THE LIBRARY 
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 P A P HUS 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
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 P AP H U S 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 T5Y 
 
 ELLA SHARPE YOUNGS 
 
 LONDON 
 
 KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH & CO.. i, PATERNOSTER SQUARE 
 
 1882
 
 {The rights of traitslafioi: nud of reproclnction arc reserved J)
 
 PR 
 
 r 
 
 TO VAUGHAN. 
 
 I HAVE no costly spikenard of sweet song 
 
 In which to embahn thy name, my well-beloved ! 
 
 That the rich perfume bearing it along, 
 
 Through the drear paths of Life, might there have proved 
 
 How dear thou wert ; but just a simple note. 
 
 For thine own unexacting spirit-ear, 
 
 Which Love, sweet Sister, on its wings would bear 
 
 Unto thee — if so be that Spirits hear — 
 
 If so be that from realms, where music bars 
 
 The limits, and beats golden time to stars, 
 
 A fragment of Earth's song to thee may float, 
 
 And thou, pausing, in regions far remote, 
 
 Shouldst still thy harp, to catch the faltering rhyme, 
 
 Which used to please thee when thou wert of Time. 
 
 861780
 
 vi DEDICA TIOY. 
 
 I would have kept this garden of my Song 
 With thy dear name o'erflowering it, that there 
 That Hly blooming fragrant, pure and fair. 
 Might have made all the breezes so ; but strong 
 Winds of tempestous Thought, and thundrous shower 
 Born of Imagination's lurid cloud, 
 Have swept athwart with murmurs swift, and loud, 
 And rained their shadows round the cherished flower 
 And weed-wise grown about it, — not for long. 
 For should this garden stand awhile, thou knowest 
 That all who love thee will uproot those weeds, 
 Dissevering them from thy dear name and deeds ; 
 And, flinging them aside, will gently throng 
 About thee, lily, wheresoe'er thou growest. 
 
 And when the garden is deserted, those 
 
 Will risk the o'erhanging brambles, and will climb, 
 
 Across the thorns of many a 'Avildering rhyme. 
 
 To reach thee where thou shinest in repose. 
 
 To drink the beauty froni that name of thine, 
 
 To feel the influence of thy calm fair light, 
 
 (As one stoops through the darkness of the night 
 
 For the dim fragrance of the eglantine), 
 
 Fv'n though the weeds trail closely o'er their feet, 
 
 Ev'n though the thorns run sharp beneath their hand ; 
 
 For they perchance Avill feel and understand 
 
 How those intruders sprung around thee, sweet ! 
 
 P'rom out the erratic soil which was to be 
 
 Free from all growth, sa^e only thine, and ihee.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Paphus ... ... ... ... ... ... I 
 
 Sunbeams, Moonbeams, The Hours, Eternity ... 17 
 
 Serenata ... ... ... ... ... ■•• 26 
 
 To ... ... ... ... ... 29 
 
 Rainbow Song ... ... ... ... ... 33 
 
 Mind-Vespers ... ... ... ... ... 36 
 
 /In Memoriam ... ... ... ... ... 37 
 
 J* To Vaughan ... ... ... ... ... 40 
 
 "For so He giveth His BELOvto Sleep" ... ... 42 
 
 To the Spirit of Music ... ... ... 44 
 
 ^ Requiem ... ... ... ... ... ... 46 
 
 Elmaza ... ... ... ... ... ... 48 
 
 To Shelley ... ... ... ... ... 54 
 
 Caique Song ... ... ... ... ... 56 
 
 To Melancholy ... ... ... ... ... 58 
 
 The Haunted Studio ... ... ... ... 59 
 
 Sun and Sea Voices ... ... ... ... 65 
 
 Pan ... ... ... ... ... ... 71
 
 viii CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 In the GLOAMING' ... ... ... ... ... 75 
 
 GlOTTINO ... ... ... ... ... 78 
 
 Hours ... ... ... ... .. ... 92 
 
 The Spirit of Nighi ... ... ... ... 93 
 
 Ariel ... ... ... ... ... ... 96 
 
 Last Words ... ... ... ... ... 99 
 
 Alpheus to Arethusa ... ... ... ... 102 
 
 Indian Lullaby ... ... ... ... 106 
 
 Shadows and Light in the Ufkizi ... ... ... 108 
 
 Witch Song ... ... ... ... ... 113 
 
 'A(ppoSiTr] ''Apei ... ... ... ... ... 12I 
 
 Air Song ... ... ... ... ... 123 
 
 Thoughts ... ... ... ... ... ... 12b 
 
 Arab Love Song ... ... ... ... 127 
 
 To ... ... ... ... ... ... 130 
 
 Marguerite (in the Prison) ... ... ... 134 
 
 Selections from an Unpublished Indian Poem ... 138 
 
 Indian Serenata ... ... ... ... 154
 
 PAPHUS. 
 
 From Tempe's vale arose the mournful sighing 
 Of Paphus, for a dryad nymph who grew 
 Faint in the shelter of her guardian oak, 
 Whose roots beneath his curse were blasted dying, 
 Who garlanded by olive-wreaths and dew, 
 Smiled on Olympus, and his earlier haunts forsook. 
 
 In vain the many vessels wrought, and brazen, 
 Hung in the branches of the wavering trees ; 
 No more the oracles of Zeus were bruited 
 There as of yore, though priests stood by to blazon 
 His god-like will — no fiats on the breeze. 
 Shook through the sacred oaks, to speeches faint and 
 fluted. 
 
 Then weary of their futile task, and well-nigh 
 Despairing, to Zeus' altar hied the crowd, 
 With heifers, goats, and acorns interceding, 
 
 B
 
 2 PAPHUS. 
 
 And, hanging on the speeches of the Helli, 
 They sought an answer, — then, from out his cloud 
 Spake Zeus (or thundered), to his people meekly pleading : 
 
 " One of the sacred oaks has whispered speeches 
 My mighty lips had never breathed to it, 
 And it must die ! " Then wept the multitude. 
 The consecrated boughs of oaks and beeches 
 Waved in a tumult, ere they joined and knit 
 Their prayer aright — "-^ Which tree in all the circling 
 wood ? " 
 
 "The third that stands beside the swift Peneus," 
 Came the reply. Forthwith the people thronged, 
 Armed with all implements and weapons rural, 
 To work the sentence of offended Zeus 
 Upon it ; much they toiled and delved and pronged, 
 As though the structure were hand-fashioned or mural. 
 
 Full many days they took to cleave the soil. 
 Ere the firm roots could be disclosed or bared, 
 Like Titan nerves, threading the earthy flesh. 
 The labour much their strength did waste and spoil ; 
 Yet was this neither basely grudged nor spared. 
 And the fourth week still found them labouring afresh,-
 
 PAPHUS. 
 
 When Zeus, from out the skies, who had beheld 
 Their travail in his cause, did pity them, 
 And cried, " My curse alight upon the roots ! " 
 Then, from the lowest soil the life upwelled 
 Unaided, and did wither with the stem. 
 Leaves, trunk, and bark and all, with their unfolding fruits. 
 
 But so it chanced, that long ere Zeus had curst 
 The tree, young Paphus, wand'ring by, had caught 
 Sight of the nymph who dwelt within it safe. 
 And whose bright beauty from its life was nurst ; 
 (As spirit might find dwelling in a thought), 
 And much his flexile heart did ponder this and chafe. 
 
 'Twas when the nymph had in the dawning slipt 
 From her dim covert, to the neighb'ring wave, 
 To newly dew each fine and curved limb ; 
 Ere she had yet unloosed her zone and dipt : 
 Paphus came floating down the tide, and gave 
 Her love-born looks which she, blushing, returned to him. 
 
 He was a Phrygian prince, and much had seen, 
 In his far court, of beauty ; but hers was 
 A gem new shining up from mines undreamt. 
 And very fair she must have seemed I ween. 
 Unconscious of life's ways and frigid laws. 
 With deep dark eyes like Night's, and golden hair 
 unkempt,
 
 PAPHUS. 
 
 And rosy lights along her limbs which grew 
 Like moonshine in the waters ; for the fresh 
 And winding waves soon claspt her, and did throw 
 Their pure green shadows o'er her like a dew, 
 Circling in mirroring eddies round her flesh, 
 Which soon one tender grey and hyaline did grow. 
 
 She struck white arms athwart the pressing foam, 
 She laught with Fancy's glee, and did pursue 
 Flowers and winging fish down the free tide : 
 Then turned anew to Paphus, who did home 
 His eyes within her form, and who did sue, 
 At her most innocent mouth, boons that were undenied. 
 
 They laught and kist through dawning, till a beam 
 Shot gold and green upon them from the boughs : 
 When suddenly the dryad blushed and cried, 
 " The Sun ! the Sun ! " and bounding from the stream. 
 Pursued by Paphus and his fiery vows. 
 Within that guardian oak her trembling limbs did hide. 
 
 And there, grief-tortured, did the Phrygian prince 
 Thro' day and night (until the rapturous dawn 
 Gave back his nymph unto him) his love-song 
 Outpour unceasingly ; and ever since 
 His steps had wandered restless and forlorn 
 Beside that oak, which held his love in sheath so strong.
 
 PAPHUS. 
 
 The Helli, seeing him by night and day 
 Clasp the old tree and murmur mystic prayers, 
 Spake, " Lo ! he questioneth the oracle ! 
 Let him alone — the good alone can pray; 
 Let him alone — he may be, unawares, 
 Some offspring of the gods." Thus Paphus fared well. 
 
 They brought him fruits and flowers, offerings, 
 Incense, and oak-wreaths ; and his solitude 
 Was otherwise as deep as Grief can love. 
 Shaken alone by Love's melodious wings. 
 And the maid's voice, who in the tree did brood 
 On all he spoke in sighs — and much he sighed not of. 
 
 For siie was nurst on winds and waters ; gleams 
 Of sunshine, and most mystic moonlight fare ; 
 These were her loved and earliest ministers. 
 But as some radiant world bursts on our dreams, 
 So Paphus came to hers, and taught her there 
 Were other worlds and loves, more beautiful than hers. 
 
 Perchance it was Love's poison in the oak 
 Which made it whisper false when Zeus declared 
 His oracles — we know that Love is death. 
 And now the launched arrow flew, and broke 
 Its venom in the bosoms that were bared 
 Unto it, and that held no antidote beneath.
 
 PAPHUS. 
 
 When Paphus learnt the doom that must befall 
 The guardian of a hundred years, and her 
 For whom his life was wasting, in affright 
 He summoned from his realm his courtiers all, 
 And warriors with all trusty arms that were 
 Vowed his, if haply they might shield it with their might. 
 
 But all their strength united, and their arms 
 Can not avail against the people's rage. 
 "What, Zeus offended? he might strike with plague, 
 Or drought, or famine ! " Thus their strange alarms 
 They vent in strokes redoubled, to assuage 
 The ire they dread, which still unthreat'ning is, and 
 vague. 
 
 Round Paphus stand his followers with faces 
 Rueful, to view the fearful work advance, 
 Strengthless the Grecian numbers to resist. 
 Axes, and hammers, halberds, blades and maces 
 Royal and rural weapons, strike and glance. 
 In the south hours, and strive the oak's firm limbs to 
 twist. 
 
 Which groan, and crack, as though each stroke dis- 
 severed 
 A life, and much does Paphus hope and fear 
 For her who lies i' the heart, foredoomed and weeping,
 
 PAPHUS. 7 
 
 The dryad of the tree ; he has endeavoured 
 To save the life which is so doubly dear 
 Urito him, now that its young pulse with fear is leaping. 
 
 It was a moonlight evening when they smote 
 Their latest blow, and left the spot till dawn, 
 Rejoicing that the tree should with it die. 
 Each moonbeam floated, an ethereal boat 
 With sails dream-filled, and gentle motion born 
 Of Night and Love, which winged it through the tideless 
 sky. 
 
 They left ; but Paphus knelt against the trunk, 
 Doomed to its death with morning's earliest ray, 
 And prayed his love to save their life in flight, 
 And with his tears the soft night winds were drunk. 
 His prayer resisted Dione alway : 
 " Leave me to death," she cried ; " Love has no saving 
 might ! 
 
 Love has no might to save, ev'n could I bend 
 This bark at midnight and come forth to thee : 
 If we could reach earth's limits, I must die — 
 Must die beloved. My fate doth ever blend 
 With this my faithful shelterer's : we shall be 
 One in our deaths, and ne'er apart dissevered lie.
 
 PAPHUS. 
 
 Thou art but mortal — I immortal am 
 In spirit, and this shrine immortal is ; 
 Our forms may strew the earth, but still we live 
 Elsewhere for ever." Thus her accents swam 
 Out on the moonbeams to him ; but a bliss 
 Crept through his frame, which taught he still must weep 
 and strive. 
 
 He wept aloud. Within the bark there grew 
 Silence a space. Beside him a soft foot 
 Winged on the white airs. Gazing, he descried 
 Zeus' foam-born offspring, like a midnight dew, 
 Pallid and swift, who, pausing at the root. 
 Heard all his grief, then moved to tender pity, cried — 
 
 " Dione, thee I loose ! The Soul of Love 
 Bids thee reply to Love's most amorous breath." 
 The rugged stem oped up and let her through, 
 And Paphus with new bliss he dreamt not of, 
 Along Peneus to elude stern Death, 
 Through the long night and chill with his fair dryad 
 flew. 
 
 They tarried not for rocks, all chasms stemmed, 
 And, gliding down the liquid channels went ; 
 Leaping with aerial steps o'er the deep rifts,
 
 PAPHUS. 
 
 And, leaving then the tide all foam-begemmed, 
 Up Ossa's thyme-dressed sides their footsteps bent, 
 And reached a sheltered cave within the mountain clefts, 
 
 Where Paphus laid his forest-maid asleep. 
 
 While he watched for that dawn, which should have 
 
 been 
 Her death-hour ; in the triumph of his love. 
 He fanned with tender gaze her slumbers deep, 
 And stood 'twixt her and Fate — a mortal screen — 
 And thought her safe from harm : and safe she was 
 
 enough 
 
 From mortal ills; but when in Tempe's plain 
 
 The tree fell, shivered by the Helli's hate, 
 
 And Silence drew her breath above the stroke. 
 
 They watched some sign from Zeus, and watched in 
 
 vain. 
 " Had they not striven his sacred wrath to sate ; 
 Was he still pitiless?" 'Twas thus their wailings broke. 
 
 But Zeus Avas unpropitiated ; he 
 Knew that the soul was fled from out that stem 
 Ere it was yielded : so his anger grew, 
 And storms he meted out imperiously 
 Unto the people of that vale ; to them 
 ^Moreover he did speak, in thunderings anew.
 
 lo PAPHUS. 
 
 He told them where the Spirit of that tree 
 Was wand'ring unpursued, and bade them follow, 
 Armed with his mandate for its hasty death. 
 Ere Tempe's vale had echoed the decree, 
 The people started, headed by Apollo, 
 Their god's sweet son, who cleared their pathway by his 
 breath. 
 
 And Ossa's wooded heights, and ere long Pelion's 
 Were echoes to their murderous feet, and soon 
 They gained the cavern where Dione slept. 
 Guarded by Somnus and his mystic sons. 
 Dreams, soft as Love's own glance beneath a moon 
 Which with her lover o'er the nymph its vigil kept. 
 
 The night was calm as a Sleep-shrouded sea 
 Whose waves float Light upon a boundless shore. 
 And the still Hours reclined, like sleeping sprites, 
 On cradling breezes, which crept dreamily 
 Over the mountains. Life seemed ebbed and o'er, 
 And nought was wakeful there, save Love's deep eye, and 
 Night's. 
 
 More fairylike the dryad seemed in sleep. 
 Than waking ever saw her. Her smooth limbs 
 Were folded flower-wise, and closed her palms
 
 PAPHUS. n 
 
 Like petals fallen when the day was deep 
 In drowsiness. We know how moonlight dims 
 In its ethereal veil, and beautifies such charms. 
 
 She slumbered on, her waxen lids close-prest, 
 With kissing lashes on her cheeks' round bloom, 
 And lips apart, while tender sighs burst through 
 As fragrance from a flower, and each breast 
 Seem'd a curved mirror, flashing through the gloom, 
 The moon's white radiance back, beneath the mid- 
 night dew. 
 
 Even Apollo paused beside the oak 
 That shaded o'er the cavern's portal, while 
 His godlike features glanced to gentleness 
 A moment ere upon such dreams he broke. 
 He paused, and pitifully 'gan to smile 
 As he stepped forth to lead his followers to success. 
 
 Then on the cavern's silence burst the Helli 
 With fiery wrath, and the pursuing crowd ; 
 Demanding Paphus' life, and the pale dryad's, 
 Who, leaping from her slumbers, eyed the Selli 
 With looks that wept for clemency aloud. 
 And prayers that seemed the speech of waterfalls, or 
 naiads'.
 
 12 PAPHUS. 
 
 In vain — they thronged around the trembling pair 
 With weapons Hfted, and triumphant cry, 
 Then flew Dione to the sheltering tree 
 Beside the cave, and, kneeling there in prayer, 
 She clasped smooth arms, wrought pale with agony, 
 Around it. " Thou who oft before hast sheltered me. 
 
 Take to thy core two lovers. Keep us fast 
 As thy most sacred bark can hold," she cried. 
 " Oh ! fail me not in this most deadly hour ! 
 And, as thou would'st each storm and scathe outlast 
 Wherefrom thy kith and kin may die, have died, 
 Stretch o'er this youth I love thy supernatural power." 
 
 'Tis said the Oak was moved, and acorns fell 
 Like tears from its strange rustling, while the bark 
 Worked slowly, but most steadily apart. 
 " Lo ! " cried the people, " she hath wrought a spell ! " 
 " Hush ! " cried the Helli, " Zeus is speaking, hark ! 
 His mighty voice comes down straight through this oaken 
 heart." 
 
 They paused a moment to foresee the end 
 Of this strange miracle : Dione clung 
 To the grey trunk with one arm, while the other 
 Grew circlingly around her Phrygian friend, 
 Whose love about her like an armour hung, 
 Though each was a defence, defenceless to the other.
 
 PATH us. 13 
 
 The hoary stem went slowly opening, and 
 The dryad peeped with shadow-laden eyes, 
 Into the hollow bark, which like a womb 
 Parted to take her in : she thrust a hand 
 Into the cleft, and soon with glad surprise 
 They saw her pierce entire through the unwonted tomb. 
 
 But when her Paphus she essayed to draw 
 Into the fissure after her sweet self, 
 The wound began to close tuniultuously. 
 Then, when her lover's perilous fate she saw, 
 Left to the murderous throng, the dryad-elf 
 Strove much to join him, but around her grew the tree. 
 
 Slowly one rugged hollow, moss-grown layer 
 Grew on another. The white nymph within 
 Prayed for escape or to rejoin her lover 
 In vain : the oak was dumb and weak the prayer. 
 In vain did Paphus rend and bruise his skin 
 To keep the cleft apart; it closed the dryad over. 
 
 Whose pallid face was as a sinking star. 
 While with her terror-stricken eyes she kist, 
 Her love, in ling'ring farewell glances cast 
 About him. Oh ! those eyes' hot kisses are, 
 What least a lover's spirit may resist ! 
 And his was waxing faint within him, dim and fast
 
 14 PAPmiS. 
 
 Yet woman-wise her eyes she would not veil 
 With lids closed o'er their pain, nor even dim 
 With tears, so long as she could see her love. 
 The closer grew the bark, deeper the wail 
 That mutely rent her gaze for love of him. 
 Such grief might well appease the Fate it strove to move. 
 
