THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES

 
 THE 
 
 POEMS 
 
 WILLIAM WINTER. 
 
 COMPLETE EDITION. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY. 
 1881.
 
 Copyright, 1880, 
 }y WILLIAM WINTER. 
 
 All Rights Reserved. 
 
 UNIVERSITY PRESS : 
 JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE.
 
 33V/ 
 A' 
 
 JOSEPH JEFFERSON: 
 
 AS A TRIBUTE TO EXQUISITE GENIUS, 
 
 NOBLY USED 
 rUROUGHOUT A PURE AND BENEFICENT LIFE, 
 
 AND AS 
 A MEMORIAL OF CONSTANT AFFECTION, 
 
 THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR. 
 
 904270
 
 "That >s for thoughts."
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 This collection, although called complete, does not 
 include all the poems that its aitthor has published ; 
 but it comprises all that he cares to preserve. In 
 the course of his constant literary life, extending 
 aver a period of twenty-five years, Poetry, -while 
 the main motive and object of his mental activity, 
 has been experienced as a feeling, and not pursued as 
 a design. His poems, accordingly, are the accidents 
 of impulse, and not the creations of artistic inten- 
 tion. His fondness for them, as the children of his 
 love, may have blinded his judgment as to their 
 value, and induced him to seek for them an undue 
 prominence. He is aware, however, that the only
 
 vi Preface. 
 
 poetical literature really essential to society is that 
 which gives adequate expression to the universal 
 human heart, and is not restricted to the reflection 
 of an individual soul ; and no personal fondness 
 for his own works would have persuaded him now 
 to offer to the public notice these little lyrics of chance 
 and occasion, but for many and urgent requests 
 which have been addressed to him, during the last 
 two or three years, for a complete collection of his 
 poetical writings. These requests, and the fact that 
 his previous books have been accepted, and are now 
 out of print, apprize him that his poems have had 
 the good fortune to meet with some measure of 
 public favour, and encourage a hope that the pre- 
 sentation of them, in this form, will not be deemed 
 intrusive. This volume contains the best parts of 
 four precedent volumes, carefully revised, together 
 with a number of pieces now collected for the first 
 time. The desire to add something, of vital worth, 
 to pure literature is, surely, not a selfish onej and 
 the author of these poems is wishful to believe that
 
 Preface. vii 
 
 they constitute an addition, not altogether unworthy, 
 however ephemeral, to that old school of English 
 Lyrical Poetry, of which gentleness is the soul and 
 
 simplicity the garment. 
 
 W. IV. 
 
 FORT HILL, NEW BRIGHTON, S. I., 
 July 28, 1880.
 
 ' For you there 's rosemary and rue ; these keep 
 Seeming and savour, all the winter long." 
 
 " The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun, 
 And with him rises weeding." 
 
 " Lilies of all kinds, 
 The flower-de-luce being one." 
 
 '/ love a ballad but even too well; if it be doleful matter 
 merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing indeed, and 
 sung lamentably." 
 
 SHAKESPEARE.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 * 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE BALLAD OF CONSTANCE 13 
 
 LETHE 16 
 
 THE WHITE FLAG 21 
 
 BEAUTY 25 
 
 VIOLET 28 
 
 BEYOND THE DARK 32 
 
 IN A CHURCHYARD 35 
 
 DEATH'S ANGEL 38 
 
 MY PALACES 40 
 
 THE VEILED MUSE , 42 
 
 AT PEACE 45 
 
 VICTORIA 47 
 
 THE IDEAL 49 
 
 THE WISH 51 
 
 THE TRIUMPH 52 
 
 MY QUEEN 54 
 
 HOMAGE 56 
 
 THE CHOICE 58
 
 x Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE QUESTION 60 
 
 DOOM 62 
 
 RELICS . . 64 
 
 WITHERED ROSES 66 
 
 CHANGED 69 
 
 THE REQUIEM 71 
 
 REFUGE 73 
 
 SEMPER IDEM 75 
 
 ACROSS THE BIER 77 
 
 AFTER LONG YEARS 81 
 
 THEIR STORY 84 
 
 EBB TIDE 86 
 
 THE LAST SCENE 87 
 
 RUE 89 
 
 AFTER ALL 91 
 
 PREDESTINED 93 
 
 ORGIA 95 
 
 EREBUS . 99 
 
 CIRCE TOO 
 
 ROSEMARY 102 
 
 THE UNDERTONE 105 
 
 THE GOLDEN SILENCE 107 
 
 SOLACE 109 
 
 EGERIA ..'... no
 
 Contents. xi 
 
 PACE 
 
 A DIRGE: IN MEMORY OF GEORGE ARNOLD. . 113 
 
 A DIRGE: IN MEMORY OF ADA CLARE . . . 116 
 
 GOOD-BYE TO BROUGHAM 120 
 
 HAND IN HAND 125 
 
 COMRADES 130 
 
 A DIRGE : IN MEMORY OF POE 135 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE SILENCE 137 
 
 EDELWEISS 145 
 
 A PLEDGE TO THE DEAD 147 
 
 THE CHIEFTAIN 151 
 
 THE LOTOS FLOWER 156 
 
 ELEGY IN ARLINGTON CEMETERY 158 
 
 GOOD-BYE TO BOOTH 164 
 
 FIDELE 168 
 
 LAST WORD 170
 
 THE BALLAD OF CONSTANCE. 
 
 T T 7ITH diamond dew the grass was wet, 
 
 'T was in the spring and gentlest weather, 
 And all the birds of morning met, 
 And carolled in her heart together. 
 
 The wind blew softly o'er the land, 
 And softly kissed the joyous ocean : 
 
 He walked beside her on the sand, 
 And gave and won a heart's devotion. 
 
 The thistledown was in the breeze, 
 With birds of passage homeward flying 
 
 His fortune lured him o'er the seas, 
 And on the shore he left her, sighing.
 
 14 The Ballad of Constance. 
 
 She saw his barque glide down the bay, 
 Through tears and fears she could not banish ; 
 
 She saw his white sails melt away 
 She saw them fade, she saw them vanish. 
 
 And ' Go,' she said, ' for winds are fair, 
 And love and blessing round you hover ; 
 
 When you sail backward through the air, 
 Then I will trust the word of lover.' 
 
 Still ebbed, still flowed, the tide of years, 
 
 Now chilled with snows, now bright with roses, 
 
 And many smiles were turned to tears, 
 And sombre morns to radiant closes. 
 
 And many ships came sailing by, 
 
 With many a golden promise freighted ; 
 
 But nevermore from sea or sky 
 
 Came love, to bless her heart that waited. 
 
 Yet on, by tender patience led, 
 
 Her sacred footsteps walked, unbidden, 
 
 Wherever sorrow bowed its head, 
 Or want, and care, and shame were hidden .
 
 The Ballad of Consfance. 15 
 
 And they who saw her snow-white hair, 
 And dark, sad eyes, so deep with feeling, 
 
 Breathed all at once the chancel air, 
 And seemed to hear the organ pealing. 
 
 Till once, at shut of autumn day, 
 
 In marble chill she paused and hearkened, 
 
 With startled gaze where far away 
 The wastes of sky and ocean darkened. 
 
 There for a moment, faint and wan, 
 High up in air, and landward striving, 
 
 Stern-fore a spectral barque came on, 
 Across the purple sunset driving. 
 
 Then something out of night she knew, 
 
 Some whisper heard, from heaven descended, 
 
 And peacefully, as falls the dew, 
 Her long and lonely vigil ended. 
 
 The violet and the bramble-rose 
 
 Make glad the grass that dreams above her ; 
 And, freed from time and all its woes, 
 
 She trusts again the word of lover.
 
 LETHE. 
 
 OWEET oblivion, blood of grape, 
 Let me take thy hue and shape 
 Flood this heavy heart of mine ! 
 Turn it into ruddy wine ! 
 Through my veins, with golden glow, 
 Airy spirit, flash and flow ! 
 Deify this clod of clay, 
 And waft my willing soul away ! 
 
 Dark and sad my fancies are 
 Tired of peace and tired of war. 
 Joke of jester, prank of clown 
 Weigh my heavy eyelids down. 
 All philosophies are drear ; 
 Music 's jargon in my ear ;
 
 Lethe. 17 
 
 Endless tides of empty talk 
 Bubble round me where I walk ; 
 I am deafened by the din 
 That the world is wrangling in. 
 
 in. 
 
 God of sunrise, fiery wine, 
 Let me lose my soul in thine ! 
 Close my eyes and stop my ears 
 To all a mortal sees or hears : 
 Roll of drums, and clash of swords, 
 Fretful snarl of angry words, 
 Church, and state, and bond, and free, 
 Party, creed, and policy, 
 Tattle, prattle, laugh, and groan, 
 Crozier, sceptre, flag, and throne, 
 Garrulous and grand debate, 
 Which of moles is small or great, 
 Whom to pray for, who shall pray, 
 And what the agile critics say. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Sun of rubies, radiant wine, 
 Melt my being into thine ! -
 
 1 8 Lethe. 
 
 So my dream of death shall bless 
 Memory with forgetfulness. 
 No more weary, wasting thought 
 On a past so folly-fraught ! 
 No more dreams of love-lit eyes, 
 Silken hair, and tender sighs, 
 And wild kisses sweet, that shake 
 The frame of being ! poor mistake ! 
 Nor that other, just as poor, 
 Toil for praise of sage or boor ; 
 Fire, that burnishes a crown, 
 Fire, that burns a kingdom down, 
 Fire, that ravages his breast 
 Who takes ambition for its guest ! 
 But at last, instead of these, 
 Sunset cloud, and evening breeze, 
 Holy starlight shining dim, 
 Organ wail, and vesper hymn, 
 Cypress wreath, and asphodels, 
 Gentle toll of distant bells, 
 All that makes the sleeper blest, 
 In a bed of endless rest.
 
 Lethe. 
 
 When this farce of life is o'er, 
 
 Are we fretted any more? 
 
 Do they rest, I 'd like to know, 
 
 Under grass or under snow, 
 
 Who have gone that quiet way 
 
 You and I must go, some day ? 
 
 If they do, it seems to me 
 
 Happy were it thus to be 
 
 Sleeping where the blackb'ries grow, 
 
 And the bramble-roses blow, 
 
 And the sunshine pours its gold 
 
 On mossy rock and woodland old, 
 
 While gentle winds, and clouds of fleece, 
 
 And rippling waters whisper peace ! 
 
 Vain the fancy : nothing dies : 
 Falling water falls to rise ; 
 Round and round the atoms fly, 
 Turf, and stone, and sea, and sky, 
 Vapour-drop, and blood of man, 
 In the inexorable plan.
 
 Lethe. 
 
 All is motion : nothing dies : 
 Mystery of mysteries ! 
 
 Royal road of blest escape ! 
 Sweet oblivion, blood of grape, 
 Let me take thy hue and shape ! 
 In thy spirit, floating free, 
 I shall be a reverie, 
 A flitting thought, a fading dream, 
 A melting cloud, a faint moonbeam, 
 A breath, a mist, a ghost of light, 
 To rise and vanish in the night, 
 Unseeing all, by all unseen, 
 And being as I had not been.
 
 THE WHITE FLAG. 
 
 T3RING poppies for a weary mind 
 
 That saddens in a senseless din, 
 And let my spirit leave behind 
 
 A world of riot and of sin, 
 In action's torpor deaf and blind. 
 
 Bring poppies that I may forget ! 
 
 Bring poppies that I may not learn ! 
 But bid the audacious sun to set, 
 
 And bid the peaceful starlight burn 
 O'er buried memory and regret. 
 
 Then will the slumberous grasses grow 
 Above the bed wherein I sleep ; 
 
 While winds I love will softly blow, 
 And dews I love will softly weep, 
 
 O'er rest and silence hid below.
 
 2 The White Flag. 
 
 Bring poppies, for this work is vain ! 
 
 I cannot mould the clay of life. 
 A stronger hand must grasp the rein, 
 
 A stouter arm annul the strife, 
 A braver heart defy the pain. 
 
 Youth was my friend, but Youth had wings, 
 
 And he has flown unto the day, 
 And left me, in a night of things, 
 
 Bewildered, on a lonesome way, 
 And careless what the future brings. 
 
 Let there be sleep ! nor any more 
 The noise of useless deed or word : 
 
 While the free spirit hovers o'er 
 A sea where not a sound is heard 
 
 A sea of dreams, without a shore. 
 
 Dark Angel, counselling defeat, 
 I see thy mournful, tender eyes ; 
 
 I hear thy voice, so faint, so sweet, 
 And very dearly should I prize 
 
 Thy perfect peace, thy rest complete.
 
 The White Flag. 23 
 
 But is it rest to vanish hence, 
 
 To mix with earth, or sea, or air ? 
 Is death indeed a full defence 
 
 Against the tyranny of care ? 
 Or is it cruellest pretence ? 
 
 And, if an hour of peace draws nigh, 
 Shall we, who know the arts of war, 
 
 Turn from the field and basely fly, 
 Nor take what Fate reserves us for, 
 
 Because we dream 'twere sweet to die ? 
 
 What shall the untried warriors do, 
 If we, the battered veterans, fail ? 
 
 How strive, and suffer, and be true, 
 In storms that make our spirits quail, 
 
 Except our valour lead them through ? 
 
 Though for ourselves we droop and tire, 
 Let us at least for them be strong. 
 
 'Tis but to bear familiar fire; 
 Life at the longest is not long, 
 
 And peace at last will crown desire.
 
 24 The White Flag. 
 
 So, Death, I will not hear thee speak ! 
 
 But I will labour and endure 
 All storms of pain that time can wreak. 
 
