THE LIBRARY 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES

 
 ELEONORE ; 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS.
 
 ELEONORE; 
 
 AND 
 
 #tljtr ^loems. 
 
 By HAMILTON AIDE. 
 
 LONDON: 
 CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY. 
 
 185G.
 
 LONDON: 
 nnADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITBHtlARS.
 
 PR 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 — ♦ — 
 
 ELEONORE:— 
 
 PAGE 
 
 INTRODUCTION .... . . 1 
 
 PART I. 14 
 
 PART II 38 
 
 PART m 59 
 
 PART IV. . . 77 
 
 PART V . . . 101 
 
 NOTE ..... .... 132 
 
 THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE 137 
 
 IN ITALY.— JOURNAL LEAVES:— 
 
 NORBA AND NINFA .153 
 
 RAVENNA 169 
 
 castel fusano 161 
 
 "a pleasant walk; here, as we wander on" . 167 
 
 AN evening's walk, albano 169 
 
 "as one who, walking on a summer's day" . 172 
 
 Cj-« .r<'jm'<n,c »
 
 VI CONTENTS. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS :- 
 
 PAGE 
 
 TO ALICE * * * * 17 
 
 A FRAGMENT 182 
 
 SONG 1S5 
 
 A WALK AND A WORD 187 
 
 HIDDEN THOUGHTS 189 
 
 "the FOUNT IS DRY, JIY FRIEND, SINCK LAST WE 
 
 MET " 193 
 
 KING CHILDERIC IN THE CLOISTER, A.D. 750 . . 194 
 
 LEGEND OF THE FOUNDATION OF THE CONVENT OF 
 
 NOTRE-DAME-DE-La-BICHE, A.D. 1200 . . .198 
 
 SONG 210 
 
 "she sat beside the MOUNTAIN SPRINGS" . .212 
 
 A fragment tl4 
 
 I'OPi'iES 215 
 
 DANCE ON, MAIDEN 218 
 
 A HEALTH 220 
 
 two mistresses 222 
 
 "i hold it rarer than all mental gifts " . 224 
 
 "when we are parted" &c. .... 226 
 
 THE MOUSQUETAIRE's MESSENGER . ... 228 
 
 "bird, on THE EAVES OF MY BELOVED'S DWELLING " 230 
 
 SLEEP 232 
 
 DESOLATION 234 
 
 A FRIENDS SORROW 236 
 
 "ah! prodigal OF HAPPINESS IN YEARS " . . 238 
 
 NEW year's DAY, 1855 240
 
 ELEONORE.
 
 INTKODUCTION, 
 
 It chanced, one bronzed autumn-morn, 
 
 Just at that season when the corn 
 
 Awaits the sickle, and the grapes 
 
 Are blusliing into purple shapes, 
 
 That to a valley sunk too deep 
 
 For echoes, 'mong the hills asleep, — 
 
 My feet, in following the gleam 
 
 Of a young silver-threaded stream. 
 
 Along its tortuous course descended 
 
 All day ; as through the rocks it snarl'd, 
 
 Now crept, now leapt 'neatli thick- set vines.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Ked-beaded ash, and olive gnarl'd, — 
 Until its convolutions tended 
 Down a blue gorge, where lofty pines 
 Stood sentinel. 
 
 My footstep broke 
 The stillness of the wood, and woke 
 An echo on the crisped aii'. 
 Crushing the leaves of the old year 
 With elsewhere noiseless tread. Adown 
 The valley, as I went, there feU 
 A radiance on the woods, that told 
 Of day departing, and the frown 
 Of pines ambrosial darker grew 
 Against the evening sky. Eight through 
 This wood the stream its course did keep. 
 Till it stood by an ancient well,
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 With trees inwoven quite, and old 
 
 With mosses brown, and buds of gold ; 
 
 And then it sank, at last, to sleep. 
 
 Hard by a seat stood, crown'd with weeds, 
 
 AMiere pilgrims might tell o'er their beads, 
 
 And rest, in fitting solitude ; 
 
 Eyes fixt upon the cross, which stood, 
 
 A metaphor, that fount beside. 
 
 Of His atoning power, who died 
 
 To cleanse mankind fifom the gangrene 
 
 And leprous spots of sin. The stones 
 
 Up-bearmg this small cross, were grey 
 
 With age, and smoothly worn away 
 
 By the hard-kneeling weary bones 
 
 Of some St. Jerome. Carved heads 
 
 Look'd out from their cold stony beds 
 
 B 2
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Much mutilate ; and here, no doubt, 
 A httle chapel erst had been — 
 
 Its shatter'd altar on the ground 
 Lay mouldering, and all about, 
 
 On broken tombs, devices quaint ; . . . . 
 
 On one, a "goose-foot " — that brand 
 
 Of an outcast people through this land . . . 
 And here and there a kneehng saint, 
 
 Who clasp'd his hands, and grimly frown'd. 
 
 Not far off, — there stood, alone, 
 Two grassy graves, with never a stone 
 For year or name : but, at their head 
 Leant a small wooden cross instead ; 
 Whereon two letters, which the rain 
 And dews have half effaced, remain.
 
 INTRODUCTIOX. 5 
 
 And over them I trace the last 
 
 Touch of a mortal hand, wliich crown'd 
 
 Them with unfadmg buds — embrown'd 
 And beaten by the winter's blast ; 
 
 And some unknotted on the gromid. 
 Whose was the hand that sanctified 
 
 These mountain-graves ? and what the life 
 
 Of its poor outcasts ? . . . one of strife 
 And storm, who now sleep side by side ? . . . 
 I question'd ; and the browsing goats 
 
 With tinkling bells, for all reply. 
 Came and stared round me ; and the thrushes 
 Made unimaginable notes 
 
 Of music, in a bough hard by — 
 While through the river's bulrushes 
 A wind went creeping ; nought else spoke.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The Sun slips down . . . stars rise, like sparks 
 
 From the dead King's last sceptre -blow. 
 In the West Heaven four burning marks 
 
 His chariot-wheels' descension show. 
 The pale and cradled moon that broke 
 
 O'er yon ridge of mountain, now 
 Has grown up ruddier in the black 
 
 Arms of the Night : and I with slow 
 Eeluctant steps, must wander back, 
 Down the steep silver-lighted hills. 
 To a sandy bay that ever fills 
 The ripple of a tideless sea, 
 And there, my village hostelrie. 
 And, as I go, an ancient song 
 I knew in distant days, along 
 My full heart flutters ; breaking forth.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Just as its half-forgotten rhymes 
 Reach me in snatches, the far North 
 
 Eecalhng and dear househokl times ! 
 
 I. 
 
 " Blow, Western Winds, around my father's door. 
 Blow softly : snap not the o'erladen stalks : 
 Drift the red leaf through casements to the floor ; 
 And warmly whistle down the laurel walks. 
 
 II. 
 " Blow as that evening when I last beheld 
 
 The elm-trees answer to your rustling call — 
 The apron flutter which my Phillis held, 
 Shaking the peaches from the garden-wall. 
 
 iir. 
 " Blow round the memory of my home and her ; 
 The budding passions of our June and May, — 
 richer far than frankincense or myrrh, 
 Remains the odour of its new-mown hay."
 
 8 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 That evening, with my tired feet 
 
 Out-stretched upon the hearthstone mat, 
 In the capacious chimney-seat 
 
 Of a far-fashioned room, I sat ; — 
 The inn's old parlour, beam-sustained, 
 With casements deep and diamond-paned, 
 Cinque-corner'd, full of narrow nooks, 
 
 WTiere two might sprawl their tankards over, 
 
 Or, if a maiden and her lover. 
 Stand, basking in each other's looks ! 
 Eight men could sit within the smoke 
 Of its great chimney, of carv'd oak ; 
 Where, over them, on the shelf, were ranged 
 The wide-mouth'd flagons, interchanged 
 
 With citron -jars, and back to back, 
 Bless'd rehques, from far slu-ines in Spain ;
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 With groups grotesque, of porcelain ; 
 Shepherds, in high-heel'd shoes, on rocks, 
 A-teaching maids to mind their flocks, 
 In commode, hoop, and sacque. 
 
 Along the settle's length I lie : 
 
 The whiles, mine hostess, standing by, 
 
 From choicest herbs a posset made ; 
 
 With party-color'd kerchief spread 
 
 Cross-wise, upon her shining head ; 
 
 And dancing in her quick bright eyes 
 
 Flame-points, that from the pine-wood rise ; 
 
 As o'er she stoop'd, with radiant smile : 
 Up-tuckt the chintz-brocaded gown 
 
 With flow of talk, most versatile. 
 And cheeks like poppies over-blown —
 
 10 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 — She was a widow. Many a tale 
 Of strange experiences she knew : 
 
 Something on all points . . . She had lived 
 Through the old Revolution too. 
 
 I said, " Grammere, in yonder vale, 
 Fast-lockt in over-lapping hills. 
 Hard hy a fountain, fed with rills 
 For ever, are two graves, grass'd-o'er, 
 (Wist 3^ou the spot ? ) . . . My mind is moved 
 
 To know their names who lie beneath. 
 And of their life, and if they loved 
 
 So truly, living, who, in death 
 Seem undivided." 
 
 Suddenly, 
 The lusty smile she mostly wore 
 Sadden'd and died. ..." God's life," quoth she.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 1 1 
 
 " That is a dismal tale, sweet-heart. 
 
 My good man, Pierre, took foremost part 
 
 Through all ;— an't wilt, I '11 tell it thee ; 
 
 As I have heard him oft repeat 
 
 The same, upon this hearth-stone seat ; 
 
 "Who now too sleeps." .... 
 
 She paused a space, 
 
 The apron lifted to her face : 
 
 Smooth'd it, and sighed ; hut open'd not 
 
 Her story, 'ere was trimm'd the lamp : 
 Then, from a secret closet drew 
 
 Old letters, mildew'd with the damp 
 Of winters ; tied with faded blue : — 
 
 Some books, — a lock of auburn hair, — 
 Tri- color' d ribbands in a knot ; — 
 
 And a girl's portrait, passing fair ;
 
 1 2 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 " These the inheritance, by right 
 
 Of who may chancely ne'er return 
 To claim them " -Far adown the night, 
 
 Ran the digressions of her tale ; 
 A journal leaf whose ink was pale ; 
 A pencil-note upon the marge 
 
 Of Dante, where lay dried a fern ; 
 Through everything that might enlarge 
 My knowledge of those lives, out-lined 
 
 In her dead husband's words — And straight 
 I copied all of that I read 
 
 And heard from her ; nor varnish'd aught ; 
 But caught the story 'tween the gaps 
 
 Of years ; as unto one a-bed. 
 Drift the hoarse night-cries in the lapse 
 
 Of wind a-down the street.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 13 
 
 If you, 
 Dear friend, upon this page shall find 
 
 Types of two races, which our day 
 May hardly see ; (the feudal mind, 
 
 With all its lumber, past away,) 
 I am content. What meaning through 
 The tale, — though haply ill-defined — ■ 
 May run, I leave, dear friend, to you.
 
 ELEONORE. 
 
 PART I. 
 — ♦— 
 
 Some eighty years ago, before 
 
 The liills of Gascony had rung 
 With other sounds than huntsman's blast, 
 Chasing down forest-paths, the boar, 
 And shots at wikl birds wheeling past ; — 
 While men to feudal rights yet clung. 
 And the old system slept its last ; 
 And all was peace — or seem'd — between 
 The over-bearini^ banner's sheen 
 On castle-wall, and thiii blue wreath
 
 ELEONORE. 15 
 
 Of smoke, from tlie village roofs beneath — 
 
 There stood a house in Gascony ; 
 (It stands there yet, may be), behind 
 A sweep of purple -mantling hills, 
 
 Their sharp folds knotted 'gainst the sky, 
 Wliile others, sloping down, in rills 
 Of vineyard greenness 'neath them wind, 
 
 Into the wide and rich champaign, 
 Ruddy with upturn'd earth ; and gold 
 
 Or purple-streakt, with vetch and grain : — 
 An ancient house, most desolate ; 
 
 In-garden'd by espalier'd wall, 
 
 Where over none might spy ; and all 
 Standing alone among the fields. 
 Here grew young Eleonore, a sad 
 
 Uncared-for cliild, to girl's estate,
 
 IG ELEONORE. 
 
 'Mong (lusty banners, swords, and sliields. 
 
 And little company beside. 
 The Count de Vaux, her father, had 
 No other child : they lived together, 
 
 With the old Countess Anne, his mother, 
 
 Caged in, with poverty and pride. . . . 
 All gone, save these few roods — made away. 
 Years back, at court, by the Count, in play y 
 
 Who, since his gentle helpmate died. 
 Swept time away in sports of hound 
 
 And horse ; leaving to grow all wild 
 His rosebud in the unweeded ground, 
 
 His only child ! 
 No knowledge had she of a fond 
 
 Mother's embrace ; and all she knew 
 Of the large world that lay beyond ^
 
 ELEONOEE. 17 
 
 That terraced wall, her fancy drew 
 From ballads old, and tales she read, 
 By moonlight, stealthily in bed. 
 
 When, if her grandam's shadow stream'd 
 Through open door, sleep -feigning, lay 
 
 The little maid, as though she dream'd ; 
 And vnth. a slow and noiseless tread, 
 
 Enter'd a stately-presenced dame, 
 With jewell'd fingers : tall and grey 
 Who stared and slowly trail'd away. 
 
 As silent as she came. 
 Twelve quarterings, and a sinister-bar 
 Through fleurs-de-lys, on a field or ... . 
 . . . This royal past, with the decline 
 Of fortunes in her bla/on'd Hne, 
 The Countess dwelt on more and more —
 
 18 ELEONORE. 
 
 But the proud blood, it was her boast, 
 
 Had coui-sed from generations far 
 Along her veins, was frozen round 
 The Avoman's heart ; and with it, most 
 Warm impulses that there abound. 
 
 One link of love, one tender bloom. 
 
 Alone kept green : — the son, on whom 
 Her pride had set itself to build 
 
 Their fortunes up ; but 't was her doom 
 Never to see these hopes fulfilled. 
 
 In his weak unambitious hand, 
 
 The stones all crumbled into sand. 
 O ! how she cursed the fatal hour, 
 
 In which, with shorten'd purse and land, 
 He led her home, whose only dow'r 
 Was a face, and a heart for love (not strife ! )
 
 ELEONORE. 19 
 
 Who, when three wretched years went by, 
 
 Faded and died, in giving life 
 To Eleonore. Then, once again 
 The Countess-mother swept her train 
 Unrivall'd ! 
 
 To her distant bow'r, 
 Hung with strange, faded tapestrie, 
 Each morning, at the matin-bell. 
 Was the little maiden brought, to spell 
 A chapter : (one of pedigrees 
 Did best that lofty lady please) 
 
 To wliich some chronicle, or task 
 Of stitching in a tambour-frame, 
 
 Succeeded. Then the dame would ask 
 
 — As down the wall her finger went- 
 
 The blue -eyed child the rank and name 
 
 c 2
 
 20 ELEONORE. 
 
 Of each proud ancestor, who frown'd 
 From the black pannel, scarlet-gown'd, 
 
 And ruff 'd ; or glinting in their suits 
 Of Milan steel ; Sir Hildebrand, 
 Who fought and conquer'd for Navarre ; 
 And his stern spouse, Dame Mihcent ; 
 Sir Gilbert, surnamed Bloodj^-hand, 
 
 Spurr'd half a yard, in yellow boots : 
 And fair young Raoul, wOio outshone 
 Them all in valour — bravely done 
 In casque and j)lume : his motto, " Gare 
 " A qui me touche." 
 
 And after all 
 The lecture done, on meet deport 
 Of damsels, straight to the square-paved court 
 
 Bounded young Eleonore with glee.
 
 ELEONORE. 21 
 
 Where au old ger-falcon blink'cl i' the sun — 
 Or sat with a hound on the terrace-wall, 
 Lapt in a feer}^ reverie. 
 
 Enchanted ground, though all-forsaken 
 And wild that garden was. The cup 
 
 A spouting Triton fill'd, though broken, 
 Held gold fish, floating in blue skies, 
 With island-lilies. To her eyes. 
 
 The marble Daphne, half- displaced 
 By laurels, which, in growing up. 
 
 Sent their strong arms around her waist, 
 A very goddess seeni'd. Nor less 
 
 A joy was it to watch, in pairs. 
 
 With blue tails sweeping on the stairs. 
 
 Or spreading wide their hundred eyes
 
 22 ELEONORE. 
 
 Of cliangeful green and golden dyes, 
 
 The peacocks, in tlieir courtly dress ; 
 Who had out-lived its palmy days, 
 
 But yet clung fondly to the spot, 
 And peer'd each morn, with curious gaze. 
 Through broken windows, in amaze, 
 
 To find so little stir and rout. 
 Here ofttimes on the balustrade 
 She sat, and heard their shrill tirade 
 
 'Gainst the decaying times ; until 
 Across the sweep of puri:)le wold, 
 
 The horn's " Tra-la" with cheerful swell, 
 Of the returning huntsman told ; 
 Who never fail'd, when day was set, 
 
 And weary with its toil, he fell 
 Booted and spurr'd, into a chair.
 
 ELEONOEE. 28 
 
 Before the fire, to call for lier, 
 
 And lay his cheek 'gainst hers, and pass 
 His fingers through her golden hair. ~ 
 It was not much perhaps, and it 
 
 Came only once a day, alas ! 
 But being all she had of love, 
 
 The cliild lived for that twilight-time 
 Alone ; listen'd for him, and strove 
 
 To meet his humom', and to climb 
 
 Yet nearer to his heart. 
 
 And so, 
 The world went by, and left them there, 
 A century behind, as 'twere. 
 . . . Old thoughts, old prejudices, modes. 
 All moss-grown, like the walls, I trow ; 
 New-fangled doctrines, like new roads,
 
 24 ELEONORE. 
 
 Came nowhere nigh them ; startling creeds 
 Of church and state, first mooted now, 
 
 Sent no strong winds among their weeds ! 
 The stream damm'd up, and stagnate o'er, 
 Turn'd never a wheel. 
 
 Thus, Eleonore 
 From childhood slowly stept ; and years, 
 
 Which in her life work little change, 
 Expand the sweet bloom of her face. 
 Informing her presence with all grace 
 
 Of womanhood ; and her gentle mind 
 Carving more firm ; for to her tears. 
 
 And joys, was all heart-counsel strange — 
 
 And, lil^e a sapling 'fore the wind, 
 Her soul at first sway'd to and fro. 
 
 Looking for some place to lean.
 
