oWAt ^^9 §34 ■ 3$ W%R MS JH WHB9R f*K Ex Libris C. K. OGDEN a m * -*■ X THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES . . . '■ 1 ■ ^B I '.'«>'!<>' I »*»-.'" I ' »M*S ■ I ■ Itiffl ■cR ■■BrjTnTtTT MY LYEICAL LIFE: iJocms (Dili sni U*to. MY LYRICAL LIFE: "gfocms Qi& anb ~giem. BY GERALD MASSEY. SECOND SERIES. IConfooit: KEGAN PAUL, TEENCH & CO., 1 PATERNOSTER SQUARE. 1889. [All Rights reserved.] Richard < B ,NS - Ll>1 London & Bi noav. PR I / 7 , CONTENTS. Lady Marian The Sea-Kings : the norseman old kino hake ... the banner-bearer of king olaf sir richard grenville's last fight robert blake an old man-o'-war's-man's yarn turner's TEMERAIRE sir Robert's sailor son the stoker's story the captain of the " northfleet " a birthday on board ... the sea kings ... a daughter of the sea-kings Personal : robert burns ... HOOD MAURICE AND THE BIGOTS PAGE 9 12 18 19 24 28 34 36 38 45 47 48 52 61 75 78 VI CONTENTS. Personal : hugh miller's grave ... to a bereaved friend albert the good william makepeace thackeray across the water the english of it irideaux at magdala ... CAMOENS ... punch in a grave mood a reviewer reviewed ... an old custom still extant., a forerunner ... the forerunner alexander russel a personal reply at the prison-door the falsifiers of mythology dedication to the "natural ge1 Garibaldi in Exile garibaldi on the march one of garibaldi's men- garibaldi at aspromonte FRANCE AND GARIBALDI garibaldi's PROPHECY ... PAGE 79 84 86 92 96 100 101 102 103 106 106 107 108 109 110 112 112 115 117 121 124 127 128 CONTENTS. Vll PAGE Wedded Love : THE YOUNG POET TO HIS WIFE ... ]30 LONG EXPECTED ... ... 135 WOOED AND WON ... 138 THE BRIDAL ... 141 WEDDED LOVE ... ... 145 The Mother's Idol Broken ... 153 Lyrics of Love : SWEET SPIRIT OF MY LOVE ... 182 NOT I, SWEET SOUL, NOT I ... 18-1 LOVE ME ... 185 THE PATRIOT TO niS BRIDE ... 186 A POOR MAN'S WIFE ... 188 MY BONNY LADY ... 189 HUSBAND AND WIFE ... 191 WHEN I COME HOME ... 193 LOVE'S FAIRY-RING ... 195 TO THE BELOVED ONE ... ... 197 MATRIMONY ... 199 THE LOVE-LETTER ... 199 LOVE-IN-IDLENESS ... 199 A BALLAD OF TnE OLD TIME ... ... 201 IN THE NIGHT ... ... 202 FALLEN ... ... 204 DESERTED ... 204 Vlll CONTENTS. Lyrics of Love : DROWNED JILTED ... LOVE AND THE LADY ICHABOD ... A VILLAGE COURTING ON A WEDDING-DAY A LYRIC OF LOVE AT EVENTIDE TDK MISTLETOE BOUGH ... LIFE AND DEATH WOMAN ... Cries of 'Forty-Eight the people's advent ... the battle-call the earth for all the lords of land and money the awakening " all's RIGHT WITH THE WORLD A CRY OF THE UNEMPLOY? ' MERRY CHRISTMAS EVE ... OUR FATHERS ARE PRAYING FOR PAUPER- PAY ANATHEMA MARANATHA ... A CRY OF THE PEOPLE ... PACK 205 207 209 210 212 214 217 218 219 221 221 225 226 228 232 233 234 236 237 239 241 243 245 CONTENTS. IX PAGE Cries of 'Forty-Eight : press on ... ... ... ... 247 they are but giants while ave kneel 248 song of the red republican ... 252 after the struggle ... ... ... 254 our martyrs ... ... ... ... 255 the men of 'forty-eight ... ... 256 a welcome ... ... 258 the exile ... ... ... ... 260 it will end in the right ... ... 264 the kingliest kings ... ... ... 266 hope on, hope ever ... ... ... 267 the three voices ... ... ... 268 onward and sunward... ... ... 270 god's world is worthy of better men 271 this world is full of beauty ... 273 there's NO DEARTH OF KINDNESS ... 276 the knights of labour ... ... 277 the chivalry of labour ... ... 278 to-day and to-morrow ... ... 281 Lady Laura ... ... ... ... ... 284 War-Waits : new year's eve in exile ... ... 328 england goes to battle ... ... 336 troops leaving edinburgh ... ... 338 X CONTENTS. PACE War-Waits : down in australia ... ... ... 340 france and england ... ... ... 342 after alma ... ... ... ... 343 before' sebastopol ... ... ... 346 Scarlett's three hundred ... ... 348 our heroes ... ... ... ... 350 inkerman ... ... ... ... 351 nicholas and the british lion ... 357 a war winter's-night in england ... 359 the martyrs' hill ... ... ... 363 our english nightingale ... ... 365 cathcart's hill 367 the coalition and the people ... 369 all over 371 england and louis napoleon ... 372 the old flag ... ... ... .. 375 england and louis napoleon ... 380 louis napoleon : " a berlin " ... 389 moltke's promise ... ... ... 391 the mitrailleuse at saarbrucken ... 391 a grave error ... ... ... ... 391 the faith of the philistine ... 392 peace-at-any-price men ... ... 392 THE SECOND EMPIRE ... ... ... 39 ;j CONTENTS. XI PAGE War- Waits : a plea for the republic ... ... 394 louis napoleon and some cockney working-men... ... ... ... 396 the two napoleons ... ... ... 400 the abolitionist to his bride ... 402 an imperial reply ... ... ... 405 the boys' return ... ... ... 406 Last Lyrics : waiting for the verdict ... ... 411 the great new cause... ... ... 412 the "grand old man " ... ... 413 A LEADER ! ... ... ... ... 414 looking before and after ... ... 415 false marriage or true union 1 ? ... 415 john bright ... ... ... ... 417 the primrose dame ... ... ... 418 battle of the rank and file ... 420 the league of labour ... ... 420 labourers' election song ... ... 422 the last of emergency men ... ... 423 hold together, boys ... ... ... 424 to-morrow! ... ... ... ... 425. light at last ... ... ... ... 427 MY LYEICAL LIFE. SECOND SERIES. LADY MARIAN. In her Ancestral Tree's old smiling shade, Spenser and Milton sang, and Shakspeare played. I cannot prophesy immortal fame, And endless honour for my Lady's name Through my poor Yerse ; but it shall surely give All that it gathers long as it may live. She heard my Children singing in the street, And smiled down on them starry-clear and sweet, But half-way up in Heaven, and far from me, Ae Shakspeare's Juliet in her balcony ; A radiant Creature all too rare to stay, With waving white hand she would pass away ! Now I have seen her ; heard her voice To-day, And touched her hand ; enriched my life for aye : The thought in sunbeams gloriously upsprings, To smile out in the saddest face of things. After the gloom is gone, the worst is passed, I know you, my good Fairy, found at last ! Though poor, and grim to tears, our lot might be, We had proud visions in our poverty ! My Princess too, with darkly-sparkling e'en, As I lay dreaming, over me would lean ; And now the silken clue of hidden power, Hath led me to her beauty in its bower. B 2 4 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Lady ! Giorgione should have painted you Witt live warm flesh-tints golden through and through ; The sun-soul making luminous its prison With splendours rarer than have ever risen ; Bird-peeps of brightness — dawn-dew — smiling fire— . Full of all freshness as a spring-wood choir , A glow and glory of impetuous blood ', Brave spirits that crowd all sail to take the flood Of large, abounding life, that in the sun Heaves flashing, with a frolic fringe of fun : A happy wit ; creative genius, proved In Pictures that Angelico would have loved : A stately soul : yet with a laugh that brings Echoes from Girlhood's heaven as it rings ! And that fine spirit of motion's airy charm, Which hovers glancing round the flower of form : A lofty lady of a proud old r:i<-c, Recklessly splendid in her gifts and grace. Yet, as the life of some tall, towery tree Climbs till atop it laughs exultingly With all its leaves, using its pride of place To look both earth and heav'n full in the face ! Thus— up through bole and branch of wealth and blood, Breaks out her noble natural Womanhood. My Lady Marian, you are good and true, Most bountiful and gracious as the dew; LADY MARIAN. And glad Hearts — winged with Blessings — follow you Far as the Earth is green, or Heaven is blue ; But, dear my lady, there is work to do In England yet, and rare good work for you. "Why leave your own free air, and English Home, For Paris — that Slave-Dancer — or for Rome 1 With all their lustres, dazzlingly displayed, They cannot match the sweetness of our shade ; Our leafier pathways cool with gladder green ; Our hearts, whose heavings lift you up — our Queen. Much Mother's Milk wants sweetening with the Balms That you can bring; much need of more than Alms ! In eyes wide open souls lie fast asleep ; With daylight on the face hearts darkly weep : Our world has many a ward where wounds and wails Cry for a thousand Florence Nightingales. I knoAV that Knowledge through our Shire doth trail With slow illumination of a snail ! But still we dream of some bright better day, And while we sleep the great Dawn comes our way. Think how long Nature brooded over Earth Before she quickened for her noblest Birth ! O, they shall bless you down in pit and clen, — Transforming slowly into Women and Men ; G MY LYRICAL LIFE. And smile, as leaves out-smile in first Spring-hours, With livelier green, while fall the singing showers ; Or as the "Winter mosses round your trees Look up and smile at their good influences. Your pardon, Lady, if my unskilled word, Like a bad player, should mistake the chord ! No churlish charge, no plea of parasite, Is mine ; but leal heart-service of a knight Who in old days had fought for you and bled ; Going to death as. 'twere a bridal bed. Our lost " Maid Marian " bore your name, and she Yet works a very tender ministry ; And, somehow, when of her we sit and think, Oar hearts touch you by an invisible link. Sacred to her, my sadder verses take ; And kindly think of them for Marian's sake. Room for my Sea-Kings too, your heart will make, From young Sir William Peel, to old King Hake. You have the spirit born of the salt spray That snuffs the sea-breeze meadowy miles away ; The Norse blood running seaward round the world, That leaves the Celtic in the Homestead curled. You love our Heroes ! and you might have been In battle-need our Boadicea Queen ; And stood up to the full majestic height In your War-chariot beckoning on the fight ! A famous victoiy you would have wrought, Ur with your Heroes fallen as you fought. 1858. THE SEA-KINGS. THE NORSEMAN. A swarthy strength with face of light ; As dark sword-iron is beaten bright ; A brave, frank look, with health aglow, Bonny blue eyes and open brow ; His friend he welcomes, heart-in-hand, But foot to foot his foe must stand : A Man who will face, to his last breath, The sternest facts of life and death : This is the brave old Norseman. The wild wave-motion weird and strange Bocks in him ! seaward he must range ; His life is just a mighty lust To wear away with use, not rust ! Though bitter wintry-cold the storm, The fire within him keeps him warm : Kings quiver at his flag unfurled, The Sea-King's master of the world ! All-conquering rides the Norseman. He hides at heart of his rough life, A world of sweetness for the Wife ; From his rude breast a Babe may press Soft milk of human tenderness, — 10 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Make his eyes water, his heart dance, And sunrise in his countenance : In merriest mood his ale he quaffs By firelight, and with jolly heart laughs The blithe, great-hearted Norseman. But when the Battle-Trumpet rings, His soul, a war-horse clad with wings ! Will drink delight in with the breath Of Battle and the dust of death : The Axes redden ; spring the sparks ; Blood-soaken grow the gray mail-sarks ; Such blows might batter, as they fell, Heaven's gate, or burst the booms of hell ! So fights the fearless Norseman. The Norseman's King must stand up tall, If he would be head over all ; Mainmast of Battle ! when the plain Is miry -red with bloody rain ! And grip his weapon for the fight, Until his knuckles grin tooth-white ' } The banner-staff he bears is best If double handful for the rest : When "follow me " cries the Norseman. Yaliant and true, as Sagas tell, The Norsemen hated lies like hell ; Hardy from cradle to the grave, 'Twas their religion to be brave : Great, silent fighting men, whose words Were few, soon said, and out with Swords ! One saw his heart cut from his side Living, and smiled ; and smiling, died The unconquerable Norseman. THE NORSEMAN. 11 They swam the flood ; they strode in flame ; Nor quailed when the Valkyrie came To kiss the chosen for her charms, With " Rest, my Hero, in mine arms." Their spirits through a grim wide wound, The Norse door- way to heaven found ; And borne upon the battle-blast, Into the hall of Heroes passed : And there was crowned the Norseman. The Norseman wrestled with old Rome, For Freedom in our Island-Home ; He taught us how to ride the sea With hempen bridle, horse of tree : The Norseman stood with Robin Hood By Freedom in the merry green wood, When William ruled the English land With cruel heart and bloody hand. For Freedom fights the Norseman. Still in our race the Norse king reigns ; His best blood beats along our veins ; With his old glory we can glow, And surely sail where he could row : Is danger stirring 1 from its sleep Our War-dog wakes his watch to keep, Stands with our Banner over him, True as of old and stern and grim ! Come on, you'll find the Norseman. When Swords are gleaming you shall see The Norseman's face flash gloriously, With look that makes the foeman reel ; His mirror from of old was steel ! 12 MY LYRICAL LIFE. And still he wields, in Battle's hour, The old Thor's hammer of Norse power Strikes with a desperate arm of might, And at the last tug turns the fight : For never yields the Norseman. OLD KING HAKE. Got by the Sea on a rocky coast Was old King Hake ; Where inner fire and outer fro. t Brave virtue make ! He was a hero in the old Blood-letting days ; An iron hero of Norse mould, And warring ways. He lived according to the light That lighted him ; Then strode into the eternal night, Resolved and grim. His grip was stern for free sword-play, When men were mown ; His feet were rough-shod for the day Of treadinsr down. O When angry, out the blood would start With old King Hake ; Not sneak in dark caves of the heart, Where curls the snake, And secret Murder's hiss is heard Ere the deed be done : He wove no web of wile and word ; He bore with none. OLD KING HAKE. 13 When sharp within its sheath asleep Lay his good sword, He held it royal work to keep His kingly word. A man of valour, bloody and wild, In Viking need ; And yet of firelight feeling mild As honey-mead. Once in his youth, from farm to farm, Collecting Scatt, He gathered gifts and welcomes warm ; And one night sat, With hearts all happy for his throne — Wishing no higher — Where Peasant faces merrily shone Across the fire : Their Braga-bowl was handed round By one fair girl : The Sea-King looked and thought, " I've found My hidden pearl." Her wavy hair was golden-fair, With sunbeams curled ; Her eyes clear blue as heaven, and there Lay his new world. He drank out of the mighty horn, Strong, stinging stuff ; Then wiped his manly mouth unshorn With hand as rough, And kissed her ; drew her to his side, With loving mien, Saying, " If they will make you a Bride, I will make you a Queen.'" 14; MY LYRICAL LIFE. And round her waist she felt an arm ; For in those days A waist could feel : 'twas lithe and wai in, And wore no stays. " How many brave deeds have you done ? ' She asked her wooer, Counting the arm's gold rings : they won One victory more. The blood of joy looked rich and red Out of his face ; And to his manly strength he wed Her maiden grace. 'Twas thus King Hake struck royal root In homely ground ; And healthier buds with goodlier fruit His branches crowned. But Hake could never bind at home His spirit free ; It grew familiar with the foam Of many a sea. A rare good blade whose way was rent In gaps of war, And wore no gem for ornament But notch and scar. In day of battle and hour of strife, Cried old King Hake : " Kings live for honour and not long life." Then would he break Right through their circle of shields, to reach Some Chief of a race That never yielded ground, but each Died in his place. OLD KING HAKE. 15 There the old Norseman towered tall Above the rest A head and shoulders, like King Saul ; They saw his crest Toss, where the war-wave reared and rode O'er mounds of dead, Till all the battle-dust was trod A miry red. For Odin, in the glad wide blue Of heaven, would laugh With sunrise, and the ruddy dew Of slaughter quaff. But, 'twas the bravest, goodliest show, To see him sit, "With his Long-serpent all aglow, And steering it For the hot heart of fiercest fight, A grewsome shape ! The dragon-head rose, glancing bright, And all agape : Over the calm blue water it came Writhingly on, As half in sea and half in flame, It swam, and shone. The sunlit shields link scale to scale From stem to stern, Over the Steersman's head the tail Doth twist and burn : With oars all moved at once, it makes Low hoverings ; Half walks the water, and half takes The air with wings. 1G MY LYRICAL LIFE. The war-horns bid the fight begin With death-grip good : King Hake goes at the foremost, in His Bare-Sark mood : A twelvemonth's taxes spent in spears Hurled in an hour ! But in that host no spirit fears The hurtling shower. And long will many a Mother and Wife Wait, weary at home, Ere from that mortal murderous strife Their darlings come. Hake did not seek to softly die, With Child and Wife : He bore his head in death as high As in his life. Glittering in eye, and grim in lip, He bade them make Beady for sailing his War- Ship, That he, King Hake, The many-wounded, gray, and old, His day being done, — He, the Norse warrior, brave and bold, Might die like one. And chanting an old battle-song, Thrilling and weird, His soul vibrating, shook his long Majestic beard : The gilded battle-axe, still red, In his right hand ; His shield on arm, his helm on head, They helped him stand, OLD KING HAKE. 17 And girded him with his good sword ; Then, so attired, With his dead warriors all abroad, The Ship he fired, ■ And lay down with his heroes dead, On deck to die ; Still singing, drooped his gray old head, With face to sky. The wind blew seawards ; gloriously The death-pyre glowed : On his last Yiking voyage he Exulting rode : Floating afar between the Isles, To his last home, Where open-armed Valhalla smiles, And bids him come. There, as a sinking Sunset dies Down in the West, The fire flamed out ; the rude heart lies At rest — at rest, And sleeping in his Ocean-bed, That burial-place Most royal for the kingly dead 0' the old sea-race ! So the Norse noble of renown, With fearless pride, His flaming crown of death pulled down ; And so he died. 18 MY LYRICAL LIFE. THE BANNER-BEARER OF KING OLAF. Thord Folason carried King Olaf 's flag ; Not the man to loiter or lag ! However they hurried who bore the brunt 0' the battle, there was Thord in front. Not the man to loiter or lag Was Thord, who carried King Olaf's flag. Great joy of the onset Folason had, As Banner-bearer at Stiklestad ! Mighty and free was his battle-play, Cleaving and clearing an onward way. Not the man to loiter or lag Was Thord, who carried King Olaf's flag. He was the bulwark at Olaf's side ; Or, in front, the foremost in turning the tide Of battle, and breasting it rooted as rocks, Bearing his Banner high over the shocks. Never the man to loiter or lag Was Thord, who carried King Olaf's flag. He got a death-thrust in the thick of the fight, Gave it back, — and suddenly felt 'twas night ; He could see no longer to clear a space. Then his spirit flew out in the Enemy's face ! Never the man to loiter or lag Was Thord, the bearer of Olaf's flag. As he plunged head-first on the field full-length, He gathered his last remaining strength ; Biting his lip and holding his breath, — 'Twas his last, — he fell all his weight in death. SIR RICHARD GRENVILLE's LAST FIGHT. 19 Never the man to loiter or lag Was Thord, who carried King Olaf 's flag. He fell, but, in falling, stuck fast in the ground His Banner, a-waving to all around, Bearing the battle up, beckoning on To keep them abreast of it when he was gone. Never the man to loiter or lag Was Thord, the bearer of Olaf's flag. When the battle was over at last, And Thord, still a leader in death, had passed, They found his body, with teeth through lip, His flag-staff clutched as fast in his grip, Stemming the tide like a fallen Crag : Living or dead he upheld the flag. SIR RICHARD GRENVILLE'S LAST FIGHT. Our second Richard Lion-Heart, In days of Great Queen Bess, He did this deed, he played this part, With true old nobleness ; And wrath heroic that was nursed To bear the fiercest battle-burst, When maddened Foes should wreak their worst. Signalled the English Admiral, " Weigh or cut anchors." For A Spanish Fleet bore down, in all The majesty of war, c 2 20 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Athwart our tack for many a mile, As there we lay off Florez Isle, With Crews half sick, all tired of toil. Eleven of our Twelve ships escaped ; Sir Richard stood alone ! Though they were Three-and-Fifty sail — A hundred men to one — The old Sea-Rover would not run, So long as he had man or gun ; But he could die when all was done. " The DeviVs broken loose, my lads, In shape of Popish Spain ; And we must sink him in the sea, Or hound him home again. Now, you old Sea-Dogs, show your paws ! Have at them tooth and nail and claws / " And then his long, bright blade he draw 3. The deck was cleared, the Boatswain blew ; The grim Sea-Lions stand ; The death-fires lit in every eye, The burning match in hand. With mail of glorious intent All hearts were clad ; and in they went, A force that cut through where 'twas sent. '&* " Push home, my hardy Pikemen, For we play a desperate part ; To-day, my Gunners, let them feel The pulse of England's heart ! They shall remember long that we Once lived; and think how shamefully We shook them ! — One to Fifty-three." SIR RICHARD GRENVILLE'S LAST FIGHT. 21 With face of one who cheerily goes To meet his doom that day, Sir Richard sprang upon his foes ; The foremost gave him way : His round shot smashed them through and through, At every flash white splinters flew, And madder grew his fighting few. They clasp the little Ship Revenge, As in the arms of fire ; They run aboard her, six at once ; Hearts beat, hot guns leap higher. Through bloody gaps the boarders swarm, But still our English stay the storm, The bulwark in their breast is firm. Ship after ship, like broken waves That wash up on a rock, Those mighty Galleons fall back foiled, And shattered from the shock. With fire she answers all their blows ; Again, again in pieces strows The girdle round her as they close. Through all that night the great white storm Of worlds in silence rolled ; Sirius with green-azure sparkle, Mars in ruddy gold. Heaven looked with stillness terrible Down on a fight most fierce and fell — A sea transfigured into hell. 22 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Some know not they are wounded till Tis slippery where they stand ; Then each one tighter grips his steel, As 'twere Salvation's hand. Grim faces glow through lurid night With sweat of spirit shining bright : Only the dead on deck turn white. At daybreak the flame-picture fades In blackness and in blood ; There, after fifteen hours of fight, The unconquered Sea-King stood Defying all the power of Spain : Fifteen Armadas hurled in vain, And fifteen hundred foemen slain. About that little bark Revenge, The baffled Spaniards ride At distance. Two of their good ships Were sunken at her side ; The rest lie round her in a ring, As round the dying Lion-king The Dogs afraid of his death-spring. Our pikes all broken, powder spent, Sails, masts to shivers blown ; And with her dead and wounded crew The ship was going down ! Sir Richard's wounds were hot and deep. Then cried he, with a proud, pale lip, " Ho, Master Gunner, sink the ship I " Make ready now, my Mariners, To go aloft with me, That nothing to the /Spaniard May remain of victory. SIR RICHARD GRENVILLE'S LAST FIGHT. 23 They cannot take us, nor we yield ; So let us leave our battle-field, Under the shelter of God's shield." They had not heart to dare fulfil The stern Commander's word : "With swelling hearts and welling eyes, They carried him aboard The Spaniards' ship ; and round him stand The Warriors of his wasted band : Then said he, feeling death at hand, " Here die I, Richard Grenville, With a joyful and quiet mind ; I reach a Soldier's end, I leave A Soldier' s fame behind, Who for his Queen and Country fought, For Honour and Religion wrought, And died as a true Soldier ought." Earth never returned a worthier trust For hand of Heaven to take, Since Arthur's sword, Excalibur, Was cast into the lake, And the King's grievous wounds were dressed, And healed, by weeping Queens, who blessed, And bore him to a valley of rest. Old Heroes who could grandly do, As they could greatly dare ; A vesture, very glorious, Their shining spirits wear, Of noble deeds ! God give us grace, That we may see such face to face, In our great day that comes apace. 1859. 24 MY LYRICAL LIFE. ROBERT BLAKE. Our Happy Warrior ! of a race To whom are richly given Great glory and peculiar grace, Because in league with Heaven. Not that the mortal course they trod Was free from briar and thorn ; Who wears the arrow-mark of God, Must first the wound have borne. like a Sailor Saint was he, Our Sea-king ! grave and sweet In temper after victory, Or cheerful in defeat ; And men would leave their quiet homo To follow in his wake, And fight in fire, or float in foam, For love of Robert Blake. Like that drumhead of Zitska's skin, Thrills his heroic name ; And how the salt-sea-sparkle in Us, flashes at his fame ! His picture in our hearts' best books Still keeps its pride of place, From which a lofty spirit looks With an unfading face ; The face as of an Angel, who Might live his Boyhood here ! And yet how deadly grand it grew, When Wrong drew darkening near. ROBERT BLAKE. 25 All ridged, and ready trenched for war The fair frank brow was bent, Then shone like sudden Scimitar, The lion-lineament. Behold him, with his gallant band, On leaguered Lyme's red beach. Shoulder to shoulder, see them stand, At Taunton in the breach. Safe through the battle-shocks he went, With sword-sweep stern and wide ; Strode the grim heaps as Death had lent Him his White Horse to ride. " Give in ! our toils you cannot break ; The Lion is in the net ! Famine fights for us." "No," said Blake, "My boots I have not ate." He smiled across the bitter cup ; He gripped his good Sword-heft : " I should not dream of giving up While such a meal is left." Where trumpets blow and streamers flow, Behold him, calm and proud, Bear down upon the bravest foe, A bursting thunder-cloud. Foremost of all the host that strove To crowd Death's open door, In giant mood his way he clove ; Aye first to go before. And though the battle-lightning blazed, The thunders roar and roll, He to Immortal Beauty raised A statue with his soul. 2C MY LYRICAL LIFE. And never did the Greeks of old Mirror in marble rare A Wrestler of so fine a mould, An Athlete half so fair. Homeward the dying Sea-king turns From his last famous fight, For England's dear green hills he yearns At heart, and strains his sight. The old cliffs loom out gray and grand, The old War-ship glides on, With one last wave life tries to land, Falls seaward, and is gone. With that last leap to touch the coast, He passed into his rest, And Blake's unwearying arms were crossed Upon his martial breast. And while our England waits, and twines For him her latest wreath, His is a crown of stars that shines From out the dusk of death. For him no pleasant age of ease, To wear what youth could win ; For him no Children round his knees, To gather his harvest in. But with a soul serene, he takes Whatever lot may come ; And such a life of labour makes A glorious going home. Famous old Trueheart, dead and gone, Long shall his glory grow, Who never turned his back upon A friend, nor face from foe. ROBERT BLAKE. 27 He made them fear old England's name Wherever it was heard, He put her proudest foes to shame ; And Peace smiled on his Sword. "With lofty courage, loftier love, He died for England's sake ; And 'mid the loftiest lights above, Shines our illustrious Blake. — And shall shine ! Glory of the West, And Beacon for the seas ; While Britain bares its sailor breast To battle or to breeze. Great Sailor on the seas of strife ; Victor by land and wave ; Brave liver of a gallant life ; Lord of a glorious grave ; True Soldier set on earthly hill As Sentinel of heaven ; A King who keeps his kingdom till The last award be given. Till she forget her old Sea-fame, Shall England honour him, And keep the grave-grass from his name Till her old eyes be dim : And long as free waves folding round, Brimful with blessing break, At heart she holds him, calm and crowned, Immortal Robert Blake. 28 MY LYRICAL LIFE. AN OLD MAN-O'-WAR'S-MAN'S YARN. Ay, ay, good Neighbours, I have seen Him ! sure as God's my life ; One of his chosen crew I've been ; Haven't I, old Good Wife? God bless your dear eyes ! didn't you vow To marry me any weather, If I came back with limbs enow To keep my soul together 1 Brave as a Lion was our Nel, And gentle as a lamb : It warms my blood once more to tell The tale— gray as I am— It makes the old life in me climb, It sets my soul a-swim ; I live twice over every time That I can talk of him. You should have seen him as he trod The deck, our joy, and pride ; You should have seen him, like a God Of storm, his War-horse ride ! You should have seen him as he stood Fighting for our good land, AVith all the iron of soul and blood Turned to a sword in hand. Oar best beloved of all the brave That ever for Freedom fought; And all his wonders of the wave For Fatherland were wrought ! AN OLD MAN-O'-WAR'S-MAN'S YARN. 29 He was the manner of man to show How victories may be won ; So swift, you scarcely saw the blow ; You looked — the deed was done. He sailed his Ships for work ; he bore His sword for battle-wear ; His creed was " Best man to the fore ;" And he was always there. Up any peak of peril where There was but room for one : The only thing he did not dare Was any death to shun. The Nelson-touch his men he taught, And his great stride to keep ; His faithful fellows round him fought Ten thousand heroes deep. With a red pride of life, and hot For him, their blood ran free ; They " minded not the showers of shot, No more than peas ," said he. Napoleon saw our Sea-king thwart His landing on our Isle ; He gnashed his teeth, he gnawed his heart, At Nelson of the Nile, Who set his fleet in flames, to light The Lion to his prey, And lead Destruction through the night Upon his dreadful way. Around the world he drove bis game, And ran his glorious race ; Nor rested till he hunted them From off the Ocean's face ; 30 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Like that old War-dog who, till death, Clung to the vessel's side Till hands were lopped, then with his teeth He held on till he died. Ay, he could do the deeds that set Old Fighters' hearts afire ; The edge of every spirit whet, And every arm inspire. Yet I have seen upon his face The tears that, as they roll, Show what a light of saintly grace May clothe a Sailor's soul. And when our Darling went to meet Trafalgar's Judgment-day, The people knelt down in the street To bless him on his way. He felt the Country of his love Watching him from afar ; It saw him through the battle move ', His heaven was in that star. Magnificently glorious sight It was in that great dawn 1 Like one vast sapphire flashing light, The sea, just breathing, shone. Their ships, fresh-painted, stood up tall And stately : ours were grim And weatherworn, but one and all In rare good fighting trim. Our spirits were all flying light, And into battle sped, Straining for it on wings of might, With feet of springy tread ; AN OLD MAN-0 -WAR S-MAN'S YARN. 31 The light of battle on each face ; Its lust in every eye ; Our Sailor-blood at swiftest pace To catch the victory nigh. His proudly-wasted face, wave-worn, Was loftily serene ; I saw the brave, bright spirit burn There, all too plainly seen ; As though the sword this time was drawn Forever from the sheath ; And when its work to-day was done, All would be dark in death. His eye shone like a lamp of night Set in the porcb of power ; The deed unborn was burning bright Within him at that hour ! His purpose, welded at white-heat, Cried like some visible Fate, " To-day we must not merely beat : We will Annihilate." He smiled to see the Frenchman show His reckoning for retreat, With Cadiz port on his lee-bow ; And held him then half beat. They flew no Colours, till we drew Them out to strike with there ! Old Victory, for a prize or two, Had flags enough to spare. Mast-high the famous signal ran ; Breathless we caught each word : " England expects that every man Will do his duty." Lord, 32 MY LYRICAL LIFE. You should have seen our faces ! heard Us cheering, row on row ; Like men before some furnace stirred To a fiery fearful glow ! 'Twas Collingwood our Lee line led, And cut their centre through. " See how he goes in I " Nelson said, As his first broadside flew, And near four hundred foemen fall. Up went another cheer. " Ah, what woidd Nelson give," said Coll " But to be with us here ! " "We grimly kept our van ward path ; Over vis hummed their shot ; But, silently, we reined our wrath, Held on, and answered not, Till Ave could grip them face to face, And pound them for our own, Or hug them in a war-embrace, Till one or both went down. How calm he was ! when first he felt The sharp edge of that fight. Cabined with God alone he knelt ; The prayer still lay in light Upon his face, that used to shine In battle, — flash with life, As though the glorious blood ran wine, Dancing with that wild strife. " Fight for us, Thou Almighty One I Give victory once again ! And if I fall, Thy will be done : Amen, Amen, Amen I " AX OLD MAN-O'-WAll'S-MAN'S YARN. S3 With such a voice he bade good-bye ; The mournfullest old smile wore : "Farewell! God bless you, Blackwood, I Shall never see you more." And four hours after, he had done With winds and troubled foam. The Reaper was borne dead upon Our load of Harvest-home — Not till he knew the Old Flag flew Alone on all the deep ; Then said he, "Hardy, is that you? Kiss me." And fell asleep. Well, 'twas his chosen death below The deck in triumph trod ; 'Tis well. A Sailor's soul should go From his good ship to God. He would have chosen death aboard, From all the crowns of rest ; And burial with the Patriot sword Upon the Victor's breast. "Not a great sinner." No, dear heart, God grant in our death-pain, We may have played as well our part, And feel as free from stain. We see the spots on such a star, Because it burned so bright ; But on the other side they are All lost in greater light. And so he went upon his way, A higher deck to walk, Or sit in some eternal day, And of the old time talk a d 34 MY LYRICAL LIFE. With Sailors old, who, on that coast, Welcome the homeward bound ; Where many a gallant soul we've lost And Franklin will be found. Where amidst London's roar and moil That cross of peace upstands, Like Martyr with his heavenward smile, And flame-lit, lifted hands, There lies the dark and mouldered dust ; But that magnanimous And manly Seaman's soul, I trust, Lives on in some of us. TURNER'S TEMERAIRE. Another glorious tale to tell, When nights are long and mirk ; How well she fought our fight, how well She did our England's work ; The French ship Temeraire ! See her tugged to her last berth, The fighting Temeraire. Bravely over the breezy blue They went to do or die ; Proudly upon herself she drew The Battle's burning eye : Our good ship Temeraire ! See her tugged to her last berth, The fighting Temeraire. turner's temeraire. 