MEMS 

 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 POEMS. 
 
 ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED.
 
 SPECIMENS 
 
 FROM THE DUTCH POETS 
 
 WITTT 
 
 ORIGINAL POEMS. 
 
 W. R. T. 
 
 UTRECHT, 
 
 W. F. DANNENFELSER. 
 
 1858.
 
 rr 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 f K- 
 
 It is not an easy matter , for a young beginner , to 
 write a preface to fits first attempt to catch the ear of the 
 Public. He falls , too often , into one or other of two 
 extremes self-confidence , or a very self-denying sub- 
 mission to the 'recommendation' , the 'urgent wishes' , tlie 
 'oft-repeated desire' , of friends and admirers. 
 
 Far from wishing to lapse into the first extreme , the 
 icriler and translator of the following verses , does not 
 desire to thrust himself before the Public , under shield of 
 the laudatory criticism of the often too lenient circle of 
 hearers , and readers of manuscript productions. It would 
 be unjust and ungenerous to say , that the indulgent praise 
 of friends has in no way infuenced him , in his determination 
 to bring these pages under the eyes of the great and unsparing 
 
 867094
 
 VI 
 
 Public ; but , it would be more unjust and ungenerous 
 to present his effusions under cover of their protection , and 
 to hold them , as it tcere , responsible for the cool reception 
 he may meet with. 
 
 No one , surely , is fool enough to venture into print , 
 with the conviction that he is malting a very sorry appearance. 
 Whether he say so or not , every author comes before the 
 Public , believing that he has something new , amusing , instruc- 
 tive , or beautiful to tell. 
 
 The writer of these 'Specimens' , would had his own 
 reputation alone been concerned have throion himself upon 
 the mercy of the Public , without a single word of preface. 
 But the fact , that other names than his oicn appear on his 
 title-page and index , compels him to venture a feio prefatory 
 remarks. He believes that he can at least assume to himself 
 the first of the four requisites, which he has named , for 
 an attempt upon the patience of readers. 
 
 He presents to the English Public , 'Specimens from the 
 Dutch Poets.' Dutch Poets ! he can fancy he hears the 
 reader of his title-page exclaim what an anomaly ! are 
 there such beings , in the aqueous land of dykes , and fogs , 
 and cheese? Yes, gentle reader, such beings there are in 
 this land , many in number , and often most voluminous in 
 their productions. And a residence of some years in this 
 country , has convinced the writer , that many of the poems 
 of men , whose very names have never been heard in England, 
 are worthy of a far more extended reputation than they at 
 present enjoy. This conviction has urged him , to present a 
 few 'Specimens' to English readers. They are mere sped-
 
 VII 
 
 mens and are gathered, with the single exception of the 
 'Hymn to God , from the 'Lucifer* of van Vondel the 
 great contemporary of Milton from works published in 
 the present century , and , for the greater part , are the 
 productions of poets still living. 
 
 But , the writer anticipates the question : Why , in opening 
 a new language and literature , do you present specimens , 
 so circumscribed as to date ; so few in number ; and 
 so meagre in merit? To the first objection he would 
 ansicer , that he has purposely confined himself to the 
 present poets of Holland ; if these meet with a favourable 
 reception, he does not doubt that the works of the Dutch 
 poets of the 18< A and 17'* centuries the age of Holland's 
 greatest glory , not only as an European Power , but also 
 as a centre of light . for learning and the fine arts will 
 gain more ready readers, among the inhabitants of that 
 country which has learned so many of the 'arts of war and 
 peace' , from the now less knotcn and respected 'United Pro- 
 vinces'. To the second objection the writer can only answer , 
 that the fear of failure ha* withheld him from making the 
 risk too great and costly for his pocket. And if, unfortu- 
 nately , tJie third objection be also raised by his readers, 
 tJien the translator would only desire to pray the critics to 
 vent their criticism and abuse upon himself, and not loo 
 hastily judging from these specimens condemn the 
 Poetry of the Netherlands. If these specimens , therefore , 
 meet with an unfavourable reception, let the blame be laid 
 upon the translator , and not upon those whom he has 
 attempted to introduce in an English garb.
 
 VIII 
 
 Jd , as to his oicn effusions , the author would only add : 
 if he has erred , in making them public , he takes refuge in 
 the lines of Bums .- * 
 
 wad some power the giftie gie us, 
 To see oursels as others see us ! 
 It wad frae mony a blunder free us 
 And foolish notion." 
 
 UTHECHT , 
 
 19 August 1858.
 
 t 5t i 
 
 Translations. Page 
 
 Abd-El-Kader. (TEE HAAR.) 1 
 
 To The Stars ( ) 8 
 
 Recollection (BEBTS.) 10 
 
 Destruction of The First World. (BILDEEDIJK.) Invocation . . 14 
 
 Description of The First World ( >/ ) 17 
 
 Cain's Repentance ( // ) 19 
 
 From Portugal. (DA COSTA.) ..." 21 
 
 Hymn to God. (VAN VONDBL.) . 3* 
 
 The Nursery-Maid's Death. (TOLLENS.) 37 
 
 To My Child. (BORGER.) 41 
 
 The "Universe without God. (TEN KATE.) 51 
 
 Original Poems. 
 
 Good Hope 63 
 
 Amakeya 65 
 
 The Stricken Soldier 79 
 
 Autumn-Leaves 82 
 
 Dhe Dom-Church of Utrecht 87 
 
 Music 90 
 
 Day-Dreams 94 
 
 The Poet 96 
 
 Hope 98 
 
 The Rusty Key 100 
 
 Where are They ? 103 
 
 O may 1 meet, once more, my Friends! % . 105 
 
 APPENDIX 107
 
 TRANSLATIONS.
 
 ABD-EL-KADER. 
 
 ,,The dread of the desert , the lion is tamed , 
 
 The lion who roar'd for his prey, 
 
 Who the battle-set ranks , where his red eye flamed 
 
 With terror like death did dismay ; 
 
 Who scorn'd that a stranger should ever be named 
 
 As lord of the land he did sway. 
 
 The eagle has fall'n , his pinions are shorn , 
 
 Let him spread out his wings as he will , 
 
 With talons , and beak let him tear on, forlorn , 
 
 His own blood is all he does spill , 
 
 And gnawing those bars , which can never be torn . 
 
 Let him pant , and drink grief to his fill. 
 
 Now paled is the star , with the glittering beam , 
 
 Which long watch'd the crescent beside, 
 
 And over the mosques of the Moslem did gleam , 
 
 And high in the heavens did ride; 
 
 But tott'ring at last , like a meteor did stream , 
 
 And blood-red has sunk in the tide !" 
 
 1
 
 II. 
 
 Dos't hear that base insulting song ? 'Tis me 
 They mock, me, Abd-El-Kader , Emir, who 
 With more than kingly might endow'd, for blood 
 Of priestly Marabout runs in my veins , 
 Fought for my God and prophet , and have bared 
 My vengeful sword against the infidel , 
 And Prankish rule ; I am that eagle , I 
 That lion fierce, who growling answer gave 
 From Bora's wilderness , when thund'ring rosi 
 The battle-cry to heav'n. 
 
 I honour'd high 
 
 assals , and by slaves revered , I free 
 Like to the wind which sweeps my hills; in song 
 Extoll'd as messenger of God , I am 
 That star which fell from heav'ns high dome ; to g 
 A wretched prey ; surrounded , and stared at 
 By soldiers , like some beast , which huntsmen trap 
 Upon my plains , and keep in durance vile. 
 
 Aumale ! is this thy faith ? Hast broken word , 
 And honour too ! Thou lying general ! 
 Is this thy friendship's boon ? or know ye not 
 What ye both promised Abd-El-Kader, when 
 His sword he did resign ? ye said : nay keep 
 Thy sword , though conquer'd , thou art safe 
 From farther ill; all France, with us, extols 
 The courage which inflames thy soul ; thou hast
 
 Our soldier- word ,- which sacred is esteem'd 
 
 By France , -that , soon again, she'll break thy chains. 
 
 keep that word ! forgiveness never will 
 
 1 crave . but I demand fulfilment of 
 
 That knightly word, which ye, in sight of heav'n 
 
 And earth, me gave. I ask no grace, I scorn 
 
 Your boons , but I demand my right ; fulfil 
 
 The dear-sworn vows ye made the God to whom 
 
 I kneel, destroys each lying man the God 
 
 Of Christians does He leave unpunished , 
 
 The breaker of His word ? Is perjury 
 
 So light esteem'd by Him ? 
 
 O keep that word ! 
 O grant me liberty ! and I'll resign- 
 The lost inheritance, for which I fought 
 Too long : take back this sword , I lay it down , 
 For not a sword suits now my hand , enslaved , 
 The Derwish-staff becomes me more, I'll seek 
 In distant lands , sweet balm and comforting , 
 For wounds incurable , and clad in garb 
 Of pilgrim , eastward shall I go , and there 
 Confess my sins , upon my prophet's grave ! 
 
 In vain lamented ! and in vain I shake 
 My chains, in vain I tear my nails against 
 The heavy-bolted door ; Ha ! gilded hall ! 
 Thou art , for me , a gloomy dungeon , e'en 
 Though carpets soft I tread upon ; I , free , 
 And haughty son of Afric's strand, am doom'd 
 Here still to sigh in exile, and my soul
 
 4 
 
 Shall never , never , drink the fiery stream 
 Of thy free air . . . ! my sinking Fatherland ! 
 
 Glut your revenge ! and lash my back with cords , 
 Meet out full measure to your deeds , and steal 
 The sunlight from me , hateful through those bars ; 
 Drag me , chain'd as your slave , down to a cell 
 The foulest ye can dig , or plunge me else , 
 Deep in the midland seas ; and then , ha ! then 
 Thou cursed Paris ! with a shout of joy , 
 Let then thy Marseillaise hellish ring , 
 Through all thy streets , for Abd-El-Kader's fall ! 
 
 in. 
 
 had I the chance , were my chains cast away ! 
 I'd fly as the sparrow-hawk skimming the wave, 
 I'd roar as a lion that seeks for his prey , 
 
 My tent in the desert would rally the brave! 
 
 For the Islam I'd muster my tribes , one and all , 
 
 And the earth would rebound , as I stamp on the sand : 
 
 An army would rush to my side at the call, 
 
 Like the desert-cloud, burning which sweeps o'er the land. 
 
 My warhorse ! my warhorse ! I hear his glad neigh ! 
 
 He sniffs up my breath , and he snorts as if scar'd , 
 
 Then prancing, with foam-wreaths he litters his way, 
 
 But stands , when I call , for his rider prepar'd ; 
 
 He stretches his flanks , and he camel-like kneels , 
 
 1 mount to the saddle , I stroke his proud neck ; 
 And heav'nward he rears, if my touch he but feels,
 
 Or daintily steps, at the bridle-reins' check. 
 I pluck from my girdle my pistols , amain 
 He bears me, where thickest the scimitars flame; 
 I stoop low my head , and thus hid in his mane , 
 I choose in the smoke of the battle my aim. 
 
 The onslaught is past . . . and he arrow-like goes , 
 As I point with my sword , where my legions must rush 
 Then I , panther-like , spring on the flanks of my foes , 
 Or , headlong careering , their centre I push. 
 
 I hear my old war-cry, it rings in my ears! 
 I rise in the saddle , more fierce than of yore , 
 I mow down their ranks , like a reaper who shears , 
 My scimitar , thirsting , gets drunken with gore. 
 Or yielding .... my flight swift and- bird-like I take , 
 Though lead rains around me , yet death nears me not ! 
 From the folds of my mantle their bullets I shake, 
 Unsinged by their powder , unharm'd by their shot ; 
 And Victor I am , 'neath the shield of thy wings , 
 Mohammed ! of prophets the greatest , and last. 
 Again as a captive thy proud foe I bring , 
 And kill him with bullets , which 'gainst me he cast. 
 Then the crescent shall wave o'er Algeria's strand , 
 The Frankish tricolor , their standard , sinks down , 
 And Fll raise on the spot , where the last bit the sand , 
 As the sword hew'd him down, with the flag in his hand, 
 The greatest of Mosques to thy name and renown.
 
 IV. 
 
 Ah ! whither did I stray ? 'Tis done .... no light 
 Shines on my future way ! Earth has naught more 
 To hope , or fear from me , no longer man 
 But worm am I -, which men , despiteful , tread 
 Beneath their feet. Ha 1 in the book of fate 
 'T was written with an iron pen , that base 
 And dastard Abd-El-Kader would resign 
 His trusty sword , and yet live in his shame. 
 
 If I do hate , and curse you ? . . . breakers vile 
 Of Europe's peace ! you ? scourge of Africa ! 
 You ? murderers of liberty ! my hate 
 Grows with my grief, and lightning-like it gleams 
 From out mine eyes, and though my strength should \vasi< 
 Itself away in hopeless cries, with all that's left 
 Of wasted life , I'll spew my curse at you. 
 And die .... 
 
 The day of vengeance comes ! e'en now 
 Has fate revenged me, and the sceptre proud 
 Of Orleans is broken like a reed ! 
 In exile, haughty son of kings! thy pride 
 Is laid in dust ! Thou king without a crown ! 
 Thou mightier than the mightiest 
 
 Still lower than I fell and without fame 
 Hast sunk ! in truth , the hand of God was there. 
 The day of vengeance comes! e'en now I see 
 A fire unquenchable , which saps the bloom
 
 Of France Ha ! dig in madness at the grave 
 
 Which shall entomb your sons! go raging on, 
 And tear each other like the beasts , your guilt 
 Shall speedy retribution bring ; and that , 
 Which liberty ye deem'd , shall soon become 
 Your sorest penalty ! 
 
 The day of vengeance comes ! for on the clouds 
 I see great Issa , and he weighs the fate 
 Of down-trod nations ; but I tremble not 
 To see him come ; I , Emir of the free 
 And sun-lit wilderness ; the sentence dread 
 That judge shall speak , may doom , by Afric's blood , 
 Fierce vengeance on the guilty France; 't will grant 
 To Abd-El-Kader, Emir, quittance free.
 
 TO THE STARS. 
 
 Are ye sheep of snowy whiteness , 
 Which the night as shepherd leads , 
 When the sun sinks down to slumber 
 Through the blue etherial meads ? 
 
 Are ye lily buds of silver , 
 Op'ning at the hour of eve , 
 Wafting down in balmy fragrance, 
 Best , poor mortals to relieve ? 
 
 Or are ye the waxlights burning 
 On the altar of heav'ns dome ; 
 Which , in solemn, silent darkness , 
 Wraps itself when night doth come ? 
 
