FROM THE LIBRARY OF REV. LOUIS FITZGERALD BENSON. D. D. BEQUEATHED BY HIM TO THE LIBRARY OF PRINCETON THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY f^Sf POEMS. POEMS. FEEDERICK TVILLIAM FABEE, D.D. Amico, io vivenclo cercava conforto Nel monte Parnasso : Tti, meglio consigliato, cercalo Kel Calvario. Chiahrera's Epitaph at Savona. SECOND EDITION. LONDON : THOMAS RICHARDSON AND SON, 147, STRAND. MDCCCLYII. PREFACE. In republishing a selection from poems, written some of tliem more than twenty years ago, and many of which have been in print more than sixteen years, I have been guided by the judgment of those to whose opinion I should naturally defer. It appears also that there is now a demand for the volumes, which have for some time been out of print. If I did not hope that with many readers, especially the young, the publication would answer a higher end than literary pleasure, and that the poems would, in their place and degree, co-operate with the more serious and religious works, Avhich the public has received with so much kindness, I should shrink from a re-issue of them. But if the glory of God should be promoted to ever so small an amount by this volume, I confess it will be also an additional pleasure to myself, that the labour and energy of past years should not have been altogether wasted, so far as that one end is concerned, to which alone I have a rio^ht to devote myself, and whose sole interest and importance grow with growing age, the know- ledge and love of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. F. AY. Faber. The Oratory. London. Eve of SS. Peter and Paul. 1856. COXTEXTS. Preface, .. Prelude to the StjTian Lake, .. 1. The Styrian Lake. 1. The Lake, 2. The Legend, .. 3. Church Matins, 4. Margaret's Pilgrimage, 5. Earth's Vespers, 2. Tlie CherM^ellWater-lilv, 3. Memorials of a Happy Time. 1. The Meeting, .. 2. The Lesson, 3. The Vision, 4. The Teacher, .. 5. Tlie Two Rivers, 6. The Younger Rirer, [The Rothay,] 7. The Elder River, [The Brathay,] 8. The Preparation, 9. The Wheels. ., .* 10. The Glimpse, .. 11. The Perplexity, 12. The Complaint, 13. The Voice, 14. The Temple, .. 15- The Priest, 16. The Humiliation, 17- The Haunted Place Revisited, 18. A Dream, ^ The Mourner's Dream, arising from a impression of a friend's death in 1 T. The Ruined Harbour, 2. The Voyage, .. 3. The World's Edge, I • 3 .. • 5 9 . 16 . 28 • 33 • U 48 . 49 • • . 49 . 50 50 51 • 51 52 52 53 53 54 54 55 •• 55 56 • • 55 57 strange and distressing a foreign country. 58 •• 59 62 •• 67 vim CON^ TEXTS. 5. The Dream of King Croesus, .. .. ..81 6. The Senses, .. .. .. .. •• 97 7. A Westmoreland Hamlet, .. .. .. .. 108 8. On Revisiting the Paver Eden, in Westmoreland, 1836, .. 113 9. The Knights of St. John, .. .. ^ .. .. T15 10. Heidelberg Castle, .. .. .. ..125 11. The Isis, .. .. .. .. ..131 12. Hope. .. .. .. .. .. .. 133 13. Ash- Wednesday, .. .. .. .. ..135 14. Easter Communion, .. .. .. .. 137 15. The Signs of the Times, .. .. .. .-139 16. Oxford in Spring, .. .. .. .. .. 140 17. Oxford in Winter, .. .. .. .. ..142 18. St. Mary's at Night, .. .. .. ..145 19. College Chapel, .. .. .. .. .. 147 20. College Hall, .. .. ., .. ..147 21. College Garden, .. .. ., .. .. 14S 22. College Library, .. .. .. .. ..148 23. Absence from Oxford, (I ) .. .. .. .. 149 24. Absence from Oxford, (2 j .. .. .. .. 149 25. The Beginning of Term, .. .. .. .. 150 26. Christ- Church Meadow, .. .. .. .. 15J 27. All Saints' Day. 1. The Gathering of the Dead, ,.. .. .. 157 2. The Middle Home, .. .. .. .. 159 28. The Storm is Past, .. .. .. .. 162 29. 'Tis when Ave Suffer, .. .. .. ..164 30. The Holy Angels .. . .. .. .. 166 31. The Life of the Living, .. .. .. .. 169 32- The Mountains .. .. .. .. .. 172 33. The Pic-Nic, .. .. .. ■ .. .. 177 34. My Godson's Baptism, .. .. .. .. 178 35. Bii'th-Day Thoughts, June z8, 1838. The Feast of St. Trenaeus. The Vigil of St. Peter. The Coronation of Queen Victoria 180 36. Birthday Thoughts, at a Grave in Somersetshire, 1839, .. 183 37. A Lesson from the Ferns, . . .. .. .. 184 38. A Dream after an Argument with a Friend, • ■ . . 187 39. I knew Three Sisters, Avho by Haunted Ptills, .. ..187 40. Some fall in Love with Voices, some with Eyes, .. . . 188 41. Castle-Hill, Keswick, . .. .. .. '..188 42. Furness Abbey, .. .. .. .. .. 191 43. On the Heights near Devoke Water. August 7, 1838, .. 191 44.. The Groves of Penshurst, .. .. .. ..192 45. The Iconoclast, .. .. .. .. ..192 46. Three Happy Days, .. .. .. .-193 47. Stern Friend, .. .. .. .. .. i94 48. To a Little Boy, .. .. .. .. .. 196 CONTENTS. IX PAGE 49. Verses sent to a Friend, with a Book, .. 197 50. Written in a Little Lady's Little Album, .. .. 198 51. The Mediterranean Sea* .. 199 52. Heaven and Earth, .. 199 53. A Farewell, Sept. 8, 1838, . . 2CO 54. A Conversation near Rydal, Sept. 8, 1838, .. -01 55. Green Bank, Sept. 12, 1838, .. . ■ 202 56. Admiration of Nature, . 203 57. To a Bookish Friend, .. 204 58. King's Bridge, . 204 59. To a Friend, . 209 60. To a Friend, . 209 61. Favourite Books, .. .. 210 62. To a Sanguine Friend, .. 2TO 63. April Mornings, . 211 64. To a Friend, .. 213 65. Llynsyvaddon, .. 213 66. Childhood, .. 2t6 67. Ross Churchyard, . . . 2t8 68. The Feast of the Invention of the Holy Cross, . 219 69. Ambitious Repentance, . 221 70. To a Lake Party, .. . 224 71. Cambridge, . 225 72. Tast Friends, . 227 73. Sonnet- Writing. To F. W. F. . 227 74. The Saying of St. Hermas, . 228 75. College Life, . 230 76, On a Pupil's Portrait, . 230 77. England's Trust. .. . 231 78. Thirlmere, • 232 79. Lent, . 235 80. Half a Heart, • 237 81. The Litany, . 239 82. France, . 240 83. Two Faiths, . 247 84. Proud Poets, . 247 85. Aged Cities, . 248 86. Unkind Judging, . 243 87. Admonition, . 249 88. Grisedale Tarn, • 249 89. Larch Trees, . 253 90. Written in a Green- House, . 253 91. Brathay Bridge, . 254 92. The Brathay Kingfisher, . 254 93. Loughrigg, • 255 94. The World's Wake, . 259 95. In-doors and out-of-doors. . 259 CONTEXTS. 96. 97. 98. 99. 100. loi. 103. 103. 104. 105. 106. 107. 108. 109. no. III. 112. 113. 114. 115. 116. 117. 118. 119. 120. I2r. 122. 123. 124. 125. 126. 127. 128. 129. 130- 131- 133, 133. 134. 135. 136. 137. Scenery Hunting, To a Pupil, Ricliard's Tree, Waterpark, Coniston, The Death of Richard's Tree, Waterpark Written in Conway Castle, Old- Fashioned Houses. For a Lady fond The Menai Bridge, . . Church Postures, . . Snowdon, in the Pass of Llanberis, Nights for Poets, . . Softly the Ships do Sail. To my Mother Welsh Valleys, The Four Religious Heathens. 1. Herodotus, 2. Xicias, 3. Socrates, 4. Seneca, Vale Crucis Abbey, On PiCceiving a Letter from a Friend, after respondence, .. Up a Stream or Down, To the Memory of a Town-Pent Man, In the Scheldt, To my Indian Sister, Sunlight and Moonlight, The Echo on Oxenfell. A Moral. Carl Ritter, To a Married Friend, (i) To a Married Friend, (2) The Winter River, .. Written during Illness at Constantinopl Where the Pinewoods Wave, . . A Spring Lesson, .. Christ the Way, The Easter Guest, . . The One Want, Rydal Vale, (I) ,. Eydal Vale, (2) .. The Wounded Lamb, A Cottager's Child, Sunday, . . The Earth's Heart. To my Mece, My World, On a Child, who Suffered from Fits, The Dog, The Sno^^7 Mountain. A Domestic Poem, To Little Alice, Coniston, of Old Furniture, an interrupted cor PAGE 260 260 261 261 262 262 263 263 264 264 266 CONTENTS. xi PAGE 138. The Ascent of Helvellyn. April 28, 1842. Having ascended rarnassus the same day in the preceding year, .. 351 139- The Poet's Workshop, .. 361 140. I have Wild Moods, .. 3'n 141. An Epistle to a Member of Parh'araent, .. .. 3^>5 142. The Future. To my Brother Edward, .. .. 371 143- To a Friend in Public Life, . . .. 374 144 Ennerdale, .. 377 145. A Letter to a Friend, .. 379 146. The Easter Violets,.. .. 384 147. The Last Palatine, •• 3S7 148. The Ruined Cottage, .. 393 149. TheRothay, .. 397 150. English Hedges, . . .. 402 151- Mountain Tarns, . . .. 405 152. Our Thoughts are Greater than Ourselves, .. 409 153- I Feel a Change, . . .. 4TO 154- Effusion on Hearing of a Friend's Death from Malaria at Naples, 410 155. The Contrast, .. 414 156. Once More Amid the Alder Trees, .. 417 157. A Vision of Bright Seas, .. 421 158. The Year after Travelling, .. 425 159- Genoa, .. .. 425 i6o. Names of Good Omen. Therapia on the Bosphorus, .. 428 i6i. A Day upon the Euxine Sea, . . .. 431 162. The Plains of Hungary, .. 434 163. The Raft from Linz, .. 441 164. The Heiress of Gosting, .. 444 165. The Yellow-Hammer, , .. 453 166. Bamberg, •■ 457 167. The Daily Tree, . . .. .. 461 168. To my Reader, .. .. 466 169. TheCherwell. A Descriptive Poem, .. 467 170. On the Ramparts at Angouleme, .. 488 171. The Old French Telegraphs, . . .. .. 489 172. Constantinople, or New Rome. From the Hill above the Mosque ofEyoub, .. .. 490 173. A Cold Day in May, .. 499 174. The Four Gospels, . . .. 501 175. The Church Dial, . .. 503 176. To the Rothay when its course was changed and the writer was about to leave its neighbourhood, . . ., .. 505 177. Thoughts wliile Reading History. I. The Present, (i) ,. .. 5t6 2. The Present, (2) , , .. 517 3. Use of the Past, , , .. 5J7 4. Chivalry, .. .. 518 xu CONTENTS. 178. 5. Roman Influences, 6. Chivalrous Times, (i) 7. Chivalrous Times, (2) 8. Chivalrous Times, (3) 9. Belgian Towns, (i) ic, Belgian To^vns, (2) 11. Belgian Towns, (3) 12. The Crusades, 13. Our Lady in the Middle Ages, 14. The Poor in the Middle Ages, (i) 15. The Poor in the Middle Ages, (2) 16. The Papacy, .. 17. Petrarch and Luther at Rome, 18. The Humiliation of Henry IV. at Canossa, 19. Rienzi at Avignon, 20. Ordeals, Prince Amadis. A Biography, PAGE .. 518 519 519 520 520 -. 521 521 5-^ 522 523 523 52+ 524 525 525 526 527 PEEFACE. Blame not my verse if echoes of church bells "With every change of thought or cbeam are twining, Fetching a murmuring sameness from the fells, And lakes, and rivers with their inland shining. And marvel not in these loose driftinoj times If anchored spirits in their blythest motion Dip to their anchors veiled witliin the ocean. Catching too staid a measure for their rhymes. An Age comes on, which came three times of old,* "WTien the enfeebled nations shall stand still To be by Christian science shaped at will ; And the fresh Church, rejecting heathen mould, Shall draw her types from Europe's middle night, Well-pleased if such good darkness be her light. F. W. R * The end of the fourth, the beginning of the thirteenth, and the end of the sixteenth Centuries. PEELUDE TO THE STYEIAN LAKE. A SINGLE DAY ! A Single nook of earth ! O how the heart doth magnify all things Embraced within her soft and shadowy rings ! What a huge niche to shrine a single mii^th, A joy obscm*e as is the Styrian lake, Vague as the odorous breath of pinewood brake I — Priest of a sylvan chapel, I would call The world-worn pilgrim hither to take breath, Joming in this my weekday ritual. Of nature mixed and our most holy Faith. If it be worth no more, at least it gives Sweet proof how full the green earth is of glee : My days are all Hke this ; so let it be A sample of the life a poet Hves. F.W.F. THE AXXUXCIATION ^ OF OUP. BLESSED L.A_DY. I. THE STYEIAX LAKE. 1. THE LAKE. Where the Stpian mountains rise Close to Mariazell, lies Bulged in a pinewood brake A most beautiful green lake. Lizard's back is not so green As its soft and tremulous sheen ; Hermit's home on Athos' hill Cannot be a place more still. Blissful Covert I there is not Like that Styrian lake a spot That I know bj land or sea, Whose unsleeping memory- Works so potently in me. 'Tis good to have a nook of earth To be Tvith us in our mirth, And to set a haunt apart To be household in the heart, A local shrine, whence gentle sorrow Hope and soothing thought may borrow ; And which may be every hour In the light, or shade, or shower, THE STYRIAX LAKE. Or the stillness, or the ^nd, Or the sunset, as the mind "Would the light Tritliin should vary, A true mental sanctuary. "WTiat may hallow grief, but thought And soft feeling closely ^vrought ? For the heart, which in its pain Can the outer world disdain. And the kind earth which we tread, How shall it be comforted ? And that pensive being, mirth, If it be untied fi^om earth, Is a wanton, dreamy thing, Like a pine-tree's murmuring. St}Tia is a wondi'ous land. Special work of beauty's hand, "Wliere amidst the tranquil pines Many a green lake meekly jsliines, And upon its bosom glasses All the slumberous dark masses From the mighty firwoods thrown, And white steep, and sunny cone. For the forest murmm-ings. And for lawnhke openings T\Tiere in shady belts of trees IvTestle the lone tillages. For sweet brooks and ruined halls And romantic waterfalls. And a coloming so bright That the land is green by night. And for echoes waking round "WTien the convent bell shall sound, For unwonted woodland grace Styria is a wondrous place : THE STYRIAN LAKE. 1 And it IS the nook of earth That is Tsdth me in mj mirth, A real Eden, whence I borrow Food for song and calm for sorrow. Most I love that placid lake. Buried in the pinewood brake. There the little pool is laid Quiet in the lisping shade, Mountain water in a cup To the blue skies looking up, With the bubbles brightly beading All the gleamj surface, speeding Up like silver fish where'er Earthy springs mount to the air. There the Httle pool was laid Quiet in the pinewood shade, "Wlien the Eoman hosts were come To these woods of JSToricum. Emperors rose and tribunes fell. Earth was governed ill or well ; There was famine, there was war. And sedition's dreadful jar. And man's lot became so dreary That the earth grew old and weary. Were it not for her free mirth Men would make a slave of earth. But this way there came no breath Of calamity or death. They pierced not through the pinewood brake To the httle Styrian lake. All the changes which it saw Were by the harmonious law And the sweetly pleading reasons Of the four and fair-tongued seasons. THE STYRIAN LAKE. Pearly da^m and hazy noon, And the yellow-orbed moon, And the purple midnight, came Through those very years the same. The lake had all its o^vn free will. So it was translucent still ; For the summer day was fair. When the white -banked clouds were there. And the bright moths in the air ; And the thunder cleared away For the evening's slanting ray, And the thrushes in the rain Sanor with all their might and main To the young ones in their home : "\Miat recked they of mighty Eome ? Xot a moth or bii\l did shine Brighter there for Constantine. Blessed earth ! O blessed lake ! Shut within thy pine wood brake, Angels saw thee in thy glee. Of the Koman Empfre fr-ee ! Then romantic days came on : Katiire still as calmly shone On the fragrant pinewood shade Where the Styrian lake was laid. Earl with belt and knight with spur, These made no unwonted stir In the green and glossy deep, Nor woke the echoes from the steep. And if ever highborn maid To the river did unlade Her sad heart of fr'eight of love, When could songs hard fortune move ? Yet the stream forgot the wail / Ere it passed the sunken vale, THE STYRIAN LAKE. "^Miere the little tremulous lake Sparkles in the hollow brake. And the merry hunting-horn, Speaking in the cold white mom, Bore not on its rinoinor breath Tidings of the newborn Faith. Yet methinks 'twere not unmeet To beheve a trouble sweet, Like a new soul, found its road Into that retired abode. Somewhat of a murmming Through the pine-boughs ^-ibrating, "WTien they caught the harmless swell Of the earliest convent bell. If sound hare one human bii'th Blending wholly with the earth, Eising, growing, near or far, AVith no other sound at war, "Wliich can sorrow or rejoice Like a natural earthbom voice. Natural as the breezes blowing. Pastoral as the oxen lowing, 'Tis the undulating swell Of the woodland abbey beU. 2. THE LEGEXD. So eleven ages fled Since the Lord rose from the dead. Maker of this Httle lake. Moth and bii^d and pinewood brake, 10 THE STYRIAN LAKE. To redeem the sons of earth And give to them a better birth, Xot ^thout the element From the earth's own bosom sent, Thus to heighten and to bless Our old mother's loveliness, From her sm-faee to unweave All the ravelled web wliich Eve, Xame her with a tender thought ! Hath o'er field and forest ^vrought. To emich her with a dower Of true sacramental power. Xot without her blameless gifts Jesus her lost chikben Hfts To a nature all di™e, Better, dearest earth ! than thine. So eleven ages passed, '\Miile the pines their shadow cast. Making summer noonday cool By the green sequestered pool. Hither for the love of Mary Came a gentle Missionary, AYith an image of black wood From an ancient limetree hewed. Shaped for her, the Mother mild. Blessed Mary with her Child. With the Image to the dell Came the gift of mii^acle, Shrined within a sylvan Cell. Far away mid cultured bowers Rose St. Lambert's convent towers. The martyred Saint, who bravely stood Against King Pepin ; and his blood. THE STYRIAX LAKE. 11 By the lewd Alpais slain, Ran in Liege street like rain. Out from yon Cistercian home This kind -mannered Monk hath come With St. Mary and her ChHd So to hallow the green wild. Is'ot the moon when she o'ertops Lofty Seeberg's ragged copse, Clearing all the dusky pine, In the starry sky to shine, Hunting with her arrowy beam Open spots in Salza's stream, "WTiere at times it may emerge Scarce beyond the forest's verge, Not the stealthy breath of spring Up the woodlands murmuring, Drawing after it a veil Of thin green across the dale, Like an Angel's robe behind, StiU, or stirred by odorous wind : Not so welcome, moon or spring. For the quiet gifts they bring ; Advents though they be of bHss, They bear not a boon like this, Elessed Mary and her Son Deep into the woodlands gone. One poor monk, a beadsman lowly, With gilt vessels rude but holy. And a power of miracle Shed into the whispering dell. Lodged within and screened apart In the forest's dusky heart. Kow amid the woodmen ni^h D Marriage is a bhssful tie, 12 THE STYRIAX LAKE. And around the infant's birth Is a light of Cliristian nui^th, And the monk can breathe a breath On the anxious face of death. Life is dra^^ivn witliin a ring Of most peaceful hallowing. To the Mother and the Maid These rude men their breasts unlade, Seeking to her Son for aid. Like the valley's evening mist By the pensive sunset kissed, Charities and virtues rise With all household sanctities, "VThile meek hymns and praises flow From the hermitage below ; And the little bell is rung "WTien the blessed Mass is sung, AU, a blameless incense, given From the pinewoods into Heaven, From the shaggy Styrian dell Of St. Mary of the CeU. Thou wert not unstirred, dear lake ! Though perchance thou didst not wake From the sleep wherein the wind Doth thy green depths seem to bind, Sighing sweetly, softly, sadly. Sighing sometimes almost gladly, As the pinetree only sighs. Maker of earth's elegies : Thou wert not unstirred that day, "When upon thy marge at play First a Christian child was seen, "WTiite as snowwreath on a green, Pure as nature's self, and bright "With a more abounding light. THE STYRIAN LAKE. 13 Let tlie gentle memory Of the plain monk honoured be, He who for the love of Mary Hither came a missionary, A devout and nameless being To the Styrian forests fleeing, To baptize the woodmen rude In this shady solitude. And to add a better mirth To the glory of the earth. Holy monk ! thy good deeds shine Above peer or palatine, Gleaming through the crowded past With a radiance calm and chaste, Like a steady, pensive star, By itself, and brighter far Than the sparkling ruddy ring Round the name of some old king. Yet thy quiet name is gone In the shadow of some throne. Lost amid the jewelled throng. All embalmed in unwise son^f. Let the pageant pass away, There is thy domestic ray ; There art thou — -a lily-flower In a most unthought-of bower. Or a very fragrant tree, "Which we smell but cannot see, Buried in the tangled wood, Scenting all the neighbom^hood. Thou, a man of simple ways, Never could'st have joyless days ; Thou, a man of simple wants, Must have loved the sylvan haunts. 14 THE STYRIAN LAKE. Ever to thj spiiit stealing With a touch of heavenlj feeling. Oft I doubt not by this lake, Forcing through the pinewood brake, Thou didst spend the twihght dim, Chanting some rough latin hymn, Halloaing the evening air With devout half- spoken prayer. Mists upon the mighty hills And the alder-belted rills, Chirping bii^d and lowly flower, And the rainbow in the shower, And the air when it receives Incense fi^om the withered leaves. And the pinetrees in the sun, And the green lake at the noon Imaging the empty moon, ^^Tiose unfi'eighted orb is white For the lack of yellow light ; — Like the Church whose Lord must go Ere she can reflect the glow Of His glory, deep and vast, In her bridal bosom cast. So the moon all day must bide For an evening AMiitsuntide : — AM this common tranquil round. This sweet ring of sight and sound, Did of old belong to thee, And to-day belongs to me ; And it soothed thy wrinkled brow And thy heart thou knew'st not how. Ah kind-mannered monk ! I seem. As in some strong-featured dream, To come nigh and spend an hour With thee in tliis Stpian bower; THE STYRIAN LAKE. So much hath the bUssful thought Of thy doings in me wrought. Centuries are yielding things : Unity of spirit brings Land to land, and year to year, And old generations near. Thus I walk o'er this green land Through the forests hand in hand With the simple Missionary, T^Tio for love of Mother Mary AVas content apart to dwell "With her Image in his cell. And thus for full a hundred years Simple joys and simple fears Compassed some Cistercian brother, Beadsman to the blessed Mother ; Till it chanced that far away In the drear Moravia, Margrave Henry dreamed a dream, Where the Mother-Maid did seem To heal him of his sore disease In a cell amid green trees. And the visionary hnes, Pictured Styria's rocks and pines, And the Margi^ave saw the lake. And the open pinewood brake. So he came with trusting soul. And St. Mary made him whole. Costly Church with tower and bell Eises in the sylvan dell. Arching o'er the antique cell. Now in long and gorgeous Hne Emperors crowd unto the shrine. 15 16 THE STYRIAN LAKE. Peers and ladies and proud longs Kiieel there with their offerings ; Silken banners, bright and brave, Through the dusky piuewoods wave, And the peasants of far lands Come with wild flowers in their hands,- All come here to Mary's haunt With a sorrow or a want. Yet I ween the shaggy dell Witnessed worthier miracle, When the woodmen of the place Were transformed by inward grace ; And from their wild manners grew Flowers that feed on heavenly dew ; And soft thoughts and gentle ways Could beguile their rugged days. Love of Mary was to them As the very outer hem Of the Saviour's priestly vest, "WTiich they timorously pressed, And whereby a simple soul flight for faith's sake be made whole. 3. CHUECH ^lATIXS. Oh how beautiful was dawn On the Styrian mountain lawn, 'V^Tien the lights and shadows lay Where the night strove with the day ! From my window did I look Upon Salza's glimmering brook. THE STYRIAX LAKE. 17 And the valley dark and deep, And the ponderous woods asleep ; And I saw the little lake Like a black spot in the brake. And the silver crescent moon Of the greenwood month of June, Hanging o'er a mountain top Seemed her do^vnward course to stop, And to look around in wonder At the landscape brightening under. In the sky there was a light "WTiich was not a birth of night, A stealthy streak, and pearly pale, Like a white transparent veil; And there came a chilly breeze, Like the freshness of the seas. As though hills and woods on high Xow were breathing hea-\ily ; And among the woodlands ^vide Here and there a wild bii^d cried. "V^Tiere the dewy alders grow I could hear the oxen low ; But the echo that did follow "Was a sound more dead and hollow Than the leaping voice that fills Dayhght skies and dayhght hills. On the pastures was a Hght "VMiich was neither day nor night, And the duskv frowning wood Still in moonhght shadows stood. But a mist o'er Salza's bed Hovered like a gossamer thread ; And I saw the glorious scene Every moment grow more green,— 18 THE STYRIAX LAKE. Daj encroaching with sweet light On the faiiy-land of night. I remember well that dawn On the Stjrian mountain lawn. Blessed be the God who made Sun and moon, and light and shade, Balmy wind and pearly shower, Forest tree and meadow flower. And the heart to feel and love All the joys that round us move ! Blessed be the Anorels brisiht, Ordering the pomp aright, Ministrants of winds and showers, Buddy clouds and sunset hours. With fau' robe and busy wing The mute figm^s marshalling, Like a ceremonial thing ! Blessed be the Cross that draws From the earth by dreadest laws Sparkhng streams that cleanse and shine, Maldng Httle babes divine, And the grape's red blood, and bread Laid upon the Altar di-ead ; Symbols, more than sraibols, urns "Wliere a Heavenly Presence bm-ns, Yeils that hide from loving eyes Jesus in ffis strange disguise, Making earth to be all rife With a supernatural life. Sweet into the morning dim Kose the happy pilgrim's hymn, As he caught from distant height, La the grey uncertain Hght, THE STYRIAX LAKE. 19 The early flush of summer morning Upon Mariazell da^^^ling. From the Salza's shady bed, From the mountain's rocky head, From the earthy path that shines Down the steep and through the pines, From the meadow-lands below Like a very stream doth flow The sweet song and plaintive greeting Of the weary pilgrims meeting ; *^ All hail in thy sylvan tent, '' Mary, fairest Ornament !" Mother Mary ! 'tis a thing Soothing as the breath of spring, In the quiet time to hear This wild region far and near With the very accents swell Of the blessed Gabriel. ^Tis a wonder and a grace In this uncouth pinewood place, !Mid white rocks and gloomy trees And old Xoric fastnesses, To look forth and calmly listen. While above the pale stars gHsten ; And to hear the gi^ateful song Of the gentile pilgrim-throng. The old angelic greeting, given To the Yii^gin Queen of Heaven, "WTiat are ages, what is time To a ritual thus sublime ? How shall distance or decay Make or mar eternal day ? For a heavenly word once spoken Is an everlasting token. Still by time or space unbroken ; 20 THE styria:^ lake. And through wearj centuries, Qiiiyering on the very breeze, Word divine and angel breath Hover to the ear of faith, rinding souls which they may ydn, And meek hearts to enter in. I see Mary rapture -bound, And the lily-flo^vers aroimd, And the smooth and spotless bed, And the Angel overhead, And the open casement \vhere BloTvs the fi-esh and vii^gin air, And Our Lady, mute and pale, Listening to the strange ^' All Hail.'' And I hear — years hinder not — Angel accents on the spot ; Hark ! the Styrian vale is ringing "With the gentile pilgrims singing. Breaking on the quiet dell Slo^v'ly swings the heayj bell. And the oro[an breathes a sound Lito all the pine woods round. What a trouble of delight There hath been the Hvelonoj nioht ! Mariazell ! thou hast seen Sleepers few this night, I ween. One by one the pilgTims throng, Coming in ^vith plaintive song ; And in many a gaudy shed Beads and Crosses ai-e outspread. Like the stars that one by one Come to shine when day is done, Still they flock with meiTy din, Prom the valley of the Inn, THE STYRIAN LAKE. 21 From the Ennsland green and deep, And the rough Carinthian steep, From the two lakes of the Save, And the bl}i:he rich banks of Drare, And the Mm^'s rock-shadowed floods, That shy hmiter of the woods, From the low Dalmatian sea, And the sea-like Hungary, And where Danube's waters pass By Belgrade through the morass. From Bavaria's sandy dells, And the smooth Bohemian fells, From Wiirzburg and from Katisbon, Linz and Passau they have gone ; And St. John of Prague hath sent Worshippers to Mary's tent, "Where she waits her serfs to bless In the Styrian wilderness. Still they pass unheeded by ; From the tillage every eye Goes with eager anxious look Up the Salza's tumbling brook : Xo white banners yet have showed On the great Vienna road ; In the pauses of the ringing They can hear no far-off singing. And the signal hath not fired, And the youthful groups are tired. Yet 'twas whispered overnight They'd leave Annaberg ere light. Pomp of crowds and festal noise Are not numbered in my joys ; So I sought the little lake And the lonely pinewood brake. 22 THE STYRIAN LASE. The sweet day was clouded over, And the thunder seemed to hover O'er the dark, unruffled flood, And the silent neighbourhood. Scarce a creature seemed to stir In that wilderness of fir. Not a note of sinsfinof bird In the tangled dell was heard : And the forest lands did wear A dark robe of lurid air. On the mountains there did press A grim dullhearted silentness. Peace was round me, and a calm, Yet without the soothing balm Shed on us by earth and sea In their true tranquillity. Swarms of moths from out the brake Fluttered all across the lake, And the leaping fishes made Dreary splashes in the shade, "\Miere an ancient pinetree throws O'er the pool its drooping boughs. "WTiere the marge was strewn all over "With a tapestry of clover. The dull sides appeared to lower On the mute and blameless flower ; All the soft and pleasant brightness Like a breath passed from its whiteness; As the sold of man whose beauty Fades, when the timid sense of duty Passes forth with hasty wing. Like a wronged and banished thing. Prom the ragged trees on high. From the mirky, swaying sky, THE STYRIAN LAKE. 23 From the summit, ^'liite and tall, "With its black pine coronal, A darksome power of gloom did fall. Weighing on the little lake, Hushing all the pinewood brake, Tamisliing each radiant sight, Sheatliing all the gaj green light. Deadening every summer sound, To a drowsy tingling bound. Beauty strove, and strove again, And the simimer strove in vain. Over lake and pines and all Was a very funeral pall. Can it be a curse doth lurk In the heart of earth at work ? Yet in that translucent deep Furtive beauty seems to creep, Like a stealthy sunbeam winding Through the ocean-depths, and finding Creatures in them, meek and bright, Whom to crladden with its liorht. Thus doth earth for ever bless True hearts with her loveliness. Stealing to them in the storm With some fair and happy form, Uttering still some joyous soimd In a bleak and joyless gi'oujid, Planting moss and brilliant gi^ass In the heart of a morass. Light within the lake doth move When there is no light above. And the sunshine which should glow In the blue skies, works below. As far down as eye can follow In the green transparent hollow, 24 THE STYRIAX LAKE. Strealdng it vith silvery shoot, As though sunbeams could take root In the lake ^th lawless mirth, And so shine upwards to the earth. Thou alone, dear earth I of all Art a blameless prodigal ! "\Mien the heaven above is dull. And thy yearning heart is full Of a wish to solace one AMio into thy fields hath gone To take comfort fi'om thy gladness Or courage fi'om thy patient sadness,- "\Yhen the cheerless heaven above "Will not aid thee in thy love. Thou some inner light canst win As though from a heaven within. Could I think that still at work The primal curse in thee did lurk ? Shall a thouorht of curse come nioh TSTien I hear that Christian cry ? Hark ! at last the joyous song Of Vienna's pilgrim throng : " All hail in thy sylvan tent, Mary, fairest Ornament !" Tarries the procession still ? See ! it winds along the hill. Like a snake of green and gold In the sunshine all unrolled, Or coiling round a mossy tree, Fearful and yet fair to see. Thus the bright and bending throng Slowly draws itself along, Swayed by modulating song. THE STYRIAN LAKE. 25 Mitred prelates at its head Upon flowers and sweet flags tread. Gifts from kings of foreign lands, Banners worked by royal hands, And a hundred shininor things. Peer's or peasant's offerings, Move along the uneven ground. While the distant thunders sound. 'Ere I reached them I could hear, Filling all the forest near, ^' Mariazell I schonste Zier !" — Plaintive burden, that will quiver In my spell-bound ear for ever. My dear land ! I thought of thee ; And I thought how scantily. In what thrifty rivulets. Faith's weak tide amonor us sets. o And I looked with tearful eyes, "With an envious surprise. Upon that huge wave that passed. On the Styrian highlands cast With a mighty, sea-Hke fall From the Austrian capital. O'er twelve hundred kneelers there Hangs a veil of odorous air, Eising up in thin blue spires From the swinging censer-fires. And through all the gloomy pile, Like a river do^vn each aisle. With a strong and heavy flowing Are the pealing organs blowing ; And the banners rich and brave On the current lightly wave. 26 THE STTRIAN LAKE. Like the Tvillow boiigh that quivers On the bosom of the rivers. A^liile the mighty hymns vere svrelling I passed from out the sacred dwelling, , "With fall heart and bmning thought ; So much had the ritual wrought, That I scarcely could control The strong impulse of my soul To fall down and weep outright At the great and solemn sight. ^Tien from that full house of prayer I passed into the open air, Ah ! did ever sweet sm^prise From old objects so arise With a strange, bewildering power. As in that most tlirilUng hour ? In the western porch I stood Amid mountain wastes and wood. And the hollow toUing thunder, And the misty valleys under. Cloud-strewn forests with stray gleams, And the alder-belted streams. In the rain the pinewoods singing, With a rustling whisper ringing, — Kature filling all the senses With her blameless influences. For the rocky foaming floods And the wet and dripping woods Fresher and more fragrant are Than the incense -loaded air. Mid this glory I am free, Mother-Maid I to tliink of thee. And with fervent faith to trace. In tliis dusky sylvan place. THE STTRIAX LAKE. 27 Footprints of true miracle "Wrought -vrithin the savage dell, And the work, blest Mother Mary ! Of thine ancient missionary. A\Tien the crowd have left the shrine, Then the season shall be mine ; Then shall silent Ayes swell In a heart that loves thee well, A heart that owes its life to thee, A slave whom Mary hath set free. I cannot pray amidst a crowd, Xor with organs pealing loud, ISTor with chains upon my sense From ritual magnificence. Ever fair forms like tyrants bind With spells the currents of my mind. Sweet sights and sounds my spirit fill. And ritual beauty leads me still A passive victim at its will. The creature of all outward shows, My heart into the pageant throws Its ardent self, and dreamily Floats out as on a sunny sea. WTien the Church with functions brioht Wraps calmer spirits in dehght, I am rather proud of God, Than humbly at His footstool bowed ; And mid the beautiful display I feel and love but cannot pray. I would fain be lone with God, Else are all my thoughts abroad. Quiet altars, Jesus there, Mary's image meek and fair. Silent whispering twilight round, — » These make consecrated ground ! 28 THE STYRIAN LAKE, Better still with holj poor Scattered on the Tvide church-floor. "With the tinkling beads they teU, And Tvhispers scarcely audible. Shame on myself I upon my breast So lightly doth God's presence rest, So Httle inward turned my soul, So much beneath the eye's controul, That holy pomp and pageant rare Only make poetry spoil prayer. ]\L\RGAEET'S PILGEIMAGE. Now why weep ye by the shrine, Ye two maidens ? AMierefore twine Eoses red and sprigs of pine, "With a busy absent air, Eoimd the pilgrun- staffs ye bear ? From Vienna with high heart Ye set forward to take part In the pilgrimage of grace To St. Mary's sylvan place, — Three fair sisters, loreHest three In the pilgrim company. See ! encased in many a gem Mary with her diadem. And, sweet thought I the !Mother mild Lifts on high her holy Child : As the pensive artist thought So hath he the hmewood wrouorht. THE STYRIAX LAKE. 29 VThj stand ye thus soiTOw-boimrl, While the train is kneeling round ? And the little Margaret too, With her ejes of merry blue, "\\Tierefore is she not ^vith you ? And the staff she was so long In selectinor from the thronoj In the Graben, weeks ago 'Ere the flowers began to blow, And then took it to be blessed At Saint Stephen's by the priest, — Hath it failed her, faint and weary, In some Stp'ian pinewood dreary ? Ah ! she felt the dogstar rage, And she fain her thirst would swage — It was her j&rst pilgrimage — At a cold and brilliant spring By the wayside murmuring. Ah sweet child ! bright, happy flower ! She was broken from that hour. They have left her on the steep Of green Annaberg asleep. With crossed hands upon her breast Her choice staff is Kghtly pressed. Margaret will awake no more, Save upon a calmer shore. Oh what can the sisters say To the couple far away ? T^Tiat ^vill the old bm-gher do, Since those eyes of merry blue, The truest sunlight of his home, Xever, never more can come ? See ! they sing not, but they gaze Deep into the jewelled blaze, 30 THE STYRIAX LAKE. And the thought ^vitliin them s^vells,- Marj hath \rorked miracles ! And the J weep and gaze alwaj, As though thej were fain to say, ^' Mother Mary, couldst thou make Gretchen from her sleep awake ?" Thus often fares it upon earth With a long-expected miii^h : And when hope is strained too much, Lo ! it shivers at the touch. Even from a holy rite There may fade the cheering light, "When for long its single thought Deep within the heart hath wrought. This will sometimes quell the ray Even of an Easter Day. Deem not thou no grace is there, Though the rite seem cold and bare, Though it be a weary thing, A duU, and formal offering. It may lodge a light within, "Wrestling with the shades of sin, . And Hke fr-ankincense may be To think of in our memory. ^Tien the gay procession passed I knew not what sad cloud was cast On these sisters, sorrow-laden. By the death of that fair maiden. "WTien it di^ew itself along, As one creature, bright and strong, All instinct with life and song, Like a child I did not think That each bending joint and link Of the sinuous pageant could Be real hearts of flesh and blood, THE STYRIAX LAKE. 31 Fountains of true hopes and fears, With ebb and flow of smiles and tears, Each a separate orb that moves In a sphere of pains and loves. To mine eje it did but seem As a very fluent dream, And it filled me with a sense Of joy, and not of reverence. Ah ! to many this great world Is a pageant thus unfurled, Banners waving in the air, Catching sunHght here and there, O'er uneven places swajdng. Or in quiet woods delaying, Everywhere fresh shapes displaying. As the clouds their forms unbind To new figures iu the wind ; And aye man's voicefiil destinies, Like the surge of meeting seas. Are to them but some wild song Breathing from the gilded throng. Thus do idle poets stand Lonely on the tide -ribbed sand. Watching the bright waters roll As a beauty without soul, Knowing nothing of the worth Of a human woe or mirth, Or of that true dignity "Wliich in love and sorrow lie. And the books they wi'ite are all But a mute processional. Lifeless rubrics, canons duU Of the bright and beautiful, Formal wisdom, without stir ., Of passion-tempered character, 32 THE STYRIAN LAKE. Or imperial instincts meeting, Or a hot heart in it beating. But the masters of true song, "Who would swaj the various throng, Must in the procession walk. To their fellow-pilgrims talk, "Weep or smile on every thing With a kindlj murmuring, And that murmur so shall be An immortal melody. Sisters twain ! though now ye sorrow, Ye shall have a cahner morrow ; Mariazell shall become In long years a placid home For remembrances, and tears WTiich spring not out of pains or fears ; And this pilgrimage that seems Broken up Hke baffled dreams, Then shall be a very haunt For your spirits when they want Of soft feeling deep to drink : It shaU be a joy to think How the merry Margaret sleeps Mid the Styrian pinewood steeps, Safe with childhood's sinless charms In her Mother Mary's arms. THE STTRIAN LAKE. 33 5. EAETH'S ^T:SPERS. Once more went I to the lake, Buried in the pinevood brake. Through the parting clouds the light Of the afternoon Tvas bright. Beautiful and gay and green On my pathway was the scene, — Gorges fall of writhing mist By the silver sunbeams kissed, And the mountains all displayed In a marvellous light and shade. Close before us there was one, Clear and tranquil in the sun. And another on whose breast Clambering mist-wreaths paused to rest, And a third along whose side Snowy cloudbanks seemed to ride, And like a belt to rock and shine In a long and level line : And one there was, veiled all over With thin mists which seemed to hover On the mountain-top, and thi^ow Silky threads from bough to bouorh ; 'Twas Hghted up and very fair, And transparent as the air, And within it rose the hill Clothed with sunlight, green and still. And the booming of the bells And the hymn that came in swells 3 34 THE STYRIAN LAKE. Mingled kindly with the mirth Of the jubilant old earth. In the lake and in the heaven Gloom and beauty now had striven ; Changed were all tliins^s on the shore, For the strife at length was o'er. Mists in serpentine array Coiled upon the treetops lay ; Truthful symbols did they seem Of darkness giving way to gleam, Drawing off in that sweet hour The outskirts of his vanquished power. Beauty on the hills was standing, In the very lake expanding With a pure and sparkling green ; And the savage pinewood scene Did the afternoon embrace '\\'ith a calm and softening grace. StiUness was in all her veins, Earth's thanksgiving after rains, Tuneful as the stormy praise Of wild woods on windy days. Or the benedicite Of the angry purple sea. Xot a single sound was heard. Save the voice of one shy bird, And the woodman's axe on high. And the drowsy sheepbeU nigh. There was not a faU of wind From the clover to unbind Odors that lay fettered there, And to shed them on the air. Kuddy-armoured perch did press To the margin motionless. THE STYRIAN LAKE. 35 And the summer afternoon, Holding com't that day of June, Throned herself ^vith lustre mild On the bhssful Stjrian ynld. O how often have I known Quiet thought herself enthi^one, After tempests, on mj mind "Without any breathing wind Of sweet language, which could bind In the bonds and links of song All the glorious regal throng. Kindled fancy's com^tier crowd, "Which came o'er me like a cloud : Times of quiet thought they are, Like this very bright mute air, Filling ^s a soul the lake And the odorous pinewood brake, With the calm and speechless scene Passive in the sunny green. They are fancy's afternoons, Shadows of her leafy Junes, Shedding, where the heart' is calm, New power in the quiet balm. Though he fret at fruitless hours Spent in raptm^e's voiceless bowers, Yet the poet oft must bless His passive spirit's silentness, As the future salient spring Of true minstrel murmuring. Song is an exile from above, Like a wanderer in love. Falling both by land and sea Into strangest company, 36 THE STTRIAX LAKE. Euling, wheresoever throAvn, With a sweet will of its oath. Fancy, like the earth, hath dew. Keeping gTeen the spirit's hue, Falls of moisture which renew Hearts that falter and grow weary From the sense that life is dreary, — "With such freshness that the glory Of our thoughts is never hoary. There are sabbaths in the mind, ^Tiich in deepest quiet bind Love and passion and the world With its glowing landscapes furled, 'Wlien the song of vernal bird Like a common sound is heard, "VMien the sun and wind and shower And the rainbows have no power, And the forest and the lake Can no inward echo wake. Memories of smiles and tears Treasured up in other years. Sorrow suffered, actions done. Self-restraints by patience won, Eights of grief and rights of love. Things which once the soul could move With a deeper ebb and flow Than the freeborn oceans know, !N'ow are dull and nerveless things, Like a forest's murmmings FaUing on the unpleased ear Of a Hstless traveller. And fi'om aU things there hath passed Powers they once might have to cast THE STYRIAN LAKE. 37 Shadows, from whose tender gloom We might free, as from a womb, Truths that shall outhve the tomb. Yet shall true -bom poet deem Mental sabbaths but a di^eam, Languor, and a falling back Of the wear J soul for lack Of high hope and strength of wing In such thin afr hoverino- ^ . D * Shall he call such quiet time Paintings after moods sublime, As though rapture's Hght could scathe Spirits, like a fit of wrath? Mjsterj and loveliness Gender no such wild excess ; ]\Iirth and beauty lay not waste Flowerj paths where thej have passed. In such times of inward sinking Fancy may perchance be drinking Waters in some hoHer spfrit, Out of earth, in Heaven, or near it. True it is that a sweet sprino- Cannot be a self-born thing ; It must have a leafy place "^ Or a mountain's rocky face. Its beginning and its going. And the surety of its flowing IS'ot a single, rainy day, Xor at seasons, but alway, These depend on other things, The green covert whence it springs, And the weepmg clouds of heaven Out of wliich the rain is given, 38 THE STYRIAN LAKE. And the ponderous old hills, The treasuries of crystal rills. So the spirit of sweet song Xot entirely doth belong Unto him who hath been bidden To let it flow through him imcliidden, And to keep its fountain hidden. How should he know all the causes Of its gushes and its pauses, How it visits the well-head AMience it is replenished, ^^liat it hears, or what it sees, How it hath its increases ? "Where and whensoe'er it goes. This one thing the poet knows. That the spirit, wake or sleeping, Is not now beneath his keeping. For, if it should leave him not, Alienee are its fresh pulses got ? After all this seeming dulness, ^Mience the beam, the burst, the fulness, — ^^Tien the dark and bright of life^ Involutions of its strife. And the duties compHcate Of tliis hea^y mortal state. And the gold and purple maze "\Miich the past is, to our gaze Looking into other days. And the passions which have rent Worse than warring element. Earth's fair sm'face where we dwell, — All within the spirit swell. And burst from us loud and strong. Claiming utterance in song. THE STTRIAN LAKE. 39 TMience except from out of heaTen Are the moulds of greatness given, And the beautiful creations, And the song-like visitations Of high thoughts, where^th we borrow, Grandem* out of love and sorrow, TMien the weight of men's distresses On our solemn spirit presses. With a sound in its recesses, T\Tien our feUow-mortals call. And we own a kindred thrall In responses musical. When the mvsterj of things From our tortured spirit wrings Those loud wails of melodv, As from eagles in the skv ? Whence the fragrant under-growth. Which is springing nothing loth All around us every hour With fresh moss and modest flower. In our fancy's stillest bower, And those lowlier sweetnesses Borne to us on every breeze ? After dulness what a thing Is our heart's awakenino-. When a scattering of dew Unawares makes all things new, As a bunch of cold wet flowers On our brow in feverish hours ! Like an unimprisoned boy. Heaviness encounters joy In the face of an old mountain. In the splash of an old fountain, 40 THE STYRIAN LAKE. In the sun and wind and rain, Like tilings lost and found again ; Till we own we never know Common blooms that round us blow, Common treasures strewn about us, Close at hand, and scarce without us. Whence are all these wakenino[s oiven, DO ' If it be not out of heaven ? That the might in poet's breast AMiolly in himself doth rest, "Wliollj from himself doth come, As though he could be the home Of the beautiful bright throng He but weaveth into song — Were a creed to disenchant Music's best and holiest haunt, And to leave on land or sea Not a home for minstrelsy. Beauty is a thing that grows, Like love or grief; and who knows If in dulness and in calm Fancy does not gather balm In far fields that bud and swell With spiritual asphodel ? O how beautiful is quiet After fancy hath run riot. Waking love and waking mirth Over all the sleepy earth ! O how beautiful to look On kind eyes, as on a book, Eeading love that hath been beaming All the while our hearts were teeming With unearthly thoughts and "visions, Floating in with sweet collisions ! THE STYRIAN LAKE. 41 And how beautiful a thing Is our dull Hfe's welcoming, ~ "^Tien we learn, while we were ranging, That household earth hath not been changmg, And that houses, trees, and faces, Are not wildlj shifting places. That there are domestic blisses, TMiich the studious spirit misses, StUl a common human heart, Though we were awhile apart ! O there is a gracious fulness In this verj seeming dulness, "When the littleness of life Is more welcome than its strife. Or we in wise moods confess That strife is but a littleness ! There is not a choicer bower Than the spirit, in the hour "When peace cometh after power ; And what hath the earth of beauty Like the calms that follow duty? This hath been a day of joy Much too simple for alloy. One pure day that well may shine. Like stars amid the twilight pine. Xow behold ! the tranquil power Of the summer -evening hour Is enthroned upon the spot ; And the pageant cometh not With the gauzy purple veil Of the English twihght pale. But winds o'er all the forest scene With a light of faint blue green, 42 THE STTRTAX LAKE. To a thousand pinetops yielding Somewhat almost of a gilding. There is meaning in the face Of the lake and woodland place. Sometliing heavenly there must be In such deep tranquillity. "With meet prayer and gratitude I went from out the soHtude ; And to Mariazell wending, Up the pine -clad steep ascending, I beheld the dark clouds drooping, Once more to the mountains stooping. Yet along the ridges dim Lay a luminous gold rim, Such as makes me think the while That beyond in brightest smile Lies a very radiant shore I have visited before, In my boyhood, or in gleams Shed on my far-travelled dreams. The one woodless mountain too Was of brilliant golden hue, And its precipices hoary Touched with sunset's mellow glory. From a hollow white -mouthed cave Eose a symbol, cahn and grave, — A broken rainbow — whose bright end In the cavern did descend. With mute stationary mirth, Like a very growth of earth. The dark clouds now a moment hover- They descends — the pomp is over ! For the day's exceeding beauty There must be returns of duty, THE STYRIAN LAKE. 43 And to Christ who thus hath given Sights and sounds in earth and heaven, We must answer at the last For the pageantry now past. Hark ! how plaintively they sing ; — Xever was on natural tiling A more touching commentary Than the pilgrim's Ave Mary ! 44 n. THE CHEEWELL WATEE-LILY. Bright came the last departing gleam To lonely Cherwell's silent stream, And for a moment stayed to smile On tall St. Mary's graceful pile. But brighter still the glory stood On Marston's scattered lines of wood. The lights that through the leaves were sent, Of gold and green were richly blent ; Oh ! beautiful they were to see, Gilding the trunk of many a tree, Just ere the colors died away In evening's meditative gray. Sweet meadow-flowers were round me spread, And many a budding birch -tree shed Its woodland perfume there ; And from its pinkly-clusteiing boughs, A fragrance mild the hawthorn throws Upon the tranquil air. Deep rung St. Mary's stately chime The holy hour of compline time, THE CHERWELL WATER-LILY. 45 And, as the solemn sounds I caught Over the distant meadows brought, I heard the raptm'ed nightingale Tell, from jon elmj grove, his tale Of melancholy love. In thronoinor notes that seemed to fall o o As faultless and as musical As angel strains above : — So sweet, thej cast on all things round A spell of melody profound. Thev charmed the river in its flowing. They stayed the night-wind in its blowing, They lulled the Hly to her rest. Upon the CherweU's heading breast. 2. How often doth a wildflower bring Fancies and thoughts that seem to spring From inmost depths of feeling ! Xay, often they have power to bless ^With their uncultured loveliness. And far into the aching breast There goes a heavenly thought of rest With their soft influence stealino*. o How often, too, can ye unlock. Dear Wildflowers ! with a gentle shock. The wells of holy tears, "While somewhat of a Christian light Breaks sweetly on the mom^ner's sight To calm unquiet fears ! Ah ! surely such strange power is given To lowly flowers, like dew, from heaven ; 46 THE CHERTVELL WATER-LILY. For lessons oft by them are brought, Deeper than mortal sage hath taught, Lessons of wisdom pure, that rise From some clear fountains in the skies ! 3. Fairest of Flora's lovely daughters That bloom by stilly-running waters, Fau' Lily ! thou a type must be Of wgin love and pmity ! Fragrant thou art as any flower That decks a lady's garden -bower. But he who would thy sweetness know, Must stoop and bend his losing brow To catch thy scent, so faint and rare. Scarce breathed upon the summer aii\ And all thy motions, too, how fi'ee,' And yet how fraught with sympathy ! — • So pale thy tint, so meek thy gleam Shed on thy kindly father-stream ! Still, as he swayeth to and fro. How true in all thy goings, As if thy very soul did know The secret of his floT\dngs. And then that heart of li^-ing gold, "WTiich thou dost modestly infold, And screen from man's too searching -v-iew "Within thy robe of snowy hue ! To careless men thou seem'st to roam Abroad upon the river. In aU thy movements chained to home, Fast-rooted there for ever : THE CHERWELL WATER-LILY. 47 Linked by a holy, hidden tie, Too subtle for a mortal eye, Xor riveted by mortal art, Deep down -within thy father's heart. Emblem in truth thou art to me Of all a daughter ought to be ! How shall I liken thee, sweet flower I That other men may feel thy power. May seek thee on some lovely night. And say how strong, how chaste the might. The tie of filial duty. How graceful too, and angel-bright, The pride of lowly beauty ! Thou sittest on the varjing tide As if thy spirit did preside AVith a becoming, queenly grace, As mistress of this lonely place ; A quiet magic hast thou now To smooth the river's ruffled brow, And calm his rippling water : And yet so delicate and airy. Thou art to him a very fairy, A widowed father's only daughter. 48 III. JHElklOEIALS OF A HAPPY TDIE. "Ointment and perfumes rejoice the heart: and the good counsels of a friend are sweet to the soul." — Fkovekbs xxvii. 9. 1. THE 5IEETIXG. Tell me, ye ATincls and Wares ! wliat power com- pels Soiils far apart to be together brought, That they may love each other, — spirits taught To stoop and listen by Truth's ancient veils ; Guiding their lives Tvith the calm motion caught From their pure earthborn mm^murings, the swells Of whose soft fallino- streams oo chimingr on, Heard best by hearts that travel there alone ! One have I met, so meek a soul, that dwells In his own lowly spii'it's cloistered cells : Him by that ancient mountain-rill I found, Touched mid the heedless throng with holiest spells. Striving to catch the stream's low thi^illing sound, AMiere in a savage place it runneth imderground. MEMORIALS OF A HAPPY TIME. 49 2. THE LESSOX. Listen — another strain I — I long had thought The scourge austere and stern self-punishment To school impatient spirits had been sent, And hoped their task would long ere this be iivrought. Man works in haste, for speed with him is might ; In depth and silence God's great works are laid, As in foundation-stones, all dimly bright. The world well knows it hath but one brief hour, And hmTies by while judgment is delayed ; And it is gifted with a fearful power Of holding back its own dark day of doom : But God keeps shrouded in EQs ancient gloom, AVatchinoj tilings travel to His own vast will ; So He works on, and man keeps thwarting still. 3. THE yisio:N'. That healthy wisdom did I late unfold Out of a precious type to me endeared. I saw an altar to the Graces reared. Of chaste proportions, by a green way-side. Trees of all sorts stood round it, gray and old. Blending their various leaves ^vith solemn pride, A venerable shade it seemed to me, "Wliere neither gloom nor garish light could be. Daily from off the shrine to azure heaven The quiet incense of soft thought was given ; And ever rose, as if on angel's wings. The breezelike scent of high imaginings, Fragi-ant of glory I had never dreamed, So modest and so low that little altar seemed. 4 50 MEMORIALS OF 4. THE TEACHEE. This vas tlij heart where I did fondly trace The way that God had gone : in Httle things And chikhsh growths I found the hidden springs AATiere He had put EQs virtue. Thy short race In holy calm and evenness hath past. Oh I how unlike those gay and wayward hearts That might in Athens rise to bear their parts Tn the Greek torch-race : and with giddy haste Wave theu' bright pine about, and quench its blaze, T}^es of their own wild course in after days I Thy soul's most secret growings I have seen, Ordered by God so quietly and slow, That thou thyself, dear friend, dost scarcely know Or what thou art or what thou mightst have been. 5. THE TWO ER^EES. Come with me tlu'ough these moimtain-vales, and see ! Two bravely-flowing streams this way have gone ; Most musical their flowing is to me, So I will moralize awhile thereon. One decks the eastern vale— the loveHest ; The other dashes onward from the west. They join in quiet fields: you scarce can know '\Miich was the first to join. So, as is meet. The gentler natm^e doth the sterner gi'eet. Because its name is softer anel more sweet : And he, the elder, loves to have it so. Then in a lake they blend theii^ kindi'ed flow, And it is said, and so it ought to be. That they in one bright stream pass onward to the sea. A HAPPY TIME. 51 G. THE YOUNGER mVEE. [the rothay.] Come now and see yon orient vale outspread, And mark the windings of my favourite rill ; For the wan olive -lights are on the hill, Dear autumn's choicest boon : and there is shed A most surpassing glory on the stream. Kindled just now by evening's purple gleam. Yon lake with shady islands gave it birth, To it yon English village doth belong. And many a night the joyousness and mirth Of its dear flow hath been my vesper song. See how it peeps in meadows fi'inged with flowers, Or nestles jealously mid leafy bowers, As if it almost felt, and shunned to show The gracefulness that makes men love it so. THE ELDER RIYER. [the bhathay.] Now follow me to yonder gloomy hills That to the westward rise : a thousand rills Gush wildly from their rifted sides to form That dark, romantic river's early course. It is the nursling of the cloudy storm, And carries somewhat of its mother's force Along with it : leaping with one mad bound Over a rocky fall. Yet are there found Pools of most silent beauty, calm and deep ; Though there, too, ghttering foam-bells tell a tale Of things before it reached that placid vale, "Where the new chm-ch o'erhangs its woodland sweep. Oh ! how these brooks with hidden meanings teem, AMiich no one in the world but vou and I would dream ! 52 MEMORIALS OP THE PEEPAEATIOX. The clouds lay folded on tlie mountain's broTV, A huge and restless cui'tain di'ooping low. This way and that it waved ynth. solemn swell, And from behind it flakes of sunHght fell On many a patch of redlj withering fern, !Melting awaj upon them : hv above Vast shapes were seen, imcouth and horrible, Masses of jagged rock that seemed to move, Turning where'er the rolls of cloud did tiu-n, Piled up on liigh, a gri-ni and desolate Thi'one : But no one was there that might sit thereon. All preparation had been made for One "Who had not come. Ah ! surely we must say, They looked for God being out on some great work that day ! 9. THE WHEELS. There are strange solemn times when serious men Sink out of depth in their o^sti spii'it, caught All imawares, and held by some strong thought That comes to them, they know not how or when, And bears them do^vn through many a ^vinding cell Where the soul's busy agents darkly dwell ; Each watching by his wheel that, bright and bare, Eeyolveth day and night to do its part In building up for Heaven one single heart. And moulds of cm-ious fonn ai^e scattered there, As yet unused, — the shapes of after deeds ; And veiled gTOwths and tliickly sprouting seeds Ai'e j^trewn, in which om' futmT life doth He Sketched out in dim and wondi'ous prophecy. A HAPPY TIME. 53 10. THE GLIMPSE. Our many deeds, the thoughts that we have thought — They go out from us thronging every horn' ; And in them all is folded up a po^ver That on the earth doth move them to and fro : And mighty are the marv^els they have wrought In hearts ^ye know not, and may never know. Our actions travel and are veiled : and yet "We sometimes catch a fearful glimpse of one "NMien out of sight its march hath weU-nigh gone, An unveiled thinor which we can ne'er foroet I All sins it gathers up into its eom-se, And then they grow ^dth it, and are its force : One day with dizzy speed that thing shall come, EecoiHng on the heart that was its home. 11. THE PEEPLEXITY. And therefore when I look into my heart, And see how full it is of mighty schemes, Some that shall ripen, some be ever dreams. And yet, though dreams, shall act a real part, — 'WTien I behold of what and how great things I am the cause, — how quick the H^ing springs That vibrate in me, and how far they go, — Thought doth but seem another name for fear ; And I would fain sit still, and never rise To meddle with myself, God feels so near. And all the time He moveth, calm and slow And unperplexed, though naked to His eyes, A thousand thousand spirits pictured are, Kenned through the shroud that wi^aps the He wen of heavens afar ! 54 MEMORIALS OF 12. THE COMPLAINT. I heard thee say that thou wert slow of speech ; Thou didst complain thy words could never reach The height of thy conceptions. Ah ! dear fiiend, Envy thou not the eloquent their gift. Eierce reckless acts and thoughts' unbridled range And cherished passion that at times hath rocked Their soid to its foundations, — these do lift Them into eloquence : 'tis sad to spend So great a price, to win so poor a dower. Thine is a deep clear mind : nor inward change ]N^or outward visitation yet hath shocked Thy heart into a consciousness of power. So calm and beautiful thou art within, Thou scarce canst see how like power is to sin. 13. THE VOICE. •' The multitude, therefore, that stood and heard, said that it thunder- ed : others said, An angel spoke to Him."— St. John, xii. 29. A Voice from ancient times comes up this way ; Dost thou not hear it — like a trumpet caU ? O with what startUng accents doth it fall On ears that love a softer siren sound ! To them hke muttering thunder stiU it seems, Though all the sky is open, free and gay. •Month follows month, and year doth grow to year, And the strong voice keeps waxing yet more clear. The world is full of sjnnptoms of decay, Feverish and intermittent, struck with fear, Starting unconsciously in savage dreams. Like aged men with sickly opiates bound. — It spake again : surely it cometh near. Let us go out upon the tower, and hear ! A HAPPY TIME. 55 14. THE TEMPLE. *' Know you not that your members are the Temple of the Holy Ghost ?" T CoE. vi. 19. Come, I have found a Temple where to dvrell : Sealed up and watched by Spirits day and night Behind the Veil there is a crystal "Well. The glorious cedar pillars sparkle bright, All gemmed with big and ghstening drops of dew, That work their way fi^om out yon hidden flood By mystic virtue through the fragrant wood, Making it shed a faint unearthly smell. And from beneath the curtain, that doth lie In rich and glossy folds of various hue. Soft showers of pearly light run streamingly Over the chequered floor and pavement blue. Oh ! that our eyes might see that Font of Grace, But none hath entered yet his own heart's Holy Place.. 15. THE PEIEST. ** And the people was waiting for Zachary."— St. L :ke, i. 21. As morning breaks or evening shadows steal, Duties and thoughts throng round the marble stair, "\Vaitinor for Him who burneth incense there, Till He shall send to bless them as they kneel. Greater than Aaron is the mighty Priest "VMio in that radiant shrine for ever dwells, Brighter the stones that stud His glowing vest, And ravishing the music of His bells. That tinkle as He moves. The golden air Is fiUed with motes of joy that dance and run Through every court, and make the temple one. — The lamps are lit ; 'tis past the hour of prayer, And through the windows is their lustre thrown, — Deep in the Holy Place the Priest doth watch alone. 66 MEMORIALS OF 16. THE HUMILIATIO]^. Yes, Lord ! 'tis well mj suffering should be deep ; So mth unsparing hand fill Thou the cup Of bitter thought, and I will drink it up, And then lie calmly down, yet not to sleep : But Kke a guilty child in penitence "When some unruly act hath first destroyed "Within his little soul the quiet sense Of filial love and careless innocence ; And, as he feels his bliss with fear alloyed, He wakes, he knows not why, all night to weep. All human feehng grown to be intense Comes nigh to sin ; yet ah ! my greedy heart Cannot without a thankless murmur part From that pure dream it hath so long enjoyed. 17. THE HAUiSTTED PLACE EEYISITED. I came again fair Esthwaite lake to xiesv — The place thy spirit haunts ; while sun and shower In light and shade contended every hour. And both were beautiful. The lake was still : Eich autumn lights were grouped upon the hill Mid purple heather and bright orange fern. Oh what a scene was there ! The scarlet hue Of the wild cherry-tree did strangely turn To mockery the alder's solemn gray : And, as I wept outright, it seemed to say — " AMiat art thou he that was so proud and stern ? " Look at that silly furze all new and gay, " Poor plant ! 'tis budding forth and blossoming ^^ As if one year could have a second spring." A HAPPY TIME. 57 18. A DEEAM. A Spirit came upon me in the night, And led me gentlj do^Ti a rocky stair Unto a peopled garden, green and fair, AMiere all the day there was an evening light. Trees out of every nation blended there. The citron shrub its golden fruit did train Against an English elm : 'twas Hke a dream Because there was no wind ; and things did seem All near and big, like mountains before rain. Far in those twilight bowers beside a stream The soul of one who had but lately died Hung listening, with a brother at his side ; And no one spoke in all that haunted place, But looked quietly into each other's face. 58 IT. THE MOUEXEE'S DEEA:\r. aeising from a strange and distressing impression of a friend's death in a foreign country. " Wir miissen nach der Heimath geha Um diese heil'ge Zeit zu selm." NOVALIS. Ej a steep wincling vale I left A terrace in a mountain cleft. Old pines vrith ruddj boles were there, Half-gilded by the sunny air. The holm oaks, planes, and ser^-ice -trees Hung motionless without a breeze. 'No vernal gale or summer stir Bent the green cones upon the fir. No water, tinkling as it fell. Taught the young bbds their earliest sound, Or in its mm^muring way imbound The sylvan languor of the dell. All through the shaggy gorge were seen Tree -tops and folds of various green ; And noon with pleasant silence there Loaded the misty drooping air. And, birdlike, seemed herself to brood O'er a vast couch of glorious wood. I chose a moss and wild-flower bed TMiere many-fingered cedars shed All down the slope dark flakes of shade, And gratefid dusky sunlight made. THE mourner's DREAM. 