering feet 
 Blend, with Earth’s glad affluence, 
 
 Sounds and sighs of summer sweet. 
 
 Here the fireflies wing their flight, 
 Pulsing to the magic tune 
 Murmured every breathless night 
 
 Throuch our warm, delicious June. 
 o 3 x 
 
 Here the roses in sweet scorn 
 Smile above the rugged wall ; 
 Here wave fields of yellow corn 
 
 Lit by poppies, red and tall. 
 
THE INVITATION, a7 
 
 Music here from soft-voiced birds, 
 Wild, pathetic, eager song, 
 Plaintive as a lute’s low chords, 
 
 Piercing as a clarion strong. 
 
 Here are vines which clasp and fold 
 Rude, bare boughs with tendrils fine ; 
 Here are fruits of orient gold, 
 
 Fountains which like rainbows shine. 
 
 Melody and fragrance here, 
 Opal tints on hill and plain, 
 Lithe green reeds with lfted spear, 
 
 Purple grapes ’mid ripening grain. 
 
 Beauty’s fairest home is here, 
 Earth baptised in light and dew. 
 Haste, the summer draweth near ! 
 Haste, where souls are born anew. 
 I have called thee, thou wilt come. 
 
28 
 
 WILD FLOWERS. 
 
 Pate apple-blossoms and red flowers, 
 Anemones and tulips tall, 
 
 Which light with flaming torch the showers 
 Of slim green leaves which round them fall, 
 
 Are smiling here, and through the rift 
 Of vanished years what thoughts arise, 
 As on each glowing bud I lift, 
 
 Dazzled and dim, my wearied eyes. 
 
 The sweet-brier fragrance of your youth, 
 A wild, free blossom, tender, pure, 
 Yet rich with promise (such in truth, 
 
 Ever, to raciest fruit, mature). 
 
 The glory of our Tuscan spring, 
 Transparent, warm, with bloom divine, 
 From leaf and flower and vines which cling 
 
 From tree to tree with tendrils fine. 
 
WILD FLOWERS. 29 
 
 The teeming splendour of our plain, 
 A sea of verdure lost in blue ; 
 Our curving hills, the ripening grain, 
 With fireflies glittering through and through : 
 
 Our old tower * whence the owls would call 
 Oft and again their one sweet note ; 
 
 The wealth of roses on our wall, 
 By summer, spring, and autumn brought: 
 
 All in this pictured panel lives, 
 And like a charm unseals my eyes ; 
 A spell divine a fairy weaves, 
 To clothe the earth with rainbow dyes. 
 
 The moonlight and the sunlight clear, 
 The hope, the joy which nature wore, 
 Life, youth, and passion, all are here, 
 
 And Italy is mine once more. 
 
 * Hawthorne lived for three months at the Tower of 
 Montauto, Bellosguardo, and there began ‘‘ Transformation.” 
 
30 
 
 ROME, 1870. 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE EVE OF THE ENTRANCE OF THE 
 
 ITALIAN TROOPS INTO ROME. 
 
 THERE is a picture I remember well, 
 
 A fresco, fading in my Southern home, 
 
 A woman sleeping on the burning sand, 
 
 While baleful sunset vapours fill the land, 
 A type of thee, O Rome! 
 
 The slant sun searches for her cheek, and warms 
 Its golden brown to amber, till the bee, 
 Confused by sweetness, sucks it as a flower. 
 
 No queen, who dreams within her palace bower, 
 
 Is throned more royally. 
 
 Above, the blue, far-off, mysterious sky, 
 
 O’ercanopies her grave, majestic head, 
 
ROME. 1870. 
 
 And presses her shut eyes, so sadly sweet ; 
 The swart Campagna stretches round her feet, 
 
 As ’twere a carpet spread. 
 
 Around (bold headlands in that tideless sea) 
 Surge awful ruins, prone, august, and hoar, 
 
 Void temples, broken columns, arches vast, 
 
 Where oracles and echoes of the past 
 
 Reverberate evermore ! 
 
 An empty wallet lies beside her hand, 
 
 A cross defaced hangs on her scarlet vest ; 
 
 Forlorn and poor, she sleeps abandoned there, 
 
 Her face, o’ershadowed by a grand despair, 
 Is hushed in mournful rest. 
 
 Unconscious of all peril, calm, she sleeps, 
 
 Though soon the treacherous fatal dews will rise 
 
 dl 
 
 Which lead from sleep to death ; soft cobweb folds 
 
 Thus bind a captured fly in spider holds, 
 Where, crushed, it slowly dies. 
 
 The poison murders with a bland caress, 
 
 A sugared venom ’neath which life expires ; 
 
3 ROME. 1870. 
 
 But wake her and she’s saved. Is there no name © 
 Will rouse her from this sleep, as sudden flame 
 
 Is held to smouldering fires ? 
 
 Alas, alas! to me that picture seems 
 
 My country’s symbol. Rome, thus fair art thou. 
 Dead vampire lips thus fasten on thy breath, 
 And beauty deepening into solemn death, 
 
 : Thus crowns thy faded brow. 
 
 She sleeps ’mid ruins, as thou sleepest, Rome! 
 Beneath as subtle, deadly a control ; 
 A worse malaria enervates thy will, 
 And fate and falsehood both unite to kill, 
 To soil and crush thy soul. 
 
 But tHov art saved ; loud o’er thy purple hills 
 
 The silence breaks, thy brave deliverers come ; 
 
 Clear as a clarion’s note the music falls, 
 
 And nations greet the kingly voice which calls, 
 Arise, be free, O Rome! 
 
30 
 
 THE CHURCH OF THE GESU. 
 
 Ort ’mid the work-day’s crowd and heat, 
 The fret and fever, toil and strife, 
 
 The hollow tumult of the street, 
 
 I turn to breathe a purer hfe, 
 
 To where some temple’s sheltering dome, 
 
 Lies hushed and lone, in marble gloom. 
 
 Perchance, all still, my footsteps fall, 
 Arouse the echoes, and they call 
 From arch to arch, with whispering sound, 
 As soft I tread the holy ground. 
 At times an altar glistens far 
 Amid the darkness—tapers dim 
 _ Mysterious move, and then I hear 
 Some murmured rite, some vesper hymn, 
 Steal on the silence, low and clear ; 
 
 C 
 
34 
 
 THE CHURCH OF THE GESU. 
 
 Or some confession’s soothed despair 
 Melt from its contrite woe to prayer! 
 Or standing near some porphyry shrine, 
 I catch a pale retreating line, 
 
 A fading glory, parting gleam, 
 
 From some seraphic-pictured dream, 
 Wherein the painter’s art hath given 
 To earth the hues and glow of heaven. 
 
 ’Twas thus this morn (as from the gay 
 And lightsome throng I turned away), 
 ’Mid golden splendour, azure gloom, 
 
 I sought Ignazio’s knightly tomb, 
 Where sleeps the loyal heart who gave 
 Its chivalry to Faith—whose grave, 
 More potent than the Ceesar’s throne, 
 Sways with its rule the triple crown! 
 
 I crossed the threshold’s draperied fold 
 And paused—for, ’stead of silence lone, 
 I saw a gorgeous scene unrolled, 
 
 I heard the solemn organ’s tone. 
 
 The shrine, with myriad torches bright, 
 Blaze with a consecrated light — 
 
THE CHURCH OF THE GESU. 35 
 
 From fretted roof to pictured wall 
 
 The votive jewels sparkling hung, 
 
 While golden bars of sunshine flung 
 
 Through burnished casements arched and tall, 
 Athwart the jasper pillars broad, 
 
 In slanting columns, radiant glowed. 
 
 But dark with purple pageantries, 
 The solemn nave and massive aisle, 
 Crowded with kneeling votaries, 
 Even in that flood of light were dim, 
 Save where around a new-raised pile, 
 Shadowed by wings of cherubim, 
 The softened daylight met the glare 
 Of fervent lamps, whose fiery ring 
 Circled some dark mysterious thing 
 
 Exalt, in shrineéd silence there. 
 
 I drew within, and now could trace, 
 
 Pale ’mid the splendour, a still face, 
 
 A faded brow, a sunken cheek, 
 
 Sad eyes, which yet no tears could shed, 
 Sad lips, from which no sighs could break, 
 
 Two upraised hands, ’tween which was laid 
 
36 
 
 THE CHURCH OF THE GESU. 
 
 A crucifix—with rigid clasp 
 
 The fingers held it in their grasp ; 
 
 An ebon cross upon the vest 
 
 Seemed with its weight to still the breast ; 
 A mournful light was on the’ brow, 
 Reflected from the lamp’s red glow, 
 Which o’er its ashy paleness shone, 
 
 And lit the head as with a crown. 
 
 Faster and faster from the street, 
 
 Though scarce you heard the tread of feet, 
 Noiseless, yet swift, the masses came. 
 Soon warm and moist with human breath 
 Flickered and waved the torches’ flame, 
 Save where around that Crowned Death 
 With steadfast awe they burned: no more 
 From storied arch to marble floor 
 
 The sunbeam’s chorded radiance streamed, 
 But now its shortened columns gleamed 
 O’er heads bowed down, whose tonsured line 
 Shone as a saintly halo fine— 
 
 O’er downcast eyes, whose shadows broad, 
 
 Told me of midnight fast and prayer, 
 
~ 
 
 THE CHURCH OF THE GESU. OT 
 
 Of bitter strife ’gainst fiendish snare— 
 
 Grim warfare in the name of God! 
 
 Beyond this circle, waving plumes 
 
 And flashing helms were prostrate bent, 
 And thick the air with incense-fumes : 
 So passionately sweet, they lent 
 
 A fainting sense, half ravishment, 
 
 Half suffering, to the soul, as soft 
 
 The fragrant clouds were borne aloft. 
 
 On high the pealing anthem rung ; 
 
 _ And first of faith and hope it sung, 
 
 Then sadder, sadder grew the strain—- 
 As if the powers of hell prevailed, 
 
 It moaned in ecstasy of pain, 
 
 And through the solemn arches wailed ; 
 Then sweet and clear, a single tone, 
 
 As if a seraph chanted lone, 
 
 Through thrilling eadences outpoured 
 A vibrating harmonious chord. 
 
 But ’mid the glory, dark to him, 
 
 And deaf to chant and choral hymn, 
 The poor pale corpse looked meek and mild, 
 And humble as a little child. 
 
38 
 
 THE CHURCH OF THE GESU. 
 
 So pale, so wan, it seemed to crave 
 
 The rest and solace of the grave !— 
 
 A little dust, “neath which to hide 
 
 This mocking pomp, this blazoned pride. 
 So sad, it looked yet sadder here, 
 Upraised on this imperial bier, 
 
 O’er which the sunshine glittered fair, 
 O’er which the torches threw their glare, 
 O’er which the organ’s grand despair 
 Breathed forth its agony of prayer— 
 Than if in some lone quiet room 
 
 It meekly waited for the tomb, 
 
 No earthly sounds, no human breath 
 
 T’ affront the majesty of Death! 
 
 But here the tie of brotherhood 
 
 Was wrenched away ; yet round him Earth, 
 And Earth’s most garish splendour stood : 
 The baptism of angel birth, 
 
 The holy calm, through which we know 
 This the elect, God-chosen brow, 
 
 Sealed with His seal, was darkened, here, 
 
 For earth too far,—for heaven too near. 
 
THE CHURCH OF THE GESU. 39 
 
 And ’stead of death-anointed peace, 
 Forlorn and mystic woe, a sense 
 
 Of deprecating anguish—these, 
 
 With trumpet-voiced significance, 
 
 Spoke through these fast-closed lips; though loud 
 The pulses of the kneeling crowd 
 
 (That warm thick pant of breathing hearts 
 To which yon breathless one imparts 
 
 Yet quicker throbs), that hush was felt, 
 Distinct through all: what tongue could speak 
 Such eloquence? what plaint could melt 
 Into the soul? what pathos seek 
 
 To pierce the inmost heart as this 
 Impassive, rigid helplessness ? 
 
 The organ’s golden voice seemed mute 
 
 To its dumb patience, absolute 
 
 In weakness, dominant o’er all 
 
 Who knelt beside the broidered pall. 
 Prayerless ’mid those earnest prayers, 
 Unworshipping ’mid worshippers, 
 
 And severed by a bond of clay, 
 
 From all who worship and who pray, 
 
 No mother’s passionate caress 
 
 Would dare that pallid brow to bless— 
 
40 
 
 THE CHURCH OF THE GESU. 
 
 No wistful loving child might brook 
 T’ explore for love that changeless look,— 
 A bridgeless, spanless gulf must lie 
 
 ’Twixt him and our humanity. 
 
 I turned away, and through the crowd, 
 As fast as blinding tears allowed, 
 Pressed on—the struggle was in vain ; 
 Girt in by that strong living chain, 
 
 I could not fly, and yet I felt 
 
 My very soul within me melt. 
 
 Though alien my clime, my faith, 
 
 My human sympathy was strong ; 
 But, like all human sympathy, 
 
 Alas! how vain in life or death! 
 
 In life, we may not shield from wrong 
 Our best beloved—in death dare we 
 Beside them stand to soothe or save, 
 In that dread struggle of the soul 
 When sweeping onwards wave on wave 
 
 Th’ eternal billows o’er them roll ? 
 
 We know that o’er that form so pale, 
 
 So calm, so motionless, so still, 
 
THE CHURCH OF THE GESU. 41 
 
 Hell’s leaguered anarchies assail 
 
 The winged host of heaven ; that I] 
 And Good are waging battle dread, 
 As God or Satan wait the dead! 
 And yet, unguarded and alone, 
 
 (Oh, finite impotence of Love !) 
 Each gentle lamb, each tender dove, 
 With bleeding feet must wander on: 
 They, whom with passionate emotion, 
 We shielded o’er Life’s stormy ocean, 
 Alone must meet, alone must dare, 
 
 Heaven’s wrath, God’s anger, Sin’s despair ! 
 : >] oO b) 
 
 Said I alone! O God! through all 
 
 The flaming wings, the piercing swords, 
 
 As file on file the glittering hordes 
 
 Angelic bent above this pall, 
 
 My awe-struck vision met a light, 
 
 A lambent halo, glorious bright, 
 
 From eyes divine, which o’er the dead 
 
 Their orbed radiance sheltering spread. 
 
 Those eyes—those eyes—th’ Archangel’s shade, 
 
 The stricken splendour of their brows, 
 
42 
 
 THE CHURCH OF THE GESU. 
 
