L-H 'LATER If^T^ THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES FREDERIC THOMAS BLANCHARD ENDOWMENT FUND UPf^ R ARTHUR ST % \. -^ AOA C Soul be eternal at last !" We learn, with regret, that the whole of the first stanza of " Nathan Xvi. INTRODUCTION and David" has been accidentally omitted from the poem in the pre- sent volume. The omission was occasioned by the severe illness of the Poet when preparing his works for the Press. As the solemnity of the exordium is admhably adapted to mduce a disposition for receiving the profound sensations that the piece is calculated to impress, we deem ourselves happy m being able to quote it here : " Then the glory-crowned King of Creation looked down From His throne in the land of Eternity's sun, And the lightnings that leaped from His day-drinking frown, Danced over the lips of a Heaven-taught one : And the soul of the seer grew a sorrowful thing. And his burning heart heaves on each fiery string, For the lips of ihe Lord to his spirit's ear cling In a language all fearful and proudly their own : Pealing ' Up,' peaUng ' Up,' unto Israel's King, With a crushing curse-bolt in thine every tone ; And the in.spired stood By the guilty of blood, Till the dark future groaned as it frowned on the past, For they met, and each veil from their nakedness cast. As the prophet's eye, crazed, met the fallen one's throne." The august function which Nathan discharges lifts him above all eai-tlily fear. He moves midismayed through the atmosphere of awe that smTounds a royal presence, and holds to the lips of the guilty monarch the chalice of wrath, of which he is the divinely -appointed bearer : " Oh ! the seer little recked all the gloss and the glare Of the gold, of the purple, or chrysolite's sheen. For his heart lay embalmed by the spirit of prayer, And his soul through the odours broke proudly serene ; Yet the Heaven-anointed hath knelt at a throne That is dark with the blood of the lowly and lone." The prophet's agonizing sense of the King's critical perU, should he BtUl indulge a treacherous repose on the very brmk of that steep that overhangs the infernal precipices, finds expression m this moving strain of lamentation : " Oh ! the peace of Jehovah from David hath flown, If he sit by His servant and ope not his ears To the woe and the wail That give life to my tale ; To a crime by each pulse in our nature abhorred ; To a crime that for vengeance, by curse and by sword, Even now at the Holy of Holies appears." INTRODUCTION. XVll. The impassioned spiritual pain, begotten of a God-like tenderness and pity, which, in its deepest anguish, thinks but of saving the creatui'e for whom it suffers, and the measiu'eless woe, inspired by a lively apprehension of the infinite doom upon which the beloved one is rushing, is expressed with a sublimity that has rai-ely been sm'- passed : " And the soul of the seer trembles forth through each tone, As his words had been thoughts steeped for ayes in tears." We refer the reader to the matchless stanzas in which Nathan's parable is rendered with inimitable grace and pathos : and also to those in which the King's inchgnation against the supposed oiJender is powerfully depicted. David's generous rage turns on himself when, by the proi^het's fearless application of the parable, his gi;ilt is brought home to him, and he mourns his sin with a penitential soitow so in- tense, that it restores to his soul the immortal bloom of grace, and renders him worthy to be the exemplar and the inspired minstrel of repentant love. Animated by its spirit, the Eoyal Psalmist becomes for all ages the Apostle of that " Angel of Anguish" (to borrow oiu- Poet's transcendant figure) which revivifies the fallen soul ; which refreshes, enriches, and embellishes it ; which fosters in it the growth of vu'tue, quickens the impulses of grace, and restores verdure and beauty and repose to a spiritual soil that had been withered by the blasts of sin and desolated by the storms of passion ! We earnestly commend to the study of the Beader this exquisite poem, which deserves to live for ever in the hearts and memories of men. It manifests in high perfection those qualities which all great authorities recognise as examples of the sublime in literary production — namely, a grandeur and subUmity of conception ; a pathetic enthusiasm ; an elegant formation and disposal of figures ; a splendid diction ; and a weight and dignity in the composition. Through it alone the world cannot fail to discern in Davis the possession of a most rare genius, devoted, with a conscientious earnestness almost as rare, to the very noblest issues. The value of such a man to his country and his kind is incalculable. If the age of chivalry is gone, Poetry, which is the nurse of chivalry and of every other element of National greatness, still survives amongst us : and therefore the possession of a true Poet, whose works, like those of om- Author, instil the high sensibilities B XVIU. INTRODUCTION that are of the very essence of chivaky, is a blessmg beyond concep- tion. We need never despair of oui" country so long as well-principled Poetry continues to influence the public sentiment : for, not only wUl it animate and cheer our strife for National liberty, but it will even- tually rescue our intellect from the foreign thraldom under which it groans, and oiu" hearts and lives from the gripe of Mammon. But we must keep om'selves practically aware of the fact, that our only chance of realizing these results, as well as of makmg head against the growing influences that threaten us with literary extinction, is by strenuously maintaining and cherishing the genius still existing amongst us. The cultivation of a native literatm-e is om* great safe- guard against the spirit of the age, which is fatal alike to imagination and generous sentiment, and against those foreign influences at variance with our National character, to which our rising intellect is so much exposed. An ill-regulated and universal devotion to petty, selfish and material interests, could not fail to degrade the National intellect and debase the National spirit to such a degree, that it would . become every day less susceptible of poetic influences, and less capable of being stirred by lofty impulses. Poetry, and with it high principle, woidd fade from its character and annals. It would lose all great and commanding ambitions. It would no longer possess the brains to plan, or the energy to execute, daring and extensive enterprises. Its National character and acts would become petty and despicable, and it would speedily sink into eternal contempt ! The decline of Principle produces degeneracy of Taste, and this in turn leads to the final extinction of Genius. The decline of Eoman vigour was coeval with that of Koman virtue, and genius languished as honour and valour faded away. The genius of the Augustan age subsided to the mean level of that of the Lower Empire, in the same way as the diadem of Augustus became degraded to the brow of Augustulus. France was lost the moment she made faith and virtue a national jest by crowning scepticism, mockery and perfidy, in the shape of the incarnate demons of these vices — Voltaire and Eousseau ; and when " Cervantes sneered Spain's chivalry away," there vanished with it that magnanimity of character which made her the mistress of land and sea, as well as the home of sanctity and heroism. But Ireland has been preserved from this vital decay by her Faith and her Poetry, the only possessions that she can call her own, and INTRODUCTION. XIX, which the combined force and fraud of the mightiest and meanest* Empire of modern times could not tear from her grasp ! No ! the unbending spirit has 7iot been broken, notwithstanding the lament of our great National Bard ; and it is her determination to stand erect, in the still subsisting struggle of ages for Faith and Freedom — a struggle unique in human annals — a stiaiggle the most splendid ever maintained against tremendous odds. And this deathless devotion to Faith and Poesy has preserved her National spirit immutable and intact ! " National Poetry," says our Author's great namesake and twin-brother of the muse— the ' Minstrel of Mallow' — "is the very flowering of the soul, the greatest evidence of its health, the greatest excellence of its beauty. Its melody is balsam to the senses. It presents the most dramatic events, the largest characters, the most impressive scenes and the deepest passions, in the language most familiar to us. It magnifies and ennobles our hearts, our intellects, our country, and our countrymen ; binds us to the land by its con- densed and gem-like history ; to the future, by example and aspiration. It solaces us in trouble, fires us in action, prompts our mvention, .sheds a grace beyond the power of luxury round our homes ; is the recognised envoy of our mmds among all nations and to all time." Ireland contains an exhaustless fount of inspiration in National Poetry. The poetic character is strongly marked in all piimitive races, as witness the language and music of the Hebrews, Chaldeans, Greeks, Cymri, and especially of the Celtic race, of which Ii-eland, according to Niebuhi- and Mitchelet, is the first-born. Hence, Ireland has been, from time immemorial, a land of Song. Her National life still re- tains and cherishes all the centres and somxes of Poetic impulse ; her gi'eat heart still thi-obs with the music, the pathos and passion, that inspii'ed the heroism and kindled the enthusiasm of our remotest * "England," says Sidney Smith, " seems to have treated Ireland much in the same way as Mrs. Brownrigg treated her apprentice — for which Mrs. Brownrigg is hanged In the first volume of the ' Newgate Calendar.' Upon the whole, we think the apprentice is better off than the Irishman, as Mrs. B. merely stai-ves and beats her, without any attempt to prohibit her from going to any shop, or praying at any Church her apprentice might select, and once or twice, if we remember rightly, Brownrigg appears to have felt some compassion. Not so Old England, who indulges rather in— a steady baseness, uniform brutality, and unrelentiag op- pression." XX. INTRODUCTION ancestors. And thus, as a learned writer who has studied our ancient annals observes, we perceive the existence of a native minstrelsy in Ireland from the landing of the Milesians almost to our own time, in one unbroken wreath of song.* The accomplished excellence of early Irish Poetry attests the high civilization of Ancient Ireland. "It is uo wonder," says Mr. Hayes, " that Ireland should be rich in Poetic records, for in the remotest ages her kings and chieftains were the munificent patrons of literatm-e. They founded colleges for the education of bards, whose time of study was at least seven years." These well authenticated facts will show that Ii'eland was a land of cultm'e and civilization long before the rise of the Eoman power, and many ages before the ancestors of her oppressors and defamers had emerged from barbarism. An Irish Minstrelsy has always subsisted in Ii-eland, and it still retains its original vigour, gi'ace, and power. The spirit and feeling of the nation express themselves to-day in a strain mibroken since the days " When her kings, With the standard of green unfurled, Led the Red Branch Knights to danger." Next to our Faith itself, our Minstrelsy has been the chief vehicle of oui- National spirit, bearing it over the storms of ages — sheltering it amid the clash of nations. It stood by the desert fountain of our National life, poming into the stream the golden vial of inspiration, heroic passion, chivalry, and romance. It animated and cheered om* strife for Liberty. It neutralised the depraving eiJects of foreign vice and fraud, baffled the evil schemes of Enghsh policy, and often compensated, by the victories of the lyr-e, for reverses in the field. It not only nurtured our spirit of sacrifice for Faith and Freedom, but fui'nished channels for transmitting those elements of intellectual * We have sketches of more than two hundred Irish writers, principally poets, from the days of Amergin, the chief bard of the Milesian Colony, down to the beginning of the present century. Their poems are, in many instanes, still extant,^ from the hymns of St. Columb to the Lameatation of M'Laig, the biographer and family bard of Brien Boru; and stUl downwards to the dreamy allegory of the pro- scribed poets of the Penal Days. The stores of native minstrelsy which Ireland possesses, both in the memory of her people and the cabinet of the antiquarian, a;e astonishing, when we consider the characteristics of her history and the condition of her people for the last seven centuries."