THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 f-' 
 
 
 
 

 
 PR 
 
 i-oco 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 Preface ix 
 
 The Earl's Choice — 
 
 Proem .-. 1 
 
 Parti 10 
 
 Part II 25 
 
 Part III 33 
 
 Part IV 43 
 
 Part V 57 
 
 Part VI 67 
 
 At Naples— 1830 83 
 
 At Naples— 1853 96 
 
 England— 1860 101 
 
 Under the Cypress — 
 
 Gone 103 
 
 Together 105 
 
 Alone 106 
 
 No longer Here 107 
 
 Her Portrait 108 
 
 Day and Night 109 
 
 In Memoriam Sororis Ill 
 
 7r\ er ET <■; C 
 a 3
 
 VI CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 Sonnets — 
 
 Prefatory 113 
 
 Evening 114 
 
 World-Fear 114 
 
 Progress 115 
 
 Domenichino's Sibyl 1 15 
 
 Eising to Eall 116 
 
 Conformity 117 
 
 Time's Apocalypse 117 
 
 Health 118 
 
 Speculation 119 
 
 Inquiry 119 
 
 Conviction 120 
 
 Creeds 121 
 
 To Bacchus 121 
 
 Death 122 
 
 Burial 123 
 
 The Grave 123 
 
 The True Prince 124 
 
 In Memoriam Fratris 126 
 
 The Dinner Controversy 127 
 
 " L'Empire c'est la Paix " 127 
 
 The Houseless Poor— a Christmas Appeal 128 
 
 Suggested by reading the American Eejoicings on the 
 
 laying down of the Atlantic Cable 129 
 
 Jonathan's Welcome to our Prince 130 
 
 On reading in The Times Newspaper an Account of 
 
 the Prize-Fight between Sayers and Hcenan 131
 
 CONTENTS. vn 
 
 Page 
 Sonnets — continued — 
 
 Suggested by the Conviction and Execution of John 
 
 Brown 131 
 
 Garibaldi at Aspromonte „ 133 
 
 North and South 133 
 
 Minor Poems — 
 
 Freedom 135 
 
 Evil Genius™ „ „ „ 138 
 
 In Vino Falsitas _ 139 
 
 Burns' Centenary (1858) 140 
 
 The Law of Nations 141 
 
 The Warsaw Conference 142 
 
 On reading " The Song of the Pen " in the Dublin 
 
 University Magazine 144 
 
 Francesca da Kimini 146 
 
 The Keturn of Spring 147 
 
 The Alpine Torrent „ 148 
 
 England's Chivalry „ 149 
 
 Now and Then „ 150 
 
 To a Young Friend „ 152 
 
 Resignation „ 153 
 
 Parting „ 154 
 
 The Peasant's Home 155 
 
 The Blind Man's Dying Farewell 156 
 
 Dejection 157 
 
 Retrospect 158 
 
 Tempest ...„ „ 159 
 
 Hope— Bear— Trust 160
 
 vill CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 Minor Poems — continued — 
 
 The Rivals 161 
 
 By the Sea-side „ 163 
 
 Timidity „ 164 
 
 Deceived 165 
 
 Only Children 166 
 
 To M. V 167 
 
 Barbara Lyle 168 
 
 She's not for Me 169 
 
 Town and Country 170 
 
 To M. G 171 
 
 Quarrel of Friends * 173 
 
 Life and Love 174 
 
 We Laugh at Love 175 
 
 Mine at Last 176 
 
 The Soul's Soliloquy 177 
 
 The First Gold Bush at Melbourne 178 
 
 Christmas in Australia 182 
 
 Advance, Victoria! 183
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Many of the following poems were written years 
 ago — contemporaneously, or nearly so, with the 
 events and feelings that gave rise to their com- 
 position. The " Earl's Choice," which ought 
 perhaps to be designated a tale in verse, rather 
 than a poem, is of recent production. So also 
 are the Sonnets ; and some of the Minor Poems 
 will afford internal evidence of having been written 
 
 L b 
 
 after the Author's final return to England. During 
 his residence in Australia (1837-58), he was too 
 much engaged in the pursuit of his profession, to 
 allow of frequent intercourse with the Muse ; but 
 although thus debarred the poet's vocation, the 
 aspirations of one never forsook him, and resulted, 
 from time to time, in those utterances from which 
 the present selection is made. To the earliest of 
 these he has affixed dates ; the remainder are 
 located amid his more recent effusions without 
 specification, and in an order irrespective of their 
 chronological sequence.
 
 X PBEFACE. 
 
 Some of the poems thus selected may be thought 
 too personal for the public eye ; but however 
 amenable to critical objection on that account, 
 the Author feels assured that they will not be the 
 less acceptable to the circle in which they will 
 probably find their chief circulation. To the 
 general reader, indeed, unaccredited verse of any 
 sort appeals with small chance of welcome ; and in 
 no expectation that his own will form an exception, 
 has the Author published the present volume. 
 He believes that the friends who look for it will 
 give it kindly greeting, and he knows that those, 
 nearer and dearer than friends, will be thankful 
 for a more durable memorial of his thoughts and 
 feelings than would remain to them in the fragile 
 and disjointed leaves of unrevised manuscript. 
 Such a memorial he leaves to them in the volume 
 now published, and to them he dedicates what by 
 them will be best appreciated. 
 
 Surbiton, January, 1863.
 
 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 gl Salij in 9*hm* 
 
 IN SIX PARTS.
 
 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 PROEM. 
 
 Here is no tale of knightly chivalry, 
 
 No fahulous or legendary lay, 
 
 No golden picture of the " Good old Times," 
 
 But a most homely story of our own, 
 
 Unaided by " effects sensational," 
 
 And fashioned in quite unromantic shape. 
 
 No tale is it of the impossible, 
 
 Or e'en the marvellous ; to bards of more 
 
 Ambitious aim I leave that bolder flight 
 
 Which soars above the dull routine of earth 
 
 In quest of the heroic ; content am I 
 
 With what of good or lofty may be traced 
 
 Amid the paths where human footsteps walk 
 
 Their daily round ; where man his fellow meets, 
 
 Nor in him finds an angel or a fiend. 
 
 1
 
 2 THE EARLS CHOICE. 
 
 Here is no picture of ideal men 
 Among ideal women — both doing deeds 
 That man nor woman ever did before : 
 The truthful present from the doubtful past 
 Calls me away ; my Muse is of the earth, 
 And, thence invoked, she bids me sing no song 
 (Albeit sung in transcendental strain) 
 That would appeal to human ears or hearts, 
 Which wakes not also human sympathies. 
 
 But e'en from earth some heavenly feelings spring, 
 And my tale is of one ; from loftiest bard 
 What song, this wanting, were of audience sure ? 
 Yet am I rash to think it may be sung — 
 This holiest passion that our nature knows — 
 With none of that contaminating gloss, 
 With none of those vile intermixtures which 
 Blend love with folly, wickedness, or shame ? 
 Bash to believe, at least, that to one sex, 
 Without such stain, my song will welcome prove, 
 Moving, perchance, some gentle lips to say, 
 (If gentle eyes this page should ever greet,) 
 " Here is a lay that maid or wife may read, 
 And from the reading rise without a blush." 
 
 Yet, were I faithless to my own design, 
 Light were the blame compared with that incurred 
 By one to whom the admiring age accords 
 The poet's bay ; when minstrel such as he
 
 THE EARL S CHOICE. 
 
 Befouls the purer current of liis verse 
 With tuueful warblinga of a wanton's wiles, 
 And wife's deceit — when he, around whose harp 
 The fair and young in listening homage sit, 
 Hanging impatient on his every word, 
 Allows such unmeet utterance to go forth, 
 Speaking of vices which no maid should know, 
 Speaking of frailties which no maid should hear, 
 He does a harm beyond my power to work, 
 Fails in the high example he should set, 
 Leads where 'tis base to follow, and prepares 
 A shadow for his genius and his fame. 
 
 " To labour is to pray." The saying's old, 
 And in these days has grown into a creed, 
 Which all with lips — if not with heart — profess : 
 It is the doctrine of the haughty peer, 
 And wealthy commoner ; the kings of trade 
 Proclaim it, and the meanest artisan 
 Adopts it, oft, to fling it back in scorn 
 On those from whom it came ; the demagogue 
 Confronts with it the proud aristocrat, 
 Who, in his turn, for purpose of his own, 
 Swears by the adage to applauding mobs. 
 Alike in pulpit, and on platform preached, 
 It comes commended from the lips of priests, 
 Saints, patriots, politicians ; thus 'twould seem, 
 Whatever else may yet be in dispute 
 In this most Christian and enlightened land, 
 
 1—2
 
 1 THE EARL S CHOICE. 
 
 That " work is worship " is a truth agreed. 
 
 Well, let us call it worship, but of Whom ? 
 
 How much belongs to Mammon, and how mucb 
 
 To Bacchus, in the busy marts of work ? 
 
 And what's there holy in that drudgery 
 
 Which fits the soul for neither Earth nor Heaven ? 
 
 " Worship," no more let's desecrate tbe word, 
 
 Nor go on calling by exalted names 
 
 Things but of mean or sad significance. 
 
 There is but one ennobling work for man, 
 
 Or woman either — that which Duty wills 
 
 And executes ; whenever that is done, 
 
 By prince or peasant, or by head or hand, 
 
 'Tis nobly done, and work is worship there. 
 
 For work like this, all have necessity, 
 
 The high and low, the rich and poor alike, 
 
 Are called to it. Much talk has lately been 
 
 Of Woman's work — of what it should not be, 
 
 And what it should: but all the talk has been 
 
 Of woman struggling for her daily bread ; 
 
 As if the one to rank and affluence born 
 
 Nor need nor obligation had for work. 
 
 What — whilst her lowlier sister's hard-tasked life 
 
 From morn to night is one continued toil, 
 
 With no sweet use of body, mind, or heart, 
 
 Is she with time and means at her command 
 
 For ordering these as suits her whim or will, 
 
 To use them but as servile ministers 
 
 Of ease and pleasure from her birth to death ?
 
 THE EAEL'S CHOICE. 
 
 Is she to no more high vocation called 
 
 Than to take counsel of her milliner 
 
 How she may shine at opera or ball ? 
 
 In what attire to sit her ottoman, 
 
 Her chariot, or her steed ?— how deck herself 
 
 For exhibition at some fancy fair ? 
 
 Or how her pretty hand had best be gloved 
 
 To take her prayer-book from the liveried slave 
 
 Standing, with powdered head, and well-turned calf, 
 
 To wait on her, ere waiting on his God ? 
 
 Or let us place her in a lower rank — 
 
 Offspring of parent who to industry 
 
 In trade or commerce owes the wealth by which 
 
 He rears his daughter in such careful way 
 
 As that she may, unchallenged, stand among 
 
 The ladies of the land. What is her work ? 
 
 Has she no call upon her faculties 
 
 Higher than what may fitting answer find 
 
 In mastery of such accomplishments 
 
 As music, drawing, dancing-masters teach? 
 
 Let these not be disdained, nor let her shun 
 
 The needle, whether for its grace or use, 
 
 Nor spurn, indeed, the aid of any art 
 
 That innocently to her person brings 
 
 An added charm, or gifts her with the power 
 
 Of pleasing others by her tutored skill. 
 
 Yet small the worth of such proficiency 
 
 Without due culture of the mind and heart ; 
 
 Add that she's maiden of a serious turn,
 
 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 Frequents the church, attends at Sunday schools, 
 
 Distributes tracts, pays visits to the poor, 
 
 From waltzing shrinks, to theatres ne'er goes, 
 
 And in the parson puts her firmest faith ! 
 
 What then — if she from no inspiring sense 
 
 Of duty such description earns ; if all 
 
 This occupation's hut for fashion's sake, 
 
 The copying of a pattern which she follows 
 
 Because 'tis set, or haply offers her 
 
 Convenient vent for sensibilities 
 
 That cost no self-denial to indulge — 
 
 If in her ministrations to the poor, 
 
 Whether in aid of body, or of soul, 
 
 Bhe can but echo what another says, 
 
 And to each varying want, and varying woe, 
 
 That meet her in her periodic rounds, 
 
 Comes with the self-same face and self-same words, 
 
 Her charity is but a cold routine, 
 
 And she, at best, but an automaton, 
 
 Moved to her work by artificial springs. 
 
 Yet better this than sitting still at home 
 
 In sentimental dream, or pillowing 
 
 In idle ease upon her silken lap 
 
 Home pious novel, or exciting tale, 
 
 Which leave her weaker than she was before 
 
 For strength of purpose, and for truth of act. 
 
 Better a night at opera or ball 
 
 Than day of morbid reverie — better aught 
 
 Of life and action in the busy world,
 
 THE EARL S CHOICE. 
 
 With heart alive to others' joys and griefs, 
 Thau only sensitive to those of fiction, 
 Or brooding selfishly upon her own. 
 
 sex of which it is the Briton's boast 
 That, in his land, thy noblest image dwells, 
 Believing with a fervent faith that there 
 Woman is dearest, purest, fairest found — 
 Domestic idol of each lordly home 
 And lowly cot — whate'er thy station be — 
 Above it, e'er remember, is thyself! 
 The " wheel of fortune neither love nor hate," 
 And thou, dear lady, who art placed above 
 The wants that bow thy humbler sister down, 
 And tastest joys which she may never know, 
 Make not the barrier wider than it is 
 'Twixt her and thee, by apathy or scorn ; 
 Let not the icy breath of Custom chill 
 Thy woman's heart, nor its imperious tone 
 Silence the voice of thy diviner mind : 
 Spite of the bonds in which it strives to hold thee, 
 And of the worship which the world demands 
 From all for this its idol ; no more respect 
 Do thou, than may become a gentle heart 
 And honest mind, accord it ; its fit due 
 Rightly discerning, pay ; nay, e'en allow 
 Occasional exactions — for to yield, 
 In naught that injures truth or modesty, 
 Rather than, by resistance, harsh remark
 
 8 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 Or misconstruction risk, were wisdom's part. 
 
 But never let its menace scare thy soul 
 
 From ofi' its pedestal, nor there to swerve 
 
 Beyond its balance ; despot though it be 
 
 Of power almost omnipotent, should it dare 
 
 Wrong to thyself or others' counsel, defy it, 
 
 And He, who is Omnipotence entire, 
 
 Shall come beside thee with a viewless strength, 
 
 And steady thee with his Almighty ami, 
 
 Till thou shalt stand more firmly fixed than ever 
 
 Against the aim of every hostile shaft 
 
 That would detach thee from thy chosen height. 
 
 Woman at once thus gentle, and thus strong, 
 Thus bending and thus firm ; with heart informed 
 By deeper, tenderer sensibilities 
 Than tracts or novels teach — with mind prepared 
 By discipline, and culture, to recoil 
 From all there seeking entrance that wears not 
 Some impress of the beautiful and true ; 
 Subject, not slave, to laws conventional 
 (Where reverence for no higher law demands 
 Bebellion) ; masculine alone in will ; 
 Serenely treading wheresoe'er her path ; 
 Not murmuring, whate'er its roughness be, 
 But stooping, meekly, to remove its thorns, 
 Rather than step aside to look for flowers 
 Which spring not in her way ; more apt, perchance, 
 To weep than smile ; content, yet blushing not
 
 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 To own, if maiden, to the maiden's hope 
 
 Of lying some day on a husband's breast ; 
 
 But, wed or unwed, cheerful-hearted still, 
 
 And ever mindful of the simple creed, 
 
 Whate'er her fortune or her fate may be, 
 
 That peace and happiness can only come 
 
 From duty well perceived, and well performed : — 
 
 Woman like this — if to her nobler traits 
 
 Be added cultured mind, and manners fraught 
 
 With gentle dignity and graceful ease, 
 
 Is stamped the lady by a higher right 
 
 Than birth, wealth, rank, or all combined, confer. 
 
 Woman like this I sing — no heroine 
 
 For a " Strange Story " or exciting tale ; 
 
 Too unideal for the bard sublime, 
 
 But dearly welcome to my humble Muse.
 
 10 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 An Artist's room in Loudon — it is night, 
 
 And the pale lamp, by which the Artist sits, 
 
 Gazing upon the portrait on his easel, 
 
 Shows little of the workman or his work. 
 
 Holding the door of an adjoining chamber 
 
 A maiden stands, watching the portrait too ; 
 
 Then, with a sigh she struggles to suppress, 
 
 Advances to the silent sitter, and 
 
 With hand upon his shoulder softly speaks — 
 
 " Eustace ! 'tis late, I'd have some talk with you 
 
 Before you go to rest, will you come now ? 
 
 I would have asked you earlier, but I saw 
 
 Whose portrait was before you, and I feared 
 
 To break the dream in which you seemed enwrapped 
 
 While gazing on it ; but come now ; 'tis late, 
 
 And chilly here ; our fire is still alight, 
 
 Aud it distresses me to see you thus ; 
 
 Come, Eustace ! " At that gentle voice, he turned, 
 
 And, rising, took the lamp to follow her, 
 
 Exclaiming, as its light fell on the face 
 
 From which he seemed reluctant still to move, 
 
 " Oh, wretched waste of head, and hand, and heart ! "
 
 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 11 
 
 They sat them clown, the brother and the sister, 
 Beside their mutual hearth ; speechless awhile, 
 Not from reserve, but tender reticence 
 Of words which spoke by either must give pain : 
 At length Lucille (so called he her) began — 
 "Eustace, will you forgive me, if I say 
 That this dejection is unmanning you ; 
 Why should you waste your head, and hand, and heart ? 
 Did you not think I heard you say those words ?" 
 
 " Lucille," he quick returned — " had I possessed 
 Your coldness, or your courage, or your pride, 
 I had escaped tins blight that is upon me, 
 You should have had my nature, and I yours ; 
 Then, with a broken heart, I might have still 
 With steady hand, and smiling eye, pursued 
 The art that has undone me ; you will say 
 That fame and fortune are at my command, 
 Having achieved so much beyond my hopes ; 
 But what are fame and fortune without love ? 
 What Art itself without that inspiration ? 
 You'll tell me soon this is but woman's talk, 
 But, if I dare to say I am a man 
 In your stem presence, I am here to prove 
 'Tis what a man can feel." 
 
 " Oh, Eustace ! Eustace ! " 
 (And the tears started as she thus replied) — 
 " Your sadness makes you angry and unkind ;
 
 12 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 You would not speak so if you were yourself, 
 You would not speak so if you read aright 
 The heart whose very womanhood you doubt : 
 Whate'er my heart is, shall I see your own 
 Writhe, like Laocoon, in the serpent's coil, 
 Beneath the torture of a hopeless passion, 
 
 And not attempt to free you from its folds 
 
 To strangle it before it strangles you ? — 
 Were that a sister's part ? " 
 
 "Well— not to-night," 
 Said Eustace kindly, "let us further talk, 
 For, as you say, I am not quite myself, 
 And do not think I e'er shall be again 
 What I once was — perchance with time — ah me ! 
 Good night!" She kissed him, and replied— " Good 
 night." 
 
 And so to rest they went ; with heavy hearts, 
 But not uncomforted by prayer to Him 
 On whom, though neither spoke of, both reclined ; 
 For they had grown together in a faith 
 Matured to firm conviction in the soil 
 Of free inquiry ; doubts, and hopes, and fears, 
 Had once been theirs in every varied hue 
 And gloom that fleck the intellectual air ; 
 But now the sky above their souls was clear, 
 And, whate'er shadow rose between themselves, 
 None ever came betwixt them and their God.
 
 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 13 
 
 Their grief, we may be sure, was told to Him 
 Before they courted sleep ; and let uone doubt 
 The soothing answer, which they sought for, came — 
 The peace vouchsafed to every sorrowing heart 
 Not barred against its entrance by remorse. 
 Let them sleep on — the while my verse relates 
 Some portion of their earlier history. 
 
 Twin children were they of departed parents, 
 Orphaned when scarce beyond their infancy. 
 I dare not say they were of gentle blood, 
 For (let it not shock sentimental ears) 
 It must be owned their father, though called by 
 The euphonious name of Grantley, earned his bread 
 By trade, — which swamps gentility at once, 
 Save when the tradesman dies a millionnaire, 
 Leaving sufficient to keep down the word 
 In people's memories, or, at least, their tongues, 
 In servile compliment to some young heir, 
 Who, grown ashamed of shop or counting-house, 
 From Eton fresh, or Oxford, cuts Comhill 
 To figure in Pall Mall and Rotten-Row. 
 But our twins' sire had not gone out of life 
 With such eclat. The pittance he bequeathed 
 Was scarcely worth the trouble of a search 
 At Doctors' Commons by a prying press ; 
 Though, with good care, 'twas found to be enough 
 To rear his offspring in that gentle breeding 
 Which is more precious far than gentle birth,
 
 14 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 Or titled wealth. Their home was 'neath the roof 
 
 Of a fond uncle, their sole guardian left, 
 
 A pensioned Indian judge — of tastes refined, 
 
 And mind whose cultivation never ceased 
 
 Till life ceased also ; his whole heart and soul 
 
 He gave to rearing up his orphan wards, 
 
 Shaping their minds and manners in a mould 
 
 That fitted them for nobler life than standing, 
 
 Like well-draped statues, on their pedestals, 
 
 Unfit for contact with the breathing world. 
 
 To manhood one, to womanhood the other, 
 
 Grew with maturing consciousness in each 
 
 Of the eternal warfare to be waged 
 
 'Twixt high and low desire ; this, early felt, 
 
 Was ne'er forgotten. When they came of age, 
 
 Their guardian, 'neath whose roof they still remained, 
 
 Witnessed the seed he'd planted bearing fruit 
 
 Of promise rare ; and when he died, soon after, 
 
 'Twas with conviction both would keep the path 
 
 They had so firmly trod within his view. 
 
 They mourned his death with many a grateful tear 
 
 Of love and reverence ; and, at first, they felt 
 
 Their lonely independence as a weight 
 
 Grievous to bear. Kind offers to Lucille 
 
 Came, from some friends, of temporary home ; 
 
 Others, in doubt of what her means might be, 
 
 Hinted that, with her known accomplishments, 
 
 Her income might be doubled, would she choose 
 
 To turn them to account ; and one proud dame,
 
 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 15 
 
 Who was astonished that " a tradesman's daughter 
 
 Had such an air distingue" and who vowed 
 
 " Her voice would make her fortune on the stage," 
 
 Offered, " if she were really in distress," 
 
 To take her as companion. What was best — 
 
 Mid this unlooked-for medley of advice 
 
 And curious solicitude — to do ? 
 
 Their uncle's will had so increased their means, 
 
 As left them free to independent action. 
 
 To dwell together was their first resolve ; 
 
 Next, that the art which had been Grantley's choice, 
 
 And, in his uncle's lifetime, he had studied, 
 
 Should, after two years' residence in Rome, 
 
 Be his profession. This resolved, was done. 
 
 The two years over, they returned to England, 
 
 Each in then- several and their mutual tastes 
 
 With added knowledge and with added skill. 
 
 A year had passed since they had fixed their home 
 Where we had left them sleeping ; in that time 
 Grantley, who came fi'om Rome with much repute, 
 No lack of sitters had ; but his chief fame 
 Rose from two pictures for the public eye — 
 " Juliet's night colloquy with Romeo ; " 
 And, from the Winter's Tale, the " Statue Scene." 
 Both had been purchased by a rich young peer, 
 Causing much talk amid his noble friends ; 
 Whilst, of the " Juliet," the critics said 
 That, in our galleries, seldom had been seen 
 Beauty so rare portrayed by art so fine.
 
 16 THE EAEL'S CHOICE. 
 
 The pictures to their owner's country mansion 
 
 Had heen conveyed — to Castle Valniont, where 
 
 The young Earl chiefly dwelt — example fair 
 
 To all around ; son of a mother proud 
 
 Of him, more of his rank ; need it be said 
 
 How many other mothers had been glad 
 
 To see their child his bride ? but rumour went, 
 
 Amid the circles which such gossip moved, 
 
 That young Lord Valmont was no marrying man ; 
 
 Which meant, perchance, he had not yet been trapped 
 
 Into proposal for a wife. Some said 
 
 He loved beneath his rank, but that his pride 
 
 Still kept him single ; all declared 'twas time, 
 
 Tho' not yet twenty-eight, that he was wed ; 
 
 And e'en his sister, who seemed dearer to him 
 
 Than any other of her sex, would sometimes ask — 
 
 Half jest, half earnest, "If he had resolved 
 
 To die a bachelor ? " One clay, she came 
 
 Into the room where hung the " Juliet," 
 
 And found him gazing on it with an air 
 
 Of wrapped abstraction till, as she approached, 
 
 " Clara," he said, "you've asked me many times 
 
 If I am sworn to die a bachelor, 
 
 Show me a face like that, and I will wed." 
 
 " A lovely face — a very lovely face ! " 
 
 Said Clara, eyeing it attentively, 
 
 " And yet, perchance, the same in flesh and blood 
 
 You'd hold but commonplace — I could point out 
 
 A score of Juliets that are quite as fair
 
 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 17 
 
 And yet attract no notice from your eye ; 
 But let me place one of them on that canvas, 
 Sky, moonlight, garden, halcony, — as there, 
 And she herself portrayed with equal skill, 
 And, tho' the self-same face you'd seen before, 
 A hundred times, without a second look, — 
 You'd gazing stand, as now you gaze on this, 
 Till you had wrought yourself to the belief 
 The world could show none like it." 
 