 Beneath their glance, yet undismayed, 
 
 A little babe who only knows 
 
 In the wide world its mother’s breast, 
 Where it may nestle to its rest, 
 
 Might ‘neath their light be lulled to sleep— 
 No human mother’s glance so deep 
 
 In its soft pathos, tender love. 
 
 Those eyes—the very source of love !— 
 Creating where their glances stream, 
 
 So full of life intense they beam, 
 
 A Soul where soul seemed none, a breath 
 Out of the body of that Death ! 
 
 The shining Presence manifest, 
 Faded the earthly pageant’s glow, 
 The pomp, the prostrate crowd below, 
 And o’er the organ’s triumphs heard, 
 As all its sea of sound were stirred, 
 Rose thrilling sweet the accents blest, 
 “‘ Fear not—ZJ am the first—the last : 
 I have the keys of hell—of death.” 
 
 Up to those eyes the dead man gazed, 
 
 Up to those eyes his eyes were raised 
 
THE CHURCH OF THE GESU. 43 
 
 In contrite faith ; and though that look 
 Read bare his heart as ’twere a book— 
 And if the record were of sin, 
 
 No flames of hell could light within, 
 ‘Such an undying agony 
 
 As the reproof of that mild eye— 
 
 Yet never from that Countenance 
 Swerved a hair’s-breadth the mortal’s glance, 
 As if Past time’s eternity, 
 
 The Future’s immortality, 
 
 Concentred and absorbed were 
 
 In th’ Infinite Love revealed there ! 
 
 My frail poor nature could not long 
 
 Th’ apocalyptic trance retain ; 
 
 I sank to earth, and soon among 
 
 The mourning crowd I stood again. 
 
 But now no grief at lowly Death 
 
 Mocked by Earth’s pageant swelled my heart ; 
 Nor for that pang of parting breath, 
 
 Wherein each mortal bears his part— 
 Wherein, in dread equality, 
 
 The pauper and the monarch lie ! 
 
44 
 
 THE CHURCH OF THE GESU. 
 
 For still the veriest slave that e’er 
 Gasped out in blood his life’s despair, 
 Scourged till he died, shall meet those Hyes ; 
 And each oppressor that below 
 
 Holds chartered right to tyrannise, 
 Sceptre in hand, and crown on brow, 
 Must meet them too—those glances keen 
 Shall scan, inexorably just, 
 
 That lifetime’s woe, this lifetime’s sin ! 
 Earth’s erring judgments pass away, 
 
 The finite doom of clay on clay, 
 
 The cruel blames of dust on dust— 
 
 But one Hand only holds the key 
 
 Of Death, of Hell, Eternity ! 
 
 In birth the shadow from those Eyes 
 Hallows each infant’s tiny brows, 
 
 In death the seal which sanctifies 
 
 Each corpse’s pallid forehead shows 
 
 The shining of those Eyes divine— 
 
 In birth, in death, marked with His sign ! 
 Howe’er the gulf betwixt is passed, 
 “Tam the first—J am the last.” 
 
THE CHURCH OF THE GESU. 45 
 
 Peal out, O organ! loud and calm, 
 
 That thought more glorious music makes 
 Than solemn chant or holy psalm ! 
 
 Its sweet accords such joy awakes, 
 
 That death I deem th’ excelling boon, 
 Humanity’s consummate crown ! 
 Throughout life’s phases manifold, 
 
 Its heights, its depths, its dust, its gold, 
 Across its flood, I hear this ery, 
 
 *“‘ Revere thy brother—he must die.” 
 
 I look beyond each circumstance 
 Which hallows or which shames—I know, 
 Deeper than life’s brief weal or woe, 
 Death’s mighty, true significance ! 
 Bound in one common brotherhood, 
 Th’ hosannas of the multitude, 
 
 The meek dejection of the dead, 
 
 No more a sadd’ning influence shed ; 
 For little recks it, how or where, 
 ’Mid bitterest curse or fondest prayer, 
 As brutes cast out upon the sod, 
 
 Or thus beatified as God, 
 
46 
 
 THE CHURCH OF THE GESU. 
 
 If the last bond of erring clay 
 
 By God’s own hand is rent away— 
 The fellowship with earth undone, 
 The union with Himself begun ! 
 
 With chastened spirit slow I turned, 
 From where those flaming torches burned, 
 And passed into the daily street. 
 
 But e’en when once I stood again 
 
 Amid the thronged haunts of men, 
 
 A feeling of communion sweet, 
 
 As I had shared some holy rite, 
 
 And was new-born in peace and light, 
 Through all my inner being ran. 
 
 I sought my home an altered man ; 
 Though lowlier, yet with purpose fraught, 
 With noble truths divinely taught, 
 
 Blest revelation unto me 
 
 Of Death’s supremest mystery. 
 
47 
 
 LARICCIA. DEATH IN LIFE. 
 NO, I. 
 
 I GAZE upon a scene of Arcady. 
 
 ‘Tis noon, and o’er the vales and through the 
 woods 
 
 The myriad voices of the summer’s hymn 
 
 Ring out ’tis noon throughout their solitudes ! 
 
 Such glittering radiance in the air, that dim 
 
 And distant seems the blue and cloudless sky, 
 
 As if a space for visioned dreams were given, 
 
 The veil withdrawn midway ’twixt earth and 
 heaven, 
 
 That, bathed in golden light, the painter’s eye, 
 
 Seraphic glories in its depths might trace, 
 
 Or, leaning down o’er earth, a tender face 
 
 (Its sweetness mortal, but its calm divine), 
 
 ‘Fair Nature smiling o’er her chosen shrine ! 
 
48 L’ARICCIA. DEATH IN LIFE, 
 
 Ay—Time for once calls back fair Arcady ; 
 
 And as I gaze, in rapture deep and still, 
 
 Before me winding pass through vale and hill, 
 And through the arches of the wooded glades, 
 
 The herds as slow they seek the forest shades, 
 While wears the sun his noontide majesty ; 
 
 And first, with watchful eye and steadfast tread, 
 The broad, disparted crescents on their brows, 
 Austerely borne, the grey-hued steers have led 
 
 The rustic path ; and then with antic play, 
 
 And many a sidelong bound, grotesquely wreathing 
 Their wild fantastic horns amid the boughs, 
 
 The milk-white goats across the steep banks stray. 
 It seems as ’twere some sculptured pageant breathing, 
 A chiselled record of the Pagan Past— 
 
 A fair procession bound for sacrifice ! 
 
 And nought we miss—for even the choral song 
 And dance is here: where yonder pines have cast 
 A thicker shade, a joyous laughing throng 
 
 Of brown-cheeked girls, with large and flashing eyes, 
 And ebon locks vine-garlanded are grouped ; 
 
 And one who, fairer than the rest, has looped 
 Those scarlet blossoms ’mid the tendrils, flings 
 
 High o’er her head her tambourine, and sings 
 
L’ARICCIA. DEATH IN LIFE. 49 
 
 A measured chant, which through the greenwood 
 
 rings :— 
 
 “Our vineyard toils to-day are done, 
 Sisters, let us rest, 
 Each beside her chosen one, 
 
 J on my mother’s breast. 
 
 ‘¢ For me, no lover's smile e’er shone, 
 Beguiling where it charms ; 
 I seek it not, [ envy none, 
 
 Clasped in my mother’s arms. 
 
 “‘ My love is hers, and hers alone, 
 Each pulse of hers a part ; 
 
 My very life to hers has grown, 
 
 Linked to my mother’s heart, 
 
 “Ve smile. ‘No mother hast thou known, 
 -An orphan from thy birth.’ 
 Her tender love, ye all may own 
 Our loving mother—Earth. 
 D 
 
50 L’ARICCIA. DEATH IN LIFE. 
 
 ‘But most am I her cherished one, 
 She calls me to my rest, 
 To lay all toil and sorrow down 
 
 Asleep upon her breast !” 
 
 I heard a cadence in this simple song, 
 
 “Which echoed of the Etruscan age, most sweet 
 
 And yet most sad: such ever did belong, 
 
 To these, the early children of the earth, 
 
 Who from her affluent breasts derived their birth, 
 
 And knew no other source or end ; complete 
 
 In them, the sensuous life, and oh! how fair, 
 
 The clime which poured its sunshine through their 
 veins, 
 
 And with a passionate and raptured heart, 
 
 Of Beauty filled all earth, and sky, and air! 
 
 Beats that quick fiery pulse no more? remains 
 
 Of that intoxicating charm no part? 
 
 Ah! yes, there lives by mount and vale and stream, 
 
 The Pagan glory, and its soul throbs here 
 
 Voluptuous still—lo! where we catch the gleam, 
 
 Of yon Bacchante’s dark far-floating hair, 
 
 Tnebriate with joy and life and youth, 
 
L’ARICCIA. DEATH IN LIFE. 
 
 Yet with divine, yet half-unconscious sense, 
 
 Of Nature’s deep pathetic influence, 
 
 In her wild song; the instinct of the south, 
 This Life luxuriant, fervent, and supreme, 
 
 The type and rose and crown of all beneath 
 The gorgeous mask, the hollow brows of Death ! 
 
 51 
 
DLARICCIA. LIFE IN DEATH. 
 NO. Il. 
 
 A soLEMN hymn is ringing through the dome, 
 And heavy incense rises through the air, 
 And from the casements of my village home 
 
 I gaze upon a pageant, sad yet fair. 
 
 Again I see the village maidens stand 
 Around their fairest one, but she no more 
 With song and dance shall join the vine-wreathed 
 band ; 
 For her, poor child, both song and dance are o’er! 
 
 Beneath the porch they pause, and on that face, 
 O’er which the mantling blush no more will rise, 
 I gaze, ere earth’s maternal close embrace 
 
 Has veiled its fading beauty from my eyes. 
 
L’ARICCIA. LIFE IN DEATH. 53 
 
 Oh what a wealth on that low bier is spread, 
 
 O’er which the curious eye may scan and hover, 
 Ere all in yon dark grassy tomb be laid 
 
 For the thick waving woods to hide and cover! 
 
 The mouth, on which no lover’s kiss may press, 
 Its rosy promise all untimely pale ; 
 The breast, from which no little child’s caress 
 Shall draw sweet life, ere its white fount shall 
 fail. 
 
 A mist before my yearning eyes has risen. 
 Thy fate yet unfulfilled—so young to die ! 
 Ah! not to such as thou is earth a prison, 
 
 Nor death glad freedom from captivity. 
 
 Oh! if this earth th’ imperfect prelude be 
 To the full harmony of heavenly song, 
 How many a deep-toned chord is mute to thee, 
 
 Thou, to whom yet no tender ties belong ! 
 
 When angel mothers sing of parent love, 
 
 How musicless thy voice amid the choir, 
 
54 L’ARICCIA. LIFE IN DEATH. 
 
 When lover's faith is sung in courts above, 
 
 Low veiled thy virgin brow and hushed thy lyre. 
 
 Some say that death and sleep are twins: have they 
 E’er seen Death clothed in garments quaint and 
 rare 
 Or watched the living sunshine, laughing, play 
 
 - On the cold polished brow and waveless hair ? 
 
 This dumb negation, with the solemn sky 
 Shining on its white lips, from all around 
 Divorced as far as some lone mystery, 
 With marble face amid the desert found. 
 
 This chill prophetic Presence claims no tie 
 ‘With the bright world, around, above, beneath, — 
 Blank and austere, a crownless majesty, 
 
 Inscrutable—immitigable Death ! 
 
 And yet she lives: for ever and for ever 
 Still floats the solemn hymn throughout the 
 dome 
 As if it sought, with passionate endeavour, 
 To reach all hearts and bear its glad truth home. 
 
L’ARICCIA. LIFE IN DEATH. 55 
 
 Not the dark moral of the Pagan world, 
 Its painted cheeks and false illusions fair, 
 Now here, now past, as when a banner furled 
 
 No longer spreads its blazoned pomp to air. 
 
 For them this life was as a dream, and death 
 The one reality ; with us nought dies. 
 Beauty to them but transitory breath, 
 
 To us th’ eternal smile of paradise ! 
 
 These gracious scenes, which with a rare delight 
 And charm divine have banqueted the eye, 
 Wore chastened hues to them, and shone less bright, 
 
 Sharing the doom of frail mortality. 
 
 With us they claim a bright inheritance, 
 
 And shine emancipate from Death’s control— 
 They perish not with perishable sense, 
 
 But live eternal in th’ eternal soul. 
 
 And in those spheres towards which our spirits 
 yearn, 
 
 What magic memories will oft arise ! 
 
56 L’ARICCIA. LIFE IN DEATH. 
 
 What thrilling records in our souls will burn, 
 
 And moisten, with soft tears, immortal eyes ! 
 
 Remembered melodies, or blooms divine, 
 A line of beauty, or a word of power, 
 There glow more bright, as on some jewelled shrine, 
 
 Earth’s gems are consecrate for evermore. 
 
 These Alban hills, these fair Arcadian shades, 
 
 Yon lake’s transparent breadth of tenderest blue, 
 The herds defiling through the sunlit glades, 
 
 This hour’s Elysian charm shall oft renew. 
 
 These joyous girls, whose eyes dark flashing gleam, 
 This poor pale corpse, with locked and stony brow, 
 Not fleeting shadows of a fading dream, 
 But portions of the Everlasting Now. 
 
 And thus a palace, stately and divine, 
 Each chamber by its guardian angel trod ; 
 In joys eternal lives the soul—a shrine 
 
 Holy and pure, and consecrate to God. — 
 
L’ARICCIA. LIFE IN DEATH. 57 
 
 There shall we roam, as in yon home of art,* 
 Pilgrims ’midst priceless records, while through all 
 Echoes the beating of each raptured heart, 
 Clear as a fountain’s soft melodious fall. 
 
 The fountain’s music is the hymn of praise, 
 That murmurs oft, from yon orbed worlds to this, 
 The fountain’s prismed hues, the blended rays, 
 Which there shall merge, past, present, future 
 bliss ! 
 
 * Vatican. 
 
58 
 
 A LIVING PICTURE SEEN IN VIA 
 FELICE, ROME. 
 
 -Tuy casement, burnished by the setting sun, 
 Shines round thee, like a rare and antique frame 
 Of intricate device—the glory thrown 
 By its illumined tracery lies like flame 
 Upon the shadowy masses of thy hair ; 
 
 And like a pictured saint thou glowest there, 
 Enshrined so high, with the blue skies above thee : 
 How may I dare to this dim earth to call thee ! 
 