59 Ever before my half-closed eyes The sundered mountain-peaks did rise ; And though I knew each field and rill That lay beyond that mighty hill, Yet still the wondrous cleft did seem A pass whereby a mourner's dream To other worlds might travel, And somewhat of his brother's state, In dreadest twilight separate, flight sleep perchance unravel. THE euest:d haebouk. I stood, methought, in some lone place, — A fallen city, at whose base That summer noon the shining sea Made all soft sounds perpetually ; And, as it swelled, its liquid fall Scarce lifted the weeds on the harbour-wall : And the little waves, all one by one. Far out in fmTOws green did run, And then lay down and sparkled in the sun ! There was no shade, no leafy tree. Yet waited I by that fair sea. And watched the ocean-water fill 'With its clear self, and at its will. The broken harbom^'s ample round, "Without a wave and without a sound ! So men have watched their fiiends for hours, Filling with silent love, 60 THE MOURXER's DREAM. \^Tiile dreams fall on them both in showers, Like starlights from above ; Till the bright waters, as thej rise, Mount and run over at the ejes. Oh ! who that in youth's morning light With sails full-set and songs did ride Into love's harbom' with the tide, Hath dreamed that it would ebb at night ? Through the long hom^s of noon I stood Alone in that sunny solitude. Not a voice was in the weed -grown way, Not a ship was on the wave. The sea was by itself all day. And the streets were like a grave, All things were still as they could be, The sand, the city, and the sea ! I lingered there — for on my breast A weight of weary sorrow pressed ; My soul, like a mourner, low did bend Over the memory of my dead friend. Yet there is somewhat in the tear Of deep affection's willing sadness To the lone heart more kind and dear Than the strong smile of health and gladness ; And it is better, for our love's sake, they We love the best should soonest go away. I thought of him, as though he were by. With his dark bright hair, and his darker eye, And his face alive with chivalry. Of his broad white brow with a slender vein> And his words like drops of summer rain. Soft as the voice of a timid maiden. Ever with his o^vn brave language laden. THE mourner's DREAM. CI I have hung on his words, so sweet and rare, Like a knight in his lady's bower, With his voice in my ears, like a haunting air. For many a dreaming hour. The eloquent smile that ever hung O'er his mouth, like a sunny ^vreath, Grew lovelier on his lips, and clung Ten times more glorious after death. There is a spell on his silent tong-ue, As when a poet dies And the spirits bind his l}Te unstrung To the bier whereon he lies. I saw thy beautiful limbs all bare, And thy new-made gi^ave looked cold, And I grudged it sadly to the mould To lie so long on thy glossy hair ! IVIinstrel I thy spirit was set on fire At the fount of ancient days, And therefore wert thou lifted higher. To where that fountain plays. Sacred and pm^e, the awful flame About thy youth and health did roll. Till thy fair vest of earth became A sacrifice unto thy soul. Like an eagle, up in the heavens bare, Wild with the draughts of his mountain air, The heights of lone thought beheld thee die In the fii'e of thine own free poetry I 62 THE mourner's dream. THE VOYAGE. I Trailed then by that fair sea Till the power of evening came on me* I saw the sunset colours fall Paler and fainter on the wall, And watched the broken shadows grow Dark and long on the sand below ; And the sea was gone far down the shore With the same soft sounds for eyermore. Still on the quivering level lay The last dull crimson lights of day, T\^ien to my feet a bright green boat Softly and gaily seemed to float, With neither helm, nor sail, nor oar, Over the shallows on the shore. Green it was as the lining tide "Whereon its little prow should ride. And lighter than the foam -wreaths frail That o'er the windy ocean sail. Within, a silver Anchor stood, And a Crucifix of scented wood Upon the seat was laid ; And round it some large foreign flowers With fresh leaves from the ivy bowers Into a cro^^ii were made. S^vifter and swifter did I float Eastward in the bright green boat ; And, as the coast grew dim and white, I sank in awe upon my knee, THE mofrxer's dream. G3 And trusted myself for the dark night To the holy Cross and to the sea. Xo breath upon the deep did move, The moon ^vas not in her place above. With steadiest motion all along The boat on her path did steal, "Without a sound, but the murmuring song Of the water round the keel : And through the gloom, without a bound, The purple ocean lay around. The snoTVj sea-birds as they flew Across the deep midnight, From off their lustrous plumage threw Flashes of sudden light. Yet did I not feel lonely there. For ever a scent, like incense rare. Stole from the Cross on the warm night air ; And the dew that clung upon the flowers Sweet memories of earth's pale bowers Back to my heart did bring : like the cold and sunny winds that peld The fragrance out of the meadow field In the first fresh days of spring. And thus was that little boat to me A quiet Church on the holy sea I But seven bright planets, one by one. Rose from the waves as the boat di'ove on ; They rose in a crescent above the sea, At first unclear, and falteringly. But up in the sky the starry bow Pierced with its rays the billows below, And the tall thin shafts of palest gold AVavered and bent as the waters rolled, — 64 THE mourner's dream, Bent, but the j broke not ; and the light "Was fairer far than a summer night, "W^en the moon, unthrifty of her brightness, Paves the sea with a trembling whiteness. Onward still did the shallop sail, Till the sea was green and the stars grew pale ; And the sun as from the waves he went Unlocked the pearly orient. But eastward yet the bark did steal, So swift the waves scarce wet the keel ; "While in the dawn the cold fresh sea Shone bright and murmm'ed merrily. Our life lies eastward : every day Some little of that mystic way By trembling feet is trod : In thoughtful fast and quiet feast Our thoughts go travelKng to the East, To om^ Incarnate God. Fresh fi^om the Font om' childhood's prime Is life's most oriental time. Its joyous sights and mighty fears, And feelings deep that work by tears, Its di^eams and smiles age cannot share. Are borrowed from that region fair. The beamy land, where morning lives And Eden still is blooming, gives Strange rays for childish hearts to hoard. Bright flashes from the seraph-sword That waves in Eden's light : And still, when childhood's race is rim And God from Eg}^t calls His son, Through worldliest haze and rudest gleams^ The East comes back to us in dreams, In holy dreams by night. THE mourner's DREAM. G3 'TIs then o'er marvellous maps -sve pore, Bare outlines of the Eastern shore, And idlj strive to fix the spot AVhere Eden lies, ^v'ith cave and gi'ot. And laTvn, and river-sounds, avraj In the heart of central Asia. 'Tis then love singles out the trees AVith foreign -looking leaves. And oft in summer's languid breeze Poor fancy sits and weaves Of each exotic shrub and flower A shadow of an Eden bower. AVhen childhood's painted flag is furled, And long chill shadows from the world Are o'er our pathway thrown. Still, wliile its early dreams escape. The longing spiidt fain would shape An orient of its o^ti. Still doth it Eastward turn in prayer, And rear its saving Altar there, vStill doth it Eastward tm^n in Creed, AMiile faith in awe each gracious deed Of her dear Saviom^'s love doth plead, — Still doth it turn at every line To the far East — in sweet mute sign That through our weary strife and pain "We crave om' Eden back aoain. "We came unto a river's mouth, A'^liich hath its secret fountaias Away in the unpeopled south. Among unpeopled mountains. 66 THE mourner's drea:m. A sultry haze upon the sea, And long low shore, lay heavily. A bar of rocks stretched east and west The frothy shallows under, On which the chafing billows pressed And broke in muffled thunder ; And further up the misty land The waves foamed idly on the sand ; And on the sandbanl^s in the bay Sea-dogs and seals together lay ; As though the hot mist of noon were sweet After the deep's cold gloom. They slept Hke the dogs at the marble feet Of a Templar on his tomb. All was still as a place of the dead, Xot a mountain lifted his far-off head, Xot an outline blue was seen. Grass was not there, nor shady trees, Xot a branch or blade of green. But a row of seaside villages AYith low sand-hills between. The bar is bare where the white waves sound, And tide and stream are quivering round. But the bark hath crossed, for the river bound. It lay on the mane of a long green billow. As a gull might rest on her ocean pillow, It flew, Hke foam, o'er the ragged bar. And shook where the waters quiver, But steady and strong the keel stood far Up the Asiatic river. I THE MOUKNEli's DREAM. 07 THE WOELD'S EDGE. Maxy an afternoon hath come Smce then to my monastic home, AMien mem'ry hath brought back to me In Hfelike form and order The mighty things -which I did see On that wild river border : Days when the autumn garden grieves Amid the gentle wreck of leaves, Strewn by the summer's parting spmt For winter's stem winds to inherit : Allien silvery sun and fleecy sky Once more bring feeble sumnaer nigh, As thouo;h she came to some sweet nook 'Mid faded lawns and bowers. Awhile to take a farewell look At rash Xovember flowers : And in this Christian city living My heart hath flo^vn away, While mem'ry's deepest wells kept giving Visions of Asia. We left behind the sea's dull roar. We left the sand-hills on the shore : We passed through plains wherein the stream Kan broad by many a barrow, Through forests proof 'gainst bright simbeam, AMiere the bed was deep and narrow : 68 THE mourner's dream. Y\liere Avinds the mighty trees had rocked For many a hundred year ; And troops of gentle creatures flocked To gaze on me Avith fear, As though their faces hright and roimd Had seen and heard of sight and sound Kouc^ht but the forest motion, Save ^'hen a sea-buxl rude had come And scared the quiet of their home, As it wandered from the ocean. The twisting branches framed aboye Cloisters -of gloomy green. And the bare boughs of yew-trees wore On either side a screen ; But here and there the eye might follow The ^iew through many a woodland hollow. To where some fountain gHttered far ^Ith red leaves all around, ^Tien a stray sunbeam, Hke a star Its way through thick shades found ; And it bred fear in me to see At times a dry leaf from a tree, Loosened by some soft hand unseen From its brother-crowd of healthy green, Awhile upon the hght ak quiver, And faintly fall upon the river. The wood was past ; and then again Came gTassy slope and open plain ; And to a lake the river spread, AYith groves and gTeen rocks islanded. ^Tien evening shed her mantle there. Slow-dropping through the twihght aii^, THE MOURXER's DREAM. GO Upon the river-bank there stood Temple, and tower, and streets decayed, Shrine, palace, arch, and colonnade, — A vast and kingly solitude. Dark creepers like a woven vest Were round ea<;h standing pillar pressed ; Between the broken columns sprung Horse-tail and rankest adder's -tongue. Xo voice of man or beast was heard, Xo vesper-song of plaining bird, No insect hum, no breath did seem To rise from those that sleep and dream Among yon cypress rows that stand For half a league or more inland. ^ The city lay in mute distress On the edge of a stretching wilderness. Where have ye gone, ye townsmen great I That have left your homes so desolate ? "\\\here have ye vanished, king and peer ! And left what ye Hved for lying here ? Sin can follow where gold may not, Pictm^es and books the damps may rot, And creepers may hang frail Knes of flowers Down the crevices of ancient towers, But what hath passed fr'om the soul of mortal, Be it word or thought of pride. Hath gone with him through the dim low portal, And waiteth by his side. Between the desert and the town. Upon a grassy treeless down. High hanging o'er the rapid flood A house of Christian monks there stood. One soft low bell kept ever ringing A^Tiile they within were calmly smgino- 70 THE MOURXER'S DREAM. Of her Tvhose garments drop ahvay MyiTh, aloes, and sweet cassia. The chapel-lights with full rich gleam Threw lines of radiance o'er the stream ; And tear-drops came, and o'er my mind Dim thoughts and sadnesses did wind, And with strong spells my spirit hind. It was no grave or holy feeHng That with the Christian psalm came stealing, "SMiich sounded all my being so, And stirred the tears, and bade them flow. Xo, it was earth with her foir things. All her green trees and mountain springs, Eiirth fading from me, which did pass Upon my spirit through the glass Of those church-windows, to the river "S^Tiereon the lamplights rest and quiver. It brought back hours when I did stand A guest in our first father-land, "MMiere summer midnights sweetest shine "With moonbeams cradled on the Ehine, Or dra^\Ti in tremulous webs of gold, TVTiere the stream through long boat-bridges rolled. And earth and all earth was to me In those short hours of boyish glee Came like a cloud of ti'oubled fears, And the cloud broke and feU in tears. Yet it was well those monks should be By the ruin hoar and the pasture lea ; And never was spot more sadly meet For lonely prayer and hermit feet. And fitly, methinks, their chantry stands, '\^Tiere the grass encroaches on the sands. At the limits of life's two marvellous lands,— I THE mourner's DREAM. 71 The land of shadows, forms, and faces, And the Umd of spirits' resting-places. For the psalm they sing is earth's last sound, Cii'cling and sinking faintly round, And whispering o'er the desert's bound. The bodies that lie where the turf springs highest, And little white flowers are growing, Of all the dead are the very nighest To the place where they are going, For over the sand in the stilly morn, "^^llen the winds awhile cease blowing. If you lean and listen a sound is borne. Like the last far fall of a hunting-horn, From the Eden streams, that in channels worn By two and two are flo^-ing. Yes — it was well these monks should tread Between the lining and the dead On the line by which they are seyered, — • That they in their fasts and festal mirth A blessing and grace should merit For the far-off races of the earth From the close -hdng world of spirit. Yes — ^it was well that they should be Types of the meek and passion-free, The humble of earth, that in cloistered room Fight the world's battles in secret gloom ; And lands are saved and conquests won, And the race of high and hard truths run. And chains snapped off and sins undone : And all by meek, dejected men, Earth finds not, learns not, how or when. For they are too divinely great For fame to sully them with state And pageant little worth : 72 THE mourner's dream. From out the unpolluted dead Their names may not be gathered ; Thej dwell too deep for man to find Them out in their calm mirth, Too high to leave a name behind, To be played with on the earth. Xo idle straying sage may learn How that ruined city fell ; All travellers unknowing turn From the spot where those monks dwell. Out in the earth fair babes at play By unseen hands are led away. Here and there in different chmes Some have been missed at distant times ; In sport by day they have been taken, Xo mortal creature knowing, In sleep by night, and did not waken Their mothers at their going. T^liene'er the monks of that house die, These lost of earth their room supply. By angel-leadings ever draAvn From their first homes in childhood's dawn ; And strangely many times must earth Work in their heart with her old mirth. On the edge of the world to them it is given To be within sight and hearing of heaven, To see the mid clouds, Hke castles or ships, Kissed with the evening's rosy lips. Sway in the wind on the hills that spread, Treeless and turfless a barrier dread. Bound the garden our father forfeited. They dwell alone, those monkish few. By the down's slant side and the river blue. THE MOURXER's DREA^r. 73 Xo bird o*er the narrow down may fly, No eagle abroad in yon desert cry, No beast may come as near as they To the sealed centre of Asia. There is a sjDot — I know not why — A spot I often loiter by, AMiich ever brings that ruined town, The monldsh house and strip of down. Back to my fancy, faintly clear. Until the whole doth strangely seem A suddenly recovered dream, "Viliich I had somewhile dreamed of here. It is the least of English brooks Through a midland county winding, In willow flats and meadow nooks Fresh sorts of wild-flowers finding : The very least of brooks — with bays Of standing water furnished, T^Tiere yellow irises upraise Their phalanx smoothly burnished : The least of brooks, that nightly show The white stars' moving faces Mid dark and brittle plants that grow In its wet and shady 2:)laces. Much hooded willow-herb is there. The nun of water-sides, whose care Doth for herself green convents rear Of stalk and leaf and glossy spear. And when I wander there alone, ISLj spirit doth unravel The lines of thought she made her own In her visionary travel. But up the stream with steady wiU My boat went undelaying, 74 THE mourner's dream. While earth stirred calmly in me still, And set my fancy straying. And now around is a sandy scene "Without one square or isle of green, A reoion, where with no sweet shrouds The sun, as he doth pass, Unclothes the white sky of its clouds, And the green earth of her grass. But the moon is floating soft aboye. And the sands below are ghstening ; There might be sounds in the liorhts that moye O'er the earth, like the wings of a weary doye. If there were time for listening. But the winds from theu^ hid coyerts press. And lift their wayinor voices hioh O'er the broad waste, to magnify The INIaster of the wilderness. So wild was the gleam the moon was lending, So broken it looked in its descending. The desert's self seemed heading ; One might think that mighty winds came out To scatter molten moonlight about, To mar the plain words and meaning tilings That, for man, aloft on her glitterings The quiet orb was wearing. Then came a royal wood of palms TMth strange and oriental charms. The forest stood down to the riyer. Yet seemed to stretch away for eyer. League upon league hke pillars tall With one rich shapely capital In aisles they stood, and hke each other. One palm might be its neighbour's brother. i THE mourner's DREAM. 75 And all were fair and fresh of hue, As though in some good plain they giTW, And not in sand-cbifts light. The moisture drunk by thirsty noon Cool darkness doth replenish soon With dewdrops sparkling bright, De^N's fed from mists that bear the moon Sweet company all night. And down the rings of each smooth bole, Like sunbeams under the sea. Quiverings of emerald moonlight stole, Swathing the golden tree. Tmra where one might a roaming eye, On, on, for ever on, The multitudinous palm-trees lie, Countless as stars that stud the sky, "WTien the rival moon has gone. Hast thou ever felt in thy lonely room. Some vigil night, when the hush and gloom. And the nearness of chm^hes round the place, Bring joy in the soul and smiles on the face — T\Tien the walls of the world seem about to melt, And to la}^ the ^derd realms of spirit bare, — Hast thou ever at such high seasons felt T\Tiat seemed like the waving of wings in air, TVhile an angel meek hath descended there. And is kneeling where thou hast lately knelt ? Hast thou known how his presence keeps thee still. And winds through thy thoughts like a freshening rill. How visions and musings of lightness or pride Fall off from thy heart as withered leaves, And fancy dares not with him at her side Think well of the sillvy webs she weaves ? 76 THE mourner's dream. So \7as it ^th me in that little boat That stiller and swifter seemed to float. The flowers and ivj-stallvS drooping low Sweeter and fresher appeared to grow. A faint scarce "s-isible glorj stood O'er the Crucifix of scented wood ; And though the seat at the hehn looked bare, I knew that a spiiit was sitting there. The bark had now begun to quiver Upon the fast, unsteady river, And foam-bells wavered by ; And with the lisping palm-tops blending A stunning water-faU's descending Grew distinct and nigh. There was a pause — a brief, dread pause In a narrow vaUev's rocky jaws. A huge, high clifi' did steeply bound A simless pool with white mists round. Then came a quiet, whirling motion, And my boat was lifted slow ; Like the strong twistings of the ocean, T^Tiere a ship hath gone below. Oh ! gently are the currents flowing Above that giant -faU, And gentle sounds, Hke breezes blowing, From off the momitains' call. The herbless mountains nigh at hand That darkly fence man's earliest land, StiU wept with bm^ning brow, "Wliich every bright or gloomy faith Hath faintly looked for after death. Or made an idol now. THE mourner's DREAM. 77 "We came unto the river fountains, Where three of those huge-rooted mountains Jutted beyond the range, And clasped within their stony round A basin and a ring of ground Of beauty soft and strange. There in that most lonely dwelling The rivers of the south are welling From a silent-rising spring : And to the surface from below The silver, salient waters flow "With scarce a mmnnm^ing. Below the sterile cliffs a rim Of yellow moorland turf the brim Of that calm basin closes ; And right among the tarnished sedge There hangs and floats a flowering hedge Of whitest gleaming roses. No greenly-gadding rose -branch dips Into Ihe pool its fragrant lips. But drooping ever motionless In one white coronal they press The velvet margin shading ; Like some pale lustrous wreath adorning A bride upon her marriage morning, — Eternal and unfading ; Breathing faint richness on the lake, Whose gleamy face winds never shake, Xor ripples crest, nor rain-drops break : — "WTiere rose with rose in webs is threading, Thick spells of luscious strength outshedding. That make the mountain hollow seem One noonday cup of odorous steam. 78 THE mourner's dream. "Wondrous it is to see on high The barren mountains to the skj Their splintered sceptres holding ; While Heaven's ethereal blue between The outlines rough doth intervene, And spends all hours, that fearful scene To shapes of softness moulding : Just as the monthly moon's full orb In her ovm fairness doth absorb The boughs of leafy dells. And piu^le midnight by sweet laws Upward and inward ever draws Church-spires and pinnacles. Strange is it to the eye that rests On the long line of mountain crests, WTiose slow descending gaze but falls On craggy steeps and dark bare walls, — Strange is it when the earth discloses That little hollow cup of roses. Across the pool my boat did steal In swift and silent order. And not a ripple from the keel Euffled the flowery border. Above the place where I Avas left There was a deep, clear mountain cleft. As though some keen seraphic sword, Some Angel of the mighty Lord, Had carved that portal fair. To skies beyond of stainless blue Wliite waging clouds went sailing through, As if to harbour there. But poor and little was my hope To climb that cliff and broken slope^ THE mourner's DREAM. 79 Till I beheld a straggling line Of low white roses dimly shine, As if put there in play, Or some angelic hand in air Had scattered rose-wreaths kindly there To trace and mark the way. ^Tiere each frail flowret had been tlirown There was a little step of stone, AMiereto a man might cling, Or, if they failed, be Hfted on By angel hand or wing : And with such faith myself would dare Upon that long and perilous stair. How may I tell ye, friends on earth ! With what a mystery of mirth I stood within that mountain cleft, "With two worlds, on the right and left ? Boundless, boundless, all unending, Shadows, soids, and spiiits blending — Midnight and sun-rise, noon and even. Earth, ocean, -si^id-glowing Heaven — All were at once : — all bathed and blent In a new white-seeming element, "NMierein they did abide : Most Hke unto a hoary sea, '\Miere through all ages by decree Time might have no more ebbs, but be For ever at hio^h-tide. It travelled on in mighty rings. And with a clamorous motion ; Like a sea-bird sleeping on her wings And sinking to the ocean. I stood within the mountain-cleft AVith two worlds, on the right and left — - 80 THE mourner's DREAM. The land of shadows, forms, and faces, And the land of spmts' resting-places. Apart, and separate they were, With other sky and sea and air : And jet they seemed but one to me — Each in the other comprehended, In lovely separation blended, Like two sides of a mystery. Oft have I seen in out -do or dreams Lovely and dreadful things Brought close upon my soul by gleams, — Maj estic glimmeri ngs . But, when I deemed the vision bright L'nfoldinor from the soul of nio;ht Unto my touch would press, The troublous pleasure that did creep Through every vein, broke up my sleep, And the appearance swiftly drew Back into midnight's caverned blue And starry silentness ; As rainbows to my childish eye Withdrew into the cloudy sky, When gazed at over-earnestly. Thus hath this dream been broken up, And gentle sleep's well-mingled cup Been spilt upon the earth ; But dreams that promise fairest blessing, Yet cease to be in the possessing — "Wliy blame them more than other things, Since Heaven in love so checks the springs Of every mortal mirth ? h Y. THE DEEA:\r OF KIXG CECESUS. King Crcesus cbeamed a cbeam : the live -long clay His heart was swollen with imperial pride. And his eye surfeited with blaze of gems And gleamj metals, and his weak ear soothed By fair-tongued Ljdians : but in the still night King Crcesus dreamed a dream : 'twas Xemesis That out of the mute darkness wove that di-eam. He slept, and in his sleep he saw his son, Atys, the beautiful, the chosen Atjs, The youthful warrior, — him he saw in dark Confused embrace with hazy struggling forms, Masses, which peopled all the blank of night, Like bruised embossing on a lance-worn shield. He could not extricate from thence, nor clear One object which man's eye should recognize ; Only he saw Atys — Atys he saw, His son, undoubted, manifest : ah woe ! Only he saw Atys, — torn with the point Of some irndsible implement ; he saw The point, and Atys, and his own child's bloofl. Such was the dream King Crcesus di^eamed that night. There is a sound as of a nuptial feast Throughout the low- roofed Sardis ; tabor, lute And Phrygian pipe in sweet accord are there, Making such music as the easterns loye, Monotonous and wailino; : there are liohts 6 82 THE DREAM OF KING CRCESUsI And cries and banquet sounds, and all the throng Of nuptial celebration. Dark and dim From Mother Dindpnene's sacred hill Hermus flows down into the noisy plain, Where night is turned to day, and hurries on His waters troubled with the unwonted glare Into the quiet, misty distance. Oh Strange apparition is a flowing stream By a gay city in the obscure night ! It is the nuptial feast of Atys. Ay, And will King Crcesus baffle destiny, And flaunt the venerable Xemesis With nuptial feasts and women's chambers ? Xo — For though the warrior's arms be laid aside, And though the boar-spear for the hunt be tlu'own In some neglected corner, though the walls That rang with armor wave with tapestry, — Yet sooner shall the soil instead of fi'uit Bring forth sharp-pointed things, and mortals reap Lance-heads for harvests, than the holy path Of orderly and reverend fate be tm'ned This way or that. Mute matter and the beasts Achieve Heaven's wrath or love upon the earth. T\Tiat ails the King ? ^Miy seeks he never now The vaulted treasure-house, the metals, gems. And costly inwrought works ? His restless eye Is palled with brightness, and his regal pride — • That hath gone do^^-n, ay, sunk, for ever sunk In the deep ocean of paternal love. Yet wherefore looketh he with cmious search Through all the palace and among his guards And on state days and in the pubHc place. Lest a keen weapon or some pointed thing Should come nigh Atys ? He woidd charm the life THE DREAM OF KING CRfESUS. 83 Of the brave, princely hoy ; he would rob fate (And cannot kings do all things ?) of the prize. It is the Dream : that Dream is in liis heart, Stirring, like spring -v^rithin the unconscious earth Setting the unborn simimer in an^aj. The power that wove the Dream doth also work Out in the world. The toils of Xemesis Axe closing round thee, Croesus ! oh how near ! There came a stranger to the Lydian com't, A man of unclean hands, a fratricide. And jet withal a gentle being, one ^\Tiose noble blood of Phrvgia's rojal line "Was least of his endo^\Tnents ; one of those "VMiose fortune is a mystery on the earth, A painful problem, gendering thought and tears Even in the sage, and in the unrestrained A refuge oft for easy misbelief — As though by some dread fate perversely thrown Upon the very opposite of all Their passions and propensions, not allowed To hit the scope at which their nature aims. Men are they, by compulsion of the world And the disturbing force of circumstance Led forth, like victims, out of their own sphere To act some other spirit's destiny : Who pass away, still haraig in themselves A better destiny all unfulfilled, A holier, milder being unevolved. Such was Adrastus, with a gentle tinge Of softness and a partial hallowing Of deep romance, an almost wayward lore Of sadness, and a clinging to the woe "Wliich had exhausted and absorbed the hope Of his whole beinoj. He had shed the blood 84 THE DREAM OF KIXG CROESUS. Of his o^n brother most unwittingly, And came to Croesus that from him he might Eeceive the expiation of the times, — A cleansing power, most rightly gathered up Into the state and person of the prince, A portion of divinity enthroned, Like a peculiar instinct, in a king, "\Mio, by his unity no less than by His height, doth adimibrate the One Supreme. "With running water and the kingly word Adrastus was made clean, and dwelt, a guest Of Croesus, I might almost say, a son. TMien by the hearth the stranger's shadow fell King Croesus knew not that it was the cloud Of ISTemesis upon his royal house : So little venerable in our sight Is present Providence — when past, how great ! All tilings concur with Xemesis : she sent A fugitive from Phrygia thus to be Her shadow and her symbol in the house Of the great king whom she had singled out To teach men, by his eminence and griefs. The righteousness of Heaven. In other lands She makes fresh preparation, and the ring Of destiny is slowly narrowing in ; The victim cannot stir, he cannot do A transitory act, but he therein Is riveting the future on himself. Croesus ! awake ! Thy Dream is on thee, — rise ! Alienee are these foreiom husbandmen, who tlii'oncr The audience -hall at Sardis, suppliants rude ? They are fi^om pastoral Mysia, come to teU How a huge boar from rough Olympus robs The sheep-folds, thins the lowing kine, and treads THU DIIEAM OF KING CRCESUS. 85 Tlie vineyards and the flax and silky maize Beneath his feet. " Will Creesus deign to send *' liis prineely son and famous Lydian dogs '' And himters of renown, to free the land, '* And leave his name all o'er the Mysian fields <» Fragrant' as incense to the pastoral tribes ?" To whom the King made answer : ^' Speak no more *•' Of Atys ; he must tarry with his bride, " Whom it frere graceless at this hoiu- to leave. '* The hounds and hunters ye are fi^ee to take, *' And rid fair Mysia of the uncouth beast." It grieved the heart of Atys ; he was grieved That he should be shut out from manly toils, From winning love, and walldng in men's eyes A prince by deeds as well as royal birth. He came unto his father and knelt down. Knelt down before his father and his King, And sued with piteous words : '^ O royal Sire ! " With our progenitors it was esteemed " That battlefield and hunting-ground should be ^^ The theatres of princes : — Hath the law '• Been changed in Lydia that thou shuttest me " From such employ ? Father ! what cowardice, " Or what faint spirit hast thou marked in me ? " How shall I come and go within the streets *' Of this gTeat Sardis, how endure the eyes '^ That speak worse words than those men would address " Unto me if I were not prince ? Dear Sire I ^* My very bride will point me with her finger, '^ And call me ' Vroman,' wishing that she had '' A man to be the father of her sons ! " I pray thee let me go unto tliis hunt, " Or reason with me why I should not go." Croesus was mindful of his bygone youth, 86 THE DREAM OF KING CRGSSUS. ^'^liich was an echo to the joung man's words. A tearcbop stood within the proud King's eye ; He was a father, and he wept and smiled. '^ O Atjs, my son Atys, I have not, '' The gods forfend it ! aught in thee observed ^' Unprincely, or beneath the graciousness ^' Bom to the sons of kings. I had a dream," (And here a trembHng passed upon the King) '' A dream one night, when I had spent iiie day *' Amid my treasures : I would not disturb '' The quiet happiness of thy young Kfe ^' By speaking of the vision, but I kept '' The burden at my heart, and there it lay ^' The secret cause of my unwonted mien " And gesture ; nay, in many little ways " It hath unkinged me. Atys ! it declared '^ Thy span of life to be but brief : it spoke ^' Of death by weapon-point. Therefore it was '^ I hastened on thy nuptials, if so be ^* I might for my life-time enjoy thy life, '' A theft, a stolen joy, the spoil of fate. '^ Thou art my chosen son, nay art thou not '' Mine only one, thy brother being deaf, '' To whom the outer world is but a show " Like A\'ind-tossed trees upon the mountain top, " Or Hermus lapsing mutely through the town, " Too gentle, as the stricken always are, '' Xot one whom men could bow to as a king ?" Young Atys listened, not without some avre, For he had piety towards the gods, And dreams and portents were unto his soul Its faith and fear, not whoUy without love. O the sweet science of om^ youth, to find A way wherein our mils may go, a cause THE DIIEAM OF KING CR(E3US. 87 For action in tlie very reasonings ^Miereby men prove to us we should not act ! Thus Xtys spoke, the princely casuist, Pouring his honey in a father's ear : — '• O father ! blessed art thou for the love *^ "\Mierewith thou hast thus loved me ! yet indeed ^- Its very fervor leadeth thee astray <• From the true purport of the di^eam. ^Tis thus : *"' I am to die by point of iron spear. '' Father, dear father ! are the tusks of boars *' In that gTeen Mysia made of iron points ? '^ Elsewhere they are of bone ! Now art thou not, *^ Dear father ! art thou not a timorous king " And an unwise ? AMiy truly I shall think " It is my mother governs Lydia now, " So good, so kind, and yet so timorous, " So very full of sweet maternal ^iles." He shook his flaxen hair from off his brow, And looked and laughed into the old King's face : And the King laughed again at his rude boy, Atys, the beautiful, the flaxen-haired. Croesus ! beware, the Dream is on thee now ! But the Dream wrought ; he let young Atys go : Fathers are e^il pleaders with their sons. Kino- Croesus sat within his audience -hall. Fixed like a statue on his marble tlu^one, Silent and troubled, like a man who feels He hath done that which he shall one day rue. How cold, how weak the words of Atys seemed Xow that the youth was gone ; yea, he was gone, Atys, the beautiful, the flaxen-haired, T^liose eloquence was his young face and not His reasonings, his light laugh and not his speech. For a sweet look and for a pretty gibe Atys, the flaxen-haired, was sold to fate. 88 THE DREAM OF KING CRGESUS. A daily bargain is it on the earth ; Forsooth to-daj a hundred sons have been To bondage sold in foolishness of love AMiich is not love, through weakness falling short. O father Croesus — jet it was the Dream. The Dream hath reached King Croesus. And behold ! AMiere'er he turns dread Xemesis is there. Things turn to Nemesis beneath his touch. His servants are the slaves of fate : his guest Fate's shadow, and the sunbeam in the eye Of Atys is the Hght of fate ; the shake Of his long flaxen hair belonged to fate. The royal house is compassed by a Power ^Miich hath absorbed all wills into its own. Sorrow and mii'th, the hour of Inngly pride Within the treasure-house, the nuptial feast, The blood in Phrygia spilled, the mountain boar, The husbandmen, the fame of Lvdian doo-s. The kneeling boy, the gibe, the flaxen hair, — All gi'ow into one shadow, and advance Upon King Croesus, like an angry god. King Croesus saw it not ; he did not know He was become the centre of his Dream. Alas ! King Croesus, we are all like thee, Fate teaching us the worship of free -will. Kino: Croesus sat within the audience -hall. Silent and troubled : Atys had gone forth To make his preparations for the hunt. The monarch bade them call the Phiygian prince ; Adrastus stood before him. '' Xoble guest I'' King Croesus spake, ^^ amid the royal state ^' AAlierewith thou seest me compassed, at my heart '^ A hot uneasy secret hath lain hid, ^^ ^Miich tln-eatens now to brino- forth bitter fruit THE DREAM OF KING CROESUS. 89 ** Of dire affliction. I have cleansed thy hands, " -:Vnd given thee kingly gi'eeting, and a home, " And appanage, and all tilings meet for thee, " As though thou hadst been Atjs, my true son. '^ Xay, stranger, I recount not these small things *• As debts for ^vliich thou art to pay me back *- Measm-e for measure ; nor upbraidingly '' As though the kindness lay too Hght on thee. '' I seek return most different in kind, " I would thou shouldst go forth unto this hunt. " Thou art a gentle, princely man ; I trow ** Atys would be as safe beneath thy charge ^' As though Xing Croesus went with him. The land *^ Is wild, and there are perils of the way ; '' Haply a father magnifies them, yet '' I would that Atys went with thee, my guest ! , " And thou too hast gTeat sires, unto whose deeds ** 'Twere well to Hnk thine OAvn ; thy stalwart prime '* Without achievements should not thus elapse : '' Adrastus ! thou art born a Phiygian prince, '' The column of an old and generous name I" *• Monarch and father I" thus Adrastus said, " I shoidd not otherwise have sought this hunt. *^ A sorrow-stricken man should not essay " To join liimself unto liis peers : the gods " Have taken him apart unto themselves, " Clouding his days ; nor have I now a soul ^* For martial enterprise, or glorious deeds " Of princely prowess, isolated thus " From my long line of royal ancestors, " Thro' exde, ay, thi^o' worse than exile dead. " Yet for thy sake I go, content to have " Thv joy for my reward in that sweet hoiu' 90 THE DREAM OF KING CRCESUS. ^^"Wlien I shall give back Atjs to tliine arms." King Croesus left the audience -hall assured. Ah ! he hath drawn the Dream unto himself, And of his o^vn free will embraced liis fate. There is not now a fibre in his heart At which that Vision pulls not every hour. Methinks I see the ghttering plain outspread At simny dawn, and Hermus flowing bj, And the blue mountains, north and south and east, "With S^'pylus, which half fills up the west, Catchinor the simrise, in whose rifted crao;s The thimder tolls all summer, day and night, — And the white walls of Sardis, and the King Wa'^ing liis last farewell fi^om near the gate. And o'er the AcropoHs I see the snow On Tmolus, where the long-liyed shepherds dwell, Tending their sable goats upon the downs With pm^ple saffron streaked, while breezy morn Wafts o'er the plain from out the shrubby glens That aromatic breath so dear to Pan. And old Pactolus guides his lucid stream Between two Hps of ruddy sand, which glow Like webs of golden tissue in the sim. Tar off the tomb of Alyattes gleams Tlu'ouojh the low mist, whose sluo-pish climbino* folds Its lofty cone o'ertops, and shoots on high, Clearing its way into the radiant air. And in the wind the lake of Gryges seems Of silyer shot with black, whose bright expanse Eegions of plumy marsh-plants intersect. From out whose noddino- coverts at that hour The countless swans rise up to greet the morn With tuneless pipings, which, with resonance Conjoined of insect -swarms, that from the lake THE DKEAM OF KING CRCESUS. 91 Keep off the restless thirsty herds, arc noAV Qlie oiih' sounds that desohitely thrill That solitary shore of Lydian tomhs. Then the brave band of men and dogs went on O'er hill and dale, and, when the sunbeams glanced Upon the spear-points of the horsemen there, It was the brightness of the Dream that moved AVith them to its fidfihnent constantly. Atys, with beamy spear-points girdled round, Beguiled Adrastus somewhat of his woe, Kecounting stories of the famous hunts, AMiich he had heard within the banquet hall By rhapsodists recited to the King From Lydian clu^onicles : and then he spake Of his young bride, or bade Adrastus note The plumage of the bird that darted by, Or the tliick fleets of rapid ortolans "Which swam along the sm^face of the maize, Or on a sudden sank and disappeared. He asked the name of this or that blue cone "\Miich glimmered in the sun, or thoughtlessly He pointed to the dogs, and asked the prince If there were such in Phiwgia, then confused He talked of other thinos scarce knowins^ what. Then languor seized liim, and the weariness Of the tame distance, and they had some hours Of silent riding ; but a bubbling brook, And hunter's fare and slumber in the shade Of single plane trees, such as here and there. Like tents, rise up in those unwoody parts, Eefreshed the youth, and ever from his talk Adrastus gathered peace and freshness too. And thus they travelled to the Mysian border. In its green mountain -glens to meet the Dream. 92 THE DREAM OF KING CRCESTS. How beautiful are still and starry nights On the gTeat plains of Asia ! And how clear The yellow moon in glossy-foliaged dells WTiere sluamken brooks are tinklino; throiio-h the night ! Oh I shall think unto my dying day, "WTien I outhve the strength of rowing youth, How beautiful are nights on Asia's plains ! The dome of heaven scarce arched above the earth With the low hanoing moon, and lustrous stars DO ' Orblike and swollen with unusual light. The night-wind, fragi^ant with a thousand gums, Moaning, as weary of its homeless life Over those countless leagues of inland steppe. The Httle tents, the smouldering fire of wood, The scattered arms, the horses on the plain, Dim, dusky figures, feeding or at rest : — "Wliat Atys and Adrastus saw is still Seen nightly in that old unchanging land. Amid the green and bosky roots, from which Mysian Olympus rises, there doth ku'k A stony hollow, thickly overgrown With arbutus and straight lentiscus shoots And ragged stone-pines : there land-tm^tles dwell. And brio[ht innocuous snakes, and cruel boars. And by the Mysian shepherds tliither led After most blythe reception, Atys stood. And Prince Adrastus and the Lydian band ; And in the midst the boar at bay. The chace "With all its wonted stirring ciiTimistance Aroused the spirit of the Phrygian prince. And, with the power of old past times, relaxed Griefs pressure ; and he hmied his lance AVith fierce unsteady eagerness, nor hit The raging boar : but youthful Atys fell. THE dri=:am of king croesus. 93 The brittle shoots of the lentiscus broke Beneath the fall, and to the naked sky The closing eyes of Atjs were upturned. And in that stony hollow, which to-day . The aromatic summer gently fills As calm as though no blood had been shed there. Eifling the placid beauty of the place. Was Atys, youthful Atys in his blood, Atys the beautiful, the flaxen-haired. There lay the hope of Croesus ; thither came The old King's Dream for its accomplishment. There is a cry in Sardis ; Hermus hears : 'Tis not the clamor of the nuptial feast, — Atys is dead, they wail for Atys. Where Art thou, young bride of Atys ? And the King — ^Miere is King Croesus ? Who will dare to say Unto the King that Atys hath been slain, Atys, the beautiful, the flaxen-haired ? He who went out at dawn, who marked the birds, ^Tiose youth ran over with him, like a well. And when his spirits wearied him, he slept Beneath the plane, because his heart was light — "Wlio saw the stars at midnight in the sky, "VMio looked into that hollow and knew not It was his grave — he is among the dead ! O weep for Atys, Atys mid the dead I And Sardis wept for Atys. Croesus called For vengeance on Adrastus, called on Zeus The god of expiations : he assailed The powers of Heaven with clamorous prayers, and filled '^ The streets with imprecations, such alone As agony could wring from out the heart Of a bereaved and stricken parent. " Curse, 94 THE DREA^I OF KING CRCESUS. ^' 0 curse the impious stranger, god of hearths ! ^' O curse Acbastus, thou dread power who reign' st " O'er mortal friendship ! curse me that dark man !'' Slow the procession moves along the streets Of twilight Sardis. See 1 the white form comes, — Atjs, the prince, returning to his home. King Croesus gazed upon the slayer there, An apparition, wan as the cold corpse Upon the swaying bier : King Croesus gazed, And he unprajed his curse, his passion sank. Sank down, and in his soul he pitied liim ; And beautiful and touching were his words, Albeit he then remembered with a pang How once Adrastus spake of the sweet hour "When he should gire back Atys to his arms : That hour had come ; — it had no name in words ! " Stranger I'' (for by that title he addressed The prince, scarce knowing whether it enhanced Or lessened his mishap, that it befel By stranger's hand) " I 'will not seek to add '' By word of mine to thine exceeding woe : ^' Xay, rather I woidd bid thee take good heart, '' Although enwoned by calamity. " Adrastus ! it was God who slew my son, '' The holy God who warned me by the Dream. ^' Adrastus I it was God who by thy hand " Laid Atys low, and quelled King Croesus' pride. '' Wretched Adi-astus I be consoled for this — " It was not thou, but God : — ^yet why by thee, " Yea, wherefore by thy hand, most rightly dear ^' For thy true princely heart, and for thy griefs ?" Thus spoke King CroeSs most benig-nant words : For his whole mind was raised and magnified, Made merciful and quiet as a god's, THE DREAM OF KING CRCESUS. 95 By tlio extremity of mortal ^voe. Oh what a royal heart had that old man ! Sardis remembered many a long, long year The funeral of Atys ; how the King Hung o'er the motionless white frame, and wept And wept and spoke not, how the thrilling w^ail Of the yoimg bride resounded on the plain Tkroughout the dim expanse, and how the prince, The rapt Adrastus, spoke not, did not seem To hear or see, but was as if he strove "With some dull baffling mist within his. soul. All gazed upon Adrastus ; yet no eye In the whole crowd of Sardians had a look Of rage or hatred ; for the King's great soul Had passed into his people. Midnight came : The glowing light of the red pile sunk down. Hermus, who had been troubled with the glare Of nuptial lamps, and with the smoke and sparks Of the duU wine -quenched pyre, now calmly ran Past the low fresh-turfed barrow where the bones And ashes lay. There were no feet of men, No Sardian Hnorerino^ from the mournful crowd, Aroimd the grave ; but night, calm night was there. The silent darkness rested on the plain. By the swdft rushing river undistm^bed. Adrastus stood beside the mound in thouo^ht, The prince, the gentle heart, twice stained with blood. He knew that there was suffering on the earth ; But he, yea, he was singled out from men For awfid woe, bent, laden, trampled do^vn, A gazing-stock for all posterities. His being brought beneath some special law Of the in\dsib]e world, so marked and sealed 96 THE DREAM OF KING CRG^SUS. That he should not claim Idndrecl with his kind. And in the darkness of his pagan faith The princelj-hearted Adctim deemed he saw A right, uncensm^ed, to self-sacrifice. Therefore he slew himself upon the grave ; Not from despair, nor goaded bj remorse, Nor to escape the dogging steps of fate ; But, mastered by an instinct of deep love For earth and for his fellows, did he sit In judgment on himself, and, so condemned. With solemn self- collection did he slay Himself upon the barrow newlj raised, That he might abrogate that fearful law "Wliich had hung e^il round him Hke a cloak. King Croesus mourned for Atjs two whole years "Within his latticed halls : his pride was spent ; And from that cloud of sorrow he emerged. With heart and eje chastised, a royal sage ; And with a melancholy gentleness Of thought and aspiration so endowed. Men maryelled at the wisdom then outpoured From hps which learned thefr sole philosophy From suffering : such transfiguration ^Tought The love of God within the pagan's soul : And such the working of a heaven-sent dream To sanctify that ancient Lydian King. In early days I read this tale ; it seemed Most touching and most wise, and it has lived Within my memory : in the simple Greek Of the old cln^onicler it truly is A stirring tale : perhaps less touching here, (Though Enghsh is a plaintive tongue) yet not Without pathetic wisdom of its kind. 1 97 VI. THE SENSES. KrcH soil of ancient springs ! dear Earth ! Of whom we all are made, In whose green treasm^e -house the birth Thou lentest must be laid ! Mistress of Christian symbols, glorying In letters of dread meaning, In tides of sonor-hke lanoruaore flo^\'inor Where minstrel ears are leaning, "Where day and night Spell words of might By gloom or brightness hidden, And summer hours In bells of flowers Sing songs, and are not chidden. I never called thee gloomy, — never From out thy full, fresh -flowing river Have failed to draw sweet water, And still thine echo in me rings True to the faintest mm^murings That constant stream hath brought her. So have I gazed on thee, as one Who sits from rise to set of sun In Troy's dim-furrowed plain, Scanning the letters half- effaced. And lines where some old Greek hath traced The titles of the slain. 7 98 THE SENSES. So striTe I, as a baffled lover, The wondrous science to recover, Laid up in Eden still, "WTien our wise father gave a name To every beast and bird that cf;me, With heaven-imparted skill. All over doth this outer earth An inner earth infold, And sounds may reach us of its mhth Over its pales of gold. There spirits Hve, unwedded all From the shades and shapes they wore. Though still their printless footsteps fall By the hearths they loved before. We know them not, nor hear the sound They make in threading all around : Their office sweet and mighty prayer Float without echo through the air. Yet sometimes in unworldly places, Soft sorrow's twihght vales. We meet them with uncovered faces Outside their golden pales, Though dim, as they must ever be. Like ships far-off and out at sea. With the sun upon their sails. Xot unobserved doth April bring. With rain -drops sparkHng on her wing From many a silver shower, Her dewy prophecies of spring. Close leaf and show of blossoming, In every bank and bower. The breezes with their fertile wooing Earth's long-night fetters are undoing : THE SENSES. 99 And she ^^'ithin her priestly vest Takes back her soul into her breast. In every blossom there is fruit, And every flower swells at its root, Till stalk and lily blade are seen Piercing the mould with spikes of green. And jealous plants all sheathed and fui'led Come up with veils into the world, And brittle shoots, where June discloses Her jewelled lines of crimson roses. All these, ere winter's season hoary, Have had a blooming and a glory, Have left their glory, and were dead. That so they might be quickened. 0 faithless ones ! that cannot bear Sharp pain or wan dejection, Come witness in the vernal air Earth's yearly resurrection ! For what are we but winter roots, "Wrapping in many folds our fruits, WTiich cannot ripen here ? Our spirits from their mortal birth Spend only in the soil of earth One season of the year. 1 do not scorn our earthly life : It is a mystery, a strife, A crowd of marvellings : Our shadows, fashions, and degrees, Elsewhere have glowing substances, "Wliich we may reach, when death shall please To give us back our wings. 100 THE SENSES. We have imprisoned bj our sin Man's vast intelligences, And broken lights are flooded in Upon them bj our senses. They are the inlets to our spirit, Ebbing, flowing ever From waters we shall once inherit In Heaven's upper river. They are the windows of our soul, From whence the captive gazes, And through them from the verv pole, Sunlight and moonlight ever roll, WTiile she her wild eje raises. She sitteth there a captive maiden. Upon the cold bars leaning, Until her bosom is dread-laden With all earth's lustrous meaning : — Sight's ether-winged ^dsions seeing, Sound's golden circles hearing. With Touch dissohing space and being, And shades instead appearing. Languid with such access of joj. The soul herself betaketh To another sense of sweet alloy, ^liich earth, green earth awaketh. For what is Smell that wafteth by But the inward voice of memory ? Forward or up she never leadeth. But household melancholy breedeth ; Hindering with fr^agrant wiles om^ haste, With by- gone pleasures staying. Forbidding hearts such wealth to waste, Earth's backward call obeying, Waking the scent- embalmed past With exquisite delaying. THE SENSES. 101 Dear Sense ! and yet I dare not dream Tliy spells which all so earthly seem . Are only earth's creating, And have not from our Eden home To every several flowret come ^Vith breeze -like undulating. But Taste, the sense that feeds the spirit, Ilath gifts ourselves could never merit, Impartings rich of heavenly mii'th Brought out before its time on earth, Good things, good foretastes, angel-cheer. Presage of deathless might. That makes the soul her ^\'ings uprear. Like eagles in their flight. Sit, then, O Soul ! thy Master praising. And through those windows keenly gazing. With awe thy A-ileness suiting ; Through them the inner kingdom ranging. All things to spirit ever changing. Earth to heaven commuting. Dread Inlets ! most mysterious Five ! Linking our shadows with the skies. By whom dead forms are made alive. And symbols grow reaKties ! And yet these Eive may not be all : — This college -garden is but small "With some few dozen trees ; And yet scarce one was meant to grow, "S^Tiere our long northern winters blow Within the English seas. This grew by some huge western river. This to the desert wind did quiver In Araby the Blest : 302 THE SENSES. Yon by the ^arm sea -shore might smile Away in some "West-Indian isle, In lordlier foliage drest. WTio would have dreamed in those south homes, Where icy winter never comes, That in the heart of tropic trees A hidden sense was moulded, To shield them from the piercing frost Of northern Europe's chilly coast, And be far off across the seas, Facing the rude Atlantic breeze. In centuries unfolded ? Like powers in hearts of flesh reside. Like buried Senses there abide ; Senses and Inlets fine, all over, Wliich our last rising may discover. Our bodies here may be the tomb Of powers and motions hidden, Wliich birth shall loosen from their womb Elsewhere when it is bidden : Fresh Taste and Sight, and other Hands L^nformed, — for work of other lands ; And secret Ears wherewith we may Perchance hear spirits speaking, And Scents to guide us on our way To the fadeless flowers we're seeking : — Verdure laid up in us, not wanted For the hours of mortal breath, Eeady to bloom in us transplanted By the mystery of death. Thought hath a double stream, whose falls Keep murmuring in her sounding halls, Eising and sinking, faint and clear, As breezes waft their echoes near ; k Til 3 SENSES. 103 One springs 'mid outward forms and shows, And Avinds as it is bidden ; The other veils its wells, and flows In a woodland channel hidden ; And at far times reveals its floods In whitest gleamings tlurough the wools, O'er roots of marble breaking, Or in a hollow green and cool Through many a modest lingering pool Its amber waters taking. AVe have no spells to turn its flow, Or bid its voices come and go ; For on its face are mirrored fair . The Hghts and shapes that are elsewhere, And tranquil fear and shadowy love Brood o'er its basins from above. But oft in sudden turns of thought Both fountains are together brought, And mix theu^ streams awhile ; And fancy then herself is seating To catch the sounds and whispers fleeting, Where Heaven and Earth in streams are meeting. And rippling waters smile. Again in hours of gentle daring The soul hath traced the brook some way, Its darkly-twisting channel wearing, And coloured pebbles downward bearing From where its secret fountains play. Benighted in far woods, she sees Forms shift about among the trees. And vanish here and there, And, uttered by them in their fleetness. Soft voices of an earthly sweetness Keep trembling on the air. 304 THE SENSES. And then, Tvhen fancy's stars are waning, The soul her ^vonted home regaining, Yet still those mystic scenes retaining. The sounds and visions so impress Themselves upon her loneliness, With such a dimly-liking power, That she in many an after-horn^ Beholds in strange and foreign places Familiar forms and household faces ; As though erewhile in visron dread That place or room Trere visited, And strangers' voices echo round Like rings and links of magic sound. She Hstens well to what is spoken. As though the words were old ; And watches for some random token. The wonder to unfold. These are the sounds and shadowy sight That came in waking dream, "When she was wanderinor in the nioht Far up the heavenly stream. Oft too in slumber's pathless moimtains The heart breaks up her ancient fountains, TMiich had for years been sealed, And the whole spii'it overflows With waters that chance-dreams disclose In some forgotten field. Tree-top and rock, and nodding wood Group wildly in that whirling flood, 'Wliile Earth and Heaven meet and part In giddy ebb and flow of heaii: : — THE SENSES. 105 Giddy, yet held by some strong tie Fast in the beating springs, AMiich up above in sympathy Keep time by murmurings. For that bright stream's mysterious powers, And all its secret going, Burst on the surface most in hours AMien sleep is o'er us flowing ; Like gm^gling wells and waterfalls TMiich, heard in stilly nights. Put music in the breezy calls That come from mountain heights. All these — quick turns of sparkling thought. Strange places kno^vn again. And dreams at hollow midnight brought, Are openings by these waters wrought. And Heaven awhile made plain. They who will listen at their soul, May hear deep down that current roll. Its waters sweetly timing ; And patient ears that listen long May catch the fashion of its song. And science of its chiming. Nay, sometimes by its far faint airs Young hearts are taken unawares ; As a stranger, sleeping on the moimtains, Is waked by waters in their mirth. Making, as they tingle from their fountains, Audible music through the earth. This is the stream, the sacred Gift, By which our outward world we lift Into a world within, 106 THE SENSES. And, because earth is dull and dark, Where'er these craters drop, a spark Of upper light they vrin. And thus two worlds, two lives are ours. And men move on with angel powers, For angel graces staying ; And earth becomes a pavement fair. Since deathless seeds are glowing there With a Christian inlaying. For this outward vest and this world we see With its green and its blue and white. With its folding-doors of day and night, Is the silent or voiceful mystery, That burns at the restless heart of a youth. As he wanders here and there for the truth ; When all that he has and all that he knows And his spirit's fertile fountains Were absorbed in his childhood from the shows Of rivers and woods and mountains ; When he communed little or none with books, Which are dead men's empty biers, That imprint on our features solemn looks But cannot draw our tears. The earth is a frail transparent vase With heavenly lamps behind. The light coming through is tinted, and draws Figures upon the mind. Thought's hidden stream from its upper springs Hath brought us a few interpretings. If the world would be still, our hearts might hear What the secret is, when the stream winds near. The earth is a church where no bells are rung. And her beauty is shghted for want of tongue ; TIIR SENSES. 107 But the stream in ourselves is her voice brouglit back From Heaven ^here it was taken, That the minstrel spirit may have no lack Of dulcet sounds to waken. But a murmuring here and a murmuring there, And a half word falling on the air, Piece bj piece we must weave in one. Till the words in music and rhythm run. And the poet must tell the meaning of all That obscure and beautiful ritual. So are we gifted ; so we live, Scarce knowing what we are : — Deep-coloured fxowers that feebly give Their scents unto the air. So are we gifted ; so we die ; "We take our gifts with us : "With the green hves that round us lie The way is ever thus. And so, when we rise from our chastening gloom. We are born afresh of a stainless womb, And the soul, that hath been like a wandering bride, AVanders no more, and is satisfied ; For the likeness she wears was the secret thino^ That lured her on in her wandering. And joy and love to the spirit are given, New coloured and shaped in the moulds of Heaven ; And our rising shall be like a wondering flower That looks on the earth in her summer power AVith the pride of its earliest opening hom^, — A thing that may well surprised be With its own fair scent and bravery ! 108 VII. A ^TESTMOEELAXD HAMLET. The rain hath ceased to weep upon the earth. The very hills put off" their misty ghroud ; And eyening cometh to her sunset birth Through gorgeous bars of black and orange cloud, "Wliile the late beams their lustrous looms maj ply To weaye and unyreaye rainbo\ys in the sky. II. Beneath this mountain terrace, at my feet Lies one of England's calm and gTeen-field hol- loas, And a small yiUage Tvith its rain-yashed street, And eayes beset with clouds of autumn syralloyrs ; And the full riyer with its radiant fiowinor Is like a harmless-natured serpent glowing. ni. The sounds, which from the cottages ascend Through the thin smoke that trembles up so lightly, "With deep soul-soothing interchanges blend Toil's sweet fatigue and childhood's clamor sprightly, "\i\'here children, prisoned by the rain aU day, A^'in their undreaming sleep in eyening play. A WESTMORELAND HAMLET. 109 IV. There fathers ^v^atch, Tvell -pleased, ^vith folded arms, And at the doors young mothers come and go, And age, in out-door chaii'S, doth borrow charms, More than it wots of, from that sunset glow, And youths unblamed their early beds may press O'ercome by labor's pleasant weariness. The last gleam lingers on the hallowed ground, ^^Tiere angels oft descend from realms of light. And noTv-, with twilight's dreaded fence drawn round. The churchyard path is quiet for the night ; Though many a matron opes her casement there, That she may breathe good dj-eams with chmx-hyard air. VT. O mighty are the gifts, and manifold The tides of moral health and strength that roll Through yon small street, — ^not to be bought or sold, But fresh fr'om God in many a peasant soul, That might arise, and with meet aid from high, Buoy England up against her destiny ! ..ni. O England ! England ! wherefore so forswear • The healthy powei^ that with resistless shock Bade fettered nations all their incense bear To thy few leagues of billow-beaten rock. And crowned thee empress on this ocean brow, "\^Tiere, lulled by foreign winds, thou sleepest now ? 110 A WESTMORELAND HAMLET. vin. Calm lies upon the hamlet, — calm and sleep : And, as I gaze on it, my pulses quicken, And echos seem from every bush to leap. Like the loud names that in om' slumbers thicken, — Echos that come the autumn evening freighting "With Enoiand's name in low reverberatino;. IX. Xo boyish habit is my love for thee ; Eor it came on with slow and conscious stealings, So that thy woods and waters now must be To me instead of passions and of feeUngs : Yet every month thy thoughtless ways are loading Dejected hearts like mine with dull foreboding. X. Not banks of cloud upon the mountain stooping, Unmoved through ailing weeks of cheerless rain, Xot want of letters when my soul is drooping Eor lack of love, and yet may not complain, Not these, so much as thy poor barrenness In all high thoughts and deeds, upon me press. XI. If in a harbour on a sunny day, Foreseeing fate, thou mightest range the deck Of some good shi^D, that on her Indian way In one short week was doomed to midniorht o wreck, — "^Tiere rugged partings blend half-smihng fears With loves that play, hke rainbows, among tears, — A WESTMORELAND HAT^ILET. Ill XIT. Oh ! hatli thj moral frame got nerves so strong To look with cahnness into those clear faces, Setting their noisy sails with shout and song, To come no more unto theii' household places, But find, without church benison, a pillow On the salt sea's unconsecrated billow. XIII. Such are the thoughts, my country ! which I bear Close to my heart all day and night for thee, Drinking in life with thine imperial air Fraught with the healthy spirit of the sea. Haply mistaking motes that dim mine eye For shapes and shadowings of prophecy. XIV. Not that I fear, as some, mechanic force. Which runs our life into another mould ; Earth shall not see thought's wonder-worldng force Twisted aside by means for getting gold : These have no moral soul within them swelling, No spmt-pulse, no passionate indwelling. XV. Great times are greatest in their ruins ; these On after-years no giant shades may cast, ^liere flesh and soul may both dig palaces In the huge relics of a glorious past. As from the aqueducts Kome left behind, Types of the cumbrous beauty of her mind. 112 A WESTMORELAND HAMLET. XVT. But I have fears, majhap too hotly cherished, Of the dense towns, like storm-clouds, o'er the land, Killing the popular heart that had been nourished With fear and love, all chaste from nature's hand, Spurning the weight wherewith the green earth lies On peasant spiiits mth her mysteries. XVIT. And I haA'e fears, lest quickened times should bring Guesses and notions, clothed in earnest dress, And men, from this reformed self- worshipping, Should make an idol of their earnestness. Counting unreal love of moral beauty Coin that may pass for simple-hearted duty. XVITI. O that my tongue to such calm power were wrought, With life to kindle, sweetness to assuage Its own good fires, — to lodge some mighty thought Far in the soul of this self-praising age. Received into all England's wood and hill, A native echo, heard when strifes are still. XIX. England hath need of harmless men, whose minds , May draw to their own color every heart, Working in spots where angel help unbinds The chains that fetter noblest souls apart, That she might now, as erst, compacted be Within one spiritual Unity. 