35 Round her the glory fell in flood, From Nelson's loving smile, When, raked with fire, she ran with blood In England's hour of trial ! Our good ship Temeraire ! See her tugged to her last berth, The fighting Temeraire ! And when our darling of the Sea Sank dying on his deck, "With her revenging thunders she Struck down his foe — a wreck. Our good ship Temeraire ! See her tugged to her last berth, The fighting Temeraire ! Her day now draweth to its close With solemn sunset crowned ; To death her crested beauty bows, The night is folding round Our good ship Temeraire ! See her tugged to her last berth, The fighting Temeraire ! No more the big heart in her breast Will heave from wave to wave. Weary and war-worn, ripe for rest, She glideth to her grave. Our good ship Temeraire ! See her tugged to her last berth, The fighting Temeraire ! In her dumb pathos desolate As night among the dead ! D 2 MY LYEICAL LIFE. Yet wearing an exceeding weight Of glory on her head. Our good ship Temeraire ! See her tugged to her last berth, The fighting Temeraire ! Good-bye ! good-bye ! Old Temeraire, A sad and proud good-bye ! The stalwart spirit that did wear Your sternness, shall not die. Our good ship Temeraire ! See her tugged to her last berth, The fighting Temeraire ! Through battle-blast, and storm of shot, Your banner we shall bear ; And fight for it like those who fought Our good ship Temeraire. The grand old Temeraire. See her tugged to her last berth, The fighting Temeraire ! SIR ROBERT'S SAILOR SOX. Our Country has no need to raise The Ghost of glories gone ; Such Heroes dying in our days Still pass the live torch on. Brave blood as bright a crimson gleams, Still burns as goodly a zeal ; The old heroic radiance beams In men like "William Peel. sir Robert's sailor son. 37 So mild in peace, so stern in war, He walked our English way, Just one of Shakespeare's Warriors for A weary working day. With beautiful bravery clothed on, And such high moral grace, The flash of rare soul-armour shone Out of his noble face ! His Sailors loved him so on deck, So cheery was his call, They leapt on land, and in his wake Followed him, guns and all. For, as a battle-brand white-hot, His Spirit grew and glowed, When in his swift War-chariot The Avenger rose and rode. Sleep, Sailor-Darling, true and brave, With our dead Soldiers sleep ! That so the Land you lived to save, You shall have died to keep. You may have wished the dear Sea-blue To have folded round your breast, But God had other work for you, And other place of rest. We might have reached you with our wreath If living ; but laid low, You grow so grand ! and after death The dearness deepens so ! To have gone so soon, so loved to have died, So young to wear that crown, We think. But with such thrills of pride As shake the last tears down. 38 MY LYRICAL LIFE. God rest you, gallant Captain Peel, With those whom England leaves Scattered as still she plies her steel, But we glean up in sheaves. We'll talk of you on land, a-board, Till Boys shall feel they are Men, And forests of hands clutch at this Sword Death gives us back again. Our old Norse Fathers speak in you, Speak with their strange sea-charm, That sets our hearts a-beating to The music of the storm. There comes a Spirit from the deep, The salt wind waves its wings, That rouses from its Inland sleep The blood of the old Sea Kings. THE STOKER'S STORY. Safe, once more, in Old England : That Heaven of a Sailor's dream 1 No place like jolly Old England, For a fellow to blow off the steam. Bad luck to the Lubbers who sent us to die, Or live on four ounces a day ; Running us out betwixt Sea and Sky In that devil-may-care kind of way ! All who ever had sailed in her Found the Megcera unlucky. Hearts of the stoutest have quailed in her ; She was miserable and mucky. the stoker's story. 39 Curses enough to sink her, If curses can cling, she bore : She was rusted, rotten, rat-forsaken, Cankered and cursed to the core. Why did I sail ? Well, you see, Sir, Somehow, a way we have got, To stick to our duty, nor shirk it Should we chance to draw a bad lot. Some big-wig aloft overlooked the Ship, It wasn't for us to complain. And so, all round, 'twas a stiff upper lip, If we never saw England again. I think God Almighty picked the weather, From Queenstown to the Cape : But strive as we might to pull together, We never got things ship-shape : And you caught a look in the eyes of some Who were married, that tried not to tell Tales of the heart that had gone back home With a blessing and last farewell. But you can't keep a Sailor's soul from springing And cresting the wave on his way, Any more than the Lark will be stopped from singing Even in the dawn of the day When Battle lets loose the flood of its strife For a world to be drowned in its wave, And he, and his mate, and his young, out of life Will be ground, with their nest for a grave. Eleven clays after we left the Cape, Mast-high our troubles ran. 40 MY LYRICAL LIFE. The Shadow that followed at last took shape — On that day we lost a man, And the fellows all said that in taking his trip To the bottom, he sent his foot through The thin frail side of the rotten old ship, For his messmates to follow him too ! The next we sprang a leak ; in the hold Were two feet of water already ! A gale had arisen ; the old Craft rolled As if with her drinking unsteady. Three days we pumped, and swore, and prayed, And it seemed but a waste of breath : Three days a lively game we played At hide-and-seek with Death 1 'Twas " Scottie " who crawled by himself at night, Under the bunkers to keek ; With his head down one big hole, and his light Through another, he found the leak. Aud we looked, and we saw a sight in the gloom Made us hold our breath for a space : Wide open below was the door of doom ; Death close to us, face to face ! The water sprang like a plug in the street, When the force is on at the main : With such a Geyser under our feet, iSTo wonder we pumped in vain. And as she lurched the waters rolled With the sound of a sea inside ; Death-rattles that made your blood run cold. And we found her iron hide As full of holes as the sponge you wring ; Honey-comb'd through and through ! THE STOKER'S STORY. 41 You couldn't patch the infernal thing, For she wouldn't hold a screw : Her mast's whole weight on a rotten plate Of the bulging bottom ! And we Were sixteen hundred miles from land, On a sail-less, island-less sea. I once knew a Chap in consumption, who Was spitting himself away Bodily as he walked, and drew His life out, day by day, With his hacking, horrible cough. So it seemed That our poor old Ship must be A-spitting herself away, as she steamed, Piecemeal, into the sea. The pumps turned her inside out, each pull : (Grave-diggers digging our grave !) Till choked by the bits of the rotten old hull They were cruelly trying to save. And the old Ship shook, with her driving force, As if body and soul must rive, And throbbed, like the heart of a runaway horse Ready to jump out alive. Each thunder-thud of the piston-lunge Made every rivet leap, And I thought on my soul we should momently plunge Right through her, all of a heap 1 I felt each blow, through her thinness, smite As the Condemned may hark To the Scaffold Hammers, through his last night, Working for death in the dark. 42 MY LYRICAL LIFE. There we were, as good as entombed ! Our Captain gathered us then, And told us as how the ship was doomed, But, like true Englishmen, We should stick together and make the most Of the little chance we had. So he gave the word to run for the coast Of St. Paul, and work like mad ! Our grand Old Man hadn't much to say, But he looked as firm as the land, And got pretty near men's hearts that day : Not a shake in his voice or his hand ! Through the Shadow of Death, that was gathering grim, He saw his duty clear, And did it. That was enough for him ; No time, no room for fear ! Just the Sailor you'd like to be By your side on a sinking deck : Just the man who would wait to see The last soul safe from the wreck ! We cheered him in front of the battle, again And again ; three proud cheers gave him, And then went at it, to live like men Or die, as such, to save him 1 We floundered in shallow water at last ; More dangerous than the deep ! "All hands on deck," was the order passed; Each man stood ready to leap — THE STOKER'S STORY. 43 WJiere were we ? oh, down in our grave ; Nobody seemed to think That we like the rest had Spirits to save : And hadn't a drop to drink ! Stokers were forced to remain below And keep on a strong head of steam : I felt, each moment, the pipe must go. Not one of us dared to dream Of escape ; my hair was on end, I know, As the war-tug came to the worst. But I thought we were nearest to death, and so Perhaps might reach heaven first. Then as she neared the bar we all Shook hands and bade good-bye ; Each man, turning his face to the wall, Drew himself up to die When, face to face suddenly brightens ! There's a babble of witless words ! And a spirit lives in us that lightens Like air in the bones of birds ! Beautiful ! light as an eggshell, over The bar at a bound she springs, As though all heaven had stooped, and given Us a lift, and we went upon wings ! Death was past, we had leisure at last, And a gasp of fresh breath to pray : Arid I can tell you we were in heaven — Had reached it another way. 44 MY LYRICAL LIFE. We are safe. But, my God ! if our England In a coming hour should be found Rust-eaten right to the heart of her, And have to be run a-ground, "Wrecked at a shock, like our Hulk on the rock ; Whipped from the wide proud round Of her own wave-world, with her Union Jack furled, Of all her glory discrowned ! Saviours of England's money, Is it so you think to save 1 By stopping of holes with your Seamen's souls, And ships like that for a grave 1 To the other side o' the world you send Us : which, doesn't matter a rap. But we think it is cruel hard to end Like rats that are drowned in a trap. We never mind Death, for the land we love, In the good old-fashioned way, Should we mount to the glorified souls above Through the smoke of some desperate day That makes all safe for the Island-Home : Proudly the last of our breath We will send you, blood-bubbling up through the foam ; Only let us deserve our death ! Heart of Oak that our England Should never neglect or forget — Heart of Oak that our England Must swim by, or sink in yet — ■ THE CAPTAIN OF THE " NORTHFLEET." 45 Ocean-home of the old Sea-Race — Shall it become the prey 0' the mean and base, and a breeding-place For the Creatures of Decay ] If we cannot keep the Sea, you Lubbers ! Your Cent, per Cent, must stop. If Ave do not keep the sea, you Lubbers ! You cannot keep the Shop ! Our Empire's built a-top of the wave, Not at the bottom, and we Think they are the only men to save By land, who will save us at Sea. THE CAPTAIN OF THE "NORTHFLEET." So often is the proud deed done By men like this at Duty's call ; So many are the honours won By them, we cannot wear them all ! They make the heroic common-place, And dying thus the natural way ; And yet, our world-wide English race Feels nobler, for that death, To-day ! It stirs us with a sense of wings That strive to lift the earthiest soul ; It brings the thoughts that fathom things To anchor fast where billows roll. 46 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Love was so new, and life so sweet, But at the call he left the wine, And sprang full-statured to his feet, Eesponsive to the touch divine. " Nay, Bear, I cannot see you die. For me, I have my work to do Up here. Down to the boat. Good-bye, God bless you. I shall see it through." "We read, until the vision dims And drowns 3 but, ere the pang be past, A tide of triumph overbrims And breaks with Light from heaven at last. Through all the blackness of that night A glory streams from out the gloom \ His steadfast spirit lifts the light That shines till Nmht is overcome. *o* The sea will do its worst, and life Be sobbed out in a bubbling breath ; But firmly in the coward strife There stands a man who has conquered Death ! A soul that masters wind and wave, And towers above a sinking deck ; A bridge across the gaping grave ; A rainbow rising o'er the wreck. Others he saved ; he saved the name Unsullied that he gave his wife : And dying with so pure an aim, He had no need to save his life. A BIRTHDAY ON BOARD 47 Lord ! how they shame the life we live, These Sailors of our sea-girt isle, Who cheerily take what Thou mayst give, And go down with a heavenward smile ! The men who sow their lives to yield A glorious crop in lives to be : Who turn to England's Harvest-field The unfruitful furrows of the sea. With such a breed of men so brave, The Old Land has not had her day ; But long, her strength, with crested wave, Shall ride the Seas, the proud old way. A BIRTHDAY ON BOARD. (To Captain McMichan, of the Umbria) Your Birthday, Captain ! And we come To greet you, Matron, Mother, and Maid : Service like yours, Men tell us, from The Ladies' lips is best repaid ! We greet you for your Birthday's sake, But still more warmly for your own ; No truer Sailor treads the deck. How many a Triumph, all unknown, You have won by night from Death the grim, Where Danger lurked like some Sea-Elf : We take the larger pride in him Who shows so little for himself. 48 MY LYRICAL LIFE. We give our lives into his hand, And trust him where we cannot aid : He guides us safe from land to land ; He makes the fearful unafraid. "When the Sea rises, ridge on ridge, Against us, like some serried foe, We think " the Captain's on the bridge," And we can safely rest below. Through all its Vast may Ocean roll, Its billows beat, its voices rave, 'Tis but the servant of the Soul That rides the Wind and rides the Wave. We lack the words to speak your worth, But Avhen the Voyage of life is o'er, Safe Harbour to you ! And a Berth A 1, on an Eternal Shore. THE SEA KINGS. The Spaniard thought to wear our Crown, Three hundred years ago ; And bow the head of England down To kiss the Pope's great toe ! And next the Dutchman swept the Sea With Besom top-mast high. Gone is their Ocean sovereignty ; To-day, how low they lie ! THE SEA KINGS. 49 And now the Frenchman's old wounds burn Like devils in their pain, And bode the weather of war will turn To a bath of bloody rain. Tingle and ring the ears of France With sound of battle-hymns ; As on Ambition's dark, mad trance The bloody vision swims. Sons of the old Norse sailors brave, We fill their place to-day, — No wisp of foam upon the wave, To flash and pass away. Our perilous prize we guard and keep Till last relief God brings, Then lie in calm majestic sleep Along with the old Sea Kings. Well may your proud eyes sparkle, ye Rough Sea-Kings, young and old ; The salt Sea-spirit laughs to see The Frenchman grown so bold. Sword-bayonets, Rifled Cannon, may The poor of heart alarm, But pluck at last will win the day With naked strength of arm. We are not beaten at a dash, Nor swiftly overthrown, — Let Ship with Ship together lash, We know who must go down. No man in Gallic land will live To see us dispossessed ; When our sun sets at sea we give Its glory to the West. 2 50 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Those old unconquerable waves, They mock at Tyranny ; And never can a land of Slaves Be Ruler of the Sea. But would you see their Empress, now Behold her ! here she smiles, This Diadem on Ocean's brow; This Glory of the Isles. We have fed the Sea with English souls, And every mounded wave To Heaven bears witness, as it rolls Some English seaman's grave ! Our Rivers carry heroic dust For burial in the sea, Which helps to keep our noble trust, And battles for the Free. Not always down the Primrose path Of dalliance can we tread, Oft-times the Chosen People hath To climb with foot-prints red : Our highest life with cross, and scorn, And tears, may yet be trod, And England wear a crown of thorn, Whose Roses bloom in blood. We have immortal quarrel with The men who war with Right ; We will not own him kin or kith, Who fails us in this fight. No room for him on British ground, No bed in Ocean's breast, Who draws her purple curtains round Unfathomable rest. THE SEA KINGS. 51 If those old Greeks for Beauty wrought Their ten-years' daring deed, Shall it be said that less we fought For Freedom in her need ? No. Fight till aU the Brave lie dead, And grass grows on the mart ; But Freedom here shall rest her head Upon our England's heart. Like some old Eagle on her nest, Up in her pride of place, Oar England sits with brooding breast, And looks with sharpened face ! She feels the Shadow of a Hand, But ere it touch her brood, The Sea that narrows round our land Shall run a moat of blood. Wave out, Old Bird ! or, still brood on ! They shall not bring you low ; A thousand years have come and gone, A thousand more shall go ! Our True Hearts still shall tread the deck, Our Ships sail every sea, And ride like those who rein the neck Of rearing Tyranny. "We've mounted many a windy wave, We've weathered many storms ; Unshaken still we hear them rave, Safe in the Eternal arms. For if the worst comes — every man— We perish in our place, And then our Conqueror, if he can, May lead the new Sea-Race ! 1860. E 2 52 MY LYRICAL LIFE. A DAUGHTER OF THE SEA-KINGS. Many a time, from out the North, The fire-eyed Raven flew, And England watched its sailing forth, "With eyes of wistful blue ; Many a time her True-hearts stood All ranked and ready for Grim welcome, should the Bird of Blood Swoop down on wings of war ! To-day, another Norland Bird Comes floating o'er the foam ; And England's heart of hearts is stirred To have the dear bird Home. She comes soft-eyed, with brooding breast, On swiftening wings of love ; And Britain, to her bridal nest, Welcomes the Daneland Dove. She comes ; across the waters spread the sails ; She comes, to play her brave, uncommon part ; The Princess who will wear the name of Wales ; The Woman who shall win our England's heart. The Nation's life up-leaps to meet her : And England with one voice goes forth to greet Her ! Our Lady cometh from the North, The tender and the true, Whose fire of darkest glow hath rarest worth ; For love more inly nestles in the North, A DAUGHTER OF THE SEA-KINGS. 53 To give, like fire in frost, its fervours forth : Whose flowers can keep their dew ; And a look in its Women's eyes is good As the first fresh breath of the salt Sea-flood, Or the bonniest blink of its blue : And from its dark Fiords, with sails unfurled, Came the fair-haired Norsemen, The men that moved the world. They were the pride and the darlings of Ocean, Rocked on her breast by a hundred storms ; Tossed up with joy fullest Motherly motion ; Caught to her heart again — clasped in her arms. No Slaves of the Earth but Sea-kings, the rough Rovers Took wings of the wind and flew over the foam. Yet, the old True-hearts, like faithf idlest lovers, Came back with the fruitf uller feeling of Home. Kings were they of the royallest blood That was blue with the hue of the salt Sea-flood. Come ! stir the Norse fire in us mightily ! Come, conquering hearts as they the heaving sea. Come, wed the people with their Prince, and bless Them from your neighbouring heaven of nobleness. There's nothing like a Beauty of the Blood To set the fashion of a loftier good ! There's nothing like a true and womanly Wife To help a man, and make melodious life. For, she can hold his heartstrings in her hand, And play the tune her pleasure may command, 54 MY LYRICAL LIFE. And cause his climbing soul to grow in stature, Trying to reach the heights of her diviner nature. Come in your beauty of promise ; Come in your Maiden glee ; Let your sunshine scatter from us The shadow of Misery. Hearts in the dark have been aching, But now the clouds are breaking. Come as come the swallows Over the brightening sea, And we know that Summer follows "With the sunny days to be. Come and give us your glad good-morrow, The Joy-bells shall ring, And the merry birds sing ; Dumbly drooping, the Bird of Sorrow Shall hide his old head \inder his wing. And now a shining Vision blooms ; I see the rich Procession glide Serenely 'twixt the s waling plumes, All nodding in their pride : Walking with sweet precision, she Moves slowly onward, softly nigher The Altar ; meek in purity, Yet filled with stately fire. The dawn upon her sweet young face The dewy spring-light in her eyes, A nd round about her form of grace The airs of paradise. A DAUGHTER OF THE SEA-KINGS. 55 But lo ! a Shadow dims the scene ! We lift our eyes and sadly see How lonely stands the wistful Queen ; No leaning-place hath she, Who, in her darkness seeks to hide, While the wed pair move whitely on As swans go gliding side by side, And all their splendours sun. O Widow's gloom ! O wedding joys ! O white fringe to the Mourning-pall ! With the dead Father's hovering voice In music over all ! This world is but a newer paradise, To that glad spirit looking through the eyes Of Love, that sees all bright things dancing toward It, gaily coming of their own accord. For 'tis as though the lightsome heart should climb Up in the head, to look from heights sublime And sing, and swing as it would never drop — The merry reveller in the tall tree-top ! Where Life is with such lofty gladness crowned, And all the Pleasures dance in starry circle round. But may this love be true as Hers who sees Ye, like a smiling future at her knees : The Wife who held God's gifts the richest wealth ; Our Queen of Home who sweetened England's health : 5G MY LYRICAL LIFE. The Widow in whose face we looked to see That great black cloud of our calamity On the side nearest heaven, and marked her rise In stature, calm to meet her sacrifice : As one with faith to feel Death's darkness brings Almighty Love on overshadowing wings. True love is no mere incense that will swim Up from the heart a lover's eyes to dim, But, such a light as gives the jewel-spark To meanest things it looks on in their dark, — A spring of heaven welling warm to bless And sanctify each grain of earthiness. True love will make true life, and glorify Ye very proudly in the nation's eye. Ah, Prince, a-many hopes up-fold the wing Within the Marriage-nest to which ye bring Your Bride, the life ye live there will be rolled Through endless echoes, mirrored manifold. We charge you, when you look on your young Wife, And watch the ascending brightness of new life ] n the sweet eyes that double the sweet soul, That ye forget not others' dearth and dole. Just now, the North wind wails As though the Cold were crying Over the hills and over the dales, And sinking hearts know well what ails The sound of the wintry sighing : It bears the moan of the dying ; A DAUGHTER OF THE SEA-KINGS. 57 Dying down in the starving Shires, "Without food, and without fires. The bitter nights are cruel cold, One cannot help but wake, and think Of the poor milch-lambs of the human fold That have no milk to drink. A Royal Worker to his grave went down A little year ago, without his crown. He dreamed the time would come when Rich and Poor Might shake hands, strove to open wide the door. He tried to till our waste-land, — sought to see It glad in good, the stern world Poverty. His was a heart that nobly beat to bless, And heaved with doubled-breasted bounteousness Like very woman's. But, 'tis ever so ; He's gone where all our golden sunsets go ; Gone from us ! Yet his memory makes a li»ht. Enriching life with tints of pictured bloom, Like firelight warm upon the walls of night, An inner glow against the outer gloom. Do thou but live, and work as Albert willed, And he shall smile in heaven to see his dream fulfilled. Heroic deeds of toil are to be done, And lofty palms of peace are to be won. Life may be followed by a fame that rings With nobler music than" the Battle sings, When Death, astride the black Guns, laughs to see That flashing out of souls, and grins triumphantly. 58 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Bear high the banner of our England's fame, And let the evil-doers fear her name. We joy to serve her, least of all the race ; Yours is the chance to fill a foremost place. Like some proud River, stretching forth before ye Through all the land, your widening way doth lie, Brimming and blessing as it rolls in glory, Broadening and brightening till it reach the sky. A splendid Vision ! the green corn looks gay ; The Bird of Happiness sings overhead : And may the Autumn uplands far away Rise with the Harvest ripe in Evening's red ; Your crescent Honey-Moon laugh out above The gathered Sheaves it gilds, at full with love. PEESONAL. 61 ROBERT BURNS. A CENTENARY SONG. A Hundred years ago this morn He came to walk our human way ; And we would change the Crown of Thorn For healing leaves To-day. A vain recall ! The dead men do Not turn back when the Curtain's down, To smirk and bow their thanks to you For after-clap or crown ! And we can only hang our wreath Upon the cold white Marble's brow ! Though loud we speak, or low we breathe, We cannot change it now. He loved us all ! He loved so much ! His heart of love the world could hold ; And now the whole wide world with such A love would him enfold. 'Tis long and late before it wakes So kindly, yet a true world still ; It hath a heart so large, that takes A century to fdl ! (J2 MY LYRICAL LIFE. But tell the wondrous Tale to-day, While songs are sung, and warm words said,- Tell how he wore the Hodden Gray, And won the Oaten bread. With wintry welcome at the door Did Nature greet him to his lot ; Our royal Minstrel of the Poor, Cradled in his clay-Cot. There, in the bonny Bairntime dawn, He nestled at his Mother's knee, With such a face as might have drawn The Angels down to see That rosy Innocent at prayer, So pure and ready for the hand Of Her who is Guide and Guardian where Babes sleep in Silent Land. And there she found her darling Child, The robust Muse of sun-browned health, Who nursed him up into the wild Young heir of all her wealth : And there she rocked his Infant thought, Asleep with visions glorious That hallow now the Poor Man's Cot For evermore to us : Disguised Angelic Playmates were Those still ideal dreams of Youth, That drew it on to Greatness ; there We find them shaped in truth ! ROBERT BURNS. 63 There, young Love slyly came, to bring Rare balms that will bewitch the blood, To dance while happy Spirits sing, With life in hey-day flood. And there he learned the touch that speeds Right to the natural heart of things ; Struck rootage down to where Life feeds At the eternal Springs : Before the Lords of Earth he stood A Man by Nature born and bred, To show us on what simple food A Poet may be fed. No gifts of gold for him, no crown Of Fortune ready for his brow ; But wrestling strength to earn his own ; It shines in glory now ! He rose up cheery as the Lark — Our dawn-bird of the better day. Many weird voices of the dark In his music passed away ! He caught them, Witch and Warlock, ere They vanished ; all the revelry Of wizard wonder, we must wear The mask of Sleep to see ! Droll Humours came for him to paint Their pictures ; straight his merry eye Had taken them, so queer, so quaint, We laugh until Ave cry. Qi MY LYRICAL LIFE. Meek glimpses of peculiar grace, Where Beauty lieth, in undress, Asleep in secret hiding-place, Hushed in the wilderness : Spring-dawns that open heaven-doors ; Wild winds that break in seas of sound ; Sad Gloamings eerie on the moors ; The murdered Martyr's mound ; Wan, awful Shadows, trailing like The great skirts of the hurrying Storm ; Bronzed-purple thunder-lights that strike The woodlands wet and warm ; And glorious Sunsets, God's good-night, Is smiled through to our world, and felt ; Make rich his soul by ear and sight, — Through all his being melt. He knew the Sorrows of poor folk, He felt for all their patient pain ; And from his clouded soul he shook Lark-like the music-rain. For them his eyes would brim with balm, Dark eyes, and flashing as the levin — Grew at a touch as sweet and calm As are the eyes in heaven. So rich in sadness is his breast That tenderness, heaven-mirroring, fills, As lies the soft blue lake at rest Among the rugged hills ; ROBERT BURNS. G5 And quick as Mother's milk will rise, At thrill of her babe's touch, and strong, It heaves his heart, and floods his eyes, And overflows his song. In Life's low ways, and starless night, The Poor so often have to creep Where Manhood may not walk full-height, And this made Robin weep. But none dare sneer, who see the tear In Robin Burns' s honest eye, With all the weakness, it comes clear From where the Thunders lie. Such Ardours flash from out that dew, And quiver in its pearl of pain ; The Spirit of Lightning thrilling through A drop of tempest-rain ! Of all our Birds the Robin he Is darling of the gentle Poor ; His nest is sacred, he goes free By window or by door : His lot is lowly, and his wings Are only of the homely brown, But in the dreary day he sings When gayer friends have flown, And hoarded up for us he brings, In that brave breast of bonny red, A gathered glory of the Springs And Summers long, long fled. 2 G6 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Even so all Birds of Song above, To which the poor man smiling turns, The darling of his listening love Is gentle Robin Burns : His Summer soul our Winter warm-, He makes a glory in our gloom ; His nest is safe from all the storms, For ever in our Home. Come in, dear Bird, with all the glow Of life and love that brims thy breast ; A warmth to melt the winter snow In Poortith's coldest nest. When Hesper through some shady nook Sparkles on Lovers face to face, Where drooped lids shade a burning look, With beauty's shyer grace — And holy is the hour for love, And all so silent comes the Night, Lest even a breath of faerie move That poise so feather-light — Where two hearts weigh, to blight or bless, Till swarming like a summer hive, The inner world of happiness With music grows alive — There as Life aches so, heart in heart, And hand in hand so fondly yearns, Love shakes his wings, and soars and sings The song of Robin Burns. ROBERT BURNS. G7 Auld Scotland's Music waited long, And wandered wailing through the land, Divinely yearning in her wrong, And sorrowfully grand ; And many touched responsive chords, But could not tell what She would say ; Till Robin wed her with his words, And they were One for aye. His Ministers of Music win Their way where night is all so mirk, You scarce can see the Devil in The darkness at his work, Or feel the face of friends from foes ; But these Song-Spirits softly come, And lo ! a light of heaven glows Within the poorest home. On either side the hearth they glide, And take the empty seat of Care, Immortal Presences that bide In blessed beauty there. They set us singing at our work, Or, where no fitting voice is found, Out-smiles the music that may lurk In thoughts too fine for sound. They weave some pictured tints that shine Luminous in life's cold gray woof ; They make the vine of Patience twine About the barest roof. 1 1 An American Poetess applied this image to my own poetry. I have taken the liberty of passing it on to him who has the far greater right to it. F 2 68 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Move sweet his Songs, to him who plods Shut up in smoky city prison, Than to the caged Lark cool sods Cut ere the sun be risen. The Soldier feels them as a spring I >f healing 'mid the Indian sand ; They gush within him, and they bring Him news of the Old Land ! With them the Sailor warms his heart, By night upon the wintry sea ; With them our Serfs ennobled start 1' the knighthood of the Free ! Ah, how some old sweet Cradle-song The Exile's wandering heart still brings Home ! home again, with ties as strong As Love's own leading-strings. "We hug the Homestead, and more near The fresh and fonder tendrils twine To make our clasp more close for fear Our dear ones we may tine. Think how those Heroes, true till death, In Lucknow listened through the strife, And held what seemed their latest breath They had to draw in life, ROBERT BURNS. 69 To hear the oil Scots' Music dear Ask, down the battle-pauses brief, As Havelock's men, with fire and cheer, Swept in to their relief — ■ "Should auld acquaintance be forgot f" Through flaming hell we come ! we come ! To keep that pledge, not given for nought Around the hearth at home. " We'll talc a cup o' kindness " yet, For Scotland dear, and Auld Lang Syne ; Ay, though that cup be redly-wet With blood as well as wine. " And here's a hand, my trusty friend," And then it seemed the dear Old Land Did burst their tomb, the death-shroud rend, With Robin Burns's hand. How dearly Robin loved the Land That gave such gallant Heroes birth ; Its wee blue bit of heaven, and Its dear green nook of earth. Where he once looked with tender gaze, In all our way-side wanderings, Shy Beauty lifts her veil of haze, And smiles in common things. More precious is the purple heath, The bonny broom of beamless gold ; And sweeter is the mellow breath Of Autumn on the wold ! 70 MY LYRICAL LIFE. The Daisy opes its eye at dawn, And straight from Nature's heart so true, The tear of Burns peeps sparkling ! an Immortal drop of dew ! With eyes a thought more kindly, we Look on all dumb and helpless things; In his large love they stand, as He Had sheltered them with wings. Down by the singing burn we greet His voice of love and liberty; High on the bleak hill-side we meet His Spirit hlit he and free ! And on this land should Foe e'er tread, He will light for it at our side, Flame on our Banners ovei'head, In songs of victory ride. A Hundred years ago To-day, The great and glorious Stranger came : Men wondered as he went his way A wild and wandering ilame. The fiercer fire of life, confined, With higher wave will heave and break. And higher should the mountain-mind Thrust up its star ward peak : But often is the kindling clay With its red lavas rent and riven, And Earth holds up a wreck to pray The healincr hand of Heaven. ROBERT BURNS. 71 Around his soul more sternly warred The powers that smite for Wrong and Right ; And thunder-scathed and battle-scarred, Death bore him from the fight. Bat now we recognize in him, One of the high and shining race ; All gone the mortal mists that dim The fair immortal face. The splendour of a thousand Suns Is shining ! and the tearful rain No more with passionate pathos runs ; He counts his grief our gain. The sorrow and suffering, soil and shame All gone ! all far away have passed ; He sitteth in the heavens of fame, With quiet crowned at last. The prowling Ghoul hath left his grave, Hushed is the praying Pharisee ; His frailties fade, his Virtues brave Live everlastingly. For us he wrought imperishably, The lowly-born, the peasant's Son ; We weep exulting tears that he So proud a place hath won ! And such a Crown to bind thy brow, Thy glorious Child hath gained for thee, Thou gray old nurse of Heroes ! thou Proud Mother, Poverty ! 72 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Look up ! and let the big tears be Triumphant, touched with sparks of pride ; Look up ! in his great glory ye Are also glorified. Or weep the tear that Pity wrings To think his brightness he should dim : Then 'tis the drop of heart-ache brings Us nearer unto him : 'Tis here we touch his garment ; here The poorest or the frailest earns The right to call him kinsman dear, Our Brother, Eobin Burns. In fires of suffering far more fair We forge the precious bond of love. Ah, Robin, if God hear our prayer 'Tis all made well above, And you who comforted His Poor In this world, have eternal home With those He comforteth, His Poor ! In all the world to come. Dear Highland Mary went before To plead for you in saintly sooth, Yv r hom she remembered when you wore The purity of Youth. With those high Bards who Live for aye, Your faults and failings all forgiven — ■ May there be festival to-day, And a great joy in Heaven ! ROBERT BURNS. 73 The truth afar off found at last ; The triumph rung impetuously Through all that Crystal Palace vast Of white Eternity. Dear Robin, could you but return Once more, how changed it all would be ', The heart of this wide world doth yearn To take you welcomingly : Warm eyes would shine at windows ; quick Warm hands would greet you at the door, Where oft they let you pass heart-sick, So heedlessly of yore ! And they would have you wear the Crown Who bade you bear the crushing cross ; Their glorious gain was all unknown, Until they felt the loss : The cup you carried was so filled, The pressing crowd, so eager round, Dragged down your lifted arm, and spilled Such dear drops on the ground ! How we would comfort your distress, Would see you smile as once you smiled, And hold your hands in silentness, Strong man and little child ! Your poor heart heaving like the waves Of seas that moan for evermore, And try to creep into the caves Of Rest, but find no shore — ■ 74 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Poor heart ! come rest thee from the strife Come, rest thee, rest thee in the calm, We'd cry : come bathe a weary life In Love's immortal balm ! We cannot see your face, Robin ! Your flashing lip, your fearless brow ; We cannot hear your voice, Robin ! But you are with us now : Although the mortal face is dark Behind the veil of spirit-wings, You draw us up as Heaven the Lark Whose music in him sings. With tender awe we feel you near, You make our lifted faces shine ; You brim our cup with kindness here, For sake of Auld Lang Syne. We are one at heart as Britain's sons, Because you join our clasping hands, While one electric feeling runs Through all the English lands. And near or far where Britons band, To-day the leal and true heart turns More fondly to the fatherland For love of Robin Burns. HOOD. To HOOD, WHO SANG THE " SONG OF TnE SHIRT." 