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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 
 

 
 . 
 
 

 
 POEMS.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 BY 
 
 ZETA. 
 7 Ml 
 
 " Explebo numerum reddarque tenebris." — Virgil. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 CHARLES WESTERTON, 
 27, st. George's place, hyde park corner. 
 
 1871.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Fading Flowers i 
 
 An Address to Ben Lomond 3 
 
 Soror Sola 5 
 
 The Slave 7 
 
 Nightshade 12 
 
 The Free City of Cracow 15 
 
 The Linden Tree 19 
 
 The Life-stream .27 
 
 The Truly Brave 29 
 
 Sonnet 30 
 
 Epitaph 32 
 
 The Death of Sale 34 
 
 Valediction 36 
 
 Garibaldi enters London 38 
 
 Caubul 41 
 
 The Golden Chain 53 
 
 Song 62 
 
 Loss of the Troop-ship "Birkenhead" .... 64 
 
 1202472
 
 FADING FLOWERS. 
 
 HERE late in simple guise ye gladly 
 
 grew, 
 
 Why have I torn you from the earth ye 
 
 flowers ? 
 
 Why robb'd you of your life, more sweet than 
 
 ours, 
 
 More fairly dealt and more to Nature true ? 
 
 And odours indrawn from the breath of heaven, 
 
 And freshness from the falling tears of Night, 
 
 And forms of loveliness and hues of light, 
 
 My ruthless hands to stay in vain were given ! 
 
 B
 
 2 FADING FLOWERS. 
 
 Yes, I have doomed you for my selfish sense. 
 The fragrance of your life is dying fast, 
 Faint, as the memory of the happy past. 
 So, from the heart which trusts in innocence, 
 Man tears the sweets, then leaves it to decay, 
 With — like these flowers — its virtue passed away. 
 
 #p
 
 AN ADDRESS TO BEN LOMOND. 
 (Lines written at Tarbet) 
 
 HOU guardian of the mighty lake! 
 
 Around whose base the dark waves 
 break ; 
 
 I muse upon thy lonely strand, 
 A stranger from a distant land. 
 I hear thy waters sadly fall, 
 Wailing within their prison wall ; 
 Whilst the night-winds in sighs impart 
 Their solemn music to my heart. 
 And here, beneath the spanning heaven, 
 That temple God to all has given,
 
 BEN LOMOND. 
 
 I breathe a prayer, my life may be, 
 In its bold outline, like to thee ; 
 Yet that some influence from above 
 May smooth its harshness into love ; 
 Still keeping with that softer hue 
 The stamp of Nature fresh and true. 
 So that it may, when wrongs abound, 
 In all its native force be found, 
 Each sterner feature bring to light, 
 And start, in grandeur, on the sight. 
 And thus may years upon me come, 
 Till the deep shadows of the tomb, 
 Stealing like mists around thy head, 
 Enrol me with the silent dead. 
 
 lio&dj
 
 SOROR SOLA. 
 
 NE sharp cry, one weak convulsion, 
 One faint clinging, in thy pain, 
 Closer to the heart that loved thee 
 Dearly, dearly, but in vain. 
 And all is hush'd to rest within thee, 
 
 Death's strange cloud hath left thy face ; 
 Thine arms hang loose which late around me 
 
 Tightened for a last embrace. 
 Come ! I'll lay thee on the pillow, 
 
 Which thy cheek with mine hath press'd, 
 For I could not bear to feel thee, 
 Growing cold upon my breast. 
 Where thou, where thou, would'st sink to slumber, 
 Still as came the evening chime,
 
 6 SOROR SOLA. 
 
 When thy day with dark was ended, 
 
 In the happy olden time. 
 Thou wert young to die, my brother, 
 
 O ! too young, but now 'tis past ; 
 Thou hast followed thy sweet mother, 
 
 Through the gates of death at last. 
 When she died, she bade me guard thee, 
 
 And I watch'd thee long and well ; 
 But something which I could not master 
 
 On thy youthful spirit fell. 
 Farewell ! I pray'd to heaven to spare thee, 
 
 Thou wert purer than my prayer ; 
 Ere thy form is cold beside me, 
 
 Shall the soul I loved be there. 
 There, if ever I may join thee, 
 
 We shall meet again, my boy ; 
 With the others I remember, 
 
 Dwelling in eternal joy.
 
 THE SLAVE. 
 
 HERE came from out a kindred land, 
 Far by the western wave, 
 A pleader for a wretched race, 
 A fugitive, a slave. 
 
 He bore the dark and fatal hue, 
 
 The great God gave his kind, 
 The God who made him dark, but left 
 
 No darkness on his mind. 
 
 And on his skin a mark, a mark 
 
 God doom'd him not to bear, 
 Which, with the lash's sounding coil, 
 
 The freeman planted there.
 
 8 THE SLAVE. 
 
 In that land he sought his freedom, 
 But its blessings never knew, 
 
 For to him, like a curse, had clung 
 His heaven-allotted hue. 
 
 So he crossed the roaring ocean-gulf, 
 The dark and restless wave ; 
 
 And buried in its heaving breast 
 The heart-chains of the slave. 
 
 Pacing, pacing, the narrow deck, 
 Straining, with earnest gaze, 
 
 To catch the first faint streak of land, 
 Amidst the purpling haze. 
 
 Watching the steady compass point, 
 
 Saying, " It will be there, 
 The land I've dreamed of in my dreams, 
 
 And pray'd for in my prayer.
 
 THE SLAVE. 9 
 
 " The shore of merry England, 
 
 That rock amidst the sea, 
 Where fearless men have sounded long 
 
 The clarion of the free. 
 
