Dramas in Miniature (1891): a machine-readable transcription

Mathilde Blind (1841-1896)

Victorian Women Writers Project: an Electronic Collection

Dramas in Miniature

        All poems occur as DIV0. Sonnets are attributed as "type=sonnets"; the rest are "type=poem". All quotation marks, hyphens, dashes, apostrophes and colons have been transcribed as entity references. All <lg> (line groups) are attributed as cantos, stanzas, couplets, verse paragraphs, etc. All poems with regularly indented lines use the attribute "rend" in the <l> tag, with the value "indent1" for one tab stop, "indent2" for two tab stops, etc. All split lines are attributed as "type=i" for the initial portion, and "type=f" for the final portion.

        All apostrophes and single right quotation marks are encoded as &rsquo;.

        Any hyphens occurring in line breaks have been removed; all hyphens are encoded as &hyphen; and em dashes as &mdash;.

        The advertisement appearing at the back entitled A List of Books Published by Chatto and Windus (Sept. 1891) has been omitted.

• French
• Italian

• 1995-11-03
  Robert Chavez, editor.
  
  • finished data entry, basic encoding and proofing.
  
  
• 1995-11-03
  Perry Willett, general editor.
  
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(figure)

        

"The perfume of the breath of May
Had passed into her soul."
p.25

(figure)

        

Dramas In Miniature

by

Mathilde Blind

With a Frontispiece by Ford Madox Brown London
Chatto & Windus,
Piccadilly
1891

(contents)
    

CONTENTS.

• Dramas In Miniature.
  • The Russian Student's Tale 3
  • The Mystic's Vision 12
  • The Message 17
  • A Mother's Dream 32
  • A Carnival Episode 50
  • The Battle of Flowers 60
  • The Song of Willi 71
  • Scherzo 83
• Lyrics.
  • Love's Somnabulist 91
  • A Meeting 92
  • Your Face 94
  • Only a Smile 95
  • Sometimes I Wonder 97
  • Many Will Love You 99

    ---

    Page vi

  • A Dream 100
  • Rose d'Amour 101
  • Sonnet 102
  • A Parting 103
  • My Lady 104
  • On a Viola d'Amore 106
  • A Child's Fancy 108
  • Lassitude 110
  • Seeking 112

DRAMAS IN MINIATURE.

THE RUSSIAN STUDENT'S TALE.

THE midnight sun with phantom glare
Shone on the soundless thoroughfare
Whose shuttered houses, closed and still,
Seemed bodies without heart or will;
Yea, all the stony city lay
Impassive in that phantom day,
As amid livid wastes of sand
The sphinxes of the desert stand.

* * * * *

Well matched our longer, stronger stride,
In hurrying to the water-side.
We took a boat; each seized an oar,
Until on either hand the shore
Slipped backwards, as our voices woke
Far echoes, mingling like a dream
With swirl and tumult of the stream.
On--on--away, beneath the ray
Of midnight in the mask of day;
By great wharves where the masts at peace
Look like the ocean's barren trees;
Past palaces and glimmering towers,
And gardens fairy-like with flowers,
And parks of twilight green and closes,
The very Paradise of roses.
The waters flow; on, on we row,
Now laughing loud, now whispering low;
And through the splendour of the white
Electrically glowing night,

Wind-wafted from some perfumed dell,
Tumultuously there loudly rose
Above the Neva's surge and swell,
With amorous ecstasies and throes,
And lyric spasms of wildest wail,
The love-song of a nightingale.

* * * * *

As still beneath that phantom day
I looked at her, she smiled at me!
And then we landed--I and she.

* * * * *

How I was hers, and seemed to be
Her own to all eternity.
And through the splendour of the white
Electrically glowing night,
Wind-wafted from some perfumed dell,
Tumultuously there loudly rose
Above the Neva's surge and swell
With amorous ecstasies and throes,
And lyric spasms of wildest wail,
The love-song of the nightingale.

* * * * *

Of beauty, innocence and truth,
Of all that honest women hold
Most sacred--for the sake of gold.
A weary seamstress, half a child,
Left unprotected in the street,
Where, when so hungry, you would meet
All sorts of tempters that beguiled.
Oh, infamous and senseless clods,
Basely to taint so pure a heart,
And make a maid fit for the gods
A creature of the common mart!
She spoke quite simply of things vile--
Of devils with an angel's face;
It seemed the sunshine of her smile
Must purify the foulest place.
She told me all--she would be true--
Told me things too sad, too bad;
And, looking in her eyes' clear blue
My passion nearly drove me mad!
I tried to speak, but tried in vain;

A sob rose to my throat as dry
As ashes--for between us twain
A murdered virgin seemed to lie.
And through the splendour of the white
Electrically glowing night.
Wind-wafted from some perfumed dell,
Tumultuously there loudly rose
Above the Neva's surge and swell,
With amorous ecstasies and throes,
And lyric spasms of wildest wail,
The love-song of a nightingale.

* * * * *

I looked at her--she smiled no more;
She understood it all before
A syllable had passed my lips;
And like a horrible eclipse,
Which blots the sunlight from the skies,
A blankness overspread her eyes--
The blankness as of one who dies.
I knew how much she loved me--knew
How pure and passionately true
Her love for me, which made her tell
What scorched her like the flames of hell.
And I, I loved her too, so much,
So dearly, that I dared not touch
Her lips that had been kissed in sin;
But with a reverential thrill
I took her work-worn hand and thin,
And kissed her fingers, showing still
Where needle-pricks had marred the skin.
And, ere I knew, a hot tear fell,
Scalding the place which I had kissed,

As between clenching teeth I hissed
Our irretrievable farewell.
And through the smouldering glow of night,
Mixed with the shining morning light
Wind-wafted from some perfumed dell,
Above the Neva's surge and swell,
With lyric spasms, as from a throat
Which dying breathes a faltering note,
There faded o'er the silent vale
The last sob of a nightingale.

THE MYSTIC'S VISION.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

A Presence stirs within the room,
    A breath of flowers and hovering wings:
Your Presence without form and void,
Beyond all earthly joys enjoyed.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

Your bleeding limbs in anguish tense,
    And torture me with bliss so fierce,
That self dies out, as die it must,
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

XI.

THE MESSAGE.

FROM side to side the sufferer tossed
    With quick impatient sighs;
Her face was bitten as by frost,
The look as of one hunted crossed
    The fever of her eyes.

All seared she seemed with life and woe,
    Yet scarcely could have told
More than a score of springs or so;
Her hair had girlhood's morning glow,
    And yet her mouth looked old.

