THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA DIALECTIC AND PHILANTHROPIC SOCIETIES PR482I . I 62 1889 Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2019 with funding from University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill https://archive.org/details/poemssketchessonOOirwi POEMS, SKETCHES, AND SONGS, BY THOMAS CAULFIELD IRWIN, Author of -‘Songs and Romances,” “Poems,” “ Versicle3.” ‘•Winter and Summer Storiev” ‘‘Pictures and Songs,” &c.. &c. — ♦ mwn : M. H. GILL & SON, 50 UPPER SACKVILLE STREET. 1889. \ <20J<ITEJ<IT Guess,” I said to the Rose . , , , i' Idylic Echoes . . . . .2 Dream . . . . . .3 Angelo in the Alps . , . . .4 The Last Sibyl . . . . .8 The Fairies’ Home . . . . .23 Among the Spanish Hills . . . .32 Tones . . . . . .35 Yew Trees . . . . . .36 A Child’s Pastoral . . . . .40 A Window Song . . . . .44 A Lowland Picture . . . . .46 Old Walks and Old Scenes . . . .54 The Palace of Dreams . . . . .57 A Portrait Sketch in Tar . . . .74 Song :—Growing Young . . . . .78 Song at a Cottage Door . . . . .82 Maiden and Sailor—A Ballad . . . .85 My Boat and Sycamore Tree . . . .80 Song—Grape Harvest on the Loire . * .90 Musings . . . . . .93 At a Window . . . . . . 96 Old Summer . . . . . .97 The Simple Soul . . . . .98 Kirjath Sepher’s Well ..... 109 The Old River Revisited . . . .110 A Visit from My Muse . . . .113 Winter Scenes and Musings—The Birds at Christmas . ,116 Under The Torrent ..... 121 Dutch Pictures ..... 123 Foreign Night Rambles . . . • .125 A Glimpse of Egypt ..... 127 A Character ...... 129 The Last Glimpse ..... 131 VI. CONTENTS. Pago In Galilee ... • • . 133 Late Autumn in a Suburb .... 137 By the Fireside with a Sweet Song Book . . , 139 A Grey Dawn ...... 141 Sonnet—Could we before our Souls keep constantly . . 142 The Course of Life ..... 142 Clouds . ..... 143 The Birds in Winter ..... 144 Evil and Ignorance . . . , . 145 Love ...... 146 Paris: 1794 ...... 146 Little Lura ...... 156 Song of a Druidess ..... 165 The Cross of Coolock . . . . . 167 Fancies During Beading Rambles—Babylon . . , 173 An Old Ballad Tale of the Freuch Channel . . . 175 Song by the Christmas Fire .... 184 Song—Clear was the mild March Eve . . . 188 Sketches and Songs . . . . .189 Song of Spring ..... 190 Summer . ..... 191 A Summer Song ..... 191 Windy Dusk ...... 194 A Winter Song ..... 195 Song of a Summer Day ..... 196 Fancy’s Frolic—A Child Bevel .... 197 Hesperian Vales ..... 206 Ballad Pictures—An Old Irish Scene . . . 211 A Sail to a Statue ..... 214 Calliroe—An Hellenic Ballad .... 220 The Woodman ..... 224 A Day Dream ..... 225 Intelligence ...... 228 Scenery of the Seasons: Spring .... 230 Frosty and Fine Days ..... 234 Summer Time—An Idylic Sketch .... 236 Sunday Walks ...... 240 October Dusk . . . . . .24 5 Winter ...... 246 A Christmas Song ..... 247 POEMS. SONG. I. “ Guess,” I said to the Rose, Pure as the April snows, “ For whom I pull thee, sweet ?” “ For one I know that’s dear; Upon whose maiden breast, Tenderly placed, Fll hear Her say, ‘ He loves me best,’ In its delighted beat.” n. •“ Guess,” to the Cup with red Wine brimming bright, I said, “ For whom I fill thee, sweet ?’ “ For one whose lip outvies My hue and all beside, As glow the evening skies, On you and your young bride, After your walk through the wheat. B 2 IDY LIU ECHOES. III. “ Guess ”—when a year was o’er— To the pure Spring by the shore, “ For whom I brim this vase ?” “ For a dear little son On his baptismal day, Who yet by me will run, And with my grasses play Among my viewless fays.” IDYLIC ECHOES. First Voice. Sweet when, the winter past, the earth grows fair In seed time ; when upon the shelving share Of the late used plough Arcturus shines, And spring stars view the buds upon the vines. Second Voice. Sweet are the apples that bloom among the corn fields yellow, The fragrant flowers of the vine that yield to the grape grown mellow; And under amber noon clouds, and piles of vapours sunny, The evergreen oaks o’er hives of dewy, delicious honey. DREAM. 3 Third Voice. Through rosy, withering twilight Vesper’s star Guides weary wings to well-known nests afar ; And thus Life’s ageing years with each day’s end. After the sunken sun fatigued tend Toward the dear bed that in the dusk of home Awaits them ; where peace beckons through the gloom To pillows wreathed with sere leaves, once in bloom, And Rest—time’s happy prelude to the tomb. DREAM- Across an antre lonely as the poles, In dark I wander, far from earthly things, Wishing to meet with death to give me wings To waft my soul amid yon skies of souls; And from some aged sea, in twilight dim, Hear strange words murmuring round the horizon’s rim. Dead silence, hollow dark for leagues around ; While far away in shadows of the west I hear the dim winds roaming as in quest Of phantoms straying from their buryal mound ; Then o’er dark hills through muffling mountain cloud, The ghostly moon comes wandering in her shroud. 4 AXQELO IN THE ALPS. Now sombre echoes of the thunder-shock From some dead world came o’er the unseen sea, And seemed in the blind dark searching for me, Till in black Ethiop night one shining rock Gushed waters pure, like high souled thoughts secure, That through the darkness of all doom endure. And while a gloomy storm from the profound Arisen sudden, widened on the waste, Still strengthened me from heights eternal based, Though caught in billows of tempest from the ground, And swept from land, where only round me lay Shoreless expanses of aged ocean grey. ANGELO IN THE ALPS. Mind, to conceive great things, must live alone, As God is, when somewhere in His infinite home, He meditates another universe : Even the human artist on this earth, Of infinite perfectness contemplative, Feels, too, the need of total solitude: And hence it was that Angelo once left His noisy city and companionships A while to live with his sole self alone, And the ideal of a grand design— ANGELO IN THE ALPS. ♦ 5 A group colossal of old Gods, which he .Purposed to image and mould in marble white : And in a rude hut under the mighty Alps, With them and winter’s presence stern, abode, And with the vastness, with the eternal powers Of matter’s hugest forms, and of all space, Felt happy and at home. Night had long fallen, As by the group which he had turned to shape He stood :—his helmet, of which he had made A lamp, masking in gloom his earnest brow, Shed its clear light on mighty countenances And forms and attitudes austere and calm;— Olympian majesties beauteous as the clouds Throned o’er the dawns of summer, white, supreme; Or those of storm on sombre evenings Seen in the obscure spaces of the West, When winter desolates a dying world, Blank, sad, deject, and mute in hopelessness, Beneath the wildering winds’s insensate cold, And agents pitiless of invisible powers ; Clouds, o’er whose brows, in seeming dim consult, One fierce-eyed star, their genius, reigns from space. 6 ANGELO IN THE ALPS. Thus, in the solitary midnight, he, The artist, from his lamp-lit brow surveys His work, and with inspired touch corrects Some outline to complete perfection. Then, doffing his old helmet, in a nook Of shadow places it, and looks awhile From the hut’s window on the scene without,— Above, where the stupendous world-wave heaves Over the earth to the high air and stars Its snows impassable with chasms profound— Fantastic rocks, cliffs with grotesque profiles, Like those of agencies of primeval Time Ere life with love appeared upon this globe : Who, dying in their work thus left the mould Of their last effort—forces of the depth, Fire-born, unlike the imagery of the sun : Some blockish-fronted, stooped o’er an abyss, As stupified with its monotony, Jutted against the low, round, rising moon, Whose silver edged the chasm’s black awesome line; Some hump-backed, Alpine incubi enorm; Sharp-visaged as the north wind; giants, some Erect, or prostrate stretched, portentous and huge, Serrated all the foreground ; but on high The immeasurable fields and slopes of snow ANGELO IN THE ALES. Spaced, and pure peaks in icy altitude Serene, or vaguely gleamed : the ice wind came by; Unfrequently the snow-fall from some height Flapped, and fell with its snow-thunder sound; Or on the ear the creaky, glassy strain Of moving ice tinkled in harmony With some star’s straining sparkle. At intervals The pine woods’ wailing stirred the upper air— Rock-rooted woods that seemed to yearn for rest— Till silence closed each melancholy moan— Sole language of the mighty mountain world Whose solitude mingled with immensity. Awhile the artist gazed upon the scene, Whose images blent with his creative trance— Materials whence imagination Could fuse or shape in dreams, or waking moods, Their impress and their spirit, in some form Human, mighty, austere, or sad, whose look And attitude embodied somewhat of The potencies of the primeval world. Then, with a brief prayer to the Divine, and Power Infinite, Who foresees the purposed end In the beginning of His work—he stretched Close wrapped, on straw sheaves from the sunny plain <s THE LAST SYBIL. Beneath, for rest, beside his group of Gods— The while one star refreshed his closing eyes— Exalt and calm as one whose thought conceived,. Sleeps at the basis of his pyramid. THE LAST SIBYL. In the lone desert’s silent plains there rose In early time a palace-temple vast, Circled by shadowy colonnades and towers, Thick as a cedared forest, starward sprung. In the wide distance of the waste it lay Like some volcanic isle of the gray main, Seen by the sad-eyed courseless mariner, Hastening through untried regions, when the sun Stares wild and flaming through the evening skies.. Around it for some space the earth was rich, Bright watered, and embowered in ancient trees : There flowers and herbs of rarest virtue grew, Breathing their mystic powers to the faint winds Nightly above it had the star hosts rolled For years innumerate as they; the sun Blazed down on its uncrumbled battlements The large moon scattered intermingling shadows THE LAST SIBYL. 9* Amid its towers, and cleft its outer walls In light and gloom with a slant sword of beams. Long races dusky cheeked and ebon browed Had perished and were tombless now ; great cities Reared by the hands of giants against Time Were ashes; still this changeless mansion rose High, lone, and mighty in the solitude. Though o’er the noon-lit waste the dazzling sky, As though ’twere mirroring the sheeny sands Round to the far horizon floating flamed, Still o’er this magic mansion, and amid Its clustering woods and fountains, the calm air Drew dulcet breath as the spice winds that fan The brow of eastern summer. Lonely morn, Rose-footed, tripped adown the crescent hills, And through its tendrilled casements softly passed, Filling the chambers with her amber light ; Solemn and fair the region round it showed ; Clear wound a slow bright water through the green Of woodland arches, where in autumn fell The round large fruitage on the wandering wave That washed its walls and mirrored on its calm This silent, splendid, melancholy pile, Mystic and lone as some grand spirit-house 10 THE LAST SIBYL. In a bright star, forlorn and desolate. There oft upon some far sky-piercing peak Strange forms of beauty to a mortal eye, Furled sonorously their fleet wings of Are After some comet-crossed tempestuous flight; Ofttimes at eve when the dusk air was still The rushing sound of spirits stirred the trees, Like moonlight waters faintly murmuring; Some straining off on level van adown The slant of earth, scattering in radiant flight Th’ horizon’s furled clouds, remotely winged Their shining course, like suns to their bright death ; Sometimes a spirit pale with weary voyage Across the vague and worldless infinite Touched on some mountain—like a setting moon ; And oft, twixt eve and midnight, vengeful forms Swept through the sounding darkness, when the light Was low, and dim the land, save where one rock, Remote above the plain, with waters streamed. Within a mighty hall, cupola’d, vast, Pillared with marble shafts innumerable, Spaced like a shadowy subterranean world, Or hollow cloud realm hovering o’er the pole By the cold moon unfrequent tenanted. THE LAST SIBYL. 11 Its sombre walls with signs inscrutable Were carved, and through its many chambers peered The sad stars journeying weary to their rest. Books of strange character lay scattered round, Written upon the palms of mystic leaves, Which, ages back, were plucked by magian’s hands From stream banks, where lone angels sat and gazed Upon their homes reflected from the blue : There nitched in marble deep recess there lay One opened scroll, and near a lamp of gems And various corals formed, shed o’er the page Its bud of silver light. A single sign Upon the aged leaf alone was graved, One mystic word in hieroglyphic dim, Which ne’er was uttered to a mortal’s ear, Though often had its sound unbarred the gates Of distant worlds : while by it lay a shell Filled with the juices of a long lost plant, Of which one potent drop unchained the soul From dust, and would preserve the body pure From age to age wrapped in a soulless sleep. As heavy sunk the globe of gold—above The sunset spread a desert of strange shapes; lake lions some, with fronts of waving fire, 12 THE LAST SIBYL. Stood in the yawn of mighty cavern clouds ; While some like leopards, spotted fierce with storm, Lay stretched along the blaze, and pawed the air :— A moment—and in ribs of gorgeous mist Dissevered all, and in vague shreds dislimbed, Drifted ; and as the evening fell were massed In the gray haze line o’er the yellow void. Within this chamber of strange imagery, Beneath the lustrous hush of starry skies, Near to an open oreal, on a couch, Lay, statue-still, a form of woman fair, Breathless, but instinct with a pulseless life. Her limbs were wrapped in robes majestical, Her eyes seemed closed for ever, and the mouth, Of intense beauty, slept in a deep smile, Such as oft dwells upon the lips of the dead— The last impression the rap’d spirit gives To the fond clay, on its first sight of heaven. The clear high brow seemed breathing light: ’twasxola And spiritual as some summit of snow Lit by the midnight stars or winter moon, And like a river flowing dark beneath Through phantom shadows streamed her ebon hair. Her years no soul could guess ; her face seemed formed THE LAST SIBYL. 13 To vary never with the varying time ; Her visible aspect seemed the changeless mould Of a divinity, breathless and eterne. The sun was yet beneath the eastern mountains, That strode far back to ocean, and along The pallor of the faint cold iron dawn, Vast clouds uncouth, half seen and vague in shape, Like the lost monsters of the early earth, Swam duskly. Sudden through the pulseless air Arose a murmurous stir. As the moon set, Some spell around the far horizon’s verge Rung syllabled in thunder ; a vague sound, Like rushing wind swept through the tranced dark ; The woodland stirred, tire wakened herbage moved As though the dawn had come; and a clear s r ar From the blue zenith shot a crescent flight, And o’er the glimmering palace pinnacles Vanished in music. And o’er that statue form A light as of a rising star has come ; A breath has stirred the lips, and the rare eyes, Dark with their meaning of unuttered lore, 14 THE LAST SIBYL. Have opened; she has risen from her couch, A shape of power, beauteous, majestical, With earnest purpose in her brow and mien ; Lo ! as amid the still dark air she moves Atoward the glimmering oreal niche, where rests On altar stone the sign inscrutable ; Her footsteps’ sound crossing the vasty hall, Though light, in shudders stirs the startled walls. And high ascending through the thinning gloom. Whisperingly echoes through its many domes ; Then from her presence the dark air around In living stillness of expectancy, Enchanted lists—for since the Sibyl breathed A hundred varying centuries have rolled. A while, within the solemn casement’s light She stands, and from her lonely desert isle Looks on the night and infinite heavens calm. Through the clear clime the starry spaces shone In dark blue brightness o’er dawn’s sapphire’s streak, Making a mystic twilight o’er the world, Upon whose waste the fire of distant suns Fell redly, shadowing the sands, for thence So near the nearest sphere revolving seemed Viewed through the magic, tranquil atmosphere, THE LAST SIBYL. 15 That each disclosed dini' tracts of hill and sea ; And o’er each disk the nights and days of space Passed dialled—mighty century-seasoned orbs— Huge stormy worlds moved, rolled in belted clouds— Suns glowed with many coloured flaming skies, While many, dim with infinite time appearred Girth with cold snow stars on the skirt of space. As round her reigns the hush of gentle skies, Amid the stillness breathes she, the blue shadows Of wavering night crossing her upturned face— Now looking on the future as an orb Shadowed but bright’ning, and as bending now Over the mystic scroll encharactered In the sweet solemn language of a star Still shining o’er the great trees darkling dome— While through her cheek th’ excited spirit blood Plays, like deep flushings of the twilight air, Her utterance breaks the calm, the while her eyes Shine rapturing with rich imaginings. Sibyl Vision- “ Through space, world peopled, thronged with wondrous souls, Crossed by th’ alternate days and nights of time, Through lights and shadows immense of planets vast l(j THE LAST SIBYL. Dialing the periods of infinity— On wings of power, God given, have I soared, And tracked creation from its elements, Thundering in mass confused, seething in flame, And quivering strong beneath the new born will That swayed its tracts to shape with might supreme, And soothed each fire mass into harmony • Even to the desolate shore, whose awful sea Of infinite darkness silently retreats Before new bursting suns and circling worlds, In fear and wrapped in prayer the while, I’ve sailed— Now wandering o’er some new formed globe whose plains Lay drear, uncreatured yet, and round whose sphere Thick tempests gathering nightly o’er the sea Smothered its dawn in darkness, roofing out For epochs desolate, the genial beams— Now gloom-bewildered through some frightful chasm Coursed by the sighing wrecks of ancient worlds, Sad realms of silence and of darkness thick, Whose dying sun, muffled in cloud and smoke, Three parts extinct, still flickered a weak beam Fitful and red across infinity. Thence travelling nearer to the heart of light I’ve coasted great orbs, measureless and grand. THE LAST SIBYL. 17 Sailing along in vast and glorious skies, That on great axis ponderously revolve With mighty movement round their central sphere, Once for earth’s thousand years ; majestic realms Peopled with souls of love and power, happy In goodness, the great race who live with God, Seeing Him through perfection late achieved Through thousand changes, through a thousand worlds Each bright’ning toward the empyrean throne, Among them three great spheres I visited, Each elder than the other and more fair. The first a desolate planet, dark and lorn, O’ergrown with mighty herbage—where a sea, As yet uncrossed by spirit, tempest riven, Round giant shores rolled its chaotic waves— Where mountain ranges spouted still with fire— Where monsters, many and huge, on foot and wing, Wide shadowing the ground, gambolled uncouth— Here browsing, as they crushed through giant woods Their paths ; while hungry forms followed through air Their prey, or shouldered through the turbid sea. Inland great realms extended, where the sun Unblinded by the surging ocean clouds Flamed upon flashing streams and forests green. c 18 THE LAST SIBYL. There dwelt a mortal race, savage and strong, Wanderers, wild hunters of their daily food, Who, ever weaponed with the spear and bow, Followed the savage to his inmost haunt, And tracked the monsters to their bone-strewn caves. Erect, with majesty, like the wild tree, Fearless of mortal foe, encountering The beasts with passions terrible as theirs, Lordly they strode—kings of the savage earth ; Who knelt each morn unto the mighty sun Or southern star that brings the summer skies, Uttering rude thanks for their joy-bearing beams, From altar fires kindled with rarest woods, High pinnacled on grassy mountain top, But when the thunder trampling the mid air, Or earthquake, frequent then, tore through the ground, Toppling huge rocks adown the mountain sides, This race, so fearless to the fronting foe, Fell to the earth, embracing the dull soil, While some, the oldest and the wisest there, With deep, propitiatory prayers addressed The terrible spirit, and promised incense feasts Of rarest things, for many an eve and morn, If he allay his just, his dreadful wrath. THE LAST SIBYL. lf> Next in gradations circumstantial, I’ve viewed mankind from savage life progress, Age after age, to civilisation ; From low-browed forms familiar with the beasts, And scarce above them, levelled by the fierce Surrounding terrors of dread nature, to Shapes dowered with thought and hence with freedom, who Led ’mid their flocks a life contemjolative, And through experience rendered more secure. Then viewed I cities built, religions formed, Commodity exchanged, land joined to land, And shore to shore by ship and caravan ; Huge empires, Indian, Babylonian, And Roman, for a space supremely tower, And perish, because based upon mere force, Or on ideas partial, false, without Hold in utility, unity, and truth, Tending to universal permanence. An aged earth in ruins, and a new World of barbaric nature in the west Discovered, and in European lands The great mind-harvest growing more and more With ardent incremence. Yet still this earth Is but a crescent sphere, half lit with dawn. 20 THE LAST SIBYL. Southward and east still reigns the gloomy past, Its stationary empires, and its life Of superstition, darkness, and of war ; There dominates the spirit of ancient man, Whose sceptre was the sword, who knew not yet To conquer Being with a brand of light, Making the vanquished strong for evermore. In sense-life lags the sunny sultaned east, And many a realm, ruled by climatic law, Stern as the everlasting winter’s frost, Long bore all barren to themselves and God, A waste of simple souls—until the trump Blown by th’ emancipating seraph, Thought, Shall roll immortal echoes o’er the lands, And Light and Law look down from orient suns... Yet while awaiting morning they shall lie, Lo ! on the world’s sea verge, northward away, Shadowed by rolling cloud-rifts from the pole, An Isle shall rear its navy-girdled throne, Towering triumphant o’er the restless main. There shall arise the earth’s progressive race, Spirits of stubborn strength and energy, Adventurous, daring, breathing of the sea. Their mighty thunder brimmed fleets shall awe THE LAST SIBYL. 21 The citadelled harbours of the hoary main ; Their argosies, with world wealth laden deep, Shall circle earth in valiant voyagings, From summer’s seas to winters of the pole, Battling the blinding snow-drifts of. the north, Or heaving heavily on sultry sails, Around the burning sunbelt of the earth. A mighty land shall grow, and from its shores, As from a sun-born, light-diffusing soul, Shall spring a growth of nations, destinied To reign, and reigning, fill the world with peace; Exalted o’er them that she may exalt And raise unto the stature of her power The races wandering on the skirts of night. • • * • Then, as the ages brighten, and the world Rolls toward the central springs of Being, where Glows far and wide the throne of Deity Transcendant ; the progressive soul of man, Fed with the mighty knowledge ages bring, Shall, from the eyes of knowledge, see his God Sowing the infinite waste with spheres of souls ; And rounding to a clear and waneless orb, Whose light reveals the future and the past, At length shall comprehend its destiny. 22 THE LAST SYBIL. Flooded with glory at the vision grand, Exalted, purified, henceforth his eye Fixed on the wondrous height ’tis his to scale, Fraught with great purpose, pure and strong as one Born for a hero of eternity, Through space shall fearless pass from life to life, A minister of power and happiness Unto the helpless race of infant worlds, And unto creatures such as he has been.” As thus she spake, the night broke up, and o’er The glimmering desert rolled a thunder peal, Majestic signal of the heaven’s assent Unto the prophesy, and passed away. • • • • • The dawn revealed the depths of eastern skies, Islands rose-hued, and golden promontories Glowed in the green depths of the aerial sea. It seemed a land of promise in some orb Nearer than this, the throne, to some pure pilgrim Long toiling through its many-houred day, Who, with its light upon his spirit face, Beholds atop its last bright pinnacle, With holy eyes, richly beneath him spread, Some beautous Eden of eternity. THE FAIRIES’ HOME. 23 THE FAIRIES’ HOME. A Child’s Story. i. Lying under a green oak’s shadow, Watching the sunset leaving the meadow, I was aware Of a frolic pair Couched in a cavern up in the bark, Whose laughter chimed on the sunny air, Whose eyes were each a spark, Feasting, the golden moss among, On berries sweet, Red with the heat, And tiny seeds that tickle the tongue ; While at intervals Their cavern walls Echoed while they sung. ii. Looking up, I nodded and bade The sprites “ Good eventime,” and said : “You might invite Me up in the light, To join your revel, good folks, I think.” 24 the fairies’ home. Here, as one held up His cowslip cup; The other bent o’er a green leafs brink, Shaking with laughter clearly heard, Replied, “ Well, come; To you we’re at home— We couldn’t say more if you were a bird.” iii. Then I climbed a branch of the great green tree, And along it stretched, so that I could see, And be quite near Those comrades dear In their cosy nook in the glow of the West; On which both chimed in a jubilant “ cheer,” And welcomed me their guest. Two other sprites, employed the while— One feeding a poor Old bee, he bore (Lamed while crossing a twilight stile); One with a sick Cricket, whose tick Waxed weak—both nodded to me with a smile. THE FAIRIES’ HOME. 25 IV. Well, a snugger spot was ne’er-a-where seen Than that wherein they dwelt, I ween ! Its roof was a dome Woven with broom, Fretted with insect work, and neat; The hearth at the end was the work of a gnome, And the smell of the place was simple and sweet; Couches of yellow and crispy leaves Spread by the brown Walls, mixed with down, With curtains such as the spider weaves ; Doors, too, kept it warm When came a storm, Or the cold white clouds of Winter eves. v. We had chatted awhile in the sunset’s gold, On matters joyous and manifold— Of the soft little Moth Who had pledged her troth To a foreign lover, whose lovely wing Had wafted him up from the Summer South, And how the Gnat was to make the ring When who should look in at the entrance there, 26 THE FAIRIES’ HOME. In a friendly way, But a sparrow gray, From town—who had been taking the air— And a kindly thrush, From a neighbouring bush, Who was noted for miles for his music rare. VI. “ Step in,” said the Fays, “ and take a perch— Behold ! you haven’t far to search.” On which both dipped Their heads, and slipped, Bright-eyed, upon the chamber floor, Where ears of corn, gathered that morn, And rows of field flowers, dewy-lipped, And thistle-seeds in plenteous store, Were heaped beside beech kernels sweet; Leaves upon which Lay honey rich, That made the sparrow cry, “ Weet-weet-weet!”' A strawberry flecked, Red-apple pecked, And a rubious cherry for a treat. THE EAlKIES HOME. 27 VII. As the birds enjoyed their evening meal, I heard the distant town bells peal Beyond the wood, Where sunset’s flood Was westering toward the azure bay, From whose bright sands, O’er the evening lands, Came the cry of the sea-gulls, far away; By the shoulder of the slate-grey hill The sun’s gold rim Edged down ; and dim The valley grew, and all was still, Save the woogle faint Of the river, and, quaint As the whirr of a bat, the burr of the mill. VIII. As it dusked, some Insect, with humble head, Entered the fairies’ home to be fed— Feeble old folk Who pulingly spoke Of the times when they were strong and young A month ago !