patt&-- 
 
 i
 
 o 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES

 
 THE 
 
 LADY OF THE ROSE, 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY 
 
 THOlVtAS MEAD 
 
 (COMEDIAN.) 
 
 ISSl-
 
 -J-—, 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 c 
 
 / 
 
 
 Page 
 
 My Motive 
 
 3 
 
 The Lady of the Rose 
 
 4 
 
 The Two Watchers 
 
 II 
 
 The Priest of Aricia 
 
 14 
 
 Perturbation 
 
 27 
 
 A Game of Chess 
 
 33 
 
 Highland Pride 
 
 43 
 
 The Old Abbey 
 
 45 
 
 The Countryman and the Comedian 47 
 
 The Winds 
 
 48 
 
 The Excursion ... 
 
 49 
 
 Home 
 
 50 
 
 The Silent Sermon in the Street 
 
 51 
 
 Youth, Age, and Time 
 
 •53 
 
 The Walk in the Storm 
 
 53 
 
 The Language of the Eye 
 
 55 
 
 Short and Sweet 
 
 55 
 
 What is the Spell? 
 
 56 
 
 Rosetta's Secret .. 
 
 56 
 
 Al Fresco 
 
 59 
 
 Saucy Eyes 
 
 59 
 
 The Storm 
 
 60 
 
 Alkoran 
 
 61 
 
 The Two Travellers 
 
 65 
 
 Acrostic 
 
 74 
 
 Procrustes 
 
 74 
 
 Jingle 
 
 74 
 
 Flowers and Feelings 
 
 75 
 
 Eros and Auteros 
 
 76 
 
 Matches 
 
 77 
 
 Sunset (a Fragment) 
 
 78 
 
 Widow May 
 
 79 
 
 Mu.sic 
 
 80 
 
 To Margaret 
 
 81 
 
 Enigma 
 
 82 
 
 The Assassination 
 
 82 
 
 Jostine and Redgrain 
 
 86 
 
 Drifting and Dreaming... ... • 
 
 91 
 
 Night Thoughts " 
 
 92 
 
 Chesterton JJells 
 
 96 
 
 To May 
 
 97 
 
 The Street and the Asylum 
 
 98 
 
 A Review 
 
 99 
 
 Query 
 
 99 
 
 The Curse 
 
 100 
 
 Inkerman 
 
 102 
 
 Shakespeare's Tercentenary ... 
 
 103 
 
 The Siege of Saguntum 
 
 104 
 
 My Taste 
 
 loS 
 
 The Enchanted Lover 
 
 109 
 
 The Disenchanted Lover 
 
 no 
 
 Morpheus and the Invalid 
 
 112 
 
 Lily of Rouen 
 
 "3 
 
 Drinking Song 
 
 I2G 
 
 1 ^y'i>S 
 
 7(> 
 
 Hope for a Better Time 
 
 Oh, Calmly Think 
 
 Good and Evil 
 Guilt in the Storm 
 Virtue's Reverie 
 Call to the Fairies 
 
 Miller's Song, etc 
 
 The Story of a Strike ... 
 
 The Poor Man's Lament' 
 
 The Benediction 
 
 Nature 
 
 The Dead Child's Frock 
 
 The Memory of Past Joy 
 
 The Emigrant's Return... 
 
 Good Books 
 
 Adieu to the Old Year ... 
 
 Penny Molloy ... 
 
 As Calmly as I Lay Sleeping .. 
 
 The Crooked Shores of Dingle Day 150 
 
 Page 
 121 
 121 
 
 122 
 123 
 124 
 126 
 I2f) 
 129 
 
 135 
 136 
 
 139 
 140 
 144 
 
 145 
 146 
 
 147 
 148 
 149 
 
 Parted 
 
 The Happy Valley 
 
 The Wish 
 
 A Rhyme of the River .. 
 
 Saint Godelive 
 
 Song of Progi-ess 
 
 The Drama and the Stage 
 
 Down in the Dumps ... 
 
 Belated 
 
 Oh ! for the Power to Love Thee 
 Christmas is Coming 
 
 Home of My Birth 
 
 The Peaceful Hero 
 Laura's First Birthday... 
 Did You e'er Ask a Maiden ? ... 
 Baby is Born 
 
 ""he Clerk's Story 
 
 The Children's Summer Ball . 
 
 Oh ! Thou Whose Charms 
 
 Address 
 
 My Daughter's Birthday Ode ... 
 
 Lament of Arrah-na-Pogue 
 
 The Parks of London 
 
 Night 
 
 Fragment 
 
 The Old Year Out 
 
 On the Death of a Young Lady 
 
 Lex Talionis 
 
 The Two Roads of Life 
 
 Superstition 
 
 Why, what the Devil Ails Me ? 
 
 The Shadow of a Cloud 
 
 Lines Written in a Literary Album 
 
 My Pebble Box 
 
 151 
 152 
 155 
 158 
 161 
 170 
 171 
 
 173 
 
 174 
 
 175 
 176 
 177 
 178 
 180 
 iSi 
 182 
 
 183 
 1 88 
 189 
 189 
 191 
 192 
 192 
 '93 
 »93 
 194 
 194 
 
 235 
 237 
 23S 
 
 230 
 240 
 240
 
 MY MOTIVE, 
 
 I HOPE not for the bays of the grand iUustrlous masters, 
 Whose fames stand, like the mountains, 'gainst the frittering of lime, 
 
 Outlasting and surmounting all mutations and disasters; 
 Through the soft'ning misty distance piercing only more sublime : 
 
 As they glimmered in the morning light of earliest da^vning fame, 
 Tlieir eminences met the beams of glory's rising light. 
 
 So must they radiantly receive the last expiring flame, 
 Ere poesy's and honour's sun sinks to barbaric night. 
 
 Though less in towering grandeur, yet others rise gigantic 
 Above the plain of ages, clad in beauty and in miglit ; 
 
 Philosophy's cool bowers, and wild cataracts romantic, 
 Soft contemplation's forests, and parterres of flowery light ; 
 
 With dern and caverned horrors, and fair votive temple-pilcs. 
 Bland melancholy valleys, and heaven reflective lakes, 
 
 Embosomed in love's foliage, and begemmed with thoughtful isles. 
 And Fancy's myriad creatures giving life to all their brakes. 
 
 Shut out from these, where turn'd I ? To the hills of opulence, 
 Where the rich pa/iipre glitters, and the lush wine-fruit clusters. 
 
 And life is vivid, jocund, with a keen and lusty sense 
 Of piercing wit, and bumping jest, or satire's flashing lusters. 
 
 And humour's mobile cjuaintness, that disarms all sober sway. 
 Lords o'er the laughing circle like a potent mountebank, 
 
 And wisdom speaks like folly, in a strange inverted way, 
 And disproves what it believes in by some sleight-back-handed crank ? 
 
 I cannot hope a holding with the sprightly, caustic race, 
 Upon the sunny hill-side, where the smile is ever seen : 
 
 I'd be content to nestle in some lowly, sheltered place, 
 Yet leave a simple cairn-pile that might tell I once had been 
 
 Only a little higher than the murky tidal line ; 
 \Vashed by the world's foul water, in its slimy ebb and flow, 
 
 Tiiat happily hereafter a beloved one of mine 
 May feel some little pride to point with filial pleasure to ; 
 
 And if all other readers save that one should slight my lays, 
 Or the imprinted pages be to all but her unknown. 
 
 Her lips i)crhaps may Iremljle forth some sweet posthumous praise, 
 And in her woman's soul she'll read, and comprehend my own ; 
 
 For then mine may have cast the burden of its earthly vest. 
 And mem'ry of me only be a dim and misty wreath; 
 
 Here may she find her father's mental semblances impressed. 
 And I may seem to speak and to commune with her in death.
 
 Then in her heart's recesses, in its sacred soHtude, 
 She may enshrine my image round with sweet religious care, 
 
 Where, when no jostling subjects of the passing world obtrude, 
 To turn and give the tribute of affection's offering there ; 
 
 To call from dusky mem'ry some fond act or tender tone, 
 Or to repeat some passage of a deeper-hearted sense ; 
 
 To make all thoughts of goodness that are written here her own: 
 That is the fame I covet, that my hope and recompense. 
 
 !V 
 
 THE LADY OF THE KOSE. 
 
 I WRITE my thoughts : few of my fellows can : 
 
 Labour, and mirth, and sleep, making their round 
 
 Of life unvaried ; save when malady — 
 
 Alas ! too frequently — its shadow casts 
 
 O'er the else careless few abiding round. 
 
 How I the art to read and write possess 
 
 I will explain. Before my father died. 
 
 In my eighth year, a stranger came to dwell 
 
 Beneath our roof; there was a mystery 
 
 Hung over him ; my father gave a charge 
 
 I should not speak of him ; some State turmoil 
 
 Then vexed the land, and he — I since have learned- 
 
 A patriot on the failing cause, proscribed, 
 
 My father sheltered, though at grievous risk. 
 
 Till then a book or pen to me was strange : 
 
 I saw him read, and my young wonder woke : 
 
 He wrote, and I felt awe : but he was one 
 
 Whom children quickly loved ; 'tis ever so 
 
 With master minds — and he was of that stamp. 
 
 When he explained to me how reading fed 
 
 The soul, as bread the body ; that to write 
 
 Was to set down the flashing, fleeting thought 
 
 Which memory failed to record ; though so young 
 
 The burning glow of some desire unknown 
 
 Woke in me, and found words of longing wish 
 
 That I could read and write. 
 
 Through the dim mist 
 Of childish memory I see the smile 
 That lit his features up when he inquired 
 If I would learn from him ? Oh yes ! Oh yes ! 
 A bond was made between the man and child 
 No time can sever ; I became his toy — 
 He my loved playmate, and our cherished sport
 
 The goodly game of letters : eye and hand 
 
 In eager diligence no tiring knew 
 
 Till I could tell, and join the pieces fair 
 
 Of the great puzzle he made clear to me. 
 
 How short the days for work ! — the eves for chat I 
 
 And oh 1 the grief when his departure came ! 
 
 Equalled alone by that the tidings gave 
 
 That reached us of his death ; for as he lived 
 
 His country's friend, her martyr, too, he died. 
 
 Oh ! could the means he lent me give the power, 
 
 How would I place his name in living song, 
 
 As he has placed it on Right's martyr-roll ! 
 
 In this lone region books are scarce ; the few 
 
 He left me, o'er and o'er I have re-read, 
 
 Till my heart knows them : with stray colporteurs 
 
 I've strained my scant resources to pick up 
 
 A volume here and there ; but as a rule 
 
 Their stock's but spare, and of a sorry sort : 
 
 But there are other books in which I read, 
 
 Which feed my fancy and awaken thought. 
 
 The hills, the valleys, and the mountain streams. 
 
 The audible mysterious voice of winds, 
 
 The answering echoes of the solitudes, 
 
 The flitting sunlight over clouds and cliffs, 
 
 The rolling shadows o'er the waving woods. 
 
 The endless change, renewal, and decay 
 
 In things inanimate ; the leaves, the flowers, 
 
 In sweet succession, spring, and bud, and bloom : 
 
 But in the things of life that soar and crawl. 
 
 Swim, climb, and burrow, prowl or ruminate — 
 
 Links all of one great mighty magic chain, 
 
 Where Nature's voice and Instinct's dictates sway — 
 
 These have I learned to watch and ponder on. 
 
 With no default to labour's urgent claim, 
 
 That it hath grown a habit rest to me — 
 
 As I began by saying — to write down 
 
 Thoughts that to better or to wiser life 
 
 May point an upward track. 
 
 This mood of mine 
 Hath earned for me among our peasant train 
 Of rude and lusty life, a dreamer's name : 
 Yet there's another style, which, part in jest — 
 And yet I fain would hope as much in love — 
 They've dubbed me with. And oh how weak we arc ! 
 For let me own a weakness in me lives 
 That pleasure finds ; that in the narrow space 
 I move in no worse name is chosen out 
 To nickname me. For that at festivals 
 And friendly gatherings — be they bridal feasts, 
 Vintage,for bringings home, or christenings — 
 I am wont to some old strain new words to set, 
 And sing to them, to suit the merry time.
 
 For this, " the Singer " have they titled me. 
 
 Their homely compliment would signify — 
 
 Shall I say, poet ? Yes, my poor bald rhyme, 
 
 And jingle of familiar local phrase. 
 
 They deem to merit it ; 'tis true, I strive 
 
 In words and voice to sing as heart to heart, 
 
 And on those senses, that with tender touch. 
 
 Vibrate with thrill the most emotional, 
 
 In my own thoughts, to waken thought in them ; 
 
 When singing of the old like age to sing, 
 
 And stir the pleasant memories of life : 
 
 To maiden ears to whisper love's sweet hope, 
 
 To youth some known desire which manhood crowns. 
 
 To parents some soft touch of childhood's charm ; 
 
 To bid the tear, the sigh, the flush, the smile. 
 
 To rise responsive to the plaintive theme, 
 
 Or the laugh echo to the mirthful turn. 
 
 But poet ! Is this poetry? Alas! 
 
 I know not. Yet at times within me stirs 
 
 A restless and unconquerable need 
 
 To pen the burden-thoughts that will be eased ; 
 
 That, like a restless, caged, and fluttering bird, 
 
 Pine for the open space. 
 
 Thus even now 
 A thought, a memory, presses on my mind. 
 As it hath often done ; but never yet 
 Without attending fear that I should mar 
 The bloom and fragrance of the gracious flower 
 That blossomed in my heart, and lived with me, 
 A thing of worship) and of poesy, 
 But given to the winds might fade and be 
 A treasure wantonly cast out to die. 
 Its germ — as on the providential winds 
 Are borne the seeds to robe some new-born isle. 
 Fresh lifted from the ooze, with greenery 
 And bloom, and fruitage — by the ministry, 
 Of sweet propitious guidance piloted. 
 In my unlaboured soul took racinage. 
 And, like a thing of life and holiness, 
 Woke in me psalms of secret worshipping, 
 Due only to my mother and the Lord. 
 Was it a shame, or latent jealousy, 
 That closed my boyish lips from whispering 
 Her name — the only one we knew her by— 
 The Lady of the Rose ? 'Twas one or both; 
 For when my mother, as she often would, 
 Recalled her visitation to our cot, 
 I have felt the tremor and the burning flush 
 Shoot through my veins, and with the subterfuge 
 Of heedlessness — oh, how untrue !— I stole 
 Forth from her presence to the silent hills, 
 Where I had made my shrine, and where my soul
 
 Bent to her image, with devotion such 
 As passion never knew. 
 
 Who was this saint 
 My heart had calendared ? I cannot tell. 
 Like an administering sprite she came, 
 Leaving the radiance of her love behind, 
 And disappeared and left no clue to us 
 To follow with our blessings. Of what land ? 
 We knew as little : though she spake our tongue, 
 The accent of some other land did blend 
 Strangely, but sweetly, with it, like the strains 
 Of two soft instruments that strike the ear 
 AVith unaccustomed harmony and grace. 
 What of the land ! Her merit none should claim 
 Could I reveal it ; to the world belongs 
 The odour of her goodness. We alone 
 Claim the monopoly of gratitude. 
 And would not share it. 
 
 Thus the story runs. 
 Which should be read, not so much through my words 
 As through my heart, if without words 't could speak. 
 In my ninth year my father's sudden death 
 Left us in bitter strait : for civil strife 
 Had driven labour from its wonted task. 
 And left a trail of death and misery 
 In blasted vineyards and untcnded fields ; 
 Through all the province, industry stood blank 
 With idly-folded arms, staring at want 
 And empty garners ; and, to make 
 A direr reckoning, the calamity 
 Of pestilence — the triple woe that waits 
 To glean the deathfield, w'ar, and famine sheer — • 
 Raged in the circle. From the campanell 
 The deathbcll rang its now familiar note. 
 And each home had its mourners for some dead. 
 Ours was not spared. Oh ! ne'er shall I forget 
 My mother's trials : first with poverty; 
 Then, one by one, as sickness seized upon 
 'J'wo sisters, each my younger, and our pet 
 My little baby brother — a sweet child 
 Whose face and disposition bore the seal 
 Of paradise, an angel sent to bless. 
 And to be blessed, with love. Even the pangs 
 Of the sharp fever lacked the ])Ower to quench 
 The cherub sweetness in the patient boy ; 
 For he lay patting with his feeble hands 
 His sister's cheeks, as they unconscious pined^ 
 In touching sympathy, which seemed to ask 
 Help for them, from my mother and myself, 
 Whom heaven had spared to tend them. 
 
 Days and nights 
 Of restless watching, need, and anxious thoughf.T
 
 8 
 
 Had hollowed out my mother's cheeks, and lent 
 
 A spectral glimmering to her haggard eyes. 
 
 I sat by the pale embers watching her, 
 
 Revolving the great dread of loneliness 
 
 That threatened me in loss of all so dear : 
 
 The child now slept ; and from the bed, where they 
 
 All three seemed drifting down to death's dark sea, 
 
 Low, broken sighs of pain came throbbing forth 
 
 Into the stillness of the darkened room. 
 
 I saw my mother struggle with the weight 
 
 Of Nature's chain ; at last, o'erspent, subside 
 
 Into a fitful doze ; next, to a deep, 
 
 Involuntary slumber, with the dim lamp-flame 
 
 Behind the curtain, lending her thin face 
 
 A shadowing of death, rather than sleep. 
 
 There was a look on it that called to mind 
 
 My father's features as he lay in death ; 
 
 And thought of him, and so much neighbouring death, 
 
 Woke in my young mind a cold, nameless dread, 
 
 Which stole upon me, till my trembling frame 
 
 Made the stool rattle I was seated on. 
 
 I closed my eyes, and, in my outspread palms, 
 
 Buried them tightly on my knees, and wept. 
 
 The shadow of bereavement clouded me 
 
 With an unspeakable presentiment 
 
 Of fresh calamity impending o'er 
 
 My young existence ; and my mother's life 
 
 Of love and watchful, self-denying care 
 
 Passed like a pageant through my troubled mind. 
 
 Informing me of all I had to dread 
 
 In thought of losing her, or to repay, 
 
 Might she be spared to bless me still with love. 
 
 Clinging to her, my yearning heart by times 
 
 Dwelt on the little sufferers, languishing 
 
 In their unconscious peril ; and the thought 
 
 Of our past childish, innocent delights — 
 
 Their prattle, and dependent, infant trust 
 
 In me, the eldest, that had grafted them 
 
 In my affection so — the wrench of death 
 
 That plucked at them seemed threat'ning me as well. 
 
 Th' unuttered prayer that aspired in thought 
 
 Of " life for them, or death for me as well," 
 
 Went up in anguish to the Lord of Life, 
 
 Whom o'er the altar I had pictured seen 
 
 Blessing the children ; for no thought of joy 
 
 Found harbour in my heart apart from them. 
 
 Who had been all that I had ever known 
 
 Of life, or love, or joy, now left to me. 
 
 My soul was sore — yea, desolately sad : 
 
 My stifled sobs, my mother's pain-drawn breath, 
 
 The children's fevered moanings, broke alone 
 
 The death-like silence, when a hand was laid
 
 Tenderly on my shoulder, and a voice — 
 So soft, and pitiful, and sweetly kind — 
 Broke on my tribulation, like a balm 
 Of magic virtue dropped on smarting wound. 
 I raised my head in silent wonderment, 
 And lo ! a vision — such it seemed to me — 
 Between the doubtful and divided light 
 Of sickly lamp and smouldering billet's gleam, 
 A female form, in white and flowing robes. 
 Her veil thrown back sufficiently to show 
 A face of beauty — stranger to our clime, 
 And, as I thought, to earth, so angel-like. 
 My then impression, and since memory 
 Conceived, and still imprints it on my mind. 
 Her smile of pity, and soft, dove-like glance. 
 Disarmed all fear in me, but lit within 
 A reverence all new and undefined. 
 As on the purest snow a stain of blood 
 Arrests the sight, so on her spotless breast 
 One glowing, full-blown, Provence Rose reposed, 
 A beauteous foil to her fair lily hue. 
 One taper finger on her lip was pressed. 
 To signal me to silence, as her eye 
 Glanced towards the sleepers with an anxious look. 
 Placing a i)aniera down, she stept 
 Noiselessly towards the pallet, bent her down, 
 Taking the children's hands Avithin her own ; 
 Feeling their i)ulses, one by one, with care, 
 Not to disturb them ; then returned to me. 
 Sat down, and took me, in her gentle arms, 
 Parted my clustering locks from off my brow, 
 And pressed a kiss upon it, questioning. 
 In softest whispers, of our misery. 
 Spell bound, I answered all in briefest words. 
 Nor sought ta unclasp me from her loving strain. 
 As hours passed by, and the deep midnight chime 
 Had been succeeded by — -I know not now 
 How many of the morns — no thought of sleep, 
 No sense of weariness, stole over me. 
 A holy presence bound me in its thrall. 
 And seemed to fill me with a soft content 
 And growing hopefulness, as she distilled 
 The essence of her virtuous soul, to teach 
 The love and duty that should guide a son. 
 * The first faint grey of morn began to blend 
 With the lamp's sickly ray, when, with a cry. 
 Our picciolo woke. At his sharp plaint 
 My mother started from her heavy sleep ; 
 But, ere she could recall her waking thoughts. 
 The Lady of the Rose had reached her side, 
 And led her wondering to the hearth-place seat, 
 Brought forth a flacette from the panicra,
 
 16 
 
 And poured for her a draught, which seemed to bear 
 
 New Hfe within it; with a gesture mild, 
 
 Enforcing her to quietude. The while 
 
 She of the Rosa brought the infant forth. 
 
 Who stared with wonder, and held out its arms 
 
 Towards its mother, till its eye was caught 
 
 With the bright rose upon the snowy breast ; 
 
 And the sweet magic of the silvery voice 
 
 Won his young ear ; then a confiding smile 
 
 Stole o'er his visage as she sat to nurse, 
 
 And to adminster some cordial rare 
 
 She had brought with her ; and, observing he 
 
 Was caught with the bright colour of the flower, 
 
 She gave it him. Just then my sisters woke. 
 
 The Lady rose, and held the infant forth 
 
 Towards his mother ; but he clung to her, 
 
 And only by persuasive words from her, 
 
 Pleading his sisters' suffering, would he 
 
 Be parted from her. Then she went to them, 
 
 And soothed them, and administered a draught 
 
 That lulled them to a soft, unbroken rest ; 
 
 Then came and took the babe again, and sat 
 
 Rocking him tenderly — the rose between 
 
 His wasted fingers — till his eyelids closed ; 
 
 A\ hile the soft, regular, and gentle breath 
 
 Told the sweet tale of rest. She softly rose, 
 
 Noiselessly crossed the room, and laid him down 
 
 In gentle slumber, that bright glowing rose 
 
 Bes'ide his whitened cheeks. Then did she bend. 
 
 And gently kissed them all ; and brought the lamp. 
 
 And placed it on the table ; and sat down, 
 
 And wrote upon some tablets, which she gave 
 
 To my poor mother with inquiring look, 
 
 Who shook her head, and passed the leaves to me. 
 
 That was my time of triumph and of pride. 
 
 As, in low tone, but with distinctness clear, 
 
 I read directions how some medicines. 
 
 With varying coloured labels, should be used. 
 
 And what the treatment for our invalids. 
 
 AV^hen I had ended she arose to go. 
 
 Clasping my mother's hand, she bade her hope ; 
 
 And as she spoke her eye was fixed on me 
 
 With a blest, hopeful, and prophetic glance, 
 
 As her fair fingers wantoned with the curls 
 
 That, with untended wildness, straggled o'er 
 
 IVIy throbbing temples. Then she bent and laid 
 
 A kiss upon my forehead, and 1 marked. 
 
 For my eye could not quit her, that a tear 
 
 Brightened the softness of her angel eye. 
 
 She turned to leave us. As she reached the doof 
 
 A sudden impulse seized me, and I ran 
 
 And clutched her robe, and stammered out,
 
 II 
 
 "Tell us what name you bear, oh, lady pray ! 
 
 That we may in our prayers remember it. 
 
 And where, too, may we come in gratitude 
 
 To speak the thanks that now we cannot speak ?"' 
 
 She turned and smiled. " We may not meet again,"' 
 
 She said. " But would you sometimes speak of me, 
 
 Let it be as the Lady of the Rose." 
 
 The sequel needs few words. Our dear ones lived. 
 
 A brighter presence scared death's angel forth. 
 
 A purse by pious stealth she left behind, 
 
 Lined with such golden coin as served to pass 
 
 The bitter time of our necessity. 
 
 The rose she left us was a pledge and sign 
 
 Of health and bloom, and cheerfulness restored ; 
 
 But more of that unfading gratitude. 
 
 Whose perfume is undying, whose fair hue 
 
 No lime can tarnish, nor misfortune dim. 
 
 We never saw nor heard of her again. 
 
 From whence she came, or where departed she, 
 
 I nothing know. Let the sweet mystery. 
 
 With all its aerial indistinctness dwell, 
 
 To wreathe around the Lady of the Rose. 
 
 THE TWO WATCHERS. 
 
 Fitfully, the ivy s])ray 
 
 Taps upon the lattice pane ; 
 With a .sharp, discordant lay. 
 
 Shrieks the rusty weather-vane, 
 Swaying ftetfully and shrill 
 On the turret, murk and still, 
 That crowns the dreary pine-clad hilL 
 
 Darkly streams the aerial tide, 
 Riftless, evenly, al)oon. 
 
 Through the chilly welkin wide ; 
 Faintly the perturbed moan 
 Of the rain-repletcd lynn 
 Hums its melancholy din^ 
 Its devious rocky channel in : 
 A biting blast of humid cold, 
 
 And nipping wind, with eager sough, 
 Is traversing the restless Wold, 
 
 That waves and billows to and fro ; 
 While dimly gleams one debile light, 
 Like a sjicnt beacon of the night, 
 Timidly from the castled height.
 
 12 
 
 O'er the tree-tops, o'er the stream, 
 
 To the dark opposing height, 
 Trembles that weak taper's beam, 
 
 StruggHng through the cloudy night ; 
 To where the solitary shade, 
 On the hill's pent, is deeper made, 
 In the lone pine-wood's colonnade ; 
 Through which, as on a mystic lyre, 
 
 A dismal swell, and cadence moans, 
 Now faintly sad, now mounting higher, 
 
 From shrill to diapason drones : 
 Contortion and wild restlessness 
 Seem all surroundings to possess. 
 Beneath the wind's unfriendly stress : 
 The pine cones, rattling, fall around, 
 
 The rank-leaved dock flaps to the blast, 
 The dancing splints spin o'er the ground. 
 
 And chase the sear-leaves hurrying past ; 
 While reed, and herb, and branch, and bole. 
 And shrub, in one continuous roll. 
 Are fretted by the wind's control. 
 
 Yet, upon that woodland peak. 
 
 Stands a watcher, lone and mute, 
 Senseless of the weather's wreak. 
 
 Mindless of the gathering bruit ; 
 For his thoughts intently ponder — 
 Burdened thoughts, that press him under, 
 Crushing weights of grief and wonder ; 
 And the fire and flood within 
 Waste and drown his heart by turn. 
 
 Prompting bitterness and sin ; 
 Lessons hard and sad to learn ; 
 Hard as to unlearn old love, 
 To damp the fires that melt and move. 
 And for the vulture change the dove. 
 That tenderly he lodged and nursed, 
 
 Till it a cherished fondling grew. 
 To welcome now a tenant cursed. 
 
 And change old love for hatred new : 
 Impossible the middle course 
 To one all tenderness or force ; 
 Naught than indifference could be worse. 
 
 That flick'ring spark o'er the ravine, 
 
 That faint gem, in the mournful cope 
 Of the dusk hill, though dimly seen. 
 Is daylight to his darkened hope. 
 Why burns that taper-light the last, 
 Through all the pile so wide and vast. 
 Though midnight's hour has long gone past ? 
 Can she, so heartless, dare to brave 
 The silent hour, the certain thought.
 
 13 
 
 That hollow faith and treachery have 
 
 A trusting soul to madness wrought ? 
 Or doth her conscious terror shun 
 The phantom-haunted sleep of one 
 Who hath betrayed whom she hath won ? 
 Perhaps some retrospective thought, 
 
 Or late experience, wakes a fear 
 That empty grandeur that is bought 
 
 By perjury is over-dear ; 
 Or woman's unswayed instinct may 
 Deduce a surer, sweeter way 
 To happiness than fiilse display. 
 
 Wakeful lady ! carefully 
 
 On the future fix thy gaze ; 
 Glance not backward, fearfully, 
 
 Through thy bygone, stainless days : 
 Memory is certain shame. 
 Thought must traverse fields of flame, 
 Making present triumph tame ; 
 Each remembered loveliness 
 
 Will be sentri'd by a ghost ; 
 Crude compunction and distress 
 
 Robe each thing of beauty lost ; 
 What was bloom and freshness then 
 Shall be blight and haggard when 
 Scrutinised with present ken ; 
 The voices sweet of former years, 
 
 That anthemed their melodious strains, 
 Shall jangle harshly in thine ears, 
 
 And strike inevitable pains 
 At thy sleeping, at thy waking. 
 Ever spirit-discord making, 
 Through each softer measure breaking. 
 
 Pilgrim from the Changeful Main, 
 
 Here is strange mutation too ! 
 Seek //t-r wiles and whims again ; 
 
 S/ie's the fittest bride for you : 
 Thou art out-bid in Beauty's mart ; 
 Thy travail, soul, and body's smart 
 Are foiled by vanity and ait ; 
 That you promised others paid ; 
 
 You waited both on time and chance ; 
 He had fortune ready made, 
 
 And title's tinsel elegance ; 
 Yet your defeat is food for mirth, 
 For she was earthy of the earth, 
 A picture of the smallest worth. 
 Whose gorgeous frame, attractive, made 
 
 Unskilled credulity admire : 
 T/iou art not, but /ic is, betrayed. 
 
 And of the cheat will (juickly tire ;
 
 14 
 
 Or, if he still be cheated on, 
 Believing he a prize doth own, 
 She's only fit for such a one. 
 
 Captain of the " Crolden Heart,' 
 
 Mourn not at thy broken chain ; 
 Silently in scorn depart — 
 
 She's but worthy of disdain : 
 Thou art blessed in her deceit ; 
 Victory is in defeat ; 
 Honour lives in fair retreat. 
 Flatter not her little pride 
 
 By thy anger, nor thy grief ; 
 Broaden the abyssmal void, 
 
 And in absence seek relief; 
 Balm thy wounded spirit's pain— 
 Hers was void, and vile, and vain ; 
 Look upon the world again. 
 She to mate thee was unfitted ; 
 
 With such shallow nature knitted 
 Thou wert only to be piti'd. 
 
 Thy trammel is a spider's thread, 
 Which cannot long thy vigour bind ; 
 
 Its filmy mesh demolished 
 With manumitted heart and mind ; 
 Thy path of honour open lies, 
 Graced with according sympathies, 
 To aid thy upward destinies. 
 
 THE PPtlEST OF ARICIA. 
 
 Note. — " The priest of the Temple was always a fugitive, and the 
 murderer of his predecessor ; and went always armed with a dagger, to 
 prevent whatever attempts might be made upon his life by one who 
 wished to be his successor." — Broivn's Classical Dictionary. 
 
 Silence profoundly reigns in earth and sky. 
 
 For eve has reached its mean, when things of day. 
 
 Obeying nature's need, have sunk to rest ; 
 
 While those of night, deterred by some faint light, 
 
 Pendulous o'er the earth, yet not upon 't, 
 
 Still lurk within their solemn sanctu'ries. 
 
 No breath through all the grove disturbs a leaf ; 
 
 Motion and sound seem dead, and nature's trance, 
 
 Now at its deepest, strikes a solemn awe,
 
 15 
 
 At the conjecture, what a blank would reign 
 
 Should sound and motion never wake again. 
 
 Yet a transition dimly grows on all, 
 
 And momentarily each object wears 
 
 A ghostlier aspect ; as upon the fixce 
 
 Of one just dead, the mortal greyness steals. 
 
 A sense of chillness stealthily comes on 
 
 With the invasive night, and solitude 
 
 Begins to waken in the lonely one 
 
 That feeling, *hough he shames to call it fear, 
 
 By any other name would be miscalled. 
 
 Yet 'tis a holy precinct, 'tis the grove 
 
 Of the inviolable goddess' fane. 
 
 Wherever burns the unquenched vestal lamp 
 
 On chaste Diana's altar. 
 
 One sad guard 
 Within the bounding of that silent wood 
 Holds fearful watch and ward ; the devotee 
 AVho, by red-handed slaughter, wrested from 
 His predecessor in the envied task, 
 The lone distinction that he hath attained. 
 The sole companion, ever by his side, 
 Must be the phantom that his dagger raised. 
 By day each (loweret, peering from the shade, 
 By night each firefly flitting through the boughs, 
 Must take a meaning like a dying eye. 
 And speak to his remembrance : 
 The murmur of the sad Egeria's fount 
 Must have a deathly, moaning voice for him 
 Like his slain victim's death-sob ; and tlu; flow 
 Of its lymph-wave must image to his mind 
 The blood that followed where the knife was driven 
 In the fine beaded spray, that falls around. 
 He must behold the death-sweat ooze again; 
 And the dead presence, which he cannot lay, 
 Grows still more hideous from persistency : 
 The past, like to a robe of (lame, must scorch ; 
 The future like a shroud of lead must weigh : 
 For the alarum, fear, keeps ceaseless din. 
 What he hath won, others aspire to win ; 
 The stealth he practised others can employ ; 
 The vigilance he foiled may fail in him : 
 The curse is, that he knows not when, or how. 
 Nor from what (juarter, to expect the blow : 
 The rustling of a wild bird through the leaves, 
 The crash of some scar branch, rent by the wind 
 From off its parent stem, must fill his soul 
 With endless restlessness ; while every moan 
 Of early morning's or deep midnight's breath 
 The mournful cypresses, and yews among, 
 Must wake an echo in his brooding soul. 
 Repeating past imaginings, or rouse
 
 i6 
 
 New apprehensions for the coming time. 
 
 Lo ! where he stands, so motionless and wrapt, 
 
 You'd say a statue had been planted there, 
 
 To mock the solitude with show of life, 
 
 Only to make it deeper ; like a shadow 
 
 Amidst surrounding shades of derner hue. 
 
 His task to feed the votive flame is o'er, 
 
 The temple purified, the evening rite 
 
 Performed with dull, precise, habitual care ; 
 
 And now that harder task of all, to brook 
 
 The anguish and the weariness of thoughts. 
 
 That waste the body and inflame the mind 
 
 With their incessant and corrosive stings, 
 
 Is now his sole employ and penalty. 
 
 He hath abandoned the relief which first 
 
 He found in open utterance of his dreams ; 
 
 For day by day his voice acquired a tone 
 
 So hollow and unearthly, that its sound 
 
 So jarred upon him, suddenly he paused 
 
 In a half-finished sentence, and thought out 
 
 The rest of it in silence. He hath since 
 
 Abandoned speech, as one whose sharp-edged blade, 
 
 The sheath being lost, is cast into disuse, 
 
 Lest it should wound its owner. 
 
 Ne'ertheless, 
 There is a language that doth plainly speak 
 In all the man — a misery that is 
 A neighbour unto madness. You can read 
 In the scorched furrows of his painful brow, 
 The pale lips parted, with such woe-like cast, 
 The nerveless posture of the frame and limbs, 
 The steadfast strain of the wild, fiery eye ; 
 That zealot frenzy, or remorse, or dread. 
 Or non-communion with his fellow-man. 
 Have ne'er unpoised from off its pivot fine 
 The rock of balanced reason. Long hath he 
 Stood rooted there upon the self-same spot. 
 Night is full grown ; and now the grove is full 
 Of many-varied voices. Every aisle 
 Is living with a myriad flashing lights. 
 And every cranny hath its lantern-worm : 
 Melody contends with dissonancy : 
 In brake and glade nocturnal life is up, 
 And fox, and owl, and nightingale compete 
 For star-clad Hecate's prize. The unloosed winds 
 Softly coquette the feathery bows among ; 
 And moonlight dapples with its silver sheen 
 The leafy roofing and the herby floor, 
 And sparkles on the polished marble fane 
 With chaste and suitable resplendency. 
 The lonely priest hath shaken off his trance, 
 And slowly paces now the shadowy path
 
 17 
 
 Towards the temple. Suddenly he stops, 
 
 And the lax form is brusquely gathered up 
 
 Into a rigid vigour ; fitfully, 
 
 From the dark covert where he sheltered stands, 
 
 His eyes with a wild changeful lustre glare, 
 
 And his hand fumbles in his tunic's fold, 
 
 From whence a bright blade rapidly is plucked. 
 
 The portal of the temple is illumed 
 
 In the full lustre of unclouded light. 
 
 His quick eye, following his quicker ear — 
 
 Whose acute sense has grown intensely fine 
 
 From anxious use— upon the temple wall, 
 
 But for an instant, has observed to flit 
 
 A human shadow. Instantly he scents 
 
 The holy duel. A frantic joy. 
 
 That finally some chance has come to break 
 
 The horror of monotony, lends him 
 
 An aspect wild and supernatural. 
 
 A smile ferocious sets ui)on his lips, 
 
 And the deep cunning of the lunatic 
 
 Emits from his sharp eye its subtle glow ; 
 
 The while he dallies with his poniard's point, 
 
 And seems to brood intently. Presently 
 
 A change comes o'er him, and, with lowly mien 
 
 Calm air, and tranquil pace, doth he emerge 
 
 Into the moonlight ; shaping so his course 
 
 Towards the temple that his shadow's lengtli 
 
 Lies out before him on the grassy slope. 
 
 With feigned devotion he doth often pause, 
 
 And act a holy and abstracted part, 
 
 Gazing to heaven, then down to earth again, • 
 
 As the detected ambush he draws nigh ; 
 
 Seeming in self communion deeply plunged, 
 
 But ever scanning with a furtive eye 
 
 The lurking-place of his expectant foe : 
 
 He plays his lure so cunningly, his foil 
 
 Might count assured triumph, till are brought 
 
 The moon, himself, and foe into one line— 
 
 The moonlight falling full upon his back. 
 
 Now does he pause in seeming ecstasy, 
 
 That wraps him in reflection, and subdues 
 
 His limbs' volition, leaving him a mark 
 
 To his screened adversary's lurking blade. 
 
 But mark now ! From the brake (not with the bouni 
 
 Of the keen tiger or assassin lithe. 
 
 Who, o'er the velvet sward you would expect 
 
 Swiftly or stealthily to see approach. 
 
 Bare-armed, bare-footed, with the flashing knife 
 
 Grasped in his stringent clutch, dart on his prey ; 
 
 Who, ere you wink, would be in striking reach. 
 
 And the raised hand descend with hissing sound, 
 
 And the next instant to behold a corse.
 
 i8 
 
 And one with dripping blade, contemplating 
 
 The work of that foul moment : 'tis not so) 
 
 With pace deliberate, and sternly calm, 
 
 A step elastic, and straight youthful form, 
 
 The comer traverses the interspace, 
 
 Till their two shadows mingled are as one. 
 
 The lonely priest a sudden wheel has made, 
 
 Timed to the warning shadow, bringing him 
 
 With lightning speed confronted with his foe : 
 
 And with a ready plunge his steel is thrust 
 
 At the intruder's bosom ; but the aim, 
 
 Though well directed, reaches not its mark. 
 
 So he stands, scatheless of the other's point, 
 
 Scanning his opposite with steadfast eye 
 
 At safely-measured distance. Silently 
 
 Each with a varied scrutiny surveys 
 
 His adversary with a fixed, expressive gaze, 
 
 Guaging their forces with deliberate ken. 
 
 Weighing the chance of the avertless strife. 
 
 Over each visage, as they fixed stand, 
 
 A changed expression comes, softening the ire — 
 
 Of one to pity, to the other shame ; 
 
 For the two men such contrast do present 
 
 Of age and freshness, weariness and youth. 
 
 As doth the blasted bough that rots beside 
 
 The freshly-bourgeond spray in vernal green. 
 
 The sad, worn heritor of solitude 
 
 Surveyed th' aspirant to his sombre charge 
 
 With undisguised and wondering sympathy. 
 
 That one, whose flower of life was yet in bloom, 
 
 Should court the withering shade's obscurity ; 
 
 While he, the younger, measured the shrunk form 
 
 And haggard aspect that presented there, 
 
 With a compassionate, regretful shame 
 
 That his young vigour, in the coming strife, 
 
 Should so unevenly be undermatched. 
 
 Now, in the silence of the solemn shade, 
 
 The votary of Aricia's hollow voice 
 
 Is heard with strange distinctness, though the tone 
 
 Is scarcely raised above a whisper's pitch, 
 
 And less in anger than compassionate. 
 
 " Thou art to Dian or to Pluto sworn. 
 
 And, self-devoted, thou art come in stealth, 
 
 Breaking the bounding of this sacred grove ; 
 
 Hoping to make ,thy daggers point the key 
 
 That shall unlock for me the mournful gates 
 
 Of peaceful Hades; that thou mayst succeed 
 
 Unto my sacred, melancholy task. 
 
 In the glade of the slain priests of Dian, 
 
 Where one of us the other must enearth, 
 
 I could point out to thee five grass-grown graves, 
 
 Whose tenants have, like thee, aspired to snatch
 
 19 
 
 What I am vowed to guard ; but among them 
 
 Not one, Hke thee, in tlie fresh grace of youth : 
 
 Each one had from hfe's wasted winecup drained 
 
 Its choicest-flavoured potion, and not recked 
 
 That the sure rue that lurked within the lees, 
 
 To scorch and wither, should be marked of iTien. 
 
 The hill of being (whose ascending slope 
 
 Is warm with sunshine and alluring hope, 
 
 Spite of the gloom and shadow that doth lie 
 
 Upon the downward pent, near to whose foot 
 
 That silent city looms where sleep the dead) 
 
 Is by thee yet scarcely a fourth part trod. 
 
 All the bright aims of untried life were thine — 
 
 In I.ove. Renown, Philosophy, or Arms ; 
 
 With the rich prizes — Beauty, Wealth, and Fame — 
 
 To conjure aspiration : yet pine you 
 
 For isolation in this ghostly grove ! 
 
 Hast thou detected, then, the venomed cate 
 
 That tempts so in youth's banquet ? Hast thou seen 
 
 The asp that lurks beneath the velvet leaf 
 
 Of pleasure's posy ? Has fine beauty's cheek 
 
 Suggested to thy mind the odious thought 
 
 Of grave-worms, and corruption in the shroud ? 
 
 Has the scent of blood assailed thy nostrils, 
 
 As the triumphant hero's purple robe 
 
 Shook out its folds between you and the wind ? 
 
 Or did the crimson horsehair in his helm 
 
 Mentally picture streams of human gore 
 
 That he hast waded through ? Or hast thou learnt 
 
 How devious and indirect the paths 
 
 By which world-worshipped men have often rcach'd 
 
 The temple on Fame's summit ? Is thy soul 
 
 'Sickened to desperation with the strife, 
 And jarring theories of contending schools. 
 Each one proclaiming what the rest deny. 
 And truth is lost in quibbling sophistri-es ? 
 Hath woman played her part, and brought despair 
 
 To thy existence ; with false, feigning art, 
 
 Which thou believedst, luring thee to ope 
 
 The casket of thy heart, and sriuander all 
 
 Its diamond store with an implicit trust 
 
 That dreamed not of betrayal or deceit ; 
 
 But when bctra}al came, and thou wert bare, 
 
 Thou, in sad spirit destitution, then 
 
 Wert dcsp'rate driven, and reckless grown of life ?" 
 
 He ceases speech, and a short pause ensues ; 
 
 For o'er his listener there had come a change, 
 
 That scarcely seemed he to be now the same 
 
 With him who recently defiant stood. 
 
 The hale and youthful flush excitement threw 
 
 Over his visage in the anxious past 
 
 Has in the intervening lapse died out,
 
 20 
 
 As the red glow on hills at sunset fades, 
 
 And leaves them haggard from its absent light. 
 
 The stamp of woe and nameless misery, 
 
 Though not so time-stamped, is no less defined 
 
 In him than in his elder questioner ; 
 
 'Tis e'en more ghastly, more unnatural, 
 
 Being out of course. Still the form of grace, 
 
 The brown, crisp curls that crown the polished brow, 
 
 The ingenuous spirit, which the veil of woe 
 
 Coyers, but not conceals, incongruous seems 
 
 To the blank hopelessness his features bear. 
 
 " Make it no question," like a troubled strain 
 
 Of music, spoke he. " Which of life's deceits 
 
 Hath wrought me to renounce the haunts wherein. 
 
 As thou infei'st, the seeming only seems. 
 
 I seek not to prescribe what others should, 
 
 Who, having pledged assurances for Hope, 
 
 Have found it a defaulter. Let them choose 
 
 In scant instalments, and by drudging thrift, 
 
 That which is lost to straitly reacquire ; 
 
 Salving misfortune's soreness \vith the thought 
 
 That others are as poor ; or if they will, 
 
 Having been wrecked by falsehood and chicane. 
 
 Take refuge in the arts by which they fell, 
 
 And from their sufferings draw their skill to harm, 
 
 Or prey upon the trustful : each must take 
 
 From instinct or tuition his own bent, 
 
 To master out redemption ; but to one 
 
 Who knows how hopeless and impossible * 
 
 The height he's fallen from to re-ascend ; 
 
 Who in the darkened gulf wherein he writhes 
 
 Discerns no guiding ray that may illume 
 
 His Stygian gloom of soul ; can only wait 
 
 Till outward dimness has familiar grown, 
 
 Ere he can grope a passage, be there one ; 
 
 Externally all is chaotic void. 
 
 But from within a surging train of wild, 
 
 Mocking remembrances, derisive flaunt 
 
 His broken hopes, and lost illusions 'fore 
 
 His retrospective sprite ; while solemn shades. 
 
 Some whispering temptingly of the sure cure 
 
 Oblivious death affords, and pointing out 
 
 Its thousand means and manners of access, 
 
 Insiduously charm ; while fiercely some 
 
 Suggest with fiery eloquence the charm 
 
 That in deep, subtle vengeance is comprised, 
 
 And hint at hateful methods, that revolt 
 
 The yet unsmothered virtue in his soul ; 
 
 And a voice speaks within him, with a soft 
 
 And soothing music, ' It is worthier 
 
 To suffer from the venomed shaft of wrong 
 
 Than to contaminate with foul revenge
 
 21 
 
 The cleanly spirit.' In his bosom grows 
 A yearning for repose, a soft surcease 
 From passion's jarring and distracting reign , 
 Then, like a kind physician, mildly comes 
 Saintly Devotion, with persuasive voice 
 Whispering of consolation and of peace. 
 Enough ! For my election hath been made. 
 I have pronounced the irrevocable vow, 
 And dedicated SLand to carry out 
 The sore prescribed condition, which annuls 
 Thy life and tenure, ere mine can commence. 
 Yet it revolted in me valour's sense- 
 Though all means are allowed — to steal or lurk, 
 Till unawares thou mightst be safely slain ; 
 To send death, winged from some close thicket's shade. 
 Or deal the coward blow that strikes behind. 
 I had not the base courage : therefore, 
 With no taint to my vow, 1 have essayed 
 To equalise the chance much as I might ; 
 But age and feebleness, alas ! still leave 
 Discrepancy between us, which I grieve, 
 As neither can I spare myself nor thee." 
 At his regret he utters mournfully, 
 He turns aside with pitious gesturing; 
 But, as he does so, finds the icy steel 
 Of the wan votary pierce his guardless breast : 
 Reeling he turns, amazed, and gazes on 
 A being wildly changed, and phrenzy wrought ; 
 Whose crafty eye, quickened by madness's fire. 
 Marked the unguarded action, and the bound 
 And blow were made as one. And now he stands 
 Possessed with the malignant fever-joy 
 That doth bereave him of the human mien, 
 And stamp him with a fiend's. His outstretched arms 
 Mill the air wildly, and his strident laugh 
 Wakes through the silent grove an echo lewd, 
 And the fierce taunt comes hissing through his teeth 
 Jagged, and broken like the elder wolfs. 
 " Ha ! hunter, that doth moral with thy prey : 
 That strokest the bristles of the bay'd wild boar, 
 Lamenting thy sore feelings thou'rt constrained 
 Next to agorge him ! Wot you not, the crouch 
 May but forewarn the spring, the spring the butt? 
 Strength, trustful, lightly recks of shifty craft. 
 But learns to rue its wreak. Thou canst not spare. 
 Thou'st vowed me unto death ! Thou to succeed ! 
 Thou pratest, ' All's allowable,' and yet 
 Standest on higher creed ! But know, with me 
 The precept and the practice are as one. 
 I know no paltering 'twixt the word and deed. 
 Thou'rt sped ! And, though I cannot pity thee, 
 Thou hast my envy ; I deserve thy thanks ;
 
 22 
 
 For I have cut thee off from bitterness 
 
 Of leaden and oppressive solitude, 
 
 That makes the sunlight cumberous by day, 
 
 The pale stars glimmer, or the moon's full ray 
 
 Dull, but unmitigated martyrdom : 
 
 For in this sentient ball, which feels by turns 
 
 A scathing furnace and a mass congealed. 
 
 Seem piled the weight of the all-spanning sky ; 
 
 And all the ponderous airs that do exhaust, 
 
 And waste me with the effort to respire 
 
 Bear penal torture on their breath to me. 
 
 The senses, that as blessings were designed. 
 
 It hath translated into curses dire. 
 
 Making this grove vital with enmity ; 
 
 Each object threat'ning, and those far the worst 
 
 That are the stillest fixed : a death-like threat, 
 
 Which makes my rebel heart with duller drum 
 
 To register the pace of slothful Time ; 
 
 That Time who is my most relentless/foe. 
 
 With whom I struggle in the hopeless strife. 
 
 But who tenaciously denies to bait 
 
 One beat of his drear torment : for of late 
 
 He hath beguiled from me capricious sleep 
 
 Who was ere while my friend, and sent him forth 
 
 To drone his drowsy lullaby to slaves, 
 
 And labour lethargied mortalities : 
 
 Therefore, each breath is an unuttered curse 
 
 On the oppression insupportable 
 
 I vainly strive to cast, but which my vow, 
 
 Like an inflexible and stringent bond. 
 
 Doth slowly sink me under. 
 
 To the last 
 Shall be fulfilled the inexorable law 
 To which I am self-condemned^to guard and cling 
 To the great curse of loneliness, which thou 
 Escapest by thy death. 
 
 Lo ! down thy side 
 The trickling stain through all thy tunic's plies 
 Gives sign how life is surely ebbing out : 
 From thy relaxing fingers glides the hilt 
 Of thy unblooded poniard ; and the hue 
 Of ashen death steals, like the gloom of eve. 
 O'er the warm sunlight of thy youthful brow ; 
 While thy contracting eyeballs' lights dim out. 
 Leaving thee blank and ghastly, who but now 
 Rivalled Adonis' bloom : thy polished brow 
 Grows solemn, as the shades of dusky Hades 
 Open, and darkly compass thee about 
 With their oblivious and abhorrent folds, 
 Far more repugnant than the suffering 
 Of pain-drawn being here. 
 
 Ah ! feign to smile
 
 23 
 
 In scornful pity, and to lie with looks 
 That would convey contempt of life like mine, 
 And welcome the exterminating Death ! 
 I know the trick by which despair puts on 
 The mask of courage, and with false grimace, 
 (As a vain actor struts from off the scene 
 But by himself admired, to all beside 
 An artless and r'diculous pretence. 
 Wrapped in his own delusion) would assume 
 Weakly to ape indifference. 
 
 Speak at least ! 
 If that impatient Mercury hath left 
 Thine unbenumbed tongue the power to wag 
 And utter its last lie. 
 
 Be it one word. 
 Pity, or Envy, that I thee survive — 
 Brief as, alas ! that remnant span may be — 
 Speak it ! and render me still more accursed, 
 Or mitigate the weight of present woe. 
 Life here in restless dread ! There the unknown ! 
 The silent, echoless, mysterious blank 
 Of unimaginable, awful Death ! 
 Art thou a stranger in unfeigning sooth, 
 To that cold qualm, and sinking of the soul, 
 I quail with, when involuntarily 
 My fancy wanders to that shadowy realm. 
 Where awful Pluto reigns in rayless gloom. 
 Sternly supreme, unutterably dread ? 
 Appalling but inevitable state ! 
 Thronged with sad legions of lapsed woeful sprites, 
 In dimness jostling through the caves of Death j 
 Wandering perpetually, but purposeless. 
 The cheerless labyrinths of fmeless blank. 
 Which mocks the longing (that perforce must grow 
 Out of such endless nothingness) to be 
 Freed by annihilation from the dull 
 And chilly vagueness that doth dominate. 
 And from this doom none who have lived escape ! 
 Of Life's medallion 'tis the sad reverse ! 
 Life is the seed — Death the eternal Tree ! 
 We people Earth, that Hades' depths may swarm ! 
 And for this dower of being, and of death. 
 Thrust on us by our parents, spite of us. 
 We pay them love and filial reverence ! 
 Love we the pestilence that spots us o'er 
 With flaming garboils and unseemly blight ? 
 And yet its curse (less than the gift of theirs) 
 Hath limit here : theirs stretches 'yond the grave. 
 Life clad in joy, or turmoil, ponders not 
 The dread enigma whose mysterious word 
 Death alone can resolve. 13ut solitude 
 Hath thrust on me the e'er recurring theme ;
 
 24 
 
 And I have laboured the ghast riddle o'er 
 
 In speculations, numberless as vain ; 
 
 Till each imagining has fixed itself 
 
 In ever-present and abhorrent show 
 
 To my reluctant vision, that would fain 
 
 Shut the repugnant and grim pageant out. 
 
 To life, with its inevitable woe, 
 
 As known, and must be known by me, I cling , 
 
 Since every possibility of death 
 
 Hath an aspect more terrible for me 
 
 Than can existence' worst conditions show. 
 
 The robe of being scorches as it clings ; 
 
 But to cast that, and don the frozen garb 
 
 Of icy Hades, more appals by far. 
 
 I curse the contemplations which obtrude 
 
 Of that sole subject of my brooding thoughts, 
 
 AVhich makes my brain a charnel-haunted cell, 
 
 Where neighbouring madness lurks to sieze her prey. 
 
 I curse the involuntary quivering 
 
 That chills my members and benumbs my heart, 
 
 When, like a driving cloud, the obtruding thought 
 
 Envelopes me with its cold, swaithing fear. 
 
 I curse the weakness, native or acquired, 
 
 So impotent to battle with the fate — 
 
 Th' inevitable fate — that mortals bear 
 
 As fee to their condition in the lease. 
 
 The tyrant-bond of life which Nature drew. 
 
 And will, I know, exact. 
 
 Not long the term 
 Too well, alas ! I know : but Nature was 
 My doomster, and its bond shall be my law : 
 No human agent shall interpret it. 
 Nor mitigate its span. My vassal life 
 Hath but one Lord, whose bailiff is grim Death — 
 Cunning and greedy, with bye-sleights and force, 
 To break the covenant his master made ; 
 He hath his instruments, suborned to work 
 By divers dark devices, violences, 
 Frauds on the charter Nature granted me : 
 I will dispute the exaction to the verge 
 Of my just mortal limit ; then this dole 
 Of flesh, and bone, and sinew, he doth yearn 
 To batten on, falls as his legal prey. 
 But I will baulk his banquet while I may, 
 Or stay his hungry maw with hostile blood. 
 His leagues shall be my proxies at his feast 
 Of common offal, I bequeath thee his ! 
 I will encompass thee with crust of earth. 
 And garnish thee with green and savoury herbs, 
 And trencher thee with appetising care ; 
 That the great glutton's bony jaws shall ooze 
 With greedy longing of the dainty fare.
 
 25 
 
 Ah ! do thy heavy eyeHds fall, and veil 
 
 The feeble glimmer of this pallid light, 
 
 As too oppressive to thy dimning orbs ? 
 
 Do thy relaxing sinews let thee down, 
 
 As the o'er-weary infant after sport 
 
 Droops, and subsides to slumber's leaden thrall 
 
 Needing no lullaby, nor uttering 
 
 A valediction to its chamberlain ? 
 
 Nay, pass not so ! with that calm, blissful smile 
 
 Such as doth grace the happy bridegroom's lip 
 
 Who pauses at the bridal chamber-port, 
 
 To calm the tumult of expectant love 
 
 Ere he adventures to make love his own. 
 
 Death is no triumph ! Yet thou seem'st to wear 
 
 A festal aspect : and the shadowing 
 
 That Death's dull cypress throws, is countervailed 
 
 As with the flowery garland of delight. 
 
 Of some assured, untried felicity. 
 
 Crowning thy trustful hope, illumining 
 
 The doubtful mystery of after-state 
 
 With an entrancing promise. 
 
 Now thine eyes 
 Unveil again, but not to dart the glance 
 Which only hate in death is gifted with ; 
 The look that spells, and lives in memory ; 
 But not as thy forgiving glance will live. 
 I might exult at the unspoken curse 
 Lips formed themselves to speak, but lacked the breath ,. 
 But soft commiseration wreathes around 
 Thy mouth, as lilies round a temple porch 
 Emblem the holiness they're reared to guard. 
 Pity and pardon — as the ebbing tide 
 Of life flows forth — mantle thy marble face 
 With the fixed aspect of a statued form 
 That effigies benignity divine. 
 How thou hast lived I may not hope to know ; 
 But tliy death's silent lesson teaches more 
 Than lengthened details of recital could. 
 Thy bosom's garden hath been cleanly kept, 
 And the great citadel the nameless part 
 Of man abides in hath been nobly held ; 
 Provisioned with just thoughts, and guarded close- 
 From the approaches of those lurking ills 
 Of appetite and passion, ceaselessly 
 Threatening, or luring, with arrayed assault 
 Or flattering safety. Ne'ertheless, perhaps, 
 Under some guise the ill has pierced the guard. 
 Is man so vulnerable, then, at best 
 That, where the outward evil fails in dint, 
 The inward good may wreck him ? 
 
 Must he guard 
 His virtue as a vice, and doubt the friend,
 
 26 
 
 If trusted over-far, becomes his foe? 
 Is he his own friend — will he trust himself? 
 Or trusted, will he not be self-deceived ? 
 Knows he himself, in all the subtle coil, 
 Of Nature's windings, or unravelling time, 
 Or circumstance unreckoned in his count ? 
 For, could man reckon all, he would transcend 
 The human, and in vanity affront 
 Olymp'an Jove with mortal's direst fault. 
 No, he must brook and discipline his host 
 Of jarring elements, indigenous 
 To the rebellious continent of flesh 
 He holdeth empire in, with potent heed ; 
 And as within him legislative strength, 
 Or feebleness, is native, so shall reign 
 Discord or harmony, distress or weel. 
 And all the radiant promise of success 
 That ushered in his being, close in gloom 
 -Or fatal anarchy. Fallacious state ! 
 Where the poor puppet who believes him lord 
 Is subject to the subject, and cajoled 
 Into belief, where he is ruled, he rules. 
 The poison-weed concentrates death, unseen. 
 Beneath the shelter of the wholesome tree ; 
 So what is worst within us lurks behind 
 Our better compositions, but no less 
 They both are of us, as the fruit and bane 
 Are of the earth. 
 
 Oh mystic mother Earth ! 
 Dost thou then teem with wretchedness far more 
 Than thou dost bring forth joy ? Or hast thou placed 
 That prize of life, obscurely sheltered in 
 The humble covert, where tlie upward gaze 
 Of eager emulation doth not bend ; 
 Allured by tempting clusters that provoke 
 The upward grasp, which, being plucked, are dust. 
 Or after bitterness that taunts and palls ? 
 I sicken with the vain, dry crudity ! 
 I envy that calm rest he seems to sleep 
 Who lieth there : for life hath faded out 
 As gradually as the day descends 
 Into the calm of night ; and that close dread, 
 Tliat haunted me erewhile, of the unknown, 
 Yields to new-born desire to be, like him, 
 Participator of tranquillity. 
 Or something new to my uncertainty. 
 Foul, dripping blade ! repugnant art thou grown ; 
 No more my hand shall thy assistance claim : 
 In the dark brake the damps of earth shall rust 
 The bloody evidence of thy employ, 
 / And I will welcome — " 
 
 His last utterance
 
 Was made, for, as the steel flew from his hand, 
 
 A feathered shaft was buried in his heart, 
 
 And his successor reigned in solitude ; 
 
 His sad inaugural duty to inhume 
 
 The victims, and abide his time of doom. 
 
 PERTUEBATlOJi. 
 
 Know Croydon ? Have I e'er been there ? 
 
 It seemed a very simple question : 
 And yet it summoned from its lair 
 
 The grim and spectral suggestion. 
 Of a past, fearful, long-drawn night, 
 
 Crowded with horror and dismay ; 
 AVith elfic terrors thickly diglu, 
 
 " As e'er with stars the milky way :" 
 A boundless wilderness of dread, 
 
 An infinite of perturbation, 
 An ocean-waste, by fury spread, 
 
 And shored by grinning desolation : 
 A seeming endless martyrdom, 
 
 Where anguish in a circle spun, 
 And, whirling madly in the gloom. 
 
 Returned to where it first begun. 
 
 It was my time of holiday. 
 
 The Sabbath of my year, my feast of rest, 
 The oasis, with shadows grey, 
 
 In labour's desert, beautiful and bless'd ; 
 I with a friend did covenant 
 
 For a week's ramble o'er the Surrey hills, 
 To feed the hungry spirits want, 
 
 'Mid the sweet concert of their groves and rills. 
 -Our first day's tramp had reached its close, 
 
 And it so fell that Croydon was to be 
 Our destined station of well-earned repose. 
 
 The first stage in our " travel's history :" 
 We housed hard by the College pile. 
 
