ARLY AND LATE O^MS 
 
 
 
 1 A = 
 
 ■Mi cz m 
 
 
 
 Ai 
 
 £S O M 
 
 o m 
 
 <_ ■ 
 
 r 11 
 
 o M 
 
 ^— i — < je 
 
 = ^ Ss 
 
 1 u - 
 
 = 33 9 
 i — ! IK 
 
 
 
 1 3 = 
 
 == o 9 
 
 1 7 m 
 
 M^» [ ■ 
 
 1 7 a 
 
 Ad 
 
 ^^— -n ■ 
 
 9 = 
 
 — — -< > 
 
 8 = 
 
 = O I 
 
 1 5 = 
 
 _^« i — G 
 
 
 ==-=''1
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 Early and Late Poems
 
 Early and Late Poems 
 
 By 
 
 Christopher James Riethmuller 
 
 London : 
 
 George Bell & Sons 
 
 1893
 
 ?R 
 
 i2 e j*> 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 At eighty years of age, an old man, who has written a 
 good deal of verse in his time, may be excused for 
 thinking that some of it may be worth preserving. Many 
 of the poems in this collection were scattered in various 
 directions, or buried beneath a mass of miscellaneous 
 literature. Their appearance in this volume, if it do 
 nothing more, will at least give pleasure to the few old 
 friends that are left in the evening of a long life. 
 
 960i
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Oh, Yes ! There are Spirits ! l 
 
 Oh, When I Remember ! 3 
 
 Christmas 4 
 
 On the Death of Madame Malibran de Beriot . . 8 
 
 Childhood 9 
 
 Song of the German Gipsies I2 
 
 The Warrior's Serenade J 5 
 
 The Forsaken Mother x 7 
 
 A Lover's Lament J 9 
 
 A Captive Maiden's Song 2I 
 
 Comfort in Tears 2 3 
 
 My Fatherland 2 5 
 
 To Arms ! 2 7 
 
 Johannes Parricida s8 
 
 On the Attempt to Assassinate Her Majesty ... 35 
 
 Napoleon's Apotheosis 3 6 
 
 On the Death of the Duke of Orleans 38 
 
 The Pilgrims 4 1 
 
 Prologue to Launcelot of the Lake 4 8 
 
 The North-King's Death-Song S 1 
 
 The New Paganism 5 6 
 
 Christabel's Song on the Seashore S 8 
 
 Toll, Great Bell of Saint Paul! 60 
 
 Expectation ° 2 
 
 Oblivion 6 4
 
 viii CONTENTS. 
 
 l.V.I 
 
 j.\riv Rough's Song ^ 
 
 Tiik Hindoo Girl's Song 68 
 
 The Parting of Comrades 7° 
 
 Mr;s of England! Sons of Ocean! 72 
 
 Artist and Statesman 74 
 
 Too Late 103 
 
 In Memory of Charles Zachary Macaulay .... 105 
 
 The Emperor Frederick Io6 
 
 The Flight of saint Peter IQ 7 
 
 Macrina's Dream II2 
 
 The Gallic Soldier's Song IJ S 
 
 Epilogue to Julian the Apostate " 8 
 
 The Burial Service I22 
 
 True Religion I26 
 
 On my Eightieth Birthday x 3°
 
 OH, YES! THERE ARE SPIRITS! 
 
 {Written in early youth.) 
 
 Oh, yes ! there are Spirits 
 
 Good, gentle, and fair, 
 That dwell in this wide world 
 
 Of sorrow and care ; 
 Bright thoughts to cherish, 
 
 Strength to impart — 
 Spirits of Poesy ! 
 
 Spirits of Art ! 
 
 They glow in the canvas, 
 
 They breathe in the stone, 
 They draw from the struck chord 
 
 Its musical tone, 
 And through the far future 
 
 Those echoes prolong, 
 Which make up the chorus 
 
 Of Art and of Song.
 
 OH, YES I THERE ARE SPIRITS! 
 
 Their eyes are not dazzled 
 
 By purple and pall ; 
 They dwell in the cottage 
 
 As in the king's hall ; 
 The rich man oft sees them 
 
 Turn back from his door, 
 In beauty to visit 
 
 The homes of the poor. 
 
 Oh ! if thou wouldst woo them 
 
 And make them thine own, 
 Be sure that thou love them 
 
 For their sake alone ! 
 If fame be the tempter, 
 
 If gold be the snare- 
 Poet ! fling down thy lute ! 
 
 Artist ! despair ! 
 
 But if thou canst follow 
 
 The light of their smile, 
 Though round thee thick darkness 
 
 Grow darker the while ; 
 If still thou canst love them 
 
 When all else is gone- 
 Poet ! be strong in faith ! 
 
 Artist ! hope on !
 
 OH, WHEN I REMEMBER! 
 
 Oh, when I remember how gaily we bounded 
 
 Through fields that in spring-time with daisies were white, 
 Or played near the hearth that by strangers surrounded 
 
 Now lends other children its warmth and its light, 
 While on us kind faces their fond looks were bending, 
 
 Which now through the wide world we seek for in vain, 
 And voices beloved with our voices were blending — 
 
 I feel, that what has been will ne'er be again ! 
 
 When I think of the comrades who started together 
 
 In a vessel too frail for the perilous deep, 
 Regardless alike of the wind and the weather, 
 
 The risks that we ran, or the course we should keep, 
 While the pilots we trusted were Hope, Love, and Pleasure, 
 
 To guide us in safety o'er life's stormy main, 
 And the joy knew no doubts, and the fancy no measure — 
 
 I feel, that what has been will ne'er be again !
 
 CHRISTMAS. 
 At a time of great Commercial and National Depression.') 
 
 Old Christmas comes — he is at the door — 
 But sadly changed from the days of yore, 
 
 When we used with smiles to greet him. 
 The bloom has fled from his cheek so thin, 
 His step is feeble, his bearded chin 
 Rests on his bosom, and (oh ! the sin !^ 
 
 We are all less glad to meet him. 
 
 I speak not now of the olden time, 
 
 When he reigned a king in our fathers' clime, 
 
 But of days that we all remember ; 
 When the schoolboy dreamt of no higher bliss, 
 And the innocent heart of little Miss 
 Beat, as 'twill beat at love's first kiss, 
 
 When she welcomed back December.
 
 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 No longer the yule-fire leaps with joy, 
 As it did in the eyes of the happy boy, 
 
 All the chamber round adorning ; 
 And now, as I gaze on the prickly screen, 
 The sprigs of holly are not so green, 
 Nor the berries so red as I have seen 
 
 In the light of childhood's morning. 
 
 We are grown wiser than we were then ! 
 Thoughtful women and busy men, 
 
 As our altered looks avow. 
 But when will our hearts so warm with the cold, 
 Running over like molten gold ? 
 When shall we dance as we danced of old 
 
 Under the mistletoe bough ? 
 
 Hopes that were bright in those hours of youth, 
 Visions of glory that shone like truth, 
 
 Are by disappointment shaded ; 
 Of friends, some sleep 'neath the churchyard trees, 
 And some are sailing o'er distant seas, 
 And the dream of love, more sweet than these, 
 
 The dream of love has faded.
 
 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 And if we turn to the world without, 
 Instead of the laugh, the song, the shout, 
 
 The mirth and the jubilation, 
 We hear of naught but the sickening tale 
 Of crimes that flourish, and trades that fail, 
 Of the empty mart, and the crowded jail, 
 
 And the horrors of starvation. 
 
 And yet, methinks, that in spite of all, 
 Which may to the human race befall 
 
 Of misery and disaster, 
 I must hold the faith (which now seems odd 
 To the wits who in novel paths have trod) 
 That the world is still the world of God, 
 
 And the Devil not our master. 
 
 The good old faith, that, happen what may, 
 The brave and the true will force their way, 
 
 When dastards lie down and perish ; 
 That he, who wills it, can still be free 
 By the power of equanimity, 
 And that all, whose love is what love should be, 
 
 Can still find something to cherish ;
 
 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 That the gentle spirits of Art and Song, 
 Though we dare not hope to hold them long, 
 
 Will ever be worth the wooing ; 
 And although the wisest plans be crost, 
 And the Ship of the State be tempest-tost, 
 Yet when was a nation wholly lost, 
 
 Save by its own mis-doing ? 
 
 Then away with these brainsick fancies drear, 
 And once more welcome the Christmas-cheer, 
 
 And from it new courage borrow,! 
 For so we best may honour the birth 
 Of Him who hallowed this life on earth, 
 Its highest joys and its lightest mirth, 
 
 As well as its deepest sorrow.
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MADAME MALIBRAN 
 DE BERIOT. 
 
 Oh, why should they weep, that the rose of the morning 
 
 Has now been transplanted to regions of light, 
 Where destined to flourish, the noontide adorning, 
 
 'Twill ne'er be weighed down by the cold dews of night 
 That, bursting the net of the world's vain dominion, 
 
 Far, far from this earth-cage the bright bird has flown, 
 Where Angels will print the soft kiss on her pinion, 
 
 And hail her with music as sweet as her own ? 
 
 Yet all — who, condemned in a dungeon to languish, 
 
 Have seen a dear comrade to freedom depart — 
 Will own, that his joy but redoubled their anguish, 
 
 For selfish and weak is the poor human heart. 
 And thus do we mourn for the spirits that love us, 
 
 And thus do we pay the fond tribute of woe, 
 When a star disappears from the blue sky above us 
 
 And leaves us in darkness and silence below !
 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Oh, yes ! I love the pigmy race, 
 In whom old age delights to trace 
 
 Some features of its prime ; 
 The wingless cherubs, kindly given, 
 To bring the atmosphere of heaven 
 
 Down to earth's colder clime. 
 
 I love the limbs so round and fair, 
 The smooth, white brow, the flaxen hair 
 
 That waves in ringlets free ; 
 The dimpled cheek of rosy hue, 
 And the clear eye of laughing blue 
 
 Bright as a summer sea. 
 
 I love the little, graceful ways, 
 The sense alive to blame or praise, 
 
 The wonder never still, 
 And the gay prattle that is heard, 
 From morn to eve, like song of bird, 
 
 Or music of the rill.
 
 »o CHILDHOOD. 
 
 And, loving these, how much I hate 
 The whims perverse of modern date 
 
 (Opposed to Nature's law) 
 That fain would force the growth of men, 
 And change the carol of the wren 
 
 To chattering of the daw. 
 
 Then come with me, and join my walk, 
 Thou trusting child ! and we will talk 
 
 Throughout the livelong day. 
 But for thy books of wordy lore, 
 And all thy scientific store — 
 
 Oh, fling the trash away ! 
 
 Thy budding lips are nowise meet 
 Such empty jargon to repeat 
 
 As mocks the pedant's toil ; 
 Thy dawn of life has happier dreams 
 Than sages find in those dull themes 
 
 Which waste the midnight oil. 
 
 By thee I rather would be told 
 How gentle fairies lived of old, 
 
 And grisly ogres too ; 
 Of Jack who climbed the beanstalk tall, 
 Of Puss in Boots, and Tom the Small, 
 
 And Cinderella's shoe ;
 
 I 
 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Of her who slept a hundred years, 
 With her old sire and all his peers, 
 
 Till wakened by a kiss ; 
 Of Beauty, whose kind heart was moved 
 By that poor Beast— and how h& loved, 
 
 And how he made her his. 
 
 And let the future hero's joy 
 
 Flush thy young cheek, thou gallant boy 
 
 When I in turn shall tell 
 How brave Saint George like lightning flew 
 Upon each perilous foe, and slew 
 
 The Dragon fierce and fell. 
 
 And as we stroll along the glade 
 The tear of pity shall be paid 
 
 To those sweet Babes, who died 
 Locked in each other's arms, and there 
 Unburied lay, till Robin's care 
 
 The tender limbs did hide. 
 
 And when beneath the trees we rest 
 A pensive sigh will heave thy breast, 
 
 Thou child so fair and good ! 
 As thou shalt image to thy thought 
 How Valentine and Orson fought 
 
 Within the leafy wood. 
 
 ii
 
 12 
 
 SONG OF THE GERMAN GIPSIES. 
 
 {From an unpublished Novel.) 
 
 Chorus. 
 When the loud waves roar on the darkened shore 
 
 And the night-wind rushes by ; 
 When the frogs abound on the marshy ground 
 
 And the owls are hooting nigh ; 
 The stars may have fled to their fleecy bed 
 
 And the moon be hid from sight, 
 Yet needs there no lamp in the Gipsy camp 
 
 While the watch-fire blazes bright. 
 
 A Young Man. 
 I love to pass through the long, damp grass 
 
 In search of the wild-fowl's brood ; 
 Unseen to glide where the conies hide 
 
 And to scour the tangled wood ; 
 I love to go through the new-laid snow 
 
 When the nights are chill and hoar, 
 To find the road to the wolfs abode, 
 
 Or to track the bristly boar.
 
 SONG OF THE GERMAN GIPSIES. 13 
 
 A Young Woman. 
 I love the ray of a summer's day 
 
 When the lark is in the sky ; 
 I love to roam at the harvest-home 
 
 And to hear the corn-crake's cry ; 
 But, of all the rest, the bird I love best 
 
 Is the stork, who when winter is done 
 Returns to the place of our exiled race 
 
 With news from the land of the sun. 
 
 A Little Boy. 
 I rouse the morn with my good ram's horn, 
 
 On the cuckoo's name I call ; 
 I frisk and play with my comrades gay, 
 
 The wood-mice merry and small ; 
 But, when all things sleep, to the roost I creep 
 
 Or climb where the dove-cot rocks. 
 The farmer, I trow, his revenge may vow 
 
 On the head of Master Fox ! 
 
 An Old Woman. 
 'Tis mine to know where the foul herbs grow 
 
 In the light of the pale moonbeam ; 
 To walk my round, unchecked by the sound 
 
 Of the mandrake's mournful scream ; 
 The mystic lore that we held of yore 
 
 I share with my Gipsy mate, 
 Whose eye at need is able to read 
 
 In the starry Book of Fate.
 
 i 4 SONG OF THE GERMAN GIPSIES. 
 
 Chorus. 
 We all can tell how truly and well 
 
 We have kept our ancient right, 
 To wander still at our own free will, 
 
 As strong as the eagle's flight — 
 And to rest at ease wherever we please 
 
 To kindle the crackling flame. 
 Then, oh ! let us sing, till the wild woods ring, 
 
 The praise of the Gipsy name !
 
 15 
 
 THE WARRIOR'S SERENADE. 
 
 While the sun is shining o'er us, 
 
 We may love the lance to wield, 
 Like our valiant sires before us 
 
 When they sought the field. 
 Where the hostile swords are flashing, 
 
 'Mid the ranks of death we go, 
 Through the storm of battle dashing 
 
 Till we grasp the foe. 
 
