The poplar made, did all confound Her sense; but most she loathed the hour When the thick-moted sunbeam lay Athwart the chambers, and the day Was sloping toward his western bower. Then, said she, 'I am very dreary,

He will not come ,' she said; She wept, 'I am aweary, aweary. Oh God, that I were dead!'

THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER.

I see the wealthy miller yet,

His double chin, his portly size, And who that knew him could forget The busy wrinkles round his eyes? The slow wise smile that, round about

His dusty forehead drily curl'd,

Seem'd half-within and half-without, And full of dealings with the world?

Tn yonder chair I see him sit.

Three fingers round the old silver cup —

I see his gray eyes twinkle yet

At his own jest —■ gray eyes lit up With summer lightnings of a soul

So full of summer warmth, so glad, So healthy, sound, and clear and whole, His memory scarce can make me sad.

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Yet fill my glass: give me one kiss: My own sweet Alice, we must die.

There's somewhat in this world amiss Shall be unriddled by and by.

There's somewhat flows to us in life, But more is taken quite away.

Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife.

That we may die the self-same day.

Have I not found a happy earth?

I least should breathe a thought of pain.

Would God renew me from my birth I'd almost live my life again.

So sweet it seems with thee to walk. And once again to woo thee mine —

It seems in after-dinner talk

Across the walnuts and the wine —

To be the long and listless boy Late-left an orphan of the squire,

quot;Where this old mansion mounted high Looks down upon the village spire:

For even here, where I and you

Have lived and loved alone so long,

Each morn my sleep was broken thro' By some wild skylark's matin song.

And oft I heard the tender dove In firry woodlands making moan;

But ere I saw your eyes, my love,

I had no motion of my own.

For scarce my life with fancy play'd

Before I dream'd that pleasant dream —

Still hither thither idly sway'd

Like those long mosses in the stream.

Or from the bridge I lean'd to hear The milldam rushing down with noise.

And see the minnows everywhere In crystal eddies glance and poise,

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The tall flag-flowers when they sprung Below the range of stepping-stones, Or those three chestnuts near, that hung In masses thick with milky cones.

But, Alice, what an hour was that,

When after roving in the woods ('Twas April then), I came and sat

Below the chestnuts, when their buds Were glistening to the breezy blue;

And on the slope, an absent fool, I cast me down, nor thought of you, But angled in the higher pool.

A love-song I had somewhere read. An echo from a measured strain,

Beat time to nothing in my head

From some old corner of the brain. It haunted me, the morning long.

With weary sameness in the rhymes. The phantom of a silent song.

That went and came a thousand times.

Then leapt a trout. In lazy mood

I watch'd the little circles die;

They past into the level flood,

And there a vision caught my eye; The reflex of a beauteous form,

A glowing arm, a gleaming neck, As when a sunbeam wavers warm Within the dark and dimpled beck.

For you remember, you had set.

That morning, on the casement's edge A long green box of mignonette.

And you were leaning from the ledge: And when I raised my eyes, above

They met with two so full and bright Such eyes! I swear to you, ray love. That these have never lost their light.

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I loved, and love dispell'd the fear

That I should die an early death : For love possesa'd the atmosphere,

And fill'd the breast with purer breath. My mother thought, What ails the boy ?

For I was alter'd, and began To move about the house with joy, And with the certain step of man.

I loved the brimming wave that swam Thro' quiet meadows round the mill, The sleepy pool above the dam,

The pool beneath it never still, The meal-sacks on the wbiten'd floor.

The dark round of the dripping wheel, The very air about the door

Made misty with the floating meal.

And oft in ratnblings on the wold,

When April nights began to blow, And April's crescent glimmer'd cold,

I saw the village lights below ;

I knew your taper far away,

And full at heart of trembling hope. Prom off the wold I came , and lay Upon the freshly-flower'd slope.

The deep brook groan'd beneath the mill;

And 'by that lamp,' I thought, 'she sits!quot; The white chalk-quarry from the hill Gleam'd to the flying moon by fits. '0 that I were beside her now!

0 will she answer if I call?

0 would she give me vow for vow,

Sweet Alice, if I told her all?'

Sometimes I saw you sit and spin;

And, in the pauses of the wind, Sometimes I heard you sing within;

Sometimes your shadow cross'd the blind.

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At last you rose and moved the light, And the long shadow of the chair

Flitted across into the night,

And all the casement darken'd there.

But when at last I dared to speak.

The lanes, you know, were white with may

Tour ripe lips moved not, but your cheek Flush'd like the coming of the day;

And so it was — half-sly, half-shy, Tou would, and would not, little one!

Although I pleaded tenderly,

And you and I were all alone.

And slowly was my mother brought To yield consent to my desire;

She wish'd me happy, but she thought I might have look'd a little higher;

And I was young — too young to wed: 'Yet must I love her for your sake;

Go fetch your Alice here,' she said:

Her eyelid quiver'd as she spake.

And down I went to fetch my bride: But, Alice, you were ill at case;

This dress and that by turns you tried, Too fearful that you should not please.

I loved you better for your fears,

I knew you could not look but well.

And dews, that would have fall'ii in tears. I kiss'd away before they fell.

I watch'd the little flutterings.

The doubt my mother would not see ;

She spoke at large of many things ,

And at the last she spoke of me;

And turning look'd upon your face.

As near this door you sat apart.

And rose, and, with a silent grace

Approaching, press'd you heart to heart.

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Ah, •well — but sing the foolish song

I gave you, Alice, on the day When, arm in arm, we went along, A pensive pair, and you were gay With bridal flowers — that I may seem,

As in the nights of old, tö lie Beside the mill-wheel in the stream, While those full chestnuts whisper by.

It is the miller's daughter.

And she is grown so dear, so dear. That I would be the jewel

That trembles in her ear;

For hid in ringlets day and night, I'd touch her neclc so warm and white.

And I would he the girdle

About her dainty dainty waist. And her heart would beat against me.

In sorrow and in rest:

And I should know if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight.

And I would be the necklace.

And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom.

With her laughter or her sighs And I would lie so light,so light,' I scarce should be unclasp'd at night.

A trifle, sweet! which true love spells —

True love interprets — right alone. His light upon the letter dwells.

For all the spirit is his own.

So, if I waste words now, in truth

You must blame Love. His early rage Had force to make me rhyme in youth, And makes me talk too much in age.

And now those vivid hours are gone,

Like mine own life to me thou art. Where Past and Present, wound in one.

Do make a garland for the heart: So sing that other song I made, Half-anger'd with my happy lot.

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The day, when in the chestnut shade I found the blue Forget-me-not.

Love that hath us in the net,

Can he pass, and we forget?

Many suns arise and set.

Many a chance the years beget.

Love the gift is Love the debt.

Even so.

Love is hurt with jar and fret.

Love is made a vague regret.

Eyes with idle tears are wet.

Idle habit links us yet.

What is love? for we forget:

Ah, no! no!

Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True wife, Round my true heart thine arms entwine;

My other dearer life in life,

Look thro' my very soul with thine!

XJntouch'd with any shade of years,

May those kind eyes for ever dwell!

They have not shed a many tears,

Dear eyes, since first 1 knew them well.

Yet tears they shed: they had their part Of sorrow; for when time was ripe,

The still affection of the heart

Became an outward breathing type,

That into stillness past again,

And left a want unknown before;

Although the loss that brought us pain,

That loss but made us love the more.

With farther lookings on. The kiss.

The woven arms, seem but to be

Weak symbols of the settled bliss.

The comfort, I have found in thee:

But that God bless thee, dear — who wrought Two spirits to one equal mind —

With blessings beyond hope or thought,

With blessings which no words can find.

Arise, and let us wander forth,

To yon old mill across the wolds;

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For look, the sunset, south and north.

Winds ali the vale in rosy folds, And fires your narrow casement glass,

Touching the sullen pool below: On the chalk-hill the bearded grass Is dry and dewless. Let us go.

THE MAT QUEEN.

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year; Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day; For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

There's many a black black eye, they say! but none so bright as mine; There's Margaret and Mary , there's Kate and Caroline: But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say. So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break: But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay, For I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to beQueen o'theMay.

As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see. But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree? He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday — But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be: They say his heart is breaking, mother — what is that to me ? There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

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Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen; For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from faraway. And I'm to be Queen o' the May mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers, And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo flowers; And the wild manh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray,

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

The night-winds come and go, mother. upon the meadow-grass, And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass; There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day, And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still. And the cowslip and the Crowfoot are over all the hill, And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play, For I'm to be Queen o' the May , mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year, To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day. For I'm to be Queen o'theMay, mother, I'm to beQueen o'the May.

NEW-TEAK'S EVE.

If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear,

For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year.

It is the last New-year that I shall ever see,

Then you may lay me low i'the mould and think no more of me.

To-night I saw the sun set: he set and left behind The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind; And the New-year's coming up , mother , but I shall never see The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.

Last May we made a crown of flowers: we had a merry day; Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May; And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse, Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops.

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There's not a flower on all the hills: the frost is on the pane: I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again:

I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high: I long to see a flower so before the day I die.

The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree, And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea,

And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave, But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave.

Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine,

Before the red cook crows from the farm upon the hill,

When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still.

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night; When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool.

You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade , And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass , With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.

I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now ; You'll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go; Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild. You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child.

If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place; Tho' you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face; Tho' I cannot speak a word , I shall harken what you say. And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away.

Goodnight, goodnight, when I have said goodnight for evermore, And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door; Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green: She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been.

She'll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor:

Let her take 'em : they are hers: I shall never garden more:

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But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set About the parlour-window and the box of mignonette.

Goodnight, sweet mother: call me before the day is born. All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn;

But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year,

So, if you're waking , call me , call me early , mother dear.

CONCLUSION.

I thought to pass a way before , and yet alive I am;

And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year! To die before the snowdrop came , and now the violet's here.

O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies, And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise, And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow, And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go.

It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done ! But still I think it can't be long before I find release; And that good man, the clergyman , has told me words of peace.

O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair! And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there!

0 blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head !

A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed.

He taught me all the mercy , for he show'd me all the sin. Now , tho' my lamp was lighted late , there's One will let me in: Nor would I now be well , mother, again , if that could be , For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me.

1 did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat, There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet: But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine. And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign.

All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call; It was when the moon was setting, and the dai-k was over all;

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The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll. And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul.

For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear;

I saw you sitting in the house , and I no longer here;

With all my strength 1 pray'd for both, and so I felt resign'd, And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.

I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed. And then did something speak to me — I know not what was said; For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind. And up the valley came again the music on the wind.

But you were sleeping: and I said, 'It's not for them; it's mine.' And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars.

So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day.

But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away.

And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret; There's many worthier than I, would make him happy yet. If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been his wife; But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life.

0 look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow; He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine — Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.

O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun — For ever and for ever with those just souls and true — And what is life, that we should moati? why make we such ado?

For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home —

And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come — To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast ■— And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.

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DOE A.

With farmer Allan at the farm abode

William and Dora. William was his son,

And she his niece. He often look'd at them,

And often thought 'I'll make them man and wife.'

Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all,

And yearn'd towards William; but the youth, because

He had been always with her in the house,

Thought not of Dora.

Then there came a day When Allan call'd his son, and said, 'My son:

I married late, but I would wish to see My grandchild on my knees before I die:

And I have set my heart upon a match.

Now therefore look to Dora; she is well To look to; thrifty too be3'ond her age.

She is my brother's daughter: he and I Had once hard words, and parted, and he died In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred His daughter Dora: take her for your wife;

For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day,

For many years.' But William answer'd short;

'I cannot marry Dora; by my life,

I will not marry Dora.' Then the old man Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said:

'You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus !

But in my time a father's word was law.

And so it shall be now for me. Look to it;

Consider, William: take a month to think.

And let me have an answer to my wish;

Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack.

And never more darken my doors again.'

But William answer'd madly; bit his lips,

And broke away. The more he look'd at her The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh;

But Dora bore them meekly. Then before The month was out he left his father's house,

And hired himself to work within the fields;

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And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed A labourer's daughter, Mary Morrison.

Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd His niece and said: 'My girl, I love you well: But if you speak with him that was my son. Or change a word with her he calls his wife, My home is none of yours. My will is law.' And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, 'It cannot be: my uncle's mind will change!'

And days went on, and there was born a boy To William; then distresses came on him;

And day by day he pass'd his father's gate, Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not. But Dora stored what little she could save. And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know Who sent it; till at last a fever seized On William, and in harvest time he died.

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said;

'I have obey'd my uncle until now,

And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me This evil came on William at the first. But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone. And for your sake, the woman that he chose, And for this orphan, I am come to you: You know there has not been for these five years So full a harvest; let me take the boy.

And I will set him in my uncle's eye Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad Of the full harvest, he may see the boy. And bless him for the sake of him that's gone.'

And Dora took the child , and went her way Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound That was unsown, where many poppies grew. Far off the farmer came into the field And spied her not; for none of all his men Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; And Dora would have risen and gone to him. But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd,

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And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.

But when the morrow came, she rose and took The child once more, and sat upon the mound; And made a little wreath of all the flowers That grew about, and tied it round his hat To make him pleasing in het iincle's eye.

Then when the farmer pass'd into the field He spied her, and he left his men at work, And came and said; 'Where were you yesterday? Whose child is that? What are you doing here?' So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, And answer'd softly, 'This is William's child!' 'And did I not,' said Allan, 'did I not Forbid yon, Dora?' Dora said apain;

'Do with me as you will, but take the child And bless him for the sake of him that's gone!' And Allan said, 'I see it is a trick Got up betwixt you and the woman there.

I must be taught my duty, and by you!

You knew my word was law, and yet you dared To slight it. Well — for I will take the boy; But go yon hence, and never see me more.'

So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands,

And the boy's cry came to her from the field.

More and more distant. She bow'd down her head, Remembering the day when first she came,

And all the things that had been. She bow'd down And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd.

And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.

Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise To God, that help'd her in her widowhood. And Dora said, 'My uncle took the boy; But, Mary, let me live and work with you;

He says that he will never see me more.'

Then answer'd Mary, 'This shall never be.

That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself:

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And, now I think, he shall not have the boy. For he will teach him hardness, and to slight His mother; therefore thou and I will go,

And I will have my boy, and bring him home; And I will beg of him to take thee back;

But if he will not take thee back again,

Then thou and I will live within one house, And work for William's child, until he grows Of age to help ub.'

So the women kiss'd Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm. The door was off the latch: they peep'd and saw The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees. Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm. And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, Like one that loved him: and the lad stretch'd out And babbled for the golden seal, that hung From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire.

Then they came in: but when the boy beheld His mother, he cried out to come to her: And Allan set him down , and Mary said:

'0 Father! — if you let me call you so — I never came a-begging for myself.

Or William, or this child; but now I come For Dora: take her back; she loves you well.

0 Sir, when William died, he died at peace With all men; for 1 ask'd him,, and he said He could not ever rue his marking me —

1 had been a patient wife: but, Sir, he said That he was wrong to cross his father thus: 'God bless him!' he said, 'and may he never know The troubles I have gone thro'!' Then he turn'd His face and pass'd — unhappy that I am!

But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight His father's memory; and take Dora back,

And let all this be as it was before.'

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face By Mary. There was silence in the room;

And all at once the old man burst in sobs: —

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'I have been to blame — to blame. I have kill'd my son. I have kill'd him — but I loved him — my dear son.

May God forgive me! — I have been to blame.

Kiss me, my children.'

Then they clung about The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times.

And all the man was broken with remorse;

And all his love came back a hundredfold;

And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child.

Thinking of William.

So those four abode Within one house together; and as years Went forward, Mary took another mate;

But Dora lived unmarried till her death.

LOCKSLET HALL.

Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early mom: Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle horn

Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call. Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall;

Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts, And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts.

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest. Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West.

Many a, night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow shade, Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid.

Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sublime With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time;

When the centuries behind mo like a fruitful land reposed;

When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed:

When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see;

Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be. —

In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast; In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest;

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In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove;

In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young , And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung.

And I said, 'My cousin Amy, speak , and speak the truth to me, Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee.'

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a colour and a light, As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night.

And she turn'd — her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs — All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes —

Saying, 'I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong;' Saying, 'Dost thou love me, cousin?' weeping, 'I have loved thee long.'

Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his glowing hands; Every moment, lightly shaken , ran itself in golden sands.

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight.

Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring, And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fullness of the Spring.

Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships. And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips.

O my cousin, shallow-hearted! O my Amy, mine no more ! 0 the dreary, dreary moorland! O the barren, barren shore!

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung, Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue!

Is it well to wish thee happy? — having known me — to decline On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine!

Yet it shall be: thou shalt lower to his level day by day.

What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathise with clay.

As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with a clown, And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down.

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force. Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.

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What is this? his eyes are heavy: think not th%y are glazed with wine. Go to him: it is thy duty: kiss him: take his hand in thine.

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought: Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought.

He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand — Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with my hand!

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace, Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace.

Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth! Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth!

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's rule! Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead of the fool!

Well — 'tis well that I should bluster! — Hadst thou less

unworthy proved —

Would to God — for I had loved thee more than ever wife was loved.

Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit? I will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be at the root.

Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length of years should come As the many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging rookery home.

Where is comfort? in division of the records of the mipd?

Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind?

I remember one that perish'd: sweetly did she speak and move: Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love.

Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bore? No — she never loved me truly: love is love for evermore.

Comfort? comfort scorn'd of devils! this is truth the poet sings. That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things.

Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof, In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof.

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the wall, Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall,

Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep, To thy widow'd marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep.

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Thou Shalt hear the 'liever, never,' whisper'd by the phantom years. And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears;

And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain. Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow: get thee to thy rest again.

Nay, but Nature brings thee solace; for a tender voice will cry. 'Tis a purer life than thine; a lip to drain thy trouble dry.

Baby lips will laugh me down: my latest rival brings thee rest. Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast.

O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due. Half is thine and half is his: it will be worthy of the two.

O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part,

With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart.

'They were dangerous guides the feelings — she herself was not exempt — Truly, she herself had suffer'd' — Perish in thy self-contempt!

Overlive it — lower yet — be happy! wherefore should I care I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair.

What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like these ? Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to golden keys.

Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets overflow. I have but an angry fancy: what is that which I should do?

I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground. When the ranks are roll'd in vapour, and the winds are laid with sound.

But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honour feels, And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's heels.

Can I but relive in sadness? I will turn that earlier page.

Hide me from my deep emotion, 0 thou wondrous Mother-Age!

Make me feel the wild pulsations that I felt before the strife, When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life;

Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield _rEager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field.

And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn, Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn;

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And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then, Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men;

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new; That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do:

For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see.

Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be;

Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails,

Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales;

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd a ghastly dew From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue;

Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm, With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the thunderstorm;

Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle-flags were furl'c In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world.

There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe. And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law.

So I triumph'd ere my passion sweeping thro' me left me dry , Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye;

Eye, to which all order festers, all things here iire out of joint, Science moves, but slowly slowly, creeping on from point to point:

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creeping nigher,

Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly dying fire.

Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing purpose runs. And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the process of the suns.

What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys, Tho* the deep heart of existence beat for ever like a boy's ?

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore. And the individual withers, and the world is more and more.

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast, Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of his rest.

Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle-horn. They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn:

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Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string? lam shamed thro' all my nature to have loved so slight a thing.

Weakness to be wroth with weakness! woman's pleasure, woman's pain — Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower brain:

Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match'd with mine, Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine —

Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, for some retreat Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to beat;

Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil-starr'd; —

I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward.

Or to burst all links of habit — there to wander far away. On from island unto island at the gateways of the day.

Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies, Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise.

Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag,

Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag;

Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree — Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea.

There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind, In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind.

There thepassionscramp'dnolonger shall have scope and breathing-space; I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race.

Iron-jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, and they shall run, Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun;

Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks, Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books —

Pool, again the dream, the fancy! but I know my words are wild, But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child.

I, to herd with narow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains, Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains

Mated with a squalid savage — what to me were sun or clime ? I the their of all the ages, in the foremost files of time —

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I that rather held it better men should perish one by one,

Than that earth should stand and gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon!

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range, Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.

Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day: Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.

Mother-Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when life begun: Bift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the sun,

O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set.

Ancient founts of inspirations well thro' all my fancy yet.

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall! Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall.

Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening over heath and holt. Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt.

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow; For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go.

ST. AGNES' EVE.

Deep on the convent-roof the snows

Are sparkling to the moon:

My breath to heaven like vapour goes:

May my soul follow soon!

The shadows of the convent-towers

Slant down the snowy sward.

Still creeping with the creeping hours

That lead me to my Lord:

Make Thou my spirit pure and clear

As are the frosty skies,

Or this first snowdrop of the year That in my bosom lies.

As these white robes are soil'd and dark.

To yonder shining ground;

As this pale taper's earthly spark. To yonder argent round;

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So shows my soul before the Lamb,

My Spirit before Thee;

So in mine earthly house I am,

To that I hope to be.

Break up the heavens, 0 lord! and far,

Thro' all you starlight keen,

Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, In raiment white and clean.

He lifts me to the golden doors;

The flashes come and go;

All heaven bursts her starry floors.

And sfcrows her lights below, And deepens on and up! the gates

Roll back, and far within For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits,

To make uie pure of sin.

The sabbaths of Eternity ,

One sabbath deep and wide —

A light upon the shining sea — The Bridegroom with his bride!

SONGS from 'THE PRINCESS'.

As thro' the land at eve we went,

And pluck'd the ripen'd ears.

We fell out, my wife and I,

O we fell out I know not why.

And kiss'd again with tears. And blessings on the falling out

That all the more endears.

When wc fall out with those we love

And kiss again with tears!

For when we came where lies the child

We lost in other years.

There above the little grave,

O there above the little grave. We kiss'd again with tears.

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Sweet and low, sweet and low,

Wind of the western sea,

Low, low, breathe and blow.

Wind of the western sea!

Over the rolling waters go,

Come from the dying moon, and blow,

Blow him again to me;

While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest.

Father will come to thee soon;

Kest, rest, on mother's breast,

Father will come to thee soon;

Father will come to his babe in the nest.

Silver sails all out of the west

Under the silver moon :

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep

The splendour falls on castle walla And snowy summits old in story:

The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying.

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going I O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,

They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul.

And grow for ever and for ever.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying.

And answer, echoes, answer, dying , dying, dying.

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Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums, That beat to battle where he stands; Thy face across his fancy comes,

And gives the battle to his hands: A moment, while the trumpets blow. He sees his brood about thy knee; The next, like fire he meets the foe.

And strikes him dead for thine and thee.

Home they brought her warrior dead:

She nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry: All her maidens, watching, siyd, ' She must weep or she will die.'

Then they praised him, soft and low,

Call'd him worthy to be loved, Truest friend and noblest foe;

Yet she neither spoke nor moved,

Stole a maiden from her place.

Lightly to the warrior stept,

Took the face-cloth from the face; Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Rose a nurse of ninety years,

Set his child upon her knee —

Like summer tempest came her tears — 'Sweet my child, I live for thee.'

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea;

The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape, With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;

But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee?

Ask me no more.

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Ask me no more: what answer should I give?

I love not hollow cheek or faded eye:

Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!

Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live:

Ask me no more

Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal'd I strove against the stream and all in vain:

Let the great river take me to the main:

No more, dear love, for at a touch 1 yield;

Ask me no more.

GUINEVERE.

Qüeen Guinevere had fled the court, and sat There in the holy house at Almesbury Weeping, none with her save a little maid, A novice: one low light betwixt them burn'd Blurr'd by the creeping mist, for all abroad.

Beneath a moon unseen albeit at full,

The white mist, like a face-cloth to the face,

Clung to the dead earth, and the land was still

For hither had she fled, her cause of flight Sir Modred; he the nearest to the king.

His nephew, ever like a subtle beast Lay couchant with his eyes upon the throne,

Reedy to spring, waiting a chance: for this • He chill'd the popular praises of the King With silent smiles of slow disparagement; And tamper'd with the Lord.i of the White Horse, Heathen, the brood by Hengist left; and sought To make disruption in the Table Round Of Arthur, and to splinter it into feuds Serving his traitorous end; and all his aims Were sharpen'd by strong hate for Lancelot.

For thus it chanced one morn when all the court. Green-suited, but with plumes that mock'd the may,

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Had been, their wont, a-maying and return'd.

That Modred still in green, all ear and eye,

Climb'd to the high top of the garden-wall

To spy some secret scandal if he might.

And saw the Queen who sat betwixt her best

Enid, and lissome Vivien, of her court

The wiliest and the worst; and more than this

He saw not, for Sir Lancelot passing by

Spied where he couch'd, and as the gardener's hand

Picks from the colewort a green caterpillar,

So from the high wall and the flowering grove

Of grasses Lancelot pluck'd him by the heel.

And cast him as a worm upon the way;

But when he knew the Prince tho' marr'd with dust.

He, reverencing king's blood in a bad man,

Made such excuses as he might, and these

Full knightly without scorn; for in those days

No knight of Arthur's noblest dealt in scorn;

But, if a man were halt or hunch'd, in him

By those whom God had made full-limb'd and tall

Scorn was allow'd as part of his defect,

And he was answer'd softly by the King

And all his Table. So Sir Lancelot holp

To raise the Prince, who rising twice or thrice

Full sharply smote his knees, and smiled, and went:

But, ever after, the small violence done

Rankled in him and ruffled all his heart,

As the sharp wind that ruffles all day long

A little bitter pool about a stone

On the bare coast.

But when Sir Lancelot told This matter to the Queen, at first she laugh'd Lightly, to think of Modred's dusty fall.

Then shudder'd, as the village wife who cries 'I shudder, some one steps across my grave;'

Then laugh'd again, but faintlier, for indeed She half-foresaw that he, the subtle beast.

Would track her guilt until he found, and hers Would be for evermore a name of scorn.

Henceforward rarely could she front in Hall,

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Or elsewhere, Modred's narrow foxy face, Heart-hiding smile, and gray persistent eye: Henceforward too, the Powers that tend the soul, To help it from the death that cannot die, And save it even in extremes, began To vex and plague her. Many a time for hours. Beside the placid breathings of the King,

In the dead night, grim faces came and went Before her, or a vague spiritual fear —

Like to some doubtful noise of creaking doors, Heard by the watcher in a haunted house,

That keeps the rust of murder on the walls —

Held her awake: or if she slept, she dream'd An awful dream; for then she seem'd to stand On some vast plain before a setting sun,

And from the sun there swiftly made at her A ghastly something, and its shadow flew Before it, till it touch'd her, and she tum'd — When lo! her own, that broadeaing from her feet, And blackening, swallow'd all the land, and in it Far cities burnt, and with a cry she woke.

And all this trouble did not pass but grew;

Till ev'n the clear face of the guileless King And trustful courtesies of household life,

Became her bane; and at the last she said, '0 Lancelot, get thee hence to thine own land. For if thou tarry we shall meet again.

And if we meet again, some evil chance quot;Will make the smouldering scandal break and blaze Before the people, and our lord the King.' And Lancelot ever promised, but remain'd, And still they met and met. Again she said, '0 Lancelot, if thou love me get thee hence.' And then they were agreed upon a night (When the good King should not be there) to meet And part for ever. Passion-pale they met And greeted; hands in hands, and eye to eye. Low on the border of her couch they sat Stammering and staring: it was their last hour, A madness of farewells. And Modred brought

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His creatures to the basement of the tower

For testimony; and crying with full voice

'Traitor, come out, ye are trapt at last,' aroused

Lancelot, who rushing outward lionlike

Leapt on him, and hurl'd him headlong, and he fell

Stunn'd, and his creatures took and bare him off

And all was still: then she, 'the end ia come

And I am shamed for ever;' and he said

'Mine be the shame; mine was the sin: but rise.

And fly to my strong castle overseas:

There will I hide thee, till my life shall end.

There hold thee with my life against the world.'

She answer'd 'Lancelot, wilt thou hold me so!

Nay friend, for we have taken our farewells.

Would God, that thou could'st hide me from myselfl

Mine is the shame, for I was wife, and thou

Unwedded: yet rise now, and let us fly.

For I will draw me into sanctuary.

And bide my doom.' So Lancelot got her horse,

Set her thereon, and mounted on his own,

And then they rode to the divided way.

There kiss'd, and parted weeping: for he past,

Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen,

Back to his land; but she to Almesbury

Fled all night long by glimmering waste and weald.

And heard the Spirits of the waste and weald

Moan as she fled, or thought she heard them moan:

And in herself she moan'd 'too late, too late!'

Till in the cold wind that foreruns the mom,

A blot in heaven, the Raven, flying high,

Croak'd, and she thought, 'He spies a field of death;

For now the Heathen of the Northern Sea,

Lnred by the crimes and frailties of the court.

Begin to slay the folk, and spoil the land'

And when she came- to Almesbury she spake There to the nuns, and said, 'mine enemies Pursue me, but, O peaceful Sisterhood,

Receive, and yield me sanctuary, nor ask Her name, to whom ye yield it, till her time

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To tell youand her beauty, grace and power, Wrought as a charm upon them, and they spared To ask it.

So the stately Queen abode For many a week, unknown, among the nuns ;

Nor with them mix'd, nor told her name, nor sought, Wrapt in her grief, for housel or for shrift, But communed only with the little maid,

Who pleased her with a babbling heedlessness Which often lured her from herself; but now.

This night, a rumour wildly blown about Came, that Sir Modred had usurped the realm, And leagued him with the heathen, while the King Was waging war on Lancelot; then she thought,

'With what a hate the people and the King Must hate meand bow'd down upon her hands Silent, until the little maid, who brook'd No silence, brake it, uttering 'Late! so late!

What hour, I wonder, now?' and when she drew No answer, by and by began to hum An air the nuns had taught her; 'Late, so late!'

Which when she heard, the Queen look'd up, and said, '0 maiden, if indeed ye list to sing.

Sing, and unbind my heart that I may weep.quot;

Whereat full willingly sang the little maid.

'Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill! Late, late, so late! but we can enter still.

Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.

'No light had we: for that we do repent; And learning this, the bridegroom will relent.

Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.

'No light; so late! and dark and chili the night! 0 let us in, that we may find the light!

Too late, too late; ye cannot enter now.

'Have we not heard the bridegroom is so sweet? 0 let us in, tho' late, to kiss his feet!

No, no, too late I ye cannot enter now.'

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So sang the novice, while full passionately,

Her head upon her hands, remembering Her thought when first she came, wept the sad Queen. Then said the little novice prattling to her.

'0 pray you, noble lady, weep no more;

But let my words, the words of one so small, Who knowing nothing knows but to obey,

And if I do not there is penance given —

Comfort your sorrows; for they do not ffow From evil done; right sure am I of that.

Who see your tender grace and stateliness.

But weigh your sorrows with our lord the King's, And weighing find them less; for gone is he To wage grim war against Sir Lancelot there,

Round that strong castle where he holds the Queen; And Modred whom he left in charge of all.

The traitor — Ah sweet lady, the King's grief For his own self, and his own Queen, and realm,

Must needs be thrice as great as any of ours.

For me, I thank the saints , I am not great.

For if there ever come a grief to me I cry my cry in silence, and have done.

None knows it, and my tears have brought me good: But even were the griefs of little ones As great as those of great ones, yet this grief Is added to the griefs the gieat must bear,

That howsoever much they may desire Silence, they cannot weep behind a cloud:

As even here they talk at Almesbury About the good King and his wicked Queen,

And were I such a King with such a Queen,

Well might I wish to veil her wickedness,

But were I such a King, it could not be.'

Then to her own sad heart mutter'd the Queen, 'Will the child kill me with her innocent talk?' But openly she answer'd 'Must not I,

If this false traitor have displaced his lord,

Grieve with the common grief of all the realm?'

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'Yea,' said the maid, 'this is all woman's grief. That she is woman, whose disloyal life Hath wrought confusion in the Table Bound Which good king Arthur founded, years ago.

With signs and miracles and wonders, there At Camelot, ere the coming of the Queen.'

Then thought the Queen within herself again; 'Will the child kill me with her foolish prate?' But openly she spake and said to her;

'0 little maid, shut in by nunnery walls ,

What canst thou know of Kings and Tables Round, Or what of signs and wonders, but the signs And simple miracles of thy nunnery?'

To whom the little novice garrulously.

⁴Yea, but I know: the land was full of signa And wonders ere the coming of the Queen.

So said my father, and himself was knight Of the great Table — at the founding of it; And rode thereto from Lyonnesse, and he said That as he rode, an hour or maybe twain After the sunset, down the coast, he heard Strange music, and he paused and turning — there All down the lonely coast of Lyonnesse,

Each with a beacon-star upon his head,

And with a wild sea-light about his feet,

He saw them — headland after headland flame Far on into the rich heart of the west:

And in the light the white mermaiden swam, And strong man-breasted things stood from the sea, And sent a deep sea-voice thro' all the land, To which the little elves of chasm and cleft Made answer, sounding like a distant horn.

So said my father — yea, and furthermore,

Next morning, while he past the dim-lit woods, Himself beheld three spirits mad with joy Come dashing down on a tall wayside flower,

That shook beneath them, as the thistle shakes When three gray linnets wrangle for the seed; And still at evenings on before his horse

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The flickering fairy-circle -wheel'd and broke Flying, and link'd again, and wheel'd and broke Flying, for all the land was full of life.

And when at last he came to Camelot,

A wreath of airy dancers hand-in-hand Swung round the lighted lantern of the hall; And in the hall itself was such a feast As never man had dream'd; for every knight Had whatsoever meat he long'd for served By hands unseen; and even as he said Down in the cellars merry bloated things Shoulder'd the spigot, straddling on the butts While the wine ran: so glad were spirits and men Before the coming of the sinful Queen.'

Then spake the Queen and somewhat bitterly. 'Were they so glad? ill prophets were they all. Spirits and men: could none of them foresee, Not even thy wise father with his signs And wonders, what has fall'n upon the realm?'

To whom the novice garrulously again, 'Tea, one, a bard; of whom my father said.

Full many a noble war-song had he sung,

Ev'n in the presence of an enemy's fleet,

Between the steep cliff and the coming wave; And many a mystic lay of life and death Had chanted on the smoky mountain-tops,

When round him bent the spirits of the hills With all their dewy hair blown back like flame: So said my father — and that night the bard Sang Arthur's glorious wars, and sang the King As well-nigh more than man, and rail'd at those Who call'd him the false son of Gorlots:

For there was no man knew from whence he came But after tempest, when the long wave broke All down the thundering shores of Bude and Boss, There came a day as still as heaven, and then They found a naked child upon the sands Of wild Tintagil by the Cornish sea;

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And that -was Arthur; and they foster'd him

Till he by miracle was approven king:

And that his grave should be a mystery

From all men , like his birth; and could he find

A woman in her womanhood as great

As he was in his manhood, then, he sang.

The twain together well might change the world.

But even in the middle of his song

He falter'd, and his hand fell from the harp.

And pale he turn'd, and reel'd, and would have fall'n

But that they stay'd him up; nor would he tell

His vision: but what doubt that he foresaw

This evil work of Lancelot and the Queen?'

Then thought the Queen 'lo! they have set her on, Our simple-seeming Abbess and her nuns,

To play upon me,' and bow'd her head nor spake. Whereat the novice crying, with claap'd hands.

Shame on her own garrulity garrulously.

Said the good nuns would check her gadding tongue Full often, 'and, sweet lady, if I seem To vex an ear too sad to listen to me,

Unmannerly, with prattling and the tales Which my good father told me, check me too: Nor let me shame my father's memory, one Of noblest manners, tho' himself would say Sir Lancelot had the noblest; and he died,

Killd'd in a tilt, come next, five summers back. And left me; but of others who remain ,

And of the two first-famed for courtesy —

And pray you check me if I ask amiss —

But pray you, which had noblest, while you moved Among them , Lancelot or our lord the King ?'

Then the pale Queen look'd up and answer'd her, 'Sir Lancelot, as became a noble knight, Was gracious to all ladies, and the same In open battle or the tilting-field Forbore his own advantage, and the King In open battle or the tilting-field

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Forbore his own advantage, and these two Were the most nobly-mannered men of all;

For manners are not idle, but the fruit Of loyal nature, and of noble mind.'

'Tea,' said the maid, 'be manners such fair fruit?quot;

Then Lancelot's needs must be a thousand-fold Less noble, being, as all rumour runs,

The most disloyal friend in all the world.'

To which a mournful answer made the Queen.

'0 closed about by narrowing nunnery-walls,

What knowest thou of the world, and all its lights And shadows, all the wealth and all the woe?

If ever Lancelot, that most noble knight,

Were for one hour less noble than himself.

Pray for him that he scape the doom of fire.

And weep for her, who drew him to his doom.'

'Yea,' said the little novice, 'I pray for both;

But I should all as soon believe that his,

Sir Lancelot's were as noble as the King's,

As I could think, sweet lady, yours would be Such us they are, were you the sinful Queen.'

So she, like many another babbler^ hurt Whom she would soothe, and harm'd where she would heal; For here a sudden flush of wrathful heat Fired all the pale face of the Queen, who cried,

'Such as thou art be never maiden more For ever I thou their tool, set on to plague And play upon, and harry me, petty spy And traitress.' When that storm of anger brake From Guinevere, aghast the maiden rose,

White as her veil, and stood before the Queen As tremulously as foam upon the beach Stands in a wind, ready to break and fly,

And when the Queen had added 'Get thee hence,'

Fled frighted. Then that other left alone Sigh'd, and began to gather heart again.

Saying in herself 'the simple, fearful child

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Meant nothing, but my own too-fearful guilt Simpler than any child, betrays itself.

But help me, heaven, for surely I repent.

For what is true repentance but in thought — Not ev'n in inmost thought to think again The sins that made the past so pleasant to us:

And I have sworn never to see him more,

To see him more.¹

And ev'n in saying this, Her memory from old habit of the mind Went slipping back upon the golden days In which she saw him first, when Lancelot came. Reputed the best knight and goodliest man, Ambassador, to lead her to his quot;lord Arthur, and led her forth, and far ahead Of his and her retinue moving , they,

Rapt in sweet talk or lively, all on love And sport and tilts and pleasure, (for the time Was maytime, and as yet no sin was dream'd,)

Rode under groves that look'd a paradise Of blossom, over sheets of hyacinth That seem'd the heavens upbreaking thro' the earth , And on from hill to hill, and every day Beheld at noon in some delicious dale The silk pavilions of King Arthur raised For brief repast or afternoon repose By couriers gone before; and on again,

Till yet once more ere set of sun they saw The Dragon of the great Pendragonship ,

That crown'd the state pavilion of the King,

Blaze by the rushing brook or silent well.

But when the Queen immersed in such a trance, And moving thro' the past unconsciously ,

Came to that point, when first she saw the King Ride toward her from the city, sigh'd to find Her journey done, glanced at him, thonght him cold, High, self-contain'd, and passionless, not like him, 'Not like my Lancelot' — while she brooded thus And grew half-guilty in her thoughts again,

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There rode an armed warrior to the doora.

A murmuring whisper thro' the nunnery ran,

Then on a sudden a cry, 'The King.' She sat Stiff-stricken, listening: but when armed feet Thro' the long gallery from the outer doors Rang coming, prone from off her seat she fell, And grovell'd with her face against the floor:

There with her milkwhite arms and shadowy hair She made her face a darkness from the King:

And in the darkness heard his armed feet Pause by her; then came silence, then a voice. Monotonous and hollow like a Ghost's Denouncing judgment, but the' changed the King's

'Liest thou here so low. the child of one I honour'd happy, dead before thy shame?

Well is it that no child is born of thee.

The children born of thee are sword and fire,

Red ruin, and the breaking up of laws,

The craft of kindred and the Godless hosts Of heathen swarming o'er the Northern Sea.

Whom I, while yet Sir Lancelot, my right arm. The mightiest of my knights, abode with me,

Have everywhere about this land of Christ In twelve great battles ruining overthrown.

And knowest thou now from whence I come — from him , From waging bitter war with him: and he.

That did not shun to smite me in worse way,

Had yet that grace of courtesy in him left.

He spared to lift his hand against the King Who made him knight: but many a knight was slain; And many more, and all his kith and kin Clave to him, and abode in his own land.

And many more when Modred raised revolt,

Forgetful of their troth and fealty , clave To Modred, and a remnant stays with me.

And of this remnant will I leave a part.

True men who love me still, for whom I live,

To guard thee in the wild hour coming on,

Lest but a hair of this low head be harm'd.

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Fear not: thou shalt be guarded till my death.

Howbeit I know, if ancient prophecies

Have err'd not, that I march to meet my doom.

Thou hast not made my life so sweet to me.

That I the King should greatly care to live;

For thou hast spoilt the purpose of my life.

Bear with me for the last time while I show,

Ev'n for thy sake, the sin which thou hast sinn'd.

For when the Roman left us, and their law

Relax'd its hold upon us, and the ways

Were fill'd with rapine, here and there a deed

Of prowess done redress'd a random wrong.

But I was first of all the kings who drew

The knighthood-errant of this realm and all

The realms together under me, their Head,

In that fair Order of my Table Round,

A glorious company, the flower of men.

To serve as model for the mighty world.

And be the fair beginning of a time.

I made them lay their hands in mine and swear

To reverence the King, as if he were

Their conscience, and their conscience as their King,

To break the heathen and uphold the Christ,

To ride abroad redressing human wrongs.

To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it,

To honour his own word, as if his God's,

To lead sweet lives in purest chastity,

To love one maiden only, cleave to her,

And worship her by years of noble deeds.

Until they won her; for indeed I knew

Of no more sutble master under heaven

Than is the maiden passion for a maid,

Not only to keep down the base in man.

But teach high thought, and amiable words

And courtliness, and the desire of fame,

And love of truth, and all that makes a man.

And all this throve before I wedded thee,

Believing 'lo mine helpmate, one to feel

My purpose and rejoicing in my joy.'

Then came thy shameful sin with Lancelot;

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Then came the sin of Tristram and laolt;

Then others, following these my mightiest knights,

And drawing foul ensample from fair names,

Sinn'd also, till the loathsome opposite

Of all my heart had destined did obtain,

And all thro' thee! so that this life of mine

I guard as God's high gift from scathe and wrong,.

Not greatly care to lose; but rather think

How sad it were for Arthur, should he live,

To sit once more within his lonely hall,

And miss the wonted number of my knights,

And miss to hear high talk of noble deeds

As in the golden days before thy sin.

For which of us, who might be left, could speak

Of the pure heart, nor seem to glance at thee?

And in thy bowers of Camelot or of Usk

Thy shadow still would glide from room to room.

And I should evermore be vext with thee

In hanging robe or vacant ornament,

Or ghostly footfall echoing on the stair.

For think not, tho' thou would'st not love thy lord'

Thy lord has wholly lost his love for thee.

I am not made pf so slight elements.

Yet must I leave thee, woman, to thy shame.

I hold that man the worst of public foes

Who either for his own or children's sake,

To save his blood from scandal, lets the wife

Whom he knows false, abide and rule the house:

For being thro' his cowardice allow'd

Her station, taken everywhere for pure,

She like a new disease, unknown to men,

Creeps, no precaution used, among the crowd,

Makes wicked' lightnings of her eyes, and saps

The fealty of our friends, and stirs the pulse

With devil's leaps, and poisons half the young.

Worst of the worst were that man he that reigns f

Better the King's waste hearth and aching heart

Than thou reseated in thy place of light,

The mockery of my people, and their bane.'

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He paused, and in the pause she crept an inch Nearer, and laid her hands about his feet.

Far off a solitary trumpet blew.

Then waiting by the doors the warhorse neigh'd As at a friend's voice, and he spake again.

'Yet think not that I come to urge thy crimes,

I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere,

I, whose vast pity almost makes me die To see thee, laving there thy golden head,

My pride in happier summers, at my feet.

The wrath which forced my thoughts on that fierce law. The doom of treason and the flaming death,

(When first I learnt thee hidden here) is past.

The pang — which while I weigh'd thy heart with one Too wholly true to dream untruth in thee,

Made my tears burn — is alsp past, in part.

And all is past, the sin is sinn'd, and I,

Lo! I forgive thee, as Eternal God Forgives: do thou for thine own soul the rest.

But how to take last leave of all I loved?

0 golden hair, with which I used to play Not knowing ! O imperial-moulded form,

And beauty such as never woman wore,

Until it came a kingdom's curse with thee —

1 cannot touch thy lips , they are not mine, But Lancelot's; nay, they never were the King's.

I cannot take thy hand; that too is flesh,

And in the flesh thou hast sinn'd; and mine own fleshy

Here looking down on thine polluted, cries

'1 loathe thee;' yet not less, O Guinevere,

For I was ever virgin save for thee,

My love thro' flesh hath wrought into my life

So far, that my doom is, I love thee still.

Let no man dream but that I love thee still.

Perchance, and so thou purify thy soul.

And so thou lean on our fair father Christ,

Hereafter in that world where all are pure

We two may meet before high God, and thou

Wilt spring to me, and claim me thine, and know

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I am thine husband — not a smaller soul,

Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave me that,

I charge thee, my last hope. Now must I hence.

Thro' the thick night I hear the trumpet blow:

They summon me their King to lead mine hosts

Far down to that great battle in the west,

Where I must strike against the man they call

My sister's son — no kin of mine, who leagues

With Lords of the White Horse, heathen, and knighta.

Traitors — and strike him dead, and meet myself

Death, or I know not what mysterious doom.

And thou remaining here wilt learn the event;

But hither shall I never come again ,

Never lie by thy side, see thee no more,

Farewell!'

And while she grovell'd at his feet,

She felt the King's breath wander o'er her neck. And, in the darkness o'er her fallen head,

Perceived the waving of his bands that blest.

Then, listening till those armed steps were gone, Rose the pale Queen, and in her anguish found The casement; ' peradventure' so she thought, ' If I might see bis face, and not be seen.'

And lo, he sat on horseback at the door!

And near him the sad nuns with each a light Stood, and he gave them charge about the Queen, To guard and foster her for evermore.

And while he spake to these his helm was lower'd To which for crest the golden dragon clung Of Britain; so she did not see the face.

Which then was as angel's, but she saw.

Wet with the mists and smitten by the lights, The Dragon of the great Pendragonship Blaze, making all the night a steam of fire.

And even then he turn'd; and more and more The moony vapour rolling round the King,

Who seem'd the phantom of a Giant in it,

Enwound him fold by fold, and made him gray And grayer, till himself became as mist Before her, moving ghostlike to his doom.

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Then she stretch'd out her arms and cried aloud ' Oh Arthur!' there her voice brake suddenly,

Then — as a stream that spouting from a cliff Fails in mid air, but gathering at the base Re-makes itself, and flashes down the vale —

Went on in passionate utterance.

' Gone — my lord ! Gone thro' my sin to slay and to be slain 1 And he forgave me, and I could not speak.

Farewell? 1 should have answer'd his farewell. His mercy choked me. Gone, my lord the King , My own true lord! how dare I call him mine? The shadow of another cleaves to me,

And makes me one pollution: he, the King,

Call'd me polluted: shall I kill myself?

What help in that ? I cannot kill my sin ,

If soul be soul; nor can I kill my shame;

No, nor by living can I live it down.

The days will grow to weeks, the weeks to months, The months will add themselves and make the years. The years will roll into the centuries,

And mine will ever be a name of scorn.

I must not dwell on that defeat of fame.

Let the world be; that is but of the world What else? what hope? I think there was a hope, Except he mock'd me when he spake of hope; His hope he call'd it; but he never mocks. For mockery is the fame of little hearts.

And blessed be the King, who hath forgiven My wickedness to him, and left me hope That in mine own heart I can live down sin And be his mate hereafter in the heavens Before high God. Ah great and gentle lord. Who wast, as is the conscience of a saint Among his warring senses, to thy knights — To whom my false voluptuous pride, that took Full easily all impressions from below,

Would not look up, or half-despised the height To which I would not or I could not climb — I thought I could not breathe in that fine air

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That pure severity of perfect light —

I wanted warmth and colour which I found In Lancelot — now I see thee what thou art,

Thou art the highest and most human too, Not Lancelot, nor another. Is there none Will tell the King I love him tho' so late? Now — ere he goes to the great Battle? none: Myself must tell him in that purer life.

But now it were too daring. Ah my God,

What might I not have made of thy fair world Had I but loved thy highest creature here?

It was my duty to have loved the highest:

It surely was my profit had I known:

It would have been my pleasure had I seen. We needs must love the highest when we see it. Not Lancelot, nor another.'

Here her hand Grasp'd, made her vail her eyes: she look'd and saw The novice, weeping, suppliant, and said to her 'Tea , little maid, for am I not forgiven ?'

Then glancing up beheld the holy nuns All round her, weeping; and her heart was loosed Within her, and she wept with these and said,

•Ye know me then, that wicked one, who broke The vast design and purpose of the King.

0 shut me round with narrowing nunnery-walls.

Meek maidens, from the voices crying ' shame.'

1 must not scorn myself: he loves me still.

Let no one dream but that he loves me still.

So let me, if you do not shudder at me,

Nor shun to call me sister, dwell with you;

Wear black and white, and be a nun like you;

Fast with your fasts, not feasting with your feasts; Grieve with your griefs, not grieving at your joys, But not rejoicing; mingle with your rites;

Pray and be pray'd for; lie before your shrines; Do each low office of your holy house;

Walk your dim cloister, and distribute dole To poor sick people, richer in His eyes

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Who ransom'd us, and haler too than I;

And treat their loathsome hurts and heal mine own;

And so wear out in almsdeed and in prayer

The sombre close of that voluptuous day,

Which wrought the ruin of my lord the King.¹

She said: they took her to themselves; and she Still hoping, fearing 'is it yet too late?'

Dwelt with them, till in time their Abbess died. Then she, for her good deeds and her pure life, And for the power of ministration in her, And likewise for the high rank she had borne, Was chosen Abbess, there, an Abbess, lived For three brief years, and there, an Abbess, past To where beyond these voices there is peace.

MORTE D'AETHUE.

So all day long the noise of battle roll'd Among the mountains by the winter sea;

Until King Arthur's table, man by man, Had fall'n in Lyonness about their Lord,

King Arthur; then, because his wound was deep, The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him.

Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights.

And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, A broken chancel with a broken cross.

That stood on a dark strait of barren land. On one side lay the Ocean, and on one Lay a great water, and the moon was full,

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: ' The sequel of to-day unsolders all The goodliest fellowship of famous knights Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep They sleep — the men I loved. I think that we Shall never more, at any future time.

Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, Walking about the gardens and the halls Of Camelot, as in the days that were.

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I perish by this people which I made , —

Tho' Merlin aware that I should come again

To rule once more — but let what will be, be,

I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm

That without help I cannot last till morn.

Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,

Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how

In those old days, one summer noon, an arm

Rose up from out the bosom of the lake,

Clothed in white samite, mystic , wonderful,

Holding the sword — and how I row'd across

And took it, and have worn it, like a king:

And, wheresoever I am sung or told

In aftertime, this also shall be known:

But now delay not: take Excalibur,

And fling him far into the middle mere:

Watch what thou seëst, and lightly bring me word.'

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere:

' It is not meet. Sir King, to leave thee thus,

Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm.

A little thing may harm a wounded man.

Yet I thy hest will all perform at full,

Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word.'

So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,

Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men, Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang.

Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock.

Came on the shining levels of the lake.

There drew he forth the brand Excalibur,

And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon. Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt:

For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work Of sublest jewellery. He gazed so long That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood.

This way and that dividing the swift mind.

In act to throw: but at the last it seem'd

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Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd There in the many-knotted watei-flags,

That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.

So strode he back slow to the wounded king.

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:

'Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave?

What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?'

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:

'I heard the ripple washing in the reeds,

And the wild water lapping on the crag.'

To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale:

'Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name, Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight:

For surer sign had follow'd, either hand,

Or voice, or else a motion of the mere.

This is a shameful thing for men to lie.

Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing I bad thee, watch, and lightly bring me word.'

Then went Sir Bedivere the second time Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere,

Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought;

But when he saw the wonder of the hilt.

How curiously and strangely chased, he smote His palms together, and he cried aloud.

' And if indeed I cast the brand away ,

Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,

Should thus be lost for ever from the earth,

Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.

What good should follow this, if this were done?

What harm, undone ? deep harji to disobey,

Seeing obedience is the bond of rule.

Were it well to obey then, if a king demand An act unprofitable, against himself?

The King is sick, and knows not what he does.

What record, or what relic of my lord Should be to aftertime, but empty breath And rumours of a doubt? but were this kept.

Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings,

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Some one might show it at a joust of arms,

Saying, 'King Arthur's sword, Excalibur,

Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake.

Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps

Upon the hidden bases of the hills.'

So might some old man speak in the aftertime

To all the people, winning reverence.

But now much honour and much fame were lost.'

So spake he, clouded with his own conceit,

And hid Excalibur the second time ,

And so strode back slow to the wounded King.

Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily:

'What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?'

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:

'I heard the water lapping on the crag.

And the long ripple washing in the reeds.'

To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath: 'Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue,

Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me!

Authority forgets a dying king.

Laid widow'd of the power in his eye That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art, For thou, the latest-left of all my knights ,

In whom should meet the offices all,

Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt;

Either from lust of gold, or like a girl Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes.

Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice,

And the third time may prosper, get thee hence: But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,

I will arise and slay thee with my hands.'

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran. And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd the sword. And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon, And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch, Shot like a streamer of the northern mom,

Seen where the moving isles of winter shock By night, with noises of the northern sea.

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So flaah'd and fell the brand Excalibur;

But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him Three times , and drew him under in the mere. And lightly went the other to the King.

Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath 'Now see I by thine eyes that this is done.

Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?'

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: ' Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems Should blind my purpose , for I never saw, Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die, Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men.

So great a miracle as yonder hilt.

Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him; But when I look'd again, behold an arm,

Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,

That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him Three times, and drew him under in the mere.'

And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard: 'My end draws nigh; 'tis time that I were gone. Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight, And bear me to the margin ; yet I fear My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die.'

So saying, from the pavement he half rose, Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm , And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears,

And would have spoken, but he found not words, Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee. O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands. And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs.

But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard, Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King, Muttering and murmuring at his ear, 'Quick, quick I fear it is too late, and I shall die.'

But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge,

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Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd _rLarger than human on the frozen hills.

He heard the deep behind him, and a cry Before. His own thought drove him like a goad. Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves And barren chasms, and all to left and righl The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels —

And on a sudden, lo! the level lake,

And the long glories of the winter moon.

Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge,

Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern.

Beneath them; and descending they were ware That all the decks were dense with stately forms Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — by these Three Queens with crowns of gold — and from them rose A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars,

And, as it were one voice, an agony Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills All night in a waste land, where no one comes,

Or hath come, since the making of the world.

Then murmur'd Arthur, 'Place me in the barge,' And to the barge they came. There those three Queens Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. But she, that rose the tallest of them all And fairest, laid his head upon her lap.

And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands, And call'd him by his name, complaining loud, And dropping bitter tears against his brow Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white And colourless, and like the wither'd moon Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east;

And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls —

That made his forehead like a rising sun High from the dais-throne — were parch'd with dust; Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,

Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. So like a shatter'd column lay the King;

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Nt like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,

From spur to plume a star of tournament,

Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere,

■ Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I goV Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?

For now I see the true old times are dead,

When every morning brought a noble chance,

And every chance brought out a noble knight.

Such times have been not since the light that led The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.

But now the whole hound table is dissolved Which was an image of the mighty world;

And I, the last, go forth companionless,

And the days darken round me, and the years,

Among new men, strange faces, other minds.'

And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge:

'The old order changeth, yielding place to new,

And God fulfils himself in many ways.

Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

Comfort thyself; what comfort is in me?

I have live d my life, and that which I have done May He within himself make pure! but thou,

If thou shouldst never see my face again,

Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice Bise like a fountain for me night and day.

For what are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life withia the brain.

If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friend?

For so the whole round earth is every way Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.

But now farewell. I am going a long way With these thou seëst — if indeed I go —

(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)

To the island-valley of Avilion;

Where falls not hail. or rain, or any snow,

Nor ever wiud blows loudly; but it lies

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Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea. Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.'

So said he, and the barge with oar and sail Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,

Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere Revolving many memories, till the hull Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn, And on the mere the wailing died away.

ENOCH ARDEN.

Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm; And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands; Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf In cluster; then a moulder'd church; and higher, A long street climbs to one tail-tower'd mill; And high in heaven behind it a gray down With Danish barrows; and a hazelwood, By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes Green in a cuplike hollow of the down.

Here on this beach a hundred years ago,

Three children of three houses, Annie Lee, The prettiest little damsel in the port.

And Philip Ray, the miller's only son , And Enofch Arden, a rough sailor's lad Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd Among the waste and lumber of the shore,

Hard coils of cordage, swarthy flshing-neta, Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats updrawn; And built their castles of dissolving sand To watch them overflow'd, or following up And flying the white breaker, daily left The little footprint daily wash'd away.

A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff:

In this the children play'd at keeping house-

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Enoch was host one day, Philip the next,

While Annie still was mistress; but at times Enoch woald hold possession for a week:

'This is my house and this my little wife.'

'Mine too' said Philip 'turn and turn about:' When, if they qnarrell'd, Enoch stronger-made Was master: then would Philip, his blue eyes All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears. Shriek out ' I hate you, Enoch,' and at this The little wife would weep for company.

And pray them not to quarrel for her sake. And say she would be little wife to both.

But when the dawn of rosy childhood past. And the new warmth of life's ascending sun Was felt by either, either fixt his heart On that one girl; and Enoch spoke his love. But Philip loved in silence; and the girl Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to him;

But she loved Enoch, tho' she knew it not. And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch set A purpose evermore before his eyes,

To hoard all savings to the uttermost.

To purchase his own boat, and make a home For Annie: and so prosper'd that at last A luckier or a bolder fisherman ,

A carefuller in peril, did not breathe For leagues along that breaker-beaten coast Than Enoch. Likewise had he served a year On board a merchantman, and made himself Full sailor; and he thrice had pluck'd a life From the dread sweep of the down-streaming seas And all men look'd upon him favourably:

And ere he touch'd his one-and-twentieth May He purchased his own boat, and made a home For Annie, neat and nestlike, halfway up The narrow street that clamber'd toward the mill.

Then, on a golden autumn eventide, The younger people making holiday,

With bag and sack and basket, great and small,

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Went nutting to the hazels. Philip stay'd (His father lying sick and needing him)

An hour behind; but as he climb'd the hill,

Just where the prone edge of the wood began To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair,

Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand ,

His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face All-kindled by a still and sacred fire ,

That bum'd as on an altar. Philip look'd,

And in their eyes and faces read his doom;

Then, as their faces drew together, groan'd, And slipt aside, and like a wounded life Crept down into the hollows of the wood;

There, while the rest were loud in merry-making, Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and past Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart.

So these were wed, and merrily rang the bells, And merrily ran the years, seven happy years,

Seven happy years of health and competence, And mutual love and honourable toil;

With children; first a daughter. In him woke,

With his first babe's first cry, the noble wish To save all earnings to the uttermost,

And give his child a better bringing-up Than his had been, or hers; a wish renew'd ,

When two years after came a boy to be The rosy idol of her solitudes,

While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas,

Or often journeying landward; for in truth Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's ocean-spoil In ocean-smelling osier, and his face,

Rough-redden'd with a thousand winter gales, Not only to the market-cross were known,

But in the leafy lanes behind the down,

Far as the portal-warning lion-whelp, And peacock-yewtree of the lonely Hall,

Whose Friday fare was Enoch's ministering.

Then came a change, as all things human change. Ten miles to northward of the narrow port

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Open'd a larger haven: thither used

Enoch at times to go by land or sea:

And once when there, and clambering on a mast

In harbour, by mischance he slipt and fell;

A limb was broken when they lifted him;

And while he lay recovering there, his wife

Bore him another son, a sickly one:

Another hand crept too across his trade

Taking her bread and theirs; and on him fell,

Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing man,

Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom.

He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the night,

To see his children leading evermore

Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth,

And her, he loved, a beggar: then he pray'd

'Save them from this, whatever comes to me.'

And while he pray'd, the master of that ship

Enoch had served in, hearing his mischance,

Came, for he knew the man and valued him,

Reporting of his vessel China-bound,

And wanting yet a boatswain. Would he go?

There yet were many weeks before she sail'd,

Sail'd from this port. quot;Would Enoch have the place

And Enoch all at once assented to it.

Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer.

So now that shadow of mischance appear'd No graver than as when some little cloud Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun.

And isles a light in the offing: yet the wife — When he was gone — the children — what to do? Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his plans;

To sell the boat — and yet he loved her well — How many a rough sea had he weather'd in her! He knew her, as a horseman knows his horse — And yet to sell her — then with what she brought Buy goods and stores — set Annie forth in trade With all that seamen needed or their wives — So might she keep the house while he was gone. Should he not trade himself out yonder? go

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This voyage more than once? yea twice or thrice As oft as needed — last, returning rich,

Become the master of a larger craft,

With fuller profits lead an easier life,

Have all his pretty young ones educated, And pass his days in peace among his own.

Thus Enoch in his heart determined all:

Then moving homeward came on Annie pale. Nursing the sickly babe, her latest-born.

Forward she started with a happy cry.

And laid the feeble infant in his arms;

Whom Enoch took', and handled all his limbs. Appraised his weight and fondled fatherlike. But had no heart to break his purposes To Annie, till* the morrow, when he spoke.

Then first since Enoch's golden ring had girt Her finger, Annie fought against his will:

Yet not with brawling opposition she , But manifold entreaties, many a tear,

Many a sad kiss by day by night renew'd (Sure that all evil would come out of it) Besought him, supplicating, if he cared For her or his dear children, not to go.

He not for his own self caring but her,

Her and her children, let her plead in vain; So grieving held his will, and bore it thro.'

For Enoch parted with his old sea-friend, Bought Annie goods and stores, and set his hand' To fit their little streetward sitting-room With shelf and corner for the goods and stores. So all day long till Enoch's last at home,

Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe, Auger and saw, while Annie seem'd to hear Her own death-scaffold raising, shrill'd and rang. Till this was ended , and his careful hand, — The space was narrow, — having order'd all Almost as neat and close as Nature packs Her blossom or her seedling, paused; and he,

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Who needs would work for Annie to the last, Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn.

And Enoch faced this morning of farewell Brightly and boldly. All his Annie's fears,

Save, as his Annie's, were a laughter to him. Tet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man Bow'd himself down, and in that mystery Where God-in-man is one with man-in-God,

Pray'd for a blessing on his wife and babes Whatever came to him: and then he said 'Annie, this voyage by the grace of God Will bring fair weather yet to all of us.

Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me, For I'll be back, my girl, before you know it.' Then lightly rocking baby's cradle ' and he,

This pretty, puny, weakly little one, — Nay — for I love him all the better for it — God bless him, he shall sit upon my knees And I will tell him tales of foreign parts, And make him merry, when I come home again. Come Annie, come, cheer up before I go.'

Him running on thus hopefully she heard, And almost hoped herself; but when he turn'd The current of his talk to graver things In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing On providence and trust in Heaven , she heard, Heard and not heard him; as the village girl. Who sets her pitcher underneath the spring. Musing on him that used to fill it for her,

Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow.

At length she spoke ' 0 Enoch, you are wise; And yet for all your wisdom well know I That I shall look upon your face no more.'

' Well thensaid Enoch, ' I shall look on yours Annie, the ship I sail in passes here (He named the day) get you a seaman's glass, Spy out my face, and laugh at all your fears.'

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But when the last of those last moments came, ' Annie, my girl, cheer up , be comforted,

Look to the babes, and till I come again ,

Keep everything shipshape, for I must go.

And fear no more for me; or if you fear Cast all your cares on God; that anchor holds.

Is He not yonder in those uttermost Parts of the morning? if I flee to these Can I go from Him? and the sea is His ,

The sea is His: He made it.'

Enoch rose ,

Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife, And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little ones;

But for the third, the sickly one, who slept After a night of feverous wakefulness,

When Annie would have raised him Enoch said 'Wake him not; let him sleep; how should the child Remember this?¹ and kiss'd him in his cot. But Annie from her baby's forehead dipt A tiny curl, and gave it: this he kept Thro' all his future; but now hastily caught His bundle, waved his hand, and went his way.

She when the day, that Enoch mention'd, came , Borrow'd a glass, but all in vain: perhaps She could not fix the glass to suit her eye;

Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous;

She saw him not: and while he stood on deck Waving, the moment and the vessel past.

Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing sail She watoh'd it, and departed weeping for him;

Then, tho' she mourn'd his absence as his grave, Set her sad will no less to chime with his, But throve not in her trade, not being bred To barter, nor compensating the want By shrewdness, neither capable of lies, $

Nor asking overmuch and taking less,

And still foreboding 'what would Enoch say?' For more than once, in days of difficulty And pressure, had she sold her wares for less

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Than what she gave in buying what she sold: She fail'd and sadden'd knowing it; and thus, Expectant of that news which never came,

Gain'd for her own a scanty sustenance, And lived a life of silent melancholy.