—or sat, sad, in a row, Till their stomachs were filled—when they suddenly sung 28 THE FAIRIES’ HOME. Then a silent, black-eyed Cockroach swept— With a kindly glance At those aged askance— The husks of their meal away; then tripped To lock up with her key The corn store, and see If the orphan Midges were snug and slept. IX. Meanwhile, as I watched all this aside, And the Fairies chatted, kindly-eyed, With the birds and I, or said, “ By-by,” To some infant Insect who came to be kissed Ere ’twas put to bed in the leaves anigh ; And tbe moon from the waters rose in a mist! And just as the evening planet’s ray O’er a rosy line Of cloud divine Looked into their hollow home, a Fay Who sate in the flush, Said, “ Come, good thrush, And sing us something you’ve seen to-day.” The Thrush’s Story. ’Twas noon and full tide, As by the calm shore THE FAIRIES’ HOME. 29* Where, with Summer roof wide, A green sycamore In the air and warm light Basked in full-leaved delight, That a little child played In the silence and shade With a wreath that he made Of convolvulus white. Now and then the great tree. In commune with the airs, That came winging in pairs From the calm, lovely sea, Roused itself amiably. In the warm summer blue One great cloud, pure in hue As a lily, or vase Shaped of snow, in the blaze. Floated, dropping light dew ; As each blythe little breeze From the vapour-white seas, Pausing, watched for a while, With a play-fellow smile And soul full of love, The glad child, and the wreath Of white flowers he wove, •Vi. 30 9 THE FAIRIES’ HOME. Scarcely daring to breathe, Bending o’er his gold hair In the sea-silence there. And as now and then he A dear little song sung, Like the notes of a young Bird, when Summer’s sweet light Or new object of sight Brings his young heart delight; So they innocently J oined in with his song; And, familiarised grown, Chatted—some at his feet, Stretched out in the heat , Others whispering sweet, From the boughs where they hung. White clouds passed like the hours As he wove still his flowers, When another dear child, With hair nut-brown and wild, On her shoulders, and eyes Like to black ivy berries, From the road by the wood, Singing, joyous in mood, THE FAIRIES’ HOME. 31 Came, bearing a neat Osier basket, with sweet Milk, white as the clouds, and a heap of sweet cherries. Such a beautiful feast as they both had, the while From a leafy nook near I looked down with a smile ; What would I have given to be their fond guest ? I’d have sung on the shoulder of either my best— Tir-is-chi-cha-chee, lua, lu—and the rest that so oft from the dell, The oaks, and the stream you, fairies, know well. But they finished all up—all save two cherries red, The largest, which Carry concealed for the last ; One of which to her brother she gave, the while she, Rising and looking up gratefully, said— “ And now, Tttle brother, we’ll just leave this other For that dear thrush that sings to us up in the tree. Thrush, this is for you ”—and she chirped—“ now come down.” Upon this the bright little boy smiled ; and upon His wee sister’s head placed the lovely white crown. Then from the green height The Fays sung at the sight, And the happy sea airs in the sycamore’s dome Made it ring with their whispers of leafy delight As they watched the two children pace hand in hand home. 32 AMONG 1HE SPANISH HILLS. Here the thrush rubbed his bill on a stem of oak, And with sidelong look glanced from his host’s happy nook To his nest toward the West and the long sunset dead. Ere bidding “ good-night ” to his comrades, he said— “ Yes, such was the prettiest matter of note, My good fairy friends, I have looked on to-day, And now for my home through the dear twilight grey, Where sings the lone little stream sweet on its way. *•••••* And off he flew. The sparrow winged his head, And someone closed the entrance for the night, And when I thought of them again the red Morn through the window glowed upon my bed, And all the bay soon grew a flood of light. AMONG THE SPANISH HILLS-1633- “ O ! where shall those weary feet find rest? Surely here ; if the silence of those hills does not deceive me.” —Cervantes's “ Dorothea .” I. On high old convents, parched and pale, And gray as bone, Drowse in the heavy heat, and hail The traveller lone, Toiling up mountain paths of shale And calcined stone ; AMONG THE SPANISH HILLS. 33 Tile-roofed vine farms in the vale O’er-top o’erblown, Cork trees green illumed, and village wells ; And far-off, glimmering like a sail In the dry, dizzy light, Towers of a castle white— Old dim tourelles ; Beyond, the purple plain, And further, blue as rain, The fresh calm crescent main— Tis Spain n. Oh ! sweet in dazzling noon Thy waters, shady Well ! Amid the heat as cold As Winter’s desert moon, And grateful as new gold. Thou comest like the mood That puts the mind in tune ; Live in thy lonely height, Asleep in the strong light; With evening blue Some star shall peep into the cool Depths of thy leafy pool, D 34 AMONG 1HE SPANISH HILLS. Grateful to you. Even as from afar By memory’s star— Adieu ! hi. And now the white moon from the bay Serenely clear and rounded glances, And o’er the hill road far away Soon brings in view, ’Mid shadows blue, The sparkle of Castilian lances ; And like their light, In distant night. Where sleeps the hamlet street of Lura,„ Sprinkling the air, The tonings rare Of some guitarist’s acciachatura. IV. Good horse, I pat thy face, The while thou lookest in mine,. With those kind eyes of thine ; Here rest we ; off and graze Awhile this grassy place. TONES. 35 Then side by side we’ll rest Within this sheltered nook, Anear this bubbling brook, In view of the blue brine And plain spread line on line. Here our sole comrades are The faint winds on the heath, The freshet’s fall beneath The cliff, and evening’s star. TONES. True poets are they who love all Beauty of soul or scene, Who make us feel and see whatever they paint, I ween, Be it lovely or mighty in immortal words set down, Shaping a nobler life in life lit from their golden crown. Kings of the mind, creators who bequeath each human brain, A world superior to Nature’s, wherein they ever reign. Then let us each day peruse some fancies finer than our own, With daily matters occupied—in brightness and in tone, Those of a richer region seen o’er some enchanted main. To keep our souls in the higher light of the universal throne; 36 YEW TREES. Peruse some song of a soul composed in a happy mood, In love with its own innocent beauty, that the work may be loved of the good, Or live with the poets of music, of imaginative sound, When harmonised feeling and fancy filled their spirit’s enchanted round. YEW TREES. A Legend. L Vast night was solemn and blue, And from the sea the half-moon shone Between two Black trunks of aged yew. n. Beneath and o’er me spread Infinite calm, as from the deep Ocean’s bed ; All around seemed dead. hi. The black roofs o’er a black pool bent, And through their hearse-like plumes the air Came and went; Nor knew I what it meant. YEW TREES. 37 IV. In fields of fern o’egrown I hearkened, till there seemed to come A passing moan From that Presence dark and lone. v. But, as I nearer paced, and stood By forms whose dreams I overheard, Like drops of blood Fallen from an ebon hood. VI. Methought from one black cloud o’erhead I heard in necromantic tones A voice, and, near, a tread : “ Awake and speak, ye dead !*’ VII. “ ’Tis mhny an age since we two here Were slain and sadly buried ; But once a year Heaven dooms us to appear— 38 YEW TREES. VIII. To hearken once again To what the sweet bird sings— The sound of rain— To voices on this well known plain. IX. Here all we knew has flown ; Of our once dear abode On yon hill lone, Remains not now a stone. x. Young monks of old were we, When the fierce pirates landing wrecked Our priory : Slew us, and put to sea. XI. This place was once a burial ground For ages—gone are even its graves, Now only found By yon yews, and pool around. YEW TREES. 30 XII. Yet deem not that our souls Sleep in the thousand rings Of those dark boles ; We live where’er existence rolls. XIII. To aid, in many a mood, Whate’er is excellent on earth, And make on land and flood The better golden from the good, XIV. Our life is in celestial zones; Yet, oft recalling our sad fate, From our bones Issue passing moans. xv. Hark to yon holy bell, Now heard in times of Christmas round the world; And with us pray that all be well, To Cod, Whose love’s imperishable.” 40 a child’s pastopal. A CHILD’S PASTORAL. Above the sunny village street, Hark ! from the frayed and mouldering tower The old clock tolls the noon-day hour— Cheerful chimes, well known as sweet, Which float along the dry highway, Where cluster children all at play, And through the leaves And o’er the sheaves Lessen toward the calm blue bay. Come, little one, we with the sun Will pass this peaceful holiday. Now, hand-in-hand, where shall we go ?— Into those meadows green and calm, And visit first the little lamb, Our first of friends where daisies blow : Here in the sunshine soft he lies, Basking with innocent, half-closed eyes. While from a bush Anear, our thrush Sings to him his best melodies : Sport, playful lamb ! sing, bird, in the calm, For us and all our butterflies ! A CHILD iS PASTORAL. We will not pluck a single flower Of all that on this upland thrives, But let them live their simple lives With Summer’s wind and sun and shower : Were we one cluster to bereave Of but one friend, the rest might grieve ; But as the grass Our shadows pass Let them commune whisperingly Of us, as good neighbours who would Not wish that even a flower should die. Now let us mount the stile where grows The hawthorn with the blossoms white, Whence, past yon slope, we first have sight Of the wide sea that shines and flows, And dots of vessels here and there Fading away in distant air. And mark we how The sweet-milked cow Stops grazing, noting us from far— Together home in twilight’s gloom We three shall pace towards evening’s star. 42 a child’s pastoral. Now in the fragrant salt sea air On this green shore-bank let us rest, Watching the white gulls float the breast Of the pure sunny waters there : Hark ! from yon rocky nested wall At times to them their comrades call ! Happy above The young they love, Some mother, watching o’er her brood, Thus tells her mate how all await His dear return at eve with food. Let every form of Being be dear That treads the earth or wings the wind ; Look kindly on them, and be kind To all that dwell around us here ; Love them ; and hate all those, my boy, Who cruelly such lives destroy : Bird, insect, kine, Are all divine In innocence ; who hurts them pains Him Who has made them—in them reigns. But let’s enjoy our feast beside This Spring—for you must hungry be After our long, bright walk • and, see ! a child’s pastoral. 43 Already flows the evening tide. And now, as toward the set of day Return we, let us strew the way With crumbs and corn For birds at morn, And insects by this grassy road : To please them is a gracious play, For which thev’ll thank us, as will God. The tiniest creature we inspect, Like man, awakes each day to seek Food for itself, and those still weak It cares, using its intellect For such same purposes as our race On this our common dwelling place : For, howere small * 1 Those beings, all Have minds and hearts akin to ours, And love for homes we dimly trace In nooks among the trees and flow’rs. So now, as spreads blue twilight’s gloom Over the fields, low down our star Beckons us, and toward woods afar The anxious crows are winging home. 44 A WINDOW SONG. Let’s trust All life may happy be ; Sweet sleep to all on land and sea ! But here’s at last Our home—more fast We hurry as it draws more near; And there one stands with outreached hands To clasp her wearied wanderer dear. A WINDOW SONG. Within the window of this white, Low, ivy-roofed, retired abode, We look through sunset’s sinking light Along the lone and dusty road That leads unto the river’s bridge, Where stand two sycamores broad and green, Whence from their rising grassy ridge The levels length in shade and sheen. 1'he village panes reflect the glow, And all about the scene is still, Save, by the foamy dam below, The drumming wheel of the whitewashed mill : A radiant quiet fills the air, And gleam the dews along the turf; While the great wheel bound On its drowsv round j Goes snoring through the gusts of surf. A WINDOW SONG. 45 A-south, beyond the hamlet lie The low, blue hills in mingling mist, With furl of cloud along the sky, And ravines rich as amethyst, And mellow edges golden-ored As sinks the round sun in the flood, And high up wings the crow line toward Old turrets in the distant wood ; Awhile from some twilighted roof The blue smoke rises o’er the thatch ; By cots along the green aloof Some home-come labourer lifts the latch; Or housewife sings her child to sleep, Or calls her fowl-flock from the turf, While the mill-wheel bound ()n its drowsy round Goes snoring through the gusts of surf. Still at our open window, where Gleams on the leaves the lamp new lit, For hours we read old books, and share Their thoughts and pictures, love and wit: As midnight nears, its quiet ray Thrown on the garden’s hedges faint, Pales, as the moon, from clouds of grey, 46 A LOWLAND PICTURE. Looks down serenely as a saint. We hear a few drops of a shower, Laying the dust for morning feet, Patter upon the corner bower, Then, ceasing, send an air as sweet. And, as we close the window down, And close the volumes read so long, Even the wheel’s snore Is heard no more, And scarce the runnel’s swirling song. A LOWLAND PICTURE. The sun was setting red and blurred Beyond the Flemish lowland, where Its light along the landscape brown Now touched the roofs of spired town, With long canals by bridges spanned, And sentinelled by poplars tall; And gable-fronted streets and square, With languid fountain pulsing by Some painter’s statue, windowed wall Of carved cathedral, and along The grassy mound of bastions strong;— Now touched the breadths of harvest land. A LOWLAND PICTURE. Where tented corn for many a mile, And level flax field pale and dry, And willow fringe along the sky, A moment glimmered in its smile; Around the slowly dusking air In warm contentment brooded there ; Far off a lazy windmill purred, Perched on a mound; sometimes the boom Of whirring bat across the gloom Vibrated; but in field and tree Dotting the levels drowsily, No leafed branch moved, no grass blade stirred* After a rural ramble, we Had paced an hour the chapelled aisle Of one great church whose altar lights, Dim streaming through the lofty pile, Now gleamed upon some brassy rail, Some sainted picture, statue pale, Or carved pulpit solemnly ; And down the polished pavement shed Afar, a lessening golden glow, Like cloudy sunset dusking slow Upon the level glassy wave Of some majestic ocean cave, 48 A LOWLAND PICTURE. And stalactited roof o’erhead ;— Hushed was the space of gorgeous gloom, Hushed as a midnight shrine or tomb, Save when at times in distant dark A gold bell tinkled, or a spark Flitted with tread of echoing feet,— Or where some whispered query neat, Or sighing answer murmured small, From some dim nooked confessional. An hour we paced this region dim Of prayer and picture, and then turned (Just as the note of vesper hymn Brake from the organ loft) into The narrow tall street, roofed with blue, Lonelied at night, save for a few Blowsed figures sauntering in the rue, Into whose darkened length we turned, And onward towered the distance bright, Where, in the lazy civic night, A tavern window jocund burned. Arrived we past the lamp-lit bar, Where stood the landlord’s daughter fair, With laughing blue eyes, flaxen hair, A LOWLAND PICTURE. ’Mid portly casks and many a jar, And long-necked flasks, above, below, Dispensing to the taste or need Of groups of Flemmings fat and slow, And others jocund browed I trow. The silver tankard foamed with ale, The thin glass brimmed with aniseed, Or almond-essenced noyeau pale, Or dark with spicy curacoa— Then paced a passage whose dusk air Smelt like the cabin of some barge, Long seasoned with the merchandise Of northern and tropic skies ; Of the Moluccas and Bordeaux, The hams of Spain, the Lowland beurs , Its oily hollands and liqueurs, Until the sanded parlour clean Oped to my view a different scene :— 45 ) For there beside the coal-red hearth An artist group was dimly seen, Jocund as any upon earth, Amid the hallow of white smoke That blown from goodly meerschaums broke In volumes round them—each like Jove— E 50 A LOWLAND PICTURE. A cloud compeller. One was lean, With high, straight brow and gravest mien— History his walk ; one-eyed with mirth, With portly frame of widest girth, Whose talent turned on tavern sights— Kermesses thronged with dancing boors, Fat fair ones and their loutish woores, And harvest revels and delight; One with a wild Salvator air, Bearded, with long black shock of hair, Who most would think could never paint Aught but a tempest or ravine, Where bandits couched in rocky screen, A-watch with primed carbines levelled, But whose high reverend genius revelled ’Mid forms of angel and of saint: And last, one with a keen brown eye And low, square forehead, furrowed by Long, patient wrinkles, whose chief power Lay in the phase of still life themes, Not in romance, humour, or dreams, A Schneider-Ostade, whose chief fame Rested on dead deer, fish, and game, Or market street stalls seen at night, By paper lamp or candle light. A LOWLAND PICTURE. 51 In chat discursive passed an hour, The while we touched on various themes— Nature and art, its souls of power Like Angelo, others whose dower Was beauty wrought in holiest dreams, The schools of Icaly and Spain, Before their genius lapsed in wain Their biblical and common scenes ; Of France with movement full but less Poetic than Dramatic—those Of Deuchland, where each great work means More than it images, and teems With deep ideal loveliness ; Discussed the art critics and dictators, Or sympathetic or perceptive Thinkers prosaic and deceptive To its aesthetical creators, From some dry classic-brained Tuscan To nature’s last, best critic, Ruskin; A pleasant chat, to each digestive Intellect, highly suggestive. At last, ere we broke up the night, While through the casement the clear moon O’er the cathedral’s pinnacled height, With carillon dark and carving slight, 52 A LOWLAND PICTURE. And quaintly traced as a rune, Trembled a dew of quiet light; The silver tankards ranged along The broad board filled with foamy beer. “ Now for a song to give us cheer,” One cried—and chorused we his song. Song. While corn and wine grow ripe in autumn’s rays We bend o’er olden books with student brow ; Suns there are which illumed earth’s vanished days,. And deathless make our spirits fruitful now. Around our rooms those souls of vanished Time Silently shine, immortal o’er the strife ; Shakspeare still comments from his book of life ; Milton unveils the unseen worlds sublime. Thus companied, while glows the summer ray Brightest where most remote, upon life’s stream That sunward flows, we shape a progress dream... And, musing, for its swift fulfilment pray. Oh ! while we wander life’s supreme domain, Its spirits round us and its God above, Here let us labour, still to make the brain Grow rich with culture, and the heart with love. A LOWLAND PICTURE. 53 Let brooding culture essay to untold With earnest care each gift of mind and heart For future life, by study, and by art Developing each fruit and flower of gold. Let art still illustrate Time’s bright’ning days, And from Imagination’s mystic sphere All that is truest, noblest, and most dear Embody in diverse harmonic phase. Let science scan the planet and the soul And learn the laws which sway anear afar Matter and thought, life’s tropic and its pole Through all the spheres of spirit and of star. When cultured Labour in all paths be prized, And earnest knowledge burn no more apart In lamp of gold, but universalized Give ampler scope to intellect and heart. And relegating knowledge bright and sage, For spirits dowered with time’s eternal youth, Bequeath to them its supreme heritage In many a volume of the largest truth. OLD WALKS AND OLD SCENES. Oh, while around yon sun our world is driven, We breathe the airs of beauty, progress, love, While golden clouds still tent us as we move, In pilgrimage towards happiness or heaven ; That we may work in God’s expanse sublime To make each future soul a richer heir, Here clasping hands beneath this noon of Time Look to the image of his Light, and swear ! OLD WALKS AND OLD SCENES. i. With every season have we viewed this scene :— When the soft lilac clouds, dispersed shapes, Slept o’er the sea line ’twixt the stretching capes, And the spring freshes flooding o’er the dam Edged its sleek fall with sweeling flaggers green ; When skies were full of May and blossomed balm Or cloudy, sultry noons of summer grey Roofed the low mountains and the waveless bay ; Or when from sullen vapours heavily Rayed down at times a sombrous, fan-like glow ; Thunder above the corn-fields brooded low ; And not the faintest breath was felt to flow. 7 OLD WALKS AND OLD SCENES. 55 Till through the lurid, curled clouds amain Rattled the crash reverberant, and rain Released at first in drops, heavy and slow, Thickened to deluge on the steaming plain. Then slumbrous days of misty heat and growth, Scarce cooled by a wind even from the south; Through which we hear no more the bubbling brook, But the dry toll of reapers, as they grasp The swathes of wheat they bind in strawy clasp, Or double-sided clash of whetting hook : And later, others shorter and as warm, When in the dusty pane the dry beam glows, And parched trailers droop, and the flies swarm Black, thick and rank, at sleepy autumn’s close. ii. Then cooler came after some teeming night, The cheerful sadness of September light. Pale skies more chill, but splendrously clear, Over the breezy morning foliage sere; Then as we walked in mellow calm, remote From the town’s hum, on some dry, quiet road— When ceased the snapping bark of cottage curs— We heard vague voices of the havresters 56 OLD WALKS AND OLD SCENES. On uplands heaping high each yellow load ; Nay, on the stillness, under the cart’s wheel, The husky crackle of the stubble steal; And saw- the thistle-down across us float:— And later aspects of the year we knew No less:—October’s mornings, breezy and blue, With scents of frost and withered fallen leaves, By dry day roads, or misty, moony eves; Or when clouds crisp with cold rose o’er the brown Woodlands—till came November’s dull nights soon. Then as returned we late a-toward the Town, Cold gusts of water crossed us from the wier On sloppy roads, where the wind, raw and drear, Breathed from the wet, rank, foggy fields anear, Faint lit from rainy hallows round the moon, That overhead unseen in vapours swam. ’Mid winter, too, upon whose numb, cold calm, When footing frosted paths, beside some dead Shrubbery, in shelter from the blue north wind, We heard beneath the birchen thickets, lined With fallen leaves, the blackbird’s rustling tread ; And yet again, when through the white wide park, Muffled, quick pacing, we were wont to mark The deers’ slot in the snowy sludge beside THE PALACE OF DREAMS. 57 The river; and across the pure, chill waste, Far off by barren branches brownly laced, Spreading into the hazy evening wide— The great trees’ swaying sigh in desolate air Ceaselessly—with an inner low despair. THE PALACE OF DREAMS- Part I- In a castle’s turret chamber When had sunk the ashy ember, One sate, fancy-wakeful, under The wide heaven’s midnight palace, Muttering with distant thunder From the mountains and the sea. Books of finest, pure brain-bread In open scrolls before him spread, And aged tomes of mystery By his lamp and chalice. These he reads, then quaffs the wine, Then shuts the page—his spirit’s pinion— And floats in phantasies divine Throughout his soul’s dominion: For no Comus cup of pleasure Was the vase which sparkled near, 58 THE PALACE OF DREAMS. But one whose liquid laved clear The jewels of his spirit’s treasure, Waking to the will each mood Of the brain’s infinitude ; And from the present and the past, And from the winds, th’ electric fire, The hollow blackness of the vast, The rolling thunder and the blast, Pointed imagination’s wing In sudden strange, and mystic flights, Fitful as the northern lights That from the abysmal depth aspire— Beneath its potent spiriting. Lo ! as he faced where, ending the dim room A window opened on the blank blue gloom Precipitous, a suddden sense of height And lonliness, fell on him with the night; And as he stood with robe blown in the breeze That inward flowed above the depths of trees— Lo ! looking toward the blackened main, a Form, Seeming at first a falling meteor, came Over the gloomy seas, in swiftest flight; Silent and furious, burning like a flame ; And through the casement, in a whirl of storm, THE PALACE OE DREAMS. 59 Rushed on his view a Spirit without name ; Who swathed in angry thunder mists, looked down Beneath its luminous electric crown In rays of sight from face of featureless fire : And a voice cried—“ Arise—follow—behold !” Then swift within its tempest-vesture rolled He rose unto the summit of a tower, And swept into the midnight blank and cold, Upwafted by the mighty spirit’s power. First thought he that he wandered through the night Across a sandy antre, in the glow Of a red waning moon, half hidden and low ; While phantom shafts of lightning transiently Blinded the glare it cast on the dim sea. The place which seemed the disk of some dead world, Spread to the rounding vagueness, vapour-furled; When sudden above him loomed a mystic sight:— A wondrous Castle-Cathedral on a height Rolled amid clouds ; its lofty hall alight, And coloured oreals, shining in the snow That whitely whirled in silent drifts around Its superb towers and supreme pinnacles, Whence came, afar and faint, a tone of bells Amid the tumults of ghostly mist that curled 60 THE PALACE OF DREAMS. Silent and beautiful above :—most like The uncongealing tinkle of ice, when spike From spike dissevers, piteous noised :—but while He gazed with marvel, they approached the pile; And through the white crumbling vapours treading, clomb Up its immensive colonaded stair To a majestic portal opening there; And entering soon beneath its airy dome, Paced, marvelling, many a spacious chamber o’er, Radiant and hushed, until he came to one Whose casement opened on a sea that shone In lights of evening to a purple shore ; And in the shadow of its silken shrouds, Rustling in airs from gardens breathing balm, Felt golden sleep descend with twilight’s calm Upon his closing eyelids, from a star Sparkling within the sunset depth afar, Amid the rosy cinctures of the clouds. Then was he ’ware those chambers manifold, Spreading around to the enchanted sense. In gorgeous canopies of gloomy gold And silent vistas of magnificence, Irradiate with evening loveliness— Stellated and enshaded avenues THE PALACE OF DREAMS. 