THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES POEMS BY THOMAS WHITE, JUN. Few fading flowers gathered from the heights Whereon I wander many days alone. Oxford and London: JAMES PARKER AND CO. 1876. /^9 (p Dearest, it were but sorry compliment To grace these idle verses with your name, Since all I have is yours, and to be spent For y oil the holiest wish my heart can frame. Yet yours they must be : all my dreams of fame, As all my hopes of bliss, have long been blent With thoughts of you j and only you can claim What purer visions o'er my page have bent, What inspiration to my verse is lent. My life was one drear waiting till you came, Since when I live. I wrote to win your praise : To lay thejn at your feet, I aspire to grasp the bays. CONTENTS. ▼■ PAGE Day-dreams . 1 The Triumph of Time . 9 Hero and Leander 39 Charlemagne .... 52 A Poem of Joys .... 75 To my Reviewers 88 To my Lady of Dreams . 89 Song — " Who knows her, tell me" 91 Lines for Music 94 A Rebel Scholar 95 An Apology . 96 Silvia .... . 98 Song—" I have gotten a dainty prize" . 99 Tu NE quaesieris . 101 Euthanasia . 103 Valedictory . 105 Alice . . 107 Song — " Softly smile the sunset skies" . 109 American Negro's Hymn . Ill An Incident at Lucknow . 113 VI CONTENTS. Declaration of War, 1870 A Song of Peace (September, 1870) The Flag of Battle The Scotchman in Oxford Plans for the Holidays In the Limited Mail . Kames Hill, Fairlie A Vision of Arran The Highlander in Glasgow Rossie Burn Lamlash remembered . Caged Lay of a Steam-boat . On a Mountain-spring . The Highlander's Farewell A Meditation . The true Beauty After Parting . Too LATE Peccavi . At last . May-song (Goethe) To the Evening Star (Bion) Cleanthes' Hymn Odysseus {Schiller) The Eternal Question {Heine) CONTENTS. Vll On the Castle Esplanade, Edinburgh The Sceptic Cum semel occidit brevis lux My Funeral The Soul's December . Suspiria nostra . Marching Song . Vigils A Psalm of the Desert Ad amicum vita defunctum The Light of Men The Way of Life Finis PAGE . 192 . 199 . 201 . 203 . 207 . 211 . 215 . 217 . 219 . 224 . 225 . 227 . 229 DAY-DREAMS. I N the stillest languor Of an afternoon Fiery, fervent, golden With the sun of June ; While I lay deep-drowsy In a place of shade, Where the wash of billows Slumbrous music made ; While I lingered over Hopes of ignorant years, Laughed at longings thwarted Ages since in tears ; Came to me a vision Like to those whose gleams Lit with radiant rapture Youth's triumphal dreams. B DAY-DREAMS. 'Twas a lady, lovely With no earthly light ; Eyes like stars of even, Soft yet magic bright ; Round her hair a halo, Like the horizon's glow- When the night is dawning And the moon is low ; Sunset hues had tinted That ethereal cheek ; Night-winds seemed to murmur When she stooped to speak. " Darling," said she, " know'st thou Why no longer dull Seem the earth and heaven, Why so beautiful ? Why thy childhood's ardour Seems to wake again, Ripe with manhood's wisdom, Calm, and pure of pain ? " Know'st thou not who taught thee When thine ear was close ? Saved thy soul from bondage To things mean and gross ? DAY-DREAMS. " Shewed thee the diviner Life that underlies These conceits and figments Which delude thine eyes ? " Shewed thee hidden beauty All men's thoughts above, Taught thee high aspiring, Fired thy soul for love ? " I it was that fed thee With celestial food, I that smote the passion Through thy burning blood. " I that kept thy manhood From surrender weak, Taught thy quenchless yearning Where alone to seek. " Dearest, and I freed thee From the tyrant schools, From their pedant jargon And their sordid rules ; " Bade thee scorn to limit Thy desires and fears By the narrow sequel Which to them appears : DAY-DREAMS. " Bade thee hail as brother, Sister, churl and queen, Mating with things counted Common and unclean ; " Live the life ot every Soul that breathes on earth, Sorrow in their sorrow, Gladden at their mirth. " Thus I made thee mighty, Comely, quick, and deft : Then I gave thee, dearest, All that I had left, " My supremest treasure, Which no dungeon strong Hides, no gold can purchase, My high gift of song. " Now 'tis I that call thee ; Rise, the time has come. Bare the sword I gave thee, Lift it and strike home. " Study not the graces Of the fencer's art ; Thine a nobler lesson, Trust the inspired heart. DAY-DREAMS. ''Sing me songs of battle, Not the languid lays That delight the dreamers Of these lifeless days ; " Sickly reclamation 'Gainst the gods and fate, Polished to attrition Of all force and weight. " Sing me songs for England — Songs of purpose high — Passionate and simple, Pealing to the sky : " Songs to crush the tyrant, Songs to aid the oppressed, Songs of heavenly gladness For the troubled breast. " Seest not thy brothers Trodden, trampled down ? Hearest not the roaring Of the hungry town, " Every day demanding Human lives for food, Heaping up its treasure Smeared with human blood ? DAY-DREAMS. " Lo the sage bewildered By the truth he sees, Falling in his lonely- Anguish on his knees. " Lo the poet maddened By his fierce desire, Writhing, screaming, struggling, Wallowing in the mire. " Lo the patriot knowing Not what end to seek : Lo the preacher knowing Not what words to speak. " All men vainly striving Something sure to know, Mocked and tricked by phantoms In their puppet-show. " Rise, and help thy brethren ! Rise, 'tis I that call ! Sing as I have taught thee — Up, and fight or fall." Up I sprang, divinely Flushed, and all inspired ; By long waiting strengthened, By long ardour fired. DAY-DREAMS. Loud my voice I lifted, For within my ears Rang the songs she gave me : And the vanquished years Hung their crests, and crouching Owned their master's hand ; Like a god I towered Over sea and land. Then I saw the people Thrilling to my song, Heard their thunderous praises Surge the land along. For I helped the bondman, From his neck the yoke Tore, and grasped his hand, and- There the vision broke. I was lying silent 'Neath the whispering tree, And the memory only Rests, a dream, with me. Gone that magic music, Gone the voice that spoke ; I, like all men, lay there Prone beneath the yoke. DAY-DREAMS. And the breezes murmured Only voiceless sounds, And the waves broke dully In unmeaning rounds. I was but a youth who Forged with hopes and fears Some mechanic verses For unheeding ears. 1869. THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. T LEFT the town, and took the country-road, Making for home. The parlour-lights that glowed Where sat the joyous party I had left Died into darkness, and the night, bereft Of stars and moon, grim, voiceless, void, and black, Settled impervious down upon my track. The road's faint pallor scarcely guided me To keep its windings ; straining painfully My eyes I walked, and less by sight than faith. For though the biting frost congealed my breath I could not see its fretwork on my beard ; And when my foot slipped suddenly, I heard On the sharp road the startling sound ring out, The only sound for frozen miles about. The fields lay dead : winter had won his strife, Exiling colour, motion, warmth, and life ; Had nipped the flowers, and dashed the leaves to earth, Chained fast the streams, and hushed the ringing mirth 10 THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. That wont to echo from each greenwood bough ; So all was dark and dead and silent now. I lost the present utterly; it seemed As though I walked unconsciously, or dreamed Of walking : self, that lives by sight and sound And contact with an alien world around, Was swallowed up in its environment, As the animating soul is fused and blent With nerve and flesh, till two become one thing. Part of me seemed the silence ; listening With tiptop ear, the throbbing of my brain Peopled the dark with voices, which again I knew for fancies, whether its or mine I could not tell. Anon in ordered line Before my eyes went trooping pageants long, Which of a sudden by compulsion strong I forced to leave me, yet was fain to own Had been as real as the rut or stone I stumbled o'er; and how produced or why I knew not : it was not my doing : I Was so become a portion of that void Which, hating its own emptiness, employed These shapes to fill it, that I only knew Somewhere therein abode the power that drew The pictures, whether part of me or no. Where did I end and it begin ? For though THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. 11 At intervals I seemed to bid them flee, And wrench me from their thraldom suddenly, I could not help their coming, could not tell What brought, or made them plainly visible. None the less were they there throughout : but whether Ages enduring, or all heaped together In the brief compass of a moment's thought, Stay not to ask ; for time is surely nought When the soul spurns its fleshly limitance, Borne, how unknowing, with motionless advance Past all conditions, past all ties of place. Why should time be, when there is no more space ? Thus in what seems a veriest shred of time The soul may sweep adown huge gulfs sublime, Live ages in a moment, and so feel Its kinship to the infinite powers that deal With human limits as mere fantasies. Such was my state that night ; before my eyes The visions grew, cohered and multiplied, Until I seemed to stand unterrified In bodily presence on the farthest shore Of thought, amid gray wastes and spaces hoar With eld, and heard the ocean of the Past Break in reverberations vague and vast. I had not time to marvel, if I would : Ages like moments passed me where I stood. 12 THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. I saw the sequence of all human years Sweep by me visible ; such shape as peers With mortal words the vision wore, that I Might tell my brethren of Time's victory. First saw I savage men ; with stones and staves They fought, and made their home in dens and caves, Or floating platforms, girdled by the lake. Their thirst from running waters they did slake, And fed on nuts and acorns. Spade nor plough Their ignorance knew, nor axes to make bow The forest-trees ; they lived on what the fields Untilled brought forth, and Nature freely yields. Save when the chase afforded daintier fare, And eked with roasted flesh their diet spare. No social ties assuaged their violent mood ; They dwelt apart in savage solitude ; Or met with fear, suspicious each of each, Cloaking distrust with scarce articulate speech. The brawniest arm gave law to all, the might Of muscle, parent of the law of right. Yet, though the strongest ruled, and made his own Whate'er he lusted for, the juiciest bone, The ripest fruit, the shaggiest fleece or hide, The warmest seat the winter fire beside, THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. 13 The driest cave, the comeliest mate's embrace, Possessed until he found a fairer face, — Though with his brute co-inmates of the wood He equal strove, and shared their thirst for blood, Hating them as his rivals, deeming fit The bear should slay him, if he could not it, — Yet, while conspicuous thus he stood and strong His savage brother men and beasts among, He felt he was not lord of all around. Forces more mighty than himself he found, And owned at every turn superior powers. The frost, the bellowing winds, the lashing showers, The sun that scorched, the moon that went and came, Stars, clouds, the thunder's roll, the vivid flame Of lightning, rocks and trees and crystal streams, And monstrous shapes that terrified his dreams, Minglings of all his waking eyes had seen, Chimeras, Hydras, things of frightful mien, Gigantic, all were mighty and alive. He could not hunt, or sleep, or eat, or wive, But these were with him ; they could thwart his will, And he was powerless, could not by his skill Elude their empire ; anger nought availed To fright or hinder them ; they never failed Nor were found wanting. So within his soul He worshipped them : he bowed to their control, 14 THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. And sought to please them, and escape their rage, Judging them by himself, nor dared to wage Rebellious warfare with these mighty ones. Altars of turf or rudely painted stones, Where blood of victims slain was shed to appease Their dreadful anger, these and such as these Bespoke the waking of man's infant sense Of some o'ermastering power and providence, Rude and degrading as the notion was, Which forced him still to guess some secret cause By which events around him came to pass. Fed on such food, seeing as in a glass His own reflection in the natural world, The serpent coils of superstition curled About his trembling heart. Extending soon Its tyrant sway, not sun and stars and moon, But paltry things of his own shaping, wood Rough carved, stuffed skins of beasts and birds that stood Lifelike erect, gems, dolls, and medicine-bags, He worshipped, shivering in his fetich-rags. Nay, in the goodlier beasts, bison and bear, Hawk, serpent, beaver, lion, he was 'ware Of somewhat which communed mysteriously With higher powers. Wherever he could see Or fancy some peculiar force, unknown To him, or in its fashion unlike his own, THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. 15 He hailed it as a god, and bowed before Its might. So, struggling evermore With barbarous fears and fearful barbarous joys, I saw these savage races paint their toys With colours rudely blent, yet capable In defter hands of limning shapes that swell Our hearts with awe and admiration yet, Faces and forms that Time can scarce forget Of Phidian Zeus, or Isis veiled in white. Was it a dream, or did the starless night Make its black horror felt that moment through My soul, recalling suddenly to view The spot of space and time on which I stood ? I know not ; for as rapidly the mood Changed, and I saw a bright and sunny clime Where large as life the men of olden time Walked in a meadow, met and talked and sang. The music of the world's glad boyhood rang Clear in my hearing, a most wondrous lay, Telling of seas and islands far away, Where godlike shapes and uncouth monsters were ; Where dread Calypso to the listening air Sang descants strange, and giant Cyclopses Strode breast-deep through the gulfs of ocean-seas, And Circe queened it o'er her motley throng, And the Phaeacians chased with dance and song 16 THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. The careless hours. The men that heard this lay Were tall and goodly, and with gestures gay Moved o'er the enamelled mead. Fair was the scene. Around the margin of that smiling green Rose stately walls and columned temples white In the pure sunshine, and a mirrored light Of gold and ivory flashed from corridor And porch, where glorious shapes were grouped before The entrance, statues exquisitely wrought And challenging the rivalry of thought. All fulness of delight was theirs to see, To hear, to handle. Joyous, brave, and free, They sipped the sparkle of the laughing hours, And wreathed their hair with pleasure's brightest flowers. Could they have care beyond the present bliss ? Even in mid-heart of happiness like this Woke hint and presage dim of higher things ; And deep desire, that borrowed fancy's wings, Their reason's sovereign-slave and handmaid-queen, O'erleapt the barriers of the felt and seen, Refused to rest in the cold lifelessness Of visible life, too narrow to express Thought's manifold relations. Evermore, Turning to gaze upon the ocean hoar, THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. 17 Or snow-capt peak, or whispering forest-trees, They saw a deity instinct in these, And some presiding genius made its home In hill and tree and stream and ocean-foam. Not the bare form they worshipped, but the god Who dwelt therein, yet had his true abode Far in the forked Olympus, Mars and Jove, Neptune and Juno and the Queen of Love, Or by what earlier names those powers were known. These were the lords who called the world their own, For whom the oblation smoked, to whom the prayer Went up and won an answer, who could share Delight, and sympathetic motions feel. Such thoughts had power to feed man's blindfold zeal With visions of acceptance, and were lent To his frail sense as guide and instrument To aid its slow attempts. In other lands Strange forms I saw, with hundred heads or hands, Dog-faces, tails of fish, or horns of bull, With wings of birds; of such the shrines were full. And swarthy priests with linen cinctures bowed Before their feet, and to the gaping crowd Proclaimed the marvels of their majesty. Inspired prophets in the streets did cry ; Augurs, diviners, seers, and oracles Revealed the future, and with awful spelU c 18 THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. Constrained the aid divine. On mountain-height The Magian hailed the wakening orient light : Deep in the forest-shade the Druid stood, And drenched the sacred bough with human blood. A thousand shapes the same fond dream might wear, A thousand rites repay the gracious care, Proclaim the love, or deprecate the wrath. By many a wayward, many a winding path Man's thought climbs to its Maker. Every nation Had its own god, its bulwark and salvation, Its buckler in the battle, keeping guard Over his people, watchful to retard Their enemies' chariot-wheels and blunt their swords. The tribes of shepherd men, the nomad hordes That roamed the desert, they that ploughed the field And reaped its harvest, each did homage yield To some particular power. Odin and Thor Loved well the clash and cry of glorious war, And Thammuz every year was mourned again, And Vishnu mixed in mortal shape with men, And Buddha, holiest dream of all but one, Received his servants when their race was run To everlasting union, blissfully Absorbed in his embracing deity. So, many gods by many names adored, Each nation vaunting its peculiar lord, THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. 19 Men, who have need of some celestial sun To light their steps, were ill content with one ; But in young thought's superb extravagance Lavishing worship where the mood might chance To point, their careless Midas-touch endued All base things with divine similitude, And in the opulent arrogance of faith Deified their ephemeral fancy's wraith. Again like lightning flash the darkness came : Black 'twixt two brightnesses it smote like flame, Then left me free. I saw before me now An aged man, with tall and wrinkled brow, And silver hair, who sat within a tower And turned a parchment at the midnight hour. Beside his feet there sat a fair-haired youth With upturned listening face, where love of truth And reverent awe were blended visibly. I marked his flushing cheek and kindling eye, As poured the old man forth his holy store Of wisdom. "Credit them," he said, "no more. One God there is, pure, passionless, supreme. All else is but the vain distempered dream Of poets, who with impious tales have dared To feign His power by many equals shared. One God there is. He guides the whole of things ; Sole Monarch, Lord of lords, and King of kings. 20 THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. He sits sublime upon creation's throne. We are His offspring, and to us alone Of creatures He the faculty has given To know and praise and serve Him. Hell and Heaven, The bolts that thunder-strike the guilty head, The pains and prizes that await the dead, Are priestly fictions, which may play their part Tu fright the vulgar, as the nurse's art Conjures up goblins to a fractious child. The sage will keep his reverence undefiled By bribe of gain or threat of penalty, And live to live, not only live to die. ( )ur Heaven and Hell are here. The virtuous soul Enjoys the unshaken peace of self-control ; The sinful is with thousand fears distraught, And finds a hell in his own guilty thought. But far above the noise of earthly life, And tumult of our grovelling cares and strife, Sits the Most High in passionless repose. He sees our spirits, and our frailty knows, But He that made us is not vexed by this, Else must the knowledge mar His perfect bliss. Eive wisely, not from fear of punishment Or hope of guerdon, but because the bent Of man, the meaning of his life, the best Attainment of the soul, is virtue. Rest THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. 21 Content to know God, and forbear to teach Truths not well vulgarized by earthly speech, And dangerous for the common sort to hear. Serve God thyself, and serve Him without fear. Learn to find joy in solemn thoughts of Him. Muse on His glory, till thy sense grows dim And thy soul aches with zeal to comprehend That perfect life, without beginning or end, Untroubled, self-contained, unalterable, Eternally complete, securely stable ; Needing no praise of man, taking no care For aught, still seeing that the whole is fair, Though this or that part seem so foul to us. If thou wilt live in contemplation thus, Thou too shalt feel that deep abiding joy, That blessedness which cannot sate or cloy, So far as man can feel it, living pure Of pain and free from envy, finding sure Unfailing comfort in the depths of thought, Smiling to see the ignorant vulgar wrought Upon by every mean and sordid bait, Striving for wealth, or power, or worldly state, Or woman's smiles, or such poor bribes as these, While thou inhabitest the palaces Of wisdom high and strong, and seest below The seething sensual current ebb and flow/' 22 THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. Strange was the change. For now no sage I saw, But a plain common man, who seemed to draw The people round him by some magic spell. Round him there stood, there sat, I scarce can tell What wretched creatures, naked, outcast, vile, Stamped plain with marks of sin and shame. But while He spoke, I saw they lifted up their faces With awe and wonder, shifting in their places, Like men who knew not rightly what to think. Behind the eager throng that pressed to drink His words, there stood some grave and stately men, Who scowled contempt, or smiled compassion. Then I heard strange words that from the speaker came, Unlike that elder sage's, words aflame With love and pity for that loathsome crowd. " Not in the Holy of Holies, or the cloud Of Sinai, dwells the God who loves you. all. He is among you here. No sigh can fall From burdened hearts, no eye can glance to Heaven, Without His knowledge, and His answer given Before the prayer is uttered. He is here, Now, calling to you, standing close and near, Bidding you turn to Him and be at peace. The worst and vilest here He prays to cease From sin, to come and know a Father's love. His heart yearns toward you all, His bowels move THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. 