University of California Berkeley 
 
 Purchased as the gift of 
 
 THE FRIENDS 
 
 OF THE 
 BANCROFT LIBRARY 
 
POEMS: 
 
 AN OFFERING TO LANCASHIRE. 
 
POEMS: 
 
 PRINTED AND PUBLISHED FOR THE ART EXHIBITION FOR THE 
 RELIEF OF DISTRESS IN THE COTTON DISTRICTS. 
 
 LONDON: 
 EMILY FAITHFULL, 
 
 printer anti |3ttfrlfefjer in rfctttarg to f^er jJHajestg, 
 
 VICTORIA PRESS, 83A, FARRINGDON STREET, E.C. 
 
 1863. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 THE task of seeing this little volume through 
 the press has been an easy and pleasant one. 
 Most of the contributions have been written 
 specially and many more might have been added 
 but for the wish that the book should appear 
 at Christmas, and the brief time consequently 
 allowed for its preparation. Miss Faithfull under- 
 took to print and publish a thousand copies free 
 of expense, the compositors of the Victoria Press 
 volunteering their services, and Messrs. Richard 
 Herring & Co. furnishing the paper gratuitously, 
 so that the proceeds of the sale will be devoted 
 to the object to which the volume is dedicated. 
 
 ISA CRAIG. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 SONNET EMILY TAYLOR . . 1 
 
 A ROYAL PRINCESS .... CHRISTINA ROSSETTI . 2 
 
 SACRIFICE "V." .... 11 
 
 IN THE WINTER " G. E. M." ... 12 
 
 THE THREE HORSES . . . GEORGE MACDONALD . 15 
 
 SUDDEN LIGHT D. G. ROSSETTI . . 25 
 
 FOUR SONNETS FROM EARLY] 
 
 ITALIAN PICTURES . f ' W BELL ScOTT 26 
 
 AFTER SUNSET W. ALLINGHAM . . 30 
 
 THE MERSEY AND THE IRWELL . BESSIE R. PARKES . 31 
 
 THE EYE OF GOD .... MARY HOWITT . . 34 
 
 AD SEPULCRUM C. B. CAYLEY . . 37 
 
 BROTHERS ISA CRAIG ... 44 
 
 ENGLAND AND AMERICA. . . R. MONCKTON MILNES 58 
 
 THE JESTER'S PLEA . FREDERICK LOCKER . 60 
 
POEMS: 
 
 ffmttg ta 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 WHAT is the work, the duty of the hour ? 
 
 THIS, surely, chief: to turn these ills to good: 
 
 Out of sour poison draw the wholesome food; 
 
 Chasing ill thoughts that sever rich and poor. 
 
 Oh! could we feel that every open'd door 
 
 Made way to HEARTS ! drove out the spectral brood 
 
 Of dark distrustings so that now we stood 
 
 At one in spirit One for evermore ! 
 
 Is this too much? yet register the vow, 
 
 Ye faithful Labourers! not to lose your hold; 
 
 The bars once broken, still to keep them so ; 
 
 Then the fresh page in Life's great book unrolled, 
 
 With eyes made clear to read it, shall repay 
 
 With tenfold good the sorrow of to-day. 
 
 EMILY TAYLOK. 
 B 
 
A ROYAL PRINCESS. 
 
 I, a princess, king-descended, stuck with jewels, gilded, 
 
 dressed, 
 
 Would rather be a peasant with her baby at her breast, 
 For all I shine so like the sun, and am purple like the west. 
 
 Two and two my guards behind, two and two before, 
 Two and two on either hand, they guard me evermore; 
 Me, poor dove that must not coo eagle that must not soar. 
 
 All my fountains cast up perfumes, all my gardens grow 
 Scented woods and foreign spices, with all flowers in blow 
 That are costly, out of season as the seasons go. 
 
 All my walls are lost in mirrors whereupon I trace 
 Self to right hand, self to left hand, self in every place, 
 Selfsame solitary figure, selfsame seeking face. 
 
 Then I have an ivoiy chair high to sit upon, 
 
 Almost like my Father's chair, which is an ivory throne : 
 
 There I sit uplift and upright, there I sit alone. 
 
A ROYAL PRINCESS. 3 
 
 Alone by day, alone by night, alone days without end ; 
 My Father and my Mother give me treasures, search and 
 
 spend : 
 my Father, O my Mother, have you ne'er a friend? 
 
 As I am a lofty princess, so my Father is 
 
 A lofty king, accomplished in all kingly subtilties, 
 
 Holding in his strong right hand world-kingdoms' balances. 
 
 He has quarrelled with his neighbours, he has scourged 
 
 his foes ; 
 
 Vassal counts and princes follow where his pennon goes, 
 Long-descended valiant lords whom the vulture knows. 
 
 On whose track the vulture swoops, when they ride in state 
 To break the strength of armies and topple down the great : 
 Each of these my courteous servant, none of these my mate. 
 
 My Father counting up his strength sets down with equal pen 
 So many head of cattle, head of horses, head of men : 
 These for slaughter, these for breeding, with the how and 
 when 
 
 B 2 
 
'4 A EOYAL PRINCESS. 
 
 Some to work on roads, canals, some to man his ships; 
 Some to smart in mines beneath sharp overseers' whips ; 
 Some to trap fur-beasts in lands where utmost winter nips. 
 
 Once it came into my heart and whelmed me like a flood, 
 That these too are men and women, human flesh and blood ; 
 Men with hearts and men with souls tho' trodden down 
 like mud. 
 
 All that day I sat alone, would not eat nor drink, 
 Sat humiliated down in dust to weep and think : 
 My heart grew like a stone ; I felt it sink and sink and 
 sink. 
 
 At night my Father held a banquet: I must needs be 
 
 there, 
 
 Statue-cold, severe, and stately, if not statue-fair ; 
 With hereditary jewels clustered in my hair, 
 
 With a fan of rainbow feathers and a golden chain, 
 Some bore gusty lights before me, some bore up my train: 
 "These are men, are men, are men," throbbed my heart 
 and brain. 
 
A ROYAL PRINCESS* 
 
 Our feasting was not glad that night, our music was 
 
 not gay ; 
 
 On my Mother's graceful head I marked a thread of grey, 
 My Father frowning at the fare seemed every dish to weigh. 
 
 I sat beside them sole princess in my exalted place, 
 My ladies and my gentlemen stood by me on the dais : 
 A mirror showed me I look old and haggard in the face ; 
 
 It showed me that my ladies all are fair to gaze upon, 
 Plump, plenteous-haired, to every one love's secret lore 
 
 is known, 
 They laugh by day, they sleep by night: ah me, what 
 
 is a throne ? 
 
 The singing men and women sang that night as usual, 
 The dancers danced in pairs and sets ; but music had a fall, 
 A melancholy windy fall as at a funeral. 
 
