I 
 
 \-i,\i 
 
 
 
 ■^^
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 tin: LK(i i:ni> of tii i: (Ioldkn 
 
 1'|{A V1:K> AM) OTII V.\i 
 
 V U E M S.
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE GOLDEN 
 
 PRAYERS 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY 
 
 C. F. ALEXANDER, 
 
 AUTHOR OF " MORAL SONGS," " VERSES FOR HOLY 
 SEASONS," ETC. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 BELL AND DALDY, 186, FLEET STREET. 
 
 1859.
 
 
 TO THE E A R I. ( ) F W I C K L O W, 
 
 III u lull r Rtmoinbrancc and pratcful Affi'i-tion, 
 these Poems are respectfully 
 
 lii^i 1 ilii il. 
 
 CV.CW. FKWrK.S ALKXANDKR. 
 Fiihan, 1S59. 
 
 775432
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 ^S^ 
 
 ALES ASD Legends. Page 
 
 Tliu I^'f^cnd of llu' riuldi'ii Prayers . . 1 
 
 The Gnivevurd in iht- Hills 22 
 
 The Legend of Slunipie's Brae . 
 
 i liJ Child of the Rhine 
 
 iui. Valley of tub Suadow ok Death. 
 Eiithanasiu. 
 
 1. The Partinf? 
 
 The Last Communion . . . . 
 The Child in the Sick Koom . . 
 
 2. 
 3. 
 4. 
 5. 
 6. 
 
 48 
 56 
 
 70 
 75 
 
 78 
 
 The Anniversary M 
 
 The Place of Kemembrancc 84 
 
 lu-eiillfotions 87 
 
 7. Lini'S 90 
 
 8. The Last Evening 92 
 
 9. The Chapel 95 
 
 The Lonely Grave 99 
 
 The Grave at Spitzbergen 110 
 
 The Grave of Mrs. llemans 116 
 
 Southey's Grave 121 
 
 The Grave by St. Columba's Cross 124 
 
 Sorrow on the Sea 131 
 
 Hymns and Sacked Poems. 
 
 Earth and Heaven 139 
 
 Touched with the Feeling of our Infirmities . 141 
 
 Communion Hymn 143 
 
 Epiphany Hymn 145 
 
 Ruth 147 
 
 The Sun of Righteousness 151
 
 vlll CoTi tents. 
 
 M188IONAUV AND Col.OMAt.. r^Bf 
 
 ToC. II. A . . 154 
 
 Pniist' uiid IiiUTccasiiiii .... . . . l.)8 
 
 Tho I^.st Child 161 
 
 The Irish Ml ilher's I^iment 163 
 
 Como over and help l- 167 
 
 Ixwking up to IIeu\«fi 1"0 
 
 Chcrciiks. 
 
 On the Laying nf the First SUtne of the Menii>rittl 
 Chnreh at Constanlinuple by Ijttrd Sinilford de 
 
 RedelirtV. CX-t. 19, lJ*:)8 \U 
 
 Un un Uld Font in the NVnrden's Garden nl 
 
 Winehesu-r. . lf*<' 
 
 Outside. 
 
 1, In Spirit IP-J 
 
 •>. In IkKly 185 
 
 Ml8Cbl.I.ANF.OD8. 
 
 Wiihin-d I^-avcs 189 
 
 Waves, wavi'S, waves . . I'.M 
 
 TheUoyal Bridal 192 
 
 Music at Nivcht 197 
 
 Written in m \'..liiin,. ,,r AT 11 flu w A in. .1,1'-. I'm-nis riCKJ 
 
 ToW.A . 202 
 
 The Seaniaa's IIoiuo 204 
 
 Lent Lilies 2o7 
 
 The Deaf and DumhChdd 209 
 
 VOICKS FOR TUE Dl.MB. 
 
 Prelude 212 
 
 1. The Voice of T.amcntat: .... 214 
 
 2. The Voice of IIu]^- . .... 220 
 
 3. The Voice of the Moth, r 22C 
 
 ',• Some of Uie ahote Futms wrre puhiiJud in the Dublin 
 
 Uii'iv.y.iii ^layazine.
 
 ^ .? <?''^' "/»"^-vs,\C>>- kT "C^^A (U, ■* ""i^t^Vj^Tl 
 
 
 CalC5 ant) Lcgcntis. 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE GOLDEN 
 PRAYERS.* 
 
 I. 
 
 The Castle. 
 
 \ an ancient Lombard castle, 
 
 Knightly castle, bravely held. 
 Was a book with golden letters, 
 Treasured in tlie davs of eld. 
 
 • " A legend, I believe of Italian origin, of a lady of rank who 
 vexed herself with the thought that her domestic interfered with 
 her devotional duties. On one occasion when she bad been 
 called away from chunh, she found, on returning, that the pages 
 that she had missed in her Breviary had been re-written in letters 
 of gold, and that an angel had taken her place and prayed in 
 her stead during her absence." — Lord Likdsat's Christian Art, 
 vol. I. cciv. 
 
 B
 
 The Lefjnid of the Gohlcn Prayers. 
 
 Hoary missal, silver-claspon, 
 Yellow with tho touch of a^'o ; 
 
 Dimly traced, the mat in service 
 Mouklcr'd on the parchment page. 
 
 None aiul compline dark and faded. 
 Golden all the vesper prayer. 
 
 Hearken to the dainty le«;end 
 
 How those lines transH<,'ured were. 
 
 There's a censer full of odours 
 On the sea of glass in lltavtn ; 
 
 Prayers and cries that God's good angel 
 Carries upward, morn and even. 
 
 Ah ! perchance some sighs he bearetb, 
 Voiceless, on the eternal stairs, 
 
 Some good work, in love's hot furnace. 
 Molten into golden prayers. 
 
 From his castle by the forest 
 
 Rides the princely Count to Rome, 
 
 And his bride, the fair Beata, 
 Keeps her quiet state at home.
 
 The Legend of the Golden J'nii/ers. 
 
 Nol)l<', with a •jcntlc presence, 
 Moves the huly 'mid her train : 
 
 Kni«^ht, and diinic, and uld retainer 
 Fret not at lier silken rein. 
 
 On till- wall the warder paces, 
 
 In the court the pages play, 
 And the small hell in the chapel 
 
 Duly calls them ibrth to pray. 
 
 From her turret-chamher's lattice 
 
 Looks the fair Beata forth, 
 Sees the sun-tinged w hite snow mountuing 
 
 Rosy in the distant north : 
 
 Sees below the peasant's cottage, 
 In its smoke-wreath blue and grey, 
 
 And the sea of the great forest 
 Creeping many a mile away. 
 
 All the rich Italian summers 
 
 Darkly erreen it swell'd and roll'd, 
 
 Then the Autumn came and mark'd it 
 With his brand of red and gold.
 
 The Leycnd of the Guhlm f^mj/rrs. 
 
 Full of sonjj, ami lovo, and i^lmlncss, 
 Lcajts licr heart at cwry breeze, 
 
 Dances with the che{iuer'(l sunlight, 
 Laughs along the moving trees. 
 
 Yet it hath a downwanl yearning, 
 
 And a woman's feeling true 
 For the cares tliat never touch'd iier, 
 
 For the pains she never knew, 
 
 Througli those homes of painful serfdom, 
 Like a ehann she eom(-8 to move. 
 
 Tells them of a nohler freedom. 
 Soothes them with a sweeter love. 
 
 In the stately castle chapel, 
 
 Murn and eve, the pniyers are said, 
 Where the rounded grey stone arches 
 
 Stand about the mould'ring dead. 
 
 Rays of amethyst and purple 
 
 Touch their tombstones on the floor. 
 
 And a sunset splendour floods them 
 Through the open western door.
 
 The Legend of the Golden Prayers. 5 
 
 Morn ami eve the lady Countess 
 
 Kneels below the altar-stair, 
 On her rriiij^etl erinison eushion, 
 
 With a face as gmvc and fair 
 
 As tiiat ladv in the ehaneel, 
 
 Kneelinj; ever, ni^ht and day, 
 With her parted lij)S of uiarljle, 
 
 Frozi n into ])i-,iyei"s f'U- ityo. 
 
 Till, perehanee, a "jtri aiu o[ imiMe 
 Sweepeth from the ehoir on hi<,'h, 
 
 And her face <^ows brijjht a minute, 
 And the lijjfht behind her eye 
 
 Kindles every carven feature 
 
 With a Hush of love and ^loiy, 
 Like the sun in a stain'd window 
 
 Touchin«; out some grand old storv. 
 
 But the bells are ringing vespers, 
 
 And Beata is not tliere, — 
 Streams tlie sunlight down the arches, 
 
 Missing much tliat presence fair.
 
 6 The Legend of the Guhlen Prayen. 
 
 And the angels on the culiunns 
 Seem to listen for her tread, 
 
 With their ^vhite nnd eager faces, 
 And tluir nuirl)le wings out.<tpreftd. 
 
 " Lay aside thy IuhhI, () Countess, 
 And thy mantle's russet fold ; 
 
 It were late now in the forest," 
 Saith the waitin^-ladv old. 
 
 " Take thy coif of iM-nrls and velvet. 
 
 Take thy veil of Flantleru' late, 
 All the bells are ringing vespons, 
 
 And 'tis tini'' "• •• t ro in plaee." 
 
 '* Go to eliureh, gootl I^idy ikrtha, 
 Say thy prayers," Hcatii Kiid ; 
 
 " But to-night I must say vespers 
 By a dying sister's hed, 
 
 " From the blind old woodman's cotta^'e 
 Came a token that I know ; 
 
 Sick to death his maiden lietli, 
 On the forest verge below.
 
 The Legend of the Gohlcn Prayers. 7 
 
 " We eliall pniy when she, forgotten, 
 In her ^rave, p;^rass-cover'(l, lies ; 
 
 But she must not jmss un|>itied — 
 Love is more than sacrifice. 
 
 " We shall pniy when she is sinking 
 
 At the foot of the ^eat throne ; 
 Should she till our Lord in Heaven 
 
 That wr ji t li. i- di'' alone .'" 
 
 So the lady took her gospel, 
 
 And she piun'd the grey cloth hood, 
 
 And passM down the winding staircase. 
 Through the postern, to the wood, 
 
 With a half regretful feeling ; 
 
 For her heart was lingering there — 
 On the fringed crimson cushion 
 
 Just below the altar-stair. 
 
 Now the Priest is robed for service, 
 
 And the choristers draw near, 
 And the bells are ringnngr — rinjrinor 
 
 In tlie Ladv Bertha's ear.
 
 8 The Legend of the Golden Prayers. 
 
 II. 
 
 The Departure. 
 
 UT tlic lady tr. .ids ihf forest dark, 
 "Where tlie twisted path is roujih and red, 
 
 The huffc tree tninks, with tlieir knotted hark, 
 In and out, stand up on cither side ; 
 Down helow, tlieir houjjhs are thin and wide, 
 
 But tliev njin^le darklv overhead ; 
 Only sometimes where the jealous screen, 
 Broken, shows a ^rlimpse of Heaven between, 
 
 And the light falls in a silver flood. 
 Grows alittle patch of purest gjeen. 
 Where, when in the Spring the flowers unfold, 
 Lieth a long gleam of blue and gold 
 
 Hidden in the heart of the old woo<l. 
 And a wider space shows on the verge 
 
 Of the forest by a bright stream bound, 
 
 That keeps fresh a plot of open ground, 
 Whence the blind old woodman hears tlie surge 
 Of the sea of leaves that toss tlieir foam 
 Of white blossoms round his lowly home,
 
 TJie Legend of the Golden Prayers. 
 
 Wliose poor lliatcli, amid that liviii;; mass 
 Of rich verdure, lieth dark and brown, 
 
 Like a lark's nest, russet in the prsiss 
 Of a hare field on a breezy down. 
 
 In an inner chaml»< r I;iy the ^^irl, 
 
 Dyinjj, as the Autumn day died out. 
 
 The low wind, that bore the leaves about, 
 Kvery now and then, with sudden whirl, 
 
 Through her casement made the curtain flap 
 With a weary sound ujRin the wall ; 
 
 Moved the linen lying on her lap ; 
 Hut she lay and iueded not at all. 
 With tlie brown hands folded close together, 
 Aiul the eheek, all stain'd with toil and weather, 
 
 Fading underneath the S(jualid cap. 
 Turn, poor surtiTer, give one dying look 
 To the forest over the clear brook. 
 For the sunset dim in thy low chamber 
 Touches it with emerald and amber, 
 Clasps its jewels in a golden setting — 
 
 Ah ! she doth not heed, she will not turn, 
 She but asks the rapture of forgetting, 
 
 Life has left her few deU<rhts to mourn.
 
 10 The Legend of the Golden Prayers. 
 
 Painful childhood without sport or lauj^ditcr, 
 Cheerless prowiii<; u|t in toil and care, 
 Wanting svnipathv to iiiiike life fair; 
 Outward dulness, ami un iiiuiud lilight — 
 Doom of many that we read aright, 
 
 Only in the light of the liereafter. 
 
 Now her life ehbs to a new beginning, 
 Not alone the end of toil and sinning. 
 Not alone the perfect loss of pain. 
 But the bui-sting of a life-long chain. 
 And a dark film passing from the eyes, 
 
 The soul breaking into that full blaze 
 That in gleams, and thoughts, and fantasies 
 
 Broke but rarely on her earthly days ; 
 For the shadow of the forest lay 
 
 On tlie crush'd heart of the forest maid ; 
 Glorious sunshine, and the light of day, 
 
 And the l)luo air ol" long summers play'd 
 Ever in the green tops of the trees : — 
 Down below were depths and mysteries. 
 
 Dim perspectives, and a humid smell 
 Of deca>-ing leaves and rotted cones ; 
 
 \\'hile, far up, the wild bee rung her bell,
 
 The Lerjcnd of the Golden Prayers. 1 1 
 
 And the blossoms iiodilod on their thrones, 
 She, poor foundling? at anotlicr's hcartli. 
 She, the blind man's htlpcr and his slave, 
 To whoso thoiifrht the quiet of the ^yvlvg 
 Hardly paid the drud;^aiy of earth. 
 
 Till the lady found the forlorn creature, 
 
 And she told her all the marvellous story, 
 
 Divine love, and suflering, and glory, 
 That to her abused, neglected nature. 
 
 Slowly did a gleam of hope impart — 
 Gleam that never rose to light her fi-ature, 
 
 But it burn'd into her blighted heart : 
 Gave a meaning to each sound that haunted 
 
 Arch on arch, the forest's dojjth of aisle. 
 Set to music every wind that chanted. 
 
 Made it all a consecrated pile. 
 For the lady to the chapel stately, 
 
 Though the pages whisper'd in her train. 
 Though the Lady Bertha marvell'd greatly. 
 
 Led her once, and oft she came again. 
 'Neath the crimson window's blazonry. 
 
 There she saw tlie priest and people kneeling. 
 
 Trembled at the loud Laudates pealing,
 
 1 2 The Legend of the Golden Prayers. 
 
 Wept alonp^ the solemn Litany ; 
 
 MarkM tlie Psalter's l(»ng majestic flow, 
 With brief pause of suddcii Glorias, riven, 
 Heard if warl»lin«; at the gates of Heaven, 
 
 Heard it wailing from the depths below. 
 But most won the Gospel stniin her soul 
 
 When its one clear solitary tone, 
 After music, on the hush'd church stole. 
 
 Like a sweet Itird that sings on alone 
 
 When the storm of harmony is done. 
 Or that voice the Proj)het heard of old 
 When the tempest died up(»n the wold. 
 
 And a form divine, gnat, gentle, wise, 
 Slowly out of that grand picture grew, 
 
 Look'd into her soul with human eyes, 
 To His heart the desolate creature drew — 
 Tender heart that beat so kind anrl true 
 
 To her wants, and cares, and sympathies. 
 Never more His presence fair forsakes her, 
 
 To her weary solitude He follows. 
 
 Meets her in the forest depths and hollows, 
 By her rough and toil-worn hand He tfikes her. 
 
 Smiled upon her with His heavenly face, 
 
 Till the wood is an enchanted place.
 
 The Legend of the Golden Prayers. 13 
 
 Wlicn a beam in suinnier stray'd, perchance, 
 
 Throuffli the boujihs that darklv intertwine. 
 Conies to break a slender silver lance 
 
 On the brown trunk of some aged pine, 
 Falls in shivei"s on the dappled moss 
 That doth all its hoary voo\s> emboss ; 
 
 She, uplooking to that glorious ray, 
 Saith : " It cometh from the tlirone of Christ, 
 Some good saint hath won the holy tryste, 
 
 And Heaven's gate is open wide to-day." 
 Or win II (>\r the April sky there pass'd 
 
 Clouds that made tlie forest darkness denser. 
 And the shadows, by the bare trunks cast. 
 
 Weirder, and the distant gloom intenser ; 
 When, as she sat listening, overhead 
 
 Came short silence, and a sound of drops. 
 
 And a tossing in the great tree tops. 
 And she saw across the broken arch 
 Fall the green tiillts of the tassell'd larch. 
 And tlie white chestnut flowers, row on row, 
 And the pine-plumes dashing to and fro. 
 
 As tlie thunder cloud pass'd o'er, she said : 
 " Sure the saints are round about the King, 
 And I see tlie waving palms they bring."
 
 14 The Lcfjend of the Golden Prayers. 
 
 Fair BcaUi kneoletli at her sido, 
 To licr shrunken lip the cordial gives, 
 Tells her gently that her Saviour lives, 
 
 Gently tells her that her Saviour died. 
 " Read, O Lady, read those words of sorrow. 
 
 Part of r.ipture, and of anguish part, 
 Whieh in j)resence of that awful morrow 
 Jesus spake — the dying to the dying, 
 When the dear one on II is bosom lying. 
 
 Caught them breathing from His breaking heart." 
 And the lady from her gospel olden 
 
 Read, while ebbed the woni-out life away ; 
 Paused awhile the parting spirit, lioldcn 
 
 By the exquisite beauty of the lay. 
 Ah, did ever poem tell so sweetly 
 
 To the saint the rapture of his rest? 
 Ah, did requiem ever lull so meetly 
 
 Weary sinner on a Saviour's breast ? 
 
 But there comes a strange short quiver now, 
 Creeping darkly up from chin to brow — 
 Sweet Beata never look'd on death, 
 And she reads on with unbated breath. 
 But the blind man, sitting at the door,
 
 The Legend of the Golden Prayers. 15 
 
 Crietli : " Silence, for 1 hear a shout 
 In Heaven, and a riistlin<T on tlic floor, 
 
 And the sound of something passing; out. 
 And my hair is lifted with a rush 
 Of angtls' wings. They have pass'dhy me. Hush!" 
 
 III. 
 
 The Anoel. 
 
 OW the hells have ceased to ring, 
 And the priest begins to pray. 
 And the loaded censers swing. 
 And the answere die away — 
 Wandering through those arches grey, 
 As the choir responsive sing. 
 
 Lady Bertha sweepcth in 
 With a sadly-troubled brow. 
 Velvet-robed from foot to chin. 
 And the points of delicate lace
 
 16 The Lt:(jend of tlir Cohhn Prayers. 
 
 Laid al)out her withcr'd face. 
 
 Serf and soldier all make room, 
 
 And the pajjts kneel in order 
 
 In the stattly lady's tniin. 
 
 Din> the window's pictured pane, 
 
 Dim its deep-stain'd Howery border — 
 
 All the chancel lies in gloum ; 
 
 Lower down alonj^ the floor 
 
 Gleams of glorious radiance pour, 
 
 Not in rays of preen or blue 
 
 From some old ajKJStle's vest, 
 
 Not with lijxht of warmer hue 
 
 Won from martyrs' crimson breast, 
 
 But the sunset's own soft plcaminp 
 
 Through the western entrance streaming 
 
 Like a line of silver spears 
 
 Levell'd when the leader cheers. 
 
 Not a bell is rinjnnjr now. 
 
 Of? ' 
 
 But the priest is praying loud, 
 And the choir is answering, 
 And the people murmur low. 
 And the incense, like a cloud, 
 Curls along tlie chapel proud.
 
 The Legend of the Golden Prayers. 17 
 
 As the loaded ccnsere swinjj. 
 Who is this that comes to pray ? 
 Is it ])riest with stole of white, 
 III a silver aniiee dijj^ht, 
 Ur a chorister gone astray, 
 With a hendcd golden head 
 Kneeling on the cushion red, 
 Where the lady knelt alway ? 
 Stay, O priest, thy solemn tone ; 
 A strange voice is join'd to thine : 
 O sweet Lady cut in stone, 
 Lift for once those marble eyes 
 From the gilded carven shrine 
 Where thy silent warrior lies 
 In the dim-lit chancel air; 
 Never, 'mid the kneelinjr throng 
 Come to share thy vi^nl lontr, 
 Was woi-shipper so rare. 
 Ah, fair saint ! she looks not back, 
 And the priest unto a Higher 
 Than the whole angelic choir 
 Calleth ; so he doth not slack. 
 But the people pause and stare, 
 Even the pages dare not wink, 
 c
 
 18 The LegcJid of the Golden Prayers. 
 
 And the nisllingj ladies shrink, 
 And the women low are saying, 
 Each into a hooded face, 
 " 'Tis a hlesscd anfjel praying 
 In our sainted lady's place." 
 
 But not one of all the host 
 That beheld and wonder'd most, 
 ^.ftcr, CKuld the semltlance trace 
 Of that hriifht angelic creature; 
 Thou<'h thev look'd into his feature, 
 They but saw a bright liice glowing, 
 Golden tresses like a crown, 
 And the white wings folded down, 
 And a silver vesture flowing ; 
 Like a dream of poet's weaving. 
 Or some painter's fond conceiving 
 Never to his canvas known ; 
 Or the sculptor's warm ideal, 
 Never wrought into the real, 
 Cold, unbreathing stone. 
 
 But a little maiden saith : — 
 " I have seen it on the day
 
 The Legend of the Golden Prayers. 19 
 
 When my tender mother lay 
 Strug!flin<!; with the pan'J!;s of death; 
 Such a creature came to stand 
 At tlie hed-side, palm in hand, 
 And a crown uj>on his wand, 
 Beckoninj5 as he heavenward flew ; 
 Then she slept, and left me too." 
 
 " I have seen it," wliispering loud, 
 Saith a mother in the crowd, 
 " When my christen'd babe did he 
 Drest for death, and I sat by 
 In a trance of nrriof ;iiul pain : — 
 Cold the forehead without stain, 
 Dark the dimple and the eye 
 That -was light and love to mine — 
 Faded every rosy line 
 Round the sweet mouth stiff and dumb — 
 He was there, I saw him come ; 
 Laid aside the cofiin-lid 
 Where my broken flower lay hid. 
 And he took it to his breast. 
 In his two arms closely prest, 
 Upward — upward — through the blue.
 
 20 The Legend of the Golden Prayers. 
 
 With :i carol sweet and wild, 
 Bore my darlinj;, and 1 knew 
 Christ had sent him for my child." 
 
 Still the angel saith his prayers, 
 Readinir from Beata's hook ; 
 Every time the pages shook 
 A most wondrous fragrance took 
 All the creeping chapel air, 
 Like the scent in woods helow 
 When the limes are all a-Mow, 
 He is gone — the pniyers are over — 
 By the altar, on the stair. 
 Folded ill its vellum cover, 
 He hath laid the missal rare ; 
 Ever)' prayer the angel told 
 On its page had turn'd to gold. 
 Sweet Beata found it there 
 As the early morning gleam'd. 
 When she came to thank the Lord 
 For that weary soul redeem'd, 
 Trembling at the story quaint 
 ■ Of her angel visitant. 
 And she saw each changed word —
 
 The Leijend of the Golden Prayers. 2 1 
 
 Then she knew that thiou<;h Heaven's door 
 Many a tpt't the an<;el bears, 
 And cast it on the crystal floor, 
 Where love-deeds are golden prayers.
 
 22 
 
 THE GRAVEYARD T\ TTTE HILLS. 
 
 A*' T is the place of tombs," the maiden said : 
 
 ^fM p^,' • • The fHTivevurd where our fathers' ashes 
 
 rest; 
 A rude and lonely cradle have thev here — 
 God rest their >;(>ids." She crossed her brow and 
 
 breast, 
 Then tdok her pitcher uj), which she had set 
 Down on the mountain side, to gaze awhile 
 On the inquiring stranger, and pass'd on. 
 Over the loose low wall the strange man stepp'd, 
 And through grey tombstones bedded half in earth, 
 And new-made mounds of green uneven turf, 
 Till by the ruin'd chapel's western door 
 He paused, reclining on a broad flat stone, 
 Which some poor mourner, seeking sepulture 
 For his beloved within that holiest place, 
 From the old chancel pavement had uptom. 
 Here stay'd the stranger, nor with passive mien,
 
 The Graveyard in the 1 1 ills. 23 
 
 Nor eyes unlit with i-apturous cleli<jht, 
 Look'd on the scene around ; lor heautiliil 
 The lonely spot those ancient jjcasants found, 
 Wlieriiii to wear away their loii;^ rcj)ose ; 
 Perchance because they deeniM it sin and shame 
 That man should build no altar there to God, 
 Where earth had rear'd so eloquent a shrine 
 To praise Him in her ru;j:<rod loveliness. 
 Perchance (for those were rude, uneasy times). 
 The fathers of the handet there had set 
 Their lowly temple, callin<; on those hills, 
 On those steep pathless heights, to guard the shrine 
 From rapine of the tierce marauding Dane. 
 