61 Of pillared crystal of a myriad hues; Founts bubbling over fruitage, solemn lamp ; Wide pictured halls, whose light grew less and less, And others mouldering, ruinous and damp, Where fell the water-drop from the high roof, Monotonously toned in halls aloof,— Were chambers of the many-mooded soul, By dreaming fancy imaged. And he heard Amid the golden woodlands by the wave That beat on marble cliff and foliaged cave, The hidden voice of the melodious bird Paining the stillness with its plaint of love ; And from the turret vapour-veiled above The Palace, in the infinite calm, the toll Of one enormous bell that, swinging slow In the void, vibrated with the ocean’s flow. First, gazing round the chamber where he lay, He saw ’twas festal-sad; for it was dim, Though rich wines shimmered to the aureate rim Of globed goblets in the slanting light That streamed across the tranquil sunset seas, From airy distances of burning rose, Whence floated languidly a golden breeze From mighty hills remotely crowned with snows, 62 THE PALACE OF DREAMS. Whose huge crests seemed dividing day and night: And on their furthest promontory withdrawn, High cedars waved in a stormy amber dawn; The while their nearer vallied sides afar Lay in the light of midnight’s solemn star. As from this mighty domed room he paced Along the neighbouring chamber’s lofty halls Where solemn marbles stood—lo ! dimly traced Pictures, like fragment fancies half defaced, And countenances glimmered on the walls. One imaged gloomy space, through which the swoon Seemed heard of one great sphere in snowy shroud And toiling planets, each with its vague moon, All dark; and windy worlds of belted cloud. And nearer, amid shores all black around, In awesome calm, a sullen-coloured flood Lay motionless within the mountain’s round, Like a moon’s disk in tempest, or dead blood. Beside it spaced a realm in changeless rest; Where, in a distance evermore the same, Great meteors charioted along the west In globes of orange flame. THE PALACE OF DREAMS. Anear a form sailed in a magic barque, By Ophionia > s quiet orient isle, Embowered to the waves • pale Phosphor’s spark From brown Arabia’s hills was seen to smile ; And ’mid green trunks aflame with living gold Remote, or stooping weighed with foliage o’er The sea, huge serpents coiled in many a fold, Guarded the circlet of an enchanted isle ; Some white as snow, enormous shapes of sleep, Or rainbow-iridescent, and as long, Uncoiled, prepared for a flinging leap Across the waters ; or in circuit strong- involved voluminously bask, and sheathe Their eyes of diamond in squameous mail, And venomed valves ; or, from their caves of Death Inland, undulate o’er the flowery dale. And here a desert in an unknown land, A gloomy river serpenting afar; In front, a coast-line, desolate and grand, Along the fathomless deep without a star; Death’s under-world it seemed, where distantly Dim phantom figures fell down in the night On one steep, black cliff o’er the frowning sea, In worship, fronting the dark Infinite. 64 THE PALACE OF DREAMS. Again he views beneath a purple morn That over Egypt opes its level lids, The yellow river flowing ; seas of corn, Obelisks and elephants and pyramids. And in a temple, ’mid a place of tombs, A priestess throng chaunting a hymn divine ; Their cymbals clashing shone like hollow moons, Before the altar of the mighty shrine. And here a citied pasture plain alarmed From swift invasion from the northward, where The shawled Assyrians charioted and armed, Dashed through the dust of battle in the glare Here by a mountain tinged with dawning light, A spectre squadron horsed seemed listening to The thunder of a multitudinous fight From the dark lowland storming up the blue. And with those pictures many more of might, Each living, though in ruins, like some rhyme Of bard forgotten, from whose page old night Had blotted many a line, sweet and sublime. THE PALACE OF DREAMS. Part II. Dreaming in space beneath the magic night, Pictures still rose before the poet’s sight, Rich fragment fancies, floating cloudlets fanned By winds of sunset lovely, lone, or grand, Austere and terrible with thunder-light, Like vignottes framed by some enchanter’s hand, When in a mood of phantasy he’d form Visions of beauty calm, or gloom and storm, Of meditative heaven, or shuddering hell, Which, so imagined, fine or fair or fell, Mind to the scenic sense made visible. Now seemed a region in wide air to rise, A land of sweet autumnalized repose, Still as the spaces which the quiet skies Reveal through western drifts of watery rose wSerene, round morn or even’s steady star : First in the silence he beheld afar, Beyond an unknown coast, in clear sea day, The glimmering levels of a quiet bay, Whose tide toward ocean outward flowed away; With fronting mountains, keen as purple spar, And, lower, mellowing slopes of mingled grey ; €G THE PALACE OF DREAMS. Streams that in sleep through seering woodlands wound Rocks—flowers of innocent beauty—all things round Are toned with colours of the quiet glow; Beyond the capes remote and cool and low, That scarce above the watery distance show; While o’er the skiey ridges calm, and o’er The breathing yellow land and sandy shore, The Eden beauty of the dreaming light Enchants the wonder-wandering sight; A sleeping picture, clear and sweet, And fair as it is fleet— For now ’tis melted into air; and soon, As under some black vapour drives the moon, Out in the stormy sunshine of a green And heavy, rolling, rounding main is seen, ’Mid careless, curling billows and flying spray. Scudding under a steep-walled promontory And wind-blown fortress brown, an argosy Of ancient time, toil through the water’s sway, With square sail bellied, and high surfy prow Aslant, amid the outward billows bounding Into the open, and the precipice rounding, Plunge through the surges of the stormier sea ; A ship that wafted many a martial form Upon 3 mission heroic and sublime ; THE PALACE OF DREAMS. And with them one fair northern maid, whose heart From her steeled lover could not beat to part, Living a lone life, like a broken rhyme, But held by him for battle and for storm Crusading; for it seemed the stirring time When Europe witnessed her strong sons depart To wrest the Holy Land from pagan sway, Hell’s mortal shadow resting dark upon The Orient, wrapped in tumult and affray, And toward the tomb of the Divinest One Whose Spirit has celestialized our clay, Hurried like stormy clouds from western day; Nor rest was there for thousands until thev Followed the trumpet toward the rising sun. Still traced the dreamer the great vessel’s flight, Which, through the roaring darkness of the night Scudded a solitary sea, afar From friendly gleam of helm-directing star. Then darker change o'erspread the visioned vast, As though subterrene night eclipsed the noon ; Nor more a music of Romance, but from The pyramid heart of some sublimer poem Or lyre, from whose dark chords low thunders broke, With lightnings which revealed the destiny, THE PALACE OF DREAMS. Of good and evil, in eternity— Vibrating o’er the deserts of time awoke A gloomier vision in his spirit’s dome. He thought he waked from the sound of a mighly bell r And heard its doleful cadences expire Over a windy waste where darkness fell In flashes from a firmament of hell, Silent, starless, strange, and vast, The while he wandered among Sights and silences terrible, Until he came at last To where a desolate antre spread, o’erhung With roof of lower-lowering angry fire, Skirting a fathomless main; Where wandered wide a desolate host Apart, in torment, lonely and lost, Of flaming fiend and anguished ghost; Some of aspect cruel and cold, Breathless with hatred and disdain For mortal and immortal, and deep eyes Stone-sullen, under brows of serpent fold : There some, gnashing their rage with bloody tongue. Mumbled inarticulate blasphemies; And some couched moody, waiting with sad minds The rising of the torture winds, THE PALACE OP DREAMS. 69 Shrank in prospective pain; But soon swept upon the blast That swooned from the eternal past, The region faded into vaporous grey; And from the shadowing frontier of that hell Loomed vaguely a dominion where abode The phantoms of old wars, Battalious, under the gaunt throne of Death ;— And that, too, clouded away. There rose upon his sight A host, bright < as a firmament of stars, And flashed, and, like the northern light, Sank in the solitudes of night, Where a great moon’s blank and sombre face— Like some old lonely god’s eternal tomb— Shone, mouldering in forgotten space, Among the austere wrecks of olden doom. Through space the Dreamer’s spirit wandered still: When, as obeying fancy fixed by will, Rose on his view the regions infinite, Thronged with the systems and the worlds, between Whose primal and reflected seas of light Vast shadows coursed the hollow, where were seen Primordial influences spreading wide, 70 THE PALACE OF DREAMS. Tivixt sphere and sphere, system with system buoyed Upon the impalpable bosom of the void, Like billows of an omnipresent tide, Now rolled in one and by the force destroyed; And now new centres taking shape once more, To roll again around some luminous shore, Innumerable suns sequent as waves, Alike the womb of planets and their graves ; But he beheld all where in sun and sphere Conditions ripening to an end, as here Results of Deitific Prescient Cause Ennobling life and matter without pause ; All futures still, the offspring of a past, Each brighter, broader, heavenlier than the last. But sweeter seemed the place when twilight deepened o’er the prospect wide; When, save the universal voice of Ocean, other sounds had died. There could he drink delight, he thought, from varied nature hour by hour, From that lone casement worshipping her moods of beauty and of power; Enchant the sense, awaked at morn, with radiances of sky and shore, THE PALACE OF DREAMS. 71 The voice of birds and waters, summer foliage, summer thunder’s roar; Hear, on grey days where cloudy autumn brooded o’er the ashen floods, The sombre wind’s Saturnian breathings from the venerable woods: Or breathe the air from Isles of Shadow sweet, when evening turns to rose O’er unseen woodlands—paradises dark of odour and re¬ pose— Remote upon the skirt of night, beyond the superb sphere of sea, Where setting planets only move, and, ceaseless as eternity, Some mighty volum’d cataract flung from skiey precipices falls Through tracts of stone chaotic down the world’s primeval mountain walls, To caverns, miles beneath the sun ; abysmal nights’ profound abodes, ’Mid everlasting echoes, like the murmurs of dethroned gods; Thus with imagination sailing through the infinite starry seas, Shape conjecture, reason balanced, of Life’s possibilities; To some sphere excursioning that through the deeps of Being runs— 72 THE PALACE OF DREAMS. Hollows of vast universes, domed with living skies of suns; Where around the central throne the ripened Spirit Worlds combine ; Where the day is glory-steeped, and night a starry day divine : Where throughout the silent spaces moves the unseen Creative Soul; Matter moulding to His thought in orbs whose lives ascend¬ ing roll; Suns and planets ever circling by the will of the All-Seeing, Particles that die to live in this immensity of Being; Where each century rolls their spirits nearer to the supreme shore, Rounding upward into power and perfect nature evermore ; Where the springs of Fancy bathe the heart in an eternal youth, And the Reason, instinct perfect, flashes faithfully on truth ; Still in ampler circles ranging through the myriad spheres of night, Till falls the crown of God upon the balancerl soul of love and light. • • • • • In the lofty turret room, Wainscoted with black yew, Flickered a lamp in the windy gloom THE PALACE OF DREAMS. 73 Far out upon the sea : An aged clock tolled up to “ Two,” In a corner like a tomb, Standing lonelily. And underneath the great trees shook, Above the winter-swollen brook, In the sad, shadowy wind that blew Along the shore disconsolately ; And then the light expired, and dark Possessed the chamber and the park ; The scattered scrolls ’mid the darkness blind Rustled in the wandering wind, Like the souls of the writers fled, Until the gusty morning red Lengthening along the dreary seas, Desolate in the cloud and breeze, Fell on the sleeper as he lay Fronting the rainy break of day. 74 A PORTRAIT SKETCH IN TAR. A PORTRAIT SKETCH IN TAR. Once we knew an old Salt, who loved old malt, He was hale though halt, and had lost an arm, too, At Sebastopol, With his larboard peeper; but there was a charm too,. When on the deep, or shore to weep, or Laugh with the right one, which was a bright one (The colour of opal), And although but the hull of a man-of-war’sman, He was still a mor’s- man, At the call of duty : and though loving beauty Less than when he was twenty, and sea was A scene of action as of strong attraction, For the British Pollies, who, after the vollies Of great three-deckers, became the wreckers Of the hearts that gained the white shores where reigned the Georgium sidus ,— To the love of fun true as t’ his gun, In all sort of sport his laughing report Sounded, especially whenever it chanced that we Heard that some State, at sea Defied us. A PORTRAIT SKETCH IN TAR. On Portsmouth sward near the dock-yard, Above the harbour in a sort of arbour, Composed of a few old rusty guns, Which, in their day, had volleyed tuns Of shot among the Spanish fleet— Each noon this old Tar took his seat, The while his little grandson played, Beside him in their iron shade, With some toy boat the old man had made For him, or paper fleets which he Arranged for fight upon the bright Short grassy down, as on the sea. There he sate, when weather was fine, Tough as a coil of tarry rope— With his tobacco and telescope, Scouring the distant crescent line, Of the sovereign, salt, blue brine ; Criticising all the sails, And musing o’er the stormy gales. The wine and grog shops, foreign and home, With which in early life he’d formed Acquaintance, since he sailed the foam :— Days when intrepid Nelson stormed Across the waters, south and north,— Of fire and smoke under the blue 76 A PORTRAIT SKETCH IN TAR. Hard Copenhagen sky—the day Whose minutes were with broadsides numbered, Off the Nile, and how the bay At sultry night-fall, wreck encumbered, Rang with the shouting of their crew, When the great admiral’s vessel blew Up like a volcano : and Lastly the sun set sad and grand, That from the Atlantic saw the star Of Nelson, wreathed by victory, Set ’mid the heavy-swinging sea, And flaming fleets of Trafalgar. Likewise upon the Portsmouth green, Each evening this old Salt was seen, Where the seamen with their white Loose trousers, ringlets, plaited long Pigtails and blue jackets—light As waves in a swell beneath a bright Breeze,—danced with their laughing lasses, Clean and trim as a deck, with eyes Jet-black, or blue as English skies ; Or on some upturned boat together, Happy as home’s summer weather, Sat, singing songs and chinking glasses. A PORTRAIT SKETCH IX TAR. At length, one grey October day, This old Salt on his death-bed lay, His little grandson on his bed Sat with his arm around his head, Lovingly innocent holding so His playmate, fearing he should go— For the old man had told his dear, His time for pushing off was near. His aged cronies—wrecks of men— Sat smoking in the corners there, Knowing their comrade feared not death, But saying oft, with wordless breath, For his last voyage a simple prayer. He had just changed his quid, and then Tightening on the child’s hand his own, Stared for a little on the tide : Then in a loving, low, sweet tone Blessed him, and said :—“Now, Tom, my tar, Care well your mother as you grow Up by her heart, when I am low ; Be her home-pilot, mainstay, pride, Keep ship-shape every rope and spar, And through life watch God’s polar star. I mean beside you to abide ; And when on Sabbath evenings you 78 SONG. Come to my grave close by the blue Sea, from the flowers I’ll look upon The dear face of my own grandson,— When I am not upon the wide Ocean ;—and we, my lad, will there Say each for each a silent prayer. And though unseen I’ll happy be— As many a day beside the sea; Come, come, now; cry no more for me.” Then as the little fellow fell Upon his comrade’s neck and cried Out broken love words, pitiable, As looking in his eyes he saw Beneath their light a shade of awe, Wishing his parting grief to hide, The old man smiled, closed them, and died. SONG- Growing Young. i. Full fifty years had passed away, And winter, in a mournful mood, Holding a mirror to me showed How time had tinged my hair with grey, SONG. 79 How shadows gloomed my shortening way; When Fancy, coming to my aid, O’er me her wreath of roses flung And ’mid delighted laughters said:— Kiss me, old friend, on your birthday ; Those flowers I bring will never fade, For in affection’s fields they sprung; Learn life’s best art—live in your heart— Have faith m me : I’ll make you young. I’ll make young,” sweet Fancy sung, “ Back in the past, from year to year, Toward morning I will lead you, dear : I’ll make you young —Pll make you young !” ii. Ten winters vanished from her smile, And I felt forty, hale and strong, And by the good fire sat, the while My bright-browed son, in his best style— Tom—now my partner—sung his song. My wife, on whose dear, cheerful face Spring lights still blent in cheek and eye With kindly autumn’s mellow grace. Held on her knee and kissed with glee Our serious-eyed still infant son, 80 SOI\ G. Who, as he stood observingly, Said—“ Mamma’s only wrinkle’s gone And left a dimple in its place.” Oh, happiest hour from fate e’er won ! Up from my chair I laughing sprung: “ Come children, comrades, eyes of light, Come let us sport this birthday night !” Then as we played at blindman’s game, And full of frolic laughed and sung, My youngsters’ chorussed voices rung— “ Papa and we are just the same, Papa—Ha-ha—papa, mamma, Papa again is growing young !” hi. Where come my birthdays now, although Life’s light be less on hill and sky, And in the vale of Time below The shadows deepen—what care I ! Come, Fancy, to my aid,” I cry : “ Forty, indeed !—Ho, bring me here An earlier time—Appear, appear 1” And forthwith comes my Twentieth Year, And leads me to a moonlight shore, To meet with one as good as dear— SONG. 81 Whose name’s now mine, not hers of yore— Who gives me there a lock of hair, And parting kiss—thus in a trice Returns youth’s joyous Paradise. Chime out ye marriage bells that rung In sunshine as bright as this I see ! The ring is on and we are one, The ring is on, and we are free— Speed carriage, speed with her and me, Again I’m young—again I’m young. IV. Or, should I seek a calmer mood Than on that j oyous morn—what then, An air of April cools my blood, And, if I wish it, I’m but Ten, Returned awhile from school again, In summer holidays to see My mother’s dear face blessedly Welcome her “bright boy” home—or be A child as innocent as my own, And hear her teach me, all alone, To say my prayers beside her knee. So now grow grey, head, as you may, My heart with fancy—so I sung— G 82 SONG AT A COTTAGE DOOR. Can make me gay the darkest day, And while my rosy group among, In the old fire-lit room we play, Can join their laughing song and say— Pap a—Ha-ha !—papa—mamma, Papa again is growing young ! SONG AT A COTTAGE DOOR. The evening sky is calm and gray, As by the door, old friend, we rest, In the last low glare of day, Levelled on us from the west; And while the leaves are falling yellow As the old ale, mild and mellow, Which we quaff—oh, then we love To watch the children, who have crowned us With green ivy, playing round us, And see the wenches dance at sunset, Yonder in the willow grove. 5 Tis many a year since yonder bell Rang for our christening, friend of mine; Yet we can do our work as well SONG AT A COTTAGE DOOR. As when our years were twenty-trine. And better guide. White locks have cooled The brain where blood of twenty ruled; Of sunset we now think at noon ; And less our self-care than for those We’ll leave—young hearts and cheeks of rose. Sweet is the present, nor less pleasant The past that looks from memory’s moon. And when the time for sweethearts came, A new life, summer sweet, was ours; Then all the past seemed dull and tame To those full-blooded, happy hours. Never came Eden o’er us shedding Such light as on our morning wedding— Except that brighest day and best, When someone showed us, closely keeping By her heart, our first-born sleeping ; Or, with arms out-reached, new life leaping, He babbled to us, home returning, From his happy mother’s breast. Learning to live is truly life : Our love is greater than of yore, Divided between child and wife, 8 SONG AT A COTTAGE DOOR. And dear ones who have gone before. Life’s blood like wine no longer headies, While faltering feet strong Duty steadies. To act what’s right, and watch the end. Guardian and love those dear, to me Appears life’s true nobility; And so to pace the road to Heaven— This is not to grow old, my friend. Sometimes a neighbour passing brings News from the town : the twilight broods Deeper around : on weary wings The crows sail towards the mountain woods The lads and lasses are returning. Candles in cottage panes are burning, And o’er the earth the starry “ Seven ” ; Numb grows the air, the shadows deep: So let us to our hearth-side nook And read a chapter from the Book, To put our souls in tune with Heaven— Kiss our youngsters, and to sleep. V MAIDEN AND SAILOR. 85 MAIDEN AND SAILOR. A Ballad. At the end of the hamlet-street the sea Spaced fresh and blue, as side by side Through old ribbed boats, whose toil was o’er, They made their way by the pebbly shore To the meadows along the pleasant tide— Maiden and sailor happily. Twas the time of harvest, and settled weather, there was hardly a tinge upon the leaves Of the calm September woods, where gossipped the crows anear the golden sheaves. The winter night was starry and still, ’Twixt village and village the fields were white, From the sea there was but little wind, As they lagged, the laughing group behind, Returning each to their cot’s red light, After a dance at the farm on the hill. And as happy they as though it were summer, the while he whispered low, As with eyes downcast, and sweet cheeks aglow, they wandered along in the light of the snow. 8fi SONG. The autumn morn shone cheerily down, And a dry fog rolled through the village gay; The bells rung blythe o’er old and young, In their Sunday clothes, and the children sung—• As beside her sailor, who’d been away To Cuba, the bride, with wallflowers brown Wreathing her bonnet, in wedding white, and fine gold watch, at the gray porch stood, Where the old tree crisping a few leaves on her head, would.- have blest her if it could. SONG. My Boat and Sycamore Tree. i. In my grassy garden, by the way That runs between the shore and sea, 1V1 y upturned boat basks all the day, And near it my green sycamore tree : Stretched in its full-leaved shade, at noon I rend sweet tomes of minstrelsy ; Then go for a sail toward evening’s moon, Or while ’tis sunset out in the bay. Hail, friends of summer !—one, unmoved, Knows all my verses read and loved ; SONG. 87 One for adventure formed, each song Sung ’mid the waters rolling strong, When ’mid the waves and wandering foam We sail together in sight of home. n. Companions, who make life more sweet, Who thus to me afford your aid— You yield amid noon’s heavy heat Your roof of leaves, your floor of shade : When tired with rest upon the grass, O buoyant boat ! how pleased are you Off ’mid the life of waves to pass, Your freight but some bright book or two— Stories and tales for Summer bowers, Old ballads echoing stormy hours, Of which I read to both, or sing Sweet verses worth remembering, Now ’mid your leaves, now by your sail, In sunny eve or moonlight pale. hi. Close bending o’er some poet-page, Which, stretched in calm, I read, my tree, 88 SONG. Though full of Summer’s j oyous age, Seems listening attentively : If now, perhaps, I voice some sweet Lyric of music most divine, Its lisping foliage seems to beat Time to the verses, line for line; Or should my study chance to be A book of science—botany— All the leaves feel a pride to see With trees we’ve such a sympathy ; And airy laughters seem to sing— t( : Yes, they know every—everything !” IV. As in the level Western glow From the far city’s spires and homes, While through the freshened tide waves’ flow We scud—to illustrate our poems, Pictures along the coasts arise— Far off gray headlands drowsed in mist, And mountains sloped in Southern skies, With dells as rich as amethyst; There, up some vale, from ridge to ridge, The arches of some long dim bridge, And star’s spark on its rushy stream ; SOXG. 89 There, some old turret, like a dream Of days heroic : but we’re bound, Boat, for yon low moon’s silver round ! v. Rise, moon of Summer o’er the deep, And when you’ve silvered all the bay, Back to our lonely tree asleep, In your bright path we’ll hold our way: Rise, moon of Autumn, in whose glow Serene, the warmed land-wind bears From orchards, as we homeward go, Sweet scents of apples and of pears. On late September eves, grown chill, Through white clouds o’er the seaward hill, Shine, moon, on our last sail this year, And on our sycamore growing sere, Which drops, in recognition dear, A few crisp leaves to us who’ve come Safe to our garden, tree, and home. VI. Now Winter’s windy days have come With dolorous airs, gray rain, and snows; But what care we, the while at home 90 SONG. We’ve changed our poetry for prose ! While in its boat-house, sheltered, one Shall sleep, and sleep our leafless tree, Expectant of the April sun, ’Mid dreams of Summer past the sea : While by my cosy hearthside nook, With old piano and with book, I store up memories you shall hear When dawns the sweet time of the year— When in your shade I’ll rest all day, And sail with you the sunset bay. SONG. Grape Harvest on the Loire. Lulled in the rich evening’s trance, Round us our green vineyards quiver, Joyously our daughters dance, While sunward rolls our glorious river; Fill our cups with native wine, Fuller still—and yet another ; Life becomes a clime divine, When brother clasps the hand with brother: Merrily the minutes race— SONG. 91 Bees that fly from buds to blossoms ; Time has quickened his old pace, To foot it with our beating bosoms. Sing, Lissette, young dark-eyed daughter, Old tunes of your mother’s singing, While we trod by yon bright water, While our marriage bells were ringing; Still they chime from yon gray tower, ’Mid the cool old walnut trees ; She may hear them still this hour, Borne upon the spirit breeze, Sing, sweet friends, ring bells of even’,. In the golden sunset weather, While the airs of harvest heaven Mingle both your songs together. Yonder, where the youngsters muster, Mine own red-lipped boy is playing, Trying on his brow a cluster, In a grapey crown arraying; Little son, come hither hie thee— Vine-fed suckling, who shall wean thee ?• With this tendril I will tie thee— Tumbling in the fruit will stain thee ; t92 SONG. Thou art like the vine god, rosy, Whom I read of other even’, In a Greek book—cloistered cosey, Pelting grapes in Jove’s old heaven. Shepherds come from sheep-strewn meadows, In the slant light, autumn browned ; Maidens rest beneath the shadows, With their jet-hair, dance—discrowned ; Groups pace singing, down each way, In the glowing sinking sun; Girls through the elm rows, whispering, stray, Each with the lad her eyes have won; Stream out the wine in the golden ray— Our revel as yet has scarce begun ! Let us be gay—life’s but a day, And the stars shall set ere we be done. Ho ! let the jolly board be spread, With wealth of field and orchard fine, With pyramids of milky bread, With apples, almonds, and red wine; With peaches crimson, as if culled Within the sunset’s mellow dells— Green glittering drops of juicy grapes, MUSINGS. 