 My flag be white because 'tis pure, 
 And not because my soul is weak !
 
 BEAUTY. 
 
 T HAD a dream, one glorious, summer night, 
 
 In the rich bosom of imperial June. 
 Languid I lay upon an odourous couch, 
 Golden with amber, festooned wildly o'er 
 With crimson roses ; and the longing stars 
 Wept tears of light upon their clustered leaves. 
 Above me soared the azure vault of heaven, 
 Vast and majestic ; cinctured with that path 
 Whereby, perchance, the sea-born Venus found 
 Her way to higher spheres ; that path which seems 
 A coronet of silver, gemmed with stars, 
 And bound upon the forehead of the night. 
 There, as I lay, the musical south wind 
 Shook all the roses into murmurous life, 
 And poured their fragrance o'er me, in a shower 
 Of crimson mist ; and softly, through the mist, 
 Came a low, sweet, enchanting melody,
 
 26 Beauty. 
 
 A far-off echo from the land of dreams, 
 
 Which with delicious languor filled the air, 
 
 And steeped in bliss the senses and the soul. 
 
 Then rose a shape, a dim and ghostly shape, 
 
 Whereto no feature was, nor settled form, 
 
 A shadowy splendour, seeming as it came 
 
 A pearly summer cloud, shot through and through 
 
 With faintest rays of sunset ; yet within 
 
 A spirit dwelt ; and, floating from within, 
 
 A murmur trembled sweetly into words : 
 
 I am the ghost of a most lovely dream, 
 
 Which haunted, in old days, a poet's mind. 
 
 And long he sought for, wept, and prayed for me ; 
 
 And searched through all the chambers of his soul, 
 
 And searched the secret places of the earth, 
 
 The lonely forest and the lonely shore ; 
 
 And listened to the voices of the sea, 
 
 What time the stars shone out. and midnight cold 
 
 Slept on the dark waves whispering at his feet ; 
 
 And sought the mystery in a human form, 
 
 Amid the haunts of men, and found it not ; 
 
 And looked in woman's fond, bewildering eyes, 
 
 And mirrored there his own, and saw no sign :
 
 Beatity. 2 7 
 
 But only in his sleep I came to him, 
 
 And gave him fitful glimpses of my face, 
 
 Whereof he after sang, in sweetest words ; 
 
 Then died, and came to me. But evermore, 
 
 Through lonely days, and passion-haunted nights, 
 
 A life of starlit gloom, do poets seek 
 
 To rend the mystic veil that covers me, 
 
 And evermore they grasp the empty air. 
 
 For only in their dreams I come to them, 
 
 And give them fitful glimpses of my face, 
 
 And lull them, siren-like, with words of hope 
 
 That promise, sometime, to their ravished eyes, 
 
 Beauty, the secret of the universe, 
 
 God's thought, that gives the soul eternal peace. 
 
 Then the voice ceased, and only, through the mist, 
 The shaken roses murmured, and the wind.
 
 VIOLET. 
 
 /~\NE name I shall not forget 
 ^^ Gentle name of Violet. 
 
 Many and Strange, the years have sped 
 She who bore that name is dead ; 
 
 Dead and resting by the sea, 
 Where she gave her heart to me. 
 
 Dead and now the grasses wave, 
 And the dry leaves, o'er her grave, 
 
 Rustling in the autumn wind, 
 Like the sad thoughts in my mind. 
 
 She was light, and soon forgot ; 
 Loved me well, and loved me not : 
 
 Changeful as the April sky 
 Kind or cruel, sad or shy ;
 
 Violet. 29 
 
 Gray-eyed, winsome, arch, and fair 
 My youth's passion and despair. 
 
 Now, through storms of many years, 
 Now, through tender mist of tears, 
 
 Looking backward, I can see 
 She was always true to me. 
 
 Yet, with prisoned tears that burn, 
 Cold we parted, wayward, stern ; 
 
 Spoke the quiet, farewell word, 
 Neither meant and neither heard ; 
 
 Spoke and parted in our pain, 
 Nevermore to meet again. 
 
 Sometimes, underneath the moon, 
 On rose-laden nights of June, 
 
 When white clouds drift o'er the blue, 
 While the pale stars glimmer through,
 
 30 Violet. 
 
 And the honeysuckle throws 
 Flagrant challenge to the rose, 
 
 And the liberal pine-tree flings 
 Perfume on the midnight's wings, 
 
 Came, with thrills of hope and fear, 
 Mystic sense that she was near ; 
 
 Came the thought, Through good and ill 
 She loves, and she remembers still ! 
 
 But no word e'er came, or went ; 
 And, when nine long years were spent, 
 
 Something in my bosom said, 
 Very softly, she is dead ! 
 
 Now, at sombre autumn eve, 
 Wandering where the woodlands grieve, 
 
 Or where wild winds whistle free, 
 On the hills that front the sea,
 
 Violet. 3 1 
 
 Cruel thoughts of love and loss 
 Nail my spirit to the cross. 
 
 Friends have fallen, youth is gone, 
 Fields are brown and skies are wan : 
 
 One name I shall not forget 
 Gentle name of Violet.
 
 BEYOND THE DARK. 
 
 HPHERE 'S a region afar from earth 
 * Should be very happy to-day ; 
 For a sweet soul, ripe for its birth, 
 Has gone from this world away. 
 
 And I think, as I sit alone, 
 
 While the night is falling around, 
 
 Of a cold, white, gleaming stone, 
 And a long, lone, grassy mound ; 
 
 And of what rests under the sod, 
 The poor, pale face ; the still brain, 
 
 Left awfully still by the spirit of God, 
 That has gone to Him again ;
 
 Beyond the Dark. 33 
 
 The eyes that will shine no more, 
 The hands that have done their task ; 
 
 And my heart is heavy and sore, 
 And my thought is eager to ask 
 
 If all will, at last, be well 
 
 In the realms beyond the dark ; 
 What secret the pallid lips could tell 
 
 Of the sleeper, quiet and stark. 
 
 But there comes a murmur of trees, 
 
 That wave their arms, and bring 
 Blossoms, and leaves, to shake in the breeze, 
 
 From spring to spring ; 
 
 And they whisper that all is well, 
 
 For the same hand guides us all, 
 Whether 'tis seen in a man's death-knell, 
 
 Or in the leaves that fall. 
 
 And so many have gone before, 
 
 That the voice of another sphere 
 Floats often from- over a sable shore, 
 
 And pierces the mist of fear. 
 3
 
 34 Beyond the Dark. 
 
 O tender heart that is still, 
 
 You will falter with trouble no more, 
 Nor know of the good or the ill 
 
 Of a frantic world's uproar ! 
 
 Nor heed the great or the small 
 Of a strange, bewildering life, 
 
 That often seems dust and ashes all, 
 And is mostly a vapid strife ! 
 
 For the end is the peace of grass, 
 And God's peace, ever to be : 
 
 The one for us to feel as we pass, 
 The other enshrining thee. 
 
 Clouds sail, and waters flow, 
 And our souls must journey on ; 
 
 But it cannot be ill to go 
 
 The way that thou hast gone.
 
 IN A CHURCHYARD. 
 
 HPHE lonesome wind of autumn grieves; 
 
 The northern lights are seen ; 
 October sheds her changing leaves 
 
 Upon the churchyard green, 
 Where, sitting pensive in the sun, 
 
 While fading grasses wave, 
 I watch the crickets leap and run, 
 
 Upon a stranger's grave. 
 
 There is no sigh of fluttering leaf, 
 
 No sob of rustling grass ; 
 The breezes o'er this place of grief 
 
 In breathless whisper pass ; 
 Yet, like a murmur in a dream, 
 
 Purls on that insect voice 
 That vacant tone, which does not seem 
 
 To mourn or to rejoice.
 
 36 /// a Churchyard. 
 
 Atone that hath no soothing grace, 
 
 A tone that nothing saith, 
 A tone that 's like this solemn place 
 
 Of memory, tears, and death 
 It darkens hope, it deepens gloom, 
 
 Black dread, and doubt profound, 
 Turning the silence of the tomb 
 
 To more mysterious sound. 
 
 There 's night upon the face of fame ; 
 
 There 's night on beauty's eyes ; 
 Nor pure renown nor glorious shame 
 
 From out their ashes rise : 
 In vain the shrines of prayer are trod 
 
 Nor sound nor silence breathe 
 The thought that flowers upon this sod, 
 
 The secret hid beneath. 
 
 Ah, piteous, desolate, and drear 
 This nameless stranger's sleep, 
 
 O'er which the slowly dying year 
 Is all that seems to weep!
 
 In * a Ch urcti) 'ard. 3 7 
 
 God help him, in that bitter day, 
 
 His heart, his reason save, 
 Who hears the crickets chirp, at play, 
 
 Upon his darling's grave !
 
 DEATH'S ANGEL. 
 
 with a smile, when come thou must, 
 ^"" Evangel of the world to be, 
 And touch and glorify this dust, 
 
 This shuddering dust, that now is me, 
 And from this prison set me free ! 
 
 Long in those awful eyes I quail, 
 That gaze across the grim profound : 
 
 Upon that sea there is no sail, 
 Nor any light nor any sound 
 From the far shore that girds it round : 
 
 Only two still and steady rays 
 That those twin orbs of doom o'ertop; 
 
 Only a quiet, patient gaze 
 That drinks my being, drop by drop, 
 And bids the pulse of nature stop.
 
 Death's Angel. 39 
 
 Come with a smile, auspicious friend, 
 To usher in the eternal day ! 
 
 Of these weak terrors make an end. 
 And charm the paltry chains away 
 That bind me to this timorous clay ! 
 
 And let me know my soul akin 
 
 To sunrise, and the winds of morn, 
 
 And every grandeur that has been 
 
 Since this all-glorious world was born, 
 Nor longer droop in my own scorn. 
 
 Come, when the way grows dark and chill ! 
 
 Come, when the baffled mind is weak, 
 And in the heart that voice is still, 
 
 Which used in happier days to speak, 
 
 Or only whispers, sadly meek. 
 
 Come with a smile that dims the sun ! 
 
 With pitying heart and gentle hand! 
 And waft me, from a work that 's done, 
 
 To peace, that waits on thy command, 
 
 In some mysterious better land.
 
 MY PALACES 
 
 r I ^HEY rose in beauty on the plains 
 * Through which my childhood danced in glee, 
 When roses wreathed my idle chains, 
 And holy angels talked with me. 
 
 They rose sublime on mountain heights 
 Whereto my ardent youth aspired, 
 
 Through silver days and golden nights, 
 Ere yet my heart grew dull and tired. 
 
 Their stately towers were all aflame 
 
 With rosy hues of morning light ; 
 For hope, and love, and power, and fame 
 
 Burned on their peaks and made them bright.
 
 My Palaces. 41 
 
 Now brown and level fields expand 
 
 Around me, as I hold my way 
 Through barren hills on either hand, 
 
 And under skies of sober grey. 
 
 No radiant towers in distance rise, 
 
 On soaring mountains strong and glad ; 
 
 No gorgeous banners flaunt the skies, 
 But all the scene is calm and sad. 
 
 Yet here and there, along the plain, 
 A flower lights up the fading grass ; 
 
 And whispering wind and rustling rain 
 Make gentle music as I pass. 
 
 And now and then a happy face, 
 And now and then a cheerful thought, 
 
 Give to the scene a pensive grace, 
 The sweeter that it comes unsought. 
 
 And, looking past all earthly ill, 
 I know there is an hour of rest, 
 
 In a dark palace, lowly, still, 
 And sacred to the weary guest.
 
 THE VEILED MUSE. 
 
 SPIRIT of Beauty, haunt me not ! 
 Thou bring'st insufferable pain : 
 Thou, who art gone, be thou forgot, 
 
 Nor rise to vex my rest again, 
 Either with memories sadly sweet, 
 Or hopes foredoomed to dull defeat ! 
 
 Ah, come no more in rustling leaves, 
 Or peaceful grass, or breath of flowers ! 
 
 Enough this baffled spirit grieves, 
 Remembering thee in rosy hours : 
 
 Spare it the throbs of hope and fear, 
 
 The cruel sense that thou art near ! 
 
 The passion dies within my soul ; 
 
 The music dies within my brain ; 
 Save when there comes a funeral toll 
 
 A low, lamenting, sad refrain,
 
 The Veiled Muse. 
 
 An echo from that shrine of song 
 Long darkened, and deserted long. 
 
 In what was fair I once had part, 
 But all fair things are now my shame : 
 
 Their nameless beauty hurts my heart, 
 Because I cannot speak its name : 
 
 Spoken, 't would make my soul rejoice ; 
 
 But, O, I cannot give it voice. 
 
 Once in these veins the blood was warm ; 
 
 With ardent hope this heart beat high ; 
 And the great gales that proudly storm 
 
 The loftiest ramparts of the sky 
 Were not more daring, fierce, and strong 
 Than this now silent soul of song. 
 
 But wasted now that youth of gold, 
 Not heaven itself again could give ; 
 
 And he to die may well be bold 
 Who is not bold enough to live 
 
 In haunted silence of disgrace, 
 
 Where hushed thy voice and veiled thy face.
 
 44 The Veiled Muse. 
 
 Ah, come no more to do me wrong, 
 In twilight hours of tender dream, 
 
 When this worn spirit seems less strong 
 Than evening mist that shrouds the stream. 
 
 Though love be dead, at least retain 
 
 Some pity for thy lover's pain : 
 
 Remembering still, though all be past, 
 That thou and I clasped hands in youth : 
 
 I saw thee close, I held thee fast, 
 
 Plucked kisses from thy rosy mouth 
 
 Learning the bliss which now I weep, 
 
 The love I won, but could not keep.
 