 " Above her hangs the curling mist, 
 
 About the wild wind blows ; 
 But strong beneath her stormy sky, 
 
 The tree of freedom grows." 
 
 So he came to us and call'd around 
 
 The beautiful, the good, 
 And proudly in the midst of them 
 
 To tell his tale he stood. 
 
 He stood erect, as man should stand, 
 
 The words of Truth to speak ; 
 The warm blood mounting from his heart 
 
 To his worn and dusky cheek.
 
 IO THE SLAVE. 
 
 A silence, as of death, has bound 
 
 That hall where thousands thronged ; 
 
 And darker seem'd the day to fall, 
 In the presence of the wronged. 
 
 He stood, but from his parted lips 
 
 No mournful story fell ; 
 For the struggling passions in his breast 
 
 Like prison'd waters swell. 
 
 And feelings, which around his heart 
 
 Had long inertly slept, 
 Awoke and sway'd the strong, stern man, 
 
 Till he raised his voice and wept. 
 
 And he who 'midst his countless wrongs 
 
 Could still undaunted be, 
 With more than woman's weakness felt 
 
 The weight of being free.
 
 THE SLAVE. H 
 
 O ! no such blessings on our isle 
 
 Can War's bad triumphs bring, 
 As these sweet tears, which from the eyes 
 
 Of man enfranchised spring. 
 
 And when our might shall melt away, 
 
 And'wealth desert our strand, 
 Within the freeman's chainless breast 
 
 Our monument shall stand. 
 
 What though the waves that wash our shore, 
 
 No golden freight may bear ; 
 The good shall flock from every land, 
 
 And tread in worship there, 
 
 And ne'er shall man, whilst in the mind 
 
 Stands Freedom's tenure good, 
 Forget that on our sainted soil 
 
 Her holiest altar stood.
 
 NIGHTSHADE. 
 
 AST by yon hills that brace the glowing 
 West, 
 I watch the sun descend ; his upward 
 ray 
 Poised on their rocky tops, he rests awhile, 
 And lights earth's purple fringe with lacing gold. 
 Small clouds, like islands in some sleeping sea, 
 Float high in heaven — motionless, and bathed 
 In many a hue, as red gives place to red 
 Still deep'ning ; and the Night steps silent on 
 Across the waning limits of the Day. 
 Now comes the quiet moon upon the scene, 
 Shining, with mellow light, in on the sense, 
 And glist'ning on the solitary mere.
 
 NIGHTSHADE. 1 3 
 
 The willows wave their dark plumes on the bank, 
 And gentle surges rippling through the reeds, 
 Mix with the low note of the water-bird. 
 
 Here rests tired Nature from her work of day, 
 And with her stillness calms this anxious heart ; 
 Lets memory of old times come back again, 
 And the sweet throng of ever pensive thoughts, 
 And from their depths, those springs that dim the 
 
 eye. 
 O ! Thou, who broodest in approachless state, 
 Behind thy temple's blue, impeding veil, 
 Unseen — alone with thought — the while in turn 
 Watch at its outward gate pale, trembling stars ; 
 Thou, who can'st make the glare of gorgeous day, 
 Fade thus insensibly and melt in eve, 
 Sinking the weary world to gradual rest ; 
 Lord, when my parting hour be come, make me 
 Feel but the easy slant of natural change,
 
 14 NIGHTSHADE. 
 
 And that deep quiet which foretells the night : 
 Make life's descending sun illume all clouds, 
 And flush my mortal sky with gladd'ning tints, 
 And then for ever with o'erfiooding beams, 
 Wash the wide landscape from my eyes in light. 
 O ! when the fires which warm this breast grow 
 
 cold, 
 Quick may my passage be from light to dark, 
 And through short twilight to an endless day. 
 
 GPs*^
 
 THE FREE CITY OF CRACOW. 
 
 Extinguished. 
 
 HAT cry is that which, sad and low, 
 Rides upon the swelling gale ? 
 Sad and low and wildly fitful, 
 As some spirits' stifled wail. 
 O ! my erring fellow-men ! 
 Know ye not that cry again ? 
 
 Yes, you know it, 'tis a nation 
 Calling, with her latest breath, 
 
 On the lands which coldly watch her 
 Sink into eternal death ; 
 
 Starting still some coward doubt, 
 
 Whilst her last spark flickers out.
 
 1 6 CRACOW. 
 
 Shall we stand and see these tyrants 
 Treading out a people's life ? 
 
 Never ! let us plant the standard, 
 Draw the brand and dare the strife. 
 
 A strength which despots vainly seek 
 
 Nerves the arm that shields the weak. 
 
 Peace is good, and God has blest it, 
 But He never bade the slave 
 
 Wither, through a long oppression, 
 From the cradle to the grave. 
 
 Shall we, for some drops of blood, 
 
 Fail to make man's freedom good ? 
 
 Come ! my friends, and thou, my country, 
 Leave awhile the search for gold ; 
 
 Let us march to battle, banded 
 For the feeble, as of old. 
 
 Yea, since God has will'd it so, 
 
 Let us march upon the foe.
 
 CRACOW. 17 
 
 Come ! the old heroic legions 
 
 France and England raise again, 
 And forget your ancient hatred, 
 
 In the common cause of men. 
 Come ! and show the callous Czar 
 What it is when freemen war. 
 
 Would, O ! would, one voice might issue 
 From the thousand throats of earth, 
 
 Rousing nations with its summons 
 To a new and grander birth. 
 
 Poland ! thou at last should'st rest, 
 
 Thy bleeding wounds should all be dress'd. 
 
 Shouts should wake thee from thy stupor, 
 Strong arms break thy chains away, 
 
 Bear thee swiftly from thy dungeon 
 To the golden light of day. 
 