 The HelU seeing how the oak had bared 
 Its bosom to the Spirit of the oak, 
 And left lorn Paphus to his fate and woes, 
 Cried, " Ho, the culprit, slay him ! AVe have spared 
 His life too long ! " Then full their fury broke 
 Upon him, and he fell, pierced through by shafted throes. 
 
 They left him there, and turned them to the vale 
 Whence their young god-like leader did uproot 
 His laurel, for the Pythian shrines preferred. 
 And the still air bore on its balmy gale 
 The death-plaint of their victim, that sole fruit 
 Oi his most fatal love : and Evening came and heard. 
 
 And woe ! his oak-interred Dione held 
 Her fluttering heart to catch his latest breath, 
 As it came floating through the healed bark 
 In evening's silent hours : and when there swelled 
 The sea of clouds like billows from beneath 
 To ebb in the sky's ocean, and when through the dark
 
 PAPHUS. 15 
 
 Heav'n should have glowed with Light-sparks which 
 
 the breath 
 Of Nyx sends floating in those myriad stars 
 That quiver at each inhalation drawn, 
 Lo ! a stern tempest rioting like death, 
 And dealing to the mountains fearful scars, 
 Scathing their oaken sons, and killing life till dawn. 
 
 It was th' avenging rage of Zeus, for he 
 Launched in the lightning's swift and sweeping hand 
 The bolt which slew the oak that sheltered her 
 Whom he pursued — Dione helplessly 
 Fell as a night-swept leaf upon the land 
 In that stupendous storm which Ossa's roots did stir. 
 
 She fell on Paphus' scarcely chilled corpse. 
 And they lay in a tender heap, for Day 
 To gaze on with its unrelenting eye. 
 Death spared her loveliness, who soils and warps 
 The beauty he has snatched from Life away, 
 To feed his evil glance to dread satiety. 
 
 But it is spoken in pale whispers round, 
 That a twin Spirit-light, betwixt the hours 
 Of darkness flits and prays about the spot ; 
 And clenches in dumb agony the ground, 
 And wrestles fearfully, with voiceless powers 
 Of 111 — and thus are shunned the blasted oak and grot.
 
 i6 PAPHUS. 
 
 And that all night pale arms and blood-stained breast 
 (Wherein a gory fount seems never dry) 
 Shine like sad meteors all the darkness in. 
 Which ev'ry passing eye has since confest, 
 And if one yearn the sight, one must draw nigh 
 At evening and nightfall, to Pelion's sacred twin. 
 
 And there outwatch the light, when, with a groan 
 A phantom oak breaks haplessly in twain, 
 Wherefrom a star-white dryad leaps to death. 
 But if one be to lore and legend prone, 
 'Twere best to leave the husk around the grain, 
 Nor sift it into Truth, lest sooth there lie beneath. 
 
 Florence, November, 1881.
 
 C 17 ) 
 
 SUNBEAMS. 
 
 We float in the van 
 Of the Titan-born, 
 When his fiery span 
 Divides the dawn, 
 And the young clouds blush 
 At his chariot's touch, 
 And the pulsing air 
 Scatters its dew on the breast of Morn 
 Everywhere ! 
 Since his sire's birth 
 From the womb of Earth, 
 No god has laughed 
 In the face of Time, 
 No mortal quaffed 
 From the spheres sublime 
 More merrily than he ! 
 Hark ! to the crash 
 Of his chariot wheels, 
 As they hotly dash 
 On the leaden heels 
 Of Night, which wearily,
 
 i8 SUNBEAMS. 
 
 Lags on the mountain crests and clouds, 
 Weighs on the ocean's ashy shrouds, 
 
 As a mist below which we, 
 Pierce into spokes of golden light 
 Chase to the confines of daylight, 
 Speedily ! . 
 
 We weave the robe 
 
 Which the Hours wear, 
 
 When they float the globe, 
 
 When they cleave the air. 
 On wings with our radiance freighted. 
 
 And Eos ties, 
 
 O'er her blinded eyes, 
 (Blind with her brother's splendour 
 And the blaze of his chariot weighted) 
 
 The buds which we 
 
 Ope fragrantly 
 With our viewless hands and tender. 
 
 While Hyperion sits 
 
 Where her white train flits, 
 From the marge of Oceanus' water. 
 
 And smiles to think 
 
 How its girding brink 
 Fades from his cloud-cleaving daughter. 
 
 When the day grows hot. 
 And the young god's wheel
 
 SUNBEAMS. 19 
 
 Revolveth not, 
 
 We swiftly steal 
 
 To the shadowy green 
 
 Of some ocean nest, 
 
 And glide unseen 
 
 To the wave-washed breast, 
 Of the floating Oceanides. 
 
 How the water cleaves, 
 
 Like wind-blown leaves, 
 
 When each snowy limb 
 
 Grows pale and dim 
 'Neath the billows that divide us ! 
 
 For with virgin arms 
 
 They fly our charms, 
 And the weltering waves deride us : 
 
 But we pursue 
 
 Through the woof of blue, 
 Till the shades of the sea-depths hide us ; 
 
 Then we tremble back 
 
 On our surging track. 
 And dry our wings in heaven, 
 
 Till his steeds uprise 
 
 To career the skies, 
 And the young god's shout is given. 
 
 When day is no more 
 
 We press on before 
 To open the gates of Nyx,
 
 20 
 
 MOONBEAMS. 
 
 Which we hold ajar, 
 With a silver star, 
 While the shadows kiss and mix. 
 Then we spread our cloak 
 Of a crimson dye, 
 Where the sun-steeds broke 
 Their race on high, 
 And the god steps out 
 With triumphal shout 
 To his palace in the West, 
 While each panting steed 
 Is led to feed, 
 In the islands of the Blest. 
 
 MOONBEAMS. 
 
 We breathe and wake 
 On the bosom white 
 Of some sleeping lake, 
 As lihes fair 
 
 Dream in a snowy light. 
 We gently tread 
 Where the outlines red 
 Of sun-clouds fell before. 
 Flakes on the slumbering air.
 
 MOONBEAMS. 
 
 When Selene springs 
 
 With new-girt wings 
 Through the gloomy arch of Time, 
 
 We lay light fingers 
 
 Where shadow lingers, 
 And silver it into rime. 
 
 From the billowy shore 
 
 Of the sea above, 
 
 We calm the roar 
 
 With a kiss of love. 
 And the clouds divide and sever. 
 
 Then we toss its spray 
 
 To left and right. 
 
 Where the Milky Way 
 
 Unfolds in light, 
 And gathers it up forever ! 
 
 One night from afar 
 
 Came an unloved star, 
 And Diana her glance o'ershrouded. 
 
 With the skin of a lion. 
 
 The hunter Orion 
 Our firmament o'erclouded. 
 
 Then the son of Astraeus, 
 
 By virtue of Zeus, 
 Uprose with the goddess to plead. 
 
 A tear, as she listened, 
 
 On her eyelid glistened,
 
 22 MOONBEAMS. 
 
 She heard and revoked the deed. 
 
 Then the stars came out 
 
 With a voiceless shout 
 Of melody unimprisoned, 
 
 And a throne afar 
 
 To the Hunter-star 
 Was granted as Hesperus' meed. 
 
 We Virgins tread 
 
 The draperies spread 
 For the foot of the silent Night. 
 
 And stars (unproven 
 
 To earth) have woven 
 Us paths of shadowless light ! 
 
 So we float the spheres 
 
 In revolving tiers, 
 And the son of Chaos bendeth. 
 
 'V\'hen our dreamy gaze, 
 
 Through his shadowy maze, 
 To its farthest verge descendeth. 
 
 Then with step of snow 
 
 We pass below, 
 To where Uranus binds 
 
 His sons from their birth; 
 
 While their mother, Earth, • 
 Weeps to the wandering winds.
 
 ( 23 ) 
 
 THE HOURS. 
 
 From the limits of Creation, 
 We, Creation's after-birth, 
 Smiling o'er our new formation. 
 Clasping glowing hands in mirth, 
 Trod the viewless Avinds and waters, 
 To the eye unseen — unheard, 
 Ether's light and tameless daughters 
 In a race both swift and weird. 
 From our footfalls flowers are springing. 
 Seeds of bitterness spring too, 
 Souls are waking, souls are winging, 
 Shades are born, and sunbeams singing. 
 Dust is treading down the dew ! 
 And the portals of existence 
 Swinging are on unseen axis. 
 Human hearts in mute resistance 
 With dread Atropos, and Lachesis. 
 Time our father, Time our slayer, 
 To our steps unwearying cleaves. 
 And, unheeding prayers or prayer. 
 Binds us in his withered sheaves. 
 We are spirits twelve in number. 
 Gird the Earth, and Air, and Sea,
 
 24 ETERNITY. 
 
 Twelve in waking, twelve in slumber, 
 
 Doubling joy and misery, 
 
 Till our shrouds are cast around us, 
 
 And our father's hand has wound us 
 
 In the unawaking cerements of a dark Eternity. 
 
 ETERNITY. 
 
 Who calls as a voice of waters athwart a storm of grief ? 
 Flowers are sere and over, withered the bud and the 
 
 bloom, — 
 I gather them swifdy to me with the hfe-downtrodden 
 
 leaf, 
 And bind the quiv'ring tendrils in the silence of the tomb. 
 Come ! for Time is dying, and his locks are grey and thin ; 
 Soon my gates must open for his furrowed frame and heart, 
 Safely stored for ever when his footstep once is in 
 The threshold : now he holds us widely, wearily apart. 
 Sunbeams flicker round earth's cradles, moonbeams kiss 
 
 its silent biers, 
 Life and Death clasp ready hands across the exodus of 
 
 Time ; 
 And my arm is waiting, raised to still the motion of the 
 
 spheres,
 
 ETERNITY. 25 
 
 But I pause awhile to listen, what the Will above me 
 
 saith, 
 The new life within my womb strives to its first exulting 
 
 chime, 
 And I see on swift dark pinions, drawing nigh the death 
 
 of Death. 
 
 Florence, June^ 1880.
 
 ( 26 ) 
 
 SERE NAT A. 
 
 I HAVE sung at thy window, sweet ! 
 As the bird to the ev'ning star ; 
 I have paused for the echoes fleet, 
 Of thy voice at every bar. 
 The chords of my mandoUne 
 Have thrilled to the touch I brought, 
 For my love was woven with each line, 
 Like a warm and living thought. 
 Stoop, sweet ! and say 
 To me thy vesper prayer, 
 Love will shrive thee any day, 
 Love, which ascends the live-long night 
 To thee, as a flower's breath to light. 
 Unaware ! 
 
 I have sung of all sweet things 
 
 But of thee have said no word, — 
 
 The spirit that sweeps through the yielding strings 
 
 Must be sooner y^// than heard. 
 
 So my love as it breathes in song 
 
 Must enshrine thee in no name
 
 SERENA TA. 27 
 
 But the melody that rolls along 
 Like a silver spirit-flame. 
 Come to me, love ! 
 Lean over the sill ; 
 I will feel thee there, 
 As I gaze above, 
 
 Through the dewy night and still, 
 Unaware ! 
 
 I have bid night-buds, and stars. 
 Weave around thee like a cloud. 
 I have set no rigid bars 
 On the love that leaps aloud 
 In a heart that fainting swims 
 Through an ocean of deep bliss, 
 Till it spreads its flagging limbs 
 In the warmth of a spirit-kiss ! 
 Linger no longer, 
 Where thou'rt leaning down 
 The sill, at my prayer, — 
 For the wind grows stronger. 
 The blue night shades are growing brown, 
 Unaware. 
 
 Tinkling the strings are, faint and low ; 
 And my hand drops off to a pensive rest, 
 I have run the measures so soft and slow, 
 To beat with the life in thy sleeping breast,
 
 28- SERENA TA. 
 
 Which falls and rises, which ebbs and flows, 
 Through thy parted lips in a wavering breath, 
 As a midnight breeze o'er the mouth of the rose 
 Might swell and droop in the path beneath. 
 I kiss thee, love ! 
 Where thou dreaming art. 
 So helpless, and so wondrous fair, 
 On thy innocent pillow above. 
 As a closed thought on the heart, 
 Unaware ! 
 
 Florence, May, 1881.
 
 ( 29. ) 
 
 TO . 
 
 " Though passion's trance is overpast, 
 Since tenderness and truth outlast 
 And live, whilst all wild feelings keep 
 Some mortal slumber dark and deep, 
 I will not weep — I will not weep ! " 
 
 Our love should be a book long closed, and claspt and 
 
 put away ; 
 But Mem'ry sometimes takes it down, from off the shelf of 
 
 Time, 
 And the breath of the old spirit blows the dust from the 
 
 decay. 
 And those unforgotten hours shine out like silver thoughts 
 
 in rhyme. 
 Then my fingers wand'ring go betwixt the leaves, and here 
 
 and there, 
 Find a flow'r prest (oh, so lovingly ! ), its fragrance like a 
 
 shade, — 
 Just some tiny star of summer, or a spray of maidenhair, 
 Growing pale as parted hearts are, or as buds in shadowy 
 
 glade,— 
 
 And the pride and the pain, 
 Of our parting come again. 
 O'er a spirit which has lived its life, and died all unafraid,
 
 30 TO . 
 
 Love was loved and Life was lived for us, in one brief 
 
 summer's day 
 (All the sweetness of two spirits, concentrated in one 
 
 hour !). 
 Was it not too much to hope and think such bliss could 
 
 last alway ? 
 If it could, are human hearts so strong they might outlive 
 
 its power ? 
 Oh, my love, we blasted life with Passion's swift and fiery 
 
 breath ! 
 Oh, my love, we garnered sorrow in our soul's first fatal 
 
 tryst ! 
 Though the coil of living bind us, our poor hearts are 
 
 numbed to death, 
 And we stretch despairing spirit-hands, for sunshine through 
 
 the mist, 
 
 But Life's mist strikes chill, 
 Turn where'er we will. 
 As if some spectre of the tomb, seized those weak hands 
 
 and kist. 
 
 We might each return to-morrow to the heart each has 
 
 forsworn, 
 We might catch a faint reflection of spent passion through 
 
 the gloom. 
 But shall love again enthrall us as that love when it was 
 
 born? 
 Can we fill the flower's chalice with its scattered perfume ?
 
 TO . 31 
 
 Could we go on living alway, with our spirits near the 
 sun, 
 
 While the dust of earth grew wearily about our lagging 
 feet? 
 
 While the wheel of Life ran on, we two should find we 
 could not run, 
 
 Side by side for ever as at first, in a harmony com- 
 plete. 
 
 If we could not ever 
 Love, and not dissever, 
 
 It were better to break living off, while loving yet were 
 sweet. 
 
 I should not reach this closed book from Time's o'er- 
 shadowed shelf, 
 
 And turn o'er the well-loved pages, and kiss o'er each 
 faded bud ; 
 
 For the Memory brings on me but soul-scorning of my- 
 self, 
 
 And the pain is all too fearful for weak heart of woman- 
 hood. 
 
 I send thee just one leaf beloved, o'erwritten with thy 
 name, 
 
 The ink scarce dried upon't ; the blots (forgive them) were 
 heart tears,
 
 32 TO . 
 
 Wrung for one brief moment only. Read — then cast into 
 
 the flame 
 This remembrance of one hour fled with the long-departed 
 years. 
 
 Then set thy troubled heart, 
 In love, from love to part, 
 Which embitters all existence, for the moment that it 
 cheers. 
 
 I have closed the book, and look my life once more full 
 
 in the face. 
 'Tis so brief, and after-living is so long, and we may find, 
 In a higher life, our passion springing up from root of 
 
 grace, 
 With the time and sphere to culture it unto an even 
 
 mind. 
 Heav'n is love, and Earth is passion, spirit ether, clay our 
 
 dust; 
 Passion is the dross, and love the gold, — it must be purged 
 
 with fire ; 
 Though the furnace be thrice-heated, we must pass it 
 
 through, we tnust, 
 And the metal of pure Love shall come out shining from 
 
 Desire. 
 
 In a calm fair sphere above, 
 Where God is enthroned in love, 
 And our spirits in their flight shall soar for ever high, 
 
 and higher.
 
 ( 33 ) 
 
 RAINBOW SONG. 
 
 When the skies are alive with the storm, 
 And the Earth Hfts her faltering mouth, 
 (Which the lightnings have smitten with warm 
 
 Quick white desolation of drouth). 
 To the shower that comes quickly, and thickly, 
 
 The sunbeams glance in on the shower, 
 Then wreathing my storm-colours quickly 
 Together, I leap into flower. 
 
 Mingling and weaving. 
 
 Glancing and cleaving. 
 
 Catching the rain and sundrops, like gems where thc^ 
 
 twinklingly fall. 
 Shifting and heaving, 
 The dim vapours sieving, 
 I laugh on the mist-wreaths, and climb the cloud-wall. 
 
 The nymphs of the winds, and the naiads, 
 Come dipping their wings in my tide, 
 
 Where the seven sweet hues, like the Pleiads, 
 Encoil and dissolve side by side. 
 
 D
 
 34 RAINBOW SONG. 
 
 The storm lifts me up into heaven, 
 
 The rain flails me back toward earth, 
 And ere half my life has been given, 
 Men mourn o'er the death of my birth. 
 The ether enfolds me, 
 The sun-radiance golds me, 
 While the tempest unbinds with a touch, the swathe of my 
 chrysalis-bands. 
 The vapour remoulds me, 
 The firmament holds me, 
 A tissue of water and air in its hands 1 
 
 Yet I reign through the ether, and mountain, 
 
 And drop from the hem of a cloud, 
 And play like an aerial fountain. 
 
 In coloured sprays leaping aloud. 
 Each breath of the West wind can curve me, 
 
 Each vapour can change me, and yet 
 The elements tarry to serve me, 
 And from pole to far pole I am set 
 For the storm, as a bridge. 
 O'er whose airy ledge, 
 It strides to mid-heav'n in endeavour to save its dark foot 
 from the flood. 
 And the wind, like a sedge 
 Sweeps along to its edge. 
 Like a soul in pursuit of the body and blood.
 
 RAINBOW SONG. 35 
 
 I am Spirit of sunbeams and raindrops, 
 
 Or a shrine, where the clouds tempest-driven 
 Have fled to, and woven to fane-tops, 
 For the winging ministers of heaven 
 To' meet in, and worship Creation, 
 
 Whose soul is pent up in my hues, 
 Which dissolve in a fair exhalation. 
 And pass over the earth clad in dews. 
 From the storm's woof and weft, 
 A shred I am left 
 Across the white path of the airs, where they stand passion- 
 fretted and chill, 
 Till the sungleams relift 
 Their glances, and sift 
 Through the skies, the new life in their limitless will. 
 
 Florence, December, 1881.
 
 ( 36 ) 
 
 MIND-VESPERS. 
 
 In Silence' dim cathedral aisle I stood, 
 And closed the doors of Speech, and soft ideal 
 Fancies, like white-robed choristers, did steal, 
 Hither and thither, through my dreamy mood. 
 These soon broke into anthems of clear Song, 
 While Incense of sweet aspirations sprung 
 From my low-kneeling spirit — swift, and strong, 
 Bright gleams shone down from silver lamps of Hope, 
 ^\'hich in my mind most tremulously hung. 
 Then, through the shadowed naves, a glorious throng 
 Of thoughts, like spectres, seemed to pass, and grope 
 At Mem'ry's portal. . . . Soon white Slumber fell 
 Across the waving mighty multitude. 
 Which struck it low as might the Host's sweet triple 
 bell. 
 
 October , 1881.
 
 ( 37 ) 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 E. V. Y. 
 
