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BY
(printer)
LONDON: PRINTED BY W. CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET.
(dedication)
Dedicated TO BARBARA LEIGH SMITH.
(contents)
TIME rolls, and month by month
The upwelling blood of Nature fills her veins,
And the bright wooing sun
From the dear earth hath won
A tender blush of flowers that gladden all her plains.
The waves come leaping in,
And I lie clasp'd within
The kind warm arms of Nature. I could die
In such a mood as this; my limbs, dissolv'd,
Should be to some new herb of loveliest shape resolv'd,
And I would pour my soul,
A cup of spirit-wine, from out its breathing bowl,
To help the vital force
Which wings the stars on their unchanging course,
Or sprouts among the leaves, and I could be
So lost in Nature as to compensate for me.
Thus dreams the poet, thinking,
Thus dreams the artist, drinking
Fresh draughts of beauty every fresh created day,
Till o'er his half-escaped spirit sweep
Those human memories ever folded deep
Within his heart: then rather would he say,
O friends! dear friends and true!
Had I, forgetting you,
Surrender'd up my spirit before the throne
Of great Queen Nature, did you but require
My love, my service, from the quivering fire,
From rock, and wave, and flower, I know would start
The outward forms and strengths of my unwavering heart,
And my life spring obedient when you claim'd your own.
I fear not life, mine eyes are bold for seeing;
I fear not death nor any change of being;
Meek for the present, strong for the coming day,
I tell my soul to be, as be it may;
Only I fear that I, who walk along
In your dear love so happy and so strong,
Be cut from such communion, and the roll
Of death's impenetrable waters surge above my soul.
Oh Grave! hast thou the victory over Love?
Love with the fearless eyes? I do not think
That our frail brotherhood, if moving towards that brink
Beneath whose unseen depths lies black oblivion,
Could wear the high and beautiful aspect it girdeth on
When it goes forth to conquer ill, and give
Each loving heart the assurance--"Thou shalt live."
Oh Grave! hast thou the victory over Love?
Black shadow, creep not over sunny life,
Which, striving to put forth
Some flowers of heavenly worth,
Shrinks from thine image in unequal strife.
Oh thou, who gatherest youth,
Genius, and beauty to thy dark embrace,
Let one dear smile of pity gleam upon thy face,--
Seeds which we sow in God expand to flowers above.
Leave us, who lose so much, eternity and love.
WHAT art thou, and what hidest thou,
Thou veil of fair material sense,
So thin, of baffling permanence?
What art thou, and what hidest thou,
Thick curtain, viewless to my sight,
But shutting me from power and light?
Grey clouds of morning barring rosy skies,
Barring the Hand which made me from mine eyes.
Sometimes from that most glorious shore
Where Christ the Lord sits evermore
Comes a faint wind; aside one moment rolls
The awful curtain; on our trembling souls
A vision of the Eternity which is,
Hath been, and ever shall be, very nigh
To the dear dreaming earth sweeps gloriously.
A moment hear we symphonies of Heaven.
A moment see blue depths thro' vapours riven,--
Then darkness steals upon us, and we seem
As though our hearts had fir'd at some unstable dream
Again the stern and soulless laws of nature drag
Us unrelenting, crushing those who lag;
We hear no spheral hymns; the subtle soul
Which works or sobs around us flies our coarse control;
The oratorio of the waves is dumb,
Nor from the sighing groves do any voices come.
The household angels who walk'd with us melt
Into thin air, their present love unfelt;
And while their white wings glimmer far and faint,
Lo! where the prophet preach'd, men seek the sculptur'd saint.
Ah! we have glorious days when we seem knit
To some great Heart, whose loving beat is round,
Above, below us, and the waves reply,
And the winds whisper when they catch the sound.
We walk as gods; a power is in our eyes,
Constraining others; and a finer flow,
A deeper meaning, in our utterance lies,
A grander breadth of purpose on our brow.
Is this the Possible held up before us,
In the warm summer of our fitful spring,
When Christ's full bounteous presence shall be o'er us,
And like a sun shall perfect everything?
And thou, and thou, great Nature, soul'd with beauty,
Which is unto thee as my mind to me,--
No dead conglomerate of dust and forces,
But instinct with a vital energy.
Science, in uttering thy relations, knows not,
And cannot utter of the soul within;
But the dear love we bear thee is a witness
Thou and humanity are near of kin.
Oh! church or chapel preacheth not the fulness
Wrapt in the life of Nature: she can teach
To watchful shepherds how great mysteries circle
Our little life; and ever as we reach
The heart of some great truth, retreating flieth
Her all-surrounding essence, and we find,
Tho' we perchance half fancy that we seize it,
Impenetrable mystery lie behind.
"COME out," said Leonard, bursting through my door,
His black curls tangled like a fretting sea,--
"Come out, nor waste on lazy books this day,
Fit for the gods, and all too good for men.
Thou witless student, authors have two eyes,
As many thou! with complement of ears,
(Though rather long ones); pray, had Plato more?
Bacon could smell and taste, and finger coin
As saith tradition; and great Socrates
Possess'd five senses and his ugliness;
An' if thou use thine own great store as well,
Thou shalt be learn'd and famous ere thou die.
Thou ever lookest thro' the telescope
Of great dead minds, seeing the shores remote
Of past and future time; thine own poor nose
Knocking meantime 'gainst every neighbour post.
Did Beauty die with her Interpreters,
Dirg'd by the murmur of the Italian sea?
Did Science fly with Newton up to Heaven,
Leaving us here forlorn to read her past?
Or do they rather live a fuller life,
Now dropping blessing down like fruitful rain
On human hearts and homes? Who on the past
Is idly pleas'd to feed his mental frame,
May be indeed the pupil of great men,
But never their companion. We have priests
And teachers all about us every hour--
Matter yet plastic from the hand of God,
And spirits welling up from founts divine,
Begging our thoughts. You give no heed to them;
You're like a child, who throw your lesson by
To fidget with the key, which in itself
Is nothing, can be nothing, but a help
Unto your task's right reading being learnt."
The sapient Leonard stopp'd.
So I arose,
Took my round hat, and put my box of paints
Into a basket, with some bread and wine
To sustain the outer husk, and for our souls
A volume of Carlyle, poet-painter, one
Wherein he treats of Goethe, and a wee
Edition of Shakespeare's songs (whose title-page
Bore the dear name of some old German town,
Where Leonard bought it, being sworn to Him
As I to Goethe then); and, so equipp'd,
We sallied forth.
A slowly winding road
Led up and up; upon the boundary wall
A fringe of ferns cut into delicate shapes
By Nature's graving tool, and richly dyed
In every shade of green, grew lavishly,
Rejoicing, quiet things, to be alive.
So wound we up, till unawares we gain'd
The broad high table-land, and to our eyes,
Our dazzled, utterly astonish'd eyes,
Broke all that sea of heather, purple ton'd,
A luscious carpet far as eye could see,
Variously shaded, and the cotton-rush
Here and there flecking with its snow-white plume
The great expanse; and by us brown game-birds
Went whirring in sharp fear. Ne'er in my life
Had I seen such a sight, and I stood dumb
In awful wonder. Leonard said, "God's book
Lieth before thee."
In a point of time
I seem'd to read long chapters, every word
Cramm'd full with meaning, and the strangest thoughts
Came over me; the great indwelling soul
Of all this beauty spake my heart within,
While in my veins a richer life-blood ran;
The chaos of my fancy open'd out
Into an order never known before;
New thoughts, new paintings, and new poems rose
Like dreams of a futurity, more bright
Than ever was my past; I thought I heard
The stars all singing, though I saw them not,
And the earth swell the chorus; their song said,
"Glory to God who made the Beautiful!"
"Glory to God!" I said, and down my cheeks
Tears rain'd for gladness, till I could not see
The heather or the sunshine. Leonard then--
For he was of a different nature, strong
And blithe as mountain colt--bid me come on
And try another page, and while he went
He sang at topmost voice, "What shall he have
That kills the deer? the horn, the horn to wear;"
Or else the "Greenwood Tree."