— Hayes' Ballads of Ireland, INTRODUCTION. XSl. revival, that shall, at no distant day, consecrate and crown our struggle. Her Poetic genius, which is the pulse of Ireland's life, is indestructible, and this fact alone affords sufficient indication of the brilliant and influential futux'e for which the Nation is reserved. This vital energy, this perennial bloom of oiu' country's genius, revealed itself in our days, through the hterature and poetry of " Young Ireland," -with a vivifying power that was capable of " creating a soul under the ribs of death." Our Poet was speedily attracted \vitliin the chai'med circle of that brilliant company, which gave adequate voice to the boitnding enthusiasm kindled by the genius of O'Connell, and noiu'ished by the great and impressive scenes of the National Agi- tation : *' They were a band of brethren, richly graced, With all that most exalts the sons of men — Youth, courage, honour, genius, wit well-placed — When shall we see their parallels again? The very flower and fruitage of their age. Destined for duty's cross or glory's page," Our Author, in a few vivid touches, brings mto our mind the climax of that great National movement which aimed at raising Ireland to the subhsne eminence of a free destiny : " Eemember the proud year forty-three, Ye men of the steel-toned era. Whose full hearts heaved like a hiQ-hemmed sea, Round MuUaghmast and Tara ; When the fiery foam of out-gushing words From leaders, stern and gifted, Broke over your ears like the clash of swords, By conquering bands uplifted 1" The first sparks of Poetic fire struck from our Author's genius reached the pubhc through the medium of that Ulustiious journal, wliich, tliu'ty years ago, revivified om' National spirit, and in which were concentrated the rays of the brightest constellation of genius that ever shed glory roimd a great cause. In its " Poets' Corner" glittered those immortal gems of Song that have since become fixed stars in the firmament of Poesy. " A bright particular star" of that galaxy still, thank God, shines over our land, and its beams will, we trust, help to dispel the delusions hy which our National intellect is fettered and degraded, and, as of old. " Kindle here a living blaze That nothing shall withstand !' XXll. INTRODUCTION His fugitive pieces contributed to that great journal appeared but seldom it is true ; but there was consolation in the fact, that if they resembled angels' visits in their rarity, they resembled them also in their ethereal spleudom-. But the " Lispings" of his muse, which float down to us through the golden haze of the Young Ireland period, have not been pennitted, like the leaves of roses that blossom in a solitude, to ch-ift away and die upon the breeze ; they have been lovingly treasured and woven into a wi'eath that shall be green for ever on the brow of Erin ! Ireland is deeply indebted to Francis Davis for the notes of thrilling melody that he has contributed to the incessant chorus of her National Song. The full force of his poetical talents appears in his National jDieces. All the beauty of description, the richness of inven- tion, the glow of imagination, the tenderness and depth of pathos, ai-e here displayed in the most exquisite harmony of numbers. If it be true that lyi'ical poetry requires the highest degree of inspiration and intellectual development, then Davis, whose genius is essentially lyi'ical, must, on the strength of these effusions, take high rank as a Poet. His descriptions of Ulster scenery are very fine ; but on this part om- limits will not permit us to enter, and we can only direct the notice of the Eeader to then* pictm'esque beauty. The " Minstrel of Mallow" is a strain of lamentation by which a Nation's tears, shed over the early grave of the Warrior Bard of modern Erin, are crystallized by the touch of genius, and made eternal. The effect of this poem is to evoke feelings of a refined and tender pity for the youthful and gifted hero, whose pulse of life the icy hand of death had prematm-ely stilled, and whose mighty spirit passed away, wafted to the " Land of the Chosen" on his country's sighs — an intellectual anguish, insijLred by a true appreciation of those unrivalled attributes so suddenly snatched from his country's cause in a vital crisis in her destiny. His mental and moral endowments are traiisfigmed in gorgeous imagery that dazzle the understanding and captivate the heart. The Poet transfers to all hearts the passionate grief that agitates his own for the loss of " the spirit that is gone" : " Weep, weep for the spirit that, lava-like, rtasliing For music, in might and in. brilliancy flashing, Kushed forth from his lyre so proudly, so fleetly — Ah, who shall e'er strike it or touch it so sweetly ?" INTRODUCTION. XXlll. The removal of such a man at such a time, and under circumstances so tragic and affecting, was an incomparable theme for the poetry of mourning, and the genius of cm- Poet rose to the occasion. The sublime sadness that is breathed in these lines conveys to our hearts the intense feeling of an irreparable bereavement, suffered not only by our Country but by hiimanity itself. We^cannot quit our notice of this undying memorial of departed genius and moral heroism without du-ecting the Header's attention to the magnificent simile, in which is imaged forth the effect of the noble and tempestuous emotions of a lofty and poetic soiil on the frail tenement of clay in which it is " cribbed, cabmed, and confined" : " Look ye ! when o'er Mallow the wild tempest flieth, And o'er the broad blue of the firmament lieth The cloven cloud-temples where slumber the thunder, The spirit they cradled hath rent them asunder ; And thus has the temple of clay that has perished Been rent by the might of the lightnings it cherished. " Had the "Minstrel of Mallow" lived, he would undoubtedly have been the leading spirit of his time. He bore the impress of a threefold greatness — of character, of genius and of action — that would have asserted imperial sway over the minds and passions of men, and would have won the love and allegiance of the Youth of Ii-elaud, whose energies he would have tramed and dhected to the noblest enterjirises. By his high and audacious conception of the mental, moral and material caiiacities and resources of his country ; by his use of the golden glories of her traditions ; by his commanding energies — the enchant- ments of his song — the charm of his eloquence — he would have mfused into them an intolerance of oppression and a spirit of haughty chivalry, that would have been adequate to the achievement of Freedom in the face of an embattled world. The spell of his genius is, in many respects, as mighty to-day as when it caused the heart of Young Ireland to leap with patriotic emotion and martial ardour ; but we miss in these days that bm'ning sensibility — that scorn of National wrong — " that chastity of honour which felt a stain like a wound," which Thomas Davis impressed on his generation. They seem to have faded from om- character in the long series of National humili- ations and disasters through which our people have passed since his day. This degeneracy of National spirit is treated with grinding scorn by our Poet in the " Song of Sacness :" XXIV. INTRODUCTION. "Ye raised a spirit in your might That walked the Isle in eai thless glory, And hurled a light from height to height, Through many a darksome hour before ye. It grew, it rose, till flesh and blood. Your strongest, fiercest, foeman felt it ; But when sublimely great it stood, Ye fluttered round it till it melted." Not only do the works of oiir Author display a rich abundance of fancy and imagery, but they also shew, as we see by these National lyrics — that he is a master of all true poetical beauty. They manifest not merely great imagination and pathetic power ; but also that tragic and heroic grandeiu- — that deep solemnity, engendered by constant meditation on life and man's eternal destiny, with which Davis's life and sentiment are so deejily imbued, and which appear so vividly in all his works ; but especially in his devotional j^ieces. "Kathleen Ban Adah-" teems with romantic and tragic interest, to which the confluence of emotions arising from one's deep sympathy vdth. the patriotism, heroic courage, bold and defiant scorn of a treacherous and dastard foe, manifested by one of the principal figures of the piece, combined with melting ruth for the fate of hapless innocence, tender devotion, and peerless beauty in the other, largely contribute. His Allegories, in which after the manner of the bards of other days, Ireland is personified, afford additional instances of the versatility and opulence of his genius. In these, the Poet invests Erin of the Sorrows with ideal grace and beauty, and excites in us that resistless fascination insphed by the deep tragedy of her long and unflinching martyrdom and her romantic wrongs. Of these, "My Betrothed" and "The Lovely Forsaken "' claim our especial notice, not only by reason of the deep beauty that lies in them and the indwelling grace and tenderness of their spirit, but also of their passionate force and the thrilling power of then- pathos. Of these latter qualities there are many perfect examples to be found in these works of our Author, now (owing to the exertions of a number of Belfast gentlemen devoted to Ii-ish Song) pub- lished for the first time, especially, "The Wonderful One," "The Brother's Grave," " The Light Across the Cloud." Amongst his love sonnets we distinguish those notes of sweetest measure in which "Nannie" is wooed in trembling delicacy and feiwour of feeling. "Flowers" is replete with poetic imagery. We quote the first stanza INTRODUCTION. XXV. of a poem eveiyline of which is beyond encomium, and which deserves to make the pilgi'image of eternity in company with Shelley's " Cloud : " " Flowers that wave through the fringe by the river — Sun-drops of love ! I'd be with vou for ever ; Down where ye gleam, where the breezes have wrangled Flashes of light, by the grasses entangled— Droppings of wings, that round Seraphim quiver — Beautiful things, I'd be with you for ever !" The time has not yet come for forming an estimate, of the true value of the works of Francis Davis ; for, this being the fii'st time that there has been any attempt made to present so many of them in a collective form to the public, no opportunity has been hitherto afforded for considering his Poetry at large. Although the exceeding merit of the poems he has ali-eady published was abimdantly recognised when they appeai'ed, still, it must be admitted that justice can scarcely be done to a part of any great wi-iter's works without having reference to the whole, since eveiy such portion has a value beyond its intrinsic worth, as being part and lot of a great mind and having co-relations with every other part. Moreover, they derive additional interest from the extreme difficulties and discouragements that then- author had to overcome. He was imaided by collegiate edtxcation, or education of any kind, with the exception of the few casual scraps of knowledge picked up in his eai'her yeai-s, and commencing, as is the case with most of us, at the knee of his mother — a wise, loving and, it would appear, most intelligent woman. To her, we are in- foimed, he traces both his love of music and of poetry. By her im- aided teaching he became such a proficient in reading and spelling, that when he first went to school at the age of seven or eight, he was regarded with astonishment. Immediately after entering this his first school in the village of Hillsborough, it became customary, we are told, to call him up to the teacher's desk when visitors appeared, that they might hear his read- ing. Frequently thus was he called upon to read before the then Marquis and Marchioness of Downshire. His school life, however, having closed about the tenth year of his age, his subsequent knowledge was acquired without any teacher, during brief intervals, snatched from labom- at an ill-paid craft. In after years he taught himseK French, and became in a short time that he could read and translate it freely enough. Later on in XXVI. INTRODUCTION. life he essayed, without any teacher, Latiu, Greek and Gaehc ; but the necessities of life always thrust themselves in, sternly forbid- ding any lengthened indulgences in these fascinating studies. Like the gifted and ill-fated Clarence Mangan, the greater por- tion of his life was embittered by the cold neglect or the cynical scorn of a stoney-hearted world, wliich so seldom recognises true excellence, and he was doomed to the grinchng drudgery of a sordid employment. He experienced great vicissitudes and many trials. Now, the honored guest of nobles — for, like Burns, he had "dhinered wi' a lord," and was even petted by Eoyalty itself — anon, the dinnerless and wandering outcast ; to-day, the idol of popular worship ; to-morrow, the starving exile, exposed to the inhumanity of a British manu- facturing town, and " happy to obtain a boUed potato fi'om a passing beggar" — yet never suffered the slightest diminution of that manly independence, not to say antique magnanimity of character — that dehcacy of taste and sentiment — that virtuous and rehgious feeUng, which chgnify his hfe and writings. Most marvellous it