113 VIII. OX EEYISITIXG THE ER-ER EDEN, IX -^-BSTMOEELAXD, 1836. At night I heard the river's quiet sound Still flowing on o'er that enchanted ground As years ago it flowed : th' autumnal breeze Lay hushed within the dark-leaved alder-trees, And from unclouded skies the moon's cold beam Fell in a silver shower upon the stream ; And oh I how fair, how heavenly fair the scene Caught through the leafy aisles and arches green, Where light and shade, most marvellously thrown, Eest on each giant tree and mossy stone I Soft — as the light that Faith doth shed around, "VMiene'er her pathway lies through holy ground ; Dim — as the mist through which she loves to see But half-unveiled the lines of mystery ; Glorious beyond expression — as the thought. The hour of death to saintly men hath brought ! Ah ! Memory wakes to feel at this lone hour Her own dear Eden's meekest, holiest power ; How many a tale of other times she brings "With her eternal, harp-like mm^mm^ings ! How sad the thought that weary years are gone And the steep heights of viii;ue not yet won ; 114 ' THE RIVER EDEX. Alas ! how sharp the pang, how keen the sense Of vows forgotten, sHghted penitence ; And jet how cheering too the hope from heaven Of mercy there, and sin that is forgiven. Dear Eden ! the retreats of this green wood Have heard the roar of many a wiivfcer flood, Since last I wandered here to while away The golden hom^s of schoolboy hohday : Thoughtful even then because of the excess Of boyhood's rich abounding happiness ; And sad whene'er St. Stephen's curfew-bell Warned me to leave the spots I loved so well. Each hazel-copse, each greenly-tangled bower Is sacred to some well-remembered hom^ ; Some quiet horn* when Xature did her part. And worked her spell upon my childish heart. Ah ! little deemed I then that thou couldst wind Thj^self with such strange power into my mind. Sweet scene ! thou art not changed since then ! — the air. The trees, the fields, all are, as then they were, Happy and beautiful, Hke fairy-land Fresh bom beneath the wild enchanter's wand. But hark ! down Kii^by vale the cm^few knell — Then fare thee well, dear Eden, fare thee well ! And may thine image, wildly-dashhig river. Abide with me an household thino^ for ever. * r 115 IX. THE KXIGHTS OF ST. JOHN. Oh, Memory ! — as our boyish years roll by, How many a vision fades from Fancy's eye, How many a golden dream of days long past, And airy hopes, too fair, too bright to last ! All, all are gone. The mid Arabian tale, Aladdin's lamp, and Sinbad's magic sail, These have no power to chain the listening ear. Or hush the soul in extasy of fear : Untenanted, unhaunted now, the hill. The lonely heath, the waging woods are still ; Fairies no more beneath the moon's pale light Reveal their mystic dance to mortal sight ; Each shadowy form grows dim; and we deplore A splendour that is seen on earth no more. Yes I It is Manhood's haughty right to quell Young fancy's fire, and break the darling speU, To strip the mind of all she valued most. And grant her poor retm-n for what she lost. Land of Romance, Farewell ! Yet though we part With these fond superstitions of the heart, Oh let us not in scornful wisdom deem These old memorials but a baseless dream, Mere phantoms idly raised to while away The lingering hours of some long summer's day. Far otherwise they think, who best may scan The powers at work within the heart of man. 116 THE KNIGHTS OF ST. JOHN. They know how heavenly pure the soul should be, Which fancy's gentle thraldom hath made free ; They know how pensive thoughts may best arise To kindle nature's holiest sympathies, The deep affections of the breast to move, And call to life the strong, meek power of love. Visions like these float swiftly through the mind. Like the soft flowings of the voiceless wind. Have ye not seen the shadow-stains that glide On gieamy days along the mountain side, How they unveil in every green recess Strange, mingling scenes of power and loveliness. And then in stately pomp ride on ? So too Imagination's gay, though transient, hue Discloses to the reason's inward eyes Somewhat of nature's depths and mysteries. And thus with you, fair forms of days gone by, Glories of Song, liigh feats of chivahy ! Cold were the man whom tales of lady e -love And knightly prowess have no spell to move. Such were the strains that gushed Hke li^dng fire From the wild chords of Ariosto's lyre ; Or from that harp, alas ! too soon unstrung. That to the Tweed's vrild dashings sweetly rung, "Whose mom^ning waves still softly bear along The dying echoes of her poet's song. Holiest of Ivnighthood's gallant sons were Ye, A sainted band, the Ejnights of Charity ! 'Twas not an earthly guerdon that could move Your gentle Brotherhood to acts of love. Fame's silver star, and honour's dazzling meeds. And glory reaped in battle's daring deeds. These could not lure those hearts to mercy given, Y\liO; poor on earth, were rich in hopes of Heaven. THE KNIGHTS OP ST. JOHN. 117 Yes ! it was vroll in those dark days of old Europe should wonder, as her Pilgrims told , How haughty warriors left the lordly hall For the rude cells of that poor Hospital,* And bade ambition's restless throbbings cease At the still watchword of the Prince of Peace : How along Salem's streets, in sable vest. The Silver Cross emblazoned on the breast. The lowly Brothers moved with hurried tread To tend the wayworn pilgrim's dying bed, And give, for Christ's dear Xame, to that dim hour Keligion's awful, consecrating power. Peace to that ruined City ! peace- to those Whose sainted ashes in her vaults repose ! There, when the Arabian Prophet's countless throng Eolled, Hke an eastern locust-swarm, along, And blight came down upon the nations, there St. John's bright banner floated in the air, Cm^Kng its glossy folds against the sky. While clarions pealed, and pennons waved on high. One speechless look, one silent prayer to Heaven, And, hark ! the Christian's battle-cry is given : The dauntless knio;hts thrust back the advancino- flood. And Siloa's brook runs red with Moslem blood. Alas, fair Salem ! Piety may weep O'er the dark caverns where thy champions sleep. There stem disorder strews along the ground Fragments of elder, holier days around, And ruin rears aloft her ghastly form. Dim-shadowed in the blackness of the storm. * In the Hospital, the Knights wore a black vest, with a White Cross of eight points on the left breast. In the Camp, the White Cross on a red vest. 118 THE KNIGHTS OF ST. JOHX. Xo feathery nopal-tree, nor spreading palm Shed o'er thy hills their ^Idly-gi-aceful charm. Yew flowers are there, but round each falling tomb In scattered tufts brio-ht orange -lilies bloom, Bm'sting from out their silvery, gauzelike sheath To smile in beauty o'er the shrines of death ; And cedars crown the hills, a silent band, The only warders of thy wasted land ; Thine only troubadour the southern breeze. Singing his quiet song among those ancient trees. Vainly for you, brave Knights, did Europe pour Her ardent bands upon that sacred shora. Vainly St. LouVs Oriflamme rode high In gleamy splendour on the eastern sky, Far in the swarthy vales, where ancient Xile Eolls his rich flood round many a lotus-isle. Too fruitful harvest of the Paynim lance. There lay thy chosen sons, unhappy France ! Vainly did Edward lead the bannered host, ^liile England's war-cry ran along the coast ; The Saracens rolled on, and thousands fell Before the cohorts of the infidel. And bright above the eddying tide of war The conquering Crescent glittered from afar. Yet still, where carnage fiercest swept the field. The Crimson Vest, like lightning, shone revealed ; Still, still they come, the "Warrior-Brothers come, Where on the ruined altars of their home Are hung bright crowns of holiest martyrdom ! That glory hath gone by ! On Judah's shore The Christian soldier plants the Cross no more ; And Acre's ramparts, wasted Ascalon, Mourn for the gallant Brothers of St. John. And sadly now, brave Knights, upon the seas Yom' fading banner di^oops, as though the breeze THK KNIGHTS OF ST. JOHN. 119 That wooed its silken folds to play, had come From the green hills that were that banner's home. There on his deck the silent Warrior stood Scanning mth sternest gaze the heaving flood, As if to find in those dark depths below Some magic talisman to soothe his woe. He dared not eje the sunny land that lay In the blue distance many a mile away. The glory passed away ; her icy hand Dark misbelief had laid on that dear land. Yet, faithful still, the western PilgTim trod In pensive silence up the Mournful Eoad, And marked with fond affection's eager eye ^liere the Kedeemer was led forth to die. Oh ! was it strange in such an hour to feel A dim, a shadowy dread around him steal, (Xot the imholy, restless fear that springs From out the bitterness of earthly things,) A hallowed dread, that lulls the soul to rest, And whispers peace and gladness to the breast. Shedding around our path, where'er we move, The deathless lustre of intensest love. If thou wouldst know how those fond pilgrims felt, "\Mien, weeping, at their Saviour's tomb they knelt. Go, seek some chancel where the moonbeams tlirow Their cold, chaste radiance on the tombs below, \Miere the world-wearied nun her ^-igil keeps, And at the lamp-lit altar prays and weeps : Go, mark her quivering lips, her streaming eyes Upraised in speechless fervour to the skies. And read that love, which words may not express. In the pale depth of their blue silentness. Far o'er the waves those gallant Warriors roam To win in other climes another home. 120 THE KXIGHTS OF ST. JOHN. Four years they fought, fair Ehodes, 'gainst leaguered powers, To plant their banner on thine ancient towers : They fought and conquered. On the Grecian seas In fearless triumph ride their argosies, "Where erst the pirate-barques were wont to sweep In haughty lordship o'er the Lycian deep. iSTo more the lone felucca seeks to glide Round the tall headlands on the summer tide, Or smoothly steals along from shore to shore, Charminor the ear of niojht with muffled oar. But Moslem hatred sleeps not : that dark host, Flung like a weary billow on a coast, Gathers with angry sound. Ah I who shall tell What met thy gaze, thou lonely Sentinel, AMien, standing watchful on St. Stephen's hill. The City lay below thee, fair and still ? In reddening streaks, that peaceful April morn,* Across the sea the first faint light was borne. The calm ^Egean spread her breast of blue To skies of deeper yet, and lovelier hue. To Grecian skies ! And there old Asia lay, Touched with the golden hand of early day ; And wide beneath him stretched his native isle, Bright with an eastern spring-tide's magic smile. Meadows of flowering m3rrrh perfume the breeze That freshens o'er the bosom of the seas : And there yon forest's leafy depths entwine Their budding foliage round the Parian shrine ; And delicate wild-roses too have thrown Their blushing chaplets round the chiselled stone * "In the end of April 1480, the grand armament entered the Lycian waters: and the Rhodian sentinel stationed on the summit of Mount St. Stephen, a hill two miles from the city, notified by signal that the Crescent was in sight. "—Sutherland's Achievements of the Kiiights of St. John, vol. ii. p. 9. 4 THE KNIGHTS OF ST. JOHN. 121 In natural gracefulness ; to morning s rays The laurel-rose her gaudy gem displays, Where the soft-rippling streamlet gently moves, Winding with quiet lapse among the gi^ovcs. Beautiful Island ! fair that morn wert thou, How passing fair in all thy ruin now ! Lo ! On the sea a thousand Crescents gleam. Glancing and flashing in the rising beam : And thickly gathering sounds come sweeping by Of war-cries fierce and maddening minstrelsy ; And, wild and harsh, the cymbal-note is borne On the deep stillness of the brealdng morn. Mohammed's galleys come ! The Sentinel Rung from his lofty tower the larum beU, And, as its toll in startling accents spoke Of danger and of fear, the sleeping City woke ! Then came the battle's din : the cannon's roar Was echoed back from Caramania's shore ; And fearfully along that lovely sky Glared the red tempest of artillery. Dear was that triumph bought, Brave Cliief, for thou,* When death came down upon thy laurelled brow, Didst in that hom^ ^vith clear, prophetic eye. The gathering storm of eastern war descry : And, Rhodes, thy matrons might have spared the tear They shed so wildly o'er the old man's bier. They might have spared it for that bitter day WTien through thy shattered streets they took their way, ♦ Peter d'Aubusson ; Tliirty-eighth Grand-master ; called the Buckler of Christendom. 122 THE KNIGHTS OF ST. JOHN. And He,* the generous ^-ictor, wept to see The liigh-souled chieftain's j)eerless dig-nitj,! Deeming a Christian had some magic power To bear liim up in sorrow's darkest hour. A^Tiere were tluj tears, Avide Europe, when the bhist Of PajTiim war o'er that fau^ island passed ? And where thy gratitude, when ocean bore That close -furled banner to the Latian shore ? AYas it for you it oft had wared on high. Decked in the crimson pride of victory ? Alas ! On far St. Ehno's castled steep. By whose low crags the waters neyer sleep. It hangs its sullen splendours o'er the deep ; Far from that hill around whose rocky basef A hundred yillas shine with eastern gTace. Xo terraced yines, no liHed fields are here, Laughing in rich luxuriance all the year : Xo incense -breathing gardens freight the breeze That makes low music in the cypress trees : Ah no I the hot su^occo's withering breath Fhngs o'er yon hills the arid hue of death. And the fierce sim looks glaring fi'om on high, As though a curse were in his broad, bright eye. His beams, Hke locusts, sweep the weary land. Or burn Hke fiames upon the cloudless strand, TThile the tired eye explores the dazzling air. But seeks in yain — no gi'ateful cloud is there. No sylyan gToyes, no hospitable shades Temper the rutliless noontide in their glades ; * Solyman the Magnificent. t yniiers de I'Isle Adam ; Forty-second Grand-master. X The St. Elmo at Malta was so called from a hill of the same name at Rhodes. THC KN'IGIITS OF ST. JOHN. 123 Only the stiff carriibas tliere arc found, Sjjots of black foliage on the tawny ground ; AMiile the lonnr-trailinor melons here and there Weave a green carpet o'er the surfoce bare, And the red cactus-blossoms, as they smile, Mock the scant verdure of the dusty isle. There like an eagle in her rocky bower, The gallant Order braved the INIoslem power, "NMiile Em'ope echoed with their martial fame. And rung with La Yalette's undying name. Alas ! 'twas as a gleam of glory shed From stormy skies upon the mountain's head. That gleam is past ; and England's pennon now Floats gaily o'er St. Elmo's castled brow. Beneath that guardian pennon, undismayed Wealth's busy votaries ply their peaceful trade, And church-bells fill with life the languid breeze That scarce can curl the hollow murmurinor seas. While the whit^ city, strong in faith and love, Looks on her azm^e inlets from above, And ^Taps old memories round her, like a spell, Of sliipwrecked Paul who laved her land so well ; "\Miom ^dld waves cast upon her barbarous shore. That Melita might serve false gods no more. Xow, as night's silent footfall steals along. The Maltese boatman chants his even -song. Freighting with Mary's name the moonlit air That silvers many an old memorial there ; And many a hospice, blanched and seamed with years, ▼# O'er the deep -shadowed streets its head uprears ; And lowly wisdom loves to render yet The unavailinor tribute of reoret To an historic glory that hath set ! 124 THE KXIGHTS OF ST. JOHN. Farewell, then, gentle "Warriors ! Once again 'Tis meet to raise the faintlj-clying strain. 'Twas meet that when the pageantry of death Hung round the hero's tomb the laurel-wreath, 'Twas meet his minstrel-bo j should linger near To weep alone upon his master's bier. And often to the Warrior's silent cell From a far land soft dreams shall come to dwell, Wliile busy fancy marks with curious eye TaU helmet-plumes and bannered lines glance by, Or feeds her meditative soul from springs Of sunny thoughts and deep imaginings. Oh ! still in memory's clear, pathetic Hght Shall live those dream-like forms for ever bright ! Yes ! while undying spirits still must crave A better, nobler land beyond the grave. In lowliness the feeling heart shall come And watch by the Crusader's marble tomb. Till the weird stillness of the cloistered air Steals o'er the soul, and charms it into praver. And the strong- glancing, eagle eye of Faith, Sees far into the tranquil tilings of Death ! 125 X. HEIDELBERG CASTLE. Oh ! if there be a spot upon the earth AMiere ruin hath more lightly laid her hand Than elsewhere, surely it is this fair place ! "VMio ever saw decay more beautiful, Than when she holds her silent court as now Witliin the mouldering crypts of Heidelberg ? Nay, one might think that Time himself were awed By such memorials of man's pomp and power, So that he walked ^^'ith somewhat of a soft And reverential step, as we should tread Over the ashes of departed friends. Spmt of Desolation ! Men may come To do thee homage in thy lone retreats, ^Mien broad-leaved summer hangs about the walls Her drapery of various gTeen to hide The unseemly scars of time, and fi^om the towers Gay flowering creepers fling their tendinis down For the soft summer winds to wanton with, — A banner bright as those that floated there Upon some pageant day in olden time. Yes, doubtless this would be a lovely place At such a season, — when the tufted pinks And scented wallflowers cling to every stone, And when the narrow mountain-paths appear f' 126 HEIDELBERG CASTLE. Winding tkrough ■\dnejards, rich with j)iu^ple grapes. Yet that is not the season when the power Of Desolation is most deeply felt. ISTo ; winter hath a beauty of its own, And more in harmony ^vith spots like these. The summer loves not silence : her great charm Is in the concom-se of a thousand sounds : — The birds, the winds, the very earth herself Breathing with life at every bursting pore, And that low ringing melody that comes I know not whence or how, except it be From things inanimate ; — so all unlike To winter's tranquil and unbroken hush, 'VMien frosts have locked the trickhng well-springs up In the earth's caverns, and the winds are fiu^led Within the bosom of the brooding storm. There is a deep embrasure in the hall '\Mierein I sat, so buried and absorbed In thought, I almost seemed to have become Part of the spirit of that lonely place. It passed upon me like a di^eamy spell. And viewless as the air that clothes the earth. About the Castle stood the shaggy liills. Hung round with dark and uncouth legends, — such As feed gxeat minds, and are themselves the mind Of a oTeat nation ; and amongst the woods Young boys and Httle maidens went about, Stripping the glossy ivy fi'om the trees. To hang as Christmas garlands round theii* doors. Far off, a group of charcoal burners stood. And from their fire the constant smoke went up In curls of faintest blue, — how silently ! And ever and anon the chattering jay HEIDELBERG CASTLE. 127 With his rude note awoke the slumbering woods, Displacing the sweet stillness that was there. But then the silence came again, and grew Far more intense — with now and then a pause, — "When an old fount, that fell with splashing sound On the green stones below the Castle wall. Smote on my ear ; a sound most desolate, And dreary as a tune that comes to mind In some lone bower where those we've loved and lost Were wont to be, and now can be no more ! All these tilings came upon me ^vith a shock. Yet wherefore it were hard to say, when all So silent were, and so supremely calm, — Yet did they come upon me like a sound That breaks on silence unawares, a shock Unsettling many most famihar thoughts. And feelings that were household in my heart. I was as one who dimly felt his way Among great truths and perilous mysteries. To whom the knowledge of deep things did seem About to be revealed, — the mighty powers ' With which the air is all impregnated. And the great earth, and the far-rolling sea, And the unquiet intellect of man ; That something which is like the lightning-fire That leaps and Kves within the thimdercloud. And is its fiery soul, and diives it on In fierce career against the wind ! Then came That desperate, sickening pang of impotence, TVliich cannot grasp the truth that it hath touched, As if that touch had paralyzed its hand. But quick a sense of exultation rose, And an ethereal buoyancy that thrilled My very soul, and lightened all my life 128 HEIDELBERG CASTLE. Of that which weighed it do^Ti, and lifted me Far up upon the ^\'ings of power. I saw The mighty truth that I would fain possess Fixed in a region above all things else, And in that region did I seem to walk. Oh ! it was like a distant city seen All lying in a bath of beauteous Kght, "Within the heart of a rich golden haze, Cheatinor the eveninoj traveller's anxious eve Of many a mile of weary distance — when The sun goes down, and all is gloom again. O wherefore have these tranquil images Of deepest winter, ^vith its di-ear expanse Of brooding silence, wrought within my soul So hotly and unquietly ? For who "Would e'er have dreamed that such profound repose, Snow-bmied, wind-less, desolate, and cold. Was but a gate to the invisible world, An imexpected outlet to the land Of inmost thought, which men so seldom reach, Wliose truths appear imspeakably to shun The chains of words, and even to elude The outlines of material images ? O Mother Earth ! how near thou art to Heaven ! For matter lies for ever in the lap Of spirit, and their subtle boundaries Fade, and revive, and quiver Hke the light, In most intelligent confusion, now Efface, and now repaint themselves again, Eepose one moment in distinctness, then Gleam like the infinite without an edge. And melt within the fm^nace -fires of thouo-ht. Seen, yet unseen, now glowing on the eye. And now withdi-aAvn in an excess of lioht I HEIDELBERG CASTLE. 129 Deeper than darkness. So these limits seem, Di^i(ling reahns so opposite, and spheres \Miich underlie each other, — rugged cliffs That crumble at a touch, yet from whose heights, As from the midiscovered end of space, Men fall at once into some other world, Some new and unimaginable life ; — Walls that man knocks against and knocks in vain. And yet so imperceptibly confused That all seems smooth as summer lake between, — Matter and spii^it pressing on each other. Stealing or borro^^'ing each the other's place. With sweet encroachments, now as calm and slow As the white flush of dawn, now shooting swiit Like the cold arrows of the boreal fire That cHmb half heaven at once in rosy flight, Or mingling unconsimiingly in depths Of flickering splendours, volatile as are The ^ivid hues at eve exhaled in space Out of the speechless throbbing sunsets. Thus lyfind hath a space, a medium of its own, Eoom for itself, more intimate and near. More vast and more accessible, than that Through wliich material worlds must plough their way Not unresisted ; and the softest scenes, Fair forms, faint sounds, and fickle airy hues. The play of light, the splash of waters, pomps Of rolling clouds that creak not, and the blank Of midnight's unre verb crating ear, The strain of silence listening for a sound, The patterns of the moonlight on the gTass, The undidations of sweet scents, — all these 9 130 HEIDELBERG CASTLE. Give way, like snow-drifts, 'neath the weight of thought, And let us down through the material world, As if it were a veil of thinnest silk. Into an inner world, whose fantasies Are few in number, dwelling far apart, Alone, in couples, or like nomad tribes Upon the roomj steppe, and where all thoughts Are colourless, without terrestrial shapes, And ^ith an influence Hke creative words. So that each thought is word and work at once, Substantial, permanent, and giant-like, "Widening the mind, transfiguiing the will, And taking down the frightened faculties To that deep point in self, where God vouchsafes To confine on our thoughts, and touch om' souls. It struck the hour of noon : the quiet sound Came muffled through the fleecy folds of mist, That thickly hung upon the town below. So faint was it and soft — ^yet so distinct — It seemed the spirit of a sound, escaped From some more gross and heavy atmosphere. 131 XL THE ISIS. I. Early one twilight mom I sought A favourite woodland shade, A place ^v'here out of idleness Some profit might be made. II. The voices of the little birds "Were musical and loud, Buried among the twinkling leaves, A merry, merry crowd. III. But when the gallant sun rode up Into his own broad sky, The very wood itself did seem Alive with melody. IV. And there the golden city lay Safe in her leafy nest, And softly on her clustering towers The blush of dawn did rest. V. Onward for many and many a mile, Through fields that lay below. Old Isis, with his glassy stream, Came pleasantly and slow. 132 THE ISIS. VI. 'i"he spring -with blossoms rich and fair Plad fi'inged the river's edge, — Pale Mayflowers, and wild hyacinths, And spears of tall green sedge. VII. The ripple on the flowery marge A pleasant sound did yield. And pleasant was the wind that waved The long grass in the field. VIII. And there is sometliing in a stream That fascinates the eye, A charm in that eternal flow That ever glideth by. IX. For still by river sides the hours Will often lapse away, Till evening ahnost seems to steal A march upon the day. X. So should it be with Man's career : Each hour a duty find. And not a stone be there to check The current of the mind. XI. The path of duty, like the stream, Hath flowers that round it bloom, The thicker and the lovelier The nearer to the tomb. HOPE. 133 xn. And, ah ! the best and purest life Is that which passes slow, And yet withal so evenly We do not feel it go. XII. HOPE. How much they wrong thee, gentle Hope ! who say That thou art light of heart, and bright of eye ! Ah ! no, — thou wert not hope, if thou wert gay : She hath no part with idle gaiety ! n. The gay think only of the passing hour. And the light mirth the flpng moments yield ; But thou dost come when days of darkness lower, And with the future dost the present gild. ni. Yes; thou, sweet Power! art Griefs twin-sister, given To walk with her the weary world around, vScattering, like dew, the fi:agrant balm of heaven, ^Miere she hath left her freshly bleeding wound. 134 HOPE. IV. Oh ! often hare I pictured thee in dreams, For thou wert always very dear to me ; And never was I sad but sunny gleams Have visited my drooping heart from thee. V. Yet words can scarce portray thy lovely face, As it hath shone on me at dead of night. Wreathed with a smile of calm and serious grace, Chaste as the moon's, as pensive, and as bright. VI. ^Mien pity for the grief we would beguile. And the glad thought that we can render aid, Strive in the heart, and blend into a smile, 'Tis thou that makest sunshine out of shade. VII. And on thy brow there sits eternally A look of deep, yet somewhat anxious bliss. With a wild light that nestles in thine eye. As thou2;h its home were not a world hke this. 135 XIII. ASH-^rEDXESDAY. And when he began to sink, hecried out, saying. Lord, save me.' St. Matt. xiv. 30. Lo RD ! I am tliine, thj little child ; Though fiercely still within, and ^Id The fires of youth may bm-n ; Oh be not angry if I weep, And dread these stormy waters deep, — Master ! to Thee I tm^n. n. And, if in zeal and forward haste, All rashly from the ship I passed, And tempted danger here. Too gTeat for one so weak as me, — Yet, Lord, it was to come to Thee, Oh let me find Thee near ! rtr. Xow in these days of dimness holy And spirit-searching melancholy. Strengthen my drooping heart : And let me stop each wayward sense In pure and secret abstinence. And from the world depart. 136 ASH-WEDNESDAY. IV. The Church, mj Mother, calls me on To follow Jesus, all alone, Across the desert lea ; And wrestle with the Tempter there In Vigils of incessant pra jer. And with wild beasts to be. And well T know, when weak and faint With weary days in fasting spent, I must lose sight of Him : And peeA-ish thoughts and tempers ill The ardom' of my breast ^vill chill, And make my lamp burn dim. YI. Then by the horn' that saw me rest, Safe as a fledgling in his nest. Within the white robe's fold. And by the Cross that on my brow He signed, — the seal that devils know, — Jesus ! Thy son uphold ! vir. But I will quell my doubts and fears, And on where holy Sinai rears Its form before my eyes, For I can see above its head A rim of gi^owing glory spread, The light of Easter skies ! 137 XIV. EASTEE COMMrXIOX. The mysterj of mysteries ! Xow let the pure in heart draw nigh, While every pulse is beating high With love and holy fear ; For Christ hath risen at break of day, And bids us from the Tvorld avay And haste to meet Him here. II. The mystery of mysteries ! The Ano^els and Archanorels come On wings of Kght from out their home In ranks of glory wheeling : Our souls shall mix and blend with theirs, In loud thank-offerings and ]3rayers, Before the Altar kneeling. rn. The mystery of mysteries ! The souls that still in dimness dweU Deep in the ChmTh invisible, From doubt and care remote, — They too shall keep the feast to-day. And to their ceUs, though far away. The hymn of joy shall float. 138 THE CO]\IMUNION OF SAIXTS. IV. The mystery of mysteries ! Oh ! far and mde through all the earth Emotions of im^vonted mirth And feeling strange shall be ; And secret somids shall come and go, Harmonious as the throbbing flow Of the mysterious sea. V. The mystery of mysteries ! The dead and lining shall be one, And thrills of fiery transport run With sweetest power through all; For one in heart and faith are we, And moulded one, our Head ! through Thee, The Body Mystical ! VI. The mystery of mysteries ! From east to west the world shall turn, And stay its busy feet to learn The musical vibration ; "WTiile Saints and Angels high shall raise In one vast choir the hymn to praise The Feast of our Salvation. 139 XV. THE SIGXS OF THE TIMES. " Bat yet the Son of Man when he cometh, shall He find, think you, faith on the earth ?" — St. Luke xviii. 8. The days of old were days of miglit In forms of greatness moulded, And flowers of HeaA'en grew on the earth Within the Chm'ch unfolded : For grace fell fast as summer dew, And saints to giant stature grew. II. Eut one by one the gifts are gone That in the world abounded, "VMien it witliin the Chm^ch's walls Was wilHngly surrounded ; And weary nations scarce can bide The thrall of power unsanctified. m. A blight hath passed upon the world, Her summer hath departed, The chill of age is on her sons, The cold and fearful-hearted ; And sad, amid neglect and scorn, Our Mother sits and weeps forlorn. 140 OXFORD IN SPRING. IV. ISTarrow and narrower still each year The holy circle groweth, And what the end of all shall be Xor man nor Angel knoweth : And so we wait and watch in fear ; — It may be that the Lord is near ! XVI. OXFOED IX SPEIXG. y •' Templa quam dilecta !" How gentle are the days that bring The promise of the faithful year, Sweet early pledges of the spring, Sweetest while winter stiU is near ; Like thoughts in time of sorrow given, Filling the heart with gio^dng types of Ileaven ! The little buds upon the thorn Are peeping from their pale green hood ; Pink rows of almond-flowers adorn AVith many a gem the leafless wood, And gaily on the vernal breeze Dance the light tassels of the hazel-trees. OXFORD IN SPRING. 141 III. The early rose is blusliing sweet In yonder sunny sheltered place, AMiere spring and winter seem to meet And blend with wild fantastic grace, And under skies of coldest blue The crocus fills her yellow cup with dew. IV. The sun shines on the city walls. The meadows fair, and elmy woods. And o'er her gray and time-stained halls A quiet studious spii'it broods. O when shall faith be free to come And find within these stately aisles a home ? Y, Thy timewom bounds a precinct give "WTiere forms of ancient mould might stay, Endming truths that would outlive The jarring systems of a day ; And then with men of e^il will How calmly mightst thou sit, and fearless still ! VI. For now, when all things round are bright. Those voiceless towers so tranquil seem, And yet so solemn in their might, A loving heart could almost deem That they themselves might conscious be That they were filled with immortaHty 1 142 XYII. OXFOED IX AYIXTEK. City of mldest sunsets, ^hich do pile Their dark-red castles on that woody bro^v ! Fair as thoii art in summer's moonhght smile, There are a hundi^ed cities fau- as thou. But still -with thee alone all seasons round Beauty and change in theu^ own right abound. n. ^Aliole winter days swift rainy lights descend, Kide o'er the plain upon the swelling breeze. And in a momentary brightness blend Walls, towers, and flooded fields, and leafless trees : Lights of such glory as may not be seen In the deep northern rales and mountains green. in. Coy city, that dost swathe thy summer self In willow lines and elmy avenue, Each Winter comes, and brings some hidden pelf, Buttress or Cross or gable out to \iew : "Wliile his thin sunlight frugal lustre sheds On the straight streams and yellow osier beds. OXFORD IN WINTER. 143 IV. I>ut thy main glory is that winter wood, "With its dead fern and holly's chi^istmas green, And mosses pale, and trees that have not strewed Their withered leaves, which yet perchance are seen Struggling to reach the spring, as though for them New sap would rise from out the grateful stem. V, A wood in winter is a goodly sight, "With branch and trunk and whitely-witherei weed : Chiefly a wood like this, where many a night In Stuart times the cavalier's fast steed Spiu-ned the dry leaves tlirough all the rustling copse, And waked the cushat in the oak-tree tops. VI. O Bagley ! thou art fair at break of day, AMien freshest incense breathes from waking flowers, Fau' when the songless noon hath come to lay Her spell of sylvan silence on thy bowers ; But night is thine enchantment, magic night, "When all is vast, and strange, and dusky bright : — VII. The winter night, when, as a welcome boon, Down giant stems the stealthy beams may glide, And the stray sheep lie sleeping in the moon. With their own fairy shadows at their side ; ^liile through the frosty night-air every tower In Abinordon and Oxford tolls the hour. 144 OXFORD IX WINTER. VIII. Yea, on a poet's -word, good men should go, And up and down thj lurking valleys climb ; Thj faded woodlands, thj fair withered show, Are sweet to see ; and at cathedral time 'Tis sweet on some wild afternoon to hear. Far off, those loud complaining bells brought near. IX. They may have sadness, too, whene'er the wind Keeps moaning here and there about the woods ; And fear may track their homeward steps behind Along the moated path and reedy floods ; For in the stream the moon's white image rides. And, as they change, she also change th sides. "WTiy is it, city of aU seasons ! why — So few have homes where there are homes so fail-? They come and go : it is thy destiny, "VMiich for its very greatness thou must bear. To be a nation's heart, thou city dear I Sending the young blood from thee every year. 145 xviir. ST. ]\LVEY'S AT XIGHT. I. Di^AR Mother ! at whose angel-guarded shrine The faithful sought of old their daily Bread, How full thou art of impulses divine And memories deep and dread ! n. Steeped in the shades of night thou art unseen, All save thy fretted tower, and airy spire That travels upward to yon blue serene, Like a mighty altar-fire ; ni. For wavy streams of moonhght creep and move Through Httle arches and o'er sculptures rare, So lifelike one might deem that Angels love To come and cluster there. IV. Oh ! it is well that thou to us shouldst be Like the mysterious bush, engirt with flame. Yet unconsumed, as she that gifted thee "With her liigh wgin name; And hke the Church, that hath for ages stood AYithin the world, and always been on fii^e ; Albeit her hidden scent, Hke cedar-wood, Smells sweetest on the pyre. 146 ST. mart's at night. VI. The city sleeps around thee, save the few That keep sad vigil, with their spirits bare, As Gideon's fleece, to catch the cold fresh dew That falls on midnight prayer. VII. "Why doth thy lonely tower tell forth the time, T^lien men nor heed nor hear the warning sound ? "Why waste the solemn music of thy chime On hearts in slumber bound ? VIII. It is because thou art a church, to tell How fast the end of all things comes along, And, though men hear thee not, thy voice dorh swell Each nioht more clear and strong : IX. Content the few that watch should hear, and feel Secure thefr Mother doth not, cannot sleep ; And, as they hear, the gTacious dew doth steal Into theii' soul more deep. X. Or some young heart, that hath been kept awake By chance or by his guardian Angel's skill, Some serious thoughts unto himself may take From sounds so dread and still. XI. If there be none to hear, no hymn of praise. Or voice of pi'ayer, to join thy chant be given. There is no sleep above, and thou may est raise Thy patient chimes to Heaven. 147 XIX. COLLEGE CILVPEL. A SHADY seat by some cool mossy spring, ^^Tiere solemn trees close round, and make a gloom, And faint and earthy smells, as from a tomb. Unworldly thoughts and quiet wishes bring : Such hast thou been to me each morn and eve ; Best loved when most thy call did interfere With schemes of toil or pleasure, that deceive And cheat young hearts ; for then thou mad'st me feel The holy church more nigh, a thing to fear. Sometimes, all day with books, thoughts proud and wild Have risen, until I saw the sunbeams steal Through painted glass at evensong, and weave Their threefold tints upOn the marble near. Faith, prayer, and loye'^ the spirit of a child I XX. COLLEGE II.VLL. Still may the spirit of the ancient days Eest on om^ feasts, nor self-indulgence strive. Nor languid softness, to invade the rule. Manly, severe, and chaste — the hardy school "WTierein om' mighty fathers learnt to raise Their souls to Heaven, and virtue best could thiive. Still may the brazen Eagle, that of yore Om' fathers placed in each scholastic Hall, Utter its words of wisdom, and recall Om' thoughts to God, w^iile some old Father's lore. Or Martjr's roll, may sober our repast. Blunting so gently sensual thoughts that rise E'en fi'om God's gifts, and love, Avith downcast eyes, In silence gi^ows, at feast as well as fast. 148 XXI. COLLEGE GAEDEX. Saceed to early morn and evening hours, Another chapel reared for other prayers, And full of gifts, — smells after noon-day showers, When bright-eyed birds look out from leafy bowers, And natural perfumes shed on midnight aii'S, And bells and old chm^ch-elocks and holy towers, All heavenly images that cluster round. The rose, and pink acacia, and gi^een "sine Over the fretted wall together twme, With creepers fair and many, woven up, When autimm comes, into a tapestry, Kichly discolom^ed, and inlaid for me With golden thoughts, drunk from the dewy cup Of moms and evenings spent in that dear gTOund ! XXII. COLLEGE LIBEAEY. A CHrncHYAHD ^dth a cloister running round And quaint old effigies in act of prayer, And painted banners mouldering strangely there Where mitred prelates and grave doctors sleep, Memorials of a consecrated ground ! Such is this antique room, a haunted place Wliere dead men's spirits come, and angels keep Long hours of watch with wings in silence fmied. Early and late have I kept ^igil here : And I have seen the moonlight shadows trace Dim glories on the missaFs blue and gold. The work of my scholastic sires, that told Of quiet ages men caU dark and drear. For faith's soft light is darkness to the world. 149 XXIIT. 1. ABSENCE YRO^i OXFORD. Fair City ! that so long hast been my home ! When from thy quiet places I depart By far-off hills and river banks to roam, I bear thy name about upon my heart. City of glorious towers ! whene'er I feel The world's rude coldness o'er my spirit steal, Then dost thou rise to ^4ew ; thine elmy groves Vocal with hymns of praise, thine old grey halls, Where the wan sun of autumn sweetest falls. Yon liill-side wood the nightingale so loves, Thy rivers twain, of gentle foot, that pass, Fed from a hundred willow-girded wells. Through the rich meadowlands of long green grass. To the loud times of all thy convent-bells I XXIV, 2. ABSEXCE FROM OXFORD. Thus have I carried thee all Eno^land throuoh, A resting-place for my world-wearied eye. The sunset spot in tliis dull evening sky, The streak of gold that bounds the twilight view ! And I have felt far off in many an hour That absent city's soul-restraining power. Like scents from Eden fi^ighted with a charm For tearfal eyes and foreheads worn and pale. As he who dwells upon some moorland farm, Far in the windings of a mountain-vale. Feels that he is not lonely, when at even He journeys homeward from his toil, and sees The distant village from among the trees. Breathing its faint blue cm^ls of smoke to heaven. 150 XXV. THE BEGIXXIXG OF TERM. Dear City ! far in hollow hills, And kept awake bj flooded rills, This night I hear the many feet That pace thy steeple-shado^ved street, The tide of youth in merry going Beneath the colleore windows flowino- : And strange, most strange it seems to me At such an horn' far off to be. I miss the evenino; thronored with oreetino- The tmnult of the autumnal meeting, "Wlien eyery face is fresh of hue, As though its Hfe began anew. I almost wonder not to hear Some chosen voices speaking near. My rery hand the air doth grasp In pressm^e kind or bm'ning clasp : AYliile with a pleasant, solemn strain The chapel bell wakes up again. And still to my behe^ing eyes St. Mary's shadow seems to rise, All gently cast o'er every sense "With its old wonted influence, ^liercTsith it hallowed many a night My ramblings in the cold moonhght ; And thrills of joy and thoughts of good "Were deepened by its neighborhood. THE BEGINNING OF TERM. 151 And is it well that T should stand Apart in this sweet mountain-land ? Oh I is it well that I should be Away from cares that chasten mc, Awaj from men whose pattern still Could shame'v^e out of weak self-will, Away from warnings wliich could bless And nurture me in holiness ? And is it not a wilful loss To be unburdened of a Cross ? And in the life which I am living Is there no fountain of misgiving ? Yet, ere I left, the path did seem Clear as a steady, shining beam ; And to my vision there were leadings. And in my spiiit there were pleadings, AMiich were impressed upon my sense As very seals of Pro-sidence. Ah ! in a hundred Kttle things. Like wavings of an Angel's wings, Far gleamy lights, dim beckonings, Methought it was in mercy given To trace the guiding thread of Heaven. But now my doubting spirit fails. And from past faults a mist exhales. Clouding the radiant track which showed, As then I deemed, the heavenly road. And every stone, whereon I thought Some lustrous token had been wrought, Some bright inscription, surely given For faith's interpreting from Heaven, — Though carved with broken letters still, Appears the work of past self-will. 152 CHRIST-CHUECH MEADOW. "WTiat did as Angel's foot-prints gleam, Unholy imitations seem ; And signs, which have not changed, display Their characters another way, And every fact the mind can bring Confirms the new interpreting. Oh Brother ! when thou fain wouldst rans^e From place to place, from change to change. Take not for heavenly hght the glow Self-will can o'er the prospect throw. Sin is a prophet, who can cast Unerring light upon the past. But on the futm'e makes to shine False sparkles which appear di\TQe. XXYI. CHEIST-CHURCH MEADOW. Ere Advent bells the Church are calling Her BridegTOom to discover, Or autumn's fast and silent falling Of her sere leaves is over, In joyous gloom and saddest mirth "We turn our thronging thoughts from earth. And stay om^ pilgrim feet, Two days by Shrine and Porch to wait All Saints and Souls to celebrate , With calmest honors meet, j One day, the college chap'el ended, All pagan books I put away In sign of Christian holy-day. And through the sunny streets I wended. CHRIST-CHURCH MEADOW. 153 I walked within a meadow, where The willow tops were burnished fair "With cold Xovember's windy gleams, And watched two green and earthy streams Along the wliite frost-beaded grass With their leaf-laden waters pass. And bright rose the towers Tlii'oiigh the half-stripped bowers. And the sun on the windows danced : The churches looked white In the morninor lioht. And the gilded crosses glanced. Methought as I gazed on yon holy pile, Statue and moulding and buttress bold Seemed pencilled with flame, and burning the while Like the shapes in a furnace of molten gold. As the fire sank do^vn or glowed anew, The fretted stones of the fabric grew So thin that the eye might pierce them tlirough, Till statue and moulding and buttress bold, And each well-known fiorure and carsinor old. Peeled off from their place in the tmTet hoar. Like the winter bark from a sycamore, And di^opped away as the misty vest That morning strips from the mountain's breast : And as the earthly building fell, That was so old and strong, Clear glowed the Church Invisible "Wliich had been veiled so long. And in the midst there rose a Mount, The greenest verdm^e showing ; And from the summit many a fount In emerald streaks was flowing, 154 CHRIST-CHURCH MEADOW. And each mthin its mossj bed, Most like a soft and silver thread, In wa^y curyes was glowing. And gathered there about a Throne, Kaised high upon a Cloven Stone, A crowd of worshippers there stood, Like sea-side sands for multitude. All were in snowy vests arrayed, All bore a green and juicy blade Fresh broken from the palm ; All looked as though some powerful thought Had o'er a m}Tiad featm^es brought One fixed and breathing calm ; As moimtains in the starry blue, Quiet and waiting for the dew, With yielding Hue and softened hue Acknowledo-e midnioht's bahn. o o A hght of sun and moonbeam blent Was o'er those myiiads thrown. In steady radiance from the rent Within the Cloven Stone. From north and south, fr'om land and sea, Came that transfigured company, x\nd East and West together sate. As though they did expectant wait For some high ritual ; So noiseless were they far and near, One might the emerald fountains hear In their moss -stifled fall. There rose a man fr-om out the crowd,* A"Mio chanted solemnly and loud * Ileb xi. V. 33. & xii. to v. 7. Apoc. vii. 2. St.MaU. r. i. CHRIST-CHURCH MEADOW. 155 A recitation of all woes, And aoronies and mortal throes, And tortures dire By sword and fire, And bitter pains and monstrous things For torment used by savage kings ; And still between each word there came A trumpet's brazen crj, And from the throng a loud acclaim Eung through the hollow sky. Then from the east an Angel flew, In snowy garb with fr^inge of blue,t And in his arrowy flight he bore A wondrous Signet-King. And he charged other Angels four, Who then the green earth hovered o'er, And the dim ocean's shining shore. To hurt no living thino^. And there, apart, he set a seal On the twelve tribes of Israel ; But when he to the crowd advanced, The sun so full and brightly glanced Upon their glistening dress. And then they waved their palms on high ^Yith such a rending jubilant cry, And in one mighty press Around the man Together ran, ^liile on the air upborne, A thousand skirts of vra^ing white Gleamed like the flocks of cloudlets brio-ht c In sunny air at morn, — So that to me t Numbers xv. 38. 156 CHRIST-CHURCH MEADOW. The sparkling pageant did but seem AH like a Trhitelj-flashing dream Of silver sea. But novr all hushed and silent grown Within the mystic place, Prostrate before the Cloven Stone The J lie upon their face. And, like still waters, from the rent A Voice, once heard on earth, -vas sent Unto the mountain side ; Xine times It rose, nine times It fell, Xine times in blessing did It swell, And Tvithout echo died. Now through the wa^y rings of fire Uprose the s^veet transpai^ent spire A A^sionary thing ; Then mid the uncertain silveiy flood Half vision and half building stood In the sunlight quivering ; Then on the turrets' fiTtted face Each statue grew in its old place. And through some leafless branches near, I saw, with hand like burnished sj)ear. The dial of the clock appear. And in a keen Xovember gilding St. Marj'S stood, an earthly building. Ah ! thus at times on earth below The Church Invisible wiU glow Upon our mortal sight. And mid the rude and jangling strife The holj Altar's hidden life Breathes out in heavenly light. ALL SAINTS DAY. O doubting heart ! if e'er in thee, Temptations against faith should be, ;Make thou this day a vow with me, — Never in keen-witted strife To ask or tell of Christian life ; Nor strive to read in wordy war AVhat should be seen in prayer fi'om far, Or on its \iewless mission sent Couched in some secret Sacrament. For empty forms, opaque and still. No mirthful hght are gi^-ing, They wait for us of backward will The vessels of the Church to fill With true ascetic h^ing. 157 • XXYIT. ALL SAIXTS' DAY. 1. THE GATHEEIXa OF THE DEAD. The day is cloudy ; — it should be so : And the clouds in flocks to the eastward go ; For the world may not see the glory there, "VMiere Christ and His Saints are met in the air. There is a stir among all things round, Like the shock of an earthquake underground, And there is music in the motion. As soft and deep as a summer ocean. 158 ALL saints' day. All tilings that sleep awake to -clay, For the Cross and the crown are won ; The winds of spring Sweet songs may bring Through the half- unfolded leaves of May ; But the breeze of spring Hath no such thing As the musical sounds that run T^liere the anthem note by God is given, And the MartjTS sing, And the Angels ring Vith the cymbals of highest Heaven. In Heaven above, and on earth beneath, In the holy place where dead men sleep, In the silent sepulchres of death, ^Miere angels over the bodies keep Their cheerful watch till the second breath Into the Christian dust shall creep — In heights and depths and darkest caves, In the unlit green of the ocean waves — In fields where battles have been fought, Duno;eons where murders have been wrouo^ht- The shock and the thrill of Hfe have run : The reign of the Holy is begun ! There is labom' and unquietness In the very sands of the wilderness, In the place where rivers ran, \Miere the Simoom blast Hath fiercely past O'er the midnight caravan. From sea to sea, fi-om shore to shore, Earth travails with her dead once more^ In one long endless filing crowd. Apostles, Martyrs, Saints, have gone, ALL SALVTS' DAY. 159 Where behind yon screen of cloud The Master is upon His Tlirone I Only \re are left alone ! — Left in this waste and desert place, Far from our natural home ; Left to complete our weary race, Until His Kingdom come. Alas for us that cannot be Among that shining company ! But once a year with solemn hand The Church withdraws the veil, And there we see that other land. Far in the distance pale : "VMiile good church-bells are loudly ringing All on the earth below, #^*And white-robed choirs ^xdth angels singing, ^Miere stately organs blow : And up and down each holy street Faith hears the tread of viewless feet, Such as in Salem walked when He Had gotten Himself the \ictory. So be it ever year by year, Until the Judge Himself be here ! 2. THE MIDDLE HOME. The Dead — the mighty, quiet Dead ! Each in his moist and silent bed Hath laid him down to rest, ^VTiile the freed spmt slowly fled Unto the Patriarch's breast. 160 ALL SAIXTS' DAT. Perchance awhile it lingered near, As loth to qiiit its earthly bier, Until the funeral rite Tvas done, And the Church closed upon her son. There is a place ^\'here spiiits come, Beneath the shrine to live, A mystic place, a middle home, ^Miich God to them doth give. "What mortal fancy can disclose The secrets of their calm repose ? It is a quietness more deep Than deadest swoon or heaviest sleep, A rest all full of waking dreams. Of magic soimds, and broken gleams, Outside the walls of heaven ; So near, the Souls may hear the din Of thousand Angel choirs within, And some dear prospect too may win, — As, in the light of even, Long absent exiles may have seen The home, the woods, the orchards green, "Wlierein their childish time was spent. Ere on their pilgrimage they went ; And, as they look upon the show, The thought of early love returns Unto the straining eye that bums "VMth tears that age forbids to flow. It is a rest, yet torment dire, Eepose within the lap of fire, Because it is God's will, — Another life of heavenly birth, ^Miich men live quicker than on earth, Happy, resigned, and still : A pardoning Father's first caress, A glorious penal blessedness ! ALL SAIXTS' DAY. 1 G 1 There then outside tlie heavenly gate The souls beneath the Altar wait — The Altar whereon Christ was laid, True Meat for all the living made, And Shelter for the Dead ! Theii' bodies are not yet like IIis, Their souls not strong enough for bliss, Or love unmixed with dread. They cannot brook the vision yet, Those radiant lights that never set ; And so the Son of Man hath thrown His awful Veil o'er spirits lone. O'ershadowed by His Flesh they lie,* As though behind a charmed screen, Hid from the piercing of the Eye That may not look on things unclean ! Say, who are those that softly glide Each pure and saintly soul beside, like Angels, only that they bear More thought and sadness in their air. As though some stain of eaii:h did rest Its pensive weight upon their breast. And lodged a fearfulness within That could not rise from aught but sin ? Xor ever on their silent face Doth gentle miii:h leave any trace. Save when their downcast eye doth rest Upon the Symbol on their breast, Then are their features lit the while "With something hke an earthly smile. As thoug;h a thous^ht were in their heart '\Miich it were rudeness to impart. * S. Bernard, Serra. in Fest. Omn. Sanct. 162 THE STORM IS PAST. These are the righteous vroiks of Faith, Wrought in the fio^ht vith Sin and Death- Dear shadows of each holy thing, The goodly fruits and flowers that spring From the rich Tree of Life ; Alms-deeds, and praise, and ^dgils past In penitential prayer and fast. Boldness in faith, and wrongs forgiven, And self-denying toils for heaven, And gentleness in strife. These follow all the souls that come Unto their rest and middle home ; And by their sides for ever stay To witness at the solemn day, — In fear as nigher still and nigher Through the thin veils of cleansing fire, They see the angels fi'om above Descend upon their tasks of love The sphits to release. To bear them to that Vision bright. That thi'one in whose tremendous sioht o The soul shall find eternal Hght And everlasting peace. XXVIII. THE STOE:^! is PAST. The storm is past : the green hiU-side Is streaked with evening gleams. Let out through rents in yon dark cloud, Day's last and loveliest beams. THE STORM IS PAST. 1G3 II. Still clings the tempest's fleecy skirt Eound Fairfield's hollow crest, '\Miere glorious mists in many a fold Of wa^y silver rest. III. Deep imaged in the lake serene The shado^vy mountains lie : Deeper than heaven itself the blue Of that imreal sky. IV. Oh ! soft falls evening on the heart "With gnawing cares deprest, Feeding on all her quiet things, — A Sacrament of rest ! Sin-blighted though we are — yet still Upon our weary souls, Thi'ough hills and woods, through lakes and streams, A tide of glory rolls : VI. A brimming tide from heaven that flows Of freshness and of power, And holy strength to nerve the heart For duty's sterner hour. 164 XXIX. TIS ^TTEX VTE. SUFFEE. 'Tis -vN'hen vre suffer gentlest thoughts "VTithin the bosom spring : Ah ! 'vvho shall say that pain is not A most unselfish thing ? n. Long ere I kne^r thee, men had said That I must be thy Mend, While thou bj Itchin's grassy bank Thj summer hours did spend. ni. So it came natural to me To hare thee for my brother : And more and more each passing day We grow into each other. IV. And I hare looked upon thee now With gaze so long and true, That all things near and round thee seem Touched Tvith the selfsame hue. 'tis when we suffer. 165 My very love for thy dear sake Kims out on every side, And joys with liberal waste to find Its idols multiplied. VT. To eharm my pain, soft thoughts of thee Doth willing memory bring, Fragrant as is the leafy smell Of rain-washed woods in spring. TIT. Yes — thou hast thi^own on me once more My boyhood's living glow, And tears and smiles and childish joys From their old fountains flow. VITI. Unlike, and yet how like, two wills That mould so passing well, As waves that meet and make a calm Caught by each other's spell. IX. Each by its brother's heart delays To learn its mystic motion. Blends as it Kstens, and forgets All the wild hea-sino^ ocean. X. Old age, T^hat is it but a name For bm^ning love departed ? "We two shall be for ever boys, If we are loyal-hearted. 166 XXX. THE HOLY AXGELS. Angels and Thrones and holy PoTvers And Ministers of light — God's primal sons and mystic bands In various orders bright, And hidden Splendom^s wheeling round In circles infinite — n. Celestial priests and seraph kings In links of glory twine : And Spiiits of departed men In saintly lustre shine, With Ano-els dear that fold their wings Above the awful Shrine — Chariots^of living flame that fill The mountain's hollow side, Breezes that to the battle-field Over the forest ride, Spirits that from the Bridegroom come To wait upon the Bride — THE HOLY ANGELS. 167 TV. These are among us and around In earth and sea and air, At fast and feast and holy rite And lonely ^igil prayer, Morning and noon and dead of night Crowding the heavenly stair. V. In solemn houi\s and paths remote, ^Miere worldly soimds are still, There comes to us from Spirits nigh A contact pure and chill, A touch that to the inmost sense Runs with unearthly thrill. VI. Yet man will deem himself alone — That earth so fair and wide Was made for him to have unshared His glory and liis j)ride, That he alone, supreme below. To Heaven should be allied. VII. And wouldst thou gi'udge, poor selfish heart, To share thy lonely sway, And scorn the visitants that come On earth with thee to stay — The Beings meek and beautiful That follow on thy way ? 168 THE HOLY ANGELS. VIII. There's many a lake to Heaven looks up With bright and earnest eye Upon the solitary tops Of mountains steep and high, And many a plant and flower that bloom 'N^Tiere man was never nio'h. IX. All day and night the lovely clouds In curious shapes are blending, And coloured Kghts throuoh forest be 'vers Are every hour descending, Where none are by but Angel forms, God's glorious road attending. Oh ! well it is that they for love Of man's cold heart are weeping : And it shall please me, Lord ! to think, ^Miile my dull eyes are sleeping. Angels for Thine eternal praise Eternal watch are keeping ! 1G9 XXXI. TIIE LIFE OF THE LIYIXG. The whole Tvorld lies beneath a spell — A charm of dreadest po^ver — And life hath some new miracle "Worked for it every hom\ Hast thou ever been on a misty night In a deep and solemn dale, "WTien the firs, like spirits, stand upright In a soft, transparent veil, "Wliile the moon with rings of muffled light Hath girdled her chariot pale ? Hast thou ever sat on a mountain -brow ^Mien the sim was bright and the wind was low, And gazed on the groups of silent wood That hang by the brink of a crystal flood. When the wind starts up from his hidden lair, Like a thing refreshed by sleep. On the scene so summer-Hke and fair, And the quietness so deep ? The far-off pass and the broken feU "With a hoarse and hollow murmur swell As the giant rides along : He comes ^dth sceptre bare to break The pageant miiTored in the lake ; And the whole forest depths to shake With fmy loud and strong. He hath bent the poplar as he past. As the tempest bends the tall ship-mast ; 170 THE LIFE OF THE LH^ING, He hath tmsted the boughs of the lofty ash, And the old oak moaned beneath his lash. And yet to thee like some strange dream The wild winds savage sport doth seem, For thou art still on thj mountain brow, With the sun all bright and the wind all low ! Ah ! such at best is this weak life, A mournful and mysterious strife, Where each man to his neighbour seems Like the stirring forms in motley dreams ; And shadows fall fi^om cloudless skies, And lights in darkness gleam. And endless are the mysteries Of this unbroken dream. And we gaze as dreamers have done of yore On a sight they think they have seen before ; And the far-off hills, and the neighbouring woods And the gleaming pools of the winding floods, Are blent in the sunset's misty hue, "VMien color and distance are both untrue. To the eye of mortal it may not be To look on his own soul. But like a dim half-hidden sea Before him it doth roll. It is green as the green earth's sunny grass, It is blue as the bluest sky ; It is black as night when the tempests pass. And the snow-white sea-birds cry. The weary billow hath no soft sleeps. For its colour and change are given Not from the heart of its beating deeps. But they fall fr-om the face of heaven. THE LIFE OF THE LIVING. 171 When the day is fair, and the gale at sleep, There are marvellous things that lie Full many and many a fathom deep. Moving and resting uncertainly : — Things tinted, dark, and bright, Brave jewels seen Through the soHd green, Gleaminor and oi™o; ho-ht. And after the stonn, when the summer calm Drops down on the sea like a holy charm, "VMien the clouds on high Float quietly, Like Angels winnowing by, — TVe see by the dawn that the furrowed shore "With broken things is strewn all o'er, From the hollow ocean brought ; Quaint carved works man never wrought. And plants earth never bore, New metals torn from their ancient bed, And the wave-bleached bones of the unknown dead. Can the beach that we scan Ee the Soul of Man With the wrecks of its childhood's being — With the tokens dread That the life which is fled Is blent with the life that is fleeing ? 172 XXXII. THE MOUXTAIXS. " Their gods are gods of the hills ; therefore they have overcome us."— 111. Kings xx, 23. Let none but priests or lowly men draw nigh Unto the lofty mountains, to invade The awful sanctuary God hath built Upon their desert sides. There was a time, Ere the unholy stain of blood had flushed The sunny green of the young yirgin earth, "WTien He did walk \dth. men in shady bowers And innocent gardens. But when sin grew bold, The jealous God withdrew imto the hills : And the bright mists that moved upon the plain, To gladden and keep fresh the heart of earth. Were gathered up to Him, and hung in folds Of glorious cloud before His moimtaih Throne ; And everlasting barrenness was bid To take the hills imto itself, that He ]\Iight have a solitude wherein to dwell. Behold how He hath gifted this His stern And sacred dwelling-place. Tempests and storms And the mysterious voices of loud winds, A thousand lights of beauty, so intense They make men weep for love of them, and shades That move obedient to conceal from us The path of some dear Angel, and o'er all Bridges of rainbow thrown from peak to peak In mystic arches, signs of covenant : — These are His gifts imto the mighty hills. THE MOl^'TATXS. 173 And the blue skies are bid by Ilim to stoop Unto the mountain-top, that earth may blend AVith Heaven ; and alway from their cloven sides The music of ten thousand springs is heard, Gushing with water — holiest element, AMierein the power of our New Birth is hiid : Fed ever from the dews of Heaven that fall When night is coldest ; and fi'ee liberal airs That roam about the mountains, and that come We know not whence, move o'er the pool unseen, Like the pm^e Dove who broods above the Font. — Fresh are those sources, though no shade is nigh. Fresh as the wells that stand in natural rock In summer woods or violet-scented gi'ove, With lowly flowers all round, and forest-breaths Just come to dimple their still sm'faces. And now and then to scatter the frail leaves From off the briar-rose that hangs above. And here and there, far in the lonely glens, Huge memory-peopled forests stretch along ; Amid whose glorious tangled aisles, and choii'S Closed in with leafy pinnacles, and shafts Of tall light trees do^vn which the sunbeam plays, Our holy sires were taught by God to build Their venerable Churches, so that He Might come once more from the eternal hills To dwell by shiines that mortal hands had reared. Albeit the pattern of the Holy Place Was shown them on the mountain's wooded side ! On the high places of the Holy Church, Strongholds of prayer and lonely steeps of faith, Lay the first lights of hope, when all around Was dark and dreary tumult. Savage wastes Of black and angry waters rolled along. 174 THE MOUNTAINS. But the strong breath of Him who brooded once Upon the shapeless seas, closed up the skies And sealed the fountains of the bursting deep. TVTien Xoe from his single lattice gazed, The watery gleams of the retm-ning sim Smiled sadlj on the mountain-peaks that rose, Like islands of the Blest, happy and green. Unto a mountain-top by impulse dra^^Ti, On Ararat the weary Ark reposed, Safe anchored there within the rocky veil, Now muffled by long centmies of snow. Then were the shades dispelled, and earth was free, And Stars and Angels shouted round the Throne, And the victorious Sun broke from the East Into the sky, beneath a glorious arch Wreathed with triumphal colors, and the Earth Sent up a steam of odorous sacrifice Unto the Threefold Majesty in Heaven ! These are the marvels that of rioht belons; Unto the mountains. So it came to pass The children of the old dark faiths went up To worship there, and ht their altar fires Upon the even cone of some green hill, ^\liose very shape seemed pregnant to their eyes "With an unwonted presence, or dim trace Of Him they sought. Alas ! they Httle knew 'V\Tience thefr blind worsliip came, what Angel forms "Went often with them to the bleak liill-tops. And so the spiiitual Persian chmbed The lofty steep, to feel his God diffused In the unbounded blue that was around, As though the mountain -wind, that did embrace Himself and all, had been the breath of God ! THE MOUNTAINS. 175 Oh ! come then to these gifted Altars, come ! Thoy will unteach thee pride, and gird thee round With types and mysteries of things above, And ^vrap thy spuit up in many a fold Of awful visions. Come and wander now Among their solemn passes, far withdrawn From every sound except the waterfall, And eagle's voice, high up among the clouds — Wondrous as that dread bird that waited once In Patmos, when the saintly exile saw The holy Chm-ch pass on from east to west, Like the bright moon, through shadows manifold. How fixed and calm they look ! Yet on their sides, WTiether by stream or flame impressed, fierce scars And rugged seams are left as if to tell Of revolutions past, upheaval slow, And secular subsidence, and deep grooves "Worn by the ancient glacier on its road, Like furrows on brave faces made by pain, The lines of earth's old age. They make the hills Look old and hoary, and yet not the less Unchangeable : as if they meant to show That changes, which efface men's works and ways. Can only wear God's footprints deeper in, — For ^e and flood are but His chariot-wheels. Behold the heights man's foot hath never trod ! A cloud of prophecy hangs densely there. In ancient days the Spirit dwelt in hearts That knew His presence : in these later times Men prophesy, and know it not ; they strew Tlie precious treasure up and down, like leaves. And the wise winds, which are God's Spiiit, take And gather them for Him, — they are not lost. 176 THE MOUXTAIXS. Thus from all seers, both new and old, like clouds Drifting in little flocks on autumn days To one dark treasure-house of storm, each year The weight of prophecy doth grow, and men Behold its varying outline, bright and dark. And watch its swelling form with awe, as though It could no more contain the li^-ing fire "\Miich hath akeady shone in palest gleams Through many a rent and at each radiant fringe. Come, then, unto the mountains — sit with me Among this spotted fern ; for God's decrees Ai^e wrapped about them like a mantle : they, "\Miom He foreknew, perchance may lift the veil, And see His depths within the blessed light TMiich kindles love and yet doth not increase Our knowledge. Come, then, to this trickling spring, It will remind thee of thy morning dew. Let the huge mountains throw their rugged arms Ai'ound thee, while thefr yfrtue goeth out Into thy heart vrith liidden sacraments ! 177 XXXIII. THE PIC-NIC. A LADY a party of pleasure made, And she planned her scheme right Tvell ; And early and late this party filled The head of the demoiselle. It rained all day and it rained aU night, It rained ^vhen morning broke, It rained when the maiden ^vent to sleep, And it rained Tvhen she awoke. III. Pee^-ish and fretful the maiden grew TSTien the hour of noon was gone ; Put the merry clouds knew nothing of that. And the rain kept pom^ing on. IV. The weather has got no business with us, And we have none with the weather, And temper and weather are different things, Put they always go together. Oh ! anger and beauty, my lady dear, "WiU never agree to share That little white brow that lifts its arch Through the parting of thy hair. 178 MY godson's baptism. VI. The mists are stream all over the hills, And the valleys are ringing ^ith floods, And the heavy drops on the flat broad leaves Are making strange sounds in the vroods. VII. Ano-els are round thee and Heaven's above, And thy soul is alive Avithin ; Shall a rainy day and a cloudy sky Make a Chiistian heart to sin ? VIII. 0 wait for the sunset's dusky gold On the side of yon mountain glen, And seek the lone seat Tvhere the foxgloves grow, And smile at thy folly then. XXXIY. MY GODSOX'S BAPTISM. I. Deae Chiistian child ! was It the power That in those gifted waters came, "\Miich stirred thee at that solemn hour. And thrilled thi'ough all thy trembHng frame ? Oh ! was it keen and fierce the smart "When the old root within thee died, And the new nature in thy heart Eose like the swell of Ocean's tide ? MY godson's baptism. 