 The bounding river, like a broad blue belt 
 Encircled half that lone sepidchral mound. 
 And tall, dark mountains girded it about; 
 Cold barren heights, whereon there never slept 
 The gi-aceful shadow of the greenwood tree ; 
 And the rude wind that whisper'd there at even. 
 Had wanderM through no perfume-laden gi'ove ; 
 But all was pasture bare, or purple heath, 
 With here and there perchance a darker patch, 
 Where, in its little plot of laboured land,
 
 24 The Graveyard in the Hills. 
 
 The blue smoke curl'd from some j)oor iieasant's 
 
 thatch. 
 North, eiiHt, and south the ru^rfT'd l)an-ier frown'd, 
 But in the narrow tjorjre to westward »et, 
 Like a lonjj {fleam of silver lijrht, the sea 
 Slept in the distance. He had ne%er thought, 
 Who look'd in (]uiit on that narrow strip, 
 It were u ]K>rtion of those restless waves 
 That bore of old the venturous (icnot«e, 
 When first he lauj^h'd to scorn the western wind 
 And bravely batfle<l, in his generous quest, 
 rnworthy scorn, and jealousy, and fear. 
 He had not deem'd that glittering drop a part, 
 Which like a blue gem slept between the hills, 
 A part of that immt-asundde wjiste. 
 Thus man looks fondly on his passing life, 
 A narrow space within two limits bound, 
 Forgetting that he sees but one small drop 
 Of the immense eternity beyond. 
 
 Now slanting lav the sunbeams on the tuif. 
 And the white clouds passed over the sun's face 
 Making strange shadows on the mountain side, 
 And the sea eagle wheel'd around the height,
 
 The Graveyard in the Hills. 25 
 
 And the goat bleated tlirougli the calm, still air; 
 
 So still, you heard afar the clanking tread 
 
 Of ladc'ii hoi-se, a« upward i'roin the glen 
 
 The mountain road precipitous he trod. 
 
 And, passing each poor wayside dwelling, waked 
 
 The angry clamour of tlie watchful cur. 
 
 There are who love to look on Nature's face. 
 But have no heart to worship at her slirine. 
 Fair in her teeming fruitfulness she is 
 To them, but dead, a thing without a soul. 
 They hear no praises in her wild bird's song, 
 They scent no incense rising from her flowers. 
 The winds of heaven are voiceless unto them. 
 The ancient hills are not green altai-s rear'd 
 To Him who piled them ; in His open hand 
 They see no bounty, in His wise decree 
 No wisdom and no order, nor perceive 
 In yon blue sky the open gate of heaven. 
 Such and so ignorant of joy's chief spring 
 Was he who linger'd by the poor man's grave, 
 And look'd along the valley ; he Avas one 
 On whom high culture, feelings, powei-s of mind, 
 Like seed upon tlie barren rock had been
 
 26 The Graveyard in the Hills. 
 
 ScattorM, jintl l)oro no fruit ; yet was his mind 
 
 PoliiihM, and of fine thoujrlit susceptible. 
 
 Tlie calm of naturf, and tlio wild bird's note, 
 
 And the sweet voice of sonfj; those on his ear 
 
 I'M! like a chann, and soothed his wearv soul. 
 
 And made his spirit diiink with harmony. 
 
 A Unit the uttcnmces that had come 
 
 To visit him in childhood, l»y that stream 
 
 And from those mountain gorges, long had ceased 
 
 To haunt him with their holy whisperings, 
 
 \\\\o had forgotten God ; and in his ways 
 
 And in his heart set up the idol, self. 
 
 Yet it was pleasure thus to git, and have 
 
 All senses moulded into sympathy 
 
 With the sweet silence of that summer even. 
 
 The radiant smi declining touch'd with gold 
 
 The silver sea, when through the tombs there 
 
 came 
 One toward the Solitary, with firm step 
 That loiter'd yet, and paused anon to gaze 
 Down tlic broad vale, to court the merrj' breeze 
 That, as he raised his hat in courtesv. 
 From his high brow blew back the clustering locks. 
 Where time had laid no hand. They greeted then
 
 The Graveyard in the Hills. 27 
 
 As thoufijh the nicetin<T were of each foreseen ; 
 And soon the Pastor by the stranger sate : 
 For, of the wild rude flock that scattcr'd dwelt 
 Amid those rugged mountain fastnesses, 
 He was the shepherd and the minister. 
 
 Four rude white walls are in the valley set, 
 Down by the river ; to the eastward turn'd 
 One pointed window ; on the bare slate roof 
 Nor tower, nor spire, nor even time-honour'd cross 
 Points up to heaven ; but one lone bell is hung. 
 That, when the wind sweeps down the mountain 
 
 gorge, 
 Shakes fitfully above the empty shrino — 
 That is the temple of his ministry. 
 And yon low dAvclling — where the blue smoke curls 
 From verdant clumps of newly planted trees, 
 Where the small garden blushes to the sun, 
 Where the green turf is trimra'd, and through the 
 
 sward 
 Spring daisies white, and daffodils in spring. 
 And violets — his pastoral abode. 
 
 Blue lakes there are hid far within the wilds
 
 28 The Graveyard in the Hills. 
 
 ( )\' tilt' Tuw ^\■^^\•\^\ ; lui^lit solitary liikes 
 
 W'litre iKver tin- keen fisher's m t was spread, 
 
 Nor the swill oar has nifflefl the smooth wave; 
 
 But fair f^cen islands sleep ujxni tlir tide, 
 
 And 'graceful trees dip in their drooping; houghs. 
 
 In depth of the untniversed waste they lit. 
 
 The clamorous wild duck sheltere there lier hrood, 
 
 The «^een moss grows luxuriant on the hank, 
 
 And the waves rippling for a nu»ment l)reuk 
 
 The heaven refhcttd in thtir azure depths. 
 
 Thus wus it with the l*astor of the vale ; 
 
 Lowlv, and placid, and heneficent, 
 
 He look'd to heaven from that sequester'd place, 
 
 And cau'jilt its impress: for tin- good man's life 
 
 Is like a mirror wherein others see. 
 
 Though hroken ofitimes, many times ohscure, 
 
 An image of that thing they ought to he. 
 
 Nor had he come to dwell a hermit here, 
 Of the world wearied, hy the world contemn'd. 
 But in the strength and vigour of his days, 
 Ere yet tlie crown was wither'd on his brow, 
 Which in the throng of academic courts 
 His vouth in eager conflict had borne off.
 
 The Graveyard in the Hills. 29 
 
 Duty, stern summoner, liad hither called ; 
 
 He heard and came — not passively alone, 
 
 But <;l:idly ; as he deemed it honour high 
 
 To lahour in the loneliest, lowest spot 
 
 Of his great Master's vineyard; there he brought 
 
 The energy, the patience, the strong mind 
 
 That in the woild had won for him high place, 
 
 And honour, and esteem, and gentle cares, 
 
 And graceful condescension ; for in him 
 
 The intellectual current that flow'd on. 
 
 Deep in the soul, was calm as powerful. 
 
 And with an even wave bore gently up 
 
 The flowers of love, and cheerfulness, and peace, 
 
 That lay like lilies floating on the tide. 
 
 " 'Tis marvellous," the stranger said, " how 
 much 
 We love familiar scenes ; this mountain view 
 Needs some relief of woodland gi-een to break 
 The outline of its rugged majesty ; 
 And yet, methinks, I would not see displaced 
 One purple heath-flower on the mountain side. 
 That hollow in the hills were fairer far 
 Did twisted ti-unks and spreading branches shade
 
 30 The Gravn/ard vi the I/ills. 
 
 Its narrow <^lon ; aiul that hroail river's course, 
 
 How lovt'ly were it wiiidiutr ainitl hanks 
 
 Where silver hirch shouhl wave, or willow hou^h 
 
 Droop o'er it; yet I would not see it changed. 
 
 But for thy j)orti(»n of this divert glen 
 
 Thou wilt not tell me thou dost wish unclianged 
 
 The dwellers in this lonely wildeniess?" 
 
 ** The people," said the Pastor, " like the place, 
 Are eultureless and nigged, needing niueh 
 Of ornament, and discipline, and care; 
 Yet are there features in their character — 
 Shadows, and lights, and passing gleams, whereon 
 The eve, as tliine on vonder hill toniirht, 
 Delivrhts to linger and shouhl «n-ievc to lose. 
 But in the hanilit*; that so thickly stud 
 This poj)ulous valley, many souls there be 
 Who own me not, hut him their shej)herd name. 
 Who for their sins, in that time-honour'd tonjme 
 Of them unknown, unutter'd, pours the prayer 
 Within those walls that proudiv arrojmte 
 (Shame on the coward hearts that yielded it) 
 The ^hite cross gleaming in the western ray. 
 Yet even they have wrecks of better things ;
 
 The Graveyard in the Hills. 31 
 
 Some pearls there are, yet cast upon the shore 
 iAmid the weeds that error's wave flings up, 
 
 Relics of purer times, sweet simple rites, 
 
 Which when I meet I cannot choose but love." 
 
 " It may be so," his friend rejoined ; " for me, 
 |I love nbt to uplift the fjniceful veil 
 
 That fancy flings round the external things 
 : Of this too real world; I would not delve 
 'Into the bosom of the earth for <rold 
 
 While on its surface spring so many flowers. 
 
 Yon hamlet-dwelling, where the curling smoke 
 I Hangs m blue wreaths around the open door, 
 1 How meetly mingle witli the mountain hues 
 
 The stains on its thatch'd roof; how softly falls 
 
 The passing sunbeam on that silver mist ; 
 
 But thou wilt lift the latch and enter in, 
 ! And poverty shall greet thee, discontent, 
 
 Disease, and discord, haply lawless guilt, 
 ' And crouching superstition, worse than all. 
 
 I would not follow thee so far, to pluck 
 
 The roses from my garland, to dispel 
 , The charm of distance and of imorance." 
 
 The Pastor answered, " There are things in life
 
 32 The Graveyard in the Hills. 
 
 That for the very roughness of their truth 
 Pierce through the veil of graceful poetry ; 
 But not for this should charity forbear 
 To enter in and soothe the rugged part : 
 He is no mariner who courts the wave 
 In the calm sunshine, and when tempests lour, 
 A trembling coward, hides his face and flees. 
 And Duty wears a halo of her own ; 
 There is a borrow'd light in her calm eye 
 That sheds around all rude and common things 
 A chasten'd charm proud Fancy never knew. 
 Much that thou fearest, many things perchance 
 That thou conceivest not, in daily walks 
 And visits to this people have I met— 
 Wrongs unredress'd, and sorrows unassuaged, 
 And patient industry that toil'd in vain, 
 By want attended. Circumstance and time 
 And numbers are against them, and have sway'd 
 Their spirits with an evil influence. 
 Dwellers are here too many for the soil ; 
 Their soul is broken ; poverty and need 
 Have press'd too hardly on them, and have made 
 Each to his fellow harsh and cold of heart ; 
 They have lost trust ; suspicion, and deceit,
 
 The Graveyard in the Hills. 33 
 
 And crouching guile that fears to be betray'd, 
 And pride are theirs, and darkest ignorance. 
 The mean oppress the meaner ; and the fires 
 Of ancient hates and feudal jealousies 
 Sleep in their hearts, till wrath or injury- 
 Rouse the fierce flames : yet in the darksome web 
 Are many goodly golden threads entwined. 
 Love have I met, deep feelings brave and true, 
 And meek content ; and to the will of God, 
 In want, submission, fortitude in grief. 
 And natural affection's lively flow. 
 And charity that round the peasant's hearth 
 Sprang freely as the heath-flower on his hills. 
 And piety, and rev'rent duty, whence 
 The fierceness of their superstitious zeal. 
 As though even virtue's self had run to seed 
 And brought forth vice. 
 
 o 
 
 , " We are set here below, 
 
 Each in his place to work the will of heaven 
 In faith and quietness ; we shall not see 
 The current of man's evil nature change. 
 And earth grow new beneath our charmed touch ; 
 But silently, as coming of the spring, 
 
 D
 
 34 The Graveyard in the Hills. 
 
 God's purpose slowly worketli on within ; 
 And all man's righteous efforts, like the dew, 
 The sap in the sweet flowers, the gentle breeze, 
 Shall operate conjointly with His will 
 .The glorious spring-time of a world renew'd." 
 
 He finish'd, and the stranger had not framed 
 His careless answer, when there came a sound 
 Like the low plashing of the summer sea 
 Along its pebbly margin, or the stir 
 Of whispering winds among the leafless trees. 
 Both started and look'd round : " I know it," then 
 The Pastor said, " it is that woman's voice : 
 Each night she sits upon yon new-made grave ; 
 Dost thou not mark it by the western wall, 
 Deck'd with rude crosses twined with garlands 
 
 white, — 
 A southern rite ? She is not of this land — 
 That mournful woman. Scarce three days are gone 
 Since here I heard the funeral note of woe, 
 And saw the train wind up the mountain path. 
 Four peasants, for the love of charity, 
 (That seed that in the Irish poor man's breast 
 Springs so abundant,) bore the coffin bare ;
 
 The Graveyard in the Hills, 35 
 
 She and some women following alone. 
 
 They told me he was a poor travelling man, 
 
 Who had laid down and died in Owen's hut, 
 
 Of want or weariness ; they knew not how 
 
 Nor whence he came : that woman was his wife." 
 
 The stranger said, " Ye must have many such 
 
 In this o'er-peopled land, who on its face 
 
 Die shelterless, unown'd." The Priest repUed, 
 
 " Let us go down and seek to comfort her." 
 
 She sat upon the grave, and to and fro 
 Rock'd her slight form, wrapp'd in the mantle red. 
 That fi'om her brow hung backward to the ground ; 
 Nor lack'd that face, albeit colourless 
 And stain'd with want and sorrow, token fair 
 Of beauty that had lit the dark blue eye. 
 And hung in smiles around the red curved lip ; 
 And youth extreme (for soon they knit the bond 
 That binds the maiden to her peasant lord). 
 
 " There is no hope for me," the woman said — 
 " My hearth is black ; the sunshine from my heart 
 Has past away ; I have no husband now ; 
 The lip, whose harshest word than flattery
 
 3G The Graveyard in the Hills. 
 
 Of other men was sweeter far, is nmte ; 
 The eye is closed wliose coldest look was love. 
 Vein of my heart, what voice shall comfort me ? 
 Light of my eyes, who now shall smile on me? 
 I am alone ; I have no hope, no lul])." 
 
 " lie is the resurrection, and tlie life, 
 Who hung thereon for thee," the Pastor spake, 
 And touch'd the white cross rudely garlanded : 
 " Daughter, the widow's God will comfort thee." 
 
 " Now the Lord's blessing he on thee," she said, 
 " Whoe'er thou art, for by that word I know 
 Thee good and kind, who thus hast solaced me. 
 Yes, He can hear and help ; yet is it hard, 
 Hard for the poor, the ignorant, the lone, 
 So to forget their fate, and look beyond 
 This cold dead clav ; and vet I know He hears 
 The voice of woman for His mother's sake." 
 
 " Then turn thee unto Him," the Pastor said ; 
 And he sat down, and with the mourner held 
 Communion in her grief; and like the flow 
 Of mingling waters, on her sorrowing soul
 
 The Graveyard in the Hills. 37 
 
 Fell from liis pitying eye and soothing lip 
 Compassion, and concern, and sympathy. 
 He spake of judgments that seem'd dark and stern, 
 And said they were sweet Mercy's messengers. 
 To lead the wanderer home. He spake of One 
 Self-named the Father of the fatherless, 
 The widow's stay. Then gently her poor soul 
 From that cold sod, this dim, deserted, earth. 
 He lifted up, and shovv'd angelic homes, 
 And holy counsel mingled in his speech ; 
 And all with such a touching eloquence, 
 The stranger hearken'd mute, and the still air 
 Around seem'd perfumed with the good man's words : 
 And the pale mourner wept, and bow'd her head 
 Down to the unconscious earth, and own'd them true. 
 And when he ceased, she bless'd his pious care, 
 And then, for simple sorrow deems the load 
 She shares with pitvinjj hearts is lisrhten'd half. 
 She lifted up her voice, and told her tale : — 
 
 " Far in the South my father's house was set, 
 'Mid those wild hills where Glendalough's deep wave 
 Heaves to the echoes of her seven shrines. 
 And the clear Avon's ancient waters sflide
 
 38 The Graveyard in the Hills. 
 
 Around lerne's ruin'tl capital. 
 
 And I was nursed amid those relics hoar, 
 
 And led u])on the haunted aire that rock'd 
 
 That wondrous tower whereof no leirends tell. 
 
 My knee had bent within our Lady's shrine, 
 
 My foot had clinih'd to stem St. Kevin's bed, 
 
 And niv voun'j eve liad dizzily look'd down 
 
 On the dark watere where his Cathleen sank. 
 
 There was no li«rhter step in all the glen, 
 
 No heart more heedless till voun": Alick came ; 
 
 A dvint; mother's heavy sin to shrive. 
 
 From the black North, a weary pilgrimage. 
 
 He came to seek our Lady of the Glen, 
 
 And there amid those holy hills peribrm 
 
 A station for her soul's eternal weal. 
 
 What boots to tell how I was woo'd and won ; 
 
 How by the lake where never skylark sings 
 
 He pour'd a song far sweeter to mine ear ; 
 
 How through the young gi-een woods of Derrybawn 
 
 We roam'd together, when the harvest-moon 
 
 Was on the waterfall, and Brocklagh's height 
 
 And Comadem^ heard his whisper'd vows, 
 
 And dark LugdufF.
 
 The Graveyard in the Hills. 39 
 
 " Tlius did he lure my steps 
 From kindred, and from friends, and maiden cares, 
 And from my childhood's beautiful wild home ; 
 And still I thought there was no place on earth 
 So cold and dull but there our mutual love 
 Should light some sparks of quiet happiness. 
 I did not err : four pleasant summer yeai-s, 
 Four winters drear we dwelt in bliss together ; 
 The tears I shed u})on my father's neck 
 Were dried full soon. My mother's weeping face 
 Haunted my dreams no more ; there only dwelt 
 The memory of their blessings and their prayers 
 Enshrined within my heart. A pleasant scene 
 Was the broad vale beneath us, fair to see 
 From the grey hill-side where our cabin stood ; 
 The Morne, like glittering serpent, roll'd his length 
 O'er his rough bed around Strabane's white wall. 
 And gently, like a bride, the silver Finn 
 Came through her meadows, wandering to meet 
 His bounding: Avave bv LifFord's silent tower. 
 And it was beautiful to trace their course, 
 Standing together by the threshold lone 
 Of our poor dwelling, when sweet twilight brought 
 Short respite to our toil ; for all the day
 
 40 The Graveyard in the Hills. 
 
 lie laljour'd at the weary loom witliin, 
 
 Wimiint; scant pittance for my babes and me, 
 
 AikI 1 beside liim, windiiij; the lonji thread, 
 
 Rock'd with my foot the cnidle of our bov, 
 
 Whih' our yoiiiii; (hiu<rhtir, climbiiij; round my knee, 
 
 With pretty prattle chided tlie loiij; hours, 
 
 Till he would sometimes lay his shuttle down 
 
 And lauj^h with us. I was the hapj)ie8t wife. 
 
 The proudest mother then : ah me ! those days 
 
 How fast they fleeted. ( )ur fifth winter came. 
 
 And with it a third child ; in evil hour 
 
 Of sickliness and danger came he forth ; 
 
 And it was long ere health or strength return'd 
 
 To my wan wither'd cheek and weaken'd frame. 
 
 The season too was hard ; the poor man's loom 
 
 Stood idle now, or wrung a gjiin so small, 
 
 So trivial, 'twas a mockery to toil. 
 
 And yet he labourd on ; no more at even 
 
 I sate, my hand in his : the regidar fall 
 
 Of the dull shuttle sounded in my ear 
 
 Half through the weary night ; and still the sound 
 
 Of his dear voice rose o'er it cheerily. 
 
 And still he bade me hope, and when his cheek 
 
 Faded, he smiled, and told me all was well.
 
 The Graveyard in the Hills. 41 
 
 " In the young spring-time, when the days grew 
 long, 
 
 Late labouring and early, we had set 
 With our own hands the precious roots whereon 
 Our babes might feed, within a narrow spot, 
 Rough and uneven, by our mountain home ; 
 Now their green tops were bUicken'd, and the spade 
 Was ready made to cast our treasure forth. 
 Stern was the man, and hard of heart, alas ! 
 Of whom we held our dwelling. They whose veins 
 Hold gentle blood are gentle-hearted ever : 
 But this poor churl was mean as we; his heart 
 No pity had, no patience ; for the rent 
 Of those four walls he seized our sustenance ; 
 It was our life, our all ; we had but it ; 
 I look'd on my poor children, and despair'd, 
 And he whose steady soul had ever smiled 
 Through all our trials, making sorrow wear 
 The hue of his coui-ageous cheerfulness. 
 Like trees by moonlio-ht whose dark, different dyes 
 Are changed to silver white — his heart, too, sank 
 With aspect of our hopeless misery. 
 
 " It was a dark December even ; the sleet
 
 42 The Graveyard in the Hills. 
 
 Beat coldly on our narrow window j)ane ; 
 
 We sat and look'd into each other's eyes, 
 
 And spake no word of conjlort ; bit nur sup 
 
 Had broken his last or mine that weary day. 
 
 I rock'd the sickly infant on my knee, 
 
 And, as it wail'd, tlio wan fire's flickerinf; lif;ht 
 
 Fell on niv wastrd form : he tuni'd away. 
 
 And took uj> his fair boy to make him 8j)ort, 
 
 But the child look'd up in his fatju'r's face 
 
 And ask'd for food. Then was the measure full ; 
 
 The brimmin<; cup of a<f^ivated woe 
 
 Ran o'er at last. ' God help me, Rose,' he said, 
 
 * I cannot see them starve.' Then quick caught up 
 
 The basket and the shovel, and was gone. 
 
 It was the longest hour in all mv life 
 
 Till Alick came again ; not emptily, 
 
 But laden with full store ; for he had been 
 
 To our oppressor's field, and from the pit 
 
 Had taken a j)art ; he said it was his own. 
 
 But well I knew the specious plea was false, 
 
 And even as he spoke the flush of shame, 
 
 Of dark dishonest shame, the first that ever 
 
 Mine *ve had seen on that broad manlv brow. 
 
 Rose to his face. He stay'd with me that night,
 
 The Graveyard in the Hills. 43 
 
 But ere the morniiif^ dawn he fled away. 
 
 ( )h ! hut the rich are hajjity ; they are not 
 
 (ioaded to j;uih hy misery extreme, 
 
 \or till her hosom liave been wrunjr like his. 
 
 Let Innocence inexorably jud<^e, 
 
 ■ Mid all her gii'ts, the madness of that hour. 
 
 " They sought him like a felon through the land, 
 And I had died of penury the while, 
 But for that lady sweet, compassionate, 
 (God, when she dieth, make her bed in Heaven !) 
 Who sought me in my need and succour'd me. 
 Three weeks he came not, three long weary weeks 
 I sat alone beside my widow 'd hearth, 
 And started when perchance the hollow wind 
 Howl'd through the mountain passes, or the dog 
 Stirr'd in his slumber; for I surely thought 
 It was his footfall on the snowy path. 
 And many times I rose, and would look forth ; 
 Alas ! the pale moon lighted the cold waste. 
 And I could almost chide her that she look'd 
 As bright upon my lonely woe, as when 
 She lit our loves by Glaneola's brook. 
 And those two rushing rivers, that had been
 
 44 The Graveyard in the I I ills. 
 
 The mirrors of our happiness, were there, 
 In their hroail beauty ; only I was chanjjed. 
 At length he came: his tremulous finf^er toueh'il 
 The window pane ; the niurnuir ot'his voice 
 Thrill'd to my heart ; I Iwundeil to uidatch 
 The fragile door, and we were one ag;iin. 
 
 " That verj- night across the heather height, 
 Two exiled pilgrims, we fled foi-th together, 
 He hearing our two children, I the hahe ; 
 Houseless and jioor and desolate we went, 
 Hoj)ing alone in (iod an<l in each other. 
 Long time we wanderM ; six times the broad moon 
 Won her lull height, and six times waned again, 
 And still we sat beside another's fire. 
 All day we roam'd, and nightly nuide our bed 
 Where we found shelter : hardship, hunger, cold, 
 Such as ye know not, were our portion then, 
 And we had grief: the sickly babe died first; 
 Oh ! it was hard to lay the burden down 
 That I had ever l)orne upon my breast. 
 In the cold clay. They told me the good God 
 Had taken home the bark that was too frail 
 To breast the stonu j and my fair other boy
 
 TJie Graveyard in the Hills. 45 
 
 Was there to comfort nic ; but wc love most 
 That whicli has cost us most of toil and pain, 
 And I wept wildly for my white-hair'd boy. 
 Blind was I then, and of my future fate 
 Most ignorant, who, wIrii my lout fii'st touch'd 
 The waters of affliction, stood and moan'd, 
 Nor saw how high the billows rose around 
 To whelm mv soul ; and vet I miirht have known, 
 Because there hung a cloud o'er those bright eyes 
 That were my sun and star ; even from the night 
 When tii-st he stain'd the honest purity 
 Of his good name with that dishonest deed. 
 The memory of that one evil act 
 Clunj; to his soul throudi all our sufferings, 
 Like weight on some poor drowning mariner 
 That <lrags him down below ; and he would say, 
 * I niiffht have waited : God then in his love 
 Had seen our honest truth and sent relief. 
 I was too hasty ; in my giief I sinn'd.' 
 And day by day he wither'd from my side. 
 And yet I would not see ; like frighten'd child 
 That, in his nightly chamber laid alone, 
 Shuts up his eyes, and deems there cannot be 
 A danger that he doth not look upon.
 