 Are ye coastlights , are ye beacons , 
 Lighting up the sea we roam ? 
 Gleaming friendly from the windows 
 Of our Heav'nly Father's home ?
 
 Doth some saint gaze down upon us, 
 From each glitt'ring star on high , 
 Hailing us with fondest greeting 
 From his ever beaming eye? 
 
 Or are ye the cross of honour , 
 Hung upon the Christian's breast , 
 Since , through faith , he stood undaunted 
 Whilst the cross of grief him press'd ? 
 
 No ! ye are a book of praises , 
 Written out in living flame, 
 Hymns ye are, in silver graven, 
 Blazing forth your Maker's name.
 
 RECOLLECTION. 
 
 Nay, think not that we have forgotten thee at last, 
 
 Dear young one , e'en though thrice the autumn-blast 
 
 Has striv'n to make thy grave unknown , and cast 
 
 Sere leaves o'er it ; and though two years have pass'd , 
 
 Since a young daughter fair has come, 
 
 And fill'd thy empty place at home. 
 
 Nay, think not that thy image fades from sight,. 
 
 In midst of all the joy which fills the hearts , 
 
 To which , again , thank God ! with fond delight 
 
 We press another infant bright ; 
 
 Nay, fear not child, thy image from us ne'er departs. 
 
 Thy parents' hearts are true , their offspring dear 
 
 Given up to God, are not forgotten; here 
 
 We trust the lost one to the darksome grave, 
 
 And , comforted , look up to Him who gave. 
 
 No might of years , no night of death , 
 
 Can part from him who drew their breath ; 
 
 No new-found father's joy , no later mother's care , 
 
 No God-giv'n consolation, peaceful, true, 
 
 Can blot thy image from those hearts , which ne'er 
 
 Count o'er their children, but they count the dead ones too.
 
 11 
 
 Ah me ! with heavy step , and tearful eye 
 
 I brought thy loved corpse to its burial ground , 
 
 A lovely spot ! where oaks , aud plane-trees high , 
 
 And blooming chestnuts cast their shade around ; 
 
 How beauteous was that hour ! the fading day , 
 
 With all the glory of its setting sun, 
 
 In purpling gold , through the dense shade did play 
 
 And cast its last , and loveliest ray 
 
 Upon the grave, which waited for the dust it won. 
 
 I know the church-yard well ; for twelve long years , 
 
 In which I wield the pastor's stave , 
 
 I've had to gaze in ev'ry grave , 
 
 And give speech to my many thoughts in tear. 
 
 There , for the dead , I often waited have ; 
 
 And always , waiting for the dead , 
 
 Musing the while with down-bent head , 
 
 It did me good to walk around , 
 
 And , pensively , my look to cast 
 
 O'er each green gently surging mound , 
 
 And , as I on some tomb-stone trod , 
 
 Or on a new-laid yielding sod, 
 
 Pause and revivify the past. 
 
 Oft I went round , my steps no spot did seek , 
 
 Naught but pure chance directed then my way. 
 
 But , since that night , blood and affection speak ; 
 
 The church yard gate I ne'er pass , since that day , 
 
 But, well I know a spot, tow'rd which the first to stray
 
 12 
 
 That gate my child ! when , in the summer night , 
 
 The nightingale's sweet note far o'er the church-yard rings, 
 
 And tempts thy mother to go hear what song he sings , 
 
 And, at my side, she goes there in the fading light, 
 
 Whene'er she nears that gate I've seen her start , 
 
 And anxions peer through chink and bar ; 
 
 And through the tall grass , from afar 
 
 Her glance upon the stone she'd dart 
 
 Deep buried in the shade behind , 
 
 The stone we know so well to find. 
 
 Then, silent, we pass on.... a sigh oft from us slips, 
 But , neither speaks , e'en though desire be strong. 
 At last . . it is too much ! Thy name must on our lips , 
 Thy name , dear namesake , then we talk so long 
 Of thee , we sketch thy form, thy tricks of youth , 
 Thy childish joy, thy sweet looks when asleep, 
 That soft blue eye , from which young love did peep , 
 Those cheeks , as roses fresh , that budding mouth 
 Which dying kissed our hands. We say no more, but 
 
 And , in the winter , when without the storm 
 Roars , crackling through the snow-clad trees , 
 And shakes the window panes, we gather warm 
 Around our fam'ly hearth, and sit at ease. 
 And oft, thus circled by our offspring dear, 
 The offspring which the Lord has vouch'd , 
 The youngest on her mother's lap, and here 
 Another at her feet low crouch'd,
 
 13 
 
 A third held to his father's breast ; 
 
 When naught but thankfulness should reign 
 
 In parents' hearts so highly bless'd , 
 
 Still , as the eye , once and again , 
 
 Kests on each glad face , beaming joy , 
 
 Our hearts yearn for thee , dear-loved boy . 
 
 And say: there is his place; thence was our darling ta'en. 
 
 Then oft, a tear starts to thy mother's eye, 
 
 Thy father's voice grows faint in some quaint tale ; 
 
 The children look up to him wond'ring why 
 
 And know not how he thinks that now the pale 
 
 Cold moon is shining o'er the grave in which you lie. 
 
 Nay , fear not that we have forgotten - thee. 
 
 But thou , dost ever in that Eden , where , 
 
 In Jesus arms, thou grief nor tears dost see 
 
 Dost ever think, I say not of our misery - 
 
 But of our tender love, and loving care? 
 
 There thou dost know how well we loved thee dear ! 
 
 And yet, we did not envy thee the joys of heav'n, 
 
 But when thy Saviour call'd , grieved, yet with joy could hear 
 
 And say : Go child ! Go to the God who thee had giv'n.
 
 DESTRUCTION OF THE FIRST WORLD. 
 
 (INVOCATIOX.) 
 
 t 1' i 
 
 I sing the doom of the primeval world . 
 
 And of that race, with hell and devils leagued 
 
 In deeds iniquitous , which dared to tempt 
 
 Heav'ns Majesty , and , impious , sought to scale 
 
 The battlements of Paradise ; till God , 
 
 Weary of wrestling with sin-ruin'd man , 
 
 Crush'd, and o'erturn'd the guilty world, in wrath 
 
 Hurling creation into chaos back ; 
 
 But in His mercy from the gen'ral wreck 
 
 One man preserving, to re-people earth 
 
 And raise upon the ruins of the world 
 
 A mortal race , seed ior eternity. 
 
 Whom shall I pray, with eye to heav'n up turn'd , 
 To form anew , and call to life again 
 That world, the mem'ry of whose wreck the sole, 
 Sad remnant which the mighty flood had left 
 Behind the ebb of long-drawn years , has swept 
 From the fast-fleeting thoughts of mortal man ?
 
 15 
 
 Who shall, out of the impenetrable gloom, 
 Who can , recall her form ? Thee ! I invoke 
 O Thou ! whose glance does pierce all shade, whose gaze 
 Brings days , where'er Thy god-like face is turn'd. 
 
 Spirit of Poesy ! Or leading now 
 
 The angelic choir , to hymn in heav'n the song 
 
 Of praise to God, where myriad tongues burst forth 
 
 In rapt'rous notes , till heav'n's wide arch resounds 
 
 With one great chord , whose pow'r now rolling loud , 
 
 Thrills ev'ry nerve , then melts each heart in joy ; 
 
 Or , to the universe distributor 
 
 Of God's great mercy, show'ring down sweet drops, 
 
 Dost lave the hearts of fallen man, and joys 
 
 Dost bring, from heav'ns clear-shining diamonds-halls, 
 
 To weary souls in bowls of amethyst. 
 
 Send light from thy divinity ! command 
 
 But not the strains of earth-born melody , 
 
 Wherewith mad luxury and lust with feet 
 
 Light shod, in wanton revellings oft hail 
 
 The breaking dawn , whilst laughing pleasure hides 
 
 The canc'ring sorrow, gnawing at the heart. 
 
 Ah no! here, noble numbers wake, like those 
 
 Wherein the kingly bard , the Eternal eye 
 
 Directs to fallen man, and sings the praise 
 
 Of His most god-like love ; or make to swell 
 
 Majestic tones, the soul's just praise to God. 
 
 Nay ! Poesy , be thou my soul ! no art ,
 
 16 
 
 No science more; but let me feel, and live 
 
 In thee alone , yea , fill and penetrate 
 
 My very being , raise , raise me up 
 
 Above this earth , to heav'ns high pinnacles , 
 
 Where , on the clouds , the eagle rests , and give 
 
 The poet wings whereon secure to mount; 
 
 Or , if he fail , may no dishonour vex 
 
 Th' Almighty One whose vengeance dread he sings. 
 
 But Thou ! who , high above all heav'nly spheres , 
 Did'st mount th' eternal, uncreated throne 
 At God's right hand ; Thou ! God in God , and yet 
 Son born of man , Who , doom'd to death's dark shades, 
 Did'st publish peace , in subterranean caves , 
 To the first world's inhabitants , whilst they , 
 Chain'd in eternal night , beheld their bonds 
 Asunder riv'n , by Thy victorious hand ! 
 Saviour ! look down on this presumptuous deed , 
 And favour it , if but a poet's dream ! 
 But , if it pass all Christian rule , then , 
 In mercy Lord ! O check my impious flight.
 
 DESCRIPTION OF THE FIRST WORLD AND ITS INHABITANTS. 
 
 Adam , firstborn , with two descending lines , 
 
 The debt had paid of frail mortality ; 
 
 The human race , thick-peopling earth , had spread 
 
 By God's decree , to her far ends , and built , 
 
 With arms by labour nerved, great towns and walls 
 
 Of wood impenetrate , in which secure 
 
 They till'd the soil around, fearless of all 
 
 That threaten'd them beyond their solid mounds. 
 
 Or , roving on , their tents and growing flocks 
 Their earthly all , they pitch'd their nightly camps 
 In mountain-vallies , far from former woes. 
 
 The lordly Hanoch rear'd its tow'rs to greet , 
 In the far east , the sun's first rays , and ruled 
 The many towns and countries , stretching wide 
 To where the Hiddekel's most western branch 
 Left the sun's setting, and, returning, sought 
 
 Its way through mountain-clefts, till sucking sands 
 Stole its fresh waters near the northern main. 
 Midway flowM Gihon's channel , link'd and twined , 
 In sinuous curves with Pizon's stream ; and there ,
 
 18 
 
 Through cedars, palms, and olive-trees fast flow'd 
 
 The rapid Frath, to where the mirror'd sun 
 
 Shone from the waves that wash'd the massy hills 
 
 Far stretching on tow'rds Hanoch's battlements. 
 
 Closed in a mighty mountain-wall , the north 
 
 Kept back the storm , which , rushing from the pole , 
 
 Wrung from the ocean-depths the crested waves , 
 
 And dash'd them thund'ring on the rock-bound shores. 
 
 Like to a batter'd , brazen shield , up -rose 
 
 In swelling lines , out of the azure rim , 
 
 With many a scar and bruise, from east 
 
 To West the habitable earth; a crust 
 
 Of soil upon a granite floor. No rocks , 
 
 In wild confusion hurl'd , lined that first strand 
 
 All uniform , no jutting peaks rose up 
 
 To hide the mirror'd stars upon the sea. 
 
 One land, one sea, no other shore to break 
 
 That unity. One mountain range, whereon 
 
 Grew stately pines and lofty elms ; no hills , 
 
 Than where the purling brooks sprang forth to flood 
 
 The fields , or lose their puny waves , dissolved 
 
 In the great streams which flow'd from Eden's groves. 
 
 Enwrapp'd in clouds, one higher spot alone 
 
 From men , near-seeing , hid that garden where 
 
 The tree of life its fruit still gave, but leaves 
 
 And blossom only , shed the Knowledge-tree , 
 
 Ere since its mystery our parents lured 
 
 To touch, and pluck death from its boughs. 
 
 Sometimes a balmy breeze of odours sweet
 
 19 
 
 Was wafted thence upon the nether earth ; 
 
 Such scents as fall , in honied drops , from beds 
 
 Of autumn-roses, where the nightingales 
 
 Wax faint with luxury ; but sin-blind men 
 
 Knew not their source , nor saw the heav'n-born guards 
 
 Who , night and day , invisible , kept watch 
 
 Around the holy spot 
 
 CAIN'S REPENTANCE. 
 
 Cain cried upon the God 
 
 Of blessing, when his firstborn Hanoch's smile 
 
 Lit up his curse-stamp'd brow : Almighty God ! 
 
 Thine is the victory ! No more I'll steel 
 
 My sinful breast; I melt away, in tears 
 
 Of penitence dissolve ; my soul grows weak , 
 
 Grows tender , yea , is humanized. O joy ! 
 
 I am a father. my God ! I feel 
 
 A father's blood run coursing through my heart , 
 
 And changing ray whole soul. Let childless ones 
 
 Go fight th' Omnipotent. Go , sinful man , 
 
 And curse thyself and God , and urge thy soul 
 
 To loathe itself. O thou unfortunate ! 
 
 Who hast no pleasing child to bear thy name , 
 
 Know'st not how bright a heav'n there smiles on man 
 
 Out from the countenance of his own child ,
 
 20 
 
 His second life , his recreated self. 
 I can no longer live thus hardened , 
 Nor tempt Thy mercy , my God ! I have 
 Both wife , and child , visit not on them 
 The father's . husband's sin ; but punish me , 
 Yea me alone spare those in whom I live; 
 That , that alone , were punishment , were grief 
 Too great for me a father; O my God 
 I worship Thee ! have mercy now, and look 
 In love upon the first great murderer. 
 My parents sinn'd ; I , in mad passion slew , 
 To Thy dishonour, Abel born with me, 
 And , by his death , bereft myself desire 
 In my own life ; bless my seed , and I 
 With blessings on my lips to Thee will die .... 
 
 He sank down speechless , drench'd in tears. 'Tis said, 
 An angel , at these words , let fall a tear 
 Like a heav'n-dewdrop on his brow , which wash'd 
 That sign of blood from thence , and made it fade 
 As doth a mist at morn , and wiped away 
 
 M 
 
 Therewith that vengeance-call from earth the curse 
 Of His most righteous Father for his sin.
 
 To Africa , to Africa ! 
 
 Spake Don Sebastian ; 1) 
 Beyond the midland sea I'll lead 
 
 Old Portugal's proud van. 
 
 My nobles , up ! gird on those swords , 
 Which 'gainst the Moorish brood , 
 
 Your fathers all , and mine did draw , 
 And bathed in reeking blood ! 
 