 ELEONOEE. 25 
 
 But finding no supiDort below, 
 
 Nothing tender, strong, and green. 
 It upwards turn'd, for heaven's own dew — 
 And so, more self-concentred, grew. 
 
 She was sixteen. About that time. 
 There came to that soft-winded clime, 
 And to that house, two friends : the one 
 
 Far-spent in health. I onl}- know 
 
 Of his past Hfe, that years ago 
 The Count and he were friends at court. 
 
 Where flaunted rose-faced Pompadour ; 
 And wore her love-knots, drank, and fought, 
 
 And on theii' swords fast friendship swore. 
 In memory of those days, he claim'd 
 
 Hospitality for a night.
 
 26 ELEONORE. 
 
 The other (in years, his son) he named 
 Gaston, — a Saul 'mong men for height, 
 Broad in the brow and chest, athlete. 
 And sculptured in the countenance 
 Lilve Grecian marbles, where no chance 
 Of colour comes, in cold or heat ; 
 AVith deep, unfathomable eyes. 
 
 That seem to read each hidden thought 
 In others, yet disclosed nought 
 Of joy, or anger, or surprise, 
 Out of their deeps. So gauzes drawn 
 Across a city casement hide 
 Keen watchers of the world below. — 
 Something at moments . . . Was it pride ? 
 Or flashes of a smouldering scorn. 
 That shot from eye to lip, and ran
 
 ELEONOEE. 27 
 
 Athwart liis face with lightning glow ? 
 
 I wist not — and that wasted man 
 Alone, perhaps, such looks conld read. — 
 
 Dear as a father holds his son 
 He held liim. ..." In an hour of need, 
 
 While yet a youth, that right arm wrought 
 Rare ser\ice in the Pyrenees," 
 
 He said ; and since then, " He had fought 
 
 Up steep Parnassus' heights, and won 
 Wide fame : the universities 
 Had crown'd him. . . . Thi-ough the sore-perplext 
 
 Philosophy of German towns 
 His vdt had steer' d, as tln-ough the vext 
 
 Dvdl questions of the Paduan gowns." . . . 
 With garrulous pride he talk'd of him ; 
 
 And should one praise the form, he swore
 
 28 
 
 ELEONORE. 
 
 The soul outshone its sheath ; and more 
 The manly grace of mind than limb. 
 
 Eight welcome to that house were they. 
 Tlie Count de Vaux had not yet lost 
 Convivial tempers loud and gay : 
 Albeit disused to play the host, 
 To kill fat sheep and entertain, 
 He urged the two friends to remain 
 Until the vintage. " For," said he, 
 
 " My friends come seldom up this way. 
 They flock'd here in the days of old. 
 When the wine flow'd red, and the purse ran gold 
 But not so now ; and here I lead 
 A cheerless life, — my old grey steed 
 
 And my little daughter for company.
 
 ELEONOEE. 29 
 
 Come ! under us there standetli yet 
 
 One cobwebb'd cask of Burgundy, 
 The last remaining. . . . Will you bide 
 A space ? We'll ease his bursting side 
 By a slit i' the vem, and drink our fill." . . . 
 
 No wine-bibber, he yet confess'd 
 Himself as nothing loth to stay, 
 
 The elder man ; and so, when press'd 
 By eyes more eloquent than ]ij)s, 
 
 The younger ; and sweet knowledge grew. 
 As blushing to the finger-tips. 
 
 She smiled out on the landscape blue, 
 For pleasure at his answer'd "Yea;" , . . 
 While the two elder men sat by, 
 
 O'er lansquenet, full idly play'd. 
 Jogging each other's memory
 
 '"iO ELEONORE. 
 
 To some stale jest court-wits had made. 
 But the stair that from her turret led 
 Creak'd rarely 'neatli the Countess' tread. 
 She loath'd strange faces that came to pry 
 On theu' fall'n estate and povertj-. 
 So where she listed, unmolest, 
 Went Eleonore, from rise to rest. 
 
 She was his guide in golden weather, 
 Among the woods and fields alone. 
 And hung ujoon his magic tone, 
 When by the light of stars they read, 
 
 Bending over one book together. 
 With perfumed locks commmgled. 
 (" For is he not her father's guest ? 
 
 Therefore is it meet," saith she, 
 
 " Ever to bear him company." . . .)
 
 ELEONOEE. 31 
 
 And lo ! to tliis result it grew : 
 
 Each day, each hour, his presence blew 
 
 Some new fresh impulse to her soul, 
 That struck out roots 'neath the green sod, 
 
 And strengthen'd up, past all control. 
 And as its warmth and vigour spread, 
 Her mind expanded ; and she read, 
 
 Through his discourses eloquent, 
 The T\Titing of the hand of God 
 
 On the starletter'd firmament; 
 With all the lesser truths of Time. 
 
 Science her subtle stories lent ; 
 History, and the treasm-ed lore 
 Of ages, was outspread before 
 
 Her wondering eyes ; and the sweet rhyme 
 
 Of the old poets rang their chime
 
 32 ELEONORli. 
 
 Down his deep voice in mellowing falls 
 Till all a-fii'e, with tears that stood 
 
 Taking her blue eyes' citadels, 
 The young girl's soul responsive burn'd, 
 And to the man himself she turn'd, 
 
 » 
 
 The breathing book of flesh and blood ! — 
 Her heart's buds burst, and as she spoke, 
 
 She, from her double ignorance. 
 By little and by little, woke. — 
 
 Dreams took a real shape ; Romance, 
 
 And Chivalry, and Love came back. 
 As in the days of old. ... A davm. 
 
 Had broken on the starless black ! 
 She listen'd, and it seem'd her life 
 Could never more be as forlorn, 
 
 And fruitless, as it once had been.
 
 ELEONORE. -Vd 
 
 — Her virgin heart put on its green, 
 
 For all, the days with death were rife. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Five weeks are past, and everjrwhere 
 The vineyards now look brown and bare. 
 The vines are stript, and trail around 
 Their tendrils on the bruised ground. 
 
 The many feet have left the hill. 
 The house is silent : linger there 
 Those stranger-travellers still? 
 Another stranger with ice-cold hand 
 
 Is there : the solemn bell doth pass 
 A soul from earth — the last few grains of sand 
 
 Are shaken out of the horn-- glass ! 
 " He might have linger'd a year or more.
 
 34 ELEONOEE. 
 
 But for that blood-vessel last night ! " 
 And now, on dead limbs, the slanting lines 
 Of the setting sun through the casement pour ; 
 Wliile without, through the trees, the eye defines 
 
 The vintage procession down below : 
 As 'gainst the sun they descend the hill, 
 
 And rioting through the village go. 
 The vintners all, like antique fawns, 
 
 Home-bearing in the skins of swine, 
 
 The blood-warm half-fermented wine. 
 With shadow before, and a ruby light 
 
 On the women's flaming bodices. 
 And sun-burnt necks — and grapes that are strung 
 On a bough, between two shoulders slung ; 
 While the voices of children, joyous-shrill, 
 W^ith the tabor's clang, and sharp-rung horns.
 
 ELEONORE. 35 
 
 Stream up in boist'rous choruses 
 
 I. 
 
 Sing, let us sing ! 
 No harvest like that of the vine we bring ; 
 Ripen'd by August suns, 
 White grapes and pm-ple ones, 
 Press'd in the vintage tuns. 
 
 Sing, let us sing ! 
 
 n. 
 
 Sing, let us sing ! 
 Laugh at the feai's of our summer and spring ! 
 Cold winds across the plain. 
 Red blight, and beating rain, 
 The grapes turn to wine again. 
 Sing, let us sing ! 
 
 III. 
 Sing, let us sing I 
 The vine's blood is welcome to peasant and king ! 
 Fruit of our summer's toil, 
 Child of our native soil. 
 Better than corn and oil. 
 Sing, let us sing ! 
 « * * * n 2
 
 36 ELEONORE. 
 
 "Woe's me ! what mockery, 
 Sadder than passing-bell these sounds appear 
 To him, who standeth by the bier ! . . . 
 Recalling all the jollity 
 That once lit up the lifeless eye . . . 
 He shuts the lid down heavily. 
 
 A hush dwelt round about the house 
 
 All that day long. Who spoke, spoke low, 
 And, as though some slept, upon tiptoe 
 Trod the stair, and echoing corridor. 
 
 So still was it, that e'en the mouse 
 Ran boldly out across the floor. 
 
 Nor wist that one stood there, I ween. 
 But at the window, Eleonore
 
 ELEONORE. 37 
 
 Leant out her aching head a-tween 
 Her hands : and lo ! heliind her chair 
 Gaston, who, stooping to her ear, 
 Whisper' d, — and then a wilder knell 
 Tolling out all her life-hopes fell ... . 
 " To-morrow I must be far from here ! "
 
 ^8 ELEONOKE. 
 
 PAET il. 
 
 It is a chill September night, 
 The stars, though few, are burning bright, 
 And the moon shines on the terrace-wall, 
 Shiver'd with blackest shadows all, 
 From fruit-tree branches. Hand in hand. 
 
 With eyes uplifted to the East, 
 AVhere Dawn's streak shows, — two figures stand 
 And with troubled words, that e'er increased 
 
 In tearful tenderness, one spake.
 
 ELEONORE. .39 
 
 (The wind blew down in sudden strife 
 
 The red leaves o'er them.) 
 
 " Happy are ye ! 
 
 bu'ds, who lie about yon tree ! 
 
 Can wing your ways at morn, and find 
 Yom' nest again at night ; and take 
 The blue sky lightly, as the wind 
 
 That lifts you ! this life, this life ! 
 
 It had been better not to wake 
 
 From that heavy dream to a long disgust ! 
 Thou, Gaston, ah ! thou can'st not guess 
 The dull blank page of nothingness, 
 
 Life was to me — one time — and must 
 Be now again — no cares, but less 
 Than common joys — companionless — 
 
 Without one distant hope or aim
 
 40 ELEONORE. 
 
 For the future. Now will Life ebb back 
 By days, to the day thou earnest here, 
 And there must stagnate. Thou wilt flow 
 On to the storied world : — that sphere 
 Of learning claims its own, I know, 
 My heart has guessed it ; though I lack 
 Right knowledge of thy future there. 
 And yet, metliinks, I see bright dames, 
 In the splendor of a palace -room. 
 Waiting for one whose word is doom, 
 Whose love .... My girlish folly claims 
 
 Thy pardon, Gaston — O forget 
 My wild free speech ; nor deem me bold, 
 That thus I speak from the full hold 
 Of sorrow. With the autumn-leaves 
 Made gold on the bough ; and ripen'd sheaves.
 
 ELEONORE. 41 
 
 Knowledge and friendship — day by day 
 Has grown — must it aU now fall away ? 
 
 — Be swept, like the dead leaves coverlet 
 From om^" life's path ?" . . . 
 
 Swift, as a wave 
 ImpeU'd by rushing winds, he clave 
 The ripple of her low complaint : 
 His voice swept onwards, meeting faint 
 
 Besistance from her sobs and sighs. 
 The trembluig palm between his own 
 He folded : then, with passionate tone, 
 
 AU his heart up. 
 
 " Dear Eleonore, 
 God give me strength ! ... no more ... no more ! 
 These waters move to grievous wrong 
 All high resolves : I would be strong,
 
 42 ELEONOEE. 
 
 Unman me not ■with those streaming eyes. 
 Honor points througli yon postern gate — 
 Too long have I staid : to hesitate 
 Were madness . . . He who is laid asleep, 
 
 (Christ save his soul !) had it not been 
 For him . . . long ago . . . Nay ; do not weep ! 
 
 Thou madd nest me — God alone can tell, 
 
 God, whose far-searchmg eye hath seen v 
 Love brimming o'er the hearts' deep well 
 Each day, . . . all that I suffer — yet 
 Must I flee hence, and quite forget 
 Thee, and the blessed dreams that stood 
 
 Like glory round my way. — Curse ! 
 
 Worse than dishonour'd death, and worse 
 Than the despair of dumb or blind ! 
 O Serpent, coil'd through heart and mind,
 
 JELEONORE. 43 
 
 From my youth up, thy sting affords 
 
 No sharper pam than these few parting words ! 
 
 To him, the maid : " Where thou must go, 
 My heart Avill follow — but thy words 
 Round it, like evil shadows, press . . . 
 Kill not my hope . . . O, let it grow 
 Shaded by memories that cling 
 To the grandest, as the commonest thing 
 Taught me by thee ! For, wert thou dead, 
 
 (And futureless parting were little less,) 
 Life's color would indeed be fled ! " 
 
 " Aye, hope :" he said, and on her turn'd 
 Sadly ; " for me, enough to know. 
 
 Thy heart : that, when reviled and spurn'd. 
 
 And spat upon by loathing men,
 
 44 ELEONORE. 
 
 It still would shield my memory, though 
 
 The whole world should turn from thee then ! 
 I tell thee truth, Girl ! 'twould be so. 
 Women Avould tremble — mothers grasp 
 Their infants tighter in their clasp — 
 Should they but hear my curse : — to think 
 
 That they have sat with me, at meat. 
 And fill'd the cup for me to drink. 
 
 Or touch'd my garment, in the street ! 
 'Mong friendships, haply, there be none 
 
 That would endure that test ! ... To thee, 
 (And here his passionate voice burnt down) 
 
 My heart kneels only therefore. . . . Thee, 
 Whom I would crown with lilies ; Queen, 
 
 Bright and pure, in a heaven above me. 
 As Beatrice was by Dante seen !
 
 ELEONORE. 45 
 
 Thou reinember'st ? ... So shall thine image shed 
 
 Its light henceforth. And if thou lov'stme, 
 Think of me, dear, as of one who is dead. 
 Yet whose soul is not beyond the reach 
 
 Of pray'r." 
 
 " What meanmgs, Gaston, hide 
 In these dark words ? " 
 
 He wildly cried, 
 " They mean — they mean that Life is a beach 
 
 Strew'd with the wreck of gallant hopes ; 
 Why cometh the sunshine, when the blast 
 
 Hath struck the bows, and split the ropes, 
 And shiver'd the main-top mast ? " 
 Once more, in accents sweet and slow 
 
 The young girl spake. " If thou must go, 
 
 O trust thy secret soul to me !
 
 46 ELEONORE. 
 
 AVliere love is, knowledge need not fear 
 To enter, even though it wear 
 All shapes of horror. I am strung 
 
 To any tune of misery. 
 Speak, therefore — though my heart be wrung 
 By thy discourse ; its certain tone 
 
 Will bring with it, to me, less pain. 
 Than it would to meet alone, 
 
 Sick fancies and the shadowy train 
 Of doubts, that, in secret, haunt the brain. 
 Speak to me, Gaston." 
 
 There she stood 
 Tremulous, with the white lips parted ; 
 The fresh rain on her cheek had started, 
 And lay there ; and her earnest eye 
 Read into his for a reply.
 
 ELEONORE. 47 
 
 " Eleonore, be it so. I would 
 
 Have spared both me and thee," he said. 
 
 " Now hear. — We hvo can never wed ! 
 Between us is a great gulf fixt, 
 
 Through which who sinks or swims, is dead 
 AUke unto the world. No hand 
 
 Of succour to the wretch, immersed 
 In its black poison'd wave : — for all, 
 The very meanest, poorest, shrmk 
 From such, and stand upon the brink, 
 Pitiless ; their revilings mixt 
 "With Scriptm-e texts, — ' Gehazi's own 
 Descendants,' or the ' Wandering Jew's,' 
 Or ' Unrepentant thief's,' they call 
 My race. . . . Now I, behold, imknown. 
 Have walkt a space this Christian land.
 
 48 ELEONORE. 
 
 A thing its people hold accurst ; 
 
 A wonn to crush beneath their shoes ! 
 I am a Cagot / " 
 
 A low wail, 
 Plamtive as the babe's, when first 
 
 It meets the world, in pain and travail, 
 Died on the night ; and the thin trees 
 Shudder'd audibly in the breeze. 
 " All ! mother Cretias," he groan'd, 
 " Ah, mother, little did'st thou guess 
 By what long years of wretchedness 
 
 Thy sin, in me, should be atoned ! 
 
 She Avas of that despised race, 
 
 Shut out from human sympathy, 
 
 But of strange beauty in the face, 
 (Thy woman's tears to her afford).
 
 ELEONORE. 49 
 
 My father was a Provence lord, 
 
 He saw her at a moimtaiii well . . . 
 (Christ pardon him and her) . . . but why 
 
 Continue ? In a word — She fell f 
 Wild, passionate, and tender bosom, 
 
 In savage wasteness all alone ; 
 What wonder that the silken tone, 
 Smooth touch, and soft eyes on her bent, 
 Undid her, . , . being different 
 
 From all that she had ever known ? 
 . . . In time there blew the bitter blossom, 
 
 And in a cradle I was laid, 
 Of fallen berry, leaf, and thorn ; 
 Her tawny fellows eyed with scorn 
 One of their loathed race, betray'd 
 
 By courtly lips. . . Thus from my tribe,
 
 50 ELEONORE, 
 
 With mother's milk, did I imbibe 
 Hate of injustice and of wrong, 
 And that bUnd hatred of the strong, 
 
 Oppress'd men have. And in the hills, 
 Companion'd by my secret thoughts. 
 
 Dwelt in that spiiit -world, that fills 
 "Wild plains with splendour as of courts ; 
 Untn, — but of the rest thou know'st . . . 
 How noble that man was, whose ghost 
 
 He yielded to liis God last night ; 
 
 How his heart's largesse infinite 
 Was pour'd on me ; and how released 
 
 From its narrow channel, my pent life. 
 
 This knowest thou " 
 
 He said, and ceased ; 
 Toll'd in low sobs the young maid's gi'ief
 
 ELEONORE. 51 
 
 Out ou the night : no other sound, 
 
 All Nature held its breath around. 
 
 He gasp'd yet once again. " Ah sweet," 
 
 Weep not for me, — this life is fleet. 
 
 And I — a thing beneath thy feet — 
 How should I drag thee down — down — down 
 
 To my base level ? We must part, 
 I know, for ever : but do thou 
 
 Gather still closer round thy heart 
 
 Such love as may 'mong angels grow, 
 
 Stronger and purer ; till that day, 
 
 When all parting shall have pass'd away ! 
 And if fond foohsh memory clhigs, 
 Pleading for earth-hopes, do thou ch'own 
 
 Her flattering voice. — Be strong, my love- 
 Gird up thy heart for thy far home.
 
 02 ELEONORE. 
 
 And learn, in the long years to come, 
 
 A courage to endure all things 
 
 With faith in the glorious End above ! 
 