 46 The (Jravcyard in the Jlilh. 
 
 " But wherefore linj^cr? He was failinjij long- 
 A kinsman dwell in jj in von distant jjlen 
 Took the two children while we wend(<l hither, 
 For we had hoard there \\i\» a holy well 
 By this old cliaj)il, in whose sainted wave 
 There dwelt a healing virtue for the frame 
 Decay had smitten ; to this ruin'd shrine 
 After long travel wo drew nigh ; aixl here 
 He found indeed what he had sought — relief, 
 A quiet hod, ami for his weary frame 
 A peaceful lying-down. Poor sufflrer, 
 These healiuf; waters wrouirht for thee no cure 
 Whose sickness was a broken heart ; thy hed 
 Is made with the cold earth-worm for a mate. 
 How shall I turn and to awav without thee ? 
 And when thy children meet me by the way. 
 And ask me for their father, and look up 
 And lisp thy name, what shall I answer them?" 
 
 Then ceased the mourner's tale ; but not with it 
 Her voice of lamentation ; that burst forth 
 In that deep cry most wild, most musical, 
 That speaks of hopeless anguish for the dead. 
 It mingled with the muimur of the tide,
 
 The Graveyard in the Hills. 47 
 
 It niin<;li'd with the nicrrv mountain hrccze, 
 Anil down the vulU'V foil that sinsrle voice 
 With a strange j)ower, as wlun the nioaninf]^ wind 
 Si^dis throu-rh the forest, and men think they hear 
 The min^liijir of a human voice, and start, 
 And jKiusc to listen, 
 
 " Said I not ari<rht," 
 The Pastor ot liie stranger then inquired, 
 " Amid the strife of powers untrain'd within 
 And hard external pressure, which the mind 
 Lacks principle and courage to withstand, 
 That heautiful and holy things there are?" 
 He spoke, and to the mourner pointed out, 
 Down the green glen, his homely hermitage, 
 And hade her claim the hosjtitable aid 
 Which never the poor tired traveller 
 Had sought in vain, or wanderer wanted, there. 
 
 (ST
 
 48 
 
 Tin: LEGEND OF STUMPIE'S BRAE.* 
 
 I-AHDycno'trll of the Stumpio's Brae? 
 
 Sit down, sit down, young friend, 
 I'll make your Hesh to creep to-<lay, 
 And your hair to stan' on end. 
 
 YnunfT man, it's hard to strive wi' sin, 
 
 And the hardest strife of u', 
 Is wljerc the forced o' gain creeps in, 
 
 And drives God's grace awa'. 
 
 Oh, it's quick to do, but it's lang to rue, 
 Wlien the punisliment comes at hist. 
 
 And we would give the world to undo 
 The deed that's done and past. 
 
 * This ballad embodies an actual legend attached to a lonely 
 spot on the border of the county of Donegal. The language of 
 the ballad is the peculiar semi- Scottish dialect spoken in the 
 north of Ireland.
 
 The Legend of Stitmpie^s Brae. 49 
 
 Over yon strip of meadow land, 
 
 And over the Ininiie hrij^lit, 
 Diniia ye mark the Hr-trees stand, 
 
 Around yon gjilile white .' 
 
 I mind it weel, in my younn;er days 
 
 The story yet was rite : 
 Tlicre dwelt within that lonely place 
 
 A I'arim r in:m ;iih1 Iii> wife. 
 
 They sat tojjether, all alone. 
 
 One Idessed Auluiun ni^dit, 
 When the trees without, and hedge, ami stone. 
 
 Were white in the sweet moonli'j-ht. 
 
 The hoys and girls were gone down all 
 
 A wee to tlie blacksmith's wake ; 
 There pass'd ane on by the window small, 
 
 And sjuv tljc door a shake. 
 
 t)' 
 
 The man he up and open'd the door — 
 
 When he had spoken a bit, 
 A pedlar man stepp'd into the floor, 
 Down he tumbled the pack he bore, 
 Right heavy pack was it. 
 
 E
 
 50 The Lfqeiid of Stumpir'^s rime. 
 
 " Cliule save us a," siiys the wik-, \\\ a siinlc, 
 " But yours is a thrivin* trade." — 
 
 " Av, av, I'vf' wandt-rM nionv a mile. 
 And plenty have I made." 
 
 Tlic man sat on l>y the «lull fire flame, 
 
 Wlu-n the j)etlhir went to rest ; 
 Close to liis ear the Drvil eame, 
 
 And slipp'd inlil his hreitft. 
 
 He lookM at his wife hy the dim fire liffht, 
 
 And she was n» had as he — 
 " Couhl we no' murder thou man the night ?"- 
 
 " Ay couhl we, rfady." quo' she. 
 
 He took the pickaxe without a wf)rd, 
 Whence it stood, ahint the door ; 
 
 As he pass'd in, the 8leej)er stirr'd. 
 That never wakcn'd more. 
 
 '* He's dead!" says tlie auld man, ccimini: hack- 
 
 " What o' tlic corp, my dear?'" 
 '* We'll hur}' him 8nu«^ in his ain bit pack, 
 Never ve mind for the loss of the sack, 
 
 I've ta'en out a' the gear."
 
 The Lrijend of Stiati jut's Brae. 51 
 
 " The pack's owro slu»rt hy twu ^udo span, 
 
 What Ml \vc do?" (pio' \\v — 
 " On, you'n* a tloitcd, uiitliouj;litfu' man, 
 
 We'll cut Iiiiii (iMat the kiicp." 
 
 They shurttii'd ihe eorp, and they paik'd him ti{j;lit, 
 
 Wi' his lep5 in a pickle hay ; 
 Over tlie hurn, in the sweet nioonli^'ht, 
 
 They carried liini till this hr.ie. 
 
 Tilt y >li.iveird a hide ri«fht speedily, 
 
 Thiv hiitl him in on his hack — 
 " A rij;ht pair are ye," <pio' the pkdlah, quo' he, 
 
 Sittin<^ bolt iipri<;ht in the pack. 
 
 " Ye think ve've laid nic snn«;lv here, 
 
 And iK)ne shall know my stiition ; 
 But I'll hant ye far, and I'll hant ye near. 
 Father and son, wi' terror and I'ear, 
 
 To tlie nineteenth irenenilion." 
 
 o 
 
 The twa were sittin* the vera next night, 
 When tlie dog heg-an to cower, 
 
 And they knew, by the pale blue fire light, 
 That the Evil One had power.
 
 52 Thr Ltgend of Stumjtii's Brae. 
 
 It had strukcu niiii', just nine o' the dock — 
 The hour whtii the luan hiy (had ; 
 
 Tht-rc catno to the outor door a knock, 
 And a heavy, hoavv tread. 
 
 The old man's head swam rouiul and rouml, 
 
 The wonum's hh)od '\f\\\\ freeze, 
 For it was not like a natunti sound. 
 But like some one stumping o'er tlie ground 
 
 ( )n the hanes of his twa hare knees. 
 
 And throu;;h the door, like a soufjh of air, 
 Anil stump, stum|), rouml the twa, 
 
 Wi' his hloody head, and his knee banes hare- 
 They'd muist ha'e died of awe ! 
 
 The wife's black locks ere mom pjew white. 
 They say, as the mountain snaws ; 
 
 The man was as straight as a staff that night, 
 But he stoop'd when the morning rose. 
 
 Still, year and day, as the clock struck mxe, 
 The hour when they did the sin. 
 
 The wee bit dog begJin to whine, 
 And the ghaist came clattering in.
 
 The Letjeiid of ^'tmnpics Brae. 53 
 
 Ae ni<>-lit there was a fearful flood — 
 
 Three days tlie skies had pour'd ; 
 And white wi' toaiii, and Itlaek \vi' iimd, 
 
 The hum ill i'ury n»;ir"d. 
 
 (^uo' shf •• (iuih' man, ye need na turn 
 
 i?ae |>ah' in the dim fire li'^dit ; 
 The Stumj)ie eanna cross the hurn, 
 
 llr'll no' he here the ni<:;ht. 
 
 " For it's o'er the hank, and it's o'er the linn, 
 
 And it's up to the meailow rid<;;e — " 
 • Av," (juo' the Stumpie hirphn-; in, 
 And he «jied tlie wife a slap on the chin, 
 " Hut J rum' round by the hr'uUje!"* 
 
 And stump, stump, stump, to his plays again, 
 
 And o'er the stools and chaii-s ; 
 Ye'd surelv hiu' thought ten women and men 
 
 Were dancing there in [jaii-s. 
 
 They sold their gear, ami over the sea 
 To a foreign land they went, 
 
 • So in the legend.
 
 54 Thr I.ifjt'ud of S'tiitfijiit^s Brar. 
 
 Ovor the sea — hut wha can tU'c 
 His u|i|)oiiitr<l (luiiishnu-nt .' 
 
 The ship Hwiim over the water elear, 
 NN i' the help o' the eastern hreeze ; 
 Hut thr vera firvt 8ouncl in ijuilty fear, 
 O'er tlic wide, pniootli «huk, that fill (»n their ear 
 Was the tapping o' them twa knew. 
 
 In tin- wochIs of wild America 
 
 Their wearv iVi-t tlu-v sot ; 
 Hut Stuiu|)ie \ni8 thrn- the first, they say, 
 And he haunted them on to their clyin^j day, 
 
 Antl he follows llitir childriMi yet. 
 
 1 li;iu(l ye, nivrr tin- voice of hi cod 
 
 Call'd from the earth in vain ; 
 And never has crime won worldiv trood. 
 
 Hut it lirou<;ht its arter-pain. 
 
 This is the stor}- o' Stumpie's Brae, 
 
 And the murderers' fcarfu' fate : 
 Youn<j man, your face is tum'd that way, 
 
 Ye'll he ganging the night that gate.
 
 Thf Lff/rnd of ^tinujiics Brae. 
 
 Ye'll ken it wool, throu^'h tlie few fir trees, 
 
 The houw« where they wont to tlwell ; 
 Gin ye meet ane tliere, as dayli<:ht flees, 
 Stuni|)in<4 uhout on tlie banes of his knees, 
 It Ml jist he Stunipie liinisel'. 
 
 55
 
 56 
 
 THE CHILD or Till- HHINE. 
 
 1. 
 iE dwcUcth where tlu- waters shine 
 
 Of that hroad stream, the flcrman's 
 hoast, 
 
 Where, ni<;lit and day, the lordly Rhine 
 Goes sinf:^in<x hy his cjistled eoimt. 
 
 Thou<;h on his ear the niurniurs fall, 
 He cannot see tlie blue waves }i;lidc 
 
 By Ehrenbreitstein's storied wall 
 To meet the Mosel's silver tide. 
 
 On garden green and vine-clad hill, 
 
 Round Coblentz fair the sunlight streams. 
 
 Through all his frame he feels the thrill 
 Of warmth and gladness in its beams. 
 
 But not for him tlie shadows fade, 
 Or deepen on the mountain grey ; 
 
 He never watch'd the ripple, made 
 By the light oai-s, sink slow away.
 
 The Child of the Rhine. 61 
 
 All real tliiiip^ of sliaj)e and size 
 III his (liiKrs sj)irit have no place, 
 
 For never on his seah'-d eyes 
 
 llalh outward ol»ject left a tnic<-. 
 
 Still Nature wears a fonu and hue 
 By his own thou«;htful soul imprest ; 
 
 He walks with thini^s he never knew, 
 In darkness, yet tlie child is blest. 
 
 The (juirt soul, so <;entle, frames 
 
 No wish for that <;reat {X'^od, unknown ; 
 
 He treasures up men's words and names. 
 And Lrivi - tin m eoloui-s of his own. 
 
 II. lau^heth loud in childish glee, 
 His mother sin<;eth some old strain. 
 
 He creepeth softly to her knee. 
 And makes her sing it o'er again. 
 
 He feeleth with his little hand 
 O'er all the face he loves so well. 
 
 And, listening, doth not undei-staud 
 The tale he wins her still to tell.
 
 58 The Child of the Rhine. 
 
 'Tis sad to watch those eyes Ujdilt 
 
 Their fair liils, iriii<;o{l with <rohk'n hair, 
 
 Yet know that God's most precious pft, 
 Bright power of vision, dwells not tlicrc. 
 
 But underneath God's {glorious heaven 
 I ween there is a sadder sijjht — 
 
 It is when God's good gif^ are given 
 And men misuse the pn cious right. 
 
 The earth is green, the Rhine is hlue, 
 Yet here are eyes that stream or flower 
 
 Iliith never charm'd ; and God is true, 
 Yet here are hearts that mock His power. 
 
 The blind of soul, the blind of sense, 
 They dwell beneath the same roof-tree, 
 
 She darker of intelligence 
 
 Than, in his natural blindness, he. 
 
 For dull and dim, as mists that fold 
 The Drachenfel's broad summit bare. 
 
 To her, bright Truth, the strong and bold, 
 Doth veils, and clouds, and shadows wear.
 
 The Child of the Rhine. 59 
 
 I*(»(»r tartli's inventions — talcs and dreams — 
 These to her Idind ehiUl she lias tiiught, 
 
 And he, out ort'lrouj sights and gleams 
 And j)ietured litrnis, nor knowing aught 
 
 Of images that minister 
 
 L'nto her wandering fancy's need, 
 Perchance doth not so w idely err, 
 
 And holils in thought a purer creed. 
 
 She leads him to the old church pile, 
 What time they sing the solemn mass — 
 
 He stands within the pillar'd aisle, 
 He feels the glowing incense pass; 
 
 He sees no gorgeous wintlows dim, 
 No vested priests around him bend ; 
 
 He only hears the chanted hymn. 
 The prayer he cannot comprehend. 
 
 To '' Fatlier, Spirit, Son," tliey sung 
 
 Those strains that, lingering, swell and faint ; 
 
 He cannot tell that foreign tongue. 
 He kneeleth to his mother's saint.
 
 OO The Child of the Rhine. 
 
 Seldom lie siuaks to If im who erst 
 Himself" to mortal needs divw mar, 
 
 Nor sent the little ehildren first, 
 To servant loved, or mother dear. 
 
 Yet leave the child his simjde thou>rht 
 Of one jj^reat Uein*;^ thronrd ahovr. 
 
 His sense of jjower that bows to nought, 
 Hi>^ faith in all-j»ervadin«; love. 
 
 Leave him his own dream-haunti-d nijjht, 
 His meek content, his thouirhtl.ss bliss. 
 
 Nor tell hinj that strange power of sifjht. 
 Unknown, unsou«?ht, may yet be his. 
 
 Go, tread to-day the rose in dust. 
 To-morrow brinfp^ a Hower as finr. 
 
 But he that tramples childhood's trust 
 Shall find no second blossom there. 
 
 II. 
 The vines are bending to the {[jround 
 
 Beneath their summer burden bri<_dit, 
 Throuo^h all the Rhine-land goes a sound, 
 
 The ajurmur of a sti-ange delight.
 
 The Child nf the Rhine. 61 
 
 Full fifty years tin- Imly vest 
 
 Hu» liiiii ill sacTcd niysterj' soard, — 
 
 Come forlli, ye troultletl, aiul find rest, 
 Come forth, ye sieiily, and he heal'd. 
 
 The mother whispers of stranj^e tliin<p<. 
 And wonders \vrony;ht for faithful men ; 
 
 In the chihl's soul a dream upsprinj^ 
 Ofil,.. l..;.^r||f >v<»rhl beyond liis ken. 
 
 A vou'i' iiitin tiiii iiii|M rial Treves, 
 I?, -iponsive thousjinils eateli tJie crj' ; 
 
 Lonj; jiilp^rim hosts, Hke sweUin*^ waves, 
 Pour on to that ealhednil hiirh. 
 
 e 
 
 From many a vine-wreatli'd hut and hall 
 Whore l)anul)e*s troubled waters ride, 
 
 From shores that hear the murmurinfr fall 
 Of tliat fiir <t :i witbuut :i tid.- ; 
 
 From eitron-g^ves where Spaniards roam, 
 That weary pilgrimage they take, 
 
 And Gaul's gay peasants leave their home. 
 And Erin's island echoes wake.
 
 62 The Child of the Rhine. 
 
 Tlie church is crowih-d, clioir ami nuvc ; 
 
 From ahar scri'cn to open door 
 Fresh tliousaiuls still a hlcssing crave, 
 
 Fresh thousands thronj^nj^ still adore. 
 
 Within the Laily Cha|»fl fair, 
 
 Aloft the awful relic stands. 
 The <»Tey old Bishop sitteth there. 
 
 And blcssetli all with lifted ininds. 
 
 Round the Hitih Altar slow thcv came 
 To kiss that honour'd vest divine: 
 
 Where was His honour to whose name 
 Men rear'd of old that costly shrine ? 
 
 Round the Hif^h Altar, two by two. 
 They pass'd without a word or strain, 
 
 Then, turninjo^ round in order due, 
 They pass'd it, silent, back again. 
 
 Yet here the sick man came for health, 
 And here the sinner came for aid, 
 
 And here the rich man brouixht his wealth. 
 And Here the earnest-minded pray'd.
 
 The Child of the Rhine. 63 
 
 Not uiilo 11 im of old wlm wore 
 
 Such huinltlc pirl) in Jewish himl ; 
 
 The pniycrs, the vows, the tears they pour 
 To mouhh riiitr work of human hand. 
 
 III. 
 She leaves hehind the niuiinurinfT waves, 
 
 Fair Cohlcntz, round thy [deasant homes ; 
 With lin<;erinii; step to lordly Trtives 
 
 The mother and her l)linil ehihl comes. 
 
 His little hands across his hreast 
 
 The chiM has folded jtiously, 
 And ever cries : " C) holy vest, 
 
 O vest most holy, pity me !" 
 
 A sunheam, breakini; throu<;h the trees. 
 Falls on his cheek so warm and bright, 
 
 The poor child almost thinks he sees 
 And knows the ecstasy of light. 
 
 ** O mother, mother, linger not ! " 
 He strains her weary hand and cries ; 
 
 " I die to kneel on that blest spot, 
 
 And learn to know thee witli mine eyes.
 
 64 The Child of the Rhine, 
 
 " I ycani to seo this ploawiiit luat. 
 To watch ohl father HhiiH* ridr hy, 
 
 I hear the tniin|iUiii; of his feet, 
 I know his hoarse and hoUow crj'. 
 
 " How eouhl he bear our littU* Ixwl, 
 I felt no arms cneirclinj; nic ? 
 
 O holy cout, most holy rout, 
 
 Make nie to know what olhern see !" 
 
 They wander on hy hill and l»ower. 
 He hears no voices whis|)crinp round, 
 
 One strange hrifjlit Iioik* uhsorhs all j)Owcr 
 Of g;rateful scent, or pleasant sound. 
 
 "And still across his little l)reasl 
 His hands are folded ; piteously 
 
 He crieth out : " () holy vest. 
 Have mercy on my misery I" 
 
 There's many an anfjel airvcd in white 
 
 On the tall pillars' chapiters, 
 And blue-eyed boys as fair as lipbt 
 
 Are sinjnn? witli the choristers.
 
 The Child of the lihine. 05 
 
 But not oiu* form ol"scul|)luri'tl «^n~»*ce, 
 Nor brruthiiijx Ihjv in that lair choir, 
 
 l8 l>euutitul ju» h«', whose face 
 
 Pules wiili iti» own intense desire. 
 
 She Iea<ls liini ronnd the altar hij;h ; 
 
 \Vith treniblinj^ linih, with quivering throat, 
 Ami u|>-niiseJ face and straining eye, 
 
 lie km ( it th to the holv coat. 
 
 I\ . 
 The Rhine runs gladly, as before, 
 
 By castled cmg and vine-wreath'd cot, 
 The child beside liis low-roofd door 
 
 Sita once ag;iin, and sees him not. 
 
 The stream is broad and bright as ever, 
 But llie child's heart is glad no more ; 
 
 His short sweet laughter mingleth never. 
 Now with the water's sullen roar. 
 
 The sleep that was so full of dreams, 
 His wakeful, joyous, tranquil night 
 
 F
 
 66 The Child of th, /ihine. 
 
 Is clouded over, and it wcnis 
 
 No more its laiiciid forms are brifjlit. 
 
 One nrlorious crleani flash'd tlirou<:h liis hraiii. 
 
 Wherein each other li«;ht wax'd dim ; 
 'Tis vanishd now, hut m'er ajrain 
 
 His own old stars shall shine for him. 
 
 He loved so much in forest iKjwers 
 Tlir rustle (»f the soft ^m-en leaves; 
 
 He loved to ri>tin when loni; hours 
 The home-birds twitUr'd in tlu- eaves. 
 
 The music of tlie munnurin<; wave, 
 
 The wild-hec'sj hum, the whispering rain, 
 
 Tones tliat yet dearer transport ^n\ey 
 Sing as of old — but sing in vain. 
 
 Then bitterer feelings wring the breast — 
 Whom should he love, or whom l)elieve, 
 
 If all who said they loved caress'd 
 His weakness only to deceive? 
 
 The torturing dread — the chilling doubt — 
 The hollow hopelessness — begin,
 
 The Child of the Rhine. 67 
 
 Worse, worse than chanf^eless niglit without. 
 The gsithtriiiiX vacancy within.* 
 
 And tliat fond fuitli ofchildi>ih years, 
 That nurkly trusted and ohey'd — 
 
 That h( Id no doubts, that liad no fears, 
 How is its sinipleness betniy'd ! 
 
 O mother, was it meet to f;;uide 
 
 Tiie heart thou cuuldst have taught to cling 
 Close to His own Redeemer's side. 
 
 And liavr it with that powerless thing? 
 
 And whrn thy false words urged him on, 
 And lured him down die devious track, 
 
 Was ilicre no deeper, dearer tone 
 To call tlie cheated wanderer back ? 
 
 Where was her warning, sweet and stem, 
 
 The mother of his second birth ? 
 Ah ! she has stain'd her own pure urn 
 
 With the polluted streams of eartli. 
 
 • I may be allowed to record with mournful pleasure that 
 this verse was added by the late Professor W. Archer Butler, 
 upon reading this poem in manuscript.
 
 68 The Child of the lihine. 
 
 In many an old rLli^ious land 
 
 Her once true notes are false and vain, 
 
 And she has for«;od with her own hand, 
 And rivets still her children's chain. 
 
 Dear church, ulon<j; our Kn^lish dells, 
 Still pure as in tLitif earliest yc-an'. 
 
 Thy sweet voice, echoed by church-In lis, 
 Conies floating <lown to |>ea8ant ears ! 
 
 Still round thy shrines thy iK)or herenve<l 
 In Christ's own presence meet to pniy. 
 
 And, none rejected, none deceived. 
 Bear all His choicest pitts away. 
 
 Oh, if one, wandering from thy fold. 
 
 Hath in Jar pictured paths found pleasure, 
 
 Who singeth the good strains of old, 
 But sings them to another measure ; 
 
 If he have touch'd enchanted p^und. 
 And love to roam and linjrer there. 
 
 Oh, lure him back with the sweet sound 
 Of thy pure creed and simple prayer ;
 
 The Child of the Rhine. 69 
 
 And with tlic spirit, stern ami stron":, 
 That HUM thv niartvrs' souls undaunted, 
 
 And with the synij)athies that thronjj; 
 
 Hound thine old churches, angel-haunted! 
 
 And it thy jihas in vain be said, 
 
 Then siiow the douht, the grief, the gloom, 
 The soul untrain'd, the heart misled — 
 
 The hlind child's solitary doom.
 
 Cf)c UaWcv of tlic ^litiDoui of Dcatb. 
 
 EUT1IANA>1A. 
 
 } ':_ 
 
 tup: rARTixG. 
 
 GO — the ni<;lit-lanij) fliL-kcre 
 
 I II crystal socket deep, 
 As tlirol)l)in<; to the inumiurs 
 Of thy short, restless sleep. 
 
 On thy j)alc l)row the sliadows 
 Of the closed curtains tall, 
 
 I watch the lonjj dark fiirurcs 
 They cast on tlie cold wall. 
 
 And I can see thee heavinj; 
 
 The long white counterpane, — 
 When shall I keep the night-watch 
 
 By thy sick couch again ?
 