Now the third child was sickly-bom and grew Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for it With all a mother's care: nevertheless,

Whether her business often call'd her from it. Or thro' the want of what it needed most. Or means to pay the voice who best could tell What most it needed — howsoe'er it was,

After a lingering, — ere she was aware, —

Like the caged bird escaping suddenly,

The little innocent soul flitted away.

In that same week when Annie buried it, Philip's true heart, which hunger'd for her peace (Since Enoch left he had not look'd upon her), Smote him, as having kept aloof so long. 'Surely' said Philip 'I may see her now.

May be some little comfort;' therefore went.

Past thro' the solitary room in front.

Paused for a moment at an inner door,

Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening, Enter'd; but Annie, seated with her grief,

Fresh from the burial of her little one.

Cared not to look on any human face, But tum'd her own toward the wall and wept. Then Philip standing up said falteringly 'Annie, I came to ask a favour of you.'

He spoke: the passion in her moan'd reply 'Favour from one so sad and so forlorn As I am!' half abash'd him; yet nnask'd, His bashfulness and tenderness at war,

He set himself beside her, saying to her:

' I came to speak to you of what he wish'd, Enoch, your husband; I have ever said

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You chose the best among us — a strong man; For where he fixt his heart he set his hand To do the thing he wiird, and bore it thro'. And wherefore did he go this weary way, And leave you lonely? not to see the world — For pleasure? — nay, but for the wherewithal To give his babes a better bringing-up Than his had been, or yours: that was his wish. And if he come again, vest will he be To find the precious morning hours were lost. And it would vex him even in his grave ,

If he could know his babes were running wild Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, now — Have we not known each other all our lives ? I do beseech you by the love you bear Him and his children not to say me nay —

For, if you will, when Enoch comes again Why then he shall repay me — if you will,

Annie — for I am rich and well-to-do.

Now let me put the boy and girl to school:

This is the favour that I came to ask.'

Then Annie with her brows against the wall Answer'd ' I cannot look you in the face;

I seem so foolish and so broken down.

When you came in my sorrow broke me down; And now I think your kindness breaks me down; But Enoch lives; that is borne in on me:

He will repay you: money can be repaid; Not kindness such as yours.'

And Philip ask'd 'Then you will let me, Annie?'

There she turn'd, She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes upon him, And dwelt a moment on his kindly face.

Then calling down a blessing on his head Caught at his hand, and wrung it passionately. And past into the little garth beyond.

So lifted up in spirit he moved away.

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Then Philip put the boy and girl to school, And bought them needful books, and everyway,

Like one -who does his duty by his own,

Made himself theirs; and tho' for Annie's saku ,

Fearing the lazy gossip of the port,

He oft denied his heart his dearest wish,

And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sent Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit,

The late and early roses from his wall,

Or conies from the down, and now and then,

With some pretext of fineness in the meal To save the offence of charitable, flour From his tall mill that whistled on the waste.

But Philip did not fathom Annie's mind:

Scarce could the woman when he came upon her. Out of full heart and boundless gratitude Light on a broken word to thank him with.

But Philip was her children's all-in-all;

From distant corners of the street they ran To greet bis hearty welcome heartily;

Lords of his house and of his mill were they;

Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd with him And call'd him Father Philip. Philip gain'd As Enoch lost; for Enoch seem'd to them Uncertain as a vision or a dream,

Faint as a figure seen in early dawn Down at the far end of an avenue,

Going we know not where; and so ten years,

Since Enoch left his hearth and native land,

Fled forward, and no news of Enoch came.

It chanced one evening Annie's children lorg'd To go with others, nutting to the wood,

And Annie would go with them; then they begg'd For Father Philip (as they call'd him) too:

Him, like the working bee in blossom-dust.

Blanch'd with his mill, they found; and saying to him 'Come with us Father Philip' he denied;

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But when the cliildren pluck'd at him to go, He laugh'd, and yielded readily to their wish, For was not Annie with them? and they went.

But after scaling half the weary down,

Just where the prone edge of the wood began To feather toward the hollow, all her force Fail'd her; and sighing 'Let me rest' she said: So Philip rested with her well-content;

While all the younger ones with jubilant cries Broke from their elders, and tumultuously Down thro' the whitening hazels made a plunge To the bottom, and dispersed, and bent or broke The lithe reluctant boughs to tear away Their tawny clusters, crying to each other And calling, here and there, about the wood.

But Philip sitting at her side forgot Her presence, and remember'd one dark hour Here in this wood, when like a wounded life He crept into the shadow: at last he said,

Lifting his honest forehead ' Listen, Annie , How merry they are down yonder in the wood,' 'Tired, Annie?' for she did not speak a word, 'Tired?' but her face had fall'n upon her hands: At which, as with a kind of anger in him, 'The ship was lost' he said 'the ship was lost! No more of that! why should you kill yourself And make them orphans quite?' And Annie said 'I thought not of it: but — I know not why — Their voices make me feel so solitary.'

Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke. ' Annie , there is a thing upon my mind,

And it has been upon my mind so long,

That tho' I know not when it first came there, I know that it will out at last. O Annie,

It is beyond all hope, against all chance,

That he who left you ten long years ago Should still be living; well the.n — let me speak:

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I grieve to see you poor and wanting help:

I cannot help you as I wish to do

Unless — they say that women are so quick —

Perhaps you know what I would have you know —

I wish you for my -wife. I fain would prove

A father to your children: I do think

They love me as a father: I am sure

That I love them as if they were mine own ;

And I believe, if you were fast my wife,

That after all these sad uncertain years,

We might be still as happy as God grants

To any of His creatures. Think upon it:

For I am well-to-do — no kin, no care,

No burthen, save my care foi you and yours :

And we have known each other all our lives,

And I have loved you longer than you know.'

Then answer'd Annie; tenderly she spoke:

'You have been as God's good angel in our house. God bless you for it, God reward you for it,

Philip, with something happier than myself,

Can one love twice ? can you be ever loved As Enoch was? what is it that you ask?'

' I am content' he answer'd ' to be loved A little after Enoch.' '0' she cried Scared as it were ' dear Philip, wait a while:

If Enoch comes — but Enoch will not come —

Yet wait a year, a year is not so long:

Surely I shall be wiser in a year:

0 wait a little!' Philip sadly said 'Annie, as I have waited all my life

1 well may wait a little.' 'Nay' she cried

'I am bound: you have my promise — in a year:

Will you not bide your year as I bide mine?'

And Philip answer'd 'T will bide my year.'

Here both were mute, till Philip glancing up Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day Pass from the Danish barrow overhead;

Then fearing night and chill for Annie rose,

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And sent his voice beneath him thro¹ the wood. Up came the children laden with tbeir spoil;

Then all descended to the port, and there At Annie's door he paused and gave his hand, Saying gently ' Annie, when I spoke to you,

That was your hour of weakness. I was wrong I am always bound to you, but you are free.'

Then Annie weeping answer'd 'I am bound.'

She spoke; and in one moment as it were,

While yet she went about her household ways, Ev'n as she dwelt upon his latest words,

That he had loved her longer than she knew,

That autumn into autumn flash'd again,

And there he stood once more before her face, Claiming her promise. 'Is it a year?' she ask'd. 'Yes, if the nuts' he said 'be ripe again:

Come out and see.' But she — she put him off — So much to look to — such a change — a month -Give her a month — she knew that she was bound A month — no more. Then Philip with his eyes Pull of that lifelong hunger, and hia voice Shaking a little like a drunkard's band,

¹ Take your own time, Annie, take your own time.' And Annie could have wept for pity of him; And yet she held him on delayingly With many a scarce-believable excuse.

Trying his truth and his long-sufferance.

Till half-another year had slipt away.

By this the lazy gossips of the port.

Abhorrent of a calculation crost.

Began to chafe as at a personal wrong.

Some thought that Philip did but trifle with her Some that she but held off to draw him on; And others laagh'd at her and Philip too,

As simple folk that knew not their own minds; And one, in whom all evil fancies clung Like serpent eggs together, laughingly Would hint at worse in either. Her own son.

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Was silent, tho' he often look'd his wish;

But evennore the daughter prest upon her

To wed the man so dear to all of them.

And lift the household out of poverty;

And Philip's rosy face contracting grew

Careworn and wan; and all these things fell on her

Sharp as reproach.

At last one night it chanced That Annie could not sleep, but earnestly Pray'd for a sign ' my Enoch is he gone ?'

Then compass'd round by the blind wall of night Brook'd not the expectant terror of her heart,

Started from bed, and struck herself a light,

Then desperately seized the holy Book,

Suddenly set it wide to find a sign,

Suddenly put her finger on the text,

'Under a palmtree.' That was nothing to her:

No meaning there: she closed the Book and slept:

When lo! her Enoch sitting on a height.

Under a palmtree, over him the Sun:

'He is gone, she thought 'he is happy, he is singing Hosanna in the highest: yonder shines The Sun of Righteousness, and these be palms Whereof the happy people strowing cried ' Hosanna in the highest!' Here she woke,

Resolved, sent for him and said wildly to him 'There is no reason why we should not wed.'

' Then for God's sake,' he answer'd 'both our sakes So you will wed me, let it be at once.'

So these were wed and merrily rang the bells.

Merrily rang the bells and they were wed.

But never merrily beat Annie's heart.

A footstep seem'd to fall beside her path ,

She knew not whence; a whisper on her ear,

She knew not what; nor loved she to be left Alone at home, nor ventured out alone.

What ail'd her then, that ere she enter'd, often Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch,

Tearing to enter: Philip thought he knew:

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Sach doubts and fears were common to her state , Being •with child: but when her child was born, Then her new child was as herself renew'd,

Then the new mother came about her heart Then her good Philip was her all-in-all,

And that mysterious instinct wholly died.

And where was Enoch? prosperously sail'd The ship 'Good Fortune,¹ tho' at setting forth The Biscay, roughly ridging eastward, shook And almost overhelm'd her, yet unvext She slipt across the summer of the world.

Then after a long tumble about the Cape And frequent interchange of foul and fair. She passing thro' the summer world again, The breath of heaven came continually And sent her sweetly by the golden isles.

Till silent in her oriental haven.

There Enoch traded for himself, and bought Quaint monsters for the market of those times, A gilded dragon, also, for the babes.

Less lucky her home-voyage: at first indeed Thro' many a fair sea-circle, day by day. Scarce-rocking, her full-busted figure-head Stared o'er the ripple feathering from her bows: Then follow'd calms, and then winds variable. Then baffling, a long course of them; and last Storm, such as drove her under moonless heaven» Till hard upon the cry of 'breakers' came The crash of ruin, and the loss of all But Enoch and two others. Half the night,

Buoy'd upon floating tackle and broken spars, These drifted, stranding on an isle at mom Rich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea.

No want was there of human sustenance,

Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nourishing roots j Nor save for pity was it hard to take The helpless life so, wild that it was tame.

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quot;There in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorge

They built, and thatch'd with leaves of palm, a hut,

Half hut, half native cavern. So the three,

Set in this Eden of all plenteousness,

Dwelt with eternal summer, ill-content.

For one, the youngest, hardly more than boy,

Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and wreck. Lay lingering out a five-years' death-in-life.

They could not leave him. After he was gone, The two remaining found a fallen stem;

And Enoch's comrade, careless of himself. Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, fell Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone.

In those two deaths read God's warning 'wait.'

The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns And winding glades high up like ways to Heaven, The slender coco's drooping crown of plumes, The lightning flash of insect and of bird.

The lustre of the long convolvuluses That coil'd around the stately stems, and ran Ev'n to the limit of the land, the glows And glories of the broad belt of the world.

All these he saw; but what he fain had seen He could not see, the kindly human face.

Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl, The league-long roller thundering on the reef. The moving whisper of huge trees that branch'd And blossom'd in the zenith, or the sweep Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave,

As down the shore he ranged, or all day long Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge,

A ahipwreck'd sailor, -waiting for a sail;

No sail from day to day, but every day,

The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts Among the palms and ferns and precipices ;

The blaze upon the waters to the east;

The blaze upon his island overhead;

The blaze upon the waters to the west;

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Then the great stars that globed themselves in Heaven, The hollower-bellowing ocean, and again The scarlet shafts of sunrise — but no sail.

There often as he watch'd or seem'd to watch, So still, the golden lizard on him paused.

A phantom made of many phantoms moved Before him haunting him; or he himself Moved haunting people, things and places known Far in a darker isle beyond the line;

The babes, their babble, Annie, the small house. The climbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes, The peacock-yewtree and the lonely Hall,

The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the chill November dawns and dewy-glooming downs.

The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves,

And the low moan of leaden-colourquot;d seas.

Once likewise, in the ringing of his ears, Tho' faintly, merrily — far and far away —

He heard the pealing of his parish bells;

Then, tho' he knew not wherefore, started up Shuddering, and when the beauteous hateful isle Return'd upon him, had not his poor heart Spoken with That, which being everywhere Lets none, who speaks with Him, seem all alone,. Surely the man had died of solitude.

Thus over Enoch's early-silvering head The sunny and rainy seasons came and went Year after year. His hopes to see his own,

And pace the sacred old familiar fields,

Not yet had perish'd, when his lonely doom Came suddenly to an end. Another ship (She wanted water) blown by baffling winds,

Like the Good Fortune, from her destined course,

Stay'd by this isle, not knowing where she lay: For since the mate had seen at early dawn Across a break on the mist-wreathen isle The silent water slipping from the hills.

They sent a crew that landing burst away

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In search of stream or fount, and fill'd the shores

With clamour. Downward from his mountain gorge

Stept the long-hair'd long-bearded solitary,

Brown, looking hardly human, strangely clad,

Muttering and mumbling, idiotlike it seem'd

With inarticulate rage, and making signs

They knew not what: and yet he led the way

To where the rivulets of sweet water ran;

And ever as he mingled with the crew,

And heard them talking, his long-bounden tongue

Was loosen'd, till he made them understand;

Whom, when their casks were fill'd they took aboard

And there the tale he utter'd brokenly,

Scarce-credited at first but more and more.

Amazed and melted all who listen'd to it:

And clothes they gave him and free passage hone;

But oft he work'd among the rest and shook

His isolation from him. None of these

Came from his county, or could answer him,

If question'd, aught of what he cared to know.

And dull the voyage was with long delays,

The vessel scarce sea-worthy; but evermore

His fency fled before the lazy wind

Returning, till beneath a clouded moon

He like a lover down thro' all his blood

Drew in the dewy meadowy morning-breath

Of England, blown across her ghostly wall:

And that same morning officers and men

Levied a kindly tax upon themselves,

Pitying the lonely man, and gave him it:

Then moving up the coast they landed him,

Ev'n in thai harbour whence he sail'd before.

There Enoch spoke no word to anyone. But homeward—home—what home? had he a home? His home, he walk'd. Bright was that afternoon. Sunny but chill; till drawn thro' either chasm, Where either haven open'd on the deeps,

Roll'd a sea-haze and whelm'd the world in gray ; Cut off the length of highway on before.

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And left but narrow breadth to left and right Of wither'd holt or tilth or pasturage.

On the nigh-naked tree the Robin piped Disconsolate, and thro' the dripping haze The dead weight of the dead leaf bore it down: Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the gloom;

Last, as it seem'd, a great mist-blotted light Flared on him, and he came upon the place.

Then down the long street having slowly stolen, His heart foreshadowing all calamity.

His eyes upon the stones, he reach'd the home Where Annie lived and loved him, and his babes In those far-off seven happy years were born; But finding neither light nor murmur there (A bill of sale gleam'd thro' the drizzle) crept Still downward thinking 'dead or dead to me!'

Down to the pool and narrow; wharf he went. Seeking a tavern which of old he knew,

A front of timber-crost antiquity.

So propt, worm-eaten, ruinously old.

He thought it must have gone; but he was gone Who kept it; and his widow, Miriam Lane,

With daily-dwindling profits held the house; A haunt of brawling seamen once, but now Stiller, with yet a bed for wandering men.

There Enoch rested silent many days.

But Miriam Lane was good and garrulous, Nor let him be, b^ut often breaking in.

Told him, with other annals of the port. Not knowing — Enoch was so brown, bo bow'd, So broken — all the story of his house.

His baby's death, her growing poverty.

How Philip put her little ones to school.

And kept them in It, his long wooing her. Her slow consent, and marriage, and the birth Of Philip's child: and o'er his countenance No shadow past, nor motion: anyone.

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Regarding, -well had deem'd he felt the tale Less than the teller: only when she closed ' Enoch, poor man, was cast away and lost' He, shaking his gray head pathetically,

Repeated muttering 'cast away and lost;'

Again in deeper inward whispers 'lost!'

But Enoch yeam'd to see her face again; ■•If I might look on her sweet face again And know that she is happy.' So the thought Haunted and barass'd him, and drove him forth. At evening when the dull November day Was growing duller twilight, to the hill.

There he sat down gazing on all below.

There did a thousand memories roll upon him, Unspeakable for sadness. By and by The ruddy square of comfortable light,

Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house. Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures The bird of passage, till he madly strikes Against it, and beats out his weary life.

For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street, The latest house to landward; but behind.

With one small gate that open'd on the waste, Flourish¹ a little garden square and wall'd:

And in it throve an ancient evergreen,

A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk Of shingle, and a walk divided it:

But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk and stole Up by the wall, behind the yew; and thence That which he better might have shunn'd if griefs Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw.

For cups and silver on the burnish'd board Sparkled and shone; so genial was the hearth: And on the right hand of the hearth he saw Philip, the slighted suitor of old times,

Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees; And o'er her second father stoopt a girl,

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A later but a loftier Annie Lee,

Fair-hair'd and tall, and from her lifted hand Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring To tempt the babe, who rear'd his creasy arms. Caught at and ever miss'd it, and they laugh'd: And on the left hand of the hearth he saw The mother glancing often toward her babe. But turning now and then to speak with him. Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong, And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled.

Now when the dead man come to life beheld His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee,

And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness. And his own children tall and beautiful.

And him, that other, reigning in his place,

Lord of his rights and of his children's love —

Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him all,

Because things seen are mightier than things heard, Stagger'd and shook, holding the branch, and fear'd To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry.

Which in one moment, like the blast of doom, Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth.

He therefore turning softly like a thief.

Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot. And feeling all along the garden-wall.

Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found.

Crept to the gate, and open'd it, and closed. As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door,

Behind him, and came out upon the waste.

And there he would have knelt, but that his knees Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug His fingers into the wet earth, and pray'd.

'Too hard to bear! why did they take me thence? O God Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou That did'st uphold me on my lonely isle.

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75-

Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness A little longer! aid me, give me strength Not to tell her, never to let her know.

Help me not to break in upon her peace.

My children too! must I not speak to these?

They know me not. I should betray myself.

Never: no father's kiss for me — the girl So like her mother, and the boy, my son.'

There speech and thought and nature fail'd a little ₇And he lay tranced; but when he rose and paced Back toward his solitary home again.

All down the long and narrow street he went Beating it in upon his weary brain,

As tho' it were the burthen of a song,

'Not to tell her, never to let her know.'

He was not all unhappy. His resolve Upbore him, and firm faith, and evermore Prayer from a living source within the will.

And beating up thro' all the bitter world,

Like fountains of sweet water in the sea.

Kept him a living soul. 'This miller's wife'

He said to Miriam 'that you spoke about,

Has she no fear that her first husband lives?'

'Ay, ay, poor soul' said Miriam, 'fear enow!

If you could tell her you had seen him dead,

Why, that would be her comfort;' and he thought 'After the Lord has call'd me she shall know,

I wait His time' and Enoch set himself,

Scorning an alms, to work whereby to live.

Almost to all things could he turn his hand.

Cooper he was and carpenter, and wrought To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or help'd At lading and unlading the tall barks.

That brought the stinted commerce of those days;.

Thus eam'd a scanty living for himself:

Yet since he did but labour for himself.

Work without hope, there was not life in it Whereby the man could live: and as the year

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Roll'd itself round again to meet the day When Enoch had retum'd, a languor came Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually Weakening the man, till he could do no more, But kept the house, his chair, and last his bed. And Enoch bore his weakness cheerfully.

For sure no gladlier does the stranded wreck See thro' the gray skirts of a lifting squall The boat that bears the hope of life approach To save the life despair'd of, than he saw Death dawning on him, and the close of all.

For thro' that dawning gleam'd a kindlier hope On Enoch thinking 'after I am gone,

Then may she learn I loved her to the last.'

He call'd aloud for Miriam Lane and said 'Woman, I have a secret — only swear.

Before I tell you — swear upon the book Not to reveal it, till you see me dead.'

'Dead' clamour'd the good woman 'hear him talk! I warrant, man, that we shall bring you round.' 'Swear' added Enoch sternly 'on the book.'

And on the book, half-frighted, Miriam swore.

Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon her,

' Did you know Enoch Arden of this town ?'

'Know him?' she said 'I knew him far away Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the street;

Held his head high, and cared for no man, he.'

Slowly and sadly Enoch answer'd her;

'His head is low, and no man cares for him.

I think I have not three days more to live;

I am the man.' At which the woman gave A half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry.

'You Arden, you! nay, — sure he was a foot Higher than you be.' Enoch said again 'My God has bow'd me down to what I am;

My grief and solitude have broken me;

Nevertheless, know you that I am he Who married — but that name has twice been changed I married her who married Philip Ray.

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Sit, listen.' Then he told her of his voyage, His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back, His gazing in on Annie, his resolve.

And how he kept it. As the woman heard.

Fast flow'd the current of her easy tears.

While in her heart she yeam'd incessantly To rush abroad all round the little haven, Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes;

But awed and promise-bounden she forbore.

Saying only ' See your bairns before you go!

Eh, let me fetch 'em. Arden,' and arose Eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung A moment on her words, but then replied:

'Woman, disturb me not now at he last,

But let me hold my purpose till I die.

Sit down again; mark me and understand.

While I have power to speak. I charge you now. When you shall see her, tell her that I died Blessing her, praying for her, loving hqr;

Save for the bar between us, loving her As when she laid her head beside my own.

And tell my daughter Annie, whom I saw So like her mother, that my latest breath Was spent in blessing her and praying for her. And tell my son that I died blessing him.

And say to Philip that I blest him too;

He never meant us any thing but good.

But if my children care to see me dead. Who hardly knew me living, let them come, I am their father; but she must not come.

For my dead face would vex her after-life.

And now there is but one of all my blood, Who will embrace me in the world-to-be:

This hair is his: she cut it off and gave it,

And I have borne it with me all these years, And thought to bear it with me to my grave; But now my mind in changed, for I shall see him. My babe in bliss: wherefore when I am gone, Take, give her this, for it may comfort her:

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It -will moreover be a token to her,

That I am he.'

He ceased: and Miriam Lane Made such a voluble answer promising all,

That once again he roll'd his eyes upon her Repeating all he wish'd, and once again She promised.

Then the third night after this, While Enoch slumber'd motionless and pale, And Miriam watch'd and dozed at intervals,

There came so loud a calling of the sea,

That all the houses in the haven rang.

He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad Crying with a loud voice 'A sail! a sail! I am saved;¹ and so fell back and spoke no more.

So past the strong heroic soul away.

And when they buried him the little port Had seldom seen a costlier funeral.

BREAK, BKEAK, BREAK.

Beeak, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!

And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy.

That he shouts with his sister at play!

O well for the sailor lad,

That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill;

But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand. And the sound of a voice that is still!

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Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, o Sea!

But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.

THE SAILOR BOY.

Hb rose at dawn and, fired with hope,

Shot o'er the seething harbour-bar.

And reach'd the ship and caught the rope. And whistled to the morning star.

And while he whistled long and loud He heard a fierce mermaiden cry,

¹0 boy, tho' thou art young and proud,

I see the place where thou wilt lie.

'The sands and yeasty surges mix In caves about the dreary bay,

And on thy ribs the limpet sticks,

And in thy heart the scrawl shall play.¹

' Fool,' he answer'd, ' death is sure

To those that stay and those that roam.

But I will nevermore endure

To sit with empty hands at home.

'My mother clings about my neck,

My sisters crying ' stay for shame;

My father raves of death and wreck.

They are all to blame, they are all to blame.

⁴God help me! save I take my part Of danger on the roaring sea,

A devil rises in my heart.

Far worse than any death to me,'

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A FAEEWELL.

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, Thy tribute wave deliver:

No more by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever.

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, A rivulet then a river:

No where by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever.

But here will sigh thine alder tree, And here thine aspen shiver;

And here by thee will hum the bee. For ever and for ever.

A thousand suns will stream on thee A thousand moons will quiver;

But not by thee my steps shall be. For ever and for ever.

THE FLOWEE.

Once in a golden hour I cast to earth a seed.

Up there came a flower, The people said, a weed.

To and fro they went Thro' my garden-bower.

And muttering discontent Cursed me and my flower.

Then it grew so tall

It wore a crown of light,

But thieves from o'er the wall Stole the seed by night.

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Sow'd it far and -wide By every town and tower,

Till all the people cried,

' Splendid is the flower.'

Read my little fable:

He that runs may read.

Most can raise the flowers now,

For all have got the seed.

And some are pretty enough.

And some are poor indeed;

And now again, the people Call it but a weed.

ROBERT BROWNING (1812—). CAVALIER TUNES.

i. marching- along.

Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King,

Biding the crop-headed Parliament swing:

And, pressing a troop unable to stoop

And see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop,

Marched them along, fifty score strong.

Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.

God for King Charles! Pym and such carles

To the Devil that prompts 'em their treasonous paries!

Cavaliers, up! Lips from the cup,

Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup

Till you're—

( Chorus) Marching along, fifty-score strong,

Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song,

iii.

Hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knell Serve Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well!

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England, good cheer 1 Rupert is near!

Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here

(Chorus) Marching along, fifty-score strong,

Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song ?

iv.

Then, God for King Charles! Pym and his snarls

To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent carles!

Hold by the right, you double your might;

So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for the fight,

( Chorus) March me along, fifty-score strong,

Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song!

ii. give a rouse.

King Charles, and who '11 do him right now ?

King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now?

Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now,

King Charles!

ii.

Who gave me the goods that went since?

Who raised me the house that sank once?

Who helped me to gold I spent since?

Who found me in wine you drank once?

(Chorus) King Charles, and who'll do him right now ?

King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, King Charles!

in.

To whom used my boy George quaff else,

By the old fool's aide that begot him?

For whom did he cheer and laugh else,

While Noll's damned troopers shot him?

(Chorus) King Charles, and who'll do him right now ?

King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now ? Give a rouse: here's, in helts despite now. King Charles!

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ill . boot and saddle.

Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!

Rescue my castle before the hot day Brightens to blue from its silvery grey,

( Chorus) Boot, saddle, to horse, and away

ii.

Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say;

Many's the friend there, will listen and pray ' God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay—

{Chorus) ' Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!

iii.

Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay,

Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array: Who laughs, ' Good fellows ere this, by my fay,

(Chorus) ' Boot, saddle, to horse, and away?

vi.

Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay Laughs when you talk of surrendering, ' Nay, 'I've better counsellors; what counsel they?

(Chorus) 'Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!

HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHEKT TO ADE.

[16-.]

I spkang to the strirup, and Joris, and he;

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;

' Good speed!' cried the -watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; * Speed!' echoed the wall to us galloping through;

Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,

And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

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ii.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride by stride , never changing our place I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight.

Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right. Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

in.

'T was moonset at starting; but while we drew near Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;

At Düffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be;

And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,. So, Joris broke silence with, 'Yet there is time!'

IV.

At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,

And against him the cattle stood black every one,

To stare thro' the mist at us galloping past.

And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,

With resolute shoulders, each butting away The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray:

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; And one eye's black intelligence, — ever that glance O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance! And the thick heavy spume-flakea which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.

VI.

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, 'Stay spur! 'Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her,

'We'll remember at Aix'—for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees _rAnd sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank.

As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

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VII.

So, we were left galloping, Joris and 1,

Past Looz and past Tongres , no cloud in the sky;

The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,

'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;

Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white ,

And 'Gallop,' gasped Joris, 'for Aix is in sight!'

VII.

' How they'll greet us!' — and all in a moment his roan Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;

And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate.

With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim , And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

IX.

Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall,

Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,

Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,

Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

And all I remember is, friends flocking round

As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;

And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,

As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine.

Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)

Was no more than his due who brougt good news from Ghent.

INCIDENT OP THE FRENCH CAMP.

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon

A mile or so away On a little mound, Napoleon

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Stood on our storming-day;

With neck out-thrust, you fancy how.

Legs -wide, arms locked behind,

As if to balance the prone brow Oppressive with its mind.

ii.

Just as perhaps he mused 'My plans

'That soar, to earth may fall,

'Let once my army-leader Lannes

'Waver at yonder wall,'—

Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew

A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping; nor bridle drew Until he reached the mound.

in.

Then off there flung in smiling joy ,

And held himself erect By just his horse's mane , a boy:

Tou hardly could suspect —

(So tight he kept his lips compressed.

Scarce any blood came through)

You looked twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two.

IV.

'Well,' cried he, 'Emperor, by God's grace

'We've got you Ratisbon!

' The Marshal's in the market-place,

'And you'll be there anon 'To see your flag-bird flap his vans

' Where I, to heart's desire,

'Perched him!' The chiefs eye flashed; his plans Soared up again like fire.

The Chiefs eye flashed; but presently

Softened itself, as sheathes A film the mother-eagle's eye

When her bruised eaglet breathes;

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'You're wounded!' 'Nay,' the soldier's pride

Touched to the quick, he said:

' I'm killed, Sire!' And his chief beside , Smiling the boy fell dead.

THE LOST LEADER.

Just for a handful of silver he left us,

Just for a riband to stick in his coat-Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,

Lost all the others she lets us devote;

They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,

So much was theirs who so little allowed:

How all our copper had gone for his service!

Rags—were they purple, his heart had been proud! We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him.

Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,

Learned his great language, caught his clear accents,

Made him our pattern to live and to die!

Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us,

Burns, Shelley, were with us,—they watch from their graves He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,

He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!

We shall march prospering,—not thro' his presence;

Songs may inspirit us,—not from his lyre.;

Deeds will be done,—while he boasts his quiescence.

Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire:

Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more,

One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, One more devils'-triumph and sorrow for angels.

One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!

Life's night begins: let him never come back to us!

There would be doubt, hesitation and pain,

Forced praise on our part—the glimmer of twilight,

Never glad confident morning again!

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Best fight on ■well, for we taught him—strike gallantly.

Menace our heart ere we master his own;

Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!

«•

EVELYN HOPE.

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead!

Sit and -watch by her side an hour.

That is her book-shelf, this her bed;

She plucked that piece of geranium-flower. Beginning to die too, in the glass;

Little has yet been changed, I think: The shutters are shut, no light may pass Save two long rays thro' the hinge's chink.

ii.

Sixteen years old when she died!

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name; It was not her time to love; beside.

Her life had many a hope and aim,

Duties enough and little cares.

And now was quiet, now astir.

Till God's hand beckoned unawares,—

And the sweet white brow is all of her.

Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope ?

What, your soul was pure and true,

The good stars met in your horoscope,

Made you of spirit, fire and dew—

And, just because I was thrice as old

And our paths in the world diverged so wide, Each was nought to each, must I be told? We were fellow mortals, nought beside?

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IV.

No, indeed! for God above

Is great to grant, as mighty to make,

And creates the love to reward the love:

I claim you still, for my own love's sake!

Delayed it may be for more lives yet.

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few:

Much is to learn and much to forget Ere the time be come for taking you.

But the time will comeat last it will,

When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say) In the lower earth, in the years long still,

That body and soul so pure and gay?

Why your hair was amber, I shall divine.

And your mouth of your own geranium's red— And what you would do with me, in fine.

In the new life come in the old one's stead.

VI.

I have lived (I shall say) so much since then,

Given up myself so many times,

Gained me the gains of various men,

Kansacked the ages, spoiled the climes;

Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope,

Either I missed or itself missed me:

And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope!

What is the issue? let us see!

VII.

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while!

My heart seemed full as it could hold—

There was place and to spare for the frank young smile,

And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. So, hush,—I will give you this leaf to keep:

See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand!

There, that is our secret: go to sleep!

You will wake, and remember, and understand.

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BY THE FIRE-SIDE.

How well I know what I mean to do

When the long dark autumm evenings come; And where, my soul, is thy pleasant hue?

With the music of all thy voices, dumb In life's November too!

ii.

I shall be found by the fire, suppose,

O'er a great wise book as beseemeth age, While the shutters flap as the cross-wind blows.

And I turn the page, and I turn the page, Not verse now, only prose!

ill.

Till the young ones whisper, finger on lip,

'There he is at it, deep in Greek:

'Now then, or never, out we slip

'To cut from the hazels by the creek ' A mainmast for our ship!'

iv.

I shall be at it indeed, my friends!

Greek puts already on either side Such a branch-work forth as soon extends

To a vista opening far and wide,

And I pass out where it ends.

V.'

The outside-frame, like your hazel-trees—

But the inside-archway widens fast.

And a rarer sort succeeds to these,

And we slope to Italy at last And youth, by green degrees.

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VI.

I follow -wherever I am led,

Knowing so well the leader's hand: Oh woman-country, wooed not wed,

Loved all the more by earth's male-lands, Laid to their hearts instead!

VII.

Look at the ruined chapel again

Half-way up in the Alpine gorge!

Is that a tower, I point you plain,

Or is it a mill, or an iron forge Breaks solitude in vain?

VIII.

A turn, and we stand in the heart of things;

The woods are round us, heaped and dim; From slap to slap how it slips and springs,

The thread of water single and slim, Through the ravage some torrent brings!

IX.

Does it feed the little lake below

That speck of white just on its marge Is Pella; see, in the evening-glow,

How sharp the silver spear-heads charge When Alp meets heaven in snow!

On our other side is the straight-up rock:

And a path is kept 'twixt the gorge and it By boulder-stones where lichens mock

The marks on a moth, and small ferns fit Their teeth to the polished block.

XI.

Oh the sense of the yellow mountain-flowers,

And thorny balls, each three in one, The chestnuts throw on our path in showers!

For the drop of the woodland fruit's begun, These early November hours ,

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XII.

That crimson the creeper's leaf across

Like a splash of blood, intense, abrupt,

O'er a shield else gold from rim to boss,

And lay it for show on the fairj-cupped Elf-needled mat of moss,

XIII.

By the rose-flesh mushrooms, undivulged

Last evening—nay, in to-day's first dew Yon sudden coral nipple bulged,

Where a freaked fawn-coloured flaky'crew Of toad-stools peep indulged.

XIV.

And yonder, at foot of the fronting ridge That takes the turn to a range beyond.

Is the chapel reached by the pne-arched bridge

Where the water is stopped in a stagnant pond Danced over by the midge.

xv.

The chapel and bridge are of stone alike.

Blackish-grey and mostly wet;

Cut hemp-stalks steep in the narrow dyke.

See here again, how the lichens fret And the roots of the ivy strike!

xvi.

Poor little place, where its one priest comes

On a festa-day, if he comes at all,

To the dozen folk from their scattered homes.

Gathered within that precinct small By the dozen ways one roams—

XVII.

To drop from the charcoal-burners' huts,

Or climb from the hemp-dressers's low shed, Leave the grange where woodman stores his nuts.

On the wattled cote where the fowlers spread Their gear on the rock's bare juts.

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xvnr.

It has some pretension too, this front,

With its bit of fresco half-moon-wise Set over the porch, Art's early wont:

'T is John in the Desert, I surmise,

But has borne the weather's brunt—

XIX.

Not from the fault of the builder, though.

For a pent-house properly projects Where three carved beams make a certain show,

Dating—good thought of our architect's— 'Five, six, nine, he lets you know.

xx.

And all day long a bird sings there,

And a stray sheep drinks at the pond at times The place is silent and aware;

It has had its scenes, its joys and crimes. But that is its own affair.

xxi.

My perfect wife, my Leonor,

Oh heart, my own, oh eyes, mine too,

Whom else could I dare look backward for,

With whom beside should I dare pursue The path grey heads abhor?

XXII.

For it leads to a crag's sheer edge with them;

Youth, flowery all the way, there stops— Not they; age threatens and they contemn,

Till they reach the gulf wherein youth drops. One inch from our life's safe hem!

XXIII.

With me, youth led ... I will speak now.

No longer watch you as you sit Beading by fire-light, that great brow

And the spirit-small hand propping it.

Mutely, my heart knows how—

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XXIV.

When, if I think but deep enough,

You are wont to answer, prompt as rhyme; And you, too, find without rebuff

Response your soul seeks many a time Piercing its fine flesh-stuff.

XXV.

My own, confirm me! If I tread

This path back, is it not in pride To think how little I dreamed it led

To an age so blest that, by its side,

Youth seems the waste instead?

XXVI.

My own, see where the years conduct!

At first, 't was something our two souls Should mix as mists do; each is sucked

In each now; on, the new stream rolls, Whatever rocks obstruct.

XXVII.

Think, when our one soul understands

The great Word which makes all things new. When earth breaks up and heaven expands, How will the change strike me and you the house not made with hands?

XXVIII.

Oh I must feel your brain prompt mine,

Your heart anticipate my heart.

You must be just before, in fine,

See and make me see, for your part, New depths of the divine!

XXIX.

But who could have expected this

When we two drew together first Just for the obvious human bliss.

To satisfy life's daily thirst With a thing men seldom miss ?

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XXX.

Come back with me to the first of all,

Let us lean and love it over again,

Let us now forget and now recall,

Break the rosary in a pearly rain, And gather what we let fall!

XXXI.

What did I say?—that a small bird sings All day long, save when a brown pair Of hawks from the wood float with wide wings

Strained to a bell: 'gainst noon-day glare You count the streaks and rings.

XXXII.

But at afternoon or almost eve

'T is better; then the silence grows To that degree, you half believe

It must get rid of what it knows.

Its bosom does so heave.

XXXIII.

Hither we walked then, side by side.

Arm in arm and cheek to cheek,

And still 1 questioned or replied.

While my heart convulsed to really speak. Lay choking in its pride.

XXXIV.

Silent the crumbling bridge we cross.

And pity and praise the chapel sweet. And care about the fresco's loss.

And wish for our souls a like retreat. And wonder at the moss.

xxxv.

Stoop and kneel on the settle under.

Look through the window's grated square: Nothing to see! For fear of plunder,

The cross is down and the altar bare;

As if thieves don't fear thunder.

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XXXVI.

We stoop and look in through the grate,

See the little porch and rustic door,

Bead duly the dead builder's date;

Then cross the bridge we crossed before,

Take the path again—but wait!

XXXVII.

Oh moment, one and infinite!

The water slips o'er stock and stone;

The West is tender, hardly bright:

How grey at once is the evening grown— One star, the chrysolite!

XXXVIII.

We two stood there with never a third,

But each by each, as each knew well: The sights we saw and the sounds we heard. The lights and the shades made up a spell Till the trouble grew and stirred.

xxxix.

Oh, the little more, and how much it is!

And the little less, and what worlds away! How a sound shall quicken content to bliss, Or a breath suspend the blood's best play. And life be a proof of this!

XL.

Had she willed it, still had stood the screen

So slight, so sure, 'twixt my love and her: I could fix her face with a guard between, And find her soul as when friends confer, Friends—lovers that might have been.

XLI.

For my heart had a touch of the woodland-time,

Wanting to sleep now over its best.

Shake the whole tree in the summer-prime,

But bring to the last leaf no such test!

'Hold the last fast!' runs the rhyme.

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XL1I.

For a chance to make your little much,

To gain a lover and lose a friend,

Venture the tree and a myriad such,

When nothing you mar but the year can mend:

But a last leaf—fear to touch!

XLIII.

Yet should it unfasten itself and fall Eddying down till it find your face At some slight wind—best chance of all!

Be your heart henceforth its dwelling-place You trembled to forestall I

XLIV.

Worth how well, those dark grey eyes.

That hair so dark and dear, how worth That a man should strive and agonise.

And taste a very hell on earth For the hope of such a prize!

XLV.

You might have turned and tried a man,

Set him a space to weary and wear.

And prove which suited more your plan,

His best of hope or his worst despair.

Yet end as he began.

XLVI.

But you spared me this, like the heart you are.

And filled my empty heart at a word.

If two lives join, there is oft a scar.

They are one and one, with a shadowy third; One near one is too far.

XLVII.

A moment after, and hands unseen

Were hanging the night around us fast;

But we knew that a bar was broken between

Life and life: we were mixed at last In spite of the mortal screen.

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XLVIII.

The forests had done it; there they stood;

We caught for a moment the powers at play: They had mingled us so, for once and good,

Their work was done—we might go or stay.

They relapsed to their ancient mood.

XL1X.

How the world is made for each of us!

Now all we perceive and know in it Tends to some moment's product thus.

When a soul declares itself—to wit,

By its fruit, the thing it does!

Be hate that fruit or love that fruit.

It forwards the general deed of mab,

And each of the many helps to recruit

The life of the race by a general plan;

Each living his own, to boot.

LI.

I am named and known by that moment's feat;

There took my station and degree;

So grew my own small life complete,

As nature obtained her best of me—

One born to love you, sweet!

Lll.

And to watch you sink bj the fire-side now

Back again, as you mutely sit Musing by fire-light, that great brow

And the spirit-small hand propping it.

Yonder, my heart knows how!

LI1I.

Lo, the earth has gained by one man more.

And the gain of earth must be Heaven's gain too And the whole is well worth thinking o'er

When antumn comes: which I mean to do One day, as I said before.

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THE FLOWER'S NAME.

Hebe's the garden she walked across,

Arm in my arm, such a short while since:

Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss Hinders the hinges and makes them wince!

She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, As back with that murmur the wicket swung;

For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spumed, To feed and forget it the leaves among.

ii.

Down this sicle of the gravel-walk

She went while her robe's edge brushed the box:

And here she paused in her gracious talk

To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox.

Roses, ranged in valiant row,

I will never think that she passed you by!

She loves you noble roses, I know;

But yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie!

in.

This flower she stopped at, finger on lip.

Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim;

Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, Its soft meandering Spanish name:

What a name: Was it love or praise?

Speech half-asleep or song half-awake?

I must learn Spanish, one of these days.

Only for that slow sweet name's sake.

vi.

Hoses, if I live and do well,

I may bring her, one of these days,

To fix you fast with as fine a spell.

Fit you each with his Spanish phrase;

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But do not detain me now; for she lingers There, like sunshine over the ground,

And ever I see her soft white fingers Searching after the bud she found.

Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not. Stay as you are and be loved for ever!

Bud, if I kiss you 't ia that you blow not,

Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never!

For while it pouts, her fingers wrestle,

Twinkling the audacious leaves between,

Till round they turn and down they nestle—

Is not the dear mark still to be seen?

' vi.

Where I find her not, beauties vanish;

Whither I follow her, beauties flee;

Is there no method to tell her in Spanish

June's twice June since she breathed it with me?'

Come, bud, show me the least of her traces, Treasure my lady's lightest footfall!

—Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces— Roses, you are not so fair after all!

THE LOST MISTBESS.

All's over, then: does truth sound bitter

As one at first believes?

Hark, 't is the sparrows' good-night twitter About your cottage eaves!

ii.

And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,

I noticed that to-day;

One day more bursts them open fully —You know the red turns grey.

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III.

To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?

May I take your hand in mine!

Here Mends are we,—well, friends the merest Keep much that I resign:

IV.

For each glance of the eye so bright and black.

Though I keep with heart's endeavour,—

Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back. Though it stay in my sonl for ever!—

Tet I will but say what mere friends say.

Or only a thought stronger;

I will hold your hand but as long as all may. Or so very little longer!

A LIGHT WOMAN.

So far as our story approaches the end,

Which do you pity the most of us three?— My friend, or the mistress of my friend With her wanton eyes, or me?

ii.

My friend was already too good to lose,

And seemed in the way of improvement yet, When she crossed his path with her hunting-noose And over him drew her net.

in.

When I saw him tangled in her toils,

'A shame,' said I, 'if she adds just him To her nine-and-ninety other spoils,

The hundredth for a whim!

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TV.

' And before my friend be wholly hers,

How easy to prove to him,' I said, 'An eagle's the game her pride prefers, Though she snaps at a wren instead!'

So, I gave her eyes my own eyes to take, My hand sought hers as in earnest need. And round she turned for my noble sake. And gave me herself indeed.

VI.

The eagle am I, with my fame in the world.

The wren is he, with his maiden face. —You look away and your lip is curled? Patience, a moment's space!

VII.

For see, my friend goes shaking and white;

He eyes me as the basilisk:

I have turned, it appears, his day to night, Eclipsing his sun's disk.

VIII.

And I did it, he thinks, as a very thief:

'Though I love her—that he comprehends— One should master one's passions, (love, in chief) And be loyal to one's friends!'

IX.

And she,—she lies in my hand as tame

As a pear late basking over a wall.

Just a touch to try and off it came; 'Tis mine,—can I let it fall?

With no mind to eat it, that's the worst! •

Were it thrown in the road, would the case assist? 'T was quenching a dozen blue-flies' thirst When I gave its stalk a twist.

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XI.

And I,—what I seem to my friend, you see;

quot;What I soon shall seem to his Love, yon guess What I seem to myself, do you ask of me ? No hero, I confess.

xn.

'T is an awkward thing to play with souls,

And matter enough to save one's own: Yet think of my friend, and the burning coals He played with for bits of stone!

xiii.

One likes to show the truth for the truth;

That the woman was light is verj' true; But suppose she says,—' Never mind that youth! What wrong have I done to you?'

xiv.

Well, any how, here the story stays,

So far at least as I understand;

And, Robert Browning, you writer of plays. Here's a subject made to your hand!

ONE WAY OP LOVE.

All June I bound the rose in sheaves. Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves And strew them where Pauline may pass. She will not turn aside? Alas!

Let them lie. Suppose they die? The chance was they might take her eye.

How many a month I strove to suit These stubborn fingers to the lute! To-day I venture all I know.

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She ■will not hear my music? So!

Break the string; fold music's wing:

Suppose Pauline had bade me sing!

in.

My whole life long I learned to love.

This hour my utmost art I prove

And speak my passion—heaven or hell?

She will not give me heaven? 'Tis well!

Lose who may—I still can say,

Those who win heaven, blest are they!

HOME-THOUGHTS, PBOM ABROAD.

Oh, to be in England

Now that April's there,

And whoever wakes in England

Sees, some morning, unaware.

That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf.

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough

In England—now!

ii.

And after April, when May follows,

And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!

Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge

Leans to the field and scatters on the clover

Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge—

That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over.

Lest you should think he never could recapture

The first fine careless rapture!

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,

All will be gay when noontide wakes anew

The buttercups, the little children's dower

—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower

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THE WORST OF IT.

Would it were I had been false, not you!

I that am nothing, not you that are all:

I, never the worse for a touch or two

On my speckled hide; not you, the pride Of the day, my swan, that a first fleck's fall On her wonder of white must unswau, undo!

I had dipped in life's struggle, and out again,

Bore specks of it here, there, easy to see,

When I found my swan the cure was plain;

The dull turned bright as I caught your white On my bosom: you saved me—saved in vain If you ruined yourself, and all through me!

Yes, all through the speckled beast that I am.

Who taught you to stoop; you gave me yourself. And bound your soul by the vows that damn:

Since on better thought you break, as you ought, Vows—words, no angel set down, some elf Mistook,—for an oath, an epigram!

Yes, might I judge you, here were my heart.

And a hundred its like, to treat as you pleased! I choose to be yours, for my proper part,

Yours, leave or take, or mar me or make; If I acquiesce, why should you be teased

With the conscience-prick and the memory-smart?

But what will God say ? Oh, my sweet,

Think, and be sorry you did this thing!

Though earth were unworthy to feel your feet.

There's a Heaven above may deserve your love: Should you forfeit Heaven for a snapt gold ring And a promise broke, were it just or meet?

And I to have tempted you! I, who tried

Your soul, no doubt, till it sank! Unwise, I loved, and was lowly, loved and aspired.

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Loved, grieving or glad, till 1 made you mad, And you meant to have hated and despised—

Whereas, you deceived me nor inquired!

She, ruined? How, No Heaven for her?

Crowns to give, and none for the brow That looked like marble and smelt like myrrh ?

Shall the robe be worn, and the palm-branch borne. And she go graceless, she graced now Beyond all saints, as themselves aver?

Hardly! That must be understood!

The earth is your place of penance, then;

And what will it prove? I desire your good,

But, plot as I may, I can find no way How a blow should fall, such as falls on men , Nor prove too much for your womanhood.

It will come, I suspect, at the end of life,

When you walk alone, and review the Past;

And I, who so long shall have done with strife, And journeyed my stage, and earned my wage. And retired as was right,—I am called at last When the devil stabs yon, to lend the knife.

He stabs for the minute of trivial wrong.

Nor the other hours are able to save,

The happy, that lasted my whole life long:

For a promise broke, not for first words spoke. The true, the only, that turn my grave To a blaze of joy and a crash of song.

Witness beforehand! Off I trip

On a safe path gay through the flowers you flung: My very name made great by your lip,

And my heart a-glow with the good I know Of a perfect year when we both were young.

And I tasted the angels' fellowship.

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And -witness, moreover . . . Ah, bnt wait!

I spy the loop whence an arrow shoots!

It may be for yourself, when you meditate.

That you grieve—for slain ruth, murdered truth; 'Though falsehood escape in the end, what boots?

How truth would have triumphed!'—you sigh too late.

Ay, who would have triumphed like you, I say!

Well, it is lost now; well, yon must bear,

Abide and grow fit for a better day:

You should hardly grudge, could I be your judge! But hush! For you, can be no despair:

There's amends: 'tis a secret: hope and pray!

For I was true at least—oh, true enough!

And, dear, truth is not as good as it seems!

Commend me to conscience! Idle stuff!

Much help is in mine, as I mope and pine.

And skulk through day, and scowl in my dreams At my swan obtaining the crow's rebuff.

Men tell me of truth now—'False!' I cry;

Of beauty—'A mask, friend! Look beneath!'

We take our own method, the devil and I,

With pleasant and fair and wise and rare;

And the best we wish to what lives, is—death;

Which even in wishing, perhaps we lie!

Far better commit a fault and have done—

As you, dear!—for ever; and choose the pure. And look where the healing waters run,

And strive and strain to be good again.

And a place in the other world insure.

All glass and gold, with God for its sun.

Misery! What shall I say or do ?

I cannot advise, or, at least, persuade;

Most like, you are glad you deceived me—rue

No whit of the wrong: you endured too long.

Have done no evil and want no aid,

Will live the old life out and chance the new.

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And your sentence is written all the same,

And I can do nothing,— pray, perhaps:

But somehow the world pursues its game,

If I pray, if I curse,—for better or worse:

And my faith is torn to a thousand scraps.

And my heart feels ice while my words breathe flame.

Dear, I look from my hiding-place.

Are you still so fair? Have you still the eyes? Be happy! Add but the other grace.

Be good! Why want what the angels vaunt? I knew you once: but in Paradise,

If we meet, I will pass nor turn my face.

CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS;

ok,

NATURAL THEOLOG-Y IN THE ISLAND.

' Thou thoughtest that I was altogether sueh an one as thyself.*

['Will sprawl, now that the heat of day is best, Flat on his belly in the pit's much mire,

With elbows wide, fists clenched to prop his chin; And, while he kicks both feet in the cool slush, And feels about his spine small eft-things course, Run in and out each arm, and make him laugh; And while above his head a pompion-plant,

Coating the cave-top as a brow its eye,

Creeps down to touch and tickle hair and beard. And now a flower drops with a bee inside,

And now a fruit to snap at, catch and crunch: He looks out o'er yon sea which sunbeams cross And recross till they weave a spider-web,

(Meshes of flre, some great fish breaks at times) And talks to his own self, howe'er he please. Touching that other, whom hia dam called God. Because to talk about Him, vexes—ha.

Could He but know! and time to vex is now,

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lOi)-

When talk is safer than in winter-time.

Moreover Prosper and Miranda sleep In confidence he drudges at their task,

And it is good to cheat the pair, and gibe,

Letting the rank tongue blossom into speech.]

Setebos, Setebos, and Setebos!

'Thinketh, He dwelleth i' the cold o' the moon.

'Thinketh He made it, with the sun to match,

But not the stars; the stars came otherwise;

Only made clouds, winds, meteors, such as that:

Also this isle , what lives and grows thereon,

And snaky sea which rounds and ends the same.

'Thinketh, it came of being ill at ease:

He hated that He cannot change His cold,

Nor cure its ache. 'Hath spied an icy fish That longed to 'scape the rock-stream where she lived, And thaw herself within the lukewarm brine 0' the lazy sea her stream thrusts far amid,

A crystal spike 'twixt two warm walls of wave;

Only she ever sickened, found repulse At the other kind of water, not her life,

(Green-dense and dim-delicious, bred o' the sun)

Flounced back from bliss she was not born to breathe. And in her old bounds buried her despair,

Hating and loving warmth alike: so He.

'Thinketh, He made thereat the sun, this isle.

Trees and the fowls here, beast and creeping thing.

Yon otter, sleek-wet, black, lithe as a leech;

Ton auk, one fire-eye in a ball of foam,

That floats and feeds: a certain badger brown

He hath watched hunt with that slant white-wedge eye-

By moonlight; and the pie with the long tongue

That pricks deep into oakwarts for a worm,

And says a plain word when she finds her prize,

But will not eat the ants; the ants themselves

That build a wall of seeds and settled stalks

About their hole—He made all these and more.

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Made all we see, and us, in spite: how else?

He could not; Himself; make a second self

To be His mate; as well have made Himself.

He would not make what He mislikes or slights,

An eyesore to Him, or not worth His pains;

But did, in envy, listlessness or sport,

Make what Himself would fain, in a manner, be—

Weaker in most points, stronger in a few.

Worthy, and yet mere playthings all the while,

Things He admires and mocks too,—that is it.

Because, so brave, so better though they be,

It nothing skills if He begin to plague.

Look now, I melt a gourdfruit into mash,

Add honeycomb and pods, I have perceived,

Which bite like finches when they bill and kiss,—

Then, when froth rises bladdery, drink up all,

Quick, quick, till maggots scamper through my brain

And throw me on my back i' the seeded thyme.

And wanton, wishing I were born a bird.

Put case, unable to be what I wish,

I yet could make a live bird out of clay:

Would not I take clay, pinch my Caliban

Able to fly?—for, there, see, he hath wings.

And great comb like the hoopoe's to admire,

And there, a sting to do his foes offence,

There, and I will that he begin to live.

Fly to yon rock-top, nip me off the horns

Of grigs high up that make the merry din ,

Saucy through their veined wings, and mind me not.

In which feat, if his leg snapped, brittle clay,

And he lay stupid-like,—why, I should laugh;

And if he, spying me, should fall to weep.

Beseech me to be good, repair his wrong,

Bid his poor leg smart less or grow again,—

Well, as the chance were, this might take or else

Not take my fancy: I might hear his cry.

And give the manikin three legs for his one.

Or pluck the other off, leave him like an egg.

And lessoned he was mine and merely clay.

Were this no pleasure, lying in the thyme,

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Ill

Drinking the mash, with brain become alive,

Making and marring clay at will? So He.

'Thinketh, such shows nor right nor wrong in Him, Nor kind, nor cruel: He is strong and Lord.

'Am strong myself compared to yonder crabs That march now from the mountain to the sea;

'Let twenty pass, and stone the twenty-first,

Loving not, hating not, just choosing so.

'Say, the first straggler that boasts purple spots Shall join the file, one pincer twisted off;

'Say, this bruised fellow shall receive a worm.

And two worms he whose nippers end in red;

As it likes me each time, I do: so He.

Well then 'supposeth He is good i' the main.

Placable if His mind and ways were guessed,

But rougher than His handiwork, be sure!

Oh, He hath made things worthier than Himself,

And envieth that, so helped, such things do more

Than He who made them! What consoles but this?

That they, unless through Him, do nought at all.

And must submit: what other use in things?

'Hath cut a pipe of pithless elder-joint

That, blown through, gives exact the scream o' the jay

When from her wing you twitch the feathers blue:

Sound this, and little birds that hate the jay

Flock within stone's throw, glad their foe is hurt:

Put case such pipe could prattle and boast forsooth

'I catch the birds, I am the crafty thing,

I make the cry my maker cannot make

With his great round mouth; he must blow through mine!'

Would not I smash it with my foot? So He.

But wherefore rough, why cold and ill at ease?

Aba, that is a question: Ask, for that.

What knows,—the something over Setebos That made Him, or He, may be, found and fought, Worsted, drove off and did to nothing, perchance.

There may be something quiet o'er His bead,

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Out of His reach, that feels nor joy nor grief,

Since both derive from weakness in some way.

I joy because the quails come; would not joy

Could I bring quails here when I I have a mind:

This Quiet, all it hath a mind to, doth.

'Esteemeth stars the outposts of its couch,

But never spends much thought nor care that way.

It may look up, work up,—the worse for those

It works on! 'Careth but for Setebos

The many-handed as a cuttle-fish.

Who, making Himself feared through what He does.

Looks up, first, and perceives He cannot soar

To what is quiet and hath happy life;

Next looks down here, and out of very spite

Makes this a bauble-world to ape yon real,

These good things to match those as hips do grapes.

'Tis solace making baubles, ay, and sport.

Himself peeped late, eyed Prosper at his books

Careless and lofty, lord now of the isle:

Vexed, 'stitched a book of broad leaves, arrow-shaped.

Wrote thereon, he knows what, prodigious words;

Has peeled a wand and called it by a name;

Wearetb at whiles for an enchanter's robe

The eyed skin of a supple oncelot;

And hath an ounce sleeker than youngling mole,

A four-legged serpent he makes cower and couch,

Now snarl, now hold its breath and mind his eye,

And saith she is Miranda and my wife:

'Keeps for his Ariel a tall pouch-bill crane

He bids go wade for fish and straight disgorge;

Also a sea-beast, lumpish, which he snared,

Blinded the eyes of, and brought somewhat tame.

And split its toe-webs, and now pens the drudge

In a hole o' the rock and calls him Caliban;

A bitter heart, that bides its time and bites.

Play's thus at being Prosper in a way,

Taketh his mirth with make-believes: so He.

His dam held that the Quiet made all things

Which Setebos vexed only: 'holds not so.

Who made them weak, meant weakness He might vex.

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Had He meant other, while His hand was in,

Why not make horny eyes no thorn could prick,

Or plate my scalp with bone against the snow. Or overscale my flesh 'neath joint and joint,

Like an ore's armour? Ay,—so spoil His sport!

He is the One now: only He doth all.

'Saith, He may like, perchance, what profits Him.

Ay, himself loves what doth him good; but why?

'Gets good no otherwise. This blinded beast

Loves whoso places flesh-meat on his nose,

But, had he eyes, would want no help, but hate

Or love, just as it liked him: He hath eyes.

Also it pleaseth Setebos to work,

Use all His hands, and exercise much craft,

By no means for the love of what is worked.

'Tasteth, himself, no finer good i' the world

When all goes right, in this safe summer-time,

And he wants little, hungers, aches not much.

Than trying what to do with wit and strength.

'Falls to make something: 'piled yon pile of turfs.

And squared and stuck there squares of soft white chalk,

And, with a fish-tooth, scratched a moon on each.

And set up endwise certain spikes of tree,

And crowned the whole with a sloth's skull a-top,

Found dead i' the woods, too hard for one to kill.

No use at all i' the work, for work's sole sake;

'Shall some day knock it down again: so He.

'Saith He is terrible: watch His feats in proof!

One hurricane will spoil six good months' hope.

He hath a spite against me, that I know,

Just as He favours Prosper, who knows why?

So it is, all the same, as well I find.

'Wove wattles half the winter, fenced them firm

With stone and stake to stop she-tortoises

Crawling to lay their eggs here: well, one wave,

Feeling the foot of Him upon its neck,

Gaped as a snake does, lolled out its large tongue,

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And licked the whole labour flat: so much for spite.

'Saw a ball flame down late (yonder it lies)

Where, half an hour before, I slept i' the shade:

Often they scatter sparkles: there is force!

'Dug up a newt He may have envied once

And turned to stone, shut up inside a stone.

Please Him and hinder this?—What Prosper does?

Aha, if He would tell me how! Not He!

There is the sport: discover how or die!

All need not die, for of the things o' the isle

Some flee afar, some dive, some run up trees;

Those at His mercy,—why, they please Him most

When .. when .. well, never try the same way twice!

Repeat what act has pleased. He may grow wroth.

You must not know His ways, and play Him off.

Sure of the issue. 'Doth the like himself:

'Spareth a squirrel that it nothing fears

But stea)^ the nut from underneath my thumb,

And when I threat, bites stoutly in defence:

'Spareth an urchin that, contrariwise,

Curls up into a ball, pretending death

For fright at my approach: the two ways please.

But what would move my choler more than this,

That either creature counted on its life

To-morrow and next day and all days to come ,

Saying forsooth in the inmost of its heart,quot;

' Because he did so yesterday with me,

And otherwise with such another brute,

So must he do henceforth and always.'—Ay?

'Would teach the reasoning couple what ⁴ must' means!

'Doth as he likes, or wherefore Lord? So He.

'Conceiveth all things will continue thus,

And we shall have to live in fear of Him So long as He lives, keeps His strength: no change. If He have done His best, make no new world To please Him more, so leave off watching this,— If He surprise not even the Quiet's self Some strange day,—or, suppose, grow into it As grubs grow butterflies: else, here are we,

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And there is He, and nowhere help at all.

'Believeth with the life, the pain shall stop.

His dam held different, that after death

He both plagued enemies and feasted friends:

Idly! He doeth His worst in this our life,

Giving just respite lest we die through pain,

Saving last pain for worst,—with which, an end.

Meanwhile, the best way to escape His ire

Is, not to seem too happy. 'Sees, himself.

Yonder two flies, with purple films and pink,

Bask on the pompion-bell above: kills both.

'Sees two black painful beetles roll their ball

On head and tail as if to save their lives:

Moves them the stick away they strive to clear.

Even so, 'would have Him misconceive, suppose

This Caliban strives hard and ails no less,

And always, above all else, envies Him.

Wherefore he mainly dances on dark nights,

Moans in the sun, gets under holes to laugh,

And never speaks his mind save housed as now:

Outside, 'groans, curses. If He caught me here,

O'erheard this speech, and asked ' What chucklest at ?¹

'Would, to appease Him, cut a finger off.

Or of my three kid yearlings burn the best,

Or let the toothsome apples rot on tree.

Or push my tame beast for the ore to taste:

While myself lit a fire, and made a song

And sung it, ' What I hate, he consecrate

To celebrate Thee and Thy state, no mate

For Thee; what see for envy in poor me ?'

Hoping the while, since evils sometimes mend.

Warts rub away, and sores are cured with slime,

That some strange day, will either the Quiet catch

And conquer Setebos, or likelier He

Decrepit may doze, doze, as good as die.

[ What, what ? A curtain o'er the world at once !

Crickets stop hissing; not a bird—or, yes.

There scuds His raven that hath told Him all!

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It was fool's play, this prattling! Ha! The wind Shoulders the pillared dust, death's house o' the move, And fast invading fires begin! White blaze—

A tree's head snaps—and there , there, there , there, there, His thunder follows! Pool to gibe at Him!

Lo! 'Lieth flat and loveth Seteboa !

'Maketh his teeth meet through his upper lip.

Will let those quails fly, will not eat this month One little mess of whelks, so he may 'scape!]

COUNT GISMOND.

aix in pkovence.

Chbist God who savest man, save most

Of men Count Gismond who saved me! Count Gauthier, when he chose his post, •

Chose time and place and company To suit it; when he struck at length My honour, 'twas with all his strength.

ii.

And doubtlessly ere he could draw

All points to one, he must have schemed! That miserable morning saw

Few half so happy as I seemed.

While being dressed in queen's array To give our tourney prize away.

in.

I thought they loved me, did me grace

To please themselves; 'twas all their deed; God makes, or fair or foul, our face;

If showing mine so caused to bleed My cousins' hearts , they should have dropped A word, and straight the play had stopped.

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IV.

117

They, too, so beauteous! Each a queen

By virtue of her brow and breast;

Not needing to be crowned, I mean.

As I do. E'en when I was dressed,

Had either of them spoke, instead Of glancing sideways with still head!

But no; they let me laugh, and sing

My birthday song quite through, adjust The last rose in my garland, fling A last look on the mirror, trust My arms to each an arm of theirs,

And so descend the castle-stairs—

VI.

And come out on the morning-troop

Of merry friends who kissed my cheek, And called me queen, and made me stoop

Under the canopy—(a streak That pierced it, of the outside sun,

Powdered with gold its gloom's soft dun)—

VII.

And they could let me take my state

And foolish throne amid applause Of all come there to celebrate

My queen's-day—Oh I think the cause Of much was, they forgot no crowd Makes up for parents in their shroud!

mi.

However that be, all eyes were bent

Upon me, when my cousins cast Theirs down; 'twas time I should present

The victor's crown, but . . . there, 'twill last No long time . . . the old mist again Blinds me as then it did. How vain!