 AT PEACE. 
 
 trees, and quiet fields, and sunset light, 
 ^^ With holy silence, save for rippling leaves 
 And birds that twitter of the coming night, 
 
 Calling their mates, beneath my cottage eaves 
 These Fate hath granted for a little space 
 
 To be companions of my pilgrimage, 
 Filling my grateful heart with nature's grace. 
 
 Not unremembered here life's garish stage, 
 
 Nor the wild city's uproar, nor the race 
 For gain and power, in which we all engage ; 
 
 But here remembered dimly, in a dream, 
 As something fretful that hath ceased to fret 
 
 Here, where time lapses like a gentle stream, 
 Hid in the woodland's heart, and I forget 
 
 To note its music and its silver gleam.
 
 46 At Peace. 
 
 But never, never let me cease to know, 
 
 O whispering woods and daisy-sprinkled grass, 
 
 The beauty and the peace that -you bestow, 
 When the wild fevers of ambition pass, 
 
 And the worn spirit, in its gloom and grief, 
 
 Sinks on your bosom and there finds relief !
 
 VICTORIA. 
 
 A /T I DNIGHTand moonlight encircle her slumbers, 
 
 Pillowed, afar, on the wandering deep: 
 Softly, ah softly, with tenderest numbers, 
 Echoes of Paradise, lull her to sleep ! 
 
 Stars in your lustre, and clouds in your fleetness, 
 Mix round the gallant ship, breasting the gale ! 
 
 Shed your sweet influence over her sweetness ! 
 Guard every bulwark and bless every sail ! 
 
 Billows, roll gently, that bear on your bosom 
 Treasure more precious than infinite gold 
 
 Beauty in spring-time and love in its blossom, 
 All that my hungry heart longs to enfold.
 
 48 Victoria. 
 
 Ocean, that breaks on the rocks where I languish, 
 Blessing and prayer on your surges to pour, 
 
 Like, in your might, to my passionate anguish, 
 Shield her, and save her, and waft her to shore ! 
 
 Angels, that float in the heavenly spaces, 
 
 Ah, while you guide her through perils unknown, 
 
 Still let the light of your beautiful faces 
 Shine on her face that is fair as your own ! 
 
 Violets, welcome her! roses, adore her 
 Blushing with rapture from mountain to sea ! 
 
 Lilies, flash out on the meadows before her, 
 Sparkle in glory, and ripple in glee ! 
 
 Proudly she comes, like the pageant of morning 
 Borne through the pearl-purpled gates of the day ! 
 
 Darkness and sorrow, consumed in her scorning, 
 Shrink from her splendour, and vanish away. 
 
 Scattered o'er mountain, and forest, and river, 
 Far the dark phantoms of trouble are hurled : 
 
 She will illuminate, she will deliver, 
 
 She will redeem and transfigure the world !
 
 THE IDEAL. 
 
 T TER young face is good and fair, 
 
 Lily-white and rosy-red ; 
 And the brown and silken hair 
 Hovers, mist-like, round her head. 
 
 And her voice is soft and low, 
 Clear as music, and as sweet ; 
 
 Hearing it, you hardly know 
 Where the sound and silence meet 
 
 All the magic who can tell 
 
 Of her laughter and her sighs ? 
 
 Or what heavenly meanings dwell 
 In her kind, confiding eyes?
 
 50 The Ideal. 
 
 Pretty lips, as rubies bright, 
 Scarcely hide the tiny pearls ; 
 
 Little wandering stars of light 
 Love to nestle in her curls. 
 
 All her ways are winning ways, 
 Full of tenderness and grace ; 
 
 And a witching sweetness plays 
 Fondly o'er her gentle face. 
 
 True and pure her soul within, 
 Breathing a celestial air ! 
 
 Evil and the shame of sin 
 
 Could not dwell a moment there. 
 
 Is it but a vision, this ? 
 
 Fond creation of the brain ? 
 Phantom of a fancied bliss ? 
 
 Type of beauty void and vain ? 
 
 No ! the tides of being roll 
 
 Toward a heaven that 's yet to be, 
 
 Where this idol of my soul 
 
 Waits and longs for love and me !
 
 THE WISH. 
 
 '"THINK of me as your friend, I pray, 
 
 And call me by a tender name : 
 I will not care what others say, 
 
 If only you remain the same ! 
 I will not care how dark the night, 
 
 I will not care how wild the storm : 
 Your love will fill my heart with light, 
 
 And shield me close, and keep me warm. 
 
 II. 
 Think of me as your friend, I pray, 
 
 For else my life is little worth : 
 So shall your memory light my way, 
 
 Although we meet no more on earth : 
 For while I know your faith secure, 
 
 I ask no happier fate to see : 
 Thus to be loved by one so pure 
 
 Is honour rich enough for me.
 
 THE TRIUMPH. 
 
 O URGE up in wanton waves to-day, 
 Ye memories of a restless Past ! 
 In shine and shadow glance and play, 
 This golden moment is your last. 
 
 Float, phantoms, o'er a sapphire sea, 
 Remembered joy, remembered pain, 
 
 Passions and fears that used to be, 
 But never can be mine again ! 
 
 Sweet visions, faded long ago, 
 So beautiful, and once so dear, 
 
 That wrought my bliss, that wrought my woe, 
 Your welcome and farewell are here.
 
 The Triumph. 53 
 
 For now no more can fancy wile 
 My steadfast soul with dreams untrue : 
 
 I give you each a parting smile, 
 I give you all a glad adieu. 
 
 Henceforth, for me, the Past is dead, 
 And sunken deep in Lethe's waves : 
 
 Firm is the ground whereon I tread, 
 That will not know the shape of graves. 
 
 As one whose soul, in second birth, 
 Attains its natural height and scope, 
 
 I spurn away the dust of earth, 
 I scale the radiant peaks of hope. 
 
 The sunshine wraps me in its arms, 
 North winds of power around me blow, 
 
 And heaven 's ablaze with starry charms 
 To bless the path whereon I go. 
 
 For mine is now the ardent truth 
 
 And secret of the lover's kiss ; 
 The valley of immortal youth ; 
 
 The sacred mountain-height of bliss !
 
 MY QUEEN. 
 
 T TE loves not well whose love is bold ! 
 
 I would not have thee come too nigh 
 The sun's gold would not seem pure gold 
 
 Unless the sun were in the sky : 
 To take him thence and chain him near 
 Would make his beauty disappear. 
 
 He keeps his state, do thou keep thine, 
 And shine upon me from afar ! 
 
 So shall I bask in light divine, 
 
 That falls from love's own guiding star ; 
 
 So shall thy eminence be high, 
 
 And so my passion shall not die. 
 
 But all my life will reach its hands 
 Of lofty longing toward thy face,
 
 My Queen. 55 
 
 And be as one who speechless stands 
 
 In rapture at some perfect grace ! 
 My love, my hope, my all, will be 
 To look to heaven and look to thee ! 
 
 Thy eyes will be the heavenly lights ; 
 
 Thy voice the gentle summer breeze, 
 What time it sways, on moonlit nights, 
 
 The murmuring tops of leafy trees ; 
 And I will touch thy beauteous form 
 In June's red roses, rich and warm. 
 
 But thou thyself shalt come not down 
 From that pure region far above ; 
 
 But keep thy throne and wear thy crown, 
 Queen of my heart and queen of love ! 
 
 A monarch in thy realm complete, 
 
 And I a monarch at thy feet !
 
 HOMAGE. 
 
 "T T 7HITE daisies on the meadow green 
 Present thy beauteous form to me : 
 Peaceful and joyful these are seen, 
 
 And peace and joy encompass thee. 
 I watch them, where they dance and shine, 
 And love them for their charm is thine. 
 
 Red roses o'er the woodland brook 
 Remember me thy lovely face : 
 
 So blushing and so fresh its look, 
 So wild and shy its radiant grace ! 
 
 I kiss them, in their coy retreat, 
 
 And think of lips more soft and sweet. 
 
 Gold arrows of the merry morn, 
 Shot swiftly over orient seas ;
 
 Homage. 57 
 
 Gold tassels of the bending corn 
 
 That ripple in the August breeze, 
 Thy wildering smile, thy glorious hair, 
 And all thy power and state declare. 
 
 4 
 
 White, red, and gold the awful crown 
 
 Of beauty and of virtue too ! 
 From what a height those eyes look down 
 
 On him who proudly dares to sue ! 
 Yet, free from self as God from sin 
 Is love that loves, nor asks to win. 
 
 Let me but love thee in the flower, 
 The waving grass, the dancing wave, 
 
 The fragrant pomp of garden bower, 
 The violet on the nameless grave, 
 
 Sweet dreams by night, sweet thoughts by day, 
 
 And time shall tire ere love decay ! 
 
 Let me but love thee in the glow 
 When morning on the ocean shines, 
 
 Or in the mighty winds that blow, 
 
 Snow-laden, through the mountain pines 
 
 In all that 's fair, or grand, or dread, 
 
 And all shall die ere love be dead !
 
 THE CHOICE. 
 
 HTHE stroller in the pensive field 
 
 Doth many a wilder ing flower descry 
 Sometimes to him the roses yield ; 
 
 Sometimes the lilies feed his eye ; 
 Sometimes he takes delight in one, 
 Sometimes in all, sometimes in none. 
 
 But when, in dusky woodland ways, 
 He sees, beside some dreaming stone, 
 
 The fresh, untutored violet raise 
 Her pleading eyes for him alone, 
 
 Then makes his heart its final choice, 
 
 And nature speaks, in passion's voice. 
 
 The stroller beauty's garden through, 
 By many a wayward impulse led,
 
 The Choice. 
 
 Sometimes is charmed by gold and blue, 
 
 Sometimes by brown and mantling red ; 
 Sometimes proud dame and maiden small 
 Please just the same, or not at all. 
 
 But when, remote from pleasure's whirl, 
 He sees, at home's sequestered shrine, 
 
 The ardent, cheerful, guileless girl, 
 Of mortal mould, but soul divine, 
 
 Too good, too beautiful, to know 
 
 How fair her worth and beauty show ; 
 
 Then all his roving fancies pause, 
 
 Entranced by this o'erwhelming grace ; 
 
 It rules him by celestial laws, 
 It lights a splendour in his face : 
 
 'T is the best good that Fate can give 
 
 And won, he just begins to live ! 
 
 S9
 
 THE QUESTION. 
 
 T3ECAUSE love's sigh is but a sigh, 
 ^ Doth it the less love's heart disclose ? 
 Because the rose must fade and die, 
 
 Is it the less the lovely rose ? 
 Because black night must shroud the day, 
 Shall the brave sun no more be gay ? 
 
 Because chill autumn frights the birds, 
 Shall we distrust that spring will come ? 
 
 Because sweet words are only words, 
 Shall love forevermore be dumb ? 
 
 Because our bliss is fleeting bliss, 
 
 Shall we who love forbear to kiss ? 
 
 Because those eyes of gentle mirth 
 
 Must sometime cease my heart to thrill.
 
 The Question. 61 
 
 Because the sweetest voice on earth 
 
 Sooner or later must be still, 
 Because its idol is unsure, 
 Shall my strong love the less endure ? 
 
 Ah, no ! let lovers breathe their sighs, 
 And roses bloom, and music sound, 
 
 And passion burn on lips and eyes, 
 And pleasure's merry world go round : 
 
 Let golden sunshine flood the sky, 
 
 And let me love, or let me die !
 
 DOOM. 
 
 A RAVEN flew over the house-top, 
 
 In the gloaming that heralds the night 
 Far off snarled the threat of the thunder, 
 And the raven he croaked in his flight. 
 
 A raven flew over the house-top, 
 
 And his shadow fell dark on my heart : 
 
 A voice, in its innermost chamber, 
 Said, ' The angel of love must depart. 
 
 Too long you are calm in the sunshine, 
 And too long are the roses in bloom : 
 
 Time now for the rush of the tempest, 
 For the chill, and the blight, and the gloom.
 
 Doom. 63 
 
 Deserted the house is, and silent ; 
 
 Even storm is too gentle to rave : 
 For Love, that made living celestial, 
 
 Is a spectre that dreams on a grave.
 
 RELICS. 
 
 'T^HE violets that you gave are dead 
 *- They could not bear the loss of you 
 The spirit of the rose has fled 
 
 It loved you, and its love was true : 
 Back to your lips that spirit flies, 
 To bask beneath your radiant eyes. 
 
 Only the ashes bide with me, 
 
 The ashes of the ruined flowers 
 
 Types of a rapture not to be ; 
 Sad relics of bewildering hours ; 
 
 Poor, frail, forlorn, and piteous shows 
 
 Of errant passion's wasted woes. 
 
 He grandly loves who loves in vain : 
 These withered flowers that lesson teach
 
 Relics. 65 
 
 They suffered, they did not complain, 
 
 Their life was love too great for speech. 
 In silent pride their fate they bore ; 
 They loved, they grieved, they died no more ! 
 
 Far off the purple banners flare, 
 
 Beneath the golden morning spread : 
 
 I know what queen is worshipped there. 
 What laurels wreathe her lovely head : 
 
 Her name be sacred, in my thought, 
 
 And sacred be the grief she brought ! 
 
 For, since I saw that glorious face, 
 
 And heard the music of that voice, 
 Much beauty 's fallen to disgrace 
 
 That used to make my heart rejoice ; 
 And rose and violet ne'er can be 
 The same that once they were to me.
 
 WITHERED ROSES. 
 
 IV TOT made by worth, nor marred by flaw, 
 
 Not won by good, nor lost by ill, 
 Love is its own and only law, 
 
 And lives and dies by its own will. 
 It was our fate, and not our sin, 
 That we should love, and love should win. 
 
