KtUYll 

 
 ,v 
 
 V 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 

 
 J 7Z 
 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 
 
 POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM TURBERVILLE 
 
 LONDON 
 
 KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRUBNER & CO. LTD. 
 
 Paternoster House, Charing Cross Road 
 
 1S94
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED BY GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LD., 
 
 ST. JOHN'S HOUSE, CLEKKE.NWELL ROAD, E.C
 
 PR n 
 
 TO THE QUEEN. 
 
 Fond Mother of Imperial sons 
 
 Who dwell in lands beyond thy sea, 
 
 Rejoice ! for see their toil-worn hands 
 Are stretched in helpful love to Thee. 
 
 What if thy eldest son has torn 
 Himself away from thine embrace ! 
 
 Thou know'st that in his secret heart 
 He proudly owns his royal race ; 
 
 And would if danger threatened thee 
 Be foremost to defend thy cause, 
 
 For he was dandled on thy knee, 
 And nurtured in thy righteous laws. 
 
 Blow then a trumpet blast to Heaven, 
 And let the listening nations knew. 
 
 Thine Empire, knit by bonds of love, 
 Shall never tall to foreign foe. 
 
 Ll 1 - 9* ■■ : ■ -.
 
 VI TO THE QUEEN. 
 
 Years back in ceaseless storms of War, 
 Thou slew'st the Pirates of the Deep, 
 
 And now thy ships in safety ride, 
 Let not new Pirates think we sleep. 
 
 Then thou wert Mistress of the Seas, 
 Now thou art Mother of the World, 
 
 And nevermore whilst thou art strong 
 Shall Justice from her throne be hurled.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 He that is Pure 
 My Lady Loye .... 
 Westminster Abbey 
 An Outcast in London on Sunday 
 Spirit Reyelvtions 
 My Heart's Loye-Tkagedy 
 Sermons in Nature 
 My Former Self . 
 Denials and Refusals 
 Thoughts 
 The Book of Sin- 
 Sensuality or Loye ? 
 The Spirit of Loye in the Scent oi 
 
 Hay 
 
 Nancy's Trysting at Staple Inn 
 
 My Idol shattered 
 
 The Growth of Love 
 
 Sunset and Death 
 
 A Bankrupt's Lamentation 
 
 the 
 
 77 
 
 96 
 
 118 
 
 145 
 151 
 164 
 170 
 
 '74 
 178 
 179 
 <8 4 
 
 186 
 [90 
 
 107 
 
 TOO 
 
 :o:
 
 Vlll CONTENTS. 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 My Love's Departure 
 
 208 
 
 Song. — Heart-longing 
 
 2IO 
 
 My Love and I are One . 
 
 211 
 
 A Nightmare 
 
 212 
 
 Love Ennobled, by Sorrow 
 
 2l6 
 
 To Love 
 
 218 
 
 Lost Friends 
 
 219 
 
 A Woman's Love Song . 
 
 221 
 
 Despondency 
 
 223
 
 HE THAT IS PURE; 
 
 OR 
 
 HAROLD AND LILIAN. 
 
 In Love, — Life : in Death, — Love. 
 Part I. The Meeting. 
 
 Prelude. 
 
 He that is pure is lovelier than the rose 
 
 Or white-robed lily ; fairer than the close 
 
 Of evening, when the palette of the sun 
 
 Lets all the colours, intermingling, run 
 
 In fine confusion ; fresher than the morn 
 
 When shaking off Night's sensuous arms with 
 
 scorn : 
 And far more precious than are strings of pearls 
 Encircling lily necks half hid with curls ; 
 And rarer than the frost in Summer's breath, 
 When in her sleep at night she dreams of Death ; 
 
 B
 
 2 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 Than snow encircling her in sunny June, 
 
 Blanching her beauty in a deadly swoon : 
 
 Yet Purity the breath of Heaven distils 
 
 To cleanse all life ; with dewy drink it fills 
 
 The flowers and leaves and ruminating grass, 
 
 And lifts their odours to us as we pass 
 
 In the first sunbeams ; and the Sea's voice roars 
 
 In gladness as it nervously outpours 
 
 The purifying essence of its salt 
 
 Beneath the clear Heaven's telescopic vault 
 
 Of purest blue ; so, too, the bustling Wind 
 
 Disperses death-airs when the world has sinned 
 
 Against the laws of health ; and then again, 
 
 The land is cleansed by purifying Rain ; 
 
 And pestilence is vaporized away, 
 
 In the consuming Fire of the Day. 
 
 If then fair Nature purifies its forms 
 
 In the electric glory of its storms, 
 
 Is it not meet that in man's heart's domain 
 
 The storms of mighty Love should cleanse each 
 
 stain, 
 And purify the thoughts that now corrode 
 The young man's life who scorns the moral code ? 
 To this end let me tell a simple tale 
 Of Purity all soiled and sorrow-pale.
 
 he that is pure. 
 
 Lilian's Country Life. 
 
 Fair Lilian lived beneath the Southwold skies 
 A maid of beauty ; virtue from her eyes 
 Laughed forth with each inflection of her mind, 
 Full of true knowledge, of a lovelier kind 
 Than comes from mere delight in printed books ; 
 She knew the shyest flowers secret nooks, 
 And where a bird would hide its love-born nest 
 Far from that strange inquisitorial pest 
 We mis-name Man, (who should a saviour be, 
 And not the harsh destroyer that we see). 
 She knew, too, all the wonders of the sun, 
 And loved to ponder on that Glorious One 
 Who poised it in the blue ; she watched its rays 
 Entice the snowdrop to peep forth and praise 
 Its Maker ; and she heard the snowdrop tell 
 The slender crocus to come out as well ; 
 Till one by one the flowers dressed in green 
 Covered the nude Earth with a painted screen. 
 She watched the insects, too, come forth to play 
 In the warm comfort of a sunny day, 
 But never bee or any creeping thing, — 
 However treacherous its painful sting — 
 Hurt Lilian ; she was too good and kind, — 
 And all these living things knew Lilian's mind. 
 She felt, too, all the glories of the moon, 
 
 B 2
 
 4 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 Its crescent coyness changing all too soon 
 
 Through full-orbed splendour into black disdain, 
 
 Hiding its beauty till it smile again ; 
 
 But then her thoughts would nestle in the stars 
 
 In happy dreams with Venus or with Mars, 
 
 (As though they were real persons in the skies, 
 
 And fit companions for a maid so wise,) 
 
 And yet, with all this love of flower and tree 
 
 And peerings out into infinity, 
 
 She loved domestic virtues quite as well, 
 
 And was distressed if e'er mishap befell 
 
 The household duties ; never has a maid 
 
 With finer virtues on this dull earth strayed, 
 
 But, best of charms that maidens can possess, — 
 
 She lived unconscious of her loveliness. 
 
 South wold bloomed over England's Eastern sea, 
 A lovely spot : its sun-born greenery 
 Crept down its sloping cliffs and almost kissed 
 The fondling waves, which oft-times surged and 
 
 hissed 
 In desperation to embrace it more, 
 But the pale moon looked down and hushed its 
 
 roar, 
 And cooled its swelling love with jealous eye, 
 Lest its rude wooing might produce a sigh 
 Throughout the land, as in the distant past
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. 5 
 
 When wealthy Dunwich in its arms was cast 
 
 And lost for ever ; Lilian often thought 
 
 Of its fair homes to desolation brought 
 
 By the bewitching sea she loved so well ; 
 
 And sometimes she would picture 'neath its 
 
 swell 
 The buried city, busy as of yore, 
 With Love for ever opening Mercy's door, 
 And Hate as often charging Love away : 
 Thus would she image fancies grave and gay, 
 As she her skiff sailed through the dancing waves 
 And o'er the long-forgotten Dunwich graves. 
 
 And down by Walberswick an abbey rare 
 Spread out its ruined life ; Lilian would there 
 Endow the land with visions of romance, 
 Hear trumpets blowing dooms, and see the glance 
 Of spear and sword, like cruel glittering eyes, 
 Spread fear around ; and she would bid uprise 
 The ruined walls, which her fond mind regraced 
 With Gothic ornaments all deftly chased 
 On pillar, groin, and ceiling ; and she filled 
 The corridors with monks, some highly skilled 
 In cookery, or garden lore, or dreams 
 That peer beyond the sun's far-reaching beams, 
 And bear the soul to Heaven ; and she would dress 
 The abbey garden, now a wilderness,
 
 6 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 With thoughts of flowers — the fairies hid between, 
 
 Lending enchantment to the lovely scene, — 
 
 In fact the fancied Abbey looked more fair 
 
 Than when it flowered its Spring in the rude air 
 
 Of long ago, when all the world was rent 
 
 With zeal to build that hateful monument 
 
 Of slaughtered bodies to the name of Christ, — 
 
 As though His love could ever be enticed 
 
 To dwell with man in such brutality : 
 
 She glossed this o'er with old-world pageantry, 
 
 For in her tender heart she could not paint 
 
 A cruel hero as she would a saint, — 
 
 So when that mood came on she banished quick 
 
 Those visionary walls of Walberswick. 
 
 These lovely dreams came best to her at night 
 When her thoughts melted in the moon's soft light 
 And all the world was bathed in velvet hues 
 And leaves were freshened with the tenderest dews 
 Sprinkled by fairies o'er the parched earth, 
 That poetry might blossom into birth ; 
 At such times her romantic nature blazed 
 In 'wildering ecstasy ; her eyes all dazed 
 Saw visions greater than the mind can form 
 When grappling with Death amid the storm 
 Of furious passion 'twixt the wind and sea, 
 Struggling with stupid strength for mastery.
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 And so it chanced that 'neath a brooding moon, 
 
 On a soft evening in voluptuous June, 
 
 She met a youth who from his toils had strayed 
 
 Out of hard London, where his health had paid 
 
 The usual sacrifice to ill-spent hours 
 
 Of dissipation in fair ladies' bowers ; — 
 
 The country luring him with dreams of health 
 
 And golden sunshine full of hidden wealth ; — 
 
 And as he slid into her vision bright, 
 
 She hailed him as a veritable Knight 
 
 Pale in the moonbeams ; yet she spoke no word, 
 
 But fluttered quickly like a frightened bird 
 
 Behind a buttress, hiding from his gaze 
 
 While still observing all his well-bred ways. 
 
 At first she noticed his soft, languid air, 
 
 His easy graceful motion, — all too rare 
 
 Amongst the country youth she knew by heart, — 
 
 And then she wondered what could be his part 
 
 In Nature, as he lounged at close of day 
 
 Lazily smoking his young life away ; 
 
 What could he trouble his young soul about 
 
 Watching the wreaths of smoke die slowly out 
 
 Into the moon ? The beauty of the scene, 
 
 The softened outlines and the magic green, 
 
 The holy halo round the silver orb, 
 
 Seemed not his wondering Fancy to absorb ; 
 
 His thoughts were far away ; each whiff of smoke
 
 8 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 Rose like an incense to the dreams that broke 
 Upon his vision ; once her Fancy thought 
 Each poisoned whiff his poisoned mind upbrought, 
 Just as the smoke blown from the mountain-spires 
 Reveals th' existence of earth's hidden fires ; 
 But for this thought she chid her Fancy sore 
 And then began to hallow him the more ; 
 Telling her Fancy that the fires of Earth 
 Coin diamonds and gems of priceless worth, 
 And gold and silver and all precious stones, 
 Behind which women ofttimes hide their groans ; 
 And so, she thought, his fire of mind now wrought 
 Fine interlacing arabesques of thought 
 And dreams of goodness, suiting well her mind 
 Which to the evils of the world was blind ; 
 It would have tortured her to hide a sting 
 Within the words her gentle mind would string 
 Like pearls together, when with simple ease 
 She talked with worldly women, — born to tease 
 The gentle heart of Truth by acting lies ; 
 Deeming their conduct elegant and wise. 
 
 Chained to her buttress Lilian felt at length 
 That Time was fleeing with impetuous strength 
 Away from her and she must homeward fly ; 
 But she was much too modest to defy 
 The silent stranger, so she made essay
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. 9 
 
 To seek an exit by some other way 
 
 From her charmed ruin, and tore her dainty dress 
 
 In breaking through a bramble-wilderness. 
 
 But it were better to destroy a gown 
 
 Than humble country pride to London town. 
 
 Harold's Life before meeting Lilian. 
 
 He therefore smoked unconscious of her eyes, 
 
 And never dreamed that such a lovely prize 
 
 Was near to him. He had hard thoughts to think ; 
 
 For he had driven his soul too near the brink 
 
 Of ruin ; yet was he still a-tune with joy ; 
 
 For he was but a rosebud of a boy 
 
 Opening the leaves of manhood, and he knew 
 
 How all the world admired the good and true 
 
 And only thought their own heart's wickedness 
 
 Was worthy cultivation or excuse, 
 
 As weeds, forsooth, may lovely flowers produce 
 
 In skilful hands. He who the world doth shock 
 
 Bruises his head against unfeeling rock 
 
 And dies unmourned. He therefore knew the fate 
 
 That he would suffer if he raised the hate 
 
 Of the hard, calculating, sensual world, 
 
 Who 'gainst the glass of conscience fiercely hurled 
 
 Their hard hypocrisy, and lived, and lied, 
 
 And cheated till all tenderness had died.
 
 10 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 Methinks a gentle heart would rather paint 
 
 A noble sinner than a narrow saint, 
 
 A sweet, though erring soul, than a mere toy 
 
 Made out of wooden creeds ; and so this boy 
 
 Bruising his budding life, was sweeter far 
 
 Than his hard father, distant as a star 
 
 From warm humanity, with heart congealed 
 
 In frigid zones of thought, although he kneeled 
 
 In daily worship to the Central Heart 
 
 Of glowing life, thinking God would impart 
 
 Through Love's warm arteries Eternal Rest. 
 
 Yet what he really wanted in his breast 
 
 Was an Eternal Unrest and a glow 
 
 Of sympathetic love for all below. 
 
 Love could not bless a father who had spurned 
 
 His erring son from home and never yearned 
 
 To take him to his heart again. Oh ! Love ! 
 
 Why dost thou never rend the Heavens above 
 
 And show thy beauty to these selfish minds 
 
 Whose sight is covered with Night's darkest blinds 
 
 Of ignorance ? If men would but unlearn 
 
 Their selfishness, then would they Love discern ! 
 
 So Harold having lost his mother's life 
 
 While he was fretting though his baby-strife 
 
 Knew not the pity of a parent's eye, 
 
 And left his home with half-regretful sigh 
 
 Ere he had blushed away his tender teens
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. II 
 
 Amid his dearly loved ancestral scenes : — 
 The park, the manor-house, the lodge, the gate, 
 The hundred glories of a squire's estate. 
 
 Banished ! and for a mocking word, a jest 
 At his strange father's superstitious quest 
 For his own soul's salvation : " Open wide 
 Your pockets and your bounteous arms," he cried, 
 "Be kind and good to all as Christ was kind, 
 And then you may feel something of His mind ; 
 But to believe that selfish life, and prayers, 
 And strange, unfeeling, hypocritic airs, 
 Will save your neck upon the Judgment Day, 
 Is to be like a beggar by the way, 
 Expecting luxuries and influence great 
 Poured in his lazy lap as he doth wait. 
 As if a great, good God could grant a life eternal 
 To souls who love to breathe an atmosphere in- 
 fernal." 
 These words to his hard father cut like knives 
 Into his conscience, and as one who rives 
 A tree asunder, so he fiercely tore 
 His heart's affections to the very core ; 
 And Harold, unprotected, sought new life 
 And found it in a busy London strife, 
 And who can wonder that his heart was turned 
 Against religion as so ill-discerned
 
 12 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 By half the world, who never yearn to bless 
 With flowers of Love this weed-strewn wilderness. 
 
 But Harold months before had felt the spell 
 
 Of a fair maiden's love, and who shall tell 
 
 The flutterings of her heart when he revealed 
 
 The news of banishment, but half concealed 
 
 By his sad face : like a wild rose distressed 
 
 With weeping rain her head she drooped and pressed 
 
 Against his bosom in a flood of tears, 
 
 And nothing would relieve her trembling fears 
 
 But promises of his companionship 
 
 Extracted charily from his still lip ; 
 
 And so the morrow-morn to her rose gay, 
 
 For she was his companion on the way 
 
 To London City, caring not a whit 
 
 What all the wondering world might think of it, 
 
 But quite content to be a whispered tale 
 
 Of woe amongst the dwellers in her vale, 
 
 Than a lone maiden, drooping, all forlorn 
 
 Amid the aspirations of the corn 
 
 Ripening to Truth beneath the inspiring sun ; 
 
 For to her little heart there was but one 
 
 Adornment, one delight, one truth to see, — 
 
 The light that shone from his eyes' constancy. 
 
 Forgive her, sisters, for she was a child, 
 
 A country rose-bud easily beguiled
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. I 3 
 
 By Love's warm sun to blossom all too soon, 
 Mistaking Spring-time for the month of June. 
 Her parents were retainers of the Squire 
 And knew their rose-bud in that scorching fire 
 Would droop and die ; and they together wept, 
 But no warm comfort to their dulled hearts crept. 
 
 The old Squire cared not for their sorrow smart 
 
 But cursed their Mary's silly little heart 
 
 And doubly cursed his son, his blighted joy, 
 
 Calling on Ruin to destroy his boy, 
 
 And with these curses on his bitter tongue 
 
 He bowed the knees in church, and prayed and 
 
 sung. 
 (His dead wife's spirit in a dream that night 
 Wrapped up her earthly form and tried to fright 
 His stony, arid heart without avail, — 
 The Devil had more feeling in his tail.) 
 
 Now Harold lived with Mary quite retired 
 And he for months was constant and admired 
 Her wild-rose blushes ; but there came a day 
 When cultured rose-buds stole his heart away, 
 And Mammon placed before him riches rare, 
 And his pure moral nature in despair 
 Fled from him frightened out by luxury, 
 Soft self-indulgence, sensuality,
 
 14 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 And all the wild temptations riches fling 
 Around the- simple hearted ; these would bring 
 His soul to desolation. One nymph came 
 And burnt his being as with fiery flame, 
 Tortured him, tempted him, and wrecked his 
 
 peace, 
 And bound him to her for the broken lease 
 Of his young life. A scheming woman she, 
 A bitter scorner of humanity, 
 With winning, graceful manners, and soft eyes 
 That ne'er betrayed a moment of surprise ; 
 A serpent subtly dressed ; a lady born ; 
 Too wise to show the world her cruel scorn ; 
 And with her lily arms she fondled him, 
 And made him pander to her every whim, 
 And when he left her laughed at her deceit, 
 Yet kept him slave beneath her pretty feet. 
 Oh ! what a picture art thou, Lady Grace, 
 Of how society can mould a face, 
 To hide the feelings of the heart within, 
 Veiled by a delicate and painted skin ! 
 And thou, poor Mary, by the country bred, 
 Wilt thou, wild rose-bud, raise thy drooping head, 
 Or die amongst dead daffodils of Spring, 
 A lovely flower, soiled, and sorrowing ?
 
 he that is pure. i 5 
 
 Their first Life together. 
 
 Alas ! for him who hath 'mid bricks been reared, 
 Inhaling oxygen all soot besmeared, 
 And never hath a country valley trod, 
 For he who studies Nature studies God, 
 And in her opened palm may clearly read 
 Life's trembling history. We hardly need 
 The sacred Bible or man's written word, 
 For God in Nature may be plainly heard. 
 And Harold as he sat beneath the moon 
 On that soft evening in voluptuous June, 
 Heard some one preaching to him from the skies, 
 And through that teaching, eloquent and wise, 
 His trouble vanished and he slowly felt 
 The heart of Nature in his being melt. 
 That heart he knew could sob in tears of rain, 
 And then in sunshine brightly smile again, 
 He knew, too, how the twinkling stars of heaven 
 Laughed at his prattle when a child of seven. 
 And now he felt the moon re-silver o'er 
 His mirror conscience, Nature would restore. 
 Home then he went soothed by her gentle hand 
 And slept as calm as any in the land. 
 While Lilian on her bed — a blush-rose spray 
 Tossed in the breeze of Love — all restless lay.
 
 1 6 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 'Twixt midnight and the morn her soul had grown 
 
 Too large for its environments : alone 
 
 With Nature's hopes and mystic shadowings 
 
 Of life Beyond, her soul had taken wings 
 
 And felt ofttimes unutterable things. 
 
 But now she felt a higher influence reign, 
 
 For Love had nestled in her dreaming brain, 
 
 Growing forthwith prolific of sweet thought ; 
 
 Yet p'raps her florid Fancy had o'erwrought 
 
 The charm of Harold 'neath the silvery rays 
 
 Of the pale moon ; (and naught can charm the gaze 
 
 Like that loved orb ;) What if the charm should 
 
 flee 
 When she might hear his lip's philosophy 
 Or listen to the cadence of his voice 
 And find it passionless ? could Love rejoice 
 In harsh and strident tones ? Must it not die 
 In discord ? And so with many a sigh 
 At these brain-trumpetings of Night alarms 
 She sought with morning light her mother's arms : 
 One kiss dispersed her fears which soon distilled 
 Their fretful spirits into tears that filled 
 Her lovely eyes, like dew-drops in a flower, 
 Born in the passion of Night's silent hour. 
 
 Ere breakfast came she to the garden stole 
 And with the blushing peaches sunned her soul ;
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. 1 7 
 
 Then from the clear-eyed water in the brook 
 
 Sweet watercresses in her hands she took 
 
 And brought them in with roses red and white 
 
 Which Nature beautified for her delight ; 
 
 And while her pet-thrush sang his tenderest tune 
 
 Fresh dainties from the ripening hand of June 
 
 She deftly gathered ; red tomatoes stored 
 
 With sleeping sunbeams, and a magic gourd 
 
 Full of cool juices syphoned from the earth, — 
 
 A mystery to Lilian from its birth ; 
 
 And then the raspberries and strawberries too 
 
 She gathered fast and to the dairy flew 
 
 To skim the cream that she might with the maid 
 
 Have the white damask delicately laid 
 
 In time to greet her father's loving eyes, 
 
 And hear his morning comments good and wise : 
 
 But on this morning in a mute despair — 
 
 Love laughing through her beauty-dreamin; 
 
 hair, — 
 With thoughts sigh-spoken and a drooping head 
 She lived on Love and left her daily bread. 
 
 But ere the full-bloom of the morn had past 
 She wandered to the beach and saw at last 
 Her Unknown with a child at play ; their glee 
 As sportive as a minuet at sea 
 Between the dancing waves when wind and sun 
 
 c
 
 1 8 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 Whistle and laugh at all their bounding fun ; 
 This sight aroused a whirling, sensuous crowd 
 Of feelings, and her heart beat quick and loud, 
 And then the problem came, — how could she 
 
 speak 
 Or look at him ? A maiden should be meek 
 And modest, not o'er-bold ; but we have all 
 To answer to the ever-varying call 
 Of circumstance ; and therefore that sweet child 
 Went romping backwards laughing shrill and wild, 
 Then tripped and fell upon the yielding sand 
 Just as a wave was making for the land ; 
 Fair, anxious Lilian rushed forth to save, 
 And got herself entangled in the wave ; 
 Then Harold, hat in hand, politely came 
 And said he feared that he was much to blame, 
 And brushed her down, while she consoled the 
 
 boy 
 Who brought to her this unexpected joy. 
 And when she found the little child was drenched 
 And shivering with tiny fingers clenched, 
 She begged that she might take the darling home 
 If Harold would consent with them to come. 
 And he well knowing Walberswick too far, 
 Consented to escort this maiden star 
 To her sweet Southwold home, and as he went 
 He felt a radiance from her heart was sent
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. 1 9 
 
 Into his own, as though an influence reigns 
 That binds us heart to heart in silken chains. 
 
 She spun a web about him artlessly 
 From which he never more himself could free, 
 And prattled lightly, as they walked along, 
 Of tennis tourneys and the last new song 
 From all-absorbing London ; of the views 
 Around the coast ; and all the local news ; 
 But ne'er before had his rapt ear heard sound 
 More dulcet, words more true, or more profound : 
 So easy 'tis for Love to magnify 
 Its sweet adorings, and with pride espy 
 Beauties too modest for the light above : 
 No study doth absorb the heart like Love. 
 To him frail Mary was no more Love's shrine ; 
 Her eyes might weep and all her spirit pine 
 And waste away, but he no more could find 
 The silken cord that should their spirits bind ; 
 'Twas snapped for ever ; and dear Lady Grace- 
 Could never more use her deceitful face 
 To lure him to her, for her day had gone, 
 And in his heart he heard the knell forlorn 
 Of all his life in London ; he would sweep 
 As in a hidden garden-rubbish heap 
 The dead affections of those days ; the flowers 
 Tossed to him in those sweet, wild, wanton hours ; 
 
 c 2
 
 20 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 But could he thus obliterate the past ? 
 Has it not life and feeling to the last ? 
 
 Meanwhile fair Lilian careful of the child, 
 
 Most tenderly its little heart beguiled 
 
 With thoughts of soft, warm beds and dancing fires, 
 
 And prospects of most picturesque attires, 
 
 While his damp clothes before the fire she dried ; 
 
 And so he trotted laughing by her side 
 
 Full of sweet confidence and lisping truth 
 
 More puzzling to manhood than to youth. 
 
 And when they to her love-lit garden came, 
 The sunflowers stared at them with eyes aflame ; 
 While modest roses blushed in mute surprise 
 And turned their heads from wondering at the 
 
 skies ; 
 And beds of pansies dyed with purple stains 
 And yellow splashes, felt the magic pains 
 Of brooding Love ; (no more u heart's-ease " for 
 
 them 
 Until a purple-sorrow-diadem 
 They formed above her grave ;) and lilies pure 
 From far Japan, felt they could not endure 
 The pangs of life with Lilian's heart elsewhere, 
 And drooped their wax-like heads in dumb de- 
 spair ;
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. 2 1 
 
 But Lilian laughed to see their jealous ways 
 
 On this glad morning of this day of days, 
 
 And said as Harold through the gateway went : — 
 
 11 1 fancy my loved flowers would fain resent 
 
 Your presence in their midst ; they look so sad 
 
 Instead of laughing at us bright and glad." 
 
 And Harold promptly said with smiling air : — 
 
 " I envy them the constant loving care 
 
 Of the most beautiful of all the fair, 
 
 And if I stir their calm felicity 
 
 There may be grounds for their sad jealousy." 
 
 And Lilian blushing, as a maiden should, 
 
 Said tenderly : — "I would not, if I could, 
 
 Alter the course of this most happy morn, 
 
 And yet I well deserve the quiet scorn 
 
 Of all my darling flowers who are half-slain 
 
 By the long absence of refreshing rain, 
 
 And begged me so to water them this day ; — 
 
 But someone drove my thought of them away." 
 
 Then with the little boy she fled inside 
 
 And told her mother of th' inrushing tide, 
 
 And while she put him in her own pure bed 
 
 A spirit-light on her fair face was shed, 
 
 Like to the magic sheen a sunbeam weaves 
 
 When glancing lovingly on young green leaves. 
 
 Her mother wondered at the rapturous look 
 
 Until she heard the part that Harold took
 
 22 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 In th 'adventure, and watched her daughter's breast 
 Heave with some strange excitement unconfessed, 
 And heard that Harold's name she did but know 
 " Five happy golden minutes past " and how 
 He waited in the garden by her flowers, 
 " Counting the minutes p'raps as lovelorn hours." 
 