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IX.

See! Gismond's at the gate, in talk

With his two boys: I can proceed.

Well, at that moment, who should stalk

Forth boldly—to my face, indeed— But Gauthier, and he thundered ' Stay!¹And all stayed. ¹ Bring no crowns, I say!'

'Bring torches'. Wind the penance-sheet 'About her! Let her shun the castle, ' Or lay herself before their feet!

'Shall she whose body I embraced 'A night long, queen it in the day? ' For honour's sake no crowns, I say!'

XI.

I? What I answered? As I live,

I never fancied such a thing As answer possible to give.

What says the body when they spring Some monstrous torture-engine's whole Strength on it? No more says the soul.

XII.

Till out strode Gismond; then I knew

That I was saved. I never met His face before, but, at first view,

I felt quite sure that God had set Himself to Satan; who would spend A minute's mistrust on the end ?

XIII.

He strode to Gauthier, in his throat

Gave him the lie, then struck his mouth With one back-handed blow that wrote

In blood men's verdict there. North, South , East, West, I looked. The lie was dead, And damned, and truth stood up instead.

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XIV.

This glads me moat, that I enjoyed

The heart of the joy, with my content In watching Gismond unalloyed

By any doubt of the event:

God took that on him—I was bid Watch Gismond for my part: I did.

xv.

Did I not watch him while he let

His armourer just brace his greaves,

Rivet his hauberk, on the fret

The while! His foot . . . my memory leaves No least stamp out, nor how anon He pulled his ringing gauntlets on.

xvi.

And e'en before the trumpet's sound

Was finished, proue lay the false knight, Prone as his lie, upon the ground:

Gismond flew at him, used no sleight 0' the sword, but open-breasted drove,

Cleaving till out the truth he clove.

XVII.

Which done, he dragged him to my feet

And said 'Here die, but end thy breath 'In full confession, lest thou fleet

'From my first, to God's second death! 'Say, hast thou lied?' And, 'I have lied 'To God and her,' he said, and died.

XVIII.

Then Gismond, kneeling to me, asked

—What safe my heart holds, though no word Could I repeat now, if I tasked

My powers for ever, to a third Dear even as you are. Pass the rest Until I sank upon his breast.

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XIX.

Over my head his arm he flung

Against the world; and scarce I felt His sword (that dripped by mr3 and swung)

A little shifted in its belt:

For he began to say the while How South our home lay many a mile.

xx.

So 'mid the shouting multitude

We two walked forth to never more Return. My cousins have pursued Their life, untroubled as before I vexed them. Gauthier's dwelling-place God lighten! May bis soul find grace!

xxi.

Our elder boy has got the clear

Great brow; tho' when his brother's black Full eye shows scorn, it . . . Gismond here?

And have you brought my tercel back? I just was telling Adela How many birds it struck since May.

TIME'S REVENGES.

I 've a Friend, over the sea;

I like him, but he loves me.

It all grew out of the books I write;

They find such favour in his sight That he slaughters you with savage looks Because you don't admire my books:

He does himself though,—and if some vein Were to snap to night in this heavy brain. To-morrow month, if I lived to try.

Round should I just turn quietly,

Or out of the bedclothes stretch my hand Till I found him , come from his foreign land

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To be my nurse in this poor place,

And make my broth and wash my face And light my fire and, all the while,

Bear with his old good-humoured smile That I told him 'Better have kept away 'Than come and kill me, night and day, ' With, worse than fever's throbs and shoots, 'The creaking of his clumsy boots.'

I am as sure that this he would do,

As that Saint Paul's is striking Two.

And I think I would rather . . . woe is me! —Yes, rather see him than not see.

If lifting a hand could seat him there Before me in the empty chair To-night, when my head aches indeed,

And I can neither think nor read Nor make these purple fingers hold The pen; this garret's freezing cold!

And I've a Lady—there he wakes.

The laughing fiend and prince of snakes

Within me, at her name, to pray

Fate send some creature in the way

Of my love for her, to be down-torn

üpthrust and outward-borne.

So I might prove myself that sea

Of passion which I needs must be!

Call my thoughts false and my fancies quaint

And my style infirm and its figures faint.

All the critics say, and more blame yet,

And not one angry word you get!

But, please you, wonder I would put

My cheek beneath that Lady's foot

Bather than trample under mine

The laurels of the Florentine,

And you shall see how the devil spends

A fire God gave for other ends!

I tell you, I stride up and down

This garret, crowned with love's best crown ,

And feasted with love's perfect feast.

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To think I kill for her, at least,

Body and soul and peace and fame,

Alike youth's end and manhood's aim, —So is my spirit, as flesh with sin.

Filled full, eaten out and in With the face of her, the eyes of her, The hps, the little chin, the stir Of shadow round her mouth; and she —I'll tell you,—calmly would decree That I should roast at a slow fire,

If that would compass her desire And make her one whom they invite To the famoes ball to-morrow night.

There may be Heaven; there must be Hell; Meantime, there is our Earth here—well!

IN A GONDOLA.

He sings.

I send my heart up to thee, all my heart

In this my singing!

For the stars help me, and the sea bears part;

The very night is clinging Closer to Venice' streets to leave me one space

Above me, whence thy face May light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling-place. Sie speaks.

Say after me, and try to say My very words, as if each word Came from you of your own accord,

In your own voice, in your own way:

'This woman's heart and soul and brain Are mine as much as this gold chain 'She bids me wear; which' (say again)

'I choose to make by cherishing 'A precious thing, or choose to fling ⁴ Over the boat-side, ring by ring.'

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And yetquot;once more say ... no word more! Since words are only words. Give o'erl Unless you call me, all the same, Familiarly by my pet-name Which, if the Three should hear you call, And me reply to, would proclaim At once our secret to them all.

Ask of me, too, command me, hlame— Do, break down the partition-wall 'Twixt us, the daylight world beholds Curtained in dusk and splendid folds. What's left but—all of me to take ? I am the Three's; prevent them, slake Tour thirst! 'T is said, the Arab sage In practising with gems can loose Their subtle spirit in his cruce And leave but ashes: so, sweet mage. Leave them my ashes when thy use Sucks out my soul, thy heritage!

He sings.

Past we glide, and past, and past!

What's that poor Agnese doing - Where they make the shutter fast ?

Grey Zanobi's just a-wooing To his couch the purchased bride:

Past we glide!

Past we glide, and past, and past!

Why's the Pucci Palace flaring Like a beacon to the blast?

Guests by hundreds, not one caring If the dear host's neck were wried:

Past we glide!

She Sings.

The Moth's kiss, first!

Kiss me as if you made believe

Tou were not sure, this eve,

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How my face, your flower, had pursed Its petals up; so; here and there ^ou brush it, till I grow aware Who wants me, and wide ope I burst.

The Bee's kiss, now Kiss me as if you entered gay My heart at some noonday,

A bud that dares not disallow The claim, so, all is rendered up,

And passively its shattered cup Oyer your head to sleep I bow.

He sings.

What are we two?

I am a Jew,

And carry thee, farther than friends can pursue ,

To a feast of our tribe;

Where they need thee to bribe

The devil that blasts them unless he imbibe

Thy . . . Scatter the vision for ever! And now,

As of old, I am I, thou art thou!

Say again, what we are?

The sprite of a star,

I lure thee above where the destinies bar My plumes their full play Till a ruddier ray

Than my pale one announce there is withering away Some . . . Scatter the vision for ever! And now, As of old, I am I, thou art thou!

He muses.

Oh, which were best, to roam or rest?

The land's lap or the water's breast?

To sleep on yellow millet-sheaves,

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Or swim in lucid shallows, just Eluding water-lily leaves,

An inch from Death's black fingers, thrust To lock you, whom release he must;

Which life were best on summer eves?

He speaks, miisiny.

Lie back; could thought of mine improve you

From this shoulder let there spring

A wing; from this, another wing;

Wings, not legs and feet, shall move you!

Snow-white must they spring, to blend

With your flesh, but I intend

They shall deepen to the end.

Broader, into burning gold.

Till both wings crescent-wise enfold

Your perfect self, from 'neath your feet

To o'er your head, where, lo, they meet

As if a million sword-blades hurled

Defiance from you to the world!

Rescue me thou, the only real.

And scare away this mad Ideal That came, nor motions to depart!

Thanks! Now, stay ever as thou art!

Still he muses.

What if the Three should catch at last Thy serenader? While there's cast Paul's cloak about my head, and fast Gian pinions me. Himself has past His stilet thro' my back; I reel;

And ... is it thou I feel?

They trail me, these three godless knaves, Past every church that sains and saves, Nor stop till, where the cold sea raves

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By Lido's wet accursed graves,

They scoop mine, roll me to its brink,

And ... on thy breast I sink!

She replies, musing.

Dip your arm o'er the boat-side, elbow-deep.

As I do: thus: were death so unlike sleep,

Caught this way? Death's to fear from flame or steel, Or poison doubtless; but from water—feel!

Go find the bottom! Would you stay me? There! Now pluck a great blade of that ribbon-grass To plait in where the foolish jewel was,

I flung away, since you have praised my hair, 'Tïs proper to be choice in what I wear.

He speaks.

Row home? must we row home? Too surely

Know I where its front's demurely

Over the Giudecca piled;

Window just with window mating.

Door on door exactly waiting,

All's the set face of a child:

But behind it, where's a trace

Of the staidness and reserve.

And formal lines without a curve.

In the same child's playing-face ?

No two windows look one way

O'er the small sea-water thread

Below them. Ah, the autumn day

I, passing, saw you overhead!

First, out a cloud of curtain blew,

Then a sweet cry, and last came you—

To catch your lory that must needs

Escape just then, of all times then,

To peck a tall plant's fleecy seeds,

And make me happiest of men.

I scarce could breathe to see you reach

So far back o'er the balcony

To catch him, ere he climbed too high

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Above you in the Smyrna peach,

That quick the round smooth cord of gold,

This coiled hair on your head, unrolled.

Fell down you like a gorgeous snake

The Roman girls were wont, of old,

When Rome there was, for coolness' sake

To let lie curling o'er their bosoms.

Dear lory, may his beak retain

Ever its delicate rose stain

As if the wounded lotus-blossoms

Had marked their thief to know again!

Stay longer yet, for others' sake Than mine! What should your chamber do? —With all its rarities that ache In silence while day lasts, but wake At night-time and their life renew. Suspended just to pleasure you Who brought against their will together These objects, and, while day lasts, weave Around them such a magic tether That they look dumb: your harp, believe. With all the sensitive tight strings Which dare not speak, now to itself Breathes slumberously as if some elf Went in and out the chords , his wings Make murmur wheresoe'er they graze, As an angel may, between the maze Of midnight palace-pillars , on And on, to sow God's plagues have gone Through guilty glorious Babylon.

And while such murmurs flow, the nymph Bends o'er the harp-top from her shell As the dry limpet for the lymph Come with a tune he knows so well. And how your statues' hearts must swell! And how your pictures must descend To see each other, friend with friend! Oh, could you take them by surprise, Tou'd find Schidone's eager Duke

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Doing the quaintest courtesies To that prim Saint by Haste-thee-Luke! And, deeper into her rock den,

Bold Castelfranco's Magdalen You'd find retreated from the ken Of that robed counsel-keeping Ser— As if the Tizian thinks of her,

And is not, rather, gravely bent On seeing for himself what toys Are these, his progeny invent,

What litter now the board employs Whereon he signed a document That got him murdered! Each enjoys Its night so well, you cannot break The sport up; so, indeed must make More stay with me, for others' sake.

S/te speaks.

To-morrow, if a harp-string, say,

Is used to tie the jasmine back That overfloods my room with sweets. Contrive your Zorzi somehow meets My Zanze; if the ribbon's black, The Three are watching: keep away.

Your gondola—let Zorzi wreathe

A mesh of water-weeds about

Its prow, as if he unaware

Had struck some quay or bridge-foot stair;

That I may throw a paper out

As you and he go underneath.

There's Zanze's vigilant taper; safe are we.

Only one minute more to-night with me?

Resume your past self of a month ago!

Be you the bashful gallant, I will be

The lady with the colder breast than snow.

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Now bow you, as becomes, nor touch my hand More than I touch yours when I step to land,

And say, 'All thanks, Siora!'—

Heart to heart And lips to lips! Yet once more, ere we part.

Clasp me and make me thine, as mine thou art!

He is sujyrised, and stabbed.

It was ordained to be so, Sweet,—and best

Comes now, beneath thine eyes, upon thy breast.

Still kiss me! Care not for the cowards! Care

Only to put aside thy beauteous hair

My blood will hurt! The Three, I do not scorn

To death, because they never lived: but I

Have lived indeed, and so—(yet one more kiss)—can die!

THE PIED PIPER OP HAMBLEN;

a child's stohy.

(wsitten for, and inscribed to, w.m. the younger)

Hamelin Town's in Brunswick,

By famous Hanover city;

The river Weser, deep and wide,

Washes its wall on the southern side;

A pleasanter spot you never spied;

But, when begins my ditty.

Almost five hundred years ago,

To see the townsfolk suffer so From vermin, was a pity.

ii.

Bats!

The fought the dogs and killed the cats,

And bit the babies in the cradles,

And ate the cheeses out of the vats.

And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles.

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Split open the kegs of salted sprats,

Made neats inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the -women's chats, By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats.

in.

At last the people in a body

To the Town Hall came flocking: quot;Tis clear,' cried they, 'our Mayor's a noddy.

And as for our Corporation—shocking To think we buy gowns lined with ermine For dolts that can't or won't determine What's best to rid us of our vermin! Tou hope, because you're old and obese. To find the furry civic robe ease?

Bouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking To find the remedy we're lacking.

Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!' At this the Mayor and Corporation Quaked with a mighty consternation.

IV.

An hour they sat in council,

At length the Mayor broke silence:

'For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell,

I wish I were a mile hence!

It's easy to bid one rack one's brain I'm sure my poor head aches again, I've scratched it so, and all in vain.

Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!'

Just as he said this, what should hap At the chamber door but a gentle tap?

'Bless us,' cried the Mayor, 'what's that?' (With the Corporation as he sat.

Looking little though wondrous fat; Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister Than a too-long-opened oyster,

Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous For a plate of turtle green and glutinous)

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■'Only a scraping of shoes on the mat?

Anything like the sound- of a rat Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!'

'Come in!'—the Mayor cried, looking bigger:

And in did come the strangest figure!

His queer long coat from heel to head

Was half of yellow and half of red,

And he himself was tall and thin,

With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin,

And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin

No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin,

But lips where smiles went out and in;

There was no guessing his kith and kin:

And nobody could enough admire

The tall man and his quaint attire.

Quoth one; 'It's as my great-grandsire,

Staring up at the Trump of Doom's tone,

Had walked this way from his painted tomb-stone

VI.

He advanced to the council-table:

And, 'Please your honours,' said he, 'I'm able, 'By means of a secret charm, to draw All creatures living beneath the sun,

That creep or swim or fly or run.

After me so as you never saw!

And I chiefly use my charm On creatures that do people harm.

The mole and toad and newt and viper, And people call me the Pied Piper.'

(And here they noticed round his neck A scarf of red and yellow stripe.

To match with his coat of the self-same cheque; And at the scarfs end hung a pipe;

And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying As if impatient to be playing jfüpon this pipe, as low it dangled Over his vesture so old-fangled.)

'Yet,' said he, 'poor piper as I am.

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In Tartary I freed the Cham,

Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats;

I eased in Asia the Nizam

Of a monstrous brood of vampyre-bats:

And as for -what your brain bewilders,

If I can rid your town of rata

Will you give me a thousand guilders?'

One? fifty thousand!'—was the exclamation

Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.

vn.

Into the street the Piper stept.

Smiling first a little smile,

As if he knew what magic slept

In his quiet pipe the while;

Then, like a musical adept.

To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled; Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled; And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered. You heard as if an army muttered;

And the muttering grew to a grumbling; And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. Great rats, small rats , lean rats, brawny rats, Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny_j rats, Grave old plodders, gay young friskers.

Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins.

Cocking tails and pricking whiskers.

Families by tens and dozens.

Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives—

Followed the Piper for their lives.

From street to street he piped advancing, And step for step they followed dancing.

Until they came to the river Weser Wherein all plunged and perished!

—Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar,

Swam across and lived to carry (As he, the manuscript he cherished) To Rat-land home his commentary:

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Whicli was, ' At the first shrill notes of the pipe,

I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,

And putting apples, -wondrous ripe,

Into a cider-press's gripe:

And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards,

And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards,

And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks.

And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks:

And it seemed as if a voice

i i

(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery Is breathed) called out, 'Oh rats, rejoice!

The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!

So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon , Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!'

And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon,

All ready stayed, like a great sun shone Glorious scarce an inch before me.

Just as methought it said, 'Come, bore me!' —I found the Weser rolling o'er me.'

VIII.

You should have heard the Hamelin people

Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple.

Go,' cried the Mayor, 'and get long poles,

Poke out the nests and block up the holes!

Consult with carpenters and builders.

And leave in our town not even a trace

Of the rats!'—when suddenly, up the face

Of the Piper perked in the market-place,

With a, ' First, if you please, my thousand guilders!'

IX.

A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue,

So did the Corporation too.

For council dinners made rare havoc

With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;

And half the money would replenish

Their cellar's biggest butt with Bhenish.

To pay this sum to a wandering fellow

With a gipsy coat of red and yellow

Beside,' quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink.

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Our business was done at the river's brink; We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, And what's dead can't come to life, I think. So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink Prom the duty of giving you something for drink. And a matter of money to put in your poke; But as for the guilders, what we spoke Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. Beside, our losses have made us thrifty. A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!'

The Piper's face fell, and he cried,

'No trifling! I can't wait, beside!

I've promised to visit by dinnertime

Bagdat, and accept the prime

Of the Head-Cook's pottage, all he's rich in,

Por having left, in the Caliph's kitchen,

Of a nest of scorpions no survivor:

With him I proved no bargain-driver,

With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver!

And folks who put me in a passion

May find me pipe after another fashion.'

XI.

How?' cried the Mayor, 'd'ye think I brook

Being worse treated than a Cook?

Insulted by a lazy ribald

With idle pipe and vesture piebald?

You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst.

Blow your pipe there till you burst!'

xn.

Once more he stept into the street,

And to his lips again Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;

And ere he blew three notes (such sweet Soft notes as yet musician's cunning

Never gave the enraptured air)

There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling. Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,

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Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering,

And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering,

Ont came the children running.

All the little boys and girls,

With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,

And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,

Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after

The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

XIII.

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood

As if they were changed into blocks of wood,

Unable to move a step, or cry

To the children merrily skipping by ,

—Could only follow with the eye

That joyous crowd at the Piper's back.

But how the Mayor was on the rack,

And the wretched Council's bosoms beat,

As the Piper turned from the High Street

To where the Weser rolled its waters

Right in the way of their sons and daughters!

However he turned from South to West,

And.to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed.

And after him the children pressed;

Great was the joy in every breast.

' He never can cross that mighty top!

He's forced to let the piping drop.

And we shall see our children stop !'

When, lo, as they reached the mountain-side,

A wondrous portal opened wide,

As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;

And the Piper advanced and the children followed ,

And when all were in to the very last,

The door in the mountain-side shut fast.

Did I say, all? No! One was lame,

And could not dance the whole of the way;

And in after years, if you would blame

His sadness, he was used to say,—

' It's dull in our town since my playmates left!

I can't forget that I'm bereft

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Of all the pleasant sights they see,

Which the Piper also promised me.

For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,

Joining the town and just at hand.

Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew.

And flowers put forth a fairer hue,

And everything was strange and new,

The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,

And their dogs outran our fallow deer,

And honey-bees had lost their stings,

And horses were bom with eagles' wings:

And just as I became assured

My lame foot would be speedily cured,

The music stopped and I stood still.

And found myself outside the hill,

Left ulone against my will,

To go now limping as before.

And never hear of that country more!'

XIV.

Alas, alas for Hamelin!

There came into many a burgher's pate A text which says that heaven's gate Opes to the rich at as easy rate As the needle's eye takes a camel in!

The Mayor sent East, West, North and South, To offer the Piper, by word of mouth,

Wherever it was men's lot to find him,

Silver and gold to his heart's content,

If he'd only return the way he went,

And bring the children behind him.

But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavour. And Piper and dancers were gone for ever,

They made a decree that lawyers never Should think their records dated duly If, after the day of the month and year.

These words did not as well appear,

'And so long after what happened here 'On the Twenty-second of July,

' Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:'

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And the better in memory to fix The place of the children's last retreat,

They called it, the Pied Piper's Street—

Where any one p]aying on pipe or tabor Was sure for the future to lose his labour.

Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern

To shock with mirth a street so solemn;

But opposite the place of the cavern

They wrote the story on a column,

And on the great church-window painted The same, to make the world acquainted How their children were stolen away.

And there it stands to this very day.

And I must not omit to say That in Transylvania there's a tribe Of alien people that ascribe The outlandish ways and dress On which their neighbours lay such stress,

To their fathers and mothers having risen Out of some subterraneous prison Into which they were trepanned Long time ago in a mighty band Out of Hamelin to svn in Brunswick land ,

But how or why, they don't understand.

xv.

So, Willy, let me and you be wipers Of scores out with all men—especially pipers! And, whether thoy pipe us free from rats or from mice, If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise!

ANDREA DEL SARTO.

(called 'the faultless painter.')

But do not let us quarrel any more, No, my Lucrezia; bear with me for once: Sit down and all shall happen as you wish.

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You turn your face, but does it bring your heart? I'll -work then for your friend's friend, never fear. Treat his own subject after his own way,

Fix his own time, accept too his own price, And shut the money into this small hand When next it takes mine. Will it? tenderly? Oh, I'll content him,—but to-morrow. Love! I often am much wearier than you think,

This evening more than usual, and it seems As if—forgive now—should you let me sit Here by the window with your hand in mine And look a half hour forth on Fiesole,

Both of one mind, as married people use,

Quietly, quietly the evening through,

I might get up to-morrow to my work Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us try.

To-morrow, how you shall be glad for this!

Tour soft hand is a woman of itself.

And mine the man's bared breast she curls inside. Don't count the time lost, neither; you must serve For each of the five pictures we require:

It saves a model. So! keep looking so— My serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds! —How could you ever prick those perfect ears.

Even to put the pearl there! oh. so sweet— My face, my moon, my everybody's moon,

Which everybody looks on and calls his ,

And, I suppose, is looked on by in turn.

While she looks—no one's: very dear, no less. You smile ? why, there's my picture ready made, There's what we painters call our harmony! A common greyness silvers everything,—

All in a twilight, you and I alike —You, at the point of your first pride in me (That's gone you know),—but I, at every point; My youth, my hope, my art, being all toned down To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole.

There's the bell clinking from the chapel-top;

That length of convent-wall across the way Holds the trees safer, huddled more inside;

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The last monk leaves the garden; days decrease,

And autumn grows, autumn in everything.

Eh? the whole seems to fall into a shape

As if I saw alike my work and self

And all that I was bom to be and do,

A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God's hand.

How strange now, looks the life He makes us lead!

So free we seem, so fettered fast we are!

I feel he laid the fetter: let it lie!

This chamber for example—turn your head—

All that's behind us! You don't understand

Nor care to understand about my art.

But yon can hear at least when people speak;

And that cartoon, the second from the door

—It is the thing, Love! so such things should be—

Behold Madonna!—I am bold to say.

I can do with my pencil what I know.

What I see, what at bottom of my heart

I wish for, if I ever wish ao deep—

Do easily, too- when I say, perfectly,

I do not boast, perhaps: yourself are judge

Who listened to the Legate's talk last week,

And just as much they used to say in Prance.

At any rate 'tis easy, all of it.

No sketches first, no studies, that's long past—

I do what many dream of all their lives

—Dream? strive to do, and agonise to do.

And fail in doing. I could count twenty such

On twice your fingers, and not leave this town,

Who strive—you don't know how the others strive

To paint a little thing like that you smeared

Carelessly passing with your robes afloat,—

Yet do much less, so much less. Someone says,

(I know his name, no matter)— so much less!

Well, less is more, Lucrezia: I am judged.

There burns a truer light of God in them,

In their vexed, beating, stuffed, and stopped-upbrain,

Heart, or whate'er else, than goes on to prompt

This low-pulsed forthright craftman's hand of mine.

Their works drop groundward, but themselves, I know,

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Keach many a time a heaven that's shut to me,

Enter and take their place there sure enough,

Though they come back and cannot tell the world.

My works are nearer heaven, hut I sit here.

The sudden blood of these men! at a word—

Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it boils too.

I, painting from myself and to myself,

Know what I do, am unmoved by men's blame

Or their praise either. Somebody remarks

Morello's outline there is wrongly traced,

His hue mistaken—what of that? or else.

Rightly traced and well ordered—what of that?

Speak as they please, what does the mountain care?

Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp.

Or what's a heaven for? All is silver-grey

Placid and perfect with my art—the worse!

I know both what I want and what might gain—

And yet how profitless to know, to sigh,

'Had I been two, another and myself.

Our head would have o'erlooked the world!' No doubt.

Yonder's a work now, of that famous youth

The Urbinate who died five years ago.

(Tia copied, George Vasari sent it me.)

Well, I can fancy how he did it all,

Pouring his soul, with kings and popes to see.

Beaching, that heaven might so replenish him,

Above and through his art—for it gives way;

That arm is wrongly put—and there again—

A fault to pardon in the drawing's lines,

Its body, so to speak: its soul is right.

He means right—that, a child may understand.

Still, what an arm! and I could alter it:

But all the play, the insight and the stretch—

Out of me, out of me! And wherefore out?

Had you enjoined them on me, given me soul,

We might have risen to Rafael, I and you,

Nay, Love, you did give all 1 asked, I think—

More than I merit, yes, by many times.

But had you—oh, with the same perfect brow,

And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth,

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And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird

The fowler's pipe, and follows to the snare—

Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind!

Some women do so. Had the mouth there urged

'God and the glory! never care for gain.

The Present by the Future, what is that?

Live for fame, side by side with Angelo—

Eafael is waiting: up to God, all three!'

I might have done it for you. So it seems—

Perhaps not. All is as God overrules.

Beside, incentives come from the soul's self;

The rest avail not. Why do I need you?

What wife had Rafael, or has Angelo?

In this world, who can do a thing, will not—

And who would do it, cannot, I perceive:

Yet the will's somewhat—somewhat, too, the power—

And thus we half-men struggle. At the end,

God, I conclude, compensates, punishes.

Tis safer for me, if the award be strict,

That I am something underrated here,

Poor this long while, despised, to speak the truth,

I dared not, do you know, leave home all day.

For fear of chancing on the Paris lords.

The best is when they pass and look aside;

But they speak sometimes; I must bear it all.

Well may they speak! That Francis, that first time.

And that long festal year at Fontainebleau! '

I surely then could sometimes leave the ground,

Put on the glory, Kafael's daily wear,

In that humane great monarch's golden look—

One finger in his beard or twisted curl

Over his mouth's good mark that made the smile,

One arm about my shoulder, round my neck,

The jingle of his gold chain in my ear,

I painting proudly with his breath on me,

All his court round him, seeing with his eyes.

Such frank French eyes, and such a fire of souls

Profuse, my hand kept plying by those hearts,—

And, best of all, this, this, this face beyond,

This in the background, waiting on my work.

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To crown the issue with a last reward!

A good time, was it not, my kingly days?

And had you not grown restless ... but I know—

Tis done and past; 'twas right, my instinct said

To live the life grew, golden and not grey,

And I'm the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt

Out of the grange whose four walls make his world.

How could it end in any other way?

Tou called me, and I came home to your heart.

The triumph was, to have ended there; then, if

I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost?

Let my hands frame your face in your hair's gold.

You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine!

Rafael did this, Andrea painted that—

'The Roman's is the better when you pray,

'But still the other's Virgin was his wife—'

Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge

Both pictures in your presence; clearer grows

My better fortune, I resolve to think.

For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives,

Said one day Angelo, his very self.

To Rafael... I have known it all these years ...

(When the young man was flaming out his thoughts

Upon a palace •wall for Rome to see,

Too lifted up in heart because of it)

'Friend, there's a certain sorry little scrub

Goes up and down our Florence, none cares how.

Who, were he set to plan and execute

As you are, pricked on by your popes and kings,

Would bring the sweat into that brow of yours!'

To Rafael's!—And indeed the arm is wrong,

I hardly dare—yet, only you to see,

Give the chalk here—quick, thus the line should go!

Ay, but the soul! he's Rafael! rub it out!

Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth,

(What he? why, who but Michael Angelo?

Do you forget already words like those?)

If really there was such a chance, so lost,—

Is, whether you're—not grateful—but more pleased.

Well, let me think so. And you smile indeed!

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This hour has been an hour! Another smile?

If you would sit thus by me every night

I should work better, do you comprehend?

I mean that I should earn more, give you more.

See, it is settled dusk now; there's a star;

Morello's gone , the watch-lights show the wall,

The cue-owls speak the name we call them by.

Come from the window, love,—come in, at last

Inside the melancholy little house

We built to be so gay with. God is just.

King Francis may forgive me: oft at nights

When I look up from painting, eyes tired out.

The walls become illumined, brick from brick

Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold.

That gold of his I did cement them with!

Let us but love each other. Must you go?

That Cousin here again? he waits outside?

Must see you—you, and not with me? Those loans?

More gaming debts to pay? you smiled for that?

Well, let smiles buy me! have you more to spend?

While hand and eye and something of a heart

Are left me, work's my ware, and what's it worth?

I'll pay my fancy. Only let me sit

The grey remainder of the evening out.

Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly

How I could paint, were I but back in France,

One picture, just one more—the Virgin's face.

Not yours this time! I want you at my side

To hear them—that is, Michael Angelo—

Judge all I do and tell you of its worth.

Will you? To-morrow, satisfy your friend.

I take the subjects for his corridor.

Finish the portrait out of hand—there, there,

And throw him in another thing or two

If he demurs; the whole should prove enough

To pay for this same Cousin's freak. Beside,

What's better and what's all I care about.

Get you the thirteen scudi for the ruff.

Love, does that please you? Ah, but what does he.

The Cousin! what does he to please you more?

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I am grown peaceful as old age to-night.

I regret little, I would change still less.

Since there my past life lies, why alter it?

The very wrong to Francis!—it is true I took his coin, was tempted and complied.

And built this house and sinned, and all is said. My father and my mother died of want.

Well, had I riches of my own? you see How one gets rich! Let each one bear his lot.

They were bom poor, lived poor, and poor they died: And I have laboured somewhat in my time And not been paid profusely. Some good son Paint my two hundred pictures—let him try! No doubt, there's something strikes a balance. Yes, You loved me quite enough, it seems to-night.

This must suffice me here. What would one have? In Heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance— Four great walls in the New Jerusalem Meted on each side by the angel's reed.

For Leonard, Rafael, Angelo and me To cover—the three first without a wife,

While I have mine! So—still they overcome Because there's still Lucrezia,—as I choose.

Again the Cousin's whistle! Go, my Love.

THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT SAINT PBAXED'S CHURCH.

Rome, 15—.

Vanity , saith the preacher, vanity!

Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping backt?

Nephews—sons mine ... ah God, I know not! Well—

She, men would have to be your mother once.

Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was!

What's done is done, and she is dead beside,

Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since,

And as she died so must we die ourselves.

And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream.

Life, how and what is it? As here I lie

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In this state-chamber, dying by degrees,

Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask 'Do I live, am I dead?' Peace, peace seems all.

Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace;

And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know: —Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care;

Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner South He graced his carrion with, God curse the same!

Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence One sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side.

And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats And up into the aery dome where live The angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk: «,

And I shall fill my slab of basalt there.

And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest,

With those nine columns round me, two and two,

The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands: Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse.

—Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone,

Put me where I may look at him! True peach,

Kosy and flawless: how I earned the prize!

Draw close: that conflagration of my church —What then? So much was saved if aught were missed! My sons, ye would not be my death? Go dig The white-grape vineyard where the oil-press stood,

Drop water gently till the surface sink.

And if ye find . . Ah God, I know not, I! . . .

Bedded in store of rotten figleaves soft,

And corded up in a tight olive-frail,

Some lump, ah God, of lapis lazuli.

Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape,

Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast . . .

Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all,

That brave Frascati villa with its bath,

^x So, let the blue lump poise between my knees,

Like God the Father's globe on both his hands Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay.

For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst!

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Swift as a weaver's shuttle ieet our years: Man goeth to the graye, and where is he?

Did I say basalt for my slab, sons? Black— 'Twas ever antique-black I meant! How else Shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath? The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me,

Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and perchance Some tripod, thyrsns, with a vase or so. The Saviour at his sermon on the mount,

Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan Ready to twitch the Nymph's last garment off, And Moses with the tables . . . but I know Ye mark me not! What do they whisper thee, Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ah, ye hope To revel down my villas while I gasp Bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy travertine Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at! Nay, boys, ye love me—all of jasper, then! 'Tis jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve My bath must needs be left behind, alas! One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut.

There's plenty jasper somewhere in the world— And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to pray Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuscripts. And mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs? —That's if ye carve my epitaph aright,

Choise Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word, No gaudy ware like Gandolf s second line—

Tully, my masters? Ulpian serves his need And then how I shall lie through centuries, And hear the blessed mutter of the mass, And see God made and eaten all day long. And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste Good quot;strong thick stupifying incense-smoke! For as T lie here, hours of the dead night.

Dying in state and by such slow degrees,

I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook, And stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point. And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, drop Into great laps and folds of sculptor's-work:

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And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts Grow, with a certain humming in my ears,

About the life before I lived this life,

And this life too, popes, cardinals and priests Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount.

Your tall pale mother with her talking eyes, And new-found agate urns as fresh as day. And marble's language, Latin pure, discreet,

— Aha, elucescebaï quoth our friend?

No Tully, said I, IJlpian at the best!

Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage.

All lapis, all, sous! Else I give the Pope My villas! Will ye ever eat my heart?

Ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick.

They glitter like your mother's for my soul,

Or ye would heighten my impoverished frieze. Piece out its starved design, and fill my vase With grapes, and add a vizor and a Term, And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx

That in his struggle throws the thyrsus down,

To comfort me on my entablature

Whereon I am to lie till I must ask

'Do I live, am I dead?' There, leave me, there

For ye have stabbed me with ingratitude

To death—ye wish it—God, ye wish it! Stone—

Gritstone, a-crumble! Clammy squares which sw

As if the corpse they keep were oozing through—

And no more lapis to delight the world!

Well go! I bless ye. Fewer tapers there ,

But in a row: and, going, turn your backs

— Ay, like departing altar-ministrants,

And leave m» in my church, the church for peace, That I may watch at leisure if he leers— Old Gandolf, at me, from his onion-stone,

As still he envied me, so fair she was!

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ARTHUR HUGH C L 0 UG H (1819—1861)..

QUI LABOBAT, ORAT.

O only Source of all our light and life,

Whom as our truth, our strength, we see and feel,

But whom the hours of mortal moral strife Alone aright reveal!

Mine inmost soul, before Thee inly brought, Thy presence owns ineffable, divine;

Chastised each rebel self-encentered thought.

My will adoreth Thine.

With eye down-dropt, if then this earthly mind Speechless remain, or speechless e'en depart;

Nor seek to see—for what of earthly mind Can see Thee as Thou art?—

If well-assured 'tis but profanely bold

In thought's abstractest forms to seem to see,

It dare not dare the dread communion hold In ways unworthy Thee.

O not unowned, Thou shalt unnamed forgive, In wordly walks the prayerless heart prepare;

And if in work its life it seem to live,

Shalt make that work be prayer.

Nor times shall lack, when while the work it plies, Unsummoned powers the blinding film shall part,

And scarce by happy tears made dim, the, eyes In recognition start.

But, as Thou wiliest, give or e'en forbear The beatific supersensual sight,

So, with Thy blessing blest, that humbler prayer Approach Thee morn and night.

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IN A GONDOLA.

{From Dipstchus).

Afloat; we move. Delicious, Ah,

What else is like the gondola?

This level floor of liquid glass Begins beneath us swift to pass.

It goes as though it went alone By some impulsion of its own.

{How light it moves, how softly! Ah, Were all things like the gondola!)

How light it moves, how softly! Ah, Could life, as does our gondola,

Unvexed with quarrels, aims and cares, And moral duties and affairs,

Unswaying, noiseless, swift and strong. For ever thus—thus glide along! (How light we move, how softly! Ah, Were life but as the gondola!)

With no more motion than should bear A freshness to the languid air;

With no more effort than exprest The need and naturalness of rest.

Which we beneath a grateful shade Should take on peaceful pillows laid! (How light we move, how softly! Ah, Were life but as the gondola!)

In one unbroken passage borne To closing night from opening morn, Uplift at whiles slow eyes to mark Some palace front, some passing bark; Through windows catch the varying shore. And hear the soft turns of the oar! (How light we move, how softly! Ah, Were life but as the gondola!)

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How light we go, how soft we skim, And all in moonlight seem to swim! The south sides rises o'er our bark, A wall impenetrably dark;

The north is seen profusely bright; The water, ia it shade or light? Say, gentle .moon , which conquers now The flood, those massy hulls , or thou ? (How light we go, how softly! Ah, Were life but as the gondola!)

How light we go, how soft we skim! And all in moonlight seem to swim; Against bright clouds projected dark. The white dome now, reclined I mark. And, by o'er-brilliant lamps displayed, The Doge's columns and arcade;

Over still waters mildly come The distant laughter and the hum. (How light we go, how softly! Ah,

Life should be as the gondola!)

How light we go, how soft we skim, And all in open moonlight swim! Ah, gondolier, slow, slow, more slow! We go; but wherefore thus should go? Ah, let not muscle all too strong Beguile, betray thee to our wrong! On to the landing, onward. Nay,

Sweet dream, a little longer stay!

On to the landing; here. And, Ah!

Life is not as the gondola.

SONGS IN ABSENCE.

Green fields of England! wheresoe'er Across this watery waste we fare, Tour image at our hearts we bear Green fields of England, everywhere.

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Sweet eyes in England, I must flee Past where the waves' last confines be, Ere your loved smile I cease to see, Sweet eyes in England, dear to me.

Dear home in England, safe and fast If but in thee my lot lie cast, The past shall seem a nothing past To thee, dear home, if won at last; Dear home in England, won at last.

Some future day when what is now is not,

When all old faults and follies are forgot, And thoughts of difference passed like dreams away , We'll meet again upon a future day.

When all that hindered, all that vexed our love, As tall rank weeds will climb the blade above, When all but it has yielded to decay.

We'll meet again upon some future day.

When we have proved, each on his course alone. The wider world. and learnt what's now unknown , Have made life clear, and worked out each a way» We'll meet again,—we shall have much to say.

With happier mood, and feelings born anew, Our boyhood's bygone fancies we'll review,

Talk o'er old talks, play as we used to play, And meet again, on many a future day.

Some day, which oft our hearts shall yearn to see, In some far year, though distant yet to be,

Shall we indeed,—ye winds and waters, say!— Meet yet again upon some future day ?

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COME, POET, COME.

Come , Poet come !

A thousand labourers ply tlioir task, And what it tends to scarcely ask. And trembling thinkers on the brink Shiver, and know not how to think. To tell the purport of their pain, And what our silly joys contain; In lasting lineaments pourtray The substance of the shadowy day; Our real and inner deeds rehearse, And make our meaning clear in verse-Come, Poet, come! for but in vain We do the work or feel the pain, And gather up the seeming gain,

Unless before the end thou come To take, ere they are lost, their sum.

Come, Poet, come!

To give an utterance to the dumb, And make vain babblers silent, come; A thousand dupes point here and there, Bewildered by the show and glare; And wise men half have learned to doubt Whether we are not best without.

Come, Poet; both but wait to see Their error proved to them in thee.

Come, Poet come!

In vain I seem to call. And yet Think not the living times forget.

Ages of heroes fought and fell That Homer in the end might tell; O'er grovelling generations past Upstood the Doric fane at last; And countless hearts on countless years Had wasted thoughts, and hopes, and fears, Rude laughter, and unmeaning tears; Ere England Shakespeare saw, or Rome

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The pure perfection of her dome. Others, I-doubt not, if not -we. The issue of our toils shall see; Young children gather as their own The harvest that the dead had sown, The dead forgotten and unknown.

A LONDON IDYLL.

On grass, on gravel, in the snn Or now beneath the shade ,

They went, in pleasant Kensington,

A prentice and a maid.

That Sunday morning's April glow

How should it not impart A stir about the veins that flow To feed the youthful heart.

Ah! years may come, and years may bring

The truth that is not bliss,

But will they bring another thing That can compare with this?

I read it in that arm she lays

So soft on his; her mien.

Her step, her very gown betrays (What in her eyes were seen)

That not in vain the young buds round,

The cawing birds above.

The air, the incense of the ground Are whispering, breathing love.

Ah! years may come, etc.

To inclination, young and blind,

So perfect, as they lent.

By purest innocence confined

Unconscious free consent.

Persuasive power of vernal change,

On this, thine earliest day,

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Canst thou have found in all thy range One fitter type than they?

Ah! years may come, etc.

Th' high-titled cares of adult strife,

Which we our duties call,

Trades, arts, and polities of life,

Say, have they after all,

One other object, end or use Than that, for girl and boy.

The punctual earth may still produce This golden flower of joy.

Ah! years may come, etc.

O odours of new-budding rose,

O lily's chaste perfume,

0 fragrance that didst first unclose The young Creation's bloom!

Ye hang around me, while in sun Anon and now in shade,

1 watched in pleasant Kensington The prentice and the maid.

Ah! years may come, and years may bring The truth that is not bliss,

But will they bring another thing That will compare with this?

SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT AVAILETH.

Say not, the struggle nought availeth,

The labour and the wounds are vain.

The enemy faints not, nor faileth.

And as things have been they remain.

If hopes were dopes, fears may he liars;

It may be, in yon smoke concealed,

Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,

And, but for you, possess the field.

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Por while the tired waves, vainly breaking,

Seem here no painful inch to gain. Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

And not by eastern windows only.

When daylight comes, comes in the light, In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, But westward, look, the land is bright.

MATTHEW ARNOLD (1822—).

PHILOMELA.

Hask! ah, the nightingale—

The tawny-throated!

Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a burst!

What triumph! hark!—what pain!

O wanderer from a Grecian shore;

Still after many years, in distant lands.

Still nourishing in thy bewilder'd brain

That wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken, old-world pain—

Say, will it never heal?

And can this fragrant lawn

With its cool trees and night.

And the sweet, tranquil Thames,

And moonshine, and the dew ,

To thy rack'd heart and brain

Afford no balm!

Dost thou to-night behold

Here, through* the moonlight on this English grass,

The unfriendly palace in the Tracian wild?

Dost thou again peruse

With hot cheeks and sear'd eyes

The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame ?

Dost thou once more assay

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Thy flight, and feel come over thee,

Poor fugitive, the feathery change

Once more, and once more seem to make resound

With love and hate, triumph and agony,

Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale ?

Listen, Eugenia—

How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves! Again—thou hearest?

Eternal passion!

Eternal pain!

FADED LEAVES.

1. The River.

Still glides the stream, slow drops the boat Under the rustling poplars' shade;

Silent the swans beside us float —

None speaks, none heeds; ah, turn thy head!

Let those arch eyes now softly shine,

That mocking mouth grow sweetly bland; Ah, let them rest, those eyes, on mine! One mine let rest that lovely hand!

My pent-up tears oppress my brain,

My heart is swoln with love unsaid.

Ah, let me weep, and tell my pain ,

And on thy shoulder rest my head!

Before I die—before the soul.

Which now is mine, must re-attain Immunity from my control,

And wander round the world again;

Before this teased o'erlabour'd heart For ever leaves its vain employ,

Dead to its deep habitual smart,

And dead to hopes of future joy.

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2. Too Late.

Each on his own strict line we move,

And some find death ere they find love;

So far apart their lives are thrown From the twin soul that halves their own.

And sometimes, hy still harder fate.

The lovers meet, but meet too late.

—Thy heart is mine!—True, true! ah, true!

—Then, love, thy hand!—Ah no! adieu!

3. Reparation.

Stop!—not to me, at this bitter departing,

Speak of the sure consolations of time!

Fresh be the wound, still-rcnew'd be its smarting,

So but thy image endure in its prime!

But, if the stedfast commandment of Nature

Wills that remembrance should always decay—

If the loved form and the deep-cherish'd feature Must, when unseen, from the soul fade away—

Me let no haif-efi'aced memories cumber!

Fled, fled at once, be all vestige of thee!

Deep be the darkness and still be the slumber.

Dead be the past and its phantoms to me!

Then, when we meet, and thy look strays toward me

Scanning my face and the changes wrought there: Who, let me say, is this stranr/er regards me.

With the grey eyes, and the lovely hrmrn hair ?

4. On the Rhine.

Vain is the effort to forget.

Some day I shall be cold, I know.

As is the eternal moon-lit snow Of the high Alps to which I go—

But ah, not yet, not yet!

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Vain is the agony of grief.

'Tis true, indeed, an iron knot Ties straitly up from mine thy lot, And were it snapt—thou lov'st me not! But is despair relief?

Awhile let me with thought have done. And as this brimnTd unwrinkled Rhine, And that far purple mountain-line. Lie sweetly in the look divine Of the slow-sinking sun;

So let me lie, and calm as they Let beam upon my inward view Those eyes of deep, soft, lucent hue— Eyes too expressive to be blue Too lovely to be grej'.

Ah, Quiet, all things feel thy balm! Those blue hills too, this river's flow. Were restless once, but long ago.

Tamed is their turbulent youthful glow, Their joy is in their calm.

5. Longing.

Come to me in my dreams, and then By day I shall be well again!

For then the night will more than pay The hopeless longing of the day.

Come as thou cam'st a thousand times, A messenger from radiant climes. And smile on thy new world, and be As kind to others as to me!

Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth.

Come now, and let me dream it truth; And part my hair, and kiss my brow. And say: My love, ichj sufferest thou ?

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Come to me in my dreams, and then By day I shall be well again!

For then the night will more than pay The hopeless longing of the day.

DOVER BEACH.

The sea is calm to-night

The tide is full, the moon lies fair

Upon the straits;—on the French coast, the light

Gleams, and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,

Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.

Come to the -window, sweet is the night-air!

Only, from the long line of spray

Where the ebb meets the moon-blanch'd sand.

Listen! you hear the grating roar

Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling.

At their return, up the high strand,

Begin and cease, and then again begin,

With tremulous cadence slow, and bring

The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago

Heard it on the iEgaean, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery; we Find also in the sound a thought Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The sea of faith

Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore

Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd;

But now I only hear

Its melancholy, long withdrawing roar,

Retreating to the breath

Of the night-wind down the vast edges drear

And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true

To one another! for the world, which soems

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To lie before us like a land of dreams,

So various, so beautiful, so new, -

Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;

And we are here on a darkling plain

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and fight.

Where ignorant armies clash by night.

THE BURIED LIFE.

Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet ,

Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!

I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll.

Yes, yes, we know that we can jest.

We know, we know that we can smile !

But there's a something in this breast.

To which thy light words bring no rest,

And thy gay smiles no anodyne:

Give me thy hand, and hush awhile,

And turn those limpid eyes on mine,

And let me read there, love! thy inmost soul.

Alas! is even love too weak

To unlock the heart, and let it speak!

Are even lovers powerless to reveal

To one another what indeed they feel?

I knew the mass of men conceal'd

Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal'd

They would by other men be met

With blank indifference, or with blame reproved;

I knew the lived and moved

Trick'd in disguises, alien to the rest

Of men, and alien to themselves—and yet

The same heart beats in every human breast!

But we, my love!—doth a like spell benumb Our hearts, our voices? — must we too be dumb?

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Ah! well for us, if even we,

Eyen for a moment, can get free

Our heart, and have our lips unchain'd;

For that which seals them hath been deep-ordain'd!

Fate, which foresaw How frivolous a baby man would be—

By what distractions he would be possess'd,

How he would pour himself in every strife,

And well-nigh change bis own identity —

That it might keep from his capricious play His genuine self! and force him to obey Even in his own despite his being's law,

Bade through the deep recesses of our breast The unregarded river of our life Pursue with indiscernible flows its way;

And that we should not see The buried stream, and seem to be Eddying at large in blind uncertainty,

Through diving on with it eternally.

But often, in the world's most crowded streets,

But ofteu, in the din of strife,

There rises an unspeakable desire After the knowledge of our buried life;

A thirst to spend our fire and restless force In tracking ont our true, original course;

A longing to inquire

Into the mystery of this heart which beats So wild, so deep in us—to know Whence our thoughts come and where they go.

And many a man in his own breast then delves, But deep enough, alas! none ever mines.

And we have been on many thousand lines,

And we have shown, on each, spirit and power; But hardly have we, for one little hour,

Been on our own line, have we been ourselves —

Hardly had skill to utter one of all The nameless feelings that course through our breast, But they course on for ever unexpress'd.

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And long we try in vain to speak and act

Our hidden self, and what we say and do

Is eloquent, is well—but 'tis not true!

And then we will no more be rack'd

With inward striving, and demand

Of all the thousand nothings of the hour

Their stupefying power;

Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call!

Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn,

From the soul's subterranean depth upborne

As from an infinitely distant land,

Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey

A melancholy into all our day.

Only—but this is rare—

quot;When a belovèd band is laid in ours ,

When, jaded with the rush and glare

Of the interminable hours,

Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear,

When our world-deafen'd ear

Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd —

A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast.

And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again.

The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,

And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know.

A man becomes aware of his life's flow.

And hears its winding murmur, and he sees

The meadow where it glides, the sun, the breeze.

And there arrives a lull in the hot race Wherein he does for ever chase That flying and elusive shadow, rest.

An air of coolness plays upon his face.

And an unwonted calm pervades his breast.

And then he thinks he knows The hills wehre hia life rose.

And the sea where it goes.

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THE SCHOLAB-GIPSY.

•Go, for tlaey call you, shepherd, from the hill; Go, shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes!

No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed,

Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats, Nor the cropp'd grasses shoot another head; But when the fields are still.

And the tired men and dogs are gone to rest. And only the white sheep are sometimes seen Cross and recross the strips of moon-blanch'd green, Come, shepherd, and again renew the quest!

Here, where the reaper was at work of late—

In this high field's dark corner, where he leaves

His coat, his basket, and his earthen cruise,

And in the sun all morning binds the sheaves,

Then here, at noon, comes back his stores to use— Here will I sit and wait,

While to my ear from uplands far away The bleating of the folded flocks is borne,

With distant cries of reapers in the corn—

All the live murmurs of a summer's day.

Screen'd is this nook o'er the high, half-reap'd field, And here till sun-down, shepherd! will I be.

Through the thick corn the scarlet poppies peep, And round green roots and yellowing stalks I see Pale blue convolvulus in tendrils creep; And air-swept lindens yield Their scent, and rustle down their perfumed showers Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid, And bower me from the August-sun with shade; And the eye travels down to Oxford's towers.

And near me on the grass lies Glanvil's book—

Come, let me read the oft-read tale again!

The story of that Oxford scholar poor.

Of shining parts and quick inventive brain, Who, tired of knocking at preferment's door, One summer-morn forsook His friends, and went to learn the gipsy-lore.

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And roam'd the world with that wild brotherhood. And came, as most men deem'd, to little good, But came to Oxford and his friends no more.

But once , years after, in the country-lanes, Two scholars, whom at college erst he knew, Met him, and of his way of life enquired;

Whereat he answer'd, that the gipsy-crew,

His mates, had arts icrule as they desired The workings of men's brains.

And they can bind them to what thoughts they will-' And I,' he said , ' the secret of their art,

When fully learn'd, will to the world impart; But it needs heaven-sent moments for this skill.'

This said, he left them, and return'd no more.— But rumours hung about the country-side ,

That the lost Scholar long was seen to stray Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied,

In hat of antique shape, and cloak of grey, The same the gipsies wore.

Slepherds had met him on the Hurst in spring; At some lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors. On the warm ingle-bench, the smock-frock'd boors Had found him seated at their entering,

But, mid their drink and clatter, he would fly.

And I myself seem half to know thy looks,

And put the shepherds, wanderer! on thy trace; And boys who in lone ■wheatfields scare the rooks I ask if thou hast pass'd their quiet place;

Or in my boat I lie Moor'd to the cool bank in the summer-heats. Mid wide grass meadows which the sunshine fills. And watch the warm, green-muffled Cumner hills, And wonder if thou haunt'st their shy retreats.

Por most, I know, thou lov'st retired ground!

Thee at the ferry Oxford riders blithe,

Returning home on summer-nights, have met

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Crossing the stripling Thames at Bab-lock-hithe,

Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet,

As the punt's rope chops round;

And leaning backward in a pensive dream,

And fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers Pluck'd in shy fields and distant Wychwood bowers, And thine eyes resting on the moonlit stream.

And then they land, and thou art seen no more!—

Maidens, who from the distant hamlets come To dance around the Fyfield elm in May,

Oft through the darkening fields have seen thee roam, Or cross a stile into the public way ;

Oft thou hast given them store Of flowers—the frail-leafd, white anemony ,

Dark bluebells drench'd with dews of summer eves, And purple orchises with spotted leaves—

But none hath words she can report of thee!

And, above Godstow Bridge, when hay-time's here In June, and may a scythe in sunshine flames,

Men who through those wide fields of breezy grass Where black-wing'd swallows haunt the glittering Thame* To bathe in the abandon'd lasher pass Have often pass'd thee near.

Sitting upon the river bank o'ergrown;

Mark'd thine outlandish garb, thy figure spare , Thy dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted air— But, when they came from bathing, thou wast gone I

At some lone homestead in the Cumner hills ,

Where at her open door the housewife darns ,

Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a gate To watch the threshers in the mossy barns.

Children, who early range these slopes and late For cresses from the rills,

Have known thee eying, all an April-day,

The springing pastures and the feeding kine; And mark'd thee, when the stars come out and shine Through the long dewy grass move slow away.

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In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood-Where most the gipsies by the turf-edged way

Pitch their smoked tents, and every bush you see With scarlet patches tagg'd and shreds of grey,

Above the forest-ground call'd Thessaly— The blackbird picking food Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all;

So often has he known thee past him stray,

Rapt, twirling in thy hand a wither'd spray, And waiting for the spark from heaven to fall.

And once, in winter, on the causeway chill

Where home through flooded fields foot-travellers go,

Have I not pass'd thee on the wooden bridge Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the snow. Thy face toward Hinksey and its wintry ridge? And thou hast climb'd the hill.

And gain'd the white brow of the Cumner range;

Tum'd once to watch, while thick the snowflakes fall _rThe line of festal light in Christ-Church hall—

Then sought thy straw in some sequester'd grange.

But what—I dream! Two hundred years are flown Since first thy story ran through Oxford halls,

And the grave Glanvil did the tale inscribe That thou wert wander'd from the studious walls To learn strange arts, and join a gipsy-tribe.

And thou from earth art gone Long since, and in some quiet churchyard laid—

Some country-nook, where o'er thy unknown grave Tall grasses and white flowering nettles wave,

Under a dark, red-fruited yew-tree's shade.

—No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours!

For what wears out the life of mortal men?

'Tis that from change to change their being rolls; 'Tis that repeated shocks, again, again,

Exhaust the energy of strongest souls,

And numb the elastic powers.

Till having used our nerves with bliss and teen, And tired upon a thousand schemes our wit,

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To the just-pausing Genius we remit Our well-worn life, and are—what we have been.

Thou hast not lived, why should'st thou perish, so ?

Thou hast one aim, one business, one desire;

Else wert thou long since number'd with the dead!

Else hadst thou spent, like other men, thy fire ! The generations of thy peers are fled,

And we ourselves shall go;

But thou possessest an immortal lot,

And we imagine thee exempt from age,

And living as thou liv'st on Glanvil's page ,

Because thou hadst—what we, alas! have not.

For early didst thou leave the world, with powers Fresh undiverted to the world without,

Firm to their mark, not spent on other things;

Free from the sick fatigue, the languid doubt.

Which much to have tried, in much been baffed, brings. O life unlike to ours!

Who fluctuate idly without term or scope,

Of whom each strives, nor knows for what he strives, And each half lives a hundred different lives;

Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, in hope.

Thou waitest for the spark from heaven! and we,

Light half-believers of our casual creeds.

Who never deeply felt, nor clearly will'd,

Whose insight never has borne fruit in deeds, •

Whose vague resolves never have been fulfill'd; For whom each year we see Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new;

Who hesitate and falter life away,

And lose to-morrow the ground won to-day—

Ah! do not we, wanderer! await it too ? •

Tes, we await it! but it still delays.

And then we suffer! and amongst us one,

Who must has suffer'd, takes dejectedly His seat upon the intellectual throne;

And all his store of sad experience he

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Lays bare of wretched days;

Tells us his misery's birth and growth and signa, And how the dying spark of hope was fed,

And how the breast was soothed, and how the head, And all his hourly varied anodynes.

This for our wisest! and we others pine,

And wish the long unhappy dream would end,

And waive all claim to bliss, and try to bear;

With close-lipp'd patience for our only friend, Sad patience, too near neighbour to despair—

But none has hope like thine!

Thou through the fields and through the woods dost stray, Roaming the country-side, a truant boy.

Nursing thy project in unclouded joy.

And every doubt long blown by time away.

O born in days when wits were fresh and clear,

And life ran gaily as the sparkling Thames;

Before this strange disease of modern life.

With its sick hurry, its divided aims.

Its heads o'ertax'd, its palsied hearts, was rife — Fly hence, our contact fear!

Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood!

Averse, as Dido'did with gesture stern From her false friend's approach in Hades turn,

Wave us away, and keep thy solitude!

Still nursing the unconquerable hope,

Still clutching the inviolable shade,

With a free, onward impulse brushing through. By night, the silver'd branches of the glade —

Far on the forest-skirts, where none pursue,

On some mild pastoral slope Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales Freshen thy flowers as in former years With dew, or listen with enchanted ears,

From the dark dingles, to the nightingales!

But fly our paths, our fleverish contact fly!

For strong the infection of our mental strife,

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Which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest; And we should -win thee from thy own fair life,

Like us distracted, and like us unblest,

Soon, soon thy cheer would die,

Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfix'd thy powers,

And thy clear aims be cross and shifting made;

And then thy glad perennial youth would fade,

Fade, and grow old at last, and die like ours.

Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles!

—As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea,

Descried at sunrise an emerging prow Lifting the cool-hair'd creepers stealthily,

The fringes of a southward-facing brow Among the iEgsean isles;

And saw the merry Grecian coaster come,

Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine,

Green, bursting fig, and tunnies steep'd in brine— And knew the intruders on his ancient home.

The young light-hearted masters of the waves—

And snatch'd his rudder, and shook out more sail,

And day and night held on indignantly O'er the blue midland waters with the gale,

Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily,

To where the Atlantic raves Outside the western straits, and unbent sails

There where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam. Shy trafflickers, the dark Iberians come;

And on the beach undid his corded bales.

GROWING OLD.

What is it to grow old?

It is to lose the glory of the form ,

The lustre of the eye?

Is it for beauty to forego her wreath?

—Yes _l but not this alone.

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Is it to feel our strength—

Not our bloom only, but our strength—decay ?

Is it to feel each limb

Grow stiffer, every function less exact,

Each nerve more weakly strung?

Yes, this and more; but not,

Ah! 'tis not what in youth we dream'd 'twould be. quot;Tis not to have our life Mellow'd and soften'd as with sun-set glow, A golden day's decline.

'Tis not to see the world

As from a height with rapt prophetic eyes.

And heart profoundly stirr'd;

And weep, and feel the fulness of the past.

The years that are no more.

It is to spend long days

And not once feel that we were ever young;

It is to add, immured

In the hot prison of the present, month

To quot;month with weary pain.

It is to sulfer this,

And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel.

Deep in our hidden heart Festers the dull remembrance of a change,

But no emotion—none.

It is—last stage of ail-

When we are frozen up within, and quite

The phantom of ourselves,

To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost,

quot;Which blamed the living man.

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MINOR POETS.

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'THOMAS HOOD (1798—1845).

FAIR IWES.

O saw ye not fair Inea?

She's gone into the West,

To dazzle when the sun is down, And rob the world of rest:

She took our daylight with her. The smiles that we love best.

With morning blushes on her cheek. And pearls upon her breast.

ii.

0 turn again, fair Inea,

Before the fall of night,

For fear the Moon should shine alone.

And stars unrivalled bright.

And blessed will the lover be

That walks beneath their light,

And breathes the love against thy cheek,

1 dare not even write!

in.

Would I had been, fair Ines,

That gallant cavalier,

Who rode so gaily by thy side

And whispered thee so near!_

Were there no bonny dames at home. Or no true lovers here,

That he should cross the seas to win The dearest of the dear?

iv.

I saw thee, lovely Ines,

Descend along the shore,

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With bands of noble gentlemen, And banners waved before:

And gentle youth and maidens gay— And snowy plumes they wore;

It would have been a beauteous dream, —If it had been no more!

Alas, alas, fair Ines!

She went away with song,

With Music waiting on her steps,

And shoutings of the throng.

But some were sad, and felt no mirth,

But only Music's wrong.

In sounds that sang, Farewell, Farewell.

To her you've loved so long,

vi.

Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,

That vessel never bore

So fair a lady on its deck,

Nor danced so light before.

Alas for pleasure on the sea,

And sorrow on the shore,

The smile that blest one lover's heart,

Has broken many more!

BTJTH.

She stood breast high amid the corn, Clasped by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush,

Deeply ripened;—such a blush

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In the midst of brown was born—

Like red poppies grown with. com.

Kound her eyes her tresses fell,

Which were blackest none could tell, But long lashes veiled a light,

That had else been all too bright.

And her hat, with shady brim,

Made her tressy forehead dim;

Thus she stood amid the stooks Praising God with sweetest looks:

Sure, I said, Heav'n did not mean, Where I reap thou shouldst but glean, Lay thy sheaf adown and come.

Share my harvest and my home.

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

I semembek, I remember.

The house where I was born,

The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn;

He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day,

But now I often wish the night Had borne my breath away!

ii.

I remember, I remember.

The roses, red and white.

The vi'lets, and the lily-cups,

Those flowers made of light!

The lilacs where the robin built,

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And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday,— The tree is living yet.

in.

I remember, I remember,

Where I was used to swing,

And thought the air must rush as fresh

To swallows on the wing;

My spirit flew in feathers then.

That is so heavy now.

And summer pools could hardly cool

The fever on my brow!

iv.

I remember, I remember.

The fir trees dark and high;

I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky:

It was a childish ignorance.

But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from heav'n Than when I was a boy.

THE BRIDGE OP SIGHS.

One more Unfortunate,

Weary of breath,

Rashly importunate.

Gone to her death!

♦

Take her up tenderly.

Lift her with care; Faahion'd so slenderly,

Young, and so fair.

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Look at her garments Clinging like cerements; Whilst the wave coustanly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing.

Touch her not scornfully; Think of her mournfully;

Gently and humanly; Not of the stains of her; All that remains of her Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny

Rash and undutiful; Past all dishonour,

Death has left on her Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers,

One of Eve's family_;Wipe those poor lips of hers, Oozing so clammily.

Loop np her tresses,

Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses

Where was her home? Who was her father?

Who was her mother? Had she a sister?

Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, or a nearer one Yet, than all other?

Alas! for the rarity Of Christian Charity

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Under the sun!

Oh! it was pitiful,

Near a whole city full,

Home had she none!

Sisterly, brotherly.

Fatherly, motherly.

Feelings had changed;

Love, by harsh evidence Thrown from its eminence, Even God's providence Seeming estranged.

When the lamps quiver So far in the river,

With many a light From many a casement,

From garret to basement. She stood, with amazement, Houseless by night.

The bleak wind of March

Made her tremble and shiver. But not the dark arch

Or the black flowing river. Mad from life's history.

Glad to death's mystery.

Swift to be hurl'd Anywhere! anywhere Out of the world!

In she plung'd boldly. No matter how coldly The rough river ran;

Over the brink of it,

Picture it—think of it

Dissolute man!

Lave in it—drink of it Then, if you can.

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Take her up tenderly,

Lift her with care, Fashion'd so slenderly. Young, and so fair.

Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly,

Decently, kindly Smooth and compose them; And her eyes close them. Staring so blindly!

Dreadfully staring

Through muddy impurity, As when with the daring, Last look of despairing. Fixed on futurity.

Perishing gloomily Spurned by contumely.

Bold inhumanity.

Burning insanity.

Into her rest;

Cross her hands humbly As if praying dumbly.

Over her breast!

Owing her weakness. Her evil behaviour. And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour.

THE SONG OP THE SHIRT.

With fingers wevy and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread —

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Stitch—stitch—stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the ' Song of the Shirt!'

' Work—work—work!