 " Sister dear," 
 Replied the Earl, in almost serious tone — 
 ' ' I have not said that I shall never wed, 
 Because I've found not — and may never find — 
 My heart's ideal ; but in such a face 
 As that I hope to find it, if at all. 
 I know the Juliets you have in your eye, 
 But none of them, that e'er attracted mine, 
 Had aught that painter, were he Raphael's self 
 And truthful to his art, could so depict 
 As to reflect the charms that I admire 
 In her on yonder canvas ; you may smile 
 And tell me, as you did the other day, 
 That, could I see the fair original, 
 'Twould prove to be some mindless peasant girl 
 Picked up amid the wilds of Italy, 
 Or in the suburbs of its capital, 
 Where twenty such might any day be seen. 
 'Tis one, be sure, for which no model sat 
 
 2
 
 18 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 Save the one visioned to the artist's eye ; 
 "lis some ideal which absorbs his mind, 
 And ineffaceably possesses him. 
 For mark the features of Hermione 
 In the companion pietm-e, and you'll see, 
 Despite the obvious difference of the two, 
 In that the calm and stately matron standing, 
 Suppressing all that moves her faithful heart, 
 That she may seem the statue which she feigns ; 
 In this the maiden, confidently fond, 
 Breathing her love with gushing unreserve — 
 That but one face was in the artist's mind. 
 By the way, Clara, has my mother told you 
 What made him quit, so suddenly, our roof? 
 I asked her how it happened, and she says — 
 ' No matter, 'tis as well that he is gone ; 
 Painters, whate'er their talents, are not guests 
 For peers.' She has, I fear, offended him 
 By some such hint ; can you enlighten me?" 
 
 Clara's reply was almost with a blush — 
 " You know our mother's more than haughty way 
 To all she deems beneath her : well — I strove, 
 During your absence, to be kind and courteous 
 Unto the guest you had invited here, 
 Tho' ' a mere painter ' as my mother called him. 
 And hence what followed — for she observing this, 
 Grew wroth with me, and haughtier with him ; 
 Forbade, when he was sketching in the park,
 
 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 19 
 
 Or painting in the gallery, that I 
 
 Should notice or address him, till at length 
 
 Pending some touches to my portrait, she 
 
 Startled us hoth hy this strange exclamation : 
 
 ' Pray, Mr. Grantley, do you stare at all 
 
 Your sitters in that fashion ? ' He arose, 
 
 And saying, ' Madam, I will stare no more,' 
 
 Went from the chamber. After he had gone, 
 
 ' Mother,' I said, 'you make me blush for you.' 
 
 ' Blush for yourself,' she cried ; ' don't tell me, Clara, 
 
 Artist or not, he'd eye you as he did 
 
 Without encouragement ! ' I spoke some words 
 
 Which sent her fiercely flashing from the room, 
 
 Leaving me there, when suddenly, the door 
 
 Opened again, and Grantley, calmly walking 
 
 Up to the easel, took my portrait from it, 
 
 Exclaiming, ' Lady, if I ever dared 
 
 To let one glance fall otherwise on thee 
 
 Than spake such homage as all eyes must pay 
 
 Which look on face so fair ; if e'er mine eye 
 
 Essayed to thine conveyance of one thought 
 
 Unworthy of true gentleman to harbour 
 
 (And none more true does your proud mother know, 
 
 Whate'er his rank, that comes to Castle Valmont), 
 
 Forgive me ere I go.' - Indeed,' said I, 
 
 ' There's no forgiveness needed ; pray forget 
 
 My mother's words, or if you will depart 
 
 Leave me my portrait.' Bowing, he replied, 
 
 ' It needs some touches yet, none that require 
 
 2-2
 
 20 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 Your presence more ; of mine I now relieve you ; ' 
 And in this mood he left ; no more I know." 
 
 " Strange in my mother, strange in Grantley, too," 
 Said Valmont, at the close of this recital. 
 " Why should he take your portrait ? when I left, 
 'Twas nearly finished ; things must not rest thus. 
 Clara, I shall invite him to return, 
 If you have no objection?" 
 
 " None ; why should I ? " 
 Clara replied ; "but what if he declines ? 
 If I have read his character aright, 
 You'll never see him more at Castle Valmont." 
 
 " Indeed," retorted Valmont, somewhat sharply, 
 ' ' Are you so quick at catching character ? 
 Or have you special aptitude for finding 
 What constitutes the artist's ? — his, at least, 
 Who paints your pretty face, and takes it home, 
 That he may look upon it as he'd like 
 To look on the original ! Nay, Clara, 
 Don't flush and fume — I only spoke in jest ; 
 I know this Grantley is no common man, 
 Nor common artist, and I grieve with you 
 His feelings should be wounded 'neath our roof." 
 
 But what were Grantley' s feelings ? — warmer far 
 Than Lady Clara or her brother guessed.
 
 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 21 
 
 The shrewd cold Countess had interpreted 
 
 Coarsely, hut not quite falsely, as he hung 
 
 Upon her daughter's every look and word, 
 
 Feeding upon them with an appetite 
 
 That hourly keener grew. In hints at first 
 
 She vented her displeasure, till at length 
 
 The climax came, as we have heard it told. 
 
 Not unexpected was it hy Lucille. 
 
 Grantley had writ to her, from time to time, 
 
 Telling her all that he had thought and felt ; 
 
 How that the Lady Clara, who had been 
 
 So courteous to him in his studio, 
 
 Was still more courteous in her own proud halls, 
 
 Greeting him always with a kind regard, 
 
 Whether alone, or mid gay company — 
 
 The same in simplest garb or richest robe — 
 
 And every day some added charm revealing, 
 
 Some grace or beauty, scarcely marked at first, 
 
 But stealing on the mind with frequent view, 
 
 Till there imprinted ineffaceably ; 
 
 Like those fine touches in Art's noblest works, 
 
 Which, missing recognition when first seen, 
 
 O'ertake at last the wrapped spectator's sense, 
 
 And dwell there evermore. So Grantley wrote 
 
 Of her who had to his own pencil sat — 
 
 Portrayed as truly as the hand could show, 
 
 But which, he said, " failed in the power to trace 
 
 Her image in its mental loveliness, 
 
 Or as its radiance shone upon his heart."
 
 22 THE EAKL's CHOICE. 
 
 Language like this unto Lucille seemed proof 
 Of passion growing fast ; and thus she wrote — 
 " Eustace, I feel 'tis time for me to speak 
 My honest thoughts of your fond eulogy. 
 You love the Lady Clara ! Hopeless dream ! 
 Dispel it, ere from thy o'erheated thoughts 
 It rise, a cloud with fatal lightning charged, 
 The heart it shades to shatter ! She your wife ? 
 The world 'twixt you and her a gulf has fixed, 
 Which it were madness to attempt to bridge. 
 Attempt it not ! You owe it to yourself — 
 You owe it — No ! I will not make pretence 
 Of obligations which no warrant have 
 For imposition, but the servile creed 
 Which makes of rank a thing to be approached 
 With humble step, shy tongue, and fettered heart ; 
 Not in the common phrase such creed approves 
 Will I adjure thee, telling thee, forsooth, 
 That 'twere a base return for favour shown, 
 For patronage and hospitality, 
 To take advantage of your patron's trust 
 To win the fairest jewel of his house. 
 To such glib fallacies I give no heed, 
 Tho' current from long date, like other lies 
 That keep their footing, in obedience 
 To the almighty gospel of May Fair, 
 Which is not mine or thine ; no, 'tis for you — 
 For you alone I speak. Let the proud Earl, 
 His prouder mother, and her daughter fair,
 
 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 23 
 
 Be their own guards of what the maid herself is 
 
 As free to give or to withhold, as you — 
 
 A cultured gentleman — are free to ask, 
 
 Tho' small your hope, and small your chance to win ; 
 
 For gentlemen who follow a vocation — 
 
 Albeit that of Titian or of Tully— 
 
 Small chance will have against the titled idlers 
 
 Mid whom earls' daughters love to find their mates. 
 
 So, brother mine, throw not away your love 
 
 On Lady Clara ; keep it to bestow 
 
 On her of whom you will not be too proud 
 
 To ask for love's return ; for who would risk 
 
 Contemptuous reply ? Said I too proud ? 
 
 Nay, pride in such case were but self-respect. 
 
 Bow to the Lady Clara as she sits 
 
 Beside your canvas, as a worthy shrine 
 
 For incense of your genius ; yield her that, 
 
 The radiant homage of the artist's hand, 
 
 But free from worship of the artist's heart." 
 
 Such letter had reached Grantley but an hour 
 Before the scene that led to his departure 
 From Castle Valmont. In offended mood 
 He reached his home ; kissed hurriedly Lucille, 
 "Who wondering stood at his abrupt return, 
 And then, revealing what had brought him back, 
 " Not," as he said, " her letter," sat him down 
 Sullenly in his studio, and besought 
 Lucille to leave him for awhile alone.
 
 24 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 What further passed has heen already told ; 
 'Twas the same night with which our tale hegan, 
 When, after words that had hoth deeply stirred, 
 Touching the love that Eustace had disclosed, 
 They went with fond, hut heavy hearts, to rest.
 
 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 25 
 
 PAET II. 
 
 Some days elapsed ere Grantley could resume 
 
 His wonted work. Lucille, with gentle tact, 
 
 Cheered, soothed, advised him, yet still sad he was, 
 
 And oft sat brooding o'er the pictured face 
 
 From which she struggled to withdraw his thoughts. 
 
 'Twas now completed, hut a duplicate, 
 
 More finished still, hung where it met his eye 
 
 At close and break of day ; so thus he writes — 
 
 " My lord, the Lady Clara's portrait waits 
 
 To fill, at your command, its destined place." 
 
 Not many hours had sped his letter, ere 
 
 The Earl himself with kindly greeting came. 
 
 " Grantley," he said, " I'm vexed to find you here 
 
 'Stead of at Castle Valmont. Let me beg 
 
 You will return ; I have been told the cause 
 
 Of your departure, and am free to own 
 
 My mother's rudeness needs apology. 
 
 I'm loth to speak of what gave rise to it, 
 
 But let me, Grantley, give you my assurance 
 
 Of too entire reliance on your honour, 
 
 E'en were you rash enough to lose your heart, 
 
 To think you'd play the suitor to my sister."
 
 2G THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 " The rashness I admit," responded Grantley, 
 " But you'll forgive me if I fail to see 
 What honour has to do with it, my lord." 
 
 "Indeed," rejoined the Earl ; "we'll put it thus, then- 
 You, my friend Grantley, find yourself received 
 In circles which you'll own above your station ; 
 In circles which, you'll also own, do not 
 Furnish to tradesmen's sons their wives, or husbands 
 Unto their daughters. Well, you enter them, 
 Are treated courteously ; the friendship make 
 Of one, perchance, who much admires your art, 
 And, from respect both to it and yourself, 
 Invites you to pursue it 'neath his roof, 
 On equal terms with his own family 
 And other guests ; in such a case, would you 
 Deem it no violation of the trust, 
 Implied, if not expressed, towards your host, 
 To make your art a stepping-stone to win 
 The affections of his daughter ? " 
 
 •"■a* 
 
 " Put plausibly, 
 My lord," said Grantley ; " but I answer thus- 
 That which it pleases you to call a trust, 
 And into obligation magnify, 
 As binding all who enter your charmed circle, 
 Is but assumption that the faith there held 
 Must be the faith of others ; you rely 
 Upon the strength of barriers you've set up,
 
 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 27 
 
 Because but rarely broken ; yet, my lord, 
 
 Within these barriers many born and bred 
 
 Are, sometimes, not less anxious to break out 
 
 Than those you deem invaders to break in. 
 
 Rebels or traitors call them, if you choose, 
 
 For breaking bonds imposed by no restraint, 
 
 Save those of pride and prejudice ; but I, 
 
 Who have not sworn allegiance to these laws, 
 
 Hold myself free to break them, if I dare, 
 
 Without the stigma, which your lordship hints, 
 
 Attaching to my honour. Say it is 
 
 Presumption, impudence, audacity, 
 
 In the poor painter — guest of a rich earl, 
 
 To dream of wedding kith or kin of his ; 
 
 But if repeated intercourse with one 
 
 Should force him to discover that he loves her, 
 
 And to suspicion that she loves him too, 
 
 (Be there no difference but rank between them), 
 
 What in God's law forbids that they should pair ? 
 
 And, if they choose to brave the penalty 
 
 Of breaking laws conventional, to win 
 
 The happiness which such infraction brings, 
 
 Is it in either to be folly called, 
 
 In him dishonour, or in her disgrace ? 
 
 But to what purport is this talk, my lord ? 
 
 I have not put my theory to the test 
 
 Beneath your roof, altho' I gave no pledge 
 
 That I would not ; and I do love your sister. 
 
 Nay, do not frown, my lord, I have a right
 
 28 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 To feel what I avow, though not, it seems, 
 
 To utter what I feel ; but the avowal 
 
 Shall never reach her ear : you need not fear 
 
 The agony of having to endure 
 
 Too close alliance with a tradesman's son. 
 
 The Lady Clara may go free for me, 
 
 Tho' I have said, and say again — I love her." 
 
 " Grantley," the Earl, after a pause, replied, 
 "Your language takes me strangely by surprise, 
 And I confess is what I grieve to hear, 
 Both for your sake and mine ; but what has passed, 
 Though reason for your absence from my house, 
 Need put no barrier 'twixt yourself and me. 
 I'm sorry that my words have wounded you, 
 But feel assured, had you been in my place, 
 And I in yours, you would have said to me 
 Just what I've said to you ; if you could now 
 Be gifted with a dukedom, as I speak, 
 And had a sister, tell me honestly, 
 Would you consent, would she, that she should wed 
 A " 
 
 " Tradesman's son. Don't spare the word, my lord," 
 Responded Grantley ; " and my answer hear — 
 I have a sister, one who might ere now 
 Have found in rank a suitor for her hand, 
 Had she not proudly at due distance held it. 
 But were she a duke's daughter, and the man
 
 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 29 
 
 She loved an upright cultured gentleman — 
 Whatever else he might he in the scale 
 Which weighs a man hy what his father was — 
 She'd little heed ; hut him alone would wed, 
 Tho' it should throw the fashionable world 
 Into convulsions." 
 
 " Well," replied the Earl, 
 " Not to annoy you more, suppose we change 
 The subject. Can you finish here the sketches 
 Which you hegan ? and tell me, by the way 
 (I've often thought to ask you), is the face 
 Of Juliet in your picture from the life ? " 
 Grantley assenting, further said the Earl : 
 " So fair a face in life is rarely seen ; 
 It is a little flattered, I presume ? 
 Is she a lady?" 
 
 " I think so, my lord," 
 Grantley replied, " if worth aught my opinion ; 
 But our ideas may differ on that point. 
 A lady 'tis that's very dear to me. 
 I told you just now that I had a sister — 
 The face is hers." 
 
 " Indeed," replied the Earl ; 
 " Is it impertinent to ask if she 
 Resides with you ?" Ere answer came, the sound 
 Of a door opening maclo him turn his head
 
 30 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 In the direction whence it came, and there 
 Emerging, 'neath the shadow of the curtain 
 Which hung across the portal, stood Lucille — 
 Who, at the sight of stranger with her brother, 
 Said, shrinking back, " I thought you were alone," 
 Bowed slightly to the Earl, and then withdrew. 
 Grantley stood mute, and, with embarrassed look, 
 Turned to the Earl, who met him with these words— 
 " I need not ask you who that lady was. 
 Her portrait is not flattered ; you can send 
 My sister's when you please. Meantime, to yours 
 Make my apologies for keeping her 
 So long from your companionship. Adieu ! " 
 
 On his departure came Lucille again. 
 " Eustace," she said, " I guess your visitor — 
 Lord Vahnont, was it not ? " 
 
 " You guess aright," 
 Said Grantley. " Was it curiosity 
 That made you so impatient to behold him, 
 Or vanity that he in Juliet's face 
 Might recognize your own ? Nay, don't look grave ! 
 Forgive my badinage, and you shall hear 
 All that has passed between us ; but first say, 
 Now in the flesh that you have seen his face, 
 What think you of it, and then, sister mine, 
 I will inform you what he thinks of yours. "
 
 THE EAEL'S CHOICE. 31 
 
 Answered Lucille, " My thought no other is 
 Thau when I saw his portrait. I then said, 
 He looks the nohleman in face and mind, 
 But face and mind are caught not at a glimpse ; 
 Therefore, how these might strike me in himself 
 I could not, without longer survey, tell." 
 
 " Discreetly answered, and you now shall hear," 
 Said Grantley, " what this same most noble Earl 
 Thinks of us both ; for you not less than me 
 Our conference, ere ending, did concern." 
 
 Then all that passed he told her, word for word, 
 Lucille in silence listening to the close 
 Of his recital, holding in her heart 
 With difficult restraint ; until her tears, 
 Which had been rising fast with every word, 
 Echoed by Eustace, of that proud retort 
 Which followed on avowal of his love, 
 Burst forth at length with uncontrolled o'erfiow, 
 And on his breast she fell with gasping breath, 
 Exclaiming, as she lay within his clasp, 
 " My own brave brother, you will conquer now." 
 
 Awhile in wordless sympathy they stood, 
 Till, said Lucille, " Put by your pencil now, 
 And come and lie down, whilst I sing to you 
 The song you wrote for me the other day ; 
 I have found out an air that suits it well. 
 Come ! "
 
 32 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 Small persuasion needed he to go, 
 For the resolve to which he now stood pledged 
 Launched forth, in sudden impulse, from his heart, 
 Left it vibrating still with the recoil 
 Of its own blow ; and all unfit to aid 
 In work of head or hand ; so with Lucille 
 He from his studio, not reluctant, went, 
 And, resting on the couch near her piano, 
 Listened whilst she to an accordant air 
 These verses sang — 
 
 " Gaze with no tearful eye behind thee, 
 
 Sighing can bring not the absent near, 
 Nor would they care to sighing find thee, 
 
 Present smiles are to them more dear. 
 Why should farewells give birth to sorrow ? 
 
 What's life itself but one long adieu ? 
 When, oh, when, did the coming morrow 
 
 Ever render the day's hopes true ? 
 
 " Silence love's whispers firmly, boldly, 
 
 Why should thy heart but beat to ache ? 
 Turn from the tempter, sternly, coldly, 
 
 Who would its light in thy bosom wake. 
 Keep on thy path unmoved, unshaken, 
 
 Though thou shouldst die unloved, ungrieved ; 
 Better be lonely than forsaken, 
 
 Better forsaken than deceived."
 
 THE earl's choice. 33 
 
 PART III. 
 
 The time passed on, and Eustace, day by day, 
 Felt less and less the thraldom of his heart ; 
 His palette now was rarely from his hand ; 
 Work after work he finished ; a design 
 He and Lucille had often talked of grew 
 Hourly beneath his touch, till soon both stood 
 Debating if, in aught, there might be change 
 Ere colour gave it life ; the scene essayed 
 Was that where Paul before the Roman governor 
 Speaks till, as Scripture tells us, "Felix trembled.'' 
 " What I would show," said Grantley to Lucille, 
 " And you must tell me if I've failed, is this — 
 Truth in its majesty and moral might 
 Confounding human power — earthly judge 
 Trembling to hear a voice that seems to speak 
 Judgment divine — and shrinking from the words 
 As though from God's own lips — is all this here ? " 
 " I see enough to tell me that it will be," 
 Smiling, replied Lucille ; " when all is done 
 Which you, I know, can do ; then doubt I not 
 To see, as clearly as you now describe, 
 The bright reality of your design." 
 
 3
 
 34 THE earl's choice. 
 
 So thus encouraged, on he bravely worked, 
 And felt, with every added touch, a glow 
 Of pride that made him glory in his art, 
 And envy none who knew not his vocation. 
 
 To Castle Valmont had its lord returned 
 To meet expected guests ; among them came 
 A certain kindly Marchioness who oft 
 At Rome had Grantley and his sister met. 
 She from the Countess- dowager now heard 
 Of his late stay, with hints of what had led 
 To his departure, and with view to probe 
 The Lady Clara for more full account, 
 Was soon beside her speaking to her thus — 
 " I find, my dear, you've had here on a visit — 
 Professional, I mean — that handsome man 
 And clever artist, Mr. Eustace Grantley. 
 What do you think of him ? He and his sister 
 Were both in some sort proteges of mine 
 When wintering at Rome some two years since. 
 She sang delightfully, and he took portraits 
 Of our sweet sex in such enchanting style 
 That husbands fell in love a second time 
 At sight of their own wives ; and maids obtained 
 Admiring glances for their pictured faces 
 Which never met their own. Yours, my dear Clara, 
 He could not make more charming than it is, 
 So I perceive he has not flattered you ; 
 Nor is his Juliet, which you've hanging here,
 
 THE earl's choice. 35 
 
 One whit more fair than the original. 
 Have you e'er seen his sister ? I suppose 
 You know the face is hers ? " 
 
 " I knew it not," 
 Replied the Lady Clara. " Save by you, 
 I am not certain that I ever heard 
 His sister named ; but I remember this — 
 Not long ago my brother said to me, 
 When standing by me, gazing on the picture, 
 ' Clara, you often ask when I will marry ; 
 Find me a face like that, and I will wed.' ' 
 
 " Indeed ! " exclaimed the Marchioness ; " 'tis strange 
 He should not have discovered whose it was. 
 Goes he not oft to Grantley's studio ?" 
 
 " Sometimes," responded Clara, " once with me ; 
 But of Miss Grantley nought we saw or heard, 
 Nor was she mentioned by her brother here." 
 
 " Too proud, perhaps, he was to speak of her," 
 Replied the Marchioness ; "he might have thought 
 The naming her were hint she might be asked 
 To Castle Valmont during his own stay ; 
 And that your mother, whose punctilious dread 
 Of all plebeian contact you well know, 
 Would never take. It seems that you, my dear, 
 Were far too civil in her rigid eye 
 
 3-2
 
 oG THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 To Grantley, tempting him to gaze on you 
 
 Too freely, and I gather that he left 
 
 In something like a huff, because she said so. 
 
 Now if, in copying your charming face, 
 
 He'd used soft speeches, umbrage had been due ; 
 
 But looks it is the artist's privilege 
 
 To use by beauty's side, without restraint. 
 
 But here's the Earl ; shall we enlighten him ? 
 
 Valmont," she cried aloud, as he approached, 
 
 " I've news for you. Prepare to pay your vows, 
 
 Or be accounted traitor to your word ; 
 
 Who said with such a sentimental sigh — 
 
 ' Show me a face like that and I will many ; ' 
 
 What if I tell you where it may be seen ? " 
 
 The Earl looked vexed, but wishing to escape 
 The banter of the Marchioness, replied — 
 " Clara shall tell me, for I see she knows, 
 Meantime you'll find amusement on the lawn. 
 I'm sent to say there's archery in play, 
 Or, if you fancy more exciting sport, 
 Bludgeons and pipes are flying fast about 
 Aunt Sally's sable skull — with small success — 
 For my fair friends, who've turned so many heads 
 Without attempting, cannot now turn one, 
 Striving with all their might." 
 
 " Attempt or not, 
 They've failed with you, my lord ; but who shall say
 
 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 37 
 
 Transferred to canvas what they might not do ? 
 But I am gone, I see you grow impatient," 
 Said the gay Marchioness, and flew away. 
 
 " Now, Clara," said the Earl, when she was gone, 
 " What made you give the Marchioness my words 
 Ahout that picture ? When I uttered them 
 I little dreamed what I have since discovered, 
 That Juliet's Grantley's sister ; I have seen her, 
 So no more jesting with the Marchioness 
 On what I said. What's passed 'twixt you and 
 
 her? 
 You do not look as you were much surprised ; 
 My news, perhaps, has heen forestalled by her ? " 
 Clara confessed it had, and then repeated 
 All from the Marchioness that she had heard. 
 
 " Clara," said Yalmont, after she had ceased ; 
 •' In speaking of my interview with Grantley, 
 I told you all that passed 'twixt me and him 
 Was not for you to hear ; therefore, withheld 
 What you've since learnt, till I had pondered well 
 My future course. I have determined it : 
 If I shall find the manners and the mind 
 Accordant with the face I now have seen, 
 Its owner, will she, shall be Countess Vahnont. 
 Now that the form, on which my thoughts have fed, 
 Has flashed in living beauty on my sight, 
 What was but once a dream, has grown a hope ;
 
 38 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 What but a vision, playing round my brain, 
 
 A radiant reality, that pours 
 
 Its beams into my heart. Yes, I have seen her : 
 
 She came before me like an angel visitant, 
 
 To smile and vanish ; yet stayed long enough 
 
 To wake in me the instantaneous wish 
 
 To clasp her as my own, and blend at once 
 
 Her destiny with mine. She nothing knows 
 
 Of what I feel ; 'twas but by accident 
 
 That I had sight of her — as she came in 
 
 To Grantley, deeming he had been alone, 
 
 With courteous gesture, and a word to him, 
 
 Withdrawing, when she saw me. In the mood 
 
 Grantley then was, I did not care to press 
 
 For introduction ; and 'tis now my wish 
 
 To see her, if "t be possible, without 
 
 His intervention. How that may be done 
 
 I mean to ask the Marchioness ; she's heard 
 
 So much, 'twere better now to tell her more, 
 
 And win, by giving her my confidence, 
 
 Her silence and her friendship. She, no doubt, 
 
 Can tell me much I might not learn elsewhere, 
 
 And help me, from her knowledge of Miss Grantley, 
 
 To shape my course in most befitting way 
 
 To win her heart and hand. Till won they be, 
 
 Keep secret my design ; I stay not now 
 
 To ask your thoughts of it, for I must seek 
 
 The Marchioness at once, ere she has time 
 
 To echo what you've told her to our guests."
 