179 Yes — in the cIa^vn of thj new birth There came some spiritual fears, Faint gleams of after-things, — that earth flight pay the first-fruits of her tears. lY. Sweet penitent I all lovely things Are for their brightness full of fear ; And strange would seem those angel -^-ings That came and made soft motions near. And yet the Cross did hush thy cries, When thou within mine arms didst lie, Quiet and sealed for sacrifice Unto the Holy Trinity. VI. And such a smile sat on thy mouth, ^Tiile fL'om that Token's fourfold might, From East and West, from Xorth and South, Great visions broke upon thy sight. And such a look came from thine eyes Through lashes fi'inged with Chi^istian dew- Wonder and hope and mirth did rise Up from those wells of heavenly blue. vin. Xow thou art consecrate, fair thino- ! A Church where sinners have not prayed, A shrine where only Angels sing, Another stone in Sion laid I 180 XXXV. BIETH-DAY THOUGHTS. June 28, 1838. THE FEAST OF ST. lEEN^US. THE VIGH. OF ST. PETEE. THE CORONATION OF QUEEN VICTORIA. It was a day of mingled jojs and fears Blending like light and shade, And boyish smiles Tvith lingering sweetness played Through penitential tears, IT. It was a feast whereon soft memories Of an old saint do stay, — Of one who came bearing the cross this way From liis own eastern sides. m. It was the eve of a high festival — A day of serious hours, For grief that one all fuU of gifts and powers So faitlilessly should fall. IV. It was the day whereon a Sovereign laielt Before the King on high. And through the realm was heard one loyal ciy. One beating heart was felt. BIRTH-DAY THOUGHTS. 181 V. Anl thoughtful men were startled at the sound, ^Vnd good men fell to prayer, For with the glory and the pageant rare Shadows were gathering round. VI. There is a well, a willow-shaded spot, Cool in the noontide gleam, AVith rushes nodding in the little stream. And blue forget-me-not vn. Set in thick tufts along the bushy marge, With big bright eyes of gold, ^\Tiere glorious water-plants, like fans, unfold Their blossoms strange and large. vin. That wandering boy, yoimg Hylas, did not find Beauties so rich and rare. Where swallow-wort and pale bright maiden's hair And dog-grass greenly twined. IX. A sloping bank ran round it like a crown, ^\Tiereon a purple cloud Of dark wild hyacinths, a fairy crowd, Had settled softly down. And dreamy sounds of never-ending bells From a city's ancient towers Came down the stream, and went among the flowers And died in little swells. 182 BIRTH-DAY THOUGHTS. XI. There did I keep mj birth-day feast, ^nth all These gentle things around, TVTiile their soft voices rising from the ground Unto my heart did call. xn. It is not good to be mthout a home, — Young hearts should not be fi^ee : Yet household thoughts have long been closed to me AYithin my father's tomb. xni. And I have roamed through places fau^ and good, Like a ^vild bu'd that drops To rest somewhere among the thousand tops Of a broad fir-wood. XIV. My love hath strewn in many a youthful breast Fancies of tender mould, And I have memories lodged among the old In their eternal rest. XV. Sunny and bright all earthly glories seem, Like an enchanter's show. And yet it frets me all the while to know That this is but a dream. XVI. I cannot burst the fetters of the speU : — The silvery light of mirth Streams fi^om within me over all the earth, As from an endless welL BIHTII-DAY THOUGHTS. 183 xvn. So bright of late the unsetting sun hatli played, Its evening must be near, Allien Hope shall \N'in fresh loveliness from fear, And Memory fr'om the shade. XVIII. Still bj old hills or abbey's ruined slmne Shall love my footsteps bring — Dear homes, where friendship set me gathering These wild-flower thoughts of mine. XXXVI. BIETHDAY THOUGHTS, At a Grave in Somersetshire, 1839. If in the years of my most wandering youth Some few untended plants have learned to flower. Thine was the mercy. Lord I and Thine the power That sowed and kept alive the seeds of Truth. Pather and earthly mother I have none. Sweet bride nor marriage -home, nor children here, Nor looks of love — but Thine, my Sa^-iour dear ! And my young heart bears ill to live alone. So to the wild and weedy grave I come Of this meek man of heart, who bore the Cross, Hid in a lordly crosier, to his home. And for Thy love did count aU else but loss. 184 A LESSON FROM THE FERNS. Long as mj life may be, teach me like him To foUow Thee by pathways lone and dim. Better they should be lonely — better far The Tv^orld should be all dark ; so through the night, And ^vith fresh tears to multiply the light, IVIine eyes might see Thy pale and single star. Yet, Lord ! 'tis hard when evening shadows come, To have no sight or sound of earthly cheer : Still were my faith but strong, Thou wouldst be near, And I in my pure thoughts might find a hom^e : And memory too might hear her dead loves pom% Soft as the songs of some shy hidden bu'd From the low fields or woodlands nightly heard. Sweet peaceful music on the evening hom\ — O shame on me to fear the Cross should press Too hard in firm and thouohtful loneliness ! XXXVII. A LESSON FKO:^I THE FEKXS. Dear Friend ! I have a dread and glorious home. Just where two inland rivers gently meet, And the young CherweU's haunted waters come, Isis, theu^ queen, to greet. A LESSON FROM THE FERNS. 185 n. Far in the woodland heart of this green isle To their o^vn banks those streams are tinkling no^v, "WTiere many an ancient church and gorgeous pile Throng in to hear them flow. ni. But I have yet another home as fair, Though my sweet southern streams are far away, And two wild mountain rills are meeting there As musical as they. IV. And are there not Church thoughts and feelings here, Scattered, like flowers, on Loughrigg's sunny side, And hopes to bless and memories to cheer "\Miere Kothay's waters glide ? Yes — ^by a hundred streamlets' wajn^ard tm^ns My heart hath spent some hours of Sunday rest, And watched those pastoral things the young green ferns, Unbend from earth's cold breast. VI. Oh I for thine own dear sake those things shall be Marvellous t}^es and symbols of my vow. And with their lessons dread soft love for thee Shall mingle fondly now. 186 A LESSON FROM THE FERNS. VII. Often shall tliey in hours of pensive thought Give up the secret charms that in them lie. And all thj sacred image shall be brought To fancy's yearning eye : VIII. The light, the po^er, the unsettled fii-es that play Among the sleepless glancings of thine eyes, Thy thoughts and things of beauty, Avhich betray The heart fi^om whence they rise. If in thy spring the gems of Heaven be set, Like spotted fern-flowers in theu' first pale green, Oh ! shade them from the too bright world, nor let Their fi'agile bloom be seen. X. So shall the gifted suns of simimer-tide Their hidden power and loveliness unfold, And he, that loves thee, with a lawful pride. Shall mark theii' autimm gold I 187 XXXVIIT. A DEEAM AFTER AX AEGUMEXT WITH A FEIEXD. I iJEFT thee when the midnight bell had tolled, Full of fresh ^iews and reasons : in thine ejes All night perpetual meanings did unfold Quick turns of thought and kindling s^Tnpathies. Still those blue eyes looked at me through mj sleep, Changed by the power of di^eams to fearful things. Thej bore me far away, where evening flings Her gorgeous blue on Atlas : they did sweep Into the bluer sky, where comets blaze. And golden creatm^es live in starry rays. Onward they went where filmy mist-wreaths creep About the rolling moon ; and fell with me In the translucent caverns of the sea, "Wliere sunset takes the ghosts of sunken days. XXXIX. Keswick, August 3, 1838. I KXEw three sisters, who by haunted rills And hiU-side places gathered rarest flowers ; But, when apart, and in theii^ lonely hom^s, The brightest things that bloomed upon the hills AVere dull : for love alone the spell hath given Unto the green of earth, the blue of heaven ! It is the law for all : few men can think Save in another's heart : yea, few can di'ink Of their own fountains but in others' eyes, "VMien they can see themselves reflected there "With an ideal beauty ; and can rise. Like a freed slave, with spirit keen and bare From the damp cells and weary bonds of sin, "Wliich; but for love, woidd fetter them within. 188 CASTLE-HILL, KESWICK. XL. Keswick, August 3, 1838. Some fall in love mth voices, some Avitli ejes. Some men are linked together bj a tear ; Others bj smiles ; many who cannot tell "WTiat time the spirit passed who left the spell. It comes to us among the winds that rise Scattering their gifts on all things far and near. The fields of unripe corn, the mountain lake, And the gxeat-hearted sea — all objects take Their glory and their witchery fi'om winds : All save the few black pools the woodman finds Far in the depths of some unsunny place, "WTiich stand, albeit the happy winds are out In aU the tossing branches round about. As silent and as fearful as a dead man's face. XLI. CASTLE-HILL, KESWICK. '* We put the sun to bed with our talk," Greek Anthology. I. Come let us gather here upon the hiU The noble hearts that yet beat pure and high, And, while the lake beneath om^ feet is still. Sweetly our speech may run on chivahy, And feats of arms, and old crusading days, And tourneys bright, and minstrel's generous praise. CASTLE-HILL, KESWICK. ISO II. For ^ve have mourned o'er many a lonely place And moorland \illage with a knightly name, And we have loved with wise regi^ets to trace The still unfaded relics of their fame. Yon sun that sinks o'er Solway's distant bay Sets not more proud and glorious than they. Oh, then, while round Blencathra's haunted crest The purple folds of summer twilight wind, Spirits of feudal memory here shall rest With spells of dearest awe upon my mind ; And there shall ride full gallantly and fast Pageants and shades of that romantic past ! IV. Sweet to the brow the wind of evening blows, Sweet to the sight are evening's golden gleams, Sweetest of all are they where Greta flows, And Glenderaterra, and the nameless streams, Lonely and beautiful, where summer day Fades o'er yon Cumbrian mountain far away. V. The clouds that build wild structures up on high Shall mould themselves to some baronial hall. And the stray mist that wanders loosely by Be changed to a gigantic seneschal ; The wind that o'er the battlements doth float Shall sound from thence an elfin warder's note. 190 CASTLE-HILL, KES\YICK. TI. But, when the last pale glow is on the heights, The dream may sliift unto a maiden's bower, "Where every lattice shines with festal lights, And crimson pennons wave on every tower, "Where ladies welcome back their knights again From the far hunting-field or battle-plain. VII. And by my side the page of Monstrelet With all its lifeHke forms shall be unrolled. And he, with eye undimmed and hair of gray, The chivabous old Canon, shall unfold, As in my boyish hours, his own dear lore. Bright with the tints that shone in times of yore. VIII. Oh, in his boyhood's best and purest days T\1k> hath not gathered round old Froissart's knee Like children round a father, in whose lays Strange things were told with quaint and earnest glee, Prizing each year his well-known strains the more, "WTien we have heard them ten-times told before ? IX. C-ome, then, and we will make a mimic tale : — The store of legendary things that He Far in the woods of many a Cumbrian vale Shall weave for us the mingled destiny Of a young knight and of a templar bold. In those most gorgeous Chronicles untold. 191 XLTL FUKXESS ABBEY. An, Sydney ! — as we joiu-neyed toward the main. Visions of old Byzantium worked in thee ; Thy talk was of the gorgeous Osmanh : — O how it rose like a bewildering strain Of oriental music — paused again — And changed unto the savage glens of pine Which cradled thee ! and yet the twilight power Of English scenes, most felt at that still hour, Some words of dearest rapture then could win, As we walked forth by Leven's tranquil side. Xow, as thy hand is fondly clasped in mine In this Cistercian chapter-house, the pride Of native things awakes unblamed — the tide Of English blood is rising fast witliin. XLIII. OX THE HEIGHTS XEAE DEVOKE WATEE. August 7, 1838. Dreary and gi^ey the twilight hour came on, Duddon was sounding in his wooded vale ; And through the ferns and round each hollow stone The spirit of the chiU night-breeze did wail. With low and piteous moaning did it swell, Like a poor ghost, upon the shaggy fell — ^Mien, as we rode, the sun came round and stood On the hiU-top — an altar all of gold : Twisting in gorgeous coils, like a huge flood, The crimson steam along the yaUey roUed. Eain-drops, like gems, upon the heath were seen. And the whole earth was hid in golden gi^een, O it was well our hearts within us quailed, — The throne of the Eternal was unveiled ! 192 XLIY. THE GKOYES OF PEXSHUEST. The groves of Penshiirst are a haunted place ; There is a spirit and a presence there Of one departed ; and the brooding air Is charged with powers of old ancestral grace. Thou art a worthy son of that great sire : Though there be doubt and peril, while the fire Of youth bums in thee ! Let the cherished dread Of that most knightly-hearted Sydney rest, Like a dear master's hand upon thy breast. Brother ! great minds are built, great souls are fed In steadfast discipline and silent fear. Yvlien fi'om this rule thine impulse would depart, A voice from Sydney's tomb shall whisper near. And ring wild trumpet-notes within thy heart ! XLY. THE ICOXOCLAST. Whence comes this sinking heart, these faihng powers ? Something hath touched my thoughts : they have no Hfe, And stir, like sickly things, in idle strife. And I am restless all these midnight hours. Eriend ! thou hast done it : thou hast broken down All mine old images, and didst uncrown The glorious things that reigned within my heart, Because thou art more glorious. Times like these, "Ylien our whole Past is roughly set apart. Leave the soul full of love, yet ill at ease. Yon pictured skies the sunset breeze is shaking Erom the still lake are stabler tj-pes of Heaven, Than the brief friendships whose loud pledge was gi^'en Mid the ^ild sport of moral image-breaking. 193 XLYI. THREE HAPPY DAYS. I. Three happy days -we had been out Amono; the awful hills, Learning their secrets by the sides Of dark, untrodden rills. ir. We had companions all the day — Eainbows and silver gleams ; And quiet rivers. all the night To mingle mth our dreams. III. "We spoke of great and solemn tilings, Like earnest -minded men, And often rode unheedingly Through many a wooded glen. IV. We talked about the early Church, Her martyrs keen and bold, And what perchance might now befall The same dear Church grown old. V. We went into each other's hearts, And rifled all the treasure That books and thinking had laid up In academic leism^e. 394 STERN FRIEND. VI. And noTV we are so wearied out With all this high debate, ^Ye have not mentioned once to-niorht The name of Chm.'ch or State. VII. With sweet revenge the silver meres "We slighted on om' ride, With shadowy trees all glassed therein, Else in us like a tide. VIII. Ah who could see us sitting thus. Yon mill-stream falling nigh, And yet gainsay the soothing bhss Of silent company? XLYII. STERiS^ FEIEND. Stern Friend ! with what a passionate eloquence And deep voice thou didst plead, Till thy words cut like knives, through every sense, Making my heart to bleed ! The spirit of old times vrent fi^om thee there, As lightning bold and keen, And still unhealed the seams and furrows, where That lightning passed, are seen. Alas ! it vras a most unworthy dream That with my youth had grown, — An earthly Im-e with a false winning gleam Of Heaven about it thrown. sti:rn frirnd. 1 9') Twas a brave thouglit to think that thou couLlst tear The idol from its shrine, And rear a nobler, heavcnlier image there Than that old dream of mine. Still, as thj limTied gesture waxed more fierce, jMj thoughts drew further in, Shrinking from that quick eye wliich seemed to pierce The last thin veil of sin. I watched thee like an abject, guilty thing. And wept with shame and fear, "NMiilst thou didst lay thy hand on me, and bring The gleaming Cross more near ; And my whole being quailed with agony, And writhed with burning smart, When thou didst lift its bright, sharp edge on high, And plant it in my heart. Friend ! I am conquered now, and all my powers With holier impulse burn, And yet I dare not trust myself when hours Of languid ease return. Then do I envy wild sea-birds that float, And wish that we could be Eocking for ever in a little boat On some blue sunny sea : And I would fain be dreaming, while the tide Of active change doth roll, That we at anchor and at ease might ride Safe in each other's soul. It may not be : I and my dreams must part, — Part in the blood that flowed. Where the stern Cross ran deepest in my heart. Tearing its cruel road. 196 TO A LITTLE BOY. That pool of blood shall stand for ever there AMiere the dread Sign took root. So shall the Cross haye plants and blossoms rare Grow up around its foot. The watch-tower steps are fallen to decay, Broken in every stone, And it is perilous to wind one's way To that high place alone. But, wert thou with me there, the wildest night Would not seem dark or long ; And we would sing old Psalms till morning light Broke in upon our song. And should these rebel dreams of earth arise Against my hardy vow. Then shall I dread a friend that can chastise As faithfully as thou ! XLYIII. TO A LITTLE BOY. Dear Little One, and can thy mother find In those soft lineaments, that move so ftee To smiles or tears, as hoHest infancy About thy heart its glorious web doth wind, A faithful likeness of my sterner mind ? Ah ! then there must be times unknown to me "WTien my lost boyhood, like a wandering aii', Comes for a while to pass upon my face, Giving me back the dear familiar grace O'er wliich my mother poured her last fond prayer. But sin and age wiU rob me of this power, Though now my heart, like an uneasy lake, Some broken images at times may take From forms which fade more sadly every hour ! 197 XLIX. VEr^SES SEXT TO A FRIEXD, WITH A BOOK. I. The languid heart, that hath been ever nurst Bj strains of drowsy sweetness, ill can brook The rude rough music that at times doth burst From him whose thoughts are treasured in this book. It was his lot to live in days uncouth That shrink from aught so hard and stern as truth. II. I know my generous friend too well to fear This holy gift will be unsafe with thee ; Thou never yet hast had the heart to sneer At the eccentric feats of chivahy, And well I know there are cold men who deem This saintly cause a weak knight-errant's dream. III. "When thou hast marked him well, thine eye will trace Lines deep and steadfast, featm^es grave and bold, Beauty austere and masculine, a face And stalwart form ^^TOught in an antique mould ; And if some shades too broad and coarse be thro^vn, 'Tis where the age hath marred the block of stone ! 198 T^TRITTEX m A LITTLE LADY^S LITTLI ALBUM. I. Hearts good and true Have wishes few In narrow circles bounded, And hope that Hves On what God gives Is Christian hope weU foiindeJ. II. SmaU things are best : Grief and unrest To rank and wealth are given ; But little tilings On Kttle wings Bear little souls to Heaven. 199 LI. THE MEDITEEE^VXEAlSr SEA. Oir, thou old heartless Sea, without a tide To bless thee with its changing ! Ah, poor Sea ! How idly beat thy waves, how languidly On Bail's piers, or Adrians level side ! Eternal sunset round old Greece doth play : All faint and wan Home's last imperial smile Yet lingers in each Hellespontine bay. Still at his mouths the melancholy Xile Talks to himself of Egypt's kingly day. A belt of goodly towns have ruins hoar, Silent as tombs, on Libya's blighted shore ; And Venice woos her blue canals no more : Yet for all this no heart is in thy waves. Thou hea^y Sea of shadows and of graves I LII. HEAYEX AXD EAETH. There are no shadows where there is no sun ; There is no beauty where there is no shade ; And all things in two lines of glory run, Darkness and light, ebon and gold inlaid. God comes among us through the shroud of air ; And His dim track is like the silvery wake Left by yon pinnace on the mountain lake. Fading and re -appearing here and there. The lamps and veils through Heaven and Earth that move Go in and out, as jealous of their light, Like sailing stars upon a misty night. Death is the shade of coming life ; and Love Yearns for her dear ones in the holy tomb, Because bright things are better seen in gloom. 200 LIII. A FAEEWELL. Sept. 8, 1838. T. My heart was like a wooded vale, Bright with a summer afternoon, With shades so tliick the sun was pale And tliin as an autumnal moon ; And winds made stirs in every tree, Most like a far-off, quiet sea. n. There came a cloud o'er tliis bright home, Sudden and strange ; and no one knew From whence the omen dark had come TMien all the sky around was blue. The Avind dropped doA\Ti ; and sounds came near, Like thunder when the air is clear. m. Still hangs that gloomy cloud above, Hiding the glorious sun, whose power Once shed romantic lights of love On moorland stream and forest bower, When all things wore a charm to me, Of sweetest unreality. IV. In pale and tarnished green, the trees Stand by yon brook in silent row ; Eills that made songs to every breeze Have lost the music of their flow : And wildflowers mom'n the summer air That comes not now to wanton there. A CONVERSATION NEAR RYDAL. 201 Ah, brother ! — Tvoiildst thou know how much My aching heart in thee doth live ? One look of thy quick eye — one touch Of thy dear hand last niglit could give Fresh hopes to shine amid my fears, And thouorhts that shed themselves in tears. Lr\^ A COX\^EESATIOX XEAE EYDAL. Sept. 8, 1838. I COULD have wished the few last precious hours I had with thee, dear friend, should have been given To dreams of love, and thoughts and hopes of Heaven. Autumn is out among these woodland bowers : Still am I lingering here, as loth to part From my soul's glorious king. Yet ah ! my heart Hath been at wayward angiy war with thine. I spoke rude words of those who are at rest, Profaning him whose memory thou dost shrine In some choice niche within thy secret breast. 'Twas a rude act : but friendships newly sprung Ai-e flowers of timid growth and little faith. — The softest footfall and the lightest breath Will jar a chord that hath been overstrung. 202 LY. GEEEX EAXK. Sept. 12, 1838. I. Brother^ brother! thou art gone, and I ^ill not mourn thy going, Though thou hast been unto me Hke a river in its flo^^dng ; For many a fresh and manly thought, and many a glorious dream. Like fruits and flowers of foreign lands, have flourished by the stream. Yet, brother, it is vrell to part : a sunset in the sky Sinks deepest in the heart when it is fading from the eye! n. The heart is never safe unless it trembles while it w.oos ; Man cannot love a treasure that he does not fear to lose. In touch and look and earnest tone, and many a Httle way Thy spii'it will be more with me when thou art far away: For men may dwell by mountain streams, and all the summer round Have music lingering in their ears till they forget the sound. ADMIRATION OF NATURE. 203 III. Though it be bitterness and pain to bid a friend good-bye, Yet lovo \vill catch the tear-drops as they hurry from the eye : And friendsliip's rarest, holiest flowers spring up from loyal fears. Frail blooms that give no scent imless we water them with tears : And rich and happy is the heart wherein there always dwell, Like household gods, the memories of many a kind farewell ! LYI. ADMIEATIOX OF XATUEE. When men talk much to me of woods and hills, How evening Kghts and star-embroidered skies Go through them with mysterious sympathies, How gushmg cataracts and dicing rills Find way into their hearts, and Autumn pale, And Spring ere sunny June hath raised her veil, And Summer's breadth of shade, are full of thought- Then I beheye them not : they have but caught A trick of words from some dear minstrel's verse. The awfid spirit of reserve, that dwells In nature's forms and shadows, hides in cells. The jealous hearts of bards, her treasures rare. Men that have been with God learn silence there, Xor at all times their secret joys rehearse. 204 king's bridge. LYII. TO A BOOKISH FKIEjST). Talk not of books; thou hast not been ^vith me, Free and bareheaded where the Tvind is wildest, Lifting its loud voice on the tumbling sea. Or riding fast o'er Loughrigg's many knolls : No, nor where ebon night's dread power is mildest, In Kirkstone, when the wandering night wind tolls Hoarse minute-bells among the rocky towers : Nor lurked at noon in Brathaj's hazel bowers. Thou hast not seen the dawn's first blushing beams Cxild the grey battlements of Eavenscar, The hiUs, the pines, the hundred foamy streams ; Nor talked aU night to some most heavenly star. Where solitude hath got her holiest dwelling, By the black tarn where Faii-field meets Helve%n ! LYIII. KING'S BEIDGE. I. The dew falls fast, and the night is dark. And the trees stand silent in the park ; And winter passeth from bough to bough With stealthy foot that none may know, But little the old man thinks he weaves His frosty kiss on the ivy leaves. king's bridge. 205 From bridge to bridge with tremulous fall The river cboppeth down, And it washeth the base of a pleasant hall On the sldrts of Cambridge town. Old trees bj night are like men in thought, By poetry to silence wrought ; They stand so still and they look so wise, "With folded arms and halfshut eyes. More shado^yy than the shade they cast "VMien the wan moonhght on the river passed. The river is green, and runneth slow — We cannot tell what it saith ; It keepeth its secrets do^vn below, And so doth Death ! Oh ! the night is dark ; but not so dark As my poor soul in this lonely park : There are festal lights by the stream, that fall. Like stars, from the casements of yonder hall ; But harshly the sounds of gladness grate On one that is crushed and desolate. From bridge to bridge with tremulous fall The river droppeth do^vn, As it washeth the base of a pleasant hall On the skirts of Cambridge town. Oh, Sister ! Sister ! could I but hear ^Miat this river saith in night's still ear, And catch the faint whispering voice it brings From its lowlands green and its reedy springs ; It might tell of the spot where the greybeard's spade Turned the cold wet earth in the lime-tree shade. 206 king's bridge. The river is green, and runneth slow — We cannot tell what it saith : It keepeth its secrets down below. And so doth Death ! in. For death was bom in thy blood ^rith life — Too holy a fount for such sad strife : Like a secret ciu'se from hour to hour The canker grew with the gi'owing flower, And little we deemed that rosy streak Was the tyrant's seal on thy wgin cheek. From bridge to bridge with tremulous fall The river droppeth down, As it washeth the base of a pleasant hall On the sldrts of Cambrido^e town. But fainter and fainter thy bright eyes grew. And ruder and redder that rosy hue ; And the half- shed tears that never fell, And the pain within thou wouldst not tell. And the wild, wan smile, — all spoke of death, That had withered my sister with his breath. The river is green, and runneth slow — We cannot tell what it saith : It keepeth its secrets down below, And so doth Death ! IV. 'Twas o'er thy harp one day in June, I marvelled the strings were out of tune ; But lighter and quicker the music grew, And deadly white was thy rosy hue ; One moment — and back the colour came, Thou calledst me by my Christian name. king's bridge. 207 From bridfTje to bridsje with tremulous fall The river droj^peth do^v^l, As it washeth the base of a pleasant hall On the skirts of Cambridge town. Thou badest me be silent and bold, But my brain was hot, and my heart was cold. I never wept, and I never spake. But stood like a rock where the salt seas break ; And to this day I have shed no tear, O'er my blighted rose and my sister's bier. The river is green, and runneth slow — We cannot tell what it saith : It keepeth its secrets down below, And so doth Death ! I stood in the church with burning brow. The lips of the priest moved solemn and slow. I noted each pause, and counted each swell, As a sentry numbers a minute -bell ; For unto the mourner's heart they call From the deeps of that wondrous ritual. From bridge to bridore T\4th tremulous fall The river droppeth do^NTi, As it washeth the base of a pleasant hall On the skirts of Cambridge town. But little to me were the psalm and prayer, As they rose and fell on the cold church air, Kor felt I a holier presence near Than the withered flower on her darksome bier But I stood and prayed, as mourners may. True prayer, though the thoughts be far away. 208 king's bridge. The river is green, and runneth sIotv — We cannot tell ^yhat it saith : It keepeth its secrets do-syn below, And so doth Death ! TI. The dew falls fast, and the night is dark ; The trees stand silent in the park. The festal lights have all died out, And nought is heard but a lone owl's shout. The mists keep gathering more and more ; But the stream is silent as before. From bridge to bridge with tremulous fall The river droppeth down, As it washeth the base of a pleasant hall On the skirts of Cambridge town. '\Miy should I tliink of mj boyhood's pride As I walk by tliis low- voiced river's side ? And why should its heartless waters seem Like a horrid thought in a feverish dream? But it will not speak; and it keeps in its bed The words that are sent us from the dead, The river is green, and runneth slow — We cannot tell what it saith : It keepeth its secrets do^vn below, And so doth Death ! 1 205 LIX. TO A FKIEXD. Thou walkest with a glorj round thy bro^v, Like Saints in pictiu^es, — radiant in the blaze And splendour of thy boyhood, mingling no^v With the bold bearing of a man, that plays In eyes Tvhich do ^vith such sweet skill express Thy soul's hereditary gentleness. Thou art my fiiend's best hiend ; and higher praise My heart hath none to give, nor thine to take ; So I have loved thee for my brother's sake. But when thou talk'st of England's better days, And from its secret place thy soid comes forth, And sits upon thy lips as on a throne, Then would I fain do homage to thy worth, Xot for his sake so much as for tlmie own. LX. TO A FEIEXD. *' Pignus accepimus, ut incipiamus in Domino et in Deo nostra tranquilli esse." — St. August in. '\\'e have two things to do, to live and die : To win another and a longer Hfe Out of this earthly change and weary strife ; To catch the hours that one by one go by, And write the Cross upon them as they fly. So shall they lay theu" burden gently down, Sinking, perchance hard-by, beneath the Throne, "Withdrawn anew into eternity. 'Tis hard to live by youth's fast bubbling springs, And treat our loves, joys, hopes, as flowery things That for awhile may chmb the boughs, and twine Among the prickly leaves of discipHne. Yet, wouldst thou rise in Chiist's self-mastering school. Thy very heart itself must beat by rule. 210 LXI. FAYOUEITE BOOKS. Here, in thy choice old city, do I d^vell At thy dread feet, most honoured Clarendon ! Catching the precious words, that one by one Fall from thy lips ; because I love full well Thy good and stately sadness : and I prize, As warning:s for this land, the auomries TMierewith, like fatal seeds, thy pages swell. From these hot thoughts and tears full oft I fly To the gay Froissart, and those wondrous men Who dreamed of honom% and had heart to die For their own brave and glorious dream ; and then, Albeit with childish lino-erinofs, aorain I turn to graver books, where by my side Lies Origen, my dear and perilous guide. LXII. TO A SAXGUIXE FEIEXD. I CANNOT live on dreams my whole hfe lono-, I cannot gaze on ruined arch, and aisle, And altar desolate, — and then beguile My weary soul with some old loyal song, Or tale of English honour. 'Tis not years Have chilled my blood or made my spirit cold. But ancient books, kindling new hopes and fears, The awful features of the Church unfold. Yet, when in this dear land sad hearts behold That Chm*ch alone at her deserted prayers Amid her empty niches, unawares Old truths revive and coward men grow bold ; And shall my heart give way, while thou art by^ Thine OAvn meek self our sui^est prophecy ? 211 LXIII. APEIL MOENES"GS. I. A THOUSAND are the minstrel tongues In this unequal clime, "Wliose sweetest notes have been of spring And of her primrose time. II. More songs hath April of her gifts, — Bright sun and rainy breeze, Than May with her pale flower-beds. And June with her broad trees. III. I dare not join the mighty souls UjDon the poet's hill, Thouojh, lookino- lono; on those green heig;hts. My dream may come true still. IV. Yet will I hymn this season good ^^liich doth such joy impart, And wakes new fervour in the blood, Old lightness in the heart. V. It takes the fetters from the lyre On April's first white dawn, "When the sun is on the evergreens Upon the college lawn. 212 APRIL MORNINGS. VI. It doth unlock young fancy's wells To run all summer long, Till the whole heart is overflowed AVith unim23risoned song. VII. Those wells are chartered for the year To wind o'er field and hill, Early and late, in sun and shower, Speaking in songs at will. YIII. All tilings are metrical and free, That taste of spring's wild treasure ; Our very thoughts, in their fii'st joy, Come out in lyric measm'e. IX. Yet, Brother, most I love this time^ — For Spring, as she goes by, Will trim the fii^es of the old year In thy dark speaking eye. X. Last summer's harp from yon oak-tree. Young Poet ! thou shalt bring. And we will play a measui^e here In honour of the Spring I LLTNSrS'ADDOX. 213 LXIY. TO A FEIEXD. On by the love ^N^hicli unto thee I bear, 13j the tall trees and streams, and everything In the white -clouded skj or woodland air, "Whether of sight or sound, that here may bring The joyous freshness of the grassy spring — Fain would I warn thee ; for too well I know, Be what thou wilt, thou must be dear to me. And lo ! thou art in utter bondage now, 'VMience I would have thy manly spiiit free. Among the hills we two did never mar The moss about the springs, but leamt to spare Pale flowers which rude hands would not leave to gTOw ; And if thou wert so wisely gentle there — Thy sold hath better flowers — oh ! be as guiltless now. LXV. LLYXSITADDOX. By summer lakes and copsewoods green We two in happy times have been ; And blyther pilgrims never rode. Since Leven down her valley flowed. Or mass was sung and prayer was said In Furness o'er the Christian dead. 214 LLYNSYYADDON. That was a day of love and mirth ^Miich may not dawn again on earth. Each plant that in the hedges grew, Eox-glove, and fern, and bell of blue, And bendinor rose -branch — all were brio-ht AVith more than summer's common light. "We thought that day by Leven's brink Sad thoughts, which youth dehghts to tliink, That in its musings it may feel How well and gently love can steal On drooping hearts and troubled eyes, And take our sadness by surprise. Another year is well-nigh told : My heart and spirits have waxed old. From gi^owing thought, fresh gifts and fears, More than in all my other years ! Sweet are the oaks in summer-tide By Llynsy^^addon's reedy side, Or the cool alders arching o'er '\^liere Usk indents his earthy shore. There hath not been a brighter dawn On old Llanthony's mountain lawn. Or Honddy's wave — not since the hour '\Yhen Mynarch feasted in Tretower. By rock and tree the tyrant sun Eeigned fiercely o'er the cloudless noon ; And I had dreamed yon mistwreath still Was resting on some Cumbrian hill, And fancy for awhile had given To Usk the sweeter song of Leven. Alas ! how changed is all the scene. Mountains and streams and dingles green ! The i\ied tower in every vale, Some haimt of legendary tale, LLYNSYVADDON. 21 5 The flowery slope, the mossy sprinpf, No tuneful words or thoughts can bring. They pass through spirits ill at ease, Like summer winds through leafless trees. For then it was thy heart and eye That touched and stirred the poetry. But now, among the liills alone, The color from my dream is gone ; And lonely hearts will often move Harsh doubts of those they fondest love. Sadness is selfish ; and the throng Of thoughts in loneKness too strong To make or leave a home for song I Llanthony lurks in Ewia's vale. And Wye half-clasps her Tintern pale. And Usk is flowing every hour By Eagland, Brecon, and Tretower. Yet could I see the summer smile Just now in Fumess' haunted pile. The broken choir, the hollow grove, "Which we did people with our love, — Wye with her woodland tides might be A place, a name, forgot by me. And Usk rave downward to the sea. Yes — ^by my love for thee I swear Those mountains green and valleys fair, With all their castles, are not worth One ruined abbey in the Xorth. 216 LXVI. CHILDHOOD. I. Dost thou remember how we lived at home — That it was hke an oriental place, TVTiere right and wrong, and praise and blame did come Bj ways we wondered at and dm'st not trace, And gloom and sadness were but shadows thrown From gi'iefs that were our sire's, and not our own ? II. It was a moat about our souls, an arm Of sea, that made the world a foreign shore, And we were too enamoured of the charm To di'eam that barks might come and waft us o'er. Cold snow was on the hills ; and they did wear Too wild and wan a look to tempt us there. III. We had traditions of om^ own, to weave A web of creed and rite and sacred thought ; And when a stranger, who did not beheve As they who were om' types of God had taught, Came to our home, how harsh his words did seem. Like sounds that mar but cannot break a dream. IV. And then in Scripture some high things there were, Of which, they said, we must not read or talk ; And we through fear did never trespass there. But made our Bibles hke our twilight walk In the deep woodlands, where we dm^st not roam To spots from whence we could not see our home. CHILDHOOD. 217 V. Albeit we fondly hoped, when we were men, To learn the lore our parents loved so well. And read the rites and symbols which were then 13 ut letters of a word we could not spell — Church-bells, and Sundays, and the Altar-stair In whose dread Gift we were too young to share. VI. But we too soon fi^om our safe place were diiven ; The world broke in upon our orphaned life. Dawnings of good, young flowers that looked to Hea^-en, It left untilled for what seemed manlier strife ; Like a too -early summer, bringing fi'uit Where spring perchance had meant another shoot ! Some begin life too soon, — like sailors thrown Upon a shore where common things look strange ; Like them they roam about a foreign to^vn. And grief awhile may own the force of change. Yet, though one hour new dress and tongue may please. Our second thoughts look homeward, ill at ease. Yin. Come then unto our childhood's wreck again — The rocks hard-by our father's early grave ; And take the few chance treasures that remain, And live through manhood upon what we save. So shall we roam the same old shore at will. In the fond faith that we are children still I 218 ROSS CHURCHYARD. IX. Christian ! tliy dream is now — it was not then : Oh ! it were strange if childhood Avere a dream. Strife and the world are di^eams : to wakeful men Childhood and home as jealous Angels seem : Like shapes and hues that pla}^ in clouds at even, They have but shifted fi^om thee into Pleaven ! LXYII. EOSS CHUECHYAED. It is an evening of profound repose : The sun's last light is passing up the Wye ; The hills and woods, the quiet earth and sky, More than is wont that inner world disclose, "WTiich they so barely cover. All is still — So stiU, so little likely to surprise The world's wayfaring sons, that it might fiU A Christian heart with strange and dim surmise. The end perchance may come with like still power, The world's last evening, man's last trial-hour, When the glad Church, to whom alone is given To read earth's types and rites with faultless art, May see the shadows fi'om the inner heaven Stirring on its pale earthly coimterpart. 219 LXVIII. TIIE FEAST OF TIIE IX^^EXTIOX OF TIIE HOLY CEOSS. [Mays] " We heard of it in Ephrata ; we have found it in the fields of the wood."— Fs. cxxxi. 6. I. We came to bid farewell : it was the day AMiereon the wlute earth-fretted Cross was found ; And we, strange chance ! did meet it on our way, As we were in an ancient pleasure-ground, Close by a languid river, where the spring 'Mid bm^stino; buds and flowers was rioting. It was a garden wild, a mystic scene, 'WTiich an old poet in times past had planned, And May was colouring with Hues of green The goodly work of his rehgious hand. For he had thought a broad Church-cross to m:ike, And bade the elms the hallowed form to take.* in. Transept and naye each summer roofs with care ; And here perchance in life's less happy hours The dwellers in that studious House repair To learn deep Christian things from homely flowers, "When eyening comes with many winds to chime Up in the trees her own cathedral time. * The gardens of St. John's, Cambridge, laid out by Prior. 220 INVENTION OF THE HOLT CROSS. IV. Outside the .Cross a wilderness was laid, Apt likeness of the world — had it not been That moss and colonies of primrose made Too sweet a desert, far too fair a scene ! There many a proud young fritillarj weaves With hyacinths his panther-spotted leaves ; V. And lily-plants in scattered pairs, like gems. Shine in the tall dark grass between the trees, •Stooping to empty on their own green stems The morning dew from their red chalices ; For at high noon the di^ops lay sparkling still On king-cup pale and jealous daffodil. VI. "We came to bid farewell : beneath the shade Old times, old dreams were sweetly pondered o'er. And sweeter was the welcome that we made To wiser hopes, — and I did love thee more For all the signs thou wert so meekly gi^'ing Of the grave inward life which thou art living ! VII. We came and bade farewell ; and thou didst go To lands where trees have larger leaves than ours; •But the fair fields where foreign rivers flow. Their piny hills, will give thee no such powers, As the low hazel-woods and forest brakes That open to our own imworldly lakes. AMBITIOUS REPENTANCE. 221 vjir. Unworldly lakes ! — Did we not dream away Part of our manhood by their inland coves, Lining, like summer insects, all the day In simimer winds or shade of drowsy groves ? And with our endless songs and joyous airs Made wings unto ourselves as bright as theii^s ? IX. Farewell I — These lines may go where thou hast gone, Home's echo to thee in transalpine bowers ; Our past leave-takings are the food, whereon All h^iendship lives ; and in her barren hours Shall memory poetic impulse borrow From the gTeen place and hour of that sweet sorrow. LXIX. AMBITIOUS EEPEXTAXCE. I. Peace ! Peace! "^Miat aileth thee, poor sinful heart? Best in thy lonely room — Scant happiness and sinner's penance-gloom Henceforth must be thy part. n. "Viliy cravest thou, poor soul ! fresh want or pain, Mishap or sickness strong ? He must be old in faith, who dares to long For punishment again. 222 AMBITIOUS REPENTANCE. ITT. The Cross, the Thorns, the Woes, that press thee now, Have yet got fruit to bear ; And there is m^tue still in each keen care To scathe thy lofty brow. Absence of earthly hopes, no prospects braye By some chance joy exposed. And Tents of sweetest mortal feeling closed With cold earth from the grave : — T. These are thy riches, where thy lone abode Mid withered loves is cast. And ghosts of broken day-dreams, and the past Accusing thee to God. VT. All things that touch thee ^vither — let them be ! For thou dost wither all. Stern cheer I mid bhght and barrenness they call, The Dead call out to thee. VIT. The early faults which compass thee about. To aid thy Irailty come. And clear for penitence a hidden home, And keep the world's praise out. VITI. All round thee, like kind wreaths of cloud, they rise, To hide the heart's fresh bloom, That thou may'st still be troubled in thy gloom By men's hard tongues and eyes. AMBITIOUS UEPENTANX'E. 223 IX. Covet no more ; nor in ambitious hours Thy little strength forget : Ah ! there is store of bitter honey yet Deep in these scentless flowers. X. One joy is undeniecl: one earthly dream Kept from the barren past : One golden sunburst that o'er feast and fast Shines with an equal gleam. XI. . Thou canst not bear to lose it, ever twining Bright thoughts among the dark ; 'Twould be thy death, poor soul ! no more to mark Its soHtary sliining. XII. Covet no more : from these few pangs thou must Enough for penance earn ; And wait and work : faith's last hard lesson learn, Calmness in self- distrust. XITI. Autumnal thoughts, the greenest honom's shed, AVith dreams and loves decayed, At every wind's first bidding, straight obeyed, — These strew thy hermit bed. XIY. Wan as an autumn sun thy whole youth tlirough On feeblest sliinings live ; And later on new frosts perchance may give Autumnal beauty too. 224 LXX. TO A LAKE PAETT. We shall all meet again, Kot in the ^voocl or plain, Xor bj the lake's green marge ; But we shall nieet once more Bj a far gi^ener shore, With om' souls set at laro-e. II. We all shall never stand On Eothaj's white-lipped strand, And hear the far sheep-cries : The Wansfell wind may blow. But not to kindle now The bright fire in our eyes. nr. The three cleft moimtains stand In their own treeless land, "X^liere we all stood and wondered. The black cliffs are the same WTiere the hundred echoes came That dark day when it thundered. TO A LAKE PARTY. 225 IV. The summer sim sinks niglitlj Into the Sohvay brightlj- — "\Ve are not there to see. The mountain loophole seems Full of the golden beams, Full as it used to be. V. AthTrart the sunlit rale The hea^y ravens sail, Each to his craggy d^velling ; "\Miile evening gathers brown On thy stone-sprinkled down, Thou desolate HelvelhTi I Still, still, in twilight shade Mountains make me afraid, And the wood-sounds at night ; The red moon in the pine, And lustrous tarns that shine, With gTey and ghostly light. VII. But vain to me the show ; My heart is weary now Of all its holy places. Oh ! what are sim and shower. Hill-path and forest-bower. "Wliere there are no friend's faces ? 15 226 CAMBRIDGE. vn. !Mj joiitli IS left behind For some one else to find, Upon a bare green mountain : Mj self-tuned harp is throTvn, AMiere a jumper clasps a stone, Near a moss-belted fountain. IX. "We shall all meet again, Not in the wood or plain, Xor by the lake's green marge. The past shall be lived o'er Bj a far greener shore, AMth our souls set at large. I LXXL CAMBEIDGE. Ah me ! Tvere ever river -banks so fair, Gardens so fit for nightingales as these ? "Were ever haunts so meet for summer breeze. Or pensive walk in evening's golden air ? "Was ever town so rich in cornet and tower To woo and win stray moonhght every hour ? One thing thou lackest much ; the wild wind swells, The feast-days come, and yet night sUent falls On the poor listening stream and patient halls ; Thou art a voiceless place, — thou hast no bells. Yea, but for thy mute shrines, thou wert a town That might grey Oxford's vocal towers disdain, TMiere Isis flows and Cherwell ripples down, Timing their several voices to the strain ! 227 LXXIT. PAST FRIENDS. Are there such things as friends that pass a^s^ay? When each fresh opening season of our hfe, Through the dim-struggHng crowd and weary strife, Brings kindred spirits nigh, whom we would pray Mio^ht live with us, and by our death-bed stay, Do these, our chosen ones, sink down at last Into the common gi^ave of visions past ? Ah ! there are few men in the world can say They had a dream which they do not di^eam still ; Few fountains in the heart which cease to play, "W^ien those, whose touch evoked them at their ^\^11, Sit there no more : and I my dreams fulfil. When to high heaven my tongue still nightly bears Old names, Hke broken music, in my prayers. LXXIII. SONNET-WEITIXG. TO F. W. F. Youxa men should not write sonnets, if they dream Some day to reach the bright bare seats of fame : To such, sweet thoughts and mighty feelings seem As though, like foreign things, they rarely came. Eager as men, when haply they have heard Of some new songster, some gay-feathered bird, That hath o'er blue seas strayed in hope to find In our thin foliage here a summer home, Fain would they catch the bright things in their mind, And cage them into sonnets as they come. No ; they should serve their wants most sparingly, Till the ripe time of song, when young thoughts fail, Then their sad sonnets, Hke old bards, miglit be Merry as youth, and yet gi^ey-haired and hale. 228 LXXIV. THE SAYIXG OF ST. HEEIMAS. " Concupisce opus tunm, et salnis eris." The -whole %rorld hath gone out to buy, Estates and goods to multiply : The sunny field, the garden ground, The voods that gird the city round, The cedar hall, the ample street, The quay ^vhere busy merchants meet, — All places and all spirits burn. And for the ^vorld's weak treasure yearn. Servant of Christ I be thou like these. All day and night forego thine ease ; Crave, covet, lust, and labour still, Till thou the Master's storehouse fill. Be crafty at thy toil, and ply All seasons round thy usuiy. Deny thyself, and hoard thy gold For Him who died for thee of old. THE SAYING OP ST. IIERMAS. 229 Lot not thy life be soft and free, Cushion and couch are not for thee. Brave shining stone and raiment fair Leave thou for Idngs and priests to wear. For them let rich robes be unfurled Who bear God's Xame within the world* Thy throne, O man of God, is yet Behind tliick clouds and trials set. Let go all mortal grief and mirth ; And, as the world is wise for earth, To thee like wisdom shall be given To covet still and hoard for heaven. Empty on priests, and heathen lands, And widows pale, thy willing hands : While prmce and peer of old names dream, Let alms thy sin-pledged soul reedeem. Wide, Christian ! is thy mother's field, A himdredfold her valleys }deld. Hoard, and then waste : oh ! scatter round Thy seed in faith upon the ground. When men are deep in feast and mirth, Steal out and bmy gold in earth. Then back into the world and ply Once more thy hard trade cheerily. 230 LXXY. COLLEGE LIFE. There is fair beauty here, and Christian homes, And a high call to every steadfast heart To keep chaste watch, and fill a sdfemn part Whereto Tveak self-disturbance rarely comes ; And had I power to knock away below The frail, false props that long have borne me up, I might have nerve to drain the royal cup, IsoT keep it at my lips, as I do now. Yet amid Shrines, and Eites, and Forms of fear. And meek men growing good and great around, As though theu' roots had struck in holy ground. My poor base soul is starving feebly here, A young, unshapely tree, for ever giving The fi'uits of loveless days and lonely Hving. LXXVI. OX A PUPIL'S POETEAIT. Dear Boy ! when I do look into thy face Glittering with sunny thoughts, I fain would bless Thee for thy beauty and thy boyishness. For the fair brow youth crowns with fi^shest grace. For the light spiiits and the humom^s wild, 'WTierewith my sadness is infected so That years drop off me, and dull thoughts foreo:o A reign which o'er my heart hath not been mild. Yea, for all this I bless thee ; but a part More grave and stern is mine, for they commit To my safe charge, young boy ! thy merry heart. So gentle one hard word hath wounded it. Oh thou shalt hear no more hard words from me. But, when thou sinn'st, my prayers shaU set thee free. 231 LXXVII. EXGLAXD'S TEUST. I JOY that the times are dark and dreary, I joy that the earth is old, That the hands of our kings are Tveak and weary, And the hearts of our nobles cold. I joy that the good and few are fearing, And the camp and cornet at play, That the swift-riding world is out of hearing, AMien the watchword comes this way. I joy for the signs of strife and trouble. And for England's awakening might, For the voices deep that are sounding double, Like the striking of clocks at night. I joy for the words that all are speaking, A language the earth had lost. For the hardy thoughts and steady seeking ^liose path may not be crossed. The nation too long hath weakly striven In the craft of her o^ti wise hand. For it is not through laws or wisdoms that Heaven Deals health to a gold-stricken land. I joy for this day that the calm and aged Cease vaunting of England through fear. It teUs that the thirst for self-praise is assuaged. And the shock to rouse life in her near. I joy for the young that they lay not her honoiu' In the stir of song and story, Xor in that which mere blood of her sons hath won her. Her world-wide name of glory. 232 THIRLMERE. I joj for the loss of the noisj gladness That hath made late years so dull ; But more I joy for the humbHng sadness Whereof true hearts are full. Trust may not be in ^visdoms hoary, Xor in Trealth and greatness blent, But in the faith that this dream of glory Came to us for punishment. LXXVIII. THIELMEEE. There are two times in life, to love and fear, — Two times like birth and death ; They are two different echoes that we hear, ^liich Heaven uttereth. II. Those are not real — the strong-vaulted sky. The heavy-flowing seas, The rocky roots of hills, and lakes that lie In hollows deep like these. in. Heaven comes with her two voices, old and young. Creating these for us ; They are but mystic shadows dimly flung From off our spiiits thus. THIllLMKRE. 233 -:\il hope, all joy, all mortal life with such Sweet sadness is inlaid : ^Vnd all tilings have on them from Heaven a touch Of sunshine or of shade. V. I have been here before, yet scarce can tell The outline of the hills ; The light is changed, — another voice doth swell In those wild-sounding rids. VI. I have been here before : in sim and shade A blythe green place it seemed : Here have I talked with friends, sweet songs have made. And lovely tilings have dreamed. VJI. And I have ridden to the lake this day With more than common gladness ; But hill and flood upon me strangely weigh With new and fearfid sadness. VIII. And all bright forms without me I woidd take — A redbreast on the wall, A buzzard flapping o'er the cold blue lake, A hundred streams that call IX. One to another all Helvellyn over, The light upon the pine. Yon single pine on high, that can discover There is a sun to shine : 234 THIRLMERE. Eut, above all, the boy Avho at my side, For boyhood hath no morrow, Bound up in his own merry thoughts, doth chide His dull Mend for his sorrow ; XI. Yea — above all, that boy to whom is given Better than miser's pelf. To love, and such love ever is of Heaven, One older than himself : — • XIT. All these bright things into my soul I take, That they may shed light there. And they but give cold blueness to the lake. Cold brightness to the air. XIII. Oh ! speak to me, thou lake ! thou moimtain brow ! In that old voice of joy — Oh ! speak to me, as ye are speaking now To that piu'e-hearted boy. XIV. ^^Xay, bid us not, we are but voiceless things, Shadows and pomps for thee ; We can but echo the cbead voice that rings From Heaven's blue canopy ; XV. " And thou hast deadened it ; we cannot hear Through that thick soul of thine ; "We are mute slaves, and waiting mutely here For thee to sive the sis^n. LENT. 235 xvr. " Sunshine and shade, sweet wind and pearly shower — All these we have of thee ; Oui' light and gloom we borrow every hour From thine infinity. XTII. ^* We have no depth, no substance of our o^vn, Xo life which we inherit, — Oh ! blame not us ; we are pale outlines thrown From thine undying spirit." LXXIX. LEXT. I. Yes ! I have walked the world these two months past With quick free step, loud voice, and youth's light cheer ; And dull and weary- were the shadows cast From the dark Cross and Lent's dim portals near. Yes ! I rode up with such a noisy state And retinue of all tliinos brioht and fair, And reached in this new pilgrim guise the gate, As though my di^eams might have free passage there. 236 LENT. III. Dreams of far travel, idsionary love, Hopes, memories, sweet songs, and sunny faces, Cheering each other on, with me did move Some way on Lent's keen roads and desert places. IV. And many a pilgrim wending o'er the plain, With face half-veiled and tear-drops flowing fast. Marvelled perchance at that u. sightly train. When I and my strange serAit^^'s rode past. But every stone that lay along the way, Wounding the feet of those who travelled by, Each sleety shower, cliill blast, and cloudy daj^, Scattered my poor soft-lining company. VI. Thus as my spirit more and more drank in The deep mysterious dimness of the time. Old forms waxed pale, and hues and shapes of sin Wore hardly off, and my baptismal prune VII. Grew into colour and distinctness there ; — But my blythe train and equipage were gone, The songs and sunny smiles ; my heart was bare. With Lent all darkening round me, and alone. HALF A HEART. 237 vni. 0 joy of all oiir joys ! to be bereft Of our fiilse power to make the world so dear ! O joy of all our joys ! to be thus left In our wild years, with none but Jesus near ! IIow sweetly then shall Lent's few Sundays shock The sadness which itself hath now grown sweet, Like the soft striking of an old church-clock, Making the heart of summer midnight beat. X. How sweetly now shall thfs most holy gloom Gather and double on my chastened heart, Circling with dark bright folds the Garden-Tomb, AYhere Lent and I, like Chiistian friends, shall part. LXXX. HALF A HEART. I. Come, I will give thee half a heart If that will do to lore ; And if I gave thee all, dear friend. It would but wortliless prove. 238 Half a heart. II. Thou art too good to see or know The ills that in me dwell : It is most right to keep our faults From those we love so well. ITT. So then I warn thee, do not tliink Mj fitful love untrue : I hare another, darker self, 'VMiich thou must sometimes view. IV. Men take me, change me if thej may. And love me if they can ; Few can do that ; few choose, hke thee, A double-hearted man. Y, My better self shall be thy friend, My worse self not thy foe. And to love light in time perchance. May make my darkness go. TI. If I should seem to play thee false, Then pour thy love through prayer : . It is the fit ; my better heart Withdraws itself elsewhere. vn. And weary not if I do still ISTew lioht or gloom disclose : What else in sooth can poets be But men whom no one knows ? 239 LXXXI. THE LITAXY. I. O SWEET, most sweet and penitential sound ! In tides of chaste, austere old music setting O'er all those kneelers' hearts, at penance found, Weary with strife and unmse knowledge -getting. ir. O sweet, most sweet and penitential sound ! Each low response, with organ notes attended, Loosens some link of sin which sadly bound Souls where the Church and world were too much blended. ni. O sweet, most sweet and penitential sound ! Circling the Altar and the pillars grasping. Breathing a soul into the marble ground, Where knees are bending and mute hands are clasping! IV. O sweet, most sweet and penitential sound ! O prayer most dear, most dread, and full of Heaven ! Pleadino; ^ith saints to get om* souls unbound, And have om^ sins and our soft lives forgiven. T. O sweet, most sweet and penitential sound ! Thy cadence thrills on me in times of sinning ; Thy grieving fall hath oft my soul unbound, Its thoughts and dreams to calmer currents winning. 240 FRANCE, VI. O sweet, most sweet and penitential sound ! O rite most dear ! that in weak hours of vaunting, Languors of earthly love, or strivings crowned, Still keeps my heart a shrine with plaintive hauntuig. LXXXII. FEANCE. Put back the Fleur de Lys ! "Within the gates Of Ehodes the misbelieving Ishmaelite On hall and hostelry hath left unharmed The scutcheons of the mihtary monks, Save where the Cross or Human Face appeared, Alike repugnant to his law. Yet now On all the ancient citadels of France, Sea-gates and palaces, the hand of wrath With fooHsh dihgence hath knocked away The triple lilies from the fretted sliield. And is it thus ye strive to quell the thought Of the cro^vned Capets ? Is it thus, forsooth, Ye seek to stifle in your growing sons Those risings of the heart towards the past, WTiich Idndle patriots' tears to fertiHze The soil whence noblest aspirations spring. From out whose blossoms even now depends A holier future, their legitimate fi^uit ? O wrath is blind ; ye were in this yom^ act Wisely unwise, and yet ye meant it not ! FRANCE. Ye could not have (le\ised a feast, or reared A pillar more memorial of the past, Or forced it on the fancy of yom- youth "With more continuous admonition, rites More orrave, than this dimib sacrifice of fear ! Go to the Asian cemeteries, thread The cj^Dress lanes of Smpma or Stamboul ; Spite of yourself one thought is uppermost, The slaughtered Janissaries ! nay the cry Of the red Hippodrome seems ever blent "With soft incessant cooing, for such spots Are populous with doves ; — and whence is this But from the broken sepulchres wliich stand All tm"banless amid their turbaned peers ? And quickened by the infantine display Of the gTcat despot's anger, memory dwells Upon the doom of those praetorians : — thus The very absence of the Fleur de Lys Writes it more deeply on the vacant shield Than the strong chisel ; and within the mind, Nay oft with strange illusion to the eye. Obliterates, where such hath been engraved. The Je^vish emblem. See, in this poor toil Of mischief, how the timorous insolence Of insecure success hath overreached Itself, and most reluctant homage paid Unto the very s}aiibols of a past From which it deemed itself emancipate. O France ! methinks it were a manlier o-ame To make a plaything of old fetters, thus Attesting present freedom, and to keep In thoughtful ease the shackles in thy hands, Neither as things of shame nor spells of fear. Why tremble at thy lilies ? If they be Less frail in stone than when the o-arden breeze i6 ° 241 242 FRANCE. Scatters the gold dust from their nodding bells, Yet freedom is itself a flower, which tops All growths except the weedy license bred Within its rich vicinity. — And yet Thou haply mightst reply that it was well To raze the Avicked lily from thy walls, And by this outward action so to teach Thy children hatred of the bitter past, "Wliich that pale flower doth symbolize. But hate Begets not wholesome fear, and bitterness Teaches no wisdom. They, whose savage tongues Hoot loudest round the scaffold, soonest come To a like end. Men profit not by wrong, Except they love the doers of the wrong, 'With, such compassion as the fear of God Suggests, or sense of justice can admit. '\Miat though the later Bourbons, with their crew Of courtiers, and effeminate parasites. And smooth-tongued peers, O how unlike the peers Of the French court in good chivabic times ! — Weighed heavily on the land, their abject yoke. Once shaken off, was barely worth a thought, A loathso:r.e di^eam which one would studiously forbear To call to mind, a tyranny too vile To be thus honoured with enduring hate. Too impotent and stupid to become A national tradition in a land So rich in such remembrances. Ye priests And catholic scholars! by whose sacred toils That realm is waking to a better sense ^Of her grand functions, you would I beseech, — Alien in name yet wholly one in heart — FUANCE. 243 To throw the Bourbon cause unto tlie winds, Or leave such loyal treason to the men Whose quest is in the world and worldly things. Ye have to build again the Church of Christ, Ye have Kome's lawful honour to retrieve, Ye have a pagan France within your France To be converted, — meddle not with plans Of mundane policy, but stand on high Above the interests of the passing hour, And all the pitiful politics of the day, And so shall revolutions' a^v^ul cloud Dash its forked lightnings far below your feet. Forewarned, forearmed! the cause of Holy Church Mates with no other ; let the Bourbon name Pass from your watchwords as a doubtful thing Which may or may not prosper : stand alone. Aloof if need be ; give unto the Church The lilies of the monarchy, and God Himself mil give you kings. Those royal flowers Are -virgin white : their spirit-stirring past They keep unsullied, and themselves have power To outgrow difilement, rooted in the tomb Of great St. Louis. O ye men of France ! Your lilies will not fade alone ; high thoughts And masculine purposes, the sense devout Of solemn destiny, and loyal zeal For the true faith of Christ, all, all will fade. And trampled lilies can exhale no scent. O then forget the heartless faults of kings : Freedom hath blood to be forgiven ; 'twere well That had not stained the argent Fleur de Lys. See to it. Men of France ! if with those flowers Ye have not even now unthroned yom-selves. 244 FRANCE. The kingly habit of obedience lost, "What lingers that is Tvorth a patriot's love ? Goodness is greatness : and of Christian states ISTone taught this lesson to the world so well As ancient France. O call to mind the days "When good king Kobert liyed, or think of Blanche, Blanche and St. Louis, reigning first on earth, Thenceforth to reign in heaven ; and not unsung, For I am English and have need to love Those royal names, be pious Erminilde, And Bertha, saintly queen of Ethelbert. Look o'er the width of this most various realm ! Upon the heights above Grenoble stood The austere Bruno, planting there the Tree, Wliich mid the wild confusions of the world Blooms in tranquillity. See there the vales Of Bm^gimdy, from whose chivalric youth Bernard began to build his lining house Deep in the Yale of Absinth. Yonder lies Clermont, where once the enthusiast Peter preached. And suddenly u]Don ten thousand tongues The will of God alighted, and outspake As through a multitude of seers. And there, Alas how Httle prized ! the holy cells Of Grandmont and Premontre, and the site, ISTow desecrate, of Clugni's sumptuous pile. There like a jewel in the Midland Sea, Far off discerned, the isle of Lerins hangs L^pon the coast of Provence, no fit haunt. As from its beauty might at first appear. For summer revel or a moonlit masque. But where in studious cloister Yincent lived And taught, and in the simj^le panoply » Of catholic tradition armed, struck down FRANCE. 245 Tlio heretics. And in the west behold, (Looking towards England with instinctive wish, Pailj developed through the Christian West, To appease the factions of that separate land,) The work of younger days, De Eance's home. The stern La Trappe, with its three sullen lakes Hard bj Mortagne. O France ! are these to count As notliing in the presence of the change Which hath been wrought on thee, these ancient things And great historic sanctities, which gi^ew Beneath the shadow of the Fleur de Ljs ? O write the past once more upon thj walls. And so shall it be written in thy soul. For thine is still the character that learns More by the outward eye than listening heart. It is not as a poet only, one Who dreams bright things and cares not if they come To pass, that I implore the sons of France To reinstate their Lily ; as a man, A citizen, a priest, I plead the cause Of those religious times which are embalmed Witliin that flowery symbol. They who strive To dim the illumination of the past, And specially in such traditionary forms As have a hold upon the popular heart. Are like the devotees at whose dark rites The lamps were straightway quenched, that what was good Within them migkt not put to shame the bad, And meddle with the liberty of sin. O cast not off the famous France of yore ! Cling to the very cyphers which attest Her old magnificence : and tear away 246 FRANCE. From the wide surface of your provinces That cumbrous network of unsightly names, "Which have no music to the generous ear. Enrich yon barren oHve-spotted slopes \Yith the sweet name of Provence ; let the towers Of those fair minsters look around and see The woods of Normandy outspread ; let eve Cast her rich gloom upon the Pyrenees To beautify the wolds of Aquitaine ; Let Burgundy, Guienne, and green Poitou Call, through the potency of their brave names, Fresh knighthood from the earth for thy fresh needs: And let there be a king of France once more, A Dauphiny for appanage, and Eheims The keeper of the Chrism, — and at the helm Of thy new destinies let Europe see The spirit of St. Louis : then, O then, Shall it be well with thee, O France, and us, (For in how many things we hang on thee,) And all good things shall prosper in the West. Eise then, thou Christian Eealm ! and be thyself Once more, and this the sign that thou shalt give Of thy rehgious aims and brave intent : — Eeplace the Fleur de Lys upon its shield ! Let thy sons' hearts be lirag shields, whereon To exalt again the authority of Eome. Think of St. Louis, let thy future be One long and steadfast ^dgil round his tomb ; For so shalt thou be recognized once more, And by the emulous English most of all. The peerless nation of the CathoKc West ! 