23 With strong compassion, ready to receive And pardon. Hear His message and believe, And now, this moment, are your sins forgiven, He makes you sons of God and heirs of Heaven. Me He has sent, the Son of Man has sent, To call His guilty brethren to repent. Not to the righteous now my message is, I heed not offering or sacrifice. Is there a heart that groans for sin, a soul O'er which the waters of affliction roll, A trembling, weary, heavy-laden breast ? — Come unto Me, and I will give you rest. And God shall dwell in you, and I in you, And ye in God ; your hearts shall be made new, And ye shall know the Father in the Son. I and my Father, God and man, are one." Divinest words ! still in my inmost heart They glowed and burned, when with a thrilling start I found me in a home of gloom and death, Whose charnel chillness smote with creeping breath And damp unearthly smell. The torch I held Threw fitful gleams that shudderingly rebelled Against the monstrous midnight of the place. Scarce by its wavering glimmer could I trace On sculptured stone, all green with oozy mould, Inscriptions faint and rudely cut, which told 24 THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. That here and here a brother's dust was laid, "Who feared not death, because his Master made His bed in suffering, and was near to him Dying, so that when earthly lights grew dim 'Twas in Heaven's dawn. I knew the place of tombs, The martyrs' graves, the Roman Catacombs. Homes of the dead, though bare and tenantless Those narrow cells, whose crumbling walls confess The ages they have slept unvisited. I stood alone mid wrecks of empires dead, And faiths that, cradled here, still live to-day To tell the tale of conquering Rome's decay. And suddenly, a dream within a dream, My soul was hurried backward up the stream Of Time ; the past took shape, and visibly Stood forth in life before my wondering eye. A little company was gathered there, Thronged close, with restless eyes but reverent air. Graybeard and maiden, youth and new-wed bride, Master and slave like brothers side by side. I saw the gladiator's thews of might ; The curled patrician's eye of haughty light ; The mother with the baby at her breast, At every sudden tremble closer prest ; Manhood's calm port, and boyhood's eager face ; The stately Roman dame's majestic grace; THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. 25 The shrinking pariah's joyless wrinkled brow ; The soldier's stern lip, strangely softened now. Why press they all within this vaulted room ? By one pale torch, an islet in the gloom, The whitehaired Pastor reads the wondrous Book. High is his bearing, most serene his look, As one who feels an unseen presence near, Whose smile has given the peace that knows not fear. The psalm full soft is sung, the prayer is said, He stoops to take the mystic wine and bread. When hark ! what demons' yell bursts on the rite ? What means those hurrying flambeaux' lurid light ? They gleam on sword and spear, on helm and shield, The murderer's frenzy nerves the hands that wield ; On eyes that saw the raging German fall, On ears that drank the death-groan of the Gaul, On frowning faces, furious from the chase, On lifted arms that ne'er gave foeman grace — Where is your Saviour now, ye hapless band ? Yet for a space amazed the murderers stand. What spell has checked their blood's tumultuous flow, And caught in mid-air the descending blow ? Calmly the Pastor reared the sacred food : He bade them drink the covenant of the blood, And seal the eternal promise with their own ; Christ's martyrs sit, he said, within His throne. 26 THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. He spake of rapt Elijah's chariot-pyre, And the Three Children on their bed of fire ; He told them of the Heaven whose dazzling light Brake even then upon his spirit's sight ; " Faithful to death, the crown of life ye wear." Then sat down silent on his marble chair. On rushed the butcher band. Pass, dreadful dream ! An empty grave, a flambeau's bloodred gleam : The dust of centuries is dry below : But all His martyrs' names their Lord doth know. And so, I said — for still I seemed to stand, Awaked, alone, the flambeau in my hand, Within that place of tombs — so ages roll. By slow degrees the aspiring, anxious soul, Travailing toward the infinite, begins To feel the dreadful burden of its sins ■ Seeks sense of pardon, and in sorrow's hour Gropes blindly for some strong sustaining power. And he that seeks shall find : the space of sky Grows live with pitying ears that hear the cry Of frail humanity ; the incarnate Son Completes the work from first of time begun, And by His death, and of His love, bestows Eternal life upon His rebel foes. What boon of sense can vie with hope like this ? What scales shall match the weight of endless bliss THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. 27 With the short sorrows of life's paltry span ? Clothed with the light of imminent glory, man Defies the snares of sin, the shafts of death, And joins in angel songs with mortal breath. Yea, and the very ills and woes of life Take colour new ; in pain and shame and strife With inward evil he is well sustained. For now his filial yearning has attained The root of pure religion, which transmutes A life before so little unlike the brute's, The grand conception, sorrow sent to prove His heart, and manifest a Father's love. Strong in such faith, no ill can hurt him more. In that victorious trust he triumphs o'er Suffering, bereavement, death itself, and sees New proofs of loving providence in these. Redeemed with blood, he stands the child of God, And, humbly wise, adores the chastering rod. But still the ages roll. Error and sin Defile the holy temple, enter in And gain the mastery over faith grown old. The plan of human history is not told So simply : we are ignorant of the end, If end there be, to which the ages tend. Religion fails, barbarians conquer. Rome, Born to new life within this darksome womb, 28 THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. Must pass through bloody baptism, sword and flame, Her pride be broken in defeat and shame. Up through her gates the waves of conquest roll, And Alaric's banner flouts the Capitol. The Norseman comes in turn, his impious mace Smites from its niche the wan Christ's ivory face. Mohammed's myriads rage with blindfold zeal, And mail-clad robbers vaunt their bloody steel. Murder and rapine are enthroned sublime, And darkness settles o'er an evil time. After the night of ages breaks the dawn. Europe awakes : new draughts of life are drawn From the old founts : old thoughts yet new inspire Again the patriot's strength, the martyr's fire. In lamp-lit cells industrious thinkers toil ; Tall folios bulge with learning's hard-won spoil. Old books are read, and still with fresher light ; No bonds can hold the new-mewed eagle's flight. Man learns to reverence his brother-man ; Advancing thought brings tolerance in its van. Civilization clothes the smiling plain With mellower harvests, prompts to till and drain, Build mills and factories, perfect arts of peace ; The old unreasoning wars and tumults cease. The people feel their power, refuse to fight For nothings, turn against oppressors : might THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. 29 Gives way to right, and king to parliament. Freedom uprears her sacred banner, rent By storms of ages, yet unconquered still. Commerce and letters vie to work her will, Turning to scorn traditional tyranny. Peace, order, virtue, law, around I see. A goodlier world than ever shone of old Looks to the future for its Age of Gold. But no new light has met the spirit's eyes. Feebly it cowers in refuges of lies, And will not face the broad bare beam of day That drives the beautiful dreams of faith away. And I, the heir of all these ages, nursed In peace and piety, holding accursed Whatever drags man down, hailing with joy Each hope that lifts him — I, whose childhood's toy Was Nature's mystery, wont from youth to mock Her thraldom, tunnel through the living rock, Flash o'er the land at whirlwind speed, and ride Secure the rush of tempest-raging tide, Use lightning as my messenger, direct The thunder, and make fire my architect — I, for whom science hastes to realize The wildest, last impossibilities Of old magician-tales— here standing, I Sadly confess that the old fount is dry ; 30 THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. And though this fair earth shews more fair each day, As we grow wise to mark the powers that sway Her course unfaltering round the central sun, And read the wondrous tale of time, begun yEons ago, and now unfolding fast On eyes that spell the records of the past — And though the life that common men now lead Is purer, nobler, ay and happier, freed From many an old intolerable yoke, Since from her agelong slumber Freedom woke — And though I firmly trust the spirit of man, In the grand coming age republican, Shall ever leave the dark and vile, and find New truths in rock and flower and wave and wind, Attain new strength, and think new thoughts, and live Happier in the wider hopes they give — Yet, though all this be thus, we still have lost The one thing that our fathers valued most, The only bliss unmingled with misgiving, The only hope that makes life worth the living, The end that justifies the upward strife. Oh dim and fleeting years of earthly life, If this be all, if nought is hid behind The veil that bounds our vision, if we find No hope in death, — ah wherefore sent at all ? What fate remorseless raised the blissful pall THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. 31 That shut us in the land of nothingness ? Better have died in that first sharp distress Of birth, better have never left the womb, Than live to feel the lonely, Godless gloom Deepen and darken round us. Stay, oh stay, Time, thy revolving wheels ! bring back the day Of cloudless faith. Take all the years have given : Restore the childlike trust, the promised Heaven. Take all the pomp of science, wealth, and art : Give back the happy, meek, adoring heart. Take thou the living, render up the dead ; Give back the faith for which the martyrs bled. But no, the ages roll. The Roman pride, The Christian love that Caesar's power defied, The fair-haired Goth, the Norseman tall and free, The Lombard with his sunny minstrelsy, The turbaned Mussulman, the tonsured monk, With zeal for Heaven or merer Bacchus drunk ; All that of old were mighty in the land, All that by toil of head or heart or hand Have built the Europe of these later days, And handed on the sacred torch, whose blaze Now warms so feebly, and so shrinks its light ; King, courtier, preacher, poet, mailed knight, Painter, musician, scholar, savant, sage, The gorgeous pageant of Time's wandering stage ; 32 THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. Their life is dead, their aims are gone, or gleam On us like thoughts of a forgotten dream ; And a new life is built, more strong than all, Built from the ruin of each succeeding fall. Time still must shift the scenes, though men may- rage, Fret for the past, and rail against the age ; Though the old thoughts are dead, and men are cold, And God is farther from us than of old. As dewdrops fade before the uprising sun, Earth's fairy dreams, their lesson learnt and done, Pale in awakening Science' perfect day, And more transcendent brightness. So they say. " Homes of the dead," I cried, " records of faith And love, and glorious hearts that conquered death, And eyes that saw what now we see no more, — Speak to us yet ! tell of the love they bore Mankind who bled in you. For love grows weak : We know not what it is whereof we speak. Gallantly borne on custom's dominant tide, Mammon our God, and luxury our guide, High aims are scoffed at, charity is priced, And selfishness supplants the law of Christ. If hope must fail, let hope's high spirit live, And teach to win the crown it cannot give." THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. 33 With that the outer dream-husk cracked. I found Myself still travelling o'er the frozen ground, Through the black night, that wrapt me close and fast. " Such is the end," I said. " The past is past. The searching spirit wakes at length to find Impenetrable night before, behind : Sees and hears nothing, nothing hopes or knows. Is this the long-sought goal, is this the close Of those bright dreams that lured his childhood on. And mocked with hopes of Eden to be won?" Just then I turned a corner, and afar Beaconing to me softly like a star Saw the one light that told of home and rest. There watched my true-love with love-wakeful breast, My mother there the sacred pages read, My little daughter lay asleep in bed. I could not face them thus, I could not meet Those grave calm eyes, those kisses pure and sweet, With such tumultuous fever in my heart. " Is there no light," I cried, " like this to start Up at the end of life's long darksome way, No light of love for souls that watch and pray, Beaconing from their Father's home on high ? Ah no, the blank night folds us hopelessly. Thick and more thick the clouds of darkness roll. We have no home. Death is the final goal." D -34 THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. But this was not the end. Yet once again, And sweeping on me mightily, with pain And terror, so that I was fain to cry- Aloud, the vision caught and whelmed me : I Was in the spirit as I went that night. It bore me to a vast and lonely height, A cloudy mountain-peak. Then deep joy fell Suddenly on my soul, I could not tell Whence, but it smiled away my idle dread. Alone I stood on the gray mountain-head : Gray the abyss beneath me, and the sky Was gray above ; one sole star, like God's eye, Looked on the expectant void. And 'neath the spell Of that constraining beam the darkness fell To right and left around me ; burning gleams Made bare the hollows of the mist, as dreams Make bare gray life's reality. I saw Roll back as at the bidding of some great law Which was to music even as music is To common sound, the piled buttresses Of cloud that hung inscrutable, and there — Oh blissful seats ! oh realms divinely fair ! Right through the middle of a shining plain Wound a broad argent river ; the champaign Was gemmed with flowers, whose hues had never birth In the gross mould of this sin-stained earth. THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. 35 Far as the eye could reach that river rolled Through meadows bright with crowns and harps of gold And palms of victory. Saints and confessors In radiant myriads trod those peaceful shores. Multitudes, multitudes were clad in white, Robed in unspeakable splendour, dazzling bright ; No tongue can tell their garments' lustre. They Joyed in the beams of that fair sunless day, For sun nor need of sun was there, but God Was to them light, and o'er the land abroad Refulgent shone the glory of His face, Making unearthly bright that blissful place. This was no painted Heaven of Art, no home Of fabled gods beyond the starry dome, Seen in the frenzy of devotion's dream. I knew the River of Life, the sacred stream That has its source within the sanctuary. Fair trees were on its banks to glad the eye, With fruits of many kind for food, and leaves Of sovereign power to heal the heart that grieves. And whence were they who walked in robes of white, Whose distant glory pained my shrinking sight ? Had they not come through tribulation great, Learned to be strong and bear, to trust and wait, Battled, though bleeding, to the end with sin, Tempters without and treacheries within, 36 THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. Still strengthened from on high with holy strength, And through the gates of death were come at length Home, and now walked through endless happy days, Their inmost being all one song of praise To Him whose love had glorified their souls ? Then in a moment, lo ! the mystic scrolls Of Time were plain to read ; I saw it now, The secret of the ages, read below This palimpsest that hides it from our sight. It stood so fair and clear, and shone so bright, My marvel was that human eyes could fail To pierce the mystery of the shrouding veil. Heaven is around us now and everywhere. The River of Life flows through it calm and fair, Having its fount within the Throne of God, Its banks by angels and archangels trod. From God it comes, in God again shall end, Nor ever leaves His presence, but doth blend Eternally with God, who is our being. But earth's deceitful mists prevent us seeing Around or up ; the shows of time and sense Which, rightly read, themselves are evidence Of that which weaves their glamour, still shut out The light of Heaven that orbs our life about. But not for ever : this was what I saw. I scarce can fashion it in words, which draw THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. 37 Their meaning from these very sensible shows ; But as I found me at my journey's close I felt the secret had been manifested To me, and could not leave me ; and I said — ' The eternal is not measured by man's rule. Cease this vain strife infinitude to school Into accordance with thy human plan ; Trust the unseen, and wait the end, O Man ! God is not faithless, though He seem withdrawn Beyond creation's dimmest distant dawn. His arm is round thee still, His life sustains The beating blood that warms thy feeblest veins ; Life, dimly felt and faintly pictured now, As each before his imaged hope we bow, But one day to be known in more intense And manifest union, when the veils of sense Are rent by that last shock, which sets us free The things that are unseen around to see. Time in eternal labour travaileth, The eternal offspring of its throes is death. This is the triumph of time, which mortal eyes Can never rightly read. Passion and prize, Desire and fruit, time and eternity, Are blent and coexist inseparably. That now we see, but this transcends our gaze ; Wherefore we live by faith these earthly days, Waiting the end." 38 THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. With that I stood before The trellised threshold of my lowly door ; A moment stood in mute astonishment, And humble thankfulness for knowledge sent ; Then entered pale and stumbling from the night, And sat me down within the happy light Of love and peace, beside the ingle bright. HERO AND LEANDER. (AFTER THE GREEK OF MUSJEUS.) 1\ T Y song is of two lovers, who were born Severed by the resounding Hellespont, And of bold arms, that bridged that raging gulf, And blent two lovely hearts in secret bliss. I hear the short sharp plash of buffeting waves, Where the stout swimmer breasts the boiling seas : I see the star-like gleam of that far torch — Shines it not now among the stars of heaven To light the way-worn wanderer to his love ? — Whose fatal radiance was so strangely linked To his young life, that one blast quenched them both. There stand two cities, close upon the sea, Over against each other, Sestos in The Grecian land, Abydos on the coast Of Asia. But Love bent his mighty bow, And sent one shaft to both ; one deadly shaft 40 HERO AND LEANDER. Kindled two fair young hearts to mutual flame, — Leander's, noblest of Abydos' youth, And thine, sweet Hero, Sestos' stainless maid. They were the twin stars of their cities twain, And kindred beauty dwelt on each bright face. Stranger, if ever thou shouldst wander there, Seek thou the tower where hapless Hero stood, And waved the torch that led her lover on ; And seek thou old Abydos' echoing firth, Still mournful-moaning for Leander dead. Hero the beautiful, in whose high veins Ran blood o' the gods, was priestess in the shrine Of Venus ; in a lonely tower she dwelt, On the seashore, far from her parents' home, Like Venus' self in queenly loveliness. She, in her pure and maiden modesty, Mixed never with the throng of laughing girls, Nor in the graceful mazes of the dance, Shunning their envious spite : for well she knew How beauty fares in women's tender hands. But evermore she prayed her goddess-queen, And many an offering sacrificed to Love : Yet not so 'scaped she the fire-breathing shafts. For now the sacred festival approached, To Venus and Adonis yearly held In Sestos, and the crowds came flocking in, From far-outlying spurs of sea-girt isles, HERO AND LEANDER. 41 Haemonia's plains, and Cyprus' wave-washed capes. The women left Cythera's cities, left Their dancing in the craggy fastnesses Of spicy Lebanon ; from far and near, From Phrygia and Abydos, came the troops. The nets were on the shore ; in the high corn The sickle slept ; the laughter-loving youths All sought the sacred shrine ; but, sooth to say, Scarce with such zeal the Immortals to adore, As on the beauteous virgin band to gaze. Then through the temple walked that peerless maid, With stateliest step ; and from her glorious face Light seemed to beam on the beholders' eyes, Like the rich golden gleam of harvest moon. But on the tip-top of her paled cheeks Burned a soft rim of crimson ; like a rose Twin-coloured 'mong its petals. Lower down The bright blush spread, till all her delicate skin, Where the light kissed it, glowed a living plot Of roses : rosy were the sweet bared arms ; Her neck was blushing rosy ; and, just seen Beneath the long white robe, her rosy feet Peeped coyly. From her steps a very host Of Graces seemed to flow. The men of old Knew but three Graces : but in one bright smile Of Hero's eyes a dancing hundred shone. Venus had found a worthy priestess now. 42 HERO AND LEANDER. So, loveliest far of all that lovely band, The peerless lady walked ; within the shrine Of Beauty's Queen, embodied Beauty's self. And ever as she moved, the eyes and hearts Of all the young men followed her, awestruck And dazzled by her glory. And one spake, With lingering gaze, among his comrades there. " Not even in Sparta, land of loveliest dames, Not in the shady bowers that crowd the banks Of the Eurotas, Beauty's vaunted home, Aught have I seen so fair, so worshipful. A new-born Grace is Venus' priestess now. My eye is weary gazing, but my wish Is tireless : oh, to win her passing smile Glad would I lay down life, and count it light. I would not envy the blest gods of heaven, With radiant Hero by my household hearth." So he, the boldest, spake : but all around In secret many another gazed and sighed. Ill-starred Leander ! then it was thine eyes Beheld her first, and seeing knew their fate. Self-wrapt, nought heeding else, thou stood'st alone, Feeding thy heart with stolen side-looks still, While the sweet poison sank through all thy frame. Ah ! Beauty's glance goes straighter to the heart, And sharper, than the barb of whistling shaft : The treacherous eye a ready entrance gives, HERO AND LEANDER. 43 And all the life-blood maddens with the wound. Rushed on his soul a whirl of struggling thoughts, Amazement, boldness, trembling, bashfulness ; Trembled his heart, and blushed its fear to own. Dumb with amazement on that form divine He gazed, till love itself drove shame away, And fearlessly, with silent steps, he went And stood beside her, with his wicked eyes Full on her face. And she rejoiced at heart, Knowing her beauty ; but, as conscious of His fatal power, bent her blushing brows. And he, who well could read such treacherous signs, Joyed in his answered love, and ever watched For some still moment, when his eager prayer Might win confession from those thrice-sweet lips. Now evening's lessening light died in the west, And westward shadows radiant Hesper threw. Soon as Leander saw the falling gloom He stepped forth boldly to the maiden's side, And, silent save for one deep sigh, he pressed Her rosebud fingers. She, without a word, As if in anger, snatched her hand away. But when he saw, beneath that witching show Of wrath, the half-won smile, fearless he caught The fluttering skirt of her embroidered robe, And led her to a quiet inner nook Of the hoary temple. And she followed slow, 44 HERO AND LEANDER. With lingering steps, as loath to go, and raised In words of womanish ire her gentle voice. " Stranger, art mad ? Release me, daring man ! Know'st thou not Venus' priestess from man's touch Is sacred ? Let me go — leave go my robe : Or dread, rash youth, my haughty father's rage." Well was Leander skilled in women's wiles : Oft had he seen, how most their words are fierce When most their hearts are trembling; still their threats Reveal the weakness they are meant to hide. So, when he heard her voice of angry scorn, He kissed the maiden's glowing neck, and said : — " Thou art my Venus, and my Athene too : For sure no mortal-moulded maid art thou, But a princess-daughter of imperial Zeus. Blest was the mother, who dandled on her lap So rare a nursling. Pity me — hear my vows ! For Love has brought me captive to thy shrine, Thy servant sworn and true, as Hermes led To his task-mistress Hercules of old, Slave to thy least behest. Ah ! why so stern ? A pretty priestess thou for Venus' shrine : Phoebus' sour sister's rather. Marriage is Venus' peculiar worship, her best gift. 