 For yet upon Morocco's shore, 
 Our five-fleck'd flag must stream ! 
 
 That blood of which those spots are sign 
 Shall blot the crescent's beam ! 
 
 1) Don Manuel , surnamcd the Fortunate , was succeeded on the 
 throne of Portugal (in 1521) by his son Don John III, who survived 
 all his six sons , and (in 1557) was succeeded by his grandson then 
 3 years old , Don (in Fortugeze : Dora) Sebastian. The unfortunate issue 
 of the adventurous expedition of this prince, against the king of Fez 
 and Morocco, gave rise to the wellknown sage with which the ballad 
 closes. (author.)
 
 22 
 
 A cry of knights gave answer loud : 
 
 ,,Hail , king Sebastian ! 
 And woe , and woe , and woe , and woe , 
 
 Woe to the Mussulman 1" 
 
 That cry doth ring through Portugal , 
 The king's own mother wakes ; 
 
 Her sombre , and presaging heart 
 With deeper anguish quakes : 
 
 ,,For you , your knights , and kingdom e'en , 
 
 You dig a certain grave , 
 My king, my son! leave, O leave 
 
 This fatal plan I crave. 
 
 What draws thy fiery hero-heart 
 That scorch'd and scorching way ? 
 
 The blooming West or Eastern lands 
 Bid fresher fame and prey. 
 
 But , at this time , far better things . 
 
 Than prey or battle-call , 
 Waits , from the seed of Manuel 
 
 The favour'd Portugal. 
 
 Now, prospering, it prays, thy reign 
 
 A long continuing; 
 It longs for , hopeful greets e'en now 
 
 A bride beside its king !"
 
 23 
 
 ,,My hand , my heart , my crown I'll ne'er 
 
 To royal maid accord , 
 Ere that in th' unbelievers' blood 
 
 I bathed have my sword ; 
 
 Ere that , upon its native soil , 
 
 The Moslem crescent wanes , 
 Ere that , e'en there , in battle's rush 
 
 Our cross the vict'ry gains! 
 
 Till then , thou widow of a king , 
 
 For Portugal no rest, 
 And for her high-born knights no peace, 
 
 For me in life no zest." 
 
 The monarch speaks , the monarch stands , 
 
 In purpose fix'd and fast ; 
 The widow weeps , the court is still , 
 
 Rings the knights' cry at last : 
 
 ,,To Moorish lands , to Moorish lands ! 
 
 And , hail Sebastian ! 
 And woe , and woe , and woe , and woe , 
 
 Woe to the Mussulman I" 
 
 The mother of the king they bear 
 Thence, fainting at his knee: 
 
 Her eyes alas ! the woeful day 
 Shall never, never see.
 
 24 
 
 Who meanwhile pleads the mother's cause 
 
 Before her son and lord , 
 Though trembling with the weight of years 
 
 With fire of look , and word ? 
 
 'Tis one , clothed in a scarlet robe , 
 
 Th' Infant of Portugal , 
 Who shall succeed the childless prince, 
 
 The king and cardinal. 
 
 It is of the king Manuel 
 
 The last remaining son; 
 Heir of the Lusitanian crown 
 
 The sole and only one. 
 
 ,,I know , prince ! head of our line , 
 The sign that marks our race; 
 
 I know that hearts , unquench'd in zeal , 
 For church and cross, us grace. 
 
 Thou too, e'en from thy greenest youth, 
 
 Unto thy fathers leal , 
 Orique's famed inheritance 
 
 Hast kept with pious zeal. 
 
 But, though Alfonzo's victor)' 
 
 O'er th' unbaptized Moor, 
 In people's chronicles and songs 
 
 Through all time shall endure ,
 
 25 
 
 That enemy calls now no more 
 
 Our royal house to strife , 
 But other duties, other wars 
 
 Has brought our later life. 
 
 Why look'st thou, king! unto the South V 
 
 It thunders in the North , 
 There war, that feeds on heresy, 
 
 In flame has broken forth. 
 
 Dost leave thy Austrian uncle then 
 
 To fight with single hand ? 
 And fliest not with thine armed hosts 
 
 To rebel Netherland ? 
 
 Or scorn we now our righteous share 
 
 In this holy crusade ? 
 O may we ne'er feel in the end 
 
 Spain's yoke upon us laid ! 
 
 And O ! may ne'er our Portugal , 
 
 Six ages fame in vain 
 Wake from this dream of Africa 
 
 A conquer'd prize of Spain !" 
 
 The church-prince bows , the int'rest grows , 
 
 A shudder passes round ! 
 The monarch hears , the monarch speaks , 
 
 Smiles grace the utter'd sound : 
 
 3
 
 26 
 
 ,,Most rev 'rend son of Portugal 
 Thy words , I ween , are true : 
 
 Let us not , for our kingdom's sake . 
 Confound old times with new. 
 
 Nay ! nay ! 'twixt Spain and Portugal 
 
 Never shall strife be moved ; 
 Both are invincible , and this 
 
 Has long , long since , been proved. 
 
 For , Toro's victory is theirs , 
 
 Algibarrota ours ; 
 And further, for one common soil 
 
 We fight with joined powers. 
 
 We'll wield th' avenging sword , and purge 
 
 Our common soil from stain , 
 On ours the heretic shall die. 
 
 On theirs the crescent wane. 
 
 With Philip king of Austria 
 
 I'll this division make : 
 The Northern heretics are his , 
 
 The Mussulman we'll take." 
 
 And, once again, the cry .resounds: 
 
 ,,Hail king Sebastian ! 
 And woe , and woe , and woe , and woe , 
 
 Woe to the Mussulman !"
 
 27 
 
 And to that loud call answering, 
 
 Another voice doth bring 
 To ears of knights , against the king, 
 
 These words of threatening : 
 
 ,,Why would'st thou sail unto the south 
 
 O king , so joyously ? 
 A curse awaiteth Portugal, 
 
 Beyond the midland sea ; 
 
 The curse of Israel's progeny, 
 Forth-driven from this strand 
 
 Unto the islands of the west , 
 And Barbary's hot sand. 
 
 Dost still call back that deed of shame , 
 And fear'st not vengeance fell? 
 
 That vengeance , due from Israel , 
 May come from Ishmael !" 
 
 Impatiently the king doth stamp , 
 
 His eye with fury gleams , 
 And firmer than it ever stood 
 
 This hour his purpose seems; 
 
 ,,VVho dares defend the cause of Jew , 
 
 As if of guiltless blood? 
 Whene'er his pride stoops to the cross, 
 
 For him my seep tre's good ;
 
 28 
 
 But, if he holds with stubborn will 
 The guilt that brands his name, 
 
 Then waits for him , with Ishmael , 
 One doom , one sword , one flame ! 
 
 Come then ! in spite of woman's tears , 
 
 And spite of fancied ban , 
 My nobles , up ! begin the strife 
 
 Against the Mussulman !" 
 
 And frantic rose the cry again : 
 
 ,,Hail king Sebastian ! 
 And woe , and woe , and woe , and woe 
 
 Woe to the Mussulman !" 
 
 From Lisbon went the fleet to sea , 
 With the noble of the land ; 
 
 With princes brave and gallant knights, 
 In hour most evil mann'd. 
 
 The Spanish sister-kingdom soon 
 From Cadiz greeting sends , 
 
 And, with that greet, a helping band 
 Of Chivalry she lends. 
 
 The fleet sails down the ocean-path , 
 It sails with swanlike pride , 
 
 Along Trafalgar's fronting ridge , 
 Gibraltar's rock beside j
 
 29 
 
 With sound of drum and clarion, 
 
 And warlike minstrelsy , 
 With flash of steel, and colours gay 
 
 Of knightly blazonry : 
 
 The Silva's lion blazed on green , 
 
 Almeida's eagle stream'd; 
 The stars of great Coutinho's house, 
 
 The Sousa's crescent beam'd. 
 
 The Costa's bones of silver white , 
 
 Pereira's cross there waved , 
 With many a shield of princely house , 
 
 With bar sinister graved. 
 
 And there too gleam 'd the royal shield 
 
 On unstain'd banner bright , 
 Known from the farthest western shore 
 
 Unto the dawn of light. 
 
 There, midst the thunder of their shouts 
 
 Arzila meets their gaze, 
 And soon on Moorish soil the king 
 
 His warlike host arrays. 
 
 Soon through Morocco rings the shout: 
 
 ,,Hail king Sebastian ! 
 And woe, and woe, and woe, and woe, 
 
 Woe to the Mussulman !"
 
 30 
 
 That shout the trembling shores have heard 
 But the bright light has fail'd ; 
 
 The pale sheen of the golden stars 
 In gath'ring mist is veil'd. 
 
 A strange , wild motion breaks the rest 
 
 Of their broad water-path ; 
 And , red as blood , shines down their track 
 
 The full moon boding wrath ! 
 
 In Lisbon , in the summer time , 
 Was the king's will obey'd ; 
 
 And autumn found all Portugal 
 In mourning weeds array'd. 
 
 The great fight had heen fought and lost, 
 
 Blood flow'd like water there; 
 Mown down was all the kingdom's flow'r 
 
 At Alcazarkabier ! 
 
 Eight gallantly on either side 
 
 With lion-might they fought ! 
 But numbers gain'd the victory , 
 
 Presumption down was brought. 
 
 And at the state's forsaken, helm , 
 
 Press'd sore on ev'ry hand , 
 The church-prince , few dark moments short, 
 
 Though dying took his stand.
 
 31 
 
 Ere yet two years have run their course 
 
 That place he must accord 
 To Charles' son , whose claims are won 
 
 With bloody Alva's sword. 
 
 Ah ! though each fought right gloriously , 
 
 Like true-born cavalier. 
 In vain! the Moor did win the day , 
 
 At Alcazarkabier ! 
 
 But how , in that unhappy hour , 
 
 Sped he the foremost man ? 
 How fell , among the fallen brave , 
 
 The king Sebastian? 
 
 They saw him in a ring of knights , 
 
 Who fell down one by one , 
 And then , 'gainst sixty thousand Moors , 
 
 Still dauntless stand alone. 
 
 At last, all cover 'd o'er with wounds, 
 
 With upraised vizor , there 
 They saw him fall down in the fight 
 
 Of Alcazarkabier ! 
 
 His corpse they saw, and recognised 
 
 In dwelling of a Jew; 
 For there the king of Portugal 
 
 His latest life-breath drew.
 
 32 
 
 But still , in every age , the tale 
 Is told from mouth to mouth , 
 
 That king Sebastian ne'er died 
 Far in the burning South ; 
 
 That king Sebastian still lives, 
 
 And soon shall come again , 
 Deliverer, and conqueror, 
 
 In Portugal to reign. 
 
 For when the Spaniard rules the land , 
 
 Or when his rule is gone , 
 Or when an emperor gives way 
 
 To Miguel's raging throne ; 
 
 The self same words are whisper'd still , 
 And die not, through all pain, 
 
 Through scorn , through Inquisition's flames 
 Sebastian comes again !" 
 
 Can thus a people's loyalty 
 
 Its bigotry become ; 
 To all opposing reason blind, 
 
 And to all doubtings dumb ? 
 
 No ! deeper doth the meaning lie , 
 
 And higher up it looks , 
 Enwrapp'd in wond'rous mysteries ; - 
 
 For truth oft lurks in nooks.
 
 33 
 
 That, which lies hidden in the hope 
 
 Of longing Portugal, 
 Is the great hope by nations felt 
 
 For One who comes to all ; 
 
 He, who from heaven shall return. 
 
 The sole , all-ruling One , 
 He , who shall free the world from bonds , 
 
 The humanized Son. 
 
 Earth! at His coming, cast away 
 Your gods of wood and stone ; 
 
 All superstitions vanish then , 
 Self-righteousness begone ! 
 
 For He, that king, shall bring to us 
 
 His peace and righteousness ! 
 Woe to all error then ! He comes 
 
 To doom, as well as bless.
 
 HYMN TO GOD. 
 ~ fij 
 
 CHXXRTJS OF ANGELS 
 
 (STROPHE.) 
 
 O who is He exalted high , 
 
 Throned in a light impenetrate ? 
 Time nor eternity can try 
 
 To measure Him ; no counterweight 
 Supports His being ; He alone , 
 
 Lives in Himself, nor prop nor stay 
 Bear up His uncreated throne: 
 
 Whose will creation doth obey ; 
 In , and around Him , undisturb'd 
 
 By thought of change, all things rehearse 
 His will , by Him are moved and curb'd , 
 
 Sole centre of the universe ! 
 Sun of all suns ! the spirit , life , 
 
 The soul of all that thought doth bring 
 To mind, or dares to bring; the fountain rife, 
 
 The heart , the ocean , primal spring 
 Of all things good , which from Him flow , 
 
 And by His mercy , wisdom , pow'r , 
 Still are upheld. Who bade bade them gron
 
 35 
 
 From naught , ere yet , complete , did tow'r 
 This glitt'ring palace-dome , the heav'n 
 
 Of heav'ns; where with eyes veil'd in wings 
 Before His Majesty 'tis giv'n 
 
 To us to serve , while heav'n's arc rings 
 With songs of praise; or, struck with fear, 
 
 In adoration low we all , 
 As His all-glorious Presence near , 
 
 Burns on us on our faces fall! 
 Who is He? Tell us , sing of Him ! 
 
 Sing loud His name in glorious lays , 
 In words fit for the Seraphim ; 
 
 Or have ye words fit for His praise? 
 
 (ANTISTEOPHE") 
 
 'Tis God ! O unbegotten fount ! 
 
 Unending source of all! forgive 
 The weakness wherewith we recount 
 
 Thy praise. Created forms , that live , 
 And all that have no life, still find 
 
 Eternity too short to name 
 Thee ! dread Unutterable ! Mind , 
 
 Tongue , nor sign can give Thee fame ! 
 Thou wert , Thou art , and shalt be still , 
 
 The same Unchangeable ! all thought , 
 All speech e'en of Archangel will 
 
 With weakness and sore faults be fraught ! 
 Each being bears his name ; but none
 
 36 
 
 Dare call Thee by Thy name ! 110 time 
 The myst'ry solves which guards Thy thrum- ! 
 
 Who dares exalt himself? Thou Prime! 
 Art what Thou art, self- known , reveal'd 
 
 To none beside ! To whom was't giv'n 
 To know Thee as Thou wert , ere wheel'd 
 
 The orbs through space , and stars in heav'n 
 Sang to Thy praise, all-glorious Light, 
 
 And Life-pulse of eternity ! 
 To whom revealed was the sight ? 
 