While the cock is crowning aloof;

And work—work—work Till the stars shine through the roof! It's O! to bo a slave

Along with .the barbarous Turk,

Where woman has never a soul to save If this is Christian work!

' Work—work—work Till the brain begins to swim;

Work—work—work Till the eyes are heavy and dim!

Seam, and gusset, and band,—

Band, and gussset, and seam ,

Till over the buttons I fall asleep. And sew them on in a dream!

' O! men with Sisters dear 1 O ! men with Mothers and Wives!

It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!

Stitch—stitch—stitch,

In poverty, hunger, and dirt.

Sewing at once, with a double thread, A Shroud as well as a Shirt.

'But why do I talk of Death!

That phantom of grisly bone,

I hardly fear his terrible shape,

It seems so like my own —

It seems so like my own,

Because of the fasts I keep;

Oh God! that bread should be so dear. And flesh and blood so cheap!

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' Work —work—work!

My labour never flags;

And what are its wages? A bed of straw,

A crust of bread—and rags,

That shattered roof,—and this naked floor,—

A table,—a broken chair,—

And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For ;ometimes falling there.

' Work—work—work!

From weary chime to chime,

Work work—work—

As prisoner works for crime!

Band, and gusset, and seam.

Seam, and gusset, and band,

Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand.

' Work—work—work,

In the dull December light,

And work— work—work,

When the weather is warm and bright— While underneath the eaves

The brooding swallows cling,

As if to show me their sunny backs And twit me with the Spring.

' Oh ! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet—

With the sky above my head,

And the grass beneath my feet,

For only one short hour

To feel as I used to feel.

Before I knew the woes of want And the walk that costs a meal!

'Oh! but for one short hour!

A respite however brief!

No blessed leisure for Love or Hope ,

But only me for Grief!

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A little weeping would ease my heart,

But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread!'

With fingers weary and worn.

With eyelids heavy and red,

A woman sat, in unwomanly rags Plying her needle and thread—

Stitch—stitch—stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,— Would that its tones could reach the Rich She sang this ' Song of the Shirt!'

THE DEATH-BED.

We watched her breathing through the ni

Her breathing soft and low.

As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seemed to speak.

So slowly moved about As we had lent her half our powers To eke her living out.

Our very hopes belied our fears ,

Our fears our hopes belied— We thought her dying when she slept And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came dim and sad,

And chill with early showers.

Her quiet eyelids closed—she had Another morn than ours.

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YOTJTTGr BEN.

Young Ben he was a nice young man, A carpenter by trade;

And he fell in love -with Sally Brown, Who was a lady's maid.

But as they fetched a walk one day, They met a press-gang crew;

And Sally she did faint away,

Whilst Ben he was brought to.

The boatswain swore with wicked words. Enough to shock a saint,

That, though she did seem in a fit,

'Twas nothing but a feint.

'Come girl,' said he, 'hold up your head. He'll be as good as me;

For when your swain is in our boat, A boatswain he will be.'

So when they'd made their game of her. And taken off her elf.

She roused, and found she only was A-coming to herself.

' And is he gone, and is he gone!' She cried, and wept outright:

'Then I will to the waterside.

And see him out of sight.'

A waterman came up to her,

'Now, young woman,' said he,

' If you weep on so, you will make Eye-water in the sea.'

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' Alas! they've taken my beau Ben, To sail with old Ben-bow;'

And her woe begun to run afresh, As if she had said ' Gee woe!'

Says he, 'They've only taken him To the tender-ship you see;'

' The tender-ship!' cried Sally Brown 'What a hard-ship that must be.

Oh! would I were a mermaid now. For then I'd follow him;

But oh! I'm not a fish-woman.

And so I cannot swim.

Alas! I was not born beneath The Virgin and the Scales,

So I must curse my cruel stars And walk about in Wales.¹

Now Ben had sailed to many a place That's underneath the world;

But in two years the ship came home And all her sails were furled.

But when he called on Sally Brown, To see how she got on,

He found she'd got another Ben, Whose Christian name was John.

'Oh Sally Brown, oh Sally Brown, How could she serve me so!

I've met with many a breeze before But never such a blow!'

Then, reading on his 'bacco-box, He heaved a heavy sigh.

And then began to eye his pipe, And then to pipe his eye.

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And then he tried to sing 'All's well,'

But could not, though he tried; His head was turned, and so he chewed His pigtail till he died.

His death, which happened in his birth,

At forty odd befell:

They went and told the Sexton, and The Sexton tolled the bell!

SAMUEL LOVER (1798—1868). THE FOTJH-LEAVED SHAMROCK.

I'll seek a four-leaved shamrock

In all the fairy dells And if I find the charmèd leaf.

Oh, how I'll weave my spells!

I would not waste my magic might

On diamond, pearl, or gold.

For treasure tires the weary sense—

Such triumph is but cold;

But I will play the enchanter's part In casting bliss around;

Oh! not a tear, nor aching heart, Should in the world be found.

To worth I would give honor,

I'd dry the mourner's tears.

And to the pallid lip recall

The smile of happier years;

And hearts that had been long estranged.

And friends that had grown cold,

Should meet again like parted streams. And mingle as of old.

Oh! thus I'd play the enchanter's part In casting bliss around;

Oh! not a tear, nor aching heart, Should in the world be found.

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The heart that had been mourning

O'er vanished dreams of love,

Should see them all returning;

Like Noah's faithful dove.

And Hope should launch her blessed bark

On Sorrow's darkening sea,

And Misery's children have an ark, And saved from sinking be.

Oh! thus I'd play the enchanter's part

In casting bliss around;

Oh! not a tear, nor aching heart, Should in the world be found.

DAVID MACBETH MOIR (1798—1851).

(delta.)

LANG SYNE.

Langsyne !—how doth the word come back With magic meaning to the heart.

As memory roams the sunny track,

From which hope's dreams were loath to part! No joy like by-past joy appears;

For what is gone we fret and pine.

Were life spun out a thousand years,

It could not match Langsyne!

Langsyne!—the days of childhood warm,

When, tottering by a mother's knee,

Each sight and sound had power to charm, And hope was high, and thought was free. Langsyne!—the merry schoolboy days— How sweetly then life's sun did shine!

Oh! for the glorious pranks and plays. The raptures of Langsyne.

Langsyne!—yes, in the sound I hear The rustling of the summer grove;

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Aud view those angel features near Which first awoke the heart to love. How sweet it is in pensive mood, At windless midnight to recline,

And fill the mental solitude With spectres from Langsyne!

Langsyne!—ah, where are they who shared With us its pleasures bright and blithe! Kindly with some hath fortune fared; And some have bowed beneath the scythe Of death; while others scattered far O'er foreign lands at fate repine, Oft wandering forth, 'neath twilight's star. To muse on dear Langsyne!

Langsyne!—the heait can never be Again so full of guileless truth; Langsyne!—the eyes no more shall see, Ah no! the rainbow hopes of youth. Langsyne!—with thee resides a spell To raise the spirit, and refine. Farewell!—there can be no farewell To thee, loved, lost Langsyne!

ROBERT G1LFILLAN (1798—1850).

THE EXILE'S SONG-.

Oh! why left I my hame?

Why did 1 cross the deep?

Oh! why left I the land

Where my forefathers sleep?

I sigh for Scotia's shore,

And I gaze across the sea.

But I canna get a blink 0' my ain countrie!

The palm-tree waveth high.

And fair the myrtle springs;

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187

And, to the Indian maid,

The bulbul sweetly sings. But I dinna see the broom

Wi' its tassels on the lea. Nor hear the lintie's sang 0' my ain countrie!

Oh! here no Sabbath bell

Awakes the Sabbath morn, Nor song of reapers heard Amang the yellow corn: For the tyrant's voice is here,

And the wail of slaverie; But the sun of freedom shines In my ain countrie!

There's hope for every wo,

And a balm for every pain. But the first joys o' our heart

Come never back again. There's a track upon the deep,

And a path across the sea; But the weary ne'er return To their ain countrie!

IN THE DAYS O' LANGSYNE.

In the days o' langsyne, when we carles were young, An' nae foreign fashions amang us had sprung;

When we made our ain bannocks, and brew'd our ain yill. An' were clad frae the sheep that gaed white on the hill; 0! the thoeht o' thae days gars my auld heart aye fill!

In the days o' langsyne we were happy and free,

Proud lords on the land , and kings on the sea!

To our foes we were fierce, to our friends we were kind, An' where battle raged loudest, you ever did find The banner of Scotland float high in the wind!

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188

In the days o' latigsyne we aye ranted and sang By the warm ingle side, or the wild braes amang;

Our lads busked braw, and our lasses looked fine,

An' the sun on our mountains seemed ever to shine; 0! where is the Scotland o' bonnie langsyne?

In the days o' langsyne ilka glen had its tale,

Sweet voices were heard in ilk breath o' the gale;

An' ilka wee burn had a sang o' its ain,

As it trotted alang through the valley or plain;

Shall we e'er hear the music o' streamlets again?

In the days o' langsyne there were feasting and glee, Wi' pride in ilk heart, and joy in ilk ee;

And the auld, 'mang the nappy, their eild seemed to tyne, It was your stoup the nicht, and the morn 't was mine: 0! the days o' langsyne—0! the days o' langsyne.

THOMAS KIBBLE HEEVEY (1799—1859).

THE CONVICT SHIP.

Morn on the waters—and purple and bright,

Bursts on the billows the flushings of light;

O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun.

See the tall vessel goes gallantly on;

Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail.

And her pennons stream onward, like hope in the gale;

The winds come around her in murmur and song.

And the surges rejoice as they bear her along;

See! she looks up to the golden-edged clouds.

And the sailor sings gaily aloft in the shrouds:

Onward she glides amid ripple and spray.

Over the waters—away and away!

Bright as the visions of youth, ere they part,

Passing away like a dream of the heart!

Who—as the beautiful pageant sweeps by,

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18»

Music around her, and sunshine on high—

Pauses to think, amid glitter and show.

Oh! there he hearts that are breaking below!

Night on the waves!—and the moon is on high,

Hung like a gem on the brow of the sky,

Treading in depths, in the power of her might. And turning the clonds as they pass her to light!

Look to the waters!—asleep on their breast.

Seems not the ship like an island of rest?

Bright and aloue on the shadowy main,

Like a heart-cherished-home on some desolate plain! Who—as she smiles in her silvery light,

Spreading her wings on the bosom of night,

Alone on the deep, as the moon in the sky,

A phantom of beauty—could deem, with a sigh,

That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin,

And souls that are smitten lie bursting within?

Who, as he watches her silently gliding.

Remembers that wave after wave is dividing Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever,

Hearts which are parted and broken for ever?

Or deems that he watches, alone on the wave, The deathbed of hope, or the yonng spirit's grave?

'Tis thus with our life—while it passes along.

Like a vessel at sea, amid sunshine and song!

Gaily we glide in the gaze of the world,

With streamers afloat and with canvass unfiuTd;

All gladness and glory to wandering eyes,

Yet charter'd by sorrow, and freighted with sighs :

Fading and false is the aspect it wears ,

As the smiles we put on just to cover our tears;

And the withering thoughts which the world cannot know,

Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below;

While the vessel drives on to that desolate shore

Where the dreams of childhood are vanished and o'er.

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ADIEU, ADIEU, OUR DREAM OP LOVE!

Adieu, adieu!—our dream of love

Was far too sweet to linger long;

Such hopes may bloom in bowers above, But here they mock the fond and young.

We met in hope, we part in tears!

Yet, oh, 'tis sadly sweet to know That, life, in all its future years,

Can reach us with no heavier blow!

Our souls have drunk in early youth

The bitter dregs of earthly ill; Our bosoms, blighted in their truth.

Have learned to suffer and be still!

The hour is come, the spell is past;

Far, far from thee, my only love, Youth's earliest hope, and manhood's last, My darkened spirit turns to rove.

Adieu, adieu! oh, dull and dread

Sinks on the ear that parting knell!

Hope and the dreams of hope lie dead,— To them and thee—farewell, farewell!

ALARIC A. WATTS (1799—1864).

MY OWN rmESIDE.

Let others seek for empty joya.

At ball, or concert, rout, or play; Whilst, far from fashion's idle noise,

Her gilded domes, and trappings gay, I while the wintry eve away,—

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'Twixt book and lute, the hours divide; And marvel how I e'er could stray From thee—my own Fireside!

My own Fireside! Those simple words Can bid the sweetest dreams arise!

Awaken feeling's tenderest chords,

And fill with tears of joy my eyes!

What is there my wild heart can prize, That doth not in thy sphere abide,

Haunt of my home-bred sympathies, My own—my own Fireside!

A gentle form is near me now;

A small white hand is clasp'd in mine;

I gaze upon her placid brow,

And ask what joys can equal thine!

A babe, whoso beauty's half divine, In sleep his mother's eyes doth hide;

Where may love seek a fitter shrine Than thou—my own Fireside!

What care I for the sullen roar

Of winds without, that ravage earth;

It doth but bid me prize the more The shelter of thy hallow'd hearth;—

To thoughts of quiet bliss give birth:

Then let the churlish tempest chide,

It cannot check the blameless mirth That glads my own Fireside!

My refuge ever from the storm

Of this world's passion , strife, and care

Though thunder-clouds the sky deform, Their fury cannot reach me there.

There all is cheerful, calm, and fair. Wrath, Malice, Envy, Strife, or Pride,

Hath never made its hated lair By thee—my own Fireside!

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192

Thy precincts have a charmed ring

Where no harsh feeling dares intrude; Where life's vexations lose their gtring;

Where even grief is half subdued; And Peace, the halcyon, loves to brood.

Then, let the pamper'd fool deride,

I'll pay my debt of gratitude To thee—my own Fireside!

Shrine of my household deities!

Fair scene of home's unsullied joys!

To thee my burthen'd spirit flies,

When fortune frowns, or care annoys: Thine is the bliss that never cloys;

The smile whose truth hath oft been tried; What, then, are this world's tinsel toys To thee—my own Fireside!

Oh, may the yearnings, fond and sweet,

That bid my thoughts be all of thee,

Thus ever guide my wandering feet To thy heart-soothing sanctuary!

Whate'er my future years may be:

Let joy or grief my fate betide;

Be still an Eden bright to me My own—my own Fireside!

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY (1800—1859).

houatius keeps the bridge.

{From horatius cocles.)

Then out spake brave Horatius,

The captain of the gate:

'To every man upon this earth Death cometh toon or late.

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And how can man die better

Than facing fearful odds,

For the ashes of his fathers And the temples of his gods?

' And for the tender mother Who dandled him to rest,

And for the wife who nurses

His baby at her breast,

And for the holy maidens

Who feed the eternal flame, To save them from false Sextus, That wrought the deed of shame?

'Hew down the bridge. Sir Consul,

With all the speed ye may; I, with two more to help me.

Will hold the foe in play.

In yon straight path a thousand May well be stopped by three. Now, who will stand on either hand And keep the bridge with me?'

Then out spake Spurius Lartius;

A Bammian proud was he: 'Lo, I will stand at thy right hand.

And keep the bridge with thee.' And out spake strong Herminins;

Of Titian blood was he:

'I will abide on thy left side. And keep the bridge with thee.*

' Horatiua,' quoth the Consul,

'As thou say'st, so let it be.' And straight against that great array

Forth went the dauntless three. For Bomans in Rome's quarrel

Spared neither land nor gold. Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, In the brave days of old.

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Alone stood brave Horatius, But constant still in mind;

Thrice thirty thousand foes before, And the broad flood behind.

' Down -with him!' cried false Sextua, With a smile on his pale face.

'Now yield thee,' cried LarsPoraena, 'Now yield thee to our grace.'

Round turned he, as not deigning Those craven ranks to see;

Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, To Sextus nought spake he;

But he saw on Palatinus

The white porch of his home;

And he spoke to the noble river That rolls by the towers of Rome.

'0, Tiber, Father Tiber!

To whom the Romans pray,

A Roman's life, a Roman's arms. Take thou in charge this day!'

So he spake, and speaking sheathed, The good sword by his side.

And, with his harness on his back, Plunged headlong in the tide.

No sound of joy or sorrow Was heard from either bank;

But friends and foes in dumb surprise,

With parted lips and straining eyes, Stood gazing where he sank;

And when above the surges They saw his crest appear,

All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry,

And even the ranks of Tuscany Could scarce forbear to cheer.

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THE BATTLE OP IVKY.

Now glory to the Lord of hosts, from whom all glories are!

And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre!

Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance,

Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land France!

And thou, Eochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy.

For cold and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war, Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and King Henry of Navarre.

Oh! how our hearts were beating, when at the dawn of day We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array;

With all its priest-led citizens; and all its rebel peers, And Appenzell's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears.

There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land! And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand!

And as we look'd on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood;

And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war,

To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.

The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest,

And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.

He look'd upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;

He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.

Right graciously he smiled on us, as roll'd from wing to wing,

Down all our line, a deafening shout,' God save our Lord the King!'

' And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may,

For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray,

Press where you see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war ,

And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre.

Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din O 6fe, and steed, and trump and drum, and roaring culverin! The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain,

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With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.

Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,

Charge for the Golden Lilies now—upon them with the lance! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest;. And in they burst, and on they rush'd, while, like a guiding star, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

Now, God be praised, the day is ours, Mayenne hath turned his rein.. D'Aumale has cried for quarter. The Flemish Count is slain.

Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale; The field is heap'd with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail; And then, we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, ' Remember St. Bartholomew,' was pass'd from man to man;

But out spake gentle Henry,' No Frenchman is my foe:

Down , down with every foreigner, but let our brethren go.'

Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war,

As our Sovereign Lord King Henry, the soldier of Navarre!

Ho! maidens of Vienna! Ho! matrons of Lucerne!

Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return.

Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican Pistoles,

That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls!

Ho ! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright!

Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night!

For our God hath crush'd the tyrant, our God has raised the slave,

And mock'd the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the brave.

Then glory to his Holy name, from whom all glories are;

And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre.

THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES (1803-1849).

DIRGE.

If thou wilt ease thine heart Of love and all its smart.

Then sleep, dear, sleep;

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And not a sorrow

Hang any tear on your eyelashes;

Lie still and deep Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes The rim o' the sun to-morrow In eastern sky.

But wilt thou cure thine heart Of love and all its smart,

Then die, dear, die;

'Tis deeper, sweeter,

Than on a rose-bank to lie dreaming

With folded eye;

And alone amid the beaming Of love's stars, thou'lt meet her In eastern sky.

CHARLES SWAIN (1803—1874).

WHAT IS NOBLE.

What is noble?—to inherit

Wealth, estate, and proud degree?— There must be some greater merit Higher yet than these for me!— Something greater far must enter

Into life's majestic span.

Fitted to create and centre True nobility in man.

What is noble?—'tis the finer

Portion of our mind and heart,

Link'd to something still diviner

Than mere language can impart;

Ever prompting—ever seeing

Some impïovement yet to plan; To uplift our fellow being.

And, like man, to feel for Man!

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What is noble?—is the sabre

Nobler than the humble spade?— There's a dignity in labour

Truer than e'er Pomp arrayed! He who seeks the Mind's improvement

Aids the word, in aiding Mind!

Every great commanding movement Serves not one, but all mankind.

O'er the Forge's heat and ashes,—

O'er the Engine's iron head,—

Where the rapid shuttle flashes.

And the spindle whirls its thread: There is labour, lowly tending

Each requirement of the hour,—

There is genius, still extending Science, and its world of power!

'Mid the dust, and speed, and clamour_r

Of the loom-shed and the mill;

'Midst the clink of wheel and hammer.

Great results are growing still!

Though too oft, by Fashion's creatures,

Work and workers may be blamed. Commerce need not hide its features,— Industry is not ashamed!

What is noble?—that which places

Truth in its enfranchised will,

Leaving steps—like angel-traces.

That mankind may follow still!

'E'en though Scorn's malignant glances

Prove them poorest of his clan. He's the noble—who advances Freedom, and the Cause of Man!

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JOHN MOULTRIE (1804-1874).

MY SCOTTISH LASSIE.

Here's to thee my Scottish lassie! here's a hearty health to thee,

For thine eye so bright, thy form so light, and thy step so firm and free;

For all thine artless elegance, and all thy native grace,

To the music of thy mirthful voice, and the sunshine of thy face;

For thy guileless look and speech sincere, yet sweet as speech can be—

Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! here's is hearty health to thee!

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! Though my glow of youth is o'er ; And I, as once I felt and dreamed, must feel and dream no more; Though the world, with all its frosts and storms, has chilled my soul at last,

And genius with the foodful looks of youthful friendship passed;

Though my path is dark and lonely, now, o'er this world's dreary sea, Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! here's a hearty health to thee!

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie ! though I know that not for me Is thine eye so bright, thy form so light, and thy steps so firm and free ; Though thou, with cold and careless looks, wilt often pass me by, Unconscious of my swelling heart and of my wistful eye;

Though thou wilt wed some Highland love, nor waste one thought on me,

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie, here's a hearty health to thee!

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! when I meet thee in the throng Of merry youths and maidens dancing lightsomely along,

I'll dream away an hour or twain , still gazing on thy form As it flashes through the baser crowd, like lightning through a storm : And I, perhaps, shall touch thy hand, and share thy looks of glee, And for once, my Scottish lassie, dance a giddy dance with thee!

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! I shall think of thee at even,

When I see its first and fairest star come smiling up through heaven; I shall hear thy sweet and touching voice in every wind that grieves. As it whirls from the abandoned oak its withered autumn leaves;

In the gloom of the wild forest, in the stillness of the sea,

I shall think, my Scottish lassie, I shall often think of thee!

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Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! In my sad and lonely hours, The thought of thee comes o'er me like the breath of distant flowers: Like the music that enchants mine ear, the sights that bless mine eye, Like the verdure of the meadow, like the azure of the sky,

Like the rainbow in the evening, like the blossoms on the tree,

Is the thought, my Scottish lassie! is the lonely thought of thee.

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! Though my muse must soon be dumb,

(For graver thoughts and duties with my graver years are come,) Though my soul must burst the bonds of earth, and learn to soar on high.

And to look on this world's follies with a calm and sober eye;

Though the merry wine must seldom flow, the revel cease for me,

Still to thee, my Scottish lassie! still I'll drink a health to thee!

Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! here's a parting health to thee! May thine be still a cloudless lot, though it be far from me !

May still thy laughing eye be bright. and open still thy brow, Thy thoughts as pure, thy speech as free, thy heart as light as now! And whatsoe'er my after fate, my dearest toast shall be—

Still a health, my Scottish lassie! still a hearty health to thee!

'FORGET THEE?'

' Fokget thee ?' if to dream by night, and muse on thee by day,

If all the worship deep and wild a poet's heart can pay.

If prayers in absence breathed for thee to Heaven's proctecting power,

If winged thoughts that flit to thee,—a thousand in an hour,

If busy fancy blending thee with all my future lot,—

If this thou call'st' forgetting,' thou, indeed, shalt be forgot!

' Forget thee ?' Bid the forest-birds forget their sweetest tune;

' Forget thee?' Bid the sea forget to swell beneath the moon;

Bid the thirsty flowers forget to drink the eve's refreshing dew;

Thyself forget thine own ' dear land,' and its ' mountains wild and blue.* Forget each old familiar face, each long-remember'd spot,—

When these things are forgot by thee, then thou shalt be forgot!

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Keep, if thou wilt, thy maiden peace, still calm and fancy-free gt; For God forbid thy gladsome heart should grow less glad for me; Tet, while that heart is still unwon, oh! bid not mine to rove,

But let it nurse its humble faith and uncomplaining love;—

If these, preserved for patient years, at last avail me not.

Forget me then;—but ne'er believe that thou canst be forgot!

LORD HOUGHTON (RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES) (1809—).

LONDON CHURCHES.

I stood , one Sunday morning,

Before a large church-door, The congregation gather'd.

And carriages a score—

From one outstepped a lady I oft had seen before.

Her hand was on a Prayer-book,

And held a vinaigrette;

The sign of man's redemption

Clear on the book was set,—

But above the cross there glisten'd A golden coronet.

For her the obsequious beadle The inner door flung wide,

Lightly, as up a ball-room.

Her footsteps seemed to glide—

There might be good thoughts in her For all her evil pride.

But after her a woman

Peep'd wistfully within.

On whose wan face was graven

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Life's hardest discipline— The trace of the sad trinity Of weakness, pain, and sin.

The few free-seats werd crowded

Where she could rest and pray; With her worn garb contrasted

Each side in fair array—

' God's house holds no poor sinners, She sigh'd and crept away.

Old heathendom's vast temples

Held men of every fate; The steps of far Benares

Commingle small and great; The dome of St. Sophia.

Confounds all human state;

The aisles of blessed Peter

Are open all the year; Throughout wide Christian Europe

The Christian's right is clear To use God's house in freedom, Each man the other's peer.

Save only in that England,

Where this disgrace I saw— England, where no one crouches

In tyranny's base awe—

England, where all are equal Beneath the eye of law.

There, too, each vast cathedral

Contracts its ample room— No weary beggar resting

Within the holy gloom— No earnest student musing Beside the famous tomb!

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Who shall relieve tlie scandal

That desecrates our age— An evil great as ever

Iconoclastic rage?

Who to this Christian people Restore their heritage?

I WANDER'B BY THE BBOOKSIDE.

I wajjder'd by the brookside, I wander'd by the mill,

I could not hear the brook flow, The noisy wheel was still;

There was no burr of grasshopper. No chirp of any bird,

But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

I sat beneath the elmtree,

I watch'd the long long shade, And as it grew still longer,

I did not feel afraid;

I listen'd for a footfall,

I listen'd for a word.

But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

He came not, no he came not, The night came on alone,

The little stars sat one by one.

Each on its golden throne; The evening air pass'd by my cheek, The leaves above were stirr'd, But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

Fast silent tears were flowing,

When some one stood behind;

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A hand was on my shoulder, I knew its touch was kind . . . It drew me nearer, nearer,

We did not speak a word,

But the beating of our own hearts Was all the sound we heard.

EDWIN WAÜGH (1817—).

COME WHOAM TO THI CHILDEE ATT ME.

Aw've just mended th' fire wi' a cob;

Owd Swaddle has brought thi new shoon; There's some nice bacon-collops o' th' hob,

An a quart o' ale posset i' the oon;

Aw've brought thi top-cwot, does ta know,

For th' rain's comin¹ deawn very dree;

An' th' har'stone's as white as new snow;— Come whoam to thi childer an' me.

When aw put little Sally to bed,

Hoo cried, 'cose her feyther weren't theer; So, aw kissed th' little thing, an' asv said;

Thae'd bring her a ribbin fro th' fair;

An' aw gav her her doll, an' some rags,

An' a nice little white cotton bo';

An' aw kissed her again; but hoo said At hoo wanéed to kiss thee an' 0'.

An' Dick, too aw'd sich wark wi' him,

Afore aw could get him upstairs;

Thae towd him thae'd bring him a drum, He said, when he're sayin' his prayers;

Then he looked i' my face, au' he said,

' Has th' boggarts taen houd o' my dad ?' An' he cried till his e'en were quite red; He likes thee some weel, does yon lad I

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At th' lung length, aw geet 'em laid still;

An' aw hearken't folk's feet at went by;

So aw iron't o' my clooas reet weel.

An' aw hanged 'em o' th' maiden to dry;

When aw'd mended thi stockin's an' shirts,

Aw sit deawn to knit i' my cheer,

An' aw rayley did feel rather .hurt,—

Mon, aw'tn one-ly when theaw artn't theer.

'Aw've a drum an' a trumpet for Dick;

Aw've a yard o' blue ribbin for Sal;

Aw've a book full o' babs; an' a stick,

An' some 'bacco an' pipes for mysel;

Aw've brought thee some coffee an' tay,—

Iv thae'11 feel i' my pocket, thae'11 see;

An' aw bought thee a new cap to-day,—

But, aw olez bring summat for theeV

'God bless tho, my lass; aw'11 go whoam.

An' aw'11 kiss thee an' th' childer o' reawnd;

Thae knows, that wheerever aw roam,

Aw'm fain to get back to th' owd 'greawd.

Aw can do wi' a crack o'er a glass;

Aw can do wi a bit ov a spree;

But aw've no gradely comfort, my lass',

Except wi' yon childer an' thee!'

TICKLE TIMES.

Hebe's Robin he's terrible gloomy;

An' Jamie keeps starin' at th' greawnd, An' thinkin' o' th' table at's empty.

An' th' little things yammerin' reawnd; It's true, it looks dark just afore us,—

But, keep your hearts eawt o' your shoon ,— Though clouds may be thickenin' o'er us, There's lots o' blue sky up aboon!

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But, when a mon's honestly willin' An' never a stroke to be had,

And clemmin¹ for want ov a shillin', — No wonder his heart should be sad;

It troubles him ill to keep seein' His little brids feedin' o' thquot; air;

An' it feels very hard to be deein', An' never a mortal to care.

But life's sich a quare little travel, — A marlock wi' sun an' wi' shade ,—

An' then, on a bowster o' gravel,

They lay'n us i' bed wi' a spade;

It's no use a peawtin' an' fratchin'— As th' whirligig's twirlin' areawnd,

Have at it again; and keep scratchin' As lung as your yed's upo' greawnd.

Iv one could but grope i' th' inside on't. There's trouble i' every heart;

An' thoose that'n th' biggest o' th' pride on Oft leeten o' th' keenest o' th' smart:

Whatever may chance to come to us, Let's patiently hondle er share,—

For there's mony a fine suit o' clooas That covers a murderin' care.

There's danger i' every station, I'th' palace as mich as i'th' cot;

There hanker i¹ every condition, An' canker i' every lot;

There's folk that are weary o' livin'

That never knew hunger nor cowd;

And there's mony a miserly nowmun That's deed ov a surfeit o' gowd.

One feels, neaw at times are so nippin', A mon's at a troublesome schoo',

That sLirei like a horse for a livin', An' flings it away like a foe':

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But, as pleasur's sometimes a misfortin

An' trouble sometimes a good thing,— Though we livin o' th' floor same as layrocks, We'n go up, like layrocks, to sing!

MARTIN FARQÜHAR TUPPER (1810—)

NEVER GIVE UP.

Never give up! it is wiser and better

Always to hope, than once to despair!

Fling off the load of Doubt's heavy fetter,

And break the dark spell of tyrannical care: Never give up! or the burden may sink you,—

Providence kindly has mingled the cup,

And in all trials or troubles, bethink you,

The watchword of life must be, Never give up!

Never give up! there are chances and changes

Helping the hopeful a hundred to one. And through the chaos High Wisdom arranges

Ever success,—if you'll only hope on:

Never give up! for the wisest is boldest.

Knowing that Providence mingles the cup, And of all maxims the best, as the oldest, Is the true watchword of Never give up.

Never give up! though the grape-shot may rattle

Or the full thunder-cloud over you burst: Stand like a rock,—and the storm or the battle Little shall harm you, though doing the worst Never give up! if adversity presses.

Providence wisely has mingled the cup, And the best counsel in all your distresses.

Is the stout watchword of Never give up!

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WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY (1811—1863).

THE BALIiAD OF BOUILIjABAISSE.

A street there is in Paris famous,

For wliich no rhyme our language yields, Rue Neuve des petits Champs its name is—

The New Street of the Little Fields;

And here's an inn, not rich and splendid.

But still in comfortable case;

The which in youth I oft attended,

To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.

This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is—

A sort of soup or broth, or brew,

Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes,

That Greenwich never could outdo;

Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffem ,

Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace;

All these you eat at Terke's tavern In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.

Indeed, a rich and savoury stew 'tis;

And true philosophers, methinks.

Who love all sorts of natural beauties.

Should love good victuals and good drinks. And Cordelier and Benedictine

Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace.

Nor find a fast-day too afflicting.

Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.

I wonder if the house still there is?

Yes, here the lamp is, as before;

The smiling red-cheeked écaillère is Still opening oysters at the door.

Is Teeré still alive and able?

I recollect his droll grimace;

He'd come and smile before your table,

And hoped you liked your Bouillabaisse.

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We enter—nothing's changed or older.

'How's Monsieur Tersé, Waiter, pray?' The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder—

'Monsieur is dead this many a day.'

It is the lot of saint and sinner,

So honest Terke's run his race?

'What will Monsieur require for dinner? 'Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?'

'Oh, oui. Monsieur,' 's the waiter's answer;

'Quel vin. Monsieur desire-t-il?'

' Tell me a good one.'—' That I can , Sir:

The Chambertin with yellow seal.' 'So Terré's gone,' I say, and sink in

My old accustom'd corner-place;

'He's done with feasting and with drinking. With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse.'

My old accustom'd corner here is ,

The table still is in the nook;

Ah! vanish'd many a busy year is.

This well-known chair since last I took. When first I saw ye, Can luoghi,

I'd scarce a beard upon my face.

And now a grizzled, grim old fogy,

I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.

Where are yon, old companions trusty,

Of early days, here met to dine?

Come, Waiter! quick, a flagon crusty— I'll pledge them in the good old wine. The kind old voices and old faces My memory can quick retrace;

Around the board they take their places, And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.

There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage;

There's laughing Tom is laughing yet; There's brave Augustus drives his carriage; There's poor old Fred in the Gazette;

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On James's head the grass is growing;

Good Lord! the world has wagged apace Since here we set the Claret flowing, And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.

Ah me! how quick the days are flitting!

I mind me of a time that's gone.

When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting,

In this same place—but not alone.

A fair young form was nestled near me,

A dear, dear face looked fondly up, And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me —There's no one now to share my cup.

I drink it as the Fates ordain it.

Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it

In memory of dear old times.

Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is;

And sit you down and say your grace With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. —Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse!

THE AGE OF WISDOM.

Ho, pretty page, with the dimpled chin,

That never has known the Barber's shear, All your wish is woman to win,

This is the way that boys begin,—

Wait till you come to Forty Year.

Curly gold locks cover foolish brains,

Billing and cooing is all your cheer; Sighing and singing of midnight strains, Under Bonnybell's window panes,—

Wait till you come to Forty Year!

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Forty times over let Michaelmas pass, Grizzling hair the brain doth clear— Then you know a boy is an ass,

Then you know the worth of a lass, Once you have come to Forty Year.

Pledge me round, I bid ye declare,

All good fellows whose beards are grey, Did not the fairest of the fair Common grow and wearisome ere Ever a month was past away?

The reddest lips that ever have kissed.

The brightest eyes that ever have shone, May pray and whisper, and we not list, Or look away, and never be missed. Ere yet ever a month is gone.

Gillian's dead, God rest her bier,

How I loved her twenty years syne! Marian's married, but I sit here Alone and merry at Forty Year,

Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine.

CHARLES MACKAY (1812—).

DAILY WORK. 1846.

Who lags for dread of daily work. And his appointed task would shirk. Commits a folly and a crime;

A soulless slave—a paltry knave— A clog upon the wheels of Time.

With work to do, and store of health. The man's unworthy to be free,

Who will not give, that he may live, His daily toil for daily fee.

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No! Let us work! We only ask Reward proportkm'd to our task: — We have no quarrel with the great;

No feud with rank—with mill or bank— No envy of a lord's estate.

If we can earn sufficient store To satisfy our daily need;

And can retain, for age and pain, A fraction, we are rich indeed.

No dread of toil have we or ours; We know our worth, and weigh our powers; The mote we work the more we win:

Success to Trade! Success to Spade! And to the com that's coming in! And joy to him, who o'er his task Remembers toil is Nature's plan;

Who working, thinks—and never sinks His independence as a man.

Who only asks for humblest wealth, Enough for competence and health; And leisure, when his work is done, To read his book by chimney-nook. Or stroll at setting of the sun;

AVho toils, as every man should toil. For fair reward, erect and free.

These are the men—the best of men— These are the men we mean to be!

I LOVE MY LOVE.

What is the meaning of the song

That rings so clear and loud. Thou nightingale amid the copse— Thou lark above the cloud?

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What says thy song, thou joyous thrush, Up in the walnut tree?

'I love my Love, because I know My Love loves me.'

ii.

What is the meaning of thy thought, O maiden fair and young?

There is such pleasure in thine eyes; Such music on thy tongue;

There is such glory on thy face—

What can the meaning be?

'I love my love, because I know My Love loves, me.'

in.

O happy words! at Beauty's feet We sing them ere our prime;

And when the early summers pass, And Care comes on with Time,

Still be it ours, in Care's despite, To join the chorus free—

' I love my Love, because I know My Love loves me.'

LOVE NEW AUD OLD.

Asd were they not the happy days

When Love and I were young.

When earth was robed in heavenly light.

And all creation sung?

When gazing in my true love's face,

Through greenwood allies lone, I guessed the secrets of her heart, By whispers of mine own.

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And are they not the happy days

When Love and I are old And silver evening has replaced

A morn and noon of gold?

Love stood alone mid youthful joy,

But now by sorrow tried,

It sits and calmly looks to heaven With angels at its side.

SISYPHUS.

Ever and evermore Upon the steep life-shore Of Death's dark main,

Bare to the bitter skies, His mournful task he plies In vain, in vain!

Sometimes he looks to Heaven And asks to be forgiven

The grievous pain.

The stars look sadly down, The cold sun seems to frown — In vain, in vain!

But kindly mother Earth, Remembering his birth,

Doth not disdain To sympathise with him, So worn of heart and limb; In vain, in vain!

Is not his fate her own? The rolling toilsome stone

Rolled back again?

Are not her children's woes The very same he knows?— In vain, in vain!

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Do not all Earth and Sea Repeat Eternally

Th' unvarying strain? The old and sad lament With human voices blent. In vain, in vain !

Through the green forest arch The wild winds in their march

Sigh and complain; The torrent on the hill Moans to the midnight chill, In vain, in vain!

The hoarse monotonous waves Attune from all their caves. Through storm and rain, The melancholy cry, To listening Earth and sky, In vain, in vain!

Love mourns its early dead; Hope its illusions fled,

Or rudely slain;

And Wealth and Power prolong The same, th' eternal song, In vain, in vain!

Toil, Sisyphus , toil on! Thou'rt many, though but one

Toil heart and brain! One—but the type of all Kolling the dreadful ball, In vain, in vain !

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WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE ATTOUN (1813 1865).

mOM THE BATTLE OP KILLIECBANKIK.

Bubkikg eye and flushing cheek Told the clansmen's fierce emotion,

And they harder drew their breath;

For their soula were strong within them,

Stronger than the grasp of death.

Soon we heard a challenge-trumpet

Sounding in the Pass below.

And the distant tramp of horses.

And the voices of the foe:

Down we crouched amid the braken.

Till the Lowland ranks drew near.

Panting like the hounds in summer.

When they scent the stately deer.

From the dark defile emerging.

Next we saw the squadrons come,

Leslie's foot and Leven's troopers

Marching to the tuck of drum; lt;

Through the scattered wood of birches,

O'er the broken ground and heath.

Wound the long batallion slowly,

Till they gained the field beneath;

Then we bounded from our covert,—

Judge how looked the Saxons then.

When they saw the rugged mountain.

Start to life with armèd men!

Like a tempest down the ridges Swept the hurricane of steel.

Rose the slogan of Macdonald—

Flashed the broadsword of Locheil!

Vainly sped the withering volley

'Mongst the foremost of our band—

On we poured until we met them

Foot to foot, and hand to hand.

Horse and man went down like drift-wood When the floods are black at Yule,

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And their carcasses are whirling

In the Garry's deepest pool:

Horse and men went down before us—

Living foe there tarried none On the field of Killiecrankie

When that stubborn fight was done!

THOMAS D AVIS (1814-1845).

THE SACK OP BALTIMORE.

The summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's hundred isles — The summer's sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough defiles-Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird;

And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard;

The hookers lie upon the beach, the children cease their play; The gossips leave the little inn; the households kneel to pray—

And full of love, and peace, and rest—its daily labour o'er—

Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore.

A deeper rest, a starry trancc, has come with midnight there; No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth, or sea, or air. The massive capes, and ruined towers, seem conscious of the calm; The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm.

So still the night, these two long barques, round Dunashad that glide , Must trust their oars—methinks not few—against the ebbing tide— Oh! some sweet mission of true love must urge them to the shore— They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in Baltimore!

All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street:

And these must be the lover's friends, with gently gliding feet—

A stifled gasp! a dreamy noise! ^he roof is in a flame!'

From out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid, and sire, and dame—

And meet, upon the threshold stone, the gleaming sabre's fall,

And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson shawl—

The yell of 'Allah' breaks above the prayer, and shriek, and roar—

Oh! blessed God! the Algerine is lord of Baltimore!

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Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing sword ;

Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was gored; Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grandbabes clutching wild; Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled with the child; But see yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed with splashing heel, While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his Syrian steel—

Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store, There's one hearth well avenged in the sack of Baltimore!

Mid summer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds began to sing-They see not now the milking-maids—deserted is the spring! Mid summer day—this gallant rides from distant Bandon's town— These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that skiff from Affadown; They only found the smoking walls, with neighbours' blood besprent. And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they wildly went— Then dashed to sea , and passed Cape Cléire, and saw five leagues before The pirate galleys vanishing that ravaged Baltimore.

Oh! some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the steed— This boy will bear a Scheik's chibouk, and that a Bey's jerreed. Oh ! some are for the arsenals, by beauteous Dardanelles;

And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells.

The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen for the Dey—

She's safe—she's dead—she stabbed him in the midst of his Serai; But, when to die a death of fire, that noble maid they bore,

She only smiled—-O'Driscoll's child—she thought of Baltimore.

quot;Tis two long years since sunk the town beneath that bloody band, And all around its trampled hearths a larger concourse stand.

Where, high upon a gallows tree, a yelling wretch is seen— quot;Tis Hackett of Dungarvan—he , who steered the Algerine!

He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing prayer,

For he had slain the kith and kin of many a hundred there-Some muttered of MacMurchadh, who brought the Norman o'er— Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimore.

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MY LAND.

She is a rich and rare land; 0! she's a fresh and fair Tand; She is a dear and rare land— This native land of mine.

No men than hers are braver— Her women's hearts ne'er waver; I'd freely die to save her,

And think my lot divine.

She's not a dull and cold land; No! she's a warm and bold land: Oh! she's a true and old land— This native land of mine.

Could beauty ever guard her, And virtue still reward her, No foe would cross her border— No friend within it pine!

Oh, she's a fresh and fair land; Oh, she's a true and rare land; Yes, she's a rare and fair land— This native land of mine.

PHILIPS JAMES BAILEY (1816— UNIVERSAL LOVE.

Love is the happy privilege of the mind— Love is the reason of all living things. A Trinity there seems of principles,

Which represent and rule created life— The love of self, our fellows, and our God

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In all throughout one common feeling reigns:

Each doth maintain, and is maintained by the other!

All are compatible—all needful; one

To life,—to virtue one,—and one to bliss:

Which thus together-make the power, the end.

And the perfection of created Being.

From these three principles doth every deed,

Desire, and will, and reasoning, good or bad, come;

To these they all determine—sum and scheme:

The three are one in centre and in round;

Wrapping the world of life as do the skies

Our world. Hail! air of love, by which we live!

How sweet, how fragrant! Spirit, though unseen-

Void of gross sign—is scarce a simple essence,

Immortal, immaterial, though it be,

One only simple essence liveth—God,—

Creator, uncreate. The brutes beneath,

The angels high above us, with ourselves.

Are but coupounded things of mind and form.

In all things animate is therefore cored

An elemental sameness of existence;

For God, being Love, in love created all.

As he contains the whole and penetrates.

Seraphs love God, and angels love the good:

We love each other; and these lower lives.

Which walk the earth in thousand diverse shapes,

According to their reason, love us too:

The most intelligent affect us most.

Nay, man's chief wisdom's love—the love of God.

The new religion—final, perfect, pure —

Was that of Christ and love. His great command—

His all-sufficing precept—was't not love?

Truly to love ourselves we must love God,—

To love God we must all his creatures love,—

To love his creatures, both ourselves and Him.

Thus love is all that's wise, fair, good, and happy I

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DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY (1817

THE WINDOW.

At my window, late and early,

In the sunshine and the rain,

When the jocund beams of morning Come to wake me from my napping With their golden fingers tapping

At my window-pane:

From my troubled slumbers flitting—

From my dreamings fond and vain ,

From the fever intermitting,

üp I start, and take my sitting At my window-pane.

Through the morning, through the noon-tide,

Fettered by a diamond chain,

Through the early hours of evening,

When the stars begin to tremble As their shining ranks assemble

O'er the azure plain :

When the thousand lamps are blazing. Through the street and lane-Mimic stars of man's upraising—

Still I linger, fondly gazing From my window-pane.

For, amid the crowds slow passing,

Surging like the main,

Like a sunbeam among shadows ,

Through the storm-swept cloudy masses, Sometimes one bright being passes

'Neath my window-pane:

Thus a moment's joy I borrow From a day of pain.

See, she comes! but, bitter sorrow! Not until the slow to-morrow Will she come again.

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CHARLES KINGSLEY (1818—1875).

THE THREE FISHERS.

Three fishers went sailing out into the West,

Out into the West as the sun went down;

Each thought of the woman who loved him best.

And the children stood watching them out of the town: For men must work, and women must weep,

And there's little to earn, and many to keep,

Through the harbour-bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower.

And they trimm'd the lamps as the sun went down;

They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower.

And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown; But men must work, and women must weep,

Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,

And the harbour-bar be moaning.

Three corpses lie out in the shining sands,

In the morning gleam, as the tide went down.

And the women are weeping and wringing their hands. For those who will never come home to the town. For men must work, and women must weep.

And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep, And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

THE SANDS O' DEE.

'Oh, Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the -cattle.home,

And call the cattle home,

Across the sands of Dee.'

The western wind was wild and dark with foam. And all alone went she.

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The western tide crept up along the sand. And o'er and o'er the sand,

And round and round the sand,

As far as eye could see.

The rolling mist came down and hid the land: And never home came she.

'Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—

A tress of golden hair,

A drowned maiden's hair,

' Above the nets at sea?'

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes of Dee.

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,

The cruel crawling foam,

The cruel hungry foam,

To her grave beside the sea.

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee.

THE LAST BUCCANEER.

Oh, England is a pleasant place for them that's rich and,high, But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I;

And such a port for mariners I ne'er shall see again As the pleasant Isle of Avès, beside the Spanish main.

There were forty craft in Area that were both swift and stout, All furnished well with small arms and cannons round about; And a thousand men in Avès made laws so fair and free To choose their valiant captains and obey them cheerfully.

Thence we sailed against the Spaniard, with his hoards of plate and gold.

Which he wrung with cruel tortures from the Indian folk of old; Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as stone, Who flog men and keel-haul them, and starve them to the bone.

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Oh, the palm grew high in Avès, and fruits that shone like gold. And the colibris and parrots they were gorgeous to behold;

And the negro maids of Avès from bondage fast did flee, To welcome gallant sailors, a-sweeping in from sea.

Oh, sweet it was in Avès to hear the landward breeze,

A-swing with good tobacco in a net between the trees.

With a negro lass to fan you, while you listened to the roar Of the breakers on the reef outside, that never touched the shore.

But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be,

So the king's ships sailed on Avès, and quite put down were we; . All day we fought like bull-dogs, but they burst the booms at night; And I fled in a piragua, sore wounded from the fight.

Nine days I floated starving, a negro lass beside.

Till for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young thing she died;

But as I lay a-gasping a Bristol sail came by,

And brought me home to England here, to beg until I die.

And now I'm old and going—I'm sure I don't know where; One comfort is the world's so hard, I can't be worse off there; If I might be a sea-dove, I'd fly across the main,

To the pleasant Isle of Avès, to look at it once again.

THE WORLD'S AGE.

Who will say the world is dying?

Who will say our prime is past? Sparks from Heaven, within us lying , Flash, and will flash till the last. Fools-! who fancy Christ mistaken;

Man a tool to buy and sell; Earth a failure, God-forsaken, Ante-room of Hell.

Still the race of Hero-spirits

Pass the lamp from hand to hand ;

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Age from age the words inherits—

'Wife, and Child, and Fatherland.'

Still the youthful hunter gathers Fiery joy from wold and wood;

He will dare as dared his fathers Give him cause as good.

While a slave bewails his fetters;

While an orphan pleads in vain:

While an infant lisps his letters.

Heir of all the age's gain;

While a lip grows ripe for kissing;

While a moan from man is wrung;

Know, by every want and blessing,

That the world is young.

A FAREWELL.

My fairest child, I have no song to give you;

No lark could pipe to skies so dull and grey: Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you For every day.

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever;

Do noble things, not dream them, all day long: And so make life, death, and that vast for-ever One grand, sweet song.

EDWARD OA PERN (1819—).

THE OLD STONE-BREAKER.

Chiiist befriend thee, poor old man,

With misty eye, and fleshless bone, Dripping and shivering there alone,

Wrapped in a rag on that cold, cold stone;

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Feeble and toothless, haggard and wan, My heart aches for thee, poor old Dan.

A stranded wreck by life's rough sea,

The old man raised his eyes and said,

'Tis a sin to wish that one were dead; But days together I want for bread; And, sir, oh, sir, the wretch you see,

Ne'er dreamt he should so aged be.'

'Yonder's the union-bouse,' said I,

'And one so poor and very old Should seek its shelter from the cold.' 'No gaol for me, were it built of gold— I who have loved the fields and sky,

Would rather sit by this hedge and die.

'When I was young, m}' sturdy prime I sold for very nought a week—

A shilling a day—the truth I speak.

And my wife and little ones oft were sick; And now, with my head all white with rime. You see a victim of ill-paid time.

''Tis hard to starve; I sought 'the board;'

They chided me much for being poor; My memory called up days of yore,

When I made the wood ring and threshing-floor And I thought of many a golden hoard.

These shrivelled hands for them had stored.

'My spirit was broken; I turned to go,

When a gruff voice thundered, 'Pauper, stay! There's a shilling a week!' Now list I pray: Out of that I have sixpence for lodging to pay That's a penny a day for the six, sir you know And the seventh I feast on the thoughts of my woe.'

•And what is thy pittance, poor old Dan? The price of thy toil on that stubborn stone.

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That crack, crack, crack, and constant groan?' 'Twopence a day,' quoth he, with a moan. Down o'er my cheeks the big tear ran.

And I pitied the fate of that poor old man.

Ye who are wealthy, a lesson learn—

Hear what the blessed Jesus said,

'Give us each day our daily bread;'

And drive out want from the poor man's shed: Work him, but love him and pay him in turn, And the aged for hunger shall cease to mourn.

Would you have England without a brand? Would you have Devon the merry shire? See that each poor old withered sire,

Doomed on its bosom soon to expire,

Dies not an outcast, hammer in hand,

While there's corn in your garner and gold in the land.

WILLIAM COX BENNET (1820—).

THE WORN WEDDING-EING.

Your wedding-ring wears thin, dear wife; ah summers not a few, Since I put it on your finger first, have passed o'er me and you; And, love, what changes we have seen—what cares and pleasures too— Since you became my own dear wife, when this old ring was new.

O blessings on that happy day, the happiest of my life,

When, thanks to God, your low sweet 'Yes' made you my loving wife; Your heart will say the same, I know; that day's as dear to you. That day that made me yours, dear wife, when this old ring was new.

How well do 1 remember now your young sweet face that day; How fair you were—how dear you were—my tongue could hardly say; Nor how I doted on you; ah, how proud I was of you;

But did I love you more than now, when this old rirg was new?

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No—no; no fairer were you then than at this hour to me, And dear as life to me this day, how could you dearer be? As sweet your face might be that day as now it is, 'tis true, But did I know your heart as well wheu this old ring was new?

O partner of my gladness, wife, what care, what grief is there, For me you would not bravely face,—with me you would not share ? O what a weary want had every day, if wanting you ,

Wanting the love that God made mine when this old ring was new !

Years bring fresh links to bind us, wife—young voices that are here, Young faces round our fire that make their mother's yet more dear— Young, loving hearts , your care each day makes yet more like to you, More like the loving heart made mine when this old ring was new.

And, bless'd be God, all He has given are with us yet; around

Our table, every little life lent to us, still is found;

Though cares we've known, with hopeful hearts the worst we've

struggled through;

Bless'd be His name for all His love since this old ring was new.

The past is dear; its sweetness still our memories treasure yet; The griefs we've borne, together borne, we would not now forget , Whatever, wife, the future brings, heart unto heart still true, We'll share as we have shared all else since this old ring was new.

And if God spare as 'mongst our sons and daughters to grow old , We know His goodness will not let your heart or mine grow cold, Your aged eyes will see in miue all they've still shown to you, And mine in yours all they have seen since this old ring was new.

And 0, when death shall come at last to bid me to my rest, Hay I die looking in those eyes, and resting on that breast; 0 may my parting gaze be blessed with the dear sight of you. Of those fond eyes—fond as they were when this old ring was new.

THE WIFE'S APPEAL.

0 don't go in to-night, John! Now, husband, don't go in!

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To spend our only shilling, John ,

quot;Would be a cruel sin.

There's not a loaf at home, John;

There's not a coal, you know;

Though with hunger I am faint, John, And cold comes down the snow.

Then don't go in to-night!

Ah, John, you must remember.

And, John, I can't forget.

When never foot of yours, John,

Was in the alehouse set Ah, those were happy times, John,

No quarrels then we knew,

And none were happier in our lane Than I, dear John, and you.

Then don't go in to-night!

You will not go! John, John, I mind ,

When we were courting, few Had arm as strong or step as firm

Or cheek as red as you:

But drink has stolen your strength, John ,

And paled your cheek so white, Has tottering made your young firm tread, And bow'd your manly height

You'll not go in to-night!

You'll not go in? Think on the day That made me , John, your wife, What pleasant talk that day we had

Of all our future life!

Of how your steady earnings, John,

No wasting should consume, But weekly some new comfort bring To deck our happy room.

Then don't go in to-night.

To see us, John, as then we dress'd, So tidy, clean, and neat,

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Brought out all eyes to follow us As we went down the street.

Ah, little thought our neighbours then. And we as little thought,

That ever, John, to rags like these By drink we should he brought.

You won't go in to-night!

And will you go? If not for me.

Yet for your baby stay!

You know, John not a taste of food Has pass'd my lips to-day;

And tell your father, little or.e, Tis mine your life hangs on;

You will not spend the shilling, John? You'll give it him? Come, John?

Come home with us to-night!

CHARLES KENT (1823—).

LOVE'S CALENDER.

Talk, of love in vernal hours,

When the landscape blushes With the dawning glow of flowers, While the early thrushes Warble in the apple-tree;

When the primrose springing From the green bank, lulls the bee. On its blossom swinging.

Talk of love in summer-tide When through bosky shallows Trills the streamlet—all its side Pranked with freckled mallows; — When in mossy lair of wrens Tiny eggs are warming;

When above the reedy fens Dragon-gnats are swarming.

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Talk of love in autumn days, When the fruit, all mellow.

Drops amid the ripening rays, quot;While the leaflets yellow Circle in the sluggish breeze With their portents bitter;

When between the fading trees Broader sunbeams glitter.

Talk of love in winter time.

When the hailstorm hurtles.

While the robin sparks of rime Shakes from hardy myrtles.

Never speak of love with acorn, Such were direst treason;

Love was made for eve and morn. And for every season.

THE BALLAD.

Sing to me some homely ballad, Plaintive with the tones of love; Harp and voice together blending. Like the doling of the dove.

Let each cadence melt in languor Softly on my ravished ears,

Till my half-closed eyes are brimmin With a rapture of sweet tears.

Summon back fond recollections, Such as gentle sounds prolong;

Flies of memory embalming In the amber of a song.

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COVENTRY PATMORE (1823-).

THE CHACE.

{From The Angel in the House.)

She wearies with an ill unknown;

In sleep she sobs and seems to float, A water-lily, all alone

Within the lonely castlemoat;

And as the full-moon, spectral, lies

Within the crescent's gleamp;ming arms, The present shows htr heedless eyes A future dim with vague alarms. She sees, and yet she scarcely sees

For, life-in-life not yet begun,

Too many are its mysteries

For thought to fix on any one.

She's told that maidens are by youths

Extremely honour'd and desired; And sighs, 'If those sweet tales be truths,

What bliss to be so much admired!' The suitors come; she sees them grieve;

Her coldness fills them with despair; She'd pity if she could believe;

She's sorry that she cannot care. But who now meets her on her way?

Comes he as enemy or friend ,

Or both? Her bosom seems to say, He cannot pass; and there an end. Whom does he love? Does he confer

His heart on worth that answers his? Or is he come to worship her?

She fears, she hopes, she thinks he is! Advancing stepless, quick and still,

As in the grass the serpent glides, He fascinates her fluttering will,

Then terrifies with dreadful strides. At first, there's nothing to resist;

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He fights with all the forms of peace; He comes about her like a mist

With subtle, swift, unseen increase; And then, unlook'd for, strikes amain

Some stroke that frightens her to death, And grows all harmlessness again,

Ere she can cry, or get her breath. At times she stops, and stands at bay;

But he, in all more strong than she. Subdues her with his pale dismay,

Or more admired audacity.

She plans some final, fatal blow,

But when she means with frowns to kill, He looks as if he loved her so,

She smiles to him against her will. How sweetly he implies her praise!

His tender talk, his gentle tone, The manly worship in his gaze.

They nearly make her heart his own.

With what an air he speaks her name;

His manner always recollects Her sex, and still the woman's claim Is taught its scope by his respects. Her charms, perceived to prosper first

In his beloved advertencies,

When in her glass they are rehearsed,

Prove his most powerful allies. Ah, whither shall a maiden fiee.

When a bold youth so swift pursues, And siege of tenderest courtesy.

With hope perseverant, still renews! Why fly so fast? Her flatter'd breast

Thanks him who finds her fair and good; She loves her fears; veil d joys arrest

The foolish terrors of her blood: By secret, sweet degrees, her heart,

Vanquish'd, takes warmth from his desire; She makes it more, with hidden art,

And fuels love's late dreaded fire. The generous credit he accords

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To all the signs of good in her, Redeems itself; his praiseful words The virtues they impute confer. Her heart is thrice as rich in bliss,

She's three times gentler than before; He gains a right to call her his,

Now she through him is so much more! 'Tis heaven where'er she turns her head;

'Tis music when she talks; 'tis air On which, elate, she seems to tread,

The convert of a gladder sphere! Ah, might he, when by doubts aggrieved,

Behold his token next her breast.

At all his words and sighs perceived

Against its blythe upheaval press'd! But still she flies. Should she be won,

It must not be believed or thought She yields; she's chased to death, undone. Surprised and violently caught.

SIDNEY DOBELL (1824—1874).

TOMMY'S DEAD.

You may give over plough, boys. You may take the gear to the stead; All the sweat o' your brows, boys,

Will never get beer and bread. The seed's waste, I know, boys;

There's not a blade will grow boys; 'Tis cropped out, I trow, boys, And Tommy's dead.

Send the colt to the fair, boys— He's going blind, as I said.

My old eyes can't bear, boys,

To see him in the shed;

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The cow's dry and spare, boys,

She's neither here nor there, boys,

I doubt she's badly bred;

Stop the mill to-morn, boys.

There '11 be no more corn, boys,

Neither white nor red;

There's no sign of grass, boys,

You may sell the goat and the ass, boys,

The land's not what it was, boys,

And the beasts must be fe^l:

You may turn Peg away, boys,

You may pull off old Ned,

We've had a dull day, boys,

And Tommy's dead.

Move my chair on the floor, boys.

Let me turn my head:

She's standing there in the door, boys,

Your sister Winifred!

Take her away from me, boys,

Your sister Winifred!

Move me round in my place, boys,

Let me turn my head,

Take her away from me, boys,

As she lay on her death-bed—

The bones of her thin face, boys.

As she lay on her death-bed!

I don't know how it be, boys,

When all's done and said.

But I see her looking at me, boys,

Wherever I turn my head;

Out of the big oak-tree, boys,

Out of the garden-bed ,

And the lily as pale as she, boys,

And the rose that used to be red.

There's something not right, boys,

But I think it's not in my head;

I've kept my precious sight, boys—

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The Lord be hallowed.

Outside and in

The ground is cold to my tread, The hilla are wizen and thin, The sky is shrivelled and shred; The hedges down by the loan I can count them bone bj' bone, The leaves are open and spread. But I see the teeth of the land, And hands like a dead man's hand, And the eyes of a dead man's head. There's nothing but cinders and sand, The rat and the mouse have fled, And the summer's empty and cold; Over valley and wold,

Wherever I turn my head,

There's a mildew and a mould; The sun's going out overhead. And I'm very old,

And Tommy's dead.

What am I staying for, boys? You're all born and bred—

'Tis fifty years and more, boys, Since wife and I were wed; And she's gone before, boys, And Tommy's dead.

She was always sweet, boys.

Upon his curly head.

She knew she'd never see't, boys, And she stole off to bed;

I've been sitting up alone, boys For he'd come home, he said, But it's time I was gone, boys, For Tommy's dead.

Put the shutters up, boys,

Bring out the beer and bread,

Make haste and sup, boys,

For my eyes are heavy as lead;

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There's something wrong i' the cup, boys, There's something ill wiquot; the bread ; I don't care to sup, boys,

And Tommy's dead.

I'm not right, I doubt, boys,

I've such a sleepy head ;

I shall never more be stout, boys, You may carry me to bed.

What are you about, boys?

The prayers are all said,

The fire's raked out, boys.

And Tommy's dead.

The stairs are too steep, boys.

You may carry me to the head, The night's dark and deep, boys.

Your mother's long in bed;

'Tis time to go to sleep, boys, And Tommy's dead.

I'm not used to kiss, boys;

You may shake my hand instead.

All things go amiss, boys.

You may lay me where she is, boys,

And I'll rest my old head;

'Tis a poor world, this, boys,

And Tommy's dead.

FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE (1824—).

A SONG OF LIFE.

'Tis the same sun and stars, my Love,

That o'er our parents shone Through the brief beauty of their day. And when we also are as they Will yet shine on, shine on: —

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♦

Then mid the roses let us sing, As mid the roses they did;

For life will bring no second spring When summer once is faded.

quot;lis the same sun and stars, my Love, That saw their childish glee;

And rising still, and setting still.

So smiling, and so shouting, will Their children's children see: —

Then mid the roses let us sing, As mid the roses they did;

For life will bring no second spring When summer once is faded.

quot;Tis the same sun and stars, my Love,

That saw them worn and gray;

Smile bright and brave on instant Death;

—And who, that breathes our human breath₎Would bear to live for aye?

—Then mid the roses let us sing. As mid the roses they did;

For life will bring no second spring When summer once is faded.

FREDERICK LOCKER (1821—).

BEGGAKS.

Some beggars look on; I extremely regret it—

They wish for a taste. Bont they wish they may get it.

She thus aggravates both the humble and needy,_

You'll own she is thoughtless—I think she is greedy.

Punch.

I am pacing the Mall in a rapt reverie,—

I am thinking if Sophy is thinking of me.

When I'm roused by a ragged and shivering wretch, Who seems to be well on his way to Jack Ketch.

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He has got a bad face, and a shocking bad hat;

A comb in his fist, and he sees I'm a flat,

For he says, 'Buy a comb, it's a fine un to wear;

On'y try it, my Lord, through your -wiskers and 'air.'

He eyes my gold chain, as if anxious to crib it;

He looks just as if he'd been blown from a gibbet.

I pause ... I pass on, and beside the club fire I settle that Sophy is all I desire.

As I walk from the club, and am deep in a strophe That rolls upon all that's delicious in Sophy,

I'm humbly address'd by an 'object' unnerving,

So tatter'd a wretch must be 'highly deserving.'

She begs,—I am touch'd, but I've great circumspection: I stifle remorse with the soothing reflection That cases of vice are by no means a rarity—

The worst vice of all's indiscriminate charity.

Am I right? How I wish that my clerical guide Would settle this question—and others beside.

For always one's heart to be hardening thus,

If wholesome for beggars, is hurtful for us.

A few minutes later I'm happy and free To sip ' Its own Sophykim ' five-o'clock tea;

Her table is loaded, for when a girl marries What bushels of rubbish they send her from Barry's!

'There's a present for you. Sir!' Yes, thanks to her thrift. My Pet has been able to buy me a gift;

And she slips in my hand, the delightfully sly Thing, A paper-weight form'd of a bronze lizard writhing.

'What a charming cadeau! and so truthfully moulded; But perhaps you don't know, or deserve to be scolded,

That in casting this metal a live, harmless lizard Was cruelly tortured in ghost and in gizzard?'

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¹ Po-oh!'—says my lady, (she always says ' Pooh' * When she's wilful, and does what she oughtn't to do!) 'Hopgarten protests they've no feeling, and so It was only their muscular movement you know!'

Thinks I (when I've sa\d au revoir, and depart— A comb in my pocket, a Weight—at my heart), And when wretched mendicants writhe, there's a notion That begging is only their ' muscular motion.'

THE OLD STONEMASON.

A showery day in early spring —

An old man and a child

Are seated near a scaffolding Where marble blocks are piled.