 Not bound by oath, nor stayed by prayer, 
 Nor held by thirst of strong desire, 
 
 Love lives like fragrance in the air, 
 And dies as breaking waves expire. 
 
 'T was death, not falsehood, bade us part 
 
 The death of love, that broke my heart.
 
 Withered Itoses. 67 
 
 Not kind, as dreaming poets think, 
 Nor merciful, as sages say 
 
 Love heeds not where its victims sink, 
 When once its passion ebbs away. 
 
 'T was nature it was not disdain 
 
 That made thee careless of my pain. 
 
 Not thralled by law, nor ruled by right, 
 Love keeps no audit with the skies : 
 
 Its star, that once is quenched in night, 
 Has set and nevermore will rise. 
 
 My soul is lost, by thee forgot ; 
 
 And there 's no heaven where thou art not. 
 
 But happy he, though scathed and lone, 
 Who sees afar love's fading wings, 
 
 Whose seared and blighted heart has known 
 The splendid agony it brings ! 
 
 No life that is, no life to be 
 
 Can ever take the Past from me !
 
 68 Withered Roses. 
 
 Red roses, bloom for other lives 
 Your withered leaves alone are mine : 
 
 Yet, not for all that Time survives 
 Would I your heavenly gift resign 
 
 Now cold and dead, once warm and true, 
 
 The love that lived and died in you.
 
 CHANGED. 
 
 T T is not that she 's far away 
 
 That breaks the heart and dims the day 
 It is that there is something gone 
 Her passion used to dream upon, 
 That now the tender dream is o'er, 
 And him she loved she loves no more. 
 
 Her absence makes my spirit mourn 
 Yet, e'en her absence could be borne : 
 But, bleakest of all human grief, 
 And desolate beyond relief, 
 One thought consumes my bosom's core 
 That him she loved she loves no more. 
 
 The violets should be bluer far, 
 The roses redder than they are,
 
 70 Changed. 
 
 And lighter o'er the rippling grass 
 The shadows of the cloudlets pass. 
 There's nothing as it was before 
 For him she loved she loves no more.
 
 THE REQUIEM. 
 
 "OR ING withered autumn leaves, 
 
 Call everything that grieves, 
 And build a funeral pyre above his head ! 
 Heap there all golden promise that deceives, 
 Beauty, that wins the heart, and then bereaves, 
 For Love is dead. 
 
 Not slowly did he die : 
 A meteor from the sky 
 Falls not so swiftly as his spirit fled, 
 When, with regretful, half-averted eye, 
 He gave one little smile, one little sigh, 
 And so was sped. 
 
 But O, not yet, not yet 
 Would my lost soul forget
 
 72 The Requiem. 
 
 How beautiful he was while he did live ; 
 Or, when his eyes were dewy and lips wet, 
 What kisses, tenderer than all regret, 
 My love would give. 
 
 Strew roses on his breast ! 
 He loved the roses best ; 
 He never cared for lilies or for snow. 
 Let be this bitter end of his sweet quest ; 
 Let be the pallid silence that is rest 
 And let all go !
 
 REFUGE. 
 
 O ET your face to the sea, fond lover, 
 Cold in darkness the sea-winds blow ! 
 Waves, and clouds, and the night will cover 
 
 All your passion and all your woe : 
 Sobbing waves and the death that is in them, 
 
 Sweet as the lips that once you prest 
 Pray that your hopeless heart may win them 
 
 Pray that your weary life may rest ! 
 
 Set your face to the stars, fond lover, 
 Calm, and silent, and bright, and true ! 
 
 They will pity you, they will hover 
 Tenderly over the deep, for you.
 
 74 Refuge. 
 
 Winds of heaven will sigh your dirges, 
 Tears of heaven for you be spent, 
 
 And sweet, for you, will the murmuring surges 
 Pour the wail of their low lament.
 
 SEMPER IDEM. 
 
 '"PHIS is the place where he brought her home 
 
 Home, but not to his heart, I know: 
 For it cannot be but her memories roam 
 
 To the first and the true love, long ago ! 
 Noble, and lovely, and wretched bride, 
 
 Doomed, in her gorgeous palace of stone, 
 Loveless forever, to sit by his side, 
 
 And yet be, for ever and ever, alone ! 
 
 Noble and beautiful spirit of love ! 
 
 Well, I can wish you were happy, though 
 I stand out here, while the stars above 
 
 Are as white and cold as the ground below. 
 I am glad that the splendour is all your own ; 
 
 I do not desire it ah, not I ! 
 But am well content, at the foot of your throne, 
 
 To sink in the frozen street, and die.
 
 j6 Semper Idem. 
 
 Perhaps you would see me, then who knows ? 
 
 Perhaps you would see, in my haggard face, 
 Whence they have risen your subtle woes, 
 
 And the something that saddens your stately grace. 
 Perhaps ah me, I am bold indeed ! 
 
 Perhaps you would touch me ! Heart and brain ! 
 I am sure it would make the old wound bleed, 
 
 If it did not wake me to life again ! 
 
 Lost but I love you all the same : 
 
 'T was a faithful heart that you threw away : 
 I can say it now, and with nothing of shame, 
 
 For I shall not live to another day. 
 I can say, though the night of grief was long, 
 
 That the light of morning struggles through ; 
 And, lifted out of my sorrow and wrong, 
 
 If I cannot live, I can die, for you !
 
 ACROSS THE BIER. 
 
 TVJOW she lies here, dead before you, 
 * ^ Motionless and grey as stone ; 
 Now the cruel grief broods o'er you, 
 
 Stricken, agonized, and lone ; 
 Now that passion's dream is past, 
 Well it is we meet at last ! 
 
 Ay, you loved her loved her truly 
 With the utmost faith of man ; 
 
 Sacrificing all things, duly, 
 As a noble lover can ! 
 
 And she made you what I see ; 
 
 What 't is well that you can be. 
 
 Loved her ? Virtue, truth, and honour, 
 Sense, and manhood what are they ?
 
 78 Across the Bier. 
 
 Stand up here, and look upon her ! 
 
 'T is a pretty piece of clay. 
 Others, quite as fond and true, 
 Loved her, quite as well as y< 
 
 vou. 
 
 So I pity you, poor dreamer 
 
 (Would to God our dreams were long !), 
 And I would not make it seem her 
 
 Guilt, that e'er she did me wrong. 
 She was heavenly cloud and star ; 
 She was what the angels are. 
 
 Hope and wait ; and when you meet her, 
 
 With them, in the Eden plain, 
 Clasp her to your soul, and greet her, 
 
 With a word of noble pain. 
 Tell her, in yon starry cope, 
 That I taught you how to hope. 
 
 Time and tide flow on forever ; 
 
 Pleasure's ghost is always pain ; 
 Life is fevered with endeavour, 
 
 Sad with loss, and sVeet with gain. 
 But there is no certain bliss 
 In this world for only this.
 
 Across the Bier. 
 
 Look up bravely where, forgiven, 
 Erring hearts repentant rest: 
 
 Only love and trust find heaven ! 
 Still the faithful are the blest : 
 
 Faithful love, that ransoms you, 
 
 Well may save your idol too. 
 
 But, for me there is no morrow, 
 Crown of love nor crown of fame : 
 
 I must tread a mighty sorrow 
 In the mire of sensual shame. 
 
 Down I grovel on the earth, 
 
 Wasting toward a brutish birth ! 
 
 'Tis a world of commonplaces, 
 Empty hearts, and shallow brains, 
 
 Flaunting fools with specious faces, 
 Black desires, and crimson stains. 
 
 When I found that heart untrue, 
 
 Love itself was falsehood too. 
 
 Always round us are the curses, 
 And the long, tumultuous roar : 
 
 79
 
 8o Across the Bier. 
 
 We are jostled in our hearses, 
 
 Even as we were before. 
 They alone escape the strife 
 Who attain the spirit's life. 
 
 Hope, I say, till you receive her ; 
 
 Hope, for we are only men. 
 Lay her in the grave, and leave her 
 
 Just your heart, to keep till then. 
 Take my blessing for I know 
 All your love and all your woe.
 
 AFTER LONG YEARS. 
 
 heart, and true, in the seasons fled, 
 *-^ Has the world swept by me, and left me dead ? 
 
 Have the pansies withered, I used to know ? 
 Are the roses faded, of long ago ? 
 
 Do the tapers glimmer, that lit the feast? 
 
 Has the pageant passed ? has the music ceased ? 
 
 And, musing here on the sea-beat coast, 
 Am I living man, or a wandering ghost? 
 
 Still, in the scent of the autumn air 
 I feel a rapture that 's like despair : 
 6
 
 82 After Long Years. 
 
 The starlight, pale on the sleeping sea, 
 Is a nameless, sorrowful joy to me : 
 
 And, lit by orb or crescent of night, 
 Meadow and woodland are brave to sight. 
 
 Still I bend to the mystic power 
 
 Of the strange sea-breeze and the breath of flower 
 
 And the face of beauty wakes the wraith 
 Of holy passion and knightly faith ! 
 
 But, ever I hear an undertone 
 
 A subtle, sorrowful, wordless moan ; 
 
 The dying note of a funeral bell ; 
 The faltering sigh of a last farewell : 
 
 And ever I see, through lurid haze, 
 The sombre phantoms of other days ; 
 
 In light that 's sad as the ruin it frets, 
 The solemn light of a sun that sets.
 
 After Long Years. 83 
 
 Ah, never again can youth dream on 
 
 As it used to dream in the summers gone ! 
 
 For round it dashes the tide of years ; 
 Its eyes are darkened with mist of tears ; 
 
 Its hopes are sere as the fading grass, 
 And nothing it wished has come to pass. 
 
 Yet ever, in wayward, passionate power, 
 
 Like a wind that moans through a ruined tower, 
 
 O'er memory's darkening fields along 
 It rustles the fallen leaves of song : 
 
 And, wild in the heart, it wakes the thrill 
 That nothing but death can ever still !
 
 THEIR STORY. 
 
 r I ''HEY walked beside the summer sea, 
 And watched the slowly dying sun ; 
 And 'O,' she said, 'come back to me, 
 
 My love, my own, my only one ! ' 
 But while he kissed her fears away, 
 
 The gentle waters kissed the shore, 
 And, sadly whispering, seemed to say, 
 
 He '11 come no more ! he '11 come no more 
 
 Alone beside the autumn sea 
 
 She watched the sombre death of day; 
 And ' O,' she said, 'remember me, 
 
 And love me, darling, far away ! ' 
 A cold wind swept the watery gloom, 
 
 And, darkly whispering on the shore, 
 Sighed out the secret of his doom, 
 
 He '11 come no more ! he '11 come no more !
 
 Their Story. 85 
 
 In peace, beside the winter sea, 
 
 A white grave glimmers to the moon ; 
 And waves are fresh, and clouds are free, 
 
 And shrill winds pipe a careless tune. 
 One sleeps beneath the dark blue wave, 
 
 And one upon the lonely shore ; 
 But, joined in love, beyond the grave, 
 
 They part no more ! they part no more !
 
 EBB TIDE. 
 
 T N dusky gloom she sits apart, 
 
 Beyond the moonlight's silver glow ; 
 And tender fancies break her heart, 
 That bloomed, and withered, long ago. 
 
 Her patient eyes are wet with tears, 
 Her face is pale with want and care, 
 
 And all the griefs of all her years, 
 Transfigured, crown her snowy hair. 
 
 Gaunt sorrow claims her, heart and brain 
 She bears the burden of the cross ; 
 
 She hears a solemn dirge of pain, 
 The sad, old song of love and loss.
 
 Ebb Tide. 87 
 
 So glide the lonesome hours away; 
 
 The song is still, the grief is past : 
 Alike to her are night and day 
 
 And life and trouble rest at last.
 
 THE LAST SCENE. 
 
 T T ERE she slumbers, white and chill: 
 
 Put your hand upon her brow ; 
 Her sad heart is very still, 
 And she does not know you now. 
 
 Ah, the grave 's a quiet bed ; 
 
 She will sleep a pleasant sleep, 
 And the tears that you may shed 
 
 Will not wake her, therefore weep ! 
 
 Weep, for you have wrought her woe ; 
 
 Mourn, she mourned and died for you 
 Ah, too late we come to know 
 
 What is false and what is true !
 
 RUE. 
 
 '"PHE autumn wind is moaning in the leaves, 
 
 And the long grass is rustling on my grave : 
 Ah, would you have me think your heart now grieves 
 For her your waning passion would not save ? 
 
 For I am dead ; know you not I am dead ? 
 
 Why will you haunt me in my rest to-night, 
 Standing above, and listening overhead, 
 
 Where I am buried, deep, and out of sight ? 
 
 Have you not wine and music, in your home, 
 And her fair form, and eyes so pure and proud 
 
 With love of you ? and wherefore do you roam 
 To vex me, lying silent in my shroud ?
 
 90 Rue. 
 
 Seek your new love ! She calls you, and the tears 
 Are warm on her pale face, and her young breast 
 
 Is full of doubt and sorrow for she hears 
 Low-whispered words, that startle her from rest. 
 
 In from the night ! the storm begins to stir : 
 I will be near, and ghostly eyes shall see 
 
 How you will kiss her lips, and say to her, 
 1 Thine always, love,' as once you said to me.
 
 AFTER ALL. 
 
 T~*HE apples are ripe in the orchard, 
 The work of the reaper is done, 
 And the golden woodlands redden 
 In the blood of the dying sun. 
 
 At the cottage-door the grandsire 
 Sits, pale, in his easy-chair, 
 
 While a gentle wind of twilight 
 Plays with his silver hair. 
 