Not long for her the sun would rise,
    Nor that young slip of moon,

Wading through London's smoky skies,
Would dwindling meet those dwindling eyes,
    Ere May was merged in June.

May was it somewhere? Who, alas!
    Could fancy it was May?
For here, instead of meadow grass,
You saw, through naked panes of glass,
    Bare walls of whitish gray.

Instead of songs, where in the quick
    Leaves hide the blackbirds' nests,
You heard the moaning of the sick,
And tortured breathings harsh and thick
    Drawn from their labouring chests.

She muttered, "What's the odds to me?"
    With an old cynic's sneer;
And looking up, cried mockingly,
"I hate you, nurse! Why, can't you see
    You'll make no convert here?"

And then she shook her fist at Heaven,
    And broke into a laugh!
Yes, though her sins were seven times seven,
Let others pray to be forgiven--
    She scorned such canting chaff.

Oh, it was dreadful, sir! Far worse
    In one so young and fair;
Sometimes she'd scoff and swear and curse;
Call me bad names, and vow each nurse
    A fool for being there.

And then she'd fall back on her bed,
    And many a weary hour
Would lie as rigid as one dead;
Her white throat with the golden head
    Like some torn lily flower.

We could do nothing, one and all
    How much we might beseech;

Her girlish blood had turned to gall:
Far lower than her body's fall
    Her soul had sunk from reach.

Her soul had sunk into a slough
    Of evil past repair.
The world had been against her; now
Nothing in heaven or earth should bow
    Her stubborn knees in prayer.

Yet I felt sorry all the same,
    And sometimes, when she slept,
With head and hands as hot as flame,
I watched beside her, half in shame,
    Smoothed her bright hair and wept.

To die like this--'twas awful, sir!
    To know I prayed in vain;
And hear her mock me, and aver
That if her life came back to her
    She'd live her life again.

Was she a wicked girl? What then?
    She didn't care a pin!
She was not worse than all those men
Who looked so shocked in public, when
    They made and shared her sin.

"Shut up, nurse, do! Your sermons pall;
    Why can't you let me be?
Instead of worrying o'er my fall,
I wish, just wish, you sisters all
    Turned to the likes of me."

I shuddered! I could bear no more,
    And left her to her fate;
She was too cankered at the core;
Her heart was like a bolted door,
    Where Love had knocked too late.

I left her in her savage spleen,
    And hoarsely heard her shout,

"What does the cursed sunlight mean
By shining in upon this scene?
    Oh, shut the sunlight out!"

Sighing, I went my round once more,
    Full heavy for her sin;
Just as Big Ben was striking four,
The sun streamed through the open door,
    As a young girl came in.

She held a basket full of flowers--
    Cowslip and columbine;
A lilac bunch from rustic bowers,
Strong-scented after morning showers,
    Smelt like some cordial wine.

There, too, peeped Robin-in-the-hedge,
    There daisies pearled with dew,
Wild parsley from the meadow's edge,
Sweet-william and the purple vetch,
    And hyacinth's heavenly blue.

But best of all the spring's array,
    Green boughs of milk-white thorn;
Their petals on each perfumed spray
Looked like the wedding gift of May
    On nature's marriage morn.

And she who bore those gifts of grace
    To our poor patients there,
Passed like a sunbeam through the place:
Dull eyes grew brighter for her face,
    Angelically fair.

She went the round with elf-like tread,
    And with kind words of cheer,
Soothing as balm of Gilead,
Laid wild flowers on each patient's bed,
    And made the flowers more dear.

At last she came where Nellie Dean
    Still moaned and tossed about--

"What does the cursed sunlight mean
By shining in upon this scene?
    Will no one shut it out?"

And then she swore with rage and pain,
    And moaning tried to rise;
It seemed her ugly words must stain
The child who stood with heart astrain,
    And large blue listening eyes.

Her fair face did not blush or bleach,
    She did not shrink away;
Alas! she was beyond the reach
Of sweet or bitter human speech--
    Deaf as the flowers of May.

Only her listening eyes could hear
    That hardening in despair,
Which made that other girl, so near
In age to her, a thing to fear
    Like fever-tainted air.

She took green boughs of milk-white thorn
    And laid them on the sheet,
Whispering appealingly, "Don't scorn
My flowers! I think, when one's forlorn,
    They're like a message, Sweet."

How heavenly fresh those blossoms smelt,
    Like showers on thirsty ground!
The sick girl frowned as if repelled,
And with hot hands began to pelt
    And fling them all around.

But then some influence seemed to stay
    Her hands with calm control;
Her stormy passion cleared away,
The perfume of the breath of May
    Had passed into her soul.

A nerve of memory had been thrilled,
    And, pushing back her hair,

She stretched out hungry arms half filled
With flower and leaf, and panting shrilled,
    "Where are you, mother, where?"

And then her eyes shone darkly bright
    Through childhood in a mist,
As if she suddenly caught sight
Of some one hidden in the light
    And waited to be kissed.

"Oh, mother dear!" we heard her moan,
    "Have you not gone away?
I dreamed, dear mother, you had gone,
And left me in the world alone,
    In the wild world astray.

"It was a dream; I'm home again!
    I hear the ivy-leaves
Tap-tapping on the leaded pane!
Oh, listen! how the laughing rain
    Runs from our cottage eaves!

"How very sweet the things do smell!
    How bright our pewter shines!
I am at home; I feel so well:
I think I hear the evening bell
    Above our nodding pines.

"The firelight glows upon the brick,
    And pales the rising moon;
And when your needles flash and click,
My heart, my heart, that felt so sick,
    Throbs like a hive in June.

"If only father would not stay
    And gossip o'er his brew;
Then, reeling homewards, lose his way,
Come staggering in at break of day
    And beat you black and blue!

"Yet he can be as good as gold,
    When mindful of the farm,

He tills the field and tends the fold:
But never fear; when I'm grown old
    I'll keep him out of harm.

"And then we'll be as happy here
    As kings upon their throne!
I dreamed you'd left me, mother dear;
That you lay dead this many a year
    Beneath the churchyard stone.

"Mother, I sought you far and wide,
    And ever in my dream,
Just out of reach you seemed to hide;
I ran along the streets and cried,
    'Where are you, mother, where?'

"Through never-ending streets in fear
    I ran and ran forlorn;
And through the twilight yellow-drear
I saw blurred masks of loafers leer,
    And point at me in scorn.

"How tired, how deadly tired, I got;
    I ached through all my bones!
The lamplight grew one quivering blot,
And like one rooted to the spot,
    I dropped upon the stones.

