^ * <*^ POEMS. POEMS BY ROBERT LEIGH TON EDWARD HOWELL 1866. The world rejoices when the living spring That well'd in secret through some great good heart, Breaks up into the light. But wherefore give Your little secrets to a busy world ? Alas ! do I not live, and breathe God's air That makes one brotherhood of great and smr.ll 1 The poorest heart, when it beats out its life In sweet sincerity, becomes a fount Where all might quench some thirst e'en while they smiled At weaknesses reveal' d, and sins confess'd. In this I rest my hope, that what may seem Needless obtrusion pleads its own excuse ; Since much of what I give, was in its day The impulse that I could not choose but write. 090 CONTENTS RECORDS MUSINGS : I. II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. IX. X. XI. XII. XIII. XIV. XV. XVI. XVII. XVIII. XIX. XX. XXI. XXII. XXIII. XXIV. XXV. XXVI. THE OAKLAND 125 RESIGNATION 125 THOUGHTS 126 FIRST BE, THEN TEACH 127 LOWLY WORK 128 I CANNOT 129 DUTY 13 THE BOOK 131 IN A ROMAN-CATKOLIC CHAPEL 132 THE ONLY STRENGTH 133 GOD EVER NEAR 134 YORK MINSTER 135 FACES AND PLACES 136 BOOKS 137 HOME CONTENT 137 HOME BEAUTY 138 A HARD BOOK 139 SUMMER RESURRECTION 140 THE YEAR'S FIRST SWALLOW 141 THE BREATH OF WHIN 142 SYMBOLS 143 UNPAID WORK 144 WEALTH OF THOUGHT 144 CONCEIT J45 MEN'S POSITIONS 146 MODERN PROGRESS 146 |-/\VjE.. I-I24 /#> CONTENTS. THE PRESAGE PRESENCES SEED-THOUGHTS THE THOUGHT-SPHERE SLEEP AND DEATH BEAUTY ART EVER YOUNG ALL SEASONS BLESSED THE BEGGAR PHILANTHROPY THE BLUE-EYED CALF THE RIVER IN STORM' THE RIVER ix CALM ... ... SEEMING EVILS CONSCIOUS-WRONG THE RAIN FALLS EQUALLY THE GORSY GLEN I KNOW THE FACE FLOWERS OUR CHAPEL ... Ahffa*- Music , TEARS JENNY LIND NATURE'S HARMONIES . THE LIGHT WITHIN THE DARK . . GONE . SABBATH . JUDGMENTS . BEAUTY AND RECTITUDE . TRUE MARRIAGE . THE SPIDERS . THE BUNCH OF LARKS ... . ... . NAMES OF FLOWERS . ETERNITY FOR ALL . THE QUESTION . MUCH LEARNING . THE DKIED-UI- i M7 148 149 I 5 152 153 '54 155 156 J 57 158 '59 160 161 161 163 i (-4 165 168 169 172 173 175 1 7V 181 181 183 185 i --' CONTENTS. IX. PAGE. LXV. GLEN-MESSEN 192 LXVI. TRUE POSSESSION *95 I, XVI I. THE OLD YEAR 196 SONNETS : I. PRELUDE TO A FIRST EDITION 198 II. To A LIGHTHOUSE 199 III. TWENTY-ONE 199 . IV. WRITTEN ON MAY MORNING 200 . V. AFTER A THUNDERSTORM 201 VI. RELIEF IN POETRY 201 VII. THE DRUNKARD'S SONNET 202 VIII. GOD'S DIMNESS 20 3 IX. UNLOSABLE FRIENDS 203 X. NEAR DUNBAR 204 XI. PATRIOT AND POET 205 XII. To THE REV. HUGH STOWEI.L BROWN ... '205 XIII. ABRAHAM LINCOLN 206 XIV. RETROSPECTION 207 THE WOODLAND-TEMPLE 208 To MY BELOVED 217 THE LONE SOUL 220 THE DAWS 227 "WHAT PLACE is THIS?'' 230 TIME STEALS AWAY 233 To MY UNCLE 234 THE GUILTY SOUL 236 MAN is A VAPOUR 238 To SLEKP 239 AT THE GRAVE OF MARGARET 242 SELF-SUMMONING 243 Go HOME, Go HOME 245 Y* THREE VOYCES 246 THE WORLD'S FALSENESS 248 TRUST, IN DESPONDENCY 249 FRAGMENTS OF A MEDITATION 251 WE ARE EVER GETTING 253 x. CONTENTS. PAC;E. THE LIGHT OF STARS 254 No END 255 LET us REJOICE THAT WE ARE POOR 256 WE ARE FRUIT TREES ALL 257 Oi R WEALTH is WITHIN Us 258 LITTLE KATE 260 THE LONELY ISLE 262 THE POET'S THIRST 264 IF THOU WOULD'ST BE A POET 266 THE COBWEB IN THE SKY 267 OUR NEW-BORN 268 THE BLUSTERING NIGHT , 269 THE BLEAK BEGINNING OF NOVEMBER 271 THE NIGHT'S UNRULY 272 JOHN FROST 273 THE FOG 275 LATE SPRING ... 274 WITHERING LILIES 277 THE QUESTIONER 278 To A SPARROW IN THE CHURCH 279 LILY 280 THE OLDEN TOWN 2 8i FOR THE CENTENARY OF ROBERT BURNS 282 THE Fox FAMINE IN AYRSHIRE 285 THE DUKE OF BRUNSWICK'S DIAMONDS 289 SCOTTISH POEMS. THE GUID GRAY CAT 293 THE LADDIE'S LAMENTATION ON THE Loss o' HIS WHITTLK 314 THE GABERLUNZIE'S SONG 317 THE AULD WIFE'S LAMENT FOR HER Cow 318 JEAN 320 THE SNUFFIE AULD MAN 321 JOHN AND TIBBIE'S DISPUTE 322 SPUNK JANET'S CURB FOR LOVE 325 JANNY MERSHALL'S CANDY, O 327 WIDOW SALMON'S PRAYER 328 CONTENTS. xi. ' PAGE. MY MITHBR'S GRAVB 330 THB WEE HERD LOON 332 SIGNS o' RAIN 334 LADY MARGARET 335 PEASE BROSB 338 THE AULD GABBRLUNZIK is DEAD AND AWA' 340 THE NICHT I PARTED FRAE MY MAGGIE 341 OUR AIN AULD TOON '. 343 A DRBAM VISIT TO A HAUNT OF MY BOYHOOD 347 MY GRAY SUIT 351 AULD JOHN BROON 352 POEMS. RECORDS. i. The records of a life should be a poem ; We need not go abroad for stones to build Our monumental glory ; every soul Has in it the material for its temple. The universal beauty is our own ; \Ve steep our thoughts in sunsets, and we hang Our adoration on the morning star, And yet from us they get that alchemy Whereby they strangely move us. Nought is ours But that which has gone from us. Therefore 'tis That disappointments often tread upon The toes of expectation. Things without Are bare until we clothe them. Let us seek Each one our gods in our immediate heaven : There is no breathing for us in another ; But either is the air too coarse and weighs Like nightmare on our thoughts, or 'tis too fine, And, like the atmosphere of mountain tops, RECORDS. Usurps the brain, and finds insidious way Into its chambers, pressing out the soul, Till death o'ercome us in the guise of sleep. Yet all may grow to live upon the heights ; Deep thought and action of the soul make close The fibres of the brain, so that no air, However fine, can press the spirit out ; In time thus fitting us for another heaven Above what was our own. Our truest life Is THOUGHT, high and sincere, and to ourselves. When eyes are felt upon us we are players, And life becomes untrue. We may not mark The Poet's phrensy, when the stars and he Are revelling in night, and all the winds Are bringing music to their jubilee. Did we but look in with unhallow'd eyes, He would be all in darkness, and the stars Beaming, unconscious, in their heavenly places, And all the winds gone back into the forests. So, nothing of his phrensy can be known, Save what his rhymes blab out to knowing readers And yet that phrensy is his truest life. True thought blends into beauty, and we all Are poets when we reach it. Could we give The records of this thought this our true life The records of our life would be a poem. RECORDS. II. Was ever greater truant ! I who know That my salvation lies in thee alone Who never gave a brief hour of my heart All over to thee, but the angels came And bathed my blind lids with their dews of Heaven, Till I, of poorest insight, even I Could see the fine light wherein poets dream ! Yet have I left thee, Poesie, as if Thou, and not I, were the uplifted one. O blame the weight of the restraining earth, And not the heart that would for thee aye beat ; Nor yet the head that sees how truly thou Must be the God-sent mistress of my love. I never slight thee but my mind becomes A sunless plot that lies to the bleak north, And ever seems to be in the year's back end : A dismal, dreary place, of stunted growth, And only by the lapwing's desolate cry Startled at times into a lone weird life. If thou art long away my heart runs waste, Rank weeds o'errun the garden of my brain, And choke the flowers which thou hast planted there. But give thee hearty welcome, like a sun Thou swimm'st into my being, and my heart Is jubilant as May ; and, like a sky Of unseen larks, life rings, I know not whence. RECORDS. If through my being I could shape thy course Like a bold river with broad cliffy banks, My life would be the rich and joyous vale Through which it runs. But I am undefined, And can but give thee flat and sedgy bounds. Full forced and lavish as thy bounteous source, Thou leapest from God's hills into my heart, But suddenly art lost within a marsh, And thy clear voice grows husky in the reeds. It is a sluggish and a fruitless land ! O is there no rich soil beneath this mire ? I'll dram the fens, or sink with all my work ! My thirsty nature gulps the living stream, And gives none out : it stagnates, and is seen Only in miry pools. But through my life I'll bank a river's bed : the fenny lands Shall pay dear tribute in a thousand rills, And give an earthy warmth unto the flow That comes from Heaven's hills ; which else were clear But chilly as the light of winter stars : Chilly to human hearts, though to the gods The life-blood of their veins. O pure and cold The things we cannot reach ! Duty is cold ; Stern Virtue, God Himself ! We bask in Sloth, As on a grassy slope at summer noon ; Vice draws us to it like an evening fire ; And Godlessness is like a tropic air, RECORDS. It slackens thought and gives an unnerved bliss. A sensuousness clings to us like a shell : From Duty, Virtue, God, we shrink like snails Into this Frailty, and deem all safe. Weak fools ! but wiser Fate ! a passing foot May crush us out on Duty, Virtue, God. To him that shrinks from frost the frost is cold. Let him go forth and meet it, and it warms More kindly than red brands. The way to life Is towards forbidding things : growth in approach ; In nearness, love ; and reach'd, the soul's great life. God gives out His divinity in rays That reach the earth ; and Poesie is one. Souls faithful to the lode grow up to God, Each missioned by the genius of his ray. But faithless truants meet as faithless guides That lead into the sloughs : a wandering lamp Hangs out before ; the furies dog behind ; And thus they grope about the miry night. And when each morn God's sun wakes up the day, He finds them ever groping where they were ! Nor shuns he them like sanctimonious saint, But with his bright and all-embracing eye Seeks to reclaim them. Brothers of the dark, Our sun breaks every day : we heed him not RECORDS. The insulted, slighted, most forgiving sun ! A revcll'd night are our lost yesterdays, All huddled into one, each day shut out. Forget them as one night what loss in that ? Eternity is round it. Be next dawn Our first income of light. God never breathes But through the infinitude each faithful soul Receives its special want. O, brothers, watch ! We've singed our wings like moths in a false light. And cannot with the larks meet dawn i' the clouds : But see ! the sky is ruffling in the east Like a calm sea before a landing ship, And we are on the shore with leaping hearts To meet long parted friends. Soon will the sun Lie high and dry upon the eastern strand, And earth be stirring as a disembarkment. We'll lose each other then. Each waiting heart Fill'd with its own lost ray, base loves shall pale. Like tapers of the night when day's let in, And truer vision come with truer light. Henceforth I live and die with my heart's love. We rise or fall together. If I fail To woo her as the world deems worthily, Still have I peace of mind in-having given My poor best up to my most worthy love. Failure in this were peace and joy at last. Successes fanning from all other points Were misery, so this were left unstrived. RECORDS I give her all my being in the faith That he who gives his all of love and will Can never fail, but though the outer works Of his dear acts become no worshipp'd fane, Be all unworthy of a world's regard, And fail to it still bears within himself The true wage of success the having done. And he has built his temple to the gods. Lead where thou wilt, I'll follow. Deeper trust Is with me now than when, in the young time, Thou led'st me into sunny showers of thought, Wherein my utterance was like that of dreams All clear and full while in the dream ; but, waked, Dim, poor and meaningless ; until again Thy show'ry light came, and the same weak words Were big with their lost meaning. In the night The earth's green loses meaning, and her flowers Are all one eyeless black : but when she walks In beamy day, the meadows and the flowers Get back their lost expression. Who shall say The night, and not the day, brings out the true ? Thou art my sunlight. I have learn'd to know The highest as the truest ; to trust more, Light that discovers even a changeful sense, Than Dark that may confound it, but gives none. O if thou art indeed a ray from God, And if in thee I have my highest reach, My deepest ecstasy, my best of life, RECORDS. What then but give a dedicated heart ? What then ! but that the Universal Love Beats like a heart in nature, pulsing out Its deep flood to extremities of soul, And moves us, all unconscious and despite Our partial likings, to the good in all. But, Poesie, thou art God's broadest beam The secret life, the charm of all our loves. If I may not go heart and hand with thee, Come thou and go with me. If I must cling To things that in my soul I do not love Things that yet share the universal good Be with me ; be the light to show the good. III. Bewilder'd in a maze of crowding themes, O'erwhelm'd with multiplicity of books Each calling out " Lo, here ! I am the way" And seeing more to do than can be done, I idly stand, not knowing what to do : And with a dim perception of a journey, I loiter here in doubt which way to take. Thou fool, do anything take any way That is not labelled to thy conscience wrong; For all are from one source, and to one end. RECORDS. 9 Know thou, the smallest atom is a door Into God's temple, and if we but had The secret of its opening, one step, At anytime, would lead us into paradise. And never doubt but that we are surrounded With pleaders, great and small, that bid us come. The heaving ocean everlastingly With its big errand pants, and twice a day Entreats a special hearing. Canst receive That universal language ? Listen well ; For all things speak it, and it is the tongue That Spirits use : Yon silvery slipper'd brook, That, with a ceaseless prattle from the hills, Comes nimbly tripping o'er the mossy stones, Cannot contain its joy : " Come thou with me Into my being let thy spirit slip, Gliding as in a dream, and I will take Thee to the green banks of thy spirit home'': The monarch sun that draws the adoring gaze Of worlds, has still a special word for man : " Though outward light should blind thy outward eye, Turn not thy gaze from me ; thy inner orb Will open to new seeing and new light ; And know thou this : the outward mortal is A symbol of the inward everlasting": The stars in their long watches of the night, Are ever shedding incense on our hearts, Loving a lone heart more than gilded altar : *' O not with searching telescope canst thou 10 RECORDS. Our glory reach, not in round numbers tell The mystery of our nature : If thou wouldst Receive the God-sent message of the stars, Then hang upon us with a poet's eye That loves us for our beauty, and seeks not Too curiously our secrets, yet drinks in The unseen essence that enriches him, And makes him the most wise astronomer' 1 : And who on autumn night ne'er felt the moon Creep through him like a maiden's soul that is With love's fine fire a-glow? Old Night's fair child, That in chaste maidenhood must aye remain Rich in a dower of renewing youth : Wherefore her office is to woo young hearts And lead them gently to a higher love. I have seen about the harvest time When most young hearts into their moon-age pass 1 have, myself, seen then, upon the air, Rushing between our own earth and the moon. Thousands of bright and starry threads of fire ; - They were not star-lights shooting to the earth. But emanated from love-kindled souls Upon the earth, and centred in the moon. I've seen a Poet on the dreamy shore- The ocean in deep slumber at his feet, W 7 ith scarce the motion of a sleeper's breast, The full moon lapping all in milky light, He, like a statue, staring into her Become, methought, so lustrous in himself, That, even in that shiny night, he glow'd RECORDS. I r Like palest marble on a ground of black : And thus he stood, drawing down light from heaven. Until the moon went out and earth was dark ; Yet he was not ; and then it was I saw The light he drew was not the moon's alone, Hut that which flows inside of hers unseen Till garner'd in the cumulating soul. But not the waters and the stars alone ! All things, in sea and air and on the earth, Are half invisible to outward sight, Waiting the Eden of our destiny. But yet they tell, in mutterings and shadows, The mysteries beyond ; and he that once Has caught the unknown tongues, been startled with The shadows, like a wing swept o'er his soul, Is ever after glorified, has found The opening and the everlasting way. We may not enter wholly but by death, Which is our passport. For the present 'tis Enough for us to listen from without, And read the words and signs that on us break Deep in the forest fanes, 'mid Druid oaks, Where silence is so silent that it may Be strangely heard in many whisper'd voices That speak together from behind the trees : Away among the glens, where, like a god, The eagle sits upon its throned peak, Gleaming like gold far up amid blue air, 12 RECORDS. And drawing out the earth-stains of our hearts, To the dispersion of his airy cliffs : On mountain ridges where the young winds come Out of the vales to play. We listening hear Them rustling up the heath, but mark them not Until they burst in kisses on our cheeks : Then rush they on in laughter like wild maids, While all the mountain gullies laugh in turn, And spread their arms like lovers to receive The dimpled beauties falling out of breath : By mountain tarn whereto the weary sun Has clomb the hills to drink, and where the stars Come stealthily at night to bathe, like nymphs That shame to strip until the sun has gone : By ruin'd castles, where the warrior's eye Gleams down dark centuries upon our souls And wakes them to the clang of wilder'd days ; Or where the gray walls start into old mirth At thought of all the ancient revelrie That brimm'd them o'er. Lay thou a deep ear there, And thou wilt hear the music as of yore, Bursting the hall-doors open, like a tide That breaks in waves upon the night's black shore. And if thou'lt wait until the morning star Bedew the east with luscious dropping light, And lay thine ear close to the castle wall, Thou'lt hear strange things ! At that hour maids of old, Troubled with love's unrest, rose from their dreams, And to that lattice-gazing star sighed out The burden of their hearts : from donjon cell RECORDS. 13 The lips that scorn'd to mourn, unconsciously Told out their sorrows in deep stifled moans, As that heart-seeking star crept on their gloom : And from that wilder'd time those sighs and moans Have hung about the crumbling walls : maybe The souls that bore them come at fitting times To live old woes transform'd to eternal joys ; For heavenly spirits love to haunt those places That in their earth-life drank deep of their thought. The noted places of the earth are hung With cobwebs of the gone, in spirit weaved. Linger about them in humility, And leave thyself to the upturning mood, And thou'lt be swathed in the eternities Whose outward shreds havepass'd: In temples, when The organ rolls its breath in volumes round The pillar'd galleries, and woman's voice Out of the tumult like a rocket shoots, And into the big music comes again In bells of falling melody. Their creeds ? The under current of them all is thine, And earnest hearts can hear the stream's deep tone Beneath the surface clamour of the foam : In crowded streets, where we may best throw off Our self-oppression and be most alone, Catching the varied mind that passes by Now moved to inward laughter, now to tears: In summer, when the sultry day lies down At noon to rest, lull'd by the hymn of bees, RECORDS. And all things tarry for a drowsy hour Till she arise to go along with them. In that noon hour, when all things are at stand, Thou mayest pass beyond them and behold Glimpses of that they tell us of, but hide : In winter, when the snow coats hill and plain, And all green things have crept in from the cold. And farm-stead noises beat across the fields, And the cracking ice chinks in the stony delf, And the hard blue air is full of tinkling sounds, And under all the faint and far-off hum Of coming Spring, moving within the earth ; When in blank trees the spirit is not dead But works an unseen change look in and know : In children's eyes, ere yet the I, the ME, Has swum within them, and whilst yet we may, Unwearied, gaze into their azure wells And see no mote of earth, but all the soft Infinitude of heaven that engulfs The gazer's soul in depths of skiey light : : In books that so bewilder and perplex The brain with multiplicity. Shut out Their number for the time : one master-book Disposes to the influx of All Thought, Doing the thing that numbers can but do. The thought lives not on pages but in space ; The printed characters mysteriously Open the mind's pores and the thought flows in. And may not books our idolized books Be but the anvil sparks of beaten soul RECORDS. 1 5 The left materials of wondrous work, That please a child more than the work itself ? The maker of a book has the great good, The reader only gleans a gathered field. All work yields up its wealth to him that works ; It will not be transferr'd, and therefore books Are but our stepping-stones into the mines. I see no heaven beaming in that eye ! O if thou still art lost and blindly grope, Thy vision dark amidst excess of light, ( ro to the desert where God's awful rest Is on the fetter'd air, and nothing but Blank rocks can bide the unutterable pause ; (lo with a mind as naked as the rocks, All memories stript off, all shreds of creeds A very child, unswaddled as from God, Hut with thy garner'd consciousness of Thought, And that which thou hast ever fail'd to find, Will, as the light finds out the dark, find thee, And gather as a dawn into a day, And be thy Light be thee, as light is day. IV. Through all my years of waken'd thought I've been Haunted in spirit by a sullen grief, - Which sleeps, or is not heard, amid the move < )f work or strife ; but, like the owl i 1 the tovv'r, 1 6 RECORDS. Hoots out within me in my twilight hours, Or when some cloud brings on a fancied night And makes unnatural pause to earth and soul. And I have thought this brooding trouble came Out of my life's misfortunes ; or arose From conscious errors duties left undone, Returning on me, crying to be done ; Or from my heart's poor weaknesses that leave A festering spot in memory. And I Have labour'd to outreason this and that To make my heart pure, and to pluck and prune Weeds and unwholesome growths. I thought, as each Seem'd to infect my life, if this one thing Were wrung out of my blood, O I could breathe Freely the air of peace, and nothing else Could choke my joy again. And so it was, That when with pain and struggle I could drag My grief out to the light, and drive 't away, My being open'd all its cells and drew A deep long draught of joy, that seem'd to exhaust The bluest clefts of heaven one glad breath ! But when I look'd into myself again, Alas ! my ghost was there in another shape. I had but dragg'd to light an effect, the cause Pass'd through my grasp, like air a ghost indeed ! It haunts a house deserted haply one That has not yet been fill'd. There is, I know, A Presence in whose life all phantoms die. RECORDS. 1 7 Thou say'st that God is ever everywhere : I Uit if He be not in my consciousness, He's not in me. There is a twofold life The life we all have, and the life with God, Which few, or none on earth, partake in full. Yet is a human soul the only thing That can receive that God-life ; and for this It is immortal. Had we never known The light of that existence, we had lived Contented in our blindness and the dark. I have but seen enough to know my want My only want ; for that, supplied, supplies All other wants of the soul, or makes them none. And, like a dungeon'd prisoner, I've groped Around my years of night to find the dawn : The faintest glimmer piercing through my cell Has fill'd me with the liberty of day. I have been very lonely ! I have shunn'd What we name company to be less lone, And sought my comfort in the wilds. But not Alltimes to find : for I have gone and come Bewildered as a day of mist and cloud, That sets in night without one beam of sun, Or patch of blue, to tell that Heaven is. And I have shunn'd the duties of my day As waste of soul, and envied nobler art Forgetting that the artist gives his work The stamp of its nobility. The gods Are with us in our sphere : accomplish that 1 8 RECORDS. We cannot choose but step into a higher. Though Cromwell was a king by right of brain, He won his sceptre with a captain's sword. The duties God assigns me I would leave For those assign'd to others ; therefore stand Powerless between. Heaven's ends will not be moved Save in accomplished act. I have not learn'd To know God's features in my daily work, Else were it all-sufficient it alone. The food each labouring spirit needs the most Is in its nearest duty beauteous growth Of the eternal being in the act. For Right and Duty, Conscience and the Truth, Are God's own breath, by which weak men have been Inspired with a divinity of strength. Ye who in spirit are not yet awake, Dream while your night remains ; for, soon or late, The morn breaks sleep, and then farewell dream things The satisfaction of a plenteous board, The joy of wine-cups, and the light exchange Of surface friendships, rumours and vague thoughts ; Which vanish till again, in after time, With a diviner meaning they come back. The one sole want dawns on the awaken'd soul The want for God in all, and all in God This utter vagueness to the soul that sleeps ; But O how truly all in all, he knows RECORDS. 1 y Who once has seen the Eternal. Life's unrest I s his thereafter, till he grows to God ; Hut that unrest the token of his growth. Therefore I argue not against my grief, Which being Heaven-sent, leads back to Heaven. V. 1 sadden when amid the stars I look And think the earth is only one of them. Imagination soars beyond all ken, Yet is no nearer to an end of stars. Away into the painful deeps of space Oppressed thought speeds on its endless way, But still unnumber'd worlds lie all around, And this globed earth becomes a winking point, Unmark'd, unknown from millions of the same. And so I cannot look amid the stars, And link the earth as one upon my vision, But straight a blighting sadness on me falls : 1 lose all faith in man's high destiny, More than may well belong to a race of ants ; And nothing can I see for him in time, But eat and sleep that he may live and work, 20 RECORDS. Then die that he may make room for another. O, there is nothing else ! What could there be For him who is but an atom of a whole A grain work'd in amongst the myriads That make the solid rock ? But whilst I heave My sadness on the night, the stars, like eyes- Most earnest, pitying eyes beweep the lie That festers in my brain. Ye pulsing stars ! We revel nightly in your nectar'd light Until we reel in joy like drunken gods : Ye flood us into trances with your beauty ; But are ye conscious of the power ye own ? Constant and true ye are ; but do ye crave For ever, as do we, more of God's truth ? Have ye a sense of duty ? Know ye aught Of right and wrong? Dream ye of buried time, Or brood ye, prophet-like, on years unborn ? Ah, no ! Ye roll out innocent as tears Upon the cheek of Night, and have no sense Of that emotion out of which ye came No feeling of the light that in you gleams. Ye have no heart-eye, blear'd with the regret Of wasted years, wild wandering in the Now, Or radiant with the orient dawn of hope. There is in you no show of comprehension : Brighter than eyes ye are, yet want perception. Then why should we who have all these be sad. RECORDS. 2 1 And feel ourselves eclipsed by the stars? Earth, thou'rt a star, yet art beneath our feet : Man is thy lord, and thou his vassal nurse : And all the proud orbs of the arching sky Bow down to his high thought. I am not sad, Nor feel I now the glory of the stars Oppress and dwarf me into littleness : Believing, this that sees and comprehends Is greater than that seen and comprehended. Believing? Thou must know and feet that truth : Believing only, and repeating thus The thoughts that are as old as poet's song, Will never make thee greater than the stars ; And thou art dead as they, unless that truth Be in thy soul as blood is in thy frame. VI. The ways are closed upon me. When I try To get admittance to the busy mart, No one hears what I say, and straight a wall Runs up about me ; buyers and sellers pass, But no one asks me Will I buy or sell ? And when the day grows dusk, and cheery groups Wear off, well pleased, a good day's business done, None asks me Will I go ? I have no key To fit the lock of any of their hearts. Duck-like they breast the world's tide and float on, RECORDS. Sleek and unruffled. If /tempt the stream, I fall into some eddy and am drawn By hidden currents back against the feathers. Our meetings, too, at nights, disgorge me up The same unalter'd thing. That gastric juice, That mellows all their natures into chyme, Slimes me but works no chemical effect. The meanest thing should have a way on earth. Have 7 not mine? Ah ! when that mid-day sun Shall, like an after-dinner alderman, Full-faced and flush'd with wine, wink in yon west, And eve's one star come through the gauzy light To tend like loving wife her winey lord Who like ripe fruit drops heavily to bed And kneeling on the earth she gives her soul To Heaven in a flood of glowing prayer, And quietly beside her lord lies down, O then my hour is come ! I move as light That has its time and orbit. With the stars My way is through the night. Our light is pale And dim and distant to the earth ; but earth Knows not the glow we have amongst ourselves : The fogs that hide us are not ours but hers. God lights both stars and souls ; their glory is Their measure of His being. Who would shine In His full light must tarry like the stars And bide God's time not in hibernal coil, But with a watchful soul laid bare to Heaven, RECORDS. 23 And in a ceaseless prayer, drinking in The light that moves him onward to his rise. No one, however dim, is wholly dark ; For life and darkness cannot be in one. But whoso, charmed with another's blaze, Would also be of that peculiar hue, Draws in a borrow'd light that dwarfs his own. He is the garner of another's wealth, To be repaid with interest, beggaring him. Thou see'st that heaven of stars ! Not man, the race The multitudinous, crowded, scatter'd race Seems more confused, more purposeless than that. Yet each particular orb has its own course, And threads the ambiguities of space Unerringly, because moved by the Law That shaped its course and it, and is to it Necessity of movement. Fretful soul Fretful because of freedom thou shalt know That under thy free gift lies that same Law : It is thy root of being, grows in thee, And will press out that freedom, which is but Thy present mode of growth and source of ill. The time will be when we shall pace the heavens In glorious constellations like the stars ; Blissful as they, but conscious of our bliss ; Moved only by necessity of Right, Which is the highest reach of a free soul. The time will be hereafter might be now, 24 RECORDS. Did we obey the tide of that deep Will Beneath the turbid currents of our own. And take with joy the motion that it gives. My disobedience drives me to the night : My way should not be with the stars alone : The same deep spirit that bears up the dark Brings in the living day, and bides all day Amidst the ways of men. If I have not Found what I sought in them, have been like one Breathing an element that gives no life, It was for want of truer seeking : Thou, The life of all the elements, wast there The life that in defeat gives victory, And gain in loss. I will not shun the field Of this world's battle : if I may not ride Proudly with shining helm and nodding plume, On the topmost surge of deeds, I will, unmark'd, Pass through it like a spirit, as Thou dost ; Be with the stout hearts in the cloud of war, And help them to Thy bosom when they fall. VII. When we two were dear friends I sway'cl between God and the World. It, with its ceaseless round Of precept and example, pull'd me on, And daily grew in force. The Spirit Soul That lies unseen and trodden in the dust, RECORDS. 25 Came only when the World would throw me off In solitude and sorrow came and whisper'd " The World hath thrown thee off, but thou hast fallen On that which doth the giddy World bear up. The surge hath cast thee down, but thou hast found The deep sea's rest. The surge itself but frets To find a rest like thine : it looks above, In envy of yon heaven's quiet blue, And scrambles to get up : ah, witless surge ! That ceaseless climbing lengthens thy unrest ; Thou must at last return into the deep Still bosom of thy being ; peace is there The unfathom'd peace that can alone be thine. Yon blue serenity does not exist, Save in the eye's delusion : when the hand Draws near to take the bliss, it is not there." Thus would the Spirit voice, but again the din Of rolling day would deafen me, and my heart Would follow in the pageantry of day ; Deeming the voice that spake had been my own, Hanging sour grapes in the World, heaping down On the hard relentless ground to break my fall, And turning failure to commodity The last shift of weak hearts. And so the World Would have me all again : its pageantry Became the only real all else dream : What eyes and hands can grasp take thou and live : Nothing there is behind this show but death. Once-friend, it's well we are no longer friends, But hate each other O how much we hate ! RECORDS. As much as e'er we loved in olden time, When all the ground-work of our natures lay In keeping, like the bases of two cones Together laid, and meeting in all points. The figures are reversed ; the broad affections That friendship builds upon, lie in us both All on the offturned sides that cannot touch ; And we that in our fitness were as one, Now meet but in one point and that is hate. Yet say I it is well ; else thy gilt course, With the authority of added years, Had drawn my wavering, undecided step, And given me smooth progression in thy wake. I had been still swa/d in my old unrest, Or all bought over to a faithless peace. But came the sudden, unprepared-for throe That heaved us from each other. Had the chain That bound us in our love withstood that wrench, Then more than ever had we been one heart. I will not say with whom the weakness was Although I have my thought but snapt a link That never can be welded. Our next love Must forge itself a chain to bind us with. It was the whole upheaving of our natures ; And gather'd years were scattered to the blast. We rock'd in peace upon one tide ; a wave That raked the ocean deeps rose up between, And in two currents broke. One took in-shore Into the crisping bay where streamers flaunt RECORDS. 2~ From idly cabled ships, and summer friends Come wooing the mild air ; and with it thou Went proudly on, hail'd by the summer friends. The other took me like a prey, and drove In triumph out to sea. A lesser force Could not have cross'd the bar, had left me there To wreck amongst the breakers ; but this met And bore them down. In the meeting crash methought The face of heaven was blurr'd, and I engulf d As in a horrid dream : but soon I woke, Not_/h?;/j but as it seem'd within my dream Not to old life, but into a new birth. It was the passing into that deep sea Which is the under-being of all things The deep calm it, and they the curling waves That ever and anon are lost in it. The things I held to as stabilities, Now thaw'd away ; and that faint ghost-like thing That came of old and comforted my woes, Was a still inlet of the unfathom'd deep That now lay more reveal'd ; it was no ghost Of a night-shrouded brain, which morning's sun Would scorch into its grave, but the up-reach Of that deep Life, whereof the universe Itself is but the ghost. There is no heart That is not penetrated with that Life : Our Heaven is as the fulness of our share ; And he of scrimped measure cannot see RECORDS. The bliss of him whose full cup overflows. That which he has he takes and never doubts, But calls him mystic who has more than that, Him purblind who has less. There comes to all A deep sense of the true itself its proof : Doubt has no wedge-room when the inflow comes It carries its own warrant like plain sight, And he that sees believes. Therefore I rest In this blue deep, nor cast one wistful look Back to the shallows of a doubtful shore. Day after day waves up the beach of time, With ceaseless chafe and melancholy note To him that is time's slave : but to the ear That lays its hearing in the eternal sea, Comes not the fretted murmur of the days. We may not search our nearest brother's heart, Nor sound the secret fathoms of his soul ; And thou, dear enemy, art not reveal'd In all thy depth to me. But certain winds Have blown thy heart's throbs hither, and I know Thou art not yet at peace : the World still spurs Thy bleeding sides ; thou may'st not shake it off ; For if it probes thy flank, it pats thy neck A coaxing cruel rider that will take His hire out of the poor hack's blood and bones. We are reversed in everything but hate ; But thy hate comes from the right side for me, And if I curse thee, it is with deep thanks. RECORDS. 29 That bar of hatred that between us lies, I've beaten on the anvil of my heart Till now methinks it turns to love red hot. We'll grow to love each other for the heart We put into our hate. Friendship suspects : In open enmity what chance of guile ? We know^ each other true in our dislike, And have no dread of falseness. W T hen we meet As meet we shall upon another stage, Where each shall bear to view the alphabet Of his most inward life and when we read How step by step throughout this little war Was taken and mistaken tracing back The thing to its first germ ah then, the first Of all our quarrel will be as the seed From which the fruit-tree sprang that seed not found. And when we note how true we both have been To our own sense of right, what then but love And admiration for that thoroughness? In this faith let us live love even now : How else than thus can enemies beloved? VIII. I could not think what gave her that fine beauty, Until I saw her dead ; for in her face There was no line a sculptor would have prized : And yet methought all heaven was in that face ! 30 RECORDS. I could not look into it and retain A single hold of earth : and when I gazed Within her eyes they drank out all my soul, And left me as a statue, with the gleam Of adoration in its stony front. But when I saw her dead upon her bier, I turn'd with loathing, and I could have rush'd Down from this upper earth into my grave, To be where she was not. Ill-favour'd thing ! what a dream I've had that she was fair ! Either it was a dream, or that stretch'd form Held nothing of the beauty I adored. That form was all one settled ashy hue ; No colour came and went, no wreathing thought Moved o'er its pale pinch'd lips. I stole one look Into its staring eyes ; they knew not me, Nor spoke one thought those eyes that had so oft Enfolded all my soul within their lids. 1 touch'd its cold cheek God! my blood shrank back. And stopp'd its pulses like a frozen brook. There was no trace of that fine something there That flow'd in all the motions of her being. If that still form was hers, it was not her : For through her frame there ran a wondrous speech E'en when she spoke no word. External things Leapt eagerly into her centring breast, And came again all dripping with the dew Of her new thought. And when she spoke, it secm'd RECORDS. 3 1 The utterance of a company of minds, That even in condemnation gives support To that which is condemn'd. Most erring souls, When they approach'd her, could not hold their sins, But, child-like, blabb'd them out, and came away Ennobled and amazed to find what good Sprang up when she took off their loads of sin. Yet had she no great gift that one could see. I thought it was her beauty that I loved, And sat for whole hours pondering it. 1 saw Two silver fountains welling in her eyes A constant flowing up of crystal thought That kept them ever clear, though trouble stirr'd. A dreamy summer day was in her hair ; And fancies chased each other o'er her face, Like skiey shadows o'er a field of grain. And when 1 touch'd her hand, O then methought I stood before the east at early dawn, And saw the crowding beauty of the morn Young day still in its cradle of the sea Rocking and dreaming streaks of fringy light That moved like curtains and the lonely star, Like a young mother watching the baby day, With half her love on it, half on her lord Coming from his far voyage in the east. A poem fill'd her veins, and when she moved, Listened, or read, or lifted up her eyes, I 1 lived along the surface of her being, In wavy lines of beauty. 32 RECORDS. But she died Ay, even in the midst of all this beauty ! Whate'er it was that went life, spirit, soul It took all with it, left not one fair shred. The lines that hemm'd her living, hemm'd her dead, And still I looked for beauty, but could find Only lost beauty's secret in dead lines. IX. If thou should'st die, my little one ! This dread Comes ever with the look thou gav'st me now. It flashes through my thoughts, and then my heart Shakes with the muffled thunder, and big drops Fall from this cloud, my brain. If thou should'st die, How blank to me were life ! The round of life Must ever have a centring point of love, And thou art mine. Thou lost, I were unsphered. I cannot form in thought thy loss, or see How that which leaps and speaks through thy sweet frame Should ever leave it ; yet must feel it may ; Must feel that restless little bell, thy voice, That keeps a jubilee within my heart ; Those little pattering feet that all the day RECORDS. 