 Amid the toss of torches to my chamber back we swept ; 
 My ladies loosed my golden chain; meantime I could 
 
 have wept 
 To think of one that was not loosed whether I waked 
 
 or slept. 
 
6 A KOYAL PRINCESS. 
 
 I took my bath of scented milk delicately waited on, 
 They burned sweet things for my delight, cedar and 
 
 cinnamon, 
 They lit my shaded silver lamp and left me there alone. 
 
 A day went by, a week went by ; and next I heard it said : 
 " Men are clamouring, women, children, clamouring to be fed; 
 "Men, like famished dogs, are howling in the streets for 
 bread." 
 
 So two whisperedjpby my door, not thinking I could hear, 
 
 Vulgar, naked truth, ungarnished for a royal ear ; 
 
 Fit for hustling in the background, not to stalk so near. 
 
 But I strained my utmost sense to catch this truth and 
 
 mark : 
 
 " There are families out grazing like cattle in the park." 
 " A pair of peasants must be saved, even if we build an ark." 
 
 A merry jest, a merry laugh ; each strolled upon his way : 
 One was my page, a pretty lad, in dress perhaps too gay ; 
 One was my youngest maid, as sweet and white as cream 
 in May. 
 
A ROYAL PRINCESS. 7 
 
 Other footsteps followed softly with a weightier tramp ; 
 Voices said: "Picked soldiers have been summoned from 
 
 the camp, 
 " To quell these base-born ruffians who make free to howl 
 
 and stamp." 
 
 " Howl and stamp ? " one answered : " They made free 
 
 to hurl a stone 
 "At the minister's state coach, well aimed and stoutly 
 
 thrown." 
 " There's work then for the soldiers, for this rank crop 
 
 must be mown." 
 
 66 One I saw, a poor old fool, with ashes on his head, 
 " Whimpering because a girl had snatched his crust of bread: 
 " Then he dropped ; when some one raised him, it turned 
 out he was dead." 
 
 "After us the deluge," was retorted with a laugh : 
 
 "If bread's the staff of life they must walk without a 
 
 staff." 
 " While I've a loaf they're welcome to my blessing and the 
 
 chaff." 
 
8 A ROYAL PRINCESS, 
 
 These passed. The King : stand up. Said my Father 
 
 with a smile: 
 
 " Daughter mine, your Mother comes to sit with you awhile, 
 " She's sad to-day ; and who but you her sadness can 
 
 beguile ? " 
 
 He too left me. Shall I touch my harp now whilst I wait, 
 I hear them doubling guard below before our palace gate 
 Or shall I work the last gold stitch into my veil of state; 
 
 Or shall my woman stand and read some unimpassioned scene, 
 There's music of a lulling sort in words that pause 
 
 between ; 
 Or shall she merely fan me while I wait here for the 
 
 Queen ? 
 
 Again I caught my Father's voice in sharp word of 
 
 command : 
 "Charge," a clash of steel : " Charge again, the rebels 
 
 stand : 
 " Smite and spare not, hand to hand ; smite and spare 
 
 not, hand to hand." 
 
A ROYAL PRINCESS. 9 
 
 There swelled a tumult at the gate, high voices waxing 
 
 higher ; 
 
 A flash of red reflected light lit the Cathedral spire ; 
 I heard a cry for faggots, then I heard a yell for fire. 
 
 " Sit and roast there with your meat, sit and bake there 
 
 with your bread, 
 
 " You who sat and saw us starve," one shrieking woman said: 
 " Sit on your throne and roast with your crown upon your 
 
 head." 
 
 Queen my Mother, come in haste; yet is your haste too slack; 
 
 1 have set my face towards where there is no looking back, 
 I have set my foot upon the unreturning track. 
 
 This thing will I do whilst my Mother tarrieth : 
 I will take my fine spun gold, but not to sew therewith ; 
 I will take my gold and gems, and rainbow fan and 
 wreath ; 
 
 With a ransom in my lap, a king's ransom in my hand, 
 I will go down to these people, will stand face to face ; 
 
 will stand 
 Where they curse King, Queen and Princess of this 
 
 cursed land. 
 
10 A ROYAL PRINCESS. 
 
 They shall take all to buy them bread, take all I have 
 
 to give ; 
 
 I, if I perish, perish ; they to-day shall eat and live ; 
 I, if I perish, perish ; that's the goal, I half conceive : 
 
 Once to stand up face to face with heart-pulse loud and 
 
 hot- 
 It may be in this latter day I stand thus in my lot 
 And cry : " I love you, love you," to those who know 
 
 me not ; 
 
 Once to speak before the world, rend bare my heart 
 
 and show 
 This lesson I have learned which is death, is life, to 
 
 know. 
 I, if I perish, perish. In the Name of God I go. 
 
 CHRISTINA G. EOSSETTI. 
 
SACRIFICE. 
 
 2 Timothy i. xii. 
 
 ALL, all I've given, I've given my All to God ; 
 Joy, Love, the bright career wherein I trod; 
 Bound them to regions more than Earth sublime, 
 Deferr'd them to an hour more fixed than Time. 
 "I am persuaded He can keep them All," 
 And give me back each one from forth their Pall 
 Brighter than I resign them, mine at last, 
 When this sad Present shall be chang'd to Past. 
 
 I shall be happy then, with all the Power 
 Of all the Anguish of this bitter Hour; 
 I shall possess each Earth-abandoned Hope ; 
 Grow free to roam wherever Will hath scope; 
 Ambition will content each high desire, 
 And Joy and Love burn with a Spirit's Fire. 
 
 V, 
 
IN THE WINTER. 
 
 IN the winter flowers are springing, 
 
 In the winter woods are green, 
 Where our banished birds are singing, 
 
 Where our summer sun is seen. 
 Our cold midnights are coeval 
 
 With an evening and a morn 
 Where the forest gods hold revel 
 
 And the spring is newly born. 
 
 While the earth is full of fighting, 
 
 While men rise and curse their day, 
 While the foolish strong are smiting 
 
 And the foolish weak betray, 
 The true hearts behind are growing, 
 
 The brave spirits work alone, 
 Where love's summer wind is blowing 
 
 In a truth-irradiate zone. 
 
IN THE WINTER. 13 
 
 While we cannot shape our living 
 
 To the beauty of our skies, 
 While man wants though earth is giving, 
 
 Nature calls but man denies, 
 How the old worlds round Him gather 
 
 Where their Maker is their Sun ! 
 How the children know the Father 
 
 Where the will of God is done! 
 
 Daily woven with our story, 
 
 Sounding far above our strife, 
 Is a time-enclosing glory, 
 
 Is a space-absorbing life. 
 We can dream no dream Elysian, 
 
 There is no good thing might be, 
 But some angel has the vision, 
 
 But some human soul shall see. 
 