 The Parting. 71 
 
 I go — the cold ltri<flit morning 
 
 Breiiks u|» in tlie groy sky, 
 Um wood, and stream, and valley, 
 
 And tlioso green hills that lie 
 
 All to the blue sea looking; 
 
 And through the breaking dark 
 I hear the pigeon cooing, 
 
 The first song of the lark. 
 
 O tinit\ <) youth, O gladness, 
 
 How swiftly have ye sped 
 Since -we have watched the sunsets 
 
 From von jrreen mountain head ! 
 
 t? 
 
 Where is the step that bounded 
 So lightly from the ground, 
 
 The ring of that sweet laughter 
 That hath no fellow sound ; 
 
 The large dark eye, all radiant 
 With glad and glorious thought ? 
 
 O suftering, O sorrow, 
 
 How sui-ely have ye wrought !
 
 72 
 
 The Parthiff. 
 
 Now wasted fomi, ami laiijjuor, 
 And lowly-l»riatli«d word, 
 
 And pain, and unreal wear)', 
 And pair lips rntiijldy stirr'd. 
 
 iiu^li, titls^' and vain n'pininj;, 
 Nor drop hot tears (jf iiiine ! 
 
 Doth man not cut the diamond 
 That it may brighter shine ? 
 
 Do we not cast the Hue gold 
 
 Into the eli-ansing Hre .' 
 I^ not the child most cherish'd 
 
 Still chasten'd of its sire ? 
 
 And saints wear crowns of glory 
 Through Heaven's eternal years, 
 
 With brightest rays around them 
 All framed from earthly tears. 
 
 Hush ! there are unseen watchers 
 Round the blest sufferer now, 
 
 And angel-hands, all gently, 
 
 Smooth down her pale high brow !
 
 Tkc i'arting. 73 
 
 IIusli ! He is lurt' in presence 
 
 Who knew iill jciin und care, 
 Nor ever layetli on His own 
 
 A erosi;* they cimnot bear! 
 
 Hush ! lor a dear hand lieckons 
 
 Her soul to the Itri^ht shore, 
 Like Summer hastinj; al\er 
 
 The youn'pj Sprin;^ gone before! 
 
 I go— O parting sorrow, 
 
 ( ) anixuish of vain tears, 
 Why will ye mock me — bringing 
 
 The shades of our past years ? 
 
 Twin spirit to my spirit, 
 
 When thou hast left my side 
 What other love shall comfort ? 
 
 What oilier voice shall guide ? 
 
 Hush ! in our high communion 
 
 There is no broken link, 
 And lights gleam through the shadows 
 
 On the dark river's brink !
 
 The rnrtinq. 
 
 Ono ho|)o, one fuith, oiio heaven ; 
 
 Thesi" viars liow lltft thev »i|H>ctl ; 
 There is \w » nilh>»« jmrtin^, 
 
 No, nerrr, in '"ir <rii i!. 
 
 ^ 

 
 75 
 
 II. 
 
 tin; LAsr ro.MMrxToy. 
 
 ■^*"' ^l \N not rliiifc thy wrarv tcinplo, 
 
 1 may not kiss thy (har pale face; 
 hilt spirit aiiHwereth tu spirit, 
 Ami lovin'4 tluni<;ht o'erleapeth space. 
 
 And thus wiiliin tliy fur «tiek chamber 
 Mine heart coiuinunion hohls with thine, 
 
 I »ee the kneelinjj kinilreJ pitlier, 
 The hn>ken bn^u«l, the hallow'J wine. 
 
 Hush, heavinjj sijjh ! Hush, luumiur'il whisjxr ! 
 
 Swell forth, ve wortls of love and dread ! 
 " Take, eat. His life for you was pven ; 
 
 Drink \. ; His blooil for you was shed !" 
 
 Dim prows tliy dark eye, kneelinpf motJier, 
 There's ani^iish on thy bended brow ; 
 
 Ay, weep, there come no second flowers 
 When Autumn stri]"^ th- laden boutrh.
 
 76 The Last Commnuiun. 
 
 () broken ppirit, meek-eyed creature, 
 Well may tliv hriniminjj eves nin o'er, 
 
 Since yet a darker drop may mingle 
 Within the cup so full before ! 
 
 And thou, too, honour'd ojie and cherishM, 
 
 Most hapjH" wife and motln-r bh-st, 
 There comes a cloud o'er thy pure heaven, 
 
 Which not the brightness of the rest, 
 
 Wiucii nut evin his dear love who kncelctli 
 
 Close at thy side can banish quite ; 
 For stars that have an equal lustre 
 
 Yet shine not with each other's light. 
 
 Come, gentle nurse, come, fair young sisters. 
 Draw closer still the narrowing chain, 
 
 Another golden link must sever. 
 Ye cannot commune thus again. 
 
 Once more, once more — death's deepening shadow 
 
 Broods o'er our little field of litrht, 
 Ere yet the heaw cloud is scatter'd 
 
 That wrapp'd our fairest from our sight.
 
 The Last Communion. 77 
 
 Whom, as we lin^ifcr hy tliy pillow, 
 Dear 8aint, in look, in smile, in tone, 
 
 We tnice a^ain, like skies reflecting 
 The sunli|,f|it when the sun is gone. 
 
 Still swells the Eueharistie measure, 
 
 The feast of love and life is o'er, 
 The angels joining, and archangels, 
 
 And saints who rest and sin no more. 
 
 Ah ! not at Christ's own altar kneelinjr. 
 
 Our hearts should thrill, our eyes grow dim, 
 
 As tliough we had not known His presence, 
 And were not ever one in Him. 
 
 The dead — they are the truly living, 
 
 They live to God, to love, to us ; 
 Why should tlie prescience of brief parting 
 
 Sadden the Christian spirit thus ? 
 
 Nay, gently lay her on His bosom, — 
 Nay, gladly give her to His eare, 
 
 Lest we forget in our own sorrow 
 
 How bright the crown His ransom'd wear.
 
 III. 
 THE CHILI) IN riii: sick modm. 
 
 "*— ^""^ 1 1 L! «;l()rious sun hinks slowly o'er 
 54^ Tlie j)ur|)le ocean broad ami even, 
 While, jKile and pure, one little star 
 
 mim 
 
 Rides up the eastern heaven. 
 
 The sunset hues of eonwn^ death 
 
 IIiivo toueh'd her chfck, and lit her eye; 
 The mother hath home in her babe 
 To ^et her ere she die. 
 
 With solemn look, and passive arms, 
 
 That stretch not now for love's embrace, 
 He looketh long and earnestly 
 On that sweet, holy face ; 
 
 As if the soul, untainted yet. 
 
 And fresh from the Redeemer's touch, 
 New-wash'd in His own blood, who loves 
 His little ones so much ;
 
 77/ '• Chil'1 ill the Sick Room. 79 
 
 With Uiut liri^lit spirit purititd, 
 
 III siiHt'rin<; liiitlil'iil to tlu- cml, 
 Held some inysterioiw coinnmning 
 We could not eoiiijtreheiid. 
 
 As if to him unvtilM had been 
 Antrelif I'orius aiiid invsttries, 
 And iiwfully the paiiiii;^ soul 
 
 Look'd throu^di li.r l)ni;ht dark eyes. 
 
 Guze on, tlie sunli-rht linpjei^ yet — 
 
 The hrow is there, witli "jenius fraught, 
 The parted lips that pour'd so well 
 The music of her thought. 
 
 The hrow all calm, the face all fair, 
 
 The eve all brilliant as of yore, 
 Each line by beauty so retined, 
 It coidd refine no more. 
 
 Gaze on— and Oh, as Eastern skies 
 
 Glow when the western heaven is bright, 
 Perchance tliy soul may catch a gleam 
 From yonder fading light !
 
 80 
 
 The. Child in the Sick Room. 
 
 Because her lips for thee have vowM, 
 
 Have pray'd for thee in hourv of jmin, 
 It cannot he, thou prtcious cliihl, 
 
 Those priy.rs shall prove iu vain. 
 
 But tilt y will l-nii'^f a hU-sMu^ hack, 
 
 As ofttimt^ 'neath the euniiner moon 
 The dewy mists that hcnvenward rise 
 Fall down in showers at noon. 
 
 And thou wilt he a holy saint, 
 
 Christ's soldier true in H-rhts to come, 
 Wilt hear His cross as patiently, 
 Anil iro as 'jladly home. 
 
 Gaze on, gaze on, some scenes there are 
 
 Too fair to ruffle witli a sigh, 
 So let us learn of childish awe, 
 And wait in silence hy !
 
 81 
 
 Tin: ANNIVEUSAUY.— TO E. G. H. 
 
 KNOW thou art awake to-ni<rht- 
 
 Tliv tears are fiowiiifr fast. 
 Keeping our Saint's nativity. 
 Anil (Ireanunt; of the j);i>t. 
 
 Thou weepest for the cahn sweet smile 
 
 That ne'er a<^ain ean charm, 
 For tlie dear head that, hour by iiuur, 
 
 DroopM tiieekly on thine arm ; 
 
 For the youn«:^ lip where wisdom hung — 
 
 The honey on tlie rose ; 
 For tlic high spirit calm'd and bow'd — 
 
 FaitJi's beautiful repose. 
 
 All ! which of us that watch'd that tide 
 
 Of ebbing life depart, 
 Can hear its echoing surge to-night, 
 
 Nor tears imbidden start ? 
 
 G
 
 82 The Anniversarij. 
 
 But tears so blciulcil as they rise, 
 
 Of miiifjlc'd joy ami woe ; 
 Like gourceless streams, we cniuiot tell 
 
 Wliat fountain Ifids tliem flow. 
 
 That pish of sorrow couKl she rest 
 
 Ajjain ujhju thy side, 
 Uplookinf; with tlio«c jiatient eye«, 
 
 Perehance she would not ehide. 
 
 But eouldst thou see her whom thy care 
 
 So tended, worn and faint, 
 Clothed with the beauty of the blest, 
 
 The glory of the Saint — 
 
 That beauty of the spirit-land 
 Beyond our bri<;htest dream — 
 
 Sure in thy soul the tide of joy 
 Would drown that darker stream. 
 
 And varying thought in gentle strife 
 Would all thy soul employ, 
 
 Of holy human tenderness 
 With earnest Christian joy.
 
 The Anniversary. 
 
 So keep wc watch to-ni'jht, my love, 
 
 And ever, at His feet 
 Who hudc His an<;^el at this ht)ur 
 
 Stial on hiT slumber sweet ; 
 
 And suffir'd not his ruffling wing 
 
 To break upon her ear, 
 But will'd that she should never know 
 
 Death's agony and fear. 
 
 O Christ, our stay, our strength, as hers, 
 
 Make, too, our dying bed, 
 'Tis but in presence of Thy love 
 
 We dare recal the dead ! 
 
 83
 
 84 
 
 V. 
 
 Tin: TLAri: or ui.Mr.MnuANCE. 
 
 9^*f^h^ ] 1 i:iii^ woulilst lliou think of!" • ' Wl,. rr 
 the yourijj flowcre 
 . >j)rin<; throui^h the tuH' whirt- ho uflrti 
 bhe \a\. 
 Wearily watthiii^ th«- lonp; Ptimtnrr hourK, 
 Liist of her lifetime, Hcet s*h)wly away ! 
 
 There l»y the pirilen-wall, cuver'il with touch, 
 Where, in the shelter, she linpferM so late, 
 Under the tree where the eliadow repose^ 
 Over the spot where at noontime j^he sate ? 
 
 Down the gjeen walk where you ilrew her so slowly, 
 Patient and gweet in lur helpless decay. 
 In her own chamber, the haunted and holy, 
 There wouhlst thou dream of thv darling to-dav ? 
 
 Where wouldst thou think of her, darkling and 
 
 drean.' ? 
 In the lone room where her sj)int took flight,
 
 T/<t' Place of Remembrance. 85 
 
 I":i->iriLr awav, us u cliiltl tliat is wearv 
 Turns to its crudle, nor wishes Good-niji^ht ? 
 
 When', like a \\'\\<\ dream, thy heart still remembers 
 Tin- liii'^erini; smile on the motionless clav — 
 A flame that lives on in the li^ht of its embei*s — 
 I'll. f. vLiijldst thou dream of thv darliny; to-dav ? 
 
 Not in the {jreenwoml <jlade — hearts need not borrow 
 ll(l|ts from dead nature to teaeh them to weep, 
 N\»t ill that lonely room ; — why should thy sorrow 
 IJruod o'er her, silent and shrouded in sleep ? 
 
 (Ill III ilir ahar, \s here, morninj; and even, 
 
 Tile low voiee has ming^led, the bri«i:ht head bow'd 
 
 down, 
 Pourin<; her heart out in commune with Heaven, 
 Takin" His cross up who gave her the crown. 
 
 Everv^'here, evenrwhere holdeth communion, 
 Loving and cheering, her sj/irit with thine. 
 But in a holier, happier union, 
 Meet you witli praises to-night at the shrine.
 
 86 The Place of Bcmemhrance. 
 
 Then in the vale, when the watci-s are swelling, 
 Go where the desolate bird finds a nest, 
 Go to His holy and beautiful dw(llin<r. 
 The courts of the Lord, where she dwelt and was 
 blest. 
 
 Where the church mingles her happy departed, 
 Victors gone home with the strugglers who stiiy. 
 Bringing forth i)alm for the desolate-hearted, — 
 There shouldst thou dream of thy darling to-day !
 
 87 
 
 VI. 
 RECOLLECTIONS.— TO F. L. 
 
 HAVE been dwelliiiff on enchanted 
 groiuul, 
 Looking on thee, and dreaming of the 
 past ; 
 A spell of shrouded faces and lost sound 
 Thou hast around me cast. 
 
 Sorrow and joy, thought within thought enshrined, 
 
 Childhood and youth I have lived o'er ajjain. 
 As one chance note unlinketh to the mind 
 The whole of a sweet strain. 
 
 Thus, with the truest love my heart has known, 
 
 Thy kindred form so dearly blended seems, 
 Thine accents have an echo of the tone 
 That haunts me in my di-eams. 
 
 A thousand thrilling thoughts tliou bring'st to me 
 Of our old days of happiness on earth ;
 
 88 litcolU'ctions. 
 
 I tninblc at thy sniilo, thy hiuu;httr froo, 
 Thy little words of mirth. 
 
 Ami I have inuj»e(I until I seoin'tl to stniy, 
 
 With thee and others, down a twilight glude, 
 \\ here sweet |mle faces j^leam'd U|K>n <iiir way, 
 And pilv. r v.. )(.»«» pniv'd. 
 
 Shadows, and tunnies, and jjiAed wonls were iJierc, 
 
 It was tJic dreiim-lund of our hy-jijonc hours, 
 Just on the vprjre nipthouf^ht prcw fresh an<l fair, 
 Two rathe an<l sunny flowers. 
 
 Pure halniy cr, rms they p-ew within their shells, 
 
 Twocherishd thing's, love-tended nijjht and day. 
 With blue eyes jicepin^,' from their silver hells, 
 And breath as swwt as May. 
 
 There was a spirit with us in the prove — 
 
 I saw her lin<]jcr where tlie first flower prow, 
 Breathe o\ r it gently words of hope and love, 
 And leave it bathed in dew. 
 
 Now from thy presence, and its soothing power, 
 From voice, and look, and day-dream of the heart,
 
 Jiccullectiofis. 89 
 
 From Imliiiy brcuth of'fliililhootrs opening flower, 
 Dear one, I uiust ilepurt. 
 
 Cio thou unto tliy {gleeful nun>ery, 
 
 NN hero voiceu mingle sort, and hrighteyes gleam, 
 Ami when thy fuir-hair'd children eliiiih thy knee, 
 Head thou my parting dream. 
 
 ADDED FOK C. I., 
 
 He siiid he was forgotti-n in the strain. 
 
 When we roam'd throusjh tliat love-enchanted 
 
 SjMlt. 
 
 As if there could he, ol thy joy or pain, 
 A dream where he was not. 
 
 As if her s-ainttd lips had ever pray'd, 
 
 Or her eyes fillM for tJiee in thankfulnc'SS, 
 Nor blest his love true-hearted who had made 
 Her darling's happiness. 
 
 In ever>' swellinji chord are manv notes 
 
 So closely blended, they seem all the same, 
 As, hii^h and far, the glorious measure floats, — 
 NVe do not ask their name.
 
 9f) 
 
 vn. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 ;v-7qnrV\H£ stars sink one by one from si^'ht, 
 (jjE »tS No trace of them we find; 
 
 iSijikS^ Tlioy vanish from the l)row of ni^'ht, 
 And none is left behind 
 
 Alone, 
 And none is left behind. 
 
 The sun goes to his ocean-bed, 
 
 In all his rays enshrined, 
 He wraps them round his crimson head, 
 And leaveth none behind 
 
 To mourn, 
 And leaveth none behind. 
 
 The -beautiful and gifted dead, 
 
 The noblest of our kind. 
 Have cast their work aside and fled,
 
 Lines. 91 
 
 And we are left behind 
 
 Alone, 
 And we are left behind. 
 
 The dear old ft-ionds of carlv time, 
 
 Hearts round our hearts entwined, 
 Have faded from us in their prime, 
 And we are left behind 
 
 To mourn, 
 And we are left behind. 
 
 Pale stars, red sun, ye come ag^in, 
 
 For whom no hca]*t has pined, 
 We call our darlings back in vain. 
 Still are we left behind 
 
 Alone, 
 Still are we left behind. 
 
 Oh, dear ones, teach us so to run 
 
 Our race, in sun and wind. 
 That we mav win where ve have won, 
 Though we be left behind 
 
 Awhile, 
 Though we be left behind !
 
 92 
 
 VUI. 
 Tin: LAST EVENING. 
 
 I NCiKK II niomrnt ere 'tis o'er— 
 This last of our sweet eveninj; hours. 
 ^ ^ A- wuiuh rers, leaving some lUir shore, 
 Mif^ht pause to snatch a few hri^'ht flowers, 
 Which on their beating; hearts tlicy hiy, 
 
 Memorials of that sunny clime ; 
 Dear friends, shall wc not hear away 
 Thoug;ht8 of this happy time ? 
 
 Have we no flowers of memory 
 Close at our hearts to treasure fair, 
 
 Perchance to wither as they lie, 
 
 But sometimes still to scent our air ? 
 
 Bright thoughts of love and joy to come, 
 In liours of toil and weariness, 
 
 And bring us, in each distant home. 
 Gleams of this happiness.
 
 The Last Evening. 93 
 
 Shall we nut dream when twilijrht shades, 
 Drop o'er Uie dark tartirs quiet face, 
 
 11 uw soft tliey touch'd the {2;reenwood glade 
 Artumd our hajipy trysting place. 
 
 How l.litlnly 111 art with li< ;irt did hlend, 
 Ildw <;tiitlc was our sportive strife, 
 
 Sisters and kin, each chosiu friend, 
 Dear brotlur, and young wife ? 
 
 ^Vill tluro not come, when vespers chime, 
 And one of all the hand shall hear 
 
 An echo from our service-time. 
 
 Deep thrilling to each heart and ear? 
 
 The spirit:*, hy one impulse stirr'd, 
 Swelling the church's even-song, 
 
 The voice that falter'd o'er her word 
 So solemn, deep, and strong. 
 
 Ah ! were we then in truth alone ? 
 
 Had not each loving heart a dream,— 
 A irlorious vision of its own, 
 
 That all too bright for words did seem, — 
 Whereat the tear unbidden springs ; 
 
 And vet it has no shade of gloom ;
 
 94 The Last Evening. 
 
 As if two anpels waved their wings 
 Across the quiet room ? 
 
 Friends, gentle friends, tlic worhl is wide, 
 And few tlie scatter'd sweets we find, 
 
 We would not cast such flowers aside, 
 Thoujrh we must leave the nwi liehind. 
 
 Tlien pause awhile on this last night, 
 And linger o\r our parting stniin, 
 
 This commune sweet, tliis converse light. 
 When will they come again ?
 
 95 
 
 IX. 
 TIIK CIIArEL. 
 
 To E. C. L. un occasion of a Chapel being pulletl down to 
 build u Church on tlio site. 
 
 I'T none rebuke our sorrow, vainly swell- 
 
 Nor say we sin to taste, dishonour art. 
 Because the bareness of this poor low dwelling 
 Had grown entwined about our heart. 
 
 Because no show of cluskT'd arches bending, 
 Nor slender shaft, nor storied window clear, 
 Nor fretted roof, on pillars proud ascending. 
 Can give the charm that linger'd here. 
 
 For what is taste, but the heart's earnest striving 
 
 After the beautiful in form and thought, 
 From the pure past a nicer sense deriving, 
 And ever by fair Nature taught ;
 
 96 The Chapel 
 
 A strong creative instinct, making real 
 
 Dreams framed from earth, or drawn down from 
 above ? 
 These barren walls could give one bright ideal, 
 And the heart's betnitifal is love. 
 
 Here, where no thrill of nij)turou9 emotion. 
 
 From impulse wrouiiht bv outward cause, mifrht 
 stir ; 
 Only His shrine, who daiin'd our first devotion, 
 And tliat calm, peaceful thought of her. 
 
 Tliis was the casket where our hearts embalm'd her, 
 
 A reliquary fitting for a saint, 
 Here, where His love had met. His mercy calm'd her 
 When her poor human heart did faint. 
 
 True, we have other records ; there are places 
 
 Rich with the fraimince of her hours most briirht. 
 When, full of gladness, look'd into our faces 
 Those dark eyes, dancing in soft light. 
 
 There is the room where her sick presence lingers, 
 The couch whereon she lay, the book she read,
 
 The Chapel. 97 
 
 Till' last words traceil hy lier weak, weary fingers; 
 Hut these are relies of the dead. 
 
 TInse tell us of the ear that coidd not hear us 
 
 III our woi*st anguish, of the close-seal'd eyes; 
 Here was tJie sj)iritual presence near us 
 Of the saved soul that never dies. 
 
 Still on her place, when a dim ray fell slanting, 
 
 There was a sound, known to our hearts alone, 
 Of angels' wings ; still with the choir's low chanting 
 Mingled her gentle undertone. 
 
 So shall it be no more, — a crimson splendour 
 
 Shall lireak that wandering sunbeam's silver line. 
 And l)id it fall in tinted radiance tender 
 On the pure pavement by the slirine. 
 
 Down the long nave, the deep, full organ pealing, 
 
 A hundred echoes, lingering, shall di-aw 
 From roof, and niche, and sculptured angel kneeling 
 In the fair fane she never saw. 
 
 Why are our hearts fiU'd with so many yearnings 
 And adverse claims — that each to other call —
 
 [)H The Chapd. 
 
 Admiring thought, and zeal, and inward huniings, 
 And this deep, mournful love tlirougli all ? 
 
 We would not eheck the w ork of vour adorinij ; 
 
 \\\- love when art, and wealth, and fervour meet. 
 Their gifts most bright, most beautiful QUtj)ouring, 
 Sweet ointment for our Master's feet. 
 
 Still let us grieve — even as a mother weopctli 
 
 For some poor siekly ehild, in mercy ta'en ; 
 Deej) in her heart his little spot she keepeth, 
 But wishes him not back airain. 
 
 o 
 
 And if there be who meet us with upl)raiding. 
 Call back the lost loves of vour earlv vears. 
 The deep, sad thoughts that ask no outward aiding, 
 And leave us our few silent tears. 
 
 •c?vop/r >^ ■?> 

 
 Vd 
 
 THE LONELY ORAVE. 
 
 HE silence of a soutliern day, 
 
 Wiun all the air is sick with heat, 
 ( )'('!• forest leagues that stretch away 
 Before the traveller's weary feet ; 
 
 He sees no restive leaflets quiver, 
 No glancing; rays that meet and part. 
 
 The very beat of the broad river 
 Is even, as a silent heart ; 
 
 And strange-shaped flowers of gorgeous dyes. 
 Unmoved bv anv wanderinji breeze, 
 
 Look out with their gi-eat scarlet eyes, 
 And watch him from the giant trees. 
 
 Surely no brotlier of his race 
 
 Came e'er before to these wild woods, 
 
 To startle, with his pallid face, 
 The brightness of their solitudes.
 
 100 The Lonelif Grave. 
 
 And Vi't the path het'ore him hrtuks 
 Across the tnnfjlod tliij-kct drear, 
 
 A stnii}^htrr track than wild heast makes, 
 Or antelope tJmt hounds in tear. 
 
 And as lie moves there seems to sprinp. 
 In his soul's depth, a consciousness — 
 
 As thoujjh some other livinjj thinp 
 Were with him in the wildeniess. 
 
 The patinvay hroadens — and hehold. 
 In thf WDud's in art, a chamlier hewn. 
 
 Where Dr}-ad, of the days of old, 
 
 Had loved to rnnie and rest at noon ! 
 
 Or ifliut England's sky were hent. 
 And yonder turf were not so hrown. 
 
 The fairies might hold parliament 
 
 At night, when stars were raining down ; 
 
 And in the midst a little mound, 
 As it had heen a small child's errave. 
 
 With the green tendrils twisted round 
 Of plant whence ptirple hlossoms wave.
 
 The Lonely Grave. 101 
 
 Calm sloej) tlic dead within the church, 
 Wlierc siniph- voices sing and i>ray, 
 
 And calm beyond the ivied porch, 
 Where viUage chihlren pause to play. 
 
