/ LIBRARY I UNIVERSITY OP I \CAUFORNIA/ 10 A N C H E! 10 A N C H E ! POEMS, CHIEFLY LYRICAL. THOMAS SMIBERT, EDINBURGH: JAMES HOGG. LONDON: R. GROOMBRIDGE & SONS. MDCCCLI. INSCRIPTORY. A solace in the griefs of life, Ami calmer of its moods of strife; In all that yields me pleasure sharing, For all I care for, warmly caring ; Ever a hope, a trust, a stay, Whatever troubles cross my way : More hast thou been more hast thou done A nd recompense hast looked for none, Save that thy love with love should meet, And Home be still with Peace replete ! IVTiat patron may have claims on me, Like these which appertain to thee f Then, though it pain thy modest eye, Sister, do not my boon deny; Forgive me, if I persevere My grateful breast to lighten here. Let me take joy, when comes my hour, To feel that, while within my power, My love for thee I spoke aloud, And in thy love was glad and proud. Give me the pleasure of the thought, That, if this book containeth ought Fitted to live, thine own dear name Shall share what meed it ivins of fame ; And that, as on this earthly ball We have so long been all in all To one another, still we may, When frailty seeks its kindred clay, Of an associateship partake Which not the tomb itself can shake, INSCRIPTORY. iii And which hath its abiding-place In the remembrance of our race! If thus I joy to hope, that here, Even on tfiis transitory sphere, We may not wholly part, 01 how, In thankfulness, the heart should bow To Him who hath the prospect given Of endless fellowship in Heaven! Loved Sister, to the pure and good, Fixed ever hath this promise stood. Should I in life such trust secure, Our long communion must be sure : Thou ever hast been Good and Pure ! PEEFATOEY, 10 ANCHE! All who are acquainted with the Italian language, however slightly, must know the literal meaning of these two words to be, "I ALSO!" Their appearance thus prominently, on the title-page of the present volume, may be explained in a great measure at the option of individuals. Whoever so chooses, is at liberty to regard them as indicating, merely, that the author is conscious of having here made a doubtful venture, such as many before him have tried, and few, of late days, with the full measure of success desired. Others, again, if so disposed, may give to lo Anche the not less justifiable signification of " EVEN I," and hold it accordingly to be expressive simply of a proper humility. However, in addition to such more superficial expositions, yet another view of the Italian phrase may be taken, and taken by parties to whom it is neither new nor devoid of asso- ciations. They may call to mind, that the famous painter Correggio, whose temperament, like his pen- cil, was modest exceedingly, laboured long under harassing doubts as to his own powers, now working at his easel with enthusiasm and pride, and now turn- PREFATORY. ing from it with dismay and despondency; and that the approbation of one whom he well nigh idolised, Michael Angelo Buonarotti, had alone power in the end to dispel his vacillating tremors, and to call up, from the depths of his heart, the delighted cry of lo anche son pittore (" I also am a painter ") ! But it was from the very fulness of his admiration for the works of others, it is to be noted, that Correggio thus spoke. His self-appreciation, so moderate in its character, and so slowly attained, led him to decry no man to com- pare himself with none. Enough it was for him to feel, that his own long toils had not been wholly mis- directed; and that in the days to come he might hope to be named, in however humble a place, among the followers of his beloved Art. As observed, this anec- dote may be remembered now by some parties; and they may feel inclined to ascribe to it the suggestion of the title of the present volume. If so, let them like- wise, in fairness, keep in mind the unpretending and unenvious spirit in which the words were originally employed, and generously assume a similar feeling to have here exercised a similar influence. Nor, if the Italian incident has been in view on this occasion, will it be just to hold, that it is desired to represent the two cases as intrinsically parallel or analogous. Spen>er was the Correggio of our poetry; and presumptuous he would be, indeed who should think of mating himself with the Laureate of Fairy-Lai ul ! The secondary title of POK.MS. here adopted, has fallen into too common use now-a-days to excite any remarks; although it may justly lie held to PREFATORY. vii dinvtly what lo Anche, at most, only leaves to be im- plied. This circumstance has not now been forgotten, and has even led, indeed, to some hesitation in prefix- ing to the following compositions a designation whose proper meaning cannot be too highly estimated. All this may seem to savour of affectation; but the truth is, that there exists much inequality in the contents of the present volume; and of this the author is so deeply conscious, that, though perhaps endowed with a fair share of egotism, he cannot but regard the collection, on the whole, with more of pain than either pride or pleasure. He has used the pen almost incessantly dur- ing a literary life of some considerable duration; and when he asks himself if this work be indeed all, or the best, which he can now offer to the world, to bear evi- dence to the labours of the past, or justify a claim to respect in the future, sentiments of regret are awak- ened in his mind in real earnest. Undoubtedly, a vast deal more than appears here has been written, and, in one or another place, published; but the great mass, being produced for temporary purposes, neither deserves nor could bear re-issue. On all those por- tions which do advance any feasible claims to be so honoured, the author has sat in personal and un- controlled judgment, and finds himself constrained to admit, that almost every effort in verse the species of composition here concerned which is of value even in his own partial eyes, is compressible, and comprised, within the limits of this small publication. Such sweep- ing exclusions as have been deemed necessary, however, eould not be made without exciting some melancholy PREFATORY. reflections not on account of the value, but of the want of value, of the matter rejected. There is a pe- riod of life, when the prospective cry of Cowley,"Wlmt shall I do to be for ever known?" assumes the retro- spective form of " What have I done to be for ever known 1 " At that period, even those who have done much are prone to think that they have done but little; while those who have really done but little are apt to imagine that little less. Nor must it be con- ceived, that such feelings can only assail parties im- pressed with a high opinion of their own powers and endowments. He who is conscious, that at best he could not have effected much, has all the more reason for regret, when he feels, perhaps too late, that even that limited amount has not been accomplished. Common, too common, must be the latter case at the present day. The chief cause may be easily pointed out, and in some measure calls for such indication here, since it affords an apologetic explanation of cir- cumstances that have affected alike the position of the present writer, and that of multitudes of contemporary cultivators of literature. An immense change has taken place in the condition of the literary world within the current century, and more particularly during the last thirty years. Above all, perhaps, has its influence been observable in relation to Poetry. Many persons among us are apt to fed astonished, that the progress of poetry does not bear an even ratio to the advance of society in general intelli- gence. If the ruder days of Greece, it is argued, gave birth to a Homer, and England, when just emerging PREFATORY. from comparative barbarism, sent forth a Shakspere, what miracles of a kindred class ought not England, in the enlightened nineteenth century, to originate hourly ? Nay, how comes it (continue the same rea- soners) that even the generation of our own imme- diate sires should have emitted a most glorious galaxy of poetical constellations, while we, their successors, who have gone incalculably beyond them in so many other walks and ways, cannot boast of one single name in poetry, properly and distinctly our own, which deserves to be ranked with even the less ex- alted of theirs 1 ? To the former and general question answers have often been proffered, and the matter need not be re-argued here. To the latter interroga- tory, however, which is the most interesting, as bear- ing specially on our own days, it is germane to the purpose on hand to give some attention. The point is one in which many are concerned. The days which beheld the dawning efforts of Words- worth, Kogers, Crabbe, Moore, Campbell, Scott, Cole- ridge, Southey, and other poetical lights of the last generation, though so little removed from our ow r n, differed from these in several very important fea- tures. One distinction stands prominent above all others. PERIODICAL LITERATURE can scarcely be said to have had an existence in the earlier epoch. It is a creation of the nineteenth century, to all intents and purposes, and in all its principal existing phases, from Quarterly Keviews to Weekly Penny Magazines. Newspapers may even justly be accounted the growth of the same recent era, the few previously published PREFATORY. having been scarcely more than mere Gazettes, re- cording, less opinions, than bare public and business facts. At this day, the number of Periodicals issued in Great Britain, of one and another class, is well known to be very great, indeed immense. Equally vast, of necessity, is and must be the amount of lite- rary talent engaged upon these journals, statedly and unremittingly; while a large additional amount of si- milar talent finds there occasional and ready outlets for its workings. Can this so strikingly novel system of things, it may then be asked, the creation entirely of the last thirty or forty years, have failed to affect, par- tially and aggregately, the "literary mind" of the nation, and deeply to modify, for good or for ill, the tone and character of all its products? It is not to the bearing of Periodicalism on the pub- lic mind at large not to its influence, good or bad, on society that allusion is here made, the reader will observe. Its operation on the actual producers of lite- rature is the matter under consideration; and there its effects have certainly been not less extensive than mo- mentous. Most of all, as before remarked, have they been felt in the domain^of Poetry. When even the bards of the very last generation were pluming their pinions for ethereal flights, not more than one or two worthy but anile journals, such as the Gentleman's and Scots' Magazines, existed as periodic outlets for the workings of juvenile genius; and, from ghim-m^ at the effusions there commonly introduced to view, one may apprehend with what scorn a Wordsworth would have scouted the idea of using such vehicles I PREFATORY. for his inspirations. And well was it, indeed, to all appearance, for himself and his young contemporaries, that matters then stood thus, since they were not tempted to fritter away their minds upon " Poet's-cor- ner " triflings, but felt impelled to high and sustained efforts, resulting in works deserving of being laid be- fore their country isolatedly, and destined to immor- tality. Let it not be imagined, however, from these remarks, that the intrinsic genius of such men as "Wordsworth, Crabbe, and Campbell, is here lost sight of or undervalued. Their intellects were of too high an order to be either the creations or the puppets of mere circumstances; nor is it even insinuated, that the current generation can boast of their equals, either known or obscure, in embryo or full-blown. All now advanced is, that the position of literature in their times was more favourable, than at present, to the devotion of talent to great single undertakings. They were assuredly not beset by the same seductive facilities for expending their powers on petty objects facilities all the more fascinating, as comprising the pleasures of immediate publicity, and perhaps even of repute for a day, if not also of some direct remune- ration. These influences of full-grown Periodicalism extend now to all who can read and write. But it en- tices most especially within its vortex those who ex- hibit an unusually fair share of early literary promise, involves them in its multitudinous and multifarious occupations, and, in short, divides and subdivides the operations of talent, until all prominent identity is destroyed, both in works and workers. To the growth Xll PREFATORY. of this modern system, beyond question, is largely to be referred the comparative disappearance from among us of Great Literary Individualities; or, to use other and more accurate words, by that system have men of capacity been chiefly diverted from the com- position of Great Individual Works, and more parti- cularly Great Poems. The cases of some distinguished writers, who may be said to have lived betwixt the present and the past generations, might be adduced to illustrate these remarks, did they need such illustration. Professor Wilson and Leigh Hunt, for example, might be pointed to as furnishing instances of able men led aside by Periodicalism from single tasks worthy of their powers. Our national literature thus and there lost the poems that should have fulfilled the young promise of the Isle of Palms and Rimini. It is true that these parties have since laboured neither uiiho- nouredly nor uselessly; but their cases show not the less clearly the influence of Periodicalism in causing the modern dearth of Great Poems, which is the same thing, practically, with a dearth of Great Poets. And if men of such singularly rich and brilliant intellects (to whom Hoods and Hooks without number might be added) could be thus affected in their literal-)- develop- ments, and deprived of the power or desire of self-con- centration, how much more strongly must less vigo- rous minds have been impressed by the like distracting (HUM'S ! Moreover, as periodical writing has become more and molid profit, will be found usually PKKFATOHY. to have likewise borne away the repute. All that the public over knows of such individuals, for the most part, is confined to a vague impression of their hav- ing contributed more or less to the pages of such and such periodicals; and the brief obitual notice of the newspapers, which commonly closes the scene, can, and does, communicate no more. Standing thus in the dark, the public cannot be charged with anything like blameable neglect in cases of the kind. Nor, in reality, is a fault properly chargeable anywhere. It is the actual system of Periodicalism as it has moulded itself to suit the demands of the time that has caused these changes in the general position of litera- ture and literary men, to which attention has here been directed, and of which the effects are, in many points of view, not happy. These observations have been carried to a greater length than was intended. The object of the writer, at the outset, was, mainly, to point out the influence of modern Periodicalism, especially in its cheap forms, on the existing "literary mind" of our country, and to draw thence an explanation of the non-direction of youthful talent, in late days, to the production of single works of importance, and, above all, of Poems of the higher class. The explanation, which is only offered as a partial one, involves also so far an apo- logy for the many who wield the pen at the current time, and who are frequently stigmatised, somewhat unthinkingly, as a race wofully degenerate and inca- pable. The effects of the present Periodical system on the condition of literary men, as respects fame XV111 PREFATORY. and fortune, has also been brought partially under consideration. It has been desired seriously to re- mind the world, that the tribes of writers who rack their brains continually to supply mental food to the community, and who often do so unseen, un- known, and unhonoured, are not without claims on the public sympathy, and for the most part need such solace. They form literally a new order of la- bourers in the commonwealth, and their well-being has not yet been rightly looked into and assured. To all connected with letters these circumstances are well known; and this is the moment when they should be made known to, and considered by, the general community. Various living British authors of the higher class, to their honour, nave made, and are making, strong efforts to improve the position of the inferior members of their fraternity. In London, Literary Guilds and Funds have been established, or are in progress; and there, above all, are they necessary at the present day, and, in the establish- ment of these, the nation ought to share liberally. It will be an error to suppose these remarks to be merely of an interested nature, though so far, be- yond doubt, they have been suggested by individual observation and experiences. That the author is among those cultivators of periodical literature who think that their time might. have hern so expended as to conduce more to their own repute and ailvan- he does not deny; but, though no man should hold the solid produce of his labours to be below his consideration, it is to the employment of the 1'Ur.FATOHY. iniiul, chiefly, that this retrospective feeling points. The writer lias boon so situated hitherto in life, hap- pily, as to feel few of those practical evils which he has alluded to as apt to befall others in a position akin to his own in the literary world. ISTor has he attained to that age when the past becomes irremediable. He has, in short, here put in, in the main, a plea for a class, and a large class; and he has begged for them gene- rous consideration from the world, alike in regard to character and condition. As far as the remarks in this Preface have a personal bearing, they may pos- sibly be held to exhibit a tincture of egotism; but, as before remarked, the man who is conscious of but moderate abilities may feel the most keenly when these have not been in all respects satisfactorily used. The charge of aspiring somewhat highly, however, may not be so readily disproved; and, possibly, such ambition may be misplaced. On this head, the reader must judge for himself. He has in this little book the materials for so doing. INDEX. Page Sonnet" How grand the aim," een torn. She sat and sung with simple tongue, When none could hear or see, Oh, lion a-ree ! An infant, in untimely hour, Died in a Lowland cot; The parents owned the hand of Power, That bids the storm be still, or lour; They grieved because the cup was sour, And yet they murmured not. They only sung, with simple tongue, When none could hear or see, Ah, ivaes me! I n it n 1 1. HY do I fancy in my noon of life, Ere any furrows yet unsmooth my brow, That this fair globe no more of beauty now To me can show that Time, so lately rife With joys that compensate all terrene strife, May not henceforth with these my path endow i Before such dark imaginings I bow, Yet most reluctantly. Firmly the knife, Touching the keen nerves of this mortal frame, Could I endure, and smile away the smart Of all defacing ills that come with years; But feelings are there, which we cannot name ! The wrinkles of my days are on my heart It is the eye of thought that drops sad tears. POEMS. irnttisjj tSiftnni's Jnntnit. AFORE the Lammas tide Had clun'd the Mrken tree, In a' our water side Nae wife was blest like me; A kind gudeman, and twa Sweet bairns were 'round me here; But they're a' ta'en awa' Sin' the fa' o' the year. Sair trouble cam' our gate, And made me, when it cam', A bird without a mate, A ewe without a lamb. Our hay was yet to maw, And our corn was to shear, "When they a' dwined awa' In the fa' o' the year. I downa look a-field, For aye I trow I see The form that was a bield To my wee bairns and me; But wind, and weet, and snaAv, They never inair can fear, Sin' they a' got the ca' In the fa' o' the year. Aft on the hill at e'ens I see him 'man.if tin- fi : The lover o' my teens, The faithrr <>' my l>airns; Tor then- liis plaid I saw As gloainm' aye drew near POEMS. But my a's now awn' Sin' the fa' o' the year. Our bonnie rigs theirsel' Reca' my waes to mind, Our puir dumb beasties tell O' a' that I hae tyned; For wha our wheat will saw, And wha our sheep will shear, Sin' my a' gaed awa', In the fa' o' the year? My hearth is growing cauld, And will be caulder still; And sair, sair in the fauld Will be the winter's chill; For peats were yet to ca', Our sheep they were to smear, When my a' passed awa' In the fa' o' the year, I ettle whiles to spin, But wee, wee patterin' feet Come rinnin' out and in, And then I just maun greet; I ken it's fancy a', And faster rows the tear, That my a' dwined awa' In the fa' o' the year. Be kind, Heaven abune ! To ane sae wae and lane, And tak' her hamewards sune, In pity o' her maen; Lang ere the March winds blaw, May she, far far frae here, Meet them a' that's awa' Sin' the fa' o' the year. POEMS. 51 Uisit tn u Cjjtirrljtjarfr. late I visited the old churchyard, Where sleep my fathers. By an open grave I stood when last upon this scene, and gave A dear one to the callous earth in ward. Deeply it pained me then to see the sward Littered all round me with ancestral bones; And, but that fresher grief repressed the tones, The voice of outraged nature had been heard. When there once more, how chill I thought the place ! New things of life, but speechless life, had found Their birth, meanwhile, betwixt the dead and me, And formed as yet of these the only trace. Their epitaph was but the lowly mound The long, green grass their sole biography ! I LOVE the sacred, silent hours, That link the palms of Night and Day, Wedding the coy reluctant powers In bands of silver grey. I love them, though too oft they shake Oblivion from its proper throne, And bid the restless soul awake. And the dear Sleep begone. The Thoughts that eentre in tlie brain. The Feelings lodgrd \vithin the breast, Should then a\vhil- :it praee remain. Like fledgelings in the nest. Yrt. ly their very calm, these hours Appear to me their calm to mar, Setting the tired corporeal powers With active mind at war. Quick Fancy then revives old schemes, That died as born, all unfulfilled; While Memory calls up dearer dreams Of things attained as willed. And Melancholy claims her share In that half-sore, half-sweet unrest; She mourns lost friends, and yet can bear The loss that leaves them blest. Still this grey season hath for me A charm of deeper feelings born; With bright peculiar thoughts I see The rising star of Morn ! Wayfaring friends were we of old, In summer's heat and winter's snow, Though Hesper paced the sky in gold, And I trod earth below. The draught of bliss that Morning sips Is vast as ocean in its pool; The cup ordained for mortal lips, Though small, may be as full. And of the joys for man designed, A bounteous store fell then on me; And, far as suiteth with our kind, I shared the day-dawn glee. And why was thus my bosom light? And wherefore were my spirits gay, As on I roamed alone by night Upon a lonely AV;I\ ' .' POEMS. Love was the power that led me on Love was the lamp that lit my path; Love made long miles seem light as none, By mount, and moor, and strath. O ! fair was she to whom I gave The first love of my fervent years A love not springing from a grave No growth of widowed tears ! O ! she was fair ! Those dark bright eyes, The veined marble of that brow, That cheek of rarely blended dyes Methinks I view them now. Still fondly doth Remembrance hold By those dear times which saw me rove By night across the lonesome wold To taste one hour of Love ! The closing eve beheld me go; The dawn saluted my return; But why begin these tears to flow ? Poor heart, why idly mourn? If she be happy, be thou glad, Nor vainly what is past deplore; And yet, how may I be but sad, Since I can love no more ! 0! rightly have the poets sun^. That when Love's vernal bloom hath flown, No more, where once it freshly sprung, Can the fair flower he known! The wayside plsints of I'Yiuulship Hate Of common Joy and common .Pain If bruised, soon re-assnmc their state, r.ut Love blooms not again. It is not that my hair is grey, Nor that my blood is thin and cold: Few seasons, since young Passion's day, Above my head have rolled. Nor am I, if I know me well, Of that affected whining crew, Who rave of blights and blasts that fell On joys they never knew. The cup was full, brimful of bliss, Which it was mine erewhile to drain; I loved was loved: the end is this I cannot love again ! "DETTER it may be for the weal of man *-* That war should be transmuted to a trade, Where not on strenuous arm and trenchant blade Hangs victory, but on strategic plan, The cannon-car and ammunition-van, With all the arms that from a distance strike The valiant and the timorous alike, And ranks on ranks at once to death trepan. Yet strife was grander in the olden day, When chief and vassal, on the battle-plain, Owed to their own good swords their own renown. The chivalry of gore hath passed away: Once for the head the hand would laurels gain, But now the head both wins and wears the crown. 10 POEMS. jjr jfirst luinllnni. "WHITE-throated herald of the coming May, It joys me much to see thee here again! Once more shalt thou, sweet bird, at dawn of day Chase my dull slumbers with thy cheerful strain; Thy parent-labours, at my window-pane, With placid morning thoughts my breast shall fill, And I shall quit my bed, Full-fraught in heart and head With soothing trust in God, and unto all good-will. Who can behold the nicest art and care, With which thou labourest thy little home, Nor think of Him, whose hand is written there Even on thy tiny edifice of loam As visibly as on the vast air-dome? Or who can mark the fond firm ties that bind Thy chosen mate and thee, In toils alike and glee, Nor yearn with deeper lovingness for all his kind ? On thee, indeed, and all thy dark-winged race Who cleave the air or skim the glassy pool, Conspicuous are the tokens of His grace, Who holds Infinity beneath His rule: When autumn winds our norland climate cool, Doth He not kindly Inul you far away To some more sunnv land, When- skies an- rvrr bland, And make your span of life one long bright sum- mer's day? , in; So do we oftest deem, at least, of thee. Sweet page, that boldest up the skirts roK.MS. 11 I'sher of flowers foretype of songs to be, All.rit less perfectly thyself may sing! Yet doth a veil hang o'er thy passaging! Haply thou hiest thee, as some do say, To lonely pool or brook, Or dark secluded nook, And there, like bedded stone, dost sleep the cold away. J >ark as the polar secrets of the north, Have been thy ways, thou pilgrim of the sky, Since, bringing light and life, Time first stood forth, A finger-guide in bleak Eternity: Though questioned long by man's deep searching eye, Thy course is full of doubt, when all is done, And still we can but guess, That when the chill winds press, Thou seek'st a home in climes that front the prone- rayed sun. Welcome, thou gentle haunter of the eaves ! Gladly I welcome thee, come whence thou may; Whether the spirit that evolves the leaves Hath called thee from the deep to bask in day, Or thou from far-off lands hast winged thy way. I love thee, and with joy will watch anew The labours, to and fro, Which thou must undergo, Ere from their beauteous shells thy young step forth to view. Men wrong thee, my poor bird, when they compare A summer-fly of human kind to thee; Although thou comest when the skies are fair, And at the winter's touch dost straightway flee, No faithlessness in thy career we see; 12 POEMS. Thy comings and thy goings both are sure; And with us might'st thou stay, If bound not to obey The laws that through all time unbroken must en- dure. More justly wert thou likened to the young, Who immaturely quit us in their noon, And most of all to those whose lips have sung The brief preludings of a pleasant tune, But have grown dumb and bloomless all too soon ! These are thy prototypes; but as we bend With meekness to the blow, That lays such dear ones low, Be we content with what we have of thee, sweet friend ! TTOW many of my years have passed away, -H- And yet how little has been done for fame? Oh ! shall this burning wish to leave a name, That may re-echo to a distant day, Know nor in life fulfilment nor decay, But still consume my bosom now a flame Fuelled with noble hopes, and now a tame. Dull gloss, that wastes, not lights, this frame of clay .' Is it, then, fruitlessly that thus I yearn? May Heaven have planted in the human soul This deathless thirst for an immortal urn, And yet made unattainable the joal ! From thought to thought, from view to view, I turn. And meanwhile pauselessly the seasons roll. l POEMS. 13 Itttnllmii. dost thou linger all this pleasant time, Sweet bird, that wontest to forerun the May ? Above what scented grove of southern clime Pursuest thou on earnest wing thy prey, Feasting and sporting through the livelong day ? Or over what supremely favoured pool Dost thou now nimbly fly, Sending, in passing by, One arrowy streak of night along the waters cool ? When infant day from off the glossy leaves Sips nursing dew to nerve its manly noon, I cannot hear thy twitter in the eaves, Though longing, sleepless, for the tuneful boon; Nor have I yet beheld thee, late or soon, Darting with levin speed athwart my view, Eager in quest of food, Or, for thy annual brood, Toiling to prop some ancient home, or build a new. Haply thou dalliest, my gentle bird, Betwixt our chill climes and the southlands warm, Loath to advance, because thine ear hath heard The snorting of the war-horse of the storm ? Shall wintry blasts our summer fields deform ? And hath, indeed, thy keen instinctive sense Forewarned thee to remain Where mild airs daily reign, And night, with all her damps, can do thee no of- fence? Yet come, and fear not, cleaver of the skies ! Things frail as thou are here, and know no blight. 14 Ever at night-shut doth the lark arise, A darkling star, to spot the arch of light, And pour his notes, cascade-like, from the height; And even the callow youngling of the wren Boldly erects its crest From out the parent nest, Nor fears, beneath the leaves, or cold, or wind, or rain. Step we abroad to breathe the fragrant air, And blended with the tints on mount and lea, Our charmed eyes shall notice, everywhere, The golden kirtle of the forest bee; And we shall hear him humming joyously; And mark, besides, safe-swinging in the breeze, And gleaming to the sun, The spider's cordage, spun Between the sheltering branches of the full-leaved trees. Nay, weaker things by far than these can dwell Securely where thou shrinkest to appear. Within the chalice of the small blue-bell May be discerned, by him, who gazeth near, A busy world, assailing eye and ear; And not a flower in garden, field or grove, Nor blossom of the bough, But is sonorous now With voices eloquent of life, and joy, and 1< Come, then, my bird, and dream not of mischance, Since thus all nature is astir with life! Come ! for the season gives not to my glance The sweets witli which thy presence made it rife; And when autumnal gale* begin their strife POEMS. 