UNIVE ^"" ai vm LIST OF POETS Issued uniform with this Vol. 2s. each. 1 CHRISTIAN YEAR. With Portrait of John Keble. 2 LONUFELLOW. With Portrait of Longfellow. 3 SHELLEY. With Portrait of Shelley. 4 WORDSWORTH. With Portrait of Wordsworth. 5 WHITTIER. With Portrait of Whittier. G BURNS. Sonets \With Portrait of Burns, and View of "The 7 BURNS. Poems j" Auld Brig o' Doon.' 8 KEATS. With Portrait of Keats. 9 EMERSON. With Portrait of Emerson. 10 SONNETS OF THIS CENTURY. With Portrait of D. G. RossettL 11 WHITMAN. With Portrait of Whitman. 12 LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. With Portrait of Eric Mackay. 13 SCOTT. Lady of the Lake,^ With Portrait of Sir Walter Scott, etc. r and View of " The .Silver 14 SCOTT. Marmion, etc. J Strand, Loch Katrine." 15 CHILDREN OF THE POETS. With an Engraving of " The Orphans," bv Gainsborough. 16 SONNETS OF EUROPE. With Portrait of J. A. Svmonds. 17 SYDNEY DOBELL. With Portrait of Sydney Dobell. 18 HERRICK. With Portiait of Herrick. 19 BALLADS AND RONDEAUS. Portrait of W. E. Henlev. 20 IRISH MINSTRELSY. With Portrait of Thomas Davis." 21 PARADISE LOST. With Portrait of Milton. 22 FAIRY :MUSIC. With Engi-aving from a Drawing by C. E. Brock. 23 GOLDEN TREASURY. With Engraving of St John the Baptist Preaching. 24 AMERICAN SONNETS. With Portrait of J. R. Lowell. 25 IMITATION OF CHRIST. With an Engraving of the Ascension. 26 PAINTER POETS. With Portrait of Walter Ci-ane. 27 WOMEN POETS. With Portrait of Mrs. Browning. 28 POEMS OF HON. RODRN NOEL. Portrait of Hon. R. Noel. 29 AMERICAN HUMOROUS VERSE. With Portrait of Mark Twain. 30 SONGS OF FREEDOM. With Portrait of William Morris. 31 SCOTTISH MINOR POETS. With Portrait of R. Tannahill. 3-2 CONTEMPORARY SCOTTISH VERSE. With Portrait of Robert Louis Stevenson. 33 PARADISE RKGAINED. With Portrait of Milton. 34 CAVALIER POETS. W ith Portrait of Suckling. 35 HUMOROUS FOEMS. With Portrait of Hood. 36 HERBERT. With Portrait of Herbert. 37 PO K. With Portrait of Poe. 38 OWEN MEREDITH. With Portrait of late Lord Lytton. 39 LOVE LYRICS. 40 GERMAN BALLADS. With Portrait of Schiller. London : W.\lter Scott, Limited, 24 Warwick Lane. TT QV^ L ETTERS OF A MlA VIOLhNIST AND OTHER poe:ms. by eric mackay. AUTHOR OF 'THE SONG OF THE FLAG, "the royal iMARRIAGE ODE," ETC. SIXTH "CANTERBURY" EDITION. WITH PORTRAIT. Beinj the Eighth Edition oj this Work. LONDON : WALTER SCOTT, LIMITED, 24 WARWICK LANE. NEW YORK : 3 EAST FOURTEENTH STREET. /1 3 U ■'SB-' " ^ GorjTENTj^. Introductory Notice , Love Letters of a Violinist Letter First — Prelude Letter Second — Sorrow Letter Third — Regrets Letter Fourth — Yearnings ... Letter Fifth — Confessions Letter Sixth — Despair Letter Seventh — Hope ... Letter Eighth — A Vision Letter Ninth — To-morrow Letter Tenth— ^ Retrospect ... Letter Eleventh— /aiV/4 .. Letter Twelfth— Victory PAGE ... XI I 9 . ... 17 25 . ..• 33 41 . ... 49 ... 57 ... 65 11 . .. 81 89 viii CONTENTS, PAGE Miscellaneous Poems : Anteros 99 The Waking of the Lark 103 A Ballad of Kisses 105 ^' Mary Arden 106 Sachal : A Waif of Battle in The Lady of the May 115 An Ode to Englishmen ,. 117 Zulalie 119 Beethoven at the Piano .. ... 121 A Rhapsody of Death . 124 A Prayer for Light 127 Mirage... ... ^. ,., 128 A Mother's Name 131 ... ' 132 135 142 143 145 149 ISO 15s 156 A Song of Servitude Sylvia in the West Eleanore The Statue Pablo de Sarasate My Amazon Pro Patria The Little Grave... A Dirge Daisies out at Sea 157 CONTENTS, ix PAGE Sonnets : I. Ecstasy . ... 163 II. Visions 164 III. The Daisy . ... 165 IV. Probation , 166 V. Dante ... 167 VI. Diffidence 168 VII. Fairies . ... 169 VIII. Spirit Love 170 IX. After Two Days ... !/[ X. Byron 172 XI. Love's Ambition ..- 173 XII. Love's Defeat... 174 Xin. A Thunderstorm at Night ... 175 XIV. In Tuscany ... 176 XV. A Hero ... 177 XVI. Remorse ... 178 XVIT. The Mission of the Bard ... 179 XVin. Death 180 XIX. To One I Love ... 181 XX. ExTenebra 182 XXL Victor Hugo ... 183 XXIL Cynthia ... 184 XXIII. Philomel ... 185 CONTENTS. Sonnets— {continued) : ^,- XXIV. The Sonnet King l86 XXV. Token Flowers 187 XXVI. A Prayer for England 188 XXVII. A Veteran Poet 189 A Choral Ode to Liberty 193 Italian Poems : La Zingarella 203 11 Ponte d' Aviglio 209 I Miei Saluti 210 >r I(Tjfi^oduqfoi7-v> IJoHqc, T the commencement of the year 1885, a captivating little volume of poems was mysteriously issued from the "Leadenhalle Presse" of Messrs. Field and Tuer — a quaint, vellum-bound, antique-looking book, tied up on all sides with strings of golden silk ribbon, and illustrated throughout with fanci- ful wood-cuts. It was entitled " Love-Letters by a Violinist," and those who were at first attracted by its title and suggestive outward appearance, untied the ribbons with a certain amount of curiosity. Love-letters were surely of a private, almost sacred character. What "Violinist " thus xii IN TROD UCTOR V AO TICE. ventured to publish his heart-records openly? and were they worth reading? Such were the questions asked by the pubUc, and last, not least, came the natural inquiry, " Who was the " 'Violinist ' ? " To this no satisfactory answer could be obtained, for nobody knew. But it was distinctly proved on perusal of the book that he was a poet, not a mere writer of verse. Specu- lations arose as to his identity, and Joseph Ellis, author of "Caesar in Egypt," reviewed the work as follows: — "Behold a mystery — who shall uncase it? "A small quarto, anonymous. The publisher "professes entire ignorance of its origin. Wild "guesses spring from the mask of a 'Violinist' " — who can he be? U7ide derivatur? A "Tyro? The work is too skilful for such, INTROD UCTOR Y NO TICE. xiii "though even a Byron. Young? Not old. "Tennyson? No — he hath not the grace of " style, at least for these verses. Browning? No " — he could not unbend so far. Edwin Arnold "might, possibly, have been equal to it, witness, ^^ tfiter alia^ 'Violetta'; but he is unlikely. " Lytton Bulwer, a voice from the tomb ? No. " His son, Owen Meredith ? A random sup- " position, yet possible. Rossetti — again a voice "from the tomb? James Thompson, the "younger, could have done it, but he was "too stern. Then, our detective ingenuity "proving incompetent, who? We seek the " Delphic fane — the oracle replies Swinburne, " Let us bow to the oracular voice, for in " Swinburne we find all requisites for the work " — fertility of thought, grace of language, in- xiv INTRO D UCTOR V NO TICK, "genuity, skill in the ars poetica^ wealth of "words, sensuous nature, classic resources, u -x- ^ ■)«■ * 'pjjg writer of the ' Love-Letters ' is "manifestly imbued with the tone and tune "of Italian poetry, and has the merit of proving "the English tongue capable of rivalling the " Italian ' Canzoni d^Amore' "^ * * * He is "a master of versification, so is Swinburne — "he is praiseworthy for freshness of thought, "novelty, and aptness in imagery, so is Swin- " burne. He is remarkable for sustained energy, "so is Swinburne; and thus it may safely be "said that, if not the writer of the 'Love- "' Letters,' he deserves to be accredited with "that mysterious production, until the author- " ship is avowed. -^ * * * Unto Britannia, as " erst to Italia, has been granted a Petrarch." IN TROD UCTOR V NO TICE. xv Meanwhile other leading voices in the Press joined the swelling chorus of praise. The Morning Post took up the theme, and, after vainly endeavouring to clear up the mystery of the authorship, went on to say: "The appear- "ance of this book must be regarded as a "literary phenomenon. We find ourselves "Hfted at once by the author's genius out " of the w^ork-a-day world of the England of "to-day, and transported into an atmosphere " as rare and ethereal as that in which the poet "of Vaucluse lived and moved and had his "being, -s^- -^ * -^ In nearly every stanza there "are unerring indications of a mind and heart " steeped in that subtlest of all forms of beauty, "the mythology of old Greece. The reader "perceives at once that he has to do with a xvi INTRO D UCTOR V NO TICE. "scholar and man of culture, as well as with ''an inspired singer, whose muse need not feel *' abashed in the presence of the highest poets " of our own day." The Ti7nei special correspondent, Antonio Gallenga, expressed himself at some length on the merits of the "Violinist," and spoke of him "as one who can conjure up a host of "noble thoughts and bright fancies, who rejoices "in a great command of language, with a flow "of verse and a wealth of rhymes. It is impos- '• sible to hear his confessions, to follow him in " his aspirations, to hear the tale of his visions, "his trances, his dreams, without catching "his enthusiasm and bestowing on him our "sympathy. Each 'Love-Letter' is in twenty "stanzas — each stanza in six lines. The IN TROD UCTOR Y NO TICE. xvii "poem is regular and symmetrical as Dante's "'Comedy,' with as stately and solemn, ay, ''and as arduous a measure. . . . There are " marvellous powers in this poet-violinist. Pet- " rarch himself had not so many changes for his "conjugation of the verb 'to love.' In what a " variety of moods he addresses his 'white won- "der.' How he coaxes her, how he upbraids " and argues ! " While the world of art and letters thus discussed the volume, reading it meanwhile with such eagerness that the whole edition was soon entirely exhausted, a particularly brilliant and well-written critique of it appeared in the New York Independent — a very prominent American journal, destined afterwards to declare the author's identity, and to be the first to do so. In the columns of this paper had been frequently xviii INTROD UCTOR V NO T/CE. seen some peculiarly graceful and impassioned poems, signed by one Eric Mackay — notable among these being a lyric entitled " The Waking of the Lark " (included in our present volume), which, to quote the expression of a distinguished New York critic, " sent a thrill through the heart of America." There are no skylarks in the New World, but there is a deep tenderness felt by all Americans for the little " Priest in grey apparel " Who doth prepare to sing in air his sinless summer carol," and Eric Mackay's exquisite outburst of tender enthusiasm for the English bird of the morning evoked from all parts of the States a chorus of critical delight and approbation. The Rev. T. T. Hunger, an American critic, wrote concern- ing it to the editor of T/ie I7tdepende7it :— INTRO D UCTOR Y NO TICK. xix "This strikes me as the best poem I have " seen for a long time. As I read it stanza after "stanza, with not an imperfect verse, not a "commonplace, but with a sustained increase "of pure sentiment and glowing fancy, I was " incUned to place it beside Shelley's. It is not " so intellectual as Shelley's, but I am not sure " that it is not truer. Mackay's is the lark itself, " Shelley's is himself listening to the lark. Be- " sides Shelley makes the lark sing at evening — " as I believe it does — but surely ' it to the morn- " ' ing doth belong,' and Shakespeare is truer "in putting it at ' Heaven's gate.' It is a great "refreshment to us tired workers in the prose of "life to come across such a poem as this, and "seldom enough it happens nowadays. "Tell " Mr. Eric Mackay to sing us another song." XX INTRODUCrOR V NOTICE. This admired lyric was copied from the Independent into many other journals, to- gether with several other poems by the same hand, such as " A Vision of Beethoven," the beautiful verses addressed to the Spanish violinist, Pablo de Sarasate, and a spirited reply to Algernon Charles Swinburne, reproaching him for the attack which the author of " Tristram of " Lyonesse " had made on England's name and fame. One day a simple statement appeared in the Independsjif respecting the much dis- cussed "Love-Letters by a Violinist," that the author was simply a gentleman of good position, the descendant of a distinguished and very ancient family, Eric Mackay, known among his personal friends and intimates as a man of brilliant and extensive learning, whose frequent INTRODUCTORY NOTICE. xxi and long residences abroad have made him somewhat of a foreigner, though by birth an Enghshman. A fine linguist, a deep thinker, and profound student of the classics, Mr. Mackay may be ranked among the most cultured and accomplished men of his day, and, still young as he is, will undoubtedly be numbered with the choice few whose names are destined to live by the side of poets such as Keats, whom, as far as careful work, delicate feeling, and fiery tenderness go, Eric Mackay may be said to resemble, though there is a greater robustness and force in his muse, indicative of a strong mind in an equally strong and healthy body, which latter advantage the divine Keats had not, unfortunately for himself and the world The innate, hardly restrained vigour of Mr. xxii IN TROD UCTOR V NO TICE. Mackay's nature shows itself in such passages as occur in the sonnets, " Remorse," " A Thun- derstorm at Night;" also in the wild and terribly suggestive "Zulalie," while something of hot wrath and scorn leap out in such lines as those included in his ode to Swinburne, whom he addresses : — ** O thou five foot five "Of flesh and blood and sinew and the rest." **Thou art a bee, a bright, a golden thing " With too much honey, and the taste thereof *' Is sometimes rough, and something of a sting " Dwells in the music that we hear thee sing." * * * * and "Take back thy taunt, I say; and with the same "Accept our pardon; or, if this offend, "Why, then, no pardon, e'en in England's name. "We have our country still, and thou thy fame I" IN TROD UCTOR V NO TICE, xxiii At the same time no one in all England does more justice and honour to Swinburne's genius than Eric Mackay. His own strength as a poet suggests to the reader the idea of a spirited horse reined in tightly and persistently, — a horse which prances wildly at times and frets and foams at the bit, and might, on the least provoca- tion, run wild in a furious and headlong career, sweeping all conventionalities out of its road by a sheer straight-ahead gallop. Mr. Mackay is, however, a careful, even precise rider, and he keeps a firm hand on his rest- less Pegasus — so firm that, as his taste always leads him to depict the most fanciful and fine emotions, his steady resoluteness of restraint commands not only our admiration but our xxiv IN TROD UCTOR V NO T/CE, respect. While passionate to an extreme in the " Love-Letters," he is never indelicate ; the coarse, almost brutal, allusions made by some writers to certain phases of so-called love, which are best left unsuggested, never defile the pen of our present author, who may almost be called fastidious in such matters. How beautiful and all-sufficing to the mind is the line expressing the utter satisfaction of a victorious lover : — " Crowned with a kiss and sceptred with a joy I " No details are needed here — all is said. The " Violinist," though by turns regretful, sorrow- ful, and despairing, is supreme throughout. He speaks of the " lady of his song " as '* The lady for whose sake I shall be strong, "But never weak or diffident afijain.