 Whose hoarse-voiced clock drones out the rusty hour, 
 With gustful zest we did beguile 
 
 Our appetites with forty-pauper power : 
 The night sped on with quaffs and smokes ; 
 
 We talked the news with the assembled guests ; 
 We told, and laughed at, novel jokes. 
 
 And feigned to laugh, as new, at ancient jests.
 
 " Early and orderly retire to bed," 
 
 However, seemed the local motto given, 
 For every guest had vanished, 
 
 Before the college clock had struck eleven ; 
 My usual day had scarce begun ; 
 
 We sat the two remaining sippers ; 
 The chambermaid (an ugly one) 
 
 Appeared with candles and with slippers. 
 So, with resigned and patient air. 
 
 But with an inwardly foreboding gloom, 
 I followed up the creaking stair. 
 
 And entered with regret my curtained room. 
 
 Hark ! 'tis the chime ! The warning given ; 
 
 The pulse of Chronos beats again : 
 Four notice-spasms, then eleven, 
 
 Dull, husky, batters, ci Pairai/i. 
 
 Clank goes the chain, clatter the bar, 
 
 Shot was the bolt, the portal's jar ; 
 
 The host's and help's retreating tread, 
 
 Each timely stealing off to bed, 
 
 Anon the dull vibration comes 
 
 Of muffled treads in distant rooms. 
 
 And soon the peaceful mystery 
 
 Of sleep begins for all but me. 
 
 Wakeful, but weary, listless, full 
 
 Of fancies, crowding, and importunate, 
 Vainly I court a mental lull. 
 
 My wooing's vain, and I unfortunate ; 
 For cohort memories surge about, 
 
 Abiding not, but fleeting thin ; 
 And, as I drive one legion out, 
 
 Other obtruding hosts come trooping in ; 
 And now my light is out, and I, 
 
 Supine in down, repeated efforts strain, 
 In darkness closing up my eye, 
 
 To quench the restless wild-fire of the brain : 
 But no, their antics wilder grow. 
 
 Freed from the rivalry of actual thing, 
 I seemed sole witness of a show 
 
 Before whom mental mimes their pageants bring. 
 
 At first the action seemed to cast 
 
 A repetition of my life, played back 
 From present to the misty past. 
 
 With strange perversions and with license slack : 
 And he that played my other self 
 
 Excited oft my thorough discontent — 
 So loose and inexpert the elf 
 
 Appeared to no fixed purpose to be bent ; 
 What chafing, keen regret I knew, 
 
 As self-deluded, or by other cheats
 
 Bandied, I passed each folly through, 
 
 Involved in sad, ridiculous defeats ; 
 What rueful bitterness arose 
 
 At disillusions that came crowding thick. 
 Imagined friends revealed as foes, 
 
 And specious service seen as cunning trick ; 
 Dilemmas from false judgment sprung, 
 
 The ill result born of some trivial lapse ; 
 The hair on which momentous hung 
 
 Results of fortune's smiles, or its mishaps. 
 These grew, and ever uglier grew ; 
 
 The pigmy actors swelled to giants dire, 
 And I the intensest longing knew 
 
 To shut the vision out as it drew nigher ; 
 For every lineament and limb — 
 
 Enlarging on my scared and shrinking sight — 
 Became so unfamiliar, grim. 
 
 That discontent grew tremor, then affright ; 
 And wildly I thrust forth my arms, 
 
 To stay the onward-moving, hideous throng ; 
 And all the fell obtruding swarms 
 
 Vanished, as bang, bang, chimed the clock's ding, dong. 
 
 Twelve ! why to me that sound appears 
 To mark the flight of countless years ! 
 And life appears begun and ended, 
 With all its crude discomforts blended. 
 
 My sight had mediumed my first fears ; 
 'Twas now the turn to cheat my ears : 
 As every stroke lugubrious fell 
 Upon the dull and rauipicy bell. 
 Seemed mingled in imagination, 
 A faint, infernal cachination. 
 Distinct, yet seemingly combined. 
 Bursting and melting on the wind ; 
 And, echoed by a thousand elves. 
 Twelve sounded like a thousand twelves 1 
 
 The silence seemed to infant sounds, 
 
 Whose strange variety confounds 
 
 The memory to assimilate '' 
 
 To spiritual or earthly state : 
 
 Strange whisperings, breathings, sighs, and moans, 
 
 Faint throbbings, clickings, purrings, drones, 
 
 So marvellously fine to blend. 
 
 Unknown where perfect silence' end : 
 
 And every voice, and note, and tone. 
 
 Endowed with converse of its own ; 
 
 That, meteor-like, shoot through the mind, 
 
 For each that answering voices find ; 
 
 Agreeing not, reproving them 
 
 With subtle, analytic ken.
 
 3° 
 
 At first these sounds came one by one, 
 
 At intervals ; then crowding on, 
 
 In such impatient hurry tossed. 
 
 Order and harmony were lost. 
 
 And as the jarring sounds increased, 
 
 The tumult louder, longer pressed ; 
 
 Till deaf'ning, dinning discords tear 
 
 The assailed and confused ear ; 
 
 And then a ponderous, bursting roar, 
 
 And all was silent as before. 
 
 A silence dead, and heavy, and dull. 
 
 That had no relief in it, though 'twas a lull ; 
 
 For I felt my heart, like a caged bird, 
 
 Flutter and leap, by terror stirred ; 
 
 Yet I heard not the sound of its heavy thud, thud, 
 
 Though 'twas beating as fast and as hard as it could : 
 
 And very distinctly and vividly I 
 
 Can remember a fancy suggested thereby 
 
 Of its action and function, so regular, fine, 
 
 Ceaselessly pumping its vital red wine ; 
 
 And I longed for the power, could it possibly be, 
 
 To be ill it, instead of its being in me ; 
 
 To watch and to seek for the secret spring. 
 
 Whose action or pause was the life of the thing ; 
 
 And my longing seemed crowned, and I fancied I stood 
 
 In its cavities vast, by its torrents of blood : 
 
 Its deep-vaulted chamber-walls, flexile and warm, 
 
 Contract and expand with a regular charm. 
 
 Till some sudden emotion produces a thrill, 
 
 And the currents turn back, or stand suddenly still ; 
 
 Then rush on again with a violent roar 
 
 More impetuous and wild than they flooded before : 
 
 Some streains appear ending where others begin, 
 
 There are some rushing out, there are some rushing in ; 
 
 Upward, downward, in every conceivable way. 
 
 These fountains of life still continue to play ; 
 
 Yet all seems so fragile and delicate there, 
 
 'Tis hard to review without feeling a fear ; 
 
 And the wish to be thence is the breach of the spell ; 
 
 And I — hark ! what is that ? Oh, that horrible bell ! 
 
 Horrible ? No ! Why call it so ? 
 
 Let it be loud, or let it be low. 
 
 It was the work of man, I trow, 
 
 Who — haunted by grim, spectral fears. 
 Far back, in dim, mysterious years. 
 Where fact more faint than fancy peers — 
 
 Hung it up in the turret high, 
 
 To scare the evil things that fly 
 
 In dark, nocturnal demonry. 
 
 So I have heard ; and, if it be, 
 
 Come — oh ! come — to the help of me ; 
 
 From ghostly fancy set me free.
 
 31 
 
 No, no ; it will not, will not, sound 
 Until its hourly set comes round. 
 
 Another long-drawn space, 
 With some new train of notions grim — 
 To bridge the weary interim — ■ 
 
 In heterogeneous chase. 
 
 Sixty times sixty impish things. 
 Each separate sixty formed in rings, 
 Dimly begin to prance ; 
 
 With regular and rapid bound, 
 W'hirl round and round and round and round, 
 In mad, but measured, dance ; 
 
 And sixty more, at slower rate. 
 And yet not slowly, circulate 
 
 In steady, following run. 
 
 The former sixty circles make 
 In the same time the latter take 
 T' accomplish only one. 
 
 And, as I gaze, the circles grow. 
 Each coming one more vast and slow ; 
 
 And all begin to blend 
 Into one steady, measured beat, 
 To clap of hands, and tramp of feet, 
 
 In vistas without end. 
 
 The nearer spin with dizzying whirl, 
 Receding, largely seem t' unfurl. 
 And slower still revolve ; 
 
 Upwards, like worlds, they dimly grew, 
 And, melting from the aching view, 
 
 In distant space dissolve ; 
 Downwards, minutely dwindling out 
 Of vision's scope, and leaving doubt 
 
 Where sense of them began ; 
 And still, as they attenuate, 
 At whirling, and more rapid rate, 
 
 The tapering circles span ; 
 
 And I, confounded, seemed between 
 The wheelage of some vast machine, 
 Unlimited in space, 
 
 Where Time's gradations dreadful grew, 
 Distending and contracting, too 
 Minute and vast to trace ; 
 
 While near, remote, a monitone 
 Of deafning strokes and distant drone — 
 Appalling, but sublime — 
 
 The universe seemed to pervade, 
 With never-ending serenade, 
 
 Of time, time, time, time, time I
 
 32 
 
 And in the dying concert — well, 
 1 could distinguish that dull bell 
 
 That I had heard before : 
 Of every beat I felt the shock 
 Of that abhorred, contiguous clock, 
 
 Right opposite the door. 
 
 Oh ! clock of Croydon College ! I 
 Shall ne'er forget the knowledge I 
 Acquired of your chronology 
 
 Each weary hour by hour ; 
 Oh ! the subdivided anguish 
 Through which I had to languish ! _ 
 One could scarce an added pang wish, 
 
 As his mortal foeman's dower. 
 Oh ! the misery protracted, 
 Which my mental sight refracted, 
 And the sounds that sense distracted ; 
 
 And the many-featured dread. 
 Which my fancy-fed illusions. 
 In their clearness and confusions, 
 Wrought in terrible collusions, 
 
 And to nameless sufferings led ! 
 The cruel intuition 
 Of the Spanish Inquisition 
 
 (If no injustice has been done) 
 Was impotent, resourceless, 
 To the images remorseless 
 
 I'd to think and gaze upon. 
 My chamber was a torture room, 
 Worse than the Pit of Pendulum.* 
 By every object there comprised 
 I was in some way agonised : 
 Try to escape from 't as I might, 
 By thought of beauty or delight, 
 Some horrid metamorphose grew, 
 And faded, like dissolving view, 
 
 In grimace and distortion. 
 And, when at last came morning light, 
 'Twas with suspicion and affright, 
 
 And mixture of aversion. 
 I saw it as the first false phase 
 Of some new mockery's treacherous haze 
 
 To my address directed ; 
 And if it be within belief, 
 In place of feeling of rehef, 
 
 I felt myself neglected. 
 
 * Edgar Poe's story.
 
 A GAME OF CHESS. 
 
 Mohammed, of the soul infernal, 
 Of heart iinfilial, unfraternal, 
 Who, by unnatured plots and war, 
 To win the throne of Granada, 
 With factions and discordant pain, 
 Had vexed his father's sober reign ; 
 And on liis death, with guilty might. 
 Had seized his elder brother's right ; 
 And for eleven years his thrall 
 In Solobrer.a's prison wall 
 That brother bore a captive's lot — 
 For freedom sighed, but found it not. 
 Yet were his captive-sorrows soothed ; 
 Restrictions, that his spirit loathed, 
 Were lightened by the ruthful soul. 
 Doomed as his ward and strict control. 
 
 The Alcade owned a spirit kind — 
 
 Jailer in function, not in mind : 
 
 He oft would seek the captive's tower, 
 
 And lighten the else leaden hour 
 
 By such assuaging courtesies 
 
 As gentle natures best devise ; 
 
 With studied tact each mood he knew, 
 
 And each desire conformed unto, 
 
 Consistent with his duty's claim. 
 
 With an unvaried, kindly aim ; 
 
 Would listen or dilate at measure. 
 
 To suit the Prince's mood and pleasure. 
 
 And ever witli that tender sense, 
 
 Of mindful, manly difference, 
 
 'i'hat strength and suavity combined. 
 
 That can be firm, but must be kind. 
 
 Oft in the princely Jusef's eyes 
 The tears of gratitude would rise ; 
 Then, with averted face, he'd seek 
 To hide a sign as warm as weak ; 
 'i"hc man and monarcJi inly strove ; 
 But pride was (juenched in human love. 
 And daily thus, by liens new, 
 'J'hese kindly natures closer drew. 
 And half a i)rison's terrors iled 
 Before the light that friendship shed. 
 
 But now King Death, with cycles crowned, 
 Ts drawing close his cordons round 
 The tyrant's citadel of life. 
 Where surge contention, fear, and strife ;
 
 34 
 
 The poisoned cup but holds the lees 
 Of fire, to quench death's agonies ; 
 Its scent of blood is mockery, 
 And in its depth perditions lie ;, 
 There lurk a nation's hate and scorn, 
 Blasted ambition, hopes forlorn, 
 The rusts of wrong, the sediment 
 Of a false life, with crime bespent. 
 Upon his dark and clammy brow 
 The storm of thought is settled now. 
 As round some mountain summit dire 
 The tempests mass their force and fire. 
 From out his vision's sunken cells 
 Emerge, as if from dual hells, 
 Intense but sickly gleams of flame ; 
 And on his sallow lips one name — 
 Bitterly breathed, in whisper dread, 
 Denotes from whence the flames are fed. 
 " Jusef" — and then a shudder ran 
 O'er all his frame and features wan ; 
 His teeth are clenched, his brows are knit. 
 Resolve portentously doth sit 
 Upon his brows o'erhanging pent. 
 Foreshadowing some fell intent. 
 He rises, grasps the tasselled thong, 
 And strikes upon the silver gong. 
 Swart Ahmed at the portal stands. 
 And, bending, waits his high commands. 
 " Bring that which is required to write ; 
 Kneel down, and trace what I indite." 
 He hurries out ; he hastens back ; 
 He kneels beside the rich yatak,* 
 The kalemt trembles as it marks 
 Words damned as JehannumJ sparks. 
 The mandate ended, from the dye 
 He dips a new and black supply : 
 The tyrant's grasp, with eager greed. 
 Receives the inky-pointed reed. 
 And tremblingly subscribes the name 
 Whose sight is doom, whose letters shame. 
 Wretch ! with that mandate, let me tell, 
 Thou lightst thy penal fire in hell ; 
 With that last, damning drop of ink 
 Thou dampst the flame of pardon's link ; 
 And in thy name that ciphered 
 Symbols eternity of woe. 
 
 The pen falls from his yielding hold ; 
 With steel-like glance, as bright as cold, 
 He pierces breathless Ahmed through. 
 Who feels a dread he dare not show. 
 
 Bed. t Pen. t Hell.
 
 35 
 
 ' Ahmed ! thou rcadst my fixed intent 
 In this dark-written testament. 
 Though oft deferred the purpose past, 
 My old designs are act at last. 
 5hall I succumb, and he survive ? 
 No ! after me he shall not live. 
 Speed, Ahmed, speed, and no delay, 
 To Solobrena take thy way ; 
 Thou bearst the scroll of destiny 
 To mine — or him that there doth lie. 
 Tremble at sloth, rejoice at speed ; 
 Spare net thyself, spare not thy steed ; 
 Be there before the stars of night, 
 And here again ere morning's light ; 
 You ride to win your life and breath. 
 For life to him, to you is death. 
 My rule and life have reached their span, 
 Though after his that life began ; 
 And of death's pangs the sharpest pain 
 Is, that he — not my son — should reign. 
 I yield to him the elder right 
 To enter first the gates of light, 
 So to my son I may secure 
 Precedence here that will endure. 
 iMan's paradise is here below ; 
 I know none other, none would know ; 
 Nor would I near him, even there, 
 Partake of bliss that he might share ; 
 The gulf of hate between us lies 
 Too broad for bridge of paradise ; 
 Participation cannot be 
 On earth, in heaven, for him and me." 
 He ceases speech, waves Ahmed hence ; 
 He's left to silence and suspense ; 
 While Ahmed, pricked by selfish fear, 
 Towards Solobrena doth career. 
 
 Within tlie zindan-oda* now 
 
 The deepening sapphire after-glow 
 
 Doth lend its greeny-purple hue, 
 
 Tlic moresque lattice streaming through ; 
 
 While, 'tween the rusty grating's space, 
 
 The evening moths and midges chase, 
 
 And buzz their faint and dreamy dun 
 
 As valediction to the sun. 
 
 In that dim light two forms are bent — 
 
 Two faces, thoughtful and intent, 
 
 Over a chessboard's chequered plain, 
 
 Anxious as for a battle's gain. 
 
 Intense and settled scrutiny 
 
 Is fixed in either player's eye ; 
 
 ♦ Prison chamber.
 
 36 
 
 And by their aspect you may learn 
 
 The strife has reached a doubtful turn ; 
 
 The pause is long, the light grows scant,. 
 
 All turns to shadow plain and gaunt ; 
 
 Yet they so still and mute, you'd say, 
 
 Two statues sit in sculptured play. 
 
 Hark ! footsteps in the corridor 
 
 Beat on the tessalated floor ; 
 
 And then a summons, sharp and shorty, 
 
 Struck on the zindan-oda port. 
 
 They who, so seemingly inert, 
 
 Now suddenly are all alert ; 
 
 Their glances on the portal bent. 
 
 As though inquiring what was meant. 
 
 By call so strange and so abrupt, 
 
 Their privacy to interrupt. 
 
 The Alcade from his kushak* brings 
 
 His keys, unlocks in haste, and flings 
 
 Open the door with hurried air, 
 
 And stands within the lurid glare 
 
 Of lamps and torches gleaming bright 
 
 Upon his almost dazzled sight. 
 
 Foremost within the torches' sheen 
 
 Mulazim, his lieutenant's seen. 
 
 And, standing close within his rear, 
 
 Dark Ahmed grimly doth appear ; 
 
 While guards and jailers, close behind, 
 
 A picture ominous combined. 
 
 Some time the chief in wonder stands ; 
 
 And then, with question brief, demands : 
 
 " What is't, Mulazim, thou dost bring?" 
 
 " Zabet,t a rider from the King." 
 
 He steps aside, and, by a glance. 
 
 Gives sign for Ahmed to advance. 
 
 Portentous marks his visage bear. 
 
 That conjure and confirm dark fear, 
 
 As bending slowly he presents 
 
 The scroll that bears such dire contents. 
 
 But note the Alcade's troubled mien. 
 
 Which in his quivering lip is seen ; 
 
 His brow with sudden dews bewet, 
 
 His glance of horror, fixed and set. 
 
 His hand with nervous tremor shook. 
 
 The desolation in his look, 
 
 The angry flush on cheek and brow, 
 
 Like hills suffused in sunset's glow. 
 
 Which, fading, leaves the bloodless hue 
 
 Of Lazar-lividness to view. 
 
 His haggard, pitiable stare 
 
 Denotes the inward tumult there, 
 
 * Sash. t Magistrate.
 
 Z1 
 
 As though the sentence he had read 
 
 "Was destined for his proper head : 
 
 He gasps as though he longs to speak, 
 
 But finds no voice his woes to wreak ; 
 
 VoUtion pauses in suspense, 
 
 But suffering is not less intense, 
 
 To bear the burden onerous, 
 
 That cruel fate imposes thus. 
 
 But briefly has his captive's mind 
 
 The sudden circumstance divined. 
 
 And realised the bitter truth 
 
 That shakes his friend with wrath and ruth. 
 
 " My generous friend, calm thy distress ; 
 
 You fear to utter what I guess. 
 
 There's not a word of death or dread. 
 
 In that dark scroll, may not be read 
 
 As tranquilly by you as I 
 
 Can listen to its infamy. 
 
 I've been so long i)rei)ared and calmed, 
 
 That death of terror is disarmed : 
 
 My eyes will spare your tongue to tell 
 
 The purport of this mission fell, 
 
 Although I have already guessed 
 
 The nature of the foul behest." 
 
 He calmly reads the mandate through, 
 
 As though its contents he foreknew ; 
 
 But pauses at his brother's name, 
 
 Subscribed upon that act of shame, 
 
 And sighs : " Oh ! brother, brother, how 
 
 Canst thou e'er hope for pardon now, 
 
 With signature so cursed as this. 
 
 To bar thy soul from heavenly bliss ? 
 
 Can kindred hatred find a match ? 
 
 To-night ! Oh ! eager-eyed despatch ! 
 
 Take back thy warrant, gentle friend. 
 
 All things in life must have an end ; 
 
 And banish from thy ])ainful brow 
 
 The grief that doth oppress it now ; 
 
 Call back thy glances so serene, 
 
 Thy calm and mild accustomed mien. 
 
 It is no heavy penalty 
 
 To sec a brave man freely die ; 
 
 But 'tis a claim, from favours past. 
 
 To tend and cheer him to the last. 
 
 I may not know the longed-for grace, 
 
 Once more to view my Zilda's face ; 
 
 I may not know the heavenly bliss 
 
 That lingers in a parting kiss ; 
 
 Nor to this fond and yearning breast 
 
 !My youthful daughter may be pressed. 
 
 But there is comfort to my lot 
 
 Jn knowing that they know it not,
 
 38 
 
 And for my brief remaining span 
 
 I will forget it, if I can ; 
 
 And you must your assistance lend, 
 
 The last sad office of a friend. 
 
 Of vain desires and vain regrets 
 
 Man only added pain begets ; 
 
 And, through existence' darkest gloom, 
 
 The balm is, that the end will come : 
 
 So 'tis with all things here— unless 
 
 It be our broken game of chess." 
 
 His eye has fallen on the stand. 
 
 With nice strategic cunning planned, 
 
 Where undecided honours wait, 
 
 Whose skill they yet must celebrate ; 
 
 As a benighted strife must stay 
 
 In battle trim till dawn of day, 
 
 Each holding that they held when night 
 
 Closed on the undecided fight. 
 
 He scans the board with fixed regret, 
 
 As if he mentally were playing yet 
 
 The game whose spells obliterate 
 
 The sense of his impending fate. 
 
 " My friend, my more than friend," he cried, 
 
 " I long that struggle to decide. 
 
 How shall I own what interest grave 
 
 To me that mimic contest gave ? 
 
 It holds my mind, absorbs my thought, 
 
 And makes all other things as nought ; 
 
 E'en, in my present mortal strait. 
 
 Desire of life is not so great ; 
 And, if thy warrant gave thee will 
 
 Of boon, or favour, to me still, 
 
 I'd crave no other lenity 
 Than to conclude it ere I die." 
 The Alcade scanned the writ anew ; 
 
 Hopeless he read its import through. 
 
 It gave no tittle of discretion, 
 
 No vague excuses for concession ; 
 
 And well he knew the stern reflect. 
 
 And consequence of his neglect. 
 
 If he should fail, or make a flaw, 
 
 To act the despot's written law ; 
 
 And yet the cruel task assigned 
 
 Had greater horror to his mind 
 
 Than all the threat'ning penalties 
 
 The tyrant's vengeance could devise. 
 
 More than the victim feels he now 
 
 The sentence is a curse of woe ; 
 
 That lighter 'twere to endure the fate 
 
 Than 'tis that deed to perpetrate ; 
 
 And more he dreads, who death must give, 
 
 Than he who must that death receive ;
 
 39 
 
 Regarding every respite shown 
 Unto his captive as his own ; 
 Regard of self no task to (juell, 
 But Pity's o'ercharged fountains w.-ll 
 Their sympathising, Hmpid brine, 
 Of his strong heart the feeble sign ; 
 For in the same surcharged source 
 Centred his frailty and his force ; 
 And from the unchoked spring at length, 
 His weakness but precedes his strength. 
 He suddenly becomes as calm 
 And firm as influenced by a charm; 
 And in bis clear, commanding eye 
 Beamed conscious, mild authority. 
 He speaks, with deep, sonorous tone : 
 " Prince, thy last wishes shall be done." 
 
 Grim Ahmed darts with sudden bound ; 
 
 His gleaming eyeballs circle round ; 
 
 And, with a (piick, impatient stride, 
 
 Draws the Alcade close aside. 
 
 " Alcade ! well consider, pray, 
 
 The rueful se(iuence of delay. 
 
 To dally with that warrant stern 
 
 May deadly wrath and vengeance earn. 
 
 Each mile of intervening space. 
 
 Between Granada and this place, 
 
 Is spanned and measured out to time, 
 
 With streams to ford, and hills to climb ; 
 
 And even now one foundered steed 
 
 Has lost me time, with slackened speed ; 
 
 I little reck the wrath to bide, 
 
 Nor risk the death that may betide ; 
 
 Ne'er yet I knew him to revoke 
 
 The doom of death his tongue hath spoke ; 
 
 And never yet, compunction-bit. 
 
 Cancel the fiat he had writ ; 
 
 And if through thee his sentence halt, 
 
 'Tis thou must answer the default." ' 
 
 The Alcade heard him patiently, 
 And then as calmly made reply : 
 " Thou shalt be quit of the offence, 
 And from my hand shalt carry hence 
 My written free acknowledgment 
 To bear the weight of the event ; 
 On me whatever f-xlls shall fiill, 
 And thou be scatheless held in all : 
 Be thou content, I ne'er will shirk 
 The onus of my proper work.'' 
 A tremor runs through Ahmed's frame ; 
 His eyes emit a ghastly flame ; 
 His dark tint turns to sickly hue ;
 
 40 
 
 His parted lips expose to view 
 
 Two gleaming rows of pearly teeth — 
 
 Chattering as though an ague breath 
 
 Had blown upon him where he stood, 
 
 And changed to ice his vital blood: 
 
 " You deem my life I lightly hold, 
 
 Or that I'm fool, as vain as bold. 
 
 To brave his presence and his power 
 
 In wrath and disappointment's hour ; 
 
 No message bear I, save the one, 
 
 May tell his bidding has been done. 
 
 If thou this purpose hold unto, 
 
 Be thou the herald, brook the woe ; 
 
 To thee I leave the doubtless scath, 
 
 Break the behest, and hide the wrath. 
 
 I'm powerless here, and can but make 
 
 My protest 'gainst tlie course you take, 
 
 And claim of thee tliou wilt avow, 
 
 Not I the traitor here, but thou." 
 
 Unmoved by ire, by doubt unswayed, 
 
 " Mistrust me not," the Alcade said ; 
 
 " Let thy own safety be thy thought ; 
 
 My deed, however danger-fraught, 
 
 Is mine ; and no one else beside 
 
 Its pains or honours shall divide." 
 
 Even on Ahmed's murky soul 
 
 Rev'rence and pity had control. 
 
 His glance from Prince to jailer flies, 
 
 And inward secret senses rise ; 
 
 The working of some ruthful power, 
 
 A stranger to his breast before. 
 
 His iron felt the loadstone's will ; 
 
 His clay made soft at pity's rill : 
 
 To feel and rev'rence something new 
 
 Dawning upon his moral view ; 
 
 The burden — guilt — which, while he bore, 
 
 He felt not — now he bears no more ; 
 
 He knows the sense of its relief — 
 
 A sense of pleasure wrapt in grief. 
 
 A sudden ray of light has come, 
 
 Flashing upon his spirit-gloom. 
 
 Where good and evil's different mien 
 
 In novel guise are newly seen, 
 
 Infecting all his faculties 
 
 With sweet, contagious sympathies : 
 
 His barren soul, an arid plain, 
 
 Is moistened with compassion's rain ; 
 
 And the dry, hardened germ of good 
 
 Quickens in the reviving flood. 
 
 He feels from love a homage here. 
 
 But hitherto bestowed from fear, 
 
 Of his fierce lord, who ever hath
 
 41 
 
 Held life a hostage unto faith. 
 Some rapid glints of memory show 
 Obedience, (ar) 'ra/d as crime and woe : 
 The phantoms of the past arise 
 Grimly before his unfilmed eyes, 
 And his soul yearns to purge at last 
 The conscience of its records past. 
 But more than aught the sway that bends, 
 And every other power transcends, 
 Is a deep, wondering, loving awe ; 
 Past thoughts with present feelings war, 
 And admiration of devotion 
 Wrap him in new but sweet emotion ; 
 The birth of love, the death of hate. 
 Each impulse seems regenerate. 
 New wishes, feelings, objects surge. 
 And to one common centre verge ; 
 An envy — if that e'er might be — 
 For good's sake, to be good as he ; 
 Or, vain the hope to reach that height, 
 Why, then, as near it as he might. 
 He sighs, and slowly gains the door. 
 To brood on thoughts ne'er felt before, 
 And stands from all the rest apart, 
 Deeply communing with his heart. 
 
 The abandoned game has been renewed, 
 A slow, decisive, tacit feud, 
 Where all the Monarch's guard and thought 
 With concentrated force are brought. 
 But more momentous claims distract 
 The care the Alcade's points exact, 
 And lose him, from pre-occupation, 
 Some pieces of his combination. 
 The Alonarch's thought divines the cause, 
 And his voice breaks the silent pause : 
 " My nmch-distracted friend, take heed 
 Test I too easily succeed! 
 Remember that 'twere scarce a boon 
 To grant the mastery too soon ; 
 When vaunting victory's trumpet-breath, 
 ■Signals the sullen bell of death ; 
 To vanquish small the victor's pride, 
 With all the fighting on his side ; 
 Rather stern battle in retreat, 
 In ill-won fight's worse than defeat." 
 Recalled to caution and address, 
 He wakes his tact and ableness ; 
 And the well-balanced contest pends, 
 Doubtful where fortune's issue tends. 
 
 JBut rife that long-drawn game, in sooth, 
 In fate and fortune is to both :
 
 42 
 
 For in the lapse Mohammed's sprite 
 
 Hath taken its eternal flight. 
 
 The tongue that doomed is silent now ; 
 
 The eye that awed has lost its glow ; 
 
 The hand that grasped, through crime and blood 
 
 Sceptre, and throne, and masterhood, 
 
 Lies stiff, and impotent, and cold. 
 
 His length of infamy unrolled ; 
 
 And its red scroll's ensanguined page, 
 
 Left to the shuddering after-age. 
 
 As some night beacon's cressets die, 
 
 Signalling through the darkened sky. 
 
 To leaguering bands, the time fore'greed,. 
 
 To dare some bold and desperate deed ; 
 
 Granada watches, lingers on. 
 
 Until Mohammed's course is run ; 
 
 Then, like a wildfire's eager rush. 
 
 The tidings flash, the explosions crush ; 
 
 One simultaneous upheave 
 
 The burdened masses soon reUeve. 
 
 The tyrant's son, in wild surprise, 
 
 Unkinged, repudiated, flies. 
 
 Leaving his yet unhearsed sire 
 
 To rebels' ruth, or rebels' ire. 
 
 To give him earth, or vengeance wreak. 
 
 Yield him to hound or eagle's beak. 
 
 Scarce had the dusky light of morn 
 
 The earth from night's deep darkness drawn,. 
 
 When, through the gauzy mists of grey, 
 
 A cavalcade makes rapid way ; 
 
 Clanging in unchecked, headlong course, 
 
 Inpelled by zealous, eager force ; 
 
 With jubilant, exultant mien. 
 
 Along the route that lies between 
 
 The enfranchised town and dungeon tower. 
 
 Over those pile death shadows lower. 
 
 At first one lonely warder stays 
 
 His march, and, peering through the haze, 
 
 Uncertain if some changing rack 
 
 Assumes, upon the russet track, < 
 
 The vague and misty forms that surge 
 
 Upon his vision's bounded verge. 
 
 Assured by closer scrutiny. 
 
 From ward to ward the warnings fly ; 
 
 The dreamy fortress is elate — - 
 
 The walls are manned, the tower, the gate : 
 
 All, all, is wonder and surmise 
 
 To what may tend the strange surprise. 
 
 The foaming coursers near the wall, 
 
 Rein up, the riders radiant all. 
 
 With simultaneous voice declare
 
 43 
 
 The purport of their advent there. 
 A nation speaks in those few tongues, 
 Proclaims the crisis of its wrongs, 
 Makes known the unopposed voice, 
 Has named Prince Jusef as its choice. 
 
 Through the long night the game lias sped, 
 Its fate yet undetermined. 
 
 The Prince is summoned, as 'tis shown, 
 E'en from his dungeon to the throne. 
 
 Less than the rest does Jusef show 
 The rapid leap to weel from woe ; 
 Uproarious 'gratulations ring, 
 From general voice, to hail the king. 
 The Alcade only silence keeps. 
 And mutely hears, and wondering weeps ; 
 His heart too full for words, his eyes 
 Language his deep felicities ; 
 While stealthily dark Ahmeds kiss, 
 His garment's folds devoutly press — 
 A symbol of the earnest faith 
 In the new being that he hath. 
 " Next to the throne, Alcade, stand ! 
 Brother in heart, be such in hand; 
 Thy diamond soul abides the fire ; 
 Thy gold comes purer from its ire : 
 And, when the cares of State will let, 
 We'll play the unended game out yet." 
 
 HIGHLAND PllIDE. 
 
 Commend me to that snug conceit 
 
 That wraps itself so nice and warmly. 
 In self-sufficiency complete. 
 
 To brunt all exigencies calmly ; 
 That ne'er conceives that number one 
 
 (Which is its own especial figure) 
 Can be outvalued, or outdone, 
 
 Or dream of any item bigger ; 
 Which carries self-complaisant mail, 
 
 Armed, cap-a-pic^ for all occasions, 
 And marches like the housed snail. 
 
 Shielded without from all invasions.
 
 44 
 
 A story runs of such a man, 
 
 Of the old haughty Highland leven ; 
 But of what " Mac," or " Vic," or " Clan," 
 
 No full particulars were given : 
 Whom some necessity uncouth 
 
 Had summon'd from his native glen, 
 Into the plodding Saxon South, 
 
 To mingle with the Lowland men ; 
 And in the room, well-nigh replete, 
 
 Were gathered guests, perhaps a score; 
 And it so chanced a vacant seat 
 
 Was only left close to tlie door ; 
 Where for awhile, unnoticed quite, 
 
 He sat in stately condescension, 
 Deigning no glance, to left or right. 
 
 Giving, not challenging, attention. 
 His faithful henchman humbly stood, 
 
 Respectfully, some pace behind him. 
 In mute obedience to his mood, 
 
 Passive as spell, or charm, could bind him. 
 At last a lull of conversation 
 
 Allowed attention to be taken 
 Of the new-comer's situation. 
 
 So solitary and forsaken : 
 The president — a cordial body — 
 
 Full of the milk of human kindness, 
 Tempered with sundry swigs of toddy, 
 
 Reproaches their unsocial blindness : 
 " A stranger, gentlemen ! arise, 
 
 Make way for him, that he may come 
 And join our socialities 
 
 Here, at the top part of the room. 
 Will you, sir, condescend to take 
 
 A side with us, in friendly fashion. 
 And of what there's forenint partake, 
 
 On this convivial occasion ?" 
 The Highlander made no reply, 
 
 But gave his lip a scornful curl, 
 And asked, in Gaelic, carelessly : 
 
 " Angus, what said the Saxon churl ?" 
 The Gillie, who some Saxon knew. 
 
 Translated, " 'Tis their wish you come, 
 And as they all are doing do. 
 
 There, at the top part of the room." 
 The Gael looked red, and wrath, and stiff, 
 
 And knit his brows with indignation ; 
 Vented a grunt, and then a sniff, 
 
 In answer to the invitation. 
 " Angus ! inform the Sassanach 
 
 That where your chieftain takes his chair, 
 To right, or left, at front, or back. 
 
 The top part of the room is therey
 
 45 
 
 THE OLD ABBEY. 
 
 (Lines written on Viewing; the Ahhcy and Norman Tower of Bury 
 
 St. Edmund' s.) 
 
 Crumble ! ah, crumble ! ye mouldering walls, 
 
 Decay ye battered towers, 
 Where the artful, weaving spider crawls, 
 
 And the clustering ivy flowers ; 
 Where the fluttering bat is housed by day. 
 
 And the hermit lizards creep, 
 And the crouching toad encased may stay 
 
 A century's round, asleep. 
 Thou hast drunk the dews of a thousand years^ 
 
 And the flaws of as many borne ; 
 Yet still thy sturdy head uprears, 
 
 Though rugged and weather-worn. 
 Though the newness thy masonry could boast 
 
 Hath yielded to other guise, 
 And thy storm-stained front the freshness lost 
 
 To the tasteless gazer's eyes : 
 Methinks thou, in thy hoary pride. 
 
 Thy proper mien dost wear. 
 Thy sturdy frown that l)lasts deride, 
 
 That like vexed furies tear. 
 
 Let the spring and summer boughs look gay. 
 
 In their gaudy verdure dress'd ; 
 But thou art constant, old, and grey. 
 
 And frowns become thee best. 
 
 Thou arc not so grim as the orbless sconce. 
 
 Of the architect who plann'd ; 
 Nor the bleached bones of the serf that once 
 
 Toiled to make thee so grand ; 
 Nor the wreck of the mortal tenement 
 
 That enshrined thy founder's mind. 
 Of which not now a lineament 
 
 The worm hath left behind. 
 
 Monarchs that trod thy marble floor. 
 
 Barons in blazoned cloths, 
 r.ishops that sacred vestures wore, 
 
 Have flitted away like moths ; 
 Proud dames, whose dazzling beauty won 
 
 The belted knight's fond vow, 
 Arc regardless, aye, as the homely one 
 
 Who drudged and milked her cow.
 
 46 
 
 The abbot in sacerdotals clad, 
 
 And the meek ascetic pale 
 (The devout are gone where the spirits glad, 
 
 But the mummers with fiends to wail) ; 
 The dizened page, self-satisfied, 
 
 With his plumed bonnet rare ; 
 "Whose young conceit believed he spi'd 
 
 Love in the eyes of his laydie fayre. 
 And the sandal'd pilgrim bending low. 
 
 To his saint in the nitched wall, 
 And the soul-struck penitent felon too 
 
 In the close confessional. 
 
 All have long slept the dreamless sleep ; 
 
 Their sealed doom no hand can break ; 
 No, the deep secret each must keep 
 
 Till God's trump bids the dead awake. 
 
 Blessed ! Blessed are the merciful ! Workers of good ! 
 
 Assuagers of sorrow ! The hearts pure and meek ! 
 Who ne'er wrongly have robb'd the lone orphan of food, 
 
 Nor caused widows to drink the salt tear from her cheeks. 
 But woe to the dealers of scathe and deceit. 
 
 To the perjured, the hypocrite, bloody in mind, 
 In whose nostrils the gore of the victim was sweet, 
 
 And whose tread left the moaning of anguish behind ; 
 It were better for him that his mother had howl'd 
 
 O'er his corse in his cradle — aye, better by far, 
 Than he grow up to manhood to be so befouled 
 
 In bigotry, hatred, ambition, or war. 
 
 Why should your masonry flourish ? Why ? 
 
 For your destiny's clearer, I ween ; 
 Why the time shall come when no passer-by 
 
 Shall dream thou hast ever been ; 
 When the shoeless beggar's foot may shake 
 
 Thy cumb'ring mire from its weary sole ; 
 And thy once beauteous tracery make 
 
 Mire for some fetid puddled hole ; 
 And thy scattered atoms drifted be. 
 
 Hither and thither, as winds shall will, 
 Clinging to leaves of the wayside tree, 
 
 Ploughed in the furrow, drowned in the rill. 
 
 Time is the conqueror still of all ; 
 
 You wage a battle, weak and vain ; 
 His — in the list of our mundane ball — 
 
 Is the mighty arm that wins the main.
 
 47 
 
 THE COUNIEYIAN & THE COMEDIAN. 
 
 Within the hearing of the chimes 
 
 Of Coventry's tri-steepled fane 
 Three actors, once upon a time, 
 
 Were overtaken by the rain. 
 Which, most malapropos, came down 
 
 To interrupt their purposed ramble, 
 When back towards the ancient town 
 
 (Or city) they began to scramble. 
 But a new deluge could not damp 
 
 The flame of laughter-loving revel 
 That burnt within the comic scamp. 
 
 An irrepressive, merry devil, 
 Who at a funeral would joke, 
 
 And in the very " ribs of death " 
 His unawed witticisms poke, 
 
 And tickle Gloom to show his teeth. 
 
 As they ran onward helter-skelter 
 
 They came upon a i)easant, who 
 Had sought a temporary shelter 
 
 Beneath a thorn's protecting bough. 
 *' Rebellion lay in Falstaff's way ;" 
 
 And so he found it ; and temptation. 
 With irresistible array, 
 
 Met Momus now in self-same fashion. 
 A rustic is a butt so suiting 
 
 For wit and banter to let fly at, 
 And promises such pretty shooting, 
 
 Or such a snug and safe cock-shy-at. 
 The funny man proclaimed a halt, 
 
 And, mugging, signed that he would take on 
 Himself, sans e'er a grain of salt. 
 
 To chaw-up this demure rhaw-bacon. 
 
 With eyebrows screwed to comic trim. 
 
 And mouth grotesquely pulled awry, 
 His seedy hat raised by the brim, 
 
 His body bent salutingly. 
 Thus spake the pungent Thespian minion : 
 
 " Dear sir, I really can't refrain 
 From asking your sincere opinion ; 
 
 Do you believe that it will rain ?" 
 
 The rustic grinned with all his phiz ; 
 
 Each feature shared its due proportion ; 
 For his the genuine comic ris, 
 
 That needed not a forced distortion ;
 
 48 
 
 But with the ready answer quick, 
 
 And a bright twinkle of the eye — 
 As the steed answers to the prick — 
 
 The bantered bumpkin made reply : 
 " How long au yow left granny's school ? 
 
 A fellow need'nt travel fur 
 To learn to know a gurt Tom-fool, 
 
 Who thinks hissen a conjuror ; 
 Thou'rt not a mort too cute e'fegs, 
 
 If truth mun be at all times spoken. 
 Learn this : when yow see shells of eggs 
 
 You mun make sure, eggs have been broken !' 
 
 THE WINDS. 
 
 Who is the unceremonious rover, 
 
 Announcing his advent in boisterous roar, 
 And howling, and rolling, the bleak moorland over, 
 
 Like a bully ungraciously bruiting his power ? 
 Through the leafless plantation he's hissing and crashing ; 
 
 Now the hinges and bolts of the portal he's shaking. 
 And onward and onward is plunging and dashing. 
 
 Who ? What can he be that this riot is making ? 
 
 The wind ! the wind ! the wind ! 
 
 "Who is the castelain ? Shuts he the doorie thus 
 
 On the messenger sent from the merciless North ? 
 Hear my voice, and admit me. I'm Boreas ! Boreas ! 
 
 I'm angry and strong. Dread my wrath ! Dread my wrath ? 
 My steed is fierce, curbless, and reinless ; I'm weary. 
 
 My hissing and roaring and panting give warning. 
 If you bar me thus out from your ingle so cheery, 
 
 Of the leagues upon leagues I must whirl o'er ere morning. 
 The wind ! the wind ! the wind ! 
 
 " Hear'st thou not ? Wouldst thou tempt me the fast'nings to scatter ? 
 
 The copings and roofings and gables to shiver? 
 The chimney stacks, shoots, and abutments to shatter ? 
 
 I'm a helpful ally, but a merciless driver. 
 I can't stop ; I must enter, or onward must rattle. 
 
 I'm the Tempest's outrider, that follows close after. 
 With a legion of fiercer than I, to give battle. 
 
 They'll fill you with tremors, from basement to rafter. 
 The wind ! the wind ! the wind !
 
 49 
 
 " 'Tis my outspoken bluffness, unfeigned, that alarms you. 
 
 I'm rough, noisy, uncomplaisant, scorning to flatter, 
 Like the baby-breath'd West, whose weak whisperings charm you, 
 
 Or her lachrymal Southerly sister. No matter ! 
 I'll scatter your flocks ; I'll uproot your plantations ; 
 
 I'll unroof your farmsteads. Your milldams, I'll break them ; 
 And your sea-going ships, bearing, kin, kind, relations, 
 
 I'll rend them, and sink them, and drive them, and wreck them. 
 The wind ! the wind ! the wind ! 
 
 " I pass you unwelcom'd, with ban and with warning ; 
 
 For the gorges and caves of the mountains are kinder. 
 But the scath I will \. ork you 'twixt now and the morning 
 
 Shall be of my vengeance a bitter reminder ; 
 And each time, in future, you hear my oncoming, 
 
 You shall date back, recalling this night of my visit ; 
 And the shuddering answer shall be, at my booming, 
 
 To the low voiced inquiry, ' Heaven's mercy ! what is it ?' 
 The wind I the wind ! the wind !" 
 
 THE EXCUESION. 
 
 Away from the smoke, and away from the town ; 
 
 'Mid the green and serene o'er the hill and the down ; 
 
 Through the billowy grass, by the deep-shadow'd wood, 
 
 Skirting the rivulet, crossing the flood; 
 
 Where the spangly daisy shines out like a star. 
 
 And the poppy vermillions the landscape afar. 
 
 Or the buttercu]) flaunts in its golden array. 
 
 And the bluebell swings light on its flexible spray, 
 
 And tiic i)rimrose and violet gem the bankside. 
 
 And the velvety foxglove nods over the tide ; 
 
 "Where ihirru[)ing sparrows and cushating doves 
 
 Make merry the hedgerows, and tuneful the groves, 
 
 And the fleecy flocks dapple the emerald slope, 
 
 And the plough'd land is big with the husbandman's hopes ; 
 
 Where the burst of the blossom falls faint on the ear, 
 
 And the rustling leaf as it falls in the sear ; 
 
 The boughs, whether festoon'd with quivering green, 
 
 Or spangled with wintry icicle's sheen ; 
 
 Whether Spring, with its young, juicy freshness, may glow, 
 
 Or Summer its ample profusion bestow. 
 
 Or Autumn in labouring fruitfulness teem 
 
 Forth its burden of blessing and bounty, I deem
 
 so 
 
 (Or, bound in its icelocks, and fettered in frost, 
 
 Winter's fleecy snow-mantle be Boreas-tossed) 
 
 It is lovely, and cheering, and healthy, and wise. 
 
 To contemplate its aspect 'neath varying skies ; 
 
 For the heart must expand, and the mind be imbued 
 
 With fresh tints of the beautiful, soft, and subdued ; 
 
 Where each object skyward, or under your feet, 
 
 Or around you on all sides^ is rich and replete 
 
 With matter to nourish reflection's fine light, 
 
 And plume the wrapt soul for a loftier flight 
 
 Towards the good, and the pure, and the merciful too ; 
 
 And the spirit, with sensible gratitude, bows, 
 
 With a fervent ovation of bliss, to adore 
 
 The great unveiled source, the Omnipotent Power. 
 
 HOME. 
 
 The pleasures that centre in home 
 
 Are the truest that mortals can know. 
 Though no floor of smooth marble, or gold-fretted dome. 
 
 May glitter above or below : 
 In the eyes of fond loved ones the charm 
 
 That can make it a palace to me ; 
 In their smiles lie my riches ; and how my heart warms 
 
 On their faces contentment to see. 
 
 Though without the stern battle of life 
 
 I must fight in, and buffet and bear, 
 ^Vhere injustice and avarice make up the strife, 
 
 And truth a false visage may wear ; 
 Yet my home is a citadel strong, 
 
 Where my spirit securely may rest, 
 In the certain delights that can only belong 
 
 To those of such blessings possessed. 
 
 May the spirit of love from my home 
 
 Ne'er take flight ; but, with sheltering wings. 
 At bed and at board, gently hovering come, 
 
 The most blessed of all blessed things. 
 May each look its bright presence make known. 
 
 In each accent its influence breathe, 
 And in every slight love-prompted action be shown 
 
 The summer its sunlight can wreathe.
 
 51 
 
 THE SILENT SERMON IN THE STEEET. 
 
 Amidst a busy city's thronLr, 
 That streams, and darts, and shoulders by, 
 
 ]\[amni()n's pursuers sweep along. 
 Wrapped in their luring mystery ; 
 
 The gentler deities to wend, 
 The eager concourse timid glide, 
 • As stranger guests, who lonely blend, 
 Unmasked, in the saloons of Pride. 
 
 Obscurity the holy tire. 
 They fold around their angel forms, 
 
 Unblazoned all the mild desire 
 That their untiring spirit warms ; 
 
 Their bruitless presences invite 
 No notice of their rarity, 
 
 And, all fortuitously, light 
 Reveals their gentle charity. 
 
 But goodness, like the sightless charai 
 Of odours in the floweret's breast, 
 
 yiust force perforce exhale its bahn. 
 So must the kindly soul make blest. 
 
 Regardless of the graceless hand, 
 Ungrateful for the liberal boon. 
 
 That slights or wrongs the impulse bland, 
 Or treads the fragrant donor down. 
 
 One of these gentle ones to-day 
 Rose on my path : her look benign 
 
 Stayed my swift course along the way ; 
 And her eye's glance arrested mine. 
 
 Though on another object bent : 
 And the sweet, piteous, mournful glance 
 
 To age a nameless beauty lent, 
 That spelled and fettered my advance. 
 
 The ruthful charm on pallid lips 
 I'o beauty's ruin gave a glow, 
 
 As a full moonbeam chastely tips 
 A shattered temple's ornate brow : 
 
 And oh I the mercy-light that shone. 
 Like beacons from those eyes of night, 
 
 Constrained my glance to pour upon 
 The expression of their heavenly light. 
 
 Thin weeds her widowed state proclaimed ; 
 Their faded freshness plainly spoke 
 
 That comely neatness closely aimed 
 To hide the frets of Poortith s yoke ; 
 
 That nice adjustment of attire. 
 So scrupulous in cleanly arts, 
 
 That seems a gift — not to acquire, 
 But dowered — to those of better parts.
 
 52 
 
 My summary glance, with rapid ken, 
 Conviction forced of neighbourhood, 
 
 So pleasing to the senses when 
 We stand in presence of the good : 
 
 And then her soft, directing eye 
 Led mine to seek its object too, 
 
 Following its tender scrutiny, 
 That first enchained my roving view. 
 
 A sightless elder, "poorly led," 
 From door to door made bootless quest, 
 
 With faltering steps and palsied head, 
 With darkness, age, and need oppressed ; 
 
 As to denial's chill resigned, 
 Each slowly-opened, quick-closed door 
 
 Left an unfruitful hope behind. 
 Which he with patient meekness bore. 
 
 The absorbed and watchful widow stood 
 A witness of each vain request. 
 
 Like statued Pity's saintly mood, 
 But breathing Pity heaved her breast ; 
 
 Her attenuated hand — so white — 
 Manipulates the black robe's folds. 
 
 And once again the widow's mite 
 For the Lord's treasury she holds. 
 
 She to my sense appeared to glide, 
 Like the embodiment of good. 
 
 Till by the sightless beggar's side 
 She silently and calmly stood : 
 
 A gentle touch upon his arm, 
 A glance into his features wan ; 
 
 The holy coin dropped in his palm, 
 She, like a saintly dream, was gone. 
 
 A sermon's length of precepts trite, 
 In presence of one virtuous act. 
 
 Is light in influential might 
 As fiction is to ponderous fact : 
 
 In doubtful tracks the wanderer lost\ 
 And from his destined point astray. 
 
 In lieu of the fixed finger-post. 
 Prefers the guide to show the way. 
 
 " Go thou and do as she has done " 
 Was fixed within my brooding mind ; 
 
 " Nor emulate the act alone, 
 But foster, too, the spirit kind." 
 
 Be bless'd, thou tender-minded one, 
 Exampling such benign regard ! 
 
 Thy gentle deed, in secret done, 
 Shall openly receive reward.
 
 3J 
 
 YOUTH, AGE, AND THE. 
 
 Time kept a peepshow. Age and Youth 
 
 Would look on Life, and learn the truth. 
 
 Time judged his state so well, he knew 
 
 His clients' unassisted view 
 
 Would render each dissatisfied, 
 
 So each a tinted glass supplied — 
 
 The youth's of warm and rosy dye, 
 
 The elder's clouded artfully : 
 
 Time knew the old, familiar tale, 
 
 " Youth loves to laud, Age learns to rail." 
 
 Youth was in ecstacies, and swore 
 
 He'd never seen such sights before. 
 
 When Age was asked, " What 'twas about?" 
 
 He sighed, " It is a dark look-out." 
 
 Conflicting evidences raised 
 
 Puzzled the curious. Blamed and Praised ! 
 
 To satisfy conjectures, many 
 
 Would judge themselves, and paid their penny. 
 
 Thus Time his certain profit made, 
 
 And carried on a roaring trade. 
 
 THE AVALK IN THE STOEM. 
 
 Out on the cliff in the driving rain, 
 Breasting the sturdy stress of wind, 
 
 Why should I needlessly remain, 
 And leave the fire-lit room behind i* 
 
 All's warmth and cosy comfort there ; 
 Here all is cold, and wild, and bleak ; 
 
 And yet som.e humorous restlessness 
 Has thrust me out to brave the wreak. 
 
 Let me tie down my oilskin hat, 
 And button up my dreadnought thick ; 
 
 Guarded with greaves and clumpen shoon, 
 To fender out the weather's trick ; 
 
 The wind may buffet me in wrath, 
 The rain may batter on my front ; 
 
 Bending to meet them, I stride on, 
 And chuckle at their harmless brunt.
 
 54 
 
 Benumbed at first, the torpid blood 
 Seemed chilled, and checked its nimble flow ; 
 
 But action's efforts kindle warmth, 
 And all my veins are now aglow : 
 
 With every breath and every stride 
 A keener joy appears to mingle ; 
 
 And all my frame, from sole to crownj 
 Is in a brisk, delightful tingle. 
 
 I skirt the steep ascending cliff, 
 Gullied by rain-fed turbid flows ; 
 
 And ever mounting till I stand 
 On the brusque promontory's close : 
 
 There wrack, and rain, and wind, and whur, 
 Unlet, unite their revels wild ; 
 
 And the deep neather " salt-sea wash " 
 Transcends its halcyon moments mild. 
 
 Hark to the breakers' hollow boom, 
 As Neptune's ceaseless batteries ply 
 
 Against old Tellus' giant ribs 
 Their hydropult artillery ; 
 
 Hark to the shingle's fusillade, 
 Along the shifting, shelvy shore ; 
 
 While, on his high redoubt of rock. 
 He frowns, contemptuous of their power. 
 
 And, as the parasites of wasting war. 
 The winged ravageurs exult with glee, 
 
 And hover over and around the strife, 
 Waiting the carnage of the surging sea ; 
 
 The spray, like wreathing battle smoke, 
 Rolls up and scuds before the driving blast, 
 
 As watery hopes, forlorn, rush on and break, 
 Like wasted legions to destruction cast. 
 
 -C3' 
 
 Oh puny wars, and strifes of puny men ! 
 Oh dwarf hostilities of human sources ! 
 
 What insignificance ineffable 
 To giant natures aye contending forces ! 
 
 These lines of constant strife, that endless are 
 As is th'encompassed earth's round watery zone, 
 
 That from creation's morn have stood opposed, 
 And yet directed by one will alone.
 
 55 
 
 LANGUAGE OF THE EYE. 
 
 There is a language whose expression 
 In all climes known and freely used, 
 
 Is one of mankind's best possessions, 
 The gift by nature self-infused ; 
 
 It speaks in silence, swiftly tells 
 ^Vhat other language cannot try ; 
 
 No mortal can resist the spells 
 Found in the language of the eye. 
 
 What volumes in its quick dilations. 
 Its gentle beam^ — what meanings fair ; 
 
 It can convey the declarations 
 Of thoughts the tongue durst not declare : 
 
 But there's a glance for potent meaning — 
 All glances else so far above — 
 
 Both heaven and earth are to be seen in 
 That all of all — the glance of love. 
 
 SHORT AND SWEET. 
 
 'Tis the heart's peculiar lashion, 
 When emotion's flood runs high, 
 
 To condense its copious passion 
 Into potent brevity : 
 
 But its pure inter])retation 
 Is so clear to comprehend. 
 
 That no quaint elaboration 
 Could equal force to utt'rance lend. 
 
 What than "Welcome I" can be stronger 
 When cherished friends, long severed, meet ? 
 
 Art might fashion phrases longer ; 
 Could it utter one more sweet ? 
 
 Speaks it not of bygone thinkings. 
 And of present ecstacies ? 
 
 Speaks it not of future linkings 
 Of the heart in closer ties ? 
 
 And, if adverse claims must sever 
 Souls that would chord sweet harmony, 
 
 Impelled, like waters of one river, 
 Through diverse channels to the sea, 
 
 The valediction that the best 
 Concentrates all that words could tell, 
 
 E.xpires from out the surcharged breast, 
 In " Heaven bless you !" or " Farewell I"
 
 56 
 
 WHAT IS THE SPELL? 
 
 What is the spell that so entrances 
 When I stand within thy presence, 
 
 Setting my pulse in trembling dances ? 
 'Tis of bliss the sweet quintessence — 
 All joys above I 
 
 If thy features I dissever, 
 They no high perfection show ; 
 
 Yet no human face has ever 
 Had the power to charm me so. 
 
 The spell is love. 
 
 What the source of that sweet feeling. 
 At thy hand's soft contact given. 
 
 Thrilling me, vibrating, stealing 
 Through my frame, like sparks from heaven, 
 To search and prove ? 
 
 Skins textured, hued as soft and snowy. 
 Ne'er filled my veins with such wild glow. 
 
 What is the magic influence, trow ye. 
 That has power to stir me so ? 
 
 The magic's love. 
 
 *&' 
 
 Is it that in the deep, calm clearness 
 Of thy soft, transparent eye, 
 
 I see a pearl of such pure dearness 
 Down in thy soul unown'ed lie. 
 
 Peeping above ? 
 
 Tempting the gazer on the treasure 
 To plunge and lift it from its bed, 
 
 And for his daring taste the pleasure 
 The prize would o'er his being shed. 
 That pearl is love. 
 
 EOSETTA'S SECEET. 
 
 RosETTA sits at the casement. 
 Feigning some knitwork's care ! 
 
 And the delicate new-mown hay's scent 
 Is enbalming the evening air ; 
 
 And the green, crisp-leaved convolvuli 
 Sway, rocking the brown honey-bees ;
 
 57 
 
 And the roseate glow of the summer sky- 
 Is tinting the spire and the trees ; 
 
 And soft and cool the shadows fall 
 Across the dusty lane, 
 
 And slowly mount the grass-grown wall, 
 And lengthen along the plain. 
 
 And Rosetta often turneth her eye 
 Irom her work, and her hands stand still ; 
 
 And a flash of some inward mystery 
 Breaks through her feigning will, 
 
 And gives thj lie to the mimic air 
 Of nonchalant heedlessness ; 
 
 And you can't help suspecting Rosetta sits there 
 For some motive she wouldn't much like to confess. 
 
 Gay gossiping voices sound below ; 
 But perhaps a voice in her heart 
 
 Is more alluring to listen to, 
 In her chambered silence apart ; 
 
 Or perhaps— hold, shameless ! Wouldst thou peep, 
 Like a poor, vulgar, paltry spy, 
 
 Into the hallowed silence deep 
 Of a young heart's wrapped mystery ? 
 
 Lay bare the soft, enfolded nest 
 In the green and tender shade, 
 
 Where, for the nurseling of her breast, 
 She a downy bed hath made ; 
 
 Deeming within that sacred nook 
 No searching eye could peer, 
 
 With cruel and obtrusive look, 
 On the fluttering tenant there ? 
 
 Why should we wonder she sits alone ? 
 If alone 't can be said to be, 
 
 To enjoy a throng of such charms, and own 
 Such numerous sights to sec ; 
 
 For there's no lack of sounds and sights 
 Of beauty and minstrelsy 
 
 To feed her soul with calm delights, 
 Or to foster tranquil reverie. 
 
 It may be the incense of summer bloom ; 
 Or the music of summer birds ; 
 
 Or the cadence soft of even's boom — 
 More sweet than idly-spoken words ; 
 
 Or the bland and soothing atmosphere ; 
 Or the sun-lit, fleecy clouds, 
 
 Drifting along the ether clear 
 In freckled, fleet-like crowds ; 
 
 Or the luscious glow of lucid green, 
 And red, and yellow, and blue. 
 
 That forms her (juivcring lattice screen, 
 Willi the sunbeams darling through ;
 
 58 
 
 Or the bleat of the sheep, or the faint click-clack 
 Of the mill-wheel far away ; 
 
 Or the loud huzzah from the new-made stack 
 Of sweet-breathed clover hay. 
 
 And yet it appears 'tis not any of these 
 That claim or retain her care, 
 
 Nor their combination suave appease 
 A certain restless, longing air 
 
 Of something looked for, but yet delayed ; 
 But in expectation as sweet 
 
 As the scent of the flowers and the bright array 
 Of forms and of colours so meet. 
 
 Well, then — and yet, no, I can't refrain ; 
 The temptation is stronger than I ; 
 
 And there's always a vague, indescribable pain — 
 Though I don't know exactly why — 
 
 In a secret you've won by surprise or by stealth ; 
 And it hangs like a weight or a care — 
 
 Like the fear of the miser who pines o'er his wealth, 
 Which is worthless if no one can share. 
 
 Well, then, you must know — but be sure you don't 
 To any one else what I tell ; [name 
 
 For I really conceive it a scandalous shame 
 To betray the dear's secret. But— well — • 
 
 You must know that a certain young, fresh-looking 
 Whose initials are W. A., [wight. 
 
 Rides past in the morning — returning at night— 
 Every Taperton market-day ; 
 
 And by a coincidence, strange as 'tis true, 
 At the time of his riding this way 
 
 She's sure to have one thing or other to do 
 At the casement to cause her to stay — 
 
 To be drawing the curtain, or dusting a cup, 
 Or folding a kerchief or gown ; 
 
 And his eyes are certain to be looking up 
 Just as hers chance to be looking down ; 
 
 And the mutual glance of those two pair of eyes, 
 And the shy, irrepressible smiles, 
 
 First gave me the clue to the secret that lies 
 Enshrined in Love's innocent wiles. 
 
 And you know this is Taperton market-day ; 
 And now you Ijave only to learn 
 
 That this very morning young W. A. 
 Rode there, and, of course, must return ; 
 
 And that's why Rosetta sits, feigning to knit. 
 In such coquettish privacy ; 
 
 And you'll see that there she'll continue to sit 
 Till young W. A. rides by.
 