 Is thy strait horizon dreary? 
 
 Is thy foolish fancy chill ? 
 Change the feet that have grown weary 
 
 For the wings that never will. 
 
14 IN THE WINTER. 
 
 There are kingdoms for the spirit 
 Beyond worlds and ages far, 
 
 Thou hast all things to inherit 
 And a joy in every star. 
 
 . E. M. 
 
THE THREE HORSES. 
 
 WHAT shalll be? I will be a knight, 
 
 Walled up in armour black ; 
 With a sword of sharpness, a hammer of might, 
 
 And a spear that will not crack ; 
 So black, so blank, in the wood no light 
 
 Shall glimmer from my track. 
 
 So saddle my coal-black steed, my men, 
 
 Which Ravenwing I call ; 
 For the night is rising from the fen, 
 
 And the sky is like a pall; 
 And out of the dark, and out of the den, 
 
 The bad things gather all. 
 
 Let him go ! let him go ! Let him plunge ! Keep away ! 
 
 He's a foal of Night's own brood. 
 Like a skeleton-horse, in his gaunt array, 
 
 With poitrel and frontlet good, 
 Spectre-ridden, he bounds away 
 
 To the heart of the midnight wood. 
 
16 THE THREE HORSES. 
 
 Woe to the thing that checks our force. 
 
 That meets us in our gear ! 
 Giant, enchanter, devil, or worse, 
 
 He goes down before my spear. 
 I and Eavenwing on the course 
 
 Let all the wicked fear ! 
 
 Between the trees with a clank I ride 
 But the goblins flit to and fro. 
 
 From the skull of darkness, deep and wide., 
 The eyes of the dragons glow ; 
 
 From the thickets the silent serpents glide ; 
 But I pass them I let them go. 
 
 For I shall come, ere the morning light, 
 On some child that cries alone ; 
 
 On some noble knight o'ermatched in fight, 
 Outbreathed, and all but gone ; 
 
 Or I spur to a half-seen glimmer white, 
 And a half-heard lady's moan. 
 
 I bear the child, as in a nest, 
 
 'Twixt sheltering wings of steel ; 
 I bear him home to his mother's breast, 
 
THE THREE HORSES, 17 
 
 And her tears my triumph seal; 
 And his tiny hand, in my gauntlet pressed, 
 Like a lingering thanks I feel. 
 
 And spur in flank, and lance in rest, 
 
 On the old knight's foes I flash ; 
 And scatter the knaves to east and west, 
 
 With clang and tumult and crash ; 
 I leave them the law, as they learn it best, 
 
 In bruise, and breach, and gash. 
 
 And the lady I lift to my saddle-bow, 
 
 And I never ask the tale; 
 Her trembling heart grows quiet and slow ; 
 
 She slumbers against my mail ; 
 Home to my mother's bower we go, 
 
 Where a welcome will not fail. 
 
 Home through the wood and the evil night, 
 
 Where glow the dragons' eyes, 
 Where wander the lawless men of might, 
 
 And the goblin-things arise ; 
 Home like a knight that loves the right, 
 
 And will strike for it till he dies. 
 c 
 
18 THE THREE HORSES. 
 
 Alas ! 'tis a boy's wild dream that is all : 
 
 In the fens no dragons blow ; 
 Into giants' hands no ladies fall ; 
 
 Through the forest wide roadways go. 
 If I love a maiden, and ever shall, 
 
 My love I cannot show. 
 
 I will not saddle old Eavenwing ; 
 
 I will not ride by night; 
 No spectre would cross my galloping, 
 
 But the moonbeams long and white ; 
 And the birds from their quiet slumbering, 
 
 Would flit off an arrow's flight. 
 
 But bridle me Twilight, my dapple-gray, 
 
 With a snaffle rein and bit ; 
 Let a youth bring him round to the door, I say, 
 
 As the shadows begin to flit ; 
 Just as the darkness dreams into day, 
 
 And the owls begin to sit. 
 
 And all the armour I will wear 
 
 Is a sword, like the first blue gray, 
 That to right and left doth mow and share 
 
THE THREE HORSES. 
 
 The grisly darkness away 
 From the gates of the morning, still and fair, 
 By which walks out the day. 
 
 I leave the arched forest grim, 
 
 And into the broad land ride. 
 The torrent is deep we plunge and swim. 
 
 The cold light wets the tide, 
 From the opening east, like the plashes dim 
 
 On my Twilight's dappled side. 
 
 We pass like morn o'er dale and hill, 
 
 O'er desert, moor, and beach; 
 In the market-places he stands still, 
 
 And I lift my voice and preach; 
 Like waters men flow and gather, until 
 
 Ten thousand men I teach. 
 
 For I speak of justice, I speak of truth, 
 
 Of law and of social wrong ; 
 And my words are moulded by right and ruth, 
 
 Into a solemn song ; 
 And the upturned faces of age and youth 
 
 Gather the cadence long. 
 
20 THE THREE HORSES. 
 
 They bring me causes from all the land, 
 
 That strife may be forgot; 
 The balance will swerve to neither hand ; 
 
 The poor I favour not. 
 If a man withstand, out sweeps my brand 
 
 I slay him upon the spot. 
 
 Alas, my sword! What! I to slay 
 
 Perchance a better than I ! 
 My hands have not been clean alway 
 
 And my sin it is too nigh. 
 I will not ride the dapple-gray; 
 
 In the stable let him lie. 
 
 I dare not judge, I dare not kill; 
 
 The sword I will not wear. 
 A better service remaineth still 
 
 Good tidings I will bear. 
 As the light climbs up the noontide hill, 
 
 Bring round my snow-white mare. 
 
 Take heed, my men, that from crest to heel 
 
 She has neither spot nor speck. 
 No shining bit her mouth shall feel, 
 
THE THREE HORSES. 21 
 
 No tightening rein her neck ; 
 No saddle-girth, with buckles of steel, 
 Her mighty breathing check. 
 
 Lay on her a cloth of silver sheen; 
 
 Bring me a robe of white ; 
 For all the way we shall be seen 
 
 By the shining of the light 
 A glimmering glory in forests green, 
 
 A star on the mountain-height. 
 
 Like a horse of heaven, with a joyous bound. 
 
 Forth to the wind she leaps; 
 Full-filled of light, she skims the ground; 
 
 Then, lapt in the forest-deeps, 
 A torrent of shadows, without a sound, 
 
 Over her ripples and sweeps. 
 
 And the sun and the wind are life and love* 
 Where the serpent slimed the bark, 
 
 Broods the silent, the shining dove. 
 Where dragons breathed the dark, 
 
 Glad troops of children, below, above, 
 Gather with hollo and hark. 
 
22 THE THREE HORSES. 
 
 It is joy, it is joy, to ride the world 
 With a message of love and bliss ! 
 