 Who shared the awful mystery? 
 That sight sublime , from ev*ry eye 
 
 Was hid. Age comes to us as days 
 Eoll on; o'er Thee, unchanged, times fly. 
 
 Exalt the Godhead , sing His praise !
 
 THE NURSERY-MAID'S DEATH. 
 
 She was an orphan-child , friends had she none 
 Nor kin ; a stranger from far lands ; alone 
 She came , to ask , for faithfulness and zeal , 
 A roof, a refuge , and a scanty meal. 
 
 She was so gentle , modest , and retired ; 
 She won each heart before she spoke ; desired 
 And envied was their lot who saw her roam , 
 And bade her welcome in a kindly home. 
 
 How nimble , charming , amiable her ways ! 
 Her step, so light and graceful, drew each gaze. 
 How polish'd was her language, and so well 
 Match'd with her voice , clear as a silver bell ! 
 
 How beautiful she was ! . . . Her face did smile 
 With happiness unconscious of a guile ; 
 Hers was unwrinkled purity of youtli ; 
 A child-like soul , of most angelic truth.
 
 38 
 
 How good she was ! what deep-felt love she show'd 
 For those whom grief or anguish lowly bow'd ; 
 How willingly each tear of woe she'd dry 
 AVhilc sympathetic tears bedew'd her eye ! 
 
 And when she pray'd . . . ! God ! her mien and air 
 Were such , when murm'ring out her whisper'd pray'r , 
 That all who saw , their hands together laid , 
 And then, unconsciously, with her they pray'd. 
 
 No ! purer soul , with such rare grace refined , 
 
 And holier heart , with happier richer mind , 
 
 And form more beautiful , with brighter virtue crown'd 
 
 Combined , were never in one being found. 
 
 Alas , alas ! it was a dream soon told ! 
 She was a plant of far too tender mould ; 
 She 'gan to wither, droop beneath her toil; 
 She could not thrive in that strange foreign soil. 
 
 Bleak, cold, and damp became that foreign land; 
 And sickness seized on her with clammy hand ; 
 Bereft of strength , in pain , long time she lay , 
 Then bade farewell to earth , and pass'd away .... 
 
 She died .... Well then ? that is. the lot of all ; 
 One young , one old , each must obey Death's call ; 
 And then , the loss is not so great , 'twas said ; 
 'Twas but an unknown foreign nurs'ry-maid !
 
 39 
 
 She's dead .... Well ! women came into the room 
 And laid the body out with looks of gloom ; 
 They dress'd it in a winding-sheet, and gave 
 A corpse , the fin'ry all wear in the grave. 
 
 A coffin with its trestles then was brought , 
 The last wood-house , which even kings ere bought ; 
 They laid her in , and screw'd the lid clown tight , 
 And hid the dead and faded flow'r from sight. 
 
 A carriage came , and bore the load away ; 
 And those who follow'd few , O few were they ! 
 Not one of them , God ! woe-stricken walk'd , 
 Not one, who follow'd, of the dead girl talk'd. 
 
 And O ! no sigh , no groan , no plaint was heaved 
 By those whom she had left , but not bereaved ; 
 Not one ,,Farewell" was sobb'd ; none shed a tear ; 
 ,,We'll meet again ," was not sigh'd o'er her bier. 
 
 The foreign orphan . . could she wish for more ? 
 All are not nourish'd with the care they bore 
 For her ; in sickness nought was her denied ; 
 A decent grave they gave her when she died. 
 
 O God ! O God ! the purest innocence , 
 
 The rarest bud of loveliness borne hence 
 
 By hands ungentle ; buried , without gloom , 
 
 By hearts cold as the earth which was her tomb !
 
 40 
 
 I saw the grave , the coffin which contain'd 
 The precious dust 'twas all that now reraain'd 
 Of her so angel-like ; the digger's spade 
 Soon hid e'en that ! . . . . In earth she's laid ! 
 
 I stood distracted , lost in pensive thought ; 
 Strange fancies to my brain , confused , were brought 
 With eyes fix'd on the grave I stood , apart . 
 While deep-fix'd sorrow moved my breaking heart. 
 
 I look'd around , to see if no one wept ; 
 The grave was fill'd , away the mourners crept - 
 I look'd in ev'ry face , search'd ev'ry eye , 
 In vain ! none shed a tear , not one but I.
 
 TO MY CHILD. 
 
 Dost see that church my child ? There rests the dust 
 
 Of thy dear mother, from thy father's heart 
 
 Torn suddenly. She pray'd to God when thou 
 
 Wert born; thought but of thee, and light esteem'd 
 
 Her own sore pangs. God heard the pray'r. What means , 
 
 My child , that look of pain , that cry , that flood 
 
 Of briny tears ? Does thy young , childish heart 
 
 Already feel my fearful woe? or has 
 
 The milk , drawn from a stranger's breast , no taste 
 
 For thee? Why dost thou stretch thy little hands 
 
 Out tow'rds that dismal church ? Dost thou then wish 
 
 That I should bear thee to thy mother's grave , 
 
 That , resting on mine arms , or creeping slow 
 
 Along the grass, thy bitter tears may fall 
 
 Upon the hallow'd sod ? Patience awhile 
 
 My little son; whene'er thy limbs are strong, 
 
 You'll , hand in hand , with me , go to the tomb 
 
 Where she is laid, and there, knelt on the stone, 
 
 We'll pour our tears together on her grave. 
 
 Patience till then my child ; a little while ,
 
 42 
 
 And then thy limbs are strong enough to walk 
 
 Alone. O this, delay I must crave , for 
 
 Though light the burden is, my bleeding heart 
 
 Has robb'd my arm of strength , I cannot bear 
 
 Thee to that grave ; and , if thy father's will 
 
 Thou could'st obey, I'd have thee shed no tears 
 
 Till then ; those drops but aggravate my pain , 
 
 And thy lost mother is thus robb'd of tears 
 
 Meant for her grave. Thou hear'st not child. Then weep 
 
 My boy ! thy grief I'll rev'rence , though thy sobs 
 
 Are killing me ; I'll not flee from them now ; 
 
 Pour forth thy bitter plaints ; God ! 'tis hard 
 
 To tell the child that's motherless to stop 
 
 His tears. Do I not weep with him ? I ne'er 
 
 Can kiss the darling babe , but streaming floods 
 
 Come rushing from the fount of woe , and fall 
 
 Like drops of fire upon the poor boy's face ! 
 
 Weep on, my son, thy father teaches thee. 
 
 Yes , mourning is my task , a desert is 
 
 This house , where once connubial vows were crown'd 
 
 With happiness supreme. A chair stands here 
 
 Beside me, but, I miss her at the board 
 
 Which she was wont to spread. Each morn , afresh , 
 
 When the faint daylight wakes me from a sleep 
 
 Short and disturb'd. in vain. I look around 
 
 For that sweet face , to press the morning kiss 
 
 Of love upon that lovely brow ; I rise 
 
 At break of day, and to the garden go
 
 43 
 
 To pour my burden'd soul in plaints, which back 
 Are cast into my ears , from the high wall 
 Which fronts me ; or my sighs are mingled with 
 The wind . which murmurs through the lofty trees ; 
 And then , in fancy . I can hear her whom 
 I love ; my raptured gaze is heav'nward turn'd , 
 
 As if her spirit would revisit me 
 
 Ah no ! for ever is she gone ! I feel 
 The cold drops of the leaves upon my brow 
 So hot ; the trees hear my loud wail , and seem 
 To share my woe , for mourning branches shake 
 Their dewy tears upon my down-bent head. 
 
 And I forbid my son to pour his grief 
 Into God's ear , the orphans' Shield ? t) no ! 
 I could not truly love the dead , and bid 
 Her child not mourn his mother's death. Does not 
 The rose-bud fade, when some rude hand has torn 
 The parent-stem, which nourish'd stalks and leaves 
 And flow'rs ? Nature withdrew her care , and though 
 Art may do much, the bud thrives not, but fades 
 And dies ... No ! No ! pledge of our love , that were 
 Too hard a punishment; the cruel wish 
 I now recall; weeo, weep for her, e'en though 
 Thy tears fall not upon her grave ; then pour 
 Them on thy foster-mother's breast; and, if 
 The briny flood should mingle with the milk 
 Thou drink'st, withdraw not then thy mouth, for know- 
 Poor child ! that th' earth , whereon thou liv'st , though fond
 
 44 
 
 Of boasting of her many sweets , does feed 
 Her children oft with bread of tears , and such 
 Thou too must eat 
 
 Alas ! this is our share 
 On earth ! I clasp'd unto my breast a wife , 
 Dear to me as my life, none happier e'er 
 Than I , but Ah ! the vows were scarcely ta'en , 
 The rites perform'd, and we scarce tasted had 
 Such happiness as tongue cannot recount, 
 When He , who gave her , closed our joy , and took 
 Her to Himself .... 
 
 How heavily did weigh 
 
 That old man's death on her , who through long years 
 Had watch'd so faithfully o'er him, had lent 
 Her arm to steady his frail steps , had soothed 
 Him in each hour of need , and freely giv'n 
 Her youth and strength , to cheer her father's age. 
 Though snow-white hair fell round the rev'rend head , 
 And though the tott'ring feet could scarcely bear 
 The body , bent with weight of eighty years 
 And five, still nature seem'd too soon to ask 
 For his release. He died. I praised the good man's worth 
 And Christian courage , and directed her 
 To heav'n's high home , where age renews youth's bloom , 
 Where Death's fell scythe is laid aside , where God , 
 Who wounds and heals , shall wipe away all tears ! 
 I spoke to her of future days , and told her how 
 The old man in her offspring would revive
 
 45 
 
 From death ; and that a mother's joy would heal 
 The daughter's grief She took fresh courage then, 
 And , comforted , there , at the narrow grave , 
 Thought of the many-mansion'd home on high , 
 Where then her father's sp'rit she saw ; she dried 
 Her cheeks , and knelt before her gracious God 
 As ansrels kneel. 
 
 He who , imprison'd , sighs 
 And longs to hail the day that sets him free , 
 Cannot with stronger eagerness be fired , 
 Than burn'd now in her bosom ; how she long'd 
 To greet the gift , which should complete the sum 
 Of our domestic happiness ! . . . E'en now 
 We saw the child ; in turn we seized on him , 
 And strove to win his smiles ; we saw him sport 
 Around our board ; we saw him stand upright 
 Upon his little feet; his mother show'cl the spot 
 Where , in the garden , he should play. The boy 
 Grows up , God-fearing , virtuous , good ; 
 And soon the youth's an honour to his friends 
 And us. The son becomes a man ; our joy 
 Is perfect; all is gain'd; naught more have we 
 To pray for ... Thus we dream'd ! The bitter pangs 
 Of childbirth came. She cried to God for help 
 And grace; I am the father of a child 
 And she the sacrifice to Death. Mourn child 
 Thy mother's loss , thy father mourns his wife.
 
 46 
 
 Why dost thou tremble so my child ? Though sore 
 Thy pain , O pity me ! Or dost thou not 
 Feel love for me? Thou dost not blame me that 
 Thy mother died ? I know how heavily 
 The burden weighs; and thy young shoulders are 
 So weak , but , fear not child , thy father bends , 
 And will bear up whate'er he can ; for men 
 Such burdens are , free children go ; but live 
 My cherish'd son , and I'm content. O may 
 The features of my angel-wife be stamp'd 
 On thy fair face ! O , tremble not so child ; 
 For my sake live , for thy life's mine , it binds 
 Me to the earth. A Father's loving hand 
 Is thus chastising us ; these strokes are dealt 
 In love ; but why so sore oppress'd , is not 
 For us , sons of the dust , to ask of God. 
 
 Yes , Father ! low I bend : though struggling fierce , 
 
 Yea , though my brain grows giddy , as I look 
 
 Into th' abyss of woe ! I'll kiss the rod 
 
 Which chastens me so bitterly; I'll build 
 
 My hope upon thy love , and conqueror 
 
 In life's sore battle I'll remain. I'll stand 
 
 Firm at my post , and wait the high command 
 
 Which calls me hence , for what remains on earth 
 
 Is dedicated to the dead. I'll fight 
 
 All that I can , or dare , not like a reed 
 
 I'll tremble now , nor coward-like I'll fly. 
 
 Ten months my God ! a night-watch seem'd the time
 
 47 
 
 Ten months , and she , my loved one , died but how 
 
 Dare I complain? each day, each hour, then spent 
 
 With her , was token of Thy love ; a gift 
 
 Of Thy good grace. Thanks for that love ! Or , Lord 
 
 And Father, is 't too much to render thanks 
 
 When the sick heart breaks with its woe ? But strength 
 
 Enough is left me now , e'en though the words 
 
 Be choked in sobs , to murmur rev'rently : 
 
 Amen , my Father ! Good Thou art alway. 
 
 Amen , good God ! Thy hand did mix the draught , 
 Thou gav'st it me ; I took the bitter cup , and drank 
 It to the dregs. If it had better been 
 
 For me that it were dash'd to earth and spill'd , 
 My Father had not giv'n His child the cup. 
 
 Perchance, long ere my pulse ha's ceased, I'll praise 
 God's name , and thankful worship Him , who gave 
 
 A wife , and took the idol from my heart. 
 
 O God ! great God ! what vision mocks my sight . 
 
 And scares my soul ! what terror seizes me , 
 
 And drives this shudder through my veins ? O God ! 
 
 No mortal dares to read the secrets , writ 
 
 In Thy dread book of fate ; but ! forgive 
 
 An anguish'd father's care , shall this dear child , 
 
 My life , my hope , my crown of joy , shall he . 
 
 This dear-bought son , bring sorrow to my heart , 
 
 And send me , grey'd with care , down to a grave 
 
 Of misery ? Shall ever sin's vile stamp 
 
 Disfigure this pure face ? shall this young plant ,
 
 48 
 
 Pray'd for with such intense desire too frail 
 
 To set his weak foot on my knee disturb , 
 
 In future days , my rest , crush my fond hopes , 
 
 Yea, trample on my heart? Was it for this 
 
 That my dear treasure pass'd away , and closed 
 
 Her eyes so soon ; that she might not behold 
 
 The sins of the base miscreant whom she bore ? 
 
 Was 't therefore Mary died ? , mercy Lord ! 
 
 That I thus penetrate Thy will. Resigned 
 
 To Thee , Director of my ways , I'll bear 
 
 What Thon dost send ; this duty is ; to call 
 
 Thee to account were arrogance. But O ! 
 