247 Lxxxrii. TWO FAITHS. Oh pray for me ! — thou know'st what prayer I need ! AMiat is it to be one in whose weak heart Two ^liths ai*e lodged, while thought and feeling bleed In the mid war ; yet neither w^ill depart ? "What is it to be one, spell- dra^vn to stay For the completing of his natm^e, trembling Between two different characters each day, And seem to his harsh hiends to be di.ssembling ? W^atch me, as thou hast watched Mosella's wares Brinorino[ her clear, sweet waters down from Treves, To Neuendorf along yon southern shore Breasting with hope the turbulent green Ehine, Till the old flood claims both his banks once more : Pray on — ^pray on : like fate may yet be mine. LXXXIY. PEOUD POETS. Xay, thou hast ceased to be a poet : pride Hath all displaced the heavenly gift witliin ; Music of soul can Hve with many a sin, But will not with a haughty spmt bide. A bard is one on whom, as in a shower, Man's mighty deeds and lovely arts rain power ; One whose quick soul hath fetched another sense. An inlet deep, where earth with her green things Mounts in a tide of vast intelliofence, And mysteries that need interpretings. Can they be proud, who walk across the earth, Like fountaius, shedding waters for the wear}', Casting up truths and symbols to give mbth Unto the restless, Kght unto the di^eary ? 248 LXXXV. AGED CITIES. I HATE known cities with the strong-armed Ehine Clasping their mouldered quays in lordly sweep ; And lingered where the Maine's low waters shine Through Tyrian Frankfort ; and been fain to weep 'Mid the gi-een chffs where pale MoseUa laves That Eoman sepulchre, imperial Treves. Ghent boasts her street, and Bruges her moonlight square ; And holy Mechlin, Rome of Flanders, stands, Like a queen-mother, on her spacious lands ; And Antwerp shoots her glowing spire in air. Yet have I seen no place, by inland brook, Hill-top, or plain, or trim arcaded bowers. That carries age so nobly in its look, As Oxford with the sun upon her towers. LXXXVI. UXKTXD JUDGIXG. To be thought iU of, worse than we deserve, To have hard speeches said, cold looks displayed, By those who should have cheered us when we swerve, — Is one of Heaven's best lots, and may be made A treasm-e ere we know it, a lone field "\Miich to hot hearts may bitter blessings yield. Either we learn fi^om our past faults to slnink, "Wlien their full guilt is kept before our eye. And, thinking of om^selves as others think, "We so are gainers in humility : Or the harsh judgments are a gloomy screen, Fencing our altered lives from praise and glare ; And plants that grow in shades retain their green, "Wliile immeet sternness kindly chiUs the air. 249 LXXXYII. ADMONITION. I Kxow thee not, bright friend ! but that thy looks Do draw me to thee, "Nvith thy boyhood rushing, As a sweet fever, through thy veins, and gushing From thy clear eyes in merry falls, Hke brooks Leaping, clear crystal things, from their stone fountains, And waking echoes in the noonday mountains. This is no place for thee ; be warned in time. Thou must go haunt some free and breezy knoll. Ere this grey city come T\dth spell sublime, Freezing her heartless state into thy soul. Thou hast been surely cradled out of doors, And the great forms that nursed thee are the truest ; And, though these courts were Heaven's own azure floors, Yet days are coldest when the skies are bluest. LXXXYIIL GETSEDALE TAEX. Were I a man upon whose life An awful, untold sin did weigh, And Heaven vouchsafed not pain or strife Enough to do that guilt away, And it were well in mine old age To build myself an hermitage, — 250 GRISEDALE TARN. II. I would not choose a savage place "Wliere, all the heavenlj seasons round, I should read anger in the face Of natui^e's bleak and joyless ground; And ^^dnds and streams have voices rude, ^"herewith to mar the soKtude, in. K"o ; for the many sins that stain me Barren and lonely should it be, High up where nature might unchain me "With her strong mountain liberty, ITith charms that would, through sin-born fears. Keep fresh and fr^ee the som^ce of tears. IV. In yon pale hollow would I dwell, ^Miere waveless Grisedale meekly lies. And the tln'ee clefts of grassy fell Let in the blueness of the skies ; And lowland sounds come travelling up To echo in that mountain cup. V. The morning light on mottled stones. The unfledged ravens' clamorous mirth. The broken gush and hollow moans Of waters struggHng in the earth. And the white lines of bleating sheep Crossing, far up, the dewy steep ; GPilSEDALE TARN. 251 YI. These, Tvith the storms and cahns, majhap Enough of sight and sound would make For one in mountain nature's lap, A dweller bj her loneliest lake ; T^liile banners bright of kindled mist Above his head might hang and twist. VII. Where fi'om the tarn the shallow brook Bj rough Helvelljn shapes its way, The window of mj cell should look Eastward upon the birth of day ; ISTor shoidd the place disfigm-ed be By garden-plot or favorite tree. YllI, One blame would I incur, nor fear To wound the stranger's curious eye ; Some sceptral foxgloves I would rear Upon the yellow turf hard by : They might to an ascetic serve As types and teachers of reserve. IX. From wanton summer's broadest sun Their perfect splendour they withhold ; The regal blossoms, one by one. In single, separate pomp unfold, Shedding their frail red bells away In patient, gradual decay. 252 GRISEDALE TARN. See Trith ^vliat pleasant sloAvness there, 'When hedge and ^ood are past their prime, Late summer ^vith her fertile air Is forced that kinglj stalk to climb ; As though the world should read therein The Christian \raj deep truths to win. XI. In erery cleft a kneeling-place And cushion of dead fern should lie ; From three such loop-holes I might trace Meanings and shapes in earth and sky ; Huge emblems would they make for me Of the Most Holy Trinity ! 253 LXXXTX. LAKCir TllEES. Alt. men speak ill of thee, imluckj Tree ! Spoiling with graceless line the mountain edge, Clothing with awkward sameness rifted ledge. Or uplands swelhng brokenly and free : Yet shalt thou win some few good words of me. Thy boughs it is that teach the wind to mourn, Haunting deep inland spots and groves forlorn "With the true murmurs of the plaintive sea. AYhen tuft and shoot on vernal woodlands sliine, "WTio hath a green un winterlike as thine ? And when thou leanest o'er some beetling brow, With pale thin t^vigs the eye can wander through, There is no other tree on earth but thou Which brings the sky so near or makes it seem so blue. XC. AVEITTEX IX A GKEEX"-HOUSE. Why are your scents so faint, your stems so slight ? Why are your languid leaves outnumbered so By wealth of bell and blossom ? Would ye go Back to Pacific lands or eastern light From whence ye came, bringing your juicy powers To heal and lull ? But ailing man hath need In his sad lot of a botanic creed ; So ye are simimoned from your thousand bowers, Unwilling Congress fi'om the world of flowers ! And now the bard, wise idler, here may pore O'er the wild learning and the uncouth store Of studious boyhood's desultory hours, Eifling all books of travel, far and near, To shape a home for each exotic here. 254 XCI. BEATHAY BRIDGE. Month after month more languid do I grovr, Struggling and strhing in life's sterile round, And in each strife and struggle losing gi'ound, Letting the anchors of my spirit go. The morning long upon tliis simny stone, Solaced and calmed bj Brathay's flooded noise, For my late Aveakness I -woidd fain atone, By putting from me life's unhopeful joys. But each Tvise tow and self-renouncing speech For their untruth the river, as it goes. Bears do^m ; and, ever as the ^vater flo^s, My better self flows past me out of reach ; And the sweet sounds, in my soothed ears so long, Steal my soul's strength, debasing it to song. XCII. THE BEATHAY KIXGFISHEE. Tnor hast a fair dominion here, Sir Kinor J And yon tall stone beneath the alder stem Seems a meet throne for a gay crowned thing. That wears so well its tawny diadem. Thou hast a fair dominion — pools and bays, With heath and copse and nooks of plumy fern ; And tributes of sweet soimd the river pays. Changing to blithe or sad at every turn. The gilded flies, when noon's faint zephvr stirs, Upon the sunny shallows walk or swim ; And swallows too, those welcome foreioners, Under thy bridges, simimer tourists, sldm. Like the light crowd of English yearly thrown On river-banks less lovely than theii' own. 255 XCIII. LOUGIIRIGG. Would they not judge untruly who should deem I had no friends but those I named in song ? Would it not be ungentle thus to dream, And do poetic silence heartless "Nvrong ? IT. The meadow-brooks with their sweet clamor guide Their bending selves to a most wayward time, Will earth and sky less waywardly preside O'er the meek trills of poets in their prime ? in. So hath it been, dear Louglirigg! that till now My song hath touched less often than it might At thy fair mountain havens, Avhich do glow With such a wealth of hues in this clear light. IV. Oft as a poet, feeble at my craft, Did I seek shelter in Helvellyn's fame. And, with poor fraud, on my dull verses graft Fresh sound and fulness from his mighty name. V. Yet it were hard if this most wondrous da^vn, With its whole sheet of purest sunlight, thrown From the blue laughing skies o'er thy rough lawn, Cold bubbling brook, and lichen -written stone — 256 LOUGHRIGG. VI. Yes — it vere hard, if such an hour at least Laid not on me some little tax of song, For thee, the table where, as at a feast. All the rich kinds of mountain beauty throng. TII. Thou art a world in miniature, a land Wrought with such curious toil, as if in mirth Nature had thrown thee from her dexterous hand To be a sportive model of the earth. VIIT. All made by laws, green cleft and sinuous path Cross, like great mountain outlets, every way ; And the long outline, which thy summit hath, Mimics rude Alp and splintered Himalay ; IX. Or Hke a Cross to Christians thou mayest seem, "With thy four points to lake or river bent, Sunk in a font, and luring Heaven to gleam On thee tlirough that redeeming element. 'VMien first T saw thee, butterworts had set Their sickly stars about thy hundred springs, With one blue flower apiece, content to let The fi'esh fern fan them with its neiojhboui'inoj win^s. LOUGHRIGG. 257 XI. The fern \vas like green dust upon the hill, "\Miich vernal winds might almost blow away ; But it changed di^esses with the months at will, And with the cold its fashions grew more gay. XII. Xe- er have I felt the might of morning rest Its cold fresh welcome half so strong and free, As on thy heathy side and windy crest, Except in early daybreaks out at sea. XIII. Oft, o'er the noonday woods, on thy west crown My rhyming fancy woodland visions weaves, Till, with old boyish impulse darting down," I plunge and lose myself among the leaves. • XIV. Thy southern scars, all masked with oak-wood bowers. Like feudal dwellings, mouldering whitely, sliine Tlirough the soft nights of summer, as the towers In the deep yellow moonlight on the Ehine. XV. To winter's cold-eyed sun, o'er snowy diifts That scriptural tree, the juniper, doth lean, AYhile many a patch of wannest silver shifts O'er the strang;e dazzlinoj sheet of white and green. 258 LOTTGHRIGG. XVI. One rainj summer, often as I stood Within jon clmrchjard, gazing on thj side, One brow of thine with an incessant flood Of friiitfal sunlight rose in gleamy pride. XVIT. Let the wet skies be loaded e'er so much, That Ughting up no dreary mist could swage : Care might as soon efface the angeKc touch On the bright brow of sanctified old acre. Many a calm fancy and sweet-sounding word To thee, dear Loughrigg ! do of right belong ; And, though thy name of softness be unheard. Thou of all mountains art mine imdersonor. XIX. In tempted times, when my weak soul did need More than earth's props and stays, I fled to thee ; And in thy sunken haunts I now may read The secrets of my own biography. XX. 0 may no wind wake ujd for other ears The sad confessions trusted to thy keeping ; But, for the Cross that pardons and the tears That win us gi\ace, dear mountain, leave them sleepmg ! 259 XCIV. TIIE WOllLD'S WAKE. T^veue a clioice lot if my poor thoughts couki make By meditative po^'er a separate boat, "\Mierein their master and themselves might float, Some little way behind, in this world's wake. !N'ow, as it swerves and rocks along its course Over smooth seas with new- discovered force, I in my boat would follow, uttering From out the bosom of a quiet time Words of most warning sweetness, shreds of rhyme Scarce to be heard for ocean's murmming. And some few gentle ones upon the deck. Who heard my song and loved it, might make moan, When a rough wave, that made my bark a wreck, Left the gray sea and glistering wake alone. xcv. IX-DOOKS AXD OUT-OF-DOOES. Thers are three gifts apart, whereby good men Do good unto their fellows. Some can press Power out of heartless books with subtle pen. Through steadfast years of in-doors weariness. Others there are, who in the outward fret Of states and towns with their best wealth at war. With help from heaven, have kept the world as yet From working towards its doom too fast or far. And there are some whose lives are out-of-doors, In hopeful spots the Cross and Keys applj^ing. Unfastening there from Earth's green shining floors The ponderous cm-se that hath so long been lying O'er its hushed fields, bewildering heathen guess With intricate, unmeaning loveliness. 260 ^ XCVI. SCEXEEY HUXTING. Light multitudes ! 0 spare the wearj seas, That Hke tired subjects bear joii year bj year. Europe stands wondering on her spacious quays, "With face half-doubting whether smile or tear Would fittest gTeet the Englishman's disease. Strange people ! flung like spray from summer tides In leafy places and o'er green hill-sides t Substance fades off to form ; each glorious thing, Wherein ancestral \^dsdom was enshrined, Whereto imaginative power might cHng With Christian hold, is shed upon the wind. Man, made of earth, fi'om earth will strive to bring O'er liis dull lifetime the recedino- lioht Of the Eternal and the Infinite. XCVII. TO A PUPIL. Brother ! we left the port of our new birth At different times ; yet hath om' coasting been Along a lovely quarter of the earth, ^Miere the calm bays are blue, and sea-*banks gTeen. Kow, be it cloudy time or shining weather, Om^ barks are anchored for a while together. Somewhat in river-mouths have I been taught With inland winds for teachers, — scmewhat too, Belike less heeded, from old voliunes brought By angel hands to give me nature's clue. By gentlest incantations round thee thrown, Come, let me tinge thy spirit with mine own, — With more of sweetness, lest life's toils should press Thine over-docile heart and masculine loveliness. 2G1 XCVIII. KICH.UID'S TEEE. ^VATERPAKK, CONISTON, By ^vliat strange lure are thy free spirits bound, With thy bare feet and wonder-smitten face, Close to this mountain ash, as if to trace Thine infant foot-prints in the gi^ass around ? All ! little Boy, since tliine unsteady pace Wore round its guiding stem a yellow ring. Hot sim and dewy moon have clothed the place Anew with their alternate visiting. Even through eight thin years there is a past, Which speaketh to thee in thy childish spirit, And thy fresh soul hath mighty shadows cast From the dark store om' nature doth inherit. Long may this tree, unpruned for thy dear sake. Wave to the merry splashing of the lake ! XCIX. THE DEATH OE KICHAED'S TEEE. watl:iipai{K, coxistox. Why comest thou to me, young questioner, "Why comest thou with sorrow-stricken look ? Of what dread omen in old nature's book Enquii-est thou the meaning from the seer ? From out yon sapless tree thy mother earth Speaks to thee, Child, and with no voice of mii'th. Life grows around thee and upon thee, deep And broad and mighty ; and the time hath come *WTien childhood pure can be no more a home, A covert where the soul may hide and sleep. Yet still — now diy thy tears — this comfort take ; Thou shalt keep childhood's heart with manhood's soul ; There shall be pauses from life's stem control "^IMien thou shalt hear the old mirth of the lake. 262 C. ^^'EITTEX IX COXWAY CASTLE. England ! thy strifes are written on tlij fields In grim old characters, ^vhich studious time Wears dov^m to beauty, while gTeen nature yields Soft ivy-Yeils to clothe gray holds of crime, And hides war's prints with spring-flowers that might wave Their pale sweet selves upon a martyr's gi^are. Here hath the ploughshare of the Conquest worn The furrowed moat around a cruel tower ; There York's white roses fiinge in blameless scorn The ledge of some Lancastrian lady's bower. Least, for my country's sake, may I regTet The fi'uitful angers, and good blood that ran So hot from Eoyalist and Pmitan, TVTiich in our very soil is red and throbbing yet. CL OLD-FASHIOXED HOUSES. FOP. A LADY FOXD OF OLD FUKN'ITUEE. Sweet are old Courts with dates above the doors, And yew-trees clipped in shapes, and cedar walks. And lawns whereon a quiet peacock stalks. And leaden casements, and black shining floors, And arm-chaii's carved Hke good cathedral stalls, And huo-e French clocks, and bedsteads most inn tin ^, And stiff old ladies hung upon the walls. Famed in the days of EngUsh Memoir -writing : — Places whose very look kind thoughts might draw E'en to Anne Stuart or William of Nassau. Sweeter than Tudor-stricken slirines are they, AVith pleasant grounds and rivers lingering by, — Quaint homes, that shed a pure, domestic ray O'er the dull time of English history. 263 cn. TIIE MEXAI BETDGE. Fairest of rockj England's channel-gates ! "With ^vliat a blessed calm to the main ocean The ebbing tide, ^vith silent under-motion, Upward is di-awn along thy weedy Straits ! The glossy water, shot with blue and green, Tlirows off the sunlight, like the restless throat Of some yain dove ; and ships, methinks, might float, Trusting the deep in places so serene. Thus Avreathed in folds of simimer billow, who Would deem old tales of ^\Teck and tempest true, AMiere yon vast Marvel, hke an albatross Still springing upward, as it seems, in air, Spreads in light grandem- his huge wings across, Self-poised in momentary balance there ? cm. CHUECH POSTUEES. Ye would not sit at ease while meek men kneel Did ye but see Hjs face shine through the veil, And the unearthly forms that round you steal Hidden in beauteous Hght, splendent or pale As the rich Service leads. And prostrate faith Sliroudeth her timorous eye, while through the air Hovers and hangs the Spuit's cleansing Breath In AVhitsim shapes o'er each true worshipper. Deep ^VL-eaths of Angels, bm^ning from the East, Aroimd the consecrated Sliiine are braced. The awful Stone where by fit hands are placed The Flesh and Blood of the tremendous Feast. But kneel — the priest upon the Altar- stair Will bring a blessing out of Sion there. 264 CIY. SNOWDOX, IN THE PASS OF LLAXEERIS. Holding bj this rude crag I stay to listen, 'VMiere the Tvhite noonday moon looks o'er the steep, And sheets of mountain ^^rater hang and glisten, Catching the sim far up in their long leap. Sno^vdon's whole ranore is rocldnor in the wind, Eidges and splintered caves and lifeless vales, Calling forth mighty sounds, while they unbind The echoing chords of this vast harp of Wales. Forget not ^Miom the winds forth-shadow ! Hark, How the huge hills take up in hollows dark The clang from these distracted caverns tossed, Till the brave eagles in their holds have trembled, Crouchinor and screamino- to the choir assembled Eoimd this dread Altar of the Holy Ghost. CV. NIGHTS rOE POETS. Is night fairest among mountains And by the rushy lea. Or cradled on the fountains Of the unpolluted sea ? NIGHTS FOR PCETS, 265 IT. Does moonllglit come most brightly Unto the wliite -faced steep, Or Tvhen it wanders lightly In sweet paths o'er the deep ? in. Are stars most pure when making Jewels for mountain crest, Or with their shadows shaking In ocean's pearly breast ? IV. Is darkness grander covering A mountain's hollow dells, Than when it droopeth hovering Upon the broad sea-swells ? V. Be it mountain, be it ocean, \Mien night comes on the earth, If a river's quiet motion Be near me with its mirth. VI. Can any toil be sweeter Than for me to lie and dream, And have my time and metre Made for me by a stream ? YII. Then all night's gentle seemings Into my sleep I take, And a long night's pleasant dreamings Are poems when I wake. 266 CVI. SOFTLY THE SHIPS DO SAIL. TO MY MOTHEPi. Softly the ships do sail, Dipping in the biUoTT, Now that the wearj gale Fincleth there its pillow. n. The sea cloth Hft its plain, Tremulous and shining ; Like threads upon the main Glossy wakes are twining. III. In twilight rings the calm Binds the current's motion. While evening's inland balm Quivers on the ocean. IV. Such calms, such heavenly air Soothe my spirit often, When thy kind eyes are there Chafino; thouo-hts to soften. SOFTLY THB SHIPS DO SAIL. 2G7 V. By this transparent sea Have I many an even Waited to catch from thee Images of heaven. VI. 'My heart hath oft the ^vhile Ceased its very beating, At thine infi-equent smile, Beautifidly fleeting. yn. Mother ! in such deep times My heart's harp have I fingered. And Tvords in choicest rhymes Backwardly have Kngered. VIII. For ^hen I love thee most, Words seem Httle lo^dng, And golden hours are lost In unwise improving. IX. Mother I why is it hard For pardon to be pleading ? And why is my heart barred, When thine, alas ! is bleeding ? X. O whisper in my ears — Thy heart for me is aching ! Else why those chiding tears In sunshine showers breakino- ? 268 WELSH VALLEYS. XI. All ! noTv mj eyes are wet, Hot ^vords must be spoken, For, if tliev loiter jety Heart -stiings Avill be broken. XII. But ttIij am I to thee AH in all, m j mother ? And why art thou to me Like a sister to a brother ? CVII. WELSH VALLEYS. By mountain-pass and long stone -sprinkled alley, Through sweet vicissitudes of barrenness, Om' pathway lies, — with scarce a tree to bless The worn wayfarer in the noonday valley. My months have many turns Hke these, and each Seems to drop down to lowlands broad and winning; But the hills hold them upward : will they reach Ere night the promise of their green beginning ? Thus my young Hfe its own poor image takes From bleak Caernarvon's small, unwooded lakes. A man with many homes hath none to spare. Though he beget in calm, rock-shaded places Welcomes, farewells, joys, griefs, and soothing faces, There is no echo to them in the air. 269 CVIII. THE FOUR EELIGIOUS IIEATHEXS. *' Arise, 0 Lord, let not man be strengthened : let the gentiles be judged in Thy sight."— Ps. ix. 20. 1. HERODOTUS. " Converse in fear, during the time of your sojourning here." He ^as a mild old man, and cherished much The weight dark Egypt on his spirit laid ; And with a sinuous eloquence would touch For ever at that haven of the dead. Single romantic words by him were thrown, As types, on men and places, with a power Like that of shifting sunlight after shower Kindling the cones of hills, and journeying on. He feared the gods and heroes, and spake low, That echo might not hear in her light room : He was a dweller underground ; for gloom Fitted old heathen goodness more than glow ; And, where love was not, faith might gather mirth From ore that glistened in pale beds of earth. 270 2. XICIAS. •• In all these things Job sinnedjnot by his lips, nor. spoke he any foolish things against God." XuRSLTNG of heathen fear I thy woful being Vas steeped in gentleness by long disease, Though round tliine a^svestruck mind were ever fleeing Omens, and signs, and direful presages. One might beheve in frames so gently stern. Some Chiistian thoughts before their time did burn. Sadness was unto thee for love : thy spii'it Kose loftily like some hard-featm^ed stone, "Which summer sunbeam never makes its throne, E'en while it fills the skirts of vapour near it. One wert thou, Nicias ! of the few who urge Their stricken souls where far-seen death doth hover In vision on them, nor may they diverge From the black line his chillino* shadows cover. 3. SOCEATES. " Of making many books there is no end ; and much study is an afiaiction of the flesh." Thou, mighty Heathen ! wert not so bereft Of heavenly helps to thy gTeat-hearted deeds. That thou shouldst dig for truths in broken creeds, '^lid the loose sands of four old empires left. Motions and shadows dimly glowing fell On thy broad soid from forms inmible. With its plain grandeur, simple, calm, and free, What wonder was it that thy life should merit Sparkles of grace, and angel ministiy. With jealous glimpses of the world of spirit ? Greatest and best in this — that thy pure mind, Upon its saving mission all intent, Scorned the untruth of leaving books behind. To claim for thine what through thy lips was sent. 271 4. SEXECA. ** Wlien Peter came, his shadow at the least might overshadow any of them." Oft in the crowd and crossings of old Eome The Christ-like shadow of the gifted Paul, As he looked forth betimes fi^om his hired home, Might at this Gentile's hiuTjing footsteps fall, "\Mien, from his mornings in the Caesar's hall, Spurred by gi^eat thoughts, the troubled sage might come. Some balmy truths most surely did he borrow From the sweet neighbourhood of Christ, to bring The harsh, hard waters of his heathen spring In softening ducts o'er wastes of pagan sorrow. As sHps of green from fertile confines shoot Into the tracts of sand, so heathen duty Caught from his guided pen a cold, bright beauty, "Where flowers mioht all but blossom into fruit. CIX. YALE CEUCIS ABBEY. I. Heee, where wet winds autumnal rains may fling. And pallid ash-trees in the transept lean. The gentle-mannered monks were wont to sing The Son of God, the Help of the unclean ; And, from Cistercian service books, to hymn The blissful Mother, as the nights grew dim. 272 YALE CRUCIS ABBEY. n. Here, not unmindful of the public good, Dwelt some poor beadsmen of the stainless Mary, Bosomed, like monkish spots, in coves of wood, That morn and eve, with mystic commentary, Might for meek hearts re-join the broken threads, Hid in Church books, like ore in jealous beds. III. And at this hollow, and in A'ales like this, The winds took in good lading, and a freight Of precious boons, dispensing balm and bHss, Lifting fi'om England's Saxon fields the weight Of sins, that sprung in such prolific brood From the perverseness of her Norman blood. IV, Still, within hearing, at pale matin-time There comes a soul into these ruins lone. Where the clean-watered Dee his woodland chime Steers with sweet skill from rich Edeyrnion, Leaving on shady rock and mountain bending Slii'eds of faint echo waked in his descending. Oft, when chill winds the "compline hour have tolled, The broken East is fairly lighted jet, Ever when in yon Gothic marigold The harmless moon her full white orb hath set, "Wliile, on the field beyond, her trembling fire Streams mildly tln^ough the triple-windowed choir. ox RECEIVING A LETTER FROM A FRIEND. 273 VI. Thou visitor of ruins ! thou majst come To TN'orn portcullis and green -hooded ^all, TMiere some rude baron held his festal home In moated fortalice or hunting-hall — There thou mayst come, when placid nights are ^rearing. To learn of earth her art of soft repamng. VII. But other thoughts and deeper must be thine, ^\Tien by poor abbeys, tightly ivied o'er, Thou di'eam'st that England, leading Christian shrine. Hath tm'ned herself to druid rite once more, — Fearing in Tvakeful thoughts lest, heathen grown, She should not miss the Cross when it is gone. ex. OXEECEIVIXG A LETTEE FEOM A FEIEXD, AFTER AN IXIERRUPTED CORRESPONDENCE. More changes still ? And are good hearts like thine Bound to the ebbs and flows of common life ? Ah I many a novel thought and random line Show where the world hath harmed thee with its strife. 274 ON RECEIYIXG A LETTER FROM A FRIEND. II. Still tliou art victor ; on thj pennon still The Cross and thornj Chaplet are displayed, Though the wet winds of life with e^dl will Perchance have caused its crimson gloss to fade. III. Somewhat of Christian gracefulness hath past From the calm freeness which was thj chief merit; Sadly unwise it was to make such haste, To bring an unripe manhood o'er thy spiiit. IV. In these few lines of thine, a helpless strife, Somewhat too much unreal, I can trace 'Gainst lingering youth ; although thine inner life Hath not as yet worked thi'ough upon thy face. V. Some men can change their inner lives by power Akin to witchcraft's lawless transmutation. And, by a shock of feeling, in one horn' Set their soul's hehn to some new constellation. VI. Ah woe is me ! my life keeps step no more With the old happy hearts it most approves ; Outstript by all, it hangs upon the shore, Taking perpetual leave of boyish loves. VThj ripenest thou thus early ? "Wliat rich earth Hast thou so lately heaped about thy root ? Am I Hke spendtlmft trees in vernal mii^th That blossom double, and count that for fi'uit ? ox RECEIVING A LETTER FROM A FRIEND. 275 VI rr. Like a watched slu'ub, my secret life is slow, liuilt by the foiu^ gi^eat Seasons as they pass, Cuiing inine eyes of blindness, while they show The unseen world inverted on their glass. IX. My secret growth is slow, by little caught Out on the earth in nights too bright for sleeping, From checks and chills, and gentle tempers brought By the sweet, soothing sight of others weeping. X. So, like a forest-tree, screened from the north, And, by the Planter's goodness, free from blight ; Some shady branches would I fain put forth, "WTiere sun and wind the backward leaves imite. XI. Thus, to be wetted by the showery breeze. Or shined on by the setting sun at even. My boughs might then, piercing through other trees, O'ertop the wood, and so be fr^ee of Heaven. XII. But, while these foimtains of late boyhood run, Wasting cool earth and sheltering moss away, My boughs, drawn upward by the gracious sun. Droop o'er the bole to hear those fountains play. 276 CXI. UP A STEEAM OE DO^^. Tell me, young Poet, is it sweeter Up to the heads of streams to travel : Or do you minstrels deem it meeter Their downward flowing to unravel ? POET. — From moorlatid well and heathy hollow The seaward river thou must follow, And trace it slowly till it bend To lowlands round a mountain end ; Then through tame dell and cultm'ed plain Past tidew^ashed cities to the main. There is a moral in its course, Its tranquil depth and rocky force, Its shining shallows, widening lakes. And woody circuits that it takes. Yet down the bank must thou descend. The moral waits thee at the end : For they, who downward rivers trace. Look ocean ever in the face ; And man, as youth and age run o'er him, Hath Life behind and death before him. The mountain -height where sunset's finger Eejoiceth o'er duU glens to Hnger ; The winds that on the moorlands cross. Sobbing above the barren moss ; * The clouds that touch on rainy days. Drooping to where the weU-spring plays : — All these are types of things that reach The lonely mind that knows not speech. 1 UP A STRE.VM Oil DOWX. 277 Things that in vision hover bj The dreary soul of infancy, ^Mien it lays out, unmarrecl and even, Its little being bare to Heaven. Then, nurtm^ed in the misty homes Of mighty clouds, the current comes, Stretching with many a rushy arm By copsewood and infrequent farm ; And every furlong o'er some steep The rainbow-belted waters leap. The time ere tumbling rivers pass To wind about in corn and grass, A time of waste, as cold men deem, ^Tien by its banks romancers dream. And this is Hke the fair beginning Of boyhood, troublesome and winning. Where sunny tempers shine away Converse ill-timed and weary play,— A forward age of noisy beauty Before the cloudy dawn of duty I Mark when the water comes to hallow Eich meadow-flat and barley fallow. And chooses vales with poplar-trees, And visits straggling villages, Clips the broad green where children play, And eats the churchyard earth away. Yet, often leaving fruitful plain, It seeks lone woody spots again, AATiere every leaf in shadow sleeps Unwaked upon the fishy deeps. And so, when manhood doth begin And toil breeds wealth, and wealth breeds sin, 278 UP A STREAM OR DOWN. llovr often is the fiiU-orown beino: To childish -looking places fleeing, Sweet shelters, where from noontide beams, "Wise boyhood hides some dewy dreams ; For who can see rain-scented woods Drying their branches in the sun, But straightway to the heart whole floods Of aimless, rhymeless lyrics rim ? And fairy fish in silver mails. Or girt with moonlight-coloured scales, "WTiere under-water beds are bright. Will glance and gleam and scatter light ; — Just like the thoughts that leap to life In spirits parched with trade and strife, Wlien on the surface from below Old childish wells break up and flow. And cowslips mixed with may-flowers grow. Then, where upon some inland bower, Salt tides encroach with brackish power, 'Tis like the taste that ill-health brings From the broad grave's close-ljang springs, Wlien age in times of failing breath Doth freight itself with thoughts of death. And river mouths have shapes so many, Xarrow and deep, or broad and fenny, With rocky bar or easy gate Or currents clashing in a strait, That thou mayest well in these descry The rude or gentle deaths men die. Tell me, young Priest ! will it be sweeter The downward flo^^'ing to unravel. Or must we Christians deem it meeter Up to the heads of streams to travel? UP A STREAM OR DOWN. 279 PETEST.— The poet hath bhthe answer made ; ]\Iy words must travel more in shade. AMiere less of earth's wild show is given There may perchance be more of Heaven. Yet priests, like poets, have an eje For radiant earth and changeful skj, And mightier signs mayhap can trace In river-nook and green- wood place. The seasons with four currents flowing Are all but symbols coming, going, Translucent shades for ever passing, Disjointed parts of Eden glassing. For it were strange absohinof -vvord On sinning soul should so be heard, Yet have no power to lift from earth Green dazzle and bewildering mirth, Till she gives up to flesh and spirit The secret lore they both inherit, "WTien in the Font's rich -sparkling round The Key with golden wards is found. To moorland well and heathy hollow The upward river thou must follow, Xor stay one hour in tideways brown. By granite quay and toiling town ; But, mounting on to cultured plain. Beached by faint murmurs from the main, Urge on, star-guided stiU by duty. Through lands of rough sequestered beauty. And rest on eagle-haunted fell ^^Tiere rings of hollow mosses swell, And the young streamlets as they rise Catch their first tint from mountain skies. For they, who streams to fountains trace. Look uplands ever in the face, 280 UP A STREAM OR DOWX. Leading Death's type, the ocean gray, Inaudible, and leagues away : And man, as youth and age run o'er him. Hath death behind and life before him. Thou cam'st fi'om an eternal Tvomb, Timid and tongue-tied from the gloom ; Thou walkedst an eternal shore, And heard'st eternal yraters roar. And gather'dst shells which thou didst keep. And bring yrith thee from yonder deep. And thou thyself, hke ocean shell, B'earest within thee still a swell, "VMiich thy charmed hearing neyer may In dryest inlands put away. Ere fi'om that ocean thou didst steer, Where beauty walking leaned on fear. Some branches of a mystic Tree Were cast by prophets in the sea. And Angels Httle cups did bring Of cold sweet water from a spring, And Hfe went from the cups, and Breath That breathed another face on death. Then wert thou taught to hang and ride, Like steadfast fish, against the tide, Lifted by wind and Im^ed by gleam Upward to wrestle with the stream, And with unearthly health to leap Each cataract and fi'othy steep. So mayst thou reach thy natiye fountains, "Withdrawn into the sleepless mountams. Unstained in heats by lowing herd, L^nsipped by common hedgerow bird, A well upon whose unmarred brink Eagles alone are free to drink. UP A STRKAM OR DOWX. 281 That they may thence their strength renew For wheeling in the pathless blue, — A font where thou canst wash away The dusty stains of summer day, Where health and life still hover by, And where alone 'tis safe to die. Fair are the plains where corn-fields bend, And flowers and grass in meadows blend. And calm the smell at eventide When breezes o'er the bean-field glide, And rich and lulling airs are blent At noon from languid clover sent, — Sweet pauses that at times may hallow The dreary ridge and dusky fallow. Yet from these scenes of harmless wealth Good men rise upward still for health. And slower, for the stream is quickest. They mount where copse and heath are thickest, — The boyish time of rivers, where, By heavy dews and keen fresh air, Old Heaven with infant splendour seems To pass once more into their di-eams, Late years when out of ancient truth The Christian wins a second youth. And Christian age full fain will press To world-neglected dreariness, ^Tiere barren hills with naked line, Like sabres' dinted edges, shine. And lucid shadows calmly brood As spirits o'er the solitude ; And sight and sound have freedom given That hath a very taste of heaven. So, gentle questioner ! mayst thou Attain thy native mountain-brow, 282 UP A STREAM OR DOWN. And from its ether-clnctiired height Look into lands of promised light. Then to the Font beneath descend, And o'er its tranquil pulses bend, Eecovering from its de^vj earth What hie hath marred of childhood's mirth. When evening shadows round thee glide Death Tvill come calmlj to thj side, Sent, with light hand, low voice, to gather The children back unto their Father. With gentle sob di^awn in once more That spring upon another shore Shall rise, as fr-esh as waters vernal, With spirit -pulses, and eternal. Come, upward walk to moorlands gray AMiere springs gush out from mountain root. There let thy being sink away Beneath the Font's stone-sculptured foot. And, like waste water from its round, Be poured on consecrated ground. CXII. TO THE MEMOEY OF A TOT^^^-PEXT MAX. Farewell, kind Spirit ! Like a summer cloud With no ungentle gloom hath death come down All calmly on the sunshine of old age : And now thou sleepest. From the far-off land Of hills and rivers thou didst love in youth. Perchance upon thy dying ear there fell Voices and mystic sounds with cadence strange, That spoke in thiilling echoes of the time TO THE MEMORY OF A TOWN-PENT MAN. 283 Of youth's high breathings, manhood's energies. Or thoughts, long since forgotten, then came in, Came through the obscure posterns of the soul. And thy strong frame Avas stirred ; and in thine eyes There went and came a childlike simpleness ; While ever and anon a heavenly light (Such would I deem the birthplace of those looks That pass upon the featm^es of the sick) Flashed forth in broken gleams, chasing away The films of death ; even like the voiceless breeze That comes with twilight shadows from the hills, Dimpling the lucid breast of some deep lake. Thy lot was hard, benevolent Old Man ! Most hard indeed ! Thou wouldst have pitched thy tent, (A simple tent as for an out-door man, A man of the fresh air and merry sides) ^Miere some lone streamlet ^ells from out its um Of moss-clad rock, there gladly listening The quiet music of the mountain winds ; And tuning thy full soul to such high themes As most befit an ardent worshipper At nature's inmost shrine ; and feeding thence Thy natm*al cheerfulness with those fair forms That move in peaceful gladness on the earth. Or float like golden vapors through the air, Mutely, yet not without significance. Thy lot was hard, benevolent Old Man ! Thou of the quiet eye and frolic tongue ! •Most hard indeed ! Within the city pent, That huge and troublous city, thou didst walk A cheerless exile from thine own bright land. There thy soul sickened at man's selfishness : Thy heart recoiled upon itself; for men 2S4 TO THE MEMORY OF A TOWX-PENT MAX. Knew not the language that It spake : they spurned Those striying hopes and phantasies and loves, Which were thj real world ; for thou hadst been A priest in nature's temple, wliile the crowd Were hurrying on to those dull clamorous halls, A^Tiere cold suspicion hath usurped the throne, The ancient throne of wisdom, and hath taught Her baneful lessons of distrust and pride, And severed all our old ancestral bonds. Whereby deep social love was s}TnboHzed, And in the bosom of our social state Somewhat of moral grandeur was detained. All this was heavy on thee, mild Old Man ! A mournful gloom was round thy spirit hung. Of wliich the dusky veil of that great town Were no inapt resemblance : yet not so Wert thou a man to shun the company Of thy less gifted brethi^en ; though thy soul Yearned for the open fields and liberal air To wander, fancy's freeman. As the sun, That struggles all day long with autumn fogs, Shrouds in a misty mantle his bright form. Then darts his evening splendors far and wide O'er hill and dale ; so from thy spirit's gloom A native gaiety of heart broke forth With a most happy lustre, which dispelled The clouds of sadness gathered on thy brow. But no man hath a lot of unmixed ill ; And thou hadst surely much of tranquil mirth, And many quaint enjoyments, shared by none, And instincts of a ^sisely wayward kind, And iU-assorted sympathies, from whose Strange medley thou couldst moral order bring. Tliine was a quiet heart ; clear thoughtfulness TO THE MEMORY OF A TOWN-PENT MAN. 285 Was visible upon that open brow. For kindly nature never did forget Her worshipper, but sent unto his soul, Ay, even in the jostling of the streets, Impulses, such as on the mountain tops In early youth he had received, or felt In wandering amid forest sanctities, 'SMien not a leaf in the gi-een depths was stirred. Thus, as he walked along the crowded streets, He was not of the crowd, — as many more Perchance were not, by hopeless love assailed, Or by fresh sorrow severed from the herd. Or holy errand. For all-powerfid love, Grandeur, and her twin-sister beauty, there Were with him. From her ancient classic haunts Ideal DTace was summoned to attend. And, whereso'er he moved, voices and forms. Voices most deeply musical, and forms Of dazzling brightness, fell on his pleased ear. And floated in calm pomp before his eyes. And he was thankfid too for many a gift TMiich nature ministered in that dull town : Green trees in nooks where green trees should not be. The sun upon the high housetops, the vanes Of the tall churches struck with merry rays, Bright creatures in *a region of their own — The bubbHng of cold water, and the gleam. Half sad, half sunny, of the morning Thames. Xay, we have that within ourselves, from which We can create the world without, — wherewith Sorrow doth make her hills and trees and streams. And joy and hope their other hills and streams. Oh happy, thus companioned as thou wert, Thus visited, thus solaced, thus endowed ! 2S6 TO THE MEMORY OF A TOWN-PENT MAN. How shall I liken thee, land spirit I thou A separated being among men, A foreigner among Trild squares and streets, And raised on high above the ebb and flow Of citj life ! Upon the crowded quays, "VMiere hearts are turned to stones, still visited By feelings and by thoughts that come from far And are eternal, in the Tvhich a seed Of endless, immaterial life is laid, — Um^ecooTiized thou still didst walk alonsf. Once I remember when the breathing land Was ringing with the early voice of spring, The valleys still in night's most sable hues Were steeped ; but one huge, avrfid peak^ that stood A kingly eminence above the rest, I then beheld all diademed with light. Crowned ^vith the sunrise, marvellously crowned ; And clouds with yellow hems hung round its brow, Vestments of the unseen ambassadors From the great sun to earth : so too wert thou : Thou hadst mysterious messages and songs Come to thee from a distant realm of dreams ; And delicate creations from thee sprang Graceful and radiant as the clouds at dawn. Farewell, Old Man ! For I may call thee old. Though time's soft, onward flight had not yet reached The limit of our days. The seasons four, That on the sliining pathway of the year Glide forward in their magical array, Had many moons to fill before the term Named for the life of man. Still thou wert old, Aged before the time with such old age As the sick heart best knows, when chilling frosts TO THE MEMORY OF A TOWN-PENT MAN. 287 Have nipped the bud tliat promised oQce so much, And struck the trustful blossom from the bough. Years onward fly ; but what heart heeds the flight ? It keeps its own sad calendar, and marks Its powers grow dull, its feelings intermit. May I not call him old, who called his life A dream, and yet outlived that dream ? Who lived In a fair land of visions, and whose eye Saw that fair land no more ? Was he not old ? I dare not to regret thee, mild Old Man ! For a cold void was in thy heart ; and thou Didst vainly strive by means not sanctified To win oblivion of thy lot. A cloud Passed on thy gentle spirit ; thou didst yearn To make thy blood run boundingly again, And oft didst catch in weak-willed eagerness At the receding, many-coloured veil, That severed the hard-featm^ed world and thee. Surely upon thy spirit there had come, As on a little child, fresh in the world. Curious perplexity fi'om sights and sounds, A consciousness thou didst not see aright. But now thou sleepest in the dewi^ earth. And He, who suffered for thee, bids us hope With a consoling faith that aU is weU. Farewell, meek Heart ! Great Xature's voice is heard. And all the thousand strings of her deep l}Te, Sounding a dirge -like song: low-breathing winds Are making plaintive music in the woods. And the clouds cluster round the bleak hill-tops In stately sorrow, bidding man lament In cheerful awe, and put more trust in God ! 288 CXIII. IX THE SCHELDT. "We lay in the dreary Scheldt all night "With a bleak south-wester blo^ng, And ve talked of ghosts bj the fitful light Of the ^vood-fii^e redlj glowing. I could not sleep, for very deep The words sank in my spiiit ; And at that hour tales had power Aboye their own true merit. ni. The wayes were high on the sandbanks nigh, And the dismal riyer flowing, And a muttering sound from the swampy ground, Like the mm^mm' of babes, was blo^-ing ; And the only mirth of the household earth AYere the cocks in Flushinsj crowinor. ly. I cannot boast that a white wan ghost To me seems an idle error ; For deep in me, as the deep, deep sea Are the fountains of holy terror. IN THE SCHELDT. 289 I kne^v ^vhen I heai'd the stormy bird All round about us crying, That spirits strong ^vere riding along To the beds of sinners dying. VI. O Angels bright ! Tvhat an angry night Is this for the powers of evil ; And thousands there, in the blustering air. Are keeping unholy revel. TII. The good might cross themselves for fear, As they heard the seabirds yelling. And the chattering voicelike sounds that came On the breath of the tempest swelling. viri. Though well they know good Angels go The Saints from harm to cover, And by their beds around their heads AVith wings of glory hover. IX. O may they keep us in our sleep To-night on this savage river, And, for their Master's sake, our souls From the spirits of ill deliver ! 19 290 CXIY. TO MY rXDIA:^' SISTEE. A BLESSING on thee, Sister dear ! A blessing ! whether far or near, In city bright or desert drear Thy path may lie, Since we may not detain thee here Beneath our sky. II. Y^et ah I that thou with us couldst be ! For Enoiand's homes are fail' to see. And most our northern homes to me All brightly shine — Still brighter when enjoyed with thee Sweet love ! and thine. III. Each season has its tale to tell, Like pleasant chimes upon a bell ; And memoiy feeds on what befell In days departed, TMien thou wert laughing, bright, and well, And careless-hearted. TO MY INDIAN SISTER. 291 The summer came with leafy May, And sweetly sank the summer day On ruined Finchale's abbey grey And its tall woods, And brightly did the sunbeams play On Weare's mid floods. V, And holy Durham's minster fair A crown of yellow rays did wear. And we beheld with rapture there, By sunset's powers Transfigured in the radiant air. The two west towers. VI. 0 seldom, seldom upon earth Doth one short evening bring to birth Such innocence and yet such mirth. As then were mine : 1 never knew a light heart's worth TiU I knew thine ! vn. Oft on the mind a day like this Bests with a moonlight thought of bliss, Softly as lies a mother's kiss On childhood's brow : I little thought how I should miss My sister now ! 292 SUNLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT. YIII. God bless thy little ones and thee, And blessed may thy True Love be ! Far as thou art across the sea, jMy prayers shall rise, — Prayers that shall bring thee back to see Our English skies ! CXY. SUNLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT. SuxLiGHT and Moonlight ! these tvro glories reach Into our souls from our first day and night ; And we live afterwards on what they teach, Finding our way by their two kinds of light. Our Sunlight is the steadfast radiance cast Thro' true church -windows, lustrous and unfading, Where Creed and Eite thro' life give light, and last. But that sweet Moon, that perils oft our lading. Lures the good ship astray, then sinks hard by, Lea-sing gray water where its light was thrown ; Or hangs, midway between the sea and sky. O'er some fair earthly haven of its own. Love is the Moonlight of om* lives, and takes All hearts to the soft shadows that it makes. 293 CXVI. THE ECHO OX OXEXFELL. A MOTtAL. I. My Sister ! do not deem me rnde, If I have turned my head aside Xor to thy loving words replied In this liill solitude. II. Darlcness all round us deeply presses ; No starlight wavers to the earth, No breeze is born of moonlight mii'th To part night's cloudy tresses. III. No sound comes to us from the steep, No watercourse is speaking now ; The very nightbirds on the bough Eorget themselves and sleep. IV. The sky above of gloomiest blue Doth seem to pause above the heath, And, lest it wake some gi'assy breath, Withholds her gift of dew. V. Silence herself sweet sound desires, And with her hea\y hush is mingling Somewhat of an impatient tingling. Like chords of shaken lyres. 294 THE ECHO ON OXENFELL. VI. Poor echo round each hollow stone In this dark desert space is feeling For eyery noise that might come stealing For her to feed upon. VII. Thou with thy words mj name didst twine, Mj Christian name, a sound the sweetest, And of all names for echo meetest ^Mien breathed by Hps like thine. yiii. I heard the stir thy whispers made, And paused to see if on the heath Echo would find that wandering breath, — ■ Half glad and half afraid. IX. I thought perchance my name might wake In airy places echo's soul. The dull-eyed midnight to console "With sounds from bush and brake. X. And yet I had a fluttering fear, Lest wicked echo on the air To all the lakes my name should bear, And tell that we were here. First it would haye a rocky sound, And then a trembling leafy tone. And harsh again by rugged stone, And up from underground. THE ECHO ON OXENFELL. 29-5 XTI. And SO from wood and heath and hollow, Striking in single notes and double, "With babbling speed the breezy trouble Cliff-side and brook would follow. xni. And ere the dawn could dapple heaven, Old men and boys might catch the tale. From Harter Fell to Ennerdale, From Bassenthwaite to Leven. XIY. Yet what did peei^sh echo do ? She sate on every heap of stone. And let those syllables alone, As they went floating through. And now a gleam came up the lea, And as the tardy moon was rising, I murmured silently, advising Myself much more than thee, — XVI. What thing less heeded can we find By all mankind than selfish Self? Echo will teach us, wayward elf ! — That same Self bv manldnd ! 296 CXYII. CAEL EITTEK. O hadst thou seen Carl Eitter, wan and pale, Walking at eve mth melancholy mien, Drinking the music of the nightingale With fierce delight, where on the cuiTent green Of Leipsic's moat the water-lilies sail In sno^Yj fleets, thou wouldst have burned, I ween, To know somewhat of the sad history Of that wild foot-step and dejected eye. II. Love — who could doubt it ? — in his being wrouoht Hotly and hopelessly ; and he had rued. But all too late, the passion's sultry di^ought. Which diied youth's wells that cannot be renewed. And there he walks, or rather runs, by thought, Like old Actseon by liis dogs, pm-sued ; So is it ever : love-sick hearts confound The world within them with the world around. m. How bright is evening on the battle -plain Which spreads round Leipsic like a misty sea ! A thousand larks drop down into the grain, Foregoing one by one their minstrelsy : Sickness and age returns of strength might o-ain From objects, all so tranquil and so fi'ee ; But for the ills of unrequited love There is no balm, but mercy fi^om above. I CARL RITTER. 297 See hovr the rose and eglantine are threading Tlu'ough all the openings in the acacia leaves I Tlie massive chestnuts their Avliite flowers are shedding On the still moat ; the red verbena weaves Mats for the lawn we are so rudely treading ; Nought in this garden, save Carl Ritter, grieves, And he is not from his unquiet wooed By the sweet sights wherewith he is pursued. V. 0 evening ! softest power ! hast thou no wind — From ^dolet bank or trellised rose no sigh, AViiich might this clasping load of thought unbind, Touching some other, brighter memory, Or lingering of pure childhood in his mind, To quell the wildfire of that gentle eye ? See how he flits, as though tliis garden glade Elysium were, and he a pensive shade. VT. The moon-beam sleeps upon the dusky grass. And with kind equity brings out to light Daisies, in constellations, which did pass Unnoticed when more showy things were bright, And each time that you look again, the mass Is clearer grown, more silvery and more white ; Still round and round, and by the slimy moat, !Mid trees and flowers Carl Eitter seems to float. 298 CARL RITTER. VIT. Student ! Tvhen vilt thou go unto thy books, — Or dost thou peace in these cahn shades discover ? See how \vith brushing 'gainst the lilac nooks, Thy dress with blossoms is besprent all over ! How still ! save now and then among the rooks From bough to bough one, restless, seems to hover. Yet, in and out, like some dusk -pinioned bird, Carl sails with footsteps scarcely to be heard. VITI. There is a square in Leipsic, to the west, A sunny place with soft acacias planted, With one quaint gable taller than the rest, Which Carl inhabited, or rather haunted ; "With telescopes and some few volumes blest, The love-sick man had all in life he wanted ; For where love rules, there is in heart and eye A constant, if not true, simplicity. IX. Hither, when midnight tliree full hom^s was passed, And starlight had gro^^^l weary and outworn, And when the moat by blue mist could be traced Among the lilac thickets, — Carl was borne, By impulse, rather than by will at last. Cold and fatigued, and therefore less forlorn. The sharp sound of the key within the lock. Shook the still square with momentary shock. I i CARL HITTER. 299 X. The sun is up ; the larks are in full choir ; How perfectly they sing — how perfectly 1 And o'er the champaign many a hazy spu^e Shoots up from out the undulating sea Of the green com ; and wavering, like a fire, Far off there is a single chestnut tree ; There will I tell what I of Carl have heard In tiiple falls of rhyme, and simple word. XI. And in the pauses of the song we may Be soothed to meditation by the bees, AMiile the blue sky between the leaves doth play, Parted and closed at will by this soft breeze : And Leipsic, with red roofs and tmTets gay. Blended with chui'ches, ramparted with trees. May seem a show more touching and more fair. Because that stricken heart is drooping there. XIT. There, mid his books, Carl withers Kke a flower. Alternately by love consumed, and ruth That he should so have wasted hour by hour The fresh and genial faculties of youth, AMiich ever draw their beauty and all power From cheerfulness, the foster-child of truth. They who, when young, are spendthrifts of sweet sadness. Lose unawares the spring of later gladness. 300 CARL RITTER. XITI. Yet Carl, as they who knew him best could say, In middle life was not an idle man ; Philology half filled his studious day, And eastern grammars would he fondly scan ; A^liile with the suffering poor his heart found play In many a kind device and secret plan. Thus did he light's best hours for duty keep, And. gave to love but what he stole from sleep. XIY. At Magdeburg, within the Minster-yard, From" the great tawny Elbe not far remote. There stands a house detached ; the eye is barred All access to that jealous shaded spot, ^"^liose habitants are kept in pleasant ward In the small ring of their close garden-plot ; And there the murmur of the neighbouring quay DweUs, Hke the humming of a drowsy bee. XV. If privileged to enter, you might see How the laburnum its gilt pendants swimg AU inwards to a sweet-breathed walnut tree, To which a trumpet honeysuckle climg, xind up whose stem the turf crept amorously, Framing a mossy slope, on which was flung A drooping shade, with leafy curtains drawn All round, a natural tent upon the lawn. CARL RITTKR. 301 XVT. It was a lo^vly place, a sylvan home Within the city ; and there Blanca d^N^elt, Carl's widowed mother, and to her had come A Mend of early years, one who had felt The same bereavement ; and they two would roam Through the cool minster's aisles, and often knelt, The only week-day worshippers, alone. Screened fi'om chance eyes by some sepulchral stone. XVII. And in the morning, pimctual to the hour AMien o'er the lawn the minster's shade was cast. The two meek dames, like seamen with no power To leave the deck, their narrow garden paced. At sunset Blanca watered every flower, Always the trumpet honeysuckle last, TMiile with keen search Antonia nipped away The blooms that were unsightly through decay. XVIII. And round them neatness reigned to an excess At which a busy man might smile, well-^Dleased, And not in shallow scorn ; for momTifulness Must wreak itself on trifles, to be eased By dissipating thought ; the laying stress On little things the heart hath often teased From greater griefs, and hath deluded sorrow By giving forward interests to the morrow. 302 CARL RITTER. XIX. Habit -^as their absorbing -VTrtue, test And measure of all goodness ; order grew A superstition, carefully confessed By sendees minute the ^rhole day through. Yet scorn not thou the ^ddo^s : greatly blest Are they who, by observance meek and true. Duty, albeit of least dimensions, fill With large affections and submissive Trill. XX. AYithin this narroTV ring of joy and fear Antonia^s daughter, like a radiant star, "Wandered, or banished from her proper sphere. Did Tvith the plants divide the matron's care ; For her plain virtues she to them Tvas dear. And Tvhat of higher bent they could not share They took on faith, and loved her all the more Because to her lone heio^ht they could not soar. XXI. Her hair hung down in ringlets long and pale ; She was not lovely — so the world would say — But yet so deHcate, a simimer gale IMight almost waft the sylph-like flower away : Her voice, for one of form so very frail, Was full of depth and richness ; and there lay Couched in its fervid tones, an evidence Of somewhat more than met the outward sense. CARL KITTKR. XXII. 303 And momentary feeling would excite ^^'ithin her eyes a look of bold command, A fire, from time to time revealed, which might By some quick deed, as by enchanter's wand, Transform her being, to the ^vithering light Of jealousy and vengeful passion fanned. This smothered heat, in look and accent breathed, Was from her sire's Calabrian blood bequeathed. xxni. Else never was there on the earth a maid. More gentle than the orphan Helena, Xor one with mien more gracefully arrayed In lovely self- distrust, that could give way With sweet facihty ; a pensive shade, Almost a trick of melancholy, lay Deep in her, blending lowly thoughts with high, As though it were her being's harmony. XXIV. Maids are there whom with wonder we behold. Frail, bending creatures, drooping evermore Beneath the pressure of soft thoughts ; yet bold. And ready on undaunted wing to soar Into life's highest regions, and unfold Strength and resistance, and a hidden core Of hardy virtues, which, like spirits, start From some unknown abvss within the heart. 304: CARL RITTER. XXV. Hearts are they which an unkind T^ord may break, Yet with an inward faculty of pride, Or power which might a chaster title take, '^Mien to nobility of thought allied ; — Hearts whose sublime endurance nought can shake, By womanly devotion sanctified, — "Women who have men's bm^den strangely borne Without one feminine gentleness forsworn. XXVI. And such was Helena. But in our youth Ofttimes a cii'cumstance or accident Lurks, overlaid, as though it were in sooth A thing for no great end or purpose meant ; To which belongs a destiny and truth Hereafter verified, whereby the bent Of our first years is strained, their promise lost. The imder-current mounting uppermost. XXVII. And fearful is the agency of love In these transfigm-ations of the heart : On it all passions are constrained to move, — The point from which a second life must start. And with fau' Helena did it so prove ; It set her cliildish being far apart. And woke, as spring wakes flowers from out the earth. The slumberinoj fires of her Italian birth. CARL RITTER. 305 XXVIII. But all unconscious then of that dread power, Tender, nay languid, from excessive shade. Yet the more lustrous, gi^ew that lily-flower, No kindred nigh to whom it might unlade The dew within its cup, a fertile shower Of confidence and sweet repinings, made To flow upon the friendships of our youth, Lest feeling, overfed, become untruth. XXIX. Fair Helena ! she grew from day to day, As in a convent, all unmurmuring ; And not an image to her heart found way AMiich did not fr^om that narrow household spring. The turf which 'neath the drooping walnut lay Was not a softer, more allm^ing thing. Than, in her bower disclosed, this pensive maiden. Her spirit with unconscious beauty laden. XXX. Ah me ! it was a most endearing sight To see how self-suspicion ever strove, Yet vainly, in her thoughts ; she felt delight. But whence she knew not, somewhat too of love More than was asked of her in filial right. She brooded o'er herself like some lone dove. Or eastern shepherdess her fountain keeping, Beneath a palm-tree's cloud-like shadow sleeping. 20 306 CARL RITTER. XXXI. Thus life stood still ^vith her ; 't^vas scarce forlorn, For there was no abiding sense of want, Sare that a trouble or a joj half-bom. And a blind hope, so oft love's pursuivant, Eose in her dreams and woke with her at morn, And somehow more and more her heart did haunt, — A presage, to our youthful spiiit dear. Of some new world of chano-e and fortune near. XXXII. Thus Carl and Helena grew side by side Through childhood's long and uneventful years, Playmates, in all endearing tasks allied : Joys were not joys, and hopes were almost fears, To one, unless received and magnified "Within the other's heart ; from smiles and tears. The income of our youth, the pair laid by Hoards of sweet thought and fragrant memory. XXXIII. One difference there was ; young Helena Called Carl her brother, while the tender boy Gave her the name of sister ; and there lay In that distinction a deep-seated joy. Though why they knew not ; but their minds would play With this one separation, and would toy With the soft syllables, as though to strain Such sweetness from them as they might contain. CARL RITTER. 307 XXXIV. CliilJliood to boyhood rose : Carl's studies now AVere in another and more manly yein : And from the one distinction soon did flow Surmises of great eyils, to restrain The too swift growths of joy ; jet eyen so, It grew more dear when it brought more of pain : And brother now to Helena became A something fuller than a tender name. XXXV. So far they had been like a mated pair Of childish hearts, betrothed in infancy ; As in earth's simple days thej ofttimes were, Grafting the step of love upon a tie Hallowed of God, that it might fasten there As a true gro^yth of natural piet j, — A ydse deceit, which made a brother's name For years a spell love's wild excess to tame. xxxyi. 0 rarest leaf in fortune's golden book ! O sweetest trap! to \rm a gentle maid. On whom our earthly innocence did look As on a sister, with whom we have played. Erred, wept, and striven, and have many a nook Of pensive recollections, in whose shade A covert love may grow, a fiu'tive plant, Spreading like lilies in a woodland haunt ! 308 CARL RITTER. XXXVII. The self-paired flowers of wedded infancy, ^liicli shape themselyes unto each other's growth, By fate are often frustrated, and die Overshadowed in ungenial ground, as loath "With their pure native grace to feed the eye A^liich blights them with its love, as passion doth :— Ah ! cruel sires ! who thus transplant a flower T\liich throve so well beneath a humbler bower t XXXVIII. How lightly mounts the tyrant love his throne ! No pomp of installation there doth move. And thus with Carl the gentle thrall had gTown To a sweet bondage, while his passion wove Dreams which cold hope would scarcely dare to oym; 'Twere long to tell how from a brother's love That passion shot, and grew in depth and length, Ped hourly with fresh increases of strength. XXXIX. "When Carl to Leipsic went, how passing strange "Was the new melancholy of farewell. Nor without sweetness in the interchange Of murmured words, wliieh inwardly did swell Too large for utterance then, or of a range Too wide, too free, for bashful tongue to tell. Poor Helena ! no words which she could borrow "Would half fulfil the measm'e of her sorrow. CARL RITTER. 309 XL. And her love ripened fast in loneliness ; Yet it appeared the same old love to her, ram ^'ild for ^vant of speech, and through the stress Of absence : she grew somewhat waywarder Than heretofore ; and oft could not repress The rising image and the sudden stir Of tenderness which made the tears to flow ; And still she deemed it rio;ht it should be so. XLI. Antonia saw it not ; she gathered still The blooms the honeysuckle shed away. Kind Blanca as devoutly did fulfil Her round of modest duties every day. Alas I for age, if those hearts lose the skill To know true love who once have been his prey ! Ah me I it is a grief to mark how soon Xoon wipes the morning out, and evening noon. XLTI. Poor Helena ! in her sweet sickness lone, Her thoughts in some vague radiance ever whii'led, Xow first and fully in her heart had gro^vTi The barren knowledge that there was a world, A misty Somewhere whither Carl had gone : Then with the walnut boughs close round her furled, The bees oft soothed her as she did recline, Blowing the trimipets of the eglantine. 