 Many a white flag has been unfurled, 
 But never a flag like this 
 
 The mane of my mare by the glad winds curled, 
 In joy's own wantonness. 
 
 And maidens look up, with eyes of light, 
 From the nooks where wild flowers meet ; 
 
 And the ripened fruit falls ruddy and bright, 
 Like jewels, at their feet, 
 
 As I gallop by on my mare so white, 
 Through the dappling shadows fleet. 
 
 For I have a message of might and mirth 
 
 The dawn of another morn. 
 I go to bear the news of birth 
 
 Through city and land of corn. 
 Gracious gladness shall clothe the earth, 
 
 For a child, a child is born. 
 
 But what means the message A child is born? 
 
 It means that the earth grows young ; 
 That the heart, with sin and sorrow torn, 
 
THE THREE HORSES. 23> 
 
 Shall be whole and happy and strong ; 
 That the fountain of sighing, and fear, and scorn, 
 Shall break into bubbling song. 
 
 Is this all? Ah! no. The message saith, 
 
 That the spirit no more shall pine ; 
 That Self shall die an ecstatic death, 
 
 And be born a thing divine ; 
 That God's own joy and God's own breath 
 
 Shall fill man like living wine. 
 
 That ambition shall vanish, and love be king ; 
 
 And pride lower and lower lie ; 
 Till, for very love of a living thing, 
 
 A man would forget and die ; 
 Were it not that love is the very spring 
 
 That all life is living by. 
 
 Alas ! is it this ? What a fool am I 
 In the kingdom of heaven the least 
 
 To choose a labour so lowly-high, 
 To anoint myself a priest ! 
 
 In the worst of prides that I might sit by 
 The Master of the feast. 
 
24 THE THREE HORSES, 
 
 Alas ! alas ! Lead her back again. 
 
 Some healthful sorrow I need. 
 I am overweening, ignorant, vain. 
 
 Yet, Lord, if I take good heed, 
 May I wash the hoofs and comb the mane 
 
 Of the shining gospel-steed ? 
 
 GEORGE MACDONALD. 
 
SUDDEN LIGHT. 
 
 I HAVE been liere before, 
 
 Though when or how I cannot tell ; 
 I know the path beyond the door, 
 
 The sweet fresh smell, 
 The sighing sound, the lights around the shore. 
 
 You have been mine before, 
 
 How long ago I do not know: 
 But just when, at that swallow's soar, 
 
 Your neck turned so, 
 Some veil did fall, I knew it all of yore. 
 
 Before may be again: 
 
 Oh! press my eyes into your neck. 
 Shall we not be for ever lain 
 
 Thus for Love's sake, 
 And sleep, and wake, yet never break the chain. 
 
 D. G. EOSSETTI. 
 
FOUR SONNETS FROM EARLY ITALIAN 
 PICTURES. 
 
 VERSIFIED IN ENGLISH BY WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. 
 
 I. 
 
 INSCRIBED ON THE PICTURE OF "Dio PADRE" IN THE CAMPO SANTO, 
 PISA, BY MASTER PIETRO DI BARTOLO, 1390. 
 
 ALL ye who look upon this picture, see 
 
 Our high God, our most pitiful Creator, 
 Who numbered, measured, weighed, all things that be, 
 
 Working with love ; who also made the store 
 Of ninefold splendours, in whose harmony 
 
 The angel natures agitate ; by whom, 
 Himself immovable, all things are moved 
 
 Shaped fair at first, whate'er they have become. 
 Open your spiritual eyes and be reproved, 
 
 Considering well the ordinance of all, 
 Praising the hand which framed so wonderful 
 
 This world, and that to which we hope the call 
 Of time will bring us when our years are full, 
 
 To walk in Paradise with angels tall. 
 Even to this aspires my pictured story, 
 To show the depth beneath, the middle way, the Glory. 
 
FOUR SONNETS. 27 
 
 II. 
 
 VERSES BENEATH THE PICTURE EMBLEMATICAL OF THE CITY OF SIENA, 
 IN THE PALAZZO PUBBLICO THERE, BY AMBROGIO DI LORENZO, 1339. 
 
 WHEN laurelled Honour in the hall holds sway. 
 
 Making as one the many minds of men, 
 Subduing each and strengthening all, till they 
 
 The commonweal as their just Lord maintain, 
 The State is strong, and peaceful outwardly 
 
 Lives in her children's good ; her great eyes bent 
 Upon the starry splendours constantly 
 
 Revolving round her in a firmament 
 Where Virtues are the planets. At her feet 
 
 The Signorie with tribute, tax, and due, 
 All willing offerings, from the four ways meet ; 
 
 And Justice is all-seeing, winged, and true ; 
 And Dame Civility, by days and nights 
 Adds to the common stores of uses, wants, delights. 
 
28 FOUR SONNETS. 
 
 ILL 
 
 ON THE PICTURE X)F GOOD GOVERNMENT, A PORTION OF THE SAME 
 WALL PAINTING AS THE LAST. 
 
 TUKN your considerate eyes here, ye who reign, 
 And note what hath been figured on this wall. 
 A goddess crowned with great excellence 
 Renders to every one his amplest gain : 
 Behold from her how many good things fall; 
 Behold sweet Peace the flowers of life dispense 
 Over the city which this goddess serves; 
 Behold she guards and watches, yea she feeds 
 And cherishes all those whom honour leads 
 Within her gates : for her eye never swerves, 
 But like the sun that everywhere surveys, 
 Illumines him who justly merits praise, 
 Sustains the weak, and sends on the evil, rain 
 Of cleansing fire and retributive pain. 
 
FOUR SONNETS. 29 
 
 IV, 
 
 VERSES UNDER THE CORONATION OF THE VIRGIN, BY SANO DI PEETRO, 
 IN THE PALAZZO PUBBLICO, AT SIENA, PAINTED 1445. 
 
 VEKY glorious throughout heaven! in one, 
 Mother, maid, spouse: (by greatest mystery she 
 Who was the daughter of her unborn Son : 
 She whom the Father from eternity 
 Found humble more than any other maid, 
 And gave her of this universe the crown :) 
 Here have I, Sano Pietro, essayed 
 To paint, unworthy of such high renown. 
 Thou, Virgin-mother of immaculate God, 
 Crowned by His terrible holy hand, look down 
 Upon the field, the vineyard, and the town, 
 Guard them from fire and sword, and from the rod 
 Of pestilence and other ills ; for we, 
 Crying, Ave ! gratia plena ! trust in thee. 
 
AFTER SUNSET. 
 
 THE vast and solemn company of clouds 
 
 Around the Sun's death, lit, incarnadined, 
 
 Cool into ashy wan ; as Night enshrouds 
 
 The level pasture, creeping up behind 
 
 Through voiceless vales, o'er lawn and purpled hill 
 
 And hazed mead, her mystery to fulfil. 
 