03 And cheeks of bloomy muscatells; Let’s sing, and dance, and drink our fill, Lo ! those are moments worth the prizing, While in the pale east o’er the hill, The mellow amber moon is rising. MUSINGS. Oft with my heart at eventime Cld leafy memories round me fall, Of joys, that in the lavish prime Of youth, seemed scarcely joys at all; Old simple hours of light and calm, The birth of days that come no more, Like breathings redolent of balm, From woods along some morning shore.. When in our old familiar nook, In that still casement toward the dawn, We pondered o’er some favourite book, While yet the stars o’erlooked the lawn ; When the warm east, low-lined and white. Woke o’er the misty golden corn, The sun-moats dizzied all the light, And silent glowed the freckled morn. MUSING S. When o’er the fragrant forest’s coast The moon in amber vapour swam— A soul in sweet sensation lost, So lulled in light, illumined in calm, It seemed an image of our own When Love first tuned our fancy’s powers, And all things round us took the tone Of those deep, lavish-hearted hours. When drowned in drifts of slanting sleet Sunk the white hills and fields away, And scarce a sound from the village street Rose through the dumb, gray winter day— While round the genial fire, with books And friends, we talked in light and calm, The frost ghost o’er wide woods and brooks Touched the dead hours with icy palm. Oh, happy space of summer hours, Now passed ’mid joyous wanderings, In commune with the poet-powers, And murmurmgs of the muse’s wings ! Oh nights beside the cheery hearth, When, as the snow-skies round us furled. We sat entranced, forgetting earth, Amid the souls of Shakespeare’s world 1 MUSING,S. Oh, happy days, when sudden came Deep moments of electric mood, While roving, heart and soul on flame, Through some exciting solitude : Now pondering o’er eternal themes In spiritual trance sublime; Now rolled in wide prospective dreams Beyond the round of earth and Time. Now Nature’s charm enchants us less, And even the works of brightest brain Their method known, half-cease to bless Seers grow short-sighted—poets, men ; Eternal barriers define. The range immortal mind can run: And as the orb of day goes down The wintry landscape wide and brown, Imagination longs to gain An ampler spiritual domain, Careering on a grander course To drink deep at its central source New Being, and on wings divine Float after the red sun. 90 AT A WINDOW. AT A WINDOW. Dead sunset had sunk ; all the world was in gloom, As we sat by the wold-watching window, and heard In the late Autumn garden the trees dimly stirred, While double dark filled up the book-piled room : And one said : “ Writing now, though more accurate in art Is a business ; while certain old books that we know Are less those of authors than Nature’s, and so— For I love the old style, which is that of the heart, Let’s read from this tome of a long-vanished mind Its few precious fancies, ’mid much that is poor, Its few sighs of melody, mournful and pure, As we look on the night, as we list to the wind : For like stars low and bright that burn sadly along The edge of a desert all desolate, where The yellowing olive leaf yields to the air Its scent—are such thoughts and such tones of old song.”’ OLD SUMMER. 9 OLD SUMMER. Happy the days in which we dwelt In yonder red brick country house, Where dawn and evening’s amber lights Flushed through the drooping quiet boughs; Where oft we sailed from morn to moonrise O’er the faint white clouded floods, Or wandered on with revelling step Amid the windings of the woods; Watched the long river as it flowed ’Mid fan-glows of the cloudy sun, And heard the rustle of the leaves, As slow the woogling wave rolled on. When every dawn the sunny air Vibrated from the blackbird’s singing, When from the last light-topped tree Some startled bird sprang woodward winging, Till from the steep where foamed the cascade, Far away with watery swoon, Pale glimmering the silvered ash Rustled its prayers to evening’s moon, And from the fields and twilight hamlet, Wafted on the inconstant breeze, Village voices, rural laughters Came through intervalling trees. H 98 THE SIMPLE SOUL. THE SIMPLE SOUL. i. In yonder ancient castle, where The light on roof and garden glows, And floats before the cloudy air O’er woods and open coast line fair; Once lived a boy and girl, his sister, lovely as an April rose. ii. Unto each other, as they sprung In sunshine lone, so dear they grew, Life seemed a heaven to those young Comrades; and, save the bird which sung Their happy dreams each morn away, no closer love on earth they knew. in. A little singing bird, which they, First fancy-charmed by its clear note, Had purchased at the gate one May, And which grew dearer day by day, Perched on their shoulders as they walked, and, earnest, learned their songs by rote. THE SIMPLE SOUL. 93 IV. A little trustful life, with eyes Of tender black simplicity; Pinions and breast of darling dyes; Voice like love’s laughter blent with sighs; Faithful and fond, whose tiny tricks charmed from their very innocencv. * v. ’Twas like the fairy genius of Those fair twin human friends, whose mind, So harmonised in thought and love, In morning chamber, sunset grove, Delighted most in music—song and instruments of many kinds. vi. Ah ! sweet was then their morning bow’r, Where ’mid the sunny sycamore trees, The bird flew singing to each flow’r; Or chamber, where the western hour Flamed over floors of crimson grain and aureate tasseled draperies. 100 THE SIMPLE SOUL. VII. And thus for a sweet year and more Comrades the happy three had been, When, as to womanhood they bore The girl, came death, sudden and frore, And swept her summering soul away beyond the planet’s azure screen. VIII. It was an evening wild and lone, As, tearful-eyed, with heart of pain, He watched his dying, dearest one; While o’er the dreary sea the sun Glared on the walls from wintering waves and flying low clouds ragged with rain. IX. A desolate air through skies of gray Swept, brooding the broad land upon : The last leaves sailed the void ; a ray Pierced through thick vapours o’er the bay— And dropped beneath the windy west, blurred with their drifts, the large low sun. THE SIMPLE SOUL. 101 X. Then, ere the shadowing mortal sleep, Closed her white lids, and faint she lay, In sorrow, watching Arnold weep, She gave him lovingly to keep, Tor her sake, from her finger thin, a diamond ring of richest ray. XI. And rising from her couch, the while She placed it on his trembling hand, A last kiss gave—then with a smile Sank back and died. The ancient pile Shadowed that night a lonelier soul than poorest cabin in the land. XII. Nor was it till the lily frame Of that young maiden’s soul was laid In marble, second sorrow came To quench his heart’s tear-blinded flame, Tor lo ! the bird, to both endeared, had vanished with his sister’s shade. 102 THE SIMPLE SOUL. XIII. The boy was heir to opulence ; But what were power or gold to him ? Absorbed in anguish so intense, Awhile his soul seemed closed to sense Of all except his sorrow dear—a star in vapours hidden dim. XIV. Until one night, in sleep consoled, Her presence mingled with his own, Like dream with dream; and bright tales told, Of her new life, whose days of gold In space had happy been, save that her dearest was on earth alone. xv. Told of the infinite which spread Around the worlds, where lived the Past— The systems of those deemed the Dead, Where, swift as light, existence sped Prom space to star ; and ol the marvels, love, and beauty of. the vast. THE SIMPLE SOUL. 103 XVI. Wrapped in dim tearful fantasies Of things which were, or only seem, Wakened he lay : the low night breeze Sobbed through the shadowy garden trees. And o’er the setting moon a cloud fantastic hovered like a dream. XVII. Again o’er his grief-wasted brain Sleep fell; the while he seemed to sail The depths of a mysterious main— Visiting on its viewless gale Lone lands and hills, and palaces of melancholy splendour pale. XVIII. Rewaked by this new dear delight, And solitary now no more, He watched the orbs through western night, Sink in the solemn ocean bright— "While, as he slept, another voice seemed whispering from the eternal shore. .104 the simple soul. XIX. The bird’s fond spirit ’twas that came— A film of living oether small As bubble, or the silver flame Of distant wave ; tender and tame To his love-listening ear, and brooding, in the stilness, told him all: xx. Told him of its first life below, And of its happiest year with him, And many things he wished to know Of viewless natures, whence there flow Marvels unseen of sense ; and of its simple love no change could dim. XXI. It loved the sun—remembering, It said, the mornings long ago, How in their warmth it used to sing, And then rest silent; worshipping The first god that it knew, with love and wonder at its happy glow. THE SIMPLE SOUL. 105 XXII. And when strange days of caged dread Being past, it came to love the boy, By whom ’twas cherished, cultured, fed, He grew its higher god instead— His gentle eyes a living sun, his presence a perpetual j°y> XXIII. How restless-sad, it felt when he Was absent—like some olden morn Such times, when lonely on a tree : How cheered ’twould rouse delightedly, Hearing his voice; and how its heart beat in its voice at his return. xxiv. • 4: Oh, happy life ! thus to be near One known so well in noonday bright, Or, when rich evening came to cheer Their window; nor had dark a fear, Through noise unwinged its head—assured that he would come with morning’s light. 10G THE SIMPLE SOUL. XXV. Then came the sickness, and the change It passed into, as out of sleep; The vastness, light, life, most things strange ; But it bethought, though wide its range, Of movement now, close to the place where its dear master lived ’twould keep. XXVI. And, conscious that it now could pass, And live in any lifeless thing— Blossom or bough, or square of glass In the south window where he was For hours by day—resolved to dwell for ever with him in his ring. XXVII. Even when in feathered form enclosed, All bright things it had loved—the dawn— The sparkling, distant sea-line rosed—* Dew-drops—sweet fancies when it dozed— White clouds and rainbows ; and all these unto this diamond seemed wan. THE SIMPLE SOUL. 107 XXVIII. But ’twas not for its brightness and Beauty, this gem should be its home; But as it circled the dear hand It knew and loved, at his command To whisper its new life, and call the singing birds at morn to come. XXIX. This much, and more, it told. And lo ! As by the morning casement he Rested, and fell the sunny glow Upon the jewel—to and fro, Light-charmed, the birds thronged tame, and showered around their richest minstrelsy. XXX. From field and garden round they flew, And clustered on each tree and stem Of the window vine—with every hue On breast and pinion—grey, brown, blue— Attracted by the bird’s ethereal soul within the lustrous gem. 108 THE SIMPLE SUOL. XXXI. Its silent meanings understood, With various voices answering By one and one, in blythest mood; Then flocking to the sunset wood, To hold commune, maychance, of friends who in the trees no more would sing. XXXII. With autumn many southward fled, Yet, when the snow was on the sill, Came others daily there, with bread At the old casement to be fed, And chirp to the gem’s spirit; when, alas! the boy himself fell ill. XXXIII. And soon the stars of Christmas lone Illumined his happy dying face, The while he kissed the ring that shone, Whispering its soul. Then both were gone, Passing together to the love awaiting them in spirit space. KIRJATH SEPHER’s WELL. 109 KIRJATH SEPHER'S WELL. Numbers XXI. v. 17. i. Now that I am wedded, Oh ! father promise me Thy well-beloved daughter, A southland men will reap Through a mile of yellow corn ; A vineyard fronting morn, And meadows white with sheep ; But, above all the rest, Kirjath Sepher’s well of water, Deep and cool, which I love best Say wilt thou ? And then he Standing tall beside the yoke, Underneath the summer oak, Answered—“ I have said it!”— Spring up, oh Well, spring to me The while I sing to thee. n. Incline thine ear, oh spring, Unto me while I sing In the open sunset meadow ; 110 THE OLD RIVER REVISITED. Bubble up in the clear shadow That the sun cannot dispel, Flow through the channelled stone, Where I see my face so well, Where nor wild ass or gazelle In the noontide ever comes, And the brown bee only hums By the porch with grass o’ergrown : For within I feel the beat Of a new life sacred-sweet, And secret as thine own !— Spring up, oh Well, spring to me The while I sing to thee. THE OLD RIVER REVISITED. i. Tell me not, Oh ! tell me not the years have passed for ever, For this bright eve I’ll live again my life by this old river. Row softly through the kindly waves, That bore me long ago, The while the loved old evening light THE OLD DIVER REVISITED. Ill Floats o’er their quiet flow. Yes, here the cheery playground lies, Soft shelving to the stream, Ah ! would that I could see once more, With shut eyes that fresh dream ! And here is still the rude stone chair, Where oft-times a loved one With gentle cheek, and dim gray hair, Sate in the morning sun. While the trout plumped up from the sleeky depth, And midges winked around, And the bee-swarm filled the beech tree roof With summery humming sound. ii. Lo ! see’st thou where yon sycamore spreads out against the sky? Now row me thither on this tranced stream of memory. How often did those branches fling Love kisses o’er our brows, When the slanting west was velveting Its plumy droop of boughs ? How oft with spirits trembling Like the restless leaves above me, I listened for the step of one 112 THE OLD RIVER REVISITED. Who left old home to love me ? Old tree, full many a charmed hour Has flown by thee, I wis, Bright heaven-dreams lay in thy leaves. Green Eden bower of bliss : Even now thy dipping boughs seem tranced In a long sweet summer bliss. hi. The eve is o’er—row on, row on amid the slumbrous night, Where yonder ruin stands against the crossing^streak of light. Softly ’mid the shadows Of the mournful yew trees glide, For they watch o’er the silent homes Where the lost of earth abide ; Before me bear the new-lit torch— Solemnly glide and soft; Blest be the path to that old porch— Their shadows crossed it oft. I seem now in my solemn mood, To hear old voices calling : My soul is like an autumn wood, Where the silent leaves are falling ; A VISIT FROM MY MUSE. 113 The earth rolls deep into the night, The tombs in mist are furled ; The crescent moon, like a barque of light, Seems bearing spirits from the world. A VISIT FROM MY MUSE. As I sat in a mournful muse of care By the moonlit door one autumn night, Who should I see in the ivies there But the delicate shape of a friendly Sprite, Who, laughing mellowly, hopped anear, And said, as she gently pulled my ear, “ What! dreaming still on griefs and wrongs When you should be shaping autumn songs And moulding many a theme subline ?— Come in with me, And let me see What you have been doing this long, long time.” Then into the dusky room we went, Where, near the casement glimmering blue, The leafy fire dozed low, and sent Its perfumed pillar up into the flue. Scarcely then was the old lamp lit, i A VISIT FROM MY MUSE. 114 Amid the volumes of thought and wit, When : Yes, ’tis just as I feared,” she cried, As she sate on a poem by my side, “ Though time has traced in the orchard near The golden hours On fruit and flowers, You’ve idled away the good bright year.” Then first with a gleamy hand she oped A roll of manuscript written clear, Scann’d it, and cried, “ ’Tis more than I hoped : You’ve turned your heart to music here; In twenty love songs breathing bliss From lines that rhyme like kiss to kiss,— Some gay, some glowed with passion’s heat, And vibrating like pulses sweet. Thanks, thanks for this labour of love, my son ; But say, whose eyes Have waked those sighs ? Come, tell me the name of the darling one.” Laughing, I pointed through the pane To the rose-roofed cot in the little vale, Where an August drift of moonlit rain Tenderly passed on the perfumed gale, A VISIT FROM MY MUSE. 115 “ Muse, to paint beauty, one must love, And the bard must be moved, if he would move. That well thou deemest of this wine It glads me, but, for the lovely vine From which my fancy drew delight ”— Here archly wild, The little muse smiled. And carolled, “ I’ll visit her dreams to-night. “ And murmur mellowly in her ear The lines in which her lip and cheek, With its dimple ripple are painted clear As the pouting cherry or scarlet streak In the daisy’s heart, and the young blue day Of her gentle eyes. But say, bard, say Whether thou’st lived in darling dreams Alone, or risen to grander themes ?” “ That I in storm no less can sail, Than sunshine, muse, This scroll peruse And say how runs my chivalric tale.,’ Then turned she over a page or two Of tournament gay and combat dread, Glanced at my knights in armour blue, 116 WINTER SCENES AND MUSINCiS. My love bowers, banquets, and fields of dead— When a distant sound of music rare Came streaming along the starry air. “ Hark ! knowest thou not,” she cried, “ yon strain ?* Tis the shaping dream of a poet brain, Who thus evokes my sovereign aid, Now adieu till day ”— And swift away She flew to her task o’er the dusky glade. WINTER SCENES AND MUSINGS- The Birds at Christmas. Days have come of winter sublime and cold cloud-scenery, Yet beautiful as those when summer, radiant o’er the sea, Brings us skies blue as the breast of the bird that plain¬ tively Sings by the promont’s steep, where dip the boughs in the waves’ bright flow,^— ’When yellows the daffodill wet, what time have southward set, Clusters that watched the wide world with a look of windy woe. Still and cold is the air this short December day, Under the rounding sky the earth is white with snow, WINTER SCENES AND MUSINGS. 117 'City and country, white, to the hills that far away Stretch their pure soft pencilled slopes and dells in the wintry glow Of the piteously cheerful sun that down his lessened arc toward night Slants—too feeble to melt at noon with his distant frosty light The icy tracery of the trees against a sky less bright— Trees that foliaged with snow and crystal flowers are seen Beautiful in their winter garb as when their fronds were green. And soon the westering orb, low, large, and round—a ray¬ less sphere, Mirrors its dying glory o’er the landscape, chill and clear; Along the icy-floored canal and river rings the sound 01 skaters,, as the evening air grows closely colder round, Whence shouts and laughters rise in the haze now gathering torpidly Over the darkening scene, where breathes the wind from the North Sea. Oh, deadly are those icy nights when the wind blows keen from the Pole, Whence over ocean, mountain, city, the desolate cloud tracts roll From sombre spaces, continents of winter wild and bare : 118 WINTER SCENES AND MUSINGS. The huge vague vapour banks are mountaining in the cold' gray glare. A while with night their frozen tumult looms up distantly— Then with a rush the storm sweeps o’er the austere surge and frowning sea. o Lo ! as by the beach we walked a line of sound afar, Ceaseless and drear, hummed o’er the waste, where the roofs of vapour riven Over the wild and tenebrous space showed but one icy star, Piercing with lonely light the black envelopment of heaven ; From the desert void at times a wild gust tempest-toned Swept o’er the waters, and the promonts fronting the dark deep, And inland o’er the unseen rounding levels passing, moaned—• The sand grass shook—a drear unrest wildered earth’s wintry sleep. And higher through the homeless gloom the billows roll and roar, Whitening the gaunt headlands, washing wide up the shingly shore— Ridges, with a planet’s steadiness moving, mighty and frore— And pleasant it was to hurrry home through the whirling wind and sleet WINTER SCENES AND MUSINGS. 119 Into the region of lamps and life, and the shelter of suburb and street. Or, now ’tis noon; from the fire-lit room we look on the snowy garden, where On wall and branch the poor birds cluster, dumb in the icy air; Innocent lives are theirs, the season bleak deprives of food— Brings famine—see how piteously their groups forlornly brood ! Ah! above all, the weak and helpless demand our human care; Life that can feel and suffer, one with ours is, everywhere— The form is nothing : Being that is sensitive to pain And want, appeals to sympathy from each sound heart and brain : For what are those small and simple creatures but the infants of this sphere ? Diverse in shape, but whose helplessness in winter, hard and drear, Claims aid—whose very innocence itself should make them dear. And we think, when we see the cruel, thoughtless fowler issue forth 120 WINTER SCENES AND MUSINGS. On these, their foodless days, when blow the keen winds from the North, To take advantage of the weak, whom circumstance has made Then weaker—following foolish Custom merely—it were well That Reason and Benevolence formed customs for their aid, So altering to a mood of heaven that of heartless hell. Man, gifted with superior powers and intellect—we trow— Should be the guardian, not destroyer, of all weaker life below— The friend of God’s sweet, crimeless creatures, not their cunning foe. But mindful when he walks abroad on bitter days like these To bring with him some food for those poor tenants of the trees, And, having saved some innocent lives, bear through the evening gloom Some gracious memories of good achieved—returning home. Customs are only tracks which folk follow from age to age, Once fixed, pursued, and nobler when benevolent and sage Than cruel to delight in :—acts that satisfy the Heart Are purest of all pleasures, and become of Heaven a part. UNDER THE TORRENT 121 UNDER THE TORRENT. Spacious, mighty, massive, and white, The river plunged from the level height, Like some great Spirit, descending on earth’s dominions, Amid the tempest hurry of its vast pinions. Around, the rocks like giants prostrate and dead. Turned by the vengeance of some god to stone, Or the resistless forces of ages sped, Loomed black through mists and storms of surf o’er blown. Sprayey whirlwinds carreering, mounted the breast Of the cliffs evermore, evermore sinking to rest. Scattered in wet crevasses and hollows gray, The withered leafy ruins of winter lay. Blankly the trees shook and shivered, the air; sky, and ground Trembled under the cataract’s falling sound. Driving in gusts and billows for ever heaping Aloft, from the gorge’s brink precipitious leaping, And senseless, save to its purpose—resistless sweeping— Through chasm and gorge, and gloomy woodland errant— The awesome anthem of its onward current, Round and round, o’erheard through the wild cloud’s rent, Like creatures of some sorcerous element. 122 UNDER THE TORRENT. The crows and eagles black and boding swam Through storms of mist; beyond where the air was calm, On a summit, a group of trees, withered and gray, Seemed uttering ghostly charms, As they stretched their wet, chill arms Towards some unhallowed vision, far away. At length the sun rolled among Vapours chaotic, Burst forth, and downward flung Splendours despotic; Through the mists curling dense, Long shafts of radiance, Glories and wonders Of flame ’mid the thunders Of waters descending And whirling away ; And shapes never ending Of tempest winged spray : Blasted and beaten back On their fierce rapid’s track, Where the foam-billows swell, Bursting like battle shell. Rage like a river of Hell, Tumulting onward, Towards the deeps sunward ; DUTCH PICTURES. 123 Through the rocks deaf and dumb, Tortured and riven, Seething and coiling Raging and boiling, Like the wrath of the heaven To come! While as loomed the black pines askance From the cliffs, horrent, The struggling ray slanted low Over the boiling snow, The dazzling surf-dance Under the torrent. DUTCH PICTURES. A Hurry graph. The seas of wheat, the flax-fields green, The willow fringe along the sky ; The clustering spires in distance dim— The red-tiled hamlets, clean and trim; The chateaux with their tourelles high Which over russet woods are seen, Sink in the southern clouds that lean Upon the brown land’s level line, And castled mountains of the Rhine. 124 DUTCH PICTURES. And norhvard on the horizon loom The sandhills with their windmills grey, Twinkling like midges in the glow Of the long, level sea-light low, Where Amsterdam, Bergen-op-Zoom, And Holland’s pastures take the day With many a branching water way, To where the white surge curlingly Rolls from the azure Zuyder Zee. More red-tiled towns in trees embowered; Cathedrals, which museums are ; Great picture galleries where bloom The hues of Rubens rich, and gloom Scenes that in Rembrandt’s brows have lowered— Scenes which appear as though they were Painted by Night’s hand and a star— And Potter’s landscapes sweet with kine And feeling for dumb life divine. Interiors by Jan Steen, with dame And Flemish cavalier, where glow Cloaks crimson ’mid the sheen of steel, And petticoats like lemon-peel; And robes that shift in silver flame FOREIGN NIGHT RAMBLES, 125 Of satin stiff and glossy white, And crisped laces in the light; And, in the shadow, china sets, And nut-brown carved cabinets. There, too, the grey-green swinging seas Of Vandeveld, with his sea-fights, The curling smoke of broadsides—red Flame-jets—confusions, drownings dread, And shattered masts, sails drooping dead, Or high poop’d stately argosies Returning after voyage flights, Weighted with China’s silk and tea, Or Ceylon’s spice and ivory. FOREIGN NIGHT RAMBLES. Wandering through dark foreign cities, now by gray old monasteries, Mouldering Town Halls, many window’d—here and there a lonely column, Topped by its pale statua; or skirted by their sad and solemn Rows of poplars ; Churches with their carved porches, winged faces 12G FOREIGN NIGHT RAMBLES. Of angel, saint, and others, forms of mild old mitred dignitaries ; Painted windows wreathed with leaves, facades with tracery- fine as laces : And on high, the massive square Twin-turrets, built to last for ever, O’erlooking miles of roof and river; And fringe of pinnacles along The shadowy walls with buttress strong, Or spire sublime and stately, soaring in the tingling starry air. Wandering through tall old streets, all gable-fronted, dark and narrow With lines of shadowy balconies ; and in some open space a cluster Of fresh fountains, pulsing amid young trees in the quiet lustre ; Or, beyond, some aged armed gateway in the walled gloom, Where the moonlight strikes the unfrequent figure, tan sailed barges swoom, On canal or sea space, which then quivers like a silver arrow ; And, as one hastes, late and alone Hotel-ward through strange place or piazza, A GLIMPSE OF EGYPT. 