 A woman is kneeling beside him ; 
 
 A fair young head is prest, 
 In the first wild passion of sorrow, 
 
 Against his aged breast.
 
 92 After All. 
 
 And far from over the distance 
 
 The faltering echoes come, 
 Of the flying blast of .trumpet 
 
 And the rattling roll of drum. 
 
 Then the grandsire speaks, in a whisper, 
 
 ' The end no man can see ; 
 But we give him to his country, 
 
 And we give our prayers to Thee.' . . . 
 
 The violets star the meadows, 
 The rose-buds fringe the door, 
 
 And over the grassy orchard 
 The pink-white blossoms pour. 
 
 But the grandsire's chair is empty, 
 
 The cottage is dark and still, 
 There 's a nameless grave in the battle-field, 
 
 And a new one under the hill. 
 
 And a pallid, tearless woman 
 By the cold hearth sits, alone ; 
 
 And the old clock in the corner 
 Ticks on with a steady drone.
 
 PREDESTINED. 
 
 A CALM, cold face, as white and clear 
 ^*- As marble, and as passionless : 
 Eyes darkly sad, that tell no fear, 
 No hope, no pleasure, no distress : 
 
 A smile, that seems all o'er to sleep, 
 As sleeps a sunbeam on a stone ; 
 
 A quiet voice, but soft and deep, 
 And full of music, every tone : 
 
 .A courtly manner, he is true 
 To social usage, and will pay 
 
 To all the world its proper due 
 Of graceful, stately courtesy :
 
 94 Predestined. 
 
 Behold, an awful thought it is 
 That such a ghastly, gaunt despair 
 
 Can wear a shape so grand as this, 
 A face so noble and so fair ! 
 
 For that is not a common grief 
 
 Which tears his heart and burns his brain 
 Who feels eternity too brief 
 
 For his tremendous trance of pain ! 
 
 Whose soul endures infernal woes, 
 Enchained by some infernal spell ; 
 
 Who knows not peace, but only knows 
 The lurid, withering fires of hell !
 
 ORGI A. 
 A RHAPSODY OF MADNESS. 
 
 "\ T 7 HO cares for nothing alone is free, 
 
 Sit down, good fellow, and drink with me ! 
 
 With a careless heart and a merry eye, 
 
 He laughs at the world, as the world goes by. 
 
 He laughs at power, and wealth, and fame ; 
 He laughs at virtue, he laughs at shame ; 
 
 He laughs at hope, and he laughs at fear ; 
 At memory's dead leaves, crisp and sere ; 
 
 He laughs at the future, cold and dim, 
 Nor earth nor heaven is dear to him. 
 
 O, that is the comrade fit for me ! 
 He cares for nothing, his soul is free,
 
 96 Orgia. 
 
 Free as the soul of the fragrant wine 
 Sit down, good fellow, my heart is thine ! 
 
 For I heed not custom, creed, nor law ; 
 I care for nothing that ever I saw. 
 
 In every city my cups I quaff, 
 
 And over the chalice I riot and laugh. 
 
 I laugh, like the cruel and turbulent wave ; 
 I laugh at the church, and I laugh at the grave. 
 
 I laugh at joy, and well I know, 
 That I merrily, merrily laugh at woe ! 
 
 I terribly laugh, with an oath and a sneer, 
 When I think that the hour of death is near. 
 
 For I know that death is a guest divine, 
 
 Who shall drink my blood as I drink this wine. 
 
 And he cares for nothing ! a king is he 
 Come on, old fellow, and drink with me !
 
 Orgia. 97 
 
 With you I will drink to the solemn past, 
 Though the cup that I drain should be my last. 
 
 I will drink to the phantoms of love and truth ; 
 To ruined hopes and a wasted youth. 
 
 I will drink to the woman who wrought my woe, 
 In the diamond morning of long ago : 
 
 To a heavenly face, in sweet repose, 
 
 To the lily's snow, and the blood of the rose ; 
 
 To the splendour, caught from orient skies, 
 That thrilled in the dark of her hazel eyes, 
 
 Her large eyes, wild with the fire of the south, 
 And the dewy wine of her warm, red mouth. 
 
 I will drink to the thought of a better time ; 
 To innocence, gone like a death-bell chime. 
 
 I will drink to the shadow of coming doom ; 
 To the phantoms that wait in my lonely tomb. 
 7
 
 B Orgia. 
 
 I will drink to my soul, in its terrible mood, 
 Dimly and solemnly understood. 
 
 And, last of all, to the monarch of sin, 
 
 Who conquered that palace, and reigns within. 
 
 My sight is fading it dies away 
 I cannot tell is it night or day. 
 
 My heart is burnt and blackened with pain, 
 And a horrible darkness crushes my brain. 
 
 I cannot see you the end is nigh 
 But we'll laugh together before I die. 
 
 Through awful chasms I plunge and fall
 
 EREBUS. 
 
 r ~pHERE 's a mossy, sunken grave, 
 In the solemn land of dreams, 
 
 All alone ; 
 
 Where the dusky branches wave 
 O'er the banks of sable streams, 
 
 With a moan : 
 A dull sky spans it overhead, 
 
 Like a tomb ; 
 The wan stars glimmer far away 
 
 In the gloom ; 
 And a pale moon gleams 
 On the haunts of the dead, 
 Where the ghouls and the demons play. 
 And the souls that wander here 
 See each other very clear ; 
 And remember, but weep not ! 
 Remember, but sleep not ! 
 
 Remember, but cannot pray !
 
 CI RCE. 
 
 T T is the law of streams to run, 
 
 Of autumn leaves to fall ; 
 And she who has been false to one 
 She will be false to all. 
 
 O, wild as tempest on the sea 
 
 Is that poor lover's fate, 
 Whose faithful spirit, bound to thee, 
 Must hope, and fear, and wait ! 
 
 By surge of joy and storm of pain 
 His heart is soothed or broke ; 
 
 He would not rend thy heavenly chain 
 He cannot bear thy yoke.
 
 Circe. 
 
 There is no heaven so high as faith, 
 No hell so deep as doubt, 
 
 No haunted spectre like the wraith 
 Thy fancies wile or flout ! 
 
 Ah, let that tiger heart of thine, 
 
 By brutish mercy led, 
 To just one piteous act incline 
 
 And strike thy lover dead ! 
 
 Then, let the streams forever run, 
 
 The leaves forever fall ! 
 Thou wilt at last be true to one, 
 
 And not be false to all.
 
 ROSEMARY. 
 
 HP HE moonbeams on the water sleep, 
 
 In breathing light ; 
 
 And tender thoughts and memories keep 
 My soul to-night. 
 
 Shades of sweet hours, forever gone, 
 
 Come, all unsought, 
 And waves of mournful joy dance on 
 
 The stream of thought. 
 
 A dreamy fragrance seems to rise 
 From other years 
 
 A solemn bliss, that dims the eyes 
 With happy tears.
 
 Rosemary. 1 03 
 
 Life wears the glow of rosy grace 
 
 That once it wore, 
 And smiles are lit on many a face 
 
 That smiles no more. 
 
 The gentle friends I used to greet, 
 
 All, all are here : 
 All forms are fair, all voices sweet, 
 
 All memories dear. 
 
 All happy thoughts, all glorious dreams, 
 
 That once were mine, 
 Rise, in the tender light that beams 
 
 From auld lang syne. 
 
 But something in the heart is wrong, 
 
 The joyous sway, 
 The spirit, and the voice of song 
 
 Have died away. 
 
 These winds, that on their cloudy cars 
 
 Sweep through the sky, 
 These wandering, watching, deathless stars, 
 
 My prayer deny.
 
 104 Rosemary. 
 
 These low, sweet murmurs from the land 
 
 And from the sea, 
 
 These waves, that kiss the silver sand, 
 Speak not to me. 
 
 And not to me one voice shall speak 
 
 For evermore, 
 Though the same waves in beauty break 
 
 On the same shore. 
 
 Shine stars, sob waves, and murmur blast, 
 
 And night-dews, weep ! 
 To wait is left me, and at last 
 
 The dreamless sleep.
 
 THE UNDERTONE. 
 
 T T droops and dies in morning light 
 The rose that yesterday was whole : 
 ' Ah, whither, on the wind of night, 
 Is borne the fragrance of my soul ? ' 
 
 It sinks upon the ocean zone 
 The wind that marred the tender rose ; 
 
 ' Ah, whither has the fragrance flown, 
 And what shall give my soul repose ? ' 
 
 It breaks upon the rocky shore 
 The vast, tumultuous, grieving sea : 
 
 ' Ah, never, never, never more 
 
 Can love and peace come back to me ! '
 
 106 The Undertone. 
 
 It sobs, far up the lonely sky, 
 
 It faints in regions of the blest 
 The endless, bitter, human cry, 
 And only God could tell the rest.
 
 THE GOLDEN SILENCE. 
 
 "\ ~\ 7 HAT though I sing no other song ? 
 
 What though I speak no other word ? 
 Is silence shame? Is patience wrong ? 
 At least one song of mine was heard : 
 
 One echo from the mountain air, 
 One ocean murmur, glad and free 
 
 One sign that nothing grand or fair, 
 In all this world, was lost to me. 
 
 I will not wake the sleeping lyre ; 
 
 I will not strain the chords of thought ; 
 The sweetest fruit of all desire 
 
 Comes its own way, and comes unsought.
 
 io8 The Golden Silence. 
 
 Though all the bards of earth were dead, 
 And all their music passed away, 
 
 What nature wishes should be said 
 She '11 find the rightful voice to say ! 
 
 Her heart is in the shimmering leaf, 
 The drifting cloud, the lonely sky, 
 
 And all we know of bliss or grief 
 She speaks, in forms that cannot die. 
 
 The mountain peaks that shine afar, 
 The silent stars, the pathless sea, 
 
 Are living signs of all we are, 
 And types of all we hope to be.
 
 SOLACE. 
 
 [E. C. W.] 
 
 A H, Lily, when my head lies low, 
 ** In yonder quiet, woodland dell, 
 Where the wild-flowers will sweetly blow, 
 Above the eyes that loved them well, 
 How soon thy sorrow would depart, 
 If word of mine could soothe thy heart! 
 
 Somewhere, some day, we '11 meet again ! 
 
 Think this and be this thought relief 
 In life I have not brought thee pain ; 
 
 In death I must not bring thee grief. 
 Strew with the flowers of hope my pall, 
 And gently mourn, or not at all !
 
 EGERIA. 
 
 '"pHE star I worship shines alone, 
 In native grandeur set apart ; 
 Its light, its beauty, all my own, 
 And imaged only in my heart. 
 
 The flower I love lifts not its face 
 For other eyes than mine to see ; 
 
 And, having lost that sacred grace, 
 'T would have no other charm for me. 
 
 The hopes I bear, the joys I feel, 
 Are silent, secret, and serene ; 
 
 Pure is the shrine at which I kneel, 
 And purity herself my queen.
 
 Egeria. 1 1 
 
 I would not have an impious gaze 
 Profane the altar where are laid 
 
 My hopes of nobler, grander days, 
 By heaven inspired, by earth betrayed. 
 
 I would not have the noontide sky 
 Pour down its bold, obtrusive light 
 
 Where all the springs of feeling lie, 
 Deep in the soul's celestial night. 
 
 Far from the weary strife and noise, 
 The tumult of the great to-day, 
 
 I guard my own congenial joys, 
 And keep my own sequestered way. 
 
 For all that world is cursed with care ; 
 
 Has nothing holy, nothing dear, 
 No light, no music anywhere, 
 
 It will not see, it will not hear. 
 
 But thou, sweet spirit, viewless power, 
 Whom I have loved and trusted long, 
 
 In pleasure's day, in sorrow's hour, 
 Muse of my life and of my song ;
 
 Egeria. 
 
 Breathe softly, thou, with peaceful voice, 
 In my soul's temple, vast and dim ! 
 
 In thy own perfect joy rejoice, 
 
 With morning and with evening hymn ! 
 
 And though my hopes around me fall 
 Like rain-drops in a boundless sea, 
 
 I will not think I lose them all 
 While yet I keep my trust in thee !
 
 A DIRGE: 
 
 IN MEMORY OF GEORGE ARNOLD. 
 GREENWOOD, NOVEMBER 13, 1863 
 
 I ) ENEATH the still November sky, 
 
 With nature's peace and beauty blest, 
 We put our selfish sorrow by, 
 
 And laid our comrade down to rest. 
 
 Rest in the morning of his days ! 
 
 Rest when his heart had just begun 
 To feel the warmth of all men's praise, 
 
 The radiance of the rising sun ! 
 
 Rest to a strong and stately mind, 
 That rose all common flights above ! 
 
 Rest to a heart as true and kind 
 As ever glowed with human love !
 
 ii4 In Memory of George Arnold. 
 
 And round him, dimly, through our grief, 
 In every natural sound we heard 
 
 In whispering grass, and rustling leaf, 
 And sighing wind the same sweet word 
 
 Rest ! And we did not break the spell, 
 
 By holy nature woven round 
 The fading form we left to dwell 
 
 Forever in her hallowed ground. 
 
 No hymns were sung, no prayers were said, 
 Save what our loving hearts could say, 
 
 When, mutely gazing on the dead, 
 We blessed him ere we turned away : 
 
 Back to the round of daily care 
 That seems so vacant to us now, 
 
 Remembering what repose was there, 
 What peace, upon his marble brow. 
 
 And so we left him, nevermore 
 To see, in sunshine or in rain, 
 
 The semblance of the form he wore 
 Whose loss has steeped our souls in pain.
 