 But when night, returning slowly, 
 
 Spreads the peaceful couch of sleep, 
 And the heavens, with influence holy, 
 
 Sweetest dew-drops weep, 
 O'er the hate, the strife, the madness, 
 
 Which profaned the noontide hour — 
 Then we seek a softer gladness 
 
 In the maiden's bower.
 
 THF WARRIOR > 
 
 ne ! the trumpet sounding 
 
 •>' — 
 v mq my war-steed, fiercely bounding, 
 Bear me far away ! 
 
 Melting strain and martial story 
 
 Thus in turn our bosoms move — 
 Since the day was made fi i g 
 
 And the night for love !
 
 17 
 
 THE FORSAKEN MOTHER. 
 
 Smile on, dear boy ! Thou hast no part 
 
 In all my guilt, my shame, my woe. 
 Ah, could they reach that sinless heart, 
 
 Thy cheeks would blush, thy tears would flow ! 
 Too soon the world will claim its right 
 
 To mock thee with one bitter truth, 
 Too soon that knowledge serve to blight 
 
 The blooming promise of thy youth. 
 For men will mark thy cherub face, 
 
 Contempt upon thy name to fling, 
 And through thy life's dark river trace 
 
 The poison of its parent spring. 
 
 Not long shall I discharge the trust, 
 Which Nature gave in giving thee. 
 
 My home is in the silent dust, 
 And thou wilt ask in vain for me. 
 c
 
 THE FORSAKES MOTH UK. 
 
 Oh, then be some kind Angel near, 
 
 To guide thee through this mortal state, 
 To check young Passion's fell career, 
 
 And save thee from thy Father's fate ! 
 To teach thee all things pure and high, 
 
 With gentle thoughts and virtues mild — 
 And one pale ghost will hover nigh, 
 
 To bless the guardian of her child !
 
 iq 
 
 A LOVER'S LAMENT. 
 
 Palsied Winter comes at last 
 
 O'er the frozen sea ; 
 Chilly blows the northern blast 
 
 Through the leafless tree. 
 Now within the woodland bowers 
 
 Music there is none ; 
 Earth has lost its purple flowers, 
 
 Heaven its golden sun. 
 
 Worse than all these outward shows 
 
 Of the earth and sky, 
 Is the pang that Memory knows 
 
 When its blossoms die — 
 When, like feathered songsters fair, 
 
 Hope and joy depart 
 From the desert cold and bare 
 
 Of the wintry heart.
 
 » A LOVER'S LAMENT. 
 
 Oh, if thou canst only guess 
 
 Half the bitter pain, 
 That my spirit would express 
 
 In this mournful strain — 
 Let one echo from thy lips, 
 
 Trembling through the night, 
 Teach my soul that love's eclipse 
 
 Hath not quenched its light !
 
 21 
 
 A CAPTIVE MAIDEN'S SONG. 
 
 They bid me sing— they place the lute 
 
 In my reluctant hand ; 
 I dare not, if I would, be mute, 
 
 Beneath their stern command. 
 The song, that like a mountain flood 
 
 Gushed forth in days of old, 
 Must now be wrung like drops of blood 
 
 From out my bosom cold. 
 
 Alas ! I have but slender skill, 
 
 Just what I feel I sing, 
 And one wild note returns at will, 
 
 And lingers on my string. 
 It tells of memories, hopes, and fears, 
 
 Of childhood's sunny brow, 
 Of happy thoughts in guileless years— 
 
 Ah, why recall them now ?
 
 A CAPTIVE MAIDEN'S SONG. 
 
 (t tells of home where friends abide, 
 
 Of faith in Heaven above, 
 And that which I've no cause to hide, 
 
 My first and only love. 
 Then if amid the joyous throng 
 
 You bid such music flow, 
 You must not wonder if the song 
 
 Partake the singer's woe !
 
 23 
 
 COMFORT IN TEARS. 
 
 (From the German of Goethe.) 
 
 How comes it thou art sorrowful, 
 When all so bright appears ? 
 
 One sees, in looking at thine eyes, 
 That they are filled with tears. 
 
 " And if I have but wept alone, 
 Why should I grief impart ? 
 
 The pain, the woe, is all my own, 
 And tears will ease my heart." 
 
 Thy cheerful friends invite thee now 
 
 To join their social train ; 
 And whatsoever thou hast lost, 
 
 Oh, let us share thy pain ! 
 
 ' You laugh, and jest, and cannot guess 
 
 What makes my bosom bleed. 
 Ah, no ! 'tis nothing I have lost, 
 Yet something do I need."
 
 -4 
 
 COMFORT IN TEARS. 
 
 Then up ! for thou art fresh and young, 
 And youth new strength supplies, 
 
 And at thy years a courage free 
 Will earn the highest prize. 
 
 " Ah, no ! I cannot earn the meed, 
 
 For it is all too far. 
 It dwells so high, it shines so bright, 
 
 Like yonder distant star." 
 
 The stars ! we never envy them ; 
 
 We only love their light, 
 And gaze with rapture up above, 
 
 Into the glittering night. 
 
 " And I with rapture upward gaze 
 Through many a livelong day. 
 
 Then let me spend the nights alone, 
 And weep whilst weep I may ! "
 
 25 
 
 MY FATHERLAND. 
 {From the German of Theodor K timer, 1813.) 
 
 Where is the Singer's Fatherland ? 
 
 Where Genius brilliant lights did throw, 
 Where garlands did for Beauty blow, 
 And brave hearts felt the generous glow 
 For all that's holy, all that's grand- 
 There was my Fatherland. 
 
 What's called the Singer's Fatherland ? 
 Alas ! its name a sigh provokes 
 For sons laid low by foreign strokes. 
 Once it was called the Land of Oaks, 
 The freeman's land, the German land- 
 That was my Fatherland. 
 
 Why weeps the Singer's Fatherland ? 
 That 'neath the storm our Princes shiver 
 And words are vain on lips that quiver, 
 While none dare stem the rushing river, 
 And none dare take the foremost stand- 
 Thence weeps my Fatherland.
 
 26 MY FATHERLAND. 
 
 What asks the Singer's Fatherland ? 
 It asks of its old gods the thunder 
 Which once could shake the world with wonder, 
 Its foes to crush, its bonds to sunder, 
 And bring deliverance to the strand — 
 
 That asks my Fatherland. 
 
 What wills the Singer's Fatherland ? 
 Allow no slave its soil to stain, 
 But chase the bloodhounds back again, 
 And free its freeborn sons maintain, 
 Or free entomb them 'neath the sand — 
 
 That wills my Fatherland. 
 
 What hopes the Singer's Fatherland ? 
 It hopes in its most righteous cause, 
 In God and His eternal laws, 
 That the roused People will not pause, 
 And that the Avenger is at hand — 
 
 This hopes my Fatherland !
 
 27 
 
 TO ARMS! 
 
 {From the same.) 
 
 Arise, my People ! — Beacons high are flaming. 
 
 Clear from the North outbreaks our freedom's light. 
 With the cold steel our foemen's fury taming, 
 Arise, my People !— See yon stars proclaiming : 
 
 Ripe is the harvest— Reapers, prove your might ! 
 Your only chance of safety lies in meeting 
 
 Spears that may ope the way for freedom's flood 
 Through your own bosoms. There is no retreating. 
 
 The land is foul— oh, cleanse it with your blood ! 
 ****** 
 Heaven on our side, all Hell must yield before us. 
 
 Forward, brave People ! Forward on the foe ! 
 Our hearts beat high, our country's oaks bend o'er us, 
 
 What care we if through heaps of dead we go ? 
 
 Upon such mounds the trees of freedom grow. 
 But— oh, my country ! — when by Victory cherished 
 
 Thy glorious flag once more triumphant waves, 
 Forget not those who in thy quarrel perished, 
 
 And with a wreath of oak-leaves deck our graves !
 
 28 
 
 JOHANNES PARRICIDA. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 It is an aged man, who lies 
 
 Upon his dying bed. 
 " Oh, father ! let me place my hand 
 
 Beneath thy drooping head ; 
 And drink thou of this healing draught."- 
 
 "My son, 'tis all in vain. 
 No drug can stay the ebbing life, 
 
 Or ease me of my pain." — 
 
 " Then let me fetch the reverend priest, 
 
 Who comes with good intent 
 To shrive the sinner, and to bring 
 
 The Holy Sacrament." — 
 " Alas for me ! no priest I need, 
 
 But, ere my senses fail, 
 Approach, kind youth, that thou mayst hear 
 
 A true and woful tale.
 
 JOHANNES PARRICIDA. 29 
 
 "The Kaiser journeys forth in state, 
 
 Of earth the mightiest one, 
 Whilst round him all his nobles throng, 
 
 As sunbeams gird the sun ; 
 He goes to tame the Switzer's pride, 
 
 Where those bold peasants dwell, 
 Who hailed with joy the vengeful shaft, 
 
 And bless the bow of Tell. 
 
 " A youth of princely mien draws near, 
 
 As they move slowly on. 
 The Kaiser greets him with a smile : 
 
 What would my Nephew John ? — 
 My gracious lord, the young man said, 
 
 I come to ask of thee 
 Those lands, which from my father's house 
 
 Of right descend to me. — 
 
 "The Kaiser laughed : Such cares, fond boy, 
 
 Would ill thy thoughts engage. 
 Take thou this wreath of idle flowers ; 
 
 'Tis fitter for thine age. 
 Go, dance with girls, with striplings play, 
 
 And leave this foolish quest ! — 
 The young man answered not a word, 
 
 But hell was in his breast.
 
 3 o JOHANNES PASRICIDA. 
 
 " It was not for the castles old, 
 
 The woods and meadows fair, 
 And all that by his birth belonged 
 
 To Suabia's rightful heir. 
 It was not for the loss of land ; 
 
 Such wrong he might have borne- 
 I'ut it was for the sneering laugh, 
 
 And for the bitter scorn ! 
 
 " He sought his friends, the young, the rash, 
 
 Like him with souls of fire, 
 Who shared the anguish of his shame, 
 
 The fury of his ire. 
 Rudolf von Palm with muttered oath 
 
 Vowed vengeance on his lord, 
 And Eschenbach in silence laid 
 
 His hand upon his sword. 
 
 "And when they reached the river's bank 
 
 Where all must ferry o'er, 
 They pressed into the Kaiser's boat 
 
 Just ere it left the shore. 
 They filled the boat, and as the boat 
 
 Swept o'er the rapid tide, 
 Courtiers and guards were forced to stay 
 
 Upon the river-side.
 
 JOHANNES PARRICIDA. 3 t 
 
 " They landed in a new-ploughed field, 
 
 And forward took their way, 
 Where in the morning's pearly light 
 
 Old Habsburg's Castle lay. 
 That fastness well the Kaiser knew, 
 
 For thence his sire had gone, 
 To change a warrior's battle-steed 
 
 For a great empire's throne. 
 
 " And as he gazed on those grey towers 
 
 Without a thought of fear, 
 He saw not the uplifted arm, 
 
 The poniard glittering near. 
 He saw not, till upon the plain 
 
 Stretched by a sudden blow, 
 Whilst from a deep wound in his throat 
 
 The life-blood 'gan to flow." — 
 
 ' Why, father, dost thou shake ? And why 
 
 This mournful tale rehearse?" — 
 " I tell thee, son, that on that deed, 
 
 Lay more than murder's curse ! 
 For whosoe'er was aiding there 
 
 To fell the imperial oak, 
 It was a kinsman's blade that dealt 
 
 The surest, keenest stroke !
 
 3 2 JOHANNES PARRICJDA. 
 
 " They fled, though on the wind was borne 
 
 No loud pursuer's cry. 
 They fled from that reproachful look, 
 
 And from that glazing eye. 
 They fled, and left him there alone, 
 
 The lord of all the land — 
 None to sustain the clammy brow, 
 
 Or clasp the nerveless hand. 
 
 " Until a peasant woman came, 
 
 And knelt beside him there, 
 And vainly tried to stanch the blood 
 
 With her long, flowing hair. 
 She laid his head upon her lap, 
 
 She held his fingers fast, 
 And with a mother's tender care 
 
 Watched o'er him to the last. 
 
 " But to his murderers from that day 
 
 Did never luck betide ; 
 By torture on the scaffold some, 
 
 And some in madness died. 
 And for the prince, who led them on 
 
 Their souls with gore to stain, 
 By those who knew him of old time 
 
 He ne'er was seen again.
 
 JOHANNES PARRICIDA. 33 
 
 " He walked in gloom from place to place, 
 
 He bowed at many a shrine, 
 But ne'er upon his darkness broke 
 
 One ray of light divine. 
 Through weeks and months he wandered on, 
 
 And still he rested not, 
 But shunned alike the lordly hall, 
 
 The shepherd's lowly cot. 
 
 " At length he found a nook obscure 
 
 Where he was all unknown, 
 And many a year that lonely cell 
 
 Re-echoed to his groan. 
 The iron girdle bound his waist, 
 
 The hair-shirt galled his skin, 
 But never could his soul from pain 
 
 A moment's respite win. 
 
 "And when his turn arrived to go 
 
 To his appointed place, 
 And, like his lord, he only saw 
 
 One stranger's pitying face 
 Bend o'er him 'mid the pangs and strife 
 
 Of that tremendous time — 
 A power was on him — and he told 
 
 The story of his crime. 
 D
 
 34 JOHANNES PARRICIDA. 
 
 " No more — no more — these eyes wax dim ; 
 
 My strength, my senses fail. 
 What thou hast heard, kind youth, forget ! 
 
 'Twas but an old man's tale ! 
 When I am gone— oh, lay my bones 
 
 Where the rank grasses grow ! 
 Let no recording stone proclaim 
 
 The wretch that lies below ! " 
 
 Note.— Kaiser Albert I. was the son of Rudolf von Habsburg. Thi 
 fatal journey commemorated in this ballad took place in the year 1308.
 
 35 
 
 ON THE ATTEMPT TO ASSASSINATE HER 
 MAJESTY, June, 1840. 
 
 As thunder peals upon the startled ear 
 
 Amid the bright repose of summer days, 
 
 So did this news the nation's heart amaze, 
 With tremulous joy, begotten of deep fear. 
 We knew not till the peril came so near 
 
 How much depended on a single life ! 
 
 Hushed for a moment was the party strife, 
 And millions poured to Heaven the grateful tear. 
 And when again the sabbath bells are loud, 
 
 Far as these isles the dove-crowned sceptre own, 
 One prayer will rise from all the kneeling crowd, 
 
 However differing else in creed or tone : 
 "Father ! to this fair Queen our love is vowed— 
 
 Oh, bid thine angels guard Victoria's throne ! "
 
 36 
 
 NAPOLEON'S APOTHEOSIS. 
 