 If that sharp sword must pierce my soul . where then 
 
 Where shall I hide myself ? Here , on my knees , 
 
 Beside the cradle of this babe . I call 
 
 To Thee , Almighty Father ! God of love 
 
 And pity; turn this stroke from me. Thou gav'st 
 
 This child , and , for the gold of earth , I'd not 
 
 Resign the charge ; but , if this pledge of love 
 
 Shall strew my future way with thorns , take back 
 
 In mercy then what Thou hast giv'n ; rob me 
 
 Of this dear babe , unconscious yet of sin 
 
 And evil thoughts. O take him , ere he grow 
 
 To be a plague-spot in mine eyes ! In peace 
 
 Then shall he rest within the arms which ne'er 
 
 Have nursed him , softly sleep upon, the breast 
 
 He ne'er has suck'd ; then shall the little corpse 
 
 Not startle her , when in Thine acre laid 
 
 To ripen like the corn ; she'll slumber on ,
 
 49 
 
 And , when she wakes at last ; she'll recognise 
 Our flesh and blood , and kiss her sleeping babe 
 To life again. If thus his guiltless dust 
 Be mingled with her guiltless dust, O then 
 I'll joyful bear him hence , and celebrate 
 This second , solemn festival ; and think 
 Of her as blooming in the Paradise 
 Above , where he , rank'd as a cherub , flies 
 Attendant to his Saviour's ev*ry word. 
 
 But , whither am I lead in dreams ? Alas ! 
 
 Calamity has wrapp'd my woeful soul 
 
 In gloom , dark as the grave ; if but a ray 
 
 Of hope streams down , then quick a mist doth rise 
 
 To veil the glimm'ring light , and da'rkest night 
 
 Falls o'er me. O my soul ! why art thou crush'd ? 
 
 Hope never dies ; sore though the hand of God 
 
 May fall , O never misconstrue His love 
 
 And faithfulness ; O Father , Father kind , 
 
 What ! would I dare to doubt that honour'd name 
 
 Thou bear'st : the comforting , compassionate 
 
 And ever-loving God ? While sleeping yet 
 
 Within his mother's womb , the tender babe 
 
 \Yas dedicated to Thy name. To life 
 
 He came , and seem'd e'en in his birth a prey 
 
 To Death ; Thy help was near , he lived ; and now 
 
 I clasp the prize won with his mother's loss. 
 
 And O what may I not hope from Thy love ! 
 
 To Father , Son , and Holy Ghost my child 
 
 5
 
 50 
 
 I consecrated have ; upon his head 
 
 Has dropp'd the water of my covenant 
 
 With Thee ; Thou see'st Thy finger- mark , engraved 
 
 Upon his brow , and know'st the double name 
 
 Wherewith he's named. In Ihy memorial-book 
 
 This infant has a place ; and e'en if I 
 
 Forget him , Thou wilt ne'er forget ! Peace then 
 
 My troubled heart , whene'er the hour shall come 
 
 That takes me from my child , I know to whom 
 
 His youth and innocence committed are ; 
 
 I'll lay my body , worn with pain , to rest 
 
 In peace ; the Shepherd good keeps watch , His sheep 
 
 Can never go astray. Th' exalted Prince 
 
 Who rules on high , was , like this babe , once wrapp'd 
 
 In swaddling clothes. Behold in Him . 
 
 My son , thy Guide , thy Guardian kind 
 
 Through life. To Him I thee resign , and may 
 
 A father's pray'rs and blessings go with thee.
 
 THE UNIVERSE WITHOUT GOD. 
 
 Niemand 1st 1m Universum so sehr allein , 
 als eln GotteslSngner : er trauert mit einem 
 verwaisten Herzen , das den grossten Vater 
 verloren, neben dem nnermesslichen Leieh- 
 nam der Natnr. 
 
 JEAN PAUL. 
 
 Musing I sat , one eve , upon a hill 
 
 Of glist'ning sand ; the sinking sun shone soft , 
 
 And , peacefully , his golden arrows fell 
 
 Round me. Sudden the hand of slumber wax'd 
 
 Too strong , and closed mine eyes. I dream'd. Me thought 
 
 I waked upon the churchyard, where the harsh 
 
 And cumbrous clockwork of the tow'r had roused 
 
 Me from my sleep. Eleven , call'd the tongue 
 
 Of the huge monitor of Time , and then 
 
 Deep silence reign'd again. I sought in vain 
 
 To find the blessed sun in the great dome 
 
 Of heav'n , a hairy cloth hung there , the sun's 
 
 Black winding-sheet ; itself no more. 
 
 All graves 
 Uncover'd were ; the charnel-house's door
 
 52 
 
 Moved on its hinge ; I saw no hand which oped 
 
 Or closed that door ; and shadows flitted by , 
 
 Of forms invisible , along the wall ; 
 
 And spectral shapes, such as the moon doth cast 
 
 At midnight , glided past. I look'd , and lo ! 
 
 All coffins emptied were ! the young alone 
 
 Still slept in their cold beds ! And drearily 
 
 A mist came down, like some vast network spann'd 
 
 O'er all the earth. I heard a sudden burst, as if 
 
 An avalanche rush'd from on high , and 'neath 
 
 My feet the earth with wild convulsions rock'd , 
 
 As if an earthquake dread would instant rend 
 
 The shudd'ring world in twain. The cumbrous church 
 
 Did tremble with discordant sounds, which roar'd 
 
 Within its narrow bounds , and vainly strove 
 
 To melt into one harmony. Sometimes 
 
 I saw aught, like a lambent flame, run round 
 
 The gothic panes; and where the lurid tongue 
 
 One moment flicker'd had, there burst the glass, 
 
 And lead and iron, melting, shower'd down 
 
 A clatt'ring metal rain. I wish'd to fly .... 
 
 But could not go; and, driven on, I near'd 
 
 The fearful temple , at the door whereof 
 
 Two bazilisks did brood. The porch was torn 
 
 Away , the altar strijip'd ; but , dead men group'd , 
 
 Soulless and bodiless, around it;, dead, 
 
 And yet not dead ! One, newly buried, slept 
 
 Still there ; and soiter radiance shines at morn 
 
 ijot on the snow-white lily's leaf, than beam'd,
 
 63 
 
 On that pale countenance, the sweet smile born 
 Out of the light of some glad dream ; but , when 
 I nearer came , he waked : a look of pain 
 Dissolved the smile, and heavily he raised 
 His eyelids, but there were no eyes within! 
 And, where his heart once beat, a gaping wound 
 Pour'd thence the warm blood gurgling o'er his bier. 
 It seem'd as if he'd pray , for, tremblingly , 
 He tried to clasp his bony hands, but when 
 They touch'd , their strength was gone they fell ! 
 
 Against 
 
 The vaulted roof, there stood the cipher-plate 
 Of timeless Time ; no number show'd the hours , 
 Now told no more ! The plate was- the sole number ! 
 Late, early were not reckon'd there, for Time 
 Was gone ! 
 
 And lo ! descending from the clouds , 
 With grief unutterable stamp'd upon 
 His brow, a heav*nly form stood on the altar ; 
 And all the dead ones flew to him , and cried : 
 ,,0 ! tell us Lord , is there no God in heav'n ?" 
 He answer'd them: ,,There is no God!" Then fright 
 Seized all those mournful shades ; they shrank away , 
 And whirl'd confused, like yellow autumn leaves 
 When winds rush through the woods. He spoke again : 
 ,,The mighty archipelago of stars 
 I've travell'd through, and roused sleeping worlds; 
 I've flewn along the milky way, and track'd
 
 54 
 
 The seven firmaments . which blaze above 
 
 lu one vast wilderness of light , but ah ! 
 
 There is no God ! I reach'd the farthest bounds 
 
 Of being ; and borne as on eagle's wings 
 
 I search'd the lowest depths ; and cried aloud 
 
 Down that abyss of dread infinity : 
 
 Where art Thou Father?... but the echo cried: 
 
 Where art Thou ? And , above the soundless deep , 
 
 Stood faint , traced without light of sun long gone , 
 
 Life's rainbow , and then sank ! And when I look'd 
 
 Up to the eye of God , an eyeless orb , 
 
 Call'd Chaos , loom'd on me , a dusky rim , 
 
 A shade, round which sunless eternity 
 
 Did circle like a mist ! Sing , discords , sing 
 
 Your hopeless song ! Die ; dead ones , die ! for know , 
 
 There is no God!" 
 
 And then those spectral shades 
 Exhaled , as fade the flow'rs which winter paints 
 Upon the clammy glass. The kingdom of 
 The dead seem'd emptied; nay, the multitude 
 Of little children, pale, and shivering 
 
 With their long sleep , crept from their graves , and rush'd 
 Like hunted birds , thick clustering around 
 The temple's altar , and there cried aloud 
 Unto that heav'nly form : ,,0 ! tell us Lord , 
 Is't true that we no Father have ?" A flood 
 Of tears gush'd as the answer came : ,,Tis true ! 
 Both you and I are fatherless !" And then , 
 More hideous than before , the discords howl'd
 
 55 
 
 Within the temple's walls ; the pillars shook , 
 
 And , from the lofty roof , the chisel'd flow'rs 
 
 Came show'ring to the ground , like wither'd leaves 
 
 From an old faded wreath . . . The solid pile 
 
 Sank down amain, and all the children sank 
 
 With it. The earth , the mother sun , and all 
 
 The planetary orbs evanished ! 
 
 The mighty fabric of creation reel'd , 
 
 And crashing to destruction , rush'd by me 
 
 And sank away ! Black chaos reign'd again 
 
 Around but Jesus stood alone , and look'd 
 
 Upon the ruin of the Universe 
 
 Which , formless , lay beneath His feet ; a mine 
 
 Vast , measureless , where stars thick-scatter'd , gleam'd 
 
 With faded light like uncut gems ; and faint , 
 
 Like a long silver vein , the milky way 
 
 Meander'd through the awful gloom ! And when 
 
 He saw worlds hurl'd 'gainst worlds , and heav'n's great host 
 
 Of wand'ring lights beheld , aimless , confused 
 
 Dance through the chaos; myriad hearts beheld 
 
 Around Him throb , ceaseless in motion like 
 
 A living coral-bank ; when worlds beneath 
 
 He view'd , as , one for one , they shook all things 
 
 That being had , upon that sea of Death : 
 
 In sombre majesty He raised His eye 
 
 To heav'n , and spoke : ,,And this then is thy reign 
 
 Cold, speechless Nought! blind Lot! Necessity! 
 
 Wild , lawless Chance ! How shall I name thee ? This , 
 
 From age to age, is then thy work? Poor Chance!
 
 56 
 
 when wilt thou annihilate this wreck 
 
 And Me ? Chance ! when thou dost wander ou 
 
 Through stars , which whirl like snow-flakes in thy storms , 
 
 Or when thy hurricanes sweep , dashing through 
 
 The ruffled dome of heav'n , and quench the lights 
 
 Hung in the azure vault; when sparkling suns, 
 
 Thick scatter'd like the dew , like dew exhale 
 
 Where'er thou turn'st thy countenance dost know, 
 
 Blind Chance , what thou then doest ? O behold , 
 
 How lie thy hope-forsaken victims , thrown 
 
 With all the Universe into one grave ! 
 
 Where is Thy breast, Father? Did I dream, 
 That I shall never , never , rest thereon P 
 
 If ev'ry I be his own maker, why 
 
 Can he not be his own destroyer ? Or 
 
 Lurks there in all this wilderness no Pow'r, 
 
 No strangling Angel, Cherub, to destroy 
 
 Self-consciousness ? idle wish ! . . . And thou 
 
 Poor thing ! stretch'd here beside me , art thou still 
 
 A man ? Unfortunate ! thy face moves me 
 
 To pity; for thy vacant life is but 
 
 An echo of dead Nature , reasonless ; 
 
 A constant doubt , a sigh no longer pow'r 
 
 Nor life ; a dying , but an endless death ! 
 
 There , on the earth , a hollow mirror casts 
 Its rays upon the ashes of the dead , 
 
 And thou dost rise , thou gallery of forms 
 And images call'd men ! and passest by. 
 Stoop , if thou canst , into th* abyss . . . alas !
 
 57 
 
 The Future is a dim , deceitful cloud ; 
 The Present is a gath'ring mist . . . O man , 
 Poor man ! canst thou still recognise thy earth ?" 
 
 Then did He turn His gaze to earth , and cried : 
 ,,Hail to thee , Earth ! thou pale , and wither'd bride 
 Of heav'n ! I too have walk'd , with kingly step , 
 O'er thy fair vernal fields; and from thy hills 
 I've look'd , rejoicing, to th' eternal light 
 Above ! A Father waited me ! To Him 
 I call'd e'en in the hour of death ! Thy sons 
 Perchance , with child-like faith to the fond dream 
 Still cling , that God does live ! Perchance e'en now 
 They greet thy rising sun , and rev'rent kneel 
 Amid the glorious scene , while tears of joy 
 Bedew their eyes ; and raise their hearts and hands 
 To heav'n, while holy fire attunes their tongues 
 To sing : M Thou knowest us , eternal God ! 
 Thou knowest too our poverty , our wounds , 
 And toil; but when we die Thou wilt receive 
 Us with a fatherly embrace; Thou wilt 
 Heal all our wounds , and make us rich !" 
 
 Poor souls! 
 
 Deluded , wretched ones ! death comes , and they 
 No comfort find ! Poor men ! O why do ye , 
 Weary of wand'ring , lay yourselves in earth 
 With hope still beaming on the haggard brows 
 Which sickness has o'ercome ; as if ye saw , 
 In the dim future , the bright dawn of Pow'r ,
 
 58 
 
 Of Virtue , and of Truth ? Ye wake : alas ! 
 
 There is no morning chaos reigns and night 
 
 Eternal ; and no hand ye feel , ye see 
 
 No better Fatherland , no Father ! . . . . Quick 
 
 Arise , if ye still live , poor mortal race , 
 
 And pray to Him, or, from your hopes He's gone 
 
 For ever !" 
 
