UC-NRLF 
 
 
BERKELEY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 CAUFOftNIA 
 
THE TRAITOR LAKE AND 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
THE TRAITOR LAKE, 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 MARY MACALPINE. 
 
 GREENOCK : 
 W. HUTCHISON, 23 NICOLSON STREET. 
 
 I&95- 
 
LOAN STACK 
 
PR4151 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 522 
 

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CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 DEDICATION v. 
 
 THE TRAITOR LAKE i 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE CHRISTMAS ROSE . . 15 
 
 THE STORY OF ERIC 21 
 
 WHY ? 35 
 
 WHICH? 39 
 
 FlAMMETTA 43 
 
 MARY LEE 51 
 
 AMOR MORTUUS 57 
 
 SONG MY LOVE WHO LOVES ME NOT . . 61 
 
 TWIN SOULS 65 
 
 MOONLIGHT ON COMO ...... 69 
 
 THE LOVE BIRD 75 
 
 A PERFECT DAY 79 
 
 Lux ET TENEBRAE 83 
 
 FROM THE ITALIAN OF STECCHETTI ... 87 
 
 AFTER STECCHETTI 91 
 
 SOMEWHERE 95 
 
 AFTER MANY DAYS 101 
 
THE TRAITOR LAKE. 
 
PROLOGUE. 
 
 LAND of the olive and vine, of the myrtle, the 
 
 sweet oleander; 
 Land of the snowy magnolia lading the air with 
 
 its perfume; 
 (Flowers so heavenly fair, that fain would we 
 
 dream and imagine 
 One day they grew in the lost, in the mythical 
 
 garden of Eden) ; 
 Land of the sapphire skies, whose depths of 
 
 ethereal blueness 
 Burn in the waters below them, in stillness and 
 
 azure reflections. 
 
 B 
 
THE TRAITOR LAKE. 
 
 Land of the glorious sun, of the soft evening 
 
 breezes in summer, 
 Tinting the clear pallid skins and wooing the 
 
 hearts of the people ! 
 Land of the thunder and storms which resound 
 
 in the loves of the people, 
 Leaving a mark, as of flame, with their influence 
 
 ever upon them ! 
 Take from the hand of a stranger this tribute 
 
 of grateful devotion 
 Take these her words and the story of one of thy 
 
 sons as she heard it ; 
 (Told in a tongue inharmonious, perhaps, to the 
 
 ear of the Latins) ; 
 Take this poor verse from her heart. Italia, 
 
 Here I salute thee ! 
 
 Fair shone the waters of Como, this day of 
 the Holy Ascension, 
 
THE TRAITOR LAKE. 
 
 Girt like some deep-set pearl by the sky-dwelling 
 
 peaks of the mountains. 
 Quiet the village lay in the hush of the calm 
 
 summer morning, 
 Only the clanging of bells from the grey and the 
 
 red of the belfry 
 Called the believers to prayer, to the duties, the 
 
 Mass of the Festa. 
 Here, on the lake's still bosom, I rocked to the 
 
 throb and the murmurs, 
 Heard in an undertone from the depth of the 
 
 sobbing of waters, 
 Answered in turn by the bells of the fishing nets 
 
 under the wavelets. 
 Listening now to the tinkling, and now to the 
 
 crooning of music, 
 Rising and falling like bells in the voice of my 
 
 little companion : 
 
 Chaunting in time and in rhyme, to the scarce- 
 defined ebb and the rocking, 
 
THE TRAITOR LAKE. 
 
 Some ancient hymn of her church for this Feast 
 
 of the Holy Ascension. 
 Drifting we seemed in a dream, when at length 
 
 my little companion 
 Suddenly ceased in her singing, and raising 
 
 herself on her elbow, 
 Pointed her hand to the shore, to the rocks which 
 
 now towered above us, 
 Pointed to where I could see on the cliffs forty 
 
 feet o'er the water 
 Resting, a marble slab, by garlands of roses 
 
 encircled, 
 Blossoms so fresh that last eve, at the latest, 
 
 they surely were gathered. 
 Marta, with eyes gazing upwards, and fixed on the 
 
 block of Carrara, 
 Crossing her tiny bosom, now turned with her 
 
 face full of sorrow, 
 " See, oh Signora," she said, " they have brought 
 
 them these beautiful roses ! 
 
THE TRAITOR LAKE. 
 
 Showing poor Tito, and Nino, and Paolo they are 
 
 not forgotten." 
 Then in the slow-rocking boat just under the 
 
 marble and flowers, 
 Marta, with tears in her eyes and her voice, here 
 
 told me the pitiful story : 
 
 " On the last Feast of Ascension, just after the 
 
 hot mezzo-giorno 
 Had faded a little to coolness, then Tito, and 
 
 Nino, and Paolo, 
 All in their festival clothes, with sashes of blue 
 
 and of scarlet, 
 Rowed to the opposite shore, to fetch a young 
 
 man to the dancing, 
 Carlo, the best of the dancers, the boatman 
 
 beloved of Guidita. 
 Only our Tito was pale, and we saw that his heart 
 
 was on fire. 
 
THE TRAITOR LAKE. 
 
 Jealous of all men was he, but jealous the most 
 
 of poor Carlo, 
 So, while with a jest and a laugh, all the others 
 
 saluted Guidita, 
 He turned his face to the lake, and the boat shot 
 
 out over to Blevio. 
 
 " Hardly two hours were gone when we saw o'er 
 
 the Switzerland mountains 
 Creeping up slowly a cloudlet, that stained the 
 
 bright belts of the heavens. 
 Then ran the fishermen down to the shore where 
 
 the boats were all lying, 
 Dragging them up on the beach, while the first 
 
 distant rumble of thunder 
 Shook in the far-off air, and the swallows flew 
 
 low o'er the water. 
 Soon, by the side of the lake, the mothers and 
 
 daughters were gathered, 
 
THE TRAITOR LAKE. 
 