 59 
 
 AL FRESCO. 
 
 Bright boughs, green boughs, cool and shady, 
 
 Sparkling now in the radiant May-day, 
 
 Flashing and glancing pure emerald hues ; 
 
 Kissing the sunlight, and drinking the dews ; 
 
 Budding, and spreading, and waving, and dancing ; 
 
 The charms of the groves and the meadows enhancing ; 
 
 Screened in thy labyrinths, feathery choristers, 
 
 Trill forth their happiness, musical foresters ! 
 
 Chirruping, carolling, fluttering, sweet to hear, 
 
 Billing and filling with music the list'ner's ears ; 
 
 Charming and balming the playfully gentle breeze, 
 
 Hanging in mid-heaven glittering canopies. 
 
 Kindly providing a natural screen 
 
 To ward off the heat of the summer-sun's sheen. 
 
 Gladly I welcome you, sadly I part from you. 
 
 City nor palace could e'er win ray heart from you ; 
 
 Hand of a mortal ne'er fashion'd nor planned, 
 
 Aught half so beautiful, aught half so grand ; 
 
 So inspiring, untiring, unfailing in cheering. 
 
 So sweet to the senses of seeing and hearing ; 
 
 To the weary or cheery, the rich or tlie needy. 
 
 The scholar or hind, the profuse or the greedy, 
 
 Vou spread forth your arms, full of life and variety, 
 
 Inviting to joy that is free from satiety. 
 
 Sparkling now in the radiant May-day. 
 
 Green boughs, bright boughs, cool and shady ! 
 
 Gladly I welcome you, sadly I part from you, 
 
 City nor palace could e'er win my heart from you. 
 
 SAUCY EYES. 
 
 Saucv and alluring eyes ! 
 
 T.ike insidious beacon ray. 
 Tempting with hope's ecstacies, 
 
 But more surely to betray ; 
 Flashing with alternate beams. 
 
 That kindle hearts to loving fire; 
 Repulsing next with icy gleams. 
 
 That freeze to death all fond desire. 
 
 With fallacious tempting sheen, 
 
 That draws you in their danger's scope, 
 With promise of delight serene. 
 
 Fostering blissful dreams of hope ;
 
 6o 
 
 Advance in confidence to warm, 
 Or light you in their mocking rays ; 
 
 Delight expires in terror's qualm. 
 Before their basiliskine gaze. 
 
 Now, like meridian beam of spring, 
 
 Nursing the fructuous seeds of love ; 
 Then, like a frost-blast withering, 
 
 The tender early-bourgeon'd grove ; 
 Flashing with Oriental blaze 
 
 And simulative pleasure's glow ; 
 Then cold as hyperborean rays, 
 
 Glass'd from eternal ice and snow. 
 
 Dower'd with power to yield such joy. 
 
 Why was the baleful instinct given 
 To mingle keen Despair's alloy 
 
 With transports, making earth seem heaven ; 
 By cruel contrast of delight, 
 
 Intensifying sorrow's pain ; 
 Entrancing first with radiance bright. 
 
 Then casting into night again ? 
 
 To madden and to tantalise, 
 
 To melt and indurate by turn ; 
 With diametric agonies. 
 
 To raise, to crush, to freeze, to burn ; 
 Angel and fiend appear to reign 
 
 Incarnate in one single breast, 
 And either potently maintain 
 
 Their power to make you cursed or blessed. 
 
 THE STORM. 
 
 He holds them in his hand ! 
 
 To him what seemeth good 
 Is fittest, be it on the land, 
 
 Or on the stormy flood. 
 We, snugly housed, suspend the breath. 
 
 And list the elemental din, 
 Visioning images of death 
 
 On the vexed waves, that race and spin, 
 Obedient to His power, 
 At this wild midnight hour. 
 
 The storm king's legions fierce 
 
 Make raid the region through. 
 With bolts that crash, and winds that pierce^ 
 
 And wrath that mortals rue;
 
 6i 
 
 The burthened ships, hke feather toys, 
 
 He tosseth for his sport in air, 
 And with destructive howling joys 
 He strips the wooded mountain bare, 
 And leaves a fatal mark 
 Along his passage stark. 
 
 \Miat ship-boy's mothers now 
 
 An anguished vigil keep ? 
 Wliat seamen's spouses bow 
 
 In suppliant prayer and weep ? 
 And do not sweet home visions loom 
 ' The shipman's sturdy spirit through. 
 As, chorused by the tempest's boom, 
 
 He does his feats of " deering do," 
 And nerves his heart anew 
 From the sweet mental view ? 
 
 Powerless to help or save, 
 
 Yet forced to feel and fear, 
 Only is left in ruth to crave 
 
 Thy mercy may be near : 
 That not the ocean's oozy bed 
 
 Their unmarked resting-place may be,. 
 TUit later, 'mid their kindred dead, 
 
 'Neath holy ground and waving tree ; 
 There, where their kin may come. 
 To plant flowers on their tomb. 
 
 ALKORAK. 
 
 I READ of fable and romance, 
 
 In days of Arab ignorance ; 
 
 And dreamily and idly scan 
 
 From page to page of Alkoran : 
 
 Now of the pagan Arab's pride, 
 
 W'lio caused his camels to be tied — 
 
 Foodless and drinklcss — to his tomb, 
 
 Test he should, in the life to come, 
 
 To the degrading shame be put 
 
 To pass t'cternity on foot. 
 
 And show scant at the grand inspection 
 
 Of the last general resurrection. 
 
 Of goddesses and idols strange, 
 
 Of heathen creeds and sjii-rits change, 
 
 In many an odd and mystic process. 
 
 Translation or metempsychosis ; 
 
 So temjiting, and so much suggestive 
 
 Of fancies serious or festive.
 
 63 
 
 Of this meandering occult 
 The following is the poor result — 
 If that " result " be not too wide 
 A term to such to be applied. 
 
 OSCUNL* 
 
 In the dun, crepuscule light, 
 Deep'ning into gradual night, 
 Cypress shadows casting glooms 
 'Mid the lone, lugubrious tombs, 
 In the rank-soiled cemetery 
 Where the sad Arabians bury, 
 I heard a cry — a sound so very 
 Strange, mysterious, and dreary, 
 
 Wild and untuny, 
 " Oscuni ! Oscuni !" 
 
 Why that wild and eager cry, 
 Startling in intensity ? 
 Does some lonely mourner rave 
 O'er a newly-closed grave ? 
 From whom that cry " Oscuni " came, 
 The woe-shriek of the lost one's name, 
 For whose perdition, sorrows smart 
 Draw those weird accents from the heart ? 
 Hark ! " Oscuni !" again, 
 'Tis a spirit in pain ! 
 
 Rising thoughts of chilly dread 
 Round about their influence spread, 
 Which dry Reason's pleadings spurn, 
 Longing curiously to learn 
 What of mystery or woe 
 That strange voice may lead unto ; 
 Prying instincts which we own, 
 Luring us to the unknown ; 
 
 Each mystic marvel 
 
 Prone to unravel. 
 
 Penetrate that alley dern, • 
 
 With ghostly gloom and shadoM s stern ; 
 
 For from that vista issued forth 
 
 That wail of woe, or wreak, or wrath ; 
 
 Thread the dim labyrinth of tombs, 
 
 The haunts of nightly ghouls and gnomes, 
 
 * Some believe (that is, in the time of Ignorance, or before the coming of the 
 Prophet) that of the blood near the dead person's brain was formed a bird named 
 Hamah, which once in a hundred years visited the sepulclire ; though others say this 
 bird is animated by the soul of him that is unjustly slain, and continually cries 
 "Oscuni, Osciinil" that is, "Give me to drink," meaning the murderer's blood, till 
 his death be revenged, and then it flies away. This was forbidden by Mohammed to 
 be believed. — Frcliininaiy Discourse io tlic " ICoraii,^^ l>y GEORGE SALE, Gent.
 
 63 
 
 Where death and solitude unite 
 
 To quell the spirit with affright ; 
 And seek to ascertain 
 Whence came that wail of pain. 
 
 Now the somljre depths disclose 
 
 As the sight familiar grows, 
 
 To the dim, umbrageous aisle, 
 
 A solemn, dark, sepulchral i)ile. 
 
 Round which rank weeds and mosses sprout 
 
 And noxious climbers wind about, 
 
 And dark and sullen vegetation 
 
 Is rampant o'er dilapidation ; 
 
 And 'midst the 'jacent stones 
 That voice " Oscuni " croons. 
 
 More distinct each moment grow 
 
 The dusky ruins' details now; 
 
 Keener and more greedily 
 
 Penetrates that hungry cry ; 
 
 And two gleaming balls of light 
 
 Seize and hold the startled sight, 
 
 And 'tis known they're living eyes, 
 
 Wherein fascination lies ; 
 
 Their vivid lustre hath 
 
 The glow of anguished wrath. 
 
 'Tis a bird of plume and mien 
 Stranger than was ever seen ; 
 Gaunt, and spectral, and lean, 
 With beak and talons curved and keen ; 
 With bat-like, horny pointed wings, 
 And bony legs, with scaly rings ; 
 An aspect starved and ravenous 
 Surmouuting the sarcophagus ; 
 
 The air wildly beating, 
 
 " Oscuni !" repeating. 
 
 A groan is heard, a rustling sound, 
 A figure rises from the ground, 
 Where prone before in grief it lay 
 Amid the crumbling tomb's decay : 
 His robes are rent in many a shred. 
 Ashes and dust are on his head ; 
 His face is bowed, his feet are bare, 
 Unshaved his beard, unkempt his hair; 
 And louder still is heard 
 The scream of that strange bird. 
 
 " Ah : shriek, thou bird of dole ! I own 
 Thou justly art impatient grown, 
 In fasting for thy drink and food, 
 Thy expiatory feast of blood ;
 
 64 
 
 Thy famished frame may aptly vent 
 Those madd'ning cries for aliment ; 
 Bound will-less to the victim's grave 
 Until supplied the draught you crave ; 
 
 Gasping, though deathless, dying, 
 Ever ' Oscuni !' crying. 
 
 " Thou spirit-bird, born of the brain 
 And blood of the unjustly slain, 
 Condemned to perch in keen delay 
 (While I — the avenger — far away) : 
 A sentinel by day and night. 
 By the moon's cold or sun's hot light, 
 Or the pale asterisms blink, 
 And shrieking ever ' Give me drink !' 
 Thy cry at last is heard, 
 Thou sad and suffering bird. 
 
 " My father's blood has dyed the earth, 
 
 And called thee into painful birth ; 
 
 And thy existence is a sign 
 
 Of the unholy, foul design : 
 
 Nor canst thou from thy pain be freed ; 
 
 Thy watch and ceaseless bitter greed 
 
 Must last until my blade or dart 
 
 Has broached the coward slayer's heart ; 
 
 And Hamah ! thou hast quaffed 
 The too-long craved draught. 
 
 " Thou shalt not long that nurture lack ; 
 
 I'm on the murderer's blood-stained track ; 
 
 Then thou shalt quit this tomblet's crest, 
 
 And seek some grove of peaceful rest. 
 
 These mournful shades, whose echoes vie 
 
 Thy replicated agony. 
 
 Shall welcome back the birds of song. 
 
 Scared by thy discord hence too long. 
 I hasten to assuage 
 Thy longing and thy rage." 
 
 He has gone to do the work of wreak, 
 The frown on brow, the tear on cheek. 
 To exact the bitter penalty 
 Of tooth for tooth, and eye for eye ! 
 And now the Hamah wider flings, 
 And fiercer flaps its leathern wings. 
 And clappers with its iron beak. 
 Shriek rapidly succeeding shriek — 
 
 Discordant, untunv, 
 
 "Osctei, Oscuni!'''
 
 ^5 
 THE TWO TRAVELLERS. 
 
 Two travellers sat upon a winter night 
 
 Within the glow of a red sea-coal fire, 
 Thrown out by the weird, lurid light 
 
 From the dark wainscot's shadowy retire. 
 That day, from a sea voyage long and rude, 
 
 From pent-up shipboard they had come ashore ; 
 And years had lapsed since last they viewed 
 
 Its granite cliffs, the ocean beetling o'er. 
 
 Whe'er their acquaintance was of ancient date, 
 
 Or by the casual transit newly made, 
 There seemed a tie most intimate, 
 
 By numerous trifling signs displayed ; 
 Yet was there something marked and strange 
 
 In their incongruous unity. 
 As though some late abnormal change 
 
 Had wrought the forced affinity — 
 Opposing poles of manly type : 
 
 One rugged, and the other smooth 
 One framed for Battle's fiercest gripe, 
 
 The other to assuage and sooth; 
 One bronzed and grizzled, stalwart, wild. 
 
 With eyes of Passion's darkest glow ; 
 The other slender-formed and mild. 
 
 With girl-like accents, sweet and low ; 
 Yet each possessed one common sign, 
 
 Distinctly traced upon his brow, 
 By which 'twas easy to divme 
 
 The chain that interlinked them now. 
 It was, in fine, of Sorrow's brand. 
 
 The deep, indubitable scars, 
 Like wave lines on the abandoned sand, 
 
 At end of Earth's and Ocean's wars. 
 Which was the elder of the two 
 
 Conjecture halted to unfold. 
 Faltering the enigma to break through ; 
 
 For both seemed young, and both seemed old. 
 
 They sat in silence leaden, deep, 
 
 And with intent abstraction gazed 
 Into the spluttering, glowing heap 
 
 That in the ardent ingle blazed ; 
 While the red spiral reek upwound. 
 
 Like spirits freed from cumb'ring clay, 
 And ruml^led, with a dreamy sound, 
 
 Up, up, the chimney far away. 
 And on the ceiling and the wall, 
 
 Behind the brooding, silent pair.
 
 66 
 
 Two phantom shadows, bent and tall, 
 
 Like goblin sentries stationed there^ 
 Flickered and blinked, as if to jeer 
 
 The lucubrious and painful gloom 
 That strangely seemed to domineer 
 
 Within that super-silent room. 
 But the mute spell at last was raised, 
 
 And the frail stranger's soft, calm eye 
 Was turned towards his friend, and gazed 
 
 So intently on his reverie 
 That the scared incubus of thought. 
 
 Which on his fellow's memory press'd, 
 Fled, and his glance the other's sought, 
 
 As seeking there consoling rest. 
 A thin, transparent, wiry hand 
 
 Was stretched across the ingle's glow, 
 Which, ere the other's broad palm spanned. 
 
 You saw the firelight glimmer through ; 
 And as the night's quiescence lone 
 
 Is waked from slumbering calm profound 
 By some remote harmonious tone. 
 
 Casting a sense of pleasure round, 
 A thin but dulcet voice relieved 
 
 The tacit dreariness that had reigned, 
 Which the sound-famished ear received, 
 
 To list'ning's eagferest tension strained : 
 
 " Brother, the All-directing Hand, 
 
 That in minute and vasty things 
 Each detail slight, of projects grand. 
 
 To pretermined issue brings. 
 Has drifted us, in seeming chance, 
 
 Into a meeting timely well, 
 To judge by mortal, casual glance 
 
 Of that which at our meeting felL 
 By early study trained to guess, 
 
 Or vaguely know, of human flaws, 
 To soften the acute distress, 
 
 And from effect to trace the cause : 
 In absence of more potent skill, 
 
 Foretaught experiences combine, 
 Directed by that mighty will, 
 
 To lend a potency to mine. 
 
 " The fell malaria's poison-breath 
 
 Had curded up your venomed blood, 
 And over the abyss of death 
 
 You hung, unconscious that the flood — 
 Whose dark and awful torrents flow 
 ■ Time and eternity between — 
 Surged inky in the gulf below. 
 
 Shored by the Is and the Has been.
 
 67 
 
 " I have seen the picture of a child, 
 
 With gaudy, wild flowers in its lap, 
 Standing upon the margin wild 
 
 Of a precipitous and dizzy gap. 
 Its awe struck mother, from afar — 
 
 The effigy of blanched despair. 
 Transfixed with breathless anguish — saw 
 
 Her cherished darling's peril there. 
 Fearful to cry, of motion reft, 
 
 Palsi'd by Terror's icy hand, 
 No semblance e'en of life was left. 
 
 A marble woe she seemed to stand, 
 But by her fixed gaze unseen ; 
 
 And faintly limned against the sky, 
 A guardian form's celestial sheen 
 
 Sentri'ed the suckling watchfully. 
 I, through your desperate mortal strait. 
 
 Imaged a potent presence near, 
 And schooled my mind to serve and wait. 
 
 In suppliant hope, but trembling fear. 
 And when your rescued life was snatched 
 
 From Death's impending icy dart, 
 I joyfully the ransom watched. 
 
 And blessed God's mercy from my heart. 
 
 " There is a human, loving pride, 
 
 Born of an anxious, feverish fear. 
 Felt by the watcher at a sick one's side, 
 , That makes the patient to that guardian dear ; 
 And every fresh degree of health 
 
 Made under that still guardian's eye 
 Is a rich premium in itself, 
 
 To guerdon his humanity ; 
 Till that which he hath helped to save 
 
 He after deems his own in part, 
 And thinks the past a title gave 
 
 To affine the future heart to heart. 
 A soul's relationship is sown, 
 
 Which roots and shoots and fruits by turn, 
 As flowers that pine and droop alone, 
 
 United, thrive in kindred urn. 
 
 " If, then, the deadly conflict past. 
 
 The fierce probation battled through, 
 Appears o'er all your fiice, at last, 
 
 Health's re-invigorating glow ; 
 And yet the pain'd, perturbed trace. 
 
 By Care or Sorrow's finger signed, 
 In brooding eye and woeful face. 
 
 Indexing malady of mind. 
 My healing help seems only part 
 
 (The smaller) of its task t'iiave done. 
 Soothing the tortured body's smart.
 
 68 
 
 Leaving the mind to writhe alone. 
 Rung by keen canker-rooted thought. 
 
 Loading with pain each pulsing hour. 
 As if internally it sought 
 
 A respite from its racking power. 
 
 " This fleshly tenement is but the shell 
 
 Housing the imperishable tenant soul, 
 Whose guardian mind, to do its functions well. 
 
 Should vigilantly tend its self-control ; 
 For stealthy sin is, thief-like, lurking near. 
 
 With an insatiable and deathless ire. 
 In truceless warfare, on that inmate dear, 
 
 With hateful ardour no delay can tire i 
 The body, valued by the immortal soul, 
 
 Is trivial as the fen-engender'd light. 
 Flickering a moment o'er the morass foul, 
 
 'Gainst the eternal planet's glory bright. 
 A body saved from Death's fell touch 
 
 Is but a temporal respite given ; 
 But a soul snatched from Satan's clutch 
 
 Is a new angel leagued with heaven. 
 I would not seek to win the human heart 
 
 From human tenderness or loving ties, 
 But lead it to compute the better part, 
 
 Reserved for faithful suffering's destinies. 
 A mental burden, like material weight. 
 
 May overcharge and break one weary mind : 
 Shared by a sympathising, willing mate. 
 
 Relief and rest oppression's sure to find. 
 I but repeat the Great One's call. 
 
 To the o'erlaboured and oppressed, 
 To share with him their burdens all, 
 
 With promise of assured rest." 
 
 The alluring, soft, persuasive voice 
 
 Subsidised like an ^olian strain, 
 Whose last faint whisperings rejoice 
 
 The list'ner till they wake again. 
 And he who, with attentive ears. 
 
 Had sat, bound by the harmonious spell. 
 Turned to conceal the child-like tears 
 
 That from his trembling eye-lids fell ; 
 While a convuls'd, upheaving spasm 
 
 Told of some pent emotion's throe 
 Struggling for a relieving chasm 
 
 For the volcanic strife below. 
 The vent was found, the head was bowed. 
 
 And buried in the broad-palmed hand ;, 
 And the rude stranger wept aloud. 
 
 Abandoned of all self-command. 
 A.nd 'twas a strange and touching sight —
 
 69 
 
 Strength thus by feebleness subdued ; 
 This victory of moral might 
 
 And gentle tact o'er spirit rude. 
 A bright, compassionate, and tender gleam 
 
 Shone in the fragile one's benignant eye. 
 'Twas easy at a glance to deem 
 
 Him Faith, or Hope, or Charity, 
 Watching the strife that there ensued 
 
 With pride and shame in common part, 
 Against the winning lure that woo'd 
 
 To unburden that o'erladened heart. 
 The wavering mental balance swayed 
 
 Alternately from Yes to No ; 
 But scruples were by love outweighed, 
 
 Which forced the beam at last to bow. 
 The head was raised, the heaving chest 
 
 Discharged a heavy, laboured sigh, 
 The clutched hands were close compress'd, 
 
 The hoarse voice faltered shamedly. 
 
 •* A moment's space is fraught with doom 
 
 Or blessing to some fated souls, 
 Which forms the pattern in the loom, 
 
 From whence life's fabric thence unrolls. 
 The chance of life, though idly thrown, 
 
 May cloud or brighten all the rest ; 
 And the first fatal keynote's tone 
 
 Induces bliss, or makes unblessed. 
 Seldom I trust myself to speak 
 
 Or ponder on the darkened past ; 
 I feel my non-resistance weak, 
 
 But from the contest shrink aghast. 
 But there are natures that impose 
 
 A trust, and claim a confidence ; 
 The portals of the heart unclose. 
 
 And let the prisoned secret thence. 
 This spell of yours my spirit bends. 
 
 As surcharged branches pliant bow ; 
 And grace t'enforced weakness lends. 
 
 That force and frailty feel I now. 
 Nor think I that I wrongly deem 
 
 We hold companionship in dole; 
 Chain fellows in one suffering team. 
 
 Fettered by sorrow soul to soul. 
 Like mine, yours may not be, 'tis true, 
 
 A grief with mingled rapture blent, 
 Like bouque'd slips of funeral yew, 
 
 And spring-tide flowers of dainty scent ; 
 The brightest blooms surviving last, 
 
 Sheltered in tender mem'ry vase, 
 The sadder's keen oppression past. 
 
 Like signs of some lime painful scars.
 
 7° 
 
 We casket up with equal care 
 
 The death-enclosing poisoned rings 
 And amulets of potence rare, 
 
 As equal-valued treasure things. 
 We nurse our bane and pet our bliss. 
 
 Twin nurslings in the self-same cot; 
 Careless what good and ill we miss, 
 
 Hugging the ill and good we've got. 
 Youth dreams a bright celestial dream 
 
 With beatific glories rife; 
 Waking from which he scorns to deem 
 
 Such unprismatic being life. 
 Yet his soft, ductile mind may bear 
 
 Of its first stamp such deep impress, 
 It indurating, fixes there, 
 
 Inflexible to future stress. 
 As the enthusiast love inspired. 
 
 Of his cold, bloodless, marble bride, 
 Once of the honi'd madness fired, 
 
 Adored and unrequited, died. 
 
 " But I am wand'ring down the maze 
 
 Of dreamy, moralising thought ; 
 So to my tale of early days. 
 
 The interim from then is nought 
 Eut a dim, heavy, neutral range 
 
 Of travel, suffering, and unrest ; 
 A feverish yearning after change, 
 
 In each variety unbless'd. 
 
 " That which I am no index gives 
 ^ Of what in early life I've been ; 
 Yet in my mind that lifetime lives 
 More vivid than the lapse between. 
 
 " My father was a simple hind. 
 
 Whose daily labour made the round. 
 In which his being was confined. 
 
 Staked to one changeless tether-ground. 
 Letters and books were mysteries, 
 
 Unfathomed of his rustic ken, 
 And all external histories 
 
 He took on trust from other men. 
 But healthy, temperate, trusty, bland. 
 
 Of warm and tender soul endowed, 
 His glass of life ran golden sand. 
 
 His sky knew more of sun than cloud. 
 Loved for his manliness and worth 
 
 By one of fairer culture bred : 
 Poor, orphan'd, but of gentle birth, 
 
 She yielding ruled, and following led. 
 I, their sole child, the centre mark
 
 71 
 
 Of their conjoint and loving aim, 
 Of their loves covenant the ark, 
 
 Their stake in life's momentous game. 
 Playmate and scholar each by turn, 
 
 Alluring fondness woo'd to prove 
 What playful pleasantness it was to learn, 
 
 And with each lesson to inculcate love ; 
 I 'neath their kindly nurture grew 
 
 From childhood to maturity ; 
 Nor restless yearning fancies, knew, 
 
 Bred to the woodman's mystery. 
 My parents, home, ray dog, my gun, 
 
 My axe, and varied nature's charm ; 
 Sport, labour, and some perils run, 
 
 Kept me heart whole and fancy warm. 
 Spring, summer, autumn, winter drear. 
 
 By change of duties, lightened toil. 
 And kept my body hale and cheer, 
 
 My mind unvexed with passion's coil ; 
 As the deep tarn's unruffled breast 
 
 The clear, blue sky's reflection cast, 
 My soul reflected cloudless rest, 
 
 But the clouds shadow came at last. 
 Thus it befell, and if I seem 
 
 To have made the ills for which I mourn, 
 As well the straw upon the stream. 
 
 May flout the flood on which 'tis borne. 
 As powerless 'gainst the impulse strong. 
 
 What whirl'd me in its vortex wild, 
 Futile the struggle, right or wrong, 
 
 Resistance ends of strength beguiled. 
 
 " In the beechwood I was plying 
 
 Axe and wedge ; the squire or knight. 
 As round I sent the splinter's flying,^ 
 
 Could not have a heart so light. 
 My axe the hissing air dividing. 
 
 Its strokes rung through the woody aisles, 
 Through the green-leafy roofing gliding, 
 
 Slant glints of sunbeams now and whiles. 
 Then I should rest a time and whistle. 
 
 Or watch my dog Rough's pranks by turns ; 
 Eyeing the bee's buzz round the thistle. 
 
 As he lay underneath the ferns. 
 Such warm, soft, summer puffets blowing 
 
 Down the waving alleys to me, 
 All the warm blood quickly flowing, 
 
 Like a wine stream, briskly through me. 
 Not a blackbird nor a linnet 
 
 Singing in the dancing spray 
 Had a lighter heart within it 
 
 Than I had on that summer day.
 
 72 
 
 While I worked my thoughts were running 
 
 All on happy, idle things. 
 I was too merry to be dunning 
 
 Over any trouble springs ; 
 But such dreamy, pleasing fancies 
 
 Flitted by me like a cloud. 
 As the summer midgefly dances ; 
 
 And I know I thought aloud. 
 
 " All at once the thought came in me 
 
 That I had never seen nor known 
 A lass with look and voice to win me, 
 
 To wish I had her for my own. 
 And then I tried in thought to settle 
 
 What like and kind and sort and size ; 
 If gentle-toned, or full of mettle, 
 
 Fair, brown, the tint of hair and eyes ; 
 But if I had been given the pow'r 
 
 To fashion one out to my liking, 
 I should have puzzled many an hour 
 
 Without a proper balance striking. 
 
 " What I had said aloud they know 
 
 Who laughed a soft, light laugh that woke me ; 
 I turned, and, with shame-burning brow, 
 A leaping heart I thought would choak me. 
 
 " Two strange ladies — one how bright ! — • 
 
 With modest laughter in their eyes. 
 Close in the sunny summer light, 
 
 Stood smiling at my stunned surprise. 
 I say that there were ladies two, 
 
 Both young and lovely as the sun ; 
 But one had loveliness so new 
 
 I soon could only see that one. 
 
 " I never felt ashamed, afraid. 
 Before a lady or a squire; 
 Now like a guilty, self-betrayed, 
 
 I stood, and through my veins ran fire. 
 
 " I've passed the lonely churchyard through 
 
 When midnight toU'd the spirit hour ; 
 I've roamed the dreary moorland blue 
 
 In night storms where the gibbets lower; 
 I've brought the desp'rate poacher in 
 
 From deadly grapple in the wood ; 
 I've plunged into the boiling lynn 
 
 To save a shepherd from the flood. 
 When the flames swallowed up the Hall, 
 
 And the whole blazing stairway fell, 
 And bore me in its fiery thrall, 
 
 I felt no fear, no spirit's quell ; 
 But as I stood with pow'rless tongue,
 
 73 
 
 And all but pow'rless eyes and thought, 
 Staring on her with heartstring's wrung, 
 
 I felt all fear myself a nought. 
 And when the woods awoke to hear 
 
 The rill-like murmur of her voice, 
 Which she unloos'd, as though to clear 
 
 My troubled shame, I had no choice, 
 But stood in pained, silent awe. 
 
 My heart o'erflooded with hot tears ; 
 And she whom ne'er before I saw 
 
 I felt 1 had loved a thousand years. 
 
 " She little spake, she stayed not long, 
 
 Some words of harmony supreme. 
 Like softly-murmured fairy song, 
 
 Heard in ecstatic spring tide dream. 
 I gave — or thought I gave — reply 
 
 In stammering and bewildered shame ; 
 And, like the wild bee's melody, 
 
 She passed as quickly as she came. 
 
 " The drifting wretch upon a spar. 
 
 Watching the quick receding sail 
 Sink down the dim horizon far, 
 
 With hope extinguished, well may quail. 
 So ran the cold and sick'ning thrill 
 
 Vibrating through my dizzy frame. 
 And blankness spread o'er thought and will ; 
 
 And life was only life in name. 
 The day wore out, the night grew old, 
 
 The stars gleamed on the midnight air, 
 Grey morning spread along the wold, 
 
 And found me dumbly seated there. 
 
 " Years have since fled my raven hair ; 
 
 Has grizzled now, and thinner grown ; 
 My form is shaken with the wear 
 
 And tear of contests I have known 
 On flood and field, but never yet 
 
 In crowds nor in the wilderness, 
 'Mid stormy buffets that beset 
 
 A life so fruitful of distress, 
 Doing so much and suffering more 
 
 Could I the rooted memory chase 
 Of that short woe-fraught summer hour. 
 When spoke that voice and passed that face. 
 
 Written during the winter of 1855-56.
 
 74 
 
 ACROSTIC. 
 
 TO MY"wIFE. 
 
 Celestial beings may be bright ; 
 
 Heaven is their fit abode; 
 
 And we sojourners on the earth 
 
 Require them of another mode. 
 
 Loving and lovable, to make 
 
 Our heart and home's sure blessing ; 
 
 True angels, not fantastic things ; 
 
 Too aerial to endure caressing, 
 
 E'en such as now my hand is pressing. 
 
 May those"dear eyes continue still 
 E'en thus to light and warm my heart. 
 Ah ! vain are words to tell the bliss, 
 Dear Charlotte, you to me impart. 
 Nov. sth, iSji. 
 
 PROCEUSTES. 
 
 Procrustes was an Attic thief, 
 
 A most facetious robber chief, 
 
 Whose style of trial was more curi- 
 
 -Ous than our system is by jury. 
 
 He owned a bed — a perfect treasure — 
 
 Supposed to be the standard measure; 
 
 On which whatever luckless wretch 
 
 He nabbed it was his wont to stretch ; 
 
 If he was shorter, by sheer strength, 
 
 They jerked him to the standard length; 
 
 But, if his length was in excess, 
 
 By just so much they made him less; 
 
 So, when some fore-condemned wight 
 
 Can't be with cankered sensor's right, 
 
 In metaphor 'tis curtly said, 
 
 They stretch him on Procrustes' bed. 
 
 JINGLE. 
 
 Oft I've wondered, oft I've pondered. 
 In delight and in dejection, 
 On the might and on the blight 
 That ever meet the watchful sight, 
 In open day or shrouded night, 
 Huddled in such close connection.
 
 75 
 
 Side by side, upon the tide 
 
 Of this delightful, sightful, frightful, 
 
 Pleasure-seeking, spirit-breaking, 
 
 Wealthy, filthy, ambling, scrambling, 
 
 Shouldering, edging, squandering, cadging. 
 
 Bubble-blowing, stupid, cunning, 
 
 Custom-hunting, money-dunning. 
 
 Earnest, canting, sluggish, panting, 
 
 Virtuous, evil, saucy, civil, 
 
 Changing-sea, mirth, misery, 
 
 Despair, and fun, rdl'd into one. 
 
 Here an evangelic preacher. 
 
 There a stentor'n dying-speecher ; 
 
 Now lace-bedizened plenipoes. 
 
 Then serenaders, black as crows. 
 
 Who chant " Where the good nigger goes ;" 
 
 Gilded State-coaches, funeral hearses, 
 
 Shabby nabobs, swells minus purses, 
 
 Peers of the realm settling a prizefight, 
 
 Snobs doing the divine by gaslight. 
 
 (Lights of the world like these may boast 
 
 " You'll always find us at our post.") 
 
 These sights, so cheery and so dreary. 
 
 Puzzle and make the spirit weary. 
 
 Like a wind-driven feather toss'd, 
 
 'Tis in the wild confusion lost. 
 
 Of heterogeneous human hodgepodge 
 
 That live, starve, strut, and skulk and lodge 
 
 In hole and corner, lane and street — 
 
 Crescent and square for the elite — 
 
 This wilderness of bricks and mortar, 
 
 With sooty air and muddy water. 
 
 Where crowds make wealth, and crowds are undone, 
 
 Sung, painted, named, and known as London. 
 
 FLOWERS AND FEELINGS. 
 
 Edith, I clearly recall the time, 
 
 On that summer Sunday warm. 
 When the sunlight beauty mantled all 
 
 In its robe of varied charm. 
 But the outward glow of the summer sky 
 
 Was not so bland and bright 
 As the fervid hope of the heart within. 
 
 Basking in love's serener light. 
 
 I remember, too, the chosen flowers, 
 
 Of dazzling and delicate hue. 
 That I with such pride and care had culled, 
 
 And brought as a present for you.
 
 76 
 
 And I better remember the sweet, sweet smiles, 
 
 And the words of soft, silvery tone, 
 That repaid me in thanks for the blooming gift 
 
 As a grateful and welcome one. 
 
 But, with the sunshine of that fair day, 
 
 And those flowers and words and smiles, 
 Lingers the trace of prophetic fears 
 
 And foreshadows of subsequent wiles. 
 The first faint throb of the germ of doubt, 
 
 That time has to certainty brought ; 
 And I think of the words as the words of a seer. 
 
 Which then spoken engendered the thought. 
 
 I wonder if thou hast retention as I 
 
 Of that labour-worn, elderly man. 
 With the dull city-dwellers bejaded look, 
 
 And the visage so sallow and wan, 
 Whom we met on the field-path languidly 
 
 Sauntering along in the light of the sun. 
 And paused as if spelled by the charm of the flowers, 
 
 And asked, " Could you spare him but one ?" 
 
 And a mournful humour in his eye 
 
 Chide you there with a mild regard. 
 That seemed to say, for saying him nay : 
 " I may be bold, but you are as hard ■" 
 !\nd he said : " You seem dearly to prize them now, 
 
 But remember how soon they'll decay : 
 To-day you're unwilling to give me but one, 
 
 But to-morrow you'll throw all away." 
 
 As with the flowers, I feel to day 
 
 It is with all those choicer blooms 
 Of hopes and thoughts and feelings pure, 
 
 Whose wraith-like memories mark their tombs. 
 All that seemed then beloved and prized, 
 
 With being and with soul combined, 
 Thou hast grown indifferent to, and cast 
 Heedless to wither on the wind. 
 
 EROS* AND ANTEROS.t 
 
 When young Dan Cupidon was born 
 He was his mother Venus's joy, 
 
 And for his rosy childish charms 
 She doted on the pranksome boy. 
 
 But soon it irked her mother's heart, 
 
 That, spite his nature, shrewd and warm, 
 
 • Love. t Mutual love.
 
 77 
 
 And his deep, subtle, mental power, 
 That he retained his baby form. 
 
 As time sped on, and brou^^ht no change. 
 
 Her disappointment would have vent. 
 In Themis'* august ear she poured 
 
 Her deep, complaining discontent : 
 That goddess, skilled in Nature's laws, 
 
 Consoled the deeply-anxious mother. 
 And remedied ?ad Venus' lot 
 
 By giving Love a godly brother. 
 
 When Anteros (young mutual love) 
 
 Was born sweet Eros waxed and grew ; 
 His wings expanded, and his frame 
 
 Mature and lusty feelings knew. 
 But oh the fate ! If Anteros 
 
 E'er ceased beside him to remain, 
 He dwindled to his former state. 
 
 And straight became a child again. 
 
 So Love alone grows weak and sad. 
 
 And wanes despondently to yearn ; 
 But, strengthened by a mutual frame, 
 
 The dual ardours brightly burn. 
 And being is invested with 
 
 The conscious charms of strong delight ; 
 For self blends with some second self, 
 
 And bliss attains to human height. 
 
 MATCHES. 
 
 Things scarce and costly most we prize, 
 
 Not for the blessings they confer. 
 But — for they seldom meet the eyes. 
 
 And therefore, idly, we prefer 
 To let our fancy ling'ring brood. 
 
 Dreaming them into false esteem, 
 And cheaply hold the sterling good. 
 
 For its simplicity, I deem. 
 
 Ah ! Ecci Signum ! here's a case. 
 
 A case in point my subject catches 
 An illustrative line to trace 
 
 This case — a box of Congreve matches. 
 There is more use and worth to man 
 
 In these cheap slips of fire-tipped pine 
 Than all the pearls and rubies can 
 
 Make boast of since they first did shine. 
 
 * Justice.
 
 78 
 
 What giant consequence of good 
 
 This seeming insignificance might bear — 
 This fragile, mean, small cabinet of wood ; 
 
 And its contents, thought at a penny dear, 
 Might be to some a treasure even now, 
 
 Worth more than all the gems of gorgeous Ind - 
 Set once again the frozen blood in flow 
 
 Of wretches in some Arctic region pin'd. 
 
 Wanting the means this little thing would give. 
 
 How many precious things would be as nought! 
 This might make blank despair wish still to live, 
 
 And fill with joy minds near with woe distraught. 
 Health, cheerfulness, and comfort in its train 
 
 This tiny wizard might in turn bestow ; 
 Haggard despair and gloom and pain 
 
 Be all subdued beneath its glow. 
 
 Yet, not to trace its service great. 
 Its helping power in every State — 
 In ship at sea, or shed on shore ; 
 In farm, or factory, or bower ; 
 In mine or mart, forest or fort — 
 Through evil and through good report, 
 It is man's simple servant, friend, 
 Willing its aid at call to lend. 
 And only asks to be kept dry. 
 To burn, to serve, and for him die. 
 
 SUNSET: A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Towards the purple Western hills, 
 
 Pageanted by clouds of hght, 
 Kobed in crimson tint that fills 
 
 The arch of heaven with fiery spite ; 
 Like a bloody despot's end 
 
 Amid his blazing palace sack. 
 Whose fall majestic doth transcend 
 
 His life with deeds of horror black ; 
 So gorgeous 'mid surrounding piles 
 
 Of burning clouds, like mountains dire ; 
 Others, that gleam like molten isles, 
 
 Floating in seas of sulphury fire 
 Down, and still down, the gulf of heaven. 
 
 The daygod's hot and panting stud 
 Whirl on his car, and, frenzy-driven. 
 
 Course madly through the glittering flood.
 
 79 
 
 WIDOW MAY. 
 
 .A. 
 
 You are in trouble, Widow May, 
 
 And so I've made so bold — d'-y-see — 
 To call upon you, just to say, 
 
 " Can I of any service be ?" 
 You'll think me over free, I fear, 
 
 And wonder such a sullen man — 
 I know I'm thought so — should come here ; 
 
 But I would serve you, if I can. 
 
 We've both been strange-like. Widow May, 
 
 Now many years past : that's my loss ; 
 But all must know a sunny day, 
 
 And every one must bear a cross. 
 If mine came sooner than seemed good. 
 
 Why I — Tush ! how I prattle here 
 About myself, which no man should. 
 
 You think me very soft, I fear. 
 
 'Tis twenty years now, Widow May, 
 
 Since you and I last spoke together. 
 You were a damsel fresh and gay 
 
 As e'er was seen in summer weather. 
 I sought to win you, but — I know it — 
 
 Another's looks were, aye, before you. 
 My love was strong ; but wherefore show it ? 
 
 I could but hopelessly adore you. 
 
 I do not seek you. Widow May, 
 
 To stir the ashes of the past ; 
 But friends, who swarm on summer day, 
 
 Are scarce when summer weather's past ; 
 And Fortune's freaks are strange and cross. 
 
 Smiling where least 'tis prized or thought. 
 And lotting bankruptcy and loss 
 
 Where her bland favours most are sought. 
 
 That which I longed for. Widow May, 
 
 Another won, and ne'ertheless. 
 In every subsequent essay, 
 
 I've had an easy, clear success : 
 Increase of means, but not content. 
 
 For wealth buys not the charm of life, 
 Which is of mingled blessings blent — 
 
 Home, love, and children — husband, wife. 
 
 You and your good man, Widow May, 
 Had these, if Foi tune's adverse frown 
 
 In worldly matters brought decay, 
 
 And need pressed thrifty labour down.
 
 8o 
 
 / Your names the parish rumours quote 
 For honest worth and prudent toil, 
 And sympathising neighbours note 
 How you have been ill Chance's foil. 
 
 I take much shame, good Widow May, 
 For nursing jealousy and spleen ; 
 
 For cold omission and decay 
 
 To avert the evil that has been ; 
 
 For croping weeds of bitter growth 
 In my heart's garden moodily, 
 
 And leaving to the rust and moth 
 •Goodwill and helping charity. 
 
 But now, though late, good Widow May, 
 
 My better thoughts at last prevail ; 
 By friendly aid I would allay 
 
 The loss and sorrow you bewail. 
 I would redeem my past offence 
 
 Of sinful apathy, and know 
 Of its unhappy consequence 
 
 How my repentance I can show. 
 
 ] feel already, Widow May, 
 
 A new, a sweet, and pleasing sen? a 
 Of comfort in my breast to-day, 
 
 That springs from humble penitence. 
 Of Fortune's gifts I see at last 
 
 The purpose and delicious power, 
 And from my mind the darkened past 
 
 Melts in this blessed and bright'ning hour. 
 
 August^ 1866, 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 What is that dread of silence deep, 
 
 The awe-inspiring void, 
 That makes the heart's tide coldly creep. 
 
 And life by deadness is alloy'd, 
 When the soul, neighbourless and lone. 
 
 Shrinks from the blanky silence drear, 
 And sound, though e'er so crude in tone, 
 Would be a blessing there to hear ? 
 'Tis that the vacuum does not give 
 The aliment that makes it live — 
 Music, the spirit's feast !
 
 8i 
 
 What the recoiling in affright 
 
 It pants vvith„when concussions dire 
 Explode around in horrent might, 
 
 And jangle in Babalic ire, 
 The overgorged and palled sense 
 
 Shrinks, conscious of the wild surcharge. 
 And flutters in the pain'd suspense 
 Upon annihilation's marge ? 
 'Tis that it cannot bear the great, 
 The painfully oppressive weight 
 Of sound upon it press'd. 
 
 But what, when richly floats around, 
 
 Piercing with sweet and mellow flowing 
 The trill of nicely-balanced sound. 
 
 The soul in trance-like rapture throwing, 
 Like veils of prism'd radiance o'er 
 
 A list'ning and adoring sprite 
 Submitting to the enchanter's power, 
 And paying worship for delight ? 
 
 'Tis when man's soul and Nature's voice 
 Meet upon equal terms by choice, 
 In fitting garments dress'd. 
 
 TO MARGARET. 
 
 Art thou, sweet Margaret, to sadness given? 
 
 It hangs upon thee as the beaded dew, 
 Cupped in the lily's breast, or starry heaven. 
 That lovelier shows beneath the pallid hue 
 Of the cold queen of night 
 Than when the sun is bright 
 
 I've watched thee, Margaret, when from thine eye 
 
 The meteor fires of anger have leap'd forth. 
 And the grand halos that light up the sky 
 Were rivall'd by the beauty of thy wrath; 
 And, for the dazzling power 
 It lent, I've lov'd thee more. 
 
 But when, dear Margaret, the summer mood 
 
 Doth laugh within thine eyes, and on thy lips 
 A sweetness richer than the wild bee's food 
 Doth place thy witcheries else all in eclipse, 
 And thy attuning hand. 
 My heart-strings then command. 
 
 And well, sweet Margaret, thou kcnnst thy sway 
 
 As umpire of my happiness or dole. 
 My Queen ! Whose royalty 'tis bliss t'obey, 
 High priestess and religion of my soul ! 
 Whose will, or word, or nod, 
 Is next obeyed to God.
 
 82 
 
 ENIGMA. 
 
 There is not a lady in the land 
 
 Without thy aid could ever be ; 
 The name of Lord would lose command, 
 
 And law become a fall.acy. 
 Letters and learning both would die ; 
 
 Men's lives would not be theirs an hour ; 
 Light be extinguished, love would fiy, 
 
 And even language lose its power. 
 
 There were no pleasure for the good, 
 
 No ill could be — no old, no lame ; 
 There would be neither land nor flood, 
 
 And not a crime could meet with blame. 
 All would be swept from off the sphere, 
 
 And not an element remain. 
 Nor could an angel drop a tear 
 
 To mourn, thy loss had wrought such pain. 
 
 THE ASSASSIN VTION OF DONNA BEATIUCE 
 
 DE BOVADILLA & DON ALVARO DE PORTUGAL. 
 
 IN TWO SCENES. 
 
 Scene L 
 
 A Moor stole forth from Malaga, invested close by Ferdinand, 
 
 Bent on a stern and startUng deed, by vengeful hate maturely planned ; 
 
 For the dimmed siar of Granada from heaven had been shaken, 
 
 And one by one its towers and towns the Infidels had taken. 
 
 And Ferdinand and Isabella, in their power and splendour, 
 
 Abdallah el Zagal had forced to tveaty and sun-ender. 
 
 Each foot of soil had drunk the blood of Giaour and Moslem blended. 
 
 The strife of seven centuries for Cross and Crescent ended. 
 
 The dusky feel of Arab kings must trample other regions. 
 
 Despoiled of all they had despoiled, with myriads of spent legions ; 
 
 From Abyla's* sun-bleached crest the Moorish glance may stretch in 
 
 vain. 
 To Gebal Taric'sf rocky brow, and tlie reconquered lands of Spain. 
 For now they must retrace their way across the Muritanian flood, 
 Renouncing all they had won and held, at cost of seas of human blood. 
 Their mission'd hosts as strangers now, aliens, must seek the Arrtb home, 
 Whence, locust-like, they did emerge, another great Hegira's come. 
 That watery strait must bound from hence, the empire of their rule and 
 
 faith 
 FcT longer on Iberian soil it not a single foothold , hath ; 
 
 * Abyla and Calpe ; the pillars of Hercules. 
 
 + Taric's Mountain ; the Moorish name for Gibraltar. ■
 
 ^3 
 
 That which tlie scymitar had won internal feud and faction lost, 
 And Spain was to the Spanish throne a realm without co-rival crossed. 
 Need, then, surprise assail our thoughts that in a nation brought to bay. 
 In some distracted hearts of fire tiie quenchless flames of vengeance 
 
 play? 
 The sole surviving dart which man, when all is ruin, grasps in hate, 
 And, facing sternly to his doom, hurls madly at the brow of fate. 
 Who says " the worst that could befall has fallen, and 1, reck no more 
 To trail the coil of being on, when all the zest of being's o'er. 
 And death's ernbrare would pleasure yield, if in its last convulsive throe 
 My missioned hand might reach and lay some proud, exultant foeman 
 
 low." 
 Such were the fiery thoughts that seethed beneath the calm but sullen 
 
 brow 
 (As some volcano's lop rnay show a cap of moon-illumined snow). 
 Of him who to the Spanish camp, with tranquil air, moves calmly on, 
 Not seeking to attract, nor sliun, remark or note from any one; 
 His long-digested tale of fraud, the renegade's and traitor's plea, 
 Was well-matured, and confidence could but successful issue see. 
 Anon his brow contracted grew, about his lip a mocking smile 
 Denoted foretaste of delight in gloating o'er prospective guile ; 
 Tlie deep-set eyeballs, 'neath tlie eaves of his dark eyebrows, wildly 
 
 gleam'd, 
 His hands were clenched, his teeth were set, he walked, but walked as 
 
 one who dreamed ; 
 All outward being was a blank, the while he inwardly rehearsed 
 The bloody pageant of his thoughts in its deep tragic sj^ell immersed. 
 What were to him the glorious array of heavenly beaming lights. 
 That in the cloudless concave shone, to conjure fancy's spaceless flights? 
 Before their splendours hung the pall of murder's deep-ensanguined dye, 
 And all beneath partook the tint of that repugnant canopy. 
 Some time thus moodily he marclied, ihen brusquely started from his 
 
 trance. 
 Then quickly re-assumed his calm, to meet the sentinel's advance 
 Whose challenge snapped the thread of thought, sharply as snaps the 
 
 bow's tight string, 
 And from the dark ideal called to brunt the test of real thing. 
 For sharp and harsh the challenge rang, " Who passes there ?" a halbert 
 
 glanced, 
 And from the sheltering ambush shade the pike-armed sentinel advanced. 
 " Tell, Moorish hound, why wander you beyond your doomed city-wall? 
 Are you impatient of the fate that is impending o'er ye all 
 That thus you court the spy's swift doom ? Give speedy answer to my 
 
 quest." 
 And, as he spoke, his pike's keen head was levelled at the Moslem's 
 
 breast. 
 Unshrinking from the threat'ning spear, and, witli an ill-repressed dis- 
 dain, 
 In calm, slow accents to the charge he this reply at length did deign : 
 " Spaniard, not doom should be my lot, but large donation should re- 
 
 'I'hc pain and peril I have braved to steal from Malaga away
 
 84 
 
 Witli secrets that thy king would give thy helm piled o'er with gold to 
 
 know, 
 Will spare him waste of Spanish blood, and win you countless spoilage 
 
 too. 
 Your great apostate, he who in the Gothic past, for vengeance sake. 
 Gave Spain to our forefathers' blndes, as my example you may take. 
 The Moorish heart can feel a wrong, and foster wreak with any Giaour, 
 And wait and watch the coming on of well-built retribution's hour. 
 Why I foreswear my creed and race for precious vengeance, not for gold. 
 To Ferdinand and Isabel at fitting moment shall be told ; 
 Lead me to them, and thine shall be whatever sum my treason's price ; 
 If I betray for mighty hate, I do not sell for avarice." 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Within an ample Moorish bower, bedight with arabesque array. 
 
 And curtained wealth and carved device and varied stores of chaste 
 
 display ; 
 Through the fair open lattice breathed the fragrant balm of orange bloom, 
 And shed a soft, luxurious charm throughout the faintly-lighted room ; 
 For the bland glow of moonbeams stole sweetly the lozenged casement 
 
 through. 
 And where they lighted left a tint of silvery, soft'ning, chast'ning hue 
 On tapestry, and vase, and urn and bronzed casque and burnished blade. 
 And carved and gilded quaintness, which the sumptuous sala did per- 
 vade ; 
 But with that native light did vie the garish flames of lantern's gleam, 
 That from the sculptured roof did swing, fanned by the balmy serial 
 
 stream ; 
 And where the brightness did not glint the clear, sharp gleam of crys- 
 
 talite. 
 It shot the ruby's fiery spark, or softer amber's yellow bright. 
 And two fair forms of youth and grace full meet I'adorn a room so fair, 
 In all the luxury of love and loveliness were seated there ; 
 Braganza's young and stately heir, Don Alvaro du Portugal ; 
 And Beatrice De Bovadilla, ripe in beauty virginal. 
 The one a stately Caballero, formed in Apollonian mould. 
 With smooth, broad brow and manly face, and glance as tender as 'twas 
 
 bold. 
 One hand his handsome head sustained, his fingers in the bright curls 
 
 lost, 
 The other toy'd with whiter tips of fingers o'er the table crossed. 
 Abandoned to his loving strain, as seemingly absorbed she played 
 Amongst the ivory pieces there upon the chequered board arrayed ; 
 Her glance cast down in seeming doubt, but love through all the seem- 
 ing shone. 
 Yet did she shun the ardent glance that now so fondly sought her own. 
 And fairer motive ne'er could be for sinless love's idolatry. 
 Which though the vot'ry's lips were mute, was blazoned l)y the traitor 
 eye;
 
 85 
 
 P'or in the form and face so fresh, and rich in soft, voluptuous charm, 
 Were centred all ineffable entrancements, blended to disarm — 
 In their luxuriant harmony and radiant glow of perfect bloom — 
 The poisoned point of envy's dart, so from detraction praise might come. 
 But that which lent to form and hue in both, or either of the pair, 
 Was the sweet halo of content and mutual bliss that robed them there 
 With soft and hallowing tenderness that toned all human harshness down, 
 And threw a bland and lovelier spell than aught but love could e'er have 
 
 known. 
 There could be read delight and trust, frank to impart, free to believe, 
 As eager to bestow a joy as it was willini; to receive. 
 The beauteous flower, the summer morn, suns and expands to perfumed 
 
 life. 
 Was like their fortune-favoured love, with an unshadowed promise rife. 
 But, oh ! how oft performance halts behind the promise hope has given. 
 And Eden's langours scent the sky ere by the tempest it is riven. 
 Oft life's most blissful moment is the herald of its deepest woe, 
 As the swift tropic darkness comes succeeding sunset's brightest glow. 
 So was it then, woe worth the hour ! for while joy's brimming chalice 
 
 teemed 
 The soul-exalting nectar draught, the assassin's. sudden poinard gleamed: 
 The melody of love's soft phrase was severed by a shriek and groan, 
 And on the blood-polluted floor that hapless pair lay ghastly prone ; 
 For, sudden as the panther's spring, the murderer's bound and blow- 
 were made ; 
 And ere his presence full was known his victims' blood bedewed his 
 
 blade. 
 He fell without an after cry, or e'en a quiver of his frame. 
 And a blank corse supplied the place of ardent hope and valour's fame. 
 Braganza's pride, so leal and brave, was trampled by the recreant heel 
 Of the exultant wretch, who wreaked despite the dead no more could 
 
 feel. 
 But, while his frantic rage was high, rough hands had seized him in 
 
 their thrall ; 
 A dozen blades gleamed at his breast, and vengeful cries rung through 
 
 the hall, 
 And hurried tumults fearful voice was echoed with confused sound. 
 As courtiers, guards, and pages came thronging in consternation round. 
 And then a sudden stillness fell upon the wild, exciting scene ; 
 Then through the throng the murmur rang, " Their Majesties, the King 
 
 and Queen " ! 
 And they, designed for sacrifice, scatheless within the circle stood, 
 Transfixed with horror and surprise at the malignant deed of blood. 
 Fierce was the rage of Ferdinand, and Isabella's sorrow great, 
 To view the dire catastrophe resulting from mistaken hate ; 
 But greater consternation far the baffled murderer assailed, 
 That through his eager recklessness his deeper scheme of vengeance 
 
 failed. 
 To threat, or question, or reproach, he deigned to make not one reply, 
 But glared with spite on King and Queen, and on his captors scornfully; 
 One side-long glance he cast upon his viciims, drew a long-drawn breath. 
 Then, with an imperturbed meiu, met his defeat, and waited death.
 
 86 
 
 Not long he waited. But we'll pass his end, nnd close the tragic tale, 
 No art or skill of surgery for Don Alvaro could avail. 
 The Donna Beatrice survived ; but life for her was blank amd vain ; 
 The spring of pleasure was dried up — love's aloe never bloomed again. 
 
 JOSTINE AND REDGRAIN. 
 
 A Northern Ballad, versified from an article f" Jack and the 
 
 Beanstalk "J published in " Once a Week," Nc^v Series, 
 
 No. g, Feb. 2p, i86S. Edited by E. S. Dallas. 
 
 The wind blew eagerly from off the land, 
 
 But all was taut and yare and trim aboard. 
 As Gest Bardr's Shiff, with stout Norwegians manned, 
 
 Put out for Thule* from the Northern feord ; 
 But, with the rattle of the standing geer, 
 
 And whistling of the breeze the cords among, 
 A cadent flow of votive voices clear 
 
 And deep did mingle as they sail'd along. 
 
 And Gest Bardr and his crew were gathered round 
 
 A rev'rend man, of mild, religious air. 
 Bare-headed, and in deep devotion bound, 
 
 Chanting tlieir recently-learnt Christian prayer, 
 A creed new breaking on the Pagan Norse, 
 
 ^Vllere Odin's sensual reign so long had been ; 
 And these rude ocean-men had felt the force 
 
 And fervour of their teacher's ardour keen. 
 
 As on they drove towards the outer holrn 
 
 The bowman noted a strange, gathering mist 
 Thick'ning, and 'gainst the wind it seemed to come. 
 
 Unnature-like it o'er the surface hissed, 
 And briefly wrapped the Norsemen's shiff about 
 
 In its dim mantle of unwelcome gloom ; 
 While from her quarter a loud, hailing shout 
 
 The mariners, with wonder, heard to come. 
 
 The prayer was hushed, and each, with wonder gaze, 
 
 A look of question turned his fellow on 
 At this strange hailing from the murky haze, 
 
 That came on them like some phenomenon. 
 The priest upon his breast made sign of rood. 
 
 While o'er the bulwark Bardr, the master, peer'd 
 To question who had called him from the flood. 
 
 But saw nought for the fog through which they steer'd. 
 
 * Iceland.
 
 87 
 
 Who hails me? Ho ! What cheer ! and wlio are ye ? 
 
 Strangely ye come ! With good intent, I hope? 
 I'd come on board to sail to old Thule, 
 
 And that I may, cast me a graff or rope, 
 And deftly thou shalt see me mount thy deck. 
 
 And tell my hither come, and whither gang. 
 To bide in this krank* corracht nought I reck. 
 
 And I have bode your coming overlang. 
 
 The rope was hove, made taut, and all stood by 
 
 To lend a hand to lift the stranger in ; 
 But little needed he their courtesy. 
 
 For smartly, over-handed, he did win 
 The bulwark's top ; and, with a nimble bound, 
 
 Vaulted it o'er, and lighted brisk and free 
 Upoa the deck, casting a glance around 
 
 As mocking and uncanny as could be. 
 
 And then the veiling fog as rapidly 
 
 Uplifted as it suddenly came o'er ; 
 Yet seaward nor to land none could espy 
 
 A sail or bark from skyline to the shore. 
 Then thoughts of doubt and dread fell on the crew, 
 
 While some their shiff-feresj whisp'ring drew aloof, § 
 And eldern ocean-fears amidst them grew 
 
 That this strange comer boded unbehoof. || 
 
 Grave was the master's brow, and pale his cheek, 
 
 And brief the words of question or reply, 
 As the grim passenger unlet did speak 
 
 With frontful, unabashed loquacity, 
 Mingling dire jests and Pagan oaihs between, 
 
 And sneers at new- blown faiths and creeds and rites, 
 Lauding the ages that had known and seen 
 
 The joys of Odin's sensual delights. 
 
 But when the rev'rend priest, Jostine, outspoke. 
 
 And told of peace, goodwill, and heaven to come, 
 Such fervent inspiration in him woke. 
 
 The lewd, sardonic scoffer was struck dumb. 
 Turning his back, he silent strode away. 
 
 And paced the gangway with a moody ayr. 
 As if within his restless bosom lay 
 
 Some deep despite or vicious canker'd care. 
 
 There was a weird unhealinessH of mien 
 
 About this man, who scarcely human seemed. 
 
 His form was giant-like, his eye was keen. 
 For but one eye had he, which fiercely gleamed 
 
 * Frail. f Boat. J Shipmates. § Apart. || Misfortune. 
 
 H Unholincss.
 
 88 
 
 From out the sunken pit. His beetling brow 
 
 Hung darkly over like a bosky crag, 
 And round his wrinkled forehead, vilely low, 
 
 A fell of elf-locks straggled grimly shag. 
 
 His cheeks were of a mat, pare, ashy hue, 
 
 His nostrils broad, as used to scent of gore. 
 His thick and sensual lips exposed to view 
 
 A jagged row of fangs embristled o'er 
 By stubbled tufts of an ill-growing beard, 
 
 Save on the square jaws, whence two swirling tails 
 Of undefined colour, harsh, and sear'd, 
 
 Whisked out like pennants flapping to the gales. 
 
 Unfashion-like and strange his garments were, 
 
 Emblazoned on his breast a spreading tree, 
 While round his cruel brow, which else was bare, 
 
 A golden serpent twined with emerald e'ee ; 
 And his blue mantle strangely was inwrought 
 
 With fiery wheels, and disks, and golden eggs 
 Linked to each shoulder by a sunclasp caught, 
 
 Revealing his bare arms and brawny legs. 
 
 Alane* in moody wyset the gangweg's| length 
 
 Wrathenly§ paced he langwhiles|| to and fro, 
 As stalks the stark bull in his ireful strength, 
 
 Mutt'ring some heathen ban or scathefulU vow ; 
 While all aloof the healyman did pray. 
 
 The steersman's noteful eye did scan the wave, 
 The rueful schiffmen watched the dying day 
 
 With boding spirits and expressions grave. 
 
 Night fell, and darkness o'er the ocean grew ; 
 
 The Priest and Stranger sought their separate hatch ; 
 The deck was left to the o'er-wakeful crew. 
 
 For none seemed fa'n** to sleep, but all to watch. 
 Yet was no ocean historie retold, 
 
 No Saga fyt y'sung nor guyp essayed, 
 For each seemed lothful by his voice t'unfold 
 
 The misease which by speech would be betrayed. 
 
 But, as the night waxed old. the waves ran high, 
 
 And through the tackle howled the gathering blast ; 
 The swarthy welkin echoed horribly, 
 
 And replicated each concussion vast. 
 As midwhiles the fleet leitett enlumed the murk, 
 
 And loped like flickering shafts from wrack to wrack, 
 Dazing the schiffmen in their seacraft work, 
 
 As the wrung vessel staggered on her track. 
 
 * Alone. t Wise. J Gangway. § Wrathfully. || Longwhile. 
 1[ Harmful. ** Inclined. -f-l- Lightning.
 
 89 
 
 'Twas when the horrent sturmwind vvodest* blew, 
 
 And the tossed seaboat wheltered in the wave, 
 And the deep noon of night 'twas nigh unto. 
 