*' INTROD UCTOR V NO TICE. xxv The supremacy of manhood is insisted on always ; and the lover, though he entreats, implores, wonders and raves as all lovers do, never forgets his own dignity. He will take no second-best affection on his lady's part — this he plainly states in verse 19 of Letter V. Again, in the last letter of all, he asserts his mastery — and this is as it should be : absolute authority, as he knows, is the way to win and to keep a woman's affection. Such lovely fancies as '* Phcebus loosens all his golden hair ** Right down the sky — and daisies turn and stare ** At things we see not with our human wit" and *' A tuneful noise " Broke from the copse where late a breeze was slain, " And nightingales in ecstasy of pain " Did break their hearts with singing the old joys," xxvi INTRO D UCTOR Y NO TICE. abound all through the book. And here it is as well to mark the decision of our poet, even in trifles. The breeze he speaks of is not hushed, or still — none of the usual epithets are applied to it — it is ^* slainy*^ as utterly and as pitifully as though it were a murdered child. This originality of conception is remarkable, and comes out in such lines as " I will unpack my mind of all its fears " — where the word " unpack " is singularly appro- priate, and again — " O sweet To-morrow ! Youngest of the sons " Of old King Time, (o whom Creation runs '■'•As nun to Gnd." "Where a daisy grows, " There grows a joy ! " INTROD UCTOR V NO TICE. xxvii and beautiful and dainty to a high degree is the quaint " Retrospect," where the lover enthusiastically draws the sun and moon into his ecstasies, and makes them seem to partake in his admiration of his lady's loveliness, A graver and more philosophic turn of mind will be found in "A Song of Servitude," and "A Rhapsody of Death;" but, judged from a critical standpoint, Eric Mackay is a purely passionate poet, straying among the most volup- tuous imaginings, and sometimes seeming to despise the joys of Heaven itself for the sake of love. Thus he lays himself open to an accusa- tion of blasphemy from ultra-religious persons, yet it must be remembered that in this respect he in no way exceeds the emotions of Romeo and Juliet, Paolo, and Francesca da Rimini, or xxviii JNTRODUCTOR Y NOTICE. any of those lovers whose passion has earned for their names an undying celebrity. In closing the present notice we can but express a hope that this volume of Eric Mackay's poems may meet with the welcome it deserves from true lovers of Art : for Art includes Poetry; and Poetry, as properly defined, is one of its grandest and most enduring forms. G. D. . •. Some of the miscellaneous poems in this collection (including "Beethoven at the Piano") were published by the author a few years ago, under a pseudonym, now discarded. LETTER I. PRELUDE. TEACH me to love thee as a man, in prayer, May love the picture of a sainted nun, And I wall woo thee, when the day is done, With tears and vows, and fealty past compare. And seek the sunlight in thy golden hair, And kiss thy hand to claim thy benison. II. I shall not need to gaze upon the skies. Or mark the message of the morning breeze, Or heed the notes of birds among the trees, If, taught by thee to yearn for Paradise, I may confront thee with adoring eyes And do thee homage on my bended knees. —3— LETTER I. For I would be thy pilgrim ; I would bow Low as the grave, and, lingering in the same, Live like a spectre ; or be burnt in flame To do thee good. A kingdom for a vow I'd freely give to be elected now The chief of all the servants of thy fame. IV. Yea, like a Roman of the days of old, I would, for thee, construct a votive shrine, And fan the fire, and consecrate the wine \ And have a statue there, of purest gold, And bow thereto, unlov'd and unconsoled, But proud withal to know the statue thine. For it were sacrilege to stand erect, And face to face, within thy chamber lone, To urge again my right to what hath flown : A bygone trust, a passion coldly check' d ! Were I a king of men, or laurel-deck'd, I were not fit to claim thee as mine own. VI. What am I then ? The sexton of a joy. So lately slain, — so lately on its bier Laid out in state, — I dare not, for the fear Of this dead thing, regard it as a toy. It was a splendid Hope without alloy, And now, behold ! I greet it with a tear. PRELUDE, VII. It is my pastime, and my penance, too, My pride, my comfort, and my discontent. To count my sorrows ere the day is spent. And dream, at night, of love within the blue Of thy sweet eyes, and tremble through and through, And keep my house, as one that doth lament. VIII. Have I not sinn'd ? I have ; and I am curst, And Misery makes the moments, as they fly. Harder than stone, and sorrier than a sigh. Oh, I did wrong thee when I met thee first, And in my soul a fantasy was nurs'd That seem'd an outcome of the upper sky. I thought a poor musician might aspire ; I thought he might obtain from thee a look, As Dian's self will smile upon a brook, And make it glad, though deaf to its desire, And tinge its ripples with a tender fire, And make it thankful in its lonely nook. X. I thought to win thee ere the waning days Had caught the snow, ere yet a word of mine Had pall'd upon thee in the summer shine ; And I was fain to meet thee in the ways Of wild romance, and cling to thee, and gaze, Between two kisses, on thy face divine. LETTER I. XI. Aye ! on thy face, and on the rippling hair That makes a mantle round thee in the night, A royal robe, a network of the light, WHiich fairies brought for thee, to keep thee fair, And hide the glories of a beauty rare As those of sylphs, whereof the poets write. I thought, by token of thy matchless form, To curb thy will, and make thee mine indeed, From head to foot. There is no other creed For men and maids, in safety or in storm, Than this of love. Repentance may be warm, But love is best, though broken like a reed. " She shall be mine till death ! " I wildly said, "Mine, and mine only." And I vow'd, apace, That I would have thee in my dwelling-place ; Yea, like a despot, I would see thee led Straight to the altar, with a tear unshed, A v/ordless woe imprinted on thy face. XIV. I wanted thee. I yearned for thee afar. " She shall be mine," I cried, "and mine alone. A Gorgon grief may change me into stone If I be baulk'd." I hankered for a star, - And soar'd, in thought, to where the angels are. To snatch my prize beyond the torrid zone. PRELUDE. 7 XV. I heeded not the teaching of the past. 1 heeded not the wisdom of the years. " She shall be mine," I urged, "till death appears, For death, I know, will conquer me at last." And then I found the sky was overcast ; And then I felt the bitterness of tear.-. XVI. "Behold ! " I thought, *' Behold, how fair to see Is this white wonder ! " And 1 wish'd thee well But, like a demon out of darkest hell, I marr'd thy peace, and claim' d thee on the plea Of pride and passion ; and there came to me The far-off warning of a wedding-bell. A friend of thine was walking to her doom, A wife-elect, who, ere the summer sun Had plied its course, would weep for what done, — A friend of thine and mine, who, in the gloom Of her own soul, had built herself a tomb, To tremble there, when tears had ceas'd to run. XVIII. On this I brooded ; but ah ! not for this Did I abandon what I sought the while : The dear damnation of thy tender smile, And all the tortures that were like a bliss, And all the raptures of a holier kiss Than fair Miranda's on the magic isle. LETTER I, XIX. I urged my suit. ** My bond !" I did exclaim, ** My pink and white, the hand I love to press, The golden hair that crowns her loveliness ; And all the beauties which I cannot name ; All, all are mine, and I will have the same, Though she should hate me for my love's excess. I knew myself. I knew the withering fate That would consume me, if, amid my trust, I sued for Hope as beggars for a crust. * ' O God ! " I cried, entranced though desolate, "Hallow my love, or turn it into hate." And then I bow'd, in anguish, to the dust. Letter II. SORROW. ^^CQS' LETTER II. SORROW. YES, I was mad. I know it. I was mad. For there is madness in the looks of love ; And he who frights a tender, brooding dove Is not more base than I, and not so sad ; For I had kill'd the hope that made me glad, And curs'd, in thought, the sunlight from above. He was a fool, indeed, who lately tried To touch the moon, far-shining in the trees. He clomb the branches with his hands and knees. And craned his neck to kiss what he espied. But down he fell, unseemly in his pride, And told his follies to the fitful breeze. 13 LETTER II. I was convicted of as strange a thing, And wild as strange ; for, in a hope forlorn, I fought with Fate. But now the flag is torn Which like a herald in the days of spring I held aloft. The birds have ceased to sing The dear old songs they sang from morn to morn. All holy things avoid me. Breezes pass And will not fan my cheek, as once they did. The gloaming hies away like one forbid j And day returns, and shadows on the grass Fall from the trees ; and night and morn amass No joys for me this side the coffin-lid. Absolve me, Sweet ! Absolve me, or I die ; And give me pardon, if no other boon. Aye, give me pardon, and the sun and moon, And all the stars that wander through the sky Will be thy sponsors, and the gladden'd cry Of one poor heart vnll thank thee for it soon . And mine Amati — my beloved one — The tender sprite who soothes, as best he may, My fever'd pulse, and makes a roundelay Of all my fears — e'en he, when all is done, Will be thy friend, and yield his place to none To wish thee well, and greet thee day by day. SORROW. 13 VII. For he is human, though, to look at him, To see his shape, to hear, — as from the throat Of some bright angel, — his ecstatic note, A sinful soul might dream of cherubim. Aye ! and he watches when my senses swim, And I can trace the thoughts that o'er him float. Often, indeed, I tell him more than man E'er tells to woman in the honied hours Of tranced night, in cities or in bowers ; And more, perchance, than lovers in the span Of absent letters may, vA.\h scheming, plan For life's surrender in the fairy towers. And he consoles me. There is none I find. None in the world, so venturesome and wild. And yet withal, so tender, true, and mild. As he can be. And those wno think him blind Are much to blame. His ways are ever kind ; And he can plead as softly as a child. And when he talks to me I feel the touch Of some sweet hope, a feeling of content Almost akin to what by joy is meant. And then I brood on this ; for Love is such, It makes us weep to want it overmuch. If wayward Fate withhold his full consent. 14 LETTER 11. XI. Oh, come to me, thou friend of my desire, My lov'd Amati ! At a word of thine I can be brave, and dash away the brine From off my cheek, and neutralise the fire That makes me mad, and use thee as a lyre To curb the anguish of this soul of mine. Wood as thou art, my treasure, with the strings Fair on thy form, as fits thy parentage, I cannot deem that in a gilded cage Thy spirit lives. The bird that in thee sings Is not a mortal. No I Enthralment flings Its charai about thee like a poet's rage. XIII. Thou hast no sex ; but, in an elfish way, Thou dost entwine in one, as in a troth, The gleesome thoughts of man and maiden both. Thy voice is fullest at the flush of day, But after midnight there is much to say In weird remembrance of an April oath. XIV. And when the moon is seated on the throne Of some white cloud, with her attendants near — The wondering stars that hold her name in fear — Oh 1 then I know that mine Amati's tone Is all for me, and that he stands alone. First of his tribe, belov'd without a peer. SORROW, 15 Yea, this is so, my Lady ! A fair form Made of the gamer'd relics of a tree, In which of old a dryad of the lea Did live and die. He flourish'd in a storm, And learnt to warble when the days were warm And learnt at night the secrets of the sea. And now he is all mine, for my caress And my strong bow, — an Ariel, as it seems, — A something sweeter than the sweetest dreams ; A prison'd wizard that has come to bless And will not curse, though tortured, more or less. By some remembrance that athwart him streams. XVI i. It is the thought of April. 'Tis the tie That made us one ; for then the earth was fair With all things on't, and summer in the air Tingled for thee and me. A soft reply Came to thy lips, and I was like to die To hear thee make such coy confessions there. It was the dawn of love (or so I thought) The tender cooing of thy bosom«bird — The beating heart that fluttered at a word, And seem'd for me alone to be so fraught With wants unutter'd ! All my being caught Glamor thereat, as at a boon conferred. l6 LETTER 11, XIX. And I was lifted, in a minute's space, As nigh to Heaven as Heaven is nigh to thee, And in thy wistful glances I could see Something that seem'd a joy, and in thy face A splendour fit for angels in the place Where God has named them all in their degree. XX. Ah, none so blest as I, and none so proud, In that wild moment when a thrill was sent Right through my soul, as if from thee it went As flame from fire 1 But this was disallow'd \ And I shall sooner wear a winter shroud Than thou revoke my doom of banishment. »M »A» M(» >x» )^ ^^ pA» 'A* ^w* "w* **♦ ^ Letter III. REGRETS. -Mr L i ^s^Ba^i:gji) : LETTER III REGRETS. WHEN I did wake, to-day, a bird of Heaven, A wanton, woeless thing, a wandering sprite, Did seem to sing a song for my delight ; And, far away, did make its holy steven Sweeter to hear than lute-strings that are seven ; And I did weep thereat in my despite. II. O glorious sun ! I thought, O gracious king Of all this splendour that we call the earth ! For thee the lark distils his morning mirth, But who will hear the matins that I sing ? Who will be glad to greet me in the spring, Or heed the voice of one so little worth ? —4— 20 LETTER HI. III. Who will accept the thanks I would entone For having met thee ? and for having seen Thy face an instant in the bovver serene Of perfect faith ? The splendour was thine own, The rapture mine ; and Doubt was overthrown, And Grief forgot the keynote of its threne. I rose in haste. I seiz'd, as in a trance, My violin, the friend I love the best (After thyself, sweet soul I) and wildly press'd, And firmly drew it, with a master's glance, Straight to my heart I The sunbeams seem'd to dance Athwart the strings, to rob me of ray rest. For then a living thing it did appear, And every chord had sympathies for me ; And something like a lover's lowly plea Did shake its frame, and something like a tear Fell on my cheek, to mind me of the year When first we met, we two, beside the sea. VI. I stood erect, I proudly lifted up The Sword of Song, the bow that trembled now, As if for joy, my grief to disallow. — Are there not some who, in the choicest cup, Imbibe despair, and famish as they sup, Sear'd by a solace that was like a vow ? REGRETS, 21 VII. Are there not some who weep, and cannot tell Why it is thus ? And others who repeat Stories of ice, to cool them in the heat ? And some who quake for doubts they cannot quell, And yet are brave ? And some who smile in Hell For thinking of the sin that was so sweet ? I have been one who, in the glow of youth, Have liv'd in books, and realised a bhss Unfelt by misers, when they count and kiss Their minted joys ; and I have known, in sooth, The taste of water from the well of Truth, And found it good. But time has alter'd this. IX. I have been hated, scom'd, and thrust away, By one who is the Regent of the flowers, By one who, in the magic of her powers. Changes the day to night, the night to day. And makes a potion of the solar ray Which drugs my heart, and deadens it for hours. X. I have been taught that Happiness is coy. And will not come to all who bend the knee ; That Faith is like the foam upon the sea, And Pride a snare, and Pomp a foolish toy, And Hope a moth whose wings we may destroy ; And she I love has taught these things to me 22 LETTER III. xr. Yes, thou, my Lady 1 Thou hast made me feel The pangs of that Prometheus who was chain'd And would not bow, but evermore maintain'd A fierce revolt. Have I refused to kneel ? I do it gladly. But to mine appeal No answer comes, and none will be ordain'd. xir. Why, then, this rancour? Why so cold a thing As thy displeasure, O tho i dearest One ? I meant no wrong. I ttole not from the sun The fire of Heaven ; but I did seek to bring Glory from thee to me ; and in the Spring I pray'd the prayer that left me thus undone. XIII. I pray*d my prayer. I wove into my song Fervour, and joy, and mystery, and the bleak, The wan despair that words can never speak. I pray'd as if my spirit did belong To some old master, who was wise and strong Because he lov'd, and suffer'd, and was weak. XIV. I curb'd the notes, convulsive, to a sigh, And, when they falter'd most, I made them leap Fierce from my bow, as from a summer sleep A young she-devil. I was fired thereby To bolder efforts, and a muffled cry Came from the strings, as if a saint did weep. REGRETS. 23 XV. 1 changed the theme. I dallied with the bow Just time enough to fit it to a mesh Of merry notes, and drew it back afresh To talk of truth and constancy and woe, And life, and love, and madness, and the glow Of mine own soul which burns into my flesh. It was the Lord of music, it was he Who seiz'd my hand. He forced me, as I play'd. To think of that ill-fated fairy-glade Where once we stroU'd at night ; and wild and free My notes did ring ; and quickly unto me There came the joy that maketh us afraid. XVII. Oh ! I shall die of lasting in my dreams Poison of love and ecstasy of pain ; For I shall never kneel to thee again, Or sit in bowers, or wander by the streams Of golden vales, or of the morning beams Construct a wreath to crown thee on the plain ! XVIII. Yet it were easy, too, to compass this, So thou wert kind ; and easy to my soul Were harder things if I could reach the goal Of all I crave, and consummate a bliss In mine own fashion, and compel a kiss More fraught with honour than a king's control. 