is, that he should produce works of such high excellence under the pressm-e of so much difiiculty — Poetry " wliich," as one of his reviewers observes, " is rich hi thought, deep at times as an Artesian weU — thought hterally fathomless, where we might dive for pearls and gems of priceless value, bring up plenty to the surface, and yet never exhaust the supply." Creatmg them, too, in such abundance, that many of his poems as would form a considerable volume have been crushed out of the present iiublication. We must measiu-e Davis not by the greatness he has actually achieved, though this would be a high standard, but by the greatness he was capable of achieviug under more fortunate circumstances. " An edu- cated man," says a great writer of our day, " stands, as it were, in the midst of a boundless arsenal and magazine, filled with aU the weapons and engines which man's skill has been able to devise from the earhest time ; and he works accordingly with a strength bon'owed from all past ages. How different is his state who stands on the outside of that storehouse, and feels that its gates must be stormed or remain for ever shut against him ! His means are the commonest and rudest : the mere work done is no measure of his strength. A dwarf behind his steam-engine may remove moimtains : but no dwarf will hew them down with a pickaxe : and he must be a Titan that hui-ls them abroad ■with hia arms." INTRODUCTION. XXVII. Let us ask ourselves to-day, as Posterity will ask, liow we have served and honoured this man of illustrious genius and heroic life, who has devoted both to our national, mental, and moral elevation? If we feel conscious, as is too truly the case, that we have treated him with ingratitude and neglect, let us now, iii the living present, rectify om* relations towards him. Let us be prompt to rescue from all appre- hension of penury the remnant of a noble life that has been spent in oui" service, and the last of a band of intellectual heroes that has shed undying lusti'e on om- laud. Shame, indelible shame, will be our portion if Francis Davis be permitted to swell the long roll of men of genius who are neglected during life, and, to borrow the fine simile of Lord Lytton, " are aided and honom-ed only when then- sepulchre becomes then- throne." LEAVES WITH LENGTHENED LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. Pages 9, 96, 277, 385 LEAVES FEOM AMONG THE PEOPLE : UNDEB THE SMOKE AND OVER THE DEW. Pages 121-276 LEAVES FROM FIELD AND FOEUM : SHED IN THE STORJIS. Pages 119-250 LEAVES FEOM SACRED SCENES ; OR, SONGS PF THE DESERT. Pages 343-382 LEAVES OF MANY TINTS : CAUGHT AS THEt CAIIE. Pages 399-633 jWiuuie Blair* earlier auti iLater i.ea\)es: OB, ^n Autumn (BailjevinQ, MINNIE BLAIE PART I. ^p^HPiEE sorts of things below did God at first '^£^;;jl Make beautiful — jea,four, when making, made 'j^^S^g He wondrous fair : the trees, the flowers, and, oh ! The human form and face — the last, how oft, Me thinks, a hving glory to behold ! The last, alone, 'twould sometimes seem have changed ! 'Mong trees or flowers but Httle choice have I, So lovely seem they aU. I never look Upon a bush, the meanest shrub or leaf. Or on a daisy at my foot, without Some sth-ring, in the heart, of thanks to Him Who bade them grow, and gave me eyes to see How very fair they are. And days there were, For many, many years, when never looked I on a wayside hedge or bough, when flushed With April's tender green, that did not start The minor music of my soul to reach A major key — that did not make my heart Sing out, "I never shall grow old while bush 10 EARLIER AND LATER LEAVES: Or bough my eye can see put ou the green Of Spring!" A pleasant fancy while it lived — 'Tis dead, or conies not now ! And I have walked On ways that wore no r/reen, and sought, within The human face, for light to wake the song That, through my soul, yon hedgerows waked of old ; Nor sought I still in vain. I never looked On human face, however dimmed, or chang'd By things adverse to that idea, pure As grand in the eternal mind, when cold, Dead matter first took living form, without Perceiving, through its darking veil, some trait Of that whereof are angels made . I've looked - On many faces, scathed and seared to strange Unlovliness ; what then ? I cannot see My own, I've sighed, and, trembling, gat me on. And I have looked on faces in the crowd, And ou secluded ways — on faces filled With beauty, as the moon is filled vnth light ; But never looked I yet ou human face To match in lovliness with that of your's, Sweet Minnie Blair — most beauteous Minnie Blair ! This Minnie Blair and I were playmates, once ; We went to school together — often fond Of linking fingers as we trudged, zig-zag. Along. Near neighbours lived we, she and I. A glen, a stream, a hill, and two short fields Where nibbled sheep, were all that lay between Her father's house and mine. We went to school, I've said, and every morning, neat, at nine. We met at Harry's stile — 'twas not arranged Our meeting so ; but silent, secret will, Or custom, one might Idndlier suppose. With both, inclined the one who reached it first To wait upon the other ; thence, along A path — a short-cut through the fields — we strolled, With wondrous waste of walking towards the school. OE, AN AUTUMN GATHERING. 11 Ah, then, how often were we late ! We had, You see, so much grave matter to discuss : She had a world of printed cottons — odds And ends, of finger-length and breadth — which came Of her good mother's work in making robes For rustic belles. Then I, it was presumed, Had such a nice perception as to tint And pattern, and the fitness of this shred Or that, to match the fresh comjDlexion — soon To fade ! — of Minnie's last new doll. For me, I had more marbles far than books, and, then, Was no great judge (which Minnie was) of which 'Twere best to make a taw. Besides all these, Were Minnie's flowers and mine, fresh plucked — a bunch Of daisies each, with, maybe, here and there A sprig of southernwood or thyme. 'Twas strange She ever fancied her's less fair than mine ; And I, my own ne'er half so fair as her's. Though why, wherein or how they diftered, ne'er Could we in words make clearly out ; but still Concluded by a glad exchange. So passed Our mornings, many a morn ; and every one, Too fleet — too soon ; and every one with some Bewildering proof of Minnie's bravery. Why, She should have been a sister of Saint George, If not Saint George himself, who long ago The queer green dragon slew, as stated by My last and most veracious Christmas prize ! Oh, how I longed in those dear days to write A book, like this Saint George, or that Sir Guy ; To tell the wondering peoples, j)ent in town, Our daily dangers, and the powers, sublime. Wherewith my maid of Orleans' brought us through ! Alas ! what age or state for man below, Wherein he shall be free from enemies ? We, also, had our foe ! He lurked about A farmstead on our way, whence, every morn, He scented our approach, and barred our path, 12 EARLIER AND LATER LEAVES: With more methouglit, than many boggles' thh-st For blood. Of course he had the power to come In any shape he chose, for goblins still Had such ; but he, perhaps, from being void Oi fancy, as to form, or, through sovie whim Unknown, was changeless in his shape, and still Appeared, as 'twere, a huge, brown-speckled fowl, Pretending to conduct a flock ; and wore A strange, greased-looking hehn of whitish scales Done faintly up in blue, which often changed To red, and ended in large scarlet flaps That smote his breast. I feared this monster ! Meet Him when I would, it was his wont to spread A mighty fan-like tail, within whose shade KoUed, like a globe, he, in a barbarous tongue — Which Minnie, as it struck me then pronounced " The Turkish " — set himself with foul (or fowl's) Intent, to do us grievous bodily harm ! Oh, happy city life, where goblins live But in our books, or up the chimney, whence We know they cannot come ; while little folks Avoid all clamorous voice ! Our grand-dad's death Had brought us out to heir the farm, where all Was new, and everything was fair, save you Foul gobhn, alias gobbling foivl, and one Grim wolf, I feared to pass, that eyed me still. With head aslant and munching mouth, from 'mongst The sheep. Kind-hearted Minnie ! — how she tried To laugh me from my fears ! 'Twas but a sheep Itself, she said, that had been shorn. I could Not doubt my Minnie's word ; but, oh, whene'er I oped my picture-book, I found 'twixt wolves And sheep without their wool, my judgment, Uke My faith in such queer things being harmless, was But weak, indeed. The picture-book of life, Whereof some darker pages I have conned, OR, AN AUTUMN GATHERING. 13 Has not, I fear, on this grave point of vrolves And sheep, improved my judgment much ; for, far Too oft, my faith — when lovingly enlarged O'er earlier di-eams of hurt — has played me false ; Ah, very false, indeed ! 'Tis hence, I find It wondrous sweet, at times, to turn me from The fair, or goodly-favom-ed Harms I've met In after life, and muse, as now, upon The days when much that looked unlovable Was only so in look. Oh, happy days ! Oh, blessed childhood ! when our fears and griefs, Like structures raised upon the painted palm Of midnight vision, melt and pass before The sense thev've roused to action, gathers light To ascertain their form ! But, wherefore this ? Thus passed the mornings of my long-ago — The morns of Minnie Blair and me, and each Too swift — too bright ! "Why — late? how fast we came !" So often late ! so many things to blame ! And none, when fairly questioued, bearing blame At all ! Hence, we arranged, eve after eve. Next morn should find us there too soon ; but, lo ! Here's still the same. " Ha-ha ! too late ! too late — The morning lessons all are by !" Ah, Sloan ! Ah, jeering, sneering Bobbie Sloan ! How much You love to meet us at the door with that Eternal taunt, " Too late !" I see this Sloan — If meeting not our entrance, at the door — A mighty workman at his desk, where, head Awry, he wields a snoring pen along The sheet, he maketh aught but milky, while His fitful mouth, now closed, now open all Its width, as if that ductile feature caught Its form and wriggle from each hook and crook. And mighty, 0, he wrote ! I see him — hush ! 14 EARLIER AND LATER LEAVES He sees not us — we steal so softly — nay, Not he ! I see him, busiest boy in school ; But ever do I hear — as if his pen, In honest haste, had shaped a s)iore, beyond Its usual depth, to words — " Too late, again. Bill Shaw and Minnie Blair !" And now I see The kind old master, cane in hand, his eyes Kaised o'er his glasses, and his form — that long, Thin form, so hidden in the ample, nay, The empty folds of his unchanging coat — His one immortal grey ! — thrown back on that Low chau'. I see what then I did not see So well as since, that spark of gentler soul — Of brighter nature — which, betwixt his eyes — Eefusing to be all a frown, became So oft a smile. This struggle of his dark And bright, gone by, it was his wont to don The grand heroics of his wrath : " A-ha ! " Come up, you pair of ramblers — triflers — ^jouks " From school at lesson time ! I tell you what — " Hem ! — what it is " 0, most indignant cane, That still forgot thy course in coming down ! — " I'll couple you together, like a pair " Of break-ditch sheep ! I'll cut you up as small, " I wiU, as horses, when, a-ha ! I've time ! " There — for the present— take your seats ; but, mind, " You II mend — a-ha !" We did ; but, not just then ! Brave little Minnie Blair ! Those cuttings- up That were to be, had little power to take The laughter from your rich blue eye, or keep Your ringlets from the winds, or give Your tiny feet a sober motion, when, A while at noon, we romped along the field Which was our "playground" — boys and girls, in one Wild hmiy-burly maze of head and heart ! OR, AX AUTUMN GATHERING. 