'Twas Venus' self that sent me here to thee : I come her messenger. Dread thou her rage ; HERO AND LEANDER. 45 For they that slight her gifts, provoke her wrath. Maiden, I love thee." Ah, those cunning words ! They stole sweet Hero's soul. Silent, with eyes Fixed on the ground, to hide her blushing cheek, She stood ; and her small foot kept tremulously Beating the dust, and round her shoulders white Once and again she shivering drew her robe. Alas ! no signs of haughty coldness these ! Poor Hero's rebel heart had won the day. And still her bent face from Leander's view Hid all but that fair neck : and still his eyes Wearied not, gazing. And at length she spoke, Raising her gentle face, from brow to chin Dewed with the crimson heat of maiden shame : — " Stranger ! thy prayers would move the very stones. Woe's me ! who taught thee skill to tread the paths Of wiling words, and sent thee here to me ? Vain all thy sighs. A nameless wanderer, Homeless, alone, claim high-born Hero's hand ! My lordly sire would laugh thy suit to scorn. I may not leave her whom I serve. Nor dream That here unknown, unseen, thou canst abide : For slanderous tongues are rife ; all a man does In secret, noised about the street he hears. But tell me, I pray thee, truly, who and whence Art thou ? My name, alas ! thou knowest well. 46 HERO AND LEANDER. My home is in a heaven-seeking tower, Round which the wild winds Avander : for it lies In front of Sestos, close upon the sea, O'erhanging the steep shores. There, all alone Save for one handmaid, by my parents' will I dwell. No friends are near, no voices rise Of youths and maidens in the merry dance ; But night and morn rings ever in my ears The hollow murmur of the windy sea." She spake, and hid her burning cheek again Within her robe, and wished her words unsaid. And then Leander — for his strong love made Him quick of wit, as strong love ever does ; For when the conqueror once has shown his power, He gives his captive strength — spake dauntless out, And half in anger at her timorousness. " Maiden, for thy sweet sake the raging waves I'd dare, though all their crests were crackling flame. Led by thy love, I fear their fury not, Nor their tempestuous voices. I will swim By night across the eddying Hellespont To hear thee call me husband. For my home Is near to thine, on the other side the firth. I only ask that from the top o' thy tower Thou hold a torch, when the thick night comes down : And I, Love's bark, will steer by that bright star, And, with my eyes on it, care not to mark HERO AND LEANDER. 47 Bootes, nor Orion, nor the Plough That never dips its wheels within the brine, Till to the haven of my toil I come. But oh, love ! guard thou well the flickering light, Guide of my life, from gusty-blowing winds : Guard it as thou wouldst guard my very life. And, for my name, Leander I am called, The love of Hero beauteous-garlanded." And so with many vows (where need of vows Was none) they pledged their secret troth, and made Their paction, and at last with aching hearts Were fain to part, she to her lofty tower, While he, with backward eyes fixed on the tower To guide his way, even as it led his heart, Sailed through the dark night to Abydos' shore. I need not tell how the long dreary day Wore through slow burning hours to the cool west. But now the sable-stoled gloom of night, Long wished for, came, bringing sweet sleep to men, All save Leander. Eager-eyed he roamed Along the shore of the infinite-sounding sea, Watching to see the messenger of love Gleam o'er the distant waves. Then, when she saw The murky night-fall, Hero lit the torch : And swift, responsive to the signal blaze, 48 HERO AND LEANDER. Love's flame leapt fiercer in the watcher's breast. Yet when he heard the thunderous breakers' roar Maddening upon the beach — ah, blame him not If one brief passing shudder made him shrink ; But straight again he roused his dauntless soul. " Wrathful is Love, and pitiless the deep : But this is water, that is scorching fire. Go where love calls. What ! fear the ocean-waves ? Bethink thee, Venus' self is sprung from them, And she is queen of them as well as thee." Then from his comely limbs with eager haste He tore the robe, and clasped his hands on high, And from the rocks sprang headlong in the deep. The waters flashed beneath his ardent strokes, Youth's hot blood cleaving its impetuous way ; Still hastening where that torch beamed from afar, His single self boat, oarage, crew, and freight. And star-like there upon her lofty tower Fair Hero stood, and when the wanton winds Danced in rude gusts about her, with her robe Shielded the precious light, until at length Weary and faint she saw Leander come. Then down she ran, and led him to her tower, And clasped him silently, all breathless still, And dripping with the foam-haired ocean drops. She brought him to her chamber, washed away The bitter brine, and dashed with fragrant oil HERO AND LEANDER. 49 The rank sea-smell that hung around him still, Devouring him with wondering eyes the while : — " Through many toils, my own, my gallant love ! Through many toils, such as no husband e'er Dared for his wife, but thou — welcome, at last ! Forget the booming waves, the wet salt spray Dashing, the strangling water's cold embrace : Come, rest from all thy toils within these arms." And thus they two were wed ; not with the glare Of bridal torches, and the circling dance, And pealing hymns, and Hera's aid invoked By maid and minstrel, and the marriage-song Chanted by happy parents joyously. Darkness and silence in those fateful hours Prepared the couch, and decked the trembling bride, And eldest Night was bridesmaid there alone. For still, before the prying eye of morn Awoke, Leander swam across the sea, Home again, tireless, to his native shore ; And Hero of the graceful-sweeping robe Was maid by day, and wife by night alone. So, happy pair, by secret wedlock bound, Blest in each other, heeding nought beside, Through a short space of bliss they lived and loved. But ah ! not long those fatal nuptials stood. For when the frosty winter-time was come, Shaking from sleep the wrath of Boreal winds, 50 HERO AND LEANDER. Then 'neath incessant blasts the unstable deeps Shook, and their moist foundations yawned to view, Lashed with fierce whirlwinds : up on either shore The fisher drew his black boat high and dry, Dreading the fickle winter seas. But thee No fear of winter waves had power to check, Gallant Leander ! for the torch shone bright In its accustomed place, and made him bold To spurn the perils of the angry deep. Ah cruel torch ! Ah Hero, luckless maid ! Thou should'st have waited in thy loneliness Without Leander, when fell winter came. But Love and Fate were strong ; nor did she dream It was Fate's torch, not Love's, she fondly held. 'Twas night, when loudest roar the gathering winds — The frosty winds, that in wild javelin-play Of icy blasts sweep on the bleak sea-shore — When bold Leander on the heaving back Of treacherous-sounding waves was borne along. Billow was rolled on billow, in a mass Of boiling foam : black storm-clouds hid the stars. About him swelled the waves, till sea and sky Seemed mingled. Terrible on all sides rose The shout of battling winds ; with maddening cries East, west, north, south, in wild collision strove : And ceaseless the fierce waters howled and roared Like angry wild beasts round him. Hapless youth ! HERO AND LEANDER. 51 There, in the pitiless eddies, oft he called The sea-sprung goddess to his aid, and him Ocean's tremendous monarch : oft he bade Fierce Boreas think upon his Attic maid. But no one helped him, Love was all too weak To strive with Fate. Struck by the raging rush Of mountain-waves, tossed helpless to and fro, Strength failed his weary feet, his striving hands Sank motionless, and through his languid lips Oft rushed the choking brine. Just then, a blast Of bitter wind blew out the faithless torch, And with it lost Leander's life and love. But she, while still he came not, all night long Stood wakeful-eyed, beset by torturing fears : And morning broke, and still she saw him not. All o'er the heaving back of the gray sea She gazed, to find him wandering afar, His polestar lost. At length she saw him there, Close by the tower, his lifeless body gashed By the sharp rocks. She rent her broidered robe Across her breast, and with a rushing noise From the tower-top sprang headlong, fell upon Her husband's breast, and undivided still They slept in death in one another's arms. CHARLEMAGNE. "CO short the years, so great this work of mine ! O God in Heaven, grant me now a sign, To tell me that it is not all in vain — That all my life's long warfare, all its pain And toil and travail, all my battles fought With foes of France and Christ, were not for nought. Let but the thunder through this calmed air Shake the clear skies, to shield me from despair. No sound, no sign ! The sun sinks to the West ; The earth lies tranced and still in solemn rest, Like one who dies in peace, being blessed and shriven ; And smiles unmoved the voiceless vault of heaven Inexorable. So still the years go by, Unheeded by frail man laboriously Rearing his straw-built castles, which the wind Swept from their passing garments unconfined CHARLEMAGNE. 53 Equals with earth. Swift, silent, pitiless years, How light ye speed through all our hopes and fears ! The careless child, with wonder in its eyes, Each deed a joy, each day a new surprise, Shoots to a youth, and broadens to a man, And takes a wife, and childish fingers span His swarthy neck, and so he fills his place And fights his battles for a little space. But soon the blood runs slower in his veins, His eyes wax dim, and strange unwonted pains Bow his strong back, and his scant hair turns gray, And of a morning he is passed away, And his son wears his sword, and he no more Is known of men, and ye fill out the store Of life anew, serene, swift, pitiless years, So scornful speeding through our hopes and fears ! I too, for all my deeds, for all my fame, And tireless labour, that has earned my name, Charles, called the Great, have felt my strength grow weak, My courage useless ; and though men may speak In after days of the great Frankish king, I count such glory but a little thing, Not knowing if this work of mine may live, Or if high God shall turn His hands, and give My kingdom to the barbarous tribes again, And I be but a mighty name 'mong men. 54 CHARLEMAGNE. But ye, what reck ye, if this hour I go To join my fathers ? Never would ye know That aught had changed, but careless on would roll. O arms once glad of fight, O towering soul, So great your task, so small strength left to dare, What profit have ye of your lifelong care ?" Upon a high stone terrace stood the King, Facing the mountains, whose environing Half girt his palace : far below, a stream Ran through a meadow, but the sunset's gleam Lit not its mirror of water, where it lay Low in the gorge. And sounds from far away Of bleating sheep were heard, and deep-mouthed kine Driven with full udders to the pens in line. And from the nigher gorge did voices come, Maidens' shrill laughter, and a resonant hum Of manlier echoes, where a merry band Filled pitchers at the stream, or with full hand Gathered the clothes that bleached on the green grass. Behind the King the palace reared its mass Of stately towers, and past it might you see A walled in orchard ; many a fruitful tree Looked o'er the wall ; red apple, luscious pear, Hazel, and plum, and chestnut, all were there ; And a faint odour charmed the evening breeze From flowers that marked its various boundaries. CHARLEMAGNE. 55 The palace' self was marvellous within. Through the tall porch the entering foot did win To a wide hall, upheld by pillars great. There every day the old King sat in state Among his chiefs, and all his children fair Beside him, reverencing his hoary hair. But round that hall were ranged the spoils of chase, Boars' heads, and antlers, and the grinning face Of some huge wolf, slain when the storm of hunt Swept through Remiremont's parks, and up the front Of its o'erhanging mountain, to the dim Vosges forest, where the robber gaunt and grim Turned to his death-throes, fell 'mid tearing hounds And stabbing spears, mute 'neath a hundred wounds. And all the walls were hung with tapestries, Worked by the royal maids, with streams and trees, And hawks and hounds in course, and priest and knight, And ladies' love-bowers, and wild shocks of fight. There the Twelve Peers mowed down the Moorish ranks : There in the accursed valley, where the Franks Were snared by mountain-treachery, alone And dying Roland lay, and by the stone Of sardine Durendal unbroken gleamed. His knightly eyes looked upward, his face beamed 56 CHARLEMAGNE. Joyful in death, and angels hung above Ready to bear his soul on wings of love. Here waved the Magic Banner o'er the fierce Thick crowd of combat : Eric there did pierce The heathen host, and tear the idol down : And there sad Bertha, reft of spouse and crown, Roamed the dark forest, and a ravening bear Fled from her gentle gaze. Such pictures fair Decked every wall, and such that hall of pride, And piled up arms lay round on every side. The inner chambers all were richly dight. Here slept the King and Queen, a trusty knight Guarding the doorway ; and their daughters fair And princely sons had well-built chambers there. These all were hung with purple, carpeted With smooth-shorn skins, and every royal bed Had sheets of linen for its covering. And books were there, which learned men did bring From Rome and Padua, books that told the stars And measured hills, and histories of wars, Sweet lays of love, and nameless lore whose spell Shook to their shuddering depth the vaults of Hell. The corridors, of Roman marble built, Were sculptured overhead ; a cornice gilt Ran round ; those floors all day were musical With rustling trains and ladies' sweet footfall. CHARLEMAGNE. 57 And one barred door enormous bolts did hold, And a huge lock, whose key a warden old Kept night and day within his breast. I ween The treasures that those massy bars did screen Had shamed the Hebrew's hoarded splendours quite, And made dwarf Kobolds burst their hearts with spite. For there was all the wealth in clanging fray Won by the King on many a bloody day. Ingots and bars of gold, and jewelled crowns Sceptres and sword-hilts, reft 'mid sack of towns And yells of conflict, forged by heathen skill, Saxon or Moor, in pathless wood, or hill Snow-capt, and smiling round the foot with vines. Gold-plated helmets, belts with magic lines Traced in bright gold, whose spells were vain to stay The Paladins' onset. There all silent lay, Carven with Runic rhymes, the ivory horn Of Sigurth the fierce rover ; on that morn He left his long-decked Swan, and dared the King To battle, ta'en ; for the resistless swing Of Gerold's sword lopped off the rover's head, And to their ships the lawless Norsemen fled. And trophies too of Southern fight, on plains Lombard or Gascon, girths and bridle-reins Gem-studded, golden bits, and saddle-bows Of silver, silver shield-rims, and long rows 58 CHARLEMAGNE. Of rings and amulets and necklaces. And costlier spoils were there than any of these : A medley booty, all of massy gold, By the horse-loving Avars piled of old In that strange city far from either sea, Where the wild riders held their revelry. Full fifteen leagues that city was around, Girt by the fathomless marshes ; all the ground Was black with tents, and in the midst there stood A giant idol, stained afoot with blood, With eyes of emerald. But the Franks their way Fought through the perilous swamps, nor made they stay For angry meteors reddening the moonlight, And devils' shriekings heard at dead of night, But sacked the town, and burned their god with fire. Nor lacked there stores, which not the vengeful ire Of victor hosts had seized, but subject kings Had sent for tribute, with the guerdonings Of leagued emperors in the far-off East. These gifts had come from that all-conquering Priest Who rules the mystic Orient, where the sun Mounts first his flaming car : rare fabrics spun By Tartar looms were there : and those had seen That city on the Bosphorus, where the queen Of the Greek Empire, 'mid her learned men, Wielded at once the sceptre and the pen. CHARLEMAGNE. 59 There were the wonders Paynim Haroun sent. Rich balsams their seductive odours blent ; Ophir's red gold, and gems of untold price, And robes all worked with gold in rich device; Worked with strange scenes, palmtrees and burning sands. Here a white city, — elders with long wands Sat in the gate, I know not where or when ; There saw you giant woods, where hunter men Lurked by a fount, whither two lions came ; Or there in a rose-garden sat a dame Of queenly mould, and at her feet there lay A youth whose eyes met hers, and far away A band of maidens danced upon the green. And many more, all dazzling to be seen With inwrought gold, which dark-skinned girls had made Far o'er the seas, beneath the cedar's shade. And there were ivory tusks, and feathers rare Of unknown birds bright-hued, and shaggy hair Of strange beasts' skins : through a long summer day I could not tell that manifold array, Each costly gift, and every strange-world thing, That Haroun sent to the great Western King. But a small casket held a gift more rare Than gold or gems, pied skins, or plumage fair. 60 CHARLEMAGNE. The casket was of gold, and set with gems, Bright-flashing, such as shine in diadems, Sapphires, and bloodred rubies, and the light Of sea-green emeralds ; ye might guess aright Some costliest ransom was enclosed therein. For ransom of a world death-doomed by sin, And hope of life this casket did confer, Which held the keys of that rock-sepulchre Where our Lord Jesu, blessed evermore, Slept for our sakes upon the Syrian shore. These had the Soldan sent, and such gifts lay In that rich treasury, guarded night and day. And in the hall a mighty board was spread, With high-heaped dishes bravely garnished ; And there the chiefs sat feasting, for they came But this same morn from carrying sword and flame Through the rebellious folk who have their home On the coasts beaten by the breakers' foam Of that far gulf, which rolls its hungry waves From the untravelled East, beyond the Sclaves And Huns and Saxons. No man e'er has seen Its eastward boundary, no foot has been Where its dim shores close in the unknown lands. A hundred miles its breadth, and robber bands Dwell to the southward. In one swift campaign The Franks had broke them, harried all the plain CHARLEMAGNE. 61 And spoiled their goods, and so were newly come Back through the desert to their Western home. Here therefore sat they feasting, strong as rocks On which the surf roars vainly, yellow locks Over their untamed shoulders flowing, eyes Hued like the azure of their native skies, But when the rage of battle filled their souls Terrible as the angry heaven, that rolls With clouds and blinds with lightning ; voices huge With windy laughter, scorning subterfuge Of cunning words — strong men and simple, great Of heart, and stormy still in love or hate, And fearing nought that earth could bring. Their feast Was spread with limbs of many a goodly beast, And mead in brimming bowls. And evermore A harper played to them ; above the roar Of jest and laugh his fiery song was heard, By memories of the olden heroes stirred. But the King stood without, and ever gazed Toward the western mountains, golden- hazed By the descending sun ; for some strange thought Had seized his soul, and sadness in him wrought. He heard the voices from below, the din Of billowy mirth resounding from within, But heard them as not hearing. His blank look Was fixed afar, where the last splendour strook 62 CHARLEMAGNE. The hills, and fringed the clouds with golden hem, And his lips moved, but no sound came from them. After a while a change came o'er his face. His brow grew black, and for a minute's space His hands were clasped before him passionately. Then lurid light awoke within his eye, And starting as from sleep he gazed around Wildly, and smote his staff upon the ground ; While the dark mood, that held him like a foe, Burst forth in dreadful words, broken and slow. " Does then the Lord of Hosts my work abhor ? Long have I led this people forth to war ; Have smote with sword the heathen, given to flame Their idols, for the glory of His name. I am a man of blood : my days are spent In noise of battle : yet with high intent To beat the barbarous races back, and stretch O'er all the West my sceptre, so to fetch Order and happiness from the very heart Of bloodshed. Thus I sought to play my part, Building the City of God, where wars shall cease, Whose walls are righteousness, whose gates are peace. Yet still I strive, and still the end is not. Has Heaven the labour of my life forgot ? Or does the Lord these bloody hands refuse, Red in His service, and some other choose CHARLEMAGNE. 63 More favoured, happier, born a man of rest, Peaceful his name, with peace his people blest ? Lo, I have fought the fight : shall now my son Unto my David prove the Solomon ? Pepin and Charles are dead ; and he, shall he, This easy Louis, wield with mastery My empire's jarring elements, or shall Its ill-consorted parts asunder fall, And the wild heathen turmoil roll again O'er kingdoms won for Christ, but won in vain ? Oh for ten years of peace, such peace as swayed That golden age, ere Frank and Saxon frayed The world with warfare, when Queen Bertha span In the lone cottage, where the water ran To turn the millwheel. Or oh give me back, Lord, the old strength to these hands withered and slack, That made Toledo's chivalry yield the prize To him who fought for Galerane's bright eyes. Oh for the Moorish Court, and silver mace Of wise King Galafer, as he sat in place Judging the lists. Ah me, the nights of June, When 'neath the trembling stars and maiden moon, And voice of nightingale in shimmering grove, We trod the garden-walks, I and my love ! And she with face half turned away would list Her Mainet's pleadings, and the lips I kissed 64 CHARLEMAGNE. Vow with sweet sighs that she would never wed A lord of alien faith. But well I sped My wooing, and right well she kept her vow : For heart and soul I won her, till her brow With virgin blushes burning, and possessed By sacred influences, in my breast She hid, and murmured, I am Christ's and thine ! Yet even when life was flushed and half divine With dawning love and glory, I was true To this dear land, and faint to sickness grew With very longing when my thoughts would go Over the rocky passes, and the snow Of Pyrensean peaks, to hear the song Of harvest-gatherings, see the merry throng Treading the grapes beneath their rosy feet. So now to riper manhood grown, and meet For knightly deeds, I journeyed home at length, And raised my father's banner, and the strength Of Frankland rallied round me, all the brave Sons of my father's knights, until I drave False Florimel's usurping children out The land, and stood 'mid joyful tears and shout Of trusty vassals crowned my father's heir, The Frankmen's rightful monarch. Ah, and there What bliss to turn to that sweet bride, in sight Of all, and hail my lovely proselyte CHARLEMAGNE. 