 THE EAltL'S CHOICE. 39 
 
 Reply was starting quick to Clara's lips, 
 But Valmont broke too hurriedly away, 
 And soon was thus addressing her he'd sought — 
 " A word with you, dear Marchioness : don't laugh, 
 For really I'm as serious as I look. 
 You said just now, ' Prepare to pay your vows, 
 Or be accounted traitor to your word.' 
 I mean to pay them, for I feel I am 
 Far gone as Romeo's self; so far, indeed, 
 That though, perchance, I shall not go the length 
 Of killing others first, and then myself, 
 In honour of my Juliet, I'm resolved 
 To conquer all obstructions that come not 
 From her own will. To drop all metaphor, 
 I mean to win Miss Grantley, if I can, 
 And in my wooing may invoke your aid. 
 But, though they say no loving man is wise, 
 I'm not quite so entete as to spurn, 
 Because she's fair, more knowledge than I've gained 
 From but a momentary sight of her — 
 Of the true self that 'neath her beauty lives. 
 The lady and her brother both, it seems, 
 Are known to you. To me the latter is, 
 Of course ; and you will ask me, why from him 
 I do not seek all I desire to learn. ■ 
 There are good reasons why ; let that suffice. 
 But good or ill, inform me what you know, 
 Frankly, and with no aim that what you say 
 Should spur me to, or drive me from, my suit."
 
 1^ THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 " I see, my lord," replied the Marchioness, 
 " Ere you engage her services for life, 
 You'd have from me your helpmate's character. 
 Well, I can give you good report of her, 
 For, waiving all objection on the score 
 Of birth, connection, and that sort of thing, 
 She is a woman who, were I a man, 
 Would take my fancy more than any belle 
 Within Belgravia's sphere. I won't describe 
 A face you've seen : her manners, full of grace 
 And gentle cheerfulness, have a reserve 
 That rises into dignity beside 
 The freer habitudes of those who join 
 In fashion's licensed levities ; her mind 
 Is rich and pure, and oft its culture shows 
 In thoughtful words, that shame the brainless chatter 
 Which passes current in our social groups 
 For conversation. Of accomplishments 
 I can enumerate a goodly list : 
 She reads and speaks Italian, German, French, 
 Knows her own language, too, and reads in that 
 Books which at ' Mudie's ' meet with small demand, 
 At least from readers of our own sweet sex. 
 Sketches with skill, piano plays and harp, 
 And sings with taste ; in short, she only wants 
 A sprinkle of the sciences and classics 
 To fit her for a competent instructress 
 Unto those hopeful bairns in whose behalf 
 Paterfamilias offers, in the Times,
 
 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 41 
 
 Kind treatment in a pious family, 
 
 And thirty pounds per annum. There, my lord, 
 
 Has what I've said put wings upon your heart, 
 
 Or made it heavier for its destined flight, 
 
 If 'tis not flown already ? But explain 
 
 In what way I can aid you in your suit ? 
 
 Wherein lies the impediment, if you 
 
 Have made a conquest of your pride ? " 
 
 " Her pride," 
 Replied the Earl ; "a pride which seems to me 
 To go beyond, or rather overfly, 
 My mother's or my own. I can perceive 
 In what you've told me, and still more from what 
 I've gathered from her brother, that my rank 
 Will rather hinder than advance a suit 
 Your words make me more eager to pursue. 
 Say ; can you help me to an interview 
 Where I might meet her as if undesigned ? 
 She's fond of music — you've an opera box ; 
 Might I not there have speech with her ? " 
 
 " I'll think," 
 Replied the Marchioness, " of what you say. 
 She's very proud, I know ; 'twas long before 
 My friendliest overtures could meet response. 
 She very frankly told me that she thought 
 All rank contemptuous, haughty, insincere, 
 To all without its pale, save those whose wealth
 
 42 THE EAEL'S CHOICE. 
 
 Could give requital for its condescension. 
 
 I can't make out that she has ever loved, 
 
 But offers more than one she has refused 
 
 From wealthy suitors. I remember once 
 
 It was an evening's gossip at Torlonia's, 
 
 Of three admirers which would win her hand ; 
 
 And when I told her of the talk, she said — 
 
 ' When the choice lies 'twixt dotard, boy, and fool, 
 
 Methinks, dear Marchioness, the candidates 
 
 Might seek election at some lady's hands 
 
 Whose fingers itch a little more for gold 
 
 Than mine do yet.' But mostly when I spoke 
 
 Of marriage, she would cut me short with this — 
 
 ' When'er I wed, I wed a gentleman ; ' 
 
 Dilating sometimes in such words as these : 
 
 ' Equality must be our bond in all ; 
 
 In love, in years, in manners, and in mind." 
 
 And if I added, ' station,' she would say — 
 
 ' Wait till it tempt me ; wedded I for rank, 
 
 'Twould be but rising in the social scale 
 
 By sinking in the moral. If from that 
 
 Must come a husband, let me die a maid.' 
 
 So now you have some clue to her ideas, 
 
 You'll find, perchance, the key to her affections. 
 
 If I can help you, you may count on me ; 
 
 But break off now, I have a score of bets 
 
 Upon the archery ; when that is o'er 
 
 We'll talk again, and, meantime, trust to me 
 
 For secresy and silence."
 
 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 43 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 'Tvvas now that so called " season " of the year 
 
 When 'tis the wont of England's wealth and rank 
 
 To flock to London, thronging its full streets 
 
 To pay their annual worship to the gods 
 
 Of fashion's temple — gathered there to play 
 
 Each his own great or little part upon 
 
 The grandest stage civilization boasts ; 
 
 A jumble strange of actors, high and low, 
 
 Moving about in a commingled scene 
 
 Of pleasure, pride, ambition, vanity, 
 
 Patrons of aught that ministers to these, 
 
 Whether the artist be buffoon or sage 
 
 That proffers them his service ; till the quacks, 
 
 Who block up merit's many thoroughfares 
 
 Around this swelling city's " mighty heart," 
 
 Leave small room for the few realities 
 
 That venture in the push for precedence. 
 
 To their town mansion had the Valmonts come, 
 
 But, ere arrival, to his sister's ear 
 
 The Earl confided all that he had learnt
 
 44 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 Touching the Grantleys— of their early life 
 
 And education 'neath their uncle's roof, 
 
 With other matters which, on further talk 
 
 From time to time, the Marchioness disclosed. 
 
 The Lady Clara listened patiently, 
 
 And said no word against his cherished hopes, 
 
 For she well knew that Valmont had a will 
 
 Which brooked no opposition when once formed. 
 
 But she foresaw collision must arise 
 
 Betwixt him and their mother, when she came 
 
 To hear of his attachment ; and as much 
 
 She said to Valmont ; but his curt reply 
 
 Was—" When it haps, I shall know how to meet it." 
 
 They had not from the country long returned 
 When from the Marchioness arrived this note — 
 " Miss Grantley, who's my guest for a few days, 
 To-night goes with me to the opera." 
 " Clara," said Valmont, after he had read it, 
 " I shall go to the opera to-night." 
 
 In Flotow's " Martha " is a touching air 
 Which sweetly falls on every listening ear, 
 But falls on none so sweetly as the lover's 
 In presence of his mistress. To this air 
 Valmont was listening as, beneath the box, 
 Where she was seated, he perceived Lucille 
 Wrapped in the music also ; as he gazed, 
 Their glances met, and ere the plaudits closed
 
 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 45 
 
 That followed on the song, he stood heside her. 
 Some formal words of recognition over, 
 And after talk of Mario's charming voice, 
 Flotow's weak music, Valmont, smiling, said, 
 " Miss Grantley, are you grieving not to find 
 Some drapery here 'neath which you might escape 
 And vanish from my presence, as you did 
 So quick when first we met ? " 
 
 "My lord," replied she, 
 " My brother's studio was not quite the place 
 For me, in presence of his lordly patron. 
 The Marchioness is kind enough to say 
 Her friends are mine, at least while I am with her ; 
 But were they not, I should not stand in fear 
 Of aught that made me anxious for escape, 
 Or feel their company so overwhelming 
 That their withdrawal would he my relief ; 
 Tho' mine, perchance, were theirs." 
 
 " My dear," broke in 
 The Marchioness, " you're cynical to-night. 
 You can't suppose Lord Valmont so absurd 
 As to believe his presence really awed 
 One like Miss Grantley ; he but hinted that 
 It might not be so welcome as he wished." 
 
 *&* 
 
 Valmont drew back, but looked so earnestly 
 Into Lucille 's already softening eye,
 
 46 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 As if to read the soul that slept beneath, 
 That his own secret flashed into clear light ; 
 Flashed for a moment, as the shrouded moon 
 Lies all exposed beneath some sudden gust 
 Of searching wind, then hides itself again 
 To beam no more till earth withdraws its frown. 
 But for a moment, — } r et it was enough 
 To tell the shining secret of his soul ; 
 Shining more clearly for the dark surroundings 
 From which it stole, as if despite itself. 
 No revelation was it to despise, 
 Still less to doubt ; for faith it seemed to ask, 
 And that, at least, deserved. 
 
 The Marchioness 
 Had turned, and kept her eye still towards the stage, 
 After those few words to Lucille, nearer whose side 
 Valmont, unfixing his more serious gaze, 
 Now drew, and, bending o'er her, gently said — 
 " Miss Grantley, if I've given you offence, 
 My tongue has wronged me, but you've wronged me more 
 In arming yours with such a bitter edge. 
 The Marchioness has asked me to her house 
 To-morrow night ; she says you will be there, 
 And being sure of that, makes sure of me, 
 But if my absence — why, I will not ask — 
 Will be an element, however small, 
 In adding to the pleasure you may find 
 From others' company, say frankly so, 
 And mine shall not there fret you, or elsewhere."
 
 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 47 
 
 " My lord," replied Lucille, " your grave rebuke 
 Would make me smile but tbat I see 'tis grave. 
 Cutting and bitter words are sometimes said 
 Without intention, and the speaker wound 
 More than the hearer. Well, I promise you 
 That if we meet again to-morrow night, 
 My voice shall sound less harshly ; I'm to sing, 
 As probably you know." 
 
 Of some reply 
 Valmont was thinking, when the curtain fell ; 
 The Marchioness rose, asking for her shawl ; 
 Lucille already had adjusted hers. 
 They leave the box, and soon are in the crush, 
 Not by the Marchioness borne so patiently 
 As by Lucille, whose hold of Valmont's arm 
 Had driven all other contact from her thoughts, 
 And brought her, dreaming, to the carriage-steps, 
 Scarce then awake till he had said " Good-night." 
 
 " My dear, what made you," said the Marchioness, 
 After the carriage was well on its way, 
 " Repel so rudely Grantley's best of friends, 
 And not the worst of mine ? I little thought 
 Such bitterness was in you, all this time, 
 About that matter with the Lady Clara." 
 
 Replied Lucille, " Did I so bitter seem ? 
 Indeed, I should not more respect myself,
 
 48 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 Or hope, by others, to be more respected 
 
 For bitter feelings, or for bitter words : 
 
 But my great struggle is this hate of rank — 
 
 Turning its nose up at humanity 
 
 In want of wealth or pedigree, and leagued 
 
 To ostracize from its well-fenced domains 
 
 Whoever ventures to seek entrance there, 
 
 Without credentials from that motley court 
 
 O'er which great Garter Iving-at-Arms presides. 
 
 " There, there, Lucille, no more of all this stuff! " 
 Exclaimed the Marchioness, " or you'll go mad ; 
 Child — for you're one with all your years and wisdom- 
 Do you not see that this same gentleman 
 Whom we'll not call Earl Valmont, if it riles you, 
 Loves you, and fain would win you, if he can ? 
 Now tell me what's to hate in that — or him ? " 
 
 " I hate him not," replied Lucille, " and yet — " 
 
 " Yet what ? " rejoined the chafing Marchioness. 
 ' ' If you do not, don't speak as if you did, 
 Listen with patience, if you can't with love, 
 And keep your scorn for — Garter King- at- Arms." 
 
 No more was said before they were at home, 
 But ere they parted for the night, they talked 
 Again together, and in such a strain 
 As made the Marchioness write Valmont thus —
 
 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 49 
 
 " Be here to-morrow ; I have probed her thoughts, 
 And find her seeming iciness but pride 
 Which only thinly surfaces her heart, 
 And soon will melt beneath love's genial breath. 
 But for the titled prefix to your name 
 'Twould melt at once — nay, e'en ivith that but for — 
 I use her words — ' your arrogant disdain 
 Of such alliances.' Here let me say 
 Naught that Tve hinted compromises you. 
 I put your preference but as my surmise ; 
 To which she answered, ' 'twas impossible 
 That one whose sentiments were such as yours 
 Would stoop to marriage with a tradesman's daughter.' 
 This is the thorn that rankles in her heart, 
 Aud you alone have power to pluck it forth. 
 That she loves you, I would not dare to say, 
 That you love her, she will not dare believe ; 
 Had she such credence, if I read her rightly, 
 Her heart is yours, but I am half asleep, 
 And my poor maid is quite ; so now — hon soir." 
 
 Next evening came, and to the Marchioness 
 An early guest came Valmont ; he had had 
 Words with his mother, which had made him deem 
 She half suspected all his sister knew ; 
 The words had chafed him, but had shaken not 
 His now established purpose. With a smile — 
 Not that mere simper ever at command, 
 But that sweet radiance of a woman's eye, 
 
 4
 
 50 THE EABL'S CHOICE. 
 
 Which is more kind than warm, more warm than bright, 
 
 And, less from courtesy than feeling sprung, 
 
 Beams with the sunshine of her own true heart ? — 
 
 For true I hold it, mainly, to be found 
 
 All the world o'er, spite the flawed glass which shows 
 
 It otherwise, and spite the Fall's sad tale, 
 
 "Which ne'er has made me waver in the faith 
 
 That from Eve came humanity's best half. 
 
 But whither am I wandering ? — 
 
 With a smile 
 Of meaning, then, that makes the word no He, 
 Lucille accepted Valmont's proffered baud, 
 And freely conversed with him, till she rose 
 To move to the piano, where her harp 
 Was waiting for her hand in a duet. 
 Valmont stood by her for the first few notes, 
 And then retreating through the gathering crowd 
 Of circling listeners, stood apart to hear, 
 Or rather, watch her, as she swept the strings 
 With most caressing touch ; revolving thus — 
 " What bliss it were, like her own instrument, 
 Unto that gentle bosom to be drawn, 
 And held there till each fibre of my heart 
 Thrilled, as those chords now thrill within her arms. 
 Mine she shall be, if there be wit in me 
 To win her, and that soon ; no more suspense ; 
 Tongues will be prattling if I tarry long, 
 In fashion I should brook not for her sake. 
 In what concerns it, or concerns it not,
 
 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 51 
 
 The world has peering eyes ; and oft the spot 
 That should be sacred from its faintest glance 
 ' Is penetrated with its insolent light.' 
 I can perceive from sundry glances here, 
 'Tis growing curious on my account ; 
 There shall not long he mystery between us ! " 
 
 Thus Valmont mused, as all alone he stood, 
 Watching Lucille, till in a reverie 
 So deep he grew enwrapped as scarce to mark 
 The closing of the music, until she, 
 Passing herself, escorted to her seat, 
 Made him aware that she had ceased to play. 
 Roused from the current of his thoughts, he moved 
 To where she sat, and bending o'er her said — ■ 
 " Music, Miss Grantley, always sets me dreaming. 
 'Tis Moore, I think, who tells us it ' can touch 
 Beyond all else the soul that loves it much.' 
 I know of one thing that can touch it more." 
 
 " Than music — what ? " Lucille looked up and said. 
 
 He answered quick, " When you play — the musician." 
 
 With a slight flush she turned her face away, 
 Murmuring some words that reached not the Earl's ear, 
 For at that moment Lady Valmont's name 
 Was called aloud, and ere he could break through 
 The crowd to join her, she was by his side, 
 Gazing where she could recognize at once 
 Miss Grantley; 'twas the first time they had met, 
 
 4-2
 
 52 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 But Juliet now was known as Grantley's sister, 
 And there she sat with all of Juliet's charms, 
 As in the picture " which had so bewitched," 
 For so she termed it — " her demented son." 
 
 " Mother," cried Valmont, "what has brought you here ? 
 I thought you said the Marchioness had grown 
 Too miscellaneous in her guests for you ? 
 Where's Clara ?" 
 
 " Mind not her, 'tis you I seek," 
 Answered the Countess, — " that has brought me here, 
 Though 'tis no place for either ; half this mob 
 Are strangers to us both, and ought to be, 
 Altho' I see Miss Grantley is among them ; 
 Pray don't abandon her on my account, 
 But when your flirting's over, we will go." 
 
 Valmont said naught, but seized his mother's arm, 
 And, chafing, almost swung her from the room, 
 Scarcely less quickly hurried her downstairs 
 Into her carriage, and exclaiming, " Home ! " 
 In tone that startled her, no other word 
 Deigned till he stood within that home again. 
 
 " Valmont," the Countess said, when they'd alighted, 
 " Let's understand each other ; if you are 
 So blind, so weak, so foolish, or so mad 
 As to pursue with any serious thoughts 
 This artful girl, who, at the best, is but
 
 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 53 
 
 A pretty model for a painter's brush, 
 Say so, that I may put you on your guard, 
 And tell you plainly, you'd disgrace your name 
 Far less by making her your concubine 
 Than wife." 
 
 Rage — indignation — shame — 
 To hear such words come from his mother's lips 
 Kept Valmont still as silent as before ; 
 At length he spoke — 
 
 1 ' Mother, till now I've borne 
 With your imperious nature as a son 
 Alone could bear ; your wishes have obeyed 
 In all things where obedience seemed not sin, 
 That discord ne'er might rise between our hearts ; 
 You've ever had my love ; you have it still ; 
 But look not for my reverence again 
 If you would urge me marriage to forego 
 With any virtuous woman that I love, 
 Tho' she were but a peasant in the fields — 
 Instead of what Miss Grantley is, a lady — 
 For such an infamous alternative 
 As you have dared to hint to me just now. 
 I love Miss Grantley ; tho' I've yet to leam 
 That she loves me ; I'll win her if I can ; 
 I cannot help it if it wounds your pride ; 
 With eight and twenty years upon my head 
 I claim to be the master of my choice 
 In what shall make, or mar, my future life ; 
 It is not my fault that, within the sphere
 
 54 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 To which my birth assigned me, I have found 
 
 No woman that e'er raised in me the wish 
 
 To make her the companion of such thoughts 
 
 As I keep for a wife. Nay — mother dear — 
 
 Be patient while I speak, and look not thus, 
 
 Although your son, I shall be firm in this — 
 
 Do no rash act, say no rash words that may 
 
 Sever us past reunion ; on my knees 
 
 I shall be praying soon that you may look 
 
 On my resolve more calmly ; on your knees 
 
 Pray that your son may do no viler act 
 
 Than wed the virtuous lady that he loves, 
 
 Nor leave a deeper stain upon his scutcheon 
 
 Than heir whose grandsire earned his bread by trade ! 
 
 And now, Good night." He stooped to kiss her cheek, 
 
 As almost fearing she would wave him off; 
 
 She did not, but would give him no return : 
 
 He said again, " Good night." No answer came ; 
 
 He took her hand, and pressed it ; " Mother dear — 
 
 Onco more — Good night." She put away his hand, 
 
 But said, at length, " Good night " — and so they parted. 
 
 And so they parted — in no mood for rest ; 
 Valmont, the parley with his mother passed, 
 Began to fear that his abrupt departure 
 Might to the Marchioness have caused offence, 
 And raised suspicion in Miss Grantley's mind 
 Of what his mother's manner scarce concealed. 
 Return he soon resolved, and in an hour
 
 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 From time of his departure, he again 
 
 Stood listening to her music, and — yet sweeter — 
 
 To her voice also ; she was in the midst 
 
 Of a new hallad that was much in vogue, 
 
 Bearing for title its concluding strain — 
 
 " No, not with thee .'" — the song itself ran thus :— 
 
 Praising too much his gentle art, 
 The lady won the minstrel's heart; 
 He followed her o'er land and sea, 
 Where'er she wandered, — wandered he. 
 
 2. 
 
 She loved another all the while, 
 But lured him on with constant smile; 
 And e'er beside her did he roam, 
 Till both reaought their native home. 
 
 The lady found her loved one wed, 
 And to the minstrel came, and said — 
 "From this cold clime again 1 flee; 
 Wilt lake thy harp, and follow me?" 
 
 4. 
 
 " What, that same harp," the minstrel cried, 
 " I struck so proudly by thy side ; 
 I fear its sweetest sounds are flown, 
 But listen whilst I try their tone." 
 
 To hear again that well-known lyre, 
 Her eyes flashed forth their softest fire ; 
 But faint and fainter grew their ray, 
 As thus the minstrel sang his lay,
 
 56 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 6. 
 " You call me hence to softer skies, 
 And thus my tempted heart replies — 
 ' Oh ! there what bliss once more to be ; 
 But not with thee — no, not with thee ! 
 
 7. 
 " The sunny scenes of that sweet clime, 
 Mid nature fair, and art sublime, 
 My prayer it is once more to see ; 
 But not with thee — no, not with thee .' ' 
 
 8. 
 " Go, fickle mind, and falser heart, 
 To that fair clime, alone, depart 
 Where I would dwell — where I would flee ; 
 But not with thee — no, not with thee ! " 
 
 There was a murmur of applause as died 
 On Lucille's lips the words — " No, not with thee ; " 
 But Valmont, as their mournful cadence fell 
 Upon his ear, half took them to himself; 
 And had no heart for compliment, although 
 Charmed, like the rest, by voice whose plaintive tone 
 With deepest meaning blended sweetest sound. 
 'Twas late before the company dispersed, 
 Allowing Valmont opportunity 
 For oft-repeated converse with Lucille. 
 He lingered long, and when she said, " Good night, - ' 
 As the first streaks of dawn began to show, 
 He said half smilling, " Were the night not gone, 
 I might reply, ' Parting is such sweet sorrow, 
 That I could say ' — you know the rest — adieu." 
 And so they parted.
 
 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 57 
 
 P A R T V- 
 
 A fete champetre — less picturesque, perchance, 
 
 Than may be read of in Boccaccio's page, 
 
 Or seen on Watteau's canvas ; yet presenting 
 
 Features attractive to the painter's eye 
 
 If not the poet's : high above, nor far 
 
 From the proud city which it overlooks 
 
 At pleasing distance, stands a mansion fair, 
 
 From whose green slopes and terraced steps descend 
 
 Group after group in rich and gay attire, 
 
 Spreading themselves wherever chance or choice 
 
 Determines them to wander, in a scene 
 
 Where art and nature have combined their charm 
 
 With wond'rous witchery ; dispersing — some 
 
 Through statued avenues in trellised walks 
 
 Where flowers and fruits of choicest culture bloom ; 
 
 Some by the paths where falling fountains feed 
 
 The baths beneath that shine with golden fish ; 
 
 Some breaking off through groves and shrubberies 
 
 Into the wilder beauties, only reached 
 
 By careful footing they forget to take 
 
 Till laughter follows at their reckless haste : 
 
 Others seek out where mimic rock and dell
 
 58 THE earl's choice. 
 
 Promise seclusion, or where ear and eye 
 
 Find sweet employment in the sight and sound 
 
 Of gushing waters ; minstrels, here and there, 
 
 At intervals unlooked for music make, 
 
 Startling the listener with a sweet surprise. 
 
 From greenest lawn the target's rainbow-hues 
 
 Gleam thro' the trees to tempt the archer's skill — 
 
 In chosen spots goes merrily the dance ; 
 
 Some rest, some walk ; above, beneath, around, 
 
 All yielding to the joyance of the hour, 
 
 And basking 'neath a summer sky and sun 
 
 Blending Italian softness with the breath 
 
 Of winds that cling, like lovers, to the leaves ; 
 
 Stirring them only with a gentle thrill 
 
 Of tremulous delight. 
 
 So fair the day 
 And such the scene in which Lucille, at length, 
 Heard words that sent the blood into her cheek, 
 And palsied all her speech, — fond words poured forth 
 In the brief moments 'twixt the dance's close 
 And her reunion with the Marchioness, 
 By whose side now she sits. What had she felt 
 That still she trembles, though the speaker's gone ? 
 Need it be told what every woman feels 
 Who listens to be told she is beloved, 
 And hears it from the lips of him who loves ? 
 How loth the proffered homage to reject, 
 E'en where rejection must be ; what kind care
 
 THE earl's choice. 59 
 
 To clothe refuscal in its gentlest shape ; 
 
 Yet, when acceptance is the heart's reply, 
 
 Denial sometimes struggles from the lips, 
 
 And such denial had striven to leave Lucille's, 
 
 But striven in vain ; the prudence and the pride, 
 
 Of which she had to Eustace urged so much, 
 
 Now, that her own heart stood in need of guard, 
 
 Like treacherous sentinels had disappeared, 
 
 And left her powerless in the grasp of Love, 
 
 Powerless — or Valmont she had told at once 
 
 That bride of his she would not deign to be ; 
 
 Had given him for answer his own words — 
 
 " That Tradesmen's daughters were not mates for Peers : " 
 
 Had stung him, even as Eustace he had stung, 
 
 Paying him pride for pride, and scorn for scorn. 
 