15 Yet, this wtas oft an hour that made me sad ; And all from that sly, sneering fellow, Sloan — Bob Sloan ! — for not content was he to meet Our morning entrance with " Ha-ha ! Too late !" But on the playground, ever set he to The teazing of poor Minnie, wrapping un In laughter one repeated taunt, " In love ! — "In love — oh, fie, for shame ! oh, tie — Bill Shaw " And Minnie Blair !" Then Minnie used to slink Away and weep, when not in mood to storm Or thrash th' offender, which, to my great joy. She sometimes did with yellow "rag-weeds," till He howled. For Sloan— Bob Sloan, the biggest boy In school — was cowardly as a mouse. I could Have walked beneath his arm, and yet he feared To meet or see me when my face felt warm — At least so fancied I, in those, alas. Not clearly- visioned days at all ! and hence I had a grand contempt for Sloan ! But why Was Minnie grieved at being told she loved. When I felt pride in saying " Yes, she does ! And I love Minnie Blan* ?" But Minnie used To sulk when so I spoke, and straight demand The daisies fastened in my cap, and hand Me those I had exchanged for lier's ; and so, 'Twas pout and pout, with silent walkings home, And all to meet, next morn, still fonder near The stile ! So passed two summers of my life — In love with Minnie Blair ; with Bobbie Sloan At war. Dunce, coward, mischief-making Sloan ! Whose greatest joy seemed working others' woe ; And with a smiling face to those you grieved — I fancied, then, the world had but yourself Could so behave. I've no such fancy now ! Ah, well ! we learn at school — at least, while there, We're where our apter fellows learn — much more 16 EAKLIEB AND LATER LEAVES Thau books contain, or teachers aun to teach ; For wheresoe'er a dozen children meet, There hirks a world in miniature — a world Wherein, through all its tricks and forms, its truths And falsehoods, loves and hates, is played in smalls The mighty game of after life ! The years concede Us no new mental elements ? So he Who with his A-B-C amount of mind. Outwitted is by wits of equal age And lore, may trust to be outwitted through All time ! We parted —Minnie Blair and I — When children, both ; my years were ten, and her's, I think, thirteen. Oh, much and many things I loved in those bright days ! Is't loved ? I am In no wise certain that I hated aught — Not even you goblin fowl, nor munching wolf — Nay, not so much as Bobbie Sloan ! But more Than all things lovely and beloved, I think I loved wee Minnie 131air. Now, wherefore — say, Who may, what may or can be love at ten ] Chaotic feelings, strange, unshaped desires, With just enough of life to chip the shell Of bemg ; thence, look forth— exist, without Or end or aim ! Ye say ! 1 answer not ! But, if ye ask me irhercfore did I love — I say, as even our fathers might have said If questioned ii'luj they loved the girls they made Their wives — " Because I loved" — Why, quite enough ! Eh, well ! ye answer, love at ten will pass ! Perhaps so ; but I did not find it did ! I saw her in the city school, and through The swinking streets in every kindly look That met my own ! And, more — for years on years I shunned to make a female friend who bore Not some faint trace in figure, hair or eyes, Of Minnie Blair ! OR, AN AUTUMN GATHERING. 17 But, time flew on ; and I Who liacl become a wealthy friend's best mau Of business, crossed the seas — the wide, wild, blue Atlantic, though a boy : and went on two Short hours' advice ; nor ever once allowed To have what I so much— so often yearned To have— a peep at yon old home. 'Tis true, It lay a great way off ; and what was said May also have been true ; my feehngs were By "no means stubborn, so that partings which Could be avoided, should. So time went on ; And stOl I had my dreams of Minnie Blair ^! At last, the dear old walls wherein had rocked Mv father's cradle— yea, and grand-dad's too— Wherein I first had learned that life was sweet For other sake than self. Eh, weh ! Those waUs — God bless them, take me in again ! I've talked With all the idols of my home— with those Whose holier claims on one's afl'ection, wave The need of names. I've seen the cattle— praised My brother Tom's new plough, and sister Anne's Young heifer — larr/er than a coic ! — and more, I've helped her to admire the skill and pains Wherewith she reared it all herself. And I, With something in my throat I cannot name. And something" in my eyes that might be named, Have eaten off the cake my mother baked On purpose for my coming. Well— dear hearts ! — I am at home ! I've sat and sipt the cream Black Moylie gathered up the " Whinny Hill," And marvelled, "like a man of judgment," o'er Black Moyhe's parentage. 'Twas told me how And u-hy her grand-dam was a sturk the year I went away, iww (who would think it ?) ten Long summers since. 0, simple, loving hearts ! 18 EARLIER AND LATER LEAVES 0, nobly unsophisticated souls ! 0, luxury of a mother's love ! Behold, I feel, till, if I longer feel that more Than merely human beam that floods my soul With this excess of hght — I know not what ! From thy dear eyes, my mother ! Wheresoe'er I turn or look, they flood, and flood my brain, Till — till — 0, sweetest Saviour ! What must be That love of Thine, when thus with this I'm wrapt — Wrapt — wrapt ! — till all my being seems a- blaze ! Dear Heaven ! I've borne I I bear ! But — but — no more I I sit within a little room that holds A little couch — a little case of drawers : I see my satchel on a pin above ; And yonder hangs my hoop ; and, near the same, My last new kite's old skeleton ! They speak Not ; but they're wondrous eloquent of look ! Sweet things ! what long — what loving tales they teU bo stilly ! Ah, if found they even speech, Methinks 'twould touch me less ! I turn me towards The drawers — I find a top and marbles. Ha ! What's this ? A little parched-up bunch — a bunch Of uhat / I see ! 'Twas daisies, once, with sprigs — Of somethinij ! Southernwood or thyme ! I kiss The trifle, but its scent is gone. Ah, well, ^Ticas there! but, hush ! 1 hear my sister's voice : " She comes — look out !" " Who comes ?" " Why, Minnie Blair !" Then, through that dainty gable window, next The sky, once more I leant me as of old ; And while I drew the ivy round my brow. To see, unseen, she floated up the hill. Without a limb in motion, more, it seemed. Than has the tall white wave of morning mist That scales the mountain side. Ah, Minnie Blair Looked very lovely ! OK, AN AUTUMN GATHERING. 19 So we've met agaiu, This Minnie Blair and I — I, with a halt And scuooJ-boy's liutter on my tongue, and she, With how she'd heard of my arrival — how bhe'd never stayed to di-ess — and, here, she glanced Adown her worsted robe ; and I, on such A form ! 'Twere vain to talk of what we've seen ! I've read yom: bards on human beauty — seen The paintmgs of yom- noblest schools ; but, while I could have worshipped whence such beauties rose, Did 1 not feel and know that they, hke those bweet scents compoimded from a thousand Howers, Were, also, tilings compound — each, but of such Lone hghts as, caught fi'om beauty manifold, J3y some deep-seeing and retentive eye, Become, beneath the ah-obedient hand, A glorious one ! On such, the world bestows That wonder- waking word, " Creation"! W'hat, Deserving grander name than " Grand compound,"' Can be creation of \jhQji)iite mind ? If not such glorious composition, then The fahest tiling depicting human tiesh Is but a copy, cold and dead, of some Fan*, h\iug form and face. But, here behold. In this sweet Minnie Blak — this hfeful ghl — Is more of all the eye admires than song Or canvas ever told ! No artist, I, With ctmning words, to show tlie subtile Hghts And shades, which, changing with each tm-n, filled aU The May-day glory of her han*. I can But say the cloud of curls, on either side ner brow of blue-veined pearl, was yellow, dashed. At turns, with darkest gold ; and that their wreaths. Like those fan- Hakes that sometimes veil the moon, Eeceived a radiance from the face that beamed Between. Yet Minnie's was no rosy face. 20 EAKLIEE AND LATER LEAVES Albeit on either cheek, there died away — Away to nothing, through the general white — A faint — faint tinge of curious red — so faint, And yet so clear, ye might have said such cheek Was breathed on by the lips whose kisses stain The roses — breathed on, only, free from all The depth of more material touch. Her eyes, Ye know, were blue, as said before ; but then Ye could not know, nor I, till met we, thus, How very small a part was hue of their Exceediwj beauty ! Wells oi feeling, deep And bright, were they, wherein the living soul Was almost visible to sense ; but, oh. With such a strangely-seeming depth, a grand Extent of blue and mystic-looking sj^ace. Or distance, stretching in — of space that flashed As strangely bright, or, deep'ning, darked through all Its wondrous blue, with every fitful gush Of light, or graver thought that flitted o'er Her brain, to rush in music from her lips — Ah, Minnie Blair was very lovely ! " How," She said, " how much I've longed to see that face ! But, then, you don't remember, gentle sir, That we were lovers long ago !" And then She smote my brain with silvery laughter till I reeled ; for, lo ! I thought it strange, which was Not strange— her laughter and her words, 'twas clear, Had e(jual meaning — none beyond their mirth ! I could not bear her lightness on a theme That deepened, widened strangely in my heart, With every lifting of her lids. She saw, Gr seemed to see — I may not think of all She must have seen in mg sheep's face !— some chord Undreamt of had been struck, and by her hand. That yielded me unpleasant melody ; But could it be, in aught she saw, her eye OR, AN AUTUMN G'A THEHING. 21 Had seen aright ? I could not guess ! she sat A moment grave, or seeming as if struck With wonder. Then she ralHed — talked of things I had forgotten ; hut of none that I Eemembered — oh, how well ! She changed her tone, And talked of what I had become — so tall ! And really, she must say it, handsome ! more Than all, in business, prospering every day ! I dare not say it did not yield me joy, To hear that songful tongue grow eloquent On my advance ; nor dare I now, though old, Peer too minutely through the misty past. For flowers of feeling, whose flush brightness, then, Not all the sturdy strain of youth had power To keep from giving colour to my brow And cheek. The leaves are seared ; but, ah, the roots Are threaded through my heart — my life ! And old, Indeed, must be the heart whose feelings can Aft'ord to toy amidst its earlier hopes. Or, from the dust of its aflections, slain In youth, erect word-trifles for the eye Or ear ! We talked, this Minnie Blair and I ; And changed our matters of discourse as much Like babes as ever. Talking so, we talked Of books ; but, lo, on this large theme how far Sweet Minnie rose o'er me ! Her words alone Were pictures ; and her thoughts, when uttered, Eaug and shone, as 'twere, like iron facts enclosed In golden fancies. Need I blush to say I brightened in her brightness ? Ay I looked. What I was slow to feel, a man .' — a man, But one whose heart was still a babes ! I asked Of Harry's stile ; then, carelessly enough. Of Bobbie Sloan. Her low, hght laugh was cleft Asunder by the name. One half still played Within my ear ; the other, quivering through 22 EARLIER AND LATER LEAVES. Her neck, o'erspread its snow with scarlet light ! She felt the sickening glory's sudden flush, And sought to veil its lustre, or its cause. By laughter that refused her will, or came As half ashamed. But that stronri will, at length, Kose victor o'er her heart where I, I saw. Had struck a chord, indeed ! "Oh, Bohbie Sloan !— Why, Bob, of course, has grown a man. We thought, You know, that Bob would have been tall — Jiotv tall, His earlier friends were half-afraid to think ! But, no ; he stopt — stopt short, they say, of even The common height — and yet, Bob Sloan is great !" And then she laughed — a sort of school-girl's laiigh, And suddenly became ashamed. In fine, Because she shoived, I saw it all ! And so, This idle dunce — this impish Bobbie Sloan, I almost said aloud, has won the heart Of such a queen, by natui*e, as this here ! Well — shall he keep it ? That's for me to say ! MINNIE BLAIE PART II. O, Summers — royal Summers, long, long passed, But still too well remembered ! — ye that once In perfumed gold and purple, fleeing, seemed As 'twere a train of tripping Eastern queens Who each behind her drew, with charmer's song And gleeful jest, and smiles that sunned the way, Th' enamoured Winter, hke an Ethiop Prince— His darker visage sparkling into light. That almost seemed her own, so brightly burst, Beneath his tread, some seedling gem of thought Or deed, still loveher for the reckless waste _ Wherewith it had been shed ; but loveher still, For that, through every change, the thing had been By young Imagination nursed to flower Of Jwlier feehng— touched, how oft, with tears ! — In memory's grateful soil. Ah, false, false suns ! Ah, false, false summers of our earlier hfe — Whose sunniest touch so seared — consumed— destroyed !- When thus, the power and will, have ye to blast A beauty rarer than their moves amidst The stars — to bhght a bloom of roses such As ne'er, perhaps, ye nursed — not even amongst The bowers of Eden, wherefore is't that when Your aU-deceiving suns, on bright young brows Have changed the floating gold to silver, thin And hfeless — when amongst the thick, dark locks, 24 EARLIER AND LATER LEAVES Of some, whose blackest midnight did, for years, But deepen in your glare — ;ih, when in those, Your moonlit dews have crisped to cold, fixed frosts, Why make ye not our spirits white as well ? Or, if ye do, why, through your bleaching beams, Must, thus, poor weeping memory ever lead Our sighing souls to view the sickening stains ? 