 That " ill things hour," when sprites most freedom have. 
 The oceanmen in dredet their craft did ply. 
 
 With inward brood of the strange freight they bore, 
 When a bright flo| o' leite shot through the sky ; 
 
 Then all seemed darker than it seemed before. 
 
 But it had shown in middeck over nigh 
 
 That evil form, and even then, did brenne§ 
 The darell of that fell-gliiiting, baleful eye 
 
 That made them shudder 'neath its wicked kenn. 
 And each schiff-fere his fellow ni:^her drew. 
 
 Standing agalpe to bide what next should fall, 
 While chilly tremore crept o'er all the crew. 
 
 So his ill presence seemed to cow them all. 
 
 And through the dernness to them came the sound 
 
 Of mocking laughter and harsh gybing speech, 
 Which held them in unwilling wantrustH bound, 
 
 Boding their scathe from some unhealy reach. 
 Slightingly did he inveigh in wrath wise. 
 
 Rating the convertites, and eke their creed. 
 And lauding those lewd eldrich** mysteries 
 
 Of Odin's with fierce threat and subtle rede.tt 
 
 When over the fear'd crew, as he did plye 
 
 His fell persuasion, sorry doubts arose 
 In their unskilful minds, which ill could vie 
 
 With one so deftly versed in sinful glose ; 
 And half persuaded were they that right man. 
 
 The healy Jostine, was their enemie, 
 And feekless Redgrain they at length began 
 
 To think a good persuading one to be. 
 
 "Trow ye," quoth he, " ye ill-judged, wavering churls, 
 
 How your krankjj foUie hath provoked the ire 
 Of those of eld ye feared ? Around ye hurls 
 
 E'en now the Thunderer his wrathen fyre. 
 These swarthy clouds, that compass ye in gloom, 
 
 Are the reflected frowns of Odin's brow ; 
 And, raised by his high indignation, come 
 
 These gyant billows hurtling 'gainst your prow. 
 
 *' Kenn ye not that the wreakful, roaring blast, 
 
 That rushes through the dim vault of the night, 
 Is his unslekked§§ breath, in anger cast 
 
 In sturmllll and din, to warn ye of his might ? 
 
 Maddest, t Dread. :J: Arrow. § Burn. || Stare. 11 Distrust. *• Ancient, 
 tt Warning. tt Weak. §§ Unslacked. |||i Storm.
 
 90 
 
 Ye house within your keel Valhalla's hate, 
 Ye bend before the foe of Odin's throne, 
 
 Render the new faith's beadsman to his fate, 
 Or dree the dole* will fleetlyf be your own. 
 
 " ForethinkJ ye of your lapse from time-old faith, 
 
 Of fineless wassale in the halls of death, 
 Where from the foemen's skulls, who willed them scaith, 
 
 The ghosts of Odin's leal reveleth. 
 Ee ye ashem't of this weak woman's creed — 
 
 This jugglery of doiting, dryvling eld.§ 
 To grede and chant, and kneel in doleful dreed : 
 
 This tricksome beadsman hath your manhood quelled." 
 
 More had he railed, but suddenly a low 
 
 Of wonderous lyte the erewhile darkness broke ; 
 Amidst the which the reverend priest did show, 
 
 Standing before the dazzed oceanfolk, 
 A healy fyre did seem to gyrd him round ; 
 
 A healy wrath did brenne from out his eyne ; 
 Wyles from his lips, in deep and solemn sound, 
 
 He spoke : " Blasphemer ! Rue those words of thine. 
 
 " To thy vile, sensual, impious rule o'er-long 
 
 The darkened souls of men have ye debased ; 
 The wors'aip that to higher Powers belong 
 
 Your blood-stained paganry too long disgraced. 
 Bui, lo ! this sacred rood I raise on high, 
 
 Tlie blessed symbol of a purer reign. 
 Shall mark the tryuniph of our Chrislantie, 
 
 And break the fell links of your Heihen chain. 
 
 " Void thee, lewd scoffer ! Ill I know you brook 
 
 The sight of this blessed, consecrated sign 
 Of that on which the Loved One undertook 
 
 His being for the world's sake to resign. 
 Tempter ! Before my deep anathema 
 
 Depart, and leave us of thy presence free. 
 Nay, I will cope with thee in healy war, 
 
 For weel I wot that Christus is for me." 
 
 And with the upraised rood advanced he. 
 
 And smote at Redgrain bold and lustilie. 
 Who not abode, but loped into the sea. 
 
 And sunk like plummet from each wondering eye. 
 Then Odin's worship waned, and Norsemen grew, 
 
 Under the preaching of that saint-like man. 
 Their eldern faith to spurn, and hail the new 
 
 And goodlier lesson of Salvation's Plan." 
 
 Dread the sorrow — misfortune. t Speedily, + Repent. § Age.
 
 91 
 
 DPwIFTING AND DREAMING. 
 
 Let me here slacken rowing, 
 
 And tranquilly float, 
 As tjie stream listelh onward 
 
 On unimpelled bont. 
 Side or stem ward down-drifting, 
 
 What reason to care? 
 For enlrancement and beauty 
 
 Are everywhere. 
 
 Shadowed he;e by soft greenage 
 
 So luscious and cool, 
 Whose duplicate forms lengthen 
 
 In the calm pool. 
 The shy k'ngfisher's region 
 
 1 muiely invade. 
 And the haunts that the widgeon 
 
 And wildduck have made. 
 
 Where the startled birds flutter. 
 
 Or keen fishes spring, 
 Make the whirl and sharp splutter 
 
 And circling ring. 
 Break the softy, dreamy calmness 
 
 As onward I glide 
 Down the sluggish, meandering, 
 
 Reed-margined tide. 
 
 Let tne welcome wild^visions 
 
 Of passion or fame. 
 Reality's mockery 
 
 Here hath no name. 
 Here the moments are longer, 
 
 More golden than hours, 
 Fancy's essence is sweeter 
 
 Than Fact's sweetest flowers. 
 
 Here Fact hath no empire, 
 
 T-ut Phantasy's sway 
 Draws it magical pictures 
 
 That vanish or stay. 
 As the wrapped entertainer 
 
 May cherish or chide 
 The vain or the credible 
 
 Thoughts eftigied. 
 
 Brightest pageants, light circled, 
 
 As on a fair scroll, 
 Forms piophetical augurs, 
 
 Hope-tinted unroll ; 
 Of emprisal, wreath-crowned, 
 
 As guerdon of worth, 
 Time-honoured, immortalised, 
 
 Given to earth.
 
 92 
 
 Dream of beauty's rare image 
 
 To virtue close knit, 
 The ensample of duty, 
 
 Calm judgment, bright wit ; 
 And thyself its elected, 
 
 Its destiny where, 
 Mirror-like, is reflected 
 
 The foul or the fair. 
 
 Dream the cloudlets o'erhanging 
 
 The sun-lighted dome 
 Are bright isles, where cbiding 
 
 The blessed make home. 
 'Tis thy own bliss thou dreamest, 
 
 For art thou not quite 
 Blessed as those whom thou deemest 
 
 The children of light? 
 
 Let the murk and the vapour, 
 And fret of the world. 
 
 Be shut out as the rosy- 
 Robed vision's unfurled. 
 
 Mirage rises on mirage, 
 They vanish and come, 
 
 Bright illusions of fragrance, 
 Effulgence, and bloom. 
 
 Reality's incubus. 
 
 O'er oftentimes present, 
 Leave me the soft lunacy 
 
 Gentle and pleasant. 
 To dream on a^ I'm drifting. 
 
 Ah ! would 1 could e'er, 
 For the foolings of fancy 
 
 Are better than care. 
 
 Let me rather — " Hullo there !" 
 
 " By Jingo ! What's hap ?" 
 I started up, still half-dreaming : 
 
 A countryfied chap, 
 With a horse-collar grin on. 
 
 His bacon-face calls, 
 " In two minutes more you'd 
 
 Ha' bin o'er the Falls." 
 
 NIGHT THOUGHTS. 
 
 As belated, lone I'm sitting. 
 Now the busy day is ended ; 
 Seldom comes the tramping footfall 
 Of the passing homeward wendcr ;
 
 93 
 
 But the patter of the raindrops, 
 And the moaning of the nightwind, 
 Sweeping fitfully and mournful 
 Round the chimney stacks and gables, 
 I^end more comfort to the chamber ; 
 For the sputter of the seacoa', 
 And the clinking of the embers, 
 With the ticking of the timepiece. 
 And the hearthrug warm and downy, 
 And the easy chair seductive, 
 Make the contrast of the shelter 
 Of the cosy, warm interior 
 To the outside satisfying. 
 
 I have- lain aside the volume 
 
 That for hours has held me spellbound 
 
 With its subtle, deep persuasion, 
 
 Leading me through speculations 
 
 Of deep themes of controversy, 
 
 Till I marvel at the power 
 
 Of the mind's deductive talent, 
 
 Many-sided as a crystal, 
 
 And each face a shining woVider 
 
 Of diversely-tinted reason. 
 
 And I ask, " Where is the ending 
 
 Of the stubborn, earnest warfare 
 
 Of opinion to be hoped for ?" ' 
 
 Will the future ages bring us 
 
 Some solution of the true course 
 
 That the mind of man should travel ? 
 
 Is the bone worth the contention ? 
 
 Is the unrest wisely given ? 
 
 Must conjecture still be bandied 
 
 Through the infinite resources 
 
 Of the wondrously deft players 
 
 Who the shuttlecock inquiry, 
 
 Keep aloft for ever bounding ? 
 
 The reply, though slowly given, 
 Is a deeply-conscious verdict 
 That the labour is not wasted ; 
 That the faculty imparted 
 Is a blessing to be cherished. 
 Is the ever-spreading circle 
 All within it help and daylight, 
 All without it dim and sordid ? 
 'Tis the nurture of the spirit 
 Planted in us, like the fruit tree. 
 Where the soil must be replenished 
 By the fructifying comjjost ; 
 And, with watchful, cleanly tending 
 Of the roots and buds and branches.
 
 94 
 
 All insidious defilement 
 
 Fatal to its healthy being, 
 
 Be subdued, that so the fruitage 
 
 Dwindle not in mass nor flavour. 
 
 'Tis the diligent dispersion 
 
 Of the soiling dust and mill-dew 
 
 That will settle to corrosion. 
 
 'Tis the motion counteracting 
 
 What might else become putrescent ; 
 
 'Tis the exercise that braces 
 
 To athletic mental vigour ; 
 
 Girding with defensive armour 
 
 Our so vulnerable natures 
 
 From the vital shafts of error ; 
 
 Or if one envenom'd rankles, 
 
 'Tis, perhaps, to anodine it 
 
 With some antidotal balsam ; 
 
 'Tis to fit the mental pinions 
 
 To the empyraean regions, 
 
 Where the still expanding prospect 
 
 Lends a juster estimation 
 
 Of the varied map of beauty 
 
 Spread out to the fair horizon, 
 
 Than the earth-bound clod can drenm of, 
 
 Who, in misty, dim, contentment 
 
 Toils and sleeps and feeds existence 
 
 Out supinely or in anxious 
 
 Worship of the ruling Mammon, 
 
 But, relaxed by current twaddle, 
 
 Ceaselessly rereplicated. 
 
 Let me rather tread the mazes 
 
 Of opinion's labyrinth, 
 
 Searching for the clue evnsjve. 
 
 Leading to the certain issue. 
 
 Down each avenue allurement, 
 
 Even where research is bafiled 
 
 Of the special prize I covet ; 
 
 Some undreamed-of newness guerdons 
 
 The invigorating effort. 
 
 Rarely left I off regretful. 
 
 Seldom destitute of profit, 
 
 But how frequently elated 
 
 With a marvel and enchantment 
 
 At the grand and varied phases. 
 
 At the vast chromatic changes, 
 
 At the tones of thought unending. 
 
 That the subtle human fancy 
 
 (That illimitable gamut) 
 
 Can transpose in variations, 
 
 Multiplied beyond conception ; 
 
 Where occasionally discord
 
 95 
 
 Lends the harmony enchantment ; 
 
 Where the sombre -toned conception, 
 
 Vivifies the brighter flashes; 
 
 Where the doubt is oft the offspring 
 
 Of a hope of something betier 3 
 
 Where regret is borne along 
 
 On rosy expectation's pinions ; 
 
 Where I trace a certain nearing 
 
 To more harmonious condition ; 
 
 A wider, charitable leaning 
 
 To different modes of one desiring; 
 
 A broader general recognition 
 
 Of human claims long unacknowledged ; 
 
 An aspiration of redemption. 
 
 Of millions from unjust prescription, 
 
 That caste and privilege injurious 
 
 A penal heritage imposes; 
 
 A rising of the misty vapours, 
 
 Of ignorance and dull convention, 
 
 Intolerance, and superstition, 
 
 Betraying men with wrath delusions 
 
 To bitterness of one another ; 
 
 Induction by a milder process 
 
 Of clearer streams of filtered wisdom, 
 
 To slake the thirsting of inquiry, 
 
 Witii healthy, thoughted disquisition ; 
 
 Reduction of the moral barren, 
 
 Or tangled jungle wildly growing, 
 
 A scandal and reproach around us 
 
 To fruitful order and succession ; 
 
 A capitation premium offered 
 
 (As on the wolf's head in times olden). 
 
 On strangled vice or baneful notions 
 
 That raven on the populations. 
 
 Ah Rs|jerance, thou rosy goddess ! 
 
 Kee[)^thy fair face for aye illumined 
 
 ^Vith the sweet smile of inspiration 
 
 Upon tlie earnest-hearted workers. 
 
 Who for the coming time are anxious. 
 
 And grateful for all present blessings. 
 
 Both cleanse and plant, that generations 
 
 Unborn may reap and glean the harvest. 
 
 Labour, where self is not llie tasker, 
 
 Is a devotion to the certain, 
 
 Undoubtful holiness of nature, 
 
 That mounts mankind by rising stages 
 
 To Virtue's high plateau delightful. 
 
 There the perfection of our being 
 
 Can breathe at case and satisfaction ; 
 
 'Tis there the grove of soft contentment 
 
 Blooms, and embalms perpetual odours ; 
 
 The earth that nearest is to heaven ;
 
 96 
 
 The state most kindred with the blessed, 
 
 Approximating to angelic. 
 
 Ye in the vale of gloom, mount upward ; 
 
 Strength gathers with the earnest efforts. 
 
 Be not affrighted at the distance ; 
 
 It dwindles as the mist's surmounted ; 
 
 It shows more lovely as you struggle ; 
 
 And when at last you scaling triumph, 
 
 You feel a victor's exultation, 
 
 You pluck the wreath of self-approval — 
 
 You are freemate to Conscious Duty. 
 
 CHESTERTON BELLS. 
 
 I NEVER near the merry chime 
 
 Of steeple bells ring on the air 
 But I recall the rosy time 
 
 Of youth, with its illusions fair, 
 And its fresh feelings of delight, 
 
 On which tenacious memory dwells. 
 Whose prized remembrances unite 
 
 With Chesterton's sweet sounding bells. 
 
 Oh Cam ! thy narrow, tiny tide 
 
 Was then a mighty stream to me ; 
 And the gay skiffs that used to glide 
 
 Upon thy breast were ships at sea. 
 Thy banks of sedge and shingle stones 
 
 Had greater charms than gold-strewn shore ; 
 And Chesterton, thy sWeet bells' tones. 
 
 Than all else music thrilled me more. 
 
 In the soft summer evening calm. 
 
 When sunset's glow was on the trees, 
 Their melodies diffused a charm. 
 
 As, faintly floating on the breeze. 
 They came like choral strains awoke 
 
 By spirits in the glowing skies ; 
 And their sweet clamours seem to yoke 
 
 The then to present reveries. 
 
 In childish dread again I stand 
 
 Upon the river's silty marge, 
 Drawn by a timely-rescuing hand 
 
 From 'neath the downward drifting barge ; - 
 And as my stifled senses 'gan 
 
 To greet the living world again, 
 Thy carillon of gladness ran 
 
 The changes of delight from pain.
 
 97 
 
 They conjure back the truant hour, 
 
 So full of idle, heedless joy, 
 That years of after-cares lack power 
 
 To sadden with their dull alloy. 
 The^ bare-legged paddle in the stream, 
 
 The boyish angle, child-rigged boat, 
 The fairy forms of life's young dream. 
 
 Like midges, all before me float. 
 And Riverlane and Stourbridge plain, 
 
 And Midsummer's and Ditton's dykes, 
 With fond entrain I scour again. 
 
 Oblivious of the world's dislikes ; 
 And the soft symphony that rung 
 
 The according joy will linger on. 
 And memory cling, as then love clung 
 
 To thy sweet bells, Old Chesterton. 
 
 TO MAY. 
 
 Hail ! nymph of fresh and smiling mien, 
 In daisy-spangled robe of green. 
 Crowned with a varied flowery wreath, 
 Thy lips emitting violet breath ; 
 While in thy hand the blossom'd thorn 
 Shakes out its essence to the morn. 
 Thy dimpled feet, with lightsome tread, 
 Scarce bend the sprouting floweret's head ) 
 In thy mild eye the tempered ray 
 Nor chills nor scorches the glad day ; 
 And thy benignant smile, I wiss. 
 Gives promise of prospective bliss. 
 
 Hark !_thy glad presence doth awake 
 Melodious paeans in each brake ; 
 And infant laughter, lightly borne, 
 Comes from the snowy-blossom'd thorn ; 
 And joy bells' jingling musics seem 
 To hail thee in each passing team ; 
 And dancing hinds and maidens bright 
 Deftly in measured capers light. 
 Dance to the pipe and tabofs strain. 
 And voice thy praise in glad refrain. 
 Nature and man make holiday 
 To welcome thee, sweet, jocund Maiy, 
 
 Thou darling of the yearly train, 
 Thine is the green and generous reign 
 Of lush-soft, i)Iiant, bounding youth; 
 No feigning mirih, but mirth in sooth ;
 
 98 
 
 When all is fresh, and nought is coy, 
 Thy temperate pleasure surest joy — 
 Nor smile and tear, nor steadfast frown, 
 Nor passion's scorch, nor sorrow's moan, 
 Nor flaunting sear in gaudy tire, 
 Nor frost-bound apathy — most dire — 
 But healthy, innocent, and gay : 
 I am thy votary, goddess May ! 
 
 THE STREET AND THE ASYLUM. 
 
 A TRAMP, a tramp, a weary tramp, 
 
 Through saddened streets, in cold and damp, 
 
 A quest, a quest, a ghastly qnest. 
 
 At loss of health and needful rest ; 
 
 A graceful form, in graceless gear, 
 
 The bloom of life untimely sear. 
 
 As though a mildew's blighting breath 
 
 Nipped May-flowers with incipient death, 
 
 A sigh — a deep and laboured sigh. 
 As unlapsed sisters pass her by, 
 Such as the exile's soul exhales 
 For his lost land and native vales ; 
 To which, despairing a return, 
 Noslalgian fires within him burn, 
 Keeping his mind with longing strain 
 On joys it ne'er can taste again. 
 
 A laugh — a feverish, reckless laugh. 
 Than sigh or sob more sad by half ; 
 For at its harsh, discordant ring 
 Hope's angel droops the expanded wing. 
 And veils its tearful eyes in woe 
 For Earth's fair daughters, sunk so low 
 That strongest faiths almost despair 
 To trace the path to ransom there. 
 
 A moan — a faint, spasmodic moan, 
 Some words in bated whisper tone ; 
 A prayer— an ardent Christian prayer, 
 In tender ruth and pious care ; 
 A bright dilation of the eye, 
 As piercing to eternity ; 
 A thankful glance around her cast. 
 And the short, stormy transit's past.
 
 99 
 
 A REVIEW. 
 
 Day is over, night is wasted, 
 Morn's wee hour is drawing on ; 
 
 Yet while day and evening lasted 
 Can I approve what I have done ? 
 
 Have the moments been expended 
 '1 o my proper gain or loss ? 
 
 Or one stage more of being ended. 
 Marked by a sorry penance cross ? 
 
 The atoms lost of golden time, 
 Through the unkept rents of life, 
 
 Bring opulence of youth and prime 
 *In age to penury and strife. 
 
 Fullest urns that percolate, 
 
 Drop by drop, their precious juice 
 Will ultimately desiccate ; 
 
 Waste's Profusion's worst abuse. 
 
 Be it time, or store, or power, 
 They are ours for use and good : 
 
 Restless is the mortal rower 
 
 On the eternal downward flood. 
 
 Vast and dear the usance rate 
 
 or jcwell'd instants Time has lent : 
 
 His must be a sorry state 
 
 Who fifty wastes of every cent. 
 
 Watch the time to delve and hoe. 
 Choose the healthy seed to sow, 
 
 Tend it till it ripe and grow. 
 
 Garner 'gainst the frost and snow. 
 
 Let no stain thou canst erase 
 From the sullied past endure ; 
 
 Seek the mighty-helping grace 
 To keep thy future just and pure. 
 
 Then, whene'er thou seekest thy rest. 
 
 In nightly or eternal bed. 
 Thy body's slumber shall be blest, 
 
 'i'hy spirits, waking, hallowed. 
 
 QUEKY. 
 
 What are the odds, as fortune doles 
 The winning or the losing lot, 
 
 Whether they be the happier souls 
 Who have their wish, or have it not ?
 
 lOO 
 
 THE CURSE. 
 
 You see the broken scutcheon o'er the gate ? 
 
 The headless wyverns that on either side 
 In grim burlesque of vain heraldic state 
 
 Mark only where once ruled baronial pride ; 
 But now are trophies of a doom-struck line, 
 
 On which the canker of corruption fed, 
 That, through the constant stages of decline. 
 
 Has sunk and left a memory of dread. 
 
 I, ruthless founder by the force of guile. 
 
 And turbulent, red-handed mightiness, 
 Built up the house to a half regal style 
 
 By an ill subtlety and dark address. 
 But dun traditions, floating down the tide 
 
 Of time remote, in dim reports rehearse, 
 That with his titles and demesnes of pride 
 
 He to his heirs bequeathed a doom and curse. 
 
 He rose when England shuddered in the throes 
 
 Of war intcstine^ — in the rueful days ; 
 So rife in horror and in nameless woes. 
 
 And episodes of sufferings and dismays — 
 When things of beauty, like the roses twain. 
 
 Ruddy and White symbolled the ruthless bands 
 Who drenched Old England with war's bloody rain,' 
 
 And fertilised with brothers' gore her lands. 
 
 This fatal ancestor (the story goes) 
 
 Stormed some strong manor of the Yorkist clan, 
 Where such stout let preceded the red close 
 
 Of the fell contest tliat no living man 
 The Lancasterian victors left to tell 
 
 The rueful tale ; and still a direr fate 
 The women of the vanquished ones befell — 
 
 Delivered up to brutal, lustful hate. 
 
 While he, supreme in cruelty and crime, 
 
 Whose word to save or doom had equal power, 
 More coldly vile and impiously sublime 
 
 In victory than fierce in battle's hour 
 (Though that's the only virtue he could boast — 
 
 If 'tis a virtue when it stands alone), 
 Became the exemplar of his rampant host 
 
 In all the basest leads that could be shown. 
 
 More than the lorn dependants of the place 
 Of womenkind survived a daughter fair. 
 
 And a bedridden granddame of the race. 
 Long since dependent upon other's care.
 
 lOI 
 
 Dimly her consciousness was waning out; 
 
 And, when the storm of war beset her bower, 
 She lay unknowing of the bloody rout, 
 
 Oblivious of the fate-impending hour. 
 
 'Twas there, beside her else deserted couch, 
 
 In the wild impulse of bewildered dread. 
 The maiden fled, in agony to crouch, 
 
 And sanctuarise before the nearly dead : 
 Thither her fell pursuer followed close, 
 
 Her he had destined for his special prey, 
 Enflamed, malignant, in his passion gross, 
 
 From her young beauty's maidenly array. 
 
 There, as that scene of wild despair ensued, 
 
 The prostrate dowager with vacant stare 
 Vaguely gazed on, and wonderingly viewed, 
 
 Striving to gather what the meanings were 
 Of sights and sounds so strangely, wildly new, 
 
 Till, quickened suddenly, her senses seemed 
 The mortal haze to brusquely battle through. 
 
 And, like a flash, the truth upon her beamed. 
 
 Yes, all the truth ! As leaps the livid flame 
 
 From darkness to a fierce, diffused light 
 On the surroundings that were dim and tame. 
 
 Making distinct relief from general night. 
 So all at one swift flash her mental gloom 
 
 Was lumined by the truth-informing thought. 
 And all the ghastly past and fate to come 
 
 On her mind's mirror vividly were brought. 
 
 While the unequal contest of despair 
 
 With brutal violence they desperate wage 
 Flcr sunken eyeballs flashed unearthly glare, 
 
 And every feature worked with helpless rage.. 
 Yet, still inert and nerveless as the dead. 
 
 Her outspread hands lay on the (juilted tire, 
 A seeming corse, all but perception fled, 
 
 A prey to inwardly consuming fire. 
 
 But when the victim, spent by horrors dread 
 
 And futile struggle, in unconsciousness 
 Sank helpless by her stricken granddame's bed,. 
 
 With one wild shriek of uttermost distress — 
 As by a swift, revivifying thrill — 
 
 A power mysterious seized that palsied frame, 
 Or governed by a superhuman will, 
 
 Or forces that one knows not how to name ; 
 
 But suddenly and ghastly she arose, 
 Dreadful in mortal indignation's wrath, 
 
 And s|)rang uj)on the floor to interpose 
 And bar the brutal sacrilegious scathe.
 
 I02 
 
 In mute, but wild, appalling ecstacy 
 
 Before the startled wretch she palely rose, 
 
 With strange prophetic gleams in either eye, 
 And features working in convulsive throes. 
 
 And there, 'tis said, in utterance dread and deep 
 
 From lips long mute the malison went forth 
 That wrecked his daily peace and nightly sleep. 
 
 And made his power and wealth of nothing worth, 
 And clung in some strange, unexpected way 
 
 To all of his in scathe, or dole, or gloom. 
 Till fortune waned, and prestige knew decay. 
 
 And dark extinction marked their final doom. 
 
 INKERMANN. 
 
 The night was passed in drear unrest 
 
 Within the brave besiegers' camp, 
 'Midst drizzhng rain the heroes press'd 
 
 The reeking earth, full cold and damp ; 
 The misty pall hung on the height. 
 
 While from the vale uncertain rose, 
 At intervals throughout the night, 
 
 The rumbling echoes from our foes. 
 
 By long and restless toil outworn, 
 
 The lone piquetman's weary sense 
 Might well be numb'd and overborne, 
 
 And heavy grown from dull suspense; 
 The muffled legions still advance, 
 
 Unheard had clambered up the steep, 
 When through the mist the bayonet glance 
 
 Of deadly columns grimly peep. 
 
 Like waves succeeding waves, the tide 
 
 Of onward rolling ranks succeed, 
 And mortal volleys, far and wide. 
 
 Prelude a bloody strife indeed. 
 Amazed, but firm, the gallant few 
 
 The disproportioned contest hold ; 
 To former honours adding new, 
 
 Each foot of ground they dearly sold. 
 
 The camp, like lions roused from sleep, 
 
 Starts into unsuppressive ire. 
 And British steel and bullets sweep 
 
 The foemen back in wild retire ; 
 Keeling, their scattered front gives way 
 
 In drunken flight and yelling spleen; 
 But onward still fresh hosts in grey 
 
 Pour in the broken gaps between,
 
 In front, in flank, assaillin;:; swarms 
 
 In giant odds perpetual pour ; 
 But quenchless is the fire that warms 
 
 The British heart in battle's hour. 
 Again and o'er again are driven, 
 
 Broken and back those bristling ban: Is, 
 As though o'erruHng Fate had given 
 
 His alight into our warriors' hands. 
 
 Long raged the unequal bloody din, 
 
 Many — our bravest, bes' — were down, 
 In honour, giving life to win 
 
 Another wreath for glory's crown. 
 And well 'twas won and nobly earned ; 
 
 Each one his share, in flank or van 
 Whose heart for England's honour burned 
 
 And fought for it at Inkermann. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE'S TERCENTENARY. 
 
 Why should the bells be rung — 
 Why festive paeans sung — 
 
 Marking this day ?' 
 Why do these banners flout ? 
 Why does the nation shout ? 
 
 Why this array ?■ 
 
 Three hundred years gone by 
 (Oh ! let each nature's votary 
 
 Hallow the inorn), 
 All in the sweet springtide, 
 Near glassy Avon's side, 
 
 Shakespeare was born. 
 
 Was he of royal race ? 
 
 Held he high statesman's place, 
 
 l\)wcr, and fame ? 
 Famed was he for victories won? 
 Revered for some priestly boon ? 
 
 What was his claim ? 
 
 If to be greatest be 
 Title to royalty, 
 
 Kingly was he ; 
 If to sway mind and soul 
 With beauty and strength's control, 
 
 Yield him his fee.
 
 104 
 
 Bloodless his battle-roll, 
 But on Time's honour-scroll, 
 
 Boldly displayed ; 
 He vanquished with fiery thought, 
 By tenderest charm* he fought, 
 
 Deftly arrayed. 
 
 So cunning his polity. 
 That love, half idolatry, 
 
 Subscribes to his law. 
 All nature's dark twinings. 
 All Fancy's combinings, 
 
 He unravelled and saw. 
 
 He taught, no priest better ; 
 His word and his letter 
 
 Seemed virtue and truth; 
 He aroused no false terrors. 
 He glossed no venal errors, 
 
 But preach'd honour and ruth. 
 
 'Tis for this, the great dower he gave, 
 A rich casket, with jewels brave, 
 
 That our gratitude's stirred ; 
 Though three hundred years have flown. 
 That myriads in unison 
 
 Hail the bless'd Twenty-Third. 
 
 THE SIEGE OF SAGUNTUM, 
 
 The leagu'ring hosts of conquering Carthage ring 
 
 The doomed Iberian city closely round : 
 Without the walls, in ample revelling, 
 
 The glutted troops in wasteful cheer abound. 
 Wrung from a ravaged province by the band 
 
 Whose fire and sword have swept and scorched up all. 
 A swarm tremendous, having for command 
 
 Hamilcar's son, the mighty Hannibal ; 
 One of the lion cubs, his angry sire 
 
 Vauntingly prated he had reared to chase 
 The foeman who at sea escaped his ire 
 
 To land, and hunt to death the Roman race. 
 
 The environed town has giant efforts made 
 
 In a prolonged and desperate defence ; 
 Stealthy surprise, and open escalade, 
 
 Have wasted it with carnage and suspense ; 
 The meagre sentries show like mailed ghosts. 
 
 For the spent stores and granaries are bare ;
 
 Some drop from inanition at their posts, 
 
 When other phantoms take their stations there ; 
 No life but what is human span those walls. 
 
 The loathsom'st carrion man in peace would shun, 
 And garbage that the dainty sense appals, 
 
 Gustfully now is seized and battened on ; 
 Blockaded in with Famine and Despair, 
 
 All hope cut off of rescue or supply, 
 The aged, young, the rugged, and the fair, 
 
 Have but the choice of death or slavery, 
 That choice has long been made : one spirit reigns. 
 
 The fixed, indomitable, judgment past, 
 Rather than wear the Carthaginian chains 
 
 To make their urban home one altar vast ; 
 To the last verge of life the strife to bide, 
 
 And the inevitable moment come. 
 Their keen, expectant pillagers deride. 
 
 With flaming ruins and one common tomb. 
 
 That mournful eve has come ; towards the east 
 
 The Iberus flows, shimmering in the light 
 Of Dian, rising in a cloudy yeast ; 
 
 The dull camp-sounds drum in the ears of night, 
 The twinkling camp-fires dot the tented plain. 
 
 The accustomed wards upon the watch-towers stand, 
 Though scarcely strength is left them to sustain 
 
 Their weapon's weight, so famine has unmanned. 
 
 Within the walls what harrowing scenes ensue ! 
 
 What pen or pencil feebly indicate 
 The pictures of devotion, stern and true, 
 
 The resignation mute and desolate ? 
 The gaunt and hoUow-visaged groups that there, 
 
 Tried by the imminent and mortal test, 
 Depict the varied phases of despair. 
 
 And of affection proofs the loveliest. 
 Imagination may mock the shades 
 
 To act again that horrent drama through ; 
 And yet how mistily the fiction fades 
 
 In tragic wonder to the action true. 
 Children and women, men in stricken age. 
 
 Compose the chiefcst members gathered. 
 All youth, or manhood, that could battle wage. 
 
 Are numbered at their posts, or with the dead. 
 These feeble hands combustive matter pile 
 
 In heaps, and trains conductive through each room, 
 What now will burn is valued most, that vile 
 
 That cannot aid the human hecatomb ; 
 Each home is an incipient furnace made. 
 
 The ready-lighted torches' flames arise, 
 The work of devastation is but stayed. 
 
 Until the pre-determined moment flies.
 
 10^ 
 
 The future equally is bounded in 
 
 To every of those doom-encircled souls, 
 The loving hope of youth's imagining 
 
 Cannot outlast extremest senile doles ; 
 The ignorance of childhood wears a shade 
 
 Of pain and wonder, in suspended mirth, 
 And by a wilder tenderness dismayed, 
 
 Shrinks screaming from the breast that gave it birth 
 While others, with an elder semi-sense, 
 
 Or vague conception of impending ill, 
 Nestle and cling in silent confidence. 
 
 Believing in that shelter safety still. 
 The maiden, in her early woman's bloom, 
 
 Withered and faded by fell famine's blight, 
 Calmly resigned to what must be her doom. 
 
 Esteeming it a boon to that which might ; 
 Still in the lapse she tenderly doth pour 
 
 On treasured love-gift of her young heart's choice. 
 That valiant spirit that hath gone before. 
 
 But whose brave memory her love doth voice 
 In low-breathed murmurs of his cherished name. 
 
 Who fell amongst the early patriot dead ; 
 But still in death, as life, beloved the same. 
 
 Or with a keener fondness nourished. 
 Protracted anguish lacks the soft relief 
 
 That tears could give her ; with a feeble moan, 
 An upward glance, more hopeful than of grief, 
 
 " Dearest," she whispers, " I shall join you soon, 
 And with a spirit stainless as thine own, 
 
 Share thy blessed lot amid the radiant skies ; 
 Celestial bliss shall earthly grief atone. 
 
 And sorrow change to endless ecstasies." 
 
 With wild and hungry eyes an aged pair 
 
 Sit motionless, and mutely ruminate. 
 With an unchangeable and glassy stare, 
 
 As though the hopeless task to palliate 
 The present weight of fell calamity 
 
 Were tacitly renounced, for the sweet spring 
 Of soothing consolation has run dry. 
 
 And left them to their silent sorrowing. 
 Their sons have, one by one, dying or dead, 
 
 Been carried from the walls to that sad room ; 
 The last lies ghastly on that blood-stained bed, 
 
 Adding death's horrors to the chamber's gluuui. 
 The latest words those sad survivors spake 
 
 Were in their blessing to that dying son. 
 In those heart-melting tones of love that make 
 
 The bliss and glory of the passing one. 
 Mutely beside his bed of death they stood 
 
 Gazing intently in his filming orbs 
 As liie ebb'd slowly like a sinking flood,
 
 107 
 
 For mortal awe intcnser grief absorbs. 
 The death-rail ceased ; a grey and ashy hue 
 
 Spread, like a mist wreath, o'er his features wan, 
 And by a deeper silent chill they knew 
 
 Their last and best-beloved son was gone. 
 Actionless long they gazed, then o'er his face 
 
 Tenderly drew the bed-tire's linen fold ; 
 Then sat them down in the hearth's vacant space 
 
 To watch him as they watched his sleep of old. 
 Death found them there inert and motionless ; 
 
 They sought him not, nor did they shun his tread ; 
 He found them silent, wrapped, and notionless 
 
 Of all, save that their last, sole hope was dead. 
 
 The noon of night has come ; the spent camp-fires 
 
 Smouldering faintly light the sentry's watch. 
 Who of his long-drawn nightly vigil tires. 
 
 And ponders on the sack and loot to match, 
 The mortified and baffled pride of war, 
 
 The keen and greedy spirits wear and tear. 
 He starts and listens ! Shrilly from afar 
 
 A trumpet-blast rings through the silent air ; 
 And promptly, as the dead at doom shall rise. 
 
 The drowsy camp springs up in startled haste, 
 Hurriedly question of the wild sur[)rise 
 
 That breaks upon them in the nightly waste. 
 Again, and yet again, the clarion rings 
 
 Its shrill, sustained, defiant echoes round, 
 And with each blast a deeper wonder flings 
 
 On the half-sleeping troops that list the sound. 
 A mourning veil of gloom obscures the sky, 
 
 And fitful tokens of an angry wind 
 In hollow, plaintive tones swept sadly by, 
 
 As flying from some fierce pursuit behind. 
 O'er the encircled town, from whence has sped 
 
 That startling challenge that so sudden broke 
 The dreamy quietude of night, is spread 
 
 A crown of dense and black ascending smoke, 
 Whose volume, whirling in the darkened air 
 
 Distends and spreads a choking odour round. 
 Lighted anon by a fierce, lurid glare, 
 
 bursting in anger on the drear profound. 
 And simultaneous with that flash upwent 
 
 An irrepressive yell of common ire, 
 Finding one voice, as those fierce flames found vent, 
 
 " Saguntum burns ! Saguntum is on fire." 
 Swiftly as shot that gleam of angry light 
 
 Upward and round, so quickly pierced the thought 
 Through each who gazed on that imposing sight 
 
 That fall was triumph ! victory was nought ! 
 
 Each strained eye-ball like a ruby shines. 
 
 Corslets and bucklers, helms and spears gleam bright,
 
 4o8 
 
 Tents, ambulances, flags, all in the lines, 
 
 Are glowing in a blood-red glare of light; 
 And, like a baffled pack of hounds at fault, 
 
 A purposeless, confused tumult rose ; 
 Angry and orderless they run, they halt, 
 
 They imprecate their loss, but praise their foes. 
 But the fierce spectacle evolves its dread. 
 
 Attractive, horrid charms of tragedy ; 
 The grandeur that destructiveness can shed, 
 
 The admirable of calamity. 
 Gorgeous but awful, as those flames arise, 
 
 The valiant spirits that could light them soar 
 Triumphant and defiant to the skies, 
 
 Thorough the crackling city's direful roar ; 
 But not the transient brilliance of the flame 
 
 Shall glimmer on the memory of the dead, 
 But the undying lights of death-bought fame 
 
 Shall gild it to all ages that succeed. 
 
 MY TASTE, 
 
 When I can. snatch a holiday 
 
 I like to make a jolly day ; 
 
 To make my Charlie don her gear. 
 
 And put herself in feather ; 
 To stow a little prog away — 
 Some fragrant weed, a tube of clay ; 
 And then into the country steer 
 
 To take a walk together. 
 
 I like, too, when we've had our fill 
 Of vale and woodland, stream and hill, 
 To find some little snuggery 
 
 That's private, clean, and homely. 
 There to recruit exhausted nature, 
 To munch, and sip a drop of " creature,' 
 Which mauger all humbuggery, 
 
 Is proper, pleasant, comely. 
 
 I like a sanded floor as well 
 As curtained, carpeted hotel. 
 When out on such a roving — 
 In fact, I mueh prefer it.
 
 I09 
 
 With baron-racks all overhead, 
 A chimney nook, the table spread, 
 Alone with her so loving, 
 Is pleasant, I aver it. 
 
 To eggs and bacon I incline, 
 
 And home-made bread not over-fine 
 
 (Tastes vary in such matters, 
 
 But I prefer it crusty). 
 When exercise has given zest, 
 The snack enlivened by many a jest. 
 To contemplate the platters 
 
 Is pastime " none so dusty." 
 
 I like to see the household dog 
 Come slowly in to scent the prog, 
 Then squat politely by my side, 
 
 For little snacks so grateful, 
 And seem to say, in dogs' dumb talk : 
 " I hope you have enjoyed your walk ; 
 I should be happy to divide 
 
 With you that pretty plateful." 
 
 T like as well a country ramble, 
 
 'Mid beech and elm and broom and bramble, 
 
 As any who have sung their praise 
 
 In style so much superior. 
 Some painters picture wooded hills, 
 Some coasts, some lanes, some shadowy rills. 
 Some fiery sunsets, morning's haze :^ 
 
 I like a snug interior. 
 
 r/yi/ioiitli, Aiifumn, 1854. 
 
 THE ENCHANTED LOVER. 
 
 From the French of Fab re U Eglantine — ye TAime Tanf : Romance. 
 
 I LOVE thee truly and so well 
 
 That the — how much — I cannot say, 
 Though to each wind my love I tell 
 
 With every breath that sighs away. 
 Absent or present, near, away, 
 
 " I love thee !'' are the words I find ; 
 With thee, or in the concourse gay, 
 
 Thou'rt in my sight and in my mind.
 
 no 
 
 To trace thee in a hundred fasliions 
 
 Is my pen's sole and loved employ ; 
 To sing thee in all varied passions, 
 
 To read thee in each volume's joy. 
 Each beauteous one that meets my gaze 
 
 I seek thy beauty in her glance ; 
 Each limned perfection's varied phase 
 
 Thy charms more perfectly enhance. 
 
 In cities, fields, at home, abroad, 
 
 Thy gentle image is caressed ; 
 Thou'rt in my slumbers'-eve adored. 
 
 In my last melting memory blessed. 
 When I awake from visioned bliss, 
 
 Before the daylight meets my eye, 
 My heart so swift and eager is 
 
 I see thy image standing by. 
 
 Apart, I am present at thy side, 
 
 Divining all thy converse sweet ; 
 My feelings to thine own aUied, 
 
 My soul with thy soul's cares replete : 
 Return'd to thee, my spirits move 
 
 Heavenward with a delirious ire ; 
 I live but on the breath of love. 
 
 And thine the breath that I aspire. 
 
 Thy love is all my fortune, guide ; 
 
 To please thee all my envy's aim ; 
 For thee, in thee, by thee beside. 
 
 To live and breathe, have only name. 
 My well-beloved I my only treasure ! 
 
 Can love's sweet rapture higher soar ? 
 Oh heaven ! I dote beyond all measure, 
 
 And, if I could, would love thee more. 
 
 6, Hardi/ige Street, Islington, j/^uly ■^rd, 1866. 
 
 THE DISENCHANTED LOVER. 
 
 From the French of Fahre BFglantine — FAmant D'esahusi: Romance. 
 
 Leave me ! leave me ! false and fair ! 
 
 Cease thy smiling, mocking part ; 
 Thy gentle glance and timid air 
 
 Too long have swayed my trusting heart :
 
 Ill 
 
 No more love's weakness I confess ; 
 
 Henceforth I'm from thy empire free ; 
 In future vain thy false address — 
 
 I separate myself from thee. 
 
 Thou'st lost for me that verbal grace 
 
 Where love and reason seemed blent ; 
 All in thee, even to thy face, 
 
 Is changed. Love the illusion lent ! 
 My soul idolatrous, in worship vain, 
 
 Bent at a seeming goddess' shrine. 
 Goddess ! be woman once again, 
 
 And, woman ! own no thought of mine. 
 
 Cease to demand those lettered lies, 
 
 Those vouchers of thy falsehood proved ; 
 Pen me no sophist histories, 
 
 Nor, penned, believe me by them moved ; 
 Renounce the cruel, vain desire 
 
 To wake the memory of the past : 
 I blush at basking in false fire, 
 
 And glory that I am free at last. 
 
 I then was timid, credent, weak. 
 
 Before thee, but am so no more ; 
 Plan, hope, dissimulate, and seek, 
 
 Thy subterfuge hath lost its power ; 
 Feign a severe or honied air, 
 
 A gracious speech or fierce reply. 
 You nothing feel, and even there 
 
 I read the falsehood in your eye. 
 
 Or thy estrangement or advance 
 
 To me arc equal and as nought ; 
 I'm heedless of thy word or glance, 
 
 Nor on thee waste reproach nor thought. 
 "What are tliy sorrows or thy fears, 
 
 I am unmindful of their qualms ; 
 Unmoved or by thy voice or tears, 
 
 And, more, unconscious of thy charms. 
 
 Shun me, or seek another chain ; 
 
 Be fond, or rest without desire ; 
 For me thy love or hate remain 
 
 Powerless t'invoke or joy, or ire ; 
 For both thy crimes and virtues seem 
 
 Of great and little import shorn : 
 I take from thee all past esteem. 
 
 And I refuse thee even scorn. 
 
 6, Ilardi/igc Street, IsliJigton, July i?fi/i, 1866.
 
 112 
 
 MORPHEUS AND THE INVALID. 
 
 Freely translated from the French of Fabre U Egla7itine. 
 
 A WRETCHED man lay in his bed, 
 Driving from eyes and thoughts reviving sleep, 
 While gracious dreams in eager concourse sweep 
 And flutter round his aching head. 
 About his pillow they in silence wind, 
 Slowly and patiently, their drowsy store ; 
 From cups of poppy flowers, of juices pour ; 
 But still the wretched man no sleep would find. 
 
 " Ungrateful one !" Morpheus cried ; 
 
 " Dost thou forget my favour and thy prayers ? 
 
 Saidst thou not, when betrayed by worldly snares, 
 
 Pretended friendship, or overwhelming greed, 
 
 ' My vexed and humbled spirit stands in need 
 
 Of soothing comfort and a guide. 
 
 Come, God of Sleep ! come, close my eyelids down; 
 
 Place on my aching head thy poppy crown ? 
 
 These were thy words, and I, in pity kind, 
 
 Have drugged in sleep thy agitated mind ; 
 
 Have soothed thee to a soft, refreshing rest, 
 
 And tranquillised the fever in thy breast ; 
 
 Yet thou to-night dost from thy lip 
 
 Ungraciously put by the proffered good, 
 
 And rather languishest in waking mood 
 
 Than of their peaceful chalice sip. 
 
 No more my troup of rosy dreams 
 
 Shall weary their soft wings in lullabies 
 
 And futile efforts to weigh down his eyes, 
 
 Who of their care so thankless seems. 
 
 My calm endurance is used up \ 
 
 Of human suffering keep the vigil still ; 
 
 My train no more shall wait upon thy will, 
 
 Nor thou drink of my peaceful cup." 
 
 " Soft soother of the wretched throng ! 
 Divinity of rest ! suspend thy wrath. 
 Nor angrily command thy angels forth 
 To punish me for thankless wrong." 
 The rebel urged, in accents mild : 
 " A goodly man this day has succoured me, 
 And gratitude for his blessed charity 
 Hath me of your soft care beguiled.
 
 1^3 
 
 LILY OF ROUEN. 
 
 Sir Guest, the storm which drove you here 
 
 Is unabated yet ; 
 And, by my sooth ! the ingle's cheer 
 Seems by the contrast doubly dear, 
 And you may more content you here 
 
 Than in the bruit and wet. 
 
 Fill up again your horn of mead, 
 
 And closer to the hearth 
 Draw in your stool, and list my rede 
 To bide the night with us ; indeed. 
 Delay is oft the better speed, 
 
 In time of nature's wrath. 
 
 Plain yeoman's welcome, and rude fare 
 
 Of roof, and board, and bed, 
 Alone I proffer you to share, 
 And homely country chat, to wear 
 The lagging hours, and lighten care, 
 
 If they may be your stead. 
 
 The wold is wild, the ways are foul, 
 
 The homesteads far between ; 
 And on such night no Christian soul, 
 \Vhen drenching rain, and fierce winds howl 
 Prevail, should brook their fierce control 
 
 In Christian land, I ween. 
 
 Look to your gear, good wife of mine, 
 
 To bed the stranger well. 
 Ila ! Ha ! I read that look of thine. 
 Sir Guest, the wonder in thine cy'ne, 
 Thou could'st not check, 1 can divine. 
 
 And can the cause on't tell. 
 
 You wonder one so young and fair, 
 
 So fresh and comely all. 
 Who tended us with modest care. 
 With less of wife's than daughter's air. 
 With such an unmeet mate should pair, 
 
 And how it could befall. 
 
 Well, while my spouse doth thrifty ply 
 
 Her household heed for yon, 
 'Twill pass the time more fieetly by, 
 For lack of better theme, if I 
 Relate to you the history 
 
 How this match strangely grew.
 
 114 
 
 On pate and beard my sable hair 
 
 Is grizzled with the white ; 
 While she, in youth and beauty fair, 
 Is fresh as rose in summer air, 
 And with her beauty can compare 
 
 Her temper's pure delight. 
 
 I am uncouth, and roughly wrought — 
 
 She graceful as the fawn ; 
 With every gentle impulse fraught, 
 And soft in act and speech and thought, 
 Of native sense and learning taught, 
 
 And bright as summer morn. 
 
 Wonder you may such contrast wide 
 
 Should ever come to mate j 
 But in this world strange haps betide, 
 And Chance's whirligigs deride 
 Our reckonings and our fates decide 
 
 In most unlooked-for gate. 
 
 'Tis twenty years now gone since war 
 
 Between this land and France ; 
 Jler yeomen called from near and far 
 Veterans and striplings, rough but raw. 
 And thew'ed the clothyard bow to draw, 
 And push the ashen lance. 
 
 With brave King Hal, our nation's pride, 
 
 We o'er to France did fare ; 
 The flouting Dauphin's sneers to chide. 
 And swept with scathe the country wide. 
 And took and sacked their towns beside, 
 
 And played the devil there. 
 
 'Tis sore and rueful, looking back 
 To scenes that then occurred, 
 
 From ravening Desolation's track. 
 
 Of famined fields and homesteads black ; 
 
 Gaunt roofless crowds, erring in lack, 
 By terror wildly spurred. 
 
 But, in the tug of war's fierce day, 
 Small space for pity's thought ; 
 
 Advantage must be pushed that may 
 
 In victory's direction lay, 
 
 And red eyed Carnage will not stay 
 To be by Mercy taught. 
 
 Fell winter caught our host at fault, 
 
 Before old Rouen's wall ; 
 Too strongly fenced for quick assault, 
 And 'neath the stormy laiden vault 
 Our leaguering army came to halt. 
 
 For needs must Rouen fall,
 
 "5 
 
 To block all ways that led thereto, 
 
 And every outlet close, 
 By land or river them to mew, 
 Deep dykes and palisadoes grew, 
 And round old Rouen, Rouen new, 
 
 A wooden town arose. 
 
 Needless, though just, it were to tell 
 
 Of many fierce affrays ; 
 And doughty sallies, foughten well, 
 To break the martial girdle fell 
 That bound them in, to wait the knell 
 
 Of doom's avertless day. 
 
 Famine, our horrent, gaunt ally, 
 
 With slow but certain clutch. 
 Began to wring with scant supply, 
 And dim the fire in Valour's eye, 
 And council cruel policy. 
 
 To eke the wasted hutch.* 
 
 None but the fighting force should stay 
 
 Within the city's bound : 
 Well, 1 recall the bitter day ; 
 The snow, in deep-piled blank array, 
 Shrouded the earth at morning grey. 
 
 Outside the crowd was found. 
 
 Women and children, tottering eld, 
 
 Crouching the walls beneath; 
 Dappled the dreary frost-bound field 
 Like starving daws on winter wield, 
 That no sustaining nurtures yield. 
 
 But one vast wreath of death. 
 
 Driven out by friends from walls of stone, 
 
 Foes like a wall of steel ; 
 Folding them in, with succour none ; 
 For pity's work could not be done 
 Till stubborn Rouen had been won, 
 
 Whate'er might pity feel. 
 
 Christe ! What sights we witnessed then 
 
 Might I you give advice ; 
 You'd deem, like me, of simple ken, 
 Wc paid in woes of age-struck men. 
 Women, and helpless children, when 
 
 Rouen was won — too high a price. 
 
 Sad, night by niglit, and day by day. 
 
 The frozen, famished crowd, 
 From barricades were driven away, 
 A gaunt and spectcral array ; 
 Some who in deep despair did pray, 
 
 Some cursed in madness loud. 
 
 * Corn-chest.
 
 Tl6 
 
 Then came a thaw and drenching rain, 
 
 Hundreds of corses strown ; 
 Unburied on the sodden plain 
 Some ghastly wretches yet remain, 
 Warring with death in efforts vain 
 
 By means best left unknown. 
 
 One night of storm to dismal post, 
 
 My dreary midwatch fell ; 
 At issue where the dykes were crossed, 
 Remote, and in the champaign lost, 
 At distance from our English host, 
 
 A lonely sentinel. 
 
 Crouching the stout stockades among 
 From driving rain and wind, 
 My pike across my shoulder flung. 
 My watchcloak to the wild-blast swung, 
 Which howled the wooden pales along 
 In gusts to daze and blind. 
 
 I know not why, though 'twas most drear, 
 
 A sudden nameless dread, 
 A chill of awe, if not of fear, 
 A consciousness of something near 
 Which I could neither see nor hear, ! 
 
 A sudden o'er me spread. 
 
 The darkness was so deep, in mood 
 
 I tried to pierce the gloom ; 
 
 Though I could feel my heart's deep thud, 
 Beat quicker than a brave man's should, 
 Who had seen sights of sack and blood 
 Which in war's following come. 
 
 At last a wail, so weak and wee, 
 
 Close to my leaning ear ; 
 " Pour I'amour de la Sante Marie ! 
 
 Pour Christe et Sancte Trinitie 
 Sauve ma chere enfante par Mercie, 
 
 II est une morantes prier ! 
 
 My stranger ear, in sober faith. 
 
 But ill the meaning caught ; 
 But o'er and o'er, with faltering breath. 
 The searching accents given to deatli, 
 A power to comprehend bequeath. 
 
 And sense of pity taught. 
 
 Then came a lull, the clouds unlace, 
 
 A faint light spread around, 
 And peering through the paling's space, 
 A woman with death-stricken face, 
 An infant clasped in her embrace, / 
 
 My startled vision bound.
 
 117 
 
 Fainter those words of passion break 
 
 " It is a dying prayer ; 
 For Christ and holy Mary's sake, 
 Some pity on my infant take." 
 I felt a ruth within me wake, 
 • Of late but little there. 
 
 A voice (my mother's), like a song, 
 
 A summons from the grave, 
 Seemed calling me, my heart grew strong, 
 I laboured at the stockade long ; 
 I felt God would not deem me wrong, 
 
 Though man perdition gave. 
 
 The bars went down by strength o'erpressed, 
 
 The child was in my arms ; 
 My hand the dying mother pressed ; 
 Me, by her glance, I knew she blessed 
 Ere she serenely sank to rest 
 
 In soft and holy calm. 
 
 The moon, in cold and humid stare, 
 
 Shed o'er her its faint ray ; 
 And on the visage fine and fair 
 A solemn and appealing air 
 Was fixed, like a commandment there, 
 
 Which I must needs obey. 
 
 I bent my knee in prayer wise ; 
 
 Just then the child awoke. 
 And gazed with bright and wondering eyes, 
 In innocent and sweet surprise. 
 On the bright glints that from the skies, 
 
 On casque and gorget broke ; 
 
 And tried to seize the light that peer'd 
 
 On the bright bossct's tips, 
 Then patted on my shaggy beard. 
 And over either cheek it fared, 
 And finally my mouth it nearcd 
 
 And paddled with my lips. 
 
 I felt my eyes with tears o'erflow, 
 
 And something in me move, 
 A soft and gentle manly glow, 
 'Tis good at times to feel and know, 
 And mentally I made the vow 
 
 To shelter and to love. 
 
 Wrapped in my cloak the whole night through, 
 
 I lulled her at my breast ; 
 Among some rough war-comrades though 
 Much banter I'd to undergo ; 
 But they soon learned, being human too, 
 
 To love her like the rest.
 
 ii8 
 
 Each one was guard and nurse by turn, 
 
 A stealthy, riskful care ; 
 But mine the parent's part to learn, 
 And every infant want discern, 
 The claim and title both to earn, 
 
 And with none other share. 
 
 Winter wore out ; spring, summer, came ; 
 
 A fleeting peace was made ; 
 The world was big with Harry's name ; 
 To be a simple soldier fame ; 
 A war-wound had a special claim, 
 
 Which loyal England paid. 
 
 For back we came— myself, you see, 
 
 No more for fighting meet 
 By reason of this shattered knee 
 That left me no more marching free, 
 But bound to toil on wold and lea 
 
 In the old trodden beat. 
 
 And to the work with will I went. 
 
 And labour with me throve ; 
 My charge seemed as a blessing sent 
 To sweeten toil, and bring content ; 
 Love yielded more than duty lent. 
 
 And fortune grew with love. 
 
 But my fair Lily, thus I named 
 
 My treasure, my delight, 
 For drift of skill and lore craft famed, 
 For freakish maiden whims ne'er blamed 
 To woman's beauty grown, now claimed 
 
 Other reflections quite. 
 
 yVith a sore chill I felt the smart ; 
 
 The certain time drew nigh 
 When love must speak in maiden's heart. 
 And some new bond must come athwart 
 To share my sunshine — perhaps to part 
 
 Our erewhile happy tie. 
 
 No flush on cheek, nor eyelight's glow, 
 
 No fluster in her mien. 
 That love unconsciously must show, 
 And lure e'en half-souled louts to woe. 
 But doubly heartbold love, I trow. 
 
 Was ever to be seen. 
 
 I was sore puzzled ; but ere long 
 
 A sprightly, stalwart wight, 
 Of handsome face and ready tongue, 
 And well to have our swains among, 
 Lithesome in dance and sweet in song. 
 
 Would oft drop in at night.
 
 119 
 
 His drift, while yet untold, was plain 
 
 To the most common sense ; 
 Yet, though he o'er and o'er again. 
 Through weather fair or drenching rain, 
 Would come, she little would remain ; 
 
 But, under some pretence, 
 
 Would steal her maiden bower unto, 
 
 And leave a sorry gloom ; 
 For I grew thoughtful, and he rue, 
 And talked — of what we hardly knew, 
 And many anxious glances tlirew 
 
 To whither she should come. 
 
 E'en o'er ourselves a change befell — 
 A strange, a nameless, change. 
 
 If me she feared I could not tell. 
 
 Or her I trusted not so well : 
 
 It seemed as though some sullen spell 
 Had fallen on our grange. 
 
 One day, the sun was shining clear. 
 
 The birds were singing sweet, 
 As to the grange my steps drew near, 
 In any mood but pleasant cheer. 
 Who should I, by the mill-dam weir 
 But Lily's lover meet ? 
 
 His face was flushed,. his look was sad, 
 
 To speak he often tried ; 
 In sooth, I pitied the poor lad. 
 At length he told me that he had 
 His loving suit to Lily made. 
 
 And been by her denied. 
 
 " Denied !" I faltered (yet confess 
 I much delight did smother). 
 
 " The ends of woman's waywardness : 
 ■ Hopeless to know, or e'er redress. 
 
 But what's her motive ? Can you guess ? 
 " Siie owa'd she loves another." 
 
 I felt a dizzy feeling run 
 
 All chilly through my frame. 
 
 And seemed to dim the noontide sun ; 
 
 And, when to feeling I begun 
 
 To grow again, the youth was gone. 
 And dazed I wandered hame. 
 
 All long the way full times a score 
 
 The words I did repeat — 
 " She owned she loved another more !" 
 I stammered o'er and o'er and o'er. 
 As though confounded, seeking power 
 
 The meaning on't to weet.
 
 I20 
 
 She from me then her secret kept, 
 
 How long I could not tell ; 
 I am not sure, I think I wept 
 (I know not why I should except 
 That had awoke which long had slept, 
 And now I knew too well). 
 
 1 found her looking sad and pale ; 
 
 I told her what I knew ; 
 I bade her tell her passion's tale 
 If gear or dower might aught avail, 
 That my consent should never fail : 
 
 " Whom should I love but you ?" 
 
 And in my arms, with loving press, 
 
 I clasped her to my heart 
 With many a soft and fond caress ; 
 And may kind Heaven for ever bless 
 Her who hath been my happiness 
 
 Since the priest did his part. 
 
 Fill up, Sir Guest, and to her health 
 
 We'll drain another horn. 
 A love that knows deceit nor stealth, 
 That is not bought by gear nor pelf, 
 Is a true man's unfailing wealth. 
 
 Of which he can't be shorn. 
 
 DRINKING SONG. 
 
 {Set to Music.) 
 
 Oh ! devil a bit care I 
 How soft the cheek. 
 How red the lip. 
 Or from out her fringed eye 
 How many rosy Cupids speak 
 While I this nectar sip. 
 Love's a weak, insipid toy ; 
 Bousing is a lusty joy. 
 
 Then let the lover sigh 
 
 In maudling state 
 
 And gloomy soul. 
 
 So befool myself ? Not I ! 
 
 Nor on capricious woman wait, 
 
 But wrestle with the bowl. 
 
 I^ove and Grief, I mock your pain ; 
 
 Life is joy while this I drain.
 
 121 
 
 A SONG, 
 
 Hope for a better time than this, 
 
 And with thy earnest efforts strive, 
 Where'er a germ of goodness is, 
 
 To keep the struggUng grain aUve. 
 A single weed, if rooted out. 
 
 Gives space to bloom an od'rous flower. 
 Scatter the seeds of hope about ; 
 
 It is a healthy, helpful power. 
 Hope for a better hour ; time brings 
 Cause to believe in doubtful things. 
 
 Not hope alone, but learn and teach, 
 
 Though in a humble, narrow sphere. 
 Duties there are for all and each. 
 
 For good and ill are everywhere. 
 And though your hidden efforts may 
 
 Small promise of requital give, 
 Yet there will come a reck'ning day. 
 
 For acts of virtue ever live. 
 Hope in a better time to shear. 
 And bind the crop you help'd to rear. 
 