33 Like kittens gambol up and down the house ; And those pure eyes that open through to God, Revealing to my gaze deep views of Heaven ; All, all that makes my little darling up, May change and lie before me still as sleep ! Yet not with sleep's red roses on thy cheeks, Budding all night, blooming at break of day ; Nor with the living dream within thy veins That charms off the iconoclast, decay ; But like a pretty wreath of virgin snow That melts the while we look, and by next morn Is not to mortal eye. My little one, I harp upon this thought, and almost dream Thou art already dead, and wear my heart With the imagined grief. But, O deep joy ! I waken from my thought, and thou art here, Sparkling beside me. O live on and be The little fountain where I come at eve, After the sweating day, to cool my brain. Oft in the heat of strife will come the thirst Of love upon me, and my parch'd heart sinks Amid distasteful work. A sudden thought Of thee, my little one, leaps in my breast, And soon my heart is at its post again, Slaked with this gush of love, and work is joy : And sweet anticipations ebb and flow Like waves within a bay, each higher up, 3 34 RECORDS. Until the full tide of my joy is reach'd In clasping thee unto my flooded heart. The homeliest soul will sicken of its home, Seeing a winged cloud in the blue vault ; Or hearing through the city's maddening din The abandon'd carol of a caged lark ; Or seeing primroses brought into town ; Or reading of dreamy isles in the sunny south, Of marble palaces, Italian skies. But when I wander and new scenes fill up The circle of my thought, amidst them all Comes ever and anon across my brain, A sweep as if 'twere from a soft dove-wing ; I pause sweet heart ! it is the thought of thce. And then I feel, if not a present bliss, Thou art to me the deep reserved hope, Which is the secret life of present bliss. Come near, my Beautiful, and let me gaze My soul all out into those beaming eyes, Until I lose my being all in thee. For is not love a losing of one's self In that which is belov'd ? Love feels no self : For though it springs in self, yet, like a flower, It lives not for the soil, but yields up all Its breathing essence to the wooed air. It is not only grief that likes to weep Itself out in lone tears. Sweet, I must hide RECORDS. 35 These coming drops of love, lest, wondering, thou Should'st ask, amidst thy prattle, what they mean. Thou could'st not know they were for love, all love, That arc to thee tell-tales of hurt alone. There, go and play, my darling, I would read. Alas ! my book has gone out like a fire I n which a sunbeam strikes. I see no red Thought burning in it. Newer light from God Has fallen on my eyes and on my book. And dazzled them to blindness. I have look'd Into this lovely beam until my eyes Are kindled, and can see nought but the light That flames in it and them. If it should set ! Alas, if thou should'st die ! And yet, sometimes I think 'twere well for me thou didst die now, And to the heaven of my memory Pass with the morning dew upon thy head, And be to me a fresh green thought for aye. For I may lose thee quite if thou abide To suffer living change. The hours drink out The beauty of the morn : what charm'd us then, We cannot find in all the after day. I have lost many pets by living death, And so might thee. The young of anything Finds the most honey'd corner in my heart : But if it stay until the streaks of dawn Have parted from it one by one, ah then 36 RECORDS. My heart has lost its tenant, though it lives : It has not even the ghost of that lost love To haunt its desolate chambers, since the thing Is still embodied and denies the ghost. But drag it from my heart before its time, E'en in affection's increase, with the glow Of rising light upon it, and methinks My heart could cease not to be haunted by The sweet idea of the loved thing lost. Sometimes this strange throe moves me : thou at hand, And some suggestive weapon in my grasp, I feel a pushing on to lift my arm And slay thy life ! I dare not fight the thought, But drop the weapon like a coward and flee From it and thee, chased by the hounding thought. - If I could neither lay the thought nor flee, But did the strange remorseful deed, O God ! What a terrific breaking up of soul Would shake my frame ! But then the drenching love ! Like a black cloud I'd burst, nor cease to weep Till I had rain'd myself into the grave Beside my murder'd joy. Dark sobbing cloud ! Wrapt up in thy own grief all heaven around Is blue as angel's eyes, and the glad earth Sunny and green, save this one little spot Made black by thee. But it too shall be green, When thou hast water'd it with all thy tears. RECORDS. 37 My precious one, and could I wish thee dead Dead, that thou might'st escape the living death ? False wish ! O thou canst never die to me, More than myself to myself: for I see much Of that same self in thee : the lines that bank Our beings in, have by one stream been mark'd ; And when thou liftest up those arched brows The light of my own soul looks out to me. The years can not estrange thee : though they roll Thy budding youth all out and take thy bloom, My heart will glory in the mellow fruit. O thou art link'd unto me, blood and soul : Thy change must have its parallel in me. It is a cruel thing that love may be On my side only ; that a heart all warm Must cleave unto another dead and cold, And be unsightly as a growing branch Upon a rotten tree. Pray God, my love, That I, in life, may never die to thee ; For there the fear is most. Thou art too full Of love's sweet essences for death to take ; And so I rest without the fear of loss. But / am prone as ether to be lost And disappear out of most loving hearts. Let us maintain the integrity of love By being true to ourselves. A leal whole heart Is as abiding in love's firmament As any star in heaven. Let us give 3$ RECORDS. Clear vantage to the light that burns within. And like the stars be clear unto ourselves. They are not self-polluted see, they shine No dimlier for all the murky nights. And this should be great joy that we, each one, Might be a world of beauty in ourselves, Unstain'd by circumstance as stars by cloud : For though they seem torn out of their high spheres, Trampled beneath the plashy feet of storms, Yet when the storm has fretted past, we see They have been lying in unthought-of peace. Give me thy little hand. How heavenly soft ! It has no feel of this world's hardening work, And emblems thy young soul, which bears not yet The hards of earth upon it. Wherefore should Our Innocents put off the charmed life Which manhood does but struggle to regain ? We cast off child-content, and then begin A life-long struggle for a child's content. Soft as it is, in this small hand I read Lines prophesying burdens and earth-strifes. The azure innocence drops from thine eye : Thou reck'st not of my augur. But my past Gives me thy future now and would, my love, I might fore-bear the burden of thy griefs And leave thee all the joys. Yet God forbid That I should rob thee of thy jewel'd sorrows! 1 could not wish the past one grief the less, But would my griefs had been more wisely borne, RECORDS. 39 And yielded more soul-treasure. I have found My richest jewels in the hardest rock, Rut spoil'd them oft in breaking it ; lost more Through leaving much unbroken. Like a bee I've ever tried to avoid the stony road, And sought the lanes to nestle among flowers. But took not duty with me like the bee : My task sat like a beggar in the dust, Neglected, and a busy world pass'd on. But, ah, sweet Ignorance ! thou canst not take The meaning from my lips : thy soft brows lift, Thine eyes give out a recognising glance, Only at certain words, as bee and flowers, Which fall like gleams of sunshine on thy brain, Chased by immediate shade. Yet is it known The spirit has a deeper speech than words, A hearing that receives unspoken thought. Some presences are felt like a sweet air Blowing upon our souls, some like hell's breath. If either come amongst us we take on The good or evil odour. Therefore thou May'st thus take on the nature of my thought : And inasmuch as these pangs of regret Make strong my future self, so may they thee. Doubt not the unspoken precept : it doth pass From soul to soul as dawn upon the earth Not with forced light, but gently leads in day, Which soon is all in all ; and we can trace No footmark of a struggle with the night. 40 RECORDS. But* strength of me or precept thou need'st none : They could but help to give that which thou hast Thy -rich inheritance of child-content. I do but speak my overflow of love. It does not wait my time : tide-like it conies. It ebbs and flows between us, and each wave Throws up its thousand pearls upon our hearts. The World doth hold us poor, and we ourselves Oft join the World m feeling -we are poor Poor ! and with all this treasure in our hearts Wealth richlier possessed than gold could be ! To have is but to love; and he whose heart Is fullest of the love of godliest things Is still the richest man, whatelse he lack. This is the very alchymy of truth : God keep it aye within us. There now, love, Go play thyself, and leave me here alone, To open up the coffers of my heart And count how rich I am in loving thee. X. I wonder when I'll die, and what will be The circumstances that surround my death, The immediate cause and nature of my end ? Whether some fierce disease on a sleepless bed, Watch'd by sad anxious eyes in which I'll read My untimely epitaph before I go : Or slow consuming fire, that, day by day, RECORDS. 41 Smoulders within and makes no show of blight, But wears the cheek of bloom, till, suddenly, My unconscious path ends at a churchyard gate ? I turn too late ! Death hems me in and points Into his rank green fold, where I may count The steps that lie between me and my grave ? Or will some sudden accident cut short My flooding tide of life, and I that left A joyous home, waved on by blessing hearts, All jocund as the morn, be carried back A mangled, mindless corse ? that home's dear mirth Gulp'd up in one wild spasm of despair ; My little lambkins pressing round their dam In wondering affright ; the meal prepaid With tentful care, breathing of my return, Left but to feed their anguish ! I am there, But at no board sit down : sweet lives that clomb About me, clustering like wreaths of flowers, Crush'd by the stricken pillar they adorned ! Or shall I ripen on to gray old age, Losing by slow and unperceived degrees My hold of love and life, enjoying both Up to the last with all my room of heart, Until it close, and I drop to my rest, When home and hearts so flooded with me now, Are either gone or fill'd with richer love, And earth and I can spare alike each other ? Along the vista of a natural life I gaze amidst dim shadows to its close, 4-- RECORDS. And wonder if I'll travel to that close, Or fall half journeyed in the chasmed way. How darkly do we grope thick dark ahead That swallows up the glimmer from behind ! Each step is through a curtain of dense cloud. Though light be on our feet, this present step May edge the very brink of Death's dark pit. We dare more than we know, and hearts would fail If eyes could see the footing that we have. How dear to each his little span of life ! Beggars and kings set on it the same price. It stamps the gold of each : that life let out, What then are regal crowns and raked-up pence ? Yet for some petty gain we risk that life Which gives the worth we gain ; or stake it on Some sharp pin-point of honour worth a pin. O full of contradiction ! dear yet cheap ! At rustle of a leaf we start with fright, And that dear life knocks wildly in our breasts, As if it fear'd the falling of its house And wanted out and yet, 'twas but a leaf ! A trifling insult jostles our conceit, And life becomes a button to toss up, To see who'll lose or have it. Is there aught In this quick fear and sudden rush to save ? Is it a secret monitor that prompts To cling to life because it is so short RECORDS. 43 A tacit protest 'gainst the immortal life ? Or is there deeper truth in the mood that sets Life cheaply on a straw an inwrought sense, Deeper than all our guesses, that comes up And moves us to the ready risk of life, Knowing, despite our fears, that loss of breath Is not in very deed lost life, but change, As sunset is no loss to the sunken sun, Who even now reigns in as true a day As when he fill'd the azure of our noon ? Which is the deeper truth the one that moves To fear and trembling in this hour of breath, Lest it should briefly end ? Or that which prompts To lavishment and heedlessness of life, As if our portion were the exhaustless air ? And in what moods of being does each rise ? O ever in our lowest grades of sense, Or when we use false shifts to bring about Ends otherwise all good, or when our hearts Are in the heaping up of cumbrous wealth, \Ve tremble for our safety and fear Death, Lest it should come between us and our heaps, Let fall the cloak that blinded our false shifts, Or take us from the luxury of sense. But in our highest walks where Duty leads, Not falteringly in doubt, but to the Right Pressing still onward, then is life itself Sunk in the Right, and asks no separate care. 41 RECORDS. If Right be gulf d in Death, Duty leaps in, With eye full on the Right, but blind to Death. The soul's integrity we buy with life, And hold ourselves the gainers : yet if life We had not after that, where were the gain ? Since, then, the mood we deem the most divine, Gives sufFrance to the lightlying of life Which is this self, and gives the all we have, / I hold the deeper truth is stirring here The truth that Death is but a form of speech, And is no more the loss of life to the Dead Than sunset loss of light to the sunken sun, Who march'd as freely down this cloudless eve As when he clomb the morn all pearl'd with dew. O be our life unclouded, and our setting Will not be streak'd with fears ; nor will our path On to that setting be a maze of doubt. The sun draws up the vapours that obscure him ; And doubts and fears are vapours of the brain : The heavens are bright beyond. To a pure soul No one may guess what clear insights would come. Seek we the wholly pure in the present hour, And as 'twill leave no dark past to bedim The ever-starting memory with remorse, So will it raise no further banks of cloud To threat our journey with a weeping day : And, living out the fulness of the Now, The heart will have no room for a dreaded WHEN. RECORDS. 45 XL My heart has choked me through this live-long day This day of duties closed. Each act of mine To-day has been a death-pang : I have died A former life in each. Our daily work That we have done for years, O sad to feel That this time is the last, and that to-morrow Strange hands will take it up ! I shut the books Whose each particular folio my hand Can find without the exercise of thought The books that hold no character but mine. Now have I kiss'd the inkstand and the desk, And given up possession of the key. I look my last on each particular thing, And see it draped in garments which my soul Unconsciously has weaved. I did not think How ivy-like my love had grown on them, Till now I come to tear myself away. How will it be with them when I have left ? Ah, shall I take away their mantling green, And leave them bare and cold till they are clothed With other verdure by a richer mind ? Will those whose custom 'tis to come and go Feel desolation when I am not here ? I know there will be many, round whose hearts My being throws its arms, as their' s round mine : 46 RECORDS. For we, without one word of plighted faith, Have grown to know ourselves true brother men. And wear our souls to each other in our eyes. They will be haunted like an empty house ; .My absence, like the passing of a ghost, Will cross them when they see my accustom'd place. Our wants, more than our havings, fill the mind, And oft a thing's not ours till it is lost. Farewell, old duties that I held as tasks Not over-willingly perform'd ! Now ye Ascend to Heaven and are angels' work The higher, that you were most truly done, Despite the unwillingness. For I have learn'd To know how good a thing is tasteless work When faithfully perform'd. The man transmutes The meanest office to a golden reign, Or blasts an angel's work with smoke of hell. Men grieve their hearts at being out of place, Unknowing that each man must place himself, Not vainly fleeing from the post he holds, But drawing round his feet the charmed ring That makes all sacred ground on which he treads. We have to learn God's uses of the world, And put our own aside like worn-out clothes. Most of our business waits yet to be done To yield the noblest fortunes. It is big With mines scarce broken on. We have been fool'd With coin, bright coin, that bears the current stamp, RECORDS. 47 But is not gold. We have not known the gold : We have not known that in the ways of trade The soul might be ennobled and enrich'd Yea, that this is God's very use of trade. Let us begin our business to this end This end so strangely missed ; if gained, not prized. I go to make my fortune ; and the world Will count me poor, unfortunate. How rich I may be even then, the Heavens will know. Farewell, old duties ! Wherefore do I leave Your sweet content content now that I leave ? Have I drunk all the sweets ye held for me, And am not knowing even at the dregs ; So that my further draughts were bitterness ? Or, with accomplish'd difficulty, did Your true life pass away, and leave me nought To garner in my soul when that was gone Nought but the soft and soul-corroding ease ? I ask my weeping heart, Why does it leave ? I 1 has no answer : like a drooping girl, It leans against my breast and points to Fate. heart, I see so little of myself In the beginning of my life's chief acts, That I begin to think there is a hand, Behind the scenes, that moves us to the stage, Then leaves us there to play our parts. And now 1 stand behind the curtain that divides RECORDS. Two acts in my life's drama. I can hear The dense hum of the audience that will watch Each movement of my acting. But I stand Alone here with my throbbing heart and God. This interval of pause is like a pool That breaks the onflow of a brawling stream ; And, gazing deep into the abyss of life, I see the sands of time o'er which it runs, With all the purposes of life reveal'd Like pebbles at the bottom of the pool, Which in the turbid current are not seen ; And under all the great clear eye of God Like the blue sky reflected. O my heart ! Would I might shape thy beating all for God, That when again I come in the World's gaze, His eye may be the only one I feel. The doubts of coming time, the sad and sweet Regrets of a sublimed and hallow'd past, Divide my brooding mind as hence I go : They crush the present out. But if God's light Abided in my soul and never set, My present were an all-sufficing Now. For he that lives for ever in that light Partakes of all its attributes regrets No good outlived, nor dreads the ill unborn, But in the abundant present breathes full life. O, there are blessed lives on which God show'rs His spirit down like rain ; more blessed ones RECORDS. 49 Through which He is a never failing stream ; And both are rich and bounteous as green meads. With me the springs are buried deep in earth ; And would I drink the spirit, I must dig, And oft be disappointed. For the most, My life's an arid waste, panting with thirst, Which nothing but the living stream may quench. Farewell, aunt England ! I have been caress'd In thy kind lap of Lancashire so long, That now I'll scarcely know the Doric voice Of my old mother Scotland, and shall feel That going home is going most from home. Thou art my heart's home, England. When I look Into the camera within my brain, I see the moving picture of thy woods, With all their sylvan glades, rich waste of fields That give free crossing to th' exploring foot ; Thy warm green lanes, and hedges thickly laced W T ith bramble, honeysuckle, and sweet dog-rose ; Thy wandering streams, that lead through bosky dells And meads of rarest green. But most of all The Kibble winds herself about my heart ; For, from her cradle in the hills of York Down to her green grave in the Irish Sea, I know her every winding, and can tell Where be her fords and bridges. That last bridge. That spans near where her meady lips grow salt With immemorial courtship of the tides O, memory ! the river of my heart 4 RECORDS. That bridge will span until it cease to flow ; And those black eyes that lighted me like lamps, Night after night, across it still will dash Their light athwart the dark nights of my soul, And strike a fitful glare when memory's cloud Obscures my present and diviner light. Ah, was it vain to woo and not to win ? And, after dreaming years of love, to wake And count my object better lost than won ? It was not vain ; my object was not lost ; But rather gained by loss, since still for me She is the gorgeous picture that love drew, Undimm'd by the possession. Those dream'd years Stand rounded in my past, not broken up By dire reality. I can go back Into them as a temple, and bow down Before the image love has glori-fied, And drink the joy of worship. Dost thou think She was not worthy of a bended knee ? Love sanctifies a thing of little worth ; And he that worships the recipient Of his most sacred passion, worships well. The cup that holds the precious wine of love Is even to be prized for that it holds. O, I have pour'd my love into her heart ! As in a fount, it well'd up in her eyes ; RECORDS. 5 ! But all came back again to her own breast, And but the beggar's portion came to me : Yet am I richer for it to this day. Our errors seem all purposeless as weeds ; But they are weeds from which the quiet soul Distils a balm that medicines our lives. There is a wise assimilating power Within the mortal frame, that works and builds Without decree of ours, and from the wide, The universal bosom, draws the store That makes the individual not alone From that we bring to it, as daily bread, But air, light, heat, and things we know not of: So in the mind there is a kindred power By us unwill'd as that which moves the heart And years that we think lost have been work'd in Most richly through our natures. Who can say What serves our Being most ? Oft, like the beasts, 'Twill turn away from dainty things we give, And crop a thistle. I have labour'd much To bring unto my soul the richest food, Laid up great store of books, have sought wise friends, And hanker'd after churches. Yet when done, I find me nibbling at life's poison'd weeds, Or battening on barrenness ; my books Shelved and not open'd yet ; wise friends, when found. Deserted ; and the church door never cross'd. Our nature is above us ; we may think RECORDS. We educate ourselves ; but we forget This higher nature educates the ive. Farewell again, sweet land my second home ! Within thy beds of roses I have known The thorn more than the rose, but could not sec How bee-like I have been in gathering These loads of honey'd love that clog my flight. My heaven was dull and leaden till I near'd The margin of my setting : I am gone, And scarcely can I think yon golden sky Is that which I have left. Shine on my back ; For I have turn'd me to another day ; And though I look through mist into the dawn. The day will brighten, and the larks will sing. XII. I marvel not that, in the ignorant time, Men gave each element its god, and crouch'd In spirit as in frame, when through their woods Fire like a demon ran ; or when the wind Beat on their sheltering bields, and with the rain Grappled to death ; or when the thunder spoke In answer to the sign the lightning made, Causing gruff discontent among the hills. This black and fiery warfare rushing through RECORDS. 53 The accustom'd quiet of their blue ceil'd earth What wonder they deem'd spirits were abroad ! Was not wild motion life ? big noises speech ? To them they were ; and deeplier to us So should \hsy be all motion, and all sound. For Soul is there, though too familiar thought, Incrusted with the daily use of names, Becomes dead thought and misses it. And things Not only the imperious elements, But common work-world and domestic things Have all their own peculiar and quaint tongues, By which, unseen, we know them. Is it soul In them that speaks to soul in us ? or what ? "A silly question," sayest thou ? But think ! The sound of things inanimate is speech Of sentient origin. Whatelse is sound ? Thou can'st not tell though thou exhaust all speech. And motion, thou may'st call it force dead force : But, whether 'tis the swoop of giant storms, Or fairy^ dimple on a dreaming lake, Still say I, it is life. Else, how receive In our life-veins the pulses from without That make us one with Nature ? Day and night, That ever through us come in throbs of beauty ; Sunshine, and shadow, and the breezy grass ; The woods that nod in slumber, or awake To throw their tresses loose upon the wind ; The raking clouds that drive athwart the moon ; The wandering sea that never finds a home : The lake that never leaves one ; and the rivers 54 RECORDS. That come from rural poverty, like youth, To push their lives in cities and grow rich Yea, very rich, but troubled, in their deeps : \Yhy speak these to our life, if they have none ? That river's soul runs through me ! I could be, Yuth little change, its worshipper, O God ! I Jut that it flows from Thee, and Thou hast all. I should live in a world of active duty My wants demand it. But my heart repines. And leaves me to a world of idle thought, Or that of outer Nature the mere change Of day and night and season, sun and moon : Or vagrant fancy, or the fool's desire For other place than this which is his own. A patch of blue in heaven, a pacing cloud, A sun-gleam, or the carol of a bird, Makes beggars of my duties, and they plead In vain although with God's own voice they speak. To-day there is a tumult in the air, A roaring as of furies in the bay, A rumbling as of heavy toothed wheels Up there within the chimney ; window panes Batter'd and dim with gusty blads of rain ; The very wind seems roll'd in sheets of rain, The houses dash'd, the steeples drench'd, the streets Pelted and plash'd, and filFd with runnels brown. But, loud o'er all, the tumult in the air, The roaring as of furies in the bay ! RECORDS. 55 There had been eerie whistlings over night, And vvailings on the house-tops, which ran through Our weird unblessed dreams. Ere we awoke, The storm had also come into our dreams ; So that my spirit out of sleep was borne, E'en on the storm's wing ; and, for very joy In this rough day, it cannot light again Among the working homes. Yea, I have come To find it here upon this bellowing strand, And sent my duties to fill up the debt That runs to mortal ruin. Let them go I do not like them ; they oppress my soul : It has not room to breathe in them. Behold ! On this wave-welter'd shore, in wind and rain, How freely beats the heart ! how near it feels To that in Nature beating ! For I stand Within the pressure of great agencies That come by It impell'd. The broken heavens Drag almost to the sea, and landward rush, With terror stricken, like a routed host. The waves, white crested, and with yells of war, Pursue them : one last dash at flying heaven ! They only plunge and tumble on the shore, Crqst-fallen and disappointed. But the roar Comes most from yonder heads that blufHy stand Knee-deep i' the sea, and sentinel the bay. The rout comes round them, swept on wind and wave ; And hark! the storm's wild throat too high for bass 56 RECORDS. Has crack'd its voice upon them, and 'tis shrill, Air-rending, as a trumpet. Not a sail, Or any human shadow, moves within That circuit of dim air and weltering sea ; But out beyond the curtain of thick drift, How many well-reef d barks and stout-braced hearts Now stand at bay i' the storm ! A lonely bird That seems far blown and driven from the deep, Hoary and sea-like, glides around my head, And gazes into me with strange pale eyes Most melancholy eyes ! Be still my heart ! And yet those eyes, how painfully near they come ! And those long spectral wings ! Why did I wince ? It put me in a circle, in a spell, And shut all else from eye and ear. But see ! The lonely bird beats windward out of sight ; It's spell breaks, and again the welt' ring sea, The trumpet-sounding cliffs, the wind and rain Leap through these senses into me. O God! We know not by what miracle the soul Receives into itself the outer world : But in such gleams of beauty does it come, Methinks it is its spirit we receive In very deed 'tis Thee ! God, give me work In which my fitness and Thy glory meet, As in this vagrancy they seem to do ; Or as we see in the commissioned men ; And it shall have my knee, my hand, my heart, RECORDS. 5 7 My toiling days, ay, and my sleepless nights ; Which neither toil nor weariness could feel, With me the chosen one to do their work, And Thou in all their hours. O grant me this ! The tempest has God's voice to day : I feel My words are driven back into my throat ; The tide keeps frowning on me to go back, And foot by foot it claims the beach ; the wind Takes the salt spray and blows it in my eyes : My very thoughts are beaten back : the day Seems all a driving back. O God of day ! Thou hear'st the faintest breathing of a soul Rising through all the tempest. If that soul Deem not the after-stirrings come from Thee, As answer, to console or to command, But that itself creates them, it were well To audience them as if they came from Heaven, And soon they will approve themselves. For truth Is not imagined ; it has been with Thee In all eternity : and when it comes, It carries its own proof in needing none. God takes unnumber'd tongues. The elements Have bidden me to whence I came. You dream ! The outward fact was still the inward dream Until men saw it clearly. All may see Alike the face of things : but pierce the skin, And seek their spirit with the inward eye, 58 RECORDS. Then who shall say to any one "You dream?" As who can say the loved do not possess That beauty which their lovers see in them : The deeper truth to the intenser sight? In things dissimilar to other eyes The Poet shows a likeness ; then all eyes Can see how like they are. Nor is his view The final. There's a meaning in each thing That fills all depths of vision up to God's ; And all are satisfied till vision deepens And wants the deeper. That which starts a thought If only by suggestion speaks, since mind Had, but for the suggestion, miss'd the thought. And had not Nature first reveal'd her truths, Mind were as empty as a cast-up shell, With one eternal sound of vacancy. I pray'd God give me nobler work ! The storm Straight seem'd to bid me back to that I left ; And how God answers prayer, who shall say ? The duties which a man at any time May find before his hand, are wholly his, Though all the world cry, How unlike the man ! In them, or in the cause that made them his, His double will be found, his inner self, Whose outward haunting gives him never peace, Till in fulfilment it find wholesome life, Or rest in honest failure. Wouldst thou find RECORDS. 5<; Thy heart's elected work, pass through, not round, The task that even error has made thine. For in the midst of uncongenial toil, E'en by the way of doing it, a man May raise the office that he longs to fill. No man may shape the world to suit himself : But form'd his own heart's model let him work At anything, and we shall see how soon It draws about a man a fitting garb. And this, or nothing, from the Day's rude throat I could translate this when my inward ear Would listen : when it closed, the outward shell Took nothing but the hoarseness of the Day. And thus all things speak inwardly they speak Like oracles, that seem to disappoint, Because we take the outward meaning only. A King was prophesied, surpassing all Earth's former kings in glory. When He came, No one believed the meek and lowly man Of Nazareth, in very truth was He. So when we seek high missions, and are told T.hey wait us in the drudgery despised, Who is it has the faith to find them there ? 60 RECORDS. XIII. Scotland, my Mother ! thrice I've left thy hearth To seek my crust 'mong strangers left each time Alone, in sadness, never to return, Yet, by some fate undreamt of, still return'd. When shall this heart find an abiding home ? Alas ! too many has it found heart-homes, Loved spots where it has been, and fain would bide But none for me ! Ah, where the homestead, where The kindred soil in which my tendrill'd years Might spread and deepen on to rooted age Green shoots up-springing, and all things around Engraven with my life, until they read As pages of my history ? But no : I see no dawn of that blank dark all round ! Once more I leave the Doric land this time, A part that rings with glorious deeds of old : Kyle's capital, made famous by the lives, To Scotland dear, of Wallace and the Bruce, And where even England's Cromwell graved his name. But O, more glorious by the minstrel chief W T ho sang of Tarn O'Shanter and the Brigs, And whose heart-warbled melodies have borne The seuch of Coila's streams o'er all the earth. O favour d land, whom Providence has given RECORDS. 6 1 Not wealth of beauty only, but a voice To sing it to the world farewell, farewell ! 'Tis but my lips that say that word, my heart Bids no farewell, and could not if I would. No : be my outward being where it may, While memory, and thought, and Burns remain, I live in Kyle. Still, in the summer eve My soul will wander by the '''Hermit Ayr" At noon sit dreamily by " Bonnie Doon" " Brown Carrie k hill"" fill all my musing moods With its mysterious beauty and yon isle, With Goatfell, framed in sunsets. Hill and dale, And river, bridge and road where he has been, Live in a double glory in their own, And in the light of that impassion'd eye : For God, who breathes the miracle of beauty. Gives to the Poet the creative soul That makes a beauty kindred to His own. If not my first, thou art my dearest home. And where my next ? I leave, but whither go ? I blush to think there is for me no place That begs my work ; but, rather, that mefe bread May lead me like a beggar ! Would my faith In missions were confirm'd that for each one Throughout the ravell'd labours of the world, His special work awaited him! I'd rise Like morning, with hope's star upon my brow, And feel earth beckon'd me. The world accords RECORDS. Divine appointment to her greatest sons, Who turn her destinies by arm or pen : But wherefore not the least? In sight of God, Who are the greatest ? And what acts of man, Little or great, most pregnant of results ? The flash that leaps from heaven fills all men's eyes, But with amazement passes ; while the spark That falls unseen from some lone widow's lamp May fire a city. Fields are won and lost, Run red with blood, their thousands heap'd in death, Yet in a little while are green again. A lonely thinker gives the world a thought, Which in due season overruns the earth, Brings wealth to nations, bread to all that work. A ten years' war rose from a woman's cheek ; A Reformation, from a cutty stool. The veriest acts work an eternal change, And none can tell the outcome. All, or none, Have special missions waiting them from God, And here, or somewhere in this endless life, Must find them. None so worthless, none, But, like the pettiest artery, performs A necessary part amid the whole. Not Shakspeare only, but the multitude, Gave birth to Shakspeare's universal line. So, Washington was but the brain whose strength Drew upwards from the obscurest heart that beat With Independence. Take the least away, RECORDS. 63 And Washington had not been Washington. God's thoughts are circles : lives, things, and events That we deem useless, are the arcs which, join'd, Make up the round.' Shall even the trees put forth Each its appointed leaf and bloom and fruit The birds and insects live and build and sing All in their own unerring way yet man Be left to blind experiment and doubt ? They are God's slaves, and cannot err, While man, you say, is free ! Ay, so he is ; And therefore often misses his true end. Yet is he only free within the bounds : Error and wrong cannot be driven far : On one side only is there endless scope, And that is towards the right, the true, the good ; And he alone that is God's willing slave Is truly free yea, even free as God. The conscience-beat of Right that stirs amid The conflicts of the heart this is God's will. It bids us to our missions : we are deaf; Or, hearing, heed not, and still live at waste, In half successes, disappointing gains, Failures and fears, that seek to whip us right. Who thinks of missions ? None. Yet even we You, I might find our God-appointed work, Would we but rise in His name and begin. 64 RECORDS. There ever is a Right, a. Best to do, Here where we are, and now. In simple trust Do that, and ever that, nor mind results. To make thy life an embodied thought of God Be it all failure in the world's loose speech That, only, is success how done or where. And whence the love of home, this heart for place ? Not from the dusky grandeur of the hill, The clouding tree before the cottage door, The haunting stream no, nor the mantling hearth ; But that through them, unconsciously, the heart Has caught the gleam of God ; and that is love. It is the very home of every soul, And everything in nature is the door. If we by thought, at any time, can pass Into this all-sufficing mystery, The soul's true home, then farewell all regret ! Be where we may, we are at home and peace. XIV. I cry for rest ! e'en cast a weary eye Within a quiet grave, if then my soul Might find a heaven of meditative rest. And O for one, the humblest though it were, RECORDS. 65 Of all the sanctuaries of still life That lie secluded in this restless age, Inherited perhaps by an Abuse ! But here I pant and whirl from place to place, Bearing these wretched samples of my wares Goods! goods transformed to evils in my thoughts Plague-spots, that fester in my very dreams ! Day after day, town after town no end ! All days and places shuffled in a heap, Each morn I need to search my jumbled brain To find my ivhen and where. Yet, in this whirl, I ever fall to momentary rest. All peaceful things absorb me. In the stream Of rushing cities I am often swirl'd Into some grass -grown street ; and, ere I know, Shut from the buying, selling, cheating world. Cathedrals with their quiet cloister'd yards, Their soft-wing'd swallows and their ancient daws, Do with me what they please make me a monk. And if to straggling suburbs business leads, Some hedge-row, or a meadow's deeper green, Takes me beyond all business : or a well, Sun-lit within the sombre of a wood ; A daisy folding on a bank at eve ; A rain-drop on a thorn ; a sleeping tree. O peaceful, thoughtful rest ! thee and a crust ! But thus to be for ever on the bound, My sacred aims, and hoarded, unread books, 5 66 RECORDS. Heart-breaks which not to know at all were bliss- Gardens of honey'd beds in which my soul, With joy could work away its busy hours ! But I repine at Justice with the Right Make faithless argument. What have I done To gain or to deserve the envied place ? My life has been a wandering, broken waste ; A constant shunning of the beaten roads ; And in this wilderness of no results I fret for those reach'd by the beaten roads. Of opportunity and thoughtful rest I mourn the want, yet use not what I have : My evenings squander'd with contented fools ; Long nights in sleep, or, for unneeded sleep, Turning and moaning, and the morning light Falling in vain on my sloth-blinded eyes. O till that waste of time is all wrought up, 'Tis shame, and squander'd breath, to ask for more. He ever drifts from opportunity Who knows not to haul in the slack of time. 'Twere meanness to hold other than I have, If this be my deserving. If the yoke Unfit me. let me feel its galling just, And in the pride of Right lose my complaint. The world is full enough of well-placed men : They serve old ends, but give it nothing new. An unshaped man, put in their steads, would bring New ways, new thoughts, to the exhausted spheres. RECORDS. 67 In my unfitting office I may find What none else could, what nowhere else I can. Why seek to do what is already done ? Or fill a place already snugly fill'd ? For ease ignoble ease ? O be thyself, And let thy office shape to thee, or cease. Come, then, my wretched budget, come my cross ! I'll kiss and bear thee on from town to town. For thou art mine in being mine : by right Or wrong, or fault, or weakness, thou art mine ; And, till that right's wrought .out, that fault retrieved, That weakness strengthen'd, or that wrong made right, I may not lay thee down. Come then, my cross ! XV. The half of man's allotted term I've lived In glorious idleness in work that gave, With bread enough, rich hours of rosy eves, Of morns with dewy eyes, of bright blue noons ; And while my compeers moil'd as if their souls Would leave them did they bate a single jot, My foot would be afar upon the heath With idle winds, or with the musing tide Upon the lazy shore ; and all quaint nooks, Green lanes, old woods, lone tarns, and forest pools, Knew me at most untimely business hours. Wherever I abode my heart took on 68 RECORDS. The image of the place ; it grew within Like second nature, with a soft slow growth. And then the sweet debauchery of books, That led my soul into a trance of thought, \Yithout the rack of thinking ! Blessed time ! Of all that indolence and sloth could yield, I drank my fill ; and though I often dream 1 d The hand of stern necessity had snatch'd My golden leisure, and made me a slave, I had no faith in dreams, and still delay'd The nobler use of leisure : to reclaim The wastes of mind ; to bring from the unknown The trophy of a thought ; to give men's hearts The thrill of some new beauty ; to restore The ravel that impatient hurry breeds ; To break down all oppression, and declare The universal brotherhood of man ; To seek God's mystery, to breathe new life In dead beliefs, and bring to fretful hearts The heaven of peace that rests alone in God. Alas for precious leisure precious now ! Now that my portion is the hour cut off From needed sleep, the moment from a meal, The blessed seventh day, for which thank Heaven, Though friends in loving kindness take it all ! Alas for leisure ! I have none ! The hours RECORDS. 