 They have borne him back to his land of fame, 
 
 To the city he made so glorious, 
 Where oft in triumphant march he came, 
 
 O'er a trampled world victorious. 
 
 And King and People go forth to meet 
 
 The Chief to his home returning ; 
 There are purple and gold for his winding-sheet, 
 
 And a coffin with jewels burning. 
 
 The trumpet sounds as in days of yore, 
 
 And the loud artillery flashes, 
 And again the eagle is seen to soar 
 
 That long was buried in ashes. 
 
 They have laid his bones in the temple high 
 Where his worn-out Guard reposes, 
 
 And tears are in many a brave man's eye 
 As the tomb o'er his relics closes.
 
 NAPOLEON'S APOTHEOSIS. 37 
 
 They will keep that fane as a thing adored, 
 
 To be shown with pride and pleasure, 
 And shield it from every hostile sword 
 
 As their country's dearest treasure. 
 
 But solemn thoughts will unbidden stray, 
 
 With a more intense emotion, 
 To that grave on the island far away 
 
 In the midst of the boundless ocean. 
 
 From sculptured marble and gilded brass 
 
 They will turn with a fonder craving, 
 To the lonely valley o'ergrown with grass 
 
 And the willows in silence waving — 
 
 Where the mariner paused with a sudden sigh 
 
 In his talk of battle and slaughter, 
 \s he came to the fount, when the sun was high, 
 
 To drink of the clear, cool water — 
 
 Where the ebb and flow of the distant surge 
 
 Told ambition's restless story, 
 And the night-winds chanted their funeral dirge 
 
 O'er the NOTHING of human glory !
 
 33 
 
 N THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF ORLEANS 
 
 TWELVE years— and yet it seems but yesterday ! — 
 
 Since I beheld young Orleans, at the side 
 Of his proud father, up the crowded v. 
 In triumph ride ! 
 
 In all the grace of manhood's early bloom 
 
 Modest he smiled, and, as the shout rose high, 
 Bowed to his courser's neck the snowy plume 
 In mute reply. 
 
 That night, I saw him 'mid the festive glare, 
 
 Whilst many a loftier beauty sought his glance, 
 Select a burgher maiden young and fair 
 To lead the dance. 
 
 And still, as round him pressed the glittering throng, 
 
 And brightest eyes their magic influence shed, 
 He looked some fairy prince of ancient son.;, 
 Risen from the dead.
 
 ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF ORLEANS. 39 
 
 But those were Gallic freedom's halcyon hours ; 
 
 The conquering people threw their weapons down, 
 To bind with chaplets of the sweetest flowers 
 Their new-given crown. 
 
 Exhausted faction slept ; no murmur rose 
 
 To break the concord of the general tone. 
 It seemed as though a monarch might repose 
 Even on a throne ! 
 
 Since then, twelve years have seen the undaunted sire 
 
 By wondrous skill a slippery seat maintain, 
 Guiding his light-poised car and steeds of fire 
 With steady rein. 
 
 And Orleans waited for the dangerous place, 
 
 When Philippe's strength should fail, as fail it must 
 Alas ! the sire is weary of the race '. 
 The son is dust ! 
 
 A widowed bride will weep upon his grave, 
 
 And orphan-babes lament his timeless fate ; 
 But, worse than all, where is the arm to save 
 That tottering state ?
 
 40 ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF ORLEANS. 
 
 Oh, by the memory of thy valleys green, 
 
 Thy vine-clad hills, and orchards blooming fair, 
 Thy woods and groves, thy azure sky serene, 
 And balmy air — 
 
 From deadly feud, and passion's lawless will, 
 
 And war's fierce madness, eager to advance, 
 In this dark hour may Heaven protect thee still, 
 Beautiful France !
 
 4* 
 
 THE PILGRIMS. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 'TWAS in the shire of Hereford, 
 
 Not far from the banks of Wye, 
 That once at eve two strangers came 
 
 To a village hostelry. 
 They took small heed of the jolly host, 
 
 With his busy, cheerful air, 
 With his smile of greeting for every guest, 
 
 And his good old English fare. 
 
 Upon some grave and solemn thought 
 
 They both appeared intent, 
 And for the Sexton of the place 
 
 In eager haste they sent ; 
 And, as the Sexton tarried long, 
 
 Those two walked forth alone, 
 Where the churchyard trees waved mournfully 
 
 O'er many a mouldering stone.
 
 42 THE PI I a: KIMS. 
 
 One was a man of noble port, 
 
 With an eye of fiery pride, 
 With something of the Roman brow, 
 
 And of the imperial stride ; 
 And, when he spoke in measured phrase, 
 
 His full-toned voice did sound 
 Like the deep, low murmur of the sea, 
 
 Heard in a cave profound. 
 
 The other was a lady bright, 
 With such a form and face 
 
 As Grecian genius loved to dream, 
 And Grecian art to trace ; 
 
 Much like the man, or rather like 
 His image glorified — 
 
 As though a sister goddess walked 
 By a mortal brother's side. 
 
 And now the Sexton came, and doffed 
 
 His cap with reverence meet, 
 But started at the lady's voice, 
 
 So thrilling 'twas and sweet. 
 " Good man," she said, " we sent for you, 
 
 If haply you might know 
 Where Father Kemble was interred 
 
 Many a long year ago.
 
 THE PILGRIMS. 43 
 
 " He was a good and pious priest 
 
 Who in these parts abode, 
 And blameless to extreme old age 
 
 Pursued his peaceful road — 
 Till, in the second Charles's reign, 
 
 The bigots of that time 
 Falsely accused and murdered him, 
 
 Though guiltless of a crime." 
 
 " Oh ! well," the Sexton said, " I mind 
 
 The stone above his clay, 
 For all the country round retains 
 
 His memory to this day ; 
 And I have heard the old men tell, 
 
 Who had it from their sires, 
 The piteous story of his end 
 
 Beside their Christmas fires. 
 
 " They took him up to London town, 
 
 And long they kept him there, 
 While perjured villains were employed 
 
 Against his life to swear ; 
 And further still their spite to wreak, 
 
 And work his body woe, 
 From London unto Hereford 
 
 On foot they made him go.
 
 44 Till: PILGRIMS. 
 
 " And in a field without the town 
 
 They raised a gibbet high, 
 And there, in torture and in shame, 
 
 This old man was to die ; 
 But nothing shook his courage stout, 
 
 His conscience being free, 
 And lie went to meet his cruel fate 
 
 With a frank and hearty glee. 
 
 "And, they say, he stopped upon his road 
 
 At some remembered door, 
 To smoke the friendly, social pipe 
 
 As he was wont of yore ; 
 And in these parts, where custom still 
 
 Preserves each ancient type, 
 The man who takes a parting puff 
 
 Calls it his Kcmble-Pipe. 
 
 " The people wept, the people moaned, 
 
 As round him they did throng ; 
 The very hangman pardon asked 
 
 For that unhallowed wrong. — 
 Disquiet not thyself (he cried) 
 
 Honest friend Anthony ! 
 Thou dost me a great kindness, friend, 
 
 And no discourtesy !
 
 THE PILGRIMS. 45 
 
 " For I am old, my race is run, 
 
 'Tis time for me to pause, 
 Nor would I wish a better death 
 
 Than in my Master's cause, 
 And for that ancient Church, which still 
 
 Upon a rock doth stand, 
 And which alone in early days 
 
 Made this a Christian land. — 
 
 " Well, well ! he was a Papist blind, 
 
 And that was Popish rant ; 
 And I, thank God," the Sexton said, 
 
 "Am a true Protestant. 
 But men are men, howe'er in birth 
 
 Or creed the difference lies, 
 And that old story oft has brought 
 
 The tears into mine eyes." 
 
 The stranger grasped the Sexton's arm 
 
 " Oh, lead us to the place, 
 Where lies that holy man, for we 
 
 Are of his name and race ! 
 And prouder are we of the thoughts 
 
 Which such a memory brings, 
 Than if within our veins there flowed 
 
 The blood of twenty kings !
 
 THE PILGRIMS, 
 
 " Is this the little mound of turf? 
 
 Is this the old grey stone? 
 Take, Sexton, take this coin of gold, 
 
 And leave us here alone ! 
 And, sister, 'twill not shame the light 
 
 Which modern schools impart, 
 If here we render to the dead 
 
 The homage of the heart ! " 
 
 The greatest Actor of the age 
 
 Was he, and high his fame ; 
 The greatest Actress of all time 
 
 Was she that with him came ; 
 And oft, upon the tragic scene, 
 
 Their genius did control 
 And stir e'en to its inmost depths 
 
 A mighty nation's soul. 
 
 And yet, when the half-conscious Lear 
 
 His child Cordelia pressed, 
 Or the relenting Roman clasped 
 
 His mother to his breast, 
 Or Isabel for Claudio prayed 
 
 With pure and eloquent breath, 
 Or heaven's own angels stooped to gaze 
 
 On Katharine's saintly death —
 
 I 
 
 THE PILGRIMS. 47 
 
 Methinks, that all those glorious scenes, 
 
 Which Shakespeare's art endears, 
 Drew from no higher, holier source 
 
 The fount of sacred tears — 
 Than did the feelings of that hour, 
 
 When 'mid the deepening gloom 
 The Kemble and the Siddons knelt 
 
 At the old martyr's tomb ! 
 
 Note.— Father Kemble was put to death at Wigmarsh, near Here- 
 ford, in 1679, and was buried in the Churchyard of Welsh Newton. 
 The incident of the Pilgrimage is mentioned in Campbell's " Life of 
 Mrs. Siddons."
 
 48 
 
 PROLOGUE TO LAUNCELOT OF THE LAKE. 
 
 Gone is the antique age of knightly deeds, 
 The glory of the minstrel's day is past ; 
 Now that in Beauty's cause no champion bleeds 
 The visions of Romance are fading fast. 
 Yet dear to man, howe'cr his lot be cast, 
 The old, heroic constancy of mind— 
 The courage unsubdued by fortune's blast, 
 And faithful love to every doom resigned ; 
 And for their sake this tale may still acceptance find. 
 
 Or should thick shades of human guilt and woe 
 Blend with the brightness of the poet's dream, 
 Shall we forbid the pitying tear to flow 
 Because a thrice-told fiction is the theme? 
 Oh, priceless are those little stars, which gleam 
 Through the black night of time ! for they impart 
 Some faint reflection of the morning's beam ; 
 And simple tones, beyond the reach of art, 
 Speak from long-vanished years the language of the heart.
 
 PROLOGUE TO LAUNCELOT OF THE LAKE. 49 
 
 This was the tale, which DANTE loved so well, 
 That, when sad exile bowed his awful head, 
 Amid the ghastly phantoms of deep hell 
 He could recall its pleasant image fled : 
 For this it was, which poor Francesca read, 
 With Paulo by her side, as bending o'er 
 The open volume on her lap, and led 
 By witchery of that sweet, entrancing lore, 
 Their lips all trembling met— that day they read no more ! 
 
 Then if I dare to sound this note again, 
 Oh, mighty master of the Tuscan line ! 
 Forgive the boldness that would thus profane 
 Aught thou hast loved by numbers weak as mine. 
 No rash presumption, deathless Florentine ! 
 Prompts me ; but with due reverence I engage 
 In this my task. What moved thy soul divine 
 May yet have power to warm a sluggish age, 
 And live a second life on Shakespeare's noble stage. 
 
 Haply such hope will fail — but, come what may, 
 Through many a sleepless hour, when all went wrong, 
 And harsh realities upon me lay 
 With leaden weight, and the dawn tarried long — 
 These bright creations of romantic song 
 Cheered me ; and still I see them beckoning stand, 
 With rainbow wings outspread (a glittering throng !) 
 To bear me from the present's gloomy strand, 
 Back to King Arthur's court, and scenes of Fairy-land ! 
 
 E
 
 5 o PROLOGUE TO LAUNCELOT OF THE LAKE. 
 
 Note.— The tragedy of " Launcelot of the Like" was offered to 
 Mr. Macready, when manager of Drury Lam- Theatre, and its fate was 
 still undecided, when his retirement rendered hopeless its production as 
 an acting play. He afterwards wrote to the author: "I am not 
 1 to say, that if 1 had retained the direction of an English 
 Theatre, I should have hazarded its representation or, the stage, but 1 
 am sure I should have looked with interest and even eagerness to any 
 future essay, that might have been forwarded to me with the recommen- 
 dation of your name."— The '-Idylls of the King" had not then 
 appeared, or it would have been impossible to risk a comparison with 
 Tennyson's inimitable treatment of the same subject.
 
 5i 
 
 THE NORTH-KING'S DEATH-SONG. 
 
 {From " Teuton.'') 
 
 With sturdy arms, unwilling, yet resolved, 
 
 In strict obedience to their lord's command, 
 
 They laid him on the deck, beside the mast, 
 
 While at the helm the sullen Berserk stood, 
 
 And at the prow the Skald, tuning his harp. 
 
 Then once more spake the King : " Give me my sword ! 
 
 The matchless blade, keen as the lightning's edge, 
 
 With runic letters flaming on the steel, 
 
 Forged by the dwarfs in caves below the earth, 
 
 And since oft brandished in the sight of men. 
 
 Not like a woman, with unbloodied hands, 
 
 Or flesh unwounded, must the warrior come 
 
 Before great Odin's throne. Now bring the torch, 
 
 That is to light our death-fire on the sea, 
 
 And guide the Valkyrs to the destined spot ! 
 
 Raise the loud song, bold harper ! Comrades, loose 
 
 The dragon from his bonds !— One parting cup 
 
 I yet will quaff in memory of old times, 
 
 And my last word shall be : Skol to the Brave ! "
 
 52 THE NORTH-KING'S DEATH-SONG. 
 
 He drained the goblet 'mid their answering shouts, 
 
 And many a rugged cheek was wet with tears, 
 
 As the ship glided from the pebbly strand, 
 
 Ploughing the foam. Seaward the pilot steered, 
 
 And long the king sat motionless, and gazed 
 
 Upon the shore with a calm, thoughtful brow. 
 
 Hut as the group of warriors on the beach, 
 
 The yellow sands, the overhanging cliffs, 
 
 Receded, and above them rose in view 
 
 The castle-towers, and all the distant hills, 
 
 The monarch grimly smiled, and grasped his sword, 
 
 Cutting deep gashes on his aged breast, 
 
 Till freely flowed the blood. Meanwhile, the Skald 
 
 Struck hard the chords, and thus in triumph sang : 
 
 " Hail, Hero of the North ! 
 Thou shalt not slumber 'neath the grassy mound 
 
 In dull, ignoble rest ! 
 Thy goodly war-horse and thy faithful hound 
 Shall not be sent upon a bootless quest 
 To serve their master in the grave ! 
 But, driving thy sea-chariot forth 
 
 Upon the ocean- wave, 
 Be thou as at the close of battle found 
 
 With blood-besprinkled breast, 
 With fire above thee gleaming like a crest, 
 And maids divine shall bear thee to the skies !
 