65 The peerless queen of all this peerless land ! Well, the years pass, and who may understand The things they teach, and all that God hath made Under the high heaven ? Galerane is laid Beneath the Bourdeaux grass, and Mainet's name No man remembers now, though Charles's fame Is sung from islands of the Western seas To Scythia's tents and Bagdad's palaces. But high in hope I faced my life's emprise, Like one who hoists his sail 'neath summer skies, And thinks that still the favouring breeze shall blow, And kind stars guide him. Little doth he know How through long days of labour, and wild roar Of buffeting waves, that dream-beholden shore Shall seem no nearer yet, and scarce at last, Sails rent, strained timbers, crippled by the blast, To his far port soul-weary may he come. Gaily my chieftains to my father's home I summoned, clad for fight, filling the fields With splendent pomp of arms. Their clashing shields The heroes struck, athirst for glorious war. And many a battle fought we, near and far ; In Aquitanian plains, and on the coast Of thundering ocean with the Breton host. We chased the Lombard to his fastnesses : The trembling Capuan hasted to appease 66 CHARLEMAGNE. Our conquering rage : and in the Northern land The Christian swords beat back each roving band Of rude barbarians. Through the tangled maze Of trackless forests rode we many days, Where league on league the squirrel from tree may leap To tree, nor once to earth descend ; no sheep Are pastured there, no lowing oxen browse The deep red soil, but boughs are laced with boughs And stems kiss stems ; and in their miry lairs Fell werewolves lurk, and elves, and monstrous bears. So there for days we wandered, girt about With ambushed heathen. These we put to rout, And won our way right through their midst, and laid Our yoke of conquest on them, sore dismayed. And at the last, when many a bandit crew Had felt our vengeance, once again we drew Toward our Western homes, and saw the fair Rich cornlands smiling in the summer air, And hamlets couched secure, and evening dance Of girls, and native plains of joyous France. And then I dressed me to yet nobler toils, Crowning the brows of Peace with sanguine spoils Wrung from the grasp of War. My stable throne I would not plant in arms and blood alone, But sought a nation's weal in all I planned. I made strong roads and bridges through the land, CHARLEMAGNE. 67 And many a city girt with sheltering wall, And built great navies, which I sent to fall Upon the pirate Danes and drive them forth To rob and murder in their barren North. By land, by sea, each roving outlaw felt The vengeance of my arm ; my people dwelt In happy homes, and blessed my righteous reign, Seeing I wielded not the sword in vain, But struck the spoiler down, and taught just laws, That blood must pay for blood, nor without cause Should one be driven from his father's home. And learned men I brought from far, from Rome And Celtland, bard and sage and cowled priest, Wise with the garnered lore of West and East ; And reared me stately dwellings, Ingelheim And this great palace of Aix, whose ramparts climb From out the living rock, to overawe Rebellious hearts with majesty of law And pomp of courts. No puppet monarch I Whom once a year his people might descry Drawn on the sacred car from his retreat, Hailed with contemptuous reverence, as men greet A lifeless idol ; with long womanish hair, Unseemly length of beard, and vacant stare ; Like those of old whom my brave father cast From their unreal throne, taking at last 68 CHARLEMAGNE. The kingly name, who long had held the power. But with strong hand I ruled, and all the flower Of Christian knights took service under me. And, placed in that high station, lord of sea And land, I waxed not over proud, but set A fair example, striving to forget Ignoble thoughts and things, to trample down Self and its bondage, gilding so my crown With a new splendour, even the holy light Of faith, and stainless life, and love of right, And chivalrous deeds, and kingly courtesy. So now I waited with a patient eye To see God crown my labours, see the spring Of that new year, whose golden hours should bring More bounteous seasons, a serener sun, Old things forgotten, a new world begun. I thought to see the anarch races wrought To peace, in stedfast bonds together brought ; My kingly name of force through all the West To lull their barbarous strifes in blissful rest. But who shall think to read the purposes Of God, or for his prayers and bended knees Mount the resistless car of Fate, and make The inscrutable Heaven human for his sake ? I saw the storm of war grow dark anew, And from its hoped eternal slumber drew CHARLEMAGNE. 69 My conquering sword. Ah, Joyeuse ! many a day With fierce delight we faced the thickest fray, And rushing lifeblood dimmed thy sheeny smile As the onset staggered, and the rampart pile Of dead rose round my feet. Fresh troublers came From the dim East, to whom the Frankish name Was yet an untold terror. Godless swarms Of Saxons brake their faith, and beat to arms, Vexing my frontier. Nobler foemen crossed The Southern hills ; our outraged breezes tossed Swart Islam's horsetails. Galafer was dead, Dead ere his child : a stranger in his stead Ruled lovely Spain : the old days were forgot, Mainet and Galerane remembered not. Then all my chiefs came round me, matchless knights, Sinewed for wondrous deeds, and old in fights. Tall Eric, gallant Ogier, Caraheu And Arnulf, mighty names ; and, comrades true, Gerard and fiery Gerin ; Anselm sage, With him, whose spreading beard was white with age, But wise his words, born in an elder day, Duke Naymes ; and scarce of lesser note than they My warlike gownsman Turpin ; Egbert, Guy, And Hoel, Richard eke of Normandy, And large-limbed Gerold, and stout Ganelon (So deemed we then — ah cursed traitor son 70 CHARLEMAGNE. Of France, had I but slain thee where we stood At Ingelheim in arms, or ere the blood Of half my bravest by thy treachery Was spilt !) — and Guillaume's stainless chivalry, Whose heart beneath his golden baldric beat Ever with holy longing ; Geoffrey fleet Of foot, and Eghart the grave seneschal ; And he, the pride, the glory of them all ! Ay me, my Roland, could I see thy face Kindle with joy of battle, as the space Of closing armies lessened, and thine eyes Flashed dreadful lightning on our enemies ! Foremost in shock of fight or tourney-sport, Stay of my host and darling of my court ; My peerless champion ! France and I had rest When our most sure defence was Roland's breast. High souls of heroes, whither are ye fled ? Say, is it you or I are dark and dead ? Oh envious Time ! oh fatal Roncesvaux, And deadly ambush of the mountain-foe ! They are not. Wave-washed Blaye holds Roland's tomb : Eric and Gerold in the forest-gloom Of the Red Land are lying : the Twelve Peers Sleep all in pleasant France, from Paynim spears Safe evermore : brave Ogier has his throne Far o'er the Eastern seas : and I alone CHARLEMAGNE. 71 Wear out my life's long evening, spent and gray, Dreading the coming of a darker day. Yet God hath blessed my arms : I thought He chose Me for His champion. Through the Gascon snows And back to Spain we beat the Moorish knights. Bards long shall sing those three renowned fights, When noble Ferabras with Ogier strove, And the brave Moor was won to Jesu's love ; Nor quite forget the deeds of Caraheu. With the false Saxons next we clashed anew, And the wild Huns and Avars, whom we drave Back to their deserts by the Northern wave. The land breathed free once more, and terrible Was the Frank sword, as song and story tell, Through all the barbarous realms. And now my hope Seemed with fulfilment crowned. Our father Pope In high St. Peter's dome, with mass and noise Of pealing psalms and hymns of white- robed boys, That Christmas eve at Rome, when embassies Of mighty kings stood round, and through dim eyes I saw as in a dream the awestruck rows Of gazing men, on my unworthy brows Set the tiara, hailed me Emperor Of all the West. But even as heretofore, Hope's flower fades in the grasping. As in dreams One strives to strive, for girt with horror he seems 72 CHARLEMAGNE. That still comes nearer, and his arms are numb, And seeks to call his comrades, but is dumb, — So stands the anointed monarch of the West With doubt and fear and fearful age oppressed ; Nearer the tumult comes, and I am weak And lonely. For I hear my warriors speak Of strange new races threatening my domains, New war-cries, leaders new. The fiery Danes Ravage my northern marches ; Godfred there Insults my old age, boasting soon to wear The German crown. Dire portents vex with dread Men's bosoms, meteor-torches brandished And flung with bright flash through the calm night- skies ; Eclipses too, and horrid prodigies Of monstrous birth-throes ; Aquisgranum's spire And golden apple its crest were struck with fire From heaven ; my palace-walls I felt this morn Tremble throughout. Not vainly shall the horn Of war be blown. I thought to change the old Eternal march of nations : I was bold To strive with Fate, and deemed in insolent pride To shape the earth anew, to stem the tide That still rolls on unwearied from the East, The womb of Time. Like an unbroken beast That kicks the traces, ignorantly I strove To tear the ruling reins from God above. CHARLEMAGNE. 73 Lord, I have sinned. Thou, Thou alone art wise. And that which shall be, though to my dim eyes Veiled and unguessed, open before Thee lies. I seek no more to pierce the mystery. The end will come, whether we wait or flee. Dynasties, empires, nations, ages, all Strike root, and swell to power, and reel, and fall. But still the work goes on. The grim waves rise : Wind calls to wind : stars vanish from our eyes In storm-black clouds : but Thou dost hold the helm, And Thou wilt make the harbour. Overwhelm My land with ruin, let this heathen surge Of conquest wreck my labours, and the dirge Of peace and hope be knelled by murder's roar, And flame and rapine sweep my native shore; I trust Thee still, and in the red sunset See promise of glorious morn. And yet — and yet — If my fair France must perish, if her day Of doom is come, and havoc and dismay Must choke her fields with blood of butchered sons, — God, whom I trust, while yet the thin sand runs Of this frail life, oh hear my latest prayer ! Close Thou these eyes, ere ruin and despair They look on — take, before that dreadful hour Shall come, the life Thou gavest, while the flower 74 CHARLEMAGNE. Of Frankland still may mourn their King, and lay Me low, where all that horror never may Vex my still heart, or stun my lifeless ears, For ever deaf and dead to hopes and fears, Lost in cold sleep, as I had ne'er had birth, Deep in the desolate places of the earth ! " The last wan light on the hill-tops was dead : The fading glory from the clouds had fled. No stir of air went forth upon the night : No moonbeam dared to touch with trembling light The King's pale brows : only the evening star Shone quiet in the peaceful heaven and far. And then from out the palace came a maid, With loving looks, his daughter ; and she staid A moment, wondering at his earnest face. Then moving softly, yet with regal grace, Drew to her sire, and laid her cheek to his, Scattering his tyrant fancies with a kiss. He smiled, and his brow lightened, his fond eye Havened in her sweet beauty ; silently He wound his arm about her gentle waist, And to the porch with equal steps they paced, Old man and girl, like some gnarled elm made fair With bounteous vine's embrace : so entered there. Then with a shout uprose the warriors tall, And there the King sat down among them all. A POEM OF JOYS. 'THE joys of Oxford living ! I cannot tell you how incredibly happy it makes me. I do not consult with sages or savants, philosophs or loud talkers ; With Church-loving zealots, Art-expounding zealots, or apostles of the universal negative. I go but little to lectures on week-days or sermons on Sundays. I sit and watch and am pleased to myself. I watch our young Englishmanos growing up from happy and vigorous boys into happy and vigor- ous men. I observe their work and their pastime (especially the latter, since there is much more of it). I am all that I see. I sit, stand, walk, run, leap, swim, shoot, bat, row, and occasionally read, Identifying myself out and out with the average man. 76 A POEM OF JOYS. The joys of Oxford living ! Motley the picture that is always before me. Men strolling about in square caps and unlovely little gowns : Dons hurrying by with short steps, and bundles of papers under their arms : The Quad, with its sacred grassplot, the staircases, the geraniums in the windows : In the streets, the easy lounge of graceful youth : Exquisites with large-checked raiment, boating roughs, reading men with long hair and pale faces : Smirking tradesmen, touts and toadies, cricket cads, dog-fanciers, watermen, men with flowers, men with birdcages and buffalo-horns, bowing scouts, cringing washerwomen : The gray towers, the green gardens, the soft air, the bright river with its crowd of boats : All this the background of the picture, occupied for me by a conspicuous central figure ; The image of him in whom my soul rejoices ; My friend, my lover, whose praises I sing ; That lissome, lightsome figure, full of life and stir and motion, That radiant incarnation of sunny, careless, all- welcoming enjoyment. A POEM OF JOYS. 77 The joys of Oxford living ! youth, my lover, best beloved, fortunate that thou art, Thy pleasant face is delightful to me. 1 am ravished with love of thy merry eyes, Thy long lithe limbs, slim body, lean flanks, strong haunches, and tough brown hands ; I delight myself watching them. I do not so much care to see the champion student, athlete, oar, or cricketer : I love to watch the ordinary man who goes through his ordinary time up here, And to live his life with him. The joys of Oxford living ! To wake in the morning, bright, active, fresh, lively, throwing off the bedclothes with a leap, The scout waking you with his clattering entrance, and the familiar " Breakfast in, Sir?" To get into one's bath, to sit down in it and sponge oneself all over with delightful water ; To dress quickly and carelessly, glad in the prospect of another jolly day before you ; To go to Chapel, or for a walk round the Parks, in- haling the morning air; To breakfast and smoke a pipe with three chums who commonize with you. 78 A POEM OF JOYS. The joys of Oxford living ! Sitting down for a steady grind in the sunny morn- ing, Having determined to cut old Growler's lecture, and chance his sending for you. The manifest progression, page after page mastered and left behind you ; Page after page of the mightiest thoughts of the mightiest men that ever trod this earth ; Their thought, their life, striking into you, thrilling through you : Pausing ever and anon to forget them for a moment, and silently feel your own life, your own strange unvvordable fancies, the tumult of your young blood, the blind movings and unintelligible lisp- ings of a power ye know not, pulse through your veins : So sitting, for three good hours, till it is time to eat a crust or so, and sally forth superb, full of blood, like a young untamed animal, into the sunshine and the living world. The joys of Oxford living ! Oh I am not begun yet ! Oh as yet I have told you nothing ! Oh happy one o'clock is the dawn of my day ! A POEM OF JOYS. 79 How shall I sing its rising, how tell all the glories it discloses, How paint the ferment and bustle, the revel and riot of athleticism, The joy and multiform excitement of the livelong afternoon ? The joys of Oxford living ! The getting into one's flannels, and strolling down after lunch to the River, one or two friends joining you in Quad., after you have shouted up at their windows, you linking your arm in theirs, and strolling on with tucked up trousers ; The lounge in the Barge, while the men are assem- bling ; The taking off of coats, and looking after your own particular oar ; The settling yourself on your seat, and seeing to your slider ; The easy at the Cherwell, when you get your sweater off, and the chill air makes you eager to be doing ; The two long strokes, and then take it up, eight of you swinging like one man ; Pushing hard against the stretcher, bringing your elbows sharply back, — the Cox. standing up and shouting at you ; 80 A POEM OF JOYS. Feeling your legs like solid pillars, washing your full weight off your oar ; Pulsing like part of a machine, seeing only a white jersey pulsing as regularly in front of you; Easying at last with a swish, your oar flat on the water, turning to joke with the man behind you ; Coming back hot and tired to the Barges, to enjoy your ample ablutions ; Sauntering thereafter up again to College, hungry and ready for dinner. The joys of Oxford living ! I look out on a summer day. The burning sun has but recently passed its meridian. The men stream out from the musty lecture-room, with a joyous feeling of rebound after the long dull hour. " Lunch on the ground, we won't wait for any one," says the Captain. Up we bolt to our rooms, change our things, I tell my scout to lay out supper for six, then thunder down the stairs, and across Quad, with a rush to the gate. Here is the drag, up we get, — "are we all here?" — off we go, rattling down the High, people turning to look at the happy, cool, white-flannelled party (a refreshing sight this blazing day). A POEM OF JOYS. 81 Past Magdalen Ground — " Who's that batting ? What did the 'Varsity get yesterday? By Jove that was near his wicket !" Out on to the grass, after a bread and cheese lunch, larking about, leapfrogging, shying the ball at your neighbour : Steady now — where am I to field ? — play ! The dodgy bowl, the ready bat, the brilliant hit, the sharp fielding, the swift run, the hard catch (ye gods, how he clutches it in his palms !), the pleasure of picking up the ball clean as it comes over the close clean turf: One's own innings, the way your bat gradually be- comes part of you, moving of itself, and threes and fours come without effort : The awful excitement towards the end of the innings, " for any sake play steady, we only want twelve more runs :" The rapture of delight when the winning hit is made. The joys of Oxford living ! I am crossing the Cherwell by the punt. It is a gray winter day, sharp air, dull sky, misty horizon — what then ? I get to Marston, strip to zephyr and drawers, and warm my legs at the fire before the race. G 82 A POEM OF JOYS. We are drawn up in line, the starter watching his opportunity to say Off! Every nerve is at full stretch, one after another breaks away. We are off, well together, sweeping over the ground with long racehorse-like strides, the pace begins to tell, take care as you go round the corners, dash into the straight, now, now, now, put on all you know, you are racing neck and neck you two, clench your fists harder, chest out, head back, in the last supreme effort ; Breast the white tape, and taste for one moment the intoxicating life of a god. The joys of Oxford living ! Lying on a broiling day in a punt under the trees, pretending to read Livy, or unblushingly enjoy- ing a yellow-backed novel : Paddling hard in a canoe against the winter floods, and dancing down the rapids in imminent dan- ger of upset : Rowing quietly down to Sandford in a tub-four, to bathe in the foaming lasher : Marching out to the Parks to the sound of martial music, or scoring bullseyes and centres at the butts above Botley : A POEM OF JOYS. 83 Pushing hard in the football melee, turning, twisting, dodging, dribbling through a dozen opponents : Making the hard white ball spin from gloved hand or springy racquet, and bound over the clattering wall: Practising for your College grinds, or taking a long walk into the country with a friend who differs from you as to the freedom of the will or Apos- tolical succession : Galloping, miles away from Oxford, over the soft Berkshire meadows, your horse rising eagerly to the leap, following the hounds, or your own sweet will : In winter, spring, summer, always fully occupied, not knowing what ennui means, delighted and de- lightful, all through the long afternoons — do I not well to sing your joys ? Is it wonderful that I am ravished with thy fairness, thy freshness, my friend, my lover? The joys of Oxford living ! The evening comes on, the men flock back to College. The roar of Hall sounds through the open door, as the scouts bustle along the lobby ; The Dons at the High Table sit beside their nectar, talking, smiling, bowing to each other over their sherry ; 84 A POEM OF JOYS. We order our commons, and growl horribly at the smallness of the bread, the badness of the pota- toes, the flatness of the beer ; The sound is as if you were in a cave below the sea, or in the lesson-room of a girls' school when the mistress has gone out for a moment ; Jokes fly about, heavy chaff is bandied, every now and then a wild burst of laughter draws reproach- ful glances from the High Table ; Exploits of the day are recounted, plans are made for the evening ; In an incredibly short space of time we have bolted an enormous quantity of food, and troop out into the raw air, leaving one luckless scholar behind to say grace when the Dons have done gorging ; We go in small parties to our rooms. The joys of Oxford living ! The table set with fruit and glasses, the room bright and warm after the cold Quad., the scout waiting to know if you want anything more : Or, dearer still, the rooms of one of your chief chums, where four or five of you draw chairs to the fire, and the digestive pipe is not forbidden to accom- pany the social glass : The friendly talk at the smaller gathering, poetry, philosophy, the River, who knows what, stream- A POEM OF JOYS. 85 ing on without pause — I swear there is nothing dearer to me in life than this : At the big Wine, the jokes and loud talking, the sparkling champagne, the song with its rattling chorus, the cigars handed round in tumblers ; The laughable speeches, your own attempt at a song, the animated discussion with the man next you ; The incipient bearfights towards the end, the up- roarious noise and excitement. The joys of Oxford living ! The approach of nine breaks up the party ; we have had our coffee and anchovy toast ; some of the men want to get out of College : Some are off to play billiards, some have got up a quiet rubber, some have gone upstairs to a room where there is a piano. You and I will go like decent men and do a couple of hours' reading — I will bring my books to you. We put on boating jackets, and sit down at opposite sides of the table, rarely interchanging a word, the green reading-lamp throwing its light on our books. Steadily, albeit with yawns, we wade through the tough text. There, that will do for to-night ; pull your chair to the fire, and smoke one pipe before you turn in. 86 A POEM OF JOYS. You read me a good thing you came across lately, possibly a poem of your own, or we sit and talk dreamily, gazing into the fire. Have a soda ? No, thanks. I am off. Goodnight. In a quarter of an hour I am fast asleep, the night breeze through the open window blowing on the face which is alone visible above the bedclothes. The joys of Oxford living ! Oh me, I have said so little ! Oh me, there are so many things I ought certainly to have mentioned ! Oh my palette is so small, and the scenes and colours around me shift so quickly. Have I told you about spouting at the Union, riding a steeplechase, cheeking a Don, larking in the Quad, at night, brewing mulled wine or iced cups, extemporizing tragedy scenes al fresco in the moonlight ? Have I given you the faintest idea of what College rooms are like of an evening ? Have I shown you one fraction of all that makes the Summer Term a vision of delight, marvellous to look back upon all one's life, the poetry and romance of bachelor days, even when one has not ladies up to fall in love with ? Or am I not an ape, an oaf, a driveller, feebly trying to scoop up the ocean of life into my pint- A POEM OF JOYS. 87 pot? — never mind, I know it, and yet am not altogether unhappy. The joys of Oxford living ! youth, my lover, best beloved, fortunate that thou art, tiearken now this once to my voice ; despise not thou my teaching. 