127 Where groups by steps lie huddled prone, —Or, shuttering cabaret or casa,— Down some dark lane the last song dies, And your sole comrades are, your shadow, and the old blue starry skies. A GLIMPSE OF EGYPT. In one wide dream, in one sweet mood, From Spring to Spring, from drought to flood, Lo ! Summer, from her throne on high, Broods down from Egypt’s sapphire sky. There ’mid the level round of green And fat, black sluiced lands, is seen Some city islanded, with white Baked fortress wall, and indistinct In dizzy air and steady sheen, Like spiral shells, fretted and pinked, Minaret clusters, in the light Aurorialised—which, ere the night Domes o’er the half-sunk desert sun, Alternately seem built of rose Or salmon-coloured cloud, upon The plain that fades from gold to dun. Beside the river serpenting, The burning yellow sand-hills trend, 128 A GLIMPSE OF EGYPT. Where splendid groups of drooping palm In languid-lapsed siestas bend, Dotting the distance dark, where glooms The heated desert’s noon-day calm ; While through the shimmering wide air looms Pyramid peak by ruined tombs, Or Sphynx that seems alive and purrs, Resting upon its lion paws, Or camel’s gray train far away Against the horizontal skies, With high-raised heads, as small as flies, Like hieroglyphic characters Upon some crumbling tawney strip Of dry papyrus. Edged like saws Stretch stony mountains Eastward, and Upon the stream banks sculptured rocks, And with the evening Western flocks Of desert birds athirst for dew: And by the river’s side near hand, Here a red granite tomb, and there A broken fountain dry, in hue Old ivory, half filled with sand ; And villages in tall green wheat, And the full flowing Nilus sweet— All domed by Egypt’s indolent blue. 129 A CHARACTER. A CHARACTER. As from the sultry town, oppressed, At eve we pace the suburb green, There, at his window looking west, Our good old friend will sure be seen : Upon the table, full in light, Backgammon box and Bible lie ; Behind the curtain, hid from sight, A wine glass no less certainly; A finger beckons—nothing loath We enter—ah ! his heart is low, His flask is brimming high, but both Shall change their level ere we go. We sit, and hour on hour prolong, For memory loves on wine to float; He tells old tales, chirps scraps of song, And cracks the nut of anecdote ; Tells his best story with a smile— 5 Tis his by fifty years of right ; And slowly rounds his joke, the while, With eye half closed, he trims the light: Tho’ clock hand marks the midnight’s date, But blythe is he as matin wren, His grasp is firm, his form dilate With wine, and wit of vanished men. K 130 A CHARACTER. He reads each morn the news that shook The days of Pitt and Nelson, too, But little cares for speech or book, Or battle after Waterloo ; The present time is lost in haze, The past alone delights his eye ; He deems the men of these poor days As worthless all of history ; Who dares to scoff that love of thine, Old friend, for vanished men and years ? His youth that charms thee—pass the wine— The wine alone is good as theirs. Each morn he basks away the hours In garden nooks, and quaffs the air ; Chats with his plants, and holds with flowers A tender-toned communion there ; Each year the pleasant prospect shrinks, And houses close the olden view; The world is changing fast; he thinks The sun himself is failing too :— Ah ! well-a-day, the mists of age May make these summer seasons dim; No matter—still in Chaucer’s page The olden summers shine for him. THE LAST GLIMPSE. 131 THE LAST GLIMPSE. “ Land !” from the breezy masthead cried A sailor, looking o’er the wide Bright waters toward his native shore, Lengthening a gray line flecked with green, Whither the full sailed vessel bore. The captain bending the bulwark o’er— His bronzed face lit in the wavy sheen— Gazed on the sea familiarly : “ We’ll anchor,” said he, “ ere yon sun Goes down behind the harbour hill,”— Then strode amidships, where upon Hex couch a beauteous form lay still. The azure eyes were closed ; dim death, Alas 1 had stopped her gentle breath, Just as the morning’s low rose cloud Edged the lone ocean, whose last sphere With her sweet soul withdrew : and loud The sailors sobbed around her shroud. So fair was she, so young. So dear To all those rude seamen, her mood Simple and gay, had made her, while From the rich South, whose leafy strand, Mountains, and woods divinely smile, She voyaged to her Native Land. 132 THE LAST GLIMPSE. White as the sunny tropic spray, The robe that wrapped her tender clay ; While with her gold, luxuriant hair, Streamed from the coral-cinctured brow And cheek, like summer crescent fair, Dimly the simple soft sea air Played ; and the wave-lights past the prow With every dip of the speeding ship. Down the ridged rolling billows glanced Under the warm wind-stretched sail, With a life-like gleam on her face, entranced,. Red lips, and closed lids, marble pale. More silent than the broad sea day The sailors, sadly, where she lay, As toward a pure place sanctified, Looked, reverend, and scarce essayed— For one, who on the waters wide, Like a clear April day had died, In love and light—a prayer of aid ; And the ship sped fast, and the sun at last Nish touched the mountains, blue with rain,. When a marvelling whisper rose, and slow Gathered—beholding once again Her large eyes open in the glow. IN GALILEE. 133 Alive in golden light they gazed Toward the dear shore : and while they raised Her gentle form that she might view The hills and vales long murmured of, In accents soft as Irish dew. Death seemd a space to yield to Love. “ Cheer, be of cheer, maiden, most dear!” But, as the sun in twilight’s foam Vanished, she drooped, and—smiling, died. “Oh, Native Land; oh, sense of Home, How wond’rous art thou,” many cried. IN GALILEE. An open country, smiling, calm, and fair; Mountains and open plains, and here and there A road with sunny hillocks, and hamlets where The apple orchards cluster, and the vine Climbs the flat roofs, or o’er the field supine Spreads. Down the river comes a cooling breeze, And all is green and fresh in flower and tare. The scent of vineyards gladden the summer glow, Faintly freshened from Hermon’s fringe of snow. Northwards are uplands, and Genesareth, bound 134 IN GALILEE. By mild, grey, wavy hills, in skies as clear As spring-light, sleeps, like some low quiet mere Fancied in evening’s levels ; and anear Tabor’s round summit, by its oak-clump crowned, With little flat-roofed farms girdled around, Rises ; and southward undulates the ground On to the rugged, long Esdraelon vale, Fringed with mountains, sultry, grey, and pale; And Carmel’s promont, shadowy o’er the brine— A broken band of rich dark blue divine. Scarce seen through sunny, wide, sheep-dotted meads, Buff Jordan winds through its tall walls of reeds And tamarisks, until its dwindling line Fails toward the old red, leafy Jebusite hills And land of Moab, where the cascade spills From cliff to cliff, and fading leaves no sign, When evening purples the upland east like wine. Eastward the desert spreads in sultry swoon, Dizzy and dry : the heavy heat of noon O’er olive grove, old tomb, and palm, and well, On the far flats falls breathless, burning; but soon The green plains round freshen from the cool sea; Airs visit smiling Nazareth’s lovely and lone Clean hamlet street, whose sycamores whisperingly.- From leaf and blossom, blend their summer tone IN GALILEE. 135 With innocent children’s voices, playing among Hedges of roses, and with maiden’s song And laughter, as the white group, gossiping, throng Round the old fountain, where, in grey years gone, The wayfarer drank, and camel slaked its thirst, With eager eyes and nervous nostril pursed, Ere journeying toward Jerusalem, hot and high, Piled on its hoary hills in the southern sky. At length comes on refreshing afternoon; The plain feels the faint presence of the sea ; The oval coo of doves from sycamore domes Comes from the gardens round the leafy homes, Where figures are gathering myrrh and honeycombs ; The scarlet cloud-streaks roof green Galilee, And, floating up, the soft and superb moon Comes like a goddess queen of the far East And olden time, bidden unto some feast Held in those halls of rosy western day— Tumults of crimson clouds, now turning grey, Past Elisha’s isles and Joppa’s rocky bay— Halls plenteous piled with red ambrosia And laughing cups ranged dulcet-deep thereby, Noted in Homer’s song, Anacreon’s sigh— Quintessent nectar, sparkling immortally ; 13 G IN GALILEE. And golden couches, whereupon to lay Her young limbs, ivory-smooth and pale as snow. And robe’s fair fragrant volute’s radiant flow, Like moon clouds, or sweet verses clothing light With airy words, some beauteous dream of night. And as she moves, in bluest darkness, round The spacious, shadowy land, there is no sound Save of the lambs bleating themselves to sleep, Or rustle of foliage drifted from some steep, Or voices low of waters, vague as rain, Or hollow wind in rocks, upon the plain, Whose verdurous disc remote, the moon has set With twinkle of leaves, and white cliff, dewy-wet. And iridescent sparkle of rivulet. A sacred calm fills air and earth and time ; The land sleeps like a child, and from above The stars seem singing of the Divine Love, Whose form those fields once knew, well as the sun— The Heart of Deity, gone forth upon His mission through their worlds, sweet and sublime. LATE AUTUMN IN A SUBURB. 137 LATE AUTUMN IN A SUBURB. The wintry roads are dry and grey, And through the calm, dull, shortening day The sky but gives a glimmering ray From the low under-roof of morn, Or when at noon some floating ray Fans down on farmyard stacks of corn, For a moment yellow and gay. Drear grow the evenings, when the pale Moon lusters with a wintry smile Through thickening clouds a little while : And now the moon herself is gone, And heavy dark domes all the ground; And looking from the casement round The murky suburb, while the air Rustles the yellow leaves, and where The lines of gas lamps lengthen drear, Less and less frequently you hear Along the road some footstep pass ; And see in houses like a mass Of darker cloud against the sky, Some window-square of curtained light ; And, indistinct in thickest night, 138 LATE AUTUMN IN A SUBURB. Upon an upland past the town, Some window watch-light through the brown Gloom—like a lighthuse far to sea. The roof of cloud spreads thickeningly O’erhead, and thinner near the ground : For minutes oft there is no sound ; And the air comes and goes, and heaves Disconsolately the garden leaves; And sometimes in the gloom, demurred, The sounds of trees remotely stirred. And when the town has silent grown, And lights from every house have gone, Dust-muffled tramp of horses shake The far-off hazy silence, as Along some cross highway they pass ; And if past middle night you wake. And through the universal grey Toward morning look—dull, damp, and lone Is all the world; and rising day Seems aged and weary :—then some ray Strikes the line of poplars tall, And over hazy roof and wall Passes on its way. EY THE FIRESIDE, ETC. 139 BY THE FIRESIDE WITH A SWEET SONG-BOOK, As round me falls the twilight gloom, Read me from this favourite tome, In the firelight smile of home, Some lyric, like an April air, Which o’er the soft blue ocean blows, Before the hills have lost their snows, Tinged with odours, sweet and rare, Of budding wheat and rose ; Or some old song or melody, Simple as earth’s infancy; Blythe or mournful as the breeze That in October’s hazy noon Rustles through the yellow trees, Frolics through the searing flowers And withering garden bowers, Whence the saddened birds have flown ; Or from some thougtful page entone A sonnet, like a summer moon O’er the spacious sea of night, Round and full of quiet light: Or that enchanted Dream that came To one, alone in night’s dark rest— Thoughts that illume despair and death,. 140 BT THE FIRESIDE, ETC. Like stars that dome some desolate heath. Or cold, unfooted antre vast, Dark with the infinite and the past; Yet fancy-full with precious flame, Like jewels on an Ethiop’s breast: And amid echoes, tempest drear, Amid the black woods of the west— A strain of Love rising above The omnipresent sense of doom, And long death-wail’s sonorous gloom ; A music sweet, ecstatic, clear, As that some lonely nightingale, In love with evening’s planet pale, Pours from her brown breast. Or let me hear some careless rhyme From th’ Elizabethan time, When like autumn sunshine streaming Through deep orchards, dropping fruit, Nobly round the isle, were beaming, Mellow lights on lip and lute :— Simple songs, arising oftly ’Mid the strains of bards and sages— Simple voices, floating softly From the grand Dramatic Ages. A GRAY DAWN. 141 A GRAY DAWN. The day has drowsed in a bleak dream, Shrinking its broad and golden gaze; Pale in the blown and muffling haze Along the brownly drifting stream The weak and windy noonlight falls : Upon the margined sands the rushes nod, The white stream-lily droops its chilly cheek Over its shadow, wavering slant and meek ; And from the sloping field the black crow calls,. Daintily feeding on the wormy sod. Now the willows gray along the river Ruffle like weak, moulting birds, Whitening in the gust that ever Lifts their leaves ; while high o’erhead From the bare pine-tops wintry words Shrill through the twigs, whose leaves are shed— Drowsing, sighing, swelling o’er the breeze, As though its barky heart were ill at ease. Then evening falls upon the windless air, Still are the trees, and viewless flows the stream,. As vague in light as sound, low floating there, Woogling inconstant music in its dream. 142 THE COURSE OF LIFE. SONNET. Could we before our souls keep constantly The sense of a Being, perfect and divine, And live in presence of the Deity, How purely would our thoughts and actions shine Though this be hard to realize to sense, In the affectionate child whose sinless soul Loves us, we have a type of innocence And goodness, which are God’s, defined here, To love, and make existence holy and dear; Warding all evil by its influence, Angel of Home and Life. Let Reverence reign For what is purest: for of all and best Beauty within this infinite domain, That of an innocent soul is loveliest. THE COURSE OP LIFE. At first the infant takes delight In sense of motion and of sight, While learning love for those most dear To last in Heaven, even as here ; Then school, and earnest days of youth, And heritage of mental truth ; Then love, new home, and toil for those Whose new-born life around us blows. SONNETS. 143 Renewers of forgotten days ; Then daily steps o’er beaten ways ; Head gray as that of buried sire. The love of rest, and evening’s fire : And last, amid life’s cares and woes And winter winds and falling snows, Which end life’s old year—the desire To live awhile with memory Of dear old days before we die. SONNETS. Clouds. Behold the cloud shapes that throughout the year Pursue their airy life in gloom and light:— Now from some coast of winter wild and drear. Or low horizon, stormy and austere, With muffled brow, and gesture of command, Watching the dismal deep and starless space, Portentious, with the vast its dwelling-place, Some solitary Phantom seems to stand; While in the level tempest’s bleak career, Another, moving dark and mightily Amid the tumult, with eripient hand 144 SONNETS. Discrowns some dark antagonist on high : —Some dim, sublime, scarce seen through driving spray Some like the gods beheld at rise of day ; Or from the ocean’s shore some eve of storms— Calm beings—ghost supreme—majestic forms. Birds of Winter. Of winter noons when oft from the blue north The wind breathes keen, from town we wander forth To feed the fasting birds with corn and bread, When most they need such care : when all the ground And food-producing world for them is dead. Numbly some perch on branches, without sound, Familiar, tame with want; and as we strew Crumbs on some walk, or place nigh which they brood,, And, passing, look behind, can see their true Souls soft with piteous, loving gratitude ; And, as we homeward pace through evening grey, Feel—something being so gained, and naught to rue,. Thus to have happier made, and saved a few Affectionate souls—is a true Holy Day. While o’er the world flushed the white winter dawn, And here and there a bird began to sing, Simple and sweet, in glimmering fields, like Spring, SONNETS. 145 Budding from hedge to hedge—one sat withdrawn, Unhappy to have waked again in the ray: For she had lost her young, whose eyes that hour Once looked in her fond eyes affectionately, And, mourning for them, her poor little heart Sang of them, and her sorrow,—now a part Of her lone life for evermore ;—for they Had perished, the cruel fowlers prey : And, in her plaint, she mingled all that she Remembered of their looks and love—to day New-born, that knew them once when by her side— And anguished that with them she had not died. Evil and Ignorance. ’Tis comforting to think, though Evil here Is still so widely spread, at it may be, Throughout the worlds of yon infinity— As Ignorance is its source on any sphere, That from Life’s nature, of necessity Good yet must triumph ; and that evil must be Its own destroyer—it, in sooth, being blind To consequence, it must give way to Mind, Whose law’s development—from one truth gained By life’s experience and thought, unto A higher ; for the many from the few, 146 Paris : 1794 . Widening the prospect, ’till where Evil reigned The enlarged heart shall reign. Thus Evil must die, Where’er Intelligence lives in yonder sky. Love. More beauteous is Love than star or sun, Surpassing matter in conception ; Greater than aught in yon material dome, Mind’s empire, with infinity its home: Things lovely in themselves, which mind has made, Win naught from place, nor need extrinsic aid, Nor songs and sermons under gilded ceilings Reflect more sweeter fancies, clearer proofs, Convincing truths eternal, nobler feelings, Than sung or spoken under rural roofs ; Nor need an eye be set beneath a crown Hence to enjoy the dawn and sunset’s glories, Or beauty of the bubble, or yellow strewn Leaves, venerable and sweet as ancient stories. PARIS: 1 7 9 4. A Scene in the City, and Supper in the Suburbs. i. ’Twas in the days when Paris, pale and red. With terror and with blood, was still the sphere Of fatalistic, sanguine Robespierre, paris : 1794 . 147 Who, founding his Republic on the dead, Sought the best surety for its security In clearing from the old aristocratic Structure, its thinking attic:— A youth from Aix, Pierre Rabutin by name, Lodged in an aged house near Notre Dame, Absorbed in his books, and knowing few In the great shambles Paris had become, Save his school comrades, most of whom had flown ; A patron from his province, Count L’Elaat, Upon whose poor but spacious estate His mother’s cottage stood ; and in his new Parisian home, a girl, young, tall, and fair, Who likewise rented a small chamber there, On the same flat, and whose bright eyes of blue And cheerful converse had become to him Like some sweet April morning, soft with dew, A solitary charm and source of joy, Amid that bloody city dread and dim. Where numbers seemed to live but to destroy. n. It was a warm and radiant eve in May, Blue, calm, and bright the sky domed o’er the town, Goldening every spire and steeple grey, 148 parts : 1794 . Goldening the old roofs and glowing down The narrow street that westward led into The Place de Greve, to which, attracted by The curiosity that fear creates, Came Pierre, to show himself unto the fates. “ Good evining, citizen, a good day’s toil,” Drunkenly cried a savage figure, dressed In red cap, belt, huge boots, with open breast, Pistols and sabre by his side, the while Looking upon him with a grimy smile, And laying on his shoulder a huge hand Mottled with blood and mire. The level gleam Shot o’er the roofs, flooding the quiet square, From whose choked gutters rose a sanguine steam ’Mid many a gaunt and wolfish gathering there, And in the centre the black gullotine Reared on its redly dripping platform, where From time to time, one took from one beneath A water bucket, whose contents he dashed Upon the planks, and with a red cloth washed The structure, dripping from the work of Death ; The while a youth, sharpened, with artist care, The heavy sheaving axe hung sidelong o’er The block and framework, saturate with gore. Upon the pavement round about were piled Paris : 1794 . 149 In neatest order, heaps of that day’s dead Each corse disposed with care beside its head— M en of all ages, beards of black and red, White ghastly faces of eternal calm Were some ; others convulsed as with a spasm. And here a woman’s head, with locks of gold, Or chestnut, cropped close to the neck, whence stream’d The blood from the shrunk vessels, well nigh drained. While, on the bodies, some laid sofawise For ease against the scaffold, lolled or sate The harvestmen of death ; some brawny squat Some tall, partaking with their pipe and glass Converse together, and, save for the flies Rank swarming round, enjoying the calm hour After their toil, or jesting with some lass Wolf-eyed with famine, who might chance to pass; Or, playing with their children, who had come Bringing them supper, when the rattling drum Gave note of the day’s execution? done. A grateful air had risen at set of sun In peaceful rows the pigeons perched upon The eaves, or wheeled ; the swallows skirred on high, And with the dusk sweet coolness filled the sky. Then came the dead carts. “ Pardon me, my friend, 150 Paris : 1794 . That I disturb you,”—’twas a driver spoke, Lifting his cap politely unto one Who sate upon the corses, as his yoke He settled :—“ Not at all, ray son, The work of the Republic must be done, And, though as yet, it scarcely has begun, Ne’erless those sixty who have fallen to-day Is no such bad instalment, as things run, Of the huge debt the Great have yet to pay ; In short, all things considered, I may say, Never was harvest so advanced in May. But, let me offer you assistance, pray, In clearing off this rubbish ?” “ Thank you, well: I trust your dame and little ones enjoy Good health, and how is he, your eldest boy ?” <c My faith, he’s passable, and will feel no worse For this day’s work :—though nothing in our purse It puts, it lessens still the centuried curse With which we’ve groaned.” And then they went, pell-me 11 To heave into the carts each trunk and head ; Then at the fountain washed, and strolled to bed, And starry night domed o’er that city of hell. A Supper in the Suburbs. That night in an old villa near the town, Madame St. Croix, a friend of Count L’Elaat, Paris : 1794 . 151 Invited to a supper, ordered late, A few supporters of the Old Estate; All whom disguised in rabble garb came down, To snatch an hour’s communion ; it might be Their last on this side of eternity. The Count had brought Pierre Rabutin with him, And both by darksome streets and alleys dim Arrived unchallenged at the portal, where A servant gave admittance to the pair. Within the spacious chamber a few lights Burned dimly, shaded toward the casements barred, Shuttered and curtained close; for on such nights, Detective of conspiracy, a guard Patrolling armed, watched each suspected house, As the keen-eyed, soft-footed cat the mouse. Pleasantly passed the supper hour away, The feasters, male and female, were alike Polished and cool: despair, which turns some grey, Had made this courtly company, careless, gay— Indifferent to the hour when death should strike, As that of bed time. So they laughed and filled Their glasses, criticised and witticised All things which they affected and despised, Until the hostess, turning her bright eyes On Count L’Elaat, asked how much blood was spilled 152 PARIS : 1794 . That day ? and only felt a little chilled When he recounted those the destinies Dismissed to worlds above them or below, Several of whom were some few weeks ago Her guests at supper. “ For, my faith,” she said, “ So long we all have lived upon the brink Of the next life, we giddy feel no more ; To-morrow, all of us at this same hour Already may be voyaging to the shore Of Hades, or, perchance, approach the moon; The earth has grown a cloud, and I do think A supper with the living or the dead Equally pleasant.” The Chevalier Du Lass Faint laughing, as with little bit of bread He stirred the champagne bubbles in his glass, Lisped out, “ Ma foi—so common death has grown Amid the waves of our Parisian sea, That life, in short, has now become to me The more extraordinary phenomenon : All perish now without a sigh or moan, As once the custom of humanity; The skeleton laughs ; then wherefore should not I Who am one, laugh at death, even ere I die.” “ And purpose you to wait until that grim Robespierre sends you to the guillotine, PARIS : 1794 . 153 Marquis ?” the hostess asked, offering a rose From her bouquet. “ Well, no, I wish to save The State expense, if I have time to choose, Especially as its finance runs low, Despite of all the confiscations, so I have secured me here a sweet morceau With which I can take post unto the grave At any moment ” (here from his white hand He took a ring within whose chamber lay Under a glass a little powder grey), Then added in his manner airily bland : “ A priceless treasure in such days as these, For with it one commands his destinies. In sooth, though life is dear, yet death at least Is cheap—a single franc supplies the feast. This pretty powder you have but to mix With your life’s current, and will need no more Saving an obolus to waft you o’er The grateful current of the ghostly Styx. But, lest I seem a churl, my friends, behold A paper of the same for all your use; No fear of injury from its abuse.” This from his vest then taking he unrolled, And, amid many thanks and laughter gay, Distributed it around the company. 154 paris ; 1794 . Scarce had he done so, when was heard the tramp Of feet, and thund’rous knocking at the gate. “ Open, in the Republic’s name.” “Yet wait, Our leisure a short space, at any rate,” The hostess cried with an impatient stamp. <c ’Tis our death summons.” “ Doubtless, but as I Have had the honour of your company, May mine the honour also be, to give The signal to such friends as care to live No longer?” At this, several smiling said— “ That pleasure must be ours assuredly.” And then the Chevalier, as Ganymede, Rose, filling every glass in which was laid The poison; and as toward her bowed they all— Last ceremony of the festival— Added—“ Madame, we wait the sign to die.” Too precious was the draught for an oblation ; So all forthwith their glasses drained with care Lest any particle should linger there— And, but regretting more was not to share :— Then, seated, they resumed the conversation. Some minutes past—then slowly came a drear Silence, commencing with the Chevalier Who, as the outer door burst, said—“ He feared PAKIS : 1794 . 