 How could she this fine language understand? 
 So Lilian took her gently by the hand 
 (Kissing the boy) to show her Harold's face, 
 Hopeful that such a lovely sight might chase 
 The doubtings from her eyes : to her the sight 
 Would drive away the blackness of the Night 
 And bring the Sun, but would her mother be 
 Inclined to view her heart's philosophy 
 With favouring eyes ? how full she was of fears, 
 For wisdom only comes with ripened years, 
 But when she saw her mother's kind eyes melt 
 As Harold's interlacing hand she felt, 
 Her heart beat wondrous life ; of course she knew 
 That words of mother-wisdom would ensue ; 
 And soon she heard : — " Love that comes quick 
 
 like yours, 
 " A summer fancy ofttimes quickly cures ; 
 " Be not too hasty, Lilian." But he stayed 
 To lunch, he clung about their hearts and paid 
 Sweet court to Lilian ; and when he left
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. 2$ 
 
 Her mother told him they would be bereft 
 Of pleasure if he came no more ; and he, 
 Full of his own warm heart's necessity, 
 Promised to call upon them every day 
 Until his holidays should flee away. 
 
 Fart II. The Courtship. 
 
 Love is the alphabet of the Heavenly tongue, 
 The passion of the soul by poets sung, 
 The measure of the heart of all mankind, 
 Yet measureless itself, for none can find 
 Its height, or depth, or fulness of desire ; 
 (It lives for ever with the heart on fire,) 
 And none can bind it, though a slave it lives 
 Subservient to the very life it gives. 
 
 And day by day these truths in Harold's heart 
 Were dropped like choicest seeds that fain would 
 
 start 
 To beauteous life ; yet sadness marked his face 
 As in his complex nature he could trace 
 Closely embedded round those budding seeds 
 The living roots of the obnoxious weeds 
 Sown in the days gone by. Oh ! for some charm
 
 24 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 To make him pure ; to cleanse and calm 
 His now regretful heart ! Can no one change 
 A fungus growth into a lily ? Strange 
 No chemist great has yet found out a way 
 To stop the moral nature from decay ! 
 Better be pure within, though foul without, 
 Than have an angel put your soul to rout 
 By dazzling purity into your eyes, — 
 Delusive beacons smiling pretty lies. — 
 Eyes may be clear and soft, skin lily-white, 
 Only to hide corruption from the sight. 
 
 But Love was strong and Love was paramount, 
 
 And Love would burn corruption in its fount 
 
 Of fire, and from the embers bid uprise 
 
 A hallowed spirit soaring to the skies. 
 
 And Love was kind and Love was beautiful, 
 
 And he was young and would be dutiful 
 
 To high-born Love, that alchemist of hearts, 
 
 Transforming brutes to gods by magic arts ; 
 
 Love was the world-known chemist who could stay 
 
 His moral fall and with him soar away 
 
 Into diviner airs. Away with grief ! 
 
 For Love would bring his conscience sweet relief, 
 
 And all the past would shroud itself in mist, 
 
 Now that warm Love his very lips had kissed.
 
 ' HE THAT IS PURE. 2$ 
 
 What were those past sweet moments ? Love ? 
 
 or Death 
 With all the simulated fevered breath 
 Of Love ? Or hot wild passion of the flesh 
 Shaken to madness in the silken mesh 
 Of changeful Fancy ? What if Lilian heard 
 Him question why she was o'er all preferred ? 
 What if she looked at him with her pure eyes 
 And read his thoughts? Would she not then 
 
 despise 
 His subtleties ? Love was not in the past, — 
 That ghost at which his spirit stood aghast 
 In frenzied fear ! Could no one kill a ghost ? 
 Needs it more courage to destroy a host 
 Of living heads than one pale ghostly thought 
 Which ever rises in the mind o'erwrought ? 
 Oh ! for some sponge to wipe away the past, 
 And Joshua's power to hold the present fast, 
 By bidding that warm sun of Love stand still 
 Upon that gently sloping Southwold hill ! 
 
 So Harold brooded o'er his love, new-born 
 Amid the roses and the whispering corn 
 Of sleepy Southwold : lovely were the days ; 
 Light-hearted Summer sang her tenderest lays 
 With flower-scented breaths, while she entranced 
 The land with an encircling smile that glanced
 
 26 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 On all alike, and made the happy earth 
 
 Smile back again in wild contagious mirth. 
 
 And she would beat her magic music wand, 
 
 And call her choir together near the trees, 
 
 (For every insect was of Summer fond 
 
 And ever sought her listening ear to please.) 
 
 She made a bee drone forth a solo sweet 
 
 While searching honied clover at her feet, 
 
 And taught the thrush to pipe his hautboy 
 
 tones 
 Above the buzzing bee's soft tonic drones ; 
 And bade the prima-donna of the skies 
 Trill a song heavenward in a spiral rise 
 Piercing the outer blue of Paradise 
 To show the way ; and as it upward went 
 The breeze would blow a soft accompaniment 
 In Harold's ear, (not with the heavy hand 
 Of some musicians' loud orchestral band, 
 Which would have frightened from the sky -lark 
 
 free 
 All thoughts of Heaven's magic minstrelsy. 
 But) murmuring busy music all around 
 The sky-lark carolled to th' enchanting sound. 
 (He must be Nature's child whoe'er attains 
 A magic influence o'er his brothers' brains, 
 And must to Beauty bow a reverent knee, 
 Ere he may join the Muses' company.)
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. 2J 
 
 And Harold learnt from Lilian how to feel 
 
 The rapture of the sky-lark's wild appeal 
 
 To listening Heaven. He never knew before 
 
 The wistful beauties of Earth's flower-strewn floor, 
 
 But now he saw a thousand lovely eyes 
 
 Peep through Earth's carpet at the watchful skies ; 
 
 And sometimes on the grass he feared to tread, 
 
 (Such softness in his heart had Lilian shed,) 
 
 Lest he might trample on some form divine 
 
 That Lilian worshipped as a fairy's shrine. 
 
 Lilian was his law ; the waves roared forth 
 
 Her name ; the Earth spoke Lilian ; and the North, 
 
 Led on by Boreas, blew loud and clear, 
 
 " Lilian ! Lilian ! " in his rapt lover's ear ; 
 
 And the warm South with softly lingering breath 
 
 Whispered her name, then died a placid death ; 
 
 There was no other name writ in the sky, 
 
 As all the stars of Heaven went floating by 
 
 Upon the wings of Night, but her fond name ; 
 
 The sun revealed it, too, in passion-flame ! 
 
 Each day his heart would seek her and would find 
 
 New beauties in her cultivated mind, 
 
 New dreams of goodness, new devotion given 
 
 To some deserving creature under heaven. 
 
 A Spirit-revelation pure and fresh, 
 
 With an eternal mission to all flesh
 
 28 HE THAT IS PLRE. 
 
 Was Lilian : just as a flower may be 
 
 Proof of the presence of the Deity 
 
 To reverent eyes. Who can behold a face 
 
 Of beaming goodness and refuse to trace 
 
 The great Divinity that lives and breathes 
 
 In all the forms He to grim Death bequeaths ? 
 
 Death only gets from God the dross he craves, — 
 
 Mean miser gloating o'er our human graves, — 
 
 While like a flash of light we soar away 
 
 Into the regions of diviner day ! 
 
 Oh ! for more hearts like Lilian's ! which could 
 
 move 
 E'en sensual Harold from his earth-bound groove ; 
 He, like an Ethiope, pining to be white, 
 Basked in the pureness of her mind of light. 
 
 Spirit of Maidenhood ! 
 
 Dazzlingly pure, 
 Bright as the diamond 
 
 Made to endure, 
 Shed thy light ever 
 
 On rich and on poor. 
 
 Let none deceive thee 
 With bright, pretty toys, 
 
 And tempt thee to barter 
 Thine innocent joys
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. 2 9 
 
 For secret emotion 
 That slaves and annoys. 
 
 Be like the sunbeam 
 
 That sheds on the street 
 A light-hearted gaiety 
 
 Buoying the feet 
 Of those who work ever 
 
 In cold and in heat. 
 
 Be like the mountain 
 
 Touching the skies, 
 Firm and enduring, 
 
 Proof 'gainst surprise, 
 Looking for ever 
 
 To catch the sunrise. 
 
 And if it come not, 
 
 Be like the snow, 
 Pure in the altitudes 
 
 Heat cannot glow, 
 Better be that 
 
 Than a rivulet low, 
 
 Flooding the valleys 
 
 Where men come and go, 
 Ready to poison
 
 30 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 The pure overflow 
 With the vile refuse 
 
 Their mammon-mills know. 
 
 But if the Sun-Love 
 
 Rise on thy soul, 
 Circle around it 
 
 As the days roll, 
 Till it absorb thee 
 
 In its great whole. 
 
 A fortnight's dalliance with each other's heart 
 Made each one conscious ;that they ne'er could 
 
 part 
 Without tempestuous floods of swelling grief. 
 (Cupid is ever an inveterate thief, 
 And steals us all, unconscious of ourselves ; 
 Could we but place our feelings on our shelves 
 In iron safes and take the key away, 
 Cupid would circumvent us every day.) 
 And Harold's lips grew bold with tender words, 
 And love-sick cooings like an amorous bird's, i 
 Until at last they sought a lingering kiss 
 Upon the lips of Lilian. Oh ! what bliss 
 Came then to both their hearts ! 'twas on a night 
 When moonbeams kissed the waves with fond 
 
 delight
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. 3 1 
 
 As they beneath them danced with liquid feet 
 
 Dissolving in each other ; ne'er so sweet 
 
 A motion could be e'er conceived or seen 
 
 (Tho' nymphs might dance their lightest on the 
 
 green). 
 And what could Harold and fair Lilian do 
 But melt in one another's being too ? 
 
 Then Harold said to Lilian : " Yon star-pearl 
 
 Dropping its silver tears upon the sky 
 
 They call fair Venus, but my English girl 
 
 Is lovelier far than that frail memory 
 
 Of ancient days, when fertile Homer sung 
 
 To Grecian ears, and still keeps ever young. 
 
 Her heart is shrouded in the misty past, 
 
 But here I hold a human flower so fast, 
 
 With love so dear, that I would sooner feel 
 
 Her melt away within my burning grasp 
 
 Than have another hated rival steal 
 
 Her sainted image from my jealous clasp : 
 
 Tell me, sweet Lilian, that it ne'er can be." 
 
 And he upon her lips stamped kisses three 
 
 As solemn pledges of fidelity. 
 
 And she had only simple words to say : — 
 
 " Harold, you know that I shall love ahvuy," 
 
 And sealed them with three kisses as her bond, 
 
 Unneeded pledges from a heart so fond.
 
 32 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 Blind Night saw not her blushes, but her love 
 Awoke sweet music in the harps above, 
 And thrilled through all her being into song : 
 
 Lilian's Song. 
 
 The crocus like a warrior bold 
 
 With spear defies the clay, 
 Then forms a loving cup to hold 
 Spring's store of sunbeams gay, 
 And having wrought its fancy old, 
 Contented, — dies away. 
 Blaze out, warm sun of Love, and dress 
 Each flower with dainty loveliness. 
 
 Bare rose-trees in the Winter seerrr 
 
 Unconscious, drear, and dead, 
 But in the Spring begin to dream 
 
 In pink, and white, and red, 
 And having kissed the sun's warm beam, 
 In Autumn's arms fall dead. 
 Blaze out, warm sun of Love, and give 
 Sweet rose-buds to me while I live. 
 
 And I like some loved flower of earth 
 
 My summer-passion feel, 
 I am exalted past my worth,
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. 33 
 
 No rose can be more real, 
 Yet, Love, thou art a spirit-birth 
 
 No frost can e'er congeal. 
 Blaze out, warm sun of Love, and light 
 A maiden in her passion-flight ; 
 
 Waft me away, Love, with gauzy wings dressed, 
 Into the dream of the rose-coloured West, 
 Into the heart of Thy spirit at rest. 
 
 And Harold listened with a tender fear, 
 As her pure spirit-breath entranced his ear, 
 The air seemed far too sacred for his soul, 
 Filled with weird music like a death-bell's toll. 
 How could he look upon a mind so pure 
 And not be dazzle-blinded more and more, 
 Just as the eye gets sightless in the sun. 
 Yon staring star gazed like a cold-eyed nun 
 Upon him, and rebuked him for his pride ; 
 But the warm breath of Lilian as she sighed 
 Her last sweet note to Heaven, rose like a cloud, 
 And blurred the picture of the star so proud, 
 And-he was man again, frail, mortal man, 
 As through his being sensual rapture ran ; 
 The cloud went past the star to melt in Heaven, 
 While he fermented in a fleshly leaven. 
 This storm of earth-bred passion 'mid the flash 
 
 D
 
 34 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 Of spirit lightning made a constant clash 
 
 Of feelings in his soul. He would be high 
 
 And touch the heavens with Lilian, but the cry 
 
 Of low emotion often drowned the speech 
 
 Of his aspiring nature. Ye who teach 
 
 The yearning hearts of children, know the pain 
 
 Through which they struggle to a higher plane. 
 
 Kiss after kiss on Lilian fell, until 
 
 She tore herself from his magnetic will 
 
 Flustered with strange confusion ; then he felt 
 
 His sensual nature into spirit melt, 
 
 And he was man again, but pure, redeemed, 
 
 Full of the glory of which saints have dreamed. 
 
 And then he sang : — 
 
 Harold's Song. 
 
 The sky is dark, my Love, and we 
 Have watched the moon dip silently 
 Her silver bosom in the sea. 
 
 There will she lave earth's taint away, 
 And cleanse her dress of silver gray, 
 Hiding herself behind the Day. 
 
 Oh ! sea, I fain would wash my soul 
 In thy pure waves, and onward roll 
 To ice-cold airs around the pole.
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. 35 
 
 There should my soul a prism be, 
 
 And Love's warm sun would shine thro' me 
 
 In rainbow tints of purity. 
 
 And on an iceberg I would sail 
 
 To tell my Lilian all the tale 
 
 Of my poor heart so weak and frail. 
 
 Then could she in her bosom wear 
 My soul, all purified and fair, — 
 An amulet of Love most rare. 
 
 And Lilian loved the song 
 And stored it in her mem'ry 'mid the throng 
 Of lyrics that had lulled her heart to rest 
 When tossed amid the turmoils of her breast ; 
 But this song crowned them all ; 'twas Harold's 
 
 soul 
 Laid bare to her, aspiring to the goal 
 Of perfect life. How she would love him now 
 And deck with garlands his poetic brow ! 
 So in the moonlight Harold led her home 
 Filled with the breezes wafted o'er the foam 
 Of dazzling waters ; and he pressed her lips 
 To his, and 'twixt the dainty honey sips 
 Declared, that ere the summer should have passed, 
 They would be joined in happy wedlock fast. 
 
 D 2
 
 36 BE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 And ere the night had wooed them to their beds 
 They both knelt suppliant to the silver heads 
 Of Lilian's parents dear, to whom they talked 
 Through midnight of their plans, till in there 
 
 stalked 
 The ghost of sleep with sensuous, drowsy eyes, 
 And bade them rest until the new sunrise. 
 
 Spirit Forebodings. 
 
 Say you the sun will reluctantly rise, and moodily 
 sink in the West, 
 
 Cladding the day 
 In a suit of gray, 
 And thus unbecomingly drest 
 Will sulk from my bride on her wedding morn 
 As though it were better she had not been born ? 
 
 Say you the birds will not sing in the trees, that 
 the heart of the world will stand still, 
 And beat never more, 
 In Humanity's core, 
 Because I have bent to Love's will, 
 And placidly buried my loved one with me 
 'Neath the sobs of the lips of Life's surface-torn 
 sea ?
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. 37 
 
 Nay ! the sun will leap dancing o'er mountains of 
 Hope, to the pipe of the passionate lark, 
 As upwards he springs 
 On melody's wings, 
 In his joy at the flight of the dark ; 
 The face of fair nature will smile on her bliss 
 And hurry, light-hearted, her blushes to kiss ; 
 
 And the heart of Humanity then will beat fast and 
 throb through the delicate veins, 
 And passion and glow, 
 In heat or in snow, 
 With the thrills of Life's pleasures and pains, 
 And ever triumphant, with sympathy great, 
 It will beat with the stars at Heaven's gateway, — 
 and wait. 
 
 On that new morn the village heard the news 
 And plans were laid to honour and amuse 
 The plighted pair ; and now 'tis often told 
 How Southwold, decked with bunting bright and 
 
 bold, 
 Made holiday upon that wedding fair, 
 And filled with merriment the summer air. 
 But 'tis remembered, too, how on that eve 
 The sun seemed loath his golden bed to leave, 
 As in the west he lay in dreams of rest, 
 Until a spasm passed o'er Earth's full breast,
 
 38 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 And clouds rose black and angry in the East, 
 
 Like to the shape of a devouring beast, 
 
 The wind shrieked hissing at some unseen prey, 
 
 And all the heavens were quickly draped in gray 
 
 And hid the golden sun ; then lightning came 
 
 And wrote upon the clouds its vivid name 
 
 In zigzag signs ; then came the thunder crash 
 
 Almost as quickly as the lightning flash 
 
 That fell upon the steeple like the fire 
 
 Of God ; tore out the stone-work ; crushed the 
 
 spire ; 
 Hurled down the flagstaff splintered like a reed ; 
 Then hail was scattered like the poppy seed 
 Upon the ground ; then fled the storm away, 
 And in the burnished West all peaceful lay 
 The drowsy sun. " A portent ! " muttered some, 
 " The finger of the Lord ! " " A time will come 
 Of sorrow for the pair ! " some gossips said, 
 Shaking in fear each superstitious head. 
 While he and Lilian left the storm behind 
 Tearing to London, winnowing the wind 
 In the swift train, to the mystic life, 
 The " Open Sesame " of man and wife.
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. 39 
 
 Part III. The Wedded Life. 
 
 Who can be quiet in this world of storm ? 
 
 Our dreams of peace evanish ere they form 
 
 In our quick minds, just as the snow-flakes change 
 
 In the hot palm of Summer, into strange, 
 
 Cold, silent tears ; nothing can be at rest, 
 
 Not e'en the baby dreaming at the breast ; 
 
 E'en the hard Earth will quiver at our feet 
 
 Torn by the energies of cold and heat. 
 
 The feeling that our young emotion charms 
 
 Re-lives in opportunity's ripe arms, 
 
 And, therefore, many a spirit grows deformed 
 
 When by the tempests of the world be-stormed ; 
 
 Watch how the trees bend inward from the sea 
 
 Blown by the sea-swept winds incessantly, 
 
 And how the flowers that laugh up at the sun 
 
 When brimming o'er with warm Midsummer fun, 
 
 Will hang their pretty heads before King Frost, 
 
 Death-stricken, nipped, with all their colours lost. 
 
 Behold that valley sleeping in the sun, 
 
 Cooled by pure rivulets that onward run, 
 
 Fretting towards the sea ! no sound is heard 
 
 Save lazy breaths of wind or pipe of bird, 
 
 And yet we know that all the peaceful scene
 
 40 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 Beneath its variegated coat of green, 
 Trembles with all the heat of struggling life 
 Aiming at high perfection in its strife. 
 So as we breathe our sensuous life away, 
 The elements on our fine spirits play- 
 As on a harp ; and to the Heavens we sing 
 A thrilling song of joy, or, sighing, wring 
 A dirge of sorrow from heart-strings of woe. 
 The music of our souls doth ebb and flow 
 Like the wild sea ; but to divine the song, 
 Is given to few amongst the listening throng 
 Who strive from wakeful Morn to brooding Night, 
 To catch the spirit of Man's song aright. 
 
 But surely Harold now had found true rest 
 
 Upon his lovely Lilian's snowy breast ! 
 
 And all the world might storm in useless rage 
 
 While those two love-birds in their marriage cage 
 
 Flirted with serious Time ! Their bill and coo 
 
 Went on unmindful of the wind that blew 
 
 Around the aching world. Nations might fall, 
 
 But they were to each other all in all, — 
 
 A deep romance of Love ! What force could break 
 
 The bond that bound them ? Not the mighty 
 
 quake 
 Of the hard-crusted Earth ! not poverty ! 
 Nor pain ! nor yet the ghastly tragedy
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. 4 1 
 
 Of body-snatching Death ! For now he felt 
 As though his heart might into Lilian's melt 
 As in a crucible, to be recast 
 In the most perfect form of Love at last 
 That she — his heart's refiner — could desire ! 
 He fain would burn his dross in Love's pure fire. 
 
 They lived in London now ; his business brought 
 
 Throughout the day a troubled sea of thought, 
 
 But in the evening with his lovely wife 
 
 The choicest ecstasy we wring from life 
 
 Was his ; she was so happy in her pride, 
 
 As he sat beaming on her by her side, 
 
 Molten with love. They talked of Southwold 
 
 sights 
 And culled anew the flowery delights 
 They had together in that wooing time, 
 When Summer had forgot the Winter rime. 
 
 But Harold, like some fine-strung instrument 
 On which all passions play, at length was rent 
 With a desire for change ; the key had grown 
 Monotonous, and in some other tone 
 The melody of Love would sound more dear, 
 And be more pleasing to his Lilian's ear. 
 He chid himself for keeping her so long 
 Away from gay Society's gathering throng ;
 
 42 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 She must be dull indeed ! But she aloud 
 Protested that no sort of cultured crowd 
 Would ever charm her like the hours of bliss 
 They spent alone with Love's most sacred kiss. 
 
 But he felt sure their life was not a dream 
 
 Of mighty aspirations 'mid the gleam 
 
 Of an imagined Heaven. He fain would get 
 
 A higher peak of aspiration yet, 
 
 And so he took his Lilian to the halls 
 
 Of all his friends ; to concerts, and to balls ; 
 
 And he grew prouder of her still, for none 
 
 Looked lovelier than his own sweet Lilian 
 
 Amid the crowd of fashion, where she drew 
 
 Obsequious courtiers her fair face to view, 
 
 Who made bright quips with her and pretty jests, 
 
 Till she was envied by the lady-guests. 
 
 But Harold ne'er felt jealous, — only proud 
 
 To see his wife admired of all the crowd. 
 
 One night at some high function Harold met 
 The dainty priestess of the " inner-set," 
 His old enchantress, tempting Lady Grace, 
 Who bade him take her " to the lovely face 
 Of charming Lilian, that she might adore 
 Where other worshippers had knelt before." 
 He said : " Not so : pray let her live apart
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. 43 
 
 From all the elements that wrecked my heart 
 Upon the rocks of thoughtless gaiety ; 
 Be kind to her, my friend, and pity me." 
 " Nay, nay ; you silly boy, I am no fool, 
 You would not have me sent again to school, 
 The world will only whisper wicked tales, 
 If you keep Lilian amongst the males ; 
 Besides, as we have now been seen to meet, 
 It is but natural that I should greet 
 Your pretty wife, or all the world will say 
 Our friendship will not bear the light of day." 
 So Harold most reluctantly was driven 
 To introduce a serpent to his heaven. 
 
 Ah ! Harold, can you really hide the past ? 
 
 Has it not life and feeling to the last ? 
 
 Will not the early culture we receive, 
 
 Haunt us from sun-gilt Morn to shadowy Eve ? 
 
 And were you not delighted once again 
 
 To be by Lady Grace's wit re-slain ? 
 
 Too true, alas ! and Lilian felt as well 
 
 Th' enchanting influence of the Lady's spell ; 
 
 No moonlight magic poured thro' leafy trees 
 
 With dried leaves rustling in the mystic breeze, 
 
 Was needed to complete her wiles at night : 
 
 She wrought them in the ball-room's blazing light
 
 44 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 Observed by all ; and all could watch her will 
 Slowly but surely all resistance still. 
 Society adored dear Lady Grace, 
 For she was daughter of a noble race 
 Whose high progenitors had writ their name 
 Large in the annals of her country's fame ; 
 And she had mighty patronage and wealth, 
 And, best of gifts, — exuberance of health, 
 And her great beauty was a sight to see, 
 Entrancing as a rose's mystery ; 
 But she was subtly wicked, gaily bad, 
 And not a breath of scandal made her sad. 
 
 Thus pure-eyed Lilian met subtle Grace, 
 Who showed no blush of shame upon her face, 
 But talked so tenderly of Life and Death, 
 And showed such sympathy with human breath, 
 That Lilian was transported in her praise, 
 And next day quoted Harold many a phrase, 
 Born on her fertile lips, as treasured words 
 More hopeful than the singing of the birds. 
 But Harold never told his Lilian dear, 
 That Lady Grace had whispered in his ear 
 At some chance meeting, later, on that night, 
 " How deftly she had wooed his lady bright, 
 With words of wisdom that her eyes had read 
 And stored as nonsense in her flighty head
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. 45 
 
 Some years ago ; ne'er dreaming she would be 
 A lady-teacher of philosophy ! " 
 Nor did he tell her how he laughed with glee 
 At all this whispered impropriety. 
 
 That laugh was fatal : sudden as it came 
 It shed upon his cheeks a rosy shame, 
 And e'en the generous fumes of ruby wine 
 Rising like incense in its human shrine, 
 Could not endow it with one single charm ; 
 He therefore sought his Lilian in alarm, 
 And found her drooping like a lily pale 
 Swept by the fury of a western gale : — 
 " Is aught the matter, Lilian ? " he said, 
 As playfully he touched her pretty head, 
 And heard reply : " Darling, I am unwell ! 
 But why my nerves are wracked I cannot tell , 
 I feel as though some influence had passed 
 Throughout my system like a chilly blast ; 
 It can be only fancy : let us go." 
 Yet all the way she talked with rapid flow 
 Of Lady Grace's charming gifts and power, 
 Until she slept at last in her Love-bower, 
 And dreamed this dream : — 
 
 Lilian's Dream. 
 The moon looked o'er the shoulder of a hill,
 
 46 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 With many a tender, sweet, magnetic thrill, 
 
 Into a valley's heart ; which in amaze 
 
 Oped all its beauties to her love-lorn gaze. 
 
 The woods seemed loath to sleep while they were 
 
 kissed 
 By her soft glances, but the treacherous mist 
 Lay drowsily embracing the warm earth, 
 Unmindful of her gaze ; 'twas surely worth 
 A golden argosy to be so wooed 
 By such bewitching looks ; sweet Love might 
 
 brood 
 With the entranced woods eternally, 
 (And never pine again for what may be) 
 In such a scene : a Paradise more fair 
 Than moonlight streaming through the dark blue 
 
 air 
 Upon melodious waterfalls, whose songs 
 Will lull away a host of fancied wrongs, 
 Is scarce conceivable. Lilian loved the sight, 
 And wandered, pensive, far into the night, 
 Amid the ever-changing lights and shades 
 Wrought by the moon amid the dark green 
 
 glades, 
 Until she came to where a wild rose-tree 
 Trailed its blush-blossoms in a canopy 
 Over a mossy, old, romantic well, 
 In which she peered to read its magic spell,
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. 47 
 
 And, awe-struck, saw a snake of glittering green, 
 
 Whose diamond eyes lit up the mossy scene, 
 
 Writhing amid the ever-moving sand, 
 
 And seeming every moment to expand, 
 
 Until at length it lost its serpent shape, 
 
 And turned itself into a grinning ape, 
 
 Who with a scream tore all its skin away, 
 
 And then revealed a lady young and gay. 
 
 With wonder Lilian looked upon the face, 
 
 And found it imaged charming Lady Grace, 
 
 Who said no word to her, but looked most proud, 
 
 And then evanished in a silver cloud 
 
 Which fled along the mountain to the moon. 
 
 At this fair Lilian felt inclined to swoon, 
 
 But that she saw her husband's form arise 
 
 White, like a ghost, with anger in his eyes, 
 
 He looked at Lilian with a fierce disdain, 
 
 Then glided silently along the plain, 
 
 Climbed the drear mountain full of shadows deep, 
 
 And then ascended up the moonbeams steep, 
 
 Into the moon itself where Grace had flown. 
 
 " Fled in the moonbeams ! whither art thou 
 
 gone, 
 Thou soul of glory?" Lilian cried, distressed, 
 " Wilt thou not soon return and make me blest, 
 Or speak to me once more in some fine way, 
 Knowing I worship all thou hast to say ?
 