His clothes are stain'd by age and soil. As hers by rain and sun;

He looks as if his days of toil Were very nearly done.

To eat his dinner he had sought A staircase proud and vast,

And here the duteous child had brought His scanty noon repast.

A worn-out workman needing aid; — A blooming child of light;—

The stately palace steps;—all made A most pathetic sight.

We had sought shelter from the storm. And saw this lonely pair.

But none could see a Shining Form— That watch'd beside them there.

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MY WIFE.

My little wife is out beyond the burn, I see her parasol behind the fir, And here am I inditing verse to her Ere she return.

That pretty bird is happy there conceal'd,

This fragrant chamber smiles a peaceful smile ,— What joy to sing the joys of home—the while My Joy's afield!

My spouse is mild—she's meek as any nun, And yet her spiritual calm is such. . .

Somehow one's always feeling she is much Too good for one.

She thinks I'm wise and handsome—'tis her creed. I wonder am I either! On my word Sometimes I've wonder'd 'an my bonnie bird' Thinks so indeed:

Perhaps! for she my homage ne'er repels; Perhaps I might have loved her half a life Perhaps—-had she but been the little wife Of some one else.

But why should I coin plain of cross or cares? While entertaining her (who won't complain) It may be I an angel entertain And unawares.

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GEORGE MEREDITH (1828—).

MARIAN.

Sue can be as wise as we, And wiser when she wishes;

She can knit with cunning wit. And dress the homely dishes.

She can flourish staff or pen, And deal a wound that lingers;

She can talk the talk of men, And touch with thrilling fingers.

II.

Match her ye across the sea, Natures fond and fiery;

Ye who zest the turtle's nest With the eagle's eyrie.

Soft and loving is her soul,

Swift and lofty soaring;

Mixing with its dove-like dole Passionate adoring.

III.

Such a she who'll match with me? In flying or pursuing,

Subtle wiles are in her smiles To set the world a-wooing.

She is steadfast as a star,

And yet the maddest maiden:

She can wage a gallant war, And give the peace of Eden.

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JUGGLING JERRY.

Pitch here the tent, while the old horse grazes: By the old hedge-side -we'll halt a stage.

It's nigh my last above the daisies:

My next leaf '11 be man's blank page.

Yes, my old girl! and it's no use crying: Juggler, constable, king, must bow.

One that outjuggles all's been spying Long to have me, and he has me now.

ii.

We've travelled times to this old common:

Often we've hung our pots in the gorge.

We've had a stirring life, old woman!

You and I, and and the old grey horse.

Races and fairs, and royal occassions,

Found us coming to their call:

Now they'll miss us at our stations:

There's a Juggler outjuggles all!

in.

Up goes the lark, as if all were jolly!

Over the duck-pond the willow shakes.

Easy to think that grieving's folly.

When the hand's firm as driven stakes!

Ay! when we're strong, and braced, and manful, Life's a sweet fiddle: but we're a batch

Born to become the Great Juggler's han'ful:

Balls he shies up, and is safe to catch.

iv.

Here's were the lads of the village cricket:

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I was a lad not wide from here:

Couldn't I whip off the bale from the wicket?

Like an old world those days appear!

Donkey, sheep, geese, and thatch'd ale-house—I know them!

They are old friends of my halts, and seem,

Somehow, as if kind thanks I owe them:

Juggling don't hinder the heart's esteem.

Juggling's no sin, for we must have victual:

Nature allows us to bait for the fool.

Holding one's own makes us juggle no little;

But, to increase it, hard juggling's the rule.

You that are sneering at my profession,

Haven't you juggled a vast amount?

There's the Prime Minister, in one Session,

Juggles more games than my sins '11 count.

VI.

I've murder'd insects with mock thunder:

Conscience, for that, in men don't quail.

I've made bread from the bump of wonder;

That's my business, and there's my tale.

Fashion and rank all praised the professor;

Ay! and I've had my smile from the Queen:

Bravo, Jerry! she meant: God bless her!

Ain't this a sermon on that scene?

VII.

I've studied men from my topsy-turvy

Close, and, I reckon, rather true.

Some are fine fellows; some, right scurvy:

Most, a dash between the two.

But it's a woman, old girl, that makes me

Think more kindly of the race:

And it's a woman, old girl, that shakes me When the Great Juggler I must face.

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VIII.

We two were married, due and legal:

Honest we've lived since we've been one.

Lord! I could then jump like an eagle:

Tou danced bright as a bit o' the sun.

Birds in a May-bush we were! right merry!

All night we kiss'd—we juggled all day, Joy was the heart of Juggling Jerry!

Now from his old girl he's juggled away.

IX.

It's past parsons to console us:

No, nor no doctor fetch for me:

I can die without my bolus;

Two of a trade, lass, never agree !

Parson and Doctor!—don't.they love rarely,

Fighting the devil in other men's fields!

Stand up yourself and match him fairly;

Then see how the rascal yields!

I, lass, have lived no gipsy, flaunting

Finery while his poor helpmate grubs:

Coin I've stored, and you won't be wanting: You shan't beg from the troughs and tubs. Nobly you've stuck to me, though in his kitchen

Many a Marquis would hail you Cook!

Palaces you could have ruled and grown rich in , But your old Jerry you never forsook.

XI.

Hand up the chirper! ripe ale winks in it;

Let's have comfort and be at peace.

Once a stout draught made me light as a linnet.

Cheer up! the Lord must have his lease. May be— for none see in that black hollow— It's just a place where we're held in pawn, And, when the Great Juggler makes us to swallow. It's just the sword-trick—I ain't quite gone!

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XII.

Yonder came smells of the gorse, no nutty,

Gold-like and warm: it's the prime of May,

Better than mortar, brick, and putty,

Is God's house on a blowing day.

Lean me more up the mound; now I feel it:

All the old heath-smells! Ain't it strange ?

There's the world laughing, as if to conceal it, But He's by us, juggling the change.

xiii.

I mind it well, by the sea-beach lying,

Once—it's long gone—when two gulls we beheld.

Which, as the moon got up, were flying Down a big wave that spark'd and swell'd.

Crack! went a gun; one fell: the second Wheel'd round him twice, and was off for new luckr.

There in the dark her white wing beckon'd: —

Drop me a kiss—I'm the bird dead-struck!

GERALD MASSEY (1828-).

TO-DAY AND TO-MOBBOW.

High hopes that bum'd like stars sublime _r

Go down i 'the heavens of freedom, And true hearts perish in the time

We bitterliest need 'em!

But never sit we down and say

There's nothing left but sorrow:

We walk the wilderniss to-day— The promised land to-morrow!

Our birds of song are silent now.

There are no flowers blooming,

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Yet life holds in the frozen bough, And freedom's spring is coming;

And freedom's tide comes up alway, Though we may strand in sorrow ;

And our good bark, aground to-day,

Shall float again to-morrow.

Through all the long, long night of years The people's cry ascendeth,

And earth is wet with blood and tears: But our meek sutl'erance endeth!

The few shall not for ever sway— The many moil in sorrow;

The powers of hell are strong to-day, But Christ shall rise to-morrow!

Though hearts brood o'er the past, our eyi With smiling features glisten!

For lo! our day bursts up the skies— Lean out your souls and listen!

The world rolls freedom's radiant way, And ripens with her sorrow;

Keep heart! who bear the Cross to-day, Shall wear the Crown to-morrow!

O youth! flame-earnest, still aspire With energies immortal!

To many a heaven of desire Our yearning opes a portal;

And though age wearies by the way. And hearts break in the furrow—

We'll sow the golden grain to-day— The harvest reap to-morrow!

Build up heroic lives, and all Be like a sheathen sabre,

Beady to flash out at God's call — O chivalry of labour!

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Triumph and toil are twins; and ay

Joy suns the cloud of sorrow, And 'tis the martyrdom to-day Brings victory to-morrow!

THAT MERRY, MERRY MAY.

Ah! 'tis like a tale of olden

Time, long, long ago;

When the world was in its golden

Prime, and Love was lord below. Every vein of Earth was dancing

With the Spring's new wine!

'Twas the pleasant time of flowers,

When I met you, love of mine. Ah! some spirit sure was straying

Out of heaven that day.

When I met you, Sweet! a-Maying In that merry, merry May.

Little heart! it shyly open'd

Its red leaves' love-lore.

Like a rose that must be ripen'd

To the dainty, dainty core.

But its beauties daily brighten,

And it blooms so dear,—

Though a many Winters whiten,

I go Maying all the' year.

And my proud heart will be praying

Blessings on the day.

When I met you. Sweet, a-Maying, In that merry, merry May.

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G. WALTER T HORNBURY (1828-

THE OLD GRENADIER'S STORY.

'Twas the day beside the Pyramids,

It seems but an hour ago,

That Kleber's Foot stood firm in squares,

Returning blow for blow.

The Mamelukes were tossing

Their standards to the sky,

When I heard a child's voice say, 'My men, Teach me the tcay to die!'¹

'Twas a little drummer, with his side

Torn terribly with shot;

But still lie feebly beat his drum. As though the wound were not. And when the Mameluke's wild horse

Burst with a scream and cry,

He said, 'O men of the Forty-third,

Teach me the way to die!''

'My mother has got other sons.

With stouter hearts than mine,

But none more ready blood for France

To pour out free as wine.

Yet still life's sweet', the brave lad moaned,

'Fair are this earth and sky;

Then comrades of the Forty-third,

Teach me the way to die!''

saw Salenche , of the granite heart,

Wiping his burning eyes-It was by far more pitiful

Than mere loud sobs and cries,

One bit his cartridge till his lip

Grew black as winter sky.

But still the boy moaned, 'Forty-third, Teach me the way to die!'

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0 never saw I sight like that,

The sergeant flung down flag,

Even the fifer bound his brow With a wet and bloody rag,

Then looked at locks and fixed their steel, But never made rëply,

Until he sobbed out once again,

' Teach me the way to die!

Then, with a shout that flew to God,

They strode into the fray;

1 saw their red plumes join and wave, But slowly melt away.

The last who went—a wounded man—

Bade the poor boy good-bye,

And said, 'We men of the Forty-third Teach you the way to die!''

I never saw so sad a look As the poor youngster cast,

When the hot smoke of cannon In cloud and whirlwind pass'd.

Earth shook, and Heaven answered: I watched his eagle eye,

As he faintly moaned, 'The Forty-third ' Teach vie the way to die!'

Then, with a musket for a crutch. He leaped into the fight;

I, with a bullet in my hip,

Had neither strength nor might.

But, proudly beating on his drum,

A fever in his eye,

I heard him moan, 'The Forty-third Taught me the way to die!''

They found him on the morrow.

Stretched on a heap of dead;

His hand was in the grenadier's Who at his bidding bled.

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They hung a medal round his neck,

And closed hia dauntless eye;

On the stone they cut, 'The Forty-third Taught him the way to die I'

'Tis forty years from then till now—

The grave gapes at my feet—

Yet when I think of such a boy

I feel my old heart beat.

And from my sleep I sometimes wake.

Hearing a feeble cry.

And a voice that says, 'Now, Forty-third, Teach me the way to die!''

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM (1828—).

LOVELY MARY DONNELLY.

Oh, lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best!

If fifty girls were round you I'd hardly see the rest.

Be what it may the time of day, the place be were it will, Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.

Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock, How clear they are, how dark they are! and they give me

many a shock.

Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a show'r. Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power.

Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up, Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup, Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine; It's rolling down upon her neck and gather'd in a twine.

The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded all before. No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor; But Mary kept the belt of love, and O but she was gay! She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away.

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When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete , The music nearly kill'd itself to listen to her feet;

The fiddler moan'd his blindness, he heard her so much praised, But bless'd himself he wasn't deaf when once her voice she raised.

And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung,

Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue; But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands , And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands.

Oh, you're the flower o' womankind in country or in town; The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down.

If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty bright. And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right.

O might we live together in a lofty palace hall,

Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall!

O might we live together in a cottage mean and small;

With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall!

O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress.

It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less. The proudest place would fit your face, and 1 am poor and low ; But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go!

A WIPE.

The wife sat thoughtfully turning over

A book inscribed with the school-girl's name ; A tear, one tear, fell hot on the cover So quickly closed »when her husband came.

He came and he went away, it was nothing;

With commonplace words upon either side; But, just with the sound of the room-door shutting, A dreadful door in her soul stood wide.

Love she had read of in sweet romances.

Love that could sorrow, but never fail;

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Built her own palace of noble fancies,

All the wide world like a fairy-tale.

Bleak and bitter and utterly doleful

Spread to this woman her map of life:

Hour after hour she look'd in her soul, full Of deep dismay and turbulent strife.

Face in hands, she knelt on the carpet;

The cloud was loosen'd, the storm-rain fell.

Oh! life has so much to wilder and warp it,

One poor heart's day what poet could tell?

A LYBIC.

O pale green sea.

With long pale purple clouds above—

What lies in me like weight of love?

What dies in me

With utter grief, because there comes no sign Through the sun-racing west, or on the dim sea-line?

O salted air,

Blown round the rocky headlands chill—

What calls me there from cave and hill?

What falls me fair

From Thee, the first-born of the youthful night?

Or in the waves is coming through the dusk twilight?

O yellow star,

Quivering upon the rippling tide—

Sendest so far to one that sigh'd?

Sendest thou, star,

Above where shadows of the dead have rest

And constant silence, with a message from the blest ?

lt;

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ALEXANDER SMITH (1830—1867).

BARB ABA.

On the Sabbath-day,

Through the church-yard old and grey,

Over the crisp and yellow leaves, I held my rustling way ; And amid the words of mercy, falling on my soul like balms;

'Mong the gorgeous storms of music—in the mellow organ-calms ,

'Mong the upward-streaming prayers, and the rich and solemn psalms, I stood heedless Barbara.

My heart was otherwhere While the organ filled the air,

And the priest, with outspread hands, blessed the people with a prayer , But, when rising to go homeward, with a mild and saint-like shine Gleamed a face of airy beauty with its heavenly eyes on mine—

Gleamed and vanished in a moment. Oh, the face was like to thine, Ere you perished, Barbara!

Oh, that pallid face!

Those sweet, earnest eyes of grace!

When last I saw them, dearest, it was in another place;

You came running forth to meet me with my love-gift on your wrist, And a cursed river killed thee, aided by a murderous mist,

Oh, a purple mark of agony was on the mouth I kissed,

When last I saw thee, Barbara!

These dreary years eleven

Have you pined within your heaven,

And is this the only glimpse of earth that in that time was given ? And have you passed unheeded all the fortunes of your race—

Your father's grave, your sister's child, your mother's quiet face— To gaze on one who worshipped not within a kneeling place ?

Are you happy, Barbara ?

'Mong angels, do you think ₄

Of the precious golden link

I bound around your happy arm while sitting on yon brink ?

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Or when that night of wit and wine, of laughter and guitars, Was emptied of its music, and we watched, through lattice-bars, The silent midnight heaven moving o'er us with its stars ,

Till the morn broke, Barbara ?

In the years I've changed;

Wild and far my heart has ranged,

And many sins and errors deep have been on me avenged;

But to you I have been faithful, whatsoever good I've lacked;

I loved you, and above my life still hangs that love intact—

Like a mild consoling rainbow, or a savage cataract,

Love has saved me, Barbara!

0 Love! I am unblest;

With monstruous doubts opprest

Of much that's dark and nether, much that's holiest and best.

Could I but win you for an hour from off that starry shore,

The hunger of my soul were stilled; for Death has told you more Than the melancholy world doth know ,—things deeper than all love, Will you teach me, Barbara!

In vain, in vain, in vain!

You will never come again,

There droops upon the dreary hills, a mournful fringe of rain; The gloaming closes slowly round, unblest winds are in the tree, Round selfish shores for ever moans the hurt and wounded sea;

There is no rest upon the earth, peace is with Death and thee,— I am weary, Barbara!

OWEN MEREDITH (1838—). (Edwakd Robert , Lord Lyttok).

CLOUDY WEATHER.

On the cold hill, under the sky, Here to-day, in the cloudy weather,

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The wind, as he pass'd me by,

Laugh'd 'They two are walking together Merry, and I know why,

For 1 met them as I came hither.'

The swallows were swinging themselves In the leaden-gray air aloft;

Flitting by tens and twelves. And returning oft and oft,

Like the restless thoughts in me That went, and came, and went,

Alone with my discontent.

in.

The hard-vext weary vane Rattled, and moan'd, and was still, In the convent over the plain,

By the side of the windy hill.

It was sad to hear it complain, So fretful, and weak, and shrill,

Again, and again, and in vain,

While the wind was changing his will.

IV.

I thought of our walks last summer By the convent-walls so green;

Of the rose-kiss gather'd from her. Those blossomy walls between,

1 thought (as we wander'd on, Too happy at heart to speak)

How the daylight left us alone,

And left his last light on her cheek.

The plain was as cold and gray (With its villas like glimmering shells) As some north-ocean bay.

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All dumb in the clmrch were the bells.

In the mist, half a league away,

Shone the house on the hill where she dwells.

VI.

There was not a lizard or spider To be seen on the broken walla.

The ruts, with the rain, had grown wider, And blacker since last night's falls.

O'er the universal dulness There broke not a single beam.

I thought how my love at its fulness Had changed like a change in a dream.

VII.

The olives were shedding fast About me to left and right.

In the lap of the scornful blast Black berries and leaflets white.

I thought 'Of the seed I have cast.

Not a fruit will be spared by the blight!'

And the ghosts of my hopes swept past,

By a cold word put to flight.

VIII.

How many precious seeds.

Yet bearing nor beauty nor worth!

The smoke of the burning weeds Came up with the steam of the earth,

Prom the red wet ledges of soil.

And the sere vines, row over row,—

And the vineyard-men at their toil Who sang in the vineyard below.

IX.

I thought ' Can I live without her,

■Whatever she do or say ?'

I thought 'Can I dare to doubt her,

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Now when I have given away My whole self, body and spirit, To keep or to cast aside,

To dower or disinherit.

And use as she may decide?'

But' Her voice', I groan'd, 'grows older, And her fair face colder still.' And 'Oh', I thought 'If I behold her, Walking there with him under the hill!'

THE CHBSS-BOABD.

Irene , do you yet remember,

Ere we were grown so sadly wise, Those evenings in the bleak December, Curtain'd warm from the snowy weather, When you and I play'd chess together. Checkmated by each other's eyes? Ah, still I see your soft white hand Hovering warm o'er Queen and knight.

Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand: The double Castles guard the wings: The Bishop, bent on distant things. Moves, sidling; through the fight. Our fingers touch: our glances meet, And falter; falls your golden hair Against my cheek; your bosom sweet Is heaving. Down the field your Queen Rides slow her soldiery all between, And checks me unaware.

Ah me! the little battle's done, Disperst is all its chivalry;

Full many a move, since then, have we 'Mid Life's perplexing chequers made,

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And manj'- a game with Fortune play'd,— What is it we have won?

This, this at least—if this alone;— That never, never, never more As in those old still nights of yore, (Ere we were grown so sadly wise) Can you and I shut out the skies,

Shut out the world, and wintry weather. And, eyes exchanging warmth with eyes, Play chess, as then we play'd together!

CHARLES. STUART CALVERLEY (1831 WANDERERS.

As o'er the hill we roam'd at will,

My dog and I together,

We mark'd a chaise, by two bright bays Slow-moved along the heather:

Two bays arch neck'd, with tails erect

And gold upon their blinkers;

And by their side an ass I spied;

It was a travelling tinker's.

The chaise went by, nor aught cared I;

Such things are not in my way:

I turn'd me to the tinker, who Was loafing down a by-way:

I ask'd him where he lived—a stare

Was all I got in answer.

As on he trudged: I rightly judged The stare said, ' Where I can, sir.'

I ask'd him if he'd take a whiff Of 'bacco; he acceded;

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He grew communicative too,

(A pipe was all lie needed,)

Till of thè tinker's life , I think,

I knew as much as he did.

'I loiter down by thorp and town;

For any job I'm willing;

Take here and there a dusty brown.

And here and there a shilling.

'1 deal in every ware in turn,

I've rings for buddin' Sally

That sparkle like those eyes of her'n;

I've liquor for the valet.

•I steal from th' parson's strawberry-plots, I hide by th' squire's covers;

I teach the sweet young housemaids what's The art of trapping lovers.

'The things I've done 'neath moon and stars Have got me into messes:

I've seen the sky through prison bars,

I've torn up prison dresses:

'I've sat, I've sigh'd, I've gloom'd, I've glanced With envy at the swallows

That through the window slid, and danced (Quite happy) round the gallows;

'But out again I come, and show My face nor care a stiver

For trades are brisk and trades are slow. But mine goes on for ever.'

Thus on he prattled like a babbling brook.

Then I, 'The sun hath slipt behind the hill, And my aunt Vivian dines at half-past six?

So in all love we parted; I to the Hall,

They to the village. It was noised next noon That chickens had been miss'd at Syllabub Farm.

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NICHOLAS MICHELL.

MORNING IN CHEAPSIDE.

Pausiug exhauatless, eddying, onward sweeping,

This channel of quick being never dry,

Each drop a human soul its passion keeping— The waves of life pass by.

Thinking and planning, hoping, fearing, dreaming, A little world in every busy heart,

Each from his fellow hideth his mind's scheming. Forms close, but souls apart.

What lines are written on those passing faces Of varied meaning—anxious, sad, or gay!

Here disappointment its dark furrow traces,

Plans cross'd, hopes swept away.

There the wild sparkle of success is beaming In boldly-opened eyes—here brows, close-knit,

Till of a brain still busy in its scheming,

The face with passions lit.

Those worn and sickly features speak a story

Of toil- for bread—the industrious, virtuous slave,

Working ambitiousless, till, frail and hoary He seeks his nameless grave.

And thus they pass each morn to varied duties. Spending in close brain-labour life's few hours;

What care their souls for Nature's countless beauties, Blue skies, streams, hills, or,flowers?

Nay, tlyjre are hearts immured in darksome alleys. That pant, while bowed by fate, to burst their chain ,

That sigh for breezy hills, green woods, and valleys, White shore and bounding main.

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Oft will they flee away on fancy's pinion,

To verdaunt haunts in some sequestered dell,

Where only pensive Thought should claim dominion, And quiet weave her spell.

But no, 'tis theirs to labour and to mingle

In that vast throng; yet mourn not, or complain, Heaven hath their tasks assigned, they toil not single. Nor is their labour vain.

These multitudes, before my vision sweeping,

A moral teach—no hermit man should be;

They ply the sickle, wealth's wide harvest reaping—

This mighty city, see!

Thro' them 'tis great, earth's envy and earth's wonder;.

Commerce is London's heart—her life's true flame; Such workers —England, sound the truth in thunder— Have made thy power, thy fame!

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FEMIA-IjB FOETS.

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MARY HOWITT (1804—).

THE SUNSHITfE.

I love the sanshine everywhere In wood, and field, and glen;

I love it in the busy haunts Of town-imprisoned men.

I love it when it streameth in The humble cottage door.

And casts the chequered casement shade Upon the red-brick floor.

I love it where the children lie Deep in the clovery grass,

To watch among the twining roots The gold-green beetles pass.

I love it on the breezy sea To glance on sail and oar,

While the great waves, like molten glass, Come leaping to the shore.

I love it on the mountain tops.

Where lies the thawless snow.

And half a kingdom, bathed in light,

Lies stretching out below.

And when it shines in forest-glades, Hidden, and green, and cool.

Through massy boughs, and veined leaves How is it beautiful!

How beautiful on little streams,

When sun and shade at play,

Make silvery meshes, while the brook Goes singing on its way.

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How beautiful, where dragon-flies

Are wondrous to behold.

With rainbow wings of gauzy pearl, And bodies blue and gold!

How beautiful, on harvest-slopes,

To see the sunshine lie;

Or on the paler reaped fields,

quot;Where yellow shocks stand high!

Oh! yes; I love the sunshine!

Like kindness or like mirth,

Upon a human countenance. Is sunshine on the earth!

Upon the earth; upon the sea;

And through the crystal air. On piled-up clouds; the gracious sun Is glorious everywhere!

LADY DUFPERIN (1807—1867).

THE IRISH EMIGRANT.

I'm sitting on the stile, Mary,

Where we sat side by side,

On a bright May morning long ago, When first you were my bride.

The corn was springing fresh and green, And the lark sang loud and high. And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love was in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary,

The day's as bright as then;

The lark's loud song is in my ear,

And the corn is green again.

But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,

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And your warm breath on my cheek,

And I still keep listening for the words You never more may speak.

'Tis but a step down yonder lane ,

The village church stands near,—

The church where we were wed, Mary,

I see the spire from here.

But the grave-yard lies between, Mary,

And my step might break your rest,

Where I've laid you, darling, down to sleep,

With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends;

But, oh, they love the better The few our Father sends.

And you were all I had, Mary,

My blessing and my pride;

There's nothing left to care for now.

Since my poor Mary died.

I'm bidding you a long farewell,

My Mary kind and true,

But I'll not forget you, darling,

In the land I'm going to.

They say there's bread and work for all,

And the sun shines always there,

But I'll not forget old Ireland,

Were it fifty times less fair.

THE HON. MRS. NORTON (1808-1877).

LOVE NOT.

Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay!

Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers— Things that are made to fade and fall away,

When they have blossomed but a few short hours.

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Love not, love not! The thing you love may die— May periah from the gay and gladsome earth;

The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky,

Beam on its grave as once upon its birth.

Love not, love not! The thing you love may change. The rosy lip may cease to smile on you;

The kindly-beaming eye grow cold and strange, The heart still warmly beat, yet not bo true.

Love not , love not! Oh warning vainly said In present years as in the years gone by;

Love flings a halo round the dear one's head , Faultless, immortal—till they change or die.

SONG OP THE PEASANT WIPE.

Come, Patrick, clear up the storms on your brow;

Tou were kind to me once—will you frown on me now? — Shall the storm settle here, when from heaven it departs. And the cold from without finds its way to our hearts? No, Patrick, no! sure the wintriest weather Is easily borne when we bear it together.

Though the rain's dropping through, from the roof to the floor _rAnd the wind whistles free where there once was a door, Can the rain, or the snow, or the storm wash away All the warm vows we made in our love's early day? No, Patrick, no! sure the dark stormy weather Is easily borne, if we bear it together.

When you stole out to woo me when labour was done. And the day that was closing to us seemed begun.

Did we care if the sunset was bright on the flowers?

Or if we crept out amid darkness and showers ,

No, Patrick! we talked, while we braved the wild weather. Of all we could bear, if we bore it together. ^v

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Soon, soon will these dark dreary days be gone oy,

And our hearts be lit up with a beam from the sky!

Oh, let not our spirits, embittered with pain,

Be dead to the sunshine that came to us then!

Heart in heart, hand in hand, let us welcome the weather

And sunshine or storm, we will bear it together.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING (1809—1861).

THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN.

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,

Ere the sorrow comes with years?

They are leaning their young heads against their mothers,

And that cannot stop their tears.

The young lambs are bleating in the meadows.

The young birds are chirping in the nest.

The young fawns are playing with the shadow.

The young flowers are blowing toward the west— But the young, young children, O my brothers,

They are weeping bitterly!

They are weeping in the playtime of the others,

In the country of the free.

Do you question the young children in the sorrow

Why their tears are falling so?

The old man may weep for his to-morrow

Which is lost in Long Ago;

The old tree is leafless in the forest,

The old year is ending in the-frost.

The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest,

The old hope is hardest to be lost:

But the young, young children, O my brothers,

Do you ask them why they stand Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers.

In our happy Fatherland?

They look up with their pale and sunken faces And their looks are sad to see,

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For the man's hoary anguish draws and presses

Down the cheeks of infancy;

'Your old earth,' they say, 'is very dreary,'

' Our young feet,' they say, ' are very weak; Few paces have we taken, yet are weary—

Our grave-reat is very far to seek:

Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children,

For the outside earth is cold,

And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering And the graves are for the old.'

¹ Truesay the children, ' it may happen

That we die before our time:

Little Alice died last year, her grave is shapen

Like a snowball, in the rime.

We looked into the pit prepared to take her:

Was no room for any work in the close clay!

From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her,

Crying, 'Get up, little Alice! it is day.'

If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower.

With your ear down, little Alice never cries;

Could we see her face, be sure we should not know h

For the smile has time for growing in her eyes: And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in

The shroud by the kirk-chime.'

'It is good when it happens,' say the children,

'That we die before our time.'

Alas, alas, the children! they are seeking

Death in life, as best to have:

They are binding up their hearts away from breaking

With a cerement from the grave.

Go out, children, from the mine and from the city.

Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do;

Pluck your handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty,

Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through But they answer, 'Are your cowslips of the meadows

Like our weeds anear the mine?

Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows.

From your pleasures fair and fine!

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'For oh,' say the chiklron, 'we are weary,

And we cannot run or leap;

If we cared for any meadows, it were merely To drop down in them and sleep.

Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping,

We fall upon our faces, trying to go;

And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping.

The reddest flower would look as pale as snow.

For, all day. we drag our burden tiring

Through the coal-dark, underground;

Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron In the factories, round and round.

'For all day, the wheels are droning, turning;

Their wind comes in our faces.

Till our hearts turn, our heads with pulses burning, And the walls turn in their places:

Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling. Turns the long light that drops adown the wall.

Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling All are turning, all the day, and we with all.

And all day, the iron wheels are droning, And sometimes we could pray,

'0 ye wheels,' (breaking out in a mad moaning)

' Stop! be silent for to-day!¹

Ay, be silent! Let them hear each other breathing For a moment, mouth to mouth!

Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing Of their tender human youth!

Let them feel that this cold metallic motion Is not all the life God fashions or reveals:

Let them prove their living souls against the notion That they live in you, or under you, 0 wheels!

Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward.

Grinding life down from its mark;

And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward, Spin on blindly in the dark.

Now tell the poor young children, 0 my brothers, To look up to Him and pray;

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So the blessed One who Wesseth all the others,

Will bless them another day.

They answer, 'Who is God that He should hear us,

While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred?

When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word.

And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding) Strangers speaking at the door;

Is it likely God, with angels singing round him ,

Hears our weeping any more?

' Two words, indeed, of praying we remember,

And at midnight's hour of harm,

'Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber.

We say softly for a charm.

We know no other words except 'Our Father,¹

And we think that, in some pause of angels' song,

God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather, And hold both within His right hand which is strong.

' Our Father!' If He heard us, He would surely (For they call Him good and mild)

Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely,

'Come and rest with me, my child.quot;

'But, no!' say the children, weeping faster,

'Heis speechless as a stone:

And they tell us, of His image is the master Who commands us to work on.

Go to!' say the children,—'up in heaven.

Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find.

Do not mock us; grief has made us unbelieving:

We look up for God, but tears have made us blind.'

Do you hear the children weeping and disproving, O my brothers, what ye preach?

For God's possible is taught by His world's loving,

And the children doubt of each.

And well may the children weep before you!

They are weary ere they rnn;

They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory Which is brighter than the sun.

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They know the grief of man, without its wisdom;

They sink in man's despair, without its calm; Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom,

Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm:

Are worn as if with age, yet unretrievingly

The harvest of its memories cannot reap,— Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly.

Let them weep! let them weep!

They look up with their pale and sunken faces,

And their look is dread to see.

For they mind you of their angels in high places.

With eyes turned on Deity.

' How long,' they say , ' how long, O cruel nation,

Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart,— Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation.

And tread onward to your throne amid the mart? Our blood splashes upward, O gold-heaper.

And your purple shows your path!

But the child's sob in the silence curses deeper Than the strong man in his wrath.'

LOVE.

I thooght once how Theocritus had sung

Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years.

Who each one in a gracious hand appears

To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:

And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,

I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,

The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years.

Those of my own life, who by turns had flung

A shadow across me. Straightway T was 'ware.

So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move

Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;

And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,—

'Guess now who holds thee?'—'Death,' I said. But, there.

The silver answer rang,—'Not Death, but Love.'

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MY HEART AND I.

Enough! we're tired, my heart and I. We sit beside the headstone thus, And wish that name were carved for us. The moss reprints more tenderly

The hard types of the mason's knife, As Heaven's sweet life renews earth's life With which we're tired, ray heart and I.

You see we're tired, my heart and I. We dealt with books, we trusted men. And in our own blood drenched the pen, As if such colours could not fly.

We walked too straight for fortune's end, We loved too true to keep a friend; At last we're tired, my heart and I.

How tired we feel, my heart and I! We seem of no use in the world; Our fancies hang grey and uncurled About men's eyes indifferently;

Our voice which thrilled you so, will let Youquot;sleep; our tears are only wet:

What do we here, my heart and 1?

So tired, so tired, my heart and I!

It was not thus in that old time When Ralph sat with me 'neath the lime To watch the sunset from the sky.

'Dear love, you're looking tired,' he said, I, smiling at him, shook my head: 'Tig now we're tired, my heart and I.

So tired, so tired, my heart and I!

Though now none takes me on his arm To fold me close and kiss me warm Till each quick breath end in a sigh Of happy languor. Now, alone,

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We lean upon this graveyard stone, Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I.

Tired out we are, my heart and I. Suppose the world brought diadems To tempt us, crusted with loose gems Of powers and pleasures? Let it try. We scarcely care to look at even A pretty child, or God's blue heaven, We feel so tired, my heart and I.

Yet who complains? My heart and I? In this abundant earth no doubt Is little room for things worn out: Disdain them, break them, throw them by; And if before the days grew rough We once were loved, used,—well enough I think, we've fared, my heart and I.

A MUSICAL rNSTBUMENT.

What was he doing, the great god Pan,

Down in the reeds by the river? Spreading ruin and scattering ban. Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat And breaking the golden lilies afloat With the dragon-fly on the river.

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, From the deep cool bed of the river; The limpid water turbidly ran.

And the broken lilies a-dying lay, And the dragon-fly had fled away.

Ere he brought it out of the river.

High on the shore sat the great god Pan, While turbidly flowed the river;

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And hacked and hewed as a great god can,

With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,

Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed To prove it fresh from the river.

He cut it short, did the great god Pan,

(How tall it stood in the river!)

Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man, Steadily from the outside ring,

And notched the poor dry empty thing In holes, as he sat by the river.

' This is the way,' laughed the great god Pan,

(Laughed while he sat by the river,) 'The only way, since gods began To make sweet music, they could succeed.' Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed He blew in power by the river.

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan!

Piercing sweet by the river!

Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!

The sun on the hill forgot to die.

And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly Came back to dream on the river.

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,

To laugh as he sits by the river.

Making a poet out of a man:

The true gods sigh for the cost and pain,— For the reed which grows nevermore again As a reed with the reeds in the river.

FRANCES BROWN (1816-). THE LAST FRIENDS.

I come to my country, but not with the hope

That brightened my youth like the cloud-lighting bow.

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For the vigour of soul, that seemed mighty to cope quot;With time and with fortune, hath fled from me now;

And love, that illumined my wanderings of yore,

Hath perished, and left but a weary regret

For the star that can rise on my midnight no more— But the hills of my country they welcome me yet!

The hue of their verdure was fresh with me still.

When my path was afar by the Tanais' lone track;

From the wide-spreading deserts and ruins, that fill The land of old story, they summoned me back;

They rose on my dreams through the shades of the West,. They breathed upon sands which the dew never wet.

For the echoes were hushed in the home I loved best— But I knew that the mountains would welcome me yet!

The dust of my kindred is scattered afar—

They lie in the desert, the wild, and the wave;

For serving the strangers through wandering and war, The isle of their memory could grant them no grave.

And I, I return with the memory of years.

Whose hope rose so high, though in sorrow it set;

They have left on my soul but the trace of their tears— But our mountains remember their promises yet!

Oh, where are the brave hearts that bounded of old? And where are the faces my childhood hath seen?

For fair brows are furrowed, and hearts have grown cold. But our streams are still bright, and our hills are still green j

Ay, green as they rose to the eyes of my youth.

When brothers in heart in their shadows we met;

And the hills have no memory of sorrow or death,

' For their summits are sacred to liberty yet!

Like ocean retiring, the morning mists now

Roll back from the mountains that girdle our land;

And sunlight encircles each heath-covered brow,

For which time hath no furrow and tyrants no brand;

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Oh, thus let it be with the hearts of the isle—

Efface the dark seal that oppression hath set;

Give back the lost glory again to the soil,

For the hills of my country remember it yet!

ELIZA COOK (1817—).

THE OLD ABM-CHAIB.

I love it, I love it; and who shall dare

To chide me for loving that old Arm-chair?

I've treasured it long as a sainted prize;

I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs.

'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;

Not a tie will break, not a link will start.

Would ye learn the spell?—a mother sat there;

And a sacred thing is that old Arm-chair.

In Childhood's hour I lingered near

The hallowed seat with listening ear;

And gentle words that mother would give;

quot;To fit me to die, and teach me to live.

She told me shame would never betide,

With truth for my creed, and God for my guide;

She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer;

As I knelt beside that old Arm-chair.

I sat and watched her many a day,

When her eye grew dim, and her locks were grey: And I almost worshipped her when she smiled. And turned from her Bible, to bless her child.

Years rolled on; but the last one sped—

My idol was shattered: my earth-star fled:

I learnt how much the heart can bear;

When I saw her die in that old Ann-chair.

^Tis past, 'tis past, but I gaze on it now With quivering breath and throbbing brow:

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quot;Twas there she nursed me; 'twas there she died:

And Memory flows with lava tide.

Say it is folly, and deem me weak.

While the scalding drops start down my cheek;

But I love it, I love it; and cannot tear

My soul from a mother's old Arm-chair.

A HOME IN THE HEART.

Oh! ask not a home in the mansions of pride,

Where marble shines out in the pillars and walls;

Though the roof be of gold it is brilliantly cold.

And joy may not be found in its torch-lighted halls.

But seek for a bosom all honest and true,

Where love, once awakened, will never depart:

Tarn, turn to that breast like a dove to its nest.

And you'll find there's no home like a home in the heart*

Oh! link but one spirit that's warmly sincere.

That will heighten your pleasure and solace your care;

Find a soul you may trust as the kind and the just. And be sure the wide world holds no treasure so rare.

Then the frowns of Misfortune may shadow our lot. The cheek-searing tear-drops of Sorrow may start.

But a star never dim sheds a halo for him Who can turn for repose to a home in the heart.

MARIAN EVANS LEWES (1820—). (Geoege Eliot.)

TWO LOVERS.

Two lovers by a moss-grown spring:

They leaned soft cheeks together there _r

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Mingled the dark and sunny hair,

And heard the wooing thrushes sing.

0 budding time!

0 love's best prime!

Two wedded from the portal stept:

The bells made happy carollings,

The air was soft as fanning wings, ♦

White petals on the pathway slept.

O pure-eyed bride!

O tender pride!

Two faces o'er a cradle bent:

Two hands above the head were locked;

These pressed each other while they rocked,

Those watched a life that love had sent.

O solemn hour!

O hidden power!

Two parents by the evening fire:

The red light fell about their knees On heads that rose by slow degrees Like buds upon the lily spire.

O patient life!

O tender strife!

The two still sat together there,

The red light shone about their knees;

But all the heads by slow degrees Had gone and left that lonely pair.

O voyage fast!

O vanished past!

The red light shone upon the floor

And made the space between them wide;

They drew their chairs up side by side,

Their pale cheeks joined, and said, 'Once more!' O memories!

O past that is!

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'O MAY I JOm THE CHOIR INVISIBLE.'

0 may I join the choir invisible

Of those immortal dead who live again

In minds made better by their presence: live

In pulses stirred to generosity,

In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn

For miserable aims that end with self.

In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars,

And with their mild persistence urge man's search

To vaster issues.

So to live is heaven:

To make undying music in the world,

Breathing as beauteous order that controls With growing sway the growing life of man.

So we inherit that sweet purity For which we struggled, failed, and agonised With widening retrospect that bred despair. Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued,

A vicious parent shaming still its child Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolved; Its discords, quenched by meeting harmonies.

Die in the large and charitable air.

And all our rarer, better, truer self.

That sobbed religiously in yearning song.

That watched to ease the burthen of the world, Laboriously tracing what must be.

And what may yet be better—saw within A worthier image for the sanctuary.

And shaped it forth before thfc multitude Divinely human, raising worship so To higher reverence more mixed with love—

That better self shall live till human Time Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky ^ Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb Unread for ever.

This is life to come;

Which martyred men have made more glorious For us who strive to follow. May I reach

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That purest heaven, be to other souls The cup of strength in some great agony, Enkindle generous ardour, feed pure love. Beget the smiles that have no cruelty— Be the sweet presence of a good diffused. And in diffusion ever more intense. So shall I join the choir invisible Whose music is the gladness of the world.

DINAH MARIA MÜLOCK CRAIK (1826-). THE PATH THROUGH THE SNOW.

Bare and sunshiny, bright and bleak.

Rounded cold as a dead maid's cheek,

Folded white as a sinner's shroud.

Or wandering angel's robes of cloud.—

Well I know, well I know Over the fields the path through the snow.

Narrow and rough it lies between

Wastes where the wind sweeps, biting keen:

Every step of the slippery road

Marks where some weary foot has trod;

Who'll go, who'll go After the rest on the path through the snow?

They who would tread it must walk alone,

Silent and steadfast—one by one:

Dearest to dearest can only say,

'My heart! I'll follow thee all the way.

As we go, as we go,

Each after each on this path through the snow.'

It may be under that western haze Lurks the omen of brighter days;

That each sentinel tree ia quivering Deep at its core with the sap of spring.

And while we go, while we go,

Green grass-blades pierce thro' the glittering snow.

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It may be the unknown path may tend Never to any earthly end.

Die with the dying day obscure,

And never lead to a human door:

That none know who did go Patiently once on this path through the snow.

No matter, no matter! the path shines plain; These pure snow-crystals will deaden pain;

Above, like stars in the deep blue dark,

Byes that love us look down and .mark.

Let us go, let us go,

Whither heaven leads in the path thro' the snow

MY LOVE ANNIE.

Soft of voice and light of hand As the fairest in the land— Who can rightly understand My love Annie?

Simple in her thoughts and ways. True in every word she says,— Who shall even dare to praise My love Annie ?

Midst a naughty world and rude Never in ungentle mood;

Never tired of being good— My love Annie.

Hundreds of the wise and great Might o'erlook her meek estate; But on her good angels wait. My love Annie.

Many or few the loves that may Shine upon her silent way,— God will love her night and day. My love Annie.

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ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER (1825—1864).

ONE BY ONE.

One by one the sands are flowing.

One by one the moments fall;

Some are coming, some are going;

Do not strive to grasp them all.

One by one thy duties wait thee.

Let thy whole strength go to each,

Let no future dreams elate thee,

Learn thou first what these can teach.

One by one (bright gifts from Heaven)

Joys are sent thee here below;

Take them readily when given,

Ready too to let them go.

One by one thy griefs shall meet thee,

Do not fear an armèd band;

One will fade as others greet thee;

Shadows passing through the land.

Do not look at life's long sorrow; '

See how small each moment's pain;

God will help thee for to-morrow,

So each day begin again.

Every hour that fleets so slowly

Has its task to do or bear;

Luminous the crown and holy,

When each gem is set with care.

Do not linger with regretting;

Or for passing hours despond;

Nor, the daily toil forgetting^

Look too eagerly beyond.

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Hours are golden links, God's token,

Reaching Heaven; but one by one. /

Take them, lest the chain be broken Ere the pilgrimage be done.

THE ANGEL OP DEATH.

Why shouldst thou fear the beautiful angel. Death, Who waits thee at the portals of the skies.

Ready to kiss away thy struggling breath,

Ready with gentle hand to close thine eyes?

How many a tranquil soul has passed away,

Fled gladly from fierce pain and pleasures dim,

To the eternal splendour of the day;

And many a troubled heart still calls for him.

Spirits too tender for the battle here Have turned from life, its hopes, its fears, its charms;

And children, shuddering at a world so drear.

Have smiling passed away into his arms.

He whom thou fearest will, to ease its pain,

Lay his cold hand upon thy aching heart;

Will soothe the terrors of thy troubled brain.

And bid the shadow of earth's grief depart.

He will give back what neither time , nor might, Nor passionate prayer, nor longing hope restore,

(Dear as to long blind eyes recovered sight,)

He will give back those who are gone before.

Oh, what were life, if life were all? Thine eyes Are blinded by their tears, or thou wouldst see

Thy treasures wait thee in the far-off skies,

And Death, thy friend, will give them all to thee.

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A WOMAN'S LAST WORD.

Well—tbe' links are broken , All is past;

This farewell, when spoken Is the last.

I have tried and striven All in vain;

Such bonds must be riven,

Spite of pain,

And never, never, never Knit again.

So I tell you plainly.

It must be;

I shall try, not vainly.

To be free;

Truer, happier chances Wait me yet.

While you, through fresh fancies. Can forget;—

And life has nobler uses Than Regret.

All past words retracing.

One by one,

Does not help effacing What is done.

Let it be. Oh, stronger Links can break!

Had we dreamed still longer We could wake,—

Yet let us part in kindness For Love's sake.

Bitterness and sorrow Will at last,

In some bright to-morrow,

Heal their past;

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But future hearts -will never

Be as true As mine was— is ever,

Dear, for you....

.. Then must we part, wlien loving As we do?

SENT TO HEAVENquot;.

I had a Message to send her,

To her whom my soul loved best;

But I had my task to finish,

And she was gone home to rest.

To rest in the far bright heaven:

Oh, so far away from here.

It was vain to speak to my darling. For I knew she could not hear!

I had a message to send her.

So tender, and true, and sweet,

I longed for an Angel to hear it, And lay it down at her feet.

I placed it, one summer evening. On a Cloudlet's fleecy breast.

But it faded in golden splendour. And died in the crimson west.

I gave it the Lark next morning,

And I watched it soar and soar;

But its pinions grew faint and weary, And it fluttered to earth once more.

To the heart of a Rose, I told it; And the perfume, sweet and rare.

Growing faint on the blue bright ether, Was lost in the balmy air.

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I laid it upon a Censer,

And I saw theeensen rise:

But the clouds of rolling silver Could not reach the far blue skies.

I cried, in my passionate longing:— 'Has the earth no Angel-friend

Who will carry my love the message That my heart desires to send?'

Then I heard a strain of music, So mighty, so pure, so clear,

That my very sorrow was silent. And my heart stood still to hear.

And I felt, in my soul's deep yearning. At last the sure answer stir:—

'The music will go up to Heaven, And carry my thought to her.'

It rose in harmonious rushing Of mingled voices and strings.

And I tenderly laid my message On the Music's outspread wings.

I heard it float farther and farther. In sound more perfect than speech;

Farther than sight can follow,

Farther than soul can reach.

And I know that at last my message Has passed through the golden gate:

So my heart is no longer restless, And I am content to wait.

AJDOUBTING HEAET.

Where are the swallows fled? Frozen and dead.

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Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore. Oh doubting heart!

Far over purple seas,

They wait, in sunny ease,

The balmy southern breeze,

To bring them to their northern homes once more.

Why must the flowers die?

Prisoned they lie In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain. Oh doubting heart!

They only sleep below The soft white ermine snow,

While winter winds shall blow,

To breathe and smile upon you soon again.

The sun has hid its rays These many days;

Will dreary hours never leave the earth? Oh doubting heart!

The stormy clouds on high Veil the same sunny sky,

That soon (for spring is nigh)

Shall wake the summer into golden mirth.

Fair hope is dead, and light Is quenched in night.

What sound can break the silence of despair? Oh doubting heart!

Thy sky is overcast.

Yet stars shall rise at last.

Brighter for darkness past.

And angels' silver voices stir the air.

JEAN INGELOW (1830-).

LETTICE WHITE.

My neighbour White—we met to-day— He always had a cheerful way,

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As if he breathed at ease; My neighbour White lives down the glad And I live higher, in the shade Of my old walnut-trees.

So many lads and lasses small, To feed them all, to clothe them all,

Must surely tax his wit;

I see his thatch when I look out, His branching roses creep about, And vines half smother it.

There white-haired urchins climb his en v And little watch-fires heap with leaves

And milky filberts hoard;

And there his oldest daughter stands With downcast eyes and skilful hands Before her ironing-board.

She comforts all her mother's days, And with her sweet obedient ways

She makes her labour light; So sweet to hear, so fair to see! O, she is much too good for me,

That lovely Lettice White!

'Tis hard to feel oneself a fool!

With that sême lass I went to school

I then was great and wise;

She read upon an easier book, And I—I never cared to look Into her shy blue eyes.

And now I know they must be there, Sweet eyes, behind those lashes fair

That will not raise their rim: If maids be shy, he cures who can; But if a man be shy—a man— Why then the worse for him!

My mother cries, ' For such a lad A wife is easy to be had

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And always to be found;

A finer scholar scarce can be,

And for a foot and legsays she, 'He beats the country round!

'My handsome boy must stoop his head To clear her door whom he would wed.'

Weak praise, but fondly sung! ' O mother! scholars sometimes fail— And what can foot and leg avail To him that wants a tongue?'

When by her ironing-board I sit, Her little sisters round me flit.

And bring me forth their store;

Dark cluster grapes of dusty blue, And small sweet apples bright of hue And crimson to the core.

But she abideth silent, fair.

And shaded by her flaxen hair

The blushes come and go;

I look, and I no more can speak Than the red sun that on her cheek Smiles as he lieth low.

Sometimes the roses by the latch Or scarlet vine-leaves from her thatch

Come sailing down like birds;

When from their drifts her board I clear. She thanks me, but I scarce can hear The shyly uttered words.

. Oft have I wooed sweet Lettice White By daylight and by candlelight

When we two were apart.

Some better day come on apace,

And let me tell her face to face,

'Maiden, thou hast my heart.'

How gently rock yon poplars high Against the reach of primrose sky

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With heaTen's pale candles stored! She sees them all, sweet Lattice White; I'll e'en go sit again to-night Beside her ironing-hoard!

SONG.

When sparrows build, and the leaves break forth _iMy old sorrow wakes and cries,

For I know there is dawn in the far, far north, And a scarlet sun doth rise;

Like a scarlet fleece the snow-field spreads, And the icy founts run free,

And the bergs begin to bow their heads. And plunge, and sail in the sea.

O my lost love, and my own, own love.

And my love that loved me so!

Is there never a chink in the world above Where they listen for words from below?

Nay, I spoke once, and I grieved thee sore, I remember all that 1 said,

And now thou wilt hear me no more—no more Till the sea gives up her dead.

Thou didst set thy foot on the ship, and sail To the ice fields and the snow;

Thou wert sad, for thy love did nought avail, And the end I could not know;

How could I tell I should love thee to-day, Whom that day I held not dear?

How could I know I should love thee away When I did not love thee anear?

We shall walk no more through the sodden plain With the faded bents o'erspread,

We shall stand no more by the seething main While the dark wrack drives o'erhead;

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O'-VO

We shall part no more in the wind and the rain .

Where thy last farewell was said;

But perhaps I shall meet thee and know thee again. When the sea gives up her dead.

REFLECTIONS.

Looking over a Gate at a Pool in a Field.

What change has made the pastures sweet And reached the daisies at my feet,

And cloud that wears a golden hem?

This lovely world, the hills, the sward— They all look fresh, as if our Lord But yesterday had finished them.

And here's the field with light aglow; How fresh its boundary lime-trees show,

And how its wet leaves trembling shine ! Between their trunks come through to me The morning sparkles of the sea Below the level browsing line.

I see the pool more clear by half Than pools where other waters laugh Up at the breasts of coot and-rail.

There, as she passed it on her way,

I saw reflected yesterday A maiden with a milking-pail.

There, neither slowly nor in haste, One hand upon her slender waist,

The other lifted to her pail,

She rosy in the morning light,

Among the water-daisies white,

Like some fair sloop appeared to sail.

Against her ankles as she trod,

The lucky buttercups did nod.

I leaned upon the gate to see:

The sweet thing looked, but did not speak,

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A dimple came in either cheek,

And all my heart was gone from me.

Then, as I lingered on the gate ,

And she came up like coming fate,

I saw my picture in her eyes—

Clear dancing eyes, more black than sloes , Cheeks like the mountain pink, that grows Among whitq-headed majesties.

I said, 'A tale was made of old That I would fain to thee unfold;

Ah! let me—let me tell the tale.' But high she held her comely head ; 'I cannot heed it now,' she said, 'For carrying of the milking-pail.'

She laughed. What good to make ado ? I held the gate, and she came through,

And took her homeward path anon.

From the clear pool her face had fled; It rested on my heart instead,

Reflected when the maid was gone.

With happy youth, and work content. So sweet and stately on she went,

Right careless of the untold tale.

Each step she took I loved her more, And followed to her dairy door The maiden with the milking-pail.

II.

For hearts where wakened love doth lurk , How fine, how blest a thing is work!

For work does good when reasons fail— Good; yet the axe at every stroke The echo of a name awoke —

Her name is Mary Martindale.

I'm glad that echo was not heard Aright by other men: a bird

Knows doubtless what his own notes tell;

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And I know not, but I can say I felt as shame-faced all that day

Aa if folks heard her name right -well.

And when the west began to glow I went—-I could npt choose but go—

To that same dairy on the hill; And while sweet Mary moved about Within, I came to her without. And leaned upon the window-sill.

The garden border where I stood Was aweet with pinks and southernwood.

I spoke—her answer seemed to fail: I smelt the pinks—-I could not see; The dusk came down and sheltered me. And in the dusk she heard my tale.

And what is left that I should tell ? I begged a kiss, I pleaded well;

The rosebud lips did long decline; But yet I think, I think 'tis true.

That, leaned at laat into the dew. One little instant they were mine.

O life! how dear thou haat become: She laughed at dawn, and I was dumb ,

But evening counsels best prevail.

Fair ahine the blue that o'er her spreads , Green be the pastures where she treads, The maiden with the milking-pail!

THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIBE.

(1571.)

The old mayor climbed the belfry tower. The ringers ran by two, by three;

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'Pull, if ye never pulled before;

Good ringers, pull your best,' quotli lie. 'Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells!

Ply all your changes, all your swells,

Play uppe 'The Brides of Enderby.'

Men say it was a stolen tyde—

The Lord that sent it, He knows all; But in myne ears doth still abide

The message that the bells let fall: And there was nought of strange, beside The flights of mews and peewits pied

By millions crouched on the old sea wall.

I sat and spun within the doore ,

My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes; The level sun, like ruddy ore,

Lay sinking in the barren skies;

And dark against day's golden death She moved where Lindis wandereth, My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.

Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!' calling,

Ere the early dews were falling,

Parre away I heard her song.

'Cusha! Cusha!¹ all along;

Where the reedy Lindis floweth ,

Floweth, floweth.

From the meads where melick groweth Faintly came her milking song—

'Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!' calling,

'For the dews will soone be falling;

Leave your meadow grasses mellow,

Mellow, mellow;

Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;

Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot Quit the stalks of parsley hollow,

Hollow, hollow;

Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow.

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From the clovers lift your head;

Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow,

Jetty, to the milking shed.'

If it be long, ay, long ago,

When I beginne to think howe long, Againe I hear the Lindis flow.

Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong; And all the aire, it seemeth mee,

Bin full of floating bells (sayth sheej,

That ring the tune of Enderby.

Alle fresh the level pasture lay,

And not a shadowe mote be seene.

Save where full fyve good miles away

The steeple towered from out the greene; And lol the great bell farre and wide Was heard in all the country side That Saturday at eventide.

The swanheads where their sedges are Moved on in sunset's golden breath. The shepherde lads I heard afarre,

And my sonné's wife, Elizabeth;

Till floating o'er the grassy sea Came downe that kyndly message free, The ' Brides of Mavis Enderby.'

Then some looked uppe into the sky.

And all along where Lindis flows To where the goodly vessels lie,

And where the lordly steeple shows.

They sayde, 'And why should this thing be? What danger lowers by land or sea?

They ring the tuae of Enderby!

'For evil news from Mablethorpe.

Of pyrate galleys warping down;

For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe.

They have not spared to wake the towne:

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But while the west bin red to see, And storms be none, and pyrates flee, Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby?'

I looked without, and lo! my sonne

Came riding downe with might and main He raised a shout as he drew on,

Till all the welkin rang again, ' Elizabeth! Elizabeth!'

(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.)

'The olde sea wall (he cried) is downe.

The rising tide comes on apace. And boats adrift in yonder towne

Go sailing uppe the market-place.' He shook as one that looks on death: ' God save you, mother!' straight he aaith; ' Where is my wife, Elizabeth ? '

'Good sonne, where Lindis winds away.

With her two bairns I marked her long; And ere yon bells beganne to play

Afar I heard her milking song.' He looked across the grassy lea.

To right, to left, 'Ho Enderby!'

They rang ' The Brides of Enderby!'

With that he cried and beat his breast;

For, lo! along the river's bed A mighty eygre reared his crest,

And uppe the Lindis raging sped. It swept with thunderous noises loud; Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, Or like a demon in a shroud.

And rearing Lindis backward pressed

Shook all her trembling bankes amaine; Then madly at the eygre's breast

Flnng uppe her weltering walls again.

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Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout— Then beaten foam flew round about—

Then all the mighty floods were out.

So farre, so fast the eygre drave,

The heart had hardly time to beat,

Before a shallow seething wave

Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet:

The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee,

And all the world was in the sea.

Upon the roofe we sate that night,

The noise of bells went sweeping by,

I marked the lofty beacon light

Stream from the church tower, red and high— A lurid mark and dread to see;

And awsome bells they were to mee,

That in the dark rang 'Enderby.'

They rang the sailor lads to guide

From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed; And I—my sonne was at my side,

And yet the ruddy beacon glowed;

And yet he moaned beneath his breath,

' O come in life, or come in death!

O lost! my love, Elizabeth.'

And didst thou visit him no more ?

Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare The waters laid thee at his doore,

Ere yet the early dawn was clear.

Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace ,

The lifted sun shone on thy face,

Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.

That flow strewed wrecks about the grass ,

That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea;

A fatal ebbe and flow, alas!

To manye more than myne and mee:

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But each will mourn his own (she saith). And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.

I shall never hear her more By the reedy Lindis shore ,

' Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!' calling,

Ere the early dews be falling;

I shall never hear her song,

' Cusha ! Cusha!' all along Where the sunny Lindis floweth,

Goeth, floweth;

Prom the meads where melick groweth, When the water winding down,

Onward floweth to the town.

I shall never see her more Where the reeds and rushes quiver.

Shiver, quiver;

Stand beside the sobbing river,

Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling To the sandy lonesome shore;

I shall never hear her calling,

'Leave your meadow grasses mellow.

Mellow, mellow;

Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;

Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot; Quit your pipes of parsley hollow,

Hollow, hollow;

Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow;

Lightfoot, Whitefoot,

From your clovers lift the head;

Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow.

Jetty, to the milking shed.'

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THE LONG WHITE SEAM.

As I came round the harbour buoy,

The lights began to gleam,

No wave the land-locked harbour stirred,

The crags were white as cream;

And I marked my love by candlelight Sewing her long white seam.

It's aye sewing ashore, my dear.

Watch and stee^at sea,

It's reef and furl, and haul the line. Set sail and think of thee.

I climbed to reach her cottage door;

O sweetly my love sings;

Like a shaft of light her voice breaks forth,

My soul to meet it springs,

As the shining water leaped of old When stirred by angel wings. Aye longing to list anew,

Awake and in my dream.

But never a song she sang like this, Sewing her long white seam.

Fair fall the lights, the harbour lights,

That brought me in to thee,

And peace drop down on that low roof.

For the sight that I did see,

And the voice, my dear, that rang so clear. All for the love of me.

For 0, for 0, with brows bent low.

By the flickering candle's gleam, Her wedding gown it was she wrought. Sewing the long white seam.

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APPRENTICED.

(Old English manner.)

i Come out and hear the waters shoot, the owlet hoot, the owlet hoot;

Yon crescent moon, a golden boat, hangs dim behind the tree , O!

The dropping thorn makes white the grass, O sweetest lass, and sweetest lass;

Come out and smell the ricks of hay adown the croft with me, O !'

'My granny nods before her wheel, and drops her reel, and drops her reel;

My father with his crony talks as gay as gay can be, O !

But all the milk is yet to skim, ere light wax dim, ere light wax dim;

How can I step adown the croft, my 'prentice lad, with thee, O ?'

' And must ye bide, yet waiting's long, and love is strong, and love is strong;

And O! had I but served the time, that takes so long to flee, O !

And thou, my lass, by morning's light wast all in white, wast all in white,

And parson stood within the rails, a-marrying me and thee, O!'

MARY DOWNING (1830-).

THE GBAVB OP MAC AURA.

And this is thy grave, Macaura,

Here by the pathway lone,

Where the thorn-blossoms are bending

Over thy mouldered stone.

Alas! for the sons of glory;

Oh! thou of the darkened brow,

And the eagle plume, and the belted clans, Is it here thou art sleeping now?

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Oh wild is tlie spot, Macaura,

In which they have laid thee low—

The field where thy people triumphed Over a slaughtered foe;

And loud was the Banshee's wailing, And deep was the clansmen's sorrow,

When, with hloody hands and burning tears. They buried thee here, Macaura!

And now thy dwelling is lonely King of the rushing horde;

And now thy battles are over.

Chief of the shining sword;

And the rolling thunder echoes O'er torrent and mountain free

But alas! and alas! Macaura It will not waken thee.

Farewell to thy grave, Macaura,

Where the slanting sunbeams shine,

And the brier and waving fern Over thy slumbers twine;

Thou whose gathering summons Could waken the sleeping glen;

Macaura, alas for thee and thine,

'Twill never be heard again.

CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI (1830—). THREE SEASONS.

' A cup for hope!' she said, In springtime ere the bloom was old: The crimson wine was poor and cold By her mouth's richer red.

'A cup for love!' how low,

How soft the words; and all the while

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Her blush was rippling with a smile Like summer after snow.

' A cup for memory!'

Cold cup that one must drain alone: While autumn winds are up and moan Across the barren sea.

Hope, memory, love:

Hope for fair morn, and love for day. And memory for the evening grey And solitary dove.

GONE FOR EVER.

O happy rosebud blooming

Upon thy parent tree,

Nay, thou art too presuming; For soon the earth entombing Thy faded charms shall be. And the chill damp consuming.

O happy skylark springing

Up to the broad blue sky. Too fearless in thy winging, Too gladsome in thy singing,

Thou also soon shalt lie Where no sweet notes are ringing.

And through life's shine and shower

We shall have joy and pain; But in the summer bower.

And at the morning hour.

We still shall look in vain For the same bird and flower.

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UP-HILL.

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?

Yes, to the very end.

Will the day's journey take the whole long day ? From morn to-night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?

A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. May not the darkness hide it from my face? You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?

Those who have gone before.

Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, tvavel-sore and weak?

Of labour you shall find the sum.

Will there be beds for me and all who seek? Yea, beds for all who come.

MRS. AUGUSTA WEBSTER.

NOT TO BE.

The rose said, 'Let but this long rain be past,

And I shall feel my sweetness in the sun, And pour its fulness into life at last;

But when the rain was done.

But when dawn sparkled through unclouded air, She was not there.

The lark said, ' Let but winter be away,

And blossoms come, and light, and I will soar,

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And lose the earth, and be the voice of day;'

But when the snows were o'er,

But when spring broke in blueness overhead,

The lark was dead.

And myriad roses made the garden glow.

And skylarks carolled all the summer long—

quot;What lack of birds to sing and flowers to blow?

Yet, ah, lost scent, lost song!

Poor empty rose, poor lark that never trilled!

Dead unfulfilled!

THE GIFT.

0 happy glow, 0 sun-bathed tree, O golden-lighted river,

A love-gift has been given me, And which of you is giver?

1 came upon you something sad. Musing a mournful measure.

Now all my heart in me is glad With a quick sense of pleasure.

I came upon you with a heart Half sick of life's vexed story.

And now it grows of you a part, Steeped in your golden glory.

A smile into my heart has crept And laughs through all my being,

New joy into my life has leapt A joy of only seeing!

O happy glow, 0 sun-bathed tree, 0 golden-lighted river,

.A love-gift has been given me. And which of you is giver?

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TWO MAIDENS.

Two maidens listening to the sea— The younger said ' The waves are glad, The waves are singing as they break.'

The elder spake 'Sister, their murmur sounds to me So very sad.'

Two maidens looking at a grave— One smiled 'A place of happy sleep. It would be happy if I slept.'

The younger wept 'Oh save me from the rest you crave, So lone, so deep.'

Two maidens gazing into life—

The younger said 'It is so fair,

So warm with light and love and pride.'

The elder sighed 'It seems to me so vexed with strife, So cold and bare.'

Two maidens face to face with death— The elder said 'With quiet bliss Upon his breast I lay my head.'

The younger said 'His kiss has frozen all my breath,

Must I be his?'

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NBO-iROiyLA.isrTxo SCHOOL.

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'I wish that he were come to me,

For he will come,' she said.