24 LETTER III. XIX. It is not much to say that I would die, — It is not much to say that I would dare Torture, and doom, and death, could I but share One kiss with thee. For then, without a sigh, I'd teach thee pity, and be graced thereby, Wet with thy tears, and shrouded by thy hair. XX. It is not much to say that this is so ; Yet I would sell my substance and my breath. And all the joy that comes from Nazareth, And all the peace that all the angels know. To lie with thee, one minute, in the snow Of thy white bosom, ere I sank in death ! ^ Letter IV. YEARNINGS. LETTER IV. YEARNINGS. THE earth is glad, I know, when nij^hl is spent, For then she wakes the birdlings in the bowers ; And, one by one, the rosy -footed hours Start for the race ; and from his crimson tent The soldier-sun looks o'er the firmament ; And all his path is strewn with festal flowers. II. But what his mission ? What the happy quest Of all this toil ? He journeys on his way As Caesar did, unbiass'd by the sway Of maid or man. His goal is in the west. Will he unbuckle there, and, in his rest, Dream of the gods who died in Nero's day? 28 LETTER IV. Will he arraign the traitor in his camp ? The Winter Comet who, with streaming hair, Attack 'd the sweetest of the Pleiads fair And ravisli'd her, and left her in the damp Of dull decay, nor re-illumed the lamp That show'd the place she occupied in air. IV. No ; 'tis not so ! He seeks his lady-moon, The gentle orb for whom Endymion sigh'd, And trusts to find her by the ocean tide, Or near a forest in the coming June ; For he has lov'd her since she late did swoon In that eclipse of which she nearly died. V. He knew her then ; he knew her in the glow Of all her charms. He knew that she was chaste, And that she wore a girdle at her waist Whiter than pearl. And when he eyed her so He knew that in the final overthrow He should prevail, and she should be embraced. VI. But were I minded thus, were I the sun, And thou the moon, I would not bide so long To hear the marvels of thy wedding-song ; For I would have the planets, every one, Conduct thee home, before the day was done. And call thee queen, and crown thee in the throng. YEARNINGS. 29 And, like Apollo, I would flash on thee. And rend thy veil, and call thee by the name That Daphne lov'd, the loadstar of his fame j And make myself for thee as white to see As whitest marble, and as wildly free As Leda's lover with his look of flame. And there should then be fetes that should not cease Till I had kiss'd thee, lov'd one ! in a trance Lasting a life-time, through a life's romance ; And every star should have a mate apiece, And I would teach them how, in ancient Greece, The gods were masters of the maidens' dance. I should be bold to act ; and thou should' st feel Terror and joy combined, in all the span Of thy sweet body, ere my fingers ran From curl to curl, to prompt thee how to kneel j And then, soul-stricken by thy mute appeal, I should be quick to answer like a man. X. What I have I sinn'd, dear Lady ? have I sinn'd To talk so wildly ? Have I sinn'd in this ? An angel's mouth was surely meant to kiss I Or have I dreamt of courtship out in Inde In some wild wood ? My soul is fever-thinn'd, And fierce and faint, and frauded of its bliss. 30 LETTER IV. I will not \v'ee[>. I will not in the ni^ht Weep or lament, or, bending on my knees, Appeal for pity ! In the dustered trees The wind is boasting of its one delight ; And I will boast of mine, in thy despite, And say I love thee more than all of these. The rose in bloom, the linnet as it sings, The fox, the fawn, the cygnet on the mere. The dragon-fly that glitters like a spear, — All these, and more, all these ecstatic things, Possess their mates ; and some arrive on wings, And some on webs, to make their meanings clear. Yea, all these things, and more than I can tell, More than the most we know of, one and all. Do talk of Love. There is no other call From wind to wave, from rose to asphodel, Than Love's alone — the thing we catmol quell, Do what we will, from font to fmieral. XIV. What have 1 done, I only on the earth, I'hat I should wait a century for a word ? A hundred years, I know, have been deferr'd Since last we met, and then it was in dearth Of gladsome peace ; for, in a moment's girth, My shuddering soul was wounded like a bird. VEARNINGS. 31 XV. I knew thy voice. I knew the veering sounil Of that sweet oracle wliicli once did tend To treat me grandly, as we treat a friend ; And I would know't if darkly underground I lay as dead, or, down among the drown'd, I blindly stared, unvalued to the end. There ! take again the kiss I took from thee Last night in sleep. I met thee in a dream And drew thee closer than a monk may deem Good for the soul. I know not how it be, But this I know : if Goil be good to me I shall be raised again to thine esteem. XVII. I touched thy neck. I kiss'd it. I was bold. And bold am I, to-day, to call to mind How, in the night, a murmur not unkind Broke on mine ear ; a something new and old Quick in thy breath, as when a tale is told Of some great hope with madness intertwined, XVIII. And round my lips, in joy and yet in fear, There seemed to dart the stings of kisses warm, "^rhese were my honey-bees, and soon would swarm To choose their queen. ]]ut ere they did appear, I heard again that murmur in mine ear Which seem'd to speak of calm before a storm. 33 LETTER IV, XIX. '* What is it, love ? " I whispered in my sleep, And turned to thee, as April unto May. ** Art mine in truth, mine own, by night and day. Now and for ever ? " And I heard thee weep, And then persuade ; and then my soul did leap Swiftly to thine, in love's ecstatic sway. XX. I fondled thee I I drew thee to my heart. Well knowing in the dark that joy is dumb. And then a cry, a sigh, a sob, did come Forth from thy lips. . . .1 waken'd, with a start, To find thee gone. The day had taken part Against the total of my blisses' sum. ^ Letter V. CONFESSIONS. LETTER V. CONFESSIONS. OLADY mine ! O Lady of my Life ! Mine and not mine, a being of the sky Turn'd into Woman, and I know not why- Is't well, bethink thee, to maintain a strife With thy poor servant? War unto the knife, Because I greet thee with a lover's eye ? Is't well to visit me with thy disdain, And rack my soul, because, for love of thee, 1 was too prone to sink upon my knee. And too intent to make my meaning plain, And too resolved to make my loss a gain To do thee good, by Love's immortal plea? —5 — 36 LETTER V. lU. O friend ! forgive me for my dream of bliss. Forgive : forget ; be just 1 Wilt not forgive ? Not though my tears should fall, as through a sieve The salt sea-sand ? What joy hast thou in this : To be a maid, and marvel at a kiss ? Say ! Must I die, to prove that I can live ? Shall this be so ? E'en this ? And all my love Wreck 'd in an instant ? No, a gentle heart Beats in thy bosom ; and the shades depart From all fair gardens, and from skies above. When thou art near. For thou art like a dove. And dainty thoughts are with thee where thou art, V. Oh ! it is like the death of dearest kin. To woke and find the fancies of the brain Sear'd and confused. We languish in the strain Of some lost music, and we find within, Deep in the heart, the record of a sin. The thrill thereof, and all the blissful pain. VI. For it is deadly sin to love too well. And unappeased, unhonour'd, unbesought, To feed on dreams ; and yet 'tis aptly thought That all must love. E'en those who most rebel In Eros' camp have known his master-spell ; And more shall learn than Eros yet has taught. CONFESSIONS. 37 But I am mad to love. I am not wise. I am the worst of men to love the best Of all sweet women ! An untimely jest, A thing made up of rhapsodies and sighs, And unordained on earth, and in the skies, And undesired in tumult and in rest. Vlil. All this is true. I know it. I am he. I am that man. I am the hated friend Who once received a smile, and sought to mend His soul with hope. O tyrant ! by the plea Of all thy grace, do ihou accept from me At least the notes that know not to offend. IX. See I I will strike again the major chord Of that great song, which, in his early days, Beethoven wrote ; and thine shall be the praise. And thine the frenzy like a soldier's sword i lashing therein; and thine, O thou adored And bright true Lady ! all the poet's lays. To thee, to thee, the songs of all my joy, To thee the songs that wildly seem to bless, And those that mind thee of a past carets. Lo ! with a whisper to the Winj^ed Boy Who rules my fate, 1 will my strength employ To make a matin-song of my distress. 38 LETTER V. But playing thus, and toying with the notes, 1 half forget the cause I have to weep ; And, like a reaper in the reahns of sleep, I hear the bird of morning where he floats High in the welkin, and in fairy boats 1 see the minstrels sail upon the deep. In mid-suspension of my leaping bow I almost hear the silence of the night ; And, in my soul, I know the stars are bright Because they love, and that they nightly gl(»w To make it clear that there is nought below, And nought above, so fair as Love's delight. But shall I touch thy heart by speech alone, Without Amati ? Shall I prove, by words, That hoi>e is meant for men as well as birds ; That I would take a scorpion, or a stone. In lieu of gold, and sacrifice a throne To be the keeper of thy flocks and herds ? Ah no, my Lady I though I sang to thee With fuller voice than sings the nightingale — Fuller and softer in the moonlight pale Than lays of Keats, or Shelley, or the free And fire-lipp'd Byron — there would come to me No word of thine to thank me for the tale. CONFESSIONS. 39 XV. Thou would'st not heed. Thou would'.st not any-when, In bower or grove — or in the holy nook Which shields thy bed - thou would'st not care to look For thoughts of mine, though faithful in their ken As are the minds of England's fighting men AVhen they inscribe their names in Honour's book. XVI. Thou would'st not care to scan my face, and through This face of mine, the soul, for scraps of thought. Yet 'tis a face that somewhere has been taught To smile in tears. Mine eyes are somewhat blue And quick to flash (if what I hear be tiue) And dark, at times, as velvet newly wrought. But wilt thou own it ? Wilt thou in the scroll Of my sad life, perceive, as in a hive, A thousand happy fancies that contrive To seek thee out ? Thy bosom is the goal Of all my thoughts, and quick to thy control They wend their way, elate to be alive. XVIII. But there is something I could never bring My soul to compass. No ! could I compel Thy plighted troth, I would not have thee tell A lie to God. I'll have no wedding-ring With loveless hands around my neck to cling ; For this were worse than all the fires of hell. 40 LETTER V. XIX. 1 would not take thee from a lover's lips, Or from the rostrum of a roaring crowd, Or from the memory of a husband's shroud. Or from the goblet where a Ctesar sips. I would not touch thee with my finger tips, But I would die to serve thee, — and be pn^id. And could I enter Heaven, and find therein, In all the wide dominions of the air, No trace of thee among the natives there, I would not bide with them — No ! not to win A seraph's lyre — but I would sin a sin. And free tny soul, and seek thee otherwhere ! ^^ Letter VI. DESPAIR. LETTER VI. DESPAIR. I AM undone. My hopes have beggar'd me, For I have lov'd where loving was denied. To-day is dark, and Yesterday has died, And when To-morrow comes, erect and free. Like some great king, whose tyrant will he be, And whose defender in the days of pride ? I am not cold, and yet November bands Compress my heart. I know the month is May, And that the sun will M^arm me if I stay. But who is this ? Oh, who is this that stands Straight in my path, and with his bony hands Appeals to me to turn some other way ? 44 LETTER VI. III. It is the phantom of my murder'd joy, Which once again has come to persecute, And tell me tales which late I did refute. But lo ! I now must heed them, as a boy Takes up, in tears, the remnants of a toy, Or bard forlorn the fragments of a lute. IV. It is the ghost that, day by day, did come To tempt my spirit to the mountain-peak ; It is the thing that wept, and would not speak, And, with a sign, to show that it was dumb, Did seem to hint at Death that was the sum Of all we know, and all we strive to seek. V. And now it comes again, and with its eye Bloodshot and blear, though pallid in its face, Doth point, exacting, to the very place Where I do keep, that no one may descry, A lady's glove, a ribbon, and a dry, A perjur'd rose, which oft I did embrace. It means, perchance, that I must make an end Of all these things, and bum them as a fee To my Despair, when down upon my knee. O piteous thing ! have pity ; be my friend ; Or say, at least, that blessings will descend On her I love, on her if not on me ! DESPAIR, 45 VII. The Shape did smile ; and, wildly, with a start, Did shrivel up, as when a fire is spent, Whereof the smoke obscured the firmament. And then I knew it had but tried my heart, To teach me how to play a manly part, And strengthen me in all my good intent. VIII. And here I stand alone, e'en like a leaf In sudden frost, as quiet as the wing Of wounded bird, which knows it cannot sing. A child may moan, but not a mountain chief. If we be sad, if we possess a grief. The grief should be the slave, and not the king. IX. Ye , I will pause, and pluck from out the Past The full discernment of my sorry cheer, And why the sunlight seems no longer clear, And why, in spite of anguish, and the vast, The sickly blank that o'er my life is cast, I cannot kneel to-day, or shed a tear, X. It was thy friendship. It was this I had. This and no more. 1 was a fool to doubt, I was a fool to strive to put to rout My many foes : — thy musings tender-glad, Which all had said : — '* Avoid him ! he is mad — Mad with his love, and Love's erratic shout.'' 46 LETTER VI. I should have known, — I should have guess'd in time, That, like a soft mirage at twilight hour, My dream would melt, and rob me of its dower. I hould have guess'd that all the heights sublime, Which look'd like spires and cities built in rhyme, Would droop and die, like petals from a flower. XII. I should have known, indeed, that to the brave All things are servants. But my lost Delight Was like the ship that founders in a night, And leaves no mark. How then? Is Passion's grave All that is left beside the sobbing wave? The foam thereof, the saltriiess, and the blight ? XIII. 1 had a fleet of ships, and where are they ? Where are they all? and where the merchandise I treasured once — an empire's golden prize, The empire of a soul, which, in a day. Lost all its wealth ? I was deceiv'd, I say, For I had reckon 'd on propitious skies. XIV. I look'd afar, and saw no sign of wiack. I look'd anear, and felt the summer breeze Warm on my cheek ; and forth upon the seas I sent my ships ; and would not have them back. Though some averr'd a storm was on the track Of all I lov'd, and all I own'd of these. DESPAIR, 47 One ship was "Joy," the second "Truth," the third "Love in a Dream," and, last not least of all, "Hope," and "Content," and "Fride that hatli a Fall." And they were goodly vessels, by my word, With sails as strong as pinions of a bird. And crew that answer'd well to Duty's calL XVI. In one of these— in "Hope" — where I di^ -^ -'p. ^ /^v /|> - |V 'T' 'P- ''p' M^ ^^ LETTER VI L HOPE. O TEARS of mine ! Ye start I know not why. Unless, indeed, to prove that I am glad. Albeit fast wedded to a thought so sad I scarce can deem that my despair will die, Or that the sun, careering up the sky, Will warm as[ain a world that seem'd so mad. And yet, who knows? The world is, to the mind, Much as we make it ; and the things we tend Wear, for the nonce, the liveries that we lend. And some such things are fair, though ill-defined, And some are scathing, like the wintry wind ; And some begin, and some will never end. — 6 — 52 LETTER VII, III. How can I think, ye tears I that I have been The thing I was — so doubling, so unfit, And so unblest, with brows for ever knit, And hair unkempt, and face becoming lean And cold and pale, as if 1 late had seen Medusa's head, and all the scowls of it? IV. Oh, why is this ? Oh, why have I so long Brooded on grief, and made myself a bane To golden fields and all the happy plain Where once I met the Lady of my Song, 1 he lady for whose sake I shall be strong, But never weak or diffident again ? I was too shorn of hope. I did employ Words like a mourner ; and to Her I bow'd^ As one might