'Twas in the moon of love — the month of song And flowers — the minstrel's idol ! — beauteous May, AVhen I, in converse with my conscious soul. The dewy distance 'twixt my dear old home And that of Minnie Blair, wore silently Away. My fancy had been fed with flowers, Throughout the day — with flowers of nobler mind Thau I had much consorted with beyond My books ; hence I, though gloomy, felt a power Around, partaking somewhat of the light Just left — the peerless light of Minnie Blair ! I walked a dreaming walk, but what I dreamt I know not now — perhaps did, scarcelj^ then ! The eve, in kirtle grey, and vest of blue And crimson, stole upon the drowsing heavens — Her breath of perfume showering pearly food. Like manna, 'mongst the camping flowers, and all Through such a dearth of sound, that from the scrog, A The hazel scrog of old bird-nesting days. Far down by Harry's well, the throstle's psalm Kolled up the glen, as if, like rolling snow, It gathered volume on its way, till through The fine blue veins of space that tremblingly Eeceived, the sweet sounds circled like the blood Of life, changed to melodious voice. The eve With me was still a mournful point of time ! Wild thoughts cowered down, or, like the bu'ds, beneath Its graver light retired. My soul put off The outward man, or, from the sobered lights. Or semi-glooms, caught feelings purer — gleams OR, AN AUTUMN GATHERING. 25 Of deeper vision — power to feel, as 'twere, What all may feel, but none may comprehend — Our own relationship with time and space With all that is — that was — that evermore Shall be ! 'Twas often at such times, my wont To take the day in hand, and, with an eye Of microscopic cunning, cou its hours And moments o'er, and sigh or smile as word Or deed throughout had left me cause. That eve, alas ! — and yet, 'tis not the eve, Eetributory, as it was, that should Be mourned, so much as that sad day which makes Its close so well remembered. Bear, oh bear With one whose griefs, perhaps, still more than weight Of years — yet, years not few — may make him weak And garrulous ! This consciousness ! Doth she At times, a double work perform — a work For present thought, whereof she wots, and one For recollection, worked unconsciously ? Howe'er it be, I know that on that eve I took no note of outward things — no note Of beauties here or there ; but know as well My recollection teems with sights, and sounds. And odours, gathered from the lea, which must Have come by consciousness unconsciously ! I see to-night more clearly far than then, The hiU and vale, so green and sea-hke, sparked With daisies, as I've seen the big green sea. With dots of foam, before the tempest dashed Abroad, in songful glory. Through the hours Of bolder beam, the poor old labouring earth Had sweat, 'twould seem, unduly. Hence, it was That those in crimson vest, with cooler veins, Through whom the dying, and repentant sun Gives back earth's stolen fatness, had a wealth Of watery pearls unusual for the wold — 2 26 EARLIER AND LATER LEAVES A wealth that bathed me aulde deep, and gave My after ail a suppositional tinge To suit the colour of my case, for eyes That might not see me through and through. Alas! My recollection, fleeing, as a bird That seeks the rest may ne'er be found, if she For even as 'twere a pause to breathe, alights Upon the close of that frail day, or day Of frailty, 'tis as if a foot were seared — As if their hours, so calmly, brightly winged By Heaven with love and peace and joy, were each Of ii'on, heated seven times, so sick Becomes my heart — my head — my all ; Ay, till the brain that pulses, even now, Like some young startled virgin's breast, beneath Its fragmentary snows, could rave Of childish fancies, as it raved so long — Beginning, shortly from that eve's decline ! How clear, even now, I see the sparks of gold Or blue, or crimson, or the whole combined, That gleamed through every bead of dew that lamped The grassy blade it bowed ! I see — alas ! "What see I not ? — all things that round me were, From yonder tiny, pale, or tinted pearl That trembled or dissolved, as if beneath My glance, to yonder big round sun that, like The eye of God, peered through the shivering green Of beech and sycamore, till each grim thought, Within my soul, grew fairer in its Ught, Or from the fiery presence skulked away. And left me human still 1 0, blessed sun ! 0, blessed glory of that hour ! with what A purifying flame, for me, you smote Yon dear old gable-window, whence so oft I watched for some that none needs watch For now ! Ah, yes, 'tis strange, my spirit seemed OR, AN AUTUMN GATHERING. 27 To be that eve a two-fold thing ! I saw — What saw I not ? And yet I saw to know, But Bobbie Sloan ! I felt— what felt I not ? One feeling in the end : that I had ivronged The lad, and tried to wrong the man ! That day From morn with Bob and Minnie I had spent, As was my wont— for many days had so Been passed since my return ; and I had learned, Full soon — and learned with feelings, far from such As honest soul should feel — how much beneath Compare was I to him, in all that charms The eye of man or icoman — all that meets The calmer sense of deeper-seeing soul, Or wins the homage of a tuneful ear ! His form was manly — scarce so tall as mine. But cast in nobler mould ; and in his face Such simple dignity of soul as turns One's reverence into love, and yet without That reverence wearing less. I never looked On fau-er form of man ! Throughout 'twas built Like something meant to show how she who built Could bu.ild. Then, such a wealth of fancy ! Wliy, His every thought — hke some old tapestry When fairly opened out, and shaken, fold From fold — a living landscape seemed, that shone With strange, bright flowers and grand seraphic forms. And divers abstract goods that moved hke gods Of old, at war with vice and wrong. Again, Those thoughts that flashed and flew, on feelings born, As 'twere, of light and vigour, as on wings, Out-gushed, at times, in music — nature's own ! — Yea, nature's noblest, sweetest song ! and then So artless — honest ! ah, he could have been No other ! feelings when they rush, as his, Hot from the heart, demanding instant form And dress, give heads no time to shape disguise ! 'Twas true, sweet Jklinnie — peerless Minnie Blair, 28 EARLIER AND LATER LEAVES 'Twas true of thee to say, " and yet, Bob Sloan Is great !" lie was ; and I, with all my faults, Was not i:)erverse or false, or vile enough To sneer his greatness all away, although It pained me granting what I did ; and oft In presence of the one we both so loved, I tried to grieve him with my heartless — " Pshaw ! Thy flowers of Fancy are but scentless things ; And 'mongst such honest thoughts as look some more To meaninrj than to sound, or pretty tints, Are seldom worth their room !" Some truth, no doubt. Lurked in the taunt ; but not for sake of truth 1 said it then, my heart was stung ! The dream Of all my days had donned a death's head stare From this Bob Sloan's deserts ! My soul, thank thou The surely special grace, that I no worse — No darklier looked on my exceeding loss Or his vast gain ; for, lost to me I felt She surely was ! That night, beside my couch. By yon old gable-window, ivy-screened, The agonizing truth became more clear ! That eve, about our parting, with a look Half love and half reproach — a mother's look Upon a wayward boy, much more it seemed Than maiden's on a man, in years so near Her equal — Minnie slipt within my hand A folded letter, goodly sized, and said — " For sake of those old school-time loves of ours Read what, in love, I've writ, but 7iot just now. Nor till you're home and all alone, and have The light thereon, made purer by its own Decline, and by yon filtering ivy round The dear old gable-window, as of old. I trust" — She said, and smiled her thoughtful smile, " That it OK, AN AUTUMN GATHEKIXG. 29 May give you more of really seasonal sicects Than yonder bunch of withered daisies, mixed With southernwood and thyme has yielded me/'' Kehuke, I felt, was in the jest — deserved, No doubt ; for I had tried to pain the man She loved ; and in the gift, whereof she spoke, Was? — Well, yv&s folly, doubtless! such, howe'er, As might, I thought, have called for pity more Than blame, at least from Minnie Blair ; she icas So gentle — gentle ? Ah, but icise as well ! Hence, hke a skilful surgeon with a wound, Whose deadly nature needs the firmer hand, She smote at once upon the canker, though She mourned the cause — the weakness shewn ; for I The withered trifle found within my desk Had brought to prove what my child's heart had been, And hint, as well, of what was still the man's ! , 0, Minnie, Minnie — strangest Minnie Blair ! Was that of thine no icoman's heart ? Hadst thou No dainty httle vanities that craved To feed on lover's looks, or on the fame Of being mighty in the world of hearts / Hadst thou — but no ! 0, Minnie, Minnie Blaii- ! Nor wile, nor guile, nor vanity hadst thou ! Such banefiU fruit as grows from lack of thought — From lack of heart, or irorse, its sister bane. The big world's sickly virtue, cast no streak Of shadow where you walked ! 'Twas hence ! the hope She could not bless, she scorned to keep alive ! I read her letter, as desu-ed, " alone !" It dealt, in her peculiar way, with what From me had been a snarl, or three short words In answer to a friendly line, wherein She asked, " What think you, now, of our old friend — Or foe ! — and schoolmate, Bobbie Sloan ?" " He's mad !" I wrote, and signed my name, and sent the sheet. 80 EARLIER AND LATER LEAVES With those three words, like blots, upon its blank — Three carrion birds, that, on a field of snow, Croaked for my doom ! She wrote : — " I give thee thanks, Friend Will, for thy small letter, just received ; And hereby crave, for our old friendship's sake, The privilege of waxing somewhat grand — Of making one. Miss Minnie Blair, to look As she had been a mighty traveller, like Yourself — if not o'er sea and land, as you. At least, o"er ink and paper, where 'twould seem You don't feel quite at home ; or, possibly, Your larger seeings make old friends look small ! 0, thou, our travelled — more, our lynx-eyed friend, Whose deeply -business days and works have made Him, all, it doth appear, so verily An eye, that hearts, themselves, and all therein, Are seen, and measured at a glance — so goes The gossip's tales ! — so also saith, amongst Us, pur-blind rustics, thine own manner, friend ! So strangely prompt, at times, thou seemest to seize The mere complexion of events, and thence, Erect opinions, bowing down thereto, As unto things — not tints or shadows ! — hewn From out the eternal adamant of Truth ; Take note, dear friend, few, in this world of ours Are quite the lynx-eyed creatures some supjpose ; Nor yet, by any means, quite fit to judge Or reason, rightly, on the sudden spur Of moments harnessed for — they tell not tvhat ! I grant to some a quickness to observe ; But must demur to such, as proving power To penetrate—to always see the root Or more, too oft, than flower, or leaf, or rind, Alone ! But men, thou sayest, have brain as well As eyes. Suppose it so ! 'Tis true, those eyes. AN AUTUMN GATHERING. 31 Whose food is light, therewith receive our acts Whereof the brain must be the judge, which brain, A prisoned creature, needs must take its views At secondhand, and con them in the dark .' Hence are effects perceived while yet their cause Is hid ; but, mark ! the quickest eye is oft The most deceitful in its work — and, more, Is oft companion to the slowest brain — While eyes that see but slowly, granting time For what is seen to be digested, oft Transmit, 'twould seem, effect and cause at once ! Such eyes, I fancy, grow in time more fond Of fountains than of streams, and find delight, And even truth, thereafter less in things Than principles. The aggregate of brain, I grant thee, mostly judgeth right at last ; But then, to know its vision final, one Must wait, perhaps, a hundred years — ay, more ! Thou sneerest, methinks— do so ! 'Tis true I dream As yet, but at the outer gate of life. And feel, with certain tremblings of the heart. How swift the stubborn moments thrust me in To know the worst ! Yet I could give thee, friend, A world of proof, illustrated by faults Of vision all my own ! Well — smile away I I'm but a girl. What's that ? A conscious point. Or fragment, of our great world's self ! What then ? Why, this : I. as a girl, have learned how oft Some act — some sohtary act, that stands As lone, as j^^ominent, in some long life, Declaring good or ill, may make the man, By public voice, an angel, or far else. 'Tis wrong! No single act, however grand Or base, can tell the tenor of a life — The tone and disposition of a mind ! The veriest wretch may do a noble deed. And win the crown of our applause — whose best, Howe'er, is not imchanging ! So, again, 32 EARLIER AND LATER LEAVES The noblest heart that ever throbbed May have its frailer pulsings — yea, permit Some treacherous time, or place, or circumstance, To play the traitor with its hopes, and steal The general brightness from else honoured name ! 