And so we pass'd
Over the hills, unto what seem'd a brink
O'erlooking half a world; hill after hill
Around us lay, encircling a great vale
Of many miles' extent; and to the right
An opening stretch'd away: we thither bent
Our steps, and gain'd a verdant pasture deep
In shadow of thick trees, beside the Wharf,
Where comfortable monks had built a church,
And dwellings for themselves, and pray'd and eat,
And drank and eat and pray'd and drank again,
And taught the neighbouring poor some little lore,
And gave them alms, and gossip'd; no place this
For rigid anchorite of dreams divine,
But rather in these blossoming Bolton woods
Might all the Greek and Roman poets lie
Out of the reach of harm on dusty shelves,
And prophesy--the unrighteous pagans--times
When Bolton Abbey should lie low, and they
Should, in quotations, illustrate its fall.
But we were not to that offence inclin'd;
Little of Roman or of Greek thought we,
But only of sweet England and her bards.
Down to the river thirstily we went,
Where yet no deeper than a child's blue eyes
It sparkled over stones; the yonder side
A rocky bank rose steeply, hung with trees.
There did we lie and dream in the hot noon;
Leonard read Shakespeare's songs, as was his wont
Whenever he was glad. I hid my face
Far in the thick rich grass, and poems sang,
Within my spirit, of the olden days,
And then about the ruins and the trees,
And children paddling in the river. I
Seem'd verily like an Æolian harp that day;
I was so mov'd by Nature that I sway'd
Beneath her like a willow to and fro;
And ever as a song came in at one ear,
I felt constrain'd to sing it, and it went
Out at the other. So we lay till dusk;
Then, when the silver moon in beauty rose
Into the dark blue sky, and twinkling stars
Rose over Bolton, shimmering in the Wharf,
We back return'd. Over the heathery moors,
Now darkly radiant, silently we went.
"THE night is dark as pitch, Harry,
But there's not a drop of rain,
And when the tide has risen
They'll all be there again;
"By yonder little eastward bay,
With the crags on either hand,
A lonely place,--'tis there, I think,
They'll run the boats to land.
"Ten of the worst and wildest lads
Are coming across the sea,
And the largest boat of the two, Harry,
Will be laden heavily."
They walk'd along the shore three miles,
The strong and fearless men,
As many as they could muster,--
But the force was smaller then,--
Till all within the shadow stood,
Speaking never a word;
Then over the sea the first boat
Came flying like a bird.
Bright on the morrow rose the sun
And glitter'd on the sea,
The rippled foam of the ebbing tide
Was as white as it could be;
The long brown fields of trackless sand
Betray'd no mystery.
"Let us go to the bay, Harry;
'Twere well to find some token
Of who the smugglers were; 'tis strange
That not a word was spoken,
Nor, save by oaths and dying groans,
That awful silence broken."
Out to the bay went both the men,
And, onward as they pass,
The fishing-boats were doubled in
A sea as smooth as glass:
Until one stoop'd, and said, "My God!
Here's blood upon the grass."
"Here, Harry! no, it cannot be,
We came not near this wood."
Yet both the men paus'd silently,
And trembled as they stood,
For the round red drops were plain to see,
And nothing looks like blood.
Over the little violet-leaves
They track'd the life-stains on,
Over the jagg'd grey shadows
Of the lichen-crusted stone,
And midst the shining silver dew,
That ghastly crimson shone.
Beside the brook, by swaying reeds,
Under the shudd'ring trees,
And where the trailing ivy-sprays
Were singing to the breeze,
Sprinkled about the glorious grass
And white anemones
They track'd it on; at last, a roof
Of sunlit leaves beneath,
Its white face nestled in the grass,
Lay the cold Thing of death;
The small birds sang in vain to it
With meek persuasive breath;
And all around, the lovely wood
Was pouring forth a hymn
At morning dawn: to his dead ear
All but God's trump were dim,
The anthem and the loveliness
Are nothing now to him.
Quiet he lay, and Harry bent
And touch'd the curling hair,
Which lay in tangles, and rais'd up
The face into the air,
And a sudden sob broke fearfully,
Of the strong man's great despair.
"Thou! sadly lost, and now found thus,
Thou darling of my mother!
Whose name has been a banish'd word,
Still dearer than all other."
Great God! how long must blood cry out?
The smuggler was his brother.
CHRISTMAS comes, Christmas comes,
Blessing wheresoe'er he roams,
And he calls the little children
Cluster'd in a thousand homes.
Stand you still, my little children,
For a moment while I sing,
Wreath'd together in a ring,
With your tiny hands embracing
In a snowy interlacing,
And your rich curls dropping down,
Golden, black, and auburn-brown,
Over bluest little eyes;
Toss them back in sweet surprise
While my pretty song I sing.
I have apples, I have cakes,
Icicles, and snowy flakes,
Hanging on each naked bough;
Sugar strawberries and cherries,
Misletoe and holly-berries
Nail'd above the glorious show.
I have presents rich and rare,
Beauties which I do not spare,
For my little children dear;
At my steps the casements lighten,
Sourest human faces brighten,
And the carols, music strange,
Float in their melodious change
On the night wind cold and drear.
Listen now, my little children,--
All these things I give to you,
And you love me, dearly love me
(Witness'd in your welcome true).
Why do I thus yearly scatter,
With retreating of the sun,
Sweetmeats, holiday, and fun?
There must be something much the matter
Where my wine-streams do not run.
Once I was no more than might be
Any season of the year;
No kind tapers shone to light me
On my way advancing here;
No small children rush'd to meet me,
Happy human smiles to greet me;
True, it was a while ago.
But I mind me it was so,
Then believe me, children dear.
Till one foggy cold December,
Eighteen hoary centuries past,
(Thereabouts as I remember,)
Came a voice upon the blast,
And a strange star in the heaven
One said that unto us was given
A Saviour and a Brother kind;
The star upon my head shed down
Of golden beams this living crown,
The birthday-gift of Jesus Christ,
Whereby my glory might be known.
You all keep your little birthdays;
Keep likewise your fathers', mothers',
Little sisters', little brothers';
To commemorate this birth
Sings aloud the exulting earth!
Every age and all professions,
In all distance--parted nations,
Meet together at this time
In spirit, while the church-bells chime.
Little children, dance and play,
We will join; but likewise pray
At morning, thinking of the day
I have told you I remember
In a bleak and cold December,
Long ago and far away.
1848.
I SAID last year,
Old Christmas cometh with an open hand,
Bright holly wreath'd about his temples bland,
Icicles twisted in his curling hair
And hanging from his breast in crystals rare:
All men rejoice when Christmas draweth near.
All men rejoice! No, no, this royal guest--
This jolly fellow--hath a double face;
Ice-cold and hard as iron is his brow
When, wrapp'd in pitiless storms and vest of snow,
He hovers o'er the household of the poor
And strikes with clenched fist the fragile door.
When far away the wandering sun hath borne
His molten beams to drop on Capricorn,
There is no faggot to supply his place.
Low lie the embers in the darkening room,
The baby's feeble hands are pinch'd with cold,
The old man, sightless in the gathering gloom,
Hath sunk into a past of memories old.
Over their heads the bleak December howls
And sleety winds about the chimneys beat,
While miserable rafters scarce prevent
The oozy drops from pattering to their feet.
Wet, cold, and dark. "How long will Christmas last?"
Say little children who should love it well.
They cannot sleep at night when that great blast
Moans in its fury like a funeral bell
Through such thin walls. Old Christmas passes by,
His arms fill'd up with a luxurious store;
But, ah! of cake, and toy, and dance, and fire,
Hath nothing for the children of the poor.
Poor tiny outcasts of the rich heir's feast,
They stand with wistful eyes and hear the song
Of how, when Jesus was a little child,
His mother tended him the whole night long.
In the dim street the carol chanteth how
The three wise kings brought presents rich and rare,
While giftless they, within their untrimm'd walls,
Watch the snow falling through the twilight air,
And count the hours till bed--time--then lie down
With shivering limbs, in broken sleep, till day;
And how shall these believe that in the night
The kind Child Jesus can have pass'd that way?
For shame, old Christmas! when you visit here
And bring our little children feast and toy,
Tell them they shall not have one bit this year
Till they have fed a child who cannot buy.