 Telling each other to fear not the storm, which 
 
 would quickly blow over ; 
 And, at the worst, the young men were the bravest 
 
 and best of all boatmen, 
 All the three skilled at the oar, and all trained to 
 
 the rudder in steering, 
 Knowing the winds and the currents, the waves 
 
 of the ' Lake Traditore.' 
 
 " But, as the clouds grew denser we heard the 
 
 beginning of moaning 
 Up in the mountain forest, through boughs of the 
 
 oak and the pine-trees ; 
 People in larger numbers hurried now down to 
 
 the lake- side, 
 Nearest of all stood Guidita ; her face was as pale 
 
 as a lily ; 
 And twisted around her fair neck was a kerchief 
 
 of Carlo's own colour. 
 
) THE TRAITOR LAKE. 
 
 " Down came the winds from the Alps, and the 
 
 waters upheaving 
 Thundered and crashed in the lake. In a moment 
 
 the mist and the darkness 
 Hid from our eyes the sharp line of the opposite 
 
 mountains of Blevio. 
 Then came a lull in the tempest, and lo ! on the 
 
 waving of waters, 
 Just half-way over we saw (how we shuddered 
 
 and shivered in seeing) 
 Oh ! such a frail little boat as it seemed in that 
 
 rush of wild weather. 
 And then we all knew on the wind-driven lake 
 
 tossed our men and that other 
 With fathers and mothers on shore in a frenzy of 
 
 helpless inaction ! 
 
 " One moment a dozen large barks were launched 
 out with a will to the rescue, 
 
THE TRAITOR LAKE. \ 
 
 When down came the whirlwind again with its 
 
 horrible hissing and darkness. 
 And then, with a shriek, poor Guidita fell prone 
 
 by the side of her mother, 
 Twisting the silk at her throat, and moaning her 
 
 lover, < Poor Carlo !' " 
 
 There was a pause for a moment, and Marta, with 
 
 face half-averted, 
 Echoed the last of her words, and the rocks 
 
 seemed to whisper 4 Poor Carlo !' 
 And then the slow lapping of water, the sobbing 
 
 of waves seemed to answer, 
 All mixed with sighs from my. heart in the dirge 
 
 of that echo for Carlo. 7 
 
 But now in a moment the maiden resuming the 
 tale of the tempest : 
 
2 THE TRAITOR LAKE. 
 
 " Ah ! 'twas not he that was lost, for Guidita is 
 
 married to Carlo. 
 They knew the first boatman who neared them, 
 
 'twas life for the one or the other, 
 When, thrusting the last floating oar 'neath the 
 
 arms of the struggling Carlo, 
 Brave Tito sank down for her sake. Our Tito ; 
 
 he chose for Guidita. 
 And theirs are the hands, while they live, that 
 
 shall gather these beautiful roses 
 For Tito, and Nino, and Paolo but weeping 
 
 they weave them for Tito. 
 Tis they who shall keep, oh Signora, this Feast 
 
 of the Holy Ascension 
 In Church, as a day of sad mourning, of fasting, 
 
 of prayers, and of masses, 
 For the good of the soul of brave Tito that none 
 
 of his friends may forget him." 
 
THE TRAITOR LAKE. 13 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 Land of the sun and the flowers, the wonders of 
 
 storms and of tempests, 
 Land of the Traitor Lake, with its smiles, its 
 
 reflections of heaven ! 
 Take from the hand of a stranger this tribute of 
 
 grateful devotion, 
 (Told in a tongue inharmonious, perhaps, to the 
 
 ear of the Latins) 
 Tribute to thee and thy son for the lesson his story 
 
 has taught her, 
 Take this poor verse from her heart. Italia, 
 
 Here I salute thee. 
 
THE LEGEND 
 OF THE CHRISTMAS ROSE. 
 
of 
 
 Dark fell the night on which our Lord was born 
 In that rude manger of far Bethlehem ; 
 
 When shepherds came to worship at His shrine 
 Stayed by the star, which staying guided them. 
 
 And with them bearing many precious things 
 
 Came from afar the three great Magi Kings. 
 
 The shepherds by their flocks had seen the star, 
 Had heard the angel-chorus in the night, 
 
 The heavenly message " Peace on earth ; goodwill 
 To men," had echoed from the spangled height. 
 
 And, following them, in wondering humbleness, 
 
 Came little Madelon, the shepherdess. 
 
i8 THE LEGEND OF THE CHRISTMAS ROSE. 
 
 Came to adore the Infant Christ ; but now 
 They went into that stall so rude and dim, 
 
 While still she stood outside with breaking heart 
 And falling tears, she had no gift for Him. 
 
 I am so poor ! So cold the north wind blows ; 
 
 If I could gather but a single rose ! " 
 
 The spring is yet so very far away ; 
 
 The roses all are dead, long, long ago ; 
 The frost is keen ; I dare not enter in ; 
 
 Dear God, I am so poor ; I love Him so !" 
 When round about there flashed a radiance bright, 
 And lo ! an Angel stood within the light ! 
 
 It was the Angel Gabriel from heaven, 
 
 Who hears the children crying on the earth ; 
 
 When God's great hosts were singing, he had come 
 To learn who wept at the dear Saviour's birth. 
 