1.", Long ere the winter furs the earth with snow Far henee muy'st thou be gone, To climes by us unknown, "\Vhcre spring smiles all the year, and cold blasts never blow. Come, counsellor ! for such wert thou to me. Come ! and once more let my first waking thoughts Brood sweetly on thy home, thy young, and thee; And, while my ear imbibes thy modest notes, Thou shalt the lesson teach me, which promotes The heart's best loves; and, seeing all the care God hath of thee and thine, Up to the throne divine My soul shall mount, and find hope, peace, and com- fort there. Inutnt, OK LUTHER THROWING HIS INK-STAND AT A SEF.HIN'G APPARITION OF SATAN", THE MAKKS OK WHICH MISSILE AEE SHOWN ON THE WALLS OF THE KOOM HE OCCUPIED. WHEN the Reformer of the Church of God- Rapt by deep musings in his lonely cell Beyond the limits of the visible Descried the foe of man in his abode, Or what permittedly such semblance showed, He raised his arm against the thing of Hell, And launched thereat his ink-cup; where it fell, The stains, effaceless, down the wainscot flowed. How high and noble here the allegory ! Doth it not say, with voice potential, That Superstition to the conquering Pen Shall strike the blood-red banner of her glory, And all the thrones of Tartarus shall fall Before the scrolls of might it gives to men? 16 POEMS. l)i 3 tent f mnllnnr. the long chilly nights of autumn came, And day rose grumbling from the eastern wolds, I lost thee last, most gentle, not most tame Of birds that spread on air their pinion-folds: And winter hath been here with all its colds, Dappling the landscapes of our northern sphere; And spring with all her flowers, And summer with her bowers, Have since rejoiced us twice, and still thou art not here ! Now is it May, and morning. From his bed, Lo ! the young sun, true to his plight with time, Lifts up triumphantly his lovely head, And darkness, shrinking like a thing of crime, Veils its wan shadows from the blaze sublime Behind each tree and temple in its way; But the proud orb of light Will scale these in his might, Or chase his foe around them all the passing day. No gloomy presence shall have leave to mar The seasonable light, and love, and joy, Of which all creatures may partake that "are. If for themselves they fashion not annoy: And chiefly shall the bliss have no alloy To nature's own sweet children of the air. Who at her bidding go Swift-passaged, to and fro, And ever rest upon her elemental care. \Vliy, gentle swallow, art thou absent now, When blessings from above so rich are drawn? 1'OK.MS. Earth at this hour, methinks, holds up her brow For drwy baptism at the font of dawn; And every hill, and vale, and slope, and lawn, With all their brood of green inhabitants, And all the plumed race That there the while have place, Taste the fresh benison the heavenly morning grants. I mourn thy absence from such scenes as these, And all the summer-happiness to be; Thou wert a link that bound my sympathies With the whole world of airy things like thee; On my awakening ear thy note of glee Came ever sounding sweetly from the eaves; And, ere I looked abroad, I knew that the good God Had sent full joys to all the dwellers in the leaves. Thou winged cricket of the outer earth, That followest the warmth where'er it goes, And, like our in-door cheerer of the hearth, By chirpings dost thy presence still disclose, Where art thou? Not the wisest of us knows. Upon thy ancient periodic ways A mystery ever lies And deeper the surprise, When thou dost shun, as now, our fond expectant gaze. Oh ! had I wings, dovelike, to flee away, And seek thee in thy chosen place of rest, In the warm south, or nigh the springs of day, Or by the green savannahs of the west ! Where'er thou dost suspend thy luted nest, By lady's lattice, or from cottage wall, There would I gladly be, Thy works awhile to see, And all my old enjoyments once again recall. 18 POEMS. I loved thee, little one ! and took delight By day to note thy victories o'er the air; While graver joy I felt to muse by night How both lay cradled on one Being's care; A high and holy bond entwined us there ! Hath it been rent ? Strong is it as before. Then, since we are apart, Let this console my heart, That thou art the Divine One's charge for ever- more! fini (6nt[ 23 air. r pHERE is an epoch in the life of man, Compelling thought, if power he has to thin]; It is not in the palsied hours which brink Eternity, that he is forced to scan His bypast ways. As one light tinge of gold On grain foretells the reaping-time to In-, So doth the first grey hair which we may see The coming doom to all of us unfold. That sign announces that a novel thread Hath been inwoven with the web of life; And that yet more and more, while wi- have breath. Shall streak the fabric. Then with doublings dread. And awful questionings, the mind grows rife. ' Who easts that shuttle ?" Heart and soul cry, "Death!" POEMS. 19 (T"jjr ifipntrit luinllnm. THE merry month thou lovest comes once more, gentle darkener of our window-panes ! And the same earnest longing as before, To see and hear thee, in my bosom reigns. Come, then, as May her summer throne regains ! Pass thou before us like a lightning flash, Though not of flaming hue, But soft in course to view As oriental maiden's long and dark eyelash. Thrice, dearest swallow, hath my feeble tongue, Moved by deep musings on thy mystic ways, Of these and thee in measured numbers sung, For that I loved thee in the bygone days; Though better hymned by far Avert thou in lays Chanted of yore by the Athenian youth, When they, from door to door, Wander'd their cities o'er, And in thy name awaken'd charity's sweet ruth. Lauded wert thou in anthologic verse, And many a tender elegiac line, Such as our poets fondly would rehearse, Could they attain the reach of art divine. But vainly would they on those strains refine, Which have come down to us through age on age, Mellow'd thereby, like airs Which the mild night-breeze bears Over some far-spread lake where tempests never rage. But loved more fondly wert thou not of old Than now by me, O ! builder in the eaves, Who clingest unto man with constant hold, Unlike the common perchers in the leaves; And for my love that ever to thee cleaves, 20 POEMS. Appear, sweet wanderer, in my sight again; Once more beside me dwell, And all the cares dispel That on my brow of late have camped like armed men! When winter with her snows our vision blinds, And tempests lay the general landscape bare When pine-trees answer lonely to the winds, And shake the fringes of their still green hair I pardon thee thy long delaying where No bitter colds can vex thy tender frame, Nor fiercely driving hail, Nor swift o'ertaking gale May ruffle thy fine plumes, and thy soft members] But now the slumbers of the May are done, And forth, like some great painter in his pride, With pencil dipped in radiance of the sun, She comes, to spread her colours far and wide, Warm, rich, and varied. Now may'st thou abide And summer safely in our northern clime, Finding abundant food For thee and for the brood Which may delight thy heart amid the floral prime. Come, thou fine plasterer with the tiny bill, Apt at thy work as man with hands and tools; And who cementest, too, with equal skill, Gathering thy compost or from streams or pools, Or stores within thyself, as instinct schools; For, placed by nature in thy form, we find A fountained liquid, fit Thy dwelling-walls to knit, And keep thee still at ease despite the beating wind. Ere to my theme once more I bid farewell, Let me anew entreat of thee to conn-. '21 And in my sight ;it morn and eve to dwell, My window-nook :ig:iin thy favoured home. Ke-open to me thy instructive tonic: Industry, patience, and domestic love, Order and care, may be The lessons learned from thee; And, more than all, a trust in Him who rules above. tElj* /inifr, tjjr fug?, Bui Itnuit. " >THOU Sage of the broad and lofty brow, * That sittest at midnight alone, I come as thy friend and helper now, And such, save myself, there is none. I do not require thee before me to bow, Or acknowledge my potent throne; Accept but my aid, and thy name shall sound With glory wherever thy race may be found. " I know thee as one whom the fanciful fears Of thy fellow-men do not appal, And therefore I come, though my vigilant ears Have listened in vain for thy call. With the graven scars on my front of the years That witnessed my soaring and fall, Unveiled for I know thou art strange to dismay- I come, all my might at thy service to lay. 22 POEMS. " The choice of my elements thou shalt have," Said the Prince of the Powers of Air: " The strong-winged wind shall become thy slave, And the fire shall lend thee its glare; The boisterous wave thy behests shall crave, Nor to disobey thee shall dare." " By the help," said the Sage, " of a higher than thou, Winds, waters, and fire, to my will must bow." " Contemn not my proffer," replied, with a frown, The chief of the fallen from Heaven: "The billows shall rise when thyfoeman must drown, And to atoms his bark shall be riven; And his places of strength shall the storm bring clown, When thy word for the deed is given." " Not mine," said the Sage, " is the right to avenge : HE spoke so, whose word man may doubt not nor change." " Not one life, but thousands, shall rest on thy sign," Urged further the A ngel of ill : " For the frost, and the snow, and the hail, shall be thine, To compass thy pleasure and will; And the rain and the drought shall moreover combine, What seems to thee good to fulfil." "Such powers," said the Sage, "I from Nature have won, As leave thee and thy agencies shamed and outdone." " Thou know'st not the range of my greatness and might," Said the King of the sable Powers: "I can give thee command of the shades of the night. And a sway o'er the noontide hours: POEMS. 23 From place unto place shall thou pass like the light, Proof to cold, and to heat, and to showers." " With the aids," said the Sage, "which my know- ledge hath found, To me time and space can prescribe not a bound." "And what may this weapon of wonderment be?" Cried the Father of evil with scorn. "Thine eyes," said the Sage, "now the marvel might see, Had they not of their vision been shorn. My fire bears a vessel, which singeth with glee, And a vapour from out it is borne: That vapour is all," said the Sage, " I require, To make each of the elements serve my desire." "Ha! ha!" laughed the Fiend; but the Sage, in his turn, Contracted his brow to a frown: " Thou co-mate of Sin ! it is idle to spurn At what, but for guilt, thou had'st known; The earth has too long felt thy gloomy sojourn, And thy rule shall ere long be o'erthrown; The boons which he asked in his madness from thee, Man finds strewn around him like sands by the sea. " He shall pass like the Lightning from place unto place, Yet be blamed for no compact with thee; Time shall he annihilate even as Space, And in face of the Whirlwind shall flee; On the wrathfullest Sea shall he sportively race, And the Fire shall his minister be; All lies in that vapour that light, curling STEAM!" "Ha! ha!" laughed the Fiend. I awoke did I DREAM? 24 POEMS. TRUTH dwells with Night. Unthinking men are they, Who deem that only to the glaring sun Is bared the forehead of the stainless one, UNA well named in allegoric lay. By lamps, whose light is not as light of day, Truth shows herself most truly; hovers round The couch where Slumber lies, or should be found; And cleaves to Murder in the darksome way; Sweet dreams she gives to bruised and blameless hearts, But, with a hand incapable of ruth, She tears aside the masks that brave the light, And curses Guilt with sight of its own arts. The fall of evening is the dawn of Truth : She is a star, and dwelleth with the Night. DEEP in the core and marrow of my being One passion lies, In days long past fed through my raptured seeing At thy dark eyes; And now, though with my heart's peace disagreeing, It never dies. Couldlhavedrcnmed that thouwould'st so have started Aside- from faith, I might from thy too perilous side have parted "While free, from scathe. POEMS. 25 And would not now be roaming broken-hearted, Longing for death. Why did I fondly deem it all but fable, When poets told How woman's heart was as the winds unstable, As night-dews cold And how her strongest love was aye unable To withstand gold ! And yet how could I think so, while enjoying Thy sweet, sweet love, That seemed, like mine, as far from bound or cloying As biiss above Too deep-felt to be dropt like idle toying Changed like a glove ! Ah ! when thy faith began, methought, to falter, How oft I prayed And knelt before accursed Mammon's altar, Crying for aid ! To compass gold and thee, scarce could the halter My course have staid. Alas ! when thou wert lost to me for ever, The unsought dross Came, like autumnal leaves upon a river, My path across: I cursed it it undid me, but could never Make up the loss ! Yet let me not, my soul's love, too much blame thee For all the past; Just was thy fear lest biting tongues should shame thee, As one by-cast, If thou, the first as all conspired to name thee Wert mated last. 26 POEMS. I know not if 'twill bring thee pain or pleasure To see these lines, And learn that one, as for a stolen treasure, For ever pines; Finding no solace, save when in sad measure Sad words he twines. Still is thy name with all his musings blended, As heretofore, When valentines his love to thee commended In days of yore; And so 'twill be, until, in sorrow ended, His days are o'er. Cm mo lilt. HEAT God ! how strange a thing is human life ! Though borne by us, and felt, enjoyed, and seen, Inexplicable ever hath it been, To calm self-study, or the curious knife. Minds rich with genius, and with knowledge rife, Have doubted even if being truly be; And if the firm-set earth we seem to sec The scene of all our joy, grief, love, and strife Be more than fancy an Idea. Stran O! very strange, indeed, the life of man! Beyond the walls of time and space to range, And all the now invisible to scan, It were not much to die, if by the change We might appreciate the wondrous plan ! 27 3*!tj Anting ^mite #fpljnn. hither to me, little one! Come, boy, and let me view thee rightly; Thy look bespeaks both sense and fun Sedate, at once, and sprightly. Lift up that keen, clear eye to mine, Like one that dost contemn all blinking; Yes ! underneath that brow of thine, Already is there Thinking. Though thou hast seen but some five years, Thy front, so knotted and so ample, Announces one on whom his peers May not with safety trample. Thou seemest worthy of the breed, Whom old-world burdens and distresses Sent to new climes, to raise a seed That Freedom loves and blesses. Still thou, perhaps, alike wilt show The good and evil of thy brothers, Whose better points, at times, we know, Self-estimation smothers. Thy garb, in parts, suggests these truths; Thou art a little man completely; Such Wellingtons are scarce for youths Though thine do fit thee neatly. 28 POEMS. And these side-pockets, too, which lend Thy coat its most distinguished feature, Are less for boys like thee, my friend, Than for the full-grown creature. From such-like trifles may we catch Proofs of the spirit of thy nation, Which thinks its very babes a match For men throughout creation. Befall, dear boy, what may befall To thee in life (to speak more gravely), Thou wilt perform thy part to all Justly, I hope, and bravely. Thou comest of a noble stock, The strong-souled breed of Gothic Norsemen, Who shook the earth with earthquake shock, And rode the seas like horsemen. Each warrior of them was a " smith," And "bright" swords each, they say, couh hammer, The which himself would wield with pith, Amid the battle-clamour. From some such "bright smith" comes thy name; And thou, it strikes me, wilt inherit, What gave thy stock its lasting fame The enterprising spirit. Deeds of high note did (Ireeee and Rome Leave stamped upon historic pages; But little good (lrc\v mankind from Their \ : ; hrough ages. POEMS. 29 One only race has known to 1)1 end Conquest with colonising glories; That race is thine, my western friend A New World tells their stories! And bright the promise of the days In store for thee and for thy nation, Though perilled by too bustling ways That o'erleap moderation. Be thou of those, in future years, Who hold that peace all good excelleth; And that contention springs from fears, While calm with courage dwelleth. Scorn thou the gain that some obtain, Who fix a chain upon their fellows; Touch not a grain from off the plain Which human sorrow mellows. Be bold and active with the best; Go manfully " ahead," like others; But prize thou nought that brings unrest To white or coloured brothers. Deem not the black by God decreed Unworthy of the white communion; Justice apart, such thoughts may lead From union to disunion. These maxims do thou still repeat " Enslave thou none! To none be slavish?" Hold both these things alike unmeet, Detestable, and knavish. I speak to thee as one who may Yet win a name among the masses; 30 POEMS. Thou wilt not, must not, spend thy day, Noteless of all that passes. The time draws nigh, when wrecked Crusoe, And doomed Scheherezade shall charm thee; Feast on the wonders which they show, Nor fear lest they should harm thee. The point by youth to be attained, Is first to found a love of reading; More solid tastes, that goal once gained, Will come with years succeeding. And then, dear boy ! make then thy mind Familiar with the thoughts of sages, Who swayed in other days their kind, And still sway passing ages. Read, above all, with earnest care, The annals of thy island-fathers; The Anglo-Saxon genius there Its fittest lessons gathers. And con thou, too, the pilgrim-tales The records lofty as romantic Of those who left their native vales, To cross the broad Atlantic. But, while thou laudest these brave bands, Who scorned to stoop to throned Oppression, Let not Old England at thy hands Take blame for that transgression. lie thou of those who hail the Isle With filial pride and warm affection; The homes that nursed thy sires erewhilu Strike not from recollection. 31 Rejoice at once that thou by birth Art freeman of a mighty nation, And come of fathers on the earth Unmatched in reputation. Farewell, loved boy ! thine is a name, But little known to old-world story; Do thou in novel climes win fame, And give it lasting glory ! ftUft nf Imrn.* TYTITHIN an inner chamber of her dwelling, ' * A noble Roman lady sat alone; No sculptor ever, from the Parian stone, Carved features more than hers in grace excelling; And yet but for the tear-drop slowly welling From the large eye, the gazer-on might say That in that form nor life nor motion lay, So pale she was, so wan beyond all telling. Whence came that hue ? When Nero doomed her lord His vital current in the bath to spill, She sought to share his fate; but rude hands tore Her forth, when half her life-blood was outpoured. And thenceforth lived she on; but icy-chill, With lip and cheek that knew bloom never more! * This Sonnet records a true story. The philosopher Seneca, being doomed to death by Nero, entered by choice a warm bath; and, a large vein being opened, lii'e soon ebbed away. His wife used the same means to ensure a participa- tion in his fate; but the emissaries of the tyrant were on the watch, and cruelly restored her to undesired existence. The loss of blood which she had sustained, however, gave her ever afterwards the singular aspect of a living statue-. 32 POEMS. TI7HY fainteth thus my spirit now 1 ? Oh ! wherefore sinks my heart so low ? Whence come these clouds upon my brow i What bids my tears to flow? Glorious as ever is the day, The morn, the noon, the starry eve; And no dear friend hath passed away, And left me here to grieve. Yet cold, dull, listless feelings creep Athwart my heart-strings by degrees, And, if I could, in dreamless sleep I fain would seek for ease. Alas ! let midnight stretch its hand My weary eyes in ruth to close, And, like a billow, tempest- fanned, The mind lacks still repose. It is not that my frame doth bear Fierce pains to breed me this unrest; Nor by unwonted worldly care Am I the while opprest. Something I feel, but cannot paint A wearing weight, a want, a void, As if all nature had a taint, Or I with all were cloyed. A sense that " All is Vanity" Envelopes everything in gloom The thought how soon man's memory Lies in his body's tomb. POEMS. Oiie goal there is one only goal Worthy to point our noblest aims; And that all else is nought, my soul Eternally exclaims. MIND only smiles at the grim Death; Its works alone for ever live; And hence I yearn, when reft of breath, That fate such life should give. Within the bosom-bower that veils My dearest thoughts from common day, And where, when vexed by earthly ails, My soul seeks rest and stay, One question ever will upspring, With doubts and fears my brain to tease, When on THE POETS pondering " Oh ! am I, too, of these?" The answer which my spirit makes To its own asking, then and there, Too oft my frame of being shakes, And tempts me to despair. And yet, ere long, some thought will rise, On which my fancy fondly dwells, As such as only, to my eyes, From the true poet wells. Howe'er it be, one truth stands clear: To exercise the gifts bestowed Is to ourselves a duty here, And to the giver, God. Then, dark Despondency, away ! Sluggard! put forth thy all of might; He merits not to bask in day, Who, perverse, courts the night ! 34 POEMS. ^nrtruit nf 3njm Itnts. GAZING upon thee now, Absorbedly I lie, Thou of the Milton brow, And Shakspere eye! What folds of thought lie coiled Behind that compact front ! What stores of fancies, wild And eloquent! Long had I known thy works Of poesy divine, Where subtlest genius lurks In every line; And on my fancy's eye Was limned a brow of grace, Such as might worthily Thy mind encase; But nature better far Hath here performed her part; Instinct these features are With soul and heart. A poet's glorious name, So long as man shall be, These thought-swoln temples claim, Dear Keats, for thee ! Abhorred of all be they Who wrung thy spirit here, Marring thy ripening lay With envious sneer ! POEMS. 35 Yet prized is now thy worth, Wliere Milton hails a son In him who shadowed forth Hyperion; And Shakspere ever joys To hold sweet speech with him, Who sung the Latmian boy's Moon-haunted dream. Yes ! painful though it be To think how vast our loss, When malice shook thee free From earthly dross; Thy soul, delightful bard, But all the earlier sped, To taste its rich reward With the Great Dead! J[j Mini TS there a man so dull of soul and sense, ' That he can walk at morn, or noon, or eve, Upon that mighty field which hath no fence Save what it doth from airy space receive, And, while the birds their varied notes enweave Into one complete whole for him, can hear The glorious descant flow, Without a bosom-glow, Without one thrill of joy, or one full-hearted tear? 36 POEMS. Thus wholly apathetic none can be. If the wild thunder, throeing as in pain, And generating, over land and sea, Dread air-quakes to alarm the souls of men, Be held God's voice of wrath, oh ! surely, then, The sounds that rise from copse, or grove of pine, By mount, and vale, and stream, Are such as man may deem A voice of love of love eternal and divine ! Beauty is planted with the seed; and, till The flower puts on its perfect summer-dress, Grows with it, waxing ever richer still; The verdure of the grass is loveliness; And on the mountain- pine, when breezes press Its coying stem, and comb its flowing hair, Sits a majestic ease; These green existences Such attributes display, ever and everywhere; Yet, decked with every seasonable charm, Nature, though not, like sculpture, still and cold, Is even as a lovely human form, When quickening speech informeth not the mould; The brightest flowers that, Hebe-like, uphold Their cups with dewy offerings to the sun, Ask yet a voice; and where May voice with that compare, From the full-choiring birds by heavenly favour won 1 ? Most beautiful, in truth, the doings all In Nature's own Great Aviary seem ! What time the shadows, night's dim relics, fall Prostrate in worship of the young sunbeam, Go, rouse thee from thy gross and worldly dream, And, while the woods an- j mining the morn, 37 Thine eye and ear employ, And thou shalt taste a joy Of all that can delight the mind and senses born. Chances thine eye to light upon the home Wherein two little ones, heart-wedded, dwell Whether it be the mavis' bowl of loam, Or the quick sparrow's moss-encrusted cell Whether aloft, like tongueless, upturned bell, It swingeth in the breeze, or lieth low, With tender care concealed In some green bank or field Gaze there, and say if aught more fair the eye could know? But, oh ! peer gently through the fringy covers; And be the parley of thy foot with earth Soft as the vows of love to ears of lovers, Or as the dew-falls which have unseen birth When evening turns to tears the gay day's mirth; Admire but touch not what may meet thy view, Lest the scared mother fly, And leave the hopes to die That rest within her shells, so smooth and rich of hue. Ah ! sad the thought how many, many a time, Stirred by the rude hands of the thoughtless boy, Those mated ones, unknowing human crime, Must fly, like man, the Eden of their joy; Not that the riflers, haply, would destroy, But that they seek to form a circlet rare, And rich with many dyes, Though seeming to the wise An Iris fraught with hopes converted to despair. So fondly doth the mother watch her home, That, move one shell, and she will note the change; 38 POEMS. And it may drive the poor one forth to roam, And all her sweet economy derange; And should man's footstep, loud to her and strange, Startle her brooding o'er her young, her heart Counts time upon its sides, As wildly as the strides Made by high-mettled courser on the racing mart. But why so linger on a theme like this? Poorly, at best, can pen or tongue display The fullness of the beauty and the bliss Cast by the birds on this our earthly way; And while to us thus pleasing, who will say Mute nature hath for them nor eyes nor ears? Oh ! yes, believe it well, That, when their anthems swell, Rejoicingly each tree and flower both sees and hears ! f IJB runs nu ; fnr mt BESIDE yon bit burnie that rows thro' the mead, And sparkles and sings on its way to the Tweed, There lives a dear lass, wi' a bonnie black e'e, But I fear that she cares na' a bodle for me. She's lovelier far than the comin' o' day, And sweet is her voice as the laverock's lay, And bright as a star is the light o' her e'e, But I fear that she cares na' a bodle for me. She frowns when anither would maybe look kind, And aft to gie scorn for her scorn I'm inclined, But it a' flees awa' at a blink o' her e'e, Tho' I fear that she cares na' a bodle for me. POEMS. 39 Her scorning is deafer than mony ane's kiss, Her No sounds as sweetly as mony ane's Yes; Sae what can I do but love on till I dee? Altho' she may care na' a bodle for me. There's mony a wooer that's fond o' the pelf, Cares naething ava' but for siller or self: I'd be thankfu' to get her wi' ne'er a bawbee; ! it's hard if she cares na' a bodle for me ! TjMJLL many a time and oft, when modest eve, * Earth's nightly tire-woman, hath robed in gloom This mystic ball on which we live to grieve, The passive playthings of resistless doom; When brightlier through my solitary room The unsunned fire sends out its cheering rays, Leaving one where a shade, While other spots are made By its unthinking favouritism all a-blaze; ! then, when Fancy has my sense in keeping, A low and plaintive voice falls on my ear, As if of Rachel for her children weeping, And dropping melody with every tear; A sound it is, so sadly sweet and clear, That Silence well might be content to cease Her intermitting reign, If but assured that strain Would take her place for ever, and all else be peace. 40 POEMS. Then, too, before my musing eye, the form Appears of one most excellently fair A creature surely meant to know no storm, No cross in life, no sorrowing, no care; But, ah ! what Heaven was pleased to make so rare, Man's hand hath stricken with a cruel blight, And brought upon her path The tempest's heaviest wrath, And plunged her gentle soul in woe's obscurest night ! Drooping beside her solitary hearth, She sits and dreams the long, long hours away; Knowing no taste of comfort or of mirth, Save from remembrance of a bygone day. If she at times doth smile, 'tis when a ray Of joy, reflected from some infant face, Upon her spirit beams, Caught through her eyes' full streams Like images which one in pool or lake may trace. She smiles when from the glass of memory The forms of her sweet boys peep brightly out; And to her ear come sounds of childish glee, The ringing laugh, the clear and happy shout: But all too soon that smile is put to rout; Happy though she would ever have her boys, A pang of natural pain Will ever rise amain, To think that far from her they still can taste of joys. Who that beheld the fairness of the morn Which smiled upon that lady's opening path. Could once have dreamed to see her thus forlorn, The victim of misfortune's fellest wrath I Such lineage as mortal seldom hath POEMS. 41 A heritage of talent, rich and rare Honours, reflected back From a long glorious track Of years and acts fell to that mourner's cradled share. And brightly, nobly, as in years she grew, Did she sustain her claim of high descent; With charms of person, such as shine in few, A mind was hers of finest temperament; And from her freshly blooming lips were sent Poetic tones, so sweet and yet so strong, That all the land stood still, Struck with a wondering thrill, To hear such melody from one so fair and young ! Green grew the leaves upon that crown of bays, Left to her from the brows of many a sire; Not brighter was their verdure in the days When even her brilliant grandsire woke the lyre; But suddenly, like flash of levin-fire, Black defamation smote that soul of song, i o'er her path a gloom, ( 'rushed every joy in bloom, And bore her far from all whom she had loved so long! Yet was the fount of music unprofaned. Though tears may haply mingle with its flow So long as life shall have to be sustained, And drooping willows by its brink may grow, Still doth the spring a crystal clearness show; And still from it, as from a pauseless river, The pure and good shall take Deep draughts, their thirst to slake For what is good, and pure, and beautiful, for ever ! 