 Like a lifeless corpse I sank 
 On earth ; but soon revived again ; and when 
 I dared to cast a second glance upon 
 The dreadful scene, a mighty serpent, coil'd 
 Round the wide Universe , I saw ; its name 
 Eternity ! Its folds it narrow'd , and 
 All things crash'd for a moment ; silence then 
 Reign'd. A fearful tremor seized on me ! I gasp'd 
 For air in vain ! The terrors of my soul 
 I sought to pour in hopeless cries my voice 
 Had fled ! Sudden I waked 
 
 And on my face 
 
 I fell, and wept long time.' I kiss'd the earth , 
 And sobb'd for joy that I could trust in God 
 Anew , and worship Him ! And , when I rose , 
 I saw the sun in glitt'ring glory sink 
 To rest : he cast his last rays on the moon , 
 Which caught the golden flood , and temp'ring it 
 To brighter silver . rose through heav'n. And far 
 Around , 'twixt earth and heav'n , all mortal things 
 Lived and rejoiced in God's great sanctuary,
 
 59 
 
 f they heard, e'en now, the angels call : 
 ,,Come children, come, the Father calls, arise 
 And heav'nward fly !" And through the evening air 
 There came a sound , which touch'd the heart as with 
 A holy chord ; 'twas the Good-Friday bell 
 For Sabbath would be joyful Easter day !
 
 ORIGINAL P.OEMS.
 
 Dic-h nenn ich nicht. Zwar hor' ich dich von vlelen 
 Gar oft genannt , und jeder helsst dich sein , 
 Bin jedes Auge glaubt auf dich zu zielcn , 
 Fast Jedem Auge wird dein Strahl zur Pein. 
 
 GOETHB.
 
 GOOD HOPE. 
 
 There is a land , unknown to fame , 
 A land whose heroes have no name 
 In the grey records of past age. 
 Unchronicled in hist'ry's page , 
 Untamed by art , yet wild and free , 
 That land lies in the southern sea. 
 It laughs to heav'n which smiles on it, 
 There midway in wild waters set, 
 With suns serene, and balmier breeze 
 Than ever swept these northern seas; 
 Its beetling crags rise vast, and war 
 With oceans , meeting from afar , 
 To break their billows on its shore , 
 With fearful, never-ending roar. 
 
 Bold mariners , who sail'd of old 
 Through unknown seas in search of gold , 
 Saw those dark rocks , those giant forms , 
 And , fear-quell'd , named them 'Cape of Storms'. 
 
 land of storms , I pine to hear 
 That music which made others fear ; 
 
 1 long to see thy storm-fiend scowl;
 
 64 
 
 I long to hear the fierce winds howl . 
 Hot with fell fires , across thy plains. 
 Thou glorious land ! where nature reigns 
 Supreme in awful loveliness , 
 O shall thy exiled son not bless 
 Those hills and dales of thine , where first 
 He roam'd a careless child; where burst 
 Thy tropic splendour on his eye ; 
 Where days were spent t whose mem'ries lie 
 Deep 'neath all after thought and care , 
 Yet rise more bouyant than the air , 
 And float o'er all his clays ? O home 
 Of beauty rare , where I did roam 
 In childhood's golden days , my pray'r 
 l?or thee soars through this northern air. 
 Land of 'Good Hope' ! thy future lies 
 Bright 'fore my vision as thy skies ! 
 O Africa ! long lost in night , 
 Upon the horizon gleams the light 
 Of breaking dawn . . . thy star of fame 
 Shall rise , and brightly gleam , thy name 
 Shall blaze on hist'ry's later page: 
 Thy birth-time is the last great age. 
 Thy name has been , slave of the world ; 
 But , when thy banner is unfurl'd , 
 Triumphant Liberty shall wave 
 That standard o'er foul slav'ry's grave, 
 And earth decaying earth shall see 
 Her freest , fairest child in thee !
 
 AMAKEYA. 1) 
 
 
 Far in the Kaffir's glorious land , 
 
 Beside a burning heap 
 Of ruins . sits an aged man , 
 
 Who bitterly doth weep. 
 
 Through his clasp'd hands the tears fall fast, 
 And wet the earth, where stood 
 
 His humble home , in ashes laid , 
 Eed with his kindred's blood. 
 
 And curses , struggling with his grief , 
 
 Die on his quiv'ring lips ; 
 And tight he grasps the assegai , 
 
 Which still with life blood drips. 
 
 Then , starting to his feet , he cast 
 
 An impious look on high : 
 ,,God of the whites," he cries, ,,who dwell'st 
 
 Beyond yon azure sky , 
 
 1) See appendix.
 
 66 
 
 ,,Thy children are a cruel race 
 
 Of murderers and thieves. 
 Give back to me my warriors brave , 
 
 Fall'n thick as autumn leaves 
 
 ,,Before the hot blast of their guns , 
 Which , with its hailstorm , rode 
 
 O'er all our ranks, and made us fall 
 Like corn when it is mow'd. 
 
 ,,They say , Thou art a God of peace 
 
 Thy rebel children lie ; 
 They say , Thou art a righteous judge : 
 
 For vengeance dread I cry ! 
 
 Avenge the wrongs we've suffered 
 From those who call on Thee; 
 
 If Thou art just, then root out those 
 Who live by treachery !" 
 
 The godless savage paused a while 
 
 And , with a flashing eye , 
 Look'd round o'er all that beauteous land , 
 
 Far stretching 'neath the sky. 
 
 Where'er he turn'd his eyes , he saw 
 
 War's desolating brand; 
 The smoke of burning villages 
 
 Arose on ev'ry hand.
 
 67 
 
 The tow'ring mountains far away , 
 High heav'nward bore the blaze ; 
 
 O'er all the fruitful vallies hung 
 A thick and lurid haze. 
 
 ,,There are the mountains , where I track'd 
 
 The lions to their dens ; 
 Oft have I coursed the flying deer 
 
 Across those burning glens. 
 
 ,,No more shall huntsman's shout be heard 
 
 On Mancazana's hills; 
 No more shall huntsman slake his thirst 
 
 In Mancazana's rills; 
 
 ,,No more shall young men dance at eve , 
 
 Around the peaceful kraal; 
 No more shall maidens wait, to hear 
 
 Their brave young lovers call. 
 
 ,,No more shall children sport around 
 
 The reed huts of their sires ; 
 Men, wives, and children all are burn d 
 
 Under the white man's fires !" 
 
 The old man paused ... a choking sob 
 
 Burst from his heart of steel. 
 Ah ! white men , do ye ever think , 
 
 The black man too can feel
 
 68 
 
 Those large emotions of the heart, 
 Which home and kindred wake , 
 
 Which swell up in our panting breasts , 
 As if our hearts would break ? 
 
 While still he wept, a lovely maid 
 
 Crept from a wood hard by ; 
 Poor Amakeya's skin was black, 
 
 But Love beam'd from her eye 
 
 As brightly as it beameth forth 
 
 In lordly homes of ease , 
 In happier climes , where sound of war 
 
 Ne'er scared off love-born Peace. 
 
 She stole close to the sobbing chief, 
 
 And look'd up in his face, 
 With all a woman's tenderness 
 
 Eve's universal grace. 
 
 ,,My father , my father ! list , 
 
 Ah ! weep not so I pray ; 
 But come with me , I'll comfort thee , 
 
 And all thy grief allay." 
 
 She took him gently by the hand, 
 
 And led him from that soil , 
 Mark'd with the blood of those he loved , 
 
 And all war's horrid toil.
 
 69 
 
 And, silently, he follow'd her 
 
 Far up the mountain-brow ; 
 Par from the white man's glitt'ring tents, 
 
 Down in the vale below. 
 
 At last they reach'd a tow'ring rock , 
 Which cast its cooling shade , 
 
 Far down the rugged mountain's steep , 
 And there her pace she stay'd : 
 
 ,,Come father, sit, and rest thee now 
 From the fierce heat of strife ; 
 
 I'll bring thee corn and milk , to stay 
 The fainting spring of life." 
 
 She hurried to a neighb'ring cave , 
 And brought thence milk and corn , 
 
 And , kneeling at his feet , she fed 
 The warrior war-worn. 
 
 The father look'd down on his child, 
 
 And smiled to see her care; 
 Long time he spoke not , silently 
 
 He stroked her shining hair. 
 
 ,,Sweet Amakeya ! I am rich 
 
 Since thou art left to me 
 The white man's queen not half so rich 
 
 As I, when I have thee.
 
 70 
 
 j,To-morrow , child , we'll leave this land , 
 Where thou wert born and bred ; 
 
 To-morrow, must we seek a home, 
 Unknown to white man's tread. 
 
 ,,To-morrow's setting sun must find 
 
 Us resting far from here ; 
 We can no more , at even-tide , 
 
 Let fall the tribute tear 
 
 ,,Upon the mound , where rests the dust 
 
 Of her who you me gave; 
 Ah ! when we're gone , the white man's plough 
 
 Will tear your mother's grave !" 
 
 ,,My father , say not so ," she cried ; 
 
 ,,The white man may be moved; 
 To-morrow let us go to him 
 
 My pow'r's not yet been proved. 
 
 Perchance he'll listen to my tale , 
 
 Perchance I'll move his heart, 
 Perchance he may call back the word 
 
 Which bade us hence depart." 
 
 ,,My daughter , hope not thus ; 'tis vain ! 
 
 The white man's stern command 
 Cannot be changed ; we must go hence , 
 
 And leave our fatherland !
 
 71 
 
 ,,My arms are gone ! I must obey ; 
 
 No safety more is here; 
 Too long we've fought ! the strife is vain 
 
 Where victory's so dear !" 
 
 ,,My father , talk no more of war ; 
 
 I know the white man's pcw'r; 
 Love moves all hearts , let love then be 
 
 Our refuge in this hour. 
 
 M In this dark hour of deep despair , 
 
 Of sorrow , and distress , 
 Love yet may conquer , when the hands 
 
 Of war hang weaponless. 
 
 ,,To-morrow when the sun is up , 
 When day has dawn'd again , 
 
 When night has lull'd the passions wild 
 Which war could not restrain 
 
 We'll get us to the white chiefs tent; 
 
 My tears will move his heart ; 
 say not nay ! one trial more , 
 
 And then we can depart." 
 
 The father gave his slow consent 
 
 Unto her earnest pray'r; 
 When woman prays, a savage e'en 
 
 Must yield to words so fair.
 
 72 
 
 When scarce the morrow's sun had ris'n , 
 
 The chieftain and his child 
 Went down unto the white mens' tents; 
 
 He sad , she hopeful , smiled. 
 
 They pass'd through crowds of gaping men 
 
 Who glared upon their foe 
 With sullen brow , or scornful eye , 
 
 And pitied not his woe. 
 
 They came before the white chiefs tent ; 
 
 He met them at the door , 
 And gazed in wonder at the maid , 
 
 Such graceful form she bore. 
 
 ,,O white man !" spake the Kaffir chief, 
 ,,We know that thou art brave , 
 
 And , brave men have not hearts of steel , 
 But save when they can save. 
 
 ,,We come to crave one boon from thee .- 
 
 Reverse thy stern command ; 
 bid us not depart from here ; 
 
 This is our Fatherland ! 
 
 ,,We love it , as the white man loves 
 
 His home beyond the sea : 
 Thou would'st not let a stranger take 
 
 That dear-loved land from thee.
 
 73 
 
 ,,We'll live in peace , and do thy will ; 
 
 We'll call thy queen our queen ; 
 O let us die , where we were born , 
 
 And let this wr.ving green , 
 
 Which waves above our father's dust, 
 
 Once wrve above our head , 
 When white mens' herds shall crop the grass 
 
 Where Kaffir cattle fed." 
 
 The white man's brow grew stern , he spake : 
 
 ,,No mercy shall be giv'n 
 To black men , who can break their oaths , 
 
 And fear no God in heav'n. 
 
 ,,Ten years ago you ask'd for peace ; 
 
 The white man gave you peace ; 
 He gave back lands he took from you ; 
 
 From bonds he gave release. 
 
 ,,How have you kept your faith with him ? 
 
 Where now the oaths you swore ? 
 Dost think the white man , now , will deal 
 
 As kindly as before? 
 
 ,,Nay ! you, and yours, have steel'd his heart, 
 
 And driven pity thence ; 
 Nay , savage foe ! your \viles I know ; 
 
 Depart ! and get you hence. 
 
 7
 
 74 
 
 ,,Upon the borders of the sea , 
 Your thieving band may roam , 
 
 And find some other, pleasant land 
 This is no more your home." 
 
 The savage chieftain heaved a sigh . . . 
 
 Then, turning to his child, 
 He laid his hand upon her head , 
 
 And said , in accents mild : 
 
 ,,Poor Amakeya! dost thou hear? 
 
 In vain , in vain we crave ; 
 We have no home ! come , let us go 
 
 And seek some unknown grave !" 
 
 But, proudly stepp'd the maiden forth 
 And conscious of her charms , 
 
 She folded o'er her swelling breast , 
 Her beauteous ebon arms. 
 
 And , in sad accents , soft , and clear , 
 And sobbing while she spake, 
 
 She pray'd so earnestly , then wept 
 As if her heart would break : 
 
 ,,0 white man ! pity those grey hairs , 
 Which grace my father's, head ; 
 
 He'll fight no more , let him die here ; 
 Ah ! soon he must be dead !
 
 75 
 
 ,,O grant my pray'r , and gratefully 
 
 I'll yield myself to thee ; 
 I'll go with thee where thou dost go 
 
 E'en o'er the fearful sea. 
 
 ,,F11 be thy slave , and toil alway ; 
 
 And never long to come 
 Unto this lovely land again 
 
 This land which is my home. 
 
 ,,But , willingly , I'll give up all ! 
 
 And leave my father's side , 
 And leave my tribe , and leave my land , 
 
 And all thy will abide. 
 
 ,,Let him but live, to hunt the deer 
 
 On Mancazana's hills ; 
 Let him but live to quench his thirst 
 
 In Mancazaua's rills." 
 
 Amazed , the father ' heard such speech : 
 ,,My daughter speak not so 
 
 What! dost thou think thy father then 
 Would ever let thee go , 
 
 suffer slavery and shame , 
 That he might dwell in peace? 
 Thou'rt mad ! my child ; come, come we'll go 
 This idle praying cease."
 
 76 
 
 He fell upon her neck , and wept , 
 
 And press'd her to his heart: 
 ,,My peerless Amakeya ! come 
 
 We'll never , never part." 
 
 The white man's haughty look relax'd , 
 
 A tear roll'd down his face , 
 And , wond'ringly , he gazed upon 
 
 That form of matchless grace. 
 
 And then with mien as if he spoke 
 
 To dame of high degree 
 He bow'd before that savage girl, 
 
 And answer'd soothingly : 
 
 ,,Thou noble creature ! God has made 
 
 Thee beautiful and fair ; 
 And given thee a soul as pure 
 
 As e'er breathed Christian pray'r. 
 