'Have I not prayed in Heaven?—on earth.

Lord, Lord, has he not pray'd ?

Are not two prayers a perfect strength? And shall I feel afraid?

'When round his head the aureole clings.

And he is clothed in white,

I'll take his hand and go with him

To the deep wells of light;

We will step down as to a stream, And bathe there in God's sight.

'We two will stand beside that shrine.

Occult, withheld, untrod.

Whose lamps are stirred continually

With prayer sent up to God;

And see our old prayers, granted, melt Each like a little cloud.

'We two will lie i' the shadow of

That living mystic tree Within whose secret growth the Dove

Is sometimes felt to be.

While every leaf that His plumes touch Saith His Name audibly.

'And I myself will teach to him,

I myself, lying so,

The songs I sing here; which his voice

Shall pause in, hushed and slow. And find some knowledge at each pause, Or some new thing to know.'

(Alas! We two, we two, thou say'st!

Tea, one wast thou with me That once of old. But shall God lift

To endless unity The soul whose likeness with thy soul Was but its love for thee?)

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'We two,' she said, 'will seek the groves

Where the lady Mary is,

With her five handmaidens, whose names

Are five sweet symphonies,

Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen,

Margaret and Rosalys.

'Circlewise sit they, with bound locks

And foreheads garlanded;

Into the fine cloth white like flame

Weaving the golden thread,

To fashion the birth-robes for them Who are just born, being dead.

'He shall fear, haply, and be dumb;

Then will I lay my cheek To his, and tell about our love.

Not once abashed or weak:

And the dear Mother will approve My pride, and let me speak.

' Herself shall bring us, hand in hand,

To him round whom all souls Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads

Bowed with their aureoles:

And angels meeting us shall sing To their citherns and citoles.

'There will I ask of Christ the Lord

Thus much for him and me;—

Only to live as once on earth

With Love,—only to be,

As then awhile, for ever now Together, 1 and he.'

She gazed and listened and then said,

Less sad of speech than mild,— 'AH this is when he comes.' She ceased.

The light thrilled towards her, fill'd With angels in strong level flight. Her eyes prayed, and she smil'd.

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(I saw her smile.) But soon their path

Was vague in distant spheres: And then she cast her arms along

The golden barriers,

And laid her face between her hands, And wept. (I heard her tears.)

A LAST CONTESSION.

)

{Regno Lomhardu- Veneto, 1848.) * * * * * *****

Our Lombard country-girls along the coast Wear daggers in their garters; for they know That they might hate another girl to death Or meet a German lover. Such a knife I bought her, with a hilt of horn and pearl.

Father, you cannot know of all my thoughts That day in going to meet her,—that last day For the last time, she said; —of all the love And all the hopeless hope that she might change And go back with me. Ah! and everywhere, At places we both knew along the road,

Some fresh shape of herself as once she was Grew present at my side; until it seemed—

So close they gathered round me—they would all Be with me when I reached the spot at last.

To plead my cause with her against herself So changed. O Father, if you knew all this You cannot know, then you would know too. Father, And only then, if God can pardon me.

What can be told I'll tell, if you will hear.

I passed a village-fair upon my road,

And thought, being empty-handed, I would take Some little present: such might prove, I said,

Either a pledge between us, or (God help me!)

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A parting gift. And there it was I bought The knife I spoke of, such aa women wear.

That day, some three hours afterwards, I found For certain, it must be a parting gift.

And, standing silent now at last, I looked Into her scornful face; and heard the sea Still trying hard to din into my ears Some speech it knew which still might change her heart If only it could make me understand.

One moment thus. Another, and her face Seemed further off than the last line of sea,

So that I thought, if now she were to speak I could not hear her. Then again I knew All, as we stood together on the sand At Iglio, in the first thin shade o' the hills.

'Take it,' I said, and held it out to her.

While the hilt glanced within my trembling hold;

' Take it and keep it for my sake,' I said.

Her neck unbent not, neither did her eyes Move, nor her foot left beating of the sand;

Only she put it by from her and laughed.

Father, you hear my speech and not her laugh; But God heard that. Will God remember all?

It was another laugh than the sweet sound Which rose from her sweet childish heart, that day Eleven years before, when first 1 found her Alone upon the hill-side; and her curls Shook down in the warm grass as she looked up Out of her curls in my eyes bent to hers.

She might have served a painter to pourtray That heavenly child which in the latter days Shall walk between the lion and the lamb.

1 had been for nights in hiding, worn and sick And hardly fed; and so her words at first Seemed fitful like the talking of the trees And voices in the air that knew my name.

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And I remember that I sat me down

Upon the slope with her, and thought the world

Must be all over or had never been,

We seemed there so alone. And soon she told me

Her parents both were gone away from her.

I thought perhaps she meant that they had died;

But when I asked her this, she looked again

Into my face, and said that yestereve

They kissed her long, and wept and made her weep,

And gave her all the bread they had with them,

And then had gone together up the hill

Where we were sitting now, and had walked on

Into the great red light: ' and soshe said,

'I have come up here too; and when this evening

They step out of the light as they stepped in,

I shall be here to kiss them.' And she laughed.

Then I bethought me suddenly of the famine; And how the church-steps throughout all the town. When last I had been there a month ago,

Swarmed with starved folk; and how the bread was weighed By Austrians armed; and women that I knew For wives and mothers walked the public street.

Saying aloud that if their husbands feared To snatch the children's food, themselves would stay Till they had earned it there. So then this child Was piteous to me; for all told me then Her parents must have left her to God's chance, To man's or to the Church's charity.

Because of the great famine, rather than To watch her growing thin between their knees.

With that, God took my mother's voice aud spoke, And sights and sounds came back and things long since , And all my childhood found me on the hills;

And so I took her with me.

I was young.

Scarce man then. Father; but the cause which gave The wounds I die of now had brought me then Some wounds already; and I lived alone,

As any hiding hunted man must live.

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It was no easy thing to keep a child In safety; for herself it was not safe,

And doubled my own danger, but I knew That God would help me.

Tet a little while Pardon me, Father, if I pause. I think I have been speaking to you of some matters There was no need to speak of, have I not ?

You do not know how clearly those things stood Within my mind, which I have spoken of,

Nor how they strove for utterance. Life all past » Is like the sky when tho sun sets in it,

Clearest where furthest off.

I told you how She scorned my parting gift and laughed. And yet A woman's laugh's another thing sometimes:

I think they laugh in Heaven. I know last night I dreamed I saw into the garden of God,

Where women walked whose painted images I have seen with candles round them in the church.

They bent this way and that, one to another,

Playing: and over the long golden hair Of each there floated like a ring of fire Which when she stooped stooped with her, and when she rose Rose with her. Then a breeze flew in among them, As if a window had been opened in heaven For God to give his blessing from, before This world of ours should set; (for in my dream I thought our world was setting, and the sun Flared, a spent taper;) and beneath that gust The rings of light quivered like forest-leaves.

Then all the blessed maidens who were there Stood up together, as it were a voice That called them; and they threw their tresses back, And smote their palms, and all laughed up at once , For the strong heavenly joy they had in them To hear God bless the world. Wherewith I woke: And looking round, I saw as usual That she was standing there with her long locks Pressed to her side; and her laugh ended theirs.

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For always when I see her now, she laughs. And yet her childish laughter haunts me too,

The life of this dead terror; as in days When she, a child, dwelt with me. I must tell Something of those days yet before the end.

I brought her from the city—one such day

When she was still a merry loving child,_

The earliest gift I mind my giving her;

A little image of a flying Love

Made of our coloured glass-ware, in his hands

A dart of gilded metal and a torch.

And him she kissed and me, and fain would know

Why were his poor eyes blindfold, why the wings

And why the arrow. What I knew I told

Of Venus and of Cupid,—strange old tales.

And when she heard that he could rule the loves

Of men and women, still she shook her head

And wondered; and, 'Nay, nay,' she murmured still,

'So strong, and he a jounger child than I!'

And then she'd have me fix him on the wall

Fronting her little bed; and then again

She needs must fix him there herself, because

I gave him to her and she loved him so.

And he should make her love me better yet,

If women loved the more, the more they grew.

But the fit place upon the wall was high

For her, and so I held her in my arms:

And each time that the heavy pruning-hook

I gave her for a hammer slipped away

As it would often, still she laughed and laughed

And kissed and kissed me. But amid her mirth.

Just as she hung the image on the nail,

It slipped and all its fragments strewed the ground:

And as it fell she screamed, for in her hand

The dart had entered deeply and drawn blood.

And so her laughter turned to tears: and ' Oh!'

I said, the while I bandaged the small hand,—

' That I should be the first to make you bleed,

Who love and love and love you!'—kissing still

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The lingers till I got her safe to bed.

And still she sobbed,—'not for the pain at all,' She said, ' but for the Love, the poor good Love You gave me.' So she cried herself to sleep.

Another later thing comes back to me.

'ïwas in those hardest foulest days of all,

When still from his shut palace, sitting clean Above the splash of blood, old Metternich (May his soul die, and never-dying worms Feast on its pain for ever!) used to thin His year's doomed hundreds daintily, each month Thirties and fifties. This time, as I think, Was when his thrift forbad the poor to take That evil brackish salt which the dry rocks Keep all through winter when the sea draws in. The first I heard of it was a chance shot In the street here and there, and on the stones A stumbling clatter as of horse hemmed round. Then, when she saw me hurry out of doors, My gun slung at my shoulder and my knife Stuck in my girdle, she smoothed down my hair And laughed to see me look so brave, and leaped Up to my neck and kissed me. She was still A child; and yet that kiss was on my lips So hot all day where the smoke shut us in.

For now, being always with her, the first love I had—the father's, brother's love—was changed, I think, in somewise; like a holy thought Which is a prayer before one knows of it. The first time I perceived this, I remember, Was once when after hunting I came home Weary, and she brought food and fruit for me. And sat down at my feet upon the floor Leaning against my side. But when I felt Her sweet head reach from that low seat of hers So high as to be laid upon my heart,

I turned and looked upon my darling there And marked for the first time how tall she was;

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And my heart beat with so much violence

Under her cheek, I thought she could not choose

But wonder at it soon and ask me why;

And so I bade her rise and eat with me.

And when, remembering all and counting back

The time, I made out fourteen years for her

And told her so, she gazed at me with eyes

As of the sky and sea on a grey day,

And drew her long hands through her hair, and asked me

If she was not a woman; and then laughed:

And as she stooped in laughing, I could see

Beneath the growing throat the breasts half globed

Like folded lilies deepset in the stream.

Yes, let me think of her as then; for so Her image. Father, is not like the sights Which come when you are gone. She had a mouth Made to bring death to life,—the underlip Sucked in, as if it strove to kiss itself.

Her face was ever pale, as when one stoops Over wan water; and the dark crisped hair And the hair's shadow made it paler still:— Deep-serried locks, the dimness of the cloud Where the moon's gaze is set in eddying gloom. Her body bore her neck as the tree's stem Bears the top branch; and as the branch sustains The flower of the year's pride, her high neck bore That face made wonderful with night and day.

Her voice was swift, yet ever the last words Fell lingeringly; and rounded finger-tips She had, that clung a little where they touched And then were gone o' the instant. Her great eyes, That sometimes turned half dizzily beneath The passionate lids , as faint, when she would speak, Had also in them hidden springs of mirth,

Which under the dark lashes evermore Shook to her laugh, as when a bird flies low Between the water and the willow-leaves,

And the shade quivers ill he wins the light.

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I was a moody comrade to her then ,

For all the love I bore her. Italy,

The weeping desolate mother, long has claimed Her sons' strong arms to lean on, and their hands To lop the poisonous thicket from her path, Cleaving her way to light. And from her need Had grown the fashion of my whole poor life Which I was proud to yield her, as my father Had yielded his. And this had come to be A game to play, a love to clasp, a hate To wreak, all things together that a man Needs for his blood to ripen: till at times All else seemed shadows, and I wondered still To see such life pass muster and be deemed Time's bodily substance. In those hours, no doubt. To the young girl my eyes were like my soul,— Dark wells of death-in-life that yearned for day. And though she ruled me always, I remember That once when I was thus and she still kept Leaping about the place and laughing, I Did almost chide her; whereupon she knelt And putting her two hands into my breast Sang me a song. Are these tears in my eyes? 'Tis long since I have wept for anything.

I thought that song forgotten out of mind. And now, just as I spoke of it, it came All back. It is but a rude thing, ill rhymed.

Such as a blind man chaunts and bis dog hears Holding the platter, when the children run To merrier sport and leave him. Thus it goes:—

La bella donna Piangendo disse: 'Come son fisse Le stelle in cielo! Quel fiato anelo Dello stanco sole, Qnanto m' assonna! E la luna, macchiata Come uno specchio Logoro e vecchio,— Faccia affannata, Che cosa vnole?

She wept, sweet lady. And said in weeping: 'What spell is keeping The stars so steady? Why does the power Of the sun's noon-hour To sleep so move me? And the moon in heaven. Stained where she passes As a worn-out glass is,— Wearily driven. Why walks she above me?

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'Chè stelle, luna, e sole, Ciascan m* anuoja E m' annojano insieme; Non me ne preme Nè ci prendo gioja. E veramente,

Che le spalle sien franehe E le braccia bianche E il seno caldo e tondo, Non mi fa niente.

Chè cosa al mondo Posso piu far di questi Se non piaceiono a te, come discestiV'

La donna rise E riprese ridendo:—

'Questa mano che prendo E dunque. mia?

Tu m' ami dunque? Dimmelo ancora,

Non in modo qualunque. Ma le parole Belle e precise Che dicesti pria.

' Siccome suole La state talora (Dicesti) un qualche isiante Tornare innanzl invemo,

Cosi tu fai ch' io scemo Le foglie tutte qiuvnfc, Ben ch' io certo tenessi Per passato V autanno.

' Eccolo il mio alunno! Io debbo insegnargli Quei 9ari detti istessi Ch' ei mi disse una volta! Oimè! Che cosa dargli,' (Ma ridea piano piano Dei baci in suil a mano,) •Ch' ei non m'abbia da lungo tempo tolta?'

'Stars, moon, and sun too, I'm tired of either And all together!

quot;Whom speak they nnto That I should listen?

For very surely.

Though my arms and shoulders Dazzle beholders.

And my eyes glisten.

All's not(nng purely!

What arc words said for At all about them.

If he they are made for Can do without them?'

She laughed, sweet lady. And said in laughing: 'His hand clings half in My own already!

Oh! do you love me? Oh! speak of passion In no new fashion. No loud inveighings. But the old sayings You once said of me.

'You said: 'As summer. Through boughs grown brittle. Comes back a little Ere frosts benumb her,— So bring'st thou to me All leaves and flowers.

Though autumn's gloomy To-day in the bowers.'

'Oh! does he love me. When my voice teaches The very speeches He then spoke of me?

Alas! what flavour Still with me lingers?' (But she laughed as my kisses Glowed in her fingers quot;With love's old blisses.) •Oh! what one favour Remains to woo him,

quot;Whose whole poor savour Belongs not to him?'

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³²¹ *

That I should sing upon this bed!—with you To listen, and such words still left to say!

Yet was it I that sang? The voice seemed hers,

As on the very day she sang to me;

When, having done, she took out of my hand Something that I had played with all the while And laid it down beyond my reach; and so Turning my face round till it fronted hers,—

' Weeping or laughing, which was best ?' she said.

But these are foolish tales. How should I show The heart that glowed then with love's heat, each day More and more brightly?—when for long years now The very flame that flew about the heart.

And gave it fiery wings, has come to be The lapping blaze of hell's environment Whose tongues all bid the molten heart despair.

Yet one more thing comes back on me to-night Which I may tell you: for it bore my soul Drearf firstlings of the brood that rend it now.

It chanced that in our last year's wanderings We dwelt at Monza, far away from home,

If home we had: and in the Duomo there I sometimes entered with her when she prayed.

An image of Our Lady stands there, wrought In marble by some great Italian band In the great days when she and Italy Sat on one throne together: and to her And to none else my loved one told her heart.

She was a woman then; and as she knelt,—

Her sweet brow in the sweet brow's shadow there,—

They seemed two kindred forms whereby our land (Whose work still serves the world for miracle)

Made manifest herself in womanhood.

Father, the day I speak of was the first For weeks that I had borne her company Into the Duomo; and those weeks had been Much troubled, for then first the glimpses came Of some impenetrable restlessness

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Growing in her to make her changed and cold.

And as we entered there that day, I bent My eyes on the fair Image, and I said Within my heart, ' Oh turn her heart to me!'

And so I left her to her prayers, and went To gaze upon the pride of Monza's shrine,

Where in the sacristy the light still falls Upon the Iron Crown of Italy,

On whose crowned heads the day has closed, nor yet The daybreak gilds another head to crown.

But coming back, I wondered when 1 saw That the sweet Lady of her prayers now stood Alone without her; until further off.

Before some new Madonna gaily decked.

Tinselled and gewgawed, a slight German toy,

I saw her kneel, still praying. At my step She rose, and side by side we left the church.

I was much moved, and sharply questioned her Of her transferred devotion; but she seemed Stubborn and heedless; till she lightly laughed And said: 'The old Madonna? Aye indeed, gt; She had my old thoughts,—this one has my new.' Then silent to the soul I held my way;

And from the fountains of the public place Unto the pigeon-haunted pinnacles,

Bright wings and water winnowed the bright air; And stately with her laugh's subsiding smile She went, with clear-swayed waist and towering neck And hands held light before her; and the face Which long had made a day in my life's night Was night in day to me; as all men's eyes Turned on her beauty, and she seemed to tread Beyond my heart to the world made for her.

Ah there! my wounds will snatch my sense again: The pain comes billowing on like a full cloud Of thunder, and the flash that breaks from it Leaves my brain burning. That's the wound he gave, The Austrian whose white coat I still made match With his white face, only the two were red

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As suits his trade. The devil makes them wear White for a livery, that the blood may show Braver that brings them to him. .So he looks Sheer o'er the field and knows his own at once.

Give me a draught of water in that cup;

My voice feels thick; perhaps you do not hear;

But you must hear. If you mistake my words And so absolve me, I am sure the blessing Will burn my soul. If you mistake my words And so absolve me. Father, the great sin Is yours, not mine: mark this: your soul shall buro With mine for it. I have seen pictures where Souls burned with Latin shriekings in their mouths:

Shall my end be as theirs? Nay, but I know 'Tis you shall shriek in Latin. Some bell rings,

Hinga through my brain: it strikes the hour in hell.

You see I cannot, Father; I have tried.

But cannot, as you see. These twenty times Beginning, I have come to the same point And stopped. Beyond, there are but broken words Which will not let you understand my tale.

It is that then we have her with us here,

As when she wrung her hair out in my dream To-night, till all the darkness reeked of it.

Her hair is always wet, for she has kept Its tresses wrapped about her side for years;

And when she wrung them round over the floor,

I heard the blood between her fingers hiss;

So that I sat up in my bed and screamed Once and again; and once to once, she laughed.

Look that you turn not now,—she's at your back:

Gather your robe up. Father, and keep close.

Or she'll sit down on it and send you mad.

At Iglio in the first thin shade o¹ the hills The sand is black and red. The black was black When what was spilt that day sank into it.

And the red scarcely darkened. There I stood

This night with her, and saw the sand the same. * *****

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What would you have me tell you? Father, father, How shall I make you know? You have not known The dreadful soul of woman, who one day Forgets the old and takes the new to heart,

Forgets what man remembers, and therewith Forgets the man. Nor can I clearly tell How the change happend between her and me. Her eyes looked on me from an emptied heart When most my heart was full of her; and still In every corner of myself I sought To find what service failed her ; and no less Than in the good time past, there all was hers.

What do you love? Your Heaven? Conceive it spread For one first year of all eternity All round you with all joys and gifts of God; And then when most your soul is blent with it And all yields song together,—then it stands O' the sudden like a pool that once gave back Your image, but now drowns it and is clear Again,—or like a sun bewitched, that burns Your shadow from you, and still shines in sight. How could you bear it? Would you not cry out, Among those eyes grown blind to you, those ears That hear no more your voice yon hear the same,— 'God! what is left but hell for company.

But hell, hell, hell ?¹—until the name so breathed Whirled with hot wind and sucked you down in fire? Even so I stood the day her empty heart Left her place empty in our home, while yet I knew not why she went nor where she went Nor how to reach her: so I stood the day When to my prayers at last one sight of her Was granted, and I looked on heaven made pale With scorn; and heard heaven mock me in that laugh.

O sweet, long sweet! Was that some ghost of you Even as your ghost that haunts me now,—twin shapes Of fear and hatred? May I find you yet Mine when death wakes ? Ah! be it even in flame, We may have sweetness yet, if you but say

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As once in childish sorrow: 'Not my pain,

My pain was nothing: oh your poor poor love,

Your broken love!'

My Father, have I not Yet told you the last things of that last day On which I went to meet her by the sea?

0 God, O God! but I must tell you all.

Midway upon my journey, when I stopped To buy the dagger at the village fair,

1 saw two cursed rats about the place

I knew for spies—blood-sellers both. That day

Was not yet over; for three hours to come

I prized my life: and so I looked around

For safety. A poor painted mountebank

Was playing tricks and shouting in a crowd.

I knew he must have heard my name, so I

Pushed past and whispered to him who I was,

And of my danger. Straight he hustled me

Into his booth, as it were in the trick,

And brought me out next minute with my face

All smeared in patches and a zany's gown;

And there I handed him his cups and balls

And swung the sand-bags round to clear the ring

For half an hour. The spies came once and looked;

And while they stopped, and made all sights and sounds

Sharp to my startled senses, I remember

A woman laughed above me. I looked up

And saw where a brown-shouldered harlot leaned

Half through a tavern window thick with vine.

Some man had come behind her in the room

And caught her by her arms, and she had turned

With that coarse empty laugh on him, as now

He munched her neck with kisses, while the vine

Crawled in her back.

And three hours afterwards, When she that I had run all risks to meet Laughed as I told you, my life burned to death Within me, for I thought it like the laugh Heard at the fair. She had not left me long;

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But all she might have changed to, or might change to _r(I know nought since—she never speaks a word—)

Seemed in that laugh. Have I not told you yet, Not told you all this time what happened, Father,

When I had offered her the little knife,

And bade her keep it for my sake that loved her. And she had laughed? Have I not told you yet?

' Take it,' I said to her the second time,

'Take it and keep it.' And then came a fire That burnt my hand; and then the fire was blood. And sea and sky were blood and fire, and all The day was one red blindness; till it seemed,

Within the whirling brain's eclipse, that she Or I or all things bled or burned to death.

And then I found her laid against my feet And knew that I had stabbed her, and saw still Her look in falling. For she took the knife Deep in her heart, even as I bade her then,

And fell; and her stiff bodice scooped the sand Into her bosom.

And she keeps it, see,

Do you not see she keeps it?—there, beneath Wet fingers and wet tresses, in her heart.

For look you, when she stirs her hand, it shows The little hilt of horn and pearl,—even such A dagger as our women of the coast Twist in their garters.

Father, I have done;

And from her side now she unwinds the thick Dark hair; all round her side it is wet through,

But like the stand at Iglio does not change.

Now you may see the dagger clearly. Father,

I have told all; tell me at once what hope Can reach me still. For now she draws it out Slowly, and only smiles as yet: look, Father,

She scarcely smiles: but I shall hear her laugh Soon, when she shows the crimson blade to God.

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sonnet x.

THE LOVE-LETTEB.

Waembd by her hand and shadowed by her hair

As close she leaned and poured her heart through thee, Whereof the articulate throbs accompany The smooth black stream that makes thy whiteness fair,— Sweet fluttering sheet, even of her breath aware,—

Oh let thy silent song disclose to me That soul wherewith her lips and eyes agree Like married music in Love's answering air.

Fain had I watched her when, at some fond thought. Her bosom to the writing closelier press'd.

And her breast's secrets peered into her breast;

When, through eyes raised an instant, her soul sought My soul, and from the sudden confluence caught The words that made her love the loveliest.

sonnet xxxviii.

HOABDED JOY.

I said: 'Nay, pluck not,—let the first fruit be: Even as thou sayest, it is sweet and red.

But let it ripen still. The tree's bent head Sees in the stream its own fecundity And bides the day of fulness. Shall not we At the sun's hour that day possess the shade, And claim our fruit before its ripeness fade, And eat it from the branch and praise the tree?'

I say: 'Alas! our fruit hath wooed the sun

Too long,—'tis fallen and floats adown the stream. Lo, the last clusters! Pluck them every one.

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And let us sup with summer; ere the gleam Of autumn set the year's pent sorrow free, And the woods wail like echoes from the sea.'

song v.

A LITTLE WHILE.

A little while a little love

The hour yet bears for thee and me Who have not drawn the veil to see If still our heaven be lit above.

Thou merely, at the day's last sigh,

Hast felt thy soul prolong the tone; And I have heard the night-wind cry And deemed its speech mine own.

A little while a little love

The scattering autumn hoards for us Whose bower is not yet ruinous Nor quite unleaved our songless grove. Only across the shaken boughs

We hear the flood-tides seek the sea, And deep in both our hearts they rouse One wail for thee and me.

A little while a little love

May yet be ours who have not said The word it makes our eyes afraid To know that each is thinking of. Not yet the end: be our lips dumb

In smiles a little season yet:

I'll tell thee, when the end is come, How we may best forget.

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sokg xi.

THE SEA-LIMITS.

Consider the sea's listless chime:

Time's self it is, made audible,— The murmur of the earth's own shell. Secret continuance sublime Is the sea's end: our sight may pass No furlong further. Since time was, This sound hath told the lapse of time.

No qniet, which is death's,—it hath The mournfalness of ancient life. Enduring always at dull strife.

As the world's heart of rest and wrath, Its painful pulse is in the sands.

Last utterly, the whole sky stands. Grey and not known, along its path.

Listen alone beside the sea.

Listen alone among the woods;

Those voices of twin solitudes Shall have one sound alike to thee: Hark where the murmurs of thronged mi Surge and sink back and surge again. Still the one voice of wave and tree.

Gather a shell from the strown beach And listen at its lips: they sigh The same desire and mystery. The echo of the whole sea's speech. And all mankind is thus at heart Not anything but what thou art: And Earth, Sea, Man, are all in each.

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MARY MAGDALENE.

at the door of simon the phajiisee.

(-For a Drawing.)

'Why wilt thou cast the roses from thine hair?

Nay, be thou all a rose,—wreath, lips, and cheek. Nay, not this house,—that banquet-house we seek; See how they kiss and enter; come thou there—

This delicate day of love we two will share

Till at our ear love's whispering night shall speak. What, sweet one,—hold'st thou still the foolish freak? Nay, when I kiss thy feet they'll leave the stair.'

'Oh loose me! See'st thou not my Bridegroom's face That draws me to Him? For His feet my kiss. My hair, my tears He craves to-day:—and oh!

What words can tell what other day and place Shall see me clasp those blood-stained feet of His? He needs me, calls me , loves me: let me go!'

LILITH.

{For a Picture.)

Or Adam's first wife, Lilith, it is told

(The witch he loved before the gift of Eve,)

That, ere the snake's, her sweet tongue could deceive. And her enchanted hair was the first gold.

And still she sits, young while the earth is old, And, subtly of herself contemplative.

Draws men to watch the bright net she can weave. Till heart and body and life are in its hold.

The rose and poppy are her flowers; for where Is he not found, O Lilith, whom shed scent

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And soft-shed kisses and soft sleep shall snare?

Lo! as that youth's eyes burned at thine, so went Thy spell through him, and left his straight neck bent, And round his heart one strangling golden hair.

WILLIAM MORBIS (1834-).

BUDHTGr TOGETHER.

Fob. many, many days together

The wind blew steady from the East;

For many days hot grew the weather,

About the time of our Lady's Feast.

For many days we rode together.

Yet met we neither friend nor foe;

Hotter and clearer grew the weather.

Steadily did the East wind blow.

We saw the tree in the hot, bright weather, Clear-cut, with shadows very black,

As freely we rode on together

With helms unlaced and bridles slack.

And often as we rode together.

We, looking down the green-bank'd stream,

Saw flowers in the sunny weather,

And saw the bubble-making bream.

And in the night lay down together. And hung above our heads the rood,

Or watch'd night-long in the dewy weather, The while the moon did watch the wood.

Our spears stood bright and thick together, Straight out the banners stream'd behind.

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As we gallop'd on in the sunny weather, With faces turn'd towards the wind.

Down sank our threescore spears together, As thick we saw the pagans ride;

His eager face in the clear fresh weather,

Shone out that last time by my side.

Up the sweep of the bridge we dash'd together, It rock'd to the crash of the meeting spears,

Down rain'd the buds of the dear spring weather. The elm-tree flowers fell like tears.

There, as we roll'd and writhed together,

I threw my arms above my head.

For close by my side, in the lovely weather, I saw him reel and fall back dead.

I and the slayer met together.

He waited the death-stroke there in his place,

With thoughts of death, in the lovely weather, Gapingly mazed at my madden'd face.

Madly I fought as we fought together;

In vain: the little Christian baud

The pagans drown'd, as in stormy weather, The river drowns low-lying land.

They bound my blood-stain'd hands together, They bound his corpse to nod by my side:

Then on we rode, in the bright March weather, With clash of cymbals did we ride.

We ride no more, no more together; My prison-bars are thick and strong,

I take no heed of any weather,

The sweet saints grant I live not long.

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ATALANTA'S RACE.

Akgumént.

Atalanta, daughter of king Schocneus, not willing to lose her virgin's estate, made it a law to all suitors that they should run a race with her in the public place, and if they failed to overcome her should die unrevenged; and thus many brave man perished. At last came Milanion, the son of Amphida-mas, who, outrunning her with the help of Venus, gained the virgin and wedded her.

Thkough thick Arcadian woods a hunter went,

Following the beasts up, on a fresh spring day,

Bnt since his horn-tipped bow but seldom bent,

Now at the noontide nought had happed to slay,

Within a vale he called his hounds away,

Hearkening the echoes of his lone voice cling About the cliffs and through the beech-trees ring.

But when they ended, still awhile he stood,

And but the sweet familiar thrush could hear.

And all the day-long noises of the wood,

And o'er the dry leaves of the vanished year His hounds' feet pattering as they drew anear,

And heavy breathing from their heads low hung.

To see the mighty cornel bow unstrung.

Then smiling did he turn to leave the place.

But with his first step some new fleeting thought A shadow cast across his sun-burnt face,

I think the goldeu net that April brought From some warm world his wavering soul had caught; For, sunk in vague sweet longing, did he go Betwixt the trees with doubtful steps and slow.

Yet howsoever slow he went, at last The trees grew sparser, and the wood was done;

Whereon one farewell, backward look he cast,

Then, turning round to see what place was won,

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With shaded eyes looked underneath the sun, And o'er green meads and new-turned furrows brown Beheld the gleaming of King Schoeneus' town.

So thitherward he turned, and on each side The folk were busy on the teeming land,

And man and maid from the brown furrows cried, Or midst the newly-blossomed vines did stand, And as the rustic weapon pressed the hand Thought of the nodding of the well-filled ear, Or how the knife the heavy bunch should shear.

Merry it was: about him sung the birds, The spring flowers bloomed along the firm dry road, The sleek-skinned mothers of the sharp-horned herds Now for the barefoot milking-maideus lowed;

While from the freshness of his blue abode,

Glad his death-bearing arrows to forget,

The broad sun blazed, nor scattered plagues as yet.

Through such fair things unto the gates he came, And found them open, as though peace -were there; Wherethrough, unquestioned of his race or name, He entered, and along the streets 'gan fare,

Which at the first of folk were well-nigh bare; But pressing on, and going more hastily, Men hurrying too he 'gan at last to see.

Following the last of these, he still pressed on, Until an open space he came unto.

Were wreaths of fame had oft been lost and won, For feats of strength folk there were wont to do. And now our hunter looked for something new. Because the whole -wide space was bare, and stilled The high seats were, with eager people filled.

There with the others to a seat he gat,

Whence he beheld a broidered canopy,

'Neath which in fair array King Schoeneus sat Upon his throne with councillors thereby;

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And underneath his well-wrought seat and high.

He saw a golden image of the sun,

A silver image of the Fleet-foot One.

A brazen altar stood beneath their feet Whereon a thin flame flickered in the wind Nigh this a herald clad in raiment meet Made ready even now his horn to wind,

By whom a huge man held a sword, entwined With yellow flowers; these stood a little space Prom off the altar, nigh the starting place.

And there two runners did the sign abide Foot set to foot,—a young man slim and fair. Crisp-haired, well-knit, with firm limbs often tried In places where no man his strength may spare;

Dainty his thin coat was, and on his hair A golden circlet of renown he wore,

And in his hand an olive garland bore.

But on this day with whom shall he contend?

A maid stood by him like Diana clad When in the woods she lists her bow to bend.

Too fair for one to look on and be glad.

Who scarcely yet has thirty summers had,

If he must still behold her from afar;

Too fair to let the world live free from war.

She seemed all earthly matters to forget;

Of all tormenting lines her face was clear,

Her wide grey eyes upon the goal were set Calm and unmoved as though no soul were near. But her foe trembled as a man in fear.

Nor from her loveliness one moment turned His anxious face with fierce desire that burned.

Now through the hush there broke the trumpet's clang Just as the setting sun made eventide.

Then from light feet a spurt of dust there sprang, And swiftly were they running side by side;

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But silent did the thronging folk abide Until the turning-post was reached at last, And round about it still abreast they passed.

But when the people saw how close they ran, When halfway to the starting-point they were,

A cry of joy broke forth, whereat the man Headed the white-foot runner, and drew near Unto the very end of all his fear;

And scarce his straining feet the ground could feel. And bliss unhoped for o'er his heart 'gan steal.

But midst the loud victorious shouts he heard Her footsteps drawing nearer, and the sound Of fluttering raiment, and thereat afeard His flushed and eager face he turned around. And even then he felt her past him bound Fleet as the wind, but scarcely saw her there Till on the goal she laid her fingers fair.

There stood she breathing like a little child Amid some warlike clamour laid asleep,

For no victorious joy her red lips smiled,

Her cheek its wonted freshness did but keep; No glance lit up her clear grey eyes and deep. Though some divine thought softened all her face, As once more rang the trumpet through the place.

But her late foe stopped short amidst his course. One moment gazed upon her piteously.

Then with a groan his lingering feet did force To leave the spot whence he her eyes could see; And, changed like one who knows his time must be But short and bitter, without any word He knelt before the bearer of the sword;

Then high rose up the gleaming deadly blade, Bared of its flowers, and through the crowded place Was silence now, and midst of it the maid Went by the poor wretch at a gentle pace,

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And he to hers upturned his sad white face;

Nor did his eyes behold another sight Ere on his soul there fell eternal night.

So was the pageant ended, and all folk Talking of this and that familiar thing In little groups from that sad concourse broke, For now the shrill bats were upon the wing, And soon dark night would slay the evening,

And in dark gardens sang the nightingale Her little-heeded, oft-repeated tale.

And with the last of all the hunter went, Who, wondering at the strange sight he had seen Prayed an old man to tell him what it meant.

Both why the vanquished man so slain had been, And if the maiden were an earthly queen,

Or rather what much more she seemed to be. No sharer in the world's mortality.

' Stangersaid he, ¹1 pray she soon may die Whose lovely youth has slain so many an one!

King Schoeneus' daughter is she verily,

Who when her eyes first looked upon the sun Was fain to end her life but new begun.

For he had vowed to leave but men alone Sprung from his loins when he from earth was gone.

'Therefore ha bade one leave her in the wood. And let wild things deal with her as they might. But this being done, some cruel god thought good To save her beauty in the world's despite:

Folk say that her, so delicate and white As now she is, a rough root-grubbing bear Amidst her shapeless cubs at first did Tear.

' In course of time the woodfolk slew her nurse, And to their rude abode the youngling brought.

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And reared her up to be a kingdom's curse, Who grown a woman, of no kingdom thought, But armed and swift, 'mid beasts destruction wrought Nor spared two shaggy centaur kings to slay To whom her body seemed an easy prey.

' So to this city, led by fate, she came Whom known by signs, whereof I cannot tell.

King Schoeneus for his child at last did claim, Nor otherwhere since that day doth she dwell Sending too many a noble soul to hell—

What! thine eyes glisten! what then, thinkest thou Her shining head unto the yoke to bow?

' Listen my son, and love some other maid For she the saffron gown will never wear.

And on no flower-strewn couch shall she he laid. Nor shall her voice make glad a lover's ear:

Yet if of Death thou hast not any fear,

Tea, rather, if thou lovest him utterly,

Thou still may'st woo her ere thou com'st to die,

'Like him that on this day thou sawest lie dead; For, fearing as I deem the sea-born one,

The maid has vowed e'en such a man to wed As in the course her swift feet can outrun,

But whoso fails herein, his days are done:

He came the nighest that was slain to-day,

Although with him I deem she did but play.

'Behold, such mercy Atalanta gives To those that long to win her loveliness;

Be wise! be sure that many a maid there lives Gentler than she, of beauty little less,

Whose swimming eyes thy loving words shall bless, When in some garden, knee set close to knee,

Thou sing'st the song that love may teach to thee.'

So to the hunter spake that ancient man,

And left him for his own home presently;

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But he turned round, and through the moonlight wan Reached the thick wood, and there 'twixt tree and tree Distraught he passed the long night feverishly,

'Twixt sleep and waking, and at dawn arose To wage hot war against his speechless foes.

There to the hart's flank seemed his shaft to grow, As panting down the broad green glades he flew.

There by his horn the Dryads well might know His thrust against the bear's heart had been true,

And there Adonis' bane his javelin slew,

But still in vain through rough and smooth he went, For none the more his restlessness was spent.

So wandering, he to Argive cities came,

And in the lists with valiant men he stood.

And by great deeds he won him praise and fame,

And heaps of wealth for little-valued blood;

But none of all these things, or life, seemed good Unto his heart, where still unsatisfied A ravenous longing warred with fear and pride.

Therefore it hg.pped when but a month had gone Since he had left king Schceneus' city old,

In hunting-gear again , again alone The forest-bordered meads did he behold,

Where still mid thoughts of August's quivering gold Folk hoed the wheat, and clipped the vine in trust Of faint October's purple-foaming must.

And once again he passed the peaceful gate While to his beating heart his lips did lie.

That owning not victorious love and fate,

Said, half aloud, ' And here too must I try ,

To win of alien men the mastery,

And gather for my head fresh meed of fame And cast new glory on my father's name?

In spite of that, how beat his heart, when first Folk said to him, 'And art thou come to see

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That which still makes our city's name accurst Among all mothers for its cruelty?

Then know indeed that fate is good to thee Because to-morrow a new luckless one Against the whitefoot maid is pledged to run.¹

So on the morrow with no curious eyes As once he did, that piteous sight he saw,

Nor did that wonder in his heart arise As toward the goal the conquering maid 'gan draw Nor did he gaze upon her eyes with awe Too full the pain of longing filled his heart For fear or wonder there to have a part.

But 0, how long the night was ere it went! How long it was before the dawn begun Showed to the wakening birds the sun's intent That not in darkness should the world be done! And then, and then, how long before the sun Bade silently the toilers of the earth Get forth to fruitless cares or empty mirth!

And long it seemed that in the market-place He stood and saw the chaffering folk go by, Ere from the ivory throne King Schoeneus' face Looked down upon the murmur royally,

But then came trembling that the time was nigh When he midst pitying looks his love must claim. And jeering voices must salute his name.

But as the throng he pierced to gain the throne; His alien face distraught and anxious told What hopeless errand he was bound upon, And, each to each, folk whispered to behold His godlike limbs; nay, and one woman old As he went by must pluck him by the sleeve And pray him yet that wretched love to leave.

For sidling up she said, 'Canst thou live twice. Fair son? canst thou have joyful youth again,

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That thus thou goest to the sacrifice Thyself the victim? nay then, all in vain Thy mother bore her longing and her pain.

And one more maiden on the earth must dwell Hopeless of joy, nor fearing death and hell.

'0, fool, thou knowest not the compact then That with the threeformed goddess she has made To keep her from the loving lips of men.

And in no saffron gown to be arrayed. And therewithal with glory to be paid.

And love of her the moonlit river sees White 'gainst the shadow of the formless trees.

'Come back, and I myself will pray for thee Unto the sea-born framer of delights,

To give thee her who on the earth may be The fairest stirrer up to death and fights,

To quench with hopeful days and joyous nights The flame that doth thy youthful heart consume: Come back, nor give thy beauty to the tomb.

How should he listen to her earnest speech? Words, such as he not once or twice had said Unto himself, whose meaning scarce could reach The firm abode of that sad hardihead —

He turned about, and through the marketstead Swiftly he passed, until before the throne In the cleared space he stood at last alone.

Then said the King, 'Stranger, what dost Have any of my folk done ill to thee ?

Or art thou of the forest men in fear?

Or art thou of the aad fraternity Who still will strive my daughter's mate to Staking their lives to win to earthly bliss The lonely maid, the friend of Artemis?'

'0 King,' he said, 'thou sayest the word indeed; Nor will I quit the strife till I have won

thou here?

be,

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My sweet delight, or death to end my need. And know that I am called Milanion,

Of King Amphidamas the well-loved son:

So fear not that to thy old name, O King,

Much loss or shame my victory will bring.'

' Nay, Princesaid Schoeneus, ¹ welcome to this land Thou wert indeed, if thou wert here to try Thy strength 'gainst some one mighty of his hand; Nor would we grudge thee well-won mastery. But now, why wilt thou come to me to die,

And at my door lay down thy luckless h«id,

Swelling the band of the unhappy dead,

•Whose curses even now my heart doth fear? Lo, I am old, and know what life can be,

And what a bitter thing is death anear.

O Son! be wise, and hearken unto me,

And if no other can be dear to thee.

At least as now, yet is the world full wide,

And bliss in seeming hopeless hearts may hide:

' But if thou losest life, then all is lost.' 'Nay, King,' Milanion said, 'thy words are vain. Doubt not that I have counted well the cost.

But say, on what day wilt thou that I gain Fulfilled delight, or death to end my pain?

Bight glad were I if it could be to-day,

And all my doubts at rest for ever lay.'

'Nay,' said King Schoeneus, 'thus it shall not be, But rather shalt thou let a month go by.

And weary with thy prayers for victory What god thou know'st the kindest and most nigh. So doing, still perchance thou shalt not die:

And with my goodwill wouldst thou have the maid, For of the equal gods I grow afraid.

'And until then, O Prince, be thou my guest, And all these troublous things awhile forget.'

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' Nay,' gaid he, ' couldst thou give ray soul good rest,

And on mine head a sleepy garland set,

Then had I 'scaped the meshes of the net,

Nor shouldst thou hear from me another word;

But now, make sharp thy fearful heading sword.

'Yet will I do what son of man may do,

And promise all the gods may most desire,

That to myself I may at least be true;

And on that day my heart and limbs so tire,

With utmost strain and measureless desire.

That, at the worst, I may but fall asleep When in the sunlight round that sword shall sweep.'

He went with that, nor anywhere would bide,

But unto Argos restlessly did wend;

And there, as one who lays all hope aside.

Because the leech has said his life must end,

Silent farewell he bade to foe and friend.

And took his way unto the restless sea.

For there he deemed his rest and help might be.

Upon the shore of Argolis there stands A temple to the goddess that he sought.

That, turned unto the lion-bearing lands,

Fenced from the east, of cold winds hath no thought. Though to no homestead there the sheaves are brought. No groaning press torments the close-clipped murk. Lonely the fane stands, far from all men's work.

Pass through a close, set thick with myrtle-trees, Through the brass doors that guard the holy place, And entering, hear the washing of the seas That twice a-day rise high above the base,

And with the south-west urging them, embrace The marble feet of her that standeth there That shrink not, naked though they be and fair.

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Small is the fane through which the seawind sings About Queen Venus' well-wrought image white, But hung around are many precious things,

The gifts of those who, longing for delight,

Have hung them there within the goddess' sight And in return have taken at her hands The living treasures of the Grecian lands.

And thither now has come Melanion,

And showed unto the priests' wide open eyes Gifts fairer than all those that there have shone ,

Silk cloths, inwrought with Indian fantasies, And bowls inscribed with sayings of the wise Above the deeds of foolish living things.

And mirrors fit to be the gifts of kings.

And now before the Sea-born One he stands.

By the sweet veiling smoke made dim and soft, And while the incense trickles from his handa, And while the odorous smoke-wreaths hang aloft. Thus doth he pray to her: '0 Thou, who oft Hast holpen man and maid in their distress.

Despise me not for this my wretchedness!

'0 goddess, among us who dwell below.

Kings and great men, great for a little while.

Have pity on the lowly heads that bow,

Nor hate the hearts that love them without guile; Wilt thou be worse than these, and is thy smile A vain device of him who set thee here,

An empty dream of some artificer?

' 0 , great one, some men love, and are ashamed; Some men are weary of the bonds of love;

Yea, and by some men lightly art thou blamed. That from thy toils their lives they cannot, move, And 'mid the ranks of men their manhood prove. Alas! 0 goddess, if thou slayest me What new immortal can I serve but thee?

'Think then, will it bring honour to thy head, If folk say, 'Everything aside he cast

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And all to fame and honour was he dead,

And to his one hope now is dead at last,

Since all unholpen he is gone and past:

Ah, the gods love not man, for certainly.

He to his helper did not cease to cry.

'Nay, but thou wilt help; they who died before Not single-hearted as I deem came here,

Therefore unthanked they laid their gifts before Thy stainless feet, still shivering with their fear. Lest in their eyes their true thought might appear, Who sought to be the lords of that fair town, Dreaded of men and winners of renown.

' O Queen, thou knowest I pray not for this; O set us down together in some place Where not a voice can break our heaven of bliss. Where nought but rocks and I can see her face, Softening beneath the marvel of thy grace,

Where not a foot our vanished steps can track— The golden age, the golden age come back!

'0 fairest, hear me now who do thy will,

Plead for thy rebel that she be not slain,

But live and love and be thy servant still; Ah, give her joy and take away my pain, And thus two long-enduring servants gain.

An easy thing this is to do for me.

What need of my vain words to weary thee!

'But none the less, this place will I not leave Until I needs must go my death to meet.

Or at thy hands some happy sign receive That in great joy we twain may one day greet Thy presence here and kiss thy silver feet,

Such as we deem thee, fair beyond all words. Victorious o'er our servants and our lords.'

Then from the altar back a space he drew, But from the Queen turned not his face away,

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But 'gainst a pillar leaned, until the blue That arched the sky, at ending of the day, Was turned to ruddy gold and changing grey, And clear, but low, the nigh-ebbed windless sea In the still evening murmured ceaselessly.

And there he stood when all the sun was down _TNor had he moved, when the dim golden light.

Like the far lustre of a godlike town.

Had left the world to seeming hopeless night. Nor would he move the more when wan moonlight Streamed through the pillars for a little while, And lighted up the white Queen's changeless smile.

Nought noted he the shallow flowing sea As step by step it set the wrack a-swim.

The yellow torchlight nothing noted he Wherein with fluttering gown and half-bared limb The temple damsels sung their midnight hymn, And nought the doubled stillness of the fane When they were gone and all was hushed again.

But when the waves ha'd touched the marble base, And steps the fish swim over twice a-day,

The dawn beheld him sunken in his place Upon the floor; and sleeping there he lay. Not heeding aught the little jets of spray The roughened sea brought nigh, across him cast. For as one dead all thought from him had passed.

Yet long before the sua had showed his head, Long ere the varied hangings on the wall Had gained once more their blue and green and red, He rose as one some well-known sign doth call When war upon the city's gates doth fall, And scarce like one fresh risen out of sleep.

He 'gan again his broken watch to keep.

Then he turned round; not for the sea-gull's cry That wheeled above the temple in his flight.

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Not for the fresh south wind that lovingly Breathed on the new-born day and dying night,

But some strange hope 'twixt fear and great delight Drew round his face, now flushed, now pale and wan. And still constrained his eyes the sea to scan.

Now a faint light lit up the southern sky.

Not sun or moon, for all the world was grey,

But this a bright cloud seemed, that drew anigh,

Lighting the dull waves that beneath it lay As toward the temple still it took its way,

And still grew greater, till Milanion Saw nought for dazzling light that round him shone.

But as he staggered with his arms outspread,

Delicious unnamed odours breathed around.

For languid happiness he bowed his head.

And with wet eyes sank down upon the ground.

Nor wished for aught, nor any dream he found To give him reason for that happiness,

Or make him ask more knowledge of his bliss.

At last his eyes were cleared, and he could see Through happy tears the goddess face to face With that faint image of Divinity,

Whose well-wrought smile and dainty changeless grace Until that morn so gladdened all the place;

Then he, unwitting cried aloud her name And covered up his eyes for fear and shame.

But through the stillness he her voice could hear Piercing his heart with joy scarce bearable,

That said, 'Milanion, wherefore dost thou fear,

I am not hard to those who love me well;

List to what I a second time will tell,

And thou mayest hear perchance, and live to save The cruel maiden from a loveless grave.

'See by my feet three golden apples lie—

Such fruit among the heavy roses falls,

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Such fruit my watchful damsels carefully Store up within the best loved of my walls,

Ancient Damascus, where the lover calls Above my unseen head, and faint and light The rose-leaves flutter round me in the night.

'And note, that these are not alone most fair With heavenly gold, but longing strange they bring Unto the hearts of men, who will not care Beholding these, for any once-loved thing Till round the shining sides their fingers cling. And thou shalt see thy well-girt .swiftfoot maid By sight of these amid her glory stayed.

For bearing these within a scrip with thee,

When first she heads thee from the starting-place Cast down the first one for her eyes to see, And when she turns aside make on apace,

And if again she heads thee in the race Spare not the other two to cast aside If she not long enough behind will bide.

'Farewell, and when has come the happy time That she Diana's raiment must unbind And all the world seems blessed with Saturn's clime , And thon with eager arms about her twined Beholdest first her grey eyes growing kind.

Surely, O trembler, thou shalt scarcely then Forget the Helper of unhappy men.'

Milanion raised his head at the last word For now so soffand kind she seemed to be No longer of her Godhead was he feared;

Too late he looked, for nothing could he see But the white image glimmering doubtfully In the departing twilight cold and grey.

And those three apples on the steps that lay.

These then he caught up quivering with delight, Yet fearful lest it all might be a dream,

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And though aweary with the watchful night, And sleepless nights of longing, still did deem He could not sleep; but yet the first sunbeam That smote the fane across the heaving deep Shone on him laid in calm untroubled sleep.

But little ere the moontide did he rise. And why he felt so happy scarce could tell Until the gleaming apples met his eyes.

Then leaving the fair place where this befell Oft he looked back as one who loved it well, Then homeward to the haunts of men 'gan to wend To bring all things unto a happy end.

Now has the lingering month at last gone by, Again are all folk round the running place, Nor other seems the dismal pageantry Than heretofore, but that another face Looks o'er the smooth course ready for the race. For now, beheld of all, Milanion Stands on the spot he twice has looked upon.

But yet—what change is this that holds the-maid? Does she indeed see in his glittering eye More than disdain of the sharp shearing blade, Some happy hope of help and victory? The others seemed to say, 'We come to die. Look down upon us for a little while,

That dead, we may bethink us of thy smile.'

But he—what look of mastery was {this He cast on her? why were his lips so red? Why was his face so flushed with happiness? So looks not one who deems himself but dead. E'en if to death he bows a willing head; So rather looks a god well pleased to find Some earthly damsel fashioned to his mind.

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Why must she drop her lids before his gaze, And even as she casts adown her eyes Redden to note his eager glance of praise,

And -wish that she were clad in other guise?

Why must the memory to her heart arise Of things unnoticed when they first were heard,

Some lover's song, some answering maiden's word?

What makes these longings, vague, without a name. And this vain pity never felt before,

This sudden languor, this contempt of fame,

This tender sorrow for the time past o'er.

These doubts that grew each minute more and more? Why does she tremble as the time grows near. And weak defeat and woeful victory fear?

But while she seemed to hear her beating heart, Above their heads the trumpet blast rang out And forth they sprang; and she must play her part Then flew her white feet, knowing not a doubt. Though slackening once, she turned her head about. But than she cried aloud and faster fled Than e'er before, and all men deemed him dead.

But with no sound he raised aloft his hand. And thence what seemed a raj' of light there flow And past the maid rolled on along the sand;

Then trembling she her feet together drew And in her heart a strong desire there grew To have the toy; some god she thought had given That gift to her, to make of earth a heaven.

Then from the course with eager steps she ran, And in her odorous bosom laid the gold.

But when she turned again, the great-limbed man, Now well ahead she failed not to behold,

And mindful of her glory waxing cold.

Sprang up and followed him in hot pursuit,

Though with one hand she touched the golden fruit.

Note too, the bow that she was wont to bear She laid aside to grasp the glittering prize,

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And o'er her shoulder from the quiver fair Three arrows fell and lay before her eyes Unnoticed, as amidst the people's cries She sprang to head the strong Milanion, Who now the turning-post had well-nigh won.

But as he set his mighty hand on it White fingers underneath his own were laid, And white limbs from his dazzled eyes did flit. Then he the second fruit cast by the maid, But she ran on awhile, then as afraid Wavered and stopped, and turned and made no stay. Until the globe with its bright fellow lay.

Then, as a troubled glance she cast around Now far ahead the Argive could she see,

And in her garment's hem one hand she wound To keep the double prize, and strenuously Sped o'er the course, and little doubt had she To win the day, though now but scanty space Was left betwixt him and the winning place.

Short was the way unto such winged feet. Quickly she gained upon him till at last He turned about her eager eyes to meet And from his hand the third fair apple cast. She wavered not, but turned and ran so fast After the prize that should her bliss fulfil,

That in her hand it lay ere it was still.

Nor did she rest, but turned about to win Once more, an unblest woeful victory—

And yet- and yet—why does her breath begin To fail her, and her feet drag heavily?

Why fails she now to see if far or nigh The goal is? why do her grey eyes grow dim? Why do these tremors run through every limb?

She spreads her arms abroad some stay to find Else must she fall, indeed, and findeth this.

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A strong man's arms about her body twined. Nor may she shudder now to feel his kiss, So wrapped she is in new unbroken bliss: Made happy that the foe the prize hath won, She weeps glad tears for all her glory done.

Shattek the trumpet, hew adown the posts! Upon the brazen altar break the sword. And scatter incense to appease the ghosts Of those who died here by their own award. Bring forth the image of the mighty Lord, And her who unseen o'er the runners hung. And did a deed for ever to be sung.

Here are the gathered folk, make no delay. Open King Schoeneus,¹ well-filled treasury.

Bring out the gifts long hid from light of day. The golden bowls o'erwrought with imagery.

Gold chains and unguents brought from over sea, The saffron gown the old Phoenician brought, Within the temple of the Goddess wrought.

O ye, O damsels, who shall never see Her, that Love's servant bringeth now to you, Returning from another victory.

In some cool bower do all that now is due!

Since she in token of her service new Shall give to Venus offerings rich enow. Her maiden zone, her arrows, and her bow.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE (1837—).

CHORUS from ATALANTA IN CALYDON.

Before the beginning of years

There came to the making of man

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Time, with a gift of tears;

Grief, with a glass that ran;

Pleasure, with pain for leaven;

Summer, with flowers that fell; Remembrance fallen from heaven,

And madness risen from hell;

Strength without hands to smite;

Love that endures for a breath;

Night, the shadow of light;

And life, the shadow of death.

And the high gods took in hand Fire, and the falling of tears;

And a measure of sliding sand

From under the feet of the years; And froth and drift of the sea;

And dust of the labouring earth; And bodies of things to be

In the houses of death and of birth; And wrought with weeping and laughter. And fashioned with loathing and love. With life before and after,

And death beneath and above,

For a day, and a night, and a morrow.

That his strength might endure for a span With travail and heavy sorrow,

The holy spirit of man.

From the winds of the north and the south

They gathered as unto strife;

They breathed upon his mouth,

They filled his body with life;

Eye-sight and speech they wrought For the veils of the soul therein,

A time for labour and thought,

A time to serve and to sin;

They gave him light in his ways,

And love, and a space for delight, And beauty, and length of days, And night, and sleep in the night.

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His speech is a burning fire;

With his lips he travaileth;

In his heart is a blind desire;

In his eyes foreknowledge of death; He weaves, and is clothed with derision;

Sows, and he shall not reap;

His life is a watch or a -vision Between a sleep and a sleep.

A MATCH.

If love were what the rose is,

And I were like the leaf. Our lives would grow together In sad or singing weather,

Blown fields or flowerful closes, Green pleasure or grey grief; If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf.

If I were what the words are,

And love were like the tune. With double sound and single Delight our lips would mingle, With kisses glad as birds are

That get sweet rain at noon; If I were what the words are And love were like the tune.

If you were life, my darling,

And I your love were death, We'd shine and snow together Ere March made sweet the weather With daffodil and starling

And hours of fruitful breath; If you were life, my darling,

And I your love were death.

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If you were thrall to sorrow,

And I were page to joy, We'd play for lives and seasons With loving looks and treasons And tears of night and morrow And laughs of maid and boy; If you were thrall to sorrow. And I were page to joy.

If you were April's lady.

And I were lord in May, We'd throw with leaves for hours And draw for days with flowers. Till day like night were shady

And night were bright like day; If you were April's lady And I were lord in May.

if you were queen of pleasure.

And I were king of pain, We'd hunt down love together,

Pluck out his flying-feather. And teach his feet a measure. And find his mouth a rein; If you were queen of pleasure, And I were king of pain.

BOCOCO.

Take hands and part with laughter;

Touch lips and part with tears; Once more and no more after, Whatever comes with years. We twain shall not remeasure

The ways that left us twain; Nor crush the lees of pleasure From sanguine grapes of pain.

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We twain once well in sunder _TWhat will the mad gods do

For hate with me, I wonder, Or what for love with you?

Forget them till November, And dream there's April yet;

Forget that I remember And dream that I forget.

Time found our tired love sleeping _TAnd kissed away his breath;

But what should we do weeping, Though light love sleep to death?

We have drained his lips at leisure. Till there's not left to drain

A single sob of pleasure,

A single pulse of pain.

Dream that the lips once breathless Might quicken if they would;

Say that the soul is deathless; Dream that the gods are good;

Say March may wed September, And time divorce regret;

But not that you remember.

And not that I forget.

We have heard from hidden places What love scarce lives and hears:

We have seen on fervent faces The pallor of strange tears:

We have trod the wine-vat's treasure Whence, ripe to steam and stain.

Foams round the feet of pleasure The blood-red must of pain.

Remembrance may recover And time bring back to time

The name of your first lover. The ring of my first rhyme;

But rose-leaves of December The frosts of June shall fret.

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The day that you remember,

The day that I forget.

The snake that hides and hisses In heaven we twain have known;

The grief of cruel kisses,

The joy whose mouth makes moan;

The pulse's pause and measure,

Where in one furtive vein

Throbs through the heart of pleasure The purpler blood of pain.

We have done with tears and treasons And love for treason's sake;

Room for the swift new seasons. The years that burn and break.

Dismantle and dismember

Men's days and dreams, Juliette ;

For love may not remember.

But time will not forget.

Life treads down love in flying.

Time withers him at root;

Bring all dead things and dying.

Reaped sheaf and ruined fruit.

Where, crushed by three days' pressure, Our three days' love lies slain;

And earlier leaf of pleasure.

And latter flower of pain.

Breathe close upon the ashes,

It may be flame will leap;

Unclose the soft close lashes.

Lift up the lids, and weep.

Light love's extinguished ember.

Let one tear leave it wet

for one that you remember And ten that you forget.

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HYMN TO PROSERPINE.

(al'ter the pboclamation in kome op the chkisiiak ia1ih.)

I have lived long enough, having seen one thing, that love hath an end; Goddess and maiden and queen , be near me now and befriend.

Thou art more than the day or the morrow, the seasons that laugh

or that weep;

For these give joy and sorrow; but thou, Proserpina, sleep.

Sweet is the treading of wine, and sweet the feet of the dove;

But a goodlier gift is thine than foam of the grapes or love.

Yea, is not even Apollo, with hair and harpstring of gold,

A bitter God to follow, a beautiful God to behold ?

I am sick of singing: the bays bum deep and chafe: I am fain To rest a little from praise and grievous pleasure and pain.

Tor the Gods we know not of, who give us our daily breath,

We know they are cruel as love or life, and lovely as death.

0 Gods dethroned and deceased, cast forth, wiped out in a day!

From your wrath is the world released, redeemed from your chains,

men say.

New Gods are crowned in the city; their flowers have broken your rods; They are merciful, clothed with pity, the young compassionate Gods. But for me their new device is barren, the days are bare;

Things long past over suffice , and men forgotten that were.

Time and the Gods are at strife; ye dwell in the midst thereof,

Draining a little life from the barren breasts of love.

1 say to you, cease , take rest; yea, I say to you all, be at peace ,

Till the bitter milk of her breast and the barren bosom shall cease.

Wilt thou yet take all, Galilean ? but these thou shalt not take,

The laurel, the palms and the paean, the breast of the nymphs in the -brake;

Breasts more soft than a dove's , that tremble with tenderer breath; And all the wings of the Loves, and all the joy before death;

All the feet of the hours that sound as a single lyre,

Dropped and deep in the flowers, with strings that flicker like fire.

More than these wilt thou give, things fairer than all these things? Nay, for a little we live, and life hath mutable wings.

A little while and we die; shall life not thrive as it may ?

For no man under the sky lives twice, outliving his day.

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And grief is a grievous thing, and a man hath enough of his tears: Why should he labour, and bring fresh grief to blacken his years ?

Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean; the world has grown grey from thy breath;

We have drunken of things Lethean, and fed on the fulness of death. Laurel is green for a season, and love is sweet for a day;

But love/ grows bitter with treason, and laurel outlives not May.

Sleep, shall we sleep after all? for the world is not sweet in the end; For the old faiths loosen and fall, the new years ruin and rend.

Fate is a sea without shore, and the soul is a rock that abides;

But her ears are vexed with the roar and her face with the foam of the tides.

O lips that the live blood faints in, the leavings of racks and rods!

0 ghastly glory of saints, dead limbs of gibbeted Gods!

Though all men abase them before you in spirit, and all knees bend,

1 kneel not neither adore you, but standing, look to the end.

All delicate days and pleasant, all spirits and sorrows are cast

Far out with the foam of the present that sweeps to the surf of the past: Where beyond the extreme sea-wall, and between the remote sea-gates. Waste water washes, and tall ships founder, and deep death waits: Where, mighty with deepening sides, clad about with the seas as with wings

And impelled of invisible tides, and fulfilled of unspeakable things, White-eyed and poisonous-finned, shark-toothed and serpentine-curled, Rolls under the whitening wind of the future, the wave of the world. The depths stand naked in sunder behind it, the storms flee away;

In the hollow before it the thunder is taken and snared as a prey;

In its sides is the north-wind bound; and its salt is of all men's tears; With light of ruin, and sound of changes, and pulses of years:

With travail of day after day, and with trouble of hour upon hour; And bitter as blood is the spray; and the crests are as fangs that devour: And its vapour and storm of its steam as the sighing of spirits to be; And its noise as the noise in a dream; and its depth as the roots of the sea:

And the height of its heads as the height of the utmost stars of the air: And the ends of the earth at the might thereof tremble, and time is made bare.

Will ye take her to chain her with chains, who is older than all ye Gods?

All ye as a wind shall go by, as a fire shall ye pass and be past;

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Ye are Gods, and behold, ye shall die, and the waves be upon you at last.

In the darkness of time, in the deeps of the years, in the changes of things,

Ye shall sleep as a slain man sleeps, and the world shall forget you for kings,

Though the feet of thine high priests tread where thy lords and our forefathers trod,

Though these that were Gods are dead, and thou being dead art a God, Though before thee the throned Cytherean be fallen, and hidden her head.

Yet thy kingdom shall pass, Galilean, thy dead shall go down to thee dead.

Of the maiden thy mother men sing as a goddess with grace clad around;

Thou art throned were another was king; where another was queen she is crowned.

Yea, once we had sight of another: but now she is queen, say these. Not as thine, not as thine was our mother, a blossom óf flowering seas. Clothed round with the world's desire as with raiment and fair as the foam,

And fleeter than kindled fire, and a goddess, and mother of Rome. For thine came pale and a maiden, and sister to sorrow; but ours, Her deep hair heavily laden with odour and colour of flowers,

White rose of the rose-white water, a silver splendour, a flame,

Bent down unto as that besought her, and earth grew sweet with her name.

For thine came weeping, a slave among slaves, and rejected; but she Came flushed from the full-flushed wave, and imperial, her foot on the

sea.

And the wonderful waters knew her, and the winds and the viewless ways,

And the roses grew rosier, and bluer the sea-blue stream of the bays. Ye are fallen, our lords, by what token? we wist that ye should not fall.