"Good Christians all who in this town reside,"
For whom the season since your birth has smil'd,
Besides the tracts and blankets, beef and bread,
Give something to the Christmas of the Child.
1849.
GOOD bye, Old Year!
And with thee take
Thanks for the gifts to every land
Thou broughtest in thy bounteous hand,
And all that thou hast taught to hearts thy lingering steps forsake.
Good bye, Old Year!
The Past awaiteth thee,
Who ruleth in her power alone
The kingdom of Oblivion.
Silent she sits in ebon chair;
Falling mists of dusky hair
Veil her dark eyes' glorious shine,
Full of wise help, and truth divine.
Silent, unless a fitful sound,
As from some cavern underground,
Steal from her lips; the company
Of ancient Years that round her be,
Then chanting, one by one, give tongue
To old experience in their song.
Good bye, Old Year!
Thou goest forth alone,
As we shall do: thy pages gay,
Seasons and months who round thee play,
Attend thee to Earth's farthest verge, then back! to greet thy son.
Hail, New-born Year!
Cradled in morning clouds
Golden and white. I cannot see
Thy face--'tis wrapp'd in mystery;
But Spring for thee is painting flowers,
And Summer decks her woven bowers;
Rich Autumn's sheaves will soon be reap'd,
With store of fruits in sunbeams steep'd,
And one by one with gentle hand folds back thy sunlit shrouds.
Hail, New-born Year!
Shining and beautiful.
Thou wilt step forth in plenitude
Of youth and its rejoicing mood.
Last child of the half-century,
And time of coming victory
Over the spirits of night and sin,
Whose howlings of defeat begin:
Thou bringest hope, and labour bless'd
In visions of successful rest,
Bringest great thoughts, and actions wrought
In fire upon that forge of thought,
And with the soul of earnestness I think thy youths are full.
Hail, New-born Year!
My utterance is too weak
To tell of all I think thou bringest,
To echo back the song thou singest;
But the very winds of Heaven, for those who listen to them, speak.
WHO calleth? I am coming, I am coming,
O'er the hills with a swift step, from dawn till gloaming,
Pouring from my broadlipp'd horn
Increase over grass and corn.
As I haste I hear discourses,
From the murmurous watercourses,
Of the purple-pinion'd rover,
While from fragrant fields of clover
Comes a drowsy dreamy hum;
They say, "Doth not Summer come?"
Yes, I'm coming, oh! I'm coming.
Who calleth? Bird in greenwood, deer in forest,
Meadow blossoms, and those small things (much the dearest)
Who blossom in the town,
And in every alley known
To venturous explorers among men--
All say, "Come, sweet Summer, quicken
Thy slow steps, for, oh! we sicken
Of the darkness and the snow;
We fain would bud and blow,
And we fain would build our nest
Where the green boughs shelter best,
And we fain would go and play
In the meadows yond' all day.
Oh sweet Summer, sweetest Summer, come again!"
Yes, I'm coming, oh! I'm coming.
Who calleth? All the great sea-waves are weary
Of wrestling with the roaring wind in fury,
And would like to go to sleep
On the surface of the deep,
Dreaming of the mermaids down below.
All the little streams awake;
Their silver threads I take,
With the filmy morning mist
By early sunbeams kiss'd,
And wreathe them in a veil about my brow.
So I walk upon the land,
Scattering from my hand
Richest fruits and flowers,
While the winged hours
Paint the sky with gold,
And loveliness untold
Of blue and rose and gray,
Invoking every day
Fresh spells of colour and fresh majesty of form.
Oh! little child and sire,
Seated by your waning fire,
And storm-beat wanderer on the great earth roaming,
Fold your glad hands in prayer because I'm coming.
IN this rejoicing time, when sun and shower
In shining alternation rule the sky,
And the brown fields are shadow'd every hour
By cloudy masses scudding swiftly by;
Fields soon to smile in greenness, when the breeze
Leaves on the placid water tracks of light,
Or, hurrying, dimples all the crystal seas
With flecking foam and little wavelets bright,--
Then every flower sings out its joyous song;
The wood-anemones, and violets after,
Springing in every Sussex hedge and shaw,
Make all beholders glad with April laughter.
The primrose opens all her folded buds
In yellow beauty to the wooing sun;
Beneath, thro' banks her lavish bounty studs,
The fretting streams o'er stones and branches run.
The celandine, and lilac lady's smock,
Warning the gatherer of the cuckoo near;
The white oxalis, and each old grey rock,
Whence glossy ferns hang down, to artists dear,
In every graceful group; the knotted stumps
Embroider'd with green ivy, the bare down,
With windclipp'd oaks securely set in clumps,
Meet our glad eyes, emerging from the town.
At every step we take the cattle stare
With great soft eyes, which ask when summer's coming,
And days of grateful heat and tranquil air,
Wherein their lazy worships bask till gloaming.
Fast run the little dogs, and snuff the earth,
Or chase the flying birds with vain endeavour;
The cat considers if to venture forth
And greet on sunny flags the warmer weather.
Round go the windmill-sails, and children swarm
At various games; the sick come slowly walking,
Releas'd by this spring day, and you and I
Will pace the High Street for an hour's grave talking--
I mean that rais'd and sunny pavement, high
Above the road, and bounded by a wall
Which dear green trees o'erhang, quite undisturb'd,
Save where our meditative shadows fall,--
Or out into the country, to that bank
Of blue-bell and red orchis, you with drawing,
And I with Tennyson; no creature near
But the quiet donkey peacefully hee-hawing
Over the hedge. So much for Hastings' treasures
Of sight or sound in April. Every time
Of the long year hath others, beautiful,
Gladdening the heart, and meet for duteous rhyme.
LONG winding lanes and hedges red with bloom
Of sweet wild robin, and starr'd with tender white;
A sun down dropping gold on summer green
Of perfum'd woods, whose laced foliage shows,
In sudden glimpses, depths unfathomable
Of the far coolness, bower on bower of leaves,
Various in shade and shape; which following,
They're lost in sudden darkness of thick trees,
Or branch far up upon the dim blue sky.
And here are nests of birds, whole colonies
Of poets singing ever; nightingales
As in old Grecian woods; not mournfully,
But in glad bursts and far resounding calls
Filling the air with music holiest. We
Stay here awhile and listen: on the faint
Sweet breath of the wind comes tuneful insect hum,
Mix'd with a rustle of the swaying leaves,
Bass to the birds' clear treble--"Beautiful!"
Trot on again, dear pony, thro' boss'd stems
Huge in their venerable age, green slopes
Of tall June grass, thick set with sorrel, on fire
With poppies, royally gemm'd with buttercups,
Ripe to the mower's scythe. The grove-crown'd hills
Swell up on either side, divinely rais'd,
Stretching away with distant sunlit copes.
On--crossing "shallow rivers;" verily
They must be those unto whose grassy banks
The shepherd woo'd his darling; they flow by
With such a pleasant rustle over stones,
'Mid moss and water-lilies, and eddies bright,
And deeper lucent pools, where silver fish
Dart ever to and fro. The lazy groups
Of meek-eyed cattle saunter down to drink,
And, standing ankle deep, look startled up
At our unwonted wheels. By Stoneleigh bridge
Are dotted cottages, with tottering babes,
And smoke that wreathes against the trees and sky.
I scarce can think, on this luxurious eve,
That dismal towns exist, tho' tapering spires
Rise far away, and warn us such there be;
Towns with the thronged street and smoky air,--
Towns with close alleys breeding fever-plagues,--
Towns of sad men. Oh blessed summer sun!
As thou art to this landscape, which were dull
And bare indeed without thee, so may we
Be to the shadowy places round us, full
Of an interior radiance, shedding forth
A stedfast light of tenderness and truth.
BROAD level fields, and hedges thick with trees,
A calm still evening dropping fitful rain,
And hawthorns loaded with their perfum'd snow;
All Nature langorous, and yet alive
With humming insects and with bleating sheep;
A sky both grey and tender,--misty clouds
Floating therein, streak'd here and there with gold;
And golden flowers topping the tall June grass.
Ivy clothes all the ruins, sprouting weeds,
Lichen, and moss for richest tapestry;
While for festivity and regal pomp
Held in the olden time, is nothing now
But tune of children's voices, and the calm
Quiet evening, misty on the ruins. Far
Over the fields are farms and gardens gay;
And strong magnificent oaks, beneath whose boughs
Twilight sits brooding ere she walks abroad.