'Twas the old story ! — ever the blind world Knows not its Angels of Deliverance Till they stand glorified 'twixt earth and heaven. It stones the Martyr ; then, with praying hands, Sees the God mount his chariot of fire, And calls sweet names, and worships what it spurned. It slays the Man to deify the Christ : And then how lovingly 'twill bind the brows Where late its thorn-crown laughed with cruel lips — Red, and rejoicing from the killing kiss ! To those who walk beside them, great men seem Mere common earth ; but distance makes them stars. As dying limbs do lengthen out in death, So grows the stature of their after-fame ; And then we gather up their glorious words, And treasure up their names with loving care. So Hood, our Poet, lived his martyr-life : With a swift soul that travelled at such speed, And struck such flashes from its flinty road, That by its trail of radiance through the dark, We almost see th' unfeatured Future's face, — And went uncrowned to his untimely tomb. Tis true, the World did praise his glorious Wit — The merry Jester with his cap and bells ! And sooth, his wit was like Ithuriel's spear : But 'twas mere lightning from the cloud of his life, Which held at heart most rich and blessed rain 7G MY LYRICAL LIFE. Of tears melodious, that are worlds of love ; And Rainbows, that woidd bridge from earth to heaven ; And Light, that should have shone like Joshua's sun Above our long death-grapple with the Wrong ; And thunder-voices, with their "Words of fire, To melt the Slave's chain, and the Tyrant's crown. His wit] — a kind smile just to hearten us ! — Rich foam-wreaths on the waves of lavish life, That flashed o'er precious pearls and golden sands. But, there was that beneath surpassing wit ! The starry soul, that shines when all is dark ! — Endurance, that can suffer and grow strong — Walk through the world with bleeding feet, and smile !— Love's inner light, that kindle's Life's rare colours, Bright wine of Beauty for the longing soul ; And thoughts that swathe Humanity with such glory As limns the outline of the coming God. In him were gleams of such heroic splendour As light this cold, dark world up like a star Arrayed in glory for the eyes of heaven : And a great heart that beat according music With theirs of old, — Goddikest kings of men ! A conquering heart ! which Circumstance, that frights The Many down from Love's transfiguring height, Aye mettled into martial attitude. He might have clutched the palm of Victory In the world's wrestling-ring of noble deeds; But he went clown a precious Argosy At sea, just glimmering into sight of shore, HOOD. 77 With its rare freightage from diviner climes. While friends were crowding at the Harbour mouth To meet and welcome the brave Sailor back, He saw, and sank in sight of them and home ! The world may never know the wealth it lost, When Hood went darkling to his tearful tomb, So mighty in his undeveloped force ! With all his crowding unaccomplished hopes — Th' unuttered wealth and glory of his soul — And all the music ringing round his life, And poems stirring in his dying brain. But blessings on him for the songs he sang — Which yearned about the world till then for birth ! How like a bonny bird of God he came, And poured his heart in music for the Poor ; Who sit in gloom while sunshine floods the land, And grope through darkness, for the hand of Help. And trampled Manhood heard, and claimed its crown ; And trampled Womanhood sprang up ennobled ! The human soul looked radiantly through rags ! And there was melting of cold hearts, as when The ripening sunlight fingers frozen flowers. O ! blessings on him for the songs he sang ! When all the stars of happy thought had set In many a mind, his spirit walked the gloom Clothed on with beauty, as the regal Moon Walks her night-kingdom, turning clouds to light. Our Champion ! with his heart too big to beat In bonds, — our Poet in his pride of power ! Aye, we'll remember him who fought our fight, And chose the Martyr's robe of flame, and spurned The gold and purple of the glistering slave. 7^ MY LTBICAI I. in:. His M a ileum i> the 1'' >] le'a heart] i 1 and glorioi i. u Sni:': j robe wrapped richly round. 1 1 . I ngland, lii- dear d Should li«- where Bplendid flatteries flaunt on tombs, With not .i line <>f lettered love to tell What mighty heart lies quenched and broken 1 1 mild our Poel - monument ! With i' And mper for immorta] fame. And it were well, my I I thou i To oal pra And bli -•. and d< warrior Wellii l ' .tli's white horse, l>v 1 imaon ] MAURICE AND THE BIGOTS. 'I'm - .'.« broke thi that brought :i tin.' I ■ .t makes our \ gUme 1 I All Saviour-souls ha 1. With nought but faith for guerdon ; A ad ere the world 1 The man to death baa borne the burden I They laid their C< >rner-stones in dark Deep water.-, who ap-built in beauty Their ever-standing Triumph-Arc That crowns with glory lives of duty. HUGH MILLERS GRAVE. < And meekly still the Martyrs go To keep with Pain their solemn bridal ! And still they walk the fire who bow Not down to worship Custom's idol. Our heart-strings sweetest music make When swept by Suffering's feeling fingers ; And through soul-shadows starriest break The glories on God's brave light-bringers. God bless you, Maurice, in our dearth Your life shall leave a trail of glory ; And gathering round the poor man's hearth We proudly tell your suffering's story ! Take heart ! though sown in tears and blood, No seed that's quick with love hath perished ; Though dropped in barren by-ways — God Some glorious flower of life hath cherished. Take heart ; the rude dust dark To-day Soars a new-lighted sphere To-morrow ! And wings of splendour burst the clay That folds us in Death's fruitful furrow. 1850. HUGH MILLER'S GRAVE. Before the Grave-gulf closes, let me drop My few poor flowers upon his Coffin lid ! I loved the man : his taking roughness too I liked ; it was the Sword-hilt rough with gems. I loved him living, not with that late love Which asks for rootage in the dead man's grave, 80 MY LYRICAL LIFE. And must be writ in Marble to endure. To many he was stern, for he could guard His tongue with his good teeth : to some he seemed Sharp as the Holly's lower range of leaves, His prickly humour all alive with spears : But if you climbed to the serener height, You found a life in smooth and shining leaf, Crowned with its calm, and lying nearer heaven. Low lies the grandest head in all Scotland. We'll miss him when there's noble work to do ! We'll miss him coming through the crowded .street, Like plaided Shepherd from the Ross-shire Hills, Stalwart and iron-gray and weather-worn; His tall head holding up a lonely lamp Of steadfast thought still-burning in his eyes, Like some masthead-light lonely through the night ; His eyes, that rather dreamed than saw, deep-set In the brow's shadow, looking forward, fixed, On something we divined not, solemn, strange ! He was a Hero true as ever stepped In the Forlorn Hope of a warring world : And from opposing circumstance his palm Drew loftier stature, and a lustier strength. From the far dreamland height of youthful yeai's He flung his gage out 'mid the trampling strife, And fought his way to it with spirit that cut Like a scythed Chariot, and took up his own. Once more Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came, Saw bright forms beckon on the battlements, And stormed through fighting foes, true steel to steel ; HUGH MILLER'S GRAVE. 81 Slow step by step he won his winding way, And reached the top, a,nd stood up Victor there ; And yet with most brave meekness it was done. His life-tree fair of leaf, and rich in fruit ! We could not see it mouldering at the heart. We knew not how in nights of pain he groped, And groped with bleeding feeling down dark Crypts Of consciousness, to find the buried sense ; When the faint flame of being flickering low, Made fearful shadows spectral on the walls ; And beckoning terrors muttered in the dark ; Old misery-mongers moaned along the wind ; The lights burned blue as Death were breathing near, And dead hands seemed to reach and drag him down To those who have been deceived by false belief. The powers of Evil often have a hand With human Lots in the dim urn of Fate. The awful Dark flung over him a pall Of pain, hot hands of hell were on his eyes, And Devils drew him through the cold night-wind ; But while they held the helpless body bound, The spirit broke away. That rent was death ! The iron will wherewith he hewed his path From the stone-quarries to the heights of fame, Still strove for freedom when the leap was death. But, never doubt God's Children find their home By dark as well as day. The life he lived, And net the death he died, was first in judgment. 2 G S2 MY LYRICAL LIFE. It is the writing on the folded scroll Death sends, and not the seal, that God will judge. I like to think the Spirit of Cowper caught Hold of his poor weak wandering hands in help, As at the dark door he in blindness groped. How it would touch that tender soul to read The earthly memories written in his face ! Such memories as ope the gates of heaven : And he who soothed hiui with last words on earth Might whisper hi-^ first welcome in the heavens, And lead him through cool valleys green where grow The Leaves of Healing by the River of Life, "Where tears and travel-stains are wiped away, All troubled thoughts laid in ambrosial rest, And hearts have ceased to ache, And there is no more pain. Before His throne who sitteth in the Heavens, Perchance the pleading Poet prayed that he Might sit beside him at th' Eternal feast. The fancy flower-like from his Coffin grew Even while I looked. He lay as Death did seem Only a dream he might have dreamed before ; All peaceful as the face of Sabbath morn : The meekened witness of another world. That stern, white stillness had a starry touch, As his last look had caught the first of heaven. The battle-armour of a soldier -soul Lay battered, but still bright from many blows, Upon the field, large, such as few could wear. HUGH MILLER'S GRAVE. 83 The ghosts of last year's leaves, that last night rose And rustled in their spectral dance of death, Are laid and silent in a shroud of snow ! The day is dark above the long, dark host : The sad hushed heavens seem choked, but cannot weep. Many pale faces, many tristful eyes, With dumb looks pleading for the kindly rain That comes not when the heart can only cry With unshed tears, close round his wintry grave: The lonely men whose lives are still a-light And shining when the manual Toilers sleep, To whom Night brings the larger thoughts like Stars. I marvel if among them there is one Who shudders when men speak of such a death As if they named His — who had longed to pluck Death's cool hand down upon the burning brain, But chokes the secret in his heart as though He crushed a hissing serpent in his hand, Lest it scream out, and his white face be known ! Ah ! come away, for sorrow is a child That needs no nursing ! And all seems so strange. One last look, and then home to feel and feel What we have lost. And when from the dark earth A spring-tide dawn of leaf-light glistens green, And Nature with her dewfall and her rain Gives to our grief the last calm tender touch, In those sweet days when hearts are tenderest For those who never come back with the flowers, Upon some balmy Eve so beautiful G 2 £ t MY LYRICAL LIFE. We should not wonder if an Angel stood Suddenly at our side ; the silent march < >t all the beauty culminating thus ! Then let us come, dear friend, and spend an hour At the communion table of His tomb — And pluck the Heartsease growing from the grave While Nature kneeleth in all places lowly, And blessings rest upon a time so holy. TO A BEREAVED FRIEND. God comfort you, my Friend, God comfort you ! How mighty, how immeasurable your loss 1 can but dimly know ; yet I have learned That only the most precious pass so soon. I could but .stand Without, and dared not thrust My hand betwixt the curtain- of your grief. I could not reach you sitting in the dark Of that lone desert where the silence stuns, And sound of sobbing would be kind relief. But I would speak some word that with a touch May make your cup of sorrow overbrim in tears that suck the sting from out the soul. I too have felt the gloom that brings heaven near; The love whose kissings are all unreturned, And longed to lie down with the quiet dead And share their slow sweel c - . I too have known This strain and crack of heart-strings, this wild whirl And wallow of sense in which the soul seems drowned. You are the Husband of an Angel, I TO A BEREAVED FRIEND. 83 Have two sweet Babes in bliss. We are very poor On earth, my Friend, but very rich in Heaven. Two years ago you comforted my loss ; One year ago I sang your wedding song, And now She is not ! She who had only looked On life through coloured windows of her dreams. All in the softest, sweetest breath of life, The bud of her dear beauty seemed to have blown, Your one-year darling who but sprang, and died, And left the fragrance of her memory, A blessed memory ; a most blessed hope ! She had the shy grace of a Woodland flower ; In her Love veiled his look with timid wings ; And her eyes deepened with a sadness rich, As though the mountain-tops of heaven-touched thought Made mirrored shadows in their lakes of light. Only a brief while did she wear the mask Of flesh that kept the fond immortal face Without a stain of earth or soil of time ; And now her Nun-like Spirit takes the Veil In Heaven's cloistral calm. Look up, my Friend, And bravely bear the mantle of her pain, Which fell from her for you to wear for her : Look up, my Friend, and may one little glimpse Of all her glory touch your tears with light ! Only in heaven can the dark grow starry, Only from heaven comes the wished-for Dawn. She liveth in the sight of Him who sees You also ; Ye are one still in God's eye, That from His Picture of the Universe Turns on us in whatever worlds we move. 86 MY LYRICAL LIFE. ALBERT THE GOOD. Soaie Two-and-Twenty golden years ago, A youthful Wooer to our England came ; To-day, he has won her, lying pale and low. Albert the Good we write his noble name. The Power that sits enthroned by open graves Hath risen to rule the air. His death-bell tolls, And rolls upon us in dull heavy waves, Sepulchral shadows over living souls. On every burdened wind the sound is borne, Invisibly swift the Sparks Electric slide ; Till, under Archways of full many a morn, The gloom of our great loss will visibly glide. The meanest doorway darkens at the cloud, The poorest poor have lost a personal friend ; Down to one level are the loftiest bowed ; In the large clasp of nature all hearts blend. The gush of gladness in our eyes is dimmed ; Christmas hath lost its glow of merry heartshine ; The "Wassail-cup will pass as though 'twere brimmed With the red, solemn, Sacramental wine, And dark in his extinguished light we stand. In every face we read how much bereft ! A kindlier pressure of the clasping hand Tells of our loss, and clings to what is left. ALBERT THE GOOD. 87 For he was one of those we never know Till they have left us, nor how great the love We bore them ; they are all too meek to show Their clearness, till they stand our praise above. How should we mirror truly when a breath Set all the surface in a blurring strife 1 We are calmer now ! — touched by the hand of Death ! To hold the lustrous image of his life. We met him coldly, and on looking back See all our dimness by his kindling glow ; The mist we breathed hath served to mark his track, And make a starrier halo for his brow. At last our clouds of earth are cleared away ! Albert the Good goes patiently to God ; Smiling back to us with his frank blue day, Leaving us shining footprints Avhere he trod. Down goes the Scaffolding, the Work is crowned ; Much that was hidden from us may be read, And for the first time we can look all round The Statue of his life now perfected. The Flower of Chivalry upon the height, As featly could he bend to lowliest place ; With something in his presence of the light That shone in Philip Sidney's gracious face. His natural kingliness made Crowns look wan, Whom Fate had set amongst the Lords of Earth To show them how the majesty of Man May shine above the starriest badge of Birth. 8S MY LYRICAL LIFE. He held forever hallowed the dear breasts Where nestling Love and its sweet babes had Iain ; Forever sacred kept Home's secret nest Of purest pleasure and of proudest pain. A calm, high life, crowned with a quiet death ! His robe of pain around him folding, he Was not the man to waste his dying breath ; Who truly lives, can die with dignity. The gentle spirit did not wish to hear The women moaning through the house for him, I '.u only sought to feel its darlings near Enough to bless them when 'twas getting dim ! Xo need of Courtly lies for comforting ; For he can face the truth, though stern and wild : Through spiritual rehearsal he can wring The victory ! and his soul within him smiled. It is not near so hard for one to bow And enter the dark doorway of the Tomb, Who has learnt to meet Death kneeling with bent brow ; Whose inward light can pierce that outer gloom. And while in sorrow here we dimly sit, We lift the head, to ease an aching breast, And, looking up, behold the Stars are lit ; And there's another in the realms of Rest. Rest, happy soul, in thy salvation deep ; The top of life, and endless clay for thee ; While in the valleys here we strive or sleep Among the shadows of Eternity. ALBERT THE GOOD. 89 We can but kneel, and grope, and kiss His feet Who takes thee to His infinite embrace ; We feel transfigured if our touch may meet His garment's hem ; but Thou beholdst His face. Poor Widowed Queen ! we see her as she trod The Aisle where Music's mellow thunders rolled, And Heaven opened, and the smile of God In sunbeams crowned her head with saintly gold. And how we listened — knowing she was blest — To the proud murmurs of the brooding dove ; Home-pleasures round the royal Mother pressed, And God gave many voices to her love. And now the cloud of this calamity Darkens the crown we set on her young brow : Ah, look up to the side next Heaven, and see 'Tis God Himself that crowns our lady now ! With all hearts aching for the folded face, We can but grasp His hand in prayer for her ! So lonely in her desolate, high place ; And leave her with the Eternal Comforter. Though two be parted in that shadow drear, Where one must walk alone, yet is it given For the Beloved spirit to be near ; The human vision with the voice in Heaven. It is my faith they friend us in our need ; With tender cords they draw us where they move ; And often at the noon of night they feed With dews of Heaven the lilies of their love. 00 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Warm whispers will come stealing like a glow Of God, to kiss the spirit's sealed eyes Till they be opened, and True Love doth know Its Marriage Garden blooms in Paradise. Here hearts may beat so close that two lives make Only one shadow in the sun we see, But, in the light we see not, these shall wake One Angel — wedded for eternity. This mourning shall be made majestic mirth ; This grief shall be a glory otherwhere ; The music that we hear no more on earth Will help to make up Heaven when we are there. The sap is swart and bitter in the bark, That sweetens sunnily in the fruit above, And spirits yearning upward through the dark Shall climb and summer in the light of love. And Thou, young Prince, whose Pilot saw thee tide Safe o'er the reefs beyond the Harbour-bar, Then left thee — Beaconing o'er the waters wide, This Star of Morn shall rise, thine Evening Star. May thy life flourish, ripen hour by hour, And heavenward draw the virtues of thy root ; Our eyes have seen the beauty of the flower, Do thou unfold the 'glory of the fruit. We build his Monument, but men may see His steady lustre live in thee and thine ; And thou may est bear, to Empires yet to be, The goodness and the glory of thy line. ALBERT THE GOOD. 91 Think of the dear face dark beneath the mould, And be thou to us what he would have been ; So shall the secret springs of sorrow old Give to thy future paths a gladder green. This is a waiting hour of wonder for The world ; our England looks across her waves ; Will the Dove seek her bosom, or red "War, Whose footprints tread deep pits for gory graves] Is it the kiss of Peace and Righteousness, That softly thrills the hushed, grim silence through, Or Battle's bugle-cry that makes us press All sail — send up our brave old bit of blue 1 We know not. But, if foot to foot we stand, On slippery boarding-plank, or ruddied sward, 'Twill be the sturdier stroke for our dear Land That holds another grave like this to guard. And all is well that makes a People one, Even though the meeting-place be Albert's tomb: We gather grapes of joy up in the sun, But our best wine must ripen in the gloom. Many true hearts have mouldered down to enrich The roots of England's greatness underground ; Until, below, as wide and strong they stretch, As overhead the branches reach around. And so our England's glory ever grows, And so her stature rises ever higher, Until the faces of her farthest foes Darken with envy, overshadowed by her. 92 MY LYRICAL LIFE. So climb the heavens, Old Tree, until the gold Stars glisten as thy fruitage — heave thy breast And broaden till the fiercest storms shall fold Their wings within thy shelter and find rest. WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. TnE Merry Bells ring in the Christmas Day, "While in our hearts a mournful knell is knolled, As other tidings through the land are rolled — Telling of a great spirit passed away. Another heart of English Oak gone down, Like some three-decker striking with no word Of warning ; sails all set ; all hands aboard ; When sunniest skies were smiling with their crown. Low lies the stately form that towered so tall, With life so lusty, and with look so brave ; The head thrown back, as if to breast the wave Eor many a year — the wave that whelmeth all. For all the sobs that rise, or tears that rain, No more fond, fatherly words for Lad and Lass ! No more across his manly face will pass The light of passion, or the shadow of pain. We never told our love ! He would have thought We prattled prettily, amused the while ; And held us at a distance with his smile, Until we hid the presents we had brought. WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 9 .t Now we might stroke the almost young, white hair, And even kiss the cold and quiet brow ; The heart may have its way, and speak out now : He will not mock us, lying silent there ! A nature — not at first sight meant to win — That prickly for protection grows without, To safely fence its tenderness about, And fold the sweet virginities within : Just as you find a nest whose outer form Looks grimly rugged when the boughs are bare ; The birds have flown — you peep inside, and there How softly it was lined I how brooding-warm ! He had our English way of making fun Of those shy feelings which our hearts will hold Like dew-drops all a-tremble, and enfold Them with our sheltering strength from storm and sun. "VVe listened to his voice, as some true Wife, Upon her Husband's breast may lean her head, While many things in her dispraise are said By Him ; but she leans closer, life to life, For, while the covert words sound on above, Their other, deeper meaning she divines ; She hears his heart ; knows its masonic signs ; And nestles in a bosom large with love. So loud he cried, a Snake in Beauty's bower ; A Worm that gnaws at life's most human root ; A Wasp that revels in our rarest fruit ; So gently breathed the fragrance of the flower ! 9-i MY LYRICAL LIFE. He kept his Show-Box — scant of Mirrors where You saw Eternity whose worlds we pass Darkly by daylight, but, with many a glass, Reflecting all the Humours of the Fair I The thousand shapes of vanity and sin ; Toy-stalls of Satan ; the mad masquerade : The floating Pleasures that before them played : The foolish faces following, all agrin. He slyly pricked the bubbles that we blew ; He cheered us on to chase our thistle-down ; Crowning the winner with a Fool's-cap Crown ; And Bon-Bons mottoed in quaint mockery threw. Then in the merry midst some sad, strange words Would touch the spring of tears. His eyes were dry, And, as your laughters ceased, were wondering why? Laugh on ! He had only struck the minor chords ! He was not one of those who are light at heart Because 'tis empty in its airy swing : He found the world too full of sorrowing, But showed us how to smile and bear our smart. Many of God's most precious gifts are sad To tears, and, though no weeper, this he knew. So, in our merry wine, would steep the rue, That with a manlier strength we might grow glad. WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 95 And, year by year, still kindlier to the last, He drew us towards him ; showing more and more, The heart of honey, human to the core, That into Love's full flower ripened fast : Thus Music sweetens to the latest breath, And closer draws the leaning, listening ear ; And still it whispers, from its heaven near, Of some more perfect sweetness beyond death. Large-hearted, brave, sincere, compassionate ! We could not guess one half th£ Angels see : They found you out, Old Friend, ere we did ! We But reach the nobler justice all too late. Soft, Beloved ! be your early Best, And sweet its quiet when the grassy green Shuts out so many and many a sorry scene : Heaven sun the hoarded fragrance from your breast ! And may the Spirit that with us but gropes And stirs our earth, and yearns up through our night In strivings dumb, with you have found the Light That giveth eyes to poor, blind human hopes. For us — I know you would have us put away The tears ; draw closer, man the gap, and keep Old kindly customs ; sing the sorrow asleep, And all make merry, this being Christmas Day. 90 MY LYRICAL LIFE. ACROSS THE WATER. My Friend, I met you when the Shadow lay Darkly betwixt you and the outer day ; Your life, frost-bitten to the core, was dumb With Winter, as it' Spring would never come. The smile that sprang up in your eyes to give A Stranger greeting had no heart to live For you, when it had cheered me on my way. I saw you like some War-horse who had smelt Burnt powder, and the joy of onset felt, Now doomed to "plough the furrow, who should chance To catch the music, see the Colours dance, And hear his fellows neighing for the war, And he, too, snuffs the lighting from afar — Down comes the lash, in mist the visions melt. I knew not how your life was crossed and crossed, As is a letter, till the sense looks lost ; Nor what you held at heart, and still must hold, That makes the whole wide warmest world a-cold. But now the heavens brighten overhead, And though the ways are miry you must tread, I greet you on the break-up of the Frost ! Up and tight on, my Mend, with spirit stripped As is the hardened War-lance, grimly gripped, That late was green and leafy in the wood, Now bared for battle and the reek of blood. There is a darkness we can only dash Out of the eyes with the soul's fighting-flash — No help in giving up through feeling hipped ! ACROSS THE WATER. 07 In such a world as this it ne'er avails To sit and eat the heart, or gnaw the nails ; The live souls have to swim against the tide, The deadest fish can float with it and ride. Heroic breath must lift and clear the skies That we have clouded with our own vain sighs ; Heroic breath must fill your future sails. It is the well-borne burden that will tone Our manhood ; turn the gristle into bone. The storms that on the hill-side bow the trees Help bring the power to bear, and knot their knees, And (I have seen them kneeling) thus prepare Them to receive the onsets they must bear ; So 'neath its load the might of manhood's grown. Nor murmur of a life by Falsehood marred, Or Roof-tree by the fires of Ruin charred. Why, what hath Falsehood in the world to do But Lie to Live, and die to prove the True, And then be buried, while the new life waves Its greenness o'er the Carrion in such graves 1 But strike ! strike on, strike often, and strike hard ! Hope, work, fight on, my Friend, and you shall stand One of the foremost of a noble band ; Stand visibly in the smile of Heaven, and shed Light from within you, wheresoe'er you tread ; Stand on the higher summit to transmit A new live heart-beat from the Infinite, To kindle, as it throbs throughout the land. 2 H 98 MY LYRICAL LIFE. The world is waking from its phantom dreams, To make out that which is from that which seems ; And in the light of day shall blush to find What Wraiths of darkness had the power to blind Its vision ; what thin walls of misty gray, As if of granite, stopped its onward way : Up, and be busy as the early beams ! THE ENGLISH OF IT. It was a gallant stand, Tom ; Give us your hardy hand, Tom, For love of the Old Land, Tom, We grasp it with good-will. Although you heroes of the Fist May think more of the golden grist You bring to such a mill. 'Twas brave to see you dash on, Tom, And with your one arm lash on, Tom, In that true English fashion, Tom, Which never will wear out : The only fashion that would do, At Inkerman and Waterloo, And many a bloody bout. Through all that punching time, Tom, The big heart rode sublime, Tom, As we have seen it climb, Tom, On other famous fields : THE ENGLISH OF IT. 99 The temper beaten out with blows, That when to give in never knows, And so it never yields. "Valour shall have its crown, Tom, In your plain way you have shown, Tom, That we can hold our own, Tom, Against all comers still ; With not one feather of white in us ; But game, with lots of fight in us ; A heart and a half up-hill. The Belt with which we are bound, Tom, Is yon blue Ocean round, Tom ; If any foe be found, Tom, Who thinks to take it, then He must fight for it till all's dark, And one shall go down, red and stark, Never to rise again. We won our English Land, Tom, And keep it hand to hand, Tom, Like you at need we stand, Tom, Touch it whoever dares. If left to battle single-hand, We fight for this dear England, As once you fought, Tom Sayers ! n 2 100 MY LYRICAL LIFE. PRIDEAUX AT MAGDALA. No Cross of Valour hath the Muse to give His faithful breast, but she may bid him live In hearts of grateful glow, "Who went to bear his Message with last breath, Nor changed countenance at sight of Death, When Napier bade him go. England, our Helen, watching from the wall To cheer us fighting, mourn us if Ave fall, O'erlooks her gallant Son ! She hath so many lofty memories To keep her lifted gaze ; a deed like this So many would do — have done : He did it ! Moyse, a Private in the " Buffs ! " Though only one of our neglected " roughs," — All English, life and limb : He would not bow his head except to die ; He could not let our England's likeness lie Dishonoured, shamed in him 1 Duty, not Glory, is our proud Pass-word, Who ask that we may prove for England's sword True steel at need — no more. Yet worthy of his guerdon is Prideaux, As if on board they had borne him, lying low Eor us who were safe on shore. That large content with death for England's sake In narrower hearts a nobler life shall wake, To breathe with ampler breath, CAMOEXS. 101 And some poor soul, caught in as bitter strait, Shall think of him, and sternly face its fate — Go on, and out-face Death ! Blow, winds of God ! and stir us to the root, Shake down all wormy and unworthy fruit, There's new life in your breeze ! Traitors may talk of England going down (In quicksands they, their coAvard selves, have sown) — She swims in hearts like these ! CAMOENS. "Englished by Richard Burton." And well done, As it was well worth doing ! for this is one Of those old Poets, who are always new, That share eternity with all that's true, And of their own abounding spirits do give Substance to Earth's dead Shadows; and make men live "Who in action merely did but flit and pass, — Now fixed for ever by Thought's reflecting-glass. This is the Poet of weary Wanderers In perilous lands; and wide-sea Voyagers, And climbers fallen and broken on the stairs : A man of men ; a master of affairs, Whose own life-story is, in touching ruth, Poem more potent than all feigned truth. His Epic trails a glory in the wake Of Gama, Ealeigh, Frobisher, and Drake. 102 MY LYRICAL LIFE. The poem of Discovery ! sacred to Discoverers, and their deeds of derring-do, Is fitly rendered, in the Traveller's land, By one o' the foremost of that fearless band. PUNCH IN A GRAVE MOOD. Farewell. No matter who may fall, Our flag must wave out on the wall ; The Workers brush their tears away, My Merry-makers still be gay ! But there's a crack in my old voice ; An ache at heart ; I miss you, Boys, — Good fellows and dear Comrades gone, And ever going one by one ! "We know how some have had to quaff The bitter cup, and make men laugh ; Of scenes behind the Scenes we know That would have spoiled the outer show. And how you kept the worst behind, And gave your best and never whined, — Good fellows and dear Comrades gone, And ever going one by one ! Mirth mixed with sadness everywhere ! Have you the Charivari there 1 Has Elia joined you, and Moliere, Burns, Rabelais, Heine, and Voltaire? My Merry men with the Mermaids rare, And Shakespeare chosen for the chair ? Good fellows and dear Comrades gone, And ever going one by one ! A REVIEWER REVIEWED. 103 I think the smile of kindly mirth That you so often made on earth To lighten in the saddest face, And brighten in the dai'kest place, Will be reflected from below To shine on as your Afterglow ! Good fellows and clear Comrades gone, And ever going one by one ! A REVIEWER REVIEWED. i. The Nightingale and Cuckoo sang their best ; A Jackass was the judge. Long-ear addressed Himself to listen, — said that Philomel, Though somewhat wildly, warbled pretty well ; But, for a good plain song — in a single word, Like what himself might sing — why, he preferred The Cuckoo ! — Such a common-sense-like bird ! II. I sang my Song, which I had long rehearsed, And asked, with heaving breast and throat athirst, For drink from some good soul, that might be you, Not craving nectar, nor ambrosial dew, But quite content with Critical half-and-half. And then your lattice opened with a laugh, And I, expectant of some natural drops, Received, like Socrates, your shrewish slops. 10 J) MY LYRICAL LIFE. III. You are disappointed with my work 1 Ah, true, 1 1 was not meant, my Friend, to mirror you ; The only thing on earth you care to view 1 IV. Am I, too, such a miserable Elf 1 Do let me look you in the face, my brother ; "lis only in the Mirror of each other That we can see the littleness of self ! Below the surface my soul drew the breath AY hose bubbles only rose up for their death, And you must sound the depths ere you can maik The things that I have dived for in the dark. 'Tis hardly possible for pearls to swim Like the light bubbles breaking at the brim! VI. Poor little Inkfish ! you may strain and squirt Your little life out in a little dirt. Twould take a many million such to be Seen as a little stain even in the sea ! VII. boy, the Apprentice-pen is sweet to touch As that first clasp-knife we so proudly clutch ; Ere conscience wakes we live one glorious hour, And cut and slash with cruel sense of power. We wield the Scissors as 'twere Fate's own Shear- : Sheer folly ! as we learn in later years. A REVIEWER REVIEWED. 105 VIII. Think of a Midge blaspheming at the beam That makes him visible ; Suns him in its gleam, And gives him life for a moment to blaspheme ! IX. You had no power to crown me with the bay : You could not reach to snatch one leaf away ; But you may rob my little ones of bread, Helping to damn the Book you have not read. Be proud ! that is no trivial thing to do ! Be safe ! there is no law for Thieves like you. x. The time will come when such as you and your Co-mates, that try to slam some outer door On me and mine, will turn and see and start To find us folded safe in England's heart ! XI. I was surprised and chafed, but in no rage I pin my little Chafer to the page, My Specimen saved and mounted on the brink Of the vast black Oblivion of Ink ! XII. You did your little best to prick and sting, And Briardike about my feet you cling : Is it that when I lift the waving wing Toward heaven it may uplift the creeping thing 106 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Near the warm heart of God's own brooding blue 1 But heaven is only to be grown into By upward living ! True, the very dust May climb the Sunbeam — ride the wind ; yet must Fall back to Earth again, as dust to dust : And where you are rooted you must rot ! Adieu. I prick you out, I shake you off ; I scorn To carry you with me, even a single thorn ! The place for Briars now, as in the past, Is on the dead men's graves they clutch at last. AN OLD CUSTOM STILL EXTANT. A Poet sought the golclen prize For Wife and Child, till, out of breath, He gained it — when the Coins, in death, "Were laid upon his sightless eyes ! In winning bread for Child and Wife, His death was ten times worth his life. A FORERUNNER. " Before his time by a Century ? What an abortion he must be ! " So, natui'ally misconceived, He lived unwelcomed, died ungrieved. THE FORERUNNER. 