• *& 1 M THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES POETRY FOR THE PEOPLE, AND OTHER POEMS. BY RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES. LONDON: EDWARD MOXON, DOVER STREET. MDCCCXL. LONDON : HHADI Lin AND IVANS, PItINTBR«, \\ II ITFUU ABH. Tft. A*> TO THE HON. SIDNEY HERBERT. My dear Herbert, Poetical Literature has strong hereditary claims on your favour. The ingenious enquiries of modern criticism have left little doubt that the " Mr. W. EL," to whom Shakspeare dedicated and, for the most part, addrest his Sonnets, was Mr. William Herbert, the third Earl of Pembroke, his Friend and your Ancestor. To be proud of such associations, to rejoice in being thus connected with what is most glorious and honorable in our English past, will be permitted you, even by those who regard the usual distinctions of birth as uncongenial to the more independent spirit and riper reason of these our times. You will not then refuse to repay to the lowlier sons of the family of Song some portion of that obligation which yours has received from their great Master ; you will not complain that 1 have adorned this little book with a name which your tastes and talents promise still further to ennoble. Believe me, Faithfully yours, R. M. MlLNES. June, 1840. 785491 CONTENTS. — ♦ — POEMS— PAGE PRINCE EMILIUS OF HESSEN-DARMSTADT ..... 1 THE TRAGEDY OF THE LAC DE GAUBE IN THE PYRENEES . . 4 A CHRISTMAS STORY 10 THE ROCK OF COOIt's DEATH 22 THE VOICES OF HISTORY 24 THE BARREN HILL . 30 THE VIOLET-GIRL 33 PRAYER 35 SPECIMENS OF POETRY FOR THE PEOPLE— I. LABOUR 37 II. THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE . . . . . . 41 111. THE PATIENCE OF THE POOE 44 IV. ALMS-GIVING 49 V. BEG PROM A BEGGAR ... ... 54 VI. RICH AMD POOR 57 viii CONTENTS. POEMS- paojs HENRY OF ASTI AND PIF.UO ZENO ...... 60 NAPLES AND VENICE 64 THE DREAM OF TILATE's WIFE ...... 68 A GRECIAN ANECDOTE. (FROM HERODOTUS.) . . . . 71 \ SPANISH ANECDOTE 73 THE BROWNIE. A LEGEND 75 TO SORROW 77 FROM THE GERMAN OF RUCKERT 80 SIR WALTER SCOTT AT THE TOMB OF THE STUARTS IN ST, PETER'S . 83 OH TURNER'S PICTURE, OF THE TEMERAIRE MAN-OF-WAR TOWED INTO PORT BY A STEAMER FOR THE PURPOSE OF BEING BROKEN UP . 86 TINTERN ABBEY 87 THE CAVE OF THE DYING DEER, ON THE BANKS OF ULLSWATER . 88 ELYSIAN FIELDS AT LOWTHEK. I.N WESTMORELAND . . . 91 BRETON FAITH 94 BERTUAND DO GUESCLIN. A BRETON BALLAD . . . . 103 CORONATION SONG ]07 PASTORAL SONG 108 SONG 01 THOUGHTS Ill I raiCAl -oXNKTS— I. THE SIRING AND 1 1 1 J BROOK 114 II. GOOD INTENTIONS 115 CONTENTS. ETHICAL SONNETS— page HI. GRAVE TEMPERAMENTS 116 IV. ACTION AND THOUGHT 117 V. PRAYER 118 VI. LESSON TO POETS . . . . . . .119 VII. INDIRECT BEAUTY 120 VIII. LOVE WITHOUT SYMPATHY . . . . , .121 THE GODDESS VENUS IN THE MIDDLE AGES . . . . 122 VENUS AND THE CHRISTIAN KNIGHT 12H THE NORTHERN KNIGHT IN ITALY 135 LOVE-THOUGHTS— 1 161 II 162 in 163 iv lo4 v 165 vi 166 SHADOWS— 1 108 ii 169 in 170 iv 171 v 173 vi. . . . 1/4 i CONTENTS. LOVE AMI NATURE— PAf;r. l 175 ii 176 hi 177 n 178 v 179 M 180 TDK LEGEND OF THE GLISUORN ....... 182 THE PALL OF ALIPIUS 187 POEMS. Amid the factions of the Field of Life The Poet held his little neutral ground, And they who mixt the deepest in the strife Their evening way to his seclusion found : Thus meeting oft the' antagonists of the day, Who near in mute suspicion seemed to stand, lie said what neither would be first to say, And, having spoken., left them hand in hand. POEMS. PRINCE EMILIUS OF HESSEN-DARMSTADT. From Hessen-Darmstadt every step to Moskwa's blazing banks, Was Prince Einilius found in fight before the foremost ranks ; And when upon the icy waste that host was backward cast, On Beresina's bloody bridge his banner waved the last. His valour shed victorious grace on all that dread retreat, That path across the wildering snow, athwart the blinding sleet ; And every follower of his sword could all endure and dare, Becoming warriors strong in hope or stronger in despair. Now, day and dark, along the storm the demon Cossacks sweep The hungriest must not look for food, the weariest must not sleep; No rest, but death, for horse or man, whichever first shall tire ; — They see the flames destroy, but ne'er may feel the saving fire. PRINCE EMII.irs OF HESSEN DARMSTADT. Tlius never closed the bitter night nor rose the savage morn, But from that gallant company some noble part was shorn, And, sick at heart, the Prince resolved to keep his purposed way, With stedfast, forward, looks, nor count the losses of the day. At length beside a black-burnt hut, an island of the snow, — Each head in frigid stupor bent toward the saddle-bow, — They paused, and of that sturdy troop, that thousand banded men, At one unmeditated glance he numbered only ten ! Of all that high triumphant life that left his German home, Of all those hearts that beat beloved or lookt for love to come, This piteous remnant hardly saved his spirit overcame, While memory raised each friendly face and called each antient name. Then were his words serene and firm — "Dear brothers it is best That here, with perfect trust in Heaven, we give our bodies rest; If wo have borne, like faithful men, our part of toil and pain, Where'er we wake, for Christ's good sake, we shall not sleep in vain." Some uttered, others lookt assent, they had no heart to speak ; Dumb hands were prest, the pallid lip approacht the callous cheek ; They laid theni side by side; and death to him at least did seem To come attired in mazy robe of variegated dream. PRINCE K.MILIUS OF HESSEN A.RMSTADT. it Once more he floated on the breast of old familiar Rhine, His mother's and one other smile above him seemed to shine; A blessed dew of healing fell on every aching limb, Till the stream broadened and the air thickened and all was dim. Nature has bent to other laws, if that tremendous night Past o'er his frame exposed and worn and left no deadly blight ; Then wonder not that when refresht and warm he woke at last, There lay a boundless gulf of thought between him and the past. Soon raising his astonisht head he found himself alone, Sheltered beneath a genial heap of vestments not his own; The light increast the solemn truth revealing more and more, — His soldiers corses self-despoiled closed up the narrow door. That very hour, fulfilling good, miraculous succour came, And Prince Emilius lived to give this worthy deed to fame. brave fidelity in death! O strength of loving will! These are the holy balsam-drops that woful wars distil. THE TRAGEDY OF THE LAC DE GAUBE IN THE PYRENEES. The marriage blessing on their brows, Across the Channel seas And lands of gay Garonne, they reach The pleasant Pyrenees: — He into boyhood born again, A son of joy and life, — And she a happy English girl, A happier English wife. They loiter not where Argeles, The chesnut-crested plain, Unfolds its robe of green and gold In pasture, grape, and grain; But on and up, where Nature 1 s heart Beats strong amid the hills, They pause, contented with the wealth That either bosom fills. TKAGEDY OF THE LAC 1)E GAUBE. There is a lake, a small round lake, High on the mountain's breast, The child of rains and melted snows, The torrent's summer rest, — A mirror where the veteran rocks May glass their peaks and scars, A nether sky where breezes break The sunlight into stars. Oh ! gaily shone that little lake, A nd Nature, sternly fair, Put on a sparkling countenance To greet that merry pair; How light from stone to stone they leapt, How trippingly they ran ; To scale the rock and gain the marge Was all a moment's span ! "See, dearest, this primaeval boat. So quaint, and rough, I deem Just such an one did Charon ply Across the Stygian stream : TRAGEDY OF THE LAC DE GAUBE. Step in, — I will your Charon be, And you a Spirit bold, — 1 was a famous rower once In college days of old. "The clumsy oar! the laggard boat ! How slow we move along, — The work is harder than I thought, — A song, my love, a song I 11 Then, standing up, she carolled out So blythe and sweet a strain That the long-silent cliffs were glad To peal it back again. He, tranced in joy, the oar laid down, And rose in careless pride, And swayed in cadence to the song The boat from side to side: Then clasping hand in loving hand, They danced a childish round, And felt as safe in that mid-lake As on the firmest ground. TRAGEDY OF J UK LAC DR GAUBE. One poiso too much! — He headlong fell,— She, stretching out to save A feeble arm, was borne adown Within that glittering grave: — One moment, and the gush went forth Of music-mingled laughter, — The struggling splash and deathly shriek Were there the instant after. Her weaker head above the flood, That quick engulft the strong, Like some enchanted water-flower, Waved pitifully long : — Long seemed the low and lonely wail Athwart the tide to fade ; Alas ! that there were some to hear, But never one to aid. Yet not alas ! if Heaven revered The freshly-spoken vow, And willed that what was then made one Should not be sundered now, — TRAGEDY OF THE LAC DE GATJBE. If She was spared, by that sharp stroke, Love's most unnatural doom, The future lorn and unconsoled, The unavoided tomb ! But weep, ye very Rocks ! for those, Who, on their native shore, Await the letters of dear news, That shall arrive no more ; One letter from a stranger hand, — Few words are all the need ; And then the funeral of the heart, The course of useless speed ! The presence of the cold dead wood, The single mark and sign Of her so loved and beautiful, That handiwork divine! The weary search for his fine form That in the depth would linger, And late success, — Oh ! leave the ring Upon that faithful finger. TRAGEDY OF THE LAC DE GAUUE. And if in life there lie the seed Of real enduring being, — If love and truth be not decreed To perish unforeseeing, — . This Youth, the seal of death has stampt, Now Time can wither never, This Hope, that sorrow might have dampt, Is fresh and strong for ever. Mr. and Mis. Patteson were drowned in the autumn of 1831 . A CHRISTMAS STORY. The windows and the garden door Must now be closed for night, And you, my- little girl, no more Can watch the snow-Hakes white Fall, liko a silver net, before The face of dying light. I >raw down the curtains every fold, Let not a gap let in the cold, Bring your low seat toward the fire, And you shall have your heart's desire; A story of that favorite book In which you often steal a look, Regretful not to understand Words of a distant time and land ; — That small square book that seems so old In tawny white and faded gold, A CHRISTMAS STORY. 11 And which I could not leave to-day, Ev'en with the snow and you to play. — It was on such a night as this, Six hundred years ago, The wind as loud and pityless, As loaded with the snow, A night when you might start to meet A friend in an accustomed street, That a lone child went up and down The pathways of an antient town. A little child, just such as you, With eyes, though clouded, just as blue, With just such long fine golden hair, But wet and rough for want of care, And just such tender tottering feet Bare to the cold and stony street. Alone ! this fragile human flower, Alone ! at this unsightly hour, A playful, joyful, peaceful form, A creature of delight, Become companion of the storm, And phantom of the night ! IS A CHRISTMAS STORY. No gentler thing is near, — in vain Its warm tears meet the frozen rain, No watchful ears await its cries On every name that well supplies The childly nature with a sense Of love and care and confidence ; It looks before, it looks behind, And staggers with the weighty wind, Till, terror overpowering grief, And feeble as an autumn leaf, It passes down the tide of air, It knows not, thinks not, how or where. Beneath a carven porch, before An iron-belted oaken door, The tempest drives the cowering child, And rages on as hard and wild. This is not shelter, though the sleet Strikes heavier in the open street, For, to that infant ear, a din Of festive merriment within Comes, by the contrast, sadder far Than all the outer windy war, A CHRISTMAS STORY. 13 With something cruel, something curst, In each repeated laughter-burst ; The thread of constant cheerful light, Drawn through a crevice on the sight, Tells it of heat it cannot feel, And all the fire-side bliss That home's dear portals can reveal On such a night as this. How can those hands so small and frail, Empassioned as they will, avail Against that banded wall of wood Standing in senseless hardihood Between the warmth and love and mirth, The comforts of the living earth, And the lorn creature shivering there, The plaything of the savage air I We would not, of our own good will, Believe in so much strength of ill, Believe that life and sense arc given To any being under Heaven 14 A CHRISTMAS STORY. Only to weep and suffer thus, To suffer without sin What would be for the worst of us A bitter discipline. Yet now the tiny hands no more Are striking that unfeeling door; Folded and quietly they rest, As on a cherub's marble breast ; And from the guileless lips of woe Are passing words confused and low, Remembered fragments of a prayer, Learnt and repeated otherwhere, With the blue summer overhead, On a sweet mother's knee, Beside the downy cradle-bed, But always happily. Though for those holy words the storm Relaxes not its angry form, The child no longer stands alone Upon the'' inhospitable stone : There now are two, — one to the other Like as a brother to twin-brother, A CHBISTMAS STOUY. IS But tlic new-comer lias an air Of something wonderful and rare, Something divinely calm and mild, Something beyond a human child : His eyes come through the thickening night With a soft planetary light, And from his hair there falls below A radiance on the drifting snow, And his untarnisht childly bloom Seems but the brighter for the gloom. See what a smile of gentle grace Expatiates slowly o'er his face ! As, with a mien of soft command, He takes that numbed and scmalid hand, And with a voice of simple joy And greeting as from boy to boy, He speaks, " What do you at this door \ Why called you not on me before I What like you best? that I should break This sturdy barrier for your sake, And let you in that you may share The warmth and joy and cheerful fare : — 1(5 A CHRISTMAS STORY. Or will you trust to me alone, And heeding not the windy moan Nor the cold rain nor lightning-brand, Go forward with me, hand-in-hand I Within this house, if e'er on earth, You will find love and peace and mirth ; And there may rest for many a day, While I am on mine open way ; And should your heart to me incline, When I am gone, Take you this little cross of mine To lean upon, And setting out what path you will, Careless of your own strength and skill, You soon will find me ; only say, What wish you most to do to-day ? r The child looks out into the night, With gaze of pain and pale affright, Then turns an eye of keen desire < )n the thin gleam of inward fire, Then rests a long and .silent while, Upon that brother's glorious smile. A CHRISTMAS TALK 17 You've seen the subtle magnet draw The iron by its hidden law, So seems that smile to lure along *ft The child from an enclosing throng Of fears and fancies undefined, And to one passion fix its mind, — Till every struggling doubt to check And give to love its due, It casts its arms about his neck, And cries " With you, with you, — For you have sung me many a song, Like mine own mother's, all night long, And you have play'd with me in dreams, Along the walks, beside the streams, Of Paradise, — the blessed bowers, Where what men call the stars are flowers, And what to them looks deep and blue Is but a veil which we saw through, Into the garden without end, Where you the angel-children tend : So that they askt me when I woke, Where I had been, to whom I spoke, What I was doing there, to seem So heavenly-happy in my dream I 1H A CHRISTMAS TALE. Oh ! take me, take me, there again, Out of the cold and wind and rain, Out of this dark and cruel town, Whose houses on the orphan frown ; Bear me the thundering clouds above To the safe kingdom of your love : Or if you will not, I can go With you barefooted through the snow; — I shall not feel the bitter blast, If you will take me home at last." Three kisses on its dead-cold cheeks, — Three on its bloodless brow, — And a clear answering music speaks, " Sweet brother! come there now : It shall be so ; there is no dread Within the aureole of mine head; This hand in yours, this living hand, Can all the world of cold withstand, And though so small is strong to lift Your feet above the thickest drift ; The wind that round you raged and broke Shall fold about us like a cloak, A CHRISTMAS TALE. 1!) And wc shall reach that garden soon, Without the guide of sun or moon." So down the mansion's slippery stair, Into the midnight weather, Pass, as if sorrows never were, The weak and strong together. — — This was the night before the morn, On which the Hope of Man was born, And long ere dawn can claim the sky, The tempest rolls subservient by ; While bells on all sides sing and say, How Christ the child was born to-day ; Free as the sun's in June, the rays Mix merry with the Yuhl-log's blaze ; Some butterflies of snow may float Down slowly, glistening in the mote, But crystal -leaved and fruited trees Scarce lose a jewel in the breeze ; Frost-diamonds twinkle on the grass, Transformed from pearly dew, And silver flowers encrust the glass, Which gardens never knew. 20 A CHRISTMAS TALE. The inmates of the house, before Whose iron-fended heedless door, The children of our nightly tale Were standing, rise refresht and hale, And run, as if a race to win, To let the Christmas morning in. They find, upon the threshold stone, A little child, just like their own ; Asleep it seems, but when the head Is raised, it sleeps, as sleep the dead ; The fatal point had toucht it, while The lips had just begun a smile, The forehead 'mid the matted tresses A perfect-painless end expresses, And, unconvulst, the hands may wear The posture more of thanks than prayer. They tend it straight in wondering grief, - And, when all skill brings no relief, They bear it onward, in its smile, Up the Cathedral's central aisle : There, soon as Priests and People heard I low the thing was, they speak not word, A CHRISTMAS TALK. 21 But take the usual Image, meant The blessed babe to represent, Forth from its cradle, and instead Lay down that silent mortal head. Now incense-cloud and anthem-sound Arise the beauteous body round ; Softly the carol chant is sung, Softly the mirthful peal is rung, And, when the solemn duties end, With tapers earnest troops attend The gentle corpse, nor cease to sing, Till, by an almond tree, They bury 1 it, that the flowers of spring May o'er it soonest be. THE ROCK OF COOK'S DEATH. Domain of England's enterprise ! Thrones of the Southern wave ! The brightest flower on all your shores is 'the memory of the brave. Between the mainland and a Rock, one gorgeous afternoon, A Spaniard of the antient stamp had moored his brave galloon. The slanting rays amid the blue delighted to enfold That Rock, until it glowed a mass of molten bronze and gold. The Captain, willing on his crew his learning to bestow, Spoke out, — "That Rock was twice as largo some twenty years ago: For all the English ships that here for trade or water come, Strike off some fragments which they bear as patriot relics home : Relics of Cook, their countryman, who there was sadly slain. As great a sailor as e'er tried the undiscovered main. THE ROCK OF COOK'S DEATH. 