 As drops the summer sun to rest, 
 
 His glorious face hid 'mong the trees. 
 Her golden head, by slow degrees. 
 
 Slid down upon his breast ; 
 
 Sobbing, " For ever," — until, at last, 
 
 Unwittingly, liis arms grew fast 
 
 Ai'oimd her. . . . Beating hearts did meet, 
 
 And the lips answer'd. 
 
 Suddenly, 
 A shadow fell between their feet . . . 
 
 It quiver'd upon the ivied wall ; 
 
 It cross'd them like a funeral-pall : —
 
 ELEONORE. 53 
 
 Up- sprang the maid : there leapt a cry 
 Into the night ; and then she saith 
 An Ave underneath her hreath. 
 A skinny clay-cokl hand is there ; 
 It weaves three fingers through her hair ; I 
 A low laugh ripples on the air. 
 
 She turn'd one trembling look behind. 
 There, spectre-hke, the Countess stood ; 
 Her eyes dilated, fleckt with blood, 
 
 Her gTey locks tost upon the wind ; 
 And sinking dovm, the young girl spread 
 Her two arms round about her head, 
 Crusht to the earth. 
 
 " I interrupt, 
 In a manner somewhat too abrupt. 
 This parlance. . . . Pardon me, I pray," —
 
 54 
 
 ELEONORE. 
 
 Began the Countess, in taunting tone. — • 
 
 " Our house is well repaid, I owti, 
 For its hospitahty, that you deign 
 
 To hold love -passages with this 
 Unblushing girl. . . . Thou white-faced shame ! 
 
 Did'st seal a contract with that kiss ? — 
 God strike thee dead upon the day 
 Our house were so dishonour'd ! . . . Pah ! 
 Out on thee !" — Hoarse, her voice ran down 
 
 In whispers, like a serpent's liiss 
 O'ercharged with venom. — " Thou art grown 
 
 Of the flesh and blood of thy base mother. 
 Would to God thou hadst ne'er been born ! 
 
 For then "... 
 
 " Hold, madam, while I speak 
 These last words that may stir your scorn.
 
 ELEONORE. 55 
 
 Beneath this roof, for many a week, 
 We two have met, and talk'd together, 
 
 Throughout long days, that in their flight 
 
 Look glimmering sj^ecks — unhinder'd quite 
 By you, her guardian. Are you so 
 Unlearn'd in man as not to know 
 
 The sequence ? Why, if there be blame, 
 'Tis your's, that should have better kept 
 
 The key of her young heart, madam. 
 Take it agam — the place is swept 
 Out clean. May it lodge a w^orthier guest ! — 
 As for me, you have nought to fear ; 
 
 Ere the sun breaks in yonder east 
 I shall be far away. My fate 
 Leans to a distant country, where 
 Men are more equal-handed. There,
 
 50 
 
 ELEONORE. 
 
 Working unto some worthy end, 
 My name shall fashion, soon or late, 
 
 A story for itself, and bend 
 The old-world prejudice aside. 
 A day is coming, when the pride 
 
 Of birth shall tumble in tliis land, 
 And bite the dust. May I be there, 
 
 O God ! to lend a helping hand." 
 
 To him, the Countess, eager : " Swear, 
 Thou foul-mouth'd braggai-t, ne'er again 
 To seek to pass these walls, on pain 
 Of whipping at the waggon's tail ! . . . 
 Pshaw ! 'tis a meaner varlet e'en 
 Than I had reckon'd on !" Her spleen 
 Rang out in laughter, sharp as hail ;
 
 ELEONORE. 57 
 
 But he, unmoved, said, 
 
 " Do not crown 
 Your wrath with such hard terms, madam. 
 
 Threats are w^aste words ; I know no fear, 
 Arm'd with good purpose as I am : 
 
 And yet I do your will, and sweai'" . . . 
 He paused a space, and, looking down, 
 He caught the streaming eye, upturn'd, 
 
 Imploring him ..." Never again, 
 
 I swear, until the Castellain 
 
 Of these toivers shall entreat 
 
 My presence, ivill I set my feet 
 
 Within their compass." 
 
 As he spake, 
 Lights glinted all the garden tlu'ough ; 
 
 And soon upon the gravel brake
 
 58 ELEONORE. 
 
 Sharp footfalls in the frosty breeze, 
 And torches flash' cl, and fell, and grew 
 
 Nearer and nearer in the trees. 
 Then hastily he stoop'd, and droi-)p'd 
 Unseen a parchment in her dress, 
 Whispering, " Should ever come that day, 
 And doubt, or danger, or distress 
 Oertake thee, open this." Then stopp'd 
 To turn upon the chafing dame 
 With steadfast gaze. — " And now, madam, 
 
 The house is all a-stir, and I 
 Must pray you bid my host farewell, 
 And say the thanks I may not say." 
 
 With that he leapt the wall, and fell 
 Into the meadows, moonht grey, 
 
 And so pass'd onward noiselessly.
 
 ELEONORE. 59 
 
 PART III. 
 
 Time, on his rosary, hath told 
 A year away : and once again, 
 The wheat is lifted from the plain. 
 
 The granaries are running gold. 
 
 And in that old house on the hill. 
 
 What changes hath the season wrought ? 
 
 Less grist has gone unto the mill, 
 And fewer hoofs into the Court. 
 
 But little change, till a bell in the night
 
 ^'0 ELEONORE. 
 
 Siiai">p'tl all the dreams of yesterday ! 
 The Count is dead. The branch that topp'd 
 That old ancestral tree is lopp'd 
 
 Suddenly off — and swept away ! 
 On his old grey steed, that bore him well 
 So many years, i' the field he fell, 
 
 Like a warrior in the fight. 
 The huntsman cut down boughs of wood, 
 Made a litter, and bore him home : 
 Toilfully the hills they clomb. 
 All the green sticks dropping blood. 
 Up the path, to the chateau stair, 
 Smootliing their fears to a light-heart air : 
 Saying to those who wring their hands, 
 
 " 'Tis a mere nothing — a broken limb" — 
 " Lo ! he smiles" . . . (but the smile is dim,
 
 ELEONORE. 61 
 
 And the sweat on his forehead stands) 
 The Countess to the steps came down, 
 In furred hood, and velvet gown, 
 
 A-tremble from head to foot : 
 She glared at one, and at the other, 
 
 " Stand back, ye clowns, I am his mother ! " 
 
 And tore off the bloody boot. 
 Then, at the sight, her stone-cold face 
 Con\Tilsed ; and, reeling back a pace. 
 She fell, with passionate shrieks ! And they, 
 
 Through all her throes and struggles, led 
 Her far, into her tower, away. 
 
 But one pale shadow by the bed, 
 
 Nor wept, nor clamor' d, — only spread 
 The ointment on the Hnt ; and bomid. 
 With skilful hands, the gaping wound ;
 
 G2 ELEONORE. 
 
 And only moved to wipe the damp 
 
 From his cold brow : and only spake, 
 To bid them leave the room, and make 
 
 Eeady the midnight lamp. 
 
 The old homid and his mistress kept 
 Their vigil by that death-bed-side 
 All the night long ; and when he died, 
 
 They both still thought he slept ! 
 
 Seems it a little thing that he, 
 
 With whom we held no sympathy 
 
 Of mind, in life — from whom, no thought 
 Struck fire in meeting ours — nor aught 
 
 Bound us together, but the great 
 Gift of our love in early days. . , . 
 
 That such should, on a. sudden, die '?
 
 ELEONORE. 63 
 
 That that strong heart should cease to beat — 
 That never, in this workl, Ms gaze 
 
 Should meet us more, — nor his reply 
 
 Fasten our memory ? . . . Ah ! no, 
 
 Rude mind — rough manners — natural love — • 
 
 We find too httle here below, 
 
 For Death one fond heart to remove, 
 
 And we not feel the void. 
 
 And she 
 Moum'd, as who love but few. Long-pent, 
 The springs rush'd to her heart's relief: 
 
 But soon she hid her sobs, and sought 
 To soothe, with gentle blandishment. 
 
 Her grandam's \\alder grief; 
 
 For she was like a thing distraught, 
 A wild beast, robb'd of its young.
 
 Gi ELEONORE. 
 
 It was a terrible despair ; 
 She sat upon the ground, and wrung 
 
 The white locks of her hair ! 
 But in the mid-watch of the night, 
 Stealing down, noiseless, with a light, 
 
 She came and stared upon the dead. 
 Out -lying on its linen white. 
 And the young gii-1 who knelt in pray'r 
 
 Arose, and took her hand, and said, 
 
 " O Grandmother, be comforted : 
 Remember, now he is at peace, 
 In a land where sin and sorrows cease. 
 And the weary, Grandmother, are at rest."- 
 For all reply, she beat her breast. 
 With her thin hands : and walkd about 
 The vacant chambers, in and out.
 
 ELEONORE. C5 
 
 The horn and wassail-bowl were there — 
 
 The platter, and the empty chair — 
 
 The Drinker and the Huntsman . . . where ? . 
 
 Her foot meets something on the floor, 
 
 She stoops — it is the boot he wore, 
 
 Still saturated in the gore. 
 
 Pah ! . . . She sicken'd and turn'd away — 
 
 She bent her knees, and tried to pray — 
 
 — She thought she could remember part 
 Of some Church-form — the words came not 
 The Pater-noster was forgot . . . 
 
 She was not used to pray, by heart ! 
 Then all her agony rush'd in 
 
 Upon her, and she cried aloud, 
 " Christ pardon me my sin ! — 
 I cannot pray — but I would die,
 
 G6 ELEONORE. 
 
 And rest a little in my shroud." 
 
 And he who doth dispose the ways 
 
 And the unruly hearts of men, 
 
 Answer'd her pray'r : but not then ; 
 Not in those fiercely -momniing days — 
 
 Not till she leam'd to put her trust 
 In that strong love that intervened 
 
 Betwixt her sins and God, the Just ; 
 Not till her lofty mind, unqueen'd 
 
 Went sorrowing, in the dust ! 
 And then she died ; full of great years, 
 
 If not of honor : for her fame 
 Went ill among the poor : the tears 
 That she had dried in life were scant, 
 
 And scant were those, they lent her name.
 
 ELEONOEE. 67 
 
 Hark ! from the belfry, jubilant, 
 
 The bells clang Christmas morning in ! 
 
 Their sharp tongues follow in a din, 
 Clear-rung through all the early frost : 
 And as the men and women pass 
 Up the church steps, to early mass, 
 Each man his neighbour doth accost, 
 
 And ev'ry wife her gossip. " Aye, 
 And so I learn she's dead ! " " She ched 
 
 This morning somewhat suddenly. 
 At the five-bells," a dame repHed, 
 Important, as one who shovild know. 
 " Pardie ! " quoth one, in uuder-tone, 
 "Well, well, God send her peace ; so now 
 The Utile lady reigneth there 
 Supreme in the old place.
 
 68 ELEOXORE. 
 
 'Tis a mere child." " Just seventeen 
 
 Come Candlemas." " Aye, neighbour Pierre, 
 
 Mind you one day, some six years back, 
 How she, a tiling Avith sunny locks, 
 
 Peep'd o'er the wall, with wondering e'en, 
 As we were driving home our flocks, 
 
 At shearing-time, across the fields. 
 And call'd and ask'd us for a drink 
 Of goat's milk, saying—' Here's a pmk. 
 The best, good man, our garden yields, 
 Take it ' ? I'faith, 'twas worth a crown 
 To hear the little lady speak. 
 Only last year I met her thrice 
 
 With that tall stranger who was down 
 Staying in these parts ; and twice 
 She stopp'd, and kiss'd my baby's cheek,
 
 ELEONORE. 69 
 
 And once pass'd on and smiled." " Come, tell 
 Us sometliing, Pernette (for thou know'st 
 More of these things than we can boast). 
 What is her future ? vnH she dwell 
 
 Sole mistress of the vine and plough. 
 Or give us some new lord ? and how 
 Should this betide us, ill or well ? " 
 *' A common scorn — nay, something worse 
 Old names may grow — a common curse" 
 Was the village -oracle's reply, 
 In the dim speech of prophecy. 
 Each stared on each, and she pursued — 
 " Neighboui', if murrain seize your beast ; 
 
 Should blight on flocks and grain -crops fall. 
 Ere the ripe summer sees your loss. 
 Look to the eyes that shine across
 
 70 ELEONORE. 
 
 Your fields, from 3'on(ler tiirret-wall." 
 A silence fell on them as she ceased ; 
 Thick-breath'd, with a solemn awe imbued, 
 
 What might the Sibyl's words portend ? . . 
 Some told their beads in tremulous falter, 
 
 And cross'd themselves ; and some would bend 
 Their knee before Our Lady's altar . . . 
 But once past on, the rumour spread 
 From mouth to mouth, with dark hints fed, 
 Light blown, as seeds before the wind, 
 
 That take their root ere the hand wist 
 That it hath dropt any belimd. 
 She, in her tower, poor lonely bird, 
 No jar of village voices heard : 
 But from the bars look'd out on grey 
 Froz'n fields, and shut her hands to pray,
 
 ELEONOEE. 71 
 
 All the long bitter Chiistmas-day. 
 The wintry sun smiled through in vain : 
 The frost-buds, blister'd on the pane, 
 
 Would never thaw, nor would the poor 
 Struck heart, ^\'ithin. She sat and watch'd 
 
 The motes dance down the oaken floor : 
 And all the robin-redbreasts, match'd 
 
 In pairs, upon the leafless bough, 
 And mournfully she said, '*' Ah me, 
 
 My kith and kin all buried now; 
 Each thing in nature hath its mate, 
 I, only I, am desolate ; 
 Why should I any longer tarry ? 
 O, take me too, sweet Mother Mary." 
 But there ai'ose, e'en as she spoke, 
 A little tremulous hope, that woke
 
 72 ELEONORE. 
 
 Some sense of rapture in her heart, 
 And came, and went, and came again, 
 
 And would not quite depart. 
 Like fitful gusts of fresh'ning rain, 
 Over the summer-scorched plain, 
 And in this Nature judgeth best ; 
 
 That heing young, and full of life, 
 We cannot pray to be at rest, 
 We pray to live : hope, in our breast. 
 
 Beats counter to life's cares and strife. 
 We sometimes try to drive this guest 
 
 Away, and say he is not worth 
 A place with his false tales ; but by 
 
 And by he comes again ; — for all 
 We Uft our eyes to the blue sky. 
 Ere long they droop and droop, and fall
 
 ELEONORE. 73 
 
 To the horizon of the earth, 
 
 Feastmg in its green festival ! 
 
 And so was it with Eleonore. 
 In the clock-ticldngs of the night 
 Her heart is stii-r'd ; its eyes foresee 
 Fair pictures of the " yet might be." 
 
 It cheats her long day's langiiishment : 
 She argued whether it were right 
 To feed such dreams ; but ever more 
 
 They grew, in spite of argument. 
 
 She glanced up a,t her long descent. 
 As she paced the length of corridor, 
 And questional them, with eyes that spoke 
 
 Plainer than lips. Sir Hildebrand 
 He frown'd; his stern spouse pluck'd her cloak;
 
 74 ELEONORE. 
 
 And Bertrand shook Lis " bloody hand" 
 I' her teeth. . . . She shudder'd all a-cold, 
 Then stopp'd and said, " Now will I hold 
 This for an omen true." She took 
 A pace, and stole one fearful look 
 To the fur corner of the room, 
 
 Where fair young Raoul held his place. 
 
 A sunbeam fell upon the face ; 
 He smiled out underneath his plume ! 
 She fled along the corridor, 
 
 A triumph on her eye and lip : 
 All doubts — ah ! happy Eleonore ! — 
 
 Resolved. Then from her breast, a slip 
 Of parchment, that had long lain cmi'd 
 In its warm casket, draws, and reads 
 
 (The seals being brok'n) the name of one,
 
 ELEONORE. /O 
 
 A merchant Jew in Paris town, 
 To whom, in any urgent needs, 
 A letter sent shoukl, far or near, 
 Reach his expatriate hands ; and there, 
 O' the other side, her pen must steer 
 Its trembling course. " I am alone. 
 
 'Tis night in this empty world. 
 
 My sun, rise up again ! 
 
 Eise on my darken' d sphere — 
 
 Pdse to this sphere — thine own. 
 
 Come ! for the Castellain 
 
 Of these toivers doth entreat 
 
 Thy presence . . . and the curse is dead 
 
 For us, who stand alone here, Sweet. 
 
 The voices all around us fled !" 
 — When to the post-town, far away,
 
 ELEONORE. 
 
 Across the plain, this word was sped 
 By trusty bands, without delay, 
 Her heart, uplifted from its bed, 
 And looking to the hopeful sky^ 
 Went forward to a future day, 
 And so she waited patiently.
 
 ELEONORE. 
 
 PART lY. 
 
 Convulsion shook the land right through, 
 From end to end, — a people's cry, 
 
 That ever deeper, hoarser grew, 
 
 Sounding the tocsin " Liherty ! " — 
 
 Till its echo swoon'd down the Western shore. 
 
 It reached her. She heard the far-off roar 
 
 Of Anarchy's dread march, unmoved, 
 As one, secure within a cave, 
 Hears the fierce murmur of the sea. 
 And the wild winds begin to rave. —
 
 78 ELEONORE. 
 
 Those heavy-winged hours, at last, 
 
 (So big in this world's history) 
 Brought him to her one night. 'Twas past 
 
 The curfew ; all the house a-bed, 
 (Pierre, and one aged maid, who loved 
 Its old walls, like the birds ;) save she. 
 Pale Eleonore, who sat and read 
 I' the Gospels, when she heard a clang 
 Of the long-rusted bell, that rang 
 Through the silent house. Her cheek lit red, 
 And her heart leapt up from its weary watch : 
 
 She hurried down, with trembling hand 
 Unloos'd the chain, and raised the latch. 
 
 She saw a shape before her stand, 
 And fell upon Ms neck ! But lo I 
 Meeting his gaze, she started back,
 
 ELEONORE. 79 
 
 And put the matted hair aside 
 
 From his pale wasted hrow, and cried, 
 " Wliat cruel change is here ! " The cheek 
 Was sunken, and the smile was slow 
 To come, and shadow-like did flit — 
 No glory, as of old, in it ! 
 
 But when he call'd her by her name, 
 The music that he used to speak 
 
 She found unalter'd. So they came 
 And sat down by the fitful light 
 Of embers, and talk'd down the night. 
 
 " Am I so alter'd ? AU," he sighs, 
 " Suffers some change, save those sweet eyes. 
 The plans we make— the thoughts that grow 
 To be life's principle — undergo
 
 80 ELEONORE. 
 
 Mutation ; and the way we read 
 
 Our future, most of all, dear heart ! 
 