107 After long years the world turned round To read his work who had gone uncrowned ; Their loss they now commemorate, And doubly mourn their own sad fate ! When present, men forgot to trace The message for them in his face ; When passed, they turn, and, with their looks Adore the back side of his Books. THE FORERUNNER. " The many care not ? " Well, if true, To their indifference is due One half the clearness of the Few ! My Friends that would have welcomed me Come afterward, by Two and Three ; I can but meet them mentally. I shall not hear the mingled shout Of blame and praise, belief and doubt : I vanish ere they find me out ! I saw the ambitious pass me by, To grasp their glory that seemed nigh, Nor felt their crave, nor swelled their Cry. Dear Followers ! who will be Too Late To bid me Farewell in the Gate Of Life and Death where none may wait, 108 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Only a little I fore-run ; I shall be with you still : We are one In that good work you must get done. ALEXANDER RUSSEL. What ! "Russel of the Scotsman " dead] Nay, Death himself would hang the head, And dare not tell the foolish lie ; Such living forces never die. The Shadows that make up our night Were growing thin for him to fight. Rut still he fights, we think with pride, Our battle from the other side ! Hard head, warm heart, and liberal hand, Open or shut, to bless or brand ; Large-moulded, with Norse fire aglow j This was a man, to friend or foe ! Long in our melee will be missed The mace of Russel's mighty fist, That struck, and, wasting nought in sound, Duried its blow without rebound. With " derring-do," and thought that strives, Erect his Statue in your lives, Warm-blooded, not in marble wan — The living measure of the man ! Walhalla ! Rise and welcome him Aross the Braga-Eeaker's rim ; And, that his glory may be full, Brim high some Water-Drinker's Skull. A PERSONAL REPLY. 109 A PERSONAL BEPLY. No ! No. My Lord Dark-Lanthorn's-field, You are not the kind of man to wield The weight of England's Sword and Shield. No ! No. Too sacred is the Flag, For flaunting like a Bull-ring rag, Above your game of Bully-Brag. No ! No. Far better it ceased to wave There, with the Dead, suspended, safe In dust enough to be its grave ! No ! No. You have led us to the ridge Of the Abysm, and like a Midge Would cross it. Nations need a bridge ! No ! No. Though painted for the path Of "War, you had better take a bath : Let Harlequin now sheathe his Lath. No ! No. Our England, made to don The mask of a face, with her true one Shall laugh you into Oblivion ! No ! No. We do not mean to fight For Murderer and Sodomite ; Born enemies of all that's right. No ! No. If you must end the play With some blood-letting Policy, pray You follow that of Castlereagh. 110 MY LYRICAL LIFE. AT THE PRISON-DOOR. Right to the other side o' the "World a yell Rang round, so brutal, we could hardly tell "Whether it rose from England or from Hell. " Great God I " they cried, "what has this Blabber done ? Blazoned the sin of Modern Babylon To all beneath the never-setting sun ! " Why, His the Law of Let-Alone that we, Who are rich, should grind the poor, and trade be free ; We pay, and pluck the fruits of Poverty. " How shocking ! he wotild strip us Shirt and Smock, And show us naked in the Public Bock /" 'Twas shocking to the Knaves who need the shock ! The gorge of London rose ; but not to thwart The monsters who had made us sick at heart, — Rose against Him who took the Children's part ! Time-honoured Institutions were at stake ; The Brothels so long Sacred to the Ptake ; The Vested Interests began to quake. The Cynics proffered him Don Quixote's crown, The Libertines their pity, Pools their frown ; Press-gang and Judges kicked him when he was down ! But 'twas the voice of Truth we know, they know, The Rowdy Rich who rushed to strike him low, Or shut his mouth with one back-handed blow ; AT THE PRISON-DOOR. Ill And Truth shall yet be free, nor vainly strive For utterance, bound and dumbly buried alive ; Free from the gag, the manacle, and gyve. The Curs and Cowards of the Cockney Press May call it a great failure ; nevertheless 'Tis the Foreshadow of as great Success ! The Labourers wake at last from their long sleep ; The Waters rise around us that shall s\*eep This foulness with their Deluge to the deep. Stead struck his blow and failed and fell, you say. Such was Their failure who have paved a way With their dead bodies for our feet to-day. Look you ! this Man is of another mould Than you who sell your little souls for gold, Or, where you have none, are in body sold ! And some are Chosen, born and bound, to be Torch-bearers ; they who set the sufferers free Must show us sights men do not want to see. In devious ways Detectives have to work And tramp the mire and hide in midnight mirk, If they would catch the Lawless where they lurk ! Though not in the Salvation Army's van, Nor of the Shut-eyed Faith, some of us can Respect a Worker, recognize a Man. Honour to him, we cry, who sought to save The Girls dragged down our gutters to the grave ! For him our plaudits ring, our welcomes wave. 112 MY LYRICAL LIFE. And so we greet him at the Prison-porch, With hearts that beat the music of his march, And bosoms lifted for a Triumph- Arch. THE FALSIFYERS OF MYTHOLOGY. You ask to have the Children's souls, in pledge That these shall only bear your kind of fruit, Who are but dead sticks in the living hedge, Kotten from lack of root ! Let England lift her hand to scratch her head Consideringly, Your hold's not worth a pin Who are dead scuf outside the skull, instead Of living brain within ! dedication to the "natural genesis:' At times I had to tread Where not a Star was found To lead or light me, overhead ; Nor footprint on the ground. I toiled among the sands And stumbled with my feet ; Or crawled and climbed with knees and hands Some future path to beat. DEDICATION TO THE "NATURAL GENESIS." 113 I had to feel the flow Of waters whelming me : No foothold to be touched below, No shore around to see. Yet, in my darkest night, And farthest drift from land, There dawned within the guiding light ; I felt the unseen hand. Year after year went by, And watchers wondered when The diver, to their welcoming cry Of joy, would rise again. And still rolled on Time's wave That whitened as it passed : The ground is getting toward the grave That I have reached at last. Child after child would say — " Ah, when his work is done, Father will come with us and play — " 'Tis done. But Play-time's gone. A willing slave for years, I strove to set men free ; Mine were the Labours, Hopes, and Fears, Be theirs the Victory. GARIBALDI. 115 GARIBALDI IN EXILE. How dimmed is all thy glory, and how dark the shadow falls ; How wildly wails the Sorrow through thy Hamlets and thy Halls ! Our Banner on the Seven Hills no longer beckons me ; The Dead alone are blessed who thy suffering may not see. How are thy brave ones scattered on many an Alien strand, Thy Children leal and true to the Roman Mother- land. The Birds that follow Summer, they come and tliey depart For the Land of my love, and the Home of my heart : And, like a wounded Bird, my spirit trembles in the wind, And flutters down : and they are gone, and I am left behind. my Dovelets in the nest ! the Spoiler's bloody hand ! And I so far away from the Roman Motherland. I 2 116 MY LYRICAL LIFE. They have bound thee in the Grave-clothes ; but we watch with tears and sighs, Till Freedom comes like Christ, and thou like Lazarus shalt rise. Thy pale, pale face, my Country, yet shall flush with ripening bloom, As Nature's colour kindles when the breath of Spring doth come. Ah ! come, thou Skiing of promise; mighty Hope, put forth thy hand, And build thy Arch of Triumph for the Roman Motherland. Sometimes when life is darkest, a glory bursts its glooms, As Lightning through the startled night, the face of things illumes ; A sudden splendour smites me, and ere the thun- ders roll, I see thy face look radiant through the darkness of my soul ! I see thee sitting at the feet of Freedom, great and grand, Thy children happy in thy smile, thou Roman Motherland. thou among the Nations, for thy might, shalt yet be themed ; Thy fatal curse of Beauty by Love's blessing all redeemed ! The red wounds where they pierced thee, shall to scars of glory turn, And in thy tearful eyes the light of boundless life shall burn. GARIBALDI ON THE MARCH. 117 The Heavens are filled with Martyrs, but our Earth still holds a band Who will meet in battle yet for the Roman Mother- land. Many are the gallant hearts will never answer when Thy clarion-cry shall call us all into the field again ! And many are the tears must fall, and prayers go up to God, But still the Vintage ripens, and the Wine-press shall be trod ! The Harvest reddens rich for death, the Reapers clench the hand, And Victory comes to claim his Bride, our Roman Motherland. GARIBALDI ON THE MARCH. This is the Helper that Italy wanted To free her from Fetters and Grave-clothes quite: His is the great heart no dangers have daunted ; His is the true hand to finish the fight. Way, for a man of the kingliest nature ! Scope, for a soul of the high Roman stature ! His great deeds have crowned him ; His Heroes are round him ; On, on, Garibaldi, for Freedom and Right. To brave battle-music up goes the smoke-curtain ; A country arises all one to his call ; 118 MY LYRICAL LIFE. The sound of his trumpet is never uncertain ; He fights for bis Cause till it conquer or fall. His Chariot-wheels do not spin without biting ; And far better pointed for Freedom's red writing — His Rifles and Guns — Than their Politics pens ; Garibaldi, my Hero, best Man of them all ! When he sailed up our River, the frank, hearty Seaman, W r e saw how an English soul smiled from his fuce : For Italy's Saviour we knew it was The man, All hero, no matter what garb, or what place — And we prayed he might have one more grip that was glorious ! Prophesied he should be Leader victorious Of Italy, free From the Alps to the sea ; Now breathless we watch while he runs the great race. Fierce out of torment his Fighters have risen, Shouting from hell, where they tortured them dumb ; Maimed from old battle-fields, mad from the prison, Suddenly, strange as Cloud-armies, they come, AVith mouths that can shut like the Eagle's beak clasping, With hands that will grip like a bower-anchor grasping ; The flying Foe feels, When they're close at his heels, That Death and the Devil are bringing his doom. GARIBALDI ON THE MARCH. 119 Not only living ! his dead men are fighting For him ! thus with few he can scare the great host : For each one they see an Unseen Foe is smiting ; Over each head an avenging white Ghost ! All the young Martyrs they murdered by moon- light ; All the dark deeds of blood done in the noonlight, Make their hearts reel With a shudder, and kneel To lay down their Arms and give all up for lost. They tell the wild tales of him, gathered together, Turn pale at his Shadow in midst of their speech ; Down he swoops on them, like Hawk on the heather, Strikes home with sure aim, and upsoars beyond reach. Or, he sweeps all before him with whirling blade reeking. They fly helter-skelter, for shelter run shrieking, As waves wild and white, Driven mad with affright, Are dashed into foam as they hide up the beach. Watching o' nights in the cold, he remembers The Homes of his love in their ashes laid low ; And hot in his heart Vengeance rakes up the embers, To warm her old hands at the wrathful red glow. He has had torn from him all that was nearest ; He has seen murdered his Darlings the dearest ; With all this and more, To the heart's crimson core He kindles ! and all flashes out on the Foe. 120 MY LYRICAL LIFE. No peace, Garibaldi, till Italy, stronger, Shall sit with free nations, majestic, serene ; And meet them as Lovers may meet when no longer The cold Corse of one that was dead lies between. For this, God was with you when perils were round you; For this, the fire smote you not, floods have not drowned you ; Their Sword and their Shot Have hindered you not, And your Purpose crouched long for its pouncing unseen. On, with our British hearts all beating true to you ; All keeping time to the march of the brave ! I would to God we might cut our way through to you, Gallantly breasting the stormiest w y ave. Would the old Lion could leap in to greet you, Just as our free blood is leaping to meet you, Stand by your side, In his terrible pride, Mighty to shield, as You're daring to save. Long was the night of her kneeling ; but surely Shall Italy rise to her Queenliest height. Many a time has the battle gone sorely, To make the last triumph more signal and bright. Her Foes shall be swept from her path like the stubble ; Now is their day of down-treading and trouble ; God tires of old Rome ! Venetia cries " Come ! " On, on, Garibaldi, for Freedom and Plight ! 1859. ONE OF GARIBALDI'S MEN. 121 ONE OF GARIBALDI'S MEN. A crippled Child, a weak wan Boy, Sat by his Mother's side, — A widowed Mother's gentle joy, Her only wealth and pride : One of those Spirits, sweet and sad, That breathe with burdened breath ; Are grave in life, but calmly glad Their faces smile in death. With a weird lustre in his look, Over his books he pored, Like one that, in a secret nook, Sharpens a patriot sword. The story of his Country's wrongs Made his heart melt in tears ; The music of her olden songs Bang ever in his ears. Oft in his face, white as a corse, Brave Soldier-blood up-springs, Hot as the Warrior leaps to horse, When Battle's trumpet riugs ; With spirit afloat and sense aflame, Where Freedom's banners wave, To win a name of glorious fame, Or fill a Soldier's grave. The leal heart of a loving Maid Ban over towards him, Longing with kisses to be stayed There at the ruddy brim ! — 122 MY LYRICAL LIFE. But hushed the yearning in her breast, Nor murmur made nor moan ; She looked as though she had found the nest, And, lo ! the Bird was flown. Suddenly, Freedom's thunder-horn The graveyard stillness broke ; — It was the Resurrection-Morn, And Italy awoke ! He felt her majesty and strength Up-lif t his spirit too : To Manhood he had leaped at length, And almost stately grew. Then came, with all they had to give, Each fervid worshipper : And he, too, not worth much to live, At least could die for her ! The Widow lent her only Child, And bade him help to win ; While outwardly her proud face smiled, She — dropping tears within ! The General looked on this young life Held out in hands so small ! He could not, for the battle-strife, Take the poor Widow's all. " Poor Child ! " he said, " rest you at home, For the good Mother's sake ; We'll not forget you when we come." It made his old heart ache. 'Twas at the close of a great day, The " Red- Shirts" raised their cheer, ONE OF GARIBALDI'S MEN. 123 For Garibaldi came to say, " Well done ! " One cried, "I'm here I And wounded in the Battle's brunt." " What ! hit behind, my Child ? But brave men wear their wounds in front" And playfully he smiled. Again, at the Volturno's fight, The Boy led on his band ; Uplifted there on Capua's height, He saw the Promised Land, As Pilgrims watch their Mecca rise Over the desert's rim ; He saw — possessed it with his eyes ! Enough, enough for him. Proud of his Boys, the General rode Past faces all aflame, And praised them ; and their spirits glowed As if from heaven he came. Then something caught his eye ; he reined His horse ; stooped like a grand Old weather-beaten Angel, stained With battle-smoke, and tanned. "With look more keen than cry or call, One staggered from the rest : " I'm hit once more, my General, And " — pointing to his breast — " This time— see ! 'tis in the right place!' His smile was strangely sweet ; He looked in Garibaldi's face, And fell dead at his feet ! 124 MY LYRICAL LIFE. GARIBALDI AT ASPROMONTE. The Lion is down, and how the dogs will run 1 Something above the level is their delight To lift the leg at. How the birds of night "Will hoot from out their dark, "His day is done." The worldly-wise will hasten to condemn The Man of Ages measured by the Hour ; The Summit of his visionary power, A Pinnacle of Folly is to them. '• Would he had kept his attitude sublime ! " They cry. " With crossed arms held his heart at rest, And left us his grand likeness at its best, /'j.on a hill up which the world might climb ! " Better for all had he been sooner shrined ; The old true heart, and very foolish head, A model Man ; especially if dead : Perfect as some Greek Statue, and — as blind." Friends talk of failure : and I know how he Will slowly lift his surface-piercing eyes, And look them through with mournful, strange surprise, Until they shrink and feel 'tis Italy That fails instead. The words they came to speak Will shrink back awed by his majestic calm. His wounds are such as bleed immortal balm, And he is strong again ; 'tis we are weak. GARIBALDI AT ASPROMONTE. 125 It is not Failure to be thus struck down By Brothers who obeyed their Foe's command, And in the darkness lopped the saving hand Put forth to reach their Country her last crown ! He only sought to see her safely home ; The tragic trials end, the suffering cease In wedded oneness and completing peace ; Then bow his old gray head and rest in Rome. It is not failure to be thus struck back — ■ Caught in a Country's arms, clasped to her heart ; She tends his wounds awhile, and then will start Afresh. Some precious drops mark out her track. No failure ! Though the rocks dash into foam This first strength of a nation's new life-stream, 'Twill rise — a Bow of Promise — that shall gleam In glory over all the waves to come. We miss a footstep thinking " Here's a stair," In some uncertain way we darkly tread ; But God's enduring skies are overhead, And Spirits step their surest oft in air. His ways are not as our ways ; the new birth At cost of the old life is often given : To-day God crowns the Martyrs in His heaven ; To-morrow whips their murderers on our earth. You take back Garibaldi to a prison ? Well, that will prove the very road to Rome ! They would have said "She croucheth to her doom,'' If Italy in some shape had not risen. 126 MY LYRICAL LIFE. "We say it was God's voice that called him up The "Bitter Mountain," bound for sacrifice; So to that height his Land might lift her eyes, And bless him as he drank her bitterest cup. It is a faith too many still receive — Since that false prophecy of old went forth — " The tribe of Judas yet shall rule the earth ; " But he is one that never would believe. His vision is most clear where ours is dim. The mystic spirit of eternity, That slumbers in us deep and dreamingly, Was ever quick and more awake in him : And, like a lamp across some pathless heath, A light shone through his eyes no night could quench ; The. winds might make it flicker, rains might drench, Nothing could dout it save the dark of death. And if His Work's unfinished in the flesh, Why, then his soul will join the noble Dead, And toil till all shall be accomplished, And Italy hath burst this Devil's mesh. Easier to conquer Kingdoms than to breed A man like Garibaldi, whose great name Hath fenced his Country with his glorious fame, Worth many armies in her battle-need. His is the royal heart that never quails, But always conquers ; wounded, lying low, He never was so dear as he is now : They bind him, and more strongly he prevails. GARIBALDI AT ASPROMONTE. 127 Greater to-day than Emperor or King, Although for Throne they seat him in the dust ; The express Image of sublimest Trust, Crowned, consecrated by his suffering, "With Sovereignty that overtops success ! Nothing but Heaven might reach his patriot brow, And lo, the Crown of thorns is on it now, With higher guex'don than our world's caress. The Vision of all his glory fills our eyes, And with One heart expectant Nations throb Around him ; with one mighty prayer they sob, And wait God's answer to this Sacrifice, — Praying for one more chance at turn of tide ; One blow for Rome ere many setting suns ; One stroke for Venice kneeling 'neath her guns ; All Italy abreast, and at his side : That he may stand as Wellington once stood Victor upon the hard-won Pyrenees, With France below him, offering on her knees The White Flower Peace, sprung from her Root of Blood. FRANCE AND GARIBALDI. They tricked him when the Lion-heart broke loose ; They mocked him as they caught him in the noose, Slew his young Heroes in the foulest strife : And then he went to offer France his life. 128 MY LYRICAL LIFE. She robbed him of his country, and he gave Himself ; and only asked of her a gra^T ! In natural greatness simple and sublime, He stands up peerless, towering o'er the time, "With none beside him. So the Gallic Elf Explained hini 1 'Twas a man beside himself. GARIBALDI'S PROPHECY. That Pyramid of Imposture reared by Pvome All of Cement for an Eternal Home And Shelter, that might shut out Heaven's Dome, Shall Crumble back to earth again : It must, For lack of blood to bind it ! Every gust Shall revel in the Desert of its dust ! No matter though it towers to the Sky And darkens Earth, you cannot make the Lie Immortal ; though stupendously enshrined By Art in every perfect mould of Mind : Angelo, Rafaelle, Milton, Handel, all Its Pillars cannot stay it from the fall ! And when that Prison of the Immortal, Mind, Hath fallen to set free the bound and blind, No more shall life be one long dread of death ; Humanity shall breathe with fuller breath j Expand in Spirit and in Stature rise, To match its Birthplace of the Earth and Skies. WEDDED LOVE. 130 THE YOUNG POET TO HIS WIFE. Like those Ambassadors of old, that went To some far Orient land, with precious gifts Of gems to nestle between Beauty's bi'easts, And crown her brows with a crest of winking name, Or clothe her starrily as Queenly Night ; And found that land a garden where they grew, Lavish, as all the dews were turned to gems 3 So bring I thee, Dear Lady of my love, My jewels, I have garnered up, to find How poor they are beside thy peerless wealth. My Muse ! that moveth in a halo of light, Throned on the regnant heights of Womanhood ; The heart of all thy beauty warm as when I looked out on the sunny side of Life, And saw thee summering like a blooming Vine, That reacheth globes of wine in at the lattice By the ripe armful, with ambrosial smile. The flying Cares but touch thy Life's fail* face, Lightly as swimming shadows dusk the Lake. Come sit thee down, dear, by my side, To-night ; The world shut out, our little world shut in, Where we are happy as the Bird whose nest THE YOUNG POET TO HIS WIFE. 131 Is lieavened in the hush of purple Hills, Or regioned in the palmy top of life. Now shut thine eyes, and see a pageant bloom Upon the dark, — a Vision sweeping by. I was a dweller amid Shadows grim : Till Freedom touched my yearning eyes, and lo ! Life in a shining circle, rounding rose, As heaven on heaven goes up the starry night. And Freedom was my glittering Bride. For me She walked the world as a Divinity, Sang like a Spirit in Life's darkened ways, I' the Rainbow reached forth girdling arms cf love, To clasp the Unapparent to the Earth, — Turned common things to beauty : as the sun Kindles a glory in the grass and dust, — Went forth flame-plumed, in Chariot sublime, And rode the winds, as one who walks the worlds. And when the fresh Morn flowered like a Rose, Birds sang of her, and all their happy hearts Rang out in music, Leaves clapped faery hands, The flowers for joy stood tearful in her glory, And World went singing unto World of Freedom. And I would blazon her heroic name, Sing such proud pagans as touch the world to tears, Or chariot it to battle in her Cause : For O ! her softest breath, that might not stir The summer gossamer tremulous on its throne, Makes the crowned Tyrants start with realmless looks ! I would have given the lustre of my life To add one jewel to her diadem ! K 2 132 MY LYRICAL LIFE. And then You came, and Love grew lord of all. Look how the Sun puts out the eyes of fire ! So when Love's royal glance my lattice lit, The fires of. Freedom whitened on my hearth. The sleeping Beauty in my heart's charmed Palace Woke at Love's kiss. My life was set aflush, As Roses redden when the Spring moves by, And the green buds peer out like eyes, to see The delicate spirit whose sweet presence stirred them. How my heart ripened in its flooding spring ; As when the sap runs up the tingling trees, Till all the sunny life laughs out in leaves, And lifts its fluttering wings ! So my heart felt With such brave shoots of glory bursting up, As it had flowered for Immortality. The heights of Being came out from their cloud, As the cliffs kindle when the Morning comes Swimming the utmost Sea in ruddy haste, With foam of glory ; till the flood of light, Like mellow wine, runs down remotest hills. You came, my sparkling Bird of Paradise ! With a soft murmuring as of winnowing wings That fold the nest so dove-like tenderly ! With brows that parted lovely waves of hair, And took the gazer's eye like some white Grace! Eyes large with love ; lips eloquent of love ; And cheeks fresh-misted with the bloom of Morn. And thou didst move, a Splendour 'mid Life's Shadows, Making a Rembrandt Picture. So the Stars In all their glory pass the shrinking Dark. O, I was stirred as though a Spirit went by ; Or I had met some awful Loveliness, THE YOUNG POET TO HIS WIFE. 133 That haunts the realm of Dreams, or duskly floats Across the wondering solitudes of Thought. So Love grew lord of all. I touch my lyre, And Love o'erflows my heart, and floods my hand. Love makes all clear delights so soothly sweet, Life pants heart-stifled 'neath its luscious load, Like young Earth clasped in June's voluptuous arms, Faint with her fragrance, flooded in her flowers. Love is divine life, Beauty is its smile. O, Love will make the killing crown of thorn Burst into blossom on the Martyr's brow ! Upon Love's bosom Earth floats like an Ark Through all the o'erwhelming Deluge of the night. Love rays us round as glory swathes a star, And, from the mystic touch of lips and palms, Streams rosy warmth enough to light a world : And Spirit-eyes, from out the purpling glooms, Mark how we feed this human Altar-flame ; How speeds this ripening into Deity ; What glittering robes for immortality Trail starry radiance through our dark of Earth ! And in our home thy presence maketh Love A Mortal, who hath died to rise again, Immortal, in its nobler life with thee. O Love ! make clear my vision, roll thou up My orb of Song from Passion's misting deeps To climb the heavens, and win the eternal calm ; And though it shine not 'mid the Suns of Song, To set the World sweet-murmuring in its light, A Memnon, at the radiant touch of Dawn, 13 i MY LYRICAL LIFE. I know each Star hath its own perfect place Above, though it may have no name on Earth. I hope my hope, I dream my dream, that life With me shall yet ring out melodious, 'twixt The silences of heaven and the grave. Labour ! blind and feeling for the day ! Might I go forth to peer with eagle ken Into the blessed land of promise, where The Future like a fruitfuller Summer sits Ripening Her Eden silently, to bear The crowning flower of consummated Life, — ■ Where Freedom's Song-Lirds fly, to build their nests, And warm to life their brood of darling dreams : Then see thy dark look lighten at my news, Thy dim eyes dance divinely at the grapes ; To loftier music time thy larger step ; And hearten thee to lift up onward brows ! 1 see a shape behind a mist, that burns In the flushed distance of some unseen Goal ; It grows with gazing on, like Lovers' beauty. With beckoning smiles the Glory draws me near ; One hand points up, one holds a leafy crown, For me to climb and wear with manlier growth : And airy Voices call me, bid me leap In Victory's Car as it goes bickering by. And Thou, dear Wife ! with exultation lit, Wilt drop proud tears to enrich my wine of joy, — A costlier cup than ever Anthony's Queen Magnificent ! drank in her voluptuous vein ! LONG EXPECTED. 135 LONG EXPECTED. many and many a clay before we met, 1 knew some Spirit walked the world alone, A waiting the Beloved from afar ; And I was the anointed chosen one Of all the world to crown her queenly brows With the imperial crown of human love, And light its glory in her happy look. I saw not with mine eyes so full of mist, But heard Faith's low sweet singing in the night, And groping through the darkness, touched God's hand. My heart might toil on blindly, but, like earth, It kept sure footing through the thickest gloom. I knew my sunshine somewhere warmed the world, Though I trode darkling in a perilous way ; And I should reach it in His own good time Who sendeth sun, and dew, and love for all. Earth, with her many voices, talked of thee ! — Low winds, and whispering leaves, and piping birds ; The amorous sunlight, and the virgin dews ; Eve's crimson air and light of twinkling gold ; Spring's kindled greenery, and her breath of balm ; The dance of happiness in summer woods, To silver dulcimer of sun-shot rain. Thine eyes oped with their rainy lights, and laughters, In April's tearful heaven of tender blue, With all the changeful beauty melting through them, — 136 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Dawn opened, Sunset ended, in thy face. And standing as in Love's own presence-chamber, When silence lay like sleep upon the world, And it seemed rich to die, alone with Night, The Stars have trembled through the holy hush, And smiled clown tenderly, and read to me The love hid for me in a budding breast, Like fragrance folded in a young flower's heart. Strong as a sea-swell came the wave of wings, Strange trouble trembled through my inner depths, And answering wings have sprung within my soul : And from the dumb waste places of the dark, A voice has sighed, " She comes I " and ebbed again ; While all my life stood listening for thy coming : I guessed the presence that I might not see, And felt it in the beating of my heart. "When all was dark within, sweet thoughts would come, As starry guests swim golden down the gloom, And through Night's lattice smile a rare delight : While, lifted for the dear and distant Dawn, The face of all things wore a happy look, Like those dream-smiles which are the speech of Sleep. Thus Love lived on, and strengthened with the days, Lit by its own true light within my heart, Like a live diamond burning in the dark. Then came there One, a mirage of the Dawn ; She swam on towards me sumptuous in her triumph. Voluptuously upborne, like Aphrodite Upon a meadowy swell of emerald sea. A ripe, serene, smile-affluent graciousness LOXG EXPECTED. 137 Hung like a shifting radiance on her motion, As feathered flames upon the Dove's neck burn. Her lip might flush a wrinkled life in bloom ! Her eyes had an omnipotence of power ! " eyes / " I said, " if such your glories be, Sure 'tis a warm heart feedeth ye ivith light I " The silver throbbing of her laughter pulsed The air with music rich and resonant, — As, f-rom the deep heart of a summer night, Some bird with sudden sparklings of fine sound Strikes all the startled stillness into song. And from her sumptuous wealth of golden hair Down to the delicate, pearly finger-tip, Fresh beauty trembled from its thousand springs : And standing in the outer porch of life, All eager for the templed mysteries, With a full heart as rich in fragrant love As the musk-roses are of morning's wine, What marvel if I questioned not her brow, For the flame-signet of the Hand divine, Or gauged it for the crown of my large love ? I plunged to clutch the pearl of her babbling beauty, Like some swift diver in a shallow stream, That smites his life out on its heart of stone. Ah ! how my life did run with fire and tears ! With what a passionate pulse my love did beat ! But she, rose-warm without, — God pity her — Was cold at heart as snow in last year's nest, And struck like death into my burning brain. Just passing with her wanton robes afioat, She brushed and blurred the hues of my young life, As one may smear a picture while 'tis wet. 138 MY LYRICAL LIFE. My tears, that rained out love, she froze in falling, And wore them, jewel-like, to deck her triumph ! But love is never lost, though hearts run waste ; Its tides may gush 'mid swirling, swathing deserts, Where no green leaf drinks up the precious life : True love doth evermore enrich itself, — Its bitterest waters run some golden sands. No star goes down but climbs in other skies ; The flower of Sunset folds its glory up, To burst again from out the bosom of Dawn ; And love is never lost, though hearts run waste, And sorrow makes the chastened soul a seer ; The deepest dark reveals the starriest hope, And Faith can trust her heaven behind the veil. WOOED AND "WON. The plough of Time breaks up our Eden-land, And tramples down its flowery virgin prime. Yet through the dust of ages living shoots O' the old immortal seed start in the furrows : And, where Love looketh on with lustrous eye, These quickened germs of everlastingness Flower lusty, as in fabled Paradise ! And blessings on the starry chance of love ! — And blessings on the morn of merry May ! That led my footsteps to your leafy bower. Thus hangs the picture in my mind, sweet wife ! Clear as a Millairf in its tint and tone. Nature drew near me with her glorious shows, WOOED AND WON. 139 And smiled to hear her young things all at play. The birds were singing on the blossoming sprays, With Love's sweet mystery stirring at their hearts, Like first spring-motions in the veins o' the flowei*s. A light of green laughed up the shining hills, That rounded through the mellowing, gloating air, As their big hearts heaved to some heart beyond, Or strove with inner yearnings for the crown Of purple rondure hung far-off in heaven ! The Flowers were forth in all their conquering beauty And, winking in their Mother Earth's old face, Said all her children should have happy hearts. Deeper and deeper in the wood's green gloom I nestled for the fever at life's core : And thirstily my heart was drinking in Rich overflowings of some Cushat's love ; When lo ! the air instinct with glory grew, As if the world, while on her starry journey, Found sutlden harbour in the clime of heaven. Upon a primrose bank you sat, — a sight To couch the old blind sorrow of my soul ! A sweet, new blossom of Humanity, Fresh fallen from God's own home to flower on earth. A golden burst of sunbeams glinted through The verdurous roof's lush-leavy greenery, And on you dropped its crown of wavering light. Your eyes — half shut, while through their silken eaves Trembled the secret sweetness hid at heart — Oped sudden at full, and wide with wonderment ! 140 MY LYRICAL LIFE. The sweetest eyes that ever drank sun for soul : As subtly tender as a summer heaven, Brimmed with the beauty of a starry night ! Your face, so dewy fresh and wondrous fair, Kindled as Love transfiguringly rose Like heavenward martyr through a birth of fire ! The fleetest swallow-dip of a tender smile Ran round your mouth in thrillings ; while your cheek Dimpled, as from the arch God's finger print ; Out flew his signal, fluttering in a flush ! And when your voice broke up the air for music, It smote upon my startled heart as smites The new-born babe's first cry a mother's ear, Yet strangely touched some mystic memory, And dimly seemed an old pre-natal sound. That day, with an immortalizing kiss, You crowned me monarch of your rich heart-world, Which heaved a boundless sea of love, whose tides Ran radiant pulsings through your rosy limbs. How the love-lights did float up in your eyes, Star after star from violet depths of night ! Dear eyes ! all craving with Love's ache and hunger ! And all the spirit stood in your face athirst ! And from the rose-cup of your murmuring mouth Sweetness o'erflowed, as from a fragrant fount. O kiss of life ! that oped our Eden-world ! The very earth heaved bosom-like, and heaven Clung round and clasped us as in glowing arms, To crush the wine of all your ripened beauty, Which were a fitting sacrament for death — Into a richer cup of life for me. THE BRIDAL. 