 48 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 String all the stars together into words, 
 
 And make a wonder for the vulgar herds 
 
 To newspaper about. Let not Night roll 
 
 Until thou write thy thoughts on heaven's blue 
 
 scroll." 
 Then the pale moon grew dark, the stars shone 
 
 out, 
 And Harold moved the diamond points about 
 Upon the blue until these words were read : — 
 " Lilian ! my love for you is Dead ! Dead ! Dead ! ' 
 With that she gave a little scream, 
 But was rejoiced to find it all a dream. 
 How could she nestle thus in Harold's arms, 
 Like a blush rose-bud opening all her charms, 
 And dream such treachery of his loving heart ! — 
 It almost made her tender conscience smart. 
 But on the morrow she the dream dismissed 
 For Harold lingeringly her lips had kissed. 
 
 " The morrow ! " Ah ! what meaning to us lies 
 In those two words ! The being who defies 
 The laws of life, sees hanging in the gloom 
 His dread to-morrow laden with his doom. 
 It may to all of us portend dismay, 
 For who can tell what's kernelled in the day ? 
 And yet we lightly tread the festive earth 
 As if each day endowed us with new birth,
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. 49 
 
 For to our great capacity for fretting 
 
 The Lord in kindness granted quick-forgetting. 
 
 Lilian looked through her casement on the 
 
 morrow 
 And found the heavens were shedding tears of 
 
 sorrow 
 Upon the dismal earth. The sparrows took 
 Their crumbs of comfort with dejected look, 
 And twittered to her on the window-sill 
 In pitying tones : how could their hearts be still 
 In such a rain when Lilian was by, 
 Looking distressful at the weeping sky ! 
 She was the only human friend they knew, 
 And to her window their wet feathers flew, 
 Just as in Southwold in the country air 
 The birds in trouble sought her tender care. 
 She watched the traffic rolling through the street, — 
 The ceaseless hurry of the busy feet, — 
 And saw the rags of poverty go by 
 Steaming with wet, and with a tender sigh 
 She closed the casement, dimly wondering why 
 The Mind which made the weeping world should be 
 So cruel to our weak humanity. 
 But as she pondered she was made aware 
 That Nature gave to all the boundless air, 
 Light, food and water, plenty for us all, 
 
 E
 
 50 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 But laziness and self held man in thrall, 
 
 And therefore in the selfish rush for pelf 
 
 Humanity grew cruel to itself. 
 
 And then she laughed at her own puzzled mind, — 
 
 Such problems must be patent to the blind ! 
 
 The world was made for all, and all are free 
 
 To make the best of what they hear and see, 
 
 For life is what we make it, and our dreams 
 
 Are ever lit from Heaven by spirit-beams. 
 
 To aid this thoughtful mood came Lady Grace, 
 
 Philosophy reflected in her face, 
 
 She having dashed up to fair Lilian's door, 
 
 Bespattering mud upon the humble poor, 
 
 With her two prancing steeds and chariot proud, 
 
 The envy of the wet pedestrian crowd. 
 
 She kissed fair Lilian on her blush-rose cheek, 
 
 And looking charmingly distressed and meek, 
 
 She talked of all the troubles of the times ; 
 
 How the poor suffered in these treacherous climes ; 
 
 How discontent prevailed and all cried " Give ! " 
 
 Instead of giving, that their souls might live 
 
 And Love be satisfied, — for if all gave 
 
 There would be none from discontent to save. 
 
 Then she told Lilian she was on her way 
 
 Her weekly visits to the poor to pay, 
 
 And tender-hearted Lilian was grieved 
 
 That she had not the same fine thought conceived,
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. 5 I 
 
 And asked dear Lady Grace if she might be 
 Her help-mate in relief of misery 
 One happy day ; for Harold would be pleased 
 To know that she had some poor spirit eased ; 
 And Grace consented with such love-lit eyes 
 She might have been an angel in disguise. 
 
 She might have been ! Ah ! yes ! she might have 
 
 been ! 
 But for the wickedness that lay unseen 
 Beneath that flower of human loveliness 
 Whose beauty it seemed sacrilege to dress, 
 So perfect were its lines. It would be vain 
 To clothe a lily ; Beauty would be slain ! 
 (Why did God waste this loveliness on her ? 
 Such natures it were best to clothe with fur ! 
 Then we should know them with their purring ways 
 And never trust their soft, deceitful gaze.) 
 She came to Lilian to destroy her peace, 
 That she might Harold's fettered heart release, 
 And yet she did it in the name of Love, 
 With a soft, cooing manner like a dove, 
 Just as the Spring will woo a gentle flower 
 With sunny warmth, and in an icy hour 
 Kill it with wanton joy ! 
 
 The pattering rain 
 Was blown all night against the window-pane 
 
 E 2
 
 52- HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 In Lilian's room. Behind her sheltering walls 
 
 She waited long, — sad as the wind that calls 
 
 Dead leaves together when warm Summer sighs 
 
 Her languid life away, and slowly dies 
 
 In Autumn's garnering arms, all wet with tears. 
 
 But Harold came not : and strange trembling fears 
 
 Crept through her nerves in phantom company ; 
 
 With all that dull, weird, strain of agony 
 
 That drears the brain, and grays the hair, and writes 
 
 The poetry that sorrow's hand indites 
 
 F6r all the yearning, restless human race 
 
 In lines of trouble on each speaking face. 
 
 Where did he linger ? Was he hurt or dead ? 
 
 Why could she not one tear of sorrow shed 
 
 And wail herself away till morning light 
 
 Flushed its red gold o'er this dark dream of Night ? 
 
 She heard a creaking step upon the stair ! 
 
 Was it his spirit wandering in the air ? 
 
 She dared not look ; it chilled her blood ; it felt 
 
 As though it crept up to her side and knelt ! 
 
 Then came a touch ! 'twas Harold's ! and her tears 
 
 Flowed in full streams and drowned her trembling 
 
 fears : — 
 " Oh ! Harold darling, I have watched the Night 
 Shed its wild tears until the morning light 
 Rubied my windows with its hopeful glow,
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. 53 
 
 But I felt desolate as wastes of snow 
 Desolate, Harold, as when hope has fled, 
 As when the roses have their last bud shed, 
 As when I saw you in my wretched dream 
 Follow the Lady up the moon's cold beam. ' 
 
 " Forgive me, Lilian, I have been but wild, 
 And I forgot my Lilian was a child, 
 Unversed in our ' Society's ' cold ways ; 
 No husband by his wife for ever stays, 
 And I last night was by some friends allured 
 Who thought my gentle wife my soul immured 
 And cramped ; and in defence of you, my dear, 
 I spent the night with them without a fear." 
 
 " Alas ! Alas ! that I should be despised, 
 
 And these false friends should be more highly 
 
 prized ! 
 I, left alone to weep without a word, 
 While they your lightest play of fancy heard ; 
 They knew you safe, T thought you 'mongst the 
 
 dead, 
 And from my heart all thought of comfort fled ! 
 If your ' Society ' would make a wife 
 Suffer like this, then I despise its life, 
 'Tis false ; 'tis base ; but do not think me weak, 
 For if the clarion of war should speak,
 
 54 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 And you were needed to defend the right, 
 Would I not speed you forth into the Night, 
 And hear unflinchingly the booming guns, 
 Strong as a Spartan woman with her sons ? " 
 
 Kind, tender Lilian ! strong, and sweet, and true, 
 
 " Society " is not for such as you ; 
 
 The mother takes her daughter to the waltz, 
 
 And bids her smile upon a heart that's false, 
 
 The husband trains his wife as a decoy, 
 
 That she may her seductive arts employ 
 
 To win him favours, honours, place, and power ; 
 
 The toady fawns and flatters hour by hour, 
 
 And murders Truth to please hard Mammon's 
 
 eyes 
 Who lives on surfeits of deceits and lies. 
 Is there a glory in such life as this ? 
 Can moral blindness bring us lives of bliss ? 
 No ! shout the noble hearts who've lived and died 
 To cleanse society's dark, filthy tide ! 
 Oh ! for a wrathful cataract to sweep 
 Its stagnant waters down the cleansing steep ! 
 A moral revolution to upheave 
 This haunt of Vanity, where all deceive ! 
 
 But she was comforted ; — the gift of Love 
 Brings consolation like the light above, —
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. 55 
 
 And ere another bitter hour had flown 
 
 Fresh flowers of Fancy in her heart had grown 
 
 Towards her Sun, her Idol, her Delight, 
 
 Her living Vision of emotions bright ! 
 
 And so with her sweet spirit cleansed with tears, 
 
 With senses keen, intensified by fears, 
 
 She smiled on Harold and his sheltering arms 
 
 Unfolded to receive her tremulous charms : 
 
 And then they passed a lovelier, tenderer hour 
 
 Than souls have e'er enjoyed since Eden's bower 
 
 Thrust its heart treasures on the weeping earth 
 
 To bless her valleys with a human birth. 
 
 Who would not quarrel to re-live again 
 Love's keen emotions by inertia slain ? 
 
 Alas ! for Harold with his web of sin 
 Encircling, netting his poor body in ! 
 Grace had been with him on that night of 
 
 death ! 
 And he had kissed her with his plighted breath ! 
 While Lilian struggled in that gust of tears 
 Drearily haunted with her heart-made fears. 
 See in the Night-black heavens 
 
 A portent red, 
 A heart with tears of blood, 
 For Love's sake shed !
 
 5 6 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 Speared by a shaft of gold — 
 
 An arrow bright, — 
 Which sought the sunlit heavens, 
 
 But found the Night ! 
 
 Just two days after this the Lady came, 
 
 With her bright eyes on fire and cheeks aflame, 
 
 To take dear Lilian to the troubled poor, 
 
 Lazily charioted from door to door. 
 
 Sad sights they saw : weak faces stained by drink, 
 
 And feeble creatures trembling on the brink 
 
 Of vast eternity ; hearts torn by care 
 
 And others happy as the summer air 
 
 In spite of portents of impending woe 
 
 Which their high spirits fain would overthrow ; 
 
 But worst of all, crime pressed its blood-red hand 
 
 On poverty's dry throat, and spoilt the grand 
 
 Conception, born amid the suffering poor, 
 
 That God will bless the hardships men endure. 
 
 (Crime 'gainst this rule rebels and would defy 
 
 The message telephoned from God on high.) 
 
 That poverty breeds genius, hope breeds joy, 
 
 And aspirations tremble in the poorest boy, 
 
 We know full well. But all this sore distress 
 
 In homes without a dream of loveliness 
 
 Or touch of beauty (save the sad, sweet eyes 
 
 Of broken-hearted mothers torn by cries
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. S7 
 
 Of tender children famishing for food), 
 
 Made gentle Lilian pitifully brood. 
 
 And when they came to one whose golden hair 
 
 Streamed o'er her pillow like a vision rare, 
 
 And made a background for the loveliest face 
 
 That Nature's skilful hand could ever trace, 
 
 She felt as hopeless as the last fond sigh 
 
 Of dying summer. Death seemed standing by 
 
 Ready to bear the body to the tomb ; 
 
 But the faint spirit shone out through the gloom 
 
 To tell its woeful tale ere she was gone ; 
 
 And Lilian listened silent as a stone. 
 
 " O World ! my heart is dying, but Life's song 
 
 That haunts my mem'ry, Love would fain prolong, 
 
 For He inspired it in an hour of Spring, 
 
 Ere I had dreamed of all this sorrowing. 
 
 I loved the fields, the woods, the open air, 
 
 And lived from hour to hour without a care ; 
 
 Like a wild bird I roamed, and like a bee 
 
 I sought the stores of honied secrecy 
 
 That Nature yields to all who love her well, 
 
 And fall unconsciously beneath her spell. 
 
 And God was with me then ; in all the flowers 
 
 (Those beauteous dreamings of the sunlit hours,) 
 
 He looked at me. The Wind was but His breath, 
 
 Blowing fresh life amid the mists of Death.
 
 58 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 The stars were but His eyes, and 'neath His 
 
 dome 
 Of blue at night, I pictured Heaven my home. 
 And one day He came nearer to me still, 
 And spoke to me with Love's magnetic thrill 
 In the soft breathings of a youth divine 
 In whose dear features goodness seemed to shine. 
 Where is God now ? And where that voice so 
 
 sweet 
 That every evening in the woods would greet 
 My listening ears ? Has not God left the world 
 And Love's wild flame into Hell's furnace hurled ? 
 Oh ! can you not discern Him ? Speak to me ! 
 Bring from that room my baby mystery 
 Cradled in sleep. Then p'raps my love will live 
 And I shall see my God again and give 
 Him praise and honour." Lady Grace arose 
 And brought the baby buried in repose, 
 And laid it in the yearning mother's arms ; 
 Then the sweet babe awoke and laughed its charms 
 Out of its two blue eyes. The mother's face 
 Soon rippled o'er with smiles, the gloom to chase ; 
 The heart was light again tho' Death was near. 
 
 " Now can I see the Lord again appear ! 
 
 He smiles at me ! See ! in those love-lit eyes 
 
 He lives ! lovelier than flowers, or starry skies,
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. 59 
 
 Or woods, or streams, when painted by the sun 
 
 In summer pictures, exquisitely done ; 
 
 One glimpse of man's intelligence is worth 
 
 The gathered riches of material Earth ! 
 
 Oh ! God ! forgive my infidelity, 
 
 And waft my soul across th' ethereal sea 
 
 Into the fulness of eternity. 
 
 My lover must be dead : he gave me this 
 
 Memento of our hours of tender bliss. 
 
 He could not leave me sorrowing here alone 
 
 In sight of God's most awful Judgment Throne. 
 
 He must have gone before me, and I may 
 
 Be with him yet upon the Judgment Day. 
 
 Look ! Lady Grace, are not those Harold's eyes ? 
 
 Are not they blue like thoughts of Paradise ? 
 
 Smile ! baby, smile ! you cannot e'er appear 
 
 Lovelier than Harold did to me, my dear. 
 
 But he has gone, and I am dying fast, 
 
 And when the shroud of Night o'er me is cast 
 
 I shall have faded like a flower full-blown 
 
 And only Death will love me as his own." 
 
 Then Lilian, trembling, walked across the room 
 And touched the baby fingers in the gloom, 
 And lit the light, and saw the lovely blue 
 That only Harold's darling eyes e'er knew ; 
 And Love — that mute detective — further saw
 
 60 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 In the deep blue a tiny speck, a flaw, 
 
 That her own Harold's had, and then she said : — 
 
 " Who was your sweet one whom you fancy dead, 
 
 My suffering sister ? p'raps we yet may find 
 
 Him longing for his baby left behind 
 
 To praise his Maker in the midst of woe." 
 
 Then the salt tears began to overflow 
 
 Adown the sufferer's cheeks, and then she told 
 
 Our Harold's history, till her limbs grew cold 
 
 And Death enveloped her, and slowly stilled 
 
 The voice that froze fair Lilian's blood, and chilled 
 
 Her love for Harold. 
 
 Thus fair Lilian met 
 As if by accident his country pet, 
 His faithful Mary, his contented slave, 
 Who would have killed the slandering knave 
 Who dared to speak one word against her joy ; 
 For Love when pure admits of no alloy 
 And worships ever though its heart be torn 
 With wounded feelings delicately borne. 
 
 As breaks the storm-cloud o'er the mountain 
 
 height, 
 As Summer withers in the frost of night, 
 As lilies die when broken at the stem,
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. 6 1 
 
 Though torn by Love to weave a diadem, 
 So o'erwrought Lilian by that death-bed fell, 
 Plunged in a grief of which no words can tell 
 The bitterness, the torment, and the woe ; 
 E'en Grace's tears began to overflow 
 Watching the baby playing with the dead, 
 Tossing the hair about the silent head, 
 And saying " Peep-Bo " to the death-shut eyes : 
 She tore the child away and hushed its cries, 
 Then turned to Lilian, who from faint despair 
 She brought to life again with fresh-fanned air. 
 
 Ah ! Lady Grace, you never thought to see 
 
 Death carry Mary to eternity 
 
 And stamp his signet on your treachery ! 
 
 It would have pleased your heart to watch her 
 
 eyes 
 Shine out on Lilian with a mad surprise ; 
 To watch hot jealousy with pulsing thud 
 Like smothered steam course thro' her bounding 
 
 blood ; 
 To see wild passion surge up thro' her throat 
 And hear the scalding vap'rous words up- float ; 
 But to be baulked by Death of all this glee 
 Was never part of your fine treachery. 
 No secret now ! for all the world must know 
 How your false heart had planned this cruel blow
 
 62 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 For trustful Lilian ! The hurrying wind 
 Brushed past the window where her heart had 
 
 sinned 
 And seemed to carry on its tell-tale breath 
 The news to Harold on the wings of Death. 
 
 And Lilian took the baby in her arms 
 And pitied it, still wondering at its charms : — 
 " You might have spared my heart, my Lady Grace, 
 The darts that pierce it through this baby face, 
 You are a bitter woman, with a spite 
 As secret as the workings of the Night. 
 Now is your scheming heart to me laid bare, 
 And never more can ye be Lady Fair, 
 But a black-hearted horror ! sly, like mice, 
 With heart corrupt congealed in breasts of ice. 
 Can meanness hide behind a noble name ? 
 Your ghostly ancestors must blush for shame 
 At this your petty spite ! Why have you stung, 
 You wasp ? Has my unthinking, foolish tongue 
 Wrought evil in your path ? or do you sting 
 Only for pleasure like a gnat-made thing ? 
 Or is it worse ? Oh ! horror ! Is it worse ? 
 Are you my Harold's too ? Does envy curse 
 Your coal-black heart? and would you therefore kill, 
 Stab, sting your rival ? Nay ! the thought must 
 flee!
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. 63 
 
 Harold of you could never amorous be ! 
 
 A soul that's cynical Love cannot grieve, 
 
 And Sorrow would not one pure tear-drop leave 
 
 Within thy greedy eyes. Away ! False friend ! 
 
 You've strived to break my heart, and gained 
 
 your end." 
 Then with hysteria laughing through her pain, 
 And wild-eyed fever mounting to her brain, 
 She turned with sudden interest to the child, 
 And with these words its fretfulness beguiled : 
 " But, baby, you are innocent of all, 
 A merry cypher, product of the fall 
 Of two weak hearts into Love's melting fire ; 
 Just a sweet outcome of a wild desire : 
 But how could Harold leave you here to die, 
 Sweet, laughing baby, can you tell me why ? 
 Is he a fickle father, think you, dear ? 
 A man at whom a wanton eye might leer 
 And draw him like a magnet ? Is he such ? 
 If so, I cannot glory now in much. 
 But he shall see you, baby, he shall hear 
 Your pretty prattle, and when you appear 
 The heart of heaven may open : we may see 
 Great truths behind Love's veil of mystery." 
 
 These frenzied words, unnatural, untrue, 
 To Lilian's lips, tormentingly upflew,
 
 64 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 And stung my Lady Grace ; Lilian, so kind, 
 Could not be e'en by jealousy made blind 
 To all the human trouble of the scene ; 
 She could not love the baby much, I ween ! 
 
 But Lady Grace stept forth and barred the way, 
 And said : "You taunt me, Madam, but I'll pay 
 Your words with interest and taunt you too. 
 I grieve at all this passion. Is it you, 
 Fair Lilian, — so good, so true, so kind, — 
 To be thus tossed about by passion blind ? 
 Should you who love Humanity so well, 
 Breathe burning language eloquent of Hell ? 
 Why should you sully your sweet lips with words 
 Which would have scared your friendly twittering 
 
 birds ? 
 You are so good, you know ; so unconcerned 
 About the evils human hearts have learned. 
 Was it not kind of me to ope your eyes, 
 To bare your lover's heart of its disguise, 
 That ye might learn a lesson lying deep 
 In poverty's spare bosom lulled to sleep ? 
 I thought you'd like a visit to the poor 
 That you might see the troubles they endure." 
 
 " Oh ! heart of Death ! Silence your ill-formed 
 jeers,"
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. 65 
 
 Said Lilian ; — " My cheeks are cut with tears ; 
 
 You've torn my budding heart ; and taught me more 
 
 In one sad hour than youth should e'er explore ; 
 
 Be satisfied ; my eyes are opened wide ; 
 
 I find it may be hell to be a bride ; 
 
 To wed impurity, to kiss its lips 
 
 Is worse than scourging with a hundred whips. 
 
 Your words are true ; it surely cannot be 
 
 That I, so simple, burn with jealousy 
 
 And rave like Hell ! I must be sadly changed ; 
 
 My heart o'er wild, weird melodies has ranged 
 
 With sudden inspiration ; I am lost ; 
 
 For a great wave my anguished heart has tossed 
 
 A wreck upon Life's shore in blinding mist. 
 
 A devil passed my ear just now and hissed 
 
 Fierce scorn at this sweet baby ; must I hate 
 
 This pretty mould of flesh because hard fate 
 
 Has given it to a wanton ? Yes ; I must ; 
 
 I cannot now my better feelings trust ; 
 
 I loathe you, baby ; I will lay you here, 
 
 And leave you shivering, without a tear ; 
 
 I cannot touch you ; you are not my own ; 
 
 How can I speak in thus untender tone ? 
 Some other heart within my breast has grown 
 In one short hour ! Oh ! let a wild remorse 
 Tear at your scheming heart and thus divorce 
 
 K
 
 66 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 The devil from you, bitter, biting Grace ! 
 I would from memory blot out your face. 
 But, baby, I relent ; I still will be 
 A woman full of warm humanity ; 
 So let us pass, my Lady, let us go ; 
 You've trodden rudely on unsullied snow." 
 
 And so the baby in fair Lilian's arms 
 Passed out into the world with wild alarms 
 Ringing in Lilian's ears. She hailed a cab, — 
 For pride made in her heart too deep a stab, 
 To let her sit by Lady Grace's side ; — 
 The space 'twixt good and evil must be wide. 
 
 She found her husband anxious in his home, 
 Alarmed to find his darling did not come, 
 He waited long ; the dreary hours went by 
 Until Night's veil slid down the sunset sky, 
 And Lilian came not. Conscience seemed to say 
 That he deserved to be chastised this way 
 For his past conduct ; but it would be mean 
 To think such petty spite of his pure queen. 
 He heard the cab, the bell, and rushed to greet 
 His darling's entry from the busy street ; 
 He tried to kiss her, but she waved him off, 
 And tendered him the baby with a scoff ; — 
 (i This is your child, your Mary's child,
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. 67 
 
 I know all now, my brain is nearly wild," 
 
 She swiftly said ; " In this poor street you'll see 
 
 (giving him a card) 
 Your Mary gazing at eternity. 
 Go, man, and bury her ; it is her due ; 
 The final service she can ask of you." 
 
 Harold stood livid 'gainst the whitened wall, 
 Pained by the shock ; for he could not recall 
 Rough words from Lilian in the happy past ; 
 But now it" seemed as though hard stones were 
 
 cast 
 Against his tender face by pure white hands ; 
 As though the hall were filled with harsh brass 
 
 bands 
 Torturing with full-inflated murd'rous lung 
 The tenderest melodies the gods have sung. • 
 
 The baby laughed at him and strove to fly 
 Into his arms ; and Lilian, with a sigh, 
 Gave it to Harold, while her eyes grew dim 
 With tears still eloquent of love for him. 
 She left the baby then and sought her room, 
 Feeling o'ershadowed by some awful doom ; 
 She tore away the diamonds from her ears, 
 Took off the brooch his mother wore for years, 
 Her rings most costly and her bracelets too, — 
 
 F 2
 
 68 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 But round her wedding-ring sweet fancies flew ; 
 It was her golden rosary of Love, 
 On which she told soft prayers to Heaven above, 
 And breathed her sacred kisses ; it would rim 
 Her thoughts in black for ever, if to him 
 She were one moment faithless while she wore 
 The hallowed emblem of the love he bore ; — 
 To part with that meant loving nevermore. 
 So it was kept ; but all the rest were piled 
 Into a heap, from which bright fairies smiled 
 In twinkles through the little jewelled eyes, — 
 Aiding the charm that in a keepsake lies. 
 They were his gifts, soiled by his touch impure, 
 She would not wear them till she found a cure 
 To heal with gentle hand the cutting smart 
 That seemed to penetrate her very heart. 
 Fevered with passion, pained with wounded pride, 
 She walked the room with wild indignant stride, 
 And then resolved to seek her father's help 
 To save her from the curse of wounded self. 
 
 Harold was dazed : he knew not what to do 
 
 When up the stairs his maddened Lilian flew ; 
 
 With fervent heart he wished the flight could be 
 
 To heaven ! away from all this misery. 
 
 Try how he would he could not wash away 
 
 The stains that tarnished his wild life, — called "gay."
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. 6$ 
 
 Fain would he be light-hearted ; but a weight 
 
 Depressed his spirit with a force as great 
 
 As waters infinite. Now she knew all ; 
 
 The secret of his brutal passion fall 
 
 Into the sensual pit of low desire, 
 
 Ere he had seen the blaze of Heavenly fire 
 
 That shone from Love's high beacon by the sea : 
 
 Would he had told her all his misery 
 
 When in the lap of Southwold they were shown 
 
 Visions of glory few fond hearts have known : 
 
 A woman would have gauged a woman's heart 
 
 And taught him how to smooth poor Mary's part. 
 
 Yet who could talk to innocence of guilt ? 
 
 'Twould be like plunging to the very hilt 
 
 A murderous sword in human blood : No ! No ! 
 
 It seemed impossible to stay the blow : 
 
 Now he must face his sorrow-stricken wife 
 
 Conscious of having soiled her pure, white life. 
 
 With leaden feet he followed up the flight 
 Lilian had touched with feet as swift as light, 
 And 'neath her blazing eye and burning cheek 
 He stood convicted : conscience made him weak ; 
 And Lilian seemed to toss him to and fro 
 Like a lone boat in a Pacific blow 
 In her wild flood of words : —
 
 70 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 " I am undone ! 
 Deceived ! I thought in you my love had won 
 The pure devotion of a noble mind 
 That I could worship. Truly Love is blind ! 
 I would unwrite your name upon my heart 
 But Law forbids it, taking sorry part 
 With Man 'gainst Woman ! Oh ! the brutal thought ! 
 You came to me impure and o'er me wrought 
 The spell of love ; had I but done the same 
 To you, you would have rightly cursed my name. 
 Oh ! free of heart ! Oh ! libertine of Love ! 
 Oh ! hypocrite to talk to Heaven above ! 
 To tell me that you would a prism be 
 So that I might your heart more clearly see ! 
 How I could laugh at my credulity, 
 But it were best to weep at Man's deceit ! 
 The knees that knelt in homage at my feet 
 Had stooped to win a wanton ere they came 
 To worship me ! The eyes that lit Love's flame 
 Were like two beacons of deceitful light 
 Luring a vessel on the rocks at Night ! 
 The lips that kissed the wanton came to mine 
 And touched them simulating Love divine ! 
 As tho' a man could stand and worship God 
 And then leer round to give the Devil a nod ! 
 He that loves wantons must with wantons dwell, 
 For innocence can never live in Hell.
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. 7 1 
 
 'Tis cowardly to seek a pure-eyed bride 
 
 And taint her with the guilt you fain would hide. 
 
 Oh ! fool, to trick me ! Fool, to give me cause 
 
 To cavil at Man's Woman-trampling laws ! 
 
 Fool, to conceive that purity could be 
 
 Happily wedded to impurity ! 
 