 Hope for a better time, ye brave 
 
 Regenerators ot mankind ; 
 Hope, thou poor, toil-worn, scourge-seamed slave, 
 
 And thou benighted, drudging hind ; 
 Thou ragged urchin, cast amain 
 
 Upon the fetid sea of crime ; 
 Ye frail, ye weak, ye patient train 
 
 Of wronged ones, hope a better time : 
 Though slow its coming may appear, 
 
 'Tis coming ; may it soon be here ! 
 
 A SONG 
 
 Oh ! calmly think when thou wouldst weigh 
 
 Thy fellow man in Judgment's scale, 
 Lest inconsiderate accents may 
 
 Give wounds which Justice must bewail. 
 How many an act and sentence rose, 
 
 Though ill performed and ill expressed, 
 From motives full as pure as those 
 
 That actuate the Judge's breast. 
 Condemn not with unkindly thought, 
 Lest thou to judgment shouldst be brought.
 
 122 
 
 Who should in arbitrary mood 
 
 Arraign, and without proof to know 
 If the intent were bad or good, 
 
 Raise to contempt, or sink to woe. 
 Suspicions sown are evil seeds, 
 
 That strongest grow in noxious soil ; 
 And such prolific, baleful weeds 
 
 Choke many a crop of virtuous toil. 
 Condemn not with unkindly thought. 
 Lest thou to judgment shouldst be brought. 
 
 Where all have taint of greed or pride ; 
 
 Where none are perfect — no, not one ; 
 Where each in homes of glass reside, 
 
 Who should be first to cast the storte ? 
 Let each be tutor to the rest, 
 
 To teach what share of good we know. 
 Truth should, like Charity, be dress'd : 
 
 The frail respect to frailty owe. 
 Condemn not with unkindly thought, 
 Lest thou to judgment shouldst be brought. 
 
 GOOD AND EVIL. 
 
 ftow infinite in value is a bliss 
 That hath been bought at the unabated price 
 Honour and Duty, those just valuers, 
 Vouch as its current worth. Perpetual 
 To us the acquisition so attained : 
 Seedling it may be, branching many joys ; 
 But, withering, cannot know. Inherent life 
 Centres within it. Cosmopolitan 
 In natural vigour, it will bloom alike 
 'Neath blazing, temperate, or freezing fates, 
 And, in the dearth and famine of the soul. 
 Will, like a desert spring, exale and cheer, 
 Or, like a manna-cloud, expand and shower 
 Its slowly-ripened but unfailing fruit. 
 
 Vices and errors, when engendered, oft 
 Are hid and buried, like sin-gotten things. 
 In dark and sullen nooks, and for a while 
 The parentage is lost ; but tintless spawns 
 Of loathed reptiles will expand, and gain 
 The venomed natures and repulsive forms 
 Of their originals ; or, cramped may be 
 By some more horrid mould, take its fell cast,
 
 123 
 
 But, in its growth requiring greater space, 
 Bursts its false continent, and issues forth 
 A double monster, with an aspect cursed. 
 So long concealed offences, when mature, 
 Start up from silent secrecy, and stand 
 Before their authors, claiming to be owned. 
 
 GUILT IN THE STORM. 
 
 AN EXTRACT FROM AN UNFINISHED MASK. 
 
 Scene : On the Mountains During a Storm. Grenwald Solus. 
 
 Ah ! night of storm, tumultuously vexed, 
 
 Consonant state of destiny pcirplcxed. 
 
 Like mine, where the fierce passion storm hath grown, 
 
 And still in unspent fury holds its own. 
 
 Your seething lightnings and your thunder's din 
 
 Faintly reflect and mock the strife within 
 
 This throe-wrung bosom, whei;p exhausted ne'er 
 
 The accumulated force of wild despair ; 
 
 And unblessed cravings, never to be stilled. 
 
 Prolong the racking strife with which 'tis filled. 
 
 Thy strength of fury speediest leadst to peace ; 
 
 Thy loudest peal, thy fiercest flash, will cease ; 
 
 And o'er these inky summits and dim vales 
 
 The moon-lit scud shall spread its fleecy sails. 
 
 Thy dizzying concave, wrapped in gloom and gleam. 
 
 Alternately will shimmer in the beam 
 
 Of the pale, tranquil moon, and countless rills 
 
 Shall sparkle mid thy crags an I pine-clad hills. 
 
 But no renewal of quiesccni hours 
 
 Is mine to hope for, for the hell-born powers 
 
 Constant, irreconcilably, array 
 
 Their legions in my soul at endless prey : 
 
 A love that's hopeless, nameless, not the worst ; 
 
 The deepest hate, being impious and accursed ; 
 
 Remorse that scorches, but unbending will. 
 
 Prompting to deeds far deeper, darker still. 
 
 Shuddering to view their past results, I burn 
 
 A heavier future weight of woe to earn. 
 
 The insupportable I would augment, 
 
 And, fearing no new crime, fear to repent. 
 
 Crime's weight its impulse doth accelerate, 
 
 And hurries madly on to darkling Fate \
 
 124 
 
 But its wild progress fires the giddy brain 
 
 With longing for still speedier entrain. 
 
 Nor sees, as reckless down the pent 'tis whirled, 
 
 Th' abyss o'er which it surely will be hurled ; 
 
 Or views without a feeling of dismay 
 
 Annihilation's rocks confront the way. 
 
 Inebriate pleasure mounts, and keener glows 
 
 As, nearing the inevitable close 
 
 Of the fleet, fatal course, exultant rise 
 
 Phrenetic laughter and defiant cries ; 
 
 As huntsman at the unknown gap doth ride, 
 
 Nor dreads destruction on the other side. 
 
 What ! doth your anger slacken ? Let it grow ! 
 
 Recharge your rampart clouds with darker show 
 
 Of pregnant desolation, pile on pile ; 
 
 And while your lightnings blast, laugh ! laugh the while 
 
 The volumed peal that shocks the mountain side. 
 
 And frees the avalanche's fatal glide ; 
 
 Till the unpeopled realms of ice and snow 
 
 May whelm the populated vales below 
 
 In one unwarned and momentary doom. 
 
 Hopeless as when dark Chaos' hour shall come ; 
 
 Where, eyried castle and low sheltering cot. 
 
 Kaiser and clown might share one common lot, 
 
 And every grade between the two extremes 
 
 Lie scathed and blasted by your lightning's gleams. 
 
 Nor I survive but fo^ one single thought — 
 
 I am the last ! And now that last is nought. 
 
 VIRTUE'S REVERIE. 
 
 AN EXTRACT FROM AN UNFINISHED MASK. 
 
 Scene: Moonlit Wood. LuDWiG Solus. 
 
 O welcome hour of peace. The festival 
 
 Of cogitating thought and inward count \ 
 When we disrobe us from day's heavy thrall, 
 
 And cleanse our minds at calm reflection's fount. 
 How blessed and welcome thy tranquillity 
 
 In the dim umbrage of the peaceful grove. 
 With soft and gentle affability 
 
 To welcome guests day's garish hours reprove.
 
 125 
 
 Sweet thoughts, more cherished from their secret birth, 
 
 Being unjustly barred, more fondly prized ; 
 Which test the poverty of thoughtless mirth 
 
 And make the charms of being realised ; 
 For is not love, in life's fair garland twined, 
 
 The fairest, brightest, most enduring flower ? 
 All earthly aims, all human lures combined. 
 
 Pursued and won yield not so blest a dower. 
 
 Let power exult in undivided sway ; 
 
 Let wealth engender avarice' eager quest ; 
 Let glory's fiery star lure to betray ; 
 
 Or let ambition's devious suit be pressed. 
 Learning, or art, or sensual passion's chase. 
 
 Unlinked with love, are barren and must pall ; 
 Love is life's essence, its chief charm and grace, 
 
 Its spring, its root, the very crown of all. 
 
 And must a father's choice of need be mine ? 
 
 Or can a mother's eye my guidance be ? 
 Or can my fancy, like the suckling, twine 
 
 And clasp at bidding what repugneth me ? 
 Breathe I by proxy of the vital stream ? 
 
 Can love be, like the moon's reflected ray, 
 A second-handed, simulated gleam 
 
 Of the reality of glorious day ? 
 
 My heart hath soared, and shall I pluck it down, 
 
 And hood it with dull policy of earth ; 
 Stifle its morning song to daylong moan. 
 
 And of life's opulence make beings dearth ; 
 Bind it with golden bars, and make it mate 
 
 To one of uncongenial, stranger note ; 
 Tasked with some lying lay to mock its state, 
 
 Or die unuttered in the trembler's throat ? 
 
 No ! rather where the wintry snow-wreath lies. 
 
 Or Spring's young flowerets in God's acres bloom ; 
 Taintless of love-slight, or vile perjuries, 
 
 Let faith's pure tear bedew my nameless tomb ; 
 Or, under some low thatch, one gentle voice 
 
 Echo the sweet content my own should know ; 
 My heart should triumph in its loyal choice, 
 
 And fortune's fiats firmly undergo. 
 
 I will not slight where I have wooed to win ; 
 
 I will not plight with falsehood on the tongue ; 
 I will not against saint-like conscience sin, 
 
 Nor act the treason of the world so young ; 
 I will not study in deception's school, 
 
 Nor court regret in semblance of a gain ; 
 Worldlings may dub me honour's doating fool, 
 
 But honour's faithful son I will remain.
 
 126 
 
 CALL TO THE FAIRIES, 
 
 FROM MS. MASK. 
 
 Ye subtle essenced, airy things, 
 
 Translucent forms, with filmy wings ; 
 
 Who 'neath the heaven-hung galaxies 
 
 Circle in elfish revelries ! 
 
 Flit athwart pale Dian's beams, 
 
 Glinting thin reflected gleams 
 
 Through the umbrageous bourgeons glance, 
 
 And hum elf music as ye dance. 
 
 Roguish fays and wanton sprites 
 Burn with party-coloured lights ; 
 Make the sylvan alleys glow 
 And glisten with your to and fro, 
 Hither, thither, mazy flight, 
 Resplendent in soft, mystic light, 
 Swing upon finely-balanced sprays 
 And chirrup cheering roundelays. 
 
 Hark ! the sheep bell's tinkling chime 
 Beats a dreamy, measured time ; 
 And the bay hound's plaintive whine 
 Marks night as altogether thine. 
 Then group in verdant fairy rings 
 And prance ye careless, antic things ; 
 Crowd every instant of the night 
 With wild, ineffable delight. 
 
 Bathe your wings of prism'd hues 
 In crystalline nocturnal dews ; 
 Chase the bubbled forms that ride 
 Upon the rumbling brooklet's tide ; 
 Mount your bat and beetle steeds, 
 And tilt with spears of tiny weeds : 
 Through trumpet bluebells sound the blast 
 Of revel till the night be passed. 
 
 MILLER'S SONG. 
 
 AN EXTRACT FROM AN UNFINISHED MASK. 
 
 The click clack of my mill 
 Hath rung all day so shrill 
 
 Click clack ! Click clack !
 
 127 
 
 But my wife's untiring tongue 
 Can rattle loud and long 
 
 Click clack ! Click clack ! 
 But use is second nature, 
 So let the dear old creature 
 
 Click clack ! Click clack ! 
 By day my click clack mill, 
 At night she gives me still 
 
 Click clack ! Click clack ! 
 
 Chorus (aside). 
 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 The miller thinks aloud. 
 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! Ha 1 ha 1 ha ! 
 
 Miller. 
 Zounds ! what a goodly crowd ! 
 
 Miller (solo). 
 
 What feast, or wake, or statute fair 
 What revel rout or frolic rare ? 
 What merry devil-sports on hand ? 
 What manormop or fleury planned ? 
 Is it some saintly holy e'en, 
 Or hop and skip and bus between, 
 Or'Dis a Dis o' green, green grass? 
 What jolly jinks to come to pass ? 
 What's toward ? Answer neighbours. 
 
 Old Woodman. 
 
 There's neither feast, nor wake, nor fare, 
 Nor rcvelrout nor frolic rare, 
 Nor merry devilsport on hand. 
 Nor manormop nor fleury planned ; 
 It is no saintly holy e'en. 
 Nor hop and skip and bus between, 
 Nor Dis a Dis o' green, green grass, 
 Nor jolly jink to come to pass — 
 We've neither pipes nor tabors. 
 
 Young Woodman — Solo. 
 
 We have made the forest echo's ring 
 All day with rattle, thud, and ding. 
 With quip and laugh and jest between 
 To lighten labour and kill spleen. 
 But now the shades of even fall, 
 And wrap us in their sombre pall.
 
 128 
 
 As well becomes each honest mind, 
 We cast the worldly weight behind, 
 And rest us from our labours. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 In byre and fold, 
 In forest and wold, 
 
 In barn and harvest field. 
 
 Cheerful and gay, 
 We've toiled all day, 
 
 Storing Nature's yield. 
 
 Each taking share 
 In the duty and care 
 
 That to mortal lot must fall. 
 
 We lighten the load. 
 
 We make cheerful the road, 
 
 That leads to the ending of all. 
 
 Gleaners' Chorus. 
 
 Home, sisters, home ! 
 Plome, sisters, home ! 
 We've leazed the stubble lands. 
 We've sheaved the golden corn. 
 
 All. 
 
 We've toiled with willing hands 
 From early misty morn ; 
 But weary nature needs repose 
 When the day's cloudy curtains close. 
 
 Home, neighbours, home ; 
 
 Our time of rest is come. 
 
 All. 
 
 Hark ! through the solemn air 
 The vesper calls to prayer. 
 
 Home, neighbours, home ; 
 
 Our time of rest is come. 
 
 [ Vesper Bell. 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 129 
 
 THE STORY OF A STRIKE. 
 
 Freely translated and adapted from the French of M. Gabriel Prevost. 
 
 My Judges ! My sad story shall be brief. 
 Patiently hear, and judge my crime and grief. 
 We blacksmiths were on strike, as was our right ; 
 The pay had falle'n, and the winter's bite 
 Had pinched the faubourg with its hungry might. 
 'Twas the week's end ; our night of scanty pay 
 We had grown to call "The bitter Saturday." 
 One took me by the arm, and led the way 
 To our companions at the cabaret. 
 Their names I once again refuse to give. 
 " Old Father Jean," said they, " we cannot live. 
 More pay, or no more work : our only plan 
 Is to resist : we've sworn it to a man. 
 You being the elder and best-trusted hand, 
 Go, let the master know how matters stand. 
 He'll hear you patiently. More pay we will ! 
 Or from this time our hammers shall rest still. 
 Say, are you willing ?" 
 
 Why, what could I say ? 
 But I was theirs, to serve them any way. 
 
 My Judges ! I've not served at barricades ; 
 I'm old and peaceable ; and false parades 
 Of black-coats, who lead ours to strife and blood, 
 I ne'er have trusted and ne'er understood. 
 Could I refuse the task they honoured me 
 To pick me out for ? No, that could not be ; 
 I took the onus and the compliment. 
 And to the master with the message went. 
 
 He was at table, having newly dined ; 
 They showed me in, and I unloosed my mind. 
 I told our grievance ; how the times were hard ; 
 Dear food and lodgment called for some regard. 
 I drew a balance of his gain and thrift 
 Against our toil and misery and shift ; 
 And urged, politely, that he fairly might 
 Make the concession, with no loss of right. 
 
 He listened calmly to this plea of mine — 
 Now cracking filberts, and now sii^ping wine — 
 Until my tale had run out to its span; 
 Then blandly said ;
 
 I30 
 
 " Jean, thou'rt an honest man ! 
 Those who have sent you know right well to choose 
 A spokesman. Your good nature they abuse. 
 Your place is yours, at all times, in my forge ; 
 But their conditions stick fast in my gorge. 
 These turbulents are ever lazy too. 
 I shut than out, the discontented crew ! 
 There's my last word. Go ! tell them what I say." 
 I answered : 
 
 " Sir, I will." 
 
 And went my way 
 With heavy heart, for sorry news I bore, 
 Which made our prospects darker Ihan before. 
 
 There was great tumult, wild talk, and all swore 
 Never the factory to enter more ; 
 And I — being no black sheep — I swore as well 
 To stand or fall with them, whate'er befell. 
 
 Ah ! more than one that night, in dull dismay, 
 
 When, home, they on the table laid the pay, 
 
 I'll answer for it, had a heavy mind ; 
 
 Nor through the long night, sleep, from thought, could find ; 
 
 Thought of long days, or weeks, perhaps of worse, 
 
 Of idleness, half fasts, and empty purse. 
 
 For me the blow was hard, being old, and three, 
 
 Beside myself, depending upon me. 
 
 Entering, my little grandsons sought my side, 
 
 And climbed my knees for their accustomed ride. 
 
 Their father had gone tvrong, their mother dead ; 
 
 So 'twas for me to find them love and bread. 
 
 Sadly I kissed the lips I thought might soon 
 
 Clamour for food when I to give had none ; 
 
 And the shamed flush o'erspread my cheek and brow 
 
 For my rash yielding to a rasher vow. 
 
 True, that mine was not worse than others' case ; 
 
 And to our fellows we owe faith and place ; 
 
 And duty's more than hollow sound to men. 
 
 / had done my duty, and I would ! 
 
 Just then 
 The old wife, weary, from the washhouse nigh, 
 'Neath heavy packets bending languidly. 
 Came in ; and, oh ! 'twas a hard task to break 
 The news I knew for her would sorrow make. 
 How that poor soul did struggle with her sighs. 
 Fixing upon the floor her humid eyes. 
 And long remained immovable. 
 
 At last, 
 " My Jean," she said, " for many long years past 
 You've known me for a thrifty, prudent mate. 
 I'll do my best ; but times are hard of late,
 
 ^31 
 
 And all our means and management, all ways, 
 Won't give us bread for more than fifteen days." 
 I made reply : 
 
 " The affair may be arranged." 
 Though I knew well that nothing could be changed, 
 Except by treason to our covenant, 
 And that the strike would last through every want, 
 And watchfulness to traitors small grace grant. 
 
 Then at the first we managed as we could : 
 
 Half rations of dry bread our only food. 
 
 Next, all was pledged ; I fretted with pent rage ; 
 
 We of the workshop find the home a cage 
 
 In labour hours ; I've known a prison cell 
 
 Since then, and which is worse I cannot tell. 
 
 T'have nought to do, who have been used to work ; 
 
 To sit with folded arms perforce doth irk. 
 
 You may believe it not, but we then find 
 
 How much the workshop's to the workman's mind : 
 
 That atmosphere of filings, smoke, and fire 
 
 Becomes, by use, a natural desire. 
 
 At the end of fifteen days our all was spent. 
 
 How often, like a madman, forth I went, 
 
 Alone, straight onward, through the passing throng, 
 
 Among whose lulling hum I dreamed along ; 
 
 For, better than strong drink, it made forget 
 
 The hunger-pain, which then knew little let. 
 
 And want did come, a biting, cruel want. 
 
 Remorseless, sickly, pitiless, and gaunt. 
 
 But Oh, my Judges ! give me your belief. 
 
 At its dire worst, I could not be a thief. ' 
 
 At the bare thought, from shame, I should have died 
 
 But by despair to be so strongly tried ! 
 
 To stare my hopeless prospect in the face. 
 
 And keep temptation out — no easy case — 
 
 But in the season of hard frost and snow, 
 
 Wlien my old honesty beheld the show 
 
 Of my old faithful mate, and grandsons pale, 
 
 Shivering at hearth, where food and fire both fail ; 
 
 Before her silent tears their infant cries — 
 
 A sight and sound to torture heart and eyes — 
 
 Never, by this blessed crucifix I swear, 
 
 Flashed in my mind — all sombre with despair — 
 
 That action, vile and furtive, of the street, 
 
 The trembling heart, the stealthy following fctt. 
 
 The wandering, watchful eye, in eager quest 
 
 Of what the clutching hand might grasp the best. 
 
 Alas, alas ! if now my pride breaks down. 
 
 If now I bend and weep before your frown.
 
 X32 
 
 'Tis that I seem to see them once again 
 
 In all their hopeless misery and pain ; 
 
 Those dear ones, for whose sakes, for theirs alone, 
 
 I have been led to do — that which is done. 
 
 One cold, grey, grim, December afternoon — 
 
 I know not why I had returned so soon — 
 
 My poor old wife I in a corner spied, 
 
 And the two youngsters huddled to her side 
 
 For warmth. And as I gazed I said, in thought : 
 
 " Assassin ! Look upon the work you've wrought !" 
 
 No word reproachful had she ever used ; 
 But now, with voice still gentle, but confused, 
 " My poor old man," she faltered, " what's to be 
 The help for these poor mites, yourself, and me ? 
 Our last poor mattress is too old to pawn. 
 What shall we do for food to-morrow morn ?" 
 
 I started up ! 
 
 As one would seize a foe, 
 I grappled my despair. I cried : " I'll go. 
 At any hazard I'll to work again. 
 Although I doubt the others will refrain, 
 And think me false to them, and to the cause ; 
 But hunger mocks rash vows and hasty laws ; 
 But first I'll seek the leaders, where they stay 
 Holding committee at the cabaret. 
 
 I hurried thence ; I entered. Did it seem 
 
 That I was in some false and mocking dream ! 
 
 They, with wild mirth, were drinking, laughing there, 
 
 While we, at home, were pining in despair ! 
 
 Yes, laughing, drinking ! We thus paid the sum 
 
 But to prolong our horrid martyrdom ! 
 
 But they shall hear an old man speak his mind ! 
 
 I staggered in — with rage and tears well blind. 
 When they beheld me, with the angry glow 
 In flaming eyeballs, and wrath-wrinkled brow, 
 They guessed my purpose, and assumed to bear 
 A manner feigned, both sombre and severe. 
 But I spoke out : 
 
 " My fellow workmen, hear ! 
 I and my wife have passed our sixtieth year : 
 Two little grandsons on my arm depend. 
 And in the garret, where our lives we spend, 
 Our movables are sold, we without bread. 
 What may become of me is quickly said — 
 Death in the hospital, a pauper's grave. 
 Is an end fit for such a wretch to have ;
 
 U3 
 
 But to my wife and little ones — not so. 
 
 Then briefly — back I'd to the factory go. 
 
 But first, it seems, your leave I must obtain 
 
 To keep my good name from dishonour's stain. 
 
 Look ! If my hands are black, my locks are white ; 
 
 For forty years the craft has known me, rig/if. 
 
 Let me return f/iei'r livelihood to get. 
 
 I cannot beg, but I can labour yet ! 
 
 If not my pride, let a'ge be my excuse ; 
 
 'Tis hard in age to struggle 'gainst old use. 
 
 One makes to passers-by a sorry show 
 
 With horny hand and labour-wrinkled brow, 
 
 Hardened and hollowed by the forge's smart, 
 
 To hold the hat, and play the cadger's part. 
 
 It is not so unjust, nor he the worst, 
 
 Being the oldest, to give in the first. 
 
 Let me return to my accustomed task. 
 
 I've done. Take no offence at what I ask." 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 One rose, with furious pace 
 Strode to me, and hissed, 
 
 " Coward !" in my face. 
 
 My heart turned icy cold. My eyes with blood 
 Were blinded as, awhile, confused I stood, 
 Seeking in vain the man to realise 
 Who thus disgraced me in my fellows' eyes. 
 
 It was a stalwart, dissipated scamp. 
 Pale from the reflex of the late street lamp ; 
 A haunter of low balls, and hops, with curls 
 On either temple, like a mincing girl's ! 
 Grinning, he fixed on me his mocking stare, 
 The others looking on with troubled air ; 
 While o'er me crept a glow of burning heat. 
 And I could hear my heart's loud, angry beat. 
 With clenched hands to my brow, I suddenly 
 And wildly cried — 
 
 " Let wife and young ones die ! 
 Yes, be it so ! To work I'll not return ! 
 But as I live, I swear, you who dare spurn 
 And thus outrage my misery shall pay 
 The satisfaction in a bitter way ! 
 We'll fight, in fashion that our betters use ! 
 The time ? The weapon ? It is mine to choose ; 
 It shall be now. And thcsc-sledgc hammers, they 
 Shall serve, instead of swords, to end the fray. 
 These, our companions, witnesses shall be. 
 Which is the coward 'twixt yourself and me. 
 Off with thy bloise and shirt I Spit in thy hand, 
 Insulter of the old, and take thy stand."
 
 134 
 
 Frantic, I elbowed through the crowd a way 
 To where two ponderous, rusty hammers lay 
 On iron heap, in corner of the yard, 
 And chose out two, and after some regard 
 I flung the best to my insulter's feet, 
 Who still laughed on, as at some comic treat, 
 And mockingly picked up the massy tool, 
 Sneered out — 
 
 " Thou poor old man, play not the fool !" 
 
 Without reply, towards the droll I strode, 
 Swinging around my head the hammer's load, 
 Tool of my trade, and weapon of my fight, 
 Which then seemed to me as a feather light. 
 I watched his shrinking glance, his coward eyes : 
 No craven cur that crouched and trembling lies 
 Beneath the lash, and pleads with abject face, 
 Has the expression of a fear so base, 
 As was upon that startled braggart's seen, 
 Recoiling from my wrath, with haggard mien 
 For refuge 'gainst the wall. Too late, alas ! 
 A blood-red misty veil appeared to pass 
 Between me and those eyes that sued in vain : 
 One single blow — I'd dashed his skull in twain ! 
 
 I know it is a murder ! And the name 
 We call a crime by, lessens not its blame. 
 Duel or murder, what imports the word ? 
 'Tis but a quibble, and would be absurd. 
 Yes, there he lay — dead at my feet. Around 
 His blood and brains defiled the reeking ground ; 
 With outspread hands, pressed with convulsive might. 
 Before my eyes, I veiled the ghastly sight. 
 And sudden as the lightning's fiery train 
 Flashed on my conscience the remorse of Cain. 
 And there I stood, bereft of movement, power. 
 Oh ! ne'er shall I forget that woful hour. 
 
 To seize me, my companions then drew nigh, 
 
 Not harshly — pitying and reluctantly. 
 
 I waved them off, and said with choking breath : 
 
 "Leave me! No need. I'll yield myself to death. 
 
 They understood, and sadly drew away. 
 
 Then taking off my cap — as in the day 
 
 When in the works, for some poor needy soul — 
 
 I gathered from the many pity's dole. 
 
 I held it out to each, and said : " Who lends 
 
 Help to the poor wife and the babes, good friends ?" 
 
 I gathered ten francs for the sufferers there, 
 
 Then I surrendered to the commissaire. 
 
 Now you've the simple facts, both small and great, 
 
 Of all my crime, and need not lend much weight
 
 135 
 
 To what Messieurs the advocates may sa 
 
 I have recalled these ghastly things to-da 
 
 Only to show the bitter end that springs 
 
 From fatal concourse of most trivial things. 
 
 The poor old wife is dead, from woe of me ; 
 
 The young ones — bless them — housed by charity. 
 
 As for myself, prison, or convict fare, 
 
 Or even pardon, I have little care ; 
 
 Or if my life on scaffold quickly ends, 
 
 Why, all that I can say is—" Thanks, my friends !" 
 
 THE POOR MAN'S LAMENT. 
 
 Oh ! sore it wrings the tender sense. 
 To bide the torture of suspense, 
 Of haunting need's malevolence, 
 
 And constant threat. 
 To rue the hopeless impotence 
 
 'Gainst want or debt. 
 
 To face the foe in forced retreat. 
 And battle on to sure defeat. 
 Without a helping hand to greet 
 
 You in your need, 
 Or yield the consolation sweet 
 
 Of mercy's deed. 
 
 To thread the drear Daedalian maze 
 Of sleepless nights and hopeless days, 
 Ever repeating vain essays 
 
 To find a clue, 
 Amidst its numerous deviod? ways 
 
 No passage through. 
 
 As one spelled in a monstrous dream, 
 Or a spent struggler with the stream, 
 As impotent all efforts seem 
 
 To stem or strive 
 Against the grasp of want's supreme 
 
 And crushing gyve. 
 
 Benighted in penurious gloom, 
 Threat'ning from all directions, come 
 The mind-made phantoms of your doom, 
 
 That seem to track 
 Your weary footsteps to the tomb 
 
 With bodings black.
 
 136 
 
 To strain the jaded nerves in strife 
 That makes a living death of life, 
 With blighting disappointments rife, 
 
 Which gladly you, 
 Unless for thought of babes and wife, 
 
 Would hurry through. 
 
 Yes, there's the guerdon for the fight ; 
 There through the darkness gleams the light 
 Twinkling on Hope's obscured height 
 
 In distance vast, 
 Which duty strains its utmost might 
 
 To reach at last. 
 
 Oh ! were it not for that sweet link 
 That holds us from despair's fell brink. 
 How oft the o'er-spent soul would sink, 
 
 And yield the strife ; 
 But thought of others makes us shrink 
 
 From leaving life. 
 
 At that sweet fount we draw new will, 
 
 And energy to battle still 
 
 'Gainst odds and disadvantage, till 
 
 Relenting fate 
 Exhausts the quiver of dire ill. 
 
 And spares at late. 
 
 THE BENEDICTION.* 
 
 Freely tramslated from the French. 
 
 I held the rank of serjeant in the line 
 
 When we took Saragossa eighteen-nine ; 
 
 And, if the simple truth I needs must say. 
 
 It was a bloody and atrocious day. 
 
 The town being taken, every house as well. 
 
 We had to storm, each one a citadel 
 
 Close barricaded, where did treason lurk. 
 
 From roofs and windows doing deadly work. 
 
 " 'Tis the priest's orders " was the muttered word. 
 
 Through clenched teeth, that in our ranks was heard ; 
 
 * I have forgotten, and have no means of learning, the name of the author, or I 
 should be proud to ascribe the honour where 'tis due.
 
 137 
 
 And when we saw one in the distance fly — 
 
 Though we had fought from dawn unceasingly, 
 
 With eyes all scorched with burning dust, andvmouth 
 
 Bitter and dry with cartridge-powder drouth — 
 
 Gaily we opened fire on him — Crack ! crack ! 
 
 And down went broad-brimmed hat and cassock black. 
 
 My own battalion through a narrow lane 
 
 Marched on, each eye in eager, watchful strain ; 
 
 The sky all red and glowing with the ire 
 
 Of blazing piles, as from a forge's fire ; 
 
 There women's death-shrieks rent the heavy air, 
 
 Man's deeper curse of hatred and despair ; 
 
 At every footstep striding o'er the dead, 
 
 Who thick along the reeking \vay were spread, 
 
 Now stooping down to enter some low den, 
 
 With bloody bayonets coming out again, 
 
 Marking with gory cross the crumbling wall, 
 
 For " Death " had been the word " for one and all ;" 
 
 For in these close defiles we had to mind 
 
 To leave no lurking enemy behind. 
 
 No warlike march, no drum nor trumpets sound ; 
 
 We seemed in gloomy silence stiffly bound. 
 
 The anxious veterans closed their ranks sans bruit^ 
 
 And lent new courage to each raw recruit. 
 
 But at a narrow corner suddenly, 
 
 VVe heard in French the loud confused cry, 
 
 " A Vaide /" and starting off with eager bound. 
 
 The cause of the alarm we quickly found. 
 
 A company of spruce, trim, grenadiers, 
 
 In broken tumult and confused fears. 
 
 Driven with ignominy from the porch. 
 
 And down the steps of an old convent church. 
 
 By twenty monks, true demons, wild and black. 
 
 With tonsored crowns and crosses front and back; 
 
 Unsandalled, and with bloody arms all bare. 
 
 Their crucifixes waving in the air ; 
 
 The sign of peace made instrument of strife, 
 
 Salvation's symbol, now destroying life. 
 
 The onslaught had been deadly. At the word 
 
 A volley from our ranks was promptly poured, 
 
 Coldly, mechanically, as machines, 
 
 For we were wearied with the horrid scenes 
 
 We had passed through ; and I am sure our men 
 
 Felt more like murderers than soldiers then. 
 
 This group of heroes horrible and wan. 
 
 We swept them down like stubble to a man. 
 
 And presently at this vile action's close, 
 
 AMien the thick wreaths of curling smoke arose. 
 
 We saw a confused heap where they had stood. 
 
 From which down trickled a cascade of blood
 
 138 . 
 
 From step to step, bevond the yawning porch, 
 
 And star-like lights within the sombre church. 
 
 The faint, soft langour of the incense breath 
 
 Reached us through all the smoke and blood and death ; 
 
 While in the background, in the altar choir, 
 
 As though unconscious of the strife and fire, 
 
 A tall, white-headed priest turned tranquil there, 
 
 Devoutly finishing the evening prayer. 
 
 This bitter memory, so full of pain 
 As I recount it, I behold again : 
 The antique convent with its Moorish front, 
 The pile of dead monks with the glow upon 't ; 
 Of the red sunset which that moment broke. 
 And caused the blood-bedabbled steps to smoke ; 
 And in the shadow of the porch's frame 
 The priest, the altar, and the taper's flame ; 
 And we rude sons of carnage struck with awe. 
 And feeling like poltroons — that, that I saw. 
 
 True, at that time I was but little loth 
 
 To launch the impious jeer or reckless oath : 
 
 Por — vain and sacrilegious wanton jest, 
 
 It is remembered, in the precinct blessed — 
 
 We having seized a chapel's holy shrine, 
 
 Looted the sacred plate and drank the wine. 
 
 To gain the witty and dare-devil's name 
 
 My pipe I lighted at the altar flame. 
 
 I was a vile young swasher, like the rest, 
 
 It must, in calmer age, be well confessed ; 
 
 Smoke, drink, and swear, and swing the sabretache. 
 
 And kiss the girls, and twirl the proud moustache ; 
 
 The worst you thought of me, the worst believed — 
 
 Take my word for it, you'd be less deceived ; 
 
 But that old holy man, so calm, so white. 
 
 Struck me with terror of the reverend sight. 
 
 " Fire," cried our officer ; 
 
 But no one stirred. 
 The priest must certainly have heard the word ; 
 But not a tremor's sign the order lent, 
 As he turned round to give the sacrament ; 
 For now the mass had to the moment come 
 To bless the faithful, through the sacred gloom, 
 With upraised arms, each trembling soldier saw 
 Him sign the cross in air with Vostensoir, 
 With the same tranquil air of holy ease 
 As though all present were his devotees. 
 Then his rich voice in psalm-like sweetness rose 
 To speak the holy office's sacred close — 
 Like to each cur^ in his oremus — 
 Said — 
 
 " Benedicat vos, omnipotens Deus."
 
 139 
 
 Once more the same ferocious voice cried — 
 
 " Fire ! 
 "This coward shrinking doth my patience tire." 
 Then one of ours — I shame to tell the tale — 
 Levelled and fired. The godly man turned pale ; 
 But still his hands and eyes raised to the sky, 
 With holy zeal his face shone brilliantly — 
 " Pater et Filius," 
 
 He went on. 
 
 What rage 
 Or veil of blood could then the brain engage, 
 That from our ranks another shot let fly. 
 He who knows all things may decide, not I, 
 
 The monk, one hand upon the altar rail 
 Leaned, for his other powers seemed to fail ; 
 The other, still upraised in act to bless. 
 Traced in the air the sign of holiness. 
 For the third time the sign of pardon made ; 
 And, with closed eyes, in feeble accents said — 
 " Et Spiritus Sanctus " — 
 
 And the fiml word 
 In the deep silence was distinctly heard — 
 Then fell stone dead. 
 
 We rested mute as death ; 
 Each hardened trooper held his panting breath ; 
 His. heart with horror chilled and filled with gloom 
 Before that murder and that martyrdom ; 
 The drummers beat a solemn roll, and then, 
 With one low voice we murmured all, " Amen." 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 There is music in the air 
 Floating up the valley fair. 
 Mixture sweet of murmurs rare, 
 
 Blending into nameless hum ; 
 And the dappled shadow scuds 
 O'er the meads and waving woods : 
 As a beauty's changeful moods, 
 
 Shades and sunbeams come. 
 
 Lo ! the restless, biUowy sway ; 
 
 Lo ! the life in every spray ; 
 
 The dance of leaves and flowers gay
 
 140 
 
 In flutter, whirl, and swing ; 
 Scent the sweet wind's perfumed breath, 
 Fresh distilled from bower and heath, 
 And bramble brake and clover wreath, 
 
 And daisy fairy ring. 
 
 Being grows a pure delight, 
 Mind and body both unite 
 Their cheerful functions swift and bright, 
 
 Responsive to the spell ; 
 And juster, clearer thoughts are given 
 Of earth and man and God and heaven, 
 And veils of doubt and dread are riven, 
 
 And conscience counsels well. 
 
 House not, over-much to brood 
 In carking care or dreamy mood ; 
 Healthful life must be renewed 
 
 By Nature's communing. 
 Both duties low and duties high 
 Lose half their gloomy mystery, 
 For action, air, and sun, and sky 
 
 Must lusty purpose bring. 
 
 THE DEAD CHILD'S FROCK. 
 
 Freely translated from the French of M. Manuel. 
 
 In a dim garret a domestic strife 
 
 Is waged between a workman and his wife. 
 
 He had o'er night been drinking ; woke o'er late. 
 
 Brutal and discontented and irate. 
 
 With eyes all dim and bloodshot, and an air 
 
 No sober, honest working man should wear. 
 
 His meal was unprepared, his temper sour, 
 
 For the poor woman had mistook the hour. 
 
 All was disorder in the room. Of course. 
 
 His own misconduct made her fault the worse. 
 
 And he, though culpable, in angry tone, 
 
 Reproves her for her fault, to screen his own. 
 
 " Where have you been ? What have you been about? 
 
 I famish here while you are gadding out.
 
 141 
 
 A man's to slave, and suffer all neglect, 
 
 While his wife gossips, worse, as I suspect." 
 
 " I've been to search for work, for while you drink 
 
 Some one must earn the living, I should think : 
 
 Money for food and fire and rent. 
 
 If earned by you, are at the ' public ' spent." 
 
 " I'll drink whene'er I please." " Aye, verily !" 
 
 " I'll do whate'cr I like." " Then so will I." 
 
 " Will you, you saucy jade !" He frantic rose, 
 
 And falls from angry words to brutal blows ; 
 
 And suddenly the contest waxes rife 
 
 With all the horrors of domestic strife. 
 
 Shrieks, oaths, and insults, and reproaches dire, 
 
 All bitter taunts that anger can inspire ; 
 
 All painful memories ; all past regret ; 
 
 Each rancour that can wound and chafe and fret, 
 
 With mutual spleen and recklessness employed, 
 
 Love wrecked, and future happiness destroyed. 
 
 At last the man in wildest choler cries : 
 
 " I'll make an end of all these vagaries. 
 
 I'm weary of them ; every day the same 
 
 Old stale complaints, scolding, or weeping game ; 
 
 It is enough to drive a fellow mad 
 
 To lead the kind of life I've lately had — 
 
 A home where every evil chance I meet : 
 
 On such conditions life's a precious treat ! 
 
 I stand no longer what too long I bore. 
 
 Home ! Why, it's hell ! and I'll come home no more." 
 
 There was a boding silence for awhile, 
 
 When the wife answered, with a painful smile, 
 
 As she wiped off a tear, with trembling hand, 
 
 In broken utterance : " I understand. 
 
 Well, then, we'll separate ; 'tis overlong 
 
 That I have suffered your neglect and wrong. 
 
 You have oft threatened me with this before : 
 
 I'll meet your wish, and be your slave no more. 
 
 I've borne too much ; too long have patient been, 
 
 Suffering your lazy slight and drunken spleen. 
 
 Life is a misery, a martyrdom. 
 
 You're right ; it is a hell, and not a home ! 
 
 Go ! leave me, then. Be free, and so shall I ; 
 
 I shall survive your loss — at least, I'll try. 
 
 'Tis quite enough to have worked for all, while you 
 
 Idle and waste among your drunken crew. 
 
 And, come what may, I've eyes and fingers yet ; 
 
 I shall contrive my living still to get. 
 
 Go ! Drink, your friend, awaits you. Go ! 
 
 And sleep to-night where the drinks leads you to. 
 
 Drunkard ! No more to you I'll ope the door; 
 
 We part ! and your complaints, and mine are o'er." 
 
 " Agreed," in some surprise, the man re])lies; 
 
 " But wait a moment : you no doubt surmise
 
 14* 
 
 That I shall leave the furniture and traps — 
 
 At least, what's left of them — to you, perhaps. 
 
 No ! furniture and linen, pots and pans ; 
 
 Plates, spoons, and dishes ; teacups, saucers, cans — 
 
 Of every scurrick here I claim my share. 
 
 It is my right, and what is right is fair. 
 
 I'll not be turned off, like some beggar chap, 
 
 Carrying nought but jacket, vest, and cap. 
 
 The half of everything, as mine, I claim ; 
 
 And you, of course, shall fare and share the same." 
 
 " You're right ! The half is yours ! I'd like to know 
 
 Who worked and saved to get them, I or you ; 
 
 Whose courage and whose self-denying care 
 
 May you be thankful to there's aught to share ? 
 
 Oh ! my poor home, whose care has been my pride, 
 
 My only one, since my dear infant died ! 
 
 But never mind ! I am contented too. 
 
 Being strangers now, to nothing owe to you." 
 
 And now behold the scene : on every side 
 
 They turn, and seize, and angrily divide 
 
 Chairs, household gear ; each humble item found 
 
 Is weighed, examined, clutched, and strewn around. 
 
 The fever to depart has seized the man : 
 
 Silent, impatient, o'er the place you can 
 
 Fancy him, making a confusion wild. 
 
 All ransacked, all incongruously piled. 
 
 Displaced, and overturned, each rush-bound seat, 
 
 All's topsy-turvy in the sad retreat. 
 
 Ransacked each drawer, everything pell-mell ; 
 
 What might have been a paradise made hell. 
 
 The impious sacrilege, the eager hunt, 
 
 Is pressed, while beaded sweat stands on his front. 
 
 A nameless pillage and confusion spread 
 
 On floor and table, window-seat, and bed. 
 
 A lamentable sight, to grieve the heart, 
 
 To see each one disputing for a part. 
 
 " There, take you that ; I this, a glass, a plate ; 
 
 We shall be equal now at any rate. 
 
 These candlesticks divide ; the sheets we share ; 
 
 A blanket each is nothing less than fair. 
 
 Unluckily we can't divide the bed ; 
 
 You take it — I the mattress claim instead." 
 
 And thus proceed they in the headstrong course 
 
 To wreck their home by self-imposed divorce. 
 
 The sad division to an end draws near. 
 The cold day closes to a night more drear. 
 When suddenly the workman's wandering eyes 
 On a dark shelf a folded packet spies — 
 An old dim, dusty bundle tied with string. 
 Like a neglected and forgotten thing.
 
 M3 
 
 ".What's that ?" he grumbles. " Something we've forgot ? 
 
 Let's see if it's worth sharing or if not. 
 
 Some valuable treasure, I should say, 
 
 To be so folded up and hid away ; 
 
 Something held back and secreted, to serve 
 
 And answer for a fall-back and reserve." 
 
 He quick plucks off the string with which 'tis bound, 
 
 Takes off the wrap, and casts it on the ground. 
 
 " What's here ? They're baby clothes ! A cap, a frock !'■ 
 
 Their sudden glances meet, as with a shock, 
 
 Each recognises that which now appears, 
 
 After the long forgetfulness of years, 
 
 The faded vestments of a long lost child. 
 
 Which on their early days of love had smiled. 
 
 Neither can speak ; but each with painful gaze, 
 
 Calls back the thoughts of happy, early days. 
 
 Before their minds their infant loved has past, 
 
 Alive, in her first robe — alas ! her last. 
 
 A tremour seems to run through either frame, 
 
 And on each lip is breathed their infant's name. 
 
 *' Oh ! these must be for me," the husband cries. 
 
 " For you ? No !" turning pale, the wife replies ; 
 
 "You shall not have them ; they are mine. 'Twas I 
 
 Who made and broidered them when none were by ; 
 
 I long have kept them, and I still would keep, 
 
 Sometimes to smile upon, sometimes to weep. 
 
 When I was happy they were my delight; 
 
 When sad, I've oft consoled me with their sight. 
 
 Take all ; restore me but that cap and dress 
 
 To kiss and weep o'er in my loneliness. 
 
 Oh, my sweet darling ! why did heaven recall 
 
 The blessing that he sent,' so loved of all, 
 
 So good, so beautiful. Alas ! since she 
 
 Was taken from me, all is changed for me." 
 
 She, with a trembling step, in silence takes 
 Them from his hands, who no resistance makes. 
 Silent, immovable, long time she stands 
 Clutching the infant vestments in her hands. 
 With tearful eyes, the little robe is pressed 
 With loving tenderness upon her breast. 
 The little Sunday cap and pinafore 
 Convulsively she kisses o'er and o'er; 
 Trembling, refolds them as before they were, 
 And wrajis and binds ihem with an eager care, 
 In low breath murmuring : " 'Tis too much of hate ; 
 I've learned your cruelty of heart too late." 
 " Too late f" bursts forth the man in anguish wild ; 
 " Are you so sure of that ? And since our child 
 Speaks to us from on high, with sweet appeal, 
 Rekindling love, and teaching us to feel.
 
 144 
 
 Let you and I renounce the grievous sin 
 
 We dreamed of, and a better life begin. 
 
 I feel my heart with love revived to yearn, 
 
 And she in those dear relics to return, 
 
 To chide me for perversity of heart. 
 
 Oh ! say you pardon me ; I cannot part." 
 
 With a deep penitence, his head is bowed, 
 
 And in his outstretched hands he weeps aloud. 
 
 She runs to him : " You weep ! oh, weep no mort. 
 
 Forget ! forgive ! and live as once before ; 
 
 We may be happy still, if we but strive 
 
 To love as when our darling was alive." 
 
 THE MEMORY OF PAST JOY. 
 
 There is a soft and soothing power. 
 
 When calling back the memory fair. 
 Of some sweet spot or some bright hour, 
 
 In which the moment's golden were ; 
 That make associations sweet, 
 
 Combine to leave a spell behind, 
 No after-world's mishaps you meet, 
 
 Can cancel in the grateful mind. 
 
 As some choice foil, or rarer fern, 
 
 The herbal's virgin leaves compress, 
 To which in later times we turn 
 
 To contemplate their loveliness ; 
 Though quelled by time their verdant tint. 
 
 Their iorms of beauty still remain, 
 And their suggestive shows reprint 
 
 The memory with joy again. 
 
 Then let the flowers, and not the weeds, 
 
 The sunshine, not the shadow, cling, 
 The kindly word, the gracious deed, 
 
 In our remembrances to bring ; 
 Renewal of the pristine charm 
 
 That they imparted to the mind, 
 To keep the spirit fresh and warm. 
 
 To cheerfulness and good inclined.
 
 145 
 
 THE EMIGRANT'S RETURN. 
 
 A SONG. 
 (Set to Music.) 
 
 As here I sit beneath the shade 
 
 Of this old cypress tree, 
 Where rest in peace all those who made 
 
 This life a charm to me, 
 What sweet but touching mem'ries rise, 
 
 What phantom hopes appear, 
 What warped and blighted destinies, 
 
 To make the future drear ! 
 As sinks the sun 'neath tropic wave, 
 
 The night comes quickly on ; 
 The light of life to me they gave. 
 
 But now that hope is gone. 
 And on the restless worldly tide, 
 
 Uncheered by guiding ray, 
 I drift upon the desert wide. 
 
 In blank and dire dismay. 
 
 The dark'ning cloud of adverse fate, 
 
 Obscured my father's home. 
 Forced me, in early manhood's state. 
 
 To foreign regions roam. 
 Duty my guide, and love my stay, 
 
 Hope's cheering presence led, 
 And pointed to a brighter day, 
 
 With Fortune's gifts o'erspread, 
 When! might claim my Mary's hand, 
 
 And soothe my parent's pain. 
 As 'neath a bright enchanter's wand 
 
 No sorrow can remain ; 
 And how the glorious prospect gave 
 
 New vigour to my will. 
 While all the future seem'd to have 
 
 A brighter promise still. 
 
 But while in absence lone I toiled, 
 
 And laboured not in vain, 
 The icy hand of Death hath foiled 
 
 My efforts of all gain : 
 Those loved ones three — my parents dear, 
 
 And she my heart's young bride — 
 Within the space of one short year, 
 
 Have in my absence died.
 
 146 
 
 And if I do not pray for^death 
 
 To end this bitter ill, 
 Oh, heaven ! 'tis that thy creatures' breath 
 
 Is 'pendent on thy will ; 
 The going hence, or staying here, 
 
 Thine to command alone. 
 And thine the harvest of the year, 
 
 Whose hands the seeds have sown. 
 
 GOOD BOOKS. 
 
 Ye bridges, spanning the broad stream of time, 
 Framed in strong prose or decorative rhyme, 
 Simple in structure or in plan sublime ; 
 
 Your outward looks 
 May bear the stains of ages and decay. 
 And your trim newness may have passed away ; 
 Yet miss we not in ye that fair array, 
 
 l\are, good old books. 
 
 For ye do link the Now with What has been ; 
 
 By ye in abstract and detail are seen 
 
 Time's pageant through each parti-coloured scene, 
 
 In varied show, 
 Of good and evil — humbleness or pride. 
 Grandeur and meanness stalking side by side. 
 Truth's steadfast march and Falsehood's devious glide 
 
 The cortege through. 
 
 But most ye charm us when your spirit's come, 
 
 And bide with us as in a haunted room ; 
 
 Calm, friendly ghosts, minus all dread or gloom, 
 
 But mild and sage 
 With the dumb eloquence of lettered worth, 
 Pouring the goodly streams of wisdom forth 
 As deathless legacies bequeathed to earth 
 
 From every age. 
 
 As kindly tutors, round they seem to sit. 
 Delighting with philosophy and wit, 
 Or fancy framed in fine poetic fytte. 
 
 Earnest or h'ght ; 
 Till, by the spelling presence lured away. 
 We seem as living in some long-passed day. 
 When mind was weighted with less earthly clay 
 
 To check its flight.
 
 147 
 
 Then doth the power within us seem to wake, 
 And long the lethargy of sloth to break ; 
 And tho't be little, still that effort make 
 
 To better state ; 
 To note the fairness of the Just and True, 
 Clever and Beautiful, most like in you. 
 Will wake the longing to be something too — 
 
 Good, if not great. 
 
 To plant a forest is a tribute paid 
 To coming generations ; so the shade 
 Of one lone oak a blessing may be made 
 
 To some fixmt soul. 
 There is proportion both of good and ill ; 
 The larger benefit will challenge still ; 
 But ne'ertheless the lesser is not n:V — 
 
 Parts form the whole. 
 
 Evil seeks us ; but goodness must be sought 
 In the fair monuments itself hath wrought. 
 The mind grows barren upon inbred thought, 
 
 And Nature looks 
 For some renewal of the mental seed, 
 Purest from nettle-rust or error-weed ; 
 So much't behoves us all we can to read 
 
 Good, wholesome books. 
 
 ADIEU TO THE OLD YEAR. 
 
 Adieu, Old Year ! though on thy wing 
 There's many a tear-drop like a dew. 
 
 And many sorrows to thee cling. 
 Yet I will sing farewell to you. 
 
 And once again, ere twelve has toll'd, 
 While gazing on thy pallid face, 
 
 And, ere the new succeeds the old. 
 Can I not yet some pleasure trace ? 
 
 Yes, many blessings I can see, 
 
 Which when enjoyed I did not heed ; 
 
 And thou hast been. Old Year, to me 
 Often a very friend indeed. 
 
 Adieu, Old Year ! I'll not withhold 
 My thanks for many a brighter ray. 
 
 Since thy last annual billow roU'd 
 Into Time's dark funereal bay.
 
 148 
 
 Adieu, Old Year ! as parting friends 
 Pause on the threshold-stone to change 
 
 The last warm grip before one wends 
 Into dim night and dreary range,— 
 
 So ere you quit us for the waste, 
 
 Receding indistinctly blue 
 Into the track-worn weary past, 
 
 Accept, Old Year, my kind Adieu ! 
 
 IRISH SONG— PENNY MOLOY. 
 
 My coat it is ragged and tattered ; 
 
 My hat it is brimless and battered ; 
 
 To my breeches there's sorry a button ; 
 
 My shirt is a puzzle to put on ; ■ 
 
 My stockings are darned with all colours and hues ; 
 
 And there's little up'-leather or soles to my shoes; 
 
 And yet, I'll go bail, if you search through Kinsale 
 
 You'll not meet with a happier boy. 
 
 For my heart is as light as a lark in its flight, 
 
 And I'm loved by sweet Penny Moloy. 
 
 By blue devils or care untormented, 
 
 With what falls in my way I'm contented ; 
 
 For riches I ne'er fret or bother ; 
 
 One day passes as gay as another ; 
 
 I've no fear of any thief picking my pocket ; 
 
 My door may stand open — there's no need to lock it, 
 
 For there's nothing to steal. Yet search through Kinsale, 
 
 You'll not meet with a happier boy. 
 
 For a dance, or a fight, or a song's my delight, 
 
 And I'm loved by sweet Penny Moloy. 
 
 But this life — all so happy-go-lucky, 
 So devil-may-care and so plucky, 
 So pleasant and gay in the spending — 
 I must bring to a finish and ending. 
 
 I must buckle to work and leave fooling and drink ; 
 Of the comforts of Penny, my darling, must think. 
 For should Poverty's frown on my cabin look down, 
 From my heart it would banish all joy 
 To see care dim the light that now glances so bright 
 In the eyes of sweet Penny Moloy.
 
 149 
 
 Another termination of the last verse : 
 
 I must buckle to work and leave fooling and drink ; 
 With no turf on the hearth and no money to chink, 
 I've a doubt on my mind you'd be puzzled to find 
 In the world such an unhappy boy 
 As I, with no store, and the wolf at the door, 
 Were I married to Penny Moloy, 
 
 AS CALMLY I LAY SLEEPING. 
 
 Song — Set to Music. 
 
 (Suggested by Sidney DoheVs " This Aforn I Lay a Dreaming /' 
 " Englatid i?i the Time of War") 
 
 As calmly I lay sleeping, 
 
 This bright and summer morn, 
 Around my fancy creeping 
 
 This vision 'gan to dawn : 
 My Willie's ship came sailing 
 
 From far upon the sea. 
 And Willie's voice came hailing 
 Born on the wind to me. 
 Yeo, oh, my true love ! ' 
 
 Yco, oh, my joy ! 
 I'm coming back to you, love, 
 Your constant sailor boy. 
 
 In blissful hope awaking 
 
 The illusive vision fled; 
 The spell of slumber breaking, 
 
 A sad'ning influence shed. 
 My head sunk on my pillow 
 
 In disappointed pain ; 
 I slept, and o'er the billow 
 Was wafted once again : 
 
 Yeo, oh, my true love ! 
 
 Yeo, oh, my joy ! 
 I'm coming back to you, love, 
 Your constant sailor boy. 
 
 This time the welcome greeting 
 
 Was too distinct and clear ; 
 For drowsy slumber's cheating 
 
 That mocks Sleep's credent ear.
 
 15° 
 
 'Twas no illusion haunted 
 My restless weary brain, 
 But Willie's self that chanted 
 The happy gay refrain — 
 Yeo, oh, my true love ! 
 
 Yeo, oh, my joy ! 
 I have come back to you, love, 
 Your constant sailor boy. 
 
 ON THE CROOKED SHORE OF DINGLE BAY. 
 
 On the crooked shore of Dingle Bay 
 
 I sat and watched the ships at sea, 
 
 And wished and wished some lucky wind 
 
 Would blow me home a fortune kind. 
 
 My grey frieze coat is patched and old, 
 
 The girl I love has powers of gold : 
 
 Were I to wish to own the moon, 
 
 I'd get my wishes just as soon. 
 
 Och hone ! Och hone ! My heart is sad ! 
 
 I've ne'er a joy in life, bedad ; 
 
 The mocking wind laughs me to scorn, 
 
 For on Black Friday Pat was born. 
 
 I took to drink to drown my grief, 
 For my throat was dry as barrel beef ; 
 But, bad cess to Fortune's treachery, 
 More moist and briny was my eye. 
 What cheers the gay makes sorrow sad ; 
 To drink's to jump to worse from bad ; 
 My heart is ice, and whiskey's ire 
 May nielt, but cannot give it fire. 
 Och hone ! Och hone ! From Arrah's eye 
 I'd drink the fire by which I die ; 
 While, heedless as the candle's flame. 
 She, bright in beauty, shines the same- 
 
 In the army I've a mind to 'list — . 
 By not a soul should I be miss'd ; 
 But, och ! the leaving Arrah ! sure 
 Her absence how should I endure? 
 To steal her window 'neath at night, 
 And watch the flickering candle-light — 
 It's worth the world to see it shine — 
 Or catch her shadow on the bline (blind).
 
 Och hone ! Och hone ! my shadow's size 
 Dwindles each day before my eyes, 
 And soon I fear this hapless blade 
 Won't cast the shadow of a shade. 
 
 Another iertnitiafmi of the last verse : 
 
 Och hone ! Och hone ! Sweet sleep or rest 
 Is then a stranger to my breast ; 
 What would she think (if thus I jjinc) 
 If she could catch a glimpse of mine ? 
 
 PARTED. 
 
 Thou art far, far away, and the ocean's rude billow 
 
 Is spread like a death, parting both of us now ; 
 Your head never more on my bosom may pillow. 
 
 Nor neighbourhood call back the thought of thy vow. 
 Yet oft, when the arm of thy husband shall fold thee. 
 
 And the kiss of endearment shall press on thy lip, 
 The fang of reproach like a fury shall hold thee, 
 
 And give thee the venom of conscience to sip. 
 
 Thou may'st nestle thy babe to thy bosom, delighted, 
 
 And dote on the starry eyes gazing on thine ; 
 But a look shall peer from them shall make thee affrighted, 
 
 Recall some expression or feature of mine. 
 And the guilt of thy treason shall sully the pleasure, 
 
 And taint the delight, of maternity's kiss : 
 I shall spectre thy every moment of leisure. 
 
 And shadow the light of each transient bliss. 
 
 Thou hast but one hope from sure self-condemnation 
 
 (For oblivion of that which has been cannot be) ; 
 That refuge must spring from the degeneration ; 
 
 That perfidy surely must labour in thee. 
 Thou must shelter the future in callous unheeding, 
 
 And sophisticate nature with spurious aid ; 
 But, beware ! lest the infamous impulse, inbreeding, 
 
 On the innocent soul of thy intant be laid. 
 
 Should its spirit be generous, loyal, and tender. 
 
 Canst thou iiarbour the thought of how little the share 
 
 Of these heavenly elements thou didst engender, 
 Or think that the thistle the fig-fruit will bear?
 
 152 
 
 Thou hast chosen the vile, downward path to be treading"; 
 
 Thou wilt reap of the harvest of baseness thou'st sown ; 
 Reflection shall curse thee at boarding and bedding 
 
 Thou art thrall'd by thy perjury's durable zone. 
 
 'Tis most likely we never again shall foregather, 
 
 That your eye ne'er may meet the reproach of my gaze ; 
 And had I the choice, for my part I would rather 
 
 Resentment should wither as nature decays. 
 Could I call back respect where affection is banished, 
 
 Could I bury the past and believe as of yore. 
 You were worth a regret ; but that solace is vanished 
 
 And Ichabod's writ' to your name evermore. 
 
 THE HAPPY VALLEY. 
 
 In the girdle of hills snugly nestles the valley, 
 
 Like an emerald costly, in ruder enclosing; 
 
 An opulence hid to preserve it from spoilage ; 
 
 A privileged glen too remote for intrusion 
 
 Of populous worry, or traffic, or commerce ; 
 
 So nicely secreted by barren approaches, 
 
 And horrid escarpments, and gorges, and boulders, 
 
 Like dragons defending and barring all access 
 
 "With misleading ads de sac, ending in chaos. 
 
 Deceptive ways, upward and downward to ruin, 
 
 I seeming world's-end, with no further ongoing 
 
 But one well-screened portal, with so little promise 
 
 Not one in a thousand would think to essay it, 
 
 So hopeless a blockage its aspect presages. 
 
 A sheer wall of granite the mountain uprises, 
 
 No visible inlet when almost within it. 
 
 That only by dreamy, unconscious ontending — 
 
 As an o'ervveary man sleeps and still trudges onward. 
 
 Or the boat for a time, when its sail has been lowered. 
 
 Feels its former momentum — just so unexpecting 
 
 I found myself suddenly edging a fissure. 
 
 Like an inverted V, where the top of the mountain 
 
 Each side slanted inward, and rocklets enormous 
 
 Masked the gap — you might fancy some power Titanic 
 
 Had laboured with coigns in the granite eternal. 
 
 It was dark as the antre of monsters nocturnal ; 
 
 The ooze of the hill-springs bespattered its pavement, 
 
 Its slanting sides dripping with stalactites pendent. 
 
 And at its dark basement two tunnels were channelled, 
 
 Deep-stained and rusty, though crystal their waters.
 
 153 
 
 A fairy-like harmony came from tlie hollow, 
 
 Like dulcimers beaten by hands without cunning — 
 
 So wild, yet so musical ; sweet, without melody ; 
 
 A shower of tinkling, like rain drops on harp strings. 
 
 Awhile I stood wondering, gazing, and listening, 
 
 As of old a knight-errant enchantment encountered. 
 
 What allurement resistless, indefinite peril ? 
 
 What mystery gloomy, adventure forewarning? 
 
 The lure of the unknown provoking to knowledge ; 
 
 But what expectation, beyond a vague notion 
 
 Of vast rocky wonders or subterrene marvels. 
 
 Could urge me to fathom the depth of the cavern ? 
 
 I had none — no intention to penetrate further 
 
 Than just the dim lighting the entrance afforded 
 
 Might serve to direct me again to its portal. 
 
 My thought was, the cavern would, inward expanding. 
 
 Spread to deep-vaulted chambers and galleries darksome ; 
 
 And for some way it widened, and then grew more straitened, 
 
 Then bent in a crescent with ruggeder pathway ; 
 
 And the edge of the cavern behind me obtruded 
 
 Between the dim pencil of daylight afforded 
 
 By the cleft in the mountain through which I had entered. 
 
 A step or two further, and all would be darkness. 
 