42 POEMS. Cheerly, thou gentle mourner ! many a heart, In many a place, beneath the heavenly cope, Doth sympathise, like mine, with thy sore smart, And fain, like me, would bid thee dwell in hope. Long-erring pride may cease; and then shall ope The temple-gates of love for thee once more; And all home-joys at last, Mellowed but by the past, Be thine till joy and grief, with life itself, be o'er! nt Ktotrrlnn. " TLS sont a moi, enfin done, ces Anglais ! "* ' These words came from Napoleon le Grand, When he beheld the English army stand On Waterloo. They did not run away At his approach, as he had feared they would, And he was pleased. But one rode by his side, Who told him, that the men whom he espied Would never leave the field on which they stood, Saving as victors. Soult had seen them fight, And, speaking thus, incurred his master's frown. He spoke but truth. Firm and immoveable, Britannia braved the whole Imperial might Of France, and conquered ere the sun went down. There, not to rise again, Napoleon fell. * These words, signifying, " I have them at last, then, these English ! " were the exact ones used by Bonaparte on the field of Waterloo, when the morning sun showed to him the British forces, prepared for an engagement. His fear had actually been that they would have "escaped" in the night. Soult remembered Spain too well to join in the exultation of the Emperor; and, for venturing to speak his mind, the Marshal was allowed to remain an Idle spectator of the ensuing battle. It is General Foy who styles the British battalions " immove- able." POEMS. 43 Irnttislj 3IUrtqrs. T)UT half an hundred years have passed since the ' > Scottish Martyrs lay Imprisoned close in dungeon-cells, that yearn in vain for day; But half an hundred years have flown since, in the felon's place, They stood arraigned, and pled for life from jus- tice, not from grace: But half an hundred years have sped, since fruitless proved their cry, And they to lands of sin and shame were sent afar to die ! High be our hopes as yet for man! To-day the scene is changed, And with the pure, the good, the great, these mar- tyred ones are ranged: In every clime, by every sea, where Britain holds command, Love, reverence, and honour are the meed of that bright band ! Senates are guided by their thoughts, laws modelled on their rules, And by their high examples now his child the parent schools. ! well spoke Muir, the wise, the brave, the gentle, and the kind, When before the despots of the law he stood with dauntless mind: " Calm is my conscience when I look on all that I have done: 44 POEMS. Calm on the scaffold shall it be, should there my course be run: The cause for which blind bigotry dares thus my life assail, Is a GOOD, A GREAT, A GLORIOUS CAUSE IT MUST AND SHALL PREVAIL!" Sing now triumphant songs aloud, and let all hearts be light, For the promised morn of freedom dawns, and va- nishes the night. The spirit of the land is stirred, but not, as dotards say, To kiss again the cruel hands that dashed it where it lay; It wakes to scorn the empty shows which dazzled it before, And burst the chains which tyrant power shall rivet never more ! H r i H t THE blue immensity above, Seen at the cloudless noon of day, Reminds me of thine eye, my love, When thou art far away. So soft, so pure, so deep in hue, Is the great concave of the sky, That strange it is not should the view Call up to thought thine eye. But not by outer forms alone Is this sweet sense of likeness given; That arch is heaven and, mine own, Thou art on earth my heaven ! I'OK.MS. 45 f irk A WAN and fever-wasted form lay sleeping On a low bed, While earnest watch a sad-eyed youth was keeping Close by his head. The sick one woke; he saw his boy-nurse weeping, And thus he said: " What kind unknown art thou, thus ever watching Here by my side, No rest or slumber for thine own eye snatching Night or noon-tide, But always thus, my very life-breath catching, Who dost abide? " This crushing ail of mine hath now departed, With all the train Of wild and burning thoughts that with it darted Athwart my brain: And now, though very low and heavy-hearted, I feel no pain. " Yet think not, while my fever-fit was highest, That I saw not Whose form my lonely couch was ever nighest What kind hand brought Blest drops of water, when my lips were driest, To still their drought. " A dreamy consciousness through all my madness Was with me still Of one sweet face, bent over me in sadness, But which could fill 46 POEMS. My heart with thoughts of hope, if not of gladness, Soothing my ill. " Feelings it roused of anguish mixed with pleasure, And made me pine For a most priceless but neglected treasure, No longer mine; Yet when my eye that face would closely measure, Kind boy ! 'twas thine. " ! that but once my love, so long deserted, Could hear me say, How grief and shame have made me broken-hearted, And reft away All comfort from my life, since we two parted, By night and day!" The youth, from head and features, wildly weeping, Their hoodings tore; The sick one saw his love who his drear sleeping Had so watched o'er; " All is forgiven," she cried, his cheeks tear-steeping, "We part no more!" "Miserlsque renlt sollertla Rebus." Ovid. READ me a Riddle of profounder sense Than ever suppliant, statued in suspense, Heard from the Dodonean oaks, or where The steep of Delphos cleaves oracular air. Read me my Riddle ! If the power be thine, POEMS. 47 His laurels Phoebus shall to thee resign, And own thee the Diviner, though he be Divine. I stand for aye ! and, by the eternal law, Men name me oft in tones of thrilling awe. Yet soft my voice; it murmurs as the bee, Or whispers gently as the whispering sea. The sound of liquid streams is also mine Of the pure Dee, that sends its onward line To meet the circling sea, and in one whole combine. My tones are ever blended with the breeze; There speak they forth in sweet melodious ease. I dwell in music; mark of strain or air But half-a-dozen notes, and I am there. Yet grave and solemn things do not alone Absorb my presence, or direct my tone. Like half " the schemes of men and mice " we see, I sometimes, I admit, am found "a-jee;" So gay, that oft I smart, and must endure What Kemble titled aches for my cure, I have an eye for fun in my own way, And pry, and peer about, a very jay. A key have I to unlock secret things; Yet to the race of man no harm it brings. I know their need of charity full well, And, where they lack an inch, I yield an ell. As old Sir Joshua, when annoyed by stuff, Shifted his trumpet merely, and took snuff, So I, when folly raves, slow to condemn, Give forth but my scarce aspirated "Hem!" Heedless though many blame such timid ways, And call me " hen," in vilest Cockney phrase. But who, I ask, should play the censor proud? I am, I know, a cipher in the crowd. Well gone in years am I, yet, all may see, Full fairly formed, and blooming as a pea. 48 POEMS. Old things, old words, I love as well as new, Keep up old ways, and sport, I own, a queue. From me is framed full many a character, Though some may say, perhaps, I make them err; And charge me, not unjustly I confess, With the display of crooked stubbornness. A love of scandal none can lay to me, Although I live on talk, and must have tea. Such as I am, I think that, were I known, Friend that now readest, you would prove mine own. And I have drams, too, that might stir your glee What the gay French call life, vie eau-de-vie. Shy though you be, as hares when hounds pursue, I yet might fairly trust to double you. In politics I fail, I must allow; I am an ex, like greater folks ere now; And " all the waves of Wye," as Shakspere says, Though at command, may not that stain erase. Yet, should I not by vanity be led; I know myself a cipher, I have said; And some may call me, with the bard, a " needless zed." Now let me ask you Is my riddle solved ? Know you the mysteries therein involved ? If you guess rightly, then you find in me A type for all things, present, past, to be. If still you stumble, further still explore; For I have named me twenty times and more. And if you hold that more I ought to say, Pray, take it in one grand et ccetera. 49 (Tutu SAMSON IN YOUTH. TO me at dead of night a vision came, And chased oblivious heaviness away. J had been reading, at the close of day, Of old Manoah, and his son, whose name Stands tabletted to never-ending fame, Samson. Him see I now, a child at play. His long locks glittering in the sunny ray. Teased by his envious co-mates in the game, The broad-browed boy, laughing amid a frown, Grasps his tormentors, though of twice his years, And smites their heads, the one against the other; Then in a heap to earth he hurls them down. Thus doth he, while from forth her doorway peers The half-alarmed, half-glad face of his mother. SAMSON IN AGE. A CHANGE came o'er the tenor of my vision. -" Where high the temple of Philistia rose, I saw the Blind One stand amid his foes, Called, to make sport to them, in proud derision. Deeming him helpless, no renewed excision Had his foes made of those God-given locks, In which once lay the strength that rendeth rocks. Glorious to fallen Israel that misprision ! Princes, and peers, and dames, a jewelled train, Thronged there; and Samson all their hests obeyed. At length they placed him, craving pause, beside The pillars that upheld that sculptured pride. These clasped he, praying. Then, by one dread strain, Himself and all his foes in death he laid. 50 POEMS. nf J&. . Innii [Matthew Gregory Lewis, better known under the title of ' Monk Lewis," from his juvenile novel of " The Monk," died at sea under the very circum- stances here related in ballad-verse ; and, certainly, one cannot imagine an end more accordant with the wonder-working and terror -loving fancy of him whom it befell. Having gone to the West Indies solely with a view to the good of the negroes on his property there, Lewis may justly be said to have fallen in the cause of humanity a fact that would of itself atone for many errors.] npO the chambers of death he went not down -- As the many are fated to go; He closed not his eyelids in hamlet or town; No stone doth the place of his sepulture crown, To tell who reposes below. How brightly, yet strangely, he shone by the way, While he walked with mortality here ! Not his was the open effulgence of day, But the flash of the wildfire, that scatters its ray From a dark and a mystical sphere. In the spring of his manhood, he startled the world By the scenes which he loved to pourtray. The senses by these now in stupor were whirled, And now to the black depths of horror were hurled, Or became to soft pity a prey. The grave and austere might look cold at his name, And reproof on his errors might fall; But ever, along with the language of blame, High praise of his genius from multitudes came, And the man was beloved of all. How died he who thus took delight to outpour Tales of wonder and terror in life? POEMS. 51 He departed afar from his native shore, Where the blasts on the swelling Atlantic roar, And awaken the waters to strife. They covered him up in the garb of the grave, And his corpse in a coffin they laid; Then a shrouding of canvass to all they gave, And they lowered it gently, with weights, to the wave, And the last solemn prayers they said. When supported no longer, at once in the tide Sank the dead in his lone, narrow lair. But why, as they lean o'er the swift vessel's side, Is the tear of regret by astonishment dried In the eyes of the onlookers there ? The leads had dropped off, and the coffin uprose Anew to the face of the deep; And there, undisturbed by tempestuous throes, It floated and rocked in serenest repose, Like a child that lies cradled asleep. But the breeze caught the folds of the canvass at last, And it swelled in the form of a sail, And away from the vessel the death-boat past, Like canoe of the savage, that showeth no mast, Though it feeleth the breath of the gale. Oh ! fearful to view was that ark of the dead, As it swam on the balancing wave ! Bold hearts at the spectacle fluttered with dread From cheeks before blooming the bright roses fled And the giddy and reckless grew grave. And away on the waters away and away Did that bark with its mariner go; And whither it went no mortal can say: Whether drifted ashore, or afloat till this day, It was heard of no more here below ! 52 POEMS. AZE on the lonely Thinker in his cell One with the noblest gift of God endowed, A Mind by which the elements are bowed To do the work of man, and serve him well. The annals of remotest time may tell Of mighty benefits to mortals done By thoughts, which from this solitary One, In naked strength, like gems new-quarried, fell. But shall he reap in life rewarding fame, And have due laurels planted on his grave? Too oft he is the Lake amid the hills, Untalked of and unseen, the while its rills Feed noble Streams, that ample honours have From those who of the Source know not the name. mh listrri "YTE little ones, ye pretty ones, whose looks of sunny 5 glee Steal sweetly on the gazer's heart, like morn upon the sea, What images in Nature's range, what emblems near or far, May fitly picture you to those who see not what ye are? Ye dancing ones, ye glancing ones, there are in heaven aloft Twin stars, whose ray, like yours, is bright, yet beautiful and soft; 53 But cold the li.u'ht that flows from out these lamplets of the skies, And all unlike the cheering glow that breaks from your sweet eyes. Ye prattling ones, ye tattling ones, fair flowers there be on earth, That blossom brightly on the stem which gave them kindred birth; But, ah ! have they those winning tongues, whose merry-hearted flow Makes all the joy of elder ones seem dull and cold as woe 1 * Ye smiling ones, ye wiling ones, there is within my view One object, and but one, which claims similitude with you; The lips, the dewy mated lips, of maiden in her prime Alone may image you to those who see you but in rhyme. Ye laughing ones, ye daffing ones, not far go ye apart, But cling like creatures with two frames, and but one little heart; And so those blooming lips, like you, are oftest seen conjoined Lovely are they, like you, detached, but lovelier far combined ! Ye airy ones, ye fairy ones, ye peer the rose in blow, And ruddily and rosily the lips of maiden glow; Ye smile and prattle charmingly, and when might aught eclipse The smiling and the melody of youthful maiden's lips ! 54 POEMS. Ye merry ones, ye cherry ones, all vainly, I confess, Does Fancy strive by such conceits your likeness to express: Bright peerless blossoms as ye are of man's high- fated race, Where may we emblems find for what bears God's own form and face? Wzlhn T)ESCUER, thrice proven, of thy father-land! **> Not that our race and country are the same, Do I presume triumphantly to claim The highest place for thee in the bright band Sent down from God, in charity, to stand As champions of the right; to thee a name, Above all old, above all recent fame, Is justly due. Not he who bore command When Freedom won a Transatlantic home Nor the good Archer of the Alpine steeps Nor he who, in the Pass, immortal, bled Gave deeds like thine to the historic tome; Glorious the victor lives, the martyr sleeps: Wallace ! both honours wave above thy bed. n. Caledonia in the dust lay low, And none dared stretch the hand to raise her up; When her proud nobles drank the bitter cup Of constrained friendship with the southron foe; Who burst the spell, and struck the avenging blow? What Chief of high descent and wide renown Advanced to pull the haught oppressor down, POEMS. 55 And close at length his country's weary woe ? Nor princely rank, nor large repute had he; But on his brow great thoughts were ever camped, And, when contending in the battle's van, His port was awful as the stormy Sea. Her sign had Nature on the Wallace stamped, To show to man a master-work in man. in. TTE, whom the Heavens have honoured with a call *--*- To do their high behests on earth, must be As the just fire or equitable sea, Blind powers, which operate alike on all. Great Chief, thy nature knew no taint of gall, Nor soughtest thou the downfall of thy kind, But the one purpose didst thou keep in mind, To free thy land, let ill or good befall. Hence was it, that upon the western sky Rose suddenly by night a dreadful glare, Made yet more dreadful by the flame-borne cry Of many perishing in wild despair; And hence fair Freedom smiled, as she stood by, To view the Burning of the Barns of Ayr. IV. A S in the chancel of some ancient fane, ^ Walled with memorials of chivalric days, Two forms, obversely niched, exchange a gaze Stern as if feeling moved the stone-eyed twain; So, where toward the land-embaying main, The Carron rolls its stream of many arms, Stood once, on either bank, two mail-clad forms Alone, save for their shadows on the plain. Elder the one appeared, and counsel sage, And proven valour shone in every look; The countenance of him of lesser age 56 POEMS. Showed even yet a more majestic book; That day was famous in historic page, When Bruce and Wallace met by Carron brook. v. "WHY comest thou," the Wallace cried, "to sound, * * princely Bruce ! war's trump through thine own land 1 ? Unnatural, unfilial is the hand Thou raisest; but to play the led bloodhound To Edward ! thy fathers, death-discrowned, Must weep to view thee ! " From the hero fell Hot tears, and scarcely found he voice to tell How all ambitious aims himself disowned. Anger, remorse, and shame, by turns held sway Within the bosom of the listener there. At length he answered, " Thou hast wrung my heart, Great Chief; but all shall be redeemed, I swear ! Scotland, from thy dear cause no more I part, Till this thy night shall end in glorious day!" VI. ENGLAND! when the Wallace Wight was led, A fettered wonder, to thy capital, How cruel, how dispiteous was his fall ! Yet though in streams his quartered body bled, And tasted not the sweets of Nature's bed, Vain was that ruthless spite; unmeant, his doom But presaged that on him oblivious gloom Should never sink, as on the common dead. Since the one great Betrayer kissed the Lamb, And with the kiss consigned him to the Tree, Oh! never hath been done a deed of shame Like thine, thou false Mentei tli I Though famed ascalm, Thy country's blood boils still at thought of thee. And holy men teach babes to hate thy name ! POEMS. 57 tn*rt tjjiiii Ijm tni' tnr. 0! IF thou wert but here wi' me, My lassie wi' the nut-brown hair, We would be blest as twa could be That ken they meet to part nae mair: Nae mailens braw, nor jewels rare, Nae kists o' gowd are mine to gi'e, But aye the best, the foremost share Of a' I hae should fa' to thee. ! if thou wert but here wi' me, We twa would steal to yon green dell, And big a bower where nane could see, And theek it wi' the heather-bell; And ferns and rashes frae the fell, Wi' lucken-gowans frae the lea, Should help to keep the winter snell Frae skaithing thee, and me through thee. 1 wouldna seek the haunts o' men, To set my winsome lily there, But keep her far frae ilka den, Where Life is but a name for Care. She drew her first and halesome air By burn and wood, and hill and glen, And it would be a sin and mair To wile her now ayont their ken. When simmer's green came on the tree, We in the sun would sit and beek, On some warm knowe, where we could see Our ingle swirling up its reek; 58 POEMS. Linties would sing and lammies meek Would race afore us, on the lea, And morn and e'en, frae day to week, A' should be peace round thee and me. fmin. " CONCOLINEL." Armado. Warble, child ; make passionate my sense of hearing. Moth. Concolinel (singing.) Armado. Sweet air! * * * Boy, I do love that conn try girl. Love's Labour Lost. SHALL I sing to thee of ladies, Who in cities bear the bell? Or of damsels that on May-days On the greensward foot it well? Is thy love a high-born beauty, Or a maid of low degree? Tell ! and it shall be my duty To discourse of her to thee. Tell, come, tell ! Concolinel. Gems the courtly fair discloses, Jewels dazzling every eye; Brow of snow, and cheeks like roses, In the cottage you may spy. Wouldst thou wed for golden treasures, Or for woman woman wive? Tell ! and I shall sing the pleasures Either choice to thee may give. Tell, come, tell ! Concolinel. POEMS. 59 Rank and mansions one possesses These shall be her bridal dower; Beauty, truth, and fond caresses, Wait thee in the lowly bower. Dost thou say that thou wouldst rather To the humble maiden bow ? Tell ! and quickly shall I gather Flowers to deck thy true love's brow. Tell, come, tell, Concolinel ! " FAREWELL LADY, LADY, LADY ! " Romeo and Juliet. FAREWELL, lady, lady, lady, * Farewell, lady mine ! Never more in greenwood shady Shall we two recline. Never more shall we two wander Over hill and dale; Never, where the streams meander, Shalt thou hear love's tale. All between us now is over Thou hast sealed my fate; I to thee was but a lover Thou hast found a mate. But, amid his soft caresses, When most dear to thee, Think on whom the green sod presses Lady ! think of me ! 60 POEMS. JUihiiat[3. ' Is there no nook of English ground secure From rush assault V " Wordsworth. THOUGHT not beseeming well the poet-sage ! Can the most lovely of terrestrial scenes Be marred, when human science intervenes To place the marvels of a recent age By God's old grandeurs? What may so engage And raise the mind, as to behold the proud, Long-tameless elements of Nature bowed On mortal aims to spend their governed rage? How grand the uses made of slightest things ! Such thin and formless vapours, as the lake Gives to the noon-day sun, serve, when man wills, To bear him mighty loads on thought-swift wings. So summoned, only, earth's full glories wake, And echo else were mute on many hills. Skllaft nf lit Hitjjnri A GOODLY ship of English mould rode forth upon the -" main, To waft across a famous knight unto the shores of Spain; Sir Richard Fanshawe was the name this noble pilgrim bore, And he might veil his cap to none for valour, wit, and lore. POEMS. Gl Along the seas this ship had sailed a fortnight and a day, AVlion suddenly unto the knight the captain he did say, " Draw forth thy sword, thou warlike lord ! The Turks be on our lee ! Draw forth thy sword, and strike this day for England and for me ! " Stand to your guns, my sailors all ! the Moslemah are nigh, Right well on yonder corsair's mast the Crescent ye may spy! Though twice our weight of build she show, fight as ye aye have done, And England shall the tidings hear of a battle this day won ! " The stout Sir Richard waved his sword above his head in air, And cried, "Where'er the press may be, sir captain, place me there ! And ere this morning's sun go down, God willing, thou shalt see A good blow struck for Jesu Christ, for England, and for thee ! " But go, thou little page, unto my lady's cabin door, And bear to her my wish that she come not that thresh- old o'er; Commend us to her gentle prayers, and bid her have no fears, For Heaven will fight for Christian men against these buccaneers. " Yet,as I know the mighty love that fills my lady'sheart, Let this amid the melay be, thou youthful page, thy part: 62 POEMS. Keep true and faithful watch and ward that chamber door beside, And see that by this hest of mine my lady-love abide." The page bowed low, and left the deck; the good knight sought the post, Where danger from the Moslem arms appeared to threaten most; And there he stood amid the crew, all ready for the fray,. From noontide till the sun passed through the folding- doors of day. Meanwhile, although the foe hung o'er the Christian vessel's path, A distant dropping shot was all that showed their hos- tile wrath: The unbelievers knew that oak, and where it sprang from earth They knew the mettle of the men to whom that soil gave birth ! But prudent, as in battle bold, the English captain was, And still he kept his men prepared for aught might come to pass; On deck, with them, Sir Richard stood, ev'n till the morning light Appeared to show no danger near no crescent-flag in si^ht. Twas then the good knight turned to look upon a boyish form, That through the long, long hours of gloom was ever at his arm: roKMS. 63 "Good Lord!" exclaimed the knight, and prest that form in fond embrace, " What change, what miracles, can through the strength of love take place ! " It was, indeed, his lady fair veiled in the boyish dress, Of which her prayers had won the page himself to dis- possess 'Twas she who, thus attired, had crept to where her lord was placed, And there, unknown, had stood till dawn shone o'er the watery waste. Well might the husband fondly cry, "What changes love can make!" Whose lady braved the cold, the foe, the darkness, for his sake; Though peril she could not avert, yet peril she might share, And if a bullet sought his heart, her own might ward it there! Well might the noble knight exclaim, " What wonders love can do!" When stirs its influence in the breast that tender is and true; The gentlest heart Love maketh bold, the wildest it can tame, In weal or woe, with high and low, its power is still the. same. A place Sir Richard Fanshawe hath, high on the roll of fame, And not less bright the halo is, that girds his lady's name: Enshrined together in the breasts of all the good they lie, Amid the glorious company whose memory cannot die ! 64 POEMS. jTTNDER, an auld and withering willow, ^ Down by the side of a murmuring stream, Sat a fair maiden, and gazed on the billow, And sad was her sang, and sadder its theme. "Oh!" cried she, "that wearifu' siller, Sair is the grief it has brought on me; It's a' for it I maun marry the miller, Leal as my heart is to Jamie at sea. " Dule on the dusty, sorrowfu' body, Ever to think o' a lass o' eighteen; Couldna the carle make a joe o' his toddy, The thing he has lo'ed sin he kent he had een ! " But gin I maun marry the creatur', Black be my cast if he thrive wi' me: A' the mischiefs and misfortunes in nature The body shall hae for a dowry fee. " Ilka day his gowd will I scatter, And deave his lugs wi' my yammering tongue; Syne gin' he winna gae dead wi' my clatter, I'll yerk his back wi' a hazel rung." Sae the lass sang; and wha but the miller Heard every word frae the back o' a tree? " Foul fa' me," quo' he, " if me or my siller, Shall e'er be at mense o' a jaud like thee!" Lang leugh the lass when he vanished sae crusty; Weel had she kent wha was hearing her strain; " I trow," cried she, " I have settled auld dusty, And now I am yours, my Jamie, again." 65 iV'illl ONE of my boyhood's dearest loves wert thou, Melodious rover of the summer bowers; And never can I see or hear thee now, Without a fond remembrance of the hours When youth had gardened life for me with flowers ! Thou bringest to my mind the white-thorn bough, The blooming heath, and fox-glove of the fells; And Fancy, fine of ear, Half dreams that in thy murmurs she can hear A breeze-borne tinkling from my country's own blue- bells. Most sweet and cheering memories are these To one who loves so well his native land Who loves its mountains, rivulets, and trees, With all the flowers that spring from Nature's hand, And not at man's elaborate command: But now they are no more than memories; For I have dwelt perforce this many a year Amid the city's gloom, And only hear thy quick and joyous boom, When thou my dusky window haply passest near. No longer can I closely watch thy range From fruit to flower, from flower to budding tree, Musing how lover-like thy course of change, Yet from all ills of human passion free. Though thou the summer's libertine may be, And, having reft its sweetness, may estrange POEMS. Thyself thenceforward from the floweret's view, No sting thou leav'st behind No trace of reckless waste with thee we find And sweetly singest thou to earn thy honey-dew. Much have I marvelled at the faultless skill With which thou trackest out thy dwelling-cave, Winging thy way with seeming careless will From mount to plain, o'er lake and winding wave; The powers, which God to earth's first creature gave, Seem far less fit their purpose to fulfil Than thy most wondrous instinct if, indeed, We should not think it shame To designate by such ambiguous name, The rare endowments which have been to thee decreed. Hurtful, alas! too oft are boyhood's loves. The merle, encaged beneath the cottage eaves; The pecking sparrow, or the cooing doves; The chattering daw, most dexterous of thieves, That oftentimes the careful housewife grieves, And nimbly springs aloof when she reproves; Happier by far these pets of youth would be, Were they but left alone, To human care or carelessness unknown. Roaming, as Nature bade, unheeded still and free ! Well, too, for thee, wert thou thus left, poor Bee ! In chase of thee and thy congeners all, How often have I coursed the f'u'l!s with glee, Despite all hindrances of hedge or wall That in my onward way might elianee to fall: But, though I took delight to look on thee, Thy piebald stripes, pt'ivhamv, or golden lines. How oft through me did death Bring sudden pause to thy harmonious breath ! And all for thy poor bag, too rich with balmy dews. PM KM s. 07 Nor could the beauty of thy earthen home, In a green bank beneath a fir-tree made, Yv'ith its compact and overarching dome, Kmelopin^ thy treasure-stores in shade; Nor the fine roadway, serpentinely laid; Nor all thy lovely cups of honied comb, Protect thee from the instruments of ill, Who forced thy tiny cave, And made a place of peace and joy a grave, Killing thy race, though still admiring while they kill. Vainly against the thoughtless plunderers, Didst thou direct thy poison-pointed sting; With branches from the super-pendent firs, They beat thee down, and bruised thy little wing; Thy Queen, although a strangely gifted thing, Saw ruin fall on all that once was hers, Nor could the hand of fell destruction check; Thy cells, of honey reft, In one confused, sod-mingled mass were left, And thou, thy home and works, lay whelmed in one sad wreck. Hence, though the wild flowers of my native hills Before my mind at sight of thee arise, And though my sense their fancied fragrance fills, And their bright bloom delights my inner eyes, Yet painful thoughts the while my breast chastise. Oh ! could poor man accomplish what he wills, I would live o'er my days of youth again, To cherish such as thee, With kindness unalloyed, thou busy Bee, And have thy memory unmixed with aught of pain ! But still to me thou art a thing of joy! And the sweet hope is mine that this new age 08 POEMS. Shall see thee saved from all such harsh annoy. Following a path alike benign and sage, The Man doth now his faculties engage In teaching early wisdom to the Boy. Youth now shall love thee, and have no desire To hunt, or hurt, or kill; And thou henceforth shalt safely roam at will, The happiest, merriest member of the summer choir ! Dnt,