 Cows low from far-off farms ; the loitering wind 
 
 Sighs in the hedge, you hear it if you will ; 
 
 Though all the wood, alive atop with wings 
 
 Lifting and sinking through the leafy nooks, 
 
 Seethes with the clamour of ten thousand rooks. 
 
 Now every sound at length has dropt away. 
 
 These few are sacred moments. One more Day 
 
 Drowned in the shadowy gulf of bygone things. 
 
 W. ALLINGHAM. 
 
THE MERSEY AND THE IRWELL. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A VEEY CURIOUS AND INTERESTING MODEL OF THE 
 LITTLE TOWN OF LIVERPOOL, AS IT EXISTED IN THE EARLIER. 
 PART OF THE LAST CENTURY. 
 
 A CENTURY since the Mersey flowed 
 
 Unburdened to the sea ; 
 In the blue air no smoky cloud 
 
 Hung over wood and lea, 
 Where the old church with the fretted tower 
 
 Had a hamlet round its knee. 
 
 And all along the Eastern way 
 
 The sheep fed on the track ; 
 The grass grew quietly all the day. 
 
 Only the rooks were black ; 
 And the pedlar frightened the lambs at play 
 
 With his knapsack on his back. 
 
 Where blended Irk and Irwell streamed 
 
 While Britons pitched the tent, 
 Where legionary helmets gleamed, 
 
 And Norman bows were bent, 
 
32 THE MERSEY AND THE IRWELL. 
 
 An ancient shrine was once esteemed 
 Where pilgrims daily went. 
 
 A century since the pedlar still 
 Somewhat of this might know, 
 
 Might see the weekly markets fill 
 And the people ebb and flow 
 
 Beneath St. Mary's on the hill 
 A hundred years ago. 
 
 Since then a vast and filmy veil 
 
 Is o'er the landscape drawn, 
 Through which the sunset hues look pale, 
 
 And grey the roseate dawn, 
 And the fair face of hill and dale 
 
 Is apt to seem forlorn. 
 
 Smoke rising from a thousand fires 
 Hides all that past from view ; 
 
 Vainly the prophet's heart aspires, 
 It hides the future too; 
 
 And the England of our slow-paced sires 
 Is thought upon by few. 
 
THE MERSEY AND THE IRWELL. 33 
 
 Yet man lives not by bread alone, 
 
 How shall he live by gold ? 
 The answer comes in a sudden moan 
 
 Of sickness, hunger, and cold ; 
 And lo ! the seed of a new life sown 
 
 In the ruins of the old ! 
 
 The human heart, which seemed so dead, 
 
 Wakes with a sudden start ; 
 To right and left we hear it said 
 
 " Nay ; 'tis a noble heart," 
 And the angels whisper overhead 
 
 " There's a new shrine built in the mart ! "" 
 
 And though it be long since daisies grew 
 
 Where Irk and Irwell flow, 
 If human love springs up anew, 
 
 And angels come and go, 
 What matters it that the skies were blue 
 
 A hundred years ago ! 
 
 BESSIE E. PARKES. 
 
THE EYE OF GOD. 
 
 ALL creation liveth 
 
 In the eye of God ; 
 Kings that rule the nations, 
 
 Flowers that deck the sod. 
 
 All creation liveth 
 
 In that Eye, whose lid 
 
 Never droops in slumber; 
 From which nought is hid. 
 
 Nought that eye o'erlooketh, 
 Motes of life too small 
 
 For man ? s aided vision 
 God's eye sees them all ! 
 
 Everywhere, and always, 
 Now and heretofore, 
 
 Where no line hath sounded, 
 Where no thought can soar 
 
THE EYE OF GOD. 35 
 
 God's great eye is open ; 
 
 God's eye looketh through, 
 Seeing, comprehending 
 
 What all tendeth to. 
 
 Nought that Eye withstandeth ; 
 
 Its keen shafts of sight, 
 Like electric arrows 
 
 Cleave the depths of night. 
 
 Thou canst not enshroud thee 
 
 In a pall so dense, 
 But God's eye hath tracked thee, 
 
 And will draw thee thence. 
 
 God is with thee, round thee, 
 
 God's great eye is set, 
 On thee like the meshes 
 
 Of a wondrous net. 
 
 There is no escaping! 
 
 Death but brings thee nigher ; 
 
 Lays thee still more open 
 To His glance of fire ! 
 E 2 
 
36 THE EYE OF GOD. 
 
 Yet fear net but rather 
 
 Let thy soul rejoice 
 That God's Omnipresence, 
 
 Is beyond thy choice. 
 
 That from the All-Seeing 
 
 Nought can thee remove ; 
 For that ceaseless vision, 
 
 That great Eye, is LOVE ! 
 
 MARY HOWITT. 
 
AD SEPULCEUM. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 His plumy helm he laid aside, 
 
 Agnes ! Agnes ! 
 Here he doffd his knightly pride, 
 
 Sister ! Agnes ! 
 
 His knees on the sod he leant, 
 
 Where thou art sleeping : 
 His brows to the cross he bent, 
 
 Bitterly weeping. 
 
 The gusts, that made the branches moan- 
 
 Betroth'd Agnes ! 
 Pierc'd his bosom always lone 
 
 Betray' d Agnes ! 
 
 Billow-like swelPd the grief 
 
 Over his heart anew : 
 Prone to the ground he fell, 
 
 Like a cold corse in hue. 
 
AD SEPULCRUM. 
 
 Word of grief none he spoke : 
 
 Deep was his groaning. 
 There should his heart have broke 
 
 Tow'rd an atoning. 
 
 Up I he'll fight in Palestina, 
 Bare of his dishonoured helm, 
 
 He that left thine head uncovered 
 Unto scorns that overwhelm. 
 
 There on grappled flag the dying 
 
 Templars set 
 Strained eyeballs, and their flying 
 
 Souls forget. 
 
 There the horsehoofs, rearing wildly, 
 Burst the pikemen's kneeling line 
 
 Ere the scimitar-waving rider 
 Sinks by cross-bow shaft supine. 
 
 Under the fallen steed, 
 
 Cloven in twain his arm, 
 Over the slain his head, 
 
 Feet on the groaning warm. 
 
AD SEPULCRUM. 39 
 
 Pass'd by the flying rout, 
 
 In the still night alone, 
 By the chill dews awak'd, 
 
 Stiff as the quarry-stone. 
 
 In the solitude of the many dead, 
 
 From the bonds of numbness and of pain, 
 
 From oblivion craved and coveted, 
 Let to conscience wake his heart again. 
 
 Saying, How shall he enter where 
 
 Christ in all time is view'd ? 
 Faith is unbroken there, 
 
 Love is not lewd. 
 