Ye were all so fair that are broken; and one more fair than ye all.

But I turn to her still, heaving seen she shall surely abide in the end ; Goddess and maiden and queen, be near me now and befriend.

0 daughter of earth, of my mother, her crown and blossom of birth,

1 am also, I also, thy brother; I go as I came unto earth.

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In the night where thine eyes are as moons are in heaven, the night where thou art,

Where the silence is more than all tunes, where sleep overflows from the heart,

Where the poppies are sweet as the rose in our world, and the red rose is white,

And the wind falls faint as it blows with the fume of the flowers of the night,

And the murmur of spirits that sleep in the shadow of Gods from afar

Grows dim in thine ears and deep as the deep dim soul of a star,

In the sweet low light of thy face, under heavens untrod by the sun,

Let my soul with their souls find place, and forget what is done and undone.

Thou art more than the Gods who number the days of our temporal breath;

For these give labour and slumber; but thou, Proserpina, death.

Therefore now at thy feet I abide for a season in silence. I know

I shall die as my fathers died, and sleep as they sleep; even so.

For the glass of the years is brittle wherein we gaze for a span;

A little soul for a little bears up this corpse which is man.

So long I endure, no longer; and laugh not again, neither weep.

For there is no God found stronger than death; and death is sleep.

SCENE DURING CHASTELARD'S EXECUTION.

[From Chastelard Act V. Sc. III.)

Maky Beaton seated: Mary Carmichael at a window.

Mary Beaiok.

Do you see nothing?

Mary Carmichael.

Nay, but swarms of men And talking women gathered in small space, Flapping their gowns and gaping with fools' eyes: And a thin ring round one that seems to speak. Holding his hands out eagerly; no more.

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Mary Beatox.

Why, I hear more, I hear men shout The queen.

Mary Carmichael.

Nay, no cries yet.

Mary Beaton.

Ah, they will cry out soon When she comes forth; they should cry out on her; I hear their crying in my heart. Nay, sweet.

Do not you hate her ? all men, if God please,

Shall hate her one day; yea, one day no doubt I shall worse hate her.

Mary Carmichael.

Pray you, be at peace; You hurt yourself: she will be merciful;

What, could you see a true man slain for you? I think I could not; it is not like our hearts To have such hard sides to them.

Mary Beaton.

O, not you, And I could nowise; there's some blood in her That does not run to mercy as ours doth:

That fair face and the cursed heart in her Made keener than a knife for manslaying Can bear strange things.

Mary Carmichael.

Peace, for the people come. Ah—Murray, hooded over half his face With plucked-down hat, few folk about him, eyes Like a man angered; Darnley after him.

Holding our Hamilton above her wrist,

His mouth put near her hair to whisper with — And she laughs softly, looking at his feet.

Mary Beaton.

She will not live long; God hath given her Few days and evil, full of hate and love,

I see well now.

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Mary Carmichael.

Hark, there's the cry—The queen!

Fair life and long, and good days to the queen.

Mary Beaton.

Yea, hut God knows. I feel such patience here As I were sure in a brief while to die.

Mary Carmichael.

She hends and laughs a little, graciously.

And turns half, talking to I know not whom —

A big man with great shoulders; ah, the face,

You get his face now—wide and duskish, yea The youth burnt out of it. A goodly man,

Thewed mightily and sunburnt to the bona;

Doubtless he was away in banishment.

Or kept some march far oif.

Mary Beaton.

Still you see nothing?

Mary Carmichael.

Yea, now they bring him forth with a great noise,

The folk all shouting and men thrust about Each way from him.

Mary Beaton.

Ah, Lord God, bear with me.

Help me to bear a little with my love For thine own love, or give me some quick death.

Do not come down; I shall get strength again.

Only my breath fails. Looks he sad or blithe?

Not sad I doubt yet.

Mary Carmichael.

Nay, not sad a whit.

But like a man who losing gold or lands Should lose a heavy sorrow; his face set.

The eyes not curious to the right or left,

And reading in a book, his hands unbound,

quot;With short fleet smiles. The whole place catches breath.

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Looking at him; she seema at point to speak:

Now she lies back, and laughs, with her brows drawn

And her lips drawn too. Now they read his crime—

I see the laughter tightening her chin:

Why do you bend your body and draw breath?

They will not slay him in her sight; I am sure

She will not have him slain.

Maky Beaton.

Forth, and fear not: I was just praying to myself—one word,

A prayer I have to say for her to God If he will mind it.

Maky Cakmichael.

Now he looks her side; Something he says, if one could hear thus far: She leans out, lengthening her throat to hear And her eyes shining.

Maey Beaton.

Ah, I had no hope;

Yea thou God knowest that I had no hope.

Let it end quickly.

Mary Carmichael.

Now his eyes are wide And his smile great; and like another smile The blood fills all his face. Her cheek and neck Work fast and hard; she must have pardoned him. He looks so merrily. Now he comes forth Out of that ring of people and kneels down;

Ah, how the helve and edge of the great axe Turn in the sunlight as the man shifts hands— It must be for a show: because she sits And hardly moves her head this way—I see Her chin and lifted lips. Now she stands up.

Puts out her hand, and they fall muttering;

Ah!

Mary Beaton.

Is it done now?

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Mary Carmichael.

For God's love, stay there; Do not look out. Nay, he is dead by this; But gather up yourself from off the floor;

Will she die too? I shut mine eyes and heard— Sweet, do not beat your face upon the ground. Nay, he is dead and slain.

Mary Beaton.

What, slain indeed? I knew he would be slain. Ay, through the neck: I knew one must be smitten through the neck To die so quick: if one were stabbed to the heart, He would die slower.

Mary Carmichael.

Will you behold him dead?

Mary Beaton.

Yea: must a dead man not be looked upon That living one was fain of? give me way.

Lo you, what sort of hair this fellow had; The doomsman gathers it into his hand To grasp the head by for all men to see ;

I never did that.

Mary Carmichael.

For God's love, let me go.

Mary Beaton.

I think sometimes she must have held it so.

Holding his head back, see you, by the hair To kiss his face, still lying in his arms.

Ay, go and weep: it must be pitiful If one could see it. What is this they say ? So perish the queen's traitors! Yea, but so Perish the queen! God, do thus much to her For his sake only: yea for pity's sake Do thus much with her.

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Mary Cabmichael.

Prithee come in with me:

Nay, come at once.

Maeï Beaton.

If I should meet her And spit upon her at her coming in—

But if I live then shall I see one day When God will smite her lying harlot's mouth— Surely I shall. Come, I will go with yon;

We will sit down together face to face Now, and keep silence; for this life is hard, And the end of it is quietness at last.

Come, let us go: here is no word to say.

An Usher.

Make way there for the lord of Bothwell; room— Place for my lord of Bothwell next the queen.

INTERVIEW BETWEEN BOTHWELL AND MARY.

(From Bothwell Act II. Sc. VIII.)

Bothwell. I did not think you could have rid so fast.

Queen. There is no love in you to lift your heart. Nor heart to lift the fleshly weight, and bear Forward: I struck my love even as a spur Into the tired side of my horse, and made it Leap like a flame that eats up all its way Till I were here.

Bothwell. Why came you not before?

Queen. What, am I now too slow?

Bothwell. Ay, though you rode

Beyond the sun's speed, yea, the race of time That runs down all men born. Forgive it me That I was wroth and weary for your love,

Here lying alone, out of your eyes; I could not But chafe and curse, sending my spirit forth

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From this maimed flesh yet halting with its wound To move about you like a thought, and bring me Word of your works and ways.

Queen. I could not come.

Bothwell. Was there so much work worthier to be done Than this, to give love and to take again Thus? but for my part, of all things in the world I hold this best, to love you; and I think Ood never made your like for men to love.

Queen. You are my soldier; but these silk-soft words Become your lips as well as mine, when love Rekindles them; how good it is to have A man to love you! here is man indeed,

Not fool or boy, to make love's face ashamed.

To abash love's heart and turn to bitterness The sweet blood current in it. O my fair lord!

How fairer is this warrior face, and eyes With the iron light of battle in them left As the after fire of sunset left in heaven When the sun sinks, than any fool's face made Of smiles and courtly colour! Now I feel As I were man too, and had part myself In your great strength; being one with you as I, How should not [ be strong? It is youi* deed.

By grace of you and influence, sir, it is That I fear nothing; how should I lift up Mine eyes to your eyes, O my light o' the war,

And dare be fearful ? yours but looked upon,

Though mine were timorous as a dove's aifrayed,

For very shame would give them heart, and fire To meet the eyes of danger. What were I To have your love and love you, and yet be No more than women are whose name is fear And their hearts bloodless—I, who am part of you,

That have your love for heart's blood? Shall I think The blood you gave me fighting for my sake Has entered in my veins and grown in me To fill me with you? 0, my lord, my king.

Love me! I think you cannot love me yet.

That have done nought nor borne for love of yoa;

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But by the eye's light of all-judging God

That if I lie shall burn my soul in hell,

There is not in this fierce world anything,

Scorn, agony, stripes, bonds, fears, woes, deep shame,

Eingdomless ruin, but with open hands,

With joyous bosom open as to love,

Yea, with soul thankful for its great delight

And life on fire with joy, for this love's sake

I would embrace and take it to my heart.

Bothwell. Why, there should need not this to love you well; What should you have to bear for me, my queen.

Or how should I more love you? Nay, sweet, peace. Let not your passion break you; your breast burns,

Your very lips taste bitter with your tears.

Queen. It is because—O God that pities us!—

I may not always lie thus, may not kneel,

Cling round your hands and feet, or with shut eyes Wait till your lips be fast upon my face,

And laugh with very love intolerable As I laugh now—look, now I do not weep,

I am not sad nor angered against heaven That ever he divides us, I am glad That yet I have mine hour. Sweet, do not speak,

Nor do not kiss me; let mine eyes but rest In the love's light of yours, and for a space My heart lie still, late drunken with love's wine,

And feel the fierce fumes lessen and go out And leave it healed. 0, I have bled for you The nearest inward blood that is my life Drop by drop inly, till my swooning heart Made my face pale—I should look green and wan If by heart's sickness and blood-wasting pain The face be changed indeed; for all these days Your wound bled in me, and your face far off Was as a moving fire before mine eyes That might not come to see you; I was dead.

And yet had breath enough, speech, hearing, sight,

To feel them strange and insupportable;

1 know now how men live without a heart.

Does your wound pain youV

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Bothwell. What, I have a wound?

Queen. How should one love enough , though she gave all, Who had your like to love? I pray you tell me,

How did you fight?

Bothwell. Why, what were this to tell?

I caught this reiver, by some chance of God,

That put his death into mine hand, alone,

And charged him; foot to foot we fouj^t some space,

And he fought well; a gallant knave, God wot,

And worth a sword for better soldier's work Than these thieves' brawls; I would have given him life To ride among mine own men here and serve.

But he would nought; so being sore hurt i' the thigh I pushed upon him suddenly, and clove His crown through to the chin.

Queen. I will not have you

Henceforth for warden of these borders, sir:

We have hands enow for that and heads to cleave That but their wives will weep for.

Bothwell. ' Have no fear;

This hour had healed me of more grievous wounds ;

When it shall please you sign me to your side ,

Think I am with you.

Queen. I must ride—Tvoe's me!

The hour is out. Be not long from me, love;

And till you come, I swear by your own head I will not see the thing that was my lord Though he came in to Jedburgh. I had thought To have spoken of him, but my lips were loth To mar with harsh intrusion of his name The least of all our kisses. Let him be;

We shall have time. How fair this castle stands!

These hills are greener, and that singing stream Sings sweeter, and the fields are brighter faced.

Than I have seen or heard; and these good walls That keep the line of kingdom, all my life I shall have mind of them to love them well.

Nay, yet I must to horse.

Bothwell. Ay must you , sweet;

If you will ride thus fifty mile a day,

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But for your face you should be man indeed.

Queen. But for my face?

Bothwell. If you -will make me mad—

Queen. I dare not dwell with madmen; sir, farewell. Bothwell. But for your love and for its cruelty, I would have said, you should be man.

Queen. Alas!

But for my love?*nay, now you speak but truth;

For I well knew there was no love in man.

But we grow idle in this our labouring time;

When we have wrought through all the heat o' the day, We may play then unblamed, and fear no hand To push uï each from other; now farewell.

SCENE AFTER THE MUBDEB OP DABNLEY.

(From Bothwell Act III. Sc. II.)

The body of Daenley lying on a hier.

Queen. Let me look on him. It is marred not much; This was a fair face of a boy's alive.

Bothwell. It had been better had he died ere man. Queen. That hardly was he yesterday; a man!

What heart, what brain of manhood had God sown In this poor fair fool's flesh to bear him fruit?

What seed of spirit or counsel? what good hope That might have put forth flower in any sun?

We have plucked none up who cut him off at root, But a tare only or a thorn. His cheek Is not much changed, though since I wedded him His eyes had shrunken and his lips grown wan With sickness and ill living. Yesterday,

Man or no man, this was a living soul;

What is this now? This tongue that mourned to me, These lips that mine have mixed with, these blind eyes That fastened on me following, these void hands That never plighted faith with man and kept,

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Poor hands that paddled in the sloughs of shame,

Poor lips athirst for women's lips and -wine,

Poor tongue that lied, poor eyes that looked askant

And had no heart to face men's wrath or love

As who could answer either,—what work now

Doth that poor spirit which moved them? To what use

Of evil or good should hell put this or heaven,

Or with what fire of purgatory annealed

Shall it be clean and strong, yet keep in it

One grain for witness of what seed it was,

One thread, one shred enwoven with it alive,

To show what stuff time spun it of, and rent?

I have more pity such things should be born

Than of his death; yea, more than I had hate,

Living, of him.

Bothwell. Since hate nor pity now Or helps or hurts him, were we not as wise To take but counsel for the day's work here And put thought of him with him underground?

Queen. I do but cast once more away on him The last thought he will ever have of mine.

You should now love me well.

Bothwell. Ay should I, sweet.

Queen. I think you shall; it were more hard than death You should not love me.

Bothwell. Nay, not possible.

Queen. I think God never set in flesh of man Such heart as yours would be to love me not.

Bothwell. Will you give order for his funeral?

Queen. Ay.

But if you loved not—I would know that now That I might die even this day, and my hands Shed no more blood nor strive more for your sake;

For if I live whose life is of your love I shall take on them more of toil and blood,

To stain and tire them labouring all their life.

I would not die bloodguiltier than is need.

With redder hands than these and wearier heart,

And have no love to cleanse and comfort them.

For this man T forgive him.

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Bothwell. For which fault?

Queen. That he touched ever and defiled my life With life of his and death. I am fain to know You do not love me for his sake the less Who so have soiled me with him.

Bothwell. Shall I not

Swear it with him for sponsor to mine oath?

Queen. Kiss me before his face here for a sign.

Bothwell. You have strange doubts and dreams.

Queen. I will not have-

When part we hence, and whither ?

Bothwell. I have word

Your careful warden, the grave lord of Mar,

Will hardly give my followers at your prayer Place to come in to Stirling at our back.

Here now the streets begin to sound and swarm So that my guard is now for more than pride;

Wherefore I hold it well we take with us Some friends of our own counsel, as Argyle,

Huntley, my brother-in-law that shall be none,

With Maitland and the archbishop, and set forth To the lord Seyton's, who shall give us house Till this loud world fall stiller than it is.

Queen. Be it where you will, and how; do you but lead_rWould I not follow naked through the world?

For him of whose dead face mine eyes take leave As my free soul of shameful thought on him,

Let him have private burial some fit night By David whom he slew. I mind me now 'Tis not a year since I fled forth with him Even through the graves where he shall lie alone , And passing through their dusty deadly ways For some few minutes of the rustling night I felt his hand quake; ho will quake not now To sleep there all night long. See you to that.

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PARTING OF BOTHWELL AND THE QUEEN.

{From Bothwell Act IV. Sc. III.)

Queen. Do not speak yet: a word should burst my heart; It is a hollow crystal full of tears That even a breath might break, and they be spilt And life run out with them; no diamond now, But weaker than of wax. Life of that heart.

There is but one thing hath no remedy,

Death; all ills else have end or hope of end And time to work their worst before time change;

This death has none; there is all hope shut fast, All chance bound up for ever: change nor time Can help nor comfort this. You shall not die;

I can hold fast no sense of thought but this,

You shall not.

Bothwell. Well, being sundered, we may live.

And living meet; and here to hold the field Were but a deadly victory, and my hand The mockery of a conqueror's; we should pass No less their prisoners from the field thus won Than from these lists defeated. You do well;

They dare not urge or strain the power they have To bring me prisoner where my witness borne Might show them parcel of the deed and guilt For which they rise up to lay hold on me As upright men of doom, and with pure hands To hale me to their judgment. I will go,

Till good time bring me back; and you that stay,

Keep faith with me.

Queen. 0, how does one break faith ?

What are they that are faithless? by my love, I cannot tell or think how I should lie,

Should live and lie to you that are my faith,

My soul, my spirit, my very and only God,

My truth and trust that makes me true of heart. My life that feeds and light that lightens me. My breath and blood of living. Doth God think

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How I shall be without you ? what strange breath Shall my days draw, what strange blood feed my life. When this life that is love is gone from them And this light lost? Where shall my true life go, And by what far ways follow to find love,

Fly where love will? Where will you turn from me?

Bothwell. Hence will I to Dunbar, and thence again There is no way but northward and to ship From the north islands; thence betimes abroad By land or sea to lurk and find my life Till the wheel turn.

Queen. Ah God, that we were set

Far out at sea alone by storm and night To drive together on one end, and know If life or death would give us good or ill And night or day receive, and heaven or earth Forget us or remember!—He comes back;

Here is the end.

Bothwell. But till time change his tune;

No more nor further. We shall find our day.

Queen. Have we not found? I know not what we shall. But what hath been and is, and whence they are, God knows if now I know not. He is here.

Re-enter Kirkaldy.

Kirhaldy. Madam, the lords return by me this word. With them must you go back to Edinburgh And there be .well entreated as of friends;

And for the duke, they are with one mind content He should part hence for safe and present flight; But here may tarry not or pass not free.

This is the last word from them by my mouth.

Queen. Ay is it, sir; the last word I shall hear— Last in mine ear for ever; no command Nor threat of man shall I give .ear to more,

That have heard this.—Will you not go, my lord?

It is not I would hold yon.

Bothwell. Then, farewell,

And keep your word to me. What, no breath more? Keep then this kiss too with the word you gave.

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And with them both my heart and its good hope To find time yet for you and me. Farewell. [Exit.

Queen. O God! God! God!

Cover my face for me: I cannot heave my hand up to my head;

Mine arms are broken.

Is he got to horse?

I do not think one can die more than this.

I did not say farewell.

Kirkdldy. My lord is gone.

THE QUEEN'S LEAVE-TAICING OP SCOTLAND,

[From Bothwell Act V. Sc. XIII.)

Queen. Methinks the sand yet cleaving to my foot Should not with no more words be shaken off,

Nor this my country from my parting eyes Pass unsaluted; for who knows what year May see us greet hereafter? Yet take heed,

Ye that have ears, and hear me; and take note,

Ye that have eyes, and see with what last looks Mine own take leave of Scotland; seven years since Did I take leave of my fair land of Prance,

My joyous mother, mother of my joy,

Weeping; and now with many a woe between And space of seven years' darkness, I depart From this distempered and unnatural earth That casts me out unmothered, and go forth On this grey sterile bitter gleaming sea With neither tearf nor laughter, but a heart That from the softest temper of its blood Is turned to fire and iron. If I live,

If God pluck not all hope out of my hand,

If aught of all mine prosper, I that go Shall come back to men's ruin; as a flame The wind bears down, that grows against the wind, And grasps it with great hands, and wins its way,

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And wins its will, and triumphs; so shall I

Let loose the fire of all my heart to feed

On these that would have quenched it. I will make

From sea to tea one furnace of the land

Whereon the wind of war shall beat its wings

Till they wax faint with hopeless hope of rest,

And with one rain of men's rebellions blood

Extinguish the red embers. I will leave

No living soul of their blaspheming faith

Who war with monarchs; God shall see me reign

As he shall reign beside me, and his foes

Lie at my foot with mine; kingdoms and kings

Shall from my heart take spirit, and at my soul

Their souls be kindled to devour for prey

The people that would make its prey of them

And leave God's altar stripped of sacrament

As all king's heads of sovereignty, and make

Bare as their thrones his temples; I will set

Those old things of his holiness on high

That are brought low, and break beneath my feet

These new things of men's fashion; I will sit

And see tears flow from eyes that saw me weep

And dust and ashes and the shadow of death

Cast from the block beneath the axe that falls

On heads that saw me humbled; I will do it,

Or bow mine own down to no royal end

And give my blood for theirs if God's will be ,

But come back never as I now go forth

With but the hate of men to track my way

And not the face of any friend alive.

ROBERT BUCHANAN (1841-). THE SCAITH O' BABTLE.

NORTH-EAST COAST.

Fathoms deep the ship doth lie,

Wreath'd with ocean weed and shell.

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Still and deep the shadows lie.

Dusky as a forest dell:

Tangled in the twisted sail.

With the breathing of the Sèa,

Stirs the Man who told his tale.

Staring upward dreamilie.

I laid him here, and scarcely wept; but look! His grave is green and wild and like a wave, And strewn with ocean-shells instead of flowers.

You saw him long ago, on board the Erne, Cod-fishing in Newfoundland, and (you mind ?) We drank a gill, all three, the very day Before the Erne went down off Fitful Head,

And all the crew were drown'd but brother Dan. Strange, that a man who faced so many a storm, And stood on splitting planks and never quail'd, And swam to save his life a dozen times,

Should ever die ashore! Why, from the first, We twins were meant for sailors:—God Himself Planted a breeze in both our brains to blow Our bodies up and down His calms and storms. Never had wilder, stormier year been known Here in the clachan, than the very year When Dan and I were born;—waters and winds Roar'd through the wintry season, and the sounds And sights weigh'd on our Highland mother's heart, Giving her whims and moods in which the clay Beneath her heart was fashion'd, and in March The Scaith came down the valley, screaming past Her ears the very hour that we were born.

When other boys were mumping at the school, I went as cabin-lad on board a whaler,

And Dan took up his canvas-bag, tied up Hia serk and comb and brush, with two or three Big home-baked bannocks, and a lump of cheese, Kiss'd mother, (that's her grave beside his own,) And walk'd to Aberdeen, where he found A berth on board a brig—the Jessie Gray,

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Bound south for Cadiz. After that for years We drifted up and down;—and when we met Down in the Forth, and journey'd home together. We were both twenty, Dan was poor as ever, But I had saved. How changed he look'd! how fine! Brown cheek and bit o' whisker, hands like steel, A build as sturdy as a mountain fir's,— Ay, every inch a sailor! Then, the tales We had for one another!—tales of storms. And sights on land, pranks play'd and places seen!— But, • Bob, I'm tired of being on the seas, The life's a hard one at the best,' says Dan; And I was like a fool and thought the same. So home we came, found father dead and gone, And mother sorely push'd; and round her neck We threw our arms, and kiss'd her, and she cried, And we cried too, and I took out my pay And pour'd it in her lap; but Dan look'd grieved, And glancing from the pay to mother, cried, 'I'll never, never go to sea again!'

'Tis thirty years ago, and yet right well I mind it well. How pleasant for a time Was life on land: the touslings with the girls. The merry-making in the public-house.

The cosy beds on winter nights. We work'd— I at the fishing, Dan at making nets—

And kept old mother for a year and more. But ere the year was out, the life grew dull: We never heard the wind blow, but we thought Of sailing on the sea,—we got a knack Of lying on the beach and listening To the great waters. Still, for mother's sake. Ashore we had to tarry. By and by. The restlessness grew worse, and show'd itself In other ways,—taking a drop too much. Fighting and cutty-stooling—and the folk Began to shake their heads. Amid it all, One night when Dan was reading out God's Book. (That bit about the Storm, where Peter tries

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To walk on water, and begins to sink,)

Old mother sigh'd and seem'd to go to sleep,

And when we tried to wake her, she was dead.

With sore, sore hearts we laid poor mother down;

And walk'd that day up yonder cliffs, and lay A hearkening to the Sea that wash'd beneath:

Far, far away we saw a sail gleam wet Out of a rainy spot below the line Where sky and water meet; the Deep was calm, And overhead went clouds whose shadows floated Slowly beneath, and here and there were places Purple and green and blue, and close to land The red-sail'd fish-boats in a violet patch.

I look'd at brother Dan, Dan look'd at me,—

And that same morning, off we went again!

No rest for us on land from that day forth.

We grew to love the waters; they became Part of our flesh and blood; the Sea, the Sea,

The busy whistling round the foam-girt world,

Was all our pleasure. Now and then we met,—

Once in a year or two, and never came To Scotland, but we took a journey here To look on mother's grave, and spend a day With old companions. But we never thought Of resting long, and never hoped to die Ashore, like mother: we had fix'd it. Jack,

That we must drown some day. At last, by luck,

We ran together. Dan had got a place As captain of a brig, and, press'd by him.

They made me mate. Ten years we sail'd together.

From Liverpool to New South Wales and back;

And we were lads no more, but staid, strong men.

Forty and upward,—yet with kibble arms,

Brown cheeks and cheerful hearts. Then the ill wind That blows no good to anyone began.

And brought us back to Scotland, to this place Where we were born and bred.

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Now, mark you, Jack, Even a sailor is but flnsh and blood,

Though out upon the water he can laugh At women and their ways; a run on shore,

A splash among the dawties and the drink.

Soon tires, soon tires,—then hey! away again To the wild life that's worthy of a man!

At forty, though, a sailor should be wise,

And 'ware temptation: whole a sailor, free,

But only half a sailor, though afloat.

When wedded. Don't you guess? Though Dan was old His head was turn'd, whila in the clachan here, And by a woman,—Effie Paterson ,

The daughter of a farmer on the hills.

And only twenty. Bonnie, say you? Ay!

As sweet a pout as ever grew on land;

But soft and tender, with a quiet face That needed the warm hearth to light it up,

And went snow-pallid at a puff of wind Or whiff of danger. When I saw the trap,

I tried my best to wheedle Dan away.

Back to the brig; but red as ricks on fire.

He glinted with those angry eyes of his,

And linger'd. Then, 'twas nearly time to sail;

I talk'd of going, and it all came out:

He meant to marry, Jack!—and not content With marrying, he meant to stop ashore!

Why, if a lightning flash had split our craft,

I should have wonder'd less. But, ' Bob,' says he, '1 love this lassie as I never thought 'Twas in my heart to love; and I have saved;

And I am tired of drifting here and there On yonder waters: I have earn'd my rest,

And mean to stop ashore untii I die.'

'Twas little use to argue things with Dan When he had settled aught within his mind;

So all I said was vain. What could I do But put a sunny face upon it all.

And bid him hasten on the day, that I

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Might see his wedding, and be off again.

Yet soon I guess'd, before the wedding day, That Effie did not care a cheep for Dan, But scnnner'd at his brave rough ways and tales Of danger on the deep. His was a voice Meant for the winds, with little power to whisper The soft sleek things that make the women blush, And tingle, and look sweet. Moreover, Dan Was forty, and the lassie but a child.

I saw it all, but dared not speak my thought! For Dan had money, Effie's folks were poor, And Dan was blind, and Effie gave consent, And talk was no avail. The wedding guests Went up to Effie's home one pleasant day. The minister dropp'd in, the kirk-bells rang, And all was over. 'Twas a summer morn, The blue above was fleck'd with feathery down. The sea was smooth, and peaceful, and the kirk Stood mossy here upon the little hill.

And seem'd to smile a blessing over alL

And Effie ? Ah! keep me from women , Jack ! Give them a bit o' sunshine—and they smile ,

Give them a bit o' darkness—and they weep; But smiles and tears with them are easy things, And cheat ye like the winds. On such a day, With everybody happy roundabout,

Effie look'd happy too; and if her face Flush'd and was fearful, that was only joy; For when a woman blushes, who can tell Whether the cause be gladness, pride, or shame? And Dan (God bless him!) look'd as young as you, Trembled and redden'd lass-like, and I swear. Had he not been a sailor, would have cried. So I was cheer'd, next day, when off I went To take his post as captain of the brig.

And I forgot my fears, and thought them wrong, And went across the seas with easy heart, Thinking I left a happy man behind.

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But often, out at sea, I thought of Dan, Wonder'd if he was happy. When the nights Were quiet, still, and peaceful, I would lie And listen to the washing of the waves, And think: 'I wonder if this very light Is dropping far away on poor old Dan?

And if his face looks happy in it, while He sleeps by Effie's side?' On windy nights I used to think of Dan with trouble and fear; And often, when the waves were mountains high, And we were lying-to before the wind, The screaming surges seem'd to take the shape Of this old clachan, and I seem'd to hear Dan calling me; and I would drink the salt, And pace the deck with all my blood on fire. Thinking—'If Dan were driving on out here Dashing and weather-beaten, never still, He would be happier!'

Ay! though the Storm Roll'd on between us, voices came from Dan To tell me he was lonely on the land.

Often, when I was sailing in the ship.

He crept about these caves and watch'd the Moon Silv'ring the windless places of the sea. And thought of me! or on the beach he lay. And wearied to the breaking of the waves! Or out from land he row'd his boat, and gazed Wistfully eastward! or on windy nights He speel'd yon cliffs above the shore, and set His teeth together in the rain and wind, Straining eyes seaward, seeking lights at sea. And pacing up and down upon the brink As if he trode the decks! Why, things like those Saved him from sinking, salted all his blood. And soothed his heartache. Wind and wave are far More merciful than a young woman's heart!

Why, had she been a bickering hizzie, fill'd With fire and temper, stubborn as a whin,

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And cushlingmushling o'er a cheerless fire,

Dan might have brought her round: that was the work

He understood full well; and, right or wrong.

He would have been the Skipper to the end.

But though a man who has been train'd at sea.

Holding a hard strong grip on desperate men.

Can sink his voice and play a gentle part

In sunny seasons, he has little power

To fight with women's weapons. Dan, be sure

Loved EflBe with a love the deeper far

And tenderer because he had been bred

On the rough brine; but when, from day to day ,

He met a weary and a waning face,

That tried to smile, indeed, but could not smile,

And saw the tears where never tears should be,

Yet never met an angry look or word,

What could he do? He loved the lass too well

To scold, tried soothing words, but they were spent

Upon a heart where the cold crancreuch grew;

And, when the sorrow grew too sharp to bear,

Stole sicken'd from the dwelling. Plain he saw

The lass was dreary, though she kept so still,

And loved him not, though nothing harsh was said gt;

But fretted, and grew thin, and haunted him

With a pale face of gentleness and grief.

O Jack, Jack, Jack! of all the things accurst.

Worse than a tempest and the rocks ahead.

Is misty weather, not a breath of wind.

And the low moaning of some unseen shore!

Homeless and sad and troubled by her face,

If Dan had let his heart and brain keep still.

Let the sick mildew settle on his soul,

He would have shrunk into a wretched thing

The rains might beat on, and the winds might lash,

And ne'er have had heart to stand erect.

And set his teeth, and face them, and subdue.

What could he do, but try to ease his heart

By haunting yonder beach, and glorying

In stormy seasons, thinking of the life

He used to lead, with ocean-sound for ever

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Making a second life within his blood,

Thinking of me, and feeling that his soul Was soothed a bit by his old friend the Sea?

And Effie, as the dawn look'd down each day , Turn'd from the happy shining of the sua,

In wanrest and in tears; and poor old Dan Dree'd bitterly the dreary life on land.

No stanchgrass ever heal'd a wound so deep!

quot;Twas comfort dwelling in so wild a place ,

So near to open water, but for that,

I do not think he could have borne to dwell Pining ashore. His trouble grew and grew: No corsy-belly warm'd at Effie's fire,

No doctor's watch tick'd by the jizzen-bed,

No sound of tiny footfalls fill'd the house With happy cheer, the dull and lifeless mood Grew on the wife; her sense of shame seem'd gone; She paid no heed to dress, or to the house, But faded, like a pale-faced listless flower,

Grown in a weedy garden. Then, indeed.

To see all household needs neglected so, The cvowsfeet gathering round Effie's eyes. The ingleside so cheerless and so cold,

Dan clench'd his fists, and storm'd with thunder-voice But Effie only trembled and was still,

Or threw her apron o'er her face and wept, And Dan, who never in his life could bear To see a woman weep, pleaded and begg'd,— Without avail. Then many and many a night He roam'd the silent cliffs till peep of day.

Or join'd the fishers, out upon the sea;

And many and many a night he thought he heard My voice a-calling him. One night of storm,

When the sky murmur'd, and the foam-fleck'd sea Flash'd in the fireflaught round the shadowy cliffs. He fixed to run away;—but could not go.

Until he gazed on Effie's face once more;

And when he stole into her room unheard,

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He saw her sleeping with a happy smile.

So still, so sweet, so bonnie in her dream, So like the shining lass she used to be.

That his heart sank, he swaver'd forth again , And lay upon the waterside and wept.

And tho¹ the wind was whistling in his eyes, Tho' the still fireflaught flash'd upon the foam, He felt too weak, too timid, and too sad, To quit her in the little cottage here.

And dree again the dangers of the deep.

The house is yonder—ay, the slated house, With little patch of garden. Mark the pool Of water at the door. Beyond you see The line of boats, drawn high and dry, and yonder The dull, green water, with the purple stain Out eastward, and the sunlight slanting through Upon a sail. Mark how the clachan lies Down in the gully, with the barren hills,

Where never ran-tree waves its silver hair, On either side. Look backward, now! The glen , Hollow'd between the hills, goes inland, far As eye can see,—with yellow pools of rain, And cattle looking shadowy in the mists Upon the slopes. How still and dull looks all! 'Tis plain you gather, with a sailor's eye, The danger. When the rains have lasted long, The yellow Waters (rightly christen'd here The Scaith o' Bartle) gather up the glen,

Suck in the strength of flying,mist and cloud. And, bursting from the hollows where they meet, Bush seaward, with a roaring like the sea, O'erwhelming all. Thrice has the mischief come In one-and-twenty years.

When I came home, A month ago, and walk'd across the hills From Cardy town, I paused on yonder cliffs, And saw the clachan lying at my feet,— The setting sun shining upon the house

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Where Dan was dwelling. Nought was alter'd there!

The very smacks and fiah-boats just the same

As when I quitted. While I stood and gazed,

I saw a stooping figure with a staff,

Standing hard by me on the cliffs, and gazing

Silently seaward. As I look'd, he turn'd.

And though the face was haggard, worn, and old

And every hair upon the head was gray.

And the fresh life about the limbs was lost,

I knew old Dan, and, shouting blithely, ran

To hug him to my heart; and he turn'd white,

Shaking like straw in wind, to find 'twas me.

Then, when the shock was over, and we talk'd.

He brighten'd,—as an icicle turns bright

When shone on. But my heart was shock'd and sore!

He was the ghost of what he once had been;

His voice was broken, and his welcome seem'd

Like one's who, sinking on his pillow, smiles

To see a face he loves before he dies;

And when his air grew cheerier, and at last

His love for me came lighter on his look.

His cheeriness seem'd sadder far than all.

Swavering down the path, he took my arm,

Leant heavily on his staff, as if he dream'd,

Talk'd of old times, and friends alive and dead.

Until we halted at his cottage door;

And, while he lifted up the latch, he cast

His eyes to windward, read the weather signs,

After old habit, ere he enter'd in.

Effie was there,—changed too; she welcomed me, Moved but and ben the house with a light step. And smiled a bit:—all women have a smile, A happiness, a kind of second self.

Kept for fresh faces. Yet I saw full soon The bield was homeless; little love was there; Ah, that was common talk aroundabout!

The first flush faded soon from Effie's face,

Leaving it dull and wan; she moved about Like a sick lassie risen from a dream;

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And oft, when we were seated in the lowe,

• She started, and her colour went and came;

And though her features wore a kind of fear,

There was a light of youth there; she would keek At Dan, whose eyes were fix'd upon the fire,

Hang o'er her knitting, breathing deep, and then Hearken and hearken, till the soft bright blush Died by degrees, her face became composed To pallor, and the light had gone away.

Leaving her sick and soopit once again.

At last, when we were smoking in the bield One dull day in November, Dan arose And took his stick, and, beckoning me, went out:

I follow'd; and he never spake a word.

But gript me by the arm, and walk'd along.

Until we left the clachan far behind,

And took a pathway winding up the hills.

For many weeks, at intervals, the rain Had fallen; and the hills were dreeping damp,

And down their sides ran many streams new-born.

Making an eerie murmur. Far away Ben Callachan was glimmering through a mist,

And all round Bartle rose a vaporous steam Silent and white, with cattle here and there Dismally looming. Still and dull was all —

So still, so chill; only the faint sharp stir That is a sound, but seems a click within The ear itself;—save when from far away A cow would low, and echoes faint and far Died inland, or when, blowing on the wind,

A cry came from the sea, whose waves we saw Beyond us, breaking in a shadowy cloud,

With gleams of glittering foam. But Dan walk'd on.

Scarce heeding ought; and yet his sailor's eye Took in the signs, and glinted up and down With the old cunning; but his heart was full,

His voice was broken like a weeping wean's,

And as we went along he told me all.

All that you guess! but somewhat more—a thought

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Of later growth, a nettle in his heart—

That Effie was not true, as wives should be; And that her fairest thoughts were fallen things That clung around a fresh young lover's knees. I stared at Dan, and hearken'd in amaze! His grip was tight upon my arm, his face White as the snow on Callachan, his voice Shrill as a sea-gull's shriek; and all at once He waved his arms, turn'd his wild face away. And cried aloud with a full heart—' O God! Why did I ever cease to sail the sea?'

I tried to argue with him—he was dumb! And yet I saw, had I been daft enough To echo him, he would have hated me.

He only half believed the things he said, And would have turned in wrath on any man Who could believe him true, and say the same. He loved the braxie still, as few can love,

Save the good Shepherd, who has love for all! Could not have tholed to hear another's thoughts Condemn her! blamed himself for all his grief! And gladly would have died beneath her feet. To win one word, one kiss, one shining look. To show his love had not been quite in vain!

But on we fared, so fill'd, with our own thoughts, We scarcely saw how far away we wauder'd, How mirk all grew, how close the gathering clouds Drew to the hill-tops, while the cattle raised Their heads into the dismal air and cried.

Then, suddenly, there came a lightning gleam That for a moment lighted up the hills, The far-off cliffs, and the far flash of foam , And faded,—to a sound as if the earth And heavens were torn asunder. Soon the storm Deepen'd—the thunder and the lightning came Ofter than dark or silence; and I felt Far less myself on those dull endless heights, Than seeing, hearing, from my ship at sea. But Dan said little; only, as the drops

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Of rain began to fall, he led the way Into a mountain shieling, roofquot;d with turfa,

Where we in shelter crouch'd, and still talk'd on Of his dull ingleside, his darken'd days,

The terror and the pain he had to dree.

And 'All I care for now is ended, Bob!

I want to die, but not to leave the lass Untended and unhappy. After all,

I cannot blame her for her crancreuch face,—

She is so young—mid-eild is past with rbe —

Be sure that she would love me if she could!' And then he glower'd out on the dark, and groan'd, 'Would I were in my grave!—would I were doom'd Among the waves!—would I were far out yonder. Praying and sinking in a boat at sea!¹

And I was silent; but the elements Made answer. With a clash like iron fell The headlong torrent of the soot-black clouds, Drowning the thunders with its dreesome cry, Birming above, around, and smiting earth With strength of stone. Never for many a year Had such a fall been known: it seem'd the Lord Unlocking all His waters to destroy The bad world o'er again. No rainbow there To promise sunshine and a speedy end!

For 'twas the Black Rain, which had once or twice Gone southward, making frighted Elders groan. And which old wives in Bartle often call The 'Deil's rain,' thinking Satan flies himself. Dropping the dreadful blackness from above.

Silent we waited, watching, and the air Was full of a great roar—the sods beneath Seem'd shaking—and the rain-wash forced a way Through the thick turf above our heads, and fell Upon us, splashing, as with watery ink.

Our hands and faces. But I saw Dan's eye Had kindled. He was younger. For the sounds Quicken'd his sense of life, brought up his strength, And minded him of former fearsome days

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Upon the Ocean; and his other self—

The sickly self that lived the life on land—

Forsook him. Then there -was a lull, a pause— Not broken by the further fall of rain ,

Nor by the thunder-claps, but by a sign More terrible than all—a roar, a groan,

A motion as of waters, and a sound Like the dread surging of an angry sea.

And Dan threw up his arms, screaming aloud, The Scaith! the Scaith!'—and groan'd, and rush'd away,— I following close behind him in the mirk.

And on he tore, until he gain'd a craig,

Above the glen , yonder between the hills;

And cattle huddled round him, lowing loud,

And the Scaith thicken'd, and the murmur grew.

While we gazed down. The mists hung round the heights The rain still fell, but faintly,—and below,

Eoaring on seaward, snatching in its course Boulders and trees and cattle, rush'd the Scaith, A blacken'd yellow wash of waters, foaming Where'er it touch'd the feet of stone or steep, And dizzily whirling round the great tree-roots To twist them from their beds. White, scared, and stunn'd Dan groan'd, and sank upon his knees, and sobbed.

Done was the thunder; but the waters made Another thunder, and the fireflaught came Fainter and fainter. Then we heard from far A sound more awful—shrieks of living men,

Children and women; while the thinning clouds Parted to westward, brightening at the rims,

And rays of misty sunset slanted down On Bartle , and the Scaith had seized its prey.

' Effie!' cried Dan ; and sped along the hills , And would have rush'd right downward to his death Had I not gript him. But we found a way O'er the hillside, and gain'd the northern height Above the clachan. Jack, until I die,

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That hour -will haunt me! For the village lay Naip-deep beneath the moaning rain-dyed flood,

And bields sank shatter'd, and the sunset cold Gleam'd upon Bartle and the sea beyond;

And on the slopes on either side there gather'd Women and men: some screeching as they saw The Scaith drink up their houses and their goods,

Some crying for the friends they could not see,

Some sitting still, and looking on their bairns.

As if they had gone wild. Then Dan glared round.

Seeking for Effie,—but he saw her not;

And the damp sunset gleaming on his face,

Grimed with the rain-drops, show'd it ghastly pale,

But he was cool as he had often been On gruesome nights at sea. 'She is not here!'

He whispered; 'yet she cannot but be saved.

Perchance she gathers with the folk that stand Waving their arms yonder across the flood:

Oh! would my eyes were young that I might see.'

That way I gazed; but all that I could see Were mists beyond the clachan; down below.

The wildly washing waters; here and there Women and children screaming on the roofs,

While punts and skiffs were gliding here and there.

Piloting slowly through the rocka and walls.

To succour those unsaved; at intervals A leafless tree-top peering through the water.

While frighted birds lit on its twigs, or wheel'd Around it crying. Then, 'A boat! a boat!'

Dan cried; but he was crying to the air:

The folk around him heard and made a stir,—

But some scarce raised their wild and watery eyes. And some stopp'd moaning, look'd at him who cried, And then again sat rocking to and fro,

Gazing straight downward, and with eerie groans Bewailing their own sorrow.

Then the place Blacken'd in gloaming—mists ros^ from the flood—

The sky turn'd black, with neither stars nor moon.

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And down below, flashing from place to place, The lights, like corpse-lights warning folk of death Flitted and faded, showing where the boats Still moved about upon their weary work And those who grieved were stiller all around; The solemn moaning of the Scaith was hush'd,

Your ears could hear the sobbing of the sea; And now and then a hollow splash Spake plain of walls that yielded and slipt down Intö the waters. Then a light came near,

And to the water's edge a fishing-boat Brought a dead fisher, and a little child quot;Who cried for 'mither;' and as he who row'd Handed the bairn to hungry outstretch'd arms , And landed with the corpse, old Dan leapt in, Snatching the lanthorn from the fisher's hand,

Push'd off ere I could follow , and had flown Into the darkness ....

Jack,—I never again Saw poor old Dan, alive! Yet it was well His woes were ended; for that very day.

Ere the Scaith came, Effie had crept from home,— Ay, with a man; and ere I knew the truth Why, she was out upon the ocean waves, And fleeing with the loon to Canada.

Ill winds pursue her! God will find her out! He sent His water down to free old Dan,

And He is after her across the Deep!

Next dawning, when the Scaith was part subdued, And sinking slowly through the seams of earth, Pouring in bright brown burns to join the sea, Fouling with mud the line of breaking foam ,

'Twas a most piteous sight to see the folk.

With spade and mattock, digging at the graves Of their own dwellings; taking what was saved With bitter thankless faces. Fallen walls.

And trees uprooted from the waste hillsides, And boulders swept from far along the glen. And household lumber gather'd everywhere,

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Mingled in ruin; and the frailer bields Were swept away for ever. As for me,

I had my work in hand. I took a spade And waded through the thick and muddy pools,

(Twas still waist-deep,) right onward to the place Where Dan had dwelt. For something drew me there, Foremost of all. The hield was standing still,

Though doors and windows had been beaten in;

And as I splash'd along the passage, bits Of household lumber tripped me; but I went Right on to Effie's room, and there the flood Was lying black and cold;—and there lay Dan.

Washing upon the water, with his face Drawn downward, his hand clench'd, his long gray hair Rippling around him—stiff, and cold, and dead. And when I turn'd his face up to the light,

I did not scunner much—it look'd so strong. So seamam-like, and fine. I saw it all!

How he had drifted thither in the dark.

And found the water low around the bield.

But slowly rising; how he fought his way,

Search'd but and ben, and last, in Effie's room₎

Stood ghastly in the lanthorn light, and saw The place was empty, how, while there he stood, Staring in horror, with an eldritch cry The wild Scaith struck the crashing window panes, Dash'd down the lanthorn, gript him in the dark, Roar'd in his ears, and while it struck him down, Out of his nostrils suck'd the breath of life.

Jack, Jack, we know there comes to men who drown A sudden flashing picture of the past,—

And ah! how pitiful, how pitiful.

In that last minute did the picture come:

A vision of the sounding Sea afar, •

A ghaistly ship upon it,—Effie's face,

Coming and going like to floating foam,—

The picture of the kirk upon the hill,

And sunshine smiling on the wedding guests,— The shadowy cliffs where he had paced in pain,

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The waves, the sun, the moon, the thought of me, All thicken'd on him as he scream'd her name, And struggled with the cruel Scaith, and died!

Ay! God Almighty's water, e'en ashore,

More merciful than women, found him out,

And here he lies, but should have lain elsewhere. Had Scots law, and the blethering women's tongues, Not hinder'd me,—I would have ta'en a boat, And sewn his body in a sheet, with stones Fasten'd beneath his soles to sink him down,

And row'd out yonder, westward, where the sun Dips red beneath the straight blue water line.

Then said a prayer, and softly sent him down Where he could sleep in peace, and hear for ever The washing of the waters through the depths:

With flag-flowers o'er his head, great weeds all round j And white salt foam-bells hanging in his ears. His would have been a sailor's sleep indeed!

But as it is, he slumbers here on land.

In shade of Bartle Kirk, 'mong country loons And fishermen that shrink at open Sea.

A SCOTTISH ECLOGUE.

'The Lord on /dm forgot to put Sis mark'

Sandie.

O Lord above, swift is Thy wrath and deep! And yet by grace thou sanctionest Thy sheep; And blest are they who till the day o' doom Like haddocks bear the marking of Thy thoomb; And curst in spite of works and prayers, are they On whom Thy mark has ne'er been printed sae. For while the non-elected lie beneath,

And fast in flaming fire, and gnash their teeth, Above their heads, where streams of honey spring.

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Thine Elders stand in shining serks, and sing, Blessing Thy Name for present gifts and past. ...

0 wife, John Galloway is gone, at last!

Jeanie.

Dead? Weel, we all are bound to God's abode. And John has started first upon the road. A Christian man and kind was John, indeed, And free of siller unto folk in need:

Ay, many a hearth will want now John is cold! But God will give him back his gifts tenfold.

Sandie.

O Jeanie Gourlay! keep thy clapper still;

It talks o' things you understand but ill:

1 doubt, I sorely doubt, John Galloway Is 'neath the oxter o' the De'il this day:

True, in the way of sinful flesh, his mind Was charitable, and his heart was kind;

But Light he lacked as long as he drew breath, And lost the Eldership before his death;

And he had many a ghostly whispering To tell he was a miserable thing.

Doomed by the Wisdom of the Just to be Condemn'd with those who graceless live and dee. Ay, grace, I fear, John Galloway was denied, Though loud and oft for grace he groaned and cried. 'Sandie', he used to say, I fear, I fear I have no right among the holy here;

I fear, I fear that I am in the dark—

The Lord on me forgot to put His mark!

I canna steel my heart to folk who sin,

I canna put my thoughts to discipline;

Oft when I pray, I hear Him whisper plain,

'Jock Galloway, pray awa', but 'tis in vain;'— Nae sweet assurance arms me ' gainst the De'il, Nae happy faith, like that my fellows feel;

I long for God , I beg Him on my knee,

But fear He hath to wrath prevision'd me!'

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Jeanie.

Poor man! his strife was sore; but Sandie, mind, Nae man can tell what folks are predestined; Ev'n Sandie Gourlay may be one the De'il Hath liberty to catch within his creel!

Sandie.

Oh, blasphemy! Thou fool, forbear and cease! The sign o' grace is perfect faith and peace,

Such as the Lord , in spite o¹ many a cross, Vouchsafes to men like me and neighbour Boss. But Galloway ever was a braxie sheep,

A whining thing who dug his doubts too deep. Why, mind ye, when old Robin Caird himsel'— A heretic, a rogue, a man o' Bel,

Averring written Scripture was a lee.

And doubting God , stretch'd out his limbs to dee, John by the sinner knelt and offered prayers :

¹ Lord God he said, ¹ pity his old white hairs ! Be kind unto him ! Take him unto Thee!' And bought the coffin, paid the burial fee.

' Sandie,' he said, when Caird was in his grave , 'I doubt I am less holy than the lave:

My blood is water, I am weak o' brain,—

0 Lord , it broke my heart to see his pain!

1 thought—I dared to think—if 1 were God,

Poor Caird should never gang so dark a road;

I thought—ay,, dared to think, the Lord forgi'e!— The Lord was crueller than I could be;

Forgetting God is just, and knoweth best'

What folk should burn in fire, what folk be blest.' Such was his nature, neither strong nor deep,— Unlike the stern strong shepherds of His sheep. We made an Elder of John Galloway!

Large seemed his heart, he ne'er was known to stray But he had little strength or wrath severe— He soften'd at the sinful pauper's tear;

He push'd his purse and pleaded like a fool For every lassie on the cuttie-stool.

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Jeanie.

Where had the parish bairns sae kind a friend?

Sandie.

Bairns? did he teach them grace, and make them mend At Sunday School what lad or lass had care For fear of flaming Hell, if John was there,— Questioning blushing brats upon his knees,

And slyly slipping in their hands—bawbees?

Once while he talked to me o' life and death,

I smelt the smell o' whisky in his breath.

,Drinking again, John Galloway?' I said;

As gray as this pipe-reek, he hung his head. '0 Sandie, Sandie!' he replied, 'I ken I Sm indeed the weakest man of men.

Strange doubts torment me daily, and, alas!

I try to d/own them in the poison'd glass.

By fits I fear! and in my soul I say.

Loud, is Thy mark on poor John Galloway?

And sorely troubled, stealing slyly out,

I try in drink to drown the imp o' Doubt.'

Woman, is this the man ye would defend? Nay, wheesht awhile, and hearken to his end.

When he fell sick, in Martinmas, his fears Grew deeper far; I found him oft in tears;

Though from the Prophets of God's wrath I read, _k He hearken'd, but was little comforted,

And even 'Revelations' had no power To soothe the pangs of his departing hour.

A week before he left the vale of woe,

He at his window sat, and watched the Snow Falling and falling down without a sound.

Poured slowly from God's hand upon the ground: 'See Sandie, how it snaws!' I heard him say; ' How many folk are cold, cold, cold this day! How many want the fire that's warming me! How many starve!—and yet—why should it be?' And when I took the Book, explained, and read. He only gave a groan and shook his head.

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' Clearer and clearer I perceive my sin,

How I to grace may never enter in;

That Book ia for the strong, but I am weak,' And trembled, and a tear was on his cheek.

Jeanie.

Poor man! poor man! small peace on earth he found. Sandie.

The day he died, he called the Elders round.

Shook hands, and said, 'Friends, though 1 gang from here,

Down under earth, all will at last be clear.

Too long have I been dwelling in the dark.

The Lobd on me forgot to put His mark,

God help me!' And, till he was cold as clay.

His foolish lips had little more to say;

Yet after we had laid him down in dust,

Weak to the last we found him, and unjust;

For when his will was read, unto our shame,

The Kirk was scarcely mention'd in the same!

But he had left what little wealth he had

To Caird's sick Widow, and her lass and lad!

LIZ.

( L O N D O N.)

The crimson light of sunset falls

Through the gray shadow of the murmuring rain. And creeping o'er the housetops crawls

Through the black smoke upon the broken pane. Steals to the straw on which she lies.

And tints her thin black hair and hollow cheeks, Her sun-tann'd neck, her glistening eyes.—

While faintly, sadly, fitfully she speaks.

But when it is no longer light.

The pale girl smiles, with only One to mark. And dies upon the breast of Night,

Like trodden snowdrift melting in the dark.

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Hey, rain, rain, rain!

It patters down the glass, and on the sill. And splashes in the pools along the lane—

Then gives a kind of shiver, and is still: One likes to hear it, though, when one is ill. Rain, rain!

Hey, how it pours and pours!

Rain, rain, rain!

A dismal day for poor girls out-o'-doors!

ii.

Ah, don't! That sort of comfort makes me cry, And, Parson, since I'm bad, I want to die. The roaring of the street,

The tramp of feet.

The sobbing of the rain.

Bring nought but pain;

And whether it be light,

Or dark dead night.

Wherever I may be, I hear them plain!

I'm lost and weak, and can no longer bear To wander here and there—

As useless as a stone—tired out—and sick! So that they put me down to slumber quick, It does not matter where.

No one will miss me; all will hurry by,

And never cast a thought on one so low;

Fine gentlemen miss ladies when they go. But folk care nought for such a thing as I.

in.

'Tïs bad, I know, to talk like that—too bad! Joe, though he's often hard, is strong and true— And there's the baby, too!—

But I'm so tired and sad.

I'm glad it was a boy, sir, very glad.

A man can fight along, can say his say,

Is not look'd down upon, holds up his head, And, at a push, can always earn his bread:

39fgt;

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Men have the best of it, in many a way.

But ah! 'tis hard indeed for girls to keep Decent and honest, tramping in the town,—

Their best but bad—made light of—beaten down— Wearying ever, wearying for sleep.

If they grow hard, go wrong, from bad to badder. Why Parson, dear, they're happier being blind: They get no thanks for being good and kind— The better that they are, they feel the sadder!

IV.

Nineteen! nineteen!

Only nineteen, and yet so old, so old;—

I feel like fifty, Parson—I have been

So wicked, I suppose, and life's so cold!

Ah, cruel are the wind, and rain, and snow. And I've been out for years among them all: I scarce remember being weak and small Like baby there—it was so long ago.

It does not seem that I was horn. I woke.

One day, long, long ago, in a dark room,

And saw the housetops round me in the smoke,

And, leaning out, look'd down into the gloom, Saw deep black pits, blank walls, and broken panes _T

And eyes, behind the panes, that flash'd at me, And heard an awful roaring, from the lanes,

Of folk I could not see;

Then, while I look'd and listen'd in a dream,

I tum'd my eyes upon the housetops gray. And saw, between the smoky roofs, a gleam

Of silver water, winding far away.

That was the River. Cool and smooth and deep. It glided to the sound o' folk below.

Dazzling my eyes, till they began to grow Dusty and dim with sleep.

Oh, sleepily I stood, and gazed, and hearken'd! And saw a strange, bright light, that slowly fled, Shine through the smoky mist, and stain it red. And suddenly the water flash'd,—then darken'd; And for a little time, though I gazed on,

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The river and the sleepy light were gone;

But suddenly, over the roofs there lighten'd

A pale, strange brightness out of heaven shed , And, with a 'sweep that made me sick and frighten'd,

The yellow Moon roll'd up above my head;—

And down below me roar'd the noise o' trade,

And ah! I felt alive, and was afraid ,

And cold, and hungry, crying out for bread.

All that is like a dream. It don't seem true!

Father was gone, and mother left, you see₎

To work for little brother Ned and me;

And up among the gloomy roofs we grew,—

Lock'd in full oft, lest we should wander out.

With nothing but a crust o' bread to eat,

While mother char'd for poor folk round about.

Or sold cheap odds and ends from street to street. Yet, Parson, there were pleasures fresh and fair.

To make the time pass happily up there:

A steamboat going past upon the tide,

A pigeon lighting on the roof close by,

The sparrows teaching little ones to fly.

The small white moving clouds, that we espied. And thought were living, in the bit of sky—

With sights like these right glad were Ned and I; And then, we loved to hear the soft rain calling,

Pattering, pattering upon the tiles,

And it was fine to see the still snow falling.

Making the housetops white for miles on miles. And catch it in our little hands in play,

And laugh to feel it melt and slip away!

But I was six, and Ned was only three,

And thinner, weaker, wearier than me;

And one cold day, in winter time, when mother Had gone away into the snow, and we

Sat close for warmth and cuddled one another.

He put his little head upon my knee.

And went to sleep, and would not stir a limb,

But look'd quite strange and old;

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And when I shook him, kiss'd him, spoke to him,

He smiled, and grew so cold.

Then I was frighten'd, and cried out, and none

Could hear me; but I sat and nursed his head, Watching the whiten'd window, while the Sun

Peep'd in upon his face, and made it red.

And I began to sob;—till mother came,

Knelt down, and scream'd, and named the good God's name

And told me he was dead.

And when she put his night-gown on, and, weeping, Placed him among the rags upon his bed, I thought that brother Ned was only sleeping, And took his little hand, and felt no fear. But when the place grew gray and cold and drear And the round Moon over the roofs came creeping, And put a silver shade

All round the chilly bed where he was laid, I cried, and was afraid.

VI.

Ah, yes, it's like a dream; for time pass'd by.

And I went out into the smoky air;

Fruit-selling, Parson—trudging, wet or dry—

Winter and summer—weary, cold, and bare. And when old mother laid her down to die. And parish buried her, I did not cry,

And hardly seem'd to care;

I was too hungry, and too dull; beside.

The roar o' streets had made me dry as dust— It took me all my time, howe'er I tried,

To keep my limbs alive and earn a crust.

I had no time for weeping.

And when I was not out amid the roar. Or standing frozen at the playhouse door,

Why, I was lying on my straw, and sleeping. Ah, pence were hard to gain!

Some girls were pretty, too, but I was plain:

Fine ladies never stopp'd and look'd and smiled _i

And gave me money for my face's sake.

That made me hard and angry when a child;

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But now it thrills my heart, and makes it ache! The pretty ones, poor things, what could they do,

Fighting and starving in the wicked town,

But go from bad to badder—down, down, down,—

Being so poor, and yet so pretty, too?

Never could bear the like of that—ah, no!

Better have starved outright than gone so low!

VII.

But I've no call to boast. I might have been

As wicked. Parson dear, in my distress,

But for your friend—you know the one I mean?

The tall, pale lady, in the morning dress.

Though we were cold at first, that wore away—

She was so mild and young.

And had so soft a tongue,

And eyes to sweeten what she loved to say.

She never seem'd to scorn me—no, not she;

And (what was best) she seem'd as sad as me!

Not one of those that make a girl feel base.

And call her names, and talk of her disgrace. And frighten one with thoughts of flaming hell.

And fierce Lord God, with black and angry brow; But soft and mild, and sensible as well;

And oh, I loved her, and I love her now!

She did me good for many and many a day—

More good than pence could ever do, 1 swear.

For she was poor, with little pence to spare—

Learn'd me to read, and quit low words, and pray. And, Parson, though I never understood How such a life as mine was meant for good,

And could not guess what one so poor and low

Would do in that sweet place of which she spoke, And could not feel that God would let me go

Into so bright a land with gentlefolk,

I liked to hear her talk of such a place,

And thought of all the angels she was best,

Because her soft voice soothed me, and her face Made my words gentle, put my heart at rest.

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vin.

Ah, sir! 'twas very lonesome. Night and daj,

Save ■when the lady came, I was alone,—

Moved on and hunted through the streets of stone.. And even in dreams afraid to rest or stay.

Then, other girls had lads to work and strive for; I envied them, and did not know 'twas wrong, And often, very often, used to loug For some one I could like and keep alive for.

Marry? Not they!

They can't afford to be so good, you know; But many of them, though they step astray.

Indeed don't mean to sin so much, or go Against what's decent. Only—'tis their way. And many might do worse than that, may be,

If they had ne'er a one to fill a thought— It sounds half wicked, but poor girls like me Mast sin a little, to be good in aught.

IX.

So I was glad when I began to see Joe Purvis fancied me;

And when, one night, he took me to the play,

Over on Surrey side, and offer'd fair That we should take a little room and share Our earnings , why, I could not answer ' Nay!' And that's a year ago; and though I'm bad,

I've been as true to Joe as girl could be.

I don't complain a bit of Joe, dear lad,

Joe never, never meant but well to me.

And we have had as fair a time, I think,

As one could hope, since we are both so low. Joe likes me—never gave me push or blow,

When sober: only, he was wild in drink.

But then we don't mind beating when a man Is angry, if he likes us and keeps straight.

Words for his bread , and does the best he can;— 'Tis being left and slighted that we hate.

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And so the baby's come, and I shall die!

And though 'tis hard to leave poor baby here,

Where folk will think him bad, and all's so drear, The great Lord God knows better far than I. Ah, don't!—'tis kindly, but it pains me so!

You say I'm wicked, and I want to go!

' God's kingdom,' Parson dear ? Ah nay, ah nay!

That must be like the country—which I fear:

I saw the country once, one summer day.

And I would rather die in London here!

xi.

For I was sick of hunger, cold, and strife,

And took a sudden fancy in my head To try the country, and to earn my dread Out among fields, where I had heard one's life quot;Was easier and brighter. So, that day,

I took my basket up and stole away.

Just after sunrise. As I went along.

Trembling and loathe to leave the busy place,

I felt that I was doing something wrong.

And fear'd to look policemen in the face.

And all was dim: the streets were gray and wet After a rainy night: and all was still;

I held my shawl around me with a chill,

And dropt my eyes from every face I met;

Until the streets began to fade, the road

Grew fresh and clean and wide,

Fine houses where the gentlefolk abode.

And gardens full of flowers, on every side.

That made me walk the quicker—on, on, on—

As if I were asleep with half-shut eyes,

And all at once I saw, to my surprise.

The houses of the gentlefolk were gone;

And I was standing still;

Shading my face, upon a high green hill, .

And the bright sun was blazing.

And all the blue above me seem'd to melt

40S'

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To burning, flashing gold, while I was gazing On the great smoky cloud where I had dwelt.

XII.

I'll ne'er forget that day. All was so bright

And strange. Upon the grass around my feet The rain had hung a million drops of light;

The air, too, was so clear and warm and sweet, It seem'd a sin to breathe it. All around

Were hills and fields and trees that trembled through A burning, blazing fire of gold and blue;

And there was not a sound.

Save a bird singing, singing, in the skies,

And the soft wind, that ran along the ground ,

And blew so sweetly on my lips and eyes.

Then, with ray heavy hand upon my chest,

Because the bright air pain'd me, trembling, sighing, I stole into a dewy field to rest;

And oh, the green, green grass where I was lying Was fresh and living—and the bird sang loud,

Out of a golden cloud—

And I was looking up at him , and crying!

xm.

How swift the hours slipt on!—and by and by The sun grew red, big shadows fill'd the sky,

The air grew damp with dew,

And the dark night was coming down, I knew. Well, I was more afraid than ever, then,

And felt that I should die in such a place,— So back to London town I tnrn'd my face, And crept into the cheerful streets again;

And when I breathed the smoke and heard the roar,. Why, I was better, for in London here My heart was busy, and I felt no fear.

I never saw the country any more.

And I have stay'd in London, well or ill—

I would not stay out yonder if I could,

For one feels dead, and all looks pure and good— I could not bear a life so bright and stiil.

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All that I want is sleep,

Under the flags and stones, so deep, so deep! God won't be hard on one so mean, but He, Perhaps, will let a tired girl slumber sound There in the deep cold darkness under ground; And I shall waken up in time, may be,

Better and stronger, not afraid to see

The burning Light that folds Him round and round

xiv.

See! there's the sunset creeping through the pane— How cool and moist it looks amid the rain !

I like to hear the splashing of the drops On the house-tops,

And the loud humming of the folk that go Along the streets below!

I like the smoke and roar—I love them yet—

They seem to still one's cares ....