 /// Memory of George Arnold. 1 1 5 
 
 But, long as skies of autumn smile, 
 And long as clouds of autumn weep, 
 
 Or autumn leaves their splendours pile 
 In sorrow o'er their poet's sleep ; 
 
 And long as violets grace the spring, 
 Or June-born roses blush and blow, 
 
 Or pale stars shine, or south winds sing, 
 Or tides of summer ebb and flow ; 
 
 So long shall live their poet's name, 
 When rest these broken hearts of ours, 
 
 Embalmed in love, surpassing fame, 
 
 With stars and leaves and clouds and flowers!
 
 A DIRGE: 
 
 IN MEMORY OF ADA CLARE. 
 DIED MARCH 4, 1874. 
 
 O PRING will return and woods grow green 
 
 From shore to shore ; 
 But she, unseeing and unseen, 
 
 Returns no more. 
 
 Low in the ground her sleep is sweet, 
 
 And dark, and long : 
 No more she treads, with wandering feet, 
 
 Our maze of wrong. 
 
 No more the world's rebuke can fret 
 
 Her soul's repose; 
 Nor kindness woo her to forget 
 
 Her bitter woes.
 
 /// Memory of Ada Clare. \ 1 7 
 
 She will not stir, nor speak, nor heed, 
 
 Though eyes that weep, 
 And sorrow-stricken hearts, that bleed, 
 
 Beseech her sleep. 
 
 Yet, be it mine, above her pall, 
 
 To shed one tear ; 
 And speak one word of love, that all 
 
 The world may hear. 
 
 A brother's place in that fond breast 
 
 'T was mine to hold : 
 
 Ah, they loved most who knew her best 
 That heart of gold. 
 
 She was more kind than morning light 
 
 To eyes that grieve ; 
 And constant as the star of night, 
 
 That can't deceive. 
 
 There was no sorrow on this earth 
 
 But touched her heart ; 
 And in all gentle, childlike mirth 
 
 She bore her part.
 
 n8 In Memory of Ada Clare. 
 
 There was no goodness, but it won 
 
 Her reverent praise ; 
 And full of kind deeds, simply done, 
 
 Were all her days. 
 
 She strove, through trouble's lasting blight, 
 
 For pathways smooth ; 
 And many hands she found to smite, 
 
 And few to soothe. 
 
 A child, whom cruel want has made 
 
 A thing forlorn, 
 Stretching its little hands, for aid, 
 
 To eyes that scorn ; 
 
 And wandering through the winter night, 
 
 For beggar's dole, 
 Is not more piteous in its plight 
 
 Than was her soul. 
 
 Yet did she hope, and toil, and wait, 
 
 Heaven's will to know, 
 Till came the awful stroke of fate 
 
 That laid her low.
 
 In Memory of Ada Clare. \ \ 9 
 
 Sleep softly, softly, true and tried, 
 
 Where troubles cease ; 
 And take at last, what man denied, 
 
 God's gift of peace. 
 

 
 GOOD-BYE TO BROUGHAM. 
 
 READ AT A BANQUET TO JOHN BROUGHAM, AT THE LOTOS CL 
 N. Y., JUNE 4, 1874. 
 
 T F buds by hopes of spring are blessed 
 
 That sleep beneath the snow, 
 And hearts by coming joys caressed, 
 
 Which yet they dimly know, 
 On fields where England's daisies gleam, 
 
 And Ireland's shamrocks bloom, 
 To-day shall summer, in her dream, 
 
 Be glad with thoughts of Brougham. 
 
 To-day, o'er miles and miles of sea, 
 
 Beneath the jocund sun. 
 With merrier force and madder glee 
 
 The bannered winds shall run :
 
 Good-bye to Brougham. 
 
 To-day great waves shall ramp and reel, 
 And clash their shields of foam, 
 
 With bliss to feel the coming keel 
 That bears the wanderer home ! 
 
 For he that (loved and honoured here 
 
 God bless his silver head !) 
 O'er many a heart, for many a year, 
 
 The dew of joy has shed, 
 Longs for the land that gave him birth, 
 
 Turns back to boy again, 
 And, bright with all the flags of mirth, 
 
 Sails homeward o'er the main. 
 
 Ah, well may winds and waves be gay, 
 
 And flowers and streams rejoice, 
 And that sweet region, far away, 
 
 Become one greeting voice ; 
 For he draws backward to that place, 
 
 Who ne'er, by deed or art, 
 Made darkness in one human face, 
 
 Or sorrow in one heart ! 
 
 He comes, whom all the rosy sprites, 
 Round humour's throne that throng,
 
 122 Good-bye to Brougham. 
 
 Have tended close through golden nights 
 
 Of laughter, wit, and song ; 
 Whom love's bright angels still have known 
 
 He ne'er forgot to hear 
 The helpless widow's suppliant moan, 
 
 Or dry the orphan's tear. 
 
 Where boughs of oak and willow toss, 
 
 His life's white pathway flows 
 With many an odour blown across, 
 
 Of lily and of rose. 
 His gentle life that blessings crown 
 
 Is fame no chance can dim ; 
 And we honour manhood's best renown 
 
 When now we honour him. 
 
 Ambition's idols crowned to-day 
 
 To-morrow are uncrowned ; 
 Their fragments are of common clay, 
 
 Strewn on the common ground ; 
 But unto monarchs of the heart 
 
 Are crowns immortal given ; 
 And they who choose this better part 
 
 Are anchored fast on Heaven.
 
 Good-bye to Brougham. 123 
 
 Grief may stand silent in the eye, 
 
 And silent on the lip, 
 When, poised between the sea and sky, 
 
 Dips down the fading ship ; 
 But there 's one charm his heart to keep 
 
 And hold his constant mind 
 He '11 find no love beyond the deep 
 
 Like that he leaves behind ! 
 
 So, to thy breast, old ocean, take 
 
 This brother of our soul ! 
 Ye winds, be gentle for his sake ! 
 
 Ye billows, smoothly roll ! 
 And thou, sad Ireland, green and fair, 
 
 Across the waters wild, 
 Stretch forth strong arms of loving care, 
 
 And guard thy favourite child ! 
 
 And whether back to us he drift, 
 Or pass beyond our view, 
 
 Where life's celestial mountains lift 
 Their peaks above the blue
 
 124 Good-bye to Brougham. 
 
 God's will be done ! whose gracious will, 
 Through all our mortal fret, 
 
 The sacred blessing leaves us still, 
 To love, and not forget.
 
 HAND IN HAND. 
 
 READ AT A BANQUET TO JOHN LAWRENCE TOOLE, AT THE 
 Loros CLUB, N. Y., AUGUST 6. 1874. 
 
 HPHE odour that all sense delights 
 
 Enchants us most on summer nights ; 
 And music, nature's kindest boon, 
 Breathes gentlest underneath the moon ; 
 For summer night and moonlight give 
 Quiet and grace, in which we live ; 
 In which alone the prisoned soul 
 Finds, if not words, at least control, 
 And, for a moment, lifts us far 
 Toward realms where saints and angels are. 
 So friendship's soft and tender voice 
 Sounds clearest when our hearts rejoice :
 
 126 Hand in Hand. 
 
 For, when contentment warms the heart, 
 
 Selfish and sordid cares depart, 
 
 Dulness exhales and in their place 
 
 Burns the rich glow of peace and grace. 
 
 And then we see eacli other clear ; 
 
 The voice within the voice we hear ; 
 
 And deep thoughts surge to eye and cheek, 
 
 Nor words, nor smiles, nor tears can speak ! 
 
 The old love-ditties that were sung, 
 
 The whispered vows, when we were young, 
 
 The silken touch of fragrant tress, 
 
 The maiden's awful loveliness, 
 
 Starlight and sea-breeze, beach and spray, 
 
 The sunshine of some sacred day, 
 
 A mother's kiss on lip and brow, 
 
 The tones of loved ones, silent now, 
 
 The light that nevermore will gleam, 
 
 The broken hope, the vanished dream 
 
 All these come thronging through the brain, 
 
 Till, half with joy and half with pain, 
 
 Our souls break loose from common things, 
 
 And soar aloft on angel wings ; 
 
 Out of the tumult and the glare, 
 
 The fretful strife, the feverish care,
 
 Hand in Hand. 127 
 
 To that great life of peace and grace 
 Which waits the suffering human race; 
 That larger life than sight or sound, 
 Wherewith God's goodness folds us round. 
 This is the magic, this the power, 
 That thrills and crowns the festal hour ! 
 
 'T is summer, and the moon is bright, 
 And perfect gladness rules this night, 
 And through our rapture, gracious, free, 
 A silver voice, across the sea, 
 In tender accents whispers sweet 
 ' Be kind to him whom now you greet ! 
 At England's fireside altar-stone 
 His fame is prized, his virtue known : 
 To England's heart his name is dear ; 
 To him she gives her smile, her tear; 
 She loves him for his rosy mirth ; 
 She loves him for his manly worth ; 
 She knows him bright as morning dew ; 
 She knows him faithful, tender, true; 
 Her hope comes with him o'er the deep,- 
 With him to smile, with him to weep;
 
 128 Hand in Hand. 
 
 Ah, give him friendship that endures, 
 And take him from her heart to yours.' 
 That voice is heard ! By deed and cheer, 
 We give him loyal welcome here ! 
 In art's fair garden, where we stand, 
 We take him by the strong right hand ; 
 In friendship's cup the pledge we drain, 
 And bind him fast in friendship's chain. 
 Honour the man, whate'er his stage, 
 Who wields the arts to cheer the age ! 
 
 Ah, comrades, if I could but. say 
 
 (To point and close this humble lay) 
 
 What other voices float to me, 
 
 Across another, darker sea, 
 
 What words of cheer are wafted through 
 
 My fancy's realm, to him and you, 
 
 A music then indeed might flow, 
 
 Should make your hearts and pulses glow. 
 
 For then would ring out, rich and deep, 
 
 The royal tones of some who sleep, 
 
 The brilliant and the wise, too soon 
 
 Snatched from our side ; in manhccd's neon
 
 Hand in Hand. 
 
 Ere genius half her vigil kept ; 
 For whom our hearts and morning wept : 
 And these a welcome, without stint, 
 My feeble words can only hint, 
 Should give this friend and comrade, come 
 So far from kindred and from home. 
 But, this denied, I prattle on, 
 The echo, when the music 's gone ; 
 With yet the hope that words well-meant 
 May find a grace for good intent, 
 With you, companions, tried and dear, 
 With him, the guest that 's honoured here. 
 Nor will I think he views with scorn 
 These rhymes of welcome, lowly born ; 
 These wild-wood roses, faint but sweet, 
 In kindness scattered at his feet. 
 
 129
 
 COMRADES. 
 
 READ AT A BANQUET TO GEORGE FAWCETT RO\VE, AT THE 
 LOTOS CLUB, N. Y., AUGUST 29, 1875. 
 
 A T morning, when the march began, 
 
 And hope's strong eagle waved her wing, 
 Through banks of flowers the pathway ran, 
 Beneath the silver skies of spring. 
 
 We heard the mountain torrents call, 
 Far up among the peaks of snow ; 
 
 Our happy laughter rang through all 
 The peaceful valleys spread below. 
 
 Our hearts were glad, our faces gay, 
 We trod the slopes with careless glee, 
 
 And through the hill-gaps, far away, 
 Hailed the blue splendours of the sea.
 
 Comrades. 131 
 
 We knew no peril, felt no fear, 
 
 Nor thought how swift the moments pass : 
 The sighing pines we did not hear, 
 
 Nor our own footsteps on the grass. 
 
 But day wears on and night is near, 
 Gray banners mingle with the gold, 
 
 Our ranks are thin, our faces drear, 
 The sky is dark, the wind is cold ; 
 
 We hear the roaring of the waves 
 Of that great sea to which we tend ; 
 
 Our thoughts are in the wayside graves, 
 And on the solemn journey's end. 
 
 No more in vain the pine-trees sigh, 
 Full well their mournful note is known ; 
 
 No footsteps pass unheeded by, 
 No more unheeded fall our own. 
 
 No more we hear the joyous cries 
 Reechoed back from vale and hill ; 
 
 The light has faded from our eyes, 
 The music of our youth is still.
 
 132 Comrades. 
 
 Bereft of many a friend of yore, 
 Whom fate and nature set apart 
 
 To hear and heed forevermore 
 
 The dead leaves rustling in the heart, 
 
 How should I sing a joyous song 
 
 Whose thoughts are where the cypress blooms, 
 And autumn afternoons are long, 
 
 And silence dreams among the tombs ! 
 
 Ah, Heaven is kind that gives me grace, 
 
 Through good and ill, through toil and pain, 
 
 To hold in yet more close embrace 
 The cherished comrades that remain ! 
 
 He, dear to all, whose gracious fame 
 Is goodness, bright beyond eclipse ; 
 
 He, tried and true, whose honoured name 
 Is in your hearts as on your lips ;
 
 Comrades. 133 
 
 He shall not, in this royal hour, 
 Lack words of mine, my faith to prove ; 
 
 And, though they be not words of power, 
 They shall at least be words of love. 
 
 His the light-hearted, cheery mirth 
 The snow-white bloom of blameless days 
 
 Wisdom and grace and manly worth, 
 An honest mind and simple ways. 
 
 His the pure thought, the spirit sweet, 
 The wild-wood charm of graceful art, 
 
 The sadness and the joy that meet 
 In nature's own benignant heart. 
 
 Him fortune never taught to fawn, 
 
 Want never sued to him in vain : 
 The word is spoken and is gone, 
 
 The actions of the just remain. 
 
 On wings of deeds the soul must mount! 
 
 When God shall call us, from afar, 
 Ourselves, and not our words, will count 
 
 Not what we said, but what we are !
 