23 These Islands and a thousand more ho opened to mankind, And left his name, where'er he went, like ^a trail of light behind. A soul so brave is as our own, — then let the good Priest here Say prayers to-morrow morn for Cook the glorious marinere. 1 " 1 The Father murmured not, — but one, whose face was dark with pride, Said " Twas but some base heretic, who thus had fitly died.''' The Captain answered like a man of deeper heart than lore, "If He had not our faith, his soul must want the prayers the more." Thus was he silenced, and for Cook that matin mass was said Upon the very spot where He by savage hands had bled : And all the while an Albatross upon the mast-head stood, Turning an earnest gaze toward that Rock of gallant blood. Till when the sacred office ceast, away it slowly moved Its snow-white wings, as parting from some antient haunt beloved. And never Ship through perilous seas pursued a course more true, And never wealthier home returned a Captain and a crew. THE VOICES OF HISTORY. The Poet in his vigil hears Time flowing through the night, — A mighty stream, absorbing tears, And bearing down delight: There resting on his bank of thought He listens, till his soul The Voices of the waves has caught, — The meaning of their roll. First, wild and wildcring as the strife Of earthly winds and seas, Resounds the long historic life Of warring dynasties: — Uncertain right and certain wrong In onward conflict driven, The threats and tramplings of the strong Beneath a brazen heaven. TliK VOICES OF HISTORY. 25 The cavernous unsounded East Outpours an evil tide, Drowning the hymn of patriarch priest, The chant of shepherd bride : How can we catch the angel-word, How mark the prophet-sound, "Mid thunders like Niagara's heard An hundred miles around ? From two small springs that rise and blend, And leave their Latin home, The waters East and West extend, — The ocean-power of Rome: Voices of Victories ever- won, Of Pride that will not stay, Billows that burst and perish on The shores they wear away. Till, in a race of fierce delight, Tumultuous battle forth, The snows amast on many a height, The cataracts of the North: 2C THE VOICES OF niSTORY. What can we hear beside the roar, What see beneath the foam, What but the wrecks that strew the shore, And cries of falling Rome? Nor, when a purer Faith had traced Safe channels for the tide, Did streams with Eden-lilies graced In Eden-sweetness glide; While the deluded gaze admires The smooth and shining flow, Vile interests and insane desires Gurgle and rage below. If Histo'ry has no other sounds, Why should we listen more? Spirit ! despise terrestrial bounds, And seek a happier shore; Yet pause ! for on thine inner car A mystic music grows, — And mortal man shall never hoar That diapason's close. THE VOICES OF HISTORY. 27 Nature awakes ! a rapturous tone, Still different, still the same,— Eternal effluence from the throne Of Him without a name ; A symphony of worlds begun, Ere sin the glory mars, The cymbals of the new-born sun, The trumpets of the stars. Then Beauty all her subtlest chords Dissolves and knits again, And Law composes jarring words In one harmonious chain : And Loyalty's enchanting notes Outswelling fade away, While Knowledge, from ten thousand throats, Proclaims a graver sway. — A Veil, if, by senses unbefooled, Attentive souls may scan These great Ideas that have ruled The total mind of man; 28 THE VOICES of msTORY. Yet is there music deeper still, Of fine and holy woof, Comfort and joy to all that will Keep ruder noise aloof. A music simple as the sky, Monoto'nous as the sea, Recurrent as the flowers that die And rise again in glee : A melody that childhood sings Without a thought of art, Drawn from a few familiar strings, The fibres of the Heart. Through tent and cot and proud saloon This audible delight Of nightingales that love the noon, Of larks that court the night, — We feel it all, — the hopes and fears That language faintly tells, The spreading smiles, — the passing toars,- The meetings and farewells. THE VOICES OF HISTORY. 29 These harmonies that all can share, AVhen chronicled by one. Enclose us like the living air, Unending, unbegun; — Poet! esteem thy noble part, Still listen, still record, Sacred Historian of the heart, And moral nature's Lord ! THE BARREN HILL. Before my Home, a long straight hill Extends its barren bound, And all who that way travel w 7 ill Must travel miles around ; Yet not the loveliest face of earth To living man can be A treasury of more precious worth Than that bare hill to me. That hill-side rose a wall between This world of cars and eyes, And every shining shifty scene That fancy forms and dyes. First Babyhood engaged its use, To plant a good-child's land, Where all the streams were orange-juice, And sugar all the sand. THE BARREN HILL. 31 A playground of unending sward There blest the growing Boy, A dream of laborless reward, Whole holydays of joy ; A book of Nature, whose bright leaves No other care should need, But life that happily receives What he that runs may read. Nor lackt there skies for onward youth With wayward will to tinge, Sweet sunshine overcast by ruth, And storms of golden fringe : Nor vales that darkling might evoke Mysterious fellowship Of names that still to Fancy woke, But slumbered on the lip. The hour when first that hill I crost, Can yet my memory sting, The dear self-trust that moment lost No lore again can bring. 32 THE BARREN HILL. It seemed a foully broken bond Of Nature and my kind, That I should find the world beyond The world I left behind. But not in vain that hill-side stood, On many an after-day, When with returning steps I wooed Revival of its sway ; It could not give me Truth where doubt And sin had ample range, But it was powerful to shut out The ill it could not change. And still performs a sacred part, To my experienced eye, This Pisgah which my virgin heart Ascended but to die. What was Reality before In symbol now may live, Endowed with right to promise more Than ever it could give. THE VIOLET-GIRL. When Fancy will continually rehearse Some painful scene once present to the eye, 'Tis well to mould it into gentle verse, That it may lighter on the spirit lie. Home yestern eve I wearily returned, Though bright my morning mood and short my way, But sad experience in one moment earned Can crush the heapt enjoyments of the day. Passing the corner of a populous street, I markt a girl whose wont it was to stand, With pallid cheek, torn gown, and naked feet, And bunches of fresh Violets in each hand. There her small commerce in the chill March weather She plied with accents miserably mild ; It was a frightful thought to set together Those blooming blossoms and that fading child : — 34 Till: VIOLET-GIHL. — Those luxuries and largess of the earth, Beauty and pleasure to the sense of man, And this poor sorry weed cast loosely forth On Life's wild waste to struggle as it can ! To me that odorous purple ministers Hope-bearing memories and inspiring glee, AVhile meanest images alone are hers, The sordid wants of base humanity. Think after all this lapse of hungry hours, In the disfurnisht chamber of dim cold, How she must loathe the very smiling flowers That on the squalid table lie unsold ! Rest on your woodland banks and wither there, Sweet preluders of Spring ! far better so, Than live misused to fill the grasp of care, And serve the piteous purposes of woe. Ye are no longer Nature's gracious gift, Yourselves so much and harbingers of more, Hut a most bitter irony to lift The veil that 'hides our vilest mortal sore. PRAYER. Evil, every living hour, Holds us in its wilful hand, Save as thou, essential Power, May'st be gracious to withstand : Pain within the subtle flesh, Heavy lids that cannot close, Hearts that Hope will not refresh, - — Hand of healing ! interpose. Tyranny's strong breath is tainting Nature's sweet and vivid air, Nations silently are fainting Or up-gather in despair: Not to those distracted wills Trust the judgment of their woes; While the cup of anguish fills, Arm of Justice ! interpose. 36 l'KAYKK. Pleasures night and day are hovering Round their prey of weary hours, Weakness and unrest discovering In the best of human powers: Ere the fond delusions tire, Ere envenomed passion grows From the root of vain desire, — Mind of Wisdom! interpose. Now no more in tuneful motion Life with love and duty glides ; Reason's meteor-lighted ocean Bears us down its mazy tides ; Head is clear and hand is strong, But our heart no haven knows ; Sun of Truth ! the night is long, — Let thy radiance interpose. SPECIMENS OF POETRY FOR THE PEOPLE. LABOUR. Heart of the People ! Working men ! Marrow and nerve of human powers; Who on your sturdy backs sustain Through streaming Time this world of ours; Hold by that title, — which proclaims, That ye are undismayed and strong, Accomplishing whatever aims May to the sons of earth belong. 38 POETRY FOP THE PEOPLE. Yet not on ye alone depend These offices, or burthens fall; Labour for some or other end Is Lord and master of us all . The high-born youth from downy bed Must meet the morn with horse and hound, While Industry for daily bread Pursues afresh his wonted round. With all his pomp of pleasure, He Is but your working comrade now, And shouts and winds his horn, as ye Might whistle by the loom or plough ; In vain for him has wealth the use Of warm repose and careless joy, — When, as ye labour to produce, He strives, as active to destroy. But who is this with wasted frame, Sad sign of vigour overwrought ? What toil can this new victim claim? Pleasure, for Pleasure's sake besought. LA »OUH. .*K) How men would mock her Haunting .shows, Her golden promise, if they knew What weary work she is to those Who have no better work to do ! And He who still and silent sits In closed room or shady nook, And seems to nurse his idle wits With folded arms or open book : — To things now working in that mind, Your children's children well may owe Blessings that Hope has ne'er defined Till from his busy thoughts they flow. Thus all must work : with head or hand, For self or others, good or ill ; Life is ordained to bear, like land, Some fruit, be fallow as it will : Evil has force itself to sow Where wc deny the healthy seed, — And all our choice is this, — to grow Pasture and grain or noisome weed. POETRY FOR THE PEOPLE. Then in content possess your hearts, Unenvious of each other's lot, — For those which seem the easiest parts Have travail which ye reckon not: And He is bravest, happiest, best, Who, from the task within his span, Earns for himself his evening rest And an increase of good for man. II. THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE. Who is this man whose words have might To lead you from your rest or care, Who speaks as if the earth were right To stop its course and listen there ? Where is the symbol of command By which he claims this lofty tone? His hand is as another's hand, — His speech no stronger than your own. He bids you wonder, weep, rejoice. Saying, — " it is yourselves, not 1 ; I speak but with the People's voice, I see but with the People's eye.'" — POETRY FOR THE PEOPLE. Words of imposing pride and strength, Words that contain, in little span, The secret of the highth and length Of all the' intelligence of man. Yet, Brothers ! God has given to few, Through the long progress of our kind, To read with eyes undimmed and true The blotted book of public mind ; To sepa'rate from the moment's will The heart's enduring real desires, To tell the steps of coming ill, And seek the good the time requires. — These are the Prophets, these the Kings, And Lawgivers of human thought, Who in our being's deepest springs Tho engines of their might have sought : Whoso utte'rancc comes, we know not whence. Being no more their own than ours, With instantaneous evidence Of titles just and sacred powers. THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE. 43 But bold usurpers may arise Of this as of another's throne ; Persuasion waits upon the wise, But waits not on the wise alone : An echo of your evil self No better than the voice can be, And appetites of fame or pelf Grow not in good as in degree. Then try the speaker, try the cause, With prudent care, as men who know The subtle nature of the laws By which our feelings ebb and flow : Lest virtue's void and reason's lack Bo hid beneath a specious name, And on the People's helpless back Rest all the punishment and shame. III. THE PATIENCE OF THE POOR. When leisurely the man of ease His morning's daily course begins, And round him in bright circle sees The comforts Independence wins, He seems unto himself to hold An uncontested natu'ral right In Life a volume to unfold Of simple over-new delight. And if, before the evening close, The hours their rainbow wings let fall, And sorrow shakes his bland repose, And too continuous pleasures pall, THE PATIENCE OF THE POOR. 45 He murmurs, as if Nature broke Some promise plighted at his birth, In bending him beneath the yoke Borne by the common sons of earth. They starve beside his plenteous board, They halt behind his easy wheels, But sympathy in vain affords The sense of ills he never feels. He knows he is the same as they, A feeble piteous mortal thing, And still expects that every day Increase and change of bliss should bring. Therefore when he is called to know The deep realities of pain, He shrinks as from a viewless blow, He writhes as in a magic chain : Untaught that trial toil and care Are the great charter of his kind, It seems disgrace for him to share Weakness of flesh and human mind. 46 POETRY FOR THE PEOPLE. Not so the People's honest child, The field-flower of the open sky, Ready to live while winds are wild, Nor, when they soften, loath to die ; To him there never came the thought That this his life was meant to be A pleasure-house, where peace unbought Should minister to pride or glee. You oft may hear him murmur loud Against the' uneven lots of Fate, You oft may see him inly bowed Beneath affliction's weight on weight : — But rarely turns he on his grief A face of petulant surprise, Or scorns whato'er benign relief The hand of God or man supplies. Behold him on his rustic bed, The unluxurious couch of need, Striving to raise his aching head And sinking powerless as a reed : THE PATIENCE OF THE POOR. i) So sick in both he hardly knows Which is his heart's or body's sore, For the more keen his anguish grows His wife and children pine the raoro. No search for him of dainty food, But coarsest sustenance of life, — No rest by artful quiet wooed, But household cries and wants and strife ; Affection can at best employ Her utmost of unhandy care, Her prayers and tears are weak to buy The costly drug, the purer air. Pity herself, at such a sight Might lose her gentleness of mien, And clothe her form in angry might And as a wild despair be seen ; Did she not hail the lesson taught, By this unconscious suffe'ring boor, To the high sons of lore and thought, — The sacred Patience of the Poor. *0 POETRY FOR THE PEOPLE. — This great endurance of each ill, As a plain fact whose right or wrong They question not, confiding still, That it shall last not overlong ; Willing, from first to last, to take The mysteries of our life, as given, Leaving the time-worn soul to slake Its thirst in an undoubted Heaven. IV. ALMS-GIVING. When Poverty, with mien of shame, The sense of Pity seeks to touch, — Or, bolder, makes the simple claim That I have nothing, you have much,- Believe not either man or book That bids you close the opening hand, And with reproving speech and look Your first and free intent withstand. It may be that the tale you hear Of pressing wants and losses borne Js heapt or color'd for your ear, And tatters for the purpose worn ; H POETRY FOR THE PEOPLE. But surely Poverty has not A sadder need than this, to wear A mask still meaner than her lot, Compassion's scanty food to shave It may be that you err to give What will but tempt to further spoil Those who in low content would live On theft of others' time and toil ; Yet sickness may have broke or bent The active frame or vigorous will, — Or hard occasion may prevent Their exercise of humble skill. It may be that the suppliant's life Has lain on many an evil way Of foul delight and brutal strife, And lawless deeds that shun the day ; But how can any gauge of yours The depth of that temptation try ? — What man resists — what man endures,- Is open to one only eye. ALMS GIVING Why not believe the homely letter That all you give will God restore I The poor man may deserve it better, And surely, surely, wants it more : Let but the rich man do his part, And whatsoe'er the issue be To those who ask, his answering heart Will gain and grow in sympathy. — Suppose that each from Nature got Bare quittance of his labour's worth, That yearly-teeming flocks were not, Nor manifold-producing earth ; No wilding growths of fruit and flower, Cultured to beautiful and good, No creatures for the arm of power To take and tame from waste and wood ! — That all men to their mortal rest Past shadow-like, and left behind No free result, no clear bequest, Won by their work of hand or mind ! 