kneel to Glory in its shroud. But I am crown' d to-day, and not so coy — Crown 'd with a kiss, and sceptred with a joy ; And all the world shall see that I am proud. VI. I shall be sated now. I shall receive More than the guerdon ot my wildest thought, More than the most that ecstasy has taught To saints in Heaven ; and more than poets weave In madcap verse, to warn us, or deceive ; And more than Adam knew ere Eve was brought. HOPE, 53 I know the meaning now of all the signs, And all the joys I dreamt of in my dieams- I realise the comfort of the streams When they reflect the shadows of the pines. I know that there is hope for celandines, And that a tree is merrier than it seems. VIII. I know the mighty hills have much to tell ; And that they quake, at times, in undertone. And talk to stars, because so much alone And so unlov'd. 1 know that, in the dell, riowers are betroth'd, and that a wcdding-bell Rings in the breeze on which a moth has flown. I know such things, because to loving hearts Nature is keen, and pleasures, long delay'd, Quicken the pulse, and turn a truant shade Into a sprite, equipp'd with all the darts That once were Cupid's ; and the day departs, And sun and moon conjoin, as man with maid X. The lover knows how grand a thing is love. How grand, how sweet a thing, and how divine- More than the pouring out of clioicesl wine ; More than the whiteness of the whitest dove ; More than the glittering of the stars above ; And such a love, O Love ! is thine and mine. 54 LETTER VII. XI. To me the world, to-day, has grown so fair I dare not trust myself to think of it. Visions of light around me seem to flit, And Phoebus loosens all his golden hair Right down the sky ; and daisies turn and stare At things we see not with our human wit. And here, beside me, there are mosses green In sheltcr'd nooks, and gnats in bright array. And lordly beetles out for holiday ; And spiders small that work in silver sheen To make a kirtle for the Fairy Queen, That she may don it on the First of May. XII i. I hear, in thought, I hear the veiy words That Arethusa, turn'd into a brook. Spoke to Diana, when her leave she took Of all she lov'd — low-weeping as the birds Shrill'd out of tune, and all the frighten'd herds Scamper'd to death, in spite of pipe and crook I know, to-day, why winds were made to sigh And why they hide themselves, and why they gloat In some old ruin ! Mote confers with mote, And shell with shell ; and corals live and die, And die and live, below the deep. And why ? To make a necklace for my lady's throat. HOPE. 55 And yet the world, in all its varied j;irth, Lacks what we look for. There is somethiui^ baoe In mere existence — something in the face Of men and women which accepts the earth, And all its havi'igs, as its right of birth, But not its quittance, not its resting-place. There have been moments, at the set of sun, When I have loiig'd for wings upon the wind. That I might seek a planet to my mind, More flill-develop'd than this present one ; With more of scope, when all is said and done, To satisfy the wants of human kind. A world with thee, a home in some remote And unknown region, which no sage's ken Has compass'd yet ; of which no human p:.'n Has traced the limits ; where no terrors float In wind or wave, and where the soul may note A thousand raptures unreveal'd to men. XVIII. To be transported in a magic car, On some transcendent night in early June, Beyond the horn'd projections of the moon j To have our being in a bridal star. In lands of light, where only angels are, Athwart the spaces where the comets swoon. 56 LETTER VI L XTX. To he all this : to have in our estate Worlds without stint, and quit them for the clay Of some new planet where a summer's day Lasts fifty years ; and there to celebrate Our Golden Wedding, by the will of Fate — This were a >ubject for a seraph's lay. This were a life to live, — a life indeed, — A thing to die for ; if, in truth, we die When we but put our mortal vestments by. This were a climax for a lover's need Sweeter than songs, and holier than the creed Of half the zealots who have sought the sky. ^^^^m^ Letter VIII. A VISION. LETTER YiiL, A VIJSION- >0-t YES, I will tell thee what, a v/eek ago, I dreamt of thee, and all the joy therein ^Vhich I conceiv'd, and all the holy din Of throbbing music, which appear'd to flow P'rcra room to room, as if to make me know The power thereof to lead me out of sin. Methought I saw thee in a ray of light, This side a grove — a dream within a dream — With eyes of tender pleading, and the gleam Of far-off summers in thy tresses bright ; And I did tremble at the gracious sight. As one who sees a naiad in a stream. 6o LETTER VI H. III. I follow'd thee. 1 knew that, in the wood. Where thus we met, there was a trysting-place. I follow'd thee, as mortals in a chase Follow the deer. I knew that it was good To track thy step, and promptly understood The fitful blush that flutter'd to thy face. IV. I followed thee to where a brook did run Close to a grot ; and there I knelt to thee. And then a score of birds flew over me, — Birds which f^rrived because the day was done, To sing the Sanctus of the setting sun ; And then I heard thy voice upon the lea. V. " Follow ! " it cried. I rose and follow'd fast ; And, in my dream, I felt the dream was true, And that, full soon, Titania, with her crew Of imps and fays, would meet me on the blast. But this was hindered j and I quickly passed Into the valley where the cedars grew. VI. And what a scene, O God ! and what repose. And what sad splendour in the burning west ; A languid sun low-dropping to his rest, And incense rising, as of old it rose, To do him honour at the daylight's close, — The birds entranced, and all the winds repress'd. A VISION, VII. I followed thee. I came to where a shrine Stood in the trees, and where an oaken }^ate Swung in the air, so turbulent of late. I touch'd thy hand ; it quiver'd itito mine ; And then I look'd into thy face benign, And saw the smile for which the angels wait. And lo ! the moon had sailed into the main Of that blue sky, as if therein did poise A silver boat ; and then a tuneful noise Broke from the copse where late a breeze was slain And nightingales, in ecstasy of pain, Did break their hearts with singing the old joys. IX. *' Is this the spot ? "' I cried, "is this the spot Where I must tell thee all my heart's desire? Is this the time when I must drink the fire, And eat the snow, and find it fever-hot ? 1 freeze with heat, and yet I fear it not ; And all my pulses thrill me like a lyre.'' A wondrous light was thrown upon thy face ; It was the light within ; it was the ray Of thine own soul. And then a voice did say, " Glory to God the King, and Jesu's grace Here and hereafter ! " And about the place A radiance shone surpassing that of day. 62 LETTER VIIL It was thy voice. It was the voice I prize More than the sound of April in the "lales. More than the songs of laiks and nii^htingales, And m'.)re tlian teachings of the worldly-wise. 'Glory to God," it said, ** for, in the skies, And liere on earth, 'tis He alone prevails." And then I asked thee : " Shall I tell thee now All that I think of, when, by land and sea, The days and nights illume the world for me ? And how I muse on marriage, as I bow In God's own places, with a throbbing brow ? And how, at night, I dream of kissing thee? " But thou did'st answer : *' First behold this man I He is thy lord, for love's and lady's sake ; He is thy master, or I much mistake." And I perceiv'd, hard by, a phantom wan And wild and kingly, who did, walking, span The open space that lay beside the brake. XIV. It was Beethoven. It was he who came From monstrous shades, to journey yet awhile In pleasant nooks, and vainly seek the smile Of one lov'd woman — she to whom his fame Had been a glory had she sought the same, And lov'd a soul so grand, so free from guile. A VIS/ON. 63 It was the Kaiser of the land of song, The giant-singer who did stonm the gates Of Heaven and Hell, a man to whom the Fates Were fierce as furies, and who suffer'd wrong And ached and bore it, and was brave and strong, But gaunt as ocean wlien its rage abates. XVI. I knew his tread. I knew him by his look Of pent-up sorrow — by his hair unkempt And torn attire — and by his smile exempt From all but pleading. Yet his body shook With some great joy ; and onward he betook His echoing steps the way that I had dreamt. XVTT. I bow'd my head. The lordly being pass'd. He was my king, and I did bow to him. And when I rais'd mine eyes they were as dim As tears could make them. And the moon, aghast. Glared in the sky ; and westward came a blast Which shook the earth like shouts of cherubim. XVII r. I held my breath. I could have fled the place, As men have fled before the wrath of God. But I beheld my Lady where she trod The darken'd path ; and 1 did cry apace : *' Help me, my Lady! " and thy lustrous face Gladden'd the air, and quicken'd all the sod. 64 LETTER VIII. Tlien did I hoar again that voice of cheer. " Lovest thou me," it said, " or music best ? " 1 seized thy hand, I drew thee to rny breuht. " Thee, only thee ! " I cried. " Fiom year to year, Thee, only thee — not fame I " And silver-clear. Thy voice responded : " God will grant the rest.' XX. I kiss'd thine eyes. I kiss'd them where the blue Peep'd smiling forth ; and proudly as before I heard the tones that thrill d me to the core. ** If thou love me," they said, "if thou be true, Thou shalt have fame, and love, and music too ! " Entranced T kiss'd the lips that T adore. Letter IX. TO-MORROW. LETTER IX TO-MORROW. I. OLOVE 1 O I^ve 1 O Gatev/ay of Delight ! Thou porch of peace, thou pageant of the prime Of all God's creatures 1 I am here to climb Thine upward steps, and daily and by night To gaze beyond them, and to search aright The far-off splendour of thy track sublime. II. For, in thy precincts, on the further side, Beyond the turret where the bells are rung, Beyond the chapel where the rites are sung, There is a garden fit for any bride. O Love 1 by thee, by thee are sanctified The joys thereof to keep our spirits young. — 7— 68 LETTER IX. By thee, dear Love 1 by thee, if all be well — And we be wise enough to own the touch Of some bright folly that has thrill'd us much- By thee, till death, we may regain the spell Of wizard Merlin, and in every dell Confront a Muse, and bow to it as such. IV. Love ! Happy Love I Behold me where I stand This side thy portal, with my straining eyes Turn'd to the Future. Cloudless are the skies, And, far adown the road which thou hast spann'd, I see the groves of that elected land Which is the place I call my paradise. But what is this ? The plains are known to me ; The hills are known, the fields, the little fence- The noisy brook as clear as innocence, And this old oak, the wonder of the lea, "Which stops the wind to know if there shall be Sorrow for men, or pride, or recompense. I know these things, yet hold it little blame To know them not, though in their proud array, The flowers advance to make the world so gay. Ah, what a change ! The things I know by name Look unfamiliar all, and, like a flame, The roses burn upon the hedge to-day. TO-MORROW. 69 VII. The grass is velvet. There are pearls thereon, And golden signs, and braid that doth appear Made for a bridal. This is fairy gear If I mistake not. I shall know anon. Nature herself will teach me how to con The new-found words to thank the glowing year. VI 11. This is the path that led me to the brook ; And this the mead, and this the mossy slope, And this the place where breezes did elope With giddy moths, enamour'd of a look ; And here I sat alone, or with a book. Dreaming the dreams of constancy and hope, I loved the river well ; but not till now Did I perceive the marvels of the shore. This is a cave, and this an emerald floor ; And here Sir Eglantine might make a vow, And here a king, a guilty king, might bow Before a child, and break his word no more. The day is dying. I shall see him die, And I shall watch the sunset, and the red Of all that splendour when the day is dead. And I shall see the stars upon the sky. And think them torches that are lit on high To light the Lord Apollo to his bed. 70 LETTER IX, XI. And sweet To-morrow, like a golden bark, Will call for me, and lead me on apace To where I shall behold, in all her grace, Mine own true Lady, whom a happy lark Did late salute, appointing, after dark, A nightingale to carol in his place. Oh, come to me 1 Oh, come, beloved day, sweet To-morrow ! Youngest of the sons Of old King Time, to whom Creation runs As men to God. Oh, quickly with thy ray Anoint my head, and teach me how to pray. As gentle Jesus taught the little ones. XIII. I am aweary of the waiting hours, 1 am aweary of the tardy night. The hungry moments rob me of delight, The crawling minutes steal away my powers ; And I am sick at heart, as one who cowers. In lonely haunts, remov'd from human sight. XIV. How shall I think the night was meant for sleep, When I must count the dreadful hours thereof, And cannot beat them down, or bid them doff Their hateful masks ? A man may wake and weep From hour to hour, and, in the silence deep, See shadows move, and almost hear them scoff. TO-MORROW. 71 Oh, come to me, To-morrow I like a friend, And not as one who bideth for the clock. Be swift to come, and I will hear thee knock, And though the night refuse to make an end Of her dull peace, I promptly will descend And let thee in, and thank thee for the shock. Dear, good To-morrow ! in my life, till now, I did not think to need thee quite so soon. I did not think that I should hate the moon, Or new or old, or that my fevered brow Requir'd the sun to cool it. I wiU bow lo this new day, that he may grant the boon. XVII. Yes, 'twill consent. The day will dawTi at last- Day and the tide approach. They cannot rest. They must approach. They must by every test Of all men's knowledge, neither slow nor fast, Approach and front us. When the night is past. The morrow's dawn will lead me to my quest. XVIII. Then shall I tremble greatly, and be glad, For I shall meet my true-love all alone. And none shall tell me of her dainty zone, And none shall say how sweetly she is clad ; But I shall know it. Men may call me mad ; But I shall know how bright the world has grov 72 LETTER IX, There is a grammar of the hps and eyes, And I have learnt it. There are tokens sure Of trust in love ; and I have found them pure. Is love the guerdon then ? Is love the prize ? It is ! It is ! We find it in the skies, And here on earth 'tis all that will endure. All things for love. All things in some divine And vvish'd for way, conspire, as Nature knows,, To some great good^ Wliere'er a daisy grows There grows a joy. The forest-trees combine To talk of peace when mortals would repine ; And he is false to God who flouts the rose. Letter X. A RETROSPECT. «^^ '^IjP y^^t ^^ ''ti^ ■ Ti^T' t5r '^^ ■^fe^ '^feC '^feQ '^^ ^^^ '^1^ liSJ* '^^ 'bjEf' - Tj ^ LETTER X. A RETROSPECT, I WALK again beside the roaring sea, And once again I harken to the speech Of waves exulting on the madden'd beach. A sound of awful joy it seems to me, A shuddering sound of God's eternity, — Telling of things beyond the sage's reach. I walk alone. I see the bounding waves Curl'd into foam. I watch them as they leap Like wild sea-horses loosen'd from the deep. And well I know that they have seen the graves Of shipwreck'd sailors ; for Disaster paves The fearful fields where reapers cannot reap. 76 LETTER X. III. Out there, in islands where the summer sun Goes down in tempest, there are loathsome things That crawl to shore, and flap unsightly wings. But here there are no monsters that can run To catch the limbs of bathers ; no ! not one ; And here the wind is harmless when it stings. IV. There is a glamour all about the baj'. As if the nymphs of Greece had tarried here. The sands are golden, and the rocks appear Crested with silver ; and the breezes play Snatches of song they humm'd when far away, And then are hush'd, as if from sudden fear. V. They think of thee. They hunt ; they meditate. They will not quit the shore till they have seen The very spot where thou did'st stand serene In all thy beauty ; and of me they prate, Knowing I love thee. And, like one elate, The grand old sea remembers what hath been. VI. How many hours, how many days we met Here on the beach, in that delirious time When all th ■ waves appear'd to break in rhyme. Life was a joy, and love was like a debt Paid and repaid in kisses — good to get, And good to lose — unhoarded, yet sublime. A RETROSPECT. 