 " Why do you weep ? oh ! little shepherdess ; 
 
 Why do you pray ?" he asked, with tenderness. 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE CHRISTMAS ROSE. 19 
 
 " Alas !" sobbed Madelon, with quavering voice, 
 "They have gone in with gifts; I have no rose 
 
 Not even a flower to offer to the Babe ; 
 
 It freezes hard, and cold the north wind blows. 
 
 Therefore I weep alone, I have no store 
 
 I must stay here without for evermore !" 
 
 Summer is gone, and spring is far away, 
 Autumn's dead leaves lie covering the land \ 
 
 Good Angel, woe is me !" But Gabriel smiled 
 Down on poor Madelon ; then took her hand, 
 
 And answering her "Thy prayer is heard of God," 
 
 He struck the frozen earth beneath his rod 
 
 A miracle ! It blossomed into flowers, 
 And Madelon the roses plucked amazed. 
 
 Thanking the Angel ; but the light grew dim 
 While Gabriel vanished slowly as she gazed. 
 
 Oh, joy! she entered at the stable-door 
 
 And laid the Angel's gift the babe before ! 
 
20 THE LEGEND OF THE CHRISTMAS ROSE. 
 
 This is the Legend of the Christmas Rose. 
 
 And we, like Madelon the shepherdess, 
 Can always pray to Him who came this night 
 
 On earth to help us in our bitterness. 
 What, though our hearts be sad, our eyes be dim, 
 Some love-flowers we may always give to Him! 
 
THE STORY OF ERIC. 
 
of 
 
 EXPECTATION. 
 
 Our cottage had a garden skirting down 
 Right to the sea-sands ; nothing rose between 
 Our latticed windows and the wild wide sky, 
 And God Almighty's waters, and his grand 
 Great pictures of the dewy smiling morns, 
 Of scarlet sunsets, and the changing tints 
 Of every hour in all the live-long day. 
 
 When Eric sailed just as the freshening winds 
 Were blowing from the north the roses died. 
 But now I stood 'mid all the wealth of June, 
 'Neath glinting rays of sunshine falling there, 
 
24 THE STORY OF ERIC. 
 
 Bathing each leaf in amber-tinted light ; 
 And all the wandering winds that stirred the air 
 Sang music to a happy singing heart 
 In June's fair noontide. 
 
 He was coming home. 
 
 The ship " Abundance " had been hailed at sea 
 By one of our great vessels, then we heard 
 That she had passed the Lizard, perhaps to-day 
 Would see her coming with her great sails set, 
 Grey-winged upon the waters, into port. 
 
 Ah, dear my sailor lad, whose handsome face 
 
 Must be so reddened by the healthy wind, 
 
 I think I see you lifting up the latch, 
 
 Then hear the old folks cry a " Welcome home." 
 
 I think I see you sitting by the fire 
 
 The driftwood fire of many a winter's storm 
 
 So safe among us ; Think I hear you tell 
 
 Of all the winter's perils ; of the ice 
 
THE STORY OF ERIC. 25 
 
 That kept the good ship prisoner three long months, 
 
 And then the fishing of the whales and seals, 
 
 The dauntless bravery of all the crew; 
 
 With not a word of what yourself had done, 
 
 (Albeit you were the bravest of them all, 
 
 Always the bravest, truest, dearest, best !) 
 
 And now I think I see the old folks rise 
 
 To bless us in the firelight ; then I feel 
 
 The tender heartbeat, and the good-night kiss, 
 
 But only till to-morrow at the dawn 
 
 My sailor Eric ! 
 
 Why to-day the hours 
 
 Seem weeks, while this same day is one long year. 
 So fast the thoughts fly to the dear life-love, 
 So slow the feet beat time upon the road 
 That brings us to it ! 
 
 Thus I thought and sang 
 Among the roses, on that still sweet morn 
 In our sea-cottage garden by the shore. 
 Then I remember that the songs and flowers, 
 
26 THE STORY OF ERIC. 
 
 The scents and happy feelings, seemed to rise 
 Together in some fitful, foolish rhyme, 
 Straight from the heartwells, then a melody 
 Rushed to my lips, and this is what I sang. 
 
 IN THE GARDEN. 
 
 Sweet little garden, so full of sweet posies, 
 
 Bloom out your best in the bright-dropping light, 
 
 Give her your blossoms, carnations and roses, 
 Eric, her sailor, is coming to-night! 
 
 Wall-flowers, oh ! give her, for Eric, her sailor, 
 Dusky brown fragrance he loveth so well ; 
 
 So it may whisper when spoken words fail her, 
 All the dear things that she wishes to tell ! 
 
THE STOR Y OF ERIC. 27 
 
 Patch of white clover and greenest of grasses, 
 There will she sit in the twilight so sweet, 
 
 Happiest woman and blythest of lasses, 
 Eric, her sailor love, stretched at her feet. 
 
 Ah! little chaffinch, she heareth your singing, 
 Knoweth your secret. Your tiny bird-heart 
 
 Is beating to be where a soft joy is winging 
 Another small chaffinch that flyeth apart ! 
 
 Bee, your gold honey and flower-rifled treasure 
 Boast nothing so lovely as that she shall find 
 
 In the heart of her sailor, who loves without measure, 
 The heart of her Eric, brave, tender, and kind. 
 
 Ope, open pale lily, your pure cup unclosing 
 
 To welcome the sun and the bright-dropping light ; 
 
 She'll pluck you and wear you, your whiteness 
 
 reposing 
 Against her warm bosom he cometh to-night. 
 
28 THE STORY OF ERIC. 
 
 REALISATION. 
 
 The day was nearly over. In the sky 
 
 Rocked a white crescent-moon, and one fair star 
 
 Gave earnest of the others Hesperus. 
 