 No shadow fell upon the world when thou 
 Didst leave it — no keen grief, no sighs, no tears 
 From other hearts than ours : the Earth has biers 
 Too many, to enwreathe about her brow 
 The cypress gathered from each grave ; but those 
 To whom thou wert the sun, and moon, of day 
 And night, grown dim without thee, even they 
 Know how the sky looks for its vanished ray, 
 And how Life's garden despoiled of its rose. 
 
 My love, my love ! my more than all — for most 
 Have treasures scattered here, and there, to love. 
 Lives, and keen aims, and happiness enough 
 Diffused in many rays ; but when I lost 
 Thee in one moment, 'twas as if my soul 
 Had suddenly been turned into void, 
 And in that wrench had felt itself destroyed : 
 Swayed by no impulse more, no longer buoyed 
 By aspirations ; past all hope, or goal.
 
 38 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 And when, day after day, I smote the sod 
 
 And tried to feel thee through, or see thee smile 
 
 In vain, sweet Faith within me changed to vile 
 
 Reproaches : " God, what hast Thou done, O God ? 
 
 Were other lives not nearer Thee than hers 
 
 That Thou shouldst stretch and take her with Thy 
 
 might ? 
 Hadst Thou in Heav'n too litde of Thy light 
 I'hat Thou didst take her thus into Thy sight ? " 
 Christ pardon me ! if thus I raved and worse. 
 
 But when the peace and hush of Heav'n came through 
 
 Sweet tender memories of thee to this 
 
 Rebellious heart, I almost felt thee kiss 
 
 Me to submission, and I slowly grew 
 
 What thou wouldst have me be ; and though forlorn 
 
 The heart which holds a grave, still flow'rs may grow 
 
 Of Faith and Patience, to o'erveil the woe 
 
 With their white fragrance ; and above the snow 
 
 Of my despair, I «;// resigned, Vaughan ! 
 
 Only sometimes, when thy beloved Art 
 Comes rushing with the old old sweetness o'er 
 My spirit, and the Classic numbers pour, 
 In chastened music, through my bursting heart, 
 Then surges up the unforgotten pain ! 
 I almost see thee winging o'er the notes 
 Those gifted fingers, and my passion floats
 
 IN ME MORI AM. 39 
 
 Back on the Stream of Grief in fiery motes, 
 And I return to what I was, again. 
 
 But then the stars thou lovedst come to shine 
 
 Through the red Sunset's fingers, hke sweet eyes 
 
 Gazing from Passion, which averted flies 
 
 And 1 am comforted, for I am thine 
 
 Once more in peace ; if only Night could last ! 
 
 But morrows come with new temptations set 
 
 About them, like a thorny coronet, 
 
 And Light brings back what Night had made forget, 
 
 And thus one lives for ever o'er the Past. 
 
 I know that thou art blest, and that thy form 
 In Earth's kind arms takes tender sleep ; I know 
 The Sea's slow requiem goes, with ebb and flow 
 About thee, and the Olives weave their warm 
 Soft traceries above thee ; yet the eyes 
 Are dimmed that ply those distant heav'ns to see 
 If haply, when the clouds rush past, there be 
 A shade of thy sweet presence there, or thee ; 
 And Space alone smites back to agonize. 
 
 San Remo, November z^th.
 
 40 
 
 TO V AUG HAN. 
 
 When from some careless lip I hear 
 That tend'rest name of " Sister " flung, 
 Life's overshadowed paths among, 
 Through the world's tumult on my ear, 
 My heart falls dim with sudden grief, 
 And tears, that none can see avowed, 
 Sweep o'er it in a tempest brief, 
 And thou — thou passest in that cloud. 
 With pale fair brow, and earnest eyes, 
 And loving looks, and gentlest ways, 
 Thy touch the best of sympathies. 
 Thy smile the sweetest gift of praise. 
 Oh, love of my most early years ! 
 Oh, guide of my most wayward heart ! 
 Oh, comforter of all those fears 
 I loved to bring thee, and impart ! 
 Thou more than sister, best of friends, 
 With all a woman's instinct firm 
 To succour, and to guide to ends 
 Most noble, from ignoble germ. 
 And yet so tender thou didst lead 
 In silken chains the iron-willed,
 
 TO VAUGHAN. 41 
 
 Thy lips were formed to intercede, 
 
 And what they pleaded, was fulfilled. 
 
 So true thy love, so pure, so deep 
 
 It lay soul-fathoms, none could know 
 
 Who saw thee smile, who saw thee weep, 
 
 That thou couldst bear and struggle so. 
 
 Thy very love gave wondrous strength, 
 
 And patience to hope on and wait. 
 
 And thou rewarded wast at length, 
 
 When Heav'n flung wide its pearl- wrought gate, 
 
 And showed what peace and loveliness 
 
 Await at that eternal goal 
 
 Those, who through Faith their suffering soul 
 
 In God-like patience do possess. 
 
 Oh ! my beloved, was it all vain 
 
 The pain of life, the spirit pain, 
 
 The glorious triumphs, and the sweet 
 
 Love-deeds, that made thee so complete 
 
 To take thy place a little higher, 
 
 When Death came winged with God's white fire ? 
 
 No, never vain ; thou now hast found 
 
 That every Cross is doubly crowned 
 
 With Light, and that thou hast enough 
 
 Of tenderness to give thee rest, 
 
 Of blessedness to make thee blest, 
 
 Of love, to satisfy tJiy love. 
 
 San Remo, November 2'jth.
 
 ( 42 ) 
 
 ''FOR SO HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED 
 
 SLEEPr 
 
 (In Memoriam E. V. Y.) 
 
 Sleep on, beloved ! rest is for those who tire 
 
 Of earth in hfe's first hours — as thou, — and creep 
 
 Like weary children just a little higher, 
 
 To drop within a Father's arms asleep. 
 
 So thou — when life had cast dim Grief around thee, 
 
 Didst close thy lids a Httle while, to weep : 
 
 And mourning, fell to slumber, for God found thee. 
 
 And gave thee even His beloved's sleep. 
 
 He knew not what could soothe thy spirit better 
 
 When pain had weighed it unto weariness. 
 
 And, breaking from thee that unceasing fetter, 
 
 He raised thee in His mighty arms to bless. 
 
 And kissed thee through the shadowy vale — that blessing 
 
 Lingered within thy death-smile, sweet and deep, 
 
 For thou didst feel a benediction pressing 
 
 Upon thee, when God gave His loved one sleep.
 
 ''FOR SO HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP." 43 
 
 It was not Death, that gentle exhalation 
 Of a pure spirit floating into Life ; 
 Here the wild grief, in Heaven the exultation 
 Of angels, o'er a soul released from strife. 
 There all the light, if here the sod o'er-shrouding 
 Our vision, from the joys which God doth keep, 
 Veiled in that glory which He comes unclouding, 
 When thus He giveth His beloved sleep. 
 
 Sleep safe from sorrow ! Thy young soul is standing, 
 
 Beside the Crystal Sea, in undreamt bliss. 
 
 And peace, that ever passeth understanding, 
 
 ^Vhich God reserves for spirits that are His. 
 
 And, tender to the dust He hath created. 
 
 He gives it unto Earth awhile to keep 
 
 (Until all things be changed and renovated) — 
 
 Even so He giveth His beloved sleep. 
 
 San Remo, November 2']th.
 
 ( 44 ) 
 
 TO THE SPIRIT OF MUSIC, 
 
 Day-star of the realms where Thought 
 
 Shrinks into itself, and dwindles 
 
 Visibly — as glow-worms ought, 
 
 When the moon her white light kindles, — 
 
 Sweetest Spirit of those hours 
 
 When we know immortal powers, 
 
 Hover round our souls in trances, 
 
 Lit at thy melodious glances. 
 
 Weave around me now the web 
 
 Of a tide that knows no ebb. 
 
 Faint I stand on shores where Silence 
 Is vibrating like a vision, 
 But afar, on Sound's white islands, 
 Pace the winds in glorious mission, 
 Bearing music's subtle foam 
 On the waves that curling come 
 O'er our poet-thoughts, to break 
 At the Mind's ear, with a Wake.
 
 TO THE SPIRIT OF MUSIC. 45 
 
 Spirit reach with soft hands' splendour, 
 Through the strifes and earthly jars, 
 To the poet-heart some tender 
 Minstrelsy, of unborn stars — 
 Songs that those white choirs at dawning, 
 Chaunted to the listening Morning, 
 With pure lip, and deathless throat, 
 And a soul dropt in each note ! 
 
 Spirit come ! and tread through measures 
 Light as air thy radiant dance, 
 Fairest of heav'n's hoarded treasures 
 To my waking soul advance ! 
 Bring me sounds of many oceans, 
 Bring me breath of all emotions, 
 Bring me Heaven to inherit 
 In thy silver hands, sweet spirit I 
 
 Florence.
 
 ( 46 ) 
 
 REQUIEM. 
 
 Sleep, loveliest, sleep ! 
 Nought can unseal thine eyes, 
 On which calm Slumber lies 
 
 Peacefully and deep. 
 Nought shade the marble-light 
 Of thy features still and white, 
 
 While we sad vigils keep. 
 
 Sleep, fairest and best ! 
 Thou mayst not fear to wake, 
 Nought evermore can shake 
 
 Thy holy rest j 
 Or bid thine eyes unclose 
 From their flower-like repose. 
 
 We watch thee, loveliest ! 
 
 Oh ! peaceful be thy dreams. 
 Of Heav'n and holy things. 
 Thy soul hath found its wings, 
 
 The moon in silence gleams.
 
 REQUIEM. 47 
 
 The wave its requiem sings, — 
 Hushed, holy, calm and deep, 
 Now be thy sleep. 
 
 Sleep, loveliest and best ! 
 Thou wak'st on earth no more. 
 As thou hast oft before, 
 
 From slumber's rest ; 
 But, from thy Home above, 
 Sweet spirit shed thy love 
 
 On souls opprest ! 
 
 San Remo, November 2'jth.
 
 ( 48 ) 
 
 ELM A Z A. 
 
 The storm is swelling in the cloud, and weaving many a 
 mortal's shroud, 
 And purple is the desert rim. 
 The light sand twirls, then flutters down, like scorched 
 leaves or moth-wings brown, 
 And the day is dim. 
 Leave not our tent, thou stranger bold : the Simoom's gust 
 blows hot and cold. 
 On who opposes. 
 The path is long, the camels breath comes short, as if he 
 snorted death, 
 And the daylight closes. 
 
 He. 
 I must away, I spurn delay, 
 Give me a steed to beat the air. 
 With hoofs like breezes at their play, 
 And will to bear me anywhere ! 
 This tent is for bedawee blood. 
 The scorching sands for feet like thine,
 
 ELMAZA. 49 
 
 But oh ! the ocean's restless flood, 
 
 And mountain paths were made for mifie ! 
 
 Thy tent hath been a grateful screen, 
 
 From many a death-stroke of thy sun. 
 
 I thank thee for what thou hast been, 
 
 I thank thee for what thou hast done, 
 
 For ev'ry draught to cool my thirst, 
 
 For ev'ry moonlit dance, and song, 
 
 'Neath which my heart has leapt, has burst, 
 
 (It must not hear, nor feel, too long !). 
 
 I shake my rein and I am gone. 
 
 She. 
 
 Nay, stay, and I will bathe thy feet, in water welling 
 cool and sweet 
 From the Avell's heart, 
 And gather dates as rich as those which Siivah's golden 
 palms disclose, 
 Ere thou depart, 
 ril fan thee with the leaves we take, beside the desert's 
 emerald lake, 
 That oasis where 
 Our flocks are pastured and there springs water, thro' 
 shade and all cool things 
 And unscorched air. 
 The camels' bells are tinkling fleet, their milk is flowing 
 pale and sweet. 
 In our cool jars. 
 
 £
 
 50 ELMAZA. 
 
 The Day has wandered far away from Night, and o'er the 
 heav'ns there play, 
 The first white stars. 
 And if thou scorn'st a couch so rude as that we spread 
 in sohtude, 
 Which yields us rest, 
 Take (sooner than depart our wild free life) an Arab's 
 undefiled 
 And passionate breast. 
 On which to lay thy head, 'twill be a faithful pillow unto 
 thee, 
 Thou pallid child ! 
 
 He. 
 
 I may not pause — 
 
 She. 
 Not when a maiden — 
 
 He. 
 My heart with dreams of love is laden ! 
 Her lips, her eyes — Elmaza — 
 
 She. 
 
 Yet 
 
 Thou leavest all with no regret ! 
 
 He. 
 Her dusky hair, like clouds that rise 
 To overshade her haunting eyes 
 I must away.
 
 ELMAZA. 
 
 51 
 
 She. 
 Whose lip doth burst 
 And scorch, will he refuse its thirst 
 When the well bubbles ? 
 
 He. 
 
 Let me go. 
 
 She. 
 And meet thy heart, thy deadliest foe 
 Alone ? 
 
 He 
 
 Nay, but our lives divide. 
 
 She. 
 Love rides with true love, side by side. 
 
 He, 
 
 Thy form which bends beneath a touch 
 Like a stem, one may not handle much 
 Lest it should break ! 
 
 She. 
 
 And it was made 
 For Love's own clasp — as hilt for blade. 
 
 He. 
 
 Thy voice, Elmaza, — oh ! the sea 
 Has no vibrating harmony 
 Like that !
 
 3- 
 
 ELMAZA. 
 
 She. 
 And it will swell for thee. 
 Beloved ! — although our creed, our name, 
 Our home, our lineage, our fame 
 Are bars betwixt this bliss and us, 
 We love, and are victorious ! 
 Thy cheek is white and mine will grow 
 "Neath thy dear glance as chaste as snow 
 (Since snow is pallid as thou sayest). 
 My home is all this land, — my skiff 
 The camel tethered nigh, — but if 
 Thou lead'st me on to cage, or bar, 
 Thou wilt shine through my saving star, 
 And I will kneel where'er thou prayest 
 Away ! I see the storm, and those 
 My brothers, and thy deadly foes 
 If they could read thy heart, and still 
 'I'lieir blades were sheathed against their will 
 WhiJst thou wert sheltered by this roof 
 It keeps all treachery aloof 
 Away ! 
 
 He. 
 Beloved, and should we fail ? 
 
 She. 
 JJeath will o'ershroud us with his veil 
 And Love will help the innocent, 
 l.o, liow the breeze uplifts the tent!
 
 ELMAZA. 
 
 I dare not see it long, — its free 
 Sweet life, our heirloom, Liberty, 
 Smite like a sword my traitor heart. 
 But Kismet leads, and I depart : 
 Fierce Thought is rising from its lair 
 In my dark spirit, and it rends 
 Me. Lead, oh, lead me anywhere 
 Where Peace and Love can kiss as friends 
 Lead thou — I follow thee — and dare.
 
 ( 54 ) 
 
 TO SHELLEY. 
 
 They call thee less of poet than musician, 
 
 Thou whose sweet lays were star-tuned, faint and dim 
 
 As morning, when pearl-clouds are in transmission 
 
 From Dawn's hands into Day's : and on their brim, 
 
 Tlie opal of shed sunsets seems to flutter, 
 
 Tlie moonshine of spent summer nights doth lave, 
 
 So in each poet-tone thy soul doth utter. 
 
 The wing of paling glory seems to wave. 
 
 Tliou hast no deep fierce sighs that sound like Passion, 
 
 \\'hen blood is near to foaming ; thou hast nought 
 
 That can tempt souls to sin, in mere compassion 
 
 Of sympathy with the wild poet-thought. 
 
 Thou lark ! (as beautiful as that which soareth, 
 
 Within the heaven of thy verse) thy soul, 
 
 Whilst veiled in flesh, its loveliness restoreth 
 
 To God who gave it, past its own control. 
 
 Thy song is as some dew distilled from starlight,. 
 
 Drops, which refresh the poet-heart that drinks 
 
 Unconsciously, deep in mysterious farlight. 
 
 Of a new orb, whose evolution thinks.
 
 TO SHELLEY. 55 
 
 Thou disembodied Spirit, whose white pinions 
 
 Winnow pale hght (through spheres Earth dreams not (•') 
 
 Down to the world, from unexplored dominions, 
 
 Where song is Life, and loveliness is Love. 
 
 Would that my heart in some faint exhalation. 
 
 Might lift thee half the bliss which thine has showered 
 
 Upon it, from thy free-born sphere's elation ! 
 
 As fragrance greets the sun from whence it flowered, 
 
 As the dew climbs into the fair white fountain. 
 
 As the stem labours upward to the flower, 
 
 As mists enwreathe and kiss the star-crowned mountain, 
 
 As moments roll into their sea — the hour ! . . . 
 
 Forgive the wish ! thou through all Time must ever 
 
 Stand out unsolaced ; crowd may smile to crowd. 
 
 But kings must hold apart, on thrones that sever 
 
 Them from the dust, and, poet, the white cloud 
 
 Of Poesy keeps thee aloof and lonely, 
 
 Far from the sounds of Earth ; its praise and blame 
 
 Can move thee not at all, and reach thee only 
 
 Through that far fragrant atmosphere — thy Fam^e : 
 
 Still would I kiss the spirit which has taught me 
 
 How near man climbs to God, all unawares. 
 
 And for all the fair beauty it has brought me, 
 
 And for the love (which every poet shares) 
 
 Of the wide Earth, this chaplet I have wove 
 
 For thee (it fades so soon) from blossoms born of Love. 
 
 Flqrence, December 30, 1881.
 
 ( 56 ) 
 
 CAIQUE SONG. 
 
 The winds are low and the wave is tame, 
 As a lion crouched on his massy frame, 
 
 When his lip with blood is sated. 
 Calm and bright are the stars above, 
 I have lingered long by thy slumbers, love ! 
 While thy sails with Sleep were freighted. 
 Now break the spray, 
 From thy silver prow 
 We will float away, 
 (I and thou) 
 Strangely, blissfully, mated 
 From the land with a foam-lit vow ! 
 
 See the lights from the shore-side flash. 
 Hark to the sound of the Caique's clash. 
 
 As the palace step is grated. 
 The water swirls from my waking oar, 
 We push our lives from the crowded shore. 
 Strangely, blissfully mated ! 
 
 Thou'rt fair as some bird 
 From the lone sea-cave.
 
 CAIQUE SONG. 57 
 
 When its wing is stirred, 
 And its sweet voice heard, 
 With the music of waters weighted ! 
 
 My peri of the wave, dost grieve 
 Istambol's star-girt shores to leave, 
 
 Though we outward fly together ? 
 See how the blue wave smiles for us, 
 And the foam runs free on the Bosphorus, 
 Light as a wind-swept feather. 
 
 Come ! the brine and we 
 Will kiss each other, 
 In mute sympathy 
 With one another. 
 While we laugh to the cloud and the weather. 
 
 Come ! and the pulse of the sea will beat 
 With untried song 'neath thy viewless feet. 
 
 While I guide thee o'er the waters. 
 One mind is ours, we tune its mood 
 To that fellowship in solitude 
 
 Which our wandering life has taught us. 
 This thought is blest, 
 Twin-souls we are, 
 And we float or rest. 
 As the wave and the star. 
 Fairest of Night's white daughters. 
 
 May, 1880.
 
 ( 58 ) 
 
 TO MELANCHOLY. 
 
 My heart is as a Ruin, where thou sittest 
 Keen-eyed, and sombre-hued, thou dismal owl ; 
 While oft on overshadowed wings thou flittest, 
 About the twilight hours of my soul ; 
 Making the gath'ring darkness (which thou fittest 
 With evil dreams and shrill weird cries) a night 
 Of horror. Griefs loud blasts go sweeping strong 
 Through Mem'ry-shrouded galleries of my mind, 
 Awaking echoes which had slumbered long ; 
 And yet I would not have thee hence, the wind 
 Though loud is lonely — through its mournful song 
 I need some Presence (though it be a blight 
 Such as is thine) to tell me that among 
 The Quick I wander still, as the immortals might. 
 