nnfo (Pirl T WOULD not win thee by the sword, Nor breathe of war to thee at all; Unmeet it were that one harsh word Upon thine ear should fall. Not by smooth flatteries of the tongue, Shall I attempt thy smiles to gain; Though thus have poets often sung, And maids have loved the strain. I boast not that I could for thee Brave to the death a world in arms, Since I may wiselier sue to be Blest living with thy charms. I do not say that, in thee shrined, Lie angel-virtues, chaste but chill, When my wish is in thee to find A life-warm mortal still. I in iik c no forced comparisons Of thee to planet, flower, or pearl; I speak the truth of thee at once : Thou art a Dear, Good Girl ! POKMS. 69 fiwt nf [FROM THE LATIN OP BUCHANAN.] I TAIL! morning vowed to immemorial joys, First child of May ! sacred to mirthful sports, To wine, and jest, and song, And to the choral dance ! Hail ! thou delight and honour of the year, Unfailing ever in thy sweet return; Flower of the youth of Time, That soon again grows old ! When the mild temperance of Spring erewhile Cheered new-born Nature, and the primal age, Spontaneously good, Shone bright with yellow ore: Such harmony as thine through all the months Kan lastingly; warm breezes soothed the lands; And then gave they forth fruits Where seeds were never sown. The like amenitude of clime as thine Perpetual broods above the Happy Isles, Where none know painful age, Nor querulous disease. Such breathings whisper softly through the groves That hold in peaceful shade the Silent Ones; Such gales, on Lethe's banks, Stir the sad cypresses. Haply, when God with final fires shall cleanse The universe, and to the earth restore Her happy clays, such airs Shall blessed spirits breathe. Glory of ever-fleeting Time, all hail ! Day worthy still of memorable note: Hail, image of old life, And type of that to come ! 70 POEMS. JSiln /mil. " Mirari populum qnae facit ? ilia FACIT." Facetice Classics. \TOUNG Fairy, whose commanding spell -* Can stir our bosoms to the core, Grateful for joys remembered well, We welcome thee once more ! Resume thy charms ! awake the tear Anew in eyelids of the fair; Or bid the smile again appear Upon the front of care. Thine is the power at choice to move The chords of sadness or of mirth To rouse to ire, or melt to love, Or give dark horror birth. To continents and isles afar, O'er seas and lands, by night or day, Unheedful where our bodies are, With thee in soul we stray. Thou wiliest and in forest glades. Beneath o'erarching leaf and bough, We con a lore amid the shades Richer than worldlings know. Co-mates in exile we become Of noble swains and rustic kings, Loving the green walk as our home, And all wild woodland tilings. Whilst thou, inspirer of the whole. Dost trip about in shepherd-guise, And with thy happy wit cajole Alike the weak and wise. Wave thou afresh thy charmed rod ! And forthwith we in palace-halls, And garden-bowers have our abode, Within " Verona walls." There to our gaze a maid is given, In whose young bosom feelings glow, Potent to raise the soul to heaven, Or plunge it deep in woe ! Fervent her spirit as the rays Shot from her own Italian skies; And in the spring-time of her days With dying love she dies. Uplift thy magic wand anew, And bid the Murderess of the North, Fair as the gilded snake to view, But poison-fanged, step forth. Give us to hear the taunts that bend Her consort to the mortal error; And show betimes her course's end, And thrill our breasts with terror. All phases of the female heart, Whether as maiden or as wife, Thou hast the genius and the art To mirror to the life. And such thy wondrous power to teach The moral of each passing scene, That we, though sadder, rise from each Wiser than we have been. POEMS. Young Fairy of the potent spell, Who comest kindly to restore Pleasures by us remembered well, We welcome thee once more. OFT had I roamed in thought the land of Greece, And seen its brave, and good, and fair of old, But never did my actual eye behold A semblance of the Lady of the Fleece, Sublime Medea; nor of her, whom peace Declared an outcast from its happy fold At birth, Antigone, too greatly bold; Until a voice, whose tones may never cease To sound in fancy's hearing and a form, Whose graces haunt the gaze of memory Entranced of late held every sense of mine. FAUCIT, that noble speech and port were thine ! Though less thyself didst thou appear to be, Than some bright Phidian shape, with life grown warm. [TO J. c. w.] ITERE, upon the waveful Twn-d. AA Where old shepherds tuned the reed, Prone beneath ;i willow Let me weave a lay for thee. Would that thou wert with me here, 78 Now when July warms the year, And tin- Tweed careers below, Bright and brcakless in its flow, Save where trouts leap here and there, Divers in the sunny air: AVI i ile, upon the adverse bank, May be viewed, in careless rank, All the trees which he, the lord, Ever-famed of Abbotsford, Planted to enrich the lands, Won by his toils of mind and hands. Peeping o'er the leafy screen, May the turrets, too, be seen, Of the bright " romance of stone," Builded by the Mighty Known. Towers, and crystal streams, and trees, Ever may the gazer please; How much more should such as lie Now before my cnarmed eye, Steeped in twilight, dewy, cool, Like the landscapes of a pool ! Oft on such an eve have I Wandered through these woods hereby, Musing on the mighty mind Of him who had the scene designed; While from every shrub and tree Issued floods of melody. There the mavis poured its song, Like old wine, mellow and strong, Calling answers, pleased and loud, Even from those echoes proud, Which were wonted to rejoice At the master-minstrel's voice; There the blackbird's stirring note Through the woods was heard to float; 74 POEMS. And the finch's whining plain Mingled with the linnet's strain; And an hundred other lays Made an evening hymn of praise, Such as thrilled that whole arcade, Bedded by the dark green glade, Till it seemed to nod with glee To the pleasing minstrelsy. On the hilly slopes in view, Propped against the arc of blue, Marked I then the heather-bell, Grasping close the mountain swell; And the broom's bright flowers were seen, Yellow stars in skies of green; And the fox-glove's purple cup Seemed to drink the eve-dews up; While, upon some brown scaur-side, Waved old Caledonia's pride Emblem fit, in form and deed, Of her bold and hardy breed, Who, upon their island rocks, Laugh to scorn a foemau's shocks. As the breeze with deepened plain Seems to start away amain, When its rash, assailing wing Meets the Thistle's wardful sting, So, e'en so, do Scotland's foes Still repent their hostile blow<. Well the Minstrel might declare, " Breathed I not my native air- Saw I not the heather bloom Heard I not the wild bee's boom <)\\rc, as every year ran by, Surely, surely 1 should die!" Such a scene, and such a land, Well might poet's love command! I'OK.MS. Die he did ! and, well-a-day, Short thereafter was the stay Of the daughters of his race, Who drew life but from his face ! Brief thereafter was the span Of the sweet and gentle Anne, Who for her great father bore Such a love as child before Rarely felt, or may feel more. When the complete progeny Of bright works that cannot die, From that wondrous brain were born, And the earthly case was worn By the inward fire away, And the debt was paid of clay, She, the poet's dearest child, Endured pangs so deep and wild, That, if this should e'er be said, Hers was grief beyond all aid. Soon did that absorbing pain Burst the bonds of life in twain; In the tomb was Anne laid low, Martyr pure to filial woe. Who can wander through these woods, Or behold these pleasant floods, Nor dwell thus on thee and thine, Poet of the living line? Many a flower is scattered there, Nursling of the shaded air; But what most I prize, by far, Is one that, like an earth-born star, Seems to shrine the name of Scott, Saying still, "Forget-me-not." Yes ! sweet flower, so brightly blue, Eye which Flora may look through 76 POEMS. When she scans our human ways, Scott shall boast unfading bays ! While old Scotland lasts, his name, Fitly formed for mutual fame, With her own shall co-exist, Foremost on her natal list. Till his land and race are not, Glory be to Walter Scott ! 3 inn tint ny 3 [m tjjn. T DARE not say I love thee, -1 So far art thou above me; NOT, could word of mine be heard, Might it have power to move thee. While others sue thee boldly, I sit and look but coldly; Yet the pain, that wrings me then, Is more than may be told thee. The blue sky o'er us bending Seems void, though far extending; So my love, like heaven above. Though viewless, knows no ending. ! then, while others woo thee, Let silence not undo me; Words are weak, and cannot speak The love I bear unto thee ! 1'OK.MS. Iwn nf faint 3njju /"\NCE more on the broad-bosomed ocean appear- ing, The banner of England is spread to the breeze; And loud is the cheering, that hails the uprearing Of Glory's loved emblem, the pride of the seas. No tempest shall daunt her, No victor-foe taunt her, What manhood can do in her cause shall be done; Britannia's best seaman, The boast of her freemen, "Will conquer or die by his colours and gun. On Acre's proud turrets an ensign is flying, Which stout hearts are banded till death to uphold; And bold is their crying, and fierce their defying, When trenched in their ramparts, unconquered of old. But lo ! in the offing, To punish their scoffing, Brave NAPIER appears, and their triumph is done; No danger can stay him, No foemen dismay him, He conquers or dies by his colours and gun. Now low in the dust is the crescent-flag humbled, Its warriors are vanquished, their freedom is gone; The strong walls have tumbled, the proud towers are crumbled, And England's flag waves over ruined Saint John. But NAPIER now tenders, To Acre's defenders, 78 POEMS. The aid of a friend, when the combat is won; For Mercy's sweet blossom Blooms fresh in his bosom, Who conquers or dies by his colours and gun. " All hail to the Hero ! " his country is calling, And "Hail to his comrades, the faithful and brave!" They feared not for falling, they knew no appalling, But fought like their fathers, the lords of the wave. And long may the ocean, In calm and commotion, Rejoicing convey them where fame may be won; And when foes would wound us, May NAPIERS be round us, To conquer or die by their colours and gun. nni [Suggested by Verses, from the elegant pen of James IlecUlerwick, which ascribed the power of the Poet to his melancholy, and were en- titled " Sorrow and Song."] /GRIEVE thou when the Poet grieves, ^ Soothe him in his sadness; Song her brightest ehaplrt weaves Round the brow of gladness. To the smiling dawn the lark Chanteth her good morrow; Boding screech-owls to the dark Croak their notes of sorrow. POEMS. T'.i Pearls are sought in placid seas, Not in troubled waters; Summer robes with leaves the trees Leaves the Winter scatters. Crystal, pure as ever shone, But by daylight glanceth; And the butterfly alone In the sunbeam dauceth. By the warm and glowing hearth, Chirps the gleesome cricket; Joyous Spring calls pipings forth From the budding thicket. Rills, with music in their flow, Flowery banks embosom; Not amid December's snow Shows the rose her blossom. To the calm fount flies the deer When with thirst he fainteth; In the lake serene and clear, Heaven her image painteth. Can the harp of broken string Charm us by its sounding? Or the eagle's bruised wing Bear his skyward bounding 1 Grieve, then, when the Poet grieves, Soothe thou him in sadness; Song her brightest chaplet weaves Round the brow of gladness. 80 POEMS. r his country on this battle-plain, And won her freedom by his deeds sublime. 93 <0n tjit [Written while its fate was yet in doubt.] TTAST thou gone into the deep, -" Or been stranded on the shore? Are thy merry men asleep, To awaken never more? Shall we still hope on? or weep In despair that all is o'er That the strong blue billow raves Everlastingly above thy crew's unhallowed graves? We have watched full many a time, When thy coming was foretold; We have listened to the chime Of the waters as they rolled; But, like fabling poet's rhyme, Or romance of days of old, Proved the tales they told of thee, Thou mysterious rover on the dark tempestuous sea! We have never seen thy prow Bushing homewards through the main, And a dread weighs on us now, Lest we see it not again; And on many a snowy brow May be traced the stamp of pain, For with thee, where'er thou art, Lie the prized and the beloved of many a tender heart. Wonderful, most wonderful, Are the secrets of the deep ! Millions many doth it lull In their last undreaming sleep; 94 POEMS. While o'erliead the wild sea-gull Loves its screaming watch to keep, And around them countless stores Of rich gems are garnered up from a thousand dis- tant shores. But the ocean gives no bed, On its channel rough and broad, To the myriads of the dead Who have there their last abode. Disallowed to lay the head 'Neath their native churchyard sod, Still are they denied to sleep Even on the craggy wastes that underlie the deep. 'Twixt the blessed air above, And the caverned plains below, Where the waters ever move To and fro, and to and fro, Do the couchless relics rove With the billows as they flow, Doomed to everlasting motion, Till the Great Judge calls them up from the rude and grudging ocean. All who feel that ocean's wrath, When the tempest will not cease, And the waters choke the breath, And the spirit finds release, Join those mariners of death, Still to roam the deep mid-seas: And art tlum with that divud band, Gallant plougher of the main bright creation of the land) Hast thou gone into the deep, Or birn stranded on the shore? POEMS. Are thy merry men asleep, To awaken never more 1 ? Shall we still hope on? or weep In despair that all is o'er That the strong blue billow raves Everlastingly above thy crew's unhallowed graves? nf tljB Itim TTEARD ye the scream of the Steam-Horse by night, -H Rending the air as in wrath or affright? Saw ye the glare of its eyes by the way, Red as the sun on a mist-shrouded day? Onward it flies, as in strife with the wind, Leaving no trace of its passage behind, Save in the fumes that its nostrils exhale, Soon to be lost in the gloom and the gale. Hotly and fiercely its snortings come forth, Strong as the spout of the whale of the North; Startling to hear, as the voice of the pard, "When on the midnight his bowlings are heard. Since the wild Wind blew its keynote of yore, Never did rival outstrip it before; Bounding along, like a thought in a dream, Space is devoured by the Steed of the Steam. Hosts on the back of the strong one may ride, Safely as navies that rock on the tide; Though it may seem at the burden to frown, Lightly it bears them as feathers of down. 9G POEMS. Priceless to man is this child of his Art, Making of earth one magnificent mart; Science and knowledge, from pole unto pole, Soar on its mighty wings, blessing the whole. Servant of justice, and arm of the law, Only the Guilty regard it with awe; Fly to the ends of the earth though they may, Still it precedes them, and darts on its prey. Noblest of powers that to man have been given Type of the might and the greatness of Heaven Large are thy duties as yet in its scheme: On with thy work then, brave Steed of the Steam ! [There exists a French Air of this name, with words more or less resembling these English ones.] TITHEN hope revisits earth anew, * * And far from us the winter flies, And softer, sweeter to the view, The sun relumes our lovely skies; When Nature robes again the tree, And swallows sound the twittering horn, I love to see my Normandy The land, the land where I was born. The Switzer homes have met mine eyes, On hills where endless snow appears; I have beheld Italian skies. And Venire, with her gondoliers. But everywhere my thought would be, When from my friends and country torn, More fair to me is Normandy The land, the land where I was born! 97 (JB I arts. A FATHER S MEMORY. T?OR parents oft ere now has there been weeping: ' But never fell a tear, From fount where drops of human woe lie sleeping, Upon a Father's bier, More sad than those e'en now my eyelids steeping More sad or more sincere. The while, as youth and man, thou wert ascending The mount of mortal life; And while down age's slope thy feet were bending, In times of care and strife; None ever knew in thee an ill intending, When ill intents were rife. Distresses, on thy snow-haired season stealing, Might try thee sore and long, But could not bring one instant's weak revealing Of thought or purpose wrong; In thee the germ of honourable feeling Was planted, deep and strong. Dear Father ! when in infant couch I slumbered, How many days for me Of coming happiness thy fancy numbered How much of good to be ! Ah ! by my waywardness these days were cumbered Too oft with care to thee. 98 POEMS. Most happily for me, Heaven's grace permitted, That, though all undeserved, I should be partly of that debt acquitted, From which awhile I swerved; And should possess a refuge for thee fitted, When by Time's hand unnerved. And now can I reflect with heartfelt pleasure, When thou from earth art riven, That to thy aged years some decent measure Of comfort here was given. For times beyond, I know thou hast the treasure Stored for the good in Heaven ! MY TOM! M Y Tom ! " The words ring warmly in my ears, Which issued from a dying Mother's lips. Others stood by, who saw that sad eclipse, And saw it, being near and dear, with tears. But that phrase fell to me; and it appears So stored with love thanks pardon for past That the remembrance cannot fail to last Throughout the term I yet may have of years. Though not the eldest whom her early home Saw reared at her parental knee, yet I Enjoyed that final and endearing word. Simple in other eyes, the phrase, " My Tom," Seems yet to me, so used, a legacy, llicher than regal treasuries could afford ! the 99 A SISTER S LOVE. THE mutual passion that unites the hearts Of youthful lovers is a precious thing; And potent is it to repel the sting Of evil fortune, or to heal its smarts. But too, too frequently, to charms and arts, External all, for sustenance doth it cling; And when, through time or suffering, these take wing, The passion also which they fed departs. A love more pure by far the heart may prove; One resting not on perishable form, And which nor age nor sorrow can remove, Though blasting beauty like the canker-worm : Nor can misfortune's fellest, wildest storm Destroy that holy thing, a Sister's Love. Inng tf tyi Sinpiamril m to linn.* All HEN, fettered in some lonely cell, a captive " would disclose Hard though the task may be, and sad the bur- then of his woes, * During the imprisonment of Richard I. (Coeur de Lion) in a German dungeon, the chief solace of his weary hours con- sisted of music and song, in which arts he was so well skilled as to be considered among the best troubadours of his time. There is preserved a Norman-French song by the king, ex- pressive of his feelings in imprisonment, and which M. Sis- mondi is disposed to think genuine. Of this composition, an English translation (or rather paraphrase) is here attempted. 100 POEMS. Then let him take his harp, and ease his sorrowing heart with song. Friends many have I, but, alas, their succour lingers long! Theirs for they have not ransomed me theirs will the shame appear, That twice the snows have garbed the ground, and twice have found me here. Let my dispiteous gaolers know, my gallant ones, from you, My English peers, my Norman spears, my lances of Poitou, That not so poor my comrades are, but that their gold can buy An entrance to the dungeon where Plantagenet doth lie. No treason shall my lips impute though sad has been my cheer, Since twice the snows have garbed the ground, and twice have found me here. Friends for the lonely captive! yet, some friends there be who seem, More of their golden hoards than of the captive's life to deem; And, more than all I have endured, this thought my bosom wrings, That should I die while this dark cell its shadow o'er me flings, How shall my people keep their name from foul dis- honour clear, Since twice the snows have garbed the ground, and twice have found me here? Yet shall I not, whate'er befall, to hopeless gloom give way: 1'OKMS. 101 Though Philip lead his knights of France to make my land his prey. And break the peace to which he stands by word and oath profest Still shall my soul bear lightly up amid this sharp unrest. Let but the captive think them gone his chains will disappear, Though twice the snows have garbed the ground, and twice have found me here. But let my vain and haughty foes, more prompt in word than deed, List to the end that is for all their troublous schemes decreed. Tell them, ye noble troubadours, sweet Chail and Pensavyne, That ye are coming soon to break these weary bonds of mine ! Ye ever weep, I know, to think of Richard's living bier, Since twice the snows have garbed the ground, and twice have found him here ! Drspnnhnq. H OW beauteous is the autumn day, When, from the lightly chequered skies, The generous sun sends down a ray, Mild as the beam from woman's eyes ! Yet cares do so my soul annoy, That, dear as was its light of yore, I can the glorious orb enjoy No more, ! never more. 102 POEMS. Night comes, and lovely is the night. The wearied moon the power hath given To Eve's own star, so blue and bright, To lead awhile the hosts of heaven. But though the eyes of others drain Rich nectar-draughts from that full store, Such bliss to me may come again No more, ! never more. Could earth be fairer to the view Than when she shows her Plenty-Horn, Lip-full of flowers of every hue, And mellow fruits, and golden corn? Bright prospects yields she, and doth give, With parent bounty, all she bore: I shall partake them, while I live, No more, ! never more. An infant, softly couched in sleep, And dreaming of its mother's love, Smiles not more sweetly than the deep, Reflecting beauty from above. I gaze in vain upon the scene; Old feelings nothing can restore; My heart can be what it hath been No more, ! never more. I joyed, methought, in sun and moon, The ocean and the kindly earth; But Death hath come, and taught me soon Whence all my joys derived their birth. The spheres above, the earth below, From others ur arms. And were but Heart with Beauty joined, And Sense any which the pilgrims of the earth shall swear, \Vhilemusing on the mighty one, once dwelling there. With fondest love Ferrara keeps Her Ariosto's chair, And o'er his sculptured ink-vase weeps, Whence issued streams so rare; And we whose bard clamb loftier steeps, And breathed sublimer air We shall not long neglect this sacred shrine, Our northern Ariosto's home, dear Thirty-Nine! t trf $rll TS this indeed thy likeness, Nelly Gwynne? The graceful outlines, and the hues so bland, Do seem to speak a Lely's master-hand, And show us charms that might too aptly win The easy Charles to his besetting sin. These lips, as rosy as the new-culled cherry; Eyes, with their sidelong glance, melting and merry : Cheeks of unpurchased bloom, and snowy skin; Such were thy gifts, poor Nell ! And of the man}-, Whom kingly homage raised to luckless note, Thou only (to thine honour be it told) Didst scorn to sell thy influence to any. Clevelands and Portsmouths, unlike thee, were bought, And bartered regal grace for foreign gold. 136 POEMS. J&nl lln J&tnl" TN these brief words, "We meet no more!" : An awful meaning lies; They bid me deem all feeling o'er, And every sense despise: No more ! if I see her no more, What use to me have Eyes? If never more that voice which air, Like some live thing that hears, Seemed charmed upon its wings to bear Shall come to chase my fears, To swell my joy and soothe my care, What use to me have Ears? O ! if this hand may never feel The clasp of hers again, Nor round that lovely form may steal, Her heart to mine to strain, Its power of Touch, for woe or weal, Exists to me in vain. The air of heaven no perfume hath For me, but as it brings The sweetness of that dear one's breath Upon its wandering wings; Fragrance were lost to me, if death Took her from earthly things. If I no more the cup may Id Which her soft lips have pressed, Nor prove again tin- deeper bliss By those two lips j X might then to Taste can come amiss, Nothing thenceforth l.e blessed. POEMS. 137 All that this life to me may bring, Of hope, and peace, and mirth, From her was ever wont to spring Through her alone had birth: Met we " No More," Bliss were a thing Unknown to me on earth ! Ijjrinrs [FROM THE LATIN OF GEORGE BUCHANAN.] Q AY, Pilgrim ! wandering over lands and waves, ^ What wouldst thou here ? What end thy tra- vel craves? No shrined divinity by Me is claimed; Of wasted wood and stone my form is framed; A thing that gives to worms and insects birth, Vile before heaven, a mockery to earth. Celestial Power no mean abodes contain, Nor piles of stone upreared by hands of men. That Spirit which sea, earth, and air hold not, Can be imprisoned in no single spot. To find the Saviour, search the secret soul, And deeply muse on each inspired scroll; View that great globe which is thine own abode: There is the Fane, the Sanctuary of God ! But whoso joys to kiss mere wood alone, And spreads vain colours on material stone, Must perish, since alive he worships dust, And on Inanimation rests his trust. If paintings please thee, paint no carious tree, But tinge thy mind with white Simplicity. Thou hast at home what, after all thy toils In roaming earth, but from thy search the while recoils. 138 POEMS. n tip 3fi*innri[ nf Sllrantor 3. Eitrtjk "Inheritors of unfulfilled renown." Shelley's Adonais. T)OOR Friend, so lately lost, thou wert of those Thus memorably charactered by one, Destined himself unhappily to run His course, long ere its natural term of close. Gentle and kindly feelings dwelt within Thy breast, and Genius ofttimes lent its rays To lighten, with the brightness of their blaze, The workings of thy art. But to begin With line fresh impulse on a noble way Is easier than to hold on to the end; And though full many a choicest piece was thrown From off thy easel, still thy best thoughts lay All undeveloped to the last, my Friend, Leaving thee heir to " unfulfilled renown !" f rnttislj Unrfoms. [The Sports of the Borders were long conducted under the eye of James Hogg.] THESE are the sons of the brave who fell When the trumpet rung on Flodden, And the Flowers whom the Forest loved so well Low, low in the clay were trodden. These are the sons of the good who died For the faith of a suffering nation, Chanting their hymns on the ^reeii hill-side, To the God of their salvation. 139 Where are the annals of heroes on earth That rank with their own in story? Where is the land that hath given birth To names that are higher in glory? Have they fallen from the valour of old 1 Is the might of their race departed ? Are their sinews cast in a weaker mould Than their sires, the lion-hearted? No ! gaze on the manly forms that are here For the prize of fame contending, From the bounds of the Border, far and near, In the sports of their fathers blending ! And see, with the fire of youth in his veins, Their Shepherd Bard to guide them, Bright as of old when he warbled his strains To his mountain-nock beside him. These brave hearts would bleed, at their country's need, As their fathers, the famous in story, And a strain would be sung, while the war-note rung, To cheer them to death or to glory 1 Inllthr'fl /an null. "CAREWELL to thee, my Mary, Farewell to thee awhile; Fain would I longer tarry Beneath thy loving smile; 140 POEMS. But stern and pressing duty Compels me now away, And Love, dear maid, and Beauty, Must bow beneath its sway. Farewell to thee, my Mary, Farewell awhile to thee; O tell me, do I carry Thy heart away with me? My own I leave behind me, That still, by night and day, It may of him remind thee Who wanders far away. Farewell to thee, my Mary, Awhile to thee farewell; May every guardian fairy Enclose thee with its spell. And thou, when I am turning Once more across the foam, Shalt be a bright lamp burning To guide me to my home. tiu'z TT gives me, pretty Book, some pain Thy yet unsullied charms to stain With aught from such a pen as mine, Wliicli, while its dusky drops bereave Thy piigr <>f purity, can leave Small recompense in thought or line. I'OEMS. 141 Still is this one thing in my power. That, though no bright, poetic flower May by my hand be planted here, No word at least, shall bear a sense To flush the cheek of innocence, Or call to modest eyes a tear. And be the humble task now mine, To counsel that no single line No sketch by pen or pencil traced Be ever in this volume found, If such as possibly can wound, The purest mind, the nicest taste. Let this fair Book, from first to last, Be such that virtue's self may cast Her glance with frequent pleasure there; Let all, in sooth, be like the maid For whom its treasures are arrayed, Graceful and gentle, good and fair. ! Uniroi? nn tljc 0! BONNIE are the howes, And sunny are the knowes, That feed the kyc and ewes Where my life's morn dawned; And brightly glance the rills That spring amang the hills, And ca' the merry mills, In my ain dear land. 142 POEMS. But now I canna see The lambies on the lea, Nor hear the heather-bee, On this far, far strand; I see nae father's ha', Nae burnie's waterfa', But wander far awa' Frae my ain dear land. My heart was free and light, My ingle burning bright, When ruin cam' by night, Thro' a foe's fell brand: I left my native air, I gaed to come nae mair ! And now I sorrow sair For my ain dear land. But blithely will I bide Whate'er may yet betide, When ane is by my side, On this far, far strand: My Jean will soon be here, This waefu' heart to cheer, And dry the fa'ing tear For my ain dear land. 3.tiniiDbi[ nil 3nljn (Dnluin. [FROM Tin: LATIN or <;i:oi;<;i: r,n HANAN.] 'F ono tlici-c l>r who deems that human souls Live not i.fvoml tlir -Ta\v. or who so arts, u' el lirrui-r. as t<> liave Moll POEMS. 143 And its eternal pains before his eyes, He rightly may lament in life his fate, May dread the tomb, and wake the woe of friends. But from thy friends though prematurely snatched By death, grown envious of thy high designs, Thou, CALVIN, shouldst call forth no weak regrets, No idle tears, no vain funereal shows. Freed now from cares, and from the bonds of earth, Thou boldest heaven, and closely dost enjoy The God by thee in spirit worshipped long. Pure light in purest light dost thou behold, And, filled with the infused divinity, Tastest without alloy eternal life Which sorrow never taints, nor hope exalts To empty joy, nor any fears assail, Nor pains which vex the flesh-imprisoned soul. This day which rescued thee from bitter cares I well may call thy natal day, on which Thou to thy Home returnest in the skies, And after the despites of banishment, With spirit fearful of no second death, Raised above fortune, enterest lengthened life. For as in all the sections of the frame, When soul is there, motion and life exist, And vigour permeates each agile limb; And as, that soul once gone, it moveless lies, The putrid substance of a mass of clay; So of the spirit God the spirit is, Whom wanting, it is plunged in deepest gloom, And, easily deceived by empty seeming, Clasps still the shadowy forms of good and ill. What time the Influence Divine is there, The darkness flies, with all illusive shows; And the eternal naked front of truth Displays itself in Day, which never eve May shroud at bidding of importunate Night. 