 I wearied with the home-tasks and the hours 
 
 That moved so slowly, stood beside the fire 
 
 Where hummed the cheery kettle. The old folks 
 
 Bade me go rest awhile, if rest I could, 
 
 Before the night time. " For, sweetheart," they 
 
 said, 
 
 " You know that he would wish to see you bright, 
 If, by a chance, he comes this summer eve, 
 And you have been so restless all the day." 
 So up the stairs I went, and laid me down 
 A moment on the bed. I think I slept, 
 
THE STORY OF ERIC. 29 
 
 I know I dreamt a dream, for never now 
 There comes another like it. 'Twas the last 
 In which were mingled life, and hope, and love. 
 When lo ! I started, for I heard a voice, 
 A man's, but not our Eric's, that I knew 
 In the half-consciousness of startled sleep. 
 I rose, and parted on one side the white 
 Shrouding the lattice windows, leaning out 
 Only a little. 
 
 Underneath entwined 
 
 With honeysuckles creeping, rose the porch ; 
 And there a man was standing, and I knew 
 That they stood with him listening to his words. 
 " 'Twas bitter weather, then," I heard him say, 
 "And Christmas had been gone a good two weeks, 
 A month we had been ice-bound, and the time 
 Hung heavy ; but they were a cheerful crew. 
 One day they dragged a boat to where a small 
 Clear space of sea was running near the berg, 
 And four got in it. He was watching then 
 
30 THE STORY OF ERIC. 
 
 To see that nothing happened, for he felt 
 Always for others; and they loved him so 
 In their rough fashion that a single word 
 Would change their purpose with an ' aye, sir, aye/ 
 That did your heart good. 
 
 " 'Twas a little boat ; 
 
 And those that manned it rowed with right good will 
 To make the blood flow in their half-numbed hands. 
 Perchance they did not keep a good look-out ; 
 But Eric saw behind a sheet of ice 
 Coming upon the tossing bit of sea 
 That ran between the bergs on either side. 
 With that he shouted, and we all ran out, 
 But not in time the boat went crashing on 
 And split in two against the floating mass ! 
 The men were in the water struggling now 
 For life or death ; and he was with them too, 
 Trying to save them, swimming to the spot 
 Where the wild waves were bearing fast away 
 The pieces of the shattered boat ; then three 
 
THE S TOR Y OF ERIC. 3 1 
 
 Got hold of them ; the other clutched his arm, 
 And dragged him under ! 
 
 God, it was a sight! 
 The four were saved but he, the best, went down. 
 
 We searched the whole long day, but never found 
 
 A trace of Eric. One of those he died 
 
 To help the man who blindly clutched his arm, 
 
 Lived on a week, and in the fever seemed 
 
 To know what he had done, for ever cried 
 
 * I did not mean it ; wretch and fool I was,' 
 
 And so went, raving. 
 
 I was forced to take 
 The captain's place, and bring the old ship home. 
 
 " A fearful thing it was to sail away 
 And leave him in a frozen unknown sea 
 Without a Christian burial." 
 
32 THE STORY OF ERIC. 
 
 Thus he spoke, 
 
 While darker grew the shadows. Then arose 
 Through all the unreal silence a low cry 
 " Oh ! who will tell her who will tell the child ?" 
 And then the world span round. I knew no more. 
 
 To-day the winds are freshening from the north, 
 The angry waves are curling white-capped heads, 
 Then breaking with a sullen roar upon 
 The jagged sea-rocks. In the garden now 
 Lie scattered leaves ; the bare boughs overhead 
 Lace in a stormy sky. They said to me 
 " Go out a little, for 'twill do you good 
 To feel the breezes. " So I came and sit 
 Upon the low stone wall that skirts the shore, 
 And all the noise of rushing winds and waves 
 Has woven a song, which, echoing through my brain 
 Though wild and sad I cannot choose but sing. 
 
THE STORY OF ERIC. 33 
 
 BY THE SEA. 
 
 Oh, little bark, that danceth all alone upon the 
 
 billow ! 
 What would I give to sail away, to sail away in 
 
 thee? 
 
 To seek, even though for years, and then to find, 
 my Eric's pillow 
 
 In some cold sea! 
 
 Oh ! wild bird, floating, flying, in the windy, wintry 
 
 weather ; 
 Brave sea-bird ! darting, sailing, o'er the ocean's 
 
 sullen dash, 
 
 What would I give if you and I could fly away 
 together 
 
 Where icebergs crash ? 
 
34 THE STOR Y OF ERIC. 
 
 For, oh! the lonely watches when I keep the 
 
 candle burning, 
 And oh ! the lonely dawning when there cometh 
 
 back the light ; 
 
 And oh! the lonely day-time, and the lonely 
 twilight turning 
 
 Again to-night! 
 
 My Eric! my beloved! I would rather, I would 
 
 rather 
 Sail the frozen seas to find you, where the wild 
 
 weeds weave your pall ; 
 
 But I cannot. I am here and you are there, 
 and God the Father 
 
 Rules over all. 
 
WHY? 
 
Was it a kiss too many ? 
 
 Was it a word too much, 
 Than should be kissed and spoken, 
 
 That left the love-tie broken ? 
 Why was it so ? That such 
 
 Should be the fate of any ? 
 Why? 
 
 I only know our days 
 
 Were severed from that hour ; 
 And that some deeper feeling, 
 
 A hidden sense revealing, 
 Showed where a cloud did lower 
 
 Above our separate ways. 
 Why? 
 
38 WHY? 
 
 Why did we kiss again ? 
 
 Why did we smile no more? 
 While each the other deeming 
 
 Far different than seeming 
 In those fair days of yore ? 
 
 Why did we part in pain ? 
 Why? 
 
WHICH ? 
 