 See how the fates have worked ! See how your 
 
 friends 
 Have laughed to watch how good with evil blends ! 
 See how your scheming Lady Grace has sought 
 To bring our nuptial happiness to naught ! 
 How subtly she has planned with secret aim 
 To stamp me with the taint of all your shame ! 
 Death came between us or you would have 
 
 known 
 The hate your Mary would to you have shown : 
 All your deceit would then have seen the day. 
 How could you take your Mary, young and gay, 
 Into your heart, and treat her as your queen, 
 Then leave her helpless with no board between 
 Her and a gaping Hell ? You never cared 
 How your poor Mary through temptation fared 
 After you left her ; yet she was your slave, 
 And happily the great world's tidal wave 
 Laid her upon the sands of Time unharmed, 
 And when she died she was for you alarmed, 
 Not for herself : and so she well might be,
 
 J 2 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 You frozen unit of Humanity I 
 
 What, pray, may I expect from such a man ? 
 
 Homage ? Joy ? Love ? Yes, for a moment's 
 
 span, 
 But not for ever. If my beauty hide 
 Itself to try you, would your faith abide? 
 No ; for already Lady Grace has been 
 A welcome guest within your heart unseen. 
 Ah ! you may start ! but tho' I have not known 
 The false flowers in a London ball-room blown, 
 Still I know well a jealous woman's eye, 
 However subtle it may be or sly." 
 
 At this she ceased, and it was sad to see 
 
 The lovely lady's bitter agony ; 
 
 Her tender eyes of blue with passion flashed 
 
 And all her body seemed with fury lashed ; 
 
 She was transfigured from a gentle girl 
 
 To a majestic angel who could hurl 
 
 A mighty avalanche of righteous wrath, — 
 
 The gentle South had changed to gusty North. 
 
 " Be gentle, Lilian," wretched Harold said, 
 " Hurl not your fury on my helpless head ; 
 Be kind ; for I am broken down with grief 
 To think that Love can bring me no relief. 
 He that soils Purity has guilt so great
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. 73 
 
 That Heaven itself cannot avert the fate 
 That he must justly suffer. I am dyed 
 With guilt : Mary I loved not ; yet I lied 
 My love to her, and she believed me true, 
 But it was not until I met with you 
 That I felt Love's soft magic of the soul, 
 Which from my being all contentment stole 
 Until I won you. Is there in the skies 
 No quick forgiveness when Repentance cries ? 
 Thousands have treated women just the same 
 Though my lips speak it to their deathless shame ! " 
 Then Lilian relented and with sighs 
 Spoke her heart's agonizing cries ; 
 She looked just like a lily in despair, 
 No more rejoicing in the Earth's sweet air, 
 But ripe for spirit-land. Black rings appeared 
 Beneath her eyes, signals of danger reared 
 By mortal trouble of the heart within : — 
 Her beauty seemed receding from his sin : — 
 She sat her down exhausted on the bed 
 And with soft pantings these heart-yearnings 
 said : — 
 
 " Oh ! that my Spirit-Lord would tear away 
 The knowledge that this too malignant day 
 Has scorched into my brain. Alas ! I know ! 
 And must for ever know. The winds that blow
 
 74 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 Will whisper it or howl it in my ear, 
 
 And grinning Death will bear it to my bier ; 
 
 The sun will smile it sadly down to me, 
 
 And moons will shed it o'er the whisp'ring sea ! 
 
 I feel as though the idol that I reared 
 
 Had been all suddenly with mud besmeared 
 
 By treacherous hands, and try howe'er I may 
 
 I cannot wash the hateful stains away. 
 
 • ••••• 
 
 " But, Harold, dear, I am a woman still, 
 
 And I must love you e'en against my will, 
 
 My broken idol shall be dear to me, 
 
 E'en as my old, soiled doll in infancy 
 
 Was dearer far than new ones finely dressed, 
 
 And far more lovingly by me caressed. 
 
 Nature to all some compensation brings 
 
 To soothe Life's ever-agonizing strings. 
 
 Oh ! Harold, we can never feel again 
 
 Those Southwold dreamings in the sun and rain ; 
 
 They would be diff 'rent now ; but still we might 
 
 Have others bringing lovelier delight ; 
 
 More human, p'raps ! more tender, being born 
 
 Of gentle grief, too constant, like each morn. 
 
 Some change seems wrought within me, something 
 
 great, 
 I seem exalted to a higher state ; 
 And yet I feel so weak, my Harold dear,
 
 HE THAT IS PURE. 75 
 
 As though some cord had broken rather near 
 My beating heart ; and yet that works the same, 
 Flooding my being with Life's liquid flame : 
 
 " So weak am I, my Harold, that my hands 
 Will not obey their royal queen's commands, 
 P'raps you will aid me, darling, to undress 
 That I may my reviving bed caress." 
 
 Then Lilian drooping like a dying rose 
 
 Was laid upon her pillow to repose 
 
 Breathing soft words : — " I shall not surely die, 
 
 My Harold, dear, I have no wings to fly 
 
 To spirit-land with yet ; " but Harold kissed 
 
 The words upon her lips and never wist 
 
 What they might mean until she gently said : — 
 
 " Saw you that lovely vision o'er my head ? 
 
 Harold, my sweet, it was not of the earth, 
 
 It seemed to have a wondrous spirit-birth ; 
 
 Look ! there's another, darling ; after all 
 
 There is a God ! and if He on me call 
 
 I fain must follow, for e'en stars obey 
 
 His mandate." Thus all night she dreaming lay 
 
 Talking to Harold, whom she would not pain 
 
 With too abrupt a flight to Heaven's high plain. 
 
 But when God called her, thro' the Mist she went, 
 
 Ere the dark Night had with the Morning blent,
 
 y5 HE THAT IS PURE. 
 
 And the last words upon her lips were clear, — 
 " Be kind to Mary's baby, Harold dear, 
 Keep him so pure, that there may be no stain 
 To mar his joy when Love comes round again." 
 With this she died ; snapped were the tender 
 
 strings 
 That bound her spirit to material things. 
 
 There is no more to say : it would be vain 
 
 To sermonize upon poor Harold's pain, — 
 
 It is a book itself, and speaks to all, — 
 
 Yet there are some sweet words we would recall 
 
 Ere this Life-poem fadeth to its close, — 
 
 '' He that is pure, is lovelier than the rose."
 
 MY LADY LOVE. 
 
 Her Eyes. 
 
 Like wells of water, deep and calm, 
 
 The blue of Heaven reflecting, 
 Her eyes with melancholy charm, 
 As if my soul detecting, 
 Would gaze their depths into mine own ; 
 Two wells of Love for me alone. 
 
 And yet I felt tho' calm their gaze, 
 
 They might be stirred to madness, 
 Or tremulous with passion blaze 
 Into tumultuous gladness, 
 Or tragic with tempestuous rage, 
 Thrill truth into a book-bound sage. 
 
 Sometimes from out that slumbering blue, 
 
 I've seen a torrent streaming, — 
 As silently as sky-born dew 
 
 Doth set the rose-buds dreaming, — 
 In tears distilling human grief, 
 To God, the Father, for relief.
 
 78 MY LADY LOVE. 
 
 No line could plumb their depths of woe, 
 
 When moist with floods of sorrow, 
 No painter catch the fitful glow 
 That on some joyous morrow 
 Might twinkle o'er their laughing sheen, 
 In wild delight at thoughts unseen. 
 
 I cannot think those eyes can die 
 
 And leave me unbefriended ; 
 Such lights must gem the starry sky, 
 When their earth-life is ended, 
 And everlastingly appeal 
 To my tired spirit, when I feel 
 
 Distressed at all the webs of thought 
 
 Inwoven in my being, 
 Sometimes like gossamer light-wrought, 
 With every wind agreeing, 
 And sometimes like a rope to knell 
 Death's ever sad mysterious bell. 
 
 Her eyes, like fire, would burn that rope, 
 Ere the wild knell had sounded, 
 
 And pierce me with a beam of hope, 
 Though by despair surrounded,
 
 MY LADY LOVE. 79 
 
 So in their gaze as in a shrine, 
 My soul shall picture things divine. 
 
 Her Hair. 
 
 Take all the richest shades of red, 
 
 And mix with russet brown, 
 And then conceive a texture soft 
 As finest eider-down, 
 And deck with million glints of gold ; 
 Then Fancy may her hair behold. 
 
 A colour rarest of the rare, 
 
 But ne'er forgot when seen, 
 A glimpse of autumn when the woods 
 Are painting out their green, 
 And leaves indulge in wild excess, 
 Their dying thoughts of loveliness. 
 
 It seemed to ripple like a stream, 
 
 When o'er her arms it fell, 
 Its silent cataracts of gold 
 Held by some magic spell, 
 From bounding earthward out of sight 
 In paroxysms of delight.
 
 80 MY LADY LOVE. 
 
 And yet it seemed to glow with warmth, 
 
 And on a wintry day, 
 Like summer breathing through the house, 
 It thawed the cold away ; 
 With falling cascades all on fire, 
 What magic could she more desire ? 
 
 And then, too, by that dimpled stream, 
 
 Two violets of blue, 
 In modesty did dwell alway, 
 And shyly peep at you ; 
 Those flowers and that golden stream, 
 Were every maiden's envious dream. 
 
 In love-chains it would weave itself, 
 
 And twine around my form, 
 More close than honeysuckle clings, 
 When wondering at the storm. 
 She was my anchor, and her hair, 
 My love-wove cable, rich and rare. 
 
 And she had tiny ringlets too, 
 
 Like little dancing sprites, 
 Who seemed to play a thousand tricks, 
 Within her hair o' nights, 
 When in the lamplight they would dance 
 And then evade my eager glance.
 
 MY LADY LOVE. 8 1 
 
 And sometimes in the blue of night, 
 
 I make two stars her eyes, 
 And trace her streaming hair along 
 The deep, mysterious skies, 
 Where old astrologers have wrought 
 Wild theories in frenzied thought. 
 
 She was a saint by Nature made, 
 
 Endowed from babyhood, 
 With that bright halo painters use, 
 To crown the great and good. 
 Around her head it seemed to shine 
 As natural as things divine. 
 
 But when the gold turns silver-gray, 
 
 Will Winter then prevail ? 
 Will all the woods be drear and bare 
 And hushed the nightingale ? 
 Will her dear hair, now worth fine gold, 
 Be then for silver-value sold ? 
 
 Ah ! no ; for ever there will be 
 
 A summer in her soul, 
 And the delightful tints of gray, 
 Will sanctify the whole ; 
 The fields are bleached each autumn morn 
 As Nature ripeneth the corn. 
 
 G
 
 82 MY LADY LOVE. 
 
 Her Lips. 
 
 I have a rose in the garden, 
 
 Blushing a delicate red, 
 And the bees go there marauding 
 Before its bloom is shed, 
 As a fiend would rifle virtue ere the grace of Youth 
 is fled. 
 
 But I know a flower more lovely 
 
 Than ever a garden grew, 
 More delicate in complexion 
 Than rose-leaf ever knew ; 
 And the fiend who touched it lightly would much 
 his boldness rue. 
 
 Yet I have been bold to rashness, 
 
 And tasted a hundred sips 
 Of the most delicious honey, 
 From that flower's sacred lips ; 
 And she never thought I was a fiend to scorpion 
 with whips.
 
 MY LADY LOVE. 83 
 
 But she shot me a golden quiver , 
 From that vermeil Cupid bow, 
 As she drew her lips asunder 
 To dart her witty blow ; 
 And I would not be half so gay if she did not 
 wound me so. 
 
 Her lips made perfect language, 
 
 They were eloquent at rest, 
 But when they were in motion, 
 All listeners forward pressed, 
 That with music of her falling words, their ears 
 might be caressed. 
 
 And I have seen her pouting 
 Like a flower partly blown, 
 And nothing would the pout dissolve 
 But a kiss — most lightly thrown 
 From the bristly lips of the man she loves to pet, 
 and scold, and own. 
 
 When Love on her lips would linger 
 Entranced in summer-born smiles, 
 None could escape the contagion 
 Of all her innocent wiles ; 
 Round such an expanding enchantment, the world 
 would blossom for miles. 
 G 2
 
 84 MY LADY LOVE. 
 
 But the highest aim of beauty 
 
 Is embodiment of Truth, 
 And of that her lips so rosy 
 Have been oracles from youth, 
 And I would sooner trust her word than anything 
 forsooth. 
 
 Yea more, — her word I've trusted, 
 
 She has whispered it to me, 
 And that breath of Truth went circling 
 Upwards to Heaven's blue sea 
 Where it inspires Love's sacred harp with her true 
 heart's melody. 
 
 Her Affection. 
 
 Is she heartless ? Can I say 
 
 Who am deluged with her love ? 
 
 She, as warm as summer ray 
 Shot from out the skies above. 
 
 Would you cut a saint in two 
 To dissect some trifling faults, 
 
 If you knew her love for you 
 Grew with jealousy's assaults ?
 
 MY LADY LOVE. 85 
 
 Is she heartless ? Well, last eve 
 
 I felt such a depth of bliss 
 That I thought ne'er more to grieve 
 
 She might hesitate to kiss. 
 
 Yet 'twixt now and that fair then 
 Some vile harpy to her came 
 
 Whispering lies that this, my pen, 
 Should not write against my fame. 
 
 Told her how in some wild street 
 
 I had met a maiden fair, - 
 Had embraced her, called her " Sweet," 
 
 Kissed her in the open air, 
 
 On some night while she, his Love, 
 Waited in her chamber lone, 
 
 For his presence, as a dove 
 
 Waits to have its love-food thrown. 
 
 So to-night, when my heart called 
 
 On my lady in her room, 
 Her cold looks my eyes appalled 
 
 Casting all my soul in gloom. 
 
 Lies seemed circling in the air, 
 Tearing in their spite her face, 
 
 All seemed ugly, nothing fair, 
 And I felt unknown disgrace.
 
 86 MY LADY LOVE. 
 
 Shivering me with icy gaze, 
 As a cloud doth gray the morn, 
 
 Then enkindling in a blaze 
 Of unutterable scorn. 
 
 Oh ! I knew those tranquil eyes 
 Could be fired at any wrong, 
 
 Could not favour cant or lies, 
 Would not brook injustice long. 
 
 Like a river wide and cold, 
 
 Anger rolled our souls between, 
 
 She upon her bank looked bold, 
 I looked trembling on the scene. 
 
 Words were thrown from either bank, 
 Passion gleaming from her eye, 
 
 But I had my God to thank, 
 Truth must ever drown a lie. 
 
 So the mountain of her love 
 
 Soon upheaved a spring of tears, 
 
 Sweeping from the heights above 
 Drowning all the lies and fears. 
 
 And we loved each other more 
 For the lies that had been told, 
 
 Till Love seemed a vaster store 
 Than Eternity could hold.
 
 MY LADY LOVE. 87 
 
 Poets who exist have felt 
 
 Human passion deeply stirred, 
 
 No musician would have knelt 
 In the worship of the Lord, 
 
 If his heart had dormant lain 
 
 In a bosom ribbed with ice, 
 Or with all his passion slain 
 
 In the slavery of vice. 
 
 So, my lady, poet-born, 
 
 Is an ecstasy divine, 
 Has a heart that can be torn 
 
 By the grief that enters thine. 
 
 How can she be heartless, then ? 
 
 She, a passion-breathing soul, 
 Heaven's angelic denizen, 
 
 Tender, loving, perfect, whole. 
 
 Her Religion. 
 
 It was a season of great happiness, 
 
 A summer-time of Love, of which birds sing 
 In nooks of green, when suns shine shadowless 
 
 Of cloud, or mist, or other lurid thing ; 
 A time of peace ; as though pale, freakish 
 Death,
 
 88 MY LADY LOVE. 
 
 Had thrust us into Heaven unrestrained, 
 Or otherwise had glorified our breath, 
 While our full, sensuous bodies on the Earth 
 remained. 
 
 As rose-trees lift their buds to kiss the sun, 
 
 So all the budding flowers of her mind 
 Blossomed towards me, and there was not one 
 Of all the maids of Earth, whom Love could 
 find 
 More worthy of those gifts which he could give 
 In ever-varying fancy, like a rainbow-shower ; 
 Love knew no maiden worthier to live, 
 Or any bed that had a sweeter dower 
 Than that which did in fear, her snowy limbs 
 embower. 
 
 Love painted smiles upon her ; not such smiles 
 
 As maidens make to order in their youth, 
 When softly favouring their mothers' wiles, 
 
 But smiles all radiant with the blush of 
 Truth ; 
 And in her noon-tide altitudes of Thought, 
 
 Her lips would ofttimes tremble into song 
 More rare than nightingales have ever wrought 
 
 Amid inspiring branches, while the throng 
 Of heedless warblers sleep till day shall come along.
 
 MY LADY LOVE. %9 
 
 And I would listen as a wondering child 
 
 Doth magnify her dear, old grandame's tales 
 Of woe and love, when she may be beguiled, 
 
 (Though all protesting that her memory fails,) 
 To tell the tender passions of those days 
 
 When Hope rained gold and Life leapt up in 
 flame : 
 I heard her sing one eve this Hymn of Praise 
 To the Great Heart of Love, whose mighty 
 name 
 Would more attract her than high pinnacles of 
 Fame. 
 
 Hymn to the Great Heart of Love. 
 
 " Oh ! thou great Heart of Love ! 
 Our passions vary, like a weaver's loom, 
 
 The threads of life, 
 We know not e'en the pattern of our doom, 
 
 Or what our strife, 
 Yet, though the Hiding Veil cannot be rent, 
 The throbs of thy Great Heart make us 
 content. 
 
 " Yet discontent abounds ! 
 The wind from out the North doth woo 
 the South 
 To warm its breath,
 
 QO MY LADY LOVE. 
 
 And Northward blows the breeze from 
 
 South's warm mouth, 
 Tho' it mean death ; 
 Autumn in Winter fades, and then fresh 
 
 Spring 
 Doth lead fair Summer to the harvesting. 
 
 " Change, change, all things do change ! 
 Yet the wide throb of thy Great Heart, 
 Oh ! Love ! 
 Remains the same, 
 By thee we feel there is a God above, 
 
 Who knows our shame, 
 And yet forgives us for thine own sweet sake ; 
 And our hearts' tribute only will He take." 
 
 And once as flames yearn upward to the sky, 
 And gorse doth blaze its passion to the sun, 
 My loved one, tortured by a pulpit lie, 
 
 Rose, as a suppliant to the Holy One 
 In church ; amid the silence of the choir, 
 
 With tongue triumphant in melodious prose, 
 She winged the congregation's thoughts up 
 higher 
 Than e'er the consecrated priest's words rose, 
 Who wrapped his spirit life in vestment, form 
 and pose.
 
 MY LADY LOVE. 0,1 
 
 Oration in Church. 
 
 " Is there a Devil, think you ? if so, where ? 
 And have you met and bowed to him ? 
 Or seen him floating in the ambient air ? 
 Or has he caught you by your nether limb 
 
 And made you swear 
 That God and all things holy shall be 
 brought 
 Into his blazing, desolating snare ? 
 
 " The Christian zealot keeps his Majesty 
 embalmed 
 In words of Holy Writ, 
 That no poor soul should ever be becalmed 
 
 Or have one whit 
 Of ease, lest he be damned 
 By easy negligence of this wide fact, 
 That Satan doth inhabit all this tract 
 Of earth, and we are jammed 
 Betwixt a God above, 
 And some wild Being, never born for love. 
 
 " Why should we swallow this un-Christlike 
 thought ? 
 Making our God both wicked and unkind,
 
 92 MY LADY LOVE. 
 
 He could not have for us this scare-crow 
 wrought, 
 As we a hawk create, to fright and blind 
 The little birds that devastate the field, 
 And for the love of life would steal our 
 harvest yield. 
 
 " This mystery of Evil who can gauge ? 
 Spread through the tale of life 
 From infancy to age : 
 Whence cometh all this hidden strife ? 
 Who gave vitality to such a thing ? 
 That doth so surely circulate and sting 
 Through all our being, 
 With strange soliciting, 
 Far greater than the swirl 
 Of some hot whirlpool whose revolving flood 
 
 Doth onward hurl 
 The fascinated soul, whose heated blood 
 Doth love to revel in the constant whirl. 
 
 " And when the vortex comes : — What then ? 
 Oblivion ? 
 No ! No ! a thunderous No ! comes from 
 the mountain glen 
 And fruitful river bank ;
 
 MY LADY LOVE. 93 
 
 E'en flowers bend their heads and smile 
 derision, 
 And timid birds look up and thank 
 Their Maker for their length of vision 
 
 While poor short-sighted man 
 Thinks he discerns the end of Life's 
 ambition ! 
 
 " He that made Good made Evil ; Why ? 
 Because there is an opposite to every truth, 
 
 To old age, — youth : 
 If there be Death there must be Life ; 
 
 If Peace, — Strife ; 
 But they who made the Devil were monks and 
 
 fools, 
 Who thought it fun to frighten all the 
 schools." 
 
 They let her speak thus far, and then all faint, 
 
 Her spirit died within her ; 'twas too much 
 For mortal frame to harbour such a saint, 
 
 Who was in close and sympathetic touch 
 With things of mystery, beyond our ken ; 
 
 Born an immortal in a mortal mould, 
 She almost carried you to Heaven, when 
 
 With eyes on fire she would her mind unfold 
 In rich embroidery of words, ne'er over-bold.
 
 94 MY LADY LOVE. 
 
 Ah me ! how good, how tender — true she is ! 
 
 How like a star in watchful gentleness, 
 Shining afar out of a blue abyss 
 
 Of purity ! a creature born to bless 
 The reeking millions with her sainted breath : 
 
 The tender priest came from his pulpit-throne, 
 Like a dethroned king and fought with Death, 
 
 That Earth its white flower by the God-wind 
 sown 
 Might rear into the fruit of promise, fully blown. 
 
 She soon revived, and then the priest was mute 
 
 With adoration of her saint-like eyes 
 And halo-forming hair, until a flute 
 
 Spoke from the organ trilling to the skies, 
 With seventh resolving on a tonic boom 
 
 Of softly thundering pedal ; then said he : — 
 " This organ minstrelsy, 'mid sacred gloom, 
 
 Is like the spreading of the soul when free, 
 Into the heights and depths of Love's great 
 mystery." 
 
 I saw he loved her, and forgave her lips 
 
 Their wild oration, which they did not 
 make 
 
 Until God's blessing, through his finger-tips, 
 Had passed among the people ; then she break
 
 MY LADY LOVE. 95 
 
 The mystic hush of people's silent prayers, 
 
 With wonder-stirring words, first weak, then 
 flushed 
 With flight of passion up the aerial stairs 
 Of Fancy's palace ; thus the crowd, all hushed, 
 Listened, until her rose-life drooped, all faint 
 and crushed. 
 
 'Twas sad but beautiful, and seemed most mad 
 
 To all except the cultured and the kind ; 
 She knew no creed but Love, and therefore had 
 
 A wise abhorrence of devotion blind 
 In consecrated buildings, priests, or forms, 
 
 Candles or incense, which promoted strife ; 
 And hated, too, the canting pride which 
 storms 
 
 At kneeling postures, and is much too rife, — 
 With her, life was religion, not religion, life.
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 A Dream. 
 
 Thou Sacred Shrine of Truth, 
 Lit with the morning twilight: of our Nation's 
 Youth ! 
 How oft before thee in a mist of thought 
 Have I fair fancies tenderly inwrought 
 Within thy graceful form ! 
 A haven pictured thee amid this world of storm ; 
 
 Thought thee a flower in stone, 
 In bud a thousand years and yet not fully blown, 
 For ever freshened by thy Nation's tears 
 To newer beauties thro' the garnering years 
 So that fair Nature might 
 Be some day wildly envious of the lovely sight. 
 
 Here baby-fingers lie 
 That grasped eternal life in their Death agony, 
 And rose-lips withered 'neath thy stones lie hid, 
 And mighty brains which gathered strength amid
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 97 
 
 War, Fire, Storm, Fear, and Flood, 
 Lie mouldering silent here with Princes of the Blood. 
 
 A temple of the Kings 
 And gods of men, who soared upon the mighty 
 wings 
 Of wild ambition, fearless as the birds, 
 Some gifted with o'erpowering wealth of words 
 That held the world in chains 
 Of iron slav'ry to their busy-thoughted brains. 
 
 Here souls of music rest, 
 Whose plaintive anthems still go sobbing through 
 thy breast, 
 Breaking through tears in " Hallelujahs " wild 
 At the remembrance of that God-sent Child 
 Who taught all hearts to love 
 Peace, Honour, Truth, Love, Wisdom, and the 
 Light above. 
 
 Here poets, too, are found, 
 Whose magic words of Truth still trumpet forth 
 their sound, 
 But some, alas ! lie dead amongst their bones 
 With elegies self-written in false tones, 
 Which — never following Truth — 
 Sought artificial aids to gain immortal Youth. 
 
 H
 
 98 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 Here sculptors, too, lie dead, 
 Who mused in marble with poetic eye, and shed 
 A glory into things inanimate, 
 And made stone speak of love and fiercest 
 hate, 
 And clay portray a grace 
 To be for aye a marvel to the living race. 
 
 A Homer gazing out 
 With stony eyes upon the busy world about ; 
 A Pitt transmuted into stony wrath, 
 While Fox in marble eloquence speaks forth, 
 Are ever sad to see : 
 A sculptor's life must aye most melancholy be : 
 
 Cold his most passionate form, 
 Though floating through his charmed brain ideals 
 warm 
 Will glow his Fancy into fever-heat, 
 And make him dream stone-pictures passing 
 sweet, 
 Which shall his name adorn 
 When his small world has passed into that Mist 
 forlorn. 
 
 And on thy Abbey walls 
 His melancholy work the pensive soul enthrals,
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 99 
 
 Making it blossom as his own mind did 
 At the sweet touch of Fancy all unbid, 
 Until we float above 
 Into ethereal regions of Immortal Love. 
 
 One night I lingered long 
 After the sweet-voiced choir had sung their evensong, 
 Gazing enraptured at a sculptured face 
 While choir and people slowly left the place, 
 And I all unaware 
 Was wrapped in sacred darkness from the worldly 
 air. 
 
 I saw the sculptured eyes 
 Light up with human feeling in a wild surprise, 
 The limbs moved slowly with awakened life 
 And all the Abbey with new joy was rife, 
 And then I saw descend 
 The sculptured Kings of men, in social life to blend. 
 
 Outside across the sky 
 Electric messages of love did swiftly fly 
 In those mysterious meteors of fire, 
 To summon angels to the Abbey choir, 
 Where they might see a sight 
 More wondrous than enchantments in a dream at 
 night. 
 
 H 2
 
 100 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 First Purcell did descend, 
 And to his loved organ-loft his way did wend, 
 To charm the Night with soul-beseeching chords 
 More tender than the breath of chosen words 
 By sweetest poet sung 
 After some poignant grief his gentle heart hath 
 wrung. 
 
 Purcell's deep soul was wrought 
 By Music's subtle charms to fine creative thought, 
 When Handel, listening to that god of song, 
 Was drawn to life again and walked along 
 To where the Master played, 
 And like a modest pupil tendered him his aid. 
 
 At the old Master's word, 
 He moved the organ-stops, and all in wonder heard 
 The pastoral " hautboy " and the trilling " flute," 
 Soft " dulciana," and the voice acute 
 Of " trumpets " wildly blown, 
 Played by the greatest master of harmonious tone. 
 
 At first with prelude quaint, 
 Like a despondent lover making sweet complaint, 
 He wooed the air, and then with might of love 
 His ardent music sought the Heaven above,
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 10 1 
 
 Till through the roof there came 
 A garland of bright cherubs, rosy cheeks aflame. 
 
 These were the gentle boys 
 Who died like tender snowdrops in their Spring- 
 tide joys, 
 And took their voices from the Abbey choir 
 To swell the anthem in a region higher 
 Where all do worship God, 
 And not their own weak fancies, crying " Ichabod." 
 