 Ah, Christ ! that I could breathe her tale 
 
 Yet once more in his ears ! 
 To the proud man's eyes before he dies 
 
 Should come again thick tears. 
 
 She twin'd herself a chaplet 
 
 Of the white may and the red ; 
 She twin'd herself her chaplet, 
 
 Then tore it from her head. 
 
40 AD SEPULCRUM. 
 
 She gather'd her five branches 
 Of the red may and the white ; 
 
 They grac'd her hands of rose and milk 
 Full goodly was the sight. 
 
 She came across that little bridge 
 
 Above the brawling rill; 
 She wrapt her kerchief round her breast, 
 
 For the wind was loud and chill. 
 
 Then bruised she the blossoms 
 
 Of white and crimson may ; 
 Some she gave to the whistling wind, 
 
 To carry them where he may. 
 
 Some she let from her soft hands fall, 
 And flutter down into the brook : 
 
 As the waters carried them under the bridge 
 She followed with vacant look. 
 
 That swelling stream discoloured 
 Their white and crimson glow: 
 
 As the water sank in the delicate leaves, 
 They seem'd to melt like snow. 
 
AD SEPULCRUM. 41 
 
 Then took she those may-branches 
 That had been so pure and sweet: 
 
 And shook off the thin and pining flowers, 
 And trampled them under her feet. 
 
 " And oh, like those boughs of may," she cried, 
 " Was the morning of life to me : 
 
 Hopes and schemes as thick and as bright 
 As the blossoms hang on the tree. 
 
 " Some have I given to the whistling wind, 
 
 To carry them where he may, 
 And some into the brook let fall 
 
 And the waters have borne them away. 
 
 " Some have I trampled under my feet, 
 
 With bitter thoughts and ill ; 
 And the flower of flowers a deceiver I gave : 
 
 One trust is left me still." 
 
 She look'd adown into the brook, 
 Her tears in the dark stream fell : 
 
 Her bosom was cold, heart heavy as lead, 
 And the wind was chill and snell. 
 
42 AD SEPULCRUM. 
 
 She let her arms beside her fall, 
 
 Laid her brow to the cold grey stone : 
 
 She bow'd in her sobs to the low bridge wall, 
 And her gaze on the ground was thrown. 
 
 When she lifted her brow from the cold grey stone 
 
 She gather'd those boughs of may : 
 One branch gather'd she out of the five 
 
 And went on her lonesome way. 
 
 When she came to the green fair bank, 
 
 The sun gleam'd over the hill: 
 The round rain-drop on her cheek had falPn 
 
 When she looked in the brawling rill. 
 
 There she planted the branch of may 
 Whose blossoms were scattered and strown y 
 
 All in the grass and the green soft moss 
 And her gaze on the ground was thrown. 
 
 All in the grass and the green soft moss 
 
 She planted it, right as is meet 
 "God prosper thee with sunshine and rain, 
 
 And guard thee from wayfaring feet. 
 
AD SEPULCRUM. 43 
 
 "For now to the nunnery yonder 
 
 My steps by his grave I have bent. 
 There must I rue my sinful life 
 
 And love too lightly lent. 
 
 " All my days of fair fame are over ; 
 
 All my wealth I carry with me ; 
 I thought to have shared it with my false lover 
 
 Now I give to this nunnerie. 
 
 "Even as thou, poor bruised branch, 
 
 God thee giving sunshine and rain, 
 Mayst yet rise to a noble thorn 
 
 Though I see thee never again. 
 
 " I go seeking sweet hope and peace, 
 
 To win for a fairer morrow, 
 And the love, which a sinful heart despised, 
 
 To regain with prayer and sorrow." 
 
 C. B. CAYLEY. 
 
BROTHERS. 
 I. 
 
 HARD is the lot of the worker : 
 His heart had need be brave, 
 With death in life to wrestle 
 From the cradle to the grave. 
 Sternly the sorrows meet him 
 In the thick of the mortal fray 
 But the night must serve for weeping 
 Work must be done by day. 
 
 High rose the houses, a great human hive, 
 Crowded from roof to base with busy life. 
 While in the stifling courts the children swarmed. 
 A chill, grey day died blank and colourless 
 Within the narrow walls that hedged a home, 
 Amid those close-pent dwellings, as out-worn 
 A twice-made mother, on the bed of birth, 
 Trembled her life away. 
 
 The light was gone; 
 
 And the poor chamber held the pomp of death 
 More awful than the majesty of Kings 
 Before set free from labour, to his home 
 
BROTHERS. 45 
 
 The father came And first there greeted him 
 Faint cries of new-found life, and then he passed 
 Into that silent presence. 
 
 From his sight 
 
 The nurse, a simple neighbour, bore the babe 
 And left him with his sorrow and the night. 
 Low in a corner lay his little lad, 
 Whose seven blythe years had brought no bitterness 
 Like this bad day's : for never in his pain 
 Had she been pitiless ; nor, until now, 
 Unanswering to his cries. For he had cried 
 " I'm hungry," and she had not stretched her hands ; 
 " I'm weary," and she drew him not to rest, 
 With touch of tender kisses on his hair. 
 Now, wearied out with weeping wilderment, 
 He slept. 
 
 Between the sleeping and the dead 
 The strong man bowed himself and took his place 
 To watch the night out. 
 
 Covered, still, and white, 
 It lay that awful burden on the bed 
 He should have shared. He did not lift the shroud 
 
46 BROTHERS. 
 
 To look upon the lifeless face, or press 
 
 Its lips with unfelt kisses ; did not stain 
 
 Its whiteness with a tear. Beside him lay 
 
 Her one ring worn throughout those wedded years, 
 
 From fingers stiffening in the clasp of death 
 
 Withdrawn ; and as he gently lifted it, 
 
 A sudden strangeness fell on all his life, 
 
 And made it blank through all its soulless days, 
 
 But left, like hill-tops lifted thro' a flood, 
 
 The living hours of love. 
 
 The boy awoke 
 
 And saw him sit there ; slept, and woke again ; 
 And there he sat and loomed out of the dark 
 Until he seemed a giant to the child. 
 The chequered moonlight fell across the floor 
 Leaving the death-bed curtained by the dark 
 And awful mysteries of life and death, 
 Confused, impenetrable, undefined, 
 Hovered about the boy, and he would fain 
 Have called upon his father in the night, 
 But that he seemed a portion of the dread, 
 The unappeasable, appealless fate 
 
BROTHERS. 47 
 
 That held him, and should hold him ever more. 
 Then he bethought him of his prayer, and said 
 "Our Father," and so slept until the dawn. 
 And in the faint dawn he was sitting there, 
 Who never once had drowsed nor drooped his head 
 Nor groaned for any anguish of his soul 
 But when the morning sun looked in, he rose 
 With sweat drops on his forehead. 
 