 The crimson cushion under thy soft arm 
 
 Swells proudly round its whiteness, and has lent 
 To its pale splendour hues so rich and warm 
 
 No painter’s hand so cunningly had blent 
 
 The jealous shades ; thy large black dreamy eyes 
 Are raised in rival beauty to the skies. 
 
 Deem’st thou each cloud that floats so bright above 
 A kindred angel sighing for thy love ? 
 
A LIVING PICTURE SEEN IN VIA FELICE, ROME. 59 
 
 I feel, as gazing thus upon thy face, 
 
 From the low darkness of the sordid street, 
 
 As when, revealed amid th’ ethereal space, 
 The saints of old beheld Madonna sweet, 
 
 To comfort and to soothe, a glimpse of heaven, 
 Foretaste and type of bliss, to them was given. 
 Less happy I—the heaven where I would soar 
 To me is closed—rejected, I adore, 
 
 And, vainly true, my fruitless worship pour ! 
 
60 
 
 SAY WHICH WERE BEST. 
 
 STEEPED in some soft delicious sin, 
 Whose charmed languors wrap thee in, 
 Soul! take thy golden ease and play 
 All the orient summer day ; 
 
 No storms thy joyous calm shall break, 
 From thy bliss thou shalt not wake. 
 Some will tell thee there is gall 
 Within the purple cup—that all 
 
 Its honied sweetness will o’erflow 
 
 And leave but poisoned dregs below. 
 The fools ! they lie—securely drink ; 
 More deeply as thy lip shall sink, 
 More luscious, rich, and strong the wine— 
 Half delirious, half divine ! 
 
 Loud the mighty sorceress laughed 
 As her slaves her goblet quaffed : 
 
SAY WHICH WERE BEST. 
 
 The liquid flame ran wild within 
 
 And each was happy in his sin, 
 Unconscious of the outward shame, 
 Sealed from regret, remorse, or blame— 
 Sealed from all passion which might stir, 
 Or sting, each sense-bound worshipper. 
 The false enchantress ! she knows well 
 That if the joy were bitter sweet, 
 
 That if the guilt were not complete, 
 
 A moment’s suffering breaks the spell ! 
 And thus she guards their trancéd sleep 
 With opiates strange, luxurious, deep, 
 And, nerveless, pulseless they remain, 
 Hugging their sweet enthralling chain— 
 The soothéd senses wildly blest, 
 
 The lulléd conscience charmed to rest 
 Borne adown the siren stream, 
 
 Life, one long voluptuous dream ! 
 
 And this is sin? then what is error? 
 Oh, the anguish ! oh, the terror! 
 
 Of the well-deserved blame 
 
 Of the soul’s unquiet shame— 
 
 The retribution which must come 
 
 As we face the self-wrought doom ; 
 
 61 
 
62 SAY WHICH WERE BEST. 
 
 Sowing seeds which we must gather, 
 Rousing storms which we must weather, 
 Some yoke neath which our souls are driven, 
 Some chain to which our souls are riven, 
 Some brand which must for aye remain, 
 
 Some self-inflicted damning stain ! 
 
 ~ And is this all? Oh! if it were, 
 It then were well to bravely dare 
 The whelming floods of guilt and sin, 
 And plunge our shivering souls within, 
 And let its headlong torrent flow 
 O’er all remorse, regret, or woe, 
 Laving in Lethe tides all sense 
 Of Being’s nobler influence : 
 If but to be a worm, ’tis best 
 Hushed in some fair and downy nest, 
 To pass through Life in idle swoon 
 Until th’ ignoble dream be done. 
 
 But ’tis not so—we must endure 
 The fester ere the wound we cure. 
 (Sorrow th’ eternal law of Earth, 
 The pangs of travail prelude Birth, 
 
SAY WHICH WERE BEST. 63 
 
 And through the unuttered agony 
 Which we call Death, our souls are free.) 
 ’Tis our prerogative, our doom, 
 
 To strive, to struggle, to o’ercome ; 
 Through error’s veils to burst away 
 From silken dalliance into Day, 
 Unweaving Folly’s fettering coil, 
 
 To work out bitter truth by Toil ; 
 Bravely our clanking chains to wear, 
 Nobly our humbling yoke to bear, 
 
 And stand erect beneath the skies 
 Through self-renouncing sacrifice ; 
 Baffled, defeated, not undone, 
 
 To expiate and to atone— 
 
 (What angel glory in those words! 
 They pierce the soul as flaming swords) 
 To expiate and to atone— 
 
 To hope, endure, achieve, aspire, 
 Though bleeding, tortured, tried by fire, 
 Till heaven’s redeeming path be won, 
 And we the crowning heights shall tread, 
 Life sanctified—Death perfected ! 
 
 Say which were best. 
 
64 
 
 ORPHANHOOD. 
 
 Tue shadow of the forest trees— 
 My childhood withered ‘neath their spell, 
 In the old home remembered well, 
 Shadowed by forest trees. 
 
 The shadow of the forest trees 
 Between me and the black sky spread, 
 As I lay waking on my bed, 
 
 Shadowed by forest trees. 
 
 The shadow of the forest trees— 
 I wept and struggled for the light, 
 But all around was black as night, 
 Shadowed by forest trees. 
 
ORPHANHOOD. 65 
 
 The shadow of the forest trees 
 Robbed us of life’s enchanting plays ; 
 Both heart and stream were dark always, 
 Shadowed by forest trees. 
 
 The shadow of the forest trees— 
 We heard of love and of the sun, 
 But in our gloomy world were none, 
 
 - Shadowed by forest trees. 
 
 The shadow of the forest trees— 
 One morn they quivered in the blast, 
 Wild moaned the storm, and broke at last 
 The shadow of the trees. 
 
 The shadow of the forest trees— 
 *Mid tossing branches struggling through, 
 IT hailed a sky of happy blue 
 Unshadowed by the trees. 
 
 The shadow of the forest trees 
 No longer hushed the streamlet’s song, 
 In fierce wild mirth it sped along, 
 Unshadowed by the trees. 
 E 
 
66 ORPHANHOOD. 
 
 The shadow of the forest trees 
 Clouded no more my heaven above ; 
 My heart awoke to raptured love, 
 Unshadowed by the trees. 
 
 Alas ! alas! the forest trees— 
 Once more the time grew dark and still, 
 Murmured no more the poor lone rill, 
 
 Shadowed by forest trees. 
 
 Alas! alas! the forest trees— 
 Again they closed around my head, 
 And love and hope and joy were dead, 
 Shadowed by forest trees. 
 
 Alas! alas ! the forest trees— 
 The wind that woke the stream is past, 
 This heart, wild beating, breaks at last, 
 Shadowed by forest trees. 
 
 The shadow of the forest trees— 
 Alas for heart! alas for stream ! 
 But both have had one blessed gleam, 
 Unshadowed by the trees. 
 
ORPHANHOOD. 67 
 
 Despite the shadow of the trees, 
 The heart has loved, the stream has sung, 
 Now let their mournful knell be rung, 
 Shadowed by forest trees. 
 
68 
 
 A LOVE RHAPSODY. 
 
 Tp this be true, the fond Athenian’s * dream, 
 That here the soul still mourns its better part, 
 And yearning seeks each visionary gleam, 
 Till dawns the true Aurora of the heart ; 
 Then am I blessed—for I have found thee, 
 And my love has bound thee, 
 
 And thou and I are one! 
 
 As o’er the waters of the troubled deep, 
 God’s Spirit moved, and the dark chaos woke, 
 And, starting from the depths of pregnant sleep, 
 
 Creation’s myriad forms their silence broke,— 
 
 * Referring to the Platonic idea of the soul being divided 
 on earth, and love being the intense desire of the two por- 
 tions to amalgamate again. ‘This union forming the perfect 
 soul is probably in one angelic form. 
 
A LOVE RHAPSODY. 69 
 
 With songs of joy, from hopeless loveless Night 
 I, too, have woke to light 
 
 Since thou and I are one! 
 
 But a yet closer union waits us still— 
 
 From this sweet Eden of the heart, strong Death 
 May banish us by his victorious will, 
 
 But not for aye—with Life’s last sobbing breath 
 Our spirits shall unite—twin mortals here, 
 In heaven one angel fair,— 
 
 | For thou and I are one! 
 
 "Tis true, those angels on God’s missions sent, 
 Whose grand and sexless beauty awes the soul, 
 Were severed lovers once, till love had blent 
 Their beings into one harmonious whole ; 
 Thus, when earth fades, from this weak swimming 
 brain, 
 And I have loosed my chain, 
 Shall thou and I be one! 
 
 Thou hast an angel’s gentle strength—thy mien 
 Wears grave and angel calm no storms can move ; 
 
70 A LOVE RHAPSODY. 
 
 I, all unworthy and unmeet, I ween, 
 
 But I,—I have an angel’s power of love, 
 And this redeems, and thus my part I claim, 
 In that fair glorious name, 
 
 And thou and I are one! 
 
 On what bright healing message we shall speed, 
 Whether to feed with dew youth’s opening bloom, 
 Or bind with softest balm the hearts that bleed, 
 Broken and crushed in earth’s yet mourning home; 
 Whether to wait, or do our Father’s will, 
 1 know not, but that still, 
 Shall thou and I be one! 
 
 Whether with mighty pinions we shall soar 
 To bear glad tidings to the farthest star, 
 United we shall serve, united pour 
 One hymn of praise before God’s flaming car. 
 Ah me! the raptured vision is too bright 
 And fair for mortal sight, 
 Till thou and I are one! 
 
 Whether with those, who duteous stand and wait, 
 
 And wave their verdant palms before His throne, 
 
A LOVE RHAPSODY. fel 
 
 We there shall bend before the jasper gate 
 And lay before God’s feet one golden crown,— 
 I only know that then this heart of mine 
 Shall beat, beloved, in thine, 
 And thou and I be one! 
 
 It was a wondrous legend that which told, 
 That after bitter griefs the soul and love, 
 The Psyche and the Eros, should enfold 
 ~ In one their truant wings—but far above 
 F’en that dear joy to know that, parted here, 
 We shall ‘as seraphs there 
 Eternally be one ! 
 
 Rome, 1852. 
 
THE MORNING MOON. 
 
 Amp the morning’s bloom and splendour 
 The wan pale moon a shade has cast ; 
 A revelation sad, yet tender, 
 
 Of Love’s unburied mournful past. 
 
 She comes with mute reproachful face, 
 A boding ghost ’mid morning’s beam ; 
 Thou strong Noonday, arise and chase 
 
 That saddening enervating gleam ! 
 
 I have a work which must be done, 
 All soft regrets I backward cast, 
 
 And let the Present, with its sun, 
 Outshine the weak unworthy Past. 
 
 That fond vain Past I must live down 
 Until is spent my work-day light ; 
 Then will it shine, my martyr-crown, 
 
 The moon of Death’s redeeméd night. 
 
DESPONDENCY. 
 NO. I. 
 
 My life is as a weary Bridge of Sighs, 
 
 “A palace and a prison on each hand ;” 
 
 But I have left my youth’s bright palaces, 
 And passed the portals of Love’s fairy-land, 
 And entered on that dark and dreary path 
 Which every earth-born traveller must tread, 
 Wherein the soul foredoomed no solace hath, 
 No refuge from its anguish or its dread, 
 
 But in that frowning prison-house, the grave, 
 Regret, remorse, for time misspent and gone. 
 Jailers, whose cruelty I dare not brave, 
 ‘Walk at my side and goad me sternly on, 
 While through the arches moan continually 
 The dull deep breakers of life’s surging sea! 
 
 \ 
 
74 
 
 REPROOF. 
 
 NO oI. 
 
 Ou say not thus! thy life is as a stair, 
 
 Of which the first steps lean upon the earth ; 
 
 With each ascent you rise to purer air, - 
 
 Where God’s angelic ministrants have birth; 
 Though fair and sunny, Earth’s alluring bowers, 
 Break through her dear enchantments, and pursue 
 Thy path right upward—for those purple flowers 
 O’er which thou tread’st their sweetness shall renew 
 And bloom eternal through eternal hours— 
 
 Till as you higher climb and from your view 
 Earth’s soft green pleasaunce fades, faint not nor fear; 
 Though solemn in its loneliness the road, 
 
 Faith’s star shines high above thee, bright and clear, 
 And, won the height—the last step leads to God ! 
 
STANZAS. 
 
 , 
 
 Dark thoughts pursue me even in sleep, 
 And bitter tears mine eyelids steep ; 
 Yet, through the silence, gently borne, 
 _ I hear sweet whispers of the morn— 
 For the birds sing through my dreams. 
 
 I struggle with the nightmare spell, 
 
 And ’gainst the fevered weight rebel ; 
 
 I strive to gaze upon the light 
 
 Which pierces through my shadowy night, 
 
 From morning’s blessed gleams ! 
 
 Dazzled, confused by fear and doubt, 
 I seek to reach the world without ; 
 If I could wake, I there might see, 
 The darkness o’er, that I was free— 
 That day had dawned at last ; 
 
76 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 That now my sun of hope had risen— 
 That now my soul could burst its prison— 
 That life was shining bright and fair— 
 
 That love was smiling—thou wert there, 
 
 The night for ever past ! 
 
ROME FROM THE RIPETTA. 
 
 **We will trust God—the blank interstices 
 Men take for ruins, He will build into 
 With pillared marbles rare, or knit across 
 With generous arches, till the fane’s complete.” 
 —Casa Guidi Windows. 
 
 Witt thou forget that summer evening’s shining, 
 When thou and J, dear friend, together stood, 
 
 And silent watched the purple shades declining, 
 In languid glory, o’er the Tiber’s flood ? 
 
 One fond last beam yet lingered on the dome, 
 And welcome gave to each pale star, which rose ; 
 Breathless we stood beneath the spell of Rome— 
 Inexorable, fathomless repose ! 
 
 On what great secret dost thou brood, O Rome! 
 Amid the vexed earth’s unquiet stir ? 
 
 When will Jehovah’s lightnings rend thy gloom, 
 And fire the pregnant elements to war ? 
 
78 ROME FROM THE RIPETTA. 
 
 Will not the Voice which’said—‘ Let there be light,” 
 And light creative sprang from Chaos’ womb— 
 Dispel the phantoms of this darker night, 
 While sing the morning stars—“ Be free, O Rome!” 
 