Love, to our lips, holds up in jewelled glory 
 His cup, with life-wine brimming full and high, 
 
 Shall we reject or taste? The old, old story, 
 Though new to us, my darling You and I ? 
 
 Passion cries, " Drink." But pallid wisdom's finger 
 Is lifted up in warning. Love, the while, 
 
 Tosses the rose- wreathed chalice, as we linger 
 Doubting, and mocks us with his sunny smile ! 
 
 Which shall we choose ? To kiss ; to weep; to sever; 
 
 Dashing the cup aside with many a sigh 
 Or grasp its golden stem and meet for ever ! 
 
 Which shall we choose, my darling ? You and I. 
 
FIAMMETTA. 
 
He writes, the old man, in the lonely Grange. 
 
 This is her picture. Every day I twine 
 Fresh garlands round it with weak aged hands ; 
 My old dim eyes, which gaze through unshed tears, 
 Drink in her beauty, dear at once, and strange. 
 My Fiammetta ! how thy southern sun 
 Gleams in the velvet darkness of thine eyes ! 
 And how the pallid brightness of the north 
 Shines in the amber clusters of thy hair ! 
 
 Half English, half Italian, lo ! she came 
 From her sweet south to our dull leaden skies, 
 
46 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 A distant cousin from a distant land, 
 To gladden all the household with her voice, 
 Her bright swift glances ; for, until she came, 
 No woman reigned within the dull old Grange. 
 
 He, my half-brother, loved her, for herself, 
 
 For her quick graces, for the nameless all 
 
 That goes to make a woman's gentleness ; 
 
 But, dumb with love, he dared not speak the word, 
 
 Asking for what he longed for. So, one day, 
 
 Seeing his trouble, her unconsciousness 
 
 Vexed me (albeit I felt a pang 
 
 Drag at my heart-strings), 
 
 And I spoke to her. 
 
 My library is full of old oak chairs 
 And writing-tables, and a sombre hue 
 
FIAMMETTA. ' 47 
 
 Clothes the dark walls from dusky lines of books. 
 She, entering, cast a light on all around, 
 Reflected from her simple dress of white, 
 And from the falling fragrance of her curls. 
 I drew her to the seat whereon I sat, 
 And " Pretty cousin, I would speak with you " 
 When, with a startled glance, her southern eyes 
 Flashed into mine, and quick I hurried on 
 " My cousin, since you came to this dull home, 
 Like light to darkness, you have made us glad ; 
 But have you never guessed the love he bears 
 My soldier brother and the pain he feels 
 To part with you holding his inmost heart, 
 For, this day week, he leaves us. 
 
 He is dumb, 
 
 Because he fears your answer ; seeing which 
 I must speak for him. Tell me, could you love 
 And follow him as wife?" 
 
 Again that glance, 
 With its strange question, sought my troubled face. 
 
48 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 And I went on 
 
 " Full twenty years I count, 
 Upon my wrinkled forehead, more than he. 
 You cannot choose but love him, young and brave, 
 Handsome as an Apollo ! 
 
 Speak my child, 
 
 I, who might be your father, counsel you, 
 If you can love him love him." 
 
 Turning round, 
 
 I looked full at her. With averted face 
 She stood. A low wind coming from the wood, 
 Through the wide-opened window, stirred the 
 
 leaves 
 
 Of an old book I held, and sighed among 
 The scattered papers on my writing-desk. 
 
 Then through the waiting silence she broke forth, 
 Wringing her tiny hands and weeping sore, 
 Like some hot thunderstorm of her own land 
 
FIAMMETTA. 49 
 
 " And you," she cried, " and you to counsel me 
 To this same marriage, you to ask it you ! 
 Then, as I sat amazed, she turned and went. 
 
 I listened to the little feet which beat 
 So softly on the carpet, till the door 
 Opened and shut, and then I laid my head 
 Upon my ancient desk ; for oh ! I knew 
 That with love's wild despair I loved her too, 
 And all the thought of what the boy might say, 
 That he might think I falsely had betrayed 
 His secret to my own advantage. When 
 Slowly the door unclosed again, and two 
 Soft rounded arms were laid about my neck ; 
 A sweet voice whispered low into my ear, 
 In broken English (she could never learn 
 Our language perfectly). 
 
 'Twas thus she spoke 
 " Forgive me, cousin ; there are times in life 
 
50 FIAMMETTA. 
 
 When woman's dignity must bend and bow, 
 Or else the heart breaks ! Is it you are blind, 
 Or only cruel, that you take me now 
 And give me to another ? You I love. 
 I say it. You are angry. I shall die." 
 
 Oh ! Fiammetta, always my heart's queen ! 
 
 He sailed away in autumn. In the spring 
 He came again to visit the old house, 
 And found it empty of all blessedness. 
 
 Her hand shall never touch embroidery more, 
 The walls shall never echo to her tread ; 
 Her step is silent in the old oak halls, 
 No singing music on the hushed air falls ; 
 Only her picture resteth. 
 
 She is dead ! 
 
MARY LEE. 
 
She stood beside him on the yellow sands, 
 
 A sweeter Cornish lass there could not be ; 
 A low mist hung, a misty moon hung low, 
 Above the yellow sands that skirt the sea. 
 He was an Earldom's heir, and she 
 A fisher's daughter Mary Lee. 
 
 The sleeping village right behind them lay, 
 
 The church clock slowly struck the hour of ten ; 
 Her cheek was pressed to his all wet with tears, 
 And oh ! how sadly was he sighing then 
 " I cannot part, my own, from thee, 
 I cannot leave thee Mary Lee. 
 
54 MARY LEE. 
 
 What care I for the busy heartless world ! 
 