A soft moist summer eve,--'tis Nature grieving
For the depart of Spring; not yet the sun
Hath dried her thoughtful tears; or else it is
The death of the Last Fairy, and the flowers
Hang down their heavy heads in grief for her.
I on this highest tower look far away
Over this lovely England; and I think
There is a poetry in our northern land
Peculiar to itself: though it hath not
The gorgeous colouring of southern shores,
Peopled with hero shades and temple-crown'd,
Yet we too have our tale of deeds sublime,
And spirits haunting our green forest glades,
And a grave meditation, born from out
Endeavouring lives and quiet scenery
And summer evenings so divine as this.
SPIK'D reed and golden Iris bending over
Low-running streams, and that small pleading flower
We none of us forget, with foxgloves rang'd
In rows of crimson bells, and many more
From hedge and coppice and flat marshes, make
My glad mind wander forth where they were born,
When the dim dawn awoke with summer songs,
And June with glory crown'd proclaim'd the morn.
With glory crown'd! oh month of wealth untold!
From the high moorland sweeps the scented breeze,
Gorse spreads a golden pavement under heaven;
No stars can pierce the woven forest-trees
When night again hath lit her silver lamp,--
Brooding above the homes of sleeping men
And wide-spread plains of God, who sleepeth not,
Till all the dykes are lustrous once again.
Murmur, slow streams, and sway within the wind,
Spik'd reed and golden Iris, while the day
Breaks red upon the plain, the moon grows dim,
And all the piled clouds are roll'd away.
I LOVE to lie
In the dreamy heat of an autumn day,
Where the painted insects idly play,
Floating about in the noontide ray;
Or at evening hours
By the gilly-flower on the old grey wall,
And the scented pea, and the sun-flower tall,
And the ivy training over them all,
In the time of flowers.
By the deep old moat where the duckweed grows,
And the drowsy streamlet scarcely flows,
Overhung with garlands of gay wild rose
And bryony,
Where mosses carpet each sloping mound,
And the white convolvulus twineth round
The cluster'd shrubs and over the ground,
I love to lie;
Where all is still, and warm, and bright,
Or glowing with a chasten'd light,
Which fades away in a moonlit night,
In every time
Ere the death of the flowers, while the wandering breeze
Whispers and laughs 'mid the crowned trees,
To the song of the birds and the hum of the bees
I would lie and rhyme.
I SAT once more within a tangl'd wood,
Beside a quiet river, on whose breast
A world of trees look'd down admiringly
At their own beauty; and the sportive fish
Leapt up, in their unviolated home
Fearless of heart; 'twas on an autumn day,
And, save the dropping of a waterfall,
Or the low plashing of a distant mill,
Sound there was none; the moss grew thick and soft,
And many a flower o'ertopp'd the heavy grass
With luscious gifts of colour and perfume.
And there I used to lose myself amidst
The tales of old Romance, with beating heart
Tremble beneath the power of Merlin's spell,
And follow where Sir Launcelot du Lac
Brav'd in the Sangreal's quest the powers of hell.
Nor less my fancy peopl'd that green wood
With the creations of his magic pen
Who call'd the centuries from their silent grave,
And bade each graceful legend charm again;
I lov'd right well each high chivalric name
By him a second time enshrin'd in fame;
Dreamt of the Monarch of Linlithgow fair,
And wept with Constance or rejoic'd with Clare.
On the still water when the sun went down,
And the flowers nodded on their slender stems,
And earth was hush'd, the angels spoke again,
And counsell'd, in their low sweet tones, to save
Adam, of God's deep love the latest born,
And his fair consort, from the snares of hell:
Or Shakespeare led me where the summer fays
Dance thro' the midnight hours beneath the moon.
Old times, dear times! no sentimental tears
Shall mourn your flight: tho' we may never read,
With youth's peculiar fresh and wond'ring mind,
Those glorious books again--from hindering thought.
And worldly care and worldly sorrow free--
Yet ever to our elder years they bring
A bright remembrance and a fitting charm,
And what we lose in childish faith we gain
In fond appreciating reverence;
While the young generations round us rise,
And drink, unslak'd, at our old founts of joy.
That great oration which is now more true
Than ever it was then. Oh land much lov'd
Of all our northern nations! age by age
Thou lift'st among them thy young vigorous head,
Queen of some new and unexcelled realm.
Thine was the Empire of the Sword, and thine
The Royalty of Faith, and thine the Soul
Of Beauty through external things transfus'd;
Now be the great new doctrines of the century thine--
The People's Progress and their wise self-rule.
All eyes look on thee, all hearts yearn to thee;
For thee are prayers put up, for thee tears shed:
Give thou thine own best strength, for all men lose
What thou, so dear, so honour'd, canst not gain.
1850.
HEAVILY hang the purple grapes
By fair Lake Garda's waveless side;
Above, in slow ethereal march,
Battalion'd clouds in order ride.
Oh Italy, dear Italy!
Did thy sun but light the free,
What earth, what sky, were so divine,
So full of majesty as thine?
Fading away to formless mist,
In grand long aisles thy mountains stand;
The flame-lit trails of broad-leav'd vine
Cling round their poles on either hand;
Or over stones of warm grey wall
Droopingly hang like maids forlorn;
A foreground rich with white church-towers,
And feather'd spires of Indian corn.
Oh Italy, dear Italy!
Often we dreamt of thee unknown,
A far-off home, a painter's heaven,
A heritage the poet's own:
How have thy saints more holy seem'd
Since we beheld the earth they trod!
Where Leonard work'd, and Dante dream'd,
And Raphael's thoughts were sent of God.
The day is dying, midst the blue
A molten sun sinks slowly down;
The earth is black, the purple hills.
Like heavenly shadows earthward thrown.
Blind with the glory mute we stand,
The glorious plains now lost in light;
And shortly twilight's tender veil
Is lifted by the silver night.
When we afar shall think of this,
How glorious will the memory be!
A golden dream for northern nights,--
A daily prayer that thou wert free,--
A vision of beauty cheering us
Who labour under paler skies.
May God be with thee in the day
When thou and all thy sons arise.
1850.
WE stand together on the deck,
Around us twilight falleth fast,
And the soft rain of autumn bears
Its welcome on the fitful blast.
That tender greyness of the north,
The late October day hath donn'd;
Save, over England, one pale streak
Of amber tells of skies beyond.
Glorious lands we leave behind us!
(Bleeding life from every pore),
Those great native hopes which bind us
Shall but make us love you more;
But we feel your noble memories,
All whose teachings we revere,
Your grand skies and grander artists,
Pale to life which waits us here.
Ev'n as that faint streak of amber
Speaks of a clear heavenly air,
England, prophesying nobly,
Bids the nations not despair;
The great thoughts she rears within her
Waft a message o'er the sea,
And we say, in swift approaching,
"All our heart is wrapt in thee."
HILLS that were born of ages,
Heaving slowly from the deep,
Are shaking down their tresses,
Silver-threaded from the steep;
Curling shining tresses
Streaming ever down the steep.
Hills! prophets of the future,
Hills! teachers of the past,
Like monuments to mighty gods
Upon the broad earth cast.
Rob'd in the purple heather,
Crown'd with the snow-white mist,
Kings sit they all together,
Vouchsafing to be kiss'd
By the tender sunlight
Only when they list.
The unfathom'd lakes lie meekly
Looking upwards to the sky,
And image forth the monarchs
As a dream or fantasy;
And the hill-wind runneth o'er them,
Singing in Æolian strains,
Singing of the earth's divineness
To the dwellers in the plains.
Ever looking calmly down
From his niche as from a throne,
But one calmer than his own.
Carven niche,
Wrought in rich
Knotted angles interlacing,
Holds each fast in its enchasing,
Divided by a slender shaft.
Many a face grotesque has laugh'd
Ages from the pipes. A Virgin
Stands upon the porch's margin,
And the Child
Thus long has smil'd,
Praying the weary and the poor
To come unto his Father's door.