 Florence, September 15, 1881.
 
 ( 59 
 
 THE HA UNTED STUDIO. 
 
 He stood 'twixt pedestal and plinth, 
 
 A chisel in his hand, 
 
 His genius wrought a labyrinth 
 
 Of thoughts too vague to understand, 
 
 And doubts, that rose on either hand 
 
 Of his young spirit, to allure 
 
 To paths for Youth too insecure. . . . 
 
 His master's was a touch that wrought 
 
 On ev'ry stone a living thought, 
 
 And gave the gods of old a dower 
 
 Of beautiful imperious power, 
 
 To save them from the dust and death — 
 
 Such might ! he almost gave them breath. 
 
 His gall'ry, with its marble throng. 
 
 Was one unbroken Epic song, 
 
 Through which the unextinguished soul 
 
 Of Beauty, like a spirit stole. 
 
 His master was a man whose art 
 
 Was the pulsation of his heart. 
 
 Its very life, and whose high fame 
 
 Had fired the city with his name,
 
 6o THE HAUNTED STUDIO. 
 
 To be enshrined in flowers, or strung 
 
 'Mid lyrics on a poet's tongue. 
 
 He was of men a very king, 
 
 Such as in Classic lands still spring, 
 
 To show heroic blood lies deep 
 
 In soil that 7vill not let it sleep. 
 
 Huge-minded, noble, with a pride 
 
 In his high genius undenied — 
 
 A splendid pride, that made him strong, 
 
 And mindless of the common throng 
 
 That praised or blamed. One only fault 
 
 Was mingled in this spirit-salt. 
 
 That made it flavourless and shook 
 
 Esteem, — no rival could he brook, 
 
 To place a seal of higher gift 
 
 On stone, to which his hand was lift. 
 
 His hand to-day is on a group 
 
 Of fair Cassandra and her lover, 
 
 Who o'er the prophetess does stoop, 
 
 To give her back her pledge ; and over 
 
 King Priam's daughter comes a look 
 
 Of tender, pitiful, compassion. 
 
 Such as no mortal hand could fashion, — 
 
 A smile half veiled in marble — white 
 
 With fearful passionate delight. 
 
 His master left the work awhile, 
 
 Just as Cassandra's wistful smile
 
 THE HAUNTED STUDIO. oi 
 
 •Broke up, and Guido lingered still 
 Before it, half against his will. 
 
 He feels the genius in him rise, 
 
 And kindle in averted eyes. 
 
 And thrill the hand which longs to free 
 
 That smile to perfect liberty. 
 
 He hears it say, " Without that fetter 
 
 Of fear, thou., Guido, couldst do better ! " 
 
 The strife is hard, and sharp, and strong : 
 
 Oh ! ye who hold imprisoned song. 
 
 Oh ! ye who feel the spirit-strain 
 
 Of music pent in every vein, 
 
 Say if this strife against a long 
 
 Resisted pow'r was great and strong ! 
 
 He stood and peered around, and saw 
 
 No living glance to strengthen awe, 
 
 Nought but the smiles of lips that said, 
 
 " Rise. Shake the shackles from the dead 
 
 And give thy genius freedom, lad, 
 
 Spread out thy pinions and be glad ! " 
 
 He seized a chisel, heaved a sigh. 
 
 And gave a timid stroke or two, 
 
 If he could only work and die 
 
 In the sweet ecstasy that through 
 
 His spirit, like a spirit, flew ! 
 
 He toiled an hour, the smile was born, 
 
 He kist the curling lips and wept
 
 62 THE HAUNTED STUDIO. 
 
 Tears of mad passion, which can scorn 
 
 The world, when once is overleapt 
 
 The bar that held them deep and fast 
 
 Within the fount they burst at last. 
 
 He knelt, and almost framed a prayer, 
 
 In very ecstasy of gladness, 
 
 To the white marble smiling there 
 
 So tenderly upon his madness ! 
 
 He almost raised wild songs for her 
 
 So strangely did his spirit stir. . . . 
 
 He has forgotten fear, and feels 
 
 Nought but the blinding joy that reels 
 
 Along his brain ; he has o'erlooked 
 
 The Will that ne'er such freedom brooked, 
 
 Or, if he 'members, still he casts 
 
 It by, and revels while it lasts 
 
 This new hilarity of bliss 
 
 That once, and nevermore, is his. 
 
 He leans his forehead on the stone, 
 
 And feels his temples hotly beat 
 
 Against its chill. He kneeleth prone 
 
 Before his work. Oh ! it is sweet 
 
 To place our Genius on a throne, 
 
 And crown and sceptre it complete, 
 
 Although in all the earth, or far. 
 
 Or near, we its sole subjects are. — 
 
 'Twas while he bent in gladness so, 
 
 A step — a fearful step — drew nigh.
 
 THE HAUNTED STUDIO. 6 
 
 Rinaldo saw the stone, and slow 
 
 A vengeance kindled in his eye ; 
 
 And a chill smile his lip, it spoke 
 
 "Now, Guido, shalt thou surely die." 
 
 Day after day he saw the gift 
 
 Of genius, in his pupil lift 
 
 Its fiery hand, to claim his meed. 
 
 And Guide's death had been decreed. 
 
 " Who placed this blossom of a smile 
 
 On sad Cassandra's lips erewhile ? " . . . 
 
 The lad was silent as the grave, 
 
 He would not speak the word to save, 
 
 And abdicate his legacy 
 
 Of Genius, even to go free. 
 
 " Thou ? thou ? " Rinaldo seized a tool 
 
 And smote him, clinging to the base 
 
 Of the fair Grecian, whose pale face 
 
 Smiled on. Beside the sculptor-stool, 
 
 The boy sunk weltering in his blood ; 
 
 A few words struggled on his mouth, 
 
 A few pathetic sighs that would 
 
 Flutter 'twixt speech, warm as the South 
 
 And faltering as womanhood. 
 
 He "pardoned Christ-wise" — so he said 
 
 " But had he lived, ah ! he had fought 
 
 And risen by his innate strength 
 
 To Fame — or who knows what ? — at length. 
 
 God pardon him if thus he thought ! " 
 
 J
 
 64 THE TIAUXTED STUDIO. 
 
 And then he sighed — fell straightway dead. 
 
 The master was not cruel, cold, 
 
 But passionate as all his race, 
 
 And when he saw the stricken face 
 
 Of that sweet lad, he was not bold ! 
 
 He knelt and raised it to his knee, 
 
 He kist the youthful brow, and vowed 
 
 Self-death. Ah ! it was sad to see 
 
 Him to such depth of mis'ry bowed. . . . 
 
 They shrived him for it, — God alive ! 
 
 What will this Southern world not shrive 
 
 To him who rules by chisel, brush, 
 
 Or pen ? — they pardoned overmuch ! 
 
 For this, as ev'ning falls in rays 
 
 Of gold athwart this gallery, 
 
 If one stand silently, and gaze 
 
 Across it — there — one yet may see, 
 
 A youth come gliding from the shade, 
 
 A ghostly form, and passing fair. 
 
 And pause where stood that group, afraid 
 
 To lift his fingers, pale as air. 
 
 He fights his yearning for awhile, 
 
 Then, with a soft relenting smile. 
 
 He works at that invisible 
 
 White group, for whose sweet sake he fell. 
 
 Florence, April, 1881.
 
 ( 65 ) 
 
 SUN AND SEA VOICES. 
 Sun-Spirit. 
 
 Take me, sweet Spirit, to thy cool deep breast, 
 
 And lay foam-hands 
 On these red brows, that tingle with the weight 
 Of burning splendours and the Day's unrest 
 
 Of many lands. 
 Take the spent fever of my heart, and tend 
 
 These parched eyes, that bend 
 Over thy shaded glances, dim with white 
 
 Sequestered light. 
 Lit at some moony taper green, subdued 
 
 To a Sea-mood, 
 And press cool lips upon my lips of fire 
 
 And lend 
 That undulating pulse, that quickens never 
 
 For shade or sun, 
 To temper mine, which leaps and riots ever, 
 And hotter grows, as Day wears high, and higher, 
 
 Sea-born one ! 
 
 F
 
 66 SUN AND SEA VOICES. 
 
 I oped the doors of heav'n, and Day stepped out, 
 
 I laid warm kisses where 
 Blossoms were slumbering in their fragrant nest ; 
 
 And wakened with a shout, 
 The chrysalis, that fretted in its lair. 
 Whence benedictions on my pathway prest, 
 Of fragrance, and of humming. I undid 
 From mountain-tops the snow-bolts, and unbound 
 
 Waters that leapt to sound, 
 As from their frozen limbs, ice-garments slid. 
 But now, sweet Spirit, I would shade in cloud 
 The rays, that shot life through the numbed ground 
 
 From their world-grasping lid. . . . 
 Thou art vibrating with thine element, 
 That modulates its tone to suit thine ear, 
 Thou art all tremulous with ocean bliss ! 
 
 Around are sprent 
 Flakes, like dissolving stars that there and here 
 
 Reel in intense emotion, when thy kiss 
 Goes circling o'er them, like a widening breath ; 
 
 Take me, and kiss to death. 
 Sweet Spirit ! I will slumber while the waves 
 Beat rhythmic measures on the pale sea-floor, 
 And swell to anthems, in the echoing caves 
 And burst through many a door. 
 Of Nature's closing, where unwieldy rocks 
 Are pivots, and sea-lichens o'er the locks
 
 SUN AND SEA VOICES. 67 
 
 Have twined fantastic many-coloured webs, 
 Through which the surge translucent flows and ebbs. 
 Take to thine arms, sweet sprite, the Day-monarch 
 And light him seawards through the circling dark. 
 
 Sea-Spirit. 
 Thy robes are gathered up into the west, 
 Thou art unsceptred, and thy limbs are old 
 With weariness, and I would bid thee rest. 
 But that the sea is rough, the billows cold. 
 And surges unattuned to welcome thee. 
 Thine eyes are growing dim ; thy step, so bold 
 This morn, now totters deathwise to the sea, 
 Monarch of Day ! Still, in thy feebleness. 
 Come if thou wilt ; draw strength from ocean 
 
 founts. 
 And we will twine a tender rosary 
 Of shells and pearls, subdued to shine between 
 The amaranthine under-light that mounts 
 To myriad hues upon the surface sheen, 
 Wherewith to wile thy titan-weariness. 
 And the pale lips of Oceanides, 
 Shall sing thee to the seas. 
 But on my breast 
 No alien spirit ever homes itself — 
 I am a freeborn elf 
 Of winds, and waters, and I wear no form 
 Reliable, but fade like tints that spring
 
 68 SUN AND SEA VOICES. 
 
 On tearful days within a rainbow's wing, 
 
 After the storm. 
 A touch would shatter me to nothingness, 
 And evanescence is my fragile breath, 
 I tremble into birth, and tremble back 
 
 To death. 
 If a wind curl the wave, or the sea-wrack 
 Is storm pursued, or if a tempest scourges 
 To a pale passion the resisting surges. 
 
 Ah ! then I fail, 
 And from this radiant brink, 
 In a white agony of fear I sink, 
 
 And draw a briny veil. 
 Which Death's untiring fingers weave for me. 
 In the dim, shrouded chambers of the sea, 
 
 To die like thee ! 
 
 Sun-Spirit. 
 
 Die to be born ! be buried to uprise. 
 To-morrow's morn shall see me rule the skies ! 
 To-morrow's morn shall see thy glorious birth, 
 If now we languish, — for we are not Earth 
 But Spirit both, and spirit lives for ever. 
 
 Then let me sever 
 Thy being with a look ; and let us glide 
 Together into gloom, sweet Spirit of the tide.
 
 SUN AND SEA VOICES. 69 
 
 Nereids. 
 
 The sea is singing, the bells are swinging, 
 
 The foam-bells under the deep, 
 The earth is enshrouded, the day is o'erclouded. 
 
 And sun-stars fall asleep. 
 They fall through the waters, whose restlessness slaughters 
 
 Their life, and they sink, 
 Deeper and brighter, smaller and whiter 
 
 From the brink. 
 The billows enroll them, the shadows enstole them, 
 
 With dismal robes. 
 Which the sea-winds have cloven, the sea-clouds have 
 woven. 
 
 Betwixt the globes. 
 Water and fire commingle, expire. 
 
 In frantic throes. 
 Wreathing and kissing, gasping and hissing, 
 
 For repose. 
 Triumph ! the brine, at the sky's far line. 
 
 Has fought and won, 
 And, a mouthful of glory, has swallowed the hoary 
 
 Old Sun ! 
 
 Echoes from Sea-Depths. 
 
 Triumph ! he sinks, and the Ocean drinks, 
 With burnished lips, his being ;
 
 70 SUA' AND SEA VOICES. 
 
 His purple blaze falls in pallid rays 
 
 (Like a moon which the moon is freeing) 
 Through our silent haunts, where such radiance pants, 
 
 And strives, and writhes to be free, 
 Like a wounded snake, which a trail doth make, 
 
 To the nethermost depths of sea. 
 His passion frets in our silver nets, 
 
 And finned monsters glide 
 In and around where his rays are bound. 
 
 In the meshes of the tide. 
 Their sheathing scale looms out like mail, 
 
 In the new light falling through, 
 When they grope like shades, from rock ambuscades, 
 
 To bathe in the shifting blue. 
 Triumph ! the sun sinks down undone, 
 
 In a tremulous eclipse. 
 And faintly turns, where the cold sea yearns, 
 
 The boon for its slakeless lips.
 
 ( 71 ) 
 
 PAN. 
 
 Pan was sitting on the marge 
 
 Of the undulating stream, 
 
 Where the sunbeams wandered faintly, 
 
 And the lilies glimmered saintly, 
 
 Fashioning his spirit-dream, 
 
 Fashioning it broad and large. 
 
 Catching tones of music leaping, 
 
 In the depths where waves were sleeping ; 
 
 And the fuller tones sonorous. 
 
 Of the winds which, in full chorus. 
 
 Rushed to kiss the sedge-grown brink, 
 
 Where the god had sat to think. 
 
 O'er his satyr-brow inwoven 
 
 Were Thought-prints, and both his cloven 
 
 Feet, hung listless o'er the brim, 
 
 'Twas a merry morn for him ! 
 
 Sunnily the landscape floated 
 
 In the far, while in the near, 
 
 On the pulsing atmosphere, 
 
 The broad stream of Light was moted,
 
 72 PAN. 
 
 And the dust that swelled and swum, 
 With a rhythm slow and dumb, 
 Helped to birth, with its soft motion, 
 All the music silent-throated 
 Which within the god lay dormant, 
 Like an unappeased torment. 
 Or an unborn storm in Ocean. 
 
 He sat and watched the flexile reed. 
 
 O'er which the wind played many a prank 
 
 Of untaught melody and deed ; 
 
 He saw it as it rose and sank 
 
 With colour-symphonies most rare, 
 
 And cried, " By Pan ! if music finds 
 
 A dwelling for its soul, 'tis here 
 
 It lives ! " He from the vagrant winds 
 
 Snatched one slim reed, and stripped it bare 
 
 Of stream-wove sheath, then to his ear 
 
 A moment pressed it, but no sound 
 
 Came trembling through the oozing wound. 
 
 " Pain begets sweetness," spoke the god. 
 
 And gashed the reed with patient ruth 
 
 At every joint, then lips and hands 
 
 Applied, and thence, in very sooth. 
 
 Faint music issued slow, and sweet 
 
 As Spring's first kisses when they meet 
 
 Above a field of asphodel.
 
 PAN. 73 
 
 And soon, outstripping all the bands 
 Which swathed its birth, wild music trod 
 Out on the pausing air and stream, 
 As Light treads down a golden beam. 
 
 Oh, Pan a merry morning had ! 
 His soul was bursting into life, 
 With wings of music lightly clad, 
 How can a spirit but be glad ? 
 He spoke the tongue of Nature, strewed 
 The joyous communing of flow'rs, 
 The lisping accents of the Hours, 
 And Winds, out from the solitude 
 Of his deep soul, in speeches rife 
 With joy ; the very airs drew nigh, 
 To mingle in his melody. 
 He claspt the reed, and when the glades 
 Arcadian wore the evening shades 
 That lay like dreams athwart them, Pan 
 Blew merrily, as a god can. 
 Upon the pipe he deftly wrought. 
 In twin-rows fitting as they ought, 
 Looped by a river-stem. When Night 
 Drew sable garments round the Light, 
 He wandered through the forest with 
 His reed, which was a shaped myth, 
 To all the beasts of field and fell.
 
 74 PAN. 
 
 The lilies shook their moonlit wings, 
 
 Dilating on the waves like swans, 
 
 Night-born ; for the wind's whisperings 
 
 Held nothing half so sweet as Pan's. 
 
 The lush-grass trembled at his touch, 
 
 The aspen branches shook above. 
 
 (Oh ! Night and Music, ye have much, 
 
 So much to make ye kin to Love !) 
 
 And the wild cygnet, sailing o'er 
 
 The streams, came down through glade and moor, 
 
 With curved wings and piercing eyes. 
 
 In answer to his melodies, 
 
 When Dawn revealed the great god Pan, 
 
 Piping, as pipes no mortal man. 
 
 August, 1881.
 
 ( 75 ) 
 
 IN THE GLOAMING. 
 
 Dear, the nightingales were singing in the gloaming of 
 
 the garden, 
 When we met ; and when we parted, fell a break within 
 
 their song. 
 And the silence was so thrilling, that it seemed to ask for 
 
 pardon 
 To the Night, that grasped and held it, in a shadowed 
 
 hand and strong. 
 
 Then thy voice grew through the shadows, and the silence, 
 
 stern and solemn, 
 And my heart was faint with terror, as that question on it 
 
 smote ; 
 Though the head was proudly raised, and held defiant on 
 
 the column 
 (Just as though for Pride thou cared'st) of the palpitating 
 
 throat. 
 
 Thou hadst kist that throat a moment gone, and praised 
 
 its touch, and colour, 
 Thou hadst gazed full faith through eyes that held a 
 
 memory within.
 
 76 IN THE GLOAMING. 
 
 And my heart for that went wilder, and the breath came 
 
 chill, and fuller, 
 As that other love glanced softly in — a Vision of my sin. 
 
 Sin because I should have told thee, ere thy life was 
 
 wreckt in loving ; 
 Sin because my heart was given, given, given past recall 
 Ere we met, and I . . . I let thy passion take its way, and 
 
 move in 
 The warm cycle of my life, I thought it could but have a 
 
 fall 
 
 (When the truth was out) and bruise thee, in a mild and 
 
 tender fashion. 
 Never piercing through thee thus in anguish lasting, crying, 
 
 deep, 
 Mine was not the soul of woman that could measure out 
 
 compassion 
 To the heart that bowed before her, giving her its life to 
 
 keep. 
 
 Mine the sin, and mine the sorrow ; oh ! forgive the want 
 
 of candour 
 And forget ! (Ye nightingales, sing, break this stillness 
 
 which is pain !) 
 Oh ! the very winds have ceased, and those cold, cruel 
 
 stars look blander 
 Than their wont. Dear friend, forgive me ! Wilt thou 
 
 never speak again ?
 
 IN THE GLOAMING. TJ 
 
 Never say that thou hast pardoned? — by each sigh, and 
 
 memory tender, 
 Kiss me once in mute compassion ! look me kindly in the 
 
 eyes. 
 Nightingales sing out ! and smite his silence, with your 
 
 vocal splendour, 
 For its passion breaks my spirit, through that pitiless 
 
 disguise. 
 
 Florence, 18S2.
 
 ( 78 ) 
 
 GIOTTINO. 
 