 134 Comrades. 
 
 Ah, be it mine, or soon or late, 
 
 In that great day, in that bright land, 
 
 With him as now to take my fate, 
 
 Heart answering heart, hand clasped in hand
 
 IN MEMORY OF POE. 
 
 READ AT THE DEDICATION OF THE MONUMENT TO EDGAR ALLAN 
 POE, AT BALTIMORE, NOVEMBER 19, 1875. 
 
 /"*OLD is the paean honour sings, 
 
 And chill is glory's icy breath, 
 
 And pale the garland memory brings 
 
 To grace the iron doors of death. 
 
 Fame's echoing thunders, long and loud, 
 The pomp of pride that decks the pall, 
 
 The plaudits of the vacant crowd 
 One word of love is worth them all ! 
 
 With dew of grief our eyes are dim : 
 Ah, bid the tear of sorrow start ; 
 
 And honour, in ourselves and him, 
 The great and tender human heart !
 
 136 In Memory of Poe. 
 
 Through many a night of want and woe 
 His frenzied spirit wandered wild, 
 
 Till kind disaster laid him low, 
 And love reclaimed its wayward child. 
 
 Through many a year his fame has grown, 
 Like midnight, vast ; like starlight, sweet, 
 
 Till now his genius fills a throne, 
 And homage makes his realm complete. 
 
 One meed of justice, long delayed, 
 One crowning grace his virtues crave ! 
 
 Ah, take, thou great and injured shade, 
 The love that sanctifies the grave. 
 
 And may thy spirit, hovering nigh, 
 . Pierce the dense cloud of darkness through, 
 And know, with fame that cannot die, 
 Thou hast the world's compassion too !
 
 THE VOICE OF THE SILENCE. 
 
 READ BEFORE THE SOCIETY OF THE ARMY OF THE POTOMAC, AT 
 THE ACADEMY OF Music, PHILADELPHIA, JUNE 6, 1876. 
 
 "D RIGHT on the sparkling sward, to-day, 
 ^ The youthful summer gleams ; 
 The roses in the south wind play ; 
 
 The slumberous woodland dreams : 
 In golden light, 'neath clouds of fleece, 
 
 Mid bird-songs wild and free, 
 The blue Potomac flows, in peace, 
 
 Down to the peaceful sea. 
 
 No echo from the stormy past 
 
 Alarms the placid vale 
 Nor cannon roar, nor trumpet blast, 
 
 Nor shattered soldier's wail. 
 There 's nothing left to mark the strife, 
 
 The triumph, or the pain,
 
 138 The Voice of the Silence. 
 
 Where nature to her general life 
 Takes back our lives again. 
 
 Yet, in your vision, evermore, 
 
 Beneath affrighted skies, 
 With crash of sound, with reek of gore, 
 
 The marshal pageants rise : 
 Audacious banners rend the air, 
 
 Dark steeds of battle neigh, 
 And frantic through the sulphurous glare 
 
 Raves on the crimson fray ! 
 
 Not time nor chance nor change can drown 
 
 Your memories proud and high, 
 Nor pluck your star of greatness down 
 
 From glory's deathless sky ! 
 Forevermore your fame shall bide 
 
 Your valour tried and true ; 
 And that which makes your country's pride 
 
 May well be pride to you ! 
 
 Forever through the soldier's thought 
 The soldier's life returns
 
 The Voice of the Silence. 139 
 
 Or where the trampled fields are fought, 
 
 Or where the camp-fire burns. 
 For him the pomp of morning brings 
 
 A thrill none else can know: 
 For him night waves her sable wings 
 
 O'er many a nameless woe. 
 
 How often, face to face with death, 
 
 In stern suspense he stood, 
 While bird and insect held their breath 
 
 Within the ambushed wood ! 
 Again he sees the silent hills, 
 
 With danger's menace grim ; 
 And darkly all the shuddering rills 
 
 Run red with blood for him. 
 
 For him the cruel sun of noon 
 
 Glares on a bristling plain ; 
 For him the cold disdainful moon 
 
 Lights meadows rough with slain. 
 There 's death in every sight he sees, 
 
 In every sound he hears ; 
 And sunset hush and evening breeze 
 
 Are sad with prisoned tears.
 
 1 40 The Voice of the Silence. 
 
 Again worn out in midnight march, 
 
 He sinks beside the track ; 
 Again beneath the lonely arch 
 
 His dreams of home come back ; 
 In morning wind the roses shake 
 
 Around his cottage-door, 
 And little feet of children make 
 
 Their music on the floor. 
 
 The tones that nevermore on earth 
 
 Can bid his pulses leap, 
 Ring out again, in careless mirth, 
 
 Across the vales of sleep ; 
 And where, in horrent splendour, roll 
 
 The waves of victory's tide, 
 The chosen comrades of his soul 
 
 Are glorious at his side ! 
 
 Forget ! the arm may lose its might, 
 
 The tired heart beat low, 
 The sun from heaven blot out his light, 
 
 The west wind cease to blow ; 
 But, while one spark of life is warm 
 
 Within this mould of clay,
 
 The Voice of the Silence. 141 
 
 His soul will revel in the storm 
 Of that tremendous day! 
 
 On mountain slope, in lonely glen, 
 
 By fate's divine command, 
 The blood of those devoted men 
 
 Has sanctified this land ! 
 The funeral moss but not in grief 
 
 Waves o'er their hallowed rest ; 
 And not in grief the laurel leaf 
 
 Drops on the hero's breast ! 
 
 Tears for the living, when God's gift 
 
 (The friend of man to be) 
 Wastes, like the shattered spars that drift 
 
 Upon the unknown sea ! 
 Tears for the wreck who sinks at last, 
 
 No deed of valour done ; 
 But no tears for the soul that past 
 
 When honour's fiirht was won ! 
 
 He takes the hand of Heavenly Fate, 
 Who lives and dies for truth !
 
 142 The Voice of the Silence. 
 
 For him the holy angels wait, 
 In realms of endless youth ! 
 
 The grass upon his grave is green 
 With everlasting bloom ; 
 
 And love and blessing make the sheen 
 Of glory round his tomb ! 
 
 Mourn not for them, the loved and gone ! 
 
 The cause they died to save 
 Plants an eternal corner-stone 
 
 Upon the martyr's grave : 
 And, safe from all the ills we pass, 
 
 Their sleep is sweet and low, 
 'Neath requiems of the murmuring grass 
 
 And dirges of the snow. 
 
 That sunset wafts its holiest kiss 
 
 Through evening's gathering shades, 
 That beauty breaks the heart with bliss 
 
 The hour before it fades, 
 That music seems to merge with heaven 
 
 Just when its echo dies, 
 Is nature's sacred promise given 
 
 Of life beyond the skies !
 
 The Voice of the Silence. 143 
 
 Mourn not ! in life and death they teach 
 
 This thought this truth sublime : 
 There 's no man free, except he reach 
 
 Beyond the verge of time ! 
 So, beckoning up the starry slope, 
 
 They bid our souls to live ; 
 And, flooding all the world with hope, 
 
 Have taught us to forgive. 
 
 No soldier spurns a fallen foe ! 
 
 No hate of human-kind 
 Can darken down the generous glow 
 
 That fires the patriot mind ! 
 But love shall make the vanquished strong 
 
 And justice lift their ban, 
 Where right no more can bend to wrong 
 
 Nor man be slave to man. 
 
 So from their quiet graves they speak ; 
 
 So speaks that quiet scene 
 Where now the violet blossoms meek, 
 
 And all the fields are green. 
 There wood and stream and flower and bird 
 
 A pure content declare ;
 
 144 The Voice of the Silence. 
 
 And where the voice of war was heard 
 Is heard the voice of prayer. 
 
 Once more in perfect love, O Lord, 
 
 Our aliened hearts unite ; 
 And clasp, across the broken sword, 
 
 The hands that used to smite ! 
 And since beside Potomac's wave 
 
 There 's nothing left but peace, 
 Be filled at last the open grave, 
 
 And let the sorrow cease. 
 
 Sweet, from the pitying northern pines, 
 
 Their loving whisper flows ; 
 And sweetly, where the orange shines, 
 
 The palm-tree woos the rose : 
 Ah, let that tender music run 
 
 O'er all the years to be ; 
 And Thy great blessing make us one 
 
 And make us one with Thee !
 
 EDELWEISS. 
 
 READ AT THE LOTOS CLUB BANQUET TO JOHN GILBERT, COM- 
 MEMORATIVE OF THE COMPLETION OF HIS FIFTIETH YEAR AS 
 AN ACTOR, NOVEMBER 30, 1878. 
 
 "I T 7HERE, pure and p^le, the starlight streams 
 
 Far down the Alpine slope, 
 Still through eternal winter gleams 
 
 The stainless flower of hope ! 
 Undimmed by cloud, undrenched by tears, 
 
 So may his laurel last, 
 While shines o'er all his future years 
 
 The rainbow of the past ! 
 
 Far, far from him the mournful hour 
 That brings the final Call
 
 146 Edelweiss. 
 
 And o'er his scenes of grace and power 
 
 Fate lets the Curtain fall ! 
 And O, when sounds that knell of worth, 
 
 To his pure soul be given 
 A painless Exit from the earth, 
 
 And Entrance into Heaven !
 
 A PLEDGE TO THE DEAD. 
 
 IEAD BEFORE THE SOCIETY OF THE ARMY OF THE POTOMAC, AI 
 A BANQUET IN THE DELAVAN HOUSE, AT ALBANY, N. V. 
 JUNE 18, 1879. 
 
 T^ROM the lily of love that uncloses 
 
 In the glow of a festival kiss, 
 On the wind that is heavy with roses, 
 
 And shrill with the bugles of bliss, 
 Let it float o'er the mystical ocean 
 
 That breaks on the kingdom of night 
 Our oath of eternal devotion 
 
 To the heroes who died for the right ! 
 
 n. 
 
 They loved, as we love yet they parted 
 From all that man's spirit can prize ; 
 
 Left woman and child broken-hearted, 
 Staring up to the pitiless skies ;
 
 148 A Pledge to the Dead. 
 
 Left the tumult of youth, the rich guerdon 
 Hope promised to conquer from fate ; 
 
 Gave all for the agonized burden 
 Of death, for the Flag and the State. 
 
 in. 
 Where they roam on the slopes of the mountain 
 
 That only by angels is trod, 
 Where they muse by the crystalline fountain 
 
 That springs in the garden of God, 
 Are they lost in unspeakable splendour ? 
 
 Do they never look back and regret ? 
 Ah, the valiant are constant and tender, 
 
 And Honour can never forget ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Divine in their pitying sadness 
 
 They grieve for their comrades of enrth ; 
 They will hear us, and start into gladness, 
 
 And echo the notes of our mirth ; 
 They will lift their white hands with a blessing 
 
 We shall know by the tear that it brings 
 The rapture of friendship confessing, 
 
 With harps and the waving of wings.
 
 A Pledge to the Dead. 149 
 
 In the grim and relentless upheaval 
 
 That blesses the world through a curse, 
 Still bringing the good out of evil 
 
 The garland of peace on the hearse ! 
 They were shattered, consumed, and forsaken, 
 
 Like the shadows that fly from the dawn : 
 We may never know why they were taken, 
 
 But we always shall feel they are gone. 
 
 If the wind that sighs over our prairies 
 
 No longer is solemn with knells, 
 But lovely with flowers and fairies, 
 
 And sweet with the calm Sabbath bells ; 
 If virtue, in cottage and palace, 
 
 Leads love to the bridal of pride, 
 'T is because out of war's bitter chalice 
 
 Our heroes drank, deeply and died. 
 
 Ah, grander in doom-stricken glory 
 Than the greatest that linger behind,
 
 150 A Pledge to the Dead. 
 
 They shall live in perpetual story, 
 Who saved the last hope of mankind ! 
 
 For their cause was the cause of the races 
 That languished in slavery's night ; 
 
 And the death that was pale on their faces 
 Has filled the whole world with its light ! 
 
 To the clouds and the mountains we breathe it ; 
 
 To the freedom of planet and star ; 
 Let the tempests of ocean enwreathe it ; 
 
 Let the winds of the night bear it far, 
 Our oath, that, till manhood shall perish, 
 
 And honour and virtue are sped, 
 We are true to the cause that they cherish, 
 
 And eternally true to the dead !
 
 THE CHIEFTAIN. 
 
 READ AT THE ATLANTIC FESTIVAL IN COMMEMORATION OF THE 
 SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY OF OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, AT THE 
 HOTEL BRUNSWICK, BOSTON, DECEMBER 3, 1879. 
 
 TF that glad song had ebbed away, 
 
 Which, rippling on through smiles and tears, 
 Has bathed with showers of diamond spray 
 
 The rosy fields of seventy years, 
 If that sweet voice were hushed to-day, 
 What should we say ? 
 
 At first we thought him but a jest, 
 A ray of laughter, quick to fade ; 
 
 We did not dream how richly blest 
 In his pure life our lives were made : 
 
 Till soon the aureole shone, confest, 
 Upon his crest.
 
 152 The Chieftain. 
 
 When violets fade the roses blow ; 
 
 When laughter dies the passions wake : 
 His royal song, that slept below, 
 
 Like Arthur's sword beneath the lake, 
 Long since has flashed its fiery glow 
 O'er all we know. 
 
 IV. 
 
 That song has poured its sacred light 
 On crimson flags in freedom's van, 
 
 And blessed their serried ranks, who fight 
 Life's battle here for truth and man 
 
 An oriflamme, to cheer the Right, 
 Through darkest night ! 
 
 That song has flecked with rosy gold 
 The sails that fade o'er fancy's sea ; 
 
 Relumed the storied days of old ; 
 Presaged the glorious life to be ; 
 
 And many a sorrowing heart consoled, 
 In grief untold.
 