 So, pausing for counsel 'twixt longing and prudence. 
 
 Their promptings opposing produced some perplexing 
 
 Suggestions of wretches in catacombs, wildered, 
 
 In fruitless endeavours escape to discover; 
 
 Of hunger, despairing, and death super-awful ; 
 
 Of adventures remembered in legends romantic ; 
 
 Of treasures by accident strangely discovered, 
 
 Of maidens by actions heroic delivered 
 
 (The wild diorama of lightning like objects 
 
 That so fleetly sweep over the disc of reflection). 
 
 Half had I determined on prompt retrogression, 
 
 When I found myself still, but with caution advancing — 
 
 The damp wall for my guide, as I groped in the darkness, 
 
 Over detritus scrambling that cumbered the pathway. 
 
 The gap trending still with a gradient increasing, 
 
 But so closely contracted, with both hands extended, 
 
 I could grapple the opposite sides of the jiassage. 
 
 Then presently grew a perceptible dawning 
 
 Of feebly-reflected light, faintly designing 
 
 The uneven form of one side of the hollow ; 
 
 And it strengthened and tempted me onward and onward, 
 
 Till the line of the alley grew straight ; and the distance 
 
 Was cut by a glimmer of daylight far upward, 
 
 Tiiat illumined the stretch of the subterrene gully. 
 
 Which was channelled and strewn like the bed of a torrent. 
 
 Soon the sky shone above ; but a chasm, sheer-sided. 
 
 Bounded all save before, where a grey-headed mountain — 
 
 Like a sentinel posted, in solitude gloomy — 
 
 Seemed to bar further progress with frowning defiance.
 
 154 
 
 But closer inspection presented an outlet 
 
 At a junction of channels. A smooth slope, turf-tufted, 
 
 Gave ascent to a shelf at the base of the mountain. 
 
 This level I followed, until half its circle 
 
 Was measured, with prospect restricted and sterile. 
 
 When the gorge fairly opened. And Oh, to what beauty ! 
 
 Description is feeble to give a conception. 
 
 Though the effort recaUing to mind its entrancements 
 
 May reflect an enjoyment, though dim and imperfect. 
 
 The precipitous gorge, in a latteral bending, 
 
 By a rampart of pine-covered summits was curtained. 
 
 And, lost in the regions of solitude, vanished. 
 
 As a creature of gloom shuns a brighter surrounding ; 
 
 And the stern and the awful retired to grey distance, 
 
 There only in pallor of misty enshrouding. 
 
 Peered over the smiling and glowing perspective. 
 
 Above me, to right and to left, the two summits 
 
 Shot up with a grandeur evoking my wonder. 
 
 But they joined at my standpoint, and, gently descending, 
 
 Left the vista that held me entranced unobstructed. 
 
 There were sunshine and shadow so charmingly scattered ; 
 
 There were outlines imposing that melted in softness ; 
 
 Long even-ridged hills by their silvan adorning, 
 
 Redeemed from the want of variety's magic. 
 
 Repose in its dreamy and sweet delectation. 
 
 And motion in divers effective contrastings ; 
 
 Bright, marvellous mixtures and tintings of colour, 
 
 With minglings of music each lost in the blending, 
 
 And life-lusty life in a circle of torpor : 
 
 Vast distance combined with aerial finish 
 
 To strengthen and soften to fullest perfection. 
 
 A Paradise earthly for purity's dwelling, 
 
 An infant of summer and softness all rosy. 
 
 Lapped and fondled by guardian nurses of terror. 
 
 Here, oblivious of all that was worldly or wicked, 
 
 Its denizens surely you well might imagine 
 
 Could tranquilly linger remote from all longings, 
 
 Or burning, or bitterness, warping and raining 
 
 The unstable bases of unbounded commerce. 
 
 Here habit might fashion out simpler requirements, 
 
 And wants to Necessity's dictates conforming — 
 
 Superfluity's tyranny freely disable. 
 
 Here existence might flow like yon stream of the meadow, 
 
 Reflecting a happiness bright as the sparkle 
 
 Of sunbeams that flash on its mirror-like surface, 
 
 With consciences clear as the heaven that hovers 
 
 Above the warm cloudlets which dapple its bosom ; 
 
 That though of the earth, being mortal, the final 
 
 Unshunable Death none might hope to escape from ; 
 
 Yet sin, its twin brother, could here find no harbour — 
 
 His lures of temptation be powerless and futile. 
 
 That the earthly fcojoarning in this Happy Valley
 
 155 
 
 Would be — if, in truth, there's a heaven hereafter— 
 
 The meet preparation and gradual fitting 
 
 (For no earthly spot could excel it in beauty), 
 
 For that bright abode where the spirit rejoices, 
 
 Where the passions, emotions, and human aspirings 
 
 Are lost in beatitude endless and holy. 
 
 But ah ! Here, alas ! came reflections disturbing. 
 
 That mortality's penalty knew no exception ; 
 
 That the Adam in man and the Eve in earth's daughters 
 
 Would work their unshunable consequent issue ; 
 
 That not from the outward comes sinning and sorrow ; 
 
 That not by its aspect is goodness determined. 
 
 But judgment deluded by seeming and showing. 
 
 And, evil in guises alluring bedecking. 
 
 Virtue's self would entice to unconscious perdition : 
 
 That on this side of death no perfection could flourish, 
 
 And death only solve if our future be perfect ; 
 
 That allowance for frailty in others may strengthen 
 
 In us what is tending to blessedness, better 
 
 Than straitness, harsh child of self-glorification. 
 
 Expectation run riot, or fancy in fervour. 
 
 May fashion ideal conditions transcendent ; 
 
 But the humourist's wit was impregnate with wisdom 
 
 Who said, " In humanity's much human nature." 
 
 Then, though in this Eden the serpent may linger, 
 
 The antagonist-angels as well may inhabit ; 
 
 Though e'en here the great duel of evil and goodness. 
 
 Its contest, unending, still waging may trouble. 
 
 Durst I, wert thou sinless thy precincts invading. 
 
 Confront thee undaunted, being sinful and human ? 
 
 All welcome thy glory of hill, stream, and meadow, 
 
 Tiiy sunshine, thy shadows, melodious murmurs; 
 
 Thy life and thy contrasts to outer oppression : 
 
 Of solitude, barrenness, silence, and terror. 
 
 As a city of refuge to me thou art welcome ! 
 
 THE WISH. 
 
 Oh ! for the Dart the Scythian caught* 
 
 When launched from riiecbus' burnished bow, 
 That I might set wide space at nought, 
 
 And traverse distance to and fro ; 
 Glance at tlie wonder-spots of earth 
 
 I'hat lie between the opposing poles ; 
 Contrast the fruitfulness and dearth, 
 
 The gulfs and bays, where ocean rolls ; 
 
 * Abaris.
 
 156 
 
 Soar to the snow-capped mountain peak ; 
 
 Or fathom earth's mysterious caves ; 
 Or float where mighty rivers break 
 
 To chasm'd depths o'er rocky eves ; 
 Where solitude supremely reigns, 
 
 Or populations hive and swarm ; 
 O'er sea's expanse, o'er desert plains — 
 
 From rude to fair, from stern to calm ; 
 Where Nature's massive mountain piles 
 
 Pierce the keen, thin, and breathless air, 
 And ice, and snow, and craggy styles 
 
 Eternal brunt the solar glare ; 
 Thorough primeval forests shade, 
 
 Gorgeous in grand arborial pride, 
 With quaint luxuriance arrayed. 
 
 And endless shades of beauty dyed — 
 Fantastic, gnarled, festooned, and fringed ; 
 
 With star-like palms and fan-like ferns ; 
 With broad leaves marvellously tinged. 
 
 Guarding rich flowers like fairy urns ; 
 And twining wreaths, and trailing bines, 
 
 And pendent clusters, that in vain 
 Essayed to top the giant pines, 
 
 Were tending to the earth again ; 
 Dim vista'd groves and bright arcades 
 
 In virgin opulence profuse. 
 With feathery denizens of shade. 
 
 Matching the rainbow's prism'd hues ; 
 And note, in Nature's untamed state, 
 
 The tenants of the tangled brake. 
 In bristling wrath, or rest sedate. 
 
 Gambols grotesque, and amorous rake : 
 To trace the links of parent love 
 
 Through the long animated chain 
 That insects, birds, and beasts approve 
 
 (That soft'ning gift to all pertain) ; 
 To watch the modes and methods given 
 
 To prey — to guard in every kind 
 The stealths and stratagems they're driven 
 
 To adopt, the needs of life to find. 
 Would the surmise be over-wild 
 
 To deem that the observant mind 
 Might trace in every prey beguiled 
 
 Some parallel in human kind ; 
 Or some similitude of force. 
 
 Or craft, or cruelty, or greed. 
 In man's all-grasping, restless course 
 
 Of broader scope and greater need ? 
 That want or wish to any end 
 
 Suggests the means by which 'tis gained ? 
 But man's facilities extend 
 
 Through all the modes, where these are chained.
 
 157 
 
 And, Oh ! the gift. Could it be mine 
 
 To see and judge mankind at range 
 In all conditions that combine 
 
 To constitute the difference strange 
 Of customs, creeds, and manners, thought, 
 
 Built up like barriers, to oppose 
 The oneness — which, as we are taught. 
 
 Claims us — through that from which we rose ; 
 To learn where good or evil's sway 
 
 In greater or in lesser part. 
 Or whether more advantage may 
 
 Live in simplicity or art. 
 If one low level makes mankind content 
 
 With scant supply of poorest needs for all, 
 Or startling contrast be the element 
 
 That turns the sweet of civil life to gall, 
 The naked savage in his earth-made cells 
 
 May love his lodgment, as the wolf his den. 
 No palace where Profusion proudly dwells 
 
 Contrasts his meanness with more favoured men. 
 The slave wins not his meal by toil so dire ; 
 
 But when 'tis won, 'tis his own lawful spoil. 
 He shares it with his wife, his babes, his sire ; 
 
 No privilege holds mortgage o'er his toil. 
 He shivers not that some may bravely shine ; 
 
 He works not for another's wanton waste ; 
 He does not furnish viand-feasts and wine 
 
 Whereof he must not either scent or taste ; 
 And if he misses all those fine delights 
 
 That civil arts provide to sweeten care, 
 His state to zests as vivid sure invito ; 
 
 And lusty earnestness is ever there. 
 Life is as valued, death appears less dread ; 
 
 Few self-made wants perplex his simple plan. 
 His urgent needs, procured, are doubly dear ; 
 
 And habit fortifies content in man. 
 And where Content resides — that blessed guest ! — 
 
 Slight chance that infelicity will dwell. 
 To covet that we lack gives sure unrest : 
 
 Know not the lack, and all will then be well. 
 Desire is limitless : the more it climbs, 
 
 The extended space engenders new desires. 
 That which was thought enough in former times, 
 
 Acquired, gives vigour to its longing ires : 
 Like a disease that ever craves its bane, 
 
 The poison-fare augments the morbid state, 
 Feeding the source of irritable pain 
 
 Till no remedial can the ill abate. 
 Oh ! could I find that charmed spot 
 
 Where care and greed alike were strange, 
 There I'd elect to cast my lot, 
 And never after seek to range.
 
 158 
 
 Whatever clime or race among, 
 
 If calm content found harbour there, 
 
 My days and years would glide along 
 Blissful as Eden's tenants were. 
 
 A RHYME OF THE EIVER. 
 
 Darkly and sullenly, drearily cold, 
 
 And yet through the darkness, 
 
 Now freightless and barkless, 
 Perturbed and swollen, the deep river rolled. 
 
 A flicker and clicking, 
 
 A whirling and licking. 
 Informed through the Stygian gloom 
 
 Of the letless career 
 
 Of the dim torrent near, 
 Like the unfended mouth of the tomb. 
 
 My footfall woke an echo dull, 
 
 A gust of wind, and then a lull ; 
 When was heard the rushes quiver, 
 
 And the pollard willow-branches rock'd. 
 
 And v/ith leafless weird-fingers mocked 
 My wandering by that lonely river. 
 
 Distantly, luridly, tauntingly gleam. 
 
 Like omens of evil, 
 
 Through night's murky level, 
 The sparse city lights, winking over the stream, 
 
 Like spiteful, stealthy eyes 
 
 Of ranc'rous enemies. 
 Spying my desperate design 
 
 The vain struggle to close 
 
 In the long, deep repose, 
 So much welcome to being like mine. 
 
 As waned the hope did wax despair, 
 
 Or way, or mean, or thoroughfare. 
 So blocked seemed every channel there — 
 
 Such channel, at least, as I would deign 
 
 To take, for the end I would attain — 
 Outworn in the strife, I'll end it — where ? 
 
 Hollowly, hungrily, luringly came. 
 
 From the weltering flood 
 
 On whose margin I stood. 
 An answer, as from a demon, whose name
 
 159 
 
 Some occult, malign charm 
 
 Had up-conjured for harm ; 
 And his coming congealed my blood. 
 
 " Here's quiescent repose 
 
 In the wave, in the ooze," 
 Replyingly answered the flood, 
 
 A silence deeper than had been, 
 
 Portentous, seemed to intervene, 
 As waiting my decision ; 
 
 And thoughts came crowding thick and fast, 
 
 And all the future and the past 
 Were massed in one confused vision. 
 
 Feebly, retreatingly, languidly sped 
 
 The strife of dread 'gainst will, 
 
 The latter gaining still — 
 Retiring firm, and then advancing dread. 
 
 So weakened its rival 
 
 By slight and deprival, 
 His coming had lost its chief awe ; 
 
 Resisting but in show 
 
 Its stern, resistless foe. 
 But to finally yield to his law. 
 
 Nearing the steep and darksome board 
 
 Where the swart torrent deepest pour'd, 
 And round the piles the eddies roll'd ; 
 
 And the blankness reigned o'er everything. 
 
 And I crouched to make the final spring, 
 When some one shrieked out, " For God's sake, hold !" 
 
 Eagerly, suddenly, dragged me away ; 
 
 And so quick the surprise. 
 
 Like a wink of the eyes, 
 My anger, by wonder, was held at bay. 
 
 Yes, for a suret)'. 
 
 In the obscurity 
 There stood a dim shadow of gloom, 
 
 And in my confusion 
 
 It seemed an illusion 
 Of the dark-threatening spirit of doom. 
 
 With ill-defined and cloudy sense, 
 
 Now of relief and then suspense, 
 Half angrily, half in surprise. 
 
 And a vague perceptive touch of shame, 
 
 And fear of what I could not name. 
 Seized my bewildered faculties. 
 
 Silent and moody, confronted we stood, 
 
 Short-breathing and glaring, 
 
 Without either caring 
 To speak, and at first, perhaps, neither could; 
 
 But the pause gave me space 
 
 To contemplate the facu
 
 i6o 
 
 And the form of a woman of woe, 
 
 Worn, wan, and piteous, 
 
 Who finally spake thus 
 With a mournfulness touching and low : 
 
 " I came to die as you would die, 
 
 And end my bitter destiny ; 
 But I have had a better thought. 
 
 And, though I covet quick relief 
 
 From mem'ry, and disgrace, and grief. 
 At this price it would be dearly bought. 
 
 " Remorsefully, thankfully, trying to pray. 
 
 As I prayed years ago 
 
 When an infant, although 
 Then said by rote in my innocent way ; 
 
 And many years gone by 
 
 Since I last thought to try, 
 How then to pray I scarcely knew, 
 
 When the tread and jingle 
 
 On the river's shingle 
 Gave me notice, and you came in view. 
 
 I had a warning, secret guess 
 
 That some yoke-fellow in distress, 
 Desperate of life, trouble-weary, 
 
 Obeyed the desperate spirit's call 
 
 To shorten suffering, life, and all, 
 As I had, in this flood so dreary." 
 
 Shuddering, shamedly hiding her face, 
 
 With hands pressed convulsive. 
 
 Her worn weeds repulsive. 
 Damp, theeadbare, and dabbled with miry trace ; 
 
 Gaunt attenuation, 
 
 Sombre desolation, 
 Had impressed their ineffable brand. 
 
 But, governing at length 
 
 Her weakness by her strength, 
 Her emotion was held in command. 
 
 " Take time," she said; " the stake is great; 
 
 There may be yet a darker fate 
 Than that which you at present rue. 
 
 Through penury, infamy, disdain. 
 
 If I in suffering can remain ; 
 And 'bide the issue, so can you." 
 
 Gently and unresisted she led 
 
 Me aloof from the flood 
 
 In an abstracted mood, 
 Where the visioned past like a spectre fled, 
 
 Where present was drowned ; 
 
 But the lurid profound 
 Of the future was ominous, dread.
 
 i6i 
 
 And I searched in vain, 
 
 Like a waif on the main, 
 In the dark, where no hope-lights appear ; 
 
 And febrile fancy lends the waste 
 
 A charm of death, to be embraced 
 As a luxury and blest release ; 
 
 Where the bland winds, murmuring, whisper " Rest !" 
 
 And a nymph, with soft and glowing breast, 
 Woos fondly to her embrace of peace.* 
 
 Slowly and languidly dwindled the night. 
 
 Side by side on the bank, 
 
 'Mid the coarse herbage rank. 
 Hemlock and nettle and dire aconite, 
 
 That forlorn woman strove 
 
 In her Magdalen love 
 'Gainst a proud, stubborn, bitter will. 
 
 She told her history 
 
 To prove to me that I 
 Had an optional future left still ; 
 
 And ere the light of morning came 
 
 She put despondency to shame, 
 Broached in my soul a hidden source, 
 
 A hopeful and bright-refreshing stream. 
 
 That crisped and flashed and danced in the beam 
 Where hope, faith, and energy gained force. 
 
 SAINT CxODELIYE. 
 
 A Beloic Legend. 
 ( Versified from the French.) 
 
 Young Godelive was the well-beloved child 
 Of Baron Humfrid, of Chateau Longfort : 
 
 His wife, Ogiva, ever fondly smiled 
 
 On their child's budding charms, that daily mere 
 
 Unto perfection's glowing blossom grew. 
 
 Her cherished idol, and her husband's too. 
 
 To them she seemed as she were sent by heaven. 
 The bright reward of lives so fair and good ; 
 
 And the chaste dower of radiant beauty given 
 From childhood's dawn to dreamy maidenhood 
 
 Shone on her pure and stainless virgin front, 
 
 An Angel's holy impress stamped upon't. 
 
 * The Calenture.
 
 l62 
 
 Like purest alabaster's veinless tint, 
 
 And shining with the smoothest satin-glow, 
 
 Rich raven tresses of resplendent glint, 
 And with an even, faultless, arched brow ; 
 
 An eye of light, but beaming heavenly mild ; 
 
 And lips that sadly, and yet sweetly, smiled. 
 
 Reproach, if it could touch her nature rare. 
 Could spring from neither vice nor folly's birth, 
 
 But from the constant melancholy there, 
 As saintly piety o'ershadow'd mirth, 
 
 A calm, devotional, and patient soul, 
 
 With every evil impulse in control. 
 
 Her native graces, both of form and mind. 
 With happy rules of culture did unite ; 
 
 That beauty, virtue, talent, were combined 
 In soft assemblage to inspire delight ; 
 
 So that her praises far were bruited round 
 
 Ere she had reached her adolescence' bound. 
 
 Soon, suitors, whom her father's wealth and fame 
 Had first inspired, when her they saw and knew. 
 
 Many who won by Mammon's 'lurements came 
 Were doomed to feel a passion strong and true ; 
 
 But none among them all did she affect : 
 
 None would she choose as chevalier elect. 
 
 There came amidst the numerous suitor train 
 (Oh, sorrow ! that it ever so befell !) 
 
 Bertulfe, the young and fair-haired Chatelain, 
 The Flammand Seigneur of the wild Ghistelles, 
 
 Many a long and weary league away. 
 
 Among the swampy marshes of Tournay. 
 
 Though oft her parents Godelive besought. 
 She shrank reluctantly from making choice. 
 
 Some terror's instinct secretly had wrought. 
 And spell'd her with its low, mysterious voice; 
 
 And still, the more her parents fondly press. 
 
 She loves the chances of a change the less. 
 
 " I'm over-young," she said, " to fitly heed 
 The solemn duties of the marriage state. 
 
 Inclining not to cares that must succeed, 
 And dread the onus that on wives await. 
 
 Best here with certain long-known love to hide 
 
 Than hence with untried love away to ride." 
 
 The Baron Humfrid judged this nothing less 
 Than the coy pretext of shy maidenhood, 
 
 Which often masketh in a fine finesse 
 Of disregard of that which most it would. 
 
 So he resolved that he would promptly use 
 
 His parent's right— himself her lord to choose.
 
 163 
 
 Now, that fatality which often serves 
 
 Heaven to approve within its chastening fire, 
 
 The spirit which more fully heaven deserves 
 By passing through an earthly ordeal dire, 
 
 It chanced, or else by ordination fell. 
 
 He chose Bertulfe, the Seigneur of Ghistelle. 
 
 Her parents' will was sacred as the Word, 
 
 Whose high command she learn'd e'er to obey ; 
 
 And yet her heart, with sad forebodings stirr'd, 
 Was saddest on her hapless bridal day. 
 
 Then followed days of revels, fetes, and folly, 
 
 Which brought not joy, but added melancholy. 
 
 To early home and loves she bade farewell, 
 And went to other scenes as new and strange. 
 
 She near'd the region of the fierce Ghistelle, 
 And, shivering, glanced o'er the cheerless range 
 
 Of lands uncultured, wild, and bare, and black 
 
 On either side the cumbered swampy track. 
 
 Wild was the region, and the people more ; 
 
 In costume strange, and of atrocious air ; 
 Insatiate and keen for shedding gore ; 
 
 With whom nought was too bad to do or dare : 
 Each object, new and rude as it appears, 
 Serves only to augment her former fears. 
 
 Oft in the progress Bertulfe's cruel mood 
 Reveal'd itself by various trivial signs ; 
 
 And oft for spaces he would muiely brood, 
 His brow contracted in deep passion's lines. 
 
 He seemed, as nearer to his tower he drew, 
 
 A greater nervous restlessness to show. 
 
 Young Bertulfe's mother, with a cold disdain, 
 Met her with greeting that like mockery secm'd. 
 
 An ill-repressed hate, hard to restrain, 
 
 Maliciously from out her blear eyes gleamed ; 
 
 And coldly her sarcastic words appeared 
 
 To quell the son — for she was all he fcar'd. 
 
 She was the genius of ill and strife. 
 
 And age her evils only more confirm'd. 
 
 She was with malice and with envy rife, 
 And in her breast despite malignly germ'd. 
 
 Cold, cruel, selfish, proud, and subtle too. 
 
 Her son's wife was a rival to her view. 
 
 It possibly might be she could discern 
 That Godelive was a creature all too pure 
 
 To contrast with her spirit dark and stern ; 
 p'or souls of evil rarely good endure. 
 
 But be the motive whatsoe'er it might, 
 
 She for her felt a deep, unbounded spite.
 
 164 
 
 It was not long before her arts and wiles 
 
 Adroitly roused suspicion in her son : 
 Suggestive calumnies, whose breath defiles, 
 
 The subtle thread of discontentment spun ; 
 A fiendish raillery in every word ; 
 Injurious thoughts, outspoken or inferr'd. 
 
 Her attributes of grace, her patient mien, 
 The order of her beauty, furnished themes. 
 
 Translated by the tongue of jaundiced spleen, 
 Each favour as an imperfection seems ; 
 
 And merit, shat should heighten beauty's claim, 
 
 Only invoked antipathy and blame. 
 
 With uncomplaining sorrow, she could see 
 
 Her husband's heart dissever'd from her own, 
 
 And shrunk from raising discord that might be 
 Engender'd 'twixt a mother and a son ; 
 
 So quelled the grief and chagrin that would rise 
 
 In duty's and devotion's exercise. 
 
 Daily, with him, aversion stronger grew. 
 
 Still modest, gentle, patient, pious more, 
 She wept in silence nightly vigils through. 
 
 Her prayers in secret up to heaven would soar 
 That on her husband's soul the light might fall 
 Which would dispel his then tenebreous thrall. 
 
 At length, upon pretext as false as foul, 
 
 In a lone chamber cruelly immur'd. 
 On scanty nurture, under mean control, 
 
 Outrage, derision, often she endured 
 Whene'er her husband or his mother sought 
 To add a pang to body or to thought. 
 
 In her lone state at last the trial sore 
 
 Awoke resolve to free her from the weight 
 
 Of persecution she in silence bore, 
 
 But which had grown for sufferance too great. 
 
 She watch'd for, and at length she found, the chance 
 
 T' elude her stern oppressor's vigilance. 
 
 Through the dark night the dreary wastes she trod, 
 Fasting by day, concealed she crouching lay ; 
 
 Weary, and yet confiding still in God, 
 The fugitive's director, hope, and stay ; 
 
 Through ambuscades, pursuits, and sore distress 
 
 She passed, with meek endurance measureless. 
 
 Fainting, at last she reached her sire's domain, 
 The scene of former joys ; and on the breast 
 
 Of loving parents she teem'd out her pain, 
 And all her woes and sufferings confess'd. 
 
 Though much of grief, yet more of ire approv'd 
 
 Her sire at wrong wrought to the child he loved.
 
 i6s 
 
 Promptly he made appeal to Count Baudouin 
 To cite his vassal Bertulfe to show cause, 
 
 And answer 'fore his powerful suzerain, 
 In manner of the ancient feudal laws, 
 
 And render justice for the cruel wrong 
 
 And cruelty his child had suffered long. 
 
 Count Baudouin and the Bishop of Tournay 
 Adjudged the Chatelain, at cost of pain, 
 
 Of Church's thunder in its stern array. 
 
 And martial power obedience to constrain, 
 
 Humbly for pardon for the past to plead. 
 
 And guage his honour for his future deed. 
 
 But impotent the sternest-made decree 
 
 To win back love that once has ta'en its flii^ht ; 
 
 And once the soul immersed in Evil's sea, 
 For its own sake holds evil in delight ; 
 
 So that the suit to remedy her ill 
 
 Only accumulated greater still. 
 
 To feign submission, and to foster wreak ; 
 
 To promise, with no purpose to fulfil ; 
 To falsely swear with an unblushing cheek, 
 
 And mentally reserve a bitter will, 
 He felt no scruple. In those barbarous times 
 Force, falsehood, cunning, screen'd the vilest crimes. 
 
 So hate intenser grew, tliat fed on shame 
 At the cool glances of indignant peers ; 
 
 But more his mother's railleries inflame 
 The rancour that his venom'd spirit sears 
 
 As he beholds his wife by all bclov'd, 
 
 And in that amity himself reprov'd. 
 
 At length he took the resolution fell 
 
 To isolate her from all fond regard ; 
 Forced her sequestered in a tower to dwell 
 
 With a bleared crone, her servitress and ward — 
 His mother's chosen instrument and tool. 
 
 Instructed less to serve than strictly rule. 
 
 Bitter and mournful was the heavy time, 
 
 Humiliation, contumely, despite ; 
 But with a Christian fortitude sublime. 
 
 From earthly gloom she look'd to heavenly light : 
 In prayer and contemplation lost her woes. 
 Nor in her prayers forgot her deadly foes. 
 
 " Oh ! let my lips no curses breathe !" she cried ; 
 
 " And to thy teaching may my heart conform — 
 Stifle within me all resentful pride. 
 
 As thy bright presence tran(iuillised the storm ! 
 Didst thou not in thy dying agonies 
 Petition mercy for thine enemies?
 
 i66 
 
 " Teach me the way to quell their fiercest hate, 
 By practice of thy sweet example given, 
 
 And lose regret of my poor earthly state 
 By fitting me for the delights of heaven. 
 
 Soon shall this mould of flesh be dust of earth ; 
 
 Then may my soul partake of heavenly birth." 
 
 Embittered and impatient of delay, 
 
 Where meekness foil'd what cruelty devised, 
 
 Avidious spite no longer could allay 
 
 The ruthless yearnings it so ill disguised : 
 
 Bertulfe resolved her death, but masked th' intent 
 
 By feigning a deportment penitent. 
 
 He sought her lonely tower at close of eve — 
 Smiles on his lips, but in his heart a hell ; 
 
 A pseudo-suppliant mimicking to grieve. 
 While nursing in his breast a project fell. 
 
 Resting beside her on the only seat. 
 
 He pleaded with the fashion of deceit. 
 
 " My grief, as my remorse, is heavy grown. 
 That some malignant demon's evil power 
 
 The weeds of rank discordance should have sown. 
 To choke the blooming of love's gentle flovrer. 
 
 What bonds of icy steel have girt my soul. 
 
 And chill'd and harden'd me with their control ?" 
 
 *' No longer in myself myself I see. 
 
 But clearer now than e'er thy virtues view, 
 
 And urge for pardon of my fault the plea 
 Of juster value and regard of you : 
 
 You shall resume your state in bower and hall, 
 
 And all the past respect and love recall." 
 
 He paused a moment, seeking to compose 
 His visage to a 'suasive, winning air, 
 
 And find the fittest words to aptly glose 
 The fiendish perfidy was lurking there ; 
 
 And oft the subtle art that evil lends 
 
 Fair semblance with the foulest impulse blends. 
 
 " A saint-like dame, by holy zeal inspired, 
 With fervent arguments compunctions woke. 
 
 She seemed with some celestial spirit fired. 
 And by her voice I felt that heaven spoke. 
 
 Council with thee she doth desire, to prove 
 
 Thy friend, as mine, in reconciling love. 
 
 " By age and reverend maladies enchained, 
 Her body's frailty to her mind gives power. 
 
 As though her eve of life the light retained, 
 To cast a radiance on its parting hour. 
 
 As thee she cannot seek, I prithee deign 
 
 To visit her, but for our mutual gain.
 
 i67 
 
 ''Lambert and Hacca, as thy guides and guard, 
 Have my direction to escort tlie way; 
 
 And that suspicious doubt thou may'st discard, 
 I come to warn thee that at close of day 
 
 They'll come to lead thee to the saintly cell 
 
 Where the heaven-gifted monitress doth dwell." 
 
 " I am in the hands of heaven, as ductile clay; 
 
 In his decrees entirely I confide ; 
 What you command I'm ready to obey 
 
 If, in the doing so, nought shall betide 
 My conscience and my faith can disapprove, 
 Or contravene the laws of him above." 
 
 Bertulfe then left her, with well-feigned respect, 
 Mounted his horse, and rode to Bruges in speed ; 
 
 By absence hoping none might e'er suspect 
 Participation in the murderous deed 
 
 He had prescribed, but which he could not bear 
 
 In guilty nervousness to linger near. 
 
 The sunless eve had grown to starless night, 
 And mournful, wailing breathings swept the waste. 
 
 Like emanations wrung from anguish'd sprite. 
 That by tormenting fiends was fiercely chas'd. 
 
 When near approach'd the driary midnight hour, 
 
 Lambert repair'd unto the lonely tower. 
 
 " Mistress," he said, in hoarse but low-breath'd tone, 
 " I come my master's bidding to fulfil." 
 
 " I'm ready," she replied ; " let us begone. 
 Since such has been my lord's desire and will." 
 
 Then mentally for heaven's protection pray'd, 
 
 Sign'd him to lead, and silently obey'd. 
 
 He led her forth by a low postern gate. 
 Where Hacca, pacing restless to and fro, 
 
 Their coming seemed impatiently to wait. 
 But little difference yet did either show, 
 
 And she in thought was too intent to heed 
 
 The manner or the men as they proceed. 
 
 In dogged silence sullenly they led. 
 
 She meekly following in reverie ; 
 Through broken ways by pools, and marshes fed. 
 
 Congenial spots for guilt and knavery ; 
 Now skirting a lone thicket's tangled side. 
 Where solitude and darkness grimly vied. 
 
 The pathway, by a sudden turning, bent 
 Into a thicket, lonelier than the waste. 
 
 To where the waters of a spring found vent. 
 When round her slender neck a noose was cast, 
 
 The running cord they drew compress'd and tight 
 
 Tugging and straining with their brutal miglit.
 
 i68 
 
 Hopeless of help, and powerless to resist, 
 Folding her arms across her fluttering heart, 
 
 She strove not with each fell antagonist : 
 Calmly accepting the pure martyr's part, 
 
 Throeless she sank, and quickly passed away, 
 
 Seeming for him and them to mutely pray. 
 
 A shudder shook the woeful lonely wood. 
 And the retreating echo faintly flew ; 
 
 In grim inertia the murderer's stood, 
 Still the relaxed lanier clinging to, 
 
 Their mouths agalp, and eyeballs rolling wild, 
 
 Yet to their ghastly task unreconciled. 
 
 But ruffian shame o'er pity's painful touch 
 Assumed the mastery by slow degrees ; 
 
 They raised the body with polluting clutch ; 
 They bore it through the rustling, pliant trees, 
 
 To the dark pool made by the bubbling spring, 
 
 Edged in by rushes' melancholy ring. 
 
 Unlacing from her neck the tightened thong, 
 The closed eyes unsealed, and seemed to stare 
 
 In a fixed, stone-like menace, to prolong 
 Warning of future horror and despair. 
 
 To them those eyes emitted ghostly light, 
 
 That chilled and shook them with a wild affright. 
 
 'ti' 
 
 " Quick ! plunge her in the spring !" grim Lambert cried ; 
 
 But still did Hacca motionless remain, 
 Voiceless, and deaf, and blind to all beside 
 
 Those eyes which fixed him in their deathless strain ; 
 So Lambert by himself, as best he could, 
 O'erhead immersed her in the boiling flood. 
 
 Wiping his brow, he cried : " Woe worth the night 
 On which the piteous stars do shame to look ; 
 
 And may the malison of heaven light 
 
 Upon the tongue that this foul deed bespoke. 
 
 As man, while men I slew, I knew no faint ; 
 
 But to slay woman ! woman ! — no ; a saint. 
 
 " But his, not ours, the soul in hell shall burn ; 
 
 Slaves of his will, by mighty order press'd, 
 Scruple or question, 'gainst ourselves would turn. 
 
 No option but to act his dark behest !" 
 " Not ours ! not ours !" groaned Hacca. " Well, I trow 
 
 That mine will burn ; 1 feel it burning now !" 
 
 When long time in the pool the head had lain, 
 Tremblingly they completed their fell work : 
 
 No doubt of death their thoughts could entertain ; 
 So to the Chateau, through the nightly mirk, 
 
 Jointly they bore the martyr cold and dead. 
 
 And calmly laid her in her prison bed.
 
 169 
 
 The sun had climbed high in the eastern sky, 
 When Hke a train of fire the tidings spread, 
 
 Bruiting the dire nocturnal tragedy 
 
 That Godelive, self-strangled, was found dead. 
 
 Bertulfe yet absent, Lambert mounted steed 
 
 To warn him of the ill-accomplished deed. 
 
 Surprised and startled, some ran to and fro ; 
 
 And some, with horror stricken, mutely stood. 
 There was some feigned, but much of real, woe ; 
 
 For many loved, and all had known her good. 
 But Hacca's sorrow took the wildest mien. 
 With moody mutterings and strange words between. 
 
 With ill-dissembled pain, the mask of grief 
 On the old Chatelaine transparent showed 
 
 The features of the fiendish fell relief, 
 
 And triumph in her soul that fiercely glowed : 
 
 Her orders all with cold precision traced 
 
 The victim coffin'd in scarce decent haste. 
 
 But mark the sign of wrath in angry heaven ! 
 
 Bertulfe arriv'd in wild but false dismay. 
 His Godelive must view ; the word is given. 
 
 The cofiin lid is slowly drawn away; 
 And as he gazes the dead eyes unclose, 
 And mock his mimic grief and acted woes. 
 
 And round her naked throat the lanier's mark 
 Grows crimson red, and oozes forth blood stain ; 
 
 While as he viewed he grew fear-blanched and stark. 
 More death-like far than she whom he had slain ; 
 
 And as he stood transfixed with guilt and fear, 
 
 A peal of maniac laughter rose anear ; 
 
 And Hacca, wild in frenzy, laid his hand 
 Upon the shoulder of his shrinking lord : 
 
 " This deed of hell was done at thy command, 
 And hell a fit requital shall afford ; 
 
 That damning glance shall never quit thy sight. 
 
 And in thy soul a quenchless flame shall light. 
 
 "Seest thou the bloody stain defile the snow 
 Of that pure throat, and trickle on that breast? 
 
 So round thy heart a serpent's fiery glow 
 
 Shall burn, and gnaw, and never give thee rest ; 
 
 And may my curses fan the quenchless flame, 
 
 And the earth quail at mention of thy name ! 
 
 " Pale father-priest, turn from me thy bright eye 
 Wherein I read a murderer's certain pain ; 
 
 Hopeless perdition, endless agony ; 
 
 I fear, I feel, all chance of pardon vain ; 
 
 For here, already, brain and breast within 
 
 Tlie fiery tortures of the damned begin."'
 
 In frenzy raving he was borne away, 
 And in convulsions miserably died ; 
 
 And Lambert never, from that fatal day. 
 
 Was seen nor heard of on that country side. 
 
 Death quickly took the old Chatelaine's soul. 
 
 And Bertulfe donn'd the tonsor and the cowl. 
 
 Around the fatal spring a convent rose 
 
 Endow'd by wealth of Bertulfe of Ghistelles ; 
 
 Its waters wondrous healing powers enclosed. 
 And it was called Saint Godelive's Holy Well 
 
 Its chiefest virtues, as the legends quote. 
 
 Were cures of all diseases of the throat. 
 
 Eight days from each sixth of the fair July 
 Pilgrims and patients, in a pious train. 
 
 To saintly Godelive's Well wend piously 
 To pray and seek relief from sickly pain : 
 
 The pure and painful memory to revive 
 
 Of Ghistelles' patron, sweet Saint Godelive. 
 
 SONG OF PROGRESS. 
 
 What ! shall the future of man 
 
 Be likened to the past. 
 And disregard of human riglits 
 
 Continue to the last ? 
 Shall power, ambition, and deceit 
 
 Still warp, and crush, and bind 
 The mind, and body, dark'ning still 
 
 The future of mankind .■* 
 
 Shall Ignorance in fetters dire 
 
 The masses still enslave. 
 And Bigotry in bitter ire, 
 
 Its dreary dogmas rave ? 
 Shall wealth and wretchedness for aye 
 
 Their glaring contrast find. 
 And crime and creeds be rife through a 
 
 The future of mankind ? 
 
 Shall Toil produce, but ne'er partake — 
 
 Complain, but yet endure ? 
 Is there no physic for the ill. 
 
 No remedy to cure ? 
 Yes, there's a problem might be solved 
 
 Freedom's amount to find. 
 For in the present is involved 
 
 The future of mankind.
 
 171 
 
 The task to learn, the part to take, 
 
 The duty to discharge, 
 The obstacle to overthrow, 
 
 Advantage to enlarge : 
 Justice and Truth the cynosure 
 
 To guide the ardent mind ; 
 The present earnest helper works 
 
 The future of mankind. 
 
 THE DRAMA AND THE STAGE. 
 
 She whom I sing hath not the spring-like bloom 
 
 Of youth and fresh-blown beauty to allure. 
 
 She hath lived many years : knew I the sum, 
 
 And should I venture to declare it here, 
 
 And after to extol her loveliness, 
 
 What most should I inspire — pity or scorn ? 
 
 Yet so it is ; spite of her antique birth, 
 
 There seems a deathless and unfading power 
 
 To fence her from decay ; and year by year 
 
 Some novel charm doth lend a new delight, 
 
 Enhancing by some combination fresh 
 
 Her yet unmade-up glory. Ne'ertheless, 
 
 She has passed through vicissitude's assay. 
 
 Injustice's hand and foul Detraction's tongue 
 
 Have pressed her hard, and sought to slime her fame. 
 
 Neglect's cold shadow she hath wandered in, 
 
 But to emerge with a new-gathered bloom. 
 
 What that is beautiful can hope to 'scape 
 
 The rivalry unscrupulous of means 
 
 By which factitious triumph is attained ? 
 
 How in the ebb and flow of fantasy 
 
 Can what is best avoid, or rule the fate 
 
 To which a modish fickleness condemns? 
 
 The wave, capricious, floats some trivial toy 
 
 Onto the strand of favour, and sweeps off 
 
 The pearl into oblivion ; but at length 
 
 The gem enriched by time's bright chemistry, 
 
 Un-oozed by some quick-sighted connoiseur, 
 
 Takes rank amongst the jewels of a crown. 
 
 She hath known the height of opulence ; 
 
 She hath sipped the bitter cup of e.xilc ; 
 
 She hath discoursed to kings and sages,, mute 
 
 Before the enihralment of her eloquence ; 
 
 She hath descended to the rustic's shed, . 
 
 Adapting to his humble thoughts her own.
 
 172 
 
 Whether the mood was to be grave or ga}', 
 Tender or humorous, astute or dull, 
 Quaint or sublime, witty or passion-wrought. 
 Hers was the universal art that knew 
 Each ward within the human heart, and held 
 The key that could unlock it. 
 
 Not alone 
 Hath her grand presence graced one land, 
 But every State hath her adoption given, 
 Where barbarism's night hath yielded to 
 The civilising sun, where favouring arts 
 Have swept primeval crudities away, 
 And the soft, social impulse of mankind 
 Hath raised the city, temple, or the shrine. 
 Among all nations hath she made her home ; 
 In every language in some manner found 
 Utt'rance and hold, a welcome and a sway ! 
 For she is that for which a yearning lurks 
 Deep in the heart of broad humanity; 
 Where human passions and affections see 
 The springs of their own actions set awork, 
 And all that's good, and grand, and soft, and pure, 
 Shines out against the shadowy contrast made 
 By counteracting violence and stealth ; 
 Where the pent sense of many-phased mirth 
 Sees imaged those best-loved remembrances 
 Of what exists, unknown, within itself. 
 Hers is the art, giving a double sight, 
 To witness outwardly and look within. 
 Finding one's self in what she simulates. 
 Her plastic nature can assume the grace 
 Of goddess-like enchantment, and each form 
 That graduates towards deformity. 
 The priesthood (although now condemning her) 
 Have held her fitted for their holy work ; 
 Albeit, in sacerdotal trappings clad. 
 She moved ungainly, having in herself 
 Too much of nature's warmth to freely move 
 In the strait vesture of a binding tire ; 
 And when she dared to show the acts of men. 
 They held her hostile to their heavenly craft. 
 Could her free nature have been bounded for 
 Their ends alone, she would be holy deemed. 
 
 If not the poet's own, from early youth 
 
 He hath adopted her as one endowed 
 
 With gifted utterance, a force to lend 
 
 To the embattled ranks of fervent thoughts 
 
 Which warred, and war against the dark and dull. 
 
 Music hath lent its full enhancing power, 
 And painting its illusive tinted charm,
 
 173 
 
 To aid her rousing force or soothing spell ; 
 And the well-suited trio aptly blend, 
 Their separate delights appearing one, 
 And, each by each, highly intensified. 
 Perfecting with fine fraud to cheat the sense 
 Of straitened space, or uncongenial show 
 Of elements might mar the mental feast. 
 Graceful agility, by nature linked 
 To scientific rule, and called the dance, 
 Makes of itself a loyal adjunct too. 
 To beautify and animate the scene. 
 All that apart are held as things of charm. 
 And fostered as the world's embellishments, 
 United, scarce can lose their character. 
 
 'Tis on the stage, in all her perfect trim, 
 I sing her praise, not in her lethargy. 
 Untimely buried (thougli she be not dead) 
 In seldom-opened volume, and, if read. 
 With but one heart and brain to beat and burn 
 (Can they be moved) to its enkindling fire. 
 But where the poet and the player join 
 With all art-helps that can be lent to them. 
 And the impressionable hundreds hang. 
 Eager and breathless, on the embodied theme. 
 Many humanities merged into one — 
 One thought, one sympathy, one happiness : 
 The Drama and the Stage may then be called 
 A Priestess and a Temple, and the Faith 
 Of the thronged auditory gathered there 
 The love of Virtue, the contempt of Vice 
 
 DOWN IN THE DUMPS. 
 
 Down in the dumps ! Why, zounds, my friend, 
 
 I little thought to find you so ; 
 Can I my prompt assistance lend ? 
 
 Has fortune frown'd ? Does cash run low ? 
 Has death call'd home one well-beloved ? 
 
 Has blight or murrin, fire or flood, 
 Been busy, and so mighty proved. 
 
 To leave you in tiiis woeful mood, 
 
 Down in the dumps ?
 
 174 
 
 Down in the dumps for nought but love ! 
 
 I never heard such stuff before ! 
 If twenty jades cold-hearted prove, 
 
 The world holds twenty thousand more. 
 And when the right comes to your turn, 
 
 You'll bless your stars that this did frown : 
 To prize her smiles by this you'll learn : 
 
 Then keep your heart up ; don't sink down, 
 Down in the dumps. 
 
 BELATED. 
 
 The n^ists hang thick o'er the swampy moor, 
 
 And the sough of the wind is dreary and dull ; 
 And the path, at this late nocturnal hour, 
 
 Is sore to find, and with danger full ; 
 And I stumble o'er broken, tufty ground, 
 
 And start from the sedgey-margined pool ; 
 But not a guiding glimmer is found 
 
 O'er the wide expanse of the moorland cool. 
 What's that standing out in the thick'ning gloom ? 
 
 I fear to advance, and I dread to retreat ; 
 For it seems every footstep more weirdly to loom, 
 
 And my vision more spectral each instant to greet. 
 And that cry so inhuman ! Oh what can it be ? 
 
 And what is it stretching its arms in the air, 
 As though barring the passage in anger to me. 
 
 Or seeming to sign I am trespassing there ? 
 
 Pshaw ! 'tis but a ricketty old finger-post, 
 
 Standing phantom-like close by the cross-road side; 
 But, instead of its being a gibbering ghost. 
 
 It may prove to be rather a goodlier guide. 
 And that scream was only the owlet's cry. 
 
 On its flight o'er the lightless, dismal waste. 
 Saluting the straggler courteously 
 
 As it whirls around, or flits by in haste. 
 And I stand beneath that wooden deceit, 
 
 Whose mocking hands point two different ways ; 
 But which is the right one I gladly would weet. 
 
 Tis no guide in the night, whatever by day : 
 On its profile black no inscription shows 
 
 In the blank obscure of the ray less night. 
 Of the road to the place I'd be going to 
 
 I've a choice, and a chance of not choosing the ri^ht.
 
 175 
 
 I think I have heard that all roads lead to Rome ; 
 
 And I have no doubt that, if closely applied, 
 The same line of argument well would come home 
 
 To any place where you'd walk to or ride. 
 But that roundabout doctrine I think hardly fair; 
 
 For I have, I own, an objection the strongest, 
 Of the roads that are leading to everywhere. 
 
 To think I'm choosing the loneliest and longest. 
 Now, where a man's temper and patience are troubled, 
 
 As a rule he's not given to moralise much ; 
 Yet I cannot abstain, although plaguely hobbled, 
 
 Awhile to contemplate the doublings of such 
 Who morally grope in the ignorant gloaming 
 
 Of the many-forked roads of opinion to choose, 
 And fearful they further astray may be roaming, 
 
 By the haphazard choice of promiscuous views. 
 For the ways of the world are as doubtful and vague 
 
 To the untutored plodder, benighted in mind. 
 Indecision, and doubt, and misgiving, the plague 
 
 Attending each footstep he's certain to find. 
 And my present dilemma suggests to my thought 
 
 That authority certainly well should take care 
 To attend to the lighting of ways as they ought. 
 
 And to keep all their guide-posts in proper repair. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Oh for the power to love thee dearer ! 
 
 If dearer love than mine could be : 
 Some mystic spell to draw thee nearer — 
 
 In heart, in soul, in sense — to me. 
 What though love's a vain employment, 
 
 That in hopeless rapture steeps 
 The aching soul in wild enjoyment, 
 
 Welling from its poisoned deeps ? 
 
 I would love thee more intensely. 
 
 Yet meet thy gaze, and loveless seem ; 
 Love thee boundlessly, immensely, 
 
 Yet freeze beneath thy glance's beam. 
 Never know it I never know it ! 
 
 From my voice-tone, face-expression, 
 Consume before thee, yet ne'er show it : 
 
 Thou'rt another's fond possession.
 
 176 
 
 Think the past is all a day-dream ; 
 
 I'll not court thy scorn nor pity : 
 Thy path's along a sun-lit life-stream — 
 
 Mine through a crumbling desert city. 
 Yet smile nor dream how wild the passion 
 
 That burns unseen within my breast : 
 I love thee not in worldly fashion ; 
 
 And but to love— is to be bless'd. 
 
 CHRISTMAS IS COMING. 
 
 Christmas is coming, and will soon be here, 
 When high feasts will be held in regal halls, 
 And royal boards will groan with regal cheer, 
 
 And mirth vibrate along the bannered walls ; 
 When jubilates, through cathedral aisles, 
 
 In deep-entoned cadences shall roll, 
 And songs, and carols, dances, smiles. 
 Tell of cheer'd body and of gladden'd soul. 
 On the Redeemer's feast — 
 The meekest and the best 
 E'er to the earth was given — 
 The immortal heir of heaven. 
 
 Christmas is coming, and will soon be here, 
 
 When landed lords their noble guests invite 
 To those reunions whose close ties endear, 
 
 And give to social intercourse delight. 
 Sumptuously deck'd in jewell'd radiance bright. 
 
 Beauty will thread the dance in graceful pride, 
 Joy flashing from her eyes in beaming light, 
 High-blooded manhood ambling at her side. 
 For 'tis of all the year 
 The festival most dear. 
 When Pleasure holds high court 
 For mirth and graceful sport. 
 
 Christmas is coming, and will soon be here. 
 
 When in the merchant's snug suburban home 
 There will be heard the ring of laughter clear 
 Of kin far-gathered 'neath the elders' dome. 
 The drum of dancing feet will boom the air, 
 
 Hilarious music beat the measured time, 
 Glass tintinabulate and lustres glare, 
 
 And jingling sounds make up a merry chime. 
 'Tis the year's holiday ; 
 Canker'd Care stands at bay ; 
 Elder, matron, and child 
 Join in revilry wild.
 
 177 
 
 Christmas is coming, and will soon be here, 
 
 When yeoman, tradesman, clerk, mechanic, hind, 
 Draw closer those sweet bindings that endear 
 And fuse in love the souls of human kind. 
 And though remote such gatherings may be, 
 
 The rarity may give a keener zest. 
 And leave a joymark in the memory, 
 
 Noting the period when they were blessed. 
 Even the prison cell 
 Its Christmas tale can tell. 
 Of supplemental cheer 
 To penal rigours drear. 
 
 Christmas is coming, and will soon be here. 
 
 To some not Christmas of the jovial mien. 
 But frozen, empty-handed, haggard, blear, 
 
 And hollow-cheeked, with eyes where death is seen 
 The Christmas of the needy, suffering poor, 
 
 Fireless and breadless, sickly and ill-clad ; 
 Outworn with struggle, which can strive no more, 
 
 Reduced to woe unutterably sad. 
 
 When generous hearts rejoice 
 Let not affliction's voice 
 Vainly for aid implore. 
 But hear and help the poor. 
 
 HOME OF MY BIRTH. 
 
 Song — Set to Music. 
 
 On the skirts of the forest, all shadow'd in green, 
 
 A neat, straw-thatched, and ivy-clad cot may be seen ; 
 
 Round its porch the sweet jess'mine and roses entwine, 
 
 And their blossoms and odours together combine. 
 
 There the wood pigeon's note and the blackbird's rich song 
 
 Through the bright summer weather are heard the day long ; 
 
 There the squirrel doth climb 'mid the crisp-beechen boughs, 
 
 And the throstle and linnet sweet echoes arouse. 
 
 To me that sweet spot is the dearest on earth ; 
 
 'Tis my childhood's loved home, the dear cot of my birth. 
 
 There the lesson was learned that to life was the guide, 
 
 Of honesty's wisdom, the folly of pride ; 
 
 Of well-tempered contentment the profit and use. 
 
 And the dangers arising from passions* abuse ; 
 
 That tlie lures of false pleasure and vanity may 
 
 Delude for a season, but ever betray ;
 
 178 
 
 But truth and sincerity ever abide, 
 Man's unfailing helpers throughout the world wide. 
 Yes ; the counsels that govern our conduct on earth 
 Must early be learned in the home of our birth. 
 
 I have sailed round the world, many lands have I known, 
 In the regions of ice and the fierce scorching zone ; 
 Where the wonders and grandeur of nature abound, 
 And the marvels of human construction are found ; 
 Where wealth hath all empire, and luxury's sway 
 Makes a pageant of life in its gorgeous display. 
 But their contrast and novelty only had power 
 To cause me to yearn for this shelter the more ; 
 For memories fond of affection and worth 
 Cling ever around the dear cot of my birth. 
 
 THE PEACEFUL HEKO. 
 
 A BRAVE COASTGUARDSMAN. 
 
 To the Editor of tlie " Daily Telegraph." 
 
 Sir,— On Monday last (Dec, 28th, 18") a storm raged with fearful vio- 
 lence on this coast, causing the utter loss of two fine barques, one English 
 and one Austrian. They came on shore at Westward Ho ! Bideford Bay, 
 almost at the same time. The lifeboat was launched and manned by 
 volunteers from the Coastguard and sailors from Appledore. It battled its 
 way bravely to the Austrian vessel, and took oft" seven of the foreigners in 
 safety. Distinguished among its intrepid crew was David Johns, a com- 
 missioned boatman of the Coastguard, and one who on many occasions had 
 saved life at sea at the imminent peril of his own. As usual, he was fore- 
 most at the post of danger, and while engaged in rescuing men from the 
 wreck, was washed overboard with a comrade, to whose support he swam 
 immediately. Both were picked up by the lifeboat. Directly on landing 
 he flew to the assistance of the other barque, now connected with the land 
 by a hawser, the crew of which was still on board, and volunteered to go off 
 and show them how to use the cradle, rigged up to pass them on shore. He 
 got on board, and was assisting a man into the cradle when a huge wave 
 struck the barque, causing her to heel suddenly over. Johns, wearied out 
 by his exertions, lost his hold, dropped into the sea, and though a strong 
 swimmer, was never seen again. He bore the highest character for gallant 
 and steady conduct. He was a kind husband and father, and has left a 
 young widow and four children. I now venture to appeal in their behalf to 
 a sympathising and generous public, to mark its admiration of this heroic 
 sailor. Any contributions for their relief may be sent to the West of Eng- 
 land and South Whales District Bank, Bideford; or to your obedient servant, 
 
 F. J. S. HuiCHiNSON, Lieut.-Colonel. 
 
 Westward Ho! Bideford Bay, North Devon, Dec. 29th.
 
 179 
 
 To the Editor of the " Daily Telegraph^ 
 
 Sir, — Having been eye-witnesses of the conduct of the Coaslguardsman 
 Johns, who met death while discharging his duty — generously interpreting 
 that duty to include every exertion and every risk which had for its 
 object the saving of life — we venture to join in the appeal which Lieut.- 
 Colonel Hutchinson has made for the widow and children, in the hour of 
 that bitterness which must remain as the household portion of some hearts 
 whenever the story of self-sacrifice is told. — Your obedient servants, 
 
 Eveline Portsmouth ; Auberon Herbert. 
 Eggsford, North Devon, Dec. 30th. 
 
 Shall no tribute mark the merit 
 
 Of the peaceful hero's bearing ; 
 Of the ruthful, selfless spirit 
 
 That inspires his gen'rous daring ? 
 To front the danger-freighted wave 
 
 In its dread wrath and mad career. 
 To seize the oar or helm to save, 
 
 As Mercy's eager volunteer ! 
 
 Beside the battle-roll of bravour 
 
 A fairer record should unfold, 
 Of holier mien and softer favour 
 
 Than the red catalogue can hold 3 
 Of the devoted, dauntless band. 
 
 So self-forgetting, void of fears. 
 Who on the billows and on land 
 
 Stand forth as Mercy's volunteers. 
 
 Among the list let me remember 
 One whose bereaved widow moans, 
 
 The twenty-eight of stern December, 
 The brave, undaunted David Johns, 
 
 The Coastguardsman of Appledore, 
 
 Who met his death, though liie so dear, 
 
 Upon the North Devonian shore, 
 
 • As Mercy's active volunteer. 
 
 An Austrian and a British barque 
 
 Were driven on shore at Westward Ho : 
 The lile-boat's crew of Coastguards mark 
 
 The sore distress, and battle through 
 The stormy deep, and promptly save 
 
 Seven Austrians from their awful doom, 
 In course of which a mighty wave 
 
 Swept two life-savers in the foam. 
 
 Poor David and a fellow rower 
 
 Whelmed in the seething waters' roll ; 
 His comrade seemed to lack the power 
 
 'lb breast the mighty Hood's control ; 
 But I )avid's sturdy arm soon bore 
 
 His fainting friend towards the boat 
 And safely to the welcome sliore 
 
 The rescued crew securely float.
 
 i8(3 
 
 Scarce landed were the foreign band 
 
 Than to the English barque he steers, 
 Which by a hawser from the land 
 
 Was reached and rigged with saving gears; 
 The which to work he climbed the wreck, 
 
 The cradle slung, and reeved the rope. 
 When a huge billow heaved the deck, 
 
 And swept him 'yond all help or hope. 
 
 Awhile he clung with mortal hold ; 
 
 But, spent with zealous over-toil, 
 His wearied grasp relaxed its fold. 
 
 And he became the ocean's foil. 
 He, the strong swimmer, sank from sight. 
 
 Sucked under the remorseless tide. 
 Beyond the reach of human might : 
 
 'Twas thus the noble helper died. 
 
 Oft had his power of work and will 
 
 Been given at peril, life to save. 
 His private worth and praises fill 
 
 The list'ner's ear — " As kind as brave !" 
 Four helpless children live to weep. 
 
 With his young wife, his mournful fate. 
 Oh, Charity ! some memory keep. 
 
 And help the helpers stricken mate. 
 
 LAURA'S FIRST BIRTHDAY. 
 
 Love's a diamond, many-sided — 
 
 On each face a glory new ; 
 Prism'd beauty, subdivided. 
 
 Into many a varied hue. 
 Pale or brilliant, love discerneth 
 
 In its jewel an aurora, 
 Tints to soothe, and spark that burneth 
 
 Such variety's in Laura. 
 
 Love's a garden, and the flower 
 You have sown the rarest charm ; 
 
 Flaunting in its dazzling power. 
 Or blushing in its simple calm.
 
 i8i 
 
 'Tis the eye of love declareth 
 Wherefore you are its adorer ; 
 
 And Nature's argument prepareth 
 A nook of love to shelter Laura. 
 
 Love's a mystic, strange magician, 
 
 From its " vasty deep " can call 
 Spirits of a mighty missions, 
 
 Spells that hold a potent thrall ; 
 Prophetess of happy auger, 
 
 Showing promised hope before her ; 
 And I grasp the omen — mauger 
 
 All mistrust, and hope for Laura. 
 
 I with no legacy of splendour, 
 
 Station or riches, may endow her ; 
 But may all goodly nature lend her 
 
 Those benisons of higher power. 
 As virtue, sense, good temper's garnish 
 
 Of attributes presiding o'er her. 
 Beyond factitious worldly varnish. 
 
 To guide and guard my darling Laura. 
 
 SONG 
 
 Did you e'er ask a maiden to give you a kiss. 
 
 Who, pouting and frowning, said, " Prythee, give o'er, 
 For, if you do not, I shall take it amiss." 
 
 Ah ! that is the signal to press it the more ; 
 For the contrary rule is the game she does play. 
 
 And her sweet pretty face in false colours she'll dress ; 
 But she'll think you a fool if you hasten away, 
 
 For while she says " No," all the time she means " Yes." 
 
 Did you e'er ask a pretty girl with you to wed, 
 
 Whose soft bosom heaved with a timid delight. 
 And, blushing in modesty, hung down her head, 
 
 And silent remained in embarrassment quite. 
 That consent is in silence, all willingly own ; 
 
 Then why need the lover his suit further press ? 
 The maid has already her willingness shown; 
 
 For though she said nothing, of course she meant " Yes.
 
 X82 
 
 BABY IS BORN. 
 
 Another hope, another fear, 
 
 Another strong incentive given ; 
 Another nodule to endear, 
 
 And temper hfe with loving leven. 
 A counterpoise to being's weight, 
 
 In life's uneven balance thrown — 
 A new-born charge that doth create 
 
 A strength of love before unknown. 
 
 Another tiny taper lit 
 
 At the perpetual heavenly blaze, 
 Whose feeble beams but faintly flit 
 
 Thorough existence' morning haze ; 
 Yet welcome as the distant ray 
 
 Of the long-looked-for Pharos bright — 
 A spark of hope, a guide, a stay. 
 
 Growing and bright'ning in the night. 
 
 Another tender, budding flower 
 
 Hath sprung up in the smiling morn, 
 With purity and beauty's dower 
 
 Affection's garden to adorn. 
 Oh ! may this wee and hopeful prize 
 
 Escape all blight, and flourish fair, 
 Watched by my heedful, anxious eyes, 
 
 And 'tended by my fondest care ! 
 
 Another sweet and purling spring 
 
 Hath leapt from its long-hidden source. 
 And rippling through my heart doth sing. 
 
 And rush with fresh and quick'ning force. 
 Its cheering murmurs thrill, and melt, 
 
 And sooth, and soften, and caress, 
 A sweet emotion, newly-felt, 
 
 Delicious in its novelness. 
 
 Another lien with the world ; 
 
 Another covenant with life ; 
 Another mottoed flag unfurled ; 
 
 Another spur to honoured strife ; 
 Another motive to endure ; 
 
 Another premium to incite ; 
 Another angel to allure ; 
 
 Another joy where all unite.
 
 i83 
 
 THE CLERK'S STORY, 
 
 " Whither away, so sad, Sir Clerk ; 
 
 Whither away, so sad ? 
 Thou bearest that pcrturbiid sign 
 That ill assorts with years like thine— 
 More fit to blend with age like mine. 
 What trouble dims thy glance's spark ? 
 