 I've wooed, I'll claim thee for my fair young bride; 
 And we will be so happy in our love, 
 And live and die together side by side ! 
 I must, I will, be true to thee, 
 My one heart's darling, Mary Lee." 
 
 Her father in the little alehouse sat, 
 
 And when he heard the tolling hour of ten ; 
 He drained the last drops left within his glass 
 Then rose, and nodded to the other men. 
 
 " Good night," he said, " she waits for me, 
 My little daughter Mary Lee ! " 
 
 Beside the fire her would-be lover stood, 
 
 Black-browed and scowling, tall was he and strong ; 
 Long laughed he out as scornfully he gazed, 
 Stalwart the stalwart fishermen among. 
 
 " You think she waits at home," sneered he, 
 Your pretty daughter Mary Lee ! " 
 
MARY LEE. 55 
 
 " I saw them both not half-an-hour ago 
 
 Down on the shore, his arm was round her waist; 
 I watched them kiss again, and once again 
 Your little daughter ! Yes. The Earl has taste." 
 Another laugh. A madman he 
 Who ran to seek sweet Mary Lee. 
 
 Damp dews lay on her uncurled chestnut hair, 
 The last kiss given, the misty moonlight fell 
 Around them as they turned to go ; when there 
 Rushed Lee, his eyes on fire, his heart a hell. 
 But calmly by the sobbing sea, 
 She turned to meet him Mary Lee. 
 
 " Father ! " she said, but he, half blind with rage 
 
 Ran onwards towards the Earl, a knife gleamed high; 
 " Take that," he hissed, and hurled it through the air, 
 Then rose a fearful shriek a woman's cry, 
 For ere the Earl could turn to flee, 
 Across his breast fell Mary Lee. 
 
56 MARY LEE. 
 
 An instant in the dim and misty light 
 
 Glittered the blade. With white arms stretched apart 
 As if to shield him, stood the poor girl there, 
 And took the knife into her brave young heart, 
 Then fell, and died beside the sea, 
 To save her lover Mary Lee. 
 
 They say at midnight, on the yellow sands, 
 
 When mists rise, and when misty moons hang low ; 
 With bright dishevelled hair, and folded hands 
 Clasping a knife-blade you may see her go. 
 I know not if such things can be, 
 But this is what they tell to me, 
 Who knew and loved poor Mary Lee. 
 
AMOR MORTUUS. 
 
dRntotr Qtlorfuue. 
 
 Long years ago, when all the world was young 
 And fresh and sweet, one morning I espied 
 
 Love standing by my side. 
 White, sun-kissed lilies in his hand ; 
 
 With these he smote my heart-door, as he cried, 
 " Open, at Love's command." 
 
 And lo ! my heart-door on its hinges swung 
 And slowly opened wide. 
 
 Love entered; all my life seemed fair and gay. 
 
 With passion's blossoms rare my heart he dressed, 
 My lips with kisses pressed. 
 
 A thousand times I would that I had died 
 Ere I had opened to the Vision blessed ! 
 
 Ah ! would I had denied 
 The stranger welcome ; for one bitter day 
 He died within my breast. 
 
60 AMOR MORTUUS. 
 
 Love lieth dead ; for ever pale and still 
 By cruel hands, false vows, all foully slain, 
 
 Red with his life-blood's stain. 
 
 No lilies now, or passion-blooms he bears, 
 
 Only the thorny crimson rose of pain 
 Upon his breast he bears. 
 
 I kiss his trailing wings and lips so chill, 
 I weep I call, in vain. 
 
 Shall there, in some far day some unborn year, 
 Some yet unwelcomed hour, undreamt before, 
 
 A step pause by my door ? 
 
 A hand smite on the portal closed so fast, 
 
 A Voice, that thrills my being to its core, 
 Bid my Love rise at last ? 
 
 Or shall he, in eternal silence drear 
 Lie dead for evermore ? 
 
SONG. 
 
My Love who loves me not. 
 
 A bouquet for my love who loves me not ! 
 
 What shall I gather ? Rich, dark roses, set 
 In thorns, ah me! like love? Or lilies fair? 
 Tall, bloodless lily-blooms ; or violets wet 
 And sweet with night- dews or carnations rare? 
 
 And yet 
 
 White poppy-buds were best that teach one to 
 forget. 
 
64 SONG. 
 
 A song for my dear love, who loves me not ! 
 
 Sing, blackbird, thrilling in yon leafy brake. 
 Coo, cushat, coo. Chant, thrush, thy sweetest 
 
 strain. 
 Thou nightingale, with passionate throbbings, 
 
 wake 
 Pain in her heart, who heeds not of my pain, 
 
 And make 
 Her pity me, who die for her sweet sake. 
 
TWIN SOULS. 
 
Some kindly look, some undefined expression 
 
 Lurks in the shadow of thy earnest eyes ; 
 Some secret thing which claims my heart's possession 
 By sympathetic ties. 
 
 Some likeness of the mind, some fellow-feeling, 
 
 Blends our cleft lives to one harmonious whole. 
 Thy good unto my better self appealing 
 Haunts all my inmost soul. 
 
 Wordless yet ever to my thoughts replying, 
 
 Giving me look for look, and breath for breath, 
 With thee the world is paradise undying, 
 
 Without thee Life is Death. 
 
 F 
 
MOONLIGHT ON COMO. 
 
(Wloonfig^ on otno* 
 
 'Tis midnight now ; and all the breezes here 
 
 Make one faint breeze which rocks my tiny boat 
 
 Over the lake, while pallid moonlight clear 
 Shimmers above my bark as on I float. 
 