 Their hed is blest, their dirge was sung, 
 Their dust is with their fathei-s' dust, 
 
 But sure his heart was sorely wrung 
 Who here could leave his dead in trust. 
 
 The lonely wanderer pass'd in haste — 
 
 " It is a feariul spot," he saith ; 
 " There is no life in all the waste, 
 
 And vet this shrine of human death," 
 
 Yea, life is near — a thin blue wreath 
 
 Comes curling through the foliage dark — 
 
 A settler's hut lies hid beneatli, 
 
 And now he hears the watch-dog's bark. 
 
 BriiT-ht deam'd the exile's lustrous eye; 
 
 No strano-er to his haunts had come. 
 While, year by year, that forest high 
 
 Huno- chanffeless o'er his lonely home.
 
 102 The Lonely Grave. 
 
 LoriLj titno were fj^rretinj;^ huiuls entwined, 
 I.oni: time tlicv clieerM the social l)oaril 
 
 With many an earnestquestion kind, 
 And ea<rer answer fnelv nonr'd. 
 
 But when the sun's fjreat lieat was qtull'd 
 Btiieath the western ocean's wave, 
 
 The 8tran«jer*s hand tlie exih- held. 
 And led him to the forest-«;:rave. 
 
 There, while the round moon rose afar, 
 Makiiij; the listener's face look |)al<>, 
 
 While, one by one, broke each bright star 
 Unmark'd, he told his simple tale. 
 
 " Green grrow the valleys of the west, 
 
 Bri;;ht bound the streams of dark Tyrone, 
 
 There are my father's bones at rest, 
 Where I shall never lay my own. 
 
 " Here drowsy Nature lies asleep, 
 
 Cnish'd by her own abundant treasure. 
 
 But there her restless pulses leap 
 For ever to a changeful measure ;
 
 The Lonely Grave. 103 
 
 '' To TiioaniiiLT of tlio fitlul ^alo 
 
 Through hollows in the purple hill, 
 
 To rivciN nittlin^ down tiic vale, 
 
 Short showers, and sunl)eanis shorter still. 
 
 " Om-s was a lonely mountain place, 
 Ciirt rounil with berried rowan trees: 
 
 Goo<l Sir, the wind on that hill's face, 
 ll would not let them grow like these. 
 
 '• Hut, looking down the mountain bare, 
 We saw the white church l)y the river, 
 
 And we could hear, when winds were fair. 
 O'er the low porch, the one bell quiver. 
 
 " And though the path was hard to climb 
 
 Aci-oss tlie bog and up the brae, 
 God's minister came many a time, 
 
 Nor ever blamed the rugged way. 
 
 " Ah me ! it is a woeful thing 
 
 Never to hear one blessed word 
 Till sparks, that else might heavenward spring. 
 
 Die out for want of being stirr'd.
 
 1'14 The LduvUj Grave. 
 
 " Tlio worM was round us nil the week, 
 Hani work was oure from morn till even, 
 
 Till' words that <;ood man used to speak 
 Broujjht tit our souls u jj;limpse of heavt-n. 
 
 " A witi- I had, no truer breast 
 
 E't-r shand a |)«»or man's ^ef and joy, 
 
 Nor wanted to our mountain nest 
 
 Love's dearest pledf^es — jjirl and hoy. 
 
 " Two died and left me, — fii"St, alas ! 
 
 The mother went, and then the son ; 
 All well ! the hallow'd ehurehyard »rrass 
 
 Grows over tliem — God's will be done. 
 
 " And Kose and I were lelt alone, 
 A six-year child without a mother, 
 
 And still," he said, " thou'^h she is gfone. 
 We are alone with c^ne another. 
 
 " In thouHit mv comrade all dav Ion?, 
 She creeps into my dreams at night. 
 
 The burden of a wordless song, 
 An image time to all but sight.
 
 The Lonely Grave. 105 
 
 ** Ever a short, U)\v coii<^fIi 1 hear, 
 There lies in mine a thin, small hand, 
 
 Or a voice sinfji'th in mine ear; 
 
 Thf voice Uiat haunted the old land, 
 
 " When that hi-ave mountain hrecze of ours 
 That dash'd the scent from golden furze, 
 
 And swept across the heather flowers, 
 Touch'd not a hrijjhter cheek than hers. 
 
 e 
 
 •• Wiiv tell a«rain the tale of tears 
 
 Told by a thousand hearts before, 
 The anjniish of those famine veai-s. 
 
 The useless toil, the straiten'd store? 
 
 " How, of the land we loved forsaken, 
 And s])uni'd from off her blip;hted face, 
 
 We dared the dark deep, tempest-shaken. 
 And found an exile's resting place ? 
 
 " Who lauds the lily's silver crown, 
 He little thinks how, night by night, 
 
 From heaven's great heart the dews dropp'd down 
 That fed its leaves of dazzling white.
 
 106 The Lonrhj Grave. 
 
 " Little ye care at home to scan 
 How <roo(l insoiisiMy is chorisliM, 
 
 How holy hahits lonu the man, 
 
 And souls withuut their dew have perish'd. 
 
 " Hu\v, ht'cdiiii; nctt God's l»li ssed day, 
 All days «;row ^oiUess ax they full, 
 
 And he who has no hour t«) |»niy 
 Forjjjets, at last, to juiiy at all. 
 
 " How, s. vcr'd from each symhol rite, 
 Bv Heavtn to human weakness lent. 
 
 Each plpd<;o of thin<^ heyond the sifjht, 
 Woi-sjhip, and priest, and sacrament, 
 
 " We wunder'd throuj^di a weary j)iain, 
 Where our soids fainted as we trod, 
 
 No golden link in labour's chain, 
 
 No sweet seventh day for rest and God. 
 
 ** Still round the child there hung a spell 
 
 Of old traditionary rule. 
 Of texts the Pastor used to tell, 
 
 And hymns she learn'd at Sunday school.
 
 The Lonely Grave. 107 
 
 " Mv heart liiis lilccl to licar her sinj;. 
 Or lisp ' Our Father' in her play, 
 
 And, liiit it was so Ptranf;p u thins;, 
 1 could myst'll' have knelt to pray. 
 
 " Lot suiiinior winds hlow wild at will, 
 
 New buds will deck earth's wasted bosom ; 
 
 O death ! thy blast was sterner still, 
 It tore uway my only blossom. 
 
 " It would have moved a heart of stone 
 
 To see how fast my darling faded. 
 As a vounjj olive dies alone, 
 
 Bv forest trees too closely shaded. 
 
 " And as she wither'd, form and feature, 
 
 The smooth round cheek, the dimpled chin, — 
 
 It seem'd her spiritual nature 
 
 Glow'd with a stronger life within. 
 
 ** The strun""'lin<r soul look'd through the bars 
 Of those blue eyes so strangely bright ; 
 
 Sweet eyes, they burn'd like two yoimg stars 
 Before the moon is up at night.
 
 108 Tlie Lonehj Grove. 
 
 " And she would tell nio more and more 
 About the thiuL^s she k-ani'd of old. 
 
 As memory open'd all her store 
 
 When sitknrsjj found the key ot'pold. 
 
 " 'Twas after a lonj; day of pain, 
 
 When tlie ni<:ht fill li.r hniin jjrew weak, 
 
 The fever hurn'd alonj; her vein, 
 
 And stnw'd false roses on her cheek. 
 
 • 1 watch'd heside her in the f;loom, 
 
 I counted every short, thick breath ; 
 There was another in the room 
 
 Keeping watch, too, — and tliat was Deadi. 
 
 " I saw the re<l moon throufih tlie trees, 
 1 heard afar the wild dog crying; 
 
 That her sweet soul was ill at ease 
 I knew, she was so long of dying. 
 
 " And ' Call the Rector, Father dear,' 
 Loud in the noon of night she said ; 
 
 ' I cannot ffo until I hear 
 
 A prayer beside my dying bed.'
 
 The Lonthj Grave. 109 
 
 " Tlien would she sleep — Oh that long night ! 
 
 How slow it went, and yet how fast, 
 While wiiver'd on her life's })ale light, 
 
 And Hicker'd, and went out at last ! 
 
 " • Will he not eome V she eried again ; 
 
 Tlirn — God forgive me that 1 lied — 
 ' lie eometh, darling, up the glen,' 
 
 I answer'd, and she smiled, and died."
 
 no 
 
 TllK CH AVI- AT SPlT/HlJUiEN.* 
 
 BOVE, the vast ptornal snows, 
 The fjlaciors' rosy peaks, 
 Touch'd with pale tints of l»lue and rose 
 Win-n tlie short sunhfani breaks. 
 
 Below, the lantl-luekM (juiet hay, 
 
 The hlaek rocks stretchinf^ far, 
 Anil the great ice-Hoes out at sea 
 
 That beat against the bar. 
 
 No sound along the wide snow plains, 
 
 No echo in the dcej), 
 But Nature evermore remains 
 
 \\'ra})p'd in a breathless sleep. 
 
 ♦ " Half imboddcfl in the black moss at his feet, there lay 
 a grey deal eoftin, falling to pieces with age ; the lid was gone, 
 blown otV probably by the wind, and within were stretched the 
 bleaching bones of a human skeleton. A rude cross at the 
 head of the grave still stood partially upright, and a half-obli- 
 terated Dutch inscription preserved a record of the dead man's 
 name and age, Van der Shelling, Comman. Jacob Moor, 
 ob. 2 June, 1758, aet. 44.'" — Letters from High Latitudes.
 
 The Grave at Spit zher gen. HI 
 
 No Ijlude of jrrass waves in tlie air 
 
 AIon<jf the ghastly hill — 
 Caught by tlie marvellous silence there 
 
 The very streams stand still. 
 
 Never to fall, each frozen river 
 
 Hangs on tlic sheer descent, 
 Like wishop unfulfill'd for ever, 
 
 ( >r words tiiat tiiid no vent. 
 
 Only at times, from some ice rock, 
 
 A glacier breaks away, 
 And sUirtles, with a tlmnder-shock. 
 
 The mountain and the bay. 
 
 O frozen ditls ! O motionless snows ! 
 
 We glide into the creek. 
 And question of your gi-im repose. 
 
 The lips that will not speak. 
 
 In vour cold beautv, vast and drear. 
 
 Ye lie so still and grand ; 
 But no heart-stirrinjTS meet us here — 
 
 Unsympathizing strand !
 
 112 The Grave at Sjiitzhergen. 
 
 No souinl in all this sparkliiifj; wasto, 
 No voice in lleavi-n above, — 
 
 To some strange region have we pass'd, 
 Beyond the reach ol" love ? 
 
 Ah, no ! some link there nccils must be, 
 Where Christian loot has trod, 
 
 ( )t' the great chain of sympathy 
 'Twixt man and man, and God. 
 
 And, lo ! there lie a dead man's bones, 
 Uncover'd, where we tread. 
 
 An open coffin 'mid the stones, 
 A rude cross at his head. 
 
 The wild white cliffs — the vast still main- 
 The patch of scant black moss ; 
 
 But still the form to rise again. 
 And still the letter'd cross. 
 
 And he whom tender Christian hands 
 Laid on this barbarous coast. 
 
 Who knoweth from what happier lands, 
 Or by what fortune tost ?
 
 The Grave at Spitzhergen. 113 
 
 Whfther 'mid Amsterdam's brown piles 
 
 His 6tonc-j)rest grave should be, 
 Where Mashes round her many isles 
 
 The a/ure Zuyder Zee ; 
 
 Or bv some vast cathedral wall 
 
 His fathci-s laid them down, 
 W'iiere chimes are rung and shadows fall. 
 
 In an old Flemish town ; 
 
 Or whether, 'neath some village turf, 
 
 Where children come to weep, 
 And lighter treads the unletter'd sei-f, 
 
 He should have gone to sleep. 
 
 To drone of bees and summer gnats, 
 
 In some great linden-tree, 
 Where the old Rhine, through fertile flats, 
 
 Goes sobbing to the sea. 
 
 o 
 
 What matters — though these frozen stones 
 
 Their burden coidd not bear, 
 But srave asain his cofiin'd bones 
 
 Into the freezing air ; 
 
 I
 
 Ill The Gnn-^ nt Spitzbcrgcn. 
 
 TIiou;:h litre, to snows and storms exposed, 
 Tiiev Ijleaeh'd a hundred years. 
 
 Never by human hand composed, 
 Nor wet \\ith human tears ; 
 
 Though only the shy rein-deer made 
 
 In the hlack moss a trace, 
 ( )r the white hears came out and pliiy'd 
 
 In sunshine hy tiie place ; 
 
 Still, silent, from the hlacken'd heath. 
 
 Rose that eternal si<^n. 
 Memorial of a human death. 
 
 And of a love divine. 
 
 Still, type of triumph and of woe. 
 
 Symbol of hope and shame, 
 It tuld the everlasting snow 
 
 That sinjjle Christian name. 
 
 Sleep on, poor wanderer of the main, 
 
 "Who camest here to die. 
 No mother's hand to soothe thy pain, 
 
 No wife to close thine eve.
 
 The Grave at Spitzbergen. 115 
 
 Sleep well in tliy vast sepulchre, 
 
 Far from our can s and feai*s, 
 The i^reat white hills that never stir 
 
 Have watch' J tliee round tor years. 
 
 The skies have lit thee with their sheen, 
 
 Or wrapp'd in leaden gloom ; 
 The glaciere' splinter'd peaks have been 
 
 The pillars of thy tomb. 
 
 Green be their graves who came of old 
 From Holland o'er the main, 
 
 And Xaii the simple cross that told 
 Where Christian dust has lain. 
 
 Green be their gi-aves beyond the sea. 
 Who witnessed in this place 
 
 The resurrection mystery, 
 
 And our dear Saviour's gmce. 
 
 Who taught us, at this solemn tryste 
 On the bleak North sea shore. 
 
 That the redeeming love of Christ 
 Is with us evermore.
 
 llf) 
 
 Tin: CiHAVi: OF MRS. IIEMANS 
 
 (in ST. ANNE's ClirRCIl, DUBLIN.) 
 
 Ills lur frravc 1 Ali me ! she sliouKl be 
 sleeping 
 
 III some grass-green churehy.ird far 
 away, 
 Where in Sj)ring the violets arc pee})ing, 
 
 Ami the birds sintr throiifrh the Summer's da v. 
 
 Silver rays, through bowers of ivy crawling. 
 At calm noon, should lie along her feet; 
 
 Folding flowers, and solemn shadows faUing, 
 At soft eve, should make her slumbers sweet. 
 
 And the wind in the tall trees should lend her 
 
 Musical delight on stormy days. 
 With a sound half chivalrous, half tender, 
 
 Like the echo of her own wild lays.
 
 The Grave of Mrs. Hemans. 117 
 
 Was it meet to leave her in the city 
 Wliere no sun couM fall upon her face ? 
 
 Lilt the colli, grey stone, in love and pity 
 Bear her out unto a fairer place. 
 
 All, no more — within the poet's bosom 
 
 There are gleams that mock external gloom, 
 
 Ilowei-s expanding, like the captive's blossom, 
 'Twixt the flagstones of his prison room ! 
 
 l\)r this wealth of beauty all around him, 
 Buds that haunt him with their azure eyes, 
 
 Seas whose blue horizons scarcely bound him, 
 Cloud-capp'd hills that rush into the skies, — 
 
 Sunset gleams that rose-tipp'd clouds make duller, 
 Murmurinfr streams that into distance lead ; 
 
 They but give his fair creations colour. 
 Are but symbols of the Poet's creed. 
 
 For our nature is the clay he fashions. 
 Finds his faith within the hearts of men, 
 
 Gives his mighty language to their passions. 
 Moves the soul, and lays it calm again.
 
 1 1 ^ The Grave of Mrs. JIvmnns. 
 
 Where llicir toils, siTid j)leaj;ures, and hcart-huniinpjs 
 Shall coiiK" roTinil him with tlie hiipy thron*]^ ; 
 
 Lay the lips that set their jjriets and yca-niii'^ 
 To the iiiusie of his nohle Ronjr. 
 
 f> 
 
 Is not Enijland's jjreatest plorv* jri'mited 
 
 In the centre of her busiest life, 
 And her old memorial abhey haunted 
 
 U'ifh a murmur of per|>etual strife? 
 
 Thoiiwmd curious, careless plances scan it, 
 
 Ami the comer where her jwets lie, 
 Listening, underneath their weijrht of granite, 
 
 To the sea of life that surjics bv. 
 
 True, like fair ship in a land-loek'd haven. 
 
 Where no storm may touch the shelter'd wave, 
 
 Shakespeare, by his own immortal Avon, 
 Sleepeth ever in his guarded grave. 
 
 « 
 
 True, our Wordsworth liath not left his mountains, 
 He lies tranquil in their grand embrace, 
 
 LuU'd his ear by Rotha's silver fountains, 
 Rvdal's shadow on his silent face.
 
 The Grave of Mrs. Ilemans. 119 
 
 Trut\ the wliite moon, like a lonely warder, 
 (iiiards a lair toinl» in a rnin'd aisle, 
 
 \\'lii're the trontle Minstrel of the Border 
 Hath all Dryhurgh for a burial pile. 
 
 Hut tlie veriest cluld of Nature's teaching. 
 Whom she took a peasant from the plough, 
 
 Stoop'd her highest laurels to his reaching : 
 (.)n her daisied bosom rests not now. 
 
 High aspiring, genius, earthly troubles. 
 
 In a close, mean suburb lie asleep ; 
 Not where silver Nith, or Cluden bubbles, 
 
 Not where banks of bonny Doune are steep. 
 
 Let the Poet lie among his brothers, 
 
 Where erreat words of Christian truth shall be ; 
 He that hath most fellowship with othei-s 
 
 Is most Christ-like in his sympathy. 
 
 And all Nature's charms, the bright, the real, 
 Are but shadows, though they live and move, 
 
 Of his own more beautiful ideal, 
 Of his dream of purity and love.
 
 1 20 The Grave of Mrs. Ifrmnns. 
 
 Let tlie pohlen gj)riii<:-Ho\vers strtjik tlu- meadows, 
 Let the stonn j^leaiii on tlie nioiuitaiirs fall, 
 
 Greater tlian the sunlight, or the shadows, 
 Is the sonrf divine that paints them all. 
 
 Therefore leave her in llie ploom and riot ; 
 
 Hope and tnith shall he her p^ive-flowers here, 
 Human hearts throb round her, for the quiet 
 
 ( )f the calm day, and the starlight clear ; 
 
 For the music-hreathing wind of summer 
 Words of love and pity shall be said; 
 
 And her own stniin tell the careless comer, 
 Pass not lightlv bv our Poet's bed.
 
 121 
 
 SOUTHEY'S GRAVE. 
 
 >"*^ 
 ^ 
 
 HERE never beaniM a hrifjliter day 
 On ancient Skiddaw's jjlorioiis heislit, 
 Sweet Keswick water never lay 
 Wra]>i)'d in a flood of purer light, 
 When, woo'd by the delicious power 
 That rules the haunted mountain-land, 
 We roani'd, one golden summer hour, 
 By that wild lake's enchanted strand. 
 
 " And where does Southey sleep ?" we said. 
 The peasant boy made answer none, 
 But toward that old white church he led, 
 And o'er its wall of guardian stone, 
 A bright and lonely burial gi-ound, 
 Between the mountain and the wave, — 
 The boy stood by one low green mound 
 And answer'd: " This is Southey's grave !"
 
 100 
 
 SoutheT/'s Grave. 
 
 Things are tlure to the inward eye 
 Tliat mingle in as sweet accord 
 As hues tliat on the nionntains lie, 
 Or notes in one wild measure pour'd ; 
 And sure that ^j-a\'o at Skiddaw's feet, 
 The waving grass, the cliequer'd skies, 
 Calm Nature's lover ! scem'd most meet 
 With thy soul's dream to harmonize. 
 
 What thougrh no clusterinir arches fair 
 Around thy sculptured marble rise. 
 Nor linjjerinfi sunheam thither bear 
 The storied window's gorgeous dyes ; 
 Nor stream of choral chanting sweet, 
 Borne down the minster's mighty aisle, 
 With ocean-swell of organ, meet 
 Beside thy monumental jnlc. 
 
 Thou sleepest in a statelier fane, 
 High heaven's blue arch is o'er thee bent. 
 And winds and waves a sweeter strain 
 Make round thy mountain monument ; 
 And sunbeams, when departing night 
 Rolls back the mists from Gowdar's crest.
 
 Southeijs Grave. 123 
 
 Break tlirou'j:li tlioir clouds in rosy light, 
 Tt) lio ulon;^ lliy (jiiict hreast. 
 
 Yes ! many a shrine our feet have sought, 
 Where pillar'd aisle and fretted nave 
 Told man, the richly blest, had brought 
 Some portion back to Him who gave ; 
 And thoughts of rapturous awe we knew. 
 But sweeter none than when we stay'd 
 By that green grave where daisies grew, 
 In Nature's o^^•n cathedral laid.
 
 124 
 
 Tin: (.i{A\i: in ^r. roT.T'MBA'S 
 
 CROSS.* 
 
 ( )W the storm is Imsli'd and over, past 
 the fever's cruel jiain, 
 Bear him p-ntly, hear him kiiully, O 
 thou wihlly roUinfj main. 
 
 From his wiUI home on the lureland to our sullen 
 
 Northeni shore, 
 On thine heart that heateth ever, hear the heart that 
 
 beats no more. 
 
 There's a wailing on the waters, take him slowly 
 
 from the boat, 
 Bear him up the rugj^ed shingle, lift her anchor, 
 
 let her float. 
 
 • The Rev. T. Wolfe died in the discharge of his pastoral 
 duties at Carrickfin, a peninsula on the coast of Donegal, and 
 was interred beside the old cross of St. Columba, in the grave- 
 yard at Myragh. Christmas Eve, 1858.
 
 The Grave by St. Columhas Cross. 125 
 
 Iliirsli 111 r keel <j;nitcs on the sand-bank, with a 
 
 tjound like hunian pain, 
 1m»i- that hurilen so btloved she shall never bear 
 
 agsiin. 
 
 Hear him fjently, bear him fondly, by the bay- 
 indented shore, 
 Neath the purple-shadow'd Errigle, from far and 
 lone Gweedore ; 
 
 H\ the bhuk rock, and the sand-reach, washed 
 
 brown with charo;ing surf, 
 To the cross of St. Columba, lying dark along the 
 
 turf. 
 
 Thev are foot-sore, they are weary, they must turn 
 
 awav at last, 
 Those poor hearts that loved him dearly, and whose 
 
 dream of light is past. 
 
 All the high hopes and the cheering that one stead- 
 fast human heart, 
 
 1 II the strength of Christ's great mercy, can to other 
 men impart —
 
 126 The Gravely St. Culumhas Cross. 
 
 Tlu'V are over, for tlu- jjustor, tor the Irit'iiJ is borne 
 
 along; 
 Linger fondly o'er the coffin, sing again iiis chosen 
 
 song. 
 
 Onward, onward, like the booming from a distant 
 
 cannon borne, 
 Conies the roar of tlie Atlantic, rushing madly on 
 
 tlie Horn; 
 
 And Muckish, like a giant huge, all the dim horizon 
 
 guards, 
 Wliure therisensun looks golden, on tlie winter woods 
 
 of Ards. 
 
 Pause again, ye wear}' bearers, lay him down a 
 
 little while, 
 Ye must wait the mourner's coming, in the lowly 
 
 church's aisle ; 
 
 ThrouEfh the mistv morn he cometh, let him clasp 
 
 that coffin bare, 
 For he saw not the last anguish, for he heard not 
 
 the last prayer :
 
 The Grave by St. Columba's Cross. 127 
 
 Let liiiii cling to that jjoor shadow, till beside the 
 
 cross thoy part ; 
 lligli words ui)oii his trembling lip, grief's arrow in 
 
 his heart. 
 
 Ah, often, in the glorious land of the cedar and the 
 
 palm, 
 He sliall draw that golden arrow out, and find it 
 
 tipp'd with balm, — 
 
 It shall tell to him, who labours in the red heat of 
 
 the sun, 
 Of tlie green land where lie resteth, of the work so 
 
 early done. 
 
 In the south, where sims are brighter, and the 
 
 breeze more softly blows. 
 And calm lakes, like silver dewdrops in the bosom 
 
 of a rose, 
 
 Lie alone in purple mountains, with the shadows of 
 
 their crests, 
 In a hush of lonely gi-andeur, sleeping ever on their 
 
 breasts.
 
 1 28 The Grave by St. Columbus Cross. 
 
 'I'licro Avrro thrro vlio wnit totjothcr, when tlie 
 
 blessed Christmas broke, 
 Brought rr<l berries from the holly, and green ivy 
 
 from the oak ; 
 
 That the types of life immortal, for the feast of life 
 
 might wave : 
 Now keep the three their Christmas Eve, — ah me ! 
 
 I>v an opt'Ti <j:nive. 
 
 They keep tlieir tryste — but two of them, with hearts 
 
 liv sorrow riven, 
 And those words that sink in anguish, though they 
 
 come to raise to Heaven. 
 