Many warriors hereabout
Lie, some with cross'd hands devout,
Under the blue sky, but others
The great inner aisle-roof covers.
Ah! within 'tis all divine,
With soften'd shine
From every pane
Whose gorgeous stain
Lies upon
The pavement stone,
Telling many an awful story
Of the martyr days divine;
While a dim torch-lighted glory
Streams from every pictur'd shrine;
And the anthem slowly rolls
Over the assembled souls,
With a free
Full melody.
God Almighty fram'd this church
In the artist's mind I think;
Beauty's fountains none may search,
Save who religiously will drink.
This for the Spirit
To inherit
Built he humbly,
Ay, and dumbly.
We can but say some man once thought
In this wise, nought else is known,
And with long endeavour wrought
His thoughts divinely into stone.
NIGHT loosen'd all the blackness of her hair,
Which fell about her in an ample cloud
Dropp'd with no jewels, veiling her blue eyes
In ebon fringes, and a sighing sound
Stole from her closed lips, as in unrest
She sway'd with slowest motion to and fro;
Then sat serene, and seem'd to search within
The abysses of her soul and memory vast,
And thoughts unknown to men; and wept her hours
(Her lovely starlit hours, choice gifts) defil'd
By evil, cruel thoughts, and bloodier deeds.
"Time was, when from my cooling urn
I scatter'd dews, and with my delicate hands
Clos'd up the flowers, that sages lit their lamps,
And ponder'd heavenly secrets, keeping fast.
Dark vapours hover now about my brow,
And bad things seek their shelter. I am weak,
And tremble, powerless to inspire a prayer.
Where art thou gone, my brother?" Thro' the dim earth
Sounded the cry of Night, and heavily
Fell the large tears from her mist-blinded eyes.
Now rang the silver bells of Dawn; sweet smells
Breath'd from the wakening flowers; a streak of light
Was mirror'd in the sea; and Night arose,
Gathering her robe, retreating towards the west,
Till in its farthest depths her lofty form
Was lost, and all her path refulgent shone
With jewels, and the Day, advancing, shook
Perfume and music from his golden curls.
BIRDS will pipe another spring
Songs we shall not hear,
Ancient Sabbath-bell will ring
Vainly for our ear.
Never more with willing feet
To its calling shall we meet,
Never more on summer's day
All together sing and pray.
On our hearths will fires burn
To which we shall not return
Homeward when the nights grow cold,
As we did in days of old.
Here we leave our cradle's corner,
Here likewise we leave a grave,
Within which, a tir'd sojourner,
One of us a rest will crave.
Unforgotten, unforgetting,
Footsteps faltering and slow,
Uncheck'd tears our eyelids wetting,
To another home we go.
Hoping on, and ever hoping,
Fill'd with solemn trust alway;
With all evil bravely coping,
Move we forward--God our stay.
PEACE on the hush'd earth fell at eventide,
As dew from heaven upon the thirsty grass;
No sound unmusical broke on the ear,
The fields all tranquil, and the waters calm.
Each drowsy flower hung down its gentle head,
The murmur of each insect died away,
As, floating down, it sank with folded wing,
Weary with play and happiness, to sleep.
No vapour o'er the populous city hung,
Spread out in grandeur on the horizon's verge;
But dome and pinnacle and pillar tall,
And all the royal works of royal men,
Lay carv'd in miniature before my eyes;
And graceful gardens rearing amidst spiresRich burnish'd hues of autumn, and proud piles
Of charity (the gift of timorous death,
Hoping perchance to cancel evil deeds),
And halls of learning consecrate for long,
And giant fabrics for each social craft,
The so-call'd crown of these luxurious times:
And there were mighty sepulchres to men
Unhonour'd in their lives; and tombs of kings,
And ancient gateways into busy haunts,
Full of the modern spirit of loss and gain,
All in one vast confusion intermix'd.
A noble city and a nation's pride,
Set in a lovely frame of sloping hills,
And girdled by a river, where the sun
Quiver'd and danc'd, as glows a ring of fire
The radiance died away, and Night walk'd forth,
Darkness and Sleep with her, her children twain,
And brooded o'er the town; yet many eyes
Watch'd weary doubtless, and slept not till dawn.
Then to the distant height whereon I stood
Rose a sad sound, which, filling all the air
(This to my fancy, not my waking sense),
Struck fear into my heart, as of one who sees
Dimly the black edge of an awful gulf,
And guesses at the unknown depth below.
Musing, I clos'd my eyes, and visions rose
In long array before them--of times past,
And times to come; and pictures of true life
Even at the moment painting stirr'd my tears.
Oh God! this hour, thy gift, how rich it is
In all we love of heroism, how black
In all we hate of sin!
In one abode,
Dark from the clouded air, remote from heaven,
Or aught that nature made, were two that spake
In whisper mournful, and with clasping hands.
They were not lovely nor of high repute,
Gifted in intellect, nor mild of mood;
Two rougher spirits scarcely might be found
In all the city, but a spell was on
Their darken'd natures, and work'd strong within,
And brought from out the abyss of evil days
A touch of holier feeling undecay'd.
It was night;
Small sign of beauty or of wealth was there,
Save one poor primrose dull'd and dried with smoke,
And one poor human bud, than all more sweet,
Which lay on a little couch; its eyes were clos'd,
But the long lashes quiver'd restlessly,
And from the small pale lips a moaning cry
Broke, as of pain. Father and mother there
Sat in their desolation all alone.
This was the first born and the only one,
For whom they often hush'd their wicked words,
That he might learn no ill; they pray'd for him
When reckless of themselves, and hop'd the lad
Might find some better teaching in a school
Than they had found in gaols; but now, no hope,--
The fiat had gone forth, "The child must die;"
And wherefore? kill'd by very want and care.
It never play'd by marge of river clear,
It nothing knew of natural sounds or scents,
Nor thought of things divine; it only knew
A coarse humanity, a Godless world
Of streets and alleys, an avenging law:
So, one of many children, thus it died.
Father and mother mourn'd it all alone,
And weeping stood beside the little grave,
While cold eyes look'd on them with curious stare,
And then pass'd on; for not in churchyard green,
Quiet and holy, in some nest alone,
Was this grave made; no sound of village bells
Lull'd him to sleep; but where the rattling wheels
And loud shrill voices broke their darling's rest
Throughout the day, and all the dismal night,
While yet he linger'd on the dreary earth,
There, in a corner, with no stone to mark,
Rail'd from the common street with open bars,
They laid their boy, and back return'd alone.
Oh London! great among the nations, great
In thought, in wealth, and greater being free;
Who dwellest under thine own magistrates,
And say'st "My express'd opinion awes the world"--
Oh mother city! oft thy freedom seems
One vast corruption of the eternal ties
Which bind men to each other.
WITH a sweet murmur dropping waters play,
Breaking, the stillness of this summer's day,
And all things beautiful and light and fair
Rejoice, half sleeping, in the noontide air,
Or lie, dream-revelling, through luxurious hours,
Children and insects, cattle, birds, and flowers.
Oft in my childhood did I lie and think,
As these do now, upon this river brink;,
And watch'd the oziers swaying to and fro,
Or oak-trees mirror'd in the stream below;
And many a nook, branch-bower'd, here I knew,
Whose unsunn'd water never caught the blue
Of distant heaven in summer; only green
Of million lucent leaves and boughs between.
Thence gazing out with happy dazzled eyes
Over that bounteous land where ever lies
A future beautiful to striving men,
The Land of Hope yclept, I deem'd it then
Begemm'd with flowers, and rich in mossy dales
Soft unto waysore feet, with open vales
Of greenest pasture sloping to the sun,
Where sparkling streams and placid rivers run.
O'er the blue hills the rolling white-ridg'd clouds
Wrapp'd peaks and fir-woods in their fleecy shrouds;
And mountains rose in far recession, far,
Where dwellings fit for kings and prophets are.
Yet in those mountains many a deep abyss
Yawns to engulf the traveller, serpents hiss,
And in the twilight thickets many a danger
Of man and nature lurks to greet the stranger.
When all these terrors strike his trembling heart,
Alone who enter'd, to alone depart,
Shall he walk feebly in the appointed track,
Falter, or, worse, with timid steps turn back?