 ,,But go. . . I dare not hear thee speak , 
 
 I dare not hear thee pray ; 
 It grieves my heart , my noble maid , 
 
 But I must answer nry : 
 
 ,,The stern command , I gave , does come 
 
 From higher pow'r than mine ; 
 But, go in peace, thy words have smoothed 
 
 Thy father's lot and thine.'
 
 77 
 
 Then mournfully the maiden look'd 
 
 Upon her aged sire , 
 Still weeping on her breast , as if 
 
 In tears he would expire. 
 
 ,,Come , father ! far away we'll go ! 
 
 I'll ever comfort thee ; 
 We'll leave our home, and seek our graves 
 
 Far by the great blue sea !" 
 
 They left the white man's glitt'ring tents , 
 And climb'd the mountain brow ; 
 
 The father fill'd with fierce despair, 
 The maiden hopeless now. 
 
 Few weeks have pass'd .... the Kaffir girl 
 
 Has left her native-land , 
 And travell'd far , o'er hill and dale , 
 
 And now sits by the strand. 
 
 She gazes on that mighty sea 
 
 She ne'er had seen before ; 
 Half-pleased, half-awed, she hears the waves 
 
 Hoarse-moaning on the shore. 
 
 She loves to see the stately waves 
 
 Come rolling to the land , 
 And dash their foam-crests on the rocks , 
 
 And murmur o'er the sand.
 
 78 
 
 She speaks no word , she moves no limb , 
 
 But sits as in a trance, 
 And ever looks out to the sea 
 
 With that same wond'ring glance. 
 
 Long years have pass'd . . . the Kaffir girl 
 
 Still loves to come at eve, 
 And sit upon some beetling crag , 
 
 And with the sad sea grieve. 
 
 Poor Amakeya ! years shall pass , 
 And white men still shall come 
 
 Across that sea , and still press on , 
 And take thy new-found home ! 
 
 But, while one black man shall be found 
 Where thousands now do rove, 
 
 Still shall the touching tale be told 
 Of Amakeya's love.
 
 THE STKICKEN SOLDIER. 1) 
 
 Calm was that morn , that Sabbath morn , 
 
 No sign of storm was there ; 
 The sun shone bright , with God's dear light , 
 
 Down through the hallow'd air. 
 
 The crowds up went, with hearts intent 
 
 To hear the holy word 
 The preacher came, came to proclaim 
 
 Jesus his heav'nly Lord. 
 
 Through the hush'd air the sound of pray'r 
 
 Breathed out in solemn tone; 
 Then sacred lays , the people's praise , 
 
 Swell'd upwards to God's throne. 
 
 1) Upon a Sabbath , in the autumn of the year 1855 , a fearful thun- 
 derstorm burst over the village of Opheusden in Gelderland. The Rev. 
 A. van Herwaarden was preaching to his congregation in the village- 
 church , when a vivid flash of lightning entered the church , struck the 
 preacher dead , and passed under the pulpit , without committing farther 
 damage.
 
 80 
 
 Then ceased all sound, within the bound 
 
 Of that meek village- shrine. 
 The preacher rose , few words he chose , 
 
 Chose from the Book divine. 
 
 With beaming face , and simple grace , 
 
 The village-pastor spake 
 Pure words of love such words as move , 
 
 And surest echoes wake. 
 
 The sun serene shone on that scene , 
 
 That scene of sanctity ; 
 And angels bright, gazed on that sight 
 
 Of rural piety. 
 
 But hush, hush! hark! the heav'ns grow dark! 
 
 A voice comes from the sky ! 
 The church-tow'rs shake, the people quake 
 
 God comes in majesty ! 
 
 From the black cloud , which , like a shroud , 
 
 Hung o'er the trembling pile, 
 The lightning beam'd , and fearful gleam'd ; 
 
 The preacher paused awhile. 
 
 Again a flash ! and with a crash 
 
 The God-sent lightning sped .... 
 The thunder peal'd , the preacher reePd , 
 
 And bow'd his stricken head.
 
 81 
 
 With fear amazed , the people gazed , 
 And , awe-struck , held their breath ; 
 
 Vanish'd the glare , they saw him there : 
 His eyes were seal'd in death ! 
 
 Wrapp'd in its shroud, that chariot-cloud, 
 With flaming fire-bolts riv'ii, 
 
 On thund'ring wheels, with echoing peals, 
 Bore up his soul to heav'n ! 
 
 O wretched sheep ! at one fell sweep 
 
 Without a shepherd left ! 
 His blacken'd clay there ghastly lay , 
 
 Of life and soul bereft. 
 
 Mourn for the dead ! the stricken dead ! 
 
 Who bore his banner high ; 
 And , sword in hand , at God's command 
 
 Was borne up to the sky.
 
 AUTUMN LEAVES. 
 
 c3' 3- 
 
 Meine Lebenszelt verstreicht , 
 Stiindlich eil Ich zu dem Grabe. 
 
 GBLLEItT. 
 
 In autumn, when a gentle breeze 
 Sighs through the weary , dying trees , 
 I love to walk some silent lane, 
 And watch the thick and golden rain 
 Which showers on me from above , 
 And thins the sadly moaning grove. 
 And often then my spirit grieves , 
 As I tread o'er the crisped leaves, 
 Which carpet all the yellow ground, 
 And rustle with a mournful sound , 
 Whene'er I harshly push my foot , 
 And stumble o'er some hidden root. 
 
 Oft, walking thus in reverie, 
 
 Kind nature seems to speak to me 
 
 In accents , sad as sad can be : 
 
 ,,O child of Earth ! the spring is gone !
 
 83 
 
 And , summer's glory too is done ; 
 Now autumn takes what fruit I have, 
 And strips me for my yearly grave. 
 Soon winter's snow shall chill thy feet, 
 As thou walk'st o'er my winding sheet. 
 child of Earth ! have vernal show'rs 
 Nourish'd for thee no summer bow'rs , 
 'Neath which to sit, and meditate 
 O'er all the sweet and sad of Fate ? 
 Of Fate ! O nay 1 of Providence ? 
 Which form'd and guideth ev'ry sense 
 And attribute of man. think , 
 Spring is the sowing time ; each chink , 
 Of Youth's short time, can bear a seed 
 For some great, good, and noble deed. 
 
 child of earth ! use well thy spring , 
 And summer shall rich increase bring, 
 Ere harvest-time can strip thy crown 
 
 Of life grown like a tree. Ere flown 
 Are days of spring , may aught be done 
 To ripen in thy summer sun 1 
 
 child of earth ! use so thy spring , 
 That , when thy fun'ral knell shall ring , 
 And Death , great reaper , bares his knife , 
 To sever thy frail stem of life, 
 
 Fruit, and not leaves alone, may fall , 
 To scent , and cover up the pall , 
 Which men shall spread o'er thee , and bear 
 Thee to thy winter's tomb! O there
 
 84 
 
 May many speak thus o'er thy grave : 
 'Here rest the leaves , the fruit we have ; 
 Soon the last trumpet's note shall ring . 
 And wake these to undying spring !'" 
 
 And oft, thus wand'ring through the wood , 
 
 In melancholy , dreaming mood , 
 
 I've seen a troop of children gay , 
 
 There in the autumn sunshine play , 
 
 And romp among the golden leaves : 
 
 Ah me ! such sight me oft-times grieves ; 
 
 Their merry laughter rings so clear , 
 
 And echoes through the woodland near; 
 
 But ah ! e'en ere the spring has come , 
 
 Death may have enter'd some bright home , 
 
 And stolen thence a tender flow'r , 
 
 Now sporting in that golden show'r 
 
 Which autumn rains . . . and spring's first breeze 
 
 May whisper through the church-yard trees, 
 
 And fan the ruddy cheeks of boys 
 
 Who have forgotten former joys , 
 
 And walk there o'er the tear-fed ground ; 
 
 And , silent all , point to the mound 
 
 Where rests the little friend v.ho pln.y'd , 
 
 With them , in autumn's golden shade . . . 
 
 And oft , thus walking through some grove , 
 I've seen < wo beings knit in love , 
 There wand'ring in a lovely lane ,
 
 85 
 
 And on them fell the golden rain 
 
 Of dying leaves ! Ah ! oft 'tis so 
 
 Some angry , fitful blast may blow , 
 
 And sever those who loved so well ! 
 
 Pale winter then shall sound Love's knell 
 
 Within the loveless , frozen heart , 
 
 Which dreamt not love could thence depart. 
 
 Yea , oft , thus wand'ring on alone , 
 
 When sunset's golden mist was thrown 
 
 Around the yellow , dying trees 
 
 The hour when the wanderer sees 
 
 That earth , and air , and water melt 
 
 In the sun's last embrace I've felt 
 
 As if 'twere good to die , if death 
 
 Were beautiful as all beneath 
 
 That setting sun , which died away 
 
 In greater beauty than the day 
 
 Could spread to view. Such death is lent 
 
 To those whose lives have been well spent. 
 
 9 
 
 child of earth ! use so thy spring , 
 That when thy fun'ral knell shall ring, 
 And Death , great reaper , bares his knife 
 To sever thy frail stem of life 
 Fruit, and not leaves alone, may fall 
 To scent, and cover up the pall 
 Which men shall spread o'er thee , and bear 
 Thee to thy winter's tomb ! there
 
 86 
 
 May many speak thus o'er thy grave : 
 Here rest the leaves, the fruit we have; 
 Soon the last trumpets note shall ring , 
 And wake these to undying spring.
 
 THE DOM-CHURCH OF UTRECHT. 
 
 glorious pile ! that risest up so great , 
 
 So lone , so awe-inspiring ; seeming still 
 
 To grow as I do look on thee ! Ah why 
 
 Dost thou thus chain my spirit to thy walls , 
 
 As with a spell omnipotent, and draw 
 
 Mine eyes , tearful , up to thy pinnacles , 
 
 And thence towards heav'n , till , silently , I pray'd 
 
 To the great Deity whose shrine thou art? 
 
 Through circling hours , by day by night , I've gazed 
 
 With a sad joy on thee; I've seen at morn 
 
 The young sun greeting thee , ere yet his rays 
 
 Gladden'd the dewy earth , and offring first 
 
 His smile to thy great, hoary tow'r, whilst yet 
 
 Black night was brooding in thy cloister'd halls. 
 
 At bright noonday his blazing beams , cast back 
 
 In many colours from thy plains of glass , 
 
 Have dazzled my fix'd gaze. At eve I've watch'd 
 
 Thy shadow creeping on , and darkening 
 
 The city's distant streets , whilst parting rays
 
 88 
 
 Of light still glimmer'd on thy spires , and veil'd 
 Thy carved splendours in a mist of gold. 
 
 And when the sun went down , high in mid-air , 
 The vane , which crowns thy mighty tow'r , still flung 
 Soft light abroad, and seem'd to hail the star 
 Venus , firstborn of night , as sister orb. 
 
 I've gazed entranced, till envious night came down 
 And quench'd that star ; and in thick gloom enwrapp'd 
 The giant tow'r , whose base , still visible , 
 
 Propp'd up the viewless masonry , which lost 
 
 All substance , shape , in the dark vault above : 
 
 And then , awe-struck , I've heard low wailing sounds , 
 
 Which came from bells high in the air , unseen 
 
 Clapping their iron tongues ; and then great throbs 
 
 Of sound burst on the vocal air, and toll'd 
 
 The solemn , midnight hour of mystery. 
 
 The moon IVe watch'd , as silver lines she traced 
 Along thy buttresses ; as , like a ghost , 
 
 She stole among thy ruin'd walls ; and stars 
 Hanging have seen , like fairy lamps , high up 
 Under the traceries of thy rich dome. 
 
 O'er tombstones of a thousand years , which pave 
 Thy echoing aisles , I've walk'd and thought 
 With woeful sorrow of the many men 
 
 Who came, with tears to lay their friends and kin 
 Under the stones whereon I stood , and then 
 Themselves were laid there too ! Pensive I've walk'd 
 O'er hecatombs of bones , all crumbling there 
 Beneath th' eternal walls, which chronicle
 
 89 
 
 The littleness of those who rear'd them! Yea 
 The pious crowds , thronging thy doors , I've seen 
 Go up to pray where once their fathers pray'd 
 Ah ! soon they too must sleep beneath thy stones ! 
 I've heard the deep-toned organ pealing forth 
 Waves upon waves of sound , bearing aloft 
 Man's soul in hymns of praise, and wafting it 
 Up to God's throne. 
 
 All this I've seen, I've heard; 
 And ever still great , hoary , dying pile ! 
 Art thou to me a dread solemnity 
 A mystery a voiceless spirit from 
 The world of Good which fascinates, and breathes 
 O'er me a magic spell ! Thoughts , holy , calm 
 And beautiful , rush on my soul the while 
 I gaze on thee! < The rushing stream can find 
 No vent in words , but , brimming o'er , 
 Runs from mine eyes in intermingling tears 
 Of sorrowing and joy
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 'TO MISS M. B. 
 
 Die Musica 1st eine Gabe and Gesclienk 
 Gottes, nicht ein Menschen-Geschenk. 
 
 LUTHER. 
 
 In Paradise when life began , 
 
 Stretch'd 'neath some luscious-fruited tree , 
 Whose boughs a beauteous roof did span 
 
 O'er his prime couch , our parent-man 
 Heard glorious melody. 
 
 Music first learn'd his waking pow'rs 
 
 From winds ; which spirit-like did roam , 
 
 And , wooing sweets from Eden's flow'rs , 
 Sigh'd , perfume-laden , through the bow'rs 
 Which form'd his pristine home.
 
 91 
 
 And from the leafy woods there rung 
 
 Strange voices which he loved when heard 
 
 Yet knew not whence they came; his tongue 
 Moved, and his parted lips forth-flung 
 A soul-breathed sigh a word ! 
 
 And starting at the sound he fled . . . 
 
 Then stopp'd ... for like an echo came 
 The same sound softer far and , led 
 
 By new desire , he onward sped 
 
 Saw Eve and breathed her name. 
 
 She answer'd ; and he stood spell-bound ! 
 
 Heard the sweet tone, and felt a pow'r 
 Within , which shaped the pleasing sound 
 
 To something understood " then found , 
 Speech as his noblest dow'r. 
 
 And from that hour was music known ; 
 
 Of arts , most pleasing one , since taught 
 By Nature's self. As Time has flown , 
 
 Man changing man has ne'er outgrown 
 The spell which Eve's voice wrought. 
 