144 POEMS. Though thus in port received, 'mid heaven's ap- plause, And resting placidly in grateful calm, Invidious death can yet not wholly reave CALVIN from earth. Eternal monuments Of thy high genius shall remain; and when The torch of envy languishes betimes, On every shore where pure Religion shines, Thy fame shall spread and nourish evermore. Dfatirifl in Imtlunfr. "DEAL ye the trumpet loudly, That the strain may resound through the hall; Wake it again more proudly, Till the echoes respond to the call. Famous our land is in story, And the sun on no lovelier smiles; Still, still the crown of our glory Is Victoria, the Queen of the Isles ! Never hath foot of the stranger Left the print of a foe on our clay; Never have Britons by danger Been debarred on their conquering way. If we with perils have dallied, When encircled by treason and wiles. How must we triumph, when rallied Round Victoria, the Queen of the Isles ! POEMS. 145 Famed were the days of our fathers, When Eliza and Anne held the sway; Brighter the chaplet Fame gathers On the brows of Victoria to lay. Scotland, exalted in story, Deck thy forehead in joyfullest smiles; Welcome thy pride and thy glory In Victoria, the Queen of the Isles ! to [DEDICATORY OF THE INSTRUCTOR JOURNAL.] NOT all the honours of thine august line, Though on the laurelled progress of its story Plantagenets and Tudors shed a glory, Which never may through lapsing time decline; And though the Scottish Stewarts might re- fine, More and yet more, thy royalty of blood, Until imperial lustre, in a flood, Came from the borders of the sunny Rhine, Through Guelphic sires: not all these dig- nities So draw to thee the national esteem, As thy home-virtues, LADY OF THE ISLES ! And, since all efforts (in thy mother-eyes) To teach the young not undeserving seem, May this permitted tribute share thy smiles ! 146 POEMS. u-llnnn. [The beautiful Tune, which the Scots claim under the name of " Robin Adair," is now more commonly ascribed to a young Irish Chieftain, who entered the halls of his enemies in the garb of an old Harper, and made himself known to a daughter of the house Aileen a-Roon, or " Ellen, the treasure of his heart" by singing verses like the following to this air, his own composition. It is pleasing to add, that he carried off the lady.] HERE is thy home to be, Aileen a-Roon? Or wilt thou go with me, Aileen a-Roon? Far on the mountain-side, Wilt thou become my bride 1 Or wilt thou here abide, Aileen a-Roon ? Think of the happy hours, Aileen a-Roon, Wait us among the flowers, Aileen a-Roon: None whom you here may see Ever can love like me: None else would DIE for thee, Aileen a-Roon ! Think of my breaking heart, Aileen a-Roon ! Oh, are we thus to part, Aileen a-Roon ? Here, then, amid my foes, Come I my life to close: Welcome the grave's repose, Aileen a-Roou ? I'OKMS. 11' Blow never fell on me, Aileen a-Roon, But was repaid with three, Aileen a-Roon: Yet on thy kin my arm Shall not alight in harm Fatal but strong thy charm, Aileen a-Roon ! Oh, think how fond our love, Aileen a-Roon! All other loves above, Aileen a-Roon ! Ne'er did the tribes of air Number a truer pair: Oh, must I now despair, Aileen a-Roon ! [An old French Rondeau.] A GENTLE, sweet, and smiling NAY ** Is most delicious, let me say; YES, to be sure, is not amiss, But who would choose a proffered kiss? Not that I am the fool to sneer, When granted favours held so dear; But, granting them, you still should say, " You shall not, now; I tell you, NAY !" 148 POEMS. dD! 0! SAY na you maun gang awa', ! say na you maun leave me; The dreaded hour that parts us twa Of peace and hope will reave me. When you to distant wheres are gane, How could I bear to tarry, Where ilka tree and ilka stane Would mind me o' my Mary ! I could na wander near yon woods, That saw us aft caressing, And on our heads let fa' their buds, In earnest o' their blessing. Ilk stane wad mind me how we prest Its half-o'erspreading heather, And how we lo'ed the least the best, That made us creep thegither. I couldna bide when you are gane, My ain, my winsome dearie; I couldna stay to pine my lane: I live but when I'm near ye. Thm say na you maun ganjj O! say na you maun leave me; For, ah ! the hour that pairts us twa Of life itself will reave me. POEMS. 149 all, fluit au [The following Fragment constitutes little more than the Exordium of a Poem, and indeed scarcely proceeds far enough to develop its full design, which was, in something of a novel shape, " to vindicate the ways of God to man," and to demonstrate that, throughout the universe, " All is Love, and Love is All." The writer speedily began to find, after he had com- menced, either that the subject was too vast and weighty for his handling, or that he had not so entered on it as to assure to himself the promise of a satisfactory issue. Still, what was written had cost Thought; and the opening portions have been printed accordingly, even in their incomplete- ness. Some passing fancy may be found, here and there, to please the reader, and mitigate his censure. A remark which appears in one of the Critical Essays of the late Lord Jeffrey upon the "Cain" of Byron seems to be only too sound a one " There is no Poetical Road to Me- taphysics." It is very possible that this axiom was the result of per- sonal attempts on the part of the unquestionably great Critic of poetry, to effect things which his metaphysical turn of mind had rendered futile. Indeed, even Milton failed in his endeavours to make Poetry the vehicle of argument. Campbell attempts it not in the " Pleasures of Hope ; " and Akenside, only, can be said to have essayed the feat with any degree of success. But, even in his case, his reasoning is merely tolerated for his Illustrations.] TIGH were the hopes with which, in other days, -"- I laid my tremulous hand upon the lyre, And thence drew some few notes, modest and low. Unheard of men, those sounds were dear to me; Haply more dear, because of men unheard. No fabled Sisters of the Cloven Mount Dipped their fine fingers in Castalian lymph, To lave baptismally my mortal brow, And bid immortal thoughts to well up there. A Power, invisible as airs of heaven, Gentle at times as they, at times as strong, 150 POEMS. Touched first the chords of music in my soul As such airs stir a range of pliant pines To utterance of fitful melody, And make the grove one harp of many strings. That Influence what language may define? A fount it is, whence honour flows; it is An academe which yields the scholar lore; An armoury whence heroes take their swords; A polar star to pilgrims in far lands, And those who to the sea go down in ships; Soul of emprise; incentive to great deeds; The inspiration and the theme of song; All this, and more, is LOVE ! And yet how small A portion of that mighty Principle Such bounds designate, ample though they be, And compassing so much of bliss and woe ! The love of clay to clay, of kind to kind That love on which man lavishes the name, And which on Fancy mainly, and on Sense, Dependeth is but as the pedestal That bears a column reaching to the skies. Yet beauteous is the Power iu all its shapes; And on young hearts it first falls naturally From objects visible and tangible, Working through force of common sympathies. Nor to unholy endings does it lead, Nor is itself impure. Lo! from yin heights Comes down a bright stream flowing. When new- born, Testing its strength in leaps precipitous, It fumes and boils, and dashes up its spray To dally with the brcr/rs all the while Fretting out music from its islet -tones. And glassing on its surface, here and there, 151 The dill's and shrubs within its bounded ken. Ami yet. for all this froth and wild turmoil, So limpid an- its pools, that the sun loves To tell his beads upon their pebbly floors. Love, in the youthful breast, is such a Kill. Its source the earth, to earth, though pure, it clings; And thiTowith communes; and its voice is Song. Upon its path fall cumulated joys; Partaken, sweet; sweet, entertained alone. But, like the streamlet, Love not seldom meets Troubled impressions on its early way. As intempestive rains, and choking snows, And furious blasts, soil oft the mountain spring. So tears, and frowns, and wrathful breath may stain All interhuman love, and mar its flow. But Love hath higher phases, nobler forms: And still its symbol is the rock-born Kill. Behold once more the latter, when its course Is swelled by tributes from unnumbered glens ! The lowly Rivulet hath now become A River, broad, serene, majestical; No more receiving lonely visitance From sun, or moon, or single curious stars, But mirroring upon its clear expanse, Within the cycle of the day and night, The whole vast firmament, as far as earth Can grasp the maze of lights and shades sublime. There, too, the globe's own face reflected lies. From the near sands, and slow-retiring banks, To the abrupt, horizon-bounding hills With countless varied forms dispersed between, Trees, flowers, and busy sheep, and stooping kine All, all the River to its bosom takes, And on that tablet holds creation graved. The scene may shift, but still the scene recurs. 152 POEMS. Nor is the Stream now mute that sang at birth. Its tones are deepened, and rise organ-like Upon the winds. The strain is grandly strong, Like that of Delphic choristers of old, Loud-paeaning their vain divinity. Love, from the hour in which it first upsprings In youthful human hearts, thus by degrees Extends, expands, and elevates its sphere, And amplifies its powers, till it receives All Nature in a reverent embrace. Losing in nought its sweet susceptibility To graceful forms, bright eyes, and blooming cheeks, On the Ideal and the Sensuous No more it mainly leans, but draws new strength From Keason and the Intellect matured; As well as from the Moral element In man, and sources more exalted still. Thus chastened, and sustained, and dignified, A noble current Love becomes indeed, Fed by ten thousand fountains; and within The range of whose reflective potency Are brought alike the pettiest things of earth, And the remotest marvels of the heavens. When fail the bounded faculties of Sense, The Intellect and Keason stretch their gaze Across the borders of Infinity; And when they also have their limit found, Imagination, soaring on their wings, Or as an aeronaut, whose car they guide, Fresh wonders sees, and with iindoubtiiig eyes. Tin ii, revelling in the fulness of its powers, The eye of Love pierces the mystery, At length, of the Great Truth, that ALL is LOVE, And LOVE is ALL! That in humanity Dwells but a spark of one pervading flame, POEMS. 153 Soul of creation, and continual Stay Of the wide Universe! Then all the shapes, Shows, modes, and qualities of things all acts, All operations, or of heaven or earth Bear evidence, with undiscordant tongues, That Love is all all Love ! But purified M ust be the vision, and enlarged in scope, That so appreciates this truth, which is, Indeed, the height and depth, length, breadth, and sum Of Knowledge ! Love alone sees Love aright, Or can regard its light with steady gaze; As eagles, with their answering eyes of flame, Alone may scan the flaming orb of day. Blest are the Poets ! They have so been graced And favoured, that their love-anointed eyes Can, eagle-like, sustain the Sun of Love, In its full blaze of might and majesty. Love is the inspiration and the goal The guide, the stoop, the treasure, and the bliss Of the Elect of Song ! So is it now, And so it hath been, since the birth of Time. Eternal Love ! true godhead, whom the Nine, Seated by Fancy on Aonian peaks, So long prefigured to the ancient world, Thou art the power, that, from the first of days, Teaching Hosannahs to the Angel choirs, Didst send adoring music through the heavens; Thou, ere the earth was ripe for human-kind, Gavest the boon of song to winged forms, That yet possess a life-in-death of stone, Things petrified to immortality; And when at length the bowers of Eden rose, To beautify the vacant realms of space, 154 POEMS. Thou wert the prompter of the novel sounds That woke old Silence from chaotic dreams. No savage roars alarmed the woods, nor did The vulture scream for prey upon the hills Of Paradise. All voices breathed of Love ! And every uttered tone was musical ! From thee, and not from any fabled Muse, The Poet should seek aid, though scornful not Of Invocations oft devoutly made By the high masters of the classic lyre, The glorious perpetuities of song ! They followed but the wisdom of their times, And from the senses drew their highest lore. The Eye, peering from its observatory, The Ear, the kennelled warder of the brain Aided by organs but of lesser might Conveyed reports of the external world To Fancy, lord of the fine intellect Of Greece; and from their conjunct operance Arose that wondrous, wildly wondrous creed Which was in essence Sense Idealised. Defective, since by reason leavened not, And more defective, from still higher wants, The beautiful Religion of old Greece Hath yet died not away; nor can all die, \Vhile the great pillars that upheld its fane Are ranked among the faculties of man. Strange tales composed that creed; yet lovely oft, As blending matter with humanity, And breathing life throughout unliving things. And one at times grieves idly, as he notes The disenehantmeiits wrought on common scenes. Actors have been dethroned by agencies. Winds blow; and Kolus swells not his cheeks. The crested billow races to the shore; But Nereids toy no longer with the shells. 355 The shrub of Araby still drops its gum; Yet the inisloving Myrrhu weeps no more. No Io lows among the lowing herds; Echo is but an airy pulse; the Swan, The model-bark of Nature, is not now- Conjoined with Cycnus in a sad romance. Transcendent, all must own, the Genius was That based on nothings such high fantasies. To it was matter as the plastic clay, That takes all forms devised. Not alone trees And flowers; with seas, and streams, and bubbling wells; Which own, at least, a life of motive change: Nor elemental things that live in sounds: But rooted hills, and never-blenching rocks, Catered to the fine fancy of old Greece, And from her hands won strange vitality. Her rod is broken now, her spells reversed. A stern transforming Power, such as she feigned The Medusean head to be of old, Hath turned its glance upon her magic fane. A novel Gorgon hath discharmed the world. REASON hath looked on Nature's varied face, And rocks are rocks, and hills but hills once more. And seems the universe less fair, in truth, Since Reason thus hath won predominance? Since higher, stronger elements of mind Kxistent ever, though long unmatured, Have entered on their rightful place, as heads, And guides of all the lighter faculties'? No ! Reason, with its noble adjutants, Knowledge and Science one in verity Finds still in Nature grace adjoined to grace. Whate'er imagination saw aright, Is yet seen rightly, and is yet enjoyed. 156 POEMS. What it saw* wrongly, or imperfectly, Stands forth undimmedly, and with tenfold charms. No work of God declines in loveliness On closer viewing. By this lofty test, Are human works distinguished from divine. The smoothest texture ever spun by hands Is bristly-coarse beside the violet. Creation shuns not, but demands, the eye Of microscopic inquiry, to bring A tithe but of its wonders to the day. The men of old caught nothing save the bloom Upon the cheek of Nature; and they loved Her truly for that one exterior grace. But, as the blush of human beauty forms The least of many springs of human love, And is the heightener but of deeper charms, So that high Love, whose eye on Nature rests, Descries in her attractions multiplied, Seated beyond the superficial gaze, And forming founts of durable delight. That is the Love which finds that All is Love! Though seeming cold to inconsiderate eyes, Reason to Fancy is no real foe. Hath glory from the ocean passed away, Because no huger wave, far-seen, can now Call up a glimpse of Neptune tridented? Because the conch of Triton sounds no more In murmurs of the precursory su> There lie, upon tin- bosom of the deep, Many unvisionary spectacles, That far surpass tlicse tabled ones, and such As please the judgment while they eharm the sense. The strong-framed ships, that with majestic ease, Like living natives of the element, Move to and fro upon the watery plains, POEMS. 157 And, spreading forth their managed sails, command Doth waves and winds to do them ministrance And waft them safely, or in storm or calm Form sights that, in their nude reality, Leave all conceits of fancy far behind. And when reflection follows up the theme, And summons to its bar such tales as that Of Jove embruted to an ocean-Bull, How doubly grand, by contrast, seems the Sea, Turned to its true and elevated ends, As the majestic highway of the globe ! How yet more pleasing, when the mind instructs The eye, appear those hosts of white-winged arks, That bear from shore to shore, from pole to pole, The fruits, the products, and the merchandise, Of many varied climes, to bless the whole Through friendly and reciprocal exchange ! To carry science, and intelligence, And civilised arts, to distant lands, Where Ignorance, first child of Mind and Matter, Reigneth alone. Dread potentate ! although His own great scourge. When Knowledge nears his realms, Up from an Alp, which is his sitting-place, He rears his form astounding. Matted woods Compose his locks; his eyes are lakes, that take And give again the glaring of the sun; His body, uncouth as an Andine steep, Is clothed with shagginess, and many-hued As the bespangled jungles of the East; His tones are torrents; and his whispers sound Like roarings of the forest-beasts by night; Dreadful the monster is to view ! And when He marks Civilisation reach his shores, Strange save to elements, with stupid stare He eyes the visitant, his mouth agape, 158 POEMS. And all his senses in amazement locked. Soon fear prevails; he flies to his rude arms. But uptorn forests, and rent rocks, are weak Against the arms of Skill; and though too oft, Through the blind confidence of Ignorance, The contest is protracted bloodily, Subdued at length, the Giant stoops his crest, Grows tame, and learns the Alphabet of Love ! Such the high end to which all intercourse Of man with man conducts ! Though he may stray Through many a maze before he reach the goal, And even may fail to note that thither tends His onward progress, while he treads the path; And, though the sagest eyes may dimly note The far-off consummation; come there must A day when Love shall rule on earth supreme. The spread of Knowledge is the dawn of Love; And Heaven hath interleaved the whole broad earth With accessory avenues to Knowledge, That, in the fulness of the time, the high Ordainment may be perfected. To doubt The ordainment, would be to regard this earth As wretcheder than hell; since hell stands still, And earth progresses ever, in a lore That must be good or ill ! But each fair boon, Aiding us on, is not a covert curse; Nor each advance an evil. Though the Sea May have too oft been stained by purple crime, The noble dcim-nt is still the first Of helps to human intm-oniiminiiigs A blessing from al>o\c, vast as itself! It is a pathway I'm HUM 1 by Love for Love! Have the skies lost their glory, since man learned That the stupendous globe on which he dwells Is one but of a band of satellites, 159 And only not the least, that ever whirl Around a central orb, mightier than all? And that this orb, and these dependencies, Although they form a system seemingly Complete and self-sustained, form merely one Of cognate systems multitudinous, "Which people all Appreciable Space, And are themselves as watchers at the gates Of Inappreciable Infinity 1 Though marred too oft by sensualities, The fabulous imaginings of old Were beautiful, when stars composed the theme. But how ineffably more beautiful The truth, unless the truth be too sublime For beauty ! When the thoughts restrain their flight Within the limits of the visible, Since the Beyond indeed awes and appals, Incomparable beauty meets the view, Assuredly; not merely in the blaze Of sun, moon, stars, and planetary lights, Though very jewels in creation's crown; But in the order and the harmony Pervading the whole concave of the heavens. Keason, exploring with sciential eye, Finds orbits, times, proportions, distances, Fixed relatively with such aptitude, That the majestic system, as a whole, Hangs on each part, and on the whole each part, Speaking the framing might miraculous. Are aberrations seen? They rest on laws. " Go," said a sen of science by his fire, Touching a point in the celestial chart, " Search thou minutely, with a glass of power, And HERE a Planet MUST be found." He saw A known orb vibrate to a power unknown, As doing to it passing courtesy. 160 POEMS. The search was made, and a new planet! found. When the blue noontide shows its Cyclop eye; Or when the lonely Queen of Night is up In all her plenitude; or when she holds Her thin curved arms towards the little stars, As to embrace a well-loved family, The gradual issue of her monthly pains; Or when these stars, in full-grown amplitude, Hold for their waning dam viceregal sway; At these familiar times, the heavens are fraught With loveliness. But how unspeakably More lovely do they grow, to mind and eye, When the rich order of the whole is marked, With the high objects served; and, above all, When science tells, that from that order spring The Seasons, that give' life to earth, and keep Brimful for man his Plenty-Horn of Joy ! But Reason sees, among the heavenly orbs, No self-dependent gods or demigods. It recognises but one agency, And that is Love ! Though Allegoric Fiction haunts the woods No more, there nestle grace and music still. The softly-sounding name of Philomel Is all that tells us now of the old tale, Which made a tongueless maid a sweet-tongued bird. And yet the melodist, that robs the night Of name and ear, sings not unprizedly; Nor any of its fellow choristers Of furze and bush, hedge, copse, and gladed grove, Though now by Fancy humanised no more. The lark ascends the ladder of the morn, And by successive gushes, as it mounts, Tours down a cataract of harmony, Which falls on no insensate ears. We list, POEMS. 161 Ailniire, and love, nor think of fables grey. Perfect of wing as awkwardly be-limbed, The swallow dives and swims as it was wont The very minnow of the airy deep And we look on well-pleased; and fain, perhaps, Would we bestow awhile some human gifts On the slight shape, that we might ravel out The threads of its entangled life, and learn (What, strange to think, man never yet hath learned) Where pass the periodic absences Of the Unresting Bird; but few would seek, Though Progue gossipped with them from the eaves, To hear the tale of Tereus' treachery. Fiction is far less beautiful than Truth. To all the tribes that throng aerial space, Glee-singers with the winds, the law applies. Nor have the fabulists lent beauty to The feathered things that boast no art of song. To the transcendent plumage of the bird They added nothing, when they bade us note The eyes of Argus in a Peacock's tail. As little might the skill of man, indeed, Enhance the divine colours of the Rainbow, As could his loftiest imaginings Amend in aught the meanest forms of life, That cleave the air, or pipe amid the leaves, Or dwell familiarly with humankind. Fiction hath not the loveliness of Truth. Xature so speaks with all her tongues. The world Of Vegetation similarly scorns The power of Fancy to improve its charms. Had Daphne truly lived, she had not been More, beauteous, even to the sight alone, Than is the Laurel; nor had vain Narcissus Rivalled the simple flower which bears his name. 162 POEMS. Still, unsurpassed although the truth might be, Fair, too, the fables were. The error lay In the vain notion that the human being Was solely perfect in the universe. This single standard of the Beautiful Owned they of other days. No lamp of heaven, Nor any living, growing thing of earth, Nor matter lifeless, howsoever framed, Could boast of beauty in a Grecian eye, Till linked, oft strangely, with humanity. Man seemed the model of all excellence To man. This was the film that dimmed his eyes, While viewing marvels equal to himself. Why dwell so long upon this theme? Because The Beautiful of old composed the germ From which Love sprung; its fount of nutriment; The pedestal and pillars of its fane. His views of loveliness so circumscribed, The sphere of Love to man was limited. Upon his vision the celestial light Had not yet dawned, which shows him but an image Cast in the likeness of a form divine And not a model, by approaching which Was Deity itself but deified. Nor yet on mortals had the further lights Of ripened Science beamed, by help of which The Mind, enfranchised from the leading-strings Of Fancy, and by Reason piloted, At lentil) beheld the general frame of things In aspects new as they were exquisite, A iid then first learnt the mighty Truth, that BEAUTY Is but an ATTRIBUTE of EXCELLEV Throughout the world <>f physical existence, . Vast as it is, this deep-based law obtains. Note tlie external frames of men, ami of 103 The animals that dwell with men on earth, And say what forms at once attract the eye By grace of outline, and by harmony Of parts, viewed singly or combined ? Those still, AVhk-li. in the first degree, possess strength, speed, Activity, and all the qualities Composing, physically, Excellence. This rule applies to man, assuredly; But is more clearly visible, where Mind Can influence not the outer shows of things. Go to the racing mart, and choose a steed Whose fine proportions charm the eye, while yet Its powers remain untried, and the mere shape Is all that justifies a preference; And thou wilt duly find the faultless mould The symbol but of equine excellence. Turn to the hound, whose frame delights the gaze; And, when the mellow horn awakes the hills, Thou shalt see one who, in the eager chase, Will flag not, till he hears the death-halloo ! Experience may augment and modify The power of judging, or of horse or hound: But still the untrained vision finds out beauty, And finds it colleague still to excellence. Association is a principle Of might, but not all-potent, in the mind: We have perceptions certainly innate. Doth not the untaught child discriminate (Long ere the memory can interpose) In the respect of odours, tastes, and sounds, Guided by standards of the excellent, Implanted in each sense? Can it then be That the most noble sense of all should have No similarly innate faculty? Not thus defective is the eye. It hath An unacquired perception of 164 POEMS. The Beautiful, for highest ends bestowed. IT IS A BOON CONFERRED ON US IN LOVE, THAT WE THE MORE MAY PRIZE THAT WORTHINESS WHICH BEAUTY SYMBOLISES OUTWARDLY. O ! how sublime is this just view of Nature ! How admirable, thus contemplated, Become its slightest superficial charms ! How deep the Love that planned the endless feast For Love ! Let not our fervent gratitude Stumble at seeming inconsistencies, Or deviations from the general law. The strong man, or the swift, may own a shape Ungraceful; but, where all is balanced well No gift defective, and no gift extreme That outward harmony is ever found, Which charms the eye, as constituting beauty, And indicates collective perfectness Of corporal endowments. But far beyond the Physical, extends The force and scope of the great truth, that Beauty Is but an attribute of Excellence. The Intellectual and Moral world Falls equally within its influence, Since Genius and Virtue form alone The stable Beauties of the Mind and Heart. By recognition of these combined truths, Love, in the bosom of Humanity, Mounts to its proper and exalted place, And grows indeed a noble princi] A sentiment of Mind as well as Sense. Alive, as ever, t<> external grace, It pierces also to the core of Nature, And finds ne\v graces there, loni; unespied. The Music only of the nniv< : 165 Was heard in other days. More fortunate, Our later times enjoy its Poetry, The Music of the Mind as well as ears. High as the Mind, the one thing perishless, Soareth above its perishable case, So far it yet displays externally The impress of its varying qualities. Doth not the Laureate of Fairyland proclaim That " All that's good is beautiful and fair Since of the Soul the form doth Body take?" Exceptions, doubtless, meet us plenteously, Though oft in seeming only are they such. The sage old querist of Athena, while In mind angelic, had a satyr's shape. But, all unwitting of the force that lay Within their words, his pupils wrote it down, That Socrates stood marked from common men By his vast brow, absorbing half the face? Unlovely wholly could that face not be. By force of beauty intellectual All else must have been touched redeemingly. That novel Science, which conceives the Mind To stamp its character upon its case, And leave its varied and minutest powers Clearly discernible, with triumph points To such-like facts, and owns the general creed That physical foreshadows mental beauty. The man of special and exclusive gifts The pleader, painter, warrior, or buffoon, Metaphysician or geometrist, Whate'er his one endowment chance to be May have the graceful outline of the head Marred through the inborn inequalities; But where a perfect equipoise pervades The whole congeries of faculties, Then ever must that shape of head be found 166 POEMS. Which strikes the eye as faultless, and delights The innate feeling of the beautiful, Given to enhance our love of excellence. The greatest human mind the mind of Shakspere In which each several faculty, though large, Bore due proportion to the balanced whole, Lay in a casket exquisitely framed, And one which all eyes owned as beautiful. Exemplar higher still ! (Forgive the thoughts That turn to thee involuntarily !) Beauteous as Eden, homeing innocence. Thy brow of glory visibly announced Divinest virtues resident in flesh, Though for a season only dwelling there. The form and looks of Christ, indeed, might be Traditional; but even then they prove, That long ago the sympathies of Mind With Body had been recognised by men. [This Fragment went no farther, or at least the remainder came not up to the Author's ideas. It forms the last of the Original Pieces selected for publication here.] TRANSLATIONS FROM THE FRENCH, CHIEFLT OF IAMARTINE AND BERANGER. [Many of the minor pieces in this collection were hastily written for pe- riodical purposes, but have been given here, as having called forth some interest at the time in various instances.] tn f\\ MURMUR still around my bark, ^ Sweet sea, whose cherished waves Pour ever forth a plaintive note, Like lover that bewails his lot, Around this land of graves. How love I on thy breast to glide, When, from the lofty height, The orange and the fruitful vine Cast on thy depths a shady line, More pleasing far than light ! 