69 Come howling round me, mad with work, till oft I can but stand and look them all at bay : But no there's no abeyance one by one, Singly they must be taken, or I fall. Moiling and toiling from the dawn to dusk Toiling and moiling in the blinding gas ! Tis hard to work with only hands and brain, Without the heart to help the heart that longs To bring its own loved work within its reach. The hours, like noisy carriers, bring their loads And heave them down before me, then are gone, Uncaring for the care they leave behind. The beat of brain within, the haste without, The unceasing, surging roar along the streets, The noisome vapours, and the stifled air, With all the heartless seeking after gold O, memories of green and quiet fields, But I am tired of this ! My only peace Is not my own, but second-hand it comes In looking at repose : the week-day church, Within the rails so placid, while without Is Babel ; or the massive pillar'd hall, That puts to shame this littleness of haste, And with its big thought slows the passing foot ; Or Age contented, almost vacant, age Sunning itself upon a garden walk, Amid the hive of streets ; or even the glimpse Of idle alehouse scenes fat easy men 70 RECORDS. On benches, in a canopy of smoke, And drawling out stale sentences, 'bout nothing. But why complain ? I've had my share and more. Though, like a foolish child, I've raked the sweets Into the few first bites, and left the rest Untempting, tasteless, to a stomach cloy'd. Alas, had I but known ! the plain hard fare, Without the sweets, had rear'd a stouter heart. My life has fed on lonely idleness, With varied wanderings by land and sea, And now this daily treadmill-round of work, This constant smother of my own idea, And feeble working out of thoughts not mine, Kills all the man within me. O ! to be Again let loose into the untamed life, Free of restraint, and vagrant as the wind ! The wind itself the free wind moves in chains : Within increasing circles freedom rules : Necessity, God's mystery, bounds all. Our highest freedom is to do the right, As clearly and as stoutly as we may, And wheresoe'er that leads us, still 'tis well. Heaven knows that, with my present eyes, I see Wrong turnings at all stages of my life : But did I then ? Each seem'd my one best road. Who knows but that it was ; that, while it led RECORDS. 7 1 To disappointment, the expected good Was gain'd in Heaven's own way ? So in this slough Through which I swelter, Heaven alone can tell What buried treasures lie. The school-boy's task, Which seem'd his penalty, becomes in time His strength and blessing. In the world's great school Our lessons are as little understood, And even more abhorfd. But ripening time Brings fruit to all. What though the many die Unblest by the fruition ! If we pass Like sunrise onward in eternal day, A time will come for all ; and who may know What tasks and trials now do best prepare Each for his unknown sphere ? The dead dry rules Of language, that seem'd worthless to the youth, Are to the man the wings of living thought. And so the work of life, that seems mean toil, Transform'd, will soar hereafter. And so ends My sorrow in philosophy. But shall My hope of high achievement also end My life-long hankering after work in which Head, heart, and hand might join and I tame down Into an unaspiring useful tool ? Is fine ambition vain, save when the act Goes with it ? And unwrought deeds, seen afar In the despairing night, are they false stars ? If so, where be our guides, since life's dense fog Lies all before us, our next step unknown ? 72 RECORDS. O, trust thy best ideal, cherish still The glory that the young heart burn'd to reach : It was not there for nothing : work and wait. Though hard necessity of daily bread Drive in another path, and fate and chance And weakness all combine to cramp the hope, Still, think towards the achievement. Living thought, Like Nature, works all things unto its ends, And uses up what cannot be opposed. None ever reach'd his heart's goal in the way Himself plann'd or desired, but in God's way ; And when 'twas reach'd, he saw the hindrances Were steps whereby the ascent was overcome. In lives and rivers, the impediments Give each a voice peculiarly its own. Be mine the brave endurance of a stream, By countless barriers turn'd off from my course ; Yet, after toilsome windings, still come round Upon my loved intent my seaward way. , XVI. Each morning as I thread my accustom'd way, This heaven of beauty in her face I meet Soft Grecian lines that put Art to despair, And eyes that give the thankless stones their light, Which is to me a heavenly secret still. RECORDS. 73 She comes to worship at the Roman shrine ; Tis all I know ; for I am nought to her ! And what is she to me ? More than I know. O not the sweet exchange of love for love ! For I have wealth of that, and crave no more. I seek not to awake one slumbering pulse In that rapt being, raise one lash to steal The fringed mystery beneath those lids : An unapproach'd divinity be she, Now and for ever, name and home, all, all Within the mystic circle. But the joy Of passing in her beauty that is mine. To me she is the bright bow 'mid the storm, The star that crosses the blue gulfs in clouds , The bud awaking from its winter dream, Or aught of sweet ineffable surprise That leaves the gazer touch'd with lightfrom Heaven. For we should know all beauty is of God The underlying presence gleaming through The outward forms. We may not understand, By any lesser theory, how this Fine ecstasy of beauty finds the soul. The minster bell's deep boom strikes on my ear : It strikes a deeper note amid my thoughts. Can mere vibrations of surrounding air, Outbeaten from the steeple's brazen lips, Breaking on cartilage and nerve can these, Material as they are, or seem to be, Mingle with spirit, and grow thought ? Ah, no ! 74 RECORDS. They are the scabbards for the gleaming steel That so mysteriously cuts to the quick. And when the organs myriad lips create, Of air, the warbling miracle which finds Strange concord in the soul, O is it air That pierces to extremities of sense, And works this wonder on the guest within ? Ah call me not irreverent 'tis God, The mystery of harmony and air ! So, when our gazing wonder is absorb'd Within the bosom of a simple flower, Is it the delicately-blended hues And the delicious odour that enchant ? Ay t , these. But what are these ? O think, and think The very God of Heaven is in the flower. We cannot get beyond the fact of beauty : It is to be adored, not analysed : We seek to analyse, and it recedes Into the deeper beauty. For. in truth The merest thing in Nature is a spirit : All outward forms of beauty take their form And beauty from the inward. Can it be That when the outward forms have gone to dust The inward are within the world of spirits ? No empty world is that, but full as this With all that we deem excellent. And so, 'Tis heaven to me to meet this beauteous face The angel in the woman Heaven indeed, To think that earthly beauty may not die, RECORDS. 75 But deepen to the Heavenly to feel That we may give, without the fear of loss, Unstinted heart to everything we love. Our loves are only half lived : there is still Some timid apprehension of an end That reins the heart, and breaks its full free bound. O glorious earth ! how much there is in thee To love and worship ! How much more would come Could we dispel all petty fears and take, With trustful- hearts, the fulness of each day, Believing that the soul, divinely fill'd With love, can never lose the things it loves ! For seeming loss is still a deeper gain ; The object passes more into the mind, And mind alone possesses. When death comes, It lets us more and" more back to the things Which now we mourn as lost. Ah, I have left The dim mysterious woods, the brooding hills, The daisied meadows and the haunted streams, To rack my brains for bread, miles deep in streets. Yet oft amidst my toil, far through my soul, The woods, the hills, the meadows and the streams Come robed in brighter glory than of yore ; In sleep, the prototype of death, they come With an intenser beauty or I go In rapture back to them : and so when death Gives free emancipation, I shall soon Ay, very soon be where I long to be. 76 RECORDS. O nothing can be lost ; and we can make All things our own by loving them. What need Of fearing or repining ? Even I Might be a very lord of Earth and Time. Away, all cant about position, 'wealth ! A thought dissolves it. Greatly live, each, all ; For God's true wealth is free to each and all The wealth of thought, the heritage of love. XVII. When in the blaze of life I see old mates Rich, in command, and courted ; while, with years Fast undermining, I obscurely serve, I hardly can suppress the envious whine. Yet, could I ope' the ledgers of each heart, As I can do my own, and cast all up, Who knows which side the balance might be on ? Debtor and creditor, how stands my account ? A drudging clerk most helpless trade ! condemn'd, For bread, to give my all, my golden hours, From morn, up through the day into the night, Unearthing old accounts in ill-kept books, Brain-rack'd with balances, sear'd with per cents, Buried in bills, cash, interest and goods : Perhaps for one who, if he could, would turn RECORDS. 77 The whole earth with its beauty into cash, All mankind but himself, their loves and hopes, Fine aspirations, deep inventions all, Would realize in cash, and grasp the whole ; Who grudges breathing-time, feeds on the toil Of servants, brain and body, gloats as if Each drop of sweat came out a golden coin, And all for him ; whose avaricious soul Knows not the taste of peace, but quakes in fear Of bankruptcies, embezzlements and ruin ; Who chuckles oft, and grins, but cannot laugh, For very want of room about his heart. The dread of being slave to such a slave ! So runs my account. On the same side I find Items against me of a smaller mark, But great in count perhaps the roots of all: Procrastination with its crust of sloth Faith in to-morrow, indolent to-day ; The amiable propensity that sees An equal good in opposites, and hence Indifference, indecision, and the trains Of life-long rues that follow, for success Oft comes from blindness to the opposing right. One item more, 'tis sundries useful term ! Embracing petty failings and defects, Unknown to me, but yet by others seen, And swelling the result, who knows how much ? So much for that side. On the other stand RECORDS. A mind that hates all bondage, and owns none, But, 'mid life's hard necessities, lives free From all that slaves the thought ; an open love For all the forms of being, finding good In tavern and temple, sinner and saint ; Deep joy within the courts of Heaven ; light joy If sadness too along the flaunting streets; An appetite for Beauty, that devours Nature's and Art's rich feasts, and yet can live Upon their simplest meals the dusty ray That briefly slants at noon across my desk, Like God's enchanting wand, a touch from Heaven- The happy smoke, from sooty dens let free To sail away into the sea of light The myriad reflex of the painter's dreams Shop windows freely give and wandering notes Of street musician, be they e'er so rude ; A sweet immunity from avarice, Which reckons that, at least, if nothing's gain'd, No thought, no toil is lost in the attempt; The economy that never can be poor, But richer grows by lessening its wants ; Rare health, impervious to the damps of life, Social and physical from battering storms Shaking my feathers for another flight ; A deepening belief in Right and Truth, That they are not our thought, but from above The moral gravity that sways events To highest good, however bad they seem ; The love of books, which finds in them the gold RECORDS. 79 That buys up all conditions ; above all, A share in that fine alchymy whose touch Reveals the God in all things, gives the peace That passeth understanding. These I note Of personal inheritance. Then comes This item out of self; a happy home A small, poor home, but O how rich to me ! Enrich'd by one who sheds around the hearth Perpetual summer, flowering into love ; And little busy hearts that round her swarm, Half hid in folds, like bees in smothering blooms ; An Eden to my soul, and when at morn I leave, I straight begin to long for even. So, now, I've cast up both sides. If to you The balance seems against me, O believe With me it is far otherwise ! For each Appraises his effects by his own guage. If Shakspeare is my gold, Australia's mines Would fail to make me rich. All things are poor To him that may not bathe them deep in love ; And of the things I love, great store have I. My envious cloud soon passes : 'tis the rack^ That scuds on sunny wings in summer skies, Interpreting how deep the blue beyond ! 8o RECORDS. XVIII. Farewell, my Channing ! I will call thee mine, , For love gives full possession. Two rich years, Obscurely and unknown to thee, I've lived Upon thy wealth of thought ; and through each week Have hunger'd, hunger'd for thy Sabbath feast But thou art gone, as if the hand of death Had on the instant beckon'd thee away. E'en through that sermon which became our last, A hope possess'd me almost to the end ; But when the closing word fell from thy lips, Methought the door of Heaven slamm'd in my face, And left me outside weeping, thou within. That beauteous temple of thy ministry, Its heavenward pillars and its pictured light, Breathed inwardly the very soul of Art. It was a living beauty it is now Only a splendid tomb, fill'd with regret. And who of all thy creed if creed be thine, Whose universal heart has room for all Shall fitly fill thy place ? Many will come ; And flowing essays, brimm'd with noble thoughts, And very like to sermons, we shall have ; But who shall be the preacher ? They will come ; And when they've pass'd the ordeal, we shall find New laurel round thy name, and in our hearts A deeper pang of grief. And adverse minds "7, RECORDS. 8 1 That held thee as a dreamer, misty, vague, Will, from the mere transparency that follows, Grow doubly clear, and learn to read thy dreams. However low our scale of mind, we think That all beyond our easy reach is dream ; And he best pleases our conceit who says Just what we know, or plainly comprehend. Thus do we keep the comfortable plain. But would we catch the beams that wake the soul To new and wondrous life, choose him that takes The panting heights ; and though in cloud and mist We lose him oft, yet, ever and anon, The gleams break through, the misty curtain lifts, And we behold our leader and his thought, Standing all brightness on a sun-brow* d hill. Ah, such wert thou ! Thy theme, however low, Soon beat the Heavenly chords : for God, the sum Of all true preaching, was thy all in all. If thou did'st ever harp upon that chord, 'Twas glorious sameness, and, like blessed bread, Came with a daily sweetness. Thou would'st stand Possess'd in thought, thy utterance half choked ; And we could almost fear thy burden'd thought Was not for us, when lo ! it came, like some Rock-barrier'd spring, in unexpected ways. No measured strain, of which, the first part given, And we might end the sentence : it was more An inspiration through thee, thou thyself 6 82 RECORDS. As much surprised as we. For thou wcrt still The worshipper, and not alone the priest. The thought unlived in giving it, falls dead It matters not how true it be. But thine Came ever molten, burn'd with life, and fill'd The heart in unknown depths. And thine the aim To knit up fritter'd lives, and give to each The quickening truth that God has work for him : That to the unknown meaning of the world His life gives new solution ; that within The crucible of being he may drop Some needed chemical. Ah, then, how great The need of being faithful to his star, That lode which draws his genius to fulfil God's end in him, and reap the inward bliss Which faithfulness matures through weal or woe. Thine was no terror- God in far-off heaven, But closely here, and, in the strictest sense, Father and nourisher of living souls: From whom in daily breakings-through of Truth, And change of Beauty, we draw endless life. For whatsoever thing wakes love in us E'en to the lowest appetite does so Because of God therein ; and love is life. Love most, live most ; and he that highliest loves, The highliest lives. We deem it strange that God, Whom outward eye has never yet beheld, Can be the object of our fullest love : RECORDS. 83 But who has ever seen the thing belov'd ? Tis inward all ; and when it passes forth The visible's unlovable, as earth Would be unlovely dross did God withdraw. Things rise to truth and beauty in so far As God lives freely through them. See that flower, Whose natural conditions give no check To the Divine inflowing, and what soul Can get beyond its beauty ? When I drink The wonder from its cup, my brain is turn'd To sweet stupidity. If simple plants Live, and are beautified by God in them, So, surely, man. He lives from God to God, A constant inspiration ; and the sole Condition of his growth is evermore Obedience to the inward voice of Right. We pray for health and peace and all good things. But if I rightly understood thy prayers, They were for more of God and more of God The one true light that pales the rest, and gives That perfect day our cravings blindly seek. God comes to us in every faithful act, In every glimpse of beauty, in all Truth, But most immediately in lonely prayer. True prayer, even while it asks, receives If not what most we seek, what most we need. 'Tis not so much a cause as a result ; And God is with us ere the lip be moved. That we can pray is answer to our prayer. 84 RECORDS. To raise amidst our thoughts a little crypt, Sacred to God, and through this porch of prayer, Daily to enter, for the briefest term, And leave outside our follies, strifes and sins, Were sweet redemption and a growing Heaven For us, who cannot, without ceasing, pray. Thy every Sabbath gave us some new heart, The after week was upward. Thou art gone ! And in the stand-still of my grief I feel The ground already slipping. On the heights To keep our footing, is to climb and climb. We cease to climb, the shingly slopes give way, And we are passing downward. Thou art gone ! And in our clouded ken, there's no one left To tell us of the light beyond the clouds. Farewell ! Could we not bravely lose thee now, It would belie thy teachings : this our faith That God's true servants serve most by their loss. The Christ that preach'd the Sermon on the Mount, Began His ministry upon the Cross. ^ XIX. For one whole week I breathed Orcadian air So far up in the north that, all the time, I felt among cloud-islands of the skies. And Autumn lay asleep among the isles ; The fiords all had still'd their roaring throats, RECORDS. 85 Afraid to wake her, and, into themselves, Murmur'd a drowsy bass ; the grim-brow'd cliffs Bent forward, half relax'd their savage looks At seeing them reflected in the pools. As oft I stood upon a tiptoe hill, The lesser islands sail'd out in the bays, And promontories drifted into isles. It was enchanted land some other world That hung within the void ; and rounding all, Beneath it as above, was calm blue sky. High over all, k the weather-beaten head Of Hoy rises. On his scarred brow He wears a precious stone a carbuncle Enough, 'tis thought, to buy Orcadia. From certain points its fiery beams are seen ; And many an islander has mark'd the spot, Then clomb the footless heights to snatch the prize, And be for ever rich. In vain his search ! 'The bright delusion's never to be found. But when he has retraced the perilous steep, The thing he sought is in its place again, And laughs at him. So are we ever fool'd On earth by things that glitter. Wealth and fame When reach'd are never found. But, failing oft, We learn at last our truest wealth is love, Best fame, approving conscience. Up the cliffs Of Hoy, there's another precious stone, 86 RECORDS. Suggesting richer wealth than diamond, Ruby or pearl yea, all the ruck of gems. The breezy front of that high beetled rock Presents, as if medallion'd on the sky, By Nature chissel'd, the exact profile Of Walter Scott. There has the wizzard brow Hung brooding o'er the isles from time unknown, And seen enacted all the stirring lore Of pirates, smugglers, jarls and old sea-kings. O storied Prince ! from that high stand, on this, Its northern bound, look southward and behold Thy legendary empire. In the north Both Nature and Antiquity had freaks Of writing thoughts in stone. In yonder holm, All solitary, far from human strife, Some desert soul has hewn itself a house Out of the solid rock. Tradition gives No record but its name The Dwarfie Stone. Yet oft a history is in a name : And we in this may read the gnaiTd dwarf, Unhuman held, uncanny, to be fear'd, Retiring to the desert from the gaze Of superstitious, half averted eyes, Knowing no kindred but his own weird thoughts, The trailing clouds, the shrieking winds, the sprite That whistles 'mong the rocks before a storm ; Perhaps the visitings of troubled ghosts, Or deeper stir of the eternal God ; RECORDS. 87 And, driven thus within himself, becoming Wrapp'd with the visions of the inner world, That make him fear'd the more ; unearthly light Gathering within his eyes, and lonely thought Ensphering him in visionary mist ; Till, like a thing in fairy waters dipt, He takes mysterious change, and comes to be The weird but innocent tyrant of the isles. And in Orcadia we find the rocks That Miller read the very rocks that gave To him their "testimony," in a type Already ancient when our Adam came, To which his Eden's but a minute since, The fabled flood the rain that fell e'en now : Those marvellous stone scriptures that reveal What monsters trod the earth and swam the seas, Or crawl'd in slime of half-created earth, Age after age, ere yet the eye of man Was there to watch ; and how the aged woods, Year after year, put on their roofs of green, And waited eras with their oaken aisles, Without one Druid soul to dedicate Their silences to prayer : whose only sounds Were of the winds and rains, the beasts that made Fierce loves and fiercer wars, heaven's fiery bolts That rent the groaning oaks, the old-world screams Of birds to us unknown ; but surely not The linked music of our modern woods ; For in my heart I read that merle and thrush, 88 RECORDS. Yea, all the voices of our woodland quires Were given to Eve in paradise, long, long After the writing of those books of stone. Inland the explorer turns if inland be, Where all is island, even the islands cleft With reaches of the sea and he beholds StenntS) the mystic Stonehenge of the north, Upon a tongue of springy sward that parts Two bleak, half-salted lochs. A stranger, he Knows not what sight awaits him, passing down The easy sloping road, when starts in view A curve of visionary things, that shine Like ghosts amid the sunlight, white or gray, As pass the sailing shadows of the clouds. With wondering gaze and speculative thought, He nears and nears them, while by slow removes They've rank'd themselves into a giant ring Of hoary stones, and, in the centre, one Of huger bulk than any of the rest. Speak ! ye dumb priests of eld, and say what kind Of men they were that set you thus on end, And to what purpose ? Not a single word ! The yellowhammer sits on your bald crowns, And mocks my queries with its moorland pipe : Methinks a whisper runs from each to each, But 'tis the wind upon your flinty sides, And not your inward voices. Ye have slept The dream of many ages, and your own RECORDS. 89 Is harden'd into stone. It will not yield To us the reflex of its inner self, Long cross'd Time's dusky gulf, though living still In some far cirde of eternal light. Yet underneath the springy sward, and through The solid hearts of these old stones, I feel The beating thought that raised them ; and within This almost mythic temple I am bow'd With worship deeper than mere stones evoke. A haunted place the ancient forms of men, And their devotion gone, all long, long gone ! But these gray stones that heard their songs and pray'rs, Ring with their spirits yet ; this grass has lived Perennially since then the same they trod : Yon sun, so old and young, look'd down on them, And saw their rites : he looks the same on me. O, Druid ! we are one ; I feel thy thoughts Now climbing up to God. The form of thought Goes with the age the thought is for all time. In sight of Stennis there's another waif Of the forgotten times. On the dark heath There is a circular mound as many such, In outside look, among those isles there be : But most are only heap'd-up earth and stones, O'ergrown with Nature's coverlet of green. In this one, when the antiquarian spade, Only the other day, upturn'd the sod, Some blocks of unlimed masonry appear'd. Then pick and labouring crowbar came to work, 90 RECORDS. And pick'd and prized, when lo ! this ponderous roof For such 'twas found to be fell, groaning, in, And darkness, the freed prisoner, leapt out. All eyes were in amaze, and, looking down, Beheld a chamber, square, and all compact, Its firm walls built of uncemented flags, Knit flat upon each other. On three sides, Recesses, breast high, open'd into cells About the size of beds, paved, roof d and wall'd With single flags. A passage on the fourth, Some twenty feet in length, each side one block, Led outward from the chamber ; would have led Into the open day, but for the earth That choked its outer entrance, and the sod That green'd the whole into a grassy mound. And what its history ? Who knows ? who knows ? No implement of peace or war was found, No relic of the living or the dead. Yet may itself tell all. Upon the slabs That pillar the four corners, and around The lintels of the cells, are many lines Of Runic writ, but all so out of date That none in all the north can read one word : They wait the coming Daniel. At one place And strangely out of place among the Runes Was found a dragon artfully engraved ; The doing, clearly, of some after age ; And 'twas inferr'd from this, that once before The place had been discover'd, and this now RECORDS. 91 Only a re-discovery. Nothing more Is to be known until the dragon speak, And older Runes reveal. But only think With what sweet faith the gravers cut their thoughts Into the during stone that, while it lasts, Their names and day might live ! These unearth'd walls, Shut from the washing rains and beating winds, Are fresh as when first quarried from the earth ; But who shall wake a living soul within Their mummied characters, and make them tell E'en tell how long their histories are dead ! The quaint Orcadian towns Kirkwall, Stromness! Their streets about as wide as one might span With good long arms outstretch' d like closes paved And crooked as the inside of a whelk Gables and angles jutting to the front And while in other towns, stables and sheds Are in the rear of houses, these have piers, Where, in the olden time, each house kept moor'd Its own sea steed, and in the later days The skipper snugg'd his schooner and enjoy'd His winter ease : secluded havens and safe Suggesting rolls of silk, and pipes of wine, And tales of starlight smuggling. In our age Of lighted towns, how fine to realize The antique dream of darkness in the streets ! Stromness is yet in innocence of gas In subterranean gloom, with, here and there, 92 RECORDS. A lamp that fights to keep its oily soul Amid the drowning dark ; and when we grope Our doubting way about the winding streets, Meetings, not unromantic, oft take place. But Kirkwall, the metropolis of the isles, Shines with the modern flame ; which throws its glare Against the ancient palaces of earls, And halls of old sea-kings. For here we find The strong palatial gateways, the paved courts And thick-wall'd mansions of the lordly times, Degraded into hostelries and shops. And here Saint Magnus lifts his sacred pile In bold cathedral beauty, seen afar By islanders at labour in their fields, Or drawing the sea's produce from the fiords, And by the straining eyes that pass in ships. For though all earth, with its Mosaic floor Of heath and rock, green plain, and shore, and sea, And yon far ceiling of the dreamy blue, Should be our God-built temple, yet we think We reach some inner worship in those shrines That men have built to God ; and thus, far seen, They work a Sabbath in the gazer's heart. Saint Magnus, though I may refuse thy creed, These massive, grim, red, weather-beaten walls, Their dim old epitaphs, with sea devices, ' And even thy two brass platters that receive The weekly pence large, round and rude, like shields RECORDS. 93 Of sea-gods, with quaint mottoes round their rims, In' stout old English of a northern ring, Saint Magnus, these, with Christ's dear life that breathes Through every stone, and consecrateth all, Put out the creeds, and leave thee a pure shrine, Wherein the universal heart might kneel- Yea, all that know the everlasting God. Within an ancient hostelry I lay ; The revellers of night had dropt to rest ; And Dawn's gray eye was opening, when I heard A gathering of noises in the streets : The bleat of sheep, the short sharp bark of dogs, The nickering of ponies, the mix'd rowte Of bullocks, some like groans, and some as shrill Almost as trumpets, and the shouts of men Drovers that whoop'd and whistled through their teeth. And when I rose the bay was molten gold ; The steamer and her shadow, keel to keel, Lay dreamily at anchor : her thick smoke Curl'd up in one straight column and dissolved Into the viewless air: her decks were pack'd With all those noisy breakers of my sleep, Now quietly resign'd : boats, gunwale deep With passengers and luggage from the shore, Pass'd others lightly coming for their loads. Before the sun had reach'd halfway to noon We had embark'd. The steamer's jarring bell Clash'd out its last alarum to the shore, Amid the roar of the impatient steam. 94 RECORDS. But soon that labouring giant found its work Among the ponderous cranks, and he was still'd. We steer'd to sea, clove through the gleaming calm, Pass'd little isles and weather-eaten rocks On either side, still keeping out to sea ; And soon Orcadia passed into the clouds. XX. As through the world's great show of Sixty-two I wander'd, gazed and marvell'd, in my soul A solemn humiliation most prevail'd. In all that concentration of man's art, I had no hand ; none ask'd me, Would I help ? That beauty, ingenuity and skill The outcome of the world's far forward day Were none of mine. The savage, with his tools Of shell and flint, contributed his craft, And help'd the world to move : the beasts that range The pathless desert gave as much as I. My only claim was, that I went to see. And that was something. He that, looking on, Says in his heart, Well done ! makes smoother way For all that is to follow, and thus aids The onward move unconsciously. But he Who is himself no doer, and who looks Not to admire, but only to pick flaws RECORDS. 95 Though perfect even as his own conceit What is he but a drag upon the age ? So if I did not add one thing of use Or beauty, I could freely give my heart, With all its plaudits. If in my own vein I also could work out a thought or two, And lay them on the altar of our day, Then might I through my offering find peace. For what had all those things once been but thoughts, Embodied now in forms ? the whole a thought Of Albert, the good prince, who was indeed A king unknown as such till he was lost. In those bright summer days of Sixty-two, All hearts, all trains, all boats seem'd making up For London ; and, when there, 'buses and cabs, And keen pedestrians, through every street, All crowded to one centre with one aim, Which seem'd to make broad-cloth and fustian one, And nations all one brotherhood. For there, Britons and Franks, the Russian and the Turk, Forgot their wars ; the three-times-injured Pole Almost, if not forgot, forgave his wrongs. There came the ancient Dane, the blue-eyed Swede, And Norway's hardy sons ; the brave Magyar ; The German, drowsy with deep thought and smoke ; The mountain Swiss, whom tyrants could not bow ; The Greek of great descent alas, how great ! Italia's sons, all music ; and the Don, Proud of Castilian blood. And from the East, 96 RECORDS. The old, old East, Caliphs and Viziers came, In whose loose sumptuous garments we re-read All the Arabian tales. E'en China sent A few celestial eyes to be enlarged In the barbarian's show. From isles unknown, And countries far, far inland, came strange men Of every hue. And even the embattled States, Unmatch'd for ingenuity, could spare From deadly strife, their sons alas, too few ! And so, we came, and met, and fraternized All brothers from all countries of the earth And merged all tongues in one ; for vocal speech Gave over to the universal eye Its office, and we spake the world-wide tongue. Beneath that glass-domed roof we never thought About this outer world, its cares and toils, But wander'd in a bright enchanted land A dream, a fairy world, a very heaven, Where all that heart could wish for, straight appear'd.- We enter'd, and the falling waters brought Anthems of mossy dingles in our ears ; And on their scented breath our spirits pass'd Into forgetful sweetness. But anon, The deep-lung'd organ roll'd its music clouds Far through the mazy aisles ; or clarion lips Blew martial strains that stirr'd the creeping blood, Until the oaten warble of the flutes Brought back its dreamy pace. RECORDS. Through endless courts, Interminable galleries and aisles, We wander'd, each one by his genius drawn To linger longest where its charm was most. Some hung in rapture o'er a glittering stone, No bigger than a walnut, but in price Almost a fable ; or a trophy, framed Of gold and studded gems, in value rank'd Beyond all common count. What are those gems ? The histories of the rocks we greatly know, And rest much satisfied : but can we guess The fine creative secrets that have made The diamond, the emerald, the sapphire ? Creations rare as genius among men, And therefore to be gazed at. Some pass'd by The jewell'd wonders with a slighting glance, And sought the industrial courts ; there to behold The myriad skill'd machinery at work. The clicking looms wove out their pictured hues Like dawn, as if behind their flickering skeins A guiding spirit moved ; and queer machines, Fed with some raw material, did work That only heads and hands, we thought, could do. Models of engines, too, in brass and steel, Supplied with tiny arteries of steam, Work'd noiselessly as thought. Ah ! there it was Within those busy courts my wasted life The most upbraided me. Those things had come 7 97 98 RECORDS. Out of the brains of men since I was born, And made a new world, while I drowsed and dream'd. Then, in the agricultural domains, What troops of swarthy farmers, landed squires, And buxom, rosy matrons ! They would stand In knots around some new-invented churn, Or patent cheese-press, or the plough that turns Four furrows at a time ; and thus, with heads Lean'd wisely to one side, discuss their points - How that the new surpass'd, by far, the old, Or how that, after all, say what you will, The good old implement was still the thing ! Among the minerals and chemicals There was not much to catch the thoughtless eye ; But let the mind once look at them, and soon The day was gone in wonder. There we saw, Before us laid, the vitals of the earth ; The ores, so little use ere yet man's thought Was breathed into them with the living brain To fuse, refine and fashion them, the wealth Of nations and their warlike arbiters ; And all the essences that chemistry Has found for us in most unlikely things Rank poisons even in our wholesome food, And in most noxious refuse sweetest balms ; Compacts of Nature loosen'd and reduced To single elements, their secrets bared, All save the one great secret that combined RECORDS. 99 The sever'd parts : it pass'd unseen beneath The chemist's eye, pass'd like a soul at death. This was the elixir that, in old times, The men accounted wizards tried to find, By crucible and fire. It is the same That gives the poesie to poets' lines, But passes, likewise, if they are analyzed : The same that mystics in their visions see, But, bringing other eyes to be enrich'd, Can show them nothing : for of old 'twas written, That never man by search might find it out. But on, on through the gorgeous wilderness For we are busy people when at home, And here our time is short. From court to court We visited the nations of the earth, With all their waving flags and countless products ; Our hovering eyes, like bees in plots of flowers, Afraid to light, lest in some special bloom We lose the winged day. On through the courts, And dipping out into the dazzling aisles, And passing carelessly a world of things, The poorest one of which were in our eyes A household god, if in our little homes. But there were some creations there, that stood In rings of gazing eyes all through the days, As that death-struggle of two Danes in bronze, With quaint home-legends round its pedestal In sorrowing bas-reliefs : it was, in sooth, A long day's study, and it went far back 100 RECORDS. Among the deep affections of the heart. Or that all-beauteous form, that marble dream. Our Gibson's tinted Venus, whose blue eyes And breathing limbs made all pale sculpture dead To him who once on that sweet vision gazed. But wherefore name, where everything deserved A special note ? 'Twere best to leave them all Without report, as when, in Shakspeare's page, I first began to mark the golden lines, But gave it up on finding every line, If not all gold, at least so deftly turn'd, That it became a part of England's tongue, For aye to be remember'd. But aloft, To winding galleries the dense crowds press. Some linger o'er the products of the looms The snow-white linens, and the gorgeous silks, And cottons, many hued ; but most pass on To the great halls, wherein the limner s art Had clad the walls with pictured histories, And legends, allegories, famous dreams, Of tragedy and farce. And there, to stand Before the very work that Hogarth did, And Wilkie, Etty, Landseer and Maclise ! The master-works wherewith, at second-hand, The graver's skill has dower'd all our homes. But here again, to name, I feel the old Shakspearian futility, and leave, Without the risk of dragging one great work RECORDS. 101 Into obscurer light, out of its heaven Of silent admiration, speechless gaze. And now, though shut in from the outer world, \Vc see the day has sloped far down the west. The twilight shadows creep along the walls, And we have scarcely yet begun to see The world's great show. So let us now begin. Alas ! the deep bell swings, and clang on clang Rolls far and wide along the vaulted aisles. The vast concave is all one volumed clang ; The startled multitudes fall into streams And ripple off ; and we that still remain, To snatch a lingering look, are netted out By guardians of the peace in narrowing lines. Thus leave we the great domes and vaulted roofs All night unto the watcher's measured tramp, And creeping shadows from the moon and stars, And spirits of their daily visitants, Revisiting in what are call'd their dreams ; Until the morning rises and repeats Our yesterday. And so at last we leave, With no complete conception, but souls fill'd With one grand wonder, which gives all our days An under-stream of grandeur to the end. 102 RECORDS. XXI. The poetry of earth is learnt in youth, Through every open pore. When years have baked Hard crusts about the soul, the beauty-throbs Of Nature cannot reach it. I am stirr'd More with the memory, the dream of things, Than with the present fact. The setting day Set through me one time, and the morning light Came inwardly, and gave me richer blood. But now they pass outside, and scarcely move A pulse in all my being. I go far To pay my homage to some world-famed lake, Or mountain that puts on its crown of gold An hour before the dawn ; but when I seek To live the admiration, it grows dim. The village pond and sunny bank, I find, Have been more potent in their day, and yet I turn'd no foot to see them. But we know The spiritual breathings never come To conscious expectation. Ghosts appear, But not when watch'd for. And the mystic light. That steals, unsought, into the poet's eye, And gives him Nature's imagery, comes not When gazers call. Stars drop their lustry dew Into the very eye of glaring Day, Yet Day sees none. The things we seek, we miss : RECORDS. 