51 POETRY FOB THE PEOPLE. That eve'ry sepa'rate life begun, A present to the past unbound, A lonely, independent, One, Sprung from the cold mechanic ground ! What would the record of the past, The vision of the future be ? Nature unchanged from first to last, And base the best humanity : For in these gifts lies all the space Between our England's noblest men, And the most vile Australian race Outprowling from their bushy den. Then freely as from age to age, Descending generations bear The' accumulated heritage Of friendly and parental care, — Freely as Nature tends her wealth Of air and fire, of sea and land, Of childhood's happiness and health, So freely open you your hand ! ALMS-GIVING. — Between you and your best intent Necessity her brazen bar Will often interpose, as sent Your pure benevolence to mar : Still eve'ry gentle word has sway To teach the pauper's desperate mood, That Misery shall not take away Franchise of human brotherhood. And if this lesson come too late, Wo to the rich and poor and all ! The maddened outcast of the gate Plunders and murders in the hall ; Justice can crush and hold in awe, While Hope in social order reigns, — But if the myriads break the law, They break it as a slave his chains ! *' Beg from a beggar — Deark d'on dearka." — Irish Provkrb There is a thought so purely blest, That to its use I oft repair, When evil breaks my spirit's rest, And pleasure is but varied care ; A thought to gild the stormiest skies, To deck with flowers the bleakest moor, — A thought whose home is paradise, — The charities of Poor to Poor. 1 1 were not for the Rich to blame, If they, whom Fortune seems to scorn, Should vent their ill-content and shame ( )n others less or more forlorn ; POETRY Foil THE PEOPLE. But, that the veriest needs of life Should be dispenst with freer hand, Than all their stores and treasures rife- la not for them to understand : To give the stranger's children bread, Of your precarious board the spoil — To watch your helpless neighbour's bed, And, sleepless, meet the morrow's toil ;- The gifts, not proffered once alone, The daily sacrifice of years, — And, when all else to give is gone, The precious gifts of love and tears ! What record of triumphant deed, What virtue pompously unfurled, Can this refute the gloomy creed That parts from God our living world ' O Misanthrope ! deny who would — O Moralists ! deny who can — Seeds of almost impossible good, Deep in the deepest life of Man. POETRY FOB THE PEOPLE. Therefore lament not, honest soul ! That Providence holds back from thee The means thou mightst so well controul- Those luxuries of charity. Manhood is nobler, as thou art; And, should some chance thy coffers fill. How art thou sure to keep thine heart, To hold unchanged thy loving will? Wealth, like all other power, is blind, And bears a poison in its core, To taint the best, if feeble, mind, And madden that debased before. It is the battle, not the prize, That fills the hero's breast with joy; And industry the bliss supplies, Which mere possession might destroy. VI. RICH AND POOR. When God built up the dome of blue, And portioned earth's prolific floor, The measure of his wisdom drew A line between the Rich and Poor; And till that vault of glory fall, Or beauteous earth be scarred with flame, Or saving love be all in all, That rule of life will rest the same. We know not why, we know not how, Mankind are framed for weal or woe- But to the 1 Eternal Law we bow ; If such things are, they must be so. i 58 POETRY FOR THE PEOPLE. Yet, let no cloudy dreams destroy One truth outshining bright and clear, That Wealth is only Hope and Joy, And Poverty but Pain and Fear. Behold our children as they play ! Blest creatures, fresh from Nature's hand ; The peasant boy as great and gay As the young heir to gold and land ; Their various toys of equal worth, Their little needs of equal care, And halls of marble, huts of earth, All homes alike endeared and fair. They know no better ! would that we Could keep our knowledge safe from worse ; So Power should find and leave us free So Pride be but the owner's curse ; So, without marking which was which, Our hearts would tell, by instinct sure, What paupers are the 1 ambitious Rich ! How wealthy the contented Poor ! RICIT AND POOR. 59 Grant us, O God ! but health and heart, And strength to keep desire at bay, And ours must be the better part, Whatever else besets our way. Each day may bring sufficient ill ; But we can meet and fight it through. If Hope sustains the hand of will, And Conscience is our captain too. HENRY OF ASTI AND PIERO ZENO. See, between the moonlit myrtles, unbetrayecl by sound or gleam, Henry 1 of Asti, — Piero Zeno, — landing, silent as a dream: — Henry' of Asti, priest and soldier, Legate of the Pontiffs will, Zeno, the Republic's Captain, pledged her glory to fulfil. See them winding through the thicket up to Smyrna's antient wall, Where, by Moslem bands beleaguer'd, Christian hearts for succour call.* Sure of their victorious morrow, weary warriors strew the ground, Wlun the known Venetian war-cry, as by magic, thunders round. * A.I). 1341. HENRY OF ASTI AND PIERO ZENO. 01 Maskt and multiplied by darkness, strike the few, the many fly, — Chase and plunder will not slacken till the morn ascends the sky. Then, no more by cunning bye-paths, — freely scattered o'er the plain, — Soldiers, full of gain and glory, seek their secret ships again. But that ruined church has checkt them,— by disordered symbols shown To the 1 Evangelist devoted pious Venice holds her own. So, their glad career arresting, spoke the Legate, " We must raise From this long-abandoned altar, sacrifice of prayer and praise. In the nights unequal conflict, hardly had our strength been tried Felt we not our gracious Patron fight in spirit by our side. " Loud "Amen 1,1 the troop replying knelt and steept in holy joy Souls that seemed but now infuriate with the passion to destroy. — When at length the foe defeated, from their mountain fastness, saw, How unreal the might and numbers, whom the dark had clothed with awe. 62 HENRY OF ASTI AND PIERO ZENO. Down they bounded, as by instinct that might slake their burning shame In the blood of some far straggler, some who loitered while they came: Conscious that the warned Venetians need but raise the bended knee, And, despite this tardy valor, safely reach the neighbouring sea, Flight was ready, yet the Legate questioned with one look his friend, And the Captain answered— "Move not ! I am with you to the end. " Be thy blessed work consummate ! undisturbed thy priestly care : God can save us if he wills not we the martyr- crown should wear." " Seek the Ships " conjured the soldiers ; louder grew the clamo'rous foe; "Mid the pauses, like a river, seemed the solemn chant to flow; One the holy words intoning, one responding firm and clear, Cast the very raging Heathen into trance of silent fear. HENRY OF ASTI AND PIERO ZENO. li.'t Nor till both those noble spirits, satisfied with heavenly food, Turned in calm disdain upon them, could they quench their wrath in blood. Thus were slain these faithful warders of the names and faith they bore, Not forgetting Rome or Venice, but remembering Christ the more. NAPLES AND VENICE. Overlooking, overhearing, Naples and her subject bay, Stands Camaldoli, the convent, shaded from the inclement ray. Thou, who to that lofty terrace, lov'st on summer-eve to go, Tell me, Poet ! what Thou seest,— what Thou hearest, there below ! Beauty, beauty, perfect beauty ! Sea and City, Hills and Air, Rather blest imaginations than realities of fair. Forms of grace alike contenting casual glance and stedfast gaze, Tender lights of pearl and opal mingling witli the diamond blaze. Sea is but as deepen'd aether: white as snow-wreaths sunbeshone LeaD the Palaces and Temples green and purple heights upon. NAPLES AMi VENICE. 65 Streets and paths mine eye is tracing, all replete with clam'orous throng, Where I see and where I see not waves of uproar roll along. As the sense of bees unnumbered, burning through the walk of limes, — As the thought of armies gathering round a chief in antient times, — So from Corso, Port, and Garden, rises Life's tumultuous strain, Not secure from wildest utterance rests the perfect-crystal main. Still the all-enclosing Beauty keeps my spirit free from harm, — Distance blends the veriest discords into some melodious charm. — Overlooking, overhearing, Venice and her sister isles, 'Stands the giant Campanile massive 'mid a thousand piles. Thou who to this open summit lov'st at every hour to go, Tell me, Poet ! what Thou seest, what Thou nearest, there below. Wonder, wonder, perfect wonder ! Ocean is the City's moat ; On the bosom of broad Ocean seems the mighty weight to float : K NAPLES AND VENICE. Seems yet stands as strong and stable as on land e'er city shall, — Only moves that Ocean-serpent, tide-impelled, the Great Canal. • Rich arcades and statued pillars, gleaming banners, burnisht domes, — Ships approaching, — ships departing, — countless ships in harbour- homes. Yet so silent! scarce a murmur winged to reach this airy seat, Hardly from the close Piazza rises sound of voice or feet. Plash of oar or single laughter, — cry or song of Gondolier, — Signals far between to tell me that the work of life is here. Like a glorious maiden dreaming music in the drowsy heat, Lies the City, unbetokening where its myriad pulses beat. And T think myself in cloudland, — almost try my power of will, Whether I can change the picture, or it must be Venice still. When the question wakes within me, which hath won the crown of deed, Venice with her moveless silence, Naples with her noisy speed? NAPLES AND VENII I 67 Which hath writ the goodlier tablet for the past to hoard and show, Venice in her student stillness, Naples in her living glow? Here are chronicles with virtues studded as the night with stars, — Records there of passions raging through a wilderness of wars: There a tumult of ambitions, power afloat on blood and tears, — Here one simple reign of wisdom stretching thirteen hundred years : Self-subsisting, self-devoted, there the moment's hero ruled, — Here the State, each one subduing, pride enchained and passion schooled : Here was Art the nation's mistress, Art of color, Art of stone — There before the leman Pleasure bowed the people's heart alone. Venice ! vocal is thy silence, can our soul but rightly hear ; Naples ! dumb as death thy voices, listen we however near. THE DREAM OF PILATE'S WIFE. When he (Pilate) was set down on the judgment seat, his wife sent unto him, Baying, Have thou nothing to do with that just man, for I have suffered many things this day in a dream, hecause of him. Matt. c. 27, v. 19. A Roman Soldier from long toil releast, Beneath his native village vine, Rejoiced his friends with wonders of the East, And most of Palestine ; Of that dark people, separate and severe, Resting expectant of a day When a divine Redeemer should appear And make the world their prey. Much ho recounted of a Prophet mild, In whom the Roman ruler saw No guilt, but yielded to their clamor wild, And claim of antient law. THE DREAM OF PILATE'S WIFE 89 "This Pontius Pilate" (so the soldier told) "Possest a fair and faithful wife, Who prayed him from such fury to withhold That just man's precious life. — For she had suffered greatly in a dream Concerning him and urged her Lord Aright this solemn warning to esteem, And take the Gods' award. — But all his peaceful words the men of blood With taunt and tumult thundered down, And Jesus past at last close where I stood With cross and mocking crown. — I know not what that is which some call fear, But when I caught that Prophet's eye, I felt as if it were my father here, Who was led forth to die. — While opposite me that poor matron fixt On him her miserable eyes, — — A long, long, gaze in which were strangely mixt Shame, sorrow, and surprise. — 70 THE DREAM OF PILATE'S WIFE. From that sad day, by truthful men 'twas said That ever, weary and forlorn, Like one just back from death, she left her bed, Winter or summer morn. And many 1 a night, though worn with daily care, She kept herself awake in pain, Crying, ' I will not sleep, I could not bear To dream that dream again !' Like that Cassandra, famed in Troy's old song, She seemed endowed with piteous power All evils to foresee, yet was not strong To stay them for one hour. She has been often seen, a dead-white shade, Standing against some dark hill-side, — — That olive-mount where Jesus was betrayed, That other where he died. Rut what the Voice or Vision of the gloom That struck her soul with power divine, Sped from the Gods, or wandeYing from the tomb, She gave no word or sign." A GRECIAN ANECDOTE. (FROM HERODOTUS.) How Sparta lusted after orient gold And bartered faith for wealth she dared not use, Is as severe a tale as e'er was told The pride of man to conquer and confuse *. Therefore forget not what that nature was, That once availed the base desire to foil, When sought the Ionian Aristagoras To mingle Sparta in his distant broil. How thick the perils of that far emprize, How dim the vista cunningly displayed, The king discerned with clear and practist eyes, And bade the stranger court Athenian aid. * Avarice appears to have been the vice to which the Spartan was most prone ; money, for which he had scarcely any use, a bait which even the purest patriotism could seldom resist. — Thiiilwall. A GRECIAN ANECDOTE. To people, as to prince, appeal was vain, — Vain the dark menace — vain the shadowy gibe, — But the wise envoy would not bend again His homeward steps, till failed the wonted bribe. A suppliant at the regal hearth he stood, Nor ever thought that proffer to withhold, Because about them, in her careless mood, Played the king's child, a girl, some nine years old. Ten — twenty — forty talents rose the bait ; — Strange feeling glistened in those infant eyes, That gazed attentive on the grave debate, And seemed to search its meaning in surprise. Yet fifty now had well secured the prey, Had not a little hand tight claspt his arm, And a quick spirit uttered, "Come away, Father, — that man is there to do you harm."" Not unaccepted such pure omen came ; That gentle voice the present God revealed, — And back the' Ionian chief returned in shame, Checkt by the virtue of that simple shield. A SPANISH ANECDOTE. It was a holy usage to record Upon each refectory's side or end The last mysterious Supper of our Lord That meanest appetites might upward tend. Within the convent Palace of old Spain Rich with the gifts and monuments of Kings, Hung such a picture, said by some to reign The sove'ran glory of those wondrous things. A Painter of far fame *, in deep delight, Dwelt on each beauty he so well discerned, While, in low tones, a grey Geronomite This answer to his extasy returned. * Wilkir. 74 \ SPANISH ANECDOTE. " Stranger ! I liave received my daily meal In this good company, now threescore years, And Thou, whoe'er Thou art, canst hardly feel How Time these lifeless images endears. Lifeless, — ah ! no : both Faith and Art have given That passing hour a life of endless rest, And every soul who loves the food of Heaven May to that table come a welcome guest : Lifeless, — ah ! no : while in mine heart are stored Sad memories of my brethren dead and gone, Familiar places vacant round our board, And still that silent supper lasting on ; While I review my youth, — what I was then, — What I am now, and ye, beloved ones all ! It seems as if these were the living men, And ice the colored shadows on the wall." THE BROWNIE. A LEGEND. A gentle household Spirit, unchallenged and unpaid, Attended with his service a lonely servant-maid. She seemed a weary woman, who had found life unkind, Whose youth had left her early and little left behind. Most desolate and dreary her days went on until Arose this unseen stranger her labors to fulfil. But now she walkt at leisure, secure of blame she slept, The meal was always ready, the room was always swept. And by the cheerful fire-light, the winter evenings long, He gave her words of kindness and snatches of sweet song ; — With useful housewife secrets and tales of faeries fair, From times when gaunt magicians and dwarfs and giants were.- ;i i THE BROWNIE. I Thus, habit closing round her, by slow degrees she nurst A sense of trust and pleasure, where she had feared at first. When strange desire came on her, and shook her like a storm, To see this faithful being distinct in outward form. 1 1 e was so pure a nature, of so benign a will, It could be nothing fearful, it could be nothing ill. At first with grave denial her prayer he laid aside, Then warning and entreaty, but all in vain, he tried. The wish upgrew to passion, — she urged him more and more, — Until, as one outwearied, but still lamenting sore, He promist in her chamber he would attend her call, When from the small high window the full-moon light should fall. Most proud and glad that evening she entered to behold How then' her phantom lover his presence would unfold ; When lo ! in bloody pallor lay, on the moonlit floor, I'll' babe she bore and murdered some thirteen years before. TO SORROW. Sister Sorrow ! sit beside me, Or, if I must wander, guide me ; Let me take thy hand in mine, Cold alike are mine and thine. Think not, Sorrow, that I hate thee,- Think not I am frightened at thee, — Thou art come for some good end, I will treat thee as a friend. I will say that thou art bound My unshielded soul to wound By some force without thy will And art tender-minded still. 