168 POEMS. Full often in my unoared boat, Confiding in thy love, As if to lull my soul to rest, I close my eyes, and feel with zest Thy billows gently move. Like active and obedient steed To which the reins are given, My fragile vessel dost thou still To some new haven waft at will, As foam ashore is driven. Ah ! cradle, cradle once again, Cradle once more to sleep, The child who doats upon thy flow, And who, since birth, of nought below Hath dreamed, save wood and deep. When thy great element was framed, That all might harmonise, The Maker forth the mandate gave, That Heaven should beam upon thy wave, Thy wave reflect the skies. Pure as it enters to these orbs, Day to thy deeps is hurled; And, in thy brilliant course, the light. On billows blue and golden-bright, Seems rolled around the world. Curbless as thought, tliou dost destroy The armaments of kin And, in thy mad and racing mood, His hand alone who launched thy flood, Thy flood to calmness brings. POEMS. 169 Great image of the Infinite, From wave to wave the eye Tracks thee in vain from shore to shore. Of thy true bounds we know no more Than of Eternity. Thy voice, majestical and sweet, Makes echo thrill on land, Or, murmuring through thy grassy bound, Like zephyr on a mossy mound, Expires along the strand. How well I love thee, pliant Sea, When grateful called to mark, How, kindly giant, thou dost deign To hollow from thy watery plain A cradle for my ark ! How well I love thee, when the wind Sleeps in thy cooling caves, And all the land appears to smile, Noting how on thy breast the while Her shadowed produce waves ! How love I thee, when, on my poop, Festoons from sunny bowers Lean out upon the shaping wind, And seem around thy head to bind A circlet fringed with flowers ! How sweet, what time thy curling mass Is by the breeze caressed, To see, beneath my pressing hand, Thy risings and thy fallings bland, Like Beauty's heaving breast? 170 POEMS. Come, and on my departing bark Bestow the farewell kiss; Roll round me with a plaintive sound, And let thy spray again rebound, And bathe my brow with bliss. Oh ! let my boat on thy domain Still float secure and free, Whether it be where surges rave, By Virgil's tomb or Sibyl's cave Sacred each spot to me ! Above all, on thy cherished shore, Where love awoke my heart, My soul, at her impassioned glance, Finds home and rest, with thoughts, perchance, Of joys that would depart. At random sail. Whate'er the coast To which we pass through thee, Thy every wave suggests a theme, Thy every rock inspires a dream, Or wakes a memory ! i\N a rock beaten by the plaintive wave, ^ The sailor from afar descries a tomb, White-shining, where the seas the shore-sand lave; Time hath not dimmed as yet that narrow room; And, underneath the ivy clustering green, A sceptre broken may be seen! POEMS. 171 " Here lies" no name. Ask ye of earth that name ? In bloody characters is it imprest From Danube to Cedar on brazen frame, And sculptured stone on many a valiant breast, A nd on the hearts of all the slaves who lay And trembled in his chariot-way. Two mighty names doth age to age give down; Since these, no name in human language traced, So far upon the lightning's wing hath flown. Of mortal footprints, by a breath effaced, None e'er was stamped on earth with greater force, Than that which ended here its course. Here doth He lie ! three infant steps the place May measure. He will make no murmur now. Unchallenged o'er his bed his foes may pace, And the fly hum above that thunderous brow; His spirit heareth but the tedious shock Of billows breaking on a rock. Yet fear not, still-vexed shade, that I one word Of wrong to thy mute Majesty shall breathe. Scoffs from the lyre the tomb hath never heard; Glory a refuge still hath found in death. Its memory should by nothing, nothing save The TRUTH, be followed to the grave. In clouds thy cradle and thy tomb were furled. Like lightning from a storm thou earnest forth; While yet without a name thou shook'st the world; As the same Nile, whose wave of richest worth Memphis enjoys, while nameless, wells to light In wilds of Memnon, far from sight. 172 POEMS. When Victory took thee on her rapid wing, The Gods had fallen, and the thrones were void. Of men of Brutus-mould Fame made thee king. An age that swallowed in its frothy tide Crowns, customs, laws, was boldly stemmed by thee, And backwards forced awhile to flee. Fearless with potent error didst thou fight Strive, like aspiring Jacob, with a shade; The spirit cringed beneath the mortal wight; And, daringly profane, a mock was made By thee of once great names, as rash hands bore The sacred cups away of yore. When by a fit of blind delirium seized, A worn-out age itself in pieces rent Calling on Freedom amid bonds, if pleased High Heaven a hero should in aid be sent: He struck earth with his sceptre it awoke, And truth upon the dreamer broke. Ah! if restoring to the rightful hands The sway, and shielding fallen royalty, Thou hadst avenged its wrongs on hostile bands Righter of kings, greater than kings could be, What blest perfume, how pure a coronet, Should Glory on thy brow have set! Fame, Honour, Freedom, so In-loved of men, Had sounded then thy praises, as from brass Flow peals which distant echo rings again. But vainly o'er thine ear did the call pass: No sounds to thee one throb of pleasure brought, Save the sword-clash and trumpet-note. Proud, and disdaining all that men admire, Kmpire alone thou soughtest of thy kind. Bars in thy path but raised thy crushing ire; And as a glance speeds to the mark designed, So took thy will its course, even when there lay Kind bosoms in its fatal way. Thy mighty cares were never wont to be Soothed for a moment in the festive bowl. Another purple loved thine eyes to see. Stern as an armed sentinel, thy soul Gave back to Beauty's smile, and Beauty's sigh, Nor smile nor sighing in reply. The loud alarm-cry, and the clang of steel The glittering ranks were thy delight. Thy steed alone thy flattering hand might feel, When, like a wind, his waving mane of white Furrowed the bloody dust, and his limbs reeled Upon some arm-strewn battlefield. Joyless while great, unmurmuring didst thou sink; Nought human throbbed within thy thrice-mailed breast; Hating, nor loving, thou but liv'dst to think. Like to lone bird-king, in his lofty nest, Thou ownest but an eye to measure earth, And talons to embrace its girth. To mount the car of Victory at a bound, And awe the world with glories of thy state Tribunes and kings to trample on the ground, And forge a yoke, tempered in love and hate To make a people, self-bereft of laws, Beneath thy rein to quake and pause; 174 POEMS. Of one whole age to be the life and mind; To blunt the knife, and envious hearts repress; The loosening frame of things anew to bind; And, 'mid the cannon's glare and thunderous- ness, For rule on earth to strive with Deity; Strange dream ! it was thy destiny. Yet wert thou from that pinnacle cast down, And saw'st, when shipwrecked on this naked rock, Thy mantle to the winds by foemen thrown; While Fortune, only power thou didst not mock, As a last favour, granted thee to have A space betwixt the throne and grave. Oh ! but to sound thy thoughts had I had power, When the remembrance of thy greatness lost Came, like Remorse, upon thy lonely hour, And when thy arms upon thy bosom crossed Over thy hot broad brow, in musing bent, Like night the Horror came and went ! As high above some flood the shepherd stands, And views his shade far-stretched upon the stream, Tracking it whirling o'er the unseen sands So, from the lone peak of thy height supreme, Seeking thyself in shadows of the past, Thou dream'st of scenes too bright to last ! They passed before thy mind like mighty waves, Whose sparkling tops are seen upon the main; Awhile their music made thy senses slaves; And on thy brow reflecting li^ht again, Each billow brought some brilliant image back, And long thine eye pursued its tnu-k. POEMS. 175 THERE, on a bridge, the cannon didst thou brave; HERE didst thou stir the sacred desert sand; Thy steed THERE shivered in the Jordan wave; HERE strong walls crumbled at thy foot's com- mand; Thy sword thou changest to a sceptre now Ha! what affright thus wrings thy brow? Why turnest thou thy peaceful glance away ! Why doth thy cheek this sudden pal or show? What horror comes on thee from the old day? Is it the smoke of cities lying low ? Or gazest thou on plains, reeking and gory? These things have been effaced by glory ! All is effaced by glory all save CRIME. Thou saw'st but now a victim steeped in blood A high-born hero, slain in youthful prime; And, heaving his sad form on memory's flood, One wave still passed and passed, and Enghien's name In vengeful murmurs from it came. As if to dash away a livid stain, Across his brow the gazer draws his hand; But yet the bloody traces will remain; Like to a seal stamped by divine command, Effacelessly the taint is left to crown His head with that dark deed's renown. And, Despot, thus shall outraged glory make Thy genius to be doubted through thy crime; Thy car shall have a blood-track in its wake Thy name be theme of contest to all time; And now with Caesar men shall rank thee now A place with Marius allow. 176 POEMS. At last, thou diedst as the many die. And, as a reaper, ere he seeks his pay, First by his sickle doth in slumber lie, So didst thou arm thee for the last long way, And for reward or justice thus didst go To him who placed thee here below. In his last agony it hath been said With dread eternity before his eyes, On his bad brow the blessed sign was made, And heavenward his looks appeared to rise; And from his lips a name was heard to fleet A name he dared not to complete ! But close we now. God reigns, and gives to reign; God is the punisher, and God forgives; Heroes and common men their dues obtain; Speak God, who hears, knows thee and eacli who lives. Tyrant and slave must give account to One THIS of his bonds, THAT of his throne ! His tomb is closed, and God hath judged him. Peace ! His good and ill are in the balance weighed. Let interference now from mortals cease. Who of thy mercy, Lord, hath reckoning made ? Who knows, if earth's great scourge, the hero- mind, Be not a virtue, heaven-assigned? POEMS. 177 : nr, tip Jtetl; nf 3tilk [Written at Jerusalem by Lamartine, on his only Daughter's Death.] FROM the breast have been a man of grief; My heart, in place of blood, rolls tears alone, Or, rather, from my tears springs no relief, Since God has changed them, in their fount, to stone; Gall is my honey, sadness is my joy; For me the tombs a brother's tie possess; And nothing can my steps aside decoy But sihts of ruin and distress ! I Green fields and laughing skies if I espy, Or sweet vales opening to embrace the sea, I pass, and, smiling bitterly, I cry, " A place for bliss, but, ah ! not bliss for me ! " My spirit's echo will but groans repeat, My soul's true home is where men ever weep: A land with mortal dust and tears replete, Is such a couch as fits my sleep. You ask me wherefore; but were I to tell, The bitter gulf would be but stirred anew, And sobbings only would my lips expel Yet pierce my heart, and all will come to view ! There, in each fibre, death has plunged a knife, Slow torture lies in every pulsing wave, Its chambers teem with things that know no life My soul is but one mighty grave ! 178 POEMS. While yet beside Christ's chosen place of birth, I did not ask each hallowed mount and field, Where, at his feet, the poor flung palms on earth, Or where the Word was by his voice revealed; Where loud hosannahs hailed his conquering path, Or, wet with holy tears from woman's eye, His hand, the while it wiped his brow's hot bath, Caressed tke little children nigh: " Lead me," I cried, " unto the place of tears ! To that sad garden, where the Man of Woe, By God forsaken, and his earthly peers, Swate bloody drops, as in the mortal throe; There leave me, for I too would prove the whole Concentred anguish that an hour may feel: Pain is the worship of my hope-reft soul This is the altar where I kneel ! " There is, upon Mount Olive's dusty base, Beneath the shade of Sion's crumbling walls, A place from which the sun withholds its rays, Where scanty Kedron o'er its channel crawls; There hath Jehoshaphat its graves scooped out, And ruins, 'stead of grass, earth bears alone, And trailing roots from hollow olives sprout Amid the tombstones thickly strewn. Between two rocks there stands a darksome grot, Whore Jesus once foretasted death's whole power. When, rousing thrice the sleepers near the spot He said, " Watch ye! for fearful is the hour!" The trembling lip. upon the Mood-stained earth, Seems yet the ]pings of the eup to taste; The sweat, to whieli that sacritiee ^ave birth, May yet upon the rocks be traced. POEMS, 179 There sat I, while my hands sustained my head, And mused what thoughts had filled that heavenly mind, And numbered all the tears myself had shed, Whose flow had left a furrowed track behind; I raised again, and weighed my burdens all, And sounded of my griefs the whole abyss When of a Dream my soul became the thrall, And what a Dream, great God, was this ! I late had left, beneath a mother's wing, My child, my girl, my treasure, and my care, Whose brow fresh charms yet came to deck each spring, Although her soul was ripe for heavenly air. Her form was one that could not leave the eye, For by its light her trace might followed be; And never father saw her passing by, But threw an envying glance on me. Sole relic she of my storm- vexed career, Sole fruit of many flowers, love's single birth, Sweet as a welcome-kiss or parting tear, Perpetual blessing of my wandering hearth; A sunny ray that gave my casement light, A bird that sipped the food my own lips broke, A sigh of music near my couch by night, A kind caress when I awoke ! More, more she was : My mother's form she bore, In hers, my mother's looks would still revive; Through her, the past became the past no more, My former joy, though changed, she kept alive; 180 POEMS. Ten happy years were echoed from her tongue, Our household air was by her step made bright, Tears from my eyes her simple glance oft wrung, Her smile filled all my heart with light. Her brow would shadow back my lightest thought, Her pure blue eye reflected still my own, And o'er that orb my cares a dimness brought, As when a shade across a pool is thrown: But all her own heart's thoughts were lively, sweet, And graveness rarely on her lips abode, Save when she knelt before her mother's feet, And prayed with folded hands to God. I DREAMED that to these scenes I had her led, And that upon my knee the fair thing leant, And, while my arms enclosed her feet and head, That tenderfy to hers my brow was bent: Turned back upon my arm in half- eclipse, Her head's soft burnished gold lay strewn the while, And her bright teeth shone bright between her lips, Half-parted ever with a smile. Ever to me, to me her look she raised, To breathe her spirit and draw forth my soul, And of the love that in my own eye blazed, God only can compute the sumless whole; My lips for fondness knew not where to press, Yet still she sought them, like a toying child, And oft those lips of their beloved caress, By turning mouth and cheek, beguiled. POEMS. 181 Then unto God my raptured heart exclaimed, - 1'ather! while these light-shedding eyes I see, With hymns of praise alone shalt thou be named ! Her life of flowers is life enough for me ! On her my share of thy best gifts bestow, Cast on her path all coming hopes of mine, Prepare her bridal couch, and open throw The arms that wait her at the shrine ! " While thus by prayer and dreamy joy possest, My eye and heart, meanwhile, had failed to note, That heavier on my arm her forehead prest, And o'er her feet a stony chill had shot; " My Julie ! why, oh why art thou so pale 1 Why this moist brow? wherefore this changing hue? Speak smile, my angel ! ah ! thou feign'st this ail ! Pie-ope my book those eyes of blue ! " But on her rosy lip death's purple fell, The half-formed smile was blasted in its spring, More and more laboured grew her bosom's swell, Like the last flappings of a folding wing; Pressing her heart, I watched its beatings wild, And when in sighs the soul at length took flight, My heart felt dead within me, like a child That dies before it sees the light. Bearing within my arms my more than life, I rose upright, and walked away anon, Staggering like one just hurt in mortal strife, And laid my child on the cold altar-stone; To her shut eyes my lip I closely prest, Nor was her brow of all its warmth bereft, But still appeared like some sweet songster's nest, Which yet the bird hath newly left. 182 POEMS. And thus, while one eternal hour went by, Ages of anguish seemed o'er me to pass, Grief filled my heart's void space, and made me cry, " My God, I had but her ! my all she was \ " In this one love were all my loves combined, The very dead she had to me brought back, ole fruit which on the tree was left behind, By the dark storms which swept my track. The sole link was she in my broken chain, The only spot of blue in all my heaven ! That in our house more sweet might be its strain, A name of music we to her had given; She was my world, my source of motion sound, A voice that bore enchantment everywhere, The charm to which my eyes were ever bound, Morn, eve, and night, my joy and care: The glass in which my heart itself could see, My purest days had on her brow a place, A ray of lasting bliss conferred on me Lord ! all thy gifts assembled in one face ! Sweet burden, by her mother on me thrown, Eyes and a soul like mine in brightest day. Life of my life, voice echoing my own, A living heaven in my way ! Take her, and satisfy, relentless fate, Thy quenchless thirst for agonies and death ! Lo! on thy shrine, I lay her beauteous weight. And now, if emptied, break my cup of wrath! My girl, my child, my breath <>f life! one ti Behold! I sever fnmi the golden chains That bound me yesterday to her caress: And now no more to me remains ! POEMS. 183 A stifling sob now woke me; all the rode AVhrreon I sat seemed clothed with sweat of blood, My cold hand gave my brow an icy shock, And on my cheeks two frozen tear-drops stood. As flics the eagle to its nest, I fled ! Low sobs I heard, as I my home drew nigh; Love but delayed for me the hour of dread SHE waited but for me to die ! Now all is still within my lifeless home Two weeping eyes ever my own oppose I know not what I seek, nor where I r^fim My arms on nothing ope, on nothing close. One colour all my days and nights now wear, Prayer in my bosom was with hope laid low; But bear, my soul, God's chastening bravely bear, And kiss the hand that gave the blow ! . /mmll rito tn tofomq nf TF to yon swift bark's canvass I confide ; Each blessing Heaven has willed it to impart; If I commit to ocean's fickle tide A wife and child, twin portions of my heart; If I expose to sand-bank, surge, and blast, Such hopes as these, so many beating breasts, And with no gage of safety, save a mast That quivers when the south wind lists; 184 POEMS. Tis not that lust of gold inflames a soul Which to itself hath nobler treasures made; Nor that I thirst in glory's flaming scroll To write my name if written, soon to fade; 'Tis not that like to Dante's is my fate, The bitter salt of exile doomed to taste; Nor that inconstant faction's angry hate Hath laid my parent roof-tree waste. No, no ! I leave upon a valley's side, And weep to leave, green fields and shade-fraugl trees A home where sweet remembrances abide, Which many a kind eye blesses when it sees; Screened by the woods, I have secure retreats, Where never factious brawls the calm destroy, Where, 'stead of civil tempests, nothing meets My ear but thankfulness and joy. An aged sire, girt by our imaged forms, Starts if around the walls the winds but sigh, And daily prays that He who rules the storms May not beyond its strength our canvass try; Workmen and servants, masterless each one, Trace on the turf our steps with sad acclaim, And, basking 'neath my window in the sun. My dogs whine as they hear my name. Sisters I have, nursed at the same kind breast, Boughs on the same trunk cradle*! by the gale; Friends, too, whose souls my spirit has possest, Wlio 7-ead my eye, and can my thoughts unveil; And lirarts unknown arc by the muse made mine Such as hold converse with mv JMM-/I. Echoes unseen, who round my path combine To pour responsive harmonies! 185 Yet souls have instincts hard to be defined, Like that which prompts some hardy birds to roam In quest of nurture of another kind, And cross at one bold flight the deep sea foam. What seek they in the regions of the East? Have they not mossy homes beneath our eaves'? And store of food their little ones to feast, When autumn shakes our sun-tipt sheaves? I have like them the bread each day requires, Like them I have the river and the hill; Most humble is the range of my desires, Yet I like them am coming, going still ! The East, like them, some power now bids me trace, For never have I seen or touched the land Of Cham, the first dominion of our race, Where man's heart felt God's kneading hand. I have not sailed across the sandy sea, To the slow rocking of the desert-ship; At Hebron's well, beside the palm-trees three, I have not wet at eve my yearning lip; My cloak beneath the tents I have not spread, Nor prest the dust which strewed Job's brow of yore, Nor dreamt by night, with moaning sails o'erhead, The dreams which Jacob dreamt before. Of earth's seven pages one yet waits my eye: I know not how the stars may keep their sphere 'Neath what ideal weight the lungs may ply How palpitates the heart when gods are near ! I know not, when the grand old columns throw On the bard's head the shadows of the past, How herbs may speak, or if earth murmurs low, Or sadly weeps the passing blast. 186 POEMS. I have not heard the nations' cries ascend, And call responses from the cedars old, Nor seen high Lebanon's God-sent eagles bend Their flight on Tyre, emblems of wrath foretold; My head I have not laid upon the mounds Whence all of Tadmor but the name is gone, Nor have my lonely footsteps woke the sounds That sleep round Memnon's vacant throne. I have not heard the mournful Jordan pour Low murmurings from its abysmal caves, Weeping sublimer tears than those of yore, With which sad Jeremiah chilled its waves; I have not heard the soul within me sing In that resounding grot, where, 'mid the night, The Bard-King's trembling fingers felt the string Seized by the Hymn with hand of light. I have not traced the prints around that spot Where, 'neath the olive, Jesus weeping lay, Nor on the straggling roots the tears have sought Which eager angels could not kiss away; By night I have not in that garden watched, Where, while the sweat of blood was under- gone, The echo of our griefs and sins unmatched Resounded in one heart alone. To that dear dust I have not bowed my head, Which was by Christ's departing foot imprest, Nor kissed the stones in which his mother laid His tear-embalmed remains of earth to rest; Nor have I beat my bosom in the place, Where, conquering the future by his death. He stretched his arms all mankind to embrace, And blest them with his latest breath. POEMS. 187 For these things I depart on these bestow The span of worthless days yet left for me. What boots it where the winter winds lay low The barren trunk, the withered shadeless tree ? " Madman ! " the crowd exclaims, itself unwise ! All do not find their food in every road The pilgrim-poet's food in thinking lies: His heart lives on the works of God ! Adieu, my aged sire, and sisters dear ! My white and walnut- shaded home, adieu! Farewell, my steeds, now idling all the year ! My lonely hearth-couched dogs, farewell to m you! Each image grieves, and haunts me like the ghost Of bliss departed, that would stay me fain: Ah, may our re-uniting hour be crost By no like shades of doubt and pain ! And thou, my land, more vexed by surge and blast Than the frail bark which now my all conveys, Land, on whose fate the hopes of earth are cast, Adieu ! thy shores now fly my dimming gaze ! Oh, may a ray of heaven dispel the gloom Which wraps thy freedom, temples, throne, and thee, And all thy sacred borders re-illume, With light of immortality ! And thou, Marseilles, that at the gates of France Sittest as if to hail each coming guest, Whose port smiles o'er these seas, with hope-bright glance, And seems for winged barks an eagle nest; 188 POEMS. Where kindly hands yet feel the clasp of mine, Where yet my feet half cling in fond sojourn, Thine be my parting prayer, Marseilles, and thine My first salute on my return ! to n &i*lnn of the East, and dost thou ask a wreath of song from me ? Thou, nursed where desert-winds pour forth their music wild and free ! Flower of Aleppo's gardens! thou, upon whose opening bloom, The bulbul might have loved to chant and languish in perfume ! Who to the balsam-tree brings back the sweets that from it flow? Or would refix its beauteous fruits upon the'orange bough? Who seeks to lend new lustre to the oriental morn? Or would with added stars of gold night's glittering sky adorn? No, this is not a place for verse ! but, if thou lovest Well All that which casts o'er poesy its most enchanting spell, Look on the waters of this pool, and there thyself behold Compared with loveliness like thine, all verse is weak and cold ! I 'OK MS. 189 When, placed in the kiosk at night beside the lat- tice-bars, Through which creeps in the ocean-breeze, the light of moon and stars, Thou sittest on a mat to which Palmyra lent its gifts, And whence the Moka's bitter fumes arise in heated drifts; When to those half-closed lips of thine thy beauteous fingers raise Thy pipe of jasmine-wood, on which the golden frettings blaze, And, drinking in the rose's sweet perfume the while, thy mouth Makes murmurings in the water-cell, as of the breezy south; When the winged mists which hover and embrace thee round and round With odorous vapours, have their chain about thy senses wound, And visions, far-off dreams, of love, and days of youthful glee, Float round us in the fragrant air exhaled in mists from thee; When thou describ'st the Arab steed, the spurner of the sands, Subjected to the foaming bit beneath thy childlike hands Thy slanting glance so lustrous bright, meanwhile, as to outvie The soft yet burning brilliancy of his triumphant eye: 190 POEMS. When, tapering like the handle of the polished vase, thine arm Upon thy bended elbow props thy brow of many a charm, And when a chance reflection of the evening lamp displays Thy jewelled poniard's hilt and sheath, all bright with diamond rays Then is there nought in all the sounds that language can employ, Nought in the dreaming brow of those who know the poet's joy, Nought in the soft sighs of a soul from stain and blemish free, Nought half so fresh and redolent of poesy as thee! I have o'erpast the happy time, in which life's flower of bloom, Love, young love, opens up the heart, and fills it with perfume, And admiration in my soul, though touched unto the core, Has nought for beauty but a ray thaj carries warmth no more ! Alone in this unpassioned heart the harp is now adored: Yet how would I, in younger years, my verses forth For one of those most fragrant wreaths of light and cloudy air, Which now thy lip sends up to float, unheeded here and there ! POEMS. ]91 Or how should I have joyed to trace that most en- chanting mould, Of which a viewless hand now forms an outline dim and cold, As night's soft rays, caressing with their light that form of thine, Sketch on the wall its shadowy grace amid the sweet moonshine ! nf lir SSulhr irnit C PECTATOR, wearied out with life's great play, ^ Thou leav'st us in a rough and troublous way; Prophet or bard the nations have no more, To charm and head their march as heretofore; Kings find the trembling throne a seat unsure, Chiefs rule a day, kingdoms a month endure; Human opinion's strong, impetuous roll The fiery equinox that whelms the soul Permitteth none, not even in hope to stand Firm on the lofty summit of command: But sets the strong, by turns, upon the crown, Strikes them with giddiness, and hurls them down. In vain the world invokes a help and stay The potent time compels us 'neath its sway; A child may curb the sea when it is bland, But weak are all men when the time is grand. Lo ! tribunes, chiefs, kings, citizens each one God lays the hand on all, and chooseth none ! And the resistless fiery meteor, Power, Falls on our heads, to judge us, and devour. 192 POEMS. 'Tis done the word has o'er the deep been hurled, And Chaos broods above a second world; And for poor mankind, of the sceptre reft, No more in one, but all, is safely left. In the vast heavings of a new formed main The oscillations sky and ship sustain By the huge waves that o'er us break and gape We feel that man now rounds a dangerous cape, And passes through, with gloom and thunder by, The stormy Tropic of a New Humanity. plLEAR-mirrored fount ! when on thy verdant ledge, ^ The pensive Lilla comes her form to lay, And casts her bending image o'er thy edge, Like star of midnight in a tideless bay, A gentle shiver curls thy sleeping waves, No more thy bed of sand or reeds is seen, But joyful light thy liquid bosom paves, And heaven is sought but in thy glassy sheen. Thou'rt but a shade of lovely things the while, Of eyes than thine own border-flowers more blue, Of teeth of pearl, that 'tween two rose-lips smile, And globes, by pure sighs moved, of snowy hue; Hair twined with flowers, and bending with their freight, And corals, lu-i^ht ruing every native charm Bright pearls, which one might think to seize on straight, Like sands of gold, by plunging in the arm. ]es in thine eyes; lint (Jod, element ineil'aMy. grants still Another proof in h>\e. Near, and :igain essay! tremble, for it is thy final chance. POEMS. 