 All this was in her thoughts when he at first 
 
 His love to tell, and how it rose, began ; 
 
 But as his words more tender, earnest, grew, 
 
 She felt there was a music in his voice 
 
 Which gave the echo of too true a heart 
 
 To shock or wound with virulent repulse ; 
 
 Repulse — to one who had breathed in her ear 
 
 The dearest words that man can speak to woman ? 
 
 To one on whom her sex's brightest smiles 
 
 Had shone in vain — whose talents, tastes, pursuits, 
 
 Lifted him higher than his rank or wealth, 
 
 One too the portrait of whose face and form 
 
 Had oft her silent admiration won 
 
 In Grantley's studio, fed on by her,
 
 60 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 As hers had been by Vahnont — repulse to him ? 
 
 The thought arose, but, sinking, rose no more ; 
 
 She heard him to the close, and when he ceased, 
 
 Ending with urgent, passionate appeal 
 
 That 'neath her own roof he might visit her, 
 
 And there repeat what then he had avowed, 
 
 In presence of her brother, she could give 
 
 No answer haughtier than this, that she 
 
 " Was too much taken by surprise to say, 
 
 What then might be — but would he leave her now ? " 
 
 The Marchioness, divining what had passed, 
 Felt no surprise, when Valmont had departed, 
 To hear Lucille of weariness complain ; 
 Nor, as her visit was to end that day, 
 At her request to go back home at once. 
 
 When there arrived she did not hesitate 
 To tell to Eustace all the Earl had said, 
 Revealing frankly her own feelings too, 
 But saying, as she ended the recital, 
 " Not what I would, but what I should, dear brother, 
 Help me to do." To which he quick replied : 
 " No reason why you should not what you would ; 
 You love and are beloved ; had I been sure 
 Of Lady Clara's heart, I would have dared 
 To ask her hand ; I would not ask it now, 
 Nor ever shall — come what may of your love : 
 And therefore can with greater freedom give
 
 THE eaul's choice. 61 
 
 Counsel to you. The Earl's been my best friend ; 
 
 And tho' he spoke some cutting words to me, 
 
 In ignorance of how they might, one day, 
 
 Be turned against himself, still, if he woos 
 
 My sister as a gentleman should woo 
 
 A lady, let him win her if he can. 
 
 So, sister dear, his fate is in your hands ; 
 
 I think I see your heart, your judgment must 
 
 Decide the rest." 
 
 Upon the morrow came 
 The Earl to Grantley, and thus frankly spoke : 
 " Grantley, you doubtless guess why I am here — 
 To ask your sanction to an interview 
 With that same lady whom, in Juliet's form, 
 My fancy made an idol of, until 
 Her own appeared, and to my fancy's flight 
 Added my heart's ; and now I come 
 To learn if it be possible to win 
 Her own heart in return ?" 
 
 Then Eustace thus : 
 " My lord, remembering your former words, 
 I'm almost tempted to exclaim with Portia, 
 ' Of a strange nature is the suit you follow ; ' 
 But if the suit contents you, and you choose 
 To break, or leap, all barriers of your own 
 To win my sister, it must rest with her 
 To say if she will enter what remains 
 Forbidden ground to me. This way, my lord. 
 Lucille," continued Eustace, as she rose
 
 62 THE earl's choice. 
 
 At Valniont's entrance, " 'tis his lordship's wish 
 To have some private converse with yourself ; 
 With what design he has no secret made, 
 With what success I leave him now to learn." 
 
 " Miss Grantley," said the Earl, as Eustace left, 
 " Or may I drop this heart-belying phrase, 
 And say, ' Lucille ? ' " and nearer to her drawing, 
 He took her hand, exclaiming, " Dear Lucille ! 
 I have already told you that I love you ; 
 And now I come to tell you that I feel 
 My happiness depends on your reply. 
 I know the answer I deserve to have ; 
 I saw it flash, like lightning from thine eye, 
 When yesterday I first revealed the hope 
 Repeated now ; — hope which had gone to wreck 
 But for the anchor of thy gentler heart, 
 Which held me fast amid thy stormier thoughts. 
 But to that anchor am I safely bound, 
 Or is its chord impatient of its strain ? 
 Because in holding me, it holds my rank. 
 No, you will never fling me off for that, 
 Which is no fault of mine, nor yet defect, 
 If there be naught unworthy in myself, 
 And 'tis myself I offer, not my rank, 
 Which, in thine eyes, I know, is valueless, 
 And in my own alone deserves respect 
 When he who wears it is respected too, 
 And grows to be the nobleman he's called.
 
 THE EAEL'S CHOICE. G3 
 
 Had I presumed upon my name and birth, 
 
 My daily life is where I find their spell 
 
 As potent as they here are powerless. 
 
 "Were I in quest of beauty for a mate, 
 
 Need I have left where is my daily life ? 
 
 I've had my roaming fancies of the eye ; 
 
 But never, till that eye was fixed on thee, 
 
 Beheld the woman who could tempt my tongue 
 
 To speak to her of love ; into your ear 
 
 "lis poured for the first time, perchance the last, 
 
 If you reject it ; sudden though it seem, 
 
 It is no passion's momentary gush, 
 
 No sensitive impulsion of a heart 
 
 That takes the warmth of every passing smile, 
 
 Or palpitates with every passing breath, 
 
 But the unfolding of a pent-up flower 
 
 Increasing in unconscious growth and strength, 
 
 And only waiting for its sun to rise 
 
 To burst beneath its light ; that sun art thou ; 
 
 And now thy answer ; tell me, may I give 
 
 To you the dear and sacred name of wife ? " 
 
 There was a pause, as if her breath had gone : 
 At length began Lucille with faltering voice — 
 Faltering at first, but soon becoming firm : 
 " Unclasp my hand that I may strive to say 
 What must be said before I answer give 
 Unto the solemn question you have put. 
 I would not be accused of reticence
 
 64 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 In aught that you should know, but might not learn, 
 
 Till knowledge came too late ; in wedding me 
 
 You raise my humbler station to your own, 
 
 Though if I know myself, I do not doubt 
 
 To hold it as becomes Earl Valmont's wife ; 
 
 But change of sphere will work no change in me ; 
 
 My habits — tastes — attachments — principles — 
 
 Will still remain ; are you so well assured 
 
 That none of these may bring you shock or shame ? 
 
 What if my creed be one to which your Church 
 
 Assigns the epithet of infidel, 
 
 Though creed of Milton, Newton — of the sage 
 
 Who traced man's understanding to its source, 
 
 Of him who sang " Evangeline," and of her 
 
 In whose sweet strains so many infant lips 
 
 Hymn their first praise to God ? This creed hold I, 
 
 And, true to me as yours is true to you, 
 
 Must hold without concealment or disguise. 
 
 Then I have kindred not to be renounced 
 
 By me, howe'er unwelcome to yourself ; 
 
 And first, my brother — he, where'er I dwell, 
 
 Must enter — not upon mere sufferance, 
 
 Or under guarantee of good behaviour, — 
 
 You smile, my lord ; but after what has passed 
 
 'Twixt him and you concerning Lady Clara, 
 
 'Twere well at once that I thus freely spoke ; 
 
 I might indeed, when once become your wife, 
 
 Insist, with sanction of both Church and State, 
 
 That all my kindred should be held your own,
 
 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 65 
 
 Had I respect for an)' human code 
 
 To which instinctive Nature gives the lie ; 
 
 But still my kin, tho' then no more to you 
 
 Than now they are, will not be less to me ; 
 
 And such few friends as I and Eustace have 
 
 I would preserve ; my habits and my tastes 
 
 Might clash with yours : some things I've leamt to count 
 
 As daily duties, and, whate'er my rank, 
 
 Would still perform ; I could not live the life 
 
 Which titled ladies, for the most part, lead, 
 
 Or seem to lead from all I know or see, 
 
 Without a forfeiture of self-respect, 
 
 Without enth'e forgetfulness of Him 
 
 Who asks some worthier service at the hands 
 
 Of his most noble creatures, than a life 
 
 Of luxury or ease ; so ponder well, 
 
 My lord, before you take to your proud halls 
 
 One who is such as I've avowed myself, 
 
 And means to be no other." 
 
 As she ceased, 
 Valmont resumed her unresisting hand, 
 And passionately pressing it, exclaimed — 
 " No other would I have thee ; in thy words — 
 Faithful to others, as thyself, I hear 
 The best assurance of thy faith to me 
 In all that gives fidelity its worth ; 
 The tie that makes thee mine shall leave thee free 
 Of every bond that thou wouldst spurn to wear ;
 
 66 THE earl's choice. 
 
 Walk as thou hast, teaching me how to rise 
 
 To the high standard of thy daily life, 
 
 A task, perchance, less hard than thou mightst deem, 
 
 For I have sense of deeper, purer needs 
 
 Than rank and wealth supply, and from the time 
 
 Which brought my steps to manhood's turning-point, 
 
 Have ever had an aim beyond the mark 
 
 Of those around me. I have felt too much 
 
 The wickedness of unimproved existence 
 
 To tamely float down pleasure's lulling stream, 
 
 Or play the animal in human shape 
 
 Beneath civilization's cloak and mask ; 
 
 I would ennoble my humanity 
 
 By something higher than my name or birth, 
 
 And would, to be companioned in the effort 
 
 By head and heart like thine, forswear my rank, 
 
 Were needed such a sacrifice to win thee, 
 
 And leave ' my order ' to its own good care. 
 
 Take me for what I am, not what I'm called, 
 
 There is no need for pondering on your words. 
 
 Each has but fixed new rivets to my love ; 
 
 Let me go hence then with the sweet assurance 
 
 I have not loved— I do not woo in vain." 
 
 So ending, to Lucille he nearer drew, 
 And, as his arm stole gently round her waist, 
 There was no shrinking from the coining clasp ; 
 From lips, not words, he took her answer now — 
 Parley was past, and silence was their joy.
 
 THE EARL'S CHOICE. G7 
 
 P A E T VI. 
 
 Wb left the Countess brooding o'er the shock 
 
 Of her son's free disclosure ; little sleep 
 
 Had she that night, and sullenly alone 
 
 Sat next day in her room, and hearing there 
 
 From Yalmont of his offer to Miss Grantley, 
 
 So angry grew, that when he wrote to say 
 
 His hand had been accepted, she took up 
 
 Her pen and answered thus — " We meet no more.'' 
 
 Day after day he strove to soften her 
 
 By kindliest appealings, but in vain ; 
 
 In vain his sister spoke on his behalf, 
 
 And ventured something in Miss Grantley 's praise. 
 
 The Countess, vowing " they were all conspirators," 
 
 Would hear no word from any but her maid, 
 
 And, keeping to her bed-chamber, there sat 
 
 Denouncing Valmont, Clara, and, in words 
 
 Scarce fitting Christian lips, the Marchioness. 
 
 At times she'd murmur — " Is it really true ?" 
 
 And half persuade herself it could not be, 
 
 Valmont, her son, in web so vulgar caught, 
 
 For whom in vain love's finest, subtlest snares 
 
 Had oft been set ! What was Miss Grantley' s ch ana ?
 
 68 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 Virtue forsooth ! What bait was there in that ? 
 
 And beauty — was it nowhere to be found 
 
 But in the dressed-up jades who lent their looks 
 
 To make more saleable their brothers' daubs ! 
 
 It must be stopped — what if she sought this girl 
 
 That looked at her so insolently calm 
 
 The other night, as if to say, " He's wine, 
 
 Tho' you are come." — "What if she told her, Valmont, 
 
 Despite his promise, ne'er would marry her '? 
 
 'Twas a bold step, but something must be done 
 
 To shake her faith in him ere he could make 
 
 His word irrevocable by his acts. 
 
 Revolving o'er and o'er these thoughts, one day 
 When Valmont was from London, she rose up, 
 And summoning her carriage, bid it drive 
 In a direction that would bring her near 
 To Grantley's residence, but stopping short of it 
 That none at home should of her visit learn. 
 'Twas her intention to attempt at first 
 Persuasion with his sister, ere she tried 
 The bolder course for which she came prepared ; 
 But the complacent air and tranquil mien 
 With which Miss Grantley bade her " take a chair " 
 Roused all her sleeping fury, and at once 
 With virulent abruptness, she broke out — 
 " My son, I find, is paying court to you, 
 And you allow it ; I presume you know 
 How courtship of such sort can only end :
 
 THE earl's choice. 69 
 
 You cannot think it possible that he 
 
 Will wed one so beneath him — do you hear ? '' 
 
 After a moment's pause came this reply — 
 " I do — but, madam, if you've more to say — 
 And wish me to be patient whilst I listen, 
 Find other terms to speak in ; nor so loud, 
 I am not deaf." 
 
 " Indeed, but you are blind," 
 Replied the still more chafing dowager, 
 " And somewhat insolent. ' Find other terms ? ' 
 And pray, Miss Grantley, what are they to be ? 
 Shall I be plain, and say, when love-sick maid 
 In station like your own consents to hear 
 The amorous talk of lover she must know 
 Can never be her husband, — 'twere not strange 
 If she became his mistress ? " 
 
 At that word 
 Lucille, as struck by an electric shock, 
 Sprung up with flushing brow and flashing eye, 
 And with indignant vehemence exclaimed — 
 "How dare you, madam, say such words to me ? 
 Tax me with insolence — this chamber's mine, 
 And I command you — leave it ; do you hear ? " 
 
 " Miss Grantley," cried the Countess, half in rage 
 And half astonishment, but somewhat cowed
 
 70 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 By the stem aspect and uplifted hand 
 Of the dilated form that o'er her stood, 
 Looking a deeper scorn than tongue could utter, 
 ' ' Miss Grantley, pray sit down ; despite your wrath 
 I must say what I came for." 
 
 " I'll not hear it," 
 Was the quick ringing answer. " I cannot 
 Force you to leave my presence, hut from yours 
 This door shall lock me if you'll not quit mine." 
 
 Already was she moving to the portal 
 Which led to an adjoining room, her hack 
 Turned on the Countess, who, then rising, spoke — 
 " You need not take the trouhle to retire, 
 Don't make yourself a prisoner for me, 
 I came to give advice, not give or take 
 Offence ; hut as you do not choose to hear, 
 The consequences be on your own head ; 
 Good day, Miss Grantley ! " 
 
 "Home, quick, coachman, home ! " 
 Were the sole words the Countess spoke for hours 
 After the scene depicted as above. 
 Next day and next, she took nor food, nor drink, 
 Till the physician by her bedside stood 
 And spoke of dangerous fever ; rapidly 
 It grew despite his care ; delirium came ; 
 Valmont and Clara were alike unknown 
 As they stood by her, listening to words
 
 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 71 
 
 Which made her state more grievous to behold. 
 
 At length more tranquil she appeared to grow, 
 
 And might recover, the physician said, 
 
 But would require much watching, and much care, 
 
 So much of vigilance, indeed, said he, 
 
 That on her nurse her life might yet depend. 
 
 Valmont, who daily with Lucille conferred, 
 Had of his mother's visit heard from her, 
 But than that " angry words had passed 'twixt both," 
 Could leam no more ; Lucille alarmed, distressed, 
 Began to urge him to forego her hand, 
 Or claim it not till time should reconcile 
 His mother to his choice — should she survive 
 Her present shock. Informed by Valmont now, 
 His mother's life might on her nurse depend, 
 She seemed a moment wrapped in earnest thought, 
 And then said quickly — " Let me be her nurse ; 
 I'm no Miss Nightingale, but I have had 
 Experience by the bedside of the poor 
 In my own neighbourhood, and know how much 
 The service of a gentle hand and voice — 
 Which I will give with all my heart and soul 
 To save your mother — can do for the sick." 
 The strange request took Vahnont by surprise. 
 " What," he replied, " if she were to detect 
 You in her nurse ? — she has her lucid moments." 
 " Alas !" rejoined Lucille, " I know too well 
 She can't dftlike me more than she does now ;
 
 72 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 Besides I do not fear discovery, 
 I can, with little art, disguise my looks, 
 And, for my voice, she only knows it by 
 Tones she shall from it never hear again." 
 
 " I'll think of it," said Valmont, as he left, 
 " And with my sister will confer at once 
 How we may best receive you in our home, 
 Should our physician to your wish consent. 
 If you disguise yourself, as you propose, 
 None else need know you." 
 
 After his departure 
 She sat awhile reflecting on her scheme, 
 Praying that no rebellious pride might rise 
 In this new trial of her strength and will : 
 Thus fortified, she into Eustace went, 
 Who was in " Paul and Felix " still absorbed, 
 And told him of the service she had tendered. 
 " Do as you like," said he, " but don't submit 
 To any fresh indignity ; and mind, 
 The world will say all sorts of spiteful things ; 
 But you're not one to care for Mrs. Grundy 
 In aught you deem the right ; so kiss me, dear, 
 And go and be to others the good angel 
 You ever are to me." 
 
 " I go disguised," 
 Remarked Lucille, returning his fond kiss, 
 " Can you suggest how that may best be dome ?"
 
 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 73 
 
 Eustace looked well at her, and then exclaimed, 
 " Your eyebrows darkened, frontlet of black hair ; 
 Your cheeks embraced by a decorous cap, 
 Your hands unringed, your dress uncrinolined, 
 Will transformation so complete effect 
 Tbat it would puzzle me to find you out." 
 
 " I go at once, then," said Lucille, " to try it." 
 And before night she'd everything prepared 
 To make the change ; before her glass she sat 
 Trying to tint her eyebrows, when a note 
 Was brought to her from Valmont, running thus — 
 " All is arranged ; be here at noon to-morrow, 
 We shall not send the carriage, lest it raise 
 Suspicion in our servants." With his note 
 Came kind one also from the Lady Clara, 
 Bidding her ask for her when she arrived. 
 
 x s 
 
 Week followed week, and Lucille still remained 
 'Neath Valmont 's roof, without discovery 
 By the sick Countess, who, thus gently tended, 
 Was growing slowly into calmer mood 
 Of mind and body ; latterly had shown 
 No symptom of delirium ; recognized 
 Valmont and Clara, and to their kind words 
 Had kindly answered ; but more kindly still 
 Talked with Lucille, who oft to her would read, 
 And sometimes soothe her into sleep with song ; 
 Thus one day when the Countess had expressed
 
 74 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 A wish for something suited to the sick, 
 Lucille, as if from printed page reciting, 
 Ventured upon these verses of her own — 
 
 What though sickness lay us low 
 If we purer, kinder grow ; 
 Is it not sweet chastisement, 
 Less from earth than heaven sent ? 
 Boon for which our God to thank 
 More than gift of wealth or rank, 
 Though these brought us mind and frame 
 To which suffering never came ? 
 
 What though sick in heart and head 
 O'er some cherished vision fled, 
 If in place of it there spring 
 Others that can ne'er take wing ; 
 Visions, in whose lovely light 
 Forms that did us once affright ; 
 Foremost mid them Eight and Duty — 
 Now attract us by then beauty ? 
 
 Thus in sickness shapes arise 
 Health discerns not, or denies ; 
 Angels who, when once the heart 
 Has received them, ne'er depart ; 
 But like statues calm and solemn, 
 Each from its appointed column 
 In the temple of the soul, 
 Ever more the heart control. 
 
 " Read them again," the Countess, musing, said ; 
 " Who is the author ? " Lucille read again, 
 But answered not the question, till again 
 'Twas asked, and then with hesitating voice 
 Confessed the truth.
 
 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 75 
 
 " Indeed," the Countess said, 
 ' ' Show rue the lines ; the handwriting yours too ? 
 And play and sing ? why, how came you a nurse ? " 
 
 Lucille a moment paused, and then replied — 
 " It is not my vocation, but I learnt, 
 In tending the sick poor, the rich as well 
 Might stand in need of gentler ministry 
 Than hired hands always give : so being told 
 A lady in this house was lying ill, 
 Whose life depended on a watchful nurse, 
 I tendered my own services, and thus 
 You see me here, not from necessity, 
 But choice." 
 
 " Strange choice ; what, then, is your vocation, 
 If I'm to call your service charity ? " 
 
 " I've none," replied Lucille, " that has a name, 
 Save finding such employment for my days 
 As shall some noble purpose give to life, 
 And leave no bitter memories in the hour 
 Of my departure from it ; I have means 
 That free me from the need of toil for bread, 
 The rental, scarcely, of an opera-box, 
 But yet enough for all my social wants, 
 And some few pleasures. With my guardian died 
 What you would call position, but the lessons 
 He had implanted in my mind and heart
 
 76 THE earl's choice. 
 
 Remained, and went with me where'er I went ; 
 Amid them, these most treasured of them all, 
 To turn each moment to its best account, 
 To take no step that carried me away 
 From self-denial, or from self-respect, 
 And ne'er to let false pride stand in the way 
 Of a kind action or a truthful word. 
 But for such lessons I had not been here, 
 For, though I do not shrink to enter them, 
 Sick chambers are not suited to my taste." 
 
 " Nor," said the Countess, kindly, " to your strength, 
 If I may judge front that pale countenance ; 
 You must have found me very troublesome, 
 And not so patient as I mean to be : 
 Sickness is no bad teacher, as you say ; 
 And so you wrote those verses — hints to me ? 
 You need not speak, I know it by your look ; 
 I have been saying, I suppose, strange things ; 
 Have I been talking of Miss Grantley much ? 
 I mean the lady that's to wed my son, 
 If 'tis not done already ; tell me what 
 I said." 
 
 " You oft spoke bitter words of her," 
 Replied Lucille, " but 'twas in your delirium, 
 You would not else have spoke such bitter words, 
 I'm sure, dear madam ! " 
 
 ' ' How do vou know that ?
 
 THE earl's choice. 77 
 
 Miss Grantley is a stranger quite to yon, 
 
 And may have wronged me more than you imagine." 
 
 "But wrongs should be forgiven, should they not ? " 
 Ventured Lucille. " I know Miss Grantley well : 
 From her, indeed, I learnt the nurse's art ; 
 And 'twas thro' her I came to wait on you. 
 She has been very wretched ever since 
 She heard of your sad illness, and I'm sure 
 Will never wed your son till you are well ; 
 Nor then, perhaps, unless with your consent." 
 
 The Countess, with a searching look, exclaimed, 
 " Where did you get all this from ? " " From herself," 
 Replied Lucille. " She has been daily here, 
 Less to see Valmont than to hear of you." 
 
 The Countess started. " Valmont, did you say ? " 
 " I mean the Earl," said, Hurriedly, Lucille. 
 But now the Countess suddenly sat up, 
 Placed her pale hand upon Lucille's flushed brow, 
 And, looking scrutinizingly in her face, 
 Said : " Woman, surely you are not Miss Grantley ? " 
 Then adding quick, " My God, tho', but you are ! " 
 Sank back, and for some minutes spoke no word. 
 
 Rising at length, she bid Lucille approach, 
 And after deeper survey, calmly said, 
 " I know those eyes ; but that is not your hair ; 
 And you are paler than when last we met,
 
 78 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 And change complete has come upon your voice : 
 
 Or is it all disguise I see and hear ? 
 
 Tell me what's real and what's false in you." 
 
 " There's nothing false in me," replied Lucille, 
 Taking off cap and braid, " but these, and they 
 Were for concealment, not deception, meant ; 
 In every office of my heart and hand 
 My real self has been by your bedside, 
 Through days and nights that have not wearied me 
 So much, but that 'tis still my hope to stay 
 Till you are quite recovered. I may stay, 
 Dear madam, may I not ? " 
 
 The Countess paused, 
 Then said, composedly, "Yes, you may remain. 
 Why do you weep ? — come here — come here, and kiss 
 
 me ! " 
 Lucille fell sobbing in the Countess' arms, 
 And felt the heaving of that haughty breast 
 Beat fondly 'gainst her own ; kiss after kiss 
 Came from those once harsh lips : the ice had burst 
 Of a proud nature 'neath the melting touch 
 Of one whose pride was greater, but whose love 
 Than that was greater still. 
 
 Thus lay these two 
 When Vahnont entered. From his mother's arms 
 Lucille then rose, Lucille without disguise.
 
 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 79 
 
 In silent wonderment he gazed awhile 
 Till beckoned by the Countess to approach, 
 Who, taking his hand, placed it in Lucille's, 
 Saying, " My son, your choice is henceforth mine. 
 You shall be both my children when I'm well." 
 
 So ends my tale. What need to tell the rest '? 
 There was some talk about the Earl's choice; but 
 The tradesman's daughter, in the Countess Valmont, 
 Was soon forgotten : for a time it broke 
 The dull monotony of Rotten Row ; 
 But even the wheels of fashionable life 
 Rolled on without a stoppage, — almanacks, 
 Amid their most remarkable events, 
 Omitted this ; and although, when she died 
 Who once had been remembered as Miss Grantley, 
 The world had got some civil things to say, 
 There was small stir — save mid the many hearts 
 Which she had made the happier through her rank, 
 And in the halls to which she left an heir 
 Ennobled, as the Earl oft loved to say, 
 More by inheritance of his mother's nature 
 Than of his father's proud ancestral name. 
 