 What solace can I add ?" 
 
 " Father, pass on : thy reverend mien 
 
 Might well invite reply ; 
 But that which causes my unrest 
 May not be trusted to thy breast ; 
 Nor may the causes be confessed 
 That my deep trouble's source have been — 
 
 My helpless misery." 
 
 " Thou arrest, son : for every ill 
 
 There's sure some remedy. 
 Time is a leech of mighty power, 
 That in the most unlooked-for hour 
 Oft balms the wounded spirit o'er. 
 If strengthened by submissive will, 
 
 You bide his ministry." 
 
 " Oh, father ! vain the hope you'd teach ! 
 
 Well wot I 'tis the part 
 Of who feels not Despair's sharp throe 
 To counsel calm to hopeless woe. 
 To soothe the pangs they do not know, 
 And patient resignation preach 
 
 To those who feel the smart." 
 
 " Few, son, whose years count long as mine 
 
 But some deep grief have known. 
 Of Sorrow's burden I have borne 
 The weight, and many a year, forlorn. 
 Have felt the goad of Grief's sharp thorn — 
 Haply, with sufferings great as thine, 
 Endured, if not outgrown. 
 
 " Sit here, for the tall way-side rock 
 
 Shields from the noontide ray. 
 Give me thy trust, for fain am I 
 Some consolation's help to try. 
 That may assuage the poignancy 
 Of thy young hope's too sudden shock, 
 And solace as 1 may.
 
 1 84 
 
 " Three causes most make man's distress- 
 Ambition, wealth, and love. 
 
 To eld doth haunting avarice cling, 
 
 The lust of worldly honours sting 
 
 'Mid life's aspirant trafficking ; 
 
 But youth recks for these lurings less — 
 Him love's sharp torments prove." 
 
 " Nay, father, love no torment is 
 When 'tis returned like mine ; 
 But, by the cruel, cursed allies 
 Thou namest, two fair destinies, 
 Formed for affection's harmonies, 
 Remorselessly are wrenched from bliss, 
 And doomed to endless tine. 
 
 " For we by them the loss approve 
 
 Of all that makes life dear — 
 Love, hope, content — the mighty stake 
 That life, a bliss or bane, can make ; 
 The bonds of mutual rapture break ; 
 And two hearts grown to one in love 
 
 Asunder wrenched for e'er. 
 
 " Oh ! listen, father, to my grief ! 
 
 For now my heart flows o'er. 
 And in the wild surcharge of dole. 
 Beyond my power to control. 
 Seeks to relieve my aching soul, 
 Which yearns for even faint relief 
 
 From Fate's remorseless power. 
 
 " From infant days our home was one ; 
 
 For, orphaned even then, 
 I to her father's care was ta'en — 
 A trust from sire in battle slain 
 To friend and comrade in the train. 
 Of him who latest filled the throne — 
 
 The best of kings and men. 
 
 " For war's unequal fate had made 
 
 One rich, the other poor ; 
 And, peace restored. Sir Bertram's name 
 Denoted wealth, no less than fame ; 
 And lust of State and grandeur came, 
 And lavish life and high parade 
 
 Grew on him more and more. 
 
 " Meanwhile myself and Eveline, 
 
 His only infant fair, 
 As brother and as sister grew. 
 Joint scholars — loving playmates too ; 
 Nor shade of different nurture knew ; 
 And surely, father, ne'er were seen 
 
 Fonder nor happier pair.
 
 i85 
 
 " Sir Bertram, faithful to his trust, 
 
 When freed from courtly thrall, 
 With pleasure seemed to mark the growth 
 Of deep'ning love between us both ; 
 To our affections nothing loth ; 
 And viewed with frank, approving gust — 
 
 Which seemed to sanction all. 
 
 " But childish love, as time flew by, 
 
 To warmer passion turned : 
 The girl to lovely woman grew — 
 The boy to man ; and each to view 
 The other with a feeling new : 
 A fresh and sweeter ecstacy 
 
 Within our bosoms burned. 
 
 " Our hearts were pure, and free from guile ; 
 
 We dreamed no let nor ill. 
 The soft enchantment left no choice, 
 But spoke in touch and glance and voice, 
 Confessed in raptures that rejoice 
 Me with their memory even while 
 
 Anguish my heartstrings thrill. 
 
 " But ruin on Sir Bertram came : 
 
 His wealth was swept away ; 
 Title and fame alone remained. 
 Thriftless Profusion's course had drained 
 His fortunes, with fair honour gained. 
 To usurers' relentless claim 
 
 He fell a helpless prey. 
 
 "But great and sore as Fortune's change, 
 
 'Twas nothing to his own ! 
 A bitter greed his soul possessed, 
 That gave no truce nor granted rest. 
 Cursing his spirit with a pest. 
 Working a transformation strange, 
 
 Like spell upon him thrown. 
 
 " Hard and morose in mien and word, 
 
 Suspicious and severe, 
 With dogged, foul perversity, 
 Regarding each with jealous eye, 
 Like to a secret enemy. 
 As though some malign spirit stirred 
 
 Inspiring doubt or fear. 
 
 " But I, alas ! far more than all, 
 
 His mark of rancour was : 
 My presence fanned some latent fire 
 Of undeserved, unceasing ire. 
 That foiled all study or desire, 
 By guarded effort to forestall. 
 
 And banish every cause.
 
 i86 
 
 " A burden to his straitened state, 
 
 I felt myself heart-sore. 
 But, Oh ! my love was most my crime ! 
 The love approved in former time 
 Was now my fault, my blemish prime ; 
 And my condition desperate 
 
 Grew daily more and more. 
 
 " My studies stood me now in stead : 
 
 By absence to appease, 
 I craved permission to essay 
 For means of life to seek some way, 
 For I'd approved for many a day 
 How bitter was dependent bread — 
 
 How blameful, sloth, and ease. 
 
 " His eager, quick consent ensued — 
 
 A look of meaning keen. 
 My heart turned sick, and faint, and sore ; 
 I felt some fate impending o'er 
 My clouded hopes, so bright before. 
 That moment I in foresight viewed 
 
 What since hath real been. 
 
 " I saw fair Eveline turn pale ; 
 
 I read her speaking eye ; 
 I felt one chord of doubt and dread 
 Through both our prescient bosoms fled 
 Of some dire trammel to be spread, 
 That would immerse us in le-maille 
 
 To love's perplexity. 
 
 " But his cold knife-like, watchful glance 
 
 Held us both palely mute : 
 No chance had we to breathe our thought, 
 To soothe the pangs that parting taught. 
 Nor speak of hopes — we vainly sought, 
 In time, in constancy, or chance. 
 
 And grief make less acute. 
 
 " Alone we pondered on our strait. 
 
 Sir Bertram's watchful guard 
 Was unrelaxed, till came the day 
 Which brought the bitter time to say 
 A sad adieu, and haste away. 
 In doleful absence to debate 
 
 Our fate so sore and hard. 
 
 " By chance, with one who learning prized 
 
 Congenial suit I found ; 
 In clerkly tasks absorbed, I strove 
 To stifle thoughts of hopeless love. 
 Which could but constant torment prove. 
 Regrets, by labour exorcised 
 
 Gave respite to my wound.
 
 i87 
 
 " But soon there ran a rumour by 
 
 Of a vile barter planned : 
 A man of wealth, but lineage mean ; 
 Old, but for high alliance keen, 
 Had fixed his glance on Eveline, 
 And, with Sir Bertram's poverty, 
 
 Had merchandised her hand. 
 
 ' The covenant of infamy, 
 
 'Twas said, was signed and sealed : 
 For a plebeian dotard's gold 
 Avarice a wretched daughter sold. 
 Oh ! can the impious talc be told 
 To verdant earth and smiling sky. 
 And heaven's wrath yet unpealed ! 
 
 " In desp'ratc haste by night and day. 
 
 Not knowing why, I sped 
 To seek out Eveline, to plead 
 Against the black, unrighteous deed. 
 But, Oh ! what hope I should succeed ! 
 I knew hers, by my own dismay, 
 
 Could well be reckoned. 
 
 " I reached Sir Bertram's shrunk domain. 
 
 I sought my Eveline's bower. 
 I found her pale as corse on bier ; 
 I heard her plaint ; I strove to cheer. 
 She seemed to list, but not to hear. 
 Anguish had stricken heart and brain, 
 . And paralysed their power. 
 
 " I sought Sir Bertram, and my love 
 
 Vented its deep appeal. 
 My bootless pica he laughed to scorn. 
 Reviled my need and love forlorn. 
 And vowed that on this fatal morn. 
 That Eveline, by all above, 
 
 Should wed, spite woe or weal. 
 
 "This morn ! this morn ! this fatal morn ! 
 
 I'he sacrifice is made ! 
 This morn from hence should stand accursed 
 In all the calendar the worst. 
 Oh ! if my labouring heart would burst ! 
 My grief's too heavy to be borne, 
 
 Too bitter to be stayed !" 
 
 " Cease to blaspheme and cease to pine ; 
 
 Thy griefs are ended, son. 
 Did I not say that the High will 
 Hath heavenly efficacy still 
 To blunt the sting of human ill ? 
 And, sooth to say, its grace Divine 
 
 Hath remedied thine own.
 
 i88 
 
 " E'en come I now from death-shrift straight 
 
 Of one in bridal trim — 
 Thy rival, who, by fall from horse, 
 Now lies a pale and blood-stained corpse. 
 Heaven's judgment still hath weight and force ; 
 He kens the proper time to wait, 
 
 If we but trust in him. 
 
 '* In Death's dark hour repentance found 
 
 The sinning man of old. 
 His wealth to thee and Eveline, 
 By will and covenant between 
 Him and Sir Bertram, left has been. 
 Thy fate to Eveline's is bound. 
 
 Sad son, my tale is told." 
 
 THE CHILDREN'S SUMMER BALL. 
 
 I LOVE to see the children dance, 
 
 I love to hear the children sing 
 In artless, joyous nonchalance, 
 
 Spinning in a wheeling ring. 
 Intertwisted waists and arms. 
 
 Guileless, innocency's type ; 
 Tiny Chevaliers et davies, 
 
 To a Barb'ry organ's pipe, 
 
 In some crowded quarter, where 
 
 Music's voice is seldom heard. 
 Making then a gala rare 
 
 In the stifled street and yard. 
 Weary little cagelings feel 
 
 The charm of the familiar chant 
 That sets in motion heart and heel, 
 
 Making the swart court jubilant. 
 
 Oh ! thou Italian, London's bore, 
 
 All pardoned be thy venial sin 
 For striking up before my door 
 
 Just as my " forty winks " begin. 
 For my disturbed post-prandial rest, 
 
 From my free heart thou art forgiven. 
 That thou hast made these young ones blest ; 
 
 For joy and mirth are childhood's heaven.
 
 1^9 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 Oh ! thou whose charms have o'er my spirit 
 
 A bless'd and sweet enchantment cast, 
 May I this heavenly kindness merit, 
 
 And pay it with affection vast ! 
 Riches nor titles can I offer ; 
 
 In life I play no gilded part ; 
 But with this hand to thee I proffer 
 
 An honest, truthful, loving heart. 
 
 If that fond glance translates with trueness 
 
 A free consent and love's return, 
 There is more wealth in its clear blueness 
 
 Than hoards for which your misers burn. 
 For soul with soul thus freely greeting, 
 
 Shake off from life its grosser parts ; 
 It hath no joy to match the meeting 
 
 Of two devoted, loving hearts. 
 
 ADDRESS. 
 
 ( Written and spoken at the benefit for the Patriotic Fund, on bchalj 
 of the Widows and Orphans of the Crimean Heroes, Dublin). 
 
 Need I solicit pardon that between 
 
 The gaps of this, our fictious mimic scene, 
 
 I come in mournful earnest to appeal, 
 
 Not for imaginary woes, but real ? 
 
 No, for where common sympathies are felt, 
 
 The forms of ceremonial customs melt; 
 
 And general consent does them unbind, 
 
 And cast Convention's fetters to the wind. 
 
 I am here, then, by my errand made thus bold, 
 
 To speak, and tell what should be said and told. 
 
 Peace smiled, her halcyon slumbers were serene ; 
 
 Joy watched her rest with eyes of laughing sheen; 
 
 Love with glad face looked in the eyes of Health ; 
 
 And Plenty strewed her wisely-gathered wealth 
 
 Where age, or want, or pain, held out the hand. 
 
 Blessed, and bestowing blessings on the land.
 
 190 
 
 But, Oh ! tranquillity too sweet to last ! 
 
 Through the hushed heavens the wild terrific blast, 
 
 Pealing from War's dread clarion, rends 
 
 The blessed calm, and the chilled life-blood sends 
 
 Back to the heart of Pity. Nations rise 
 
 On tiptoe wonder; and, with pained eyes. 
 
 Mournfully gaze upon the battle plain. 
 
 The wrecks of strife, the wounded and the slain ; 
 
 Life battling with Death, Health with Disease, 
 
 Patience with Fury, dismal sights are these ! 
 
 The fell Magician of the North, who caused 
 
 This ghastly spectacle of strife, had paused, 
 
 If in his despot heart one fibre beat 
 
 Of ruth for human woe or virtue sweet ; 
 
 But, bloated with his pride to rule o'er slaves. 
 
 Blind in their ignorance, their felon glaives 
 
 They would employ to stab fair Liberty, 
 
 And stain her snowy breast with crimson dye. 
 
 But o'er her hallowed presence Briton's sons 
 
 Keep sleepless watch and ward, for kindred runs 
 
 Her blood in every heart born in that land 
 
 Where Freedom's banner holds its proudest stand. 
 
 The echo of the first invasive tread 
 
 Awoke their might, indomitably dread. 
 
 Their fame-emblazoned flag streams side by side 
 
 With martial Gaul's, and emulative pride 
 
 Links France's palm, in England's sturdy grasp : 
 
 What despot might can break that potent clasp ? 
 
 But Oh, the grief! To think a cause so just. 
 
 So holy, in its vindication, must 
 
 (As many erst have been as true, as good) 
 
 Be purchased with the flow of martyr blood ; 
 
 That hearts made tender by each British tie, 
 
 With their last pulses guarding it must die ; 
 
 Or, stricken down in helpless anguish, find 
 
 A state — compared with which death were more kind- 
 
 Where on the fe\ered vision forms arise 
 
 Of wives and children, who, with streaming eyes 
 
 And supplicating outstretched hands, implore 
 
 That help and succour they can give no more ; 
 
 Of parents left in feebleness and age, 
 
 None near their need or sorrow to assuage ; 
 
 None but that God whose missioned ravens fed 
 
 The holy exile with his heaven sent bread: 
 
 And the old country's heart of charity 
 
 And gratitude to sons who freely die, 
 
 Unwithered to preserve each leaf that now 
 
 In honour wreathes her time-ennobled brow. 
 
 And shall these legacies the patriot dead 
 
 Bequeathed to us from Victory's gory bed, 
 
 Be unregarded, when the safety flower 
 
 Blooms from the thistle of that danger's hour ?
 
 No ; in the shadow of protecting Peace 
 Let their necessity and trouble cease; 
 We, in our gratitude and justice, bent 
 To execute this holy testament. 
 
 MY DAUGIITEU'8 BIRTHDAY ODE. 
 
 {On attaining her first y tar, October 25///, 1S68.) 
 
 Thou one wee charm, my joy, my pride, 
 
 On whom my focus'd love is bent, 
 Whose dawn of being's beautified 
 
 With ways so sweet and innocent: 
 One year this morn has reached its span, 
 
 Thy young life's advanced pioneer, 
 That forth into existence ran 
 
 The unknown tract of time to peer. 
 
 Thou art the first to us, and this 
 
 In annual count the first to thee. 
 This day shall be assigned to bliss. 
 
 And fond affection's revelry. 
 First thou sliall be in place and dower. 
 
 Queen of the day enthroned and crowned; 
 Young lady-paramount in power ; 
 
 Empress within this bound. 
 
 T hy names, and e'en ihy nicknames, bear 
 
 This royal day more loving weight; 
 And " Charlie," " Dicks," or " Coonie dear " 
 
 Are eniphasised with deeper state. 
 Exemptions from all check or let 
 
 (Save for thy w^eal) to thee belong. 
 And let no subject dare forget 
 
 Our Baby-Queen " can do no wrong." 
 
 But let no vain hyperbole 
 
 Live in my earnest closing strain : 
 Thy guardian angel constant be 
 
 Till this sweet day comes round again. 
 Over and over, till the space 
 
 Of a long happy lile be passed ; 
 Wreathed \\\ love's and virtue's grace, 
 
 Reflecting goodness, till the last 
 
 t
 
 19: 
 
 LAMENT OF ARRAH-NA.POGUE, 
 
 Oh ! sad is the bosom and note of the bird 
 For her lost mate complaining alone on the tree ; 
 
 But sadder and sorer my passion is stirr'd 
 
 With bitterest dole that thou'st severed from me. 
 
 As the breeze to the sea, as the sun to the morn, 
 As the star to the eve, as the moon to the night, 
 
 Thou wert breath, warmth, and light to my being, till torn 
 From my bosom; but now I am desolate quite. 
 
 Oh! joy, art thou fretting? Must sorrow abide ? 
 
 Without thee, my own love, life's bitter and drear ; 
 It were better to sleep in the grave by thy side 
 
 Than, when thou hast left me, live sorrow^ing here. 
 
 THE PARKS OF LONDON. 
 
 Who gave the parks to us — to us. 
 
 The city dwelling, weary-minded, 
 Toil-harrass'd crowd, who gave us thus, 
 
 Amid the dusky, smoke enwinded, 
 Traffic-confused and pelf-pursuing, 
 Disease engendering, vice imbuing, 
 Populous desei t stretched afar. 
 The seat of ceaseless moral war ? 
 Who gave these rallying grounds for health, 
 Fenced in from Mammon's grasping stealth ; 
 Where grass may spring, and foliage wave, 
 
 In verdant clusters, sunny, dancing, 
 And heaven's purer breath may have 
 
 More ample space for its fresh prancing ? 
 Giving to health a healthier glow ; 
 Quick'ning the pulses that are low ; 
 To youth maturity, to childhood age ; 
 Poor, rich, hale, halt, unlear'ned, or sage ; 
 A nursery playground, club, or forum ; 
 A theatre, lounge, studio, sanatorium. 
 Who gave these blessed boons to you and me ? 
 He, she, or they — God 'quite their charity !
 
 193 
 NIGHT. 
 
 In the mute, holy Sabbath of the night, 
 When angel eyes their twinkling vigils keep, 
 Through the profound and solemn vault of blue. 
 Come stealing to the heart (though finest ears 
 Catch not the melody) entrancing chords 
 Of heaven-made music, that attune anew 
 The unstrung spirit, strained to dissonance 
 By the ungentle touch of jarring day. 
 The waves of turbulence and pride ebb out. 
 And leave the shores of calm reflection high 
 Above their restless level ; but, alas ! 
 Their back retire lays bare the stranded wrecks 
 Of many righteous purposes that swauip'd. 
 And foundered in their strife. 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 — Oh, blindness I Oh, insensibility ! 
 
 What, seek the city ? Change this life of ours ? 
 
 Canst hope to match it ? Cast thy eyes around ; 
 
 On every side what beauty, what delights, 
 
 Spread out before you ever fresh and fair. 
 
 Each proper sense is here supplied in full — 
 
 Taste, eyesight, feelmg, odorous sense and sound. 
 
 May here drink in their pure and full delight. 
 
 You call it dull, monotonous, and sad ! 
 
 Only to dullards, or at least to those 
 
 Who, dreaming of the pleasures far removed, 
 
 Are blind to those close-hand, within their reach, 
 
 Or view them through the sickly medium 
 
 Of their own discontent. 
 
 Can any eye 
 Travel athwart this rich pers]:)ective field 
 Uncharmed, unsatisfied ? Tlie glimmering sky 
 Repeated in the river's glancing breast ; 
 The dim horizon softly that retires 
 Behind the sloping hill of golden corn, 
 From which the lark springs merrily aloft ; 
 The bolder woods, casting dee}) shadows here. 
 There shaking sunlight from bright-tinted leaves ; 
 W'hile round us circles the pure health-fraught breeze 
 Of the invigorating morn, to cheer 
 The body's action, and make fit the mind 
 To fashion forth tlic course that best adorns 
 A life devoted to the pure and good.
 
 194 
 
 THE OLD YEAR OUT, 
 
 The old year's tide is ebbing out, 
 
 And the new year's flood sets in ; 
 Then give the old year's faults the rout. 
 
 And with better will begin 
 The new work of the coming time 
 
 In the new year's early morn, 
 As the eager mountain-hunters climb 
 
 The hills ere break of dawn. 
 
 Pass in review your old year's work. 
 
 And its sad shortcomings note ; 
 Do not ensuing duties shirk, 
 
 But find sloth's antidote. 
 O'er foundered resolutions place 
 
 A memory-mark, to warn, 
 And gird the loins for labour's race, 
 
 Discarding doubt with scorn. 
 
 If wrong thou'st done, seek to atone, 
 
 Or balance it by good, 
 And be thy true contrition shown 
 
 In future brotherhood. 
 Find out the work 'tis fit to do. 
 
 And take that work in hand ; 
 Nor falter till you bear it through. 
 
 And better than when planned. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY 
 
 AFTER A PARTY. 
 
 Oh, joy and grief! How sad to think 
 
 That life's extreme emotions should 
 Be joined by some mysterious link, 
 
 Yoking the evil to the good ! 
 That pleasures light should often throw 
 
 The shadow of dismay behind. 
 And rosy bliss and phantom woe 
 
 We should inseparable find !
 
 195 
 
 The wreathed smile of guileless joy ; 
 
 The laughing light in youth's bright eye ; 
 The glossy, dancing ringlets toy 
 
 Round the smooth forehead chaste and high ; 
 The music of the laugh that thrills 
 
 The sense with its infectious glee, 
 As the sun-lighted, babbling rills 
 
 Lend life and beauty to the lea. 
 
 The smile relapses at the smart 
 
 Of some insidious lurking pain ; 
 The trickling tear usurps the part 
 
 In eyes that ne'er will beam again. 
 The crisped locks lie moist and lank 
 
 Upon the pain-flushed brow so fair ; 
 The laugh is hushed in silence blank, 
 
 Noting the reign of deep despair. 
 
 Yet perish thus the things of grace ] 
 
 Like a brief meteor of the eve, 
 Leaving no hopeful after-trace 
 
 The sore perdition to relieve ? 
 Is change a loss, or mounting higher 
 
 In the bright stages of the blessed, 
 Achieving that which all desire. 
 
 Reaching the goal of blissful rest ? 
 
 Oh ! let us temper, then, the grief 
 
 And frailty of our human love 
 With that specific — Hope's — relief 
 
 Of sweet reunion above. 
 " I go before you to prepare 
 
 A place for you," as One hath said : 
 There in her father's mansion fair 
 
 She liveth, though ye mourn her dead. 
 
 LEX TALIONIS. 
 
 Mine not the skill which dare essay 
 
 The lofty martial epic lay ; 
 
 Nor on frail waxen wings take flight 
 
 To scale the empyrean height ; 
 
 Nor mimic-mock the flowing chime 
 
 That echoes through the vaults of time. 
 
 My light no heaven-hung constant star, 
 
 Beaming resplendent from afar ; 
 
 But a poor, feeble, earthly light, 
 
 Flickering and dwindling through the night.
 
 196 
 
 Small chance my unpretending lay 
 
 May find a voice in after day ; 
 
 Or serve for raore than to compare 
 
 Things that have been with what they are. 
 
 It is a tale of doubtful birth, 
 
 A vague tradition of the hearth ; 
 
 In folk-lore dimly handed down, 
 
 With what additions of its own 
 
 I wot not of ; nor boots it now, 
 
 E'en if I did, the joins to show. 
 
 The mould of years doth blot the trace 
 
 Of date of act, or note of plaice, 
 
 Leaving indefinite the clime, 
 
 The period " Once upon a time." 
 
 In bitter days of old, when might 
 
 Had law to sway in justice 'spite ; 
 
 When human life and things more dear 
 
 Were held on terras of doubt and fear ; 
 
 When feudal bandits' will and power 
 
 Were potent or to doom or dower ; 
 
 And law imperial seldom screened 
 
 The humble man, nor intervened 
 
 The cover of protective shield 
 
 Between the glaive that wrong might wield; 
 
 ^Vhen outraged Nature's only plan 
 
 Was desperate wreak for desperate man, 
 
 Two sturdy yeomen brothers grew 
 
 From youth to manhood, on the feu 
 
 Of a great lord, whose donjon'd height 
 
 Awed and subjected all in sight. 
 
 The gibbet held its ghastly state 
 
 Before the tyrant's frowning gate, 
 
 And Death, at his capricious nod, 
 
 Attended on him like a god ; 
 
 For justice high and justice low 
 
 Were in his mighty " Aye " or " No." 
 
 Seignorial right's infernal claim 
 
 O'er goods or body lay the same ; 
 
 And at whate'er capricious plea 
 
 Labour and love were held on fee. 
 
 A former lord of milder sway 
 
 Allowed some claims to die away. 
 
 For better nature urged the claim 
 
 Of Love's and Hymen's sacred flame. 
 
 Unchecked by hard seignorial will, 
 
 Or tax or toll more horrid still. 
 
 That the first fruits of love's sweet zest 
 
 Should yield to feudal lord's behest. 
 
 This law relaxed, observance waned, 
 
 And love grew free and unrestrained ;
 
 197 
 
 But like a weapon of offence, 
 
 Hung up in times of strife's suspense, 
 
 Its point and edge doth still remain 
 
 When drawn again for wreak and pain, 
 
 And venal laws from long disuse 
 
 May be restored for worse abuse. 
 
 So was it then, as runs the tale, 
 
 Through dim tradition's misty veil. 
 
 These yeomen brothers, bold and young, 
 
 Bred in fraternal love as strong, 
 
 One maiden's more than common charm 
 
 Woke to love's passion deep and warm ; 
 
 But to the elder first was known 
 
 His brother's passion ; thence his own, 
 
 With painful throes, which fond hearts feel, 
 
 He vowed to stifle or conceal 
 
 How hard the strife boots not to tell ; 
 
 Only he kept his secret well. 
 
 And when his brother, as of old, 
 
 Sought his advice, his secret told ; 
 
 He gave him heart, and help, and cheer, 
 
 To win the maid to him most dear. 
 
 The younger, ^Valter's, wooing sped. 
 
 The maid was won, the pair were wed; 
 
 Roland, the elder, watched the rite 
 
 With features calm, but deadly white; 
 
 Then forth the bridal cavalcade 
 
 Set out through the green forest glade — 
 
 A train of blithesome bridal guests, 
 
 Who whiled the way with homespun jests. 
 
 To muzette's pipe and tabor's drum, 
 
 To cheer the rustic bringing-home. 
 
 Oh ! who can guess the thoughts unspoke, 
 
 Love's triumph in the bosom's woke. 
 
 Of that young radiant, new-join'd pair — 
 
 So manly he, and she so fair? 
 
 The dreamed-of long desire now crowned ; 
 
 Doubt's tremors in assurance drowned ; 
 
 The future with hope's rosy sheen 
 
 Bright through the vista'd space was seen, 
 
 1"he crowning prize of life achieved, 
 
 And no known let or sorrow grieved. 
 
 Well might the flush of victory 
 
 Flash in the groom's dilated eye; 
 
 Well the carnation glow might speak 
 
 The bride's pure pride on her warm check : 
 
 And full content with frankness show 
 
 The bliss of old 'twould disallow. 
 
 The infectious merriment of joy 
 
 Reigned in the cortege sans alloy, 
 
 For Roseline's mirth and Walter's weal 
 
 Made faithful Roland's pleasure red.
 
 'Twas when the loudest laughter rung 
 
 The greeny glades and aisles among, 
 
 And lusty glee and gladsome life 
 
 Remotest seemed from coil or strife ; 
 
 When the loud ring of hunter's horn 
 
 Through the sun-lighted maze was borne ; 
 
 And startled stag, not yet at bay. 
 
 By hounds close followed cross'd the way, 
 
 And mounted men with eager bruit 
 
 Close followed in the swift pursuit. 
 
 And scarcely deigned to turn an eye 
 
 Upon the bridal pageantry. 
 
 But foremost of a gayer train, 
 
 Came one who saw, and tightened rein 
 
 With such a sudden act and thought. 
 
 His steed was on his haunches brought. 
 
 And, as by ruling influence swayed, 
 
 The headlong chase was promptly stay'd. 
 
 The tabor's beat, the piping shrill. 
 
 As though by magic stopped, were still ; 
 
 The laughter ceased in mid career, 
 
 As though some spell had blighted cheer ; 
 
 The bridal came to sudden halt. 
 
 Like urchins when surprised at fault ; 
 
 And doubt and apprehension's trace 
 
 Was shown on every compeer's face. 
 
 Some moments' pause to realise 
 
 The motive of the prompt surprise ; 
 
 And but some vulgar bridal seen, 
 
 Devoid of interest and mean, 
 
 And eager in the sport's delight. 
 
 Onward their leader they invite. 
 
 " Forward, my masters ! heed not me — 
 
 I to your sport no bar will be ; 
 
 But for myself my mood is bent 
 
 On other fashioned merriment. 
 
 Ride on ! ride on ! I but abide 
 
 To greet the bridegroom and the bride." 
 
 He, with a prompt and hasty wave 
 
 Of his gloved hand, the signal gave, 
 
 And off they spur in swift career, 
 
 In blithe pursuit of hound and deer. 
 
 Some space the lingering cavalier 
 
 Listened to their receding cheer; 
 
 Then, turning to the halted throng. 
 
 Smilingly beckoned them along ; 
 
 But 'twas a smile which, fitly read, 
 
 A frown had boded better stead. 
 
 With doubtful mien the silent band 
 
 Advanced to where their lord did stand. 
 
 *' Gossips, how now ? What feast is toward 
 
 That ye so gaily are abroad.
 
 199 
 
 With favoured gowns and festil genr, 
 
 And tabor's beat and bagpipe's cheer ? 
 
 I wot not l)y my sacred fay 
 
 Of what saint this the holy day. 
 
 By Christi's rood ! ashamed I own, 
 
 My calendar sore ill is known ; 
 
 But you shall now my chiders be, 
 
 And check me to more memory.'* 
 
 E'en as he spake his mocking eye 
 
 Ran o'er the bridal pageantry. 
 
 But when his glance on Roseline fell ; 
 
 In lingering look it paused to dwell. 
 
 Roland with frank respect lit down. 
 
 As did the men folk every one, 
 
 And doffed their bonnets, kneeling there, 
 
 While he related what did fare. 
 
 Some spell on Walter's tongue seemed laid, 
 
 Sad inward thought his speech betrayed. 
 
 As Rosaline's trembling eyelids fell 
 
 Beneath the glance that seemed to quell. 
 
 The seigneur listened to the fine, 
 
 With smile on lip and tranquil eyne, 
 
 And, laughing, reined his courser near 
 
 The bride now trembling, pale with fear. 
 
 "Sweetheart," quoth he, "thy beauty's bloom 
 
 May well excuse th' unmindful groom 
 
 Of some slight lack of due regard 
 
 To fealty's duty hitherward 
 
 (Tapping his breast while thus he spake ) ; 
 
 For, by the blessed euch'rist cake ! 
 
 I wot of some forbears of mine 
 
 Had reckoned with this spouse of thine. 
 
 For lax respect and warning none, 
 
 To lord whose land he liveth on. 
 
 Trow you not, Master Walter, say 
 
 That at no very long past day 
 
 It was— was ! aye, is still— our right. 
 
 To grant or claim the bridal night, 
 
 Of bride of feudary, this hand 
 
 Gave tenure to upon our land ? 
 
 God's life I our dooratree is a mock. 
 
 And our seignorial rights a jnke. 
 
 We live in better days of grace. 
 
 And freer license takes their place ; 
 
 Yet, beauty, can I not forego 
 
 All lordly privilege, ye trow. 
 
 So claim we the now stinted power 
 
 To yield the bride some nuptial dower ; 
 
 And, sweeting, look ere night ye come 
 
 To claim it at our castle iiome. 
 
 God yield ye fair. Sir Groom and br de ! 
 
 Gossips be merry in your ride ' 
 
 I
 
 200 
 
 Cheer this young pair with all delight ; 
 
 Can usher in a bridal night, 
 
 In memory, ye who've passed that way, 
 
 Or ye in hope, who court the day. 
 
 Farewell ! and happiness be dole 
 
 On this glad day to each good soul !" 
 
 Then, with a seeming air of grace, 
 
 He turned towards the castle chase. 
 
 But, as possessed by sudden thought. 
 
 To sudden lialt his courser brought, 
 
 And reined him brusquely round again 
 
 Towards the rustic wedding train. 
 
 His cheek was pale, his eyne were keen ; 
 
 Still on his lips the smile was seen. 
 
 As with a fixed, abstracted stare 
 
 His nervous whip-hand lashed the air 
 
 As though some scruple yet involved 
 
 Doubt of the purpose he resolved. 
 
 Not long the doubt, the pause not long, 
 
 When might debates on right or wrong ; 
 
 When the temptation's lures invite. 
 
 And will alone bars lust's delight. 
 
 Then high-blown pride knows little reck : 
 
 To list to sober Conscience check. 
 
 So, with a false but winning gest,* 
 
 He Walter hailed, and thus addressed : 
 
 " My memory counsels me, young swain. 
 
 Of suit for lands you would obtain 
 
 To better those you jointly hold 
 
 With sturdy Roland in the wold. 
 
 Times are there meet for every want — 
 
 Times to deny, and times to grant. 
 
 Faith ! I rejoice that my delay 
 
 Postponed to such a fitting day 
 
 My yielding favour to your case ; 
 
 For now it shows more timely grace. 
 
 When galliards wed, their vvants will grow, 
 
 And also should their means, I trow ; 
 
 So shrew me not if I divide 
 
 You for a space from your fresh bride. 
 
 So to discuss as on we wend 
 
 The drift towards which your wishes tend. 
 
 Sweet ! let your thoughts find some excuse 
 
 To soften this too much abuse. 
 
 In robbing you, for some short while, 
 
 Of your proud groom's all-conquering smile ; 
 
 He shall not lack to give you proof 
 
 We give you pain for your behoof. 
 
 When to our .castle's towers you come 
 
 To lure the wandering loved one home. 
 
 * Gesture.
 
 20I 
 
 Stout Roland, for some few hours space 
 
 Supply your brother's vacant place." 
 
 He waved his hand to check reply, 
 
 And wheeled his courser hurriedly, 
 
 Inviting Walter with a gest, 
 
 To follow and prefer his quest, 
 
 Who, with a brisk, elated air, 
 
 Spoke hopeful words to Roscline fi\ir, 
 
 And to his guests some parting speech, 
 
 Rode off his lord to over-reach.* 
 
 But in the group the broken cheer 
 
 Did ominously domineer. 
 
 The thoughtful cast of Roland's brow 
 
 Did ill-assured expression show. 
 
 Fair Roseline's cheek was pale and sad. 
 
 And all a clouded aspect had. 
 
 As slowly and in silence they 
 
 Mount and resume their homeward way. 
 
 Leave them awhile we must to trace 
 The course of sprightly Walter's case. 
 When on his seigneur's track he rode, 
 Although his horse of mettle good. 
 His leader such swift course did make. 
 He him was slow to overtake ; 
 For, as the yeoman urged his steed. 
 His master's spur woke hotter speed. 
 Till, finally, the rising p.ice 
 With one seemed flight, the other chase : 
 For in the foremost's breast did lurk 
 A demon prompting bloody work, 
 From whom in fear he seemed to flee, 
 ]3ut one who distanced would not be ; 
 For, having lodged him there in thought. 
 His fell persuasion must be wrought ; 
 Still pressing with pernicious rede,t 
 Dire motives for the damned deed ; 
 Stirring his passion wild and deep. 
 And lulling conscience into sleep. 
 Power, and impunity, and lust, 
 Combined 'gainst weakest pleadings just ; 
 For vicious habit is too strong 
 To war with feeble virtues long. 
 Or house at once in such a breast 
 A hellish and a heavenly guest. 
 Thus rode ihcy till they reached a gkidc 
 Of wildest growth and deeper shade, 
 Where overhanging branches grew 
 Too thick to let the daylight through. 
 
 * OvciUkc. t Advice.
 
 202 
 
 A spot where no bird's note was heard, 
 
 No wild flower grew, nor bourgeon stirr'd. 
 
 The truant wind seemed there struck dumb, 
 
 And hushed its cadent sylvan hum. 
 
 No sound of stream through channelled bed 5 
 
 No squirrel sporting overhead ; 
 
 No incense fresh of summer's breath j 
 
 But all was dern above, beneath, 
 
 And wore a weird, funereal air. 
 
 Meet for a vile assassin's lair. 
 
 Here made he halt, and seemed to brood 
 
 In sullen and determined mood ; 
 
 Drew off his glove, and wiped his brow, 
 
 Pallid and bright as marble's glow; 
 
 And with a deadly malice eyed 
 
 Walter, who rode up to his side. 
 
 " Now, then," he said at length, " Sir Knave, 
 
 We'll harken to this suit you crave. 
 
 More lands to hold, eh ? By the rood ! 
 
 I wot thou hast been vassal good : 
 
 Not one on all my fair domain 
 
 Of thriftier heed nor busier pain j 
 
 Not one with more alacrity 
 
 To yield me service nor supply ; 
 
 No flaxen web of finer woof, 
 
 No woolen gear more weather-proof; 
 
 Your taille of meal and unmulled grain — 
 
 The fairest sample in the plain ; 
 
 Your steers and stock the choicest breed. 
 
 Your arm of strength and foot of speed. 
 
 In martial service at my call — 
 
 I grant you each and grant you all 
 
 Of these, and much more duty done. 
 
 Yet, Sirrah, of defaults there's one. 
 
 Which, counterpoised 'gainst all, doth seem 
 
 To make allegiance kick the beam. 
 
 This mating without licence, due 
 
 By bounden vassal such as you, 
 
 By holy Peter's sacred crook ! 
 
 Is a transgression ill to brook. 
 
 Deem'st thou that I my rights, Sir Knave, 
 
 With such scant courtesy shall waive, 
 
 Because my fathei's humour may 
 
 Have let observance old decay, 
 
 And weakly so a passage show 
 
 All feudal trammels to break through ? 
 
 Let power with such lax hand be held 
 
 In walled keep and open field. 
 
 Reluctant suit would soon afford 
 
 But empty trenchers for my board ; 
 
 And in war's muster-roll, I trow. 
 
 My levy would make sorry show.
 
 203 
 
 I yield there is necessity 
 
 Vassals must wed, breed, toil, and die ; 
 
 But 'tis your liege lord's will must grant 
 
 The leave to regulate the want. 
 
 With him exists the potent voice 
 
 To sanction, not to sufifer choice. 
 
 To this condition your neglect 
 
 Has shown us but a scant respect. 
 
 But I will listen what reply 
 
 You find this act to justify." 
 
 Thus taxed, poor Walter stood at bay 
 
 With blank amaze and sheer dismay, 
 
 And o'er his changeful visage spread, 
 
 First deadly white, then burning red. 
 
 With kindling eye, and lips compressed, 
 
 And clenched hands, and heaving chest, 
 
 The rebel manhood in his heart 
 
 Repugned the crouching vassal's part. 
 
 And threatened to let loose the Hood 
 
 Of latent daring in his blood ; 
 
 For love's impelling ardour now 
 
 Lent it a firmer, fiercer glow. 
 
 And prompted words to mate the tliought 
 
 With which his panting heart was fraught. 
 
 But love that fires, if it be true, 
 
 Can calm and chasten and subdue, 
 
 When unlet ire might haply prove 
 
 An ill to those it most doth love. 
 
 So thought of Roseline was a spell 
 
 His first defiant mood to quell. 
 
 And soothe his speech to calmer use 
 
 To plead his love as his excuse. 
 
 With frank and manly eloquence, 
 
 He urged " new usage " in defence ; 
 
 That in his time no lordly claim 
 
 Of love's free choice had made a blame ; 
 
 How to all loyal service good. 
 
 He'd yield his store, and toil, and blood, 
 
 One grace allowed to sweeten life, 
 
 His heart-elected, loving wife. 
 
 But, with an ear as dead as stone, 
 
 The lord, who seemed to listen on, 
 
 Received them ; for the voice of sin 
 
 Spoke louder to him from within ; 
 
 And, as he flapped his gauntlet round. 
 
 It 'scaped his hand, and fell to ground. 
 
 Which, Walter noting, without check 
 
 Dropped rein upon his horse's neck, 
 
 And, from his sell* to forest floor. 
 
 Leaped down the gauntlet to restore, 
 
 * Saddle.
 
 204 
 
 When suddenly from sharp cravache,* 
 Assailed by many a rapid lash, 
 His startled horse in wild affright, 
 
 Off darting, disappeared from sight. 
 
 Then, fiercely dashed to earth his lash, 
 The lord his hand with vivid flash 
 
 From gaint plucked forth his polished blade, 
 The which a glow of brightness made, 
 
 As, reining round his steed of blood 
 
 To where th' astonished Walter stood, 
 
 And striking spurs into its side, 
 
 He at the youth full tilt did ride, 
 
 Who, though like one from dream awoke. 
 
 By rapid dodge escaped the stroke ; 
 
 But, oft obeying ruling rein. 
 
 The courser wheeled, he struck again ; 
 
 The youth evading oft the stroke; 
 
 While execration, wrath, and rauque,j 
 
 The lord, by deadly anger fired. 
 
 Vented as by a fiend inspired. 
 
 Hard pressed, ill knowing what to do, 
 
 His short wood-knife poor Walter drew, 
 
 For labour framed, but not for fray 
 
 In which all odds against it lay. 
 
 Desperate, he wards the coming blow. 
 
 Then cuts the courser's hamstring through ; 
 
 But, though the steed like thunder fell, 
 
 The lord on soil alighted well. 
 
 And at the youth in fury drove, 
 
 Who long in hopeless effort strove. 
 
 By nimble shift or sturdy ward, 
 To get within the baron's guard ; 
 But he had skilful fence to aid, 
 As well as greater length of blade. 
 But more the fiend assistance lent, 
 For when, by long-drawn effort spent, 
 One chance the watchful Walter found, 
 Closing with eager, sudden bound. 
 The slippery soil his foot betrayed, 
 And on the earth him prostrate laid. 
 Ere he could rise the sword-point pressed 
 Remorselessly had pierced his breast. 
 With ruthless fury, fierce as vain. 
 The thrust fell o'er and o'er again ; 
 The blood welled forth in crimson tide, 
 And, murmuring " Roseline," Walter died. 
 With pallid face and haggard stare, 
 The murderer stood exuftant there ; 
 Nor seemed it as if Death could quell 
 The bitter wreak of malice fell, 
 
 \\h 
 
 IP. 
 
 t Scabbard. 
 
 Hoarse.
 
 2o; 
 
 For, liampling on the senseless dead, 
 
 Through teeth compressed he muttered : 
 
 " Base and presumptuous rebel hound, 
 
 Though not thy proper meed thou'st found, 
 
 'Twill serve to mark that ne'er again 
 
 Vassal may slight his lord in vain. 
 
 Could I have curbed in cooler bound 
 
 My just resentment, thou had'st found 
 
 What tortures cunning could devise 
 
 To make my vassals 'ware and wise. 
 
 Though thy bride's name on dying tongue 
 
 Bespoke a thought perhaps that wrung 
 
 Thy soul with parting pang as keen 
 
 As wrack or pincer's tug had been, 
 
 If it but imaged the full bent 
 
 Of my immutable intent, 
 
 To make lier minion my delights 
 
 When thou hast fed the crows and kites." 
 
 Spurning once more with cruel heel 
 
 Him who no more the slight could feel, 
 
 He turned away to give some heed 
 
 To the poor maimed and plunging steed ; 
 
 But, finding it in hopeless case, 
 
 He slew him there, and left the place. 
 
 Meanwhile the bridal train in gloom, 
 
 The bridegroom wanting, home had come ; 
 
 But, though no lack of festal fare, 
 
 There was no festal humour there. 
 
 The cloud of evil-boding fear 
 
 O'er each and all did domineer. 
 
 The fare neglected on the board, 
 
 The wine and mead and ale unpoured. 
 
 In two sad groups the wedding guests- - 
 
 Or counselled hope, or doubt confessed — 
 
 In silence Roland seemed to hear 
 
 The friendly speech of each compeer ; 
 
 While, for sad-minded Roselinc's part, 
 
 With ear she listened, not with heart. 
 
 Hers was with Walter, and, till he 
 
 Brought them, no hope nor joy could be. 
 
 He came not ! But when day was late. 
 
 His horse came straggling to the gate. 
 
 Then hope in every heart gave way. 
 
 And apprehension grew dismay. 
 
 Then Roselinc's grief, so long repressed, 
 
 In deepest anguish stood confessed. 
 
 A woe so sad, yet desperate, 
 
 No soothing power might mitigate, 
 
 Till nature, spent by poignant grief. 
 
 In kind ©blivion brought relief.
 
 206 
 
 But how on sturdy Roland bold 
 
 The action wrought must now be told ; 
 
 For Roseline, given to tender aid, 
 
 A prompt and earnest suit he made 
 
 To each compeer to mount and ride 
 
 In separate search on every side, 
 
 Which wish they met with friendly heed, 
 
 And went their several ways with speed. 
 
 The night was old, a night of storm ; 
 
 Dark clouds were massed in battle form ; 
 
 While some in rapid flight seemed driven 
 
 Like conquered squadrons through the heaven. 
 
 From cloud to cloud flash answered flash, 
 
 And thunder's growl met thunder's crash. 
 
 The sulphurous air was hot and dry ; 
 
 No wild beast's howl, no night-bird's cry 
 
 Was heard the dreary forest through, 
 
 Where darkness oft to glimmer grew, 
 
 Intensifying by their might 
 
 The strong extremes of shade and light. 
 
 Yet eagerly one errant form. 
 
 Spite of the solitude and storm, 
 
 His anxious, hopeless search pursued, 
 
 The issue but too surely rued.* 
 
 Through many a drear and mazy glade, 
 
 And hollows of grim nightly shade, 
 
 Some instinct or unerring slot 
 
 Seemed leading to the fatal spot. 
 
 Deeper his dire forebodings grew 
 
 As near the gloomy glen he drew. 
 
 Where, dimly groping for his course, 
 
 He stumbled o'er the baron's horse. 
 
 Confused, he rose, and peered around. 
 
 Noting the newly-trampled ground ; 
 
 Examined then with closer heed 
 
 The trappings of the slaughtered steed ; 
 
 Then on his heart a weight of lead 
 
 Oppressive fell with hopeless dread. 
 
 He felt, he knew, some fatal fray 
 
 Had broken up the grassy way. 
 
 That he should find stretched on the sward 
 
 The corpse of Walter or his lord. 
 
 And the cold shudder shook his frame. 
 
 Marking the fear he dare not name. 
 
 A stifled moan his breast gave out ; 
 
 His glance was wildly cast about. 
 
 The anguish of his soul broke forth 
 
 Half in despair and half in wrath : 
 
 " Oh, Walter ! Walter ! Brother mine. 
 
 What bitter bode to thee and thine ; 
 
 * Doubted.
 
 207 
 
 Alt thou by foul oppression sped ? 
 Or hast thou slain him, and art fled 
 Safety from vengeful power to find ? 
 Oh, Roselinde ! Oh, Ruselinde ! 
 To thee the either chance must be 
 A fatal, certain misery ! 
 Oh ! let me end this killing strife — 
 Hope with despair and death with life. 
 When all is known, the worst is known, 
 And then what must be — shall be done^ 
 Around the steed, with tottering tread, 
 He then in devious circles sped, 
 With body bent and head declined. 
 And eager eyes some trace to find 
 That surest evidence would give — 
 Was Walter dead or did he live ? 
 Short time he sought before he found 
 His favoured bonnet on the ground ; 
 And as he stooped the cap to raise, 
 The thunder burst, the lightnings blaze, 
 And, flashing on the yeoman's blade. 
 The murdered brother's corse betrayed, 
 Outstretched and stiff, in bloody plight. 
 Clutching the haft in Death's firm might. 
 A wild and awful cry of dread 
 Joined to the thunder overhead. 
 And mingled with the echoed boom ' 
 That replicated through the gloom. 
 He bounded, knelt beside the corse, 
 And gasped and sobbed in accents hoarse : 
 " Oh Walter ! Brother ! Foully slain ! 
 Shall I ne'er hear thy voice again ? 
 That voice so frank, so kind in tone. 
 In childhood, youth, and manhood known 
 Whose well-loved sound from year to year 
 Made me more fond, and thou more dear. 
 Thus treacherously done to death. 
 Hast thou no life, no pulse, no breath ? 
 No lingering spark to fan and aid 
 To snatch thee from the icy shade?'' 
 With hurried hands he opc'd the vest, 
 His hand laid on the gory breast. 
 'Twas cold and pulseless as the clay 
 On which the hapless yeoman lay. 
 The limbs were stiff, the teeth were set ; 
 But the dimmed eyes were open yet ; 
 And as the fitful lightning gleamed. 
 Their glazed and upturned aspect seemed 
 Appealing,' in their stony stare, 
 To heaven for retribution there. 
 When Roland knew all help was vain, 
 Silent long time he did remain,
 
 !08 
 
 Clasping his brother's senseless form ; 
 
 While louder, fiercer waxed the storm, 
 
 Till one fierce peal and vivid glance 
 
 Aroused him from his seeming trance. 
 
 " Ah ! well," he cried, " the heavens in ire 
 
 May mutter 'gainst a deed so dire; 
 
 Well the indignant sky may groan 
 
 A fiendish deed like this to own ; 
 
 And well the lightning's blinding scathe 
 
 May flash the horror that it hath. 
 
 The elements are wrath and wode* 
 
 At this atrocious act of blood, 
 
 And speak to earth and man to meed 
 
 A due requital of the deed. 
 
 And shall a brother's blood thus flow, 
 
 And no redress from vengeance know ? 
 
 No ; from the earth it calls to heaven ! 
 
 Here be a brother's answer given, 
 
 Over this mute and murdered form. 
 
 By him who holds and guides the storm ; 
 
 By all the common right men share 
 
 To walk the earth and breathe the air, 
 
 To nurse the love of kind and kin. 
 
 The love of good and hate of sin ; 
 
 By this deep wrong to man and God ; 
 
 By tooth for tooth, and blood for blood ; 
 
 By outraged nature's loving law ; 
 
 By all that binds with sacred awe ; 
 
 By busy day or peaceful night ; 
 
 By secret stealth or open might. 
 
 To know no respite of the intent 
 
 Of that to which my thoughts are bent — 
 
 I swear ! While earth the monster bears, 
 
 To sink all reverence and fears 
 
 Of his condition or his power. 
 
 And bide the sure avenging hour ! 
 
 But first an urgent task I have : 
 
 The weak to help, the loved to save. 
 
 Roseline in safety, I may bend . 
 
 My vengeance to the bitter end. 
 
 Brother ! thou canst not hear my vow, 
 
 Alas ! but it will keep, I trow ! 
 
 But thou shalt rest 'neath holy rood. 
 
 Nor serve for kites nor wild beast's food. 
 
 Come ! I have borne thee oft before ; 
 
 Ne'er hast thou burdened me so sore." 
 
 He stooped and raised the corse with care, 
 And homeward through the storm did fare. 
 That night a friendly priest was pressed 
 The office of sweet " Peace and Rest !" 
 
 __^ i__, 
 
 • Mad.
 
 209 
 
 For Walter's soul, in ruth to yield, 
 O'er secret grave in holy field. 
 A rough -hewn cross in hurry made, 
 Was planted and the turf rclaid : 
 The silent resting-place alone 
 To Roland and the father known. 
 
 It would be Fancy's proper flight 
 
 To guess how wildly passed the night 
 
 With him whose ruthless hand and will 
 
 Had wrought this wrong and planned this ill. 
 
 Did no compunction in his breast 
 
 Make thought a dread and banish rest ? 
 
 Was not his guilty conscience riven 
 
 By the dire menacing of heaven ? 
 
 Was there no voice his breast within 
 
 Which threatened wrath for murder's sin ? 
 
 Or no repentant lone regret 
 
 Might point the way to mercy yet ? 
 
 His thoughts are heaven's, his pangs his own, 
 
 If such he felt. No more is known 
 
 Than through the night his restless tread 
 
 Paced up and down, unpressed his bed. 
 
 And the next morn revealed a change 
 
 In him, as startling as 'twas strange, 
 
 To those who saw but knew not why. 
 
 His haggard cheek and bloodshot eye, 
 
 His pallid lips and vacant stare. 
 
 His knitted brow and rumpled hair, 
 
 Remorse could scarcely lend a mien, 
 
 So wolfish and so vilely keen ; 
 
 Nor could regret impart a mood 
 
 So destitute of purpose good. 
 
 No ; rather did these signs appear 
 
 To mark some hardened purpose there, 
 
 That having once adventured in. 
 
 To follow out the track of sin. 
 
 In mood that boded no behoof, 
 
 lie mounted to his donjon roof, 
 
 And scowled down on the waving wood 
 
 Where he had wrought the deed of blood. 
 
 His lips in smile malignant set, 
 
 Bespoke his hate unsatcd yet ; 
 
 But as he glanced across the wold 
 
 He saw a volumed smoke up-rolled 
 
 Through early morning's misty grey. 
 
 On the horizon far away. 
 
 His wide domain's dimension kno\wi. 
 
 For leagues the country all his own, 
 
 He stood as rooted by a spell : 
 
 lie knew the region's lay too well
 
 2IO 
 
 To doubt from whence the rising smoke 
 
 In thick'ning columns darkly broke. 
 
 And some dark inward consciousness 
 
 Awoke conviction in his breast 
 
 Of a defeated vile intent 
 
 That to his mien new evil lent. 
 
 " 'Tis Roland's homestead," he exclaims 
 
 In muttered fury, " is in flames ! 
 
 Is it mishap, or purposed wile, 
 
 Me of my vengeance to beguile ? 
 
 He would not dare, vile boorish slave, 
 
 My unrelenting vengeance brave ! 
 
 Can he have yet so early come 
 
 To knowledge of his brother's doom ? 
 
 No ; Roseline's charms may yet requite 
 
 My longing, for her lover's slight. 
 
 A fair pretext may now appear 
 
 To offer her a shelter here. 
 
 But first my horsemen to alarm, 
 
 And gallop off to Roland's farm. 
 
 Meanwhile dispatch some to the chase 
 
 T'obliterate the odious trace, 
 
 By gore and trampling footmarks made, 
 
 Of the keen contest in the glade ; 
 
 And hide from sight each tell-tale corse 
 
 Of carrion hind and carrion horse. 
 
 Then let conjecture work and mount. 
 
 For Walter's absence to account. 
 
 The worst, if guessed, to me alone 
 
 And to my minions can be known." 
 
 To hurry down, the space was short, 
 
 From donjon roof to donjon court ; 
 
 To call his trusted henchman bye. 
 
 And give his orders secretly ; 
 
 To call his armed riders out, 
 
 To give command and point the rout ; 
 
 Brief time to saddle and array : 
 
 The impatient lord brooks no delay. 
 
 " Up with portcullis ! Drawbridge down !" 
 
 He orders with a bodeful frown. 
 
 And hurriedly they mount to selle,* 
 
 And clatter after him pell-mell. 
 
 No thrift of spur, no tight'ning rein. 
 
 In all the fleeting, jingling train. 
 
 Through glades and bridle-paths they sped, 
 
 Like warriors to some fierce charge led ; 
 
 And many a roused and startled deer 
 
 Sought deeper covert, in its fear : 
 
 Then, panting, paused, and looked around. 
 
 Relieved to find no following hound.
 
 211 
 
 But as the troop the farm drew nigh, 
 A black'ning reek o'ersprcad the sky, 
 And choking grew the burning scent 
 From stacks and barns and byres besprent 
 Then through the forest clearing came 
 The vivid gleams of mounting flame, 
 And soaring sparks, and lurid flash, 
 And falling beams, and timbers' crash, 
 And groups of peasantmcn, who stood 
 In hopeless and bewildered mood, 
 Blankly surveying in dismay 
 The ruin which no hand could stay. 
 The raging conflagration wide, 
 Devoured unlet on every side. 
 No living stock, no winter store, 
 No roof of thatch, no timber floor. 
 No fodder-pile, no faggct-heap. 
 No stable-hold, no shed for sheep. 
 No stack in field, nor garner'd seed — 
 No household stuff but help'd to feed 
 The ruthless, all-consuminc fire. 
 Which reigned in fierce resistless ire. 
 No human skill had power to check, 
 But helpless gaze upon the wreck ; 
 No human vision e'er could meet 
 A fierce destruction more complete. 
 
 As up the lord and followers rode 
 The assembled groups, uncover'd, bow'd, 
 Which little then their liege, indeed, 
 Appeared to notice or to heed. 
 The widespread ruin held his view, 
 And fixed his fierce conjecture, too. 
 The blazing farmstead's wrecks but tend 
 His wreck of hope to comprehend ; 
 And as it shrinks in smoke and flare, 
 His own devices melt in air. 
 A prescience whispered in his thought 
 His baflled will was set at nought, 
 And in its tottering piles were shown 
 His purposes all crumbling down. 
 The question he would ask, his mind 
 The answer has too well divined ; 
 Yet must he ask it: " IVIasters, say 
 Roland and Roseline, where are they ?" 
 No i)rompt reply tiiis question found. 
 Each to his fellow gazes round, 
 Anxious, to others yield tlie place. 
 To answer in the sorry case. 
 At length the pause so painful grew 
 Some one, periorce, must awswer U>
 
 212 
 
 Their lord's inquiry, who began 
 
 With angry glance the group to scan. 
 
 Then one reluctantly came through 
 
 Tne dazed and mute surrounding few, 
 
 And in suppressed and bated tone 
 
 Related all to them was known. 
 
 How, riderless, the steed had come, 
 
 And filled with dread the bridal home ; 
 
 How each, with boding and unrest, 
 
 Had riden forth in Walter's quest, 
 
 And back returned through storm and rain, 
 
 And that of each the search was vain ; 
 
 That later, too, came Roland back 
 
 Silent and haggard from his track : 
 
 To questions asked his sole reply, 
 
 " He's dead ! He's dead for certainty ! 
 
 I must resolve what must be done. 
 
 Keep you no longer, friends, from home ; 
 
 And pray God ye find more behoof 
 
 Than ye will leave beneath this roof ! 
 
 But how fares Roseline, prithee tell ?" 
 
 " She sleeps." '• So best. Friends all, farewell 1" 
 
 The women folk would fain have stayed 
 
 To render Roseline further aid ; 
 
 But Roland firmly said them nay; 
 
 And thus, in fine, they went away. 
 
 " Further than this we others know, 
 
 Alas ! no more nor less than you : 
 
 The flames have done their task too well 
 
 To leave a trace p.iore truth to teil," 
 
 Fierce and malign as tempest's glow 
 The baron's evil eyes did show ; 
 Their orbs, suffused like tinct' of blood, 
 Strained fix'dly on the burning flood. 
 Which surged and licked and madly roared. 
 Levelling as it wildly soared. 
 Amid the glow he seemed to peer, 
 As seeking out his victims there. 
 His brows with bafiled discontent 
 With deep and furrowed frown was bent : 
 To feel unbridled power meet check 
 Before that elemental wreck ; 
 Destruction's breath his limits brave. 
 Nothing to seize, nothing to save ; 
 Nought left but burning fierce suspense. 
 " If those he sought are there or hence ! 
 Hence ! hence !" One sudden mental glance 
 Suggests a prompt, an only chance : 
 To break his troop in several squads. 
 Numerous enough for certain odds ;
 
 313 
 
 To scatter couriers far and wide 
 To scour the track on every side. 
 If they still ivere, though faint the hope, 
 To get them in his vengeance' scope, 
 If 7iot, at least he'd know at last 
 That hope and vengeance both were past] 
 With spur and rein, with sudden bound, 
 He caused his courser to wheel round. 
 *' Succour or saving here are vain, 
 As 'tis that we should more remain. 
 Short time before this fiery thrall 
 Will have consumed and levelled all. 
 What boots to bide and gape and rue ? 
 What helping hand can none undo ? 
 Come ! to the Castle we'll return ; 
 And, while it will — why, let it burn !" 
 He dashed away, they following sped. 
 Their trapping's brightness glinting re 
 Till the fierce conflagration's blaze 
 Sunk in the deep'ning forest-maze ; 
 When, calling halt, he orders gave : 
 " Nor spur to spare, nor lash to save, 
 But from the centre where they stood 
 Kight on to ride through weald and wood ; 
 To east, to north, to south, to west, 
 In Roland's and in Roseline's quest ; 
 And they who 'lighted on the track. 
 To seize and bring the 'fugees back — 
 For theirs the hands in vile despite 
 Had kindled this incend'ry light — 
 A hundred marks the troop shall win 
 Which brings the flying traitors in ; 
 A hundred more I will divide 
 'ISIong all who on the track shall ride. 
 Away at once, nor slacken rein 
 Till reached the skirts of my domain. 
 Hubert-le-Rouse, your men divide, 
 And point them out their several ride ; 
 And to each squad appoint command 
 Responsible in head and hand. 
 And briefly ; for each fleeting space 
 Is priceless in this eager chase ; 
 For I with restless fever burn 
 Till they are lience, and back return." 
 Hubert-le-Rousc with rapid ken 
 Selects and portions out his men. 
 Each party's rout is quick assigned, 
 Each leader's orders well dcfmcd. 
 And, like a star's departing rays, 
 They shoot along a dozen ways ; 
 While, filled with deep devouring spite 
 The baron seeks his castle's height ,
 
 214 
 
 And restless, on expectant rack, 
 Awaits his troopers coming back. 
 One long-drawn day of dumb despite; 
 One restless, feverish, sleepless night ; 
 Another yet, when eve drew on — 
 Of the returning troopers none. 
 Hour after hour, by blazing hearth. 
 He sat in sullen, silent wrath ; 
 And only with the early dawn 
 Was heard the watchful warder's horn. 
 Troop after troop dejected came. 
 And every answer was the same : 
 No trace, no clue, no tidings won ; 
 The chase was vain, the victims gone. 
 Escaped ? or dead ? Whichever way, 
 Lust or revenge had missed its prey ; 
 And bitter 'twas for Passion's thrall 
 To drink of Disappointment's gall. 
 