 Fair sleeps the light upon the sleeping flowers, 
 And sleeping villages, half up the hill, 
 
 Where Rest has laid her hand. And all the hours 
 Of busy day at length are hushed and still. 
 
 I only, gazing at the gazing stars, 
 
 Drink in the heavenly beauty of the night ; 
 
 Bathed in the moonbeams dreaming, nothing mars 
 The perfect sense of stillness and delight. 
 
72 MOONLIGHT ON COMO. 
 
 This is enchantment. All the earth is naught, 
 
 All others are not ; only I alone 
 Feel the true peace, the quietude oft sought 
 
 Rocking amid the water's undertone. 
 
 No one is here to tear with ruthless hand 
 The magic from my ears by echoed speech, 
 
 Whose soul my soul can never understand, 
 
 Whose heart my half-said words can never reach. 
 
 Only a nightingale, whose sobbing song 
 
 Floods on the moonlight, seeming in its strain 
 
 To wake to tears a heart that once did long 
 In other hearts to find itself again. 
 
 Alone ! 'Tis but a type of life's lone way, 
 'Mid all the waves of light and melody, 
 
 To feel to-morrow, now, and yesterday 
 Solve not the riddle or the mystery. 
 
MOONLIGHT ON COMO. 73 
 
 There is no perfect peace in this unrest, 
 To-night is but a shadow of " to be," 
 
 Where separate souls, with longings long suppressed, 
 Shall mingle in a single harmony. 
 
 Ah! these my thoughts have stolen from the night 
 Too much of darkness ; see the sinking moon 
 
 Behind the mountain dips, and fades from sight, 
 Leaving the stars and me alone too soon. 
 
 Fair sleep the roses. Halfway up the hill 
 The villages are slumb'ring. Here I float 
 
 Alone upon the waters, on until 
 
 The breeze shall cease to drift my tiny boat. 
 
THE LOVE BIRD. 
 
A love-bird came to the window pane, 
 
 His song was sweet and clear ; 
 Ever again the strange refrain 
 Fell on my listening ear 
 
 " Tweet, tweet ! look up, my sweet ; 
 Your love is near !" 
 
 " Ah, but my love is far away, 
 
 Sailing the summer sea; 
 Many a weary night and day 
 Must pass ere he come to me. 
 
 Peace, peace, love-bird, and cease ; 
 It cannot be !" 
 
78 THE LOVE BIRD. 
 
 He only shook his golden wings ; 
 
 His song rose loud and clear, 
 As if he knew and heard the things 
 I could not know and hear. 
 
 " Tweet, tweet ! look up, my sweet ; 
 Your love is near !" 
 
 " Ah ! but my heart is full of tears, 
 
 My life of misery ; 
 My nights are haunted by the fears 
 Of winds, and waves, and sea. 
 
 " Away, away, love-bird, I say, 
 It is not he." 
 
 A step, a climbing up the stair 
 
 Whose voice is this I hear? 
 The love-bird shook his pinions there ; 
 And, ah ! his song thrilled clear 
 
 "Tweet, tweet; look up, my sweet; 
 Your love is here !" 
 
A PERFECT DAY. 
 
We went together up the side 
 
 Of some far hill, on that far day ; 
 Where, in the grass, clear streamlets glide ; 
 
 Where flickering shadows softly play. 
 
 Ah, me ! 
 That this should be but one long memory. 
 
 A brook was singing in the sun, 
 
 As if it strove our lips to teach 
 Some secret of its water's run 
 
 Some words that scarce find sound in speech. 
 
 And so 
 We drank love's cup, and listened to its flow. 
 
82 A PERFECT DAY. 
 
 My sweet we lingered near the stream 
 Till melting gold turned all to grey ; 
 And now it only seems a dream 
 The memory of that perfect day. 
 Thus pass 
 
 Love's hours, like breath-stains breathed upon a 
 glass. 
 
LUX ET TENEBRAE. 
 
tt 
 
 There was a time when hope was all mine own ; 
 
 There was an hour when love and life were mine ; 
 There was a day when summer's sweetest sun 
 Was mine and thine. 
 
 But hope has withered into wild regret, 
 
 And love and life are buried, ruined, gone 
 A grave hath opened, and the sun hath set 
 On me alone. 
 
 Then, when I think of thee, all death is dark ; 
 Then, when I dream of thee, all life is light. 
 How shall I launch my soul-boat, fragile bark, 
 In unknown night? 
 
86 LUX ET TENEBRA E. 
 
 How shall I, straining, catch with dying ears 
 
 Thy last loved accents from that other shore ? 
 How shall my eyes meet thine through blinding 
 tears ? 
 
 I see no more. 
 
 When I forget thee, then I would not rob 
 
 My heart of peace which death alone can give ! 
 When I remember comes a passionate throb 
 I long to live ! 
 
FROM THE ITALIAN OF 
 STECCHETTI. 
 

from t$e #afian of 
 
 'Twas winter, late, and close beside the fire, 
 Alone, embarrassed, sat we there together, 
 
 Like two school-fellows, with the same desire, 
 Yet blushing as we talked about the weather. 
 
 On her embroidery her eyes were bent, 
 Mine to the vaulted ceiling I was raising ; 
 
 Seeming to see not, yet quick glances went 
 
 Far better, perhaps, than if we had been gazing ! 
 
90 FROM THE ITALIAN OF STECCHETTL 
 
 I thought, " I 'd give, for one sweet smile of grace, 
 
 Of my poor talents all the flowers most rare, 
 
 All the young blood which in my veins doth flow," 
 
 When she, uprising, turning pale of face, 
 Caught her two little hands among my hair, 
 And " Listen," whispered soft, " I love you so !" 
 
AFTER STECCHETTI. 
 
A bitter night. 
 