141 THE BRIDAL. She comes ! the blushing Bridal Dawn, With her Auroral splendours on, And green Earth never lovelier shone : She floateth on her azure way, In dainty dalliance with the May, Jubilant o'er the happy day ! Earth weareth heaven for marriage-ring, And the best garland of glory, Spring From out old Winter's world could bring. -• All in white are the hawthorn boughs, The green blood reddens in the Bose, And every May-bud swells or glows. The Apple-tree on its green bough Hath caught a cloud of rosy snow ; Up in the blue the Chestnuts blow. Cloud-shadow-ships swim faerily Over the greenery's sunny sea, That runs and ripples down the lea. The birds a-brooding, strive to sing, Feeling the life warm under the wing : Their love, too, blossoms with the Spring ! The winds that make the flowers blow, Heavy with balm, breathe soft and low, All budding warmth, and amorous glow ! 142 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Such a delicious feel doth flood The eyes, as laves the burning bud When cool rains feed ambrosial blood. Merrily Life doth revel and reign ! Light in heart, and blithe in brain ; Running like wine in every vein. Alive with eyes, the .Village sees The Bridal dawning from the trees, And Housewives swarm i' the sun like Bees. All silent yet the Belfrey-Choir ! Up in the twinkling air the spire Throbs, golden in the bickering fire. The winking windows burn and blush With colours rare as flow and flush Through summer sunsets bloomed and hush. But, enter : rarer splendours brim, Such mists of gold and purple swim, And the light falls so rich and dim. Even so cloth Love Life's doors unbar, Where all the hidden glories are, That from the windows shine afar. Love's lovely to the passers-by, But they who love are regioned high On hills of Bliss, with heaven nigh. Dainty as Iris, when she swims With rainbow robe on lightsome limbs, The Bride's rare beauty overbrims ! THE BRIDAL. 143 The gazers drink rich overflows, Her cheek a livelier damask glows, And on his arm she leans more close. A drunken joy reels in his blood, He wanders an enchanted wood ; She ranges realms of perfect good. Dear God ! that he alone hath grace To light such splendour in her face, And win the blessing of embrace ! She wears her maiden modesty With tearful grace touched tenderly, Yet with a ripe Expectancy Her virgin veil reveals a form, Flowering from the bud so warm, It needs must break the Cestus-charm. Last night, with her white wedding arms, And thoughts that thronged with quaint alarms, She trembled o'er her mirrored charms, Like Eve first-glassing her new life ; And the Maid startled at the Wife, Heart-pained with herself at strife. The unknown sea moans on her shore Of life : she hears the breakers roar ; But, trusting Him, she fears no more ; For, o'er the deep seas there is calm, Full as the hush of all-heaven's psalm : The golden goal, — the Victor's palm ! 144 MY LYRICAL LIFE. And at her heart Love sits and sings, And broodeth warmth, begetting wings Shall lift her life to higher things. The Blessing given, the ring is on ; And at God's Altar radiant run The currents of two lives in one ! Hushed with happiness, every sense Is crowded at the heart intense ; A nd silence hath most eloquence ! Down to his feet her meek eyes stoop, As there her love should pour its cup ; But, like a King, he lifts them up. Her flashing face to heaven up-turns, There for a Mother's kiss it yearns : Through all her life Hope's sunrise burns ! And now she trembles to his breast, To proudly crown his loving quest ; And make it aye her happy nest. His arms her hyacinth head caress, And fold her fragrant slenderness, With all its touching tenderness. *& Now, on heaven's coast of crystal, crowned Hesperus lights life's outward-bound : And Evening palls her purple round. A palace rich with glorious shows She maketh his life's narrow house To-night : but there he keeps no rouse ! WEDDED LOVE. 145 Alone they hold their marriage-feast : Fresh from the Chrism of the Priest, He would not have the happiest jest To storm her brows with a crimson fine ; And, sooth, they need no wings of wine To waft them into Love's divine. So Strength and Beauty, hand-in-hand, Go forth into the honeyed land, Lit by the love-moon golden-grand, Where God hath built their Bridal-bower ; And on the top of life they tower, To taste their Eden's perfect hour. No lewd eyes o'er my shoulder look ! They do but ope the blessed book Of Marriage, in their hallowed nook. 0, flowery be the paths they press, And ruddiest human fruitage bless Them, with a lavish loveliness ! Melodious move their wedded life Through shocks of time, and storms of strife, — Husband true, and perfect wife ! WEDDED LOVE. The summer Night comes brooding over Earth, As Love comes brooding down on human hearts, With bliss that hath no utterance save rich tears. She floats in fragrance through the smiling dark, Foldeth a kiss upon the lips of Life, 2 L 146 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Curtaineth into rest the weary world, And shuts us in with all our hid delight. The stars come sparkling through the tender gloom, [.ike dew-drops in the fields of heaven ; or tears That hang their jewels on the face of Night. A spirit-feel comes down the calm, and soft The Flowers fold their cups like praying hands, And with drooped head await the blessing, Night Gives with her Motherly magnanimity. Tis evening with the world ; but in my soul The light of wedded love is still at dawn Around my world, an everlasting Dawn. My heart rings out in music, like a Lark Hung in the charmed palace of the Morn, That circles singing to its mate i' the nest, With luminous being running o'er in song : So my life flutters round its mate at home ! There, with her eyes turned on her heart, she reads The golden secrets written in its book, And broodeth o'er its hidden wealth of love, As Night i' the hush and halo of her beauty Bares throbbing heaven to its most tremulous depths, And broods in silence o'er her starry wealth. And, fingering in her bosom's soft, white nest, A fair babe, beautiful as Dawn in heaven, Made of a Mother's richest thoughts of love, — Lies like a smile of sunshine among lilies, That giveth glory — drinking fragrant life. Sweet bud upon a Eose ! our plot of spring, And burst of bloom amid a wintry world ! How dear it is to mark the look of life WEDDED LOVE. 147 Deepen, and darken, in her large, round eyes, — To watch the other rose put forth its leaves, And guess the perfumed secret of its heart ; To catch the silver words that come to break The golden silence hung like heaven around ! But lo, my hush of thought is thrilling, as A wood at night brims o'er with sudden song : Dear Wife ! with rich, low voice, she syllables Some precious music hoarded in her heart, And I am flooded with melodious rain, Like Nature standing crowned with sunlit showers. " As the heaving heart o' the Sea yearneth ever- lastingly For the Moon, heaven-charmed by her in- fluence : And as Star to Star with love palpitateth like a clove, So my heart yearns up to his bright eminence. " For my Love, he seems to stand where Heaven leans so near at hand, That from other worlds his lineaments take light : And he fills my cup of wonder, flooding all my life with splendour, As a glorious, golden Moon fills all the night. " At the music of his words my heart carols like a bird's, And rich instincts burst from out it like heaven-flowers ; Wings bud in me at his kiss, all my being brims with bliss, As a valley brims with life in spring-tide hours. 1. 2 14S MY LYRICAL LIFE. " For my life was dark and cold as the night-dews on the wold, Waiting to be made alive with fire of dawn ; Till his presence on me lightened, and his blessing on me brightened, And my life like dews lit up for heaven shone." Nay, Sweet Heart ! that should be my song, who search Love's lore in vain for fit similitudes To symbol what thy love hath been to me. The God lies prisoned in the mountain stone, The muffled Music slumbers in the strings, Awaiting the Deliverer's niagdc touch ! So, thou beloved ! did I wait for Thee, To waken at thy touch. My Tree of being But made blind gropings in the dark, cold earth, And moaned and trembled in the wintry air, Stretching out naked hands to pluck at life : Until you came, with all your light, and warmth, Encircling round it like a summer heaven, And fed, and clad it with your fragrant beauty, Till budding branches burst on fire with bloom, And info ripe fruits mellowed goldenly. My life lay barren as a desolate moor That breaks, and burns, in twinkling green and gold, _ "When Spring gives greeting with her kiss of life. As weary earth goes darkling through the night, So my heart toiled on, tearful with its burthen : No beacon burned through all the gloom, to break I WEDDED LOVE. ' 149 The sea of dark, with shining piers of light : Then on a sudden rose the blessed Morn, Sun-crowned my life, made all things beautiful, And gave the world its Eden-robes again. My spirit rose up orient with light ; Thy presence caught my heart up at the leap, Winged like a young world from the hands of God! Methought a thousand graves of buried hopes Could crush it not from its proud eminence. The Future's dim cloud-curtain rent in twain, And lightened radiant revelation : All Life's purpose dawned, as unto dying eyes The dark of Death doth glisten into stars. And since we met, thy life-long thought hath been To be cup-bearer of the wine of joy To one leal heart, and to make rich one life. Pulse after pulse, thy life hath mixed with mine, Like sea-waves hurrying up the beach to crown Their shore, and break in starry showers of light. Thou hast brought radiant sunrise every morn, Renewing all the glory passed away. Thy tender love hath twined about my life, Like the fair Woodbine wedded to the Thorn ; Hiding its harshness with her wealth of flowers ! My heart drinks inspiration at thine eyes, And lights my brain up as with fragrant flame : Sweet eyes of starry tenderness, through which The soul of some immortal sorrow looks ! Sorrow that addeth grace to loveliuess, As its sad bloom enricheth the ripe fruit. Dear Eyes ! they have a radiant Alchemy, And pierce my being witli such quickening light 150 MY LYRICAL LIFE. As makes my heart a jewel-mine of love ; Even as the Sun strikes through the dark cold Earth, And fires her million veins with precious life. My Life ran like a river in rocky ways, And seaward dashed, a sounding cataract ! But thine was like a quiet lake of beauty, Soft-shadowed round by gracious influences, That gathers silently its wealth of earth, And woos heaven till it melts down into it. They mingled : and the glory, and the calm, Closed round me, brooding into perfect rest. O blessings on thy true and tender heart ! How it hath gone forth like the Dove of old, To bring some leaf of promise in Life's deluge ! Thou hast a strong up-soaring tendency, That bears me God-ward, as the stalwart oak Uplifts the clinging vine, and gives it growth. Thy reverent heart familiarly doth take Unconscious clasp of high and holy things, And trusteth where it may not understand. We have had sorrows, love ! and wept the tears That run the rose-hue from the cheek of Life ; But Grief hath jewels as Night hath her stars, And she revealeth what we ne'er had known, With Joy-wreaths danced about o'er our blinded eyes. The heart is like an instrument whose strings Steal nobler music from Life's many frets : The golden threads are spun through Suffering's fire, Wherewith the marriage-robes for heaven are woven : WEDDED LOVE. 151 And all the rarest hues of human life Take radiance, and are rainbowed out in tears. Thou'rt little changed, dear love ! since we were wed. Thy beauty hath climaxed like a crescent Moon, With glory greatening to the golden full. Thy flowers of spring are crowned with summer fruits, And thou hast put a queenlier presence on With thy regality of Womanhood ! Yet Time but toucheth thee with mellowing shades That set thy graces in a wealthier light. Thy soul still looks with its rare smile of love, From the Gate Beautiful of its palace home, Fair as the spirit of the evening Star, That lights its glory as a radiant porch To beacon earth with brighter glimpse of heaven. We are poor in this world's wealth, but rich in love; And they who love feel rich in everything. The heart of Ocean — thick with gems, as earth With blooms — is jewelled like a Bride o' the East: The heart of Heaven swarms with golden worlds : A subtle heart of wealth hath our old world, And darks of diamonds, grand as nights of stars : But richer is the human heart that shrines The peerless wealth — th' immortal jewel Love ! So let us live our life ! and let our love, Our large twin-love, above our children bend, As the calm grand old heavens bend over earth, Revealing God's own starry thoughts and things ; 152 MY LYRICAL LIFE. So shall the image of our hearts' Ideal— The angel nestling in their bud of life — Smile upward in the mirror of their face A daily beauty in our darkened ways, And a perpetual feast of holy things. let us walk the world, so that our love Burn like a blessed beacon, beautiful Upon the walls of Life's surrounding dark. Ah ! what a world 'twould be if love like ours Made heaven in human hearts, and clothed with smiles The sweet sad face of our Humanity ! What lives should quicken into sudden spring ! What flowers of glory burst their frozen soil ! As the red pulse of Dawn through cold gray skies, New life should flush up in the darkened face That readeth like a mourning epitaph Above the grave of beauty and of soul ! A light should glimmer on the Helot's brow, And love should come into the mirkest being As mellowest moonlight silvers through the cloud. 1851. THE MOTHER'S IDOL BROKEN. Tenderly did he usher us within The holy of holies of a Father's heart, Where gloomed the first great sorrow still and stem — ■ The dark, unfeatured Guest— now fading slow In hallowed, healing light. Ah, few there be But miss some sweetest thing Earth lifted up In her old arms to take Heaven's blessing — pure As white foam-spirit flashing to the Moon, And gone as quickly from our mortal night. 154 THE MOTHER'S IDOL BROKEN. i. Twice the Mother had dived down Into her sea of sorrow ; my love ! O my life ! my own sweet Wife ! God send you a merry good-morrow. Betide her weal, or betide her woe, Her smile it was calm and fearless ; And proud were her eyes as she rose with the prize, A pearl in her palms ! my Peerless ! found you a little Sea-Syren, In some perilous palace left ? Or is it a little Child- Angel, Of her high-born kin bereft 1 Or came she out of the Elfin-land, By earthly love beguiled? Or hath the sweet Spirit of Beauty Taken shape as our starry Child ] Dear, do but look in her love-nest of sweets, Where she lies in a smiling calm : Wee armful of fruitage ; a sheaf of ripe bliss ; On a bosom breathing balm. Pure as the drop of dew, pride of the morn, On leaves of a lily in blossom ; Fresh as the fragrance newly born In a violet's virgin bosom ! THE MOTHER'S IDOL BROKEN. 155 II. God's Butterfly drawn to the flower of our love ! It seemeth the beautiful thing, At the first surmise of the heaven she hath left, For the Winterless World may wiDg. So we fold her about with our love as 'twere heaven, Around her weave many a wile ; And our hearts up-leap, living fountains of joy, In the golden dream of her smile. ill. On my ripely rounding Rose-tree, Dreaming of life are three flowers : One pusheth up her ruby-rose-cup, For the rain of God's quickening showers. With a magical bu/st of beauty, one glows Dewily-dear in the sheen of love ; And one pretty Softling, our baby-bud-rose, Lies tenderly shut in the green of love. IV. fair befall my dainty flowers, Summering on their stem ; Smiling up to the crowning Rose, As she smileth down upon them. Smiling up to their Queen in her beauty, That smiles on each bonny breast-gem : Blossoming, brimming with love for her Who leans ruddy with love over them 1 fair befall my dainty flowers, Summering on their stem ! 15G MY LYRICAL LIFE. And the armful of rich love, My fragrant human posies ! Smile on them all, sweet Heaven, And kiss my darling Roses. v. There be three little Maidens ; three loving Maidens ; Three bonny Maidens mine ; Three precious jewels are set in Life's crown, On prayer-lifted brows to shine. Six starry eyes, all love-luminous, Look out of our heaven so tender ; Since the Honey-moon, glowing and glorious, Arose in its ripening splendour. There's Lilybell, Duchess of Wonderland, With dance of life, dimples and curls ; Whose bud of a mouth will burst into flower A-smile with the wanton white pearls : And Sweetcheek, our rosily-goldening peach On the sunniest side o' the wall, But Marian's Mother's darling, Marian's Idol of all. VI. Like the merry voice-bird that sings on the bough, I sing, O my woman Dove, To a nest I know in the leaves below, Full of eyes alive with love. Two of our little Birds wander on wings, One can but flutter and fall ; Sing, Marian Mother's wee darling, Marian's Idol of all. THE MOTHER'S IDOL BROKEN. 157 Til. Parents of Children three ; Two of them ruddy with glee ; One your White Child, your Pearl ! Do you feel as I feel with my Girl ] For I peer in her tender face, And I fear that its light of grace Is too still and too starry a birth For our noisy, dim dwellings of Earth. She looks like a Changeling child Of the heavens — too lustrous, too mild For us. Other Poses are blowing While ours seems upfolding and going, — Dreamily happy in going. Yet on it more soft is the thorn Than the tiniest little snail's horn, And golden at heart is the Morn Of a day that will never be born. Just a spirit of light is my Girl, Seen through a body of pearl ; A spirit of life that will fleet Away, more on wings than on feet. Her cheek is so waxenly thin, As if deathward 'twere dimpling in, And the cloud of her flesh, still more white Were clearing till soul is in sight. She leans as the wind-flowers stoop ; All their loveliness seen as they droop ! Her eyes have the sweet native hue Of the heaven they are melting into, Blue as the Violets above The grave of some tender babe-love 158 MY LYRICAL LIFE. That back to us wistfully bring The buried blue eyes with the Spring. Her large eyes too liquidly glister ! Her mouth is too red. Have they kissed hei-- The Angels that bend down to pull Our buds of the Beautiful, And whispered their own little Sister 1 Parents of children three ! Two of them bright of blee ; One, your White Child, your Pearl ! Do you feel as I feel with my Girl 1 For I think I could give half her wealth Of heaven for a little more health : The halo of Saints for the simple Blithe gi^aces that dip in a dimple ! Nay, I feel in my heart I could revel To see but a wee dash of devil ; A touch of the old Adam in her ; A glimpse of his fair fellow-sinner ; Any likeness of earth that would give Me a promise my Darling should live. 1 feel I could pray — " my Maker, Take me too, if Thou must take her." vnr. All in our Marriage Garden Grew, smiling up to God, A bonnier Flower than ever Sucked the warmth of sun and sod. O beautiful unfathomably Its little life unfurled ; THE MOTHER'S IDOL BROKEN. 159 Love's crowning sweetness was our wee White Rose of all the world. From out a balmy bosom, Our Bud of Beauty grew ; It fed on smiles for sunshine, And tears for daintier dew. Aye nestling warm and tenderly, Our leaves of love were curled So close and close about our wee White Rose of all the world. Two flowers of glorious crimson Grew with our Rose of light ; Still kept the sweet heaven-grafted slip Her whiteness saintly white. They caught the breeze and danced with glee ; They reddened as it whirled ; White, white and wondrous grew our wee White Rose of all the world. With mystical faint fragrance, Our House of Life she filled — Revealed each hour some Fairy Tower, Where winged Hopes might build. We saw — though none like us might see — Such precious promise pearled Upon the petals of our wee White Rose of all the world. But evermore the halo Of Angel-light increased ; Like the mystery of Moonlight, That folds some fairy feast. ICO MY LYRICAL LIFE. Snow- white, snow-soft, snow-silently, Our darling bud up-curled, And dropped i' the Grave-God's lap — our wee White Rose of all the world. Our Rose was but in blossom ; Our life was but in spring ; When down the solemn midnight We heard the Spirits sing : " Another bud of infancy, With holy oleics impearled ; " And in their hands they bore our wee White Rose of all the world. You scarce could think so small a thing Would leave a loss so large ; Her little light such shadow fling, From Dawn to Sunset's marge. In other Springs our life may be In other flowers unfurled ; But never, never match our wee White Rose of all the world. IX. This is a curl of little Marian's hair ! A ring of sinless gold that weds two worlds ! Our one thing left with her dear life in it. Poor Misers ! o'er it secretly we sum Our little savings hoarded up above, — Our rich love-thoughts heart-hid to doat upon, — And glimpse our lost heaven in a flood of tears. A magic ring, through which fond Sorrow reads Of strange heart-histories, and conjures up THE MOTHER'S IDOL BROKEN. 1G1 A vanished face, with its sweet spirit-smiles, Babe-wonderings, and little tender ways. At birth ber bair was dark as it were dipped In the death-shadow ; but it rarefied Tn radiance as her head rose nigher heaven, Till she — white Glory ! — looked from a golden midst. This is her still face as she lay in death ! Spirit-like face, set in a silver cloud, It comes to us in silent glooms of night ; The wee wan face that gradually withdrew And darkened into the great cloud of death. ye who say, " We have a Child in heaven;" And know how far away that heaven may seem ; Who have felt the desolate isolation sharp Defined in Death's own face ; who have stood beside The Silent River, and stretched out pleading hands For some sweet Babe upon the other bank, That went forth where no human hand might lead, And left the shut house with no light, no sound, No answer, when the Mourners wail without ! What we have known, ye know, ye only know. She came like April, who with tender grace Smiles in Earth's face, and sets upon her breast The bud of all her glory yet to come, Then bursts in tears, and takes her sorrowful leave. She brought heaven to us just within the space Of the dear depths of her large, dream-like eyes, Then o'er the vista fell the death-veil dark. She only caught three words of human speech : One for her Mother, one for me, and one 2 1.1 102 MY LYRICAL LIFE. She crowed with, for the fields, and open air. That last she sighed with a sharp farewell pathos A minute ere she left the house of life, To come for kisses never any more. Pale Blossom ! how she leaned in love to us ! And how we feared a hand might reach from heaven To pluck our sweetest flower, our loftiest flower Of life, that sprang from lowliest root of love ! Some tender trouble in her eyes complained Of Life's rude stream, as meek Forget-me-nots Make sweet appeal when wind.'- and waters fret. And oft she looked beyond Us with sad eyes, As for the coming of the Unseen Hand. We saw, but feared to speak of, her strange beauty, As some hushed Bird that dares not sing i' the night, Lest lurking foe should find its secret place, And seize it through the dark. With twin-love's strength All crowded in the softest nestling-touch, We fenced her round — exchanging silent looks. We went about the house with listening hearts, That kept the watch for Danger's stealthiest step. Our spirits felt the Shadow ere it fell. Then the Physician left our door ajar A moment, and the grim thief Death stole in. Some Angel passing o'er Life's troubled sea, Had seen our Jewel shine celestial pure, And Death must win it for her bosom-pearl. We stood at Midnight in the Presence dread. At midnight, when Men die, we strove with Death, To wrench our jewel from his grasping hand. THE MOTHER'S IDOL BROKEN. 163 Ere the soul loosed from its last ledge of life, Her little face peered round with anxious eyes, Then, seeing all the old faces, dropped content. The mystery dilated in her look, Which, on the darkening death-ground, faintly caught Some likeness of the Angel shining near. Her passing soul flashed back a glimpse of bliss. She Avas a Child no more, but strong and stern As a mailed Knight that had been grappling Death. A crown of conquest bound her baby-brow ; Her little hands could take the heirdom large ; And all her Childhood's vagrant royalty Sat staid and calm in some eternal throne. Love's kiss is sweet, but Death's doth make im- mortal. The Mornings came, with all their glory on ; Birds, brooks, and bees were singing in the sun, Earth's blithe heart breathing bloom into her face, The flowers all crowding up like Memories Of lovelier life in some forgotten world, Or dreams of peace and beauty yet to come. The soft south-breezes rocked the baby-buds In fondling arms upon a balmy breast ; And all was gay as universal life Swam down the stream that glads the City of God. But we lay dark where Death had struck us down "With that stern blow which made us bleed within, And bow while the Inevitable went by. And there our little one lay in coffined calm ; Beyond the breakers and the moaning now ! M 2 1G4 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Ami o'er lier flowed the white, eternal peace: All dim the living lustres motion makes ! No lit'' dew in the sweet cups of her eyes I The breathing miracle into silence passed : Never to stretch wee bands, with her dear smile As soft as light-fall on unfolding flowers; Never to wake us crying in the night : < >ur little hindering thing for ever gone, We might toil on in tearful quiet now. A young Immortal came to us disguised, And in the joy-dance dropped her mask, and fled. Nought there of our wee darling save the mask. The world went lightly by and heeded not < >ur death-white windows blinded to the sun ; The hearts that ached within ; the measureless loss; The Idol broken ; our firsl t ryst with Death. O Life, how strange thy face behind the veil ! And -danger yet will thy strange mystery look, When we awake in death and tell our Dream, 'lis hard to solve the secret of the Sphinx ! We had a little gold Love garnered up, To richly robe our Babe : the .Mother's half Was turned to mourning-raiment for her dead : Mine bought the first land we called ours — Her grave. We were as treasure-seekers in the earth, When lo, a death's-head on a sudden stares. Clad all in her babe-beauty forth she went ; Her budding spring of life in tiny leaf; Her faint dawn whitened in the perfect d. Our early wede awa' went back to God, THE MOTHER'S IDOL BROKEN. 1G3 Bearing her life-scroll folded, without stain, And only three words written on it — two Our names ! Ah, may they plead for us in heaven ! Very softly hold the Rose, On thy happy breast that blows ! Thus from out my heart there sprang a flower of tender pride. All too wild my passion burned : For the cooling dews it yearned : In my hot hands drooped my gentle flower and died. Be thy glory meekly worn : Fairest fruit is lowliest borne : Mine grew high as Life could climb, and arms could reach above. 0, so proudly heaved my breast ; All the world should see how blest ; And the seeing Heavens took my lifted love. XI. There is her nest where balmily smiled Our Babe, as we leaned above ; There she asked with her face for the tenderest place In all our world of love. Very silent and empty now ! yet we feel It rock ; and a tiny footfall Comes over the floor in the thrilling night-hush, And our hearts leap up for the call 1G6 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Of our puir wee lammie dead and gone ; Our bonnie wee lammie dead and gone. Last night, with hands to cracking clasped In the furnace-fire of my heart, Hitting, I saw the dead world All into spirit-life start At the mystic touch of the white Moonlight. My spirit arose likewise, And wandered away to the Graveyard, Where, a jewel in Death's hand, lies Our puir wee lammie dead and gone ; < )ur bonnie wee lammie dead and gone. Slowly, slowly uprose the dead, All in their robes of white ! Weirdly, weirdly uprose the dead, All in the silent night ! Like lilies for God, from the dark grave-bed, Tbey grew in a glory-rain ; And the crowned Darling of Heaven, at the head Of all that glorified train, Was our puir wee lammie dead and gone ; Our bonnie wee lammie dead and gone. In my dream I stood at the death-door dark, Alone and tremblingly, Till a Shining One came in a crescent bark, Moonlike, o'er a purple sea. She smiled to say that she knew the way, And at some secret sign, A memory of the old life stirred, And I knew that Angel mine ! Our puir wee lammie dead and gone ; Our bonnie wee lammie dead and gone. THE MOTHER'S IDOL BROKEN. 1G7 XII. Within a mile of Edinburgh Towa We laid our little darling down ; Our first seed in God's acre sown ! So sweet a place ! Death looked beguiled Of half his gloom ; or softly smiled To win our wondrous spirit-child. God giveth His Beloved sleep So calm, within its silence deep, As Angel-guards the watch might keep. The City looketh solemn and sweet ; It bares a gentle brow, to greet The Mourners mourning at its feet. The sea of human life breaks round This shore o' the dead, with softened sound : Wild-flowers climb each mossy mound To place in resting hands their palm, And breathe their beauty, bloom, and balm ; Folding the dead in fragrant calm. A lighter shadow Grief might wear ; And old Heartache come gather there The peace that falleth after prayer. Poor heart, that danced among the vines All reeling-ripe with sweet love-wines, Thou walk'st with Death among the pines ! Lorn Mother, at the dark grave-door, She kneeleth, pleading o'er and o'er, But it is shut for evermore. 1G8 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Blind, blind ! She feels, but cannot read Aright ; then leans as she would feed The dear dead lips that never heed. The spirit of life may leap above, But in that grave her prisoned Dove Lies, cold to th' warm embrace of love, And dark, though all the world is bright ; And lonely, with a City in sight ; And desolate in the rainy night. Ah, God ! when in the glad life-cup The face of Death swims darkly up ; The crowning flower is sure to droop ! And so we laid our Darling down, When Summer's face grew ripely brown, And still, though grief hath milder grown, Unto the Stranger's land we cleave, Like some poor Birds that grieve and grieve, Round the robbed nest, and cannot leave. XIII. Ah, the sweet Dream, the singing Dream, that sang "We knew not what, so sweet the melody ! Made dim woe glimmer golden while we slept ; And when we woke the lulling Dream was gone. We who had glowed like Angels in the sun, With life so lighted by her loveliness : We let her down into the disowning gloom, Sailing the awful Sea in our World-bark. THE MOTHER'S IDOL BROKEN. 169 God's messenger of death seems blindly stern : And 'tis so hard to leave a little babe Within the Grave's cold arms, alone ! while Sorrow Comes Home and chills the nest her sweet Kfe warmed. So little to the world ! but what a world Of difference in our little world of home ! This Stillness where the sweet Bird chirped to us ; This good-night-parting, this morn-greeting loss. And yet perchance the kind dark-Angel drew Her in the secret shadow of his cloud, Out of our warm and golden air, to hide Her from some fearful Fate far-hurrying up 1 XIV. To-day, when winds of Winter blow, And Nature sits in dream of snow, With Ugolino-look of woe : Wife from the window came to me, Now leaves were fallen she could see That wee grave in the Cemet'ry. With wintriness all life did ache For that dead daiding's sainted sake ; And lips might kiss, but hearts would quake. Ho, ye who pass her narrow house, By which the dark Leith sea- ward flows ; O clasp your pretty nurslings close ; And if some tender bud of light Is drooping, as the snowdrop white, With looks that weird wild heart strings smite 170 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Think of our babe that will not wake, And fold your own till fond hearts ache, Sweet souls, for little Marian's sake. xv. itappy Tree ; Green and fragrant Tree ; Spring with budding jewels decked it like a Bride! All bo fair it bloomed, And the summer air perfumed ; ( rolden autumn fruitage smiled in crowns of pride. human tree ; "NVaesome wailing tree ; In the winter wind how it rocks ! how it grieves ! On a little low grave-mound, All its bravery lies discrowned : ( )'er its fallen fruit it heaps the withered leaves. XVI. " Pretty Jloicers on Baby s head ; Who'll cry flowers when Baby's dead ? " Singing hearts oft questioned, In the sweetest Summer fled. Marian, Marian. Tearful words, how lightly said ! Mournfully remembered, Now the sweet New Year doth spread Blossom -life on Baby's bed. Marian, Marian. THE MOTHER'S IDOL BROKEN. 171 Tender emerald, white and red, Flowers of her beauty bred : Breathing all of her that's dead, Cry, ' ' We crown her Baby-head ! " Marian, Marian. " Who'll cry flowers when Baby's dead ? " Praying looks to heaven are led, And it smiles as though it said, " Early her sweet fame hither sped." Marian, Marian. " Faith, look up and firmly tread : Poor Bereaved, be comforted; I will nurse the Child- instead; My Flowers garland Baby's head.' Marian, Marian. God's unguessed reply is read : Tears that came not, tears that pled Crying darkly, here are shed : Soft rest you, Darling ! dead Marian, Marian. XVII. Our leaves are shaken from the Tree, Our hopes laid low, That after our Spring-nurslings, we May long to go. The warm love-nest our little Doves leave With helpless moan, A s they for us at heart would grieve In heaven — alone ! 172 MY LYRICAL LIFE. The tender Shepherd beckoningly Our Lambs doth hold, That we may take our own when He Makes up the fold. XVIII. With seeking hearts we still grope on, Where dropped our jewel in the dust : The looking crowd have long since gone, And still we seek with lonely trust : O little Child with radiant eyes ! In all our heart-ache we are drawn, Unweeting, to your little grave ; There, on your heavenly shores of dawn, Breaks gentlier Sorrow's sobbing wave ; O little Child with radiant eyes ! Dark underneath the brightening sod, The sweetest life of all our years Is crowded in ae gift to God, — Outside the gate we stand in tears. little Child with radiant eyes ! Heart-empty as the Acorn-cup That only fills with wintry showers; The breaking cloud but brimmeth up With tears this pleading life of ours. little Child with radiant eyes ! We think of you, our Angel kith, Till life grows light with starry leaven : We never forget you, Darling with The gold hair waving high in heaven ; Our little Child with radiant eyes ! THE MOTHER'S IDOL BROKEN. 173 Your white wings grown you will conquer Death ! You are coming through our dreams even now, With azure peep of heaven beneath The arching glory of your brow, Our little Child with radiant eyes ! We cannot pierce the dark, but oft You see us with looks of pitying balm ; A hint of heaven — a touch more soft Than kisses — all the trouble is calm. Our little Child with radiant eyes ! Think of us wearied in the strife, And when we sit by Sorrow's streams, Shake down upon our drooping life The dew that brings immortal dreams. Our little Child with radiant eyes ! XIX. Come hither, Friends ! Come hither, Friends ! So great the joy our Father sends, I want to share Avith you. For He hath made the blind receive New sight ! Come, help me to believe The miracle is true ! " what the joy ? and whence the beam That lights your look as with the gleam Of waters in the waste ? " Come kneel by me on bended knee ; Ye must stoop low if ye would see, — - Lower, if ye would taste ! 