"A hard bed make the stones and cold,
    The mist a wet, wet sheet;
And in the mud, like molten gold,
The snaky lamplight blinking rolled
    Like guineas at my feet.

"Surely there were no mothers when
    A voice hissed in my ear,
'A sovereign! Quick! Come on!'--and then
A knowing leer! There were but men,
    And not a creature near.

"I went--I could not help it. Oh,
    I didn't want to die!

With now a kiss and now a blow,
Strange men would come, strange men would go;
    I didn't care--not I.

"Sometimes my life was like a tale
    Read in a story-book;
Our blazing nights turned daylight pale,
Champagne would fizz like ginger-ale,
    Red wine flow like a brook.

"Then like a vane my dream would veer:
    I walked the street again;
And through the twilight yellow-drear
Blurred clouds of faces seemed to peer,
    And drift across the rain."

She started with a piercing scream
    And wildly rolling eye:
"Ah me! it was no evil dream
To pass with the first market-team--
    That thing of shame am I.

"Where were you that you could not come?
    Were you so far above--
Far as the moon above a slum?
Yet, mother, you were all the sum
    I had of human love.

"Ah yes! you've sent this branch of May.
    A fair light from the past.
The town is dark--I went astray.
Forgive me, mother! Lead the way;
    I'm going home at last."

In eager haste she tried to rise,
    And struggled up in bed,
With luminous, transfigured eyes,
As if they glassed the opening skies,
    Fell back, sir, and was dead.

A MOTHER'S DREAM.

I.

II.

"My child, my child!" she cried; "now may
Our blessed Lord, whose hand doth stay
The wild-fowl on their trackless way,
        Thee guard and keep."

III.

IV.

Since you, my child, dwell far from me--
Dwell in the convent over sea;
All of you left to love Marie,
        Your darling dove."

V.

VI.

And o'er the hills so ashen gray
The wind was wailing far away,
Was wailing like a child astray
        Whose heart must break.

VII.

VIII.

Her eyes clear as a mountain rill,
Where the blue sky is lingering still;
Her rosebud lips the dove would bill
        For something sweet.

IX.

X.

Whence all the little birds did go--
And empty nest that's full of snow--
Let me take all the wail and woe,
        So she be blest.

XI.

XII.

Let not God light it, let no ray
Shine on it; let it turn away
Its face, because my sin must weigh
        Her down with shame.

XIII.

XIV.

Even to a Norman maid, who wrought
The blush-rose shells the tide had brought
To fairy toys which children bought
        Before my booth.

XV.

XVI.

Where, winged with spray and water-galls,
The headlong torrent leaps and falls
In thunder through its tunnelled walls,
        Streaked as with blood."

XVII.

XVIII.

The new-born babe, that in her grief
Bore her wrecked spirit such relief
As the dove-carried olive-leaf
        To Noah's eyes.

XIX.

XX.

Nor catch the faintest soil or stain,
Reared in the shadow of my pain!
How should a guilty mother train
        A guiltless child?

XXI.

XXII.

A voice was calling without words,
Touching her nature's deepest chords;
Drawing her, drawing her as with cords--
        She might not stay.

XXIII.

XXIV.

She flashed as in a shifting dream
Through flying town, o'er flowing stream,
Borne on by mighty wings of steam,
        Away, away.

XXV.

XXVI.

Within its cloistered walls apart
The Convent of the Sacred Heart
Rose o'er the noise of street and mart,
        Serenely still.

XXVII.

XXVIII.

And up the street and up the hill
Lisa walked fast and faster still,
Her sable shadow lengthening chill
        Across the snow.

XXIX.

XXX.

She faced a nun of aspect mild.
Like some starved wolf's her eyes gleamed wild:
"My child!" she gasped; "I want my child."
        And nothing more.

XXXI.

XXXII.

"Madame, far from the sinful crowd,
The maiden to the Lord you vowed;
There is no safeguard like a shroud--
        Your child is dead.

XXXIII.

XXXIV.

There in her coffin lay Marie,
Spotless as snow upon the lea,
Beautiful exceedingly:
        All's well! All's well!

A CARNIVAL EPISODE.

NICE, '87.

I.

II.

On the quays that I watched with the General's wife;
Such a merry-go-reeling of figures was rife,
Turning round to the tune of gay fiddle and fife,
    As if never a morning came after.

III.

IV.

Stood watching the swift constellations of light
That crackling flashed up on their arrowy flight,
Then spreading their fairy-like fires on the night,
    Fell in luminous rain on the ocean.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

My arms clung about her as when in affright
Wrecked men cling to spars in a tempest at night;
So madly I clung to her, crushed her with might
    To my heart which her heart made divine.

XIV.

XV.

All the blood in my body surged up to my brain,
And my heart seemed half bursting with passion and pain,
As I seized her slim hands--but I dropped them again!
    Ah! treason is mother to fear.

XVI.

XVII.

Then, with a clatter and boom as of thunder,
A beam crashed between us and drove us asunder,
And all things rocked round us, above us and under,
    Like a boat that is rocked on a tide.

XVIII.

XIX.

Poor babes in their bedgowns all piteously crying,
Tiles hurled from the housetops--all flying, all flying,
As I, wild with passion, implored her with sighing
    To fly with me now and for ever.

XX.

THE BATTLE OF FLOWERS.

I.

II.

Lilacs and lilies of the vale;
Yea, every flower that scents the gale
Yielded up incense to its day,
    Jeanne Ray! Jeanne Ray!

III.

IV.

And nosegays thrown up high in air,
Now hitting gray, now golden hair,
Now deftly caught upon their way,
    Jeanne Ray! Jeanne Ray!

V.

VI.

In that fair fight where flowers alone
By fairer flowers are overthrown?
Who shall be victor in this fray?
    Jeanne Ray! Jeanne Ray!

VII.

VIII.

They step along with heads held high,
And favours blue to match the sky:
They know theirs is the winning way,
    Jeanne Ray! Jeanne Ray!

IX.

X.

In spotless white with ribbons blue,
You look fresh from a bath of dew
That sparkles in the rising day,
    Jeanne Ray! Jeanne Ray!

XI.

XII.

So might a high-born dame perchance,
In days of tourneys and romance,
Have flung her glove into the fray,
    Jeanne Ray! Jeanne Ray!

XIII.

XIV.

Now see beside his orders rare
Your mignonette and maidenhair;
With just a nod you turn away,
    Jeanne Ray! Jeanne Ray!

XV.

XVI.

Remember in thy days of lust,
That fairest flesh must come to dust;
Then have some pity while you may,"
    Jeanne Ray! Jeanne Ray!

XVII.

XVIII.