78 TO SORROW. I will say thou givest scope To the breath and light of hope ; That thy gentle tears have weight Hardest hearts to penetrate : That thy shadow brings together Friends long lost in sunny weather, With an hundred offices Beautiful and blest as these. Softly takest Thou the crown From my haughty temples down ; Place it on thine own pale brow, Pleasure wears one, — why not Thou I Let the blossoms glisten there On thy long unhanded hair, And when 1 have borne my pain, Thou wilt give them me again. If Thou jroest, sister Sorrow ! I shall look for Thee to-morrow, — I shall often see Thee drest A.8 a masquerading guest : TU SORHOW. 7'.) And howe'cr Thou hid'st the name, I shall know Thee still the same, As Thou sit'st beside me now, With my garland on thy brow. FROM THE GERMAN OF RUCKERT. Chidhau, the Prophet ever-young Thus loost the bridle of his tongue. I journeyed by a goodly town, Beset with many a garden fair, And askt of one who gathered down Large fruit, " how long the Town was there? 1 ' He spoke, nor chose his hand to stay, "The town has stood for many'' a day, And will be here for ever and aye. 1 ' A thousand years past by and then I wont the solf-same road again. No vestige of that Town I traced, — Rut one poor swain his horn employed, — FROM THE GERMAN OF RUCKERT 81 His sheep unconscious browsed and grazed, I askt "when was that Town destroyed V He spoke, nor would his horn lay by, " One thing may grow and another die, But I know nothing of towns — not I." A thousand years went on and then I past the self-same place again. There in the deep of waters cast His nets one lonely fisherman, And as he drew them up at last T askt him "how that Lake begun?" He lookt at me and laught to say, "The waters spring for ever and aye, And fish is plenty every day. ,, A thousand years past by and then I went the self-same road again. I found a country wild and rude, And, axe in hand, beside a tree, The Hermit of that Solitude, — I askt "how old that Wood might be?" M 82 FROM THE GERMAN OF RUCKEKT. He spoke "I count not time at all, A tree may rise, a tree may fall, The Forest overlives us all." A thousand years went on and then I past the self-same place again. And there a glorious City stood, And 'mid tumultuous market-cry, I askt " When rose the Town, where Wood Pasture and Lake forgotten lie?" They heard me not, and little blame, — For them the world is as it came, And all things must be still the same. *&" A thousand years shall pass and then I mean to try that road again. SIR WALTER SCOTT AT THE TOMB OF THE STUARTS IN ST. PETER'S*. Eve's tinted shadows slowly fill the fane Where Art has taken almost Nature's room, While still two objects clear in light remain, An alien pilgrim at an alien tomb. — — A sculptured tomb of regal heads discrown'd, Of one heart-worshipt, fancy-haunted, name, Once loud on earth, but now scarce else renown 1 d Than as the offspring of that stranger's fame. There lie the Stuarts! — There lingers Walter Scott : Strange congress of illustrious thoughts and things! A plain old moral, still too oft forgot, — The power of genius and the fall of kings. * When Sir Walter Scott was at Rome, the year of his death, the history ami localities of the Stuarts seemed to absorh all other objects of his interest. The circumstance of this poem fell within the observation of the writer. 84 STli WALTER SCOTT The curse on lawless Will high-planted there, A beacon to the world, shines not for him ; He is with those who felt their life was sere, When the full light of loyalty grew dim. He rests his chin upon a sturdy staff, Historic as that sceptre, theirs no more; His gaze is fixt; his thirsty heart can quaff, For a short hour, the spirit-draughts of yore. Mich figure in its pictured place is seen, Each fancied shape his actual vision fills, From the long-pining, death-delivered, Queen, To the worn outlaw of the heathery hills, O grace of life, which shame could never mar ! O dignity, that circumstance defied ! Pure is the neck that wears the deathly scar, And sorrow has baptised the front of pride. But purpled mantle, and blood-crimson\i shroud, Exiles to suffer and returns to woo, Are gone, like dreams by daylight disallow'd; And their historian, — he is sinking too ! AT THE TOMB OF THE STUARTS. 85 A few more moments, and that labo 'ring brow Cold as those royal busts and calm will lie; And, as on them his thoughts are resting now, His marbled form shall meet the' attentive eye. Thus face to face the dying and the dead, Bound in their solemn ever-living bond, Communed ; and I was sad that antient head Ever should pass those holy walls beyond. ON TURNER'S PICTURE, OF THE TEMERAIRE MAN-OF-WAR TOWED INTO PORT BY A STEAMER FOR THE PURPOSE OF BEING BROKEN UP. See how that small concentrate fiery force Is grappling with the glory of the main, That follows, like some grave heroic corse, Dragged by a suttler from the heap of slain. Thy solemn presence brings us more than pain- Something which Fancy moulds into remorse, That We, who of thine honour hold the gain, Should from its dignity thy form divorce. Yet will we read in thy high- vaunting Name, How Britain did what France could only dare, And, while the sunset gilds the darke'ning air, We will fill up thy shadowy lines with fame, And, tomb or temple, hail thee still the same, Home of great thoughts, memorial Temeraire ! TINTERN ABBEY. The Men who called their passion piety, And wreckt this noble argosy of faith, — They little thought how beauteous could be death, How fair the face of Time's aye-deepe'ning sea ! Nor arms that desolate, nor years that flee, Nor hearts that fail, can utterly deflower This grassy floor of sacramental power, Where we now stand communi , cants — even We, We of this latter, still protectant age, With priestly ministrations of the Sun And Moon and multitudinous quire of stars Maintain this consecration, and assuage With tender thoughts the past of weary wars, Masking with good that ill which cannot be undone. THE CAVE OF THE DYING DEER, ON THE BANKS OF ULLSWATER. To our instructed patient- seeking eyes Each day reveals the outer world more clear, Yet Life and Death, Nature's solemnities, Darkly as through a glass alone appear; Whether the thing to scan Be meditative man Or the poor instincts of a dying deer. Vex not the inland summer-calm with storms, Beauteous Ullswater ! be as calm and grave As when the snows invest the mountain forms, And thy black crystal sleeps without a wave ; Triumphant Aira Force ! Hold in thy torrent course, — Let Nature pity where she cannot save. THE CAVE OF THE DYING DEER, 89 The noblest stag of all Gowbarrow's park Is struck, but by no mortal hunter's hand ; There is no hound to see, no horn to hark, Yet are his legs too weary-weak to stand : The antlers on his front Hang heavy, that were wont To rise rejoicing in their large command. Now up the cliff he tries a sharp short bound, Expiring action of his speedy pride, And but once gazing pitifully round The tangled bramble-heap he tears aside, Seeking his solemn grave Within the same lone Cave, Where, through recorded time, his sires have died. Sons of the greenwood and free mountain air, Children of open life and herding ways, Why should they seek this solitary lair, Soon as their conscious energy decays? How should they one and all Select this common pall Of cold damp rock for their departing days '. 90 THE CAVE OF THE DYING DEER. There is an ill repute of all that kind, That, when the leader of the troop is weak With age or wounds, at once both stag and hind The wrongs of years on his poor members wreak; Yet here it is not so, — For mark his pace, how slow ! And all their looks, how sorrowful and meek! Rather believe that to that voiceless creature The decencies of Death are someway known, That on the remnant of his living nature The Last a shadow of itself has thrown, Impelling him to teach, More strongly than by speech, That Death stands everywhere apart, — alone ! Wisdom incumbent on the heirs of life! Not visi'ble least in those whose sole behest Is to enjoy the world of peace or strife, Holding necessity their only best; No part of thee is mean, — For each, devoutly seen, SI i;ill aid the pupil Man to read the rest. ELYSIAN FIELDS AT LOWTHER, IN WESTMORELAND. A youth carest and nurtured long, Beneath the sky, beside the sea, Where rules a vivid world of song The clear-eyed Queen Parthenope, — And wont to blend with outward grace The soul Virgilian memory yields, Might seek with dull, uneager, pace, The cloudy north's Elysian Fields. " Lowther,' 1 he cried, " of antient strength Thy lofty towers the harness wear ; — Thy terraces their mossy length Extend through centuries of care; ELYSIAN FIELDS AT LOWTHEK. In thine old oaks may Fancy read A green traditionary chain Of Worth and Power; — Thou dost not need To take the classic name in vain.' 1 Up Lowthers banks, that very eve, This scornful youth was seen to wind Still tardier steps, that seem'd to grieve For joy or beauty left behind ; But ere he reacht the lordly roof, High portal and cathedral stair, His thoughts in other, fairer, woof, Were offer'd to the' attentive air. " Not once to Raise's columiTd bay, Or Cuma's glade my spirit fled, While on that storm-cast trunk I lay, Above yon torrent's stormy bed : Crystal and green sufficed so well To solace and delight mine eyes, They yearnM for no remember'd spoil FashionM beneath sinner skies. ELYSIAN FIELDS \T LOWTHER. 93 " If golden light or azure void The Poofs radiant dream fulfills, Are clouds and shadows unenjoyM, The ghostly guardians of the hills I Nature an open Faith demands, And we have little else to do But take the blessing from her hands, Feeling — Here is Elysium too." BRETON FAITH. A summer nightfall on a summer sea ! From sandy ridges wildering o'er the deep The wind's familiar under-song recalls The fishermen to duty, though that eve To unverst eyes their embarkation secm'd Rather a work of festival than toil. Women were there in gay precise attire. Girls at their skirts, and boys before at play, And many an infant sweet asleep on arm. Emulous which the first shall set his boat Free-floating from the clutches of deep sand, Men lean and strive; till one, and two, and all, Poised in descent, receive the leaping crews : And following close, where leads the ripply way BRETON FAITH. 95 One craft of heavier freight and larger sail, Serene and silent as the' horizon moon, That fair flotilla seeks the open main. Some little room of waters sever'd now Those seeming sons of peaceful industry From their diseased and desperate fatherland, That France, where reign'd and raged for many a year Madness, (the fearful reservoir of strength Which God will open, at his own high will, In men and nations,) so that very babes Would tear the mother-breast of antient Faith To suck the bloody milk of Liberty. The Christian name was outcast there and then ; For Power and Passion were the people's gods, And every one that worshipt not must die. The shore extended one thin glittering line, When, at the watcht-for tinkling of a bell, Fast fall the sails, and round their captain-boat, Which rested steady as the waters would, Each other bent its own obedient prow, Making imperfect rays about a sun: Nor paused they long before great change of form 96 BRETON FAITH. Came o'er that centre. From the uncouth deck Rose a tall altar, 'broider'd curiously, With clear-outcarven crucifix i the' midst Of tapers, lambent in the gentle gale : Before it stood the reverend-robed Priest, Late a rude fisherman, — an awful head, Veteran in griefs and dangers more than years, Perchance not finely moulded, but as seen There upright to the 1 illuminating moon, With silver halo rather than white hair, Beauteous exceedingly ! So seeni'd to feel The tender eyes then fixt on him, while slow And quiet, as when he perform'd the rites Of his old village church on Sabbath morn, He set all things in order and began That Litany, which, gathering voice on voice, Made vocal with the names of God and Christ, And the communion of the blest in heaven, Space that had lain long silent of all sound Save the chance greetings of some parting ships, And elemental utterances confused. BRETON FAITH. 97 Oh! never in high Roman basilic, Prime dome of Art, or elder Lateran, Mother of churches ! never at the shrine That sprang the freshest from pure martyr-blood, Or held within its clasp a nation's heart By San Iago or Saint Denys blest, — Never in that least earthly place of earth, The Tomb where Death himself lay down and died, The Temple of Man's new Jerusalem,— Descended effluence more indeed divine, More total energy of Faith and Hope, And Charity for wrongs unspeakable, Than on that humble scantling of the flock, That midnight congregation of the Sea. Hise not, good Sun! hold back unwelcome Light That shall but veil the nations in new crime! Or hide thy coming ; yet some little while Prolong the stupor of exhausted sin, Nor with thy tainted rays disturb this peace, These hard- won fragmentary hours of peace, That soon must sink before the warring world' BRETON FAITH. He hears them not; beneath his splendor fades That darkness luminous of Love and Joy; Quickly its aspect of base daily life The little fleet recovering plied in haste Its usual labour, lest suspicious foes Might catch some secret in those empty nets; But every one there toiling in his heart Was liken'd to those other Fishermen, Who on their inland waters saw the form Of Jesus to'ward them walking firm and free. One moment yet, ere the religious Muse Fold up these earnest memories in her breast, Nor leave unutter'd that one Breton name Which is itself a History — Quiberon ! W as it not heinous I was it not a shame Which goes beyond its actors, that those men, Simply adventuring to redeem their own — Their ravisht homes, and .shrines, and fathers' graves. Meeting that rampant and adulterous power On its own level of brute force, that they, Crusht by sheer numbers, should be made exempt From each humane and generous privilege, BRETON FAITH 99 With which the civil use of later times Has smooth M the bristling fierceness of old war, And perish armless, — one by one laid low By the cold sanction'd executioner! Nor this alone ; for fervid love may say, That death to them, beneath the foulest hood, Would wear an aureole crown ; and martyr-palms Have grown as freely from dry felon dust, As e'er from field enricht with fame and song. But when they askt the only boon brave men Could from inclement conquerors humbly pray — To die as men, and not fall blankly down Into steep death like butcherM animals, But to receive from consecrated hands Those seals and sureties which the Christian soul Demands as covenants of eternal bliss, — They were encounter'd by contemptuous hate, And mockery, bitter as the crown of thorns. Thus past that night, their farewell night to earth. Grave, even sad, — that should have been so full Of faith nigh realized, of young and old, Met hand in hand, indifferent of all time, On the bright shores of immortality ! 1"" BRETON FAITH. Till 'mid the throng about their prison-door, In the grey dawn, a rustic voice conveyed Some broken message to a captive^ ear, Low, and by cruel gaolers unperceived ; Which whisper, flitting fast from man to man, Was like a current of electric joy, Awakening smiles, and radiant upward looks, And interchange of symbols spiritual, Leaving unearthly peace. So when soon came The hour of doom, and through the palsied crowd Past the long file without a word or sound, The image, gait, and bearing of each man, In those his bonds, in that his sorry dress, Defiled with dust and blood, perchance his own, A squalid shape of famine and unrest, Was that of some full-saiFd, magnifi'cent ship, That takes the whole expanse of sea and air For its own service, dignifying both As accessories of its single pride. To read the sense and secret of this change, Look where beside the winding path that leads 1JRETON FAITH. 101 Those noble warriors to ignoble death, Rises a knoll of white, grass-tufted, sand, Upon whose top, against the brightening sky, Stands a mean peasant, tending with one hand A heifer browsing on that scanty food. To the slow-moving line below he turns An indistinct, almost incurious gaze, While with a long right arm upraised in air He makes strange gestures, source of ribald mirth To some, but unregarded by the most. — Yet could a mortal vision penetrate Each motion of that scene, it might perceive How every priso'ner, filing by that spot, Bows his bold head, and walks with lighter steps Onward to rest but once and move no more : For in that peasant stands the yearned-for Priest, Peri'ling life by this last act of love, And in those gestures are the' absolving signs, Which send the heroes to their morning graves Happy as parents 1 kisses duly speed Day-weary children to their careless beds. Such are memorials, and a hundred more, Which, by the pious traveller haply caught, 102 BRETON FAITH. Falling from lowly lips and lofty hearts, Regenerate outward nature, and adorn With blossoms brighter than the Orient rose, And verdure fresher than an English spring, The dull sand-hillocks of the Morbihan. BERTRAND DU GUESCLIN. A BRETON liALLAD. 'T was on the field of Navarrete, When Trestamare had sought From English arms a safe retreat, Du Guesclin stood and fought : And to the brave Black Prince alone He yielded up his sword ; — So we must sing in mournful tone, Until it be restored ; — chorus. Spin, spin, maidens of Brittany, And' let not your Litany Come to an end, Before you have prayed The Virgin to aid Bertrand du Guesclin, our Hero and Friend. ln4 BEKTKANU DU OUESCLIN. The Black Prince is a gentle knight ; And bade Du Guesclin name What ransom would be fit and right For his renown and fame; " A question hard," — says he, " yet since Hard Fortune on me frowns, I could not tell you less, good Prince, Than twenty thousand crowns." CHORUS. Spin, spin, &c. mi. " Where find you all that*gold, Sir Knight ? I would not have you end Your days in sloth and undelight Away from home and friend :" " O Prince of generous heart and just ! Let all your fears be stayed ; For 1 my twenty thousand crowns I trust To every. Breton maid." CIIORUS. Spin, spin, &•. UKIMKAND HI QUESCLIN IV. And he is not deceived, for we Will never let him pine In stranger towers beyond the sea, Like 1 a jewel in the mine ; No work but this shall be begun, — We will not rest or dream, Till twenty thousand crowns are spun Du Guesclin to redeem. CHORUS. Spin, spin, &c. * The Bride shall grudge the marriage mom, And feel her joy a crime ; The mother 1 shall wean her eldest-born A month before its time ; No festal day shall idle by, No hour uncounted stand, The grandame in her bed shall die With' the spindle in her hand : 106 BEHTHANI) I)U GUESCL1N. CHORUS. Spin, spin, women of Brittany, Nor let your Litany Come to an end, Before you have prayed The Virgin to aid Bertram! du Guesclin, our Hero and Friend. CORONATION SONG. The throne of Victoria is founded in peace, — Let the air shed around it be pure and serene, — Let Ocean her fulness and Earth her increase Pour forth at the virginal feet of our Queen : The garland of Empire that circles her brow Be such as the meekest of maids might adorn ; Fresh roses, and olive, and myrtle, be now Entwined with the laurel her fathers have worn.