77 We wander'd here. We aaw the tide advance, \Ve saw it ebb. We saw the widow'd shore Waiting for Ocean with its organ roar, Knowing that, day by day, through happy chance, She would be wooed anew, amid the dance Of bridal waves, high-bounding as before. VIII. And I remember how, at flush of mom, Thou didst depart alone, to find a nook Where none could see thee ; where a lover's look Were profanation worse than any scorn ; And how I went my way, among the com. To wait for thee beside the Shepherd's brook. And lo ! from out a cave thou didst emerge, Sweet as thyself, the flower of Womankind. I know 'twas thus ; for, in my secret mind, I see thee now. I see thee in the surge Of those wild waves, well knowing that they urge Some idle wish, untalk'd-of to tibe wind. X. I think the beach was thankful to have known Thy warm, white body, and the blessedness Of thy first shiver ; and I well can guess How, when thy limbs were toss'd and overthrown, The sea was pleased, and every smallest stone, And every wave, was proud of thy caress. 78 LETTER X. A maiden diving, with dishevell'd hair, Sheer from a rock ; a syren of the deep Call'd into action, ere a wave could leap Breast-high to daunt her ; Daphne, by a prayer. Lured from a forest for the sea to bear — This were a dream to fill a poet's sleep. This were a thing for Phoebus to have eyed j And he did eye it. Yea, the Deathless One Did eye thy beauty. It was madly done. He saw thee in the rising of the tide. He saw thee well. The truth is not denied : The shore was proud to show thee to the sun. Never since Venus, at a god's decree, Uprose from ocean, has there lived on earth A face like thine, a form of so much worth ; And nowhere has the moon-obeying sea Known such perfection, down from head to knee^ And knee to foot, since that Olympian birth. And, sooth, the moon was anxious to have placed Her head beside thee, on the waters bright. But she was foil'd ; for thou so late at night Wouldst not go forth : no ! not to be embraced By Nature's Queen, though, round about the waist, She would have ring'd thee vvith her softest light. A RETROSPECT. 79 XV. Ah me ! had I a lute of sovereign power I would enlarge on this, and plainly show That there is nothing like thee here below,— Nothing so comely, nothing in its dower Of youth and grace, so like a human flower, And white withal, and guiltless as the snow. For thou art fair as lilies, with the flush That roses have while waiting for a kiss j And when thou smilest nothmg comes amiss. The earth is glad to see thy dimpled blush. Had I the lute of Orpheus I would hush All meaner sounds to tell the stars of this. XVII. I would, I swear, by Pallas' own consent, Inform all creatures whom the stars behold That thou art mine, and that a pen of gold. With ink of fire, though by an angel lent, Were all too poor to tell my true content, And how I love thee seven times seventy fold. XVIII. And sure am I that, in the ancient days, Achilles heard no voice so passing sweet, And none so trancing, none that could compete With thine for fervour ; none, in watery ways Where Nepture dwelt, so worthy of the praise Of Thetis' son, the sure and swift of feet. 8o LETTER X. XIX. He never met upon the plains of Troy Goddess or maiden so divinely fraught. Not Helen's self, for whom the Trojans fought, Was like to thee. Her love had much alloy, But thine has none. Her beauty was a toy, But thine's a gem, unsullied and unbought. And ne'er was seen by poet, in a sweven, An eye like thine, a face so fair to see As that which makes the sunlight sweet to me. Nor need I wait for death, or for the levin In yonder cloud, to find the path to Heaven. It fronts me here. 'Tis manifest in thee ! ^ Letter XI. FAITH. LETTER XI. FAITH. Now will I sing to God a song of praise. And thank the morning for the light it brings, Aye 1 and the earth for every flower that springs, And every tree that, in the jocund days, Thrills to the blast. My voice I will upraise To thank the world for every bird that sings. I will unpack my mind of all its fears. I will advance to where the matin fires Absorb the hUls. My hopes and my desires Will lead me safe ; and day will have no tears And night no torture, as in former years, To warp my nature when my soul aspires. —8— 84 LETTER XL III. T will endure. I will not strive to peep Behind the barriers of the days to come, Nor, adding up the figures of a sum, Dispose of prayers as men dispose of sleep. I cannot count the stars, or walk the deep ; But I can pray, and Faith shall not be dumb. I take myself and thee as mine estate — Thee and myself. The world is centred there. If thou be well I know the skies are fair ; If not, they press me down with leaden weight, And all is dark ; and morning comes too late j And all the birds are tuneless in the air. I need but thee : thee only. Thou alone Art all my joy : a something to the sight As grand as Silence, and as snowy white. And do thou pardon if I make it known, As oft I do, with mine Amati's tone. Amid the stillness of the starry night. Oh, give me pity of thy heart and mind, Mine own sweet Lady, if I vex thee now. If the repeating of my constant vow Be undesired, have pity 1 I were blind, And deaf and dumb, and mad, were I inclined To curb my feelings when to thee I bow. FAITH. 85 VII. Forgive the challenge of my longing lips If these offend thee ; and forgive me, too, If I perceive, within thine eyes of blue, More than I utter — more than, in eclipse, A man may note atween the argent tips Of frighted Dian whom the Fates pursue. It is the thing I dream of; 'tis the thing We know as rapture, when, with sudden thrill, It snares the heart and subjugates the will ; I mean the pride, the power, by which we cling To natures nobler than the ones we bring, To keep entire the fire we cannot chill, rx. Coyest of nymphs, my Lady ! whom I seek As sailors seek salvation out at sea, And poets fame, and soldiers victory. Behold I I note the blush upon thy cheek, The flag of truce that tells me thou art meek And soon wilt yield thy fortress up to me. It is thy soul ; it is thy soul in arms Which thus I conquer. All thy furtive sighs, And all the glances of thy wistful eyes, Proclaim the swift surrender of thy charms. I kiss thy hand ; and tremors and alarms Discard, in parting, all their late disguise. 86 LETTER XL XI. They were not foes. They knew me, one and all ; They knew I lov'd thee, and they lured me on To try my fortune, and to wait thereon For just reward. The scaling of the wall Was not the meed ; there came the festival, And now there comes the crown that I must don. XII. my BelovM 1 I am king of thee, And thou my queen ; and I will wear the crown A little moment, for thy love's renown. Yea, for a moment, it shall circle me, And then be thine, so thou, upon thy knee. Do seek the same, with all thy tresses down. XIII. For woman still is mistress of the man, Though man be master. 'Tis the woman's right To choose her king, and crown him in her sight. And make him feel the pressure of the span Of her soft arms, as only woman can ; For, with her weakness, she excels his might, XIV. It is her joy indeed to be so frail That he must shield her ; he of all the world Whom most she loves ; and then, if he be hurl'd To depths of sorrow, she will more avail Than half a senate. Troubles may assail. But she will guide him by her lips impearlM. FAITH. 87 A woman clung to Caesar ; he was great, And great the power he gain'd by sea and land. But when he wrong'd her, when he spurn'd the hand Which once he knelt to, when he scoflTd at Fate, Glory dispers'd, and left him desolate ; For God remember'd all that first was plann'd. The cannon's roar, the wisdom of the sage, The strength of armies, and the thrall of kings — All these are weak compared to weaker things. Napoleon fell because, in puny rage. He wrong'd his house j and earth became a cage For this poor eagle with his batter'd wings. XVII. Believe me, Love ! I honour, night and day, The name of Woman. 'Tis the nobler sex. Villains may shame it ; sorrows may perplex \ But still 'tis watchful. Man may take away All its possessions, all its worldly sway, And yet be worshipp'd by the soul he wrecks. XVIII. A word of love to Woman is as sweet As nectar'd rapture in a golden bowl ; And when she quaffs the heavens asunder roll, And God looks through. And, from his judgement-seat, He blesses those who part, and those who meet. And those who join the links of soul with soul. 88 LETTER XL And are there none untme ? God knows there are ! Aye, there are those who learn in time the laugh That ends in madness — women who for chaff Have sold their corn — who seek no guiding-star, And find no faith to Ught them from afar ; Of whom 'tis said : *' They need no epitaph." All this is known ; but lo ! for sake of One "Who lives in glory — for my mother's sake, For thine, and hers, O Love ! — I pity take On all poor women. Jesu's will be done ! Honour for all, and infamy for none, This side the borders of the burning lake. Letter XII. VICTORY. LETTER XII. VICTORY. NOW have I reach' d the goal of my desire, For thou hast sworn — as sweetly as a bell Makes out its chime — the oath I love to tell, The fealty-oath of which I never tire. The lordly forest seems a giant's lyre. And sings, and rings, the thoughts that o'er it swell. The air is fill'd with voices. I have found Comfort at last, enthralment, and a joy Past all belief; a peace without alloy. There is a splendour all about the ground As if from Eden, when the world was drown'd. Something had come which death could not destroy. 92 LETTER XI L III. It seems, indeed, as if to me were sent A smile from Heaven — as if to-day the clods Were lined with silk — the trees divining rods. And roses gems for some high tournament. I should not be so proud, or so content, If I could sup, to-night, with all the gods. A shrinM saint would change his place with me If he but knew the worth of what I feel. He is enrobed indeed, and for his weal Hath much concern ; but how forlorn is he ! How pale his pomp ! He cannot sue to thee, But I am sainted every time I kneel. V. I walk'd abroad, to-day, ere yet the dark Had left the hills, and down the beaten road I saunter'd forth a mile from mine abode. I heard, afar, the watchdog's sudden bark. And, near at hand, the tuning of a lark, Safe in its nest, but weighted with an ode. VI. The moon was pacing up the sky serene, Pallid and pure, as if she late had shown Her outmost side, and fear'd to make it known j And, like a nun, she gazed upon the scene From bars of cloud that seemed to stand between. And pray'd and smiled, and smiled and pray'd alone. VICTORY, 93 VII. The stars had fled. Not one remain'd behind To warn or comfort ; or to make amends For hope delay'd, — for ecstasy that ends At dawn's approach. The firmament was blmd Of all its eyes ; and, wanton up the wind, There came the shuddering that the twilight sends. VIII. The hills exulted at the Morning's birth, — And clouds assembled, quick, as heralds run Before a king to say the fight is won. The rich, warm daylight fell upon the earth Like wine outpour d in madness, or in mirth, To celebrate the rising of the sun. IX. And when the soaring lark had done his prayer, The holy thing, self-poised amid the blue Of that great sky, did seem, a space or two, To pause and think, and then did clip the air And dropped to earth to claim his guerdon there. ' ' Thank God ! " I cried, * ' My dearest dream is true ! ' I was too happy, then, to leap and dance ; But I could ponder j I could gaze and gaze From earth to sky and back to woodland ways. The bird had thrill'd my heart, and cheer'd my glance, For he had found to-day his nest -romance. And lov'd a mate, and crown'd her with his praise. 94 LETTER XIL O Love I my Love 1 I would not for a throne, I would not for the thrones of all the kings Who yet have liv'd, or for a seraph's wings, Or for the nod of Jove when night hath flown, Consent to rule an empire all alone. No ! I must have the grace of our two rings, I must possess thee from the crowning curl Down to the feet, and from the beaming eye Down to the bosom where my treasures lie. From blush to blush, and from the rows of pearl That light thy smile, I must possess thee, girl, And be thy lord and master till I die. This, and no less : the keeper of thy fame, The proud controller of each silken tress, And each dear item of thy loveliness, And every oath, and every dainty name Knov,'n to a bride : a picture in a frame Of golden hair, to turn to and caress. XIV. And though I know thee prone, in vacant hours. To laugh and talk with those who circumvent And make mad speeches; though I know the bent Of some such men, and though in ladies' bowers They brag of swords — I know my proven powers .; I know myself and thee, and am content. VICTORY. 95 I know myself ; and why should I demur ? The lily, bowing to the breeze's play, Is not forgetful of the sun in May. She is his nymph, and with a servitor She doth but jest. The sun looks down at her, And knows her true, and loves her day by day. E'en so I thee, O Lady of my Heart 1 O Lady white as lilies on the lea, And fair as foam upon the ocean free Whereon the sun hath sent a shining dart I E'en so I love thee, blameless as thou art, And with my soul's desire I compass thee. XVIf. For thou art Woman in the sweetest sense Of true endowment, and a bride indeed Fit for Apollo. This is Woman's need : To be a beacon when the air is dense, A bower of peace, a life-long recompense — This is the sum of Woman's worldly creed. XVIII. And what is Man the while ? And what his will ? And what the furtherance of his earthly hope ? To turn to Faith, to turn, as to a rope A drowning sailor ; all his blood to spill For One he loves, to keep her out of ill — This is the will of Man, and this his scope. 96 LETTER XII, XIX. 'Tis like the tranquil sea, that knows anon It can be wild, and keep away from home A thousand ships — and lash itself to foam — And beat the shore, and all that lies thereon — And catch the thunder ere the flash has gone Forth from the cloud that spans it like a dome. XX. This is the will of Man, and this is mine. But lo ! I love thee more than wealth or fame, More than myself, and more than those who came With Christ's commission from the goal divine. Soul of my soul, and mine as I am thine, I cling to thee, my Life ! as fire to flame. '*^ ANTEROS. THIS is the feast-uay oi my soul and me, For I am half a god and halt a man. These are the hours in which are heard by sea, By land and wave, and in the realms of space, The lute-like sounds which sanctify my span. And give me power to sway the human race. I am the king whom mon call Lucifer, I am the genius of the nether spheres. Give me my Christian name, and I demur. Call me a Greek, and straigh^^way I rejoice. Yea, I am Anteros, and with my tears I salt the earth that gladdens at my voice. I am old Anteros ; a young, old god ; A sage who smiles and limps upon a crutch. But I can turn my crutch into a rod, And change my rod into a crown of wood. Yea, I am he who conquers with a touch, And plays with poisons till he makes them good, —9— loo ANTEROS. IV. The sun, uprising with his golden hair, Is mine apostle ; and he serves me well. Thoughts and desires of mine, beyond compare, Thrill at his touch. The moon, so lost in thought, Has pined for love ; and wanderers out of hell, And saints from heaven, have known what I have taught. T. Great are my griefs ; my joys are multiplex ; And beasts and birds and men my subjects are ; Yea, all created things that have a sex, And flies and flowers and monsters of the mere ; All these, and more, proclaim me from afar. And sing my marriage songs from year to year. VI. There are no bridals but the ones I make ; For men are quicken' d when they turn to me. The soul obeys me for its body's sake. And each is form'd for each, as day for night. 