 In the darker times of yore 
 
 Men have done such deeds before. 
 
 c
 
 1 8 CRACOW. 
 
 Priceless hearts should then be round thee, 
 Kind hands chafe thy stiffened reins ; 
 
 Blood be drawn from glowing manhood 
 To inject thy stagnant veins. 
 
 Then thy wounded soul might see 
 
 Peace and tranquil liberty. 
 
 ■^p
 
 THE LINDEN TREE. 
 
 HERE is Death in the house,' 
 The old man said ; 
 " Death in the house, 
 " He is dead ! he is dead ! 
 " Lead me into the sun, 
 " By the linden tree ; 
 " For near him now 
 " O ! I like not to be." 
 Then we led him forth 
 To the sunshine bright, 
 To the garden seat, 
 Where he sat till night ;
 
 20 THE LINDEN TREE. 
 
 His face to the sun, 
 His hands on his knees, 
 And his white hair blown 
 By the passing breeze. 
 And he kept, whilst Death 
 Was under the roof, 
 As long as he might 
 From the house aloof. 
 
 The fifth day came 
 Since the spirit had passed 
 From his youthful son — 
 His first and his last. 
 The fifth day came, 
 And the summons fell 
 From the iron tongue 
 Of the burial bell. 
 Then we bound his hat 
 With the dark crape shade,
 
 THE LINDEN TREE. 21 
 
 And his form 
 
 In a funeral cloak arrayed. 
 
 As he sat so still 
 
 By his favourite tree, 
 
 And gazed on the death-pomp 
 
 Unconsciously. 
 
 Not a sign of grief 
 
 Or feeling he gave, 
 
 As we led him on 
 
 To his firstborn's grave, 
 
 But eyed the dark train 
 
 As it wended there, 
 
 With a glassy eye 
 
 And a vacant stare. 
 
 O ! slowly we go 
 With the cherished one, 
 To a tearful scene 
 Which has but begun ;
 
 22 THE LINDEN TREE. 
 
 We hear, but heed not, 
 The words of the priest, 
 Which must fall from lips 
 Ere the worms can feast ; 
 For our thoughts lie beneath 
 Yon mantled bier, 
 Where Death clasps the clay- 
 That we held so dear. 
 Then forth from the church 
 Take our mournful way, 
 Whilst the sighing winds 
 With the green leaves play ; 
 The flowers, the bright heaven, 
 He cannot see, 
 Giving sharper edge 
 To our misery ; 
 Till we stand by the cramp'd 
 And hollow space,
 
 THE LINDEN TREE. 23 
 
 They have clear'd in the ground 
 
 For his resting-place. 
 
 Then rude hands fasten 
 
 The cords to his shell, 
 
 Sling it and lower it 
 
 Into its cell ; 
 
 Heave the black damp earth 
 
 On its rattling lid, 
 
 Till its bright plate and planks 
 
 Of oak are hid ; 
 
 And duller and duller 
 
 A sullen sound, 
 
 Comes from the mould 
 
 They pile up and around. 
 
 All is done ; then, why 
 Does the old man stay ? 
 We ask him to come, 
 He will not away;
 
 24 THE LINDEN TREE. 
 
 For his eye is tracing, 
 Beneath that heap, 
 A form swathed and rigid 
 And locked in sleep ; 
 Tracing the features, 
 So rayless and white, 
 Once lit up by love 
 And the mind's clear light ; 
 And the curls which cling 
 To the clammy brow ; 
 And the bound-up jaws 
 Which are nerveless now ; 
 And the sunken eye, 
 And the hollow cheek, 
 And the shrivelled lips 
 Which have ceased to speak. 
 There he sees him again, 
 As he lay on the bed,
 
 THE LINDEN TREE. 2$ 
 
 In the cold frost that rivets 
 The blood of the dead. 
 
 All is done ! all is done ! 
 But the old man stands, 
 And wrings in wildness 
 His withered hands ; 
 And the waves of grief 
 Pent up in his breast 
 Are rising and falling 
 And give no rest. 
 His heart is torn, 
 And we see from his air, 
 How deeply the iron 
 Must have entered there. 
 Then we tear him away 
 From the closing grave, 
 To the gate where the plumes 
 Of the death-coach wave :
 
 26 THE LINDEN TREE. 
 
 And we lead him, in tears, 
 
 Through the quiet lane, 
 
 Till he stands on the threshold 
 
 Of home again. 
 
 And now in the warm light 
 
 He still loves to be, 
 
 As he thinks of his son 
 
 By the linden tree.
 
 THE LIFE-STREAM. 
 
 ROM shadow to twilight, 
 From slumber to dream, 
 *sJ From deadness to being, 
 
 Flows out the life-stream. 
 With the sound of a tongue 
 
 On the palate and lips 
 Through a long dripping cavern 
 
 It oozily slips. 
 Like a snake through the thin grass, 
 
 It winds and it weaves ; 
 On its banks the trees huddle 
 
 With shivering leaves. 
 Its black swirling masses 
 Slow oceanward swing ;
 
 28 THE LIFE-STREAM. 
 
 Aloft flaps the raven 
 
 His quill-creaking wing. 
 We are born, we are plunged 
 
 Into life's gloomy river ; 
 The cold wave receives us, 
 
 Then closes for ever. 
 On the face of the waters 
 
 A shouting is heard, 
 The air for a moment 
 
 Above them is stirred ; 
 But ere the first sound-wave 
 
 Breaks sad by the shore, 
 The voice which impelled it 
 
 Is ringing no more. 
 Awhile on the surface 
 
 A bubble is seen, 
 The breath of a mortal, 
 
 It bursts — he has been.
 
 THE TRULY BRAVE. 
 