 I said my tale was ended, but a word 
 Is due to Eustace and the Lady Clara. 
 Of her, perchance, 'twill be enough to say 
 She ne'er was asked to be the wife of Grantley. 
 His life and heart were in his studio,
 
 80 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 
 
 Where often high-born dames and damsels came, 
 From whom he sometimes most sweet glances had 
 Which he was too decorous to perceive, 
 Except upon his canvas to depict them. 
 He died — prosaic word — a bachelor — 
 But did not live a quite prosaic life, 
 If we may guess from sundry scraps of verse 
 From his own pen, amidst his papers found, 
 After his death — amid the rest were these : — 
 
 My fallen hopes ! my Mien hopes ! 
 
 A sad adieu to ye, 
 And thou, beneath whose smile they rose, 
 
 A sad adieu to thee ! 
 Like leaves upon the moaning boughs 
 
 Of summer's radiance reft, 
 That drop and drop, till on their stem 
 
 No single one is left, 
 My fallen hopes ! my fallen hopes ! 
 
 Ye thus have sunk away ; 
 Till on this withered heart of mine 
 
 There is not one to stay. 
 
 Yet as on earth's most barren spots 
 
 Some flowers find soil to bloom, 
 And clinging to the rock are found, 
 
 Or growing on the tomb; 
 The teeming thoughts within my brain, 
 
 With sunny strength still rife, 
 Shall, flashing round my heart, awake 
 
 Fresh blossoms into life. 
 Fresh blossoms — though from searching eyes 
 
 They strive to hide in vain, 
 That others flourished once beneath 
 
 Which ne'er will bloom again.
 
 THE EARL'S CHOICE. 81 
 
 To thee, my own beloved Art, 
 
 I turn for solace now ; 
 Farewell once more my fallen hopes, 
 
 But ever welcome thou ! 
 Chase the dark shadow from my breast 
 
 With visions fair and bright, 
 Nor go from me till I have brought 
 
 Their beauty into light ; 
 That after ages naming me, 
 
 When her name is unknown, 
 May say, "Though in its tomb his heart, 
 
 His mind was on its throne."
 
 83 
 
 %t Jp^-1830. 
 
 i. 
 
 Tis midnight — moonlight ! on the silent deep, 
 Within the sentried Lazaretto's view, 
 Moored heneath Nisida's o'erhanging steep, 
 Our bark at anchor lies ; to rest its crew 
 Are gone ; and I, ere this, had slumbered too, 
 But that the tranquil beauty of the night 
 Hath wakened thoughts which I would fain pursue, 
 E'en to the dawning of the morning's light, 
 Rather than close mine eyes upon so fair a sight. 
 
 ii. 
 
 In such a scene how pure the heart's emotion, 
 Yon shore the eye might fancy Eden's own 
 When, side by side, in slumber or devotion, 
 Sleep hushed the breath, or prayer subdued the tone 
 Of earth's first pair embosomed there alone. 
 And ocean too — how mute and moveless, save 
 Where, flashing bright, some distant oar is shown, 
 Disturbing, only to illume, the wave, 
 As shall the seraph's hand that opes the good man's 
 grave. 
 
 6—2
 
 84 NAPLES— 1830. 
 
 III. 
 
 "lis raorn, and rising round rne I behold 
 Fresh beauty wake to life ; the swelling sea 
 In dyes of ever- varying hue unrolled 
 Like a rich carpet flashes gorgeously ; 
 On shore, the orange shines from many a tree, 
 'Bove which the festooned vines attract the sight, 
 Whilst 'neath the shadow of their drapery 
 Some terraced statue, catching the sun's light, 
 Strikes on the ravished eye from off its distant height. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Our anchor up, released from quarantine 
 To Nisida we gladly bid adieu ! 
 No more obstructing islands intervene 
 To veil the shore, where Naples shines, from view 
 Vesuvius greets us with its sombre hue, 
 Looking so tranquil we can scarcely deem 
 The tales of her volcanic vengeance true ; 
 So are not human spirits what they seem — 
 Oft in the softest eye lurks passion's fiercest beam. 
 
 v. 
 
 On, on we sail, till we can faintly hear, 
 As fast we glide along its foamless bay, 
 The murmurs of the city we draw near — 
 And over which the sun with tender ray,
 
 NAPLES— 1830. 85 
 
 More tender still, as drawing to decay, 
 Smiles lovingly, till brightening ere he die 
 He looks his last ; whilst as he sinks away, 
 Bathed in his beam, shore, city, sea, and sky, 
 In one commingling glow of roseate brilliance lie. 
 
 VI. 
 
 We land — I haste through crowded streets and squares. 
 Where to the stranger things most strange appear, 
 Polichinello, beggars, priests, screams, prayers, 
 Are all at first that catch his eye or ear ; 
 And well such sights and sounds may raise his sneer ; 
 But soon it changes to a smile — for mirth 
 With superstition blends so quaintly here, 
 And to such freaks their union doth give birth, 
 Scarce wisdom's self could chide this merriest spot of 
 earth. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Along the shore of Mergelline I roam, 
 To what doth yonder urchin beckon me ? 
 I quit awhile the beach of tideless foam 
 To follow him ; a steep acclivity 
 Above the town keeps winding gradually 
 To a wild garden's height ; I gaze no more 
 On palace, city, mountain, sky, or sea, 
 Intent on naught but what I stand before — 
 Words which the urchin shows o'er that wild garden's 
 door.
 
 86 NAPLES— 1830. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Tis opened ; 'neath a canopy of vines, 
 "Whose fruit-pluck"d leaves still yield autumnal bloom, 
 By path that now ascends, and now declines, 
 I find the portal's promise — Virgil's tomb ; 
 That such it is we may to doubt presume 
 Without heretic sin ; though men have died, 
 Been cursed and threatened with perdition's doom, 
 For doubt of truths less clear ; and still tongue-tied, 
 On points of creed-fenced faiths 'twere safer to abide. 
 
 IX. 
 
 I wander on until my steps intrude 
 On stones which bore the Caesars' chariot wheel : 
 Part of the Appian way — fit spot to brood 
 O'er empire's emptiness — fit spot to feel 
 The truths, which 'tis time's mission to reveal : 
 Hovels are on the ground, rags in the air, 
 Where once triumphal arch, banner and steel 
 Glittered and waved — whilst they who now dwell there 
 Small trace of Roman soul or Roman aspect bear. 
 
 Beggars and thieves acting the showman's part 
 Conduct my steps where oft the captive slave 
 Was brought to die, or leam the slaughterer's art ; 
 Where oft was heard the lion's startling rave,
 
 NAPLES— 1830. 87 
 
 Or groan the dying gladiator gave 
 Beneath his fangs ; life cut most foully short 
 By death most ignominiously brave. 
 Why did not man and beast on man retort 
 And shed his blood who came to make their blood his 
 sport ? 
 
 XI. 
 
 Who that beholds the briars o'er them spreading 
 Would wish again the circus walls complete, 
 Or sigh to see the goat and goatherd treading 
 Where man once lay beneath the tiger's feet ? 
 Oh, shame, that woman should e'er choose her seat 
 Amid such scenes, nor blush to keep her place ! 
 That the death-thrust should its approval meet 
 In beauty's waving hand and smiling face, 
 Decked as if she had come some festal rite to grace. 
 
 XII. 
 
 The sun goes down upon the Baian bay, 
 Leaving the waters of its odorous shore 
 With breast still warm from the departing day ; 
 The breeze which on its wing sweet perfume bore, 
 Faint with its weight, has sunk and breathes no more 
 Darkness steals like a lover on the light 
 Voluptuously sleeping ; not an oar 
 Ripples the wave ; silence is in her might, 
 Holding in charmed suspense the pausing step of night.
 
 88 NAPLES— 1830. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Mid such a scene how oft must have reclined 
 Within his palace, which o'erlooked it all, 
 The tyrant Nero — could even he he blind 
 To beauty which might basest souls enthrall ? 
 Could it be here was heard the sleek foot-fall 
 Of the imperial monster when his slaves 
 Approached, obedient to his murderous call, 
 To hear the mandate for the deed which dyed 
 Their hands in blood that stamped their master matri- 
 cide ? 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Ah me ! that midst the fairest scenes which God 
 Unfolds to man such evil could be done. 
 To think, alas, what bloody steps have trod 
 Wherever shines Italia 's gentle sun ! 
 How few the spots where trace of them is none. 
 What tho' no Pagan temples mock its skies, 
 If deeds be wrought the Pagan's self would shun ? 
 Degraded Italy ! Yet who denies 
 That 'neath thy soil the dust of many great men lies '? 
 
 xv. 
 
 Here Tasso dwelt ; we know how sad his lot, 
 Condemned in " prisoned solitude " to string 
 His harp's divinest chords ; yet failed he not 
 In strength or will. Imagination's wing
 
 NAPLES— 1830. 89 
 
 Took loftier flight, and showed how free could sing 
 The bard whose heart a princess held in thrall — 
 A thrall from which his deepest woe did spring, 
 For there were those who did it madness call — 
 The answer to that lie is in Ferrara's wall.* 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Yes — with the sound of the true maniac's chains 
 Clanking around him, did he burst his shroud 
 Of deadening grief, and break forth in such strains 
 As well might make the haughtiest princess proud 
 To own his love. Dispelling every cloud, 
 Which, for the moment, had his mind o'ercast, 
 He woke his harp, which, ringing clear and loud, 
 Told to the world its transient blight had passed, 
 In tones that every age, which hears them, shall outlast. 
 
 xvri. 
 
 Revenge most fitting 'twas for him to take — 
 Leaving the blot which calumny would have thrown 
 Upon the mind oppression could not shake, 
 To spread its shadow o'er the oppressor's own — 
 A flame he raised to make that darkness known, 
 Which, in its immortality of shame, 
 The light it circled left more brightly shown — 
 'Tis thus that Genius dims its slanderer's name, 
 Fixing within its shade the blaze of her own fame. 
 
 * The MSS. of Jerusalem Delivered preserved in the prison 
 of Ferrara.
 
 90 NAPLES— 1830. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Evening again ! — How touching is its close, 
 As if its light were heing charmed away, 
 Tis beauty when most beauteous — in repose. 
 The wind, which has been kissing earth all day, 
 Has ta'en at last its loving lips away, 
 And on the water's bosom sunk to sleep ; 
 The mountain shadows steal along the bay, 
 The flowers within their foliage seem to creep, 
 Till darkness hushes all in slumber soft and deep. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Hark ! like the plaint of an imprisoned friend, 
 Mournful, but mighty and defying still, 
 Vesuvius hoarsely moans as we ascend. 
 Howl, demon, howl ! Although I feel a thrill 
 Within my breast which bodes my footsteps ill. 
 Again ! and see where, struggling thro' the dark, 
 From out the cavern he is doom'd to fill 
 His sulphury eyes their hollow circle mark, 
 Whilst e'er his rumbling throat keeps muttering ven- 
 geance — hark ! 
 
 xx. 
 
 Pompeii ! mute and melancholy ghost 
 Of life and light — funereal solitude ! 
 Thou wilderness of walls without a host 
 To look from one ! City of death unviewed,
 
 NAPLES— 1830. 91 
 
 Untrocl for centuries ! Dare I intrude 
 On thy sepulchral ground whilst still before thee 
 Thy fell consumer rages unsubdued, 
 Mighty as when he hurled destruction o'er thee, 
 And threatening even those who in thy tomb explore 
 thee ? 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Doomed city — struck to that sepulchral mound 
 Which wrapped thy dead and living in one grave ! 
 What ghastly relics of thy slain were found 
 When light and air showed what they could not save ! 
 I see thy fall : the timid and the brave — 
 The sick — the hale — beauty — and those just blest 
 By beauty's smile. Hark to their maniac rave ! 
 They fly — they shriek — they pray — beat brain and 
 breast, 
 " Down ! " the volcano roars — their murmurs are at rest ! 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Yet see ! still struggling with the smothering ashes, 
 A thousand arms break desperately through ; 
 In vain ! with ceaseless and o'erwhelming crashes 
 The mountain doth his fiery bolts renew ! 
 The air is choked — blotted the sky from view ; 
 With blinding fierceness, and light-blasting hue, 
 Clouds of red stones, and whirlwinds of black sand 
 O'er the doomed city hang — fall, hiss, expand — 
 Till all is hot and dark as Eblis's own land.
 
 92 NAPLES— 1830. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 So fell Pompeii ! whilst her ashes lay 
 For eighteen centuries to man unknown, 
 Behold her now, unhosomed to the day, 
 Deserted, silent, hut not yet o'erthrown : 
 Scarce from her streets is gone a single stone ; 
 The wheel is wither'd, but its track remains ; 
 Her walls are roofless, hut there still unflown 
 The artist's colours glow ; though rent, her fanes 
 Yet standing are — and stand, as proud of their remains ! 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 A day of storm ! the winds are on their wings, 
 And fiercely chase along the clotted air 
 The sulphur-breathing clouds ; the wave up-springs, 
 Lashed from its bed — and, as if in despair 
 Of ever undisturbed remaining there, 
 Rushes for refuge madly to the shore, 
 Only a fate more maddening still to bear : 
 Sternly the rocks repulse it o'er and o'er, 
 And strike the moaner back amid the ocean's roar. 
 
 xxv. 
 
 Thus are the wretched met when they would fly 
 The world's distraction : thus is fancy's dream 
 Of love and peace by life's reality 
 Broken and banished ; then comes reason's gleam,
 
 NAPLES— 1830. 93 
 
 Shining all cold and sad, like evening's beam, 
 Brightening the earth to leave it — a pale guide 
 To lonely paths — a beacon to redeem 
 The mind's lost track — too late ! the averted tide 
 Of thought still darkly strays, till death its course doth 
 hide. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Howl on, thou blast ! I love thy raving shout, — 
 Thy wandering moan. Ye lightnings flash again ! 
 Thus do my own o'erclouded thoughts rush out 
 With an electric frenzy from my brain 
 For mastery over darkness ; but in vain ! 
 Even as, when your convulsive gleam is flown, 
 Naught but the gloomy thunder doth remain ; 
 The dirge-like echoes of my grief alone 
 Answer my spirit's burst with all- appalling tone. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 What thoughts are these ? with faith in One above, 
 Is the spring clear whence such repinings flow ? 
 No more of them ! with Nature still to love 
 Who talks of an unconquerable woe ? 
 Where is the heart that feels not holier glow 
 And deeper joy in communing with Her, 
 Than passion in its purest hour can know ? 
 A love it is no selfish throb doth stir, 
 Whilst unto it all good and fair things minister.
 
 94 NAPLES— 1830. 
 
 xxvm. 
 
 The love it is of every shifting scene 
 The seasons in their varied beauty show, 
 Of wind and wave, or stormy or serene, 
 Of leaves when green, or in their autumn glow, 
 When the boughs bend beneath the wintry snow, 
 Or the warm light through summer's foliage gleams ; 
 Where torrents roar, or streamlets gently flow ; 
 When morn is radiant, or 'neath moonlight beams, 
 When all those feelings wake the world calls idle dreams. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 A love it is which makes it sweet to stand 
 Watching the waters on the lone sea -shore, 
 And feel the solitary heart expand 
 In the fond want of something to adore, 
 Though we be loved and thought upon no more ; 
 Till rises in each moaning of the wave 
 A sigh as 'twere our sorrows to deplore, 
 Whilst the tired waters, sinking where they lave, 
 Proclaim how earthly trouble ends but with the grave. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 It is the love of reverie — among 
 
 The unfrequented woods to brood alone 
 
 Till sweet thoughts rise like music, though the tongue 
 
 Keep mute for want of fitting speech and tone
 
 NAPLES— 1830. 95 
 
 To make their voiceless melody its own ; 
 Then in such mood the chastenings of the past — 
 Affections chilled, wrongs suffered, hopes o'erthrown, 
 Humbly review — till the deep shadow cast 
 Over the heart is gone, and peace dwells there at last. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Such is this love, and if it best inspire 
 The soul with sense of its own majesty, 
 The mind with noble aspiration fire, 
 And from the passions' slavery set it free ; — 
 Persuade the sceptic from his doubts to flee, 
 And (owning equally the chastening rod 
 And favouring smile of Nature's Deity) 
 Humbly to bow where scornfully he trod, — 
 Shall we not truly say — it is the love of God ? 
 
 xxxn. 
 
 If with no other, with this love at least 
 I go to join the world where I must strive, 
 And when this calm pause in it shall have ceased, 
 This sweet Oasis that has kept alive 
 A faith too feeble — may its thoughts survive 
 To keep my heart, amid life's desert, green, 
 And pure, and strong, — that if I fail or thrive — 
 Find sun or shadow in this mortal scene, 
 God may be felt through all, whate'er else intervene.
 
 96 
 
 %i 3JfeplM-1853. 
 
 Again I stand in Naples, and a scene 
 Of wondrous loveliness again look o'er ; 
 In that no change was needed, nor hath heen, 
 But oh ! that freedom smiled upon its shore, 
 And that the despot darkened it no more 
 Whom flattering priests and flattered mohs ohey ! 
 Slaves — wretched slaves — such king who how hefore, 
 "Will none arise to check his blood-stained sway, 
 None raise a hand to sweep this Bourbon blight away ? 
 
 ii. 
 
 Oh, who would fix his home in such a land, 
 Or from its charms could pleasure long derive ? 
 Farewell to sunny skies and breezes bland 
 Where Liberty can find no space to thrive, 
 Give me the soil where mind with mind may strive, 
 Free as its winds, though these may fiercely blow ; 
 Where spies and traitors find no golden hive, 
 Where justice waits alike on high and low, 
 And love with loyalty is ever seen to grow.
 
 NAPLES— 1853. 97 
 
 HI. 
 
 But one such country do we yet behold, 
 No need to name thee, England ; world-confess'd 
 Is thy pre-eminence, and world- extolled ; 
 Nor to thy children only art thou blest, 
 No nation is there but doth manifest 
 Due rev'rence towards thee ; tyrants quail before 
 Thy kuowledge of their deeds ; to thee the opprest 
 Of all lands fly — once harboured on thy shore, 
 No crowned oppressor dare pursue his victim more. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Naples, life's primest years have passed from me 
 Since first thy charms inspired my early verse, 
 With wiser mind do I revisit thee — 
 One which has learnt that trial is no curse, 
 That there is danger in the grief we nurse, 
 That work is health and duty too, that song 
 For nobler ends was given than to asperse 
 Man or his Maker ; that peace can ne'er belong 
 Unto the head or heart until the will be strong. 
 
 This have I learned amid much care and sorrow, 
 Whose shadow ofttimes did my heart o'ercast, 
 Yet onward strove I, hopeful of the morrow, 
 Until the days of sunshine came at last, 
 
 7
 
 98 Naples— 1853. 
 
 And my hard struggle with the world was past. 
 Oh ! vision bright — to see life's shy all clear, 
 To hear no more adversity's keen blast 
 Sweep round my home — to love without a fear ; 
 And in the loved one's smile detect no lurking tear. 
 
 VI. 
 
 vision brief ! though radiant to the close ; 
 Scarce bloomed the Paradise its light had made 
 Ere that dear smile departed — with the rose 
 Still on the cheek where its sweet sunshine played ; 
 Was I then left where she no longer stayed ? 
 What on my head such awful woe had brought ? 
 Stunned and o'erwhelmed I sank beneath its shade, 
 As if for me that " huge eclipse " were wrought 
 Which palsies at a blow, sense, action, feeling, thought ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 I stood aghast — endeavouring to persuade 
 My wildered spirit that 'twas all a dream, 
 That — in some way — to her departed shade 
 Would come again life's vitalizing stream ;' 
 And, for a time, her haunting form did seem 
 But as a statue that to life might wake 
 Like feigned Hermione's — through force supreme 
 Of deathless love its spectral silence break, 
 And to my longing arms give all they yearned to take.
 
 NAPLES— 1853. 99 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But ah ! for me what form was to descend 
 From pedestal that bore no counterfeit ? 
 Vainly did I my longing arms extend, 
 The statue stirred not ; no warm bosom beat 
 Like that which rose, — no unsubstantial cheat, — 
 To bless the lorn Leontes ; well I knew 
 I wooed but phantom of my own deceit, ' 
 Yet scarce deceit — 'twas still reflection true 
 Of what was in my heart, though nothing met my view. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Slowly came glimpses of returning light, 
 Till to their 'customed aspect all things grew 
 With cruel sameness ; they had felt no blight, 
 Nor of the one upon my spirit knew ; 
 Clear lay the pathway I must still pursue, 
 Why did I pause ? stern duty cried, On ! on ! 
 Alas, I knew life's work was still to do, 
 But how forbear the sad comparison 
 Of toil when she was here, and toil when she was gone ? 
 
 x. 
 
 Time and the chastener's hand that, striking, soothed. 
 Raised up at length my drooping heart and head, 
 And the world's ways, byprosp'rous fortune smoothed, 
 Offered kind welcome to my onward tread.
 
 100 NAPLES— 1853. 
 
 More sufferings came, but there were none to dread, 
 This one survived — so passed by many a year — 
 Not by afflictive hours unvisited, 
 Yet bringing days whose sunshine still is here, 
 And may, perchance, endure life's later days to cheer. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Life's later days — I go back to a land 
 That gave me what I found not in my own, 
 My toil rewarding with a liberal hand ; 
 (Else had I not this healthful leisure known ;) 
 Yet when the days that end my toil have flown, 
 It is my hope to pass what few remain, 
 Within my native clime ; 'twill well atone 
 For my long exile thence, if spared the pain 
 Of parting from it more, when once my home again ! 
 
 XII. 
 
 To Naples with this hope I bid farewell, 
 Nor care if now upon its sunny skies 
 I look my last ; content am I to dwell 
 'Neath those where mists, instead of mountains, rise 
 To shade the free land that beneath them lies ; 
 A land which still might more enlightened be, 
 Yet which its people's many needs supplies 
 As doth no other — let my choice be free, 
 And that, God willing, shall my final home here be.
 
 101 
 
 (Bitjgtond— 1860. 
 
 i. 
 
 It is accomplished ; the ruind-wearing toil 
 Which duty claimed, is ended ; and again 
 My habitation is on English soil. 
 In Europe war still hovers, and the stain 
 Of other blood than battle's is too plain 
 In peaceful lands — too much upon my own ; 
 Yet many evil things are on the wane ; 
 Tyranny trembles, and the haughty tone 
 Of despots is so changed it scarcely seems their own. 
 
 ii. 
 
 St. Elmo's cells are empty ; Bomba sleeps 
 In one as dark ; a despot — vile as he, 
 Heir to his throne, that throne no longer keeps ; 
 Death and rebellion have combined to free 
 Naples from the detested tyranny 
 Of both ; a patriot-hero has struck down, 
 To bloom no more, the Bourbon fleur-de-lis ; 
 The Hapsburg dukes no longer wear a crown ; 
 Venice alone remains in dread of Austria's frown.
 
 102 ENGLAND — 1860. 
 
 ni. 
 
 Italy ! how little 'twas my thought, 
 When last I visited thy lovely land, 
 And marked the havoc which misrule had wrought, 
 That thy deliv'rance was so near at hand ; 
 May thy new-founded kingdom firmly stand, 
 And, once cemented 'neath Sardinia's sway, 
 Liberty's light throughout each part expand, 
 Till every shadow that upon thee lay, 
 By king or priest-craft cast, be scared, or sunned away !
 
 103 
 
 tSnto tfa €mm. 
 
 H 
 1841-46. 
 
 GONE. 
 
 " And thou art dead, as young and fair, 
 
 As aught of mortal birth ; 
 And form so soft, and charms so rare 
 
 Too soon returned to earth ? 
 ***** 
 I will not ask where thou liest low, 
 
 Nor gaze upon the spot, 
 There flowers or weeds at will may grow 
 
 So I behold them not — 
 To me there needs no stone to tell 
 'Tis nothing that I loved so welL"— Brnox. 
 
 I. 
 
 And thou art gone, not less deplored 
 
 Nor less beloved than she 
 Who woke Childe Harold's tenderest chord ; 
 
 Yet mourn I not as he, 
 I loved thee with too high a trust, 
 And love thee still — thou art not dust, 
 
 And dust shalt never be — 
 Whatever sceptic lips may tell, 
 'Tis something that I loved so well.
 
 104 UNDER THE CYPRESS. 
 
 II. 
 
 And what was that I loved so well ? 
 
 Was it the beauteous form 
 Now restiug in its narrow cell, 
 
 The breast no longer warm, 
 The voice that had so sweet a tone, 
 The eye that once so fondly shone — 
 
 Did these contain the charm 
 That made me weep thy parting breath, 
 And binds me to thee still in death ? 
 
 in. 
 
 No ! — these were but the clothing fair 
 
 Of spirit robed for earth, 
 And destined all to perish there 
 
 As things of mortal birth ; 
 Things that to me were very dear, 
 Tho' soon — too soon — to disappear ; 
 
 Yet honoured for their worth 
 No more, when they no longer spoke 
 The inner light which through them broke. 
 
 IV. 
 
 It may be that, at first, there fell 
 
 Despair's unthinking tear, 
 In gazing on the coffined shell 
 
 Of pearl so bright and dear.
 