'Tis but the soul can pay the body's fee To win the wisdom of a fool's delight. VII. Yea, this is so. My clerks have set it doAvn, And birds have blabbed it to the winds of heaven. The flowers have guessed it, and, in bower and town, Lovers have sung the songs that I have made. Give me your lives, O mortals, and, for leaven. Ye shall receive the fires that cannot fade. ANTEROS. ' loi O men ! O maidens ! O ye listless ones ! Ye v/ho desert my temples in the East, Ye who reject the rays of summer suns, An 1 cling to shadows in the wilderness ; Why are ye sad ? Why frown ye at the feast. Ye who have eyes to see and lips to press ? Why, for a wisdom that ye will not prove, A joy that crushes and a love that stings, A freak, a frenzy in a fated groove, A thing of nothing born of less than nought — Why in your hearts do ye desire these things. Ye who abhor the joys that ye have sought? See, see ! I weep, but 1 can jest at times ; Yea, I can dance and toss my tears away. The sighs I breathe are fragrant as the rhymes Of men and maids whose hearts are overthrown. I am the god for whom all maidens pray, But none shall have me for herself alone. XI. No ; I have love enough, here where I stand. To marry fifty maids in their degree ; Aye, fifty times five thousand in a band. And every bride the proxy of a score. Want ye a mate for millions ? I am he. Glory is mine, and glee-time evermore. I02 ANTEROS, XII. O men ! O masters 1 O ye kings of grief ! Ye who control the world but not the grave. What have ye done to make delight so brief, Ye who have spurn'd the minstrel and the lyre ? I will not say: *' Be patient." Ye are brave ; And ye shall guess the pangs of my desire. There shall be traitors in the court of love, And tears and tortures and the bliss of pain. The maids of men shall seek the gods above, And drink the nectar of the golden lake. Blessed are they for whom the gods are fain They shall be glad for love's and pity's sake. They shall be taught the songs the syrens know. The wave's lament, the west wind's psalmistry, The secrets of the south and of the snow, The wherewithal of day, and death, and night. O men 1 O maidens 1 pray no prayer for me, But sing to me the songs of my delight. Aye, sing to me the songs I love to hear, And let the sound thereof ascend to heaven. And let the singers, with a voice of cheer. Announce my name to all the ends of earth ; And let my servants, seventy times and seven. Re-shout the raptures of my Samian mirth I THE WAKING OF THE LARK. 103 XVI. Let joy prevail, and Frenzy, like a flame, Seize all the souls of men for sake of me. For I will have Contention put to shame, And all the hearts of all things comforted. There are no laws but mine on land and sea, And men shall crown me when their kings are dead. THE WAKING OF THE LARK. I. O BONNIE bird, that in the brake, exultant, dost prepare thee — As poets do whose thoughts are true, for wings 4;hat will upbear thee — Oh ! tell me, tell me, bonnie bird, Canst thou not pipe of hope deferred ? Or canst thou sing of naught but Spring among the golden meadows ? II. Methinks a bard (and thou art one) should suit his song to sorrow, And tell of pain, as well as gain, that waits us on the morrow ; But thou art not a prophet, thou. If naught but joy can touch thee now ; If, in thy heart, thou haist no vow that speaks of Nature's anguish. III. Oh 1 I have held my sorrows dear, and felt, tho' poor and slighted, The songs we love are those we hear when love is unre- quited. I04 THE WAKING OF THE LARK. But thou art still the slave of dawn, And canst not sing till night be gone, Till o'er the pathway of the fawn the sunbeams shine and quiver. IV. Thou art the minion of the sun that rises in his splendour, And canst not spare for Dian fair the songs that should attend her. The moon, so sad and silver-pale, Is mistress of the nightingale ; And thou wilt sing on hill and dale no ditties in the darkness. For Queen and King thou wilt not spare one note of thine outpouring ; Thou art as free as breezes be on Nature's velvet flooring. The daisy, with its hood undone, The grass, the sunlight, and the sun — These are the joys, thou holy one, that pay thee for thy singing. Oh, hush ! Oh, hush ! how wild a gush of rapture in the distance, — A roll of rhymes, a toll of chimes, a cry for love's assist- ance ; A sound that wells from happy throats, A flood of song where beauty floats, And where our thoughts, like golden boats, do seem to cross a river. A BALLAD OF KISSES. 105 VII. This is the advent of the lark — the priest in gray apparel — Who doth prepare to trill in air his sinless Summer carol ; This is the prelude to the lay The birds did sing in Caesar's day, And will again, for aye and aye, in praise of God's creation. VIII. O dainty thing, on wonder's wing, by life and love elated, Oh I sing aloud from cloud to cloud, till day be conse- crated ; Till from the gateways of the morn, The sun, with all his light unshorn, His robes of darkness round him torn, doth scale the lofty heavens 1 A BALLAD OF KLSSES. There are three kisses that I call to mind, And I will sing their secrets as I go. The first, a kiss too courteous to be kind. Was such a kiss as monks and maidens know As sharp as frost, as blameless as the snow. / io6 MARY ARDEN. The second kiss, ah God 1 I feel it yet, And evermore my soul will loathe the same. The toys and joys of fate I may forget, But not the touch of that divided shame : It clove my lips ; it burnt me like a flame. The third, the final kiss, is one I use Morning and noon and night ; and not amiss. Sorrow be mine if such I do refuse ! And when I die, be love, enrapt in bliss, Re-sanctified in Heaven by such a kiss. W MARV ARDEN. O THOU to whom, athwart the perish'd days And parted nights, long sped, we lift our gaze, Behold 1 I greet thee with a modern rhyme, Love-lit and reverent as befits the time, To solemnize the feast-day of thy son. II. And who was he who floudsh'd in the smiles Of thy fair face ? 'Twas Shakespeare of the Isles, Shakespeare of England, whom the world has known As thine, and ours, and Glory's, in the zone Of all the seas and all the lands of earth. MARY ARDEN. 107 III. He was un-famous when he came to thee, But sound, and sweet, and good for eyes to see, And born at Stratford, on St. George's Day, A week before the wondrous month of May ; And God therein was gracious to us all. IV. He lov'd thee, Lady ! and he lov'd the world ; And, like a flag, his fealty was unfurl'd ; And Kings who flourished ere thy son was bom Shall live through him, firom morn to furthest morn, In all the far-off cycles yet to come. V. He gave us Falstaff, and a hundred quips, A hundred mottoes from immortal lips ; And, year by year, we smile to keep away The generous tears that mind us of the sway Of his great singing, and the pomp thereof. VI. His was the nectar of the gods of Greece, The lute of Orpheus, and the Golden Fleece Of grand endeavour ; and the thunder-roll Of words majestic, which, from pole to pole, Have borne the tidings of our English tongue. io8 MARY ARDEN. VII. He gave us Hamlet ; and he taught us more Than schools have taught us ; and his fairy-lore Was fraught with science j and he called from death Verona's Lovers, with the burning breath Of their great passion that has filled the spheres. VIII. He made us know Cordelia, and the man "Who murder'd sleep, and baleful Caliban ; And, one by one, athwart the gloom appear'd Maidens and men and myths who were revered In olden days, before the earth was sad. IX. Aye ! this is true. It was ordained so ; He was thine own, three hundred years ago ; But ours to-day ; and ours till earth be red With doom- day splendour for the quick and dead, And days and nights are scattered like the leaves. It was for this he lived, for this he died : To raise to Heaven the face that never lied. To lean to earth the lips that should become Fraught with conviction when tlie mouth was dumb, And all the firm, fine body tuin'd to clay. MARY ARDEN. 109 XI. He lived to seal, and sanctify, the lives Of perish'd maids, and uncreated wives, And gave them each a space wherein to dwell ; And for his mother's sake he loved them well, And made them types, undying, of all truth. O fair and fond young mother of the boy Who wrought all this — O Mary ! — in thy joy Did'st thou perceive, when, fitful from his rest. He turn'd to thee, that his would be the best Of all men's chanting since the world began ? XIII. Did'st thou, O Maiy ! with the eye of trust Perceive, prophetic, through the dark and dust Of things terrene, the glory of thy son. And all the pride therein that should be won By toilsome men, content to be his slaves ? Did'st thou, good mother ! in the tender ways That women find to fill the fleeting days. Behold afar the Giant who should rise With foot on earth, and forehead in the skies, To write his name, and thine, among the stars ? no MARY ARDEN. I love to think it ; and, in dreams at night I see thee stand, erect, and all in white, With hands out-yearning to that mighty form, As if to draw him back from out the storm, — A child again, and thine to nurse withal. I see thee, pale and pure, with flowing hair, And big, bright eyes, far-searching in the air For thy sweet babe, and, in a trice of time, I see the child advance to thee, and climb, And call thee " Mother ! " in ecstatic tones. XVII. Yet, if my thought be vain — if, by a touch Of this weak hand, I vex thee overmuch — Forbear the blame, sweet Spirit ! and endow My heart with fervour while to thee I bow Athwart the threshold of my fading dream. XVIII. For, though so seeming-bold in this my song, I turn to thee with reverence, in the throng Of words and thoughts, as shepherds scann'd, afar, The famed effulgence of that eastern star Which usher'd in the Crown 'd One of the heavens SACHAL. Ill In Jrtaras of rapture I have seen thee pass Along the banks of Avon, by the grass, As fair as that fair Juliet whom thy son Endow'd with life, but with the look of one Who knows the nearest way to some new grave. And often, too, I've seen thee in the flush Of thy full beauty, while the mother's " Hush ! Hung on thy lip, and all thy tangled hair Re-clothed a bosom that in part was bare Because a tiny hand had toy'd therewith ! Oh 1 by the June-tide splendour of thy face When, eight weeks old, the child in thine embrace Did leap and laugh, O Mary ! by the same, I bow to thee, subservient to thy fame, And call thee England's Pride for evermore 1 SACHAL. A WAIF OF BATTLE. I. Lo ! at my feet, A something pale of hue ; A something sad to view ; Dead or alive I dare not call it sweet. 112 SACHAL. Not white as snow ; Not transient as a tear ! A warrior left it here, It was his passport ere he met the foe. Here is a name, A word upon the book ; If ye but kneel to look, Ve'll find the letters " Sachal " on the same. His Land to cherish. He died at twenty-seven. There are no wars in Heaven, But when he fought he gain'd the right to perish. V. Where was he bom ? In France, at Puy le Dome. A wanderer from his home, He found a Fatherland beyond the mom. VI. 'Twas France's plan ; The cause he did not ask. His life was but a mask. And he upraised it, martyr 'd at Sedan ; SACHAL. 113 And prone in death. Beyond the name of France, Beyond his hero-glance, — He thought, belike, of her who gave him breath. O thou dead son ! O Sachal ! far away, But not forgot to-day, I had a mother too, but now have none. Our hopes are brave. Our faiths are braver still. The soul shall no man kill ; For God will find us, each one in his grave. A land more vast Than Europe's kingdoms are, — A brighter, nobler star Than victory's fearful light, — is thine at last. XI. And should'st thou meet Yon Germans up on high, — Thy foes when death was nigh, — Nor thou nor they will sound the soul's retreat. 114 SAC HAL. For all are just, Yea, all are patriots there, And thou, O Fils de Pierre ! Hast found thy marshal's baton in the dust. Oh, farewell, friend ; My friend, albeit unknown, Save in thy death alone, Oh, fare thee well till si a and sorrow end. xrv. In realms of joy We'll meet ; aye, every one : Mother and sire and son, — A.nd my poor mother, too, will claim her boy Death leads to God. Death is the Sword of Fate, Death is the Golden Gate That opens up to glory, through the sod . XVI. And thou that road, O Sachal ! thou hast found ; A king is not so crown'd As thou art, soldier ! in thy blest abode. THE LAD V OF THE MA Y. 115 Deathless in death, Exalted, not destroy'd, Thou art in Heaven employ 'd To swell the songs of angels with thy breath ^^ THE LADY OF THE MAY. I. O STARS that fade in amber skies Because ye dread the light of day, O moon so lonely and so wise, Ix)ok down, and love my Love alway ; Salute the Lady of the Mav. O lark that soarest in the light To hail thy lord in his array. Look down ; be just ; and sing aright. A lover claims thy song to-day To greet his Lady of the May. III. " O lady I lady 1 " sings the lark, "Thy lover's hest I do obey ; For thou art splendid after dark. And where thou smilest, there is day And thou'rt the Lady of the May. n6 THE LADY OF THE MA V. IV. "The nightingale's a friend of mine, And yesternight she flew my way, * Awake,' she cried, *at morning shinC; And sing for me thy blythcst lay To greet the Lady of the May.' V. " * And tell her, tell her, gentle one, While thou attun'st thy morning lay, That I will sing at set of svm Another song for thy sweet fay. Because she's Lady of the May.' " And, lo I come," the lark in air, Self-pois'd and free, did seem lo say, '* I come to greet thy lady's hair And call its beams the light of day Which decks thy Lady of the May." VII. Oh, thank thee, bird that singest well ! For all thou say'st and still would'st say And for the thoughts which Philomel Intends to trill, in roundelay. To greet my Lady of the May. AN ODE TO ENGLISHMEN, 117 VIII. We two (my Love and I) are one, And so shall be, for aye and aye. Go, take my homage to the sun, And bid him shine his best to-day, To crown my Lady of the May ! AN ODE TO ENGLLSHMEN. I WHO have sung of love and lady bright And mirth and music and tlie world's delight, Behold ! to-day, I sound a sterner note To move the minds of foemen when they fight. 11. Have I not said : There is no sweeter thing, And none diviner than the wedding-ring? And, all intent to make my meaning plain, Have I not kiss'd the lips of Love, the King? Yea, this is so. But lo ! to-day there comes The far-off sound of trumpets and of drums ; And I must parley with the men of toil Who rise in ranks exultant from the slums. [8 AN ODE TO ENGIJSHMEN IV. I must arraign each man • j'ca, all the host ; And each true soul shall learn the least and most Of all his wrongs, — if wrongs indeed they be ; And he shall face the flag that guards the coast. He shall salute it I He shall find therein Salve for his wounds and solace for hi:i sin. Brother and guide is he who loves his Land ; But he is kinlcss who denies his kin. Has he a heart to feel, a knee to bend, And will not trust his country to the end ? If this be so, God help him to a tear ! He shall be foiled, as foeman and as friend. V7I. Bears he a sword ? I care not. He is base ; Unfit to wield it, and of meaner place Than ton<^ie can tell of, in the Senate House And he shall find no balm for his disgrace. O men ! I charge ye, in the name of Him Who rules the world, and guards the cherubim, I charge ye, pause, ere from the lighted track Ye turn, distraught, to pathways that are dim. ZULALIE. 119 IX. Who gave your fathers, and your fathers' sons The rights ye claim, amid the roar of guns, And 'mid the flash thereof from sea to sea ? Your country ! through her lov'd, her chosen ones. Oh, ye are dastards if ye liit a hand, Dastards and fools, if, loveless in a land, Ye touch in wrath the bulwark of the realm. Ye shall be baulk'd, and Chivalry shall stand. XI, I have a sword, I also, and I swear By my heart's faith, and by my Lady's hair, That I will strike the first of ye that moves, If by a sign ye wrong the flag ye bear. XII. In Freedom's name, in hcr's to whom we bow, In her great name, I charge ye, palter now With no traducer of your country's cause. Accurst of God is he who breaks his vow ! ZULALIE. I AM the sprite That reigns at night, My body is fair for man's delight. I leap and laugh A- the wine I quaff. And I am the queen of Astrofelle. 120 ZULALIE. I curse and swear In my demon-lair ; I shake wild sunbeams out of my hair. I madden the old, I gladden the bold, And I am the queen of Astrofelle, Of churchyard stone I have made my throne ; My locks are looped with a dead man's bone. Mine eyes are red With the tears I shed, And I am the queen of Astrofelle. IV. In cities and camps I have lighted my lamps, My kisses are caught by kings and tramps. With rant and revel My hair I dishevel, And I am the queen of Astrofelle. V. My kisses are stains, Mine arms are chains. My forehead is fair and false like Cain's. My gain is loss, Mine honour is dross, — And I am the queen of Astrofelle ! BEE THO YEN A T THE PIANO. 