 First light, then life—first truth, then liberty ; 
 If such the everlasting law—what then 
 “Avails, that with phrenetic phantasy, 
 
 Should struggle in vain strife insensate men ? 
 
 The immortal sorrow of Titanic hearts 
 Ever lamenting in abysmal pain— 
 Eternal failure—warns the fetter parts 
 
 Once more to reunite the shortened chain. 
 
 But God has patience—if weak men have faith, 
 Long ages rise and ebb before His throne 
 Transient and vain, as dying infant’s breath, 
 
 Yet each its own appointed task has done. 
 
 And thus the purpose of a people’s will, 
 Though tyrants oft the work of shame renew, 
 Stands steadfast as the Will Supreme ; while still 
 Fail the weak efforts of the frenzied few. 
 
"ROME FROM THE RIPETTA. 79 
 
 Not prematurely severed falls a chain, 
 A nation wins its birthright to be free, 
 On the broad field of sure material gain, 
 
 By freedom’s law, not lawless liberty! 
 
 By work-days, not by “ feste,” pens, not swords, 
 Ploughshares, ’stead of daggers ; not the flow 
 
 Of idle ‘‘vivas,” nor warm frothy words, 
 But cold mute lips, knit brows, and hands that do. 
 
 Mark ye no symptoms of a mighty birth, 
 Hear ye no voice of angel Prophecy, 
 No signs of travail in this pausing earth, 
 
 No portents in yon grand and star-crowned sky ? 
 
 Hark! from the gardens of the Aventine 
 There is a welcome hum of busy strife ; 
 A people rise, where once knelt slaves supine, 
 
 Walking tumultuously to freedom’s life ! 
 
 Effaced the splendour of Rienzi’s fame 
 Beneath thy dim Byzantine fane, St John ! 
 Paled by the glories of a mightier name, 
 The giant shade was advent of the dawn. 
 
80 ROME FROM THE RIPETTA. 
 
 A people and a leader. More, yet more, 
 Material progress lends her iron aid ; 
 
 As Italy unites from shore to shore, 
 Electric* thoughts a fiery pathway tread. 
 
 The rival sirens of the opposing seas, 
 Their lifelong yearning fading in their eyes, 
 Sing, floating downwards through the freshening 
 breeze 
 A swan-like dirge, with soft harmonious sighs. 
 
 All antique fable and all modern cheat 
 Crouch in base fear before the flashing storm, 
 And Science, the archangel, ‘neath his feet 
 
 Has crushed each falsehood’s vile satanic form. 
 
 Within the Coliseum’s weed-crowned wall, 
 In immemorial silence mute no more, 
 Whisper stern voices and the moonbeam’s fall, 
 
 On phantoms pacing its sepulchral floor. 
 
 * There was a rumour in 1852 of an electric telegraph at 
 Rome to be connected with two others—one at Ancona, the 
 other at Civita Vecchia. 
 
ROME FROM THE RIPETTA. 81 
 
 Wherever heroes perished, martyrs prayed 
 Their solemn voiceless last appeal to God, 
 
 Where pale Cecilia’s gentle tomb is laid, 
 Where patriot blood has sanctified the sod— 
 
 Wherever act heroic, faith sublime, 
 Have found the Calvary on earth, a power 
 Regenerative lives ; when strikes the time 
 
 Each shining Presence quits the grave once more ! 
 
 The haloes on their brow illumine thine, 
 For ever fled its weird mysterious gloom— 
 
 The Dawn wakes Memnon—and a voice divine, 
 Offspring of Light, bursts from thy hills, O Rome! 
 
 Yon grey Campagna, stretching far and calm: 
 Yon stately arches striding to the sea, 
 
 Yield myriad echoes of that glorious psalm, 
 And chant their grand hosanna to the free. 
 
 The Marian cypress, and the Dorian pine, 
 And lone Soracte’s blue and distant height, 
 Ever reverberate that song divine 
 
 As deepens into noon the orbed Light. 
 i i 
 
82 ROME FROM THE RIPETTA. 
 
 Mazzini! in thy sad and exiled home, 
 Arise! that light sheds aureole on thy brow ; 
 August, yet erring dreamer, o’er thy Rome 
 
 Exulting waves the badge of Freedom now. 
 
 Like Simeon, breathe one deep exulting prayer, 
 And turn with folded hands to yonder dome, 
 ‘Where shines amid: the stars yon cross in air, 
 
 Epiphany of hope to thee and Rome ! 
 
83 ~ 
 
 THE STUDIO. 
 
 FLoat on, thou stately pageant, proud and fair, 
 Float on, in choral beauty, joyous Hours ; 
 
 While to your God the immortal steeds ye bear 
 With festal step and song, and votive wreaths of 
 
 flowers ! 
 
 Revealed in marble, all the wondrous past, 
 Shines here in mythic beauty and no more, 
 To work-day toil and sordid care bound fast— 
 We dream (fond idle dreams !) beside the Elysian 
 
 shore. 
 
 Beauty and courage, ardour tamed by grace, 
 Strength ruled by sweetness ; fiercest energies 
 
 _ Divinely curbed, yet guided on their race,— 
 
 These are not dreams, they emblem great realities ! 
 
84 THE STUDIO. 
 
 Oh fair primeval age! so nigh thy birth, 
 God’s awful Presence brooded ever near, 
 Winged forms angelical still trod the earth, 
 
 Yet musical each star in its harmonious sphere. 
 
 And therefore, heart, and soul, and ear, and eye, 
 - From godlike influence drew life divine, 
 And truth, religion, high philosophy, 
 Made manifest, through sensuous forms, their faith 
 
 benign. 
 
 Not wholly dim the rapture, fled the dream ; 
 We all might speak of visions delicate, 
 Impalpable, o’er which soft haloes gleam 
 To poesy and antique fable dedicate. 
 
 And there live some, who, ’mid the pomp and strife 
 Which men forlorn miscall felicity, 
 Fulfil the mission of a nobler life, 
 
 And give to mortal yearnings immortality. 
 
 Ay, come with me, yon fountain murmurs clear 
 
 Beneath its veil of fern ; and round it bloom, 
 
THE STUDIO. 85 
 
 Lavish of beauty, prodigally fair, 
 Wild flowers, whose purple mocks the o’er-arching 
 
 skies of Rome. 
 
 No pause, but enter, welcome meet is given, 
 
 The pale still Gods look on us grand and calm ; 
 It is the threshold of the Grecian heaven, 
 
 And odorous all the air with asphodel and balm. 
 
 There shine the Hours, serenely sweet, upborne 
 On wingéd speed to hail the lord of light ; 
 Here, grave Aurora, pouring from her urn 
 The soft and fresh’ning dews which part the day 
 
 and night. 
 
 And thou, young Charioteer with looks of fire, 
 What quenchless ardour burns within thine eye, 
 Forgetful in the rush of hot desire, 
 
 “‘ Patient is Genius,” patient God’s eternity ! 
 
 Thy headlong steeds disdain a rule like thine, 
 Their fiery nostrils scent the sun afar ; 
 
 Woe to the hand that would their speed confine, 
 And, mortal, guide through flaming seas the im- 
 
 mortal car! 
 
86 THE STUDIO. 
 
 And lo! where sighing ’neath her Maker’s hand 
 The roseate life, slow stealing through her form 
 
 Her forfeit Godhood ’mid the Olympian band, 
 Discrowned Cythera mourns, with mortal blushes 
 
 warm. 
 
 _ And holiest of these revelations blest, 
 Which have sublimed this visioned solitude, 
 Yon legend of the soul and love, expressed 
 As if fair Psyche’s joy the marble’s self imbued. 
 
 A life’s whole utterance, fully and entire 
 Is here—majestic thoughts which calmly breathe 
 Through Phidian forms—a mind whose subtle fire 
 
 Imperishably glows triumphant over Death ! 
 
 Death sways not, where creative art bestows 
 An infinite success to high endeavour, 
 Harmoniously the circle ebbs and flows, 
 
 In the created the Creator lives for ever. 
 
 But how to win success? by steadfast will, 
 And no vain dalliance with a lofty aim, 
 Patient and strong, relentless to fulfil 
 Purpose invincible, thus earned the palm of Fame ! 
 
THE STUDIO. 87 
 
 ach day a pearl upon a costly shrine, 
 That shrine a consecrated life, all vowed 
 A sacrifice elect to art divine, 
 And worshipped through art’s glorious priesthood 
 to its God ! 
 
88 
 
 THE ANGELS OF LIFE. 
 
 I. 
 
 ProstRatE beside the rock-bound shores of time, 
 Alone, storm-tossed and harbourless, I wept— 
 I wept o’er all the buried wrecks sublime 
 Which in its flood irrevocably slept. 
 
 i 
 
 I heard the footsteps of the bygone years, 
 As slow they passed with chill, relentless eyes, 
 And with a shuddering awe, amid my tears, 
 
 The gift each bore away could recognise. 
 
 III. 
 
 Said one—“ I bore thy bloom of health away, 
 I kissed its rose with breath all icy cold ; 
 
 Child of the sun! without its fostering ray, 
 Thy being could not ripen nor unfold. 
 
THE ANGELS OF LIFE. 89 
 
 IV. 
 Stead of the buoyant gush of southern fire, 
 Which should have burnt within thy veins like 
 flame, 
 Trembling and dim and yearning to expire, 
 
 Life’s waning, flickering pulses went and came.” 
 oO?) to) 
 
 Vv. 
 
 “T,” said a voice more stern and cruel yet,— 
 
 “T brought to thee a cup, where lustrous shone 
 The pearl of love, but, ere thy lip was wet, 
 
 I smote thee back, and dashed the goblet down.” 
 
 VI. 
 ** And know’st thou me?” one mocking Phantomsaid; 
 “ Perished with me thy fair aspiring dreams ; 
 The curse of failure by my influence shed 
 
 Baffled in mid career thy ardent schemes.” 
 
 VII. 
 
 Health, love, ambition lost, I could but find 
 
 A crushed,and broken life’s successless years, 
 A solitude of heart, a waste of mind, 
 
 And bitter end of all these bitter tears ! 
 
90 THE ANGELS OF LIFE, 
 
 VIIl. 
 
 ‘“‘T want my Happiness,” I madly cried, 
 
 “Some poor brief joy to gild Fate’s ruthless course; 
 O’er some it flows a lavish bounteous tide : 
 
 O God ! but one—one drop from Thy rich source!” 
 
 IX, 
 
 And, as yet hopelessly I wept, a light 
 Broke on the dun horizon’s lowest verge, 
 
 And o’er its gleaming path fair spirits bright 
 Trod with soft noiseless feet the heaving surge. 
 
 X. 
 
 “We are thy future,” said the gracious band— 
 “ Life’s promised heritage, the best, the last ! ” 
 
 As each advancing footstep touched the strand, 
 Faded the mournful spectres of the past. 
 
 Als 
 
 One kissed my lips with kisses warm and pure— 
 A sweetness without smiles was on her brow ; 
 Each kiss aroused me, I could now endure, 
 
 Accept my grief, and thus resist its blow. 
 
THE ANGELS OF LIFE. 91 
 
 XII. 
 
 “I bring thee Patience,” said the gentle voice, 
 “Thou calledst me Hope when life was in its 
 bloom ; 
 But Hope matured is Patience. Ah, rejoice! 
 ‘Tis thus, where hope despairs, J can o’ercome.”’ 
 
 XII. 
 
 Then with linked hands two seraph forms serene 
 _Approached ; harmoniously their voices flowed ; 
 “ And we,” they said, with hushed and solemn mien, 
 
 “We bring thee Love to man and Faith in God! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 “‘ Instead of earthly passion’s fiery glow, 
 Its transient ecstasy, its wild unrest, 
 Between our torches calm thy life shall flow,” 
 And breathed a blessing on my throbbing breast. 
 
 XV. 
 Dried were my tears, when lo! the fairest, last 
 Filled with her grand maternal form, the space, 
 But darkened by the shade of pinions vast, 
 I saw not yet the glory of her face. 
 
92 THE ANGELS OF LIFE. 
 
 XVI. 
 But as the glittering fleece of spray divides 
 The white wings of the waterfall, and shows 
 The luminous arch o’er which its beauty glides, 
 Slow she unveiled, and beautiful arose. 
 
 $i XVII. 
 
 “ Mortal ! the dream of life I solve for thee,” 
 She spoke, it was a voice without a breath,— 
 
 “Tam the pilot of Eternity— | 
 Thou seekest Happiness, I bring thee Death !” 
 
93 
 
 THE SEVEN CHORDS OF THE LYRE. 
 
 NO, I.—ASPIRATION. 
 
 Ox, would I were yon glorious arch on high— 
 Itself so fair, its promise fairer still! 
 
 God’s gracious message smiling in the sky, 
 
 With love, and hope, and faith all hearts to fill ; 
 And as, where it meets earth, rich jewels gleam, 
 Clear sapphires, kingly rubies, emeralds rare, 
 Would I in death Fame’s sparkling guerdon wear, 
 Fulfilled youth’s aspiration and its dream. 
 
 As fair my hope as yonder prismed hues— 
 
 As brightly, may its aim accomplished shine! 
 Courage and truth and constancy divine, 
 
 The gems in which those lucid rays shall fuse, 
 
 To noble promise, blest fruition given— 
 
 My life a bow which spans both earth and heaven. 
 
94 THE SEVEN CHORDS OF THE LYRE. 
 
 NO. II.—LOVE, 
 
 The night is silent, and the yearning earth 
 
 In breathless stillness keeps expectant state 
 
 (A mortal pregnant with immortal birth), 
 
 Till lo! full statured, calm, inviolate, 
 
 Born in the purple, and crowned Queen, when born, 
 The regnant moon ascends her golden throne ! 
 As paused the earth, so paused my heart forlorn, 
 And yet instinct with mystic prescience, grown 
 From the long travail of my struggling soul, 
 Till, hope consummate, full fruition blest, 
 
 Great love arose, transfiguring the whole 
 
 Of my glad being, which thus finds its rest ! 
 
 Its arid places bloom, its ruins shine, 
 
 As shines the earth, beneath yon orb divine. 
 
 NOS JO 
 
 Oh take me, God, for my life’s cup is full! 
 