Or would you only care to waste
Life's bounty in yet hotter haste?
For is the world not beauty's prey?
    Jeanne Ray! Jeanne Ray!

XIX.

XX.

How many deem you half divine,
Where amid bouquets you recline--
Proud beauty in the devil's pay,
    Jeanne Ray! Jeanne Ray!

XXI.

THE SONG OF THE WILLI.

I.

II.

III.

But I flit alone in the pitiless night,
    Unpitied, unloved, and unwed.

IV.

V.

I wore as I vied with the fleet-footed hours,
            Heigh-ho!
As I vied with the hours in dancing them down
    Till the stars reeled low in the sky,
And sweet came thy whispers as rose-leaves when blown
    About in the breeze of July.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

Now hollowly booming drums rumbled apace,
    Flashed sharp clatt'ring cymbals around,
And swung like loose leaves in a stormy embrace
    We whirled in a tumult of sound.

XI.

XII.

Were piling bleached linen as white as swan's feather
            My love!
Were weaving and spinning and singing aloud,
    While broidering my bride-veil of lace;
But the three fatal sisters they wove me my shroud,
    And death kissed me cold on the face.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

Full shines the fair moon on his beautiful face,
    He walketh like one in a trance;
Nay, is running like one who is running a race
    Against death, with his dead bride to dance.

XVI.

XVII.

Round thy face, round thy throat, I roll my dank tresses,
            My love!
"I hold thee, I hold thee! Eight nights, wan and weeping,"
    I wandered loud sobbing thy name!
"Thy lips are as cold as the snowdrift a-sweeping;"
    But thy breath soon shall fan them to flame!

XVIII.

XIX.

SCHERZO.

OH, beloved, come and bring
All the flowery wealth of spring!
Though the leaf be in the sere,
Icy winter creeping near;
Though the trees like mourners all
Standing at a funeral,
Black against the pallid air
Toss their wild arms in despair,
With their bald heads sadly bowed
O'er dead summer in her shroud.
Yea, though golden days be o'er,
If you enter at my door,
Spring, dear spring, will come once more.
There will break upon the night

That glad flash of dewy light
Which, like young love in a pet,
Once with sunny tears would wet
Many a wild-wood violet;
And the hyacinth will arise
In the April of your eyes.
Blossoms of the apple tree?
Rarer blossoms bloom for me
In the cunning white and red,
Most felicitously wed,
On your cheek. And then your brow--
Can a snow-white cherry-bough
Match its bland, unsullied hue,
Where, like threads of silky blue,
Little veins show here and there
Through broad temples where your hair,
Clustering, hangs a tender brown
Softer than the fluffy down
Which before the leaf in March
Beards the lime tree and the larch?

Shall I grieve because the rose,
The red rose, no longer blows,
Since all roses you eclipse
With the roses of your lips?
And what matter, O my sweet,
Though the genial light and heat
Have departed for a while!
Only let me see you smile,
Let me see that dulcet curve
Like a dimpling wavelet swerve
Round the coral of your mouth,
And the North will change to South:
To the happy South, whose clear
Light o'er-brimming atmosphere,
Flowing in at every pore,
Sets life glowing to the core.
You are light and life in sooth,
Fair as was that Grecian youth
Who in her cold sphere above
Drove poor Dian mad with love--

When she saw him where he lay,
White and golden like a spray
Of tall jonquils whose intense
Sweetness faints upon the sense;
When she saw him swathed in light,
Couched on the aërial height
Of hoar Latmos, hushed and warm;
While, to shield him from all harm,
Like a woman's rounded arm,
A fresh creeper wildly fair
Twined around his throat and hair.
And the goddess clean forgot
Her fair fame without a blot,
And untarnished reputation,
Free from faintest imputation
Of such frailties as the fair
Dwellers in Elysian air
Find recorded to their shame,
Chronicled with date and name,
In the annals of the skies.

She forgot in her surprise,
When her empyrean eyes
Saw Endymion where he lay
Slumbering, and she cast away
Her immortal honour, clear
As her own unclouded sphere,
For the palpitating bliss
Of a surreptitious kiss.

Oh, beloved, come and bring
All the flowery wealth of spring--
All its blossoms, buds, and bells,
And wind-coaxing violet smells--
All its miracle of grace
In the blossom of your face.

LYRICS.

LOVE'S SOMNABULIST.

LIKE some wild sleeper who alone at night
Walks with unseeing eyes along a height,
    With death below and only stars above;
I, in broad daylight, walk as if in sleep,
Along the edges of life's perilous steep,
    The lost somnambulist of love.

I, in broad day, go walking in a dream,
Led on in safety by the starry gleam
    Of thy blue eyes that hold my heart in thrall;
Let no one wake me rudely, lest one day,
Startled to find how far I've gone astray,
    I dash my life out in my fall.

A MEETING.

A TWILIGHT glow diffused on high
    Flushed all the autumn land beneath;
Like love that lights your azure eye,
    The pond's blue goblet on the heath
        Was brimful of the sky.

We met by chance, and heaven's rich hue
    Leaped to your face in rosy flame;
Ah, is it possible you knew
    The wild delight that filled my frame
        As I caught sight of you?

Ah, is it possible, my love,
    That your delight can equal mine?
Nay, then, the burning sky above
    Grows pale beside this bliss divine,
        And the deep glow thereof.

YOUR FACE.

ONLY A SMILE.

NO butterfly whose frugal fare
    Is breath of heliotrope and clove,
And other trifles light as air,
    Could live on less than doth my love.

That childlike smile that comes and goes
    About your gracious lips and eyes,
Hath all the sweetness of the rose,
    Which feeds the freckled butterflies.

I feed my love on smiles, and yet
    Sometimes I ask, with tears of woe,
How had it been if we had met,
    If you had met me long ago,

Before the fast, defacing years
    Had made all ill that once was well?
Ah, then your smiling breeds such tears
    As Tantalus may weep in hell.

SOMETIMES I WONDER.

SOMETIMES I wonder if you guess
The deep impassioned tenderness
    Which overflows my heart;
The love I never dare confess;
Yet hard, yea, harder to repress
    Than tears too fain to start.

Sometimes I ponder, O my sweet,
The things I'll tell you when we meet;
    But straightway at your sight
My heart's blood oozes to my feet
Like thawing waters in the heat,
    Confused with too much light.

I hardly know, when you are near,
If it is love, or joy, or fear
    Which fills my languid frame;
Enveloped in your atmosphere,
My dark self seems to disappear,
    A moth entombed in flame.

MANY WILL LOVE YOU.