 These cherubs gently flew, 
 Looking like rose-buds fresh when radiant with 
 dew, 
 And then there followed angel-men of song, 
 Chosen for lovely voices from the throng 
 Of singers who have passed 
 Out of the Abbey-choir into the Unknown Vast. 
 
 To them no stone was raised, 
 They had but lived, and sung, and died, and 
 upward gazed 
 For glory, when their duty on the Earth 
 Should fructify into a nobler birth 
 Beneath a lovelier sun, 
 And full of finest music to the Greatest One.
 
 102 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 These angels in the nave 
 Clustered in silent wonder, while the vergers 
 gave 
 Each one a surplice, pure and lily-white, 
 A robe most fitting for such sons of light, 
 And then they walked in twos 
 Over the echoing pavement into the choir pews. 
 
 There all the great had gone, 
 Summoned by some mute influence from their 
 state forlorn 
 Of thraldom in a museum of stone, 
 As if for all our sins they did atone 
 In icy silence drear, 
 Until Heaven's trump should sound and bid the 
 dead appear. 
 
 Then rose a priest and said : 
 " Ye chosen men of England, flowers of the dead, 
 Here in the quiet breathing of the Night 
 We are assembled to behold a sight 
 More wonderful than thought 
 With finest mesh of fancy hath conceived and 
 wrought." 
 
 *&* 
 
 And then the altar blazed 
 With an effulgent glory till all eyes were dazed,
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 1 03 
 
 And from the picture on the altar-screen 
 There stepped the twelve apostles on the scene, 
 In Eastern robes full dressed, 
 Ready to do their Great Redeemer's least behest. 
 
 And o'er the altar bright, 
 Slowly receding, rose a far-extending light 
 Upward through wall and roof to the blue sky, 
 Connecting time with dim eternity, 
 And down the vista flew 
 Our Saviour, with sad eyes that looked us through 
 and through. 
 
 He came as comes the morn, 
 In silence light diffusing o'er the Night forlorn, 
 And though His glorious eyes looked soft and sad, 
 One felt as though some day they would be glad 
 When His great work was done 
 And goodness filled the heart of every earth-born 
 son. 
 
 And when great Purcell saw 
 This far-unfolding glory, he was filled with awe, 
 And struck at once those chords which herald in 
 That chorus of Christ's victory over sin, 
 Which was from Handel wrung 
 When he the glorious life of the Messiah sung.
 
 104 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 Loud Hallelujahs rose, 
 As crashed the harmonies' reverberating blows, 
 
 'Gainst wall and roof in triumph o'er sin slain : 
 " For the Lord God Omnipotent doth reign, 
 King of Kings, Lord of Lords," 
 Was sounded up to heaven in high ascending 
 chords. 
 
 Great Handel looked afraid 
 As Purcell this high honour to his music paid, 
 But Purcell knew it was a master flight 
 Of genius up the dizzy steps of light 
 To thrones of burning gold, 
 Which all ascend with fear, however strong and 
 bold. 
 
 And when the chorus ceased, 
 All eyes instinctive turned towards the burning 
 East, 
 Where shone the Lord before the altar fair, 
 A halo streaming from His wavy hair, 
 And as He raised His hand 
 We felt a mystic silence pass along the land. 
 
 But when we heard Him speak, 
 His wisdom for the strong, His comfort for the 
 weak,
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 105 
 
 Our hearts were moved, just as a sea-borne breeze 
 In sultry summer makes the sun-burnt trees 
 Lift up their branches high 
 In their delirious greetings to the light blue sky. 
 
 It even seemed as though 
 The Gothic roof of sun-gilt palms waved to and fro 
 In sympathy with the sweet song he sang, 
 As his loved voice amongst their branches rang 
 In plaintive accents clear, 
 And all our eyes were rainbow-hued with many a 
 tear. 
 
 " Why came this human breath 
 Out of the womb of travail to dissolve in death ? 
 Why as a Man of Sorrows did I live 
 To shed salt tears and all my labour give 
 To lift men out of grief 
 Into the Heaven of purity and sweet relief 
 
 " From conscience-pricking woe ? 
 Why have ye men of thought let all the centuries go 
 In selfish longings after hills of Fame, 
 With all the energies of life aflame 
 In crushing brethren down, 
 That ye may get their slavish hands thy brows to 
 crown ?
 
 105 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 11 These statues and these busts 
 Are largely monuments to thy o'erpowering lusts ; 
 The Royal Henry who this fane did build, 
 Now bears me witness that he was not filled 
 With love for me alone, 
 But reared the Sacred Palace that he might 
 atone 
 
 " For sins conceived in youth ; 
 As if he could with blocks of stone corrupt the 
 Truth 
 In Him who is the Truth and made the stones, 
 And gave to Man his house of flesh and bones, 
 But left his soul quite .free 
 To carve his heart's design on Time and Destiny. 
 
 " Oh ! that ye had been wise 
 Ere ye had passed the Gates of Death, and then 
 thine eyes 
 Would have been ripe to bear the blaze of 
 
 light 
 Which, past those misty portals, met thy 
 sight, 
 And ye would then have been 
 More ready to discern those truths on earth un- 
 seen.
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. IOJ 
 
 11 More quick to be impressed 
 With all the sweet refinements of the pure and blest, 
 More gentle and more kind, more high in tone, 
 Fine courtiers of Heaven near the Almighty 
 throne 
 Of all-inspiring Truth, 
 To which I drew the World with my own life for- 
 sooth. 
 
 " Ye who have passed thro' Death 
 Into the higher regions of Immortal breath, 
 Now know the mystery of human life, 
 And why its seething and continuous strife, 
 And why ye can but give 
 To God only the spirit of the life ye live. 
 
 " England remembers here 
 Her greatest, brightest children, and ye now ap- 
 pear 
 In one long line unfolding from the past, 
 And may it not be long before the last 
 Great heart shall seek this shrine, — 
 The full-developed being of the Light Divine. 
 
 " Taught by my grief and woe, 
 Men know now how to live and die, and what to 
 sow
 
 108 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 To bear good fruit in the new life to be, 
 
 How germinating from their love to me 
 
 Comes love to brethren dear ; 
 
 And yet how sad to see so little fruit appear. 
 
 " Look now around, behold ! 
 The man of luxury devouring his own gold ; 
 See softly walking in the open air 
 Hypocrisy, with a resentful stare, 
 Cutting Love's tender heart 
 With his deluding aspect and performing part. 
 
 " See how sweet Love doth die 
 O'ergrown with choking weeds of man's theology, 
 Of which he gleans no more than what is writ 
 In comprehensive Nature, though his wit 
 He ever chides, to find 
 Some subtle theory to cheat his puzzled mind. 
 
 "And thus he wastes his time 
 In puerile creeds and doctrines, while the life sub- 
 lime 
 I came to teach remaineth undiscerned, 
 He thinks fine music, churches, incense burned, 
 Confession to a priest, 
 A sordid money-offering, a holy feast,
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. IO9 
 
 " Will make the Lord forgive 
 The sins and selfish follies of the life men live, 
 In which delusion Man will calmly die, 
 To find a rude awakening on high, 
 Where his unfitted soul 
 Still must be schooled in sorrow, till Love makes 
 it whole. 
 
 " Look at that master dread 
 Who grinds his helpless workmen till they starve 
 for bread 
 And cry aloud in pitiful despair 
 From stifling dens of thraldom, till the air 
 Is salted with their tears ; 
 Yet through that cry for mercy Love itself ap- 
 pears. 
 
 " Look at that servant, too, 
 Who scamps the daily work his master bids him do, 
 And lives without a sympathizing thought 
 For all the hazards that the times have brought 
 To business far and wide, 
 While he floats sullenly upon its turbid tide. 
 
 " There always will be poor, 
 And some will riches gain, at whose well-guarded 
 door.
 
 I r O WES TMINS TEE ABBE Y. 
 
 The poor will ever knock and beg for aid, 
 And bless'd is he who from his store has paid 
 His guerdon to the cause 
 Of tender Love, the Mother of all righteous laws. 
 
 " The poor and rich alike 
 Take sordid views of life ; it never seems to strike 
 Their dull conceptions, they should live for 
 
 those 
 Who teem around them buried deep in woes ; 
 But ever they live on 
 Absorbed in sordid drudgery till their time has 
 gone. 
 
 " Yet progress has begun, 
 And the wise thought of England has a victory won 
 O'er indolence, and poverty, and shame, 
 By joining hand to hand in mutual aim 
 To gather wealth from far, 
 So that her hills and plains with factories covered 
 are. 
 
 " Thus money-profits spread 
 From rich to poor, and he need seldom starve for 
 bread 
 Who can but work ; yet sloth will still com- 
 plain,
 
 IVES TAf/NS TEE ABBE Y. Ill 
 
 And greed still wrack its ever cruel brain, 
 To turn the drops of sweat 
 Squeezed out of labour into gold to fill its net. 
 
 But some day man shall see 
 Through spectacles of Love, and poverty shall flee 
 From out the land ; and then all men shall learn 
 That Capital is Labour, and shall burn 
 In Love's contagious fire 
 All enmity and greed as a sin-funeral-pyre. 
 
 " Would that I saw abroad 
 This spirit paramount, instead of flash of sword 
 And sound of drum and herald trumpets blown, 
 While every nation 'neath huge debts doth 
 groan, 
 In face of coming war, 
 Listening on lightest words of kings in solemn 
 awe. 
 
 " Behold ! how race hates race 
 And nation envies nation, standing face to face, 
 Armed for the fray, so that the living world 
 Shall deluged be with blood and onward hurled 
 To anarchy and death, 
 Until those left alive may curse their very breath.
 
 1 1-2 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 " England, beware and live ! 
 Be strong, united, bold, yet ready to forgive, 
 
 Hurl him from power who setteth class 'gainst 
 
 class 
 And race 'gainst race, and panders to the mass 
 Of men who fain would steal 
 Their brothers' envied wealth, teaching their 
 hearts to feel 
 
 "It is their own by right, 
 (For he who boldly steals thy goods in the broad light, 
 Though he announces all that will be done, 
 Is none the less a thief whom men should shun) ; 
 And I would have ye pierce 
 All moral farce and crooked thought with hatred 
 fierce. 
 
 " Are ye my Priests of Love 
 Who stand and scoff at one another ? Look 
 above ! 
 Aim at the highest in your inner life, 
 Slaughter not Love before my eyes in strife ; 
 E'en devils can agree 
 In friendliest communion in their hate of me. 
 
 " How can ye hope to gain 
 The victory o'er Death and sin if ye remain
 
 WES TMINS TEE A BBE Y. 1 1 3 
 
 For ever in your pulpits pounding forth 
 High-sounding doctrine with abusive wrath 
 Against your fellow priest ? 
 Although not one can tell what comes when life has 
 ceased. 
 
 " Awake ! or ye will find 
 The man of thought and science leave ye fat- 
 behind 
 In the great struggle after truth and light 
 In this wide sea of darkness, where the sight 
 Is apt to blur and blind 
 The full expansive vision of immortal mind. 
 
 " For ye must know I send 
 The spirit of my life with every heart to blend ; 
 It present is at every 7 human birth 
 Of Christian or of heathen on the earth, 
 And in full time shall kill 
 The vile hypocrisy that doth my kingdom fill. 
 
 " It is not life to eat 
 And drink and sleep and breathe ; Life must be 
 strong with heat 
 Of Love, and climbing-thought and hope in- 
 tense ; 
 Man lives full conscious of some influence 
 
 I
 
 114 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 Beyond his earth-born dreams, 
 Giving his soul a foretaste of Heaven's joyous 
 gleams. 
 
 " But sorrow shall be found 
 For ever on the earth, or how can Love abound ? 
 For Love awakened is by sympathy ; 
 Men cheat themselves who think this life can be 
 A paradise of bliss : 
 Man must be schooled by trials here, the Heaven 
 to kiss. 
 
 " Let then my Priests beware, 
 For they stand full before the world in Heaven's 
 bright glare, 
 The pioneers of the souls of men 
 Out of the darkness of this earthly glen 
 To regions high and fair, 
 Where Faith lives ever strong and fresh in purest 
 air. 
 
 " It will not ye avail 
 To lead the rich to heaven while all the poor bewail 
 Their tattered garments as unfit to blend 
 With dainty ladies who the Church attend : 
 Out to the hedgerows go ! 
 Show men ye dearly love them in this world of woe.
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 1 1 5 
 
 " For Love is all that saves ; 
 It brought me to the Earth, goes with men 
 through their graves ; 
 And ye must ope your arms to all mankind, 
 Bring in the vile, dishonoured, deaf, and blind, 
 And bid the brutes awake, 
 Till Love shall move creation like an earthquake 
 shake. 
 
 " I authorize no creed 
 But Love, which makes true life ; by Love all men 
 are freed 
 From dismal depths of selfishness that cloud 
 The Light and cover with a misty shroud 
 The mirror of the mind, 
 Which should reflect the eye of God in all man- 
 kind. 
 
 " First, Love ; and then, the Light ; 
 Last, Home ; where man shall see his brother 
 chaste and bright, 
 Not wrapped in flesh which masks the inner 
 
 soul, 
 But heart revealed to heart, a perfect whole ; 
 Home, where I love to be, 
 Waiting to greet all hearts that long for Love and 
 
 me. 
 
 I 2
 
 1 1 6 WES TMINS TER ABBE Y. 
 
 With this his sweet voice ceased, 
 And then he through the vista passed ; the Light 
 increased 
 As he receded from our view ; as though 
 He wished to fill us with the lovely glow 
 That from his Being came ; 
 And then the choir this carol sang with glad 
 acclaim : — 
 
 Love ! Light ! Home ! 
 
 Love ! Love ! Love ! 
 Floats on the flood-tide of tears, 
 Burneth through night-shades of fears, 
 Glistens when sunlight appears, 
 And dies not, worn out with the years, 
 But blossoms, and ripens, and yields 
 Fruit in Heaven's glad harvest fields. 
 
 Light ! Light ! Light ! 
 
 Comes like the passion of Spring, 
 
 Out-flies swift birds on the wing, 
 
 Riches eternal doth fling, 
 
 And asks none a payment to bring, 
 But throws to us all a soft kiss, 
 And lights up the pathway to bliss.
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. \\J 
 
 Home ! Home ! Home ! 
 
 Dream of the prodigal's night, 
 
 Nestling so warm in the Light, 
 
 Where passion feeleth aright, 
 
 And brethren no more disunite, 
 
 But love in the Light and the Grace 
 
 That shines from Christ's sorrow-sweet face.
 
 AN OUTCAST IN LONDON ON SUNDAY. 
 
 A Monologue. 
 
 I am an outcast in these London streets : 
 
 If I knew it not, 
 Soon would I find it written on men's faces 
 As they pass me by, and swerve away from me 
 In morbid fear. 
 Weak souls ! 
 They know no better, 
 They have not learnt the holy breathings 
 Of the Son of Man ! 
 
 Learnt, I say, 
 They speak Him glibly, 
 For His words are cant upon their tongues, 
 
 But in their hearts they know Him not, 
 And ignorantly wound, and bruise and murder 
 Him. 
 
 Here on this Sabbeth morn 
 Where is my Christian brother ?
 
 AN OUTCAST IN LONDON ON SUNDAY. 1 19 
 
 Out midst the poor ? 
 Striving to lift his fellows from the dust ? 
 Kind-hearted, tender, true? 
 
 Alas ! not so ; 
 He stands before his mirror in his pride, 
 
 Leisurely lazy, 
 Decking his body o'er with gaudy robes 
 That foster envy in his neighbour's breast 
 
 At Sunday show, 
 And I am left to wander unbefriended. 
 
 Yet not so unbefriended, 
 For in these treeless streets 
 The sweet wind clings about me in its joy, 
 And blows me God's kind kisses from the skies : 
 Last night it must have slumbered upon beds of 
 flowers, 
 For in its balmy bosom I can smell 
 
 The incense of the violets, 
 Waved from their petal-censers by its 
 lulling arms, 
 Down in the mossy woodlands by the hyacinths. 
 Yes ; I am not alone, 
 The Wind is still my friend, 
 For to my heart it bears 
 The whispering love of warm Humanity, 
 And when it kisses me,
 
 120 AN OUTCAST IN LONDON ON SUNDAY. 
 
 Brings me the kisses of my brethren too, 
 And fondles all alike. 
 
 Ah ! my proud friends ! 
 Christian, Mussulman, or vain Hindoo ! 
 Who claim to find salvation, 
 We all are brothers, 
 All are kissed by God, 
 And round us circulates His Mighty Wind, 
 As 'twere His Spirit, 
 Mixing our breaths together ; 
 And so you cannot stand apart from me 
 
 E'en if you would ; 
 The wind destroys for ever all your thoughts of 
 caste ; 
 You cannot say, 
 " I will not have this breath of God about me, 
 That circulates amongst the common herd 
 And touches me ! " 
 For without breath you die. 
 
 In the sweet open air to rest at night 
 I've lain with Winter, while his icy breast 
 
 Has chilled me to the bone ; 
 I've slept with fickle Spring, and felt her breath 
 
 Blow hot and cold with all her varying 
 moods ;
 
 AN OUTCAST IN LONDON ON SUNDAY. 121 
 
 And wide awake with Summer through the night, 
 I've watched the spirits pass across the sky ; 
 While, in sad Autumn's lap, 
 I've dreamed of Life in Death, 
 As her ripe fruit came tumbling to the ground. 
 
 Know you not, Oh ! Man ! 
 
 Lit with this Sabbath morn, 
 Here, in these quiet streets (where Mammon's wains 
 
 Are silenced for a time 
 In grudging fear of the Almighty will), 
 That Labour cries for leisure more and more 
 In God's great name ? That slaves are dying fast, 
 Replaced by freemen Mammon cannot bribe ? 
 
 That Life is what we aim at, 
 
 Not bondage to our brother, 
 But high attainment, help, and unity, 
 And all that's kernelled in that one word, — Love ? 
 
 If you loved your brother, would you thieve ? 
 Would you kill, or slander, or suppress him ? 
 Would you deceive him, and be jealous of him ? 
 Would you not take him kindly by the hand 
 
 And bid him sing, 
 Rather than fancy you could sing the better ? 
 Oh ! to be jealous of a brother is too base for man ! 
 It hides sweet Love as Night will veil the Day,
 
 122 AN OUTCAST IN LONDON ON SUNDAY. 
 
 Breeds murder in the soul, 
 Acts like a torture in the heart, 
 Curdles the spirit like an acid stream 
 Injected in the blood. 
 
 Know you that Christ is breathing in the millions 
 
 As they toil in joy or soirow, 
 
 Though they know Him not ? 
 That like a breeze He fans their upturned faces 
 
 As they sweat with labour, 
 And in a mighty multitude press on to God ? 
 
 Christ is far greater than His Church, 
 And mightier far than our small minds conceive 
 Him ; 
 You cannot cramp the liberty of Love, 
 You cannot lay down rules for it, 
 And say, " My heart must go no further " ; 
 You cannot rule it by a band of priests 
 'Twixt four church walls ; 
 Man ever falters from his trust 
 
 When sorely tempted, 
 And what are priests but men 
 Self-consecrated ? 
 Then look not to the East or to the West 
 For high salvation, 
 But follow Christ's great spirit through the 
 world.
 
 AN OUTCAST IN LONDON ON SUNDAY. 123 
 
 God 's prisoned in no creed, 
 
 But breathes in all, 
 And all must breathe in Him. 
 
 But I am prisoned in my flesh 
 For some wise end, 
 
 I feel to-day much as a devil feels 
 Prowling the Universe in search of plunder, 
 
 And realize how easy 'tis to fall 
 Into the Deep Abyss, 
 Further and further from the light of God, — 
 If it be possible to lose that light 
 
 Which permeates all. 
 
 This flesh I drag about 
 Is like a fettered weight that pins me down 
 
 And curbs my pride ; 
 What evil might I do, were I but free 
 
 From these tight body-shackles ! 
 See this smug, demure, well-fed, and happy citizen, 
 Pacing his smart-frocked family to church 
 Without a thought of me, (except to sneer 
 At poverty and rags, and ne'er-do-weels 
 As though they were a plague). Were I but 
 
 free 
 To wander as a spirit, I would prick 
 His easy conscience and unlock his heart, 
 And torture him with such a tenderness
 
 124 AN OUTCAST IN LONDON ON SUNDAY. 
 
 For all the poor, that he should never know 
 One quiet hour. 
 
 Were I but free, 
 Proud with imperfect knowledge, 
 I might be tempted to defy my Maker ! 
 And so 'tis better far that I should fettered be 
 With this poor fleshly body, than unmoored 
 From Earth upon the Spirit-Sea, till God 
 Thinks fit to launch me. 
 
 I'll follow this too happy man to Church 
 And hear his doctrine ; 
 
 " Too happy," did I say? 
 Ah me ! would we but knew 
 What danger lies in too much happiness, 
 And what a safety-valve our sorrow is, 
 While we're encased in crusted selfishness ! 
 Can any pearls compare in wealth 
 With the rich tears that spring in Sorrow's eye 
 
 Out of sweet Love's distillery ? 
 
 Too happy man ! 
 Your soul is never swept by passion's wave, 
 Never exalted to Thought's mountain peaks, 
 Never transported to the clouds of heaven, 
 
 And blown about in glory ;
 
 AN OUTCAST IN LONDON ON SUNDAY. 1 25 
 
 But lies reposeful in the soft warm arms 
 
 Of sensual bliss, 
 And sees no vision greater than itself ! 
 
 Whither trend your footsteps, my too happy 
 man ? 
 What goes your soul to hear ? 
 'And will your Church receive me ? 
 These, my faded coat, 
 My linen worn to rags by ruthless soap, 
 No longer catch the favour of man's eye, 
 Though there is poetry in every fold 
 Of these old robes that riches cannot buy; 
 This well-worn suit has long ago been dyed 
 Deep in the essence of adversity, 
 And I am half inclined to feel more pride 
 In tatters than in new-made tailors' clothes ; 
 For garments gather round them old romance, 
 Old histories that none can truly read 
 But those who wear them. Let me then O ! 
 
 World ! 
 Remove the pity from your eye ; my pride 
 Rebels against it ; for whate'er I am 
 You have most surely made me. When I cast 
 With easy, gay, and mad indifference, 
 My patrimony to the cruel sharks 
 That haunt Society's sad, wreck-strewn sea,
 
 126 AN OUTCAST IN LONDON ON SUNDAY. 
 
 I found no friend to save me, and here stand 
 Stripped of illusions on this Sabbath morn, 
 An Outcast, but a better, nobler man. 
 Schooled by your bitter lessons, scornful world. 
 
 And now, too happy man, 
 Will your fine Church admit me ? 
 And may I sit beside you in your pew, 
 
 As though I were your friend in tatters ? 
 Pray let me try your Christian charity : — 
 I will slip in between you and your Church 
 
 And stop your progress, 
 And ask you whether you can find me room ; 
 
 " No ! " you say, " the pew-op'ner will grant a 
 seat to me ! " 
 
 And yet you have a place to spare ! 
 
 Shame, shame, upon your ice-cold heart ! 
 Oh ! Lord ! canst Thou look down from Heaven 
 
 On such a mean professor of Thy love, 
 And yet allow his shallow soul to breathe 
 In Thy fair world ? 
 
 I will within, and see and hear once more 
 
 My brethren and my sisters pray and sing ; 
 
 The verger tells me he can find me room 
 
 In this great Sanctum Evangelical, 
 
 Where now no poor man strives to set his foot,
 
 AN OUTCAST IN LONDON ON SUNDAY. \2J 
 
 Awed by so much respectability ! 
 
 Where pews are hired for money, and the rents 
 
 Swell out the Parson's purse, how can the poor 
 
 Be welcome guests ? 
 The poor, so proud in their humility. 
 
 Fling wide your Churches' doors, 
 You who would Christlike be ! 
 Why want you money, 
 Downy beds and rest, 
 
 You Priests of God ? 
 You, who by sweet Sorrow should be rent 
 For all the sins of man. 
 
 Keep down, wild heart ! throw off all bitter 
 
 thoughts, 
 Hear you not music in the air ? so pure, 
 So tender, so appealing, so sincere, 
 And yet withal so sweetly reas'nable ; 
 It seems to make the very air feel holy, 
 As though God's spirit hovers round the place 
 And gazes through the windows with soft 
 eyes. 
 
 Such music, wooing me, 
 Is like the dying soul of Summer 
 Wooing cold Winter's breast 
 In plaints of soft despair !
 
 128 AN OUTCAST IN LONDON ON SUNDAY. 
 
 That organ note, 
 Deep delved from the bosom of the earth, 
 Rolls its soft thunder round my soul 
 And mingles with the melody that streams 
 In purest thought from Heaven ! 
 There is no doctrine in this melody 
 To rend the mind, 
 And make the heart of man 
 Too small for its humanity ; 
 It circles round its " tonic " with delight, 
 Coquetting freely with its "dominant," 
 And knows no other law. 
 
 Just as the unseen fingers of the storm 
 Sweep mystic music out of Nature's harp, 
 So feel I in this place, and I would breathe 
 The surging passion of my heart in song :- 
 
 Rouse me to fight 
 
 For the Good and the Right, 
 Oh ! Music of Trumpet and Drum ! 
 
 Pulse through my blood 
 
 With thy magical thud 
 As I march for the glory to come.
 
 AN OUTCAST IN LONDON ON SUNDAY. I2y 
 
 Lull me to rest 
 
 On the throb of thy breast, 
 Oh ! music of Pathos and Pain ! 
 
 Thy throb may beat time 
 
 To the tenderest rhyme 
 That ever sobbed through a sad brain. 
 
 Let my heart dream 
 
 On thy melody's stream 
 Oh ! music of Rapture and Love ! 
 
 Or let me float 
 
 On thy loveliest note 
 To the ears that are listening above. 
 
 Let my feet bound 
 
 To thy metrical sound 
 Oh ! music of Dancing and Joy ! 
 
 Then will I chase 
 
 Time's marks from my face 
 With the ease of a light-hearted boy. 
 
 And in the gloom 
 
 Of my bodily doom 
 Oh ! music of mystical Death ! 
 
 Let me arise 
 
 Like a bird to the skies- 
 On the wings of my vanishing breath. 
 
 K
 
 130 AN OUTCAST IN LONDON ON SUNDAY. 
 
 '' Does God in very deed dwell on the Earth ? 
 Behold ! the Heaven 
 And Heaven of Heavens cannot contain Thee, 
 How much less this house 
 That I have builded ? " 
 
 Thus spoke a mighty soul 
 Out of the mists of dim antiquity ; 
 Music was then a baby wailing tunes 
 
 Upon its treble pipe, 
 Unconscious of the magic power that dwelt 
 In dormant chords and discords 
 
 In its tiny breast. 
 Had Solomon but heard these liquid tones 
 Poured, like a stream of honey, from this organ's 
 throat, 
 He would have cried in fear, 
 " This is the voice of God, 
 Beseeching, calling, all our hearts to Him." 
 
 But Music, after all, 
 Is but the passion of the soul, 
 
 It only sings us God, 
 
 And goes no further, 
 
 Just as the rose exhales 
 The perfumed breath of the Almighty, 
 
 And gives us nothing more.
 
 AN OUTCAST IN LONDON ON SUNDAY. 1 3 1 
 
 Now long I for the words of thoughtful Man ; 
 Man, with his mighty faculty of reason ; 
 
 His glory in himself ; 
 His boundless, restless, deep imagination ; 
 Surely his inner sense can see, and feel, and 
 
 know, 
 The sweet communion of a Spirit-God 
 
 In the deep silence of his soul ? 
 
 Man ! the inheritor of all the ages, 
 A greater teacher than the birds or flowers, 
 
 Or magic music thrills ! 
 