1 give thee good counsel, being thy friend ; I guide thee like a skilful pilot into a haven of safety. Short is the summer of youth, and it behoves thee to look to the harvest. Live well thy life now : leave as few regrets behind as possible. Oxford life is like the champagne thou drinkest — the comparison is not new, but neither are the newest things always the truest — : For a little it is pleasant to the taste, and doeth good to both soul and body ; But when once the cork is opened the bouquet is swift to evaporate ; And if it be indulged in to excess, of a surety thou shalt suffer for it in the morning. TO MY REVIEWERS. /^VH vex me not, fierce critic clan, With rules of ought and shall: I give my best, whene'er I can, Howe'er the fancy fall. I rhyme not, I, to charm the few With gems of faultless art ; Careless what please or displease you, I sing from heart to heart. To build with care the laboured line, Each sound in perfect place, Or nicely mimic bards divine — I study not such grace. I sing, like every wildwood thing, Where'er my heart hath lust ; I sing because I love to sing, I sing because I must. TO MY LADY OF DREAMS. "C'ORGIVE me if the impassioned strain No more can be repressed ; If my unhallowed words profane The secrets of my breast. For life's slow lapse is hard to bear, Youth's ardours suffer wrong ; And grief is heavy, and joy is rare, And love has tarried long. Stoop down from thy ethereal height, Queen of my life's desire ! Through this world's darkness let thy light Burn toward me as a fire. Make warm dull hours that idly wait, And make the live air song — Earth without love is desolate, And love has tarried long. 90 TO MY LADY OF DREAMS. My youthful visions knew thy face, Thy whisper kept them pure ; In hope to win thy heavenly grace 'Twas easy to endure. But days are long, and doubts are strong, Frail vows we soon forget. For love, for love, my heart-strings move ; Oh, must love tarry yet? SONG. T I 7"HO knows her, tell me, my peerless maiden, The girl of my love, the queen of my heart ? For my soul with praise and carol is laden, And Love seeks ease from his sister Art. For my soul is summer, my heart is love, And the earth is bright as the skies above ; For the wild birds sing and the wild woods ring Joy of her beauty, my flower, my dove ! Is she tall and stately, a queen of story, And clothed with grandeur of maiden pride ; With the whole world's praise for her dower and glory, Splendidly fashioned, a hero's bride ? Oh dearer to Love is the lowly cot Than the gilded palace where peace is not, And he decks his bower with the woodland flower, While the garden's darling is clean forgot. 92 SONG. Is she wise with lore of the buried ages, The thought and song of the world's young prime ? Does her rapt soul kindle in poet pages, Voiced like a star in its rhythmic chime ? Ah no, 'tis a spell of more magic might, Heard in her voice, and seen in the light Of love that lies in her heavenly eyes, And she knows not yet why they shine so bright ! For it's love that speaks in her sparkling glances, Lurks half-hid in her exquisite smile, Prompts her maidenly faint advances, Soft retreats, and delicious guile. Haughty to others, and shy to me, Till an hour that's coming shall set love free, Free to leap as a torrent steep Leaps from its hill to the arms of the sea. Deep dark eyes, like the midnight splendour Of tropic heaven when the moon is hid, Eyes that flash, or divinely tender Melt and droop under trembling lid : Lips that her life's young warmth express, Yet pure as her own heart's holiness, As the thoughts that dwell in her bosom's swell, Eden to long for, Heaven to bless ! SONG. 93 Who knows her, tell me, this matchless maiden? Where shall I find her, when will she come ? For my soul with hunger and passion is laden, And Love is fearful, and summer dumb. Oh when I find her, oh when we meet, Shall I not swoon with the heart's mad beat, As in old Greek shrine, in a trance divine, The worshipper fell at Cythera's feet ! LINES FOR MUSIC. '"PHE rose must fade ; but when it dies A fragrance we express, That wins from death the perfumed breath Of its frail loveliness. The song is hushed, but in our hearts The witch-notes quiver still, And memory keeps the strain that sleeps, Immortalized at will. Oh days that made the pulse beat high, Too sweet, too bright, to last, Ye perish not, nor all forgot Sink to the barren Past : At memory's touch ye live anew, Anew your warmth inspires, And tender eyes, 'neath stranger skies, Relume familiar fires. A REBEL SCHOLAR. f~*~ IVE me a bright black roguish eye Above a glowing cheek, And you may read the how and why In most melodious Greek. 'Twas themes like this Anacreon sung, Catullus knew their charm ; But wherefore seek in alien tongue What's here as kind and warm ? The blithe blue sky, the sunlight high, The laughing earth and heaven, The tenderer joy of girl and boy, To me as them were given. For me the flowerets bud and blow, The happy wood-birds sing ; I hail my kindred, high and low, In every breathing thing. So let me live the old Greek life, Keep you the old Greek page : My heart knows more of life's best lore Than's writ by bard or sage. AN APOLOGY. "D RIGHT-EYES said to me one day, Write me now a song, I pray, Some delightful witty rhyme Such as bards of olden time Gave the ladies whom they sung, Praising them with courtly tongue. Stuff it full of quaint conceit, Dainty jest and image sweet, Hearts and darts and Cupid's snare In the meshes of my hair, Till each jealous Oxford dame Burns with envying Silvia's fame. Pile up vows and passion fond, Deep devotion, far beyond Any loves of real life, Tears and sighs and hopeless strife To forget my beauty. Why Have we no such poetry Now ? Have poets' hearts turned cold ? Dead is Cupid, or grown old ? AN APOLOGY. 97 Ah but, Bright-eyes, you forget That the bards you so regret Did not work for idle praise. No mere wreath of barren bays Was the guerdon of their song, Else they had not written long. No, by Venus ! But the maid Whom they sighed and sung for, paid Each sweet song with sweeter bliss, Overpaid it with a kiss. Would my Bright-eyes give to me For my labour such a fee, I would praise her so in song She should live in fame as long As Isolt or Guinevere, Beatrice or Juliet dear. Lovers then by her should swear As by Hero fond and fair, And the story of my flame Make immortal Silvia's name. H SILVIA. f^OLD in her kindness, like the chaste moonlight, Even when kindest, Silvia's cruel quite : And yet she charms me in my own despite. Let her be kind, if not so fair, or fair, If not so coldly kind, I should not care : But Silvia's both, and I must e'en despair. SONG. HAVE gotten a dainty prize, To treasure and fondle and pet ; A sweet little thing with wild bright eyes, With bright eyes wild and wet. Oh love, my love with the raven hair, Why are thy wild eyes wet ? I will shield thee, guard thee, cherish and care, And never, never forget. But she will not listen, she will not speak, And her looks are scared and strange, For her breast's too young, and her heart's too weak, To bear love's mighty change. She thinks of her home, and she hangs her head ; She has left it but to-day ; And the path that her young feet now must tread Leads whither she scarce can say. 100 SONG. What shall I do with this love of mine ? How shall I dry her eyes ? How shall she taste of love's new wine 'Mid all her tears and sighs ? I will hold her close to my heart all night, And I think ere the morning come She'll have dried her eyes in a new love-light, And made in my breast her home. TU NE OUAESIERIS. A SK not, my queen, my beauty, What end the gods may give Love is its own sweet duty ; Be still, and let us live. Bright youth is lord of pleasure, Glad hours are round us now ; I weave their choicest treasure A garland for thy brow. Glad hours and sad go by me, And, as we drift along, All things of love shall fly me, All things of mirth and song : Even now that dark to-morrow O'ershadows all my way ; I turn from coming sorrow To sun me in to-day. 102 TU NE QUAESIERIS. What more, my queen ? Hereafter, When you have long forgot Our pleasant days and laughter, And youth and joy are not, Lone Memory's sad sweet pleasure Shall charm as thou dost now, And weave her choicest treasure A garland for thy brow. EUTHANASIA. Hie gelidi fontes, hie mollia prata, Lyeori : Hie nemus : hie ipso tecum consumerer aevo. T KNOW a green and shady dell, The bound of fragrant leas ; A drowsy streamlet murmurs through, Filled full with languid ease. In fiery summer's wildest heat The stealthy-footed breeze Makes musical its cool recess With hum of laden bees. Ah, sweet, but were you. there with me To hear the May-birds sing, The leaves would have a tenderer green, A fresher breath the spring ; And all these weary thoughts would steal Away on silent wing, With selfish flames, and sordid aims, And hopes that sadness bring. 104 EUTHANASIA. And there, when round thy soft sweet form My trembling arm was pressed, And, like a dove's that sleeps, thy head Lay quiet on my breast ; And either sat with half-closed eyes, As if the spirit's rest Too pure, too holy were to be By rapture's looks expressed : Then, darling, while the gazing hours Unheeded slipped away, Sorrow and joy would melt in peace, To-day and yesterday ; The world would fade, the scarce-felt years, For all their tyrant sway, Mould graciously two loving hearts That breathed perennial May. VALEDICTORY. A I THAT, you would part so coldly, Leave me not time to speak One word to bring the proud blood Into your colourless cheek ? Go, then ! I ask not a minute's stay, to make me more woman-weak. Linger not, look not backward, Make no regretful sign ; Madden me not with the pity Of those mute eyes divine ; Or the quick words leap from their burning bed, words that are me not mine. You dare not face me thus ! Bare truth, and your eyes must fall. Lady, you know I gave you My being's sum and all ; Gave up my freedom, and kissed my chains, rejoic- ing to be your thrall. 106 VALEDICTORY. I lived but in your presence, I hung on your least words, Your hand made glorious music On my soul's strings ; the chords Quivered and leapt beneath its touch, with joy that love affords. And now you turn and tell me This was no fault of yours ; You pardon my presumption ; Your sovereign grace endures Even to pity my hapless fate, and trust to time which cures. I gave you all the worship Of a heart untainted yet ; That had never loved another, That can never now forget ; And all my reward, as you turn away, is that your eyes are wet. ALICE. A LICE ! the name has something bright About it, bright and fair, That calls to sight the golden light Upon her shining hair ; The stately head, the vivid blush, The dreamful depth of eyes Whose lustre thrills you with a flush Of ever new surprise. That queenly carriage, gracious smile, And musical low voice, My tranced sense did once beguile, And made my heart rejoice ; Rejoice with pure unselfish joy That Heaven had made so fair A thing, a gem without alloy, Meet for a monarch's wear. 108 ALICE. Bright sunny dreams be thine, sweet maid, Bright as thy own bright brow ! Nor ever sorrow cast a shade More dark than dims it now. I may not speak one word to mar The maiden light that shines Deep in those eyes like some pure star Where angels build their shrines. But yet your face shall often come In many a distant day, To charm and guide, like thoughts of home, When passion tempts astray. Though never more we two may meet, 'Tis something to have seen That here on earth so pure and sweet And fair a form has been. SONG. O OFTLY smile the sunset skies, The boat bounds fast on the freshening seas ; The stout mast bends, the brown sail fills, And the stern-sheet strains to the following breeze. Leap out, brave boat, for the skies are red, And the children at home are crying for bread. The white moon rises full in the east Over a cloud-bank heavy and low ; And one, and two, faint stars come out, And cheerily still the swift winds blow. Leap out, brave boat, for the skies are red, And the children at home are crying for bread. Oh, fierce are storms at the midnight hour, And the wild waves roar like beasts at play. Was it the wind that made her start Pale from her pillow, and shudder, and pray ? Her foot was light, and soft her tread, But the children turned in their quiet bed. 110 SONG. Slowly comes the dreary dawn — Wind and waves, will they never tire ? Weary eyes at the cabin-door, Weary hearts by the dying fire. The morning skies are cruel and red, And the children at home are crying for bread. AMERICAN NEGRO'S HYMN* -*- TV/I" INE eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord, The bending of His battle-bow, the baring of His sword ; Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord, When He came to set us free. Glory, glory, halleluiah ! The Lord hath set us free. With shaking of the nations, with the hurricane of fight, The Lord of Hosts in anger came to do His people right j The hearts of our oppressors turned to water at the sight, When He came to set us free. The cannon thundered round Him, their blackness hid His way, His lightnings flashed before Him through the fierce- ness of the fray ; The horse-hoofs of the mighty ones were broken in the day When He came to set us free. * At the great Peace Festival in Boston, a hymn was sung by coloured vocalists, beginning, "Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord. " 112 AMERICAN NEGRO'S HYMN. Their swords were sharpened bitterly, and bold the men of wrong ; Stuart and Lee and Jackson, they let the good work long ; But the Lord of Hosts than men of war was many times more strong When He came to set us free. So at length the gates of brass were burst, and rent the foeman's thrall, The chains were broken off our necks, we heard the helper's call, And the chariots of salvation drave through Rich- mond's ruined wall, When He came to set us free. There is mourning in the North, there is mourning in the South, For the young men of the people who have perished in their youth ; But our hearts are filled with gladness, and a song is in our mouth, To the Lord that set us free. Glory, glory, halleluiah ! The Lord hath set us free. AN INCIDENT AT LUCKNOW. " 1VT EVER mind, boys, it's all for the good cause !"— And down he fell, stabbed through : Slain fighting for an alien faith, strange laws, A land he never knew ; Slain 'neath our flag, beside an English gun, In the last moment of the victory won. The triumph-shout pealed round him ; sobs of joy Shook many a steel-clad breast ; The strong man paled and trembled like a boy ; The mother's arms caressed Her babe in choking silence, while the thrill Of passionate bliss held all her pulses still. Yet there he lay, and smiled upon the hand That stabbed him to the heart ; Smiled in the faces of that awe-struck band Who, checked by dreadful start, Had stooped to search his face with shuddering eyes, And now stood dumb in terrible surprise, i 114 AN INCIDENT AT LUCKNOW. He had borne all the labour ; through those days And nights of grim distress, When hope had well-nigh fled, and all the ways Were thronged with pitiless Black faces line on line, and as food failed Men who had gone to death with laughter, quailed Before that awful choice,— their children, wives, And sisters, day by day, To starve by inches, or gasp out their lives On the spear-point, the prey Of murderous devils mad with lust and hate — And all they could do to stand still and wait ! And now all pain was past, the rescue come : But he shall never see Their raptured meeting — for the sons of home, Storming to victory, With erring stroke have given that true heart pause " Never mind, boys, it's all for the good cause ! " Oh England, mother of heroes ! all thy roll Is fair with glorious names Of thy own sons, partakers of thy soul : They, they are thine and Fame's. Spare yet an hour, amid thy tales of glory, To drop a tear o'er this poor Indian's story. AN INCIDENT AT LUCKNOW. 115 Find yet a place upon that blazoned page For one whom neither tie Of blood, nor zeal of fame, nor faith's high rage Led on for thee to die ; And keep that nameless memory green among The noblest heirs of English praise and song. DECLARATION OF WAR, 1870. r J "HE blast of war is blown again, The startling bugles sound ; Loud rings the tramp of marching men, And Europe quakes around. The people that delight in war Their murderous flag advance, (The crimes beneath that tricolor Wrought in thy name, O France !) And thousand answering swords flash out From every Rhineland height ; Hark where the eager patriot shout Anticipates the fight ! Before yon moon, whose crescent pale Shrinks the dread sight to see, Again with waning lustre fail, What fearful change shall be ! DECLARATION OF WAR, 1870. 117 Myriads, now glad in youthful strength, Shall cumber the red ground, And Rhine roll down his bloody length Sick with a nation's wound. Madmen, what mean these cries of rage ? What frenzy fires your veins ? Stop, ere ye dye Time's shuddering page With fresh accursed stains ! Why and for whom? What seek ye? Fools, What quarrel is this of yours ? Still must ye kiss the rod that rules, And food for Hell procures ? Bloodhounds of France, whose ravenous voice " To Berlin" swells the cry, Who bids your brazen throats rejoice, And yelp for victory ? Fickle and false ! So soon forgot That wrathful winter day *, The bristling steel, the menaced shot, The Elysees' guarded way? Behold your work — To rend in twain The seamless robe of Peace, Dash Freedom to the dust again, And bid her struggles cease. 19th January, 1870 — the day of Victor Noir's funeral. 118 DECLARATION OF WAR, 1870. With impious hands to tear the breast That feeds you with its life, And stand forth parricides confessed In France-destroying strife. To help your robbers to their own — This is the thing ye do — And seat securer on his throne The Man of 'Fifty-two : The man whose hirelings' swords are red With blood of you and yours. Oh, by the memory of your dead, The hate which still endures, If not for these, for very shame Forbear ! That blood still cries. Still, still its vengeful Furies claim Napoleon's destinies. In vain, in vain ! Peace veils her brow ; Hope's morning sinks in night. For Germany and freedom now, Thou God of battles, fight ! A SONG OF PEACE: September, 1870. \ 1 THITE-winged angel of heaven, fair queen with the snow-white breast, O our mistress, foully driven from the beautiful place of thy rest, From the fair sweet banks of the Rhine, from the fields of sunny France, From thy throne enwreathed with the vine and girt with the peasants' dance, Our mistress yet, though abased and exiled, driven afar, Fleeing in fearful haste from the ravishing grasp of War, Sweet Peace, our lady, our queen, whose face is fair with a light As of skies whose sunset sheen is saddened by thoughts of night ; Giver of all that makes life pure and free and blest, Truth, and the joy that wakes new blood in the bondman's breast, 120 A SONG OF PEACE. Yea, from whose bounteous horn and outstretched merciful hand Music and mirth are born to gladden a thankless land : Shall we not sing to thee yet in thy low estate, our queen, Say, shall we crouch at the threat of War, and his angry mien, Bidding us tune our lyres to loftier notes than thine, Glow with martial fires, and rage of blood divine ? Nay, we will own no other, our exiled queen, but thee, Nor at such bidding smother the songs of liberty. Strike then the olden strain, peal high the accustomed song Once more, as of old, again, a coward people among, 'Mong knees that seek the dust, and hearts that are sick with fears, While a tyrant's minions thrust us back to the barbarous years. (To resist, is it not to rebel, and rebellion is it not sin?) Loud let our anthem swell, above the accursed din That round thy enemy's feet in horrid turmoil floats, Where fury and frenzy meet and clutch at each other's throats. A SONG OF PEACE. 121 For a service other than thine, fair queen, is in favour now, And the fields that wave on the Rhine, that are reaped in the sweat of the brow, They are bright, but not with corn, they glitter with steely tops, They are reaped on the autumn morn, a harvest of bloody crops. For our ears are stunned with the sounds of battle, the clash of arms, The cannon's thunderous rounds, the trumpet's rapid alarms, The charging cavalry's clatter, the shriek of bayoneted men, The rifles' pitiless patter receding, returning again, And breaking o'er hill and vale in a torrent of iron rain, While faint on the deafened gale come the last low groans of the slain. It is he, thy demon foe, and the sound of his going afar, His trampling hoofs we know, and the roll of his brazen car, The sweep of his long procession, as through the choice of the land He speeds to take possession, and yells to his eager band, 122 A SONG OF PEACE. To the wild, blood-drunken rout that press tumul- tuous after — Hark to their answering shout, and shrieks of ghastly laughter ! And up through the high Vosges passes, by sheer crags peaked with snow, Through the rock ravines and crevasses of rock, the tramplings go, Down the fair trellised hills, out into the smiling plain, Where opulent plenty tills the fields of bright Lor- raine, And many a peaceful farm, grown old in the fruitful years, Has forgotten to dream of harm, forgotten the taste of tears. Till the tumult gathers and swells, more fierce is the demon's cry, Like the shout of a hundred hells, as he rolls his hungry eye Where low in the lurid west a queenly city stands, With magical splendours drest, a shrine of worship- ping lands. Fair palace of light and laughter, our Europe's miracle, Must pillar and roof and rafter be rent by the burst- ing shell ? A SONG OF PEACE. 