MANY will love you; you were made for love;
For the soft plumage of the unruffled dove
    Is not so soft as your caressing eyes.
You will love many; for the winds that veer
Are not more prone to shift their compass, dear,
    Than your quick fancy flies.

Many will love you; but I may not, no;
Even though your smile sets all my life aglow,
    And at your fairness all my senses ache.
You will love many; but not me, my dear,
Who have no gift to give you but a tear
    Sweet for your sweetness' sake.

A DREAM.

ONLY a dream, a beautiful baseless dream;
        Only a bright
Flash from your eyes, a brief electrical gleam,
        Charged with delight.

Only a waking, alone, in the moon's last gleam
        Fading from sight;
Only a flooding of tears that shudder and stream
        Fast through the night.

ROSE D'AMOUR.

I PLANTED a rose tree in my garden,
    In early days when the year was young;
I thought it would bear me roses, roses,
    While nights were dewy and days were long.

It bore but once, and a white rose only--
    A lovely rose with petals of light;
Like the moon in heaven, supreme and lonely;
    And the lightning struck it one summer night.

SONNET.

EVEN as on some black background full of night,
    And hollow storm in cloudy disarray,
    The forceful brush of some great master may
More brilliantly evoke a higher light;
So beautiful, so delicately white,
    So like a very metaphor of May,
    Your loveliness on my life's sombre gray
In its perfection stands out doubly bright.

And yet your beauty breeds a strange despair,
    And pang of yearning in the helpless heart,
To shield you from time's fraying wear and tear
    That from yourself yourself would wrench apart;
How save you, fairest, but to set you where
    Mortality kills death in deathless art?

A PARTING.

THE year is on the wing, my love,
    With tearful days and nights;
The clouds are on the wing above
    With gathering swallow-flights.

The year is on the wing, my sweet,
    And in the ghostly race,
With patter of unnumbered feet,
    The dead leaves fly apace.

The year is on the wing, and shakes
    The last rose from its tree;
And I, whose heart in parting breaks,
    Must bid adieu to thee.

MY LADY.

LIKE putting forth upon a sea
    On which the moonbeams shimmer,
Where reefs and unknown perils be
To wreck, yea, wreck one utterly,
It were to love you, lady fair,
In whose black braids of billowy hair
    The misty moonstones glimmer.

Oh, misty moonstone-coloured eyes,
    Latticed behind long lashes,
Within whose clouded orbs there lies,
Like lightning in the sleeping skies,

A spark to kindle and ignite,
And set a fire to love alight
    To burn one's heart to ashes.

I will not put forth on this deep
    Of perilous emotion;
No, though your hands be soft as sleep,
They shall not have my heart to keep,
Nor draw it to your fatal sphere.
Lady, you are as much to fear
    As is the fickle ocean.

ON A VIOLA D'AMORE.

WHAT fairy music clear and light,
    Responsive to your fingers,
Swells rippling on the summer night,
    And amorously lingers
Upon the sense, as long ago
In days of rouge and rococo!

A century of silence lay
    On strings that had not spoken
Since powdered lords to ladies gay
    Gave, for a lover's token,

Fans glowing fresh from Watteau's art,
Well worth a marchioness's heart.

Your dormant music tranced and bound
    Was like the Sleeping Beauty
Prince Charming in the forest found,
    And kissed in loyal duty:
And when she woke her eyes' blue fire
Turned the dumb forest to a lyre.

Thus Amor with the bandaged eyes,
    Fit symbol of hushed numbers,
Most musically wakes and sighs
    After an age of slumbers:
Beneath your magic bow's control.
The Viol has regained her soul.

A CHILD'S FANCY.

"HUSH, hush! Speak softly, Mother dear,
So that the daisies may not hear;
For when the stars begin to peep,
The pretty daisies go to sleep.

"See, Mother, round us on the lawn;
With soft white lashes closely drawn,
They've shut their eyes so golden-gay,
That looked up through the long, long day.

"But now they're tired of all the fun--
Of bees and birds, of wind and sun
Playing their game at hide-and-seek;--
Then very softly let us speak."

A myriad stars above the child
Looked down from heaven and sweetly smiled;
But not a star in all the skies
Beamed on him with his Mother's eyes.

She stroked his curly chestnut head,
And whispering very softly, said,
"I'd quite forgotten they might hear;
Thank you for that reminder, dear."

LASSITUDE.

I LAID me down beside the sea,
Endless in blue monotony;
The clouds were anchored in the sky,
Sometimes a sail went idling by.

Upon the shingles on the beach
Gray linen was spread out to bleach,
And gently with a gentle swell
The languid ripples rose and fell.

A fisher-boy, in level line,
Cast stone by stone into the brine:
Methought I too might do as he,
And cast my sorrows on the sea.

The old, old sorrows in a heap
Dropped heavily into the deep;
But with its sorrow on that day
My heart itself was cast away.

SEEKING.

IN many a shape and fleeting apparition,
    Sublime in age or with clear morning eyes,
Ever I seek thee, tantalizing Vision,
        Which beckoning flies.

Ever I seek Thee, O evasive Presence,
    Which on the far horizon's utmost verge,
Like some wild star in luminous evanescence,
        Shoots o'er the surge.

Ever I seek Thy features ever flying,
    Which ne'er beheld I never can forget:
Lightning which flames through love, and mimics dying
        In souls that set.

Ever I seek Thee through all clouds of error;
    As when the moon behind earth's shadow slips,
She wears a momentary mask of terror
        In brief eclipse.

Ever I seek Thee, passionately yearning;
    Like altar-fire on some forgotten fane,
My life flames up irrevocably burning,
        And burnt in vain.

THE END.

(back)
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON AND BECCLES.

    

Works By Mathilde Blind.

• Poetry.
  • The Prophecy of Saint Oran, and other Poems.
  • The Heather on Fire.
  • The Ascent of Man.
• Prose Fiction.
  • Tarantella: A Romance.
• Monographs.
  • George Eliot.
  • Madame Roland.

(advertisement)
    

Opinions of the Press.

    

The Prophecy of Saint Oran, and Other Poems.