310 CARL RITTER, XLHI. Carl, upon change and youthfiil perils cast, The stern ordeal bravely did endure ; And virtue, rooted in a simple past, Grew from each shock more lowlj, yet more sure. That sister-love, that image bright and chaste, Enshrined -within his fancy kept him pm^e : Yet much he learned, and much did now appear, "Wliich made the futm-e doubtful and unclear. XUY. The more he thought the more he loved ; and yet The more he loved the more did Helena Seem at a boundless distance from him set ; And rocks and thorny brakes obscured the way VThich love must tread : then he would vainly fret At his own scruples, and deplore the day When good and evil, now more clearly known, Burst through the fence of youth, and broke it do^Ti. XLV. E'en where there is no. guilt the world is strong To imcrown om* youth's sunphcity, and make The right so near a neighbor to the wrong. That it will oft constrain us to forsake Our blameless ends, lest they perchance, thi'ough long Yicmity, of e^il should partake : The good we once suspected to be ill Its holy mission doth but half fulfil. CARL RITTER. 3 1 1 XL\1. Carl thought of Helena, o'er whom had passed Now barely sixteen summers ; to her eye The world could but appear a sunny waste, ^Tiose glistening sands did round their house- hold lie ; xind he beheld how oft love was abased Before the fi-esh-seen world, how it would die From a vexed mind, how ill with joys it fared "Which had not been with other joys compared. XLYII. And was it right? thus in his solitude He daily reasoned— that so young a maid Should be by stealth and at advantage wooed, And her affections prematurely laid Beneath a weight of bonds, full oft bedewed By after tears, when from home's t^vihght shade On the bright world such hearts are captive thrown, Ere they have yet the effects of freedom Imown. XLVJII. And do not choice and will belong of right To all young hearts, though by self-love denied, "Whose passion is not a most pure delight Fed from itself, but is a growth of pride, A base usurper in love's angry sight, " By generous restraints unsanctified ? Alas for youth ! its love is oft a dream, Born of wild wish and hungry self-esteem. 312 CARL RITTER. XLIX. Therefore shall Helena go forth still free ; (He little knew how she had all forsworn In his behalf her maiden liberty) Into the world she shall be gailj borne And its brave sights and goodly fortunes see ; Yes, she shaU see, and for her. brother scorn All the delights and lures that are therein ; And thus will I my bride, my sister, win ! So reasoned Carl : and manfully he strove Passion and judgment on one line to train : Love mocked at him, and still the more it throve. As though such arts it might full well disdain : And strange to say he did more wildly love. As he of inward calmness more did gain. Ah ! piteous lot a tender heart to wither, 'V^Tien love can be both calm and wild too;ether 1 11. Deem not his reasonings cold, untrue to love : Not unimpassioned is the sober eye Of meek self-sacrifice, though it reprove Fierce ardors. Ah ! life's plain reality Is stranger than romance, and far above The tame inventions of old chivalry. Woe worth the heart which cannot nobly win Love's knighthood by foregoing self therein ! CARL RITTER. 313 LIT. Ere Carl once more to ^lagdcburg returaed The meek Antonia died ; and thougli at first Poor Helena for her lost mother mourned With vehemence, as though her heart vould burst, Yet, ^vhen her sorrow spent itself, she burned Still more mth love, and in her bosom nursed A fire which now no sister-love could be. Though still the name beguiled her pleasingly. Lm. And Elanca bade the damsel call her mother ; 'Twould soothe her grief the kindly matron thought : And she was soothed ; for by this she could smoother The hints which lonely musing often brought : And Carl seemed now by double right her brother : Thus self-deceit most innocently wrought, Feeding on contraries, and with sweet skill Assimilatino: all things to its will. LIT. The minster clock tolled four ; ^^ He will come soon. Oh ! has it not been a most weary day ? And yet he said he should arrive at noon." (And Blanca smiled to hear young Helena) " How we will roam these evenings of dear June, And see the moonlight on the Elbe-stream play ! And now our nightly meal once more must be, As in old times, beneath the walnut tree." 814 CARL EITTER. Thus thought to thought the happj maiden strung "With a coherence of her o^vn, and some Sweet thoughts there were not trusted to her tongue, Sweet thoughts which ever would unbidden come, And jet when come were cherished. Blanca hung Carl's bullfinch in the walnut's dusky dome : Even she was won to quiet, — so the thought Of Carl's return in her affections wrought. LYI. At length he *came, the exile, the estranged, Came to the cottage and the walnut tree. The happy maid ! Oh how her fancy ranged When words, entangled in wild thoughts, got free: — How he was changed, and yet he was not changed. But only at first sight had seemed to be. She said and then unsaid a hundred things, Which were to Carl the fanning of loye's wings. LYII. And he was changed, she saw that he was so ; He bore himself to her with courtesy, Which was like coldness after the warm glow Of his old manner ; she could not descry In his grave blandishments the genial flow Of playful freedom : there was in his eye A tenderness oh ! how unlike her own ; Carl was too much, too much a brother grown ! I CARL RITTER. 315 l\t:ii. Ah, Helena ! the golden hour was como, The long-sought meeting ; 'twas a moiu^nful night, Vacant and cliilling, like a sudden gloom Upon a radiant scene ; all joj, all light Were gone, and love half-prophesied its doom : Still a bhnd feeling rose, — perchance 'twas right He should so act : and yet with weeping eyes, She was full fain to have it otherwise. LTK. 0 'tis too sad a song to sing : — they both In wistful silence let the years go by : Carl might have spoken, but was bravely loth To make his gain of her lost Hberty. Each deemed the other's love was but a growth Of childhood's old familiarity ; And thus all life grew round them like a snare. And dark years rose from years that had been fair. LX. Then Blanca went to heaven ; and Helena Kursed mid swift growths of loneliness her love, With other grief than fihal pined away, Until she was a sight hard hearts to move. Then burst the Hght on Carl, Uke break of day, The minster's shadow frownino; from above : But she thought pity, not true love, was meant, And so, poor soul ! for his sake smiled dissent. 3 1 6 CARL RITTER. 1-XI. Thus to two gentle souls all life was blurred Into one indistinguishable blot ; Two destinies had hung upon a word, ' And out of love that word was spoken not ; And when it came, time, life, and hearts had stirred From the right place and the appointed spot. To others the cross-purpose was as light. To them the sun had sunk for life in night. LXII. They did not die of broken hearts, Kke some ; But they were larger from being broken, drew More hearts of others to them as a home, And made then* sjrmpathy and work more true. They are still young, although old age has come, For sorrow spm^s them still to efforts new : And they are now, centres of placid power, Doing the world's work bravely at this hour ! 317 CXVIII. TO A INIAEKIED FEIEND. 1. First love is self-love : a thin shade that starts From out ourselves, its dreamy joys the brood Of base mll-Tvorship, that in restless hearts Doth crave to have the loss of youth made good. Fii'st love too oft is love \vithout esteem Or mutual honor, seeking in a Tvife No help, no shelter, but a soothing beam To minister a sunshine to our life : — The gTowth of one Trild hom^ ! and thereof come Dull-hearted unions and a listless home. I have kno"wn men to ^vhom it hath been given To make one shipwreck on love's rocky coast, And they have lived to teach, as though from heaven, That he is blest whose fii'st-love hath been crossed. CXIX. TO A MAEEIED FKIEXD. 2. Somewhat of wildness and of weak untruth, And fond abstraction, surely may be borne, Not without ready pardon, in a youth "Who hath but for awhile his fetters worn. For the hot heart of youth hath laws : mayhap The seeds of married faith are often cast Upon this surge of hopes, and in the lap Of vernal love may take true root at last. Yet comiship is the unshapely element, "WTience the deep power of chaste affection still Must calmly be evoked, till it fulfil The end and nature of a sacrament, And sanctify both spirits from above To be meet vessels of parental love. 318 cxx. THE ^^XTEK Em:E. Lo^ spmts are a rightful penance given To over-talldng and imthonghtful mirth. There is nor high nor lo^v in holiest heaven, Nor yet in hearts -s^'here heaven hath haUoTved earth. Still there are some ^^hose growth is vron in strife, And Tvho can bear hot suns tlirough all their life : But rather for myself would I forego High tides of feeling and brief moods of power, Than share those languors with the showy flower, "Which the shade-loving herb doth never know. 0 Brathay ! ^visely in thy winter grounds. Wisely and sweetly are thy currents chiming, Thus happily to every season timing The same low waters and the same low sounds. CXXI. WKITTEX DUEIXG ILLXESS AT COXSTAXTIXOPLE. Ear o'er green barren Thrace the sun had set In stormy red : — upon a couch of pain, Listening the diipping of the dismal rain, — Over the mighty city, dark and wet, I heard the countless Turkish Ezans swell, Bidding the vespers of the infidel With long, harsh wail fi'om viewless minaret. The Cross lies hard upon my fevered brow And aching frame ; and slumber's pleasant spell Is backward o'er my restless Hmbs to creep. Yet from that Ezan have I learned but now That prayer is sevenfold welcomer than sleep. Then shall I count these little pains a loss WTiich thus can make the Crescent preach the Cross? 319 CXXIT. t\ib3:ke the pixewoods wave. Where the pinewoods wave, And the white streams rave, I came in deepest gloom : I hated my youth For its sweet untruth, And laid it in a tomb. I pined for a poet's troubled morrow, And wept, ay, wept for the want of sorrow. IT. Where the pinewoods wave. And the wliite streams rave, I came when I was old : For the jar of life Is a gladdening strife "\Miich makes not a poet cold. I had bmied my youth hasty and erring, — Oh ! hare buried days a disinterring ? III. But the pinewoods waved, And the wliite streams raved, — They told me in my need, That softness and feeling Were not soul-heahng. And so it was decreed, — That the marvellous flowers of Christian duty Should grow on the grave of buiied beauty. 320 CXXIII. A SPKIXG LESSOX. I. Through all the vale, The primrose pale Her yellow spots is showing ; And bj the stream Green mosses gleam, Where Scandale Beck is flowing. II. Beneath the trees, In families. The snow- drops white are shining ; And through the wood Full many a bud Reveals the woodbine twining. m. The young fern looks Like shepherd's crooks, As though 'twas such a trouble To force its way Through stones and clay. That it had bent it double. IV. And though no screen Of leafy green Protects my happy dwelling. The naked bough Hath thickened now, And bud and branch are swelling : A SPRING LESSON. 321 V. And it is meant To weave a tent Of summer twilight over, "With warp and woof, And all sun -proof, A cool and fraf^rant cover. VI. And from the earth A stream of mirth Into the spirit rises, While sudden Spring From off her wmg Is scattering sweet surprises. VII. And every hour In vernal shower The heart finds sweet ablution, ^liile it receives Mid buds and leaves A very absolution. VIII. Yet do I mourn That spring's bright urn Is no impartial laver, But still that she • * Most partially Divides her wayward favor. 322 A SPRIXG LESSON. IX. For here and there The uncertain air Woos blossoms from their sheathing, A^liere'er the wind May now unbind The winter with his breathinor. And chosen stems With weight of gems And forward blossoms labor, While not a bud Adorns the wood, The dull wood of their neiohbor. XI. We cannot ride By yon way- side Among the hawthorns early But fancy grieves O'er spots of leaves "WTiich spring hath wooed unfairly. XII. Yet if we scan The world of man In every nook and border, • *\Miere'er we turn We may discern The self-same solemn order. CHRIST THE WAY. 323 xin. Thus in her path Of love and ^vrath Dear Spring our thanks doth merit: By her meek sign AVe may divine The mystery of the Spirit. CXXIY. CHRIST THE WAY. I. To sin and earth and sorrow tributary, We lift our thoughts to thee, O blissful Mary ! Oh ! stainless Maid and mightiest Mother I thou AVert the mysterious gate where, stooping low, The King of glory entered, fh'st and last And only One who by that portal passed. To thee our love we offer ; while we pray, Poor suitors, unto Him who in thee lay, That we may walk in His new lining Way. n. Poor suitors are we to thy Son, 0 Mary ! Like us to death and sorrow tributary. But not to sin ; and who did deign to call Substance from thee, a Body Adrginal, And with the Godhead set it side by side, For us vouchsafing to be sanctified : In Person one, of Natures twain : we pray. Poor suitors, unto Him who in thee lay, That we may walk in His new Hying Way. 324 CHRIST THE WAY. We are environed bj the ^vorld, 0 Marj ! Bondsmen, disconsolate, and tributary ; Him, who did once environ thy blest womb. We seek, to cleave our way from out the gloom : — He the strayed soul to its Creator lifts, Eeplenishing our nature with the gifts Of His own near Divinity : we pray. Poor suitors, unto Him who in thee lay, That we may walk in Hi& new Kving Way. IV. We cannot lift ourselves, O blissful ^lary ! We to low thoughts, base ends are tributary : We cannot Hft om^selves unto the height Of such chaste marvel ; for the abounding light, From that exalted Human Body given. Strikes blind the eye too much upraised to Heaven. Man's nature sits with God : to Him we pray. To Him who, God and Man, within thee lay, That we may walk in His new living Way. O Mother-Maid ! 0 fellow-mortal Mary ! Was not thy Son, like mortals, tributary To hunger and to thirst, to hopes and fears ? Hath He not sanctified the power of tears. The beauty and the holiness of weeping ? Hath He not given back into our keeping A nature newly consecrated ? Say, Should we not kneel to Him who in thee lay. Thy womb His road; who is Himself our Way ? CHRIST THE WAY. 325 lie who within thee lay, O blissful Mary ! And to a creature's birth was tributary, Unto the Father yielding back Ilis breath, Gave Himself up a vassal unto death, Death's serf, the three-days' bondsman, and the last. For He hath burst the prison as He passed. Death hath become transparent : let us pray To ffim who rent the envious veil away. Breaking through that dread house a lining Way. VIT. And what high bliss hath not thy Son, 0 Mary ! Made to Eve's fallen house hereditary ? Man saw Him rise aloft with lucid track, And by that road man still expects BQim back. Clear across death and paradise are strown Footprints of light that end but on the Throne At God's Eight Hand. Oh let us fall and pray With the great Seraphim that burn all day, Worshipping Man in God, man's living Way. vni. And as He left thee to His Saint, 0 Mary, Pierced with a sword, woe's meekest tributary, So He bequeathed the Church unto the Spirit To teach her what great things she doth inherit ; In which sweet Spirit do we come and go. We risen with Christ, or He with us below, Man ever close to God : oh let us pray. Bending most reverent knees both night and day, To Him, in whom we stand, our present Way. 326 CHRIST THE WAY. IX. Is not His ancient priestliood, blissful Marj ! A deep jet most untroubled commentarj Upon men's cries and tears bj day or night, Pleading all woes before His Father's sight ? And for the voiceful Church and poor mute world Doth He not keep His potent Cross unfurled, Lengthening its shadows upon sin ? O pray Unto the Priest who ministereth all day, Making His Flesh man's Shelter and his AVay. X. He is the Priest of priests, O blissful Mary ! Whose earthly types with right hereditary, As on the bosom of an unstained sea, Reflect His priesthood in the Mystery Of the dread Altar, gi™g Flesh for food, Pouring into the frame from urn of Blood The power of resurrection : let us pray To Him whose Five Benignant Wounds all day Stand open to the Church, an awful Way. XT. He is our Way, our dreadest Way, O Mary ! (May He remember me His tributary !) Our dreadest Way ; for it is only given Through His great Judgment- Seat to enter Heaven- Judgment according to our works ! the creed Could not be borne were not the Judge indeed A Man of thy true substance : let us pray Unto the Virgin's Son, that in His Day We perish not by that most fiery Way. THE EASTER GUEST. 327 XIT. O whitest Flower ! O ever-blessod jNIary ! To -svliat high purpose wert thou tributary ! How wert thou chosen for the stainless Eirth, Mother of God ! chaste Lily of the earth ! Lead us to Jesus, Mother ! for us part The veils that hang before the Sacred Heart. All prayers are to thine honor, which we pray To Him who, God and Man, within thee lay, Thy womb His Eoad, who is Himself our Way ! CXXY. THE EASTEE GUEST. I. Dear Mother ! from the sacred cell Where the departed spirits dwell, Mysteriously blest, A gentle shadow, by my side For one whole day at Easter-tide, Thou dost with thy poor orphan bide, A true though speechless Guest. n. Dear Shade ! at dawn thou dost not come. The hour when Jesus from the Tomb "Went in the twilight gray : Thou comest not at sunrise fair, And, when to breathe bright Easter air I leave my bed, thou art not there, — Thou hast not found the way. 328 THE EASTER GUEST. 3IT. Softly, sweet Presence ! dost thou steal To me, when all the people kneel With trembling hearts prepared ; "VMien, on the Mysteries intent, "We see the veil between us rent. Shewing the way that Jesus went, — Then is thy house unbarred. IV. And straightway thou art at my side, As when, one long past Easter-tide I knelt, a cowering boy. And thou my little hands didst bare, Taldng the gloyes which I did wear, Trembling, entranced, oblivious there "With awe, deep awe and joy. Y. Dear Mother! through the long, long year I never think without a tear Of thee so soon departed ; * And, weariest penance ! all the things ^Tiich memory from her storehouse brings Are seeds of bitter thouo-ht, and stino;s "Wliich keep me broken-hearted. TI. I mark thy sadly wondering look, When in a passion-fit I spoke Harsh words into thine ears ; When thou, a sufferer on life's brink, Waitedst to weep, till thou didst think I should not see thy spirit drink Its greedy draught of tears. THE EASTER GUEST. 329 TIT. 0 Mother ! Mother ! ^vith what pain 1 crave thj presence back again Thy pardon so to get ! For mine is now a growing sorrow, ^Miich doth, alas ! for ever borrow From every change and every morrow New sources of regi'et. ^t:tt. But this one day when thou hast come From out thy spiritual home, Thine Easter's endless feast, 'VMiat other feelings has thou brougrht ! With what a cheerino; softness frauo;ht ! What store, good store, of filial thought Hath come with thee, dear Guest ! IX. From out thy presence thou dost pour A healing quiet on my sore, The calm of pardon won. And a bright cloud of memories Doth from the genial past arise, Bringing sweet trouble in my eyes, From thoughts of duty done. X. Mother ! the long, long year I mourn ; But thy mute presence is an m^n, Replenished fi'om above. Whence yearly there distils a dower Of deep absolving peace, a shower Of benediction, — right and power For penitential love. 330 CXXYI. THE OXE WAXT. OxE thing is ^ranting, one bright tiling of earth, To fill the cup of life unto the brim, The measm^e and completion of my mii'th, For lack of which clajs tarnish and grow dim. n. 0 earth ! O world ! 0 life ! ye should have bred For one like me more sorrow, pain, and fears ; "Whereas jfrom you, as from a flowery bed, Hath breath, like incense, breathed for all my years. in. "\Mierefore have ye forsworn your nature so ? For brittle wills, Hke mine, have need of stem And hardy baptisms, which can only flow From where pale sorrow bends upon her urn. lY. "VMiy should I blame ? Ye do your best ; ye give What ye can give ; and still my heart goes free — Gay thing ! it makes the world in which I live, And it is brioht, too brioht a world for me. One thino[ is wantinsj to me, one briorht thino[, The wliich being absent I am poor indeed ; — It is my Mother's life, to be a spring Of a more virtuous gladness which I need. THE ONE WANT. 331 VI. One thing is wanting in the beamj cup Of my glad life, one thing to be poured in : Aye, and one thing is wanting to fill up The measure of proud joy, and make it sin. TII. Through all my life have I been saved by this, This one thing wanting ; it hath been the thorn '\Miich kept me calm when I had plucked a bliss From some sweet branch, — one leaf was ever torn. VIII. I have been happy, and am happy now, Yet do I crave the most when happiest ; For the cold sense of my one want doth grow In the proportion wherein I am blest. IX. At the dread Altar, when I might lose sight Of my unworthiness amid the stir Of hiorh and swelling thouorhts, it is a blioht To pride, that I can be no priest to her. X. In the rare moods when I have given birth To songs her memory woidd have loved to treasure, That she is absent mars the rising mii'th, Timing my heart to this life's sober measure. XI. ^lien I have walked half giddy on the ledge To which men's praise, like tempters, souls will bear, The want, the single want, hath been the wedge, Cleaving my soul for Heaven to enter there. 332 RTDAL YALE. XII. Thus in still nights, in every loneliest haimt Thou, sainted Mother ! thou hast rescued me : Dailj the Cross hath saved me by a want, And that one want hath been the want of thee. CXXYII. EYDAL VALE. 1. It was the earliest evenmg of the spring : The hills with vernal green were gently flushed, And every sound about the place was hushed. Except the blue lake softly murmuring. The glow of sunset came there, dusk and rosy ; I met a little child in Eydal vale, "With a huge bunch of daffodils, a posy Large as the child herself, who was but frail. And hot with climbing ; and in all the rills, "With both hands clasped, she dipped her daffodils ; And ever as she walked she loved to wipe Her face with those wet flowers, and it did please Tier simple heart to hear the thrushes pipe. And she would look for them amono- the trees. 333 cxxviir. EYDAL VAJLE. 2. Thou wilt be long in reaching home, my love ! If thou dost tarry all the joys to take, Crowded tliis evening about Eydal lake, — The new-born lambs, the flowers, the cooing dove. Nay, wherefore grasp thy daffodils so fast ? I am not one to rob thee : thou hast wrought So deeply in my heart that thou hast brought Sweet gifts of tears unto me fi^om the past. My sainted Mother ! was I once like this, A creature overflowed with simple bliss, One whom thou might'st have seen by these bright rills Long years ago when thou wert in this place, Stooping to cool his little health-flushed face, So wondrous happy with his daffodils ? CXXIX. THE WOUXDED LAMB. I SAW a shepherd with a wounded lamb, Which he had found in pain and almost dead Among the blue stones upon Eydal Head, Where, plaintive tenant of the moor, the dam With sorrow in her large round eyes was left, Of that w^hite, gleaming creature now bereft. The \illage children gathered in a ring. Doubtful, as round some disenchanted spell : For three days they had seen it wandering A bodily sunbeam on the rocky fell. It puzzles them to think that on the morrow That patch of light will not be up on high ; Yet do they love it more, for common sorrow Begets in wonder's stead sweet sympathy. 334 SUNDAY. cxxx. A COTTAGEE'S CHILD. I MET a chilcl, and kissed it : T^ho shall say I stole a jo J in ^hich I had no part? The happj creatiu^e from that very day Hath felt the more his little human heart. "Now when I pass he runs away and smiles, And tries to seem afraid with pretty wiles. I am a happier and a richer man, Since I have sown this new joy in the earth : 'Tis no small thing for us to reap stray mirth In every sunny wayside where we can. It is a joy to me to be a joy, TVTiich may in the most lowly heart take root ; And it is gladness to that httle boy To look out for me at the moimtain foot. CXXXI. SUNDAY. I. There is a Sabbath won for us, A Sabbath stored above, A service of eternal calm, An altar-rite of love. SUNDAY. 335 IT. There is a Sabbath won for us, Where we shall ever wait In mute or voiceful ministries Upon the Immaculate. ni. There shall transfigured souls be filled With Christ's Eternal Xame, Dipped, like bright censers, in the sea Of molten glass and flame.* IV. Yet set not in thy thoughts too far Our Heaven and Earth apart, Lest thou shouldst wrong the Heaven beo;un Already in thy heart. V. Though Heaven's above and Earth's below, Yet are they but one state, And each the other with sweet skill Doth interpenetrate. VI. Yea, many a tie and office blest, In earthly lots uneven. Hath an immortal place to fill, And is a root of Heaven. vn. And surely Sundays blight and cahn, So calm, so bright as this. Are tastes imparted from above Of higher sabbath bliss. * Apoc. XV. 3. 336 SUNDAY. VIII. We o^s'ii no gloomy ordinance, Iso ^vearj Jewish day, But weekly Easters, ever bright "VYith pure domestic ray ; A feast of thought, a feast of sight, A feast of joyous sound, A feast of thankful hearts, at rest, From labor's wheel unbound ; X. A day of such homekeeping bHss As on the poor may wait, With all such lower joys as best Befit his human state. XI. He sees amonoj the hornbeam boughs The little sparkling flood ; The mill-wheel rests, a quiet thing Of black and mossy wood. XII. He sees the fields lie in the sun, He hears the plovers crying ; The plough and harrow, both upturned. Are in the furrows lying. XIII. In simple faith he may believe That earth's diurnal way Doth, Hke its blessed Maker, pause Upon this hallowed day. SUNDAY. 337 XIV. And should he ask, the happy man ! If Heaven be aught like this : — 'Tis Heaven ^vithin him, breeding there The love of quiet bliss. XV. Oh leave the man, my fretful friend I To follow nature's ways. Nor breathQ to him that Cliristian feasts Are no true holy days. XYT. Is Earth to be as nothing here, ^Tien we are sons of Earth ? May not the body and the heart Share in the spirit's mirth ? XVTI. "When thou hast cut each earthly hold Wliereto liis soul may cling, Will the poor creature left behind Be more a heavenly thing ? XYIII. Heaven fades away before our eyes. Heaven fades within our heart, Because in thought om* Heaven and Earth Are cast too far apart. zz 338 CXXXTI. THE EAETH'S HEAET. TO MY XIECE. I. There is a pulse in flo^ving streams, A calmly throbbing motion, A heart in the cold mountain springs As true as that of ocean. n. Sit by von bay ^vhere Eothaj comes AVith merrj sparkHng fall To rest Avithin the glossy pool Eeneath the fern-fringed wall ; ni. And see how like a real tide, Encroaching and retreating. Upon the polished gravel bed The uneven stream is beating. IV. As if, although 'twas flowing do^vn, Straight on it could not flow, But it must stay to breathe in pools, Like some poor hunted roe. Y. And at the river-head the lake From its blue hollows ever, A weary, tremulous, panting thing, Ts sighing forth the river. TIIK EARTlfs HEART. 339 VI. Anil thus the breath of the huge hills, Among wet mosses sobbing, Works alwaj through the upland springs A\'ith momentary throbbing. VIL And on the drear autumnal days, When o'er the naked heath The ^vind is riding, still it hath A palpitating breath. YIII. And in the woods the evening air A breathing spirit d^Yells, Still cooing like a turtle dove, A shy voice in the dells. IX. Those dazzling things, the waterfalls. That leap with such a cry In leafy clefts, sink down at times Into a woodland sigh. X. Like one whose heart is in his mouth. Swift echo on the heath Speeds onward, shedding broken words, A runner out of breath. XI. I speak not of the heaving sea. But of the solemn earth ; I woidd thou should'st believe there is A heart in aU her mirth. 340 THE earth's heart. xir. The dasliing rivers are her joj, The pinewood plaint her sadness, The clamorous tempest is her rage, The earthquake is her madness. XIII. The past is in her, — the long past, With all its light and gloom. What wonder then there should be throes In such a living tomb ? XIV. Her heart grows larger, as each day Sinks to it with a stir ; It makes me grave to think of all That hath gone into her : XV. Proud-minded kings and rebel mobs. And, by the will of fate. Enough to make another earth Of love unfortunate. XVI. Then, when thou walkest on the hills, Or in the woods apart, Eemember that the earth hath got Almost a human heart. XVII. The joy and gTief of centuries Have so much dark and bright. That they constrain earth's pulse to beat Alternate day and night. MY WOULD. 3-11 XVIII. Sweet Alice ! when thy bhimeless past Shall enter this old earth, The world ^\dll find, and know not why. More calmness in her mii'th. CXXXITI. MY WOELD. I AM a chronicler of little things, — Comings and goings, children's Avords and ways. Chance guests, new hosts, and single happy days. And household legends. These have been the springs Of much of my best knowledge : I have striven To make my narrow homely world a glass, A^Tiere shapes and shadows, like a breath, might pass. Dimly reflecting motions out of Heaven. And sometimes things have so encountered things As to eclipse each other, — moving rings AMiich meet and intersect, cliilling all mirth When they awhile the wondering household di'aw Beneath the shadow of some mighty la^. In cii'cle calm revolvinoj round the earth. 342 CXXXIY. ON A CHILD, WHO SUFFEEED FEOM FITS. No sooner cast upon the sounding beach From the dim sea where unborn spirits are, But, with malignest influence touched, the fair And glorious soul was drawn beyond our reach. We search for thy great spirit, Brother, where In the dull distant caverns of thy being The stricken thing may haply now be fleeing Before some awful sights, or in some snare Caught trembhng, all unconscious we are nigh. But sight and sound shall couch thy spirit's eye : In thy Avild mirth and outbursts of rude glee We shall behold thee daily set aside The withs the Dark One hath around thee tied. Bidding some portion of thyself go free. cxxxv. THE DOG. Grief for her absent master in her wrought. So I in pity took her out with me. Though I would fain have walked alone, to be Less hindered in the current of my thought : And then I threw her sticks for which she ran ;- T\Tio would not cheer a sorrow when he can ? After some miles we met at twilight pale A neighbor of her master's passing by. And, with blythe demonstration in her eye, She turned and followed him along the vale. So I wallced on, companioned by the moon, Well pleased that even a casual form or feature Of the old times was dearer to the creature Than the new friend of one bripht afternoon. 343 CXXXVI. THE SXO^\Tr MOUXTAIX. A DOMESTIC POEil. A STUDENT out of cloops, wliero mountain winds, AVitli voices deepened by the raving brooks, Inspire into the lassitude of thought Somewhat of vernal buoyancy, I went To a calm haunt, while overhead sweet sjmng An airy cloister diligently roofed. I was in my peculiar, sheltered walk Among the beeches and the laurels : there, In meditation utterly immured. Chewing the luscious prunings of sweet bay, I troubled my poor self with Charlemagne, Otho, Conrad the Salic, and the tribe Of great bad men, who made and shaped the earth We live upon to-day. A\''hy should a heart, Begirt with trees and streams and cawing rooks. And with a tent of bluest sky above, Amid the jocund images that grow Of the blythe present, fret about the past. Stirring the silent bones of emperors. And dusty banners of old paladins ? Sometimes, — a brighter vision far, and yet A riddle still more difficult to read, Di^sine things always look so undi^ine, — I mused the fortunes of enchanted Eome, '\Miere Christ, with a tiara on His brow. Sits, and delays the hour of Anti- Christy — 3-14 THE SNOWY MOUNTAIN. City, 'svhose supernatural ^vays ill mate The style of modern life, yet suit so well All change, all progi'ess, all ^dcissitude, Too broad, too nearly infinite, to let The grandest present cover its extent, Or equal its intense ^itahty, — Unboastful city, not defending self. And answering questions only ^th a look. Healing the world of its successive ills, Queening it o'er the wildest times, with gi^ace "^Tiich conquers those that conquer her, and who, Wliile centuiies are breaking at her feet Tame as tired waves that scarcely kiss the strand, Spite of her crumbHng walls and pagan wrecks. Sits musing mid her tombs, and quietly. Scarce looking up when danger's hour comes near, Braves the world's fury, and with passive calm Disarms the ages by her right to live. Bewildered more and more, I wallvcd and walked, And still light woidd not rise, thought would not come. Clear, steady thought ; the German Empii-e lay A nightmare on my mind ; when with rude shock From out a bush my little favom^ite boy By stealth leaped on me, clinging to my coat, And uttering a most victorious cry. His face was flushed, his bonnet laid aside. His long brown haii^ disordered by his play. And in his eyes there glimmered the sly light Of merriment, half weary of itself. Flagging and spent with an excess of joy. Mornings are long to childi-en : he was tu-ed "With running, and as much with resting too, Among the daisies and the buttercups THE SNOWY MOUNTAIN. 345 Tliat were enamelling the April field. These were the cares which li'etted him, as great, I doubt not, and substantial as the wealth, The power, the fame, the barren scholarship, AVherein we grown-up children spend our strength. It may be that in nature's honest eye A knot of wild-flowers are of truer worth Than the old German State, or any dream From which the world has wakened : for the flower Is a pure growth of heavenly love, a thing Unblamed by Him who made it. He was tired, And bitterly complained of the strange heat So early in the year : the April sun Among our lofty liills is all unused To such reproach ; he should have rather blamed The heat of his own restless happiness. Yet wherefore were the things without us made, (So reason childish hearts, or rather act As if they reasoned so) except to bear The blame most due to that which is witliin ? " There is no heat, my little boy," said I ; " Thy head is reeling with the open aii% " And breathing grass, and the new glossy leaves, " And all the sunny aspect of the hills : *' The power of spring hath made thee drimk, my child, '^ With its brisk spirit poured into thy veins, '' After long months of cold ^dthin the house " Among thy playthings, wearisome through use : ^^ But sunshine is an unabated joy ^^ Which neither use nor frequency make dull," So spake I, rambling in a thoughtful strain Which the child understood not, but once more 346 THE SNOWY MOUNTAIN. Cried out against fair April for its heat. ^^ Come then with me," said T, ^^ I told thee once *^ That there was notliing nature could not do, ^' Aj, nothing nature would not do, for those ^* Who love her as they ought, — that she would bring *^ New playthings and old sunshine every day. ^^ !N"ow let us speak to the maternal earth ; " She ever answers me when I do speak." I took him by the hand, and he looked up Most reverently into my face, as though I were a man of marvels, such as he Had seen last ^lichaelmas at our great fair. A gentle juggler, I conveyed the child, From the low sheltered walk wherein we were, Unto a bare and lofty terrace, w^hence We looked into the desolate recess Of a huge mountain clothed in shining snow. The air was warm and tranquil ; not a breath Stirred in the seven tall larches, a sweet rino- Which visibly was making all the haste It could, to robe itself in blythsome green. The boughs were pendulous and still ; and there I placed the boy in front of the vast cove And giant ribs of snow, and bade him look Boldly into the moimtain's snow}^ face, And ask it for a wind, a good cold wind To blow into his eyes. With timid voice, — As of a child, half pleased and half afi^aid, Wlio yields himself upon a Christmas niglit To some new trick, when all the rest stand back, — He asked the snowy mountain for a wind. Scarce had the words escaped his trembhng lips, "Wlien, with a motion on the distant woods, A cold fi'esh breeze along the terrace swept. THE SNOWY MOUNTAIN. 347 And died awaj, a marvellous response To his shy prayer. How quick his heart did beat, AVhile with surprise and awe he looked again Less boldly in the mountain's snowy face ! This time he did not ask it for a mnd. 'Twas a sweet sight to see the little boy Stand there, and gaze into the mountain's foce And on the sheets of silent, sparkling snow, With eyes brimful of wonder and delight. And with bewildered meanings running oyer. Now when his patience — 'twas a scanty stock — Had wellnigh failed, there came another breeze, Colder and ruder than the first, at which He laughed outright into the mountain's face With pure delight, as though it sent the breeze For liis sole sport ; and I might safely say The snowy mountain laughed at him again ; For it sent out a mighty, boisterous wind ^Tiich made the larch-trees loudly creak, and blew Young Kichard's tartan bonnet down the hill. Away in mad pursuit, both man and boy Followed the truant cap, which we reclaimed "With laughter ere it reached the dangerous stream.. '' Thou wilt remember now," said I, ^' the power '^ Of the old earth, and that she hath a heart, *• A mother's heart, among her lonely hills. " Thou wilt remember too and love this snow, '^ Whose beautiful white fields are melting fast ; ^^ And this kind-hearted mountain thou wilt love. ^^ Be kind to it thyself in all thy thoughts ; '' And when the e^il summer of these vales " Arrives, and that high summit brings the clouds " To weep a very plague of drizzling rain ^•' All through the holy days, remember still 348 THE SXOYv'Y MOUNTAIN. ^' This mountain is the mother of cold \vTnds ; " And be not petulant, but love it well '' For this day's boon :" then with a mimic sign Of wrath, I added, '* and forget not too '' That poets are lone walkers and strange men, '^ Xot to be leaped on in their chosen paths, " Or scared by shouts from gi^oves of arbutus." Once more in my peculiar, sheltered walk. My thoughts imbrued in blood and battlefields, And with my fancy chastened and kept do^\'n By the great shade of royal Charlemagne, I see the boy at play upon the lawn, But ^vith the great, white mountain in his heart, ^Tiich loads him with a new solemnity, — An altered being, eyen in his play. More happy, yet less vocal in his mii^th. From this day forth the mountain and the snow From common sights are lifted in his mind Unto the rank of causes, solemn thinos To be by him more honored than before. It is a just beginning : all om- lives This is the msdom which we have to learn — To see our earthly shadows taken up And by the Cross commuted into signs Or substances, — and with strong faith to feel Our own immortal being so transfused Into the out-lying world, that common forms Are canonized, and circled with a light, Like the pale rings aroimd the autumnal moon. The man to whom our common daily things By meek devotion and a simple eye Have grown to reverend solemnities, — ^Miat lacketh he of liis full OTowth in Chiist ? 349 CXXXVII. TO LITTLE ALICE. I. If thou coiildst be a bird, Avhat bird Tvouldst tboube? A frolicsome gull on the billowy sea, Screaming and wailing when stormy winds rave, Or anchored, white thing ! on the merry green wave ? IT. Or an eagle aloft in the blue ether dwelling, Free of the coves of the hoary HelvelljTi, "Wlio is up in the sunshine when we are in shower, And could reach our loved ocean in less than an hour ? III. Or a heron that haunts the "Wallachian edge Of the barbarous Danube mid forests of sedge, And hears the rude waters thi^ough di^eary swamps flowinoT- And the cry of the wild swans, and buffalos lowing ? IV. Or a stork on a mosque's broken pillar in peace By some famous old stream in the bright land of Greece, A sweet-mannered householder ! wai™g his state JSTovf and then in some land little toil for his mate? 350 TO LITTLE ALICE. Or a murmnring dove at Stamboul, buried deep In the long cypress ^voods vrhere the infidels sleep, "^Miose leaf-muffled voice is the soul of the seas, That hath passed from the Bosphorus into the trees ? VI. Or a heath-bird that lies on the Cheviot moor, "N^liere the wet shining earth is as bare as a floor, AMio mutters glad sounds though his joys are but fe^v, — Yellow moon, windy sunshine, and skies of cold blue? VII. Or if thy man's heart worketh in thee at all, Perchance thou would'st dwell by some bold baron's hall, A black glossy rook working early and late. Like a labom^ing man on the baron's estate ? VITI. Or a linnet who builds in the close hawthorn bough, "Where her small frightened eyes may be seen look- ino[ throuoh ; "WTio heeds not, fond mother ! the oxlips that shine On the hedge-bank beneath, or the glazed celandine. IX. Or a swallow that flieth the sunny world over The true home of spring and spring-flowers to discover ; Who, go where he will, takes away on his wings Good words fi'om mankind for the bright thoughts he brinors ? THE ASCENT OF IIKLVELLYX. 351 But what ! can those pictures of strange winged mh'th Make the child to forget that she ^yalkson the earth? Dost thou feel at thy sides as though wings were to start From some place where they lie folded up in thy heart ? XI. Then love the green things in thy first simple youth, And the beasts, birds, and fishes with heart and in truth. And fancy shall pay thee thy love back in skill ; — Thou shalt be all the biixls of the air at thy will I CXXXVIII. THE ASCEXT OF HELYELLYX. APEIL 23, 1842. HAVING ASCEXDED PARNASSUS THE SAI^E DAY IN THE PRECEDING YEAE. I. At morn we wended forth right merrily, With hearts as his^h as thouojh we had been bent On great emprise a:ad martial tom^nament : The wind blew softly through the azure sky. And in the dome the mountains stood upright, Yested from head to foot in softest light. Hung round them, a transparent drapery. 352 THE ASCENT OF HELVELLYX. II. The budding branches of the oakwood bowers "With honeysuckle in full leaf were tangled ; The western slopes with primroses were spangled, And cuckoo -plant and dusky •\iolet-flowers ; And here and there the fragrant woodland floor With white anemones was powdered o'er, Like the last melting frino;es of snow-showers. III. How rich the carpet of yon fir-tree dome ! The moss just tinged afresh in juicy dyes, The moneywort with countless golden eyes, The dark green daffodil now shorn of bloom, The woodroffe with its fragrant withered leases. While here and there an early orchis grieves To flower and fade before its kinsfolk come. IV. And to the eye betrayed by his deep tongue. Within his watch-tower of old fir there sate The pensive heron in baronial state. And thrushes from their holly coverts sung ; All things were happy, — from the radiant skies Down to the little breeze -fanned butterflies. Which pendent fi^om the rocking may-flowers swung. V. Along the moorland steeps the heated air To lines of silky softness did subdue The harsh, rough walls, and bade the purple hue Of the bright mere a crape of mist to wear. The young lambs gleamed upon the island mead ; And hyacinths had just begun to lead Their blue processions o'er the coppice there. THE ASCENT OF HELVELLIX. 3>3 vr. Then past the latelj-felled larch wood ^ve rode, Xot thankless for the odor which it gave ; We saw the newly plumed birch branches wave, "Where Greenhead brook in its rough channel flowed ; Onward we mounted from the quiet vale, Till through its verdant gap the smooth Dunmail One distant head of father Skiddaw showed. YII. The mountain pass with streaks of herbage green And loose blue stones alternately was faced, Like amethyst with emerald interlaced On either side, and the blue sky between. The haze-fire played on Dunmail's shapeless tomb, As though 'twere breathed from out the unc^outh gloom Where that old king nine hundred years hath been. YIII. O I am garrulous perforce to tell The birds, the wildflowers, and the pageantries Of light and shade, the foKage and the breeze, Which there upon that joyous day befell ; Lest aught omitting, I should haply miss Some cheerful adjunct to that mood of bKss Whereon hereafter we should love to dwell. IX. Then from the Eaise we tm^ned to look once more On Grasmere vale, so sweetly interspersed With fields and woodlands, and the blue lake nursed By its two streams, and fair hills bending o'er ; Euling the vale, was heard the cuckoo's cry Ubiquitous, like law's di-ead majesty. Unseen, but audible from shore to shore. 23 354 THE ASCENT OF HELYELLYN. The poets vaunt autumnal hues too much ; • There is a season, a brief twenty days, Intercahited between summer's rays And the green flush of spring, whose tints are such, As, for their depth and fair variety, Eichest autumnal coloring all outvie In shading delicate and grace of touch. XI. The gilded oak, the willow's pale sea-gTeen, The sable pine with brilliant larches blending, And the fair birch its glossy plumage lending To mediate the light and dark between, — The yellow beech, the manly sycamore, And clouds of cherry blossom floating o'er — May well outdo sad autumn's broidered scene. XIT. And all is joy or hope in earth and sky ; 'Tis not like autumn's pensive power that lies In beautiful decay, wliich we so prize Because it is a glory passing by ; — But a sweet sense that flowers are underfoot, And that lonoj evenino^s now are takino^ root. And summer days foreshadowed pleasantly. XITI. But now, the Cumbrian border gained at last, At Wythburn's larch-girt Shrine and lonely dwelling "We stood beneath the steeps of great Helvellyn. One year this very morning we had passed The defiles of Parnassus, and had seen The crags wdiich over voiceless Delphi lean, And on rich Crissa's plain their shadow cast. Tim ASCENT OF IIELVELLYN. 355 XIV. And tlio same clay had now been dignified, In Imniorous caprice and pleasant mood, To explore Ilelvelljm's pastoral solitude, And the huge coves upon its eastern side : And never day could dawn more graciously ; There was no cloud in all the dappled sky, Which did not clear of every summit ride. XV. Like ^-irtue, old Helvellyn must be won By the first hard ascent o'er moorland grass Intolerably smooth, as polished glass, Save the moss-swollen lines where streamlets run, Tinkling like hidden bells ; and o'er the steep The shrunken waterfalls in silence creep, Braiding their crystal beadshowers in the sun. XVI. And, as we clung like goats to the steep grass, How strangely sight and memory did strike Against each other ! Oh how all unlike To the Greek hill our own Helvellyn was ! And, ere we did the first green platform reach, In broken words each had reminded each Of noble featiu'es in the Phocian Pass. XVII. Oh I could weep for pity when I hear. Soft as far echoes, those old names of Greece, Spots I have seen in utter joyless peace. Like sanctuaries, beautiful but drear ! And who will blame though Delphi now supplants "With vivid presence these domestic haunts. As though embayed in its rough ledges here ? 356 THE ASCENT OF HELYELLYN. XVIII. Full in the face of sunset Ktjpa stood, When from the sheepflocks on the Theban plain I first beheld the gi-eat Parnassian chain, Nine layers of folded mountain crag, which glowed Distinctly pencilled out by pui'ple mist. Till, by the shooting flames of sunset Idssed, They melted off into the golden flood. XIX. Calm was the morning when our upward way From bowl to bowl of shrubby moorland rose, "WTiere nothing but smooth-stemmed lentiscus grows ; The distances were soft and clear ; no ray Of garish sunbeam to those heights did come. Curtained wdtliin a pleasant, pensive gloom Of daylight, tinged, but not obscured, with gray. XX. Fearful, Parnassus ! are thy clefts, which lean A^lth their deep yellow rocks across the dell, Terrace on terrace piled, and citadel "With ever-tumbhng towers, o'ertopped with green. With belts of jutting pine- wood* darkly seamed In airy, hanging slopes, as I have dreamed The Babylonian gardens to have been. XXI. There is Arracova with sounding shores. Perched mid the torrent-springs and eagles' -nests : There, on her steep recumbent, Delphi rests Her patient ear on old earth's steaming pores ; There in a cool rock-shaded trough hard by The silent tripod, gifted Castaly Her silver water frugally outpours. * rinus maritima. THE ASCENT OF HELVELLYX. 357 XXII. ITo^v beautiful the moon rose on the shore And olive-tops of Salona ! The light In trickling falls stole down from every height, Until the pinewood belts were silvered o'er ; And tremulous pulses of white splendor crept To glens which still in purple darkness slept, Teasing the eye their soft gloom to explore. XXIII. I rose and sunk upon the gentle sea, And from Herodotus I strove to spell Bj the clear moon some Delphic oracle In quaint hexameters, wliile memory Aided the dubious light : I was alone. And all entranced ; for truth, which had outgro^\Ti My dream, still more a dream appeared to be. XXIV. How glorious was the night, the twofold power Of hills and starry sea, when I did float At anchor there, while dark above my boat In the bright air did true Parnassus tower ! And, as the cmiew's solitary wail Was faintly answered from some inland vale, I could have wept for joy of that sweet hour. XXV. As in the night all outward noises creep Into our dreams, so the sad curlew's cry On the Greek bay Helvellyn did supply Unto my wakeful trance ; a lonely sheep Sent forth a mournful bleating to recall ]\Ie from the dream which did in gentle thraU The very outposts of my senses keep. 358 THE ASCENT OF HELYELLYX. XXYI. To hear high up it is a solemn sound, And, rising from a sunken hollow nigh, It seems far off, a voice in the blue skj Or earthborn plaint breathed from the moorland groimd, A wofrd elegj, which hourly fills The pastoral waste with melancholy thrills, And echoes by the lone tarn's desert bound. xxYir. The platform gained, we watched one fair cloud sail For some Atlantic haven ; the gay fir Looked through the mist below like gossamer, A thin gxeen network stretched across the Yale. The wheat-ears ran or ghded thi^ough the gi-ass And o'er the stones ; they might for serpents pass, Parting the crisp white stalks with rustling tail. xxvnr. One more ascent, and we had gained \rith slow And weary step the mountain's eastern edge, "\Miere, hanging o'er the sheer and dizzy ledge. There stood a sparkhng parapet of snow, Breeding a wild desire to lean thereon, Although we shivered at the thought alone. And turned from that abyss wliich yawned below. XXIX. Then in light mood the surface did we break. The wgin sm-face of the giant drift, And to our mouths the tempting crystals Hft, Yet dared we not our burning thfrst to slake ; But, standing on the slope of greensward nigh "With the wliite battlement in front breast-high, We delved our hands therein for coolness' sake. THE ASCENT OF UELVELLTK. 339 XXX. Then onward o*cr a sliingly, sea-like beach Of (li^eary stones with scarce a lichen veined, Or blotched with golden spots, or weather-stained. Did we the high-crowned promontory reach. And hoarj pile and beacon-staff all rent And peeled and wliite, which wintry storms have sent AVild winds and eddies of strong rain to bleach. XXXI. There to the north the silver Solway shone, And Criffel, by the hazy atmosphere Lifted from off the earth, did then appear A nodding island or a cloud-built throne. And there, a spot half fancied and half seen, Was sunny Carlisle ; and by hillside green Lay Pemith with its beacon of red stone, XXXII. Southward through pale blue steam the eye might glance Along the Yorkshire fells, and o'er the rest, My native hill, dear Ligieboro's crest, Eose shapely, like a cap of maintenance. The classic Duddon, Leven, and clear Kent A trident of fair estuaries sent, ^Miich did among the mountain roots advance. XXXIII. "Westward, a region of tumultuous hills. With here and there a tongue of azm-e lake And ridge of fir, upon the eye did break. But chiefest wonder are the tarns and rills And giant coves, where great HelvelljTi broods Upon his own majestic solitudes. Which even now the simlight barely fills. 360 THE ASCENT OF HELYELLTX. XXXTV. There Striding Edge with Swirrel meets to keep The Eed Tarn still when tempests rage above : There Catsty-Cam doth watch o'er Keppel Cove And the chill pool that lurks beneath the steep. Far to the right St. Sunday's quiet shade Stoops o'er the dell, where Grisedale Tarn is laid Eeneath that solemn crag in waveless sleep. XXXV. The golden cliffs which from Parnassus lean "With uncouth rivets of the roots of trees, And silent- waging pinewood terraces, And burnished zones of hang-iriCT everoreen, — Haunts of the antique muses though thej are, May not for dread solemnity compare, Or savage wonders, with tliis native scene. XXXVI. Awful in moonlight shades, more awful far "When the winds wake, are those majestic coves. Or when the thunder feeds his muttering di'oves Of swart clouds on the raven -haunted scar ; And in the bright tranquillity of noon Most awful ; lovely only in the boon Of soft apparel wrought by twilight air. XXXVIT. Shall Brownrigg Well be left without a song, "\^liich near the summit, mid the wintry snows In a clear vein of liquid crystal flows, And through the pastoral months in gushes strong Gleams in the eye of sunset, and from far Holds up a mirror to the evening star, "While roimd its mouth the tliirsty sheepflocks tlirong ? THE POET S WORKSHOP. 30 1. xxxviir. And now, with lolt-ering stop and minds unbent Through hope fulfilled, we reached the vale once more; And, wending slowly along Ejdal shore, Watched the dusk splendor which from Langdale went, And on the hills dethroned the afternoon ; And home was gained ere yet the yellow moon From over Wansfell her first greeting sent. XXXIX. Thus flowed the day, a current o'er the mind ; Yet happiness however plain or short, Is alway meekly forward to consort With virtuous mood and purpose, and unbind Selfish desires, making the genial cahns Of pleasure not abused a liberal alms Of losing thoughts unto all human-kind. CXXXIX. THE POET'S WOEKSHOP. I. The litter of a student's room Bewilders those who do not know it ; But it is neatness when comjDared With the dim workshop of a poet. II. 0 if you could but enter there, Where foreign foot may not intrude, Of puzzHng sights and puzzling sounds 'Twould seem a clamorous solitude. 362 THE poet's ttorkshop. in. The murmui'mg hum of line, half line, Choice turn of ^s'ords and happj ending. As from a thousand spinning wheels Is there continually ascending. IT. There sight and sound fi-esh forms and tools At windows ever open fling, ■\^liich that strange Man, the Aiiisan, Eeceives with boorish welcoming. V. And heaps of words and heaps of thoughts, In rows or circles gathered, wait, And seem but sorry fm^nitm^e Except to the initiate. VI. The words in little parcels are. By natm^e prone to nuptial ties, "\Mth some apart, like bachelors At hand to fill chance vacancies. ^^I. And here~and there are idioms cast To which no filing poHsh gives. And chief in our hoarse tongue we note Battered and bruised infinitives. VIII. There are articulate-speaking thoughts, Gregarious tliino;s, in lowins^ herds. — Quick guesses that were never seen Without theii^ flowing veil of words. THE poet's workshop. 3G3 IX. These are the tilings of longest life, Struck off in some high hour of mirth : We know not whether thoughts or words Came first and foremost to the bii'th. X. And feelings inarticulate Stir every heap of words asunder, Shifting and shaking all the tools, As though blind worms were crawling under. XI. Strange shop it is with littered floor ! Rejected types are strewn all o'er it, Which one day tumble into rhyme, As though they had been destined for it. XII. And pliant supple shapes there are, Which neath the artist's pressure bend, Beginning as he wills they should, But coming to a different end. XIII. Look from the window ! Canst thou tell The land, the latitude, the weather. With sun and moon, and night and noon. So oddly kneaded aU together ? XIV. And dost thou ask if habit holds This shop within her sphere and order ? I say, 'tis built on her domains, But at the very outmost border. XV. From wild turmoil and caitiff toil Seek not. Philanthropist ! to win it ; For that strange Man, the Artisan, Is happy, oh how happy ! in it. 364 CXL. I HAVE WILD MOODS. I HAVE ^vilcl moods (who hath not ?) when I long For midnight tempests, and the boisterous song And jocund rudeness of the mighty wind ; And when I have a weight upon my mind To be dispersed by warring element, — A warp within my soul, to be unbent At once by the tremendous sympathy Of rocking woods, rent earth, and reeling sea, — Moods when the ^^lience and What and A^Tiither flash Like a bright arrow o'er my soul, and dash All meek, good things from their calm pedestals, Lighting witliin my spirits' ample halls A ruinous conflagration, which destroys In one dread hom^ the store of peaceful joys Won from religious ties or hallowed fears, Or fruit mayhap of consecrated tears, Tears shed o'er sin, or smiles by Angels brought In holy churches fi'om a ritual caught. Moods are they when I bid my soul come bare From her dim place, that I may gaze at her. And praise or blame her make ; there is in me At times a hot and fierce desire to see And realize my immortality : — When it would be relief to me to heave A hu^e unnatural weight of rock, and leave AN EPISTLE. 365 The mass on some hill-top, for aye to prove That there is nought man's spirit may not move : — AMien 1 should love to scatter a thick night Over all lands and oceans, so to blight The joys of earth, and see all men afraid, "\Vhile my one gazing soul stood undismayed. These are the spiiit-wasting moods, yea, these The fever, restlessness, and weak disease Of one \vho prays too seldom : at dead night Doth the strange spiiit come \rith. unstayed might. Until our open souls gi^ow large and swell With the influx of dark, invisible And dire possession, that doth quickly drench Om' powers in sin, and fain our souls would wrench From the good Cross, which like a floating mast Unto the shipwrecked, is our first and last True hope : — and our hands bleed in holding fast. CXLI. AX EPISTLE TO A MEMBEK OF PAELIAMEXT. ^^ Why anchorest tliou in those blue lakes for ,ever, Dear Student of the moorland and the river ?'' — My old Companion ! we have been apart And have lost count of one another's heart. A various Past, an unknown region lies Between the sweet tract of our memories And the too -stilling Present. I have been A wanderer now through many a foreign scene. Not without inward change ; and I have dwelt Much in my lonely spirit, till I felt 366 AX EPISTLE. I Tvas a person to myself unknown ; And this hath been one fruit of being alone. And I have changed each imaore of my life ; And all the objects of mj mortal strife I hare arrayed in other shapes and places. Encompassing myself Tvith different faces, To see in what relationship I stood To the new world around me : both my good And ill hare been most intricately shifted, And my whole life insensibly uplifted Unto a different end : my fear and hope Have other holdfasts and another scope : And love is unto me a different bii^th From what it was in our old boyish mirth, And hath a deeper root in this kind earth. I have a more abounding joy, a will Less mutable, and faculties more still. There were green withs about my spirit bound, But they are lying faded on the ground. Kow I can walk abroad in the sweet calm Of resignation, breathing holy balm Like evening air around me : I am haunted By a new boldness, solemn and undaunted. The very treasure I have always wanted ; And, with whatever fiiends or strangers tlii'own. The secret of that boldness is my o^ti. An underoTOund deHolit, a murmm'ino^ Among dry leaves and grass, as fi'om a spring. The tiling for wliich I pined, the early lost, The vainly sought on boyhood's sunny coast. The thing that left me, Hke an imcaged dove, I have laid hands on : and it is not love. I mourn not, as thou moumest, o'er the fate Of our own summer year of Thirty Eight. AX EPISTLE. 367 It came and went ^vithin us, like a breeze, Chiming among our thoughts as in the trees. It stiiTed us, as a breeze may stir the lake, And thou art gazing yet on its bright wake. A glorj is no glory, if it last ; Thou art entranced, young dreamer ! in the past. None dream so wildly or so much, as those AVliose early manhood rank or duty throws Into the fret of action, action spoken, A\liere energy is prematurely broken Into such fragments and small sums of power As may be dra^vn for by the present hour. These are the dreamers, whom the little things Of this life deafen with their murmurings, Who are constrained to let the Present cast A shadow o'er the Future and the Past, Or let the Present's feverish pressure dry Those two great fountains of nobility. There is a time in life when it is well That our true selves should be invisible, "WTien we should stand in patient cahn apart, And action should lie still within om' heart. Like unripe ore, collecting every horn" From self-restraint new increments of power. There is a time in life when we should shroud Our inner selves with somewhat of a cloud, TVTien to bystanders we should strive to seem Less than we are, and to appear to dream TVTien we are toiling earnestly and much : For so may we ward off all outward touch And meddling hindrance, which might mar and spoil The growing fabric of our hidden toil. And therefore am I anchored in blue lakes, And screened, like some shy bird^ by copsewood brakes, 368 AX EPISTLE. Lest things drift uppermost and be revealed, Which I would have in my dim self concealed. For I have had, like many another man, A life with two beginnings ; and I ran Unto an end in my first forward youth, "Which had the vesture and the face of truth ; But it was not the measm^e of my being, And therefore am I with wise caution fleeing To lurk awhile and tarry for more age In an obscure and quiet anchorage. In that old rambling year of Thirty Eight Thou knewest me encircled with a state And retinue of vision, feeling, thought, Joy, fear, and hot conception, all inwrought. That pageant is worn out : from that old ring I have stepped forth, and am encompassing Myself afresh, and with long-pondered moves Am bringing up new joys, new fears, new loves. Thou askest how and whence hath come the change ? In what new fields my thought and fancy range ? I can but tell thee of some outward shapes ; Thou canst but hear the murmur which escapes Amid the silence ; it will show where lies The growing quarrel in our sympathies. Ah for the faded year of Thirty Eight ! How little recked I then of this strange fate "Which lay in ambush at the very door Of headlong youth, the spoiler of its store, Like a new wisdom in a heart gro^m old, A mountain stone amid the shy flock rolled. — Enough ; and dost thou ask where now I rangBj Tlirough what transfiguring of inward change ? To thee that Thirty Eight still sparkles near, While to thy fiiend it is a faded year — AN EPISTLE. 369 Faded In all save truest love for thee, And that high-souled young priest beyond the sea, And that dear bard, whose life is like a river, Singing and sighing on its road for ever. Time was when from within myself I drew ]My powers and thoughts and instincts : all I knew Was but the self-sprung harshest of my heart, And the whole outward world was cast apart. I was a worldless man, a thing detached, A wandering cloud, a being all unmatched "With outward destiny ; but now my power Is from the world imported every hour. The pains I suffer, and the tears I see. Men's passions chance -encountered, children's glee, ^n\d moral contradictions, and green leaves, And skies, and streams, — from these my spirit weaves Her web, and every day that passes by Doth add some little to the tapestry: For moral wisdom is a gi^owing thing, "Wliene'er it rises from an outward spring. Time was when with a young man's pride I dreamed Quaintness was power ; and when to differ seemed Greater than to agree, and I esteemed All individual marks, which stand apart, Above the beatings of my common heart. The heart I share with others : now I cherish All commonplace designs as things which nourisli A fellow-feeling with my kindred ; now To rise and sink, to range from high to low. To think as all men think in woe or mirth, Seems unto me the greatest gift on earth. 24 3T0 AX EPISTLE. Thus self hath daily less significance ; And, like one waking from a pleasant trance, I love the pensive glow of earth far more Than the bright lights upon that dream-land shore. Our boyhood was a noble savage state, Whence we were not reclaimed in Thirty Eight. But now the heart's meek household growths are ours, And we must shade ourselves In their green bowers, With holiest care the shoots to prune or train, With smiles for sunshine, blameless tears for rain. I am not idle, though at anchor staying To learn self-mastery, a wise delaying. Had it been good, or had a heart of truth, I woidd sue back to me my banished youth. In calmly bending waters now I ride With manhood flowing roimd me like a tide : And, whether winds be foul or fair skies blue, I shall heave anchor when the ship is due, And come ^vitliin thy sight to seek a part In the world's fretful glory, where thou art — A man in place with boyhood at thy heart. To thee, still in the lap of om^ old dream. This uncouth teachinor for a while must seem o A cold philosophy, a barren song ; But it will not seem so imto thee long. Thou too wilt one day learn — it is not cold To speak of boyhood as a tiling gTOwn old. 371 CXLIT. THE FUTUEE. TO MY BROTHER EDWARD. I HAVE wishes, I have dreams, And some vagrant hope which seems Like a most uncertain star, Still a jo J, a joy from far : Yet the Future is to me Bright and barren as the sea, Bare of sorrow, bare of glee. Allien the present hour is weary Old times are my sanctuary. IT. In my heart are many springs, All with cheerful murmurings ; But their sweetness lures my mind Oft its armor to unbind : Then the Past my succor is, A restraint on present bliss. And an impulse when remiss, A calm precinct, a grave rule, "Wliere I am all day at school. 372 THE FUTURE. I have such a poAver of love, And such crowds of objects more Mj affections every day, That the present glides away : And I have too quick an eye Heavenly gestures to descry. Till in mute repose they lie, "With time's shadow on them cast. In the bosom of the Past. IV. There must sm^ely be a cause Why, reversing common laws. Heaven by no foreboding sorrow Drives my thoughts upon the morrow. And that simple childish hom^s Should be still the only bowers, "^Miere repentance gathers flowers, Whose strong scent of pm'er years Kindles awe and wakens tears. I have striven in restless hours To invade the future's bowers, And with fancy's help to riot In the exquisite unquiet Of a self-disturbance, where All is shadowy as air ; Eut it left my spiiit bare, And some fault was sure to come To my wild heart as a home. THE FUTURE. 373 Farewell, Future ! thou must be Still a pathless tract to me, A bar which I may overleap Only in the spells of sleep. Heaven be praised ! thou canst not tease Me from my contented ease, Nor taint me with the weak disease Of neglecting in my youth Simple thought and sober truth. VII. I shall reach thee at the last When commuted to the Past, And my pleasure will be double For the self-restraint and trouble Of averting thus my eyes From thy pomps and mysteries, ^Miile I watch the Present rise From one conquest to another. Virtue still being virtue's brother. VIII. Yet I doubt not thou art gi\"ing Light in which I now am living, As the moon, although unseen. Somehow scatters stealthy sheen. In the Past I often see Things which cannot rightly be The Past's, but must belong to thee, Wandering Futm^e ! strangely cast Deep into the prescient Past. 374 CXLIII. TO A FEIEND IN PUBLIC LIFE. T^'hat seest thou Of bush and bough, Green field or moorland border, Encompassed round, By sight and sound, The order of disorder ? II. With Tvhat fit state Can poor Spring wait On thee in London lining ? "WTiat moral light Are mornino;s bridit To thy tired conscience giving ? ni. "WTiat impulses Of skies and trees Can lonely fancy merit, Unless perchance Past springs may dance Along thy thrilling spirit ? TO A FUIEND. 