'Tis imjiulse, not premeditation, gives The real man. This tells what Nature did ; That, but what Art has done. Hence, I, to see My Friend aright, prefer to hurry o'er His large, lone acts, and, looking but to such Small thoughts and deeds — too small for general note- As shoot, like sparks, from out the reckless fire Of his scarce conscious will, peruse the man in smalls. No disposition, here, 'mongst men, If conned with care, would sink or soar beyond The human medium much. The meanest wretch. However mean or vile, is human still ! The germs of good and evil are, I hold, " As such, alike in all — quite one in kind Though differing in degree. My evil may Be larger, friend, than thine ; but in itself The thing is just the same — not any worse ! Or if thou wilt, though both alike in bulk, And in degree of ill, there is a power Withm which one may have, another want — A might that can control the exercise Of evil, though such evil grow no less, Such might may simply be corporeal — Nothing more ! — nothing more than larger growth Of bone and muscle ! ah, believe me, oft Our moral worths or wants arise from but The poor unconscious flesh alone ! How oft The sickly texture of a spinal chord. Or nerves too silken for life's drugget work, Should bear the blame of vacillating heart. Or hand, or voice — of faults, defaulter's self May blame the first, and loathe the very most ! Why, even some grand disturber of our peace — OE, AN AUTUMN GATHERING. 33- A imtioiis peace ! — may lodge, unseen, within The green right side of him, on whose poor head We pom- om- wrath, and swing the weight of all ! Oh ! could we only see u-iihin the shell, Before we praise or blame its outer shape. Or markings in the sand, our praise might change To blame — our blame to pity, till our tears, While kindly medicating where they fall, Might bless, for aye, not one but many souls ! For me, may He, I pray, from whom has come My all of good, vouchsafe to grant me eyes Which, when they look within, more narrowly May scan — which, when they look without, may serve A heart and tongue of Charity ! Again, My thanks for thy small letter ! Let me add, 'Tis sliort for one who hved so lonn, nor yet Is dead in my esteem. Some might regret Such brevity ! JS'oi I ; for that I know How oft the beauty of a truth, like that Of trit is heightened by its shortness. Such, Perhaps, is always so when truth goes down A httle soiu'ish. Hence, kind sir, my thanks. Again, for such kind sparing of your friends And ink ! But, seriously, dear Willie, I, From one so travelled, did expect to have A something new — at least, some newer than The fact that Bob is mad. I never nursed A doubt thereof ! Is't mad / And, wherefore not ? All men, I hold, are mad, or more or less. Each taking from the common ill, a form — As shapen by his idiosyncrasy — Pecuhar to himself, as different trees Take different tints from Autumn which is one! The tone and colour of the mind, as those, In each, have been determined by the parts 34 EARLIER AND LATER LEAVES Material, bulk and quality, and mould, Or manner of arrangement, making all The difference in degree, duration — yea, In all that makes the malady appear, In different men, so oft, a different form Of ail. Whatever striking on the stream Of thought or feeling, starts one tiny wave From out the regular ripple of its course, Or adds to Season's general pulse, beyond Its sum of seventy strokes per minute, such Produces madness — temporary, though It be, it still is madness. Therefore, love, Or hate, or grief, or joy — for where is he Who reasons while he really laiu/hs ? — is each A kin to that which, irresponsibly, Destroys the breathing frame-work of a soul ! Heigh-ho ! Then love is only madness — good ! Is't new ? Go ask old Plato ! Thou, as well As Bob, hast wi'itten verses — doubtless fine. For Bob admires them, whilst thou sneerest at his ! But let me warn thee, friend : there is a class Of Bardic auditors can tolerate And praise such cobweb stuff as they, themselves, Feel able to surpass ; whilst that which soars Away beyond their lowlier powers, they load With reprobation ! Be not thou of those ! This man, to whom I've given my heart — to whom I've promised more — my hand ! — is not the duU Insensate thing thy manner towards him saith Thou dost believe ! But He who gave him heart To feel, us few can feel, hath given him, too. Such power to bear and to forbear, beneath A wrong, as few can know, and fewer still Appreciate ! His soul is girt about With strength as with a robe — with gentleness, As with an atmosphere — now playful, hght And thoughtless as the breeze that scarcely stirs OR, AN AUTUMN GATHERING. 35 One holy curl on his big brow — and now, As earnest as a storm ! This more, he loves His mother — oh, how well ! — is, therefore, sure To deeply love his wife ! Dear friend, be still Our friend ! Permit us still to love as once We loved each other ! Thou hast higher work Than these poor fields afford, and in due time Must meet it. Meet it, like yourself, or like A man that feels that 'tis not what he does, So much as uhy and how 'tis done, creates The right to gratitude or scorn. Farewell ! — K we as friends can meet henceforth, then grant That we be seldom long apart ! Yet I, If such as I might dare to counsel such As thou, would solemnly advise to mix Less yeast with thy esteems. Beheve me, sir, The friendship of immoderate warmth is not The closest keeper of a friend. To be Too fond — confiding over much, or till Your friend's a sort of second self — may lose You whom you love, or win but his contempt ! This world has many hearts could prop my words : 'Tis sad, but true — a way the world has got — We cannot mend it. Let us mend ourselves ! Meanwhile be we as ever, be we friends ! If not, as strangers, let us live and die Wishing each other well — if but for sake Of self! — as when we pray, " Thy kingdom come !" Account me, Will, though seasoned somewhat, still Unchanged, and. As of old, Your MiNNrE Blaie." Unchanged ! — and as of old — a guard — a guide ? And nothing more ! I see it aU ! 0, heart ! — 3G EARLIER AND LATER LEAVES My heart ! — how thou hast fooled thee ! — fooled my life !- My soul, herself ! and all that, holiest, rose u^.a j Therein ! 0, silliest — silliest child '. But still, More silly — yea, more childish man ! Alas ! Yet what am I, that I should hlame — blame whom ? My heart ! — my soul ! — my silly, silly self, Alone ! 0, dearest Minnie, Minnie Blair ! 0, wondrous woman ! — beautiful as true, And true as beautiful art thou ! Sweet Heaven ; Her love for me was such as noble hearts Have ever shown for iveaker things ! And mine ? — Oh, love's a poor logician ! — question not Its what or wherefore ! It was mine — and I ! — 0, Bobbie Sloan ! 0, Minnie, Minnie Blair ! My brain felt hot to madness ; yet I sat Me still by yon old gable-window, like — Ah, who shall tell me what ! Oh, wbo shall tell Me what I said or did throughout that night Of mental, moral gloom ! Oh, who can dream Of what the morn disclosed to eyes that loved So well, the son's — the brother's smile to meet ! ^-^< MINNIE BLAIK PART III. Oh, ye pure si^irits of the once so loved, Who, in your whiteness glorified, now walk Beyond the stars, to you my soul looks forth — Along the moonhght of her dreams, for some Sweet throhhings of those chords, where thought meets thought. Within the Central Mind, spreading, from pole To pole, pulsations of the infinite. And, through our visions, signs of things to be — That so, my inner consciousness may take, Albeit unconsciously from you, some tinge Of thought or feeling. I've a tale to tell. And much require to meet some fairy where, Of old, we used to watch her at the weU, Clothing the naked words of her, from whose Grimed hand she drank, with such a blaze of gems As won sweet speeches from a bitter tongue ; For mine are plain, nude truths, unmeet to shew Amongst their ornate kin, which, marshalled by Some Nature's-own-anointed, don the gold And purple of imperial mind — put on And in, at artist Fancy's touch, such soul As trembles into tears or laughter while We gaze. Ah, that ecstatic vision ! WeU !— We've aU our dreams — whence are they ? Whence are we, No greater mystery than our di-eams ? All have. 88 EARLIEB AND LATER LEAVES I hold, as we, their roots in that unseen Where the Eternal pulseth life through worlds And systems, even as mine along these veins — In that unseen whereto no earthly light Nor heavenly, yet vouchsafed, can lead beyond The dream itself. Yet still we strain and strain, And think we feel a somewhat in the dark, Till, straining on, like one a-tiptoe, lo ! We stumble. Let us even keep to earth — We walk not steadily even there ! Behold, I had a dream, if dreaming still, breathe o'er The electric lines that pass from heart to heart — From world to world ! — that loveliness of soul Whose hght can make earth's plainest faces fair — Can round our darkest shadows into suns ! What more I might enumerate of gifts And graces, here no more, I shall forbear To indi^ddualise ; but even invoke In aggregate the whole ! We smile to-day At invocations. Ah, the bards of Greece, The old, know better ! Thus, with them, whene'er A certain list of attributes would suit The subject of their song, they turned their eyes To some abstraction, holding in itself Abstractions of the goods or ills required, And, studying there, gave closer portraitures. For me, I hold that writing even a line To one we love, if written by the light Of some remembered smile, such line will read By so much smile the better ! Ah, my soul ! Not all the clouds of unpropitious skies, However dense and dark — and many have They been ! — not all the blinding bustle, born Of anxious strivings, through the city's din To still the cry of daily needs, could yield OE, AN AUTUMN GATHERING. 39 Thee power to sliut away, from memory's eye, The faintest smile on one sweet face of yore ! — A face, the fount of all the real grief — The grief / — yea, all the joy as well, that thou, My soul, hast ever known ! 'Twas while I dreamt — Yea, lay and dreamt, a moral, mental wreck — For two long moons, and raved of what I di'eamt, That intervals there were, when, pale and bright, There flashed along the darkness of my dream A brief, swift gleam, as through some midnight cloud A sudden flash of moonlight we've beheld — A flash, no more, tiU all our world was dark Again ! 0, Minnie, Minnie, self-accused ! — 0, nursing angel, gentlest Minnie Blair ! 'Twas thy sweet smile, while knelt thou by my couch, A silent, watching solace, day and night. That welcomed so each brief return of mine To seeming consciousness ! And when the film Of ail from my crazed eyes had passed, and mind — No more the wedding-tent of frenzied whims And maddened fancies — oped its folded doors, And pressed these feet to movements round my couch, How oft — ah, me ! — I've wiled unwilling hmbs To bear me where I loved to sit and ivatch, Through yon old gable-window — not, ah, me ! The glory of the western heavens when all Their tender blue was streaked with curdled gold ! Ah, no ! Nor yet to watch how fast the cloud Of mingled white became a thing so hke. Perhaps the Fiery Pillar — black as doom On Egypt's side ; on Israel's, the light — The guiding glory of the Lord of Hosts ! Ah ! no ; 'twas not to frame such fancies, then, I waited so, and watched, while round my brow Yon draping ivy sheathed itself in flame. Or rose on every breath of bolder ah'. 40 EAKLIER AND LATER LEAVES: A living cloud of deepest green, besparked With trembling fires, like some bright seraph's wing Made sentinel to shield my spirit's calm ! Oh, not for those or these, though doubtless came And went such guileless fancies, sat I so ! — Or morn or eve, I did but watch and wait To see the dear, enquiring angel top Our little hill, as was her wont, to learn The progress of my state ! Oh, how I've hung Upon the dawn of that shy, upward glance And smile, towards where she knew her patient sat ! Behold ! I see her, as she sails, or glides, Up-up, before me, }ioiv, as then — up-up The little pebbly path, that neatly fringed With boxwood, winds its chalky length, along The bright green slope — I see her as she sails — For, even her step has superhuman grace ! — I see her bent to pick a panzy from The clump — perhaps, a daisy here or there ; And yet, 'tis with a dreaming hand that hints, Or seems to say her thoughts are otherwhere — Perhaps, still self-accusing o'er my ail ! And now I see her — suddenly — herself, But still as half-ashamed — look up, and lo ! That face — that smile, replying to my own : It shines as might some eastern window, whence A soul, made perfect, or escaped from flesh, Looks forth, with all the orient blaze of morn Upon its joy ! Alas ! how soon did all So heaven-like shine with different light — the light. It seemed to me, of sorrow — even, at times, Of tears ! A few brief weeks so passed ; and then That face illumed our slim, white-pebbled path No more ! But strength returning, I at length OR, AN AUTUMN GATHERINO. 