- Lamcnt not, O People ! that fate should entrust The sceptre of might to so tender a hand ; If strength can be gentle and mercy be just, How well for the ruler, how well for the land ! CORONATION SONG. Remember the perils that wait upon Power, That madden the wicked, and weaken the wise ; And be joyful that Innocence holds as a dower What wilful Ambition might claim as a prize. — But if ever her spirit is faint with alarm At the duties and dangers that shadow the throne, The Faith that is in us shall strengthen her arm, And the Heart of a nation encourage her own ! — PASTORAL SONG. I wandered by the brook-side, I wandered by the mill, — I could not hear the brook flow, The noisy wheel was still ; There was no burr of grasshopper, No chirp of any bird, But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. I sat beneath the elm-tree, I watcht the long, long, shade, And as it grew still longer, 1 did not feel afraid ; For I listened for a footfall, I listened for a word, — But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound 1 heard. 110 PASTORAL SONG. He came not, — no, he came not, — The night came on alone, — The little stars sat one by one, Each on his golden throne ; The evening air past by my cheek, The leaves above were stirr'd, — But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. Fast silent tears were flowing, When something stood behind, — A hand was on my shoulder, I know its touch was kind : It drew me nearer — nearer, — We did not speak one word, For the beating of our own hearts Was all the sound we heard. SONG OF THOUGHTS. Let the lays from poet-lips Shadow forth the speech of heaven, — Let melodious airs eclipse All delight to senses given ; Yet to these my notes and words Listen with your heart alone, While the Thought that best accords Makes a music of its own. Ye that in the fields of Love Feel the breath and bloom of spring, While I sing, securely rove, — Rest in safety, while I sing. — 112 SONG OF THOUGHTS. Ye that gaze with vain regret Back towards that holy ground, All the world between forget, Spirit-rockt from sound to sound. All indinVrence, all distrust, From old friendships pass away ! Let the faces of the just Shine as in God's perfect day ! Fix the faintest, fleetest, smile, E'er athwart your path has gleam'd,- Take the charm without the wile, — Be the Beauty all it seemM ! 'Mid the flowers you love the best, Summer pride or vernal boon — By your favorite light carest, Blush of eve or glow of noon, — Blend the strains of happiest days With the voices held most dear ; Children cast on weary ways ! '''' st in peace and pleasaunce here. SONG OF THOUGHTS. 113 Tic the future's glorious page In my tones to youth revealed ; Let the ruffled brow of age With eternal calm be scaled : High as Heaven's ethcrial cope, Wide as light's rejoicing ray, Thoughts of memory ! Thoughts of hope ! Wander, wander, while ye may. 'i ETHICAL SONNETS. i. THE SPRING AND THE BROOK. It may be that the Poet is as a Spring, That, from the deep of being, pulsing forth, Proffers the hot and thirsty sons of earth Refreshment unbestowed by sage or king. Still is he but an utterance, — a lone thing, — Sad -hearted in his very voice of mirth, — Too often shivering in the thankless dearth Of those affections ho the best can sing. But Thou, O lively Brook ! whose fruitful way Brings with it mirror 1 d smiles, and green, and flowers, - Child of all scenes, companion of all hours, Taking the simple cheer of every day, — How little is to thee, thou happy Mind, That solitary parent Spring behind ! ! rHICAL sonnet.- us II. GOOD INTENTIONS. Fair thoughts of good, and fantasies as fair ! Why is it your content to dwell confined In the dark cave of meditative mind, Nor show your forms and colors otherwhere \ Why taste ye not the beautiful free air Of life and action ? If the wintry wind Rages sometimes, must noble growth be pined, And fresh extravagant boughs lopt off with care ! Behold the budding and the flowering flowers, That die, and in their seed have life anew ; Oh ! if the promptings of our better hours With vegetative virtue sprung and grew, They would fill up the room of living Time, And leave the world small space to nourish weeds of crime. 116 ETHICAL SONNETS. III. GRAVE TEMPERAMENTS. To live for present life, and feel no crime — To see in life a merry-morrice craft, Where he has done the best who most has laught, Is Youth's fit heaven, nor thus the less sublime : But not to all men, in their best of prime, Is given by Nature this miracu'lous draught Of inward happiness, which, hourly quafft, Seems to the reve'ller deep beyond all time. Therefore encumber not the sad young heart With exhortations to impossible joy, And charges of morose and thankless mood ; For there is working in that girl or boy A power which will and must remain apart — Only by Love approacht and understood. ETHICA1 SONNETS. 117 IV. ACTION AND THOUGHT. There is a world where struggle and stern toil Are all the nurture of the soul of man — Ordahfd to raise, from life's ungrateful soil, Pain as he must, and Pleasure as he can. Then to that other world of thought from this Turns the sad soul, all hopeful of repose, But round in weirdest metamorphosis, False shapes and true, divine and devilish, close. Abovo these two, and resting upon each A meditative and compassionate eye, Broodeth the Spi'rit of God : thence evermore, On those poor wandeVers cast from shore to shore, Falleth a voice, omnipotent to teach Them that will hear, — " Despair not ! it is I." UK ETHICAL BONNETS. PRAYER. In reveYence will we speak of those that woo The ear Divine with clear and ready prayer ; And, while their voices cleave the Sabbath air, Know their bright thoughts are winging heavenward too. Yet many a one, — " the latchet of whose shoe" These might not loose, — will often only dare Lay some poor words between him and despair — " Father, forgive ! we know not what we do." For, as Christ pray'd, so echoes our weak heart, Yearning the ways of God to vindicate, Hut worn and wilderM by the shows of fate, Of good opprest and beautiful defiled, Dim alien force, that draws or holds apart From its dear home that wande'ring spirit-child. ETHICAL SONNETS. II y VI. U'.SSON TO POETS. Thy not, or murmur not if tried in vain, In fair rememberable words to set Each scene or presence of especial gain, As hoarded gems in precious cabinet. Simply enjoy the present loveliness ; — Let it become a portion of your being ; Close your glad gaze, but see it none the less, No clearer with your eye, than spirit, seeing. And, when you part at last, turn once again, Swearing that beauty shall be unforgot : So in far sorrows it shall ease your pain, In distant struggles it shall calm your strife, And in your further and serener life, Who says that it shall be remember'd not ' 120 ETHICAL SONNETS. VII. INDIRECT BEAUTY. Poet and Artist think and care not whether Tilings hold in truth the glory that they show ;. Beauty and beauteous thoughts will go together, While to one scene a thousand memories flow ; Long spirit-strains from one wild note shall grow, Magnifi'cent tempests from one cloudy feather, From one bright ray the sunset's perfect glow, Hymettian thyme- beds from one plant of heather. Into one scene a thousand memories flow! Held we but this reflection at our hearts, And Beauty never past without regard, No place would lack illuminated parts, And inward grace with outer mingle so, That Nature should be never dark or hard. El MICAL SONNETS. 121 VIII. LOVE WITHOUT SYMPATHY. Yes, I will blame thy very highth of heart ! I will. conjure thee to remember still That things above us are not less apart, And mountains nearest to the sun most chill! Well hadst thou held sublime and separate rank, Martyr or heroine of romantic times, When Woman's life was one poor cloudy blank, Lit by rare-gleaming virtues, loves, and crimes. But now that every day for thee and me Has its own being of delight and woe, Come down, bright star ! from thy perennial vault, My earthly path's companion light to be, And I will love thee more for every fault Than for perfections that the angels show. u THE GODDESS VENUS IN THE MIDDLE AGES. Few and faint are the historic lights by which we can trace the victory of Christianity over Heathenism. The battle was fought on many fields, with every variety of weapon and manoeuvre, and was protracted by many an obstinate resistance long after the main issue of the combat was decided. It was in the sixth century that St. Benedict extinguisht the fire on the altar of Apollo, on Monte Casino ; and in many provinces of the empire, Pagan worship was celebrated down to a much later date. The temples of Diana at Treves and of Venus at Magdeburg (Parthenopolis), have been recorded as of the last to be deserted. Charlemagne destroyed the latter, which had been erected by Germanicus, and built a church to St. Stephen in its place. But far deeper into the middle ages than this, winds the thread of Pagan tradition ; and even in this our time, the peasants on the coast of old Etruria are seen annually to attach a gilded bunch of grapes to a plough, which is drawn by oxen down a long slope to the sea, a propitiation to the elemental powers in favour of the harvest and the vintage.* It was, however, by a * An English gentleman and scholar of the 19th century professing Heathenism might be considered a burlesque, but there is every reason to believe that the religious profession of Mr. Thomas Taylor was much rather a conceit workt up into a belief, than an affectation of singularity. Some friends found him one day athis orisons, uttering his Evoes and classical exclamations before some small silver statues; and in a note to Julian's oration, he writes thus, "The HIE GODDESS VENUS. 123 simple and natural process that the sympathies of the people were frequently detacht from the old faith, and associated to the history or tradition of the new. The temple of Jupiter the Preserver was readily re-consecrated to the Redeemer of mankind ; and even the play upon sounds had its meaning when the prophet Elias appropri- ated the reverence long paid to Apollo as the Sun. In Sicily, eight celebi'ated temples of Venus were, within a short period, dedicated to the Virgin ; and the same substitution is said to have taken place, at the command of the Empress Helena, in the church of the Holy Sepulchre. The deduction of Christian rites from Pagan ceremonies has unfortunately not been confined to the detection of Popish cor- ruption, but has been extended by infidel writei's to some of the vital principles of our religion. But though this principle of adapta- tion might be unscrupulously acted upon, it was accompanied by a belief which gave the greatest distinctness and energy to the work of conversion from Heathenism. This was the plain conviction of the demoniac personality of each of the Pagan deities. The monotheism of the Jews does not seem to have prevented that people from regarding the gods of the Gentiles as substantial spirits of evil ; and there appeared, perhaps, to be doctrines in Christianity, which rather encouraged than forbade a similar conclusion. The Christian who was liable to be thrown to the beasts for refusing to sacrifice to Jupiter, or to be rent asunder by the mob for scorning a bacchanalian rite, was not likely to consider the one as a symbol of power, or the construction of the statues of the gods was the result of the most consummate theological science, and from their apt resemblance to divine natures, they became participants of divine illumination. Statues resemble life, and on this account they are similar to animals. Statues, through their habitude or fitness, conjoin the souls of those who pray to them with the gods themselves. Let not the reader, however, confound this scientific worship of the antients with the filthy pietp of the Catholics, as Proclus justly calls it." 124 THE GODDESS VENUS. other as a device of the fancy. Political considerations might enter into the question of Christian persecution, as, in after times, heresy often became treason ; and the people might be indignant at the violation of their ancestral customs, or the invasion of their festal repose, but the Christian understood not this ; " their gods were devils, and he could not worship them." For while some of them were powers claiming divine honour, which in his system could be only blasphemy, many others were such, that, from his own high moral ground, he could only look upon them as impersonated sins. Thus, in the early Christian imagination, the goddess Venus stood out as the very queen of devildom. Chastity being once proclaimed, not a high and peculiar virtue, but an essential, indispensable, requisite of the Christian character, the antagonist appetite became a terrible evil, and the patroness and representative of it in the popular mind the worst of demons. The gods of Power would soon find themselves overcome: One had come into the world greater than they, and they must bend and pass away before him ; but unconverted man owned, and would ever own, the reign of Venus ; and she was there even attempting to seduce the very holiest. She might be subdued and driven from the world at last, but not as long as vice was in the breast of man, open to her voice and ready for her rule. No wonder, then, that Venus is the great bond between Pagan and Christian tradition ; no wonder that Augustin leaves it as a matter not for him to decide, " whether Venus could have become the mother of vEneas by the embraces of Anchises" (De Civitat. Dei, 3, sec. 5) ; or that Kornman, a learned lawyer of the 1 7th century, should write a laborious book of the history, adventures, and devices of this subtle devil*. • The process by which the Gorman Holda was changed from the character nf ;i good Fairy into that of a demon is much the same as that of the conver- sion of Venus. THE GODDESS VENUS. Venus was not dead. When the vow of betrothal recorded before her altar was violated by the Christian mother of the Corinthian maid, she could raise from the grave the broken-hearted victim of the new religion, and send her as a vampire to drink the life-blood of her destiued bridegroom*. She could, too, waylay the passionate youth in a form of surpassing beauty, and seduce him into marriage ; sometimes, indeed, to be foiled by superior necromantic powers, and forced back into a hideous serpent shape, as was the Lamia of Greece ; but at others to retain her influence even after her deformity was revealed, as did, in comparatively later days, Melusina, the wife of Count Raymond of Poictiers, who was the fairest of mermaids. When, again, a Christian girl in Carthage was struck by the beauty of an image of Venus, and fancied herself like it, she was instantly seized by the goddess round her throat, and could take no food for seventy days and nights. She said, " a bird came to her every mid- night and toucht her mouth ;" and she was only relieved at last by the solemn functions of the Church and participation in its sacra- mentsf. Even when her open worship was utterly driven from the face of the earth, the magic art knew where and how to find her. She still had her favorites in the vegetable creation, plants, many of whose names testified to whom they were dedicated ; — Venus's comb ( Seandix), Venus's fly-trap ( Dionasa muscipulaj, Venus's looking-glass {Campanula), maiden-hair ( Adianthum], and the mastic shrub, which covers with its thicket so many relics of her and other fanes on the old Hellenic hills. Over the sixth day of the week she still held an important authority, making it in general belief most unpropitious to mankind, although certain theologians have maintained the contrary, resting on the facts * Read (but who has not read?) Goethe's Iiraut zu Corinth. t Prosper Aquitanius, — lib. <>'. 