 I would to thee the rich libation pour. 
 Sceptred and crowned, do I not tread the shore 
 Of the blest isles —and ere the beautiful 
 Enchanting vision fade, oh let me die 
 
 Wearing the palm of life’s felicity ! 
 
THE SEVEN CHORDS OF THE LYRE. 95 
 
 Let them fear death, who, wearied with long strife, 
 Yet struggle onwards creditors to life, 
 
 For some poor tardy boon which flies their grasp ; 
 But I, with joy’s flush roses on my cheek— 
 
 But I, who hold Love's lilies in my clasp, 
 
 Know full content ; one rose-leaf more would break 
 The fair proportions of my happiness : 
 
 Let death take all, ere life can make it less. 
 
 NOS 1Y.——-DOUBT. 
 
 O’er the “ white wonder” of that orbed breast, 
 Through which the blue luxurious veins seem proud 
 To bear the roseate life, dar’st thow to rest, 
 Malignant asp, more envious than the cloud 
 
 That sears the glories of the summer sky, 
 
 And brings foul tempests where was golden calm? 
 More envious and more stern, clouds break and die, 
 And tempests pass, but thou, amid the balm, 
 
 And joy and perfume of that soft domain, 
 Defeaturing all its beauty doth remain, 
 
 And taintest with thy sharp envenomed power 
 That life’s sweet pride, till life itself be o’er! 
 
 So stings this doubt which pierces through my heart, 
 And wars with love, till love itself depart. 
 
96 THE SEVEN CHORDS OF THE LYRE. 
 
 NO. VY. —SORROW. 
 
 If trampled grass gives perfume ; if the bowl 
 Must be well broken ere the wine can flow ; 
 
 From the abysses of this storm-tossed soul, 
 
 From this my destiny’s last mortal blow, 
 
 _From sobs, and sighs, and agonies of tears, 
 
 From tortured life, and happiness forborne, 
 
 The utter ruin of my youth’s lost years, 
 
 And from the bitter present’s strife forlorn, 
 
 The future’s terror and the past’s despair ; 
 
 And from this crushed and grief-wrung heart I dare 
 To call on thee, O God! Let others bring 
 
 Their love, obedience, faith, as offering : 
 
 I lay my sorrows prostrate at thy feet. 
 
 Avenging God! to Thee bruised flowers are sweet. 
 
 NO. VI.—ENDURANCE. 
 
 Wild heart, be still! From yon lone mount, a star 
 Looks singly forth on the dark world. Art thou 
 Less brave? To thee thy fears and sorrow are 
 
 As night to yon bright orb; yet is its brow 
 Radiant and calm, as when amid the joy 
 
 Of the young earth its light flashed forth from God! 
 
THE SEVEN CHORDS OF THE LYRE. 97 
 
 Can summer suns, or gentle moons alloy 
 
 The immemorial woe to which art vowed, 
 
 O cypress-tree? Yet dost thou sternly bear 
 Thy mournful doom, and with a brave despair 
 Droop’st not, albeit no smiles of vernal spring 
 To thy funereal crown new light can bring, 
 Lo! these bear up ’gainst Fate a steadfast war ; 
 Am I less noble than the tree or star ? 
 
 NO. VII.—FAITH. 
 
 Yet more, life’s music holdeth more than these, 
 Endurance and submission, more, far more ; 
 There is a golden chord whose harmonies 
 Have deeper echoes ; strike that chord and soar 
 Through faith o’er sorrow ; we may struggle yet, 
 And with grief’s arméd angel we may strive, 
 But faith shall win the blessing He can give ; 
 Our lips will smile, although our eyes are wet, 
 Till we life’s earnest mystery have solved ; 
 And then, weak heart, that in thy joy sought death, 
 Now that the varied circle has revolved, 
 Know that the soul which breathes immortal breath, 
 Stronger than joy, stronger than grief, must be, 
 And trample both, to reach, O God to Thee ! 
 
 ‘ | 
 
98 
 
 THE WRECKED. LIFE. 
 
 Tue burning heart of red autumnal woods,— 
 The flushing pomp of sunset skies—a blaze 
 
 Of fierce, wild, hurrying fire, as when upbursts 
 Some city’s conflagration, ’mid the hush 
 
 And darkness of the night—commingled flame 
 Of still pale glories and of lurid light— 
 
 So gorgeous, magical, and strangely fair 
 
 That lady’s face ! 
 
 None read the meaning of its smiles, and none 
 Could trace the passionate and haunting grief 
 Which wrote its sad defeature on her brow, 
 And hollowed out the opal arch whence shone 
 Inviolate the sorrows of her eyes. 
 
 Sometimes a thought like a warm Afric wind, 
 Which with its breath makes vermeil tardy blooms, 
 Hid from the sun in lone Sicilian vales, 
 
 Would redden o’er her cheek, then all too soon 
 The shadows darkened and the glow died out— 
 
THE WRECKED LIFE. 99 
 
 And a pale phantom of a perfect face, 
 
 Set lips, stern nostrils, and a white, cold cheek 
 
 Alone remained ! 
 
 Her smile, it was so rare and marvellous, 
 
 And so became the mouth which palaced it, 
 
 That the proud curve became a gracious type, 
 
 Indelible in death—its radiance flashed 
 
 All Paradise upon me once ; and when 
 
 Long years had passed away, and the fine brow, 
 
 And the large eyes (dark violets, sweet but sad,) 
 
 Were empty sockets, and the veined pearl 
 
 Of the transparent flesh was ashes, dust— 
 
 I recognised the parted line of that rare liip— 
 
 Its matchless sweetness, now left desolate, 
 
 And barren evermore of smiles, 
 
 Dost ask me wherefore she did smile or weep ? 
 
 Know’st thou, O curious Questioner of Hearts, 
 
 That memories of balmy, vernal woods 
 
 Live in the Frost-King’s thought, when with froze 
 breath, 
 
 And icy touch, he traces o’er the panes, 
 
 _ In crystal characters, white mystic boughs, 
 
 With delicatest foliage, plumy sprays, 
 
 And all the tender secrets of the spring? 
 
100 THE WRECKED LIFE. 
 
 Or wherefore was she sad? Vain fool! dost know 
 The dark archangel, whose vast wings do sweep 
 Between the sea and sky, unseen by man, 
 Yet leaves his mighty shadow on the wave, 
 Which, like a great soul conscious of a fate, 
 And darkened by an omen, all ignore, 
 
 - Accepts, but shudders at the prophecy? 
 None knew her, but all felt who saw her once 
 That this was Beauty—that their lives henceforth, 
 Their daily lives, were richer by this boon. 
 The eye which dwelt upon her gracious shape,— 
 The ear which listened to her rich, sweet voice,— 
 The senses, ravished by the soft perfume 
 Which hung around her,—did accept the gift, 
 As wondering beggars do receive rich alms, 
 With benedictions merged in ecstasy. 
 Some lives are like rare missals, golden-clasped, 
 And ruby-bound ;—but open them, and read. 
 Within are pictured bleeding agonies 
 And expiations, struggles, martyrdoms, 
 All blazoned on the dainty vellum page. 
 And some, all luminous unto the eye, 
 Are in themselves lone, cold, and dark ;—without 
 Glorious as that Archangel who does stand 
 
THE WRECKED LIFE. 101 
 
 Facing the east, the sunset on his wings, 
 
 _ Exalt o’er Rome,—within, impassive bronze. 
 
 And there are some whose sorrows give them palms; 
 
 Others, whose passion is of shame—who, ’stead 
 
 Of saintly aureole must wear a brand, 
 
 A stigma ineffaceable and drear, 
 
 In expiation of Ancestral wrong. 
 
 Whate’er it was—the burden of the heart 
 
 Which bled to death within that lady’s breast 
 
 Remained for aye a solemn mystery. 
 
 She had no commune with the outer world ; 
 
 But once some hurried, sudden tidings,came— 
 
 A few brief words writ on a mourning scroll : 
 
 She read with breathless, fevered haste, then rose, 
 
 And tore off from her slender hand a ring, 
 
 So hastily the soft fair skin was grazed. 
 
 She smiled—a bitter, sad, self-pitying smile— 
 
 ** The link has chafed me deeper here,” she said, 
 
 And smote her breast—‘“ Free—free—too late—my 
 God ! 
 
 A life-long sorrow, and a life-deep wrong, 
 
 For the blind error of a girl’s vain choice— 
 
 Is this thy law—is this thy justice—God ?” 
 
 And one large, heavy tear dropped slowly down, 
 
102 THE WRECKED LIFE. 
 
 (What argosies of hope that tear o’erwhelmed !) 
 
 And the eyes closed to prison back the tears 
 
 She would not shed ; then all was calm again— 
 
 A plenitude of hopeless, lifeless calm— 
 
 As when, amid the desert, where stood tents 
 _Only a heap of blank grey ashes tells 
 
 That life, and joy, and being have been there. 
 
 Beside her casement for long hours she sate ; 
 
 It opened on brown, russet prairies, where 
 
 The tawny harvest spread its burnished sea. 
 
 She watched it as it rippled into gold, 
 
 Stirred by light winds, or slept in yellow flakes 
 
 Of yellow foam beneath the quiet stars. 
 
 Mute, motionless, and resolute, she sate, 
 
 As Rizpah in the time of harvest sate 
 
 Beside the corpses of her murdered sons, 
 
 Through the long, breathless, scorching summer 
 
 days, 
 
 Through sultry nights lit by the Syrian moon, 
 
 Till she outwatched the ravening cruel beasts, 
 
 Who shrank before her eye, fierce with the woe, 
 “The mighty hunger” ne’er to be appeased— 
 The wild forlornness of a mother’s heart— 
 And thus the Lady sate, and sate, and watched, 
 
THE WRECKED LIFE. 103 
 
 Not the stark visage of the unburied dead, 
 
 But by one wrecked, bereaved, and wasted life. 
 The late rose in her bosom mated well 
 
 Its beauty—fragrant flower and soft white breast-— 
 Fach peerless, and so frail—most fair the flower, 
 In its ripe harmony and fate fulfilled, 
 
 And loyal to the death unto its Queen. 
 
 Not so the Lady ;—her sad life was jarred 
 With unaccomplished aims—discordant hopes. 
 She seemed as one to whom Fate owed a debt, 
 One never to be cancelled. Tender ties, 
 
 Sweet charities, and bounteous ministerings, 
 Were not for her. No father’s hand had laid 
 A blessing on her brow ;—no mother’s kiss 
 Was as an amulet about her heart. 
 
 She seemed as if no childhood had been hers,— 
 Like some strong spirit, ever young and fair, 
 But who ignored the clinging weaknesses, 
 
 The debile and pathetic falterings 
 
 Of infancy and childhood. E’en that breast, 
 Which gave such promise, prodigal of love, 
 
 In its magnificent and queenly wave, 
 
 Looked marble cold 3—no little child’s caress 
 Had made it heave with soft, delicious pain, 
 
104 THE WRECKED LIFE. 
 
 As flowed its life to feed another’s life! 
 
 And in the unbroken stillness of her voice, 
 
 Here was no tremulous and yearning tone, 
 
 Such as oft stirs the heart with echoes deep 
 
 Of loving welcomes and heart-wrung farewells! 
 _And since that scroll there was a deeper shade— 
 
 A something of endurance and self-scorn 
 
 Around her—proud endurance blent with shame. 
 
 A chained captive might look thus, if doomed 
 
 To suffer in the presence of afoe. Was this remorse ? 
 
 And with the swan-like plumage and soft down 
 
 Of her pure woman’s heart, was she enforced 
 
 To satiate his serpent-sting? None knew. 
 
 And thus she lived. Perchance this lonely life 
 
 Was not all sorrow ;—none can ever know. 
 
 The stars shine ever brightest unto one 
 
 Beneath whose toiling feet are arid sands. 
 
 The Ghebir’s faith arose in burning wastes. 
 
 And when no flowers bloom round us, or beneath, 
 
 We gaze where piercing and eternal burn 
 
 The gentle lustre of the Sister Stars— 
 
 Steadfast Arcturus, with his solemn brow, 
 
 And armed Orion, with his blood-red sword. 
 
 But suddenly she grew more sad, more pale. 
 
THE WRECKED LIFE. 105 
 
 Was it God’s mercy touched her secret woe, 
 
 And pitied it, and saved her? So she died. 
 
 Alas! 
 
 Hast felt the thrilling and vibrating hush 
 
 When great resolves are born of words sublime 
 
 And promise of heroic deeds, struck out 
 
 From the warm depths of fiery beating hearts, 
 
 Till full the air with guardian angel wings ? 
 
 Hast marked the strange, sweet, fluttering pause 
 which comes 
 
 O’er night’s fast-throbbing pulse—as if the stars, 
 
 All faint with adoration, lapsed in prayer ? 
 
 So, with a darkness pregnant of the ight— 
 
 A silence resonant of music—was 
 
 The sylvan spot she called her home ;—its air | 
 
 Was holy as a place of sanctuary— 
 
 Its empty chambers were instinct and rife - 
 
 With influence from shining Presences, 
 
 Unseen, but felt with earnest, soothing power: 
 
 Her soul had loved it, and still lingered there ! 
 
106 
 
 TO GEORGES SAND 
 
 ON HER INTERVIEW WITH ELIZABETH BARRETT 
 BROWNING. 
 
 Tue late repentance, and the long despair, 
 The sin-bound soul’s fierce struggle to be free, 
 A fettered maniac raging in her lair 
 
 Are thine! 
 
 A life all musical with happy love, 
 
 An angel child who sings beside her knee, 
 
 Pulses which true to heavenly rhythms move, 
 Are hers ! 
 
 Dark hair strained backwards from a forehead broad, 
 Dark eyes, in whose chill light strange secrets live, 
 As in the deep grim monsters watch and ward, 
 
 Are thine! 
 
TO GEORGES SAND. 107 
 
 Soft curls which droop around an oval cheek, 
 Calm brows where holy thought has power to give 
 Transfigured glory to a woman meek, 
 
 Are hers! 
 
 Her childhood smileth still around her mouth— 
 O’er thy white gleaming teeth, thy full lips part— 
 Eager for joys which may renew thy youth ; 
 
 Some brief wild rapture which may cheat, yet warm, 
 Kindling the languor of a hopeless heart. 
 
 With theg life stagnates, or is flashing storm. 
 
 To shapeless horrors thou hast given name, 
 
 And woes, ‘neath which poor tortured hearts had 
 bowed 
 
 And borne till now in trembling patient shame, 
 
 Rose at thy call, and spoke their loud despair, 
 
 And women’s wrongs, like opened graves, avowed 
 
 Their stark foul secrets to the startled air! 
 