 I cannot sleep for all the rain and sleet 
 Dashing against the panes ; along the street 
 
 Whistles the wind. 
 
 The mad, wild winter wind, with horrid shriek, 
 The answering trees respond with groan and 
 creak. 
 
 The watch-dogs howl. 
 
 I hear, as tossing on my bed I lie, 
 Borne on the air, a sudden wailing cry, 
 
 A wailing cry. 
 
94 AFTER STECCHETTL 
 
 From my lone pillow then I lift my head, 
 And listen to the voice of one long dead. 
 
 Tis thine, poor ghost ! 
 
 Behind thy marble door thou canst not rest, 
 Until thy head is pillowed on my breast. 
 
 Within thy tomb, 
 
 With folded hands, with pallid, lifeless tress, 
 Thou waitest ever for my love caress ! 
 
 Hush ! I shall come. 
 
 Dead hands shall knock, dead hands shall ope 
 
 the door; 
 And dead, by dead, lie dead for evermore. 
 
SOMEWHERE. 
 
A POET'S IDEAL. 
 
 Ah ! did you see her there ? 
 
 In her pearly-tinted dress, 
 Brushing back the hollow grasses 
 With little feet, that press 
 So lightly as she passes. 
 
 Say, did you see her there ? 
 
 Ah ! did you meet her there ? 
 
 Like a glory-crown her hair, 
 Like a saintly aureole ; 
 And her eyes are shining fair 
 
 With the fair thoughts of her soul. 
 
 Say, did you meet her there ? 
 
98 SOMEWHERE. 
 
 Ah ! did you see her there ? 
 
 All the woodland birds are still, 
 And swing, as keeping time 
 In the boughs, to her sweet thrill 
 Swing, as keeping time and rhyme. 
 Say, did you see her there ! 
 
 Ah ! did you meet her there ? 
 
 The sunset, flickering, flashes 
 Through the leaves to where she stands, 
 Throwing scintillating dashes 
 On her little clasped hands. 
 
 Say, did you meet her there ? 
 
 I have never seen her yet, 
 Never found my fair dream-maiden, 
 White-robed, standing in the grasses, 
 Standing in the golden wood ; 
 With her dewy eyes love-laden, 
 Singing, 'mid a yellow flood 
 
SOMEWHERE. 99 
 
 Of the sunlight. She is there. 
 I shall reach her unaware 
 (For I know that she is there), 
 I shall touch her as she passes ; 
 She shall stay at love's commands, 
 And, at last, among the grasses 
 We shall join our parted hands. 
 When the sun has scarcely set, 
 Somewhere I shall find her yet. 
 
AFTER MANY DAYS. 
 
How many days have dawned ; and suns have set 
 And risen ; and how many winter snows 
 Have fallen ; and how many stormy blasts 
 Have lashed the ocean into mighty waves, 
 And swept the deserts ; and how many moons 
 Have climbed the summer skies, and shed their light 
 On peaceful homesteads and on sleeping hills, 
 And valleys black with shadows since we met ? 
 
 How swiftly flies on Time, when outstretched hands 
 Of happy ones would hold him ; and how slow 
 Drag his dread moments over fettered souls ! 
 So, in the shadows, as I sit and write, 
 The days I write of seem a summer's dream, 
 Dreamt in the early sunlight of a morn 
 
104 AFTER MANY DA VS. 
 
 While song-birds twittered near the window-pane, 
 And roses bloomed and all the world was fair. 
 But, ah ! the waking ; and the long long years 
 That followed on that waking \ and the hours 
 That crept, lead-weighted, o'er our empty lives. 
 
 It seemed a dream. And yet it lasted days, 
 Or months, or years for love can count no time. 
 I, who now write upon this senseless sheet, 
 Thrill, as I write, with memories nothing more. 
 And you, who may perchance some other day 
 Take up this sheet and read it, you will thrill 
 With these same memories, when you see my words. 
 
 There was a gulf between us, narrow, so 
 That we clasped hands above it ; and a step 
 Could span it ; but 'twas deep and dark as death. 
 Only we heeded not, and thought no wrong 
 Or danger in the sweetness of the hour 
 Till one sad day. 
 
AFTER MANY DA VS. 105 
 
 You drew me half across 
 And, in a startled moment, sealed my lips 
 With a long love-kiss. 'Twas the first, the last. 
 For then I felt the earth beneath my feet 
 Tremble and rock. A gleam of sunlight showed 
 Just for a moment, all the dread abyss 
 Between us ; and the horror of the depth 
 Seen for a second only held us dumb. 
 
 We could not span it, but with broken vows ; 
 We could not cross but with dishonoured feet. 
 And, for true hearts, 'twere better loss or death 
 Than faithless faith, and honour in the dust. 
 
 And so we parted. 
 
 And the little gulf 
 That cleft us lies between us to this day. 
 
 But there will come a time when we can meet ; 
 When all the sorrows borne and duties done 
 
io6 AFTER MANY DA YS. 
 
 Shall twine a wreath around our conquering brows- 
 For he is greatest who has conquered even 
 Himself for honour. 
 
 We shall meet again. 
 
 And, clasping hands across the narrow gulf, 
 Shall feel a higher love, and passion's wave 
 Shall cease to trouble. 
 
 We shall be at peace. 
 And, in that day, remember as of old 
 Each other's aspirations, and the thoughts 
 Lying too deep for words in kindred souls. 
 So, standing thus apart, on either side, 
 The days shall pass. 
 
 At last an hour shall come 
 When one shall throw a bridge across the gulf, 
 On which to cross and meet for evermore, 
 For he shall span it o'er whose name is Death. 
 
 HUTCHISON, GREENOCK 
 
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