395 Mark ! in the dimmest spot of these death-plains, Win-re night appears to thicken her mute shades, The Judgment-Angel now hath placed two Urns, "Which are the same to vision and to touch; But one of them encloses in its womb The fruit corruptless of the tree of life, Which man, through fatal curiosity, Plucked prematurely in the world's young days. The other urn conceals, in its deep gloom, The cause of man's temptation and his fall. Symbol of evil, there the darkling Snake Lies couched with all its folds orbicular; And, blackening with its venom its retreat, Darts death upon the hand that plunges there ! Jehovah, by my voice, before thy doom, Bids thee attempt this choice of dread import, And gives thee, to direct thy human eyes, Three Torches, with celestial light illumed. Go, then, with Faith, Reason, and Genius: Woe ! if these lights should be extinguished ! woe ! Choosing and plunging blindedly, thy hand Must then at hazard draw or life or death ! " All now is hushed. Harold, with terror chilled, Sees Faith descending to his side from heaven. She places in his hand her lamp, whose flame Is the soul's guide amid the mists of fate. Its dazzling brightness overpowers his eye; At his first steps beneath the blaze he stumbles; And, giving back to gloom his feeble lids, The heavenly torch is in the dust extinguished ! The lamp of Reason Harold now receives; Its weaker glow embraces lesser space, Yet it suffices to assure his steps. More firmly planted, slowly move his feet; But birds of night, of heavy flight and low, 196 POEMS. Shake the unstable spark at every step. In vain he shields it with his shading hand; The dusky crowds besiege it ceaselessly; And, finally, a bird with weighty wing Extinguishes his second torch of hope ! The third and last remains. Infinite grace Hath left the lamp of Genius burning still Though oft a light without enlightenment. Harold, in bearing it, fears even to breathe, And, veiling in his breast the sickly flame, Watches with dread, as one would watch his soul. Alas ! when near the goal, his eye, alarmed, Beholds its doubtful rays grow fainter slowly. It scarcely tints with white the urns of fate; He would re-animate it with his breath; He breathes, and it expires. " Unhappy one !" Exclaimed the voice "three lamps bestowed as guides Are now extinguished as thy journey ends. The urns alone can clear the awful doubt. In cither's bosom, veiled by darkness from thee, Make thy eternal choice, and choose by chance!" A bloody sweat, more chilly than the tomb, Falls in large drops from Harold's pallid front. Forward he steps, pauses, and vainly looks; Three times his hand advances, and three times He shifts from urn to urn, with fears o'envlielnied: Trembling, he fain would quit the spot of doom. Braving at length the dark decree of fate, His hand In- plunges, with averted c\ He opens it, by freenng horror cramped, To sound by touch the gloomy depths within, When, lo! the cold, mem-linn- snake lie feels, And falls, loud-shrieking " Harold, thou hast erred!" POEMS. 197 Tho echo of that cry Jchoshaphat Prolongs, until the sound dispels his Dream! He shudders, lifts aloft a long sad look A name is on his lips it is too late HE is NO MORE ! rorithtt at Ihlbk. MYSTERIOUS deserts! 'neath whose mounds are strewn The bones of cities, now by name unknown; Huge blocks, by ruin's torrent tumbled o'er; Vast bed of life, whose stream now flows no more; Ye temples, for whose marble bases, hills Were rent like trees beneath the woodmen's bills; Ye gulfs, through which whole river-floods might stray; Columns, 'mong which the eye can find no way; Pillar and arch, a long, dark, alleyed host, Where, as in clouds, the wandering moon is lost; Capitals, whose sites the eye would vainly tell; Great characters, imprinted on earth's shell To touch you, and your mysteries to test, A pilgrim comes from the far West ! The path, by which his bark the billows ranged, A hundred times had its horizon changed; He cast his life on the abysmal deeps, His feet are worn upon the mountain steeps; His tent hath felt the fiery eastern sun, His friends grew faint before the goal was won; 198 POEMS. And ev'n his dog, if ere he reach his land, Will recognise no more his voice or hand; And from him, on his travel, has been riven His eye's sole star, the child who gave his heaven Its all of light and immortality: Childless, without memorial, he must die ! And now upon these mighty wrecks he sits, And heareth but the mocking wind by fits: A load upon his brow and bosom rests Thought, heart, no longer there are guests ! n [The following piece is a translation from a poem by Lamartine, ad- dressed to his brother-in-law, M. Montherot, and composed at sea, during the poet's voyage to Palestine. It appeared in the work giving an account of that Pilgrimage.] TjVRIEND, more than friend, brother in heart and soul, Whose sad look haunts me still as on I roll; Across so many waves, flung far a-lee, Through floods of sky and air, I think of thee! I think of all the hours we- two have spent, Where asp and willow o'er the brook are lent Of our oft lingering steps, our converse sweet, In which thy verse with mine would often meet Thy verse of smiles and sunny Hashes born, Not from the lyre with tremulous ardour torn, But which thy careless hand, from day to day, Leaves to what wind of fancy sweeps thy way; Like to those liquid pearls, wept by the dawn, That steep in sparkling tints the waking lawn Which, undirt'uscd, a stream would constitute, But now sink noiseless on the passer's foot; Whose humble shower, raised by the sun, exhales At length in perfume on the drying gales ! New days, new cares; for every fruit its time. Long ere my judgment had attained its prime, While yet I sported round a mother's knees, A child whom toys could charm, or toys displease, I copied boys, my equals, in their play, I spoke their language, and I did as they. In early spring, when buds begin to sprout, And sap from bark of trees seems sweating out, I sought our village torrent's rumbling billow, To cut fresh branches from the bending willow; Then softening with my lips a twig, as yet Undried, I from it pulled the bark unsplit; I blew into the wood, and soon a sound, Plaintive and soft, filled all the air around; For artful rules this sound was all unmeet An empty noise, a murmur vague and sweet, Like to the voices of the wave and breeze, Which bear no meaning, though the ear they please; The prelude of a soul stirred in young years, Which chants before the days of song, weeps ere the time of tears ! Those times are past, and half my span is gone; And pain and care have raised my spirit's tone. These fragile reeds, fit toys for boyish days, Could ill relieve this load that on me weighs. It lieth not in mortal speech nor rhyme, In trump of war, nor yet in organ chime, 200 POEMS. To bear the outburst of my soul's full blast, Whose fire melts all its shock doth not o'ercast! To vent its breathings, it hath long ago Renounced the phrases of the world below: Their fragile symbols would be burst 'twixt word And word, lightning collisions would be stirred And youth, with shaking front, would wildly cry, "Let him speak softly, Lord! or else we die!" But thus the soul speaks to itself alone: In that unspoken tongue, that mighty tone, Which never hand of flesh on scroll defined, Doth spirit speak to spirit, mind to mind ! Losing of common tongues all exercise, On this the lonely soul for cheer relies. Ever within me doth it murmur on, Like to a noisy sea, that resteth none; Its heavy blows, that on my temples ring, Sound like the rustling of the tempest's wing Reverberate in me like a flood by night, Each wave of which roars loudly in its flight; Or like rebounding thunder on the hills, Which all the plain with echoed voices fills; Or brazen roarings of the wintry breeze, Falling like Lebanon's masses on the seas; Or like the mighty clash, when on a rock The wavc.s in mountains rise, or fall in smoke; Such are the tones, the voices, that may roll, In music fit, the burdrn of my soul! No more for me 11 i, vJierr the thought. As from a BOOndlDg lo\v {'nil trimly shot, And on two rlmimiLT v*ords made to reliound, Dances complacent at the >vhim of sound! My ear disdains tin's frigid trick of art; And it'tlie past time's memories toiu-li my heart; POEMS. 201 If, while the clear-skied East's mute wilds I view, My visual- rYr shall smiling turn t> you; It', thinking how my friends this morn will see, My soul with theirs would intermingled be; In other tones my heart to them shall speak, And in return their loved remembrance seek. By Prayer! that language, winged, strong, and clear, Whieh. in one sigh, embraces all held dear Shows to the heart, and brings in sight of God, A thousand loved ones, near and far abroad; Makes between all, through aids from virtue given, A viewless commerce in the gifts of heaven; A boundless language, reaching to the sky, The better heard that it ascends so high; Pure incense ! which an equal perfume leaves With him who lights the flame, and who receives ! Thus would my soul itself to thee unfold. All common speech to me seems weak and cold: And would'st thou know whence springs this scorn- ful mind, Follow my bark, that flies before the wind; Come to those scenes where worlds have passed away, And sands exult where empires had their day Where heroes, sages, gods, entombed remain Come, and three nights, three views, will all ex- plain ! I now have left the land, whose endless noise, Far, far at sea, still haunts one and annoys; That Europe! sinking, splitting, struggling all, Where every hour beholds some ruin fall; Where two great spirits, ever hot at war, Crush throne and fane, and laws and morals mar. 202 POEMS. Making, while levelling their parent soil, Room for God's spirit, veiled from them the while. My bark, urged onward by an unseen force, Has glittered through the foam upon her course; Twelve times the sun, like a recumbent god, Has turned th' horizon for his night abode, And has come bounding up in air again, Like fiery eagle from the crested main; Our mast and sails now sleep beneath our bow Our anchor bites the sand I am in Athens now ! It is the hour, when this so restless place Beneath night's finger mute for some brief space Woke once to deeds, by turns of shame and pride, Rolling its living floods like ocean's tide. Driven by each wind to some ambitious end, To faction some, and some to virtue bend; The forum Pericles, Themistocles the shore, Arms sought the Brave, the Sage the Porch's door, The Just to exile, and the Wise to death, The mob to crime, despite remorse's scathe ! A turbaned man now guards the Parthenon: The morn is come I walk, and ponder on. From high Cytheron's top the day comes down, And strikes of many a bright the naked crown; From flank to base, from plain to sea, the ray Passes, but ting-s nothing by tin- way; No cities in the distance, bright with fires; <;oke by morning's breath sent up in spires; No hamlets perehed upon the sloping lull; No towers the vale, the seas no vessels fill; In parsing oYr each lifeless height and plain, Tin- rays tall dead, and never rUe again. But one, the loftiest shot- from morning's bow, Hends from the gilded Parthenon on my brow, 203 Then, ^lam-ing sadly o'er the stones, time-scam-d. Where do/.rs o'er his pipe the Moslem guard, Turns down, as if to weep its ruined grace, And dies on Theseus' lofty temple-base? Two rays, disporting on two wrecks ! this pair Are all that shine and say, Athens is there ! Sqittg IS it the passing bell that strikes mine ear? And who are they that weep around me here? For whom these torch-lights ? this death-chant for whom? Doth now thy voice indeed upon me make The final call, O Death What! do I wake Upon the borders of the tomb ? ! precious sparkle of divinest flame, Immortal tenant of this mortal frame, Dispel thy terrors; freedom comes with Death. Shake off thy bonds, and take the upward road; Man only casts aside a weary load When he resigns his mortal breath ! Yes, Time hath ceased to measure out my hours. Bright messengers from the celestial powers, To what new mansions now conduct you me? Already do I swim on waves of light: The scenes in view dilate upon my sight, And from my feet earth seems to flee ! 204 POEMS. But, while my soul respondeth to her call, Do sighs and sobs upon my hearing fall? Brothers in exile here, weep ye my fate? Weep not ! already in the sacred bowl I have forgotten grief, and my rapt soul Enters upon her blissful state ! [The following little piece is from one of LamartSne's books of " Har- monies, Poetical and Religious."] Tl^HAT time thy heavenly voice preludes Unto the fair and silent night, Winged minstrel of my solitudes, Unknown to thee I trace its flight. Thou knowest not that one remains Beneath the trees hour after hour, Whose ear drinks in thy wondrous strains, Intoxicated by their power; Nor that the while a breath of air Escapes but from my lips with grief; And that my foot avoids with care The rustling of a single haf: Thou deemest not that one, whose art Is, like thine own, but known to day, Repeats and envies in his heart Thy forest-born nocturnal lay! 205 If but the star of night reclines Upon the hills thy song to hear, Amid the branches of the pines Thou crouchest from the ray in fear. Or if the rivulet, which chides The stone that in its way doth come, But speaks from 'neath its mossy sides, The sound affrights, and strikes thee dumb ! Thy voice, so touching and sublime, Is far too pure for this gross earth: Surely we well may deem the chime An instinct which with God has birth ! Thy warblings and thy murmurs sweet Into melodious union bring All' fair sounds that in nature meet, Or float from heaven on wandering wing. Thy voice, though thou may'st know it not, Is but the voice of the blue sky Of forest glade, and sounding grot, And vale where sleeping shadows lie; It blends the tones which it receives From prattlings of the summer rills, From trembling rustlings of the leaves, From echoes dying on the hills; From waters filtering drop by drop Down naked crag to basin cool, And sounding ever, without stop, While wrinkling all the rock-arched pool; 206 TOEMS. From the rich breeze-born plaints that flow From out the branchy night of trees; From whispering reeds, and waves that go To die upon the shores of seas; Of these sweet voices, which contain The instinct that instructeth thee. God made, O ! Nightingale, the strain Thou givest unto night and me! Ah ! these so soft nocturnal scenes, These pious mysteries of the eve, And these fair flowers, of which each leans Above its urn, and seems to grieve; These leaves on which the dew-tears lie, These freshest breathings of the trees All things, O ! Nature, loudly cry, " A voice must be for sweets like these ! " And that mysterious voice that sound, Which angels listen to with me That sigh of pious night is found In thee, melodious bird, in thee! r ixrttirit fiunu. OH ! Vale, with my lamenting filled, Streamlet, made troublous with my tears, Mountain and \\on.l. whose echoes thrilled With lays of mine in other years ! 207 Oh! zephyr, by her breath embalmed! Paths where my steps she led at will To glades by shady boughs becalmed. And whither habit guides ine still ! How changed is all ! Vainly mine eye, Gazing through chilling tears around, Asks whither all those charms could fly, That once so plenteous here were found? The earth is not less fair to view, And pure is still the arch of heaven: But, ah ! sweet Vale, to her, not you, My joys I owed my love was given 1 [On receiving the last Volume of her Poetry.] my native village clock, There is an instrument of sound, Which to my youthful hearing spoke, Like voice celestial, earthward bound. When, after absence sad and long, Back to my parent roof I came, From far I caught the airy song That hallowed metal wont to frame. I fondly deemed it to repeat Voices of joy from all our vale That of a sister, kind and sweet, And mother, moved my name to ha.il. 208 POEMS. But now what time I chajice to hear, Over the waves, its tinklings low, Each sounding stroke that meets my ear Seems only fraught with sighs and woe. And wherefore? In that lonely tower Unchanged the silvery metal stands; Still it salutes the morning hour, And rings the same hymn o'er the lands. Alas ! it is that, since my birth, The melancholy instrument For those most dear to me on earth Too oft a dirge to heaven hath sent. It breathes not now of youthful prayers, Nor rolls for me Te Deum's tones: The cold slabs vibrate with its airs, That veil my child's, my mother's bones. Thus, when thy voice, so long well known, Returned but yesterday to me, I hoped that from their cloudy throne Old memories would come back in glee. But, ah ! from the delightful tome "Where thy sweet chants were open laid, Something of bitter still would come, Flowing from every verse I read. The genius ever is the same, The same the soul our source of power; But though it still can music frame, Beneath thy hand now tour-drops shower ! POEMS. 209 Lorn Wife ! unhappy Mother ! none Can wholly hide misfortune's smarts: Verse speaks the soul in truest tone, And sad words flow from breaking hearts. With the bard's fate agrees the song. All vainly wouldst thou smile ! I see A tear steal every chord along, And shiverings o'er thy fingers flee. Farewell the paths of harmony, Which we so long together trod ! The tears of Genius to dry What boots the lyre? It needs a God ! T)OKN" with the springtime, with the rose to die; 1 ' Through the pure air on zephyr's wing to fly; Couched on the bosom of the half-shut flowers, In perfumed light to bask away the hours; Breath-like, on wind-swept pinion, from this home To mount, infantine, to the eternal 1 dome; Such a charmed doom to butterflies is given. Like to Desire are they, which, restless still, And still unpleased, though rifling sweets at will, Turns at the last to seek for bliss in heaven ! 210 POEMS. [It is difficult to conceive of two Poets more unakin to each other, as respects the character of their productions, than Alphonse de Lamartine and PIERRE JEAN DE BERANGER. Of the style of the first, some idea may be formed from the immediately preceding pieces, all of which, the reader will un- derstand, are from his pen, or, at least, have been rendered from the originals by him as closely as the different idioms of the French and English tongues permitted. It will be seen, even from these scanty specimens, that the diction of La- martine is remarkably graceful, flowing, and copious, and that his thoughts and images are likewise luxuriant exceedingly, as well as often truly and indeed highly poetical. Altogether, he is a writer of Sentiment, though, in the verses on the death of his daughter Julia, he rises into pure and fervent Passion, as he sometimes also does on other occasions where his feel- ings are deeply moved. There is real tenderness and warmth of heart, however, in even his merest sentimentality ; and in that particular he resembles Rousseau, de Stael, and Cha- teaubriand, who were the first to introduce something like heart into the cold, glittering, and epigrammatic head-work of the earlier poets and imaginative writers of France. La- martine has been called a French Byron; and the title is not inapplicable, if it be coupled with the additional epithet of Religious. The spirit of the Gallic bard is habitually imd in- tensely devotional so much so, as to tinge, all his effusions with a shade of pensiveness; and in this respect ho is so Jar a novelty in the light literature of his country. His chief de- fect is a tendency to diffuseness and verbosity. Like our own Shelley, nevertheless, lie frequently redeems even this serious fault by the singular beauty of his verbal amplifications. Pierre Jean de I'ei-aii^er, a^ain, resembles niueh more the older and standard poets of France. Lamartiue has coin- posed lengthened pieces, but Heranger is a lyrist wholly, and, in truth, may be held a writer simply of Songs. His distin- guished contemporary was by birth an aristocrat; Beraiigor sj. rung from the lowest classes of the people, or, as he him- self says, " the mob, tin- very mob." For the people, accord- ingly, 'he has sung all his days, though in strains the n I . his lea-ling model and pro- totype, scarcely displays greater polish and elaboration oi style; ain'l the modern (Jaul, moreover, imitates, if he fails to equal, tin- famous old Roman in terseness of thought and condensed force of expression. Beranger himself has placed it on re. cord, that he at times has expended a week in evolving and finishing to his mind one brief stanza of his lyrics. Thus t';ir not unlike to Horace, he resembles Moore also in sparkling gaiety, and Burns occasionally in warmth and tendcrne.-s of feeling. It is saying a great deal to admit Beranger to possess so far the combined qualities of these three incompa- rable lyrists, though with none of them singly can he be ranked as a poet. His faults are those of the old French epigram- matic school mainly; nor is he altogether free from its licen- tiousness. Such as he is, he differs completely, and in almost all respects, from Lamartine. The following ver.--ioi;s might alone demonstrate this fact. It may not be out of place to add, that both poets are yet alive, and that one of them has figured actively in public life during the later French commotions. Beranger, though offered a seat among the Parisian Deputies, conceived himself too old to commence a new career, and spends his days in retirement. Both bards have also become Annalists recently. Beranger has no small amount of per- sonal experiences to record, having been twice fined and im- prisoned by the Bourbons for his Napoleonic predilections. Several of the pieces that follow allude to his political suffer- ings and likings.] * fm. [Written while in confinement at La Force.] T) IGHT sweet society the captive owes -*-*' To his low fire, when nights are cold and long ! By me a sprite now sits, and toasts his toes, And chats, or rhymes, or hums some fine old song. ^ He in the glowing embers makes me see Forests and seas a universe at will, And with the smoke away my sorrows flee: kindly sprite ! amuse and cheer me still. 212 POEMS. Restoring youth, he makes me dream smile weep, Or lulls my age with memories of the past. Lo ! at his touch, across a stormy deep, I see a ship careering free and fast. Three masts she has On ! on ! and soon her crew In lovelier climes will drink of spring their fill; I only cannot bid the shore adieu ! kindly sprite ! amuse and cheer me still. What see I now? an eagle soaring high, Scanning the height of the imperial sun ? 'Tis a balloon: see how her streamers fly! And now the eye hath boat and boatman won. Ah, if his daring breast know pity soft, For those chained here it now must keenly thrill : How pure and free the air he breathes aloft ! O kindly sprite ! cheer and amuse me still. A Swiss canton, lo ! now the embers form, With glaciers, torrents, valleys, lakes, and flocks. Why fled I not when I foresaw the storm, And Freedom showed this home amid the rocks ? I would pass o'er these heights to where our flag Still waves, methinks, as on a giant hill: Away from France my feet I ne'er could drag O kindly sprite ! amuse and cheer me still A new mirage within my desert show ! Come, sprite, and roam we o'er these we slopes. In vain there emnes ;i whisper, soft and low, " Be wise and bend the knee your chain straight drops." Thou who, despite the watchful turnkey hand, To make me VOUIILT at fifty hast the skill, Come, strike the lire a^ain with magic wand! O kindly sprite! eheer and amuse me still. POEMS. 213 fnug nf tjj? (Craitrk tn Ijis Itnir. [A piece full of Gallic hate to the Russ inyaders of 1814.] /""10ME, friend of the Cossack ! bright courser, come v forth, And bound to the sound of the trump of the North. For pillage still ready, and fearless of scathe, Spring under me, steed, and lend pinions to death ! No gold there may be on thy saddle or bit, But patience ! such prizes shall come to thee yet; Thou faithful one, neigh, then, in haughtiest tones, And prance with thy hoofs upon nations and thrones ! Peace, flying, to thee hath abandoned the day; The bulwarks of Europe are rent and away ! Come, bear me to treasures of wealth ! and, for thee, In the home of the arts shall thy stable soon be ! Come, drink of the rebel-waved Seine, then, once more, Where the blood from thy hoofs has been twice laved before. Thou faithful one, neigh in thy haughtiest tones, And prance with thy hoofs upon nations and thrones ! Priests, nobles, and princes upon us have cried, When pressed by the poor ones they crushed in their pride. " Come, save us," they say, " and our lords ye shall reign- Slaves to you, we at home still may tyrants remain." My lance I have lifted, and low it shall bring The cross of the priest and the crown of the king I 214 POEMS. Thou faithful one, neigh in thy haughtiest tones, And prance with thy hoofs upon nations and thrones ! I saw a vast Phantom aloft in the sky, And it gazed on our host with a flame-kindled eye. " My reign is renewed ! " cried the shadowy form, And a huge sword it shook o'er the west, like a storm. It was Attila's spirit, I knew it at once; And the voice I obey, as should child of the Huns. Thou faithful one, neigh, then, in haughtiest tones, And prance with thy hoofs upon nations and thrones ! The fame on which Europe so proudly looks back Her knowledge, so weak in the hour of attack All, all in that dust shall be swallowed and swamped, Which rises wherever thy hoof may have tramped. On, on in thy course, then ! destroy without pause Their palaces, temples, tombs, manners, and laws ! Neigh, faithful one, neigh in thy haughtiest tones, And prance with thy hoofs upon nations and thrones ! [The following song, which, in its English dress, has little pretension to any merit besides that of being a fair translation, will give some idea of the light, arch, and simple character of Beranger's earlier and less ambi- tious effusions. A blind mother sits in a cottage beside her pretty daughter, and cautions her against love, while all the time an amatory scene is go- ing on between the girl and the very lover whom the old dame dreads.] DAUGHTER, while you turn your wheel, *J Listen to the words I say; Colin lias contrived to steal Your unthinking heart away: POEMS. 215 Of his fawning voice bew;nv. You are all the blind one's care, And I mark your sighs whene'er Our young neighbour's name is heard; Col in's tongue is false, though winning Hist ! the window is unbarred ! Ah, Lisette, you are not spinning ! The room is close and warm, you say, But, my daughter, do not peep Through the casement night and day Colin there his watch doth keep. Think not mine a grumbling tongue. Ah ! ere at my breast you hung, I, like you, was fair and young, And I know how apt is love To lead the youthful heart to sinning Hist ! the door I heard it move ! Ah, Lisette, you are not spinning ! It is a gust of wind, you say, That hath made the hinges grate; And my poor old growling Tray, Must you break for that his pate? Ah, my child, put faith in me, Age permits me to foresee Colin soon will faithless be, And your love to an abyss Of grief will be the sad beginning Bless me! sure I heard a kiss? Ah, Lisette, you are not spinning ! Twas your little bird, you say, Gave that tender kiss just now; Make him cease his trifling, pray, He will rue it else, I vow. 216 POEMS. Love, my girl, oft bringeth pain, Shame and sorrow in his train, While the false successful swain Scorns the heart he hath beguiled From true virtue's paths to sinning Hist ! I hear you moving, child; Ah, Lisette, you are not spinning ! You wish to take the air, you say; Think you, daughter, I believe you? Bid young Colin go his way, Or at once as bride receive you ! Let him go to church, and there Show his purpose to be fair; But, till then, beside my chair You must work, my girl, nor heed All his vows so fond and winning: m Tangled is love's web indeed Lisette, my daughter, mind your spinning ! [Written in 1815, after the fall of Napoleon, when his disbanded veterans could only meet and grumble in secret.] T COME from where, around the bowl, 1 My mates in glory I have seen; The wine and talk have wanned my soul, And waked the thoughts of what has been. One flag I keep, but veiled from day, Memorial of our valour's dues: When shall I shako tho dust away, That now obscures its noble hues? POEMS. 217 Beneath the pallet where I lie, War-spent and poor, is now concealed That flag, which, sure of victory, Flew twenty years from field to field. Still decked with flowers and leaves of bay, To flame o'er Europe did it use: When shall I shake the dust away, That now obscures its noble hues? This banner well repaid to France Whatever flow of blood it cost; Her children toyed with Freedom's lance, When they of Freedom's love could boast. Through it may Glory yet display To kings her equalising views: When shall I shake the dust away, That now obscures its noble hues? Its eagle, wearied with the shock Of far-won fields, yet lieth low: Kejoin to it the Gallic cock, Which well to launch the bolt doth know. And we shall mark how, free and gay, Her blessing France to it renews: When shall I shake the dust away, That now obscures its noble hues? Tired of its course by conquest's side, The laws shall it support restore; The soldier shall in peace abide A citizen upon the Loire. This flag is now our only stay; Unfurl it to the nations' views: When shall I shake the dust away, That now obscures its noble hues? 218 POEMS. Here rests it now upon my arm One instant let me dare to gaze; Come, my old flag ! my hope, my charm ! To dry my tears must be thy praise. And Heaven will hear the warrior pray, When the fond tear his cheek bedews: When shall I shake the dust away, That now obscures its noble hues'? TOYOUS spirits, whom Bacchus has here brought together, Let an old man the welcome of fellowship crave; Your light-hearted chants have attracted me hither, For I, too, though old, love to warble a stave. Of the days that are gone, I can tell you the news With the minstrels of yore I have emptied a can; Sons of glory and wine, friends of love and the muse, ! smile on the songs of a hearty old man ! Do you hail me so warmly? and pledge to my name, In bumpers of wine such as monarchs might kiss? Ha! let age and its grievances go whence they came 'Tis not I that would damp such a meeting as this! On this moment may Pleasure shed odours profuse, And inhale them, my boys, for this life's but a span : Sons of glory and wine, friends of love and the muse, O ! smile on the songs of a hearty old man ! 219 Like you, from sweet lips once enchantment I drew, As your grand-dames may tell, whom I wor- shipped of yore; I had mistresses, mansions, and friendships, like you; My mistresses, mansions, and friends, are no more ! Faithful memory sometimes the picture renews, And a sigh breaks apart as the vision I scan: Sons of glory and wine, friends of love and the muse, O ! smile on the songs of a hearty old man ! Though tempest-tost oft in the broils of our land, Her sweet sky to me has been dear amid all, And the cup of good wine which still comes to my hand, Neither malice nor pride ever mingled with gall ! Nor the vintage to hail can I even refuse On slopes w T here for me once the ruddy juice ran: Sons of glory and wine, friends of love and the muse, ! smile on the songs of a hearty old man ! Though the comrade and friend of our warriors of old, Not now would I stir you their steps to pursue; All our proud days of conquest more cheaply I hold, Than one bright day of festival triumphs with you. Yes! the palms on your temples I rather would choose, Than any e'er won since grim war first began: Sons of glory and wine, friends of love and the muse, ! smile on the songs of a hearty old man ! Drink a cup yet, my friends, to the last of my loves ! How bright, through your virtues, the future shall bloom ! O'er the earth, to restore its fresh youth, freedom moves, And happy days yet shall shed light on my tomb ! 