There many a dark valley must he pass,
Eying with strained sight the tangled grass;
And oftentimes the dreary clouds will pour
Unceasingly, and heavy thunder roar.
No succour lies in love or kindred blood,--
They cannot save him, even if they would.
Oh! yet above him is a glorious sky;
Around the joyful helps of nature lie;
Beside him ever Faith and Hope and Love;
Within, his thousand vigorous pulses move;
Beyond him, farther than his eyes discern,
Much to be conquer'd, everything to learn.
Oh heart, be brave and tender; eye, be true,
Of vision keen to pierce all danger through;
Feet, bear your master manfully along;
Be his whole spirit teachable and strong,
And joyful too, as standing in the light
Of heav'nly hope; for God's sun shineth bright,
To show all good men their right road, their prayer
Gives light in darkness when the days are drear.
Earth! grant some cheering love, such love is due
God help the helpful, and uphold the true.
WHEN trembling angels stand aloof,
Watching the fight with folded wings,
Forbid or succour or reproof,
And every hasting second brings
News of the battle fought below.
Where Satan dares his human foe,
God! leave us not alone.
When morning dawns and daylight breaks,
Mournfully, into golden flakes;
When aching hearts and heavy eyes
To meet the coming day arise,
And wondering grope, as in a dream,
Midst things that are and things that seem;
Finding that in our bitterest needs
Our usual Faiths were broken reeds,
>God! hear us from thy throne.
That grief there is when every light
Seems deep engulfed in blackest night;
No hope, no peace, no comfort left,
And Faith of its own cross bereft,
Some know, all may: what rescue then?
How shall the weary rise again?
A power descends on striving men,
Helping us that we live.
More strong belief, a deeper hope,
More noble aims, a wider scope
Of love and thoughtfulness, to heal
All nearer hurts our spirits feel,
We, Father, ask, who grieve and sigh
As if no Christ were ever nigh,
Who compass'd every grief that we
Have known, though sharp our agony.
And so, by wrestling, may at length
Our very weakness teach us strength.
All-Mighty! hear and give.
PAINTED on a little cloud,
Opposite the sunset sky,
Far above the high-pil'd crowd
Sailing slowly softly by,
I saw a face, its tender rose
Fram'd in braids of golden hair;
A beauty underiv'd of earth
Was pictur'd and suggested there.
Oh beautiful beyond my thought!
Oh beautiful beyond my dream!
Half fading in the tremulous nought,
Half merging in the golden gleam;
Spiritual as the blue, blue sky,
And rich as any western ray,
Most like some woman of the past,
Whose memory knoweth no decay,--
Yet humanly expression'd, full
Of all that Nature teacheth, power,
And grace, and love, and tender joy,
Unconscious as of any flower.
Was it some heavenly minister?
Or memory of mine own, more fair?
The golden braids were lost in stars,
The cloud-face melted into air.
DEEP heart and earnest eyes
Seeking for rest,
Finding a weight that lies
Cold on thy breast,
Musing on nearest ties
Mournfully riven,
In thy despair arise,
Turn thou to Heaven.
Humanity, gifted
With patience and love,
Thereby should be lifted
Earth's sorrow above;
Should read with believing
The words of the bond;
While dull hearts are grieving,
Shouldst thou see beyond.
Strong will and eager mind
Striving to mould
Deeds to remain behind
When thou art cold;
Choose thou the better part
Written in story,
Live in man's grateful heart,
And for God's glory.
ON the still water of our childish days
The noonday blue and midnight heaven look down,
Painting themselves, while every drooping flower
Or lovely human thing which haunts its bank
Lives in the mirror with a fairer life.
Perchance some holy and love-gleaming eyes
Gaze in our stream, or music-voiced prayer
Ripples the water and floats up to God;
But comes a blustering wind, do earthquakes split
The trembling globe, does winter's thralling ice
Hem in our little path,--and all the peace
Of this our life is gone, and we go forth
With troublous murmur to encounter man.
Nay, less than this, the petty trivial cares,
The pebbles flung by hand of idle boys,
The fall of leaves upon our waters, and
The noiseless drop of an unceasing rain,
Such little worthless trifles have the power
To mar our glorious mirror; no more stars
Lose themselves, gliding thro' the dark twin depths;
And he who seeks to find within our breast
Aught of tranquillity or loveliness,
Finds fragments of a thousand jumbled things,
Circle on circle, and the roll confus'd
Of unreflective wave succeeding wave,
Grief restless and complaining, and past joy,
Sadder than sorrow, and a broken tale
Of our life's picture; many days must pass
Ere the chaf'd waters gain their wonted calm,
And then--the leaves have fallen, and the wind
Has kill'd the flowers; another time of year
Has laid our love in the grave, and gather'd fogs
Obscure the glory of the midnight stars.
What then, sad spirit? leaving field and glade,
And thy sweet progress between blossoming banks,
There is no less a glorious destiny
For thy vex'd waters; stately ships shall ride
In triumph on thy bosom, populous towns
Murmur beside thee, noble work be thine,
Till thou at last shalt lose thyself within
The infinite ocean, and find infinite peace.
WE walk in mysteries howsoe'er we tread,
And none less awful that we see them not,
Or that our solemn musings o'er our dead
In life's tumultuous whirl are soon forgot.
All common things we take as if our due,
We see no riddle in the earth or sky,
We watch all beauty year by year renew,
And then with casual speech walk coldly by.
The miracle of never-dying force,
That revelation of a present God,
The torrent rushing down its Alpine course,
The tiny grass-blade piercing thro' the sod,
We talk about, but do not feel; the sun
Rains gold on all the hills, and starry flowers
Look up in gladness; the young birds are flown,
And soft sweet evenings mark the length'ning hours.
And then, perhaps, a child is born, weak thing
Created for eternity, a soul
At whose advent the heavenly angels sing,
Whom Faith and Hope and Love would fain control;
But we,--upon its face we do not see
The spirit-traces, nor within its cry
Hear marvellous whispers of much misery,
Or peace, as may be, it shall labour by.
Men die, we bury them; 'tis so much dust,
Muscular, nervous tissue, Heavens! what not?
"He was a moral man, and God is just."
And so we leave the corpse alone--to rot.
Moral? Perhaps; yet he in former years,
While yet a man, did sin, or leave undone
That which he should have done, and then the tears
Down his pale cheeks repentantly would run.
And he had inward struggles, and he still,
Tho' rising bravely after every fall,
Fought hardest battles with an evil will
And by the midnight stars for help would call,
Importuning his God. The poor soul lov'd,
And left what he did love, and question'd sore,
The mysteries of the world, and ever prov'd
The truth in those wise words of one of yore,
Who knew that he did nothing know. This man
In truth was something more than flesh and blood;
Not to be lightly spoken of; a plan
Among the many of eternal good;
Cunningly wrought, and in him was the breath
Of life; but what is that? It came at birth:
From whence? and how? Was exorcis'd by Death;
Departing where? We know not. Pray, thou earth,
And think on all these things, and dwell in awe
Of holiness upon thee; neither walk
Regardless of divinity and law
Writ in thy conscience. In thy daily talk
Mingle sometimes these themes--all is not plain,
And amidst holy oracles we live;
Shall their dim messages be all in vain,
Or wilt thou into thought and action them receive?
We counsel seek from judgment taught by years,
But trust our heart-griefs to the wise by tears.
He tortur'd most will most search out the pain,
A tyrant's victim breaks the nation's chain.
View then thy grieving as a thing of worth,
If thou thereby canst meet a grieving earth;
Ponder on tombs till thou hast learnt how much
Of life's best treasure is encas'd in such;
Hold up to men the form of the Divine,
And bid its radiance on their tear-drops shine;
Singing O Poet, "Once I wept with ye;
That hour is past; now, overcome with me."
OH cruel England! standing coldly by,
While groans of human creatures rend the sky.
The mother's darling and the sister's pride,
And many a maid's betroth'd one, side by side,
Send up the stifled sob and heartsick moan
Which break the peace of God's eternal throne.
Low-thoughted England! since you could not feel
How dear to noble souls their country's weal,
Consider'd only in the fair aspect
Of rights which ask and which command respect;
How the soul needs her own peculiar bread,
And stricken honour bows the sturdiest head.