17-i MY LYRICAL LIFE. Sweet Friends, ye know the little grave To which rny heart would crawl and crave, As 'twere a worm o' the dust? I writhed so low, it rose so high, The mound that shut out all my sky ; So broken was my trust. This morn I sought it ! hardly one Of all my unshed tears would run ; Instead — from out the sod — A spring had gushed through dust and weeds! And in the light of God it feeds My life, direct from God. xx. Spring comes with violet eyes unveiled, Her fragrant lips apart ! And Earth smiles up as though she held .Most honeyed thoughts at heart. But nevermore will Spring arise Dancing in sparkles of her eyes. A gracious wind low-breathing comes As from the fields of God ; The old lost Eden newly blooms Froni out the sunny sod. My buried joy stirs with the earth, And tries to sun its sweetness forth. The Trees move in their slumbering, Dreaming of one that's near ! ^ Put out their feelers for the Spring, To wake, and find her here ! THE MOTHER'S IDOL BROKEN. 175 My spirit on the threshold stands, And stretches out its waiting hands ; Then goeth from me in a stream Of yearning ; wave on wave Slides through the stillness of a dream, To little Marian's grave : For all the miracle of Spring My long lost Child will never bring. Where blooms the golden crocus-burst, And Winter's tenderling, There lies our little Snowdrop, — first Of Flowers in our love's spring ! How all the year's young beauties blow About her there, I know, I know. The Blackbird with his warble wet, The Thrush with reedy thrill, Open their hearts to Heav'n, and let The influence have its will ! Though all around the Spring hath smiled, She seems to have kissed where lies my child. In purple shadow and golden shine Old Arthur's Seat is crowned ; Like shapes of Silence crystalline The great white clouds sail round ! The Dead at rest the long day through Lie calm against the pictured blue. At shut of Eve the stars may peep, But still there comes no night ; Only the Day hath fallen asleep, And smiles in dreams of light : 176 MY LYRICAL LIFE. As though she felt the heart of Love Beat on in silent stars above. Marian, my maid Marian, So strange it seems to me ! That you, the Household's darling one, So soon should cease to be. Ah, was it that our praying breath Might kindle heavenward fires of faith \ So much forgiven for your sake When bitter words were said, And little arms about the neck With blessings bowed the head ! So happy as we might have been, Our hearts more close with you between. Dear early Dew-drop ! such a gleam Of sun from heaven you drew, We little thought that smiling beam Would drink the precious dew ! But back to heaven our dew was kissed, We saw it pass in mournful mist. Our lowly home was lofty-crowned With three sweet budding girls ! Our Marriage-ring was wreathen round With darling wee love-pearls ! One jewel from the ring is gone, One fills a grave in Warriston. We bore her beauty in our breast, As heaven bears the Dawn, We brooded over her dear nest, Still close and closer drawn. THE MOTHER'S IDOL BROKEN. 177 Hearts thrilled and listened, watched and throbbed, And strayed not, — yet the nest was robbed. " Stay yet a little while, Beloved ! " In vain our prayerful breath : Across heaven's lighted window moved The shadow of black Death. In vain our hands were stretched to save ; There closed the gateways of the Grave ! Could my death-vision have darkened up In her sweet face, my child ; I scarce should see the bitter cup I could have drunk and smiled : Blessing her with my last-wrung breath, Dear Angel in my dream of death. Her memory is like music we Have heard some singer sing, That thrills life through, and echoingly Our hearts forever ring ; "We try it o'er and o'er again, But ne'er recall that wondrous strain. My proud heart like a river runs, Lying awake o' nights ; 1 see her with the shining Ones Upon the shining heights. And a wee Angel-face will peep Down starlike through the veil of sleep. My yearnings try to get them wings And float me up afar, As in the Dawn the Skylark springs To reach some distant Star 2 N 178 MY LYRICAL LIFE. That all night long swam down to him In brightness, but at morn grew dim. She is a spirit of light that leavens The darkness where we wait ; And starlike opens in the heavens A little golden gate ! may we wake and find her near When work and sleep are over here ! No sweetness to this world of ours Is without purpose given, The fragrance that goes up from flowers May be their seed in Heaven. We saw Heaven in her face, may we Her future face in Heaven see. In some far spring of brighter bloom, More life, and ampler breath, My bud hath burst the folding gloom, A-flower from dusty death ! We wonder will she be much grown 1 And how will her new name be known? 1 saw her ribboned robe this morn, Mine own lost little child ; Wee shoes her tiny feet had worn, And then my heart grew wild. We only trust ourselves to peep In on them when we want to weep. But hearts will break or eyes must weep, And so we bend above These treasures of old days that keep The fragrance of young love. THE MOTHER'S IDOL BROKEN. 170 The harvest-field though reaped and bare Still hath two patient gleaners there. I never think of her sweet eyes In dusky death now dim, But waters of my heart will rise, And there they smile and swim, Forget-me-nots so blue, so dear, Swim in the waters of a tear. How often in the days gone by She lifted her dear head, Arid stretched wee arms for me to lie Down in her little bed ; And cradled in my happy breast Was softly carried into rest. And now when life is sore oppressed And runs with weary wave, I long to lay me down and rest In little Marian's grave : To smile as peaceful as she smiled — For I am now the nestling child. Immortal Love, a spirit of bliss And brightness, moves above, While here forever Sorrow is A shadow cast by Love. But love for her no sorrow will bring And no more tearful leaves-taking. '&• No passing sorrows on their march Will leave sad foot-prints now, No troubles strain the tender arch Of that white baby brow. N 2 ISO MY LYRICAL LIFE. No cares to cloud, no tears that come To rob the cheek of dainty bloom. All sweetest shapes that Beauty wears Are round about her drawn ; Auroral hues, and vernal airs, And blessings of the dawn ; All loveliness that ne'er grows less ; Time cannot touch her tenderness. The patient calm that comes with years, Hath made us cease to fret, Though sometimes in the sudden tears Dumb hearts will quiver yet : And each one turns the face, and tries To hide Wiio looks through parent eyes. LYEICS OF LOVE. 182 SWEET SPIRIT OF MY LOVE. Sweet Spirit of my love ! Through all the world we walk apart : Thou mayst not in my bosom lie ; I may not press Thee to my heart Nor see the love-thoughts light thine eye : Yet art Thou with me. All my life Orbs out in thy warm beauty's sphere ; My loftiest dreams of Thee are rife, And coloured with thy presence dear. Sweet Spirit of my love ! I know how beautiful Thou art, But never tell the starry thought : I only whisper to my heart, " She lights with heaven thy earthliest spot." And birds that night and day rejoice, And winds and waves give back to me Their music murmuring of thy voice ; And warble into songs of Thee. Sweet Spirit of my love ! No Spring, or Summer bloom-bedight, That garlands earth with rainbow-showers ; No breath of Morn, or eyes that Light Doth open in the waking flowers ; No Bee goes honey-laden by, No flash of water, sigh of tree ; Never a New Moon mounts the sky But draws my heart's love-tide to Thee 1 SWEET SPIRIT OF MY LOVE. 183 Sweet Spirit of my love ! When Night's soft silence clothes the earth, To wake the passionate bird of love, And Stars laugh out in lofty mirth, And yearning souls divinelier move ; When Stillness hallows every spot, And, lapped in feeling's luxury, The heart's break-full of tender thought ; Then art Thou with me, still with me. Sweet Spirit of my love ! I listen for thy footfall, feel Thy look is burning on me, such As reads my heart ; 'twill sometimes reel And throb, expectant for thy touch ! For by the voice of birds and brooks, And flowers with dews of heaven wet, And earnest stars with yearning looks, I know that we shall mingle yet. Sweet Spirit of my love ! Strange places on me smile, as Thou Hadst passed, and left thy beauty's tints : Even the wild flowers seem to know, And light and shade flash mystic hints. Methinks, like olden Gods, Thou'lt come In cloud ; but mine anointed eyes Shall see the glory burn through gloom, And clasp Thee, Sweet ! with large surprise. 184 MY LYRICAL LIFE. NOT I, SWEET SOUL, NOT I. All glorious as the Rainbow's birth, She came in Spring-tide's golden hours ; When Heaven went hand-in-hand with Earth, And May was crowned with buds and flowers. The mounting devil at my heart Clomb faintlier, as my life did win The charmed heaven, she wrought apart, To wake its better Angel in. With radiant mien she trode serene, And passed me smiling by ! ! who that looked could help but love ? Not I, sweet soul, not I. The dewy eyelids of the Dawn Ne'er oped such heaven as hers did show : It seemed her dear eyes might have shone As jewels in some starry brow. Her face flashed glory like a shrine, Or lily-bell with sunburst bright ; Where came and went love-thoughts divine, As low winds walk the leaves in light : She wore her beauty with the grace Of Summer's star-clad sky ; ! who that looked could help but love 1 Not I, sweet soul, not I. Her budding breasts like fragrant fruit Of love wei-e ripening to be pressed : Her voice, that shook my heart's red root, Might not have broken a Babe's rest, — LOVE ME. 185 More liquid than the running brooks ; More vernal than the voice of Spring, When Nightingales are in their nooks, And all the leafy thickets ring. The love she coyly hid at heart Was shyly conscious in her eye ; ! who that looked could help but love 1 Not I, sweet soul, not I. LOVE ME. 11 All dear as the feeling when first flowers start, Thou cam'st in thy musical lightness : And the cloud wept itself in rich rain on my heart, That had hidden thy beauty and brightness. 'Twas as Life's topmost ivindow oped suddenly, bright With the glittering face of an Angel, The sweet secret outflashed on thy forehead of light, And thy voice was thy own love's Evangel! how shall I crown thee, Love, on my heart's throne, Thou art so far, far above me ? " And aye, as her dear eyes looked love in my own, The Maiden answered, " Love me." " My Beloved is fair as some beautiful Star That walks in a pleasaunce of glory ; And her large-hearted looks and her lineaments are As some Queen's of the old Greek story ! There's never night now, since those dear eyes of thine Smiled on me with soft sweet splendour, And I drank of the wine of thy kisses divine : what for such love shall I render ? " 1S6 MY LYRICAL LIFE. And aye, as I knelt at my true Love's shrine, She bent in her beauty above me : And aye, as her dear eyes looked love into mine, The Maiden answei'ed, " Love me." " could my heart, mountain-regioned in bliss, Thy life with Love's affluence dower, Thou should st have heaven in a world e'en like this, And the joy of a life in each hour ! Tltou shouldst go forth like a conquering Queen, Reaping rich heartfuls of treasure, Nor strive where the worn of heart wearihj glean But handfuls, in harvesting pleasure." And aye, as I knelt at my true Love's shrine, She bent in her beauty above me : And aye, as her dear eyes looked love into mine, The Maiden answered, " Love me." THE PATEIOT TO HIS BRIDE. Can you leave the fond bosom of Home, where Joy hath been from your earliest waking % Can you give its endearments to come, where Life hath many a hot heart-aching % Have you counted the cost to stand by me, In the battle I fight for Man ? Shall your womanly love deify me, "Who stand under the world's dark ban ? A daring high soul you will need, dear Love, To brave the life-battle with me : For your true heart may oftentimes bleed, dear Love, And your sweet eyes dim tearfully. THE PATRIOT TO HIS BRIDE. 1S7 Sweet ! know you of gallant hearts perishing, — The fine spirits that dumbly bow 1 For a little of Fortune's cherishing, They are breaking in agony now ! And without the sunshine that life needeth, Alas ! Sweet ! for me and for you : But little the careless world heedeth For love like ours, tender and true ! A daring high soul you will need, dear Love, To brave the life-battle with me : For your true heart may oftentimes bleed, dear Love, And your sweet eyes dim tearfully. Well, you've sworn. I have sworn, God hath bound us, And the world shall not tear us apart : I have flung my love's war-cloak around us, And you live in each pulse of my heart ! It may be our name in Earth's story Shall endure when we are no more ; For love lives while the Stars burn in glory, And the Flowers bud on Earth's green floor. But a daring high soul you will need, dear Love, To brave the life-battle with me : For your true heart may oftentimes bleed, clear Love, And your sweet eyes dim tearfully. 188 MY LYRICAL LIFE. A POOR MAN'S WIFE. Her dainty hand nestled in mine, wee and white, And timid as trembling dove ; And it twinkled about me, a jewel of light, As she garnished our banquet of love : 'Twas the queenliest hand in all ladydand, And she but a poor Man's wife ! ! little I dreamed how that dainty white hand Could dare in the battle of Life. Her heart it was Lowly as maiden's might be, But hath climbed to heroic height, And burned like a shield in defence of me, On the field of sorest fight ! And startling as fire, it hath often flashed up In her eyes, the good heart and rare ; As she drank down her half of our bitterest cup, And taught me how to bear. Her sweet eyes that seemed, with their smile sublime, Made to look me and light me to heaven, They have triumphed through bitter tears many a time, Since their love to my life was given : And the maiden-meek voice of the womanly Wife Still bringeth the heavens nigher ; For it rings like the voice of God over my life, Aye bidding me climb up higher. MY BONNY LADY. 189 I hardly dared think it was human, when I first looked in that glorified face ; For it shone as the heavens had opened then, And clad it with splendour and grace ! But dearer the innermost light of it grew In our dark and most desolate day, As the Eainbow, when heaven hath no break of blue, Smileth the storm away. 'Twas a shape of the lithest Loveliness, — ■ Just an armful of heaven to enfold ! But the form that bends flower-like in love's caress, With the Victor's strength may be souled ! In the light of her presence transfigured I stand, And the poor Man's English home She fills with the Beauty of Greece the grand, Or the fairest Madonna in Rome. MY BONNY LADY. You say Eve gave her Daughters to restore The Eden that their Mother lost of yore ; They lead us through the Angel-guarded door, And where they smile it blooms for evermore i Then Dearest of Eve's Daughters dear is she Who makes an Eden in my Home for me ; My Bonny Lady. No seeming beauty perilous to know, Like dream of ripeness on the sour sloe, 190 MY LYRICAL LIFE. But sweet to the true heart as summer fruit, And sound and strong to love's most secret root ; A soul made human by its kindling life 1 A woman ripened to the perfect Wife ! My Bonny Lady, She grows in graces as the flowers bloom ; Her robe of beauty woven in Heaven's loom ! She wears her jewels in her lips and eyes : Diamond sparks ! warm rubies ! pearls of price ! And see what shapely sweetness may be shown Supremely, in a simple morning gown ! My Bonny Lady. Upon her dear brow is no band of care That binds the heavy burden souls must bear ; The clew of childhood's Heaven yet lingering lies Cool in the shadows of her morning eyes ; So may some spirit in its brightness wait With welcome at the beautiful heaven -gate. My Bonny Lady. Eyelids once lifted with the kiss of Love, Di'oop tender after as the brooding dove ! Lips, when the soul of joy is tasted, will Hush its loud sound of laughter, and be still. Yet is she happy as the lark that sings, Winnowing out the music with its wings ; My Bonny Lady. Lo, how she bows with soft and settled bliss, Over her babe in breathing tenderness ! Her image my Madonna bends above, To mingle One in my heart's sea of Love ! HUSBAND AND WIFE. 191 Thus hath she doubled love and Love's caress, With doubled blessing, doubled power to bless. My Bonny Lady. Her smile the sum of sweetness infinite I Her neck a throne where many gi^aces sit ! Like music of the soul her motion is, But none can know the inner sanctities ; Outside they stand in wonder, I alone, Pass in adoring at the spirit-throne. My Bonny Lady. Behold her in religious lustre stand, Clothed all in white and fit for spirit-land ! Her thankful eyes uplift for angel food ; And you might worship her, so pure, so good ; For all shy beauty, all sweet shadowy grace, Breaks into brightness through my Lady's face ; My Bonny Lady. I think of her and mine eyes softly close While all my heart with sweetness overflows ; Each breath it breathes in blessing sets astir Some gracious balm, and sweet as hidden myrrh. My Best while toiling up the hill of life ! A Halfway House to Heaven ! my Angel- Wife ! My Bonny Lady. HUSBAND AND WIFE. Proudly I stood in the rare Sunrise, As the dawn of your beauty brake ; But I feared for the storm, as I looked at the skies, And trembled for your sweet sake ! 192 MY LYRICAL LIFE. And 0, may the evil days come not, I said, As I yearned o'er my tender blossom : Strong arm of love ! shelter the dearest one's head ; And I nestled you deep in my bosom. May the tears never dim the love-light of her eye, — May her Life be all Spring-weather ! — Was the prayer of my heart, ere you, Love, and I, Were Husband and Wife together. Lut the suns will shine, and the rains will fall, On the loftiest, lowliest spot ! And there's mourning and merriment mingled for all That inherit the human lot. So we've suffered and sorrowed and grown more strong, Heart-to-heart, side-to-side, we have striven, "With the love that is summer-tide all the year long, And the spirit that makes its own heaven ! "We clung the more close as the storm swept by, "We kept the nest warm in cold weather ; And seldom we've faltered since you, Love, and I, Have been Husband and Wife together ! Like the sweet happy flowers of the wilderness, You have dwelt life to life with Nature ; And caught the wild beauty and grace of her ways, And grown to her heavenlier stature ! In prospering calm, and in quickening strife, Hath your womanly worth unf olden ; And sunshine and shower have enriched your life, And ripened its harvest golden. WHEN I COME HOME. 103 There is good in the grimmest cloud o' the sky, • There are blessings in wintry weather : Even Grief hath its glory, since you, Love, and I, Have been Husband and Wife together. 0, Life is not perfect with Love's first kiss : Who winneth the blessing must wrestle ; And the deeper the trouble, the dearer the bliss, That may in the core of it nestle ! Our Angels oft greet us in tearful guise, Our saviours will come in sorrow : While the murkiest midnight that frowns from the skies, Is at heart a radiant Morrow ! We laugh and we cry, we sing and we sigh, And Life will have wintry weather ! So we'll hope, and love on, since you, Love, and I, Are Husband and Wife together. WHEN I COME HOME. AitouND me Life's hell of fierce Ardours burns, When I come home, when I come home ; Over me Heav'n starry-heartedly yearns, When I come home, Avhen I come home. For a feast of Gods garnished, the palace of Night At a thousand star-windows is throbbing with light. London makes mirth ! but I think God hears The sobs in the dark, and the dropping of tears ; For I feel that He listens down Night's great dome : When I come home, when I come home ; Home, home, when I come home, Late in the night when I come home. 194 MY LYRICAL LIFE. I walk under Midnight's triumphal arch, When I come home, when I come home ; Exulting with life like a Conqueror's march, When I come home, when I come home. 1 pass by the vast-chambered mansions that shine, Overflowing with splendour like flagons with wine : J have fought, 1 have vanquished the dragon of Toil, A nd before me my golden Hesperides smile ! And O but Love's Apples make rich the gloam, When I come home, when I come home ! Home, home, when I come home, Late in the night when I come home. the sweet, merry mouths will upturn to be kissed, When I come home, when I come home ! How the younglings yearn from the hungry nest, When I come home, when I come home ! My weary, worn heart into sweetness is stirred, And it dances and sings like a singing Bird, On the branch nighest heaven, — a-top of my life : As She meets me and greets me, my welcoming Wife ! And her pale cheek is tinted with tenderest bloom, When I come home, when I come home ; Home, home, when I come home, Late in the night when I come home. Clouds furl off the shining face of my life, When I come home, when I come home, And leave heaven bare on her bosom, sweet Wife, When I come home, when I come home. With her brave smiling Energies, — Eaith warm and bright, — With love glorified and serenely alight, — love's fairy-ring. 195 With her womanly beauty and queenliest calm, She steals to my heart in a blessing of balm ; And but the wine of Love sparkles with foam, When I come home, when I come home ! Home, home, when I come home, Late in the night when I come home. LOVE'S FAIRY-RING. While Titans war with social Jove, My own sweet Wife and I, We make Elysium in our love, And let the world go by ! never hearts beat half so light With crowned Queen or King ! never world was half so bright As is our fairy-ring, Dear love ! Our hallowed fairy-ring. Our world of empire is not large, But priceless wealth it holds ; A little heaven links marge to marge, But what rich realms it folds ! And clasping all from outer strife Sits Love with folded wing, A-brood o'er clearer life-in-life, Within our fairy ring, Dear love ! Our hallowed fairy-ring. O 2 196 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Thou leanest thy true heart on mine, And bravely bearest up ! Aye mingling Love's most precious wine In Life's most bitter cup ! And evermore the circling hours New gifts of glory bring ; We live and love like happy Howe; All in our fairy-ring, Dear love ! Our hallowed fairy-ring. "We've known a many sorrows, Sweet ! We've wept a many tears, And often trod with trembling feet Our pilgrimage of years. But when our sky grew dark and wild, All closelier did we cling : Clouds broke to beauty as you smiled, Peace crowned our fairy-ring, Dear love ! Our hallowed fairy -ring. Away, you foes of heart and home; Away. Hate, and Strife ! Hence, revellers, reeling drunken from Your feast of human life ! Heaven shield our little Goshen round, From ills that with them spring, And never be their footprints found Within our fairy-ring, Dear love ! Our hallowed fairy -ring. But, come ye who the Truth dare own, Or work in Love's dear name ; TO THE BELOVED ONE. 197 Come all who wear the Mystic's crown, Or Martyr's robe of name ! Sweet souls a heartless world may doom Like Birds made blind to sing ! For such we'll aye make welcome room Within our fairy-ring, Dear love ! Our hallowed fairy-ring. TO THE BELOVED ONE. Heaven hath its crown of Stars, the Earth Her glory-robe of flowers — The Sea its pearls — the grand old "Woods Their songs and greening showers : The Birds have homes, where leaves and blooms In beauty wreathe above ; High yearning hearts, their rainbow-dream — - And we, Sweet ! we have love. We walk not with the worldly Great, Where Love's dear name is sold ; Yet have we wealth we would not give Eor all their mines of gold ! We revel not in Corn and Wine, Yet have we from above Manna divine, and will not pine, While we may live and love. There's sorrow for the toiling poor, On Misery's bosom nursed : Rich robes for ragged souls, and Crowns For branded brows Cain-cursed ! 193 MY LYRICAL LIFE. But Cherubim, with clasping wings, Ever about us be, And, happiest of God's happy things ! There's love for you and me. Thy lips, that kiss till death, have turned Life's water into wine ; The sweet life melting through thy looks Hath made my life divine. All Love's dear promise hath been kept, Since thou to me wert given ; A ladder for my soul to climb, And summer high in heaven. I know, dear heart ! that in our lot May mingle tears and sorrow ; But, Love's rich Rainbow's built from tears To-day, with smiles To-morrow. The sunshine from our sky may die, The greenness from Life's tree, But ever, 'mid the warring storm, Thy nest sliall sheltered be. I see thee ! Ararat of my life, Smiling the waves above ! Thou hail'st me Victor in the strife, And beacon'st me with love. The world may never know, dear heart ! What I have found in thee ; But, though nought to the world, dear heart ! Thou'rt all the world to me. THE L0VE-LETTE11. 199 MATRIMONY. Two human Stars in passing are Attracted as through heaven they float ; Sometimes they form a double Star ; Sometimes they put each other out : And sometimes one and one make three, Our World's most perfect Trinity. THE LOVE-LETTER. The Lover felt a warm wave coming Before her Written Message came ; The World within and round him blooming Burst into a flower of fragrant flame : As if with mouth to mouth he met her ; Or, as two Spirits meet above : " If such a Wave foreran her letter, How deep the ocean of her love." LOVE-IN-IDLENESS. We sit serenely 'neath the night, As still as stars with swift delight ; In tears, that show how in Life's deep The hidden pearls of beauty sleep ! And quiet, as of sleeping trees, And silence, as of dreaming seas. The channels of our bliss run filled, Their faintest happy murmur stilled. 200 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Upon thy forehead rests my palm, And on ray spirit rests thy calm. I cannot see thy check, hut know I 3 tint of ros i-bloom h ith a glow Like ruby lighl , and richly lies The dew i' the shadow of thine eyes: Deep eyes! dear wells of tenderness, That ask how they may soothliest bless ! Warm incense like the soul o' the South, Is round us, and thy damask raouth "With the sweet spirit of its breath, I dissolves me in delicious death. Musk-roses breathing in the gloom, Drop fragrance fainting in the room ; Such sensuous sadness fills the air, Ripe life a bloom of dew doth wear. The harping hand hath dulled the lyre Of thrilling heartstrings — by their fire That droops, the dreamy Passions doze In large luxuriance of repose. While we our fields of pleasure reap, Our Babes lie in the wood of Sleep : One, first love's dream of beauty wrought ! One the more perfect afterthought. AVe sit with silent glory crowned, And Love's arms wound like heaven round Or on rich clouds our spirits swim The summer twilight cool and dim. I only see — that thou art near; I only feel — I have thee dear I I only hear thy beating heart, 1 oidy know we cannot part. A BALLAD OF THE OLD TIME. 201 A BALLAD OF THE OLD TIME. Sweet Night, drop down from thy starry bower Thy influence dewily mild ; Softly bend over my love's tender flower, As a Mother bends over her child. Hush the hills in a deep, dark dream ; To slumber stretch valley and lea ; Fold over all thy purple and pall, And bring my Love to me. You white witching Moon, with your beautiful smile ; You flowers that fondle his feet ; You weird wee Women of fairyland, wile Not my Love with your kisses sweet. For him my bower in the old gray tower Is dighted and dainty to see : All gentle Powers that walk the night-hours, Hasten my Love to me. I count my love's rosary over again, With its feelings and fancies and fears ; Till it breaks in my brain with the tension of pain, And my pearls are but trembling tears ! I sorrow and sing with the thorn at my breast ; Mine eyes watch unweariedly : Come crown them, and calm them, and kiss them to rest ; Dear my Love, hasten to me. The ripe swelling buds that are quickened with spring, Will peep from their silken fold ; 202 MY LYRICAL LIFE. And my broidered belt is too short to cling Round my waist with its girdling gold. But my Love he will bring the plain gold ring ; Base-born his Babe shall not be ! Leal is his love as the heaven above : He never will lightly me. My Love he hath little of silver or gold ; Of land he hath never a sod ; But my Love is a gay gallant gentleman — ■ He's a king by the grace of God. He has borne up the battle-tide broadsword in hand ! He is comely as any ladye ! and were I a King's daughter, None other should marry me. My Love shall not wait at the Castle-gate, My Love shall not tirl at the pin ; My Love he will climb to my bower- window ; Sing O, but my Love shall come in. The dragon below lieth weary and old, Sleeping all under the tree ; While I feast my Love on the apples of gold — But soft ! He is coming to me. IN THE NIGHT. Earth like a Lady poor and low Adores Night's kingly beauty now, While I, on fire in breast and brow, Awake to weep for thee, Love ! IN THE NIGHT. 20i The distant glories of the night, The Moon that walks in soft white light, These cannot win my charmed sight, Nor lure a thought from thee, Love. I'm thinking of the short sweet hour Our fond hearts felt Love's growth of power, And summered as in Eden's bower When I was blest with thee, Love ! There burned no beauty on the trees, There woke no song of birds or bees, But Love's cup for us held no lees, And I was blest with thee, Lovo. Then many-coloured fancies spring From out my heart on splendid wing, Like Chrysalis from Life's wintering, Burst bright and summeringly, Love ! And as a Chief of battle lost Counts, and recounts his stricken host, Stands tearful Memory making most Of all that's touched with thee, Love. Perhaps in Pleasure's brilliant bower Thy heart may half forget Love's power, Put at this still and starry hour Does it not turn to me, Love 1 O, by all pangs for thy sweet sake, In my deep love thy heart-thirst slake, Or, all-too-full, my heart must break : Break ! break ! with loving thee, Love ! 20 4 MY LYRICAL LIFE. FALLEN. As the White Snow crowns the Hills, and the arms of Ether fills, With the lustre of its loveliness — a presence as of light, And it looks up in Heaven's face with all a Virgin's trusting grace: So the Maiden walked ou Purity's white height. But the Snow will blush for bliss, at the red Dawn's fervent kiss ; And fall from its high throne, and lose the brightness from its brow ; And be trod leu on the highways, and be trampled in the by-ways : So the Maiden's life is stained and trampled now. DESERTED. Love came to me in a golden cloud, With a rosy glory kissed ; And caught me up, and in heaven we rode, Till it melted in mournful mist. Gone ! gone ! is the light that shone, With the dream of my earlier day : And the wild winds moan ; alone ! alone ! I wander my weary way. The days come and go, and the seasons roll,- In their glory they pass me by ; And the lords of life and the happy in soul Walk under a smiling sky. DROWNED. 205 And the sweet spring-tide comes back to us o'er The soothed winter sea ; But He will return no more, no more, Never come back to me. It were better that I lay sleeping With his baby upon my breast, Where the weary have done with their weeping, And the wretched are rocked to their rest. The world is a desolate, dreary one, Full of sad tears at best : God, take back Thy wandering weary one, Like a wounded bird home to its nest. DROWNED. 'Tis Midnight hour and the Dead have power Over the Wronger now ! He is tortured and torn till the coming of morn ; Pierced to the heart with the Crown of thorn That he set on the Suicide's brow. Wind him around in the toil of your charms ; Nestle him close, young Bride ! At the Midnight hour he is drawn from your arms ; Through the dark with the Dead he must ride ! Spirit from body is consciously drawn ; Death comes not to kindly unsheathe ; And the closer you cling the more anguish you wring From the form you so fondly enwreathe ! 206 MY LYRICAL LIFE. The rose of her mouth is red-wet, red-warm, She smiles in her haven of calm ! Troubled and tossed and lashed by the Lost, Slumber for him hath no balm ! Again that ghostly groping along The Corridor of Dreams ! And a dark Desolation luridly lit Is his face by Lightning gleams ! Love's cup flushes up for his crowning kiss, But, with his lip at the brim, The Dead uncurtain his bower of bliss, Sue tching their arms for him ! Wind him around in the toil of your charms ; Nestle him close, young Bride ! Yet, at Midnight hour he is torn from your arms ; Through the dark with the Dead he must ride : And the Dark, ah, the Dark ! hath a million Eyes, All of his secret tell ! And whispering winds pursue him like fiends That hiss in his ears of Hell ! "Warm in her bed the young Bride lies, Breathing her peaceful breath : Dead Mother and Babe with their drowned eyes Stare dim through the watery death. 'Tis Midnight hour and the Dead have power Over the Wronger now ! He is tortured and torn till the coming of morn ; Pierced to the heart with the Crown of thorn That he set on the Suicide's brow. JILTED. 207 JILTED. Well ! Friend ! this arrow hath missed its mark, But, Man ! you have more in your quiver. All over no doubt with your Pleasure-bark, But swim like a lusty liver ! A-top of some Ararat next the skies You shall clap your wings and crow ; Higher and higher your spirits will rise While the Deluge is ebbing below. Thank God some First Loves do miscarry, Men frequently say when they come to marry. Very likely she had some love for you ! Some love till death doth sever : And some for a Month or a Year or two, And some they say for ever. Your love would have lasted, no doubt, my brother, That at least was eternal : We all think so, one time or other, While very young and vernal. But you might not have found your heaven within The pretty blue eyes you so wanted to win. The Learned will tell you those beautiful eyes Of witching, bewildering blue, Are as drumlie waters, or earth-made skies, Or un-rinsed linen in hue ! For want of clearness their charm is given, And hearts are whirled away ; 20S MY LYRICAL LIFE. Blue is not the Natural colour of heaven Where dwelleth the perfect clay, — And the woman you thought you were loving, looked through Far other eyes than you worshipped, at you ! Yes, I know how you stood all a-flarae for her, Your heart of hearts to fill ; I know how you hardly dared to stir Lest your delight should spill ; Then came the clap on the back, my Friend, That made the dreamer start, And, at the awakening whack, my Friend Found he had lost his heart. Pass on, nor loiter with longing eye, 'Tis no use looking, unable to buy. You say that she gave you kiss for kiss ; But that is no promise of marriage. Surely you know in a world like this A Lady must ride in her carriage ? Although, like a lane I saw last spring, The way of her life should go, — One side with violets blossoming, The other white-wintry with snow. Of saffron the Greek wedding-robe was of old, Parents in England prefer it in gold. The old love wasn't the true love; That you have plainly proved. Be turning your thoughts to a new love, Somebody waits to be loved ; Somebody patiently waiting for you, And the purified love you can give her, LOVE AND THE LADY. 209 With a soul full of love as the summer dew Is of sun Avith its kiss all a-quiver. To keep the ghost from your vacant chair, Nothing like nestling a warm wife there. Do not be wasting the rest of your wine By pouring it out in the dust. What of your faith, old comrade' of mine, Can you take your trial on trust 1 The knife is sharp and the flesh must shrink, But, as in the mythical day, God often perfects the Manhood I think By cutting the Woman away. He takes but a Spare-rib and gives you a Wife, With a heart beating warm in her, life of your life. LOVE AND THE LADY. 'Twere vain to ask that one so cold should £>ive The vital warmth of heart that makes Love live But in thy bosom leave a little room For Love to die in ; marble for a Tomb ! To be imparadised he doth but crave That she who was his death may be his grave : The monumental mockery of a Wife, Eor ever hard and cold and like to life : Thus, when the winged Divinity hath flown, We prize the old Greek statue of Love in stone. 210 MY LYRICAL LIFE. ICHABOD. Seven Summers' Suns have set ! the world is once more sweetly Hooded "With fragrance, for the virgin-leaves and violet- banks have budded : Heaven claspeth Earth, as round the heart first broodeth Love's rich glow ; A blush of Flowers is mantling where the lush green grasses grow ! All things feel summering sunward, golden tides stream down the air, Which burns, as Angel-visitants had left a glory there ! But darkness on my aching spirit shrouds the merry shine, — I long to feel a gush of Spring in this poor heart of mine. Morn opes Heaven's secret portal, back the pearly gates are drawn, And all the fields of glory blossom with the crimson Dawn : But never comes thy clasping hand, or carol of thy lips, That made my heart soar like a spirit freed from Death's eclipse. Sweet voice ! it came like magic music, healing angels make, When pain sat heavy on my brow, and heart was like to break : ICHABOD. 