103 But something else we do not seek, we get. So, when I journey'd far to view the lake, Or clomb laboriously the sun-crown'd hill, And got not what I went for, who shall say I got not something even more divine ? Believe, that every wind blows some new seed Within the fallow patches of the heart. We see its flower, but whence or when it comes, We never know. Though we are grown-up men To that which we have learnt, we still are babes To all that is beyond, anfHed like babes. We cry for more, still more our wiser nurse Knows that we have enough, and places us Where needs, not wishes, may be best supplied. A piece of business takes me to converse With some much favour'd man. His fields and herds, His gardens, and his far-outlooking house, Raise painful questionings. They are to him Only as so much money. Were they mine, How much more fully could I draw their wealth! 'Tis folly ! Let him keep them he that needs The riches he unconsciously receives, And they so largely give. I have enough Of the divinity of woods and glebes ; But many empty corners in my brain Which Nature cannot fill. I must go back To duties that for me hold out no charm. That which we would be, we already are, And do not need to be it. The desire 104 RECORDS. Arises from the fitness ; and if earth Were other than a school, 'twere well to do The thing that each is fittest for. But no The world can do with failure and bad work, So long as better'd men grow out of them. The best philosophy still brings us back To cheerful, child-like trust, our highest truths, And most immediate duties. These accept These live and do, and so be one with God A willing part of that great wave that moves The eras onward to the unknown shore : Or, if a shoreless wave, still good for all. XXII. A summer week was closing in the dusk, When, after many years, full of events, I enter'd once again my mother-town. The ancient steeple boonVd, and shook the streets With old-remember'd clangour, and the spires Struck out the hours and quarters in known tongues. But in the crowded streets I was unknown, And wander'd like a ghost that sees, unseen. Companions of my youth came past. How old, And burden'd with the world they seem'd ! Ah, me ! Can I, who feel so young, look old to them ? And some I knew as poor and dull of brain, RECORDS. 105 Secm'd now the portly leaders of the town ! Whilst others, born of leaders, seem'd their slaves, And pass'd with skulking cringe. The Provost's son. Who carried off the prizes in our class, Now wheel'd a brewer's barrow, and the lad That swept the school was Provost. Gray old men, An age before my time, came shuffling past ; But through their wrinkles I could recognize The features of their prime. Through lighted panes I look'd into the shops, and heads inside, That I had known as rattle-brains, were now Moider'd with money, with accounts perplex' d. And some were eaten to the bones with care, While others laugh'd and fatten'd. I mistook The joyous maiden of my earliest youth Now sadly overlarded for her mother. And by her stood herself, her very self Not one whit changed in twenty changeful years Who lifted up her sweet blue eyes, and mine Fell lost within them'; yet she turn'd away, Unconsciously, and look'd elsewhere. Alas ! It was the daughter of my sweet Blue-eyes ! But in my wandVings, ere the darkness fell, 1 turn'd me down an old and grimy close, And stood before the house where first I breathed'; Now tenantless and haunted, all its panes Stoned in, its casements broken, and its doors Seal'd up with rust and mould ; its sooty sides Streak'd and begrimed with rivulets of rain ; 106 RECORDS. Shut off from noise, yet in the midst of noise ; But all so quiet, I could hear the rats, 'Mid rattling plaster, squeaking in the walls. And then, the dank thick smell ! 'twould kill me now Yet I remember well, it was the same 'Mid which, in those unsanitary days, I lived and throve. And wonderfully well We live in any vile conditioned place, So long as ignorance conceals the risk : But once our fears are chemically waked, We sicken where we throve. And so in morals : Friend, you may practice all your tricks of trade, And yet escape damnation : but for me, I do them at my peril. The false act Soon withers with my victim ; but its roots Are here, and grow up nettles in my breast. The old town went to bed in drenching rain. All night we heard the plashing in the streets, The choking conduits, and the bocking spouts. But, drenching as it was, the summer night Drank up the floods, and Sabbath morning found A sweet baptismal beauty over all. The kirk-bells rang the quiet Sabbath in Along the drowsy streets, up to the hills, And down the sleeping river out to sea. A solemn hush fill'd all the town how strange, That absence of all noise can fill a place ! The tiny bugle of a bee was heard RECORDS. 107 Perhaps imagined ; and a butterfly, Stray'd from its clover fields, pass'd through the streets When to the churches crowds had thicken'd past, And thinn'd away again, I turn'd my steps To that green temple with the azure roof, Wherein of old I worshipp'd, with the ban Of friendly censure on me. For to seek Religion in the Sabbath fields, and read God's scriptures in the wild-flowers, was to break The most imperiling of the ten commands, And make me dangerous, and to be shunn'd By every sound believer. But the years Have only deepen'd my old love and faith : The thin partition, that divides the seen From the unseen, grows thinner, and the stones Beneath my feet begin to throb. O Earth ! The beauty that I loved was not youth's dream, Nor mine an erring faith, that Nature's lips To loving hearts make utterance divine. And now to find old haunts e'en deeplier fill'd With inner being, gave old love and faith Sweet reminiscence and approval deep. I left the town, and took the slope that leads Up to the round green hill that overlooks The sweep of twenty miles : and as I clomb The altered road, here levell'd and there wall'd, I came to dim remember'd marks, like scars Forgotten in the face of one we know. RECORDS. And portions of the road, that were of old Traversed by stepping stones, had to be cross'd Upon the self-same stones. The ones that splash'd I knew, and took them with a tentful step. And there, the single ash, by gusty nights Blown into gnarly knots. Ah, me ! these years Have I been roaming up and down the earth, And every night drawn to a shelter'd bed, Whilst thou, unhoused, in this bleak nook hast borne The torture of the winds. But hence thy tough And knotty strength. If we had never crept From wind and wet, but given them brave front, Much of thy rude health had been ours, and less Of wheeze and rheum, and dread of blessed air. I slowly clomb the hill, each step a thought, And on its southern peak, as on a cloud, I stood. The little world lay all beneath, And noon sat high amid the spotless blue. So calm and still, a steamboat's heavy beat Far up the river came, and up the hill. Her lazy smoke, between the sky and sea, Trail'd, like the fabled serpent of the deep. And where the river with the ocean meets, The dreamy capes lay out against the sky Like streaks of cloud. Around me, near and far, Each clump of trees, with its old nodding tower, Came to me like a mother's evening tale. And at my feet the old town lay. I stood Above its thin blue sheet of Sabbath smoke, ' RECORDS. 109 That like a calm lake hung upon the air. I stood above the swallows, and they skimm'd The fields of azure far above the streets. I stood above the sparrows and the daws That clamour'd round the steeple. Above all I stood, and deep within my being came The spirit of the picture. But no words Can give it out again. I only name The objects that it breathed in. Then I turn'd Inland, and from a northern peak re-lived Old haunts of youth. Far in the background rose The sharp blue hills, outlined against the sky, And sunny gleams ran into dusky glens, And I could hear, methought, the eagle's cry Deep, deep within them. Nearer by, a wood Of dark firs slept and dream'd of old weird days. Imagination could not bring a voice From that wood's silence : it was dead asleep. And nearer still, the legendary holmes, Broomy and green, with many a fairy ring ; Their burn that sings, its loneliness to cheer ; Their old meal-mill, built in against a bank, Its dusty roof o'ergrown with grass and corn, Its door choked up with docks, its water-wheel Half hid in nettles and o'er-run with moss. And nearer yet, green lanes, where I could see The flaxen heads of children plucking flowers. And hear their ringing voices. Close at hand. RECORDS. The sweet red-linnet sat among the whins, And piped a Doric song. But what avails This bald vocabulary ? I would give The living something that came out ofjthings, And flow'd through all my being this I'd give To quicken you, but offer only words. The sunset drew me to a western green That looks far upland 'mong the golden hills. A crowd was on the green ; for through the land The fervour of revived religion ran. Long evening shadows slanted to the east, The river, widened to a lake of gold, Lay mirroring the sunset ; and a psalm, On wings of simple harmony, arose, And pass'd into the evening as a part Of its own beauty. Amidst bended eyes, A white-hair'd elder, with upturned brow To listening Heaven, breathed the prayer of all. Then some spoke fierce reproof, some dove-like hope, Some dealt damnation, and some sprinkled balm. But there was one that spoke, who seem'd to lead The order of the worship. Him I knew In early youth, his years scarce more than mine. And this is he, dull pate ! so glib, so pat, So confident, so full of telling texts, So spirit-stirring, and withal so changed ! His words were manna to their hungry souls ; But shall I own it ? they were gall to me. Here has he rested peacefully at home, RECORDS. 1 1 1 And all the affluence of a mind matured, Comes graciously unto him. I have ranged From land to land, and sail'd the thoughtful seas, And heard and seen a world-deal more than he, And crept from blind belief to unbelief, And struggled out of that, yet here I stand, My mind a ravell'd skein, loose ends of thought, With no continuous thread of any kind : And place me where he speaks, I'd find my thoughts All run to dusty wool, no threads at all, And which, if beaten out, would only blind ! The true or false, the good or bad, he knows, Without misgiving, and can set it down Without a reservation. But, with me, The true and false are somewhat false and true ; And when I come to know a thing, it turns Some other side and passes into doubt. Yet is not each new doubt an upward step ? And since no human faculty need hope To bound the last remove of any thought, 'Tis weakness to be fixed and say we know. Thank God, I know not anything, but live In thoughtful ignorance, and give wide marge To opposite beliefs, despising none, Yet taking hone as final. Thus, each day Breaks like a new creation ; every look Takes some new wonder out of things seal'd up ! RECORDS. As known and done with ; and a child-like trust Of boundless possibilities retains The full free joy of childhood in the man. And are we not all children, we that hold The everlasting heritage of life ? We do not lay aside exhausted thoughts : They open into inner cells, and keep A reach beyond the thinker. He that stops At any point, believing it the last, Has not the thought exhausted, but himself. If I have envied thee and thy brave gift Of marshall'd speech, wherewith thou seem'st to storm The very walls of Heaven, and all hearts Take captive with thee, yet I am consoled. The broken sentence of a backward soul, The pray'r begun in words, lost in a sigh, The helpless, begging tear, the upward look, May scale those walls and breach an entrance there, When rounded periods only beat the air. XXIII. I often think our wants have given us more Than our possessions ; for a thing possess'd, Soon ceases to be thought of and possess'd. Deep buried in these streets of filth and din, RECORDS. 113 And jostling crowds, how doubly sweet to me The country village and the mountain-side ! The woods and meadows come into my mind, And live in me, since I may not in them. The morning milk-cart brings with it the farm, And gives it to my longings, and the squire, Who comes in search of life, enriches me With the domain that he has left behind. Their fields and herds, their gardens, woods and lawns, Could sink no trulier into my heart Were I the squire and farmer. They are mine Without their trouble bought with golden love. There is no truer purchase : love a thing, 'Tis thine. The whole world cannot break the bond, Or make it any stronger. We forget That by the mind alone are things possess'd. Our long day-dream we spend in making them, By some imagined outward bond, our own : Misfortune wakens us, or death at last, And all our tenures melt, save that of love. So given are we to realize our wants, That when I've been condemn'd to country life For which my city days so much had pined I straight began the city to re-live. The country served the lungs with sweet new air, Gave bracing to the limbs, bronze to the cheeks Grew admirable cabbages : but life Fell also into vegetable sloth. I felt a need of the great city's crush, 114 RECORDS. Its theatres and churches, halls and marts, Its virtues and its vices yea, its crimes To stir the under-currents that impel The tide of being. If I seldom mix'd In these when with them, but still lived recluse, The conscious might have, seem'd to be enough. I lived them in the faces that I pass'd. The preacher's fervour and the actor's passion Break through stone walls, give spirit to the winds : We breathe them in the air along the streets. We catch the unheard music of the halls In people's steps : and the romance of ships Comes to us in the sailor's swarthy face, As through the streets he swings. In sooth, it needs Not the material presence of a thing To have it and enjoy it. If I lose A much prized book that I have barely read, How eagerly I read it in the loss, And make it doubly mine ! I almost think A wish'd-for book, that we have never read, And only know its theme, is thus made ours. 'Twould seem the craving someway draws the thoughts From Nature's store, or from the author's brain ; And when we get the book, we already know Its best conclusions. There's one sea of mind The very God in whom all souls exist From whom they draw, forever, life and thought. In ways to them unknown. All books, and arts, And sciences, are scoopings from that sea ; And they grow old and stagnate ; but the sea RECORDS. 115 Is new and fresh forever. It supplies The well-springs of all being. We have known Of knowledge got by study, and dear sight Burnt out with midnight books : but genius draws The selfsame knowledge from the springs that break Far down in its own nature. Thus, there needs Be no vain frets that one has not been born In lines more pleasant, and with stronger aids. These could have help'd him only to escape His own ideal. Let him blithely tread His own forbidding path, and he will find The things he dreamt lay in the pleasant lines, And which, thus found, shall make his life unique. ILL He came again, the pastor we had lost Came from the long death-grapple in the West, With battles in his soul, and on his cheek The bronze of roofless camps. For he had been To give his country, not the arm that smites, But that which nerves all arms a dauntless heart, Brave from immortal trust, strong by the right, Wise through the beat of liberty for all. And he had been in hospitals and fields, "*l+\S Il6 RECORDS. Tending the sick in body and in soul, And watching the great movements of the war ; And, haply, throwing in the loaded thought That burst, through other hands, into a deed. But now the tide of Southern victory, That long had set against the North, recoil'd ; And, beaten down into its slimy deeps, Gave murmur of defeat and coming peace. Freedom could freely breathe again, could see The rivets dropping from the bond-man's chains, The starry flag of liberty unshorn Of any of its stars ; forgiving peace Receiving back her brave but wayward sons ; And he whom we had lost could spare himself From patriotic cares to visit us. It was the autumn season when he came The time of sunny skies and winged clouds. Our lovely chapel, which he loved so well, Seem'd smiling amid tears, as light and shade Alternately pass'd through it ; and some eyes, That I could name, spoke welcome through their tears. New from the clanging war, how still to him Our autumn skies and gorse-clad hills, our vales, Dotted with villages and gleaming spires, And, all around, our wealth of golden fields ! On such a picture he had look'd, and such He made the key-note of his thoughts to us. RECORDS. I I 7 O, paradise of beauty, love and joy Bountiful earth, thus in thy autumn peace, The counterpart of Heaven ! How is it men Cannot give up their warrings, and at once Enter upon the golden reign of love ? Enough in thy abundant lap for all, And much, O, earth, to spare ; and, for the soul, A benison of beauty without end ! Could the beatitudes of Heaven be here Enter'd upon, there were no need of earth. These glimpses of pure bliss come to foreshow The future that awaits us earthly strife, The purifying furnace that prepares The ore of nature for the golden reign. Not even the divinest men shall rest, Nor they that dream of poesy and peace, Till fused in fiery troubles manifold. Our Milton journey'd into Italy To realize a paradise : " Come back ! Thy country is in flames, ! " And he came back. There was no paradise on earth for him Unless it were that one in his own soul, Which keeps him still immortal on the earth. Even He that brought the gospel of good will And peace for all men, could Himself find none, Without the blood and scourges of the Cross. So, too, with him whom we had lost and found Found only for a day, again to lose. Our island home, at peace with all the world, Il8 RECORDS. And prosperously at rest within itself, Where peacefully he did his Master's work, Became no place for him, when came the boom Of treacherous battle from his own loved home. What wonder that he struck some notes of war He that had stood upon the mangled fields, Amidst the fallen, while the fierce pursuit Swept on to other fields, and l^ft behind The dying and the dead ? At Gettysburg He walked among the ranks of gory death, Where friends and foes, and armaments of war Lay mass'd in charnel heaps of blood-glued wreck, And groans and hymns, curses and prayers arose ! Yet all around this hell of war, birds sang, And flowers sweeten'd the infected air. The great blue sky, uplifting the black pall Of fiery battle, look'd serenely down. The moon, too, came in peace, and watch'd all night ; And peacefully the glittering camps of heaven * Lit up their tented field and look'd on this. O God ! how is it that the moon and stars, And the serene blue sky, did not weep blood And shudder, when they saw that charnel field ? Was it in mockery they look'd such peace ? Or did their calm foreshadow the great Heaven, Whose proffer of sweet rest and endless life Dwarfs into nothing even the direst means Whereby its earth-born children may come home ? C-ryj^r RECORDS. 119 Then, when the strife is over, and results Are reckon'd up, how great the seeming loss Even to Victory ! yet, in the end, How great may be the gain, e'en to Defeat ! He cannot lose who battles for the right. Nor can the path of nations be too stern, Our individual journey be too bleak, For Duty to attempt. The way may seem In front to mock us with a wall of rock : But on, still on ! and see how soon that wall Will open out, to our enraptured gaze, The pleasant valley, with its peaceful homes ! O faithless memory ! I vainly seek Thus to re-live his thoughts those thoughts that came With more than all earth's riches on our minds, And with such vivid beauty that I felt " Now they are mine for ever !" Are they lost ? Or, like the food we eat, the air we breathe, Transform'd into our being ? Even so ; For then, as ever after he had spoken, What strength we felt ! what nearness unto God ! Duty, how clear ! how steadfast the resolve To do that duty, whatsoe'er betide ! Yet, ask me what he said I cannot tell. If, understandingly, we hear or read, And with a sort of rapture in the heart, Then though, out of that mood, we cannot say That this, or that, is what we heard or read, Still is it none the less enwoven within ; 120 RECORDS. And, as life's web unfolds, it will be seen In golden threads long after. 'Twas the dream Of one bright Sabbath day. But we awoke, And he was gone gone as before he went, Not knowing what a debtor he had made Of one who was too poor to give him thanks ! xxv. You look at what I've done and what I am, And, from the vantage of your own success, Tell what I should have done and might have been ? Or might become, if yet I would do so. Alas ! alas ! vain counsel. You would turn, Into the channel'd vale, the brook that sings Its heaven-appointed song in lonesome glen. Of rare utility the deepen'd stream That bears its wealth of barges, and brings joy To citizens and villagers, well fed : But he that wanders, lonely and half lost, To seek, he knows not what, among the hills, Oft gets a whisper from the untutor'd brook, That makes him richer than the freighted stream. A simple native growth you would transform Into the floral wonder of a day. There's luxury of beauty in that heath, RECORDS. I2f Nurtured within conservatory shades : But, lonely on the mountain, I have caught Diviner tinklings in the purple bells. And if, my friend, I could reach the success That you predict, I know not if I would. 'Twould not be my success, unless I gave The offering to the world I want to give. For each should bring his true, his only self, And give that freely, be it praised or damn'd. The world wants nothing else, and, damn'd or praised, 'Twill be to the world something that it needs. The primrose and the violet, and each New comer, breathes into the sweeten'd air Its own peculiar being ; and each gives Who knows ? a something needed by the air : For has not God in each a special thought ? They do not breathe in vain. Could we, like them, Yield up our inspiration, great or small, Each life would be a blessing to the world. But few there be that do not choke the spring, Or turn aside the stream. Not knowing God Has some new thought for each, we waste our lives In seeking to repeat some faithful one, \Vhose glory lures us, while our own sinks back To the eternal cistern, and we lose Or get some poor reflection of them both. Thanks for thy counsel, friend. There was a time 122 RECORDS. When 'twould have been thrice welcome. But I've learn'd That he, who would unfold God's thought in him And which alone is his success must take His counsel from within. If in thy heart Springs early a desire to do one thing Above all other things ; if that has grown And deepen'd with the years, while each new stroke Towards achievement fill'd thee with a joy, Which thou could'st tell was heavenly do that, Though not a soul, as yet, applaud the deed. 'Tis true, I might give that which would amuse E'en while amusing, teach the passing hour, And gain me plaudits, profit, and a name. Alas ! however much I might incline, Time serves not, stern necessity forbids, And I forego the elaborative work. Give thanks for this : the world's too full of books : It breaks my heart, that life's too short to read , Even a choice selection. Add still more ? I tremble, friend, upon the brink of crime ! Yet do I burn to write. I may not rest In virtuous silence ; but I would be brief. I'd bring some linnet-warblings from the brake Between the fields of mirth and glebes of tears ; I'd bring some daisies from the meads of heaven ; Some pearly shells from the eternal shore ; RECORDS. 1 23 And from the whispering conclaves of the gods, Some high immortal thoughts. These would I give, As simply and as truly as I may. God help my weakness ! I have not the wing To reach the spheres ; and, ever when I rise, Some small imperious duty calls me back ; Nor yet the searching analytic brain To grapple with my subject, and expose Its strength or weakness. If I ever give High utterance, it comes, I know not how. The power, the culture, and the leisure all Are wanting, yet I'd do what needs them all ! What then ? All truth and beauty do not come From labour'd fields ; and if I may not cull A large, rich offering, I may pluck, at least, Some wayside flowers, not proudly to be pass'd ; Or, driven to the moors of thought, may bring Some rarity the favour 5 d ne'er could find ; And thus my speciality fulfil. And yet, where is the need of even that ? I lose all heart to see the floods of thought, Drain'd through the press, and then lost, lost, As in a quicksand ! ' And the shelves of books, Innumerable, glorious, some divine, But most unopen'd, and still more unread ! They kill my hope ! what need, what use of more ? I never can o'ertake the daily race It over-rides me quite O, help me, Heaven ! 124 RECORDS. What ! can it be that books have higher life Than this of printed character ? Can thought Have any real being in these signs ? Or do they but dispose us to receive The inflow of the elsewhere living thought ? If trivial words, as some believe, do pass Into eternal record, how much more That glorious agony, an earnest book ! If all this beauty forest, lake and hill And even the fact of city, loom, or plough, Be but the symbol, and the outer side Of finer beauty and of truer fact, To which death's gate gives entrance, so are books The symbols only of their real selves. They pass into a higher type than print, And wait us in the libraries of heaven. Write on, write on, ye who have aught to give : Ye have a higher audience otherwhere ; And we shall overtake you by-and-by. XXVI. MUSINGS. i. THE GARLAND. No cultivated garden did he own, But found his bent by wayside and in forest : He gather'd flowers where seed was never sown, Unless by Nature's Florist. He lack'd the cultured mind, so richly prized, But in the wastes of soul found endless choosings, And cull'd a garland, not to be despised, .Of transient thoughts and musings. II. RESIGNATION. One writes a book, and wins the admiring age- One gives to it a deeper toned belief One makes the world his own applauded stage One holds its wealth in fief. 1 26 MUSINGS. Each to his lot : unliterary mine ; Unholy, unheroic and unrich ; I can but hope there are some notes divine Within its highest pitch. I strike my fetters, and, above their clank, Methinks I hear some better music ring ; And be it mine the scattered notes to rank, Their harmony to sing. I've long'd for nobler work ; but now I seek No higher plane than this to me assign'd ; And trust to snatch a cadence more unique Than elsewhere I could find. III. THOUGHTS. His thoughts the truest features of the man Above all else deserve to be recorded : Nothing in history more living than A thought when deftly worded. The words are to the thought its earthly frame : They die in time, and then we deem it ended But, like the immortal spirit whence it came, The lost has but ascended. MUSINGS. 127 Thoughts do not die. Some pass to realms of glory At once, as from the flower the odour flows ; While some live seal'd in words from ages hoary The attar of the rose. And so, according to the strong completeness Of that expression, their earth-life prolongs : And some have grown, thro' its surpassing sweetness, Almost time-during songs. IV. FIRST BE, THEN TEACH. If, Poet, thou would'st live beyond the age, First be the thing thy teachings would create Make thine own life oracular, thy page Will then be lord of Fate. A few unletter'd sentences Christ gave Out of His purity. The years may bear Their unregretted learning to the grave His words we cannot spare. MUSINGS. V. LOWLY WORK. Buying and selling, casting up accounts- Each day the same, the same so runs my story. And all that I may live ! To this amounts The sum of all my glory. 1 scorn my petty hopes, my vulgar fears, And cry for something worthier to grapple. Yet Newton traced the law that rules the spheres Not scorn'd the falling apple. So, in our little dealings, humble trades, Our small besetting cares, our simplest duty, We trace the all of Right, the golden threads Of everlasting Beauty. The rude work finish'd, reckon'd nothing worth, And closed the bargain of the lowliest vendor Lowly and rude put off their garbs of earth, And on their robes of splendour. MUSINGS. 129 VI. I CANNOT. I cannot well be one of you : the leisure You nobly use in lifting up the lowly, Is all denied to me, and Time, my treasure, Impress'd to ends unholy. Hut though I daily mingle in life's struggle, I am not wholly torn from rest or leaning, And you shall hear the windings of a bugle, Not wholly without meaning. And from the spoils of trade, the shams of office, Power's rank corruptions, fashion's vain abuses, It may be I will pluck for you some trophies To put to higher uses. Not gems or gold though well the world might spare them Nor plumes, nor aught that marks the lofty bearing ; But trophies I will bring, and you will wear them When those are out of wearing. 130 MUSINGS. VII. DUTY. / I reach a duty, yet I do it not, And therefore see no higher : but if done, My view is brighten d, and another spot Seen on my moral sun. For, be the duty high as angel's flight, Fulfil it, and a higher will arise, E'en from its ashes. Duty is infinite Receding as the skies. And thus it is, the purest most deplore Their want of purity. As fold by fold, In duties done, falls from their eyes, the more Of Duty they behold. Were it not wisdom, then, to close our eyes On duties crowding only to appal ? No : Duty is our ladder to the skies, And, climbing not, we fall. MUSINGS. 131 VIII. THE BOOK. I cannot hold the book as one inspired Peculiarly, or more divinely sent Than other books, which seem as deeply fired With brands from Heaven lent. Yet, when I think how many shrouded ages Of burden'd souls have read, with brightening eye, The promises and marvels of its pages, And laid their burdens by ; ( )r call up scenes through which that book was guide The Pilgrims that fore-lived the Stripes and Stars; The Scottish Covenant, and bleak hill-side ; Or Cromwell and his wars ; Yes, when I think of these, though reason fails To see the inspiration you assign, The deeper logic of the heart prevails, And owns the book divine. 132 MUSINGS. IX. IN A ROM AN -CATHOLIC CHAPEL. The robed priest, the necromantic table, The kneeling crowd, rapt bosoms, eyes ecstatic ; The rattled beads, the prayers a mutter'd Babel And pageantry dramatic ! What keen religious eyes do they inherit, That thro' these blinding forms can see the Father. Whilst I must vainly strain my troubled spirit One trace of Him to gather ! But, as I sat in trouble, gazed in wonder, The heavy air by sudden strains was riven The organ roll'd a peal of sweetest thunder And God spoke out of Heaven. For, smother as we may with forms erroneous, And textual complications of a trinity, The unconscious instrument, with lips harmonious, Interprets the Divinity. MUSINGS. 133 X. THE ONLY STRENGTH. These arms of strength that work, propel, and draw These limbs that bear us on in stalwart pride, Were each. as feeble as a bruised straw, But for the soul inside. The tempest-wrestling trees were doubled up, And stone and iron, dust upon the wind All strength were weakness even the winds would drop, But for an inward mind. Earth could give no resistance to our tread Would yield like smoke beneath us, star with star, That walk in peaceful beauty overhead, Fall blindly into war. Mind is the only strength the mind we've deem'd Product of matter matter's origin ; And earth and men are not what they have seem'd God earth, and spirits men. 134 MUSINGS. XI. GOD EVER NEAR. What sunshine falls around the darkest lot How soon its haunting spectres disappear When through its trouble breaks the living thought That God is ever near ! Near, in the lowly grass, the lordly trees, The summer flowers, and their delicious breath ; Near, in our hallowed temples, and the breeze That sweeps the lonely heath. Near, in the closet, in the peopled streets, Out on the marvellous deep, in glittering show'rs Near, in the human heart, that beats and beats Without decree of ours. For we are wandering through enchanted land : The tiniest eye-bud peeping from the sod, Touch'd with the living thought the spirit-wand It opens into God. And wherefore should this meeting free the slave, Enrich misfortune, lift the mourner's pall ? God is the secret good of all we crave ; And having God, gives all. MUSINGS. n XII. YORK MINSTER. York minster! what a monument is this, Out of one meek and simple life uprist ! Within these walls, what sceptic but needs kiss Thy garment's hem, O Christ ! For not on fable, but immortal fact, Could anything so real be up-rear'd Thy every thought enshrined, thy every act Re-acted and endear'd. It were enough to glorify thy name, This one great monument, this single one : But only think how many such proclaim God's best-beloved Son ! The domed cities, and the steepled towns, The village spires that gleam at morn and even. The belfry on the bleak unpeopled downs, Lone hearts, to worship given. Lord Christ ! methinks they challenge and reprove The warrior's pillar and the sage's shrine, And bid thy weaker brothers look above To something more divine. 136 MUSINGS. XIII. FACES AND PLACES. My journeyings lead me on through many places, But none of them the home I could desire ; And in the streets I meet a thousand faces Without one to admire. But make our home in any place each day Does everything within its bounds or near it, Assume a homely beauty, as if they Put out their inner spirit. Approach the most forbidding face so near That we can see the truer face behind, And in some brightening feature will appear The beauty of a friend. The secret of all love for friends and homes Is beauty. It lies deeper than the skin ; And if not ours outside to-day, it comes To-morrow from within. MUSINGS. 137 XIV. BOOKS. 1 cannot think the glorious world of mind, Embalm'd in books, which I can only see In patches, though I read my moments blind, Is to be lost to me. I have a thought that, as we live elsewhere, So will those dear creations of the brain ; That what I lose unread, I'll find, and there Take up my joy again. O then the bliss of blisses, to be freed From all the wants by which the world is driven ; With liberty and endless time to read The libraries of Heaven ! XV. HOME-CONTENT. Content, a thousand-fold, to bide at home, And hold the kingdom of a rounded mind, Which breaks into a chaos when I roam, And wastes on every wind. 138 MUSINGS. The ready wit, the polish gain'd by travel, The widen' d views and large experience got, Are little compensation for the ravel And waste loose ends of thought. The affluence of thought flows inwardly ; Travel goes outward fights against the stream O rest in quiet thought, and life will be As rich as any dream. XVI. HOME-BEAUTY. The upland farm, the cot upon the heath, The fisher's hut, where sandy salt winds come The bleakest home is warm with beauty's breath, To him that calls it home. To him, no beauty like those lowing sheds, Or gusty ash that creaks before the door, Or glittering shells that gem the sandy beds, Or foam -that tufts the shore. In man and Nature kindred spirits move, And beauty is the union of the two : The things we deem most lovely, and most love, Are those she meets us through. MUSINGS. 139 Long living in our homely places brings Repeated union through them : they are loved : And thus it often is that simplest things Have most our passion moved. XVII. A HARD BOOK. The creeds and histories of all the ages Are handled in this book, and turn'd, and toss'd. I grope my way throughout its labour'd pages, Blindfolded and half lost. O, is it lack of brain, or want of learning, That keeps me boring mole-like in my night Through erudition not one ray discerning Of the redeeming light ? I close the book with which I've vainly striven, And humbly on my ignorance I fall, When, looking up, the starry gaze of heaven Explains, explodes it all ! MUSINGS. XVIII. SUMMER-RESURRECTION. When Nature crouches from the biting air, And even thought is paralyzed by winter, I feel my spirit is not anywhere, And Heaven too far to enter. But summer comes with flocks of woolly clouds, And rainbows, sunny showers, and winged shadows. And mazy hedgerows, and green-mantled woods. And honey-scented meadows ; The mingled breath of flowers, the choral strain That thrills the air and shames our petty sadness ; The sweet abundance, the receptive brain, The almost Heavenly gladness : A resurrection in the earth and sky, And winter's ills forgotten and forgiven, Ah, then, I feel we only need to die To be at once in Heaven ! MUSINGS. 1 4* XIX. THE YEAR'S FIRST SWALLOW. The year's first swallow ! See, his sparkling wings Shake off the tears of April's latest day ; And from the wing-cleft air he madly flings Fore-gleams of dewy May. May, with her daisied meads and wimpling brooks, Her warm green lanes and choirs of piping throats, Her woodlands with their sylvan' sunny nooks, And bees with honey'd notes. May on the rivers, silvering the vales, And on the mountains in their gauzy vests ; May on the ocean with its sleepy sails, And May within our breasts. Season by season through all being lives And we are kindred with the circling whole : 'Tis God in all, and not a breeze but gives Its soul unto our soul. MUSINGS. XX. THE BREATH OF WHIN. I smelt the whins in passing up the lane, And .years of childhood, crowded into minutes, Swept through my bosom in a sweet sad train Of butterflies and linnets. I saw the fairies in the haunted dell, The woodlands with their shadows bright and mazy I heard, on sunny banks, the sweet blue bell Tinkling unto the daisy. A thousand images arose within Forgotten images, in childhood noted ; And all awaken'd by a breath of whin That in the loaning floated. Forgetting is no losing ; and if death Be higher life, the life that lay before it May easily be restored, if thus a breath Can faithfully restore it. MUSINGS. 143 XXI. SYMBOLS. The breathing flowers, the forest-buds unfurl'd, Are not the expanded seedlings that we. ween, But sweet transfigurations from the world That lies within the seen. For this the type in which God prints His thought This glorious theatre of shifting things : And whosoever has its meaning caught, For him all Nature sings. Would'st thou hear Nature's voice ? Be one with her, In simple purity, perennial youth ; Her child in wonder, and her worshipper In spirit and in truth. Then will the daisy, from its modest eye, Let out its secrets, and the starry scroll, River and ocean all of earth or sky Interpret to thy soul. 144 MUSINGS. XXII. UNPAID WORK. He hit the world's taste, and for what he gave It more than paid him fame andfortune squander d. He overdid its taste became its slave ; It bought him, and he pander'd. 'Tis well to be repaid for what you give : To work unpaid, for love of work, is better Bestowing all for nothing while you live And leave the world your debtor. XXIII. WEALTH OF THOUGHT. Your thoughts so affluent that you vainly sigh For corresponding words to give expression' ! Be thankful, friend. I would to Heaven that I Could make the same confession. My sad complaint is poverty of thought. Ah, do not deem my silence hidden talent. Inspire me with your wealth, and I will not Be any longer silent. MUSINGS. 145 No : it will out itself in spite of me : Thought and expression are the nearest neighbours ; And if not sung in chosen words, 'twill be Told by my life and labours. Give me the thought, and I will trust the lyre ; F'or, be it glibly sung or harshly stammer d, A living thought leaps out in words of fire, Like red-hot iron hammer'd. XXIV. CONCEIT. I pray thee do not cease to wring my heart, But still unfold my every imperfection. God knows, each bosom has its weaker part, Its half insane affliction. Yea, all save thine ! Thou, by a grand conceit, Art on a faultless pinnacle of bleakness. But rather would I in the lowly street Be still akin to weakness. Endeavour, recognizing its defeats, Girds it afresh, and presses up and onward : Endeavour with supposed perfection meets, And soon its course is downward. 10 146 MUSINGS. So, never cease to tell how much I err, . How much fall short of thy extoll'd achievement : Admonishment be my encourager, And failure no bereavement. XXV. MEN'S POSITIONS. 'Tis said that by his strongest faculty The man is in his true position fitted : Some domination chooses more than he Some native strength transmitted. Alas ! I do not quarrel with my sphere : I would fulfil it with becoming meekness : But 'twas not native strength that brought me here, So much as native weakness. XXVI. MODERN PROGRESS. Discovery, and Science, and Invention The gods of modern progress wonders three ! Who dare say, " This surpasses your pretension ? " Or, " Here your end shall be?" MUSINGS. 147 Each day puts on some newer mode or fashion, And old things suffer change, or take their leave Yen, everything but sentiment and passion : They are as old as Eve. Erom zone to zone the lightning bears our message But Right and Wrong no better understood : ( )'er sea and land we speed with eagle passage No readier to do good. Ah, what avails the progress ? what reliance On constant change ? It is no onward move, If we advance not in His deeper science That binds the world in love ! XXVII. THE PRESAGE. O, flashing wire, fierce rail, and .ploughing steamer ! Of all this haste, where is the use, the need ? The sage as wise, the poet as fine a dreamer Would be, without your speed. Earth's princely merchants, and her humbler traders, Wanting your aid had surely been more blest ; For what have they become but bold invaders Each other's spoil and pest ! 