41 Began to move once more amongst the days ; And list the tinkle which, so all- subdued. Stole, now-and-then, along the hours — at times In sudden sob, or sigh, that made me start, And stare on my sweet sister's face ; at times, Again, that mystic music spoke in words Half mangled — single w^ords that would not Hnk Together, but expired without, for me. One note of meaning, though the whisperer's lij^s Grew oft both fixed and pale beneath the weight Or import of the sounds. My mother's ear, Too, seemed to sicken, or refuse to hst Some airs the gossips breathed — the whole concealed Most studiously from me. Lo ! suddenly, Along the country-side bursts forth a tale. At first in wail, half indistinct, far o'er The slumberous air, hke distant hum and buzz Of migratory bees ; but soon in sharp. Shrill cry, as wdien a night of sable frosts Some sharp wind pierceth — then, in sounds that shook The hills, as 'twere the voice in some lone dell Of mountain cataract : " Poor Minnie Blair ! — Poor Minnie Blair ! — She's gone ! but where, who knows ?" Then explanations, thick and fast, came down Upon each other — this, to fragments dashed ; And that, to foam by each arrival new ! But, as the country's tears grew dry, the eyes And ears of general understanding saw And heard with more of Reason, till, at length The voice of Vague Eeport was hushed by truth — Yea, truth too rugged for the ear to take, Even yet, might one suppose, without some wince Incredulous ! 0, Minnie, Minnie Blair ! And can it be, that thou wast so deceived ? Too true — alas, too true for thee! With all Thv white robed retinue of white souled maids a 42 EARLIER AND LATER LEAVES Attendant, thou thyseK a very moon Amongst those stars, one morn didst stand within The village church, a bride — a bride ; but one, Alas ! whose eyes soon lost their peerless light In rainy mists ; for there thou stood, a bride — A shrinking, cowering, fainting bride, without The bridegroom ! Bobbie Sloan came not ! Too true, How much too true, for thee, was that of thine Tome? " This more : he loves his mother — oh, How well !" 'Twas even as thou saidst ! But, ah ! When loving her so ivell, why dared he e'er Ambition such a love as she, he knew, Had fixed her selfish soul against ? Weak man, And weak— oh, how much weaker mother — she Who saw in human hearts but gold, or dross. And weighed them by the weight of whatso' coin Of proper currency they seemed to bear ! This Wilhelmina Frond, a city maid Hath won the higheet niche in thy esteem, Poor weakling Widow Sloan ! And, having seen. For many years, the big world's easy ways Of winning note and admiration, when The means, employed, their shadows lose within The light of ends expected, she, the free Miss Frond, with some ten thousand pounds, to tell. And all the proved artillery of her arts, Besieged the widow for the widow's son, And won the widow's heart, before the cause Of siege had waked suspicion. Well, in truth, The maid was fair ! The coinage of her brain, Besides, so readily took to words, and had A glitter which, for tinread eyes, looked more Like gold than much of Minnie Blair's, whose wealth OE, AN AUTUMN GATHERING. 43 Of mind lay less in tinselled verbiage than In depth of diamond thought — whose wealth, 'twas known, In other form, were beauty, head and heart ! This Wilhelmina, as I've said, was not A thing had grown amongst the violets. Or sighed to learn the secrets of their scents. Or yet to imitate their down-cast brow. Or modest bearing ; but had proudlier sprung From city parentage. Her father had, In prosperous times, so plied an honest trade, In goods so needful to the crowd, as ham And butter, eggs and cheese, and sundry such, That ere his sun had crossed the hue of years He found himself possessed of means to lead A country life, in ease, 'mongst fruit and flowers. His only child, the maiden named, could sing — Which means she had been taught — could play at cards, Had tried her hand at hearts, but not amongst The nobler, some averred, with much success. Though scarce a spot, to Filch-heaet sacred, knew Not of her name. This Bobbie Sloan, the bard, She may have really loved for his true self. Alone. Queer things, 'tis said, are possible At times ; but 'twas the general voice, she loved The Hght his wondrous gifts had gathered round His name, much more than him — her one grand aim Still being, as 'twas said, where'er she stood To stand and shine— the central point that drew, By any means, distinction and applause ! One thing, at least, was passing clear, she loathed Poor Minnie Blair ! and, holding now, within Her practised hand, the key to that weak heart Of Widow Sloan, she used it, as her love. Or loathing, led the hour. But, Widow Sloan, Before her widow's woes had magnified Her seeming future's wants to bulk so much Beyond all reason, had herself been such 44 EAKLIER AND LATER LEAVES As only could a mother be to such A sou. A meutal eye that pierced beneath All surfaces— a mind that seemed a fount Of thoughts that only wait the form of words To be immortal as our speech, had been, 'Twas said by birth-right, those of Widow Sloan. Ah, this despairing of the good God's hand, In loving guidance and protection, brings A weight of woes so much like madness that Did Heaven not will, in such dark case to make The night be parent to the day, the end Might be a black, black night, indeed ! So froze Or flowed the current of affairs, when she, The free Miss Frond, assumed o'er Widow Sloan And Bobbie's fate the reins of rule. She closed, Within a mother's bann, his visits to the Blairs — He may not go but now and then ; and, when Permitted, but to save appearances ! Alas, what marvel Minnie's eyes, so oft, As rounded she our little hill, met mine As if she wept or had been weeping ! So Went matters on, tiU Bobbie sickened — till. His life despaired of, forced the crazed " I yield— His promise shall be kept !" Too truly proved. The wedding morn — that icas to be ! — how crazed. Indeed, that same consent had been. The morn 'Eose brightly — 'rose and shone, as if the heavens Eejoiced as once on One who rolled away The stone, and sat thereon, where Mary wept Before the sepulchre ! ah, dawns there o'er On earth a morn so bright that no one weeps ? Behold, the bridegroom bard essays to kiss- His mother ere he hasten to the church : O E, AN AUTUMN GATHERING. 45 But while the bride awaits, the widow hangs Upon the bridegroom's knees and weeps, till so The moments flee, he must away ! He's gone ! — Sweet heavens ! a sudden cry pursues him, like The ring of steel dashed through his brain — " Eeturn ! Return in haste ! — Thy mother's dead — or — or — !" MINNIE BLAIE PART IV. Did Minnie write apologies to none But me, for that withdrawal from all love, And that concealment of her hiding place ? I cannot say ! Her three days hid at home, From even her mother's tearful gaze, before Her secret flight were each with suppliant tone Of him so dearly loved made very sad, And even somewhat nauseous to her soul ! At length, the eve of her departure brought The bard this brief reply : " 'Tis well, and I Eejoice to learn thy mother lives. To her Thou owest life, and all the love thou hast To spare from self. For me, I would not be The cause of any tears my sense of right — And of mine honour which is mine by right Of God's bestowal — might, by righteous walk. Avoid. Thy mother's death ? Alas ! I'd much Prefer she'd hear of mine than I of hers Through any silly misplaced love of mine ! For thee, I've but a few words left — they're tliese- Begone ! and know, I'd sling the whitest fame That ever maiden wore or prized, across The common wayside hedge for every daw To peck, before I'd sit upon a throne If I therewith must be your wife and queen. FareweU ! be happy is my earnest prayer !" OE, AN AUTUMN GATHERING. 47 And many days had passed from that strange flight Of hers — ah days of tears and heart -aches long And deep to me — n^hen, lo ! a letter came As to a prudent confident, but who Miist draw not near her hiding place, which was To be but for a little time. She wrote. Confiding thus in me that I might write Two hnes, or whatso' more might tell the state Of her dear mother's health, or how she seemed To bear with what had been. I wrote ! and know Not what besides her mother s health I thought Of when I wrote. An answer came — it ran As this : Oh, no ! I'm wedded now, dear Bill, To disappointment, and I love so well My mate, it is not clear I e'er shall make Another choice. I shall devote whate'er Of life I've left, to soothe whate'er I may Of any disappointments I may meet ! For you, my heart responds to your esteem, Good feelings, or — well ! — call it love ! but then My head demurs to such a love for one So shghted as Fee been. Believe me, it Is not the fruit of healthy manhood such As heart and head of mine conjointly could Admire. 'Tis woman's — ay, or weaker ghl's, Or worse ! Oh cast it ofl', and tread it 'neath Your feet, as I all future loves intend To tread ; yea, aU but two — my God's and what For me, He uili/ I beg herewith to add, By way of postscript, something which, for aught I wot, may add a crooked limb or foot To yon old limping jest which, sneering, saith From ladies' postscripts, oh, preserve us ye. Our hfe's less grievous ill — I wrote to Bob ; EepHed to his three days of patient — let 48 EARLIER AND LATER LEAVES Me add of penitential waiting, till My scorn might condescend reply. I wrote As with a cauter's point made hurning red — And yet with tears as hot ; and more of them Than words ! because I knew the heart whereto I sent my bitters might not, in such case, With sugared medicines be healed as I Intend it shall or must. Ah, well, these hearts Of ours, they sin ! and so must suffer, here Or elsewhere — here, oh may it be, sweet Heaven ! Oh, what a clumsy creature of a girl Am I, dear Bill. You wont believe me when I say I never loved Bob Sloan so well As in the moments when I wrote the words I knew would sear his inmost heart and soul — And yet, perhaps, less deeply than mine own ! — That gentle heart, and noble, ay, and more Than noble soul ! You can, perhaps, recall What once I said or wrote : He loves, and oh, So well his mother ! Bless him Heaven, and me Forgive, for that this poor girl's heart of mine So far forgot its duty to our God, As love to such extreme of selfish love Whom mother's love forbade. Alas — alas ! A Minnie once there was who yielded up Her more beloved — exalted — holier Son, That our poor sin-sick souls might, in God's time, Kejoice ! I to her holy prayers commend Poor mother Sloan, her all-adoring son And thee, my early mate, with these hot tears And reprobation of myself — ay thee, My early mate, so near to early love, Who, by yon bunch of withered daisies, mixed With southernwood and thyme, did'st make my heart Eejoice to know the holy childhood loved By my poor recollection still, had not Been shed or shaken from thy soul upon The threshold of the world's grand temple, where OR, AN AUTUMN GATHERING. 49 The god of gold is worshipped. May thy soiil Be ever thus the nurse of thoughts to stay Her com-se should e'er she dream or wander 'mongst The fascinations of the years, and bring her back If even to strai/ through withered daisies, as Of late, and 'mongst those recoUections which Though wound, at times, they may, shall guard that soiil And keep her for thy God ! Forgive the words That hailed the sacred offering of that fond Young heart, the world hath not had power to change. And when thou prayest, pray for me ! and say The harshness used was for thy sake— thy sake Alone ; meanwhile, I for myself look up For grace to aid me while I try to know And imitate that holier Minnie's love For those who worked her woe — to imitate, Howe'er remote, her sacrifice of self By yielding up, as she, all loves I feel Or may have ever felt for weal of some Who do — of some who don't — of some who ne'er Perhaps may understand. Farewell ! be bless'd — Be happy ! Only give the love with all Its wealth of truth, so undeserved, and yet So fondly offered me, to our poor Bob, And I shall love thee for its sake. Farewell ! And after some eight days, my soul became So sick from Minnie's silence that I needs Must probe her secret by immediate search. I stole away one morn without a word To one of where I meant to journey, save To one young maiden's ear, my one so loved, And loving sister Anne's. My store of wealth For travel or to aid the wanderer, if Kequired, was sickly as myself. There lay Some thirty miles or so betwixt our home, And ever dear, since then, Eostrevor, whence 50 EARLIER AND LATER LEAVES: Had come our Minnie's letters. Here I gleaned From tongues of village gossips that, of late, A stranger lady, young and strangely sad, And still more strangely beautiful of face And form, bad come and glided 'mongst them, like The light on waters when the moon's at full ; But she was gone. While there, her habit was To live almost before the altar on Her knees, to talk with none except the poor — Of them, the poorest hung she more among. And where they wore on cheek or mien, the words Peculiarly unfortunate, she made Her longest sojourns, gave her largest alms — The last howe'er, to all where'er she walked As ready as the palm that sought, I thought The last more strange than all. Her means, alas ! Could not afford a wealth of alms — could not , So far as I dare dream, afford herself "What now she must require. My search, thus vain In closing, closed my soul, as 'twere, in thorns That even now, and after many years. Oft make me start, as if I felt them still. And days went on, and I became that I Could speak at home around the hearth of my Vain journey and the gossips' tales. It struck Me that my mother's smiles, while dwelt I on At times, what might be then the wanderer's want Of even bread, were far from what the eyes Of my most tender mother should have shown ; But, lo, a little time expanded all Those Little twinkling mysteries, and made Them rays of hght indeed. My hidden tale Of unsuccessful search had reached the ears Of Farmer Blair's good dame ; for smallest deeds WeU meant, like light a-back of clouds, ooze out At times, through darkhest wrapping odds and ends ; And hence, the kind old lady shortly did Permit my mother's lips to breathe within OK, AN AUTUMN GATHERING. 