• "There is perhaps no phase of our history more capable of poetic treatment than the sainted lives of the Irish monks who first spread the Christian faith over the western shores of Scotland, and yet it would be difficult to point to a single representative poem having Saint Columba and the devoted band of his disciples for its heroes. An attempt at filling up this gap has recently been made by Miss Blind in a narrative poem devoted to the fate of St. Oran, the friend and disciple of St. Columba.... Apart from the sonorous beauty of her lines, there is in her diction a straightforwardness and simplicity, and an entire absence of affectation and false sentiment, which, combined with considerable power of characterization, make her volume a remarkable contribution to English literature." --Times, September 26, 1881
  .
• "To disturb the motif of a legend is always a bold, and mostly a rash proceeding.... And yet so skilfully is the story handled that the main incidents of the legend do not lose, but gain by this disturbance of the motif, and the character of Oran, which with the old motif could only have presented the single side of the religious enthusiast, becomes a character exhibiting that complexity which modern taste demands.... Directness of style and lucidity of narrative are the characteristic excellences of the poem. There are few contemporary poets who could have done so much dramatic business in so few lines.... In each of the sonnets there is a thought that is well expressed, and worth expressing." --Athenæum, July 30, 1881
  .
• "It is in the domain of character that the poem is distinguished by its highest excellence. There is an ideal statuesqueness embodied in the person of St. Columba such as is felt to possess a powerful appeal to the imagination. The poem embraces many passions, of which the most tender and beautiful finds expression in the exquisite creation of the radiant golden-haired girl for whose love St. Oran breaks his vow of chastity. But the really powerful contribution to our knowledge of character which this book contains is fittingly centred in St. Oran himself. A dramatic instinct of high order finds utterance in his struggles between opposing passions. Nor are the metrical excellences of the poem less conspicuous.... If one were in need of some single phrase by which to denote the ultimate effect produced by this book, one might say that it seems the most mature of all recent first efforts, even of established rank." --Academy, July 16, 1881
  .
• "In the choice of a subject for her chief poem she has been singularly fortunate.... That a story such as this is full of poetical suggestiveness is obvious, and Miss Blind has proved herself equal to the occasion. She has avoided writing anything approaching to a 'tendency poem.' She metes out justice with an equal hand to all her characters. The genuine enthusiasm and religious zeal of the monks are set forth in language as inspired as is the final protest of St. Oran against their narrow fanaticism; and one of the best passages in the book is indeed the Sermon in which St. Columba announces the Gospel of love and redemption to the islanders." --Pall Mall Gazette, August 22, 1881
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• "'The Prophecy of Saint Oran' is skilfully told and vigorously written. In the description of nature and scenery; in the delineation of character; and in the management of singularly difficult positions, there is visible a firm and practised hand, a bold and unmistakable power. 'The Street Children's Dance' not unworthily ranks with some of the touching pieces of Hood, Mrs. Barrett Browning, and others." --British Mail, September 1, 1881
  .
• "The only excuse for street music that can reasonably be considered valid is the touching plea for public toleration which is embodied in Miss Mathilde Blind's poem, wherein the spectacle of poor children dancing round an organ is as pathetically moralized and as tender and full of loving pity as Mrs. Browning's 'Cry of the Children.'" --Daily Telegraph, September 1, 1881
  .
• "The poem is rich in true description of sea and sky and mountain, and glows in sympathy with the deeper feelings which stir humanity. There has been published no poem of such creative suggestiveness as this for many a day, and we hope and believe that it is the precursor of other work by the same unfaltering hand. This poem is a true work of art, complete and beautiful. There is in the volume other work which shows a master's touch.... " --Manchester Examiner and Times, July 1, 1882
  .
• "Il y a là bien plus qu'une simple facilité de versification. Le récit du poeme d'ouverture est grand et fort, la manière de raconter est pleine de poésie et d'effet. Depuis la mort de Mrs. Barrett Browning, nous n'avons point eu de poésie aussi hautement inspirée qui ait jailli d'une source féminine." --Le Livre, Paris, October 10, 1881
  .

    

The Heather on Fire: A Tale of the Highland Clearances.

• "Miss Blind has produced one of the most noticeable and moving poems which recent years have added to our shelves.... As a singer with a message her attempt is praiseworthy, and her performance is fairly self-consistent. It is eminently homogeneous; the passion once felt, the inspiration once obeyed, the well-head pours forth its stream in a strong and uniform current, which knows no pause until its impulse ceases.... The story is pathetic at once in its simplicity and in its terror.... We congratulate the author upon her boldness in choosing a subject of our own time, fertile in what is pathetic, and free from any taint of the vulgar and conventional. Poetry of late years has tended too much towards motives of a merely fanciful and abstruse, sometimes a plainly artificial, character; and we have had much of lyrical energy or attraction, with little of the real marrow of human life, the flesh and blood of man and woman. Positive subject-matter, the emotion which inheres in actual life, the very smile and the very tear and heart-pang, are, after all, precious to poetry, and we have them here. 'The Heather on Fire' may possibly prove to be something of a new departure, and one that was certainly not superfluous." --Athenæum, July 17, 1886
  .
• "Miss Blind has chosen for her new poem one of those terrible Highland clearances which stain the history of Scotch landlordism. Though her tale is a fiction it is too well founded on fact.... It may be said generally of the poem that the most difficult scenes are those in which Miss Blind succeeds best; and on the whole we are inclined to think that its greatest and most surprising success is the picture of the poor old soldier Rory driven mad by the burning of his wife. In his frenzy he mixes up his old battles with the French and the descent of the landlord's ejectors upon the village." --Academy, August 7, 1886
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• "In this versified tale of Highland clearances, Mathilde Blind has, with genuine poetic instinct, selected a family the fortunes of which form the burden of her story.... Literature and poetry are never seen at their best save in contact with actual life.... This little book abounds in vivid delineation of character, and is redolent with the noblest human sympathy." --Newcastle Daily Chronicle, July 3, 1886
  .
• "A subject which has painfully preoccupied public opinion is, in the poem entitled 'The Heather on Fire,' treated with characteristic power by Miss Mathilde Blind. Irish evictions have offered so convenient a theme to party strife, that the sufferings of the unhappy Highland crofters have not always met with the compassion they were so well calculated to inspire. In eloquent and forcible verse, Miss Blind tells the tale of their wrongs, their resistance to the hard fate imposed upon them, and describes the bitter grief with which, 'Crowding on the decks with hungry eyes,
  Straining towards the coast that flies and flies,'
  those among them driven into exile look on the shores to which many bid an eternal farewell. Both as a narrative and descriptive poem 'The Heather on Fire is equally remarkable.' --Morning Post, July 30, 1886
  .
• "We are happy in being able to extend to the present poem a welcome equally sincere and equally hearty; for it is a poem that is rich not only in power and beauty but in that 'enthusiasm of humanity' which stirs and moves us, and of which so much contemporary verse is almost painfully deficient. Miss Blind does not possess her theme; she is possessed by it, as was Mrs. Browning when she wrote'Aurora Leigh.'... We can best describe the kind of her success by noting the fact that while engaged in the perusal of her book we do not say, 'What a fine poem!' but 'What a terrible story!' or, more probably still, say nothing at all, but read on and on under the spell of a great horror and an over-powering pity. Poetry of which this can be said needs no other recommendation, and, therefore, we need not unduly lengthen our review of 'The Heather on Fire'" --Manchester Examiner and Times, September 1, 1886
  .
• "There are charming pictures of West Highland scenery, in Arran apparently, and of the surroundings and conditions of Highland cottar life." --Scotsman, July 20, 1886
  .
• "In 'The Heather on Fire,' she exhibits a clearness and beauty of diction, a rhythmical correctness, a grace and simplicity of style which mark her out as no slavish follower of any poetic 'school,' but an unaffected and truthful expression of her own feelings.... Whatever the reader's opinion may be on the grievances which Miss Blind throws into such fierce light, he cannot fail to be pleased with her graceful tale, so gracefully and simply told." --Glasgow Herald, July 20, 1886
  .
• "Miss Mathilde Blind's poem is the tragic epic of the old evictions in the Highlands of Scotland. It is a strange fact that the general reader knows more about the siege of Troy, the Norman Conquest, and the Wars of the Roses than about such matters in the very history of our own days as the depopulation of the Highlands of Scotland by the landlords. The old story comes to the front just now by reason of the crofter agitation. In the preface to her fine and touching epic, and in the notes at the end, Miss Blind passes in review some of the facts of the eviction of the Glen Sannox people by the Duke of Hamilton in 1832, where, as she says, 'the progress of civilization, which has redeemed many a wilderness and gladdened the solitary places of the world, has come with a curse to these Highland glens, and turned green pastures and golden harvest fields once more into a desert.' The 'Heather on Fire' is a poem in four cantos--or 'Duans'--comprising about two hundred stanzas." School Board Chronicle, July 10, 1886
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• "It is written in a strain which must of necessity appeal to the sympathies of all grades of society, and at the same time it is eminently poetical, both in thought and rhythm." Western Antiquary, August, 1886
  .
• "A book like this forms an admirable corrective to the harsh and cold-blooded theories of such landlords as the Duke of Argyll on the rights of his class." --Cambridge Independent Press, August, 1886
  .
• "There is a sonorous beauty, a classic dignity and depth of pathos throughout her four cantos, and a vivid and thrilling description is given of the industrious hamlets, the contented, happy people, and the ruthless manner in which the evictions were effected by the stewards and ground-officers." --Elgin Courant, August, 1886
  .