148 MUSINGS. The mental appetite, for which you cater So busily, has turn'd from solid victuals, To live on almost hourly news.. We fritter Our time away in littles. But what comes out of it ? The flashing message O'er land and sea ; this rapid flight of steam They are the growing upward, and the presage Of our immortal dream. This passion, deeply rooted in the spirit, For sudden knowledge, instantaneous speed, Foreshadows what we fully shall inherit When from the bodv freed. XXVIII. PRESENCES. To what dark chambers of the heart or brain Do all our welling thoughts at times retreat ? One presence seals my fountains, and in vain The rock of thought I beat. Some other comes, and then, though he be dumb, My seals are broken and my fountains leap : And mind, that felt so shallow, has become A yet unfathom'd deep. MUSINGS. 149 I may not read the old astrologies, Nor tell how moon-touch 1 d seas should ebb and flow, < )r mind should be more tidal than the seas, But that it is, I know. XXIX. SEED-THOUGHTS. A seed-thought falls into the mind, and we Would make the thing available in song. Not yet : 'twill not be forced : but let it be Its time will come ere long. And never fear but that the nursing soil, Without our conscious aid will keep it warm, Until creative art, with little toil, May breathe it into form. For in the mind are many unknown powers, Which re-create the seed that seems to rot, And many rays of soul, and spirit-showers, From heaven, that feed our thought. 15 MUSINGS. XXX. THE THOUGHT-SPHERE. I know that nothing beautiful or true Is of ourselves created, and believe That from the earth, or yon mysterious blue, We get all that we give. Nor does the printed page on which I look Contain the very thought. It pass'd at birth Into some spirit-character, the book Only its sign on earth. Yet, if it do not give what doth appear, There is this marvel in the printed word : It puts us in communion with the sphere Wherein all thought is stored. XXXI. SLEEP AND DEATH. Brain-toss'd for sleep, the more that I entreat, The balmy miracle forsakes my bed. If sleep, so like to death, be thus so sweet, How blessed to be dead ! MUSINGS. 151 This wakefulness is madness ; and to sleep Were passing into sanity. What though I never woke again ? From rest so deep I should not seek to go. For death is but a deeper sleep. We seem From all this conscious being to be riven, Yet have escaped into the glorious dream Of everlasting Heaven. And think not that a dream is absent fact, Its life less true than waking. Is there one Who has not risen from a dreamed act Sorry or glad 'twas done ? Be it of grief or joy, it is as much A verity as this our waking strife ; And, howsoever named, my thought is, such Will be eternal life. What ! With the incongruities of dreams ? Even so. This life which we so real deem To him who is not fully in it, seems As mad as any dream ! 1 5-2 MUSINGS. XXXII. BEAUTY. There is not anything the soul more craves Than Beauty. It exalts the merest line That through our every-day experience waves Seeks blindly the Divine. For what, in very truth, is this we crave, Which neither loads the board nor fills the purse, Yet, wanting which, the earth were but a grave, And life itself a curse ? The visual presence of the living God, That permeates creation, comes and goes In substance and in shadow, greens the sod, And paints and scents the rose : And flows through man into his works of art The picture's glow, the statue's breathing gleam ; For not a touch of Beauty stirs the heart But comes of the Supreme ! MUSINGS. 1 53 XXXIII. ART. Art is medicinal. If I am long Without the exercise of poesie, My spirit ails, my body's somewhat wrong, My heart beats " Woe is me ! " And if the rhythmic measure is my choice, Tis also my necessity. I weave The threaded thought : it makes no laurell'd noise ; But all my ailments leave. And so, I doubt not, his creation makes A healthier current in the Painter's veins : Or that his marble inspiration takes Away the Sculptor's pains. And music, that usurps a sweet control In any heart through which its marvel floats, Is physic to the body and the soul Of him that builds the notes. The spirit craves to do its noblest thing. It is a poison in the blood, supprest. And thus the Arts are medicines that bring Healing, and joy, and rest. 154 MUSINGS. XXXIV. EVER YOUNG. The earth is young for ever : day by day It drinks new life from God's perpetual youth : And why need we grow old, if thus we may Drink daily God's new truth ? To sink in age and yet immortal be, Are thoughts of contradiction. If we lay Our destinies beyond the grave, then we Grow younger every day. For man is not this frame that wastes to earth, But soul that lives on Beauty, Truth, and Right- Each pulse of which gives new access of birth, Unknown to death or blight. To catch the new revealings in their flow, Of countless nature, from the hidden spheres, Now and for evermore, this is to grow Young in despite of years. MUSINGS. 155 XXXV. ALL SEASONS BLESSED. The village lies in mist ; the rounding hills Are nowhere seen ; the rime lies white along The fields ; and on the gable robin trills His lone late autumn song. The trees droop in the fog, their dank leaves fall Sheer down, like dreaming stones that make no sound ; The unseen mill and far-off trains seem all Beat, beating under ground. The life of summer has gone out ; but, lo ! Each season takes the heart : to-day we miss The balmy sunshine, lightly let it go, And turn to fireside bliss. XXXVI. THE BEGGAR. She shiver'd in the snow, and, limping, drew About her a scant robe of one thin fold : Her head and feet were bare ; the sharp wind blew She sobb'd for very cold. 156 MUSINGS. No house, no hap, no hope to bid her live ; Her very soul shrank from the biting air, Yet I, well clad, could pass her, and not give The cloak I well could spare. O, poor in heart ! which beggar the more cold- I, doubly clad, or she in rags so thin ? Her poverty a garment's scanty fold My poverty within ! XXXVII. PHILANTHROPY. Alas ! this poor philanthropy that springs From Intellect that talks, not Heart that gives, Avails me little to its object brings Pity, but not relieves. It pinches thought ; it cramps the poet's line ; Gives upward flight a weakness in the wing ; And that which almost reaches the divine, Falls back, a mortal thing. But he, if such there be in modern days, With whom to see a duty is to do, Grows by his acts, and all he does or says Takes an immortal hue. MUSINGS. 157 XXXVIII. THE BLUE-EYED CALF. A blue-eyed calf as feeble as a shadow Comes through our streets at noon. To living breath It came this morn, but knows nor milk nor meadow Driven from birth to death ! What money-value in a thing so tender? Yet men of slaughter quarrel for the prize. How innocent of purchaser or vendor, Those unpolluted eyes ! It looks untroubled through the troubled city ; It looks as if its life might never end ; It looks into my soul more thoughtful pity Than soul may comprehend. I have no striking moral for my picture, But only fix the outlines ere they melt. Content to leave it open to thy stricture If thou feel what I felt. 158 MUSINGS. XXXIX. THE RIVER IN STORM. When winds rise in the night and moan and shriek. And windows rattle, walls and chimneys shiver, Ah, then it is my heart's wild joy to seek Next morn the bellowing river ! And grand the roaring scene, the murk eclipse Winds, waves, and clouds, in one wild mingled swelter The sea-dash'd piers, the tempest-beaten ships That seek our haven for shelter ; The seamen's shouts, half stifled in the blast, The anchors plunging and the cables rattling, The flapping sails around the broken mast, Men with the tempest battling : A fine upheaving of all energy- - A quickening soul through man and Nature driven.! O River, with thy beaten piers, from thee I come refresh'd and shriven ! MUSINGS. 159 XL. THE RIVER IN CALM. A charm is thine, O River ! rage or rest ; And if thy storms enrapture us, thy calms Do none the less into the mortal breast Pour their immortal balms. Thou dreamy River, with thy freighted barks, Resting upon their shadows, and, far through Thy sunny deeps, the clouds, like sacred arks, Floating in gulfs of blue ! The boatmen's voices, and their measured stroke, Heard, but themselves unseen, far up the stream ; The ferry-steamers and their trailing smoke, Moving in placid dream ! O River, calm and beautiful ! O Peace, That lies in folds about the flinty piers ! Great calm, that gives our fretted brains release- Thought, melted into tears ! 160 MUSINGS. XLI. SEEMING EVILS. The only earthly ills we need to fear Are those that we ourselves could have prevented. All others only seem to afflict us here, And need not be lamented. 'Twas somewhat thus the ancient Stoic meant : That were those seeming evils evils truly, The gods had given us power to prevent, Or meet their coming duly. For they are from above, come by a law That shapes our lives, despite our fancied merit : The gods are good, and ever seek to draw Us nearer them in spirit. They love and chasten. To the eyes of Time Their good seems bad, their law a contradiction. They build hard steps to heaven and bid us climb : They win us by affliction. MUSINGS. l6l XLII. CONSCIOUS-WRONG. Yes, others do it : wherefore may not I ? They prosper, they enjoy, and never rue it. Well, if they do not feel the acted lie, Tis little sin to do it. But I both see and feel it deeply wrong, And thus the crime of doing it were deeper ; Nor I go scathless as the prosperous throng That own no inward keeper. 'Tis not that in return the smitten smite, Nor that outflowing injury is tidal ; But evermore for him who sees the right, The wrong is suicidal. XLIII. THE RAIN FALLS EQUALLY. The rain falls on the unjust and the just, And worldly fortune comes alike to both. What heart is here for Justice ? Let it trust All to the inward growth. 1 62 MUSINGS. Justice rewards itself; and if its deeds Seem only to bring poverty and grief, These also are the rain of Heaven, that feeds The plant to higher leaf. If plants, themselves corrupt, get plenteous rain, 'Tis not to bless them, but to make them worse And who has seen Injustice truly gain ? Its seeming gain a curse. 'Tis not in nature that the prize of wrong Can bless the gainer. They that foully win, Destroy the good of winning, yet prolong The multiplying sin. For spirit has its chemistry. The gain That comes of wrong transmutes itself to loss ; And, dreaming it has struck a golden vein, Wakens to find it dross. So, if the rain does fall alike on all, It does not work in all a like result. We cannot judge the blessing from the fall, Its action so occult. MUSINGS. 163 XLIV. THE GORSY GLEN. J Between Loch-Foyle and Greenan's ancient fort, P'rom Derry's famous walls a little way, There dreams a gorsy glen, in whose lone heart I mused a Sabbath day. A nameless glen, one mass of yellow gorse, That hides the sparkle of a trotting burn. Save where in dimpling pools it stays its force, Or takes a rocky turn. The sandy linnet sang, the tiny wren Pour'd in the burn its tiny melodies. The air was honey-laden, and the glen All murmurous with bees. A straggling crow, upon its woodward way, Might start an echo with its rusty croak ; But all around the quiet Sabbath lay, Hush'd from the week-day yoke. Near, yet all hidden from, the ways of men, No foot into my sanctuary stole ; I wander'd with my shadow in the glen The only living soul. 1 64 MUSINGS. Yet, many more were in the glen, 'twould seem : I heard, or thought I heard, their whisper'd words. And knew 'twas not the bees, the babbling stream, Or carol of the birds. And sometimes through the sunniest gleams of day There pass'd a light intenser than the gleam A living soul without its grosser clay ? Or but my waking -dream ? Wno knows ? who knows ? The dream to-day is found A verity to-morrow. Things have been Forever with us in our daily round, Though now but newly seen. Ah ! could we by a purer life refine The veil that keeps the inward from our ken, No lonely fellowship had then been mine Within the gorsy glen. XLV. I KNOW THE FACE. 1 know the face of him who with the sphere Of unseen presences communion keeps. His eyes retain its wonders in their clear Unfathomable deeps. MUSINGS. lf>5 His every feature, rugged or refined, Shines from the inner light ; and, large or small 1 1 is earthly state, he from the world behind Brings wealth that beggars all. He brings the thought that gives to earthly things Eternal meaning ; brings the living faith That, even now, puts on the immortal wings, And clears the shadow, Death. This in his face I see ; and, when we meet, My earthliness is shamed by him ; but yet Takes hope to think that, in the unholy street, Such men are to be met. XLVI. FLOWERS. She brought rich flowers to our cottage home Rare blossoms, grown upon no common stem. Our little ones into the parlour come Stealing, to gaze at them. They last all through the sweeten'd week, and raise The benediction of their breathing psalm. From them, and from the living flowers that gaze, We drink renewing balm. 1 66 MUSINGS. Children and flowers lie very near to God, And Heaven with them is but a short remove. They yield us glimpses of the blest abode, And win us with its love. If thou would'st charm me with the wine of thought, And give sweet inspiration to my hours, And wake the melodies in Heaven taught O bring the chaliced flowers ! XLVII. OUR CHAPEL. /$ Not in all England's temple-built domain Can I behold such beauty as I may Within the blue-ceil'd, marble-pillar'd fane, That draws my Sabbath day. I almost get all that my soul can need Of worship, merely there to sit and look ; For Beauty is my idol, half my creed God's universal book. So, in its beauty has our chapel grown From Thee, O God ! a very poem inspired And, drinking in its every line and tone, My heart is never tired. MUSINGS. . 167 \ Up in the azure heaven of its roof I lose my thoughts, as in God's outer skies : The checker'd panes shed down the golden woof, Like beams from angel-eyes. The sun throws in the window's pictured scenes, And Jesus moves in light from seat to seat ; The Marys come, and Christ's own Galileans Pass by with silent feet. But when the organ stirs the enraptured air, And touches chords our wisdom may not reach, Ah, then we have the sermon and the pray'r, Though none were there to preach ! I love our chapel for its beauty's sake, And for a promise on its altar laid A promise that I did not need to make, And have not wish'd unmade. I love it for that mighty soul who shone And shines the brightest of our gospel's lamps ; And that great heart who pass'd from us, half known, To watch the embattled camps. 3fc I love it for the coming hope, though dim. The old renown still hangs about these walls; And, 'tis my faith, whoever comes, on him Elijah's mantle falls. flffi fa- f-^ * l68 . MUSINGS. XLVIII. MUSIC. By what fine miracle do linked notes Become this power of exquisite control, That into waters of elysium floats The ready-yielding soul ? It will not tell its secret, bids us take The fact that it is so, and be content. Like poetry, 'tis not of mortal make ; For both are Heaven-sent. The notes we deem the music, only are Themselves the finer instrument ; they sheathe Inexplicable auras from afar, That through the spirit breathe. And, as in poesie, who would translate Immortal harmonies, must give his love As a religion to his art, and wait The coming from above. MUSINGS. I (*) XLIX. % TEARS. Whence are these tears that come with sudden start, In spite of nerve that struggles to restrain ? From overflowing cisterns of the heart ? Or wells within the brain ? That heart-beats have to do with them I know Quick beats of joy, slow beats of weary dole : And, whether out of heart or brain they flow, Close kin are they with soul. Fine mists of thought condensed to dewy speech Pearls of emotion from their shells set free Wavelets that come with treasure to the beach Of life's mysterious sea : Naked affections from their Eden driven, To seek another through this world's unrest Embodied spirits from the little heaven Each keeps in his own breast : Akin to all that we most sacred hold . Twin-born with thought, affection, joy, and care Twin-born, but how, we never may unfold, Nor Heaven itself declare. 1 70 MUSINGS. They are not what they seem. If we despise The weak creations of our childish years, A higher wisdom comes to recognise The sacredness of tears. L. JENNY LIND. When first I heard that world-enrapturing voice, I marvell'd what could be the secret art That dwarf'd all others to a sweet, tame noise, That fail'd to reach the heart. But when I saw the moisture in her eye, And the emotion trembling through her frame, My question had not long to wait reply The inward secret came. She sang with all her being lived her song And not for us alone the strain was given : It seem'd to pass beyond us and along The corridors of heaven. So is it with all excellence : it seeks Its own complete ideal great or small ; And, speaking only for itself, it speaks The heaven-wing'd thought for all. MININGS. 'T\vas not the organic utterance of lips, The artful government of throat and lung : The immortal put the mortal in eclipse ; It was the soul that sung. LI. NATURE'S HARMONIES. Behold, how perfect the majestic strains Sung by the epic thunder ! and how sweet, Even to critic ears, those deft refrains The lyric streams repeat ! So, too, with the dramatic seas and winds, That flout and woo. Whatever be their part, Chords of approving harmony it finds Within the human heart. The rustling trees, the pattering rain, the quires That pour their melodies from cloud and grove,- All Nature's poetry what heart desires Its measures to improve ? And even the mechanic arts add voice To Nature's minstrelsy : the rushing train And beating mill-wheel, drive not jarring noise, But music, through the brain. 1 72 MUSINGS. Were Nature's simple resignation ours, To let the higher will our wills appease, Then ours were also those mysterious powers That work such harmonies. Then might I catch the method that would make My lines as welcome as the songs of birds. And, in the reader's faculty, awake Thoughts that transcend my words. LII. THE LIGHT WITHIN THE DARK. We think of heavenly bliss, and cast our eyes Amid yon white curl'd clouds and sun-bright air And, lost within the softness of the skies, Cry, Surely Heaven is there ! And yet you tell us that yon ambient light Is but delusion, that, beyond our bound Of atmosphere, all is perpetual night, Silence and dark profound. Where shall immortal spirits find their home Of light and beauty, if yon azure arc Be an illusion, and beyond that dome, Unfathomable dark ? MUSINGS. 1 73 I close my lids in slumber, and thus make My world a dungeon, shorn of the blessed beams : But soon I cross the bar of sleep, and wake Into the light of dreams. And so there is within the night of space An inward day, unseen by mortal eye. That day to reach, its mysteries to trace, We only need to die. LIII. GONE. Gone in the bloom of youth, the flower of life, Ere yet his morning hours had wholly shone : ( )one from a world of promises how rife ! With all our bright hopes, gone ! His plans of life all form'd and firmly set, A plenteous future wooing him to stay, A sphere in which glad heart and duty met And yet, he must away ! Where were thy charms, O Clyde 1 to let him go? Those charms he loved so much ! thy classic shores ; Thy lochs that take the ocean's ebb and flow, And knew his skilful oars : I 74 MUSINGS. Thy misty mountains and mysterious Kyles ; Thy grand sea firth, that in blue beauty floats Around the weird traditionary isles ; Thy pleasure-freighted boats. All could not stay him ! nor the clinging hearts That lived for him, or for his sake would die ; Nor sleepless watching, nor physician's arts Restore life's breaking tie. Thou hast no reason in thy choice, blind Death ! Or reason larger than our thought may gauge Thus cutting short the young and useful breath, Leaving decrepit age ! No reason, Death ! Who knows what prompts thy choice To take the lives that here we least can spare ? What greater need, than in this world of noise, May claim them otherwhere ? Methinks thy very waywardness betrays The life beyond. If earth, indeed, were all, There were more equal measure in our days, Less marvel in our fall. And when upon the fever'd couch he lay, Surely the truth of truths broke on his mind ; Else, why so calmly take the lonesome way, Nor cast a look behind ? MUSINGS. 175 From all the world could give, he turn'd his face ; And pass'd from us not lost, but only gone : And this his legacy The world's no place To rest your hopes upon. LIV. SABBATH. Like sunrise through my heart the Sabbath breaks, Welcome as if a week of night were done : Even the day before feels like the streaks That rise before the sun. Not mine the Sabbatarian fears that quake At week-day levity or week-day load ; Yet would I to my soul the Sabbath take, And give it all to God. In ways perhaps some creeds would count as sin Breaking the day they think they keep so whole With little outside ritual, but, within, The Sabbath of the soul. I would begin it while the morning star Hangs in the green-blue dawn ; when larks take wing, And throstle-haunted gardens, near and far, With warbling matins ring. I ?6 MUSINGS. Live half a day before the day begins, And forth to watch earth out of darkness creep ; Returning, find the city with its sins In folds of burnish'd sleep. Or give my fresh hours to some master-page ; The dramatist of every class and clime ; Or that new-ancient, Massachusetts' sage, Whose thoughts are for all time. All earth should be God's temple ; but we build Our little fanes, because they seem to draw Heaven's beams the more into us, and thus yield A closer sense of awe. And so, yon chapel, with its noon-tide rays, Its music, full free speech, and solemn prayers, Should have my ripe hours of this day of days, All free from worldly cares. And then the home-joys of the slanting day, The fireside gossip, or the garden walk, The lounge at sunny doors, and children's play, Mingled with graver talk. Or, if day lengthen'd with a lingering wane, Perhaps 'twould draw me to the whispering wood, The time-recording shore, the moss-green lane, Or moorland solitude. MUSINGS. 177 And, far off, I would let the night close in, Then home through fire-lit hamlets, roads pitch dark, Catching at times the city's muffled din, At times the watch-dog's bark. Passing the wayside cottage, I should hear The solitary cricket by the fire, Or night-enchanted ducks make merry cheer, Low dabbling in the mire. The drear mysterious voices of the night Would come into my spirit, there to be Abiding dreams, and by some after-light Waked into poesic. For Nature, the musician, cannot err, But, through some unpremeditated art, Her vagrant notes are harmonies that stir Unknown chords in the heart. So, with a perfect touch, she blends the hues Which we in pictures would discordant call : An alchymy runs through her greens and blues, And harmonizeth all. Her sense of form rejects our petty rules, Despises our proportions, yet retains That majesty and beauty which our schools, To reach have rack'd their brains. 12 I y8 MUSINGS. If thus she greatly teaches eye and ear, What fine philosophies may she not hint ! And intuitions from her inner sphere Upon the soul imprint ! Therefore, while in this week-day world I live, Whatever some theologies may say, Unto the church of Nature I would give Much of my Sabbath day. Nor, from the earliest glimmer in the east, All up the hours, would I a moment lose, But fill each full, and draw my Sabbath feast Out to a thankful close. LV. JUDGMENTS. How incomplete our judgments of our friends ! None is himself when seen. The judge still gives Some shadow of his own, and often lends The impression he receives. Each has his own true element, wherein He is himself, and finds his dearest gain ; Wherein no eye may see him, and, if seen, Were surely judged insane. MUSINGS. 1 79 For only tame restraint is deem'd good sense. Your own idea be it good or bad Rides you rough-shod without the rein, and thence The verdict you are mad. I nowhere feel so much myself, as when Upon some breezy mountain-side alone. If you would judge me, you must know me then. Or hold me yet unknown. And so with you, I will not say that this, Or that, is your true character, nor call Your truer moods to witness, lest I miss The truest mood of all. LVI. BEAUTY AND RECTITUDE. 'T would seem there's some affinity between Beauty and rectitude. We cannot sway From truth and virtue but it draws a screen Over the face of day : The blue sky blurr'd, and earth's refreshing green, With hill and dale and cattle-haunted fords, All dead and hollow as the ochred scene Round the dramatic boards. ISO MUSINGS. The flowers shut up their wonder from our eyes. Their beauty that enchanted us ; and books Refuse to give the deeper sense that lies Reveal'd to virtuous looks. A soul of artless purity discerns Poetic wreathings in prosaic facts, * And finds that universal Nature turns To beauty all her acts. To perfect purity if such could be This earth were all transparent, the dull clod- In which we neither life nor beauty see- Breathing the living God. Beauty of nature through the varied year, Beauty of truth, of right, of form, of soul- All beauty is of God one atmosphere That permeates the whole. Let beauty cease to be our daily food, We lose the finer sense of truth and right : Forsake the holy paths of rectitude, And beauty suffers blight. MUSINGS. 1 8 1 LVII. TRUE MARRIAGE. 'Tis not true friendship ours, if there be yet Secrets between us, but a friendly cheat : Though, in our frequent greetings, hands be met, In soul we do not meet. How much less is it marriage, if one wear A shadow which the other may not lift ! True marriage gives in joy the mutual share, In grief the mutual shrift. True marriage is two persons but one life ; Two brains one mind the hour-glass and the sand, No grain of reservation husband, wife One interest, hand in hand. LVII I. THE SPIDERS. Brush not away the spiders ! Wherefore carp Because they drape the corners of our rooms ? O spare the little weavers and their warp, And their mysterious looms ! . MUSINGS. We search the zones for curious shells and birds, We bring aquarium fishes to our homes : Our little weaver as fine thought affords And of itself it comes. Who knows what hints in morals and in arts Our boasted race have pilfer 'd from its threads ? What strength it may have given to stronger hearts ? Wisdom to wiser heads ? It wove resolves amidst a monarch's cares : He conquer'd for his land an honoured truce ; And in the book of fame the spider shares The glory of the Bruce. The pretty lawn spread out before its door ; The little hall o'erlooking the domain ; Its very own, drawn from its silken store, PlamVd by its cunning brain ! Not one instinctive and unvaried form, But reason'd to the circumstance and place ; With here a stay against the mimic storm, And there a strengthening brace. What patience, ingenuity, and hope ! Patience to watch, and hope that, soon or late. Some winged prey, bound with its fairy rope, Will struggle to its gate. MUSINGS. 183 And can that morsel brain possess indeed This forethought, and the reason that consults ? Or does the Parent of all wisdom lead It blindly to results ? What plans within that little rounded door The exploring eye might find, I'll take on trust ; For should I break the portals to explore, 'Twould fall to ragged dust. I have no heart for that would leave Our rooms A life-time to the spider's quaint design : Ah then, how deftly would they ply their looms, And what a sight were mine] LIX. THE BUNCH OF LARKS. Portly he was, in carriage somewhat grand ; Of gentleman he wore the accepted marks : He thrid the busy street, and in his hand He bore a bunch of larks ! There be some things that may be carried yes, A gentleman may carry larks if dead ; Or any slaughtered game ; not fish, still less The homely beef or bread. 1 84 MUSINGS. I met him in the street, and turn'd about, And mused long after he had flaunted by. A bunch of larks ! and his intent, no doubt, To have them in a pie. Yes, four-and-twenty larks baked in a pie ! O, what a feast of melody is there ! The ringing chorus of a summer sky ! A dish of warbling air! How many dusty wanderers of the earth Have those still'd voices lifted from the dust ! And now to end their almost Heavenly mirth Beneath a gourmand's crust ! But as he picks their thin ambrosial throats, Will no accusing memories arise, Of grassy glebes, and heaven-descending notes, And soul-engulfing skies ? " Give me," cries he, " the siibstancc of a thing- Something that I can eat, or drink, or feel A poem for the money it will bring Larks for the dainty meal." Well, he may have his substance, and I mine. Deep in my soul the throbbing lark-notes lie. My substance lasts, and takes a life divine His passes with the pie. MUSINGS. 185 LX. NAMES OF FLOWERS. As, musing, through the garden walks I go, Amidst a blaze of flowers those sweet earth-flames I often feel it is my loss to know So little of their names. I know the lily and I know the rose, Lad^s-love and wallflower very little more ; Nothing but what the humble cottage grows In plots before the door. The peppermint that scents the shady nook, The honeysuckle tangling round the porch, Yes, and the ancient thyme our grandams took On Sabbath to the church. I know the gorse and heather of the moors, The blue-bell and the daisy of the leas, Its purple cousin of the cliffy shores, That loves the salt sea-breeze. But myriad beauties of the garden, and Those breathers of the glass-encompass'd air, 1 cannot name can only, gazing, stand, As in a thinking prayer. 1 86 MUSINGS. And yet, 'tis well. If we can name a thing, We name it, and pass on to what is next ; But, having not this substitute to bring, Are by the wonder fixt. When Heaven grows dim, and faith seeks to renew Its image of our everlasting dower, I know no argument so sweet as through The bosom of a flower. A wicket-gate to Heaven whereof death Is the great entrance, closed to mortal eyes And, from the little portals, that sweet breath, The air of paradise ! For surely it is spirit that entreats Sweet recognition of the spirit, thus ; Something mysteriously divine, that meets Divinity in us ! Among the garden flowers, bee-like, I glide ; And, though their names to me seal'd letters prove, They have a speech that never is denied To hearts that simply love. MUSINGS. 187 LXI. ETERNITY FOR ALL. I read of battles with their thousands slain, Of plagues that buried myriads side by side, Of savage hordes that seem'd to live in vain, And, unregretted, died. And through the histories sacred and profane What hecatombs of unknown dead I see, And marvel if at death they rose again, And if all these still be ! That Shakspeare lives, we easily believe, The wonder were that such could ever die. But those unthinking swarms ! who can conceive How they should live, or why ? Why not ? If here life's lowly ends they serve, May there not be hereafter lowly ends ? The ruder mission for the ruder nerve : One makes one only mends. Their numbers shake us ? Though the stars had been. Like earth, each one the cradle of a race, And all immortal, there were room within The eternal dwelling-place. 1 88 MUSINGS. For infinite as space, and in its needs As various as creation, it demands All modes of being, intellect, and creeds, Outnumbering the sands. LXII. THE QUESTION. Wherefore this speculation about death, And whether there be still a life beyond ? If good for us that life outlast the breath, Then life will be the bond. For what is good will surely be fulfillM. And if beyond this life blank death be best, Then, also, be our speculation still'd, And ours an equal rest. Alas ! no rest for doubt-awaken d mind. Rest for the lives that batten in the fields : But man leaves his complacencies behind, And ever upward builds. And daily his old truths become untrue. Life fails him if no further hope he see. He seeks a higher truth, a larger view, Intenselier to be. MUSINGS. IS To live, to live, is life's great joy to feel The living God within to look abroad, And, in the beauty that all things reveal, Still meet the living God. To close this joy in death were surely loss ; And thus the question comes, Is death the close ? We cannot rest in dread, but reach across The doubts that interpose. And there we catch the glimpses of a faith, That throws new light around our mortal strife, And teaches that the avenue of death Leads through to fuller life. This speculative struggle of the soul May come as exercise to feeble limbs ; And doubt, that keeps in cloud the unreach'd goal, Increase the power that climbs. LXIII. MUCH LEARNING. Much learning is but living in the past, Deserted cobwebs in the wrinkled brow. Wherefore lament the want of it who hast The ever-living Now ? 190 MUSINGS. They close their doors on us, those learned brains ; No entrance ours, without the rusty keys. Ours are the streets, the mountains, and the plains. The cloud, the sky, the breeze. Better yield up the past, and free soul give Unto the inflow of the passing hour, And, like the lilies in their glory, live Our day of sun and shower. O God, how feeble is our sense of Thee ! The lily trusts Thee, and the lowly beast. Why beg a crust not ours, when life might be An ever-ready feast ? Give tip the past ! We cannot, and be men. Beasts have the present circumscribed and small But the immortals take within their ken Past, present, future all. LXIV. THE DRIED-UP FOUNTAIN. Outside the village, by the public road, I know a dried-up fountain, overgrown With herbs, the haunt of legendary toad, And grass, by Nature sown. MUSINGS. I know not when its trickling life was still'd. Xo living ear its babbling tongue has caught. But often, as I pass, I see it fill'd And running o'er with thought. I see it as it was in days of old, The blue-eyed maiden stooping o'er its brim, And smoothing in its glass her locks of gold, Lest she should meet with him. She knows that he is near, yet I can see Her sweet confusion when she hears him come. No tryst had they, though every evening he Carries her pitchers home. The ancient beggar limps along the road At thirsty noon, and rests him by its brink ; The dusty pedlar lays aside his load, And pauses there to drink. And there the village children come to play, When busy parents work in shop and field. The swallows, too, find there the loamy clay When 'neath the eaves they build. When cows at eve come crooning home, the boy Leaves them to drink, while his mechanic skill Within the brook sts up, with inward joy, His tiny water-mill. 192 MUSINGS. And when the night is hush'd in summer sleep, And rest has come to labourer and team, I hear the runnel through the long grass creep, As 'twere a whispering dream. Alas ! 'tis all a dream. Lover and lass, Children and wanderers are in their graves ; And where the fountain flow'd, a greener grass, Its In-memoriam, waves. LXV. GLEN-MESSEN. As in the babbling crowd where gossips meet, Some quiet heart maintains itself alone Or grass-grown alley off the trampled street Glen-Messen lies unknown. The visitors of summer come and go, With many a far-famed scene within their ken But even their books of travel do not know, This almost nameless glen. I got its being and its name from one Who loves to brood on beauty near at home, And, haply, garners more, when all is done, Than those who farther roam. MUSINGS. 193 It was a golden summer day, and Clyde, From shore to shore, was all one molten flame ; The Holy Loch, still'd with the swollen tide, Was hallowed as its name. As up its southern marge I slowly stray'd, I heard the measured dip of unseen oar, And even the prattling children as they play'd Upon the further shore. Up by the placid loch, which, far beneath, Bosom'd the summer beauty of the skies, I reach'd its upper shores, then took the heath, For there Glen-messen lies. Now, where the burn comes swirling from the glen, A little homestead nestles by a brake, And there the yellowhammer and the wren A desert music make. An open door invited me within. The cat purr'd, half asleep, upon the hearth ; A crackling fire kept up a homely din, The pot a quiet mirth. The captured fly buzz'd in the spider's weft, The clock tick'd solemnly against the wall ; The housewife had gone forth, and puss was left Sole mistress over all. 194 MUSINGS. To this quaint concert I a while gave ear, Look'd at the vacant stools and chairs ; and then, Exchanging with the cat a brief " good cheer," Pass'd slowly up the glen. The hills shut out the world with all its noise, Shut in the murmur of the hidden stream ; And only once a hawk, with sudden poise, Utter'd a sudden scream. The little glen was all in dreamy hush : But soon a muffled rumble, soft and deep, And then the cataract's imperious rush Awoke it from its sleep. Adown the glen the burn shot in and out .. Beneath the shelving rocks, and where it stay'd In quiet crystal pools, the speckled trout In dimpling eddies play'd. Here, through a rocky sluice the waters bored There, round and round in boiling caldron wheel'd And up the cataract, like a flashing sword, The silvery salmon spiel'd. Like a deep thinker, in himself entombed, Stood on a stone the solitary hern ; While all around the purple heather bloom'd, And waved the feathery fern. MUSINGS. 195 The long, long summer day, in sun and shade, I linger'd there but years have gone since then And many a pilgrimage in thought I've made, To wander in the glen. All Nature finds in man a counterpart : She takes her spell-bound lover by the hand, And makes him one with that mysterious heart' That beats through sea and land. LXVI. TRUE POSSESSION. If I can love without possessing, mine Becomes the true possession ; for love brings, Into this self, all that is most divine In the beloved things. That river with its wealth of ships ; these streets Of endless property and shifting scene ; And yon fair landscape, with its princely seats, And fields of gold and green : Of these, no spar, no stone, no clod I own ; But there's the glamour round them, without which They nothing were but clod, and spar, and stone, And that I freely reach. 196 MUSINGS. The dearest having of a prosperous man Might be his neighbour's, yet he not resign : For this our equal birthright Take who can ; All earth love and 'tis thine. LXVII. THE OLD YEAR. Good-bye, old year, good-bye ! now would I learn The new one's name, but yours jumps to my pen. As, like a parting friend, you turn and turn To shake my hand again. What promise made ! how little done, old year ! But 'tis God's way, and we are wisely mute. The blossom'd Spring gives hope of endless cheer ; But Winter counts the fruit. And so, our hopes are blown to outward loss : Yet, inwardly, the gain, who knows how great ! For, like the blighted hope on Calvary's cross, They grow, would we but wait. Good-bye, old year! though now you largely stand. With all your living memories in store, Soon will you lie, an unknown grain of sand, On Time's eternal shore. MUSINGS. 197 And with my farewell I could give a tear, If man's own end were only death and dross : But, with eternity around us here, Lost time can be no loss. Yet, mourn its waste for that is waste of soul ; And make each blighted hope a chastening rod : Then, though the years inexorably roll, They bring us nearer God. SONNETS. L PRELUDE TO A FIRST EDITION. Thou canst not hide thyself behind thy work ; It puts thee in the front, so that man's eye, Looking on it, sees thee. Truth will not lurk Unseen in fair false words : thou canst not lie. Therefore I say no word about my Rhymes, But give them as they came the latest last That he who deigns to listen to their chimes, May tell how wears the heart from which they pass'd. reader, if thou hear one heavenward peal Amid the clang that is but earthly noise, And if the echo from thy breast reveal A kindred note, then will my heart rejoice. 1 shall exult if thy approving look, Bespeak a soul within my little book. SONNETS. 199 II. TO A LIGHTHOUSE AT NIGHT, SEEN FROM THE SEA. Spirit of Caledonia's rocky coast ! Thy pale beam, glimmering like a star of night, Looks o'er the sea a while : anon 'tis lost ; Then comes forth in a blaze of purest light, Like a lost soul redeem'd : again it wanes : But soon a blood-flame gleams upon the sight. Like a thrall'd warrior bursting from his chains. Stunning the world with wonder of his might. Bright beacon lamp ! thou may'st be liken'cl to The Book of God the beacon-light of Heaven : Thou appear st in different shades, yet all are true : The Heavenly light is like thee in this, even : Your ends are one a blessed end ! for both Are lamps to light the nighted pilgrim's path. III. TWENTY-ONE. And can it be that I am twenty-one .' Well, I will not believe it, for I feel As if I were a boy : I cannot deal In things that stir the world, nor yet with man 200 SONNETS. Can I hold man-like converse : the whole plan, Structure, and working of my mind reveal, That, like a floating thing caught in a w/ct, I've lagg'd behind while Time's stream onward ran. Swift Time ! O I shall ne'er o'ertake thy speed ! Well, well, run on ; thy reckonings I'll blot From off my memory's page ; my life-time's meed I'll measure by the growing of my thought ; And ever when I do a goodly deed, I'll mark that as an era in my lot. IV. WRITTEN ON MAY MORNING. O wherefore should I write, when these my lines May ne'er be read if read, forgotten quite ? Wherefore the earth encumber with dead signs, That to the generations give no light ? Hark ! from yon sunny cloudlet come the notes Of one that carols not for me or you, But that the Spirit of creation floats Into his breast, and gushes out anew. Green earth ! sweet air ! blue sky ! what worshipper Can hold his voice on this all-beauteous day ? Young May is in the meadow playing her, And all the world a- wooing is young May. She doth bewitch her lovers ; whoso yields Unto her spell, straight " babbles of green fields." SONNETS. 