51 My confidential ear what long had lain Amongst her little stock of secrets — this, Perhaps the holiest of them all : No fear Of want for Minnie Blair ! A nabob's wife Was Minnie's Aunt with Minnie's name ; and she, When dying, had bequeathed to her young niece A good two hundi'ed pounds per an. No hand Therewith to tamper when the little maid Could number eighteen years, save Minnie's own ! Alas, poor Widow Sloan ! hadst thou but known What hath been thus revealed, how quickly might The tinselled tropes and grand hyperboles Of thy Miss Frond have shed their radiance 'neath The simpler form of speech — the purer gold Of Minnie Blair ! About this time, besides, Was I indulged with knowledge, lifted half The sickness from my heart. The absent maid — While I, a woe-begone absenter, roamed Amongst the tall and glorious wooded hills Of old Kilbroney, stretched my jaded form By gray Cloughmore ; or, where the sea had gone And left to penury's exploring eyes The naked sands and all then- secret wealth Of such small shellfish as the needy seek — Held wondering converse, saddening, too, with some Old ragged remnant — -kingly even in rags — Of that once noble tribe, Magenuis, which In holier days, albeit days of storm And cloud, produced the kings that reigned and ruled In grand old gaelic pomp o'er cape and bay And all the wondrous beauty, wondrous still Of green Eostrevor's undulating vales. 'Twas even then, in those lone hours of mine. Poor wandering, weeping Minnie Blair had poured The stream of her distress in rippling black Along a snowy sheet, scarce whiter than Her soul, to soothe her most, of earth, adored 52 EARLIEE AND LATER LEAVES Her mother. Oft tear-stained and set, as if By sobs, awry, it read : My mother, had You been some less beloved — adored by me E'er this I would have soothed myself by some Attempt at soothing thee ; my love of loves — My warmest, deepest, most adored beneath The angry heavens. To me could be no form Of soul-affliction known, so poignant as To know that thou, my mother, needs must grieve — And grieve through faults of mine : therefore, have I, Thus far, my soul afflicted for my large Offence of loving to such wild extreme. What holier love, a mother's too, with all A mother's right to grant or to withhold Forbade, with such a stretch of agony, As well-nigh burst the heart — as nearly made An orphan of that strange child-man, whose name Henceforth my lips must never more profane. Oh, never — never more ! Wouldst thou hear more ? Thou wouldst — I know thou wouldst — I know— I know- Alas, how very much I know that I, My mother — dearest, dearest mother ne'er Had known had I within the luiht — the one ! — But walked, as well I might with steadier feet, Or holier end or aim. Perhaps had I Remained at home, and caught and bore the scoff And scorn and ridicule that late events Must flash abroad among such scenes as ours— Had I, I say, have staid at home and caught Those dingier flowerings of the weaker mind Upon my brow and cheek, and offered them To Heaven, united with the scoff and scorn Of Calvary, it might have eased me some ; But could not e'er have been to me, the depth Of soul-affliction that are those dear tears, I even now, and at a distance here, OR, AN AUTUMN GATHERING, ' 53 Behold upon thy cheek — oh, blessed cheek ! Now grown so pale. My mother, Ah, wouldst thou Hear even more ? I'm well ! A little out Of sorts, at times, I doubt not ; but this state Will pass, and happier come, I've prudence, thou Wast wont to think ! Oh, think — believe so, still ! And soothe, for me, poor leather and the rest As best you may. Some time again you'll hear What I have got to say. Farewell ! Pray Heaven For me, and say that I have sinned — alas, My mother — ah, my mother ! Now farewell ! And time went on ! Meanwhile, I bound me, heart And soul, for Minnie's sake to love poor Bob ; And, strange ! began, ere I was well aware To love him for his own, he tvas so pure In aU his words and deeds. And, yet methinks I loved him more, for that his grief was dumb, Or spake but through his eyes, his form and gait. Like slow disease with certain death — perhaps Spake clearer still in that fixed " No !" wherewith He closed the gate of all communion with The Fronds ! And time went on, and therewith came, At nows and thens, along the usual clear And calm of country gossip, whispers brief And dark, like dingy spurts along a stream Whereof some wave, beguiled by sudden showers To leave the honest crystal of its course, And through its wandering moments rob The richer moulds — thus came as 'twere, along The, till of late, most lucid cun-ent of Our rural chitchat eves, mysterious talks Of gay Miss Frond, how she another love, As radiant as her own conceit, had long Indulged. A lordling — yea, no less ! the son — Of him, the good old chief of whom we held. The Blairs and we, our century-treasured farms ; 54 EARLIER AND LATER LEAVES With him, a youth of morals not admired, Of late the lady had heen less reserved Than heretofore, and did not seem to mind, As once, the eye of eve, or whom she met Upon the lonely walks wherein so oft Indulged these samples of the larger world — Its lower hfe and all — ! . . . Alas ! for thee, Poor Widow Sloan ! Might only tears redeem The past, how freely thine would flow. But tears, Alas, oft come too late. Our uttered words Or deeds enacted, howsoe'er their guilt May be removed, as words and deeds remain ; And with them, ah, how oft, the evils they Have wrought, live on and bud and bloom to breathe Their subtle poisons through our after good ! Poor Bob ! In Minnie's love 'twould more than seem An angel's blessing flowered thine outs and ins ! But now, the current of events attains A tidal form and force, and seems to sap The remnant of the poet's wreck. The lease Of Widow Sloan has suddenly disclosed A flaw which leaves her holding at the will Of him who agents the estate. The wail Is seldom from her lips, or Bobbie's ears. Meanwhile, I feel that somewhat must be done To yield his thoughts another field for play Or labour — even a different form of grief Might be a boon. Our neighbouring village held A fine old sample of the celt in Bob's Maternal uncle, who in youth itself Had won some laurels esculapian — still Continued practice of his art. To him His nephew was a second self. From his Spare hours had Bob acquired a pretty fair Acquaintance with the good old lore of Greece And Rome ; and oft the good old man had tried To win the lad from verses to the field. OR, AN AUTUMN GATHERING. 65 Wherein his surer laurels had heen won, 'Twas not too late, and all assailed by three — His mother, uncle and myself — our poor Woe-stricken bard consents to give the winds A little volume, and thenceforth to make The pestle and the mortar be his muse And lyre. Hey-day — the poems faced the world For good or ill ! They had their share of both — Both censure and applause. No marvel this. Because the world was like the book, and had Its good and ill — its false and true — its eyes To see ! and eyes, alas, that can't be made To see, because they'd rather not. The world Was not a world to change its ways for sake Of Bob's new book, and so pursued its course Of finding flaws at times where none there were ; Of seeing beauties, even outpom-ings grand And wondrously sublime. 'Twas sometimes food For smiles, to see how some frail-tempered scribe Had laid his genius and himself upon The rack, that he by his own suffering might Some beauty immolate and tear to shreds ! One bolder than the rest, howe'er, made pure Invention serve his need of saying ill — And said it long, diverging as he wrote Still farther from the truth of what the vol. Averred. This latter gave the bard a world Of pain. It shewed a phase of heart and soul That Bob, but for his eyes that saw, had ne'er. Amongst the ills of our Adamic Fall, Beheved to own, or place or name. Poor Bob ! Our little book — I call it ours, for I At Bob's request had given to it a name — A name o'er which I sometimes loved to look With tears for Minnie's sake, and for those dear Old school-boy days of mine with all their strolls, And interchange of flowers. Oh, Minnie Blau' ! 4 56 EARLIER AND LATER LEAVES! Most wondrous Minnie Blair ! shall e'er it be Our volume's lot to meet thy wanderer's^eyes ? If so, its dainty title page shall tell Thy last request to me was not in vain — That Bob, the bard, is Bill's beloved. The book Was named, and fittingly enough : A LITTLE BUNCH OF WITHERED DAISIES, MIXED WITH SOUTHERNWOOD AND THYME. Some months Had passed, and feeling all renewed in health And somewhat lonely in my daily walks — I'or Bob, in earnest truth had torn the chords Of his wild harp to shreds, and seized instead The honest pestle of his friend — thus I My kit had stored and all prepared to part My home and friends, for business hfe once more ; When lo, one morn, a visit aU uulooked For, came in Bob, with strange wild flushes on The wonted marble of his cheek and brow, bo breathless, too, without a word but two — *' Bead there ! " and placing in the hand he grasped And shook with such a force or fierceness, I Became almost alarmed, a goodly sized Production of the press — a magazine Much thought of in its day. 1 looked, and where He pointed, read, and closed my eyes at times in wonder equal to his own. I read The title of our Bobbie's book, and then " A word to poets, and to critics too." " 0, little wildings, fragrant, fresh and sweet, And worthy of all love from those so oft Unworthy hearts of ours, I joy, to meet You so — I joy to meet a daisy, even A withered one ; but, lo, we've here a bunch ? — OR, AN AUTUMN GATHERING. 57 " A buucli of withered daisies, mixed, we're told, " With southernwood and tliyme !" Sweet Httle things, Ye ahnost make me weep, as ye recall To me the sunny vales, and glens and knolls Of other days — of trottings o'er them, when We'd trifled so in gathering such sweet things As daisies, southernwood and thyme, we feared. From being late, to enter school. But then It was such joy — is't jo^ / Ah, me, it was The very ecstasy of then — the dear Old days of childhood's holy innocence. To have so fine a bunch that some loved mate, Along our way, might love it more than his. And make with us an interchange, that so We might have somewhat to remind us through The mark of stubborn tasks of light that our Sweet interchanges made to shine upon The faces of each other ! Blessed days ! 0, holy, happy childhood, purity And love ! 0, blest remembrancer of those ! Dear little book, thou giv'st me joy indeed ! But withered daisies ! Wherefore icithered, when We almost scent your fragrance while we read ? Did ye, indeed, foresee the scorn wherewith So oft such holier sweets are hailed ? Did'st thou, Dear Uttle book, poor timid little thing. Foresee, indeed, the seeming malice shown By some frail-tempered scribe who seems to lack The common use of common truth, so far That when he findeth not sufficient ground Whereon to base his greedy love of blaine Creates the cause, and on the dingy spot His falsehood makes, inflicts the critic's stab ? Alas, for our humanity ! Alas, Poor bard, thou hast indeed been taught by such That he who feels more deeply than the crowd Should keej) beyond the circling of its arms — Beyond the compass of such critic's voice. 68 EARLIER AND LATER LEAVES Oh ye wlio needs must bleach your brows above The furnace of a poet's heart — who needs Must sing your songs to give the soul relief, Sing on, and find relief, but dream not ye That Nature's voice alone, or Nature's mode Of setting forth herself, have place among The grand requirements of our time ! The bard "Who wins our higher meeds, must sing by rule — Must round his reasons — square his figures — carve Old nature, soul and body, into shreds, And fill the poor old veins with some hodge-podge Of fire and mercury, simulating life ! And this is called High Art ! Why, murder may Be called lii