 Hear the tender voice that trembles as the ** Dust 
 to dust" is said, 
 
 See the teai-s that with the earth fall on the beauti- 
 ful younj; head : 
 
 
 
 And one — not love, not thrilling thoughts that 
 
 tender memories lend, 
 Not the hot tears of his brother, not the sweet 
 
 voice of his friend —
 
 The Grave hy St. Columbas Cross. 129 
 
 Can touch that heart, or link again that delicate 
 
 chain of life, 
 That strain'd against the fever's grasp, and was 
 
 shivcr'd in the strife. 
 
 Jiut whether now lie strikes liis harp, with the holy 
 
 Seraphim, 
 Who sang in the fields at midnight, tlie fii-st great 
 
 Christmas hymn. 
 
 Or wlu'thor, 'neath that awful shrine, where the 
 
 weary saints tind rest. 
 Tie meets the souls who dropp'd asleep before him 
 
 on Jesus' breast ; 
 
 He is safe, he is blest, where sin and sorrow can 
 
 vex no more, 
 Where the works of the saints do follow them 
 
 through the pearly door. 
 
 And if, in their high communion, our tcai*s can his 
 
 spirit move, 
 'Tis but with a wond'ring pity, born of subhmer 
 
 love.
 
 130 The (irave hy St. Columhus Cross. 
 
 Now Irt liini lir, tlic wost'rin^ sun sinks into his 
 
 ocean l»(il, 
 And tlie bri'czc that cannot reach him liowls arnund 
 
 his coHin'd head. 
 
 Leave him lyinp where he would be, in the shadow 
 
 of the cross : 
 IIoars«lv siijhs the wind of even, and we see tlie 
 
 And thr ii.iiK 11). ks about Tornii«rhe look like 
 
 battlements of gold ; 
 O, the glory of tJiat amber over waves of sapphire 
 
 roll'd ! 
 
 And O, that we were safe at last, in the golden city's 
 
 street, 
 With the jasper walls above us, and tlie crystal at 
 
 our feet !
 
 131 
 
 SORROW 0\ THE SEA. 
 
 WHITE sail, shittin«r in the sun, 
 Drops slowly down the shadowy lake, 
 The heavinjj billows hardly make 
 A silver track in her green wake. 
 So lazilv thev run. 
 
 Down, down she drops, the feathery clouds 
 Lie loosen'd on the distant hills, 
 An oar-splash in the silence thrills, 
 Helping tlie wind that never fills 
 Her sail, but flaps her shrouds. 
 
 Down where those headlands, wildly fair, 
 Each with a beautv' of its own, 
 Brown heather tuft, or dark grey stone. 
 Stand double, one in ocean thrown, 
 One cuttinor the clear air. 
 
 e>
 
 132 Sorrow on the Sea. 
 
 She uii>j>-, iii.ii :-(,Ui I i\ r>i 1 lii> I'l IIIOVP, 
 
 Where calm tlu)Ho colourM pictuns sleep 
 In tlie still Ikisoiii of the deep ; 
 As o'er iimn's heart tlie shadows creep 
 Of our life's jt^ief and love. 
 
 Vain imaf^e ! all that li^ht and dark 
 Shall w ith the sun-(;leam8 come and ^o ; 
 With time and rhanpe it is not so, 
 Their shadows on the heart lliev throw, 
 But, ah ! thev leave their mark ! 
 
 Change, chancre, O tide ! Thy eold sjilt wave, 
 The 8ame hv nnk and silver strand, 
 Unscathed shall leave the shadowy land, 
 Unstain'd shall bear the Piinsrt's hrand, 
 And kiss the coral cave. 
 
 But with our hearts 'tis different far : 
 The tide of life may ebb and flow, 
 Still the ^eat love shall lurk below, 
 Still the deep wound of the great woe, 
 Shall never, never scar.
 
 Sorrow on the Sea. 133 
 
 A woman sitteth silently 
 In thf l)Oiit*s stern, nor weeps nor sighs ; 
 But g-.izes where that dark rock lies, 
 As if die glare of dead men's eyes 
 Look'd ut her through the sea. 
 
 Soul, sight, and sense, in one dark mist 
 Hang o'er the spot ; the boatmen say : — 
 " Poor soul ! five yeai*s gone and a day, 
 He went down in that treacherous bay, 
 And still she keeps her tryst." 
 
 Out of the heart of that great town, 
 Where turbid Clyde awhile must stray 
 'Mid warehouse yast and busy quay, 
 Then leaves tliem, rushing through the spray, 
 Down to his Highlands brown : 
 
 c 
 
 Out of the noise of toil and crime. 
 The cry for wealth, the hot pursuit : 
 To where the sun set grandly mute. 
 O'er Cumrae wild, and greener Bute, 
 And An-an's heights subhme,
 
 1.14 Sorrow on the Sea. 
 
 Where, as the heatllands ot Ar«ryle 
 Grew iliin, aiul fiuhd on the lee, 
 Fair Antrim's clitls nwe from the sen. 
 And the shafts carven wnndrously. 
 Of thf \\wrv {jiant's pile, 
 
 Sh. i.itii. — -Mtl ttt' tlif crush and t^looin. 
 Into the ocean's hroken hhie, 
 The f:Ior}- of tlie distant view ; 
 Still her |K>or heart, um widly true, 
 B»:it hut to one low t«)mh. 
 
 In the old abbey's keeping laid, 
 Where shadows into shadows merge, 
 III- lioth sweetly : while the surge, 
 Rej>entant, sin<;s a ceaseless dirge 
 Around the graves it made. 
 
 There will she find a vent for tears. 
 And hug the turf, and sing : " Alas, 
 There is so long a time to pass 
 Ere I shall lie beneath this grass, 
 I am ?o vounrr in vears !"
 
 Sorrow on the Sea. 135 
 
 < )r in a ralmor mood she sits, 
 All a lon^ suiuiuer's day alone, 
 And (leeks the p^ave with flowere new blown. 
 And plucks the ^rey moss from the stone, 
 And weeps and prays by fits. 
 
 To her jj^reat lonehness of giief 
 No human voice draws ever niffh : 
 Ah, mountain aii-s that pass me by ! 
 Ah, blue drifts in the clouded sky ! 
 Can ye not brinsr relief? 
 
 Dark headlands rooted in the wave, 
 With sunset glories on your face, 
 And storm-tost billows at your base, 
 Can ye not tell of woe by gi-ace 
 Made noble, pure, and brave ? 
 
 Can ye not tell of holy calm 
 In some hiffh refrion where the mind — 
 This dust and ashes left behind — 
 For bleeding love a salve shall find. 
 For separation, balm ?
 
 136 Sorrow on the Sea. 
 
 That suiiliss laiul is l)riglit ami green ; 
 Its Howers are fair; l»ut evcmiore 
 Coltl death haii^ looming; on the shore, 
 And we hut tiiiiik how sa«l and sore 
 The entering in hath hi-en. 
 
 As if a hird, her wing- ^jm-.n! wide 
 For scented groves in sunnier land. 
 Should linger in the mud and sand, 
 Where from some w«'ll low-lvintj strand 
 Creeps back the northern tide. 
 
 As if, through that hiind-driving mist. 
 The golden hills we could not see, 
 Nor feel how fast the shadows flee, 
 How lont; tiie liri<rht etenjitv. 
 There with our risen Chnst. 
 
 Who sits for ever by the cross. 
 And only kisses the pierced feet, 
 And hears the painful pulses beat, 
 Thouffh that great ajjonv be sweet ; 
 Surelv he hath a loss.
 
 Sorrow on tlie Sea. 137 
 
 He never brou^lit liis spice and niATi-h, 
 And wiitcli'd all night where Jesus lay, 
 Till the ^r,\ve heaved at break of day, 
 And the sealM stone was roU'd away ; 
 He never heard the stir 
 
 Of wing;s that pant, and harps that quiver, 
 ■\Viien He who died that heaven to win, 
 The King of Glory, enter'd in. 
 An intercessor for our sin. 
 
 At God's right hand for ever. 
 
 Bear, bear her where that music rolls. 
 And let her lie at those pierced feet, 
 (But treading now the golden street,) 
 And let her hear the strains that greet 
 His own redeemed souls. 
 
 Let gi-iefs long passion pass away. 
 That parting never more to be. 
 The cold low grave beside the sea. 
 The shriek of his death agony, 
 The rock in the blue bay.
 
 138 Sorrow on the Sea. 
 
 Bear her where only such a heart 
 Can cease to sorrow and to yearn, 
 For only there love meets return, 
 And only there eyes never mourn, 
 And loved ones never part. 
 
 Then bring her back where burden'd Clyde 
 Round many a lashing wheel raves white, 
 There, calm and still in faith's dear might, 
 Her loving heart shall read you right. 
 Strains of the hill and tide.
 
 Jj)pmn0 anti ^acreD poem0. 
 
 EARTH AND HEAVEN. 
 
 2:^j-^^HE roseate hues of early dawn, 
 ^^ b^ The brightness of the day, 
 ^S^S The crimson of the sunset sky ; 
 How fast they fade away ! 
 
 Oh, for the pearly gates of Heaven ! 
 
 Oh, for the golden floor ! 
 Oh, for the Sun of Righteousness 
 
 That setteth nevermore ! 
 
 The highest hopes we cherish here, 
 How fast they tire and faint ! 
 
 How many a spot defiles the i-obe 
 That wraps an earthly saint !
 
 140 Earth and Heaven. 
 
 Oh, for a heart that never sins ! 
 
 Oh, for a robe wash'd white ! 
 Oh, for a voice to praise our King, 
 
 Nor weary day or night ! 
 
 Here faith is ours, and heavenly hope, 
 And grace to lead us higher, 
 
 But there are perfectness and peace 
 Beyond our best desire. 
 
 Oh, by Thy love and anguish. Lord ! 
 
 Oh, by Thy life laid down ! 
 Oh, that we fall not from Thy grace, 
 
 Nor castaway our crown !
 
 141 
 
 " TOUCHED WITH THE FEELING OF 
 OUR INFIRMITIES." 
 
 HEN, wounded sore, the stricken soul 
 
 Lies bleeding and unbound. 
 One only hand, a pierced hand, 
 Can salve the sinner's wound. 
 
 When sorrow swells the laden breast, 
 
 And tears of anguish flow. 
 One only heart, a broken heart, 
 
 Can feel the sinnei-'s woe. 
 
 When penitence has wept in vain 
 
 Over some foul, dark spot. 
 One only stream, a stream of blood. 
 
 Can wash away the blot. 
 
 'Tis Jesus' blood that washes wliite, 
 
 His hand that brings relief, 
 His heart that's touch'd with :ill our joys, 
 
 And feeleth for our grief.
 
 142 Touched with our Injirmities. 
 
 Lift uji Thy blecdinj; hand, () Lord, 
 Unseal that cleansing; tide; 
 
 We liave no shelter from our sin, 
 But in Thv wounded side !
 
 143 
 
 COMMUNION HYMN. 
 
 JESUS, bruised and wounded more 
 
 Than bursted grape, or bread of wheat. 
 The Life of Life within our souls. 
 The cup of our salvation sweet ; 
 
 We come to show Thy dying hour, 
 Thy streaming vein, thy broken &eA\ ; 
 
 And still the blood is warm to save. 
 And still the fragi-ant wounds are fi-esh. 
 
 O heart, that with a double tide 
 Of blood and water makest pure ! 
 
 O flesh, once ofier'd on the cross. 
 The gift that makes our pardon sure ! 
 
 Let never more our sinful souls 
 The anguish of Thy cross renew, 
 
 Nor forge again the cruel nails 
 
 That pierced Thy victim body through.
 
 144 Comrminioii Ihjmn. 
 
 Come, bread of Heaven, to feed our souls, 
 And with Thee, Jesus, enter in ; 
 
 Come, wine of God, and as we drink 
 His precious hlood, wash out our sin.
 
 145 
 
 EPIPHANY HYMN. 
 
 TAR of the East ! whose silver ray 
 Was erst the faithful Gentile's guide, 
 Star of our souls ! look down to-dav, 
 And lead us to Thy cradle side. 
 
 Hither, of old, the wise men bore 
 Gift for a God, their incense sweet, 
 
 A monarch's tribute, golden ore. 
 And balmy m}Trh for victim meet. 
 
 Here, too, our hearts would pause awhile. 
 Sweet Source of love and mercy free, 
 
 Would linger in Thy cradle-smile. 
 And lift the voice, and bend the knee. 
 
 O Christ oui* God ! Thy name we own 
 The hio-hest name in earth or heaven. 
 
 O Christ our King ! to Thee alone 
 The homage of our hearts be given. 
 
 L
 
 14G EpipJuniij lIi/iitiK 
 
 C) Christ our Saviour, who didst bow 
 For us Thy sinless victim-head, 
 
 To wear tlie thorn-wreath on thy brow. 
 To lie enibahn'd among the dead ; 
 
 We follow where our fathers trod, 
 We open, too, our treasure-store ; 
 
 Redeemer, Monarch, mighty God, 
 Save, guide, and keep us evermore.
 
 U7 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 ..j^f-N tlie land of Bethlehem Judah 
 t-c^ Let lis linger, let us wander ; 
 
 Ej)hrath's sorrow, Rachel's pillar, 
 Lieth in the valley yonder ; 
 And the yellow barley harvest 
 Floods it with a golden glory. 
 Let us back into the old time, 
 Dreaming of her tender story, 
 Of her true heart's strong devotion. 
 From beyond the Dead Sea water, 
 From the heathen land of Moab — 
 Mahlon's wife, and Mara's daughter. 
 
 II. 
 On the terebinth and fig-tree 
 Suns of olden time are shining. 
 And the dark leaf of the olive 
 Scarcely shows its silver lining ; 
 For still noon is on the thicket,
 
 148 Ruth. 
 
 Where the blue-neck'd pijxeons listen 
 
 To their own reproachful music ; 
 
 And the red pomefrranates glisten. 
 
 As a queen a golden circlet, 
 
 As a maid might wear a blossom, 
 
 So the valley wears the cornfields 
 
 Heaving: on her fertile bosom : 
 
 And tlie round prrev hills stand o'er them, 
 
 All their terraced vineyards swelling, 
 
 Like the green waves of a forest, 
 
 Up to David's royal dwelling. 
 
 III. 
 Lo ! the princely-hearted Boaz 
 Moves among his reapers slowly, 
 And the widow'd child of Moab 
 Bends behind the gleaners lowly ; 
 Gathering, gleaning as she goeth 
 Down the slopes, and up the hollows, 
 While the love of old Naomi, 
 Like a guardian angel, follows ; 
 And he speaketh words of kindness, 
 Words of kindness calm and stately, 
 Till he breaks the springs of gladness
 
 Ruth. 149 
 
 That lay cold and frozen lately ; 
 
 And the love-flowers, that had faded 
 
 Deep within her bosom lonely, 
 
 Slowly open as he questions. 
 
 Soon for him to blossom only, — 
 
 When that spring shall fill with music, 
 
 Like an ovei-flowing river, 
 
 All his homestead, and those flowers 
 
 Bloom beside his hearth for ever. 
 
 Mother of a line of princes. 
 
 Wrought into that race's story, 
 
 Whom the Godhead, breaking earthward, 
 
 Mark'd with an unearthly glory. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Still he walks among the reapers : 
 The long day is nearly over, 
 And the lonely mountain partridge 
 Seeks afar his scanty cover ; 
 And the flocks of wild blue pigeons, 
 That had glean'd behind the gleaner. 
 Find their shelter in the thicket : 
 And the cloudless sky grows sheener 
 With a sudden flush of crimson,
 
 150 Ruth. 
 
 Steeping in a fiery lustre 
 Every sheaf-top in the valley, 
 On the hill-side every cluster. 
 
 V. 
 
 Slowly, slowly fade, fair picture, 
 Yellow lights and purple shadows, 
 On the valley, on the mountain, 
 And sweet' Ruth among tlie meadows. 
 Yet delay, true heart, and teach us. 
 Pausing in thy matron beauty, 
 Care of elders, love of kindred. 
 All unselfish thought and duty. 
 Linger, Boaz, noble minded ! 
 Teach us, haughty and unsparing. 
 Tender care for lowlier station. 
 Kindly speech, and courteous bearing. 
 Still each softest, loveliest colour, 
 Shrine the form beloved and lovinc^, 
 Heroine of our hearts' first poem, 
 Throuo^h our childhoods' dreamland movins; ; 
 When the great old Bible open'd, 
 And a pleasant pastoral measure. 
 As our mothers read the story, 
 Fill'd our infant hearts with pleasm-e.
 
 151 
 
 THE SUN OF RIGHTEOUSNESS. 
 
 HE sick man in his chamber, 
 Through the long weary night 
 Toss'd on his restless pillow, 
 How longs he for the light ! 
 
 He counts the hours that linger, 
 Heavy with clouds and rain, 
 
 And a great weight of darkness 
 Lies on his fever'd brain. 
 
 He hears the loud clock ticking, 
 
 And the owl hoot afar, 
 While glimmers the pale night-light 
 
 And fades the midnight star. 
 
 Till eastward in the heaven 
 He sees, at last, the sign. 
 
 O'er the far purple mountains 
 A single silver line ;
 
 152 The Sun of Righteousness. 
 
 It broadens, and it deepens 
 To a sea of red and gold, 
 
 With clouds of rosy amber 
 Around its glory roU'd : 
 
 Till each pane of his window 
 Is silver'd o'er and o'er, 
 
 And lines of golden arrows 
 Lie on the dusky floor. 
 
 The sick soul lieth weary 
 In the world's soft unrest, 
 
 With clouds of care and sorrow. 
 And weight of sins opprest. 
 
 Out of the night she crieth, 
 Out of the narrow room : — 
 
 " O Saviour, gentle Saviour, 
 
 Wilt Thou not pierce the gloom ? 
 
 " Break on this night of longing. 
 Where hand in hand we grope 
 
 Through wastes of vain endeavours, 
 'Neath stars of fruitless hope,
 
 The Sun of Righteousness. 153 
 
 " O'er the great hills of sadness 
 
 That hem us darkly in, 
 Rouo;h with our tears and losses, 
 
 And black with many a sin. 
 
 " Rise, rise above the mountains, 
 
 With healing on Thy wings, 
 Break into the dark chambers 
 
 Where pain in secret stings. 
 
 " Come, while the morning tari-ies 
 
 Our waiting eyes to bless, 
 Look through the lowly lattice. 
 
 Bright Sun of Righteousness ! 
 
 " Set, for the hearts that love Thee, 
 
 Thy token up above. 
 The white rays of redemption, 
 
 And the red fire of love. 
 
 " Out of our gloom we call Thee, 
 
 Out of our helpless night : 
 Sun of the world, sweet Saviour, 
 
 Show us Thy perfect light !"
 
 Q^issionarj? aiiD Colonial. 
 
 TO C. H. A. 
 
 Wlio married a Clergyman, and went out with him to join the 
 
 Bishop of New Zealand. Sent with a 
 
 cross of Irish bo<r-oak. 
 
 [UT of the bosom desolate and deep 
 
 Of her that was the " Isle of Saints" 
 of old, 
 
 Where, far below, her buried forests sleep, 
 They cut this little cross of ancient mould.* 
 
 Type of her beautiful and glorious days, 
 
 Her first pure days of faith, and lore, and love. 
 
 * The Irish oak is cut out of the bogs which contain vast 
 buried forests. It was probably in the days when these forests 
 stood, that Ireland was celebrated for her schools of Christian 
 
 learning.
 
 To a H. A. 155 
 
 When wanted not sweet Nature's note of praise ; 
 Her deep winds whispering down the leafy grove. 
 
 I bid thee lay it on thy pilgrim breast — 
 
 I would some thought of us should go with thee, 
 
 Some message from the melancholy west, 
 To that briffht isle beyond the southern sea. 
 
 And oh, of all our thoughts most sweet, most vast. 
 What better sio-n between our hearts than this ? 
 
 What fitter form to carve out of the past ? 
 What brighter presage of the future's bliss ? 
 
 Most meet for you, who not with thoughts of ease 
 Gild your calm di-eams of holy wedded Ufe, 
 
 Who bear your Master's cross beyond the seas. 
 For earnest labour, and for weary strife. 
 
 Heet symbol, too, from this fair isle forlorn, 
 To her who hears the wide Pacific roar. 
 
 Who sitteth in the twilight of her morn, 
 
 Watching the lights that break along the shore ;
 
 156 To a II. A. 
 
 Ilearkoninn^a strain more sweet than rapt'rous burst 
 Of wild bird's song when dawn is in the sky ; 
 
 An echo of the angels' song that ei-st 
 
 S})aki' j)eaee on earth, and told salvation nigh. 
 
 And jjc who leads and modulates that strain, 
 Wandering l)y pathless waste and lonely rock, 
 
 Whose restless bark is ever on the main, 
 Patiently gatiiering in his little flock. 
 
 How will he look along the heaving tide, 
 
 And bless the breeze that brinjjs from tiie old land 
 
 One brother more to labour at his side, 
 Another sister to his exiled band. 
 
 And ye will catch the burden of his song, 
 
 Will swell the measure when perchance it faints. 
 
 Bid gidf and cliff the glorious strain prolong. 
 And make that isle another Isle of Saints. 
 
 Pray for us, brother, sister, — love doth make 
 No count of space,, devotion hath no bound — 
 
 And chief for them, the faithful few, who wake, 
 Watchins: our island fold with foes around ;
 
 To a H. A. 
 
 157 
 
 And so farewell ! — already the winds greet 
 
 Your out-bound sail, and lift the crested wave ; 
 
 How oft in thought, in hope, in heart, we meet 
 By the dear sign of Him who died to save !
 
 158 
 
 PRAISE AND INTERCESSION.* 
 
 AKE, wanderer, wake ! a solemn voice 
 ,^T Chants softly to the chill night air, 
 In old familiar melody, 
 Sweet strains of praise and prayer ; 
 
 Such strains as in thine own dear land 
 
 Unnumber'd voices love to sing, 
 When, mom and eve, the Bride of Heaven 
 Brings homajje to her King. 
 
 Here are no old collegiate walls, 
 
 No mighty minster fair and strong ; — 
 Whence caught this wild north-western waste 
 The Church's evensong ? 
 
 • A traveller in North 'America, while resting at a lonely 
 Inn, was roused at night by a voice chanting the Psalms ; on 
 inquiry, he found that it was the Bishop of Newfoundland 
 chanting, alone, the Evening Service,
 
 Praise and Intercession. 159 
 
 Sleep, wanderer, sleep ! thy mother's hand 
 
 Is stretch'd to guard each wandering child, 
 Her shepherd waketh for the flock 
 Far scatter'd in the wild. 
 
 'Tis meet his deep, unwearied voice, 
 
 Still, night and day, her songs renew, 
 Like strain thrice echoed from the hills, 
 Whose eveiy note is true. 
 
 Head of the Church, for ever near. 
 
 Hear Thou Thy servant's evening hymn, 
 Give that lone voice a power to raise 
 From sleep more dark and dim ; 
 
 Be it a witness to Thy name, 
 
 For truth, for love, for order dear, 
 Charming the sinner from his path, 
 Soothine: the exile's ear. 
 
 o 
 
 It dies beneath the wide grey Heaven, 
 
 It dies along the silent plain. 
 No answering flock, no deep- voiced choir 
 Take up the solemn strain.
 
 160 Praise and Intercession. 
 
 Yet patience, strong and holy heart, 
 
 Nor fear the full response shall come ; 
 Still waken with thy lonely note 
 The desert dark and dumb. 
 
 Dccj) dowTi the course of coming years 
 
 The chord shall vibrate yet again. 
 And ages yet unboni shall hear 
 That slumbering Amen.
 
 161 
 
 THE LOST CHILD. 
 
 S when in sleep the mother deems 
 
 She holds her dead child in her bosom, 
 And feels a waxen hand, and dreams 
 She sees again her perish'd blossom, 
 
 And dearer, sweeter seems to her 
 
 That image wan than any other ; 
 So should the thought within thee stir, 
 
 Of thy lost childi'en, island mother ! 
 
 No voice of di'eams, it haunts thy soul 
 
 Across the blue Pacific water, 
 Above the wild Atlantic's roll. 
 
 From many an exiled son and daughter : 
 
 No vision'd forms, they wander there 
 Beneath old woods' primeval shadows ; 
 
 Through coral-girded islands fair, 
 
 By frozen rocks and sun-burnt meadows : 
 
 M
 
 162 The Lost Child. 
 
 Thy living dead, for whom the spring 
 
 Is dried of spiritual being, 
 And every sacramental thing 
 
 That leads to the unseen All-seeing : 
 
 They hear no more, when Sundays come, 
 
 The old bells swing in village towers, 
 A message from the angrels' home 
 
 Unto this work-day world of ours 
 
 No more they seek, in reverent haste, 
 
 Christ's wedding-feast within His palace. 
 
 Nor eat the precious bread, nor taste 
 The wine-di'op in the saci-ed chalice ; 
 
 For them no calm chance words are said 
 By pastoral lips in love and meetness. 
 
 Like breathings from a violet-bed, 
 
 That touch the common air with sweetness ; 
 
 Therefore, lift up thine arm this day. 
 
 Bid the Church iheet them, island mother ; 
 
 Lest they forget her as they stray, 
 Or falsely deem they find another.
 