201 V. AFTER A THUNDER STORM. The dun clouds quiver'd and half gleam'd, as if Red flame behind them flicker'd : from their wombs The lightnings shot to life, and instant tombs In earth's green breast : then rattled, sharp and brief, The musketry of heaven ; and a boom Went through the hills, and broke their slumber deep, They lay like giants, muttering in sleep. At last methought it was the crack of doom ! Both fire and flood seem'd battling which should have Our sweet green earth ; and she, all meekness, turn'd Her fair cheek to them. They, too fiercely brave, Wasted their fruitless strength, and pass'd away ; And earth, the patient and forbearing, earn'd A triumph which Resistance never may. VI. RELIEF IN POETRY. Whether my sonnet be of grief or joy, It ever is preceded by depression A heaviness, like guilt before confession, Which only in revealment finds alloy. 202 SONNETS. So, when the sweets of earth begin to cloy, And all the world seems barr'd to my progression, I know my soul has in it a possession Which 7oz7/be out, or cease not to annoy. And yet I know not what this is, or whence ! Cloud-like it comes, but not like cloud disperses : It comes uncall'd, nor will be driven hence. And, left unto itself, it runs to verses. If in this sonnet I have found relief, Then has it done good work, though poor and brief. VII. THE DRUNKARD'S SONNET. List, friend, and I will tell you what I am Since to deep draughts I have myself given o'er. My coat, you see, is bare, and a sad qualm Gripes in my purse and makes it retch full sore : This eye, that once was pure as any star, Is now a half-burnt coal ; and this same face That has no meaning in't, whose features are Expression's grave, once mirror'd every grace : The God-breathed soul that with a Heavenly light Illumed this frame, is sear'd and scorch' d away : All mind, all feeling, all impulsive might Have stolen like vapour from this senseless clay. Is not that all our Heaven that hath me left ? Is not this Hell to know I am bereft ? SONNETS. 203 VIII. GOD'S DIMNESS. O God, how dim Thou growest to the sight ! Our faith in Thee doth ever need renewal, As doth a fire its due supply of fuel For both, without, will soon cease to be bright. And we might deem Thee but a mist o' the brain, That fadeth in the sunlight of our reason ; But well I know the fault is in our vision, Which, having had Thee, loseth Thee again. Our world is full of film, of motes our air ; To keep the vision clear is hard indeed ; Yet they who would see truly, only need Be free from these then look, and God is there. A clear eye cannot keep from seeing Him : When He's unseen, let's know our eyes are dim. IX. UNLOSABLE FRIENDS. You little know the man to whom you write Still less the nature of his friends. He looks Around these shelves, and, from immortal books. Whole hosts of choicest friends crowd on his sight. 204 SONNETS. These ever have been his : your puny might Can not displace one friend ; nor any deed Of his, though jarring with your peevish creed, E'er lose him one : his strength is conscious right. He has, besides, a visionary ken, That holds a world of friends. On hearts of men He has not built a hope of any height : Withdraw them, and there is no ruin wrought. Therefore you've used an unprophetic pen ; Your words are weak ; he blasts them with a thought. X. NEAR DUNBAR. Here Cromwell stood, that dark and frowning night, Hemm'd in upon this desperate tongue of land, The sea behind, the sea on either hand, And, fronting him, the foe on yonder height. What chance for Cromwell in to-morrow's fight, If thus the order of the battle stand ! He was but captain, the supreme command He knew was His who, to the most lorn right, Oft gives mysterious victory. And so, Arm'd with this faith, of fear he never dream'd. For ever with that man a Power there seem'd, That conquer'd first the judgment of his foe, Then gave an easy field. So would it be With all who own'd as deep a trust as he. SONNETS. 205 XL PATRIOT AND POET. 1864. O, cold and languid blood ! I took no part In that great welcome ; made a distant stand Behind the crowd that rush'd to grasp the hand : I raised no shout to greet the patriot heart. And so again, when other pulses start Touch'd with the magic of the poet's wand I let the tumult run from strand to strand, And only read his line, adore his art. Yet I a thousand times have thank'd my star, That I have known this year of Sixty-four, And live to see that Nature's nobles are Now honour'd as they never were before : The year that rang when Garibaldi came ; That sought to gild even Shakspeare's golden name. XII. TO THE REV. HUGH STOWELL BROWN. "What does it matter what I think? I do not think it matters to any one on this side of the Atlantic, or on the other side." Vide his speech in the Amphitheatre. Nx> matter what you think ? Great matter, Brown ! The lowliest man by casting in his thought Works some change in the universal lot, And your own thoughts have leaven 1 d half the town. 206 SONNETS. From single thoughts our liberties come down. A nation's throes are shared, her fields half fought By what free nations think of them. Deem not All impotent the inward cheer or frown : For, like the electric flash, men's thoughts go forth, Powers to their brother men, though seas apart. Freeman ! in yonder West thy thought is worth A strong right arm. Give it, whoe'er thou art. Who knows how much the weakness of the North Is due to free old England's lagging heart ! XIII. ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 11 Sic semper tyrannis /" the assassin cried, As Lincoln fell. O villain ! who than he More lived to set both slave and tyrant free ! Or so enrapt with plans of freedom died, That even thy treacherous deed shall glance aside, And do the dead man's will by land and sea, Win bloodless battles, and make that to be Which to his living mandate was denied ! Peace to that gentle heart ! the peace he sought For all mankind, nor for it dies in vain. Rest to the uncrown'd king ! who, toiling, brought His bleeding country through that dreadful reign ; Who, living, earn'd a world's revering thought, And, dying, leaves his name without a stain. SONNETS. 207 XIV. RETROSPECTION. When, after five brief years, I read again The little book I ventured on the age, * Humbled I meet along the straggling page The weak and limping children of my pen. And these are they I deem'd so perfect then ! Scarce one my dissappointment to assuage ! 'Tis well : their imperfection stands aguage That tells me I have deepen'd in my ken. There's little more comes to us when we seek To make our old work a perpetual bay. O, rather, feel our yesterdays were weak, E'en though we cannot better them to-day. From work outgrown a higher thought we borrow ; And thought to-day will be a deed to-morrow. 208 THE WOODLAND-TEMPLE. THE WOODLAND-TEMPLE. ELIZA. We have stray'd, Unconsciously, into my favourite grove. 'Tis one of Nature's temples, built of elms. " This little path amid the grass, that leads Nowhere, but still returns upon itself, These feet have worn, for none comes here but me. Would'st know the service of my leafy church ? JANE. Ay. Be it e'er so simple, e'er so rude, I doubt not even Heaven will lend an ear. ELIZA. Three times a-day, at morn, and noon, and even, Do sweet religious bells call me to prayer. First, at the gray and earliest wink of dawn, The mellow-throated blackbirds of this brake, Send soft devotional peals along my sleep ; And when I waken into real thought, 'Tis not like tearing from a blessed dream, But a continuation of the dream, For still the soft peals come. Then I arise, And, stepping forth into the morn, behold The sun at orisons upon a bank, Far in the east, and with his lowly beams Clasping the whole earth to his loving breast. THE WOODLAND-TEMPLE. 2OQ, The grass, the hedges, yea, the rankest weeds So dazzle with the sapphire dew, that earth Seems all a paradise, whose very dust Is pearls and precious stones. The dimpling well, That laves the entrance to this hallowed grove, Receives my first obeisance. There I drink. Pure water is the symbol of pure life : The morning draught should be a daily pledge ; And, inasmuch as 'tis the God-given wine, That comes direct from Nature, so we reach The immediate Presence, even by that thought. It is the ruling feature of all things, And that which makes each kin to all, that we, By passing into them, still come to God. What can we more beyond the Eternal Thought, Which in itself is sermon, hymn, and prayer The sole heart of my service ? So, I pace This quiet sward to find it ; and, when found, It is the inauguration of a day On which all things go heavenward : the birds Sing hymns, the flowers in sweet odours pray ; The herd-boy's whistle, and the mower's song, With sound of sharpening scythes, seem all to ring Of innocence and Eden. I return To household duties, to a simple meal, And find the consecration on them all. JANE. And this your matin-service ! But I see It's all thought service. You should give, I think, At least one voiced hymn to the morning ; thus : 210 THE WOODLAND-TEMPLE. O Morning, with thy star divinely fair Thy hope before thee in the east ascending, Come to our cushion'd earth, God's footstool, where Immortal hearts are bending. We have high hope as thou for brighter day The hope in heaven, the action still aspiring : We are, like thee, beclouded on our way ; But not, like thee, untiring. Teach us thy steady and unwearied way To higher excellence ; thy regularity ; Thy patient strength throughout the adverse day ; Thy universal charity. Give us thy young heart, never to feel old, Though years pass from us and have no returning ; Since out of death, our night, we shall unfold, And rise like thee, bright Morning ! ELIZA. The thoughts are good, and wonderfully sung, Considering how untunable the measure. I would augment my service with a hymn, And have a heart for music ; but my ear Is spoil'd, I think, with living near a wood. Therefore I'll leave that part to you. JANE. Describe Your noontide service, then ; and if a hymn Arise by nature from it, I shall sing. All song should seem spontaneous, if ' tis not. THE WOODLAND-TEMPLE. 211 ELIZA. ,At noon there is a brief bar of the day, In which all Nature, even Time, doth rest. Few know of that, for in this rushing world, Many divinities of daily presence Are pass'd unseen. It is the merest span Yea, to the onward harmony of time, 'Tis as the rest in music. Yet, thus brief, It is, of all the day, the very break For Heavenly thought and prayer. A little while Before the dial points to noon, I seek The bank beneath yon leaf-beclouded elm, Amid whose branches is a little world Of green and gold and flickering beams, and bees Whose tiny pipes keep up a honey'd drone, Awaking thoughts of fairy-land. And there, On that imaginative bank, I watch The climbing day, the pant of Nature. Soon, The larks drop singing from the clouds, and quench Midway their song, as falling stars their light ; The little drones up in the slumbrous tree, Sing smotheringly and cease ; the lisping brooks Grow deeper throated, hum a quiet bass ; The sunny winds lie down outside the woods. Anon, the Day takes his last upward step, And, on the golden pinnacle of noon, Stands still to breathe, one breath, before he turns With meek brow down upon the western vale. THE WOODLAND-TEMPLE. That breathing was the time a pause too brief For anything but thought, for thought enough To reach the inner sanctities of Heaven, To reach them and return on wings of prayer. The day moves on again. Ere you can note The start, each little cloud has broken out In lark notes, and rains music. In the woods The winds have entered on their gleaming wings, And leaves are in a flutter of delight ; My canopy, the tree, is in full blast, Its hives of bees have tuned their honey'd pipes. So Nature's organ, with its myriad stops, Plays me from church, dower d with a glimpse of Heaven. JANE. Somewhat indefinite service, is it not ? ELIZA. I do not know ; but if it be, 'tis well You have the greater license for the hymn. JANE. When Nature rests at noon, and seems To tarry on the endless path, 'Tis not the faintness of her beams, The love of ease, the rest of sloth. For oft it takes no stronger will, No deeper life to do than be ; So is that quiet Nature still The all of good and fair we see. THE WOODLAND-TEMPLE. 213 The ocean-deeps drink in more heaven, At peace within their molten calm, Than when on high and tempest-riven, They shout their grand impassion'd psalm. Nor is that calm a stagnant ease ; The tides hold on to ebb and flow, And thoughts are passing in the seas, Which only God may truly know. When hearts have cast up sin by sin, And know the tranquil joy of rest, There will be peace as deep within The fathoms of the human breast. Spare me your comments, and proceed to eve. ELIZA. When day is burning out, there, in the west, And leaving but its embers, red and black ; When gloaming loans ring with the throstle's pipe, And sing the day's good-evening to the night ; When daisies sleep and blue-bells do not ring, Labour at rest and lovers whispering, I to my bosky temple come again. It is the hour of falling dews ; the soul Has its own dew of thought, and then it comes Divinely from the stars: that bright lone one, Venus, amid whose beams Love loves to stray, On whose excess of beauty poets thrive ; And all the unnumber'd lesser beads of light That break out on Night's Ethiop brow like sweat, 214 THE WOODLAND-TEMPLE. As up the dark he labours ; and the moon, That beauteous lunatic who dotes on Night, Hangs on his skirt, lies in his breast, falls out, Then turns her back and leaves him, till some days Of cloud and weeping bring her back again : Yea, all that walk the eternal rounds of space, On what God's-errand we shall never know : Yet while their unknown message speeds, or hearts Live on their waste, the dewy light they spill ! My evening service has a starry cast A glare of moonshine in it, you will say, And vacancy of space : but, save that star, The Conscience, whose fine light the fumes of hell May dim but not put out, which pure hearts know To be the very life of God in us, I know of nought that leads so straight to God As those fine wonders which the skies beget. To think of space, to know it has no bound, Nor could have, needs a mind like space itself, Eterne, with but illusionary bounds. The mind, once born to illimitable thoughts, Must live them through illimitable time. They could not enter in a mind that ends. O wilderness of silence that lies out Beyond the glimmer of the farthest star, Or in whose unimaginable deeps There is no end of stars ! our wings of thought Not long sustain their flight through thee, but flag THE WOODLAND-TEMPLE. 215 As thy horizon ever more recedes ; They fail, and we, the living souls of thought, Should fall like plummets from the spheres of flight ; But the divine necessity of God Is round us, and receives us, and we find Answer and rest more blessed than we sought. In all my services, a thought of God Is still my full amen : I can no more. In very truth, we need no more ; for that, Breathing the soul of everything, supplies The very soul of all our life's deep wants. Parent of Heaven and earth and moving things ! By whatsoever name with us, or none ; However dimly reach'd, whom yet we know To be the soul of life, the heart of love, The essence of all beauty, and the power Whereby the planets roll and dewdrops fall, O grant that we may know Thee more and more, Not as the past and future God, but now And here, on plain unconsecrated ground ! We grandly see Thee in the unfrequent storm That rends the woods and cracks the quarried rocks ! O may we know Thee in the simplest air That gathers odours on the thymy banks, And cheaply brings them any summer day ! We meekly say the thunder is Thy voice ; And e'en philosophy, 'mid causes lost, At last takes up the thought. So may we know 2l6 THE WOODLAND-TEMPLE. That voice as Thine, which in our wilful hearts Whispers the simple truth, the honest right. Then, knowing it is Thine, may it command Our ready act, however dim the end ! JANE. Amen. The Conscience is indeed God's voice ; It cannot be out-reason'd ; therefore 'tis The reflex of a higher mind than ours. As well earth burn the sun out with her fires, As we by argument put out this light. ELIZA. See ! Evening, with the eyelids almost closed, Looks through their long dusk lashes, half in dream. And passes softly into deeper sleep. Sing us a hymn, and then we'll go along. JANE. Day pass'd from earth, and sky and cloud Laid him in a golden shroud : Tears, sad but beautiful, were lying On the earth when Day was dying. When our course is run, O may You and I be like the Day Not die but with accomplish'd duty, And pass amid increase of beauty. Then, when lost to mortal sight Lost in blank imagined night, Our places vacant, friends repining, We, like Day, elsewhere be shining. TO MY BELOVED. 217 TO MY BELOVED. Nought can destroy thy love ! it clings to me, 'Midst my neglect and infidelity. I've used no art to live in thy mind's heaven Have been unkind yet thoir hast ever striven To be my comforter and guiding star. I've follow'd vanities, and banish'd far All thought of thee ; and yet thy love's clear eye Would bide upon me, seeming to defy All earth to make me worthless in thy sight. O thou, the very moon of my dark night ! I've been most faithless to thee yet, for all, Thou art my loadstone wilt not let me fall From thy love's circle. Ah, what mystery Can bind thy love to one who is to thee So great a prodigal ? O love most pure, Whose heat amid such coldness can endure ! Not for the barter of my love thou givest Thy soul's affection, but myself thou lovest, Dreaming there is in me that which is not, Or which thy fine eyes see beneath the blot That hides me from myself. If there be aught In me that's worthy of thy love, 'tis that Rich, most rich gift To know thy goodlincss. O if not lost I am but saved by this. In my worst hours, thy worth shows to me most ; It comes like moonlight on the wrecking coast, Illumining the blindness of the skies, 21 8 TO MY BELOVED. And showing heaven where earth's trouble lies. Yet, though thy rays seem to my moty eyes More beautiful, when thus they darkly find me, I'd have thee always, though thy light should blind me! For now I see thou art my only treasure : In having thee, I have the heap'd-up measure Of all earth's glory since there is in thee That which turns gold to dust, and makes it flee Like breath away ; the having of broad fields, To that of the bare rock, which nothing yields ; The pride of riches and the pomp of ruling, To blind insanity and idle fooling. And what a precious jewel, then, thou art, That with thy touch canst purify the heart From all these idols ! O, thou cloudy brain, Make thy thick atmosphere dissolve in rain, And leave a heaven where this orb may shine In constant lustre, and be ever mine ! And who, and what art thou, most excellent thing, Whose names of love, orb, jewel, treasure, ring Confusedly throughout my careless verse ; Whose virtues still I harp on and rehearse Setting as worthless to thy worth, all things, From smallest havings to the crowns of kings ? Art thou the fair maid of a lover's vision To him all peerless ; in the world's decision But one of many ? Nay ! I cannot speak Of thy hair's twining ; or of thy soft cheek ; . Or of the sea of love in thy deep eye ; TO MY BELOVED. 2 19 Or of the inflaming music of thy sigh. Wert thou a woman, these might be my theme ; They are seldom absent from the lover's dream. But woman thou art none unless in spirit ; For all her heavenliness thou dost inherit, Wanting her earth. Yet, only those beloved By thee can see thy beauty, or be moved By thy fine excellence ; and they will know The mystery of my speaking ; them I show What is most clear, although it seems to break In struggles through me, labouring to take A form unto the sight. And these harsh words But hint their message ; yet that hint affords, To those who are thy chosen, the full sense Of that thou speak'st through me : this diffidence, To them who know thy hints, is eloquence. It is thy way of telling: in the woods, The meadows, and the hilly solitudes, Thou speakest thus, and choosest for thy voice, The little throats that raise the piping noise Which rings on summer days among green trees ; The coy leaves that with the frolicsome breeze Hold courtship i' the forest, or to themselves Tell whispering tales of fairy-land, and elves That haunt their own wood in its dreamy places ; The joyous stream that through the meadow chases Its own thought, like a child ; the voice that comes To his ear among the hills, when the poet roams, Wrapp'd up in visions. Many a tongue beside, Thou tak'st from Nature ; but all mystified 220 TO MY BELOVED. They come to us most musical in tone, But dim in meaning, save to those alone Who are thy gifted ; their fine ear receives The meaning which thy voice in mystery gives. And to this mystery thou would'st tune my ear But I am faithless to thee, and I fear The World has too much of me to be thine So wholly as to understand thy sign, In its most secret meaning. Can I not Shake off the earth that clogs my every thought, And be all thine, who, with untiring love, Would'st one so very false and changeful have ? I would thee wed, and yet the World's I'd be ; But whoso weds the World can not wed thee ! Besides, two wives in one house cannot sit ; Then must I be the changeful lover yet- Courting a while the lewd smiles of the World, Till, sick at heart and weary, I am hurl'd From her false arms to seek relief in thee, My ever sweet and faithful POESIE. THE LONE SOUL. O if in this wide world there be no one Whom thou, lone soul, may'st heap thy love upon, What art thou then to do, since nought but this Can ever bring thee into deeps of bliss ? THE LONE SOUL. 221 There is no true bliss save in lavishing Thy whole affection on some only thing : For if love be divided it may die. But thou, lone one, hast no such thing ! no eye Hangs on thee like a planet, drawing thee Into the self-abandon'd ecstasy Of adoration ! nor a love-toned voice Makes to thine ear all other music noise, Shaming the fabled hymning of the spheres A voice whereon thou'dst dwell until thine ears Forgot the knowing of all other sound. No hand's soft pressure makes thy pulses bound Into a trance of feeling so refined That even thy very flesh becomes a mind, And thou hast lost thy being in another. Ah, hadst thou one combining these together, Then might'st thou live the bliss, the want of which Keeps thee the lonely soul. But why not teach Thyself to live as other mortals do ? And eat and drink and sleep thy earth's hour through ; Fall in with the World's own humour, jest and rail. Slander thy neighbour, laugh at the merry talc ; Believe in the supremacy of wealth ; Bow down before nobility ; thy health Leave to the doctor ; let the parson keep Thy soul ; and, trusting him, let Question sleep. Into the World's wheel thou canst never fall, THE LONE SOUL. But hover'st on its rim, like the erring ball That ever cometh in at the wrong place, And is spun off again. The World's full race Seems not to want thee. Like a sinful ghost, No grave will have thee : yet methinks thou know'st Full well the reason ; ha ! thou'lt have no grave ! Into the World's mad chase thou wilt not crave To get admission even glorying In thy exclusion, nourishing the sting Which seems to breed thy pain, but which, indeed, Is surely thy great joy, else wherefore need All these thy wand'rings into places lone, Wherein thou seem'st to breathe an air unknown To us inside the World a frenzied air Which, creeping in thy brain, makes music there, Sweeter and softer than the fairies make At noon, when sunshine sleeps in their green brake ; An air through which all visible nature seems Fairer than that which poets see in dreams ? It cannot be but thou art glorified In these thy solitudes : the fenny side Of some lone river, winding among sedge, Where weary sea-birds, sitting on the edge, Clamour the shrill air with their old-world cry, And thou art strangely sad, yet know'st not why : The hill-embosom' d glen, so dusk and deep, Where, over shelving rocks, the waters leap And fret themselves to foam, which sends a shower Of pearls throughout the glen, o'er leaf and flower, And all is in a spangling maze of dew : THE LONE SOUL. 22$ The mountain ridge that looms so sharp and blue, Where rugged clouds, like giants, stalk about, In silence, like all power, yet working out Thunders and winds that shake the ponderous globe : The hearkening wood, made twilight with its robe Of slumbering leaves, wherein the slightest sound Leaps to thy startled heart, and the hollow ground Reveals its secrets to thy wakening tread Dim hints of fairy-land ; whilst overhead Thou look'st into a shady sycamore, And seest a little heaven in its core ; The freshness of green leaves, the sunbeam's glory, The unseen insects, humming their unknown story, Sink deep into thy soul ; sweet little heaven, He never can to nothingness be driven, Can ne'er be wanting of a fair earth-dower, Whose soul can live in thee one summer-hour. But, 'tis not only when the lustry day Wons in the woods that thou art tempt'd to stray Out of our ken into these solitudes, But also when black night comes down and broods Over the morrow's birth. Then wilt thou trace Thy moody way into some shuddering place Where only ghosts would enter. Ah, sad soul ! The city joins in revelry ; the bowl Steams through our blood and brains ; from lighted halls Gush out whole floods of music ; and stone walls Are rent with song and mirth ! Thou might'st be here, Yet art in darkness, taking into thine ear 224 ' THE LONE SOUL. The hum of all this gladness ; fondly deeming That all our joy is but a shallow seeming, And that thy bosom holds a deeper mirth Ours ever dying, thine a constant birth Ours still a losing that which we have found, But thine a gaining that which hath no bound Ours coming to stops at morn, and noon, and even, Thine the expanding circle of blue heaven ! And truly there is no continuance In our life's joy ! it comes as if by chance : It will not be impress'd, but shuns our seeking. The chain of earthly love is ever breaking ; And most dear friends are dearest when apart : Thy presence, friend, is lead upon my heart : Indeed, I love thee ; yet, I know not how, I'd love thee better, if thou'dst leave me now ! Nothing that hath not all the soul is lasting, But ever runs to weariness and wasting : And all the soul can nothing earthly have Unless perchance a virtuous woman's love, Or the passion that to poesie gives birth ; But when these have the soul, earth is not earth ; And therefore of high Heaven 'tis thought they are- Kindred in beauty to the morning-star, Whose rising so enwraps our adoration, And brings o'er weary hearts a new creation. But thou, lone one, hast no good woman's love, Nor that fine power which draweth from above THE LONE SOUL. 225 The air in which the poet hath his breathing. Yet in thy brain there seems a constant seething Of spirit-element, and in thy breast A joy, not quick and light, but all comprest Deep and devouring as a mother's eye Hung o'er her sleeping child, and no one by. We thought thee sad : that thought was form'd too soon ! Yet thou art lonely as the waning moon, That creeps with weary step and trembling horn, Athwart our windows, 'tween the night and morn. And yet thou art not all alone ; me-seems Thou art like him who walketh in his dreams And seeth some one that we cannot see, For though stone-blind to all we can, yet he Is with mysterious presences. The skies Are quick with throbbing life, though our weak eyes See only voids of blue. To stronger gaze, The voids reveal a presence more than haze. And is it, then, this strong far-reaching sense That, shunning our littleness, withdraws thee hence, Out of the human World, to brood apart Upon the muffled beating of that Heart Which moves the spheres, and which thou deem'st is heard Only in places from the World retired ? Thy deeming is but dreaming! know thou this : Thy God man's God shuns not our littleness. 15 226 THE LONE SOUL. Hark ! 'tis but music and gay tread of feet : Yet listen ! Hear'st thou not that solemn beat Amidst it all ? the same which fills thine ear In solitude there terrifying here, Choir'd in humanities and homely things, From which it takes those plaintive murmurings, Almost too fine for human souls to note : Yet thou, with thy fine ear, might'st hear them float Where we are all unconscious. Come thou in From thy lone deserts, and fear not the sin That so envelopes us : thou'lt gain that part Of man which thou most need'st a human heart. (And if God chiefly moves in any place, It is the human heart.) O wherefore chase Thy vision into solitude ? A light Is in us and about us day and night : It is not of, but that which lights, the sun ; And clear eyes see it streaming from each one. The beating of that Heart which moves the spheres, And which thy fine ear in the desert hears, Is stronger here; and that mysterious Light Which draws thy searching eyes beyond our sight, Is with us, even as the air ; and, thus, What thou art seeking most, is most with us. Come, then, amongst us, and thou may'st be moved To love us, and, thus loving, be belov'd : For all this life is flat, and nothing worth, Till lapp'd in love, as sunlight laps the earth. THE DAWS. 227 THE DAWS. Awake thee, awake ! kirk-bells give warning Rise and enjoy the Sabbath morning ! The Sabbath is a day to drowse, And sleep will stand me another turning. But hearken ! the Daws fly over the town, Some clear, sharp, airy notes come down ; And they switch away, with arouse ! arouse ! Come and enjoy the Sabbath morning. Soon, soon in the open street I stand : God's silence lies o'er all the land Silence and beauty everywhere In those unfathomable skies, And in the city as it lies In folds of soft and sunny air. The morn has lit the golden vanes, The sun burns in the eastern panes, The smoke of newly-kindled fires Hangs blue about the gleaming spires. The city's roar is hush'd, the humming Country to the city coming. A mild low bleat runs through the street From some far-off upland farm ; The cottar's cow lows in the croft, Our dingy lanes repeat the charm. 228 THE DAWS. S.weetly on Sabbath morning speak Things unheard through all the week : The swallows, chittering on the eave A fluttering ditty ere they leave In ecstacy, the air to cleave ; The house-top sparrows in the street, Chirping among passing feet ; Unfelt winds singing in the tree Almost imagined melody : The gray-fly buzzing on the wall, And many voices, sweet and small ; But the Daws are lords of all. Where the morning smoke is curling, And becoming viewless air, See the merry black-coats whirling What a heaven of joy is there ! Not a single drop of care ! Cawing o'er the blacken'd tower, Cawing round the gleaming spire ; I have watch'd them many an hour, And my heart would never tire A-list'ning that discordant quire : Discordant ! No ; the rudest note, The simplest strain from Nature s throat, Has its own chord, all full and clear, Deep within the spirit's ear. Ah, whither would'st thou, fervid spirit, Panting through thy day of strife ? THE DAWS. 229 The universe thou dost inherit, And eternal life. The very winds, the skies that shine In glory yonder, all are thine ; Thine by that mysterious law That strikes a chord almost divine Between thee and the worthless Daw. Chased by the phantoms, Ambition and Death, Slacken thy pace and take thy breath ; Tarry, and let them go by ; And know, for as much as they seem to claim, Ambition will surely miss his aim, And Death as surely die. Unbend thy brow from thoughts of pelf ; It is a dream, and abides no waking : Thy greatest treasures are thyself, And Beauty and Truth, that wait thy taking. For, after all the toil and pain, And coffers fill'd, where is the gain ? The beauty of my lord's domain Makes me its lord. The city lying In a golden lair of morning air, With those black wings above it flying, Is trulier mine than his that draws The rents, but does not know the Daws. Cast off all fears of a dismal day When Death shall reduce thee to senseless clay. 23.0 THE DAWS. The earth can only take its own, And death is but a sculptured stone. But man is link'd, by living thought, With God and the great eternities ; He is unending as the skies, And needs not fear for aught. Then what need'st thou but largely live All thoughts and things that from the Giver Issue through the great For-ever ? O, there is time to work and pause* Good time for all, yea, even to give A Sabbath morning to the Daws. "WHAT PLACE IS THIS?" These words came from the sleeper whilst a dream Moved o'er her face, like sunshine o'er a plain. Her marble features bore a sudden gleam, And settled into marbleness again : Again, again lit up in gleams of bliss, And seem'd in thought to ask " What place is this ?" What place is this ! O, sleeper, thou art here, Within the poor walls of thy simple home ; Thou ! thou ! what thou ? the mind ? Yea, it is near- Else, how the thoughts that o'er thy features come ? "WHAT PLACE IS THIS?" 231 I see them arch thine eyebrows, curve thy lips : Thy soul is there behind : sleep's an eclipse. Thy mind, thy all, is here ; then wherefore ask What place is this, when thou thyself can'st tell? Does sleep make false or true, mask or unmask The things that, waking, thou wouldst know so well ? This finite side is dark ; eclipsing sleep Takes it, but gives thee all the infinite deep. Thine is the Unseen that lies behind our Seen, And all thy storied past is in thy Now : The waking memory pictures what has been, But falsely, shadowyly to that which thou Art seeing now. The Been can never die ! It wakes in sleep sleeps in the memory.- If waking sense receives it as ideal, And holds a dream as that which only seems, It is because we cannot get the real, But only twilight-glimpses, of our dreams. In dreams and day we doubt not on their rim The things of dreams and day seem false and dim. We may not know a dream but in a dream ; And when awake we know not what we knew. The shreds that skirt our waking, we can deem Nought but distorted shadows of the true. It will not be brought out of sleep : we may As well take into sleep the waking day. 232 "WHAT PLACE is THIS?" Day-truths grow jumbled on the edge of sleep, And dance in motley to the closing eye' : In vain we strive their sequences to keep ; But do we therefore hold day's truth a lie ? 'Tween sleep and waking there's a belt of night We darkly cross, and come again to light. What place it is, or whom thou speakest to, Sleeper, I may not guess ; I can but trace The lines of light that dimly flicker through The dusky veil, and know there is a place. O, sleeper, thou art there ! Within the Seen There is a world the outward does but screen. The Unseen bears the Seen up, like a bell, Of rainbow-hues, that floats upon the river ; And could it be withdrawn, ah, then, farewell The things we dote on now ! We are forever We and the world we cling to all and we Resting on that we scarce believe to be. We live outside the temple, looking in Through trances of deep thought half entering when Sleep takes us from the world's restraining din. But thought grows dim, and sleep brings back again. O, not until Death open the great door, Can we find entrance that leads back no more. TIME STEALS AWAY. 233 TIME STEALS AWAY. Time steals away Like nightly thief; we dream not of his going. O blind and deaf! by day We see him not night, hear him not unknowing The beggars we are made our dear life ta,'en The treasure that we never can regain. Stop, slippery thing! Ah no 'tis gone ! it neither stops nor lingers ; And vain is following. I-grasp'd it as it pass'd, but through my fingers, Eel-like, it slipt. I thought 'twas mine for using, Yet, in that thought, still was the treasure losing. Lost day ! lost hour ! Wherein our strength, our breath, our life were wasted: Had we in them gain'd power Of soul, or of the Unending Mystery tasted,' They were not lost ; for upward thus to tend, And grow to God, is surely our great end. Time steals away From earth-encumber 5 d minds, which cannot hold it ; And sloth and empty play Hang on our life, like garments, and enfold it. E'en this hour is not mine ; for see ! 'tis gone, Full of regrets for that had already flown. 234 TIME STEALS AWAY. Why mourn lost time ? The immortal spirit knows no calendar ! And in the invisible clime No dial tells of the fleeting messenger. The earth alone is mark'd with shade and night ; Beyond its bourn, all, all is day and light. Fleet, fleet away, Days, months, and years, until ye have no meaning, But are lost in endless day ; When light and glory, whereof we have no weening, Shall burst upon the disencumber'd mind, Which shall see things with an eye that now is blind. TO MY UNCLE. My uncle ! hallowed name, revered, belov'd ! I cannot breathe it but, within my breast, A speechless awe arises, I am moved With veneration deep like one possess'd With some high heavenly thought that is too great For mind to grasp in this its earthly state. * O, uncle, I have learn'd to think of thee, Not as of other men, but as I'd think Of something holier than man could be ; And I can image thee a middle link TO MY. UNCLE. 235 Of that great chain of intellect the chain That we may fancy earth with heaven to join. Thy home seems not to be with man on earth ; Thou lovest not to mingle in earth's strife ; Thou carest little for its idle mirth Thy heart all given to another life. No earthly thought thou seemest to inherit ; Thou seemest but to live in mind in spirit. Now age is creeping on thee, cold and drear ; Thou'rt but the meagre shadow of thy prime ; And, like shore-eating waves, each ruthless year Marks in thy form the ravages of time. Thy tottering steps, thy feeble, lessening frame, Presagers are of life's decaying flame. And, uncle, I could wish that thou had'st been More snugly in the lap of comfort placed ; For thou art lone, and Poverty, I ween, Too closely in her arms hath thee embraced. Would thy estate were otherwise, or mine Were rich as my desire to better thine ! Still, thou art blest ! for though in body thou Hast little freedom on this mortal ball ; Though 'neath infirmities thou'rt forced to bow, Thy mind is free, nor can be kept in thrall. Freedom of body may be got for gold ; But the mind's freedom is not bought and sold. 236 TO MY UNCLE. But, uncle, why should I thus speak to thee ? Thou knowest all and more than I can say : And in these lines thou'lt many an error see ; But thou wilt check me where I've gone astray. I have need of thee to guide me on, For hitherto I've groped my way alone. Had some instructor kindly gone before, And shown me where best knowledge could be found, 1 might, 'ere now, have had a goodly store Of wisdom's wealth, of truths, deep and profound. The little that I know, I've learn'd by chance weeds of learning, cull'd in ignorance. O, uncle ! thou who art so dear a friend, May I not look to thee as to a father ? And may'st not thou my wavering footsteps tend, Pointing to where thy wisdom thou did'st gather ! Nor would thy pains be wasted on me, even Though but one step thou led'st me nearer Heaven. THE GUILTY SOUL. You bid me to the green meads go, Where the crystal waters wind ; In them you say there is a charm That heals the troubled mind. THE GUILTY SOUL. 237 You say the music of the woods M ight while away my care : Ah no ! the guilty soul Can find no comfort there. I've wander'd in yon meadow green, I've sat beside its spring ; But my dreary mind grew drearier To hear its murmuring. I've bared my fever'd brow to feel The meadow's cooling air : But no ! the guilty soul Could find no comfort there ! I've listen d to the wild-bird's voice, Far in yon hollow wood ; But a fearfulness came over me In the deep solitude : Methought a scornful whispering Came to my startled ear : Ah no ! the guilty soul Could find no comfort there ! I have no soul for scenes like these ; They are too pure for me, And my polluted heart can not Drink in their purity : Their beauty only makes me feel How black my vices were : Ah no ! the guilty soul Can find no comfort there ! 