211 Meth ought such love gave wings to climb some starry throne to win ; Thou didst so lift up earth's horizon — letting heaven in. I'm thinking, Darling, of the days when life was all divine, And love was aye the silver cord that bound my heart to thine ; When life bloomed at thy coming, as the green earth greets the sun, And, like two dew-drops in a kiss, our twin souls wed in one. Ah ! still I feel ye at my heart ! and 'mid the stir and strife, Ye sometimes lead my feet to walk the angel-side of Life : The magic music yearns within, as unto thee I turn, And those dear eyes, a-blaze with soul, through all my being burn. Come back, — come back ; I long to clasp thee in these arms, mine own ; Lavish my heart upon thy lips, and make my love the Crown And Arc of Triumph to thy life. Why tarry? Time hath cast Strange shadows on my spirit since we met and mingled last ! Yet there be joys to crown thee with ; the sunshine and the sweet Are hived, like honey, in my heart, to share them should we meet : p 2 212 MY LYRICAL LIFE. How I have hoarded up my life ! how tenderly I strove To make my heart fit home for thee, its nestling Bird of love ! God bless thee ! once the radiant world thy beauty crownlike wore, But life hath lost the strange sweet feel that cometh never more ! The flowers will bud again in spring, and happy birds make love, With melting hearts, a-brooding o'er their passion in the grove. ! • thou wilt never more come back, to clothe my heai't wit li spring ; Dear God ! Love's sweetest chord is turned to Pain's most jarring string ! The Glory hath departed ! and my spirit pants to go Y\ here, 'mid Life's troubled waters, 'twill not see the wreck below. A TILLAGE COURTING. O shy and simple Village Girl, With daisy-drooping eyes ; Like light asleep within the pearl, Love in your young life lies. A hundred times in meadow and lane With careless hearts we walked ; But we shall never meet again, And talk as we have talked. A VILLAGE COURTING. 213 All in a moment life was crossed, In a fairy spell I'm bound ; Yet fear to tell you what I've lost, Or know what I have found. When last I met you, tearful-meek The emerald gloaming came ; Some veil fell from you, in your cheek The live rose was aflame ! So distant and so dear you grew, More near, yet more estranged, Aud at your parting touch I knew That all the world was changed. All in a moment life was crossed, In a fairy spell I'm bound ; Yet fear to tell you what I've lost, Or know what I have found. Your fairness haunts me all night long, I walk in a dream by day ; My silent heart breaks into song, And the prayerless kneels to pray. Ten times a day the hot tears start, For very pride of you : Would God you were safe 'at home in my heart, To rest the rough world through. All in a moment life was crossed, In a fairy spell I'm bound ; Yet fear to tell you what I've lost, Or know what I have found. My heart ! She comes by lane and stilo, With glances shy and sweet ; Making the sunlight with her smile, And music with her feet. 2U MY LYRICAL LIFE. Ah ! could I clasp her in mine arm Until she named the hour "When life should move from charm to charm, And love from flower to flower ! All in a moment life was crossed, In a fairy spell I'm bound ; Yet fear to tell her what I've lost, Or know what I have found. ON A \VEDDIXG-DAY. Tins, hand in hand, and heart in heart, Face nestling unto face, Forgotten things like Spirits start From many a hiding-place ! There is no sound of Babe or Bird, And all the stillness seems Sweet as the music only heard A down the land of dreams. And if, because it is so proud, My heart will find a voice, And in its dear dream love aloud, And speak of sweet still joys, It is no genuine gift of God, But only Goblin Gold, That withers into dead leaves, should The secret tale be told. Nine years ago you came to me, And nestled on my breast, A soft and winged mystery That settled here to rest ; ON A WEDDING-DAY. 215 And my heart rocked its Babe of bliss, And soothed its child of air, "With something 'twixt a song and kiss, To keep it nestling there. At first I thought the fairy form Too spirit-soft and good To fill my poor, low nest with warm And wifely womanhood. But such a cozy peep of home Did your clear eyes unfold ; And in their deep and dewy gloom What tales of love were told ! In dreamy curves your beauty drooped, As tendril's lean to twiue, And very graciously they stooped To bear their fruit, my Vine ! To bear such blessed fruit of love As tenderly increased Among the ripe vine-branches of Your balmy-breathing breast. We cannot boast to have bickered not Since you and I were wed ; We have not lived the smoothest lot, Nor made the downiest bed ! Time has not passed o'erhead in Stars, And underfoot in flowers, With wings that slept on fragrant airs Through all the happy hours. It is our way, more fate than fault, Love's cloudy fire to clear, 216 MY LYRICAL LIFE. To find some virtue in the salt That sparkles in a tear ! Pray God it all come right at last, Pray God it so befall, That when our day of life is past The end may crown it all. Ah, Dear ! though lives may pull apart Down to the roots of love, One thought will bend us heart to heart, Till lips re- wed above ! One thought the knees of pride will bow Down to the grave-yard sod ; You are the Mother of Angels now ! We have two babes with God. Cling closer, closer, for their loss, ■ About our darlings left, And let their memories grow like moss That healeth rent and rift ; — For his dear sake, our Soldier Boy, For whom we nightly plead That he may live for God, and die For England in her need, — For her, who like a dancing boat Leaps o'er life's solemn waves, Our little Lightheart who can float And frolic over graves ; And Grace, who making music goes, As in some shady place A Brooklet, prattling to the boughs, Looks up with its bright face. A LYRIC OF LOVE. 217 Cling closer, closer, life to life, Cling closer, heart to heart ; The time will come, my own wed Wife, When you and I must part ! Let nothing break our band but Death, For in the worlds above 'Tis the breaker Death that soldereth Our ring of Wedded Love. A LYEIC OF LOVE. The Bird that nestles nearest earth, To Heaven's gate nighest sings ; And loving thee, my lowly life Doth mount on Lark-like wings ! Thine .eyes are starry promises : And affluent above All measure in its blessing, is The largess of thy love. Merry as laughter 'mong the hills, Spring dances at my heart ! And at my wooing, Nature's soul Into her face will start ! The Queen-moon, in her starry bower, Looks happier for our love ; A dewier splendour fills the flower, And mellower coos the Dove. My heart may sometimes blind mine eyes With utterance of tears, But feels no pang for thee, Beloved ! But all the more endears : 218 MY LYRICAL LIFE. And if life comes with cross and care Unknown in years of yore, Lest thou shouldst half the burthen bear, I shall be strong once more. Ah ! now I see my life was shorn, That, like the forest-brook When leaves are shed, my darkling soul Up in heaven's face might look ! And blessings on the storm that gave Me haven on thy breast, Where life hath climaxed like a wavo That breaks in perfect rest. AT EVENTIDE. I SIT beneath my shadowing Palm, All in the green o' the day at rest : And pictured in a sea of calm, The Past arises in my breast. The winter world takes leafy wing In that sweet April-tide of ours; And hidden Love lies listening, Where nodding smile the bridal flowers. I sing, and shut mine eyes and dream I hear her singing, my young Bride ! Who on a-sudden from Life's stream Rose Swan-like swimming at my side. God love her ! she was very fair, And iu her eyes, to light my way, The Love-Star sprang and sparkled where The hidden Babe of Blessing lay. THE MISTLETOE BOUGH. 219 With healing as of summer showers That only nestle clown to bless ; And silent ministry of flowers, That only breathe their tenderness ; She, softly as a starry scheme, My charmed world hath circled round, Till life doth seem a pleasant dream The Victor dreameth sitting crowned. Gone is the sunshine from her hair, That made her beauty needless bright, To tint a many clouds of care, And cause the dark to smile with light. But so she lives that when the wind Of winter shreds the leaves, dear Wife ! Seed ripe for Heaven Death may find On the poor withered stem of life. THE MISTLETOE BOUGH. 'Twas on a merry Christmas night, A many years ago, I saw my Love, with dancing sight, As she came over the snow. The Elvish Holly laughed above ; A sweeter red below ! When first I met with my true Love, Under the Mistletoe Bough. Bright-headed as the merry May-Dawn She floated down the dance ; I thought some Angel must have gone Our human way by chance : 220 MY LYRICAL LIFE. I held my hands, and caught my bliss, Children, I'll show you how ! And Earth touched Heaven in a kiss, Under the Mistletoe Bough. Ere leaves were green we built our nest, The March winds whistled wild ; But in our love we were so blessed, Old Poverty he smiled. And Love the heart of Winter waimied, Love blossomed 'neath the snow ; All fairy-land in blessings swarmed Under the Mistletoe Bough. The storms of years have beat our Bark, That rocks at anchor now ; But She was smiling through the dark, My Angel at the prow. And brimming tides of love did bear Us over the rocks below ! To-night, all safe in harbour here, Under the Mistletoe Bough. May you, Boys, win just such a Wife ; Come drink the toast in wine ! And you, Girls, may you light a life As she has brightened mine. Dear was the bonny Bride, and yet I'm prouder of her now Than on the merry, merry nighu we met, Under the Mistletoe Bough. LIFE AND DEATH. 221 LIFE AND DEATH. All night the Mother laboured long and sore ; All night the Father lingered at Death's door And could not pass beyond ; could not withdraw From his fast-fading eyes, until he saw Their coming little one ; the Mother strove To give him this last pledge of visible love ; But vainly strove to bring her babe to birth : And, at the last grave-edge of crumbling earth. Where life and death were locked in one last strain, His spirit clung with glazing gaze in vain : For when the Infant came, with smiling dawn, The waiting, watching, weary soul was gone : Even in Life's gateway Babe and Parent passed Each other, with Death's shadow overcast. WOMAN". My fellow-men, as yet we have but seen Wife, Sister, Mother and Daughter, not the Queen Upon her Throne, with all her jewels crowned ! Unknowing how to seek, we have not found Our Goddess, waiting her Pygmalion To woo her into Woman from the stone ! Our Husbandly hath lacked essential power To fructify the promise of the flower ; We have not known her nature ripe all round. 222 MY LYRICAL LIFE. We have but seen, her beauty on one side That leaned in love to us with blush of bride: The pure white Lily of all Womanhood With heart all-golden still is in the bud. We have but glimpsed a moment in her face The glory she will give the future race ; The strong heroic spirit knit beyond All induration of the Diamond. She is the natural bringer from above ; The Earthly mirror of Immortal Love ; The chosen Mouthpiece for the Mystic Word Of Life Divine to speak through ; and be heard With human Voice, that makes its Heavenward call Not in one Virgin Motherhood, but all. Unworthy of the gift how have Men trod Her pearls of pureness, Swine-like, in the sod ! How often have they offered her the dust And ashes of the fanned-out fires of lust; Or, devilishly inflamed with the divine, Waxed drunken with the Sacramental wine. How have Men captured her with savage grips, To stamp the kiss of Conquest on her lips, — As feather in their crest have worn her grace, Or brush of fox that crowns the hunter's chase ; Wooed her with Passions that but wed to fire With Hymen's Torch their own funereal pyre ; Stripped her as Slave and Temptress of Desire ; Embraced the body when her soul was far Beyond possession as the loftiest star ! WOMAN. 223 Her "Whiteness hath been tarnished by their touch ; Her Promise hath been- broken in their clutch ; The Woman hath l'eflected Man too much, — And made the Bread of Life with earthiest leaven. Our coming Queen must be the Bride of Heaven ; The Wife who will not wear her bonds with pride As Adult Doll with fripperies glorified : The Mother fashioned on a nobler plan Than Woman who was merely made from Man. CRIES OF 'FORTY-EIGHT. 225 CRIES OF 'FORTY-EIGHT. Let my Songs be cited As breakers of the peace, Till the Wrongs are righted ; The man-made miseries cease : Till Earth's Disinherited Beg no more to earn their bread ; Till the consuming darts of burning Day Shall fire the midnight Foxes ; scare away From Labour's fruits the parasites of prey. Let them die when all is done, Now Victoriously begun ! Our Visions have not come to nought, Who saw by Lightning in the night ; The deeds we Dreamed are being Wrought By those who Work in clearer light ; In other ways our fight is fought, And other forms fulfil our Thought Made visible to all men's sight. Q 22G THE PEOPLE'S ADVENT. 'Tis coming up the steep of Time, And this old world is growing brighter! We may not see its Dawn sublime, Yet high hopes make the heart thi*ob lighter ! Our dust may slumber under-ground "When it awakes the world iu wonder; But we have felt it gathering round ! — We have heard its voice of distant thunder ! 'Tis Coming ! yes, 'tis Coming ! 'Tis coming now, that glorious time Foretold by Seers and sung in story, For which, when thinking was a crime, Souls leaped to heaven from scaffolds gory ! They passed. But lo ! the work they have wrought, Now the crowned hopes of Centuries blossom ! The lightning of their living thought Is flashing through us, brain and bosom: 'Tis Coming ! yes, 'tis Coming ! Creeds, Empires, Systems, rot with age, But the great People's ever youthful ! And it shall write the Future's page To our Humanity more truthful ; the people's advent. 227 The gnarliest heart hath tender chords To waken at the name of " Brother ! " 'Tis coming when these scorpion-words We shall not speak to sting each other. 'Tis Coming ! yes, 'tis Coming ! Out of the light, you Priests, nor fling Your dark, cold shadows on us longer ! Aside, thou world-wide curse, called King ! The people's step is quicker, stronger ! There's a Divinity within That makes men great if they but will it ; God works with all who dare to win, And the time cometh to reveal it. 'Tis Coming ! yes, 'tis Coming ! Freedom ! the Despots kill thy braves, Yet in our memories live the sleepers ; And, though doomed millions feed the graves Dug by death's fierce, red-handed Reapers, The World will not forever bow To things that mock God's own endeavour. 'Tis nearer than they wot of now, When Flowers shall wreathe their Sword for ever! 'Tis Coming ! yes, 'tis Coming ! Fraternity ! Love's other name ! Dear, heaven-connecting link of being ; Then shall we grasp thy golden dream, As souls, f ull-statured, grow far-seeing : Thou shalt unfold our better part, And in our life-cup yield more honey ; Light up with joy the Poor Man's heart, And Love's own world with smiles more sunny ! 'Tis Coming ! yes, 'tis Coming. Q 2 22S MY LYRICAL LIFE. Aye, it must come ! The Tyrant's throne Is crumbling, with our hot tears rusted; The Sword earth's mighty have leant on Is cankered, with our Lest blood crusted. Room for the men of Mind ! Make way Yu Robber Rulers ! — pause no longer ! ■ cannot stay the opening day ! Ti e world mils on, the light grows stronger The People's Advent's coming ! THE BATTLE-CALL. You Serfs of England rouse ye from this dreaming ! A spirit stirs that never more shall sleep; Look to the Future, lo ! your Day spring streaming With a new life that makes the Nations leap. The eyes of Rich and Poor flash wide with wonder ! The Robbers tremble in their loftiest tower, Strange words roll o'er the world on wheels of thunder, The leaves from Royalty's tree fall hour by hour, — Earthquakes leap in the Temples, crumbling Throne and Power. Vampires have drained humanity's best blood, Kings robbed, and Priests have cursed us in God's name ; Out in the midnight of the Past we stood, "While these have darkly plied their devilish game. THE BATTLE-CALL. 229 We have been worshipping the deadly Crown Which drew Heaven's laugh in Lightnings on our head ; Chains fettered us who bowed abjectly down ; We deemed our Gods divine ; but lo ! instead — They are but gilded clay, — Tis morn ! the glamour's fled ! Call ye this " merry England," — once the place Of souls self-deified and glory-crowned 1 Where smiles made sunshine in the Peasant's face, And Justice reigned — Her awful eyes close- bound ? Where Toil with open brow went on light-hearted, And twain in love Law never thrust apart 1 How is the glory of our life departed From us, who sit and nurse our bleeding smart ; And slink, afraid to break the laws that break the heart ! Hushed be the Herald on the walls of fame, Vaunting this People as their Country's pride ; Weep rather, with your souls a-fire with shame : See ye not how the flattering knaves deride Us flattered fools 1 how priestcraft, strong and stealthy, Stabbing at freedom through its veil of night, Beguiles the poor to flush its coffers wealthy 1 Hear how the land groans in the grip of Might, Then quaff your cup of Wrongs, and laud a Briton's " Bight." There's not a spot in all this dear green land, Where Tyranny's cursed brand-mark is not seen: 230 MY LYRICAL LIFE. ! were it not for its all-blasting hand, A very heaven below this might have been ! Has it not hunted forth our workers brave, — Killed the red rose of health that crowned our daughters, "WVlded our living hopes unto the grave, — Filled happy homes with strife, the world with slaughters, And turned our thoughts to blood — to gall, the heart's sweet waters 1 Where is the spirit of our stalwart Sires, AVho rose and wrung their Rights from Tyran- nies olden? Great Spirits have been here, for Freedom's fires Live in their ashes, to earth's heart enfolden ; The mighty Dead lie slumbering around, — Whose names thrill through us as Gods were in the air ; Life leaps from where their dust makes holy ground : Their deeds spring forth in glory, — live ail- where, — But we are Traitors to the Trust they bade us bear. Go forth, when Night is hushed, and heaven is clothed With stars that in God's presence smiling roll ; Feel the stirred spirit leap as 'twere betrothed To some eternal bridegroom of the soul ; Feel the hot tears start in the eyes upturning, The tide of goodness heave its brightest waves, — Then suddenly crush the grand and God-waid yearning THE BATTLE-CALL. 231 With the sad thought that ye are bounden Slaves ! O ! how long will ye make your hearts its living graves 1 Immortal Liberty ! we see thee stand Like Morn just stepped from heaven upon a mountain With beautiful feet, and blessing-laden hand, And heart that welleth Love's most living fountain ! ! when wilt thou draw from the People's lyre Joy's broken chord 1 and on the People's brow Set Empire's crown? light up thy Altar-fire Within their hearts, with an undying glow ; Nor give us blood for milk, as men are drunk with now 1 Old Legends tell us of a Golden Age, When earth was guiltless, — Gods the guests of men, Ere sin had dimmed the heart's illumined page, — And prophet-voices say 'twill come again. ! happy age ! when Love shall rule the heart, And time to live shall be the poor man's dower, When Martyrs bleed no more, nor Exiles smart, — Mind is the only cliadem of power. — People, it ripens now ! awake ! and strike the hour. Hearts, high and mighty, gather in our cause ; Bless, bless, God, and crown their earnest labour, Who dauntless fight to win us Equal Laws, With mental armour, and with spirit-sabre ! 232 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Bless, bless, God ! the proud intelligence, That now is dawning on the People's forehead, — Humanity springs from them like incense, The Future bursts upon them, boundless — starried — They weep repentant tears, that they so lorig have tarried. THE EARTH FOR ALL. Thus saith the Lord : You weary me With prayers, and waste your own short years : Eternal Truth you cannot see Who weep, and shed your sight in tears ! In vain you wait and watch the skies, No better fortune thus will fall ; Up from your knees I bid you rise, And claim the Earth for All. They ate up Earth, and promised you The Heaven of an empty shell ! 'Twas theirs to say ; 'twas yours to do, On pain of everlasting Hell ! They rob and leave you helplessly For help of Heaven to cry and call : Heaven did not make your misery ; The Earth was given for All ! Behold in bonds your Mother Earth ; The rich man's prostitute and slave 1 Your Mother Earth, that gave you birth, You only oufii her for a grave ! THE LORDS OF LAND AND MONEY. 233 x\nd will you die like Slaves, and see Your Mother left a fettered thrall ? Nay ! live like Men and set her free As Heritage for All ! THE LORDS OF LAND AND MONEY. Lift up your faces from the sod ) Frown with each furrowed brow ; Gold apes a mightier power than God, And wealth is worshipped now ! In all these toil-ennobled lands You have no heritage ; They snatch the fruit of Youthful hands, The staff from weary Age. O tell them in their Palaces, These Lords of Land and Money — They shall not kill the Poor like Bees, To rob them of Life's honey. Through long dark years of blood and tears, We've toiled like branded Slaves, Till Wrong's red hand hath made a land Of Paupers, Prisons, Graves ! But our long-sufferance endeth now ; Within the souls of men The fruitful buds of promise blow, And Freedom lives again ! tell them in their Palaces, These Lords of Land and Money ! They shall not kill the Poor like Bees, To rob them of Life's honey. 234 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Too long have Labour's Nobles knelt Before factitious "Rank " ; "Within our souls the iron is felt — • In tune our fetters clank ! A glorious voice goes throbbing forth From millions stirring now, Who yet before these Gods of earth Shall stand with lifted brow, And tell them in their Palaces, These Lords of Land and Money ! They shall not kill the Poor like Bees, To rob them of Life's honey. THE AWAKENING. How sweet is the fair face of Nature when May With her rainbow earth-born and flower-woven hath spanned Hill and dale ; and the music of birds on the spray Makes Earth seem a beautiful faery land ! And dear is our First-love's young spirit-wed Bride, With her meek eyes just sheathing in tender eclipse, When the sound of our voice calls her heart's ruddy tide Up in beauty to break on her cheek and her lips. But Earth has no sight half so glorious to see, As a People up-girding its might to be free. THE AWAKENING. 235 To see men awake from the slumber of ages, Their brows grim from labour, their hands hard and tan, Start up living Heroes, long dreamt-of by Sages ! And smite with strong arm the Oppressors of man : To see them come dauntless forth 'mid the world's warring, Slaves of the midnight-mine ! Serfs of the sod ! Show how the Eternal within them is stirring, And never more bend to a crowned clod : Dear God ! 'tis a sight for Immortals to see, — A People up-girding its might to be free. Battle on bravely, O sons of Humanity ! Dash down the Cup from your lips, O ye Toilers ! Too long hath the world bled for Tyrants' insanity— Too long our weakness been strength to our Spoilers ! The heart that through danger and death will be dutiful ; Soul that with Cranmer in fire would shake hands, And a life like a Palace-home built for the beautiful, Freedom of all her beloved demands — And Earth has no sight half so glorious to see, As a People up-girding its might to be free ! 236 MY LYRICAL LIFE. "ALL'S EIGHT WITH THE WOULD." The brow of Morning smiles with her one star ; Lush-leafy Woods break into singing ; Earth From dewy dark rolls round her balmy side, The floods of Dawn flow into a sea of day, And all goes right and merrily with the World. Spring with a tender beauty clothes the earth, And makes her happy as the Bride of Heaven, As though she knew no sorrow — held no grave : No glory dims for all the hearts that break ; And all goes right and merrily with the World. Birds sing as sweetly in the bowers of Spring ; Suns mount as regally their sapphire throne ; Stars set the gloom aglow, and harvests yield, As though man nestled in the lap of Love ; All, all goes right and merrily with the World. But slip your dainty mask aside and see Hell open fathomless at your very feet ! The Poor are murdered body and soul ; the Rich In Pleasure's Goblet melt their pearl of life ; Ay, all goes right and merrily with the World. Lean out into the looming Future, list The battle roll across the night to come ! " See how we right our Wrongs at last," Revenge Writes with red radiance on the midnight heaven : Yet all goes right and merrily with the world. A CRY OF THE UNEMPLOYED. 237 So Sodom, grim old Reveller ! danced to her death. Voluptuous Music throbb'd through all her Courts ; Mirth wantoned at her heart, one pulse before The tongues of Fire told out her tale of wrongs — ■ And all went right and merrily with the World ! A CRY OF THE UNEMPLOYED. 'Tis hard to be a wanderer through this bright world of ours, Beneath a sky of smiling blue, on fragrant paths of flowers, With music in the woods, as there were nought but pleasure known, Or Angels walked Earth's solitudes, and yet with want to groan : To see no beauty in the stars, nor in Earth's wel- come smile, To wander cursed with misery ! willing, but cannot toil. With burning sickness at my heart, I sink down famished : God of the Wretched, hear my prayer : I would that I were dead ! Heaven droppeth down with manna still in many a golden shower, And feeds the leaves with fragrant breath, with silver dew the flower. Honey and fruit for Bee and Bird, with bloom laughs out the tree, And food for all God's happy things ; but none gives food to me. 238 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Earth, wearing plenty for a crown, smiles on my aching eye, The purse-proud, — swathed in luxury, — disdainful pass me by : I've willing hands, an eager heart — but may not work for bread ! God of the Wretched, hear my prayer : I would that I were dead ! Gold, art thou not a blessed thing, a charm above all other, To shut up hearts to Nature's cry, when brother pleads with brother? Hast thou a music sweeter than the voice of loving-kindness 1 No ! curse thee, thou'rt a mist 'twixt God and men in outer blindness. " Father, come back ! " my Children cry ; their voices, once so sweet, Now pierce and quiver in my heart ! I cannot, dare not meet The looks that make the brain go mad, for dear ones asking bread — God of the Wretched, hear my prayer : I would that I were dead ! Lord ! what right have the poor to wed 1 Love's for the gilded great : Are they not formed of nobler clay, who dine off golden plate 1 'Tis the worst curse of Poverty to have a feeling heart : Why can I not, with iron grasp, choke out the tender part ? MERRY CHRISTMAS EVE. 239 I cannot slave in yon Bastille! I think 'twere bitterer pain, To wear the Pauper's iron within, than drag the Convict's chain. I'd work but cannot, starve I may, but will not beg for bread : God of the Wretched, hear my prayer : I would that I were dead ! MERRY CHRISTMAS EVE. Merry Christmas Eve in a Palace where knavery Crowded all treasures that Workers surrender ; Where spirits grow rusted in silkenest slavery ; Life is out-panted in sloth and in splendour : In gladness and glory Wealth's darlings were meeting, And jewel-clasped fingers linked softly again ; New Friendships a-twining, and Old Friends a- greeting ; No thought of God's creatures that crouch in their pain ! Merry Christmas Eve in a Poor man's grim hovel, There huddled in silence a famishing family ; Church-bells were chiming in musical revel, Through Night's mask a-mocking with merry anomaly. All in the happy time there they sat, mourning — Two Sons — two Brothers — in penal chains bleeding ; 240 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Their hearts wandered forth to the never-returning, Who rose on their vision, pale, haggard, and pleading. Merry Christmas Eve! for the Rich there was music And dancing, and Wine on Wine woo'd on the board ; O Falstaff ! you prince of Lies ! 'twould have made you sick, To hear how they flattered a Mammonite Lord ! What matter, though hearts might be breaking without 1 Their moans did not reach them where rang roof and rafter With mirtli that in face of the 'wretched will flout. Ay, laugh on, ye callous, in Hell there is laughter ! Merry Christmas Eve ! but the stricken ones heard No neighbourly welcome, no kind voice of kin ; They looked at each other, but spake not a word, While through crevice, and cranny, the sleet drifted in. In a desolate corner, one, hunger-killed, lay, And the Mother's hot tears were a bosom-babe's food. What marvel, Statesmen, what marvel, I pray, Such misery nurseth Crime's viperous brood ? men, Angel-imaged in Nature's fair mint, Is it for this, ye were fashioned divine 1 Ah, where's the God-stamp — Immortality's print 1 We are Tyrants and Slaves, knit in one tortured twine : PRAYING FOR PAUPER-PAY. 211 That a few, like to gods, may stride over the earth, Millions are murdered, or given in pawn ; When will the world quicken for Liberty's birth, "Which she waiteth, with eager wings beaticg the dawn] False Priests, dare ye say 'tis the will of your God, These things should be done 'neath His shelter- ing sky ? That millions of Paupers should bow to the sod ? Up, up, trampled hearts, it's a Lie ! it's a Lie ! They may carve "State" and "Altar" in charac- ters golden, But Tyranny's symbols are ceasing to win ; Be stirring, people, your Flag is unfold en, And brave be the battles you blazon therein. OUR FATHERS ARE PRAYING FOR PAUPER-PAY. Smitten stones will talk with fiery tongues, And the worm, when trodden, will turn ; But, Cowards, ye cringe to the cruellest wrongs, And answer with never a spurn. -Then torture, Tyrants, the spiritless drove, Old England's Helots will bear : There's no hell in their hatred, no God in their love, No shame in their deepest despair. For our Fathers are praying for Pauper-pay, Our Mothers with Death's kiss are white ; Our Sons are the rich man's Serfs by day, And our Daughters his Slaves by night. 2 R 242 MY LYRICAL LIFE. The Tearless are drunk with our tears : have they driven The God of the poor man mad ? For we weary of waiting the help of Heaven, And the battle goes still with the bad. but death for death, and life for life, It were better to take and give, With hand to throat, and with knife to knife, Than die out as thousands live ! Our Fathers are praying for Pauper-pay, Our Mothers wit li Death's kiss are white ; Our Sons are the rich man's Serfs by day, And our Daughters his Slaves by night. Fearless and few were the Heroes of oLl, "Who played the peerless part : We are fifty-fold, but the gangrene Gold Is eating out England's heart. With their faces to danger, like Freemen they fought, With their daring, all heart and hand : And the thunder-deed followed the lightning- thought, When they stood for their own good land. Our Fathers are praying for Pauper-pay, Our Mothers with Death's kiss are white ; Our Sons are the rich man's Serfs by day, And our Daughters his Slaves by night. When the heart of one half the world doth beat Akin to the brave and the true, And the tramp of Democracy's earth-quaking feet Goes thrilling the wide world through, — ANATHEMA MARANATHA. 24 o We should not be crouching in darkness and dust, And dying like slaves in the night ; But big with the might of the inward " must" "We should battle for Freedom and Ttight ! Our Fathers are praying for Pauper-pay, Our Mothers with Death's kiss are white ; Our Sons are the rich man's Serfs by day, And our Daughters his Slaves by night. What do we lack, that the Ruffian Wrong Should starve us 'mid heaps of gold ] We have brains as broad, we have arms as strong As our Captors, if only as bold ! Will a thousand years more of meek suffering school Your lives to a sterner bravery ? No ! down and down with their Robber Rule, And up from the land of slavery ! Our Fathers are praying for Pauper-pay, Our Mothers with Death's kiss are white ; Our Sons are the rich man's Serfs by day, And our Daughters his Slaves by night. ANATHEMA MARANATHA. Deeper and deeper the Despot's lash flayeth, Swifter and swifter fierce Misery slayeth ; Tighter and tighter the grip of Toil groweth, Nigher and nigher the dark Ruin floweth. And still ye bear on, and ye faint heart and breath, Till ye creep, scourged hounds, to your kennel of death : R 2 244 MY LYRICAL LIFE. O down to the dust with ye, Cowards and Slaves, tricken Cumber-grounds, slink to your graves ! Love is the Crown of all life, but ye wear it not ; Freedom, Humanity's palm, and ye bear it not ; Beauty spreads banquet for all, but ye share it not; Grimmer the blinding veil glooms, and ye tear it not. Weaving your life-flowers in Wealth's robe of glory, Ye stint in your starkness with youth smitten hoary ! down to the dust with ye, Cowards and Slaves, Plague-stricken Cumber-grounds, slink to your graves ! They have broken your hearts for their hunger, and "trod The wine-press for Death, with our fruitage of God; And ye lick their feet, red with your blood, like dumb cattle ! Far better, far braver to meet them in battle ! The bow that Tell drew hath lost none of its spring, Did ye nerve with your daring the arrow and string : O down to the dust with ye, Cowards and Slaves, Plague-stricken Cumber-grounds, slink to your graves ! There's a curse on the Mammonites fiery and fell. Their hearts are as hard as the Millstones of Hell; A CRY OF THE PEOPLE. 245 And there's wringing of hands with the Knave and the Tyrant, For God's graven Autograph's on their death- warrant. The people arise face to face with their Foes : Up now ! while before us the Fire-Pillar glows ! Or down to the dust with ye, Cowards and Slaves, Down, down for ever, and rot in your graves ! A CRY OF THE PEOPLE. Tossing in torture, the weary World turnetb, To clutch Freedom's robe round her slavery's starkness : With shame and with shudder, poor Mother ! she yearneth O'er wrongs that are done in her dearth and her darkness. gather thy strength up, and crush the Abhorred, AVho murder thy poor heart, and drain thy life- springs, And are crowned but to hide the Cain-brand on their forehead : Let these be the Last of the Queens and the Kings ! By the Lovers and Friends we have tenderly cherished, Who made the Cause soar up like flame at their breath ; Who struggled like Gods met in fight, or have perished In Poverty's battle, with grim daily death : 24G MY LYRICAL LIFE. By all the dear ones that bitterly plead for us — Life-flowers tied up in the heart's breaking strings — rsthat weepforns — Mothers that bleed for us — Let these be Last of the Queens and the Kin Sun and Rain kindle greenly the graves of our Martyrs, Ye might not tell where the red blood ran like lain! But there it burns ever ! and heaven's weeping waters And bleaching suns never can whiten the stain ! Remember the hurtling the Tyrants have wrought us, And smite till each helm on head flashes and rings ! Life for life, blood for blood, is the lesson they've taught us, And be these the Last of the Queens and the Kings ! Ho! weary Night-watch, is there light on the summit ! Sentinel through the dark, say, is there hope? For deeper in gloom than the fathom of plummet, Our Bark through the tempest doth stagger and grope ! " To God's Unforgiven, to Caitiff and Craven — To Crown and to Sceptre, a cleaving curse clings : Ye must fling them from deck, ivould ye steer into Ha ven, For Death tracks the Last of the Queens and the Kings ! " PEESS OX. 247 PRESS ON. Press on, press on, ye Rulers, in the roused world's forward track : It moves too sure for you to put the dial of Freedom back ! We're gathering up from near and far, with souls in fiery glow, And Right doth bare its arm of might to bring the Spoilers low. Kings, Priests, ye're far too costly, and we weary of your rule ; We crown no more "Divinity," where Nature writeth "Fool !" Ye must not bar our glorious path as in the days agone ; AVe know that God made Men, but men made Kings and Priests — Press on ! Press on, press on, ah ! " Nobles ! " you have played a daring game ; Now falls your star of luck, now fades the prestige of your name : Too long have you been fed and nursed on human blood and tears; The naked truth is known, and Labour leaps to life, and swears His pride of strength to bloated Ease he will no longer give : For all who live should labour, " Lords," then all who work might live ! 