 UNDER THE CYPRESS. 105 
 
 But Faith o'er sorrow's cloud soon threw 
 A light that shone with rainbow hue, 
 
 Whilst Hope came smiling near, 
 And hade me look where angels dwell 
 For her that here I'd loved so well. 
 
 TOGETHER. 
 
 One evening 'twas, we sat alone, 
 Her gentle arms around me thrown, 
 (We, who had been for many a year, 
 In worldly phrase, a " married pair " ). 
 I had come back to that dear home 
 From which I did but rarely roam, 
 After an absence which, though brief, 
 Had brought with it some shade of grief. 
 O'erjoyed she sat at my return, 
 Nor asked nor wished of else to learn. 
 Silent, I leant upon her breast, 
 Tasting at once love, joy, peace, rest. 
 Ah, they may smile at transports felt 
 By those who've at the altar knelt, 
 And many years are in advance 
 Of courtship's days of young romance ; 
 But when I think of that sweet eve, 
 And of my heart's contented heave, 
 I feel that wedded hearts and true 
 Taste bliss mere lovers never knew.
 
 106 UXDER THE CYPRESS. 
 
 ALONE. 
 
 When weary from the world I'd fly, 
 
 How sweet on thy dear hreast to lie, 
 
 To feel thine arms around me folding, 
 
 And know 'twas thee mine own were holding ! 
 
 Oh, thus, how oft I've sighed away 
 
 The cares and sorrows of the day, 
 
 And sunk, no word between us spoken, 
 
 Happy and mute, to rest unbroken. 
 
 Still weary from the world I fly, 
 
 But not on thy dear breast to lie, 
 
 No more thine arms are round me folding, 
 
 No longer thee mine own are holding. 
 
 A lonely pillow, sadly prest, 
 
 Is now my only place of rest, 
 
 Where, none to hear my grief if spoken, 
 
 I sink to sleep, no more unbroken.
 
 UXDER THE CYPRESS. 10 < 
 
 NO LONGER HERE. 
 
 'Tis daybreak in the chamber where, 
 
 A year ago, you died ; 
 And baby, as we call him still, 
 
 Is sleeping by my side. 
 Morn after morn, I watch him wake, 
 
 And not without a tear, 
 Can always bear to meet his smile 
 
 Now thou'rt no longer here. 
 
 He nestles to me whilst my arms 
 
 Around him fondly twine, 
 Until his cheek is resting where 
 
 So oft hath rested thine ; 
 And, as my sighing heart-pants beat 
 
 Beneath his little ear, 
 He little dreams the sigh's because 
 
 Thou art no longer here. 
 
 He knows not yet, but soon will know, 
 
 What means that mournful word 
 Which, coupled with his mother's name, 
 
 He once unheeding heard. 
 God grant that when the knowledge comes 
 
 He shed no bitter tear, 
 But I alone remain to grieve 
 
 That thou'rt no longer here.
 
 108 UNDER THE CYPRESS. 
 
 HER PORTRAIT. 
 
 Yes, she was beautiful, 
 Gentle and dutiful, 
 In her brief life with me 
 Shunning all strife with me ; 
 For 'neath her cheerfulness 
 Lay depths of tearfulness, 
 And words uttered slightingly 
 Fell on her blightingly. 
 
 Oft would she walk with me, 
 Oft would she talk with me, 
 Setting me pondering 
 Whilst with her wandering ; 
 Full of serenity — 
 Full of amenity — 
 With a fond deference 
 Mingling her preference. 
 
 In her society 
 Ne'er was satiety, 
 Sweet was a word with her — 
 All who conferred with her, 
 Charmed by her suavity, 
 Touched by her gravity — 
 Came to her courtfully, 
 Went from her thoughtfully.
 
 UNDER THE CYPKESS. 109 
 
 God-given wife to me, 
 Light of this life to me, 
 No more by side of me 
 (Pleasure and pride of me) 
 Fondly beholding thee — 
 Fondly enfolding thee — 
 Gentle, and dutiful, 
 Art thou, my beautiful ! 
 
 One morn she woke not, 
 Spoke to, she spoke not — 
 Still she slept — seemingly — 
 Ah, 'twas Mndreamingly ; 
 Vainly we stayed by her, 
 Vainly we prayed by her, 
 Nought could awaken her — 
 Angels had taken her ! 
 
 DAY AND NIGHT. 
 
 To lose the loved, if that were all, 
 Brief suffering would cost ; 
 
 But who shall free us from the thrall 
 That makes us love the lost ?
 
 110 UNDER THE CYPRESS. 
 
 Who can his heart so coldly train 
 
 Affection's links to wear, 
 Yet feel no pressure from the chain 
 
 "When gone, that once was there ? 
 
 Why seern the flowers to sink to sleep 
 
 So pensively at night, 
 The Sun's love in their hearts is deep, 
 
 Tho' shut out from his light. 
 What are the moon and stars to them ? 
 
 His rays alone can dry 
 The tears that fall from leaf and stem 
 
 That droop as tho' they'd die. 
 
 But they'll not die, those drooping flowers, 
 
 Nor long then grief retain ; 
 They do not dream of sunny hours 
 
 That ne'er shall come again : 
 The Sun that left them for awhile, 
 
 Shall soon again appear, 
 And make each weeping hlossom smile 
 
 The brighter for its tear. 
 
 But when the heart has lost its light 
 
 From the beloved one's eyes, 
 Not sunset comes, but one long night 
 
 Where mora no more shall rise. 
 Vain is the light of other hours, 
 
 Unfelt their brightest ray, 
 Alas ! the heart is like the flowers, 
 
 It droops for want of day !
 
 UXDER THE CYrKESS. Ill 
 
 IN MEMORIAM SOEORIS. 
 
 Thou, too, art gone ! oh, death's a wind 
 That sweeps the gentlest flowers away, 
 
 Leaving the rude and rank hehind 
 As if they were too mean a prey ; 
 
 Ah, no ; all wither 'neath its hlast, 
 
 But oft — too oft — the vilest last. 
 
 ii. 
 
 Ah me ! how many a gap appears 
 Along affection's golden chain ; 
 
 Well may I feel foreboding fears 
 For the few links that still remain, 
 
 And tremble as they touch my heart 
 
 Lest they should, like the rest, dispart. 
 
 in. 
 
 Yet of such widely- severed links, 
 
 Lamenting that they've grown so few, 
 
 Why is it that the heart still shrinks 
 From filling up the chain with new ; 
 
 Nay — feels, at moments, loth to bear 
 
 The weight already hanging there ?
 
 112 UNDER THE CYPRESS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 It is that death has taught the cost ; 
 
 With equal pride and joy are worn 
 The treasures that have ne'er been lost ; 
 
 And readily that weight is bome 
 Which only presses on the heart 
 A thrill of rapture to impart. 
 
 But when the links of love's full chain 
 Have once been broken — oh, the breaking 
 
 Costs all too much to risk again 
 
 An advent of such sad heart- aching ; 
 
 Of too much have we been bereft 
 
 To dare to add to what is left.
 
 113 
 
 mmte. 
 
 PREFATORY. 
 
 In years mature, when those calm heights are won 
 
 Which youth at such disheartening distance saw, 
 When the world's smiles we neither seek nor shun, 
 
 And of its frown no longer stand in awe ; 
 When we have learnt amid our fellow men, 
 
 Of human sympathies the better part, 
 Striving the while from fruit of wisdom's pen 
 
 To nobly feed the intellect and heart, — 
 May such a one, without presumption, think 
 
 Some light is worth reflecting from his mind, 
 Or from his thought's free utterance shall he shrink 
 
 Because his words may not warm welcome find ? 
 Small heed, I know, this age accords to verse, 
 Yet let mine go — the world has borne with worse. 
 
 8
 
 114 SONNETS. 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 How beautiful this eve is ! — Heaven and Earth 
 
 Seem wrapped in fond communion. All is still, 
 As if had come the first hours of the birth 
 
 Of that new time, when peace the world shall fill ! 
 Nature, how sublime is thy repose ! 
 
 Not inapt emblem of the lofty soul 
 Which, in composure oft its best strength shows — 
 
 The brave serenity of self-control, 
 The calm, not of prostration, but command ; 
 
 The pause of power, not love or need of ease ; 
 Divine quiescence — such as the fine hand 
 
 Of him, who wrought the resting Hercules, 
 Reveals in that majestic attitude 
 Of man's most noble form in man's most Godlike mood 
 
 WORLD-FEAR. 
 
 The human heart how full of love and deep ! 
 
 Yet of its depths how little do we know ; 
 Near its earth-bordered margin still we creep, 
 
 Ever afraid with its full tide to flow. 
 Like bathers, stand we on a river's brink, 
 Growing more cold the longer that we shrink ; 
 Or lie, like ships within a hostile port, 
 
 Longing to slip our cables, and be free ; 
 But dare not for the world's o'erhanging fort 
 
 That threatens all who would put out to sea.
 
 SONNETS. 115 
 
 Vain fear ! The Fraraer of the human heart 
 Gave it for good, an expanse deep and wide ; 
 
 In shallow feelings great souls take no part, 
 Only small barks near shore securely ride ! 
 
 PROGRESS. 
 
 Progress ! — The word is somewhat proudly spoken 
 
 In these unhinging days of stir and strife, 
 When, if some idols lie for ever broken, 
 
 Others, methinks, are gaining fresher life. 
 More love of luxury, more greed of gain, 
 
 Old faiths renounced for any strange or new, 
 Or still professed, with logic on the strain 
 
 To give the false the colour of the true . 
 Folly, and scarcely decency — in dress, 
 
 Prize-fighters honoured, spirit-rappers owned, 
 Bacchus upheld in Pulpit — and in Press, 
 
 For Jockeys' sport, the Senate's work postponed ;- 
 These may be signs of progress, but the end 
 Is yet to show us whither it will tend. 
 
 DOMENICHTNO'S SIBYL. 
 
 Is this a poet's dream, the painter's art, 
 Or prophet's spirit ? — or the concentration 
 
 Of all that beams from man's immortal part 
 Embodied by his mortal, to creation ? 
 
 8—2
 
 1 1 8 SONNETS. 
 
 Beautiful shadow of the world ideal 
 
 Coinniuning silently with destiny, 
 The Sibyl's fore-knowledge was not unreal, 
 
 If she who bore that name resembled thee. 
 The power of prescience is in thine eye, 
 
 The might of intellect is on thy brow — 
 Thy brow of gentleness and majesty : 
 
 Methinks before thee Wisdom's self might bow, 
 And her own soul, informed by thine, imbue 
 With deeper knowledge of the beautiful and true. 
 
 EISING TO FALL. 
 
 Some on life's course, like high-bred racers, start, 
 
 Scorning the rein that would their neck be bending ; 
 Or, high in aim as that of bow-sped dart, 
 
 Seem borne from earth, as if to heaven ascending. 
 Swift and impetuous, at first, they soar, 
 
 Spite of all pressure 'gainst their strong intent ; 
 But, wavering soon, their skyward flight is o'er, 
 
 And naught remains but sudden, sure descent. 
 Kemember ye, who'd keep the height ye gain, 
 
 Besolve, once pausing, like the arrow, falls — 
 That noblest impulse, without God, is vain, 
 
 But who on Him, for help in weakness, calls, 
 May trust his pinions, wheresoe'er he flies, 
 Nor fear to sink however high he rise.
 
 SONNETS. 117 
 
 CONFORMITY. 
 '• The world is too much with us." — Wordsworth. 
 
 Tis but a lie to say He is our God 
 
 Who falls and rises with the world's esteem. 
 Have we uo fear of His avenging rod 
 
 In such vile homage to the sole Supreme ? 
 How dare we stamp His name on each base coin 
 
 Issued front Pilate's forge or Caesar's mint, 
 Perceive the cheat, and yet the chorus join 
 
 Which drowns their voices who the truth would hint ? 
 hierarchy of custom ! 'neath thy sway 
 
 Body and soul are clothed in strange misfits. 
 In shaping both we thy behests obey 
 
 Till we have grown slaves, cowards, hypocrites, 
 And dare not, for this palsying dread of Thee, 
 Ourselves, in thought, or speech, or action, be. 
 
 TIME'S APOCALYPSE. 
 
 There is a seething movement mid mankind 
 Which makes wise fools prophetic ; in the shock 
 
 Which the world feels, but portents dire they find, 
 Or mysteries, whose secrets to unlock
 
 118 SONNETS. 
 
 They only are deputed ; sightless sages ! 
 
 Can they not see that all this stir and strife 
 Is but the growing fire of gathering ages ? 
 
 The spirit bursting into fresher life 
 Of human progress — dowry of the past 
 
 Unto the future, to shine brighter still 
 With each convulsion till succeeds the last ? 
 
 The wider spreading feud of good with ill, 
 Of truth with falsehood— no such saddening sight, 
 For Might is wavering fast before the step of Eight ! 
 
 HEALTH. 
 
 glorious health, a double life he lives 
 
 Who lives with thee : he tramples down all care. 
 Takes fearlessly what liberal nature gives, 
 
 And reaps in mind and body his full share. 
 What heedeth he if breezes sleep or blow ? 
 
 His own pulse beats with a too buoyant swell 
 To care how 7 those of wind or weather go ; 
 
 The clouds for him no tale forbidding tell, 
 And the keen gust upon the breezy heath 
 
 But brings him wamith of blood and strength of limb ; 
 Sweet too, the contrast of soft summer's breath ; — 
 
 In every season there is joy for him : 
 O thou who hast this blessing, hold it fast, 
 Few for us here remain when this is past.
 
 SONNETS. 1 1 9 
 
 SPECULATION. 
 
 Vain ponderings that bear away the mind 
 
 Into the regions of entangling thought, 
 
 Till, like the fly in spider's web entwined, 
 
 It feels its wings inextricably caught, 
 And, only struggling where it hoped to soar, 
 
 Can neither find deliv'rance nor retreat. 
 Too curious mortal ! why, oh, why explore 
 
 Tracks where no knowledge can direct thy feet ? 
 Keep on the course that wiser men have trod ; 
 
 Or if no traces of their steps appear, 
 Conscience, that surest finger-post of God, 
 
 Shall point the way, and duty's path make clear ;- 
 Conscience — the angel ever at our side 
 To be, when reason fails, our counsellor and guide. 
 
 INQUIRY. 
 
 Whence come we ? — whither go we ? — and the why 
 And wherefore of this trial-scene of life 
 
 Are questionings which all, who wisely try, 
 May wisely answer ; not by mental strife, 
 Nor probing creeds with which the world is rife, 
 
 But by acceptance of the light within 
 
 Which, wordlessly, reflects the word divine ; 
 
 And is to Revelation's self akin,
 
 120 SONNETS. 
 
 Shedding a brighter light on many a line 
 
 Than doth from cloister, church, or college shine ; 
 God's word was destined wider spread to find 
 
 Than Bible soil — He gave, of plainer page 
 An earlier scripture, meant for all mankind, 
 
 And, without priestcraft, teaching every age. 
 
 CONVICTION. 
 
 Religion is a birth of the full heart 
 
 Where, oft enwombed with restless throb, it lies 
 Until to life some angel bids it start, 
 
 And ope, with baby gaze, its wondering eyes ; 
 
 Then, guided in its new and sweet surprise 
 By Charity, Faith, Hope, it sees a world 
 From which, like curtain suddenly unfurled, 
 
 Shadows, and clouds, and mists, dispersing, rise- 
 And strong in virtue's majesty and might — 
 
 Of which the mind becomes the noble slave, 
 Goes forth accoutred for the Christian's fight, 
 
 Becoming wise by being true and brave — 
 Finding out God, through hatred of all ill, 
 And perseverance in his heavenly will.
 
 SONNETS. 121 
 
 CREEDS. 
 
 What is a creed ? the despotism of mind 
 
 O'er mind — the tyranny of intellect 
 That, save its own, all freeborn thought would hind ; 
 
 The bannered dogma 'neath which every sect 
 
 Rejoicing in its militant career 
 Makes war on every other — in God's name, 
 But with such weapons as the fiend might claim. 
 
 Discordant hierarchs — I've nor heart nor ear 
 For Faith, whose signs are mystery and strife, 
 
 Whose problems reason strives in vain to solve — 
 No creed I hold, save from his lips and life 
 
 Who gave it — not as preached in dull revolve 
 Of periodic twang that scarce can break 
 The slumber of the sense, still less the soul awake ! 
 
 TO BACCHUS. 
 
 Seductive demon ! from my presence fly, 
 
 For I abhor thee, tho' I own thy charm, 
 Take off from me that basiliscan eye 
 
 Which, gazing thus, can only bode me harm. 
 Thou devil in fair shape ! I know thee well, 
 
 And all the ruin thou hast brought on earth 
 In hearts and homes which thou hast made a hell 
 
 Under the guise of cheerfulness and mirth,
 
 122 SONNETS. 
 
 Giving smooth name to even murder's deed ; 
 
 I know the texts with which thou canst deceive 
 Thy slaves into acceptance of thy creed, 
 
 Till men who doubt all else, in thee believe. 
 Preachers who rave about the primal curse, 
 Tell me — is not this latter one far worse ? 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 Fond sufferer, come away ! nor feed thy gaze 
 
 On looks which are not life's, nor ever were ; 
 Weep, if thou wilt, the ending of those days 
 
 So near at hand when health, still glowing there, 
 Bespoke the present soul ; but linger not 
 
 O'er the worn casket whence the jewel's gone, 
 Nor the sweet memories of life's moments blot 
 
 By this sad one too darkly brooding on. 
 Its inmate fled — the house deserted lies ; 
 
 No longer there, then, thy beloved one seek ; 
 The silent tongue, the inexpressive eyes, 
 
 The pallid brow, the cold and hueless cheek- 
 Tell but the answered summons God has sent 
 To call the tenant from his mortal tenement.
 
 SONNETS. 123 
 
 BURIAL. 
 
 Why all this care for decomposing dust — 
 
 This pageantry in honour of the clay- 
 That breathes no more ? Why is it that we must 
 
 This wretched tribute to vile custom pay, 
 
 As each poor body in the earth we lay ? 
 Feathers, and silk, and velvet — how I hate 
 
 The sight of the theatrical display, 
 To see the sashed stipendiaries that wait 
 
 The signal for their faces to look grave, 
 And their mute tramp beside the hearse commence ! 
 
 Why for such mockery our ashes save ? 
 Surely the burning pile were less offence 
 
 That left no single vestige of the dead, 
 
 Thau all this pomp to grace a case of oak and lead ! 
 
 THE GRAVE. 
 
 I wandered thro' the churchyard, pondering much 
 
 Upon the falsehoods which the tombstones told, 
 Infidel falsehoods — for I deem them such 
 
 That vitalize what charnel-houses hold. 
 " Here sleeps " — " here rests ! " appalling words, if true. 
 
 For sleep is life, and life within the grave 
 Methinks were blessing coveted by few ; 
 
 Ev'n for eternal slumber in the cave
 
 124 SONNETS. 
 
 Of Death, repose were a most lying word. 
 
 Not in such rest abides the " Peace of God ; " 
 Not in such rest are angel voices heard. 
 
 No ; the cold dust beneath the churchyard's sod 
 Has done with slumber ; neither mortals sleep, 
 Nor souls immortal rest, where worms their banquet keep. 
 
 THE TEUE PRINCE. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM ALBERTI. 
 
 I. 
 
 union blest, when title, state, and wealth 
 
 Fall to his lot who, unto noble heart, 
 Joins lofty mind ; who, ev'n in youth and health, 
 
 Prince though he be, dares play the Christian's part ; 
 Doing no act, save what is good, by stealth. 
 
 Student no less of each refining art, 
 Than of the knowledge that makes goodness wise ; 
 
 Endeavouring in every worldly aim, 
 In God's esteem as well as man's to rise, 
 
 And fearing Him before all earthly shame 
 Save shame itself; abhorring all disguise, 
 
 To servile praise preferring honest blame. 
 Such Prince, though sprung from no illustrious line, 
 Who would deny were one by right divine ?
 
 SONNETS. 125 
 
 II. 
 
 Such wert thou, Albert ! — and if history — true 
 
 To her great ends — have other tales to tell 
 Than how Ambition doth base aims pursue, 
 
 How nations warred, how statesmen rose and fell ; 
 If, beside telling us what blood was spilled 
 
 On battle-fields, it be her pride to note 
 In peaceful times when stations high were filled 
 
 Greatly and worthily ; would she devote 
 Her pen to record of more grateful themes 
 
 Than task it in the wearisome detail 
 Of party feuds, or politician's schemes ; — 
 
 Thine's a career on which she cannot fail 
 To linger fondly, pausing till she give 
 Place to it in her page where names immortal live ! 
 
 in. 
 
 The shadow of thy loss is on us yet, 
 
 And with its burden overbears our pride ; 
 Nor can we her far deeper woe forget, 
 
 Who found in thee friend, husband, guardian, guide. 
 With and for her we weep ; but when the first 
 
 Gush of our sorrow shall have passed away, 
 When time to calmer feeling shall have nurst 
 
 Our instant grief ; ungrateful were delay
 
 126 SONNETS. 
 
 To make our glorying in thy virtues known ; 
 
 To tell the world, with unreluctant lips, 
 What, while thou liv'clst, they did hut tamely own. 
 
 But good deeds never suffer long eclipse, 
 And thine, as now into full light they start, 
 Shall fit memorial have from Britain's hand and heart. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM FRATRIS. 
 
 He died in prime of manhood, not without 
 
 Repute heyond what he had hoped to gain, 
 Yet full of cares success could not shut out 
 
 From a too anxious heart and chafing hrain. 
 
 The intellect, whose wit's too ready vein 
 Won folly's laugh, and wisdom's kindly smile, 
 Fretted for loftier office ; and the while 
 
 The world applauded, he, with self-disdain, 
 Oft from his work recoiled ; for in him lay 
 
 Capacity of nobler toil and thought 
 Than wake the utterance that suits the day, 
 
 And 'twas his hope, ere dying, to have wrought 
 A monument of more enduring fame 
 Than that which links the " comic " with his name.
 
 SONNETS. 127 
 
 THE DINNER CONTROVERSY. 
 
 Something too much of this ! When paupers die 
 
 Year after year for want of any food, 
 How Dives eats, or what his cooks supply, 
 
 To hear — I am not in a patient mood. 
 The science which can bring a single meal 
 
 Cheaper or better to the half-fed poor, 
 Make them less keenly hunger's nippings feel, 
 
 Or keep gaunt famine longer from their door, 
 Shall have my ready ear ; but to be told 
 
 Of thirteen plats, " each with its kindred wine," 
 Served " one by one," that " none be eaten cold ; " * 
 
 And at a cost for which the poor might dine 
 By scores — revolts me, and with shame I burn 
 That Christian men should care such gourmandise to 
 learn. 
 
 "L'EMPIRE C'EST LA PAIX." 
 
 " My empire's peace," thus the French Emperor spoke, 
 And half the world began to rave and rail 
 
 Because his promise he so quickly broke ; 
 No doubt 'tis shocking, Royalty should fail 
 
 * Vide letter to The Times.
 
 128 SONNETS. 
 
 To keep its word ; but what good Christians ive 
 
 To feel such anger at deceit of kings ; 
 How pure the heart, how sound the faith must be 
 
 From whence such righteous indignation springs. 
 Grave hypocrites ! do we no pledges break — 
 
 Not unto man but to his Maker made ? 
 No unkept vows in church or chapel take 
 
 That thus our hate of falsehood we parade ? 
 " My empire's peace : " why, so said God's dear Son, 
 And yet we go to war and cry, " Thy will be done." 
 
 THE HOUSELESS POOR— A CHRISTMAS 
 APPEAL. 
 
 The houseless poor ! sad words, and sadder still 
 
 Their truthful utterance in a Christian land ; 
 Think of it ye who cheerful homes yet fill, 
 
 Till your touched hearts arouse a helping hand ! 
 The houseless poor ! Ah, poverty alone 
 
 Is no light burden ; but when shelterless 
 It roams the streets to give out there the moan 
 
 Of pain and anguish, only they can guess 
 Its pangs who bear them ; wake, ye prosperous, wake 
 
 To recognition of the want and woe 
 That shiver round you, and for Christ's dear sake 
 
 Let them no more unsought, unsheltered go, 
 But gather them, ere comes the wintry night 
 Where they may refuge find, if but till morning's light.
 
 SONNETS. 129 
 
 SUGGESTED BY READING THE AMERICAN 
 REJOICINGS ON THE LAYING DOWN OF 
 THE ATLANTIC CABLE. 
 
 i. 
 
 Why this o'erflowing joyaunce ? are they dreams 
 
 Or sober truths of which we have been told ? 
 What is accomplished ? any of His schemes 
 
 Who gave the faith our shouting brethren hold ? 
 What is the glorious work that has been done, 
 
 Transporting half a world beyond itself — 
 A conquest on no field of battle won, 
 
 A victory without the strife of pelf ? 
 Why those divine words uttered : " Peace on earth, 
 
 Good-will towards men " from voices jubilant, 
 As if Christ's empire, brought to sudden birth, 
 
 Were ruling now with sway predominant ; 
 What means it all — it means that o'er the sea 
 Two mighty nations blend their voices lovingly. 
 
 ii. 
 
 'Tis well, two nations of one faith and tongue 
 
 Conjoined by links that make them one in heart ! 
 