 HOUGH no fresh laurels deck the grave 
 Which closes o'er the truly brave, 
 The brave, who in defence of right, 
 From youth till age undaunted fight ; 
 And Fame disdainful pass the dust 
 Which shrouds the relics of the just : 
 Think not from earth unpaid depart 
 The men of mind, the great of heart. 
 Their life's deep stream flows smoothly on, 
 Calm in its course of duties done, 
 The poet's praise, the patriot's tear, 
 Shall grace in death their modest bier.
 
 SONNET. 
 
 TO AN EARLY FRIEND. 
 
 T is not with us as it was in youth ; 
 
 Sleep falls not now upon our languid 
 sight, 
 
 Soft as a shadow from the wing of night ; 
 And gladness has not grown along with truth. 
 Ye fond illusions of our earlier day ! 
 
 Visions ! that came from out the field of thought 
 In joyous troops, fast flocking and unsought ! 
 Still as we live, ye leave us on the way. 
 And yet, though care is crowding on content, 
 Though Reason claims her painful sacrifice,
 
 SONNET. 3 1 
 
 And ever sadder makes, to make more wise ; 
 Say why should'st thou, should I, my friend, lament, 
 Since that strong stay amidst the wreck has stood, 
 Which keeps unshaken still our faith in good. 
 
 (ps&d
 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 E who can worth and manliness admire, 
 A generous nature, true poetic fire ; 
 Freshness of heart not oft surviving youth, 
 A mind expansive and a soul all truth ; 
 A hand that gave, yet knew not how to take, 
 An independence misery could not break ; 
 A prudent frankness, spirits ever gay, 
 That lit even blindness with a steady ray ; 
 Sense, courage, virtue, all combined to form 
 The noblest breastwork against life's rude storm : 
 Turn on this simple stone no careless eye, 
 For here the ashes of a just man lie,
 
 EPITAPH. 33 
 
 Who strove to free the thought from bigot rules, 
 Imposed by tyrants and upheld by fools ; 
 And claimed for all mankind their rights as men, 
 By daring converse and a vigorous pen. 
 
 -\£p 
 
 D
 
 THE DEATH OF SALE. 
 
 HE warrior has fallen, how calm is his rest, 
 Where he sleeps on the bed which a 
 soldier loves best ! 
 No sickness distressed him, no lengthened decay, 
 In the arms of no weepers his life pass'd away ; 
 But the rough sea of battle swell'd high by his side, 
 And the soul of the hero went forth on its tide. 
 
 They arc bearing in silence the noble, the brave, 
 To his home in the darkness and depth of the grave; 
 The flag he so cherished waves torn by his bier, 
 The men whom he led, and who loved him are near. 
 Their strong voices falter, their eyes are all dim, 
 As they speak their last blessing — " God's rest be 
 on him !"
 
 THE DEATH OF SALE. 35 
 
 And O ! though their leader be nerveless and cold, 
 Though his shout sound no more, which inspired 
 
 them of old, 
 Whilst his spirit survives, whilst it breathes in the 
 
 field, 
 Though match'd against thousands no Briton shall 
 
 yield. 
 Nor stain by defeat, till the streams of life fail, 
 The banner which waved o'er the last home of Sale.
 
 VALEDICTION. 
 
 HEN last, my father, in the crowd of jnen, 
 With but the words which custom 
 wills, we parted, 
 I stayed to gaze upon thy form again, 
 
 And half to greet thee more in love I started. 
 
 I gazed, till partly in the haze of tears, 
 
 And partly in the thronging mass it faded, 
 
 Then turned upon myself, and with my fears 
 For thee, I made a veil which all things shaded. 
 
 Yet wherefore tears ? Though in this sordid strife 
 Thy noble mind hath been but ill-respected ; 
 
 Wherefore ? Though lately in the close of life 
 By meaner hearts thy heart hath been neglected.
 
 VALEDICTION. 37 
 
 Heed not, though only to thyself be known, 
 And to the faithful few, thine inward story ; 
 
 What thou hast felt, shall bring thee near His throne, 
 Who weaves the wreath of all immortal glory. 
 
 And O ! my father, wilt thou, when the soul, 
 Which now some glorious impulse ever swayeth, 
 
 Starts from its shell, and freed from low control, 
 Fast by the pure and true, in calmness strayeth, 
 
 Look forth upon thy son from that clear height, 
 Still in this vale of tears and darkness dwelling, 
 
 Speak to his spirit in the deep of night, 
 
 To deeds like thine and love like thine impelling? 
 
 (55>i*^c)
 
 GARIBALDI ENTERS LONDON. 
 
 H ! who is he, who clad in gray, 
 
 By bridge and tower and palace gate, 
 Through gathering thousands makes his 
 way, 
 Secure, serene, supremely great, 
 Yea, greater far than crowned king, 
 Amidst a people triumphing ? 
 
 No orders deck his generous breast, 
 No victor laurel binds his brow, 
 
 And yet in virtue simply dressed, 
 
 He mocks the stateliest monarch now. 
 
 Oh ! who is he, so proudly led ? 
 
 Tis Garibaldi, call'd the " Red."
 
 GARIBALDI. 39 
 
 So was the Spartan warrior red, 
 
 Borne homeward on his brassy shield, 
 
 And patriot Hampden when he bled, 
 For English rights, on Chalgrove field ; 
 
 Red with the right's ensanguined sea, 
 
 Red with thy blood, O ! Liberty. 
 
 Then friends and lovers greet him well 
 With feast and song and joyous laugh, 
 
 With every toast that tongue can tell, 
 The crimson wine in welcome quaff. 
 