220 POEMS. Hopes of France's fair springtime, receive my adieus! To behold you I've lingered as long as I can : Sons of glory and wine, friends of love and the muse, 0! smile on the songs of a hearty old man! (tountj nf Sanift. [David, the painter, par excellence, of the Empire the friend, and wor- shipper, almost, of Napoleon was forced, on the Restoration of the Bourbons, to retire into exile. At his decease, his relatives attempted to bring his remains to Paris, as he had earnestly desired. They were stopped on the French frontier, however, by a cruel order of the po\ that were. ".On this hint " Beranger here speaks.] "\TOU cannot pass!" was the stern reply of tl ' frontier sentinelle, To those who bore the painter's dust to the earth loved so well. "0 soldier!" cried the mourners then, in sad im- ploring tones, " Must stern proscription lay its ban ev'n on senseless bones'? And can his native soil refuse a narrow resting-] >lac< To him whose genius is the while her glory and h< grace?" " You pass not by!" was still the cry of the frontier sentinelle. "O soldier ! ere the mists of deatli athwart his vision fell, Up to his latest sigh, he turned his yearning gaze on France, And all the exile's long fond love was centred in the glance. POEMS. 221 O! give a little grave to him, through whose im- mortal hand All future times may see and know the grandeur of our land ! " " You cannot pass ! " in softened tones now cried the sentinelle. "0 soldier! Freedom's purest glow alone in him could dwell, Whose pencil woke to life the brave, self-martyred in the pass Of old Thermopylae, with great and good Leonidas; And unto him his country owed the splendours of the time, That saw her arts and arms revive to glorious, golden prime." "You cannot pass! 'tis my duty, alas!" cried the saddened sentinelle. " Ah, soldier ! he whose hand no more shall charm us with its spell HE knew the gallant warrior's meed, for he gloried to portray The peerless hero whose renown can never pass away: Like Jove th' imperial conqueror seemed to David's eye the while Alas! that laurelled head lies low, on a far-off rocky isle!" "You cannot pass!" was still the cry of the fron- tier sentinelle, Though his faltering tones betrayed the birth of thoughts too strong to quell. 222 POEMS. " The victor of a hundred fights was bowed before his foes, And far from home his painter's life attained il cheerless close; O! let not France extend to death the ban that blasted life, But give her son the last, sad home, where ends earthly strife." "You cannot pass! alas, alas!" cried the weepii sentinelle. " 'Tis well," the mourners sadly say, as they lift tl bier, " 'tis well ! Ketrace we now our steps to some more kindly stranger land, And leave this cruel mother earth, made beauteous by his hand. For Him who raised the arts of France till Eomt stars grew dim, Come, let us seek some far-off shore, and be< grave for him ! " Itnrs. THOU sayest, shepherd, that a star, Which shims aloft, rules each one's days. "Yes, yes, my son; but such afar Are veiled by darkness from our gaze.' But, shepherd, men declare that thou Canst read the secrets of the spheres; What is the star we see just now, Which shoots, and shoots, and disappears ? .iTtal is 110 more, my child; His was tlu 1 star you saw deeline. With friends who sat around iiud smiled, !!< laughed, and sang, and quailed his wine. He sank to sleep, Iia]>]y so far That, amid joy, his call he hears." Lo, shepherd, vet another star, Which shoots, and shoots, and disappears. " How pure and bright that light we view! It bears a beauteous object's fate A daughter good, a lover true, And soon to wed a tender mate. The nuptial garland binds her brow, And Hymen to the altar steers." Behold another star just now, Which shoots, and shoots, and disappears. " My son, that quick-descending light A high-born infant represents, Whose cradle, empty now, shone bright With gold and purple ornaments. Too oft with poison flatterers mar Such whom for greatness fortune rears." Lo, shepherd, yet another star Which shoots, and shoots, and disappears. " How baleful was that light, my son ! On a king's favourite it rose, Who deemed a statesman's laurels won, When he but mocked a people's woes. Those to this idol wont to bow Now to.* aside his bust with jeers." Ik-hold another star even now, Which shoots, and shoots, and disappears. POEMS. " A rich man, on whom many leaned, Dies, and his loss must they bemoan; From others' stores Want only gleaned It Harvested with him now gone. Sure of the rest it did allow, His roof this night the poor man nears." Lo, yet another star, just now, Which shoots, and shoots, and disappears. " It ruled a mighty monarch's fate. Go, child, guard thou thy innocence; And on thy star may there await No idle pomp or loud pretence. If thou shouldst love vain glare alone, At last the world will say with sneers Of thee * His star was merely one That shoots, and shoots, and disappears.' t ling nf [Napoleon, though his military glories dazzled Beranger, escaped not wholly the poet's satire. The contrast between the magnificence and vast expenditure of the Empire, and the contented poverty of the Kingof Yvetot, excited a general smile, as the poet intended. Yvetot was a small seigniory in Normandy, which Clotaire I. of France actually erected into an inde- pendent kingdom. The proof is, that the seigniory paid no taxes, save i capitulation tax, up to the Revolution.] TIS a mighty -while ago, since there lived Yvet.'.t. A kini,' but little spoken of in story, 0! Who went betimes to bed, and was slow to raise hi* head, Nor lost a wink of sleep for lack of glory, ! POEMS, A nightcap which dame Kate made to fit upon his pate, \ r as all tl Was all the crown, they say, of this wondrous po- tentate! Ola! Ola! dear! Odear! What a funny little king was here ! Odear! Beneath his palace-thatch, he contentedly would snatch The bit and sup provided for him daily, ! And, mounted on an ass, through his kingdom he would pass, And visit all the borders of it gaily, ! Frank, fearless, and elate 0! the dog was guard of state, That trudged by the side of this wondrous potentate. Ola!&c. No costly tastes had he, though his friends must all agree That his thirst was of the strongest for the nappy, 0! But, unless kings condescend to common wants to bend, How can they live to make the nations happy, ? Yet from every butt to bate a pot by way of rate, Was all the excising of this wondrous potentate. Ola! . The table once removed, adieu each By few, indeed, the feast could be extolled. Go quickly, timid souls, and be confessed! Close we the count; the world is very old, Old enough, and all too old. POEMS. 233 Yes, them poor globe, through ether wandering, Confound at length once more thy nights Jiiul tluys ; And, like a schoolboy's kite with broken string, Tumble and turn, and tumbling turn always. Go bounding through the pathless airy plain, And on the sun be to thy ruin rolled; If you crush him, what hosts of suns remain ! Shut we the book; the world is very old, Old enough, and all too old. Would we see more of mean ambition still ? Of fools with pompous titles furbished out, Of war and rapine, of abuse and ill, Of lacquey-kings, and mobs a lacquey rout? Are we not tired of each small plaster-god Sick with but hoping bright days to behold? Enough done for a sphere like our abode ! Sum we the roll; the world is very old, Old enough, and all too old. Young people cry to me, " All things progress; At each slight step our chains are worn away; Gas gives us light, enlightenment the press, And steam smooths ocean for us day by day. Wait still, good man, for twenty years or so; A heavenly ray shall warm the egg yet cold." I have expected thirty years that show. Finish we now; the world is very old, Old enough, and all too old. Far otherwise I spoke, I frankly own, When my breast glowed with youthful joy and love. From the bright orbit God with light hath sown, O earth ! (said I) be thou not known to move ! 234 POEMS. But age creeps on, and beauty scorns my vow; My voice in song no more is glad and bold. Come, then, thou cometary terror, now! End we the tale; the world is very old, Old enough, and all too old. n ht it h. [By the last stanza, this piece is made bitterly congruous with the preceding.] T AM inspired, my dearest friends ! * The promised future to us tends, And to my gaze itself unbends So let it be. Our bards shall flatterers be no more; The rich shall parasites abhor; And courtiers fawn not as of yore So let it be. No usurers, no gamblers then; No great lords made of little men; And no clerks rude with tongue or pen So let it be. Friendship, our life's most sweet resource, Shall live no more in cold discourse, Nor shall a chance its links divorce So let it be. From gaudy dress shall woman fly; The spouse shall on his mate rely; Nor, absent, dread a rended tie let it be. POEMS. 235 Our writings shall henceforth be lit With more true genius, less small wit; And gibberish from our tomes shall flit So let it be. Of pride shall authors have some sense, And actors less impertinence; And critics shall avoid offence So let it be. At great men's foibles one shall laugh, Lampoon their slaves, or paragraph, Yet dread not tip of bailiff's staff So let it be. In France shall taste her sway regain, Justice resume her general reign, Nor truth in exile shall remain So let it be. My friends, then thank we heavenly grace, That thus puts each thing in its place. (Ten centuries hence shall wear this face !) So let it be ! {JB aBrntott tHnlin. my poor dog, and eat thy fill; Eat thou, in spite of my despair. One festive cake I here have still; Black bread must be our morrow's fare. 236 POEMS. Victors by guile, thus yesterday Invading strangers to me spoke " Strike up a dance ! " I would not play, And one of them my violin broke. It was the village orchestra! No sports henceforth, no joyous strain! Who now to dance in shade will play? Who will awake the loves again? When morn arose in smiling pride, My violin's strings, so briskly prest, Were wont to tell to youthful bride The coming of the spousal guest. Though curates, holy men, stood by, Its music made our dances please; The mirth, that from its strings would fly, Might to king's brow have given ease. When, in our glory's day, it rung To notes that glory had inspired, Ne'er dreamt I it could be unstrung By stranger hands, with vengeance fired ! Come, my poor dog, and eat thy fill; Eat thou, in spite of my despair. One festive cake I here have still; Black bread must be our morrow's fare. Beneath the elm, or in the barn, Now will the holiday seom long! Can vintage- tirM or harrest-corn Be blessed without an opening song? 237 My violin cheered the toilsome hours It charmed away the poor man's pains; Taxes, and storms, and great men's powers. Through it, fell harmless on our plains. Feelings of hate it set to sleep, And bade the tear-drop cease to flow; Ah, ne'er did regal sceptre keep So sweet a sway as my poor bow ! But these our foes must fly the land ! And they have fired me for the fray; A musket now shall in my hand Replace what they have dashed away. And should I perish, then, perchance, Some kindly friend will one day cry " He willed not that a foe should dance Above our graves in mockery!" Come, my poor dog, and eat thy fill; Eat thou, in spite of my despair. One festive cake I here have still; Black bread must be our morrow's fare. lust nf tjj* [m nf OTRAYING on.foot at night's dark hour, ^ I felt the tempest blow, And, reaching Montlhery's old tower, I sheltered me below. 238 POEMS. I sang when sudden laughter froze My senses with dismay; And loudly then a cry uprose " Our reign hath passed away!" Wildfires ran glancing through the shade, And then the former voice, With cries of elves and goblins, made A fearful mingled noise. A mystic carnival began, Stirred by a trumpet's bray; And still through all the one sound ran "Our reign hath passed away." "No more of fetes!" the same voice cries. " Ye spirits, quit your haunts; Cold Reason, with her victories, Our dungeon-troops displants. Old oracles lie on the shelf, Our sleights have had their day; Man now works miracles himself: Our reign hath passed away. " We gave to Greece the gods she sung, To please the senses framed; On flowers and incense, ever young, They lived, the many-named. The blood of man for us hath flowed In Gaul's barbaric day: Alas ! with even the village crowd, Our reign hath passed away. " When paladins and troubadours Their gallant trophies gained, The Loves, with saints and kingly powers, At fairy feet lay chained. POEMS. 239 The angry heavens by magic fell Themselves beneath our sway. Earth laughs when men of sorcerers tell: Our reign hath passed away. " Eeason doth spirits exorcise; Fly we beyond recall!" The voice was silent. surprise ! I thought the tower would fall ! All now from their long-loved retreat Have fled in swift array, And voices from afar repeat " Our reign hath passed away." \Tljr SI inn hiring nf tjjr [This lyric, so openly and intensely Napoleonic, was written many years previously to the fall of Louis Philippe, and even before Louis Bonaparte, the " bright young chief" therein alluded to, of course, had made his at- tempts at Strasbourg and Boulogne. Though these proved miserable fail- ures, the Poet had judged rightly of the chances of the future, after all, since the nephew of the Emperor is now the head, by election, of the French Republic.] HP HEY said to us that peace was one with hope, ' And bade us sleep and dream of good to be. "We slumbered, and in France we gave them scope, And charged them with the past's great memory. Awake we now, and lay their idol low ! No more vile perjuries no covenants vain! Rouse we, beneath Arcola's flag to go: The vengeful eagle soars in air again ! Youths ! on a day a day of senseless glee The temple of our laws received a guest Who vowed to let the much-moved people see A CITIZEN in kingly purple drest. 240 POEMS. From these brave words what fruits were seen to flow? That man now wears the stranger's shameful chain ! Arcola's glorious banner to them show: Let the old eagle tower in air again ! Let us awake, and our victorious chants With joy the Emperor's mighty shade shall thrill; We shall replace our name 'mong history's vaunts, With swelling shouts of " France" and " Honour" still! Our martyrs in the Capitol shall lie; And the bright sun, when smiling on the fane, Shall see Arcola's flag above them fly: The vengeful eagle mounts aloft again ! From free Helvetia's mountains to our side. Comes the bright chief for whom we daily pray; Of that vast intellect a nation's pride His young brow gives us a reflected ray. This living symbol of our every right, And of the days of France's glorious reign, Beneath Arcola's flag shall bless our sight: The vengeful eagle soars in air again ! Hark to the drum ! and hark the cannon's sound ! Soldiers and citizens, let all arise ! In us a great example must be found Heaven calls us to this final enterprise ! Freedom, with coronal of triple glow, To shield and shade our happy bands shall deign; March we Arcola's glorious flag below: Let the old eagle soar aloft again ! POEMS. 241 nf th will speak of all his glory 5 Round the fire for many a day; Lowly hearths will hear his story, When all other themes decay. Villagers at eve will cry To some dame with temples grey, " With the tale of times gone by, Grandame, while an hour away. Though he toiled us sore," they'll say, " Yet his name we still revere; His fame no time can dim: Of him, good mother, let us hear Oh speak to us of him!" " Through this village, children, know, King-attended, did he pass; Ah, how long it is ago ! Newly-wedded then I was. Where to look on him I sat, Up the hill he made his way, Dressed in triple-cornered hat, And with riding suit of grey. Much abashed I felt that day, But he cried, ' Good morn, my dear;' ' Good morn, my dear,' he cried." " Then he spoke, grandame, when near ? He spoke when by your side?" " In another twelvemonth's date, Then I saw him once again 242 POEMS. Walk to Notre-Dame in state, Followed by his courtly train. Pleasure beamed in every eye, All admired the great display; ' Glorious time !' was then the cry, ' Heaven favours him alway ! ' Ah, how sweet his smile that day ! Heaven willed that he a sire became One son rejoiced his view!" " Oh what a day for you, grandame',1 How bright a day for you!" " When the land of France anon Fell a prey to stranger hordes, Braving every foe alone, Strove he to unloose our cords. Scarce a day it seems to me, Since a knock came to my door; Opening it good Heavens ! 'twas he ! With an escort small and poor. Where I sit, he sat before; Oh, this war!' did he exclaim; ' Oh, what a war of care !'" "Was he seated there, grandame? Oh, was he seated there?" " Hunger pressed him sore, and I Had to give but bread and beer. Then his dress he tried to dry, And awhile he slumbered here. Much I wt-jit; but, when awsike, He fxclaiiiK-d, ' Be hopeful still! Paris soon shall see me take Vengeance fit for France's ill!' I have kept, and ever will, POEMS. 243 Like gem of price, the glass the same From which he drank that night." " Have you still the glass, grandame ? Oh give it to our sight ! " " See it here. But foemen found Strength to lay the hero low; He whose brows a pope had crowned, Sleeps afar where sea-waves flow. Long we disbelieved his loss, Crying, ' He will re-appear ! Soon the ocean he will cross, And our foes will find their peer!' When the truth became too clear, Sore, indeed, was my distress, As heavy as the ill !" " But, grandame, kind Heaven will bless Will cheer and bless you still!" risnntr nf ISur. " O EE, the shepherd's star is shining ! ^ Mary, quit thy long day's toil." " Mother, one we love lies pining, Captive on a foreign soil. Seized at sea, far, far away, He yielded but the last, they say." Spin, poor Mary, toil and spin, For the captive one afar: Spin, poor Mary, toil and spin, For the prisoner of war ! 244 POEMS. " At your call, I light my lamp. But, my child, why yet in tears ! " " Mother, he in dungeon damp Wastes the sport of foemen's jeers. Adrian loved me from a boy; His presence filled our home with joy." Spin, E faitliful still, thou poor dear coat of mine ! ** We, step for step, are both becoming old. Ten years these hands have brushed that nap of thine, And Socrates did never more, I hold. When to fresh tear and wear the time to be Shall force thy sore-thinned texture to submit, Oppose it with philosophy like me: Mine ancient friend, we must not sunder yet. Full well I mind, for I forget not much, The day that saw me first in thee attired. My birthday 'twas; and, as a crowning touch Unto my pride, my friends thy cut admired. Thy seediness, which does me no disgrace, Has never caused these kindly friends to flit. Each at my fete yet shows a gladsome face: Mine ancient friend, we must not sunder yet. A goodly darn I on thy skirts espy, And thereby hangs a sweet remembrance still. Feigning one eve from fond Lisette to fly, She held by thee to baulk my seeming will. The tug was followed by a grievous rent, And then her side of course I could not quit; Two days Lisette on that vast darning spent: Mine ancient friend, we must not sunder yet. Have e'er I made thee reek with musky steams, Such as your self- admiring fools exhale? Have I exposed thee, courting great men's beams, To levee mock or antechamber rail ? 246 POEMS. A strife for ribbons all the land of France, From side to side, well nigh asunder split; From thy lapelle do wild flowers only glance: Mine ancient friend, we must not sunder yet. Fear no renewal of those courses vain, Those madcap sports which once employed our hours Hours of commingled joyfulness and pain, Of sunshine chequered here and there with showers. I rather ought, methinks, thy faded cloth From every future service to acquit; But wait awhile one end will serve us both: Mine ancient friend, we must not sunder yet. A H, husband, I must break thy rest ! ^*- A harsh, rude agent of the crown Is now parading through our town; Alas ! the taxes are his quest. Husband, bestir thee ! sleep no more; The king's tax-gatherer's at the door. " Lo ! now the day is broad awake; Thou wert not wont to sleep so late. Our neighbour's goods were seized for rate, Before the morn began to break. Husband, bestir thee ! sleep no more; The king's tax-gatherer's at the door. 247 " And we have nought ! He's at the gate Hark how the curs do bark and threat ! Ask a month's time to pay the debt; Ah ! if the king would only wait ! Husband, bestir thee! sleep no more; The king's tax-gatherer's at the door. " This tax falls sore on us, whose aid With old grandfather in his need, And six young helpless things to feed Hangs on my distaff and thy spade. Husband, bestir thee ! sleep no more; The king's tax-gatherer's at the door. " Small are our gains, our labours hard. When shall we have a pig for cheer? All decent sustenance is so dear; And even from salt are we debarred. Husband, bestir thee ! sleep no more; The king's tax-gatherer's at the door. " What strength a little wine would bring To thee ! But, ah, it sells so high \ Yet, to procure a small supply, Here, dear one, is my marriage-ring. Husband, bestir thee ! sleep no more; The king's tax-gatherer's at the door. " Thou dreamest, haply, that thy saint Doth bring thee riches and repose; The rich man nought of taxes knows They cannot make him sick or faint. Husband, bestir thee ! sleep no more; The king's tax-gatherer's at the door. 248 POEMS. " Husband, he's here ! Oh, husband, speak ! Why art them mute? How pale thou art ! And yesterday a pain at heart Brought plaints from thee, who art so meek ! Husband, oh, wake thee! sleep no more; The king's tax-gatherer's at the door." She calls in vain. His soul hath fled ! Death to the labour-wearied seems A pillow meet for pleasant dreams. For the lone wife let prayers be said. Her husband will awake no more, Whoever seeks his humble door. jln J&m nf nPHOU sweet one, so adored by me, J Whose voice so oft complains, That in my love a share with thee My country still obtains; If politics displease thine ear, Though I our wrongs deplore, Resume thy wonted smile, my dear, I'll speak of them no more. I well remember by thy side, While grieving rival hearts, How used I to describe with pride Our glory-fostered arts. On Franee, exulted then in sphere, Their tributes fell in store; Resume thy wonted smile, my dear, I'll speak of them no more. 240 I, who am rallied oft as weak, Would cease love-strifes with thee, And hvs. Since every wish A dele dutli crown? happiness true love inspires, Thau grandeur, riches, or renown. POEMS. 275 Then, let me on that bliss rely, Which Fate can cause not to decline; Nor wealth, nor fame, nor rank have I, But boundless, boundless love is mine ! A FEW SCRAPS FROM THE OLDER POETS OF FRANCE. IJB itfuttfom auto [From the French of Charles of Orleans, who lived in the fifteenth century.] TN sorrow's dark and lonesome grove -* I chance to find me on a day, And meet the deity of love, And hear her ask me of my way; I answer, that to make me flee To these dark woods fate long since chose, And that she well might title me A wandering man who knows not where he goes. With sweet and condescending smile, Replies she, " Friend, if I but knew Wherefore thou sufferest this while, I would give willing aid to you. I set thee once in pleasure's way, Nor know how thou that way didst lose; It grieves me now to see thee stray, A wandering man who knows not where he goes.' 276 POEMS. "Alas!" said I, " Most sovereign queen, The truth that thou must know why tell 1 By death's rude doings have I been Deprived of her I loved so well. She was my only hope, my guide Through life and all its dreary woes; Now am I, since she left my side, A wandering man who knows not where he goes.' tntjni [From Alain Chartier, a contemporary of Chaucer.] OH ! fools of fools, and mortal fools, Who prize so much what Fortune gives; Say, is there aught man owns or rules In this same earth whereon he lives ? What do his proper rights embrace, Save the fair gifts of Nature's grace ? If from you, then, by Fortune's spite, The goods you deem your own be torn, No wrong is done the while, but right; For you had nought when you were born. Then pass the dark brown hours of night No more in dreaming how you may Best load your chests with golden freight; Crave nought beneath the moon, I pray, POEMS. 277 From Paris even to Pampelune, Saving alone such simple boon As needful is for life below. Enough if fame your name adorn, And you to earth with honour go; For you had nought when you were born. When all things were for common use Apples, all blithesome fruits of trees, Nuts, honey, and each gum and juice, Could then both man and woman please. Strife never vexed these meals of old : Be patient, then, of heat and cold; Esteem not Fortune's favours sure; And of her gifts when you are shorn, With moderate grief your loss endure; For you had nought when you were born. ENVOY. If Fortune does you any spite Should even the coat be from you torn Pray, blame her not it is her right; For you had nought when you were born. [From Octavian St Gelais.] man lived then in jollity, -^ According to his means and state, And in his heritage was free At will to labour soon or late. 278 POEMS. Afraid were none, lest wrong or cross In field or highway should have been; The evil-doer gained but loss; Oh ! the good old days that I have seen ! Then every one in safeguard dwelt Of sweet tranquillity and ease; No harm one feared, no ill one felt, For justice held her sway in peace. The poor man was as much esteemed As any lord of rich demesne; With grape and grain our valleys teemed; Oh ! the good old days that I have seen ! There was no need in those good days The quarter-master's guests to lodge, Or garrison our homes for frays; But to dispense without a grudge, And share good cheer full cups of wine, With slices of rich cheese between Was what all men did then incline; Oh ! the good old days that I have seen ! In days of our good king that's gone, No brigands caused us any dread; One went and came at will alone, Dressed well or ill, and no one said, "Whence come you?" or would make demand, That what one carried should be seen; The ways were safe through all the land; Oh ! the good old days that I have seen ! Ah ! you may guess 'twas sweet to sup At those round tables on the grass, With store of dainty things heaped up Before one there in plate or glass; POEMS. 27arily much of their interest. APPENDIX. 293 Though, in this his first endeavour to collect the scan, red poetical efforts of past days, the author has felt a wish to leave soino account of his productions collectively, he has also endeavoured to extract a moral from the sentiments with which the retrospect has impressed him. Periodiculisin is a great feature of the literature of the age, and the multi- tudes whom it attracts into its walks would do well to think seriously ere they rest upon it solely as a source of either a fair subsistence or reputation. The few who connect its occupa- tion with business carry off all the prizes in the lottery. Genius of the first class will indeed usually force success there or anywhere; but the more moderately gifted, though they foresee it not in their fresh and ardent youth, will too often find, after the lapse of long years, that, in following Periodi- calism exclusively, they have not pursued the course most likely to eventuate (as say the Americans) to their perfect well-being in life. EDINBURGH: PRINTED BT i. noco. WORKS PUBLISHED BY JAMES HOGG, 4 NICOLSON STREET, EDINBURGH. Royal 8vo, in handsome illuminated binding, gilt edges, price 45s., THE CLANS OF THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND: Being an Account of their Annals, separately and collectively, accompanied with accurate Coloured Delineations of the various Tartans and Arms of the Septs. By THOMAS SMIBEET. " This is truly a splendid volume. Whether we look to its exterior to the pink cover decorated with the golden thistle ' to Scotia dear,' or to the many beautiful specimens of Tartans, which add a rainbow of lustre to its pages or to the plain clear type or to the interesting, varied, and richly anecdotical letterpress, we have seen few ornamental books for years which can vie with it. The object of the book is to give to the Gael or Highlanders of Scotland, a succinct history of their various clans, with representa- tions of their various Tartans, correctly delineated and coloured. The books hitherto issued on the subject have been for the few and the wealthy, not for the community at large. The number- less Highland families, moreover, who have long left the region of their sires, and have disused its language, will find the present publication has been expressly drawn up to meet their acceptation. .... Suffice it to say, that every page teems with facts ; that the whole forms one of the best after-dinner books of the season ; such a book, in short, as Sir Walter Scott would have read with pleasure and reviewed with gusto." Eclectic Review. " It is, indeed, a national work, and should find a place in all our public libraries. When a copy of the work was presented to his Royal Highness Prince Albert, on the recent auspicious visit of her Majesty and the Prince to Holyrood, it transpired that the attention of her Majesty had been previously directed to it ; and so delighted was the Prince of Wales with the elegance of the volume, that he was observed to carry it in his hand when her Majesty and the royal family departed for Balmoral." Palladium. 11 As beautiful a work as has ever been issued from the Edinburgh press. The manner in which it has been got up is exceedingly creditable to all concerned, and it cannot fail to be a book of the greatest usefulness." John o'Groat Journal. Second Edition, price 10s. 6d., THE BARDS OF THE BIBLE. By GEORGE GILFILLAN. By the same Author, Second Edition, price 5s., A FIRST GALLERY OF LITERARY PORTRAITS. Also, price 10s. 6d., A SECOND GALLERY OF LITERARY PORTRAITS. 12mo, cloth, gilt, 2s. 6d., Illustrated by Coloured Drawings of the Victoria Eegina and the White Water-Lily of Britain, THE ROYAL WATER-LILY OP SOUTH AMERICA, AND THE WATER-LILIES OF OUR OWN LAND : Their History and Cultivation. By G. LAWSON, F.B.S., Curator to the Botanical Society. Second Edition, greatly enlarged, price 3s., With Views of the Coolin Mountains and Balmoral Castle from the south, AUTUMNAL RAMBLES AMONG THE SCOTTISH MOUNTAINS: Or, PEDESTRIAN TOURIST'S FRIEND. By the Rev. THOMAS GRIERSON, A.M., Minister of Kirkbean. " This pleasant little volume contains sketches and impressions of mountain and lake scenery, seldom visited by tourists from the south. It is not often, in these days of carpet knighthood, that we meet with so hearty a pedestrian and hill-climber as our Scottish parson. A chase after mountain breezes, and extended natural prospects, seems to him the most delicious and exciting of sports, and in this we agree with him. To our pedestrian readers, in par- ticular, we would recommend an acquaintance with the pleasant gossipping and ancient experiences of this Scottish rambler." Athenaeum. 11 A Handbook to the scenery of the Highlands, by one who knows them well, and has explained them often. Pedestrian tourists who contemplate a visit during the coming summer, should not fail to place this volume in their knapsacks. It will assist them in many a perplexity, and prevent their passing unseen many a spot of sublimity or beauty, that lies out of the highways of travel. It is illustrated with engravings." Critic.