 'Tis well for this a song of joy is sung ; 
 
 Yet brethren are there whom no oceans part 
 
 Standing aloof with unfraternal eye, 
 
 On either shore, which these great nations boast ; 
 
 Whom to unite by never-breaking tie, 
 
 Still higher feat were than from coast to coast
 
 130 BtHongas 
 
 I stretch, the vin b — I _ --- - - 
 
 A. noble _ :r£ Impinge, i leery; 
 
 Lrt bn I whflmtt I ■ -'-lot 
 
 He: i - " ""-" " '"■- : J. no lit — 
 
 C mm -:.■.:.-". • ■ ght the wtA we yfiew, 
 
 I :: __..-". iir - - ttc ..: . 
 
 JONATHAN'S WELCOME TO OUR PRINCE. 
 
 ■he -unds from a great nation's heart 
 
 In whose ontponiing is no hase alky : 
 Kb aetorh : - shia part, 
 
 '1 ...- - nc burst of mercenary joy, 
 But of a country' s one accordant soul 
 
 G.riz-2 its noblest, kindest feelings vent, 
 Displaying nought 'twere wiser to control. 
 
 Impulsive people ! never reti: 
 Of aught that stirs thv sph : — good or ill — 
 
 Lon<» mav this fervent concentrated shout 
 Of weleome to our Prince our hosoms thrill ; 
 
 .- let the memory of its ringing out 
 Cease to thrill thine — till honds too strong to part — 
 Firmer than shore to shore — shall join us heart to heart.
 
 SONNETS. 131 
 
 ON READING IN THE TIMES NEWSPAPER AN 
 ACCOUNT OF THE PRIZE-FIGHT BETWEEN 
 SAYERS AND HEENAN. 
 
 Hence with the nauseous details, hence ! — and shame 
 
 To any press, whate'er its motive he, 
 Which to the world could laudingly proclaim 
 
 This feat of gladiatorial butchery ; 
 Shame to the stalwart hirelings fed and trained, 
 
 Like human game cocks, for the brutal sport ; 
 Shame to the purse which gave the gold they gained ; 
 
 Shame to the pens which gave their strife report ; 
 Shame to the humblest roofs or noblest halls 
 
 Where with applause the noxious tale was read ; 
 Shame to the tongue which " manly courage " calls 
 
 Display of strength, debasing heart and head ; 
 And to the countries which have stooped to claim 
 Two bruisers for their champions — doubly, trebly— shame. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY THE CONVICTION AND EXE- 
 CUTION OF JOHN BROWN. 
 
 i. 
 Success, thou art a god which well may boast 
 
 Homage denied " Jehovah, Jove, or Lord ! " 
 For each of these commands a separate host ; 
 But thee all worship with combined accord. 
 
 9—2
 
 132 SONNETS. 
 
 Pool' Brown ! brave wearer of a humble name, 
 
 Hadst thou struck down the slaves thy hand set free, 
 Or with some bloody conquest linked thy fame, 
 
 Small ill thy rulers would have spoke of thee. 
 Yet in thy fall thy cause is not o'erthrown — 
 
 A cause in which 'twere nobler far to die, 
 E'en on the scaffold, than to mount a throne 
 
 By trampling on a nation's liberty. 
 Ham's prisoner is France's Emperor now ; 
 But, in the eye of Heaven, which stands greater, he or 
 thou? 
 
 n. 
 
 Trial, conviction, and the awful lull 
 
 'Twixt doom and death have passed. A mightier State 
 Had spared his life ; but to be merciful 
 
 Slave-rulers dared not. He hath met his fate. 
 He erred : but let his motive and his cause 
 
 From ridicule or scorn his memory shield. 
 Nor class him with those rebels to our laws — ■ 
 
 The skulking braggarts of the cabbage-field — 
 Who, pestilent traitors as they were, were spared 
 
 To rave forth more sedition ; and (the doom 
 Escaping which they merited) meanly dared 
 
 To spit in face of pardon. From their tomb 
 Freedom, recoiling, with contempt shall turn, 
 But ne'er unweeping pass, poor Brown, thy humbler urn.
 
 SONNETS. 1 
 
 GARIBALDI AT ASPROMONTE. 
 
 Foiled in his great, but vain and rash attempt, 
 
 The hero's sword is stricken from his hand ; 
 He falls — not quite from rebel's guilt exempt 
 
 But true and faithful to his native land, 
 Which hails him still her dearest, noblest child ! 
 
 Though, in her cause, by his impatient heart, 
 And others' schemes too readily beguiled 
 
 To deeds of which she sometimes feels the smart. 
 Deal with the great man greatly — he has erred ; 
 
 And captive, wounded, on a bed of pain 
 Awaits the penalty he has incurred ; 
 
 Let it be light, and may he ne'er again 
 Peril the loss of all that he hath won 
 By striving to achieve what best were left undone. 
 
 oo 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 " A plague on botli your houses." — Romeo and Juliet. 
 
 The gathering clouds of years, at length, have risen, 
 And burst in direful storm upon thy land, 
 haughty race ! that, whip and chain in hand, 
 Hast made of God's free soil the negro's prison : —
 
 134 SONNETS. 
 
 Holding the creed, for pen and tongue to teach, 
 That liberty is not the due or good 
 Of Afric's sons ; whilst he in peril stood 
 Who dared the odious doctiine to impeach ; 
 Doctrine alike of platform, pulpit, Press 
 Shouting in chorus the stupendous lie — 
 That, by the fiat of the One most High, 
 The slave is slave — that Jesus left, no less 
 Than Moses, Scripture -wan-ant for their right 
 Who hold the black man bondman to the white ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Proud State ! had hate of this revolting creed 
 Grown with the heat of thy continued strife — 
 We had less blushed to see thy country bleed ; 
 But till thy slaughters bring to life and light 
 More noble aims than yet have prompted those 
 In race, in country, and in faith allied, 
 To war with all the hate of deadliest foes — 
 Ask not our sympathy for either side ! 
 Not for the South — quite ready still to burn 
 The slave who'd straggle from his chains to fly ; 
 Not for the North — that from that slave would turn, 
 E'en at Christ's altar, if he came too nigh. 
 We can but pray the feud of both will cease, 
 Severed for ever now — despite of War or Peace.
 
 135 
 
 MINOE POEMS. 
 
 reed am. 
 
 " How often have we heard ' The rights of man ? Hurra ! 
 The sovereignty of the people ! Hurra ! ' roared out by men 
 who, if called upon in another place, and before another audience, 
 to explain themselves, would give to the words a meaning, in 
 which the most monarchical of their political opponents would 
 admit them to be true, but which would contain nothing new, 
 or strange, or stimulant, nothing to natter the pride or kindle 
 the passions of the populace." — Coleridge. 
 
 Ay, Freedom is a high and glorious aim, 
 Yet for itself our reverence may not claim ; 
 But as a means by which we learn to bind 
 The body to the service of the mind ; 
 Thought, action, language, that we these may use 
 As gifts from God — too rich to tamely lose ; 
 For ends like these, it frets me not to hear 
 The people told that " Liberty is dear." 
 
 But that for which a rampant rabble cry, 
 
 And, if you asked them, could not tell you, why,
 
 136 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 Caught by those claptraps for huzzaing praise 
 Which ev'ry brawler from the hustings brays, 
 Bleating them forth as if he'd just found out 
 Some great "Eureka" hitherto in doubt, 
 And laboured, like the bellman, by his throat, 
 To set the grand discovery afloat — 
 Those raving shouts, enough one's ear to crack, 
 Bellowed by knaves for fools to echo back, 
 Have nought to do with Liberty — that word 
 Means something else when only that is heard. 
 
 " Ah, Freedom ! " well did Roland's wife exclaim, 
 " What crimes has man committed in thy name ! " 
 Yet, with a touch of not unworldly pride, 
 For liberty that noble lady died : 
 Ev'n she, amid that moral whirlwind tost, 
 In which the bravest and the best were lost, 
 Deemed freedom virtue — and the cheat survives 
 To shed a halo round less worthy lives. 
 Oh, the great truth has yet to be received, 
 That virtue' 's freedom — 'tis but half believed, 
 Save by the few of high, yet humble mind, 
 Who, in that truth, no earth-fame care to find. 
 
 Yes, virtue's freedom — teach the poor man this, 
 Ye demagogues, and ye'll not prate amiss ; 
 Tell him, though kings and taxes were no more, 
 A mightier tyrant still would press him sore ; 
 Tell him too — though it tickle not all ears, 
 'Tis the sole tyrant that the brave man fears,
 
 MINOR POEMS. 137 
 
 And the sole tyrant God hath hid him kill. 
 
 Against this despot arm him, if you will, 
 
 And let at once Rebellion's work hegin 
 
 Against the ruthless tyranny of sin : 
 
 O'er this triumphant, though they still remain — 
 
 Taxes and kings will give him little pain, 
 
 And he will learn that there are things more dear 
 
 Than vote by ballot, or his pot of beer. 
 
 Yes, virtue's freedom — freedom and content 
 Beyond all harm from State -mismanagement ; 
 Thus clothed, the poor man may hold on his way, 
 Nor heed what club or hustings babblers say, 
 Secure, in self-respect, and self-control 
 From ev'ry fetter that can reach the soul ; 
 Whoe'er shall strive this freedom to extend, 
 Will be indeed the poor man's truest friend, 
 Nor less his country's — though the patriot's name, 
 He ne'er may win ; yet which may that best claim — 
 He who hath gained new kingdoms for the State, 
 Or he who helps to make its people good and great ?
 
 138 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 $mt (gating. 
 
 What is the bard's most high, vocation ? 
 
 To rankle the wounds of grief and wrong, 
 Till suffering grow to exasperation 
 
 Beneath the breath of his burning song ? 
 To stir up the blood of the poor man's heart, 
 
 Till he looks upon wealth as his direst foe, 
 And deems that he acts but the hero's part 
 
 In laying each hated Dives low ? 
 
 Or divinelier sounds the poet's verse 
 
 To the tune of his own dark discontent — 
 Smothered in tones 'twixt a sneer and a curse, 
 
 For this was the heaven-born minstrel sent ? 
 Never like this sang bard divine, 
 
 And the harp that can only give forth such strains, 
 Is pernicious and false as the critic's line 
 
 That aids in the ill-won praise it gains.
 
 MINOR POEMS. 139 
 
 Grief banished by wine will come again, 
 
 And come with a deeper shade, 
 Leaving, perchance, on the soul a stain 
 
 Which sorrow had never made : 
 Then fill not the tempting glass for me, 
 
 If mournful, I will not be mad ; 
 Better sad, because we are sinful, be, 
 
 Than sinful because we are sad. 
 
 Cease then to act the tempter's part, 
 
 Nor ask me to chink again 
 Of that which can only cheer my heart 
 
 By stealing away my brain ; 
 Pleasant is wamith when the wintry air 
 
 Makes us shiver — but who'd not avoid 
 The blazing hearth — if what drew him there 
 
 The limbs, which it warmed, destroyed ?
 
 140 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 Hunts' (fcntenam (1858). 
 
 Why all this noise because the hundredth year 
 Is come since Burns first saw this mortal sphere ? 
 What added glory can attend his name 
 In being dragged down from the heights of fame, 
 To be passed round at dinner-tables, spread 
 For boozing guests at one pound one per head ? 
 Might not the demonstration, too, be spared, 
 When we reflect how Burns, when living, fared ? 
 That e'en this moment, at the crowded font 
 Of Charity, his daughter waits in want, 
 Hoping that those may give the living bread 
 Who banquets join in honour of the dead.* 
 
 But if the world, reminded by a date, 
 
 Departed genius must commemorate, 
 
 Is that of Burns the only radiant name 
 
 Which glitters in the calendar of fame ? 
 
 Shines Milton's there so dubious or so dim 
 
 That no centenary is due to him — 
 
 Who taught his country, both in song and speech, 
 
 In loftier strains than Scotia's bard could reach, 
 
 And who, to virtue as to genius, true, 
 
 Showed in himself the greatness that he drew ? 
 
 * There was an advertisement in The Times, side by side with 
 that relating to the Centenary, soliciting help for the destitute 
 and only daughter of the poet.
 
 MIXOR POEMS. 141 
 
 But were Bums' life (whose is ?) without defect, 
 
 Sure he himself this homage would reject, 
 
 He would have felt that genius, truly bright, 
 
 Wanted no showman to display its light, 
 
 That Fame deserved would still be Fame without 
 
 Perpetual or periodic shout, 
 
 And (for none shrunk with more disgust than he 
 
 From o'erwrought praise or fulsome flattery), 
 
 Would have disdained, to feed his country's pride, 
 
 Tribute or rank to higher worth denied. 
 
 $hc |ta of Jtattons. 
 
 "My noble friend says that General Garibaldi has assumed 
 bis position in violation of tbe law of nations. All I can say 
 is, that if the law of nations is to be enforced to effect perpetual 
 subjugation and misery in any nation, the sooner we hear as 
 little as possible of the law of nations the better." — Extract from 
 Lord Brougham's Speech. 
 
 Well said, brave Brougham ! thy speech has oft con- 
 founded Freedom's foes, 
 
 But never in more timely words or thrilling strains than 
 those ; 
 
 Let every despot be, who pleads the law of nations, told, 
 
 Such law in aid of Might o'er Bight will England never 
 hold.
 
 142 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 Away with all this reticence that timid statesmen ask, 
 This veiling of a nation's scorn 'neath diplomatic mask ; 
 Let's say at once we'll make no bows to wearers of a 
 
 crown, 
 Who claim, by royal right, to strike or hunt their subjects 
 
 down. 
 
 Outspoken, like our brave old Brougham, let every Briton 
 
 be- 
 Wherever tyrants rise or fall — against their tyranny ; 
 Nor covertly be breath'd one prayer for triumph of the 
 
 cause 
 Which from the scabbard parts the sword a Garibaldi 
 
 draws. 
 
 Adventurer they call him, eh ? Well, let the stigma be, 
 Let's have some more adventurers, if all be such as he ; 
 Humanity will welcome them wherever they bear sway, 
 Nor nations, haply, fare the worse whose kings they 
 sweep away. 
 
 She Wnmm Conference. 
 
 What are the despots doing 
 Who have at Warsaw met, 
 
 What plans are they pursuing, 
 Whose schemes would they abet ?
 
 MINOR POEMS. 143 
 
 Who sought this new communion 
 These monarchs three would frame, 
 
 What blessing from their union 
 Can come or ever came ? 
 
 Has Sicily's uprising 
 
 Against its t) r rant lord, 
 Set their sage heads devising 
 
 How he may be restored ? 
 Or do their proud hearts tremble, 
 
 King, Emperor, and Czar, 
 Lest their fate his resemble 
 
 Who was what yet they are ? 
 
 Is Italy's alliance 
 
 Beneath Sardinia's wing 
 A challenge of defiance 
 
 To every Northern king ? 
 Then why these consultations ? 
 
 To find some plea for Might 
 To turn the law of Nations 
 
 Against the law of Right ? 
 
 Oh, Germany ! shortsighted 
 
 To Freedom's spreading ray, 
 Oh, Russia ! too long plighted 
 
 To Autocratic sway ; 
 League, if ye will, together ; 
 
 The liberty you'd blight 
 Has seen its stormiest weather, 
 
 And shines each day more bright.
 
 144 MINOE POEMS. 
 
 6n Utauting " Ik gtoitg tfjfikt j)*n" in the 
 gublin Utthrmtig Utag&hit. 
 
 Minstrel, who singest of the Pen, 
 
 Sing to us the like again ! 
 
 Tell us more of those visions bright, 
 
 That shine on the hard in the lonely night ; 
 
 Colouring his thoughts with that heavenly hue 
 
 Which reflecteth the beautiful and true — 
 
 For beautiful and true indeed 
 
 Hold I to be the poet's creed ! 
 
 Yet, let that Pen do what it can 
 To tell the glorious creed to man ; 
 By few will its oracles be received, 
 Well understood, or well believed, — 
 For it is like all divinest things, 
 Too pure for men's imaginings ; 
 And some will scoff, and some will sneer 
 Whenever its high-priests appear. 
 
 And they who follow the better choice, 
 
 Of listening to the " charmer's voice " — 
 
 Foi-get, when to the world returned, 
 
 The holy lessons they have learned.
 
 MIXOR POEMS/ 145 
 
 Yet, some there are, who not in vain 
 
 Drink in the poet's full outpourings ; 
 Nor trace to a distempered brain, 
 
 His wildest themes, or highest soarings. 
 And I am one who from the first 
 
 Hour of my spirit's upward turning — 
 Its lessons in my heart have nurst, 
 
 And loved beyond all other learning. 
 And one too am I, who have known the pain 
 Of the struggle betwixt the pen and the brain — 
 And the brain and the world — but 'twill e'er be so 
 Whilst the ink of the mind for bread must flow — 
 Emptying, perchance, its richest vein 
 For what well thou callest " a beggarly gain. " 
 
 Yet, let none droop who wield the pen, 
 But with those " many gifted men " 
 
 Who have sung and said 
 
 For their daily bread — 
 What angels gladly would have read ; 
 Hold on their course, and like the bird, 
 Whose note in storm and cloud is heard — 
 Rise upward still, and show how song 
 Can triumph over want and wrong ! 
 
 1U
 
 14G MINOR POEMS. 
 
 Francesca ! the immortal Florentine, 
 
 Who sings thy fall in his most moving line, 
 
 Hath linked thy name with love and poesy 
 
 Rather than shame and sorrow — made hy thee, 
 
 Mourning is music — and, tho' we accost 
 
 Thy spirit mid the regions of the lost, 
 
 Pity and sympathy o'er all prevail 
 
 In listening to thy sad and simple tale ; 
 
 Oh, touchingly and beautifully sung ; 
 
 What ear could list uncharmed — what heart unwrung ? 
 
 I have looked on that same fair river's water, 
 Which, at the feet of Guido's gentle daughter, 
 Flowed as she sat hy Paulo's arm embraced, 
 Upon that fatal day, when love had chased 
 From either breast all thought of else beside, 
 Till both were lost in passion's whelming tide. 
 And, musing there upon their mournful tale, 
 Have seemed to hear their spirit's moaning wail 
 Reproaching the soft lay and sunny clime 
 That taught their hearts, thro' love, to let in crime — 
 Too sunny clime — well might thy warmth betray 
 And through the senses steal the soul away — 
 Too thrilling lay — to hearts already name 
 Thy tones, like incense, all too kindling came.
 
 MIXOR POEMS. 147 
 
 Sweet Italy ! — yet let me blame thee not ! 
 
 In colder climes will passion spread its blot, 
 
 And for thy language, if, at times there be 
 
 In its soft sounds too much of witchery — 
 
 Hearts like Francesca's had been safe from wrong, 
 
 Albeit in Dante's clime — inspired by Dante's song. 
 
 he llctmm of $$nn$. 
 
 IMITATED FROM GUARINl'S " PASTOR FIDO.*' 
 
 In freshest youth thou comest back, sweet Spring, 
 
 As 'twere thy primal birth, 
 And, for the first time, thou wert scattering 
 
 Thy glory over earth. 
 Yes, back thou comest — garden, field, and grove 
 
 Thy joyous aspect wear, 
 And gay birds fill, where happy lovers rove, 
 
 With melody, the air. 
 Yes, thou returnest, but with thee, Spring ! 
 
 To me no more returns 
 The one dear smile beyond thy power to bring — 
 
 Oh, for that smile how yearns 
 This aching heart ! fain would I welcome thee, 
 But ah ! love's light is fled — and what is thine to me ? 
 
 10—2
 
 148 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 Fkom on high, from on high you see it pouring, 
 
 Windingly, shiningly, down it bends ; 
 
 From afar, from afar, you hear it roaring, 
 
 Louder the noise as the stream descends ; 
 
 Now through worn crevices silently creeping, 
 
 Now o'er a precipice haughtily leaping, 
 
 It goes with an endless chain. 
 
 Where is it gone ? 
 
 The sound keeps on, 
 
 With a murmuring refrain ; 
 
 'Tis but a moment lost in the pines, 
 
 But onward and earth-ward it still inclines — 
 
 Now we behold it again, 
 
 Swifter and fiercer its flow, 
 
 In the ray of the sunbeam brightly flashing, 
 
 Whirling — moaning — plunging — crashing 
 
 Down through the rent cliffs wildly dashing 
 
 Into the depths below : 
 
 The rocks may stem — the avalanche fall, 
 
 It bounds over avalanche, rocks and all, 
 
 Away — away — for ever away — 
 
 Like a bloodhound after its flying prey, 
 
 Down — still down — till on some low shore 
 
 Its sound is lost, and 'tis seen no more.
 
 airaoK poems. H!) 
 
 Does it not tell, that torrent's roll, 
 
 The tale of many a sunken soul ? 
 
 Of spirits which, though on virtue's height, 
 
 Kept still too much the world in sight, 
 
 Till down among the rocks they fell 
 
 Up which they'd climhed their way so well— 
 
 And taking then a downward course, 
 
 Could stem no more sin's torrent-force, 
 
 But wildly let it bear them on 
 
 Till Hope, and with it Fear, had gone ! 
 
 Gkcjland's Opiitnilrm 
 
 Wno says the heroic age is past, or that we must go back 
 
 Unto the olden time the steps of chivalry to track ? 
 
 All honour to the valour which our steel-clad knights dis- 
 played 
 
 Who lived among the stirring days of Tourney and 
 Crusade ; 
 
 But search the record of those days, and search we shall 
 in vain, 
 
 For deeds like those on Lucknovv's walls, or Balaclava's 
 plain.
 
 150 MIKOE POEMS. 
 
 II. 
 
 No, chivalry is with us still, by fiercer foes confessed 
 Than ever put in ages past its mettle to the test ; 
 Less picturesque its arms may be than battle-axe or lance, 
 Less meet, perchance, its heroes' names for epic or 
 
 romance ; 
 Yet Havelock's is only one mid England's warrior throng, 
 Whose names would shed a glory o'er the bard's divines! 
 
 song. 
 
 in. 
 
 Oh, every Christian gentleman will love the peaceful part, 
 But, knight or churl, in Britain's sons still beats the lion 
 
 heart, 
 And roused at duty's call we've seen 'twill nerve his hand 
 
 to do 
 More brilliant deeds than Agincourt or Cressy ever knew ; 
 Yes, chivalry still treads our land, with daring as sublime 
 And spirit nobler, purer far, than in the olden time. 
 
 Moxu and Skit. 
 
 cy 
 
 Do you remember when we walked 
 
 One eve along this shore, 
 And of those hopes and feelings talked 
 
 That move us now no more ?
 
 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 The wind had sunk— the murmuring wave 
 
 Fell solemn, deep , and low, 
 Till, like the music which it gave, 
 
 Our converse seemed to flow. 
 
 With bygone years is that sweet eve, 
 
 And either heart since then 
 Of many a hope hath taken leave 
 
 That ne'er will rise again. 
 But if some lights no longer stay 
 
 That once illumed our track, 
 Some shadows too have passed away 
 
 That will no more come back. 
 
 Yes, gentle friend, no more we sail 
 
 A breeze-uplifted sea — 
 Rejoicing in the rising gale, 
 
 And bounding buoyantly. 
 But safer we've our bark in hand, 
 
 And, tho' life's winds decline. 
 Are nearing fast the better land 
 
 Beneath a breath divine. 
 
 151
 
 152 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 §a a gomtcj JJricmt 
 
 Lilly, thou wert but a child 
 When upon thee first I smiled, 
 Yet there is about thy face 
 Much that then I loved to trace : 
 'Tis more thoughtful, 'tis more fair, 
 Tells perchance of bygone care ; 
 But the softness infantine 
 Which thou then hadst — still is thine ; 
 Still dost thou, in voice and feature, 
 Seem the same sweet artless creature ! 
 
 But, though thou art thus to me, 
 All will not so look on thee ; 
 Many in thy form and face 
 Will the budding woman trace, 
 And be seeking to inspire 
 Thy young breast with love's soft fire 
 Long before "twere well to roam 
 From thy widowed mother's home ; 
 Or thy mind could act its part 
 In the guidance of thy heart. 
 
 Lilly ! let no suitor get 
 
 Of that heart possession yet, 
 
 Not for ever needst thou be 
 
 In " maiden musing fancy free,"
 
 MINOR POEMS. 153 
 
 Thou wilt have enough unrest 
 When Love grows a timely guest, 
 But, in these thine earlier years, 
 Better hopes and wiser fears, 
 Trust me, may engage thy heart 
 Than any born of Cupid's dart. 
 
 $esujnation. 
 
 I hear them tell of broken hearts 
 
 And cheeks turned pale by sorrow's shade, 
 As if, when Hope's bright tint departs, 
 
 Health's colours too were sure to fade ; 
 Ah, no — when all is dark below 
 The eye will smile, the cheek will glow. 
 
 Yet let none say, the loved and lost 
 
 Are mourned the less by those who give 
 
 No sign of what dark shades have crost 
 Their hearts, but on in patience live, 
 
 And trust, altho' life's sun hath set, 
 
 Some rays may gild its pathway yet. 
 
 Oh, no, tho' lost life's dearest charm, 
 Life's duties still remain to do, 
 
 For these the heart should still keep warm, 
 The mind still to its course keep true ; 
 
 And tho' the heart be darkened ground, 
 
 Peace soon shall shed its light around.
 
 154 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 gatfinjg. 
 