 The voice of Music dies upon the air, 
 And in an awful hush the priest proclaims 
 His views of God : 
 Alas ! the pigmy that he rears ! 
 Born of the earth-bound tendencies of Man, 
 The gift of sensual ages, 
 When Cain, the tiller of the ground, 
 The gardener, the man who loved the flowers, — 
 And must have had soft pity in his soul, — 
 
 Grew wrath with Shepherd Abel, 
 And, God-defiant, sacrificed his brother 
 To jealousy and riot of the heart, 
 
 And dull, black-hearted Murder ! 
 So Christ, the priest now says, 
 Was but a sacrificial Lamb, 
 k 2
 
 132 AN OUTCAST IN LONDON ON SUNDAY. 
 
 A slaughtered innocent to God's great wrath, 
 
 Who could not, till the Spotless Lamb was 
 slain, 
 Forgive His erring creatures ; 
 But now, the sacrifice complete, we all may come 
 In Christ's good name, 
 And find supreme salvation, 
 Or die for ever in the lowest Hell ! 
 
 Oh ! murderous priest ! 
 Bloodthirsty preacher of God's tender love ! 
 How can you hope to draw poor souls to Him 
 In trustfulness and truth 
 On such a base conception ? 
 
 'Tis true Christ died 
 (You even wound Him now), 
 Yet Man it was who crucified and pierced Him, 
 And drove Him, guiltless, to that cruel grave, 
 From whence have started all the flowers that 
 grow : 
 Pansies for Ease of Heart, the Rose for Love, 
 Daisies for Innocence, and Hawthorn's eager 
 eyes for Hope. 
 God in His mercy-seat 
 Sat pierced with pain, 
 All wrath with His creation ; 
 He put His hand upon the sun
 
 AN OUTCAST IN LONDON ON SUNDAY. I 33 
 
 And hid the light, 
 He shook the earth 
 And made men fear and tremble, 
 While Christ's great spirit floated back to Him 
 Upon the wings of Love, — new-born. 
 
 New-born ! 
 Ah ! Yes ! until that Death 
 The world knew naught of Love ! 
 But then men learnt the joy of melted hearts, 
 The holiness of sorrow, 
 And the brotherhood of pain ! 
 Christ died for all, 'tis true, 
 
 That all might live ; 
 But that, most shallow priest, 
 Is vastly different to your bloody creed, 
 Your brutal lowering of the God of Love ! 
 
 God, the Creator, is no. murderer, 
 And wants no murder to appease His wrath, 
 Like an Almighty Cain ; 
 I must away from here, 
 It warps, confines, reduces, and suppresses me ! 
 
 Oh ! the glad air ! 
 The laughing sun !
 
 134 AN OUTCAST IN LONDON ON SUNDAY. 
 
 The blessed wind ! 
 The boundless blue ! 
 The freedom of elastic thought again ! 
 
 The churches fill as tho' with clustering bees ! 
 So many hives, and yet such dearth of honey ! 
 As if there could be famine in the land of Love ! 
 Here is a church whose humble front 
 Entices me ; 
 The verger, lolling at the door, 
 Laughs when I ask him why he's not within, 
 And says, his work is done, 
 'Tis now the parson's turn ! 
 Proud is he of his parson, — 
 A great magician in the realm of thought, — 
 
 Whom men come miles to hear : 
 Who long since coffined all his superstitious creeds, 
 And sang grand Unitarian litanies o'er their 
 grave, 
 Blowing his fame abroad. 
 No Mother Church should ever cramp him down, 
 Or hide his vanities beneath her robe, 
 He would, 'fore all, rebel ! 
 
 And there he stands, 
 Reading his Sunday essay of neat word-mosaics 
 To all his worshippers ;
 
 AN OUTCAST IN LONDON ON SUNDAY. 135 
 
 As useless as a brass-band in a wilderness 
 For rousing souls ; 
 Is this the fire of Truth ? 
 This the persuasive passion of the heart, 
 The magic inspiration on the lips of one 
 Who comes from close communion with his God ? 
 He speaks of Goodness, Truth, and Beauty, 
 Love and Art, 
 And plumes himself upon his bright-eyed Reason, 
 Jeers at a Resurrection, scorns a Miracle, 
 Laughs at an Incarnation, 
 Yet has the graciousness to think 
 That God still liveth in the heart of Man ! 
 
 Oh ! Pride ! thou self-inflated one ! 
 Twin sister of weak, blind-eyed, self-conceit ! 
 
 How canst thou venture in these holy places, 
 
 And talk thine impotence ? 
 There is a time when Wisdom cries for silence 
 
 And whispers to the heart deep mysteries. 
 God, the Unthinkable to mortal minds, 
 
 Can surely be Incarnate if He will, 
 
 Can work new wonders, 
 
 And_can sport with Death, 
 Without rebelling 'gainst His Mighty Self?
 
 136 AN OUTCAST IN LONDON ON SUNDAY. 
 
 We ill could spare the tender Mystery 
 That made a sinless Son to save the world, 
 
 Lit up the Cross of Love on Calvary, 
 And shone new wonder through the eyes of 
 Death. 
 
 It stirs the heart, 
 It makes the pulses beat, 
 It sends sweet music murmuring thro' the air, 
 It makes us hear the beating heart of God, 
 And feel the rush of Love in all mankind ; 
 Call it a superstition if you will, 
 
 Pale academic mind ! 
 Still shall it charm my days : 
 Yea ; — though I scorn their brutal thought of 
 
 God, — 
 'Twere better to be washed in Christ's warm blood? 
 
 In Sanctum Evangelical, 
 Than to be chilled in Unitarian ice, 
 Borne from the Polar regions of humanity. 
 
 I'll leave you to your icy dreams, 
 Pale-minded Priest, 
 And seek elsewhere salvation, 
 That all the storm-tossed billows of the mind 
 May be at rest ; 
 Good-bye ! thou fleshly verger,
 
 AN OUTCAST IN LONDON ON SUNDAY. 1 37 
 
 Lolling against the pillars of the porch, 
 No wonder thou dost love the open air, 
 
 The sun, the breeze, 
 
 The buoyancy of Nature, 
 
 And turn'st thy back upon the artificial ice 
 
 That's made within ! 
 
 I, who have sought my bed beside the blushing fox 
 gloves 
 'Neath the brambles, 
 Or by the blue-bells in the dell, 
 Or 'neath the wild-rose tangled in fair Summer's 
 hair, 
 Know something of the Love that paints with 
 
 joy 
 Its story on the earth, 
 And pipes its love-songs through the tuneful 
 throats 
 Of merry birds, 
 Yet feel I something lovelier far 
 
 Lives in our hearts 
 And longs for utterance upon a harp in Heaven. 
 
 What heart can speak it here ? 
 Who would believe the tale ? 
 To tell a man you loved him fondly 
 As you might love a woman,
 
 138 A N OUTCAST IN LONDON ON SUNDAY. 
 
 Would make his heart recoil ! 
 For here our minds are like a garden rare 
 
 Locked against all intruders, 
 That none may see the lovely flowers that bloom, 
 Or taste the fruits that ripen 'neath Earth's sun. 
 
 As I have lain beneath my woodland coverlets, — 
 
 And watched the action of the kindly clouds 
 Sponging the tear-drops from the weeping moon 
 To strain them on the earth, — 
 Oft have I felt 
 That I could weep and die 
 In deep despair at man's unfriendliness. 
 
 I'll leave this city-wilderness of souls, 
 
 And hasten to the laughing woods and fields 
 
 To read God's Bible there ; 
 For man seems destined to confine his soul 
 
 Within his prison walls, 
 A captive to his terrifying flesh, 
 A martyr to the social bonds that bind 
 The tongue from speaking what it finds 
 Deep in the silence of the inner man. 
 
 Now I ascend the mountain of the Lord 
 Where all the air is pure.
 
 AN OUTCAST IN LONDON ON SUNDAY. 1 39 
 
 Come to me here, ye hard of heart, 
 
 Ye bitter, biting souls of malice born, 
 
 Here on this peak where Summer pins her 
 
 gown 
 And drapes it gracefully adown the land. 
 See how it crinkles in the grassy vales 
 In thousand tints of green, and gold, and brown, 
 And how the fine embroidery of flowers 
 Is woven in its texture like a dream, 
 How the wild poppies flood it deep with red, 
 And large-eyed corn-flowers star it o'er with blue, 
 And how the cattle trample on the dress 
 Unheedful of its dainty loveliness, 
 Bellowing their music to the tell-tale wind 
 In joy of grassy feasts and sunlit hours ; 
 And see that river weeping thro' the vale 
 Bearing Earth's sorrow to the distant sea. 
 
 Tell me, ye hard of heart, if ye can breathe 
 In these rare altitudes, and watch the sun 
 Lay his fair bosom on the breast of Night 
 Without some thought of God, some glimpse 
 
 divine 
 Of glory throbbing in the distant blue, 
 Some fascinating feeling that o'ercomes 
 The fleshly sense, and bids us float away 
 Into the Silence, far removed from care ?
 
 140 AN OUTCAST IN LONDON ON SUNDAY. 
 
 Whence comes this feeling, this strange, soaring 
 
 power, 
 As I stand dreaming forth into the west 
 Verged on this precipice ? And whence the cry, — 
 " Cast thyself down ! " while my poor body shrinks 
 From the weird verge in dread and cries ; — 
 
 " Tempt not the Lord, thy God, 
 Who made me as a casket for thy jewel-mind 
 To hide in, till the Day shall come 
 When flesh shall gravitate and soul shall soar." 
 
 Pass, coward thought ! I cannot break the spell 
 
 Of my existence, 
 For if I throw the casket o'er th' abyss 
 
 And shatter it, 
 Still will the jewel-mind exist, 
 Tho' nebulous it may hereafter shine 
 
 Amid Heaven's diamonds. 
 
 He must be coward great who craves Oblivion 
 
 And longs for Nothingness, 
 Like a whipped felon conscious of his crimes ! 
 As well expect the wind to be quiescent, 
 
 The sea a glassy mirror, 
 The clouds fixed monuments upon the sky, 
 
 As to conceive that Man 
 With all his possibilities can die !
 
 AN OUTCAST IN LONDON ON SUNDAY. I4I 
 
 Life ! Life ! Life ! 
 Reels like a dance before me ; 
 Death through all Nature merely means a change. 
 
 And now will I rest happy on this peak, 
 Till the rich beauty of the sleeping heavens, — 
 A velveted arcade of soft, aerial blue, 
 In silent Midnight wrapt — 
 Forgets its glory in the Eye of Day. 
 
 Look ! as I gaze the Love-light nickers round 
 
 me, 
 I see it flush the hill-tops with soft gold 
 And flood the sky-line with Aurora-bloom ; 
 I watch it modestly peep into valleys, 
 To chase the miasmatic fogs away; 
 And Man, awake to righteousness, 
 Brings his pure heart before me, 
 That I may read him without doubt or fear ! 
 
 No more concealment ! 
 But perfect intercourse from mind to mind. 
 
 All hail ! thou Light of Love ! 
 For Thee 
 The sky-lark bears Earth's morning song to 
 
 Heaven, 
 In palpitating haste to pierce the blue ; 
 The thrush sings anthems to the waking woods,
 
 142 AN OUTCAST IN LONDON ON SUNDAY. 
 
 While Morning stands on tiptoe, holds her breath, 
 And spreads a mystic hush along the land, 
 That all may hear the passion of the song, 
 And Man at last may see, and hear, and know 
 All the sweet things enfolded Love in Thee. 
 
 This surely must be some great Day of Days ! 
 
 I see a coffin laid along the valley, 
 
 And men and women packing it with lies 
 
 Which they have hugged as life-long, fond 
 
 delusions ; 
 I see the Pope throw in Infallibility, 
 His Priests, their scorn of fatherhood, 
 The Turk, his Woman-Heaven, 
 The Buddhist, his dead-thought Nirvana, 
 The Calvinist, his living Hell, 
 The Miser, all his suffocating greed, 
 The Thief, his silent cunning, 
 The Hypocrite, his false devotion, 
 The Monk, the stupid torture of his flesh, 
 The Slanderer, his bitter epithets, 
 The Flirt, the base deception of her eyes, 
 All things that war against fair Truth and Nature, 
 And then in one vast funeral 
 They twine along the valley to the sea, 
 
 And there beneath the waves, 
 Bury this coffin packed with Life's great lies.
 
 AN OUTCAST IN LONDON ON SUNDAY. 1 43 
 
 And Love reigns over all ; 
 No brother now left desolate ; 
 No sister left to wander out her grief ; 
 
 No mother famishing for bread ; 
 No heart left yearning for the eyes of Love, — 
 (Lulling its passion with some drug that grew 
 When Summer, drowsy with her own great heat, 
 
 Swooned in the arms of Sleep ;) 
 No dreary poverty where beauty dies ; 
 No rich-man's treadmill in the jail of Time ; 
 But all, in happy helpfulness to one another, 
 Losing the doom of Self 
 And gaining Life's great heritage of Joy, — 
 Like seedlings bursting through the earth 
 To show their beauties to the wooing sun. 
 
 And look how they come flocking to the side 
 
 Of this unworthy Outcast ! 
 Fain would they draw me from my brooding self 
 
 Into the blessed freedom of their love, 
 
 And fain would I go with them, 
 
 To be once more free as air. 
 
 Oh ! Love ! thou sunlight picture of the heart of 
 God! 
 
 I feel thee in my soul, 
 And as the world goes moving to the West,
 
 144 AN OUTCAST IN LONDON ON SUNDAY. 
 
 (Where lies the Great Hereafter 
 
 Wrapt in the sunset-clouds,) 
 My heart gleans something of the light to come ; 
 The barriers of my Mind are blown away 
 
 By the great Wind of God, 
 And far-unfolding visions meet my gaze, 
 Like those fair pictures the balloonist views 
 
 As Heavenward he flies ; 
 This Earth is but one small revolving speck 
 
 As through the Air I pass 
 Into the Ether, 
 
 Upwards, ever upwards, 
 To the Fatherhood of All.
 
 SPIRIT REVELATIONS. 
 
 Thoughts unsealed by the contemplation of Nature and 
 my own complex Being. 
 
 The sea has bowed its white-capped waves to me, 
 
 The clouds have beckoned me to yon deep sky, 
 The sun has drawn me with its wondrous heat, 
 
 The wind caressed me as it passed me by, 
 And flowers have looked in pity at my face, 
 
 And butterflies tossed past me in disdain, 
 While trees have whispered through their shivering 
 leaves, 
 
 And birds have talked to me of joy and pain ; 
 Yet have I been a fool and noticed naught 
 Of all these miracles that have been wrought. 
 
 And they have been so gentle and so kind, 
 So patient with me, as if I were great, 
 
 And they but lowly things upon the earth, 
 Their only pleasure on my soul to wait. 
 
 How long the wheat has borne its ears for me, 
 And waved them to me on a sunny day, 
 
 L
 
 I46 SPIRIT REVELATIONS. 
 
 With silky ribbons rustling in the breeze, — 
 
 The fruitful chemistry of common clay ; 
 Yet have I passed them by as nothing worth, 
 And never loved these sweet things of the earth. 
 
 I've seen the mussels cluster round the rocks, 
 
 To lay their belts of blue upon the grey ; 
 I've seen the limpets' tiny pyramids, 
 
 Tint with prevailing brown the sea-girt bay ; 
 I've watched the ivy clambering round a wall, 
 
 To paint its tottering masonry with green, 
 And in the furnace of the sinking sun 
 
 What gorgeous colour-pictures have I seen ! 
 Yet though I've seen, my inner sense was blind, 
 And never ope'd the windows of the mind. 
 
 And I have heard the babbling brooklet sing 
 
 A mystic cadence as it ebbed away, 
 And listened to the birds high carolling, 
 
 When they were taking summer holiday ; 
 And I have heard the roar of cataracts, 
 
 And mail-clad grasshoppers' one-noted song, 
 And awe-struck 'neath a Heaven robed in black, 
 
 I've heard the awful thunder boom along : 
 Yet have I hearing, heard not in my heart, 
 But deaf remained to all this wondrous art.
 
 SPIRIT REVELATIONS. 1 47 
 
 And I have smelt Spring's distillations sweet 
 
 From violets, hyacinths, and cowslips pale, 
 Lilacs and Maybuds ; and on summer nights, 
 
 When woods are hushed to hear the nightingale, 
 I've breathed the breath of star-aspiring pines, 
 
 Carnations, heliotropes, and roses red, 
 With trailing honeysuckles' o'er-sweet breath, 
 
 Breezed through the window as I lay in bed : 
 Yet all these scents mysteriously distilled, 
 Have with no wonder my dull being filled. 
 
 But now I'm looking for the subtle sense 
 
 That underlies these wonders ; for the hand 
 So light, that made those evanescent clouds 
 
 And poised them graciously above the land, 
 As sun-blinds or rain-carriers of heaven, 
 
 And ever-changing pictures of the skies ; 
 For Him Who gave the sun eternal heat 
 
 To make these clouds from earth-bound vapours 
 rise, 
 Who made all colour, scent, and sound, 
 And wrote in rocks the history of the ground. 
 
 And from within me comes a quiet voice 
 
 Vibrating to the harmonies around, 
 Telling of Joy and Sorrow, Love and Hate, 
 
 And all fine secrets that in hearts are found ; 
 The delicate perception of the Mind, 
 
 L 2
 
 I48 SPIRIT REVELATIONS. 
 
 The varied feelings that our beings fill, 
 The longing for perfection, never neared, 
 
 The Hope undying and the magic Will ; 
 And I, a wonder to myself, do cry 
 To some High Fatherhood in Earth or Sky. 
 
 And I shall find Him ; for it cannot be 
 
 That I may feel affinity and still 
 Have no real kinship with the Father Mind 
 
 Who works these wonders with His Mighty Will, 
 The Painter, Poet, Stone-historian, 
 
 And great Mechanic of unmeasured Time, 
 Who uplifts mountains and controls the seas, 
 
 Whose simplest structure is a work sublime, 
 Who has a willing choir in every grove, 
 Composing Anthems to the Lord they love. 
 
 'Twere shame to look the morning in the face 
 
 With eyes impure, or gaze with vile intent 
 On spotless maidenhood ; and how can I 
 
 Approach the Maker of the Firmament 
 With eyes that have no thought of reverence, 
 
 Forgetful of th' Almighty Breath of Morn, 
 That stirred the world to life and gave us hope 
 
 Of unveiled wonders at a Second Dawn, 
 Which shall upon us break through mists of Death 
 When Earth at last doth covet us our breath ?
 
 SPIRIT REVELATIONS. 1 49 
 
 We try to peer into the Spirit Land 
 
 With sensuous eyes, forgetful that ideas 
 Are spirit-born and come from some High Source 
 
 Unseen : we cannot even see our fears, 
 But feel them burning with electric force 
 
 Into our being ; and it e'en may be 
 That what we witness with material eyes, 
 
 May be but figments in immensity, 
 And all that's real is our encaged Mind 
 Groping in this dark Earth with vision blind. 
 
 Oh ! seas and woods ! 'mid magic of starlight ! 
 
 Oh ! sun-born flowers, grassy hills and vales ! 
 Forgive me for my slighting thought of you 
 
 Who are so real to me. Oh ! nightingales ! 
 Recall me to the Earth I love, and sing 
 
 To me your lullabies of Night again ; 
 Lament in melody your hearts' regret 
 
 At my vain treason, if it give you pain ; 
 Woo me with music, and invite the flowers 
 To yield their secrets in the sunny hours. 
 
 But no : you beauty-loving earth-born eyes, 
 You ears that ravished are with tender tone, 
 
 Why cramp me with your narrow range of power. 
 When I to spirit-land allegiance own ? 
 
 Our bodies are the trial of our life, 
 
 Our home of sad temptation, where we sigh.
 
 150 SPIRIT REVELATIONS. 
 
 But as a seedling doth evolve its shell, 
 
 So life within me was not born to die, 
 And I for ever must a spirit be, 
 Full of expansion in futurity. 
 
 Earth is but an instructive toy for man ; 
 
 The nurse who nurtures him upon her breast, 
 And bids him fathom out the Secret Mind 
 
 Which lives in all things, without sleep or rest. 
 The flowers tell us of some tender care, 
 
 And seas and mountains utter forth wild praise. 
 On nights of starry wonder when the heavens 
 
 Are cleansed from every cloud, we upward gaze 
 And lose ourselves in dim infinity, 
 Conceiving something of what yet may be ; 
 
 But when Heaven's nearest star, Earth's golden 
 sun, 
 
 Doth shine upon the wealth of wood and stream, 
 Day steals the diamonds from the velvet sky, 
 
 And brushes out our night-bejewelled dream ; 
 Our minds are lured by sense from high desire ; 
 
 The present hides the future and the past ; 
 That which is near obstructs our larger view ; 
 
 But when we find Him in the future vast, 
 Earth will have faded from our sensuous eyes 
 And Higher Thoughts have borne us to the skies.
 
 MY HEART'S LOVE-TRAGEDY. 
 
 That breath of wind which shivered through the 
 
 trees, 
 Said something strangely sweet to my rapt ears ; 
 You heard it not ? 
 Why should you ? 
 To you 'twas but a breeze 
 That came and went, 
 To me it whispered music from the long-past years. 
 
 Could ever Love be sweeter, more divinely born 
 
 Than ours ? 
 Did ever Love give promise of more joy ? 
 When, like the opening of the buds of flowers, 
 Or like the influence of the rising morn, 
 It drew the secrets from our silent hearts. 
 Oh ! Love ! thou wondrous vision of Eternal Truth, 
 
 Clad in. Eternal Youth, 
 
 Thou arrow-armed boy ! 
 
 The trees were whispering then as they are whis- 
 pering now, 
 And twilight mystically clothed the green
 
 152 MY HEART'S LOVE-TRAGEDY. 
 
 In robes of softened beauty 'gainst the sunset sky; 
 I saw a gnarled bough 
 Plunged in a bath of purple, 
 Look like a giant whose whole life had been 
 Spent in some silent combat with the powers on high. 
 
 The sun seemed loth to close his tired eyes, 
 Tho' worn with his hot gaze at Mother Earth, 
 
 As in the west he lay, 
 Seeming to slumber in some gorgeous dream 
 
 That died out at its birth, 
 In fitful gleam. 
 
 All things seemed clad in velvet, soft and weird, 
 And dark were all the vistas 'neath the trees : 
 I almost feared 
 I saw a fairy 'neath a bed of fern 
 Combing her tresses by the glow-worm's light. 
 But what one sees 
 When over-weighed with thought on such a night, 
 
 Might make a dead man start and turn 
 Ere he was ripe for resurrection flight. 
 
 They say the dead do rest in peace, 
 (God grant they do) ; 
 But have you never seen
 
 my heart's love-tragedy. i 53 
 
 How tumbled lie their graves in churchyards old, 
 As tho' their pent-up bodies struggled for release 
 
 From consecrated mould 
 And tottering tomb-stones long since choked with 
 
 green ! 
 (Time fain would heal our griefs and dry our tears, 
 Would e'en unwrite the records of sad years.) 
 They say some dead have broken through, 
 And walk the world in miserable plight, 
 Clad in transparent sheets of mystic white, 
 Dumb, pantomimic spectres, who their past do rue ! 
 
 Was it a ghost I saw on that fair eve, 
 Walking with such mute ease ? 
 'Twas clad in white and made my bosom heave 
 Fond thrills my heart did seize, 
 My brain did fancies weave 
 As on it came, 
 I saw it kill my fairy 'neath its feet, 
 And quench unheedingly the glow-worm's light ; 
 I felt a throbbing heat, 
 Th' approach out of the night 
 Of something that would light my love in never 
 dying flame. 
 
 It was no ghost : 
 It was a fairy who thus killed a fairy,
 
 154 MY heart's love-tragedy. 
 
 And did unconscious murder on the threshold of 
 my love, 
 Portents do come to most, 
 E'en to the Godless and unwary. 
 But I had no belief in charm or fancy, 
 And treated them as idle necromancy. 
 
 A bat flew out ! — 
 Blind chance would have it so ; — 
 It fluttered round my head, 
 And put the moths to rout, 
 Then darted with a cruel blow 
 At that white form as on it sped. 
 
 The clammy touch of that foreboding bird, 
 The shrink of horror from that blow unseen, 
 The creeping dread that froze the pulsing blood, 
 Unnerved that figure white ; 
 No sound the woodlands heard, 
 Nothing disturbed the scene, 
 But life was checked when in its full-tide flood, 
 And swooned away limp from its magic might. 
 
 To instant help I rushed 
 As that white figure slid upon the ground, 
 I tore the clothing from its jealous clasp, 
 
 While all the earth was hushed, 
 And there I trembling found 
 A woman swooning in my frightened grasp.
 
 MY HEART'S LOVE-TRAGEDY. 155 
 
 I thank the Lord that all the air was dim 
 With shadows from the half-drawn veil of Night ; 
 The crescent moon with its keen, glittering rim 
 
 And one bright star, 
 
 Shed not sufficient light, 
 But chastely hid her bosom from my sight, 
 That I might dream of what her beauties are. 
 
 The air felt stifling 'neath the heavy-coated trees, 
 
 And so I folded her within my breast 
 (Which ne'er before had such soft beauty pressed), 
 And bore her helpless to some grassy plot, 
 Where stole the fitful breeze, 
 And the blue eye of Heaven looked calmly down, 
 Weeping cool tears on Earth's dry, sun-scorched 
 gown. 
 
 s 
 
 There was a pool close by, 
 All stagnant, reeking, weed-encircled ! . . . 
 How could I sprinkle such vile drops on her 
 Who looked so pure ? . . . 
 At last I heard a sigh 
 Long-drawn ; life was returning ; 
 And like a vain idolater, 
 
 With wild soul burning 
 In forest fane obscure, 
 I knelt ecstatic ; holy love discerning !
 
 156 MY HEART'S LOVE-TRAGEDY. 
 
 There in the dusk I saw the eyelids lift 
 
 And two wild stars peep out, 
 As if new-born and full of fears ; 
 Lode-stars they were in my love-firmament. 
 Storm-clouds might drift, 
 Whispering friends might warn, 
 And venomed tongues might shout, 
 But I was bound just like those Eastern seers, 
 To seek that Bethlehem where my love was born. 
 
 Born in the breezes of a summer night, 
 
 As tho' sweet angels rustling 'mid the leaves, 
 
 Drew us together, 
 Or pleasant devils wrapt me in a charm 
 
 Of warm love- weather, 
 And lured me with that vision bright 
 
 Of two fair arms all lily-white, 
 Peeping out coyly from their silken sleeves. 
 
 I cannot tell 
 Until the Latter-Day, — 
 When this wild Earth as incense to the Lord 
 Shall burn, and waft our spirits far away 
 Up to the footstool of the Judgment Throne, — 
 Whether the influence came from Heaven or Hell 
 
 But this I know, 
 That Love can never die, however lightly sown. 
 And being born of God, He cannot Love disown.
 
 my heart's love-tragedy. 157 
 
 I lifted up my sweet one from her bed of leaves 
 
 and grass, 
 And led her gently forward lest the briars might 
 hurt her feet, 
 And she, still faint and cold, 
 Kept murmuring her thanks ; while I, more 
 
 bold, 
 Would not permit such thoughts her lips to 
 pass, 
 For was it not itself reward to tend on one so 
 sweet ? 
 
 At length her coyish diffidence fled like a cloud 
 
 away, 
 We skipped from chill December to the summery 
 month of May, 
 And from her lily throat there came 
 That voice which thrilled in me 
 The sympathetic chord of Love for all eternity. 
 
 " My heart leaps up to you, kind Sir, with mad 
 wild, fluttering throbs, 
 I pray you pardon my impulsiveness ; 
 
 Pity my sobs ; 
 Had you a magnet 'neath the forest trees, 
 To draw me onward to your resting place 
 Beside that bed of fern ?
 