2-18 MY LYRICAL LIFE. The combat comes ! make much of what you've wrung from Fatherland ! ;s on, press on ! To-day we plead, To-morrow we command. Press on ! a million pauper- brows bend down in Misery's dust ; God's champions of eternal Truth still eat the mouldy crust : This damning curse of Tyrants must not kill the nation's heart ; The spirit in a million Slaves doth pant, on fire to start And strive to mend the world, and join the Nation's march sublime ; While myriads sink heart-broken, and the land o'er-swarms with crime. " God ! " they cry, " we die, ice die, and see no earnest won ! " Brothers, join hand and heart, and in the work press on, press on ! they: are but giants while we KNEEL. Good People ! put no faith in Kings, nor in your Princes trust, Who break your hearts for bread, and grind your faces in the dust : The Palace-Paupers look from lattice high, and mock your prayer : The Champions of the Christ are dumb, or golden bit they wear. THEY ARE BUT GIANTS WHILE WE KNEEL. 249 O but to see ye bend no more to earth's criine- cursed things : Be ye God's Oracles : stand forth, as Nature's Priests and Kings ! Ye fight and bleed, while Fortune's darlings slink in splendid lair, With lives that crawl, like worms through buried Beauty's golden hair ! — A tale of lives wrung out in tears their Grandeur's garb reveals, And the last sobs of breaking hearts sound in their Chariot-wheels ! league ye — crush the things that kill all love and liberty ! They are but Giants while we kneel : one leap, and up go We. Trust not the Priests, whose tears are lies, and hearts are hard and cold ; Who lead ye to sweet pastures, where they fleece the foolish fold ! The Church and State are linked and sworn to desolate the land : Good people, 'twixt these Foxes' tails, WV11 fling a fiery brand. Up, if ye will be free, to Golden Calves no longer bow : The Nations yearn for Liberty — the world grows earnest now. Your bent-knee is half-way to hell ! — Up, Serviles, from the dust ! The Harvest of the free red-ripens for the sickle- thrust. 250 MY LYRICAL LIFE. They're quaking now, and shaking now, who wrought the hurtling sorrow, To-day the Desolators, but the Desolate To mor- row ! Loud o'er their murder's menace wakes the wat It- word of the Free : They are but Giants while we kneel : one leap, and up go "We ! Some bravest patriot-hearts have gone, to break beyond the Sea, And many in the Dungeon have died for you and me ! And still we glut the Merciless — give all Life's glory up, That stars of flame, and winking eyes, may crown their revel-cup. Back, tramplers on the Many ! Death and Danger ambushed lia ; Beware ye, or the blood may run ! the patient people cry : " Ah ! shut not out the light of hope, or we may blindly dash, Like Samson with his strong death-grope, and whelm ye in the crash. Think how they spurred the People mad, that old Regime of France, Whose heads, like poppies, from Deaths Scythe fell in a bloody dance." Ye plead in vain, ye bleed in vain, Blind ! when will ye see They are but Giants while we kneel 1 One leap, and up go We. THEY ARE BUT GIANTS WHILE WE KNEEL. 251 The merry flowers are springing from our last-year Martyrs' mould, As if their dreams had blossomed telling what they would have told, Of our unfettered Future : and what this earth shall be When we have bartered blows and bonds for life and liberty. Ah ! what a face of glory shall the weary world put on, When Love is crowned, and shall rule the heart, its royal throne ! O we shall see our darlings smile, — who meet us tearful now, — Ere the Eternal morn breaks gray, on the Beloved's brow : And pride, not shame, shall flush the face of our heart-nestling Dove, And Love shall give the kiss of Death no more to those we love. Wake, Titans, scale th' Olympus where the hinder- ing Tyrants be : They are but Giants while we kneel : one leap, and up go We ! 252 MY LYRICAL LIFE. SONG OF THE BED REPUBLICAN. Fling out the red Banner ! its fiery front under, Come, gather ve, gather ye, Champions of Right I And roll round the world, with the voice of God's thunder, The Wrongs we've to reckon, Oppressions to smite. They deem that we strike no more like the old Hero-band, A'ictory's own battle-hearted and brave : Once more brothers mine, it were sweet but to see ye stand, Triumph or Tomb welcome, Glory or Grave ! Fling out the red Banner ! in mountain and valley Let Earth feel the tread of the Free once again ; Now soldiers of Liberty make one more rally, Old Earth yearns to know that her children are Men. "We are nerved by a thousand wrongs, burning and bleeding ; Bold Thoughts leap to birth, but the bold Deeds must come ; And wherever Humanity's yearning and pleading, One battle for Liberty strike we heart-home. Fling out the red Banner ! achievements immortal Have yet to be won by the hands labour-brown ; Though few of us enter the proud promise-portal, Yet wear it in thought like a glorious Crown ! SONG OF THE RED REPUBLICAN. 253 joy of the onset ! sound trumpet ! array us ; True hearts would leap up were all hell in our path ; Up, up from the Slave-land ; who stirreth to stay us, Shall fall, as of old, in a Red Sea of wrath. Fling out the red Banner, Sons of the morning ! Young spirits awaiting to burst into wings, — We stand shadow-crowned, but sublime is the warning, All heaven's grimly hushed, and the Bird of Storm sings ! " All's well," saith the Sentry on Tyranny's tower, While Hope by his watch-fire is gray and tear- blind ; Ay all's well ! Freedom's Altar burns, hour by hour, Live brands for the fire-damp with which ye are mined. Fling out the red Banner ! the Patriots perish, But where their bones whiten the seed striketh root : Their blood hath run red the great harvest to cherish : Now gather ye, Reapers, and garner the fruit. Victory ! victory ! Tyrants are quaking ! The Titan of Toil from the bloody thrall starts ; The Slaves are awaking, the dawn-light is breaking. The foot-fall of Freedom beats quick at our hearts ! 251- MY LYRICAL LIFE. AFTER THE STRUGGLE. Like leaves from Autumn's bough, Old Friend, Our ripest hopes depart ; There's little left us now, Old Friend, To cheer the Patriot's heart. The Altars where we knelt, Old Friend, Grow desolate and cold ; The faith is faint they felt, Old Friend, In valiant days of old. In Moody shrouds they sleep, Old Friend, Who could not live as slaves : The living only weep, Old Friend, Above their Martyrs' graves ! Freedom hath many a wound, Old Friend, And, ringed by hounds of hell, She wraps her purple round, Old Friend, To fall as Caesar fell. The men of blood prevail, Old Friend, And, stricken in the night, The people's weeping wail, Old Friend, Goes praying for the light. And yet their day shall come, Old Friend, Though we may never hear The shouts of Harvest-home, Old Friend. Nor see the golden year. OUR MARTYRS. 255 OUR MARTYRS. They are gone ! When Hope's blossoms, many-numbered, Into flower burst ; When on earthquake-edge they slumbered, Who have Man accursed ; When our hearts, like throbbing drums, Beat for Freedom ; sang " She comes ! " There they stumbled 'mong the tombs. They are gone ! Freedom's strong ones, young and hoary, Beautiful in faith ! And her first dawn-blush of glory Gilds their camp of death ! There they lie in shrouds of blood ; Murdered, where for Right they stood — Martyrs murdered doing good. They are gone ! Yet 'tis well to die up-giving Valour's vengeful breath, To make Heroes of the living, — Thus divine is death. One by one, true hearts ! you left us ! Yet Hope hath not all bereft us : Still we man the gap you cleft us 1 They are here ! In the silent tears that start Thinking of their loss ; In the iEtna of each heart, Where flames of Vengeance toss ! o y 25 H MY LYRICAL LIFE. They are with us, they are here, Smiling in the flash o' the tear, Happy when we know they are near ! They are here ! Here, where life ran ruddy rain, When power from God seemed wrenched; Here, where tears fell— molten brain ! And hands were agony-clenched ! Lift the veil and look ! Ah ! now There's a glory, where the glow Of their fire-crown seamed each brow. They are here ! "With us in the march of time ; With us side by side ! Let us live their lives sublime, Die as they have died ! Wait : these Martyrs yet shall coim Myriad-fold from out their tomb ! In the Despots' day of doom. THE MEN OF 'FORTY-EIGHT. They rose in Freedom's rare sunrise, Like Giants routed from wine ; And in their hearts and in their eyes The God leaped up divine ! Their souls flashed out, naked as swords Unsheathed for fiery fate ! Strength went like battle with their words- The men of 'Forty-eight. Hurrah ! For the men of 'Forty-eight. THE MEN OF 'FORTY-EIGHT. 257 The Kings have got their Crown again, And blood-red revel cup ; They've bound the Titan down again, And heaped his grave-mound up ! But still he lives, though buried 'neath The mountain, — lies in wait, Heart-stifled heaves and tries to breathe The breath of 'Forty-eight. Hurrah ! For the men of 'Forty-eight. Dark days have fallen, yet in the strife "We bate no hope sublime, And bravely works the exultant life, Their hearts pulsed through the time : As grass is greenest trodden down, Their suffering makes men great, And this dark tide shall richly crown The work of 'Forty-Eight. Hurrah ! For the men of 'Forty-eight. Some in a bloody burial sleep, Like Greeks to glory gone, But in their steps avengers leap With their proof-armour on : And hearts beat high with dauntless trust To triumph soon or late, Though they be mouldering down in dust— The Men of 'Forty-eight ! Hurrah ! For the Men of 'Forty-eight. 3 s 258 MY LYRICAL LIFE. when the World wakes up to worst The Tyrants once again, And Freedom's summons-shout shall burst, Rare music ! on the brain, — Old Truehearts still, in many a land, Ye'll find them all elate — Brave remnant of that Spartan-band, The Men of 'Forty-eight. Hurrah ! For the Men of 'Forty-eight. A WELCOME. Ho ! Patriots of Old England, wake ! And join ye heart and hand, To welcome him for Freedom's sake To our dear Fatherland ! He needs no proud Triumphal Arch, Nor Banners on the wind : In hearts that beat his triumph-march, Kossuth is fitly shrined ! We meet him here, we greet him here — ■ With Love's wide arms caress him ! Kings would have no such welcome cheer, As Kossuth hath : God bless him. He rose like Freedom's Morning star, Where all was darkling, dim ; We saw his glory from afar, And fought in soul for him ! A WELCOME. 259 Brave Victor ! how his radiant brow Kinged Freedom's host like Saul 1 And in bis Crown of Sorrow now He's royallest heart of all. We meet him here, we greet him here — With Love's wide arms caress him ! Kings would have no such welcome cheer, As Kossuth hath : God bless him. Ay, English hearts through proud tears gush With glory at his name, Whose brave deeds made the roused blood rush Along our veins like flame : We cheered him through his hero-strife And, in his presence met, Will show the world that patriot life Lives in Old England yet ! We meet him here, we greet him here — With Love's wide arms caress him ! Kings would have no such welcome cheer, As Kossuth hath : God bless him. He cometh dim with glorious dust, From out his wrestling-ring : Lut, blessings— praises — deathless trust — Like armies round him cling ! His Hungary billows o'er with graves Of Martyrs not in vain ; A rising ripening harvest waves Its fruit of that red rain ! We meet him here, we greet him here — With Love's wide arms caress him ! Kings would have no such welcome cheer, As Kossuth hath : God bless him. S 2 260 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Freedom will run her radiant round, Though clouds shut out the sky ; may his country's heart yet bound To Kossuth's conquering cry ; And once again the Hapsburgh Star His flaming Sword make dim ; And palsy strike the arm that dare Not strike a blow for him ! "We meet him here, we greet him here — With Love's wide arms caress him ! Kings would have no such welcome cheer, As Kossuth hath : God bless him. King out, exult, and clap your hands, Free Men and Women brave ; Shout, Britain ! shake the startled land 3, And free the bounden Slave ! Come forth, make merry in the sun, And give him welcome due ; Heroic deeds have crowned him one Of Earth's Immortal few ! AVe meet him here, we greet him here — With Love's wide arms caress him ! Kings would have no such welcome cheer, As Kossuth hath : God bless him. THE EXILE. Ay, Tyrants, build your Babels ! forge your fetters ! link your chains ! As brims your guilt-cup fuller, ours of grief ebbs to the drains ; THE EXILE. 231 Still, on the Cross, your crowns of thorn for Free- dom's Martyrs twine ; Still batten on live hearts and madden o'er the hot blood-wine. Murder men sleeping, or awake torture them dumb with pain, And tear, with hands all bloody red, the vesture of the slain ! Your feet are on us, Tyrants — strike ! and hush Earth's wail of sorrow : Your sword of power, so red to-day, shall kiss the dust to-morrow. O ! but 'twill be a merry day the world shall set apart, When Strife's last brand is broken in the last crowned Despot's heart ! And it shall come, — despite of Rifle, Rope, and Rack, and Scaffold, Once more we lift undaunted brows, and battle on unbaffled. Our hopes ran mountains high, we sang at heart, wept tears of gladness, When France, the bravely beautiful, dashed down her sceptred madness ; xVnd Hungary her one-hearted race of mighty heroes hurled In the death-gap of nations, as a bulwark for the world. O Hungary ! gallant Hungary ! very glorious wert thou, That rose up with the beauty of the morning on thy brow. 2G2 MY LYRICAL LIFE. And Rome, — who, while her heroes bled, felt her % old breast heave higher, — How her eyes reddened with the flash of all their Roman fire ! Mothers of Children, who shall live the Gods of future story, Your blood shall blossom from the dust, and crown the world with glory. Ye'll tread them down yet, Curse and Crown ! uplift the trodden Slave, And Freedom shall be sovran in the courts of Fool and Knave. Wail for the hopes that have gone down ! the life so freely spilt ! Th' Eternal Murder still sits throned and crowned in damning guilt : Still in God's golden sun the Tyrant's bloody banners burn, The Priests, — Hell's midnight Thugs ! — to their soul-strangling work return ! See how the Oppressors of the Poor with serpents hunt their blood ; Hear, from the dark, the groan and curse go mad- dening up to God. They kill and trample us poor worms, till earth is dead men's dust ; Death's red tooth daily drains our hearts, but end, ay, end it must. The herald of deliverance leaps in the womb of Time j The Poor's grand army treads the Age's march with step sublime. THE EXILE. 263 Ours is the mighty future ! and -what marvel, brother men, Should the devoured of ages rise and turn devourers then 1 ! brothers of the horny hand see through your tears and smile, The World is rife with sound of fetters snapping 'neath the file ; I lay my hand on England's heart, and in each life-throb mark, The pealing thought of freedom ring its Tocsin in the dark. I see the Toiler hath become another Gospel's Preacher, And, as he wins a crust, stands proudly forth, the true world-teacher ; He still toils on, but, Tyrants, 'tis a mighty thing when Slaves, Who delve their lives into their work, know that they dig your graves ! Anarchs ! your doom comes swiftly ! brave and eager spirits climb, To ring Oppression's death-knell from the old watch-towers of time ; A spirit of resistless might is stirring at this hour, And thought is burning in men's eyes with more than speechful power. Old England cease the mummer's part ! wake, Starveling, Serf, and Slave ! Rouse in the majesty of wrong, as kindred of the brave ! 2G4 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Speak, and the world shall answer, with her voices myriad-fold, And men, like Gods, shall grapple with the giant- wrongs of old. Now, Mothers of the people, give your babes heroic milk ; Sires, soul your sons for daring deeds, no more soft thews of silk ; Great spirits of the mighty dead take shape, and walk our mind, Their glory smites our upward look, we seem no longer blind ; They tell us how they broke their bonds, and whisper, " So may ye : " One sharp, stern struggle, and the Slaves of cen- turies are free ! The people's heart, with pulse like cannon, panteth for the fray, And Brothers, dead or living, we'll be with you in that day. IT WILL END IN THE EIGHT. Never despair ! 0, my Comrades in sorrow ! I know that our mourning is ended not. Yet, Shall the vanquished to-day be the Victors to- morrow, Our Star shall shine on in the Tyrant's Sunset. Hold on ! though they spurn thee, for whom thou art living A life only cheered by the lamp of its love ; IT WILL END IN THE RIGHT. 265 Hold on ! Freedom's hope to the bounden ones giving: Green spots in the waste wait the worn spirit- dove. Hold on, — still hold on, — in the world's despite, Nurse the faith in thy heart, keep the lamp of . Truth bright, And, my life for thine ! it shall end in the Eight. What, though the Martyrs and Prophets have perished ! The Angel of Life rolls the stone from their graves : Immortal's the faith, and the freedom they cherished, Their lone Triumph-Cry stirs the spirits of slaves ! They are gone, — but a Glory is left in our life, Like the day-god's last kiss on the darkness of Even — Gone down on the desolate seas of their strife, To climb as star-beacons up Liberty's heaven. Hold on, — still hold on, — in the world's despite, Nurse the faith in thy heart, keep the lamp of Truth bright, And, my life for thine ! it shall end in the Eight. Think of the Wrongs that have ground us for ages, Think of the Wrongs we have still to endure ! Think of our blood, red on History's pages ; Then work, that our reck'ning be speedy and sure. Slaves cry to their Gods ! but be our God revealed In our lives, in our works, in our warfare for man ; 20 G MY LYRICAL LIFE. And bearing — or borne upon — Victory's shield, Let us fight battle-harnessed, and fall in the van. Hold on,— still hold on, — in the world's despite, Nurse the faith in thy heart, keep the lamp of Truth bright, And, my life for thine ! it shall end in the Right. THE KINGLIEST KINGS. Ho ! ye who in a noble work Win scorn, as flames di'aw air, And in the way where Lions lurk, God's image bravely bear ; Though trouble-tried and torture-torn, The kingliest Kings are crowned with thorn. Life's glory, like the bow in heaven, Still springeth from the cloud ; Soul ne'er out-soared the starry Seven, But Pain's fire-chariot rode : They've battled best who've boldliest borne ; The kiogliest Kings are crowned with thorn. The Martyr's fire-crown on the brow Doth into glory burn ; And tears that from Love's torn heart flow, To pearls of spirit turn. Our dearest hopes in pangs are born ; The kingliest Kings are crowned with thorn. HOPE ON, HOPE EVER. 2G7 As beauty in Death's cerement shrouds, And Stars bejewel Night, Bright thoughts are born in dim heart-clouds, And suffering worketh might. The mirkest hour is Mother o' Morn, The kingliest Kings are crowned with thorn. HOPE ON, HOPE EYER. Hope on, hope ever ! though To-day be dark, The sweet sunburst may smile on thee To- morrow : Though thou art lonely, there's an eye will mark Thy loneliness, and guerdon all thy sorrow ! Though thou must toil 'mong cold and sordid men, With none to echo back thy thought, or love thee, Cheer up, poor heart ! thou dost not beat in vain ; While God is over all, and heaven above thee, Hope on, hope ever. The iron may enter in and pierce the soul, But cannot kill the love within thee burning : The tears of misery, thy bitter dole, Can never quench thy true heart's eager yearning For better things : nor crush thy ardour's trust, That Error from the mind shall be uprooted, That Truth shall flower from all this tear-dewed dust, And Love be cherished where Hate Avas em- bruted ! Hope on, hope ever. 2G8 MY LYKICAL LIFE. I know 'tis hard to bear the sneer and taunt, — With the heart's honest pride at midnight wrestle ; To feel the killing canker-worm of Want, While rich rogues in their mocking luxury nestle ; For I have felt it. Yet from Earth's cold Real My soul looks out on coming things, and cheerful The warm Sunrise floods all the land Ideal, And still it whispers to the worn and tearful, Hope on, hope ever. Hope on, hope ever ! after darkest night Comes, full of loving life, the laughing Morning ; Hope on, hope ever ! Spring-tide, flushed with light, Aye crowns old Winter with her rich adorning. Hope on, hope ever ! yet the time shall come, When man to man shall be a friend and brother j And this old world shall be a happy home, And all Earth's family love one another ! Hope on, hope ever. THE THREE VOICES. A wailing Voice comes up a desolate road, Drearily, drearily, drearily ! Where mankind have trodden the By-way of blood, Wearily, wearily, wearily ! Like a sound from the Dead Sea all shrouded in glooms With breaking of hearts, fetters clanking, men groaning, THE THREE VOICES. 269 Or chorus of Ravens that croak among tombs, It comes with the mournfullest moaning : " Weep, wee]), weep! " Yoke-fellows, listen, Till tearful eyes glisten : Tis the Voice of the Past : the dark, grim-featured Past, All sad as the shriek of the midnight blast : Weep, weep, weep, Tears to wash out the terrible stain, Where Humanity rotted That lands might be fatted, Or life ran a deluge of hot, ruddy rain : Weep, weep, weep. Another Voice comes from the millions that bend, Tearfully, tearfully, tearfully ! From hearts which the scourges of Slavery rend, Fearfully, fearfully, fearfully ! From many a worn, noble spirit that breaks, In the world's solemn shadows adown in Life's valleys, From Mine, Forge, and Loom, Mount and Valley it wakes, On the soul wherein Liberty rallies : " Work, work, work ! " Yoke-fellows, listen : Till earnest eyes glisten : 'Tis the Voice of the Present. It bids us, my Brothers, Be Freemen : and then for the freedom of others Work, work, work ! For the Many, a holocaust long to the Few : 270 MY LYRICAL LIFE. work while ye may ! work while 'tis day ! And cling to each other, united and true : Work, work, work. There cometh another Voice sweetest of all, Cheerily, cheerily, cheerily ! And my heart leapeth up at its clarion-call, Merrily, merrily, merrily ! It comes like the touch of the Spring-tide, un- warping The frost of oppression that bound us : It comes like a choir of Celestials, harping Their gladsomest music around us : " Hope, hope, hope I " Yoke-fellows, listen, Till gleeful eyes glisten : The Voice of the Future, the sweetest of all, Makes the heart leap to its clarion-call. Hope, hope, hope ! Be of good cheer and step forth in the van, For Serfdom hath passed, And Labour at last Shall enter the Brotherhood common to Man : Hope, hope, hope ! ONWARD AND SUNWARD. " Tell one the song of the beautiful Stars, As grandly they glide on their blue way above us, Looking, despite of our sjnrit's sin-scars, Doum on us here as if yearning to love us 1 " god's world is worthy of better men. 271 This is the song in their work-worship sung, All through the world- jewelled universe rung : " Onward for ever, for evermore onward" And ever they open their loving eyes Sunward. " Onward" shouts Earth, with her myriad voices Of music, aye answering the song of the Seven, As like a winged child of God's love she rejoices, Swinging her Censer of glory in heaven. And lo, it is writ by the finger of God, In sunbeams and flowers on the smiling green sod : " Onward for ever, for evermore onward," And ever she turneth all trustfully Sunward. The mightiest souls of all time hover o'er us, Who laboured like Gods among men, and have gone With great bursts of sun on the dark way before us : They're with us, still with us, our battle fight on, Looking down victor-browed, from the glory- crowned hill, They beckon and beacon us on, onward still : And the true heart's aspirings are onward, still onward ; It turns to the Future, as earth turneth Sunward. GOD'S WORLD IS WORTHY OF BETTER MEN. Behold ! an idle tale they tell, But who shall blame their telling it ? The rogues have got their cant to sell, The world pays well for selling it ! l72 my lyrical life. They say our earth's a desert drear, — Still plagued with Egypt's blindness] That we were sent to Miller here, — And by a God of kindness I That since the world hath gone astray It must he so for ever, And we should stand still, and obey Its Desolators. Never ! We'll labour for the bettor time, With all our might of Press and Pen ; Believe me, 'tis a truth sublime. God's world is worthy of better men. 'Twas meant to be, since it began, A world <>f love and gladnes Its beauty may be marred by man With all his crime and madne- Yet 'tis a fair world still. Love brings A sunshine for the dreary; With all our strife, sweet Rest hath wings To fold about the weary. The Sun in glory, like a God, To-day in heaven is shining ; The flowers on the jewelled sod Love-messages are twining, As radiant of immortal youth And beauty, as of old ; ah ! then Believe me 'tis eternal truth, God's world is worthy of better men THIS WORLD IS FULL OF BEAUTY. 273 ! they are bold, knaves over-bold, Who say we are doomed to anguish : That men in God's own image souled, Like hell-bound slaves must languish. Probe Nature's heart to its red core, There's more of good than evil ; And man, down-trampled man, is more Of Angel than of Devil. Prepare to die ? Prepare to live ! "We know not what is living : And let us for the world's good give, As God is ever giving. Give Action, Thought, Love, Wealth, and Time ; Work hand and brain, wield Press and Pen : Believe me, 'tis a truth sublime, God's world is worthy of better men. THIS WORLD IS PULL OF BEAUTY. There lives a Voice within me, a guest-angel of my heart, And its bird-like warbles win me, till the tears a-tremble start ; Up evermore it springeth, like some magic melody, And evermore it singeth this sweet song of songs to me — " This ivorld is full of beauty, as other worlds above, And, if we did our duty, it might be as full of love." 2 X 274 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Morn's budding, bright, melodious hour conies sweetly as of yore ; Night's starry tendernesses dower with glory ever- more : But there be million hearts accursed, where no glad sunbursts shine, And there be million souls athirst for Life's immortal wine. This world is full of beauty, as other worlds above ; And, if we did our duty, it might be as full of love. If faith, and hope, and kindness passed, as coin, 'twixt heart and heart, Up through the eye's tear-blindness, how the sudden soul should start ! The dreary, dim, and desolate, would wear a sunny bloom, And Love should spring from buried Hate, like flowers from Winter's tomb. This world is full of beauty, as other worlds above ; And, if we did our duty, it might be as full of love. Were truth our uttered language, Spirits might talk with men, And God-illumined earth should see the Golden Age again ; The burthened heart should soar in mirth like Morn's young prophet-lark, And Misery's last tear wept on earth quench Hell's last cunning spark ! THIS WORLD IS FULL OF BEAUTY. 275 This world is full of beauty, as other worlds above ; And, if we did our duty, it might be as full of love. We hear the cry for bread with plenty smiling all around ; Hill and valley in their bounty blush for Man with fruitage crowned. What a merry world it might be, opulent for all, and aye, With its lands that ask for labour, and its wealth that wastes away ! This world is full of beauty, as other worlds above ; And, if we did our duty, it might be as full of love. The leaf-tongues of the forest, and the flower-lips of the sod — The happy Birds that hymn their raptures in the ear of God — The summer wind that bringeth music over land and sea, Have each a voice that singeth this sweet son^ of songs to me — " This world is full of beauty, as other worlds above ; And, if we did our duty, it might be as fidl of love." T 2 276 MY LYRICAL LIFE. THERE'S NO DEARTH OF KINDNESS. There's no dearth of kindness In this world of ours ; Only in our blindness We gather thorns for flowers ! Outwardly we are spurning — Trampling one another ! "While we are inly yearning At the name of " Brother ! " There's no dearth of kindness Or love among mankind, But in darkling loneness Hooded hearts grow blind ! Eull of kindness tingling, Soul is shut from soul, When they might be mingling In one kindred whole. There's no dearth of kindness, Though it be unspoken ; From the heart it sendeth Smiles of heaven in token That there be none so lowly, But have some angel-touch : Yet, nursing loves unholy, We live for self too much ! As the wild-rose bloweth, As runs the happy river, Kindness freely floweth In the heart for ever. THE KNIGHTS OF LABOUR. 277 But if men will hanker Ever for golden dust, Best of hearts will canker, Brightest spirits rust. There's no dearth of kindness In this world of ours ; Only in our blindness We gather thorns for flowers ! cherish God's best giving, Falling from above, — Life were not worth living, Were it not for Love. THE KNIGHTS OF LABOUR. Unite ye now, a Brother-band, With dauntless will, and stalwart hand : We are but few, toil-tried, and true, Yet hearts beat high to dare and do : And who would not a Champion be In Labour's Knightlier Chivalry ? We fight ! but bear no bloody brand, We fight to free our Fatherland : We fight that smiles of love may glow On lips where curses quiver now ! Hurrah ! Hurrah ! true Warriors we, In Labour's Knightlier Chivalry ! Ah ! there be eyes that ache to see The day-dawn of our victory : 27S MY LYRICAL LIFE. Lives full of heart-break with us plead, And Watchers weep, and Martyrs bleed : ! who would not a Champion be In Labour's Knightlier Chivalry ] "Work, Brothers mine ; work, brain and hand : To free our labour and our land ; That Love's Millennial morn may rise On happy hearts and blessed eyes. Hurrah ! Hurrah ! true Workers be In Labour's Knightlier Chivalry. THE CHIVALRY OF LABOUR Our world oft turns in gloom, and Life hath many a perilous way, Yet there's no path so desolate and thorny, cold and gray, But Beauty like a Beacon burns above the dark of strife, And as an Alchemist she turns all things to golden life. On human hearts her presence droppeth precious manna down ; On human brows her glory gathers like a coming crown : Her smile lights up Life's troubled stream, and Love, the swimmer ! lives ; And 0, 'tis good to battle for the guerdon that she gives ! TIIE CHIVALRY OF LABOUR. 279 Come let us worship Beauty with the Knightly faith of old, Chivnlry of Labour toiling for the Age of Gold ! The first-fruits of the Past at Beauty's shrine are offered up, From which a vintage meet for Gods she crusheth in her cup : And from the living Present doth she press the rare new wine, To glad the hearts of all her Lovers with a draught divine. Earth's crowning miracle ! she comes ! with bless- ing lips, that part Like mid-May's rose flushed open with the fra- grance of her heart : And life turns to her colour — kindles with her light — like flowers That garner up the golden fire, and suck the mellow showers. Come let us worship Beauty with the Knightly faith of old, Chivalry of Labour toiling for the Age of Gold ! Come let us worship Beauty where the budding Spring doth flower, And lush green leaves and grasses breathe out ! sweeter hour by hour ; Or Summer's tide of splendour floods the lap o' the World once more, With riches like a sea that surges jewels on its shore. 280 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Come feel her ripening influence when Morning feasts our eyes — Through open gates of glory — with a glimpse of Paradise : Or queenly Night sits crowned, smiling down the purple gloom, And Stars, like Heaven's fruitage, melt i' the glory of their bloom. Come let us worship Beauty with the Knightly faith of old, O Chivalry of Labour toiling for the Age of Gold! Come from the den of darkness and the City's soil of sin, Put on your radiant Manhood, and the Angel's blessing win ! "Where wealthier sunlight's shed from Heaven, like welcome-smiles of God, » And Earth's blind yearnings leap to life in flowers from out the sod : Come worship Beauty in the forest-temple, dim and hush, "Where stands Magnificence dreaming ! and God burneth in the bush : Or where the old hills worship with their silence for a psalm, Or Ocean's weary heart doth keep the sabbath of its calm. Come let us worship Beauty with the Knightly faith of old, Chivalry of Labour toiling for the Age of Gold! TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW. 281 Come let us worship Beauty : she hath subtle power to start Heroic word and deed out-flashing from the hum- blest heart ! Great feelings will gush unawares, and freshly as the first Rich Eainbow that up startled Heaven in tearful splendour burst. O blessed are her lineaments, and wondrous are her ways To picture God's dim likeness in the faded human face ! Our bliss shall richly overbrim like sunset in the west, And we shall dream immortal dreams, and banquet with the Blest : Come let us worship Beauty with the Knightly faith of old, Chivalry of Labour toiling for the Age of Gold ! 1849.* TO-DAY AND TOMORROW. High hopes that burned like Stars sublime Go down i' the Heaven of Freedom, And true hearts perish in the time We bitterliest need 'em ; But never sit we down and say There's nothing left but sorrow ; We walk the Wilderness To-day, The Promised Land To-morrow. * " The argument from beauty is monstrous to Demo- crats. "—Spectator, April 27, 1889. 282 MY LYRICAL LIFE. Our Birds of song are silent now ; Few are the flowers blooming ; Yet life is in the frozen bough, And Freedom's Spring is coming ; And Freedom's tide creeps up alway, Though we may strand in sorrow ; And our good Bark, a-ground To-day, Shall float again To-morrow ! 'Tis weary watching wave by wave, And yet the Tide heaves onward ; We climb, like Corals, grave by grave, That pave a pathway sunward ; We are driven back, for our next fray A newer strength to borrow, And where the Vanguard camps To-day The Eear shall rest To-morrow ! Through all the long, dark night of years The People's cry ascendeth, And Earth is wet with blood and tears, But our meek sufferance endeth. The Few shall not for ever sway, The Many moil in sorrow ; The Powers of Hell are strong To-day, The Christ shall rise To-morrow ! Though hearts brood o'er the Past, our eyes With smiling Futures glisten ; For, lo ! Our day bursts up the skies ! Lean out your souls and listen ! The world is rolling Freedom's way, And ripening with her sorrow : Take heart ! who bear the Cross To-day Shall wear the Crown To-morrow. TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW. 283 Youth ! flame-earnest, still aspire. With energies immortal ! To many a heaven of Desire Our yearning opes a portal. And though Age wearies by the way, And hearts break in the furrow, Youth sows the golden grain To-day, — The Harvest comes To-morrow. Build up heroic lives, and all Be like a sheathen sabre, Ready to flash out at God's call, O Chivalry of Labour ! Triumph and Toil are twins, though they Be singly born in Sorrow ; And 'tis the Martyrdom To-day Brings victory To-morrow. LADY LAUKA. 285 Braveheart, the ardent Socialist, Fierce hater of all Wrong, Told us how Low and Lofty kissed, And sang their Wedding-Song. ** The Problem's solved," laughed Pessimist ; Now comes the Golden Year ; " When Peeress is by Peasant kissed, And Peasantess by Peer I" 286 LADY LAURA. Behold the Rainbow ! how its Arch Of glory spans a world of green ! Like Bridge of Triumph, all unseen, We passed through on the Midnight march ! Midsummer Morn her silvery gray Bain-veil up-lifteth fold on fold ; And purple-tinged and topped with gold The clouds grow fleecy and float away High o'er the Violet-shadowed Hills That take from them their soft attire : With fragrance and with sheeny fire All the blue round of ^Ether fills : The air is like Heaven rippling down : The sweet South winds waft open wide The gates of Glory for the tide Of Summer : Lo ! the flowers strewn In spray of white an