 Pledge him, ye Britons, hand to hand, 
 
 And when he leaves our sea-girt land, 
 
 Waft him, ye winds, across the wave 
 Straight onward to his island home, 
 
 Soon from the Gallic grasp to save 
 Thy seven hills, O ! ruined Rome, 
 
 Soon, soon to write, as Caesar wrote — 
 
 I came, I saw, I conquering smote.
 
 40 GARIBALDI. 
 
 O ! breath of song, how vain to break 
 The might of sword-encircled kings ! 
 
 Can all the verse that poets make, 
 Disarm the legions Gallia brings ? 
 
 Can Reason rend the fatal chain 
 
 Which weighs on men where bayonets reign ? 
 
 *P
 
 CAUBUL, 
 
 HERE is a manliness in real grief, 
 
 That courts no sympathy, seeks no relief, 
 That will not shame the Dead with vain 
 regret, 
 Nor the white Urn with vainer weeping wet : 
 Yet still can cherish in the faithful heart, 
 Of those no more, the best, the noblest part ; 
 Not the faint impress of the form or face 
 Which Time's rude hand may rapidly erase, 
 But that grand fabric Nature leaves behind, 
 The imperishable image of the mind ; 
 Still can each deed, each generous thought recall, 
 And spur the soul to emulate them all.
 
 42 CAUBUL. 
 
 This is true Honor to departed worth, 
 
 Not the weak tears that Sorrow sheds on Earth. 
 
 Let women weep, for us more sternly bred 
 
 Enough if those who die be nobly dead ; 
 
 If o'er them stream'd the flag they bled to save, 
 
 Their mourners men, a field of fame their grave ! 
 
 Thus on the brave should fond remembrance dwell, 
 The brave, who low in death, by Caubul fell, 
 When Fortune failed them, and reverses came 
 To soil the chaplet of our Indian Fame. 
 Nor theirs the fault : for base inaction broke 
 Their once high souls beneath its sluggard yoke, 
 Though Afifghan guile around, and from afar 
 The crafty Scythian, fann'd the flame of war, 
 Till dread rebellion o'er th' affrighted land 
 With frantic gesture shook her crimson hand. 
 
 'Tis well in Peril's darkest hour to find, 
 Prompt for each turn of Fate, some master-mind,
 
 CAUBUL. 43 
 
 Safe in success, in danger undismayed, 
 By no rash heat, no shallow counsel swayed ; 
 Whose piercing vision sees through every cloud 
 That wraps with impotence the duller crowd. 
 Though all be lost and viler souls despair, 
 Imperial reason keeps her station there ; 
 Rallies thcbroken ranks with skilful hand, 
 And whilst one file remains shall yet command : 
 For instinct-led the weaker nature still 
 Clings, like a parasite, round stronger will, 
 And still for Hope amidst the battle's brunt 
 Seeks the keen eye, the calm impassive front. 
 But no such spirit stay'd their wavering course, 
 Gave strength to weakness, or design to force. 
 A feeble chief his sacred trust betrayed, 
 For foul retreat the fatal compact made, 
 Hired savage hordes by deepest treachery stain'd 
 To rescue men whilst yet the sword remain'd ;
 
 44 CAUBUL. 
 
 Men whose firm hearts are never known to claim 
 
 A safety purchased by their country's shame ! 
 
 Long o'er Jellallabad, heroic Sale, 
 
 Thy spotless standard braved the adverse gale : 
 
 Herat, Ghuznee, and many a field attest 
 
 A Spartan valour warms the British breast ! 
 
 Lo ! as the Day-God fading on the view 
 His last faint radiance from the landscape drew ; 
 Wrapp'd in repose, and voiceless as the clay 
 By life no more illumed, the City lay : 
 No sound disturbs the stillness of the camp, 
 Save the lone sentinel's unceasing tramp : 
 Not one glad heart amidst that drooping throng 
 Breaks the deep night-spell by the charm of song ; 
 No echo, wakening from her couch of reeds, 
 In playful cadence on its music feeds. 
 And once again, before their last long rest, 
 By famine wasted and by toil oppress'd,
 
 CAUBUL. 45 
 
 Their heavy lids with slumber's signet sealed, 
 England's rude sons have sunk upon the field. 
 And there, too, sleeps the fairer fragile form, 
 That ill may meet the madness of the storm ; 
 Yet woman's frame of Nature's softest cast 
 Can brave, and bloom amidst the raging blast, 
 Like the pale flower whose sweets the tempests rear, 
 The snow-nurs'd offspring of the youthful year ! 
 Parent of Elde ! these are thy children all, 
 Must they ignobly and for ever fall ? 
 Earth's faded plants shall know another Spring, 
 To other years refreshened beauty bring : 
 But ne'er may man, the great, the good, the wise 
 From her cold lap to second being rise, 
 Till thy dread mandate fill the depths of space, 
 And Time and Nature close upon his race. 
 When shall he then from each base impulse turn, 
 Thy plain intent, thy simple lesson learn ?
 
 46 CAUBUL. 
 
 Learn from the seas of blood by conquest shed, 
 From the false hues o'er glory's bubble spread, 
 From nations wasted, kingdoms passed away, 
 From the soul's servage, and the thought's decay ; 
 That mind, might, empire all at last must prove 
 But shadowy phantoms to thy truth of Love. 
 
 Soon as the clear note of the bugle-horn 
 Rings through the frosted panoply of morn, 
 Forth from the gaping breach and portal wide 
 In lengthened volume rolls the living tide. 
 Onward till eve, in march confused and slow, 
 Toiling a passage through the drifted snow, 
 The vanguard near the pass ; an awful gloom, 
 A lurid darkness haunts their destined tomb ; 
 Upon whose verge the boldest hearts grow chill 
 With the vague presage of approaching ill, 
 As fast around their rearward columns close 
 The myriad legions of avenging foes.
 