 There fell through San Lorenzo's dome 
 
 A thousand shafts of coloured light, 
 
 Born from the aerial hues that home 
 
 Themselves in a mosaic bright, 
 
 With all the scenes that droop, and swim, 
 
 Through lattice gay or fretwork dim. . . . 
 
 Upon the southern wall there fell, 
 
 A slanting path of gold, and lit, 
 
 A scene one may remember well. 
 
 From having gazed so long on it, 
 
 In every art, and every whim, 
 
 That Genius of a long dead Age 
 
 Could give to canvas, or to stone. 
 
 That thrice-blest woman with her Son 
 
 (The Virgin Mary, and the mild 
 
 Eyed Saviour, as a little Child) 
 
 One might begin a pilgrimage, 
 
 And end it at this very shrine. 
 
 From Michel' Angiolo, sage 
 
 In triple talent, to the fine
 
 GIOTTINO. 79 
 
 Sweet Tintoret, and that divine 
 
 Murillo, whose melUfluous brush 
 
 Seems dipt in love, \\. feels so much ! 
 
 A winter's eve in Laurent's fane, 
 
 A small child wrestled with his pain, 
 
 The rooted pain some few know well, 
 
 Keen, wasting, undefinable, 
 
 Which Genius carries like a sting. 
 
 Deep planted in its soaring wing. 
 
 He was not thus to suffer long, 
 
 The death of Life was in his face. 
 
 And shrunken limbs, and eyes so strong 
 
 With Immortality ; their gaze 
 
 Pierced through the pallid, suffering dust, 
 
 To show how Heaven's radiance must, 
 
 Through souls which at its distant gate. 
 
 So long in expectation wait. 
 
 His little body was a whole 
 
 Unshapely thing, and much misformed. 
 
 But gaze beneath the brow that warmed 
 
 His life, and there you met the Soul. 
 
 He was not even blithe and free 
 
 Of lip and eye as children be. 
 
 But seemed as if some fearful weight 
 
 Of spirit, in his spirit sate. 
 
 He was a painter, and he knew 
 
 Before his tongue, each form and hue,
 
 }^o GIOTTINO. 
 
 As if he learnt it ere his birth, 
 
 To keep him happy whilst on Earth ; 
 
 Nor lived he with or thought, or hope, 
 
 Save with his glorious Art to cope. 
 
 No parents tended him, he was 
 
 A waif swept on this stream of Life, 
 
 And if (from Sympathy's sweet laws) 
 
 One had not stretched across the strife, 
 
 To rescue from the pain, and grief, 
 
 This poor outcast, and withered leaf 
 
 That floated in a strength sublime, 
 
 Down the impetuous wave of Time, 
 
 The World had lost a spirit such 
 
 As it knows little of; nor much 
 
 It seemed to care, this wintry day, 
 
 For Giotto and his guardian grey. 
 
 The man was rich in sympathy. 
 
 But poor as Poverty in pelf, 
 
 Whate'er he earned, was given free, 
 
 He kept but loving for himself. 
 
 And nourished it with hope and care, 
 
 That it should blossom large and fair. 
 
 As any sun-born bough in May. 
 
 And those who past him by, could say, 
 
 " Lo, how the plant that 'Selmo tends 
 
 Has brought him tenfold love and friends." 
 
 He loved the boy, because he saw
 
 GIOTTINO. 8 1 
 
 None other stooped to care for him, 
 Although, by some instinctive law, 
 They, through the wizened face and limb, 
 Read that some strange thing dwelt within 
 The child, who through the city trod. 
 With genius of the demi-god, 
 Although his frame was sick as Sin. 
 
 When half the sprightly Tuscan town 
 
 Saw how the Art came floating down 
 
 Through the boy's fingers, grave they grew, 
 
 And searched their glorious painters through, 
 
 To find a name to make him glad. 
 
 And thus " Giottino " named the lad. 
 
 Who, to requite their faith that he 
 
 One day should great, and famed be, 
 
 Drew, on their festa mornings oft 
 
 A crowd, to see how swift, and soft 
 
 Grew, 'neath the lithe hand (free from pain) 
 
 The fair creations of his brain. 
 
 And often, when within an hour. 
 
 He sketched some pagan myth, or power 
 
 Upon the walls and stones, and when 
 
 Closed round his work the grey-haired men, 
 
 With words of sunshine, to requite 
 
 His gift, he trampled out the deed, 
 
 In fiery pride, as he would say, 
 
 G
 
 82 GIOTTINO. 
 
 "Lo, I can build, and sweep away 
 The work ye prize ! " — and out of spite, 
 He trod the dust in to destroy 
 The lightest line, in sooth the boy, 
 Was something of the demon then ! 
 But 'Selmo, like a guardian saint, 
 Straightway their clemency would plead, 
 When, filled with horror at such trait 
 Of malice, they would turn away, 
 With purses closed, and angry eyes. 
 (For 'Selmo had to agonize 
 In that fell conflict for the pelf. 
 He never yet had asked for self), 
 "See, Signori, his heart is quaint — 
 Che vuole — 'tis a gifted lad, 
 But v/hen one lives on hope and paint 
 In sooth, one well may grow as mad ! " 
 And then the smiles and coin would pour 
 Down in a small but welcome shower. 
 
 Giottino was not kind of lip. 
 Nor knew Anselmo to requite, 
 For all his deeds of fellowship 
 And love, and tenderness, aright. 
 The last was this— the cripple bore 
 A strange weird fancy in his brain, 
 That if he could but paint, before
 
 GIOTTINO. 83 
 
 His death, the two in Laurent's fane 
 He almost would grow well again ; 
 At least, he then would satisfy 
 A painful wish, and gladlier die. 
 So 'Selmo to the high and great, 
 Had drawn the boy's declining state, 
 His genius, and the fearful whim. 
 That was consuming life in him, 
 And by much patience — many days 
 Spent at the Civic doors, and praise, 
 And sacrifice of food, and rest, 
 He earned at length this strange request. 
 And with a joyful heart he turned 
 To Giotto, who such tidings yearned. 
 
 Well, on the eve that Giotto learnt 
 He should fulfil his dream, pourtraying 
 The aureoled twain whose beauty burnt 
 His spirit, as he knelt a-praying, 
 Within Lorenzo's aisle, he felt 
 The demon swiftly in him melt 
 A little space, and clung — and wept — 
 To 'Selmo whose pure love had kept 
 All the privations, toil, and care. 
 He day by day for him did share, 
 From the poor lad, who lived apart 
 From Earth, a proselyte to Art.
 
 84 - GIOTTINO. 
 
 He wept and promised all he could, 
 Less waywardness of lip and blood, 
 More thought, and 'Selmo sadly sighed. 
 Knowing full well that when the tide 
 Of Joy, and of Remorse should pass 
 That they would leave him what he was 
 Before, a wild and wilful sprite, 
 An heir of Day, born out of Night. 
 
 11. 
 
 The picture lay full many a span 
 
 Up the old walls, and scaffolds grew 
 
 'Neath 'Selmo's hands, who worked like man 
 
 Can toil who loves — as love so few ! 
 
 And then Giottino to his throne 
 
 Went up, as kings do to their own, 
 
 In royalty of pride and place 
 
 Which almost lent his step a grace. 
 
 Days flew and weeks, he wrought apace. 
 
 Death, too, was busy with his tool 
 
 Uplifted, on the fragile base 
 
 Of the poor life he had to school 
 
 Unto his shadows : but the boy 
 
 Reckt litde of the pangs that half 
 
 Devoured his wasting limbs ; a laugh, 
 
 Half demon-born, and half of joy,
 
 GIOTTINO. 85 
 
 Broke from his pallid lips, which said 
 
 He'd " end the work ere he was dead." 
 
 Day after day the labour waxed 
 
 So fair, one might have deemed that Death 
 
 Lent power to the hand, and taxed 
 
 The gift, upon Giottino's breath ; 
 
 Which fainter came, as music grew 
 
 Rich, wild and lasting 'neath his brush, 
 
 Disguised in every radiant hue, 
 
 A revelation in each touch. 
 
 That seemed to thrill beneath the eyes 
 
 Which dimmed in solving the disguise ! 
 
 The famed and famous of his day, 
 
 Came to approve, to praise, and play 
 
 On the lad's soul with questions wise. 
 
 But his impervious replies 
 
 Grew short, and scant, as they were born 
 
 From shyness half, and half from scorn. 
 
 When One, from out the twain, was painted 
 
 The lad waxed very wan and weak, 
 
 Life seemed within him to have fainted, 
 
 The shades of Death were on his cheek. 
 
 And then Anselmo wept, and pled 
 
 For a brief respite, but in vain — 
 
 " They must be wrought ere I am dead 
 
 For I shall never paint again ! "
 
 86 GIOTTINO. 
 
 When on the Babe his hand was stirred 
 His heart leapt like a prisoned bird 
 Against the fever of his throat, 
 As though it thence would loose its note, 
 (And when the pulse beats there to see 
 We know the life must soon be free), 
 Anselmo, with the grief of one 
 Whose toil and care will soon be done, 
 Wrought, like a slave with chains endued, 
 To gain the boy his daily food ; 
 And when Giottino turned his head 
 From the coarse homely meal of bread. 
 His guardian-angel begged, and saved 
 Each coin, to get him daintier fare ; 
 Blue grapes, where sunbeams from a lair. 
 Struck back the bloom they had enslaved ; 
 And ripe figs (one may buy a store 
 For two small coins) : but even these, 
 Lay by Giottino's side at ease. 
 His days for loving them were o'er 1 
 And 'Selmo, who had forfeited. 
 For such, his crumb of daily bread, 
 Kept the wan secret to himself, 
 And stored the treasures on a shelf, 
 Lest in the night the boy should wake 
 With fever, that no wave could slake,
 
 GIOTTINO. 87 
 
 And call for the grape's luscious juice, 
 Which Love had laid up for his use. 
 At last the work was well-nigh done, 
 The Babe was aureoled, and His mother 
 Smiled holily upon that Son, 
 Whom she had borne before all other. 
 And here a shade, and there a touch, 
 Would leave the picture finished quite ; 
 But Giotto's strength was gone so much, 
 That he could scarcely hold a brush, 
 Save by his Will's triumphant might. 
 Which fought with Death, a conflict grim, 
 And half had learnt to master him. 
 But Death came hov'ring round those hands 
 That quivered, like a snow-swept leaf, 
 And were so strengthless no commands 
 Could bid them longer hold a sheaf 
 He laid his palette on the floor. 
 His eyes (with weariness grown dim) 
 Retraced his death-gift o'er, and o'er, 
 Dilating on each face, and limb. 
 Whose beauty (when his life was far) 
 Should shine in Florence like a star. 
 'Twas at one sunset that he grew 
 Faint, cold and pallid, and he knew 
 Death's task (his ghastly task) was done 
 Which had before his own begun ;
 
 GIOTTINO. 
 
 And 'Selmo begged to bear him down, 
 
 To the good friars, whose prayers could make 
 
 More easy (so ran their renown) 
 
 The lonely road he had to take. 
 
 But nothing would Giottino heed, 
 
 He'd "die before the pictured two," 
 
 And, seeing now how great his need 
 
 For aid, his friend in terror flew 
 
 And prayed the priests the Cross to bear 
 
 Aloft, and shrive the dying there. 
 
 They looked the old man in the face. 
 
 Then sped aloft with solemn pace. . . . 
 
 Giottino hardly saw or heard ; 
 
 Upon his work his eyes were fixed. 
 
 And all in vain the friars stirred 
 
 With prayers (and benedictions mixed) 
 
 About him, for, with ebbing strength, 
 
 He to his picture turned and prayed ; 
 
 But the priests' patience ebbed at length. 
 
 And, raising up the lad, they said : 
 
 " My son, we come with holy aid." . . . 
 
 Then, as the lightning cleaves the cloud 
 
 With fire, ere yet the thunders loud. 
 
 Across their lurid pathway roll, 
 
 So flashed the genius from the soul 
 
 Of Giotto, to his glance — and speech 
 
 Bade them " depart and pray, and preach
 
 GIOTTINO. 89 
 
 Elsewhere, with canting lip, and whim, 
 
 His Art was Earth, and Heaven, to him ! " 
 
 The priests with horror gazed, and nurst 
 
 A fury in their silent eyes. 
 
 If glances dumbly could have curst. 
 
 Theirs closed the doors of Paradise 
 
 Against the sinner dying fast, 
 
 Strange, and rebellious, to the last. 
 
 And then they left him, and he turned 
 
 His dying words to 'Selmo's ear : 
 
 " This gift is thine, for thou hast earned 
 
 It, padre ; and, though much I fear 
 
 That it should pass for foreign gold, 
 
 And into distant lands be sold. 
 
 Still, for the long, long years in which 
 
 Thy love has made my genius rich, 
 
 With many deeds like jewels built 
 
 Into this life's most rugged stone, 
 
 'Tis thine ; I give it thee alone. 
 
 Do with it even what thou wilt ! ". . . 
 
 He died that hour ; and when they bore 
 
 Him down, the tapers were not lit. 
 
 No friars watched his shroud before, 
 
 And when they reached the charnel pit, 
 
 The only mourner at it bent 
 
 Anselmo, faint with grief — and spent. . . . 
 
 He left the picture where it stood ;
 
 90 GIOTTINO. 
 
 The priests to win it battled strong, 
 Because the city found, ere long, 
 That it was very fair and good ; 
 And some one, deep in lucre-hood, 
 Had laid his coin in glittering coils, 
 To lure Anselmo to the toils. 
 But for that speech the boy had spoke. 
 Ere death across his whispers broke, 
 He clutched the picture in his heart, 
 And would not let it hence depart. 
 
 The snow was on the Apennines, 
 
 And Winter prest with rugged feet 
 
 The Flower-city ; through each street, 
 
 The winds swept down in icy lines, 
 
 They were so strong, and wrought so well. 
 
 One almost thought them tangible. 
 
 They struck Anselmo to the core, 
 
 He could no longer, as before, 
 
 Gain the Piazzetta's sun, and rest, 
 
 (The full beams smiting on his breast). 
 
 In dead Giottino's canvas was. 
 
 What might have warmed him oft, and fed. 
 
 He would not sell it, though, for bread, 
 
 Nor part with it at all, because 
 
 The boy's least wishes had been laws, 
 
 And then he might have learnt it ! dead —
 
 GIOTTINO. 91 
 
 And so the cold pierced free and strong, 
 And struck him down to death, ere long. 
 They found him helpless on the kerb 
 Of stone, and deemed he slept ; but then 
 His slumber was so long, the men 
 Around him, did at length disturb, 
 And raised the breast-o'erdrooping head. 
 " Madonna ! but the creature's dead ! " 
 
 The town then let its speeches loose, 
 
 " The miser ! diamine he might 
 
 Have sold the picture for his use. 
 
 And now have been in plenty quite." 
 
 The Civic Office thronged the church. 
 
 And there demanded as their right 
 
 The canvas, while the priests averred 
 
 'Twas theirs~-\}(\€\x murmurs were not heard. 
 
 Their protests were left in the lurch. 
 
 And he who tempted 'Selmo, bore 
 
 The prize — by reason of his ore. . . . 
 
 But in the realms were Love obtains 
 Its guerdon, 'Selmo, from the strains 
 Of angels, learnt what deathless bliss 
 Awarded is to love like his .' 
 
 Florence, November, 188 1.
 
 ( 92 ) 
 
 HOURS. 
 
 Hours are the pebbles which Time's hand flings quickly 
 
 Into that sea — the Past ; some sink at once, 
 
 Some gleam in Love and Faith, and Duty's suns 
 
 A moment, ere they dive to gather thickly 
 
 Upon the nether shores of Life at last. 
 
 But when Time's hand from casting them shall cease, 
 
 And when Eternity, with stern white brow, 
 
 Shall draw near to him, with " What doest thou ? " 
 
 Time will stoop for them through their sepulchre, 
 
 And in quick fingers hold out his increase : 
 
 Wherefrom Eternity shall pick the fairest 
 
 And leave the hours that unreplenished were 
 
 In Time's grey palm — whose lips shall straightway stir: 
 
 "And what of these?" 
 
 "Do with them what thou darest ! " 
 
 February 8, 1882.
 
 ( 93 ) 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF NIGHT. 
 
 The spirit of Night drove out the light 
 
 From the heavens, and her car, 
 Through the western gold, its flight unrolled. 
 
 Charioteered by a star. 
 She caught the shrouds, of the Twilight clouds. 
 
 And into her garments twist, 
 The petals red, which the sun had shed 
 
 When he trod in amethyst. 
 She kist the bars of the sealed stars, 
 
 And they burst like mellow flowers. 
 Which a touch of the sun has just undone, 
 
 In the heart of somnolent bowers. 
 With faint caresses she smoothed the tresses, 
 
 Pledges of Love and Peace, 
 That float and quiver, like a diamond river. 
 
 From the brows of Berenice. 
 She laid a hand, like a spirit-wand, 
 
 On the head of the Greater Bear, 
 He growled with delight as he sprung to light, 
 » From the shadows of his lair.
 
 94 THE SPIRIT OF NIGHT. 
 
 She sung to the moon a soft low tune, 
 
 Which the silver crescent heard, 
 And piercing through the aerial blue, 
 
 Blossomed at her word. 
 Then weary awhile, with a listless smile, 
 
 And a Light-throbbing breast. 
 On the tawny bed that Orion spread 
 
 She sank to a transient rest. . . . 
 Then arose, and trod, with the step of a god, 
 
 The skies from end to end, 
 Where the Northern Pole, with its great white soul. 
 Seems over the whole wide earth to roll. 
 
 To where the Pleiads bend. 
 She bathed her feet in the streamlets fleet. 
 
 And drew them, sleek as silk, 
 From the bubbling edge where the billow's ledge 
 
 Sprinkles its beads of milk ; 
 Then sought her rest on the curtained breast, 
 
 Of the heav'ns a little space, 
 While the winds breathed low, to and fro. 
 
 Fanning her dusky face. 
 Then each star sailed wan, like a weary swan, 
 
 Down the streams of the whitening sky, 
 And the moon withdrew, as though she knew 
 
 That the spirit of Day was nigh. 
 While Night upsmiled, like a sleep-flushed chiUl, 
 
 And stretched her arms to the Dawn ;
 
 THE SPIRIT OF NIGHT. 95 
 
 Then rose to sweep down the golden Deep 
 
 Of the billowy clouds of Morn. 
 Thus shadow-coated, she slowly floated 
 
 To the horizon's brink, 
 And dipt in the sea, where all things that be 
 
 Their tithe of oblivion drink. 
 
 Florence, March, 1881.
 
 ( 96 ) 
 
 ARIEL. 
 
 "A Pardlike spirit, beautiful and swift, 
 A love in desolation masked." — Adonais, xxxii. 
 
 There was a Poet born, whose spirit kist 
 The morning-stars, and floated down as mist, 
 In this world's shadowed pageant to assist. 
 
 He knew no language save the speech that wrought 
 
 Within him, like a fine and changeful thought, 
 
 (Men deemed he knew much less than mortals ought), 
 
 But in his tongue he spake all lovely things. 
 And words dilated as on viewless wings. 
 Soul-breezes fluttered through his whisperings. 
 
 He poured the song into the Skylark's throat. 
 He set the Cloud in motion, like a boat. 
 Across the skies of Song, thereon to float. 
 
 ^63' 
 
 He had of Earth no knowledge — but his lore 
 
 Was wide, for it was learnt his birth before. 
 
 And it spread 'twixt the Past's and Future's shore.
 