238 THE GUILTY SOUL. O leave me to myself, my friend, Look not upon my pain ! The burning tears of penitence Are starting in my brain. There is a balm in penitence A comfort for all care ; And O ! the guilty soul Can find it only there ! MAN IS A VAPOUR. A cloudlet rose from earth's swampy wells, Hovering like a living thing ; But the air crept into its pory cells, Severing it into particles, Plucking its downy wing ; Till it faded from the" gazer's sight, Ne'er to unite. Man is a vapour, by life's ray Drawn into light. But through his frame Creeps Death with chemical decay ; His filmy substance shrinks away Going to whence it came Through earth and air, the wide world o'er, To meet no more. Is this the finish of our days ? Is there no life in our lost breath ? MAN IS A VAPOUR. 239 Has Mind, when set on earth, no rays, Elsewhere ? A voice within us says, " Thy answerer is Death." If Death can tell us this, O why Would we not die ! TO SLEEP. Sleep ! would that thou'dst seek my lonesome bed ; Night deepens, I am wearied watching now ; For I have vainly wooed thee till my brow Is in afever'd flame, and aching head Feels as the downy pillow were a stone. Go leave me, Thought, that Sleep may fill thy stead I fain would wile her from her starry throne Come Sleep ! Fair Sleep ! mind-soothing, soul-bewitching Sleep ! Come, fair enchantress, I would with thee speak O come, and fan this fever from my cheek : 1 now with Thought no more communion keep ; Be not afraid, fair spirit, to alight ; Thy breath will soothe rne into slumbers deep ; My weary brain hath need of them to night Come Sleep ! Sweet Sleep ! thou'rt sweeter than the breath of May ; Her dew is not so sweet as thou, nor are The moorland zephyrs, coming from afar, 240 TO SLEEP. Sucking the breath of wildflowers by the way. Thou art so pure we cannot see thy form ; And thou art softer than the moonlight-ray : Thou gladd'st the soul, as Cynthia doth a storm Come Sleep ! Loved Sleep ! methinks I feel thee o'er me hover, Thy seraph wings expanding to descend : They fan me now, their balmy wavings blend Along my brow ; strange elf-light things come over My fancied sight : now thought's unmeaning tram Runs through my mind ; and, like a spell-bound lover, I am enslaved with a bewitching chain Loved Sleep ! . Deep Sleep ! now thou art sitting on my breast ; Mine eyes thou'st seal'd with kisses sweet, and they Have stolen my very senses all away. Xo more my brain, with aching thought oppressed, Beats sore ; for now alike to bliss or woe 'Tis dead : thou'st stretch'd my frame in death-like rest I know not that I am, thou'st changed me so Deep Sleep! Strange Sleep ! thy first, fond, warm embrace is o'er, And thou art but a flimsy tissue now : Thou'rt flitting o'er my breast and round my brow A fairy thing ! And, like the sounding shore, TO SLEEP. 241 Afar, far off, a noise comes in my ear : I sleep, and yet I know it ; and the lore That haunts my brain, seems truth and yet, how queer ! Strange Sleep ! Go, Sleep sweet thing ! I pray thee go away : A faint light streaks my eye-lids and they ope' ; I look far o'er the ocean's endless scope A red rim hems my view and lo ! tis day. Small sleep sufficeth youth, so pray thee go ! My limbs feel strength renew'd, and morning's ray Sheds o'er my heart a light and lively glow Go, Sleep ! Kind Sleep ! thanks for thy much loved companie, Thou sweet, soft-soothing, wonder-working thing ! For thou dost bear me 'neath thy downy wing To youth's dear home, afar in yon countrie, Where love and friendship live, and fireside bliss : And many a joy I taste 'ere thou dost bring Me back again o'er the blue sea's abyss Kind Sleep ! Just Sleep ! thou art the poor man's dearest friend : Wealth cannot buy thee ; and the wealthy man, Restive with rest, is sleepless oft, and wan ; But labouring Poverty thou aye dost tend : And thou o'er virtuous hearts kind watch dost keep; 16 242 TO SLEEP. Thou dost o'er slander'd Innocence descend, But shunn'st its slanderers truth-loving Sleep Just Sleep ! Spirit Sleep ! were I to hear Philosophy Tell what thou art, I would not list the tale ; For thou might'st be a thing of earth too frail The object of our airy thoughts to be. I'll heed not what thou art in Science deep, But take thee as thou art in Poesie Thou darling of the fancy dreamy Sleep ! Spirit Sleep'. AT THE GRAVE OF MARGARET. The waning moon weeps o'erthy grave, dear Margaret ; Night's dewy tears hang on the bending grass. O let me weep my sorrows o'er it too, Though from each grave there come a vapory ghost, To pity my unfledged soul that cannot rise To where in beauty thou, with the free, art soaring ! O, I will worship thee with tears ! with tears I'll ever speak of thee ; for only they Can tell our thoughts of thee. Let no one say That sorrowing is vain it is the dew That falls at evening from our heaven of love. One drop of sorrow heals the troubled heart AT THE GRAVE OF MARGARET. 243 More than a thousand tongues of consolation. Sweet Sorrow, still with thee O let me kneel Beside this peaceful grave, and all alone ! Away all forms of custom, pomp, and show ; And let no outward thing obstruct the flood That gushes from my heart ; but, sunk into A very dungeon of abstracted thought, And with one sole idea in my mind Of the sweet form that here in peace is sleeping, O let me bend a weeping willow o'er it Till, tear by tear, this flesh thaw to the earth, And, thought by thought, my soul steal from its prison, Meeting beyond, in the unseen world of spirit, With thee, beloved, sweet, lost, lovely being ! SELF-SUMMONING. Be it our custom to retire inside The framework of our being, and isolate, Within ourselves, a higher self, to mark The working of the soul's machinery : Thereby the erring wheels touch and adjust, And make our minds in truthful action work. We are as watches, and do ever tend To waver into misbelief and error ; From seconds, brief, unnoticed, on to minutes, And, if not touch'd in time, to hours ; and then 244 SELF-SUMMONING. We have to stop and scour away the rust That, unperceived, corrodes our delicate springs, Wastes our fine work away, unfitting us For thoughts or deeds of any worth or beauty. I am so sceptical, so given to forget, Or unbelieve, things that I once believed ; So prone to err and break good resolutions, That I ever need a summoning of myself. And in these silent summonings I've found There is no safety for our erring souls But a constant living with the Invisible A feeling of God in all we see or hear A heart so full of God that all other light Is shorn, as stars are by the god-like sun, And all the little idols that we worship, Are lost, all lost, in this love of the One, A knowing that, wherever we may go, Whatever may befall us, still is God There with us, and within us, and about us, A Deep Serenity, into whose bosom, In our affliction, we, at any time, May fall and be at peace. O could we keep Such truth before us ever, such close living With our' dear God, 'twere as impossible For us to err as for the constant dial, Whereon the sun time's god notes truthful warninj GO HOME, GO HOME. 245 GO HOME, GO HOME. It is closing hour I will work no more. Now time is my own, since my work is o'er. I hear the laugh of the merry soul, And long to join at the smoking bowl : 1 see the pots of sparkling beer, And long to dip my lips in their foam : But a little song rings in my ear, And its burden is, " Go home, go homer Tis a little song, but full of sense The cream of deep experience. It bothers not with philosophy, And gives no reason how or why. It tells what we know, but seldom note That we never repented of going home ; And with a lark's untiring throat, It sings " Go home, O do go home!" I may not heed that little strain For oft it sings to me in vain : But I ne'er was deaf to its pleading yet, And pass'd untroubled with regret. O would my heart had aye been strong, And shunn'd the snares that o'er us come, And listen'd to the little song, Whose burden is, " Go home, go home ! " 246 Y E THREE VOYCES. Y E THREE VOYCES. Y e glasse was at my lippe, Clere spirit sparkling was ; I was about to sippe When a voyce came from y e glasse :- " And would'st tliou have a rosie nose- A blotched face and vacant eye A shakey frame that feeblie goes A forme and feature alle awry A bodie rack'd with rheumie paine A burnt-up stomach, fever'd brain e A muddie minde that cannot thinke ? Then drinke, drinke, drinke. " Thus spoke y e voyce and fledde, Nor any more did say ; ' But I thought on what it saide, And threw y e glasse away. Y e pipe was in my mouth, Y e first cloude o'er me broke ; I was to blow another, When a voyce came from y e smoke ! Come, this must be a hoaxe ! Then I'll snuffe if I may not smoke ;- But a voyce came from y e boxe ! And thus these voyces spoke : Y E THREE VOYCES. 247 "And would'st thou have a swimmie liedde, A smokie breath and blacken'd tooth ? And would'st thou have thy freshnesse fade, And wrinkle up thy leafe of youthe ? Would'st have thy voyce to lose its tone Thy heavenly note 'a bag-pipe's drone ? If thou would'st thy health's channels choke, Then smoke, smoke, smoke ; Y e pipes of thy sweet musick stuffe, Then snuffe, snuffe, snuffe I" Thus spoke, and fledde they both. Glasse ! pipe ! boxe ! in a day To lose them, was I loath ; Yet I threw them alle away. O would we be alle healthe, alle lightnesse, Alle youthe, alle sweetnesse, freshnesse, bright- nesse Seeing through everythinge, With mindes like y e crystal springe : O would we be just right enoughe Not drinke not smoke not snuffe. Then would our forwarde course To y e right be as naturall As it is, withouten force, For stones downwarde to falle. 248 THE WORLD'S FALSENESS. THE WORLD'S FALSENESS. Had'st thou, O World, aught of a lasting nature ; Did'st taste as sweet as thou art sweet to see : O if thy heart bore out thy outward feature, Then would I live for thee. But thou art false ! thy pleasures leave. us longing ; Our longings, got, are not what we desired : We throng towards things that fade and mock our thronging Shadows that leave us tired ! Arid I am wearied of them ! I have follow'd Earth's vanities too long ; all earth can give, Have tasted; its deep draughts of joy have swallow'd, Yet discontented live ! Its sweetest sweets, half tasted, turn to sour ; E'en lasting sweets bring loathing with their sweet- ness ; Most potent spells of pleasure lose their power Showing their incompleteness. Most treacherous ice is all around ! to which A venturous thought is e'en too great a load ; And all gives way beneath our shivering touch Until we come to God. THE WORLD'S FALSENESS. 249 And even He may be a dream ! Our faith, Our love of Him, our wonder, and our trust, May into air, by the bleak wind of deatlr, Be blown away as dust. Yet in this doubt is there not more reality Than in the most substantial thing of sense ? Not more of truth and heart-sustaining quality Than aught else can dispense ? O nothing is more real ! all beside, Our breath can blow away ; but this it cannot : And, knowing nought so strong in this world wide, O why not rest upon it ! TRUST, IN DESPONDENCY. My being grows to earth, and the quick soul Doth, day by day, grow weaker ; a gross heap Of evil thoughts, impure imaginings, And that thick stupor, of indulgence bred, Weighs on me like a world and keeps me down ; And that which we suppose most free the mind Is choked and buried by gross qualities. No good deed presses through me, no clear thought Wells like a spring within, but all thick, rank, And stagnant as yen puddle, is my brain. 250 TRUST, IN DESPONDENCY. Bad, let alone, grows good and beautiful, And things that we have marr'd and spoil'd grow right, When to the silent Worker of the universe Our meddling hands give place. Yea, even from The refuse and the leavings of the earth, That lie corrupting when the poisonous steam Hath dried into the all-absorbing air, And He hath breathed within do flowers spring, And herbs of rarest virtue. From this time,- I'll add no more to the corrupted mass That is my mind, but let the ferment cease ; And the good Spirit that moves in flowers and herbs, May come into the dark cells of my brain, And pour again the light which they have lost, And with His gentle, unperceived touch, Make that as snow which is as foul as sludge, And that most living which is now most dead. O all unhealthy seems the air I breathe, All cloudy and all hopeless seems my sky ; And I could e'en despair and give all up, But for my certain trust in the good Spirit That righteth all we leave into His hand. FRAGMENTS OF A MEDITATION. 251 FRAGMENTS OF A MEDITATION. I have a clinging to the joys of earth That lowly live within the animal. But there are joys that be not of the earth- Pure things of mind, having no kin to flesh. Two tides are these that o'er the wide world flow, Whose waters are apart, yet seem to mingle. I envy him who can embark on either ; For surely he is happier than I, Whose love so equal is, and so divided, That I'll take neither, neither will take me, But leaves me, like a bark without a pilot, To drift and veer with the humour of the wind. Between two streams there flows a backward current, With eddies and with dimpling pools beset ; Which runs to nowhere, for its ending is A losing of itself. He that is cast On this, is lost to earth and Heaven : such, I know, am I : this shrinking of the soul, This going into nothing tell they not The losing of myself ? Is there no strength in mind, no firm-fix'd rock, That may withstand the opposing floods o' the brain, And turn them as it lists ? Is there no Will ? Can strange upturnings of philosophy Sweep from the mind the natural sense of freedom, Telling we are but tools in the Artist's hand ? FRAGMENTS OF A MEDITATION. And are our souls but rays of the Mightiest, Moved by the one Great- Mind ? We know thee not, Poor soul, nor what, nor whence we are ! And all That priest, or sage, or poet hath said or written, Is, to the unknown and all-knowing God, The babble of a child. What seek we here ? what means this earth ? this body? And where, and what the end to which we hasten ? O flesh ! it cannot be for thee we live ; For all thy joys, desires, and appetites Are counterfeits sweetmeats that tempt our taste, But turn to loathsomeness and disappointment. Thou art of earth, and must to earth go down, Our truest joys are those that need thee not Cool musings in the mind's deep cavern, 'Mid Thought's upbubbling wells, hid from the world ; Or high upsoarings of the heaven-wing'd soul, That now looks up to an infinite height, Imagining it sees a seat of rest, But anon the placid height is under foot, And a higher overhead : thus ever, ever Soaring and seeking finding and wanting more ; And hoping ever, knowing there is more. Let such our joys be ever ; and that life We look for after this, will be ours now ; And death come o'er us like a wakening, That gives strength to the limbs, which, in our dream, Bent under us. WE ARE EVER (JETTING. 253 WE ARE EVER GETTING. Things come into us, and we know not When they come, or how : We know not what's within, nor what We are getting now. O let our eyes be ever open, And our bosoms wide ; Beauty is ever on us laving, Like an incoming tide. A flood of beauty is about us, Pressing to get in, Through cracks and crannies of our senses To the deep cave within. Not to be lost though lost it seem Only to slumber long, And out in after days to stream In gushes of sweet song. 254 THE LIGHT OF STARS. THE LIGHT OF STARS. The soul feels kindred in the light of stars, And draws unto their glory, near and far The big orb'd glow of Jupiter and Mars, To yonder winking, weak-eyed star, That weeps alone in the cold north, A lowly one of neglected worth. And Venus, the queen star, that tempts, at eve, Young hearts to worship in the west, and weave Sweet thoughts into sweet songs, Musing upon the love of woman Fine dream that most belongs To the melting hour of gloamin' : Or when, like spirit rising from the sea, She comes at morn to wake the sleeping earth, And breathes her sweet breath o'er the drowsy lea, While waken'd mountains pant with hope, as forth She comes to tell them of the breaking day, And larks are up and carol in her ray. Good orbs, we cannot love enough your light ! It bathes our gazing eyes till their thick sight Sees God ; and then we know, or dream, Of higher being, closer life-with Him : And seeing you, so silent and serene, O'erwatching us, we wonder what can mean Our earth, our life, our little history, So full of bustle, so unlike to ye. THE LIGHT OF STARS. 255 We who are tied to earth see only part, Which seems confusion : when the unbound heart Gets into higher place, then more is seen : Among the stars, we'll see what earth doth mean. Light draws unto it darkness we are dark, And whilst our eyes draw to the stars, and mark This fascination in the face of night, Our souls draw to a light within star-light. And darkness, drawn to light, grows light ; our eyes, Our souls, grow light ; and all that near them lies Is brought within the lustre of their sphere, Till earth and life grow beautifully clear. NO END. Each step, each strain of the eye Opens out a new horizon ; And every day throws in our way Something new, to grow more wise on. O show me an end to knowing, Where mind hath no new seeing, And then I shall sigh, to think we may die And go utterly out of being ! 256 LET US REJOICE THAT WE ARE POOR. LET US REJOICE THAT WE ARE POOR. Let us rejoice that we are poor, And have no gold to keep : We do not need to bar the door Ere we can go to sleep : Who bars his door doth bar his mind, And shuts it against human-kind ; Even the turning of a key Contracts the mind's humanity. We have no way of getting wealth, And therefore should be glad ; For Mammon-worship might by stealth Creep o'er us if we had : And then our hearts could love no more The beauteous things we love, and o'er Our eyes would grow a golden rust, Till we could nothing see but dust. Gold wonderfully warps the mind ; It strangely shifts the light That things hang in, turns almost blind The pure and natural sight : But naked truth and beauty lie Unfolded to the poor man's eye. Poverty keeps the vision pure : Let us rejoice that we are poor. WE ARE FRUIT TREES ALL. 257 WE ARE FRUIT TREES ALL. O we are fruit trees all, With blossoms cover' d over, Which bloom and make great promise, But fall and come to nothing ! For bleak winds come and shake us, And biting frosts that nip us ; And, worse than all, the canker-worm That of ourselves is born : It hollows the young bud's heart, Though it leave a fair outside. But be our hearts not shaken, Though our fruit be nipt in the bud : There is no end to our blossoming, If we be strong within. Let us think the power is in us If we would put it forth To turn the winds of heaven, To thaw the frosts of earth ; That a gall is in the will, To poison the canker-worm : And thinking, feeling thus, Gives us the power. 17 258 WE ARE FRUIT TREES ALL. But if when all our strength Is used, there still should be Some wishes, aspirations, Beyond our bringing out ; Then are they too fine things To be matured here ; They are as roots and seeds, That will shoot up with the soul, Amid the pure air of Heaven. OUR WEALTH IS WITHIN US. I stood in the market-place, Where busy merchants were ; But sorrow and discontent Arose within my breast. The stream of wealth ran there, And they were as green rushes They that its waters laved ; But where I stood it took a turn, And left me poor and bare. I had no art to bring it near, No kindred wealth to attract ; OUR WEALTH IS WITHIN US. 259 So I stood unwater'd, and the ground About me was so parch'd That vegetation shunn'd me in a circle. In this desertedness my heart gave way ; My existence seem'd to shrivel up, And smoulder into ashes. I felt as an incumbrance, And wish'd myself unborn. But from the smouldering ashes sprang a germ. Expanding into life ; I felt a new creation coming o'er me ; And those around, amid whom I was insignificance, I bounded now ; Their wealth and themselves were mine ; My eyes were turned inward, and I saw The world was in my soul. Fortune is not without us, at a distance ; It is within us, here. And he that chaseth wealth, Chaseth a shadow that escapes him. But let him stand, he finds The shadow was his own, And all that he had follow'd, Flow'd out of himself. Look in, and know the mind is all that is ; And knowing, feeling it is all, Then have ye all. 260 OUR WEALTH IS WITHIN US. I did not dream such wealth Was in the market-place ; But there it is among the wheels of trade : Yet great ones pass it by ; And only we, the friendless, poor, despised, Can truly gather it. LITTLE KATE. A winking, blinking, little thing, Full of deep-eyed witcherie ; Full of artless rollicking, And ever busy as a bee ; Making all the house to ring, She is a very joy to me.: Waking, sleeping, early, late, My heart is full of little Kate ! She fills the house with such sweet noise, That even a sage could not rebuke ; To listen to her silvery voice, I'd lay aside the wisest book ; And when I'd have my soul rejoice, Deep, deep into her eyes I look : I quite forget my day and date, And lose, my self in little Kate ! LITTLE KATE. 261 I hear her voice at break of day, She's waiting for me when I wake ; And ever when I go away, She sobs as if her heart would break. My darling Kate, I cannot stay, Or gladly would I for thy sake : I would the flighty hours would wait, And let me play with little Kate ! Coming home, I catch her tongue Ringing like a little bell, Joyous as a linnet's song, Dulcet as a woodland well : At the door I listen long, Lest my entrance break the spell ; Ah, what a rattling, prattling state Thy heart is in, thou little Kate ! She gives my days a sunny hue ; She keeps me in a world of light : She is to me a honey-dew, That bathes my soul at morn and night, And keeps my life so fresh and new, 'Twill ne'er grow old or suffer blight. She's three, and I am twenty-eight, Yet feel as young as little Kate. Ah ! would that Time might leave us so ! But she'll grow old, and I'll grow strange : Content with loves that round her grow, She seeks not yet a wider range : 262 LITTLE KATE. But years will come, and years will go, And with the changing years she'll change : Then, through the shifting scenes of Fate, I'll look in vain for little Kate ! THE LONELY ISLE. I know an isle in the desert sea, Where many a time I long to be. Like a child in its mother's lap it lies, Basking beneath the tropic skies ; While the fondling waves that round it creep Seem hushing the innocent to sleep : And nothing is there to break its rest ; Only the breeze from the sighing West Comes lifting among its shrubs, and weaves A whispering spirit through its leaves. O never comes summer with its steady breeze And sunny skies, but the deep blue seas Come over my heart, and sweep away All love of this world and our worky day ! And needless seems the work we do When we lose the end we work unto ; I grow idle and dreamy, and long to be Afar on this isle of the desert sea. THE LONELY ISLE. 263 Ah, what a lone desire is this ! No one is there to share the bliss That dwells amid the loneliness ! No living soul hath touch'd its sod- No being there, save our lonely God ! A place where a silent God may brood, Unknown in the ocean's solitude. Great God ! what loneliness to be As Thou art ! O, no one with Thee To speak an equal mind ! Aleme From first and to be aye unknown ! Such loneliness would wither up Our souls, like autumn leaves, and stop The growth that seems to grow to Thee ; And like the autumn leaves we'd be Withdrawn by wearisome decay, And all unnoted waste away ! We are not meant for such a life ; Are born, and must be bred, in strife ; Trusting the end may come to good, Though now so dimly understood. Sleep on, then, in sunshine and calm, Sweet Isle, I would be where I am. 264 THE POET'S THIRST. THE POET'S THIRST. A thirst for immortality ! And could I write one line That after days might not let die, But lisp it when in earth I lie, And call it mine ; Then would I live content to be My life-time in obscurity ; Then would I die content, although All else of me to nothing go. Strange thirst to live in a few words, Yet of it not to know ! To bear the slights that life affords, And all the much-hoped-for rewards Of Heaven forego : All for this unfelt life in death No life to me, but others' breath ! I'll thirst no more, but easy be About this vague futurity. Had we not Shakspeare with us still, This life were little worth : And many a song comes, like a rill, To slake our parched souls when ill With pains of earth. THE POET'S THIRST. 265 Tis good and right to minister To others' wants, and make a stir To push the work of mind along E'en by the cheering of a song. But if t be fame thou singest for, O sing not ; only sing When the full heart is running o'er With Nature's spirit, but no more ; And then thou'lt bring That to the needy earth it needs, As rain or dew to summer meads. God knows when earth wants, and will make A spring from thy soul's cistern break. And if this thirst, at any time, For after-life, in thee Arise, seek not for it in rhyme, Nor any trouble take to climb ; Already we Have that within which shall outlive The longest fame that earth can give : O know, thy soul that fount of thought Shall be when the great name is nought. 266 IF THOU WOULD'ST BE A POET. IF THOU WOULD'ST BE A POET. If thou would'st be a poet, and have a mind For beauty and high thought, and be not blind To the fine haze that floats throughout the earth, And gives to seeming worthless things great worth Not only temp'rate must thou be, and chaste, Keeping from all wild stimulants that waste The inborn strength of the soul thou also must Be in thy heart all honest, true, and just ; Believing that the cheater cheats himself, And loses, though he gain a world of pelf. Alas ! that we should lose our trust in Right, And dream that there is any other light But will mislead us ! Let not such a dream Be thine, dear friend. Put all thy faith in Him That breathes the Right within us evermore : For he that holds it not as his heart's core, Can be no poet truly. Earth to him Is nought but earth, and Heaven far off and dim : The mind-freeing mystery of Earth and Life Is hidden from him, and the jar and strife Of this work-world, to him are what they seem : He never dreams that they are but a dream. This breeze that comes o'er the Atlantic-wave, Brings nought but coolness to him ; and the lave Of ocean up the beach, speaks with no tongue. Nor is he like the poet, ever young ; IF THOU WOULD'ST BE A POET. 267 Loving to bask on sunny banks at noon ; Or wondering at the big, red, rising moon ; Drunk with the glory of her midway sailing, Or sadly, lonely, watching her light failing When struggling with the blue waves of the west. Nothing in Nature can his soul invest With that fine web she weaves for poets' brains : She will have true hearts, free from slavish chains. Let not the world have any hold of thee : Surround it quite. Deal not v/ith cheatery. Think deeply ; briefly speak ; and then ah me ! I would, my friend, I were as thou wilt be. THE COBWEB IN THE SKY. There is a cobweb in the sky, Woven of spirit tether ; Earth and stars are link'd thereby, And all things bound together : Past thoughts run through it, by-gone years Have work'd it full of joys and tears. No thought, once born, can ever die ; Each soul's particular story Runs through this web of mystery, In endless gloom or glory ; And earth, and air, and starry places Are netted o'er with human traces. 268 THE COBWEB IN THE SKY. And thus it is that night and day, The sunshine and the showers, And things that meet us on our way, Give something that is ours : The winter's blast, the summer's breeze, Repeat our own heart's symphonies. OUR NEW-BORN. O heard you not its little voice ? That was Its first earth-cry ah, when may be its last ? Our household echoes, at the unusual noise, Start, and seem all aghast ! Echoes, be not afraid ; it is a voice That soon will be the endearment of our home And ye will take it up as the most choice Reclaimer when I roam. The nooks and corners will take up its grief ; 'Or when it laughs and prattles, so will they ; But all will be so sadly quiet, if Our darling go away ! Come, little stranger stranger be no more, But bide with us, whom thou art come to bless. As we o'er thee, so may'st thou yet watch o'er Our second childishness. OUR NEW-BORN. 269 Let me not hold the thought that any fate Might take us from thee in thy infancy : The World shuns poverty, and poor's thy state Ah ! who would care for thee ? But I'll not fear : upon the lonely hill, The heather bell and daisy grow up wild And O, how beautiful ! Who tends them, will Not leave a helpless child. Thoti'rt come, my darling, to a beauteous earth ; And thou wilt walk in wonder as I do : Fine visions have been with me from my birth : They will be with thee too. THE BLUSTERING NIGHT. The wind burst, like an enemy at night, Into our town, and battled in the streets, While peaceful folks lay stretch'd in wakeful sheets ;- But bolted doors withstood the invader's might. From street to street, in rumbling, roaring din, He madly ran, and batter'd at the gates ; The house-tops scaled, and hurtled down the slates, Push'd at the doors, and clamoured to get in. 270 THE BLUSTERING NIGHT. The window-shutters to the wall he dash'd, Howl'd through the window, rattled on the pane, Rush'd up the entries, hurried back again, Pull'd down the sign-boards, and the street-lamps smash'cl. The town rock'd like a ship, and the alarm Deafen'd the inside ear of all our houses : We could not hear each other for wild noises, And bawl'd aloud, like sailors in a storm. He raked the gables, toppled chimneys down, And had done more, but lo ! the Morning came : Beneath her innocent eye he quail'd in shame, M utter' d a curse or two, and left the town. \Ve heard him, as he pass'd the eastern port, Bully the suburbs. When he reach'd the leas, He tamed in valour to a simple breeze, And whistled o'er the moors in rural sport. THE BLEAK BEGINNING OF NOVEMBER. 271 THE BLEAK BEGINNING OF NOVEMBER. ' When the year fell damp and cold, Long the nights and short the days, And the forest's fallen gold Trodden in the miry ways ; Cloud-drifts trailing on the ridges, Moorland rivers swollen and brown, Lone birds, from the dripping hedges, Seeking shelter near the town : Quite forgotten summer's rays, Closed we round the glowing ember, And deem'd the cosiest of our days The bleak beginning of November. List'ning to the beating storm, And the wind up in the vent Without, so cold within, so warm Hearts so full of deep content : t Reading legends in the ashes, Telling tales that charm and move ; Looking underneath long lashes To devour the eyes we love : Eyes are closed and hearts are still'd ; But 'tis given me to remember The more than summer light that fill'd The bleak beginning of November. THE NIGHT'S UNRULY. THE NIGHT'S UNRULY. The night's unruly, rude, unruly ; It will neither hold nor bind. Every airt has sent a wind ; They grapple as they meet, And pierce the air with shrieks of pain, Worrying the timid rain The rain with pi ashy feet. It is a night of terror, truly, Out there in the street ! Wild beasts in the chimney growling, Spirits wailing in the lock ; We cannot hear the ticking clock Beside us in the room. Our very hearts have ceased to beat, And pause, as if they paused to meet The coming crack of doom. Blithe fire, how the poor night is howlinj. Out there in the gloom ! JOHN FROST. 273 JOHN FROST. The arch-eyed sun stands in the east, amazed To find the earth white-sheeted like a ghost, The russet-mantled earth on which he gazed Last eve, and had no thought of thee, John Frost. How busy thou hast been all night, John Frost ! Thou hast been in the woods, and, with a breath, Still'd all their sway ing limbs : transferred they stand, Stone giants, held by the enchanted death Of Eastern tales: majestically grand The silence they are keeping in the land ! Thou hast been on the hill and in the glen: And garrulous rocks that held a dripping speech, Now dumbly sit, like ancient graybeard men, Peering through rheumy eyes, each into each, Their language quite escaped beyond their reach. Thy mystic foot has been upon the lake : Like a sea monster on dry land, it lies Pow'rless, and wond'ring crowds come round and make A marvel of it, gazing in. its eyes, And walking o'er its back in wild surprise. 18 274 JOHN FROST. Thou hast been in the lanes and quiet nooks, And playing like a breath about the meads, Over the moonbeams. Thou hast set the brooks To winter-music, and bedeck'd the reeds With strings of milk-white coral and crystal beads. Thou hast new-strung the air, John Frost, and things, That had no voice for music, find a note. Most delicate sounds come sweeping, like birds 1 wings, Or on the sea of blue air gently float, Lisping as 'twere the rocking of a boat. The roads across the country seem to speak, And tell us of the carrier's heavy wains, Long miles before they come : a jolt, a creak, Anon the airy sweep of tinkling chains, And still the beat of hoofs on far-off plains. Earth, air, and water have proclaim'd a king ;. We treat him as a knave, and call him Jack Misfortune of a too familiar thing ! A heaven of freshness if we would not lack, We must be born anew, or wander back. Old Habit serves us well ; but we have sold A kingly birthright for it. It has cost Uncounted times its worth of life's best gold The mystery of common things all lost The king, the very god, in thee, John Frost. THE FOG. 275 THE FOG. And is this day, or is it night, That is neither dark nor light ? Day is dead and laid in fog Nothing but the fog we see The fog and our own breath ; Nothing hear but the night watch-dog, That howls in time of death ; A raven croaking in a tree, And a robin in the loaning Weeping out a mournful ditty. All the earth is full of pity : Surely it has ceased to work, It is so deeply hush'd. Yet, hark ! No, no it is the deep sea moaning Nothing from the city ! City, village, upland steading- All are buried in the gloom, Each within a breathing tomb. Alike from outer life are hidden Lowly cot and lordly seat. The garrulous road, the hedge that lay Along the pad, our very fee"t Are spirited away. Wrapt in cloud, on solid land We do not seem to stand ; But in a mazy heaven each man Glides, horizon'd by a span. 276 THE FOG. This is neither day nor night, Call it what we may ; It has lost the spirit Light ; 'Tis but the ghost of Day ! LATE SPRING. Spring is with us by the sun, Yet it has not given us one Little snow-drop to remind us That the flowery days are near : For the winds are blowing chilly. And the firstling of the year Slumbers with the sleeping lily, 'Neath their coverlet, the sere And sodden mortcloth that old Autumn Lay with on her bier. Spring is with us by the date, And Winter cancell'd : yet we wait Balmy fingers to unbind us, Roots and budlets to unfold. But the herald larks are roaming Up the heights of blue and gold : They can see the Spring a-coming- While we shiver in the cold. Hark ! they sing to Him who taught them Notes so sweet and bold. WITHERING LILIES. 277 WITHERING LILIES. And must ye pass away, Yellow waving lilies ? Greener grow the woodland alleys, Greener, greener every day ; Summer's coming up the valleys, Yet ye will not stay ! 1 come at morn and even, This green bank my cushion ; And I worship, in a fashion, From the lilies up to Heaven : God, accept my earnest passion, Be it rudely given ! i I bless the time of flowers, And kneel with each new comer. My heart's a temple all the Summer, Visited through all its hours, Choir 5 d by every little hummer Of the leafy bowers. THE QUESTIONER. THE QUESTIONER. Speak, and tell me, pretty flower. How you get your beauty's dower Tints so delicately fair You in your sunny bosom wear ; Lips so chaste -in form and hue, Eye of most celestial blue ; And this delicious breath that blends So divinely with the air Your very spirit that ascends In a never-ceasing prayer ! Lip so chaste, and breath so sweet Lip and breath have no replying. Living beauty at my feet, In its very beauty dying ! I can only gaze and ponder On an everlasting wonder. List ! it speaks ! Yea, we inherit A spirit-ear it speaks in spirit : " Praise God be joyous for the power Of seeing beauty in a flower, And for the still repeated No Unto thy question, How we grow. THE QUESTIONER. The beasts beside us in the field Know not ouV beauty, neither start Unanswerable thoughts ; we yield No stir of wonder in their heart. And so they die ; but thou shalt not- Even by virtue of the thought Thou see'st can be accomplish'd never. Thou, a questioner for ever Of the still receding Yea, Needs must have eternal day !" TO A SPARROW IN THE CHURCH. Why come within the temple, little preacher, To break the sanctities with noisy bill ? Art here not as a learner, but a teacher ? Speaks Heaven in notes so dissonant and shrill ? We listen to the deeply labour'd sermon, And hearts applaud though heads as many nod Half-comprehend, but nothing well determine : Thy startling chirrup takes us straight to God. For thou from long-strain'd art dost nothing borrow ; The same shrill notes, at first in Eden given, Come through the centuries, making thee, poor sparrow, The more immediate minister of Heaven. 280 LJ-LY. LILY. Little Lily, darling Lily, Lily with the golden hair ! Folks will think me very silly ; But I'll cry, and let them stare Cry, and let them think me silly, Now I journey far from Lily. She is but a tiny maiden, Idly playing on the hearth ; I a man with bosom laden, Laden with the cares of earth. Yet all cares I can unladen, Save one for this little maiden. She is like a hoarded treasure Joy of joys when in our eye ; Out of sight, a fearful pleasure, Lest our winged riches fly. Riches is a sorrow' d pleasure, Absent from my little treasure ! Why should Absence weep for Lily, When in thought we are so near ? Ah ! we only know the silly, Partial meaning of a tear. Tears ! O do not think them silly ; They are crystal'd thoughts of , Lily. THE OLDEN TOWN. 28 1 THE OLDEN TOWN. Tis a town of ancient gables Leaning into narrow streets, Lintels with their chisel'd fables, Rude devices, quaint conceits ; Gardens old, in warm light sunning, And through all a river running. I have stood upon its bridges, While the river surged below ; And I've read its streets, like pages, Fill'd with tales of long ago Mailed men on bloody foray, And the martyr's pyre of glory. But the sweetest thought I cherish, Is the quiet of the town : 1 can let the wild days perish, And forget its old renown Not its sunny gardens sleeping, And the dreamy river creeping ; Nor the spire divinely climbing, The blue heavens like a pray'r, With its deep-toned hammer, timing Drowsy labour, wakeful care ; Nor the sparrow's rustic ditty, Ringing through the quiet city. 2 $2 THE OLDEN TOWN. But you ask me " What about it ? " And in sooth I cannot tell : You are vastly well without it ; Yet with me it is a spell : And I feel rejoiced to give it To the heart that can receive it. FOR THE CENTENARY OF ROBERT BURNS. The world is old ! States, Empires, Kings, Have risen, ruled, and pass'd away ; Yet David harps, and Homer sings, And he of Avon speaks to-day. The living song will still abide ; And when our age is dust in urns, The world, as now, will own, with pride, Its life-long debt to Robert Burns. His touch was universal birth ; He set his native streams to tune ; And every corner of the earth Knows Nith and Lugar, Ayr and Doon. His homes we seek, his haunts we trace, , Wherever thought of him is found ; We follow him from place to place, And all is consecrated ground. FOR THE CENTENARY OF ROBERT BURNS. 283 On things that disregarded lie His look bequeath'd a priceless dower : The trodden daisy caught his eye, And blossom'd an immortal flower. Love's tender throes with him became A sweet religion ; and he poured Such floods of beauty round a name, That all men love whom he adored. The patriot-hero's brows he bound With wreaths, eternal as the sun : The lowly honest man he crown'd ; He made the king and beggar one. For well he knew that Lord, or King, Was but a word. With deeper scan, He made both peer and peasant sing Their highest title still was Man. In " shooting folly as it flew," There never was a deadlier aim ; And even those his satire slew, Are joint partakers of his fame. He lash'd the bigot ; his the creed Embracing all humanity ; A conscience clear in word and deed One Father, God ; and brethren, we. 284 FOR THE CENTENARY OF ROBERT BURNS. And if we blame the sparkling rhymes That made the maddening cup sublime, Think only of the alter'd times, And give the censure to the time. In humour, friendship, pity, worth In themes that change not with the day Broad Nature, felt o'er all the earth His genius holds unmeasur'd sway. Great Prince of song ! to mark thy fame, O for a moment of thy pen ! Twere needless pains- thy living name Is written on the hearts of men. Our gilt makes not thy gold more bright ; But hearts enrich'd would yield returns : A world of homage meets to-night, And every thought breathes ROBERT BURN; THE FOX FAMINE IN AYRSHIRE. 