 CAUBUL. 47 
 
 'Tis done ! the doom'd band treads the deadly path 
 Planted with secret ministers of wrath ! 
 Sudden on high the echoing volleys ring, 
 From every rock the ambush'd traitors spring : 
 The shock of battle, and the deafening sound 
 Of charging squadrons rend the air around. 
 And lo ! where bursts the tempest of the fight, 
 Where iron death-showers wing their withering flight, 
 Beaten to earth, the wounded masses writhe ; 
 Rank falls on rank like grass beneath the scythe. 
 When morn's faint beamings, from the leaden east, 
 Shine o'er the lazy Vulture's sickening feast, 
 In ghastly heaps the dying and the dead 
 Shall tell how fearfully those rebels sped. 
 Forth from the Pass a shattered remnant came 
 That toil had crush'd not, terror could not tame ; 
 Slowly with reeling step the gallant band 
 Pants up yon hill to make a farewell stand.
 
 48 CAUBUL. 
 
 There hunted, worn, of countless hosts the prey, 
 Grimly the British Warrior stood at bay. 
 Then pealed aloft his startling battle-cry, 
 Thrill'd through the frame and gave it strength to die ; 
 No weak resolve, no sordid sigh for life 
 Dimm'd the bright lustre of that parting strife : 
 The foot advanced, the eye upon the foe, 
 With failing life-streams fainter fell each blow, 
 Till the proud heart sent forth its latest breath 
 And own'd no victor but resistless Death ! 
 Nerveless those sinewy limbs, the dark orbs closed, 
 The bosom cold where manly faith reposed, 
 And feeble now that pulseless breast to move 
 The spell of genius or the dream of love : 
 Never again upon his ear shall beat 
 The soul's fresh welcome, nor the converse sweet 
 Of her who once around his strong form hung, 
 Love's broken accents faltering on her tongue,
 
 CAUBUL. 49 
 
 With heart too sad her mingled thoughts to speak, 
 The big drops gathering on her pallid cheek ; 
 For full and deep the springs of feeling lie 
 That dim, yet show so fair in, woman's eye ; 
 And still 'midst joy and hope some latent fear 
 Calls from its holy font the glist'ning tear. 
 
 Such is War's costly offering, and the Prize 
 That conquerors clutch, a Human Sacrifice. 
 
 Far from their Isle that crowns the western deep 
 The perished heroes of our country sleep. 
 O'er them awhile the insulting foe may tread, 
 May spurn with dastard heel the mighty dead, 
 Awhile rejoice, but Summer's sun shall bring 
 The fierce Avenger for his reckoning. 
 In vain revenge : around their lonely grave 
 May springing flow'rs in wild luxuriance wave ; 
 And there — as Surya sheds his parting ray 
 
 O'er purpled plain and mountains far away, 
 
 E
 
 50 CAUBUL. 
 
 Till Evening's sombre shadows stealing on 
 Blend his rich hues, his thousand tints in one : 
 When the fresh wind, whose fitful breathing weaves 
 A viewless pathway through the rustling leaves, 
 Mellowed by distance, yet though distant clear, 
 Wafts waves of music to the listening ear — 
 When, in the stilly air, the soft dews weep, 
 The Muse of Memory shall her vigils keep. 
 Sadness and feeling beaming from her eye 
 That seeks in ecstacy the radiant sky, 
 Where, in the vast void to the goal of sight, 
 Mysterious systems speed upon their flight. 
 As back from them her own deep gaze is given, 
 Too bright for earth, too full of earth for heav'n. 
 Thus shall her voice its solemn silence break, 
 And, tuned to melody, in wisdom speak. 
 
 " When first from Chaos dark this stately world 
 " By force Almighty into space was hurl'd,
 
 CAUBUL. 5 1 
 
 " The germs of Beauty locked within its breast, 
 
 " No forms of loveliness of grace express'd ; 
 
 " But ages passing to their ocean, Time, 
 
 " Saw Nature labouring in pangs sublime, 
 
 " Till, amidst throes of pain and wearing strife, 
 
 " From her old frame came forth a fairer life, 
 
 " And wooed to being by more genial skies, 
 
 " Verdure, and fragrance her rich incense rise. 
 
 " So, by that force, these wretched scenes may prove 
 
 " But the dark process through which life must move; 
 
 " Ere, as the storm-clouds slowly roll away, 
 
 " That great conception sees a brighter day 
 
 " Stain'd by no wars, by no oppressions cursed, 
 
 " To heavenly aims in manly virtue nursed : 
 
 " When lust and rapine shall no more be known, 
 
 " And freedom call the sons of earth her own. 
 
 " There is a Temple meant for every man, 
 " Fenced by no partial, no proscribing ban,
 
 52 CAUEUL. 
 
 " Whose glorious structure, of immortal birth, 
 
 " Looms grandly o'er the palaces of Earth. 
 
 " Ample for all that live its vast embrace, 
 
 " 'Tis the Love-Spirit's mystic dwelling-place ! 
 
 " Beneath its canopy o'ershadowing all 
 
 " Let gathered nations prone in worship fall ; 
 
 "Let them, O God ! from brute-like passions cease, 
 
 "And work in lasting links the chain of PEACE !"
 
 THE GOLDEN CHAIN. 
 
 HERE are two kinds of men on earth, 
 The men who have, and have to get ; 
 Wealth is the test which tries our worth, 
 A rude, a vulgar one — and yet 
 Under its action all are brought, 
 The foolish and the full of thought. 
 