1 2 1 BEETHOVEN AT THE PIANO. See where Beethoven sils alone — a dream of days elysian, A crownless king upon a throne, reflected in a vision — The man who strikes the potent chords which make the world, in wonder, Acknowledge him, though poor and dim, the mouth- piece of the thunder. lie feels the music of the okies the while his heart is breaking ; He sings the songs of Paradise, where love has no forsaking ; And, though so deaf he cannot hear the tempest as a token. He makes the music of his mind the grandest ever spoken. III. He doth not hear the \\hi.:pcied word of love in his seclusion. Or voice of friend, or song of bird, in Nature's sad confusion; But he hath made, for Love's sweet sake, so wild a decKimation That all true lovers of the earth have claim'd him of their nation. 122 BEETHOVEN A T THE PIANO. He had a Juliet in his youlh, as Romeo had before him, And, Romeo-like, he sought to die thai she might then adore him ; But she was weak, as women are whose faith has not been proven, And would not change her name for his — Guiciardi for Beethoven. O minstrel, whom a maiden spurned, but whom a world has treasured I O sovereign of a grander realm than man has ever measured 1 Thou hast not lost the lips of love, but thou hast gain'd, in glory, The love of all who know the thrall of thine immortal story. VI, Thou art the bard whom none discard, but whom all men discover To be a god, as Orpheus was, albeit a lonely lover ; A king to call the stones to life beside the roaring ocean, And bid the stars discourse to trees in words of man's emotion. VII. A king of joys, a prince of tears, an emperor of the seasons. Whose songs are like the sway of years in Love's immortal reasons ; BEETHOVEN AT THE PIANO. 123 A bard who knows no life but this : to love and be rejected, And reprodace in earthly strains the prayers of the elected. O poet heart ! O seraph soul I by men and maids adored ! O Titan with the lion's mane, and with the splendid forehead 1 We men who bow to thee in grief must tremble in our gladness, To know what tears were turned to pearls to crown thee in thy sadness. An Angel by direct descent, a German by alliance, Thou didst intone the wonder-chords which made Despair a science. Yea, thou didst strike so grand a note that, m its large vibration. It seemed the roaring of the sta hi nature's jubilation. X. O Sire of Song ! Sonata-King ! Sublime and loving master ; The sweetest soul that ever struck an octave in disaster ; In thee were found the fires of thought — the splendours of endeavour, — And thou shalt sway the minds of men for ever and for ever I 124 ^ RHAPSODY OF DEATH, A RHAPSODY OF DEATH. I. That phantoms fair, with radiant hair, May seek at midnight hour The sons of men, belov'd again, And give them holy power ; That souls survive the mortal hive, and sinless come and go, Is true as death, the prophet saith ; and God will have it so. For who be ye who doubt and prate? O sages 1 make it clear If ye be more than men of fate, Or less than men of cheer ; If ye be less than bird or beast ? O brothers ! make it plain If ye be bankrupts at a feast, or sharers in a gain. III. You say there is no future state ; The clue ye fail to find. The flesh is here, and bones appear When graves are undermined. But of the soul, in time of dole, what answer can ye frame — Ye who have heard no spirit- word to guide ye to the A RHAPSODY OF DEATH. 125 Ah ! facts are good, and reason's good. But fancy's stronger far ; In weal or woe we only know We know not what we are. The sunset seems a raging fire, tlie clouds roll back, afraid ; The rainbow seems a broken lyre on which the storm has play'd. But these, ye uri;c, aie outward signs. Such signs are not for you. The sight's deceiv'd and truth bereav'd By diamonds of the dew. The sage's mind is more refined, his rapture more complete ; He almost knows the little rose that bloasoms at his feet! VI. The sage can kill a thou and things, And tell the names of all ; And wrench away the wearied wings Of eagles when they fall ; And calmly trace the lily's grace, or fell the strongest tree, And almost feel, if not reveal, the secrets of the sea, VII. But can he set, by day or night, The clock-work of the skies ? Or bring the dead man back to sight With soul-invested eyes ? 126 A RHAPSODY OF DEATH. Can he describe the ways of life, the wondrous ways of death, And whence it came, and what the flame that feeds the vital breath ? VIII. II he could do such deeds as these, He might, though poor and low, Explain the cause of Nature's laws. Which none shall ever know ; He might recall the vanish'd years by lifting of his hand. And bid the wind go north or south to prove what he has plann'd. IX. But God is just. He burdens not The shoulders of the sage ; He pities him whose sight is dim ; He turns no second page. There are two pages to the book. We men have read the one ; The other needs a spirit -look, in lands beyond the sun. The other needs a poet's eye. Like that of Milton blind ; The light of Faith which cannot die, Though doubts perplex the mind ; The eyesight of a little child ; a martyr's eye in dole, Which sees afar the golden star that shines upon the soul ! A PR A YER FOR LIGHT. 127 A PRAYER FOR LTGTIT. Oh, give me light, to-day, or let me die, — The light of love, the love-light of the sky, — That I, at length, may see my darling's face One minute's space. II. Have I not wept to know my?elf so weak That I can feel, not see, the dimpled cheek, The lips, the eyes, the snnl)eams that enfold Her locks of gold? ITT. Have I not sworn that I will not be wed, But mate my soul with hers on my death-bed ? The soul can see, — for souls are seraphim, — When eyes are dim. IV. Oh, hush I she comes. I know her. She is nigh. She brings me death, true heart, and I will die. She brings me love, for love and life are one Beyond the sun. V. This is the measure, this, of all my joys : Life is a curse and Death's a counterpoise. (live me thy hand, O sweet one, let me know Which path I go. 128 MIRAGE, I cannot die if thou be not a-near, To lead me on to Life's appointed sphere. O spirit-face, O angel, with thy breath Kiss me to death I ^tS^ MIRAGE. 'Tis a legend of a lover, 'Tis a ballad to be sung, In the gloaming, — under cover, — By a minstrel who is young ; By a singer who has passion, and who sways us with his tongue. II. I, who know it, think upon it, Not unhappy, tho' in tears, And I gather in a sonnet All the glory of the years ; And I kiss and clasp a shadow when the substance disappears. Ah ! I see her as she faced me, In the sinless summer days, When her little hands embraced me, And T saddened at her gaze, Thinking, Sweet One I will she love me when we walk in other ways ? MIRAGE. 129 Will she cling to me as kindly When the childish faith is lost"? Wi'I she pray for me as blindly, Or but weigh the wish and cost, Looking back o 1 our lost Eden from the girlhood she has cross'd ? V. Oh ! I swear by all I honour, ]jy the graves that I endow. By the grace I set upon her, That I meant the early vow, — Meant it much as men and women mean the same thing spoken now. VI. But her maiden troth is broken, And her mind is ill at ease, And she sends me back no token From her home beyond the seas ; And I know, though nought is spoken, that she thanks me on her knees. VII. Yes, for pardon freely granted ; For she wrong'd me, understand. And my life is disenchanted. As I wander through the land With the sorrows ot dark morrows that await me in a band. I30 MIRAGE. Hers was sweetest of sweet Aires, Hers the tenderest ej'es of all I In her hair she had the traces Of a heavenly coronal, Bringing sunshine to sad places where the sunlight could not fall. IX. She was fnirer than a vision ; Like a vision, too, has flown. I who flushed at her decision, Lo ! I languish here alone ; And I tremble when I tell you that my anger was mine own. Not for her, sweet sainted creature ! Could I curse her to her face ? Could I look on form and feature, And deny the inner grace ? Like a little wax Madonna she was holy in the place. XI. And I told her, in mad fashion, That I loved her, — would incline All my life to this one passion, And would kneel as at a shrine ; And would love her late and early, and would teach her to be mine. A MOTHERS NAME. XII. Now in dreams alone I meet her With my lowly human praise : She is sweeter and completer, And she smiles on me always ; But I dare not rise and greet her as I did in early days. A MOTHER'S NAME. I LOVE the sound ! The sweetest under Heaven, That name of mother, — and the proudest, too. As babes we breathe it, and with seven times seven Of youthful prayers, and blessings that accrue, We still repeat the word, with tender Steven. Dearest of friends ! dear mother 1 what we do This side the grave, in purity of aim, Is glorified at last by thy good name. II. But how forlorn the word, how full of woe, When she who bears it lies beneath the clod. In vain the orphan child would call her so, — She comes not back : her place is up with God. The wintry winds are wailing o'er the snow ; The flowers are dead that once did grace the sod. Ah, lose not heart I Some flowers may fade in gloom, But Hope's a plant grows brightest on the tomb ! — II — 132 A SONG OF SERVITUDE', A SONG OF SERVITUDE. This is a song of serfs that I have made, A song of sympathy for grief and joy : — The old, the young, the lov'd and the betrayed^ All, all must serve, for all must be obeyed. II. There are no tyrants but the serving ones, There are no servants but the ruling men. The Captain conquers with his army's guns, But he himself is conquered by his sons. TIT. "What is a parent but a daughter's slave, A son's retainer when the lad is ill ? The great Creator loves the good and brave, And makes a flower the spokesman of a grave. The son is servant in his father's halls, The daughter is her mother's maid-of-work. The welkin wonders when the ocean calls, And earth accepts the raindrop when it falls. A SONG OF SERVITUDE. 133 There are no "ups " in life, there are no *' downs," For " high " and ** low " are words of Hke degree He who is light of heart when Fortune frowns, He is a king though nameless in the towns. VI. None is so lofty as the sage who prays, None so unhigh as he who will not kneel. The breeze is servant to the summer day?, And he is bowed-to most who most obeys. These are the maxims that I take to heart. Do thou accept tliem, reader, for thine own ; Love well thy work ; be truthful in the mart, And foes will praise thee when thy friends depart. None shall upbraid thee then for thine estate, Or show thee meaner than thou art in truth. Make friends with death ; and God who is so great, He will assist thee to a nobler fate. None are unfit to serve upon their knees The saints of prayer, unseen but quick to hear. The flowers are servants to the pilgrim bees. And wintry winds are tyrants of the trees. 134 A SONG OF SERVITUDE. All things are good ; all tilings incur a debt, And all must pay the same, or soon or late The sun will rise betimes, but he must set ; And Man must seek the laws he would forget. There are no mockeries in the universe, No false accounts, no errors that will thrive. The work we do, the good things we rehearse, Are boons of Nature basely named a curse. " Give us our daily bread ! " the children pray, And mothers plead for them while thus they speak. But " Give us work, O God 1 " we men should say. That we may gain our bread from day to day. 'Tis not alone the crown that makes the king ; 'Tis service done, 'tis duty to his kind. The lark that soars so high is quick to sing, And proud to yield allegiance to the spring. XIV. And we who serve ourselves, whate'er befall Athwart the dangers of the day's behests, Oh, let's not shirk, at joy or sorrow's call. The service due to God who serves us all ! SYLVIA IN THE WEST. 135 SYLVIA IN THE WEST. What shall be done ? I cannot pray ; And none shall know the pangs I feel. If prayers could alter night to day, — Or black to white, — I might appeal ; I might attempt to sway thy heart. And prove it mine, or claim a part. II. I might attempt to urge on thee At least the chance of some redress : — An hour's revoke, — a moment's plea, — A smile to make my sorrows less. I might indeed be taught in time To blush for hope, as for a crime ! But thou art stone, though soft and fleet, A statue, not a maiden, lliou 1 A man may hear thy bosom beat When thou hast sworn some idle vow. But not for love, no 1 not for this ; For tliou wilt sell thy bridal kiss. I mean, thy friends will sell thy love. As loves are sold in England, here. A man will buy my golden dove, — I doubt he'll find his bargain dear I He'll lose the wine ; he'll buy the bowl, The life, the limbs, but not the souL 136 SYLVIA IN THE WEST. V. So, take thy mate and all his wealth, And all the joys that wait on fame. Thou 'It weep, — poor martyr'd one ! — by stealth, And think of me, and shriek my name j Yes, in his arms 1 And wake, too late, To coax and kiss the man you hate. VI. By slow degrees, from year to year. From week to week, from night to night, He will be taught how dark and drear Is barter'd love, — how sad to sight A perjured face ! He will be driven To compass Hell, — and dream of Heaven. But stand at God's high altar there, With saints around thee tall and sweet, I'll match thy pride with my despair, And drag thee down from glory's seat. Yea, thou shalt kneel I Thy head shall bow As mine is bent in anguish now. VIII. What ! for thy sake have I forsworn My just ambition, — all my joy, And all my hope from morn to morn. That seem'd a prize without alloy ? Have I done this ? I have ; and see ! I weep wild tears for thine and thee. SYLVIA IN THE WEST. 137 IX. But I can school my soul to strength, And weep and wail as children do ; Be hard as stone, yet nnelt at length, And curb my pride as thou can'st, too 1 But I have faith, and thou hast none ; And I have joy, but thine is done. X. No marriage-bells ? No songs, you say ? No flowers to grace our bridal morn ? No wine ? No kiss ? No wedding-day ? I care not ! Oaths are all forsworn ; And, when I clasp'd thy hand so white, I meant to curse thee, girl, to-night. XI. And so I shall,— Oh ! doubt not that. At stroke of twelve I'll curse thee twice. When screams the owl, when swoops the bat, When ghosts are out I'll curse thee thrice. And thou shalt hear ! — Aye, by my troth, One song will suit the souls of both. XII. I curse thy face ; I curse thy hair ; I curse thy lips that smile so well, Thy life, thy love, and my despair, My loveless couch, thy wedding-bell ; My soul and thine ! — Ah, see ! though black, I taJie one half my curses back. 138 SYLVIA IN THE WEST. For thou and I were form'd for hate, For love, for scorn ; no matter what. I am thy Fere and thou my Fate, And fire and flood shall harm us not Thou shalt be kill'd and hid from ken, And fiends will sing thy requiem then. XIV. Yet think not Death will serve thy stead ; I'll find thy grave, though wall'd in stone. I'll move thy mould to make my bed, And lie with tliee long hours alone : — Long, lifeless hours 1 Ah God, how free, How pale, how cold, thy lips will be ! But graves aie cells of truth and love, And men may talk no treason there. A corpse will wear no wedding-glove, A ghost will make no sign in air. But ghosts can pray ? Well, let them kneel 3 They, too, must loathe the love they feel. XVI. Ah me ! to sleep and yet to wake, To live so long, and yet to die ; To sing sad songs for Sylvia's sake, And yet no peace to gain thereby 1 What have I done ? What left unsaid ? Nay, I will count my tears instead. SYLVIA IN THE WEST. 139 XVII. Here is a word of wild design. Here is a threat ; 'twas meant to warn. Here is a fierce and freezing line, As hot as hate, as cold as scorn. Ah, friend ! forgive ; forbear my rhymes, But pray for me, sweet soul 1 sometimes. XVIII. Had I a curse to spare to-day, (Which I have not) I'd use it now. I'd cui-se my hair to turn it gray, I'd teach my back to bend and bow ; I'd make myself so old and thin That I should seem too sad to sin. And then we'd meet, we two, at night ; And I should know what saints have known. Thou would'st not tremble, dear, for fright, Or shriek to meet me there alone. T should not then be spurned for this, Or want a smile, or need a kiss. XX. I should not then be fierce as fire, Or mad as sin, or sharp as knife ; My heart would throb with no desire, For care would cool the flush of life j And I should love thee, spotless one, As pilgrims love some holy nun. I40 SYLVIA IN THE WEST. XXI. Ah, queen-like creature 1 smile on me ; Be kind, be good ; I lov'd thee much. I thank thee, see ! on bended knee. I seek solvation in thy touch. And when I sleep I watch thee come, And both are wild, and one is dumb. XXII. I draw thee, ghost-like, to my heart ', I kiss thy lips and call thee mine. Of thy sweet soul I form a part, And my poor soul is part of thine. Ah, kill me, kiss me, curse me. Thou I But let me be thy servant now. XXIII. What ! did I curse thy golden hair ? Well, then, the sun will set at noon j The face that keeps the world so fair Is thine, not his ; he darkens soon. Thy smile awakes the bird of dawn, And day departs when thou art gone. XXIV. Oh I had I groves in some sweet star That shines in Heaven the whole night through,- A steed with wings, — a golden car, — A something wild and strange and true: — A fairy's wand, — an angel's crown, — I'd merge them all in thy renown. SYLVIA IN THE WEST, 141 I'd give thee queens to wait on thee, And kings to kneel to thee in prayer, And seraph-boys by land and sea To do thy bidding, — earth and air To pay thee homage, — all the flowers, — And all the nymphs in all the bowers. And this our love should last for aye, And we should live these thousand years. We'd meet in Mars on Christmas Day, And make the tour of all the spheres. We'd do strange things ! Sweet stars would shine, And Death would spare my love and thine. XXVIL But these are dreams j and dreams are vain ; Mine most of all, — so heed them not. Brave thoughts will die, though men complain, And mine was bold I 'Tis now forgot. Well ; let me bless thee, ere I sleep, And give thee all my joys to keep. XXVIII. I bless the house where thou wast bom, I bless the hours of every night. And every hour from flush of mom Till death of day, for thy delight j I bless the sunbeams as they shine, — So like those golden locks of thine. 