 THE NORTH-KINGS DEATH-SONG. 53 
 
 " They the coward race despise, 
 Who cling to life, although with sorrow stored, 
 And sink, low-wailing, to the dark domain 
 Where Hela dwelleth in the Halls of Pain, 
 Sickness her bed, and Hunger at her board. 
 High in the clouds I see them wait, 
 Those virgin messengers of fate, 
 Each on her steed, with flashing sword, 
 And golden buckler at her side, 
 
 Before heaven's starry gate. 
 Hark ! I hear the trampling feet 
 Of their coursers wild and fleet, 
 As down the rainbow-bridge they ride, 
 
 And when they reach the sea — 
 They shall plunge into the tide, 
 They shall snatch thee from the foam, 
 And bear thee to the glorious home 
 
 Of the Brave and Free ! " 
 
 Such was the strain that floated o'er the deep, 
 When they, who watched the vessel from the shore, 
 Beheld a light flame creep along the deck, 
 And climb the lofty shrouds. The ship was fired ! 
 And as the burning hull (now like a sun, 
 That sets beneath the wave, half crimson glow, 
 Half lurid haze) went drifting to its doom, 
 The harp still sounded, and still rose the song.
 
 I 
 
 THE NORTH-KINGS DEATH-SONG. 
 
 " Rejoice ! Rejoice ! 
 The Gjallar-horn is blowing ! 
 
 In Gladsheim's porch the gods expectant stand, 
 Each look and voice 
 With kindly warmth o'erflowing, 
 To greet the stranger from the distant land '. 
 
 "While the red gore 
 From that firm heart is welling, 
 Which throbbed exulting 'mid the mortal strife, 
 On Asgard's shore 
 Are kindred bosoms swelling, 
 And friends await him in the nobler life ! 
 
 " Thor will be there, 
 Upon his hammer leaning, 
 Tyr with his falchion, Braga with his lute, 
 And Freya fair 
 With soft eyes full of meaning, 
 And sweet Iduna with her golden fruit. 
 
 " King Odin's hand, 
 The warrior's grasp returning, 
 Shall lead him onward to Valhalla's dome, 
 Whose chosen band, 
 With rival ardour burning, 
 Will bid the hero welcome to his home.
 
 THE NORTH-KING'S DEATH-SONG. 55 
 
 " And he shall fight, 
 And he shall feast in glory, 
 'Mid those brave champions in their stately hall, 
 Till drops the night 
 O'er Saga's finished story, 
 And Lok's dread offspring make an end of all. 
 
 " Cease, harp and voice ! 
 The flames are closing round us, 
 And human strength must yield to fiery odds — 
 Yet, oh ! rejoice ! 
 The maids divine have found us, 
 And deathless valour soareth to the gods ! "
 
 5<> 
 
 THE NEW PAGANISM. 
 
 {From the same.) 
 
 ENJOY ! The world has ample wealth in store ; 
 
 At Nature's board the daintiest fare is rife. 
 The grapes are pressed, the purple cup runs o'er, 
 
 And he, who will, may taste the sweets of life. 
 Who sows the seed shall reap the golden grain, 
 
 For labour still its due reward bestows — 
 Fame, riches, beauty, health of heart and brain, 
 
 Triumphant rapture, and serene repose. 
 
 Leave Superstition to her gloomy cell, 
 
 Her useless toil, and self-inflicted pain, 
 Her moon-struck terrors, hideous dreams of hell, 
 
 And idle prayers that weary heaven in vain ! 
 Forget the beldam's tale, the bigot's creed, 
 
 Fetters that bind, and barriers that delay- 
 Enjoy the present hour in thought and deed ! 
 
 Fear not the morrow ! Let us live to-day !
 
 THE NEW PAGANISM. 57 
 
 The classic age revives, to glad the soul 
 
 With pleasant images of graceful things. 
 Young Cupids play, while Bacchus wreathes the bowl, 
 
 To all the Muses bright Apollo sings ; 
 His deep-mouthed shell sounds Triton o'er the brine, 
 
 The Fauns and Dryads peer from wood and grove, 
 Still Venus smiles on Mars— with glance divine, 
 
 Springs the armed Pallas from the brow of Jove ! 
 
 For these, though fables, are the flowers of art, 
 
 No more believed in, yet so fresh and fair, 
 That to the realms of fiction they impart 
 
 The brilliant colouring and the balmy air ; 
 And in those regions all is gay and free, 
 
 No laws to check, no conscience to reprove, 
 But the mind floats on fancy's boundless sea, 
 
 Or basks at leisure in the light of love. 
 
 Then build on earth a home of perfect bliss, 
 
 Kept sacred from the touch of pain or woe ; 
 Let human wisdom only toil for this, 
 
 To weave the web of happiness below ! 
 And if, at length, one fatal hour must be, 
 
 When Death will needs intrude (unwelcome guest '.) 
 May the ripe fruit drop gently from the tree, 
 
 And the tired senses calmly sink to rest !
 
 58 
 
 CHRISTABEL'S SONG ON THE SEASHORE 
 {From the same.) 
 
 DOST thou murmur, sleepless ocean, 
 
 Dashing thus against the land, 
 With a constant, equal motion, 
 
 Rising, falling, on the strand ? 
 No ! when power supernal urges, 
 
 Thy submissive strength obeys, 
 And the thunder of thy surges 
 
 Only sounds like hymns of praise ! 
 
 Oh ! that mortals were as ready 
 
 In the bounds prescribed to move, 
 With devotion true and steady 
 
 To the guiding light above ! 
 All the guilt, and all the sadness, 
 
 Which the human bosom fill, 
 Spring but from the selfish madness, 
 
 That disputes the eternal will.
 
 CHR1STABELS SONG ON THE SEASHORE. 59 
 
 Nature's mighty heart rejoices 
 
 With a simple love and awe, 
 Yet her sweet and solemn voices 
 
 Fail to teach the highest law : 
 Would we conquer fear and sorrow, 
 
 Turn to gain each fancied loss, 
 We must nobler wisdom borrow 
 
 From the lessons of the Cross. 
 
 Self-control and self-denial, 
 
 Life for others freely given, 
 Patience under every trial, 
 
 Hope for Man, and trust in Heaven. 
 These alone, our eyes unsealing, 
 
 Can the spirit's health restore, 
 All the glorious path revealing, 
 
 Where our Master walked before. 
 
 Then, whate'er of change betideth, 
 
 Good or ill, that fortune brings, 
 Calm in faith the soul abideth, 
 
 Resting on her folded wings — 
 Bows to one supreme dominion, 
 
 Learns to wait, and bear, and pray, 
 Till she soars with stainless pinion 
 
 Through the death-clouds into day !
 
 6o 
 
 TOLL, GREAT BELL OF SAINT PAUL! 
 {On the Death of the Prince Consort.) 
 
 Toll, Great Bell of Saint Paul '. 
 Toll through the midnight air ! 
 Bid all the people fall 
 
 Upon their knees in prayer ! 
 For the dear Lady left 
 
 Upon her glittering throne, 
 More utterly bereft, 
 
 More hopelessly alone, 
 Than the poor peasant's wife ; 
 
 Because from her is riven 
 The only human life, 
 
 That to her state was given, 
 To help, control, and guide— 
 
 The only voice below, 
 Which had the right to chicle, 
 
 Or sweetest praise bestow '.
 
 TOLL, GREAT BELL OF SAINT PAUL! 61 
 
 Millions will love her still — 
 
 Ay, fondlier than before ! 
 But the one equal will 
 
 Is gone for evermore. 
 Then weep and pray for her, 
 
 Upon her glittering throne, 
 In pomp so chill and drear, 
 
 So high, yet so alone ! 
 May the kind Power above 
 
 His holiest balm impart ! 
 And may her children's love 
 
 Comfort the Mother's heart !
 
 62 
 
 EXPECTATION. 
 
 AH, friend ! how often must the thought 
 Across thy brow its shadow fling, 
 
 That life's full summer has not brought 
 The promise of its early spring ! 
 
 When I recall our boyish days, 
 And all our pleasant visions fled, 
 
 Where is the crown of love and praise 
 That once was destined for thy head? 
 
 I still can see the prospect fair 
 
 That rose before thy youthful mind. 
 
 Alas ! it melted into air, 
 
 And left this dreary blank behind ! 
 
 " Nay, sit thee down beside the fire, 
 Old friend, and sip the mellow wine ! 
 
 Though memories fade, and hopes expire, 
 Why should we at our fate repine ? 
 
 " If many a dream, disowned by Truth, 
 Has fled before the Ithuriel touch, 
 
 It is, that in our sanguine youth 
 We ask, and we expect, too much.
 
 EXPECT A TION. 63 
 
 " We ask of man the virtues rare, 
 Which we, perchance, have never shown, 
 
 And claim that woman's love and care 
 Should be less selfish than our own. 
 
 "We seek for wealth, and power, and fame, 
 
 Above our fellow-men to rise, 
 Nor see, that in so rude a game 
 
 The strongest arm must win the prize. 
 
 " Oh, were we but content to love, 
 
 To do the kindness, bear the pain, 
 For others' sake — we soon should prove 
 
 That so we had not loved in vain ! 
 
 " And if, in science or in art, 
 
 We sought the work, and not the praise, 
 They would their own reward impart — 
 
 No matter for the paltry bays ! 
 
 " Then still expect, and still believe, 
 
 That stainless faith and duty done, 
 Whatever else on earth deceive, 
 
 Will cheer us at our set of sun ! 
 
 "And when the sinking spirit quails — 
 
 Beyond the grave, beyond the sky, 
 Expect a love that never fails, 
 
 The only love that cannot die ! "
 
 64 
 
 OBLIVION. 
 
 (Air— " Mary B lane.") 
 
 There is a stream that darkly flows 
 
 Amid a valley fair ; 
 And human joys, and human woes, 
 
 Alike are buried there. 
 Tis said, that souls benighted, 
 
 That hearts oppressed with pain, 
 Need only touch its healing wave, 
 And never grieve again. 
 
 Then let us seek the magic stream, 
 
 Which through the valley flowcth yet ; 
 'Twill make the past an idle dream, 
 'Twill teach us to forget !
 
 OBLIVION. 65 
 
 'Twill hide from view the barren earth, 
 
 The sun of life o'ercast, 
 The love that perished in its birth, 
 
 The joys too frail to last — 
 The hopes of youth all blighted, 
 
 Its faith for ever fled, 
 The wasted hours, the withered flowers 
 That twine above the dead. 
 
 Then let us seek the magic stream, 
 
 Which through the valley floweth yet ; 
 'Twill make the past an idle dream, 
 'Twill teach us to forget ! 
 
 Ah, no ! we cannot coldly part 
 With all that once was dear ; 
 The love still clings about the heart, 
 
 The joy still whispers near. 
 The hope hath ta'en a loftier flight, 
 The faith new wings hath spread, 
 And far away, in realms of light, 
 Again will meet the dead. 
 
 Then do not seek the magic stream, 
 
 Which through the valley floweth yet 
 The past was all too sweet a dream 
 Thus blindly to forget !
 
 66 
 
 JACK ROUGH'S SONG. 
 {From "Aldersleigh.") 
 
 AS long as this world shall go round, 
 
 And up to the end of our tether, 
 Rich and poor face to face will be found, 
 
 And still must be herded together ; 
 For no man can say in his pride 
 
 That he ne'er will want help from a brother, 
 And classes in vain we divide, 
 
 When each stands in need of the other. 
 And so, while there's freedom for all, 
 
 And room both to take and to give in, 
 And one law for great and for small, 
 
 We're content with the land that we live in ! 
 With a hip ! hip ! hurrah ! 
 With a hip ! hip ! hurrah ! 
 
 And three cheers for the land that we live in ! 
 
 I do not repine at my lot, 
 And talk like a rebel and traitor, 
 
 Because 'tis but little I've got, 
 And many are richer and greater.
 
 JACK ROUGH'S SONG. 6 7 
 
 The merchant may boast of his pelf, 
 
 The peer of his birth and his station, 
 The scholar be proud of himself, 
 
 The statesman of ruling the nation ; 
 But he who must labour for bread, 
 
 In whatever hard toil he engages, 
 Let it be with his hands or his head, 
 
 May rejoice in the work and the wages ! 
 With a hip ! hip ! hurrah ! 
 With a hip ! hip ! hurrah ! 
 And three cheers for the work and the wages ! 
 
 And the Crown is our beacon so bright, 
 
 Placed high o'er the reach of the billows, 
 That the ship of the State may go right, 
 
 While we sleep secure on our pillows. 
 And the Queen who now graces the throne, 
 
 Whom we honour above every other, 
 In her life the true model has shown 
 
 Of the woman, the wife, and the mother. 
 In each joy that can gladden her heart, 
 
 In each grief that may come to distress her, 
 We feel we must all bear a part, 
 
 And here's health to Victoria !— God bless her ! 
 With a hip ! hip ! hurrah ! 
 With a hip ! hip ! hurrah ! 
 And three cheers for Victoria ! — God bless her !
 
 68 
 
 THE HINDOO GIRL'S SONG. 
 {From the " Adventures of N evil Brooke") 
 
 My Mother! did I know the form 
 
 In which thy spirit wanders now, 
 I'd search the world, though sun and storm 
 
 Should beat upon my weary brow ; 
 Until I found thee once again, 
 
 And bore thee to some place of rest, 
 Where safe from peril, strife, and pain, 
 
 I'd clasp thee to my aching breast. 
 
 I mark each bird that comes in view, 
 
 And watch it in its upward flight 
 On wings of green or crimson hue, 
 
 Of ebon gloom or silver light ; 
 And oft I think I hear thee nigh 
 
 In the soft note of murmuring dove, 
 Or lonely chakwi's ' mournful cry, 
 
 When wailing for its absent love. 
 
 1 Note. — The chakwi is an Indian bird that lives on the banks of 
 rivers, and is said by tradition to be separated every evening from its 
 mate, for whom it calls piteously through the night. 

 
 THE HINDOO GIRLS SONG. 69 
 
 No tiger's skin could ever hold 
 
 Thy gentle nature's nobler part, 
 No serpent with its coils infold 
 
 So tender and so pure a heart ; 
 But when the wild deer hunted flies 
 
 To me for refuge in its fear, 
 I gaze into those pleading eyes, 
 
 And seem to see thy image there. 
 