 *t>' 
 
 To reach the sphere where that is found, 
 The dull aspire, the bright descend ; 
 
 God will'd that on some common ground 
 Mankind should seek a common end ; 
 
 And thus by mingling heart with heart 
 
 He better makes the baser part.
 
 54 THE GOLDEN CHAIN. 
 
 Those see in wealth life's solid prize, 
 The aim of toil, the end of care ; 
 
 But these, whilst in the strife, despise 
 
 The ignoble spoil which brings them there ; 
 
 Yet virtue without gold is vain, 
 
 And genius must contend with gain. 
 
 O ! happy he who in that fight 
 
 The freshness of the heart can keep, 
 
 Whom simple pleasures still delight, 
 Who still can smile and still can weep ; 
 
 Where minds are soured and hopes are cross'd, 
 
 And faith and feeling often lost. 
 
 And O ! thrice happy if away 
 
 From toil and tumult, freed at times, 
 
 His spirit leave its casing clay, 
 And circle heavenward weaving rhymes, 
 
 And find within thought's spreading zone 
 
 Fresh orbs which fancy makes his own.
 
 THE GOLDEN CHAIN. 55 
 
 For to the head and to the heart, 
 
 Which meaning from the world can wring, 
 
 There is a sense in every part, 
 A latent good in every thing : 
 
 The music-lines of Nature's plan 
 
 Are fair to read and plain to scan. 
 
 i 
 
 But on the man of narrow mind 
 
 Her harmony is thrown away ; 
 The clouds which his perception bind 
 
 Are never broken up by day ; 
 He leaves no foot-prints in the land, 
 No tide-mark on life's shifting sand. 
 
 The fitness of the perfect whole, 
 
 The constant aim, the hidden charm, 
 
 The pulse which beats through all, the soul, 
 Which keeps the springs of being warm ; 
 
 He sees not, heeds not, — in his eyes 
 
 But to be rich is to be wise.
 
 56 THE GOLDEN CHAIN. 
 
 Self is the basis of his creed, 
 The centre of his low desire ; 
 
 The plants of which God sows the seed 
 Within his barren breast expire ; 
 
 As through a mist, before his glass, 
 
 The earth's bright visions dimly pass. 
 
 He lives, he loves ; but what a life ! 
 
 A feverish panting after gain, 
 He hardens in the fruitless strife, 
 
 And dying feels he lived in vain. 
 Yes ; when his shell of wealth is cast, 
 The voice within him speaks at last. 
 
 He loves ; but, no, the source of love 
 Lies not imprisoned far below ; 
 
 'Tis not the spring whose wave above 
 Its dark well-wall can never flow, 
 
 Which, loth to give and slow to rise, 
 
 Within a selfish circle dies.
 
 THE GOLDEN CHAIN. $? 
 
 Love is a fount whose gushing yields 
 
 The volume of a noble river, 
 Which by the town and through the fields, 
 
 With deep'ning bed rolls on for ever ; 
 Ending its gifts but with its flood, 
 Its passion with its power for good. 
 
 Love is a ray to tinge each cloud, 
 
 Which threats life's summer day with shade ; 
 Love is a flower which in our shroud 
 
 A hand we cannot press has laid : 
 A scent which perfumes all it meets, 
 And wastes itself in giving sweets. 
 
 O ! he who has that love so deep, 
 And with it has the nameless force 
 
 That will not let his spirit keep 
 
 The bounds which mark the many's course ; 
 
 Who fearless treads the waste of thought 
 
 In search of treasures none have sought.
 
 58 THE GOLDEN CHAIN. 
 
 Who sees, as manhood masters youth, 
 The splendid braggarts, wealth and birth, 
 
 Grow pale before the flag of Truth, 
 And perish in the lists with worth, 
 
 Who save the wise and good alone, 
 
 Will other nobles never own. 
 
 O ! in his breast the sacred flame, 
 The central heat is burning strong ; 
 
 And glowing thoughts will wrap his frame, 
 Until they melt and flow in Song ; 
 
 Nor long about the precious ore, 
 
 The furnace-blast shall vainly roar. 
 
 For him the veil of Time is riven, 
 
 The map of destiny unfurl'd ; 
 To him the power to hear is given, 
 
 The mystic voices of the world ; 
 He learns the secret from the seen, 
 What is to be from what has been.
 
 THE GOLDEN CHAIN. 59 
 
 Aloft on some unsullied height, 
 
 Above the tempest and the cloud, 
 He trembling waits to greet the light, 
 
 Whilst dark below him sleeps the crowd ; 
 And fills his soul, in rapture there, 
 With Nature's immemorial prayer. 
 
 Then from afar comes forth a voice, 
 
 A spirit to his spirit calls — 
 " Fear not and faint not, but rejoice, 
 
 " On thee the prophet-mantle falls ; 
 " Into its wondrous web are wrought, 
 " The threads of action and of thought. 
 
 " Rejoice ! rejoice ! no base alloy 
 " Shall mingle with thy soul again ; 
 
 " All, all within thee shall be joy, 
 
 " And light and hope and love of men, 
 
 " And tears to fall like gentle rain, 
 
 " Upon the arid waste of pain.
 
 60 THE GOLDEN CHAIN. 
 
 " To thee, beneath the tree of life, 
 
 " Whose branches, moaning in the blast, 
 
 " Sigh out the lay of human strife, — 
 " The story of the far-off past, 
 
 " Of ages onward from of old, 
 
 " In rustling whispers shall be told. 
 
 " And thou shalt sing, but no weak plaint, 
 " No bitter words against thy kind ; 
 
 " Nor as the thankless race who paint 
 " As that of all, their own bad mind, 
 
 " Whom Nature places under ban 
 
 " As false interpreters to man. 
 