 Mine pointed 'cross the Atlantic chart 
 To a free-born land, where the bruised seed 
 Of my life should be cast ; when Fate hurl'd more 
 Than I dream'd, in storm-drifts, on this shore !" 
 — He spoke of that great social change 
 That was enacting ; how his heart 
 
 Stood up to watch the work, and how 
 Himself had play'd a foremost part, 
 In the great city's drama. — " Strange, 
 How little of ourselves we know ! " 
 He said. " I had a dream that grew 
 
 Till it o'ershadow'd all my soul ; 
 
 Colour'd each thought, and shaped the whole. 
 It pointed how to frame a true, .
 
 ELEONORE. fSi 
 
 From the false systems of the past ; 
 
 That there should he nor first, nor last, 
 
 Throughout our land ; but reign Content 
 Over men's happy minds, — the fruit 
 Of honest laws, that constitute 
 
 "Wise equal -handed government; 
 No priestly factions of the state — 
 No party-cries to separate 
 A people — no gilt throne, upheld 
 
 By the thin hands of hungry men. — 
 The dream of good that I cherish'd then, 
 Is, little by little, dear, dispell'd ! . . . 
 
 " I wander'd through the crowded street, — 
 I heard the city's great heart beat, — 
 Saw the dainty courtiers pass.
 
 82 ELEONORE. 
 
 Aiid palace-dames in gilded coach, 
 The least diamond from whose broach 
 Would have bought a score of meals, 
 
 For that wretched starving mass. 
 
 Muttering cm'ses round their wheels ! 
 
 The city rock'd and sway'd, like some 
 Titan in labour ! — anguish-throes, 
 
 And groans upon the wild air throb ; 
 Denunciations on its foes, 
 
 From the ' Apostles of the mob ; ' 
 
 And when, at last, I heard a cry 
 
 ' To arms ! ' my heart rang shrill reply. 
 
 The bosom of the streets was stirr'd 
 At early dawn, and heaved along, 
 One impulse urging all the throng — 
 
 ' To the Bastile !' Saint Antoine heard
 
 ELEONOEE. 83 
 
 It, well prepared : from every door, 
 Grim-visaged men and women pour 
 Forth, with wild shouts, to seek for arms ; 
 Which found, they wave, like victory-palms, 
 Tow'rds the stronghold of tyranny. 
 
 — " All that day long they fought, and I 
 
 Toil'd with the people, — axe in hand, 
 Help'd Louis Tournay at the gate, 
 
 And by the cannon took my stand ; 
 Nor left it till the Bastile's fate 
 Was sealed, with thunder-shouts. . . . O God ! 
 
 'Twas a fearful sight to -witness there, 
 The fierce tide rolling through the court, 
 Where, minutes past, the sentry trod. 
 
 Nor plighted faith, nor silver hair, 
 
 G 2
 
 84 ELEONORE. 
 
 Avail him ; do'oii the corridor, 
 Tumultuous with a thirst that nought 
 
 But blood can slake, they rush. ... In 
 vain 
 I cry, and throw my myself before 
 
 Their gory pike -staffs ! ' Do not stain 
 With such foul deeds a righteous cause ! 
 In Christ's dear name, my brothers, pause ! 
 The world stands by to see this day.' . . . 
 
 But in that maddening tumult, none 
 
 Regard my words : the tide rolls on ; 
 And the thought of patriots there grown grey, 
 With the tortures, dragg'd from dungeon-cells 
 Like fuel to fire, feed their yells . . . 
 Already one is down ! . . . The hand 
 
 Which saved all Paris, when it reft
 
 ELEONORE. 85 
 
 Away De Launay's lighted brand, 
 
 Held o'er the powder-store, is cleft ! 
 
 Another falls. . . . Mine eyes grow dim . . . 
 
 Those hell-hounds tore them limb from limb, 
 
 Before they reach'd the Place de Greve. 
 Hardly could one poor veteran 
 
 My resolute remonstrance save " — 
 
 He shudder'd, and his deep voice ran 
 Down, like an unstrung instrument. — 
 
 " That night I lay upon a stone, 
 Out in a moon-ht, place, alone; 
 Wounded and faint, my heart oppress'd, 
 The spirit yet refused to rest. 
 
 It cursed me for my part that day.
 
 86 ELEONORE. 
 
 The dark-foreboding voice began, 
 
 ' Such tide, once free, may sweep away 
 
 All landmarks, for its Rights of Man ! 
 
 "What bloody tyraimy,' it said, 
 
 ' Is there like this unbridled will 
 
 Of a great midtitude, self-led ? 
 0\vning no law for right, until 
 
 Some ii'on-gTasp shall seize its fruit — 
 
 The will of one man absolute / ' . . . 
 
 " How I past thence I wot not ; when 
 
 I woke to life, days afterward, 
 I lay in a poor chamber. Men, 
 Whose face was strange, stood in my sight, 
 And roimd my pillow, day and night, 
 
 Watch'd soul and body strugghng hard,
 
 ELEONORE. 87 
 
 Through Death's half-open door. At length, 
 
 By virtue of the precious balm 
 And oil of Christian love, which they 
 Pour'd into me, I rose ; m strength 
 
 Restored, in heart more strong and calm. — 
 Wilde rumours thicken'd every day. 
 
 With crime outstripping rumour's pace, 
 And eloquent lips, that lent a grace 
 To the fierce contests in the ' States,' 
 
 Carried men's hearts, mine turned away 
 From these wild sophist-advocates 
 
 Of a destroying creed. As dear 
 The dream of freedom to me now, 
 
 As when, an outcast hoy, I gazed, 
 With bitter longing, across the brow 
 Of my own hills to the plains below,
 
 88 ELEONORE. 
 
 Where the castle frown'd : — but dim with fear 
 And doubt, this Future seemeth mazed ! 
 
 " At Versailles, in a peiilous hour, 
 
 I saw the royal lady stand 
 Upon a balcony. The crowd 
 Had clamour'd for her, fierce and loud ; 
 
 Nor ceased till, with one wliite hand, 
 She waved her children back, and stood 
 Calm, resolute, alone, to face 
 The rage of a madden'd populace. 
 Shame -struck with her noble mien, there rang 
 
 Along that sea of heads a shock 
 Of heart-applause ; when (God be praised !) 
 
 Sudden the gleam of a fire -lock 
 Caught me, among the crowd, upraised ! . . .
 
 ELEONORE. 89 
 
 A moment more — with tiger -bound, 
 And fury sharpening every fang, 
 Upon the craven wretch I sprang, 
 
 .\nd dash'd his musket to the ground ! 
 
 " Long lifetime crowded into hours : 
 
 The swift unravel of a string. 
 For centuries loiit fast, would seem 
 This day. From fever-heats of rage 
 
 To joy the people pass ; their king 
 Led captive to his palace tow'rs, 
 
 With ribaldry and sulliage, 
 And heads, as in an evil dream, 
 By drunken beldames borne before. 
 
 I wept indignant tears : there spoke 
 
 A voice within me, that awoke
 
 '.*0 ELEONORE. 
 
 The strong conviction more and more, 
 How, better than the sudden wrench 
 
 Of a whole system, centuries old. 
 
 Is the slow progress, taking hold 
 (Like iv}^ round a time-worn tow'r) 
 Of all the corner-stones that clench 
 The building, loosening all. But now. 
 
 As men who in that tower await 
 The springing of a mine, and know 
 
 That one and all must share its fate, 
 So stand we. ... 
 
 Weary, dear, am I 
 Of all these storms ; and joyfully 
 
 Caught I the word that, dove-like, flew 
 Into my bosom, and bore to me 
 Its green leaf o'er the dismal sea. . . .
 
 ELEONORE. 91 
 
 Since when, such comfort shoue in view, 
 As a wliite sail is, o'er the wintry main, 
 To the stranded in a hurricane ! " — 
 
 Forgotten, for the moment, all 
 
 The sadness into which his soul 
 
 Was steep'd ; with her warm hands again 
 
 In his, and reading down her eyes 
 
 The sjnnpathy of her heart's replies. — 
 
 The sorrows that her year had brought. 
 In turn, she told him, voiced with sighs ; 
 
 Till wliispering thus, the sunrise caught 
 Them slantwise through the oriel glass. 
 The little household 'gan to pass 
 
 Downstairs, and circle through the place. 
 And everywhere the bars they found
 
 92 ELEONOIiE. 
 
 Withdrawn ; till, wondering, they came 
 
 To where those two, in half-emhrace. 
 Sat in the window- seat together. 
 
 The tale that morning went its round. 
 
 Ere 'twas another hour old : 
 The farm-maid, tripping o'er the heather, 
 
 Set down her milli-pail as she told 
 The goat-herd, and the gossip-dame. 
 
 At open door ; until, at last, 
 The village bee-hive was a-stir. 
 
 Buzzing with anger : foremost led 
 By Justice, who, in wicker chair, 
 
 Portentous, shakes his awful head, 
 And takes his snuff, and hints at crimes. 
 " A firebrand of these troubled times,
 
 ELEONORE. 93 
 
 Percliance, — God hold us clear of such !" 
 
 Then, veering on another tack, 
 
 " The maid is young, — the scandal much." — 
 
 Cried one, " Like a ghost, he cometh back ! " — 
 
 " Like a robber vanish'd !" quoth another. 
 
 " I mmd me, that night, the Countess-mother 
 
 And little lady were found together 
 
 By the garden-wall." — The Sibyl said, 
 
 " ]\Iind you my word, sii's ? Should she wed ) 
 
 That man, far better she were dead ! 
 
 Does not the look of him congeal 
 
 Your heart's blood ? Did you never note 
 Those lengths of hair, that quite conceal 
 
 His ear-lobes, falling to the throat ? * 
 He comes of the accursed race ! 
 
 No need of ' cluck' s-foot' with that face — 
 * Vide Note.
 
 94 ELEONORE. 
 
 Such face the Devil lends his own, 
 
 To snare fond-hearted women ! " . . . Thence 
 
 Sharp rang the arrows of their tall?, 
 
 Feather'd with superstitious fears. 
 Some were for stocks ; and spake their saws 
 
 How Cagots had, in by-gone years, 
 Spread wide contagion in their walk : 
 
 And Justice quoted feudal laws, 
 For punishment of like offence. 
 So chafed and fretted through the day. 
 
 In village counsel, that sage band ; 
 
 Till night laid on a healing hand, 
 
 Hiding their feverish cares away. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 They look'd each other in the face. 
 He said, " Can you endure disgrace,
 
 ELEONOEE. 95 
 
 And sliare the shame of all my race ? 
 Thine, ancient home for evermore 
 Forsaking ? O, tliink well before 
 You strike the chord that gives the key, 
 Wherein a woman's history 
 Is thenceforth to be play'd. At best, 
 A stormy perilous life, — no rest, — 
 
 A life of poverty, toil, and scorn 
 Must om's be. Say, doth happiness 
 Blow this way only ? " 
 
 Her low "Yes !" 
 Trusting and tender, firm and clear. 
 Rang hopeful to his listening ear, 
 
 As joy-bell on a marriage morn. 
 
 He urges swift and secret flight ;
 
 !)G ELEONORE. 
 
 The people's voice hath grown each day 
 Louder, and ev'ry hour's delay 
 Thickens the ferment. So that night 
 She left her home, and through the door 
 Pass'd outward — to return no more ! 
 He bore her in his rugged fold, 
 Tender to clasp, but strong to hold, — 
 A jewel, set in clamps of gold. 
 She, unresisting, j)ale and calm, 
 Scarce breathing, on his bended arm. . . . 
 Thus they fled out across the hill, 
 Past the old churchyard, past the mill. 
 And through the village. All was still. 
 Midnight and more ; for every light 
 Along the street had wink'd " Good-night !" 
 The fields look'd cold and wintry white ;
 
 ELEONORE. 97 
 
 No soimd, save iii the frosty grass, 
 
 That crackles sharply as they pass ; 
 
 No jealous moon; no blood-hound's bay; 
 
 Nothing betrays their flight, — till day ) 
 
 Wakes up, and they are far away ! . . . 
 
 Only an hour or so, beliind, 
 
 (For clanking hoofs will take the wind. 
 
 And so 'tis counted best,) rides Pierre, 
 
 Upon his master's old grey steed. 
 
 Tight clenching in his tremulous hold 
 
 Things deem'd the fittest for their need. 
 A silver goblet, and a gold, 
 
 Ai-e slung upon the saddle-bow : 
 The old man sighs to think his task. 
 Of poHshing each quaint-wrought mask 
 Upon their sides, is done ; for all
 
 98 ELEONORE, 
 
 Is vague. ... Of future, what knows lie ? 
 He only knows, whate'er befall, 
 His future at her beck must be. 
 
 Prick on, thou brave old man ! nor draw 
 
 The rem. There, where the steep road turns, 
 
 She waits thee, 'neath a chesnut-tree. 
 
 White as the hoar-frost, choked with fears, 
 
 As are her moisten'd feet in ferns. 
 
 Wherein, knee-deep, she stands, — their spears 
 
 Bristling, frost-silver'd, round her. He 
 
 She leans on, with his suasive tones. 
 
 Sustains her faint heart, till she hears 
 
 The far hoofs clattering o'er the stones ! 
 
 Ere morning breaks, full many a league
 
 ELEONOEE. 99 
 
 Upon their world-wide road are they. 
 
 She, wrapt in mantles, on the grey, 
 Her hand in his ; until fatigue. 
 After the long night-hours, doth creep 
 
 Over her eyelids, Avith the chill 
 
 Of morning vapours, up the hill. 
 Here, looldng downward from a steep, 
 
 Where rolls a sea of mist below, 
 
 Between the cloud-waves' fall and flow, 
 The eye may, for a moment, strike 
 Some sharpen'd spires, — not all-unlike 
 Spars of a wreck upon the main, 
 Seen, and then swallow' d up again. 
 There shall they rest a space ; and there. 
 
 The words that make them one are spoken, 
 
 Underneath those pointed spires, 
 
 H 2
 
 100 ELEONORE. 
 
 Solemn words, more sweet to lier 
 Tlian the music of the quires ; 
 
 Fraught with life's intensity. — 
 On her finger is the token, 
 And the priest between them stands ; 
 
 But their hearts are knit more firmly 
 Than the folding of the hands. 
 
 Through summer-shine and winter weather, 
 They shall watch life's shiftmg sands, 
 
 Standing on a rock together !
 
 ELEONORE. 101 
 
 PAET V. 
 
 Over the purple hills, and down 
 
 By storied castles on the sea, — 
 Past the dark homestead, — through the town 
 
 New woke to cry of " Liberty ! " — 
 Across long reaches of grey land, 
 
 Stretching for many a mile away, 
 By the straight rows of poplar spann'd, — 
 
 That happy marriage-journey lay. 
 Each heart to each drew nearer still, 
 
 For all the storms that raged without,
 
 102 ELEONORE. 
 
 Tlic echo of a nation's shout, 
 Booming from hill to hill ! 
 At length, upon a tideless shore, 
 
 O'er the lips of France, they reach'd a spot, 
 So folded from the world away, 
 
 That hoarsest murmui's reach'd it not 
 Of the storm, grown louder day by day. 
 Here linger'd they a summer-while 
 Of perfect peace, within the smile 
 Of the calm ocean, loth to merge 
 Again into the troubled sm-ge. 
 That rock'd the country. And, in time, 
 A child was born to Eleonore, 
 Among the fishing-huts. — She wore 
 (After the dim and ghost-lilce fears, 
 
 Haunting her through long silent weeks)
 
 ELEONORE. 103 
 
 Thanksgivirig smiles, when, on her breast, 
 The smooth fair bud unfokled lay, 
 
 Without a canker-taint. . . . Dear guest ! 
 In that small cradle, o'er him they 
 
 Both leaning, how the future years 
 
 Shone with fresh hopes in those romid cheeks ! 
 
 Up in the hills, beset with wood, 
 A small haK-ruined chapel stood 
 Not far from there, — a lonely place, 
 Where remnants of his out-cast race. 
 From their bleak mountain-huts, were wont 
 To gather, like the morning-mist ; 
 Though now no more the bell persist 
 Its matin-call, to kneel before 
 God's altar. E'en the narrow door.
 
 104 ELEONORE. 
 
 Through which they erst had crept, was gone. 
 And all distmctions of the font, 
 
 And tribune, crumbled like the bone 
 Of them, who lay beneath those flat 
 
 Carv'd tombstones, which their sons had made, 
 From out the shatter'd chancel-flags. — 
 
 And here, at sunset, oft delay'd 
 Gaston and Eleonore, and sat 
 Upon the lichen-broider'd slags. 
 And oft he said, " When I am dead, 
 
 Fain would I rest here, where none pass 
 With restless feet, nor use vain forms ; 
 
 Nor clash the frequent city spades ; 
 No more stir is, through mould and grass, 
 Than the crawling of the secret worms ! " . . . 
 — Then hers was it, with blandishment.
 
 ELEONOKE. 105 
 
 To chase the fleetly-passing shades 
 From Gaston's brow ; and as they went 
 
 Homewards, a-down the rock-hewn stairs, 
 The harvest-moon ne'er shone upon 
 
 Two faces, peacefuller than theirs ! 
 
 Brief, transient dream ! Man's heart, that ne'er 
 Inactive sleeps — its virile springs 
 
 In rust, for long — began to wear 
 
 Impatient for those battle-fields, 
 
 Where pend the destinies of kings, 
 
 And the imsolved problem yields, 
 
 At length, such unmistakable 
 
 And thund'rous answer. O'er the seas, 
 
 Fishermen, trading from Marseilles,
 
 lOfi . ELEONORE. 
 
 Drop tidings of that fiery town ; 
 
 Pedlars from 'cross the PjTenees, 
 Witli smuggled arrack, gear, and gown, 
 Feed greedy list'ners ; and the tale 
 Is of the aristocrats borne down 
 
 By popular fury — massacred, 
 
 AVithout a judgment — many fled 
 
 To distant countries : how, all rent 
 By faction, into rival bands 
 
 And clubs, the patriot strength is spent. 
 Each day more fierce, with bolden'd hands, 
 
 The people lift the clarion shrill 
 To blood-stain'd lips, and hoarsely blow 
 Defiant : — nay, some tliink they will 
 
 Fling, as a champion -gauntlet's hurled, 
 A king's head down to the shuddering world ! ,
 
 ELEONORE. . 107 
 
 Shall he sleep on, and take his rest, 
 
 When such things are ? O, gallant heart ! 
 Couldst thou foresee the end, 'twere best, 
 
 'Twere wisest so. . . . What ! stand apart. 
 And see our land devour'd by flames ? 
 That cause, where centred all life's aims, 
 Become a scourge most damnable, * 
 Unmoved ? . . . Sweet dream of peace, farewell ! 
 France calls on ev'ry patriot true 
 To aid her, this death-struggle through. 
 