 The Chieftain. 153 
 
 When, shattered on the loftiest steep 
 The statesman's glory ever found, 
 
 That heart, so like the boundless deep, 
 Broke, in the deep no heart can bound, 
 
 How did his dirge of sorrow weep 
 O'er WEBSTER'S sleep ! 
 
 How sweetly did his spirit pour 
 
 The strains that make the tear-drops start, 
 When, on this bleak New England shore, 
 
 With Tara's harp and Erin's heart, 
 He thrilled us, to the bosom's core, 
 With thoughts of MOORE! 
 
 The shamrock, green on Liffey's side, 
 The lichen 'neath New England snows, 
 
 White daisies of the fields of Clyde, 
 Twined ardent round old Albion's rose, 
 
 Bloom in his verse, as blooms the bride, 
 With love and pride.
 
 154 The Chieftain. 
 
 The silken tress, the mantling wine, 
 Red roses, summer's whispejing leaves, 
 
 The lips that kiss, the hands that twine, 
 The heart that loves, the heart that grieves 
 
 They all have found a deathless shrine 
 In his rich line ! 
 
 Ah well, that voice can. charm us yet, 
 And still that shining tide of song, 
 
 Beneath a sun not soon to set, 
 In golden music flows along. 
 
 With dew of joy our eyes are wet 
 Not of regret. 
 
 For still, as comes the festal day, 
 In many a temple, far and near, 
 
 The words that all have longed to say, 
 The words that all are proud to hear, 
 
 Fall from his lips, with conquering sway. 
 Or grave or gay.
 
 The Chieftain. 155 
 
 No moment this for passion's heat, 
 Nor mine the voice to give it scope, 
 
 When love and fame and beauty meet 
 To crown their Memory and their Hope ! 
 
 I cast white lilies, cool and sweet, 
 Here at his feet. 
 
 True bard, true soul, true man, true friend! 
 
 Ah, gently, on that reverend head 
 Ye snows of wintry age descend, 
 
 Ye shades of mortal night be shed ! 
 Peace guide and guard him to the end, 
 And God defend !
 
 THE LOTOS FLOWER. 
 
 READ AT A FESTIVAL TO CELEBRATE THE TENTH BIRTHDAY 
 OF THE LOTOS CLUB, NEW YORK, MAKCH 27, 1880. 
 
 THROUGH still the heart of twilight grieves, 
 
 As evening's sun sinks low, 
 And sad winds stir the fallen leaves 
 
 With songs of Long Ago, 
 No shadow grim can ever dim 
 
 The glory of this hour, 
 When thus the blazing hearth we trim 
 
 Beneath the Lotos Flower. 
 
 Old Time may quench illusion's light, 
 And dreams of youth depart, 
 
 But neither time nor truth can blight 
 The sunshine of the heart
 
 The Lotos Flower. 
 
 That gentle light of pure content, 
 Our sober manhood's dower, 
 
 Sweet peace and calm affection, blent 
 Beneath the Lotos Flower. 
 
 in. 
 In that dusk land of mystic dream 
 
 Where dark Osiris sprung, 
 It bloomed beside his sacred stream, 
 
 While yet the world was young, 
 And every secret nature told, 
 
 Of golden wisdom's power, 
 Is nestled still in every fold 
 
 Within the Lotos Flower. 
 
 Here let our weary burdens fall, 
 
 And passion's longings cease : 
 The gods of life have given all, 
 
 When once they give us peace ! 
 Black care shall vanish in a laugh, 
 
 Forgot be beauty's bower, 
 When thus the loving cup we quaff, 
 
 Beneath the Lotos Flower ! 
 
 '57
 
 ELEGY IN ARLINGTON CEMETERY. 
 DECORATION DAY, 1880. 
 
 TF this were all, if lost with those that perished, 
 O'er whom these winds of summer softly sigh, 
 Our hopes were buried with the hearts we cherished, 
 And life were nothing but to toil and die ; 
 
 What sadder scene than this that blooms before us, 
 With nature's garlands decked, could earth display ? 
 
 What mocker)' were this heaven that's bending o'er us, 
 Glad with the sunshine of the glittering May ! 
 
 But here, where late with naked branches striving, 
 Wet with the icy tears of wintry grief, 
 
 Across this lonely field of sorrow driving 
 The angry tempest whirled the withered leaf;
 
 Elegy in Arlington Cemetery. 159 
 
 Now swings the pendant bloom, now opening roses 
 Woo the soft zephyrs with their balmy breath ; 
 
 Boughs wave, birds sing, and silver mist reposes, 
 In bliss, above these emerald waves of death. 
 
 And sure the Power, that out of desolation 
 Can thus the arid wastes of earth relume, 
 
 Ne'er meant the crown of all this vast creation 
 One hour of woe, and then the eternal tomb ! 
 
 But, were this all were hope with being ended, 
 In these dark cells that shrine our sacred dead; 
 
 Were all our prayers and tears in vain expended, 
 Our passion, labour, faith forever sped ; 
 
 Who would not yet all selfish impulse spurning 
 Live for mankind, and triumph with the just ! 
 
 Who, from the field of honour backward turning, 
 Would trail a sullied ensign in the dust ! 
 
 Though fate were cruel, human will undaunted, 
 Supreme o'er torture, regnant over time, 
 
 Can quell the bitterest foe that ever vaunted 
 This mortal frailty, which were nature's crime !
 
 160 Elegy in Arlington Cemetery. 
 
 It may be every generous trust forbidden 
 That, while these beauteous orbs of ruin roll, 
 
 From the dark sleep in which the dead are hidden 
 A flower can wake, but not the human soul : 
 
 Yet, sweet is every love and every longing ; 
 
 Yet shines the dream of heaven in childhood's eyes ; 
 And troops of angel phantoms still come thronging 
 
 To fancy's vision in the twilight skies : 
 
 Yet stirs the heart with nameless, vague emotion, 
 When moonlight sleeps upon the summer sea ; 
 
 Yet forest depths, and lonely wastes of ocean, 
 And mountain voices set the spirit free : 
 
 And, borne on wings of glorious endeavour, 
 Man yet can soar above his baser clay 
 
 Throned in high deeds, forever and forever, 
 That cannot die, and will not pass away! 
 
 II. 
 High were their deeds, o'er whom our hearts are weeping! 
 
 Safe bides their fame, in all men's love and praise ! 
 Hallowed the mould in which their dust is sleeping, 
 
 And sweet the memory that has crowned their days !
 
 Elegy in Arlington Cemetery. 161 
 
 Ah, once for them young hope unveiled her splendour ! 
 
 Ah, once for them time ran in golden sands ! 
 They knew affection's accents, soft and tender ; 
 
 They felt the touch of loving lips and hands. 
 
 They saw the awful face of sovereign Beauty ; 
 
 White arms of proud Ambition lured them on ; 
 But in'their hearts breathed low the voice of duty 
 
 They heard it, and they answered : they are gone. 
 
 The midnight wind was cold upon their faces, 
 Pale in the silence of the crimson sod ; 
 
 But who shall paint, through what resplendent spaces 
 Their souls sprang upward to the light of God ! 
 
 No more, for them, in summer twilight's glimmer, 
 Shall distant music smite the chords of pain : 
 
 No more, as evening shades grow slowly dimmer, 
 Shall wandering fragrance pierce the tortured brain ! 
 
 No more of lingering doubt, nor stern denial, 
 Nor baffled toil, nor slow, embittering strife .' 
 
 But now, at once, the crown of earthly trial, 
 The long, long summer of eternal life !
 
 1 62 Elegy in Arlington Cemetery. 
 
 Calm-fronted, staunch, expectant, and unshaken, 
 Who dares the worst that any fate can bring 
 
 For him, by iron purpose ne'er forsaken, 
 The grave no victory has, and death no sting t 
 
 We can but serve : some, by the instant giving 
 Of all that hand could do or heart could prize ; 
 
 Some, by a meek, laborious, patient living, 
 A daily toil, an hourly sacrifice. 
 
 We falter on, now hoping, now despairing, 
 And hour by hour drag out life's little span : 
 
 They passed, in one tremendous deed of daring, 
 They lived for honour, and they died for man ! 
 
 Pile thick the amaranth and the myrtle o'er them 
 For whom our laurelled banners flash and flow 
 
 Roses that love, and pansies that deplore them, 
 And lilies, weeping from their hearts of snow. 
 
 Breathe low ye murmuring pines, ye whisperinggrasses! 
 
 Ye dews of summer night fall softly here ! 
 Be sorrow's sigh in every breeze that passes, 
 
 And every rain-drop be a mourner's tear !
 
 Elegy in Arlington Cemetery. 163 
 
 And O, ye stars, ye holy lights that cumber 
 The deep of heaven, pour benedictions down ! 
 
 Shed your sweet incense on this sacred slumber 
 Bright as our love, and pure as their renown ! 
 
 Breathe our farewell ! ah, very gently breathe it, 
 Like ocean's murmur in the coral shell, 
 
 And tender as the sea-flowers that enwreathe it, 
 Forever and forevermore, Farewell !
 
 GOOD-BYE TO BOOTH. 
 
 READ AT A FAREWELL BANQUET TO EDWIN BOOTH, AT DEL- 
 MONICO'S, NEW YORK, JUNE 15, 1880. 
 
 T T IS barque will fade, in mist and night, 
 
 Across the dim sea-line, 
 And coldly on our aching sight 
 
 The solemn stars will shine 
 All, all in mournful silence, save 
 
 For ocean's distant roar 
 Heard where the slow, regretful wave 
 
 Sobs on the lonely shore. 
 
 But, O, while, winged with love and prayer, 
 Our thoughts pursue his track, 
 
 What glorious sights the midnight air 
 Will proudly waft us back !
 
 Good-bye to Booth. 165 
 
 What golden words will flutter down 
 
 From many a peak of fame, 
 What glittering shapes of old renown 
 
 That cluster round his name ! 
 
 O'er storied Denmark's haunted ground 
 
 Will darkly drift again, 
 Dream-like and vague, without a sound, 
 
 The spectre of the Dane ; 
 And breaking hearts will be the wreath 
 
 For grief that knows no tear, 
 When shine on Cornwall's storm-swept heath 
 
 The blazing eyes of Lear. 
 
 Slow, mid the portents of the storm, 
 
 And fate's avenging powers, 
 Will moody Richard's haggard form 
 
 Pace through the twilight hours ; 
 And wildly hurtling o'er the sky 
 
 The red star of Macbeth, 
 Torn from the central arch on high, 
 
 Go down in dusky death !
 
 1 66 Good-bye to Booth. 
 
 But best of all ! will softly rise 
 
 His form of manly grace 
 The noble brow, the honest eyes, 
 
 The sweetly patient face, 
 The loving heart, the stately mind 
 
 That, conquering every ill, 
 Through seas of trouble, cast behind, 
 
 Was grandly steadfast still ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Though skies might gloom and tempest rave, 
 
 Though friends and hopes might fall, 
 His constant spirit, simply brave, 
 
 Would meet and suffer all 
 Would calmly smile at fortune's frown, 
 
 Supreme o'er gain or loss ; 
 And he the worthiest wears the crown 
 
 That gently bore the cross ! 
 
 Be blythe and bright, thou jocund day 
 That golden England knows !
 
 Good-bye to Booth. 167 
 
 Bloom sweetly round the wanderer's way, 
 
 Thou royal English rose ! 
 And English hearts [no need to tell 
 
 How truth itself endures !] 
 This soul of manhood treasure well, 
 
 Our love commits to yours ! 
 
 Farewell ! nor mist, nor flying cloud, 
 
 Nor night can ever dim 
 The wreath of honours, pure and proud, 
 
 Our hearts have twined for him ! 
 But bells of memory still shall chime, 
 
 And violets star the sod, 
 Till our last broken wave of time 
 
 Dies on the shores of God.
 
 FIDELE. 
 
 DIED AUGUST 15, 1880. 
 
 " With fairest flowers, 
 
 While summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele^ 
 I'll sweeten thy sad grave." ' 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 A ND oh, to think the sun can shine, 
 
 The birds can sing, the flowers can bloom, 
 And she, whose soul was all divine, 
 Be darkly mouldering in the tomb : 
 
 That o'er her head the night-wind sighs, 
 And the sad cypress droops and moans ; 
 
 That night has veiled her glorious eyes, 
 And silence hushed her heavenly tones : 
 
 That those sweet lips no more can smile, 
 
 Nor pity's tender shadows chase, 
 With many a gentle, child-like wile, 
 
 The rippling laughter o'er her face :
 
 Fidele. 169 
 
 That dust is on the burnished gold 
 That floated round her royal head ; 
 
 That her great heart is dead and cold 
 Her form of fire and beauty dead ! 
 
 Roll on, gray earth and shining star, 
 And coldly mock our dreams of bliss ; 
 
 There 's little glory left to mar, 
 
 Nor any grief more black than this !
 
 TRUE heart! upon the current of -whose love, 
 
 My days, like roses in a summer brook. 
 
 Float by, in fragrance and in melody, 
 
 Take these unworthy symbols of my soul, 
 
 Made precious by the heavenly faith of thine ! 
 
 Take them: and, though a face of pain looks through 
 
 The marble veil of -words, thy heart mill know 
 
 That what was shadow once is sunshine now, 
 
 A nd life all peace, and beauty, and content, 
 
 Redeemed and hallowed by thy sacred grace. 
 
 Thrice happy he, -mho favoured child of fate I 
 
 Finds his Egeria in a mortal guise, 
 
 And, hearing all the discords of the world 
 
 Blend into music, round his haunted way. 
 
 Knows hope fulfilled and bliss already won !
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
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 33U1 Poems 
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 1881