 Or if, perchance, it be thy doom 
 
 In some fair plant to live and grow, 
 Thou wouldst not choose the mango's bloom, 
 
 Or the rich amaranth's purple glow — 
 But rather seek thy home to make 
 
 In jasmine or acacia bower, 
 Or where the trembling moonbeams wake 
 
 The white leaves of the lotus-flower. 
 
 And though thy daughter needs must weep, 
 
 For thee I will not dream of ill. 
 Through every change thy soul may keep 
 
 Its beauty and its sweetness still — 
 May wear a thousand goodly shapes, 
 
 And in a thousand lights may shine, 
 Till from its bondage it escapes, 
 
 To blend with Brahma's life divine.
 
 70 
 
 THE PARTING OF COMRADES. 
 
 {From the Same.) 
 
 OH, fair is India's starry night, 
 
 When day's fierce heat is done ! 
 The very moon above is bright 
 
 As England's common sun. 
 And all around in varied hue 
 
 A world of beauty gleams, 
 Such as our childhood never knew, 
 
 Or only saw in dreams. 
 
 Yet dearer far the misty glade, 
 
 With soft winds whispering nigh, 
 Where oft in early youth we strayed 
 
 Beneath a clouded sky ; 
 And sweeter, 'mid the darkest night 
 
 That wraps the isle in gloom, 
 The little, twinkling, friendly light 
 
 From some familiar room.
 
 THE PARTING OF COMRADES. 71 
 
 Then if to soothe the parting pain 
 
 One gentle hope aspire, 
 It is that we may meet again 
 
 Around an English fire — 
 May there the splendour and the pride 
 
 Of Indian scenes recall, 
 And find our quiet chimney-side 
 
 Is happier still than all !
 
 72 
 
 MEN OF ENGLAND! SONS OF OCEAN 
 
 {From the Same.) 
 
 Men of England ! Sons of Ocean ! 
 
 Through whatever climes you roam, 
 Cherish still the heart's devotion 
 
 To your country and your home ! 
 Stand between that home and danger 
 
 Firmly as your fathers stood ; 
 From the tyrant, from the stranger, 
 Guard it with your dearest blood ! 
 Still repeat your island story, 
 
 Handed down from age to youth — 
 Prizing duty more than glory, 
 Holding cheaper life than truth !
 
 MEN OF ENGLAND/ SONS OF OCEAN ! 73 
 
 Yet, be sure, each other nation 
 
 Hath its gleams of love and light ; 
 Every land's the habitation 
 
 Of some memories fair and bright. 
 Not a people under heaven, 
 
 In their own appointed place, 
 But to them a share was given 
 
 Of the blessings of the race. 
 Though unlike in form and features, 
 
 Manners, customs, language, name — 
 They are all our fellow-creatures, 
 
 And their birthright is the same ! 
 
 Do not scorn — but learn to lead them 
 
 With the kindly voice and glance ! 
 On the mighty march precede them, 
 
 Foremost in the world's advance ! 
 By the day-star shining o'er us, 
 
 And the human soul within, 
 Grander triumphs lie before us, 
 
 Nobler palms are yet to win. 
 Onward then with ranks unbroken, 
 
 England ever in the van — 
 And her flag shall be the token 
 
 Of the brotherhood of man !
 
 74 
 
 ARTIST AND STATESMAN. 
 
 A FANCY SKETCH. 1 
 
 METHINKS cir island cannot boast 
 
 A fitter place for poet's dream, 
 
 Than where on Devon's northern coast 
 
 The Lyns pour down their mingled stream. 
 
 Not pearly white, nor softly blue, 
 
 But brown as honest labour's hue 
 
 Tanned by the sun's meridian ray, 
 
 Each torrent from its moorland home 
 
 Springs headlong, through the vales to roam 
 
 And laughs and sparkles on its way — 
 
 Leaping o'er rocks in jets of foam, 
 
 And fringing all its banks with spray. 
 
 Like youth and maiden in their pride, 
 
 They ramble far, they ramble wide, 
 
 And sing their songs at morning-tide, 
 
 Or dance along the moonlit glade — 
 
 And oft in ferny coverts hide, 
 
 Or through the whispering rushes glide, 
 
 Or plunge beneath the greenwood shade — 
 
 1 Now published for the first time.
 
 ARTIST AND STATESMAN. 75 
 
 Until the hour of union sweet, 
 When in the narrow gorge they meet, 
 A moment kiss in sportive glee, 
 Then rush together to the sea. 
 
 There, below the sheltering hills, 
 
 Lulled by music of the rills, 
 
 And the deeper, fuller note 
 
 From old Ocean's organ-throat, 
 
 Sleeps the village. From its breast 
 
 To the tall cliff's verdant crest, 
 
 Upward winds as steep a road 
 
 As might lead to the abode 
 
 Of mountain-elves. But poised on high, 
 
 Midway 'twixt the sea and sky, 
 
 Will the weary traveller find 
 
 Hospitable roofs and kind, 
 
 Clustering round a Church, with trees 
 
 To shield them from the sun and breeze. 
 
 And he, who once has tarried there, 
 
 Thither will again repair, 
 
 To soothe his soul with prospects fair, 
 
 Calm repose, and healthful air. 
 
 One golden morn, when all was bright, 
 A Stranger stood on Lynton's height, 
 And westward passed with measured stride 
 Along the North Cliffs rugged side,
 
 ?6 ARTIST AND STATESMAN. 
 
 Like one absorbed in thought The plough 
 
 Of Time or Care on cheek and brow 
 
 Had left dec]) furrows ; and his eye, 
 
 A live coal in a cavern hid, 
 
 Shot glances from beneath a lid 
 
 That o'er it drooped despondingly. 
 
 Else were his features bold and keen, 
 
 And grave and stately was his mien, 
 
 With that proud aspect of command 
 
 Which marks a ruler of the land, 
 
 Distinguishing from most on earth 
 
 The Englishman of blood and birth. 
 
 And such was he. Nor rank alone, 
 
 But gifts more precious were his own— 
 
 The strength, the courage, and the skill 
 
 To mould opinion to his will, 
 
 And these had raised him to a place 
 
 Amongst the leaders of his race. 
 
 Now, the fierce Session's tumult o'er, 
 
 The strife, the struggle, oft in vain, 
 
 He sought the beauties of the shore, 
 
 The solemn voices of the main, 
 
 If haply they might peace impart, 
 
 And still the beating of a heart 
 
 Whose pulses broke his sleep at night. 
 
 Ah ! such the price our Statesmen pay, 
 
 For all that looks so brave and gay 
 
 To those who watch their upward flight !
 
 ARTIST AND STATESMAN. 
 
 Round the Cliff with footsteps slow 
 Did the musing Stranger go, 
 By a path so wild and rude 
 That it charmed his solitude, 
 Harmonising with his mood. 
 High above him, gaunt and grey, 
 Relics of an elder day, 
 Carved into fantastic shapes, 
 Monsters grim and mowing apes, 
 Teeth of some gigantic saw, 
 Mastodon or mammoth's jaw — 
 Broken, splintered, jagged, and torn, 
 By a thousand tempests worn, 
 Yet defying all their shocks, 
 Towered the rampart of the rocks. 
 Girt with many a buttress tall, 
 Frowned the bare Titanic wall ; 
 But beneath its awful shade 
 Ferns and feathery grasses played, 
 To the crag the ivy clung, 
 Light its bells the foxglove swung, 
 Tufts of gorse and purple heather 
 Peeped from tiny nooks together, 
 And the wandering sheep had found 
 Herbage on that stony ground. 
 Deep below them rolled the waves, 
 Sounding through the clefts and caves, 
 And as far as eye could view 
 
 77
 
 7 8 ARTIST AND STATESMAN. 
 
 Spread the boundless waters blue, 
 With a glittering sail in sight, 
 And the seagull's pinions white. 
 
 At a sudden turn, the scene 
 Opened on a lone ravine, 
 Where the rocks in masses piled, 
 Tossed abroad, or scattered wild, 
 All in loose disorder lay — 
 Fragments of a mighty fray 
 'Mongst the Giants that of yore 
 Waged their elemental war. 
 Now the vale was calm and still, 
 Guarded by a lofty hill, 
 With a huge chaotic heap 
 Of boulders, like a castle-keep, 
 Pointing seaward. These between, 
 Sloped a narrow line of green 
 To a little fairy cove, 
 Which, when seen from crags above, 
 Sparkled like a jewel set 
 In an iron coronet. 
 
 Then the Stranger upward went, 
 Climbing to the topmost stone 
 Of that Castle's steep ascent. 
 There he lingered, not alone — 
 For, beneath a broad-brimmed hat,
 
 ARTIST AND STATESMAN. 79 
 
 Working at his easel, sat 
 A bearded Artist. Sun and rain, 
 Wind, and storm, and weather-stain, 
 Each had left its mellow trace 
 On the Painter's manly face. 
 Still it shone with pleasant light, 
 Genial, comely, frank, and bright ; 
 Still his eyes looked out serene, 
 Clear as crystal, on the scene, 
 And a sweet and happy smile 
 Rested on his lips the while. 
 
 Like one that wanders in a haze, 
 The Statesman fixed an absent gaze 
 Upon the Painter. Then he woke 
 With sudden start and forward spring, 
 As though a long-lost image broke 
 Upon his memory, and he cried : 
 " V/hat ! Charley Vernon ! Can it be 
 My old, my valued comrade tried ? 
 As fresh as in our schooldays free, 
 And scarcely changed since last we spoke 
 Of what our future life might bring ! " 
 
 A moment, as in mute surprise 
 
 Or doubt, the Artist raised his eyes ; 
 
 Then down his brush and palette threw,
 
 8o ARTIST AND STATESMAN. 
 
 Anl rose, and said : " Methought I knew 
 The voice. But years have come and gone, 
 And many a youthful dream has flown, 
 Since we, Sir Edward . . ." 
 
 " Nay, not so ! 
 Please let the dreary title go, 
 And call me Mowbray as of yore. 
 Oh ! could we but the time restore 
 When we were boys, a careless set ! 
 But, Vernon, it is something yet 
 To clasp your hand, and so forget 
 The lapse of years we both deplore." 
 
 " Careless enough," the Painter said, 
 " Was I ; but you were grave and staid, 
 And like a Seer looked far before. 
 And you, at least, can scarce complain 
 Of years that with them brought the gain 
 Of all you hoped and prized— the power 
 To govern men, and rule the hour, 
 And leave a long-enduring name." 
 
 " Ah, Vernon ! what are power and fame ? 
 To toil by day, to scheme by night, 
 To sacrifice each dear delight 
 Of friendship, nature, science, art ;
 
 ARTIST AND STATESMAN. 8r 
 
 To flatter fools, to cope with knaves, 
 To traffic for the votes of slaves, 
 To use the instruments you scorn, 
 And stoop to play the actor's part — 
 That mobs may shout your praise at morn, 
 And ere the evening howl in hate, 
 And scribblers, whom you would not buy 
 Because you deemed their price too high, 
 Pursue you like a mocking fate 
 With lies and libels. Then to find, 
 That all your plans to serve mankind 
 Are thwarted by the ignoble throng- 
 By Faction with its cuckoo cries, 
 By Prejudice with owlet's eyes, 
 By fox-like Cunning, wolfish Greed, 
 Impatience that can ne'er succeed, 
 And Haste that always chooses wrong. 
 Enough of this ! — But tell me now 
 Where you through all these years have been. 
 Your poet-wreath was early green, 
 And flourished on your boyish brow, 
 And long ere this we should have seen 
 Some full-blown flower of glorious song." 
 
 The Painter laughed. " 'Twas all in vain, 
 For none would listen to my strain ; 
 My jingling lines fell flat and dead. 
 I had not caught the modern trick 
 G
 
 g2 ARTIST AND STATESMAN, 
 
 To please, or else the world was sick 
 
 Of verse— but I had loved and wed. 
 
 And having now a home to keep, 
 
 With wife and children to be fed, 
 
 I needs must break the enchanted sleep, 
 
 If I would give my dear ones bread. 
 
 So to this humbler art I turned, 
 
 Which 1 for pastime once had learned, 
 
 And practised oft. And let me say, 
 
 That I have never rued the day, 
 
 When, more ambitious schemes forgot, 
 
 I chose the landscape-painter's lot. 
 
 Oh ! 'tis a bliss beyond compare 
 
 To dwell beneath the dome of air, 
 
 By lake and mountain, grove and stream, 
 
 And bear away from every place 
 
 The charm, the beauty, and the grace, 
 
 Preserved in colours fresh and fair ! 
 
 'Tis like the magic of a dream, 
 
 And yet so full of vigorous life, 
 
 So brimming o'er with health, so rife 
 
 With all the natural joys of earth ! 
 
 Its unbought pleasures, harmless mirth, 
 
 Sweet sights and sounds from year to year, 
 
 The quiet rest and simple cheer 
 
 By forest-glade or fountain clear, 
 
 The onward march with staff and pack— 
 
 The gipsy-camp, the woodman's meal,
 
 ARTIST AND STATESMAN. 83 
 
 The music of the miller's wheel, 
 The freedom lawless vagrants feel, 
 And all in duty's common track ! 
 I tell you, friend, I would not change 
 This bird-like power to rove and range, 
 Yet keep my nest secure and warm, 
 For mines of wealth that commerce brings, 
 Or splendid shows of courts and kings, 
 Or even the hope that minstrels form 
 Of future fame." 
 
 " You may be right, 
 Though once you sought a loftier height. 
 But let me see your picture." 
 
 " There ! 
 'Tis a rash venture to compare 
 Man's copy with God's work — for who 
 Can hope with brush and paint to do 
 What Nature does with light and air ? 
 Still, if you catch the form, the hue, 
 The spirit of that lovely view, 
 I am content. Yon headlands blue, 
 That far away stretch out to sea, 
 Those overhanging woods of Lee, 
 And the bold, rocky foreground near — 
 These form a scene to memory dear, 
 And my poor canvas may recall 
 Some features of the beauteous all."
 
 84 ARTIST AND STATES MAX. 
 
 "It j a noble work, and I 
 
 Would ask the privilege to buy 
 This picture, Vernon." 
 
 " If you speak 
 Of buying, and to pay me seek, 
 Our pleasant dream comes to an end. 
 You arc Sir Edward then once more, 
 And I, the artist as before, 
 Must in the patron lose the friend. 
 But, Mowbray, for the old time's sake 
 In which we shared our fruit and cake, 
 You'll not refuse an offering frec. :; 
 
 " The same as ever, Charles, I see ; 
 As proud and generous. Be it so ! 
 I will not growl a churlish NO, 
 But take your gift. My thanks I'll owe. 
 And now that you have thrown away 
 Your morning's task, let us agree 
 To spend at least one happy day 
 In this fair spot." 
 