Were all material good to Hungary left,
And only this of her desires bereft,
Were only honour lost and mourn'd in vain,
Oh Hampden's England! you might feel that stain.
But not alone her patriot or sage
Weeps as he pores upon the sullied page
Which tells how Hungary to the heart was riven,
And the lost Pleiad shone no more in heaven.
O cursed prisons! festering where you stand
With that black misery which defiles a land!
Lo, far and wide, paternal homes deplore
The gay young feet which now return no more.
When households gather round at break of day,
And lips too sad to talk are fain to pray,
The mother, gazing in a mute despair,
Turns, sick and shuddering, from each empty chair.
Oh England! slow to speak the indignant word;
Oh England! sheathing an ungenerous sword;
Deaf to the voices you have call'd divine,
From each grey tomb you consecrate a shrine,
Which say, "Before you dare your homage pay,
Do as we had done, had we liv'd to-day,
Nor make us mourn who bend on earth our pitying eyes,
Death binds our hands whose love for freedom never dies."
WHERE shall ye lay me? not in foreign climes,
Where stranger winds would sadly waft the unaccustom'd chimes;
Where my weary spirit would in pain a lonely vigil keep,--
Oh! in that distant land, I pray, lay me not to sleep.
Where shall ye lay me? not where mermaids sigh,
'Mid the roughly chafing billows, so dolefully;
And, longing for the summer days, o'er shipwreck'd sailors weep,--
Within the waves of the deep dark sea lay me not to sleep.
Where shall ye lay me? not on mountain brow,
Where the white snow lies, and the dark firs grow;
I do not love the precipice and chasm's yawning deep,--
Upon the frowning mountain, then, lay me not to sleep.
Where shall ye lay me? not 'mid haunts of men,
Where crime and poverty peep out from every crowded den,
Where loud the ceaseless bells would clang, Death's
harvest-ears to reap,--
Oh! in the city's busy range lay me not to sleep.
Where shall ye lay me? far far away,
Where freshly in the early spring the dancing leaflets play.
Tall poplars by my grave long watch shall keep;
There, by those I lov'd in life, lay me to sleep.
WAVES which discourse, in a melodious whisper,
Mutual knowledge with the marshall'd clouds,--
Murmur of June, which riseth up with Hesper,
When the wing'd squadrons hover round in crowds,--
Colours which change and melt at every station
Won by the sun within a glowing sky,
Whose lawful order points a fine relation
Linking the spheres of light and harmony,--
Shadows which flit and fade on every pasture,
Like to the flight of passing souls above,--
Say, "Griev'd hearts, lay down the cherish'd creature,
Let the grass quiver o'er our buried love;"--
All these are angels, offering no solution,
Yet to my sickening mind they speak of peace;
Laying calm wings about our fierce emotion,
Softly and lovingly they whisper "Cease."
Here on this hill-top lay her; she was lovely,
Gentle, of knowledge wishful, brave to hold
All sad fears silently; the leaves shall tremble
And the birds sing above her quiet mould.
As she lov'd Nature, so be Nature round her,
So may she best sleep, so we best attain
To some composure, knowing Death ne'er bound her,
And ere those trees lie low we meet again.
QUIETLY sleeping on its little couch
The cherish'd infant lay; its curly hair
Twin'd lovingly about the tranquil brow,
And droop'd caressing o'er its eyelids fair,
As if to guard from harm some soft blue tinge
Of those sweet eyes within their glossy fringe.
Its small white limbs beneath the snowy folds,
Models of infant beauty, strength and grace,
Repos'd: a childish smile of love and glee
Rested upon the yet untainted face:
Its tiny hands enclos'd a scented flower,
Cull'd in its evening sports at twilight hour.
A year pass'd by; and at the eventide
A little child lay quietly,--and slept.
Its innocent face was dew'd with tears as if
Some loving eye had lately o'er it wept
In agony of grief; yet why were tears
Shed for the pure in heart, the young in years?
It is so quiet; when we saw it last
It smil'd, as though some airy sprite had brought
A vision of gay fairy-land, and woven
The golden tissue with its infant thought;
And the little heart beat softly as it press'd
A fragrant blossom to its snowy breast.
Mother!--in former times the first-born son
Was vow'd unto the Lord, and shalt thou now
Murmur because Jehovah claims his own,
And sets his seal upon thy darling's brow?
Shall thy devoted heart be found more cold
Than Samuel's mother in the days of old?
Sever from that dear head one curly lock,
And treasure it with care; in after years,
When gazing on it, think the others wave
O'er eyes that gaze on Christ undimm'd by tears.
Some truth, some warning made the trial fit:
He gave, he took away. Do thou submit.
I WAS a painter; if I lov'd
Her glorious face too much,
It was that thought had carv'd its lines,--
I worshipp'd it as such:
Hour by hour I gaz'd on her,
And trembled at her touch.
The earnest fire of her deep eyes
Burnt all her thoughts in me,
Each smile that trembled round her mouth
Struck me inwardly:
Her voice went shivering through my heart
Like a spheral harmony.
Thus soul and gesture blended were,
(Such Truth is truest Art);
Her soul was as a shrine, wherein
My hope was set apart;
And every thread of her golden hair
Was twisted about my heart.
And oftentimes I could not speak,
Because my reverence fill'd me so
That when I strove her pause to break
The words came falteringly and slow;
It seem'd as though my thought met hers,
And the double current would not flow.
So she to me was sanctified,
A symbol full of meanings holy,
The dove sat brooding by her side
With eyes unstain'd by melancholy;
Her face was fill'd with a woman's pride,
And my spirit bow'd before her wholly.
Oh! fear sometimes possessing me
Lest I were left and she were taken,
"How could I paint again," I said,
"For eyes which would no more awaken?"
Great God!--Thou hast Eternity
For every love by Time unshaken.
AMONG the crowd, one, with a gayer face
Than most, came swaggering; the Sabine Bard,
The Roman Priest of Song, with grape-leaves crown'd,
And tendrils of green ivy intermix'd.
"I' faith," quoth he, in his sweet easy voice,
And tender'd Plato sundry vellum leaves,
Whereon were writ some lines, unforc'd and few
In liquid fire indited, which flash'd up
Like eastern jewels, or the dawning beam
Shed by the sun on dew-besprinkled vines,
In clusters hanging on Falernian hills,--
"I' faith," quoth he, "these summer songs shall be
Torches enkindled on the sea of Time,
No waves shall whelm them, and no breezes kill,
Or deep night quench their lustre. They shall float
And glitter midst the surges, dropping fire.
Read these, old Plato; I warrant they will chafe
Thy dull blood to a quick and dancing flow;
Thou hadst no odes like these in thy life's day!
'Too many poets!' When humanity
Shall lie i' the sun and dream, and weary cares
Cease to weigh down the fainting hearts of men;
When Pelion shall on Ossa be upheav'd,
And men or Titans climb their steeps to heaven;
When Time shall fold his wings, impartial Death
Cut down the beggar's boy and spare the king's;
Then from thy pillow banish songs like mine.
Meantime I sing the glories of the grape,
The midnight revel and the morning chace,
Preach patience to the poor, and teach the rich
How peace can dwell upon a Sabine hill.
'Too many poets,' Plato! Monarchs love
Such wit as mine to speak their victories;
Young maidens love to listen to my lyre
(Jove's benison on their sweet eyes!), and boys
Sing o'er in treble tones my martial strains.
There is much honesty in me, old sage,
Much sober thought amidst my jollity,
Much maxim wise by rattling tongue enforc'd;
Did I not ceaseless warn of life's brief span,
The approach of night, the unerring stroke of Death,
To rich and poor alike, harsh summoner?"
"Of Death," said Plato, "yea, to bid men drink,
And waste the night in tumult; to besmear
The stately Roman face with purple wine,
And all the long bright hours of summer days
By glittering fountains stretch their lazy length
Beneath green canopies, jesting to maids
With water-pitchers on their graceful heads.
A worthy citizen of mine wert thou!
A guide in our Republic, verily!"