 All earth is musical ; the roll 
 Of heav'n's grand harmony in flame 
 
 Is writ at night! When man's rapt soul 
 Roams through the stars , from pole to pole , 
 He hears them shout God's name !
 
 92 
 
 For, not in discord are they flung 
 Through universal space; each one 
 
 Turns to the centre whence it sprung ; 
 
 And systems all , in order hung , 
 
 Roll round Jehovah's throne! 
 
 There's music in the thunder's roar; 
 
 A voice in ocean's moan when waves 
 Rise o'er the doomed ship, out-pour 
 
 Its wreck upon the startled shore , 
 And spot the sand with graves ! 
 
 There's gentler music in the gale , 
 Which , when the south-wind blows , 
 
 Spreads o'er the earth a vernal veil , 
 And greens afresh each hill and dale , 
 Long wrapp'd in winter's snow. 
 
 It whispers through the budding trees; 
 
 The leaves burst fluttering forth , obey 
 The measure of the sighing breeze : 
 
 The sunshine feels it on the seas , 
 And breaks in sparkling play. 
 
 And Art has mimic'd nature well! 
 
 Who has not felt a magic wand 
 Waved o'er him with all- potent spell , 
 
 When music, with soul-stirring swell, 
 Roll'd from some skilful hand ?
 
 93 
 
 Ah ! Lady , thine's a subtle art ! 
 
 Which , with its kingly sceptre , sways 
 Each list'ning ear , and throbbing heart ; 
 
 Bids man act many a varied part , 
 And , pow'rless , he obeys. 
 
 When o'er the notes thy fingers go , 
 All passions seem to wait thy call ; 
 
 Love , wrath , and pity , joy or woe , 
 
 Eise , sink yet how , we scarcely know ; 
 Thy touch controls them all. 
 
 musical then be thy life! 
 
 Strange wish , thou'lt say , but lady fair , 
 Earth is a battle-field, where strife 
 
 And discord in all hearts are rife : 
 O gentle maid beware. 
 
 Hearts are like lyres , whose tender chords , 
 Well-touch'd , give sweetest harmony; 
 
 Which flows in thoughts , in deeds , in words ; 
 But there are strings which cut like swords , 
 If touch'd unskilfully. 
 
 O be thy soul a lyre divine ! 
 
 Well-tuned to man, and God above! 
 The key-note of Christ's law be thine 
 
 Thy 'Psalm of Life' 'tis but a line : 
 'God , and thy neighbour love.'
 
 DAY DREAMS. 
 
 >tte*< 
 
 Day-dreams! yea, such there are I ween; 
 Who has not felt their pow'r ? They've been 
 Our friends since childhood. When the mind 
 First learn'd to fashion thought , they lined 
 The chambers of that wondrous frame 
 Call'd Self, with forms of light ; a name 
 They gave to aspirations and desires 
 Which thrill'd our youthful hearts: the fires 
 They waked and nourish'd, may have waned, 
 When Reason search'd our souls ; but pain'd 
 Our hearts shall feel for evermore, 
 When we dream o'er the dreams of yore. 
 Fair maiden, have such waking dreams 
 Shed o'er thy youth their rainbow-beams ? 
 Has Fancy sporting with thy mind 
 Ne'er made thy colder Keason blind , 
 And led thee wand'ring on through ways 
 Untrodden yet , and told thee , days 
 Of blissful happiness shall crown 
 The sorrows which , may-hap , had thrown 
 Dark gloom o'er present toil ? Has Hope
 
 95 
 
 Ne'er led thee on , and made thee grope 
 
 For pleasures which the future veils 
 
 From Reason's eye ? When grief assails 
 
 Thee when the heaving , burden'd breast 
 
 Throbs with the woe which will not rest , 
 
 May-hap just then a waking dream 
 
 Flits , like a transient radiant gleam , 
 
 Athwart thy darken'd soul , and cheers 
 
 Thy longing eyes suffused with tears. 
 
 And are such day-dreams e'er fulfill'd ? 
 
 Fair maid ! perchance thy heart has thrill'd 
 
 To Love's fond touch ; perchance thy brain 
 
 Has conjured up that form again 
 
 Which thou hadst seen in days of yore ; 
 
 Perchance thy lone heart, sick and sore, 
 
 In day-dreams wander'd on to days 
 
 When Love with hundred winning ways 
 
 Would banish past regrets , and pour 
 
 Its secrets out to one who bore 
 
 True love for thee ; when loving hearts , 
 
 Melting in one, would draw the darts 
 
 Which separation fix'd in each ; 
 
 When silent eyes and lips would preach , 
 
 And hear from silent lips and eyes, 
 
 More love than fondest words and sighs 
 
 Could tell in hours of loneliness. 
 
 Search your own heart, and you'll confess 
 
 Such day-dreams visit us in youth ; 
 
 Fair maid ! say , are they e'er made truth ?
 
 THE POET. 
 
 The poet walks entranced o'er earth . 
 
 And , dreaming , touches Nature's strings , 
 
 And calls grand harmonies to birth : 
 
 Men listen , wond'ring as he sings. 
 
 He goeth oft to wild retreats, 
 
 Where Nature broods in solitude ; 
 
 There , in the Muses' haunted seats , 
 
 Enrapt he stands as if he view'd 
 
 Strange visions on the face of heav'n : 
 
 His eye rolls o'er the boundless blue , 
 
 And then as if his sight had giv'n 
 
 Wings to his soul he soareth through 
 
 Th' empyrean vault, and upward flies 
 
 To scan deep mysteries unseen 
 
 By common souls whose earth-bound 
 
 Are blinded with the dazzling sheen 
 
 Of glorious light , tow'rds which he soars. 
 
 Or , stretch'd upon the lap of earth , 
 
 When Spring breathes o'er the myriad pores 
 
 Which pierce the soil , and giveth birth
 
 97 
 
 To Nature's buried loveliness , 
 
 To flow'rs , and leaves , and all things fair ; 
 
 When the bright Sun looks down to bless 
 
 His fruitful bride ; when throbbing air , 
 
 Warm with the sunshine , dances bright 
 
 O'er hill and dale , o'er land and wave ; 
 
 When birds, long dumb through winter's night, 
 
 Returning, hail the dawn, which gave 
 
 Life to the earth, to them new voice 
 
 Then too , the poet's soul renews 
 
 Her slumb'ring might ; all things rejoice ; 
 
 And flow'rs of thought bud as he views.
 
 HOPE. 
 
 Hope , in the morning , rear'd a pile , 
 Which , ere the evening fell 
 And , in its ruin , buried all 
 The joy which there would dwell. 
 
 Hope , in the spring-time , water'd flow'rs , 
 Which perish'd in the bud , 
 And died , ere yet the summer-sun 
 Pour'd forth its quick'ning flood. 
 
 Hope , in the summer , smiled on flow'rs ; 
 Which shed their perfumed leaves , 
 And bore no fruit to soothe the heart , 
 Which for their fading grieves. 
 
 Hope , in the autumn , gather'd fruit 
 Most beautiful and fair, 
 But ah I 'twas poison to the soul , 
 Or rottenness lurk'd there!
 
 99 
 
 Hope, in the winter, long'd for spring 
 A spring which never came ! 
 But winter-winds moan drearily , 
 And sigh the long lost name ! 
 
 Hope , in the evening , spied a land , 
 A far-off, sunny shore; 
 She long'd to reach that land , and die ! 
 In heav'n Hope lives no more.
 
 THE RUSTY KEY. 
 
 The village church-yard gate 
 Is never red with rust; 
 Its hinges turn right well, 
 And never gather dust. 
 
 Beside the village-church 
 An ancient house there stands , 
 But , if you touch its gate , 
 Rust , dirt , cling to your hands. 
 
 The church-yard walks are clean ; 
 The grass , o'er many a mound , 
 Ne'er waxes tall; too oft 
 'Tis trampled to the ground. 
 
 And many a curving path 
 Sweeps round that ancient hall ; 
 But grass grows on the walks , 
 And waxes very tall.
 
 101 
 
 The village children play 
 Among their fathers' graves ; 
 Their merry laughter rings , 
 Where the dark cypress waves! 
 
 No gentle children play 
 Beside that old hall-door ! 
 It stands wide open still; 
 None enter as of yore. 
 
 Each holy sabbath-day , 
 The village church-yard swarms , 
 With groups from ev'ry door , 
 And all the neighb'ring farms. 
 
 Each holy sabbath-day, 
 The hall-door stands ajar, 
 But, none come to the gate, 
 And draw the rusty bar. 
 
 The village- church is fill'd, 
 Each holy sabbath-day , 
 With crowds of cottagers , 
 Who come to praise and pray. 
 
 One pew is never fill'd 
 One nobler pew alone; 
 The bibles still lie there , 
 Right dusty they have grown !
 
 102 
 
 Beneath the church-floor is 
 A large , and sculptured tomb , 
 With gilded coffins fill'd 
 Which glisten in the gloom! 
 
 Above the tomb-door hangs 
 A great, old, rusty key; 
 I saw , and took it down 
 In dreaming reverie .... 
 
 I pass'd the church-yard gate , 
 Still dreaming as before, 
 Unlock'd the rusty gate .... 
 And lock'd the old hall-door.
 
 WHERE ARE THEY? 
 
 Where is she , the tender-hearted ? 
 
 Mother dear ! in vain we call ! 
 
 Death did throw his fun'ral pall 
 
 O'er her , and she heav'nward darted 
 
 Long ago .... and left us here , 
 
 Weeping , weeping , o'er her bier 
 
 Many a sad , but hopeful tear ! 
 
 Ah ! how fearfully we started , 
 
 When the coffin , from the hall , 
 
 With us all, 
 
 Old and small , 
 
 On its mournful way departed 
 
 To the church-yard old ! 
 
 Where the earth so cold, 
 
 Heavily 
 
 Fell on thee , 
 
 Mother , mother dear ! 
 
 Where are they , whose footsteps patter 'd 
 Joyous , in the days of yore ,
 
 104 
 
 O'er the old paternal floor? 
 
 Where are they , who laugh'd and chatter'd , 
 
 Dancing down Life's new-found way, 
 
 Youthful, beautiful, and gay? 
 
 Where are they , , where are they ? 
 
 Resting in the grave ! or scatter'd 
 
 Ne'er to meet , ah nevermore ! 
 
 By that door , 
 
 Whence before 
 
 They all issued to be batter'd 
 
 Like poor barks at sea , 
 
 Till eternity 
 
 Oped its womb , 
 
 And , in gloom , 
 
 Made them fade away !
 
 MAY I MEET ONCE MORE MY FRIENDS. 
 
 When o'er the lone, and stormy deep, 
 Before the gale , the bark doth sweep ; 
 When tempests rage , and billows roll , 
 And terror strikes the stoutest soul 
 Which sees, in ev'ry surging wave , 
 A fearful, unlamented grave 
 This pray'r the sailor heav'nward sends : 
 ,,0 may I meet , once more , my friends !" 
 
 When the fierce battle-cry resounds , 
 And Death , exultant , upward bounds 
 O'er all the ensanguined plain ; when cries 
 And shrieks , of dying ones , arise , 
 And pierce the smoky, stifling air 
 The soldier breathes the fervent pray'r , 
 Which with the din of battle blends : 
 ,,O may I meet , once more , my friends !"
 
 106 
 
 When wand'ring in a foreign land 
 Though wealth and plenty load his hand , 
 Though pleasures soothe , and ease awhile , 
 Though Paradise doth round him smile , 
 The exile where he e'er may roam 
 Still sighs , oft as he thinks of home ; 
 And , with his sighs , this pray'r he blends : 
 ,,O may I meet , once more , my friends !" 
 
 When Death has snatch'd some friend away 
 When in the grave he lays the clay 
 Of those he held most dear below, 
 The Christian sheds his tears of woe 
 Upon the sod .... then looks on high - 
 Hope sees bright realms beyond the sky ! 
 And , to those realms , the pray'r ascends : 
 ,,0 may I meet , once more , my friends !"
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 p. 65. AMAKEYA. 
 
 This ballad is founded upon the following incident ; 
 which happened at the close of one of the Kaffir wars : 
 
 ,,Macomo , with all his people were removed to the 
 
 neighbourhood of Algoa Bay He used every 
 
 means to remain on his old location. His appeal was 
 pathetic enough , but we have profited somewhat by our 
 experience in the word of a Kaffir. ,,Here ," said he , 
 stretching his hand over the beautiful territory, ,,my father, 
 a great Chief, dwelt ; these pastures were crowded with 
 cattle , here I have lived to grow old ; here my children 
 have been born; let me die in peace where I have so 
 long lived." These entreaties , however , could not be 
 listened to for one moment; and, as a last trial, his 
 daughter , Amakeya , the beauty of Kaffirland , made her 
 way to the tent of Colonel Campbell , 91st Kegiment, who, 
 totally unprepared for her appearance , was yet more 
 astonished at the sacrifice she offered , if her father's 
 sentence of banishment might me rescinded. 
 
 I have elsewhere mentioned Amakeya as the belle of 
 the camp at Fort Hare , and no doubt she had been
 
 108 
 
 sufficiently reminded of her charms to make her sensible 
 of the value of them. She made her strange offer in all 
 the consciousness and pride of beauty; and, with her 
 finely-moulded arms folded before her , she spoke without 
 hesitation , for she was guided by motives worthy a lofty 
 cause motives , how desecrated ! how degraded ! Poor 
 Amakeya ! 
 
 ,,If her father might remain on his own lands ," she 
 said , ,,she would be the sacrifice and guarantee for his 
 future good faith towards the white man. She would 
 leave her own people, and follow Colonel Campbell; his 
 home should be hers; she would forsake all, and dwell 
 with him. This was her last word , her final decision , 
 and she would abide by it." 
 
 It may here be observed, that the young girls in Kaffirlnmi 
 are brought up with strict notions of female propriety ; to 
 forfeit their reputation , is to entail on themselves severe 
 punishment, and on their families perpetual disgrace. 
 
 Amakeya's motives were not unappreciated by her hearer. 
 but the proposal was, of course, rejected, with every 
 consideration for her position, and the circumstances by 
 which she had been actuated ; and she departed with her 
 father on his journey. We may fancy Amakeya taking a 
 last look at the green places wherein her childhood had 
 been passed , and finally sitting down among a strange 
 people , in sight of the ,,great waters." A new and wondrous 
 spectacle to that mountain-girl must have been that mighty 
 and pathless sea." (Mr,s. H. Ward. Ihe Cape and the Kaffirs.)

 
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