 The woods were thick, the way was wild 
 
 Yet through the refts an evening smiled- 
 
 As gorgeous, purple, golden, grand, 
 
 In mellow glow and shadows bland — 
 
 As ever lulled declining day 
 
 Into the arms of twilight grey. 
 
 Belated birds in weary flight 
 
 Sought woody nests on beetling height. 
 
 And drowsy moans from Nature's breast. 
 
 Heralded night, and gloom, and rest. 
 
 Rest ! blessed rest ! so welcome when 
 
 It comes to over-weary men. 
 
 Who, roughly strung to bear the strain 
 
 Of o'er-exerted travel-pain, 
 
 May welcome thee as babe the breast. 
 
 Whereto in love 'tis fondly prest ; 
 
 But when the fragile female form. 
 
 Of withering grief has borne the storm, 
 
 Despair's fierce dint and Terror's chill, 
 
 If yields the power, if fails the will. 
 
 Under such stress of agonies, 
 
 Pity may be, but not surprise, 
 
 Lo ! where beneath the dark'ning dome 
 
 Some dimly moving shadows come 
 
 Wearily through the forest screen, 
 
 Descending the abrupt ravine. 
 
 Two jaded steeds, one bridle-led : 
 
 A female form (fainting or dead ?) 
 
 Helplessly stretched — -her hair aflow— 
 
 Across the h( .rsema n's saddle bow ;
 
 215 
 
 And with an anxious heed imprest 
 
 With caution to his earnest breast. 
 
 How eagerly he peers around, 
 
 Scanning the rude, uneven ground ; 
 
 Guarding from ill that might betide, 
 
 From slippery way or nerveless stride. 
 
 What little light doth linger now 
 
 Reflects on his care-clouded brow 
 
 A woe so deep, distress so fell, 
 
 No words of mine have power to tell. 
 
 Through bronzed cheek and basane brow 
 
 A deadly paleness pierces now ; 
 
 A ghastly light his eye-balls dart; 
 
 His lips are painfully apart ; 
 
 And his whole air sadly besprent 
 
 With sickly, wild bewilderment. 
 
 The limping steeds, both vigour-sped, 
 
 With drooping ears and faltering tread, 
 
 No fire of mettle in the eye, 
 
 Plod lamely on and languidly, 
 
 With (quivering flanks and shortened breath, 
 
 J^roken and foundered nigh to death. 
 
 As the low-bottomed dell they gain 
 
 An oozing spring doth trickling drain 
 
 Its sparkling crystal, clear and cool, 
 
 Into a shallow rocky pool ; 
 
 Its tinkling murmurs lightly play 
 
 A moment, and then pass away, 
 
 Lost in the herbage, rankly grown. 
 
 By which the dingle's floor is strewn. 
 
 The horses halt upon the brink, 
 
 And eagerly and longly drink. 
 
 The man, too, doth with care dismoimt, 
 
 And bear his burden to the fount ; 
 
 Laying his charge along the sward 
 
 With tender care and fond regard. 
 
 A kerchief in the stream he dips. 
 
 And bathes her temples and her lips, 
 
 And by all means within his power 
 
 Seeks the unconscious to restore — 
 
 Her name repeating o'er and o'er : 
 
 " Roscline! dear Roseline! speak once more ! 
 
 This faintness sure cannot be death ! 
 
 Thy lips still utter vital breath ; 
 
 Thy hand, tho' cold, hath yet some heat ; 
 
 Thy pulse doth throl), thy heart doth beat ; 
 
 But in this wild and lonely spot 
 
 Shelter is none, and help is not. 
 
 'J'hough past the hellish tyrant's bound, 
 
 No Christian succour can be found. 
 
 AVith horses sped and over-done 
 
 I could not leave thee here alone ;
 
 3l6 
 
 To forest beast perhaps a prey 
 
 The while your guardian was away ! 
 
 Helpless and hopeless seems my plight ; 
 
 Despair, and solitude, and night 
 
 Seem gathering round us. Which way turn ? 
 
 My heart is sick j my temples burn ; 
 
 My throat is seared; my tongue is dust 
 
 With dread anxiety, I slake it must !" 
 
 He kneels, and from the trickling stream 
 
 He scoops him up his two-hands' teem,* 
 
 And drinks a deep-drawn draught t'allay 
 
 The thirst to which he is a prey ; 
 
 And gazes desperately around 
 
 To where the steeds sink on the ground, 
 
 And stretch out in the sheer distress 
 
 Of utter, helpless weariness. 
 
 " Poor beasts !" he murmurs ; " they sink down 
 
 Their willing powers quite overthrown : 
 
 Further to tax them now were vain; 
 
 Restless, they'll never rise again." 
 
 He rises then, and takes his way 
 
 To where the jaded creatures lay, 
 
 With sad but ruthful thought to allay 
 
 Their sorry state well as he may. 
 
 Their saddle girths and bridle gear 
 
 Unbuckles, frees, and leaves them clear : - 
 
 Pityingly eyes the prostrate pair, 
 
 Addressing them with mournful air : 
 
 " Poor creatures ! grant no beasts of night 
 
 Surprise ye in this woeful plight. 
 
 Far better with my hunting knife 
 
 That I myself let out your life ; 
 
 But no ! take ye the chance that may 
 
 Be born of rest and light of day." 
 
 Turning away with heavy stride, 
 
 He now returns to Roseline's side. 
 
 Still in unconscious, death-like state. 
 
 His help seems vain to palliate ; 
 
 For every tender means he tries, 
 
 And every thoughtful aid applies ; 
 
 Yet still so strong the trance's spell 
 
 It holds her in its clutches fell. 
 
 His features now begin to wear 
 
 The solemn aspect of despair ; 
 
 Her hand between his hand is prest ; 
 
 Her head rests on his heaving breast ; 
 
 A sickly light within his eye 
 
 Bespeaks his dread anxiety— 
 
 A cheerless and bewildered dread, 
 
 No hope to light ! no help to stead ! 
 
 * Brimming over.
 
 217 
 
 His soul seems like the fading light 
 
 Sinking to rayless, blackest night ; 
 
 When on the air the distant ring 
 
 Of vesper-bell comes tinklcing. 
 
 A start ! A perfect, instant change 
 
 Comes o'er the man, as sudden, strange, 
 
 As when the ghastly nightmares fade, 
 
 And wakeful safety's lovelier made. 
 
 He rises quickly, glances round 
 
 To catch from whence proceeds the sounds ; 
 
 Glances above to scan the ray 
 
 Which lights the clouds of dying day ; 
 
 Then earthward through the forest vast 
 
 To note which way the shadows cast ; 
 
 Listens again, and seems relieved 
 
 That by no echo he's deceived : 
 
 Grows radiant with awakened hope 
 
 That the dilemma he may cope. 
 
 He raises Roseline from the sward 
 
 With the same tender, fond regard 
 
 As a devoted mother might 
 
 Yield to her infant heart's-delight ; 
 
 And guided by that distant bell, 
 
 He quits the lonely, dark'ning dell. 
 
 How, guided by that vesper bell 
 
 He reached a convent let mc tell : 
 
 Secluded quite and built apart 
 
 Within the very forest's heart. 
 
 The holy sisters, with surprise, 
 
 Heard his appeal with pitying eyes, 
 
 And prompt in ruthful ministry 
 
 Shelter and succour both supply. 
 
 The best, though plainly-furnished cell 
 
 To Roseline's urgent need befell. 
 
 All cares which Pity's tender art 
 
 Could prompt and lovingly impart, 
 
 They furnish with untiring will 
 
 Of patient watch and leechly skill ; 
 
 Yet was her sad unconsciousness 
 
 So deep, to baffle all redress. 
 
 For hours, for days, in piteous strait 
 
 She lay ; they could but watch and wait. 
 
 Sad Roland, to the care consigned 
 
 Of sister-lay and labouring hind, 
 
 In neighbouring lodge was housed the while. 
 
 To bide the event and time beguile, 
 
 For hours beside her couch, each day 
 
 The sisters suffered him to stay ;
 
 2l8 
 
 And soon they found, so deep his grief, 
 
 That silence was his best relief. 
 
 And so he mutely came and went 
 
 As melancholy impulse bent. 
 
 But when away from Roseline's side, 
 
 He'd roam the gloomy forest wide, 
 
 In hope to quell his mind's distress 
 
 By dint of utter weariness. 
 
 The jaded steeds, too spent to roam, 
 
 He sought, and with their gear brought home ; 
 
 But in the stall unselled they stood. 
 
 On foot he roamed, alone to brood 
 
 On the uncertain after-state 
 
 That should o'errule or fix his fate. 
 
 Five nights and days, unconsciously, 
 
 In seeming death, did Roseline lie ; 
 
 But when the fifth day's close drew nigh, 
 
 Her lips gave forth a long-drawn sigh, 
 
 Which caused the silent sisters start 
 
 Who then performed the watcher's part. 
 
 The sinking day, with growing gloom, 
 
 With deep'ning shadow filled the room ; 
 
 Which left a doubt, and then a fear. 
 
 That fancy had deceived their ear. 
 
 Over the couch, eagerly bent, 
 
 They watch, with anxious hope intent ; 
 
 And soon another sigh as deep 
 
 Proclaims the end of death-like sleep. 
 
 One hurries out, then back ere long, 
 
 Attended by the sister throng, 
 
 With lights, but screened with thoughtful care 
 
 To mitigate the sudden glare. 
 
 Low-whispered hopes and glances kind 
 
 On Roseline's face one centre find — 
 
 So marble-white, so calm, so sweet. 
 
 With innocence's charm replete. 
 
 Her hands, so waxen as they lay — 
 
 The sheets not whiter seemed than they — 
 
 Some feeble signs of motion give, 
 
 To show the seeming dead doth live. 
 
 Again her lips unclose ; her breast 
 
 Upheaves, as by some pang oppressed ; 
 
 A heavier, deeper breath expires 
 
 And melts as distant sound retires ; 
 
 Slowly from side to side her head 
 
 Rolls on the softly-pillowed bed ; 
 
 Her arms outspread, and clutch at air ; 
 
 Her eyes unclose with vacant stare ; 
 
 But yet no sense of vision shown, 
 
 Nor no surrounding objects known.
 
 219 
 
 At last her mind begins to wake, 
 
 Her face a conscious look to take ; 
 
 Deep wonder, with a touch of dread, 
 
 From her dilated eyes are shed. 
 
 As in bewilderment her gaze 
 
 Seeks to pierce through dim memory's haze 
 
 Her lips attempt to fashion word ; 
 
 But not an answering sound is heard. 
 
 So the kind sisterhood essay 
 
 To calm her wondering fears away, 
 
 By gentle words and gestures kind, 
 
 Which find a meaning in her mind. 
 
 As they restoring cordials tend, 
 
 And every soothing service lend, 
 
 Her sense returns, her thoughts begin 
 
 From outward things to turn within. 
 
 And lend her looks an earnest cast, 
 
 As struggling to recall the past. 
 
 And as the painful memory breaks, 
 
 And bitter consciousness awakes, 
 
 A pitiable sadness grows, 
 
 Marking the dawning of her woes. 
 
 Her anxious and inquiring glance 
 
 She round the shadowy cell doth lance. 
 
 And an imploring, piteous air, 
 
 Easily read — " My brother ! where ?" 
 
 " I've sent for him. Nay, calm your fear ; 
 
 He's safe, and will be shortly here." 
 
 She clasps her hands, and tranquil lies ; 
 
 Her thankful prayers to heaven arise. 
 
 The sad-eyed sisters silent stand. 
 
 An ominous and thoughtful band. 
 
 Their mental prayers seem to combine : 
 
 With hers, rise to the source divins. 
 
 A solemn picture, though — it had 
 
 An air both sorrowful and sad. 
 
 Now, through the sacred, silent gloom, 
 
 The sound of hurried footsteps come. 
 
 The sisterhood, with eyes askance. 
 
 Cast to the door an anxious glance ; 
 
 To which the approaching footfall nears, 
 
 And Roland presently appears — 
 
 An air of sad anxieties 
 
 And wild inquiry in his eyes ; 
 
 Something of hope, but more of dread, 
 
 In their quick scrutiny is read, 
 
 As though some sad forecast of thought, 
 
 Had the worst-dreaded issue taught. 
 
 P.ut sad to note the ghastly phase 
 
 Suirow can mark in some few days : 
 
 Years, w»ic they tranquil, had left less 
 
 Traces of phj'^ical distress.
 
 220 
 
 A shrunken form, a visage pale, 
 
 Replaced the man so stalwart, hale ; 
 
 The upward look, so frank and bold, 
 
 Is haggard now, and fixed and cold 3 
 
 And in the yeoman's general air 
 
 A shadowing of dull despair ; 
 
 And yet a gleam of purpose bent 
 
 To far-off, desperate intent. 
 
 The pause and hush had solemn bode 
 
 As at the open door he stood, 
 
 Till the superior's beck'ning glance 
 
 Gave signal that he should advance. 
 
 With noiseless tread he forward press'd) 
 
 His left hand bearing on his breast, 
 
 As to suppress some eager smart. 
 
 Or wild pulsation of his heart. 
 
 As he drew near to Roseline's couch, 
 
 Her faint smile welcomed his approach ; 
 
 A momentary glance, from whence 
 
 A dawning, faint intelligence 
 
 Bespoke the recognition dim. 
 
 Although so great the change in him. 
 
 Feebly her nerveless hand arose 
 
 To meet his clasp in trembling close ; 
 
 And her pale face expression took 
 
 A wondering and questioning look, 
 
 Which Roland lost the power to meet ; 
 
 For his whole frame, from head to feet. 
 
 As though by sudden ague taken. 
 
 Is by a strong convulsion shaken. 
 
 His trembling limbs and heaving trunk. 
 
 His quivering features, wan and shrunk, 
 
 By a wild inward spasm rent. 
 
 Will not be stilled till tears find vent ; 
 
 So sinking down in wildest grief. 
 
 In sobs and tears to seek reUef, 
 
 Of unlet vent of sorrow's smart. 
 
 Which else had burst his surcharged heart. 
 
 'Tis so when wintry mount and hill. 
 
 Snow-piled and bound in ice-lock's chill. 
 
 Obeying Nature's constant law, 
 
 Their fetters break by softening thaw ; 
 
 Their pent-up might in tumult come 
 
 In cataracts and maddest foam — 
 
 In the wild turbulence of checkless strain ; 
 
 Nor calmly flow till reached the vernal plain. 
 
 Mutely grouped round the pitying sisters stood, 
 
 Till passed the first wild rush of sorrow's flood ; 
 
 Feeling how vain to soothe, or seek consde. 
 
 The outburst of a strong, resistless d^e, 
 
 Which, once let loose, the more, extended vent — 
 
 More the relief, its anguish j^fuicker spent.
 
 221 
 
 But for poor Roseline, his acute distress 
 
 Seemed to recall her to more consciousness. 
 
 But as the dim oblivious clouds disperse, 
 
 Came memory, thought — both than oblivion worse. 
 
 The painful past before her seemed to grow, 
 
 And in her face its strong reflection show — 
 
 A hopeless, helpless, haggard, pitying stare 
 
 Of irremediable blank despair. 
 
 A low-breathed, wailing sigh her breast exhales, 
 
 An inward, tearless grief, which naught avails. 
 
 No ruthful sympathy can reach or cheer. 
 
 And into which affection dreads to peer. 
 
 The sobs, still breaking from poor Roland's breast, 
 
 Seem to awake for him her most unrest. 
 
 Feebly her wasted hand seeks out his head, 
 
 Deep-cushion'd in the softly-yielding bed. 
 
 The voiceless recognition seems no less 
 
 Than words her grateful feelings to express ; 
 
 And tender thoughtfulncss is mutely shown, 
 
 His deep affliction marking as her own. 
 
 The heedful principal with silent glide 
 
 Approaches now to sorrowing Roland's side. 
 
 And whispers him with pitying voice and low, 
 
 Less grief and greater cautiousness to show. 
 
 " Sister, you're right ; the weakness was unwise ; 
 
 But yet the strength not always in us lies 
 
 To war with pent emotions, stronger throes, 
 
 Nor stifle down the might of heaving woes. 
 
 But, wise as piteous, you rebuke me well, 
 
 And I will strive this agony to quell." 
 
 With effort he cliokcd down a rising sigh, 
 
 And dashed the starting tear from either eye, 
 
 And soon resumed the dull and vacant calm. 
 
 Like ocean after tempest's wild alarm. 
 
 Once more that white and weakly outstretched hand 
 
 Sought his ; and her wild eyes, once soft and bland, 
 
 With a deep-searching glance is on him bent 
 
 In grateful and in piteous intent. 
 
 Her pale lips move, and a faint sound, scarce heard, 
 
 The death-like silence of the chamber stirred. 
 
 " Poor Roland !" and he bends to her to press 
 
 On that pale hand a brotherly caress. 
 
 Her other arm around his neck doth twine. 
 
 And thankful, loving tears bedew her eyne. 
 
 " Loyal and loving from the first to last ; 
 
 True now ; as kind and tender in the past. 
 
 While power to thank you lasts. Oh ! let me speak 
 
 My thanks ; but, Oh ! to speak those words arc weak 
 
 Willing to yield that which you most desired, 
 
 For others' good more than your own inspired. 
 
 To me your secret has been ever known. 
 
 And now you must be left alone, alone.
 
 222 
 
 Oh ! let me bless you with my dying breath, 
 
 Sweet soother of all sorrows. Welcome, Death !" 
 
 With broken, faltering accents, oft between, 
 
 A lengthened pause, and gasp for breath had been. 
 
 Exhausted now, she sinks, and prostrate lies, 
 
 With parted lips and dimming upturned eyes. 
 
 Quick-coming breath and feebling thoughts astray 
 
 Through the past joy and sorrow far away. 
 
 Now forward steps from out the silent throng. 
 
 Where in the shadow he had lingered long, 
 
 A grave, bald-headed priest, with snowy beard, 
 
 Where reverence and benignity appeared. 
 
 With solemn gesture waves them from the room : 
 
 " Leave me, my children ; for the time has come 
 
 The last and holy office to console, 
 
 And speed our dying sister's passing soul. 
 
 Brief time, I fear ; but precious moments count 
 
 In Mercy's reckoning, like years' amount. 
 
 I will recall you when my task is done. 
 
 Meantime, your prayers, each and every one." 
 
 Intruding eye nor thought must seek to pry 
 
 On the last solemn, sacred mystery 
 
 That yields a human soul, purged of earth's stain, 
 
 To its immortal Master's hands asrain. 
 
 Draw we the veil — and leave the priest and maid 
 
 To sacred privacy — " And pray God aid !" 
 
 The shrift is o'er, recalled the mourning train. 
 
 Alas ! few fleeting moments now remain. 
 
 The thread of life unwound to its last strand, 
 
 The spirit fluttering on the borderland 
 
 Of life and death, what still is Rosalind, 
 
 Unconsciously, in seeming death reclined. 
 
 Roland bent over her deject and lorn, 
 
 Anxiously watches, inwardly doth mourn ; 
 
 When suddenly, as though some heavenly quire 
 
 Far distant raised, to the celestial lyre, 
 
 An invocation soft for soothing woes, 
 
 A whispered sweetness in the chamber rose — 
 
 So sorrowfully low, so dulcet, smooth. 
 
 The sphere-like echoes of celestial love, 
 
 So plaintively subdued the balanced sound. 
 
 As though some wandering zephyr wailed around. 
 
 It was a sweet-set psalm for passing sprite 
 
 To waft it hymn-borne to the realms of light. 
 
 While yet the entrancing melodies arise. 
 
 Slowly re-open Rosaline's closed eyes. 
 
 Up-gazing, and with eager arms outspread. 
 
 Partly uprising from her pillowed bed. 
 
 Radiant her face, her lips pronounced one word, 
 
 " Walter !" then backward fell, and no more stirred.
 
 223 
 
 In a green quiet nook 'neath alder's shade, 
 
 In peaceful " Vale of Rest " they 'earth the maid. 
 
 The office over, and the turf relaid, 
 
 Sad Roland at the convent only stayed 
 
 To raise a cross and thank the sisters kind 
 
 Much for himself, but more for Rosalind. 
 
 Then bade farewell to them, and went his way— 
 
 To what ? Perchance you'll learn some other day. 
 
 One sure thing is — whate'cr the strife. 
 
 Or what the happiness of life — 
 
 The dogged march of Time doth tend 
 
 All strife or joy to bring to end. 
 
 This verity doth bare to view 
 
 Comfort, and admonition, too — 
 
 The one, all helpful effort made 
 
 To brunt the evil that hath weighed. 
 
 Be the oppression ne'er so vast, 
 
 Time's help will lighten it at last ; 
 
 The other, it may skill to learn, 
 
 Life's joys to noblest purpose turn ; 
 
 For Time doth fix a stubborn bourne. 
 
 From which there is no back return. 
 
 And Time hath surely glided on 
 
 In steady, unrclaxing run. 
 
 How long, it little doth avail, 
 
 And little imports to our tale. 
 
 Only when last the lay I sung 
 
 The world looked green and fresh and young ; 
 
 The skies were bright, the sun was strong ; 
 
 The nights were short, the days were long. 
 
 The grass was lush, the bouglis bent down 
 
 Beneath their leafy-burden crown ; 
 
 The air was soft, and bland, and warm. 
 
 Gaudy with flowers and sweet with balm; 
 
 The birds flew high, or in the shade 
 
 A constant feast of carol made ; 
 
 The distance soft with gauzy grey. 
 
 The weald with sheen and shadows gay ; 
 
 'i'he gala season of the year 
 
 When all was life and all was cheer. 
 
 But now the world showed shrunk and cold. 
 
 And blear and bald, and shrivelled, old, 
 
 In ragged robe of mantling snow, 
 
 Its frozen members peeping through. 
 
 The bitter, driving, wintry grain 
 
 Pelted with hail, and sleet, and rain; 
 
 But where it fell the frosty bise* 
 
 Condensed it soon to glittering ice ; 
 
 * North-cnst wind.
 
 344 
 
 Clinking and dangling like a weird, 
 And shivering elders' matted beard. 
 The earth was hard and baked in frost, 
 The streams dry-footed may be crossed; 
 Sounds travel quick, and, to the ear, 
 Though distant sent, yet seeming near. 
 The sky is dull, and mat, and bleak, 
 And even as an o'erhung reek. 
 Nature is Winter's shackled thrall, 
 Swathed in her mortal rimey pall. 
 Thus was the outward world arrayed : 
 Be now another scene displayed. 
 
 An antique riDom, of gloomy style,' 
 
 Within a beetling castle pile, 
 
 With heavy rough-carved oaken beams, 
 
 And deep-set lattice, where the gleams 
 
 Of the dim outward light had much ado ; 
 
 The dust-beclouded vitrage to peep through ; 
 
 But the faint, struggling daylight haze 
 
 Is stifled by the ardent blaze 
 
 From a wide hearth, where glowing logs, 
 
 Guarded by quaint-formed iron dogs, 
 
 Send up a roaring, crackling sound, 
 
 And light the chamber all around 
 
 With a bright, crimson blood-like low, 
 
 Which danced and frickered to and fro, 
 
 On arrass'd walls and trophied mail 
 
 And chiseled oak and stone detail, 
 
 And faded banners whose device 
 
 To tell its legends scarce suffice ; 
 
 And in the billet's fullest glare. 
 
 Deep-seated in a high-backed chair, 
 
 His elbow on the table's plane; 
 
 His crisping fingers doth sustain 
 
 His head, whose dark and ebon glow 
 
 Of elf-locks thickly cloud his brow. 
 
 A form in deep, abstracted mood 
 
 Doth wildly glare and darkly brood 
 
 Into the glowing ingle's haze, 
 
 With eyes where madness seems to blaze. 
 
 A marked confusion in the room 
 
 Stands out through all the glare and gloom ; 
 
 In every seat or corner strewn 
 
 Some object in disorder thrown; 
 
 Of raiment or accoutrement 
 
 Incongruously are besprent. 
 
 Viands untouched, the table spread, 
 
 Denote the gustful impulse fled ; 
 
 But crowds of empty wine-flasks tell 
 
 Of fatal, maddening bent too well.
 
 2i5 
 
 At last a sharp, convulsive throe 
 
 Appears to break his brooding through. 
 
 As a deep, painful groan breaks forth, 
 
 Part agony and partly wrath ; 
 
 His hands are wildly upward throwii, 
 
 Then clenched, and on his brow pressed dowii, 
 
 As though to lull some qualm of pain 
 
 That throbbed within his restless brain; 
 
 " Accursed phantoms ! will ye keep 
 
 Your ghastly guard to banish sleep ? 
 
 Cannot the deep-drained Lethean draft, 
 
 So often poured, so wildly quaffd, 
 
 Dull down the constant haunting thought 
 
 Of what my madd'ning passion wrought? 
 
 One spectre-thought ! one spectre-sight I 
 
 At hearth by day and couch by night 1 
 
 Ifer wan feproach, /lis dying gaze, 
 
 Or the survivors' eyes ablaze, 
 
 Which seem to watch and wait, but ne'et 
 
 Relax their keen and vengeful stare ! 
 
 Oh, for a respite, long and deep, 
 
 Of blank, oblivious, heavy sleep ! 
 
 No past remembered, present known, 
 
 Nor future's darkening shadow shown : 
 
 A shadow, aye, more threatening dark 
 
 With mocking smile or menace stark. 
 
 Am I the same who once did reign 
 
 Supreme and blithe o'er this domain^ 
 
 Who sought the seeker's free advance, 
 
 And led the crowd in chase or dance ; 
 
 Where mirth, or life, or revel ran, 
 
 The foremost, cheeriest, happiest man ? 
 
 Now the near sound of other's lip 
 
 Doth jar, and chill, and seem to clip 
 
 My heart as with a grasp of ice, 
 
 So guilt doth infant cowardice! 
 
 Silent I come, in silence go, 
 
 My halls and deep-hushed chambers through,' 
 
 And my retainers every one 
 
 Learned by my mood my path to shun. 
 
 Gloom grown around me like a shroud, 
 
 And folds me like a sable cloud. 
 
 Weariness wastes and thought consumes. 
 
 And ever the one theme resumes ; 
 
 A nightmare memory, a waking si)cll, 
 
 Circling me in its influence fell. 
 
 My senses into traitors turn. 
 
 And me with their delusions spurn. 
 
 My sight with phantom forms is mockd, 
 
 My ears by sounds derisive shock'd ; 
 
 Ever my nostrils scent of blood — 
 
 'Tis mixed with drink, it taints my food.
 
 2 26 
 
 Ever and everywhere I feel 
 
 The unknown peril round me steal ; 
 
 An atmosphere appears to wreathe 
 
 Me found, too dense and hard to breathe ; 
 
 Which presses with a constant strain 
 
 To madden and to crush my brain." 
 
 He with an angry start doth rise, 
 
 And glares around with rolling eyes — 
 
 A gleam of anger and dismay 
 
 J.ike a wild beast that stands at bay. 
 
 ** I stifle ! and a fancy strong, 
 
 A prompting whim, hath held me long — 
 
 A luring impulse to review 
 
 Those scenes whose memory I rue. 
 
 Its force resistless I in vain 
 
 Strive with; it e'er assails again, 
 
 As did the rock the Pythian roll. 
 
 But to recoil and crush his soul. 
 
 Why view that clairi^re again 
 
 Where I first crossed the bridal train ; 
 
 Where, dazzled by her beauty's spell, 
 
 I nursed the promptings sent from hell ? 
 
 Oh 1 did her sad reproachful shade 
 
 Appear as then appear'd the maid, 
 
 With youth's soft flush and modest glow. 
 
 Life mantling lip, and cheek, and brow, 
 
 I could endure, adore, and gaze 
 
 Through haunting vision's painful haze ! 
 
 But no ! the death-fixed scornful stare, 
 
 So freezing, yet as bright as e'er, 
 
 Speaks from the grave ! I feel, I know. 
 
 Tis with the dead I have to do." 
 
 A laboured groan of suffering breaks 
 Forth from his breast, and plainly speaks 
 Remorse deep-seated, and a mind 
 Whose mem'ry no relief can find ; 
 With nervous hand to seize the thong, 
 To sound the high-suspended gong : 
 Then a deep echo's solemn boom 
 Breaks through the silent lonely room. 
 Shortly the portal open stands ; 
 His henchman waits his high commands. 
 " Saddle the roan which late I rode ; 
 I weary of my close abode," 
 Surprised, he said : " You may not know. 
 My lord, 'tis eve, and threats lor snow." 
 For answer he but only gave 
 His hand a short impatient wave, 
 As though to say : " My bidding do ; 
 T'obey is quite enough for you." 
 Then bowing low, I^a Rouse withdrew.
 
 227 
 
 Some hasty alterations made 
 
 From how he lately was arrayed — 
 
 A weather mantle lined with furs, 
 
 Gauntlets, and toque, and boots, and spurs. 
 
 His unclasped tunic now made fast, 
 
 A rapier in his girdle pass'd, 
 
 A riding whip and horn of call ; 
 
 And thus he passes from the hall. 
 
 And onward to the drawbridge gate. 
 
 Where the blood roan doth for him wait. 
 
 Silent he mounts, as one who dreams. 
 
 Or rather like a statue seems ; 
 
 His look so blank, far off, and dim, 
 
 All present things seem lost to him. 
 
 Soon, as his courser feels his weight. 
 
 It bounds across the drawbridge straight, 
 
 And out into the biting blast 
 
 Fleet as a flying shadow pass'd. 
 
 But the steep, downward zigzag pent 
 
 Check to his mettled impulse lent, 
 
 And brings him up from headlong race, 
 
 Into a gentle, ambling pace. 
 
 The grooms and the retainers gn/.c 
 
 After him, through the evening haze, 
 
 In stupor, in which silence told 
 
 Far more than words could e'er unfold : 
 
 Some side looks pass, but none doth spe.ik, 
 
 Shrinking the silent bode to break; 
 
 Some brows are bent, some heads are shaken ; 
 
 As silently by each his way is taken. 
 
 On speeds tlie baron on his way; 
 
 The gleams of fast declining day, 
 
 Low on the dim horizon blue. 
 
 In streaks and gaps the glare breaks through, 
 
 In fiery streams betipped with gold, 
 
 And floods the stripped and rimey wold 
 
 With bosks of pinky-orange, made 
 
 Stil' more intense by dcptlis of shade. 
 
 Where east and west the alleys go 
 
 The freest spreads the unlet glow ; 
 
 Where north and south the alleys svVecp, 
 
 Light flushes half, half uini)ragc deep ; 
 
 Which flit, and change, and dwindle (piitc, 
 
 As sinks the mighty master-light : 
 
 Then the bright cressets in the sky 
 
 Grow sickly and dim out and die ; 
 
 (]rey yields to l)luc, blue sinks to darkness drear, 
 
 'l"he day is dead, and gloomy night is hero. 
 
 ♦ ♦*#•» 
 
 Yes, once before, young in our tnlc, 
 We've seen this winding forest vale ;
 
 !28 
 
 There, where the bare and frosted oak 
 
 Hangs o'er the bridle-path, awoke 
 
 The distant twittering refrain 
 
 Of the enlivening musett's strain ; 
 
 And the hale sound of simple song 
 
 Which cheered the bridal guests along. 
 
 I see the cheery pageant wend ; 
 
 I hear the leafy vista send 
 
 The echoes of their laughter back 
 
 Along the sunny summer track ; 
 
 I see the wreaths and favours bright 
 
 Glow in the rosy morning light ; 
 
 I hear the bugle's ringing bray, 
 
 I see the stag scud o'er the way ; 
 
 The hounds, the hunters, and the train — 
 
 One chiefly, who has tightened rein : 
 
 There where I point — is it the light 
 
 Now dying out that cheats my sight ? 
 
 He's halted on the self-same spot ! 
 
 I know him, and he sees me not. 
 
 My cloak of darkness put I on, 
 
 And be invisible anon. 
 
 What other means to me avail, 
 
 To learn the ending of this tale ; 
 
 For the dim misty legend broke 
 
 Where I commence this after-stroke ? 
 
 " Come on ! I know ye well, all three ; 
 
 The otJun but as shadows be. 
 
 I know this place, this sylvan range, 
 
 Although from then till now the change 
 
 Is great as any change can be. 
 
 Save what may be remarked in me. 
 
 Or greater still the change in ye ! 
 
 Then all was sunny, blithe, and bright ; 
 
 Now all is bare and dismal night : 
 
 Then ye were fresh, and fair, and hale, * 
 
 Now ghastly stark and deadly pale ; 
 
 Save this, and well I know that he 
 
 Is but a live man's effigy. 
 
 Send hence these other shadowy few; 
 
 My only question is with you. 
 
 So best ! These grooms and bridesmaids rude, 
 
 Their shadowy presence did intrude, 
 
 And gazed on with the wonder shown 
 
 By list'ners to a tongue unknown. 
 
 They've vanished in the gloom of night. 
 
 Gone from the sound, lost from the sight ; 
 
 And now for ye! It doth appear 
 
 This night j'^'7'5 7villed my presence here. 
 
 The spell so strongly on me lay 
 
 I was perforce constrain'd t'obey.
 
 229 
 
 I felt this ghostly cortege might 
 
 Be met with in the glade to-night. 
 
 I felt the deep guilt I have wrought, 
 
 Being remorse and misery-taught, 
 
 Might be bought off could I but ask 
 
 From you some penal penance-task. 
 
 No longer can I bear the strain 
 
 Of throbbing nerve and burning brain, 
 
 The constant sleepless miseries 
 
 Borne from those ever death-fixed eyes, 
 
 Bent on mc through the pain-drawn space 
 
 Of time, with no relenting trace. 
 
 If to repent can pardon win, 
 
 Or deep contrition buy out sin, 
 
 Bear witness, all my throes and smart 
 
 Of mind and body, brain and heart, 
 
 I can long-suffering title show 
 
 For mercy's light to glimmer through ! 
 
 Still, those blank looks ? And nut a sign 
 
 Within your unrelenting eyne ! 
 
 See ye not ? Hear ye not what's said, 
 
 Ye justly stern, relentless dead ? 
 
 For he that other shade, I know. 
 
 Is of the living but the show ! 
 
 I fear not him ! Come time, I hojic 
 
 With mortal foeman I dare cope ; 
 
 And, though I feel in open day 
 
 He means not his account to pay, 
 
 'Tis not the dread of mortal might 
 
 That can concern me, nor affright. 
 
 Why speak ye not ? Why make no sign ? 
 
 Why fix me with those speaking eyne ? 
 
 Is truth, then, in my rising fear 
 
 That / alone am present here, 
 
 That^'i? arc antics of the brain, 
 
 And all is but delusion's train ? 
 
 Sternly the wild conviction grows 
 
 Which must in madness fmd its close. 
 
 Thou ghostly yeoman, dost thou smile, 
 
 Though she looks sadder than erewhile ? 
 
 Thy brow with wrathful wreak still bent. 
 
 While pity's light to hers is lent. 
 
 A saintly glow, a mercy-spark. 
 
 Shines from her eyes to light the dark 
 
 And cheerless gloom within my soul. 
 
 And bid Despair's clouds backward roll. 
 
 If this be madness, 'tis more bless'd 
 
 Than sanity could be at best ! 
 
 Pardon'd by thee .' Oh ! do not fade 
 
 Without the sign of pardon made. 
 
 What stretch you forth ? Tiie holy rood ! 
 
 Thanks ! thanks ! The symbol's understood !
 
 230 
 
 A mountain's weight has left my breast ! 
 She's gone ! But she has left me rest. 
 Now I am yours, ye sterner two ; 
 E'en what ye would I'm fain to do. 
 Ye point in spectral commands 
 Towards the east your phantom hands. 
 I guess your drift, I read your eyes ; 
 That way your blasted farmstead lies, 
 Know ye, by some strange impulse bent, 
 To visit it was my intent ? 
 And one more scene of darker bode 
 Down yonder in the nightly wood. 
 I feel drawn on by some strong power 
 To view those fatal scenes once more. 
 Ye smile ! Be what the meaning may, 
 To follow ye I'll not delay. 
 Lead on ! I'm eager more and more 
 To have the ghastly ordeal o'er," 
 
 As following his ghostly guides. 
 Slowly towards the east he rides. 
 With head bowed down and moody air ; 
 And, following after, let us fare. 
 
 The snow comes down. 'Tis now full night ; 
 
 The heavens show not a heavenly light ; 
 
 Yet do the mantling wreaths of snow 
 
 Dimly surrounding objects show : 
 
 Black ruins, capp'd with fleecy trim, 
 
 Loom through the dulness, wild and grim, 
 
 Silent and tortuous, cold and bare, 
 
 Type of a broken heart's despair. 
 
 Around, some sylvan giants rise, 
 
 Gnarled and weird against the skies, 
 
 In skeleton and spectral state, 
 
 Grim guardians of the desolate. 
 
 Stands out the frosted fields across, 
 
 The silhouette of man and horse, 
 
 A statue like, a fixed shade. 
 
 But darker 'gainst the dimness made. 
 
 Heedless of driving wind and snow. 
 
 No sense of storm they seem to know ; 
 
 But shortly on the biting blast 
 
 Some muttered sounds are hurried past. 
 
 " Yes ; ruin ! desolation ! wreck ! 
 
 Passion or fire doth nothing check ! 
 
 Why keep me here ? Think you I care 
 
 On scorched and blighted walls to stare ? 
 
 Though by enforcement I have come 
 
 To prowl around this broken home. 
 
 Brief view suffices me to weet 
 
 Your wrongs how wild and how complete.
 
 231 
 
 Cease to point out that blackcn'd pile, 
 
 Relax your cold, revengeful smile, 
 
 And let the last dread trial come, 
 
 Although it leads to death and doom. 
 
 Wait you that other who but now 
 
 Left us with dark and bodeful brow ? 
 
 He will not come, full well I know ; 
 
 He hath another task to do. 
 
 But 'tis not he — 'tis thou, 'tis thou — 
 
 I have to bide and answer now. 
 
 I know not, have no power to guesa. 
 
 The period of my distress, 
 
 Or, if my shatter'd thoughts can last. 
 
 To face again the fearful past ; 
 
 But, whatsoever horrors teem, 
 
 I must go through, as in a dream. 
 
 Powerless, resistless, overborne 
 
 By fateful force, to bear and mourn. 
 
 Thou turn'st away, and takest the gate 
 
 To that dern, shadowy vale of fate, 
 
 Whose direful memories sanguine train 
 
 Sends fiery tremor through my brain. 
 
 Speed on ! Speed on ! No time for thought, 
 
 Or I shall be — nay, am — distraught !" 
 
 With a loud peal of laughter dire, 
 
 With gestures wild and eyes on fire, 
 
 He goads hi? plunging courser's sides, 
 
 And off into the darkness rides, 
 
 In rapid, reckless, headlong speed, 
 
 Urging the staunch and mettled 8teed» 
 
 As in the mad pursuit of one 
 
 He deemed to lead and draw him orb 
 
 Through broken ways, down hollows Bteep ; 
 
 Through snowdrifts, and through streams breast deep; 
 
 Now up, now down, and in and out, 
 
 With many a loud and frantic shout 
 
 Of " Onward ! Onward !" laugh and yell. 
 
 Wildly towards the darksome dell. 
 
 The startled steed, possessed by fear, 
 
 Broke madly into wild career, 
 
 And skirred the snowy glades along. 
 
 With unlet ire the drifts iimong ; 
 
 With flashing hoofs along the way, 
 
 Scatt'ring in clouds the fleecy spray ; 
 
 With laugh, and bound, and yell, and stride, 
 
 The horse and rider well divide 
 
 The frantic course, and seem to vie 
 
 As rivals in insanity ; 
 
 Till reached th.it glade where Walter fell, 
 
 When a fleet form darts from the dell, 
 
 And shoots like lightning right across 
 
 The pathway of the flying horse,
 
 232 
 
 Which swerve?, and staggers, then bounds on ; 
 
 But its wild rider's course was done. 
 
 Three rapid circles round his head, 
 
 The foenian whirl'd the lined lead, 
 
 Then launched the hissing circling line. 
 
 Which coiled him in its close entwine ; 
 
 Then one strong, vigorous tug, and lo ! 
 
 The baron lies along the snow. 
 
 The stranger springs with a swift bound 
 
 To press him to the frozen ground. 
 
 With knee relentlessly compressed 
 
 Upon his wildly panting breast, 
 
 While quick as thought around his wrists 
 
 A strong, tough, slender cord he twists, 
 
 And binds and knots and makes full fast, ' 
 
 Nor speaks till then, and then ** At last !" 
 
 Draws a deep-chested breatli to ease 
 
 His breast, and rises from his knees. 
 
 He is,^ man of awsome show : 
 
 Ipis wild hair matted on his brow, 
 
 Elf-like and roughly straggling grey, 
 
 Over his shoulders far away ; 
 
 Fierce and hirsute his grizzled beard, 
 
 And a strange eye, well to be feared ; 
 
 Dull, tattered weeds of doubtful tint ; 
 
 A hunting knife, with many a dint. 
 
 Swings from a leathern belt, sans gain* 
 
 Which doth a deer-skin jerkin strain ; 
 
 His hair-grown breast and arms are bare ; 
 
 His legs, too, to the knees ; and there 
 
 Some coarse and dipgy cloth is bound 
 
 With raw-hide lacings round and round, 
 
 Frpm knee to tapering ankle doon, 
 
 And ended by a sandal shoon. 
 
 Stunned by his fall, the B,aron lies 
 
 With gasping mouth and closed eyes ; 
 
 While from his belt his foe unswung 
 
 A coil of twisted leathern thong, 
 
 Lashing his ankles close and tight. 
 
 Not to be loosed, do what he might ; 
 
 Untwined the lanier which had laced, 
 
 And cooled him, in its might embraced ; 
 
 And twines its end, when it is loose, 
 
 Into an easy running noose ; 
 
 Then looks around to note the place, 
 
 As well as darkness left the trace ; 
 
 'VVhen his whole aspect fiercer grows, 
 
 As shaken by strong passion throes. 
 
 " Ah ! vengeful Fate ! This very glen 
 
 I see and recognise, as when 
 
 * Scabbard.
 
 233 
 
 I found my brother, where he fell. 
 
 Ey many signs I know it well. 
 
 Beneath that tree — whose drooping bough 
 
 May serve my task of vengeance now — 
 
 He lay. No chance was that strong might 
 
 That seemed to will me here to-night. 
 
 It was my desti?iy, his doo?n, 
 
 That fated both to hither come. 
 
 Was it thy voice, my brother dear, 
 
 That from the grave commanded here. 
 
 And seemed in words of fire to say : 
 
 ' Your oath ! your oath ! No more delay ; 
 
 Re-seek the spot where I was slain ! 
 
 Renew the covenant again ! 
 
 That may betide, may show you how 
 
 To ratify the brother's vow.' 
 
 It shall be kept ! That spreading bough 
 
 Sways o'er the spot where you laid low 
 
 In bloody death ; there shall he sway, , 
 
 His debt of crime and blood to pay." 
 
 The Baron's lips gave forth a sound, 
 
 His eyes unclose and stare around, 
 
 Surprised to find the tightened bands 
 
 Compress his legs and bind his hands. 
 
 Wildly he raves, and seeks to rise. 
 
 On fancied grooms and vassals' cries, 
 
 Struggling with effort to his seat ; 
 
 And then his eyes and Roland's meet — 
 
 His ravings suddenly subside ; 
 
 His blood-shot eyes are staring wide. 
 
 With a dread, meaning glance of awe. 
 
 As understanding all they saw. 
 
 The lengthened silence grows to pain ; 
 
 Both with a settled glare remain, 
 
 Spelling the other with an eye 
 
 Of strained and fearful fixity. 
 
 At length, in awful under-breath, 
 
 The prostrate Baron whispereth : 
 
 " Thou ! thou again ! Or rather no ; 
 
 Thou'rt not that silent threat'ning show 
 
 That ever dumbly hovered by : 
 
 I know thou art reality ! 
 
 Thy purpose is " " What should it be ? 
 
 Who am I, thinkest thou ? Let me learn. 
 Canst thou in this wild mien discern 
 Roland, your yeoman, leal and true, 
 Whose brother cowardly you slew ? 
 Which to avenge, in this same glade, 
 I fearful oath of vengeance made. 
 Thy hour is come, thy end prepared ; 
 Hope not from justice to be spared. 
 The I'ates that guilty souls pursue
 
 334 
 
 To your just doom have hurried you ; 
 
 And I ordained by Fate's decree 
 
 Thy dooinster merciless to be." 
 
 " Well, do thy will," he makes reply, 
 
 Indifferent, and abstractedly. 
 
 *'Think'st thou I'll plead with thee to gain 
 
 A lengthening out of life and pain ? 
 
 Yet will I crave one boon of thee, ^' 
 
 In name of Christian charity. 
 
 Thou canst not wish my soul's deep loss ; 
 
 My sword for guard doth bear a cross : 
 
 Draw it for me, and let me there 
 
 Breathe forth my penitence in prayer ; 
 
 Then turn its point upon my breast, 
 
 Strike home, and both shall be at rest." 
 
 In silence Roland draws the sword, 
 
 And sticks it, without spoken word, 
 
 Right up before the Baron's face. 
 
 And leaves him to his act of grace ; 
 
 While to the tree his way he takes, 
 
 And ghastly preparation makes ; 
 
 Which to describe I am not fain, 
 
 Nor all the dread details of pain — - 
 
 Revenge's ire, remorse's throes. 
 
 Which lead up to my story's close. 
 
 Let misty time obscure their dread. 
 
 And fancy stand in diction's stead. 
 
 Only thus much. The warders wait, 
 
 Expectant at the castle gate. 
 
 Through the long night ; and, wond'ring, watch, 
 
 Their lord's returning form to catch. 
 
 And wonder soon became alarm, , 
 
 Boding of some befallen harm : 1 
 
 Commotion spread; all were alert ; 
 
 But nought befel which might divert 
 
 The rising apprehensive dread, 
 
 That through the gen'ral throng was spread. 
 
 At dawn Le Rouse outriders sent, 
 
 On searching and inquiry bent. 
 
 One anxious troop excursion made 
 
 Thorough the fatal wintry glade ; 
 
 And there, in consternation's glow, 
 
 Beheld, suspended from a bough, 
 
 Their lord, stark-dead, and dangling-hung 
 
 Up by a stringent leathern thong, 
 
 And on a scroll these words expressed, 
 
 "Ixx Talionis" on his breast. 
 
 Next morn a monk, on pious mission bound 
 To the " God's Acre " of his convent, found,
 
 235 
 
 Stretched on a snow-clad grave, all Bliff and wan, 
 
 The corse of a strange, wildly-clothed man. 
 
 Turning him o'er, and kneeling down to trace 
 
 The lineaments of the cold-frozen face, 
 
 Long did he gaze, uncertain and aghast ; 
 
 Then murmured : *' Roland ! It has come at last ! 
 
 Unhappy son ! thy secret have I kept ; 
 
 'J'hy hapless brother's un timed death be wept. 
 
 One heart ! one love f one wish f and that to have — ■ 
 
 And thou shalt have that wish — one common graiu:.'^ 
 
 THE TWO ROADS OF LIFE. 
 
 A MORAL OF NEW YEARS EVE. 
 
 Translated from the German of Jean Paul by Mada.mk Guizot 
 (Pauline JMeulan). Versified from the French by T. M. 
 
 TwAS late ; 'twas New Year's Eve, and the old year 
 
 Was in its death throes ; while the young one stood 
 
 Expectant at the portal to march in, 
 
 (lay-garlanded and flush with rosy youth. 
 
 To take the dead year's place. One lonely form, 
 
 A man by sixty winters grizzled o'er, 
 
 Stood solitary in the silent night. 
 
 With mournful and dejected air he raised 
 
 }lis eyes towards the star-bespangled sky. 
 
 Where, like an azure lake, thickly besprent 
 
 With glowing waterlilies, Uoated there, 
 
 Those flowers of heaven, a brilliant twinkling throng. 
 
 From contemplation of their glory, then 
 
 He cast his gaze down to the sombre earth, 
 
 On which no soul so destitute as he 
 
 Of every joy or rest ; for at the foot 
 
 Of the dun hill-side he was standing on, 
 
 His tomb, like a dark gulf awaited him. 
 
 Already sixty steps adown the pent 
 
 He had descended, bearing with him naught 
 
 Of the fair promise of his youth and life 
 
 But errors and remorse. His health destroyed, 
 
 Empty his soul, dejected and oppressed. 
 
 Repentance pinched his heart, his age chagrin. 
 
 His early days again before him pass. 
 
 And he recalls the solemn moments back 
 
 When by a father's guidance he was led 
 
 To the two roads of life : the one that led 
 
 Into a tranquil and a happy land.
 
 236 
 
 Waving with fertile harvests, glowing bright, 
 
 With constant sunlight and an air of balm, 
 
 And musical with Nature's melodies ; 
 
 The other, winding through a pass of gloom, 
 
 A cavern, hideous and issueless, 
 
 Distilling poison and with serpents rife. 
 
 Left to himself, alas ! which chose the youth ? 
 
 His present plight may answer. Even now 
 
 The serpents gnaw his heart ; the poison's sting 
 
 Blisters his lips, and rankles in his blood. 
 
 He now can realise his fatal choice. 
 
 He casts his eyes to heaven : with outstretched arms 
 
 And crisping fingers, he exclaims aloud, 
 
 With anguish inexpressible : " Oh, youth, 
 
 Return ! Oh, thou my father 1 once again 
 
 Give me the choice of the two roads of life. 
 
 That I may choose aright !" But youth nor sire 
 
 Was longer there. He sees the wild fires dance 
 
 And disappear around the dismal swamp. 
 
 And cries aloud : " Behold my folly's days !" 
 
 He sees a meteor shoot adown the sky. 
 
 Flicker and vanish. " Lo, my emblem there !" 
 
 He cries in anguish, and the eager goad 
 
 Of sharp repentance pierces deeper still. 
 
 Then in his thoughts he essays to retrace 
 
 The men who, once companions of his youth, 
 
 Now scattered in the world, fulfil the task 
 
 Of honoured fathers, friends of virtue, truth. 
 
 Passing delightedly, with tearless eyes. 
 
 This festal New Year's Eve. The sound of bells. 
 
 To celebrate the new-born heir of Time, 
 
 Breaks from the steeples, and salutes his ear 
 
 As with a pious chant, recalling friends. 
 
 Fond parents, and the loving hopes they formed 
 
 For him years long ago ; their counsel, wishes, 
 
 Wishes all unaccomplished, hopes betrayed, 
 
 Counsel unfoUowed ! With remorse and shame 
 
 Cast down, no longer dare he turn his eyes 
 
 To their bright dwelling place ; they seek the ground ; 
 
 The bitter tears burst forth ; the snovv-cl»d soil 
 
 Receives them ; disconsolate he cries, 
 
 "Return, bright youth ! Return thou once again !" 
 
 With a sharp spasm he awoke from sleep : 
 
 His age, his misery, were but a dream ; 
 
 His errors only were reality. 
 
 Truth and new life were open to him still. 
 
 He had not travelled the false path of ill 
 
 Too far to bar return. He clasped his hands 
 
 In fervent thankfulness, and made resolve 
 
 To leave the evil for the better route. 
 
 Just then the merry New Year bells rung out
 
 ^ '^ <n 
 
 Their joyous carillon. With eager enr, 
 
 Hailing ihcni as a happy augury, 
 
 He listened to their chimes : " Hail, cheerful be" Is ! 
 
 There's hope and rescue in your melody. 
 
 A New Year tokens a new life for me ! 
 
 SUPERSTITION. 
 
 Banf. of the earth, the growth o^ craft and fear ! 
 
 Thine was the priuial curse that fell on man, 
 That, like the blighting canker in the ear, 
 
 Hath choked the harvest with its noxious ban. 
 Thy germs deep striking in the early soil, 
 
 The flaunting poison-llower's pernicious show 
 Seductive rose, and its rank tendrils coil. 
 
 Strangled the young desire to truly know. 
 
 In its unwholesome range, the pure air grew 
 
 Tainted with venom, that delusions bred, 
 In which the impossible appeared as true, 
 
 And dotage followed where deception led ; 
 And bliwd belief in creeds, confused and wild, 
 
 Possessed the victims of the baleful spell ; 
 And mockeries and mysteries beguiled 
 
 The stunted reason, with distractions fell. 
 
 Vast crude distortions of their unknown selves, 
 
 With all the evil in them magnified, 
 Foul monsters, reptiles, nondescripts, and elves, 
 
 Mankind intoxicate hath deified; 
 And to abominable mummery rites 
 
 The human generations have bowed down, 
 The willing dui)es of sacerdotal sleights, 
 
 In each incongruous creed the world hath known. 
 
 Its frenzy hath engendered that blind ire 
 
 In which atrocity was sacred deemed ; 
 Fostered fell moody hate and passion's dire, 
 
 And a belief that all save they blasphemed. 
 Fach mad hallucination was the true, 
 
 For all who differed, steel, or cord, or flame, 
 So did the holy lunacy imliue 
 
 With fiend-like fury, in devotion's name. 
 
 Its fierce dissensions, prodigal in blood, 
 
 Hath made the earth one ghastly battle ground ; 
 
 And certain evil strove for fancied good, 
 
 With malice, but in creed-wrought passion found ;
 
 238 
 
 By woe and pain, demoniac zealots thoiitrlit 
 Some shadowy l)liss the future would secure, 
 
 And to indict or suffer, safely bought' 
 To some fool's paradise the passport sure. 
 
 Long hath the virulent delirium reigned, 
 
 And reason's science vainly sought its cure, 
 Although some slow success it hath attained, 
 
 To mitigate the evils men endure ; 
 Who from the remedy with sickly fright 
 
 Infatuate turn, to nurse their malady. 
 Convinced who else are wrong, they're in the right, 
 
 And all beliefs but theirs absurdity. 
 
 Oh, Reason ! let thy disabusive power, 
 
 And Knowledge, with thy searching, trying test, 
 Dispel the cloud that murkely doth lower 
 
 O'er minds with superstition's bane oppress'tl, 
 That the grim terror of perpetual woe, 
 
 Or the monotony of endless bliss. 
 Divert not from the wish all truth to know, 
 
 Nor thought of other state empoison this. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Why, what the Devil ails me? Eh day ! Eh day ! 
 
 I've had these cursed low spirits hanging on me 
 This fortnight now — yes, ever since last Mny-day, 
 
 When at the dance Peg Bolton smiled upon me ; 
 But then she smiled on I don't know how many, 
 
 And danced with Bill and Tom and Jack and Harry. 
 But, 'pon my soul, I don't remember any 
 
 Girl that can dance so light or laugh so merry. 
 But what the Devil ails me ? Eh day ! Eh day ! 
 I've had these cursed blue devils since last May-day. 
 
 I can't tell why I'm thinking all day, all day, 
 
 About Peg Bolton; and last night I dreamed, too, 
 That round my bed she came, and danced where I lay ; 
 
 How her lips mocked me; how her blue eyes beamed too; 
 Her foot and leg — neater, no shoe nor stocking 
 
 Was ever drawn upon — she tripp'd so lightly. 
 Such dreams are most confoundedly provoking ; 
 
 But I should like to have the same dreams nightl3^ 
 Plngue take it, what's the matter? Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! 
 I never in my whole life did feel so queer.
 
 239 
 
 There's somelliing wrong al)Oiit me. Bother ! bollier ! 
 
 To eat, drink, sleep, or work's out of the question. 
 My brain and breast are in a pretty pother : 
 
 'Tis either caused by love or indigestion. 
 Yes, I can't cheat myself about it either, 
 
 Sweet Peggy Bolton's smiles and ways so winning- 
 Have toss'd my heart about like a duck's feather, 
 
 And set my head like a teetotum spinning ; 
 And surely as tl-te Devil is in London, 
 If she won't marry me, I'm dished and undone. 
 
 THE SHADOW OF A CLOUD. 
 
 Life's all a lie ! or, rather, not life's self, 
 
 For that is made of stern reality ; 
 
 But the deceptive garb it pranks in is 
 
 Illusive as the mirage of the waste; 
 
 And men who have found out the bitter cheat 
 
 Continue still to falsely palm it off 
 
 Upon the inexperienced. Romance, 
 
 Bright-Paradisal-hued and fairy-trimm'd. 
 
 Envelopes the swart surface of the world 
 
 With an unwholesome halo, like a fog 
 
 Rising from rotten, reptile-teeming swamps 
 
 Under a gaudy sunrise, and, though death 
 
 And fell contagion may ride forth with it, 
 
 Looks rainbow-like and falsely beautiful. 
 
 Behold that gaunt and sallow-visaged thing. 
 
 Threadbare and grizzled, though not past his prime. 
 
 He is a coiner of that fair untruth 
 
 That in the breast of unsophisticate 
 
 And eager youth makes the heart nimbly leap. 
 
 He's called a poet, novelist — what not ? 
 
 His fast is yet unbroken, and he writes 
 
 Of banquets, feasts, and sumptuous profusion. 
 
 His walls are bare and weather-stained, and he 
 
 Scribl)les of arras-tapestried boudoirs. 
 
 His hearth is emberless, but yule logs blnze 
 
 Upon his pages ; loveless is his home, 
 
 But he pens raptures for ideal lips ; 
 
 He raves of shadowy bowers and sungilt hills ; 
 
 And from his dusty garret window looks 
 
 On reeking chimneys and a city's smoke. 
 
 All the bright things he pictures, in himself 
 
 Have their antithesis ; yet fools will still 
 
 ^Vatch for and chase the bubbles which he blows ; 
 
 Think them Elysian orbs, and barter time, [wh.it ' 
 
 Health, sleep, to catch them; and when caught, they're — 
 
 False, hollow cheats, composed of next to nnught, 
 
 And what there is, tmclcan. — Author'i own ?
 
 240 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN A LITERAEY ALBUM. 
 
 The foil for beauty is a homely mien, 
 
 And lights by shadow's contrast best are seen ; 
 
 'J'he view of close succeeding objects bright 
 
 Create satiety and pall the sight. 
 
 Thence the art dilletante doth assuage 
 
 Surcharge of colour with a neutral page. 
 
 So by some measured platitudes ranged here. 
 
 Adjacent heights more salient may appear. 
 
 The broad, bol'd tree gains both in belt and height, 
 
 By the proximity of saplings, light. 
 
 And the heaven-piercing spire is taller made 
 
 By huts that shelter in its holy shade. 
 
 The brilliant-tinted flowers have richer tone 
 
 When margined by a sad harmonious zone ; 
 
 And Shakespeare says, "The gem more brightness bears 
 
 That sparkles in the swarthy Ethiope's ears." 
 
 No effort of the judgment need this cost, 
 
 No tax on admiration, but at most 
 
 A span of rest, an interval of ease ; 
 
 Then on to following raptures when you please. 
 
 MY PEBBLE BOX. 
 
 Wandering upon the shingle beach 
 
 With rattling wave-washed pebbles strewn, 
 Those mentors that dumb sermons preach 
 
 To choral wavelets anthem-moan. 
 Among the petr'ous chaos some 
 
 Have struck me by their form or hue, 
 I've pouched them and convey'd them home, 
 
 And kept them for an after view. 
 Though valueless to other thought, 
 
 They had an interest to my eye. 
 Which at the first my fancy caught. 
 
 And next became a vanity. 
 I knew they were not gems of price, 
 
 But splinters of art earthly sphere. 
 If quaint, from chance, and not device — 
 
 The chance of ocean's wear and tear. 
 I've culled them from confusion's pack. 
 
 Classed them as best my judgment might ; 
 Then wherefore should I cast them back, 
 
 Or hide them from my fellow's sight ? 
 If valueless, they're harmless toySj 
 
 That vacant moments have beguiled ] 
 And, failing deep intenser joys, 
 
 I am content with pleasures mild.
 
 ERRATA. 
 
 Pagii. ViiRSK. Line. 
 
 3 4 28 " i.Iight tell I once had been." 
 
 3 4 29 "Murky tidal line " 
 
 3 4 31 " That haply in hereafter." 
 
 15 — 14 for " wherever burrs " read " where ever burns." 
 
 16 — 7 from bottom of page, foi "bows" read " boughs." 
 21 — 23 for "At " read "As." 
 
 33 2 30 for "difference " read " deference." 
 
 34 — 8 for " bespent " read "besprent." 
 40 — 15 for "hide" read "bide." 
 
 51 I 8 for " unmasked " read "unmarked." 
 
 69 — last for "some time" read "sometime." 
 
 70 — 17 for " love inspired " read "love-inspired." 
 77 2 21 for " frame" read " flame." 
 
 80 2 7 for "decay" read " delay." 
 
 85 — 26 for "full "read "fell." 
 
 88 — I " from out the sunken pit, his beetling brow," not. 
 
 89 4 31 for "feckless " read "feckless." 
 105 3 35 for "mock" read "evoke." 
 162 7 41 for "hide" read "bide." 
 
 167 6 34 for " difference " read "deference." 
 
 170 3 18 for " patron " read "patroness." 
 
 170 4 19 for " man " read " mankind." 
 
 170 5 ii for "a" read "all." 
 
 173 — 3 from bottom, for " murrin " read "murrain." 
 
 191 2 20 for " Empress " read " Iniperatrice." 
 
 203 — 2 from bottom, for "sell" read ".selle,"
 
 -rZ 
 
 B^ 
 
 
 .^js^
 
 «...
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 Form L9-Series 4939