 And fired with that wild hope men call 
 " Great," should it prosper, and deride 
 As " worse than folly" if it fail. 
 He left that port, embarking all 
 
 Most dear in life, with shorten'd sail.
 
 108 ELEONOEE. 
 
 To shoot the rapids, and to stem — 
 If may be — that destructive tide. 
 
 But God, for His great ends, had will'd 
 A mighty tempest, that shoukl blast 
 The States' foundation, — nor be still'd 
 
 By a vain voice upon it cast. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Royalty, through its i)rison-bars, 
 
 Leans, spectral. Self-sown heroes grow, 
 And are cut off, — now up, now down. 
 
 Like poppets in a raree-show : 
 Strange sights, God wot ! amid the jars 
 And shocks of heated Paris town : 
 Where unloosed passions make a hell
 
 ELEONORE. 109 
 
 Of the brief daj^s men here are given, 
 
 To reach through earth-mists up to heaven ! 
 — 'Mong such, her lot is now to dwell : 
 And all the woman's change she made ; 
 
 The powder shaken from her hair, 
 And stuffs, instead of rich brocade, 
 
 Unmeet for citizen's wife to wear. 
 In the black narrow street, up high. 
 
 Through windows, where the roar and din 
 
 Of distant crowds roll'd famtly in. 
 Him absent, watch'd her anxious eye, 
 Through silent hours, till darkness fell ; 
 Then, by her baby's cradle sate, 
 
 Singing low songs, — the while her thoughts 
 Are in the storm-heats of debate. 
 
 That tardy his retui'n. So days,
 
 110 ELEONORE. 
 
 Outwearying all the heart's resorts 
 
 For comfort, wore to months : her face, 
 Each night-watch paler with increase 
 
 Of care, lit up his home -returns 
 With smiles that died quickly out. Her eyes 
 Lookd vainly into his for peace. — 
 No peace for him ! He sees the fate 
 Of best and bravest in the state ; 
 The popular idols erst, on whom 
 
 The popular wind now keenly blows, 
 Offer'd, by turns, a sacrifice 
 
 To the fickle god, — and he foreknows 
 This must be, in the end, his doom ! 
 Already round that vent'rous bark 
 
 The wild winds howl, — the blood-waves rise- 
 A Deluge, with no saving ark ! . . .
 
 ELEONORE. Ill 
 
 Before, behind, where'er he turns, 
 
 Death fronts him with the martja^'d men, 
 Their glory gather'd into urns — 
 
 All, all alike their factions then ! 
 One fate, for Girondins or Reds, 
 Awaits them, be it soon or late ; 
 
 Same that in tliis September hurls 
 Its royalists, its gallant Corps 
 
 De Garde, non-juring priests, and gMs, 
 
 Out on the howling sea of heads, 
 That foams around the Abbaye gate. . . . 
 Terror's reign spreads ; and Eleonore 
 
 Each day, thi'ough that small oj)en square. 
 That lets in God's own sunshine, sees 
 
 And hears enough to blanch her hair ; 
 When to their God the prisons pour
 
 113 ELEONORE. 
 
 Their day's libation to the lees, ... 
 
 Conclemn'd, in tumbrels rattling by, 
 Brave-faced, to pitiless mobs behind, 
 
 With song, and oath, and ribaldry, — 
 Or haply prayers from blister'd lips. 
 Eyes gleammg wildly up, and slips 
 Of linen, scrawl'd in blood, to fling. 
 With heart-petition, to some kind 
 Face at a window pitying ! — 
 
 The Guillotine ! the Guillotine ! 
 Omnipotent and ruthless queen ! 
 
 What dost thou in this People's cause ? 
 
 — Cause of Fraternity — that strives 
 For justice to the long-oppress'd . . . 
 Despotic queen, with ii'on crest,
 
 ELEONORE. 113 
 
 And sceptre-strokes that cleave men's lives ! 
 Must Patriotism thus devour 
 
 Her children, Saturn -like, with jaws 
 Of such untiring gust and power ? . . . 
 
 Then ebb'd and flow'd that one dread week, 
 Its minutes boom'd in thunder-sound — 
 Then fell the stroke that echoed round 
 All Europe with a chsmal shriek. 
 From palace-roof to scarped rock, 
 Reverh'rated the earthquake shock. . . . 
 Thrones totter'd, — upon monarchs' brows 
 Their crowns weigh'd heavy (as the vows 
 Of shipwreckt murderers), — and wise 
 Statesmen, with horror-smitten eyes. 
 Through avenues of time, descried
 
 114 ELEONORE. 
 
 The long results of Regicide ! 
 
 One night, with nervous strides, that shook 
 The narrow chamber, up and down 
 He paced in silence — up and doAvn, — 
 AVhile Eleonore rock'd that little Hfe 
 
 To healthful sleep the while. He took, 
 
 Sudden, a pace towards her chair, 
 
 Push'd with both hands the gohlen hair 
 
 •From off her brow, and spake. " Dear wife, 
 
 1 feel the hour when we must part 
 
 Is not far off, but, sweetest heart. 
 
 Be not cast down ; a time of bliss, 
 
 Perfect, as few have known, was this 
 
 Of ours, in what of inward glow 
 
 Keeps outward chills awa3^ And now
 
 ELEONORE. 115 
 
 'T must cease ; it was a glimpse of heaven 
 
 Lent us before our time, it seems : 
 
 So bright a glimpse, that e'en in dreams, 
 
 Fore-shadow of it ne'er was given. 
 
 Now it must cease a little space . . . 
 
 Fleet years thy fond heart shall employ 
 
 In training up our infant boy 
 
 To a steadfast faith. My own is strong. 
 
 I do Ipelieve we shall, ere long, 
 
 Meet, ne'er to part. God doth but lift 
 His earth-cloud from this human face. 
 
 Thanks be, for this divinest gift 
 Of faitli ; unswerving through dark days 
 Of infidelity. I join 
 Death's armies with an unblencht mien ; 
 I have pray'd by night, and striv'n by day 
 
 I 2
 
 IIG ELEONORE. 
 
 To work that counterpoise, that must 
 Succeed to this inhuman fra}- ; 
 
 And men rise heroes from the dust. 
 I shall not see it ; but I know 
 
 That day will come : — for, look you. Time, 
 Like the just earth, with worldngs slow. 
 Brings every fallen fruit to prime — 
 Though imseen, to the ground it drop. 
 It germinates the Future's crop. 
 Not vainly then the green sod drinks 
 Our life's blood (if it must be so) ; 
 Already, sheer exhausted, sinks 
 This land, drencht with her children's blood. 
 Soon the strong Principle of Good, 
 Arising from its fallen state. 
 Shall of the very stones create
 
 ELEONORE. 117 
 
 New children, as Prometheus' son, 
 The mythologic Noe, raised. . . . 
 Let our boy, Eleonore, he one 
 
 Of these ; and see he read the past 
 Aright, with no false beauties phrased. 
 Learn him true lessons : lift the man 
 
 Above all petty strifes of caste : 
 Teach Inm with earnest eye to scan 
 The horizon : and so school his heart. 
 That he may act a hero's part 
 In this life-drama. . . . Dear wife, thou 
 My sole inquietude art now. 
 And now the past seems crime in me. 
 
 To have robbed thee from thy quiet nest. 
 And flung thee forth on this rough sea, 
 
 With thy little fledgling. . . O, my best,
 
 118 ELEONORE. 
 
 T'were vain to tell tliee not to weep, 
 At first : as vain to bid thee keep 
 
 My memory green through life, with pray'r ; 
 But not for ever, I beseech. 
 With tears. . . Hark ! — " suddenly his speech 
 Was broken by a noise — a tramp 
 
 Of feet, upon the wooden stair ; 
 A clash of pikes — a confused hum 
 
 Of voices, with the voice of Pierre 
 In protest ; and the door- chink 'neath 
 Stream'd the red arrows of a lamp. 
 Then with averted brow, and breath 
 That labor'd up, he said — " They come ! 
 
 I had not look'd for this so soon." . . . 
 Her arms dropp'd stiff — she saw the door 
 Burst open — and the tricolor
 
 ELEONORE. 119 
 
 Pdbbaiids — and lamp-lit pike -heads flash — 
 More she knew not — could nothing tell; 
 
 For, with a dull and heavy crash, 
 Mercifully shot (as it seem'd), 
 Eight to the very heart, she fell 
 Across the cradle, in a swoon. 
 Where peacefully her baby dream'd. 
 
 ^ 3^ Zrc^ ^ y^^ rpr jp 
 
 O hearts, that have outlived, alone, 
 
 Griefs wilder far than Love's first rave. 
 Where found ye strength to suffer on, 
 
 With the dark comfort of the grave 
 Denied ? How bore the cold, when shorn 
 
 Of all love's warmth, through long years' 
 flight ? 
 
 To whom noon brought no solace, none
 
 120 ELEONORE. 
 
 Grey evening : and still less when God — 
 
 Parting the dark locks of the night, 
 From the clear forehead of the morn, 
 Glad sounds of wakening life, from bird 
 And sheepfold, smote the anguisht chord 
 Afresh, like an insulting word. 
 But Eleonore, in her despair-, 
 Was not alone ; the rosy small 
 JMouth at her breast, with ceaseless call, 
 'Plain'd of its spring's embitter'd taste ; 
 And with the fear her babe should waste. 
 The mother roused her, and drew thence 
 Strength to live on from day to da}^ — 
 
 To eat — to drink — to breathe the air — 
 And then, a sudden strength to pray — 
 
 Write letters — stand, with tear-worn cheeks,
 
 ELEONORE. 121 
 
 Patient at prison doors, through weeks 
 Of death-like horrible suspense. 
 It ended, and she knew the worst ; 
 The long-expected message found 
 Her crusht, as a leaf upon the ground. 
 That once was full of light and thirst. 
 He died as he had lived : a true 
 Fine Christian courage bore him through 
 From first to last ; no impious boast 
 Of holding Heav'n to be a myth, 
 Nor fearing Death nor Hell, wherewith 
 So man}^ yielded up the ghost ; 
 But a grave comfort to sustain 
 His comrades, in the last hour's pain. 
 And thus he met the brutal crowd ; 
 
 Could view the storm of heads below,
 
 122 ELEONORE. 
 
 AVith grand forgiving sorrow, past 
 Father's for sons : and ulicn, at last, 
 
 His eye lit on the anguisht brow 
 Of Pierre, he, beckoning, said uknid— 
 
 " Tell her my latest thought is hers ; 
 
 My life is all my country's now." . . . 
 These, his last words ; — a minute more, 
 The man had ceased to be ; and when 
 
 The mob, being glutted, to disperse 
 Began, that aged servitor 
 Obtain' d, with prayers and much gold, 
 
 All that was left of him : in death 
 Still beautiful ; where, on the lip, 
 
 The soul shone out, with its last breath. 
 This, secretly, to a Httle ship 
 
 Down on the river he convey'd ;
 
 ELEONOEE. 123 
 
 Then came, and to the widow tokl 
 
 How all her order Avas obey'd. 
 Far from the hateful city, they 
 
 Travell'd that night ; and with them bore 
 
 The empty shell — the darken' d lamp, 
 Whose light had pass'd to cloudless day. 
 Up in the forest-hills, away 
 
 From all the hideous roar and tramp, 
 And bloodshed, they are gone ; her child, 
 And faithful servant, self-exiled. 
 There, to the spot where she had spent 
 Her midsummer of heart's-content, 
 And where, so often he had said, 
 He fain would lie, when he was dead, 
 They brought him, and they dug his bed. 
 Hard by, upon the hill they made
 
 124 ELEONORE. 
 
 Their dwelling ; well the mountameer 
 Knew her sweet face, through summer shade 
 
 And winter snows, unwearying here. 
 And as the bahe began to lisp 
 
 His " Pater-nosters," and to find 
 The first spring violets 'mong the crisp 
 
 Red leaves around the boles, and biad 
 And shape them into stars and lunes, 
 
 Upon his father's length of grave; 
 
 And lift his little voice in tunes, 
 
 « 
 And catch the notes his mother gave. . . 
 
 No morn, but found her with her son, 
 
 Making devoutest oraison ; 
 
 And every eve their hymns uprose, 
 
 With prayers for the soul's repose / 
 
 Of the loved, from spiritual foes.
 
 ELEONORE. 125 
 
 No altar, rich with pious gaud, 
 
 Woo'd them to pray'r ; upon the cross, 
 Proud in its heraklry of moss, 
 
 The full-blown moon her whiteness pour'd ; 
 
 No quii*e, as in cathedral piles, 
 
 Flatter'd the aii' ; but through green aisles 
 
 Of trees, that arching over, clomb 
 
 As it seem'd, to a star-encrusted dome. 
 
 Uprose theii' voices eloquent ; 
 
 The full voice and the small voice blent ; 
 
 Apart in tone, yet well agreed 
 
 To one tune, as they Heav'nward grew, 
 LilvC a deep stream, discoursing to 
 
 The pipy sweetness of a reed.
 
 l^U ELEONORE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Sancta beata Virgiue, 
 Back to the grave whose mould, each spring, 
 Quicken new hopes, our hope we bring, 
 His face is hid ; his spirit's wing. 
 
 may it rest, 
 Mother of sorrows, on thy breast. 
 Dona illo requiem, Domine ! 
 
 ir. 
 
 Sancta beata Virgine. 
 Raised to thy throne from this dark place, 
 Pray that for Iiim be short the space 
 From death, to God's eternal face ; 
 
 Where sorrows cease. 
 And all things, save eternal peace. 
 Dona illo requiem, Domine ! 
 
 Peace to the living, as the dead 
 
 This daily service, hapl}^ brought ; 
 
 That holy peace so coveted 
 
 O' the mind, with tension overwrought.
 
 ELEONOEE. I"i7 
 
 Long-storied b}^ the poor, she led 
 Her tranquil round of duties ; housed 
 
 In that small hostelrie, whose purst 
 And comely dame old Pierre espoused. 
 
 Thus bloom'd and waned the years. At first 
 Grief had so tutor'd her to look 
 For little else within the book 
 Of life, that on each opening page, 
 Her finger trembled with presage 
 Of evil : but a gradual jo}', 
 A sun-set gior^- round her spread, — 
 
 Deepening down to gild the last 
 Lines, which her fading eyes should read. 
 Of its stern chapters. In the boy — 
 
 His noble brow — his fearless eyes, 
 
 That drew their color from the skies —
 
 128 ELEONORE. 
 
 She read the story of her past. 
 
 She saw that distant day anew, 
 
 When other eyes, as darkly Lasht, 
 
 (Like fire 'neath forest-boughs) that flash'd, 
 
 And fell with scorn of things untrue, 
 
 First look'd on her. The voice that broke 
 Her charmed sleep long years ago, 
 
 Like prince's fairy-horn, new woke 
 
 In echoes seem'd. That they should gi'ow 
 
 Loud, on her stripling's forward way, 
 
 Is now her hope ; that he should learn 
 
 The undpng principles that burn 
 
 In great men's hearts, her care. She knows 
 That scarcely shall her life outspan 
 
 His boyhood, (waxing day by day 
 
 More weak) ; and as the hope draws near.
 
 ELEONOEE. I09 
 
 That her pilgrimage is ending here, 
 The cross grows light. 
 
 She lived to see 
 
 The first faint outhne of the man, 
 Her hope had pictured : then she died, 
 A happy, tranquil death, upon 
 
 His arm ; and in those loving eyes, 
 Faith in God's future for her son. 
 He laid her in the bed beside 
 Her well-belov'd : that home which slie 
 Longed for in Hfe, the gi-ave will be — 
 A quiet home — whose heavy door, 
 Once shut, no sound may enter more ! 
 
 So far the substance of the story, 
 
 From end to end. Five lustres now
 
 130 ELEONORE. 
 
 Had passVl, slie said : the boy's fair brow, 
 Dusken'd on Egypt's burning sands, 
 Had earn'd, in the great Captain's bands, 
 
 A crown unto itself — a glor}^ 
 
 By the light of which men read his name, 
 In this hereafter-time. The flame. 
 
 That burn'd in his ancestral Goth, 
 
 (Or Saracen, no matter which). 
 
 Yet unextinguisht in the Frank, 
 
 Shot sparks along the buoyant froth 
 Of the young hero's spirit. So 
 
 He rose in honour, fame, and rank : 
 
 And from the ravaged Lombard plain. 
 
 From Moscow's fires, and blood-stain'd snow. 
 
 In the lapse of war, return'd again, 
 
 And again, across the blue-peakt hills,
 
 ELEONORE. 131 
 
 Down to the little ba}^, that fills 
 
 The ripple of a titleless sea, 
 
 There to her \illage hostelrie ; 
 
 And standing 'mong the ferns and heath, 
 
 Beside those quiet mountain-graves, 
 With thoughts on the true hearts beneath, 
 His soul more brave and constant grew, 
 
 To battle ^vith Life's crested waves ; 
 As though, through all the foaming blue, 
 He felt then- loving hands, that drew 
 Him up, unto the peaceful shore. 
 Which they have reacht, — and weep no more ! 
 