 " The bargain's made ! 
 I will but sling my pack, and then 
 We'll wander down to yonder glen, 
 And feast together in the shade 
 Of that strange pile, which people call
 
 ARTIST AND STATESMAN. 85 
 
 The Devil's Cheese-press. I have store 
 
 Of bread and bacon, eggs galore, 
 
 And Devon cider of the best. 
 
 Your Greenwich feeds have no such zest, 
 
 And kings might choose our banquet-hall ! " 
 
 The Statesman smiled. "We'll not repine, 
 Nor miss the whitebait and the wine. 
 And, sooth to say, this air and sea, 
 And our glad meeting it may be, 
 Have given me healthier appetite 
 Then I have known of late." 
 
 " That's well ! 
 There's no physician like the sight 
 Of ocean, with its billowy swell, 
 And its long murmur of delight." 
 
 " All true enough — but better still 
 To see that cheery face once more, 
 Whose sunshine almost might restore 
 The years exempt from every ill. 
 Ah, happy years ! that went before 
 The thankless toil, the senseless strife, 
 The fears and cares which fret and kill, 
 The failure and the waste of life ! " 
 
 " But, Mowbray, if this tale were told, 
 None would believe that so could speak
 
 86 ARTIST AND STATESMAN. 
 
 The great successful Statesman bold, 
 I i lu of the blind, strength of the weak, 
 Whose hands the reins of party hold, 
 And for whose favour all men seek." 
 
 " They would not, Charles— nor should I care 
 
 To speak my thought, except to you ; 
 
 But 'tis a great relief to dare 
 
 Unlock the long-sealed lips, and wear 
 
 No cloak or mask. This I can do, 
 
 Because your world of art and song 
 
 Is different and apart from mine. 
 
 We shall not clash, we shall not wrong 
 
 Each other with harsh judgments crude, 
 
 And factious hate will not intrude 
 
 Upon the poet's realm divine." 
 
 " But, Mowbray, faction laid aside, 
 
 I cannot fully understand 
 
 What so hath galled you. Hope and pride, 
 
 All aspirations high and grand, 
 
 In your career seem satisfied. 
 
 From early youth, your heart and hand 
 
 Were given to Freedom, and you held 
 
 Faith in the world's progressive light, 
 
 And promised all things fair and bright 
 
 From liberal counsels, and repelled 
 
 With scorn the fears of timid souls.
 
 ARTIST AND STATESMAN. 87 
 
 And you have flourished in a time, 
 When, swiftly as our planet rolls, 
 More swiftly still with force sublime 
 Have onward rolled the wheels of change ; 
 And you, and those with whom you act, 
 Have led the movement, and have seen 
 Your thought transmuted into fact, 
 And this old land, of lands the queen, 
 Accept your doctrines new and strange. 
 What would you have ?— The self-same laws, 
 Which ruled your birth's propitious hour, 
 Not only gave you place and power, 
 But victory to the people's cause !" 
 
 " The people's cause !— ah, who can say 
 What signifies that sounding name ? 
 Or whether what it means to-day 
 Will be to-morrow still the same ? 
 In youth it makes the bosom swell 
 With buoyant hope and pure delight, 
 To paint an earthly future bright, 
 When all things will be ordered well 
 By freedom and the sense of right. 
 We think it only needs to break 
 A few old rusty chains, that bind 
 The slumbering limbs of human-kind, 
 To see the giant power awake, 
 And be to itself a law, and shake
 
 88 ARTIST AND STATESMAN. 
 
 All forms of evil from body and mind. 
 
 But, as we older grow, we find 
 
 That life is not so clear and plain, 
 
 And much that once we counted gain 
 
 Is turned to loss, aud leaves behind 
 
 Despondency and bitter pain. 
 
 Oh, if the people's cause could be, 
 
 As in hours of youthful phantasy, 
 
 A word best fitted to express 
 
 Their safety, virtue, happiness— 
 
 To serve it were a purpose high, 
 
 Alike through failure and success, 
 
 For which a man might live and die ! 
 
 But if the people's cause be still 
 
 The triumph of the people's will — 
 
 The triumph oft in social fight 
 
 Of ignorance, folly, passion, spite — 
 
 Methinks the giled courtier tribe 
 
 Who grovel at a despot's feet, 
 
 Who fawn upon him for the bribe 
 
 Of glance or smile, and humbly eat 
 
 The scraps he flings to them in scorn, — 
 
 Are not more base than men freeborn 
 
 Who spread their sails to catch the breeze 
 
 Of popular applause, and live 
 
 On what the blatant crowd can give 
 
 Of fame or favour, and for these 
 
 Wear robes of office soiled and torn."
 
 ARTIST AND STATESMAN. 
 
 " All this may be ; but you, my friend, 
 Would never seek a selfish end. 
 I know you well, and from the first 
 Your soul was panting with the thirst 
 For truth and honour. If you chose 
 A side among contending foes, 
 It was the one you deemed would best 
 Promote your country's interest, 
 And the world's good. All men may err, 
 But you would still that course prefer 
 Which seemed the noblest, and your aim, 
 Through every change of praise or blame, 
 Vanquished or victor, be the same." 
 
 " You judge me kindly, Charles. I trust 
 Your judgment in the main is just. 
 Yes, I can lift my hand to heaven, 
 And say that I have truly striven 
 To serve my country. But the woe 
 Is here, that we can never know 
 The issues of each word and deed. 
 We plough the soil, we sow the seed, 
 But, as the seasons onward speed, 
 Who tells us how the grain will grow?" 
 
 " Such doubt, my friend, must needs apply 
 To all our human husbandry-. 
 We can but labour for the best,
 
 9° 
 
 ARTIST AND STATESMAN. 
 
 Hoping the sunshine and the shower 
 Will come in their appointed hour, 
 And to God's mercy leave the rest." 
 
 " And therefore is the farmer blest ! 
 
 Like you, the artist, who can see 
 
 The shape that in your thought was planned 
 
 Unfold itself beneath your eye, 
 
 Or the slow builder, who with hand 
 
 Unwearied doth the trowel ply, 
 
 Until the stones before him stand 
 
 In fair and ordered symmetry. 
 
 But what of him, who hath in charge 
 
 A noble temple high and vast 
 
 Which generations helped to raise, 
 
 And all the world beheld at last 
 
 Either with envy or with praise ? 
 
 And he would now its base enlarge, 
 Improve, extend each ancient wall, 
 And views his work with pride and joy- 
 When at his feet a yawning cave 
 Opens, and much he fears the fall 
 Of spreading arch and column tall, 
 The ruin and the wreck of all 
 Which the long toil of ages gave ! 
 How shall he then his strength employ ? 
 It is so easy to destroy- 
 So difficult to save!"
 
 ARTIST AND STATESMAN. 91 
 
 "Which means that he, who has to -steer 
 A mighty ship through unknown seas, 
 Must oft exchange the favouring breeze 
 And the calm waters deep and clear, 
 For rocks and shallows, and the fear 
 Of adverse winds and tides. But here 
 Lies all his art. He, that would guide 
 The chariot of the sun, must know 
 To check and curb his steeds of pride, 
 Or meet a sudden overthrow. 
 'Twas ever thus. Old stories these ! 
 Much glory, and but little ease, 
 For pilot and for charioteer !" 
 
 " A truce, dear Charles, to metaphor ! 
 As here on this green sward we lie 
 Beneath the silent summer sky, 
 With yonder wide expanse before, 
 And only Druid circles nigh, 
 Our talk should be as frank and free 
 As in our boyish days of yore. 
 I'll open all my heart, and see 
 If you can help me to restore 
 Belief and hope. Our lot was cast 
 In no ignoble spot of ground, 
 But in a land whose glorious past 
 Was honoured by the nations round ; 
 Because whate'er they knew or saw
 
 92 ARTIST AND STATESMAN, 
 
 Of liberty, with order crowned 
 
 And tempered by respect for law, 
 
 Was there in largest measure found. 
 
 In youth I dearly loved to read 
 
 Our country's annals, and to trace 
 
 The progress of this English race 
 
 From manners rude and barbarous creed, 
 
 Since first the Saxon crossed the sea, 
 
 And in his light bark bore the seed 
 
 Of mighty empires yet to be. 
 
 I watched them rise, I watched them grow, 
 
 By many a long gradation slow, 
 
 Through wars and tumults, and the strife 
 
 For freedom as the pearl of life. 
 
 I saw how deep was laid each stone 
 
 That still supports our Church and Throne, 
 
 And how to these was bound the fate 
 
 Of all the orders of the State ; 
 
 How kings and priests and nobles made 
 
 The space where peaceful burghers trade, 
 
 And how the peasant reaps the soil 
 
 Which heroes ploughed with blood and toil 
 
 How Liberty for ever sped 
 
 Her sunbeams downward — first a streak 
 
 Upon the lofty mountain's head, 
 
 Then brightening on from peak to peak, 
 
 Glancing from tower, and roof, and vane, 
 
 Until the genial light was spread
 
 ARTIST AND STATESMAN. 93 
 
 O'er yellow thatch and lowly shed, 
 And all the verdure-covered plain. 
 And, seeing this, I deemed that so 
 Our country's course must onward flow, 
 And every age new rights bestow, 
 And broader freedom give ; 
 Until the world should learn at length 
 From us the secret of the strength 
 By which the nations live. 
 Therefore in youth my constant cry 
 Was : Let all old abuses die ! 
 Reform ! — cut down ! — nor fear to trust 
 The people to be wise and just, 
 While ruled by equal laws ; 
 Teach them to know, and every hour 
 Will make them fitter for the power 
 Which knowledge with it draws ! 
 On this we acted. Day by day, 
 We lopped some rotten branch away, 
 Or cleared a path for men to pass, 
 Heedless of station, rank, or class, 
 Into the open light, and share 
 As freely as the common air 
 Our public life. Even so we thought 
 Would safety for us all be wrought, 
 Both high and low, when none could feel 
 Excluded from the general weal. 
 And, looking back, I still believe
 
 94 
 
 ARTIST AND STATESMAN. 
 
 That much of good we did achieve, 
 And many a needful change provide ; 
 But then there comes a secret fear, 
 An awful shadow hovering near 
 Of the new evil yet untried. 
 For we have raised a spirit strong 
 Which we no more can check or guide, 
 Impatient of each fancied wrong, 
 Unresting, never satisfied. 
 And he, that now would lead the throng, 
 Must chiefly cater to supply 
 Their craving for high-seasoned food- 
 He that would rule must please the eye, 
 Tickle the ear, and stoop to buy 
 The voices of the multitude 
 With flatteries gross, devices rude, 
 And put each nobler purpose by, 
 To follow their inconstant mood. 
 Never again shall we behold 
 The statesman of the days of old, 
 Pursuing still some great intent, 
 Not always pure, not always wise, 
 But faithful to his high emprise, 
 And waiting for the sure event. 
 Henceforth our statesmanship must be 
 A false and hollow jugglery, 
 To help us on from hour to hour, 
 And make our weakness look like power—
 
 ARTIST AND STATESMAN. 95 
 
 Not doing what we deem the best, 
 But yielding to the mob's behest, 
 Accepting what we fear and hate 
 As fixed, inexorable fate, 
 And striving but to smooth the way, 
 And hide the progress of decay. 
 Onward it comes — the rolling sea 
 Of stormy, fierce Democracy, 
 Breaking all bounds in lawless pride, 
 Bearing destruction on its tide — 
 While the pale rulers of the land 
 No longer dare to take their stand 
 Among the rocks that guard the shore, 
 But fly before the billow's roar 
 To some frail dike of crumbling sand ! " 
 
 " Forgive me, Mowbray," Vernon cried, 
 " But surely these are fancies vain, 
 Begotten of the o'ertasked brain 
 By ceaseless cares and labours tried. 
 If you have gone too fast and far, 
 'Tis time to turn about, and say : 
 Here will I stop, and firmly bar 
 All rash attempts to force the way ! 
 Let cowards fly, and slaves obey, 
 And fools advance their idle plea 
 Of yielding to their destiny. 
 If you, my friend, are still the same
 
 96 
 
 ARTIST AND STATESMAN. 
 
 As in our old school-fights, when we, 
 Surprised by the town-boys, could see 
 No succour near, and I made free 
 To run for aid— while you (true game !) 
 Planted your back against a wall, 
 And held your ground in spite of all, 
 Until the promised rescue came — 
 You will not from your post be driven 
 By all the factions under heaven, 
 But wait for England in her might, 
 To judge the cause, and help the right. 
 And trust me, Mowbray, if I know 
 
 Little of party's ebb and flow, 
 
 Methinks I somehow understand 
 
 The people of my native land. 
 
 They for awhile may be misled 
 
 By craft, on empty moonshine fed, 
 
 Or dazzled by the sudden glare 
 
 Of novel portents in the air — 
 
 But what they love and prize the most 
 
 Are ancient memories never lost, 
 
 Feelings that like the ivy cast 
 
 Their clinging branches round the past, 
 
 And still their life and nurture draw 
 
 From faith, and loyalty, and law. 
 
 Nor will they follow in the end 
 
 The subtle, flattering, smooth-tongued friend, 
 
 But rather him who dares to brave
 
 ARTIST AND STATESMAN. 97 
 
 The howling storm and rising wave, 
 And speaks whatever truth he knows, 
 Regardless both of friends and foes. 
 Were even the worst of perils near, 
 With faction loud, and freedom dead, 
 While Revolution's reign of fear 
 Came stealing on with tiger-tread — 
 A voice like yours, heard far and wide, 
 Would summon millions to your side, 
 Vanquish the rage of party-strife, 
 And call the nation back to life ! " 
 
 "Ah, Vernon ! could it only be 
 A stand-up fight for you and me, 
 With no worse prospect at the close 
 Than blackened eyes or bleeding nose, 
 Methinks I still could feel the joy 
 And reckless daring of the boy ! 
 Nay, if with no uncertain breath 
 The trumpet sounded, and the foe 
 Stood there in arms, a visible show, 
 It were an easy thing to go 
 To victory, or a soldier's death ! 
 But such is not the war we wage 
 When mist and shadow round us rise, 
 And we in doubtful strife engage 
 Against our friends and old allies. 
 Custom is strong, and few can tell 
 H
 
 9 8 
 
 ARTIST AND STATESMAN. 
 
 How hard it is to break the ties 
 
 Of party, or dissolve the spell 
 
 Of once familiar battle-cries. 
 
 No ! if the work that must be done 
 
 Is to roll back the surging wave, 
 
 And save whate'er remains to save, 
 
 Or from the wreck may yet be won 
 
 Of treasures left from sire to son— 
 
 The task is theirs, who warned us still 
 
 Of danger and impending ill, 
 
 And for themselves may fairly claim 
 
 Alike the labour and the fame." 
 