 ARIEL, 97 
 
 He was a radiant spirit — like a white 
 Star, grown to loveliness on unborn Light ; 
 Yet in his guilelessness there was a might 
 
 Which was to guile, and sin, as antidote. 
 And, with a pow'r which ever seemed remote. 
 He struck at Wrong, and at Oppression smote ; 
 
 And tried to clear from off Earth's eyes the film ; 
 And strove of Right's frail craft to guide the helm ; 
 And drove his soul at Evil — to o'erwhelm. 
 
 He sung of all fair things, and wept soul-tears, 
 Because life knew so little of those spheres, 
 Where Truth is loved and Wrong is set with fears. 
 
 He was God-born, although the path he trod 
 
 On Earth gave 'neath his foot, and, through that sod, 
 
 He struck at man, and dreamt he smote at God. 
 
 But his pure spirit set men's laws aside, 
 (God has no law save Love), and it defied 
 Their will in calm integrity of pride. 
 
 For this, man set upon him the curst seal 
 Of Atheist — and righteous hearts did steel 
 Themselves against him. Heaven will reveal 
 
 H
 
 98 ARIEL. 
 
 If he who sings, as sang the morning-stars, 
 God's glory (praising Nature's) truly mars 
 His birthright, drawing on himself the bars 
 
 Of heavenly mercy — or if the new Earth, 
 Which gave his glorious poet-tongue its birth, 
 Will stand and judge hijn for man's little worth. 
 
 God is the Arbiter — He will award 
 The poet-spirit a supreme reward ; 
 For God (unlike just man) is never hard. 
 
 He reads aright 'twixt sin, and deadly hate 
 Of all oppression. Many stand and wait 
 Through life, with folded palms at Heaven's gate; 
 
 But some shall enter there we dreamt not of. 
 And my sweet singer, being judged above, 
 Shall enter too — because his life was love. 
 
 Florence, December 30, 1881.
 
 ( 99 ) 
 
 LAST WORDS. 
 
 Love ! kiss me with passionate lips ; we must part at the 
 
 fall of the sun, 
 When the dews from the Twilight-eclipse, to the ends of 
 
 the firmament run, 
 When the stars gather holy, and palely, and love seems 
 
 too soft to be told. 
 In the gloaming's sweet silvery silence, grown out of the 
 
 heart of the gold. 
 
 We must part. Fate decrees it, though fearful this break 
 
 in the chords of our bliss. 
 And a woman's eyes need be as tearful as those that are 
 
 held to thy kiss. 
 When the strength of her love has up-flowered, to the 
 
 bloom, of the blossom and fruit. 
 And Life's hand points out to her, dumbly, that there is a 
 
 worm at the root. 
 
 The worm of their pride, and my duty, which bids me, 
 
 which bids me forsake. 
 And Fate clamours over the booty she smites at my spirit 
 
 to take,
 
 loo LAST WORDS. 
 
 And hearts are left blasted for ever, because they have 
 
 learnt over soon, 
 That spirit is born unto spirit — and that fragrance lies 
 
 latent for June. 
 
 Forgive me, beloved ! add not coldness — as if mine were 
 
 the finger of Fate. 
 / lacked not to love thee with boldness — wilt thou have 
 
 the courage to hate ? 
 I liave met much reproach at thy glances, but now 
 
 (while thou still hast the power) 
 F>e unto me all I would have thee (just once), for this 
 
 terrible hour. 
 
 riie birds have all floated and twittered, to rest in their 
 
 murmuring leaves, 
 The owls are awake, and have flittered away from their 
 
 home in the eaves. 
 The stars are impassioned with beauty, but chill is their 
 
 look, as the kiss 
 "\Miich thou givest me here for the latest. Oh ! love, have 
 
 I merited this ? 
 
 I have striven with Fife, and been worsted, and at last I 
 
 am bruised to the rod. 
 I have pled to pale Grief, that in her stead, I might see 
 
 but the finger of God.
 
 LAST WORDS. loi 
 
 x\nd now, when my vision is clearer (though love has w^A 
 
 suffered for Light 
 Brought to it by Duty) I've chosen (God help me) the 
 
 love of the Right. 
 
 Then bid me farewell but with passion — some warmth 
 from thy spirit must slip. 
 
 At the touch of my soul, magnet-fashion, and thence over- 
 flow at the lip. 
 
 Let us feel that the bliss (which is over), the grief, and 
 the animate pain, 
 
 Have not through our lives been wide scattered, as use- 
 less and castaway grain. 
 
 Let us feel that when Time shall draw to us, and point 
 us the edge of his scythe, 
 
 The deep love which now palpitates through us shall l)c 
 tendered unto him as tithe, 
 
 And that when his old hands shall ensheaf us, among all 
 the harvesting done. 
 
 That our lives, now so fatally dual, shall be stilly up- 
 gathered as one. 
 
 December I2, 1 88 1.
 
 ( I02 ) 
 
 ALPHEUS TO ARETHUSA. 
 
 There is no wave, 
 
 That can hide or save thee, 
 From Delos to th' Ortygian cave. 
 
 And no sea-buds blow, 
 
 Like dissolving snow, 
 Where the might of my love may not reach and 
 enslave thee. 
 
 Thy form is fair, 
 
 And thine eyes are milder 
 Than stars that gaze through the Night's dark hair. 
 
 And the touch of the dawn 
 
 On thy cheek is born, 
 And thy course than the roe's wild flight is wilder. 
 
 The waves may beat. 
 
 And aid thine endeavour, 
 But after thee rush my viewless feet ! 
 
 As a liquid wind. 
 
 Which leaves Time behind. 
 And leaps to enfold thee for e'er and ever.
 
 ALPHEUS TO ARETHUSA. 103 
 
 My lips I have sunk 
 
 In the weltering brine, 
 And deep through the Ocean's draughts have drunk ; 
 
 Seeking those lips, 
 
 Through that green eclipse, 
 That shall yet be held as a gift to mine ! 
 
 I can see thee go, 
 
 With thy wave-lit foot, 
 And thy flashing limbs like the drifting snow. 
 
 Eyes gazing round, 
 
 Like an open wound. 
 To see me gaining in swift pursuit. 
 
 I have reached thy mouth. 
 
 Which is sweet with laughter, 
 (And tears dropt through to allay Love's drouth); 
 
 I have claspt thy chilly 
 
 White hand, like a lily. 
 Oh ! the hours of bliss that come thronging after ! 
 
 When, close on thy bosom, 
 
 I sleep in the sun, 
 And thou murmurest on like a water-blossom, 
 
 Which winds strew thickly 
 
 With odours quickly. 
 And snatch faint kisses from, one by one.
 
 104 ALPHEUS TO A RE TH USA. 
 
 Where the dragon-flies, 
 
 Shall above thee wing, 
 And yearn for a smile from thy dark deep eyes, 
 
 Diaphanous pinions 
 
 Shall be thy minions, 
 Yet steal from i/iy beauty the tints they bring. 
 
 And the ocean shell. 
 
 Like a surge-shaped petal. 
 Shall cool, and unwith'ring within thee dwell. 
 
 While Light at thy marges 
 
 In green rings enlarges. 
 And floats to thy calm depths therein to settle. 
 
 The shy-hoofed Satyrs, 
 
 Shall stretch and shall leap 
 At their shadows, falling through thy white waters. 
 
 The timid Fauni, 
 
 With glances tawny. 
 Shall stretch at thy brink in a wakeful sleep. 
 
 While their leader. Pan, 
 
 Shall drink at thy mouth. 
 Great liquid kisses grown twilight- wan ; 
 
 And deem them better 
 
 Than those that did fetter, 
 At Ladon his breath, when the hours were South.
 
 ALPHEUS TO ARETHUSA. 105 
 
 Oh ! fairest of daughters, 
 
 Oh ! love of the stream, 
 Thou white-Hmbed nymph of the wandering waters. 
 
 All tender emotion, 
 
 I sweep through the Ocean, 
 And clasp thee at last, like a wing-fettered dream. 
 
 Florence, November ^ 1881.
 
 ( io6 ) 
 
 INDIAN LULLABY. 
 
 Sleep on ! my heart, and through deep Slumber's nest, 
 Light be the wings of dreams within thy breast, 
 Sleep in soft bliss — I \vatch above thy rest, 
 As a still star. 
 
 Moonshine is floating down, the shivering palms 
 Stretch o'er the Tank their lithe and shadowy arms, 
 And all the wind with champak fragrance warms, 
 Near and afar. 
 
 I.o ! on the brink the snake its white coils opes, 
 And sends them o'er, like soft and silver ropes, 
 Some hidden prey beneath the wave he hopes, 
 Sleep thou unharmed ! 
 
 All the white air vibrates beneath the cry 
 Of the sly gheethur * wandering weirdly nigh 
 As now it swells tumultuously, to die 
 Distance-calmed. 
 
 * Jackal.
 
 INDIAN lULLABY. 107 
 
 Sleep ! thy dosed lips are like the folded bud 
 Of the Anar * which bursts to mellow blood, 
 AVhen the warm day has reached its zenith-hood, 
 Love of my heart ! 
 
 I will ward off all evil things that creep 
 Near to thy rest ; and shed above thy sleep 
 Tears, such as eyes that love alone can weep, 
 Loved as thou art. 
 
 When the large stars look down with eyes of dew. 
 And the white Dawn comes slowly floating through, 
 Thou shalt awake, and smile, and love anew 
 From thy deep sleep. 
 
 Till then dream on ! the jungle tiger's roar 
 Ebbs like a swell that dies along the shore, 
 When all its might and majesty are o'er 
 On the Deep. 
 
 I will avert his stealthy tread and fast, 
 Thy happy sleep his wand'rings shall outlast, 
 Nor must thou wake till perils all are past. 
 And afar ! 
 
 Sleep on ! my heart, and through soft slumber's nest, 
 Light be the wings of dreams within thy breast ! 
 Sleep in pure bliss, while I above thy rest, 
 Outwatch each star. 
 
 Bangalore, Mysore. 
 
 Pomegranate.
 
 ( loS ) 
 
 SHADOWS AND LIGHT IN THE 
 UFFIZL 
 
 In the Gallery's mystic chillness, 
 
 Phantom-forms creep, here and there, 
 Noiselessly along the stillness. 
 
 Which is rarified to air. 
 Till our Fancy, down the Ages, 
 
 Pushes mortal barks afloat 
 On the stream of Time, that rages 
 
 Dumbly 'neath each winging boat. . . . 
 With his boyish head low-drooping 
 
 Till one scarce his smile can tell, 
 For the shadows overstooping, 
 
 Comes God-gifted Raphael. 
 Pondering in his spirit, sounding 
 
 All the lone depths of his soul, 
 For that smile— our mind confounding — 
 
 Which about the Virgin stole. 
 There is something sad and thoughtful 
 
 In his side-glance, that prepares
 
 SHADOWS AND LIGHT IN THE UFFIZI 109 
 
 For the pictures which he wrought full 
 
 Of his genius — unawares. 
 Next him comes a shadow burly, 
 
 With strange features muscle-firm, 
 And a gaze 'neath brows so surly. 
 
 That one scarce can read the germ 
 Of the " Morning " he created, 
 
 Close upon the robes of " Night," 
 When his spirit lay full sated. 
 
 At the portals of its might ! 
 And da' Vinci, with the splendour 
 
 Of bright fame upon that brow, 
 Whence the eyes shoot Passion's tender 
 
 Arrows, from a silver bow. 
 Then adown the shadows winging. 
 
 With the gold of heaven besprent, 
 Giotto, with his large eyes singing 
 
 Of the glory in him pent. 
 Rays he cast in ambient beauty, 
 
 O'er the pictures of that heart 
 Which escaped from Life to Duty 
 
 In the Sanctuary of Art. 
 And a grave slow step comes later 
 
 Up the dim Uffizj shade, 
 Hand in hand with that Joy-hater 
 
 Time, who lay in ambuscade
 
 no SHADOWS AND LIGHT IN THE UFFIZI. 
 
 For the form his fingers weighted*' 
 With the Unks of years and fame, 
 
 He whom Venus once elated 
 With the music of her name. 
 
 Oh ! dead Painters, with the power 
 
 Of Creation, lying deep 
 In your souls, shall it upflower 
 
 Nevermore from Death's dim sleep ? 
 Have the shadows chilled your God-gift ? 
 
 Are ye smiling on your biers 
 So content, that were the sod lift 
 
 We should lose the sound of tears ? 
 Oh ! ye Painters, with the vision 
 
 Of heaven's glory, smiting down 
 In such wonderful fruition, 
 
 Through your Genius' starry crown, 
 Are ye willing to lie idle, 
 
 With the meaner dust around, 
 And your aspirations bridle 
 
 To that silence underground ? 
 Did your Artist-spirits linger 
 
 O'er your graves to see Life drop, 
 Till Grief almost lift her finger 
 
 For the hungry worms to stop ? 
 Ye who painted flesh, that's living 
 
 Through long centuries, as fair
 
 SHADOWS AND LIGHT IN THE UFFIZI. in 
 
 As the day ye left off striving 
 
 With the latest dimple there, 
 Could ye not preserve your features, 
 
 And the happy coming breath 
 That sent life on, glorious creatures 
 
 That sent life on unto ? — Death . . . 
 Comes no answer ? Silence clambers 
 
 Up the roofs, and seems to cry. 
 Through the wide deserted chambers, 
 
 " Who so powerful as I ! " 
 And the forms of Artists vanish, 
 
 Like a blade-sweep in the air. 
 Where Fact's Angel stands to banish 
 
 Fancy from Thought-portals there. 
 But as down the steps we wander, 
 
 Turning back our spirit-ears. 
 For the words which we would ponder ; 
 
 Through our disappointment's tears, 
 Comes a vision of pale phantoms. 
 
 Robed in Light, and chaunting low. 
 And across their soft-told anthems, 
 
 Waving gently to and fro. 
 We can hear those lips replying, 
 
 Through Time's unremembered dust 
 (Just as though they knew not dying), 
 
 " We have given back our trust
 
 112 SHADOWS AND LIGHT AV THE UFFTZL 
 
 Unto God, we held by Duty, 
 In the talents He consigned 
 
 To us, painting forth all Beauty, 
 As the reflex of His mind. 
 
 And He scatters tenfold blessing 
 On us for the labour done.' 
 
 Friend into the Piazza pressing, 
 Let us go and meet the sun. 
 
 Florence.
 
 ( "3 ) 
 
 WITCH SONG. 
 
 Earth's bosom lies bare 
 To the kiss of the Moon, 
 While Night in despair 
 Drags her softly and soon, 
 By the darkness of tresses. 
 To undreamt caresses, 
 But in his right hand shines a blade, shines a blade ! 
 
 He will lunge it, and plunge it 
 Deep down through her beauty the slumbering maid. 
 We will follow, will follow 
 Through bracken and hollow, 
 And kiss the dust shadows which fall from his feet. 
 And the blood which Earth's bosom shall run with so 
 fleet. 
 And the pale sighs she utters, 
 As life ebbs and flutters 
 From her Light-smitten lips, when the wound gapeth 
 sweet. 
 Shade strikes at the Moon, 
 To hold Earth and have her, 
 
 I
 
 114 WITCH SONG. 
 
 The Moon smites at shadow 
 . To lave her, and save her, 
 
 And the spheres tremble down in a visionless swoon. 
 Come, sisters, and wing it 
 While the owls and bats sing it. 
 
 We'll scour Night after, o'er ocean and meadow. 
 
 First Witch. 
 
 As far as that mountain 
 
 Which spits through the dusk 
 
 A fiery live fountain 
 Whose boulders now scorched once gleamed like the 
 tusk 
 
 Of a boar brought to quarter 
 
 A moment ere slaughter. 
 Come, sisters ! the Evening walks laden with musk. 
 
 Second Witch. 
 
 Where I saw in the hell-broth. 
 Full many a soul 
 Of the lost, going round in a ring as by troth 
 Their woes they did carry. 
 To mingle and marry 
 With the pain they should meet ; and the finger of one 
 Pointed up to us three, pointed up like a sun 
 
 When its fire has burst through all spheric control.
 
 WITCH SONG. 1 1 1; 
 
 Ha ! ha ! if he might 
 Have smote to our height, 
 We three had been charred by his wrath and undone ! 
 
 Spirit of DARKNESs./^i'-f///^/^ the 7uind. 
 
 Is it thus ye commune of your master, ye hags ? 
 He tvill reach ye, and seize ye, and tear ye to rags 
 
 In your insolent mirth ; 
 
 From the regions of Earth 
 He will scatter your bones in an hour from this, 
 
 Down, down the abyss ! \passei. 
 
 Third Witch. 
 
 And above him a comet 
 
 Shone steady and pale, 
 
 Like God's finger, and from it 
 
 Hung stars as a veil, 
 Which Satan struck frowns at from depths of his ire. 
 
 But distance did screen it, 
 
 And looming between it 
 And hell s troubled hate, was God's breath like white 
 fire. 
 
 First Witch. 
 
 On, on ! these bats whirl 
 Like a storm in the air 
 And their wings as they swirl 
 Have a sound of despair !
 
 ii6 WITCH SONG. 
 
 All Three. 
 
 How the winds melt away 
 Past our flight, how the Night 
 Stalks along in his might 
 To the weak Earth, his prey 
 
 Third Witch. 
 
 The Moon gives her up, 
 
 And the blade of the stars 
 Is shining in Night's swarthy hand, we shall sup 
 
 On the cries and the scars 
 Of the world, of the world, as we sit on the cloud. 
 And the winds shall laugh with us like spirits aloud ! 
 
 While earth waxeth dim 
 
 In each moon-blighted limb, 
 And Night smiles o'er her — pitiless Night — till she swoons 
 
 Down, down to the depth of his hate, of his hate. 
 Ho ! sisters, methinks that the hour groweth late ? 
 
 First Witch. 
 'Tis ten by the wings of the shadows which fly. 
 
 Second Witch. 
 
 'Tis twelve by the pulse of the hours as they die, 
 And the bat in the ivy with visions communes.
 
 WITCH SONG. ir 
 
 Third Witch. 
 'Tis one, oh ! our triumph, our triumph is nigh ! 
 
 An hour later, all the Witches chanting on the brink 
 
 of yEtna. 
 
 Ho, fires ! go slowly : 
 We drop ye juice of bane and moly, 
 To quench ye up, to scorch and wither, 
 And lids of a dead man wrest this morning 
 From eyes that nevermore wake at dawning. 
 And just one drop from the heart o'erladen 
 Of a newly-slain and immaculate maiden. 
 Whom a lover smote at a jealous rumour. 
 (She was as fair as the maid who hither 
 Was born of the Earth and Skies.) Entomb her 
 Heart's pure blood, and assuage your ires, 
 Ye wreathing, hissing, unquenchable fires ! 
 
 What burning for ever, and rioting still 
 
 As if ye would burst as the heart from this hill ? 
 
 Tangling in fiery eddies, yet keeping 
 
 The station from whence ye for ever are leaping 
 
 Upwards like hell-hounds to seize us and clasp us, 
 
 Red tongues thrust out hotly for food, would ye grasp us. 
 
 We who were born out of fires as awful, 
 
 To whom brimstone and flames are the elements lawful ?
 
 ii8 IVirCH SONG. 
 
 Ah ! but we laugh at your hellish endeavours : 
 Leap at our feet, there your impotence severs, 
 Crushed by our glance from your lurid desires 
 Ye wreathing and curling, unquenchable fires ! 
 
 [ The Spirit of^tna passes iti a cloud. 
 
 First Witch. 
 
 Sisters, what passes 
 Like some huge phantom of the Night afloat 
 
 On Darkness ? — it amasse 
 Clouds like dumb waves around it. . 
 
 Second Witch. 
 
 Yet it smote 
 Me with red glances, till my withered brow 
 Shrunk scorched to fear 
 
 Third Witch, 
 
 Let us forth and surround it 
 And question face to face th' intruder now ! 
 