 163 
 
 THE IRISH MOTHER'S LAMENT. 
 
 ALF the long night, my children, I lie 
 
 i ^^ 1 waking 
 
 Till the dawn rustles in the old thorn- 
 tree, 
 Then dream of you, while the red morn is breaking 
 Beyond that broad salt sea ; 
 
 In this poor room, where many a time the measure 
 
 Of your low, regular breathing in mine ear, 
 Brouo-ht to my listening heart a keener pleasure 
 Than any music clear ; 
 
 Here, where, your soft heads in my bosom laying, 
 Ye nestled, with your hearts to my heart press'd, 
 And I have felt your little fingers playing. 
 All night, around my breast ; 
 
 On the brown hill-side, where so oft togetliei-, 
 
 Roaming forth idly, when our work was done, 
 We heard the moor-fowl in the purple heather, 
 Crowing at set of sun ;
 
 164 The Irish Mother's Lament. 
 
 I am alone — still on my threshold lieth 
 
 The shadow of the thorn ye play'd beneath, 
 Still to her mate, at eve, the brown bird crieth, 
 Out of the lonely heath : 
 
 But in my desolate house no sound of laughter, 
 And by my dreary hearth no daughter's face ; 
 I watch the black smoke curhng roimd the rafter, 
 I see each empty place. 
 
 How could ye leave me ? Did ye think a mother 
 
 Was natured like a bird in summer's prime, 
 Who leaves her yoimg brood, hopeful of another 
 In the next glad spring time ? 
 
 They tell me your new home is rich and sunny. 
 
 More than this dwelling on the mountain cold, 
 Fair as the land that flow'd with milk and honey. 
 In the great book of old. 
 
 They tell me flowers most beautifid are blowing 
 Out on your waysides, on your common trees. 
 But wiU ye find the mother's love there growing, 
 Ye crave for thinors like these ?
 
 The Irish Mother s Lament. 165 
 
 And some have told me souls are never parted, 
 
 Faith leads us all unto the same bright Heaven, 
 Nor meet it is, that woman, christian-hearted, 
 To such wild s^i'ief be given ; 
 
 Ah ! but I know in that bright land are wanting, 
 On Stmday morn, the sweet church-calling bell, 
 The pastoral word, the gather'd voices chanting 
 HjTnns that ye loved so well. 
 
 The cares of this great world, its toils, its beauty, 
 
 Will dim yom* eyes, and gi'ow about yom- heart. 
 And shut out heavenly hope and Christian duty, 
 And every better part. 
 
 The prayers we pray'd together at God's altar. 
 
 The creed ye Hsp'd into my ear at night, 
 The verses that I taught your lips to falter 
 Will be forgotten quite. 
 
 Ah me ! could I but think those lips were making, 
 In some far church, the vows they used to pour, 
 I could he down without this wild heart-aching 
 Lest we should meet no more.
 
 166 The Irish Mother's Lament. 
 
 Sad mother ! for the visible presence pining 
 
 Of eyes that smile, and lips that fondly move, 
 Things that, like dewy nights and bright sun's 
 shining, 
 Nuree the sweet flowers of love. 
 
 But, sadder far, when the wild waves that sever 
 
 Sing to her ear in one foreboding strain : — 
 " We part you now, but must ye part for ever?" 
 Echoing the heart's didl pain.
 
 161 
 
 COME OVER AND HELP US. 
 
 OULS in heathen darkness lying 
 
 Where no light has broken through, 
 Souls that Jesus bought by dying, 
 Whom His soul in travail knew ; 
 
 Thousand voices 
 Call us o'er the waters blue. 
 
 Christians, say they, none has taught us 
 
 Of His love so deep and dear. 
 Of the precious price that bought us, 
 
 Of the nail, the thorn, the spear ; 
 Ye who know Him 
 
 Guide us from our darkness drear. 
 
 Still, Mohammed's hosts adoring. 
 Call untired their prophet's name, 
 
 Morn and eve his aid imploring ; — 
 Tell the greater Chief who came. 
 
 The true Prophet, 
 Winning glory out of shame.
 
 168 Cumc over and hclj) Us. 
 
 Still, tlie Jew, in dreams unholy, 
 Hails a conqueror's crimson reig^n. 
 
 Scorns the Son of Mary, lowly : — 
 Read him right the Prophet's str.iin, 
 
 Christ can pve him 
 Israel's glories hack again. 
 
 Still old Asia's sages yearning, 
 
 Grope for tnith with darken'd eye, 
 
 By the lamp within them burning, 
 While the sun is in the sky — 
 
 Notliinjr dreaminj; 
 Of the glorious lijrht on high. 
 
 o o o 
 
 Still the earth hatli cruel places, 
 
 Wrath, and hate, and vengeance grim,- 
 
 Still God looks on human faces 
 
 Heavenward tum'd, but not to Him ; 
 
 Slaves who know not 
 Comfort in their anguish dim. 
 
 Eastward far the bright sun breaking 
 
 Treads the dark clouds into light, 
 East and west the lands are waking,
 
 Come over and help Us. 169 
 
 Other feet are on the height, 
 
 More beautiful, 
 Bearing words of love and might. 
 
 Haste, O haste to spread the tidings, 
 
 Let no shore be left untrod. 
 No lost brother's bitter chidings 
 
 Haunt us from the furthest sod : 
 Tell the heathen 
 
 All the precious truth of God !
 
 170 
 
 LOOKING UP TO HEAVEN.* 
 
 S^^^R^HE sun sinks o'er the western sea 
 (j^ ^y^ And o'er the trackless plain, 
 MjX^y^ A Where the good Bishop wearily 
 Leads on his scanty train ; 
 
 The moon fades from the brow of night, 
 Dark broods the lonely hour. 
 
 No passing gleam of social light 
 Shines out from hall and bower ; 
 
 Such gleam as dear old England sees 
 
 From the closed casement far 
 At even, through her tall dark trees ; 
 
 The peasant's polar star ; 
 
 • Suggested by a passage in the Bishop of New Zealand's 
 Journal, in which he describes having first seen the sun and 
 then the moon go down, and being afterwards lighted on his 
 journey by the constellations of the Southern Cross and the 
 Triangle.
 
 Looking up to Heaven. 171 
 
 \Miich, wearied with his long day's toil, 
 
 He greeteth far away ; 
 Christ's labourer tills a harder soil — 
 
 Hath he no cheering raj ? 
 
 Yes, wanderer, look, to heaven's blue height 
 
 The Southern Cross ascends, 
 And, batliing all thy path in hght, 
 
 Thine " own Triangle" bends. 
 
 Sweet stars, there lies a gentle lore 
 
 In Natui'e's shadowings. 
 And we may find in her full store 
 
 The types of holier things. 
 
 God's holy Church, mysterious still, 
 
 Wends on, from age to age. 
 Through this dark world of strife and ill, 
 
 Her lonely pilgrimage ; 
 
 And darkness meets her on the wold. 
 
 And frowns the gathering foe, 
 And hearts are false, and love is cold, 
 
 And even faith burns low :
 
 172 Looking up to Heaven. 
 
 Because we look not vij) on high 
 Whore waves the red cross wide, 
 
 Nor think how He who died to save, 
 Still guards His mystic Bride ; 
 
 Because we have no hearts to see 
 
 Bright, as in days of old, 
 The presence of the Eternal Three 
 
 Within her sacred fold. 
 
 And thou to wliora thy Lord has given 
 
 The crozicr and the key, 
 And bade thee tend the Bride of Heaven, 
 
 Girt by that southern sea. 
 
 What though cold-hearted Christians fear. 
 
 What though the heathen frown, 
 Though all tlie waste be -wild and drear, 
 .And sun and moon go down. 
 
 Yet shalt thou lay Redemption's sign 
 
 On many a sarvage brow. 
 And many a rudely sacred shrine 
 
 Shalt to the Triune vow ;
 
 Looking up to Heaven. 173 
 
 And hope on them and peace be pour'd, 
 
 Who see thy face no more, — 
 The exile labouring for his Lord 
 
 Upon that heathen shore !
 
 Cburcbes. 
 
 ON THE LAYING OF THE FIRST STONE 
 
 OF THE MEMORIAL CHURCH AT 
 
 CONSTANTINOPLE BY 
 
 LORD STRATFORD DE REDCLIFFE, OCT. 19, 1858. 
 
 : OW no more fair Stamboul hears the rattle 
 Of the warriors' harness at her gates ; 
 Sees no more the tide of Europe's battle 
 Hotly pressing through her azure straits. 
 
 Queen-like, from her terraces and gardens. 
 She looks down, along those waters blue, 
 
 On those turrets twain, her ancient wardens, 
 Guardians of the old world and the new. 
 
 From her throne the languid European 
 Sees the old camp on the Asian shore,
 
 Laying of the First Stone, §-c. 175 
 
 Sees the foam-wreaths on the fai' ^gean, 
 And the white sails flitting slowly o'er. 
 
 Sees no more the gathering host that wander'd 
 
 To that wild peninsula afar, 
 To the desolate fort where England squander'd 
 
 So much life in one brief winter's war. 
 
 When the full ship, with her living burden, 
 Pass'd so near, she heard the canvas strain, 
 
 As she rush'd in haste, for glory's guerdon, 
 Toward the rock-reefs of that stormy main. 
 
 AYhen the waifs of that great strife and anguish. 
 Like spars borne on a receding tide, 
 
 Came back wounded, came back sick to languish 
 In her shadow, on the Asian side ; 
 
 To those walls, where sick men, breathing faintly, 
 Heard an angel rustling in the gloom, 
 
 And a woman's presence, calm and stately. 
 Lighted up the melancholy room.
 
 176 On the Laying of the First Stone 
 
 Look down, Stamboul, from thy fair dome swelling, 
 
 Where Sophia's broken crosses lie, 
 And thine Imanms, night and day, are telling, 
 
 In God's face, that everlasting lie. 
 
 Not in anger come we to upbraid thee, 
 Not with war-ships floating on thy bay, 
 
 Not with brand and banner come to aid thee. 
 Stand we by thy golden horn to-day. 
 
 Lay tlie stone, O statesman tried and hoary, 
 
 'Tis no marble monument of war, 
 But a trophy to thine England's glory. 
 
 Unto distant ages, nobler far. 
 
 But a tribute, meeter and more solemn, 
 To our lost ones by that rough Black Sea, 
 
 Than triumphal arch or granite column, 
 Graven all with names of victory. 
 
 They have had their dirges in our sorrows 
 
 When the chill'd blood left the cheek and brow, 
 
 In that voiceless agony that borrows 
 An expression out of silent woe.
 
 of the Memorial Church, Constantinople. 177 
 
 And their names writ down in Britain's story, 
 The best page she shows to future years, 
 
 And their cold brows twined with wreaths of glory ; 
 Ah, those laurels wet with woman's tears ! 
 
 Not yet time, with surely-healing fingers, 
 
 To our beggar'd love has brouo:ht relief, ■ 
 
 Still a vain thought of requital lingers, *" 
 
 And an aching; memorv of ijrief. 
 
 This, our vengeance for the gallant bosoms, 
 In those cruel trenches, night by night, 
 
 Chill'd to death, as snow-encumber'd blossoms 
 Fall down, and are trampled out of sight. 
 
 This, our vengeance for the young life wasted 
 In the hot charge and the vain attack, 
 
 The assault to which so many hasted. 
 
 And the charge from which so few came back. 
 
 This, our memory of the true and fearless, 
 Spotless honour, uncomplaining toil. 
 
 And the Christian zeal, the valour peerless. 
 And the tenderness war could not spoil. 
 
 N
 
 178 On the Laying of the First Stone y 8fc. 
 
 Here we raise their monument for ever, 
 Singing for them, till the world shall end, 
 
 " In Meraoriam," such as poet never 
 
 Set to Heaven's own music for his friend. 
 
 Here we rear the white cross and the altar, 
 Day by day the page of truth unfold, 
 
 Chant their dirges from dear England's Psalter, 
 Read their requiem from her Bible old. 
 
 Blend their memory with these aisles of beauty, 
 Grave them on the window's storied line ; 
 
 Meet it is that men who died for duty 
 Be embalm'd in such a noble shrine ; 
 
 Where the voice of praise and prayer habitual. 
 In due order, rises day and night, 
 
 Where the calm voice of that grand old ritual 
 Calls the soldier to a better fijjht. 
 
 '£3 
 
 Sleep, O warriors ! cold your place of burial 
 In that rough Crimean valley lies, 
 
 While our church-spire cleaves the blue ethereal, 
 And all Nature smiles beneath our eyes.
 
 of the Memorial Church, Constantinojjle. 179 
 
 Sleep, O warriors ! all your toil and striving, 
 In one glorious mission, end at last ; 
 
 Here to speak salvation for the living, 
 Hope in death, and pardon for the past. 
 
 All your strength and valour now are blending 
 In one note of love, that swells and thrills 
 
 Like a strain of martial music, ending 
 In long echoes drawn from sylvan hills ; 
 
 For all acts that make our hearts to quiver 
 
 With a strong emotion as we read, 
 Are divine, and go back to the Giver. 
 
 High endurance, courage, generous deea. 
 
 Come from Christ, and, unto Christ returning. 
 Find their full acceptance only there. 
 
 In that centre of all noble yearning. 
 In that type of all perfection fair. 
 
 Here we leave you in His Church, embalming 
 Your dear names with thoughts of love and peace, 
 
 Till He come to reign, all discord calming. 
 And the warfare of the world shall cease.
 
 180 
 
 ON AN OLD FONT IN THE WARDEN'S 
 GARDEN AT WINCHESTER. 
 
 IGH not, nor deem tliat stone profaned 
 Whose lip has held, in olden day, 
 The hallow'd watei-s, where the stain'd 
 Wai;h'd earth's first taint away. 
 
 Still dearly love that scul|)tiired shrine 
 
 Where hallow'd genius loved to bring 
 Her curious work, her rare design, 
 To God in offering. 
 
 The clustering arch, the stoned pane 
 
 Still proudly prize — but let no thought 
 Sin to the fairer, statelier fane, 
 
 That His own hand has wroufjht ; 
 
 Nor deem that broken font misplaced 
 
 Within this graceful garden-gi-ound. 
 Flowers such as chisel never traced 
 Are here to clasp it round.
 
 On an Old Font at Winchester. 181 
 
 Here through the quiet Summer night, 
 
 Long silent nights without a cloud, 
 It lieth ; in the sweet star-light 
 Wrapt like a silver shroud. 
 
 Here incense sweet, at morn and even, 
 
 From countless censers riseth up, 
 And pure bright dew-drops, fresh from Heaven, 
 Fall in its broken cup. 
 
 Still through its guardian plane-trees tall 
 
 The fretted window fairly shows. 
 And on the turf the chapel wall 
 A stately shadow throAvs. 
 
 Still when the stream's wild bubble dies, 
 
 A deep sweet chant is on the air. 
 Teaching our hearts to harmonize 
 The holy and the fair ; 
 
 The hoary tower, the shadowy tree, 
 
 The stream, the flowers entwining gay, 
 Genius, and love, and piety, 
 
 Old strength and fair decay ;
 
 182 On an Old Font at Winchester. 
 
 Here met and mingled — all His own, 
 
 Who Nature fi-amed, who guided art, 
 Inspired the hand that traced the stone. 
 And stain'd the lily's heart. 
 
 Marhle and flower to Him look up, 
 
 His presence hallows shnne and sod ; 
 Deem not they desecrate the cup 
 Who leave it here with God. 

 
 183 
 
 OUTSIDE. 
 
 I. 
 
 In Spirit. 
 
 On seeing a Lady perverted to Komanism stand outside 
 Winchester Cathedral during Evening; Service. 
 
 OST thou stand at thy mother's threshold, 
 bXTi^^^r^ And wilt not enter in, 
 
 Though her sweet voice patiently swelleth 
 Over the city's din ? 
 
 
 Could a wanderinjj child thus lingfer 
 
 Outside the latticed pane. 
 If she heard her own mother singing. 
 
 Within, her cradle strain ? 
 
 If she saw, through the nan'ow casement, 
 The lights on the hearth-stone burn, 
 
 And her brethren there, and her sisters 
 Waiting their sire's return ?
 
 184 In Spirit. 
 
 Down the long nave fallcth the measure 
 That sooth'd tliy childhood's rest, 
 
 And the mother is singing vespers, 
 Wlio bore thee on her breast ; 
 
 And the fire is bright on the altar, 
 And the woi"shippers are there — 
 
 Wilt thou stand alone on the threshold. 
 Out in the evening air ?
 
 185 
 
 II. 
 
 In Body. 
 
 HOU hast been chvellins: in a ffleam 
 Of glorious light, sent down from 
 Heaven, 
 
 It mingled with thy morning dream, 
 It broke the twilight of thine even ; 
 
 It came with concord of sweet sounds, 
 
 With herald strains of church-bells ringing:, 
 
 With words of mercy breathing round. 
 With chanted prayers and choral singing. 
 
 Along tliy daily path it lay, 
 
 For inward peace, for added grace, 
 
 And thou didst linger in the ray ; 
 The world shut out a little space. 
 
 'Tis past, or if it linger yet, 
 
 Poor weary heart, 'tis not for thee,
 
 186 In Body. 
 
 Still, day by day, those sweet bells set 
 Chime to the murmur of the sea. 
 
 Still by the fair shrine never cease 
 The cry of penitence and prayer — 
 
 The answering voice of hope, and peace, 
 And comfort, — but thou art not there. 
 
 In vain the distant measure thrills 
 
 Thine heart, and vibratos in thine ear, 
 
 'Tis but an echo from the hills. 
 
 That cheats the home-sick mountaineer ; 
 
 'Tis but the wild wave's murmuring tone 
 In ocean-shell far inland heard ; — 
 
 But say not, dream not, thus alone 
 
 Is heavenward thought and rapture stirr'd. 
 
 Sweet are the strains that upward float 
 When Christian, hearts in unison meet, 
 
 And passing sweet the pastoral note 
 That bears them to a Saviour's feet.
 
 In Body. 187 
 
 But, these denied, let no quick word 
 Or thought o'er fond, or hopeless sigh, 
 
 O living temple of the Lord ! 
 
 Sin to Thine inward commune hi^h. 
 
 Thou hast a shrine no hand can close. 
 
 No duty leave its courts untrod, 
 Where the true heart in secret knows 
 
 The presence of the spirit's God. 
 
 There grief may all her woes reveal. 
 There penitence may bring her shame. 
 
 Submission by the altar kneel, 
 And self-denial feed the flame ; 
 
 There patience, wearing duty's chain. 
 And meek-faced love, and pure desire. 
 
 May breathe within as sweet a strain 
 As ever thrill'd from yonder choir ; 
 
 There, though thy heart in vain should yearn 
 For other voice, estranged or dumb, 
 
 If thine own incense duly burn. 
 
 The great High Priest Himself shnll come.
 
 188 In Body. 
 
 All ! dream in sorrowing mood no more, 
 Of vows unpaid, uncancell'd sin, 
 
 Thou art not shut from Eden's door. 
 Thy truest Heaven is found within. 
 
 Deep in that wounded heart of thine 
 The temple of thy refuge lies. 
 
 Thyself the altar and the shrine. 
 And thine own heart the sacrifice.
 
 iscEllaneoim. 
 
 WITHERED LEAVES. 
 
 ELI GATE leaves, with your shifting 
 l^)\^^ fi colours, 
 
 .:^ Crimson and golden, or russet brown, 
 Under what sunsets of calm October, 
 
 Out of what groves were ye shaken down ? 
 
 When the sun, dying in red and amber. 
 Tinted the woods with the hues he wore. 
 
 As the stain'd light in a great cathedral, 
 Through the east-window, falls on the floor. 
 
 In your high homes where the tall shafts quiver, 
 And the green boughs, hke a trellis, cross, 
 
 When ye grow brighter, and change, and wither, 
 Symbols ye are of our gain and loss.
 
 190 Withered Leaves. 
 
 Hopes that we cherish'd, and grand ideals, 
 Dreams that to colour and substance grew, 
 
 Ah ! they were lofty and green and golden, 
 Now they lie dead on oui* hearts like you. 
 
 Silent as snow from his airy chamber, 
 
 Down on the earth drops the wither'd leaf. 
 
 Silently back, on the heart of the dreamer. 
 Noticed of none, falls the secret grief. 
 
 Yet ye deceive us, beautiful prophets ; 
 
 For like one side of an ocean shell. 
 Cast by the tide on a dripping sand-beach. 
 
 Only a half of the truth ye tell. 
 
 Much of decadence and death ye sing us. 
 Rightly ye tell us earth's hopes are vain. 
 
 But of the life out of death no whisper, 
 Saying, " We die, but we live again." 
 
 Bring us some teacher, O leaves Autumnal, 
 Some voice to sing,' from your crimson skies, 
 
 Of the home where our hope is immortal. 
 
 Of the land where tlie leaf never dies.
 
 191 
 
 "AVES, waves, waves, 
 Graceful arches, lit with night's pale gold, 
 Boom like thunder through the mountain 
 roll'd. 
 Hiss and make their music manifold. 
 Sing, and work for God along the strand. 
 
 Leaves, leaves, leaves, 
 Beautified by Autumn's scorching breath, 
 Ivory skeletons, carven fair by death, 
 Fall and drift at a sublime command. 
 
 Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts. 
 Breaking, wave-like, on the mind's strange shore. 
 Rustling, leaf-like, through it evermore, 
 O, that they might follow God's good hand !
 
 192 
 
 THE ROYAL BRIDAL. 
 
 OUND wild Dunrce's unsheltcr'd rock, 
 That hears the broad Atlantic beat, 
 The salt waves of the great sea lough 
 Wash'd to the poet's feet. 
 
 Like jewel in a frosted setting 
 
 Was that sweet day in winter time, 
 And all day lonjj those blue waves fretting 
 Had mingled with his rhyme. 
 
 No harsher sound the distance broke, 
 
 Where Inch, a giant fast asleep. 
 Lay folded in his purple cloak, 
 
 . Upon a piu-ple deep. 
 
 The round sun sinking slowly down 
 
 Behind Rathnnillan far away. 
 Saw other hills eternal crown 
 Mulroy's romantic bay.
 
 The Royal Bridal 193 
 
 All round his burning amber bed, 
 
 Were rosy clouds, and crimson fringed, 
 And lines of golden light that led 
 
 Through dark doors, silver-hinged. 
 
 Burn, burn, O sun ! along the west ; 
 
 Ye fringed cloudlets shift and gleam, 
 Fill with bright shapes the poet's breast. 
 Give colour to his dream. 
 
 For, like a relic in a shroud 
 
 Of crimson silk, within its shrine. 
 His heart lies in a chapel proud. 
 Wrapt in a vision finc 
 
 A glorious trance of bridal pomp. 
 
 Of tossing plume and jewell'd hair, 
 Of pawing steed and swelhng trump, 
 Brave men, and women fair. 
 
 No need of light clouds set on fire 
 
 To paint the royal pageant's pride. 
 When passes to the blazing choir 
 That gi-aceful child-hke bride.
 
 194 The Royal Bridal 
 
 Wlion, proud of heart, but calm and grave, 
 
 The matron queen of all the land, 
 Comes pacing up the banner'd nave. 
 Her children in her hand. 
 
 Hush, -weltering wave, and streams that dash 
 Down mountain clefts — ye charm no more. 
 He hears the organ's mighty crash. 
 He hears the anthem pour. 
 
 They pass, — they pause — prince, princess, queen, 
 
 And now the hei-ald's task is done. 
 Dies slowly down the gorgeous scene 
 The word that makes them one. 
 
 Ah me ! there's many a peasant's eye 
 That looks on purple Inch to-day. 
 And only sees a headland high, 
 i^ shadow in the bay. 
 
 There's many a curious, careless face. 
 
 Has look'd along .that glittering line. 
 Seen but the beauty and the grace. 
 And mark'd the jewels shine.
 
 The Royal Bridal. 195 
 
 They saw the fairest court on earth, 
 
 They saw the monarch most beloved, 
 Nor dream'd beneath that mask of mirth 
 What hoher feelings moved. 
 
 They praised the regal mantle's flow, 
 
 They praised the diamonds richly piled, 
 While all the time the heart below 
 Was yearning for her child. 
 
 On the bride's brow, so young, so pale. 
 They watch'd the whiter myrtles set. 
 But not the glances through her veil, 
 Half love and half regret. 
 
 "O' 
 
 Ah, what dear household memories press'd 
 Through all their hearts ! — what prayers were 
 pour'd 
 To Him whose hallowing presence bless'd, 
 Of old, the bridal board. 
 
 What broken links of joy there fell, 
 
 While still smiled on that face serene ! 
 What tears were those — beseeming well 
 The mother and the queen !
 
 196 The Royal Bridal. 
 
 Go, Bride, fair home afar be thine. 
 
 And happy even as her own ; 
 We grudge thee to that grand old Rhine, 
 And to thy German throne. 
 
 Old England gives thee from her arms. 
 
 She gives thee with all blessings crown'd. 
 All surest vows, all holiest charms 
 Wherewitli true hearts are bound. 
 