The Sabine Poet stood,--and on his brow
A serious shade stole quietly, while thus
He answer gave the Athenian: "For mine age
I was scarce worse than other men; they lov'd--
Those royst'ring Romans of th' Augustan age--
To quaff the bowl and sing of ladies' smiles;
But in this was I nobler--I have wrought
Rich gems of imagery, legends of the past,
Replete with glorious music,--and with tears.
I soften and refine; my name shall last
Long in the loving hearts of men, a niche
Kings should be proud, most proud, their form should fill;
And for the imperishable good I did,
Mine evil be forgotten by mankind."
I LIV'D in an old house, you ne'er saw one older,
The wind whistled loud when the winter set in;
But I don't see why whistling need make the place colder,
Nor why in not stopping cracks there should be sin.
Ah! poor little thing, dear little thing,--
I've griev'd like a child since I heard that bell ring.
Well, Sir, my old house had two rooms on a floor;
With one window, pray why should I pay to have more?
And as to the water between the bricks welling,
Folks may talk,but I'll never do things for their telling!
Why, yes, the bad air in those two rooms, I own,
Was enough, I was told, to knock any man down;
But Lord, Sir! I've liv'd and am now forty-six,
And the saw says you'll scarce teach an old dog new tricks.
I dirty? Indeed, Sir, you 're quite wrong I know;
None cleaner in Hastings; and if folks say so,
'Tis because we're like cats, Sir, and can't abide water,
All our family, Sir, and wife's brother, Tim Carter.
Ah! poor little thing, dear little thing,--
How Tim did take on when he heard that bell ring!
I had one little daughter, Sir, fresh as a daisy,
She made our old house joyful tho' it was crazy;
My darling! a bit of red tipp'd her soft cheek,
She could just run to school on her wee toddling feet.
Then came the hot season, no breath of air stirr'd,
The roil of the sea was the only sound heard,
And down on the beach it was worse than elsewhere,
The Devil of Fever seem'd riding the air.
Ah! poor little thing, dear little thing,--
I dreamt his long thin fingers made that bell ring
I do not know why, Sir, indeed I can't tell,
Why the young ones about us did not die as well;
'Tis nonsense to talk about houses, say I,
I like my old house, tho' they call it a sty.
So the fever came on, and it touch'd here and there,
In the strangest chance way that you ever did hear;
They did say the deaths might be summ'd with bad drains,--
If you think I think that, you're a fool for your pains;
But my poor little thing, my dear little thing,--
I scarce know what I think since I heard that bell ring!
So the fever came on, Sir; my wife, stricken down,
(As knowing a soul, Sir, as lives in the town,--
None of your newfangled cranks about her),
Will never be well in this world, Sir, I fear;
And poor little Polly, Sir, all the long day
Lay tossing in agony, moaning away;
Her bright hair was matted with fever, and dull,
It lay on my arm, Sir, who prided each curl;
Towards night, Sir, her pretty blue eyes became dim,
But her little parch'd lips still kept muttering a hymn
She had learnt at the school, or some queer notion bred
Of the hot fever poison would run in her head.
Ah! poor little thing, dear little thing,--
She died like one mad, and I heard the bell ring.
Indeed, Sir, tho' she was my darling and pride,
I was thankful at heart when my poor Polly died.
We buried her, Sir, safe at rest from her pain;--
And I, Sir?--Went back to my Old House again!
"TO lead a life divine?"
This is the question which, with upward strife,
Earth to herself proposes, asking ever,
"How shall I lead this life?"
And in her infancy
From east and west according answer came,
Poet and priest the doctrine taught and bless'd,
"Divinity is Fame."
In a more polish'd age,
"Poor toilsome fools, fair women, fairer wine,
Purple, fine linen, pictures, statues, gold,
Beauty is most divine."
Long-bearded sages then
With still more scorn their own solution gave,--
"Thought is the only good to be desir'd,
Leave matter to the slave."
God gave a helping word,
But Earth was blind, and would misread the sign,
Saying, "It means deny, fast, scourge, and pray,--
The ascetic is divine."
And now we, year by year,
Do painfully spell out our golden rule,
In woe for its neglect; the wisest men,
The little child at school,
Learning that wisdom, art,
Denying vow, world's honour, are but slaves to love,
Whose law encircles us with a command,
Ev'n as its pleadings move.
We are not free to choose,
But ever find our portions strictly meted
When we look purely for them, and a sign
Of blessing if completed:
Set in a narrow groove,
In our obedience alone made free
With freedom worth the purchase, and enjoin'd
To work it silently:
Which following
In meek surrender,--"Not my will but Thine"--
Is, in its aspect, fruit, and consciousness,
Indeed a Life Divine.
WHERE do we hide when the year is old,
When the days are short and the nights are cold?
Where?
When the flowers have laid them down to die,
And the winds rush past with a hollow sigh,
And witches and fiends on their broomsticks ride,
Where do we delicate fairies hide?
Where?
Some of us borrow the white mouse skin,
(Our gossamer dresses are far too thin),
And get up a ball in the palace of ice,
With a hop and a skip we are there in a trice;
And we don't go home from these midnight balls
Till the sun lights up our diamond halls,
We don't go home till morning.
The queer old elves of the Northern land
Welcome our beautiful fairy band,
Praise our eyes and our curling hair,
Our nimble steps and our music rare,
Our golden crowns and the gems we wear,
And all our rich adorning.
Sometimes we fly to the noonday isles,
Where summer for ever unfading smiles,
And crumple the tropical flowers for beds,
Where fairies nestle their small tir'd heads;
But when the stars of the South shine bright,
We chase the firefly thro' the night;
When the tigers growl and the lions roar
We fly over their heads and laugh the more,
And pinch their ears and their tails for spite,--
These are our games on a tropical night.
Sometimes we visit the children of earth,
And take up our stand at the social hearth;
We hover and sing by the couch of pain,
Till the frighten'd dreamer smiles again;
We polish the lash of a deep-blue eye,
And hush the troublesome baby's cry,
And make mushrooms grow on our verdant rings,
Are not we fairies good little things?
As the dormouse curl'd in its darken'd grave,
As the mermen and maids in the ice-bound cave,
As the poor scarlet-breast when it longs for a crumb,
As the naked woods when the birds are dumb,
As the torrent penn'd up in its glittering sheath,
We welcome the sight of the first green leaf.
YE who though unseen are near,
Guard her from all harm,
Watch her well, encompass her
With every potent charm;
Bend above her slumbers,
Kiss her waking eye,
Soothe with your sweet numbers
Each feeble infant cry.
Away from every danger
Besetting baby feet
Turn her little footsteps far,
Guardian angels sweet:
Ever on her quiet lot
Your watchful gazes keep;
Shadow her and shelter her,
Waking or asleep.
Wild brier and ivy, and the golden fringe
Of gorse, o'erhanging many a craggy bank
Of the Campagna, we transplanted there;
Such passionate flowers, daughters of Italy,
Where everything is beautiful and strong.
Then in those gardens were rich gems of art,
Nymphs, Fawns, and Dryads carv'd in living stone,
Instinct with grace, who peopled solemn groves
With genius, tho' the master-hand were cold.
From the steep terraces we look'd abroad
On Rome and all her towers, the far expanse
Of verdant loneliness around her spread,
And the blue mountains melting in the sky.
I SAW you seated in your lonely room,
Of human friends forlorn, of spirits full,
Who gave you comfort in your solitude,
And spoke to you in accents beautiful.
Hearing your voice, unknown, my spirit leapt
(Which, knowing, I have learnt to call so dear),
Fond memory of that first hour have I kept,
Tho' scantly its result recorded here;
But in my heart such thoughts to it belong,
As hath, of its little fount, a river deep and strong.
And now to those far shores, I say, God speed,
Where I have never been, but often now
That anxious heart will of your path take heed,
And daily pray success may crown your brow,
Shedding its glory on your quiet face,
Which needs that baptism, dear friend, no less
That you are strong, upheld in no embrace,
And, deeply natur'd, if unbless'd could bless.
By years of loving hope at length fulfill'd
In our true friendship, by a common aim,
By weariness subdu'd and doubtings still'd,
By joint allegiance to a slander'd name;
By that eternity towards which we speed,
By glorious faiths we would incarnate here,
By ties which nor of space nor time take heed,
I charge you, going hence, to hold me dear.