 They clasp hands and dance round the Shape singing. 
 
 By the Powers of Darkness pressing 
 
 On the spirit of the Night, 
 Which stands round us now, confessing 
 
 One great fellowship of Might,
 
 WITCH SO.VG. 119 
 
 And the lost souls wandering, haunted 
 
 By our unrelenting Will, 
 Who art thou, dim form, undaunted 
 
 By our potency to kill ? 
 
 Stars are rolling in their courses, 
 
 And these hell-fires run their race, 
 Breathed on by immortal forces 
 
 Standing with them face to face, 
 But of all on Earth or under. 
 
 Wrapt in mystery unsolved, 
 None like thee, thou form of thunder, 
 
 Has before us e'er evolved. 
 
 Art thou veiled Storm that treadest, 
 
 Art thou Ocean-\\Taith, or Wind, 
 Gathered into shape that threadest ? 
 
 Or the disembodied mind 
 Of some element new dying 
 
 In gigantic throes ? Reply ! 
 What, thou darest, unreplying. 
 
 Pass ?— then, phantom, writhe and die/ 
 
 Quick kill it, and seize it, 
 ^^'ith fires appease it, 
 Cast it down in the pit where life dwindles and shrinks. 
 
 [T/ie Sha;pe floats doum.
 
 1 23 WITCH SONG. 
 
 Ha ! the flames how they flick it, 
 
 And snatch it, and hck it 
 With tongues whose red edge seems so Uquid, // drinks / 
 
 Hark ! how the shape rumbles 
 
 And vanishes, crumbles. 
 Perchance 'tis the demon of Night we have slain ? 
 
 Lo ! the heavens are flying, 
 
 And melting and dying. 
 Help, help, from this blaze, and this fiery rain ! 
 
 \Eruptmi of JEtna with loud thunderings, 
 du7'ing which the Witches disappear. 
 
 Florence, 1882.
 
 ( 121 ) 
 
 The spear has deep-wounded me, brother ! 
 And my eyes are grown dim with the pain. 
 (Thy chariot, thy chariot of fire ! to bear to Olympus 
 
 afar), 
 Iris is leading me gently, her robes are the dews of a star, 
 
 Which have fallen, a midnight rain. 
 Thou in this hour canst save, as can aid me (the wounded) 
 none other. 
 
 Ah ! fierce were the darts of the Greeks, 
 My son was in danger of dying, — 
 Could a mother's breast then be impassive ? could a 
 
 mother's heart beat unafraid ? 
 Forwards I flew at the conquering, lending my love him 
 to aid 
 Who was sore prest, yet un-flying. 
 Brave with the old courage of Trojans— oh ! save me, a 
 sister now speaks !
 
 122 'A^poSt'ri; "Apet. 
 
 Thy car and thy horses of fire 
 To wing me to safety and bliss ! 
 The wound of the mortal is burning like Pain on th' 
 
 Immortal's white palm. 
 I lean on thee only, who bear'st the war-darts aloft on 
 thine arm, 
 Thou wilt not forsake me in this 
 Time of my need, thou Destructor, the terror of gods and 
 desire. 
 
 See my hand shedding blood like the rain, 
 And the strength glides away from my heart 
 Of woman, and oozes beside it (brother, brother, thy 
 
 chariot of speed !), 
 The war-din sounds far and disperst (my spirit too faint 
 is to heed) : 
 War-mighty, oh ! take thou my part, 
 And waft me to safety above ; shall a sister beseech thee 
 in vain ? 
 
 Florence, December, 1881.
 
 ( 123 ) 
 
 AIR SONG. 
 
 Away ! away, 
 
 To the lips of Day, 
 Which are striking chill at the gates of Morn, 
 
 For the dewy airs. 
 
 That the Night prepares, 
 In her deep dark breast, for her babe the Dawn. 
 
 Dawn comes to life, 
 
 Through a transient strife, 
 And clasps weak hands round its dusky nurse. 
 
 Whose shadowy breast 
 
 Sinks back to rest, 
 When new life is drawn for the Universe. 
 
 We spread our wings, 
 O'er the bubbling springs 
 
 Of dews, Light-born, which to pure mists curl, 
 And we chase the dreams. 
 From the sky's swift streams, 
 
 That sweep in invisible tides of pearl. 
 
 O'er the tracks which Light 
 Unweaves to our sight. 
 
 As we tread soft measures towards the sun,
 
 124 ^IR SONG. 
 
 And kiss the storms 
 (That his waking warms) 
 Of heat, which through night in his loom he spun. 
 
 Day laughs to us, 
 
 In diaphanous 
 Sweet smiles, that we wreathe to a freshening gale 
 
 For the weary eyes 
 
 Of the Earth as she lies 
 Helpless, in Summer's long arms and pale. 
 
 We touch the dews, 
 
 And therein infuse. 
 The breath which we won from the lips of heaven, 
 
 When we sailed in might, 
 
 To the springs of Light, 
 And smote at the skies for the answer given. 
 
 We are Jthe sails 
 
 Of the gathering gales, 
 And float them through the seas of Space, 
 
 Our pennons waving, 
 
 Like blue mists laving 
 The billows, we tread in our boundless race. 
 
 And when that Ocean 
 
 Is all in motion, 
 We snatch deep tones from its ruffled lips. 
 
 As each cloud, like a vessel, 
 
 Sails up to wrestle. 
 And we propel all these phantom ships.
 
 AIR SONG. 125 
 
 Then Earth gathers round her 
 
 These barks that founder, 
 And tethers each hull, as it driftingly drops, 
 
 To anchor slowly 
 
 In the harbours holy. 
 Which the storms have scooped in the mountain tops. 
 
 Come ! fairest sisters, 
 
 White-eyed ministers. 
 Ye wandering airs of the central heaven, 
 
 And pour your laughter, 
 
 The sunshine after. 
 To temper the unborn storms, and leaven, 
 
 With pure white blisses 
 
 Of mellowing kisses, 
 The winds, which Earth's hands have heaped brown 
 
 With Life's leaves, battered 
 
 By Grief and scattered 
 Upon ye, in withered fragments down. 
 
 Come, wings of Dawning, 
 
 Snow-tipt by Morning, 
 And sweep o'er the wide world's sorrowing face 
 
 Through portals (swinging 
 
 Wide-open) winging 
 Our happy flight o'er the tides of Space. 
 
 Florence, 1881.
 
 { 126 ) 
 
 THOUGHTS. 
 
 Thoughts are the pearls, deep in our spirit's waters, 
 
 We dive for^ holding in warm Speech's breath, 
 
 Sometimes too long, and then we die the death, 
 
 Wreckt by the arduous task which (lengthened) slaughters. 
 
 Sometimes the sea is clear, and down we fall 
 
 And pluck our treasures up with eager fingers, 
 
 Heeding the tides of Feeling not at all. 
 
 Nor Fancy, that sweet syren, and her singers. 
 
 We clutch the spoil, and round the slender throat 
 
 Of the fair Hours we string it, sure and fast. 
 
 Unmindful that with them it fades at last, 
 
 And that dimmed pearls are held of little note. 
 
 But be that as it may, we wrestle strong, 
 
 For brief is our career — the diver dieth young. 
 
 November 8, i88i.
 
 127 ) 
 
 ARAB LOVE SONG. 
 
 The stars have twice upon the desert waned, 
 The Night-wind breathes its spirit through the trees, 
 The Simoon's wrath methinks has been unchained. 
 And stayed his steed, whose hoofs were hke the breeze. 
 Ah, woe is me ! Ah, woe is me ! 
 I Hft the dust,* 
 For Zaruf must 
 Return, or I bereaved shall be ! 
 
 Thrice has the sun upon the bending palms 
 Unfurled his glory, and the silver well 
 Lent weary lips its own sweet liquid charms. 
 Yet greets it not the tinkle of his bell. 
 
 Ah, woe is me ! Ah, woe is me ! 
 I lift the dust, 
 For Zaruf must 
 Return, or I bereaved shall be ! 
 
 * Alluding to the custom of mourners in the East.
 
 128 JUAB LOVE SONG. 
 
 'I'he sunny dates hang golden to the sand, 
 The cool surei rests empty to the brim, 
 
 I cannot stir my weary head, or hand, 
 
 II Allah ! for my soul is sick for him. 
 
 Ah, woe is me ! Ah, woe is me ! 
 
 I lift the dust. 
 
 For Zaruf must 
 Return, or I bereaved shall be ! 
 
 He said a gift would at his saddle swing, 
 When he returned, to meet me in the tent, 
 But I would have /lim only, if he bring 
 Nought else beside, as when he turned and went. 
 Ah, woe is me ! Ah, woe is me ! 
 I lift the dust, 
 For Zaruf must 
 Return, or I bereaved shall be ! 
 
 Have I not said to every ear that passed, 
 " Ho, brother, tell me, doth he hasten home ? " 
 And, hoping ever he would speed at last, 
 Have seen the shades thrice lengthen ere he come ? 
 Ah, woe is me ! Ah, woe is me 
 I lift the dust, 
 For Zaruf must 
 Return, or I bereaved shall be !
 
 ARAB LOVE SONG. 129 
 
 Allah Mashallah ! Lo the moonbeam comes 
 Down to the plain, it brings my soul its bliss, 
 For there, methinks I see his charger's plumes ! 
 'Tis Samiel, yes, that speed is none but his / 
 Ah, joy is me ! Ah, joy is me ! 
 
 My soul hath felt and feared its worst. 
 Forth to the well my step shall be. 
 To quench the pain of Zaruf's thirst ! 
 
 Cairo. 
 
 K
 
 ( I30 
 
 TO 
 
 Friend, last eve I caught my wayward lips reframing 
 
 that old ballad, 
 Which we once did sing together, when our hearts beat 
 
 out the time, 
 In the gloaming's vocal stillness, when the shadows of the 
 
 wall had 
 Grown to such a rhythmic measure, that one almost saiv 
 
 the rhyme. 
 And we two sat gazing Westward, in the curtained, old 
 
 embrasure. 
 Where the roses in the summer clomb, and lay across 
 
 the sill, 
 While the stars came thronging softly, like white pinions 
 
 in the azure. 
 And the bleating from the sheepfold, dropt asleep upon 
 
 the hill. 
 
 Do you mind you of that evening ? when for the sweet 
 first and last time, 
 
 We joined hearts, and voices tenderly (before that wak- 
 ing fell),
 
 TO 131 
 
 And this ballad caught our thoughts up, stringing them in 
 
 happy pastime, 
 And I blushed to think how truly, it had learnt one mind 
 
 — and well. 
 But before the words had faded, and before the tune had 
 
 altered, 
 You did whisper out your spirit, from the fane-light of 
 
 your eyes, 
 When methinks the measure died awhile (perhaps it only 
 
 faltered,) 
 As we changed the winging music to the burden of our 
 
 sighs. 
 
 Then — when all your vows were out, and when by right 
 
 of intuition, 
 Which lies deep in woman's breast, I read your nature 
 
 through and through. 
 Finding there so much of weakness, springing up in full 
 
 fruition. 
 That I could not find it in me still to own my liking true. 
 Oh ! your passion burst to music ! and in this same vocal 
 
 measure, 
 Did upbraid me, but I laught to scorn such anger o'er 
 
 and o'er : 
 And you spoke, " By all these moments, which I gather to 
 
 one treasure 
 (Just an hour) for my life, you will not sing this ballad 
 
 more?
 
 132 TO 
 
 " You will keep it safely garnered, in remembrance of this 
 
 hour? 
 Never waste its magic on the dull and unconnecting 
 
 air? 
 As / shrine it in my spirit, a sweet link, whose tender 
 
 power 
 Will re-lead me to the witchery of your eyes, and lips, 
 
 and hair." 
 And I, laughing, vowed assent — the song for me had lost 
 
 its sweetness 
 As the sympathetic magnet tow'rd a soul I deemed so 
 
 high ; 
 Just last eve I broke the promise, for my life had found 
 
 completeness, 
 And I drank the wine of music, through that strain — I 
 
 know not why. 
 
 And I would not write to tell you (since all grief should 
 be respected, 
 
 And a man's heart— be it flesh or fluff — should not be 
 trodden low) 
 
 Had not Rumour taught me, long ago, how justly I sus- 
 pected 
 
 'YYi-xX. yours was not worth the silence you imposed upon 
 me so.
 
 TO 133 
 
 And /—being conscientious, never breaking heart or 
 
 promise — 
 Seek release, because that ballad suits my lips so rightly 
 
 now. 
 And I beg you will consider (what you doubtless gather 
 
 from this) 
 That I hold myself unbounden by that rash and foolish 
 
 vow.
 
 ( 134 ) 
 
 MARGUERITE 
 
 (In the Prison). 
 
 Through the darkness — 'tis no error, 
 
 I can hear my true love's tone, 
 And my heart outleaps its terror, 
 
 And goes forth to meet my own ! 
 As a bird hears its mate calHng, 
 
 CalHng, through the forest storm, 
 While the thunder-claps are falling, 
 
 While the light leaps live, and warm, 
 So I hear a whisper growing. 
 
 Through this spirit-storm — ^so sweet ! 
 And my heart can not help knowing, 
 
 When he calls me ** Marguerite." 
 
 'Tis a long, long name, and rather 
 Would I have the first he called me, 
 
 For this seems to send me farther, 
 Than these walls, where they have walled me.
 
 MARGUERITE. 135 
 
 In the days gone by 'twas " Gretchen " 
 
 Like a ripple in the brook, 
 He would couple it with " Madchen," 
 
 Rhyming it as from a book. 
 
 Oh, those days of tender gladness ! 
 
 Oh, the lindens and the stream ! 
 Through the pain, and through the madness, 
 
 I can see them like a dream. 
 Hark ! the winds come through the garden, 
 
 And his step, and his sweet talk, 
 Then the lover's kiss and pardon, 
 
 When we quarreled on the walk ! 
 Sun, and shadows falling dapple. 
 
 Where the young boughs swerved aside, 
 While the May-blooms, and the apple, 
 
 Quivered down the dimpling tide. 
 
 Hark ! he comes, I catch his laughter : 
 
 Shall I climb the grate and watch ? 
 For I hear him coming after, 
 
 Now his hand is on the latch 
 Of the garden gate, whose hinges 
 
 Creak a welcome shrill, and loud. 
 Where th' Acacia's drooping fringes 
 
 Cluster down — a silver cloud. . . . 
 They have put me here a little, 
 
 Just to test my strength — but he.
 
 136 MARGUERITE. 
 
 When he comes, shall snap the brittle 
 Links of my captivity. 
 
 They have spread some fearful story, 
 
 Which is floating in my mind. 
 Like some phantom shapeless, gory, 
 
 With a train of fiends behind. 
 But that mind is turned to madness. 
 
 And I miss some weighty link ; 
 I have thought so much in sadness. 
 
 That my brain has ceased to think. 
 He will come, and lay his fingers 
 
 Cool, upon my burning brows. 
 While his tender accent lingers 
 
 On our unforgotten vows. 
 
 Oh ! my Faust, is this not cruel — 
 
 This long absence ? wouldst thou test 
 If my heart was ever dual. 
 
 If it ever loved thee best ? 
 Wouldst thou make our parting longer, 
 
 Just to have a fonder kiss 
 When we meet ? Perchance thoiirt stronger, 
 
 But / was not formed for this. 
 Come, beloved ! my fear is calling. 
 
 Come, beloved ! my sad heart fails. 
 All the bolts of heaven are falling, 
 
 All the wide Creation wails
 
 MARGUERITE. 137 
 
 Like a smitten babe. What is it 
 
 Fills my eyes, my brain, with blood ? 
 Was it some angelic visit 
 
 That sweet dream of motherhood ? 
 Ha ! the little hands, they pleaded. 
 
 And they clasped me in the dark, 
 See, around my neck — unheeded — 
 
 They have left their gory mark ! 
 Nay — 'tis but the chain thou gavest, 
 
 Fretting at my throat to kill. 
 
 Thou who stoop'st from Heaven and savest 
 Save me, save me from their will. 
 
 Florence, May, 1881.
 
 ( 138 ) 
 
 SELECTIONS 
 (From an Unpublished Indian Poem). 
 
 III. 
 
 'TwAS eve, and its own vestal-spirit shone, 
 
 With softened radiance, Gunga's stream upon, 
 
 As many an oar, with rippling murmur crept 
 
 Along those waves, where restless moonbeams slept. 
 
 Like gems all scattered from the sunset clouds, 
 
 Grown faint, and pallid, in their billowy shrouds. 
 
 It is the Eve when every Hindoo maid, 
 
 Who to the river's mighty brink has strayed 
 
 (The stream by such revered as divine). 
 
 Doth to the wave her cherished beam consign. 
 
 And, as it flickers tremblingly along, 
 
 She lightly cheers its downward course with song. 
 
 A thousand lamps are launched the Ganges o'er. 
 
 And hark ! a chorus rises from the shore, 
 
 A cadence subtle as the Champak's breath, 
 
 And yet within it is a wail of death : 
 
 While, severed from the rest, Lai Taz entrusts 
 
 Two lamplets to the billows, and the gusts,
 
 SELECTIONS. 139 
 
 And thus her care in plaintive song is freed 
 As wav'ringly they from the brink recede: 
 
 " Sail ! sail ! sail ! 
 Till ye reach the billows of foam and brine, 
 
 Float and twine ! 
 Twin-eyes from the arching heavens beaming, 
 In the heart of the daughter of Himarat gleaming, 
 Shedding your rays as the stars their light, 
 
 Wend your flight." 
 
 '■'■ On, on, on ! 
 Till lost to sight in the river's bend, 
 
 Float and wend. 
 A wreath of myrtle around ye wove. 
 
 Wet with the mystical tears of love. 
 Move, with the pulse of the Gunga move, 
 
 Seawards tend ! 
 
 " One is quenched ! 
 Farewell to love, hope, fear and pain 
 
 They are vain. 
 'Tis a presage true that one life has fled. 
 Swift as the glimmering lamplet sped, 
 Alas ! for the hour — one Chief is dead. 
 
 He lies slain." 
 
 There was a pause : and from the sacred shore 
 Lai Taz arose — her mission there was o'er —
 
 I40 SELECTIONS. 
 
 And thoughtfully her homeward way pursued, 
 
 To reach the forest's distant solitude, 
 
 'Twixt fields, where, watered by the bounteous stream, 
 
 The sheaths of Indian cane unfolding gleam, 
 
 And gracefully — by evening breezes fanned, 
 
 The plumy corn waves o'er the golden land. 
 
 With motion light as that which sways the blade, 
 
 She onward speeds, her progress not delayed. 
 
 By the great lotah * with its welcome drink, 
 
 Fresh gurgling from the river's smiling brink, 
 
 Which, poised upon her head she homeward bears. 
 
 The lightest of her many household cares. 
 
 The moon is full, and on her upturned face, 
 
 It softly sheds its all ethereal rays. 
 
 And half reveals the loveliness which lies. 
 
 Safe shrouded, in those melancholy eyes. 
 
 Around whose lids the silken lashes creep. 
 
 And jealously a dreamy vigil keep. 
 
 Her dusky cheek is ruddy as the rind, 
 
 In which the anar's \ juice is ill confined ; 
 
 Her lips are full and flushing as its flowers, 
 
 When winds go stealing through their laden bowers ; 
 
 And faultless in its lithsome shape each limb. 
 
 Which mocks the earth it scarcely deigns to skim, 
 
 While silver bells upon her ankles sound, 
 
 A cheery march along the dewy ground 
 
 * Brass drinking vessel. t Pomegranate.
 
 SELECTIONS. 141 
 
 Unsought, the fire-flies in the bushes gleam ; 
 No more she covets the uncertain beam, 
 Amongst the jasmin in her hair to twine, 
 Or lay on Shivah's consecrated shrine. 
 