375 IV. !Maj every hour An April shower Thy thirsty heart be haunting, Thus filling up From its cold cup The joys which thou art wanting ! I vould not be This day with thee, For all I love thee dearly ; I would not miss This vernal bhss AMiich hath bsgim so early. VI. Yet in my joy Is this alloy, It is almost a sorrow, Xo budding brake Thy soul can make Impatient for the morrow. vn. Throuorh P^ood and ill AVith earnest will Thou toil'st for peer and peasant, And yet I would One little bud Might wean thee from the present,- 37G TO A FRIEND. vin. That tlioii couldst run In morning sun To see the rose-leaves peeping ; For thej would tell How calm and well Earth works while men are sleeping IX. For busy walk And toil and talk Are not life's only measure ; But man, Hke earth, Hath quiet mu^th, Which is a better treasure. X. I am cast down Lest that huge town, Wild streets and wilder faces, "With clamorous state Obliterate The thought of vernal places. XI. For safety's sake To keep awake The spmt of the season. Say once an hour — ^ A lowly Flower Is wiser than proud Keason.' ENNERDALE. 377 xir. With all tlie stir, Dear Prisoner I Of wealth and rank about thee, 'Twill make thee smile To tliink awhile Of the green world without thee. CXLIV, EKNTIEDALE. I THOUGHT of Ennerdale as of a thing Upon the confines of mj memory. There was a hazy gleam as o'er a sheet Of sunny water cast, and mountain side, And much ploughed land, and cleanly cottages, A bubbhng brook, the emptying of the lake. An indistinct remembrance of being pleased That there were hedgerows there instead of walls. That it was noon, and that I swam for long In the warm lake, and dressed upon a rock ; — And this is all of verdant Ennerdale WTiich I can now recof er from my mind ; The current of bright years hath washed it out. Yet do I find the memory of it still A thing which I can lean upon, a spot Of greenness and fresh water in my soul. And I do feel the very knowledge good That there is such a place as Ennerdale, A valley and a lake of such a kind. As though I did possess it all myself With daily eye and ear, because I know It is possessed by simple dalesmen there. And I have many Ennerdales, am rich 378 EXNERDALE. In woods and fields the owners think are theirs. I can dispark the trim enclosures first, And, in the very wantonness of power, Forthwith enclose the black, unfettered heath. I pass along the road, and set my seal On lawns, rough banks, wet coverts of wild flowers, And I can pick out trees from forest lands, • For beauty or uncouthness singular. As heriots ; nay, the very brooks salute Their master as they leap, tinkling to him, Shrewd vassals ! as their truest feudal lord, "With music such as they have never paid Unto the self-called owner : when I walk By night among the moistened woods they send From every glen their dues of mossy smells. And fragrance of the withered things which lie Upon the woodland floor. I make a stir Among the fields and flowery clods, as though I would have sometliing changed ; I fold my arms, And look around, and draw my breath ; I gaze Upon the fair estates and think how I Shall will them to my children in sweet songs. Early and late I'm out upon my lands. And with pleased consequence survey the growth Of my young trees, acqumng fresh each day. Although the owners know not that they are But tenants at my will. I have, in store. The title-deeds of many a distant wood And foreign chase. With feelipg eye and ear I have been gifted, and in right of them. Like a great lord, I walk about the land. Claiming and dispossessing at my will, — The belted Earl of many Ennerdales ! !79 CXLV. A LETTER TO A FEIEXD. Thou askest me, dear Friend I for what old cause These men thus hate thee. — Hatred hath no laws, But is a weak-willed thing, which in young days A look, a word, a random doubt can raise. Account not of it ; it hath slender root ; For bitter speech doth mostly overshoot In our warm youth a passion's real length. And words are unfair measures of the strength Of youthful things : there is too great a want Of love and kindly thoughts, for hate to haunt A young heart long. Account not of it then, Xor harshly blame the speeches of those men. Ah ! never blame the hearts thou dost not know : Full are they doubtless of good thoughts, and flow O'er many round them with a power to bless, With sunny tempers, and meek gentleness, "With quick forgiveness, and sweet conquests won O'er self and sin, and generous actions done. They have their ring of fi'iends, and pensive ties. And put as much on welcomes and land eyes As we can do. Wtij wilt thou treasure up Hard words like these, which do but taint the cup Of thine own happiness ? Thou canst not spare One shred of peaceful feeling ; life will mar That store too soon with its rude misery. I should have thought, dear Friend ! that I loved thee 380 A LETTER TO A FRIEND. But feebly and unwisely to suppose Thou shouldst permit thy spirit's deep repose To be thus jarred, because some men speak ill Of one with a proud heart and headstrong will, Most variable mien, and bitter tongue "WTiich hath too often to like taunts been strung. If I must blame, then will I censure thee ; For doubtless in the days when thou wert free From those restraints upon thy thought and speech, "^fMiich now, by prayer with prayer enchained, can reach Barely across the day, thou mayst have wrought Some e^dl, vented some ill-natured thought. Been cold when kindly manners were required, Distracted in thyself, sullen, or tired. Imperious or capricious, at the hour When, which is Angels' lot, thou hadst the power To sow a gentle thought, or do a deed Which, like a prayer, in thy behalf might plead. Some wrong hast thou done them or theii' near friends. Whose memory, like a teasing shade, attends The thouo'ht of thee within them. Ah I be slow To blame these censors ! For how canst thou know True love is not the soil where tliis dislilce, On jealous friendship grafted, now doth strike Quick root, I hope not lasting ? Sure I am It is more likely far that honest blame Should rest on thee, than that a groundless hate On any human heart on earth should wait. Oh ! surely there are none would rather slake Their tliii^sty souls at bitter wells, than take The sweet and ready waters of mild springs, Which lure us by their very, mm^murings. A LETTER TO A FRIEND. 381 T must believe — fond faith perchance — true hate To be of young hearts excommunicate. ^* But if the judgments are untrue ?" ^\Tiat then ? Thej may not seem so unto other men AVho know thee better : and I never heard Eeported slander, but there was some word, Some stray expression, like a well-aimed dart, AMiich found a rightful home within my heart. If I deserved it not from him who spoke, I did from some one else ; and it awoke Soft thoughts and Idnd regrets, such as belong In compensation unto those we wrong. If now unmerited, it was not so In younger days, or some few years ago ; And it is well to have our sinful past Upon our notice somewhat roughly cast In bitter admonitions : Providence By these revenges would prolong the sense Of self-abasement, and the cleansing grief "Wliich in young hearts is wont to be too brief. It is true health which Christian spiiits win From out the abiding shade of early sin. But let this pass : an honest casuist His holy science must have sorely missed, "Who would not from such things by subtle law "Wise canons for ascetic H^ing draw ; And even to om^selves it is more fair To think ourselves in fault than that our neioiibors are. o Then be not thou afraid ; a few short years, Deepening the shades of Hfe with pensive fears, Have holiest power to soften and subdue The starting feature and the glaring hue, TMiich in om' youth will struggle into ^iew. 382 A LETTER TO A FRIEND, Time, which can heal us and yet give no pain, Will right the tremulous balance once again, And rescue, overlaid bv youth's excess Of speech and feeling, childhood's gentleness. Then mellowed by calm age. Oh ! it is sweet, As through the thick of life we turn our feet To feel how harsh, unamiable ways Wear out within us by the lapse of days, Or drop like chains which have our spirits bound Close prisoners from the hearts which lie around. Then meek-eyed simpleness and common mirth Start, like the flowers in spring, o'er all the earth. And we confess the world is made so fair That nought, but self, can be beneath us there. That such good clings to all that round us move "We fain must pity where we cannot love ; There is no soil where scorn or cold dislike, Except in self, abiding root can strike. Then be not thou afraid : for I would see In these dislikes a peaceful guarantee Of gentleness hereafter, which may wait, Kindly retributive, on this strange hate. For, in the crossings of our various strife, And oddly intersecting paths of life. We may be brought in contact with a heart "WTiich dealt hard measure to us once, and part Regretting that we should have been so much Of our short lives beyond each other's touch, — Winning kind thoughts which, whether told or not, It is a solid blessing to have got. And to the generous mind there is no love Which doth more calm and ready service move A LETTER TO A FRIEND. 383 Than that, -^'hicli througli harsh judgments hath been long Withheld from those to whom we have done A\Tong. Tonight in my lone ramble through the dell, I saw the sun sink down behind the fell. ^\Tien twilight barred him out with crimson shrouds, I saw a kneelinjT Angel in the clouds : It seemed the centre of the glorj, whence, A spot almost too bright for aching sense, A deep effulgence travelled o'er the hills, Lighting the woods, and finding out the rills In their sequestered channels ; on the breast Of one most ruorored mountain did it rest. • Ah me ! dear Friend ! I wish thou couldst have seen "With what a light it flushed the vernal gi'een, And how the huge, unsightly stones it wrought To forms of yielding softness, wliile it brought A power of transmutation to the line "WTiich keen and jagged did but lately shine. Yet now lay gloriously inflamed on high. Like an aerial mist across the sky Or wavering haze. Such is the softness cast Upon the heart when youth's hot hour is past. For some years now not one ungentle thought Towards any of my kind hath in me wrought : Yet once more do I pray kind Heaven to give That in this beam I may for ever live, That I may have a sunset in my spirit To glorify and soften all things near it ! 384 CXLVT. THE EASTEE VIOLETS. I SPOKE bj chance of modest flowers, And how, in all the banks and bowers Of yernal Bagley's greenwood ways, They ever added to my store Of festal joys, a charm the more To Christian holidays. n. A kind heart, little known to me, Amid the yarious comj^any That night this random mention heard. I spoke with truth, but neyer thought T^^hat welcome service Avould be wrought For me by that stray word. III. Yet when we utter what we feel, The homeliest, simplest things will steal To many an ear and heart unknown ; And most in song will quiet truth In right of its unfading youth Find out and win its own. THE EASTER VIOLETS. 385 IV. The sun shone fair on Easter Eve, The day when festal fancies weave Bright thi'eacls into the Lenten gloom, "XMien our free thoughts, Good Fridaj^ over. Doubtful 'twixt joy and penance, hover About the Garden Tomb. V. My new-made friend that very day, His face with radiant humor gay A little sheaf of violets brought. Large blossoms singled out with care, And mth long searching here and there At that chill season got. VI. *' I've looked the college garden through To find each one of freshest hue. That from its purple censer flings True fragrance to the old March breeze ; You are a priest," said he, '^ take these For Easter offerings." VII. He tendered them with smiling glance And playful grace, which might enhance The courteous tribute that he brought. It was a gentle act, and stirred My soul to think how simple word In simple heart had ^vrought. 25 386 THE EASTER VIOLETS. A trhial act ! Yet kindness stored In common vessels is a hoard, "Which we more palpably discover. "We fancy there is better measure Dealt out unto us when the treasure From lesser gifts runs over, IX. The single drop of pearly dew Which falls from out the harebell blue, Allien on the breezy heath it quivers, The meek observant heart will move. As proof, more touching, of God's love Than the abounding rivers. O sweet is kindliness unbought By service we ourselves have wrought, Or long-tried fi'iendship's winning arts ! O sweet is sjTupathy which springs From chance occasions, random things, And unexpected hearts ! XT. There are who on vast purpose bent With these stray joys are ill content, These angel-scattered shreds of bliss, The wild-flowers of the lavish earth. Her natural growth of blameless mii'th ; — Alas ! how much they miss ! THE LAST PxVLATINE. 387 XIT. The thoughts of kind acts long ago ^\i\\ one clay, like a fountain, flow ; And, when old age upon us sets, AVe shall need memory then to cheer A flagging mood, or diy a tear, "With such stray violets. XIII. They say that gentle soul is now Beneath dire sorrow drooping low, O'ershadowed by a clouded mind. May Heaven to his meek heart restore The radiant spirit as of yore, And that rude spell unbind ! CXLVII. THE LAST PALATIXE. How dark and dull is all the vaporous air, Loaded with sadness as though earth would grieve Whene'er the skirts of ancient grandeur leave A place they once enriched forlorn and bare ! Man and the earth in mutual bonds have dwelt So long together, that it were not strange Old lights eclipsed and barren-hearted change, Should be by sentient nature deeply felt. 388 THE LAST PALATINE. II. And ^\'ith the motions of her out^\'ard shows, Prophetic leadings, I would almost saj, Guiding the observant spirit on its way, Doth she men's minds harmoniously dispose. The woods and breams are sympathetic powers, Fountains of meek suggestion, to the man Who with submissive energy would plan His way of life in close and heated hours. How the dense morning compasses the town. As though there were no other place beyond, And with its sweeping mist bids us despond For the old forms which one by one sink down ! How patiently the Minster stands, a vain And beautiful monition, from the hill Kising or rather growing, mute and still Within a cavern of dark mist and rain ! IV. O venerable Pile ! whose awful gloom From my fii^st boyish days hath been the sign And symbol to me of the Faith divine Of which thou art a birth ! from out the womb Thou springest of the old majestic past. Colossal times, which daily from the heart Of tliis dear land with lingering steps depart. Furling the mighty shadows that they cast. THE LIST PALATINE. 389 Past greatness is the shelter and the screen, Beneath whose shade high hearts serenely lurk, Catcliing true inspiration for the work AMiich shall in other days be known and seen. But greatness, which men do not understand, Is felt a pressure not to be endured, ^Vllere barren minds are painfully immured. Like dwarfe within the grasp of giant hand. VI. How patiently the ^linster stands ! So well Hath it time's mute indignities sustained. It might for its own beauty have detained The orandem' now withdrawing. Hark ! tlie knell ! Dm'ham, the uncrowned city, in meet grief Prepares to celebrate within the shiine The obsequies of her last Palatine ; And natm^e's ^loom is felt as a relief. VII. And hark — the knell again ! Within the town Through the old narrow streets the sinuous crowds, fleeting and parting, like the trailing clouds Of a spent storm, are on the Abbey thrown. How patiently it stands ! Once more — the knell ! The crowd with silent agitation stirred And a contagious awe, like some shy herd, Shrinks at the ponderous voice of that deep bell. 390 THE LAST PALATINE. VIII. The blameless prelate in the antique gloom Of the low western Galilee is laid, In the dark pageantry of death arrayed, Xigh to the Venerable Beda's tomb : And in the distant east beside the shrine There is a grave, a little earth up- cast, "Wherein to-day a rich and solemn Past Must be entombed with this old Palatine. IX. See how with drooping pall and nodding plume In many a line along the misty nave The sombre garments of the clergy wave, Bearing the last prince-bishop to his tomb ! And, as the burden swayeth to and fro, I see a glorious relic, most sublime, A dread bequest from out the olden time. Borne from the earth with ceremonial show. X. ' To one old priest were Keys and Sceptre given. Two rights combined^ the human and diA'ine, Blended in one high office as a shrine AYhere earth might into contact come with Heaven. This homage of great times unto the Cross, All this magnificent conception, here Outstretched upon the Palatine's frail bier. Is borne away ; and will men feel no loss ? THE LAST PALATINE. 391 XI. ITath not a sacred lamp gone out to-day AVitli ominous extinction? Can ye fill, AVikl men ! the hallowed vases that ye spill, And light our darkened shrines with purer ray ? O where shall trust and love have fitting scope ? Our children will cry out for very dearth Of grandeur, fortified upon the earth As refuges for faith and holy hope. xn. The cloud of music hushed still loads the air ; The herald breaks the wand, while he proclaims The gentle Palatine's puissant names : Yon kino-less throne is now for- ever bare ! o This is a gesture, whereby we may solve The temper of the age ; upon this day, And in St. Cuthbert's shrine, the times display The secret hinge on which they now revolve. XIII. Cities, where ancient sacrilege was bold, Nature with tenderest rites doth consecrate Anew, and their remains incorporate ^Yith her own placid mounds and forests old : But an unholy action at its birth Doth visibly uncrown a place, laid low- In all the rawness of dishonor : now There is a glory less upon the earth. 392 THE RUINED COTTAGE. XIV. At night upon the Minster I looked do^^m ; In all the streets through dismal mist and rain The lights were twinkhng ; and the mighty fane Seemed o'er its sevenfold subject hills to frown. Now then let ages pass, o'er this gray shrine, Of uncrowned faith and formal prayer forlorn, Magnificent traditions all forsworn, And tlirone unpressed by lawful Palatine. XV. Fortress of God ! colossal Abbey ! thou In thy stern grandeur shalt outlive the forms That thus unqueen thee, and above the storms Of coming change shalt lift thy reverend brow. Once more shall Host and Sacrifice be thine, ^Mien Cuthbert's bones, concealed from curious scorn, Down the grand aisles in triumph shall be borne, AYith jubilant psalms, by some new Palatine ! CXL^TII. THE EUINED COTTAGE. I. A RICH and languid midsummer Thou dost from thine own sj^ii'it bring. And, like a pleased magician there, Thou standest in thy self- drawn ring ; And fr'om thine own abounding youth Thou spinnest threads of bright untruth, And weavest of hope's starry beams Upon love's busy loom a tapestry of dreams. THE RUINED COTTAGE. 393 n. A sunlight to thyself thou art ; Ah me ! it is a hapless lot, And in old age exiles the heart Unto a bare, unsunny spot. Thou passest on from day to day, As though life were the ]Milky Way ; Duty hath chartered not thy bliss. For joy well earned is no such t^vilight thing as this. ni. Come with me to this mountain vale, And in meek nature's twilight see In after years how wan and pale Thy self-illumined dream ^411 be, Like yon poor dull and murky speck By sunset left a joyless wreck. What time its mellow slanting ray From out of Langdale sent its last long look this way. The eveninoj wind is rude and hio-h Upon this wild deserted green ; The mountains in the pallid sky Piise up with outline cold and keen : The splashing lake, the rocking trees To me are mournful imao-es ; Like uncrowned household gods are they, Unworshipped now amid this pastoral decay. 394 THE RUINED COTTAGE. Here once were happy peace and smiles, And no less happy, holy tears ; Here once "vrere love's domestic wiles, And constancy which grew with years ; Here conjugal delights were Im^ed, And simple trials were endured, And, with his helpmate at his side. The shepherd's cares were light, his sorrows sancti- fied. TI. See here the drooping ash-tree shade Meet for the matron's out-door work. The common where the childi-en played. The neighboring copse where they might lurk. Ah ! many a merry sunburnt face Hath come and gone in this green place, And Loughrigg heard the echoes play — A year wakes fewer now than then were waked each day. vn. T see the blue smoke rising up, The ruined house resume its roof, The streamlet in a rough stone cup Protected from the horse's hoof; I hear the vespers of the bees In those two sister linden trees ; And there the gilded hollies shine Tlirough the close network of the clambering eglantine. THE RUINED COTTAGE. 395 VI n. I sec the happy rustic pair, O how mj heart the vision stirs ! Ami foiu' sweet children, wild and fair, Peeping among the junipers ; While o'er the lake with tremulous swell Eight strikes upon the chapel bell, Within its cincture of green trees Drawing all thoughts unto its pensive sanctities. IX. Did ever dream come true like this ? If o'er the wide earth we could roam Should we detect a better bHss, A simpler or a nobler home ? A few souls moving dav and nioht Within an orbit of delight, While they mth mutual help fulfil In meek self-sacrifice and want our Father's Will ! Believe me there is not a bliss To bear the pressure of hard life, ^Tiich hath not been well-forged like this, And tempered in our mortal strife. Old age is miserably poor "Which hath not thus laid by its store Of cheerfulness from good deeds done, And lawful prisage laid on conquests duly won. 396 THE RUINED COTTAGE. XI. Yet even here behold the Tvreck, That voiceless tenement behold ; The past a sun-deserted speck, AATiose story is thus sadly told By all this melancholy round Of lonely form and cheerless sound, Which to the grieving spu'it call With plaintive wooing, a most touching pastoral. xn. And in the lone and pale ash-trees, And o'er the Tvhite and Tvithered grass. With what a moaning doth the breeze O'er this unhaunted moorland pass. It makes me sad to see it throw The blossoms from the linden bough, Wliile by the little waterfalls The white owl hoots from out the ivy-strangled walls. XIII. And here and there and everywhere, The eyeless casements all about. Like lost babes wailing in the air, The piteous nightbirds ever shout. It is a thought to consecrate This moorland with pathetic state, — That Human Nature many a day Here lived and loved, and like a cloud hath passed away. 397 \ CXLIX. THE KOTHAY. Df.ar Stream ! upon thy grassy brink I often am constrained to tliink That thou must so enamoured be Of thine ovra pensive melody, It is a wonder that some day Thou dost not thy soft current stay, And listen in a green recess Unto the sudden silentness, 'VMiich vould be in the widowed air, Were thy sweet voice no longer there. How dull would all the meadows look Bereaved of their own tinkling brook ! The fringing birchtrees that beat time With tendrils dipping to the chime, How sad would they be and forlorn, "Were there no breath, of murmur bom. To agitate with cool delight Their moistened tresses day and night ! In truth that j)leasant shady sadness Would all its meek reserve of gladness, Lilce a mute mourner, soon forswear, Were there no choral waters there With changeful note to suit a tale To all who pass along the vale. I do believe the very bees Would quit the roadside linden trees. 398 THE ROTHAY, THien summer afternoons are long, Didst thou not Tvile them with thj song To keep up in the well-pleased air A di'owsj emulation there. Indeed, sweet Brook ! we cannot part "With thee ; for to the rale thou art, To grieve, to comfort, to rejoice, An altogether needful voice. And yet, dear Stream ! I wonder much A deep desire doth never touch Thy waterbreaks awhile to stay. Self-gathered in yon mossy bay. Awhile in quiet depths to ghsten, Awhile the distant sounds to listen Of tliine own gushings far above, "Wliich Hke the wooing of a dove, That penetrates the breezeless wood, The breath upon thy sylvan flood Might waft into thy curious ear, Confusing sweetly far with near. And better still if fi'om on high There came no kindred melody ; For then it were a joy to know What would be, didst thou cease to flow ; And it were sweet for thee to measure The fulness of the daily treasure "\Miich thou art to this vale always, Blythe Chanter of a hundred lays ! So kindly hearts might love to see How bare a place the world would be, Bereaved of all the lustre won From what hath been or may be done Through faith, through love, self-sacrifice, And our domestic charities, THR ROTHAY. 399 TMiich, as we waken every morn, Remind us life may yet be borne. Ah ! Eothay ! now on thee doth wait For evermore a poet's fate, A captive, bound both eye and ear, In his o^vn sweetness prisoner, To whom his crafty melody Is no such power of simple glee As unto others it may seem, Who lie and listen by the stream Of song, which flows in many a fall Of thouorht and lanoruao^e musical. Then mig^htest thou beo^in once more A deeper strain than heretofore. Cheered — not by knowing that thou art A power with which we cannot part, Kor any other conscious pride Unmeet for such fair river-side — But by the buoyant powers which rise With something of a meek surprise, 'NMien partial self-restraint hath given To common joys the bliss of Heaven. For when sequestered fi'om sweet thought By weary cares, we have been brought With thii'sty heart and eager want Once more unto our pensive haunt, It seems like thee, my household Eiver, Brighter and lovelier far than ever, With fresh dimensions of true beauty, Seen in rehef against hard duty. O joyous art thou, festal Earth ! For every month with some new birth Of glory waits on thee : there is A beating pulse of truest bliss 400 THE ROTHAY. Deep in the black and glossy lake, The jew-crowned steep, the hazel brake : A golden light of gladness quivers Submersed in the transparent rivers ; And there are ministers and poAvers Among the still or beckoning flowers ; The ship -like clouds, which overwhelm The azure sky, have at their helm An inward love to steer them right : Clear visitations of delight Thrill through the lone and swampy ground, "With sight at imison with sound : The creatures in their perfect motions, The tides and currents of the oceans, The growing trees, — for ever move By most transcendent law of love And blameless will, yet have no power Of self-restraint — not for an hour ! — And therefore, blessed Earth ! it is. One moment of pm^e mortal bliss. Aye or pure mortal grief, is worth A hundred years of thy mute mirth, A hundred years of moons that range 'Twixt sameness beautiful and change "WTiich is not change, but to man's eye His inward mutability Eeflected in the earth and sky. Xo love for its own sake can we Eestow on thy tranquillity ; But, when received into the strife Of feeling heart or pensive life, Our spirit sheds on thee a dew ■\Yhi«h doth almost create thee new ; THE ROTHAY. 401 And then, 0 Earth ! how dear thou art, How sacred to each tender heart ! Thou knowest not the wondrous blending Of bright and dark in the ascending Scale of life, the never ending Wea^'ing of all times and places, . And charities and wrongs and graces, Of love and sorrow, mom and even, Youth and acre, and earth and heaven. Xo jo J is realized until Bj power of the hannonious ^ill And the submissive reason, it Will, all unquestioning, admit Stern duty with a yielding grace To be enthroned upon its place ; And hath been taught to come and go, As task and leisure ebb and flow. And it for duty's coming waits A humble portress at the gates. Thou canst not know, dear Stream I tlie joy, "Without missdvinor or allov, AMiich abstinence and self-control Spread like a sunrise, o'er the soul. Thou canst not know what flight is given. Unto the very doors of heaven. To hearts which from self-sacrifice, Like birds from lowly places, rise, "WTio soar the highest when their mirth Is humblest on the lowly earth. Thy song cheers not thyself, dear Eiver ! Because it is a song for ever ; It is thyself, thy life, and not A gift, a separable lot, 402 EXaLTSH HEDGES. Of whose deep tenderness and beauty Thou canst bj self-restraint and duty "VYin sweet returns or augmentations ; It hath no daily new creations — Fresh births which come from sapient glee, From wisdom, fi'om simplicity, "V\Tien mortal joys themselves refrain For YU'tue's sake, then flow again. So are we made ; unquiet pleasure, TMiich the calm spiiit cannot measure, Endm-eth not, and is no treasm-e. The mirth we cannot put away Is but a mii^th on its first day. The joy which we can not restrain Is but a liberty h'om pain. Where self and pleasm'e are but one. That sold is morally imdone ! CL. EXGLISH HEDGES. I. XoT without deep memorial truth are ye. Partitions of sweet thorn ! wliich intersect Our blythest counties, bidding us reflect Full oft upon om^ rural ancestry. The imambitious thanes of Saxon days ; "Wlio with their modest manors well content. Of com and mead and fragTant bean-field blent, And woody pasture, lived in simple ways And patriarchal virtues, ere the hand Of Xorman ride was felt ; or feudal right, Baneful exotic ! settled like a blight On the free customs of the pastoral land. ENGLISH HEDGES. 403 IT. Behold — a length of hundred leagues displajed- That -^eb of old historic tapestry With its green patterns, broidered to the eye, Is with domestic mysteries inlaid ! Here hath a nameless sire in some past age In quaint uneven stripe or cm'ious nook, Clipped by the wanderings of a snaky brook, Carved for a yoimger son an heritage. There set apart, an island in a bower, ATith right of road among the oakwoods round, Are some few fields witliin a ring-fence bound, Perchance a daughter's patrimonial dower. III. So may we dream, while to our fancy come Kind incidents and sweet biogTaphies, Scarce fanciful, as flowing from the ties And blissful bonds wliich consecrate our home To be an earthly heaven. From shore to shore That ample, wind-stirred net-work doth ensnare '^\ ithin its delicate meshes many a rare And rustic legend, which may yield good store Of touching thought unto the passenger. Domestic changes, families decayed. And love or hate, in testaments displayed By dying men, still in the hedgerows stir. 404 ENGLISH HEDGES, lY. "^Mien Eome her British Eagles did recall, Time saw the ages weave that web of green Assiduously upon the rural scene, Ere jet the lowly-raftered Saxon hall "Was watched from Xoiman fortalice. The fields Escutcheons were, borne by those equal thanes, "WTiile herald spring went wandering up the lanes, Blazoning with green and white the yeomen's shields, And as the Church grew there, beneath her eyes The breadth of hedgerows grew with her, not loth To be, as fi-eedom is, an undergrowth Of that true mother of all liberties. V. The Saxon hedgerows stand, though twice assailed ; Once greedy barons in their pride of bii^th For himting groimds imparked the fertile earth, Till peasant joys and pastoral ditties failed. Now upstart wealth absorbs both far and nigh The small ancestral farms : woe worth the day, "When fortunes overgrown shall eat away The heart of our old English yeomanry ! The hedges still survive, shelters for flowers, An habitation for the singing birds. Cool banks of shadow grateful to the herds, A charm scarce known in any land but om^s. A MOUNTAIN TARNS. 405 Yl. Ye modest relics of a simple past, Most frail and most endm^ing monument, Ye still are here, when Norman Keep is rent And cruel Chace disparked into a waste Of cheerful tillage : je uninjured rise, To nature and to human wants allied, Therefore outliving works of lordlj pride. How rightly dear for what je symbolize ! Long may the Saxon hieroglyphic stand, A precious trophy in the yeoman's eye. The wisdom of om' ancient polity Written in leafy cypher o'er the land ! CLT. MOUXTAIX TAEXS. O ASKEST thou of me What store of thoughtful glee By mountain tarns is lying. That I to such grim nooks Prom my dull-hearted books Should evermore be flying ? 406 MOUXTAIX TARNS. IT. Go thou, and spend an hour In autumn fog and shower Amid the thunderinor rills, Or hear the breezy sigh Of smnmer quiet die Among the noonday hills. III. The eagle's royal soul Is nm^tured in the roll And echo of the thunder, And feeds for evermore Amid the summits hoar On sights and soimds of wonder. IT. The mm^mm' of the stone "With hoarse and hollow moan Self-loosened from the height,- The waterfall's wliite showers In midnight's deepest hom^s Creatine soimd and lio^ht, — V, The pauses in the blowing Of winds, when oxen lowing Are heard from rales beneath, The under-world of care Scarce bm'dening the air "With its poor plaintive breath ,- MOUNTAIN TAKNS. The fragrance of the noon, The nearness of the moon, The swampy mosses tingling, The strife of peace and noise, Like the sorro^ys and the joys In earthly lots commingling, — TIT. To all such sight and sound Is the eagle's being bound, A destiny of bliss ; These spells his spii'it wake, These influences make The easjle what he is. VIII. So I of lowly bii^th, A workman on the earth, "Would cast myself apart, That I a little time From dreariness sublime Might win a royal heart. IX. The golden- crowned kings Are often abject things ; I would not be as they : But mountain winds and waves Teach no men to be slaves. But with high minds obey. 407 408 MOUNTAIN TARNS. X. Great emperors forget, In jewelled places set, The human heart below. And with no fellows near They often cease to hear Its holy ebb and flow. XI. Eut I from mountain throne Would oftentimes come down, And leave unto the breeze And cataract to fill "With echoes at their will My dreary royalties. XII. I would in mountain haunt Eut quicken the sweet want Of love and blisses mild ; And I would alternate My pomp of regal state With the humors of a child. XIII. There is a power to bless In hill-side loneliness. In tarns and dreary places, A virtue in the brook, A freshness in the look Of mountain's joyless faces. OUR THOUGHTS. 409 XIV. And I would have mj heart From littleness apart, A love -anointed thing, Be set above mj kind, In my unfettered mind A veritable king. XV. And so Avhen life is dull, Or Tvhen mj heart is full Because coy dreams have fi'owned, I -wander up the rills To stones and tarns and hills, — I go there to be crovrned. CLII. OUE THOUGHTS AEE GEEATEE THAX OUESELYES. Om thoughts are greater than ourselves, our di'eams Ofttimes more soKd than our acts ; our hope With more of substance and of shadoTv teems Than our thin joys, and hath a nobler scope. O sons of men ! there is a Presence here, Here in our o^wn undying spirits, vrhich "With an unearthly wealth doth oft emich The reason hourly sanctified by fear. Herewith men prophesy, herewith men press To their own hearts in studious loneliness Forms greater than they dare to tell : beneath The shadow of their own imaorinino-s They sit, withdrawn and sheltered ; for a wreath Encircles them, a wreath of Angel's wino-s. 410 EFFUSION ON HEARING CLIII. I FEEL A CHANGE. I FEEL a change, — and jet I know not how Or where or when, or what it doth betoken ; But sure I am that voices which haye spoken Daily within mj soul are speechless now. For thought or fancy, hope, joy, smile and tear, My being is not what it was last year. And a new power, which will not yet reveal Its name and purpose, hath abeady gone This way or that, as though it fain would steal And climb unchallenged to some inward throne : \Miile I with fretful guess go sounding on Depth after depth of my vexed mind, to dodge The bold, unbidden stranger, and dislodge All influence, unmeasm^ed and unknown. CLIY. EFFUSIOI^ OX HEAETXG OF A FEIEXD'S DEATH FROM FEVER AT NAPLES. And he is dead ! Mourn, all ye moonlit hills. Ye woods that sleep so sweetly in the beams, Thou lake that t^vinklest like the light in dreams, Thou dappled sky ; and ye, 0 tuneful rills. Thus charmed to silentness, awake and call For power unto the raring waterfall ! I OF A friend's death. 411 n. And he is dead ! Dear, blessed spirit ! there By the wild river doth his dwelling stand, The one dark spot in all the moonlit land, AMiieh lies beneath this mountain summit bare. O Xature ! my o'erburdened heart relieve, Ye woods and hills, in mournful concert grieve ! in. ' Up many a vale I see the glimmering light Of scattered farms ; I hear the sheepdogs bay The quiet hanging moon, and far away The echos travel. 0 how calm is night ! And through the gloom I can no peak descry, TThich was not dear to Edward's gentle eye. IV. And he is passed away, — vrith snowy sail Xo more shall cleave Winander's azure deeps, Xo more shall homeward wend while moonlight sleeps On Brathay's ivied bridge and woody vale ! All, all is passed ; a few calm months have rolled, And all that world of joy is cold — is cold ! V. O Italy ! thou wert his waking dream. And thou hast proved his gTave ; we Httle know The ills which from self- chosen pleasures flow. Ah me ! at length the moon with silver gleam Hath struck his house-top, and the glittering rill Shoots past the bridge, and then is dark and still. 412 EFFUSION ON HEARING VI. To-day I heard the cuckoo first this year ; It rose from his o\m grounds, an ominous cry, Which \vith old arts and wiles advanced more nigh, — Then thrown far off, when it had been most near : This do I fondly note ; such chances are Not without light in sorrow's calendar. VII. Thus yearly hath the warning deathbell tolled Into my startled ear amid the chime Of youth's long holydays ; and every time Bereavement seems more desolate and cold : And I am now to grief less reconciled. Than when I was in pureness more a chUd. VIII. Ah woful lot ! when sorrow hath become A source of self-disturbance, not a thing From which the growths of faith and meekness spring ; The world too much, too long hath been my home ; And this chill shock goes further, deeper in, As though 'twere fathoming new depths of sin. IX. And rainest thou, O Moon ! so calm a shower Upon Yesu\do's beacon-height, the sea And the white crescent of Parthenope, The garden terrace, and sweet lemon-bower ? And canst thou strike from out the hollow skies The tranquil spot where that dear outcast lies ? OF A friend's DBATH. 4 1 3 X. I too ^vithiii the moonlight of sad thought Can compass far-off joys and long-past days: jNIemory can strike ^vith most pathetic rays Ivind pensive looks and tender actions wrought In times bygone, and bring them round her now. White flowers, tear-freshened, for pale sorrow's brow. XI. How beautiful are thy constraints, 0 Death 1 On our affections so benignly felt, Making all hearts, ranks, ages melt To one true brotherhood before thy breath ! I feel this night a fresh access of love For my lost friend, which Heaven doth not reprove. Mercifid God ! with whom the spirits are, Most holy Saviour ! on the mountain top The earth Thou madest, overspread with hope. Breathes consolation in the quiet air : Death is Thine earnest that our souls are free, O blessed are the dead who die in Thee ! xni. Yea blessed, else would earth or sky display- Some trouble when the youthful are laid low. So soft, so calm may be the moonlight show, When I, perchance still young, am called away, No trouble stir that night on Brathay's shore T^lien I can hear his woodland voice no more ! 414 CLY. THE COXTEAST. I. O EARTH, meek mother ! vrith thy po^rers at ^var, How rudely 'gainst thj harmonies we strike I The voice of men and cities seems to jar Thy soimds more than thy stillness : how unhke These pastoral bleatings or this wild bird's wails Absorbed so kindly into all these mountain vales — n. Absorbed, or rather by true love prolonged Through echo's lonely outposts in far links, And justly ; else earth surely would have wi'onged That old coeval soimd : but whoso thinks That she to men's mutations ^^'ill be chained Deems lightly of the place to which she is ordamed. III. Weak and dejected, for the gift of song, Intemperately used, had sapped my health, I lived in open air the whole day long In liill or wood, extracting thence a wealth Of chaste delights my future toil to bless. Mingled ^dth just self-blame for fancy's late excess. THE CONTRAST. 415 TV. AVitliin a natural temple of old pine, On whose grey columns and red ^vithered floor The sun mth noontide force could barely shine, I lay at ease ; around me a gay store Of cuckoo-plant, with white and winking eyes Fuiied and unfurled, among the starting roots did rise. Y. Lmsible creatm-es rustled in the moss And the crisp leaves ; a wild suspicious eye Looked from a thrush's nest : and at a loss To find his master, closely harbored nigh. My dog at times among the boughs was seen, Like some white thing that floats deep in the waters green. VI. And by the tiny trumpets of the bees Was I well soothed, and the blythe insect hum ; And winds were bom and died within the trees, Prisoned and stifled in the leafy gloom : The plaint of lambs, the tinkhng of a brook. Refined by distance, came unto this sombre nook. TII. Aloft the stockdoves seemed vrith their deep cooinor o All the broad wood to quiet and control. An eloquence like the continual wooing Of holy thoughts within a Christian soul : Eemote I saw some horses in a plough. The world — seen, as the Saints should see it, far below. 416 THE CONTRAST. vin. God's blessing was upon the earth, all bound In deep content and joy from vale to height ; There was that concord of harmonious sound, Those thrillings, almost vocal, of strong light, Suggesting to transported ear and eye A present Power, diviner than tranquillity. IX. Homeward I went, with thoughts such as might wait Upon the vision in that shelter given, In meditation chastened yet elate, When all things seem transparent, and true Heaven Glows through all earthly loveliness and power, As though the veil were beinor consumed hour after o o hour. X. Then suddenly by duty was I led Unto a scene of desperate misery, A moaning sinner on his dying bed, A drunkard — oh how unprepared to die ! Too weak for prayer, for Sacrament unmeet, O Heaven ! what sight was this a pastor's eye to greet ! XI. But let us veil the scene ; a cooling breeze Tln"ough the porch honeysuckle gently sighing. The singing birds, clear hills, and budding trees — Amid all this the sinner lay a-dying : O when I quitted that most dismal room The outward sunshine was all baffled by the gloom. OXCE MOUE AMID THE ALDER TREES. 41" XII. ^lost inharmonious ^orld ! which can compress Such sweetness and such horror in an hour, As though all beautj and all fearfulness Turned on one hinge, were but one folding door, Each counteracting each, with woe and mirth In mutual ecUpse o'ershadowing the earth. XIII. Such and so solemn is the pastor's life, Strange alternations which, well weighed, may yield Eeasoning sublime, and contemplation rife "^rMth virtuous purposes by faith to build The soul which doth among such fortunes rangr^. The death-bell tolls : Christ aid him in his fearful change ! CLVI. OXCE MOEE A:\ITD THE ALDER TEEES. T. OxcE more amid the alder trees, Once more among the hills, Mid de^vy grass and fading leaves And the blue steam on the rills. 27 418 ONCE MORE AMID THE ALDER TREES. II. Once more amid the pomp of clouds, Once more in shade and shower, What ^vender is it I should -weep For joy of autumn's po^ver ? ni. One year unto another calls In most mysterious ways : Autumn to autumn joins, and ^vakes The old autumnal days. IV. In springtide thus the jocund past One long, long springtide seems, And summer shapes and finishes The bygone summer's dreams. V. Such separate prerogative Doth in the seasons he, And of sweet use may wise men make This deep consistency. YI. Dear native land ! dear English friends ! Now doubly dear are ye : Is it a trouble or a joy T^lierewith ye welcome me ? VII. Since last T walked through withered fem "WTiat tides of sight and sound To far-off seas and foreign streams My pliant heart have bound ! ONCE MORE AMID THE ALDER TREES. 419 VIII. Mid gorgeous cities, stirring lands, !Mid \vonder, change, and mirth, For months and months there was to me Xo England on the earth. IX. I saw the fruit-tree roads of France, The ancient Lombard plain. And Venice in her white sunshine Still sitting by the main. X. And oh ! how blue were all the bays, How strange the desert peace, The marbles hoar, the olives grey In old heroic Greece. XI. And bright was May in your gi'een haunts, Ye sweet Propontid isles ! And bright along the Bosphorus "Were summer's evening smiles. XIT. All up the wild Danubian plain. In Transylvanian dells. By Mur's romantic castled heights And Drava's mountain wells, XIII. Along the shining bends of Inn, In old Bavarian towns, By many a deep green Austrian lake, On bleak Bohemian downs, 420 oncp: moee amid the aller teees. XIV. From hill and stream and ruin hoar — Grave lessons did I learn, Deep wisdom poinded by earth herself From her own ancient mn. XV. Kow is it all a dream, a thing Gone with the bmied past, A vision broken up, a light AVliich had no life to last. XYI. And cheerfully, like vernal plants That pierce the April earth, Last autumn's thoughts come calmly up With old autumnal miith : XVTI. Calmly and cheerfully they come As though I had been here Nor left tills single mossy bank Through all the bygone year. XVIII. Thought must be earned by thought, and truth From other truth be won : ;N'ext year the fruit will come of seed In this year's ftavel sown. 42L CLVII. A YISIOX OF BEIGHT SEAS. I. I NEVER think without a thrill Of wild and pure delight Of all the leagues of blue, blue sea, "WTiich I have sailed o'er merrilj In day or dead of night. II. With moon and stars, at morn and eve, In sunnj wind and shower. How often hath it worked in me, — That mystery of the kingly sea, With joyous spells of power I My heart doth burn whene'er I gaze From o'er the vessel's side, And see the tremulous sunbeams sleep Far down within the azure deep, And rocking in the tide. IV. And I could sit for hours and watch The white phosphoric track, Which like a streaky firebrand burns-,^ Where'er the foamy rudder turns. Across night's ocean black. 422 A VISION OF BRIGHT SEAS. V. Methinks that laid, as I am no^v, Upon the rack of pain, The briny seaweed's fragrant breath On old St. Hilda's breezy heath Might woo health back again. YI. O it is well sick men should go Unto the royal sea ; For on theii^ souls as on a glass, From its bright fields the breath doth pass Of its infinity. TIT. Go forth from thy sick room tliis day, My languid heart ! go forth ; Mount on the merry moorland breeze. And sweep o'er all the murmuring seas We've known in south or north ! VIII. How quick the mountains melt away The girdle of dark firs ! And Wansfell's broad opposing bank Fades off into a shining blank, And see — the vision stks ! IX. "Waves rock and flow, ships come and go, And cities are displayed Apparelled in transparent air, With quays and harbors : surely ne*er Was Merlin so obeyed ! A VISION OF BRIGHT SEAS. 423 X. There Genoa bends along the shore Ikneath her Apennines ; There emulous waters force their vray Into the locked and jealous bay AVhere old Venetia shines. xr. There are the low Dalmatian isles, The gems on Adria's arms. Albania's glens and white Corfu, And Grsecia's belt of waters blue, And deep ^Egean calms. XII. Fling wide the antechamber door, "N^liere sweet Propontis catches Sophia's gleam at break of day. Or plaintive wail fi'om cupola Eepeating the night watches. XIII. Thou, hospitable Euxine ! thou Art not forgotten here, Upon whose undulating breast. Spite of all legends, did I rest Cahn as on "Windermere. XIV. Oh bliss ! what lights the sun and moon Have scattered o'er the sea, Which, though to others they would seem Confused into a radiant dream. Are all distinct to me. 424 A VISION OF BRIGHT SEAS. XV. Mj mother taught me how to love The mystery of the sea ; She sported vith my childish vonder At its ^vhite Avaves and gentle thimder,- Like a man's deep voice to me. XVI. "^Tien in my soul dim thoughts awoke, She helped to set them free ; I learned from ocean's murmiuiiigs How infinite, eternal tilings. Though "siewless, yet could be. XVII. In gentle moods I love the hills Because they bound my spirit ; But to the broad, blue sea I fly, "When I would feel the destiny Immortal souls inherit. GENOA. 425 CLVIIl. THE YEAE AFTER TEAVELLIXG. See how last year is coming back again ! Dost thou not feel bright cities ^vork in thee, At which we touched upon the midland sea, And fair cathedrals towering on the plain ? Through all the gathered mould of hope and fear, The heap of wintry things which we have cast Upon our memories, rehcs of the past Work up in little earthquakes from last year. And is it not a very pleasant trouble To feel this year our calendar is double ? My thoughts have been bewildered all the day, As though I walked on air, not on the gi^ound, And, from the date, I have this evening- foimd It was a misty sight of Genoa. CLIX. GENOA. I AM where snoTvy mountains round me shine ; But in sweet vision truer than mine eyes I see pale Genoa^s marble crescent rise Between the water and the Apennine. 426 GENOA. n. On the sea-bank she couches like a deer, A creature gmng light with her soft sheen, "\Miile the blue ocean and the mountain green, Pleased -VN'ith the wonder, alwaj gaze on her. ni. And day and night the mild sea -murmur fills The corridors of her cool palaces. Taking the freshness from the orange trees, A fi'agrant gift into the peacefid hills. IV. And from the balustrades into the street From time to time there are voluptuous showers, Gentle descents, of shaken lemon flowers, Snapped by the echo of the passing feet. T. And when the sun his noonday height hath gained How mute is all that slumberous Apennine, Upon whose base the streaks of green turf shine With the black oHve-gardens interveinedl VI. How fair it is when, in the purple bay. Of the soft sea the clear- edged moon is drinking. Or the dark sky amid the shipmasts winking "SYith summer lightning over Corsica ! VII. O Genoa! thou art a marvellous birth, A clasp which Joins the mountains and the sea ; And the two powers do homage unto thee As to a matcliless wonder of the earth. GENOA. 427 VII f. Can life be common life in spots like these, "Where they breathe breath from orange gardens Avafted ? 0 joy and sorrow surely must be grafted On stems apart for these bright Genoese. IX. The place is islanded amid her mii'th ; The very girdle of her beauty thrown About her in men's minds, a virgin zone, Marks her a spot unmated on the earth. X. 1 hear the deep coves of the Apennine Filled with a gentle trouble of sweet bells ; And the blue tongues of sea that pierce the dells. As conscious of our Lady's feast-day, shine. XT. For Genoa the Proud for many an age . Hath been pre-eminent as tributary Unto the special service of St. Mary, The sinless Virgin's chosen appanage. XII. I see the streets with very stacks of flowers Choked up, a wild and beautiful array, And in my mind I thread my fragrant way Once more amid the rich and cumbrous bowers. XIII. And, unforgotten beauty ! by the bay I see the two boys and the Little maiden, With crimson tulips for the Virgin laden, Vending along the road fi:om Spezia, 428 NAMES OF GOOD OMEX. XIV. Sister I thou askest Vi^hj this evening long 1 have in selfish silence been immured, — This is the vision which I have endured, Shaped, to win pardon, in a simple song. XV. It would augment thj happiness and mine, If thou, dear Ellen ! could'st but share ydth me This magic atlsIou of the Midland Sea, And the white citj with her Apennine! CLX. XAMES OF GOOD OMEX. THE il API A OX THE BOSPHOKUS. I. The sunny wisdom of the Greeks All o'er the earth is strewed : On every dark and awful place, Eude hill and haunted wood, The beautiful bright people left A name of omen good. n. They would not have an e^il word Weigh heavy on the breeze. They would not darken mountain side, Xor stain the shining seas, With names, of some disastrous past The unwise witnesses. NAMES OF GOOD OMEX. 420 TIT. Hero legcndarj Argo touclied In this blue-watered baj ; Here dark Medea in pursuit Her poisons cast a^vaj, Polluting even the odorous shades Of pure Therapia. IV. Look hoTv the interlacing trees Their glowing blossoms wreathe ! Is this a spot for poison plants, For crime or savage death ? The Greeks endured not that on it Should pass so dire a breath : V. Unlike the children of romance, — From out whose spirit deep The touch of gloom hath passed on glen And mountain lake and steep. On Devil's Bridge and Eaven's Tower And lovelorn Maiden's Leap : VI. "Who sought in cavern, wood, and dell, "Wliere'er they could lay bare The path of ill, and localized Terrific legends there. Leaving a hoarse and ponderous name To haunt the very air. 430 NAMES OF GOOD OMEN. vir. Xot so the radiant-hearted Greeks, AVho hesitated still To offend the blessed Presences Which earth and ocean fill ; \Miose tongues, elsewhere so eloquent, Stammered at words of ill. Till. All places, where their presence was Upon the fruitful earth, By kindly law were clasped within The circle of their mirth, And in their spirits had a new And consecrated bii'th. IX. O bless them for it, traveller! The fair-tongued ancients bless! VTho thus fi-om land and sea trod out All footmarks of distress. Illuminating earth with their Own inward cheerfulness. Unto the Axine Sea they sent A name of better feehng ; Dark powers into Eumenides, A gentle change! were stealing, And poison-stained Therapia Became the Bay of Healing! 431 CLXI. A DAY UPOX TIIE EUXIXE SEA. Seven times doth Asia's floweiy coast give place To Europe's shrubby cliffs and verdant Thrace ; And Europe into seven s^veet bays retires TThere summer sunrise shoots his pearly fires ; There holy East and royal West are meeting, Each from the other's headlands still retreatinor. o With currents and ^th counter-cmTents seven The cold, bright Tv^aters, blue as bluest Heaven, Seem Hke the beating pulses of the free And angry spirit of the Euxine Sea. IT. Lift up the veil of legendary gloom TMiich hangs before that dreadfiU sea, the vomb, So seemed it to the reverent men of old, Where every direful shape and form imtold Of dark disaster hulked ; upon Tvhose flood A mist, and no mere sea -bom mist, did brood With heavy, hanging shadow ; it vras then A sea for gods and heroes, not for men ; Yet ^th a kindly name they Tvorshipped thee, The offering of their lips, dread Euxine Sea! to2 A DAY UPON THE EUXINE SEA. III. "With what a very diadem of fear They cro^vTied thee king of waters I Far and ner.r, The Delian blessing his ^gean calm, Or Attic dweller at some inland farm Amid his olivejards, had many a tale Enough to make the listening throng turn pale. Perplexing phantoms chasing ships behind, Mists, monsters, sudden wreck, and wondrous wind,— Such were their dim uncheerful thoughts of thee. Thou leo;end- circled thinor, dread Euxine Sea I IT. Thy wandering waves had limits in the air. Begotten of men's faith : they thought not where Kor yet how near thou wert, but cast thee far Unto the confines of their thoughts, a bar Xot reverently to be o' erleaped : the past One streak of light across the darkness cast ; One pathway, moonbeam-Hke, the gloom did break,— 'Twas ^Vrgo passing with her burning wake ; And in a cloud of troubled minstrelsy They wrapped thy sacred name, dread Euxine Sea ! T. Eut see this harmless glossy-surfaced ocean, Cradhng my boat with quiet-throbbing motion ! This is no dismal threshold to be strown With horrid wreck, no tempest-spirit's throne. Eaith fails the legends ; the eye seeks but sees Xo monument, no twin Symplegades. Oh how transfigm^ed, waves and headlands drear ! The very soul of May is breathing here! Such sides, winds, waters — can they truly be Upon the veritable Euxine Sea ? A DAY UPON THE EUXIXE SEA. 433 VI. The hollow waves, like summer thunder, roar On Thracia's rocks and low SiHstria's shore. There Eussia looms, or mistwreaths cheat the eye. Upon the horizon line of history ; And there, where yon white ship hath set her helm. Are Persia's havens deep, the garden-realm, The clime where earth, their thoughtless earth, discloses Xought to the poet's soul but wine and roses. These are the shadows, bygone or to be, "WTiich flit along thy coasts, di'ead Euxine Sea ! VII. Xow that the Strait, her seven fair bays unbinding, Draws the caique through each blue snaky winding. My heart is Kghted on from cape to cape By torchlike song or legendary shape, While from the flowery Kandili there come Cool odorous breaths to old Byzantium. The sight of thee, dread Euxine ! calm and near, Hath made thee not the less a thing to fear ; Else why this troubled thrill which works in me TVTien I have seen and touched the Euxine Sea ? vin. But lo ! Stamboul ! A thousand sunset-fires Are gilding tall ship masts and cypress spires. AMiite palace roof and glittering kiosk, Old Latin tower, rude gate, and pillared mosque. Trees, houses, fountains, ships — float ofi* and rise. Like clouds instinct with light, into the skies. ^^Tiat shall Arabian prose or Persian verse In after years to my dull ear rehearse, ■\Mien eye hath seen upon a Mayday even Stamboul by sunset lifted into Heaven ? 28 434 TEE PLAINS OF HUNGARY. IX. To-daj mj thirsty spirit sought to drink Of dreadful legends on the Black Sea's brink ; This sunset is a trouble in my soul ; Deep in my heart I heard the Euxine roll, I felt it in me as a mighty thought, The block ^vhence forms of grandeur might be wrouo^ht : But now 'twixt light and gloom my mind is tossed, Bright thoughts in dark, and dark in bright, are lost; Once more an untouched thing, outside of me, I hear the mm^mur of the Euxine Sea ! CLXII. THE PLAIXS OF HUXGAEY. I. O if in a valley "With close mountains round, Or in the green alley Of a woodland ground There be a joy in nearness to each sight and sound, — II. Or if, in the bowers Of a pleasance old. There be joy for hours In the sheets of gold And red and white and blue, in formal shapes unrolled, — i THE PLAINS OF HUNGARY, 435 III. Or if in a ruin "With weeds overgroTVTi, 'Wliere time is undoing That ^s^liich men have done, It is a jo J to be hemmed in Trith aisles of stone, — IV. And if fi'om all places Close and desolate, As from silent faces Through a convent grate, Sad thoughts and gentle ones on the beholder -wait, — There is strong emotion And a dancing mirth From the sight of ocean, And Tvide plains of earth, "^Tiich is not a less heavenly, though a wilder birth. VI. Though there be a glory On the famous fields, Y>Tiich chivabic story With its sunset gilds, And where the cypher of the past a wisdom yields, There is glory brighter On the desert scene, ^Miere the only writer That hath ever been Is the pure sky above with its unhindered sheen. 436 THE PLAINS OF HUNGARY. YIII. And the earth^s sweet changes Are a quiet past, "^IMiose soft action ranges O'er the solemn ^vaste, And Y.'here green grass grows now, wild waters once were cast. IX. To the mist J sunlight Is its bosom bare, And the flaky moonlight Makes no shadows there. And it is free to all outpourings of bright air. X. "^Miether pearlj morning Doth herself transfuse In the sky, adorning All the myriad dews, Or twilight steals from sunset banners of red hues ; XI. '^Miether noonday glimmers In the hazy dome ; Or, Hke noisy swimmers Scattering the foam. The hailstorms with white oars across the desert roam; xir. AMiether night's strong motion, Without sound or tool. The bright earth and ocean Strives to oyemile. Lights wander here and there, and still the scene is beautiful. THE PLAINS OF HUNGARY. 437 xiir. In the boundless quiet Of the misty plain, The TN'ild horses riot Without bit or rein ; The fatal touch of man hath not passed on their mane. XIV. With their broad eyes flashing, Beautiful and fi^ee, The s^^ift herd is dashing In its untamed glee Across the plain, as ships may dash across the sea : XV. And far off delaying By the shrunken rills, With a haughty neighing The lone air it fills,— Fierce creatures in the joy of their own mighty wills. XVI. Day with sUvery brightness Dawned there upon me ; The hoarfrost with its whiteness. Like a moonht sea. For leagues of land both far and wide gleamed mistily. XVTI. From the pallid glimmer Of the morning moon Tin the plains grew dimmer In the vaporous noon. In which a tree or cloud would be a blessed boon, — 438 THE PLAINS OF HUNGARY. xviir. In relays and courses At rude cabins given, We galloped, like wild horses, Till the cool fresh even, And Tve saw two things all daj, — the green plain and heaven ! XIX. Once we saw the rolling Of the Danube nigh, Once we heard the tolling Of churchbells wafted by, But otherwise we were as wild birds in the sky. XX. But towards night less dreary Was the grassy way. And we passed, unweary, Villages that lay. Oases, in a belt of light acacia. XXT. Still we came no nigher The Carpathian chain, A fence of white haze-fire Compassing the plain, Like land, which may be cloud or land, seen o'er the main. XXIT. On the desert ample Evening's chilly hour Bade the breezes trample In their wildest power. And o'er the twilight plain like viewless horses scour. THE PLAINS OF HUNGARY. 439 xxiir. Soon the ^'incls were shaking All the ether blue, 'VMiere the mists Avere making The ambrosial dew, And with a moaning surge a solemn tempest grew. XXIV. And I felt mj spirit On the storm ascending, "Where for erer near it A dim shape was bending, Like a wild horse herd across the desert wending. XXV. And my thoughts were going From me with wild force, Like the white hairs flowing From the dashing horse ; I laughed whene'er the strong wind struck me in its course. XXVI. We met a serf belated On the dusky plain. With his waggon freighted With the baron's grain ; He was half blinded with the whirling sleet and rain. XXVII. And I felt it better In the desert drear To be without fetter Of submissive fear ; And I cried out in anger to the peasant near, — 440 THE PLAINS OF HUNGARY. XXVII T. " Leave thy waggon naked To the angry sky, Let thy thirst be slaked With earth's liberty, For freedom is a vaster thing than slavery." XXIX. But the long-haired vassal Looked at me confounded, As in hour of wassail By young lords surrounded, ■\Mien biting scoff hath e'en his abject spirit wounded. XXX. ^\T[ien on every feature I saw fear and pain, I felt for the poor creature On that lonesome plain : Though storms without raged on, my heart was calm again. XXXI. Men there are who think not That great words unmeet Are wells whence we drink not "Waters clear and sweet, And wonder the world stays not at such words its feet. XXXII. Such are liberators With their spirits lifted To the mood of traitors. From their good end shifted. For lack of sympathy on fi^othy shallows drifted. TnE RAFT FROM LINZ. 441 xxxiir. Surely it is better We should not undo This T\rild vassal's fetter, Lest his heart should rue His altered lot, as men set free too early do. XXXIV. But the storm is over ; And Tvith oakwoods availed, We, with quail and plover For the night installed, Are in the moonlit heart of the Bakonver Wald. CLXIII. THE KAFT FEO^M LIXZ. Another bend among the hills, One other bend, and we shall hear Among the green o'erhanging trees The rocky "Wirbel boiling near. II. Upon the Danube and the woods J^ay evening's red and troubled gleam, And calmly, as a lifeless thing. The raft from Linz went down the stream. 442 THE RAFT FROM LIXZ . HI. And then how softly rose the hymn For Mary's succour in the strait. And that good Angels in the pool To steer the little craft might Trait. IV. It bent and strained, and in the foam Awhile the crazy vessel quivered ; And then it glided like a swan, St. Mary hath the raft delivered. V. And there the convent boat appears To ask an alms of all who pass. Oblation made with willing heart To Mary and St. Nicholas. VI. And thus to great Vienna bound, The boatmen watch the stars all night, And for their hymn and for their alms They deem the weather calm and bright. vir. Yet some dare blame the holy faith. As if to untrue forms it clings. While thus unto the unseen world For blessing every thought it brings. VIII. And those who, safe in modem powers, Heed not the whirlpool in their way, And count the men of Linz untaught. Are in true lore less taught than they. THE RAFT FROM LINZ. 443 IX, Alas ! how oft hath science made The heart obtuse, the £ye untrue, Obscuring providential tracks "With veils a woodman's faith sees through ! "We want the earth left to ourselves ; And signs where God doth hide to bless AYe class, as though, in classing them, We took away their awfulness. XI. For this to cold, unhumble men Is all that vaunted knowledge gives. The raising self by hiding God, The disennobling of our lives. XII. The men of Linz see into Heaven, Where sages but detect its law ; Judge which the better wisdom is, And who hath holier love and awe. XIII. Yea, only lest this barren dream Upon the men of Linz should pass. Were reason they should kneel and pray To Mary and St. Nicholas. 444 CLXrV^ THE HEIEESS OF GOSTIXG. I. Is there a stream on this sweet earth In vale or woodland, where Traditions of unhappj love Breathe not like summer air ? II. There is no thought to hallow earth "With more consoling gladness Than the true comfort she hath given To lovers in their sadness. in. Green trees and streams and castled steeps Are sweetest when thej move, The gentle forms in stirring songs Of old disastrous love. IV. Born of no time or nation, still. In its imperial force. Love with the meekest forms of earth Holds simple intercourse. V. Love, like the abbev-building monks, Bv wood or stream is found : "Wlio ever knew a love -tale haunt A cold, unsightly gi^ound ? THE HEIRESS OF COSTING. 445 VI. A pilgi'im through green Stejermark, The poet now is resting, Soothed by the woodland voice of Mur, Beneath the rock of Gcisting. VII. Across the river and the mead The chflTs tall shade was thrown, A'^Tiere sheltered fi^om the sun I sat Upon a rugged stone. vin. A tender tale of luckless love In that sweet gloom had part, And with the shadow of the rock It went into my heart. IX. Above were the green battlements Of Gosting's castle strong ; I saw it not; but felt it there, A very power of song. X. Ah I faith hath wronged thee, gentle tower ! Thou wert too fair to shine The bright spot in the legend dark Of hapless Adeline. ^ xr, "Was ever maid like Adeline In all the Styrian land ? AVas ever noble stout and wise As old Count Ferdinand? 44G THE HEIRESS OF GOSTING. XII. Had ever knight a silver tongue ffis lady's heart to melt, And yet a hand in battle strong, Like Franz of Lilienfeld ? XIII. Was ever peer in paynim Tvar So merciful and bold, As the young lord of Shaekenstein, The black-haii^ed Leopold ? XIV. Ah ! Hke a pensive summer cloud Their memory fioateth by, Far dearer for the shade it casts Than all the bright blue sky. XV. E'en in those strong-featured times, "WTien human act and feeling Through all the world with ruder ways And greater forms were dealing, XVI. For masculine chivalric love The two young knights were famed. And never in the court or camp Were separately named. XVII. And oft to Trausen's earth-lipped stream Came Leopold, a guest, Within the halls of Lilienfeld For many a week to rest. TIIC HEIRESS OF G()STING. 