 " Thy song shall be a song of praise, 
 " For ever upward tend thy soul ; 
 
 " As the silk globe which frets and sways 
 " And labours to escape control, 
 
 " Cut from the cords which check'd its rise, 
 
 " Seeks its right level in the skies.
 
 THE GOLDEN CHAIN. 6l 
 
 " Like one who from the land's green crest 
 " Marks as he gazes on the Deep, — 
 
 " Whether the winds have gone to rest, 
 " And in its glassy hollows sleep, 
 
 " Whilst sounds of waves that rib the beach 
 
 " His ear in distant murmurs reach ; 
 
 " Or waking at the sea-birds' cry, 
 
 " The furious tempests start and throw 
 
 " The gasping ocean to the sky — 
 " That still the waters ebb and flow ; 
 
 " So thou in life, through calm or storm, 
 
 " Shalt trace God's goodness uniform." 
 
 (£^=£3
 
 SONG. 
 
 Air, "PESTAL." 
 
 ELL ! the dream of old, 
 
 The patriot-hope at last is o'er ; 
 And for thee, my land ! 
 This heart will bleed but ache no more. 
 
 Now the tyrant may on me his vengeance take, 
 
 But those passions strong, 
 
 Love and hate of wrong, 
 
 Till the fire of life this wasted frame forsake, 
 
 He shall never, never break. 
 
 Why so sad, my heart ! 
 And why so loth to yield thy breath ? 
 Wilt thou, wilt thou friend ! 
 Desert me on the march to death ?
 
 SONG. 63 
 
 Long from sunless vaults for thee, O Liberty ! 
 
 Firm to meet his God, 
 
 Has the martyr trod ; 
 
 So will I give unto heaven this spirit free, 
 
 Even as it came to me. 
 
 Then thou beating heart, 
 
 Be still awhile, and with the free, 
 
 The holy and the just, 
 
 We soon shall be, we soon shall be.
 
 LOSS OF THE TROOP-SHIP 
 
 "BIRKENHEAD." 
 
 H ! the winds were all at rest, 
 
 There was calm on ocean's breast, 
 Not a giant mountain crest 
 Broke in spray ; 
 
 As the ship along the land, 
 Scarce a gunshot from the strand, 
 With a brave and happy band, 
 Made her way. 
 
 All were resting on the deep, 
 In the plenitude of sleep, 
 Save the midnight watch, who keep 
 Guard on deck ;
 
 LOSS OF THE "BIRKENHEAD." 65 
 
 When the steamer, as she sped, 
 Struck a sunken rock ahead, 
 And the gallant Birkenhead 
 Lay a wreck ! 
 
 For a moment, terror wild 
 Fell on woman, man and child, 
 As the waters darkly smiled 
 Round their prey ; 
 
 But the captain's hardy shout 
 Like a trumpet-note rang out, 
 And soon quelled the rising rout 
 And dismay. 
 
 " Let the boats be quickly manned ! 
 " Then, that wife and child may land, 
 " Every man on board must stand 
 " By the ship."
 
 66 LOSS OF THE "BIRKENHEAD." 
 
 There was not a selfish sigh, 
 Not a tremor of the eye ; 
 Not a weak, despairing cry 
 Left a lip. 
 
 They shall land ! — across the foam, 
 They shall hear the bells at home, 
 In the summer-fields shall roam 
 Once again : 
 
 Whilst for those they leave behind, 
 There's a bond by Honour signed, 
 And a grave, which Fame shall find 
 On the main. 
 
 Then the weak ones down the side, 
 Like pale phantoms seem to glide 
 To the boats which safely ride 
 On the lee.
 
 LOSS OF THE "BIRKENHEAD." 6"] 
 
 Soon the deck asunder parts ; 
 Stand fast ye valiant hearts ! 
 Not a timid traitor starts 
 Towards the sea. 
 
 For the soldiers undismayed, 
 Ift their silent ranks arrayed, 
 Sank, upon their last parade, 
 Sternly down ; 
 
 And the sailors, as they stood, 
 In their fearless northern mood, 
 Settled with them, in the flood, 
 To renown. 
 
 Then, like God's own minstrelsy, 
 Rose the anthem of the sea, 
 As its countless waves of glee 
 Softly sound ;
 
 68 LOSS OF THE "BIRKENHEAD." 
 
 Whilst the Sirens, in their cave, 
 Spread a banquet for the brave, 
 Where the coral branches wave 
 All around. 
 
 In the battle's red eclipse, 
 In the death-embrace of ships, 
 At the cannon's iron lips, 
 What is breath ? 
 
 But 'tis courage bright and high, 
 When the yawning waves are nigh, 
 To look forth with dauntless eye 
 Upon death. 
 
 At the muster of all hands 
 Which high Heaven itself commands, 
 When that brave battalion stands 
 To its arms ;
 
 LOSS OF THE "BIRKENHEAD." 69 
 
 What a Glory round each face 
 Shall the hands of angels trace, 
 What sweet words of praise efface 
 All alarms ! 
 
 Not alone by duties done 
 'Midst the thunders of the gun, 
 Is the crown of Valour won 
 For a State ; 
 
 There are bloodless deeds which rise 
 Like fine incense to the skies, 
 Where the saints in Paradise 
 Hail the great. 
 
 What fear for England then, 
 When from shore to mountain glen 
 Such a peerless race of men 
 Rise in might ?
 
 70 LOSS OF THE "BIRKENHEAD." 
 
 Let the tyrants of an hour, 
 When the clouds of battle lower, 
 Learn to dread a Briton's power 
 In the fight.
 
 LONDON : 
 PRINTED BY CHARLES WESTERTON, 
 27, ST. GEORGE'S PLACE, HYDE PARK CORNER.
 
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