 " And when you thus have turned aside 
 From all that made your country's pride, 
 What will the fallen Statesman do ? " 
 
 " Paint pictures and sing songs with you, 
 My dear old friend !— or if no part 
 Be mine in that bright realm of art, 
 Enjoy with free, untroubled breast 
 The glorious privilege of rest- 
 Gain the great gift of Silence, learn 
 The hidden beauty to discern 
 Of scenes like these, and musing find 
 How poor the world we leave behind, 
 Compared with high imaginings, 
 And soaring on the spirit's wings 
 Through the immensity of things.
 
 ARTIST AND STATESMAN. 
 
 Oh, happy time ! when we at length 
 
 No more shall spend our life and strength 
 
 In madly struggling after power 
 
 To rule our ant-hill for an hour — ■ 
 
 But rather watch how smoothly runs 
 
 The mighty round of stars and suns, 
 
 And how the eternal order shames 
 
 Our petty cares and selfish aims. 
 
 No earthly passion's fitful gleam 
 
 Shall then disturb the elysian dream, 
 
 No discord mar the music clear 
 
 That peals from each revolving sphere . . . 
 
 Ha, Seymour ! what has brought you here? : 
 
 This to a youth, who on their talk 
 Had stolen with light and rapid walk, 
 And now before them took his stand, 
 A huge sealed packet in his hand. 
 
 " Express from London ! this despatch 
 For you, Sir Edward . . . . " 
 
 With a start, 
 The Statesman rose at once, to snatch 
 The papers, break the armorial wax, 
 And tear the covering folds apart. 
 Then, as he read : " They think to gain 
 A move — but so they shall not win. 
 Hie back, dear Seymour, to the inn ! 
 
 99
 
 ioo ARTIST AND STATESMAN. 
 
 Horses to catch the nearest train ! 
 I must to London, Charles. Our day 
 Has floated all too soon away. 
 One grasp at parting, and farewell ! " 
 
 "Will you not take the picture ?" 
 
 " Nay ! 
 Not now, old friend ! — I'll write and tell 
 When we can meet, and you must come 
 For a long visit to my home, 
 And see your picture duly graced, 
 And with my Claudes and Turners placed. 
 Remember, much that I have said 
 Was only for your private ear, 
 And should be sacred." 
 
 " Do not fear ! 
 At school, I think, we ne'er betrayed 
 Each other's trust." 
 
 " Forgive the doubt ! 
 I may not stop a moment more. 
 Next time, we'll talk the matter out. 
 Farewell ! " 
 
 He passed along the shore, 
 Half seen amid the broken ground 
 Till near the valley's end he drew, 
 Then hidden by the rocks from view 
 As up the narrow path he wound.
 
 ARTIST AND STATESMAN. 101 
 
 But Vernon lingered for awhile 
 Where they their frugal meal had made, 
 And round his lips a quiet smile 
 Like sunshine on the waters played. 
 Work for the day was done. Ere long, 
 He gathered up his precious load, 
 And as he tow'rds the village strode 
 Sang to himself a careless song. 
 
 " I would not dwell on the mountain-heights 
 Through the stormy days and the starry nights, 
 
 For mountain-heights are cold ! 
 Nor make my bed on the rocking mast, 
 For he who rocks there must grapple fast 
 
 If he would keep his hold ! 
 
 " But I would rest in some sheltered nook, 
 
 Where the trees bend low, and the murmuring brook 
 
 With gentle stream flows by ; 
 Or glide through the summer nights, afloat 
 On a silver lake, in a tiny boat, 
 
 Beneath a moonlit sky. 
 
 " Strong hearts beat high when the gales are loud, 
 When the lightning darts from the thunder-cloud, 
 
 And billows break in foam ; 
 But mine be the woodland chorus wild, 
 And to hear sweet voices of wife and child 
 
 Make music in my home !
 
 102 
 
 ARTIST AND STATESMAN. 
 
 " While some may climb to the eagle's nest, 
 Or toss on the ocean's heaving breast, 
 
 Give me the path I love, 
 Which winds where the meadow-grasses grow, 
 With only the laughing earth below, 
 
 And God's blue heaven above ! " 
 
 So carolled he in pure content 
 As homeward through the vale he went, 
 And on the morrow still was found 
 About the same enchanted ground. 
 There would he oft indulge the thought 
 Of olden times, to memory brought 
 By converse with his early friend, 
 And Fancy would her colours lend 
 To their next meeting. All in vain ! 
 I know not if such thoughts could find 
 Access to Mowbray's busy mind, 
 Or if they faded from his brain ; 
 But somehow he forgot to write, 
 Forgot the promised picture quite, 
 And many a day will turn to night 
 Ere he and Vernon meet again.
 
 103 
 
 TOO LATE. 
 
 Too late ! too late ! — the saddest words we know, 
 When forced, instead of blaming Chance or Fate, 
 
 We feel our own neglect has dealt the blow, 
 And sorrow, love, and pity come too late. 
 
 Ah ! who can tell without a throb of pain 
 
 What precious months were played with, wasted, lost, 
 While GORDON waited, struggling to maintain 
 
 His country's cause — alone against a host ! 
 
 How many a morn must he have strained his sight 
 Down the long stretch of water and of sky, 
 
 In the vain hope, that the first dawn of light 
 Would show the red-cross banner floating nigh ! 
 
 What weary days, when hope grew faint and died ! 
 
 What bitter thoughts, when human aid was none ! 
 Though still the martyr-soul on Heaven relied, 
 
 His faith unshaken, and his duty done ;
 
 104 T0 ° LATE. 
 
 Till, when the long-delayed relief at last 
 
 Through countless perils fought and forced its way, 
 
 The hour had struck, the time of grace was past, 
 And the great Chieftain cold and silent lay. 
 
 What poor atonement can we now supply 
 For timid counsels, impotent and weak, 
 
 Save tears that gleam in every gentle eye, 
 
 And shame that burns on every manly cheek ? 
 
 But, oh ! amid the gathering clouds of strife, 
 Moved by his memory, by his spirit led, 
 
 May the roused nation wake to nobler life, 
 And act as worthy of the glorious dead ; 
 
 Then scorning selfish ease and panic fear, 
 Calm in her strength, and resolutely brave, 
 
 England will speak in tones that all must hear, 
 With firm foot planted on her Hero's grave. 
 
 February, 1885.
 
 105 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 CHARLES ZACHARY MACAULAY. 
 
 He was the bearer of an honoured name, 
 
 Which will recall for many a coming year 
 
 His father's virtues and his brother's fame, 
 
 But which to me for his own sake is dear. 
 
 It brings to mind the frank and hearty cheer, 
 
 The wit, the genius, sparkling in his eyes, 
 
 The rapid stream of talk so fresh and clear, 
 
 The lively fancies bright as summer skies — 
 
 And, above all, what I most highly prize, 
 
 The dauntless courage, the strong love of truth, 
 
 The warm affections clinging to the past, 
 
 And that close friendship formed in earliest youth, 
 
 And held through every change of fortune fast, 
 
 Tried by a thousand tests, and faithful to the last.
 
 io6 
 
 THE EMPEROR FREDERICK. 
 
 Not when in youth he came to woo and wed 
 The Daughter of our Queen, so fair and bright. 
 
 Nor when the Soldier-Prince exulting led 
 Victorious armies to the field of fight — 
 
 Did English hearts such love and reverence feel, 
 As when he strove undaunted to maintain, 
 
 For Europe's safety and his country's weal, 
 The long, sad struggle with disease and pain. 
 
 Ye rival nations, filled with war's alarms, 
 
 Learn from that patient death-bed's solemn close, 
 
 That there are greater things than feats of arms, 
 And nobler triumphs than o'er conquered foes. 
 
 Like him, be gently wise and calmly brave, 
 Bid wild revenge and proud ambition cease — 
 
 Oh, sheathe your swords beside his honoured grave, 
 And let his requiem sound the note of peace ! 
 
 June, 1888.
 
 io7 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF SAINT PETER. 
 {From "Legends of the Early Church") 
 
 The moon, in tranquil splendour, 
 From azure skies looked down, 
 
 And silence reigned unbroken 
 Through all the slumbering town, 
 
 Save where the noise of fountains, 
 
 Or sudden burst of song, 
 Or shout of distant revel, 
 
 Floated the breeze along — 
 
 When two of graver aspect 
 
 Than wont to walk so late 
 Passed by the drowsy soldier 
 
 At old Capena's Gate. 
 
 Halting beneath the shadow 
 
 Of Scipio's glorious tomb, 
 They spoke the words of parting 
 
 Within its friendly gloom ;
 
 108 THE FLIGHT OF ST. PETER. 
 
 And one, to Rome returning 
 Heavy and sad in mind, 
 
 Oft stayed his faltering footsteps 
 To cast a look behind. 
 
 The other paused a moment — 
 Then firmly onward strode, 
 
 Where the proud Arch of Drusus 
 Spans the great Appian Road. 
 
 " Farewell," he said, " vain trophy 
 Of godless triumphs won ! 
 
 And thou, world-ruling city ! 
 Imperious Babylon ! 
 
 " Despite of guilt and carnage, 
 Lust, rapine, mad excess, 
 
 My heart hath yearned to save thee, 
 My lips have longed to bless. 
 
 " Oh, that our bitter seedtime 
 Of blood, and tears, and toil, 
 
 Might win a plenteous harvest 
 From this ungrateful soil ! " 
 
 Thus musing, Rome's first Bishop 
 Pursued his lonely way, 
 
 Where cenotaph and column 
 Before him glittering lay ;
 
 THE FLIGHT OF ST. PETER. 
 
 And many a vase funereal, 
 With faded garlands dight, 
 
 And rows of marble statues 
 That shone so coldly white — 
 
 When 'mid these ghost-like emblems 
 
 Of pride, affection, fame, 
 A living, moving figure 
 
 Through the pale moonlight came. 
 
 Nearer it came, and nearer, 
 
 Till Peter wondering saw 
 A form that thrilled his bosom 
 
 With deepest, holiest awe — 
 
 A form that called to memory 
 His life's most painful loss, 
 
 For in its arms it carried 
 The semblance of a Cross — 
 
 A human form, though perfect 
 In beauty, strength, and grace, 
 
 Whilst love and truth eternal 
 Beamed from that heavenly face. 
 
 And well-remembered features, 
 
 Not so divinely bright 
 As when they blazed on Tabor 
 
 Transfigured to the sight,
 
 no 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF ST. PETER. 
 
 Still wore the mild expression, 
 Meek, patient, calm, resigned, 
 
 Of Him who bore the sorrows 
 And sins of all mankind. 
 
 Then Peter knew his Master, 
 
 Low in the dust adored, 
 And asked, in trembling accents : 
 
 " Ah, whither goest thou, Lord ? " 
 
 With glance of solemn meaning, 
 That sacred form replied : 
 
 " I go to Rome's great city, 
 There to be crucified ! " 
 
 And slowly onward sweeping, 
 Where streamed fair Luna's ray, 
 
 In wreaths of silvery vapour 
 The vision passed away. 
 
 But long the pilgrim pondered 
 That strange, mysterious scene, 
 
 And what, in sense prophetic, 
 
 Those startling words might mean. 
 
 " Thy will be done, Blest Saviour ! 
 
 Thou diest but once !" he said. 
 " At Rome, thy poor disciple 
 
 Shall suffer in thy stead !"
 
 THE FLIGHT OF ST. PETER. in 
 
 Thus whilst he spoke, the moonbeams 
 
 Paler and paler grew, 
 And, waking shrillest echoes, 
 
 The bird of morning crew. 
 
 " That sound— which still reminds me 
 
 Of guil£ in years gone by, 
 When terror made the servant 
 
 His Master's name deny — 
 
 " Bids me not pause, but follow 
 
 The voice that calls me home." 
 He said — and, full of ardour, 
 
 Straightway returned to Rome. 
 
 And whilst the house of Pudens 
 
 Yet rang with hymns of joy, 
 That safe was their kind Bishop, 
 
 Whom tyrants would destroy — 
 
 A captive, led by lictors, 
 
 Passed from the Praetor's hall, 
 And one dark cell united 
 
 Saint Peter with Saint Paul.
 
 112 
 
 MACRINA'S DREAM. 
 
 {From "Julian the Apostate?) 
 
 The Lady Macrina, grandmother of Basil, asleep on a 
 couch. Voices heard singing in the air, as in a dream. 
 
 First Voice. 
 Three hundred years of changeful time 
 
 Have joined the world-stream's rapid flow, 
 Since Bethlehem's dawn of hope sublime, 
 
 And Calvary's night of matchless woe— 
 Since from the manger to the tomb 
 
 The holiest life on earth was led, 
 And 'mid the deep, surrounding gloom 
 
 The Saviour bowed his dying head- 
 Since rising from the vanquished grave 
 
 He stood revealed to mortal sight, 
 His peace to all his followers gave, 
 
 And passed into the realms of light.
 
 macrina's dream. 
 
 Second Voice. 
 And from that last decisive hour, 
 
 By every test and torture tried, 
 His saints have kept the word of power, 
 
 His martyrs for the faith have died ; 
 And struggling on through toil and pain 
 
 The truth divine has forced its way, 
 Cold hearts to warm, lost souls to gain, 
 
 And bend the nations to its sway — 
 Until the world's proud masters own 
 
 The potent spell, and free from fear 
 The Christian Church erects her throne, 
 
 With Rome's fierce eagles nestling near. 
 
 Third Voice. 
 Alas ! it is too soon to boast ! 
 
 The song of joy is raised in vain ! 
 Dark feuds divide the Christian host, 
 The seamless robe is rent in twain ; 
 And men who bear the sacred name 
 Against each other wage the strife, 
 With bitter hatred fan the flame, 
 
 And poison all the springs of life. 
 Unhallowed rites may yet prevail, 
 
 The altars smoke, the victims bleed, 
 And heathen myriads gladly hail 
 The triumph of the ancient creed ! 
 I
 
 ii 4 MACRINA'S DREAM. 
 
 First Voice. 
 It may be, that we have to meet 
 
 Worse dangers than were known of yore, 
 Meant to recall our wandering feet, 
 
 Our union and our zeal restore. 
 And, oh ! if this be Heaven's decree, 
 
 And should a mighty storm arise, 
 Though gathering clouds and troubled sea 
 
 Confound the weak, perplex the wise — 
 The winds may beat against our Ark, 
 
 The surging waves may break in foam, 
 But Faith and Hope will guide the bark, 
 
 And Love will bring it safely home !
 
 "5 
 
 THE GALLIC SOLDIER'S SONG. 
 
 {From the Same.) 
 
 Supposed to be sung in Julian's Camp near Lutetia, with the 
 Legions grouped around their winter-Jires. As the Song 
 goes on, the soldiers all rise to their feet, and press forward 
 to join in the Chorus. 
 