    

Tarantella: A Romance.

• "The author of this two-volumed romance is favourably known by other works, and by the appreciative 'Life of George Eliot.' The strange effects of the bite of a tarantula spider, so firmly believed in by the Italian peasantry, and the marvellous power of musical enthusiasm, supply the motive of the story; and the characters are portrayed with great force, pathos, and a touch of homely humour." --Bookseller, Christmas, 1884
  .
• "Miss Blind may be congratulated on 'Tarantella,' her first novel. In the récit (as we have called it) of the musician, Emanuel Sturm, nearly all the interest of the book is concentrated. The violinist, poor and unknown, finds himself at Capri. Accident brings him, one evening, to a frightened group of women, one of whom has just been bitten by the tarantula, and, according to the popular superstition, he is implored to play, in order to drive the poison out of her. He refuses at first, but afterwards consents, and finding himself almost supernaturally inspired, plays an improvised 'Tarantella' throughout a whole stormy night, finally curing the girl. The tune thus strangely hit on spreads, and ultimately makes him famous, but the love he has conceived for his Antonella brings him almost as much misery as his music brings him fame." --Pall Mall Gazette, February 5, 1885
  .
• "Admiration of the delicate sketching now in vogue should not blind us to the very opposite kind of charm of which 'Tarantella' is full. Entirely poetical in conception (save that it is not written in metre), 'Tarantella' is more essentially a poem than many a narrative written in smooth and elegant verse.... 'Tarantella' is indeed full of strange originality and scenic effects of uncommon powers. The dance among the ruins is not likely to be soon forgotten by the most unimaginative of readers, and it is rarely, we think, that in an English novel the psychology of the poetic temperament has been touched by a hand so delicate and at the same time so strong." --Athenæum, January 17, 1885
  .
• "There is abundant imagination, and the language is generally fresh and vigorous.... The author finds many opportunities of introducing scenes from German life, which are evidently written with intimate knowledge.... This is distinctly a novel to read." --Echo, June 16, 1886
  .
• "This powerful and pathetic tale has carried us more completely out of ourselves and along with it than any work of fiction we have read for many a day.... Her (Miss Blind's) word-pictures glow with rich local colours; she is a complete mistress of the art of dramatic cause and effect. When once fairly under weigh, she never allows the interest to flag for a single moment. Thus it is only when we have laid down the final volume that we have time or inclination to

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  pause and recognize the care and art which have contributed to this triumphant result; to turn back... and dwell on the author's extraordinary knowledge of the human heart--extraordinary alike for its depth and its range. As for the wit and humour with which the book is freely sprinkled, the poetic and artistic spirit which pervades it throughout, they can only be appreciated on a second or a third perusal." --Life, December 25, 1884
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• "'Tarantella' is extremely clever, and the treatment of the weird subject she has chosen picturesque in the extreme. The local colouring is especially fine and her character studies extremely strong. Thrice welcome in its two-volume form, 'Tarantella' is a book bound to make its mark." --Whitehall Review, December 11, 1884
  .
• "We have very ingenious resources in music and the bite of the tarantula, which alone music is said to heal. Notwithstanding the sense of improbability, we follow the strange fortunes of Antonella, Countess Ogotshka, and her almost magical transformation with interest. Mina, the innocent girl, her friend, is well delineated, and Emanuel Sturm, the wonderful violinist and composer, for whose portrait Paganini has doubtless has been available, is original, no less than his friend the painter." --British Quarterly, January, 1885
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• "'Tarantella' is a very clever story, with plenty of action and not without tragic incidents. The author has also plenty of humour, and there is at least as much light as shade in the book. Mina is not less delightful than the Countess is objectionable, in spite of her beauty and her daring." --London Figaro, November 20, 1886
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• "We shall not spoil the story by hinting at its dénouement. It is a deeply interesting one; and the characters, three of them at least, are sufficiently original to give the author a high rank as a novelist.... The book abounds in striking and interesting pictures of Italian and German life and scenery." --Dublin Mail, November, 1886
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• "'Tarantella' is, indeed, a novel unlike the common--full of power and imagination and originality.... It would be unjust to deny to this very remarkable book a large share of what the world calls genius." --Melbourne Argus, March 14, 1885
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• "By her recent works, 'The Prophecy of Saint Oran' and the 'Life of George Eliot,' Miss Blind brought herself before the public as a writer of considerable ability, and her latest novel will do much to increase her reputation.... 'Tarantella' deserves to be classed among the best novels of the present day." --Scottish News, June 15, 1886
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• "There is an inherent charm about 'Tarantella' which will be apparent to the reader from a perusal of the first chapter. This agreeable quality does not end there, however. The whole of the tale, which is divided into forty-six chapters, is permeated with features of an exceptionally attractive description. Not the least noteworthy character of the story is its novelty. Most of the incidents, which are carefully elaborated and follow in logical sequence, are conspicuous for an airy freshness in nature and treatment. Every chapter has its specific purpose, there being a uniform overflow of idea and sentiment; and each development of the pleasing romance opens to the mental vision of the thoughtful reader incidents of a more or less engrossing description. Continental scenes and customs are described with freeness and perspicuity, and the varied and eventful adventures of the principal characters, pleasingly typical, it may be mentioned, of the romanticism invariably associated with 'love's young dream,' when, as in the present instance, there is a combination of youth and beauty--are recorded with a poetical fervour and gracefulness of diction which are certain to be generally admired." --Western Daily Press, June 2, 1886
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The Ascent of Man: Poems