123 Must the furious foeman storm through the home of a world's desire, And girdle thy beauteous form with a zone of mur- derous fire ? May none of us all who have made our sport in thy sheltering arms Screen thee now from the shade of death and dead- liest harms ? Thy lovers have left thee lone, they stand all scorn- fully by, Turning to mirth thy moan, criticising thy agony. For the cup of thy sins is filled with wine of judg- ment red, And the note of thy doom is shrilled, and the bolt of vengeance sped. O our rulers, a hecatomb truly ye offer to well- pleased gods, A sacrifice slaughtered duly, and red with the stripes of your rods ; The savour of it mounts high, most meet for gods to smell, And a nation's torture-cry is the priestly funeral knell, And the smoke that rises up is the steam of a nation's gore, Whose tears have brimmed the cup wherefrom it is sprinkled o'er. 124 A SONG OF PEACE. And the gods ye honour and serve, from whom your allegiance never May once for a moment swerve, but whom ye adore for ever, They are these, oh our rulers, pride, and greed, and the lust of gain, Red murder sulphurous-eyed, and fat with flesh of the slain, And envy, malice, and hate, a trinity of hell — These are your gods, ye great ! of a truth ye serve them well. And these that swell your train, your attendant courtiers meet, Who press on your steps amain with courtly follow- ing feet ? Gaunt-limbed rapine is there, with pestilence close beside, Massacre, rout, despair, their pale lips gaping wide, Famine and fever next, boon comrades sworn and true, Treachery's brows perplexed, and cheeks of ashen hue, Lust with his ravenous eyes, revenge with his cunning gait, Horror and swift surprise and cruelty on you wait. A goodly liveried band our lordlings keep in their pay, Eager at their command, like wolves that scent their prey. A SONG OF PEACE. 125 Are ye so bold, my masters ? have ye not any fears Of the strange and swift disasters that dog the changeful years, Of days when these that attend you, seeing your reign is past, Shall cease any more to befriend you, and turn and tear you at last ? Nay, for who doth not praise your wisdom, wise in your day ? Who is so mad as raise his hand when ye bid him stay? Laugh on then, feast and carouse, crown high your riotous bowls, With the brand of Cain on your brows, and the curse of blood on your souls. Oh tortured souls, my brothers ! oh bondmen of bloody graves ! Oh men not your own but another's, not men but serfs and slaves ! How long will ye writhe and bear, how long shall your tears and groans Be counted as no man's care, and the flesh of your bodies and bones Be the pavement trodden upon by those who in guilt and shame Slide to a slippery throne, and chase the demon of fame? 126 A SONG OF PEACE. Are ye not free as they to breathe the peaceful air, To bask in the peaceful day, in the sunlight calm and fair? What, is not your blood too a precious thing in your eyes? Life is pleasant to you, and the warmth of summer skies. Are ye not fools and blind to give yourselves bound to these, Body and soul entwined in the net of their cruelties, Giving your mouths to be torn by the bit of a tyrant's rein, Eating the bread of scorn, and drinking the wine of pain? Ay, and for what fair end? What guerdon have ye of your ills ? What has such weight to bend the might of a million wills ? To flatter a demagogue's passion, to feed the pomp of a fool, To name a new ribbon for fashion, a theme for boys at school. Curse on the idiot breath that swells the trump of strife ! Hireling fools of death, will ye never awake to life? A SONG OF PEACE. 127 Surely I hear the stir of a mighty gathering flood, " Are the Prussians Christians, Sir — then why do we shed their blood?" But slavery's night is long, the day-spring slow to break, And the rod of the rulers is strong, and the heart of the people weak. Yet the ages work their will, and time is the tool of fate, And the patient centuries still make bare the orient gate. Shine forth, fair freedom's morn, shine out in the long-dark East ! Shine over nations born to the service of peace, released From those who have held them for ages in thrall, in a bloody chain, And laughed as they paid them their wages, dealing them death for gain. Shine on the ransomed nations, bond no more but free. Shine upon civilization's bloodless pageantry. Shine upon War cast down, upon Peace new throned, and her brows Crowned with an aureole crown, with the light of the people's vows ; 128 A SONG OF PEACE. Hers no diademed pride, no guardian swords and shields, But hers the tamed hill-side, the wealth of harvested fields, The shout of the vintage throng, the clamour of market-towns, And the carolling herd-boy's song ringing out on the breezy downs. Shine on the forges' roar, on the furious furnaces' glare, Where streams of dazzling ore make blind the jubi- lant air, On the thundering hammers' beat, on the engines' pant and snort, On the roll of the bustling street and the din of the busy port, On trade in her thousand marts, made bright with a million sails, On the smiling sister Arts, on the quiet of homely vales, On the heathery mountains trod by the huntsman's feet alone, On men that know their God, and kneel at no other throne. When Peace shall lift us high to the beams of a purer day, Above the demagogue's cry, and the terror of despot's sway : A SONG OF PEACE. 129 When the war-sword's blood-gilt steel is beat into harvest-shears, And the thick grape-bunches reel at the stroke of curved spears : When each man owns his life, bound round by federal laws, No tool of a tyrant's strife, no prop of an obsolete cause, But dwells 'mid song and dance in the fields of sunny France, And under his olive and vine on the banks of the fair-flowing Rhine. K THE FLAG OF BATTLE. A WILD cry leaps, like thunder's roar, Across the waves to England's shore. The shout of battle's on the breeze : Shall England 'scape in times like these ? Dear mother-isle, no fear be thine ! Thy flag of battle rules the brine. Like thunder goes our answer back O'er tossing seas and tempest's wrack ; If foes insult our banner thus, Our ironclads must speak for us. What means yon distant sound of guns ? 'Tis England calling to her sons. She kindles with her ancient flame, And bids us save her soil from shame. THE FLAG OF BATTLE. 13] A million voices send reply — For thee, dear land, we'll gladly die ; Save ancle-deep in English gore, No foe shall tread our island shore. Unfurl thy banner to the blast ! By all the voices of the Past, By all the sacred names of yore, We'll guard it as they did before. THE SCOTCHMAN IN OXFORD. r\H Oxford suns are warm and bright, And Oxford skies are blue, The sunset clouds have richer light, And flush a ruddier hue : But there's a brighter, stranger charm About my Northern skies, And half is from their own blithe beam, And half from Jessie's eyes ! Oh Oxford fields are fair and fresh, And dainty-clad her trees, The cowslips bloom on Cumnor height And down by God stow leas : But there the trees more loving bend O'er grass of softer green, Whose little flowers look happier up Where Jessie's foot has been ! THE SCOTCHMAN IN OXFORD. 133 Oh sweet to float, the long day clone, Adown the shadowed stream, While light winds whisper through the leaves, And pale the oar-blades gleam : But ah for yon lone Highland bay, Where evening's light sleeps stiller, When Goatfell's shadow dusks the wave, And Jessie holds the tiller ! Oh many and many a rousing song My merry comrades sing, When laugh and shout see midnight out And dancing glasses ring : But far more witching strains I've heard Our Northern wilds among ; 'Twas Scotland's songs that stole my heart, And Jessie's lips that sung ! Oh many and many a graceful form Through Oxford streets trip fast, And seem to frown when cap and gown Too daring glances cast : But English maidens' lips are pale, And English roses weak, Matched with the blush that's mantling now On Jessie's glowing cheek ! PLANS FOR THE HOLIDAYS. /^OME, shall I not this summer go To see the wondrous hills of snow, Which once in boyhood visiting I loved, and still their memories cling With dreams of boyhood strangely blent, And fragrant sad environment Of old-world hopes and fancies fled, Like scent of pansies long time dead ? Still from the vale of Chamounix Mont Blanc's white world heaves to the sky. The Jungfrau soars celestial fair, With rose-hues of the evening air. The dark and dreadful Matterhorn Communes with Heaven in lonely scorn, Though reft since then his iron crown. And gladly could I ramble, down In some sequestered Alpine glen, Or change the homes and haunts of men PLANS FOR THE HOLIDAYS. \ ■) For pathless fields of ice, or oar My liquid way by Leman's shore, And watch the hues of sunset burn Deep in thy lucid wave, Lucerne. Yet one thing there my heart would miss, A dearer, deeper joy than this — Fair though the fields, and bright the skies, And kind the glance of friendly eyes — A nameless bliss, a restful sense, A silent sacred influence, That dims the eye with very light When Scotland's mountains meet my sight, And makes each name of loch and hill Ring in my ear like music still : And, travelling in that stranger land, Full oft home-weary might I stand, Gaze over hill and vale and stream As struggling with some tedious dream, And feel, while all around was fair, Myself an outcast wanderer there. Then no, no, no ! I will not go. Too brief, too brief to squander so These golden years of youthful prime, So fleeting is the happy time. So soon the long untiring stride Breasting with joy the mountain-side, 136 PLANS FOR THE HOLIDAYS. The feet that skim the springy heath, The undizzied eye and easy breath, And heart that never learned to quail In perilous pass, shall flag and fail, And colder, feebler years begin My lungs to clog, my veins to thin. Then now, while still the rushing blood Brims all my frame with spring-tide flood, While feet are light, and limbs are strong, The glorious Bens and braes among In mine own country will I wander ; And " doon some trottin' burn's meander," And o'er the moor, and up the height, Roam in unspeakable delight, And hear the moorcock whirring spring, And see the fresh-run salmon fling, And bound o'er gulfs of treacherous peat, And crunch the rock with clambering feet, And gaze on mountain landscape fair, And breathe the keen delightful air, With heather fragrance and the scent Of sweetgale exquisitely blent ; Resting awhile by some green well Whose name at eve the shepherds tell, Or fanned by gales more wildly free, Where some long offshoot of the sea PLANS FOR THE HOLIDAYS. 137 Winds inward, girt with mountain arms, And earth and ocean blend their charms — For Nature's beauties wherefore roam, When there are scenes so fair at home ? The Clyde, from Gourock down to Arran, Makes banks of Rhine seem tame and barren ; Sannox and Rossie, small in height, For form intense and varied light Match Tyrol peak or Dolomite ; The Kyles of Bute may fearless vie With Danube foaming full and high ; The Sounds of Jura and of Mull Are more sublimely beautiful ; But, give the bard his choice, he'll seek Scenes wilder yet, where scarce they speak The tongue in which I vainly try To paint their wondrous scenery. I'll leave unseen the Perthshire hills Which Tay with shining pictures fills, Stern Erocht's dark untrod recesses, And Rannoch's awesome wildernesses, Athol and Badenoch's uplands drear Peopled along by wandering deer, Where the enormous Grampians lift Bleak shoulders seamed with snowy drift — And pleasant straths of Dee and Spey. But north by west I'll hold my way. 138 PLANS FOR THE HOLIDAYS. Appin, Lochaber, and Locheil Some sidelong days unblamed may steal, From where lone Etive lies like glass Beneath dark Cruachan's giant mass, To the great king of Scottish peaks. Then, where the unbroken billow breaks First since it left the Hesperian strand, On Ardnamurchan's rocks I'll stand, And set my face to journey far Toward Northern waves and Polar star. By Sunart and the lone Loch Shiel, Where Charlie met his liegemen leal, Unchecked I'll track my arduous way ; By many a heath-girt winding bay, And rocky cape, and wooded isle, Where Aylort and bright Morar smile, And that remoter Lake of Heaven, Name by some soothful singer given : So boat the loch, and breast the hill, Once and again, successive, till I reach my wild week's welcome bourne, Thy sheltering farm, unmatched Loch Hourn. Thence on by that enchanted strand, The loveliest shore in fair Scotland, Where round Loch Duich's crystal mere With green hillsides reflected clear, PLANS FOR THE HOLIDAYS. 139 And sweet Loch Alsh, and Carron fair, That bask in the warm summer air, The giant hills of Wester Ross From Ben Attow to Applecross Look seaward far to Eigg ar d Rum, And, rolled in lurid glow and gloom, Abrupt, majestic, dark, and high, Start up the peerless peaks of Skye. There long I'd stand, and wistful gaze, And dream perchance of bygone days, How once with thee, true friend, I went From battlement to battlement Of Scuirnangillean's crest sublime That scorns the ravages of time, Boated Kyleakin's boiling tide, And climbed great Blaven's crumbling side, And slept, Coruisk, beside thy dark Lone water, where the wandering bark So strangely found us food and fire. Nor, pressing northward, would I tire Before my glad eyes rested on The mighty hills of Torridon, And Slioch towering terribly, Sheer from thy sylvan wave, Maree. There spend a long sweet summer day, Then, rising sateless, take my way 140 PLANS FOR THE HOLIDAYS. By the long lochs and mighty cliffs, With flitting sails of white-winged skiffs, Led northward by three lonely peaks, Where broad again the Atlantic breaks, Hurling upon the shattered shore The surge direct from Labrador. No cornfields wave, no pasture land Relieves that bleak tremendous strand ; Black hills soar straight from salt lochs black, And scarce you pick your devious track Through miles on miles of crumbling stones, (Creation's refuse joints and bones !) And not one faintest shepherd path Leads to thy final cliff, Cape Wrath. There, at the ending of the world, Where white waves ceaselessly are hurled Against five hundred feet of rock That rings beneath the eternal shock, I'd rest once more in that lone tower, And watch the lamps at midnight hour. Then eastward keep the mountain road, And bless the barrier, Heaven-bestowed, The tumbling leagues of stormy sea That guard the isle of liberty. Oh, standing where the billows roll Tumultuous from the Northern Pole Through the long cliffs of Eribol, PLANS FOR THE HOLIDAYS. 141 Or where Ben Loyal watchful rears His serried rank of granite spears, Shall I regret the southern skies, The snowy Alps that stately rise Above the olive and the vine, Mirrored in dark blue depths divine ? Ah no ! though rude and bleak this shore, I'd rather hear the breakers roar, Shouting on high in stormy glee The tameless chorus of the sea, Than flute and cithern softly played At eve beneath the linden shade. Dear land, a thousand harps have sung Thy praise to Erse or English tongue ; Accept one later love, a heart Unskilled in song or tuneful art, Yet shrining in the very seats Of being, while my bosom beats, Devotion deep as theirs who fell In fight to show they loved thee well ! Still at the sound of Scotland's name My life-blood glows with patriot flame : Still, still I own that dear control : Still to the tartan warms my soul : And still, though friendless, pinched, and poor, I'd rather delve on Scottish moor, 142 PLANS FOR THE HOLIDAYS. Than find rank, riches, friends, and fame, On soil that wears another name. Cursed be my recreant heart, my hand Withered, my inmost self unmanned, May life desert my trembling frame, If e'er I'm cold to Scotland's name ! Can lover's breast his love forget ? Cead milefailte * ! Scotland yet ! * A Gaelic toast— literally, "A hundred thousand salutations." IN THE LIMITED MAIL. R< OAR and rattle along, Flame-fed, fleet-footed train ! Flash through cities and fields asleep, Startle the fen-land silence deep With the scream of thy fierce disdain. Hurry us, hurry us on, Hearts beating high with thy speed ; The twilight meadows are galloping by, Spire, hedge, and house take wing and fly — We're homeward bound indeed. Shout, for the giant North ! For the strong cool salt sea-breeze, For the misty hills, and the torrent's roar, The waves that leap on a rock-bound shore, And the breath of the upland leas. Slumber in placid peace, Hamlet and hall of the South ; Scorched by the glare of your shadeless sky Low in your languor lazily lie, Parch in your summer drouth. 144 IN THE LIMITED MAIL. Faster, fleet-rushing steed ! (See the station-lamps whiz by !) Crash through the shouting tunnel, boom Over the viaduct, cut the gloom With the glare of thy lurid eye. Faster and faster yet Tear through the silent night ; On, with the hurricane's speed and roar, To where my heart has leapt before, Mocking your tardy flight. For the long long way is lit By the smile of a welcoming face ; Where the blue hills look to the Northern sea She's waiting, my darling, waiting for me, At home in the dear old place. She's dreaming of me to-night — Old train, it's a secret this — Three hundred miles away, away, But I'll be with her at break of day, And wake my love with a kiss. KAMES HILL, FAIRLIE. /""\NCE more, my feet on Scottish ground, I breathe the Scottish air : The old fragrance greets me all around, The old spell is everywhere. Oh dreary tracts of southland plain ! Oh dark-blue hills, how dear ! Goal of the exile's home-sick pain This weary bygone year. Clyde's sea-like waters meet the sea Low down beneath my feet, And clasp and circle lovingly Each Cumbrae green and sweet. And far across their waveless smile, Dark as the tempest's frown, Arran, my all but native isle, Thy glorious peaks look down ! 146 KAMES HILL, FAIRLIE. Long tarrying amid alien men In dreams I've seen this day, Have pressed the heather-couch again, And heard the streamlet's play ; The hour has come, has come ! and now Yon sparkling sunlit brine, This morning breeze that cools my brow, My native land, are thine. A VISION OF ARRAN. \~X WESTWARD, westward in the steamer, with the thin smoke like a streamer Floating back to be lost in the mist ; Tracts of water gray and dim, by a gray horizon's rim Closely kissed. Deeply broods the cloud o'er Fairlie ; scarce a glimpse of Bute comes rarely To the right through the haze as we pass ; And the strong ship furrows free, westward o'er a windless sea Smooth as glass. One is fain to gaze and wonder — surely something far out yonder Lurks concealed straight ahead where we go ; Some bleak and barren shore, where Atlantic break- '; And winds blow. 148 A VISION OF ARRAN. For the clouds are smit with life, their masses tremble as in strife there, Look where shows half a hint of the sun ! Ha, they break and part and flee, furling upward suddenly At the run — Arran, my own glorious island ! every peak and purple highland Stands distinct to the view, proud and bare ; And the vapour takes a tinge from the sun, and forms a fringe High in air. Castael Abhael's torn and shattered ridge precipitous, tempest-battered, Gleaming gray in the wild misty light ; And the pinnacled Cir Mhor, sheer a thousand feet and more, On the right. With the monarch Goatfell towering in the midst, the sunbeams showering Through a rift in the clouds on his crest, Where the winds for ever moan, and the bird that dwells alone Makes its nest. A VISION OF ARRAN. 149 On his one side the black vastness of Glen Sannox, fort and fastness Piled in rock, gaunt as night, old as time ; On the other Brodick Bay, smiling as it hears its gay Ripples chime. And the belt of beach at Corrie, farm and trees and red-stone quarry, And a smack anchored in at the quay, And the yellow harvest-fields, where his blade the shearer wields, Fair to see. Short the vision, swift the ending : for a denser cloud descending Wrapt the hills, glens, and shore, in its pall ; And the mist came down again, drawing steadily to rain. That was all. L' ENVOI. Nay, my good friend, do not quarrel, if I tack no text or moral To my tale : I but tell what I saw. I could reel you off a score meanings grand my vision bore, Ne'er a flaw 150 A VISION OF ARRAN. In the symbols and their sequence. But I know I turned in pique once From a thing of the kind that I read ; So I vowed I'd give you here nothing but the plain and clear Facts instead Of all types and allegories. We profane the picture's glories With the ink of our notes, do we not ? If your ear mislikes my tune, verse and critic will be soon Both forgot. THE HIGHLANDER IN GLASGOW. A /TY ain true luve, it's ye yersel', And nane but ye and me, can tell The anguish o' that last farewell When I left hame an' thee, lassie. A wheen stars glinted thro' the mist The slumberin' mountain-tops that kissed, The trees were still, the wee birds whist Oor sad sad looks to see, lassie. We twa gaed slowly doon the glen, In early morn, ere weary men Had wauked to weary wark again, Nane there but me an' thee, lassie. The auld gray hills ahint us lay, An' oot we came, an' up the bay Heard, pantin' on its watery way, The steamer comin' free, lassie. 152 THE HIGHLANDER IN GLASGOW. But naethin' recked we o' the scene, The yaird where blithefu' I hae been, When dark and warm cam' doon the e'en, Amang the stacks wi' thee, lassie. The wee bit burn, the mossy knowes, The grassy neuks oor kye wad browse, The dwarne-stane that heard oor vows, We didna scarcely see, lassie. The yellow sand, the shingle-grass, The bay that shone like molten glass — Wad God that there this day I was, Ance mair, ance mair wi' thee, lassie ! Ilk ither's een we only saw, Wi' tears, that swelled but didna fa', Brimmed, like a burnie big wi' snaw When winter hastes to flee, lassie. Ae last, last kiss — I tore away, Shouldered my pack, an' roun' the bay Stepped quick, yet hurryin' oft maun stay To catch the blink o' thee, lassie. The steamer syne cam' roarin' in Wi' snorts an' foam an' eldritch din ; Aboord I sprang, wi' passion blin', An' forth across the sea, lassie. THE HIGHLANDER IN GLASGOW. 153 There in the great calm mornin' licht The auld bay faded frae my sicht, The untravelled deep before lay bricht — Farewell to hame and thee, lassie ! But gin were here October year Frae Glasgow's smoke I'd blithely steer, For then wi' scrip an' hard-earned gear I gang to wed my wee lassie ! ROSSIE BURN. /~\H, Rossie Burn has banks as fair As ever poet sang • The wee birds warble sweetly there, The trees are low and thrang : An' broom an' bracken twine their stems 'Mong grass o' tender green, An' crystal clear, o'er crystal sands, The burnie rows atween. Ay, Rossie Burn has banks as fair As Teviot, Tweed, or Doon ; But wha to sing their charm wad dare Maun strike a bolder tune. Its infant stream is cradled far Where mighty mountains rise, And sharp and sheer the steep Cir Mhor Shoots to the cloudy skies. ROSSIE BURN. 155 The dark gray rocks in stately forms O' dome an' spire are hurled, Like splintered wrecks o' thousand storms Frae some primeval world. Yet there the heathbells richly bloom, The moss is soft to press ; Kind Nature clothes their giant gloom With clinging loveliness. But Rossie Burn has sweeter charms She keeps for only me, Nor ither stream in braid Scotland One half sae dear can be. Wi' memory's licht the scene is bricht, Wi' memory's magic fair, For the dearest girl the warld e'er saw Gied me her promise there. LAMLASH REMEMBERED. HP HE moon to-night on Lamlash Bay, The harvest moon, is bright ; The waters chime their olden lay Beneath its fairy light ; I know each wavering ripple's break, Each tuneful plash I know,— Ah, sweet and sad the memories wake Of days long, long ago. Stream down, rich moon, in golden flood Upon the waters wan ! If stood my feet where once they stood, Ere yet the boy was man, A dear soft hand would tremble shy Within my burning hold, And downcast looks hint traitorously What lips had left untold. LAMLASH REMEMBERED. 