 One general thrill of love and hope 
 
 Has stin-'d in all our island hearts — 
 From wooded plain, and pasture slope, 
 And crowded city marts, 
 
 To where, from rude cliffs beetling high, 
 The gi-eat sea-eagle northward shrieks, 
 And the long rolling billows lie 
 • In mountain-guarded creeks.
 
 197 
 
 MUSIC AT NIGHT. 
 
 fTILL lingers eve with fond delay, 
 
 Though night has claim'd yon lovely 
 shore, 
 
 And sends from far her shadow grey, 
 Pale twilight stealing on before. 
 
 And yonder waves of varying sheen, 
 The distant headland's line of blue, 
 
 The tall red cliffs, the soft sea-green, 
 Are mingling in one misty hue. 
 
 'Tis past — that gleam of crimson light, 
 The last faint blush of lingering day ; 
 
 Now leaning from her stately height 
 The silver moon looks on the bay. 
 
 And restless waves, that loved to chide, 
 And fling their foam-like showers of snow. 
 
 Calm as a lake without a tide. 
 Lie still and quiver in her glow.
 
 198 Music at Nit/ht. 
 
 The clouds of grief have dimm'd his eye, 
 The waves of woe have swell'd his breast ; 
 
 What pure pale planet drawcth nigh 
 
 Whose look can soothe them all to rest ? 
 
 Come, fairer than yon crescent moon ; 
 
 Come, touch the tone he loves so well ; 
 And g^ief and care shall slumber soon, 
 
 And sorrow own the soothing s])ell. 
 
 Come with thy calm and quiet grace, 
 Thy meek, soft smile and silver tone. 
 
 The rose-tints deepening on thy face, 
 And charm as thou canst charm alone. 
 
 There's not a wave on yon wide sea 
 But thrills to that pure power above, 
 
 Nor heart-string, weary though it be. 
 But trembles to the touch of love. 
 
 From Nature's beauteous outward thin'js 
 What ffleams of hidden life we win ! 
 
 For still the world without us flings 
 Strong shadows of the world within.
 
 Music at Night. 
 
 Sweet scene ! we sliall not love thee less 
 Because thy pulses, wild and free, 
 
 With our home-dream of happiness 
 This hour have thrill'd in harmony. 
 
 199 
 
 Rather, a thousand-fold more fair, 
 
 Thy sea, thy shore, fresh charms shall borrow. 
 For they have heard the tender air 
 
 She sang to-night to soothe his sorrow. 
 
 Torquay, 1850.
 
 200 
 
 WRITTEN IN A VOLUME OF MATTHEW 
 ARNOLD'S POEMS. 
 
 ^^ O mine own poet dreaming, in his moun- 
 1;^ tains, 
 
 J^ ^^.T^^M Such dreams as solitary moments 
 
 nurse. 
 
 Go, Poet, that by Castaly's clear fountains 
 Hast twined thy glorious verse. 
 
 Go — when his wearied heart among the hills 
 
 Lies dead and flat — and breathe thy golden strain. 
 Till all the poet in his bosom thrills, 
 
 And high thoughts speak again. 
 
 He, too, has heard the bees in Summer weave 
 
 Their drowsy chant 'mid Oxford's scented limes ; 
 He, too, has watch'd the quickening pulses heave 
 The heart of these strange times ; 
 
 He, too, has felt the pressure of deep thought — 
 As his soul struggled through the angry throng.
 
 Written in Matthew Arnold's Poems. 201 
 
 When wrath, or fear, or love too keenly wrought — 
 Work itself off in song-. 
 
 His voice, like thine, has rung in that great hall, 
 
 Through the deep silence, ere the plaudits stirr'd, 
 When thousand hearts hung breathless in the thrall 
 Of his own measured word. 
 
 Go — in brief pauses won from sterner duty. 
 
 Much needs the soul sweet fancy's wand of gold, 
 That, touching, tinges with a strange wild beauty 
 Earth's common things, and cold. 
 
 Go — and as sweet a strain perchance shall swell 
 
 Where his own fount of song lies sealed and dim. 
 For, when strange waters drop into the well. 
 It bubbles to the brim.
 
 202 
 
 TO W. A. 
 
 J^^w^HE torrent has its quiet pool, 
 
 ^^ J5^ Its sylvan spot the mountain brown, 
 
 /^^w*^^ Where daisies grow and lambs lie down 
 
 When Summer eves are cool. 
 
 Thy soul is full of gravest thought. 
 Of mighty philosoj)hic themes. 
 Stern truth and wild poetic dreams, 
 And actions duty-taught. 
 
 Yet has it still its one green place, 
 Wherein one little lamb lies down. 
 And, sweeter than the daisy crown, 
 The thoughts that give it grace. 
 
 One quiet spot that knows no shock 
 Of falling waves that crash and whirl, 
 Where, safe as undiscover'd pearl. 
 There hes our little " Joe."
 
 To TV. A. 203 
 
 Thou said'st thy father-love was such 
 As man's great heart might fitly know 
 When gentle woman bids it glow, 
 And thrills to each light touch. 
 
 But holier still the love, I said, 
 That draws thee, with a fresh delight. 
 To those sweet eyes so calmly bright. 
 That little golden head. 
 
 Unselfish love, ennobling, mild. 
 And pure from passion's stain, I ween, 
 As that fair brow, late washen clean. 
 Of thine own christen'd child. 

 
 20-4 
 
 THE SEAMAN'S HOME. 
 
 IDE let the venturous sea-bird roam, 
 
 A speck on ocean's bosom cast, 
 Toucli witli wliite breast the whiter foam, 
 And sliriok before the rising blast. 
 
 But give her, when her wing is weary, 
 A home beyond the cliff's bare verge, 
 
 That, resting in her rocky eyry, 
 
 Her eye may scan the rolling surge. 
 
 Beyond, where bravest sea-bird dares, 
 The seaman's eager prow has driven ; 
 
 And far beyond the line that bears 
 The mingrled blue of sea and heaven : 
 
 o 
 
 His ship has drifted to the gale. 
 
 Where, many a night, the full round moon 
 Saw but herself and that white sail 
 
 O'er all the central ocean strewn ;
 
 The Seamaji's Home. ?05 
 
 Where, many a night, each cold, pale star 
 Look'd kindly on his lonely watch. 
 
 Telling of cottage homes afar, 
 
 And lattice lights beneath the thatch. 
 
 He brought the gold of other lands. 
 He braved the battle's stormy rage ; 
 
 Give him a home, where kindly hands 
 Shall rock the cradle of his ag-e. 
 
 No grey-hair'd wife may soothe his grief, 
 No child may guide his tottering limb. 
 
 The honey on the wither'd leaf, 
 The charms of life are not for him. 
 
 But give him, on his own loved shore, 
 
 A quiet haven, where the brawl 
 Of the chafed sea shall vex no more. 
 
 Or only come at memory's call ; 
 
 And let some gentle pastoral tone 
 Speak to his soul of pardon'd sin, 
 
 Till mercy melt the heart of stone. 
 And hope, with sorrow, enter in ;
 
 206 The Seaman's Home. 
 
 Till, as of old, when out at sea 
 
 His country far behind him faded, 
 
 Some brighter isle before would be. 
 
 With golden vales by palm-trees shaded. 
 
 So, as his life fades slow and calm. 
 And all of earth in distance dies, 
 
 The land that bears the heavenly palm 
 Shall break on faith's fast-closing eyes.
 
 207 
 
 LENT LILIES. 
 
 AIR children of unwilling spring, 
 They grow beside our leafless bowers, 
 And gentle hopes and perfumes bring, 
 To cheer our cold and dreary hours. 
 To sunless skies and scentless gale 
 
 They lift their leaves of golden hue, 
 Sweet Friend, they tell a cheering tale, 
 Our Lent has lilies, too. 
 
 For through this penitential time 
 
 ToQ-ether have we watch'd and pray'd, 
 
 Too-ether heard the matin chime, 
 And seen the tender evening fade ; 
 
 We trod the steep appointed way, 
 We wash'd with tear-drops penitent. 
 
 In meek obedience, day by day, ^, 
 The lilies of our Lent.
 
 208 Lent Lilies. 
 
 And not in vain these hours of woe 
 For liaughty sons of sinful clay, 
 
 More rugged path He trod below 
 Who wash'd our heavy guilt away. 
 
 Yet cheerly tread — He rose who died, 
 Bright hope witli all our grief is blent, 
 
 And we may wear, at Easter-tide, 
 The lilies of our Lent. 
 
 And when the toilsome sti'ife is past. 
 All fasts, and fears, and vigils done, 
 
 How brightly then shall dawn, at last, 
 The everlasting Easter sun : 
 
 On eyes that tears shall never wet, 
 On hearts for ever pure and true ; 
 
 Oh, dearly loved and rarely met. 
 Our Lent has lilies, too !
 
 209 
 
 THE DEAF AND DUMB CHILD. 
 
 I. 
 O voice nor sound for me had power, 
 I walk'd as in a sun-lit night, 
 Tlie stillness of the midnight hour 
 Was round me all the noon-day bright. 
 
 I saw the dark blue streamlet glide, 
 The wild -wind bow'd the forest trees, 
 
 I heard no murmur in the tide. 
 No music in the rushing breeze. 
 
 I saw bright eyes on bright eyes bent. 
 The speaking glance I knew full well, 
 
 But the lips moved — and what they sent 
 To other lips I could not tell. 
 
 And, like to water cold and lone 
 
 Hid down in some deep sunless cave, 
 
 The current of my thoughts flow'd on ; 
 No light was on the gloomy wave. 
 p
 
 210 The Deaf and Dumb Child. 
 
 I walk'd the dew-bespangled sod, 
 I look'd into the broad blue skv, 
 
 I wist not of the good great God, 
 I never dream'd of things on high. 
 
 II. 
 My soul is not untutor'd now. 
 
 Even words and tongues for me have might, 
 My thought has learn'd a calmer flow. 
 
 And the dark waters leap in light ; 
 
 They tell me hill, and stream, and tree. 
 Can breathe to God no grateful lays. 
 
 Yet all dav lone; thev seem to me 
 In loveliness to speak His praise. 
 
 And I have learn'd a dearer lore, 
 Of blood-bought mercy freely won, 
 
 And my freed lip above shall pour 
 The praise in silence here begun. 
 
 Oh, happiest, who, running o'er 
 
 With God's good gifts in mercy given, 
 
 Turn from their own abundant store 
 To teach the dumb the songs of Heaven.
 
 The Deaf and Dumb Child. 211 
 
 And tenfold more unblest than mine 
 His hopeless, heartless, thankless lot, 
 
 Who hears on earth no voice Divine, 
 Whose Hp can speak, and praises not.
 
 Ooiccs for tlje Dumt), 
 
 PRELUDE.* 
 
 HEX her nest is scatter' d, a complaining 
 On the spray the little mother weaves, 
 From her heart's wild harp its sorrows 
 raining, 
 Thick as shadows from the shaken leaves. 
 
 There are lands, wherein, when Death's white 
 fingers 
 
 Tap at last upon the sick-room pane, 
 Send the neighbours all their sweetest singers — 
 
 Comes the minstrel of the cunning strain. 
 
 * These lines refer to a calamitous fire at the Derry and 
 Raphoe Institution for the Deaf and Dumb, in which six of the 
 inmates perished.
 
 Prelude. 213 
 
 Sweetly are the singers measure keeping ; 
 
 Sweetly, sweetly do the minstrels play ; 
 Till the hot heart finds a vent in weeping, 
 
 As in rain the sultry summer day. 
 
 Nest and nestlings Death from us hath taken ; 
 
 Ruin broods upon our labour now ^• 
 Ours is only like the music shaken 
 
 By the wild bird from the hawthorn bough. 
 
 Death climb'd up with crown of fire above him — 
 Not as sometimes to the child he comes, 
 
 Gentle, so that we can almost love him, 
 Knocking: at the nurseries of our homes — 
 
 c? 
 
 But with red eyes, mad in anger mortal. 
 And his red hair streaming wildly o'er, 
 
 Flashing fiery swords before the portal. 
 Hissing, like a serpent at the door. 
 
 We are but as poor musicians, ringing 
 
 On their harps some natural rise and fall — 
 
 We are only like the singers, singing 
 At the children's lowly funeral !
 
 214 
 
 I. 
 
 THE VOICE OF LAMENTATION. 
 
 'II EN the crimson ray 
 Of parting day 
 On the fire-tip])'d mountains dies away, 
 Who would not love 
 To pass above, 
 Where the silver clouds like snow-flakes move ! 
 
 Beyond the bars 
 
 Where the first pale stars 
 Come riding out on their golden cars, 
 
 And learn the cause 
 
 That moves and draws 
 AH natural things with its wondrous laws ! 
 
 And oftener still 
 Our wayward will 
 Would know the reason of good or ill,
 
 The Voice of Lamentation. 215 
 
 And seek to raise 
 
 The veil God lays 
 
 Over His deep mysterious ways. 
 
 When some dear scheme 
 
 Of" our life doth seem 
 Shiver'd at once like a broken dream, 
 
 And our hearts reel 
 
 Like ships that feel 
 A sharp rock grating against their keel. 
 
 For, Oh ! the tone 
 
 Of the children's moan, 
 Has haunted our ears since that midnight lone ; 
 
 And tears have sprung. 
 
 And hearts been wrung, 
 For the musicless lip and the speechless tongue; 
 
 For the seal'd ear 
 
 That could not hear 
 When the red fire roar'd to the starlight clear, 
 
 Like the battle-crv, 
 
 When no help is nigh, 
 Of a terrible, unseen enemy.
 
 216 The Voice of Lamentation. 
 
 And far away, 
 
 By hill and bay, 
 Hearts have been mourninn^ them night and day 
 
 Where Foyle runs down 
 
 To her fiinious town, 
 Tellinj; her banks of their old renown. 
 
 Where the rays make 
 
 A silver wake, 
 Dancing in liglit on the shadowy lake, 
 
 Whose soft waves pour 
 
 For evermore. 
 With a regular fall on her shingly shore. 
 
 In the long reach 
 
 Of sandy beach. 
 Where the wild sea-eagles at Malin screech. 
 
 And rock-reefs stand, 
 
 Far out from the land. 
 Like a chieftain charging in front of his band. 
 
 In grassy sweeps 
 Where the lone hut sleeps, 
 Rock'd by winds from the fui-zy steeps
 
 The Voice of Lamentation. 217 
 
 Of hills that rest, 
 With gold on their breast, 
 Like kings in their regal garments drest. 
 
 There mothers weep 
 
 In anguish deep. 
 Starting at night in uneasy sleep, 
 
 And Avave-wash'd reef. 
 
 And winds in the leaf, 
 Are set by their sorrow to songs of grief. 
 
 " Oh, for one breath, 
 
 In that hot death. 
 Of the cool wind over the fragrant heath ; 
 
 Oh, for one wave," 
 
 They cry, " to lave 
 Those poor, little hearts in their burning grave." 
 
 God's Spirit sweet 
 
 Quench Thou the heat 
 Of our passionate hearts that rave and beat ; 
 
 Quiet their swell. 
 
 And gently tell. 
 That God's right hand doeth all things well.
 
 218 Tlie Voice of Lamentation. 
 
 Under the sliroud 
 
 Of His thundtT cloud 
 Lie we still wlitn His voice is loud, 
 
 And our hearts shall feel 
 
 Ilis love-notes steal, 
 As a bird sings after the thunder-peal. 
 
 O Spirit dear. 
 
 Bring Him us near. 
 Who bore our sorrows and felt our fear ; 
 
 Who tendorlv wcicfhs 
 
 Each cross that He lays. 
 And saveth the soul that in mercy He slays. 
 
 Toll us they heard 
 
 (Whom never a word 
 Of our articulate language stirr'd) 
 
 That sweeter speech 
 
 That shall one day reach 
 All nations and tongues — in the heart of each. 
 
 In the dark room, 
 When the shriek of doom 
 Echoless knock'd at their heart's dull erloom.
 
 The Voice of Lamentation. 219 
 
 Tell us Christ came, 
 And call'd bv name 
 Each little lamb from the scorching flame. 
 
 Tell us that He, 
 
 As erst with the " three," 
 Walk'd with those six in their agony ; 
 
 Drew them in nigher. 
 
 And wafted them higher, 
 To Heaven, whose chariot and horsemen are fire.
 
 220 
 
 II. 
 
 THE VOICE OF HOPE. 
 
 ^MT^t^IIAT is the suddcst sound that ever gave 
 
 'HI T •# 
 
 5?^\ n /"*; Its weijiht of woe unto tlie earth or 
 
 i«-^r ij_^ Avave ? — 
 
 A river, rin;i:ing out its long, low knell, 
 
 As when a poet sings his sorrow well ? 
 
 A sea tliat sobs in starlight on the beach, 
 
 With some great anguish shaking all his speech ? 
 
 A wind, that droneth out its midnight mass 
 
 For the dead Summer, in a mountain pass ? 
 
 Nay, none of these. Rhyme on, O ancient river ! 
 Break, break, O sea, upon thy beach for ever ! 
 And thou, wild wind, thy requiem intone, 
 In the dark pine-wood, round the grey cairn stone ! 
 But all that sadness comes from conscious powers, 
 And all those sobbings are not theirs, but ours ; 
 And thev are but as bells that nature times. 
 While we lend lanj]^uafje to her random chimes.
 
 The Voice of Hope. 221 
 
 A sad, sweet voice is by the river's brink, 
 But only sad and sweet for those who think. 
 The mute old mountain hath no head to ache — 
 The stern old ocean hath no heart to break. 
 
 Not from the sea, his grand and grief-full tune 
 Wailing on silver trumps to the white moon. 
 The saddest sounds are still the sounds that start 
 From the dark sea men call a human heart ! 
 But saddest of the saddest unto me 
 Is the poor mutes' unmusical mimicry. 
 Fair to a mother's eye the tiny flower 
 That grows so gently in her nursery bower ; 
 Sweet to her ear the scarce-articulate word, 
 The first faint murmur of her little bird : 
 But the mute's mother listens — oh, how long ! 
 And her bright bird can sing her no sweet song ; 
 And his voice rings not on with joy elate. 
 Like flower-bells swinging with their own sweet 
 
 weight. 
 Dim rain the sunlights on the blind boys' face, 
 . They make no sunshine in that shady place ; 
 Yet love invisible bids his path rejoice, 
 Known, like the sky-lark, by its exquisite voice.
 
 222 The Voice of Hope. 
 
 To other children knowledge, year by year, 
 Movcth in music through the open ear ; 
 And God's good spirit comes to all and each, 
 With liis wings spread upon the winds of speech. 
 And words, those marvellous ships, whose freight 
 
 is thought. 
 Touch at the harbour of their hearts unsought. 
 But he, in sun-lit silence, fares abroad. 
 And his dark nature never felt for God ; 
 And no brave galley ever o'er the dim 
 And formless void hath walk'd the waves to him. 
 
 'Twas o'er the sealed ear, the tongue yet tied, 
 The Man of Sorrows look'd to heaven and sigh'd. 
 They, too, have sigh'd, who rear'd that lowly dome. 
 Where the mute child might find his spirit's home. 
 They, too, have look'd to Heaven : albeit no tongue 
 For them were loosed, and no deaf man sung, 
 Yet there, the cunninji^ fino;er finelv twined 
 The subtle thread that knitteth mind to mind. 
 There, that strange bridge of signs was built, where 
 
 roll 
 The sunless waves that sever soul from soul, 
 And by the arch, no bigger than a hand,
 
 The Voice of Hope. 223 
 
 Truth travell'd over to the silent land. 
 
 What though that tribe can have no poet strong 
 
 To steep their sorrow in the wine of song ; 
 
 Though their dull language never bursts and stirs, 
 
 As the gorse bursts out with its golden furze, 
 
 And thoughts' poor thorn above life's dusty walk 
 
 Hangs down no hawthorn-buds of pleasant talk. 
 
 Is not our richer language all too weak ? 
 
 Are not our best thoughts, thoughts we cannot 
 
 speak ? 
 The grandest lights that ever lit the seas. 
 The grandest colour of the forest-trees, 
 Look in lone beauty to the lone, blue sky, 
 Unseen, unraiss'd by any mortal eye : 
 So hath the mute high thoughts unseen abroad, 
 Beautiful only for the eye of God ! — 
 There, over Reason's silent harp of gold 
 Moved the wise hand, and out the music roll'd ; 
 There hove in sight through conscience' stormy mist, 
 That new-discover'd isle, the love of Christ, 
 There, too, they learn'd that life must never be 
 Like a bird swinging on a wind-rock'd tree, 
 But a great earnest thing that wrestles sore. 
 Till the night cometh when the work is o'er.
 
 224 The Voice of Hoj)e. 
 
 And did my gentle Saviour weep erewhile ? 
 Mctliinks I see Him look to Heaven and smile. 
 
 Smiled He that night, who dust for joy returns, 
 For life the ashes of so many urns ? 
 Smiled He who brought His little children nigher, 
 Girt with a glory of consimiing fire? 
 Of old with healing things He sweetly came— 
 Worketh He now His work with drops of flame? 
 Often, methinks, the frown our blindness mourns, 
 Is a smile shadow'd by the crown of thorns. 
 Oft, just as morning comes with amice grey, 
 Whore we have wrestled till the break of day, 
 The touch that shrinks our sinews where we stand. 
 Is a love-token of the bleeding hand. 
 Cry not in spirit o'er the blacken'd wall, 
 " Ashes for beauty ! Home, and hearts, and all. 
 Labour, the gift of gold, the work of prayer. 
 Seek them, thou dreamer, in those ashes there !" 
 Nay, let thy sorrow take a truer strain. 
 Who work for God have never work'd in vain. 
 We write " Resurgam" where our hearts entrust 
 Love to the cold ground, and give dust to dust. 
 When thy hopes dying hang with Him who died. 
 Know that Good Friday hath its Easter-tide,
 
 The Voice of Hope, 225 
 
 Nor say, " The Spring is maying on the meadows ; 
 
 The siinhghts sail about the lake of shadows ; 
 
 The furze is burning goldenly all day, 
 
 As if a stream of stars had lost its way ; 
 
 Each heather'd mountain in the silence weaves 
 
 Raiment as purple as the passionate eve's. 
 
 But mother's lips are ever making moan 
 
 By Swilly's shore, by hills of dark Tyrone ; 
 
 For the small foot no longer prints the strand, 
 
 And the bright eye sees not the purple land. 
 
 And the swift step no longer bravely stirs 
 
 Tlie pale gold primrose, and the deep red furze ; 
 
 For her mute child is where no shadows float, 
 
 No sunshine silvers any pilgrim's boat. 
 
 Nor the great laughter of the deep, salt sea. 
 
 Bids him behold, who cannot hear its glee." 
 
 Nay, Hope hath other strains than these in store. 
 
 I hear her faintly singing o'er and o'er — 
 
 " These from the fire, like those from Herod's sword, 
 
 Unconscious martyrs, wait on their dear Lord. 
 
 Our love is poorer by those perish'd things, 
 
 But He is richer by six priests and kings ; 
 
 And sweeter strains across His temple pass, 
 
 For six new harps are on the sea of glass." 
 
 Q
 
 226 
 
 III. 
 THE VOICE OF THE MOTHER. 
 
 ADY, lady," the mother said, 
 Low kneeling on the sod ; 
 " I came, I look'd upon my dead, 
 And yet I thank my God." 
 
 And still she wept, and still she knelt — 
 " The Lord God bless," said she, 
 
 " The hands that work'd, the hearts that felt 
 For my poor child and me. 
 
 " 'Tis not to look upon the place 
 
 Where our darling lies at rest, 
 That brings the salt teai-s to the face, 
 
 The sorrow to the breast. 
 
 " 'Tis not to tell, in anguish sore, 
 
 The manner of his going ; 
 For that brief bitterness is o'er, 
 
 And time is ever flowing.
 
 The Voice of the 3Iother. 227 
 
 " But, oh, the mother's infinite loss, 
 
 Who lays her treasure down, 
 And knows he never knew the cross 
 
 That only wins the crown. 
 
 " And oh, the saltness of her tear 
 On her christen'd heathen's grave, 
 
 Who could not tell to his closed ear 
 Of Him who waits to save. 
 
 " How many a time I wept and pray'd 
 That Christ would wet the clay. 
 
 And give the speechless creature aid. 
 That in my bosom lay. 
 
 " That He would touch the poor ears dim, 
 
 The lips so rosy fair. 
 Would touch them to a sense of Him, — 
 
 And Jesus heard my prayer. 
 
 " I left him dull as ships afar. 
 
 That lie becalm'd in port, 
 And see the waves beyond the bar 
 
 Dash to the winds in sport ;
 
 228 The Voice of the Mother. 
 
 " I came — a new intelligence 
 Had toucli'd his soul's loose sail, 
 
 And, tighten'd by that quickening- sense, 
 Each cord strain'd to the gale. 
 
 " O blessed hope ! my speechless boy 
 Lies in his Saviour's breast ; 
 
 And what were years of this world's joy 
 To that one thought of rest ? 
 
 " I hear no more the crackling flame, — 
 
 He heard it not at all ; 
 I only know that Jesus came. 
 
 And he could hear His call." 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 CHISWICK PRESS : — C. WHITTINGIIAM, TOOKS COUKT, 
 CHANCERY LANE.
 
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