 II. 
 
 He must serve needs of the body, 
 Let the soul's be served or not ; 
 And work must be remembered 
 Though God should be forgot. 
 Yet if God were forgotten 
 By weary women and men, 
 To the earth, however guilty, 
 He would come a child again. 
 
 The boy was nursed and named a northern name 
 Ronald the rush of battle on the hills 
 It seemed to echo by the hearth of peace. 
 The father gave the elder brother charge 
 
48 BROTHERS. 
 
 To shut out strangers, keep the child from harm r 
 
 And feed the fire upon the winter's hearth, 
 
 Himself performed the menial offices 
 
 Which humble women for their households do. 
 
 While in his bosom slept the little one, 
 
 And woke the woman's nature in the man 
 
 To do the woman's part, that if he stirred 
 
 Or moaned but in a dream of restlessness, 
 
 It roused him from the deepest sleep of toil, 
 
 New nerving every sense. 
 
 When summer came, Allen, the elder boy, 
 
 In a round bundle clasping Ronald fast, 
 
 Sat in a doorway in the steep old street 
 
 That thrid the thickest quarter of the town, 
 
 Yet went out freely to the breezy fields 
 
 That lay within the shadow of the hills. 
 
 Then, as his baby learnt to walk and run, 
 
 Farther and farther he would lead him forth 
 
 Beyond the streets ; in the thick meadow grass 
 
 To find bright golden buttercups and nests 
 
 Of daisies silver-fringed. 
 
 Then, having learnt to read on winter nights, 
 
BROTHERS. 49 
 
 He took the Pilgrim's Progress to the hills, 
 
 And read while little Ronald ran about, 
 
 Till hunger drove them home. And as the days 
 
 Lengthened and brightened, he, with pockets filled 
 
 With bread with which to feed the ravenous babe 
 
 Who cried because he might not eat the book 
 
 Stayed all day long abroad among the hills : 
 
 The hills to him were meanings of the book : 
 
 He saw the sunset redden on the rocks, 
 
 And climbing to a point where he could watch 
 
 The sun sink on the plain, before him lay 
 
 The deep dark river in a belt of cloud, 
 
 While the great glory of the golden towers 
 
 Of the celestial city rose beyond. 
 
 And in the night, when drunken revel roused 
 
 The echoing street, the boy would lie awake, 
 
 And firm resolve to go on pilgrimage : 
 
 His father should go with him, Ronald too : 
 
 Did they not dwell within that fearful place, 
 
 The City of Destruction ? And at length 
 
 One stifling night, when the court gasped for breath, 
 
 Wide-windowed, with a sudden thrilling cry, 
 
50 BROTHERS. 
 
 There rose a rush of flame into the dark ; 
 There fell a sparkling shower of crimson fire ; 
 And all the gathering crowd amid the glare 
 Had demon faces. In his wild affright, 
 With passionate tears he seized his father's hand, 
 Beseeching him to flee. Then for a fool 
 His father chid him, while with wild delight 
 Ronald had clambered to his arms and clapped 
 His tiny hands and shouted when the crowd 
 Scattered before the fall of burning brands. 
 On Sabbath, to their haunts among the hills, 
 Allen and Eonald lured their father forth. 
 There, lying in the grass, he watched their play, 
 And learned at length to share it. Ronald loved 
 To play at burial: o'er his prostrate form 
 To heap up blade and blossom ruthless plucked, 
 And then to have his victim start to life, 
 Scattering the light load of the fragrant tomb. 
 Then o'er his heart a grateful sense of rest 
 And pleasant things provided all for play 
 Stole ; and on intervals of rest there rose 
 Strange questionings from childish lips, that reached 
 
BROTHERS. 51 
 
 Unto the height of heaven, and went out 
 To the unmeasured bounds of Universe, 
 Till the man marvelled, feeling in his breast 
 The child-heart half renewed. 
 
 When suddenly 
 
 His little Ronald, fever-smitten lay : 
 Moaning in suffering, or in passionate strength 
 Rising with crimson cheek and sparkling eyes 
 And hot clenched hands that battled as for life, 
 To sink back spent and helpless. How he watched 
 He worked not, slept not. He was almost fierce, 
 When, with unknowing eyes, the little one 
 Put him aside, and with a vehement clasp 
 Clung to his brother's neck. At length the fire 
 Burned itself out, and in its ashes left 
 The feeblest spark of life. The emaciate limbs 
 Lay quiet, and the thin blue veins spread cool 
 Over the wasted temples. As he watched 
 That healing night pass over him, he cried, 
 " God give him back, and lead me thus to Thee." 
 So learned he what was in the Father's heart, 
 And having learned, changed places with the child 
 p 2 
 
52 BROTHERS. 
 
 The fever smote him, and he bowed his head 
 With a strange meekness. A few days and nights 
 Confused and hurrying like his pulses faint, 
 Then a clear conscious passing of the soul 
 Through which the pang of parting keenly smote, 
 And the last hour was come. The children slept: 
 He gave no blessing, breathed no sad farewell 
 He too would sleep and leave the world to God. 
 
 III. 
 
 Deep in the heart of the worker 
 
 Too little understood 
 
 Deep in the heart of the worker 
 
 Lies the sense of brotherhood. 
 
 Alone may sit the thinker, 
 
 And build his tower of thought ; 
 
 The earth's hard stone and iron 
 
 By many hands are wrought. 
 
 And from the hour when they woke fatherless, 
 There grew into the elder brother's life, 
 A deep and conscious sense of brotherhood 
 That henceforth he must think, and toil, and bear, 
 
BROTHERS. 53 
 
 For one who could not. So he took his place 
 Among the workers where the hundred wheels 
 That seem to weave the web of fate go round. 
 And Ronald's nursing mother took the twain 
 To enrich herself, because she was so poor. 
 Thus patient years went on, and Ronald grew 
 Above his young companions, tall and strong. 
 And when at length it was his time to toil, 
 Went daily forth. His singing, as he went, 
 Even when the streets were grey and desolate 
 On rainy mornings woke the echoes up. 
 He was not selfish, yet was of the stuff 
 Through which that rust eats readiest ; careless, gay, 
 With strong exuberant life ; and most unlike 
 That pale and feeble brother, whose slight frame 
 Was swift to suffer, and whose keen strung nerves 
 Would find a very torture of the wheel 
 At times amid the noises of the mill. 
 He lived on books, and on the dew of dreams, 
 Cooled his hot thirst throughout the labouring day ; 
 While every night he drank a living draught 
 From some full fount of thought to feed his dreams, 
 
54 BROTHERS. 
 
 Night after night he sat down to the feast 
 Of knowledge with the poet and the sage : 
 The old magician science led him on 
 Beneath the strong foundations of the earth, 
 Through palaces enchanted ; builded up 
 Invisibly, through ages ; heaped with stores 
 Of treasures ; floored with strange mosaic work 
 Of living forms extinguished : opened up 
 World upon world of wonder, order fair 
 Reigning through all; no loose disjointed dream, 
 But one vast, endless sequence and design, 
 Worthy the thought of God. 
 