126 TIIE GODDESS VENUS. that the Virgin ascended to heaven, and Granada was taken, on ;i Friday. Astrology determined that under the influence of Venus it was fortunate to make love, marry, take medicine and arrange your will. The formula by which Venus is conjured, after a general preface, thus continues : — " Unde henedictum est nomen Creatoris in loco suo, et per nomina Angelorum servientium in tertio exercitu, et per nomen stellce quce est Venus, et per sigillum ejus quod quidem est sanctum ; et per nomina proedicta, conjuro," &c, &c. The spirits of Friday, or impersonations of Venus, appeared generally in the following forms : — a king with a sceptre riding on a camel ; a maiden, naked or gloriously attix*ed ; a goat, a camel, a dove, and a green or white vestment. And still the agents of this unholy commerce frequented the haunts of antient idolatry, such as the 1 1 6 steps at Lyons, the remains of her temple there, up and down which sorcerers and witches were known to dance and gamhol in their infernal yearly revelling. But her principal method of seduction was to establish herself in some hilly region, and there, having constructed in the heart of the earth a palace of sensual delights, and having surrounded herself by subordinate spirits in loveliest shapes, by supernatural music, heard far and wide, and similar means, to entice into it brave and noble souls, and keep them there till they became debased and brutalized, and altogether lost*. The difficulty of knowing much about these wondrous places of pleasure and sin arose from the fewness of those * The chief of these localities in Germany is the Ilorselherg near Eisenach. The enchantment of the Odcnbcrg is much of the same kind, although of a more innocent nature, under the power of a traditionary combination of Char- lemagne and Charles the Fifth : a man who got into it one day saw some tall and fair men playing bowls, who askt him to join them, but, finding the bowls too heavy for his arm, he refused: they then gave him one to take home, which, being laid on the anvil, split and showed a lump of solid gold. THE GODDESS VENUS. Il'7 wlio have ever again returned to the world of men after a sojourn, or even entrance, there. William of Newbury records that, in the reign of King Henry I. of England, a peasant walking by a tumulus, about three stadia from the town of Burlington, heard songs and convivial sounds issuing from within it. He lookt about for an entrance, astonisht that that silent region and midnight hour should be so disturbed, and, finding a door open, went in. He saw an ample and brilliant chamber, and men and women engaged in high festivity and mighty mirth. One of the attendants, seeing him standing at the door, handed him a cup, which he graspt, flung the contents on the floor, and rusht out into the night, amid tremendous tumult and persevering pursuit. On, however, he ran, until at last the cries and sounds died away, and he brought his booty safe into the town. This cup was given to the king, who presented it to the queen of David, king of Scotland, and it was returned by his descend- ant King William to King Henry II. of England. In the Swiss Chronicle of Stumpfius we are told that a tailor of Basle, in the year 1600, had a similar adventure. He past through an iron door, and a succession of halls and gardens, guarded by frightful dogs, who barred his retreat. The goddess appeared with long flowing hair, but her lower body as a serpent's. She said she should be freed from this enchantment by three kisses of a chaste mortal, on whom she would bestow infinite treasure. He kist her once, and she grew more monstrous still. He kissed her again, and she became so terrible and violent, he thought she would tear him in pieces, so turned round in desperation and got safely out : a fellow- townsman of his went into the cave again some time after, and, having found it full of human bones, died in a few days. The story of Tannhauscr may best be given in verse : there seem to be several old ballads of the same burthen, but the one generally known is that inserted in the collection of the Wunderhorn, of which the following is a free paraphrase : — [20 TIIK GODDESS VENUS. VENUS AND THE CHRISTIAN KNIGHT. ''Why are thine eyes so red, Sir Knight, And why thy cheek so pale? Thou tossest to and fro all night, Like' a ship without a sail." The Knight rose up, and answered quick "Too long in lust I lie, And now my heart is pleasure-sick; I must go hence, or die. " I must go hence, and strive to win, By penitential tears, God's pardon for the shame and sin Of these luxurious years. VENUS AND THE CHRISTIAN KNIGHT. 129 " No man his life can rightly keep Apart from toil and pain ; I would give all these joys, to weep My youth's sweet tears again ! f1 " I will not let thee go, Sir Knight ; But I will make thee new Untold devices of delight, That shall thy soul imbue ; "And thou, these sickly thoughts defy, Undo these vain alarms ; What God can give thee more than I, — More Heaven than in mine arms ? " " Venus ! I fear thy wanton heart, I fear thy glittering eyes ; I shrink and tremble, lest thou art A demon in disguise." With high disdain the Ladie strove, Then uttered, sad and low, "Oh ! hard return for so much love ! Ungrateful mortal ! go." i.(,i THE GODDESS VENUS. The Knight, with none to check or meet, Thus left the marble dome ; And soon his weary, wounded, feet Were near the gates of Rome. There, where imperial Tiber flows, Pope Urban rode along ; And "Kyrie Eleison, 11 rose From all the thicke'ning throng. "Thou that hast power to stay God's wrath, And darkest souls to shrive, Stop, holy Father, on thy path, And save a soul alive ! '•For I, a noble Christian Knight, Have served, for many a year, In dalliance of impure delight, A demon, as I fear. "Tf Venus sooth a demon be, As thou hast skill to tell, God's face how shall I ever see, How shun the deep of hell V VENUS AND THE CHRISTIAN KNIGHT. HI 44 Too well that fiend, and all her power, Most hapless man ! I know ; If thou hast been her paramour, No grace can I bestow. " I could the demon's self assoil, As well as pardon thee ; Thy body hath been her willing spoil, Thy soul must be her fee ! " For sooner shall this peeled staff Put out both leaf and bloom, Than God shall strike thy sentence off His dreadful book of doom I' 1 The Knight his feeble knee upraised, Past weeping through the crowd ; And some in silent pity gazed, And some with horror loud. "Then shall I never, never, see Thy countenance divine, Jesus ! that died in vain for me, — Sweet Mary, mother! thine?" 132 THE GODDESS VENUS. Now forth this child of woe had gone Full fourteen days, when, lo ! The staff the Pope laid hand upon Began to bud and blow : Green leaves, and flowers of perfect white, The very growth of heaven ; — Sure witness to that wretched Knight Of all his sin forgiven ! Oh ! far and wide, o'er earth and tide, Swift messengers are sped, To hail the sinner justified, The late devoted head. J n vain — in vain ! Straight back again He bent his hopeless way, — And Venus shall her Knight retain, Until God's judgment-day. Mysterious end of good remorse ! Strong lesson to beware, Ye priests of mercy ! how ye force Poor sinners to despair. tiii: <;oddess venus. 133 This book of Kornman's, to which allusion has been made, may deserve some further notice. The title is, "Mons Veneris ; a Wonderful and Especial Description of the Notions of old Heathen and Modern Writers with regard to the Goddess Venus; her Origin, Worship, and Queenly Abode ; and the company she entertains there, &c. &c." Frankfort, 1614. A strange work, indeed, for the world to see, after Bacon had written. But our good jurisconsult sets about his investigation in the true old legendary spirit. His great object is to expose " that cursed, wicked, ape of God, the merry, malicious, devil." He is, indeed, rather perplext than pleased at the progress of knowledge and enterprise. "Mankind," he says in his preface, "is always yearning after something new ; but now there is nothing under the sun which they have not thrust their heads into ; the very stars are not safe from them : they send unheard-of immense Noah's arks to India, to see what the antipodes in the under- world are about. Like gnomes, they climb and claw into the holes of the hills, and get out gold, and silver, and adamant, and sapphire, and a hundred other fine names. Some penetrate into the very palace of the Gnome King himself, to find hidden treasure, or into the mountain- chambers of the Lady Venus, to enjoy luxurious delights. In fact, there is nothing left for them but to go to hell, and see what is going on there." But, anxious as he is " to give some book to the students and lovers of nature, to amuse their minds, and reveal some secret phenomena," he also protests, that " God is his witness, that if there are things in his book which all reasonable men cannot believe, he has fabricated no lies and fables, but has taken them all on the authority of men trust-worthy, and of acknowledged learning." And we are bound to believe him. For, after a most delightful farrago of classical and mediaeval fancies, he boldly grapples with the main question, "Num fuerit unquam Dea Venus?" — Whether there ever was such a person as Venus at all ? and handles it mag- 134 THE GODDESS VENUS. nitieently. " Venus has been seen among men, been worshipt by them, lias married some of them, has been born and has died with them, &c. — are not these all good proofs of her reality ? It is very true that these spectacles are not of very frequent occurrence ; but they are not more rare than the appearances of the devil, and the Holy Ghost, and angels, all of which nobody doubts to have from time to time been permitted by God, that we might know that he has created all kinds of creatures, and wills us to be aware of their reality : so Venus is not always showing herself, nor does she take up any regular abode amongst us, but she comes quite often enough for us to believe in her existence, and in the power of God to people the four elements with wonderful beings such as she is." He then goes into the theory of elemental spirits at large, explains that they have a subtle, not Adamite, flesh, and that each order has its own chaos or atmosphere, which is gross in proportion to their subtlety ; thus the gnomes live in earth, as we men in air. Afterwards follows much dissertation as to the class which Venus belongs to, and it is at last concluded, from the phenomena of her nature and the facts of her history, that she is a nymph, a water-spirit, an Undina. She seems to have reigned a long time, and may probably be dead, as she has not been seen for many years, though it is likely enough she may live till the day of judgment: or perhaps she may have past away and left others of her race, other Venuses, behind her, similar in form and disposition : all these mattei's, however, a wise man will be content to doubt*. In the following Poem the idea of the essential contrast between ♦ In the same charming style writes William of Newbury, at the end of his chapter on Mermaids: — "The further question of those green hoys, who arc -aiil to have risen out of the earih, is more abstruse than our senses, slender as they are, can examine and resolve." Till', NORTHERN KNIGHT IN ITALY. K!5 the Northern and the Southern mind, between Beauty as the expo- nent of the one, and Duty the manifestation of the other (the germ of which is sufficiently distinct in the legendary foundation), is attempted to be developt. The facts, or rather images, of the story are very much the same as may be found in the graceful version of it by Heine in the third volume of the Salon : — they are but disposed and illustrated anew. THE NORTHERN KNIGHT IN ITALY. This is the record, true as his own word, Of the adventures of a Christian knight, Who, when beneath the foul Karasmian sword* God's rescued city sunk to hopeless night, Desired, before he gain'd his northern home, To soothe his wounded heart at holy Rome. And having found, in that reflected heaven, More than Csesarean splendors and delights, So that it seemed to his young sense was given An unimagined world of sounds and sights ; — Yet, half regretful of the long delay, He joined some comrades on their common way. * At the conclusion of the last Crusade. l.MJ THE GODDESS VENUS The Spring was mantling that Italian land, The Spring ! the passion-season of our earth, The joy, whose wings will never all expand, — The gladsome travail of continuous birth, — The force that leaves no creature unimbued With amorous nature's bland inquietude. Though those hard sons of tumult and bold life, Little as might be, own'd the tender power, And only showM their words and gestures rife With the benign excitement of the hour, — Yet one, the one of whom this tale is told, In his deep soul was utterly controll'd. New thoughts sprung up within him, — new desins Opened their panting bosoms to the sun ; Imagination scattered lights and fires O'er realms before impenetrably dun ; His senses, energized with wondrous might, Mingled in lusty contest of delight. I mi: NORTHERN KNIGHT IN ITALY. 1 V The once-inspiring talk of steel and steeds And famous captains lost its anticnt zest; The free recital of illustrious deeds Came to him vapid as a thrice- told jest ; His fancy was of angels penance-bound To convoy sprites of ill through heavenly ground. The first-love vision of those azure eyes, Twin stars that blest and kept his spirit cool, Down-beaming from the brazen Syrian skies, Now seemM the spectral doting of a fool, — Unwelcome visitants that stood between Him and the livelier glories of the scene. What wanted he with such cold monitors ? What business had he with the past at all '. Well, in the pauses of those clamorous wars, Such dull endearment might his heart enthral, But, in this universe of blissful calm, He had no pain to need that homely balm. T 188 THE GODDESS VENTS Occasion, therefore, in itself though slight He made of moment to demand his stay, Where some rare houses, in the clear white light, Like flakes of snow among the verdure lay ; And bade the company give little heed, — He would o'ertake them by redoubled speed. But now at length resolved to satisfy The appetite of beauty, and repair Those torpid years which he had let glide by, Unconscious of the powers of earth and air, He rested, roved, and rested while he quafft The deepest richness of the sunny draught. Eve after eve he told his trusty band They should advance straight northward on the morrow, Yet when he rose, and to that living land Addrest his farewell benison of sorrow, With loveliest aspect nature answerM so, It seem'd almost impiety to go. Till: NORTHERN KNIGHT l.N ITALY. 13;) Thus days were gather'd into months, and there He lingerM, sauntering without aim or end : Not unaccompanied ; for wheresoever His steps, through wood, or glen, or field, might tend, — A bird-like voice was ever in his ear, Divinely sweet and rapturously clear *. From the pinaster's solemn-tented crown, — From the fine olive spray that cuts the sky, — From bare or flowering summit, floated down That music unembodied to the eye : Sometimes beside his feet it seemed to run, Or fainted, lark-like, in the radiant sun. * A bird is by no means an uncommon actor in a drama of this kind. It is recorded that, at the Council of Basle, three pious doctors were wont to walk out daily and discuss points of deep theology, but that, as soon as the song of a certain nightingale reacht their ears, their argument was inevitably confused ; they contradicted themselves, drew false conclusions, and were occasionally very near falling into heresy. The thought struck one of them to exorcise the nightingale, and the devil Hew visibly out of a bush, and left the disputants at peace See also the beautiful Btorj of "The Monk and Bird," in Mr. Trench's first volume. 140 THE GODDESS VENUS. Soon as this mystic sound attained his ear, Barriers arose, impermeable, between Him and the two wide worlds of hope and fear, His life entire was in the present scene ; The passage of each day he only knew By the broad shadows and the deepening blue. His senses by such ecstacy possest, He chanced to climb a torrent's slippery side, And, on the utmost ridge refusing rest, Took the first path his eager look descried ; And paused, as one outstartled from a trance, Within a place of strange significance. A ruined temple of the Pagan world, Pillars and pedestals with rocks confused, — Art back into the lap of nature huiTd, And still most beautiful, when most abused; A paradise of pity, that might move Most careless hearts, unknowingly, to love. THE NORTHERN KNIGHT IN ITALY 141 A very garden of luxurious weeds, Hemlock in trees, acanthine leaves outspread, Flowers here and there, the growth of wind-cast seeds, With vine and ivy draperies overhead ; And by the access, two nigh-sapless shells, Old trunks of myrtle, haggard sentinels ! Amid this strife of vigor and decay An Idol stood, complete, without a stain. Hid by a broad projection from the sway Of winter gusts and daily-rotting rain. Time and his agents seem'd alike to spare A thing so unimaginably fair. By what deep memory or what subtler mean Was it, that at the moment of this sight, The actual past — the statue and the scene, Stood out before him in historic light ? He knew the glorious image by its name — Venus ! the Goddess of unholy fame. liS THE GODDESS VENUS. He heard the tread of distant generations Slowly defiling to their place of doom ; And thought how men, and families, and nations Had trusted in the endless bliss and bloom Of Her who stood in desolation there, [Jnwooed by love and unrevered by prayer. Beauty without an eye to gaze on it, Passion without a breast to lean upon, Feelings unjust, unseemly, and unfit, Troubled his spirit's high and happy tone ; So back with vague imaginative pain He turned the steps that soon returned again. For there henceforth he every noon reposed In languor self-sufficient for the day, Feeling the light within his eyelids closed, Or peeping, where the locust, like a ray, Shot through its crevice, and, without a sound, The insect host enjoyed their airy round. THE NORTHERN KNIGHT IN ITALY. 143 Day-dreams give sleep, and sleep brings dreams anew ; Thus oft a face of untold tenderness, A cloud of woe with beauty glistening through, Brooded above him in divine distress, — And sometimes bowed so low, as it would try His ready lips, then vanisht with a sigh. And round him flowed through that intense sunshine Music, whose notes at once were words and tears ; " Paphos was mine, and Amathus was mine, Mine were the" Idalian groves of antient years, — The happy heart of Man was all mine own, Now I am homeless and alone — alone V At other times, to his long-resting gaze, Instinct with life the solid sculpture grew, And rose transfigured, 'mid a golden haze, Till lost within the" impermeable blue ; Yet ever, though with liveliest hues composed, Sad-swooning sounds the apparition closed. 