285 THE FOX FAMINE IN AYRSHIRE. [THE EGLINTON Fox-HouNns. A meeting of proprietors in the county, and members of Lord Eglinton's Hunt, was held in the King's Arms here on Tuesday. The Marquis of Ailsa having been called to the chair, the Earl of Eglinton explained the reasons which had induced him to convene the meeting, the chief of which was the diminution of foxes. He knew of 29 litters of wild foxes having been bred in the county, in the parts hunted, and yet only 18 of these had been found, some of them never having been seen after the first time. In these circumstances, he was anxious to consult his friends as to the means of having more foxes, and of ascertaining what became of so many of them. A letter was read from Sir James Fer- guson, M.P., apologising for absence, owing to a business engagement, and suggesting that a committee should be formed for the purpose of inquiring into the matter, and conferring with the proprietors, farmers, &c. A general discussion en- sued as to the reason of the scarcity of foxes, in which Mr. Oswald of Auchincruive took part. He said it rested entirely with the landed proprietors and lessees of shootings, who could always have foxes if they chose to let their keepers know that they must have them ; and he thought it would be nothing short of a disgrace to Ayrshire if, after all Lord Eglinton's liberality in the matter, he were not better supported by the proprietors. It was then resolved to give a dinner at Ayr and one at Kilmarnock (or a ball, if preferred) to the tenantry and occupiers of the farms that the members hunted over, and to provide a similar entertainment to the keepers in charge of the coverts drawn by the hounds. A committee was appointed to carry out these arrangements, and raise subscriptions for the purpose Lord Ailsa heading the list with the sum of 20. 286 THE FOX FAMINE IN AYRSHIRE. The thanks of the meeting having been unanimously tendered to the noble chairman for presiding, the proceedings termi- n ated. Ayr paper. ] The gentlemen of Ayrshire met of late, In solemn convocation, to debate The scarcity of foxes in the shire, And how they might their tenantry inspire To foster Reynard's persecuted race ; So that the ancient glories of the chase Might be revived, and they who own the soil But may not till it find the lordlier toil. The Kennedy, whose fathers ruled of yore From Cree to Doon, came from the Carrick shore, And shed time-honour'd lustre from the Chair. That letter'd knight, Kilkerran, was not there At least in body ; but his written page Spoke on the weighty subject like a sage. There came the doughty squire of Auchincruive, Shrewd in debate, and eloquent to move ; Ready to throw his counsel in the scale When great Montgomerie broach'dthe mournful tale For the Montgomerie, from his sweet domain By Irving's placid stream, came to explain Their lamentable plight. By him 'twas shown That, out of nine-and-twenty litters known, Only eighteen were found ! And all agreed It was a lamentable plight indeed : Of nine-and-twenty litters, eighteen found ! Eleven vanished wholly from the ground ! THE FOX FAMINE IN AYRSHIRE. 287 " Shame, shame!" cried Auchincruive ; "but by my thumb ! We'll have no lack of them in time to come. It rests, my lords and gentlemen, with us ; And little more is left us to discuss. We have our keepers ; let them clearly know That foxes must be had, or keepers go? But some conceived that, in this weaken'd age, The law of kindness seems to be the rage ; And some that, where the lion's valour fails, The fox's sly diplomacy prevails. So that, instead of measures to coerce, They quite agreed to something the reverse : In short to give a dinner or a ball One in Kilmarnock, one in Ayr to all Their keepers, and their tenantry whose bounds Lie in the circuit of the hunted grounds ; A novel plan ; but, with my simple eyes, I cannot see wherein its virtue lies ; Unless, my lords, your foxes to increase, You mean to turn your tenants into geese. And now, my lords and squires, I have a plan, Which I will state as briefly as I can. In all new countries, ere the axe and spade Have come, their wastes and jungles to invade, There's roivth of foxes, wolves, or other species Crafty and fierce as keenest sportsman's wishes. 288 THE FOX FAMINE IN AYRSHIRE. But just as civilisation creeps apace, The wild-beast and the wilderness give place To docile cow, mild sheep, and fertile field, And happy labour with its cosy bield ; To evening books beside the glowing hearth ; Schools, kirks in short, a re-created earth ; Though such as must be tame and common-place, For want of foxes and the headlong chase. Now, would you have the Hunt regain its sway, Reverse, my lords, the order of the day. Discourage agriculture, farmers' clubs ; Let turnpike roads run into ruts and dubs j Treat all improvements as invading foes ; Forbid those annual agricultural shows, And all new-fangled notions about breeding, Rearing of sheep and cattle, housing, feeding : Make foxes' burrows of the parish schools, And have no more half-educated fools : Snub editors, and put the press in fetters ; Crush penny papers and the love of letters, That teach the poor to criticise their betters. That arch reformer, Burns destroy his name, And from that lowly hearth put out the flame Which brings the pilgrim corners of the earth To worship at the shrine that gave him birth Enough itself to scare the fox away, And keep the good old envied Past at bay. Rub from your peasants' brains his songs and sonnets And soon, my lords, they'll cease to cock their bonnets THE FOX FAMINE IN AYRSHIRE. 2ut the gudewife aye spiers for my muckle meal-pock. To be usefu' to her I haud sticks on the fire, Or when, to the milkin', she gangs to the byre, She 11 gi'e me a haud o' the cradle to rock, And for that she's aye guid to my muckle meal-pock. Though my friends a' be gane whar I yet ha'e to gang- And o 1 followin' them now I canna be lang Yet while I am here I will laugh and I'll joke, For I'll aye find a friend in my muckle meal-pock. THE AULD WIFE'S LAMENT FOR. HER COW O, wae's my heart, puir Doddies dead ! A better coo ne'er crapt the mead ; 'Twas a 1 by her I wan my bread O the worthy beastie ! She baited by the green road- side, Or by the burnie's wimplin 1 tide ; Wi' her I didna need to bide O the trusty beastie ! 1IIK AULD WIFE'S LAMENT FOR HER COW. 319 Content wi' thrissle, girse, or thorn, She wadna touch the mester's corn, Hut luit it ripen and be shorn O the thochtfu' beastie ! She never haikit like a hound, But keepit aye on hamely ground, And never needit to be bound O the cannie beastie ! Nae horns had she, nor bell nor hawk, But dark-broon sides and gowden back, Her sonsie wame as white as cauk O the bonnie beastie ! Her milk like yellow cream distill'd, Three times a-day the cog she fill'd, And but a wee while gaed she yell'd O the usefu' beastie ! She was to me baith milk and bread, But, wae's my heart, puir Doddie's dead, And I may lay my weary head Doon aside my beastie ! 320 JEAN. JEAN. The ither day, doon by the burn, Near whar it, wanderin', tak's a turn, I met, neat as a new-made preen, A winsome lass they ca' her Jean. And since my heart first got the knell, I've lo'ed her mair than words can tell : A' ither joys I'd gi'e to ken If Jeanie lo'ed me back again. The burnies they may cease to row, The gowans they may cease to grow, The starns they a' may cease to sheene, Ere I can cease to think o' Jean. O that we were twa streamlets clear, And side by side gin we'd keep near, Until our tracks a turnie taen, And made us twa row into ane ! THE SNUFFIE AULD MAN. 321 THE SNUFFIE AULD MAN. By the cosie fire-side, or the sun-ends o' gavels, The snuffie auld bodie is sure to be seen. Tap, tappin' his snuff-box, he snifters and sneevils, And smachers the snuif frae his mou' to his een. Since tobacco cam' in, and the snuffin' began, There hasna been seen sic a snuffie auld man. Hishaurins are dosen'd, his een sair bedizzen'd, And red round the lids as the gills o' a fish ; His face is a' bladdit, his sark-breest a' smaddit As snuffie a picture as ony could wish. He maks a mere merter o' a' thing he does, Wi' snuff frae his fingers an' draps frae his nose. And wow but his nose is a troublesome member Day and nicht, there's nae end to its snuffie desire j It's wide as the chimlie, it's red as an ember, And has to be fed like a dry whinnie-fire. It's a troublesome member and gi'es him nae peace. Even sleepin', or eatin', or sayin' the grace. The kirk is disturb 'd wi' his hauchin' and sneezin', The dominie stoppit when leadin' the psalm ; The minister, deav'd out o' logic and reason, Pours gall in the lugs that are gapin' for balm. The auld folks look surly, the young chaps jocose, While the bodie himsel' is bambazed wi' his nose. 21 322 THE SNUFFIE AULD MAN. He scrimps the auld wife baithin garnal and caddy He snuffs what wad keep her in comfort and ease Rapce, Lundyfitt, Prince's Mixture, and Taddy, She looks upon them as the warst o' her faes. And we'll ne'er see an end o' her Rooshian war While the auld carl's nose is upheld like a Czar. JOHN AND TIBBIE'S DISPUTE. John Davison and Tibbie, his wife, Sat toastin' their taes ae nicht, When something startit in the fluir, And blinkit by their sicht. " Guidwife," quoth John, " did ye see that moose : Whar sorra was the cat ? " ' A moose ?" " Ay, a moose." "Na, na, Guidman,- It wasna a moose, 'twas a rat." " Ow, ow, Guidwife, to think ye've been Sae lang aboot the hoose, An 1 no to ken a moose frae a rat ! Yon wasna a rat ! 'twas a moose." " I've seen mair mice than you, Guidman An' what think ye o' that ? Sae haud your tongue an' say nae mair I tell ye, it was a rat." JOHN AND TIBBIE'S DISPL i 323 " Me baud my tongue for you, Guidwifc ! I'll be mester o' this hoose I saw't as plain as een could see't, An' I tell ye, it was a moose !" "If your' re the mester o' the hoose, Its I'm the mistress o't ; An' / ken best what's in the hoose Sae I tell ye, it was a rat." " Weel, weel, Guidwife, gae mak' the brose, An' ca' it what ye please." So up she rose, and made the brose, While John sat toastin' his taes. They supit, and supit, and supit the brose, And aye their lips play'd smack ; They supit, and supit, and supit the brose, Till their lugs began to crack. " Sic fules we were to fa' oot, Guidwife, Aboot a moose" " A what ! It's a lee ye tell, an' I say again It wasna a moose, 'twas a rat !" " Wad ye ca' me a leear to my very face ? My faith, but ye craw croose ! I tell ye, Tib, I never will bear 't Twas a moose!"" 'Twas a rat ! " " T\vas u moose ! " 324 JOHN AND TIBBIE'S DISPUTE. Wi' her spoon she strack him ower the pow " Ye dour auld doit, tak' that Gae to your bed ye canker'd sumph 'Twas a rat !" '"Twas a moose !" "'Twas a rat!" She sent the brose caup at his heels, As he hirpled ben the hoose ; Yet he shoved oot his head as he steekit the door, And cried, "'Twas a moose ! 'twas a moose !" But, when the carle was fast asleep, She paid him back for that, And roar'd into his sleepin' lug, " 'Twas a rat ! 'twas a rat ! 'twas a rat ! " The de'il be wi' me if I think It was a beast ava ! Neist mornin', as she sweepit the fluir, She faund wee Johnnie's ba' ! SPUNK JANET'S CURE FOR LOVE. 325 SPUNK JANET'S CURE FOR LOVE. I've vovv'd to forget him again and again ; But vows are as licht as the air is, I trow ; For something within rne aye comes wi' a sten', And dunts on my heart till I gi'e up the vow. I gaed to Spunk Janet, the spaewife, yestreen I've often heard folk o' her wisdom approve :- Quoth she, " It's your fortune you're wantin', I ween ?''- " Na ! Janet," quoth I, " will ye cure me o' love ?" " I'll try it," quoth she ; " say awa' wi' your tale, And tell me the outs and the ins o' it a' ; Does love mak' ye lichtsome', or does't mak' ye wail ? Ye see, lass, I ken it does ane o' thae twa." " Aweel, then, to tell you the truth o' it, Janet, There's sometimes I'm clean overflown' wi' glee, And ither times, woman, I'm no fit to stan' it, Ye'd think I wad greet out the sicht o' my ee." " But then there's the laddie, / never can get him, And here am I ready and willin' to pay, Gin ye'll play some cantrip to mak' me forget him- The thochts o' him deave me by nicht and by day." 326 SPUNK JANET'S CURE FOR LOVE. " 111 e'en try my skill on't," quoth Janet, " I shall, The cost o' my coonsel is but half-a-croon, Hooever. i' the first place, ye ken the Witch- walle. That bonnie clear spring at the end o' the toon : " When the sun frae his bed is beginnin' to teet, Gang ye ilka mornin', blaw weet or blaw wind, And sit by the wallie and dip in your feet, Withoot e'er a thocht o' the lad in your mind. " Do this for a week, and the cure will be wrocht But, mind ye, tak' care o' what comes in your head If e'er it should chance that the /#^be your thocht, Like mist o' the mornin' the cantrip will fade ! " Thus ended Spunk Janet : I paid her the fee ; And by her directions I promised to bide : To-morrow the cantrip begins, I maun be, By the first peep o' day, at the Witch-wallie's side. The cauld o 1 the water I weel may endure ; But then, there's the thocht, it's the warst o' it a' : For if ower the thochts o' my mind I had pow'r, I wadna ha'e needed Spunk Janet ava ! JANNY MERSHALL'S CANDY, o. 327 JANNY MERSHALL'S CANDY, O. TUNE " I'm ower young to marry yet." CHORUS O, Janny Marshall, Janny Marshall, Janny Marshall's candy, O ; I always like to patronize Janny Marshall's candy, O. When going along the Nethergate, There's nought can be so handy, O, As dropping in to get a stick Of Janny Mershall's candy, O. Ye'll get a stick as straight's a rash, A crookit ane, or bandy, O : The grandest treat, for little cash, Is Janny Mershall's candy, O. The ladies fine come in the street, Wi' dresses a' fu' dandy, O ; And weel they like their mou's to weet Wi' Janny Mershall's candy, O. There's no a lass in a' Dundee, Frae modest dame to randy, O, But wha wad want her cup o' tea For Janny Mershall's candy, O. 328 JANNY MERSHALL'S CANDY, o. There's no a loon in a' the toon, A Jeamie, Jock, or Sandy, O, But wha wad want his piece at noon For Janny Mershall's candy, O. When weety winter wi' the hoast, Is like to rive and rend ye, O, The best o' cures, at little cost, Is Janny Mershall's candy, O. Some uses draps o' peppermint To kill the smell o' brandy, O, But, by my shuith, I'm weel content Wi' Janny Mershall's candy, O. Then come awa', baith great and sma', And let your purse attend ye, O And, while ye find a baubee in'd, Buy Janny Mershall's candy, O. WIDOW SALMON'S PRAYER, ON THE APPROACH OF RENT - DAY. Ye open-minded, if it be your will, And if ye ha'e a wee, wee while to spare, O dinna let your hearts be hard and chill, But listen to auld Widow Salmon's prayer. WIDOW SALMON'S PRAYER. 329 Four score o' years I've been a dweller here, And mony ups and mony doons I've seen ; 1 canna weel keep in the gatherin' tear, , As aft I think on what I ance ha'e been. The pomp o' riches never was my share ; But health and strength and happiness were mine; A humble livin' and I socht nae mair Was a' I got frae Providence divine. The mornin's blush but flutters ower the sky ; The early dews but kiss, and leave the lea ; Sae health and youth and happiness did fly, And left me here to fecht wi' povertie. There was a time it ne'er will be again When I was strong and fit to win my bread ; Though willin' yet to work, my strength is gane, And I hae hardly where to lay my head. The howlin' blast around my garret blaws, And awsome shudders nichtly ower me creep ! The eerie wind comes whistlin' through the wa's, And wi' its frichtsome crune disturbs my sleep. My garret barely fends me frae the storm, Yet wi' sma' comforts I am weel content ; But oh, I'll ha'e to leave it at the Term I dinna ha'e the means to pay the rent ! 330 WIDOW SALMON'S PRAYER. Ye feelin' hearted, if it be your will, help me, if ye ha'e a mite to spare ! To meet the term-day it will beat my skill ! The pay in' o' my rent is a' my care ! O help me, while your helpin' is o' use 1 may na trouble you the next term-day ; Soon, soon I'll leave my garret for a hoose Of many mansions, and nae rent to pay ! MY MITHER'S GRAVE. I wander'd out ae simmer's eve, My mither's lanely grave to see : My heart was dowie and did grieve ; The tremblin' tear stood in my e'e. Calm was the nicht no e'en a breath To fan the gowan on the lea ; At ither times I'd ha'e been laith, But on that nicht I'd liked to dee. Although the road was wild and lang, I wander'd on, and wasna' fear'd ; For on that nicht my heart was strong, And bore me to yon auld kirkyard. MY MITHER'S GRAVE. 331 Weel did I ken whereat to look, Near by yon auld, yon stately yew, Where, shelter'd in a lanely nook, The grass was hoary white wi' dew. The auld yew-tree seem'd ghastly mute : I made its droopin' branch my chair, And, calm and saftly, on my flute, Play'd ower my mither's favourite air. Methocht the bended gravestanes rose, The faulded flow'rets open'd wide, As up amang the yew-tree boughs My mither's favourite tune did glide ! JYiat was enough that mournfu' tune Tauld a' the yearnings o' my heart ; It made me think o' lands abune, It made auld recollections start. At length the cushat ceased to coo, And gloamin' faded into gloom ; I mixed my tears amang the dew, And, lajthfu', left my mither's tomb. THE WEE HERD LOON. THE WEE HERD LOON. O that I were the wee herd loon That basks upo' yon sunny lea ! Ilk ither wish I wad lay doon, A laddie herdin' kye to be. I'd lose the little lear' I ha'e, And learn the herdie's simple arts To build a housie 'mang the strae ; To mak' wee neep and tawtie carts ; To mak' a kep o' rashies green, And learn the herdie's gleesome lauch To mak' a rattle for the wean, Or cut a whistle o' the sauch ; To licht a fire upon the muir, That a' the herdies may sit doon ; Or set the whins on bleezin' fire, That a' the herdies may rin roun' ; To plait a whup for drivin' kye, And learn the herdie's sangs to sing, And wi' the herdie's hooin' cry, Gar a' the echoing woodlands ring ; THE WEE HERD LOON. 333 To climb the green-wood trees sae high, And shogin' sit amang the boughs, And watch the birdies flitting bye, Or mark the burnie as it rows ; To mak' wind-mills and water-wheels ; To be ilk thing that's herdie like A wee-thing fear'd o' ghaists and de'ils, Or onie ither uncannie tyke ; Get shoon wi' clampit heels and taes, And five fu' rows o' muckle tackets ; Corduroy and fustian claes, Wi' pouches fu' o' queer nick-nackets. O blithesome are the herdie' s ways ! I had a wee, wee tastin' o' them ; But Time's a flood that never stays A flood that beats mankind to fathom, It wafted me frae herdin' days Ere I was weel begun to know them ! 334 SIGNS O' RAIN. SIGNS O' RAIN. Written when on a Pedestrian Tour with a Friend. Now are we fresh and swank as eels, And fit to walk a score o' miles ; And if the day wad but keep fair, We'd tramp a score o' miles and mair. But worms hae left the grassy sod, And streek themsel's out on the road ; Aud, as they crawl, they seem to say, " My lads, beware o' rain the-day." The far-aff hills cr eep near the toons, And draw their mist-keps ower their croons Near seems the distant lammie's bleat ; Kye snuff the air and winna eat ; The swallows lowly skim the field ; The trees unusual fragrance yield : Hills, trees, kye, lambs, and swallows say, " My lads, beware o' rain the-day. LADY MARGARET. 335 LADY MARGARET. Wild Boreas, wi 1 an eerie crune, Is drivin' ower the hills o' Seidlie ; Loud the thunder roars abune, And rends the air wi' awsome medlie. The lichtnin' loups in ilka glen, The drenchin' clouds are black and drearie. The burn is brawlin' through the den, The far-aff sea moans hoarse and eerie. The lady sits in her lane ha', List'nin' the winds, and deeply sighin' ; A bairnie bonnie lauchin' thing Upon the lady's knee is lyin'. " O but this is a weary nicht For us, my babe, to be alane ! Ohon ! whar may thy daddie be ? Whar may the strife o' war hae gane ? " Twas but yestreen I dream'd a dream An awsome dream nae guid forbodin' : Tartans, dyed wi' purple stream, Lay thickly strew'd upon Culloden." 336 LADY MARGARET. And aye the lady, musing, sits, And aye the tears come in her eye ; When, though the ravings o' the storm, She, startled, hears a feeble cry. " If this be house o' friend or foe, If there be ony ane within, think upon this awfu' nicht, And ope' the door and let me in. " O whether ye be friend or foe, Ye'll let the past forgotten be ; 1 only ask a shelterin' bield, Whar I may close my weary e'e." " Now, wha be ye at my ha' door, When Boreas blaws sae loud and surly ? The Garberlunzie, auld and puir ? Or some auld doited singin' carlie ? " " O let me in ! O let me in ! O let me in, thou kind, kind ladie ! Ah, think ye o' the sleetie rain ! And think ye o' my bluidie plaidie ! " O were I at my ain ha' door, And were I near my ain dear ladie ! I wadna mind how winds should roar, Nor wad I mind my bluidie plaidie." LADY MARGARET. 337 " O wha be ye at my ha' door ? And what can mak' ye mourn sae sairly ? Do you ken aucht o' my guidman ? Or ken ye aucht aboot Prince Charlie ?" Nae answer did the mourner gi'e ! The ladie, list'ning, heard him musin' ; Now faint and low, now loud and hie, In raving words o' dark confusion. And, vow, the ladie's heart was sair, To hear a voice sae sad and waesome ; While faint and fainter grew his moan, "Till it faintly left his weary bosom. Now Lady Margaret has come down, But ah, the broken-hearted ladie ! It was nae Gaberlunzie man, Lay, streekit in a bluidie plaide. "And is it then my ain guidman ! And is it then my bairnie's daddie ! Ah no ! ah no ! it canna be !" Then sank she on his lifeless bodie. 22 338 PEASE BROSE. PEASE BROSE. The mighty earl of Eglinton, With lords and ladies fair, Over his wide domain has gone, To hunt the timid hare. Over the lawns, and across the brooks, And adown the rushy dells ; Through woods that ring with noisy rooks, And along the clanging fells. But a sudden storm o'erran the day As they scour'd an open field ; And fain were they to bend their way To a tenant's lowly bield. As in beneath the sheltering sheds The courtly riders wheel, They come on a group of curly heads Around their mid-day meal. And some remark'd their sun-bleach'd hair, And some their bright blue eyes ; But what the nature of their fare, No lordling could surmise ! Then turn'd they to the earl, each one Not eve"n his earlship knows. " What's that you eat ? " asked Eglinton. They answer him" Pease Brose? PEASE BROSE. 339 " Pease Brose to dinner ! brose alone ! With neither boil nor stew ! But say, what did you breakfast on ? M They answer " Pease Brose too /" " Such food for pigs were better fit ! Yet say, my little men, What kind of supper will you get ?"- " Ou juist Pease Brose again /" " Pease Brose ! and still again Pease Brose ! What does your father do With all the oats and wheat he grows ? Eggs, cheese, and butter too ?" The eldest cries, with half a frown, As down his spoon he throws, " That greedy sinner, Eglinton, Leaves naething but Pease Brose .' " The red broke through the earl's pale face, The blue broke through the day ; He spurr'd his charger to the chase, And swiftly they rode away. But the curly heads coursed in his mind For so the story goes, And ever after that they dined On better than Pease Brose. 340 THE AULD GABERLUNZIE IS DEAD AND AWA.' THE AULD GABERLUNZIE IS DEAD AND AWA' Wild was the e'enin', the wind it was howlin', And, souffin' and snellin', the drift it did blaw ; Doon in the muirland a doggie was yowlin 1 For some weary body owerta'en by the snaw. Sairly we wish'd for the dawn o' the day, And mony a saut tear o' sorrow did fa' ; And mony a heart in the parish was wae, 'Twas the auld Gaberlunzie lay dead in the snaw ! Nae mair shall we feast ower the news o r the clachan, Or hear how the lairds gang wi' lairds to the law ; We'll hear nae mair clashes to set us a-lauchin', The auld Gaberlunzie is dead and awa' ! Nae mair will auld grannie sit crackin' at e'en Wi' the coothie auld carle ayont by the wa', And lauch ower the jokes o' the days that ha'e been, Now the auld Gaberlunzie is dead and awa'! Nae mair will the lasses wha work at the ferm Ken how ither lasses are growin" sae braw ; Or wha's to be married at Martimas term, The auld Gaberlunzie is dead and awa' ! Nae mair will auld grandfaither crack o' the war Wi' the skilly auld bodie, wha ken'd o' it a' ; His heart now is dowie, and heavy, and sair, Since the auld Gaberlunzie is dead and awa'. THE AULD GABERLUNZIE IS DEAD AND AW A'. 341 Nae mair will the laddies hear auld-farrant stories O' ilka auld castle and queer-biggit ha', O' ghaists and o' witches, o' warlocks x and fairies, The auld Gaberlunzie is dead and awa' ! \Vha could hae thocht we shud miss him sae ill ! The parish is no like a parish ava ! Naething to cheer us now ! a' bodie's dull, Since the auld Gaberlunzie is dead and awa' ! THE NICHT I PARTED FRAE MY MAGGIE. dreary was the gloamin' sky The low'rin' clouds were dark and raggie : But duller, drearier was I That nicht I parted frae my Maggie ! 'Twas Sabbath nicht, the kirk was skelt, And we were at the kirk-gate standin' ; 1 ken na how my Maggie felt ; But O, my heart was at the rendin'! Her winsome looks, sae form'd to move, Made on my heart a deep impression ; 1 lang'd to tell her o' my love, But couldna mak' the sweet confession. 3-P THE NICHT I PARTED FRAE MY MAGGIE. We parted, and each hameward gaed : Eerie thochts my brain were hauntin' ; And O ! at hame I couldna bide ; I felt as something were awantin'. Though drearier cam' on the nicht, And though the drizzly rain was fallin', I wander'd out to get a sicht My hinmost sicht o' Maggie's dwellin'. I gazed upo' the windows high ; A streamy licht was frae them shinin' ; Ah, she was in the licht, and I Stood in the dark wet street, repinin'. had I haen the power to tell How love was in my bosom swellin', 1 micht been gazin' on hersel', Instead o' glow'rin' on her dwellin' ! Adieu, adieu, thou bonnie gem ! Fareweel, thou dewy-lippit blossom ! O could I pluck thee frae thy stem, And plant thee here within my bosom ! The parting tears that dim my e'e, Will rattle doon my cheek to-morrow : Yet, were I sure she cared for me, My hope wad soothe my present sorrow ! OUR AIN AULD TOON. 343 OUR AIN AULD TOON. Our ain auld toon ! O, our ain auld toon ! There is magic in thy name, there is music in the soun '! When I lookupo' thy hallans that sae smeeky are and dun When I look upo' thy spires, as they pierce into the air When I look upo' thy winnocks, as they glisten i' the sun There comes a feeling ovver me that I'm hardly fit to bear; And the tear is in my e'e, for the day it has come roun' When I maun turn my back upon our ain auld toon. When I look at the auld steeple, and listen to its bell, That seems an eldritch tale fu' dowie-like to tell ; And when I look alang the clorty crookit streets, And see the artless bairnies, sae frolicksome, at play, There comes a thrill within me, and my heart wi' rapture beats, As I think upo'mybairnhood a short-lived sunnie day; For these were a' my haunts when I was a careless loon, And never had a thocht to leave our ain auld toon. But ah ! we've little skill in the workings o' the mind ; It is fickle at the best, and it changes like the \yind ; The thochts, and the fancies, and the feelings o' the bairn Grow dim and fade awa' as years come o\ver the frame. Our life is like a day, and in its sunnie morn Our wishes are content wi' the pleasures of our hame ; But when the morning's past, and our life is near its noon, We may tak' anither thocht, and leave our ain auld toon. 344 OUR AIN AULD TOON. When I was a wee-bit laddie, and wanton'd ower the lea, The singin' o' the birdie, or the bummin' o' the bee Wad ha'e brocht a charm upon me, and fixed me to the spot, And there I'd stand entranced, wi' the tear into my e'c: And then the torments o' the schule I easily forgot, For the sylvan haunts o' woods and fields were sweeter far to me : And aft on bonnie simmer days I'd liked to play the troon; For the sun-glints seem'd to wile me frac our ain auld toon. But, our ain auld toon, oh I couldna leave ye lang ! Just as far's yon birken wood, and nae farther wad I gang ; Or whar yon bickerin' burnie gaes birlin' doon the brae, And clatters a' the day, as it seems to chase itsel'; Or westward by yon bonnie green at gloamin' wad I gae, When the wavelets come a-wooingto the beach, their love to tell ; Or I'd sclammer up yon hill, and frae its tap look doon Into the very heart of our ain auld toon. But the day is come at last, e'en the very moment's near ; And my friends are on the craig, and the boat is at the pier. I try to hide the tear as it steals into my e'e, And I try to crush the sigh as it rises in my breast ; But to see sae mony friends a' gather'd here for me, Brings waefu' notions ower me, and they winna bide at rest. my head is a' bambazed, and my heart is in a swoon 1 maun confess I'm wae to leave our ain auld toon ! OUR AIN AULD TOON. 345 I left it ance before, and laith I was to part ; For youth's first smile o' love had begun to warm my heart; And though Ileftourainauld toon, my heart was left behind; And my thochts dwelt aye on ane, and I liked to lisp her name ; And, a' the lee-lang day, in love-sick grief I pined ; And at midnicht's dreamy hour my sick heart socht its hame ; But my time was thrown awa', for I couldna settle doon Till I wan back again to our ain auld toon. O love, ye are a bonnie thing when ye are young and new ; Ye saften a' within us, and ye mak' us pure and true ; And ye flush'd ower my young heart sae bonilie the while, Like a smile upo' the face of a bairn when asleep ; Tor like a smile ye gather'd, but ye faded like a smile ! And I ken na why ye faded, since ye were sae pure and deep. Though my hour o' love was lang, yet it left me unco soon ! Now its friendship mak's me wae to leave our ain auld toon. I3ut the boat has left the pier, and she waddles ower the firth, And our ain auld toon to me seems the bonniest spot on earth : My friends seem dearer too, though to me they aye were dear ; And the joys I've haen wi' them come again upo' my mind : How can I do but greet to see them on the pier, As they daunder slowly up, and wave and look behind ? 346 OUR AIN AULD TOON. And when I think on what I've dune, my heart it gi'es a stoun' O, am I no a fule to leave our ain auld toon ? Now we maun leave the boat, for the water we ha'e crost ; And amid the hurry-burry I seem as I were lost : I dinna hear around me the traveller's reproach On some unlucky chields that against his wish ha'e ackit : While I should see my luggage safely carried to the coach, I leay't to ony ane that may ha'e the will to tak' it. Nae guard, nae coachman, do I see, nor hear the trumpet's soun' My heart, my soul is centred in our ain auld toon ! I am mounted on the coach, high upo' the backmost seat; And the crackin' o' the whup, and the gallopin' o' feet, And the soundin' o' the horn, and the birrin' o' the wheels, Tend to alter for a while the tenour o' my mind. We pass by mony a scene, but my heart nae interest feels ; There's just ae scene that /care for, to a' the rest I'm blind ; And at ilk heicht upon the road, I rise and look aroun', Just to get anither sicht of our ain auld toon ! But I shanna see't again, for we're past the hinmost heicht, And e'en the very Law, it has nodded out o' sicht ! I look fu' lang and wistfully upo' yon cloud o' smoke That hovers ower the spot where the dear auld toon doth lie ! O my heart is grite and sair, and I feel as I wad choke ! OUR AIN AULD TOON. 347 I wad greet, but wad be seen, and I fain wad hide the sigh; But I canna keep it in, as I turn and sit me doon, For I canna get ae blink of our ain auld toon ! Our ain auld toon ! O, our ain auld toon ! There is magic in the name, there is music in the soun' ! Though vanish'd from my sight, I can image it in thought, And live again the happy days that I have lived before ; And in my dreams by night I will seek the blessed spot, Though I should wake to sorrowing upon a foreign shore! O the sun may cease to sheene,,and the warld to rin roun 1 ; But I never, never can forget our ain auld toon ! A DREAM-VISIT TO A HAUNT OF MY BOYHOOD. Between Dundee and Invergowrie kirk, There is a lonely spot owergrown wi' brier, Some scranky twigs of ash, and some o' birk, Whar maistly aye the sun is shinin' clear. And, scatter'd round, gray rocks, like ruins, lie They ha'e a grandeur in their very gloom ; Lang wither'd grass shoots upwards, rank and high, Through bristly whins that aften are in bloom. 348 A DREAM-VISIT TO A HAUNT OF MY BOYHOOD. Ah, 'tis a bonnie spot ! I aft gaed there, When Sabbath stillness hung ower all aroim', And no a voice disturb'd the hallow'd air, Except the birdie warblin' ower its tune. There, leanin' on a rock, the hail half day, I eagerly a list'ning ear wad keep, To hear the hollow gurglin' o' the Tay, As 'tween the rocks at intervals she'd creep. Last nicht I wander'd to that lonely scene ; Though 'twas the dead o' nicht, the sky was clear But nicht grew day the orb o' day did sheene And never did a day mair bricht appear ! There was the rock I almost ca'd it mine, Because it was the rock I used to choose And there I sat me doon for auld-lang-syne, A while upon the by-gane days to muse. A* things around me here reflections bring : Here lie the big gray stanes, owergrown wi' fog : There lies the wither'd ash puir broken thing The very tree whareon I used to shog ! And there's \\utfigured stane dim to the sicht I thocht a relic o' some ither days, And pu'd, and pu'd, and pu'd wi' a' my micht, And did, at last, succeed that stane to raise. A DREAM-VISIT TO A HAUNT OF MY BOYHOOD. 349 Beneath, the sod was damp white roots o' grass Wirms in their holes were drawing in their tails Across and slantways glary streaks did pass, That lookit like the slimy marks o' snails. There, stane, just as I left you still ye stand ; And there's the mark o' whar ye lay before : Maybe some grannie, dead, could gi'en, aff hand, Lang screeds 'bout you o' legendary lore. But what's the meanin' o' sae mony birds ? There ne'er was half sae mony on thir braes ! And hark ! I think I hear some whisperin' wirds : " Come let us bear him up," a blackie says. This was the biggest blackie e'er I saw : H ad his neb but been black, as it was red, I'd taen him for some muckle hoodie-craw, He'd funds o' mither-wit in yon big head ! Then did he gi'e his neck a gracefu' bend, And, haupin', came in-ower, no ony shy : " I'll shortly tell," says he, " what we intend ; Auld friend, we're gaun to lift ye to the sky ! ' There will ye get a cloud whereon to rest There will ye get a lyre whereon to play There, on your head, ye'll get a flowery crest. And float about the air the lee-lang day. A DREAM-VISIT TO A HAUNT OF MY BOYHOOD. " And should ye wish to get into the mune, Or ony ither orb, a while to bide ; Sune as the wish comes in your head, as sune Towards the place desired ye'll saftly glide. " And dinna think, because ye canna see, That in the clouds nae earthly beauties are ; There, plenty of our kind, woods, burnies be Than earthly beauties they are bonnier far ! " If ye to wander through the woods incline If rocky dingles should be your desire There's mony a place whereat the twa combine, And send a thousand echoes to the lyre ! " Thus spak' the blackie, and he ended here ; Then maikently and gracefully turn'd round, And noddit to the whins and to the brier, And then I heard a chirpin' kind o' sound. Of ilka singin' bird in Scotia's land, Around about the blackie cam' a pair ; And ilka pair between them had a wand, Whereon they bore me lichtly through the air. But how we landed at our journey's end Is what I winna tak' in hand to say ; For here a darkness round us did extend, And nicht was nicht, and was nae langer day ! MY GRAY SUIT. 351 MY GRAY SUIT. I like my gray suit, its sae coothie, saft, and warm ; It does for ony weather, be it sunshine, be it shour ; In sleety winter-time its the colour o' the storm ; On breezy simmer days its the colour o' the stour. At ony time o' year, on ony kind o' day, I never can be wrang in my suit o' hoddin-gray. I like my gray suit, its sae like the things I like ; It aye seems sae in keepin' wi' the woodlands and the hills ; It seems at hame by loch, and burn, and whinstane-dyke. And looks as ift had grown upon the muirland-fells : The heath-cock sits him still, nor starts out o' my way, Sae friendly do I look in my suit o' hoddin-gray. I like my gray suit, for it looks sae snod and clean : To keep it decent-like, needs neither fyke nor fash : If it tak' on dirt ava, the fient a speck is seen ; It never looks the waur, and never needs a brush. It mayna be sae braw as black or blue ; but they Could never stand the wear sae weel as hoddin-gray. I like my gray suit, though a puirish look it has : The man should be ashamed to borrow frae the coat ; And, seen aricht, our claes and hooses are but glass, For clear een look clean through them its the man inside they note. 35 2 MY GRAY SUIT. Folk needna mind the moty een, whase dust-bedizzen'd ray Sees naething but the puirish look that's in the hoddin-gray. I like my gray suit for reasons monifauld, But maist of a', because my Peggie likes it too : She ca's me "Robin Gray" but keeps awa' the u Auld"- And dauts my shuither kindly when I come to woo. Her heart beams in her een, whilk, sparkling seem to say, " Ah, weel I like to see ye in your suit o' hoddin-gray !" AULD JOHN BROON. Auld John Broon, he's a hunder near ! He says he'll be dead ere the tail o' the year ; But for twa or three years he has said the same, And we ha'e him yet in our cosie hame A snug cottar hoose on the edge o' a muir, Wi' a theekit ruif and an earthen fluir. In the big arm-chair, by the ingle-cheek, He sits a' day amid the blue reek ; His auld broad bonnet upon his croon, And twa-three white locks stragglin' doon : His big auld shune that were made lang syne, Ere his feet and kuits began to crine ; His ribbit stockins o' a purple hue ; His cloutit knee-breeks, his auld coat o' blue, AULD JOHN BROON. 353 Wi' buttons on't like the rising mime Gude sakes! that coat will ne'er gang dune ! The lee-lang day, and aye the auld seat, Wi' his hands on his staff, and his staff 'tween his feet, And his chin on his hand, and his head bent doon, Sunk into himsel', sits Auld John Broon. His words are few ; for he seems to care But little for this warld and a' its gear : It may be his mind is maist part awa' To yon Heaven that will ere lang ha'e it a' : But at times it comes back, wi' a beauteous glow, And ower his auld features seems to flow, Laving them like a limpid stream, While youth comes ower him like a dream. But it flushes awa', as it came, and then He sinks back into himsel' again. And whiles he'll fa' into a dozing sleep, Now licht and fiickery, and now deep, deep ; Then he'll wauken and yawn, fu' aft and wide, And shake his head slowly frae side to side, And mutter strange things into himsel' That to us hae neither head nor tail. The bairns creep stealthily round his chair, And look up wi' a wondersome air Wi' awe-struck e'e, and arch'd e'e-brou, And staunin'-up hair, and gapin' mou'. He looks at them wi' a glitterin' e'e, But ye canna weel tell whether he can see. 23 354 AULD JOHN KROOX. Though little he says, and does naething ava, He is strangely felt by ane and a\ Auld men and bairns are the gods of earth, When ower auld or ower young to utter forth The soul within them ; for we feel A presence that words could not reveal ; And they work mair deeply upon the heart Than a learned man wi' a' his art : A dottle auld carle, or a babbling wean, Into the midst o' yon wise folk ta'en, Wad absorb the thochts of every ane. Had we een that could read, and heads that conk! learn. We shud get deep lessons frae the auld man and bairn. Auld John Broon, he sits at the fire ; Ye wad think he had nae ither desire, But he's neither deaf nor blind outricht, When on his dull hearin', or his dim sicht, The voices and glances o' Nature alicht. On simmer days, when we are a' gane To the field, and he sits dozing alane Wi' nane but the lassie to mind the pat, Tak' care o' the bairns, or the like o' that A sun-glint bursts through the winnock-pane, And fa's ower his feet, and on the hearth-stane ; It warms his heart, and he lifts his een, That glitter as he looks up to the sunshecn : And he harks ! for the laverock's notes on high Come doon like rain-draps fresh frae the sky : AULP JOHN And he hears the croak o' the passing craw, Now harsh, now fading far awu' ; And the clamour o' sparrows comes to his ear ; The keckle o' the hens, and chanticleer, Flappin' his wings and crawin' sae shrill, That he startles the gray rocks, asleep on the hill. Ilk thing bursts out into joyousness \Vha could bide in the hoose on a day like this ': E'en restless grows the auld man there, And he langs to get out into the sweet air : Then wi' his staff and the lassie thegither, I Ic reaches the door, leanin' on her shuither. Ayont the door-cheek is a stane bench, where She lats him cannily doon wi' care. Bathed in sunsheen and balmy air, He seems to enjoy the green earth ance mair, Wakenin' frae out o' his aged swoon, Maist thinkin' himsel' to be. young John Broon ! Were his limbs as they were wont to be, He wad up and dance aboot wi' glee : His 7t////loups up, but his banes keep him doon, And tell him that he is auld John Broon ! Sweet day, ye ha'e dune what naething else can.- Ye ha'e brought back the speerit o' this auld man. But it comes and goes as the weather may be ; He droops or looks up like the flower on the lea. And ower his existence .he has nae power He is guided by the hand that guides the flouvr. 356 AUI.D JOHN KROON. Nae count, nae care, nae pain has he ; He never was ill, and he never will be : And death will come saftly and close his e'e Spirit slip up body lie doon That will be the end of Auld John Broon. EDWARD HOWELL, PRINTER, LIVERPOOL.