 Thou wert Deliverer, but Victim too, 
 
 _ Th’ avenger ever wears the martyr’s palm ; 
 It is the Orestes whom the fiends pursue— 
 Alone to foredoomed Hamlet’s vengeful eyes 
 
108 TO GEORGES SAND. 
 
 (While sleep the murtherous pair in guilty calm) 
 
 The spectre frowns, the boding shadows rise. 
 
 Stern as that voice which in the desert cried 
 Majestic prophecy and mystic woe, 
 
 And poured its warnings o’er the Jordan’s tide— 
 Thou, ’mid the dreary wilderness of life, 
 
 With bleeding feet and burning soul didst go, 
 And flung thyself into th’ arena’s strife. 
 
 Naked and hungered, with what bitter scorn, 
 Banned from sweet charities of earth and sky, 
 By passions and impulsive senses torn, 
 
 At earthly banquets, poisonous yet sweet, 
 Didst thou thy Nature’s ruthless wants supply, 
 Earth’s locusts and its bitter honey eat! 
 
 Like forkéd tongues of fire round blackened wood 
 That leave charred ashes where was glowing flame, . 
 Thy lurid idols made thy heart their food 
 And ruined and consumed it evermore, 
 And powerless now the best beloved name 
 That cold dead heart to kindle or restore. 
 
TO GEORGES SAND. 109 
 
 And therefore wears thy brow its sullen scorn, 
 And therefore glooms thy large prophetic eye, 
 And in thy song are cadences forlorn, 
 
 Which blend their sighs with lingering echoes fine 
 Of thrilling sweetness, yet of agony— 
 
 Grand revelations, utterances divine. 
 
 Not thus her song. The seraph chorus bowed 
 And leant entranced from jasper thrones to hear 
 A mortal’s voice so nigh the throne of God. 
 
 Its rich Hellenic harmonies had power 
 
 Of wide reverberation far and near. 
 
 A woman’s witness to her God they bore! 
 
 Amid the world’s wild roar, that tender song, 
 Throughout its jarring discords heard between, 
 Rung out heroic protest against wrong. 
 
 Where coward souls had recklessly despaired, 
 That dove-like heart with fortitude serene 
 
 Through Sorrow’s whelming flood victorious dared, 
 
 And won Faith’s vernal promise ; glowing words 
 
 Revealed eternal hopes, and music fraught 
 
110 TO GEORGES SAND. 
 
 Ravished the silences with sweet accords. 
 Upon her lips the altar’s living coal 
 
 With cherub glories circled mortal thought, 
 And birth consummate stirred within her soul. 
 
 Genius, God-born, full filled its worshipper, 
 
 And flowed God-voiced, as flows the sacred river, 
 Through holy places ever and for ever ! 
 
 Mild guardian angels smiled above her head, 
 
 And round her hearth their shelt’ring pinions spread, 
 And o’er that face beloved a halo shed! 
 
 She came !—the tumult of thy soul subsided, 
 
 As erst beside the Gate called Beautiful, 
 
 A shining Angel o’er the waters glided. 
 
 Lo! the dark stream became a fountain blessed— 
 So did her presence all thy being lull, 
 
 As to thy lip that purest lip was pressed. 
 
 Thy genius to her stainless genius knelt, 
 And with pathetic reverential awe 
 
 The holiness of womanhood was felt 
 
 Deep in thy soul; to thee, she was a shrine 
 
TO GEORGES SAND. 111 
 
 Of sanctuary—ainexorable law— 
 The earthly human won to God’s divine ! 
 
 Ah! by that healing kiss, be thou assoiled ! 
 
 The radiant Twins whose joys in Heaven are shown 
 (The Mortal and Immortal), thus uncoiled 
 
 The death-doom which was long the curse of One, 
 She, by that love which pressed to thine embrace, 
 By her own star-crowned soul has claimed thy place. 
 
MESMERISM. 
 A DEATH-BED CONFESSION. 
 
 I. 
 
 ’Twas here we met that eve; the harvest moon 
 Shone steadfast, large and bright. 
 
 Warm pulses stirred the air, as in mid-noon ; 
 A joy filled all the night. 
 
 But chill my heart with boding gloom 
 
 When we three met in this dark room. 
 
 II. 
 
 ’T was here she sate ; her long luxuriant hair 
 A silver crescent bound, 
 
 (A crescent such as Roman women wear ;) 
 One soft thick curl unwound 
 
 Hung down her neck its loose bright fold ; 
 Ah! dainty ivory and gold. 
 
MESMERISM. 113 
 
 III. 
 
 How fair! her long, dark lashes drooping low 
 Half veiled her downcast eyes ; 
 
 But I could read upon her virgin brow 
 A terror, a surprise, 
 
 As if she felt, poor, fragile flower, 
 
 The awful menace of that hour! 
 
 IV. 
 
 My flower! she ever seemed as one who bloomed 
 For angels, not for earth. 
 
 Pathetic sweetness, as of one foredoomed, 
 Hung round her, from her birth. 
 
 In that fair form there seemed a strife, 
 
 A struggle as ’twixt Death and Life. 
 
 Ve 
 
 I hoped to conquer Death and thought at last 
 Through strong magnetic aid 
 To wrestle with the languor which had cast 
 
 . O’er that sweet brow its shade ; 
 
 To save that Life, I would have given 
 
 All peace on earth, all joy in heaven !' 
 H 
 
114 MESMERISM. 
 
 NI. 
 
 I sent for one, whose Art most strangely swayed 
 Both mind and body’s health, 
 
 And with a fevered hope I sought his aid, 
 And offered untold wealth 
 
 If his magnetic power could save 
 
 My cherished blossom from the grave. 
 
 VII. 
 
 He came. Think you it was no pang to bring 
 This serpent to my Eve? 
 
 Each day some sweet familiar joy took wing 
 And yet I dared not grieve. 
 
 He said no influence must be 
 
 Between them—and I left them free. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 I yielded for a time; I saw she gained 
 Something of tender bloom, 
 
 A deeper sweetness o’er her beauty reigned, 
 A delicate perfume 
 
 Of graceful health ; ‘One trial more,” 
 
 I sighed, “and then this task is o'er.” 
 
MESMERISM. 115 
 
 IX. 
 
 I must be brief !—’twas here we met, I said 
 (Methinks I see them still), 
 
 For the last time. She sate with drooping head 
 And he gazed on her; will 
 
 And power in that dark eye intense— 
 
 His heart all ice, his love all sense. 
 
 xX. 
 
 I had borne much. This time, as ’twas the last, 
 He seemed. resolved to strain, 
 
 Beyond all pangs through which I yet had passed, 
 My jealous, maddened pain. 
 
 With a voluptuous sensuousness 
 
 His fingers lingered o’er each tress. 
 
 aI. 
 
 He touched her hand, he bent above her brow, 
 Her neck, her limbs; the whole 
 
 Of that fair body ’neath his will did bow; 
 
 _ He seemed to sway her soul. 
 
 No quivering lyre could yield as much 
 
 Obedience to its master’s touch. 
 
116 MESMERISM. 
 
 XII. 
 
 I watched him well. I saw as once he waved 
 Above her head his hands, 
 
 That flames fell from them ; once I madly braved 
 His resolute commands, 
 
 And rushed towards her,—God ! to see 
 
 Her turn to him—fo him / from me. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 I strove to speak, my voice seemed weak and strange ; 
 Thick foam was on my lips— 
 
 “Pause, pause,” I said ; I saw her features change 
 As when a black eclipse 
 
 Makes void the sky of the great Sun . . . 
 
 ‘‘’Tis o’er,” he said, “my work is done.” 
 
 XIV. 
 
 He touched her hand, “ Do I now hold thee, sweet ? 
 Thow’rt mine by spirit might— 
 
 Then come with me.” She rose upon her feet 
 Out—out into the night. 
 
 I followed swift her gliding tread, 
 
 Poor angel! by a demon led. 
 
MESMERISM. 117 
 
 XV. 
 
 As drowning men a lifetime’s former sin, 
 Without a break or flaw, 
 
 Recall at once, all bare and clear within, 
 I felt, I heard, I saw, 
 
 But neither word nor sign allowed. 
 
 I followed, bound as in my shroud, 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Through my old hall; its banners stirred 
 As moved by a strong wind, 
 
 Yet as we passed no sound, no step was heard ; 
 The burnished shields which lined 
 
 The walls were lit as with a flame, 
 
 -And clashed together as we came ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Through the arched porch its gloom a warning shed ; 
 But that pale form shone white 
 
 Before me, and those snowy robes outspread. 
 
 - I followed through the night. 
 
 My bloodhounds knew as well, yet why 
 
 Howled they so loud as we passed by 2 
 
118 MESMERISM. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Among her flowers,—they slept ’mid dew and balm, 
 Nature’s deep heart was still— 
 
 Our triple shadow blent with the soft calm 
 An element of ill. 
 
 From some dim cloud, as we went past, 
 
 Large sudden drops were o’er them cast. 
 
 X1X. 
 
 Beside our lake, which ’neath its cedars slept 
 (I tell thee ’twas no dream), 
 
 A lurid ripple o’er its surface crept, 
 A wan phosphoric gleam, 
 
 And through the gleam an upturned face 
 
 4 : 
 Of mocking menace I could trace ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 Through the oak wood its branches closed and 
 spread 
 Between us and the sky— 
 But on, still on, he never turned his head, 
 Nor spoke, and she, led by 
 Blind instinct, her own footsteps laid 
 In every footprint his had made ! 
 
MESMERISM. 119 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Upwards we strained through the brief August night, 
 Far, far we onward sped. 
 
 The round moon long had set, the morning’s light 
 Flamed o’er us wild and red— 
 
 Until on yon accursed hill 
 
 She, he, and I at length stood still. 
 
 | XXIL 
 ‘«T’ve done my work, and now I bid thee speak.” 
 Instant at his command, 
 With faint low gasp for words she seemed to seek. 
 He fiercely raised his hand— 
 And then I saw the pale lips stirred, 
 But a faint murmur all I heard. 
 
 XXIII. 
 “« Nay, strive not, swerve not, thou art mine, my 
 sweet ; | 
 
 Forget thy waking pride.” 
 She fell before him, clasping low his feet 
 
 And prostrate at his side; 
 Her long fair hair, all loose unwound, 
 Like angel’s wings shone on the ground. 
 
120 MESMERISM. 
 
 XXIY. 
 
 “Tell him thou lovest me.” A wild, dumb strife, 
 A deep emotion stole 
 
 O’er that wan face. ‘“T’ve given your statue life, 
 Your fair Undine a soul.” 
 
 (Was that the wind’s low piercing moan, 
 
 Or broke her heart in that faint groan ?) 
 
 XXV. 
 
 He turned to me, “I tell thee, she is mine, 
 We love, and we are young ; 
 
 No other hand shall draw a song divine 
 From the sweet lute I strung ; 
 
 My creature ! whom I snatched from death ! 
 
 My Eve! born of my very breath ! 
 
 XXVi. 
 
 “‘Canst thou not see I’ve drawn from thine her heart, 
 Each pulse and each desire ? 
 
 Her very life is of my life a part, 
 Bound by a chord of fire ; 
 
 Sprung from the joy of our embrace, 
 
 Earth yet shall see a nobler race ! 
 
MESMERISM. 121 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 “ For aye divorced from thee. Speak not; one word 
 Would wake her—and she dies. 
 
 One word from thee would pierce—a sword ; 
 Yet make the sacrifice 
 
 If thou wouldst win her !—Death will free, 
 
 And Death alone, her bond to me.” 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 “¢ Awake!” My voice like the last trumpet pealed. 
 She started wild, and dim, 
 
 She looked around, and all was then revealed. 
 She turned from me to him. 
 
 All, all, in that one look she read. 
 
 One sob—Who said that she was dead ? 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Yes! dead. The ermine lives not when its robe 
 Receives some soiling stain ; 
 
 And poison breaks clear glass. I dare not probe 
 The madness of that pain. 
 
 I raised her in my arms, I bore 
 
 Her home with frantic speed—no more! 
 
22 MESMERISM. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 It was my work. He warned me, yet I spoke. 
 Mine all the guilt, the pain. 
 
 I tell you ’twas my voice, my voice which broke 
 Her sleep’s magnetic chain. 
 
 It was thus planned by him to add 
 
 A pang—oh no, I am not mad! 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 In vain. I will not think of him. I bore 
 Her home, my arms close round 
 
 That pallid form, while from her lips gushed o’er 
 Her blood upon the ground. 
 
 He loved her—knew she was my bride ; 
 
 Lost thus to him. Enough, she died ! 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 That dull, dead sound—that broken heart that burst, 
 O’ercharged as it had been 
 
 By that strange life—and he with skill accursed 
 The end had all foreseen— 
 
 That plashing sound, I hear it yet, 
 
 Still with that stain my lips are wet! 
 
MESMERISM. 123 
 
 XXXII. 
 That dull, dead sound—those drops tracked all the 
 path 
 (I see it in the night). 
 I reached the porch, my hounds with fierce loud wrath 
 Flew out ; but as the light 
 _ Fell on my face, they crouched and whined, 
 And I fell speechless, senseless, blind. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 They bore us here. So tight was my death-clasp, 
 They could not loose my hold 
 
 That day, that night. At length, freed from my grasp, 
 They bore her stark and cold . 
 
 Sometimes it seems but yesterday— 
 
 Sometimes . . . . . I know not what I say. 
 
 Bex. 
 No strength for grief? did I say that? am I 
 The finite—infinite— 
 Not made for heaven nor hell? Yon starry sky 
 Doth hold both day and night. 
 All depths of woe or bliss to scan, 
 
 God made in His own image man. 
 
124 MESMERISM. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 ‘Restored in heaven ! an angel with her palm, 
 But not my child—my bride. 
 
 Speak, man of God! can heaven this anguish calm, 
 That on my heart, she died ? 
 
 Alas! alas! the bliss foregone 
 
 Will pierce my heart before God’s throne. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Seraph ! with thy serene immortal eyes ! 
 Not thee, not thee I seek. 
 