 E'en as ships diverge at sea 
 
 Which together left the land, 
 Though to one port bound they be, 
 
 And are by the same winds fanned— 
 Thou and I must now divide 
 
 Whom was nothing once between — 
 Fare-thee-well, for side by side 
 
 We shall never more be seen. 
 
 Earth is not our final port, 
 
 Farther still our haven lies — 
 Where the tempest does not sport 
 
 Nor the clouds bedim the skies. 
 On that far eternal shore 
 
 Our fond souls shall mingle yet, 
 There we'll meet to part no more — 
 
 Here, 'twas but to part, we met.
 
 MIXOIt POEMS. 155 
 
 $he peasant's Some. 
 
 The sky is bright, the scenes are fair 
 
 Thro' which I haste along, 
 The sheep send out a joyful bleat, 
 
 The birds a merry song ; 
 And other steps might linger here, 
 
 But mine would onward roam, 
 For down in yonder valley lies 
 
 My own beloved home. 
 
 For daily wants that must be met 
 
 That home I daily leave, 
 And unto labour give the hours 
 
 That pass 'twixt morn and eve — 
 
 happiness, when they are fled — 
 And I again am free 
 
 To gaze on those beloved ones 
 Who long to gaze on me. 
 
 1 feel as I'd a journey been 
 
 Though each day I return, 
 And for the lips I kissed at morn 
 
 At eve as fondly yearn ; — 
 O sacred blessings of the hearth, 
 
 That wife and children share ; 
 Wherever else my brow is sad, 
 
 I'm always happy there .
 
 15G MINOR POEMS. 
 
 9fa SIM Jean's Shunt} <$imveU. 
 
 I know thy tears are starting 
 
 Although I see thera not, 
 You weep that we are parting, 
 
 Yet why hewail my lot ? 
 I go where fairer visions 
 
 "Will to my sight appear 
 Than have been hidden from me 
 
 Throughout my darkness here. 
 
 Earth was not all a prison, 
 
 Thy kindness made it bright, 
 But on my spirit risen 
 
 Will beam celestial light. 
 And I from heaven will view thee 
 
 With love become divine, 
 And be there thy good angel 
 
 As thou hast here been mine.
 
 MIXOR POEMS. 157 
 
 Qcjc dion. 
 
 Weary's my body, weary too my brain, 
 Weary my heart, oh, fold me, gentle sleep, 
 
 Within thine arms, and let me there remain 
 In slumber long and deep ! 
 
 There have been hours when, as I lay awake, 
 
 I dreamed of Heaven till Earth seemed far away. 
 
 But on me now such vision will not break 
 The clog I feel of clay. 
 
 Pain, sleeplessness, I oft have borne before, 
 And murmured not. I do not murmur now, 
 
 But only sigh because I bear no more 
 Unruffled heart and brow. 
 
 Pity my weakness, Thou who seest me lie 
 
 With this unquiet mind, 
 Calm it to rest, or let me close mine eye, 
 
 And peace in slumber find.
 
 158 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 |Ut qn&yttit 
 
 A simple phrase is " long ago," 
 
 But oh ! how much it means, 
 Alike to manhood and to age, 
 
 And youth yet in its teens. 
 None, none are found so full of joy 
 
 That memory hath not power 
 To cast her shadow o'er the light 
 
 That gilds the present hour ! 
 
 And soon the shadow falls. Not far 
 
 In life we wander on 
 Before we find some charm is missed, 
 
 Some hope at starting, gone ! 
 And many a turning soon is passed 
 
 In which we fain would stay, 
 If time and duty did not call 
 
 Our steps another way. 
 
 And sadder still — perchance our road 
 
 Has here and there been blessed 
 With dear companions, and with one 
 
 More dear than all the rest ! 
 But, long before our journey's o'er, 
 
 Those dear ones all have gone ; 
 And left us, many a weary mile, 
 
 Alone to travel on !
 
 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 Yet, 'tis not well to ponder thus 
 
 On what no more can he, 
 Or wish that otherwise had heen 
 
 Our earthly destiny. 
 The pilgrim, who the future views 
 
 With faith's unswerving eye, 
 Both past and present sorrow holds 
 
 Worth no abiding sigh. 
 
 Calm and content he forward moves, 
 
 To any fate resigned, 
 Not without shadows at his heart, 
 
 But none upon his mind. 
 There shines a beam he prizes more 
 
 Than love's or friendship's light, 
 A source, he knows, will never fail 
 
 Of sunshine pure and bright. 
 
 159 
 
 One summer night I lay awake 
 
 When storm was in the air, 
 Darkening my sight to make less bright 
 
 The lightning's vivid glare.
 
 160 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 But thro' my pressing hands I still 
 Beheld its piercing flash, ' 
 
 And, spite my muffled ear, still heard 
 The thunder's awful crash. 
 
 Thus from truth's flash we strive to flee, 
 
 And conscience' voice to drown, 
 But cannot from the one escape, 
 
 Nor hush the other down. 
 The spiritual storm keeps on, 
 
 Not, haply, to depart 
 Till it has left a clearer mind, 
 
 And a less clouded heart. 
 
 Hope ! there is healing in sorrow's cup, 
 
 Thousands of flowers now drop on their stem 
 
 Too tearful, too sunk to the sky to look up, 
 
 But that sky with a smile still looks down upon them. 
 
 Bear ! on life's ocean winds will fail, 
 
 As they do to many a harque at sea, 
 But better such pause than the flying sail 
 
 Where the helm has no longer the mastery.
 
 MINOR POEMS. 1G1 
 
 Trust ! the sigh of the Autumn breeze 
 
 May be sad, and still sadder the wintry gust, 
 
 But the lonelier then grow the stricken trees, 
 The nearer they are to Spring time — Trust ! 
 
 [$ h z % x v a 1 8 . 
 
 A SWISS ANECDOTE. 
 
 From yonder mead, that gently slopes 
 
 To Uri's smiling lake, 
 What merry sounds the silence of 
 
 This sweet-breathed evening wake ; 
 The village youth are gather'd there, 
 
 For talk, and dance, and song, 
 All but the lovely Rosalie — 
 
 Why joins not she the throng ? 
 
 An old man in the churchyard sits 
 
 Beside a maiden fair, 
 Displaying him a new-twined wreath 
 
 With conscious beauty's air ; 
 Yet, sad as lovely, seems her brow, 
 
 Now there the wreath is placed, 
 And 'neath that calm, proud smile, a heart 
 
 All restless may be traced. 
 
 11
 
 162 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 " Hark, Rosalie ! " the old nian cries, 
 
 " Dost hear the merry lute, 
 Why linger here, apart from all, 
 
 So mournful and so mute ? 
 Go, join the throng — in passing through, 
 
 I heard some swains there say — 
 How fair our maids this eve, but ah ! 
 
 The fairest is away ! " 
 
 " Ha ! say'st thou so ? " the maiden cried, 
 
 With eyes of sudden light, 
 " And what has dimmed then Isbel's charms 
 
 That mine have grown so bright ? 
 Hath my brief absence from these scenes 
 
 That matchless beauty shown, 
 She rules not o'er the hopes and hearts 
 
 Of Uri's swains alone ? " 
 
 " Yes, Isbel now must yield the palm," 
 
 The old man sighed and said, 
 " No rival now, we all must own, 
 
 Hath Rosalie to dread ; 
 Go smile — thy brighter eyes shall heal 
 
 Each wound that Isbel's gave ; 
 Nor fear thy triumph will be brief, 
 
 We sit on IsbeVs grave ! "
 
 MINOR POEMS. 16o 
 
 .-i 
 
 Sa the £tft-£ide. 
 
 The shade's on the turf 
 
 Where it slopes to the ocean, 
 The wave without surf, 
 
 And the wind without motion ; 
 And the sun sinks to rest 
 
 With a smile on the billow, 
 As I would on thy breast 
 
 Might I make it my pillow. 
 
 Oh, tremble not so 
 
 At the fond wish thou hearest, 
 Unfulfilled let it go, 
 
 If to grant it thou fearest ; 
 Nay, heed not the light, 
 
 None are nigh to behold us, 
 And soon will the night 
 
 In its shadow enfold us. 
 
 11-
 
 164 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 §J t m H x \ \y . 
 
 The breeze that lifts thy drooping hair, 
 
 And breathes upon thy cheek, 
 So softly sighing that it seems 
 
 Some tender vow to speak, 
 Will wander, ere the sun has set, 
 
 To other cheeks than thine, 
 Yet there its lips a welcome meet 
 
 Ne'er granted yet to mine. 
 
 Shall I be bold, and, like the breeze, 
 
 Whilst thus thy ringlets wave, 
 Bring my fond breath as near thy cheek 
 
 And give the kiss it gave ? 
 Alas ! like leaves around their flower 
 
 I tremble all too much, 
 And feel, like them, without the power 
 
 The charms so near to touch.
 
 MINOB POEMS. 165 
 
 9t%tiv$L 
 
 Hast thou forgotten 
 
 That hour of our parting, 
 Wheu, thro' thy smiling, 
 
 I saw thy tears starting, 
 And how in silence 
 
 And rapture I tremhled 
 To learn the dear secret 
 
 No longer dissembled. 
 
 *& v 
 
 Friends were around us, 
 
 So no vows were spoken, 
 No, none were uttered, 
 
 But have none been broken ? 
 Or is the eye's language 
 
 So false in expression 
 That from the lip only 
 
 Can come true confession ? 
 
 Well, thou'st deceived me, 
 
 I can forget it, 
 That I believed thee 
 
 Shall I regret it ? 
 No ; for if ne'er in 
 
 False hearts we confided, 
 Ne'er should we find where 
 
 The true ones resided.
 
 166 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 <©nb (fluking 
 
 I knew tliee in thy chilcllaood, 
 
 And dreamed but little then, 
 My playmate of the wildwood 
 
 I ne'er should meet again. 
 'Twas well when with thee roaming 
 
 In utter joy of heart, 
 I knew not times were coming 
 
 When we should dwell apart. 
 
 Our loves were children's lovings, 
 
 We seemed free of the earth, 
 I kissed thee in thy rovings, 
 
 I kissed thee by thy hearth. 
 And none took heed to chide us, 
 
 Ah me, it mattered not, 
 What cared they to divide us 
 
 Who knew our future lot ?
 
 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 167 
 
 So P-* 
 
 Those happy hours on the Italian sea — 
 
 Dost thou forget them ? 
 The nights you lingered there awake with rne, 
 
 Dost thou regret thern ? 
 That when thy name I traced on the still deep. 
 
 And as each letter 
 Vanished, I whispered " in my heart— I'll keep 
 
 The record better. " 
 
 Dost thou remember— and the windless day, 
 
 Our barque lay sleeping, 
 When I looked up from reading that sweet lay 
 
 Which set thee weeping — 
 Dost thou remember ? Mayest thou not tell ? 
 
 Yet, oh ! why ask thee, 
 Silence may sometimes be preserved too well, 
 
 Thine eyes unmask thee.
 
 168 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 Sarlrap Igk 
 
 I wonder what's become 
 
 Of pretty Barbara Lyle, 
 If any tears sbe's shed 
 
 Since last I saw her smile. 
 I wonder if we'd loved 
 
 If she would have been true ; 
 Or if a false heart lay 
 
 Beneath those eyes of blue. 
 
 I wonder if the light 
 
 From those blue eyes is gone, 
 Or if they're shining still, 
 
 And whom they shine upon. 
 Perchance, a husband lays 
 
 His head upon her breast, 
 Methinks a happy man 
 
 On such sweet spot to rest ! 
 
 Tis strange on these old times 
 
 We love so oft to gaze, 
 As if there were no joys 
 
 In life's maturer days. 
 There sits my own beloved, 
 
 My children round her smile ; 
 Why heed then what's become 
 
 Of pretty Barbara Lyle ?
 
 MINOR POEMS. 1CU 
 
 Jto'a not foil Iftc. 
 
 No, not for ine — she's very fair, I own, 
 
 And fitting mate for those 
 Who woo a woman for her looks alone ; 
 
 And yet her looks disclose 
 More pride than beauty, a disdain of love, 
 The serpent smiles there, but without the dove. 
 
 What scorn and ridicule are in her speech ! 
 
 Sad from the lips of youth — 
 Sad when they leam, still sadder when they teach 
 
 To love wit more than truth. 
 'Tis early time the cynic's part to play, 
 And shows both head and heart have gone astray. 
 
 And, in a maid, to womanhood scarce grown, 
 
 'Tis worse than premature ; 
 Who plucks a flower that's blighted ere 'tis blown 
 
 In hopes 'twill then grow pure ? 
 Not I for one, so, lady fair, we part, 
 I want not sneers and titters but — a heart !
 
 170 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 Stan and d^ountr^ 
 
 Give me no town — famed maiden, 
 
 Blazing at midnight ball, 
 With rings and jewels laden, 
 
 To hold my heart in thrall. 
 Rather, in rustic hamlet, 
 
 Tripping the fields along, 
 And with the murmuring streamlet 
 
 Mingling her own sweet song — 
 The maid I'd see 
 Who was for me. 
 
 Not she with curls e'er drooping 
 
 O'er each new novel's leaves, 
 Some idler o'er her stooping 
 
 To watch her bosom's heaves, 
 Is lady for my wooing : 
 
 Thinking but acting too, 
 Admiring less, than doing, 
 
 The beautiful and true, 
 The maid must be 
 Who is for me.
 
 MINOR POEMS. 171 
 
 go ft 6. 
 
 Years have gone by since last I strung 
 My harp for one so fair and young, 
 Nor sing I now as once I sung ; 
 
 The days of stern reality 
 Have clouded o'er those visions bright 
 Which, in the dawn of manhood's light, 
 Gave to rny thoughts, by day and night, 
 
 A poet's ideality. 
 
 Yet tho' those visions fair have flown, 
 My harp has lost not all its tone, 
 It's minstrel is but wiser grown ; 
 
 Not loving less the beautiful 
 But more enamoured of the true ; 
 Not watching less Heaven's skies of blue, 
 But walking tbis earth-pathway through 
 
 With step more slow and dutiful. 
 
 With calmer eye I look around, 
 Pausing, at times, my harp to sound, 
 Wherever gentle hearts are found 
 To listen ; but, ah, well-a-day !
 
 172 MINOE POEMS. 
 
 The world's harsh voices are too strong 
 To suffer many rnid the throng 
 To hear me, as I pass along, 
 
 Pour out my simple melody. 
 
 But thou, sweet maiden, yet art free 
 From this heart- chilling apathy, 
 And willingly I wake for thee 
 
 My harp : and though not movingly 
 As younger, warmer bards, I fling 
 My hands across each throbbing string, 
 It will not be in vain I sing, 
 
 If thou but list approvingly. 
 
 Thou smilest — long may that fair brow 
 Keep bright and sorrowless as now ; 
 But all their trials have, and thou 
 
 From thine hast no security ; 
 Truth to which none should wish thee blind, 
 Yet still, with tranquil heart and mind, 
 Thy duty in the present find, 
 
 And leave to God futurity.
 
 MINOK POEMS. 173 
 
 f mml of <J|m tt( * s - 
 
 Those bitter words did smite my heart, 
 
 But thine by pain was not unriven, 
 For I was hasty ; so let's part 
 
 Alike forgiving and forgiven. 
 Nor let us struggle to forget 
 
 This hour when next we come together, 
 But gladly think our friendship met, 
 
 And bore, unharmed, such stormy weather. 
 
 The fairest garden, winds and showers 
 
 Assail, yet leave it lovely still, 
 Doing the plants, whose leaves and flowers 
 
 They scatter, no enduring ill. 
 So with our friendship, though it be 
 
 By passing gusts awhile defruited, 
 But little harm is done the tree, 
 
 Which stands too firm to be uprooted.
 
 174 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 2Bf« and 3m. 
 
 To love and to be loved is not the whole 
 Of life's great purpose ; duty, self-control, 
 Demand diviner yearnings of the soul. 
 
 Two minds, two hearts, with one accordant thrill, 
 Make a fair picture — picture fairer still 
 Is one unbending, self-denying will. 
 
 Love is not virtue, prize it as we may, 
 But oft, when contradicted in its sway, 
 Drives virtue from, or stops it on, its way ; 
 
 Or, flowing smoothly, rounds us in a fence 
 Which makes us look on with indifference 
 All but its own small world of self and sense. 
 
 Life is our care ; let love come if it will, 
 Not held chief good, nor want of it chief ill ; 
 Accounted dear, but duty dearer still !
 
 MINOR POEMS. 175 
 
 We Saurjh at JJ0114. 
 
 We laugh at love when youth is spent, 
 
 Telling it, as a theme for jest, 
 When first we knew what passion meant, 
 
 And how the secret thrilled our breast 
 When mid gay crowds, round us assembled, 
 Came she at whose dear voice we trembled, 
 And for the sake of whose sweet glance 
 Alone we cared to join the dance ; 
 Hoping, perchance, by no one heard, 
 To whisper some endearing word 
 That might, mid the surrounding stir, 
 Elicit haply one from her ! 
 Yet, fearing what we dared avow, 
 
 Might answer bring our hopes to shatter. 
 Well, such fears shade no more our brow, 
 And e'en may set us smiling now, 
 
 But, ah ! 'twas then no laughing matter ! 
 
 With wife and children round us, we 
 Forget the days of our love-making, 
 
 And won't believe that hearts can be 
 Brought by it to the verge of breaking. 
 
 We think such wounds will heal with time ; 
 
 That wedding early 's half a crime,
 
 176 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 Bringing more sorrow, toil, and care 
 Than love itself lias strength to bear. 
 Chilling and false ! Come weal or woe, 
 Come state of fortune high or low, 
 Purely returned, and purely given, 
 Love still is man's best gift from Heaven. 
 
 Mm at &st 
 
 Mine — mine at last ! Scarce hoped for hour 
 Of sunshine on the abiding cloud 
 
 That seemed on my life's path to lour. 
 
 What now are cares ? Oh, let them crowd 
 
 My heart, since there I hold thee fast, 
 
 My own — my own — mine — mine at last ! 
 
 I cannot, in my new-found bliss, 
 My many happy thoughts convey, 
 
 With the full sweetness of thy kiss 
 Still on my lips, what could they say ? 
 
 Silently let me hold thee fast, 
 
 My own — my own — -mine — mine at last !
 
 MINOR POEMS. 177 
 
 $h e f ouFs f oliloquiT. 
 
 Spirit, that to One alone 
 
 In thy inmost depths art known — 
 
 Pris'ner of the clayey cell, 
 
 In which thou, at birth, must dwell ; 
 
 Seed from heaven sent to grow 
 
 On this earthly soil below ; 
 
 Spite the weeds, with which 'tis rife, 
 
 Struggle through them into life ! 
 
 ii. • 
 
 Sigh not that thine outward shape 
 Cannot doom of dust escape ; 
 Wear it so that men may view 
 Something brighter shining thro', 
 As a robe that fitly tells 
 Of the worth that 'neath it dwells, 
 Yet as destined at death's portal 
 To be changed for one immortal. 
 
 in. 
 
 Swift though Time's advance may be, 
 He no terrors has for thee ; 
 Centuries to thee of earth 
 Were but one continuous birth. 
 
 12
 
 178 MIXOE POEMS. 
 
 Age, that .doth the body kill, 
 Thee with stronger life shall fill ; 
 Called above or left below, 
 Still thy function is — to grow. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Grow — expanding every hour, 
 Into fuller, fairer, flower : 
 With the strength of love and duty, 
 Into wisdom, goodness, beauty ; 
 Spreading nearer to the skies, 
 Till at length to heaven they rise ; 
 Called to find a home above 
 In their God's eternal love. 
 
 Ih^trat (Bold $frh at Utetfcrapt. 
 
 " Declinat cursus, auramque volubile tollit." 
 
 I. 
 
 How it moves us — how it proves ns — 
 This bewildering tale of gold ! 
 
 How they glisten — how they listen — 
 Eyes and ears when it is told ! 
 
 How it sets us all a-raving, 
 
 How it sets us all a-craving,
 
 MINOR POEMS. 179 
 
 Thinking of what might be got, 
 
 If we were but on the spot ! 
 Gone are many, some still linger, 
 
 Waiting with unquiet heart, 
 And few feel not itching finger, 
 
 As they see the rest depart, 
 
 ii. 
 
 In the bush, and in the city, 
 " Gold's " the universal ditty, 
 Not alone the pauper — miser — 
 
 Slaves of avarice or want, 
 But the wealthier and the wiser 
 
 Seek for baptism at its font. 
 Men who'd think it a base libel, 
 
 If 'twas hinted they were poor ; 
 Men who talk about their Bible, 
 
 And plates hold at the church door — 
 Labour-hirer, working-man, 
 Clerk, mechanic, artisan, 
 Washed and unwashed — high and low, 
 Mingle in the current's flow 
 That doth to the " diggins " go. 
 
 in. 
 
 What is this strange scene we near, 
 New to eye and new to ear ? 
 See them delving there below, 
 Ev'ry dig a gamester's throw ;
 
 180 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 What is this they pause to view — 
 Turning o'er and looking through? 
 Ha ! — the glittering ore appears, 
 Gone are all their long-felt fears ; 
 Dig, my boys — behold, behold — 
 Dig away — for this is gold ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Look around on all the scene, 
 Much that's mournful doth it mean. 
 See how they eye one another, 
 Should thus brother look on brother ? 
 Yonder scowling visage mark, 
 Well it is not lone or dark, 
 For if murder could be done, 
 There, to do it, standeth one. 
 
 v. 
 
 Night is come, and here and there 
 Sleepers close their eyes in prayer ; 
 But 'neath more than one tarpaulin 
 There is drinking, gaming, brawling- 
 Ending oft in challenged fight 
 To be fought by Sabbath light, 
 If, perchance, the coming morn 
 Of a week-day should be born — 
 For e'en hatred can keep cold 
 Sooner than stop work for gold, 
 Digging for it, as if God 
 Had hid salvation 'neath the sod !
 
 MINOR POEMS. 181 
 
 vr. 
 
 Gold ! supreme is thy dominion, 
 God of church upon whose creed 
 Every nation is agreed ; 
 Where's another one on which 
 Holds mankind the same opinion- 
 "Tis expedient to he rich ? 
 Missionary in Christ's name, 
 Would but find reception tame, 
 By the side of him who came 
 Thy evangel to proclaim. 
 With a faith that never falters, 
 With a trust that heeds no shock 
 Millions kneel before thy altars, 
 Millions to thy temple flock. 
 Never yet was homage found 
 Unto King of earth or heaven 
 As to thee so freely given — 
 Thee the monarch underground !
 
 182 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 (prismas in gustyatut. 
 i. 
 
 December, yet not winter — but sunniest of skies, 
 
 A Christmas- day in summer ! how strange to English 
 
 eyes; 
 Strange — and a little sad too, for something seems away 
 That ought to be among us on this all-welcomed day. 
 
 ii. 
 
 I miss the 'customed holly, o'er wall and window spread, 
 Its leaves so green and prickly, and its berries all so red, 
 The cheerful hearth at morning — more cheerful still at 
 
 night, 
 When all sat round it chatting, nor wished for other light. 
 
 in. 
 Without too, as within, I miss signs of other times, 
 The singing of the carols, the ringing of the chimes ; 
 The snow upon the grass-plot, the frost upon the trees, 
 One hardly feels 'tis Christmas without some signs like 
 these. 
 
 rv. 
 
 And yet what doth it matter, when that blest time comes 
 
 round, 
 What season is prevailing where Christian hearts are 
 
 found ? 
 Be summer or be winter, where falleth Christmas-day, 
 The Christmas of the spirit can be kept but one way.
 
 MINOR POEMS, 183 
 
 We may as in old England enjoy the festive cheer 
 That marks a merry Christmas — no lack of that is here, 
 Yet better were it absent from every Christian board, 
 Than sots or gluttons make us in honour of our Lord. 
 
 3uluam;e, ftictorja ! 
 i. 
 
 From crowded cities severed far 
 Where glitters bright the southern star 
 There lies a land of wide domains, 
 Of golden rocks, and grassy plains ; 
 Whose soil to till, and wealth unlock, 
 From distant climes, all peoples flock, 
 Whilst, canopied 'neath cloudless skies, 
 They help a mighty nation's rise. 
 
 n. 
 Victoria ! those domains are thine ; 
 As bright a sun may elsewhere shine, 
 And smile upon a fairer show 
 Of glories that with age must grow ; 
 But never yet was land more rife 
 With seeds that sprang to quicker life, 
 And never land of olden time 
 Gave promise of a richer prime.
 
 184 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 III. 
 
 Advance, Victoria ! — may'st thou be 
 
 As good and great as thou art free ; 
 
 Beware of the empoisoned fruit 
 
 That springs from Faction's deadly root, 
 
 No truth — howe'er distasteful — spurn, 
 
 But ear suspicious ever turn 
 
 To all who mouth high-sounding creeds, 
 
 But serve thee with no useful deeds. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Advance — with step more sure than swift, 
 Shun waste — shun also cramping thrift ; 
 Progressive, bold — but calm and just ; 
 Deceive no hopes — betray no trust, 
 Despite each current's hostile force, 
 Like river strong — hold on thy course, 
 Seeking thy goal with forward tide 
 That naught can stop, or turn aside. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Londou : Smith, Elder and Co., 10£, Old Bailey, E.C.
 
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