157 O lost, lost love, when life was young 'Twas there we came alone ; To us the lilting waters sung, For us the moonbeams shone. And now I wander lone and far, Dull years have marked my brow ; And you, — I know not where you are, Or whom you smile on now. On Lamlash Bay let moonbeams play, They shine no more for me ; By unfamiliar shores I stray, And other waters see. The changeful moon alone the same, All else so changed and sad, Cold ashes of a vanished flame Whose glow once made me glad. CAGED. ONDON pavements scorch and glow In their breathless summer. Oh For the braes of Ben y Gloe ! Now, this moment, now to go Free and lightsome as the roe Up the moor to Ben y Gloe ! Four tall peaks, in stately row, Topmost crags of Ben y Gloe, Black against bright azure show. In the living sunlight, lo ! Shadows deepening to and fro Coolness o'er the corries throw. There be purest streams that flow From the heights of Ben y Gloe To the purple glens below. CAGED. 159 And the rocky clefts, I know, Save a store of secret snow Even in summer's fiercest glow. And eternal breezes blow, Never tired to wander so Round the crests of Ben y Gloe. There, a short short year ago, Free as they, and void of woe, I too roamed on Ben y Gloe. There, the climber's couch to strow, Still in nooks on Ben y Gloe Moss and softest grasses grow. — Ah, this life is mortal slow ! Hang John Doe and Richard Roe, And the rooms of Grub and Co. ! A LAY OF A STEAM-BOAT. "\ 1 THAT, skipper, ho ! The wind pipes loud ; No bark unfurls her sail ■ But thou and I this day will try The fiercest of the gale. Far up the shore the boats are drawn, Above the surf-line white ; For red and angry broke the dawn, And worse will come ere night. Cast off, cast off! The smoke blows back, The wind is right ahead : We heed it not, we scorn to tack, The great wheels flash instead ; The great wheels flash around, around, The churning foam-waves flee, The hull throbs hard with boding sound, — We're off to fight the sea. A LAY OF A STEAM-BOAT. 161 Ha, how the black waves boil and toss ! The fierce wind seems to lift Their crests, and tear them clean across, And sweep them off in drift. The white drift races past our lee, And shuts the horizon out ; Nor sun nor sky nor shore we see, Hear but the tempest's shout. There's never sail could stand the strain, There's never boat could beat To windward o'er this raging main : Yon one lorn craft we meet, Tight-reefed, unheeding house or home, Flies straight before the wind ; But we cut fiercely through the foam, And leave her far behind. Right on, in teeth of wind and wave, We cleave our dauntless way. Oh but for you, twin engines brave, Storm-staid were I this day ! And tender eyes had now been wet To think I could not come, Or haply dreamed I could forget My darling's island home. M 162 A LAV OF A STEAM-BOAT. Forward, brave ship ! Less madly blow The gusts ; we near the shore ; Shorter the billows break and low, The spindrift flies no more. On up the bay we force our way, And high upon the pier A fluttering kerchief hastes to say " Thy true love's waiting here." ON A MOUNTAIN-SPRING. TT AYSTACK the irreverent natives call This hill, so massy, steep, and tall : But from its summit strong Wells forth a spring so cold and clear The Roman would have held it dear, And paid its gift with song. Beneath yon topmost rampart black It leaves a green delicious track, Brimming its bason o'er ; Its bason fed from fountains deep Within the living rock, where sleep Hid waters evermore. Mosscups and heathbells bend their lips Where that bright thread of crystal drips ; And in the granite font Which those perennial sources fill, The lordly deer that roam the hill To slake their thirst are wont. 164 ON A MOUNTAIN-SPRING. And so at times, amid the hard Rough climb of life, such sweet reward Comes to the wanderer tired ; Some brief but blissful hour of love And rest, when griefs and fears remove, By radiant hopes inspired. And there, though for a little space, He finds his pleasant resting-place, And haply dreams to stay ; But soon must leave the oasis bright, And haste to track, ere comes the night, His steep and lonely way. For ah, how many a dreary waste By no such tender fount is graced In these strange terrible lands ! How few the halts that cheer the stage From arid youth to joyless age Over the barren sands. THE HIGHLANDER'S FAREWELL. ^HE dark mountains shine in the dawning of day, The sun's on the valley, the sun's on the brae ; The shieling lies fair in the soft morning light, 'Twill be gone from our eyes ere the gloaming of night. For the wind blows fair, and the boat's at the quay, And the big ship rocks on the sparkling sea, And soon we'll be gazing o'er miles of foam For the last, last look of our mountain home. Oh it's Assynt, Assynt ochone ! Oh, bonny is the lochan that shines where it lies, And bonny the blue of the north-country skies, And Quinag towers high in the clear summer air, And Assynt is sweet, and Lochinver is fair. But it's far from Lochinver to-night we'll be lying, On a wave-beaten plank, o'er the wild water flying, When the Lewis will be left far behind on the lee As we steer straight out to the long rolling sea. Oh it's Assynt, Assynt ochone ! 166 the Highlander's farewell. Ben More has put off the black cloud of his frown, And bathes in the sunlight his storm-ravaged crown, And Suilven and Canisp are blithesome to-day With the warm ruddy glow on their pinnacles gray. But the deer are to roam where the clay-biggings stand, And the strong men of Assynt are driven from the land ; And the bairns look dazed, and the women weep sore, For the home of their fathers shall see them no more. Oh it's Assynt, Assynt ochone ! But the curse of the homeless shall cling to their lord, With blasting and blighting of bed and of board ; Nor only shall he, but all Scotland shall rue How from Assynt they exiled the valiant and true. When the nations in anger of battle shall stand, When the war-trump is calling the flower of the land, Long, long shall ye look over mountain and glen For the claymores and kilts of the Sutherland men. Oh it's Assynt, Assynt ochone ! My curse on the canker that poisons the State, My curse on the laws that are made for the great, My curse on your gold and its sordid desire That gnaws through the bosom like hunger or fire, THE HIGHLANDER'S FAREWELL. 167 With pride for its blossom, and guilt for its fruit, That drives out the man to make room for the brute, That spends the broad acres on liveries fine, On the harlots of London, the dice and the wine ! Oh it's Assynt, Assynt ochone ! Farewell to Lochinver, to Assynt farewell ! Dear home of my fathers, I loved thee so well ! Now dwindles each landmark the fisherman hails When the breeze of the morning swells homeward his sails. For the wind blows fair, and we speed to the West — The anguish of exile is rending each breast ! Let me die, let me die, now, now when I say, Farewell to my country for ever and aye. Oh it's Assynt, Assynt ochone ! A MEDITATION. A/TAN is a wavelet in the ocean of life. Sent from the illimitable, trackless deeps, Who knows the moment — who save He whose pulse Is the life-beat of all things dreamed or seen — When first he rose, and in what form, and how ? Sent from the trackless deeps, he brings with him Strange echoes, murmurs, subtle pregnant sounds That weirdly thrill, and dreamlike hovering 'Twixt dream and memory clothe his careless path. He is, but what ? Each brother wavelet near Is ever changing, blending part with him, And he with them ; and each mysterious wind That breathes upon him, gives and takes ; and gleams Of sun and shade pass o'er him uncontrolled. And yet he is, distinguished waveringly Amid environing stir and shifting flow, How, whence, and what alike inscrutable. And still the one thing certain is before. Sooner or later, that dim pitiless line Fronts him, and on he rolls, and nears, and breaks. A MEDITATION. 169 Still the same murmuring limitless ocean there, But he ! — Whether that creeping surge, that ebbs Back from the shore, be he, unspent, or part : Whether his being, scattered on the sand, Is sucked to nothing by the fruitful sun : Whether, dissolved and blent, he sinks again Unknown into the all from whence he came, And joins fresh ripples, dreaming on anew — God who inspirest all things, who can tell ? Two things are sure, the ocean and the shore. Two things ? Fond dreamer, why not rather make Life shoreless ocean, endless, uncommenced, Infinity alone horizoning ; Creator and created idle terms For that one stretch of life, that ceaseless smiles Its smile of unbeheld complacency, Eternally alone, unmodified, All-comprehending selfless unity. And on its giant bosom tiny waves Leap for a moment, sport and pass, and form New combinations in unending round ; Each moment nascent, and their passing but The instantaneous interchange of place : Incessant flowing, indestructible, Changing, and reappearing from their change, From everlasting everlasting still. THE TRUE BEAUTY. DEAUTY within the heavenly clime Was born in days of old : Before the dawn of earthly time Did God her fashion mould. He framed her likeness from a thought Of everlasting love, And dowered with joy to make her sought All other joys above. A garment fair He wove her then From fadeless flowers of Heaven ; And, ages after, unto men She for a guide was given. And he whose eyes but once have seen, Though dimly and afar, The splendour of her raiment's sheen That draws him like a star, To win her smile would peril life ; And her he follows still Through pain and sickness, storm and strife, With never-faltering will ; THE TRUE BEAUTY. 171 Until she brings him safe at last Unto his Father's place, And there reveals, all trial past, The fullness of her face. But in the mist that wraps us round All shapes reflected gleam, Mere shadows void of sense or sound, Like phantoms of a dream. And they who see her image so, Well deeming she is there, With the same eager passion glow, But snatch at empty air. And ever, as she soars on high, Still doth the idol sink, Till he who dreams he nears the sky Stands on destruction's brink. Therefore it needs to purge our eyes With euphrasy and rue, Before the natural sight is wise To judge of false and true. We clutch at vague and vain delights ; And he who is but late Elect to share the mystic rites, In his novitiate 172 THE TRUE BEAUTY. Sees many things both strange and hard, And knows not where to find The glories of that rich reward Prefigured in his mind. Oh that the sons of men were given Sight in their souls, to know The radiant habitant of Heaven From earth's ephemeral show ! When clouds of error densest roll, And passion's voice is loud, Eternal peace inspires the soul That, 'mid the sensual crowd, Still pure of aim, of purpose strong, Is true to her whose love Shall lead us where, all joys among, She greets her own above. AFTER PARTING. f~~* ONE, my darling, and with her Gone the gay wind's summer stir, Gone the light from earth and sky, Gone from sight to memory ! Night-clouds darken, and the rain Beats upon my window-pane, And the coarse voice of the storm Bellows, and the firelight warm Flickers on an empty chair — This same morn who queened it there ? Gone, and not one word to tell How I loved her — yet 'tis well. Go, my darling, take with you All the light and warmth and hue Fond hope paints upon the bareness Of gray life. No spirit's nearness Left to comfort, or reveal To your soul what now I feel. You must never know, nor I Tell, this evening's misery. 174 AFTER PARTING. Go, love ! Let me look in the face My lone life's sheer emptiness. Take my whole heart with you : leave Fancy no one shred to weave In with cheating dreams, that make Life more hideous when I wake. With a smile I bid thee go ; Thanking God, because I know My to-night's despair no less Makes my darling's happiness. TOO LATE. T T is all vain, all vain ! Ghosts of dead days, downtrodden memories, Rise in thy face, and glister in thine eyes : Not thee, but them, I see. Dear heart, we cannot, dare not, break their chain, Nor, though we would, be free. We are not as we were ; There is a subtler meaning in stray words, A tenderer music trembles in the chords Of each reluctant voice. Can I misread their sense ? for if I err I could almost rejoice. I dare not meet thine eyes. They are so new, so old, so true, so strange. My heart grows heavy with its yearning : change Who may, we cannot, sweet ! Give back the old peace I knew not how to prize. Why are Time's steps so fleet ? 176 TOO LATE. And why is maiden's heart Like the shy leaflet, which the least airs move, And man's the storm- sport thrall of tyrannous love ? Oh, by this hand's faint glow, Can it be right our lips should shrink apart ? Love, must it still be so ? PECCAVI. T7ORGIVE me ! If you could but guess how little bold was I, How that rash deed was but the speech of the soul's agony, Could you but dream how poor I felt, how worthless and how weak, How words forsook my lips, when all my being yearned to speak ; How hopes and fears were mixed and blent in one tumultuous flood, How lonely seemed the days to come, as helpless there I stood, Hoav my whole soul cried out for thee, leapt to thee wild and strong, You could not but forgive me, dear, you could not blame me long. Forgive me ! If you could but know what hearts are at the core, What sheer despair with joyous guise most oft is sil- vered o'er, N 178 PECCAVI. How oft the broidered scarf of mirth flaunts on the tortured breast, And quivering lips are wreathed with smiles, when smiles are costliest ; How manhood struggles with the tyranny of circum- stance, And flings his bare breast on the point, as on the foeman's lance ; Could you but read what loveless years have branded on my brow, I think you would forgive me, dear, you would not scorn me now. Forgive me ! There are times when all the full heart maddens up, Times when the brimming drops must fall from the o'erburdened cup ; When one wild moment bursts the bounds that pru- dence, pride, or fear Have set to stem the stormy sweep of passion's flood career. I saw thee stand before me there, in pride of beauty's noon, Thy downcast eyes all tender with the thought of parting soon : PECCAVI. 179 When all of heaven that earth can hold was there my arms to meet, So strong to charm, so soon to fade — could I but clasp it, sweet ? The world may fade, the world may pass, time's brief glow quenched in death, The dust receive my crumbling frame, the winds my fleeting breath ; And all of hope that love has known, and all my dreams of bliss, No longer live than lived the joy of that delirious kiss : I will not stoop to curse my fate, nor all unthank- ful be, As if dull life brought nought to man save care and misery — My life has not been wholly vain, I swear by Heaven above, I've held thee once within these arms, my own, my only love ! AT LAST. T\ /T Y holy love, my heart's one queen, How shall I sing to thee, Or tell thee all the sacred joy Thy presence wakes in me ? How all the happy days are made More glorious by thy smile, And life is one bright dream of bliss In some enchanted isle. All morning mists and sunrise flames, And noontide's splendid heat, And sumptuous slumbrous afternoons, And calm of evening sweet, And sacred gloom of deepening night, And moonlight's magic gleam, From dawn to darkness, one and all, Fraught with thine image seem. AT LAST. 181 All shapes of sea and sky ; the hues That paint the vernal earth ; The shade of trees, the shine of streams, The loud birds' careless mirth ; All common sights and sounds are fused Fresh by love's alchemy, And fair before are fairer now Because they breathe of thee. How shall I sing to praise my love ? I will not vaunt her fair, Since beauty's hues but faintly speak The soul that's harboured there. I will not ransack minstrel's song For fancies rare and quaint ; To see thy face is dearer bliss Than all their ardours paint. Nor swear with thousand restless vows My love shall never cease, But still through trouble, change, or death Eternally increase. We know each other now ; we trust Beyond the power of speech ; Our love is now our very life, And each but lives in each. 182 AT LAST. Nor say I never loved before : For, framed of flesh and blood, A thousand dreamy hopes and fears Have stirred some credulous mood. But dearer far than fancy's joys Is life's reality ; Fair visions crowned my boyhood's dreams, But now they live in thee. MAY-SONG. {From Goethe.) \ \ 7"HAT wondrous glory Around I see, The sunlight's splendour, The flowerets' glee ! On all the branches The quick buds spring, With thousand voices The copses ring. And bounding rapture In every breast, The earth has sunshine, The heart has rest. O Love, O Love, thou Art golden bright, As clouds of morning On yonder height. Thy smile with magic The meadow dowers, 184 MAY-SONG. The wide world blossoms In clouds of flowers. O maiden, maiden, And I love thee ! Thine eyes have told it, Thou lovest me ! The lark loves carol, And ether's blue ; The flowers of morning Love morning's dew. But I love thee with The heart's warm blood, And youth rewakens, And joyous mood, To new desires and Delights in thee. Be glad for ever In loving me ! TO THE EVENING STAR. [From Bio n.) TT ESPERUS, Love's own lady's golden light, Hesperus, holiest jewel of dark night, Less than the moon, all other lights above, Welcome, beloved, and guide us to my love ! Give thou thy light, instead of trembling moon, For her young crescent sets too soon, too soon ! No thief goes forth to ply his treacherous trade, No desperate footpad's here in ambush laid. I'm but a loving girl; but oh, sweet star, Look'st thou on aught so fair as loves that faithful are? HYMN OF CLEANTHES THE STOIC. 1\ /T OST glorious of the gods, by many names Adored, all-powerful through eternity, Author of being, ruling all with law, Hail, father Zeus ! for well doth it beseem All mortal men to celebrate Thy praise. We are Thine offspring, and to us alone Of mortal things that live and move on earth Thou hast assigned the likeness of Thy face : For ever therefore will I hymn Thy might. This universe, which circles round the earth, Follows Thy guiding finger where Thou wilt, Rejoicing still to own Thy governance. The sleepless, scorching, two-edged thunderbolt, At whose swift shock all nature stands aghast, Thy minister, attends Thy sovereign hands. # fy $fr % >fc Thus Thou sustain'st the common principle Of reason, which pervades the universe, Commingling large and small in one clear shine. # * # * # HYMN OF CLEANTHES THE STOIC. 187 Thou reignest everywhere, monarch supreme. Without Thy will, O God, nothing may chance, Neither upon the earth, nor in the sea, Nor in the ethereal vault of heaven divine : Save what in blinded madness ill men work. But Thou art wise even from what useless seems To mould perfection, shaping the unshaped, And things that no man loves are loved by Thee. Thus Thou hast harmonized evil and good Together, so that in their workings both Fulfil one everlasting principle. And still the wicked strive to shun its sway, And still must rue their folly ; wealth they crave, But nought regard Thy universal law Nor give it ear, which, did they honour it But wisely, points the way to noble life. Their several aims disorderly they seek : Some cherishing unholy thirst of fame, Some on base gains with shameless greed intent, Some steeped in languid sloth and sensual joys ; All striving impiously, but all in vain, To set at nought Thine ever-glorious will. ***** But Thou, O Zeus, giver of all good gifts, Lord of the lightning, cloud-encompassed, Deliver man from baleful ignorance. Father, illume his soul, grant him to share 188 HYMN OF CLEANTHES THE STOIC. That wisdom, which informs Thy just decrees, And rules all nature ; so that, honoured thus, We may respond to Thee with honours meet, Thy works unwearied hymning, as befits Frail mortals, since no greater glory men Nor gods may know, than rightly evermore To magnify Thy universal law. ODYSSEUS. {From Schiller.) Q EEKING his country, Odysseus braved all perils of waters, Roaring of Scylla's dogs, loathly Charybdis' affright. Perils of land he defied, and perils of furious oceans ; Even to Hades' abode forced his companionless way. Yet when at last to the Ithacan shore fate bore him in slumber, Weeping the hero awoke, knew not his fatherland dear. Addendum. Are then the times so changed? is he dead, that wanderer weary ? Type of our own unrest, still may his story survive. Do we not roam through drear void wastes in our endless searching, Barbarous forms, dark dens— ay, and 'tis men they devour ! 190 ODYSSEUS. Do we not dream o'er the lotus, forgetting our fatherland's glory ? Do we not come within sight, but to go further astray ? Then, if by chance we reach some shore of the heavenly country, Bright with sunshine of truth, fragrant with odours of peace, Stare in unknowing dismay — " On what strange realm are we landed ? Where is our haven of rest ? Where is the home of our soul?" " Do we not come within sight, but to go further astray ? " The once-loved shores are full in view, We breathe their fragrance warm. Sudden the sun's gone, quenched the blue : Fierce passion's rushing storm Drives the frail ship shuddering back O'er the old accursed track. Helmless now, by strange seas torn, Loathsome shapes gape hideous scorn. Sinking heart and failing eye Mourn the Heaven of infancy. THE ETERNAL QUESTION. {From Heine.) EAVE your pious hints and hopings, Leave your parables devout ; Clear of mysteries and riddles Speak the answer boldly out. Wherefore groans the just one, fainting, Bleeding, 'neath the cross of shame, While on high the wicked prances Like a warrior great of fame ? Whose the fault ? — Is God Almighty Not almighty after all ? Can He bear to look on evil ? Ah, the words unuttered fall. So we ask and ask unceasing, Till a sorry lump of clay Comes to stop our mouths for ever — But is that an answer, pray ? ON THE CASTLE ESPLANADE, EDINBURGH. HTHE blithe breeze blows, the bright sun glows, And dimples all the distant sea ; Straight up o'erhead the Castle goes, No goodlier sight to me. To right, the long high-storeyed pile, Tier above tier, in solemn file, Sweeps down to Holyrood : Each stone in that historic street Has rung to tramp of warring feet, Has drunk our martyrs' blood, Could tell some tale of Scotland's fate, From Castlehill to Canongate. Beside me, all is gay and bright, The buoyant Spring air glads my brow, The innocent and peaceful light Plays on yon grisly row Of swart-mouthed cannon, gilding all The black and battered rampart-wall ON THE CASTLE ESPLANADE, EDINBURGH. 193 That guards the nestling town. Well here might wayward fancy see Gleam of long-rusted panoply, Steel flash, and knit brows frown, As once preluding sharp debate Of clashing swords in Canongate. The charmed eye wanders down the hill, Across the gardened valley sweet, To watch the shifting concourse fill Yon lordly fronting street ; Or leaves the town, and far away Marks where the Ochils dim and gray Ridge the horizon's blue, And flash the near white walls of Fife, And all the wave, with white sails rife, Mirrors heaven's placid hue, And fresh winds fan the gleaming strait — Not like the airs of Canongate ! With that my shuddering thoughts recur To memory of my last hour's walk, To reeking alleys' joyless stir, Foul smells, and fouler talk ; To ghastly women slouching by, Childhood's precocious savagery, o 194 ON THE CASTLE ESPLANADE, EDINBURGH. And pale men's fretful curse ; And all die jaded squalid rout That seethes, with ribald jest and shout, In whisky-shop, or worse, From peep of dawn to midnight late, Through closes of our Canongate. Down there — so near this Springtide wealth Of earth and air and sea and sky, This breeze instinct with jocund health, This Bacchic revelry Of twittering birds and blowing flowers And dancing sunbeams — through slow hours These men, our brethren, rot. Not theirs the life that fires our veins, They throb not with our joys and pains, Our call they answer not. Shall any April sun create Life in these dry bones, Canongate ? What ! have they then no thought of this, Those listless loungers over there, Your made up matron, vapid miss, And fop with witless stare ; Poor painted tribe in fashion's rut Day after day that smirk and strut, ON THE CASTLE ESPLANADE, EDINBURGH. 