 I miss the little hand, the low replies, 
 The golden hair, the cheek, 
 
 With its faint rose blush . . . yes, I rave 
 
 Of life, and yonder.is her grave ! 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 You tell me, Preacher, patience conquers grief. 
 Am I not patient? see, 
 
 Am I not calm? when have I sought relief 
 I bear my misery 
 
 Without a tear, with scarce a sigh, 
 
 My sole impatience—that I die 
 
MESMERISM. . 125 
 
 XXXIX,. 
 
 How could I live? She’s dead—and thus I know 
 That all of life but breath 
 
 Has died with me. Is death escape? Ohno! 
 As life is, so is death. , 
 
 Here ’tis but sorrow—there ’tis hell. 
 
 I was foredoomed—I know it well— 
 
 XL. 
 
 Here and hereafter—still—yes, still to bear 
 A grief undying —vast— 
 
 To love—to lose . . . The Future’s dread despair 
 Equals the anguished Past. 
 
 In that calm heaven by angels trod 
 
126 
 
 MY MONOGRAM. 
 
 WRITTEN IN ROME, JAN. 7TH, 1867. 
 
 I. 
 
 CrroLes of love and of pleasure, 
 Barred by a cross of flame, 
 Unite, and divide, and measure 
 
 The letters which form my name. 
 
 II. 
 
 The symbols are full and complete, 
 Separate yet merged in the whole; 
 
 As life’s bitter is blended with sweet, 
 So the light and the dark in this scroll. 
 
 IIT. 
 
 In my fate has been sunshine and joy, 
 
 Fair triumphs to heart and to brain ; 
 
MY MONOGRAM. ey 
 
 But the good has had ever alloy, 
 And each pleasure was marred by a pain. 
 
 IV. 
 And all was confused, and I knew 
 Neither how to renounce nor aspire, 
 Till my soul had unravelled the clue, 
 And this truth was burned in it with fire. 
 
 Vv. 
 
 Through yearning, fruition, and loss, 
 To make duty my goal and my aim, 
 As the circles are held in the cross ! 
 
 My life’s motto is writ in my name. 
 
128 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 Ie 
 
 In her golden chamber— 
 Golden with the sun— 
 Where the roses clamber 
 
 Breathless, one by one ; 
 
 16% 
 
 (O’er her casement creeping 
 With their lavish grace, 
 Through her lattice peeping 
 
 At her happy face,) 
 
 Ill. 
 
 Sitteth fairest Alice 
 Bending calmly there ; 
 Roses, bear no malice, 
 
 Ye are not so fair. 
 
ALICE. 129 
 
 IV. 
 
 Bending o’er her missal, 
 Alice sitteth there ; 
 Shamrock, rose, and thistle, 
 
 Carved in jewels rare, 
 
 Ve 
 
 Clasp the velvet cover, 
 With a rare device ; 
 Scrolls are blazoned over 
 
 Gold and azure dyes. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Argent angels flying, 
 Peacock’s eyes and wings, 
 
 Martyrs bravely dying, 
 Quaint and lovely things. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Rubies red, and glowing 
 Pearls and emerald sheaves— 
 Sapphire rivers flowing, 
 
 Glitter through the leaves. 
 I 
 
130 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 I, a page, a servant, 
 Alice as a queen © 
 
 At my love so fervent 
 Smiles, with pride serene. 
 
 1D.&, 
 
 All my love, my passion— 
 All myself I give, 
 True to ancient fashion, 
 
 Loving while I live. 
 
 Xx. 
 
 Claiming nought from Alice, 
 Knowing love is vain ; 
 Wine poured from a chalice 
 
 Flows not back again. 
 
 XI. 
 
 True love is a treasure 
 Sacred and divine ; 
 Without stint or measure 
 
 Cast upon a shrine. 
 
ALICE. Tol 
 
 XII, 
 
 Alice is an altar 
 Flaming with my love, 
 Where my prayers I falter 
 As to heaven above. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Kneeling low before her, 
 livery pulse and breath 
 
 Asks but to adore her, 
 Faithful unto death. 
 
132 
 
 TO DEAR OLD BUSHIE, FROM ONE 
 WHO LOVED HER. 
 
 I. 
 
 Mucu loving and much loved, dare I 
 With my weak faltering praise 
 Record thy pure fidelity, 
 Thy patient loving ways: 
 
 Il. 
 Thy wistful, eager, gasping sighs, 
 Our sullen sense to reach ; 
 The solemn meanings of thine eyes, 
 
 More clear than uttered speech : 
 
 Lil: 
 Thy silent sympathy with tears, 
 Thy joy our joys to share, 
 In weal and woe through all these years 
 
 Our treasure and our care: 
 
TO: DEAR OLD BUSHIE. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thy dumb adoring gratitude, 
 Noble, yet tender too, 
 Respondent to each varied mood, 
 
 Not human, but more true ? 
 
 V. 
 
 They say we are not kin to thee, 
 Thy race unlike our own,— 
 
 Oh that our human friends could be 
 Like thee, thou faithful one! 
 
 VI. 
 
 The wondrous privilege of love, 
 Love perfect and entire, 
 Was thine, true heart ; to nought above 
 
 Can human hearts aspire ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 From all our lives, some faith, some trust, 
 With thy dear life is o’er ; 
 A lifelong love lies in thy dust ; 
 
 Can human grave hide more ? 
 
 133 
 
134 
 
 “CHARLES DICKENS IS DEAD.” 
 JUNE 9TH. 
 
 Re 
 
 A pay inJune! With sunshine sweet 
 Our English air was filled that day ; 
 Around, the yet green unripe wheat 
 
 In plenteous vernal furrows lay. 
 
 IT, 
 
 The apples hung upon the boughs— 
 Its sheath no filbert yet had burst ; 
 Unmown the lawns, but in the house 
 Our noblest fruit was plucked the first. 
 
 ITI. 
 
 Our crowning sheaf, so full, so fair, 
 Which, slowly mellowing, stately stood, 
 
‘CHARLES DICKENS IS DEAD.” 135 
 
 Cut down and bound, lay garnered there, 
 A priceless harvest claimed by God. 
 
 IV. 
 
 O mystery of futile breath ! 
 A sob, a gasp, a hurried sigh ; 
 O mystery of sudden death! 
 How dare we live? how dare we die? 
 
 Vv. 
 
 Grey Abbey, ‘neath thy storied spires 
 This consecrated dust enshrine ; 
 
 Peal out the welcome of thy choirs, 
 Open for him thy gates divine. 
 
 VE, 
 
 Something of sweetness, pathos, mirth, 
 . With him from all our lives is gone ; 
 A light has faded from each hearth ; 
 
 - Our household words have lost a tone. 
 
 VII. 
 
 _ Amongst us men he stood a man 
 
 Of quicker pulses, larger brains ; 
 
136 “‘ CHARLES DICKENS IS DEAD.” 
 
 But well he knew the red blood ran 
 Alike in all our hearts and veins. 
 
 Vill, 
 
 And ’tis for this the nations weep 
 
 The genius which both worlds had spanned ; 
 Star follows star, deep calls to deep— 
 
 Thou second Shakespeare of our land! 
 
 IX. 
 
 Thou art immortal in that tongue, 
 The speech of north and east and west, 
 Where spoken word and written song 
 
 Our race’s Saxon rule attest. 
 
 Ae 
 
 Grey Abbey! open wide thy gate ; 
 One treasure more we bring to thee, 
 In trust, supreme, inviolate, 
 
 Our love his immortality. 
 
137 
 
 DIALOGUE BETWEEN TWO FRIENDS. 
 
 First FRIEND. 
 ae 
 
 Tue sharp regret, the gnawing pain, 
 The dumb and helpless sense of grief, 
 The struggle which we feel is vain, 
 The tears which never give relief 
 _ Though still they flow ; 
 The restless longing and the fear, 
 Desiring most what most we dread, 
 The frenzied cries when none can hear, 
 Wild tossings on a sleepless bed,-—— 
 All these I know. 
 But they are past ; you see me stand 
 Free from regret, from fear, surprise ; 
 My hand lies calmly in her hand, 
 I falter not in my replies, 
 
138 
 
 DIALOGUE BETWEEN TWO FRIENDS. 
 
 And stern and cold 
 
 My eyes meet hers. Their fatal blue 
 
 Has no more power to search me through. 
 That tale is told. 
 
 II, 
 
 I can withstand her smile. My heart, 
 Which leapt if she but shone afar, 
 Sees her without a thrill or start, 
 Unmoved as frozen billows are, 
 When calm they lie 
 All stark and hushed beneath the moon, 
 No longer swayed by her soft breath, 
 Locked in a dark impassive swoon, 
 The rolling tides are still as death. 
 I hear her sigh, 
 And no wild tumult of the soul 
 Doth cast me prostrate at her feet ; 
 No spirit tempests o’er me roll, 
 And no delirium, sad yet sweet, 
 Now holds me fast. 
 The joy, the passion, and the fever, 
 Are dead for ever and for ever. 
 The dream is past. 
 
DIALOGUE BETWEEN TWO FRIENDS. 139 
 
 Kil. 
 
 I feel as feels a shipwrecked man 
 Swimming the waves for life’s dear sake. 
 I yield up all; the ocean can 
 Each joy, each costly treasure take, 
 So life be won. 
 I yield my Tyrian merchandise— 
 Those argosies of hope which give 
 Life to man’s life, and I arise 
 Naked, forlorn ; but yet I live, 
 And shall live on. 
 You see, my friend, I have o’ercome. 
 There is no weakness in this breast. 
 Vainly you'd stir the void for some 
 Old feeling which it once possessed. 
 And yet—and yet— 
 Must I not see her once again, 
 If but to prove by cold disdain 
 That I forget? 
 
 LV. 
 
 That I have read her through and through, 
 Indifferent to those queenly charms ; 
 
140 DIALOGUE BETWEEN TWO FRIENDS. 
 
 That I resist, and triumph too— 
 Ah! but to hold her in these arms, 
 And clasp her close ; 
 And by the strong magnetic force 
 Of love, full-statured and complete, 
 Draw her to me, as to its source, 
 The sun, is drawn volcanic heat! 
 To gaze on those 
 | Wild, mystic, and unfathomed eyes, 
 The witchery of that changeful mouth, 
 The blond hair falling angel-wise, 
 The tender bloom, the glorious youth, 
 As when, O God! 
 I was the fond and foolish slave, 
 Who perished by her cruel scorn, 
 Whose heart found in her heart its grave, 
 On whose crushed faith and love upborne 
 She lightly trod 
 To reach some other heart less sad, 
 With more of sunshine, less of cloud. 
 Some love, I know, and yet are glad ; 
 
 Some wear its purple, some its shroud : 
 
DIALOGUE BETWEEN TWO FRIENDS. 
 
 But I will prove, 
 By all this bitter sense of wrong, 
 By this deep hatred, fierce and strong 
 
 SECOND FRIEND. 
 
 That still you love. 
 
 141 
 
142 
 
 ON THE ITALIAN COLOURS BEING 
 REPLACED ON THE PALAZZO VECCHIO. 
 
 Ui 
 
 O’rR the old tower, like bright flame curled, 
 Which leapeth sudden to the sky, 
 Its emblem hues all wide unfurled, 
 
 Upsprings the flag of Italy. 
 
 II. 
 
 Its emblem hues! the brave blood shed, 
 The true life-blood by heroes given, 
 The green palms of the martyred dead, 
 
 The snowy robes they wear in heaven! 
 
 III. 
 
 These colours all high hearts must bear ; 
 They tell of courage, truth, and faith, 
 The heart to know, to will, to dare, 
 The threefold life which o’ercomes death. 
 
ON THE ITALIAN COLOURS, 143 
 
 IV. 
 
 The death which tyrants deemed held fast 
 The lands o’er which their armies trod, 
 
 Hath no more power; the grave is past. 
 A living people bless Thee, God. 
 
 v. 
 Freed from the yoke of alien kings, 
 The nations wake to life and breath ; 
 
 Th’ immortal from the mortal springs, 
 ‘Out of the body of that death.” 
 
 VI. 
 
 No sepulchres can freedom hold. 
 ’Tis life ; and life o’er death must rise. 
 Glad bells ring out in triumph bold ; 
 
 Wave, flag of freedom, to the skies ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 My Florence, which so fair doth lie, 
 A dream of beauty at my feet, 
 
 While smiles above that dappled sky, 
 While glows around that ripening wheat. 
 
144 ON THE ITALIAN COLOURS. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 As fair, as shining, and as bright 
 Art thou as she we hear came down 
 From heaven in bridal robes of white, 
 Thy New Jerusalem, St John. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And like hers, too, a promise stands 
 In this great victory won by thee, 
 
 A hope to all the yearning lands, 
 Witness and pledge to Italy. 
 
145 
 
 THE SEASONS IN ITALY. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 Te 
 
 A BREBZELESS flutter in the air, 
 A murmured warbling in the ear, 
 A sense of gladness everywhere, 
 
 Of brooding wings which hover near. 
 
 pe 
 
 A pulse which thrills, a hope which wakes, 
 As youth and hope and love grow strong, 
 As each hushed rill its silence breaks 
 
 And stirs the woodland into song. 
 
 Ii. 
 
 A voice which whispers, Spring is born, 
 In tender buddings of the leaves, 
 K 
 
146 THE SEASONS 1N ITALY—SPRING. 
 
 The rustle of the young green corn, 
 
 Rich promise of its golden sheaves. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A full vibration, as of bells 
 Which echo sweetly o’er the earth, 
 And bear through furthest loveliest dells 
 The message of the violet’s birth. 
 
 Vi 
 
 All this I feel, all this I hear ; 
 
 Without the world is fair and bright ; 
 Within each bitter falling tear 
 
 Reveals how dark my winter night. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Frozen and dead, poor heart of mine! 
 Canst thou not melt? must thou still sigh ? 
 Nor wreathe the rose, nor drink the wine, 
 Nor put thy mourning garments by? °* 
 
 VII. 
 
 Alas! for thee earth’s joys are vain ; 
 
 Alas! for thee earth’s spring is o’er ; 
 
THE SEASONS IN ITALY—WINTER. 147 
 
 For thee no bird shall sing again, 
 
 The vernal year shall bloom no more. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Thou hast no part in earth’s bright things ; 
 Thy tale is told, thy course is run. 
 
 Ah! without love life knows no springs ; 
 Ah! without love life feels no sun. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 Te 
 
 Oh my pale December roses, 
 Pale and faint, yet sweet and fair ; 
 Would that when life’s autumn closes, 
 
 I such dying smiles may wear! 
 