14-4 THE GODDESS VENUS. As the strong waters fill the leakv boat And suck it downwards, by unseen degrees ;- So sunk his soul, the while it seemed to float On that serene security of ease, Into a torpid meditative void, By the same fancies that before upbuoyed. His train, though wonde'ring at their changeful lord, Had no distaste that season to beguile With mimic contests and well-furnisht board, — And even he would sometimes join awhile Their sports, then turn, as if in scorn, away From such rude commerce and ignoble play. One closing eve, thus issuing forth, he cried, " Land of my love ! in thee I cast my lot ; — Till death thy faithful subject I abide, — Home, kindred, country, knighthood, all forgot,- Xames that I heed no more, while I possess Thy heartfelt luxury of loveliness P THE NORTHERN KNIGHT IN ITAI.V. 145 That summer night had all the healthy cool That nerves the spirit of the youthful year ; Yet, as to eyes long fixt on a deep pool The waters dark and bright at once appear, So, through the freshness, on his senses soon Came the warm memories of the lusty noon. Such active pleasure tingling through his veins, Quicken' d his pace beneath the colonnade, Chesnut, and ilex — to the mooned plains A bronze relief and garniture of shade, — When, just before him, flittingly, he heard The tender voice of that familiar bird. Holding his own, to catch that sweeter breath, And listening, so that each particular sound Was merged in that attention's depth, his path Into the secret of the forest wound ; The clear-drawn landscape, and the orb's full gaze, Gave place to dimness and the wild-wood's maze. u 14G THE GODDESS VENUS. That thrilling sense, which to the weak is fear, - Becomes the joy and guerdon of the brave ; So, trusting his harmonious pioneer, His heart he freely to the venture gave, And through close brake and under pleached aisle, Walkt without sign of outlet many a mile. When, turning round a thicket weariedly, A building, of such mould as well might pass From graceful Greece to conquering Italy, Rose in soft outline from the silver 1 d grass, Whose doors thrown back and inner lustre show'd It was no lorn and tenantless abode. Children of all varieties of fair, And gaily vested, clustered round the portal, Until one Boy, who had not mien and air Of future manhood, but of youth immortal, Within an arch of light, came clear to view, [)fscf.-iidin<. r that angelic avenue. THE NORTHERN KNIGHT IN ITALY. 147 " Stranger ! the mistress of this happy bower, 1 Thus the bright messenger the knight addrest- " Bids us assert her hospitable power, And lead thee in a captive or a guest ; Rest is the mate of night, — let opening day Speed thee rejoicing on thy work and way."" Such gentle bidding might kind answer earn ; The full-moon's glare put out each guiding star ; He summ'd the dangers of enforced return, And now first marvell'd he had roved so far : Then murmur'd glad acceptance, tinged with fear, Lest there unmeet his presence should appear. Led by that troop of youthful innocence, A hall he traverst, up whose heaven-topt dome Thick vapors of delightful influence From gold and alabaster altars clomb, And through a range of pillar'd chambers past, Each one more full of faerie than the last. 1-IR THE GODDESS VENUS. To his vague gaze those peopled walls disclosed Graces and grandeurs more to feel than see, — Celestial and heroic forms composed In many 1 a frame of antique poesy ; But wheresoe'er the scene or tale might fall, Still Venus was the theme and crown of all. There young Adonis scorn 1 d to yield to her, Soon by a sterner nature overcome ; There Paris, happy hapless arbiter, For beauty barter 1 d kingdom, race, and home ; Save what iEneas rescued by her care, As the Didonian wood-nymph pictured there. But ere he scanned them long, a lady enter'd, In long white robes majcstical array \1, Though on her face alone his eyes were centred, Which weird suspicion to his mind convey'd, For every feature he could there divine Of the old marble in the sylvan shrine. T1IK NORTIIKKN KNIGHT IN ITALY. 14D On his bewilderment she gently smiled. To his confusion she benignly spoke ; And all the fears that started up so wild Lay down submissive to her beauty's yoke : It was with him as if he saw through tears A countenance long-loved and lost for years. She askt, " if so he wilTd," the stranger's name, And, when she heard it, said, " the gallant sound Had often reacht her on the wing of fame, Though long recluse from fortune's noisy round ; Her lot was cast in loneliness, and yet On noble worth her woman-heart was set." Rare is the fish that is not mesht amain, When Beauty tends the silken net of praise ; Thus little marvel that in vaunting strain He spoke of distant deeds and brave affrays, Till each self-glorious thought became a charm, For her to work against him to his harm. 150 THE GODDESS VENUS. Such converse of melodious looks and words Paused at the call of other symphonies, Invisible agencies, that draw the cords Of massive curtains, rising as they rise, So that the music's closing swell reveal'd The paradise of pleasure there conceal'd. It was a wide alcove, thick-wall'd with flowers, Gigantic blooms, of aspect that appear 1 d Beyond the range of vegetative powers, A flush of splendor almost to be fearM, A strange affinity of life between Those glorious creatures and that garden's Queen. Luminous gems were weaving from aloft Fantastic rainbows on the fountain-spray, — Cushions of broider'd purple, silken-soft, Profusely heapt beside a table lay, Whereon all show of form and hue increast The rich temptation of the coining feast. THE NORTHERN KNIGHT IN ITALY. 151 There on one couch, and served by cherub hands, The knight and lady banqueted in joy : With freshest fruits from scarce discovert lands, Such as he saw in pictures when a boy, And cates of flavours excellent and new, That to the unpalled taste still dearer grew. Once, and but once, a spasm of very fear Went through him, when a breeze of sudden cold Sigh'd, like a dying brother, in his ear, And made the royal flowers around upfold Their gorgeous faces in the leafy band, Like the mimosa toucht by mortal hand. Then almost ghastly seem'd the tinted sheen, Saltless and savourless those luscious meats, Till quick the Lady rose, with smile serene, As one who could command but still entreats, And, filling a gold goblet, kist the brim, And past it bubbling from her lips to him. 158 THE GODDESS VENUS. At once absorbing that nectarcous draught, And the delicious radiance of those eyes, At doubt and terror-fit he inly laught, And graspt her hand as 'twere a tourney's prize ; And heard this murmur, as she nearer drew, " Yes, I am Love, and Love was made for you !" They were alone : the" 1 attendants, one by one, Had vanisht : faint and fainter rose the air Opprest with odours : through the twilight shone The glory of white limbs and lustrous hair, Confusing sight and spirit, till he fell, The will-less, mindless, creature of the spell. In the dull deep of satisfied desire Not long a priso'iier lay that knightly soul, But on his blood, as on a wave of fire, Uneasy fancies rode without control, Voices and phantoms that did scarcely seem To take the substance of an order' d dream. THE NORTHERN KNIGHT IN ITALY 153 At first he stood beside a public road, Hedged in by myrtle and embower'd by plane, While figures, vested in old Grecian mode, Drew through the pearly dawn a winding train, So strangely characterM, he could not know Were it of triumph or funereal woe. For crowns of bay enwreath'd each beauteous head, Beauty of perfect maid and perfect man ; Slow paced the milk-white oxen garlanded ; Torch-bearing children mingled as they ran Gleaming amid the elder that uphold Tripods and cups and plates of chased gold. But then he markt the flowers were colourless, Crisp-wither'd hung the honourable leaves, And on the faces sat the high distress Of those whom Self sustains when Fate bereaves : So gazed he, wondering how that pomp would close, When the dream changed, but not to his repose. 154 THE GODDESS VENUS. For now he was within his father's hall, No tittle changed of form or furniture, But all and each a grave memorial Of youthful days, too careless to endure, — There was his mother's housewife-work, and there, Beside the fire, his grandame's crimson chair : Where, cowering low, that antient woman sat, Her bony fingers twitching on her knee, Her dry lips mutte'ring fast he knew not what, Only the sharp convulsion could he see ; But, as he lookt, he felt a conscience dim That she was urging God in prayer for him. Away in trembling wretchedness he turnM, And he was in his leman's arms once more ; Yet all the jewelFd cressets were out-burnM, And all the pictured walls, so gay before, Show'd, in the glimmer of one choking lamp, Blotcht with green mould and worn by filthy damp. THE NORTHERN KNIGHT IN ITALY. 155 Enormous bats their insolent long wings Whirl'd o'er his head, and swung against his brow, And shriekt — " We cozenM with our ministe'rings The foolish knight, and have our revel now : " And worms bestrewM the weeds that overspread The floor with silken flowers late carpeted. His sick astonisht looks he straight addrest To her whose tresses lay around his arm, And fervent breath was playing on his breast, To seek the meaning of this frightful charm ; But she was there no longer, and instead He was the partner of a demon's bed, — That, slowly rising, brought the lurid glare Of its fixt eyes close opposite to his ; One scaly hand laced in his forehead hair, Threato , ning his lips with pestilential kiss, And somewise in the fiendish face it wore, He traced the features he did erst adore. 166 THE GODDESS VENUS. With one instinctive agony he drew His sword, that Palestine remember'd well, And, quick recoiling, dealt a blow so true, That down the devilish head in thunder fell : — The effort seeni'd against a jutting stone To strike his hand, and then he woke — alone ! Alone he stood amid those ruins old, His treasu'ry of sweet care and pleasant pain ; The hemlock crusht defined the body's mould Of one who long and restless there had lain ; His vest was beaded with the dew of dawn, His hand fresh blooded, and his sword fresh drawn ! The eastern star, a crystal eye of gold, Full on the statued form of beauty shone, Now prostrate, powerless, featureless and cold, A simple trunk of deftly carven stone : Deep in the grasses that dismember'd head Lay like the relics of th' ignoble dead. THE NORTHERN KNIGHT IN ITALY. 1*7 But Beauty's namesake and sidereal shrine Now glided slowly down that pallid sky, Near and more near the thin horizon line, In the first gush of morning, there to die, — While the poor knight, with wilderM steps and brain, Hastened the glimmering village to regain. With few uncertain words and little heed His followers 1 anxious questions he put by, Bidding each one prepare his arms and steed, For " they must march before the sun was high, And neither Apennine nor Alp should stay, Though for a single night, his homeward way.'" On, on, with scanty food and rest he rode, Like one whom unseen enemies pursue, Urging his favo"rite horse with cruel goad, So that the lagging servants hardly knew Their master of frank heart and ready cheer, In that lone man who would not speak or hear. 158 THE GODDESS VENUS. Till when at last he fairly saw behind The Alpine barrier of perennial snow, He seem'd to heave a burthen off his mind, — His blood in calmer current seem'd to flow, And like himself he smiled once more, but cast No light or colour on that cloudy past. From the old Teuton forests, echoing far, Came a stern welcome, hailing him restored To the true health of life in peace or war, Fresh morning toil, that earns the generous board ; And waters, in the clear unbroken voice Of childhood, spoke — " Be thankful and rejoice !" Glad as the dove returning to his ark Over the waste of universal sea, He heard the huge house-dog's familiar bark, He traced the figure of each friendly tree, And felt that he could never part from this His home of daily love and even bliss. THE NORTHERN KNIGHT IN ITALY. 159 And in the quiet closure of that place, He soon his first affection linkt anew, In that most honest passion finding grace, His soul with primal vigour to endue, And crush the memories that at times arose, To stain pure joy and trouble high repose. Never again that dear and dangerous land, So fresh with all her weight of time and story, Her winterless delights and slumbers bland, On thrones of shade, amid a world of glory, Did he behold : the flashing cup could please No longer him who knew the poison-lees. So lived he, pious, innocent, and brave, The best of friends I ever saw on earth : And now the uncommunicable grave Has closed on him, and left us but his worth ; I have revealed this strange and secret tale, Of human fancy and the powers of bale. 160 THE GODDESS VENUS. He told it me, one autumn evening mild, Sitting, greyhair'd, beneath an old oak tree, His dear true wife beside him, and a child, Youngest of many, dancing round his knee, — And bade me, if I would, in fragrant rhymes Embalm it, to be known in after-times. Of the same nature as the above is the tale of the young Knight, who, unconsciously or daringly, placed his ring on the finger of a statue of Venus, and returning to repossess himself of it, found the finger bent, and the hand closed. In the old version of this, which is to be seen in Book iii. sect. 8, of the Jesuit Del Rio's Magical Disquisitions (Venetiis, 16 1 6), the phantom goddess ever comes be- tween him and the bride he takes soon after this adventure, and is only banisht through the mediation of a priest, named Palumnus, himself well skilled in necromancy. The knight receives a parch- ment from him, which, at midnight, in a meeting of cross roads, he forces upon Venus, who passes by with a solemn but hurrying train of attendants, and when she receives it, cries, — " Cruel Priest Palum- nus ! art thou never content with the harm thou hast done ! but the end of thy persecutions cometh, cruel Priest Palumnus." The knight recovers his ring, and is freed from the enchantment ; but the priest dies in dreadful agony the third day afterward. It is to be remarkt that in the course of German Mythology the demonic character of Venus is often confused or identified with that of other personages,— such as Diana and Holda, and Herodias, whose un- holy exhibition of dancing has given her a prominent place in the circle of seductive sorcery. LOVE-THOUGHTS. I. All down the linden-alley's morning shade Thy form with childly rapture I pursue ; No hazel-bowered brook can seek the glade, With steps more joyous and with course more true. But when all haste and hope I reach my goal, And Thou at once thy full and earnest eyes Turnest upon me, my encumbered soul Bows down in shame and trembles with surprise. I rise exalted on thy moving grace, Peace and good-will in all thy voice T hear ; Yet if the sudden wonders of thy face Fall on me, joy is weak and turns to fear. Y LOVE-THOUGHTS. II. Think not because I walk in power, While Thou art by my side, That I could keep the path one hour Without my guard and guide. The keeper left mo once alone Within a madhouse hall, With gibber, shriek, and fixed smile About me, — madmen all ! The horrid sense which then I felt Is what my life would be, If in this world of pain and guilt I once lost sight of Thee. I.OYK-TIIOUGIITS. 163 III. Oh ! let not words, the callous shell of Thought, Intrude betwixt thy silent soul and mine ; — Try not the choicest ever Poet wrought, They all are discord in our life divine. Smile not thine unbelief. But hear and say All that Thou will'st, and then upon my breast Thy gracious head in silent passion lay One little hour, and tell me which is best. Noiv let us live our love ; in after-hours Words shall fit handmaids to sweet Memory be, But let them not disturb these holier bowers, The voiceless depths of perfect sympathy. HU UiVK-TlIOUGIlTS. IV. Dream no more that grief and pain Could .such hearts as ours enchain, Safe from loss and safe from gain, Free, as Love wakes free. When false friends pass coldly by, Sigh, in earnest pity, sigh, Turning thine unclouded eye Up from them to me. Hear not danger's trampling feet, Feel not sorrow's wintry sleet, Trust that life is just and meet, With mine arm round Thee. Lip on lip, and eye to eye, Love to love, we live, we die ; \'o more Thou, and no more I, We and only We ! LOVE-THOUGHTS. i.;-, I would be calm, — 1 would be free From thoughts and images of Thee ; But Nature and thy will conspire To bar me from my fair desire. The trees are moving with thy grace, The water will reflect thy face, The very flowers are plotting deep, And in thy breath their odours steep. The breezes, when mine eyes I close, With sighs, just like mine own, impose ; The nightingale then takes her part, And plays thy voice against my heart. If Thou then in one golden chain Canst bind the world, I strive in vain ; Perchance my wisest scheme would be To join this great conspiracy. IW LOVE-THOUGHTS. VI. I will not say my life was sad Before it stood fulfilled in Thee ; The happy need not scorn the glad, Thy subjects need not mock the free : Mine was the moment's natu'ral boon, Lighting at will on these or those, Pleasures as constant as the moon, And Loves eternal as the rose. I prize the humblest antient hour, When winged with light my spirit flew For honev's sake from flower to flower, Nor even askt where amaranth grew ; Each creature's simple Providence Sufficed me well, until one day Thy presence in me roused the sense, How sure wort Thou, how frail were They LOVE-THOUGHTS. 1«7 That instant Nature seemed a dream, — Thou waking in the midst alone, — And Life her fast unpausing stream Contrasted with thine island-throne. Ah ! why to me of all was given That only step of conscious pain From joyous Earth to glorious Heaven. Scarce dead before I rose again ! SHADOWS. ! mournful sequence of self-drunken days, When jovial youth had range of Nature's store ! With fever-thirst for pleasure and for praise, 1 nauseate every draught, and ask for more. Look on me well, and early steep thy soul In one pure Love, and it will last thee long ; Fresh airs shall breathe while sweltering thunders roll, And summer noons shall leave thee cool and strong. Across the desert, 'mid thy thirsty kind, Thy healthy heart shall move apace and calm, Nor yearning trace the 1 horizon far behind, Where rests the fountain and the lonely palm. shadows. iea II. I had a home, wherein the weariest feet Found sure repose ; And Hope led on laborious day to meet Delightful close ! A cottage with broad eaves and a thick vine, A crystal stream Whose mountain-language was the same as mine,- It was a dream ! I had a home to make the gloomiest heart Alight with joy, — A temple of chaste love, a place apart From Time's annoy : A moonlight scene of life, where all things rude And harsh did seem With pity rounded and by grace subdued, — It was a dream ! 