There's Joe! I hear his foot upon the stairs!— Poor lad, he must be wet!

He will be angry, like enough, to find

Another little life to clothe and keep.

But show him baby, Parson—speak him kind—

And tell him Doctor thinks Fin going to sleep. A hard, hard life is his! He need be stroug And rough, to earn his bread and get along.

I think he will be sorry when I go,

And leave the little one and him behind.

I hope he'll see another to his mind,

To keep him straight and tidy. Poor old Joe!

THE SUMMER POOL.

There is a singing in the summer air,

The blue and brown moths flutter o'er the grass, The stubble bird is creaking in the wheat. And perch'd upon the honeysuckle-hedge Pipes the green linnet. Oh, the golden world!

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The stir of life^on every blade of grass,

The motion and the joy on every bough,

The glad feast everywhere, for things that love' The sunshine, and for things that love the shade!

Aimlessly wandering with weary feet,

Watching the wool-white clouds that wander by,

I came upon a lonely place of shade,—

A still green Pool, where with soft sound and stir

The shadows of o'erhanging branches sleep,

Save where they leave one dreamy space of blue,

O'er whose soft stillness ever and anon

The feathery chirrus blows. Here unaware

I pause and leaning on my staff I add

A shadow to the shadows; and behold!

Dim dreams steal down upon me, with a hum

Of little wings, a murmuring of boughs,—

The dusky stir and motion dwelling here.

Within this small green world. O'ershadowed

By dusky greenery, tho' all around

The sunshine throbs on fields of wheat and bean,

Downward I gaze into the dreamy blue,

And pass into a waking sleep, wherein

The green boughs rustle, feathery wreaths of cloud

Pass softly, piloted by golden airs:

The air is still,—no birds sing any more,—

And, helpless as a tiny flying thing,

I am alone in all the world with God.

The wind dies—not a leaf stirs—on the Pool

The fly scarce moves; earth seems to hold her breath

Until her heart stops, listening silently

For the far footsteps of the coming Rain!

While thus I pause, it seems that I hare gained New eyes to see; my brain grows sensitive To trivial things that, at another hour Had passed unheeded. Suddenly the air Shivers, the shadows in whose midst I standquot;

Tremble and blacken—the blue eye o' the Pool

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Is closed and clouded; with a sudden gleam, Oiling its wing, a swallow darteth. past, And weedling flowers beneath my feet thrust up Their leaves to feel the fragrant shower. Oh hark! The thirsty leaves are troubled into sighs,

And up above me, on the glistening boughs. Patters the summer Rain!

Into a nook,

Screen'd by thick foliage of oak and beech, I creep for shelter; and the summer shower Murmurs around me. Oh, the drowsy sounds! The pattering rain, the numerous sigh of leaves, The deep, warm breathing of the scented air, Sink sweet into my soul—until at last Comes the soft ceasing of the gentle fall,

And lo! the eye of blue within the Pool Opens again, while with a silvern gleam Dew-diamonds twinkle moistly on the leaves, Or, shaken downward by the summer wind.

Fall melting on the Pool in rings of light!

JOHN PAYNE (1843-).

THE BALLAD OF MAY MARGABET.

Oh, sweet ia the Spring in coppice and wold. And the bonny fresh flowers are springing! May Margaret walks in the merry greenwood, To hear the blithe birds singing.

May Margaret walks in the heart of the treen,

Under the green boughs straying;

And she hath seen the king of the elves Under the lindens playing.

* Oh, wed thou with me, May Margaret,

All in the merry green Maytime,

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	410
	And thou shalt dance all the moonlit night And sleep on flowers in the daytime!'
	'0 king of the elves, it may not be. For the sake of the folk that love me; I may not be queen of the elfland green, For the fear of the heaven above me.'
	'Oh, an' thou wilt be the elfland's queen, Thy robe shall be blue and golden; And thou shalt drink of the red red wine. In bine-bell chalices holden.'
	' 0 king of the elves, it may not be. My father at home would miss me; An' if I were queen of the elfland green, My mother would never kiss me.' .
	' Oh, an' thou wilt be the elfland's queen, Thy shoon shall be seagreen aendal; Thy thread shall be silk as white as milk _TAnd snow-white silver thy spindle.'
	He hath led her by the lilywhite hand Into the hillside palace; And he hath given her wine to drink Out of the blue-bell chalice. . •
*ow seven long years are over and gone, Since the thorn began to blossom; And she hath brought the elf-king a son, And beareth it on her bosom.
	'A boon, a boon, my husband the king, For the sake of my babe I cry thee!' 'Now ask what thou wilt. May Margaret; There's nothing I may deny thee.'
	'Oh, let me go home for a night and a day To show my mother her daughter,

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And fetch a priest to my bonny wee babe, To sprinkle the holy water !_

'Oh, let me go home for a night and a day To the little town by the river!

And we will turn to the merry greenwood, And dwell with the elves for ever.'

Oh, out of the elfland are they gone,

Mother and babe together.

And they are come in the blithe springtime To the land of the blowing heather.

' Oh, where is my mother I used to kiss, And my father that oft caressed me?

They both lie cold in the churchyard mould: And I have no whither to rest me.

'Oh, where is the dove that I usad to love. And the lover that used to love me?

The one is dead, the other is fled;

But the heaven is left above me.

' I pray thee, sir priest, to christen my babe With bell and candle and psalter;

And I will give up this bonny gold cup, To stand on the holy altar.'

' O queen of the elves, it may not be! The elf must suffer damnation,

Unless thou wilt bring thy costliest thing, As guerdon for its salvation.'

' Oh, surely my life is my costliest thing! I give it and never rue it.

An' if thou wilt save my innocent babe. The blood of my heart ensue it!'

The priest hath made the sign of the cross, The white-robed choristers sing;

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But the babe is dead ere blessing be said— May Margaret's costliest thing.

Oh, drearly and loud she shrieked, as if Her soul from her breast would sever! And she hath gone to the merry greenwood, To dwell with the elves for ever.

A MONOTONE.

A laek in the mesh of the tangled vine, A bee that drowns in the flower-cup's wine, A fly in the sunshine, such is man. AIL things must end, as all began.

ii.

A little pain, a little pleasure,

A little heaping-up of treasure,

Then no more gazing upon the sun. All things must end that have begun.

iii.

Where is the time for hope or doubt? A puff of the wind, and life is out.

A turn of the wheel, and rest is won. All things must end that have begun.

iv.

Golden morning and purple night.

Life that fails with the failing light.

Death is the only deathless one.

All things must end that have begun.

Ending waits on the brief beginning.

Is the prize worth the stress of winning? E'en in the dawning the day is done. All things must end that have begun.

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Weary waiting and weary striving,

Glad outsetting and sad arriving;

What is it worth when the goal is won ? All things must end that have hegun.

vn.

Speedily fades the morning glitter;

Love grows irksome and wine grows bitter. Two are parted from what was one. All things must end that have hegun.

vm.

Toil and pain and the evening rest,

Joy is weary and sleep is best;

Fair and softly the day is done.

All things must end that have hegun.

ARTHUR W. E. O'S H A U G H N E S S Y (1846-

THE DAUGHTER OF HEBODIAS.

My heart is heavy for each goodly man Whom crowned woman or sweet courtezan Hath slain or brought to greater shames than death. But now, O Daughter of Herodias!

I weep for him, of whom the story saith,

Thou didst procure his bitter fate:—Alas,

He seems so fair!—May thy curse never pass!

Where art thou writhing? Herod's palace-floor Has fallen through: there shalt thou dance no more

And Herod is a worm now. In thy place, —Salome, Viper!—do thy coils yet keep

That woman's flesh they bore with such a gracequot;? Have thine eyes still the love-lure hidden deep, The ornament of tears, they could not weep?

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Thou wast quite perfect in the splendid guile Of woman's beauty; thou hadst the whole smile

That can dishonour heroes, and recal Fair saints prepared for heaven back to hell:

And He, whose unlived glory thou mad'st fall All beautiful and spotless, at thy spell,

Was great and fit for thee by whom he fell.

O, is it now sufficing sweet to thee—

Through all the long uncounted years that see The undistinguished lost ones waste away—

To twine thee, biting, on those locks that bleed, As bled they through thy fingers on that day ?

Or hast thou, all unhallowed, some fierce need Thy soul on his anointed grace to feed?

Or hast thou, rather, for that serpent's task Thou didst accomplish in thy woman-mask,

Some perfect inconceivable reward Of serpent's slimy pleasure?—all the thing

Thou didst beseech thy master, who is Lord Of those accursed hosts that creep and sting.

To give thee for the spoil thou shouldest bring?

He was a goodly spoil for thee to win!

—Men's souls and lives were wholly dark with sin;

And so God's world was changed with wars and gold. No part of it was holy; save, maybe.

The desert and the ocean as of old:—

But such a spotless way of life had he.

His soul was as the desert or the sea.

I think he had not heard of the far towns;

Nor of the deeds of men, nor of kings' crowns;

Before the thought of God took hold of him,

As he was sitting dreaming in the calm.

Of one first noon, upon the desert's rim,

Beneath the tall fair shadows of the palm,

All overcome with some strange inward balm.

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But then, ao -Hronderful and lovely seemed

That thought, he straight became as though he dreamed

A vast thing false and fair, which day and night Absorbed him in some rapture—very high Above the common awayings of delight And general yearnings, that quite occupy Men's passions, and suffice them till they die:

Yea, soon as it had entered him—that thought Of God—he felt that he was being wrought

AH holy: more and more it filled his heart; And seemed, indeed, a spirit of pure flame

Set burning in his soul's most inward part.

And from the Lord's great wilderness there came A mighty voice calling on him by name.

He numered not the changes of the year,

The days , the nights, and he forgot all fear

Of death: each day he thought there should have been A shining ladder set for him to climb

Athward some opening in the heavens, e'en To God's eternity, and see, sublime—

His face whose shadow passing fills all time.

But he walked through the ancient wilderness.

O, there the prints of feet were numberless

And holy all about him! And quite plain He saw each spot an angel silvershod

Had lit upon; where Jacob too had lain The place seemed fresh,—and, bright and lately trod, A long track showed where Enoch walked with God.

And often, while the sacred darkness trailed Along the mountains smitten and unveiled

By rending lightnings,—over all the noise Of thunders and the earth that quaked and bowed

From its foundations—he could hear the voice Of great Elias prophesying loud To Him whose face was covered by a cloud.

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Already he was shown so perfectly The awful mystic grace and sanctity

Of all the earth, there was no part his feet With sandal covering might dare to tread;

Because that in it he was sure to meet The fair sword-bearing angels, or some dread Eternal prophet numbered with the dead.

So he believed that he should purify His body, till the sin of it should die,

And the unfailing spirit and great word Of One—who is too bright to be beheld.

And in his speech too fearful to be heard By mortal man—should come down and be held In him as in those holy ones of eld.

And to believe in this was rapture more Than any that the thought of living bore

To tempt him: so the pleasant days of youth Were but the days of striving and of prayer;

And all the beauty of those days, forsooth. He counted as an evil or a snare,

And would have left it in the desert there.

Ah , spite of all the scourges that had bit So fiercely his fair body, branding it

With many a painful over-written vow Of perfect sanctity—what man shall say

How often, weak with groanings, he would [bow] Before the angels of the place, and pray That all his body might consume away?

For through whole bitter days it seemed in 'vain That all the mighty desert had no stain

Of sin around him; that the burning breaths Went forth from the eternal One, and rolled For ever through' it, filling it with deaths, And plagues, and fires; that he did behold The earthquakes and the wonders manifold:

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417

It seemed in vain that all the place was bright Ineffably with that unfading light

No man who worketh evil can abide;

That he could see too with his open eyes

Fair troops of deathless ones, and those that died In martyrdoms, or went up to the skies In fiery cars— walk there with no disguise;—

It seemed in vain that he was there alone With no man's sin to tempt him but his own; —

Since in his body he did bear about A seeming endless sin he could not quell

With the most sharp coercement, nor cast out Through any might of prayer. 0, who can tell—•

Save God—how often in despair he fell?

The very stones seemed purer far than he;

And every naked rock and every tree

Looked great and calm, composed in one long thought Of holiness; each bird and creeping thing

Rejoiced in bearing some bright sign that taught The legend of an ancient miniat'ring To some fair saint of old there sojourning.

Yea, all the dumb things and the creatures there Were grand, and some way santified; most fair

The very lions stood, and had no shame Before the angels; and what time were poured

The floods of the Lord's anger forth, they came Quite nigh the lightnings of the Mount and roared Among the roaring thunders of the Lord:

Yet He—while in him day, by day, divine ,

The clear inspired thought went on to shine.

And heaven was opening every radiant door Upon his spirit—He, in that fair dress

Of weak humanity his senses bore,

Did feel scarce worthy to be there, and less Than any dweller in the wilderness.

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Wherefore his limbs were galled with many a stone; And often he had wrestled all alone

With their fair beauty, conquering the pride And various pleasure of them with some quick And hard inflicted pain that might abide,— Assailing all the sense with constant prick Until the lust or pride fell faint and sick.

Natheless there grew and stayed upon his face The wonderful unconquerable grace

Of a young man made beautiful with love; Because the thought of God was wholly spread

Like love upon it; and still fair above All crownèd heads of kings remained his head Whereon the halo of ftie Lord was shed.

Ah, how long was it, since the first red rush Of that surpassing thought made his cheek blush

With pleasure, as he sat—a tender child— And wondered at the desert, and the long

Rough prickly paths that led out to the wild Where all the men of God, holy and strong, Had dwelt and purified themselves—how long?—

Before he rose up from his knees one day.

And felt that he was purified as they;

That he had trodden out the sin at last,

And that the light was filling him \fithin?

How many of the months and years had past Uncounted?—But the place he was bom in No longer knew him: no man was his kin.

O then it was a most sweet, holy will That came upon him, making his soul thrill

AVith joy indeed, and with a perfect trust,— For he soon thought of men and of the king

All tempted in the world, with gold and lust. And women there, and every fatal thing,

And none to save their souls from perishing—

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And so lie vowed that he would go forth straight From God there in the desert, with the great

Unearthliness upon him, and adjure The nations of the whole world with his voice;

Until they should resist each pleasant lure Of gold and woman, and make such a choice As his, that they might evermore rejoice.

Thus beautiful and good was He, at length,

Who came before king Herod in his strength.

And shouted to him with a great command To purify himself, and put away

That unclean woman set at his right hand;

And after all to bow himself and pray,

Aud be in terror of the Judgment Day!

He never had seen houses like to that Fair-columned, cedar-builded one where sat

King Herod. Flawless ceder was each beam.

Wrought o'er with flaming brass: along the wall

Great brazen images of beasts did gleam.

With -wondrous flower-works and palm trees tall;

And folded purples hung about it all.

He never had beheld so many thrones,

As those of ivory and precious stones

Whereon the noble company was raised About the king;—he never had seen gems

So costly, nor so wonderful as blazed Upon their many crowns and diadems.

And trailed upon their garments' trodden hems;

But he had seen in mighty Lebanon The cedars no man's axe hath lit upon;

And he had often worshipped, falling down In dazzling temples opened straight to him.

Where One who had great lightnings for His crown Was suddenly made present, vast and dim Through crowded pinions of the Cherubim!

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Wherefore he had no fear to stand and shout To all men in the place, and there to flout

Those fair and fearful women who were seen Quite triumphing in that work of their smile

To shame the goodly king. And he cast e'en A sudden awe that undid for a while The made-up shameless visages of guile.

And when Herodias—that many times Polluted one, assured now in all crimes

Past fear or turning—when she, her fierce tongue Thrice forked with indignation, hotly tpoke

Quick wild beseeching words, wherewith she clung To Herod, praying him by some death-stroke To do her vengeance there before all folk—

Ah, spite of every urging that her hate Did put into her lips,—so fair and great

Seemed that accuser standing weaponless, Tat wholly terrible with his bright speech

As 'twere some sword of flaming holiness,

That no man dared to join her and beseech His death; but dread came somehow upon each.

For he was surely terrible to see So plainly sinless, so divinely free

To judge them; being in a perfect youth, Yet walking like an angel in a man

Reproving all men with inspired truth.

And Herod himself spoke not, but began To tremble; through his soul the warning ran.

—Then that Salome did put off the shame Of her mere virgin girlhood, and became

A woman! Then she did at once essay Her beauty's magic, and unfold the wings

Of her enchanted feet,—to have men say She slew him—born indeed for wondrous things Her dance was fit to ruin saints or kings.

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O, lier new beauty was above all praise!

She came with dancing in shy devious ways,

And while she danced she sang.

The virgin bandiet of her forehead brake,

Her hair came round her like a shining snake; To loving her men's hearts within them sprang The while she danced and sang.

Her long black hair danced ronnd her like a snake Allured to each charmed movement she did make;

Her voice came strangely sweet;

She sang, '0, Herod, wilt thou look on me—

Have I no beauty thy heart cares to see?' And what her voice did sing her dancing feet Seemed ever to repeat.

She sang, ' 0, Herod, wilt thou look on me ?

What sweet I have, I have it all for thee;'

And through the dance and song She freed and floated on the air her arms Above dim veils that hid her bosom's charms: The passion of her singing was so strong It drew all hearts along.

Her sweet arms were unfolded on the air.

They seemed like floating flowers the most fair—

White lilies the most choice;

And in the gradual bending of her hand There lurked a grace that no man could withstand Yea, none knfew whether hands, or feet, or voice. Made most his heart rejoice.

The veils fell round her like thin coiling mists Shot through by topaz suns, and amethysts,

And rubies she had on;

And out of them her jewelled body came. And seemed to all quite like a slender flame That curled and glided,.and that burnt and shone Most fair to look upon.

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Then she began, on that well-polished floor,

Whose stones seemed taking radiance more and more

From steps too bright to see,

A certain measure that was like some spell Of winding magic, wherein heaven and hell , Were joined to lull men's souls eternally In some mid ecstasy:

For it was so inexplicably wrought Of soft alternate motions, that she taught

Each sweeping supple limb,

And in such intricate and wondrous ways With bendings of her body, that the praise Lost breath upon men's lips, and all grew dim Save her so bright and slim.

And through the swift mesh'd serpents of her hair That lash'd and leapt on each place white and fair

Of bosom or of arm ,

And through the blazing of the numberless And whirling jewelled fires of her dress,

Her perfect face no passion could disarm Of its reposeful charm.

Her head oft drooped as in some languid death Beneath brim tastes of joy, and her rich breath

Heaved faintly from her breast;

Her long eyes, opened fervently and wide,

Did seem with endless rapture to abide In some fair trance through which the soul possesst Love, ecstasy, and rest.

But lo—while each man fixed his eyes on her , And was himself quite fillèd with the stir

His heart did make within- -The place was full of devils everywhere:

They came in from the desert and the air;

They came from all the palaces of sin,

And each heart they were in:

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They lurked beneatli the purples, and did crawl Or crouch in unseen corners of the hall,

Among the brass and gold;

They climbed the brazen pillars till they lined The chamber fair; and one went up behind The throne of Herod—fearful to behold— The Serpent king of old.

Yea, too, before those blinded men there went Some even to Salome; and they lent

Strange charms she did not shun.

She stretched her hand forth, and inclined her ear; She knew those men would neither see nor hear; A devil did support her head, and one Her steps' light fabric spun.

O , then her voice with singing all unveiled,

In no trained timid accents, straight assailed

King Herod's open heart:

The amorous supplication wove and wound Soft deadly sins about it; the words found Fair traitor thoughts there,—singing snakes did dart Their poison in each part.

She sang, '0 look on me, and look on Love: We three are here together, and above—

What heaven may there be?

None for thine heart without this spell of mine, Yea, this my beauty, yea these limbs that shine And make thy senses shudder; and for me, No heaven without thee!

' 0, all the passion in me ou this clay Rises into one song to sweep away

The breakers of Love's bond;

For is it not a pleasant bond indeed.

And made of all the flowers in life's mead?

And is not Love a master fair and fond?

And is not Death beyond?

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' O, who are these that will adjure thee, king, To put away this tender flower-thing,

This love that is thy bliss?

Dost thou think thou canst live indeed, and dare The joyless remnant of pale days, the bare Hard tomb, and feed through cold eternities Thy heart without one kiss?

'Dost thou think empty prayers shall glad thy lips Kept red and living with perpetual sips

Of Love's rich cup of wine?

That thy fair body shall not fall away,

And waste among the worms that bitter day Thou hast no lover round thy neck to twine Fond arms like these of mine? •

' I say they are no prophets,—very deaths, And plagues, and rottenness, do use their breaths

Who speak against delight;

Pale distant slayers of humanity Have tainted them, and sent them forth to try Weak lures to make man give up joyous right Of days for empty night.

'I tell thee, in their wilderness shall be No herbs enough for food for them and thee,

No rock to give thee drink;

I tell thee, all their heavens are a cheat,

Or but a mirage to betray thy feet,

And draw thee quicker to some grave's dread brink Where thou shalt fall and sink.

' Turn rather unto me, and hear my voice Against these desert bowlings, and rejoice:

Now surely do I crave To treble this my beauty, and embalm My words with deathless thrill, singing the psalm Of pleasure to thee, King,—so I may save Thy fair days from this grave.

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'Yea, now of all my beauty will I strive With, these mad prophesiers till I drive

Their ravings from thine ear:

Against their rudeness I will set my grace, My softness, and the magic of my face;

And spite of all their curses thou shalt hear And let my voice draw near;

'Against their loud revilings I will try The long low-speaking pleadings of my sigh,

All my heart's tender way;

Against their deserts—here, before thine eyes My love shall open thee a paradise,

Where, if thou comest, thou shalt surely stay And seek no better way:

'And rather than these haters of thy joy Should anyhow allure thee to destroy

Thy heart's prosperity,—

O, I will throw my woman's arms entwined About thy body; ere thy lips can find One word of yielding, I will kiss them dry: —And failing, let me die!

'But look on me, for it is in my soul To make the measure of thy glory whole—

With many goodly things To crown thee, yea, with pleasure and with love. Till there shall scarcely be a name above King Herod's, in the mouth of one who sings The fame of mighty kings:

'For see how great and fair a realm is this— My untried love—the never conquered bliss

All hoarded in my breast;

My beauty and my love were jewels meet To make the glory of a king complete,

And I,—O thou of kingship half-possest— Can crown thee with the rest!

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• I stand before thee—on my head the crown Of all thou lackest yet in thy renown—

Ah. King, take this of me!

And in my hand I bear a brimming cup That sparkles; to thine eye I hold it up:

A royal draught of life-long pleasure—see,

The wine is fit for thee!

'Ah, wilt thou pass me? Wilt thou let me give Thy fair life to some meaner man to live?

Nay, here—if I am sweet—

Thou shalt not. I will save thee with the sight Of all my sweetness, save thee with the might And charm of all my singing lips' deceit.

Or with my dancing feet.

'I have indeed some power. A lure lies Within my tender lips—behind my eyes —

Concealed in all my way;

And while I seem entreating, I compel,

Yea, while I do but plead, I use a spell— Ah secretly—but surely. Who are they That ever turn away?

'Now, thou hast barely seen bright glittering The gilded cup of pleasures that I swing

Before thy reeling gaze,—

The deep beginnings of sweet drunkenness Are in thy heart already, more or less,

And on thy soul deliciously there preys A thirst no joy allays.

'Dost thou not feel, each time my long hair sweeps The glowing floor, how through thy being creeps

A vague yet sweet desire?—

How writhes in every sense a tiny snake Of pleasure biting till it seems to wake A fever of sharps lusts that never tire, Unquenchable as fire?

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' Is there not wrought a madness in thy brain Each time my thin veils part and close again—

Each time their flying ring Is seen a moment's space encircling me With filmy changes—each time, rapidly Rolled down; their cloud-like gauzes billowing About my limbs they fling ?

'Ah, seek not in this moment some cold will;

Attend to no false pratings that would kill

Thy heart, and make thee fall:

But now a little lean to me, and fear My charming. Ah, thy fame to mo is dear!

Some wound of mine, when me thou couldst not call, Might slay thee after all.

' For even while I sing, the unseen grace Of Love descending hath filled all this place

With most strong prevalence;

His miracle is raging in the breasts Of all these men, and mightily he rests On me and thee. His power is too intense ,

No curse shall drive him hence.

i—0, Love, invisible, eternal God,

In whose delicious ways all men have trod,

This day Thou truly hast My heart: thy inspiration fills my tongue With great angelic madness; I have sung Set words that in my bosom thou hast cast—

Thine am I to the last !

' My feet are like two liquid flames that leap For joy at thee; I feel thy spirit sweep-

Yea, like a southern wind—

Through all the enchanted fibres of my soul;

I am a harp o'er which thy vast breaths roll,

And one day thou shalt break me: none shall find A wreck of me behind.

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'And now all palpitating, O I pray Thy utmost passion -while I cry—away

With all Love's enemies!

A man—home up between the closing wings Of two eternities of unknown things,

May catch this seraph charmer as he flies,

And hold him till he dies;

'And yet some bitter ones, whom coming night Hath wholly entered, grudge man this small right

Of joy, and seek to fill His rushing moment with the monstrous hiss Of shapeless terrors, poisoning the bliss Brief nestled in his bosom—merely till Forced out by its death chill!

' What voice is this the envious wilderness Hath sent among us foully to distress

And haunt our lives with fear?

What vulture, shrieking on the scent of death — What yelping jackal—what insidious breath Of pestilence hath ventured to draw near.

And enter even here?

'No kindred flesh of fair humanity

Yon fiend hath, seeking through lives doomed to die

Death's foretaste to infuse:

His body is but raised up from the slain Unburied thousands that long years have lain About the desert: Death himself doth choose His pale disguise to use.

' But, even though he be from some new God, He shall not tum us who love's ways have trod.

Nor make us break love's vow.

Nay, rather, if a single beauty dwells In me, if in that beauty there be spells To win my will of any man—O thou,

King Herod, hear me now!—

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' Let it be for his ruin! Ah, let me,

With all in me thou countest fair to see,

Procure this and no more!

If yet, with tender prevalence, my voice May ask a thing of thee—this is my choice,

Though thou wouldst buy my sweets with all thy store—

This all I sell them for.

'Yea, are there lures of softness in my eyes?

My eyes are—for his death. Is my heart's prize

A seeming fair reward?

My virgin heart is—for his blood here shed;

Its passion—for the falling of his head;

And on that man my kiss shall be outpoured Who slays him with the sword!'

Invisible—in supernatural haze.

Of shapes that seem not shapes to human gaze—

The devils were half awed as they stand Around her; each one in his separate hell All inwardly was forced to praise her well:

And every man was fain to lose his hand Or do all that sweet woman might command.

There was a tumult. — Cloven foot and scale Of fiend with iron heel and coat of mail

Were rolled and hustled in the rage to slay That fair young Saviour:, when they murdered him And brought his head, still beautiful—though dim And drenched with blood—the aureole did play Above it, slowly vanishing away.

I weep to think of him and his fair light So quenched—of him thrust into some long night

Of unaccomplishment so soon, alas !

And Thou, who on that ancient palace floor Didst dance, where dost thou writhe now evermore—

Salome, Daughter of Herodias?

0 woman-viper—may thy curse ne'er pass!

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A WHISPER FROM THE GRAVE.

My life points with a radiant hand,

Along the golden ray of sun That lights some distant promised land,

A fair way for my feet to run: My Death stands heavily in gloom, And digs a soft bed in the tomb Where I may sleep when all is done.

The flowers take hold upon my feet;

Fair fingers beckon me along;

I find Life's promises so sweet

Each thought within me turns to song: But Death stands digging for me—lest Some day I need a little rest,

And come to think the way too long.

0 seems there not beneath each rose

A face?—the blush comes burning through; And eyes my heart already knows

Are filling themselves from the blue, Above the world; and One, whose hair Holds all my sun, is coming, fair, And must bring heaven if all be true:

And now I have face, hair, and eyes;

And lo, the Woman that these make Is more than flower, and sun, and skies!

Her slender fingers seem to take My whole fair life, as 'twere a bowl, Wherein she pours me forth her soul, And bids me drink it for her sake.

Methinks the world becomes an isle; And there—immortal, as it seems—

1 gaze upon her face, whose smile Flows round the world in golden streams:

Ah, Death is digging for me deep.

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Lest some day I should need to sleep And solace me with other dreams!

But now I feel as though a kiss

Of hers should ever give me birth In some new heaven of life-long bliss;

And heedlessly, athwart my mirth,

I see Death digging day by day A grave; and, very far away,

I hear the falling of the earth.

Ho there, if thou wilt wait for me

Thou Death!—I say—keep in thy shade; Crouch down behind the willow tree.

Lest thou «houldst make my love afraid; If thou hast aught with me, pale friend, Some flitting leaf its sigh shall lend To tell me when the grave is made!

And lo, e'en while I now rejoice.

Encircled by my love's fair arm,

There cometh up to me a voice,

Yea, through the fragrance and the charm; Quite like some sigh the forest heaves Quite soft—a murmur of dead leaves, And not a voice that bodeth harm:

0 lover, fear not—have thou joy;

For life and love are in thy hands:

1 seek in no wise to destroy

The peace thou hast, nor make the sands Run quicker through thy pleasant span; Blest art thou above many a man,

And fair is She who with thee stands:

I only keep for thee out here—

O far away, as thou hast sakl,

Among the willow trees- a clear

Soft space for slumber, and a bed;

That after all, if life be vain,

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And love turn at the last to pain,

Thou mayst have ease when thou art dead.

O grieve not; back to thy love's lips

Let her embrace thee more and more, Consume that sweet of hers in sips:

I only wait till it is o'er;

For fear thou'lt weary of her kiss, And come to need a bed like this Where none shall kiss thee evermore.

Believe each pleasant muttered vow

She makes to thee, and see with ease Each promised heaven before thee now;

I only think, if one of these Should fail thee—O thou wouldst need then To come away right far from men And weep beneath the willow trees.

And, therefore, have I made this place,

Where thou shouldst come on that hard day_jFull of a sad and weary grace;

For here the drear wind hath its way With grass , and flowers, and withered tree— As sorrow shall that day with thee.

If it should happen as I say.

And therefore, have I kept the ground.

As 'twere quite holy, year by year; The great wind lowers to a sound

Of sighing as it passes near;

And seldom doth a man intrude Upon the hallowed solitude.

And never but to shed a tear.

So , if it be thou come, alas,

For sake of sorrow long and deep, I—Death, the flowers, and leaves, and grass—

Thy grief-fellows, do mourn and weep: Or if thou come, with life's whole need

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To rest a life-loDg space indeed,

I too and they do guard thy sleep.

Moreover, sometimes, while all we

Have kept the grave with heaviness,

The weary place hath seemed to be

Not barren of all blessedness:

Spent sunbeams rest them here at noon,

And grieving spirits from the moon Walk here at night in shining dress.

And there is gazing down on all

Some great and love-like eye of blue,

Wherefrom, at times, there seems to fall

Strange looks that soothe the place quite through; As though indeed, if all love's sweet And all life's good should prove a cheat.

They knew some heaven that might be true.

—It is a tender voice like this

That comes to me in accents fair:

Well; and through much of love and bliss.

It seemeth not a thing quite bare Of comfort, e'en to be possest Of that one spot of earth for rest Among the willow trees down there.

PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. SONNETS.

KETROSPECT.

Oh! strange to me, and terrible it seems To think that, ere I met you, you and I Lived both beneath the same all-covering sky.

Had the same childhood's hopes and childhood's schemes,

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And, later on, our beautiful false dreams: The funerals of my dead joys passed me by, And things, expected long, at length drew nigh. The joy that slays and sorrow that redeems Were ours before that day whereon we met; And all the weary way that God had set Between us was past over, and my soul Knew in your fatal loveliness its goal.

'Twas mine to love, 'twas yours, sweet to forget; For you the haven, and for me the shoal.

summer's eeiurx.

Once more I walk 'mid summer days, as one Returning to the place where first he met The face that he till death may not forget;

I knew the scent of roses just begun,

A ad how at evening and at morn the sun Falls on the places that remember yet What feet last year within their bounds were set, And what sweet thiags were said, and dreamt, and done

The sultry silence of the summer night Recalls to me the loved voice far away;

Oh, surely I shall see some early day,

In places that last year with love were bright. The face of her I love and hear the low.

Sweet, troubled music of the voice I know.

desolate.

I strain my wom-out sight across the sea, I hear the wan waves sobbing on the strand, My eyes grow weary of the sea and land.

Of the wide deep and the forsaken lea: Ah! love, return! ah! love, come back to me!— As well these ebbing waves I might command.

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To turn and kiss the moist deserted sand!

The joy that was, is not, and cannot be.

The salt shore, furrowed by the foam, smells sweet,

Oh! blest for me, if it were now my lot,

To make this shore my rest, and hear all strife

Die out like yon tide's faint receding beat:

If he forgot so easily in life,

T may in death forget that he forgot.

changeless.

The Spring, a maiden beautiful and pure.

Wearies of earth, and leaves the happy lea;

The stormy winds grow weary of the sea;

The sailor lad grows weary of the shore,

Tunes that charmed once fail always to allure.

Weary we grow of grief and too much glee,

We weary captive, and we weary free:

Suns set, moons rise, the stars do not endure.

Let this be as it is; but this I know.

Though life, grown weary, parts at length from me,

Though joy remembered turns to deepest woe.

Tea, though as one our lives may never be;

Through life, in death, where none may reap or sow.

My love, O sweet, shall weary not of thee.

a mood.

Behold! How fair it is to see in Spring,

The frozen river once more thaw and run

Under fresh wind, and warm, soft, flickering sun,

Is it not good to dance and laugh and sing.

To feel somewhile the lips of pleasure sting?

Lo! now the fairness of a love well won;

But then things pass, and some day Spring is done,

And, since we see there are no joys that cling.

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Would it not be far wiser to have none?

Time's tide ia dark and bitter with our tears, Why should we swell it with the greater pain Of fair gone things, a few, glad, golden years? Of one sad colour let our days be spun,

So we may live, nor weep to see life wane.

SHAKE HANDS AND GO.

Come now, behold, how small a thing ia love; How long ago ia it since, side by side.

We atood together, in that summer-tide.

And heard the June sea, blue, and deep, and wide _rMurmuring as one that in her dreams doth move To thoughts of love's first kiss and beauty's pride?

How long is it? But one brief year ago;

One autumn, and one winter, and one spring; Now, as last year, the birds awake and sing,

Once more unto the hills the hill-flowers cling; How is it with you? What heart you have I know, Changea with every comer and fresh thing.

And yet, I think, you loved me for a space;

At all events you loved my love of you:

Whether to me or that, your love was due I know not; while it lived perchance 'twas true; But you forget each season and each face.

And love the new as long as it ia new.

Scan o'er that time, as at the close of day One thinks what he has done or left undone;

Know you those days when noontide heats of sun Smote full upon us, and we atrove to ahim Their flaming force, and took the sheltered way Of shading trees with green leaves softly spun?

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There in an island of dim green and shade

We stretched, while round, like a great silent sea, Lay the blue, blinding, burning day; but we Knew nothing save our own life's melody,

And there, until the day was done, delayed;

Then homeward wended o'er the dewy lea.

Know you those moonlit nights spent on the sand— The golden sand beside the lucid deep—

.Where soft waves rippled as they sang in sleep;

How there we sowed what I alone shall reap?

Nay, feign not thus to draw away your hand,

Nor droop- your lids; I know you cannot weep.

O pliant crimson lips and bright cold eyes,

Lips that my lips have pressed, and fingers sweet That lay about my neck, or soft, would meet Around my eyes to screen them from the heat,

Where are your words, where is our Paradise?

Your love was warm as summer—and as fleet.

And yet, behold, with some how strong is love; How helpless is the dupe that boasts a heart!

I know you now—and yet regret to part:

Fairer than ever, in the marriage mart You'll fetch your price; time's dealings that are rough With nature, leave untouched the works of art.

Well, kiss once more as in the gone-by time.

Let your hair mix with mine, take hands again;

Your kiss is sweet—and do you only feign?

There, look once more on jutting cliff and main;

And now go hence, while I in some sad rhyme Weave our love's tale—its brief joy, lasting pain.

Go, go thy way; return not to the gates

Of the fair past, forsake the dear dead days;

I know thou wilt. I to some distance place

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May wander and forget your voice and face: No anger, say 'Good-bye!' 1 know one waits: He paid his price and for his purchase stays.

A SONG- OF THE STORM.

a cross the barren moor We hear the breakers roar,

See them shine upon the shore;

Hear, loud, the sea-gulls cry: The wind blows loud and shrill, The sea heaves hill on hill, Moonlight and tempest fill The pure and stormy sky.

'Neath clashing winds of night The sea revels in its might, And clear the pale , blown light

Of driven billows gleams.

O bright, tempestuous sea!

From whose gaping foam-mouths flee Ships hunted to the lea,

As souls by evil dreams.

If only I- might share That strife of sea, and air,

Nobly to do and dare

Would make my heart rise high. As a martial soul's desire,

That, at sound of trump and lyre. Breaks into flower of fire.

While the wind of sound goes by,

O women with rent hair,

The wind beats back your prayer, Which may not reach to where The loved ones strive for life.

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Can all your tears appease The anger of the seas,

Or make a night of peace,

With sea and wind at strife!

Sea-shrieks come loud and long, Through the thunder and the song Of breakers white and strong,

Exploding on the land.

Against the cliffs the wind Strikes madly, being blind,

What shall the day-break find Upon the barren strand?

O white and windy deep. How many millions sleep 'Neath thy valley and thy steep;

O bright careering sea!

O white, warm, bubbling spray. Blown hissing all one way,— One loud, resounding bay!

O lorn and stricken lea!

Thou, God, in whose clear sight The day is as the night,

Man's weakness as his might,

The tempest works Thy will, Obeys, is stayed by Thee:

Say to the wind and sea.

Peace! and a calm let be.

And all the tumult still.

LEWIS MORRIS.

THE TREAStTEE OP HOPE.

O Pair bird, singing in the woods, To the rising and the setting sun.

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Does ever any throb of pain

Thrill through thee ere thy song be done: Because the summer fleets so fast;

Because the autumn fades so soon;

Because the deadly winter treads So closely on the s.teps of June?

O sweet maid, opening like a rose

In love's mysterious, honeyed air,

Dost think sometimes the day will come

When thou shalt be no longer fair:

When love will leave thee and pass on

To younger and to brighter eyes;

And thou shalt live unloved, alone,

A dull life, only dowered with sighs ?

O brave youth, panting for the fight,

To conquer wrong and win thee fame, Dost see thyself grown old and spent. And thine a still unhonoured name:

When all thy hopes have come to naught, And all thy fair schemes droop and pine And wrong still lifts her hydra heads To fall to younger arms than thine?

Nay; song and love and lofty aims May never be where faith is not;

Strong souls within the present live;

The future veiled,—the past forgot: Grasping what is, with hands of steel,

They bend what shall be, to their will; And blind alike to doubt and dread. The End, for which they are, fulfil.

DEAR LITTLE HAND.

Deab little hand that clasps my own,

Embrowned with toil and seamed with strife;

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Pink little fingers not .yet grown To the poor strength of after-life Dear little hand!

Dear little eyes which smile on mine With the first peep of morning light;

Now April-wet with tears, or fine

With dews of pity, or laughing bright. Dear little eyes!

Dear little voice, whose broken speech All eloquent utterance can transcend;

Sweet childish wisdom strong to reach A holier deep than love or friend:

Dear little voice!

Dear little life! my care to keep From every spot and stain of sin;

Sweet soul foredoomed, for joy or pain. To struggle and—which? to fall or win? Dread mystical life!

POR EVEB.

Fob ever and for ever

The changeless oceans roar;

And dash their thundering surges down

Upon the sounding shore:

Yet this swift soul, this lightning will, Shall these, while they roll on, be still?

For ever and for ever

The eternal mountains rise,

And lift their virgin snows on high

To meet the silent skies.

Yet shall this soul which measures all, While these stand steadfast, sink and fall?

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For ever and for ever

The swift suns roll through space;

From age to age they wax and wane,

Each in its ordered place:

Yet shall this soul, whose inner eye Foretells their cycles, fade and die?

For ever and for ever

We have been, and we are,

Unchanging as the ocean wave,

Unresting as the star:

Though suns stand still, and time be o'er quot;We are, and shall be, evermore.

BERLIN, 1871.

The spring day was all of a flutter with flags;

The mad chimes were beating like surf in the air; The beggars had slunk out of sight with their rags; And the balconies teemed with the rich and the fair.

And below, on each side, the long vistas were set

In a frame-work of faces, patient and white,—

Wives, mothers, sweethearts, with full eyes wet. And sick hearts longing to see the sight.

Till at length, when the evening was waning, there ran

A stir through the crowd, and far-off, like a flame, The setting sun burned on the helms of the van.

And with trampling of hoofs the proud conquerors came.

And with every step they advanced, you might hear

Women's voices, half maddened with long-deferred joy: 'Thank God! he is safe. See, my love, we are here! See! here am I, darling; and this is our boy!'

Or 'Here am I, dearest, still faithful and true;

Your own love as of old!' Or an agonised cry,

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As the loved face came not with the comrades she knew, And the rough soldiers found not a word to reply.

And pitiful hands led her softly away,

With a loving heart rent and broken in twain;

And the triumph sweeps onward, in gallant array,—

The life and the hope; the despair and the pain.

Where was it? In Egypt, Assyria, Greece, Rome?

Ages since, or to-day; in the old world, or new ?

Who shall tell? From all time these strange histories come And to-day, as of old, the same story is true.

And the long line sweeps past, and the dull world rolls on Though the rapture is dead and the sad tears are dry;

And careless of all, till the progress be done,

Life rides like a conqueror triumphing by.

COMFORT.

Tho' love be bought and honour sold, The sunset keeps its glow of gold, And round the rosy summits cold The white clouds hover, fold on fold.

Tho' over-ripe the nations rot,

Tho' right be dead and faith forgot, Tho' one dull cloud the heavens may blot, The tender leaf delayeth not.

Tho' all the world lie sunk in ill. The bounteous autumns mellow still, By virgin sand and sea-worn hill The constant waters ebb and fill.

From out the throng and stress of lies. From out the painful noise of sighs, One voice of comfort seems to rise:

'It is the meaner part that dies.'

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THE NEW ORDEE.

The old lives are dead and gone and rotten,

The old thoughts shall never more be thought,

The old faiths have failed and are forgotten,

The old strifes are done, the fight is fought,

And with a clang and roll, the new creation Bursts forth 'mid tears and blood and tribulation.

Sweet they were, the old days that are ended,

The golden years, the happy careless hours Then, like Pagan gods on the asphodel extended,

Dreaming, men wove them fancies fair as flowers.

Love laid near them. Art to cheer them, youthful Beauty Sitting, crowned upon the marble throne of Duty.

All good things were theirs to cherish—lives grown finer

From the heritage of long ancestral ease,

And a nobler port, and temperate mien diviner

Than their labours and their vigils leave to these; Gentler voices, smiles more gracious, and the fashion Of their soft lives tuned to pity and compassion.

Naught men knew of science, now grown rigid

With its teaching of inexpiable sin;

Nor the dull pedantic gospel, dead and frigid,

Of a heaven where mind alone may enter in,

Doom awaiting, stern and silent, all transgression And no saint with power to make an intercession.

For a Ruler, as men though they saw above them,

More than earthly rulers, pitiful and mild,

A Father with a stronger love to love them

Than the love an earthly father bears his child— God above them, and for pleader and defender Christ's face stooping, like his mother's, true and tender.

But now there seems no place for the Creator To hold his long unbroken chain of law.

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Nor any need for heaven-sent Mediator,

Nor the Providence our fathers thought they saw.

Only a dull ■world-system, always tending To a blind goal, by a blind rule unbending.

And for the courtesy and tender graces,

The chivalries and charities of old,

A dull and equal arrogance effaces

Soft sympathies by hard demands and cold;

And the giver giveth not, lest any blame him,

And the taker may not take, lest taking shame him.

Be still, oh ye of little faith, repining

That the purpose of the Eternal will is dead.

The silent stars forget not yet their shining.

Daily the full sun journeys overhead.

How shall mind's realm alone forget its reason,

When the sure years roll season after season?

There shall rise from this confusèd sound of voices

A firmer faith than that our fathers knew,

A deep religion, which alone rejoices In worship of the Infinitely True,

Not built on rite or portent, but a finer And purer reverence for a Lord diviner.

There shall come form out this noise of strife and groaning

A broader and a juster brotherhood,

A deep equality of aim, postponing

All selfish seeking to the general good.

There shall come a time when each shall to another Be as Christ would have him—brother unto brother.

There shall come a time when knowledge wide extended

Sinks each man's pleasure in the general health,

And all shall hold irrevocably blended

The individual and the commonwealth;

When man and woman in an equal union Shall merge, and marriage be a true communion.

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There shall come a time when brotherhood shows stronger Than the narrow bounds which now distract the world; When the cannons roar and trumpets blare no longer, And the ironclad rusts, and battle flags are furled; When the bars of creed and speech and race, which sever Shall be fused in one humanity for ever.

Oh, glorious end! oh, blessed consummation!

Oh, precious day! for which we wait and yearn.

Thou shalt come, and knit men nation unto nation.

But not for us, who watch to-day and bum,

Thou shalt come, but after what long years of trial, Weary watchings, baffled longings, dull denial!

THE ORG AIT-BOY.

Gkeat brown eyes,

Thick plumes of hair,

Old corduroys

The worse for wear.

A buttoned jacket.

And peeping out

An ape's grave poll,

Or a guinea pig's snout.

A sun-kissed face.

And a dimpled mouth.

With the white flashing teeth

And soft smile of the south.

A young back bent,

Not with age or care.

But the load of poor music

'Tis fated to bear.

But a commonplace picture

To commonplace eyes,

Yet full of a charm

Which the thinker will prize.

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They were stern cold rulers,

Those Romans of old,

Scorning art and letters

For conquest and gold;

Yet leavening mankind,

In mind and in tongue,

With the laws that they made

And the songs that they sung:

Sitting rose-crowned,

With pleasure-choked breath.

As the nude young limbs crimsoned.

Then stiffened to death;

Piling up monuments

Greater than praise,

Thoughts and deeds that shall live

To the latest days;

Adding province to province.

And sea to sea.

Till the idol fell down

And the world rose up free.

And this is the outcome,

This vagabond child

With that statue-like face

And eyes soft and mild;

This creature so humble,

So gay, yet so meek,

Whose whole strength is only

The strength of the weak.

Of those long cruel ages

Of lust and of guile.

Naught left us to-day

But an innocent smile.

For the laboured appeal

Of the orator's art,

A few childish accents

That reach to the heart.

For those stern legions speeding

O'er sea and o'er land.

But a pitiful glancc

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And a suppliant hand.

I could moralize still;

But the organ begins,

And the tired ape swings downward

And capers and grins:

And away flies romance.

And yet, time after time,

As I dwell on days spent

In a sunnier clime.

Of blue lakes deep set

In the olive-clad mountains,

Of gleaming white palaces

Girt with cool fountains,

Of minsters where every

Carved stone is a treasure,

Of sweet music hovering

'Twixt pain and 'twixt pleasure;

Of chambers enriched

On all sides, overhead,

With the deathless creations

Of hands that are dead;

Of still cloisters holy.

And twilight arcade.

Where the lovers still saunter

Thro' chequers of shade;

Of tomb and of temple,

Arena and column,

'Mid to-day's garish splendours,

Sombre and solemn;

Of the marvellous town

With the salt flowing street.

Where colour burns deepest,

And music most sweet;

Of her the great mother,

Who centuries sate

'Neath a black shadow blotting

The days she was great;

Who was plunged in such shame —

She, our source and our home—

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That a foul spectre only Was left us of Rome;

She who, seeming to sleep Thro' all ages to be,

Was the priests, is mankind's Was a slave, and is free!

I turn with grave thought To this child of the ages,

And to all that is writ In Time's hidden pages.

Shall young Howards or Guelphs In the days that shall come. Wander forth seeking bread Far from England and home?

Shall they sail to new continents English no more, Or turn—strange reverse-To the old classic shore?

Shall fair locks and blue eyes, And the rose on the cheek,

Find a language of pity The tongue cannot speak— 'Not English, but angels?'

Shall this tale be told Of Romans to be As of Romans of old?

Shall they too have monkeys And music? Will any Try their luck with an engine Or toy spinning-jenny?

Shall we too be led By that mirage of Art Which saps the true strength Of the national heart? The sensuous glamour The dreamland of gracc,

Which rot the strong manhood They fail to replace;

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Which at once are the glory,

The ruin, the shame.

Of the beautiful lands

And ripe souls whence they came

Oh, my England! oh, Mother Of Freemen! oh, sweet, Sad toiler majestic,

With labour-worn feet!

Brave worker, girt round, Inexpugnable, free.

With tumultuous sound And salt spume of the sea, Fenced oif from the clamour Of alien mankind By the surf on the rock,

And the shriek of the wind, Tho' the hot Gaul shall envy, The cold German flout thee,

Still thou shalt be great.

Still march on uncaring, Thy perils unsharing,

Alone, and yet daring Thy infinite fate Yet ever remembering The precepts of gold,

That were written in part For the great ones of old— 'Let other hands fashion The marvels of art;

To thee fate has given A loftier part.

To rule the wide peoples;

To bind them to thee.'

By the sole bond of loving,

That bindeth the free.

To hold thy own place,

Neither lawless nor slave; Not driven by the despot. Nor tricked by the knave.

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But these thoughts are too solemn,

So play, my child, play.

Never heeding the connoisseur

Over the way,

The last dances of course;

Then, with scant pause between,

'Home, sweet Home,' the 'Old Hundredth,¹

And 'God Save the Queen.'

See the poor children swarm

From dark court and dull street.

As the gay music quickens

The lightsome young feet.

See them now whirl away,

Now insidiously come,

With a coy grace which conquers

The squalor of home.

She the pallid cheeks flushing

With innocent pleasure

At the hurry and haste

Of the quick-footed measure.

See the dull eyes now bright.

And now happily dim,

For some soft-dying cadence

Of love-song or hymn.

Dear souls, little joy

Of their young lives have they,

So thro' hymn-tune and song-tune

Play on, my child, play.

For tho' dull pedants chatter Of musical taste.

Talk of hindered researches.

And hours run to waste;

Tho' they tell us of thoughts To ennoble mankind Which your poor measures chase From the labouring mind;

While your music rejoices One joyless young heart.

Perish book-worms and bo⁰^⁸;

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Perish, learning and art— Of my vagabond fancies I'll e'en take my fill. ' Qualche cosa, signor?' Yes, my child, that I will.

THE HOME ALTAR.

Why should we seek at all to gain By vigils, and in pain,

By lonely life and empty heart,

To set a soul apart Within a cloistered cell,

For whom the precious, homely hearth would serve as well?

There, with the early breaking morn,

Ere quite the day is born,

The lustral waters flow serene,

And each again grows clean;

From sleep, as from a tomb.

Born to another dawn of joy, and hope, and doom.

There through the sweet and toilsome day,

To labour is to pray;

There love with kindly beaming eyes Prepares the sacrifice;

And voice and innocent smile Of childhood do our cheerful liturgies beguile.

There, at his chaste and frugal feast,

Love sitteth as a Priest;

And with mild eyes and mien sedate,

His deacons stand and wait;

And round the holy table Paten and chalice range in order serviceable.

And when ere night, the vespers said,

Low lies each weary head,

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What giveth He who gives them sleep,

But a brief death less deep?

Or what the- fair dreams given But ours who, daily dying, dream a happier heaven?

Then not within a cloistered wall Will we expend our days;

But dawns that break and eves that fall Shall bring their dues of praise.

This best befits a Ruler always near,

This duteous worship mild, and reasonable fear.

THE BIRTH OP VERSE.

Blind thoughts which occupy the brain,

Dumb melodies which fill the air, Dim perturbations, precious pain,

A gleam of hope, a chill of fear,— These seize the poet's soul, and mould The ore of fancy into gold.

And first no definite thought there is

In all that affluence of sound,

Like those sweet formless melodies

Piped to the listening woods around, By birds which never teacher had But love and knowledge: they are glad.

Till, when the chambers of the soul

Are filled with inarticulate airs,

A spirit comes which doth control

The music, and its end prepares; And, with a power serene and strong. Shapes these wild melodies to song.

Or haply, thoughts which glow and burn

Await long time the fitting strain, Which, swifty swelling, seems to turn

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The silence to a load of pain; And somewhat in him seems to cry, 'I will have utterance, or_ I die?

Then of a sudden, full, complete.

The strong strain bursting into sound, Words come with rhythmic rush of feet,

Fit music girds the language round. And with a sweetness all unsought Soars up the winged embodied thought.

But howsoever they may rise,

Fit words and music come to birth; There soars an angel to the skies,

There walks a Presence on the earth— A something which shall yet inspire Myriads of souls unborn with fire.

And when his voice is hushed and dumb,

The flame burnt out, the glory dead , He feels a thrill of wonder come

At that which his poor tongue has said; And thinks of each diviner line—

'Only the hand that wrote was mine.

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NOTES.

Note 1, Page 3».

He chill'd the popular praises of the King. — The King, i. e. King Arthur was the son of üther Pendragon by Ignera, wife of Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall.

Note 2, Page SO.

The Dragon of the great Vendragonship. — Pendragon was a title conferred on some British chief in times of great danger. The word pen is British or head, and dragon for leader, or ruler. The word therefore means summus rex (chief of the kings). Uther and Arthur were each appointed to the office to repel the Saxon invaders.

Geoffrey of Monmouth says, when Aurelius, the British King, was poisoned by Ambron, during the invasion of Pascentius, son of Vortigern, there 'appeared a star at Winchester of wonderful magnitude and brightness, darting forth a ray, at the end of which was a globe of fire in form of a dragon, out of whose mouth issued forth two rays, one of which extended to Gaul and the other to Ireland.' Uther ordered two golden dragons to be made, one or which he presented to Winchester, and the other he carried with him as hif foyal standard, whence he received the name of üther Pendragon.

•

Note 3, Page 81.

John Fytn, Hampden, Hazelrig, and Fiemies, were leaders of the Puritanss and distinguished statesmen of the Commonwealth. Toung Harry is Cromwells' son Henry.

Note 4, Page 87.

The Lost Leader. — The Lost Leader is Wordsworth. The poem alludes to his change of opinions from Republicanism to Toryism.

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Note 5, Page 108.

Caliban. — Caliban, the deformed slave of Prospero, is the son of a hideous hag, Sycorax, who had been banished from Algiers to the desert island on which Prospero and Miranda afterwards landed (See Shakespeare's Tempest). Setebos is a deity worshipped by Sycorax. Ariel is 'Prospero's tricksy spirit' whose services he had secured by delivering him from the imprisonment of a cloven pine-tree to which he had been doomed by the witch Sycorax.

Note 0, Page ISO.

JJjdo. — A long island, or bar of sand, close by Venice, and used as a cemetery.

Note 1', Page 138.

Zorzi and Zanze. — The names of their servants.

Note 8, Page 140.

The Urbinate. — Rafael, who was bom at Urbino, in the Marches.

Note O, Page 146.

Thyrsus. — A staff entwined with ivy, and surmounted with a pine cone, or a bunch of vine leaves or ivy, or with grapes and berries. It is an attribute of Bacchus, and of the satyrs and others engaged in Bacchic rites.

Note lO, Page 146.

Tally. — Cicero, whose name was Marcus Tullius Cicero.

Note 11, Page 147'.

A Term. — A kind of column adorned on the top with the figure of a head, as of a man, woman, or satyr.

* Note 18, Page 15S.

Philomela. — Daughter of King Fandion of Athens. Her sister Procne married King Tereus of Thrace, and, being sad at her separation from Philomela, prevailed on Tereus to go to Athens, and bring her to Thrace. Tereus, to whom Procne had born Itys, went; but on the way back violated Philomela, and then shut her up in a tower, after cutting out her tongue, and told Procne she had died. Bot within a year Procne discovered she was alive, and Philomela conveyed to her a piece of tapestry on which her misfortune was woven. Procne then killed Itys, and served up his flesh in a dish to Tereus,

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and fled with Philomela. They were pursued by Tereus, and, when almost overtaken, were on their prayer changed into birds—Philomela into a nightingale, Procne into a swallow, and Tereus into a hawk.

Note 13, Fage 156.

Lone Daiilis. — A town in Phocis where Procne made Tereus eat his son's flesh.

Cephissus. — A river flowing through Phocis and Boeotia into lake Copaia.

Note 14:, Page 163.

TAe Scholar-Gipsy. — quot;There was very lately a lad in the University of Oxford, who was by his poverty forced to leave his studies there; and at last to join himself to a company of vagabond gipsies. Among these extravagant people, by the insinuating subtility of his carriage, he quickly got so much of their love and esteem as that they discovered to him their mystery. After he had been a pretty while exercised in the trade, there chanced to ride by a couple of scholars, who had formerly been of his acquaintance. They quickly spied out their old friend among the gipsies; and he gave them an account of the necessity which drove him to that kind of life, and told them that the people he went with were not such impostors as they were taken for, but that they had a traditional kind of learning among them, and could do wouters by the power of imagination, their fancy binding that of others: that himself had learned much of their art, and when he had compassed the whole secret, he intended, he said, to leave their company, and give the world an account of what he had learned.'—GlanviVs Vanity of Dogmatising, 1661.

Author's Nora.

Note 15, Page 187'.

Days a' Langsyne, days gone by. carles, old men. nae, no. ain, own. bannocks, a cake made of oat, rye, pease, or barley meal, yill, ale. frae, from. gaed, went, thocht, thought, thae, these, gars, makes, a aid, old. to rant, to be noisy in words, ingle, fire, fire-place, brae, slope of a hill, busked, dressed. braio, fine, handsome, ilka, every, xoee, little, bum, rivulet, ee, eye. nappy, ale. did, old age. to tyne, to lose, stoup, a jug. nicht, evening.

Note 10, l^age S04, £05.

Whoam, home, thi, thy. cob, large piece of coal, owd, old. oon, an oven. aw, I. cwot, coat, deami, down, dree, steadily, har stone, hearthstone, hoo, who, she, he, they, thae, thou, at, that, towd, told, boggarts, ghosts, goblliH. fata, houd, taken hold, choas, clothes, reet, right, cheer, chair, rayley, really. theaw, thou, babs, children's pictures, fay, tea. olez, always, smnmat, somewhat. óreaumd, all round, greawd, crowd, crack, conversation, gradely, orderly, moderate.

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Note IV, Page 203—307.

Greatond, ground, at, that, yammering, to grumble, to make a loud disagreeable noise, reawnd. round, eawt, out. ahoon, above, clemmiri, starving. hrids, birds, deein', dying, quare, queer, marlock, a checquered bit. bowsler, bolster, feaici'm, pouting, fratchin, scolding, quarrelling, yed, an aperture or way wbere one collier only can work at a time, er, our. clooas, clothes, cowd, cold, deed, died, goicd, gold, neaw, now. layrock , lark.

Note 18, Page 314,

Sisyphus. — For bis wicknedness on earth Sisyphus, King of Corinth, was condemned in the lower world to perpetual punishment, rolling up hill a huge stone, which, as soon as it reached the top, fell back into the plain.

Note lO, IPage 317'.

The Sack of Baltimore. — Baltimore is a small seaport in the barony of Carbery, in South Munster. It grew up round a Castle of O'Driscoll's, and was, after his ruin, colonized by the English. On the 30quot;¹ of June, 1631, the crew of two Algerine galleys landed in the dead of night, sacked the town, and bore off into slavery all who were not too old, or too young, or too fierce for their purpose. The pirates were steered up the intricate channel by one Hackett, a Dungarvan fisherman, whom they had taken at sea for the purpose. Two years after he was convicted and executed for the crime. Baltimore never recovered this. Adthok's Note.

Note SO, Page 873.

Theocritus. — A Greek pastoral poet of Syracuse, 282 B. C.

Note 31, Page 301.

Macaura. — A leader who fell in fight with the Fitzgeralds in 1261.

Note 33, Page 330,

Mary Magdalene. — In the drawing Mary has left a festal procession, and is ascending by a sudden impulse the steps of the house where she sees Christ. Her lover has followed her and is trying to turn her back.

Author's Note.

Note 33, Page 330.

Lilith. — The Talmudists say that Adam had a wife before Eve, whose name was Lilis or Lilith. Refusing to submit to Adam, she left Paradise for a region of the air. She still haunts the night as a spectre, and is especially hostile to new-born infants.

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Note 34, Page 335.

Diana. — The goddess of hunting is represented with a bent bow and quiver, a crescent on her head, the legs bare, and the feet covered with a buskin.

Note 35, Page 338.

The sea-born one. — Venus, called by the Greeks Aphrodite, because sh was born from the foam of the sea.

Note 30, Page 339.

Dryads. — Nymphs of the woods; the life of each dryad terminated with that of the tree in which she was supposed to live.

Note 37, Page 339.

Adonis bane, — Adonis, the beautiful youth of whom Venus was deeply enamoured, was killed by a boar while hunting.

Note 38, Page 339.

Argive cities. — The towns in the kingdom of Argos.

Note 39, Page 341.

The three-formed goddess. — Diana, called by the Greeks, Artemis, the goddess of hunting, was daughter of Jupiter and Latona, and twin-sister'of Apollo, and was therefore identified with the moon. She was called Trivia when worshipped in the cross-ways, where her statues were erected, and when identified with the Moon and Proserpine or Hecate, Teiformis; a name given to Hecate, who was Luna in heaven, Diana on earth, and Proserpine in Hades, and who was usually represented as a woman with three heads (a horse's, a dog's, and a boar's), and sometimes with three bodies and three faces joined by one neck. Diana was the goddess of chastity, and punished those who offered violence to her or her followers.

Note 30, Page 348.

Saturn's clime. — The Golden Age. When Saturn was expelled from his throne by his brother Titan, he fled to Latium where he was hospitably received by King Janus; he settled on the Capitoline (anciently Saturnian Mount) where he reigned as king. His reign was a time of prosperity, abundance, and enjoyment, of liberty and equality; and peace and good-will prevailed among men.

Note 3T, Pace 353,

Calydon. — A city in JEtolia on the Evenus. During the reign of CEncus, father of Meleager, Diana sent a boar to ravage the country. All the princes

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of the age assembled at the famous Hunt of the Calydonian Boar; Meleager killed the animal and gave its head to Atalanta of whom he was enamoured.

Note 33, Page 301.

Chastelard. — Pierre de Bosoosel de Chastelard, a gentleman of Dauphiny, fell in love with Mary, Queen of Scots, and was beloved by her. He is twice discovered in the Queen's bedchamber; the first time the matter is hushed up, but the second time he is arrested, comdemned, and beheaded. Mary Beaton one of the four Marys, the Queen's Maids of Honor, is in love withChasste-lard.

Note 33, Page 370—304.

Health, destruction, harm, injury, clachan, a small hamlet about a church. serk, shirt, bannock, cake of oatmeal, cutty-si ooliug, repenting (See Note 34). kibble, strong (to kibble — to bruise), bonnie, pretty, beautiful, pout, a young bird, cheep, chirp, scunner, to loathe, to shun, hizzie, hussy, young girl, cran-creuch, hoar frost, wanrest, restlessness, rfree, suffer, ingle, fire, fire-place, ƒrc-fiaught, lightning, gully, ravine, gulch, a channel or hollow worn in the earth by a current of water, ran-tree, mountain ash. hut and ie», indoors and out of doors, the kitchen and parlor, bicld, shelter, dwelling, knee, flame, blaze, keek, peep, dreeping, dripping, dropping, oozing, eerie, what serves to inspire fear, gloomy, wearisome wean, child, daft, foolish, hra.xie, morbid sheep, thole, suffer, endure, mirk, dark, shieling, hut, shed, shelter, vivi-cdd, the middle of the ordinary age of man. deil, devil, craig, crag, a steep; rugged rock, or point of a rock, boulder, large pebble, haim, child, gruesome, fearful, disagreeable, gloaming, twilight, dusk, corpse-light, aluminous appearance resembling the flame of a candle (whence also called corpse candle), sometimes seen in church-yards and other damp places, superstitiously regarded as portending death, loon, a lout, a rogue, bum, rivulet, eldritch, ghastly, frightful, blethering, to talk nonsense in a loud manner.

Note 34, Page 304—308.

Sae, so. serk, shirt, siller, silver, money, clapper, tongue, oxter, armpit. dee, die. canna, cannot, nae, no. creel, wicker or fish basket, braxie sheep, morbid sheep, lee, lie. lave, rest, gang, go, walk, cuttie-stool, a small raised seat in old Scottish churches, where female offenders against chastity were formerly seated during three Sundays, and publicly rebuked by their minister. balr/i, child, bawbees, halfpence, reek, smoke, ken, to know, wheesht, silence. Martinmas, the feast of St. Martin, the eleventh of November, snatos, snows.

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