155 The poison not so good as was declared And naming to Pierre Rabutin the drug, Asked with raised eyebrows and a puzzled shrug, c ‘ How many minutes it required to act ? As by his reckoning five had passed, in fact.” ce If genuine—two.” As, delicately his watch He held that Pierre might see it, you might catch—• So deep the stillness had become—its tick More loud than their hearts’ pulses beating near. Another minute sped. And then—“ I fear The chemist, sir, has played us a sad trick,” Said Count L’Elaat, “ but there’s time if we’re quick. ” And drawing forth a knife with look perplexed Stabbed himself to the heart—then to his next Neighbour he handed it, who did the same, And so it passed from gentleman to dame, So swift—the hostess scarce had had a guest Were she still living; or the Guard, who now Stood at the door aghast and pale of brow, Any alive save young Pierre to arrest, And who, the while that they were occupied With some just breathing, others who had died. In the confusion managed to escape, Well knowing his detection in such high Aristocratical society 156 LITTLE LURA. Might cause even one comparatively ill-bred To forfeit on the guillotine his head. The night Guard of Arrest remained a space Making an inventory of the dead Who had escaped them—with but little grace ; At length, one looking round the chamber said : u My faith, if those folk had but lived as well As they have died —there were no use for Hell.” LITTLE LURA. Part I. When golden noon looked down the sky, I saw, amid a seaside meadow, A circling group of children sit Beneath a willow’s wavering shadow ; They watched an elder one, who wove A crown, and would have watched for hours Their eyes were wonder-wide with joy, Their tiny laps were heaped with flowers. And one—her head half bent aside, Her face one innocent, earnest smile— Sat plaiting a dainty daisy wreath, And singing to herself the while. LITTLE LURA. 157 But lonely Lura sat apart, Her bright eyes like the young blue day, A rosy, mystic, mournful child, Like a sad evening in May— Looking upon the wreaths they wove, But filled with fancies sweet and still; Then rising, with declined head, Paced towards the wood ’twixt sea and hill. Paced by the ruined chapel gray, The dappled silver beech that stood In the lone field—looked back, and then Was lost along the curving flood. The rosy group beneath the trees Looked up, but saw not Lura there ; Surprised awhile; then took their wreaths And walked into the noonday glare; Then by the stately rows of trees That shed their leafy lights beneath, The line of children, hand in hand, Went homeward up the shadowy, peaceful path, Along the sun-warmed, sandy shore, The child’s lone form is flitting now— A place she oft has wandered o’er— While pretty fancies flushed her brow; 158 LITTLE LURA. Now stoops she o’er the limpid wells That lie within the mossy, rock, And plucks the sea-flowers’ azure bells, And gazes on each snowy flock Of slow gulls, rising on the waves; Or gathers, by the quiet caves, Through which the smooth green billow rolls. Dry weed, and shells, bell-blossomed brooms. And night-grown, peaked mushrooms, Like fairy parasols. Till last'she came unto a reach, Where lay upon a rising beach A brown-ribbed boat, its prow sunk low, Upward half-drawn upon the sand, While the keel swung lazily to and fro, As it were dallying with the strand— She climbed within, and on the stern Built up a dome of shells, and fern, Long purple heath; then in its shade, Of rosy weed a carpet made ; And, tired with fancy, presently Lay down, and slept beside the sea, Unconscious while the stealthy tide Is wafting her from land away, Or that she drifts on ocean wide LITTLE LURA. 15 £ Long after the red set of day ; Till a wind sweeps through the shivering dark, Drear as an indrawn breath of pain, And she wakes, O God ! in the drifted bark. Far on the wide and midnight main. All through that dread night, and the next drear day, They searched each spot where Lura loved to play, Bewildered, anguished ; along miles of coast Searched, but to find with labour hope was lost. And now, as tired in spirit, homeward slow O’er the dumb seabanks desolate they go, From wrecks of clouds that o’er the glaring gray Of sunset drove, a wind began to blow, And o’er the cottage lone, blank dark fell down : The doors rattled, the window-shrubs shook as in woe And the dim sv r eeling candle glimmered where By the blank hearth stood Lura’s little chair. Alas, that one so sv r eet, so loved, and fair, Alone in desolate darkness should be lost; A child forlorn, when sudden-risen storm Shakes the wide earth. Will pitying angel save ? A knock ! and at the opened door a form ! Lura ? No ! ’tis an aged seaman brave, Who brings the news the drifting child has been 100 LITTLE LUKA. Taken aboard a vessel which now lies At anchor ten miles off. Divine surprise ! joy and deep gratitude to the Unseen Fill every heart. Forthwith her brothers rise :— “ We will to horse—to-night she will be here !”' And hurry out where tempest wild and drear Whirls through the roofed darkness of the skies. “ What a night for a gallop !” one said, looking out From the dim streaming pane on the deluge of rain Sweeping over the roof, falling heavy without On the garden path bubbling in pools, rushing out From the swol’n guttling throat of the sputtering spout; Hearing now on the breeze the mad moan of the trees, And, more awful, the roar of the lone raging shore, Where the dying moon’s crescent, pure, lone, and serene. At moments amid the far turmoil is seen To dive ’mid the luminous cloud wrecks. But hark ! Voices, the clatter of hoofs in the dark, While some at the open door gather to say “ Good night,” ere their friends in the storm ride away. Part II.—A Gaiiop. The horses are saddled, each springs to his seat, Gives the spur, and away down the dark hamlet street, LITTLE LURA. 1G1 And out on the stormy blank road—ere the beat Of their hearts made a score—where the wind in its might Grows dreader and broader, as darker the night; Low down to the north a vague crease of blank light; Roaring darkness around the rough path; to the right, The imminent gloom of a long mountain height, Whose ridge blends afar with the sky’s stormy bound; To the left, the great sea, only known by its sound, Tumultuous, rolling in wrath from afar, Where, through cloudy confusion, shines fixed one fierce star, Tempestuous, holding its lone, angry watch, ’Twixtthe two maddened worlds of the rain and the wind ; Against which, as they gallop, at moments they catch Sight of headlands, made visible but by their foam, Beaten out of the blackness—dead light from the blind Ocean hell; and then, through the hubbub behind, The long, dismal shore, where the vast billows roar On the sands and the banks; and, remote in the gloom, The sullen wave-wilderness, murmuring doom. Heavy gusts weigh the trees as they gallop along, Pass, and leave them to moan; and more steady and strong The gale beats upon them, low bent by its force, M 162 LITTLE LURA. As they mount the hill-roadway, through torrent and gorse. Then through a ravine sweep in shelter—each horse Breathing thick with its speed—holding on with one heed Headlong to the goal; while the rough, rainy rock Rings and flashes with fire to their strong trampling shock. Now the roadway grows steep, their pace well-nigh a leap Down sheer darkness, until the broad blast once again Smites sidelong the figures of horses and men Holding shoreward. And now something glimmers before—- His a river that rushes down, flooded and frore, To the sea—but the bridge has been swept from the ridge. On the bank the steeds shuddering stand in recoil, Staring on death below, but—across they must go. They plunge—rise—snort—swim, where the white currents boil; Gain the smooth middle depth, where they float light as oil, Foot the ground, grapple up through the rocks and the reeds Of the opposite shore, whence the shortest way leads To the village and ship—shake themselves, while they snore Out the spray—and are off in a gallop once more. And now through the night comes a hamlet in sight Where, albeit it is late, glimmers many a light, LITTLE LUKA. 103 For the people are down on the beach, where the bark Which has saved the lost child from the sea wide and wild, Has been driven on the shoals in the tempest and dark ! So swift to the coast ride the brothers, and there Dismounted, bewildered, stand, facing despair; For, gazing in gloom through the strong blinding blast, Where the desert of cloud and of water seem one, A light, blue, on the verge of the sky and the surge Mounting huge, shows the hull with its snapped maddened mast And blown foresail, rocking o’er white billows flocking In fury around through the hum of the gale. And now comes the echoless boom of a gun Drowned in water and wind; and anear, the long roar Of impassable mountaining waves evermore. “ Who will man us a boat ?” “ Since an hour, one’s afloat, With the best of our men, too, aboard her ; but then The distance is great; who can struggle with fate When it rides on a gale such as this, which has smote Down yon oak, stronger far than a vessel of war, Rooted firm in the rocks—like a reed ?'’—some one said As it struck by a shot, the two youths answered naught, But stood silent and fixed, and upon the seas dread Loveless, pitiless, hopeless, gazed blank, as if dead. 164 LITTLE LURA. “ She is gone 1” some one cried, gazing out on the wide Lightless ocean ; but all the next minute descried Something move on the far feverous foam there are cheers But none echo their hope, as the speck disappears For a long, heavy-hearted, and scarce breathing space; And some turn awaybut again there’s a trace, While against the strong fronting blast each sets his face ; And once more overblown it mounts high, then is gone— Now lifts on the sea, for the rowers are strong— And the rude wrecking wind itself sweeps them along. “ Ah ! the breakers !” Now, now is the danger most near, When escape nearest seems. All rush into the spray Thundering in, ’mid the roar ol the shingles, this way And that torn and driven. “ A long pull—at last— Cheerily men ’’—till, dashed onward by billow and blast, The keel groans, the gunwale is seized hard and fast Now, sea ! do thy worst, for the danger is past. Ashore leap the men—all men—nothing more ? Yes ; on yon seaman’s shoulder peers up a pale face, With terror exhaust, half asleep, tired with pain; There’s a cry—outstretched arms, and in home’s dear embrace The lost child is fondled in peace once again. SONG OF A DRUIDESS 165 SONG- OF A DRUIDESS. i. When the bright sun-god has set And the night is wild and wet, And the winds and seas in a roar, I sit at my cavern door, By the rocks where the billows fret. I have vervain, ater, and rue For the boats of the mariners who Oft come through the surge to the shore, To buy a fair wind from me, Wherever they sail o’er the sea ; For, when unto Lir I have prayed, And my hand on the holy oak laid, My raven gives me a sign From the vase blue god of the brine: Then feel I strong as a tower; Then a flame, as of lightning red, Seems dividing my shuddering head ; Then my body belongs to the dead; And as earth disappears -for a time, I utter the words sublime I know not, but which are of power, And the people tremble at me As I prophesy. 1GG SONG OF A DRUIDESS. II. The birds of the waves that flow, And the birds of the air, all know Me, Loisak : the eagle comes To my cave all famished and thin To warm himself within, When the cold white north wind hums,. And the air is blind with snow; And he tells me what passes there In the stormy uppermost air; Or, when on the dreary plain, When the moon is in the wane, And the cattle moan in the rain, Some sea-ghost flitting past From the ship with plunging mast, Tells me of his late pain ; And the people see in my eyes; That the secrets of earth and the skies Are mine when those red fires rise, And that what’s past.and yet is to be Flies forth from my tongue, fearfully, When I prophesy. hi. Yet, sometimes, like an old song, The sweet days when I was young, THE CROSS OF COOLOCK, 167 Come back to my heart like the Spring, When at night I wander along The rocks, mid the billow’s boom, Looking out in the windy gloom : They were sweet; but the magic I own O’er the winds and the waves and the tomb— The power to bless and to damn— Unto me now have grown greater far ; And, though I’ve no mate to caress, Or child to sing to and dress, With the high Gods, whose servant I am, Loisak is never alone ; For I sing to the evening star, And have friends in the thunder and wave, In the ghosts of the cloud and the grave ; And all mariners kneel unto me, When I prophesy. THE CROSS OF COOLOCK. ’Tis late September, when blue skies Grow pale, and windy sunlight flies O’er stubble fields and barns, wherein The threshing sounds with merry din ; When roads are dry, and comes of eves 168 THE CROSS OF COOLOCK. The scent of frost and withered leaves ; Just as the coolness falls like rain Over the glimmering twilight plain, And sparkles from a wooded dell The first star o’er the dusty way To Coolock town, that evening gay Figures twain have come to pray, At the grey Cross beside the ivied well. With wrinkles manifold has life Traced the brows of man and wife ; Their cottage house remotely lies Under the low yellow skies ; Their only son upon the sea Pursues a distant destiny; Their only daughter, when a child, By gipsys stolen in woodland wild, In vain they’ve looked for through their tears, For full fifteen long saddened years ; Old age has fallen, and their sight So sorrowed, fails them like the light; And so ’tis for their children’s weal That they kneel Where the silent shadows steal. THE CROSS OF COOLOCK. 169 About the fields, in twilight still, The mist has gathered blue and chill, And rounds the low moon, silent sweet, As they approach the village street, Where many a candle glimmers, where A bonfire crackles high in air, Wavering its tongues of orange flame O’er many an aged man and dame ; And. as the youngsters dance and sing, With clapping hands in joyous ring, The pilgrims hear from those gay folk Of two, just joined in nuptial yoke— A youth dark-haired and bright-eyed maid, In white-robe ribbanded arrayed, And wreath of flowers ; Whilst speeds a fiddler in the shade Of a great tree the happy hours. The old pair first at distance stand : Then comes a pause : the young wife’s hand Parts from her lover’s with a sigh She quits the dance, and silently Moves towards the aged dame with gaze Deep earnest—for a while surveys Her face—then falls upon her breast, 170 THE CROSS OF COOLOCK. Sobbing with doubtful love distressed. “Your name?” “ Tis Alice.” “Child—my child,” The mother screams in accents wild, The while the old man stands aghast; And through their hot tears falling fast, Like a blast, Rushes upon them the dear past. And now within the cottage room, Where a great turf fire reddens gloom, And candles shed a long-snuffed light Upon the dresser, freestone white, They gather: by their mother’s knee Young Alice falls, and brokenly With sobs, and little laughs, relates Her story : questions ; compares dates ; And, holding her old father’s hands, As by her he excited stands, Recals her early memories Of sailing far across the seas, Where, in strange lands, She grew in tents amid the trees. And how, when she was twelve years old. They brought her to a ship, blindfold, THE CllOSS OF COOLOCK. 171 Which sailed away for many a day Across the ocean vast and grey; And how the sailors cared her well, Until one night when tempest fell Upon the waters, and the barque Became a wreck amid the dark— Sure she had perished with the crew So dreadfully the tempest blew, But—but for Maurice yonder, who Swam with her on the morning tide To Malahide; Where, with the people, up she grew, Until he asked her for his bride. All hearts beat quick with glad surprise, But doubt still lingered in some eyes, ’Till tearing hungrily apart Her boddice—there, above her heart, Her mother found the mole she knew Which made assurance doubly true. Then all was j oy; the feast was spread. The tale retold and echoed From house to house ; and danced and sung The old folk, mingled with the young ; And as the happy night sped on 172 THE CROSS OF COOLOCK. Only the old dame sighed and said— “ Well: now my joy were perfected, Could I but see my long-lost son.” “ And were all lost that midnight wild Save you and Maurice here, my child ?” I never heard of any, save We two, escaped that watery grave ”— The youth replied. “ My comrade even Whom, then, I best-loved under heaven, I mean poor Owen Tyrrell, who If any, should have swam it through, Must have gone down in that great sea, Although ”—“ Why, Maurice, that was he, Our son !” exclaimed the olden pair. Here all renewed their wondering stare ; When voices loud rose from a crowd Without—and all rushed into the air. Say what seafairing gentleman Is this, whose face as dark as tan, Is such a wondrous counterpart, To that of Alice that all start? No other than her brother he, Arrived, after years at sea ! One glance suffices him to tell FANCIES DURING READING RAMBLES. 17S: There are the friends he loves so well. The four are clasped unto his breast; The revellers quickly learn the rest, That night of shipwreck by good chance A vessel saved him, bound for France, And, unto India sailing thence, Eight years scarce past When fortune fast Grew up to golden competence. FANCIES DURING READING RABMLES. Babylon. O’er walls stupendous, skiey towers, Wide summer gardens, greenest bowers, And templed terraces, with trees, Ascending from the river shores, And aqueducts, and reservoirs, Vast structures, with colossal doors Guardianed by winged Destinies— The deluge of the noon-day pours Down from the gold god on the height Of Belu’s temple, lost in light. Bright squares of spearmen by the grand Palatial portals silent stand— 174 FANCIES DURING READING RAMBLES. A solid splendour, o’er which pass The rays on helms and breasts of brass ; While, where the towers by bridges rise Along the broad Euphrates’ side, The Scythian bowmen, far and wide, Turbaned and horsed, in masses ride— A fiercely-glittering, endless tide— Waves of imperial cavalries. Pavilions, by the river’s glow, In pomp of gold and purple, show ; Proud ebon horses champ along, Rich chariot clothings overflow The myriad, metal-glaring wheels ; And as on house-roofs thousands throng. Aloft awhile sonorous peals The golden thunder of the gong; Then all fall face to earth below, When, ’mid a storm of sacred song, The sacrificial clarions blow. Before the brazen eastern gate, Where the high monarch holds his state Upon a rich pavilioned throne, The captains, and astrologers, AN OLD BALLAD TALE, ETC. 175 The scribes, and tribute-gatherers, Stand, while a white priest, mounting up, Presents the lion-headed cup Unto that Eminence, who reigns O’er all the peoples of the plains In noon-wide majesty alone ; Whose potency not mightiest one Amid the rich east can disturb; Whose word can muster, wide and far, ’Twixt blaze of morn and evening’s star. The millions in the march of war ; Whose tiar’s diamonds superb, And ear-drops, dazzle back the sun. AN OLD BALLAD TALE OF THE FRENCH CHANNEL - It is the changing hour of summer’s night, When stars grow faint along the misty height, When low along the east the dawn’s pure light, Faint-flushing falls with cold and spectral smile 'Through the Cathedral window, down the aisle, Where the first votary prays—a maiden rolled In scarf of silk and silver, breathing faint Of musk and amber, while the chapel’s cold AN OLD BALLAD TALE, ETC. Instinct with the dead presence of its saint, Seems scarce unemptied of the ghosts that throng Its spaces in the darkness. Scarce had she told Three rosary beads when thrilled the lark’s clear song,, And the first wave of dawn-wind moved along : As round the gusty beach the grey sea broke Fitful and sad ; o’erhead upon the banks The long, dim sand grass waved and shook, The river blankly flowed through poplar ranks ; While spread a cloud-rack o’er the pointed spars Of anchored shipping toward the darkness blind, And on its black rim stretching on the wind, A line of watery stars. One half the land in leaden night entombed Lay dim, and from the ivied tower that loomed In the pale, icy dawn, there came a sound— The many-throated chirrip of the birds, Ceaseless and thronging; the chill air swooned round The grassy battlements with uncertain sound, And the grey poplars muttered phantom words Aloft; when Nimue risen from deep-breathed prayer, Leaving St. Mary’s sanctuary there, Paced through the stony twilight of the aisles, Where glimmered o’erhead in the unsunned cold, AN OLD BALLAD TALE, ETC. 177 Some banner’s aureole of withered gold— Past monuments with noble scutcheon ’graved, Device heraldric, gothic tracery— Whereon in chilly slumber sternly lay Old heroes who the kingdom once had saved, And beauties soothing death with marble smiles; And down o’er vaulted glooms, whence spectral moans Thrill on the ear of midnight passer-by, From worms and dust—a wilderness of bones— Until she came unto the chancel where, ’Mid blocks of stone and marble white she saw Alured Brito by the statua Of a crusader tall and stern and grand, Chiselling his shield of stone, heart-shaped, stand. Alured turned, and, leaning his right arm Upon the statue, while throughout his form The blood rushed rapid as a bright spring storm, And bathed his dusky brow with colour warm— “You come like morning, sweetest maid,” he said, “ To cheer my work in passing; when your tread Came whispering softly through the wintry aisles, This heart beat faint that now beneath your smiles Throbs happier than since the statue there, Which is my best, was finished.” “ Mean you this, N 1781 AN OLD BALLAD TALE, ETC. Good sculptor, as a love speech ?” Nimue Asked, while a little laugh thrilled crystally And her rosed cheek declined. “ Well, inward bliss Must show its hidden treasures to the air, And if it fills the ear of her from whose Beauty its words took form and light like dews Trembling upon yon leaf in the sunbeam, Its charm is trebled. You have been the dream That for a year has haunted me allwhere— When loneliest, happiest with it; and though Never gave I my love a voice, I thought You knew I loved you, Nimue, and so Even^now I speak it, though it come to naught, And ask you but to let me love you still, So sweet it is to cherish such delight; Say-—will you—will you ? again I ask,” and bright Her tender eyes bent on him said—“ I will.” Then as the while she neared the porch, and ’neath Its twinkling ivy, turned to nod farewell, Alured, as though moved by some sweet spell, Seized her hand; she felt his kiss and breath A second, and then hurried light along Toward the town, nor looked again until The grassy shoulder of a little hill Upon whose summit whirr’d a little mill, Shut out the church—and then ’twas a side glance. AN OLD BALLAD TALE, ETC. 179 Meanwhile the sculptor, in whose ears the song Of her light voice still murmured, had resumed His work on the Crusader of old France, And round him morning goldened into day Along the damp-stained walls of mouldering gray, And down the misty distance of the aisles, Bordered with scutcheon and dumb dust entombed— Through pictured windows fell the coloured ray, With hollows and with airy lights that bloomed Upon the dusty banners and stone floor, Dear since she paced its wrinkled levels o’er Through silent twilight; but more dear the place Where he had touched her hand, and seen her cheek From pale reserve to archest wonder, now Stirred by his speech in rising blushes break • And he was happy, and the statue’s face Still stern and cold, and blockish heretofore, Under his chisel gained a living grace, And noble beauty grew about its brow That day. But long since Nimue by the shore, And high sea banks had reached her home, and sat Pensive within her little chamber, while The summer sun burned o’er the sandy flat Southward on Calais town and masted port, And the blue Channel. On her lips a smile 180 AN OLD BALLAD TALE, ETC. Hovered; she sang, and joyous was her mood, And then at times a sadness dimmed her blood, And with the fall of eve she grew amort, Uncertain whether, as her needle wrought The roses in her frame, to give her thought To what he spoke in seriousness or sport. Months rolled above the church, and town, and brine, But as they closed towards winter, many things Had happened unto Nimue, who ere The Autumn sun shadowed his golden wings, Had grown the golden heiress of a knight Wealthy and old—the last of a branch line— Who had bequeathed to his half niece fair Broad Norman lands, and store of riches bright; And forthwith she was wooed—the tale being newsed— By Hugo of Peronne—whom she refused, For he was stem and rude, debauched with wine, And cared for naught except her purse, to set His creditors at rest: moreover he Had oft been heard to swear amongst his friends That he would seize her to insure his ends, And bear her off with him across the sea. BuFof this Nimue knew nothing, save From some vague whiff of gossip ; and she mused AN OLD EALLAD TALE, ETC. 181 Less on the baron who her time abused Than on Alured Brito, gentle and brave, Although in church and town but seldom she Of late had seen him, for when wealth had come To heighten this soft jewel’s preciousness, The sculptor had left Calais town for Rome— At least ’twas whispered so, nor could she guess Why he had broken the sweet wreath whose flowers Had grown so many all those summer hours. Meanwhile it chanced that with the closing year Nimue crossed to England, by her sire Accompanied, aud passed ’mid plenteous cheer And sports and dances by the evening fire Of friends in Devon, a fair month or more ; And winter blankly met them on the shore, Returning—whence they saw the stormy strait Space ’twixts the coasts, sullen and black as hate— The curling billows tear the flinty beach Of Dover, and around the chalky heights Heard the cloud-gathering winds of ocean roar • The while descending to a sheltered reach, Where swung their anchored pinnace to and fro, Its masts athwart the gloom ; they went below, And sailed into the storm. The surges frore 182 AN OLD BALLAD TALE, ETC. Soon swept the deck; the lessening land sunk low, Which they had left; nor seen were Calais’ lights. Maychance an hour had sped; the little barque Shook from each billow, plunging through the dark; When sudden came a shock !—upon the deck The trampling of fierce feet was heard—a voice Louder than even the driving tempest’s noise, And then the close-barred cabin door was burst. And figures swiftly seized and bore above The terrored Nimue. All around was wreck. Black was the wide sea, like a moving grave; Already in the hold the waters swoored, And by her stood the gloomy form accursed Of Hugo, who, in tones of rage and love, Ordered his men to bear her swift aboard His vessel, from the sinking pinnace;—when Windward she saw a sail, like a foam fleck Scud toward them o’er the plunging mountain wave, And Nimue screamed—“ Save us, Alured, save 1” Till like a bolt between the ships it drave— When on the pirate deck she saw him dash, And there were clashing weapons, and a flash And Hugo’s grasp unloosed, and down he fell Headlong into the surge, as into hell; AN OLD BALLAD TALE, ETC. 183 The while the sculptor, crying to his men To save her sire, grasping bore her away Aboard his rescuing vessel, in which soon The old man was received ; and in the gray Glare stormily shed from the low, rising moon Borne by the swollen sail matching with the blast, Soon o’er the billows they were cleaving fast ; And, ere an hour, beheld through drifting foam The lights of Calais’ harbour, and of home. i. It is a cloudless, tender April morn ; Fresh is the earth, the Channel calm and blue, The hedges by the roads are bright with dew, Blythe swallow flocks fly o’er the growing corn ; Flocks of white barques upon the silver line Of watery lustre, indistinctly shine, And from the steeples, toned to the clear Spring, The bells of Calais jubilantly ring; As music heralding a joyous train In robes of holiday, above the main Up the high sunny street with garlands gay, Pace toward the great Cathedral mild and gray ; Play, music, play, along their cheerful way, Aluredweds sweet Nimue to-day ! 184 SONG. II. In Norman forests green this airy morn Unheard is woodman’s stroke or hunter’s horn, For all the peasants from their oaken screen Have thronged to feast upon the castle’s green ; Home-cakes, and flowers and sonnets sweet beside, Glad youths and girls have sent unto the bride, Who smiling now, the ceremony o’er, Has passed her sculptor’s statue by the door, And home returned ’mid echoing minstrelsy, To feast the townsfolk by the tranquil sea :— Gather laughing groups upon each sunny height, Feast, sing, and talk about the merry sight; Dance maidens light, and daintily bedight, With red wine and with bonfire Calais glows to-night SONG. By the Christmas Cottage Fire. In this wide world our village here To old and young alike is dear ; The fields we work in all the year, The fire that lights our evening cheer; SONG. 185 Church and school, in good allied, Where every Sunday, side by side, We pray for those We love, and whose Love lasts through all life’s changing weather. Our time on earth grows less and less ; Let’s live in peace; and should distress Visit our village, all be true Unto each other, as I and you, Old friends :— See, our children play together ; Our dead are buried together. Pleasures of life !