 And wisdom came 
 
 And showed her glorious beauty to the youth, 
 Who thenceforth vowed to serve her evermore, 
 His rightful queen, whose subjects all are free. 
 Who freely must be chosen, crowned, obeyed, 
 Administering the righteous laws of life, 
 All whose transgressors perish : are enslaved 
 By sin's strong fetters and the pangs of pain. 
 
 Then he saw 
 His fellows working blindly in the yoke, 
 
BROTHERS. 55 
 
 Becoming bond-slaves. Where man serves the work 
 And not the work the man ; if he escapes, 
 The hounds of famine hunt him back again ; 
 He lives but half his days, gives life itself 
 For th' lowest needs of life. 
 
 And sadder still 
 
 And sadder grew the spirit of the man 
 Within him. Barren, if unshared 
 By these his fellows, seemed the richest fruit 
 Of wisdom. Bitter even the bread of life. 
 And even Ronald shared not, but roamed forth 
 In search of action for each sense fresh roused 
 After the long day's dull monotony. 
 Till, on one night, flushed face and wandering eye 
 Met the pale student at the midnight hour, 
 Telling of fierce temptation. Then a voice 
 Within him cried, commanding him to save. 
 And there arose a conflict in his soul 
 As from its depths an evil whisper rose 
 " Am I my brother's keeper evermore ? " 
 And then he knew his lonely dreams were vain, 
 And all his life seemed walled up by despair. 
 
56 BROTHERS. 
 
 Therefore his books were closed for many days ; 
 And Eonald, restless, and half conscience-struck, 
 Watched him and wondered that he did not speak ; 
 Till, sitting with his face hid in his hands, 
 One night he muttered almost with a groan, 
 "If I had only strength to work it out!" 
 And Ronald, turning on the threshold, cried, 
 "See, I have strength; it is strength this I feel! 
 That drives me out each night to meet with men 
 Yet where's the use of it ? I wish I were 
 The great blind wheel that sets the mill to work. 
 I know not what to do." 
 
 " Do this and live " 
 
 Rose like a prophet's speech to Allan's lips 
 And they, though drifting more and more apart 
 Drew near and were at one as head and hand 
 As he unfolded what had been his thought 
 These many days. That fellow- workers might 
 So work together for their common weal ; 
 So pour together in a common store 
 Those sacred gains of labour, which are life, 
 As to become the masters of themselves, 
 
BROTHERS. 57 
 
 Masters and lords of their own heritage 
 Of labour. And the work inspired the youth, 
 And going forth he gathered soon a band 
 Of eager fellow-labourers. And the plan 
 Prospered, until the people owned the mill, 
 And not the mill the people. 
 
 Then new life 
 
 Came back to his old dreams and Allan dreamed 
 That from this newer, higher, freer life, 
 Men might rise up full furnished and complete 
 In all that makes the man, in strength and love ; 
 In knowledge and in wisdom and in worth. 
 
 ISA CRAIG. 
 

 ENGLAND AND AMERICA. 
 
 1863. 
 ? 
 
 WE only know that in the sultry weather 
 Men toiled for us as in the steaming room, 
 
 And in our minds we hardly set together 
 
 The bondsman's penance and the freeman's loom. 
 
 We never thought the jealous Gods would store 
 For us ill deeds of time-forgotten graves, 
 
 Nor heeded that the Mayflower one day bore 
 A freight of Pilgrims, and another Slaves. 
 
 First on the bold upholders of the wrong, 
 And last on us, the heavy laden years 
 
 Avenged the cruel triumphs of the strong 
 Trampled affections, and derided tears. 
 
 Labour degraded from her high behest 
 
 Cries, " Ye shall know I am the living breath, 
 
ENGLAJSTD AND AMERICA. 59 
 
 P 
 
 And not the ciirse of Man. Ye shall have Rest 
 The rest of famine and the rest of Death." 
 
 Oh, happy distant hours ! that shall restore 
 Honour to work, and pleasure to repose, 
 
 Hasten your steps, just heard above the roar 
 Of wildering passions and the crash of foes. 
 
 E. MONCKTON MILNE s. 
 
THE JESTER'S PLEA. 
 
 THE WORLD ! Was jester ever in 
 
 A viler than the present ? 
 Yet if it ugly is ... as sin, 
 
 It almost is ... as pleasant ! 
 It is a merry world (pro tern.) 
 
 And some are gay, and therefore 
 It pleases them bat some condemn 
 
 The fun they do not care for. 
 
 It is an ugly world. Offend 
 
 Good people how they wrangle! 
 The manners that they never mend ! 
 
 The characters they mangle ! 
 They eat, and drink, and scheme, and plod, 
 
 And go to church on Sunday 
 And many are afraid of God 
 
 And more of Mrs. Grundy, 
 
THE JESTER'S PLEA. 61 
 
 The time for Pen and Sword was when 
 
 " My ladye fayre," for pity 
 Could tend her wounded knight, and then 
 
 Be tender for his ditty ! 
 Some ladies now make pretty songs, 
 
 And some make pretty nurses : j 
 Some men are good for righting wrongs, 
 
 And some for writing verses. 
 
 One tax our patience long has stood 
 
 The tax that poets levy ! 
 I know the Muse is very good 
 
 I think she's rather heavy. 
 She now compounds for winning ways 
 
 By morals of the sternest 
 I think the bards of now-a-days 
 
 Are painfully in earnest. 
 
 When Wisdom halts, I humbly try 
 
 And put a point on Folly : 
 If Pallas won't be civil, I 
 
 Away, and flirt with Polly, 
 
62 THE JESTER'S PLEA. 
 
 Who quit the goddess for the maid 
 
 Must certainly be losers 
 But Pallas is a lofty jade 
 
 And beggars can't be choosers. 
 
 I do not wish to see the slaves 
 
 Of party, stirring passion, 
 Or psalms quite superseding staves, 
 
 Or piety " the fashion." 
 I bless the Hearts where pity glows, 
 
 Who here together banded 
 Are holding out a hand to those 
 
 That wait so empty-handed. 
 
 A righteous Work ! My masters, may 
 
 A jester by confession, 
 Scarce noticed join, half sad, half gay, 
 
 The close of your procession ; 
 The motley here seems out of place 
 
 With graver robes to mingle, 
 But if one tear bedews his face, 
 
 Forgive the bells their jingle. 
 
 FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 PKIKTBD BY EMILY FAITHFULL, VICTORIA PRESS, 83A, FARRINttDON STRBBT, E.C 
 
: ,