• "Miss Blind traces the 'Ascent of Man' through successive stages, until first love, and then sorrow--which is love under another guise--lead us to the highest conception of human life we can hope to reach. It is a brave, sad, glorious story, told with inimitable skill, and as only a poet who knows man's heart, with its hopes, doubts, fears, aspirations, could possibly tell it.... The other poems in the volume are as excellent in their kind as those which give a title to it. The only difference between them is that one series is rich with human experience, and with the results of knowledge and of high thinking, while the other is all aglow with the fresh delights of the outdoor world. These delights find an almost perfect expression.... A reviewer who is so fortunate as to light on a book like this, lays it down with regret, and fears that he has not said of it all that it deserves should be said. That is my feeling; and, lest I should have omitted any note of praise that ought to be sounded, I should like to add, by way of suggestion to all lovers of poetry--and I hope they are still many--that here is truly a book that is worth the loving." --Academy, June 15, 1889
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• "The effort which Miss Blind has made is one deserving of high praise. From Chaos to Kosmos she hurries her reader along, breathless and perspiring perhaps, but never anxious to stop. We have known her book to be read on the Underground Railway, and the reader to be so absorbed in its contents as to be carried unawares several stations past his destination.... Miss Blind's gift of song is genuine, and her imagination powerful.... When all is said and done, 'The Ascent of Man' remains a remarkable poem, and cannot fail to increase its author's reputation as a brilliant and original writer." --Athenæum, July 20, 1889
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• "There is a fine elevation of tone, and there is a splendid mastery of diction, well sustained from the beginning to the end.... The poems are unquestionably very beautiful." --School Board Chronicle, June 8, 1889
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• "Miss Blind has already a place of honour among poets, and this striking volume will make it sure. There is nothing weak or unreal about her verse, and there is much force of thought, sympathy for all, and burning scorn of luxurious vice." --Liverpool Mercury, June 19, 1889
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• "One of the advanced minds of the day is Mathilde Blind. I have at my side her latest book, 'The Ascent of Man.' The poems are all earnest and high pitched in tone--they are human.... Every line comes from a heart full of life's unutterable woes, of hope's faint, half-believing monitions." --Cheltenham Examiner, June 19, 1889
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• "To Miss Blind belongs the honour of having been the first to seriously render Charles Darwin and Herbert Spencer into verse on anything like a bold and comprehensive scale. 'The Ascent of Man' is a really remarkable poem. Its main conception is even noble, its manner of execution is brilliant and vigorous, and it abounds in passages which prove Miss Blind to possess the true poetic faculty." --Wit and Wisdom, August 3, 1889
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• "In her last published volume of poems, 'The Ascent of Man,' Miss Blind has revealed qualities of imagination, enthusiasm, and strength, which place her high indeed among women writers of the day." --Echo, August 8, 1889
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• "Miss Blind has already proved herself to be no ordinary writer of verse, and her new volume will add to her reputation. 'The Ascent of Man' is a philosophical poem, challenging comparison by its subject with the great work of Lucretius, and inevitably suggesting some of the finest passages of Tennyson." --Manchester Examiner, May 18, 1889
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• "That Miss Blind's volume shows signs of poetic power no careful reader can for a moment doubt." --Literary World, June 14, 1889
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• "Miss Blind is an accomplished authoress, and a verse-maker of remarkable skill. There is plenty of suggestion, as well as a good deal of brilliant, forcible, and easy colouring, in 'The Ascent of Man." --Star, June 17, 1889
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• "This is a powerful but unequal poem: but the task set to herself by the author was such a mighty one, that, even had her success been far less than it is, she might well be proud.... This volume will considerably enhance Miss Blind's reputation as a poetess." --Lady's Pictorial, June 28, 1889
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• There are some fine passages, elevated in conception and felicitous in expression.... The volume, as a whole, is a considerable advance on Miss Blind's previous poetic work, and should give much pleasure to all thoughtful and cultivated readers." --Globe, May 22, 1889
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• "The chief merit of this fine poem is that it treats from the transcendental point of view certain conceptions and theories of life which modern science has shown us under another aspect." --St. James's Gazette, June 16, 1889
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• "'The Ascent of Man' is a volume of verse which marked by much grace of diction. In her 'Poems of the Open Air,' Miss Blind is specially successful. Though a thousand poems have taken us into the gardens and fields ere now, we gladly return to them with her." --British Weekly, July 12, 1889
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• "Her descriptions of the early struggles for existence are powerful and picturesque in a high degree." --Pall Mall Gazette.
• "Has merit of no common order, due, perhaps, as much to the author's wide human sympathy as to her poetical gifts." --Morning Post.
• "The doctrine and tendencies of present-day thought are endowed with fascinating poetic form in Miss Mathilde Blind's 'Ascent of Man.'.... She encircles grave Science with an aureole, and illuminates his grey technical pages with rainbow tints and emblazoned designs." --Watt's Literary Guide.
• "This new volume is another testimony to the sterling character of Miss Blind's poetic talent. Technically the verse-workmanship is masterly; the verse is sonorous and well balanced, the diction simple and unaffected, and the style marked by the essential quality of distinction." --Women's Penny Paper.
• "'The Ascent of Man' opens with lines which, in their vigour and rhythmic sweep, recall the most resonant passages of Lucretius." --The Scottish Leader.

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