 ^ ^ '^ y^ ^ 
 
 She nears her hut — and strives (but strives in vain) 
 To cast aside the shadow of her pain : 
 She cannot heed the frolics of the kid, 
 So often fondled, and so seldom chid ; 
 She does not mark the cobra * silently 
 Glide to her feet, with dull inquiry, 
 And subtle motion, for the fav'rite draught 
 Of milk, which at her hand is daily quaffed. 
 When once the threshold of her home is spanned, 
 She crouches where the embers — lately fanned — 
 Have smouldered into lifelessness again. 
 Ere she can feel, or realize her pain, — 
 Ere she can set herself the arduous task, 
 How to elude her kindred, when they ask 
 With quick impatience, " if her winged light 
 Had known a speedy and a prosperous flight ? " 
 * * » * * 
 
 'Tis short suspense — a rush of feet without, 
 A sudden terror and a thrilling doubt, 
 
 * Cobras are often kept by the natives as household pets, the fangs 
 having been previously extracted. They are fed on eggs (which 
 they swallow whole) and milk.
 
 142 SELECTIONS. 
 
 And woman's voice in wailing o'er her dead, 
 As swiftly one, into their midst is led, 
 Pale with emotion, and the recent strife, 
 The pressing combat, and the hardwon life, 
 His hair all tangled, and besmeared with blood, 
 An envoy from the distant camp he stood. 
 With the dread tidings he was sent to tell, 
 How in the field brave Shah-Jehani fell. 
 His mien is fiery and his speech is brief, 
 With all that sternness which surrounds a Chief, 
 And ill he brooks their many signs of grief ; 
 Nor stays, his turban's heavy fold to loose. 
 Nor taste the proffered betel's * ruddy juice, — 
 He must return. A sorely needed draught 
 Of water from the lotah fiercely quaffed, 
 A benediction on Gangoutri f flung. 
 And to his foaming charger he has sprung. 
 
 yfi ^» *r^ ^ ^ 
 
 IV. 
 
 'Tis night, and where the jungles near and far 
 
 Extend, there gleams no solitary star ; 
 
 The clouds have gathered round the pallid moon. 
 
 And the still air foretells a tempest soon. 
 
 Yet undismayed each hungry beast has crept. 
 
 From the dark lair, where grudgingly he slept 
 
 * A nut which the natives always chew, and which stains their 
 lips a bright red colour. 
 
 t A snowy peak from whence flows the Ganges.
 
 SELECTIONS. 143 
 
 In drowsy watchfulness through Day's hot hours, 
 
 Till he (with Night) could reassert his powers. . . 
 
 The tiger wakes — and with a fearful roar, 
 
 That scatters terror all the jungle o'er. 
 
 Impatiently each glossy limb he shakes, 
 
 And through the grass his lordly passage takes, 
 
 Secure no humbler beast obstructs his path. 
 
 To wrest his prey, or to defy his wrath. 
 
 The fierce hyena whose loud yell replies 
 
 To the sly gheethur's quick inquiries, 
 
 Comes prowling round, to seize the scant remains 
 
 Left by the sated monarch of the plains. 
 
 Content to tarry till that royal jaw 
 
 Rejects some morsel for his meaner maw. 
 
 Around, the trees convulsively embrace. 
 
 Their gnarled roots, a fitting resting-place 
 
 For the great serpents, which await their spoil, 
 
 In many a scaly and fantastic coil ; 
 
 Each keen eye glitt'ring, and each forked tongue 
 
 Thrust out remorselessly the boughs among, 
 
 Skilled at each dart to check the opal wing 
 
 Of some fair insect in its wandering, 
 
 And with such dainty whet the appetite, 
 
 Till worthier prey their vigils may requite. 
 
 Above, the boughs in beauty interlace. 
 
 And toss sweet blossoms in each other's face.
 
 144 SELECTIONS. 
 
 V. 
 
 Hush ! through the forest dim, and deep, 
 
 The midnight whispers faintly creep ; 
 
 The champak opens all its flowers, 
 
 To consecrate the silent hours. 
 
 All, all is still along the shore, 
 
 Save the murmur of the plashing water, 
 
 Tossing on some restless oar. 
 
 The music of Himarat's * daughter ; 
 
 And a muffled sound- — it comes 
 
 From afar, the beat of drums. 
 
 And the tone of many a fife, 
 
 Waking discord into life. 
 
 Where the banyan's leaves are spread, 
 
 Fan-like, o'er the cactus' head, 
 
 And the palms together rise. 
 
 Orient pillars to the skies ; 
 
 Where the jasmin's pallid star 
 
 Sheds its radiance near and far, 
 
 Lo ! a chorus dim and sweet, 
 
 With a sound of many feet. 
 
 Dusky features faindy gleaming. 
 
 Where the torches' rays are streaming. 
 
 And a bier, whereon is spread, 
 
 Peacefully, the warrior-dead. 
 
 * The Himalayas.
 
 SELECTIONS. 145 
 
 Rescued from the distant field, 
 Where his loyalty was sealed, 
 Fighting 'gainst the stout Afghan — - 
 'Tis the Chieftain Shah Jehan. 
 
 In a free space they set the bier, 
 
 On the lone jungle's utmost verge. 
 
 Why have they borne the slumberer here, 
 
 Far from the Ganges' sacred surge ? 
 
 Nor raised the pyre upon its shore, 
 
 As it has been their wont before, 
 
 So that, their duty done, they might, 
 
 In silence, o'er its gleaming flight. 
 
 Scatter, where the moonUght flashes. 
 
 All the consecrated ashes ? 
 
 Why have they borne the fragrant wood. 
 
 To kindle in this solitude ; 
 
 Or hither brought, with pious toil, 
 
 The precious and anointing oil ? 
 
 Oh ! they have hither sped because 
 
 They seek to break those righteous laws 
 
 Which England, wheresoe'er she reigns. 
 
 In her humanity maintains ; 
 
 Because they here would veil the crime 
 
 Endeared by Custom, Faith, and Time, 
 
 And trust to Night and Secresy, 
 
 To celebrate the dread Suttee. . . . 
 
 L
 
 146 SELECTIONS. 
 
 Swift upon the pyre they lay, 
 Gently, the unconscious clay. 
 Richly swathed in many a fold 
 Of a weighty cloth of gold. 
 Then the waving grass is brought, 
 And the rising pile is fraught 
 With the perfume of the oil, 
 Poured in many a glitt'ring coil, 
 For the flames a costly food. 
 On the fragrant sandal-wood. 
 Now the Brahmin, with a prayer, 
 Hands to the chief mourner there, 
 Solemnly, the holy fire 
 For the kindling of the pyre. 
 
 She paused, and leaning o'er the freighted pile, 
 Gazed calmly on the warrior's face awhile. 
 One moment scanned the shadowy eclipse, 
 Then placed the sacred torch upon his lips ; 
 And, slowly mounting the funereal pyre, 
 With an unwav'ring hand she laid the fire. . . . 
 'Tis done ! the wreaths of smoke revolve and shoot, 
 And the blue flames leap up in quick pursuit. 
 The grass has shrivelled 'neath their close embrace 
 And now they curl about the dead man's face. 
 While speedily the perfumed woods ignite, 
 The mourners' pious labours to requite ;
 
 SELECTTONS. I47 
 
 And, as the glowing tongues rise high and liigher, 
 The Brahmins chant around the kindled pyre. 
 And from the jungle near at hand is heard 
 The tiger's wrath, at being thus deterred, 
 Kept by the warning atmosphere at bay, 
 When he can scent — nay almost vieiv — his prey ; 
 And the hyena, as he madly wreaks 
 In unavailing breath, his hideous shrieks ; 
 While all the lesser crew of bird, and beast, 
 Gloat in theii fancy o'er the human feast. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 " Row, bhye-logue,* row ! kind rest is won, 
 The palms are lengthening in the sun, 
 Soon shall we stretch their shade beneath, 
 And see the fragrant hookah f wreathe. 
 While mirth shall crown the starry hour. 
 Row, bhye-logue, row the bahadhoor ! % 
 
 " Row, bhye-logue, row ! his word is passed, 
 
 To-day, this effort is our last, 
 
 And he has offered large bucksheesh. 
 
 If yonder Ghaut § we swiftly reach. 
 
 * Brothers. t Pipe. J Lord, or master. 
 
 § Landing-place on the brink of the river.
 
 148 SELECTIONS. 
 
 And then we feast on dhal,* and ghee,f 
 So help our progress Gunga-jee ! " 
 
 Thus sung the crew in their own native tongue, 
 As Hghtly on her course the pinnace swung, 
 By the bkie waters which around her swelled, 
 And by the oars' redoubled toil propelled 
 The sun's last rays along the scene were thrown, 
 \\'ith all that life met in the East alone, 
 A flush of glory radiant, swift, and clear, 
 Sweeping the crystal of the atmosphere. 
 And robing Sunset in that purple bloom 
 \Miich daylight \\Tought in Hari's % golden loom. 
 Along the shore, with ev'ry shade of green, 
 Tlie tropic foliage beautifies the scene. 
 The light palmetto in fantastic curves, 
 On ev'ry breeze with yielding motion swerves ; 
 The fruitful banane from each sheath unrolls 
 Its silken leaves, like Nature's ready scrolls. 
 While here and there, the delicate bamboo 
 Spreads its lithe arms, as though it sought to woo 
 All the young beauty of the myriad flowers. 
 Which droop and trail around, in scented showers. 
 And, mingling in their train, the Sirkee grasses 
 Bend gracefully to ev'ry wind that passes 
 
 * Pulse. 
 
 t Batter of an inferior quality, of which the natives are inordinately 
 foni. J The Indian representative of Helios.
 
 S ELECT! 0.¥S. 149 
 
 Across their plumy tufts, which flush, and gleam, 
 In rosy light, beneath each parting beam. 
 And silently along the river's lip, 
 The devotees pray, meditate, and dip : 
 Or, each observance and prostration done, 
 Pour out libations to the sinking sun ; 
 And ere they homewards turn, one moment squat 
 To watch the ceaseless movement at the Ghaut. . . . 
 ***** 
 
 'Tis Dawn, or 'tis the prelude to that hour. 
 When Nature owns illimitable power, 
 And Night with scanty grace resigns her sway, 
 At the approach of open-hearted Day. 
 As yet there is no gilding streak on high, 
 To warn the jungle dwellers Light is nigh, 
 But, with that instinct which supplies the need, 
 They to their vacant lairs unsated speed. 
 Above, around, a solemn silence dwells 
 Save where the breeze in hidden music swells, 
 Through the tall reeds * which whispering res])ond, 
 In minor cadence, to their breathings fond. 
 And the great stars whose dewy loveliness 
 Grows dim at Dawn, and pale and lustreless, 
 From the chill skies fade tenderly away, 
 Like benedictions waning from the Day. 
 
 * The natives make incisions in these reeds, and leave them 
 giLiwing, for the wind to murmur and make music in.
 
 i=;o SELECTIONS. 
 
 As yet no bird has fluttered from its nest, 
 Unfurled its wings, nor plumed its waking breast, 
 As yet ; . . . but lo ! the skies in silence break, 
 Night is dethroned, and Morning is awake ! 
 She opes her amber lattice in the East, 
 And scatters wide Creation's golden feast, 
 \^'ith all the freshness of her star-won dreams. 
 Life in her breath, and radiance in her gleams, 
 Fair insects gemming her Light-woven robe, 
 As forth she floats, to sway the Eastern globe. 
 From their blue couch th' Hericules ascend 
 Their azure throne, and to their rule attend, 
 While — ere their rays too fervidly descend 
 On Earth — the jungle hears the sudden tramp 
 Of heavy footfalls o'er its foliage damp, 
 And cries of triumph shouted from afar, 
 And whispers (nearer told) of " Khaberthaar ! " * 
 While through the interlacing boughs advance 
 Th' unwieldy forms of numerous elephants. 
 Decked sumptuously with cloths of gold, and red, 
 Each forward by his Mahaut \ bravely led. 
 'Who mends the motion of his heavy plod, 
 Oft by a sudden and remorseless prod. 
 While, as they onward press, in ev'ry beam. 
 The gems upon the howdahs flash, and gleam, 
 
 * Beware. t Driver.
 
 SELECTIONS. i;i 
 
 Where many a bahadhoor impatient sits, 
 
 And eyes the lithe Shikaree,* as he flits 
 
 With practised movement, in a quick pursuit 
 
 Of the aroused, and now alarmed brute. 
 
 Whose roar of sullen anger testifies 
 
 How near at hand his awful presence lies. . . . 
 
 Some moments speed — and then a shout of fear, 
 
 A plunge, a rush, a cry of " He is here ! " 
 
 A sudden tumult, and a baffled spring, 
 
 A crash of boughs — the hathees f trumpeting ; 
 
 A circle formed, then broken wildly through, 
 
 The bagh % escaping from their 'wildered view. 
 
 And, ringing all around, the cry — " Pursue ! " 
 
 Already with a bound the brute has burst 
 
 Far from the snare he had disdained at first, 
 
 But, undismayed, in wild pursuit they dash, 
 
 The prompt Shikarees heading the tumash,§ 
 
 And, foremost (where each struggling strives to win) 
 
 The beast that bravely bears him — Leslie Lynn. 
 
 On through the jungle's loneliness, 
 To reach the royal game they press 
 Where the yielding bamboo canes, 
 Crackle as they swiftly pass, 
 Where the close luxuriant grass 
 To the howdah's height attains. 
 
 * Hunter. f Elephants. % Tiger. § Diversion,
 
 15^ SELECTIONS. 
 
 And the Cobra startled near, 
 Notes the strange approach with fear, 
 Silently their progress eyes, 
 Then to denser covert flies. 
 Soon an open space they reach, 
 Where, athwart a leafy breach, 
 Suddenly the bagh they see. 
 Bearing down triumphantly 
 On them, as they pause. A sound 
 Of stealthy footfalls o'er the ground. 
 Then ... a rush — a roar. A bound 
 From the foliage deep and dank, 
 Denser than the ev'ning shade. 
 Where he veiled his ambuscade. 
 He has leapt the hathee's flank ! 
 
 One moment of suspense — a fearful yell. 
 
 Where in his hide the grip so fiercely fell, 
 
 And the huge beast essays with trunk and jaws 
 
 To loose the hold of those envenomed claws. 
 
 In vain does Runjheet brandish his light sword, 
 
 In vain a volley from the howdah's poured. 
 
 The swaying motion of the beast in pain 
 
 Annuls all efforts, baffles every strain. 
 
 The brave Mahaut who less of danger recks, 
 
 Reproves, exhorts, caresses, urges, checks : 
 
 His charge o'erwhelmed with fear he cannot school, 
 
 Disowns all threats, breaks wholly from his rule.
 
 SELECTIONS. ' 153 
 
 The game is fierce. Another volley hissed, 
 Nor unsuccessful. Ah ! it has not missed ! 
 The blood is pouring from some sudden wound, 
 In angry drops along the swampy ground. 
 And a wild roar of unaccustomed pain 
 (Or fear) proclaims it was not aimed in vain. 
 While with that energy of fell despair, 
 Which Death inspires, or Agony lays bare, 
 When ev'ry effort, as the life ebbs fast, 
 Grows fainter, till the fiercest is the last, 
 So, feeling strength forsake which has upheld 
 Till now, by that same energy impelled, 
 The tiger seizes in a fatal bound 
 
 The form above, and drags it to the ground ! 
 
 ***** 
 
 India, iSSo.
 
 ( 154 ) 
 
 INDIAN SE REN AT A. 
 
 On the brink of the tank, 
 Sit long files of shade, 
 
 In the wan grass dank, 
 As in ambuscade, 
 
 Where the serpent coils 
 His venomous toils. 
 Till the moon shine full on the whitening bank. 
 
 Then these lines grow strong 
 
 With their hideous song. 
 Which breaks on the air like a wild halloo. 
 
 Voices as grim 
 
 As a dead man's limb : 
 " Ho, friends, would ye feast on the dead Hindoo ? " 
 
 " Where, where, where ? " 
 
 Gasps on the air, 
 From that ghastly crew, while their lank sides groan 
 
 With the hunger clawing 
 
 Their vitals, gnawing 
 The jaws, that would feast on a human bone.
 
 INDIAN SERENATA. 155 
 
 First Jackal. 
 
 " Over the plain when the stars came blue, 
 
 I saw the train to the jungle wend, 
 And the pyre was raised, and the flames burst through 
 And licked at the limbs of a human friend. 
 
 But the flame may have sped, 
 
 As a kiss o'er the dead, 
 And have left some flesh, for a suffering maw : 
 
 So come, dear brothers, 
 
 And famished mothers. 
 And feast at the pyre I sniffed and saw," 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 " We come, to the dead Hindoo, 
 
 And bury our fangs in his singed flesh, 
 But didst thou see 
 That the flames burst free, 
 
 Was there never a limb left smooth and fresh ? " 
 
 ALL, 
 
 " Dead Hindoo — dead Hindoo ! " 
 
 The hours speed ere the gloaming homes 
 
 Its smile in the night, and those hideous gnomes 
 
 (Lips all wet with the blood of man), 
 
 Trot to the tank as fleet as they can.
 
 156 INDIAN SERENA TA. 
 
 Sit on their half-replenished haunches, 
 
 While their leader harangues them thus, and launches 
 
 His voice once more on the deadly air, 
 
 That floats from the white snake upcoiled there : — 
 
 " Friends, did ye feast with a happy will ? 
 
 How fair was the graveyard, how sweet and still ! 
 
 Nothing to hold us aloof through the gloom, 
 
 From the fresh turned earth, o'er the white man's tomb. 
 
 Little to come 'twixt his bones, and the teeth. 
 
 How fresh was the blood ! how the tide did seethe ! 
 
 The hands were fair, but the head was best, 
 
 Never a bite from the coffined breast. 
 
 Ha ! but we laboured and tore at the wood, 
 
 To strip the cofter and reach the blood, 
 
 In sooth our jaws are so rent with the pain. 
 
 That methinks they will pause ere the like again." 
 
 Second Gheethur.* 
 
 " Thou speakest fair, thou speakest true. 
 But where is the pyre of the dead Hindoo ? " 
 
 First Gheethur. 
 " We will wait for the day." 
 
 * Jackal.
 
 INDIAN SERE NAT A. 157 
 
 Chorus of Jackals. 
 
 " No ! the ravenous kite, 
 Will have swooped to the prey, 
 And have taken flight." 
 
 First Gheethur. 
 " We will wait for the dawn." 
 
 Chorus. 
 " No ! the leopard comes on the latch of Morn." 
 
 First Voice. 
 " We will wait an hour." 
 
 Chorus. 
 " No ! the tiger is a midnight power." 
 
 First Voice. 
 "Let us rove anew." 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 " Away ! away to the dead Hindoo ! " 
 
 They grope like a band of evil sprites, 
 
 1 o the jungle's edge, where the pyre lights
 
 158 INDIAN SE REN AT A. 
 
 Are dying deep to the ashes down, 
 And never a Umb is left to devour ; 
 Here a fragment, and there a bone 
 Spht apart by the furnace' power, 
 Strewing the ground alone. 
 
 But the frantic yells of the gheetliur's flew 
 
 Back to the tank where the snake upgrew, 
 
 To gaze at the dawn, with the charmer's eye, 
 
 To teach all the new-born lives to die 
 
 In its fangs, as pitiless as those 
 
 Which raked up the dead from their last repose, 
 
 And came this cry 
 
 On the morning air 
 " Dead Hindoo — dead Hindoo, — 
 
 Where — where — where ? " 
 
 Calcutta. 
 
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