—they are but few Which equal the work we like to do; Whatever sort may be your toil— Whether of muscle or of mind— Let’s make it the best our talent’s soil Can shape for the good of human kind ; Conscious that, when we’ve done our best, Content will visit our hours of rest. Sweetest of joys are those which come In morn and evening lights of home, That happy harbour of each day, 186 song. Which, to the simplest as the wise, Smiles o’er the great world’s waves and spray : Home is the heart’s true Paradise, Where, with dear beings, objects dear, The humblest may make heaven here. Children are angels He above Sends us to love, and teach us love. When waked we hear their voices sound, And feel their innocent arms around Our neck, and take their morning kiss— We hear in their dear accents His ; Pure as Christ’s heart, His little sons Most truly are those little ones. Pleasant are sunny evening’s hours, When to the airy fields and shores We take them : sweet the golden west, When by our cottage door they play ; The clean swept hearth, the hour ere rest, When by our side they kneel and pray : Pleasant to stretch in bed and know God watches o’er their rest below. Oh ! Christmas night—how many as bright As this have filled our hearts with light ! SONG. 187 But naught of good and happy dies, When its dear memory lasts below, And, albeit, the next Christmas skies See not us, old folk, o’er the snow, On high for those we’ve left we’ll pray, ’Till again they are ours in eternal day. So, boys and girls, and children dear, All merry with youth and Christmas cheer, Circling in the cottage ring, Happily dance, and laugh and sing : Youth’s but a flower, and joy an hour ! To all who come a kind comhether ! And, dear old friends, who round you see Your loved ones happy—as happy be, And closer draw, a little while, Where the Christmas fire gives smile for smile. In blessed peace and unity : See, our children play together, Our dead are in Heaven together. 188 SONG. SONG. Clear was the mild March eve, and still; Clouds lay low in roseate rest, A few poor sheep fed on a hill In the clear light of the frosted west: The moon like the half of a silver ring. Hung in the azure overhead From poplars by the roadway shed Aerial shadows deepening: And as I walked, with myself I talked, Now of the new book read that day ; And now to a fancied presence fair, Whose love I had begun to share— In mood as earnest, and more srav. Two weeks of blustering winds and dust, And lengthening twilights cleared with showers. Endeared love’s now familiar trust, And goldened all the coming hours. The brightest volumes now seemed dull As forth we wandered happily; The winds were laid in the blue sky And the vapourous moon was growing full. But—destiny smiled not on me; SKETCHES AND SONGS. 180 I pace where now no whisper stirs, With a new year’s sun about my brows, And feel my head touched with the boughs She knew—sad, kind remembrancers. SKETCHES AND SONGS. i. Glimpses of seasons in the times foregone Oft visit us while musing by the hearth : Now ’tis some window-view of the dark dawn, When the dim wind moaned low along the north; Of Winters long ago, when many a day, Close-housed, we watched the sea space white with foam. When sombre windy skies of morning grey Were shelving o’er our kindly, fire-lit home; Wide Summer nights, ethereal, calm and soft, When, in the silent depth above us bent, By noiseless upper winds the pale clouds oft Were channelled into many an azure rent ; Or, looking from the casement on the wold, When some December’s storm had ceased to blow, Beheld in early morning’s glamour cold The silent, dead world sheeted o’er with snow; Weeks of wild weather, when we read at night 190 SKETCHES AND SONGS. Of shipwrecks, far from aid of human home, And praying faces raised in the slant light Of stormy sunsets, on the wastes of foam. And when some gale had left the Wintry lands, And we at evening to the wild shore came, We saw some ship sunk on the blank, flat sands— With rigging like a network against flame. Song of Spring. The bees are humming ; ivies and grasses Gleam as the rain-dropping white cloud passes ; The oaks on the hills in the strong sun glowing Reclothe with leaves like flesh; In the spirit-scent of the water flowing The sere plant buddeth afresh : Dawn has its rainbow, and afternoon Looks under its melting arch at the moon Half dipped in azure far away ; And birds from the South in the mild Spring air, Sailing unseen by night and day, Wearied, are coming with us to stay, Till the sunsets sink in gusty grey, Or the doleful rains from the shadowed bay Drown the shortened evening’s glare : But now a new life fills happily The buds, the birds, the blue sky. SKETCHES .AND SONGS. 191 Summer. As through warm Summer ways we tread, The murmurous hum of bees around The beech trees blossomed overhead, Roofs the old wood with busy sound; Faint willows sigh along the marge Of the thin river Southward rolled, And even to the blue mountain’s verge The cornfields wave their rims of gold; Fair clouds and sails are on the bay, Whence breathe the air’s warm harmonies. Now and then we hear the grey, Sultry wind in the full-leaved trees ; The cry of rooks in the topmost oaks By the old moat and manse’s roof Blend with the mill wheel’s drowsy strokes, Stirring the sunny calm aloof: And the whisper of leaves blvthe, from the eaves Of green woods, comes across the land, The while, below, the faint waves’ flow Scarce foam the smoothes of an amber strand. A Summer Song. i. Sometimes comes a day whose mood Seems divine to brain and blood; 192 SKETCHES AND SONGS- While I view from out the wood The sailing sky of summer cloud. The thin stream trickles down the cliff, And on the sea, amoene and fair, A white speck gleams the slanting skiff; While now and then comes floating by The oval coo of doves a-pair, From the green, whispering forest air ; Scarce other sound is in the sky; In a musing noonday dream Woogling flows the simple stream Over green weed and mossed stone—- Happy thus to be alone With its fancies, even as I. ii. With thy fresh reoreant scene Make, bright day, my feelings green From times the sweetest that have been; With the bird’s returning wing Happy memories, gold and grey, Of some old home-hallowed da)', Till the silence seems to sing V\ ith blessed voices that no more Meet me at the evening door, 193 SKETCHES AND SONGS. Sunny morning casement bright, Meals, and cheerful hearth at night. Or, alas ! for a relief, Loveliest thoughts from many a leaf That we read in olden times— Humorous dreams and beauteous rhymes. Books still live, and so do they— Summer brings them back to-day. The noon is silent, dry and grey, As outside the noisy barn. By the lonely, long highway, Laughing children dance and play, In flying gleams of the autumn day, Lighting up the leaden tarn, Sloping fields of stubble shorn ; And awhile, with quiet smile, Lines of low-hills toward the morn. But when the glare of sunset falls, From the cloud-roof,, low and drear, O’er fields of stubble and old walls, Wide browning woods and rural halls, And the low wind, as darkness palls o 194 SKETCHES AND SONGS. Is saddening through the leaves grown sere, Lo ! by the log-piled hearth appear, When gates are closed, with faces rosed, The youngsters waiting evening’s cheer. Windy Dusk. Late Autumn has fallen on earth with shadow and dolour, A spirit of wild unrest, of change and decay; Every day the woodlands lessen in colour, Suns grow paler and shorter every day, Albeit oft the nights with a splendour polar Dazzle, but they are cold and many times grey, Sunset without a glory, sinks from the sky— As this evening over the gusty bay, Where, along the sides of the headlands high, Grown too dusk to define each well-known way, Airs uneasily shiver the heath and fly In gloomy affright, as if forlorn and astray, From the sombre sea line stormy and drear, Whence comes the tumult louder over the deep ; While on the beach the billows retreating tear Shingle and sands, returning heap on heap ; And heavier, huger from the open waste in the wind, Thunder along the promonts fronting the starless night, SKETCHES AND SONGS. 195 Through the low sea smoke the coasts are scarce defined, And the sound and swell of the elements fill the cloudy height: In each pause, when the wind dies off, in the gloom behind. Swoons the desolate moan and rising roar of the woods, Unseen—like an island sea in the darkness blind, With withered leaves for spray—each tree like a wave; Swaying their maddened boughs in despairing moods, Swaying in anger and anguish as if bereaved by a fate, From whose resistless fury nothing can save ; And mingle leafless sorrows on high with the steadier hate Of the deepening storm that darkens the sullen face of the floods. A' Winter Song. i. Now frozen is the little stream, Where oft we bent a musing brow; And, like the stream, each sunny dream That flowed with Summer ceases now, For, ah ! the North winds blow, The world is white with snow; Would we might keep The earth’s dark sleep Till Spring days round us glow. 196 SONG OF A SUMMER DAY. II. Along bleak surges of the bay The gray glare of the Winter moon, Has sunk in dreary space away; And as dull morning rounds to noon, The land and air are cold and grey, Crossed Avith dismal glares of sun, And the wild Avind has no rest, BloA\ r ing the bare earth upon, BloAving all the dreary day, Till snoAv shall blind the evening ray, In the cloudy-muffled West. SONG OF A SUMMER DAY. Within our bark From dawn to dark, PilloAved on leaves, in sunshine, we Sail with our tomes Of old sAveet poems, And the vivid vast for company. Then to our nest In the golden west, Beneath the headlands drooping tree,. Up the steep way fancy’s frolic. 107 From sands grown gray, Returning, leave the shadowy sea. Soon folded close As leaves of rose, Our souls shall rest from all that seems. As o’er our home In night’s blue gloom Our star shall ope its urn of dreams. Then shall our souls, As midnight rolls, Furled like our sail within its cove, Rest, while the deep And wide earth sleep, Under the Infinite, watched by Love. FANCY’S FROLIC. A Child Revel. i. One noon, within a grassy dell, Close to the azure Summer sea, Where bubbled through the moss a w r ell O’er which a broad-leaved sycamore tree With blossomed fronds, stood sentinel, 198 fancy’s frolic. Two children lay in frolic play, Each with a beauteous crimson shell Culled from the crescent-sanded bay; And after one, ’mid tinkling chimes Of laughter, had sipped many times Of the cool lymph, he babbled : “ Come And let us drink a health to some Bright Bird that sings, Insect that wings From leaf to leaf, around, above, Just as, of evenings, those we love Drink to their happy friends at home.” ii. This fancy filled with quick delight Their hearts, and merry eyes that shone Under their gold-curled foreheads white. So, by the well, whereon the sun Was wavering rays of leafy light, As with their mood in unison, They stretched ’mid grasses fresh and bright; Dipped in the water and raised up In sunshine, each a dripping cup ; Then paused a moment innocently, Who first with comic courtesy To honour; ’till from the green height fancy’s frolic. 199 Of the broad sycamore’s bending crown Blithely a thrush they knew by sight, Just come to bear them company, Sweet-fluting, on the pair looked down. hi. Instant the elder elf grave-eyed Lifting his dripping bumper, cried: “ ’Tis the kind friend that we so oft Hear singing to us from the croft— First on the list of toasts is he ! So with three times three a health to thee, Brown thrush, and all your family !” The while—in imitative mood Of grandpa when with cup of good Wine in the sunset room he stood And drank to all—the younger there, Assuming an old-fashioned air And venerable voice that shook In trembles like the rippling brook, Added : “ Here’s t’ ye, friend, and long, Long may we live to sing your song !” IV. Here both sprites drained and upside down Held their conch-cups—replenished them. 200 fancy’s frolic. “ Whom shall we drink to next ?”—as, prone, His brother watched, upon a stem Among the herbage round it grown, A Butterfly alight; a town Of Ants, all business-browed, anear; And other insects careless strown Amougthe moss. “Our company Is numerous as gay, I see,” Returned the stooping child, “and here, Here comes our old friend, Buzz, the Bee. Welcome, good sir, to our poor cheer ! Wild flowers a few, and cups of dew— Permit us now to drink to you In memory of the honey spread— Oh, sweet! so often on our bread.” And, bowing both to this new guest, Each placed a hand below his chest. Y. “ I trust, sir ”—with esteemful eyes, Waggish, beneath his gold-curled screen, Full of respect for one so wise, Yet cautious of his weapon keen— The elder said (a swarm of flies Had meanwhile come to watch the scene)— fancy’s frolic. 201 <l I trust you’ll bear our courtesies To madam, your most gracious Queen.” (Buzz) “ Thank you : I should much indeed Desire to visit her fair court; And, possibly, as I would need An introduction, you would lead Me to the presence ” (buzz )—Ho ! ho ! V feks this is the best of sport,” Bubbling with laughter sweet behind His chubby white hand, as a blind Pretentious held, the other, lest His merriment offend their guest; “ What ! are you off now you have dined ? Well, ere, ho, ho ! good Bee, you go, Let’s offer you a glass of port.” VI. Now, in that hall of banquet green Some flies in sunshine hummed, and lit On flossy flowers, and flashed like wit; The Bee, with sting aculeate And vest of velvet soft, was seen To hide his earnest ebon pate Within some honeyed bloom amcene, Or climb some dewy, nitid stem, 202 fancy’s frolic. Or brustle some burred thistle’s screen, Whereon a gadfly, tired of flight, And basking in the dizzy light, With carmine wings closed, looked at them ; Beneath, a Beetle, black as night, Guarding its grey eggs laid yestre’en, Scowled at the bumble in a huff, Indrawn, and posed in posture gruff; While in the herb with oupish head A Grasshopper hid, seeming dead; One beady eye closed, one askance, Sentinelling his countenance. VII. Meanwhile the affluent sunshine yields Odours from flower and ripening rind ; The rough green wealth of wheaten fields Sways in the low midsummer wind ; Through cupolas of bending green, And boles of nutted beeches tall, The sultry, blue sea-line is seen : Above the orchard’s mossy wall The clustering apples in the sheen Redden ; ripe gusts of grape and grain Perfume the warm air from the plain, fancy’s frolic. 203 Which breathing wide all day has been Mingled with sophs that, cool as rain, Bore the fresh salt scent of the main: From meads was heard the sweeping scythe, Timed by the shirted mower strong, And round about all Being, blithe, Seemed joyous as the bright bird’s song. Stretched meanwhile ’mid the grasses wild, With innocent fancies kind, elate, In happy mood, each Cupid child Frolicked, as over crisp-curled pate And joking eyes the silent sun Winked through the foliage on their fun : A pair of tiny poets they, Who, loving birds and insects bright, Dear comrades of the Summer light, Thus sought to please them with the play,. In which they passed their holiday. In short, they quaffed to all around— To every bird, whose song they knew, Each winged form of air or ground ; And these, thus “ honoured,” drank in lieu Healths to each flower of fairest hue— Trees, grasses, white clouds o’er the bay— fancy’s frolic. Till in the West day’s rosy bloom Surprised them with the thought of home. IX. On chis the revellers started up, Recalling, with a strain of will. How oft they’d drained each comic cnp ; Then as, forsooth, the well’s pure wine Unsteadied their bright brains divine, Intoxicate with fancy still, In frolic reeled, and in pure sport 'Clung to each other for support ’Mid chimes of laughter; said “ Good-bye ” To all their pleasant company— The birds, the trees, the well, the sky, The insects, who with drowsy eyne, Charmed with a sport and day so fine, Each sought its little nook anigh For rest, and domesticity : Then, folding a fond arm about Their collared necks, the pair set out. x. Now dies the wind along the lea, And, floating from the airy West, fancy’s fkolic. 205 - The low, gold sunset slanting falls Across the gray old garden walls, And touches pailing, roof, and tree, Along the winding river’s breast, Beside whose bank, through fields of hay, Happily homeward rambled they. “ Well, Dot, “ said Rubi, whose blue eyes Were serious sweet as morning skies, “ Methinks we’ve passed a happy day ; One even in frolic may be wise— For wise it is, whate’er they say, To love, and make all beings pure As happy as ourselves, I’m sure. What though those simple creatures are Mute unto us as yonder star! As they have mijids —else how could they Procure their food and find their way To nest and nook at evening grey?— They know whoever seeks to be Kind to them: marked you not the Bee ?—* How, when I spoke to him, right well He guessed that I was amiable.” “ And when you drank ‘ The Ladies,’ ” cried Dot, “ with a ‘ Firstly I propose Miss Butterfly, than whom a bride 206 HESPERIAN VALES. More sweet ne’er wedded a wild rose, Such as she clings unto with wings White as her eyes are black as sloes ’— Without the slightest sign of fear She lit upon your shoulder here, Curtseyed, and kissed you on the ear, To show she liked you, I suppose.” Thus prattling under the woodbine, Over the gate, and the old vine Roofing the porch, ihe joyous pair Entered ; and, hungry with the air, Announced both their wish—to dine ! HESPERIAN VALES. Through endless woodland roofs of darker green I view, low down, green gleams of the glad sea. That girds the island like a deity, Indolent in its immense security; Or through the sloping, long, branch-arched ravine, From its dazzling-crested mountain crown, Remote some unheard cascade’s straight, cool sheen, Tumbling in ceaseless shafts of sun-sprays down Into yon lake, asleep in leaves and haze, Where nymphs with bosoms and with brows sun-brown HESPERIAN VALES, 207 Swim, laughing as they bathe in the deep cool Of the recluse long pool; Or silent as they cross the watery blaze Shoreward, whither they bear from golden orchards where Summer owns every tree, and fills the air, Baskets or fruit, crimson and amethyst, Dropped in their ripeness down the verdurous maze, J Mid wreaths of dry odorous mist, In spots of splendid heat, Or shadow cool and sweet: And now awhile a bird begins its song, But soon grows mute for silent luxury ; And shadows only trace the flowery ground, Nor, in the universe of leaves, a sound Stirs through the slumbrous-crowned Dominion, sea-bound; Or in the viewless branchy vales profound, Save their own murmur ebbing sultrily round, All the day long. Where’er in Summer sunsetless I move, Ever endomed in happy stillness of This woodland world, amid green, mellow light, And sighs ef distant drizzling waterfalls, 208 HESPERIAN VALES. Lost in a dream divine of Beauty—Love Lives everywhere beneath the skiey height Of snows that crest the valley’s mountain walls, And fills, alike in shadow and in sight, All substance with its unseen influence, All Being with its mute melodious sense; So that each tree, each leaf, and blossom seems To live for one another, and infuse Through each the sweetness of their life of dreams, Imparting odours, whispers, happy dews, In sweet communion calm of fixed content, All guardianed by the bright sun from aloft, Which, never setting, round the mountain goes, Making behind it now a twilight soft, And bringing sleep to every herb and tree And shrub in flowering hollow or warm croft With its own shadow; while along the sea A line of morning gold remotely glows In light celestial everlastingly, So that the peaks of ice and sloping snows Ne’er lose their beauteous tints of gold and rose, The while around the happy woodlands sleep,.. And the while shadow loves them in repose ; Light, lovingly withdrawn, Still guardians them with dawn From the Hesperian deep. HESPERIAN VALES. 20D Some trees I commune hold with once have been Living, and may be nymphs whene’er they will; But so delightful, separate, and still Is now their hidden inward life of dreams, Many still liee in leaves, and taste the hours In breathing in their air, and floating beams, With like enchantment, whether yellow or green; In budding their soft tancies into flowers And sweet’ning time with their fruits’ ripening glow, Drinking the sunlight ’till their juices flow Dulcet, and flecks of colour on the rind Encharm their consciousness, warm, dusk, and blind; And when at length upon the moss beneath They drop, and all are gone, their living breath Maychance for gracious change again informs A female shape, hidden in flowers, and warms Her placid heart once more, as after sleep ; When, to her sisters running, she will peep Where they are couched ’mid leaves, and laughing cry : “ Behold me ! Once again ’tls I !” And singing and embracing, as before, They sport with echoes round the woods and shore. Here are no mortals such as I have been In the far land of man, where Winter rounds p 210 HESPERIAN VALES. All life ir. cities girt with burial mounds, And none can be as they in youth have been; Where Fate rules pitiless, and griefs cold breath Wastes, sighing for the loved lost, long unseen. Time withers, and life’s lightnings blast the best, As worst, and all things swift or slower move From April bud, and flower, and Summer love, To gloomy sunset, falling leaves, and death, Amid commotion : but sweet Summer rest With loveliness lives here in loneliness, And the earth, sea, and air make Love their guest; So that my thankful spirit long has blessed The fate that drove me thither o’er the foam To this recluse, bright, solitary home— From the drear world of woes to one of woods, Green, peaceful, fruitful, separated far From the past human life as morning’s star; Where those I love unseen around me are; Where nothing changes but one’s happy moods, With fancies born of love for every light, Water, aud leaf, by day, or low-sunned night; Where none need toil or sorrow, sow or reap; Where the bloom takes the morning when it wakes To life and joy, and comes sweet death in sleep. BALLAD PICTURES. 211 BALLAD PICTURES. An Old Irish Scene. Once, as the summer’s golden eve was changing into gray, Above the western woods that girt the pleasant green Magh Breagh, In his lime-white mansion circled by its high-heap’d ver¬ dant rath, A Chieftain sate on his carved couch of blackest polished yew— Wherein he kept his drinking-cups of silver, and gold too, His ivory fithcheale images, and treasures not a few Of ornaments, gem-studded, from the far-off eastern mines— Watching his herdsmen driving home the cattle by the path Along the rushy river. Silence spread, and dusky sleep Upon the pastures fell; the while as far as eye could see Between the avenues of oaks the white cows quietly With lashing tails came winding; and then flocks of bleating sheep— A fat and numerous herd : for he had just received that spring His tributes, when the cuckoos from the south began to sing. 212 BALLAD PICTURES. As fell the gloom of twilight round, a bondmaid neat and fair, Robed in gray, with sea-blue eyes and floating flaxen hair, Had lighted the pine torches, tallow-dipped, and placed them where The great hearth in the centre rose. The hall was long and low, Its massive walls of smoothed oak gleamed in the yellow glow, And round them hung great drinking horns, cloaks, shields, and many a row Of weapons, iron axes of the Danars, iron brands Heavy and long, and slender swords, of ruddy bronze below— So old, that some, maychance, were wielded by the potent hands Of Odin’s sons, when they to Erie came from Scythian lands: For of the tusks of giants of the deep the hilts were made, And charmed Ogham sentences were graven on each blade. Resting upon the rafters of the roof lay many a spear Sheaf upon sheaf; old armour, chains for hounds, and horns of deer; And, furthest from the fire-place, a huge bronze vat of red beer BALLAD PICTUKES. 213 On each side of the chamber stood; whence opened many doors To smaller rooms for privacy and sleep ; o’erhead the same; Cauldrons around the hearth, late kindled, hung o‘er its strong flame Of turf and faggots mingled : fresh, green rushes strewed the floors. At times the sound of outside life swooned through the silent hall— Voices of cowmen stalling up the herds, the neigh of steeds In stables waiting to be fed ; while round the rath’s high wall Grooms, herds, and groups of kerns and clowns were chattering one and all; And through the gateway entered some with bundles of green reeds, And quern-women in outhouses were grinding the white corn, When sudden from the mansion’s porch there sounded a lond horn, Calling the chieftain’s guests unto the evening feast Then came 214 A SAIL TO A STATUE. The Druid, Mathan, in his robe of green and belt of gold, His daughter, Una, snowy-robed, with hair as brown as mould, And level-browed grey eyes, as arch and modest as the morn; There Bolg, the fool, came stored with tale, and pastime, and quaint game; And at their heels guests from the tribe, a company mani¬ fold. There by the tables long they sate and feasted, maid and., man, Right plentifully—while kind words from one to the other ran— On speckled cakes, and milk, and honey from the hives of Bann, Fish from the Boin, from Almhain fruit, and ale from Cualan. A SAIL TO A STATUE. Phcu! pheu! on gumne cide ma Praxteles ? “ Lo ! Autumn’s labour at length is ended; The harvest corn in the granary uuder Our cottage is stored ; now the vines we tended Have drained their fruit through the grape-press sluices,. And, as I remember, round the stone chamber A SAIL TO A STATUE. 215 Two score pitched jars settled their juices For nights when the hearth will flame up from its ember— May Bacchus avert the souring thunder, And keep our vintage clear and golden As it tasted and shone in the Autumns olden On which, as my sire told, splendoured the comet For nearly a month o’er the Dictoean summit, When melted the streams in mist, and asunder Cracked like dry gold the plain’s yellow mould. So, toil in the fields being over, no better Thing can I think of, my Althis, than borrow Old Acton’s boat on the beach, and to-morrow Sailing to Cnidos, awaken your wonder And worshipful joy—than which nothing is fitter For youth—in beholding the Image, the finest Praxiteles wrought in his moments divinest— Soft Aphrodite, foam-white, seeret-smiling, Bright-browed, and deep-chested, small-handed, beguiling? Celesiial sweet as the nightingale’s warble To its gold goddess star in the faint dawn afar, Tuning every pulse from melodious marble.” • • • • • • Next morn, while yet in dusk air Bright Phosphor twinkled, toward a reach 216 A SAIL TO A STATUE. Deep-sanded, in the curving beach, Through meadows they descended where The pinnnce rested, slight and still, Under a purple promont hill Whose image in the waves it kissed Looked like its base in amethyst. The radiant sweet and silent sky Of spacious vapour, whitely spread, By noiseless winds was channelled In many an azure rent on high ; Scarce yet was the blithe lark awake, And in the grasses creaked the crake, And mellow stillness over all The inland brooded, while afar Where dwindled one retiring star, Upon the dawn wind’s shadowy breath. They heard the steep-foamed torrent fall Down to the surf wave underneath Trembling with faint, uncertain tone, E.emote in sunny stillness lone. The anchor soon they raised, the sail Stretched flagging to the low shore wind, And then amid the waters pale In the long dawn they sped uutil A SAIL TO A STATUE. 217 The first beam touched the shouldered hill, And down the peaks of azure past, And surging through the tide waves fast, They left the headlands dim behind. All day they sailed, before the wind, The sea-space white with Autumn cloud, Until the low sky, heavy browed, Lifting at eve its roof, disclosed, Like a bright sea beyond a sea, Alength of level lustre, rosed, And lemon-hued along the North ; Then, as the rounded sun broke forth Against the golden-vapoured dome, A rich shore shone above the foam, With blue spired hills and sleepy capes— A land of beauty everywhere, With many a green declivity And templed summit fair on high, Where sounds of music, marble shapes, With spirit flooded the clear sky; And as they neared the haven’s calm, ’Mid breaths of sweetening inland balm. A stream of dulcet minstrelsy From a young maiden group upon A shore steep, fronting the low sun, 218 A SAIL TO A STATUE. Flowed o’er the waters tremulously ; And while the rich soul of their song Flashed the listening nerve along, They landed soon ’mid greetings gay ; Then past the white town went their way Into the woods, where oped a dell With poplar grove and marble well, In which its simple guardian god Looked on the water, where abode Long grasses that amoenely fell Amid the wavering glossy screen Of wandering ivies clustering green ; And, thence passing, scaled a mound Where ’mid whispering leaves they found A moon-lit shrine upon a slope Among the foam of waterfalls, With rose blooms clambering to its cope. And milk-white shafts and capitals. Then, as the pure orb from the dale Streamed sidelong, entered they the place With soft, delighted, reverend pace, And in its domed halo pale Advanced into the inmost shrine Sacred to beauteous art divine ; A SAIL TO A STATUE. 