 I58 MY HEART'S LOVE-TRAGEDY. 
 
 You ne'er, I trow, will guess 
 Why my sad soul, so quick to faint and freeze, 
 And creep within itself, trembled to meet you face 
 to face, 
 When that strange bird came dashing 'gainst 
 
 my brain, 
 Like some weird harbinger of coming pain. 
 
 u Think me not lonesome, like that pine forlorn, — 
 
 A leafless sentinel upon a wind-swept hill, — 
 For I have friends, though I seem unbefriended ; 
 Your new mind comes to me like rain from 
 heaven 
 Upon the dainty Earth, 
 When surfeited with too much wooing of the 
 amorous sun ; 
 I would my life had blended 
 (As God gave it birth), 
 In the high aspirations of a greater one. 
 
 " But I am bounded by a mindless zone, 
 And know that mentally I live alone, 
 So on fair summer nights I wander thus, 
 To hold communion with my friends the trees 
 And list to the communicable breeze."
 
 my heart's love-tragedy. 159 
 
 I heard this speech with wonder ; can you doubt 
 
 My strange affection now for Nature's words, 
 When whispered by the softly sighing wind 
 Amid the leaf-clad branches ? 
 I could not live without 
 These fine remembrances of other years, 
 When Nature poured her tale into the listening 
 ears 
 Of that sweet woman's high-aspiring mind. 
 
 We came then to a tree uprooted in some long-past 
 thunderstorm, 
 And stretched all lifeless on its Mother's breast — 
 Sad as a woman dandling her dead babe — 
 There sat we till the crescent moon 
 
 Sank in the glowing West, 
 With all the world aswoon 
 In midnight rest. 
 
 And there we talked ; she told me how her life 
 
 Lay buried in the quiet of a farm, 
 How the once-cultured garden of her mind, 
 Walled round from harm, 
 . Now grew but weeds and brambles, 
 And was a weary wilderness, without a charm.
 
 160 my heart's love-tragedy. 
 
 " I now am chained," she said, " unto a churlish 
 lord 
 Who has no sort of mind above a clod, 
 Who cannot speak a cultured word 
 And knows not God ! 
 My parents chained me to him for his gold, 
 And were I ne'er so bold, 
 I cannot break the law-locked chain, 
 But must this churl's sad wife for aye remain." 
 
 Then said she, starting up with merry bound, — 
 " To-night, howe'er, I'm free ; free of his hateful 
 
 arms, 
 For he is to some break-neck hunting gone, 
 And I have no alarms ; 
 Here will I spend the night, if you with me will 
 
 stay, 
 And with a wise philosophy chase time away." 
 
 And I was nothing loth, for I was but a man, 
 And she the daintiest woman Eve had ever 
 borne, 
 Dainty in word and thought, 
 Dainty e'en in scorn, 
 Yea, no such dainty creature, since the world 
 began, 
 E'er smiled upon the morn.
 
 my heart's love-tragedy. 161 
 
 I lay outstretched on that old trunk, how long, I 
 
 cannot say, 
 She dallying round me in her playful, winning way, 
 
 And as I skyward peered, I thought I saw 
 Blue veils from Heaven fall draping round my couch 
 Bedecked with tearful stars — 
 Like costly curtains with no woven flaw ; — 
 And then I felt the curtain lift, and 'twixt the sky 
 
 and me, 
 Two radiant eyes and two sweet lips appear, 
 Which gently dropped on mine, light as the falling 
 
 dew, 
 Then froze with fear and suddenly withdrew. 
 
 A kiss may have no meaning, or epitomize a life, 
 May be the breath of innocence or lustful shame ; 
 
 But that kiss came to me as Earth attracts the rain, 
 As skyward springs to life the burning flame, 
 
 As rivers ever wander to the thirsty sea, 
 
 Drawn by the never-failing law — Necessity. 
 
 Come down, ye moral ice-hills from your scornful 
 heights, 
 Melt in love valleys, twine thro' glens of roses, 
 Then with new sympathies and new delights, 
 Touched with the sorrow the warm world dis- 
 closes, 
 
 M
 
 1 62 MY HEART'S LOVE-TRAGEDY. 
 
 Try and condemn that one, that only kiss, 
 And from High Heaven, the angels pure would 
 hiss. 
 
 I know how passion surged within me as those lips 
 
 came down, 
 How near Love's chariot whirled us to th' abyss ! 
 You ! with your granite heart ! may sneer and 
 frown 
 At this my " sentimental bliss," 
 (I see you sneering now), 
 But know that critics have been rarely born 
 Who can discreetly scorn 
 And yet attain 
 A wealth of wisdom and a crowned brow. 
 
 After that kiss I knew that all had changed, 
 For I had lived, like you, amid a frosted world, 
 
 Which had no feeling for a soul of summer, 
 
 Amid negations had my spirit ranged, 
 I wrapped my soul in heavy funeral pall 
 
 And walked beside it, like a sorry mummer. 
 
 And so that kiss, though nectar to my lips, 
 Frightened my coffined soul, 
 Like poison-sips,
 
 MY HEARTHS LOVE-TRAGEDY. 163 
 
 And for one minute, dazed with treacherous doubt 
 
 I gazed all dreamily about, 
 And watched her silhouette against the sky 
 
 Melt in the secret wood ; 
 Then like a wakened chrysalis 
 
 My soul burst thro' its bonds, 
 
 And, armed with new-born wings, 
 Flew through the woodland's dreamy shadowings. 
 
 But she was gone : 
 The darkness held her tight 
 
 In its weird grasp, 
 And now my heart forlorn, 
 Waiteth ; 
 Till in some western sea before the setting sun, 
 A ship with her loved form shall float to me, 
 And we shall sail together out into the Night. 
 
 m 2
 
 SERMONS IN NATURE. 
 
 " The bells ring out in merry jingle, 
 And high and low together mingle, 
 
 Flocking to church : 
 The shop-girl dons her best attire 
 And daintily avoids the mire, 
 
 On goodly search. 
 
 " Shall I aspire to such devotion ? 
 Or join the grand song of the ocean, 
 
 Hymning God's praise ? 
 Or can no thought of mine be holy 
 Unless I trust my being wholly 
 
 To priestly ways ? 
 
 " Can any temple be erected 
 In which God's love can be detected 
 
 Without their aid ? 
 Am I not undivine and human ? 
 And must I not be made a new man 
 
 Or be unmade ?
 
 SERMONS IN NATURE. 1 65 
 
 " Alas ! alas ! I know no better, 
 I'm Nature's child without a fetter, 
 
 Knowing no care ; 
 My Priest, the ever restless ocean, 
 Waves incense by perpetual motion, 
 Free as the air. 
 
 " And all ye crushed in shrines and churches, 
 Leave to false priests their self-made perches, 
 
 Envy them not ; 
 They'll soon be lean with scanty feeding, 
 And careless of their Heavenly breeding, 
 
 Lament their lot." 
 
 So passed a stranger 
 Torturing the listening air with these tumultuous 
 breathings ; 
 Had he sound philosophy ? truth ? yearnings after 
 right ? 
 Or were his wild convulsions only peevish teethings 
 Essential to the product of the tooth of wisdom 
 Which only Time can ripen ? " Where's the 
 Light ? where's the Light ? " 
 And he received for answer only dim discernings 
 
 Of underlying good beneath the crust of fashion : 
 Nature like a fire seemed to quicken all his yearn- 
 ings,
 
 1 65 SERMONS IN NATURE. 
 
 And cramping human customs only roused his 
 passion ; 
 Men seemed so much alike in clothes and mode of 
 thinking, 
 No one could be unorthodox and hold his station, 
 While ever-changeful Nature kept his Faith from 
 sinking, 
 And made him feel her God-song was no vain 
 oblation. 
 
 So through the fields he went, 
 
 Perfumed with breath of summer ; 
 The bells' high jangle wildly rent 
 
 By hurrying wind made changeful murmur, 
 Till cresting o'er a fir-crowned hill, 
 
 Wind, bell, and insect-music blended 
 In the wild thunder of the sea, 
 
 With quaintest harmonies attended. 
 A band of unseen minstrels gently 
 
 Followed his steps and sang and played, 
 Streaming abroad melodious plenty, 
 
 For- which no money may be paid ; 
 And when his brain and ears were flooded 
 
 With all these heaven-descended lays, 
 His heart imprompt with words unstudied, 
 
 Bounded to God in Hymns of Praise : —
 
 SERMONS IN NATURE. 1 67 
 
 " Oh, wind ! I thought you rude and coarse 
 
 Years back ; I missed your hidden meaning, 
 The sea was boisterously hoarse, 
 
 A veil my vision intervening, 
 Which the forgiving wind in wonder 
 
 Has tossed into the boiling sea, 
 And now I welcome Nature's thunder 
 
 And join your hymn with childlike glee. 
 Welcome, ye groves, and vales, and mountains ! 
 
 Welcome, ye cataracts and streams ! 
 Welcome, ye heaven-sprung crystal fountains ! 
 
 Welcome, ye golden sunlight beams ! 
 Welcome, ye sentinels of ages, 
 
 Worn by perpetual duty bare, 
 Old rocks round which Time frets and rages, 
 
 Sun-crowned with beauty, towering there ! 
 Welcome, thrice welcome, sunlit ocean ! 
 
 Tossing in foam each new-born wave, 
 Glad in thy free, inconstant motion, 
 
 Which sleep ne'er dares to make its slave ; 
 Carry my song round all the globe-lands, 
 
 Tell men to breathe, and live, and glow, 
 Tell them the trees are angel robe-stands 
 
 Beneath Heaven's blue-arched portico, — 
 Decked now with hangings star-bespangled, 
 
 And now with moonlit fleecy clouds 
 All prism-tinted and entangled,
 
 1 68 SERMONS IN NATURE. 
 
 And fading fast like ghostly shrouds, — 
 Tell them the angels soft as sunlight 
 
 Come in the Spring when Nature's bare, 
 Weave wood-anemones and violets, 
 
 Primroses and cowslips rare. 
 Tell them the birds sing songs far purer 
 
 Than ever mortal lips can sing, 
 No law for them makes Death the surer, 
 
 Or ever arms him with a sting ; 
 But turreted in leafy chambers, 
 
 Shaded from mid-day's burning rays, 
 And garlanded with Spring-tide blossoms 
 
 Foreshadowing fruit in Autumn days, 
 They sing their love-songs and their dirges,- 
 
 For they have joys and sorrows too, — 
 Unconscious of the guilt that urges 
 
 Us sinful men our lives to rue. 
 To them our God is no enigma, 
 
 They love Him, breathe Him, every hour, 
 Knowing the bounty of His Mercy 
 
 Is ten-fold greater than His Power. 
 Did not our Saviour pray in secret, 
 
 Soul-fed by moonlight's watchful ray, 
 With tears of star-land falling o'er Him, 
 
 When human hearts were far away ? 
 O ! all ye men dried up in form-life, 
 
 Worshipping ugly-shapen creeds,
 
 SERMONS IN NATURE. 1 69 
 
 Prepared by priestcraft for your thraldom, 
 
 Regardless of your crying needs ! 
 Here there are sermons writ in Nature, 
 
 Unspoken epics from the skies, 
 Symphonic chorals of creation, 
 
 Refuting atheistic lies ! 
 Come then and worship God in beauty, 
 
 God in the Spring-unfolding trees, 
 But come with childlike, wondering faces, 
 
 And fall entranced upon your knees."
 
 MY FORMER SELF. 
 
 All withered seem the branches of the tree of 
 Thought 
 
 Which has grown up within me ; 
 Oh ! for the fire of prayer 
 To burn the dead wood in a flame to Heaven, 
 And waft my spirit to the Great Unseen ! 
 
 Broken away from half my father's faith, 
 And faint with floods of tears, 
 Pity me, Lord ; 
 Lend me Thine aid ; restore those branches fair, 
 Which waved their sacred incense in the winnow- 
 ing wind 
 
 In years gone by; 
 For surely 'twould be kinder to preserve 
 The shady influence of that sheltering tree, 
 Where thoughts grew happy in Arcadian bliss, 
 Than let its dry wood perish in despair of Spring 
 And give no grateful shade.
 
 MY FORMER SELF. *7 l 
 
 Nay ! Nay ! 
 The change has come, 
 The electric fire of Truth 
 Has struck the tree, 
 And burnt away its green serenity ; 
 
 And now I know 
 That roses may into sweet lilacs bloom, 
 And daisies blossom into daffodils, 
 And Heaven lose its canopy of stars, 
 Sooner than I can turn into my former self. 
 
 My former self is dead ! 
 Slain by the new-born man within me ; 
 Each new thought, like a javelin, 
 Pierced and pained him, 
 And left him bleeding in the march of life, 
 And now men call me cruel, 
 Fratricidal, 
 And point the finger with a look of scorn 
 As though forsooth /were a murderer, 
 And they the pillars of immortal Truth. 
 
 They are the murderers, not // 
 Their pulpits ofttimes are but scaffolds where they 
 
 slaughter Truth, 
 And plague the Sabbath with mere lip-beliefs ! 
 Vain hypocrites !
 
 ■* 
 \"J2 MY FORMER SELF. 
 
 They worship long-dead creeds 
 To which they have not given decent funeral ; 
 
 They mouth sweet prayers unmeaningly ; 
 
 They shout anathemas to frowning Heaven, 
 And clutch at silent shadows when they die ! 
 
 Yet Truth will live ; 
 A lying thought has no recurrent Spring, 
 
 But dies for ever, 
 While Truth ne'er knows a Winter ; 
 
 And so my former self 
 Lies buried in the vastness of Life's dream. 
 
 And now I find it sweet to talk with Death 
 And let him lead me to the Border Land 
 Where spirits rest, 
 To that star-studded gate of blue 
 Which hides the Eternal Silence. 
 
 Perish Corruption 
 Live, New Life ! 
 And show me where God dwells, 
 
 In violets, lilies, roses, fruits, and seeds, 
 In magic mountain-peaks preserved in snow, 
 In chasms rent by angry Mother Earth, 
 In valleys melting in soft luxury,
 
 MY FORMER SELF. 1 73 
 
 In rivers, lakes, and seas, 
 In moon, and sun, and stars, 
 
 And Heaven's soft blue ; 
 And closer in the bleeding heart of Man, 
 In tenderness, in pity, and in love, 
 In spirit-gleams, 
 In hopes and fears, 
 And in the wailings of the weeping years. 
 
 New Life ! grow bold, 
 Knock loud at Heaven's great heart 
 And wait for Joy,
 
 DENIALS AND REFUSALS. 
 
 Our lives are moulded by each day's denials, 
 And purified in furnaces of trials ; 
 
 So long as we are sensitive and feel, 
 Then are we sure of high perfection ; 
 
 But if our callous hearts soon heal, 
 We may reap Heaven's rejection. 
 
 Life's building-stones are made of great refusals ; 
 So love we not our inner-life's perusals, 
 But hide them from the gaze of all our fellows, 
 Altho' we trumpet forth our praise with well- 
 worked bellows ! 
 
 See how the child aspires 
 To satisfy its innocent desires, 
 But how each day it learns 
 To quench the fire that burns, 
 
 Growing well-cultured with its heart in hand, 
 
 Ready at any moment to expand
 
 DENIALS AND REFUSALS. 1 75 
 
 'Neath mad temptation, 
 
 In an unbounded fury of elation ; 
 
 But in the end suppressed, 
 
 It lullabies to rest. 
 
 See how the lover knocketh at a heart 
 
 To find no answer, 
 Yet like a bounding hart, 
 
 Or furious prancer, 
 He runs the faster after his endeavour, 
 From which no obstacles his soul shall sever ; 
 His cold refusal makes him twice a man 
 Intent upon his plan, — 
 
 And yet the fates would tell him that his bliss 
 Will never linger in a grudging kiss, — 
 Away with bars and bolts ! no heart's protected 
 When once the majesty of Love's rejected ! 
 
 And watch, too, how the worldly man aspires 
 
 To storm Society's fortress, 
 And how the jealous world up-fires, 
 
 With Pride as portress, 
 To hinder his admission, — 
 
 For curs must never hope to live with dogs of high 
 position !
 
 I76 DENIALS AND REFUSALS. 
 
 And yet the more he is refused, 
 The fuller is his blood infused 
 
 With mad determination, 
 Until at last he turns the lock 
 And proud as any strutting cock 
 
 Forgets his former station. 
 Refusals feed the appetite 
 
 Of every man's ambition, 
 And spur him in the social fight 
 
 To better his condition. 
 
 And note, too, how the man of thought 
 Inspires weak words with meanings, 
 
 When with fine passion he has caught 
 Life's intellectual gleanings ! 
 
 And how his treasured words with glee, 
 
 Full of his soul's immensity, 
 
 He pours into our listening ears, 
 
 Regardless of our laughs and jeers ; 
 
 He who would cleave the Heavens and weigh a 
 star, 
 
 Who sees th' Almighty from afar, 
 
 Can trample on our futile sneers, 
 
 Can mount above us far away 
 
 To regions of eternal Day ! 
 
 The more his teachings are refused, 
 
 The more his dreamings are abused,
 
 DENIALS AND REFUSALS. 1 77 
 
 The higher his unbounded flight 
 From the drear regions of our Night, 
 Until in time he lifts us higher, 
 Near his volcano peaks of fire ! 
 
 Come then, most sweet Denials ! 
 Come then, my darling Trials ! 
 And with thee I will build a palace fair 
 Whose minarets shall gleam in Heaven's bright 
 air. 
 
 N
 
 THOUGHTS. 
 
 Have thoughts no habitation ? Do they grow 
 
 Like fungus in a night only to wither ? 
 Or does their spontaneity surely show 
 
 They come from spirit-land and we go thither ? 
 So strangely evanescent ! Who can tell ? 
 They may be but the shadow of a lie 
 
 And we as well, 
 But, if so, surely 'twould be well to die 
 Ere we come hither ! 
 
 Have thoughts no habitation ? How they flit 
 Like fleecy vapour o'er a summer sky, 
 
 Leaving no stain to mark the course they quit, 
 Having to earth a born antipathy, 
 
 Like globes of gas 
 Borne on the mighty breath of Boreas. 
 
 Suppose that great Photographer — the Sun, 
 Pictured our thoughts upon the Heavens above, 
 Would it be well ? 
 Would Hate turn into Love, 
 Or Heaven to Hell ?
 
 THE BOOK OF SIN. 
 A Dream. 
 
 Fain would I wander in eternal Spring, 
 
 Ere the hot sunbeams scorch the tender leaves, 
 
 When thrushes teach their nestlings how to sing, 
 And swallows build their homes 'neath dewy eaves. 
 Then, late in glorious May, 
 
 Fair is the earth, and green, and ever gay ! 
 
 To breathe the breath of lilies in the vales, — 
 Where violets blue their tell-tale blushes hide 
 
 From the wan lover who, despairing, fails 
 
 To find those scented offerings for his bride, — 
 Is like inspiring breath 
 
 That wafts the soul beyond the realms of Death. 
 
 Then bright-eyed primroses in moss-grown glades, 
 Shine gaily forth, like stars in clustering bands, 
 
 And light-blue hyacinths, in dewy shades, 
 Deluge with incense all the forest lands, 
 Then apple-buds flush bloom, 
 
 And may buds fill the hedges with perfume. 
 
 N 2
 
 180 THE BOOK OF SIN. 
 
 And then it was that I first found my love, 
 The fairest blossom of a golden year, 
 
 A flower for whom the bluest skies above 
 
 Distilled the choicest dew-drops — sweet and clear, 
 A rose of sacred birth 
 
 Offered by gracious heaven to me on earth. 
 
 And I accepted her with joy most meet, 
 No heart with richer offering could be blest, 
 
 I prayed to God that I might give my sweet 
 All that the land could render of the best, 
 That when Death came to me, 
 
 Our love might blossom in eternity. 
 
 And full of love one sunny afternoon 
 
 While gentle breezes fanned our souls to sleep, 
 
 And May was merging into lovelier June, 
 A wondrous vision did my senses steep 
 In ecstasy sublime, 
 
 Like dream of prophets in the olden time. 
 
 High in the sky great flocks of wild-birds flew, 
 While in the West a blood-red sunset blazed, 
 
 And mighty trees in a great wind that blew, 
 Were violently uprooted as I gazed, 
 Then a dead silence came, 
 
 More awful than the wind or Western flame.
 
 THE BOOK OF SIN. I 8 I 
 
 And then a sudden blackness quenched the light, 
 The sun had fallen, stifling grew the air, 
 
 Owls shrieked and vultures screamed in wild affright, 
 And made me tremble in a vain despair, 
 Then thundering earthquake shocks 
 
 Shattered the houses and the mightiest rocks ! 
 
 And then the awful stillness came again ; 
 
 I peered for help into the blackened gloom, 
 But saw not, heard not, and like one insane, 
 
 Rushed frantically forward to my doom, 
 And in the darkness fell 
 O'er a steep precipice that led to Hell. 
 
 Stunned, wounded, broken with that maddened 
 plunge, 
 I lay, and found the dismal gloom had cleared, 
 And prayed that some kind spirit would expunge 
 From my shocked vision the dread doom I feared, 
 As on a ledge I lay 
 Afraid to gaze below or crawl away. 
 
 Then like a glimpse of Spring in Winter bleak, 
 A lady, sweeter than a new moss-rose, 
 
 Came down to help me with demeanour meek, 
 And vowed to love me e'en till life should close 
 And we should give up earth 
 
 For the grand issues of our heavenly birth.
 
 1 82 THE BOOK OF SIN. 
 
 Her words, so warm, sank in my wounded heart, 
 And soothed me like the scented breath of morn, 
 
 I pointed downward and I saw her start, 
 I told her I'd ne'er loved since I was born, 
 And then she raised her eyes 
 
 And spoke her feelings in a glad surprise : — 
 
 " I come to lead your thoughts to dwell on me, 
 Lest they for ever wander in unrest, 
 
 Flitting from flower to flower gay and free, 
 A butterfly existence, never blest ; 
 Lover of beauty find 
 
 In me, a helpful and a loving mind." 
 
 And in that twilight dim my soul had found 
 
 The love that had been haunting me through life. 
 
 I took her hand and o'er the tangled ground 
 And jutting rocks that cut us like a knife 
 We climbed the dreadful steep 
 
 And o'er Hell's brink resolved our love to keep. 
 
 Then like a frightened fawn to me she clung 
 As with a crash the sky was rent in twain, 
 
 And through the gap a gilded Book was flung 
 Towards burning Hell : but with a cry of pain 
 An angel like a dart 
 
 Flew down and caught the Book to his wild heart,
 
 THE BOOK OF SIN. 1 83 
 
 And settled on that ledge where I had lain, 
 Reading with greedy eyes the Book of Sin, 
 
 Forgetful that the heavens had closed again 
 And he no more could free admittance win ; 
 Sin bound him in its spell, 
 
 And in a thunder-bolt he reeled to Hell. 
 
 I asked that gentle lady by my side, 
 
 Why to the angel she no succour gave ? 
 
 She could not tell ; her sympathies were wide, 
 And yet she felt her mission was to save 
 But one, her love, her sweet, 
 
 Who with a gentle kiss she now would greet. 
 
 And with that kiss I woke ; my lover's eyes 
 Had watched my moving features as I slept 
 
 And wondering at my passion-breathing sighs, 
 Suspected I some secret slyly kept ; 
 At this I raised my head, 
 
 Then softly told my dream and weeping, fled. 
 
 Fled with the weight of thought the dream had left, 
 With no interpreter to help or guide ; 
 
 Like one who when of all his friends bereft, 
 Seeketh in some lone nook his head to hide ; 
 Yet felt I Love had been 
 
 Breathing its influence in that dreamland scene.
 
 SENSUALITY OR LOVE? 
 
 Canst thou tell me, Heaven, — 
 
 Decked with thy crescent moon and wondering 
 
 stars, 
 Watching for ever the appealing Earth 
 In all its futile struggles with old Time, — 
 Why my flesh yearns for those two lips and eyes 
 Glowing with passion's flame, as in their gaze 
 Mine own melt helpless in entranced bliss ? 
 So that I fain would kiss my life away. 
 Or canst thou tell me, Spirit of the World, 
 Thou iron-hearted daughter of stiff Pride, 
 And sister of Hypocrisy and Death ? 
 Or Nature with thy wondrous chemistry, 
 Who know'st the secret colouring of flowers, 
 And paintest with deft hand the sunset clouds, 
 Canst thou explain the working of my soul ? — 
 The mortal consciousness that dies Immortal 
 In the receiving bosom of the Great Unknown ? 
 For here am I with eyes turned Heavenward, 
 Bent towards high purpose and exalted thought,
 
 SENSUALITY OR LOVE? 185 
 
 Plunged on a sudden in a bath of passion 
 Brimful of sensual joy. 
 
 Flesh tells me it is Love, 
 But Mirror Conscience cuts me like a knife, — 
 As though its glass had broken in my heart, — 
 And shows me flesh doth lie ; the lips are sweet, 
 The eyes seem incarnations of the soul, 
 But spirit doth not answer spirit : Love doth sleep. 
 
 What art thou, O Love ? Honey-dew of the soul ? 
 Manna in this heart-wilderness ? a breath ? 
 A beam of light, a substance, or a dream ? 
 
 Come to me, Love : 
 Let not a simulating thing betray thee, 
 And rob me of the sacred joy of knowing one 
 Who has so precious been to all mankind.
 
 THE SPIRIT OF LOVE IN THE SCENT 
 OF THE HAY. 
 
 Buttercup-gilded grass ! first offering of the 
 Spring, 
 Suffused with sorrel red, tinted with bells of blue, 
 Can I forget thy sweetly scented breath, 
 Thy perfumed incense at the shrine of Death 
 In early June ? 
 Shall I not rather sing 
 All that my heart unfolds in love of you ? 
 
 When you were dying fast, embalmed in odours 
 sweet, 
 I on your bosom lay, sunshaded by green trees, 
 Thinking of nothing but the joy of rest, — 
 The ecstasy of langour giving zest 
 To my repose, — 
 When, lo ! two pretty feet 
 Came stepping towards me with a careless ease.
 
 THE SPIRIT OF LOV£ } & C. 1 87 
 
 Those pretty peeping feet with rustling music 
 
 came, 
 
 I looked with shyest glance upon the lovely sight, 
 And stealthily peered upward to her face, 
 Adorned with golden hair and broidered lace 
 And healthful bloom ; 
 My heart was all aflame, 
 Cupid's rash dart had pierced me in its flight. 
 
 Feigning myself asleep, I watched her drawing 
 near, 
 Her cheeks all lily-white and then a blushful red ; 
 Love, wildly palpitating, startling guest, 
 Stirring tumultuous music in my breast, 
 Had pierced hers too ; 
 And I could clearly hear 
 Our hearts beat time together as she said : — 
 
 <' Mystic approach of Love, borne on the breath of 
 Spring, 
 Bird-winged omnipotence, panting within my 
 heart, 
 Move this loved form, embosomed in sweet hay, 
 With thrilling heart throbs nothing shall allay, 
 But my true love ! 
 Lend me thy dove-like wings, 
 That I may kiss his cheek and skyward dart."
 
 1 88 THE SPIRIT OF LOVE 
 
 Then as she, queen-like, stooped, — Oh ! do not 
 coldly frown, 
 How could I shun that sweet temptation of my 
 life ?— 
 She blushed her heart into her velvet cheeks, 
 I kissed like one who hidden treasure seeks, 
 And scorns delay ; 
 I showed her how Love's crown 
 Would aid me like a charm in life's hard strife ; 
 
 How all my high ambitions would now bud and 
 grow, 
 How, merged with her sweet nature, mine would 
 turn to gold, 
 How men would learn to love me for her sake, 
 And strive, by helping me, more smooth to make 
 Her course on earth, 
 And how to them we'd show 
 The path of light to Heaven, ere we grew old. 
 