 K 2
 
 l'S2 ELEONOEE. 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 It may be well to say a few words of the proscribed race to 
 whom reference is made in this Poem,— a race, concerning 
 whom more ignorance and superstition existed in France during 
 many centuries, and up to a period nearly approaching our 
 own times, than has, perhaps, its parallel in histoi-y. Popular 
 prejudice regarded the Cagots as lepers ; they lived apart from 
 the rest of the community, with whom they were strictly for- 
 bidden to marry, or indeed to associate. There was hardly a 
 trade they might exercise, save that of woodcutter and car- 
 penter. They were not allowed to draw at the common well, 
 for fear of infecting the water. They were compelled to wear 
 a scarlet mark in the form of a duck's foot upon their breasts, 
 whereby they might be recognised and avoided. In many of 
 the old churches is still to be seen the narrow door, gallery, 
 and basin for holy water, dedicated to their use. Nor did the 
 loathing they inspired terminate with life. Their very graves 
 were separated from the rest ; as though even the dead feared 
 their contamination. Yet, strange to say, there is no evidence of 
 any hereditary curse, either mental or physical, having belonged 
 to this unhappy people. They have often been confounded
 
 XOTE. 133 
 
 xvitli the Cretins of the Pyrenees (by M. Ramond, among 
 others, in his well-known work). But that they were a very 
 dififerent race, not unfrequently distinguished for courage, 
 athletic prowess, and even beauty, we have abundant testimony 
 to prove, " Ne dans le Beam," writes M. Hourcastreme, 
 " J'y ai connu cent Cagots ; mais nul d'entr'eux n'avoit ni 
 goitres, ni la jaunisse. J'y ai, au contraire, observd des hommes 
 bien faits, vigoreux ; et surtout des femmes, qu'on eut mis au 
 nombre des plus belles, s'il etit etS question d'objets de com- 
 paraison." That among small knots of families, closely inter- 
 married, and herding together in miseiy and squalor, there 
 should be occasional instances of imbecility and of distressing 
 bodily disease, is not surprising. M. Guyon, in his paper on 
 the subject, addressed to the Academic des Sciences, describes 
 the Cagots as "une race de taille elev^e, et parfaitement 
 conformee : " he considers that where instances of goitres and 
 idiocy occur among them, it is consequent on the unhealthy 
 localities they often inhabit; but he confirms the belief that 
 they have generally some peculiar formation of the ear, and 
 this he holds to be one of their distinctive chai^acteristics. The 
 origin of the Cagots has been the subject of much learned 
 research and discussion. The oldest and most popular tradition 
 made them to be descendants of the Goth.s, who were put to 
 flight by Clovis after his victory over Alaric in the plains of 
 Vouilld, and who were said to have taken refuge in the
 
 134 ELEONORE. 
 
 luountalus of Buaru. The name of Cagot (chiens de Gotli) is 
 one of the arguments in support of this, which its upholders 
 bring forward. Another theory, propounded by Pierre de 
 Mai'ca, in his ' Histoire de Edarn/ is, that they were a remnant 
 of tlie Saracens, whose lives were spared by Charles Martel, 
 after his victory over Abdirama, upon condition they would 
 embrace the Christian religion. The older designation of 
 Crestiaas (chr^tiens) which they bear in all edicts, histories, and 
 ballads up to the sixteenth century, is one of the props to this 
 opinion. It must be observed, however, that M. Michel, who, 
 in his ' Histoire de Eaces maudites,' takes a different view from 
 any of his predecessors, suggests that the name of Crestiaas 
 may have been applied to the Cagots from the fact of their 
 wearing a badge or crete, (cresta in the Basque language). It is 
 not difficult to trace the etymology of another term of 
 opprobrium, Gezitains, by which they were commonly known. 
 It was believed that they were descendants of Gehazi, the lying 
 servant of the Prophet, to whom the leprosy of Naaman was 
 ordained to cleave for ever. Thus, too, in some districts, there 
 was a tradition in reference to their long-established calling as 
 carpenters, that they had been originally Jews and were descend- 
 ants of those who made the Cross of Christ. It would be 
 endless to attempt to give an account of the various opinions 
 that have been upheld, from time to time, respecting the Cagots. 
 M. Michel, the latest of those who have directed their attention
 
 NOTE. 135 
 
 to the subject, believes them originally to have been Spaniards, 
 who, after assisting Charlemagne during his expedition into 
 Spain, fled from the vengeance of the victorious party, to be 
 under that monarch's protection, when he recrossed the 
 Pyrenees. If M. Michel's arguments are not conclusive, they 
 are at least as good as many of those adduced by Messieurs 
 de Belle-Forest, de Marca, and Ramond. But the question is 
 one that will probably remain open to discussion till the end 
 of time. 
 
 As early as the seventeenth century a law was passed 
 protecting the person and property of Cagots from injury ; and 
 during the succeeding hundred years, we find several other 
 laws tending to remove their civil disabilities, and to ameliorate 
 theu" condition. The very frequency of these laws proves that 
 they were not wholly effectual in removing the prejudice that 
 existed against the Cagots, but it was probably only in remote 
 districts (such as one where the early scenes of this Poem are 
 laid), that the virulence of popular hatred still existed in full 
 force, at the period of the French Pievolution. Even subse- 
 quently to that event, (when the Cagots " improved the 
 opportunity," to destroy most of the monuments that designated 
 them as such, and necessarily became more mixed up with the 
 rest of the population,) there were districts where the old 
 traditional superstitions did not give way. At Baztan, on the 
 Spanish side of the Pyrenees, there were families, onlj' a few
 
 136 ELEONORE. 
 
 years since, who were regarded with I'eprobation as of Cagot 
 extraction, and the Spanish Government found it necessary, 
 in the year 1817, to pass a law for their protection, and to 
 prohibit the use of the injurious term of "Cagot." The 
 distinction is becoming rarer every day: what the law could 
 not efifect, intermarriages have gradually done. The indi- 
 viduahty of the Cagots as a race is lost. — Little more is left 
 than the name ; that, we still occasionally find in the Pyrenees : 
 one of the last remnants of the middle-age, drifted, as it were, 
 to the threshold of our own time.
 
 THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE. 
 
 I LEFT my tent at micliiight, 
 And stood on a little hill, 
 
 The moon bm^n'd red in heaven, 
 
 And the camp lay husht and still , 
 
 II. 
 
 Save by the homiy tramping 
 Of the picket on its beat, 
 
 The sentinel's sharp challenge, 
 As he paced the canvass street.
 
 138 THE NIGHT BEFORK THE BATTLE. 
 
 m. 
 The hour, from one to another, 
 
 Cried with a clear " All's well !" 
 The curse of uneasy dreamers, 
 
 Tossing with shot and shell. 
 
 IV. 
 
 All else was frosty-silent : 
 
 I thought on to-morrow's fight ; 
 
 How, when its heat Avas over, 
 Would return the quiet niglit ; 
 
 V. 
 
 And I wonder'd " Will those white tents 
 Be shining there the same ? " 
 
 Then slowly riding through them, 
 A sable horseman came.
 
 THE NIGHT BEFOEE THE BATTLE. 139 
 
 YI. 
 
 Clad in the ancient armour, 
 His vizor closed lie kept, 
 
 Unchallenged by the sentinel, 
 Full in the moonhght swept. 
 
 VII. 
 
 His charger's hoof, I marvell'd much, 
 
 No ringing echo sent. 
 Sudden the horseman rein'd him up, 
 
 Before my captain's tent. 
 
 vni. 
 
 I spake in fear, " What art thou ? 
 Nor Guardsman, nor Dragoon, 
 That ridest thus in armour clad. 
 
 Under the midnight moon ? "
 
 140 THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Then sigh'd a voice in answer, 
 Between his vizor's hands, 
 Like wind anions the rushes. 
 
 Along the river's sands 
 
 " My name," he said, " thou knowest, 
 My face shalt one day see ; 
 
 I come to choose the gallant men 
 Who to-morrow ride with me ! " 
 
 XI. 
 
 I cried (and from my forehead 
 The drops of anguish fall), 
 
 " O Rider ! now I know thee well, 
 Thou who o'ertakest all,
 
 THE NIGHT BEFOEE THE BATTLE. 141 
 
 XII. 
 
 " Or soon or late : — but that brave man, 
 
 O let liiin ride the plain, 
 To cheer his troop from battle back, 
 
 And lead them forth again ! " 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The Horseman sigh'd for answer : 
 His charger rear'd apace ; 
 
 Like sea-spray, as he snorted, flash'd 
 The foam-flakes by my face. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Then, on a Httle further, 
 
 I heard liim say to one. 
 Who slept the sleep of sweet eighteen, 
 
 " Before to-morrow's sun
 
 142 THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE. 
 
 XV. 
 
 " Sink, with the tide of battle 
 
 In scarlet o'er the town, 
 Meet me in yonder hollow, 
 
 When the Cossack charges down."- 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " O spare, at least, that boy !" I cried, 
 " Life's ride has just begun 
 
 For him, so full of life and pride — 
 His mother's only son ! 
 
 xvn. 
 " A widow she, who Uveth 
 
 In his letters week by week ; 
 News flasht along the wires 
 
 Of this fight will blanch her cheek,
 
 THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE. 143 
 
 xvni. 
 
 " Thro' days of anxious watching, 
 
 Till she learn the list of slam." . . . 
 
 The Horseman shook his mournful plume, 
 The charger toss'd his mane. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Then to a distant watch-fire, 
 
 Where Highlanders stood round. 
 
 And one, his head upon his hand. 
 Sat, thinking, on the ground, 
 
 XX. 
 
 Wrapt hi the plaid of his own hills, 
 Where now his thoughts are flown ; 
 
 The Horseman turn'd his mailed hand, 
 And spake in hollow tone ;
 
 144 THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " When the rushing tide of bayonets 
 Breaks crested up yon height, 
 
 And wide-mouth'd cannon thunder down 
 Their welcomes, left and right, 
 
 xxri. 
 " I wait thee by the shallow ford, 
 
 When cheering on thy men ; 
 Flash all the waters round thine eyes, 
 
 Up to my saddle then ! 
 
 SXIII. 
 
 " And we will ride to a quiet place" . . . 
 
 " Ah, cruel ! " I burst forth, 
 " That fallen Highlander will leave 
 
 Wide blank in the far North !
 
 THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE. 145 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 " Seest thou, in that peaceful home, 
 
 A fair and patient wife, 
 Teacliing three children, at her knee. 
 
 To pray for ' father's life ? ' 
 
 XXV. 
 
 " Hast thou no pity ? " . . . Tow'rds a tent 
 
 That stood apart he turn'd. 
 Where paced a sentry, and a lamp 
 
 Behind the canvass burn'd. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The Horseman gazed in silence ; 
 
 Then, with a heavy sigh, 
 " Old man," he said, " the time is come 
 
 To lay thine armour by.
 
 146 THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 " Now forty years since first I stood 
 
 Over thee, on the plain, 
 When thou, in charging, wounded fell, 
 
 Upon the fields of Spain. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 " And since that time, thro' years, till thou 
 
 A wider fame didst reach, — 
 Commanding where thy sword once led 
 
 Forlorn-hopes to the breach. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 " My charger's hoofs have often flasht 
 A stone's throw from thy head ; 
 
 And now, at last, thy day is come ! " — 
 " Welcome to him ! " I said.
 
 THE XIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE. 147 
 
 XXX. 
 
 " To such as he, O terrible 
 
 Dark Rider ! tlu'o' the workl, 
 Thou com'st not ill, upon the wings 
 
 Of the rushing battle whirl'd. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 " In such as he, the flame that burn'd 
 Through long life to renown, 
 
 Is better blown out suddenl}', 
 Than flickering slowly down 
 
 XXXU. 
 
 " In a leaden socket, day by day ; 
 Fitter for all such ones, 
 Their veteran souls should march away, 
 
 To the music of the guns. 
 
 L 2
 
 148 THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 " Tribute of reverential tears 
 Be paid them when they fall ; 
 
 But O ! from these, far spent upon 
 Life's journey, choose thou all 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 " Who ride to-morrow out of sight, 
 In mist — whate'er their worth- 
 Spare us the Flower of our Youth, 
 
 With such strong roots on eartli ! 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 " Spare us" . . . Then sudden rang a blast 
 The glimmering white tents through ; 
 
 And down them faded, as I gazed, 
 The Horseman from my view.
 
 THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE. 149 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 I started — from a feverish sleep ; 
 
 The dsivm was breaking grey ; 
 The shrill reveille roused the camp 
 
 To life, once more, that day.
 
 IN ITALY. 
 
 JOUENAL LEAVES.
 
 NORBA AND NINFA. 
 
 Across the ribs of brown and barren hills, 
 Jagg'd in the distance, where the snow hath set 
 Its stronghold in the fissures of high rocks, 
 With mule and mountaineer, we held our way : 
 The coast and sea, with Antimn, on one side, 
 Circe's enchanted brow projecting far 
 Into the blue fields of the summer sky 
 Before us, and the Pontine Marsh below — 
 Its di-eary flats and noxious-breathing pools, 
 Heavy and sad, as desolated life.
 
 10 4 NORBA AND NINFA. 
 
 And for all habitation, lo ! high up, 
 
 Some crazy village, thrust upon the spears 
 
 Of a precipitate crag, o'ertops the plam ; 
 
 With fragments of a feudal tow'r to mark 
 
 Its ancient state. Thus, through the sharp 
 
 sprmg-day, 
 Between hare \dne-sticks, and the yellow furze. 
 We journey 'd on, until the Sun lay down, 
 At peace with all the world, upon the sea. 
 And from his pillow sliding, yet, 'twould seem. 
 Raised up his golden head for one last kiss. 
 
 With the blue wings of morning we uprose, 
 Traversed a tangled forest of low boughs, 
 Weavmg its web for miles across the plain.
 
 NORBA AND NINFA. 155 
 
 From which, emergmg, we 'gan climb a height, 
 Xjrirt with great fragments of a city-w^all. 
 Whose builders, swept far down the gulf of time, 
 Are lost ; their name, their speech — all, save 
 
 these blocks, 
 Fronting the winds of heav'n, through ev'ry 
 
 change 
 Of language, race, and dynasty, unmoved. 
 Awe-struck, we gaze. Whatwere the implements — 
 Wliat bars of unwrought iron — what giant hands 
 Wrench'd forth this granite from the mountain's 
 
 w'omb. 
 And shaped and dovetail'd these polygonal blocks 
 Each into each — save those transversely laid 
 On upright stones, set wide for city gates ? 
 Primaeval Architects, your walls have grown
 
 156 NORBA AND NINFA. 
 
 Part of the grand old mountain once again ; 
 Crown'd with the asphodel's white waving plumes, 
 And rare brown orchids, sproutmg 'twixt the 
 
 stones, 
 O'er which flash'd spears and targets in old time, 
 Eome sending forth its legions to besiege 
 The Volscian city. . . . Here's a postern left 
 Through which, perchance, the Volscian maidens 
 
 pass'd 
 Of summer nights, in peace-time, to draAv wells 
 Without the city, and to lend an ear 
 To vows, the same men swear 'neath harvest- 
 moons, 
 In ev'ry age and clime. The passage now 
 Of that low door dun-colour'd oxen guard, 
 Starmg upon us, like the Gods in. stone,
 
 XORBA AND NIXFA. 157 
 
 AYide-eyed, immoveable, its sentinels, 
 As are the goats that pasture in the Arx, 
 The city's bearded senators, white robed. 
 
 Close in the umbrage of the wall we sat, 
 And argued all the city's points, and brought 
 Our scant Etruscan learning to the field 
 Over a wheaten cake and flask of milk. 
 Then, rising in the noon-heat, we began 
 Down the steep mountains' crumbling face of slags 
 Leapmg and slipping, grasping, Avhere we could. 
 Meshes of wither'd roots, to strike a path 
 Each for himself : so down into the plain. 
 Where the deserted Ninfa sits among 
 The river's rushes, just as she was left 
 Three hundred years agone, — her saints in blue 
 And red upon the walls, — a sculptui'ed rose,
 
 158 NORBA AND NINFA. 
 
 Yet skeleton'd, hath tlropt its purple leaves 
 
 From the east window ; and the quaint gurgoyle 
 
 Stands open-mouth'd to belch the water forth, 
 
 Its pipe alone being burst : but all o'ergrown 
 
 With a fantastic luxur^^ of leaves, 
 
 The walls and roofs ; for here a trail of \ine, 
 
 There the wild fig, and, all about, tall weeds 
 
 Swinging their fragrant censers in the wind. 
 
 Up the long-silent monastery aisles. — 
 
 From classic, thus, to mediaeval time 
 
 Is but a step ; so to this present day 
 
 Of common-place — (the Diligence was stopp'd 
 
 Last week by thieves, they tell, upon this road)— 
 
 As mounting on our mules, we turn their heads 
 
 Towards Velletri, 'cross the Pontine Marsh. 
 
 April 26th.
 
 RAVENNA. 
 
 Not of the master-mind, whose deathless fame 
 Rings thy just pride into the Future's ear, 
 For that you held him dead, and raised him 
 here 
 
 The stone, Ravenna, sculptur'd with his name.* 
 Not his the memory to me most dear. 
 
 Dreaming the past, in thy deserted streets ; 
 
 Less, the imperial pomp, the Roman fleets, 
 
 Flusliing thy ports with pm-ple sails each year. 
 
 * Dante.
 
 160 RAVENNA. 
 
 My thoughts are with the men, who dared to 
 rear 
 A Christian Temple* 'mong the heathen race, 
 
 And bid, on pagan shafts, the dome appear, 
 Arch'd, like God's palm of blessing o'er the place — 
 
 Walls, where Giotto's pencil yet sings clear. 
 Triumphant hymns of majesty and grace. 
 
 Nov. Uh. ■ 
 
 * The church of S. Vitale, at Ravenna, was the first in Italy 
 that had a dome : built after Saint Sophia's at Constantinople.
 
 CASTEL FUSANO. 
 
 Through the old Fusano forest, sloping down- 
 •\vards to the shore, 
 
 By an ancient Boman pavement, worn by chariot- 
 wheels of yore. 
 
 We descend; wall'd m by thickets, where the 
 
 rosemaries intertwine 
 AVith the daphne, and the arras hangings of the 
 
 trold broom sliine.
 
 162 CASTEL FUSANO. 
 
 Higher up, straight stately pine-trees spread their 
 
 fingers dark and green, 
 Keeping out the sun, and making bluer yet the 
 
 sky between. 
 
 And the twisted arms of olive with the darker 
 
 ilex grow, 
 And the silver tliistle, star-like, brightens all the 
 
 gloom below. 
 
 Nothing in the lazy noon-tide stirring, save that, 
 
 as we pass, 
 From om' feet a lizard darting, bristles sharply 
 
 through the grass;
 
 CASTEL FUSANO. 1G8 
 
 Carpeted with purple buds, and widening ever 
 
 and anon, 
 To a glade with pools of water, flasht with broken 
 
 gleams of sun. 
 
 Down unto the yellow sea-beach, lipp'd by waves 
 so blue and calm, 
 
 With a line of level sand-banks, stretching out- 
 wards like an arm. 
 
 Here and there a blacken'd pine-root, washt with 
 
 weeds, and nothing more ; 
 Save a group of coral fishers, scarlet-capp'd upon 
 
 the shore,* 
 
 * From the bay of Naples : they often land on this coast. 
 