219 The while in moonlight’s odorous hush, A maid, the pure-browed minister Of Aphrodite, came to her, And as she raised the veil and stood Aside, those pilgrims, in a mood Art-emanate, celestial, gazed (Thus falls the crimson rose’s blush While lifting its bloom-laden bough) Upon the tender, luminous brow, And form symmetrical and smooth, And splendrous with Summer youth. There knelt those rural Greeks awhile In worship of their goddess’ smile, And when they rose bethought that they Henceforward bore to their blue bay An artist dream, become their own, Of perfect beauty, such as day Nor land, nor sea unfolds to sight— A joy that genuis moulds alone ; And by the shrine they slept that night A sleep whose dreams were all of light. Then, as the low dawn creased the dark, And set the moon’s sphere pale as death, They raised the brown sail of their barque 220 CALLIROE. And moved by morning’s lonely breath, Tended their eager barque, that home Winged them across the breezy foam, Till rose their hamlet’s roof afar Under the evening’s sacred star. CALLIROE. An Hellenic Ballad. Within the columned palace gate That fronts the crimson closing West, The suitors stand—a plumed band, As though for burning battle dress’d, And in the lapsing day await The mighty King’s behest. From inner halls a herald grey, Advancing, lowly bends the knee :— “Thron’d by the board my sovereign lord Awaits ye, Princes of the Sea ; And by his side—a star of day— His daughter, rare Calliroe.” A movement in the plumed throng— Their swords are drawn, their foreheads bare. To one bright blade each lip is laid, CALLIROE. 221 A long cold kiss that all must share. A vengeful look that burns with wrong— A murmur many-voiced, “ we swear !” Close to the palace throne they stand, And in the stillness speaks the King, While echoes round revolve the sound Through golden domes diminishing :— “ A welcome and a royal hand We stretch, to all our portals bring. Long have ye waited, long have wooed This one bright dnughter of our throne. A vain desire; the way side briar Weds not with roses summer blown ; The tincture of our kingly blood Shall mingle with a king’s alone.” Advanced a shining knightly form : “ Thy words of welcome, haughty sire. Are such as those we cast our foes, When we would flash them into ire; Methinks if thus you speak in storm Our weapons lack not battle fire. Our blood, forsooth !—’tis bright as thine. Though traced unto the giant kings. 222 CALLIROE. Such pride at most a foolish boast, Not such as truest glory brings This soul:—this blood of theirs and mine Is that of which the minstrel sings. It draws not virtue from the dead, But self-ennobled shines and flows ; It waxes bright in valours light And dignified from battle glows, Drawing its fame-lit fountain-head Less from our fathers than our foes. Into a sceptre love must change His rosy torch to please thine eye :— Not such our creed ; in noble deed, And faithful hearts our doweries lie. In gallant purposes that range To truest fame and dignity.” He ceased ; nor more his claim would urge, While wrath-enwrapped the monarch shone. As lightning comes, when tempest hums, Along some headland sombre grown, Washed by the night sea’s line of surge :— He makes a signal from his throne ! CALLIROE. 223 A minutes’ hush—a pulse of rest— Then tramplings of a hurrying train !— But round his form, a cloud of storm, The suitors close—again, again Upon the haughty monarch’s breast Their dark gray daggers fall like rain ! He falls ; beside his crown he dies ; His red blood stains the marble floors ; While in amaze the minions gaze— A sudden and their sheathless swords Fire all the air—and battle cries Sound through the dusky corridors. Loud rings the unequal combat there; Outnumbered but unterrified O’er levelled foes their weapons rose Athirst for death and crimson dyed : When lo ! a sudden furious glare Illumines the palace chambers wide. And weak and wounded, friend and foe Still struggle through the fiery gloom ; But fast as fate is locked the gate And from a turret, dark as doom, Calliroe looks down upon Her father’s corse and lovers’ tomb. 224 THE WOODMAN. THE WOODMAN. Wet from the woods where all the winter day The woodman shook from pining branches down The humid acorns in his basket brown, Till the long sunken sunset’s level gray And lone, companioned him, he took his way To his poor cot, that with a welcome dim, Forlorn since forenoon, seemed to smile on him, As smelling of the oaks he cast upon, Its floor his load, and with face wistful wan Kneeling, blew the white ashes of the hearth From its red smouldering spot, and placed thereon Dry twigs, which crackled, kindly, and soon shone Cheerfully, lighting up the narrow gloom, And leafy bed, and stone mik pitcher there, And sparkled sheding around a look of mirth, And soon replenished a full glow of heat ; On which, from her dark corner in the room, The cat, bow-backed, came purring to his feet, And rubbed against him, and sat, kindly-eyed, Expectant of her supper at his side. A DAY DREAM. A DAY DREAM. Once came a golden dream in summer noon, As on a pillow of faint opiate leaves, Stretched slumbrously I lay, the while the light Cleaving the snltry curtain’s interspace Dizzied the chamber’s distance ; and outside The sunny tendrilled casement hummed the bee : The many-throated music of the birds Ceased in the heavy heat; and the slow world Seemed moving through the stillness in a dream. I thought, as the sun set, a Spirit approached Straight from the sinking glory, with a sound Of airy melody that swiftly swelled To deep, sonorous thunder. As I gazed, Swiftly arrived on earth, I heard him alight, Amid the music of wings, and stand Fronting me, as a windless ocean calm, Or shining mountain summit spired in snow. A toueh thrilled on my brow, and I looked up, But veiled in splendour were the lineaments Of the great angel, of whose voice alone My human sense was conscious, as he shaped, In utterance tempered to the ear, like light Transmuted into sound the summons—“ Come 1” I rose ; ’twas evening—all was air around : The level lands grew dark; the space of sea, 22G A DAY DREAM, Silent and sad, lay dim beneath ; but soon Along the steeps of evening came a star, Like a new god to a deserted world, Exultant, silent, confident in light Through the great gloom : his splendrous forehead lit The path we twain pursued along the sea; And o’er broad plains where life was silent, o’er Huge mountains clothed with pine and ridged with snow Deserts of ice and frozen vales; a world Of winter piled in night; from whose gaunt walls Down dismal precipice to dark profound Drear torrents plunged, and multitudinous streams, Cold-foaming, swirled along impetuous : And on a plain converging, broadened forth In a great river. Onward thence across A summer sea of azure, domed with stars : Until at length, eastward, rose a land Hung like a purple cloud along the dawn, Which brightened as we passed its shoreward peaks With a^pale halo, such as when the moon Fronts from the low sea-line the sunset dead, Over an evening realm, and so remained As in dim Hades, where the past still lives A life all phantom fair. Yet warm was here The wind from hill, and sea, o’erlooked by cliffs A DAY DREAM. 227 Piled high in mist and light; and sweet the clime That o’er the faint, umvintered check of day Showered blushes : here a spirit of Beauty reigned O’er stream and plain and city-glimmering plain, Here lived a brooding life iu leaf and fruit; Here lingered, summering in yellow woods, Where phantom heroes, happy shades, reposed, And ’mid the snowy tumult of the clouds Heaped eastward, many a god and glorious shape Lay, walked, and slumbered in the amber light. Faint as a lily’s shadow by a spring, All where it was a land of beauty and dream, From the sweet eyes of nymphs in caverns lone To the great level stars that southward shone Along the twilight steeps of purple air : For here ’twas night, ever a moonless night; The orbs moved not, and time had seemed no more, Save that each hour there dropped a solemn star Slow to the west, and striking the rich sea. Rung like a shower of bells from the blue wave A note of passing: and for ever more From the pine clothed hills the steep cascade Sprang with a roar, tossing its plumes of foam, And round the woodskirt on the asphodel plain With sleek blue waters wimpled into light. 228 INTELLIGENCE. INTELLIGENCE. From things beheld the mind can see others the eye cannot behold : Something disturbs a planet; genius measures with what that force must be ; Directs the glass to that point of space afar, and instan¬ taneously What the mind saw before the eye, appears its thought to verify, And that which must be in the abysm forthwith is witnessed to unfold ; Already, while invisible, weighed, its path, its speed, its volume known— Thus from the seen what is unseen relationally may be shown. Lo ! in the vast of space, beyond the system in which moves our sun, The telescope unveils creation, noiv as ever moving on. The instrument of Herschel turned remotely to setherial gloom, Measured each minute by a system passing o’er the speculum ; And whencesoever Light may come Intelligence may ascertain INTELLIGENCE. 229 Of every mighty universe its composition to a grain ; Detect in spheres the human eye unaided cannot re¬ cognise, The matter of which we are made, which ever changing never dies— The substance of this hand that writes is found in the remotest skies. If Matter then is one, so Mind identical with ours must be In kind, though unimaginable in power and in quality, And as sans Love life could not live aughtwhere throughout infinity, To Being with Intelligence, Life must an infinite progress be, For ’tis the nature of love and mind to make superior all we see : Lo ! that which knows and is perishless must toward perfec¬ tion ever tend, For happiness is perfectness, still widening as we onward wend, From high to higher life: thus we may judge what bright and blessed Powers Wise from experience, must exist in older universes than ours; 230 SCENERY OF THE SEASONS : SPRING. What instruments of intelligence, what mental methods must be theirs— The growthy of might minds in action for innumerable-, years. SCENERY OF THE SEASONS : SPRING. Now all the air is stirred with wings From the deep south, as April brings Amid fresh scents and radiances Mild, dewy suns from the blue seas: In meadowy slopes the daffodils Sprout yellow by the tinkling rills, Singing on their way from the distant hills— Where, in the azure air, some white Vapour superbly soars in sight: The lamb by budding hedges roams ; And swallow flocks in sidelong flight, Sail past by starts—to left, to right: The bee hums in the drowsy light, And creeks the crake with all his might,. From misty meadows night by night. Far away in the mountain’s shade Some thin thread of a pale cascade SCENERY OF THE SEASONS : SPRING. 231 Glitters like a snow-fleck left By winter in some rocky cleft: While all around is bright and bland; On glassy lake you see the swan, The deer upon the sunny lawn; Through leaves and grasses joyously The river flows by vale and lea, Singing as it goes in merry moods, As ’twere the spirit of lonely woods, Or sparry cavern deep inland,— Wearied with silence and mystery, Come down to commune with the sea: At moments floats an airy radiance round From the white dropping clouds; the fresh clear sound Of the young sparrows in the sallow bushes— Where through the flaggers the brown runnel rushes— Twitters:—a quickening motion in the brown Of furrowed fields is felt; and from the town Vague noises, like the ceaseless, drowsy hum Of distant stony pulses, faintly come : On one side sleeps a rushy-margined pond, Where, girt by oaks, the moss-tufts, bronzed and shorn, Grow green in cozy sheltered nooks again, As blow the cool airs from the lifting morn, Or sleep in sunny siftings of pure rain : 232 SCENERY OF THE SEASONS : SPRING. Long winding roads and upland brownly loamed, Spread to the showery distance, vapour domed; And lengths of white cloud stretch upon the wind, All through the growing, vernal hours ; until The western sun, dipped in a golden haze, Along the seaward, sloping, green-patched hill, Making ’mid forest boles a luminous maze, Glows on the shadowy interspace of earth, Whence comes the ploughman’s whistle through the mist; And silence settles all where it may list: The faint smoke rises from the crackling hearth, Of roadside cots; while the spring tide afar Begins to twinkle from the evening star. Then as we homeward wend through dewy dusk along, Memories of southern seasons rise from antique song : Where, down the spring-blue winding river the stately white sw'ans oar, Plucking the grass and herbage growing by the verdant shore, Where lately blocks of mountain ice whirled dreary, cold, and dim ; Where freshens the rusty winter moss on the bubbled fountain’s brim. Snowy aerial vapours stream on the distant vine-draped rocks, SCENERY OF THE SEASONS : SPRING. 233 High up in the austere dome of azure hurry the long-legged flocks, And comes by the April grassy shores in twilight’s swoon, The plaint of the Halcyon poised on the wave in the dewy moon : Or where the exuberant, succulent stems of the milky corn Rustle the night’s rain-drops away in the early airs of morn; Where the tempting apples’ ripening juices yellow the fragrant rind, And the scent of the blue-black violet yields to the rose on the warmed wind; Where under the dusky red sea dawns the April swallow flies; Where mother and child in shore-side cots sleep under genial skies; And high in heaven the Pleiades look on a myriad sailing eyes : Where opulent autumn bends in the splendid sunshine, heavy with grapes, And the boats of the fishers anchor at night at the ends of purple capes; 'Pill flames bright Vesper, late arisen, through rains and blood-red haze, Its earnest lustre across the waste oi windy bays. 234 FKOSTY AND FINE DAYS. FROSTY AND FINE DAYS. Of dim Decern ber days, when falls the snow Until the wide north clears at afternoon, And o’er the channel’s torpid wintry flow, Half shelved in blueish air, appears the moon. Faint as some distant, half-forgotten woe ; I walk along those dreary stretehing sands, Encrusted with the tide’s ice-rim, and hear The weak waves’ washing make a music drear ; Or the low-flying curlew’s whistling screech, Settling to feed in some salt shallow reach, Or skirring far along the misty strands :— Walk until cold, dreary dark comes down, The while as yet a tint of frosted rose Lingers over the dumb inland town, And the dead air closely colder grows, Seaward, austere clouds, sublime in form, Lurid-domed dominions of storm, Loom, which, in those desolate dark nights, When through the blackness the numb pole-wind blows* Will blind in whirls the ruddy binacle lights Of solitary ships that westward sail. With surfy bows heaved sidelong to the gale, Stemming toward skies of summer, hot and still; Or some dread earth-end cape, where mightily, FROSTY AND FINE DAYS. 23fr In mountain masses the huge seas swing by, And, from the white top of a wintry hill, The gaunt winged condor stares with icy eye: Or, maychance to some haven’s steady light, Under a twinkling village on a height, Reaching out little dark arms toward the sea and night Whence, presently, a boat will oar from sight, Over the surges of the blank dusk bar, Where, over lines of land-brown cloud, its star Peers with a cold fierce glare—against which soon The onward, stately vessel’s topmost spar Will rise and fail—the wave-worn black hull loom, The windy lantern glare on level boom, And solemn sails, and mastage black and tall Heaved on the slackening long surge of the harbour walk. Here was my favourite walk in idle hours, On keen grey days of windy March, when roads Are parched and whitened in the eastern blast That ever o’er the long lone inland bodes, Wildering through heaths, and sedgy sluices, past Some manse, with poplar, rigid as a mast : And where forlorn trees shake in the withering breath,, Under a dome ashy and full as death; The while, at times, from the cold desolate shores, A line of cranes clang, winging toward the moors. 236 SUMMERTIME. SUMMER TIME. An Idylic Sketch. After a morn of rain, passed in a mood, Of common duties—rummaging old nooks In press and closet—dusting his old books— Ouc from the cottage by the humid wood A "student rambled through wet field and dell, To let light airs freshen the Winter blood, And visit the seaside he loved so well— Sands sprinkled o’er with specks of silver shell, By marge of tide-rolled shingle smooth and grey, Bordering the broken curve along the bay, Where banks of grasses waved amiably In the warm wind that came and went its way Over the glad, green, rain-refreshed sea : It was the time when the brown, furrowed earth Had turned to the sun its Northern side— When one looks carelessly on Winter’s hearth, And toward the sun, meadows, and fresh, blue tide— A youth who through the months of wind and snow Had gone within a cottage to abide Tor quietness and study, far from town, And store up language, science, in his brain SUMMER TIME. 237 Uninterrupted—for the driving rain, And windy moanings of the wild wood brown, And long strand-wash of dreary waves below, Familiar and unheeded passed to one Earnest in building up the palace of Knowledge—that calm morning wandered forth To field and beach. No more the barren North Looked hard and blue ; but lonely airs came bv From bright meridional breadths of sea : All things were full of sweet amenity— Grasses and waves, the birds and wayside springs From the far woods the oval coo of doves— Like bubblee on a spring where each one moves After the other, intermingling rings In stillness—breathed to one late known to Love. For, as it happ’d, one gusty, blue March day, Strolling with a Greek book beside the bay, Upon the sands he found a maiden’s glove, And following where she paced far away, In the wind gusting round a promontory. Returning the white loss, her violet eyes. And cheek less rosed from the wind than from The beanteous blood that gave it grateful bloom,. Thrilled him with a new life : and hence, until Young Spring stood tiptoe on the snowless hill '-238 SUMMER TIME. She came to meet him on the shore, now still, From the old red-brick manse beside the mill, Lest he should feel alone—and all by chance Each day; until she went a month to France, Whence she was now returned, as by a sign— Her candle in the casement draped with vine— On yester happy eve he could divine. In the warm blue of the sweet morning sky A lovely, lonely cloud of freshest white, Arisen from the summering sea anigh, Brooded, and seemed to his upturned sight Like a vast lily, or superbest vase, Pure as the marble mould of antique days, Upheld by viewless Summer’s airy arm ; Shone stationary over field and farm, Looking upon the cheerful villaged bays, 'The rounding inland, many meadowed; And seemed to droop, o’erflowing with warm tears. To see again the old world green and warm ; The while the kind, large Presence that it bears. Over her shoulder turning her blythe head, Bends o’er the earth, bending with coy, kind charm. Looking upon the space she loves so well, Hearkening to the sounds of wave and wing, To the sweet blear of lambs, to birds that sing To her from simple throats innumerable. SUMMER TIME. 239 The sun, as though new bathed in tropic seas, Poured o’er the living earth its affluent light, Making all things that meet the sense and sight Amcene with Summer scents and radiances : There seemed a quickening motion in the hush Of growing fields ; amid green shaded boughs The sparrows chirped and chattered, and the thrush Trilled forth his song with mellow-fluted close ; Lengths of white vapour slept along the floods, O’er the blue Western hills and winding road, And interspace through which the river flowed In curves of calm along the distant woods ; At times a blueish drift of slanting rain Fled from the sunbeam pointing like a hand ; And sped each hour the level rushing train With throb and drift of steam along the land. So Summer was within them and around, As in the sunny seaside solitude They met in that Cloud’s presence, which had found In happy hearts beating beneath it there, Something to tell its sisters of the air, More precious than aught else upon the ground— A memory sweet, whereon, maychance, to brood While lasted in the sky of noon its mood; 240 SUNDAY WALKS. While Ernest, looking up from the sweet face Of Edith May, uplooking with like grace, Both happy, said, Yes, yes ; we love, dear friend Sole confidant of what below you see,” And uttered j oyous fancies ; the while she, Laughing, was pleased. And ne’er was sonnet penned On a white cloud so sweet as both composed, That eve with heads together, in the light Of sunset, at her father’s window bright, Whence on the page a lily pure and white Wavered its shade ’mid trellage many-rosed, SUNDAY WALKS. After the week’s dull toil, This Autumn Sabbath day I speed by train away To open shore and bay, To air the blood and brain, Enjoy the scent of soil, Of grasses and soft rain ; And up the steep hill-road, Through full-leaved hedges green. Survey the rounding scene— SUNDAY WALKS. £4l The misty, long coast line; The gray and glimmering brine, Where the fresh flowing tide O’er sandy shoal makes white The billow’s ridge; the light That, drifting, pauses oft In some green mountain croft; The clouds that calmly glide In companies remote, Or o’er the waters float; Or some prim, white-sailed boat, Channel-ward pointing, where Breathes faint and fixed the air— White splendours rise embossed By ragged sea-fog crossed. And as I pace alone, I pause at times, to speak, And bless some simple, kind Creature in field or tree— Children in heart and mind— Hear some bird lonelily, Give its dear fancies play To its bright friend, the day, Or gull in sunny creek, Or foal, or kine that feed R 242 SUNDAY WALKS. In meadows by the way, Whose gentle, innocent eyes Show that they recognise A friendship—for, indeed, To love all Life around, In water, air, or ground, As one with mine, whene’er my mood Is childlike, innocent, and good, Long since has formed a part Of the expanded Christian creed Whose horizon’s the heart. As up the hill-road, grey And steep, I make my way This early summer day, From hedges on each side, And young trees leafy green, Through which at times are seen The waters spacing wide— Unseen upon some spray, With sweetest, clearest tone, A little bird alone Sings his simple ditty; Happy by itself to be, With the sun, and air, and sea, Far from the noisy city. SUNDAY WALKS. 243 It has satisfied its need Of food upon some grassy seed, And pleases itself now by giving Voice unto its sense of living; What can be the memories It chants unto its friends, the trees, And the warm sun, and soft air, For other comrades none are there— Not a fellow-soul to share Its innocent ecstacies, O’er and o’er the same, which end Sometimes in a piteous, clear, Melancholy note, and dear, As if as yet without a brood It felt in that wide solitude The need of some bird friend. Here, in the seasons as they pass, Amid the wilderness of grass, Aud yellow furze and blossomed heath, How many insects live beneath, And pass their days, and toil, and brood In the same wild solitude, Whose minds are all the means they own To be happy, thus alone, And who, when shadows deepen, creep Each to its little home for sleep. 244 SUNDAY WALKS. Watch yon two insects bright, at play, Climbing up that slender spray— He who is highest, down the while, Looks at the other with a smile Perchance; and here another bears Into a pin-hole in the mould Some morsel precious as fine gold, To feed its young within, whose eyes Their loving guardian recognise, Whose looks they know, whose voice they hear, And gather round their tiny dear Mother, in whose absence they, Mayhap, had cried for, half the day. No atom on the earth could live In water, field, or nest, or hive Were not intelligeuce allied With love, diffused through every being; Nor is the tiniest life we trace, Alone in its vast dwelling place : The smallest creature lives beside The Soul that is All-Seeing, And hence is happy. Who can tell But the minutest have some sense Of a presence invisible, OCTOBER DUSK. 245 Who loves them in their innocence, And guards them here, and when they die, Immortally, immutably. OCTOBER DUSK. Sitting in October’s twilight In the dusky room, Fronting the blank window pane, We watch the gathering gloom, The films of grey and airy cloud O’er rainy sunset low, Till the vaporous ridges roof the world And a wind begins to blow, In billows from the dreary sea, Swaying the piteous garden tree, Whose boughs and bared nest, The while still glowed with stormy gold The wild and saddened west, Over the pictured walls, and on Book shelves in nooks of rest, Threw shadows from the sinking sun. Like silent symbols from the sky, Or mournful meanings imaged by Some wandering ghostly guest. 240 WINTER. Then turn wc from the gusty gloom, Cut off by the windy fire. Where up the rumbling chimney quickens The flight of each smoky spire. The shifting shadows play around The silent room, while soon Through lurid vapours nigh the ground Sails slow the crescent moon. Shut out the gray October night, Windy and lone, and drear, from sight, Oh ! comfortable curtain :—shed O’er friendly books, oh, lamp ! thy light; And though the year goes, let’s prolong Its orchard breeze and memories, With golden apples and autumn song. WINTER. It is the eve of a calm, heavy day : The dismal thaw-cloud scarfs the sky of gray ; And from the pining, broomy winter trees Drop follows drop upon the path anigh ; Wetly the raw ^r breathes from the bleak seas, The slow worm creeps along the rain-washed way The last bird from the hedge chirps piteously; A CHRISTMAS SONG. Hurriedly woodward flaps the crow on high: From dead, damp farm-fields the last voices call Unseen was sunset, nor appears a star; The while as on the graveyard’s ruined wall The elder’s aged, crippled branches gnar— I hear remote, as leaden shadows fall, The night wind rising o’er the stormy bar. A CHRISTMAS SONG. i. Come close around the cheery hearth, Friends, dear ones, young and old, as gay : A happier group is not on earth This holy winter holiday. No cups of carved gold are ours, Or southern wines from plain and mountain But, better still for Christmas hours, We have a wine, Glows more divine, Our Hearts the cups, and Love the fountain n. And what we have we’ll share, be sure, Should any neighbour feel distress; 248 A CHRISTMAS SONG. Who stints himself to help the poor, Gains what he gives in blessedness ; And innocent hours of joy, as well As good deeds, yield a future pleasure— One sweet to think on, sweet to tell— Thus, a night with dear Ones round us here, Like this, becomes a life-long treasure. hi. So, children, play—dance, dance away, Lasses and boys ; sing, friends, of Home ! And while we hope each hearthside may Be happy of this, from foam to foam; Let’s pray that He who led the poor To Heaven, with divine endeavour, Through Love, which only can endure, To all may give His love, and live With us, for ever and for ever. t