 Il. 
 
 Oh how still the wintry sky ! 
 Blue, wide depths, so pure and cold. 
 O’er the hills dim vapours lie, 
 
 Snow in every fleecy fold. 
 
148 
 
 THE SEASONS IN ITALY—WINTER. 
 
 III. 
 
 Silent are the ice-bound streams, 
 All the forest bare and drear. 
 Youth is dead, with all its dreams, 
 
 Voiceless, leafless, like the year. 
 
 Os 
 
 Do I weep that May is past? 
 Do I mourn no summer glow, 
 Nor its crimson roses, cast 
 
 Love and life upon thy brow ? 
 
 V. 
 
 Oh my pale December roses, 
 _ More I prize your faithful bloom, 
 Shedding fragrance, ere it closes, 
 
 On my life’s dejected gloom! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Hope deceived me; love is over 
 Life is fading in my breast. 
 
 Roses, let your blossoms cover 
 Lonely tomb and peaceful rest ! 
 
149 
 
 A LOVE POEM. 
 
 ROSAMOND. 
 
 I. 
 
 Ox what a golden swarm of dreams 
 Came to my couch last night, 
 
 And hovered o’er me with their gleams 
 Of soft and mystic light, 
 
 And sucked the sweetness of my sleep 
 Through long and quick’ning hours ! 
 
 Then left me dewless, rifled, spent, 
 
 As satiate bees leave flowers. 
 
 Tr 
 
 O pillow! to thy spell when I 
 Had yielded up my soul, 
 On magic wings o’er earth and sky 
 
 I flew where yonder roll 
 
150 
 
 A LOVE POEM. 
 
 The waters of that fatal sea, 
 Whose surges heave beside, 
 And lave with ceaseless, wailing tears, 
 
 The tomb where sleeps my bride. 
 
 II. 
 
 O couch! whereon I sought my rest, 
 Grief-bowed and passion-worn, 
 
 Soon as my limbs thy folds had pressed, 
 In spirit was I borne 
 
 At once, from that dark grave, to heaven ! 
 Then pardoned, free I trod, 
 
 And knelt amid the ransomed ones 
 With her I loved, to God! 
 
 IV. 
 
 It was so sweet that, even in dreams, 
 I knew the dream was vain. 
 
 Too soon, I said, the morning beams 
 Will bring back grief again. 
 
 (For dreams are gems which only shine, 
 Illusive, on Night’s brow ;— 
 
 O’er Day’s pure forehead, clear and bright, 
 
 Such jewels may not glow.) 
 
A LOVE POEM. 151 
 
 Vie 
 
 And then this wearied, baffled life, 
 With struggle rent and torn, 
 
 Must needs resume its toil and strife 
 With the bereaving morn. 
 
 And beckoning palms, and argent wings, 
 And bowers of asphodel, 
 
 Will change to sands and dreary wastes, 
 
 And welcomes, to farewells. 
 
 Vi, 
 
 Yet still I slept ; and then, as stars 
 That faintly, one by one, 
 
 Expectant, hushed, look through cloud-bars 
 At the departing sun ;— 
 
 Or roses flushed with crimson bloom, 
 Mature, perfumed, complete, 
 
 Drop in their places garland-wise 
 
 Around a trellised seat ; 
 
 Vit; 
 
 Incarnate in fair shapes of light, 
 
 The hopes of my glad prime 
 
152 
 
 A LOVE POEM, 
 
 Appeared, as seraph faces bright, 
 Circling an arch sublime. 
 
 A godlike mystery arose 
 Within my ’wildered brain, 
 
 Still deepening, as a ringer’s chime 
 Vibrates and peals again. 
 
 EET 
 
 And there, upheld, made manifest, 
 In all that pomp of light— 
 Wert thou, my loved, my lost, my best, 
 In angel vesture white 3 
 Like a Madonna cherub-bound, 
 My rose ! I saw thee stand, 
 The halo on thy virgin brow, 
 The lily in thy hand. 
 
 LX: 
 
 O my beloved! was this a sign, 
 A symbol that in thee 
 
 My life should merge, and, blent with thine, 
 Thy love its guerdon be 2 
 
 That all the longing infinite, 
 The future, present, past, 
 
A LOVE POEM. 153 
 
 Should tend through every stage of life 
 To thee, its first, its last ? 
 
 ke 
 
 Since that primeval moment, when 
 From discord God’s own breath 
 Evoked one concord, perfect then 
 Of Love, and Life, and Death, 
 Till now, I know I found thee not 
 In my long drought of heart ; 
 And, found too late, our lives but met 
 
 To sever and to part. 
 
 XI. 
 
 But yet was I made man for this, 
 For this that Cross was mine. 
 
 The mortal failed to reach his bliss, 
 Not so shall the Divine! 
 
 And yet—and yet—my human love 
 Still vainly, fondly sighs ; 
 
 I pine to touch thy hand, thy cheek, 
 To kiss thy lips, thine eyes. 
 
154 
 
 A LOVE POEM. 
 
 XII. 
 
 To clasp thee closer, close to press 
 The glory of thy hair, 
 
 To watch thy blushing loveliness 
 When I proclaim thee fair. . 
 
 Alas! how vain to long, to yearn ! 
 How impotent, Desire ! 
 
 An angel waves. a sword which girds 
 My Paradise with fire ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And—Death the angel, Life the sword— 
 Thy Death, my Life, must be 
 
 Both vanquished, ere I claim, Adored ! 
 My Eden lost, in thee! 
 
155 
 
 A ROMAN STREET. 
 
 HDs 
 
 TRANCED in the languid joy of summer noon, 
 In dreamy calm, I gazed upon the street, 
 All hushed and still beneath the fervid heat. 
 
 II. 
 
 Fast throbbed around the deep full heart of June, 
 As with a halo shone transfigured all 
 O’er which the lidless eye of heaven did fall. 
 
 ITT. 
 
 The fountain glistened as an orient stream, 
 Each frowning house and sordid wall was bright, 
 Baptised in beauty by that golden light. 
 
 IV. 
 But with more burnished splendour fell its beam 
 On yon majestic column vast and prone, 
 
 Relic sublime of glorious empires gone! 
 
156 A ROMAN STREET. 
 
 V. 
 Their memory returned. I seemed to hear 
 
 Once more, the tread of arméd hosts—glad cries— 
 
 Barbaric triumphs, clashing victories ! 
 
 Vi. 
 
 But soon the vision fled, for crawling near 
 A skulking spy on vilest task intent, 
 Passed by, with roving looks and visage bent. 
 
 VII. 
 Cowled and barefooted noiselessly then crept 
 
 A bearded monk, with drowsy leering air, 
 
 Fingering his beads and muttering his prayer. 
 
 VIII. 
 Beyond, crouched near the fountain, prostrate slept 
 A beggar lad; pathetic ’mid his torn 
 
 And abject rags a crimson rose was worn. 
 
 IX. 
 And still a shadow of the Roman pride, 
 A stateliness ’mid sorrow, I could trace, 
 
 Though soiled and crushed, on his defeatured face. 
 
A ROMAN STREET. 157 
 
 xX; 
 
 “ The beggar, priest, and spy, dare these,” I sighed, 
 “ Wear with unblushing front the Roman name 
 
 And claim as theirs, this heritage of fame ? 
 
 Xl. 
 
 ** Type of their faith, yon droning monk—their law, 
 The spy—and for a people, yon poor slave, 
 Bankrupt in all life’s gifts but one, the grave.” 
 
 x1, 
 I felt the iron in my soul—I saw 
 No more the radiance that but now had been ; 
 
 The heart’s content had vanished from the scene. 
 
 XII. 
 I looked around, the glowing air unstirred 
 
 O’er all a naked truth revealing cast, 
 And mocked the Present mirrored in the Past. 
 
 XIV. 
 And was this all? Ah, no! for like a bird, 
 Bright winged within its cage, I saw a flower 
 Which o’er barred casements twined its sumptuous 
 
 dower, 
 
158 A ROMAN STREET. 
 
 Ry, 
 Diaphanous, with lucent leaves outspread, 
 
 And soft pale bloom as if the light and air 
 Their gentlest, tenderest hues had mingled there. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Its fair transparent beauty round it shed 
 A virgin consecration and a grace 
 As if a ray of God illumed the place. 
 
 XVIL. 
 Docile to law divine this gracious bloom, 
 Profusely fragrant smiled ; its being flowed 
 
 In mute unconscious sympathy with God. 
 
 XVIII. 
 Though mean its birthplace and its home, 
 (I looked around) they could not mar nor shade 
 That azure breast as Heaven itself arrayed ! 
 
 KIX: 
 Pliant, uncramped, unthwarted, fetterless, 
 Responsive to its Maker’s will it grew, 
 And airs of Paradise around it blew. 
 
A ROMAN STREET. 159 
 
 XX, 
 
 No fresher brighter loveliness could bless 
 The eyes of Eve in Eden’s primal hours, 
 When, fairest flower, she trod a world of flowers. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Glad grew my heart ; again all nature smiled, 
 And soothed, as by maternal fond endeavour, 
 
 The sadness of my spirit fled for ever. 
 
 XXII. 
 God! who thus vivifiedst this undefiled 
 
 And holy blossom which so pure and sweet 
 
 Untainted blushes in the noisome street, 
 
 XXII, 
 
 Shed Thou some germ which in these hearts debased 
 May yield new life, regenerate and expand, 
 
 And grow to fulness to redeem their land! 
 
 XXIV. 
 Sprung from that fragile bud, on pinions vast 
 A mighty mission rose, a promise spoke, 
 
 And o’er dark clouds effulgent morning woke. 
 
160 ; A ROMAN STREET. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 A glorious message in its leaves I read, 
 As from that Bush whose fire divinely glowed, 
 * And burned in one great heart the Will of God. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 That thus a trampled people should be freed— 
 O God! what dreams of Freedom seemed to roll 
 With that high thought, like thunders o’er my soul! 
 
A PORTRAIT FROM MEMORY. 
 
 1868. 
 
 A PERSIAN princess, tall and fair, 
 With lustrous lengths of amber hair, 
 A lovely, tender, small child’s face, 
 
 A floating step, a queenly grace, 
 
 A lily robe, all striped and barred 
 With lines of gold, and diapered 
 
 With black, as once Venetian dames 
 Wore, and yet wear, within the frames 
 Of Bonifazio, Tintoret, 
 
 And glorious Titian (jewels set 
 
 On palace walls within that shrine 
 Vowed to Thalassa the Divine, 
 
 Which men call Venice); two grey eyes, 
 With liquid, subtle, flatteries 
 
 For all they look on; frank, serene, 
 
 Pure from all grief, or care, or sin ; 
 L 
 
162 A PORTRAIT FROM MEMORY. 
 
 For grief will dim, sin leaves a stain 
 Which brightest eyes must still retain : 
 But hers are cloudless, clear, and bright, 
 
 Like angel eyes, all love, all light. 
 
 A rosy fan hung from her wrist 
 
 (A white flower by a loory kissed), 
 
 And round her fair throat’s graceful curve 
 Were coral beads, whose hue might serve 
 To match the full ips—ripe and sweet. 
 So noble, perfect, and complete 
 
 Her beauty ; yet she wears it calm, 
 
 As queens their crown, as saints their palm. 
 
 Such was the vision once I saw— 
 
 Peerless, without a fleck or flaw, 
 
 ’Mid blossoms faint and trembling trees 
 
 All fluttering in the soft south breeze. 
 
 The passionate air breathed forth desire, 
 Adoring nature glowed with fire, 
 
 And love weighed down the drooping flowers, 
 And murmured through the birdfull bowers. 
 Its pulse was felt as sunbeams came 
 
 And scorched the garden as with flame. 
 
A PORTRAIT FROM MEMORY. 163 
 
 And love thrilled each young worshipper 
 Who then vowed life and soul to her. 
 
 Hers was the bounty but to be, 
 That which all hearts rejoiced to see ; 
 The largess hers, but ours the boon ; 
 As when o’er earth the fair proud moon 
 Shines with her soft resplendent face, 
 A benediction and a grace 
 
 Enrich our lives; the liberal skies 
 - Thus gladden with bright stars our eyes ; 
 Thus choicest gifts are granted free ; 
 Thus beauty is God’s charity. 
 
164 
 
 DEFEATED. 
 
 1. 
 
 OQ circtine hills! O murmuring stream! 
 Q moon! so fair and round and bright, 
 Rising as softly as a dream, 
 
 Born in the silence of the night. 
 
 II, 
 
 What rapture in the glittering air! 
 What chords of joy in lyres divine! 
 What peace and gladness everywhere, 
 
 Save in this weary heart of mine! 
 
 LUT. 
 
 In every field the corn is cut, 
 And stands in goodly yellow sheaves : 
 And ripe the kernel in each nut, 
 And lined with seed the fern’s green leaves. 
 
DEFEATED. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But harvestless my barren land, 
 My hazel boughs are bare and sere ; 
 No hand clasps yearningly my hand, 
 My empty life is chill and drear. 
 
 V. 
 
 O my lost youth! could I reclaim 
 One fragment of its wasted powers, 
 Redeem the loss, rekindle flame 
 
 From ashes spent, from faded flowers, 
 
 VI. 
 
 I would yet struggle, toil, and strive, 
 And raise my soaring hopes on high ; 
 And if I failed to nobly live, 
 
 Thou, thou shouldst watch me bravely die. 
 
 Wire 
 
 But all is vain ; and vainer still 
 
 To seek to stay life’s parting breath. 
 O heart, submit! surrender, will! 
 
 Who can resist. the embrace of death ? 
 
166 
 
 DEFEATED. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 This final sorrow is the worst ; 
 
 For courage, youth, and pride are gone. 
 I cannot face grief as at first, 
 
 Defy its sting, and tread it down. 
 
 ie 
 Yet fight I must—I dare not yield ; 
 The clarions blow, the lists are set ; 
 This broken heart, the battle-field 
 Where love its leaguered foes has met. 
 
 Xs 
 
 Defeat is sure ; the treacherous past 
 Cripples my arm and pierces sore ; 
 
 Ghost follows ghost, until the last 
 Looks with thine eyes, and all is o’er. 
 
 PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH. 
 
2 SE Ue ay 
 
 This book is due at the WALTER R. DAVIS. LIBRARY on 
 the last date stamped under “‘Date Due.” If not on‘hold it 
 may be renewed by bringing it to the library. 
 
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