 M 2
 
 104 CASTEL FUSANO. 
 
 AVitli their boat moor'd near them, into which 
 
 were led our wilhng feet ; 
 Tawny limbs plunged after, thrusting out into the 
 
 sea. . . How sweet 
 
 To feel the tremble of the waters, 'neath our 
 
 shallop as it floats ! . . . 
 ... To lie and watch the lengthen'd ripple in 
 
 the shadow of the boats : 
 
 Fresh sea-breath upon our faces, scarcely filling 
 
 the latine ; 
 Ischian love -songs from the helmsman, praying 
 
 *' she be quickly seen
 
 CASTEL FUSANO. 165 
 
 At her window " ; and the diving down for sea- 
 shells, o'er the side, 
 
 Trailing, too, our heated fingers in the bine 
 delicious tide. 
 
 Perfect peace above, below us ; till the sun's red 
 
 arrows reach 
 The horizon; then we bid them run the boat's 
 
 head on the beach. 
 
 Leaping to the shore, we wander back another 
 
 way, tln'ough trees, 
 Where the tangled vine-locks hanging wave, like 
 
 Absalom's, in the breeze.
 
 IGG CASTEL FUSANO. 
 
 And upon the pathway overgrown, and flusht with 
 
 sunset dves, 
 In a net-work of hlue shadows, white goats eye 
 
 us with surprise ; 
 
 As, through all the budded brambles, where they 
 
 feed, we force our waj' 
 To the hunting-lodge, whose house-top, guard the 
 
 sentinels in grey. 
 
 Home, across tlie salt-pool'd marshes ; round us 
 
 flights of wild birds wait ; 
 And the moon rides on the Tiber, when we reach 
 
 the city gate. 
 
 May lOth.
 
 A PLEASANT walk ; here, as we wander on, 
 Up from the mosses and the tangled ferns, 
 Wells a yomig stream, forth-gushing from the 
 
 mouth 
 Of the rich ruddy earth, like hidden thoughts 
 That bm'st in music from a poet's lips. 
 Through the brown mould the crocus thrusts its 
 
 shield 
 Of tender green ; anon, its golden spears. 
 Anemones flush the pale fields : the year 
 Already with green fingers counts its age, 
 And the air palpitates with breathings warm ;
 
 1G8 
 
 Sighs the Spring heaves, on wakening from her 
 
 sleep. 
 O, for this land ! when shall she waken up ? 
 Is there no spring — no putting on of leaves 
 For her ? . . . Shall strength he never more 
 
 infused 
 Through all the channels of her stagnant life ? 
 The seasons have no healthy influence 
 Throughout her moral year. The sun but draws 
 A sweet decaying odour from the earth. 
 
 Rome, March 5th.
 
 AN EVENING'S WALK, ALBANO. 
 
 Down o'er the sunset-ledge, one lonely bird 
 
 Dips in the great blue lake, 
 Fluffing along the surface, where the spears 
 
 Of flags and rushes shake. 
 
 In Palazzola's monastery -garden 
 
 Three Franciscans sit, 
 Round the boles of their enormous laurels, 
 
 Watcliing tlie shadows flit.
 
 17n AN evening's walk, albano. 
 
 Tile lieuts and little winds have died away, 
 
 In silence calm and deep, 
 Like the hot mid-day passions of man's life, 
 
 Hushing to gradual slee]3. 
 
 We wander round the shore, until we catch 
 
 The silver of the seas, 
 And the sharp outlme of Soracte shows, 
 
 'Neath broad-arm'd chesnut-trees. 
 
 In gold-gi-een shadow lies the lake, below 
 
 The height whereon we stand ; 
 Old Eome's Campagna on the other side, 
 
 Stretching out \nld and grand.
 
 AN evening's walk, ALBANO. 171 
 
 St. Peter's dome a-level with the sun, 
 
 Far as may reach the eye, 
 Hangs, like a bm'nisht drop, upon the skirts 
 
 Of the clear opal sky. 
 
 Then from Gandolfo's Castle of the Popes 
 
 We tm'n our steps, adown 
 Through Barberini's terraces and pines, 
 
 Back to Albiino's town. 
 
 March 2Sth.
 
 As one who, walking on a summer's clay 
 
 "Neath branching trees, afar from the noon 
 
 glare, 
 Sees not the sun, but feeleth, here and there, 
 
 A beam among the flickering foliage play, 
 
 So I, from thy sweet presence past away, 
 
 Down thickset paths, where the sun-sparkUng 
 air, 
 
 That lent such colour to life's common grey, 
 Is overshadow'd, — sudden am aware 
 Of a gleam, lightening all my forward way ; 
 
 When through the lapse of distance falls a word
 
 173 
 
 Radiant and cheering, and my heart is stin-'d 
 By the quick influence of that warm ray. 
 
 Let it shine often ; since, like caged bird. 
 
 My heart sings only, when those sunbeams 
 
 play. 
 
 August 1st.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
 
 TO ALICE * * * * 
 
 Now sixteen years since I — a sunny boy, 
 
 Who saw tlie world through two bright happy 
 
 eyes — 
 Stood by the altar, when thy marriage vows 
 "Were read, and the responses from beneath 
 The argent-lace and orange-flowers rose, 
 Like the sweet breath of southern nights in June. 
 I look'd upon thy face, — how fair it was ! 
 It shone with eager hopes and happy tears ; 
 And I, who drew my knowledge from the mouth 
 
 N
 
 178 TO ALICE * * * * 
 
 Of fairy-tales, thought this the rounded close 
 Of a life's story, when thou took'st the ring . . . 
 Could I, in truth, have traversed that dim gulf, 
 Where the dark shades of our tomorrows lie. 
 How the gold dream had faded ! seeing thee 
 So flatter'd then, and so forsaken now ; 
 Dying a daily death, whose spirit stood 
 Cloudless and heaven-colour'd as the sea. 
 
 O Purity of Soul ! whose virgin-robe 
 Clothed us, as little children, when we lay 
 Upon our mothers' breasts, too few, alas ! 
 Chng to thee fast. . . . The heavy-scented winds 
 Of this fair earth blow all so sunny-warm. 
 In the spring-burst of life, that ere we wist. 
 Little by little, fold from snowy fold
 
 TO ALICE * * * * 179 
 
 It falls and falls — and lo ! we stand, unrobed, 
 Cheek burning, and abasht, as they who walk'd 
 Under the garden -trees in Paradise. 
 
 Oh, 2i first crime — how heavily it rolls 
 
 Upon the sepulchre of a sinful heart ! 
 
 All the hot agony of midnight tears 
 
 Washes it not away. The stars will shine 
 
 As they were shining one short hour ago. 
 
 No sound, — the winds are sleeping 'mong the 
 
 hills, 
 And the deep peace of night remains michanged. 
 Only for him, no peace ! for he hath heard 
 The wings of the recording angel, as he swept 
 Over his sinful head ! * * 
 * * * * Say, had'st thou not 
 
 N 2
 
 1^0 TO ALICE * * * * 
 
 Most that this world can give ? — Not tldne the 
 
 plea 
 That drives poor houseless women into shame. 
 Pity for them, O unforgiving world ; 
 But what for thee ? with children, station, wealth, 
 All a life's blessings compass'd, — saving one. 
 Though false the vows that rose with thine to God, 
 Though asking for a heart thou found'st a stone, 
 Was thi^ enough to fling the house -gods low ? 
 And leave to hirelings all thy cradle-cares ? 
 Did not thy dead babes, watcliing from the sky. 
 Cry shame on thee? — the grey head from its 
 
 tomb, — 
 Smote not his blessing at thy conscience' door ? 
 Wit, beauty, and the grace that, Midas-like, 
 Turns all to gold it touches, these were thine.
 
 TO ALICE * * * * 181 
 
 Rare gifts, like glory, circling thy young head, 
 
 Misused, and tarnisht to a tinsel crown. 
 
 We do not judge thee. God alone can count 
 
 The secret beatings of our sinful hearts. 
 
 He strikes the balance. Let us wait and pray !
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 O Love immortal ! liow is it thy birth 
 
 Keeps its close secret from all schools on earth ? 
 
 Good men have lack'd thee — earnest men and 
 
 strong — 
 In the Lord's vineyard laboring all day long. 
 And yet the heav'n we dream of would be dark 
 Without our human love, — that only spark 
 Of this bright planet we may bear away, 
 To grow more glorious in the Realms of Day !
 
 A FRAGISIENT. 183 
 
 Oh ! when we think how very brief a span 
 We hold within the memory of Man, — 
 How a few days, or months, will fade our name 
 Back to the white oblivion whence it came, — 
 If we should trace no line in red or gold 
 Upon om' lives, as on the tombs of old, 
 The thought comes up, " What can I do to make 
 My life a landmark for the Future's sake ?" 
 Not in loud deeds, or monuments, or books, 
 Blazed out upon the world ; but in the nooks 
 Of a home -circle, where some two or three 
 Are clunbiag up, as I go down the tree, — 
 Those few with whom my soul is outward-bound 
 On that deep sea of Love, Death cannot sound : 
 To whom my life, with its experience large, 
 Should be a river's map, whereof the marge
 
 iM A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Is clearly traced, Avith all its rocky strands, 
 And shoals, and currents strong, and sliifting 
 
 sands, 
 And beacons, standing up, like warning hands ! ,
 
 SONG. 
 
 I SAT ^vith my Egyptian maid 
 Down by the river silently. 
 The red moon, with her half-shut eye, 
 Upon the glassy stream hard by. 
 
 Among the lotos-flowers played 
 
 Sleepily ! 
 
 II. 
 I spake no word, but wound the flow'r 
 
 Through her dark tresses dreamily.
 
 LSG SONG, 
 
 Her ear-rings tinkled on my breast, 
 The rich deep silence spake the rest- 
 Our lives were wrapt in that one hour 
 
 Peacefully !
 
 A WALK AND A WORD. 
 
 Do you recall our woodland walk 
 
 After the recent showers of ram ? 
 The soft sand underneath oiu- tread, 
 The wind that shook the boughs o'erhead, 
 And brought a moment's shower again ? 
 
 The whisper'd secrets of the leaves — 
 
 The silent listening air below — 
 The cheerful voice of some far bird, 
 High up among the branches heard — 
 The little stream's untiring flow ? . . .
 
 188 A WALK AND A WORD. 
 
 Do you recall some transient words 
 
 That sank down in my heart that day ? 
 AVe count the past witli words lilve these, 
 As circles mark the growth of trees, 
 And never can be washt away !
 
 HIDDEN THOUGHTS. 
 
 THE thoughts that rise unbidden 
 In the secret heart of Man ; 
 Thoughts no dearest eye may scan, 
 
 False and true together liidden, 
 In this heart of Man ! 
 
 Far, far down by night they gUtter, 
 In his heart's remotest cave 
 Buried, where the rippling wave 
 
 Cannot reach them : sad and bitter 
 
 Thoughts within their gi'ave.
 
 190 HIDDEN THOUGHTS. 
 
 Thoughts of the past, that, in derision. 
 Rise to haunt liini ; till he beat 
 Down, and trample under feet, 
 
 As the phantoms of a vision, 
 Each remembrance sweet : 
 
 Each wild wish, each fierce emotion, 
 Utter'd not, and all unguest 
 In that tender woman's breast. 
 
 Heaving as a summer ocean, 
 Where his head is prest. 
 
 Or be it some guilty section 
 Of his past, that, like a knife. 
 Seems to part him from that wife ; 
 
 (Though 'twere claspt from all detection 
 Till the close of life.)
 
 HIDDEN THOUGHTS. 191 
 
 Oh ! tlie day when death shall sever 
 That fond heart from human thmgs, 
 Soaring on her spirit-wings, 
 
 Sudden she shall see, for ever, 
 All the liidden springs, 
 
 All the thoughts that did enfold them, 
 Far away from human view, 
 In the heart she thought she knew, 
 
 Her pm'e eyes shall then hehold them. 
 
 I^o"wing false from true. 
 
 And the false she'll pity rather. 
 
 For the true which she perceives ; 
 While on earth the tares she leaves. 
 
 All the love and worth wiU gather 
 Into heavenly sheaves.
 
 102 HIDDEN THOUGHTS. 
 
 Men judge not with Christian meekness, 
 Seeing, in this twilight, more 
 Than the Angels, who deplore 
 
 All the sum of human weakness, 
 Tried and tempted sore. 
 
 Let the thought remain before him, 
 
 Who — through every passionate shoal. 
 Would a storm-driv'n heart controul, 
 
 That some Saint is standing o'er him, 
 Reading all his soul.
 
 The fount is cliy, my friend, since last we met ; 
 You say you find me cold, but you forget 
 There falls no shadow when the sun is set — 
 All one grey level gloom — such life is mine. 
 
 No shock of fate hath power to move me more, 
 Its best for him, its worst for me was o'er, 
 Wlien that dear heart was wafted from the shore. 
 Out of our sight : — yet do I not repine. 
 
 Over the bosom of the hungry sea 
 
 Broke ne'er a cry : full peacefully sank he ; 
 
 In clear-cold morning on the shore stood we, 
 
 Waiting for sun that never more should shine.
 
 KING CHILDERIC IN THE CLOISTER. 
 
 A.D. 750. 
 
 God give me patience, miserable King 
 That am, beneath the cowl ! on whom the smi 
 Shines but one hour a day, when slantmg through 
 These cloister-arches : where my sanclall'd feet 
 Break the grey moss-grown silence of the flags — 
 I, that was wont to meet the sun at morn. 
 And take my pleasure, as became a king. 
 In sports, aU day, across the plain. Woe's me ! 
 How changed am I !— seems all, that yet's 
 unchanged !
 
 KING CHILDERIC IN THE CLOISTER. 195 
 
 The same wiiid that, through piirj)le curtains, 
 
 scarce 
 Lifted the rushes from my palace floor, 
 In the okl time, around a bare damp cell 
 Now freezes all my bones. Ah, hunger, thu'st. 
 Vigil and painful penance, come to none 
 Of these poor monks so hardly as to me. 
 For one hath left his vineyard by the Rhine, 
 To whom, as he was delving on a day, 
 The blessed Mary show'd herself: and one, 
 A poor aureficer in Aix, whose home 
 The plague left desolate. From mountain hut, 
 Or camp, or city, come they hither ; led 
 By that strong inward voice, men christen'd 
 
 ' Faith,' 
 But like me, none. . . Well, well, and so, because 
 
 o 2
 
 \ 
 
 196 IQNG CHILDERIC IN THE CLOISTER. 
 
 I shun their simple talk of beeves and goats, 
 
 Tliey whisper, that by reason of some crime 
 
 Hanging like mill-stone round me, am I come, 
 
 To expiate the past. And here, in truth, 
 
 I pace the flags each day ; and muse, as oft 
 
 I watch the spiders weave athwart the wall 
 
 Thin silken death-nets for the foolish flies. 
 
 'So weaved his webs around my helpless youth, 
 
 Th' unloyal crafty head, where sits my crown : 
 
 Founder, methinks, of a long Ime of kings.' 
 
 For so I dream'd last night it is decreed, 
 
 The Merovingian race should pass away 
 
 For ever, — Sicut herha transeat — 
 
 Then these in turn, gave place, their work being 
 done. 
 
 The builder setteth up, and pulleth down,
 
 KING CHILDERIC IN THE CLOISTER. 197 
 
 Builcliug his tow'r. We are but stocks and 
 
 stones, 
 Shaped to his mighty purpose. 
 
 Hark ! the bell 
 Rings in to vespers ; and the brothers pass 
 Down the side -cloister, eyeing me askance. 
 Sweet sunsliine — bml, upon the cloister-roof, 
 Farewell until tomorrow. Now they sing, 
 ' Eece qudm honum kahitare est 
 Fratres in unum.' . . . What a mock'rv tis !
 
 LEGEND 
 
 OF THE FOUNDATION OF THE CONVENT OF 
 NOTRE-DAME-DE-LA-BICHE, a.d. 1200. 
 
 Within a castle -garden, all battlemented round, 
 
 Where marjoram, and rosemary, and wallflow'r 
 did abound, 
 
 A lady leant, at day's decline, toward the darken- 
 ing sky ; 
 
 And on the wall, her silver shears and tapestrie 
 laid by.
 
 LEGEND, 199 
 
 The silk was intenvoven all -with threads of 
 
 golden hail- — 
 The which her dainty fingers wrought, in rich 
 
 devices there. 
 Love -knot, and motto ; with the badge of her 
 
 liege-lord and knight, 
 For all true men to rally round, when seen in 
 
 hottest fight. 
 
 For he has cross'd the dangerous seas to fight in 
 
 distant lands, 
 And she will sit for many a month, with beads 
 
 between her hands, 
 Now that her task is finish'd, and tomorrow's sun 
 
 must shine 
 Upon the page, who bears this gage to her Lord 
 
 in Palestine.
 
 200 LEGEND. 
 
 She leant her head upon her hand — her thoughts 
 were far away ; 
 
 When up there sprang a little wind, horn with 
 the death of day. 
 
 Swiftly and suddenly it came, and with a whist- 
 ling call, 
 
 It seized the banner in its arms, and swept it 
 from the wall ! 
 
 She, leaping up, with arms dis-spread, thrice 
 
 vainly clutch'd the air. 
 And from her wimple, down there fell her wild 
 
 aifrayed hau' ; 
 And right along the battlements she ran, with 
 
 piercing cry. 
 As the silk banner floated up, against the golden 
 
 sky.
 
 LEGEND. 201 
 
 The varlets in the courtyard heard the scream, 
 
 and started up 
 There was mounting in the stirrup, — and no time 
 
 for stiiTup-cup ! 
 A riding forth of horsemen — a scouring of the 
 
 plain — 
 And then, — an empty-handed return at dark 
 
 again ! 
 
 And all that night, and all next day — within the 
 
 chapel dim, 
 She pray'd to ev'ry saint in the calendar for 
 
 him — 
 — Her 0A\Ti true Lord — because of this ill omen, 
 
 that God's breath 
 Had blown away that banner — Love's talisman 
 
 from death !
 
 :202 LEGEND. 
 
 All — all ill vain — they scour' cl the plain — they 
 
 plunged through pools and reeds ; 
 Troubling the wild-birds, for their nests among 
 
 the marish weeds : 
 But when, in expectation sore, at the thii'd set 
 
 of sun, 
 She saw them, with their loosen'd reins, returning. 
 
 one by one ; 
 
 The lady knelt, in sight of all, and vow'd a 
 
 solemn vow : 
 " O Blessed Mother Mary ! give hearing to me 
 
 now ! 
 Restore this tiling, — and on the spot — I swear — 
 
 where'er it be — 
 A Convent, Blessed Mary, will I build in praise 
 
 of Thee!"
 
 LEGEND. 203 
 
 Next morning rode a hunter, with the bugle at 
 
 his lips, 
 Through the thicket in the hollow, when, sudden 
 
 show'd the tips 
 Of a white doe's startled ears among the ferns — 
 
 and there — behold ! 
 Her two-days' fawn lay nestled in the banner's 
 
 broider'd fold. 
 