195 With smiles of ennui born ? And you, their virtuous censor, you Disdainful of this apish crew, Whose fine lip curls with scorn To see their antics, hear their prate, What have you done for Canongate? The world spins down its ordered path, The great world climbs from low to high, Man's rise and lapse and lust and wrath Work out his destiny : The greatest happiness of most Must guide our striving, though the cost Be — what we see to-day. And " things like this, you know, must be" In every civilized city ; They are the price we pay For being rich and proud and great — God help them, then, in Canongate ! God help them ! So we trembling say, Revolting at this Moloch-creed That barters thousand lives away To edge their brethren's greed. Yet no voice answers from on high Look up, the blue impassive sky 196 ON THE CASTLE ESPLANADE, EDINBURGH. Darkens not at the sight : The joyous sunlight careless comes To dismal depth of fetid slums : The moon shines callous-bright : The evening-star looks down elate, Even as on us, on Canongate. O ye that strive with earnest toil, In strength of faith's or church's might,. From Satan's hand to rend the spoil, And drag the slave to light, Parson or priest, lay-sister or Street-preacher, tract-distributor, Whig, Tory, Red or Rad., What gospel have ye now for these Offscourings of our palaces, What news to make them glad, "What word of hope for souls that wait In Cowgate or in Canongate ? What will ye say ? — That God is good, As we men deem of goodness, who Beats down their life, and makes their blood Run cold with fever-dew, And sees their sharp bones through starved skin Peep hideous, while the yoke of sin ON THE CASTLE ESPLANADE, EDINBURGH. 197 Weighs body and soul to dust ? Ye needs must preach some subtler faith That finds in woe and want and death New food for love and trust, At least till misery abate Some trifle in our Canongate. Or tell of all we do for them. Tell how we give our annual pound This rising pauper tide to stem, This hungry sea to bound, That surges day by day more near Our pleasant places, till we fear The thunder of its cry May reach into our feasts, and pain Our philanthropic ears. Explain Our seeming apathy, And how unreasoning is the hate Of ease and wealth in Canongate. Tell how we talk of equal laws, And manhood-suffrage, and the like, How zealous for the people's cause, How grieved when Unions strike ; And how to Parliament we've sent Our pledged reformers, with intent 198 ON THE CASTLE ESPLANADE, EDINBURGH. To fight the poor man's fight ; And how, meantime, we loll at home, Expectant till the future come, The reign of equal right, Not heeding much the present state Of men that starve in Canongate. Or, if ye kick at what I say, Tell them — for once we shall agree — How pulpits warn you of a day, A dreadful day to be, When wealth's proud garb shall rend like glass, And sloth's pretexts may fail to pass The scrutiny divine ; When Christ shall come to make demand Of all his poor ones at our hand, And Heaven's red judgment-sign Blaze down, in ire of equal fate, On Moray Place and Canongate. THE SCEPTIC. A LONE in thought's blank universe, No life around, above, below, Self-poised, for better or for worse, I watch the careless seasons go. Fast flit they by, but what care I, Who have no goal that I can try To reach ? for nothing seems worth doing, All action brings such instant ruing. The saddened years slide to the Past; The dark damp curtain of their sky Shuts out the lights I dreamed should last ; And over all impalpably Creeps a vague shadow, formless, dense, That leaves me, robbed all visual sense, Seeing alone that nought has been, Is now, or ever can be, seen. 200 THE SCEPTIC. In this uncertain darksome life We are not sure of anything : Dim shapes and sounds of blindfold strife Seem round us, and we clutch and cling Vainly, as drowning men at straws, To grasp some firmness, guess some cause : But only Fancy sees and hears Where nought is save our hopes and fears. So glide the years unused away, So fade the shining hopes of youth ; To-morrow even as to-day, As far from joy, no nearer truth. Motionless, passionless, I stand, Illusion-girt on either hand. No tears my life's blank page may blot, And I have smiles for all — why not ? CUM SEMEL OCCIDIT BREVIS LUX. f AZING on the face of Death I am weary of my breath : For so placid is her brow, And so slumber-sweet her kisses, That I pant to clasp her now, Lose my being in her blisses. End of strifes and longings vain, Rest from labour, peace from pain ; End of all that hurts us here, End of seeking, end of sorrow, Nothing more to hope or fear, No to-day and no to-morrow ; Sunk beneath the insensate sod, Mated with the lifeless clod By unthinking footsteps trod ; Havened deep from winter storm, Recking not of cold or warm ; Safe from earth's bewildering strife, Done with thought, and done with life- Oh the ineffable repose When for aye the eyelids close ! 202 CUM SEMEL OCCIDIT BREVIS LUX. When the end of life is come, When we reach the common home, There we sleep the dreamless sleep That no fears of waking trouble ; There, for every tear we weep, Death shall give repayment double. Lovers there are cold of blood, Angry men full mild of mood ; Heavy lids shall never rise, But forgetfulness completely Shuts the weary watching eyes, And Ave slumber, ah so sweetly ! I am ravished with desire Of irrevocable, entire Quenchment of life's feverish fire. Oh to lay my longing breast On the couch of endless rest ! Cease then, cease, laborious breath, Quickly come, delightful Death, With thy silence dark and deep ; I am sick, and fain would sleep. MY FUNERAL. Z^vVER and ended, The story is told ; Here I am lying Pulseless and cold. Look for the last time, Shut the lid down : Nothing can hurt me, Feeling has flown. Can you believe I am sorry to go ? Am I not better And happier so ? Tramp to the churchyard, Stop at the gate, Bear me on slowly In funeral state. Solemn before you The priest's words swell ; Tolls overhead The ponderous bell. 204 MY FUNERAL. Curious stragglers Press in to see, Silent, respectful, In pity of me. Crape on your shoulder, Crape on your head, Strange, is it not, To think I am dead ? Can you imagine me Deaf to it all, Deaf to the sods On my coffin that fall ? Can you imagine Yourself lying here ? — Why do you start ? There is nothing to fear. Strange it is truly For you to believe ; White faces awestruck Show that you grieve. Never again shall you See me or hear, Living without me Year after year. MY FUNERAL. 205 Joy shall be sweet to you, Sorrow shall sting, I lying here An insentient thing. Men bustle round you As homeward you ride ; Me shall they heed, And the world so wide ? Rays of the wintry Sun, all unknowing, Gleam in the eyes whence Kind tears are flowing. Life hurries on In the old, old way, Just as if I was not Cold in the clay. Is it not strange ? Can you fancy it now ? Nay, let no cold sweat Start on your brow. All is so simple ; The strangeness is yours ; Death, when it comes, All uneasiness cures. 206 MY FUNERAL. I have known nothing Of terror or pain ; Now I can never Know either again. Trust me, the moment Of death is so calm, Life seems to fade In the tones of a psalm. Then there is no more : Thought cannot come Here where I lie In my peacefulest home. Sweetly and slowly Sinking to sleep, Wrapt in oblivion Dreamless and deep. THE SOUL'S DECEMBER. Gestorben ist der Herr Gott oben, Und tin (en ist der Teufel todt. f~*OT) on high is dead, And the devil is dead below : Apathy, gloom, despair have hold, They have locked our hearts in their serpent fold Till the blood forgets to flow. Tell me, what is alive ? — Preacher, thou at thy desk, Gingerly dealing with oldworld saws, Prayers unintelligent, acts without cause, Time's exploded burlesque ? Scholar, over thy books Crouched with a rheumy eye, 'Mid worm-worn tales, and mummied rhyme, And cerement-cloths of a buried time, Still fingering ghoulishly ? 208 THE SOUL'S DECEMBER. Merchant, thou on thy stool, Thralled by the lust of gain, Brain-benumbed for a paltry prize, Dusty with plodding, fattened on lies, Treacherous fraud and chicane ? Painter and poet — ye For a moment flatter and please ; Yet tints that shimmer, or words that glow, Is there soul in these ? is there aught to know ? Are we content with these ? Ye, who would chain us down To the strict strait form of your creeds, Scanning with merciless frown or sneer Your sister's face, where the brazen leer Is the mask of a heart that bleeds ? Thou, then, pluming thyself On freedom of thought and life, Deaf to the cries that surge behind For the faith thou shatterest, deaf and blind To the ignorant pain and strife ? Youth, full-flushed with the draught Of Circe's poisoned horn, Say, does the meaning of life consist In souls ye have slain, and lips ye have- kissed, And lives ye trample and scorn ? THE SOULS DECEMBER. 209 Oh dwarfish, soulless brood ! Men ? — rather mimes and apes ! Playing with idiot tears and smiles A losers' game of plots and wiles, Befooled by tricksy shapes. For this, then, nature wrought Through nine slow months in gloom ; For this ye hung at a mother's breast, With wonder and joy of living blest, And time for you made room. For this, love's glorious dream Even your dull blood could move ; For this, life's pictured wall was spread With dim vast shapes and vistas dread, And arched with heaven above. For this — that ye might crawl Through seventy selfish years, While life's diviner lesson lies Unguessed by the world, untaught by the wise, Hid beyond hopes and fears. Soul, that hast watched and prayed — My soul, stronger than I — Hope still : choose thou the better part : Self-sick brain and lust-sick heart Famish in fear and die. p 210 THE SOUL'S DECEMBER. Night comes darkly down ; All the long human past Fades in gleams of a sunset sky. Love them not, for already they die : Hark to the dirging blast ! Soul, be resolute still ! Fear nor faith may be thine, O'er the horizon of earth uprise Stars of splendid and strange surprise, Night is itself divine. Soul, be resolute still ! 'Fore God, thy manhood keep ! Change and chance have ephemeral breath. God is strong, He is stronger than death, And death is more than a sleep. SUSPIRIA NOSTRA. jD EST, O God ! Father divine, the world is weary for Thee : This ceaseless toil enslaves us, day and night. The clouds of error darken, thicken o'er Thee ; Far off grows dim and dies the olden light. Rest, give us rest ! Our prayer is toward Thee. Though our wills are weak, Nerveless our faith, our longing eyes grown dull, Still with despairful zeal that love we seek That once in blessing flowed so free and full. Rest, give us rest ! Rest, O God ! Rest from the long home-sickness of endeavour Whose endless search must ransack space and thought, And seek some haven of peace, and find it never, And seek — and seek for Thee, and find Thee not : Rest, give us rest ! 212 SUSPIRIA NOSTRA. Rest from the aching vision that, entranced Through fathomless abysses of caused fact, Craving its goal, still sees law, circumstanced And dead, supreme o'er thought and will and act : Rest, give us rest ! Rest, O God ! Rest from the aspiration that denies us The brute content of living, loving life ; The mad impassioned yearning that defies us To slumber dreamless 'mid a hopeless strife : Rest, give us rest ! Where is the peace which Thou didst promise Thine ? Has not the world indeed swept it away ? Dread forms crowd threatening round the narrowing line, Our isle of hope, where still we watch and pray. Rest, give us rest ! Rest, O God ! Fevered with seeking, in our desolate sorrow, Eyes dim with straining, crushed by nameless fears, Sick of to-day, and fearful of to-morrow, Fast drifting down the inexorable years, Rest, give us rest ! SUSPIRIA NOSTRA. 213 We have no refuge : phantom hopes oppress : Unmanned by shapeless visions, random driven, In darkness, and misgiving, and distress, We are weary crying to a blank deaf Heaven. Rest, give us rest ! Rest, O God ! We would be nearer Thee. Around Thee ever Infinite depths of peace are changeless-clear. Ay, nearer, though the realized endeavour Should cost us all that human heart holds dear — Rest, give us rest ! Though that sublime approach must float us high Above the warm low mists of creed and form Where our beloved dwell, where our hopes lie, Anchored amid the pathways of the storm. Rest, give us rest ! Rest, O God ! Though far below grow faint our brethren's faces, And far below their words of sad farewell, And agony of sundering embraces, And prayers, that fain would hold us with their spell. Rest, give us rest ! 214 SUSPIRIA NOSTRA. Father, our hearts are Thine, their wants, their powers. In Thee these restless yearnings live and move. Fade hope, pass joy, but let Thy love be ours : For love is peace, is nearness ; in Thy love We shall have rest. MARCHING SONG. 1 \ 7EARY and footsore, watching for dawn, When will the curtain of night be drawn ? Trudging on drearily, darkness around, Still we sing cheerily, hark to the sound — Tramp, brothers, tramp, and the morning will come, Nearer we're getting and nearer to home. Oh, it is strange how in darkness of night Shapes the most innocent cause us affright ; Strange how we start at a post or a stone, At the nightjar's croak, or the night-owl's moan ! — Tramp, brothers, tramp, and the morning will come, Nearer we're getting and nearer to home. Shall we not soon, when the day breaks bright, Smile at the phantasm-fears of the night, All that is strange and bewildering here Taking its true form, standing out clear ? — Tramp, brothers, tramp, and the morning will come, Nearer we're getting and nearer to home. 216 MARCHING SONG. Long is the pilgrimage, toilsome the way : When shall the dark East flush into day ? When the full light flood summit and glen ? God of our passionate prayers, ah when ! — Tramp, brothers, tramp, and the morning will come, Nearer we're getting and nearer to home. VIGILS. T N the darkest hour of night One hope I have ; There will yet be help and light This side the grave. For He will not quite forget, Though He tarry long ; He will come and save me yet, His arm is strong. Though the heaven be black above, No cheering ray, To the eye of mindful love Night shines as day. Is it morning reddens there At the Eastern gate ? Soul, we will not despair, But watch, and wait. 218 VIGILS. As the earth still sunward turns Through night's eclipse ; As the absent lover yearns For his lady's lips ; As the traveller swallow longs For the Indian skies ; Toward Him so seek my songs, So yearn my eyes. A PSALM OF THE DESERT. HPHE voice of one crying in the wilderness ! Hear me, O my Father ! hear the voice of my anguish, The cry of my desolation, the loneliness of many years. Heavy is the burden I would fain lay down at Thy feet, The sorrows of my soul, the burden of my sins. Friendless and solitary, long have I strayed in waste places. Lovers are far from me : Thy face is hid from my sight. Weary am I of my burden, groaning under my sin. I have not where to go. I would fain come to Thee. My soul is naked before Thee. I would fain fall down at Thy feet, Feeling for Thee through the darkness, feeling Thee though I see not. 220 A PSALM OF THE DESERT. Stretch forth Thine arm, O God ; turn me, turn me toward Thee, — Help me, lead me, show me which way I may find Thee, — Help me, even me, O my Father ! Hear me now, my God ! These many, many years I am seeking in vain for light. Youth has left me for ever, and yet I find no rest. I have deluded my eyes with phantoms; I have walked in a vain show ; I have lost myself in the mazes of an ignorant phi- losophy. Many a wandering fire has led me deeper into the quicksands. Still am I seeking, seeking, — no nearer rest or hope. Friends of my youth, companions of my search, have left me, and found peace. They have found rest in Thee ; Thou hast not been slow to help them. Thou hast made them one with Thyself, Thou hast blessed them with the light of Thy countenance. Hast Thou but one blessing, my Father? are Thy mercies straitened toward me ? Hast Thou not forgiveness for the prodigal, and gifts even for the rebellious ? A PSALM OF THE DESERT. 221 Make haste, O Lord, to save me ! oh take me to Thyself at last ! Bless me, even me also, my Father ! I ask not the blessing of Thy chosen ; Those who have loved Thee from the beginning, and served Thee with pure hearts. Theirs is the crown and the glory, the nearer vision, the intimate union. Not the portion of Thy children, O Lord ! I am not worthy. I see them at times far off, radiant in the light of Thy presence, Beautiful in their brightness, clothed with the beauties of holiness, Girt with the freshness of the morning, going from strength to strength. I am unclean and fainting : I fall on my face in the dust. The stains of sin are upon me : I have no strength left in me. Yet it is Thee, Thee only I seek ; Thy face I seek in the darkness. Hast Thou not help for me also? is there not de- liverance with Thee ? Help me, help me, my God ! T will not let Thee go except Thou bless me. 222 A PSALM OF THE DESERT. Give light, give life to me, who lie in the shadow of death. Bless me, even me also, O my Father ! The world shrinks and fades. The shadow of the desert is swallowed up in light : The dayspring breaks from on high, the clouds of darkness flee. On my soul streams the glory, the brightness of the upper sanctuary. My heart is lifted up within me ; I will bless and praise Thee, O God ! For Thou hast not despised the prayer of the needy ; he that was without help of man has found de- liverance in Thee. Out of the depths I cried to Thee, and Thou hast turned my crying into gladness. Thou hast shown me a little of Thyself, and my heart is filled with it ; my heart is exalted, my glory rejoiceth. Therefore will I shout aloud of Thy doings : the people shall praise Thee, O Lord ! Thou art a God of mercies ; I will sing of Thy sal- vation. For Thou hast heard the voice of my petition, and hast delivered me out of all my distresses. A PSALM OF THE DESERT. 223 Thou hast set my feet upon a rock, and compassed me about with gladness. More than I asked, O Lord, is Thy lovingkindness to me-\vard : Greater than my heart's desire : Thy mercies are past all counting. Thou hast crowned my head with glory ; Thou hast blessed me with the blessing of Thy children ; To him who was afar off Thou hast given the portion of them that serve Thee. Thou hast brought me home to Thyself, Thou hast made me hear Thy voice, Thou hast clothed me with the beauties of holiness, Thou hast shown me the light of Thy counte- nance, Thou hast blessed me, even me, O my Father ! AD AMICUM VITA DEFUNCTUM. T3R0THER, if aught of earthly change or care Reach thy free spirit, in that untold-of land Whither so early thou art gone to rest, Thy virgin beauty needing not to bear Longer the blows of life's stern discipline, — Take, as a gift from days long past, these lines, Small token of the love I bare thee once, And bear thee now far more, though death divide ; Even as thy love, I know, is tenderer now, Deepened to that which ransomed spirits feel To those they have left behind them for a time. THE LIGHT OF MEN. L IGHT of life, and life of men ! God in whom we live and move ! Whom our souls with yearning ken Dimly feel and darkly prove, Where our feeble questionings Wander 'mid the shows of things. Life essential dwells in Thee, Life that is our human light, Source of all by which we see, Groping through this earthly night ; On each son of Adam's race Shines the splendour of Thy face. Smile of uncreated love ! Primal fount, of living beam ! Still that radiance shines above Life's perplexed and fevered dream. Oh that men might know its grace, Know the splendour of Thy face ! Q 226 THE LIGHT OF MEN. Dazzling glory, beauty rare, Here in all around we see : Earth is all so bright and fair, What must earth's Creator be ! If such joys to earth are given, What must be the bliss of Heaven ! THE WAY OF LIFE. (" Non ex Hierosolymis solum patet via in coelum") 1VT OT from Jerusalem alone To Heaven the path ascends ; Nor can the secret ways be known, Nor can we see the ends, By which the Father of created things Leads, and to which He guides, our journeyings. Not from the courtier's gilded seat, Not from the convent cell, Not where the organ's whirl and beat Shakes the great minster's swell, Not from the four bare walls and simple rite, Goes up the prayer accepted in His sight. Not 'mid the silence of the hills, Where the world's murmurs cease, Not where the riotous thronging fills Proud France's Place of Peace, Not 'mid the awful waters' lonely space, Is God's appointed shrine and dwelling-place. 228 THE WAY OF LIFE. He listens to the sobbing child, He guides the scholar's pen ; Lone wanderers in the Afric wild Pass not beyond His ken. Crude shapes of time and sense to Him are nought But a light dream with speedy waking fraught. Earth's prayers and groans and outcries rude, That rob our breasts of calm, Blend to His ears in the subdued Deep music of a psalm : No warp of circumstance, no stress of blood, Blind His clear eyes and loving fatherhood. One band of pilgrims, in His sight, Heirs of eternity, Clad here with the prophetic light Of our high destiny, Through doubt and darkness now we struggle on : He sees the labour past, the victory won. Not from Jerusalem alone The heavenly path ascends ; By many devious ways unknown, To unimagined ends, The all-wise Father of created things Sends forth and guides His children's journeyings. FINIS. /^v THOU ineffable Divine, In silence best adored, Since vocal dome and gilded shrine But humanize their Lord : Veiled far beyond the farthest shroud Fond fancy ever framed Of starry heaven, or folding cloud, Or science falsely named ; Hid in the depth of human hearts, Yet visible therein By all that foils the senses' arts And keeps us pure of sin : I know not with what words to make My prayer to Thee, if prayer Be not mistrust ; but Thou wilt take My thought, and find it fair. 230 FINIS. I ask Thee not to bless my verse : That is already Thine, To use for better or for worse As suits the plan divine. I dare not say, Accept my heart ; It is not mine to give ; Of Heaven's great scheme that too is part, Whether I die or live. Teach me with thankful heart to take Whatever life may bring ; Teach me Thy law my will to make, And scorn vain murmuring. Teach me this night resigned to sleep, Self merged and lost in Thee, Secure that Thou my ways dost keep, Because Thou lovest me. The End. \aipfT' e'-ycb 8' vfx/xiv Kal e'r vcrrepov adiov aVw. This book is DUE on the last date stamped below $. m° ® & 79 107Q 10m-ll, '50(2555)470 PR 5795 W5856&17 1876 ■i 3 1158 00420 6735