142 ELEANORE, I bless thy lips, thy lustrous eyes, Thy face, thy feet, thy forehead fair, The light that shines in summer skies, — • In garden walks when thou art there,— And all the grass beneath thy feet, And all the songs thou singest, Sweet I XXX. But blessing thus, — ah, woe's the day I — I know what tears I shall not shed, What flowers will bloom, and, bright as they, What bells will ring when I am dead. Ah, kill me, kiss me, curse me. Thou 1 But let me be thy minstrel now. ELEANORE. I. The forest flowers are faded all, The winds complain, the snow-flakes fall, Eleanore 1 I turn to thee, as to a bower : — Thou breathest beauty like a flower, Thou smilest like a happy hour, Eleanore I THE STATUE, 143 II. I turn to thee. I bless afar Thy name, which is my guiding-star, Eleanore ! And yet, ah God ! when thou art here I faint, I hold my breath for fear. Art thou some phantom wandering near, Kleanore ? III. Oh, take me to thy bosom fair ; Oh, cover me with thy golden hair, Eleanore 1 There let me lie when I am dead, Those morning beams about me spread, The glory of thy face o'erhead, Eleanore 1 THE STATUE. I. See where my lady stands, Lifting her lustrous hands, — Here let me bow. Image of truth and grace 1 Maid with the angel -face I Earth was no dwelling-place For such as thou. [44 THE STATUE, II. Ah, thou unhappy stone, Make now thy sorrows known j Make known thy longing. Thou art the form of one Whom I, with hopes undone, Buried at set of sun, — All the friends thronging. III. Thou art some Vision bright Lost out of Heaven at night. Far from thy race. Oft when the others dance, Come I, with wistful glance, Fearful lest thou, perchance, Leave the dark place. IV. No I thou wilt never flee, Earth has a charm for thee ; — "Why should we sever ? Years have I seen thee so, Making pretence to go. Lifting thine arms of snow, — Voiceless for ever ! V. Here bring I all my cares, Here dream and say my prayers While the bells toll. O thou beloved saint ! Let not my courage faint. Let not a shame, or taint, Injure my soul I PABLO DE SARAS ATE, 145 PABLO DE SARASATE. Who comes, to-day, with sunlight on his face. And eyes of fire, that have a sorrow's trace, But are not sad with sadness of the years, Or hints of tears? II. He is a king, or 1 mistake the sign, A king of song, — a comrade of the Nine, — The Muses' brother, and tl)eir youngest one, This side the sun. III. See how he bends to greet his soul's desire, His violin, which trembles like a lyre. And seems to trust him, and to know his touch, Belov'd so much 1 IV. He stands full height ; he draws it to his breast, Like one, in joy, who takes a wonder-guest, — A weird, wild thing, bewitched from end to end, — To be his friend. And who can doubt the right it has to lie So near his heart, and there to sob and sigh, And there to shake its octaves into notes With bird-like throats 146 PABLO DE SARASATE. VI. Ah I see how deftly, with his lifted bow, He strikes the chords of ecstasy and woe, And wakes the wailing of the sprite witliin That knows not sin. VII. A thousand heads are turn'd to where he stands, A thousand hopes are moulded to his hands, And, like a stonn-wind hurryiny; from the north, A shout breaks forth. VIII. It is the welcome that of old was given To Paganini ere he join'd in Heaven The angel-choirs of those who serve aright The God of Light. It is the large, loud utterance of a throng Tliat loves a faith-employ' d, impassion'd song ; A song that soothes the hearf, and makes it sad, Yet keeps us glad. X. For look I how bearded men and women fair Shed tears and smile, and half repeat a prayer, And half are shamed in their so mean estate. And he so great ! PABLO DE SARAS ATE. 147 XI. This is the young Endymion out of Spain Who, laurel-crown' d, has come to us again To re-int.>ne the songs of other times In far-off climes \ To prove again that Music, by the plea Of all men's love, has link'd from sea to sea All shores of earth in one serene and grand Symphonic land. Oh ! hush the while I Oh ! hush ! A bird has sung, A Mayday bird has tiillM wiihouf a tongue, A nd now, 'twould seem, has wanden d oiit of sight For sheer delight. XIV. A phantom bird 1 'Tis gone where all things go — The wind, the rain, the sunshine, and the snow, The hopes we nurs'd, the dead things lately pass'd- AU dreams at last. XV. The towers of light, the castles in the air, The queenly things with diamonds in their hair, The toys of sound, the flowers of magic art — All these depart. 148 PABLO DE SARAS ATE. They seemM to live ; and lo 1 beyond recall, They take the sweet sad Silence for a pall, And, wrapt therein, consent to be dismiss' d, Though glory-kiss'd. O pride of Spain 1 O wizard with a wand More fraught with fervours of the life beyond Thin books have taught us in these tawdry days, Take thou my praise. XVIII. Aye, take it, Pablo I Though so poor a thing, *Twill serve to mind thre of an English spring When wealth, and worth, and fash'on, each and all, Obcy'd thy thrall. The lark that sings its love-song in the cloud Is God-inspired and glad, — but is not proud, — And soon forgets the salvos of the breeze, As thou dost these. XX. The shouts, the praises, and the swift acclaim, That men have brought to magnify thy name, Affect thee barely as an idle cheer Affects a seer. Ml' ARTAZON. 149 But thou art ours, O Pablo I ours to-day, Ours, and not ours, in thy triumphant sway 5 And we must urge it by the right that brings Honour to kings. XXII Honour to thee, thou stately, thou divine And far-famed minstrel of a mighty line I Honour to thee, and peace, and musings high, Good-night I Good bye! MY AMAZON. My Ix)ve is a lady fair and free, A lady fair from over the sea, And she hath eyes that pierce my breast And rob my spirit of peace and rest. II. A youthful warrior, warm and young, She take;; me prisoner with her tongue. Aye 1 and she keeps me, — on parole, — Till paid the ransom of my soul. I50 PRO P ATRIA. in. I swear the foeman, arm'd for war From cap-h-pic, vvllli many a scar, More mercy finds for prostrate foe Than she who deals me never a blow. IV. And so 'twill be, this many a day ; She comes to wound, if not to slay. But in my dreams, — in honied sleep, - 'Tis I to smile, and she to weep I ^ PRO PATRTA. AN ODE TO SWINBURNE. [" We have not, alack ! an ally to befriend n5, And the season is ripe to extirpate and end us. Let the German touch hands with the Gaul, And the fortress of England must fall. Louder and louder the noise of defiance Rings ra^e from the grave of a trustless alliance, And bids us beware, and be warn'd, As abhorr'd of all nations and scorn'd." A Word for the Nation, by A. C. S'winburm.'\ I. Nay, good Sir Poet, read thy rhymes again. And curb the tumults that are born in thee, That now thy hand, relentful, may refrain To deal the blow that Abel had of Cain. FRO PATRJA. 151 II. Are we not Britons born, when all is said, And thou the offspring of the kni|;htly souls Who fought for Charles when fears were harvested, And Cromwell rose to power on Charles's head ? O reckless, royslering bard, that in a breath Did'st find the way to (lout thy fiithers' flag ! Is't well, unheeding what ihy Reason s:dth. To seem to triumph in thy country's death i If none will si)eak for us, if none will say How far thy INliise has wrong'd us in its thought, 'Tis I will do it ; I will say thee nay, And hurl thee back the ravings of thy lay. V, We own thy prowess ; for we've learnt by rote Song after song of thine ; and thou art great. But why this malice ? Why this wanton note Which seems to come like lava from thy throat ? VI. When Hugo spoke we owned his master-spell ; We knew he feared us more than he contemned. He fleck'd with fire each sentence as it fell, And tolled his rancours like a wedding-bell. 152 PRO P ATRIA, And we were proud of him, as France was proud. Ay I call'd him brother,— though he lov'd us not ; And we were thrill'd when, ruthless from a cloud, The bolt of death outstretch'd him for a shroud. VIII. Thou'rt great as he by fame and force of song, But less than he as spokesman of his Land. For thou hast rail'd at thine, to do it wrong, And call'd it coward though its faith is strong. England a coward ? O thou five foot five Of flesh and blood and sinew and the rest ! Is she not girt with glory and alive To hear thee buzz thy scorn of all the hive ? Thou art a bee, — a bright, a golden thing With too much honey ; and the taste thereof Is sometimes rough, and somewhat of a sting Dwells in the music that we hear thee sing. XI. Oh, thou hast wrong*d us ; thou hast said of late More than is good for listeners to repeat. Nay, I have marvell'd at thy words of hate, For friends and foes alike have deem'd xis great. PRO PAIR/ A. 153 We are not vile. We, too, have hearts to feel ; An Po^m;^ By eric MACKAY. M;» ^ff» f^-i tA^ »^» ?>Ti «*p n^^ LA ZINGARELLA. IL PONTE D'AVIGLIO. I MIEI SALUTI. 1^ »>i^ Jft «4f» "^ ''i' "^ *j> "^^ LA ZINGARELLA. D IMMI, dimmi, o trovatore, Tu che canti sul liuto, Bello e bruno e pien d' a more Dalla valle in su venuto, Non ti fermi sull' altura Per mostrar la tua bravura ? Non mi canti sul burrone Qualche lieta tua canzone ? II. — Zingarella, in suUa sera Canta bene il rosignolo, Piange e canta in sua preghlera Salutando un dolce suolo. Ma il liuto al mio toccare Pianger sa, non sa pregare . . . Dell ! che vuoi col tuo sorriso, Tu che sai di paradiso ? 204 ITALIAN POEMS. V6 sentire in tuo linguaggio Come h fatto un uom fedeJe, Se I'amor lo fa selvaggio, Se il (1 est in lo fa crudele. Parla schietto ; son ]iiofana Ma ben leggo I' alma umana. Parla pur dei tuoi viaggi Nei deserti e nei villaggi. Cantcrotti, o zingarella, Qualche allegra mia ballata, Qualche estatica novella D' una dama innamorala . . . — Dimmi tutto ! — Canterotli D' Ungheria le meste notti. — D' Ungheria ? — Del Bosco Santo Dove nacque il gran Sorranto. Sappi in breve, son marchese Castellano e cantatore, Cattivai con questo arnese D'una maga un di 1' amore. — D' una maga ? — Si, di quelle Che san legger nelle stelle. — E fu bella ? — Non v' e guari Dama, oh no, che le sia pari. ■1 ZINGARELLA. 205 VI. Come parca in fra le dila Essa tenne il mio dcstino , Fu la sfinge di mia vita Col sorriso suo divino. Avea biondi i suoi capelli, Occhi aeri e molto belli, Braccia e collo in puritade Come neve quando cade. VII. — Taci, taci, o castellauo ; Qui convien pregar per essa. — lo 1' amai d' amor sovrano Pronta fu la sua promessa. L' aspettai ; mi fu cortese, Ma fuggi dal mio paese, Travestita un di di Maggie Come biondo e giovin paggio. VIII. Oh, giammai non fu sognata Cosa uguale per bellezza Chi la vide incoronata Sorridea per tenerezza. Chi la vide di niattina La credeva una regina, Qualche sogno di poeta, Qualche mcanto di profeta ! 2o6 ITALIAN POEMS. Traditor ! col tuo liuto Tu 1' hai fatto innamorare I — lo giurai per San Bernuto E pel Cristo in sull' a] tare, Per Giuseppe e per Maria Che farei la vita pia. — E il facesti ? — I sacri voti Ricantai dei sacerdoti. • — Or m' ascolta, o trovatore, Or rispondi, e dimini il vero : Hai veduto il mesto fiore Che si coglie in cimitero? Hai veduto i fior di rose Che s' intreccian per le spose, Quando cantan desolati Gli usignoli abbandonati ? XI. Crolli il capo ; impailidisci ; Stendi a me la bianca mano -, Non rispondi ; e forse ambisci Delia sposa ormai I'arcano ? Qui mori la Gilda, maga Sotto il nome di Menzaga ; Qui morl, nel suo pallore, Per r amor d'un trovatore 1 LA ZINGARELLA, 207 XII. Stravolto 1' amante s' inchina ; Ei mira la mesta donzella. Velata h la maga, ma bella, Coll'occhio che pianger non sa. — O donna, 1' amor t* indovina Tu, Gilda, t' ascondi coli I Nel mondo non v'e la sembianza Di tale e di tanta beltade ! Non cresce per queste contrade N^ giglio n^ spirto d' amor. Tu sola tu sei la Speranza Che tenni qua stretta sul cor. Tu sola tu sei la mia dama. La gioja e I'onor della vita ; Tu sola, donzella romita, Del mondo la diva sei tu. L'amor ti conosce, e la fama 5 N^ manca I'antica virtu. XV. Ma dove h la f^ del passato Che tanto brill6 nella festa ? L' amore, 1' onore, le gesta 2o8 ITALIAN POEMS. D' un tempo che presto fuggi ? Fu vero ? L' ho forse sognato ? Tu pur r hai sognato cosi ! T-a maga intenta ascolta il sue galante ; Ride, si scioglie il velo e guarda il Sire. Kossa diventa e bianca in iino istante, E poi s' asconde il viso e vuol fuggire. Corre nei bracci suoi lo fido amante ; E favellar vorria nel suo giolre. . . — Deh ! taci, oh taci I Al mondo ovunque h doglia. Gilda son io. Ti bacio e son contenta. Pianger non so se non per pazza voglia Come la strega allor che si lamenta . . . Cosa vuoi tu ? Che vuoi che si mi guard! ? Diva non son, ma donna ; e fui crudele. — Baciami in bocca. O Dio I mi stringi ed ardi Tanto d' amore e piangi e sei fedele ? — Ugo 1 M' ascolta, io son la tua meschina, Forte ben si, ma doma in questi agoni ; Sono la schiava tua, la tua regina, Quel che tu vuoi purche non m' abbandoni ! LA ZINGARELLA. 209 XX. — O cara, o casta, o bella, o tu die bramo, Dammi la morte unita a un tuo sorriso. Eva sarai per me. Son io 1' Adamo ; E quivi m terra avrassi il paradiso ! IL PONTE D' AVIGLIO. O MESTO bambino col capo chinatc, Rispondi ; rispondi. Che fece Renato ? Fu vinto Morello? Fu salvo Lindoro? Rispondi ; rispondi ! — Son padre di loro. II, Non veggo tomare dal Ponte d' Aviglio Renato superbo del vinto periglio. L' ban forse promosso ? Risorge la guerra ? Rispondi ; rispondi ! — L' ban messo soUerra. III. O ciel 1 tu lo senti, tu vedi 1' oltraggio Renato fu prence del nostro villaggio ! . . . Ma dimmi, piccino. Che fece Morello? Rispondi ; rispondi ! — Lo chiude 1' avello. 2IO ITALIAN POEMS. Ahi, crudo destine ! Si grande, si forte, Morello nasceva per vincer la morte. Ma r altro ? Che face sul campo serrato ? Rispondi ; rispondi ! — Mori da soldato. V. Gran Dio ! che mi narri I Pur desso m* 6 tolto ? Renato m' e morto ? Morello sepolto ? E piangi, . . . tu pure ? Gentile bambino ! Che dici ? Rispondi ! — Vi resta Giannino. Oh si, del figliuolo 1' ignoto tesoro, L' incognito figlio del biondo Lindoro. Ma dove trovarlo nel nome di Dio ? Rispondi ; rispondi ! — Buon padre, son io T MIEI SALUTI. Ti saluto, Margherita Fior di vita, . . . ti saluto .' Sei la speme del mattino, Sei la gioja del giardino= I MIEI SALUTI. 211 Ti saluto, Rosignolo Nel tuo duolo, . . . ti saluto Sei r amante della rosa Che morendo si fa sposa. III. Ti saluto, Sol di Maggio Col tuo raggio, . . . ti saluto 1 Sei 1' Apollo del passato, Sei r amore incoronato. Ti saluto, Donna mia, Casta e pia, . . . ti saluto ! Sei la diva dei desiri, Sei la Santa dei Sospiri. THE WALTER SCOTT PRESS, NEWCASTLE-ON-TYNE. PRICE 3s. NERO AND ACTEA BY ERIC MACKAY, Author of ^^ Love Letters of a Violinist,^' atid "A Lover's LAtaniesy Edition nearly exhausted. Copies may be obtained at Lamley's Library, Exhibition Road, PRICE 3s. 6d. A LOVER'S LITANIES AND OTHER POEMS. By ERIC MACKAY. SECOND EDITION. .'. Thin Volume contains a Portrait of the Author. London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trucner,& Co., Ltd, Paternoster House, Charing Cross Road. 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