 Unheeding of the doe, I wist, with 'mazed and 
 
 thankful eyes, 
 (As who should cast a net for sprats, and havd 
 
 some great sea-prize), 
 The hunter seized his treasure, and blew so loud 
 
 a blast, 
 Across the moat, its glad sound smote, " The lost 
 
 is found at last ! "
 
 204 LEGEND. 
 
 In the hall was gi-eat rejoicing : the men drank 
 
 deep that night — 
 The maids and pages jested; the lady's heart 
 
 beat light : 
 And twenty gallant men rode forth to Palestine 
 
 next morn, 
 And in the wood the builders stood, and fell'd 
 
 down birch and thorn.
 
 LEGEND. 205 
 
 • Px\RT II. 
 
 Her heaii; Avas two years heavier, when, from her 
 
 tow'r one day, 
 She spied a gallant company come pricking np 
 
 this way : 
 Their spear-points take the morning-sun, and 
 
 gleam Hke meteor-fires ; 
 Foremost there rides a red-cross knight, behind 
 
 him ride his squires. 
 
 They wind up to the castle-gate — she sees the 
 
 di'awbridgc fall : — 
 Her cheek is waxen whiter 'gainst the loop-hole 
 
 in the wall, —
 
 20G LEGEND. 
 
 She hears the hoofs riiig round the court, the 
 
 lusty boA\7nen swear,- 
 A clang of spur and mailed heel comes slowly 
 
 up the stair. 
 
 She reels a pace toward the door — lo ! there 
 
 before her stands 
 The trusty Page, sir-knighted for his deeds in 
 
 Paynim lands ; 
 With brow of gloom, beneath his plume, he 
 
 kneels, while murmurs she ; 
 " Now Christ belie your woful looks, what tidings 
 
 bear you me ? 
 
 "What tidings of my Lord, Sir Page?" then he 
 
 in accents low, 
 " Dear Lady, brace your heart for I would pluck 
 
 my tongue forth now,
 
 LEGEND. 207 
 
 Sooner than tell the sorest news that ever met 
 
 your ear . . . 
 The Samts have charge of him — He died, as a 
 
 knight should, never fear ! 
 
 " He fell upon the Syrian plain : or ever I could 
 
 reach 
 The banner to his loving head, on Ascalon's red 
 
 beach, 
 A shaft had pierced the greaves — I bent me o'er 
 
 his dpng head, 
 And caught between the gasps of breath, the last 
 
 words that he said. 
 
 " ' Bear home love's message, for Christ's sake, to 
 
 my dear wife, and say 
 God's will is done : it had not gone so hard with 
 
 me this day.
 
 208 LEGEND. 
 
 If my own lady's banner had waved o'er me, like 
 
 a shield ; 
 But first, — my page, I charge thee, win thy spurs 
 
 upon the field.' " 
 
 The lady left the castle -wall ; pass'd through the 
 castle-gate ; 
 
 To the white Convent in the wood, she rode in 
 all her state. 
 
 There, with her wealth of castle-lands, the sister- 
 hood endow'd ; 
 
 Nor ever doff d their black hood, but when she 
 donn'd her shroud. 
 
 ****** 
 ******
 
 LEGEND. 209 
 
 Up in the Convent-chapel, some centuries after, 
 
 hung 
 Shreds of a dust-encumher'd hanner, where the 
 
 cobwebs swung, 
 And nuns show'd their first Abbess here in 
 
 marble, sleeping grand, 
 A couchant stag beneath her feet, and banner in 
 
 her hand. 
 
 Still ribald varlets sing the tale, with many quips 
 and jeers, 
 
 To travellers through the valley, as the Convent- 
 spire appears ; 
 
 And tell, by what a cunning trick, ' Our Lady of 
 the Doe,' 
 
 Got this fine Convent built for her, some hundred 
 years ago.
 
 SONG. 
 
 — ♦ — 
 
 My love's worth all the world to me ; 
 
 Her walk, to others' dance, seems light. 
 When she comes by, the sun rides high, 
 
 And when she's past, 'tis night ! 
 
 Her gentle voice that bids ' good-day ' 
 The music is, my soul loves best ; 
 
 Her deep-set eyes, her low replies. 
 The dreams that haunt my rest.
 
 SONG. 211 
 
 Her presence like fresh morning showers, 
 Maketh more green earth's greenest place ; 
 
 If she but stoop, sweet buds that cb'oop. 
 Look up into her face. 
 
 That May-day face — where nothing lives 
 That is not bright, for long together ; 
 
 Emotions pass her brow across, 
 Like clouds in golden weather. 
 
 Life's passing shades have scarcely chill'd 
 The gladness of lier spirit's light — 
 
 0, when she's by, tlie sun seems high. 
 And when she's past, 'tis night ! 
 
 p 2
 
 "SHE SAT BESIDE THE MOUNTAIN 
 SPRINGS." 
 
 She sat beside the mountain sjirings, 
 
 Her feet were on the water's brink, 
 And oft she wept when she beheld 
 
 The birds that lighted there to drmk ; 
 She wept : but as they spread their wings, 
 
 Her sweet voice followed in the sky — 
 " He will return — I know him well ; 
 
 He would not leave me here to die." 
 
 II. 
 And there she sat, as months roll'd on, 
 
 Unmindful of the changing year ; 
 
 She heeded not the snow and rain, 
 
 All seasons were the same to her.
 
 "she sat beside the mountain springs." 213 
 
 She look'd upon the frozen stream, 
 Slie listen'd to the night-bird's cry : 
 
 " He will return — I know him well ; 
 He would not leave me here to die." 
 
 III. 
 He came not ! all in vain she watch'd, 
 
 And di-ess'd the gold drips of her hair ; 
 Bed berries for a bridal crown, 
 
 She places every morning there. 
 At ev'ry shadow on the grass 
 
 She starts, and murmurs with a sigh, 
 " He ^ill return — I know him well ; 
 
 He would not leave me here to die."
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 There is a music runs throughout the stars, — 
 A constant harmony, sublime and low. 
 That soothes my spirit. Such a night as this. 
 The grand old German, rising from liis books, 
 Open'd liis lattice, and let in a flood 
 Of heav'nly melody. AU thoughts that live, 
 However shaped, through time, are rain'd from 
 Heaven.
 
 POPPIES. 
 
 — ♦ — 
 
 " On one side is a field of drooping oats, 
 Through which the poppies show their scarlet coats, 
 So pert and useless, that they call to mind 
 The scarlet coats that pester human kind." 
 
 Keats. 
 
 Nothing is useless. Do not scorn 
 
 These poppies of the field : 
 Who thinks a space will not despise 
 Their blushful cheeks and downcast eyes, 
 
 Rememb'ring all they jield.
 
 216 POPPIES. 
 
 The life-blood of the golden land, 
 
 They greet the passer-by : 
 Flushmg, with ev'ry wind that's born, 
 The heaving bosom of the corn, 
 Under the summer sky. 
 
 Ah, fitting is it ye should grow 
 Beside the " staff of life,"— 
 The one our strength from day to day. 
 The other a pow'r to smoothe away 
 All human care and strife ! 
 
 When on some fever'd bed, perchance, 
 
 The com will not avail. 
 Nor wine, nor any potions deep, 
 To call one little hour of sleep 
 
 Over the eyelids pale ;
 
 POPPIES. 317 
 
 Tis then those "useless scarlet coats" 
 
 (Like some of human kind) 
 Prove their strong hearts can soothe distress, 
 For all they wear a gaudy dress, 
 
 That flutters in the wind. 
 
 Their sun-dried leaves have not in vain 
 
 Outlived the harvest-day, 
 If life has gain'd one hour o.f peace — 
 
 If troubles for a moment cease — 
 Under the Poppy's sway.
 
 DANCE ON, MAIDEN.* 
 
 Dance on, Maiden, up on the hill. 
 Fresh as at day-break, unwearying still ; 
 Dimpling the grass with thy dainty feet, 
 Like the wings of a bird o'er the waters fleet. 
 What a spirit there is in those proud young arms 
 Tossing the hair back that shadows thy charms ! 
 — The only shadow across thy brow. 
 O would I could dance as light-hearted as thou ! 
 
 * Set to music by Jacques Blumenthal.
 
 DANCE ON, MAIDEN. 219 
 
 Dauce on, Maiden, for wlio can say 
 Thou slialt dance again, as thou dost to-day ? 
 Thy cithern may break, or thy heart may discover 
 A tune it loves better — the voice of a lover ! 
 But now thou knows't notliing of passion or 
 
 sorrow, 
 Thy heai't's in thy feet — will it be so to-morrow ? 
 Then dance while it beats to that light measure 
 
 now. 
 would I could dance as light-hearted as thou !
 
 A HEALTH. 
 
 Hold me content, when wine goes round, 
 To pledge thee, as the unseen guest, 
 Wliose face agamst my shoulder prest, 
 
 Its shadow in the bowl is fomid. 
 
 For me — in those reflected eyes, 
 
 Gather, at times, such tender tears — 
 I read such watchful hopes and fears, — 
 
 • — At times, such sorrowful surprise,
 
 A HEALTH. 221 
 
 When falling from the crystal height 
 
 Where thou didst set me, that my cheek 
 Flushes as though I heard thee speak, 
 
 Through all the riot of the night. 
 
 Absent ! ah, never ; till for me 
 
 Love's light in those clear eyes burn dim ; 
 
 A health when bubbles bead the brim, 
 My ever-present dear, to thee !
 
 TWO MISTRESSES. 
 
 She wore a yellow gown, with filagrees ; 
 
 I watcli'd her swarthy cheek, that sudden 
 flush'd, 
 
 And sudden, ghastly deaden' d, with the thrust 
 His rapier-wit sent through her, to the lees 
 
 Of her heart's blood. He strokes his beard, and 
 twirls 
 His pourpoint's tassel, as he turns to speak 
 To a ripe beauty, with a Rubens-cheek, 
 
 And large white bosom, overlaid with pearls,
 
 TWO MISTRESSES. 223 
 
 Seated beside him on the flow'ry green, 
 
 ^\lio whispers in his ear some amorous staves, 
 And through gold rivers of whose hair he laves 
 
 His fingers, laughing at the other's spleen. 
 
 In the first grey of dawn, a figm-e stands, 
 
 And draws aside the damask of the bed . . . 
 Then to the fountain with a stealthy tread — 
 
 The fishes sicken'd where she wash'd her hands.
 
 I HOLD it rarer than all mental gifts, 
 
 To find that breadth of outline in the soul, 
 The just articulation of each part. 
 
 The true completion of the rounded whole. 
 
 That fine consistent oneness, that alike 
 
 In sounds and forms we prize — so rarely seen, 
 
 Where nothing jars, or makes a dissonance 
 In the heart's music of a Hfe's routine.
 
 225 
 
 Believe me, rare this soul-completeness is ; 
 
 We mostly have two separate selves, and each 
 Stares at his neighbour, as mikno's\ing how 
 
 He stands a guest witliin the other's reach. 
 
 The veil-rent corners of a great man's heart, 
 After his death evince this, when we read 
 
 Of its wild riot. Thus, in darkest lives. 
 Will sliine one glorious solitar}'^ deed. 
 
 The same soul-pictm'e, seen from different sides, 
 Wears different aspect. To the partial friend 
 
 Hood-winkt, and to sharp critic -sj^ectacles, 
 Two distinct shadows doth one image send.
 
 "WHEN WE ARE PARTED," &c. 
 
 When we are parted, let me lie 
 In some far corner of thy heart. 
 Silent, and from the world apart, 
 
 Like a forgotten melody. 
 
 Forgotten of the world beside, 
 
 Cherisht by one, and one alone. 
 For some loved memory of its own ; 
 
 So let me in thy heart abide 
 
 When we are parted ! 
 
 ^^ Set to music by Jacques Blumenthal.
 
 t( 
 
 WHEN WE ARE PARTED." 227 
 
 ir. 
 
 AVhen we are parted, keep for me 
 
 The sacred stillness of the night, — 
 That hour, sweet love, is mine by right 
 
 Let others claim thy day of thee ! 
 
 The cold world sleeping at our feet, 
 My spirit shall discourse with thine. 
 When stars upon thy pillow shine, 
 
 At thy heart's door I stand and beat, 
 
 Though we are parted ! 
 
 Q 2
 
 THE MOUSQUETAIRE'S MESSENGER. 
 
 Gallop, gallop, my little steed, 
 
 Gallop across the plain ; 
 Bear my message at topmost speed, 
 
 And bring one to me again. 
 Snort and neigii her casement round, 
 Paw the frosty garden-ground ; 
 Wake her, though her sleep be sound. 
 
 " come with me, love, through the world, 
 
 Leaning on my circled arm ; 
 No breath shall stu" thy ringlet cmi'd, 
 
 'Gainst my cheek, secure from harm !
 
 THE MOUSQUETAIRe's MESSENGER. 329 
 
 " To-night I mount the palace guard ; 
 
 But beneath to-morrow's moon, 
 By the postern in the yard, 
 
 One shall whistle a low tune. 
 
 " Lightly down the darken'd stair, 
 
 Up into my stirrup light, 
 With thy guardsman's arm around thee, 
 
 We will gallop through the night, 
 Across the meadow, down the lane, 
 
 Swift our moonlit ride shall be." . . . 
 Gallop, gallop, across the plain, 
 
 And back, my steed, to me. 
 Underneath thy saddle bow, 
 Trustmgiy, I now bestow 
 True love-words. . . . My faithful, go !
 
 Bird, ou the eaves of my beloved's dweUing, 
 Sing out what I would breathe into her ear, 
 
 ]\Iay the full love within my bosom swelling, 
 Through thee find utt'rance musical and clear. 
 
 Swifter than thine, my spmt's wing will take me, 
 And where thou can'st not go, through crystal 
 pane ; 
 
 But Love's interpreter to her I make thee, 
 On window-sill, outpouring thy rich strain.
 
 231 
 
 Tell her my heart heats with tumultuous passion. 
 For the soft haven of its long unrest : 
 
 In spring, from our dead past, new hopes we 
 fashion, 
 As thou,, from mosses of thy last year's nest. 
 
 And though again, through wintr}^ seasons parted, 
 Still m her faith as in a mantle furl'd. 
 
 Bid her be steadfast and courageous-hearted, 
 Nor bow before the keen breath of the world. 
 
 Smg, bii'd, from up the house-top to the cellar, 
 Through all the rooms, thy passionate love- 
 songs sing; 
 
 But when thou fliest hence, in autumn, tell her, 
 Love, once enthron'd there, never can take wing.
 
 SLEEP. 
 
 — ♦ — 
 
 In the still time of sleep, 
 
 I dream of thee ; 
 Like stars, so far but bright, 
 Thine eyes smile through the night 
 
 Down upon me. 
 
 The voices of my sleep 
 
 Outsing all birds ; 
 Breathing continuous streams 
 Of music in my dreams, 
 
 Thy partmg words !
 
 SLEEP. 
 
 Then entereth in that world 
 
 Nor grief nor ill : 
 I hold thee to my heart ; 
 Thou can'st not then depart, 
 
 But liest still. 
 
 From the deep peace of sleep, 
 
 At morn I rise, 
 For thee to toil and fight. 
 Then sheathe the sword at night. 
 
 And close my eyes. 
 
 233
 
 DESOLATION. 
 
 — ♦ — 
 
 Wintry day, cold and grey, 
 
 As my heart in tliis chill place ; 
 
 Will no wind, blithe and kind, 
 Waft a smile into thy face ? 
 
 Drops of rain, like dull pain, 
 Throb upon the heavy air. 
 
 Growing thick, beating quick, 
 With the pulse of a despair.
 
 DESOLATION. 235 
 
 All about, — within, without. 
 
 Creeps the blank and cheerless grey : 
 O for one, lilve the sun, ^^ 
 
 Who should drive these clouds away !
 
 A FRIEND'S SOEROW. 
 
 Bow down thine ear, O Lord, and hear the cry 
 
 Of thy sad servant. She he loved is dead ; 
 
 Pass'd from the clasp of loving arms, and tied 
 From human pain to realms beyond the sky. 
 Thou, Lord, who in thy mercy did'st not spare 
 
 Thy Son for us, pity this human love. 
 So true, so passionate ; and teach him to bear 
 
 The sacrifice Thou call'st for from above. 
 All men love not so, and to few the cup
 
 A friend's sorrow. 2157 
 
 Has the full bitterness it has for hiin. 
 
 Compass'd with love, yet all the way seems dim. 
 
 Her light removed a little higher up. 
 
 Teach him, in that soul purified, to see 
 
 A lamp. Lord, that burns henceforth for thee.
 
 Ah ! prodigal of happiness in years 
 
 Long past, there are, who gather up the 
 crumbs 
 
 In after-time ; and water'd with their tears, 
 The memory of all they lavished, comes 
 
 Minding them, how was once spread at their feet, 
 Rich fragrant love, their satiate hearts did 
 waste ; 
 
 Turning aside from flavours over- sweet, 
 Or from some dash of bitter in the taste.
 
 239 
 
 Never again, perhaps — though life may yield 
 Its conquer'd struggles, and its hard-earii'd 
 fame, 
 
 With some calm friendships in congenial field — 
 Never shall strong affections grow the same. 
 
 All fountain-heads of love seem dry, they think ; 
 
 And, with a tliirsty longmg, they are fain 
 To reach up to the purple skies, and drink 
 
 Back some of their lost hajipiness again. 
 
 O, flmg out garlands in your moming-suns, 
 On ev'ry stream of strong and faithful love ; 
 
 Though brackish of the earth through which it 
 runs, 
 'Twill deepen, and reflect the sky above.
 
 NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1855. 
 
 Bkide, with thy trustful eyes full on the future, 
 
 And thy smile of pure delight ; 
 Mother, whose babe was laid safe in thy bosom 
 
 By the angels, yesternight ; 
 Sister, at home in the firelight spinning ; 
 
 Sailor-brother, at sea far away ; 
 To all, and to each, at this year's beginning, 
 
 Many happy returns of the day !
 
 NEW year's day, 1855. 241 
 
 And ye who are keeping the New -Year together, 
 
 Witli one empty chair between, 
 Awaiting and dreading the news of to-morrow, 
 
 As ye pledge the dear unseen ; 
 And ye, who on battle-field see New- Year's 
 morning. 
 
 With thoughts of your homes far away, 
 We will drink, gallant hearts, to your homeward 
 returning. 
 
 And a happier return of this day ! 
 
 THE END.
 
 LONliON: 
 RRADOURT AND EVAN S, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
 
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