170 SHADOWS. III. They owned their passion without shame or fear, And every household duty counted less Than that one spiritual bond, and men severe Said, they should sorrow for their wilfulness. And truth the world went ill with them ; — he knew That he had broken up her maiden life, Where only pleasures and affections grew, And sowed it thick with labour, pain, and strife. What her unpractist weakness was to her The presence of her suffering was to him ; Thus at Love's feast did Misery minister, And fill their cups together to the brim. They askt their kind for hope, but there was none, Till Death came by and gave them that and more ; Then men lamented, — but the earth rolls on, And lovers love and perish as before. MIADOWS. 171 IV. They seemed to those who saw them meet The worldly friends of every day, Her smile was undisturbed and sweet, His courtesy was free and gay. But yet if one the other's name In some unguarded moment heard, The heart, you thought so calm and tame, Would struggle like a captured bird : And letters of mere formal phrase Were blistered with repeated teai's, — And this was not the work of days, But had gone on for years and years ! 172 SHADOWS. Alas, that Love was not too strong For maiden shame and manly pride ! Alas, that they delayed so long The goal of mutual bliss beside . Yet what no chance could then reveal, And neither would be first to own, Let fate and courage now conceal, When truth could bring remorse alone. SHADOWS. 173 V. Beneath an Indian palm a girl Of other blood reposes, Her cheek is clear and pale as pearl, Amid that wild of roses. Beside a northern pine a boy Is leaning fancy-bound, Nor listens where with noisy joy Awaits the 1 impatient hound. Cool grows the sick and feverish calm,- Relaxt the frosty twine, — The pine-tree dreameth of the palm, The palm-tree of the pine. As soon shall nature interlace Those dimly-visioned boughs, As these young lovers face to face Renew their early vows ! 174 HIADOWS. VI. She had left all on earth for him, Her home of wealth, her name of pride, And now his lamp of love was dim, And, sad to tell, she had not died. She watcht the crimson sun's decline, From some lone rock that fronts the sea,- " I would, O burning heart of mine, There were an ocean-rest for thee. " The thoughtful moon awaits her turn, The stars compose their choral crown, But those soft lights can never burn, Till once the fiery sun is down." LOVE AND NATURE. I. " Thou, that wert wont at Nature's shrine To worship all the year, Say are her features less divine, Her attitudes less dear \ Or if her beauty's still the same, Then thou art dull and slow : She must be sooth a gentle dame To let thee woo her so. 11 " 'Tis not, sweet friend ! that I forget, The charms of vale and hill : Sunset and dawn are lovely yet, — But Thou art lovelier still : I prize the talk of summer brooks, The mountains 1 graver tone ; But can I give them thoughts and looks That are of right thine own I" 170 LOVE AND NATURE. II. The Sun came through the frosty mist Most like a dead-white moon ; Thy soothing tones I seemed to list, As voices in a swoon. Still as an island stood our ship, The waters gave no sound, But when I toucht thy quivering lip, I felt the world go round. We seemed the only sentient things Upon that silent sea : Our hearts the only living springs Of all that yet could be ! >.,\ I. ANIi NATURE. 177 III. Till death the tide of thought may stem There's little chance of our forgetting The highland tarn, the water-gem, With all its rugged mountain-setting. Our spirits followed every cloud That o'er it, and within it, floated ; Our joy in all the scene was loud, Yet one thing silently we noted : That though the glorious summer hue That steept the heav'ns could scarce be brighter, The blue below was still more blue, The very light itself was lighter. And each the other's fancy caught By one instinctive glance directed : How doubly glows the poet's thought In the beloved one's breast reflected ! A A 178 LOVE AND NATITHR. IV. There is a beech en tree, To whose thick crown a boy I clomb, And made me there a birdlike home To sing or ponder free. There is a jasmine bower, Whence you did see me trembling tear One spray to mingle with your hair, And loved me from that hour. Nature has odours none Like these to me: let some of each, Of jasmine flowers and leaves of beech, Adorn our house alone. — LOVE AND NATUBE. i;g Where'er about the world we roam, With heart on heart, and hand in hand, Each dwelling has the face of home, Each country is my native land. — With glad familiar looks I greet Places and sights unseen before: And wandering brook, and winding street, I follow as if past of yore. But if some chance or duty calls Thee from me; then how great the change! T hardly know my father's halls, My mother's very smile is strange. Dead words become the books I read With most delight while thou art near; I seem thy present love to need, My dearest friendships to endear. — liio LOVE AND NATURE. VI. When long upon the scales of fate The issue of my passion hung, And on your eyes I laid in wait, And on your brow, and on your tongue, H igh- frowning Nature pleased me most, Strange pleasure was it to discern Sharp rocks and mountains peakt with frost, Through gorges thick with fir and fern. The flowerless walk, the vapo'ry shrouds, Could comfort me ; though best of all, I loved the daughter of the clouds, — The wild, capricious, waterfall. — But now that you and I repose On one affection's certain store, Serener charms take place of those, — Plenty ami peace, and little more LOVE AND NATURE. 101 The hill that tends its mother-breast To patient flocks and gentle kine, — The vale that spreads its royal vest Of golden corn and purple vine, — The streams that bubble out their mirth In humble nooks, or calmly flow The crystal life-blood of our earth, — Are now the dearest sights I know. THE LEGEND OF THE GLISBORN. King Karl bestrode the snow-white Horse, Whose speed and force Are known to song, — And kept the same unhalting course Without remorse The whole day long, Leading his straggling armed train Across the plain. To burning day came stifling night, With dubious light, Enough to show The thirsty looks of many a knight THE LEGEND OF THE GLISBORN. la.J Who prayed to fight Some sudden foe, And sink upon that Hessian plain, Nor rise again. The King, nigh feeble as the rest, With heaving breast Declared his need ; And cried, by nature overprest, " Water and rest, 11 — The while his steed Cheerfully paced the springless plain, Without a pain. Fresh as the chargers of the Sun, That now begun Their daily course, He gamboled on, while one by one, By toil undone, Fell man and horse ; Till the exhausted King would fain His speed restrain. 1IU THE LEGEND OF THE OLISBORN. With strange intelligence endowed, He eyed the croud, That gazed aloof, Then archt his neck in gesture proud. And neighed aloud And raised his hoof, And struck a rock of solid grain, That faced the plain., A long, long, echo met the blow; — When, soft and slow, A slender stream From that dry heart began to flow, And gurgled so That it might seem The cry of waters that disdain Their stony chain. The growing rill disperst the sand On either hand To seek its rest, While round the King a fainting band nil'. LEGEND OF THE GLISBORN. To his command Their looks add rest ; " One moment yet your thirst restrain, For common gain." Till, when the stream ran large and free, He bent his knee In grateful prayer ; And bade the army drink, while He, His horse and He, Stood patient there, — His hand upon that milk-white mane, No dust could stain. Whole ages after Karl the Great In mortal fate Had past to heaven, A Hessian peasant and his mate Out-wandering late By chance were driven, To seek some shelter from the rain On that same plain. B B 186 THE LEGEND OF TI1E GLISBORN. From a lone shed on that brook-side, At night's mid-tide, They heard the sound Of men and steeds in warlike pride, With eager stride, Assemble round, — While darkness held unbroken reign O'er all the plain. A single neigh ! a single blow ! And loud below The waters raged, As would they to a torrent grow, — Nor was their flow Till morn assuaged ; — And rarely peasant crost that plain By night again. THE FALL OF ALIPIUS When gentle Gratian ruled the Roman west, And with unvigorous virtues thought to hold That troubled balance in perpetual rest, And crush with good intent the bad and bold, The youth Alipius for the first time saw The Mother of civility and law : Mother in truth, but yet as one who now By her disloyal children tended ill Should sit apart, with hand upon her brow, Moaning her sick desires and feeble will ; So Rome was pictured to the subtler eye, That could through words the soul of things descry * From the Confessions of St. Angustin. isa i hi: fall of axipius. But no such vision of the truth had He Who with full heart past under the old wall, A Roman moulded by that sun and sea Which lit and laved the infant Hannibal, One who with Afric blood could still combine The civic memories of a Roman line. To him was Rome whatever she had been, Republican, Cesarean, unforgot, As much the single undisputed Queen, As if the Empire of the East was not, — Fine gold and rugged iron fused and cast Into one image of the glorious Past : A nd on a present throne to heaven up-piled, Of arches, temples, basilics and halls, He placed his Idol, while before her filed Nations to gild and glut her festivals ; And of her might the utterance was so loud, That every other living voice was cowed. THE TALL OF ALIl'IUS. 189 Possest by this idea, little heed At first he gave the thicke'ning multitude, That met and past him in their noisy speed, Like hounds intent upon the scent of blood, For all the City was that day astir, Tow'ard the huge Flavian Amphitheatre. Yet soon his sole attention grew to scan That edifice whose walls might rather seem The masonry of Nature than of man, In size and figure a Titanic dream, That could whole worlds of lesser men absorb Within the' embrace of one enormous orb. The mighty tragedies of skill and strife, That there in earnest death must ever close, Exciting palates which no tastes of life Could to a sense of such delight dispose, Swept by his fancy with an hundred names, The pomps and pageantries of Roman games. lit" THE FALL OP ALIP1US. Why should he not pass onward with that tide Of passionate enchantment ? why not share The seeds of pleasure Nature spread so wide, And gave the heart of men like common air ? Why should that be to him a shame and sin, Which thousands of his fellows joy'd to win ? But ere this thought could take perspicuous form, His Will arose and fell'd it at a blow ; For he had felt that instinct's fever-storm Lash his young blood to fury long ago, — And in the Circus had consumed away Of his best years how many' a wanton day ! Till the celestial guardian of his soul Led him the great Augustin's voice to hear, And soon that better influence o'er him stole, A reve'rend master and companion dear, From whom he learnt in his provincial home Wisdom scarce utter d in the schools of Rome THE FALL OF ALIPIUS. 191 " How wide Humanity's potential range, — From Earth's abysses to sercnest Heaven, — From the poor child of circumstance and change, By every wind of passion tost and driven, To the establisht philosophic mind, The type and model of the thing designed : " And how this work of works in each is wrought, By no enthusiast leap to good from ill, But by the vigorous government of thought, The unrelaxing continence of will, — Where little habits their invisible sway Extend, like body's growth, from day to day. 11 By meditations such as these sustained He stoutly breasted that on-coming croud, Then, as in stupor, at one spot remained, For thrice he heard his name repeated loud, And close before him there beheld in truth Three dearest comrades of his Afric youth. |4 THE FALL OF ALIPIUS. Which ever rising grew into a storm Of acclamations, when, at either end, The combatant displayed his perfect form, Brandisht his arms, rejoicing to expend His life in fight at least, — at least reclaim A warrior's priv liege from a captive's shame. As rose before Amphions notes serene The fated City of heroic guilt, Alipius thus his soid and sense between Imagination's strong defence up-built, With soft memorial music, dreamy strains Of youthful happinesses, loves, and pains. His stony seat seems on the Libyan coast, — Augustin on one side, and on the other Monica, for herself beloved, yet most By him regarded as Augustins mother ; And from far off resounds the populous roar As but the billows booming on the shore. HIE FALL OF ALIPIIS. 195 Never can he desert the truth he drew From those all-honored lips, — never can yield To savage appetite, and fresh imbrue That soul in filth to which had been revealed The' eternal purities that round it lie, The Godhead of its birth and destiny. — Now trumpets clanging forth the last command Gave place to one tremendous pause of sound, Silence like that of some rich-flowering land With lava-torrents raging underground, Not for one moment safe from such outbreak As shall all nature to its centre shake. And soon in truth it came ;— the first sharp blows Fell at long intervals as aimed with skill, Then grew expressive of the passion-throes That followed calm resolve and prudent will, — Till wild ejaculations took their part In the death-strife of hand and eye and heart. 196 THE FALL OF AL1PIUS. " Habet,— Hoc habet,— Habet !" * What a cry ! As if the Circus were one mighty mouth Invading the deep vale of quiet sky With avalanche melted in the summer-drouth, — Articulate tumult from old earth upborne, Delight and ire and extasy and scorn ! Sat then Alipius silent there alone, With fast-shut eyes and spirit far away i Remained he there as stone upon the stone, While the flusht conqueror askt the sign to slay The stricken victim, who despairing dumb Waited the sentence of the downward thumb \ The shock was too much for him — too, too strong For that poor Reason and self-resting Pride ; And every evil fury that had long Lain crouching in his breast leapt up and cried " Yield, yield at once, and do as others do, We are the Lords of all of them and you." * Hi- is liit — he Ins t"'t it ! THE FALL OP ALIPIUS. 1:17 The Love of contest and the Lust of blood Dwell in the depths of man's original heart, And at mere shows and names of wise and good Will not from their barbaric homes depart, But half asleep await their time, and then Bound forth, like tigers from their jungle-den : And all the curious wicker-work of thought, Of logical result and learned skill, Of precepts with examples inter-wrought, Of high ideals, and determinate will, — The careful fabric of ten thousand hours, Is crusht beneath the moment's brutal powers. Thus fell Alipius ! He, so grave and mild, Added the bloody sanction of his hand To the swift slaughter of that brother-child Of his own distant Mauritanian land, Seeming content his very life to merge In the confusion of that foaming surge. 198 THE FALL OF ALIPIU9. The rage subsided ; the deep sandy floor Suckt the hot blood ; the hook, like some vile prey, Dragged off the noble body of the Moor ; The Victor, doomed to die some other day, Enjoyed the plaudits purposelessly earned, — And back Alipius to himself returned. There is a fearful waking unto woes, When sleep arrests her charitable course, Yet far more terrible the line that flows From ebrious passion to supine remorse ; Then welcome death, — but that the suffe'rers feel Wounds such as theirs no death is sure to heal ! But the demoniac power that well can use Self-trust and Pride as instruments of ill, Can such prostration to its ends abuse, And poison from Humility distil : • Why struggle more I Why strive, when strife is vain,- — An infant's muscles with a giant's chain I" i in; PALL OF ALIPIUS. w So in his own esteem debased, and glad To take distraction whencesoe'er it came, Though in his heart of hearts entirely sad, Alipius lived to pleasure and to fame * : Sometimes remindful of his youth's high vow, Of hopes and aspirations, fables now. When came to Rome his sire of moral lore, That Master, whom his love could ne'er forget, He too a proud Philosopher no more, He too his past reviewing with regret, But preaching One, who can on man bestow Truth to be wise and strength to keep him so. The secret of that strength the Christian sage To his regained disciple there unsealed, Giving his stagnant soul a war to wage With weapons that at once were sword and shield ; And thenceforth ever down Tradition glide Augustin and Alipius side by side-f*. * Alipiu9 was appointed Assessor of Justice to the treasurer of Italy, ■f" They went together to Milan, where they were both baptized by St. Ambrose on Easter Eve, A.D. 387. Thence they returned to Africa, and THE FALL OF ALI1UUS. And in this strength years afterward arose That aged priest Telemachus, who cast I lis life among those brutalising shows, And died a willing victim and the last, Leaving that temple of colossal crime In silent battle with almighty Time. lived in monastic community in their native town of Tagaste. Alipius after- wards removed to Hippo, and visited St. Jerome in Palestine : he was conse- crated Bishop of Tagaste A. D. 393 : his festival is kept in the Roman Catholic Church on the 15th of August. THE END. LONDON : BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRIHTBHS, WHITEFI1IAHS. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. Form L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444 PR He . " : .on - 07 Poetry for the ie 18UO 3 1158 00254 5308 PR 1307 A3 lSliO UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY II II III I AA 000 376 206 9 i