 From marsh, and moor, and forest, 
 
 They swarmed across the Rhine, 
 The beasts of prey that ravage 
 
 The lands of corn and wine. 
 Our fields the wild boar trampled, 
 
 The wolf destroyed our sheep, 
 With none to save the harvest, 
 
 With none the flocks to keep ; 
 For the dogs were slain or scattered, 
 
 The shepherds all had fled, 
 And the Roman sword was broken, 
 
 And the Roman spirit dead !
 
 Il6 THE CM. I.1C SOLDIER'S SONG. 
 
 But while from ruined homesteads 
 
 The sounds of grief rose high, 
 The wail of frightened women, 
 
 The famished children's cry- 
 While strong-limbed men stood helpless 
 
 In sorrow and in shame — 
 From out the shining Orient 
 
 A youthful Hunter came. 
 He spake three words of pity, 
 
 He threw one glance of scorn, 
 Then tightly grasped his boar-spear, 
 
 And wound his hunting-horn. 
 
 The dogs that had not perished 
 
 Obeyed that stirring call ; 
 The men took heart who heard it 
 
 On all the plains of Gaul ; 
 They gathered in his footsteps, 
 
 They followed on his track, 
 To stay the flood of havoc, 
 
 And drive the spoilers back. 
 And ere each grisly monster 
 
 His swift approach could note, 
 His spear was in the wild boar's flank, 
 His knife at the grim wolfs throat.
 
 THE GALLIC SOLDIER'S SONG. 117 
 
 He swept the chase before him 
 
 Through all the stormy day, 
 O'er deep and swollen rivers, 
 
 To distant woods away. 
 And if our flocks are grazing 
 
 On many a pleasant lea, 
 And we till the ground in safety 
 
 From the mountains to the sea — 
 With songs of joy and triumph 
 
 And grateful hearts we own, 
 That we have to thank the Hunter 
 
 Who sits on Caesar's throne !
 
 u8 
 
 EPILOGUE TO JULIAN THE APOSTATE. 
 
 Scene — Basil's Retreat in Pontus. 
 
 Enter Basil and Gregory, meeting. 
 
 Gregory. 
 Come forth, O Basil, from your solitude ! 
 Come forth, and join the general cry of joy ! 
 The tyrant, the oppressor, the proud enemy 
 Of souls, the impious worshipper of demons, 
 Has fallen. He has fallen, whose perjured lips 
 Blasphemed our holy faith. The persecutor, 
 Who strove to rob us of free speech, is sentenced 
 To everlasting silence. Earth rejoices, 
 And the broad heavens resound with songs of gladness. 
 
 Basil. 
 I, too, feel thankful that the Church is rescued 
 From her late troubles ; but I cannot join 
 In such exuberant joy. I loved this Julian — 
 He was the friend and comrade of my youth, 
 As you were, Gregory. I have not forgotten 
 The happy hours at Athens, the bright hopes,
 
 EPILOGUE TO JULIAN THE APOSTATE. 119 
 
 The common studies, pleasures, fancies, thoughts, 
 
 And all the promise of our golden morn ; 
 
 And this sad ending of a tragic story 
 
 Fills me with deepest sorrow. That a man 
 
 So gifted, and so raised above his fellows, 
 
 Endowed with almost every human virtue, 
 
 And placed on fortune's highest pinnacle, 
 
 Should so have missed his way, and spent his force 
 
 On a vain struggle against light and truth, 
 
 Is to my mind a source of genuine pity, 
 
 More doleful and pathetic than the tale 
 
 Of GEdipus and all his fated line. 
 
 Gregory. 
 Doleful indeed ! if, shuddering, we reflect 
 Upon the dark, inevitable doom 
 Of the condemned Apostate ! 
 
 Basil. 
 
 Let us leave him 
 To God and to His mercy. Who are we, 
 That we should judge our brother ? Sinful men, 
 Who have most need of pardon for ourselves, 
 Though blessed with kindly nurture from the first, 
 And guarded round by providential care 
 From many a strong temptation. Had our childhood 
 Been passed, like his, beneath the deadly shade 
 Of cold hypocrisy and mock religion,
 
 120 EPILOGUE TO JULIAN THE APOSTATE. 
 
 With miscalled Christians, whose unhallowed lives 
 
 Were black with falsehood, cruelty, and crime, 
 
 Profaning all things sacred — who can say 
 
 What we should now have been ? Whate'er of good 
 
 Was in him, was derived from heathen books 
 
 And heathen models — from those noble masters 
 
 To whom God gave a portion of His Spirit 
 
 In the old Gentile world. If he ne'er grasped 
 
 The grandeur of the Cross, nor felt the want 
 
 Of that redeeming and sustaining love, 
 
 Which can alone make clear the doubtful past 
 
 And crown the future with celestial light, 
 
 Whether the fault lay with himself or others, 
 
 It was at once his error and his penalty. 
 
 It stamped his life with failure, and has left 
 
 His memory for a by- word to mankind, 
 
 So that through all the ages he must bear 
 
 The name of the Apostate. But for us, 
 
 Who numbered him amongst our earliest friends, 
 
 Methinks a strain of charitable thought, 
 
 A silent prayer, a sigh of fond regret, 
 
 Were more becoming than the voice of triumph 
 
 Over his new-made grave. 
 
 Gregory. 
 
 You know me, Basil — 
 You know that I am sometimes borne aloft 
 By passionate feelings and the flow of speech,
 
 EPILOGUE TO JULIAN THE APOSTATE. 121 
 
 To deal out praise or blame in larger measure 
 Than suits your calmer judgment. Bear with me ! 
 I will not wound your ear by fresh invectives 
 Against the fallen Emperor. But no scruple 
 Forbids that I should hail with exultation 
 Our great deliverance from a pressing danger, 
 Which seemed to menace ruin to the Church. 
 
 Basil. 
 
 Believe me, Gregory, 'twas an idle fear. 
 The Church is safe, whatever else may chance. 
 Each century brings its perils and its pains, 
 But she survives them all. In after times, 
 It may be, that the old philosophies 
 And older superstitions will assume 
 A thousand different forms, and oft return 
 To test her mission or disturb her peace. 
 But she will stand secure by God's decree, 
 And keep her hold upon the heart of man ; 
 For, as the passing clouds disperse and fly, 
 There will be found again revealed to view 
 The unchanged image of the Crucified — 
 The one true emblem of victorious faith, 
 Of hope immortal, and of love divine.
 
 122 
 
 THE BURIAL SERVICE. 
 (From " The Layman's Creed.") 
 
 Oh, ye ! to whom the by-gone years 
 A cherished memory oft restore, 
 
 And through a mist of blinding tears 
 Call up the features loved of yore — 
 
 Ye shrink not from the bloodless ghost, 
 Though long ago the life be fled, 
 
 But welcome back the image lost, 
 And feel how sacred are the dead ! 
 
 Who has not some such spirit-guest, 
 Some presence rising unaware, 
 
 To mingle silent with the rest, 
 
 And take, perchance, the vacant chair: 
 
 In childish days, we scarce believe 
 In death, it seems so strange and far ; 
 
 But Time and Sorrow undeceive, 
 And show us all things as they are.
 
 THE BURIAL SERVICE. 123 
 
 Then, one by one, our kin depart ; 
 
 Dear forms that rocked us erst to sleep, 
 And strained us to the yearning heart, 
 
 Leave us too soon to mourn and weep. 
 
 Brothers that shared our infant play, 
 Sisters that soothed our earliest pain, 
 
 And schoolday friends — ah ! where are they ? 
 We look around, and ask in vain. 
 
 We love — and then our lips we press 
 
 To the green turf or chiselled stone, 
 And one poor ring or woven tress 
 
 Of all the past remains alone. 
 
 We wed, and hail each happy birth : 
 Alas ! the smiles are changed to sighs, 
 
 When shrouded in the lap of earth 
 Our pretty, blue-eyed darling lies. 
 
 We send our boy, his brows to crown 
 With laurels on some distant shore — 
 
 But Indian suns rain fever down, 
 
 And our young soldier comes no more ; 
 
 Or, while we watch a daughter bloom 
 In the pure breath of English glades, 
 
 The air grows chill and thick with gloom, 
 And our pale lily droops and fades.
 
 124 THE BURIAL SERVICE. 
 
 What can console us for the loss 
 Of these our loved ones, save the thought, 
 
 That He, who suffered on the Cross, 
 Hath for them all deliverance wrought ? 
 
 That He, who death and hell defied, 
 Will never leave the grave its prey, 
 
 But open those grim portals wide, 
 And roll the cumbrous stone away ? 
 
 And what more simple, natural, meet, 
 Than that we bless our kindred dust, 
 
 And that the Church o'er all repeat 
 The words of promise and of trust ? 
 
 We could not bear, that mortal power 
 Should with its bounded vision try 
 
 To smooth for some the parting hour, 
 And pass the rest in silence by. 
 
 We struck not Rome's pretensions down, 
 That here in England might be seen 
 
 Inquisitors in every town, 
 A Pope on every village-green. 
 
 And though our brother may have erred, 
 And wandered far from faith and grace, 
 
 And though within his bosom stirred 
 Each evil passion of our race —
 
 THE BURIAL SERVICE. 
 
 We dare not that cold form upbraid, 
 Or judge how deep the spirit's fall ; 
 
 We only know one Father made, 
 And one dear Saviour died for all. 
 
 'Tis but a pious hope we share, 
 However free the life from stain — 
 
 And who shall venture to declare, 
 
 That with the worst such hope is vain ? 
 
 Then grant the help that mourners crave, 
 Here at the tomb let discord cease, 
 
 And speak o'er every sinner's grave 
 
 The same blest words of love and peace ! 
 
 So shall these solemn rites maintain 
 Their hold upon the people's heart, 
 
 And all who join the funeral train 
 With touched and softened mien depart — 
 
 To ponder, as they homeward go, 
 The sacred pledge of mercy given, 
 
 Which, while it soothes our human woe, 
 Will best prepare the soul for heaven. 
 
 125
 
 126 
 
 TRUE RELIGION. 
 {From the Same.) 
 
 How pleasant is this world of ours, 
 When Spring unfolds her tender leaves, 
 
 Or Summer brings her fruits and flowers, 
 Or Autumn binds her golden sheaves ! 
 
 And though rude Winter's blast may blow, 
 And strip the bough, and freeze the rill, 
 
 Beneath a robe of sparkling snow 
 This beauteous world is lovely still ! 
 
 While rivers roll their waters blue 
 
 To meet a sea of liquid light, 
 And mountain-peaks reflect the hue 
 
 Of rosy sunsets, ruby-bright — 
 
 With clouds below, and stars above, 
 
 While sails the moon through depths of air- 
 
 Ah ! who can doubt, that God is love, 
 When earth and heaven are made so fair ?
 
 TRUE RELIGION. 127 
 
 And if these outward things reveal 
 
 Our Maker's own benignant mind, 
 Still more do we His influence feel 
 
 In sweet communion with our kind — 
 
 In young affection's ardent glow, 
 
 In wedded hearts that never roam, 
 In friendships held through weal and woe, 
 
 And ties of country, kindred, home. 
 
 He gave the bounding pulse of health, 
 The sense of freedom, hope, and joy, 
 
 The fancy's unexhausted wealth, 
 And love's pure gold without alloy ; 
 
 He taught the bosom's chords to thrill 
 
 To pity's tear and rapture's kiss, 
 And sanctioned by His perfect will 
 
 The longing of the soul for bliss. 
 
 Then never dream, that, when He sent 
 
 The gift of faith, the last and best, 
 Our Heavenly Father could have meant 
 
 To cloud and sadden all the rest ! 
 
 Oh, not with gloomy brow severe, 
 
 But clad in smiles of seraph-birth, 
 Religion comes to light and cheer, 
 
 To sweeten and adorn the earth !
 
 I28 TRUE RELIGION. 
 
 And would you see where she abides— 
 
 Go, seek the brightest house you know, 
 Where kind and generous thought presides, 
 
 And strains of happy feeling flow- 
 Where labour spends the useful days, 
 And peace invokes the nightly rest, 
 And all things tend a charm to raise 
 
 Which captive holds the friend or guest- 
 Where sickness, pain, and sorrow find 
 
 (For these, alas ! must all endure) 
 Compassion's gracious powers combined, 
 
 To soothe, to combat, or to cure- 
 Where Honour shows the truest face, 
 
 And Virtue wears the mildest air, 
 And Duty moves with freest grace— 
 Nor doubt, that Christian faith is there ! 
 
 If this be so, how vain the task 
 O'er points of doctrine to dispute, 
 
 And scruples urge, and questions ask, 
 On which the wisest men are mute ! 
 
 Oh, Father ! cleanse the soul from sin, 
 And let us all our strength engage, 
 
 A triumph o'er the snares to win 
 Of sensual youth and selfish age !
 
 TRUE RELIGION. 129 
 
 Forgive the wrath, the hate, the strife ! 
 
 Teach us Thy patience, love, and ruth ! 
 Oh, bid us live the Christian Life, 
 
 And we shall know, the Christian Truth ! 
 
 How calmly do Thy heavens look down 
 
 On us, and all our noisy throng ! 
 And still from yonder starry crown 
 
 We hear the same eternal song. 
 
 Angelic voices from the sky, 
 
 As on the night our creed began, 
 Sing : Glory be to God on High ! 
 
 And peace on earth ! Good- will to man ! 
 
 K
 
 130 
 
 ON MY EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY. 
 
 Once more the year its varied story tells 
 
 Of brilliant sunshine with alternate gloom- 
 Now smiling at the sound of wedding-bells, 
 
 Now shuddering at the great ship's awful doom. 
 
 Ten years beyond our life's allotted span 
 
 It counts for me ! — and though it seems not long, 
 
 Since in my boyhood first the hope began 
 To join my country's quire in tuneful song — 
 
 How many a time, through every changing scene 
 Of joy and sorrow, action, toil, and rest, 
 
 The simple love of verse a power hath been 
 To gladden or to soothe my anxious breast ! 
 
 If only partial friendship hailed my lay, 
 The very effort to my soul hath brought 
 
 The bright reflection of each happier day, 
 The calmer feeling, and the nobler thought.
 
 ON MY EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY. 131 
 
 Therefore I bless the Source of light and truth, 
 Who gave, to help me through this earthly stage, 
 
 The taste, which cheered and purified my youth, 
 And is the balm and solace of my age. 
 
 September, 1893. 
 
 THE END.
 
 chiswick press:— c. whittingham and co. 
 
 TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE. 


 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 L9-32m-8,'58(5876s4)444
 
 PR 
 
 $227 
 
 R^8UA17 
 
 1893 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 AA 000 377 985 7 
 
 ,