 I drew the rosy picture with such subtle art, 
 
 That, at the sight, she melted into sunny tears, 
 More sweet to me than all the laughter bright, 
 Which she would scatter round from morn to night, 
 Like light for all ; 
 For me alone her heart 
 Welled up in tearful joy and drowned my fears.
 
 IN THE SCENT OF THE HAY. 1 89 
 
 We made ourselves rich presents on that day of 
 days, 
 Worth more than all the gifts we buy with golden 
 store, 
 For we ourselves to one another gave, 
 And promised, with sweet oaths, to be the slave 
 Of each to each, 
 To share both blame and praise, 
 And knit our souls together more and more.
 
 NANCY'S TRYSTING AT STAPLE INN. 
 
 Trite but Human. 
 
 Recited by her when an old lady. 
 
 I was a girl of seventeen summers, 
 Oh ! such summers ! 
 
 The sky and the land and the sea 
 
 Were a Paradise to me, 
 And I was the same to all comers. 
 
 I had not a thought of a Fancy, 
 Tiresome Fancy ! 
 
 To me a boy was a boy, 
 
 And a man a too-heavy toy, 
 Tho' they called me their charming Nancy. 
 
 I went fast asleep in the moonlight, 
 Lovelorn moonlight ! 
 
 I had but to lay down my head 
 
 On my little poppied bed, 
 And my senses were lost till the noonlight. 
 
 But my ever sweet, watchful mother, 
 Forgive me, Mother ! 
 
 Came in the morn to my side 
 
 And opened my eyelids wide, 
 Lest the poppies of sleep might me smother.
 
 nancy's trysting at staple inn. 191 
 
 I was a girl of sixteen winters, 
 Oh ! such winters ! 
 
 I revelled in frost and snow, 
 
 And liked the wind to blow 
 Till it tore the tree-branches to splinters. 
 
 (Blow gently now, Northernmost breezes, 
 Horrible breezes ! 
 
 An old lady's limbs cannot bear 
 
 Rough usage in the rude air, 
 And my lungs are all full of sad wheezes.) 
 
 How well I remember that morning, 
 Heavenly morning ! 
 
 When the summer was hanging its head 
 
 As it drew near its wintry bed 
 To sleep numbed in the cold till next dawning. 
 
 In the crowds of the streets I was walking, 
 Thoughtlessly walking ! 
 
 I was looking at Staple Inn, 
 
 Which the new world was trying to win 
 While the artists were futilely talking 
 
 Of old-world traditions and beauties, 
 Quaint old beauties ! 
 
 Which we must not allow to be touched 
 
 Or sacrilegiously clutched 
 By the Spirit of Change in its duties.
 
 192 nancy's trysting at staple inn. 
 
 I walked in that charming quadrangle, 
 Old, old quadrangle ! 
 
 With its central tree looking so sweet 
 
 In its wide encircling seat, 
 Which jealous new Progress would mangle. 
 
 I saw not a man standing near me, 
 Oh ! too near me ! 
 As my mind wandered back to old times 
 Picturesque, true ; but the crimes 
 
 Made me think if I lived then, I'd fear me. 
 
 But now in this age of advancement, 
 Too quick advancement ! 
 I thought I had nothing to fear, 
 And knew not my tempter was near, 
 
 Or that I would be prone to entrancement. 
 
 He was a man of forty summers, 
 Cold, cold summers ! 
 But he had broad shoulders, and stood 
 Looking at me so simple and good ; — 
 
 Was lie quite the same to all comers ? 
 
 For he took off his hat to me gently, 
 Oh ! so gently ! 
 And he handed to me my own purse, — 
 The keeping of which was my curse, — 
 
 Then he stroked his moustache indolently.
 
 nancy's trysting at staple inn. 193 
 
 And I was a simple young creature, 
 Too young a creature ! 
 And I thanked him with only a look, 
 Which I fear me he sadly mistook 
 
 (As we can be betrayed by a feature) ; 
 
 For he broke into voluble talking, 
 Oh ! such talking ! 
 And the end of it all came to this, 
 That he'd ask me to grant him a kiss 
 
 If I came there next day when out walking. 
 
 And I left him with such a wild yearning, 
 Torture of yearning ! 
 
 A volcano had burst in my heart, 
 
 Flooding fire into every part, 
 There was nothing but scorching and burning. 
 
 Yet he was forty and I seventeen, 
 Soft seventeen ! 
 And I was just budding with Spring, 
 While he was in full flowering, 
 
 Long past the summer of loving, I ween. 
 
 The full-moon was shining that night-time, 
 Soft sweet Night-time ! 
 In a dream I went to my bed, 
 And pillowed my lovelorn head, 
 But I lay wide-awake till the light-time. 
 
 o
 
 194 nancy's trysting at staple inn. 
 
 I looked at my eyes the next morning, 
 Sweet love-morning ! 
 And they had such a far-away gaze, 
 As though they looked thro' a warm haze, 
 
 Or a dream that had come as a warning. 
 
 My heart was all tender with dreaming, 
 Soft, sweet dreaming ! 
 
 I could not define what I felt, 
 
 Though I thought as a sweet I might melt 
 In the full cup of Love I saw gleaming. 
 
 And my mother looked tenderly through me, 
 Too far through me ! 
 
 She knew that strange look in my eyes, 
 
 To her it was no new surprise, 
 But she never betrayed that she knew me. 
 
 I was just like an innocent flower, 
 Poor frail flower ! 
 
 I might perish in winter cold, 
 
 Or blush and be sweetly bold 
 If the sun of love shone on my bower. 
 
 And the sun shone most bright on that trysting, 
 Old, young trysting ! 
 The heavens were a clear velvet blue, 
 Swept clean by white clouds as they flew 
 
 Through the soft summer air unresisting.
 
 nancy's trysting at staple inn. 195 
 
 I entered that quaint-looking gateway 
 Old, sweet gateway ! 
 And all nervous I walked to the seat, 
 Looking modestly down at my feet, 
 
 Quite unlike good Queen Bess in her state-way. 
 
 I sat facing that picturesque portal, 
 Charmed Love-portal ! 
 I knew none could enter that square 
 Without seeing me sitting there, — 
 
 Oh ! my heart beat too quick for a mortal. 
 
 At my back sat a man full of laughter, 
 Mad, mad laughter ! 
 He was charmed by a comic old man, 
 Who through his life's history ran, 
 
 With no thought of what might come hereafter. 
 
 And I was amused at their sallies, 
 Men's mad sallies ! 
 I ought to have gone from the spot, 
 For I knew my dear mother would not 
 
 Have allowed me to list to their rallies. 
 
 I could not myself see their faces, 
 
 Funful faces ! 
 But I dared not look round lest I missed, 
 
 The being I fain would have kissed 
 And fondled with loving embraces. 
 
 o 2
 
 196 nancy's trysting at staple inn. 
 
 At length I grew very sad-hearted, 
 Cold, dull-hearted ! 
 I had watched for his steps for an hour, 
 While Hope died away like a flower, 
 
 And I felt half my life had departed. 
 
 Then the old man limped up for his dinner, 
 Useless dinner ! 
 His companion then slowly arose, 
 And who should his person disclose 
 
 But the man who had been my heart's winner. 
 
 He came close to me placidly smiling, 
 Vain, vain smiling ! 
 
 I just gave him the tip of my glove, 
 
 For frivolity never can love, 
 And to maidens 'tis rarely beguiling. 
 
 Oh ! why did I love with such fever, 
 Love's sweet fever ! 
 A heart with no human thud, 
 And with treachery in the blood, 
 
 Giving life to a subtle deceiver? 
 
 I know now Spring's true full-blown Fancy, 
 Midsummer Fancy ! 
 Would not wait in that indolent way 
 For a Spring-blossom fairily gay : — 
 But it was a wise lesson for Nancy.
 
 MY IDOL SHATTERED. 
 
 My idol is shattered ; 
 
 It had not a heart ; 
 And naught would have mattered, 
 
 Except for that smart 
 Which Cupid, all mischievous, made with his dart. 
 
 It said it had feeling, 
 
 And very fine sense 
 Of honour ; so kneeling 
 
 In rapture intense, 
 I thought I might share in its glory immense. 
 
 It had wondrous beauty, 
 
 It e'en might have cried, 
 Give love and grave duty 
 
 To me as your bride ; 
 And I would most willingly for it have died.
 
 19^ MY IDOL SHATTERED. 
 
 I thought it had passion ; 
 It raged, and it formed 
 Hot words in wild fashion ; 
 But 'twas Vanity stormed, 
 And not the fine elements Love would have 
 warmed. 
 
 It seemed to be tender, 
 It had such soft looks, 
 It dressed in such splendour 
 And read such fine books, 
 And loved to look charming in drawing-room 
 nooks. 
 
 It glanced in all glasses, 
 
 And touched its fair hair, 
 And ogled the asses 
 
 Who sighed with despair ; 
 It turned on one side with a " Come if you dare." 
 
 But now it is shattered ; 
 Its tricks are all dead ; 
 Its beauty bespattered ; 
 Its glory all fled ; 
 And never again could that thing turn my head.
 
 THE GROWTH OF LOVE. 
 
 Our love grew like a quiet flower 
 
 That's planted by the wind unseen, — 
 
 You press aside a leafy bower 
 
 And there it blossoms 'mid the green. 
 
 There is no credit on my side, 
 
 For all men love her instantly ; 
 The wonder is that such a bride 
 
 Should give herself to such as me. 
 
 Hearts oft 'gainst one another bruise 
 Like ripening fruit upon a tree, 
 
 And by the sudden contact lose 
 Their hopes of love in misery. 
 
 But we but touched and forth there sprung 
 
 A sweet communion into life, 
 Which will not cease when Death hath rung 
 
 The Knell which bids us quit this strife.
 
 SUNSET AND DEATH. 
 
 Out in the glowing West I watched the sun 
 Sink like a molten orb, 
 With its ruddy gold-light flashing 
 Fiery beams upon the fleecy clouds 
 Floating in splendour in the azure sky ; 
 I felt that God dwelt in their wealth of colours 
 No hand could paint, 
 No tongue could e'er describe, 
 While angels wove them into patterns rare, 
 To drape the throne of Heaven, where all the 
 blest 
 Cluster like stars eternal. 
 
 The trees were bathed in soft ethereal hues 
 Of mystic purple and translucent blue, 
 
 And all the earth was wonderful and lovely, 
 Dipped in the sun's rich fount of gold 
 As it hovered above the world.
 
 SUNSET AND DEATH. 201 
 
 But every passing zephyr seemed to whisper, 
 
 " Dying ; " 
 And the faint light of the evening star 
 Told that the colours were fading away, 
 Till myriads shining in the blue of Heaven, 
 
 Hurried the waning twilight 
 Into the distant West, 
 And threw the pall of night, 
 Deep-dyed in dismal shadows, 
 
 O'er the fair eye of day. 
 
 So Death comes on man ; 
 Sometimes as gently as the quiet day 
 
 Melts in the quiet night ; 
 Sometimes as swiftly as the storm-clouds 
 Rush o'er the heavens 
 After the sun has set, 
 With the loud boom of distant rolling thunder 
 Borne on the night-wind's blast !
 
 A BANKRUPT'S LAMENTATION. 
 
 A melancholy eve ! light clouds with dubious 
 gladness 
 Rushing in hasty fear across a leaden sky, 
 And biting blasts of wind full of malicious mad- 
 ness, 
 Chasing the withered leaves tumultously 
 by,— 
 As though some fiend unseen did all the elements 
 defy. 
 
 Awhile ago the Spring had trustingly come 
 hither, 
 Lured by the breezes warm, borne from some 
 southern clime, 
 And now the hedgerows green, in grief are fain 
 to wither, 
 Lamenting their sad lot, cast in such treacher- 
 ous time ; 
 Ah me ! to see Spring's dress of flowers dragged in 
 the Winter rime.
 
 A BANKRUPT S LAMENTATION. 203 
 
 Adown the bay the sea doth rage and surge and 
 quiver, 
 Froth-foaming in its wrath, giving dire aid to 
 Death, 
 And ships disarmed of strength ride in their 
 chains and shiver, 
 While sailors thank the Lord with their half- 
 pious breath, 
 That 'gainst the harbour-wall the sea its fury 
 scattereth. 
 
 The rain upon my face beats hard with constant 
 stinging, 
 I glory in the storm hurled at me from the 
 clouds, 
 The wind howls by my ears, a song of ruin 
 singing, 
 And I, a ruined man, far off from human 
 crowds, 
 Delight to see how Heaven its Love in devastation 
 shrouds. 
 
 But can it be that I with heart once young and 
 
 tender, 
 Dandled upon the idle lap of luxury sweet. 
 Shall in a moment's time all the past good 
 
 surrender,
 
 204 A bankrupt's lamentation. 
 
 All that I've loved of life, all friends I loved to 
 meet, 
 Only because my pride is stung and lies dead at 
 my feet? 
 
 Bankrupt and ruined now, how can I bear the 
 stigma ? 
 Long had my utmost skill floated a painted 
 wreck, 
 Until that gold-scare came, searching my great 
 enigma, 
 Asking the captain for gold — payment of a 
 cheque 
 Which no financial tricks could meet, and so I left 
 the deck. 
 
 And here I am alone, defying this wild weather, 
 Watching the swift destruction of the budding 
 Spring 
 With which my heart agrees, Spring-time and I 
 together 
 Shorn of our prospects bright, feel now the 
 bitter sting 
 Of trusting to the hard, cold world our life's fresh 
 offering.
 
 a bankrupt's lamentation. 205 
 
 Pitiless blows the blast, whirling in wild com- 
 motion ; 
 Pitiless grows my heart, mercy has left its 
 seat ; 
 When shall I ever quench this fiendish -like 
 emotion ? 
 Which scorns all thoughts of good, burns with 
 revengeful heat, 
 Against the cool stare of the world, now bitter, 
 once so sweet. 
 
 Surely in all the earth no heart has so much 
 sorrow, 
 No mind is more disturbed with bitterness and 
 grief! 
 A mist hangs o'er my path, clouding each new 
 to-morrow, 
 Winds whisper in my ear, — " Poison will bring 
 relief ! "— 
 And shall I sinking leave to rot my life's unripened 
 sheaf ? 
 
 They say, God guides the storm ; why, then, this 
 
 mad destruction, 
 Hailstones and clouds of gloom, lightning and 
 
 thunder wild ? 
 What if He rules my heart and for some wise 
 
 instruction
 
 206 a bankrupt's lamentation. 
 
 Tears up my former life, tainted when as a 
 child 
 I thought the false world's teaching true ? but now 
 I am reviled, 
 
 I see with new-born eyes and find some glint of 
 meaning 
 In all this wind and gloom, this surging of the 
 waves, 
 This turmoil of my heart : Ah ! yes, I'm swiftly 
 gleaning 
 Truth labyrinthed in storm ; we are our own 
 life's slaves, 
 And need be broken from our bonds or gain un- 
 fruitful graves. 
 
 My past life opens up : I see allurements bound- 
 ing 
 Before the charmed gaze of my youth, those 
 ecstasies of sin 
 Which did my heart entrance, shorn of its moral 
 grounding ; 
 Will-of-the-wisps I chased, cobwebs I chose to 
 spin, 
 And now, so late in my swift days, naught but the 
 storm I win.
 
 a bankrupt's lamentation. 207 
 
 But hark ! that dirge of grief the wind is wildly 
 flinging, 
 Using its gusty breath in lamentations drear, 
 Doth falter down the hill ; soft songs of pity 
 singing ; 
 It gently skims the waves, inspiring no more 
 fear, 
 The storms of Nature and my heart are spent, — the 
 sky is clear.
 
 MY LOVE'S DEPARTURE. 
 
 Evanishing 'mid steam and smoke, 
 The steel-steed tore my love away, 
 
 Regretful farewells from us broke, 
 And yet I dared not bid her stay. 
 
 To bid her stay meant too much joy, 
 Too much of exquisite delight, 
 
 E'en now no arts that I employ 
 Can ever charm her from my sight. 
 
 I kept my tender feelings still, 
 Choked like a river near its weirs, 
 
 Pent up in placid depths until 
 They burst in cataracts of tears. 
 
 You cannot dam Love's current deep, 
 It must for ever onward roll, 
 
 No bonds can e'er in durance keep 
 The love that flows from soul to soul.
 
 MY LOVES DEPARTURE. 20Q 
 
 I conjure up my Love's sweet face, 
 As on that morn she left my gaze 
 
 And pressed me in a wild embrace 
 With pretty looks and winning ways, 
 
 And wonder whether we shall meet 
 
 In happiness and peace again, 
 Or if as pass the moments fleet, 
 
 Our lives shall severed be in twain. 
 
 In all my thoughts she lives with me, 
 And sheds fresh hopes on my desires, 
 
 I would that all the world could see 
 The aspirations she inspires. 
 
 Yet sometimes in my moments weak, 
 
 I fancy she may not be true, 
 That all the love her tongue may speak 
 
 May be but words : — Would that I knew 
 
 And so I find relief in prayer, 
 
 And ask that God, who loves us all, 
 
 May grant us both His special care 
 
 Who hears His creatures when they call.
 
 SONG.— HEART-LONGING. 
 
 There is no sweeter charm to the heart that is 
 longing 
 For love and devotion from one it holds dear, 
 Than to watch the warm colours dissolve in the 
 twilight, 
 As the sun sinks to rest on Night's purple-dyed bier. 
 
 For I know how my Love rose in flames like the 
 sunlight, 
 And how it still burns in my passion-scorched 
 breast ; 
 I would e'en like the sun sink away in Love-glory, 
 And lulled in the chill arms of Night seek my rest. 
 
 Oh ! why was I torn with this mighty emotion ? 
 
 This deep, tender longing for one I hold dear ? 
 But who blind to my passion scorns all my devotion, 
 
 And will not be melted at sight of a tear. 
 
 The river must find out its way to the ocean, 
 The earth must eternally roll round the sun, 
 
 And so shall Love's great heart yet throb that cold 
 bosom : 
 I wait and I long till we two are made one.
 
 MY LOVE AND I ARE ONE. 
 
 My Love and I are One : 
 The trees through which the breezes plav,- 
 The tossing sea which laves the land, — 
 Are but the work of one Great Hand, 
 
 Greater than star or Sun ; 
 
 And He it was who made sweet Love 
 Play on our heart-strings like the breeze, 
 
 Or rather like the tide of Ocean, 
 
 With a wonder-stirring motion ; 
 And now I sing with heart at ease. 
 
 My Love and I are One. 
 
 p 2
 
 A NIGHTMARE. 
 
 The full-eyed moon, rimming a coal-black cloud, 
 Shone like a spectre on the night, 
 
 Then slipped behind the shroud, 
 A buried light, 
 
 But suddenly peeped out again 
 
 And vanished, like an eye in pain. 
 
 The air was wild, and blew the rain about, 
 
 Gustily furious as in wrath, 
 And brought full many a shout 
 
 Hoarse from the North, 
 As if its lungs were old, and wheezed 
 With laboured motion as it breezed. 
 
 My wife and I sat silent side by side, 
 Drawn by a fiery jet-black steed, 
 
 Which shook with fright and shied 
 At headlong speed, 
 
 Tilting against the unseen wind, 
 
 As though some phantom spurred behind.
 
 A NIGHTMARE. 213 
 
 The steed would crane its neck to us in fear, 
 Though tight I held the straining reins, 
 
 And sparks would then appear 
 Along the chains, 
 
 Flashed from its great electric eyes 
 
 Like light which from a meteor flies. 
 
 We sped along a narrow country road 
 Bordered by hedges, fully dressed 
 
 With 'broidered leaves and snowed 
 With white flowers blest ; — 
 
 For Summer with a grace divine 
 
 On country hedge-rows seems to shine. 
 
 Imagination lit the lovely sight 
 
 Of sunny flowers held in Summer's hand, 
 Hid while the skirts of Night 
 
 Palled o'er the land, 
 And on the fury of the blast, 
 We smelt their secrets as we passed. 
 
 Never have mortals seen a sight more weird 
 As through that flowered lane we flew, 
 
 For a silk dress appeared 
 And hid our view, 
 
 Then dashed against our faces pale 
 
 With all the fury of the gale.
 
 214 A NIGHTMARE. 
 
 It smothered us ; our breath we could not get 
 Until we tore the clinging wrap, 
 
 Heavy with reeking wet 
 And murdering flap, 
 
 Out of our mouths, and tossed it far 
 
 Into the dark, — where spirits are. 
 
 The steed sped faster still, with terror rent 
 To see the mystic wraith appear, 
 
 As o'er its head it went 
 Flapping its ear, 
 
 Sending a shiver through its heart 
 
 More painful than an arrow-dart. 
 
 My gentle wife crept closer to my side, 
 
 And through the gusts I heard her shout : 
 
 " The darkness could not hide, 
 The moon shone out, 
 
 'Twas sister Hetty's skirt of gray, — 
 
 The Night hides something from the Day." 
 
 My spirit crept along my nerves in dread, — 
 For well I knew the mystic sight 
 
 Meant portent of the dead 
 Haunting the Night, — 
 
 When out the moon shone purple-red, 
 
 And on the earth great blood-drops shed.
 
 A NIGHTMARE. 2 I 5 
 
 Then felt we that some murder cried aloud 
 For vengeance to the tear-stained sky, 
 
 Covering with dusky shroud 
 That blood-red eye ; 
 
 The air's wild shoutings 'round our ears 
 
 Expressed intensely Nature's fears.
 
 LOVE ENNOBLED BY SORROW. 
 
 Love in a lap of roses lay, 
 
 Letting the days go idly by, 
 Without the shadow of a care 
 
 Or echo of a sigh, 
 For Love said : — " What have I to fear ? 
 
 The sea is mine, the land, the trees, 
 And all things for my joy exist, 
 
 So live I in luxurious ease." 
 
 But storms of sorrow came at last, 
 
 And Love's fair eyes were dimmed with 
 tears, 
 And care crept wrinkling o'er his cheeks, 
 
 And sighs relieved his trembling fears, 
 And Love said : — "What, Lord, have I done, 
 
 That I should suffer all this woe, 
 That from my over-burdened heart 
 
 These welling tears should overflow ?"
 
 LOVE ENNOBLED BY SORROW. 2l"J 
 
 And one night Love did answer get, 
 
 Flashed from the star-eyes of the Lord : — 
 " Thy joyous heart was chastened sore, 
 
 That it might pour its love abroad ; 
 For perfect love is sorrow-born, 
 
 And mighty hearts from trouble wrought 
 Shall soar to heights unknown to those 
 
 Who never set the World at naught."
 
 TO LOVE. 
 
 Oh ! Love ! thou Star of Hope, yet distant far, 
 How shall I ever reach thine inner sense, 
 Thy heart of sympathy? a joy intense 
 
 It were to watch thee kindling from a Star, — 
 
 A steel, white point in heaven, whose beauties are 
 Too cold for earth, — into a near, immense, 
 Warm sun of Love ; I would not then from 
 hence 
 
 Wish to depart, but on a funeral car 
 
 Would pile my dead ambitions for the grave, 
 And bask content in thine intensity 
 
 Of Life and Joy ; Self would no longer rave 
 Its dirge of vanity, for it would be 
 
 Dissolved in sweetest Mercy, born to save 
 
 The weeping multitudes that know not Thee.
 
 LOST FRIENDS. 
 
 When but a dreaming lad, I loved a boy 
 Around whose form my being strove to cling 
 Like a wild tendril. As a rose enshrined 
 In that boy's bower of love, my heart enlarged 
 And grew in power and beauty ; but he fled 
 Into the darkness, leaving me forlorn. 
 And later came a maiden sweet to me, 
 Whose mind was like the blue unclouded sky. 
 And at the magic of whose gentle touch 
 I melted into loving ecstasy ; 
 But she fled out into the dismal night, 
 Tearing my heart-strings as she went her way. 
 But ere she left me, in my arms she placed 
 A pledge offender love, — a human bud, 
 Flesh of my flesh, compelling homage due, 
 Lisping its wisdom words of innocence, 
 And playing with the days as they went by 
 But he fled out into the darkness drear, 
 As though he shunned my dull society 
 And sought his mother's in the wistful sky.
 
 220 LOST FX1ENDS. 
 
 Ah ! whither have you fled, you loves of earth ? 
 
 I look in vain for any sign of you, 
 
 But yet I know your hearts must live again, 
 
 For well I feel my own life cannot die, 
 
 It breathes the breath of an immortal song, 
 
 And still will nutter forth into the blue 
 
 Singing its triumph like a sky-lark free.
 
 A WOMAN'S LOVE SONG. 
 
 Tell me what doth most attract thee ? 
 
 Woman full of knowledge golden, 
 Burning Wisdom, found by delving 
 
 Deep within the ages olden ? 
 Or a sweet and simple maiden 
 
 Coyly dallying with her shyness, 
 Full of sentiment unspoken, 
 
 Free from all the Old World dryness ? 
 Answer me ! 
 
 Or a nymph endowed with beauty, 
 
 Hair resplendent, eyes all brightness, 
 Tripping o'er the graves of sorrow 
 
 With a most unfeeling lightness? 
 Or a damsel decked with dresses 
 
 Of the daintiest flitting fancies, 
 Shedding all her soul in planning 
 
 How to catch admiring glances ? 
 Answer me !
 
 222 A WOMAN'S LOVE SONG. 
 
 For I long to be thine idol 
 
 And would learn what thou would'st cherish 
 That two idols may be melted 
 
 In one Faith, too strong to perish, 
 Love-Faith ! Life's triumphant glory ! 
 
 God-born, deep, sublime emotion, 
 Soaring to the height of Heaven 
 
 With a never-tired Devotion : 
 
 Wilt thou then not answer me !
 
 DESPONDENCY. 
 
 My heart seems weighted with dim sense of woe 
 Impalpable, — but real ; 
 I feel a lurid light is vaguely shed 
 Upon the future looming far ahead, 
 While I in dread of an impending blow, 
 
 Shrink from the sight it offers to reveal. 
 
 And yet I know the sky and all the trees 
 Are full of strange, sweet song : 
 Shall life no longer lure my heart to sing 
 And be atune with every breathing thing, 
 While leaves may whisper to the kissing breeze 
 
 And thrushes fond their evening hymns pro- 
 long ? 
 
 Can that deep love that in my heart hath crept 
 Be but a transient gleam ? 
 Can gorgeous sunsets and the rose's scent, 
 And those charmed green-nooks where our hearts 
 have blent, 
 Lose their sweet influence and be swiftly swept 
 Out of remembrance, like a vanished dream?
 
 224 DESPONDENC Y. 
 
 I cannot tell ; the strings of my drear heart 
 Seem swept by fingers weird 
 Into alternate discord and wild dirge, — 
 Like cries of drowning 'mid a boiling surge, — 
 And I seem drifting more and more apart 
 
 From all the friends who once to me adhered. 
 
 Daisies are timorous of the darkening gloom 
 And close their eyes in dread : 
 So I, in terror of a fear unknown, 
 Untouched by sympathy shall weep alone, 
 Unless the Hand, which makes the daisies bloom, 
 Shall out of kindness raise my drooping head. 
 
 Oh ! sun ! Oh moon ! oh ! glitter of star-light 
 In canopy of blue ! 
 Oh ! fragrant breathings of the lungs of morn ! 
 Oh ! ice-crowned pinnacles, — that proudly scorn 
 The stifling valleys, — from thy dizzy height 
 Entrance me, raise me, into life anew ! 
 
 Then should I sing as tho' my heart would break 
 With joy, out of my woe ; 
 For 'tis our sorrow rends from us fine song, — 
 Triumphant requiem o'er dead grief and wrong, — 
 And I would even for sweet sorrow's sake 
 
 Unloose my tongue and sing woe's overthrow.
 
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