4 47 XVIII. And -when brave Franz returned to stay With Shackenstein's young earl, How short were summer's longest days AVitliin the vale of Thorl! XIX. In boyhood when their limbs were first In little mail arrayed, In fashion, colour, and in weight Their suits alike were made. XX. Both flashed among the Styrian vales, Like very stars of light. Upon their proud and prancing steeds Of true Hunorarian white. o XXI. In all the Transylvanian wars They shared one board and tent, And shone with fellow scarfs and plumes At foreign tom-nament. XXII. Ah love ! were all the Kves of men Told truly one by one. The hearts thou hast dealt faii^ly with, And those thou hast undone, XXIIT. At what a price of others' griefs, We might with awe behold, Each single hour of happy love On earth is bought or sold! 448 THE HEIRESS OF GOSTING. XXIT. Two tender hearts along one path Through all the T^^orld maj move, If they at some fair turn in Hfe Encounter not with love. XXV. There is no incense half so sweet Unto the jealous power, As the sad fi'aoTance offered up From friendship's withered flower. XXVI. But Franz apart at Lilienfeld, The earl at Shackenstein, Each knew not how the other loved The heiress AdeHne. XXVII. Count Ferdinand to Hungary On mission liigh hath gone, And Adeline has to herself The castle huge and lone. XXVIII. A ladj lone was Adeline "Within her river bower, Yet, dreaming of young Leopold, She had no weaiy hom\ XXIX. She worked not at her tapestry, Xor on her cithern played. But to her bowerwoman oft The heartsick lady said : THE HEIRESS OF COSTING. 449 XXX. " Xow do I envy, Marian, That pleasant vale of Thorl, The very rocks and trees that look All day at that young earl. XXXI. " And yet/' hoTv pale the lady turned! " He never can be mine, I love with hopeless hidden love, Ah woe is Adeline ! XXXII. ^' In all the vales of Steyermark, In rich Carinthia's dells, The love of Franz and Leopold A household wonder dwells. XXXIII. " And every maiden loves the pair As though they were her own, And did belong unto the land. The special boast of none. XXXIV. ^^ And Franz sits mute at LiHenfeld, And pines for love of me ; He is a fair-tongued knight, and yet The earl speaks fair as he. XXXV. " I vow, our Lady grant that lov e My vow may never shake. That Adeline their wondrous bond ShaU never, never break. 29 450 THE HEIRESS OF GOSTING. XXXVT. " And I for some few weary years - Upon this rock will pine, And live and speak with those two knights, And die and make no sign. XXXVII. ^^ And, when liis heiress droops and dies, The good Count Ferdinand To Mary and St. Kilian May leave his woody land.'^ XXXVIII. This Adeline, the lady lone, Unto her bowermaid said, And she was pale as death itself, And mutely hung her head. XXXIX. But hark ! two horsemen loudly greet The porter gray and old, And bhthe the seneschal replies ; ^Tis Franz and Leopold. XL. And, privileged intruders ! see They part the chestnut bough, And doff their caps to Adeline : Now lady ! for thy vow ! XLI. And pale as death ! O ashy pale! Eut quiet as a queen, The lady from her bower stepped forth With calm and gracious mien. THE HEIRESS OF COSTING. 451 XLII. In converse sweet on common things Thej walked among the flowers ; The summer day turned on its hinge "With soft and noiseless hours. XLTir. Upon the white rose by the rock There grew one blossom faii% Which Franz in idle mirth had said Would suit his long brown hair. XLIY. And Adeline from son^ow won, Forgetful of her vow, Stooped down unto the blossom white, And plucked it from the bough. XLV, And surely utterly entranced, Yet so the tale is told, She twined it in the rayen hair Of her own Leopold. XLYI. Franz gazed on her with startled eye, The young earl fondly smiled, And thus the secret of his love W^as from his heart beguiled. XLVII, 0 wondrous are the ways of men, And passion's sudden changes. Through which the soul in one short hour With desperate action ranges ! 452 THE HEIRESS OF GOSTIXG. XLYIII. That smile hath mthered years of love : In Franz's burning spirit Ejected love's intensity Dark hatred doth inherit. XLIX. Dishonor to the spotless laiight Becomes an airy sound ; And the red blood of Leopold Hath stained that garden ground. L. JSTo scream, no cry from Adeline, But silent as the grave A snoTvy robe beneath the bridge Floats down the woodland wave. LT. Young Franz leaned on his reeking sword, And pitifully gazed Upon the white and ghastly face To the blue sky upraised. LIT. And, many a year of penance past. He in the vale of Thorl, An anchoret in sackcloth shirt, "Was buried near the earl. LIII. Then far and wide the tidings spread Unto the Danube's shore ; Count Ferdinand from Himgary To Gosting came no more. THE YELLOW HAMMER. 453 LIV. And Gosting Castle now Is left Unto the Tv^ild white roses. And not a maid in Stjria durst AVreathe one into her posies. LY. And daily on the pleasant stream The white leaves fall and shine, And float away beneath the bridge. Symbols of Adeline ! CLXV. THE YELLOW-HAMMEE. I. A YELL0w-HAM5kiER in the rain! And that on this Carinthian plain, So far, so far from home ! It fills me with old childish years : And then these happy, happy tears, Do what I will they come ! II. Behold him now : he never stops, Among the pattering raindrops A blithe disturbance making. Beating for ever on one key, Pleased with his own monotony, And his wet feathers shaking. 454 THE YELLOW HANDIER. ni. '\Miat tender memories are bound To this familiar hedge-row sound! The creature's homely glee Associates me with the hours, When, so pure childhood ^N-illed, all showers Were sunshine showers to me. IV. Away he goes, and hammers still Without a rule but his free will, A little gaudy Elf I And there he is within the rain, And beats and beats his tune again, Quite happy in himself. V. Within the heart of this oreat shower o He sits, as in a secret bower. With cm'tains dra^-n about liim ; And, part in duty, part in mirth, He beats, as if upon the earth Eain could not fall without him. VI. Ah homely bird ! thou canst not know How far into my heart doth go That melancholy key. How from thy little straining tln'oat Each separate, successive note Beats like a pulse in me. THE YELLOW HAMMER. 455 vn. Through blinding tears meek fancy -weaves Far other fields, far other leaves, Than those by Drava's side ; For now the looks of long lost faces, And the calm features of old places, Like magic, round me glide. Tin. Thou art a power of other days, A voice from old deserted ways Obscured by trackless flowers. An echo of the cliildish past, Thus touchingly and strangely cast Into these foreioii bowers. IX. 0 it was right and well with me When I could love a single tree As a green sanctuary, "When I could in the meadow lie And look into the silky sky For hom's, and not be weary ! X. !N'ow over sea and over earth 1 pass with hollow, heated mu^th Which doth but gender sadness. And with uneasy heart I range Through all the pageantry of change To gather moods of gladness. 456 THE YELLOW HAMMER. XT. Time flies, and life ; and manly thought, Into unsunnj currents wrought, Is in hoarse eddies wheeling : I am a man of growing wants. And I have many wayward haunts. Haunts both of thought and feelino:. XII. "When joys were simple, days were long. All woven into one brioht throno^, Xike golden bees at play, One with another softly blending, As though they could not have an ending, And all were but one day. XIII. T thank thee, gentle bird I for this ; Thou hast awakened childish bliss, A sweet monition given ; And T\Tlling tears for youthful sin Are fragrant rituals, that may win The old light back from Heaven. XIV. And sure I am that summer day Xe'er shone on a more grand array Or gorgeous pomp of moimtains ; And o'er the plain in shining rings The Drave with blithest murmurinors o Comes from his Alpine fountains ; I BAMBERG. 457 XV. And seen through this bright, dazzling rain How fair is yon Carinthian plain, A richly wooded park, Where groups of birch with silver stems Eise up, like sceptres of white gems, Among the fir-clumps dark. XVI. Yet am I cast upon lost years ; The Present is dissolved in tears ; So is this bird empowered ; An oracle upon the bough He sits, through him the Present now Is by the Past deflowered. CLXVI. BAMBEEG. I. Theue are who blame sensations of delight. Born of our happy strength and cheerful health, As though we could lay by no moral wealth From the pulsations of mere joyous might. n. How poor they make themselves who thus disown The fresh and temperate body's right to wait Upon the soul, and to exliilarate The heart with life from animal spirits thrown ! 458 BAMBERG. ni. For me a very weight of moral wealth From the bright sun upon the ivy wall, And white clouds in the sky, doth gaily fall. Making my days a thanksgiving for health. IV. The whetting of the mower's scythe at morn, The odorous withering of the new-cut grass. Breeding I know not what enjoyment, pass Like a new world into my s|)mt borne. V. 0 there are harvests from the buoyant mirth "\^Tiich hath such power my nature to unbind, Letting my spirits flow upon the wind, As though I were resolved into the earth. VI. "WTien I have bounded with elastic tread, Or floated, without root, a frolic breeze Waked by the sunHght on the fields or seas, Moods of ripe thought have thence been harvested. vii. 1 stood upon the Michaelsberg ; below. Into three cities cloven by the streams, Was ancient Bamberg, and the morning beams Had touched a thousand gables with their glow. VIII. Around, a dull expanse, did cornfields shine. The shallow Regiiitz and the winding Maine Were coiled in ruddy linlcs upon the plain. And lost beyond the pinewood's hard black line. BAMBERG. 459 IX. The radiance on the Mmster roof was poured, And then above the convent's dusky bowers Sprung all at once the foui- illumined towers, As though St. ^Michael had unsheathed liis sword. X. I thought not, Bamberg I of thy bishops old, The rich Franconian church, or abbots gone To beard the emperor at Katisbon, With saucy squii^es and Swabian barons bold. XI, But there I stood upon the dizzy edge, And saw a sight worth all the barons bold, A woven web of pm-ple and of gold, A Hrag web thrown o'er the rocky ledge. xn. It was a cloud of rooks in morning's beam, TMiich, rising from the neighbouring convent trees, With all their pinions open to the breeze. Swam down the steep in one majestic stream. XIII. It was a purple cataract that flung Its living self adown a rocky rent, And midway in its clamorous descent The rainbow-glancing morning o'er it hung. XIV. Some were of gold, which in a moment shifted Into a pm^ple or a brilliant black, And some had silver dewdrops on their back, Changing as through the beams the creatures drifted. 460 BAMBERa. XV. Beneath, the multitudinous houses lay : The living cataract one instant flashed Through the bright air, then on the roofs was dashed In seeming shower of gold and sable spray. XVI. I watched with joy the noisy pageant leap Into the quiet city ; and the thrill Of health did so my glowing body fill, That I would fain sail with it down the steep. xvn. I was beside myself; I could not think : A beauty is a thing entire, apart, And may be flung into a passive heart, And be a fountain there whence we may drink. XVIII. Ah me ! the morning was so cool and bright. And I so strong, and it was such a mirth To be so far away upon the earth. That I was overflowed with sheer delight. XIX. Away, like stocks and stones, went serious thought, Now buried in the foamy inundation, iN'ow through the waves of exquisite sensation From time to time unto the smface brought. XX. I rescued nothing, for I had no power ; And in the retrospect I dare to boast, — I would not for a world of thought have lost The animal enjoyment of that hour ! 461 CLXYII. THE DAILY TEEE. Queen Maey said that on her heart, Engraven there as with a dart, Transferred by bitter thought, The name of Calais would be found In cypher legible and round, By meditation wrought. II. And I believe that through the eye The household forms, which round us lie In sweet and shapely mass, Things daily touched and seen and heard. By sympathetic power transferred. Upon the spirit pass. in. In childish days there was to me A yearly vision of the sea ; And now within my soul I never cease to see and hear, In wood or mountain, far or near. That estuary roll. 462 THE DAILY TREE. IV. Mj mother's voice, from this fair vrorli "WithdY^vm long years ago, is furled In my retentive ear, And oft bj sweet surprises taken, I hear familiar accents waken A startlino: echo near. I daily see an old Scotch fir, Of such a beauty as to stu' My heart with joyous tlirill : My days would scarce be what they are, If that tree were not always there, A shadow soft and still. VI. It is a pleasure overnight To think how mornino-'s beams will lioht Its fan -like simimit airy ; And sure I am that it must lie Pencilled upon my memory, Moonlit, and visionary. vir. There must be pictm^ed on my soul Its ruddy and fantastic bole, "Wliere snaky lights glide down; For fancy frequent vision weaves Among its wiry, blue-green leaves, And quiet plumy crown. I THE DAILY TREE. 463 YITT. And ^vlien the breath of evemng rocks That ancient tree with harmless shocks, The two birds cradled there, "With sea-like murmurs round them, ride, Their vessel anchored on the tide, A sweet, love-mated pair. IX. I love thee, reverend old Tree ! For thou art verilj to me Like some kind household god. What visitations of delight, 'VMiat aspects mutable and bright. Hast thou not daily showed ! 0 didst thou grow in sunken deU, Within the soimd of abbey-bell. Hard by the cloistered square, Like some illuminated book Would be thy variable look Unto the inmates there. XI. I would some monk of olden times Had»watched thee from the matin chimes Lentil the compline rung. And chronicled thy light and shade, In hieroglyphic show displayed, As thy broad branches swung. 464 THE DAILY TREE. XII. Thou wouldst have been his T\'orld, a chaste And smless record for thy past ; And jet a form to fear And meekly think of, as a thing That might its placid umbrage fling Upon his tombstone near. xni. I have seen morning on it fall, And intersect its coronal "With silver lines on high, And sunset clothe its giant Hmb In huge bronze armour, bright and dim In scales alternately. XIV. And vrhen around its rugged waist The t^light's roseate air is braced In clasps of amethyst. It were a sceptre most sublime For fabulous kings of olden time, "\Melded by giant wrist. XV. And oft with transmutation slow Have I beheld the rough stem glow, Red gold without a stain, "WTien diligent wet mists come down And, dripping from the feathery crown, Burnish the bole with rain. THE DAILY TREE. 465 XVI. And I have seen a weight of snow- On its strained branches drooping low, Dividing the dense crown ; Like cares from off an old man's heart, All noiselessly the bent boughs part, And the white flakes fall down. XVTI. And often in the breathless noon, Or else beneath the unclouded moon, It is absorbed on high ; But most I love its sable hue Imbedded in the yielding blue Of a translucent sky, xvin. O quiet Image I thou art lent To be a moral incident Each passing day to me, In aU I do and all I think A gentle and restraining link, — How much I owe to thee ! XIX. The wind rose up : om' dreary way Thi'ough the Bavarian fii'- woods lay, Xear Kothenburg's old wall ; My own memorial fir-tree wrought Deep in my heart, with anxious thought Lest it that night should fall, 30 466 TO MY READER. XX. Ye mid north winds ! that o'er the length Of moaning heath collect your strength, That noble fir-tree spare, When all the laurel-borders through Your sad triumphal road ye hew, And rend the coppice fair ! XXI. Be true to its old anchor, Earth ! That it may long a moral mirth "Within the yale abide ! WTien I am gone I would that ye Should still enjoy that princely tree, Kind Hearts of Ambleside I CLXVIII. TO MY EEADEE. Young Eeader ! for most surely to the old These loose, uneven thinkings can but seem Unlife-hke and unreal as a dream, 0 ! judge not thou that I have been too bold With sacred teaching, or have done it wrong To give fair form or sweetness to my song : ISTor be thou wearied with the changeful vision. As though, with laboured and unmeaning skill, 1 had but rifled fancy at my will. Or held her hidden order in derision. O far from that : these fitful strains keep blending, Poorly yet truly, strivings gained or lost, By one in whom two tempers were contending, Neither of which had yet come uppermost. 467 CLXIX. THE CHEEWELL. A DESCRIPTIVE POEM. Sweet inland Brook ! which at all hours, Imprisoned in a belt of flowers, Art drawing without song or sound Thj salient springs, for Oxford bound, AYas ever lapse so calm as thine. Or water-meadows half so green, Or weeping weeds so long to twine "With thi-eads of crystal stream between ? Inglorious Eirer ! I will be A laureate, self-elect, for thee. The quiet of this uncut field Fit room for minstrel -craft may yield ; And with my skiff beneath this bower. Thatched o'er with luscious elder-flower, 'No sound but my own murmur shall The local silence disenthral. Save when a coot at times may pass Between the blades of milky grass, Or w^th a momentary splash A rat between the tree-roots dash. Or, drowsy music ! sedge -stalks grind On one another in the wind. And thus to make his verse more free The river shall accompany The poet's voice, while up on high To their bright congress in the sky 468 THE CHER WELL. The stars are trooping one by one, Though Chiltern still detains the moon To silver all his chalky side, And o'er that sea of beech-wood ride. O silent Cherwell ! once wert thou A minstrel river ; thou didst flow Gently as now, but all along Was heard that sweet itinerant song, "WTiich thou hadst learnt in coming down From the rich slope of Hehdon, The green-capped hill that overlooks Fair Warwick's deep and shady brooks, And blithe Northampton's meadow-nooks. Tamest of Counties ! with a dower Of humblest beauty rich, a power Only by quiet minds obeyed. And by the restless spurned, — scant shade. And ruddy fallow, and mid these Kare meadows, foliage -framed, which please The leisure -lo^dng heart, and line "^liere the slow-footed rivers shine. Upon whose reedy waters swim The roving sea-birds, on the brim Of flooded K'enna, in a fleet With a golden lustre lit. What time the short autumnal day Sets o'er the tower of Fotheringay. Xot with the wild and echoing mountc ins, Helvellyn's lone cloud-suckled fountains, Or Langdale's trickling clifis, or wells, Heath -hidden, on Blencathra's fells, Claimest thou kindred ; simple birth Ai^t thou, a thing of common earth ! THE CIIERWELL. 469 A spot more verdant than the rest Discerned upon the hoof-marked breast Of modest pasture, mid the haunts Of men and cattle, to their \vants Endeared, — there \^as thj cradle laid And not unsoothed by music, made In the clear spring, a prelude sweet To the artful strains and tinkling falls Wherewith thj swollen streams should greet Fair Isis under Oxford's -walls. Thence wert thou known to steer thy flood To pierce the mead and thread the wood, And there with curious curves to search The screens of elm for every church, 'WTiose leaded roof and stunted tower Might lurk in some unthought-of bower. And thither didst thou wander down To lean thine ear in many a pool, Cinctured as with a mural crown Of jewelled tansey, rank and cool, Where trailing sprays of eglantine Flung from the hawthorn bushes twine, Taking fresh root beneath our feet Amid the plumy meadow-sweet : While summer shepherded the flocks And starry herds of lady-smocks. There, when the rustic folk were maying, Wert thou with right good-will delaying, Until ^'the deep and solemn rings,"* Should time anew thy vocal springs, « " Famous ring of bells in Oxfordshire, called the Crossring." Not© to Draj-ton's Polyolbion, Song XV., where " lusty Cherwell" is represented as a " curious maker," who sang the praises of the rivers at the nuptials of Thame and Isis. 470 THE CHERTTELL. And they rehearse the borrowed song In every meadow all along Till thou shouldst mate thy breezy swells ■\Mth the full peal of Oxford bells. Yes — thou wert tuneful once : that day Be witness, when the rivers lay To their own praises proudly listening. And Chiltem's son, the boyish Thame, To wed the Lady Isis came. With his white marly waters gUstening. Thou sang'st the bridal hymn, and all, The nimble Churn with sliding fall, The linked streams of Coin and Leech, And Yenload's darkHng forest-reach. And Windrush, and all Cotswold springs. Praised thee with blithest murmurings. Praised thee and thy most tuneful air, From flowery-meadowed Cisseter, To where the tower of Tffley looks Intent on Bagiey's greenwood nooks. Then wherefore do thy waters sleep In these hushed meadows buried dee]}, "With lapse that scarce can stir the sedge And irises upon thine edge ? Ah me ! perchance the face of war. Here seen long years ago, might scare The pastoral powers and tuneful brood Who nightly from the reedy flood Breathed songiike whispers in the ear Of Saxon hind belated near. Thus o'er the earth are gentle things By rude things here and there displaced, ^liile faith with kind reluctance clings To vestiges well-nigh effaced. THE CHERWELL. 471 'Twas strange the pomp of martial guards Should vex thy green sequestered fords, And bra-svling watchwords come and go Where now thy summer currents flow, And the old willow's bushy top Overshadows yon hoof-printed slope, And twice an hour perchance, or less. The swaying hay-carts, as they press Through the deep stream and sinking road. Pay tithe fi'om out their odorous load, Above unto the willow-boush, And to the gliding stream below. Still art thou mindful of the day ^Tien Charles beheld the disarray Of rebel foes upon the ridge That swells behind Cropredy Bridge, And parted streaks of crimson blood Profaned the hayfields and the flood. It was St. Peter's feast in June, A day of fragrant rain ; at noon, Unbonneted and fr'ee, the king Dined where a lusty ash did fling A chequered shade upon the ground, "While the wet grass still sparkled round. Yet, ere the querulous chimes rang thi-ee "Within the streets of Banbury, Cleveland beneath the selfsame ash Stood forth, and bade his horsemen dash In angry charge upon the foe Who thronged the Cherwell banks below. Enough, meek Stream ! I will not wake Thoughts of rude triumph here, nor break The sylvan peace that suits so well The spirit of the local spell. 472 THE CHERWELL. Sweet, Cherwell ! are thj hawthorn tents Fit havens for mj summer boat, And fair the lilj-isles which float. The stream's most touching incidents. Gay regions are they, stretching o'er A gleamy breadth, from shore to shore, From off the shelving turf projecting, Of broad-lipped leaves compact and bright, "With threads of water intersecting The flats of green embossed with white ; And stripes of yellow nuphar, drawn In random lines across the la^vn, Intrude their rows of golden wedges, Parting the fairy realm, like hedges. To shires and baronies, whereon Are set a court and garrison Of ladybirds and brilliant flies In green and gilded panoplies. There have I watched the downy coot Pacing with safe and steady foot The surface of the floating field, And, though the elastic floor might yield In chinks, and let the water flow In beads of crystal from below. Yet was the tremulous region true To that rough traveller passing through. But, as a buoyant vision, breathed From the poetic spirit, wreathed In chastely blending hues, and wrought AYith the strong tissue of rich thought. Fades off before the cheerless gaze Of cold and unimpassioned praise. Yet cannot perish, but each hour Is wooed into its place once more THE CHERWELL. 473 By feeling hearts, o'er all the earth Dwelling apart ; so this sweet birth, This meek and deHcate creation. From the calm, fertile stream outpoured, Sinks Hke a graceful exhalation, To be by genial spring restored. Frail yet immortal, dying ever. And ever born within the river, A summer pageant, gay and fleeting, Eobed like a bride in ^d^-id white, Dispersed and broken by the greeting Of the first keen autumnal night. In flowery May or shady June Oft have I spent a vacant noon In Cherwell's matted hawthorn bowers Or coves of elder, while the hours In deep sensations of delight Sped past me with the silent might Of time unnoted, which for ever Sweeps onward like a voiceless river ; And now and then a most sweet thought Or outward beauty in me wrought With such blithe trouble as to bring The noontide's pleasant lingering Most sensibly unto me : these, Like the soft shaldng of a breeze, The pulse of summer in the trees. Were my sole hours, my notes of time, Joy striking joy, an inward chime Of silent song, yet not the less All resonant with cheerfulness. There, stretched at lazy length, I read, With boughs of blossom overhead, 474 THE CHERWELL. And here and there the liquid blue Of the smooth sky was melting through. In tranquil parties o'er the field, To gain ^^hat shade the boughs might yield, The sheep ^yeve clustered in a ring Beneath each hawthorn's fragTant wing : Only they did not seek to share The ample screen where I was laid. Though I was fain they should repair At peace with me to that broad shade, That in mute converse with the creatures, And gazing on their patient features, I mio[ht recover some sweet sense Of our original innocence ; But in the light of human eyes Their guided instincts recognise Sin's presence, and in sacred fear Though unalarmed, they come not near. There — ah ! 'tis years since — did I pore The old Greek idylls o'er and o'er. Creating nooks of freshest green By mild sea-bays, the fancied scene Of those bright pastorals : but in sooth They were less lovely than the truth, Less lovely than the spots of lawn '\Miere I have mused in Greece, withdrawn From all intrusion, the gay shock Of childish voices, or the flock Threading the cliff with plaintive bleatlnof, Or the wild goat's more gamesome greeting. And where no sound but one could be. The drowsy echo of the sea. With scarce a wave upon its breast Enough to rock a babe to rest. THE CHEinVELL. 475 Mid arbutus and gaunt stone-pine The polished shafts of lentisk shine, AVith braided boughs of cjtisus, And under-growths most odorous Of true Greek thyme with pale pink eyes : — Ah ! many spots to memory rise, AMiere beauty made the desolation Tenfold more sad, a reparation, So seemed it, of a tender sort By natm^e offered, to support Earth worn and weary with the wrong VMiich sin hath wrought on her so long : Thus gently pleading the defence Of her mute scenes, to recompense Her patient solitudes, intent Thereby to set within our reach This toucliing truth which it would teach, — Man sins, but earth is innocent ! Thus oft upon the bank I lay, In dreams begetting many a bay Of desert Greece, to localize Some idyll, while with still surprise The modest, calm realities Stole softly through my half-closed eye. The native river gliding by. The cradled lily's nodding flowers, And Oxford's hazy Hne of towers. The willow twinkling in the breeze, The incense of the elder trees 'What time the heats of noonday wooed The bright and fragrant solitude. Gentle recalls to summon back My wanton heart, as though for lack 476 THE CHERWELL. Of native beauty I had sought For scenes ^hich only live in thought. And earth in plaintive answer brought The sweet vicinity to mind With gentlest urgency, — confined, Yet oh how beautiful 1 Each token, Like soft reproaches but half-spoken By those we love, with eloquence Mutely appealed to every sense Against my dreamy landscapes ; there The brilliant texture of the air. Clothing each form in purest white. Filled to the brim that exquisite Satiety of ear and eye "Which deep mid-summer can supply, Just ere the autumnal gold invades The twilight of her leafy shades. There time set gently upon me In tides of placid reverie, With scarce a murmur of sweet verse. And scarce a mood which could immerse My heart in solemn thought, soft streams Of most unfertile beauty, dreams Of indolent delight. Alas ! Smoothly as summer seemed to pass. Detached from every haunt of sin *V\Tiile all was sunny peace within. It was not innocent : for time Hath functions awful and sublime. And on its viewless lapse are traced Stem chronicles of all the past, A wilting every sunset laid, "^^Tiile heaven is still, within the shade THE CIIERWELL. 477 Of Christ's high Throne, one day to be A part of the solemnity And pomp of Judgment : endless Woe Or endless Weal I to some a show Of fiery cyphers, sjanbols dread Of guilty things unpardoned, Of wilful ways and idle mirth Unloosed by Holy Church on earth. And some there are to whom that scroll. Sad record still, may yet unroll A fairer vision, dark and bright, Like dawn o'er-mastering tardy night In dubious streaks, with here and there A firm and radiant character To angeFs eyes not new, but known And recognised the Judge's Own. O Time ! 0 Life ! ye were not made For languid dreaming in the shade, Is^or sinful hearts to moor all day By lily-isle or grassy bay, Xor drink at noon-tide's bakny hours Sweet opiates from the meadow-flowers. O give me grace, dear Lord ! to win Thy pardon for my youthful sin, !For all the days, in woods embowered. When currents of soft thought o'erpowered With pleasant force the sense of duty, — And gentle nature's harmless beauty. Too much adored, gave birth to throngs Of joys effeminate, and songs Which sprung from earth, and like a breeze Died wantonly among the trees, Without a moral or a mirth Above the passing bliss of earth ! 478 THE CHERWELL. But now doth evening's pensive wing Less of misleading beauty bring, And clothes insensibly the scene With sweeter, but more sober, green. The pageant of the noon gives place To evening's tenderness, a grace As soft, nay softer, and more holy, And with some tinge of melancholy Endeared and chastened, and a balm Of palpable and breathing calm By songs of birds confessed, and flowers That wave more gaily in their bowers. And gentle kine that graze once more Spotting the misty pastures o'er, And flocks of rooks that settle down Upon the elms which gird the town. And see the sun ! How well he sets Behind those triple minarets Of silent poplar ! All is still, But that one thrush upon the hill : And now and then a flight of wind The glassy current will unbind, Driving the ripples to the edge Among the spikes of rusthng sedge. !N'ow evening lends her rosy hue With liquid colors to bedew The hoary stone and chapel gray T^Tiere Austin's monks were wont to pray. And strangely in the crimson west Doth Atlas seem awhile to rest On the star-gazing tower,* where he For years hath stooped full wearily * The figures (for I believe there is more than one) that support the globe on the Observatory, viewed from Cherwell, which lies to the THE CIIERWELL. 479 Bearing the ^vorkl, in patient sign That He who bears it is divine And yet true Man ; — and in the heart Of many sunsets hath had part, Prompting that lesson to mine eye, \Miile pictured on the glowing sky In dark colossal effigy. O many an evening have I been Entranced upon that glorious scene, ^Mien silent thought hath proved too strong For utterance in tranquil song. There intermino^linor T\dth the trees The city rose in terraces Of radiant buildings, backed with towers And dusky folds of elm -tree bowers. St. Mary's watchmen, mute and old, Each rooted to a buttress bold, Erom out their lofty niche looked down Upon the calm monastic to^^Tl, Upon the single glistering dome, And princely Wykeham's convent home. And the twin minarets that spring Like buoyant arrows taking wing. And square in Moorish foshion wrought As though from old Granada brought. And that famed street, whose goodly show In double crescent lies below. And Bodley's court, and chestnut bower That overhangs the garden wall. And sheds all day white flakes of flower Erom off its quiet coronal. east, have the effect of a single figure, seen in relief against the sun setting over Cumnor or Whyteham. 480 THE CHERWELL. Metliinks I see it at this hom% — How silently the blossoms fall ! Strange scene it is which thej behold, Those watchmen on St. Mary's pile, "Who see the noiseless moonlight smile On spires and pinnacles untold, "WTiose ranks may baffle every eye That vainly would their number know , And roofs which rear the Cross on high In grave and monitory show : — Strange scene it is which mortal gaze But rarely mounts on high to praise, A region where for ever dwells The tremulous throbbing of the bells, Encircling every turret there "\Vith close embrace of timeful air, While oft the very stones respire "With the deep anthems of the choir, — A world above our world, a ground Thus tenanted by form and soimd, A costly region, day and night Laid open to angelic sight ! There, mid the shade scarce "visible. The suburb of the Holy WeU "With low-browed Church doth seem to guard The ancient city's northern ward ; And barely might the eye discover. Through the green umbrage stooping over, The battlemented wall that bounds The mitred Waynfieet's sumptuous grounds, The sweet-brier court and cloistered way And mimic glade where deer may stray. And the two sunny angles where The almond and the cypress are, THE CHERWELL. 481 And, graceful three ! those brother trees That meet and part ^vith every breeze, The birch that weeps upon the sward, Yet with the plane-tree serves to guard The light acacia's fluttering shade In pearly pendents all arrayed. And in the meadow-island there As to the breeze the willows bare Their silver sides, and wave about, The practised eye may then find out, Close-hidden, when the wind is still. The weedy roof of Magdalen mill. But now the leaves are darker grown. And o'er the fields a shade is thrown Of soft transparent gloom : the stream Shines with subdued but stedfast gleam Through the dusk veil of twilight air. And the white lilies waver there. Like distant lights borne up and down In anchored ship or midnight town. The stars are clear and strong, but soon The light of the unrisen moon "With soft infusion through the sky Mingles apace, and up on high The stars wax dim, while purple night. Thus weakened by the stealthy light. Translucent grows as crystal bay Of Midland Sea on summer day. But now above the willow tops That cluster there, a silvery copse Which doth an earthy pool infold, "With prow and stern of ruddy gold The crescent lifts itself, to ride With Hesperus sparkling at its side 31 482 THE CHERWELL. Almost in contact, night hj night Divided more and more, a slight Yet mournful siori, as thou^^h it were That in the worlds of upper air Eude separations still might come To souls in their eternal home. But though our heart such \dsion grieves, And though it yisiblj bereaves The evenings of their special grace, Yet had we but the gift to trace The wisdom of the starry sky, ^N'o gloomy types would meet our eye. And to the signs so sweetly wrought. By moon and stars, there should be nought But kind interpretations given ; For there are no farewells in heaven. Behold ! as night succeeds to eve, The owls with sombre plumage leave Their cloisters in the hollow trees. And shed sad voices on the breeze All up the moonht vale. The dew Falls on the flowers which shed anew Their simple fragrance : and the river Far off in many a reach doth quiver, Outstretching like a lucid creature, Appearing scarce an earthly feature Upon the nightly landscape, here Embraced within some thicket near In calm obscurity, and there Emerging to the radiant air, A coiled and gleamy flickering line Among the meadows serpentine, Broken by intervening boughs Through which the lovely crescent glows THE CHERAVELL. 483 Upon the dimpled waters. Sweet The wandering poet's eye to meet Are quiet fields by moonlight seen With groups of white, recumbent sheep, Where elm-cast shadows dimly green On the dew-beaded pasture sleep. But now awhile on vale and hill The loveliness of night is still ; The beautiful mutations stop On field and stream and dark tree -top, Only the shadows somewhat shift. And the bright stars a little drift Across the sloping sky : so slow The moving pageant seems to go We might believe that for some cause The spheres at midnight made a pause, And heaven and earth in awe sublime Stayed to receive new grants of time. And new permissions to delight The race of men with day and night. Xow in the east there is a stir Of powers that wait to minister Unto the sunrise, and a blooming Prophetic of his far-off coming. The sluggish spires of chilly steam * Are twisting o'er the silent stream, And from the willow-grounds are breathing. And round the haycocks slowly wreatliing, Until they stand, each side by side, Within the vapor magnified. Like dim and visionary things Seen tlirough the smoke of magic rings. The air is waxing bright and chill, Though yet the doubtful lark is still ; 484 THE CHERT\'ELL. And in the whitening skj the trees Grow black and keen as day is breaking, "WTiile here and there a creeping breeze The huo^e de\r-laden boiio;hs is shakino^. And see 1 St. Mary's vane aloft Glows Hke a star serene and soft, And doth with secret influence reach The sun whose rising it doth preach ; As hoi J Church will once descry, By power of her ascetic eye, The Advent of her BridegTOom nigh. So have I dreamed with pure delight A -ST^sionary day and night On Cherwell's banks : thus song could stir In me a willing minister To my sick brotlier. "With a tear I left behind the crystal mere. Deep summer out upon the hills, The dusky deans, the cool-breathed rills. And, shaded in the tender gloom And silentness of liis sick room, Hour after hour brought o'er my sense A most pathetic influence. The careful step, the voice subdued , My heart with meek advances wooed To softer images ; while nigh. Beneath the window, glided by The earthy Cherwell, strangely shrunk So long had thirsty summer drunk Of its spare stream. And up the river, I watched the radiant network quiver Beneath the bridge ; and oft there came, Swift as a meteor's shooting fliime, A kincr-fisher from out the brake. And almost seemed to leave a wake THE CHERWELL. 486 Of brilliant hues behind ; and couched On the close sward the deer had slouched Their heads, and watched the currents pass, While ears and antlers in the grass With restless movement twinkled. There The elm swung lightly on the air, And many a fickle willow drooped. While the laborious cmTcnt scooped The moist earth from its roots, and wore A deep beneath the o'erhanging shore, A summer refuge alway cool. Where in the dark sequestered pool Among the fibres of the tree The cmious eye may often see A little crew of silver dace Self-prisoned in that shadowy place. And sheets of lawn with verdant brows Just ghmmered through the veil of boughs. Or in the sloping sunset twinkled Like a smooth golden lake breeze-wrinkled, — A long broad lake of meadow-grass, "\i\Tiere winds and slanting sunbeams pass, And intershot with gold and green In fluted lines with rows between Of gilded field-flowers that appear Like ripples on a crystal mere ; And that fair land-lake stiller lies And better wins the wandering eyes To fixed delight, than if the face Of silent waters filled the place. And nightly up the watery glade By stealth the russet autumn strayed, ^Mlile here and there a leaf was seen Forswearing summer's darksome green, 48 G THE CHERWELL. And every day a gem or two Were freshly braided on the yew. And yet so slowly it might seem The wayward eye did rather dream, If poet's eye could e'er misread The least of natm'e's signs, which feed His simple heart. And haunted so, Watching the Cherwell daily flow, I sang of him, his fields and flowers. The transmutations of the hours. The tranquil day, the starry night. The alternations of delight, "WTiich on this simple river shower Methinks a more than common dower Of placid beauty : and meanwliile, Though every form without did smile. My tender office hourly wrought A shade to blend with sunny thought. And the sick-room itself could bring Somewhat of pensive hallowing For fancy's chastisement. Sweet Stream ! O mayst thou be a cheering gleam Long unwithdrawn ; and when oppressed By a sick spii^it's sad unrest. May nature's forms a fountain prove For faith unfailing, and a love That breeds submission ! May they bear. It is no light unworthy prayer, Such pure and blameless joy to me, "When I shall disenfranchised be, Of rough heathside and open air ! And better still if I could lie Waiting for death, — and azure sky, THE CIIHllWELL. 487 Cool forest, and the keen-breathed liill, And freshening sounds of dashing rill, The lonfT-loved cuckoo's woodland call, And the wildness of the waterfall. And holj ocean's solemn shore, — Might be uncoveted, nay more. All unremembered, and mine ear Be deaf to those kind neighbors near Who speak of sun and fields and air And garden flowers, as though they were A part of me, or they could be Where I am then, — on Calvary, A flowerless mountain, w^here the Cross My patient thoughts may well engross. And better still if I could dare To pray the Saint's exclusive prayer, And with bold fervor ask of Heaven More thorns and griefs than it hath given. So might I lie, in love with pain. And, like a miser with his gain. Handle the aching limb, to feel More palpably how pangs can heal Sin's wounds, and how beyond all price The sweetness of self-sacrifice. And what strange pleasures pain may bring As being a holy Cliristlike thing. And the repentant soul how still Beneath the weight of God's sweet Will. So might I lie, in saintly strait* Whether to sue for death or wait * S. Theresa. Pati et mori. S. Mary Magdalen of Pazzi. Patire e non morire. The latter Saint on her death-hed uttered these remarkable words: — Sappiate che I'esercitio del patire h cosa tanto pregiata e nohile, Che 11 Verbo trovandosi nel Seno del suo eterno Padre, abbondantis- 488 THE CHERWELL. That I might suffer more, and bear The Cross a little further, dare A little more to match the Road Of Dolours which our Saviour trod. So might I lie, in peace how deep ! So, like an infant, fall asleep, "While suffering cradled me to rest, Like Jesus, at our Lady's breast. CLXX. OX THE RAMPAETS AT AXGOULEME. Why art thou speechless, 0 thou setting Sun ? Speak to this earth, speak to this listening scene Where Charente flows among the meadows gi^een, And in his gilded waters, one by one. The inverted minarets of poplar quake With expectation, until thou shalt break The intolerable silence. See ! he sinks Without a word ; and his ensanguined bier Is vacant in the west, while far and near Behold ! each coward shadow eastward shrinks. Thou dost not strive, 0 Sun, nor dost thou cry Amid thy cloud-built streets ; but meek and still Thou dost the type of Jesus best fulfil, A noiseless revelation in the sky. simo di ricchezze e delitie di Paradiso, perche non era omato della stola del patire, venne in terra per questo ornarnento, e questo era Dio' che non si potea ingannare. They aro.^e perhaps from a confused re- memhrance in her mind of a wonderful passage in the eleventh cliap- ter of Tauler's Institutes. 489 CLXXI. THE OLD FEEXCH TELEGEAPHS. I. On many a treeless knoll and lofty church, Or on the unsteady fabric of a keep More than half ruined, or a natural steep, These wizard ministers of science perch, Like some dark birds that for awhile alight. To dress their pinions for a longer flight. For such against the cloudless azure seem Their long black fans, now raised as if to soar, Xow slowly furled as though the flight were o'er : Mute, mute and busy, even like a di^eam. Telling a stirring tale, and yet as still As the sweet stars, or with a murmuring Soft as the wafture of a stockdove's Avino^, Or breeze that chafes the poplars on the hill. II. AVhat though it write its ciphers on the sky. With graceless gestui^e, yet that wondrous Hand, Waving from steep to tower across the land. Annulling space, apt sjTiibol may supply To clothe grave thoughts withal : from Calais gate To old Bayonne, from Alps to Pyrenees, Yon silent words outstrip the wind, and freight The slanting sunbeam with their messages. Such are the signals, beckoning night and day Through the wide camp of Angels that essay Even now this glorious kingdom to recast With patient art in faith's magnificent mould, To make it saintly as the France of old, And rivet once again its broken past. 490 NETv HOME. in. God speed the blissful T\'ork, thou famous land ! And do not thou the unearthly change reprove ; Since He, who left thee with reluctant love To thine own ways, again puts forth His Hand. O France ! all license gained is but a loss Of liberty ; and thou wert then most free When thou wert proud, with blameless pride, to be l^ought but the foremost vassal of the Cross. Is it the Midland Sea, or do I hear Celestial converse in the olives near ? ^' Our task is half complete : the Civil Power, Outworn with ills which it hath overcome. Falls back upon the Holy Church, and Eome In trembling expectation waits the hour!" CLXXII. CONSTANTINOPLE, OE NEW EOME. FROM THE HILL ABOVE THE LIOSQUE OF EYOUB. SwEET-BEEATHixG May is ou the Golden Horn, And that can be no star wliich I behold Fixed in the cloudless noon, a spot of gold Bright as the single orb which doth adorn The rosy flush of morn. NEW ROME. 49 1 O that it wore an emblem half so chaste, Or one which to a Christian stranger's eye Read no reproachful comment on the past ! See, how it shines, how starlike up on high In its tranquillity ! It is the prophet's Crescent mutely gleaming. And far across the blue Propontis streaming From St. Sophia's stately cupola ; And I, all wrapped in melancholy dreaming, In spite of sunny May, Could weep the hours away For ages past, which to my vision rise ^Vith solemn pomp of bitter memories. n. Here, in sweet Eyoub, May's scent-laden breath Steals through the cypress ^nstas faint and cool, And gathered round me are the beautiful And soothing sights of this voluptuous faith, Veiling the woe of death. The minarets with gleamy shafts repose Within the green embraces of a plane, Whose lower boughs a very realm of rose "With countless links of flower doth interchain, And mounting blends again With pendent bowers of quince, all blossoming, "Wliite as a snow-wreath in the eye of spring, '^Miose lithe t^-igs trail in fringes on the ground ; And flights of sacred pigeons on the wing, And turtles heard all round, As though a natural sound From the sad cypress breathed, my fancy wooed, A paradise of earthly solitude. 492 NEW ROME. III. See, how the cypress fastens on the steep With its red starting roots, and slanting throws Its sable spires in endless leaning rows, Just tremulously stirred when breezes creep By fits from off the deep ! The pointed arch, the floor of withered leaves, The architectm^e of the sombre glade, The nightingale doth claim ; and there he grieves. Well pleased to have that night-by-day, the shade Perpetually made By the dusk foHage for his shrinking eye ; And there he dwells, renouncing the blue sky For ever, and with mournful heart beguiles His penitence of life -long melody ; And in the shadowy aisles The sun though green mists smiles. Save when the wind may part the graceful plumes. For eve to gild the tm^ban-headed tombs. rv, Not weary is the weight of sober thought, When we can read in nature's genial eye An answer to our own solemnity^ And all the images around, untaught By our own mood, are fraught With an inherent sadness. Yet, oh never Was there a spot on earth where melancholy Should be more sued with pm-pose and endeavour And greedy welcome, or should be more wholly A gi'owth of nature, solely NEW HOME. 493 And deeply spmtual, than the glooms Of these cool leafy cr}7)ts, whose any plumes Speak low as if endued with some dim sense Of what they symbolize ! There, mid the tombs I lie, and viewed from thence, In contrast most intense. Doth the poor desecrated city seem All beautiful and clear as cliildhood's di^eam. Xot the soft transit of a summer cloud Doth interrupt that eastern show : the sea Keflects the unstained heaven, and airs are free To bend the falling fountains in the proud And jealous screens that shroud The mosque's refulgent domes ; and in the limes. Which gird Suleiman's cloister, from his cell The stockdove emulates the lisping chimes Of the Propontid breeze, or rustling swell Born of the invisible And restless spirit of the Euxine. There The sweet creation, innocently fair. In nought doth its magnificent office miss : The blessing cfrculates through sea and air. And the original bliss Of earth unfettered is ; Yet o'er the heart a humbling shade is cast, While thought confronts the present with the past. 494 NEW ROME. VI. A ceremoniaL comes ! Before mine eye A t^vin procession through the tombs doth press, With angel pursuivants, in silentness. Slowlj the phantom-pageant glimmers by, The twofold destiny, Dimly impersonated, of old Eome, Mother and mistress of the western world, And this fair city, Constantino's new home, A Christian vision suddenly unfm^led ^Tien the false gods were hurled From their foul thrones. See how the figures climb The hill of Eyoub in array subHme, And yet with difficult slowness, like the old, Laic or priestly, who at holy time Are fain to be enrolled In some procession, bold In heart, but soon heat-stricken left and weary Outside the portal of the sanctuary. VIT. So seemed those destinies but half fulfilled, For each in working out its doom had faltered. And, once again renewed, had swerved, and altered The orbit wherein God its mission willed ; And each methought had spilled Somewhat of the quick life which had been given Unto them for an instinct, oft impelling Their awful fortunes, like the Hand of Heaven, NEW ROME. 495 Across the unwilling earth, — a strange indwelling Mysteriously swelling Through the tumultuous records of the past : In more than mortal mould their deeds were cast, Cities anointed to a singular doom And in a special law of fate embraced : Yet, ah ! thou, pagan Home, And thou, bright eastern home ! Ye both have failed, world-stricken left and weary, Short of the ends which were your sanctuary. yin. If we belieye no more than what we see, How undine is earth! If to the sense There be no seams of mighty Providence, Xo lucid furrows by some past decree Worn on the land or sea. Is not the world a cipher we haye lost ? N"ay, rather let us in her cities kneel. Pilgrims not idly borne from coast to coast. And kiss the footprints of the Inyisible, "MMiich haply we may spell In yision true, inscriptions half effaced, Where with His Church in ancient times He passed ; And let us sink in adoration down Before the dark prophetic shadows cast On destined field or town, — Through sin there earthward thrown. Here for awhile drawn backward at the prayer Of the weak saints who thrones and states upbear. 496 NEW ROME. IX. Hail, mighty Eome, that in the panoply Of thy past greatness still art bravely clad ! Slo^N^y didst thou emerge from out the shade, Till thou hadst filled the terror-stricken eye Of wide humanity : Yet not from the majestic heathen ruin Of thy first self couldst thou e'er extricate Thy second life : for there was no undoing The yet unsated curse which doth await Thy Kngering secular State ; Albeit Christ's Holy Church, upon thy hill A sojom^ner, detains a blessing still, And woos the impending wrath awhile to pause. Dread city ! yet she doth but half fulfil Her office, wliile she di^aws By mediceval laws The Church and World augustly into one. And, for men's sins, leaves the gi^and work undone. X. See this fair bii^th of British Constantine, "Which, Hke a sweet disdainful -vision, loth To brook the tardy pace of common growth, Sprang from the shore, even as a quiverino- line Of sudden lamps doth shine Upon a festal night ! And there advanced, The very outpost of the Christian East, Like a memorial beacon-fii^e it glanced NEW ROME. 497 Through the yexed agos, till the light decreased Slowly from less to least. A sign might this uncradled city be Of the new power and virgin unity, "Wherewith the foimder hoped to recement The fissures in the outworn majesty Of ancient Kome, intent To make that- element A trick of State : there I see the type unfurled ! The Church brooks no alliance with the world. xr. Ah, how the past is crowding on mine eyes ; A stirrincr maze with noddinor fiorures blent, Like rino[s uncleared before the tournament ! Through all the streets I hear the midnight cry, '\^Tien Arius from on high Was struck ; and down into the cypress gloom, Hailing the mystic colors, strangely fall The fourfold clamors of the Hippodrome : And with wild surge outside yon bulging wall The Latin armies call For entrance : and amazed I hear the clash, And see the foamy war-horse madly dash Across the pavement, like a mirror, lying Ai'ound the altar, and the lampHghts flash Upon the virgins flying. And the rude conqueror crying ^' For God and Mahomet," while at the word Sophia's Angel sheathes his guardian sword. 32 498 . NEW ROME. XII. O scene thrice beautiful ! the tier on tier Of mulberrj-tinted houses bj the spu-es • Of cypress intersected, and the fires Of countless crescents topped, while, like a mere, The blue sea murmui^s near. O'er terrace, tower, and gleam j-roofed kiosk A dipping cloud of foHage lightly swings, And on that cypress thicket by the mosque The royal fleet its crimson pennants flings. Like magic blossomings "Wooed fi'om the sombre trees by sunny May. The fair SeragHo Point appears to sway. Like a trim galley, at her anchorage Between two seas. Ah me ! on such a day From out the bright mirage We scarce can disengage Sunshine and shadow, doubtfid if it be True city or an eastern phantasy. XIIl. There is in this fair spot a Tm-kish faith, Which prophesies, though in its own despite, And is unto my wandering hopes a light, — That they with calmer grace can bow to death. Secure to lie beneath The hallowed soil of Asian Scutari : Europe, to whose impatient skirts they cling. Once more a bodily Christendom shall be. And on the Bosphorus shall sweet bells ring With ancient welcomino^. A COLD DAY IN MAY. 499 Like faith is mine ; though on the flo^very steeps, By oath detained, Sophia's Angel Aveeps O'er the imperial city's demon-trance ; Yet his kind, prescient vigil there he keeps, And Avith unruffled glance Looks o'er the dim expanse Of Euxine, ^vhere the vast prophetic scroll The patient Xorth doth visibly unroll 1 CLXXIII. A COLD DAY IX MAY, Spring ebbed into the lakes and streams, Or to the earth's ^varm heart ; And stalk and leaf, as ^ith a dart, "Were pierced by ^vinter's back^vard gleams ; 0 May ! O treacherous May I these months are very dreams. II. The clattering ^inds above me rolled, Like chariots in a flight ; The sky Avas veined with blue and white, With here and there some cheerless gold ; The very brightness was no joy, it was so cold. 300 A COLD DAY IN MAY. in. Eut ah ! ^vith those true southern ejes And olive -shaded brow, Beneath the half- clothed linden boug-h, A boy begins his melodies : And now I live and breathe in pure Italian skies. IV. How vine -like is jon eglantine ! How genial grows the day ! And see ! up Eothay's gleaming way How sweetly Arno's waters shine ; And thou, dear Fairfield! art a well-known Apennine ! V. Thus cold is manhood's summer day ; And grace perchance may be In part the blissful memory Of Christian childhood's marvellous ray, Ere the bad world had scared celestial sights away. YI. Our penance, then, doth but retrace A former road ; we see The scenes reversed, and, it may be. Dim through our tears ; and what is grace But Heaven's lost song on earth, most sweetly out of place ? 501 CLXXIV. • THE FOUE GOSPELS. I was in vision in a drear old place, "\Miere bodied and unbodied voices ranged, And vrhere the out^vard semblance homij changed From a huo^e vacant minster, to the face Of a lone valley mid the rock-strewn hills ; And now it was the wind within the nave Which spoke to me, and now the murmuring wave. Catching the boughs that drooped upon the rills : Yet, whether it were mountain-vale, or shrine By cheerful ordinance untenanted. The vision was but single, and outspread Th various unity like things divine. And though its pictured forms and mystic tongue Were strange to me, and though my barren sense Was all unwrouorht to such intelliorence o o By stern ascetic hfe, yet while it sung. Pouring forth strains of sweetness too profound To be an earth-bom song, my spirit drunk Deep of the fertile waters till they sunk Within my heart, and for a season drowned The world and sin ! Ah me ! I feel them now, Waking with strength refreshed from that short sleep : So will I strive once more my soul to steep 502 THE FOUR GOSPELS. In tliat wild song, and with the prophet go, Xot unalarmed, by Chobar's radiant banks, And, kneeling far aloof in reverent fear. In spirit bid the holj man go near, And softly sing what of cherubic ranks He haply may behold, where o'er his head — O Lord, that I had faith that sight to see, Which o'er my head this hour I know to be ! — The inner Heavens are visibly outspread. But hark I the song begins, while to the north The priestly bard, o'er dim Chaldean plains And misty brooks, his eye of rapture strains, And lo ! a cloudy whirlwind driving forth ! He sings ! he sings ! how by the river side From out the self-infolding Cloud there came An amber brightness, wings and wheels of flame. And Four mysterious creatures, many-eyed. With lamps that ran forth from them and returned ; As when the clouds are every moment riven. Then seem to catch their flashes back to heaven, Even so the liorhtnino;s of that vision bm'ned : And underneath their wings, but half concealed, A human hand was resting, which might seem To give sweet right to draw that waking dream Unto ourselves, as though there were revealed Therein the fortunes of our fallen race. And what great things might haply yet be ours. More than retrieving Eden's perished bowers, With Four fresh streams of more than Eden's orrace. 303 CLXXY. THE CirurYCII DIAL. Beneath me was the mistj sea, O'er which a beetling summit hung, And, half way up, a blasted tree AVith creaking branches swung : The yellow crowsfoot blossomed there, And juicy samphire to the bare And lean rock cluno;. And sweetly to the very edge The soft and thymy greensward crept. And, hanging slightly o'er the ledge, Perpetually wept With drippings from a hidden spring, Heard only when the murmuring Of ocean slept. m. There, almost stooping o'er the ware, A rustic chapel stood ; below The sea had hollowed out a cave "With labour long and slow ; And it was plain that any shock That church from off its brow of rock Mio[ht overthrow. 504 THE CHURCH DIAL. IV. And many a simple heart ^vould grieve At this rude sacrilege of time, y^lio loved for prayer, at morn or eve, The chalky downs to climb, "\^liile to their litanies the Tvave, AVith its eternal thunder, gave Eesponse sublime. V. So plaintively the soft sea wailed, So blue and breezy were the skies, So tranquilly the white ships sailed In pomp before my eyes, The very sweetness of it all Did there my willing spirit call To moralize. VI. The dial on the chapel side With ivy tendrils was entwined, As though the flight of time to hide Were office true and kind ; TMiile, on the breath of ocean borne. The restless shoots in playful scoi^ Waved unconfined. VII. This incident, the quiet hour. The sanctity of that lone place. Conspired to give the sight a power Of true pathetic grace ; And, as I gazed on it, methought That somewhat of a sign was wrought For me to trace. TO THE ROTHAY. 505 VI I r. For I interpreted the gesture, To illustrate how holy faith Was the pure souPs unfading vesture, The Saint's immortal wreath ; And, with significance sublime, It tauorht how faith abolished time D By killing death. IX. Mute preacher ! pensive evergreen ! 0 may I learn, this day, from thee, The obscure sage of tliis lone scene Hard by the mighty sea, How faith may, through Another's merit, For all the sons of time inherit Eternity ! CLXXVI. TO THE EOTHAY WHEN ITS COUESE WAS CHANGED, AND THE WHITER WAS ABOUT TO LEAVE ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD. Psalm xxxyi. 5. Commit thy way to the Lord, and trust in Him, and He will do it. Gentle Stream, that from the mountains Here invokest many a rill, 'VMiile two lakes thy channel fill. Lading from their o^vn sweet fountains Waters which for thee they hoard, In softly throbbing pulses poured ! 50G TO THE ROTHAT. Gentle Stream ! I mourn for tliee, And the pleasant liberty Guiding once thj twinkling feet Down the vale in measures fleet And mazy circuits ; all is o'er. Thou must wander forth no more, Compassing the meadow-lands With silver links and watery bands, Quickening noonday's loitering breeze Langniid grown mid sweetnesses Of drowsy flowers, or by the trees In the solid summer shade A silent captive haply made. All is o'er ; thy various strain !N'ever shall be heard again, Mimickinor old ocean's shock Against some puny cape of rock, Chanting here from side to side. There by lisping boughs supplied With a tremulous response "^Mien thou dost thy waves ensconce In pools unruffled, deep and stiU, \\Tiere thou hast gnawed into the hill Hollow chambers mouldering ever With soft splash into the river. Unless the damp their sides emboss With green ligaments of moss. All is o'er ; a channel rude Straight among the rocks they hewed, Walls along the banks they led, And, by trenching deep thy bed, Bade the hurrying stream absorb Peaceful bays where many an orb TO THE ROTIIAY. 507 Of silent star was sweetly glassed 111 the moonless midnights passed. And with expectation vain Couched upon jon marshy plain, Oft the valley's ear hath grieved, Of her music thus bereaved, And the interchannre once brought her Of broken fall and sleeping water. Xow along the banks I roam, Soon to leave my mountain-home^ And the melancholy thought Hath an inward shadow wrought^ From beneath whose covert, hills, Wintry woods, and frothy rills. And the lake-like meads, appear To my spirit doubly dear. And doubly beautiful ; arrayed In a -si-vid light and shade So strangely palpable, one might Deem the old habitual light A visionary landscape worn By the true hills, a mask now torn From the jealous face of things By the strength of sorrow. Springs Of a tender sadness, shy Of all outward sympathy. Have the truthful gaze renewed. And the keenness of the mood, Wherewith I, a stranger, first In these natm^al pageants nm^sed Inwardly the dubious strife, "VMience chance and purpose drew the life Of poetry : — and from the skies And mountains, or my mental eyes, 508 TO THE ROT HAY. Scales seem to fall, and wondrous light Dawns, like day, while to my sight Are, like a revelation, given A sweeter Earth, a plainer Heaven ! By this empty bed I mom^n, "Where the stream was wont to turn With a blither, louder strain Further o'er the rushy plain Its tripping waters ; and I hear A voice to warn, a voice to cheer, Like a double echo, sigh Up the channel green and dry. Still within this meadow-reach Thou hast gentle lore to teach, Studious Kiver ! nor art thou Mute in thy dishonom* now. But thou hast a parting word Wliich my soul doth well to hoard, As a monitory token Of a love so long unbroken, A serious earnest of that tie Of poetic amity, AMiich hath been t^vdxt thee and me. Preach on, sweet Rothay! while I listen. And behold thy waters gHsten W^ith a sentient purpose filled. And the birch -trees banners stilled By the slumbrous frost ! I hear The spirit of the river near, In the sliding shallow singing, Hark ! what fareweU she is bringing ! Sorrow-laden I translate Her meek wisdom with a weight TO TIIH ROTIIAY. 509 Of solemn language that is brought Eather from my inward thought, More abstruse than may beseem The lessons of a mountain stream, But self-disturbance hath the skill To steer the words which way it will. ** By the. love I have for thee, Poet I list awhile to me. From the woodlands and the hills And the icy-fettered rills Behind their masks of crystal throbbing. While the frost is hourly robbing All their fountains, fr^om the lakes And withered fern among the brakes, — From thy favorite images Of the white snow-laden trees. And the summits hoar that seem In the wind to flash and gleam. And with silver-dusted snow To smoke Hke beacons, while below Upon the unwary shepherd's head Arbitrary showers are shed, Though the skies are cold and clear And no clouds are hovering near, — From the yew trees on the scar Oft inflamed by moon or star Snared within their dusky plumes. Which the radiance half consumes. Or transfio;iu'es, while the lights Climb the heavens on starry nights ; — From the temple of old fir, "^(Miere the restless stockdoves stir Throuo^h the summer midnio[hts, rano-incr Mid the leafless boughs, and changing 510 TO THE EOTHAT. All their perches hour by hour In the gently rocking tower, Like unquiet sleepers, fraught With the poison of sad thought ; — From the raoo-ed heron isles, "Wliere the slanting sunset smiles Into the nests, and on the boughs The creatures sit in drowsy rows, "^fMth their plumage doubly bright, Slumbering in the golden light, — Prom the cataracts, all and each, I bring into this meadow-reach Farewells for thee ; and be it mine To teach thy heart by this graye sign Of my dishonour, how to greet Those new duties thou must meet By far other streams than this, In a life of toil-worn bliss. Hallowed cares and labours pm'e, And in usefulness obscure Shepherding thy little flock To the shadow of the Eock Of Ages, in the desert set As a refuge fi'om the heat, And a shelter fi'om the eye Of dark spuits prowling nigh. Sweetly wandering from my way, Once I 23aused in many a bay. By a leaning oak half spanned. Or a drooping wych-elm fanned, Or at noonday clouded o'er By a nodding sycamore. TO THE ROTIIAY. 511 TMiile the sun fell through tlic caves Of the ever-twinklmg leaves, Playing through the weedy rents Of the underwater tents. By cool-rooted alder trees Pitched far do'WTi, with lattices AMiere light and limpid water pour And weary not hour after hour. Then was I beautiful, and then Purchased looks of love from men And praises from the poets, glad "VMien gladness wrought in me, and sad "Whensoever of frolic weary, I, like men, took sanctuary In oppo sites : — but now, in awe Of man, I swerve from that sweet law Of nature, and have thereby lost All the charms that were my boast. This then be the warnino^ oriven : — While the single eye of Heaven Doth the preacher train and school With its ever-present rule, In his mouth the harshest lore Hath a secret winning power, Springing oft he knows not whence. And transcending barren sense : But should he chance before the gaze Of man to crouch, or, for the praise The world would offer, to divert The sacred stream of truth, and hurt The pastures of the little sheep He hath been ordained to keep. From his preaching will depart All that magic of the heart, 512 TO THE ROTHAT. All the store of simple spells ^Mierebj faith TTorks her miracles. Yet from this injurious wrong Of mj poor stream may Chiistian song Cheerful wisdom thus distil ; — If I do but now fulfil Half mine office to the eye Of the thoughtless wandering by, To the xingel or the Saint My disfigured type, though faint, Doth a loftier meaning bear, Than when men vouchsafed to spare All my pastoral wanderings free In their first integrity. "Well it seems to forward youth. Thus to carry holy truth Here and there, as it may choose With wilful virtue, till it lose, For every praise of man it gains. Skill in truth's celestial strains. Good self-sought is barely good. And occasion too much wooed Is no angel ; but a cheat Comes in disguise to counterfeit Her presence, and with fatal wiles. Self-knighted warriors thus beo^uiles To fearful falls ; and what is beauty But too oft the foe of duty, YeiHncr this grave truth : Self-will o o TmTis our very good to ill ; And virtuous purpose most of all !N"eeds the bridle and the thrall Of adverse circumstance, and place Ungenial to our special grace, TO THE ROTHAY. 513 Lost the unthrifty sand be done Ere yet the trial Hour is run ? Yon mighty lake's sweet-^vatered sea, [Minstrel ! is my eternity ; And by duty narrowed novr, Straight unto that rest I flo^v, "Well content for such an end The price to pay, full many a bend Of tuneful water to forswear And sweet delay, one only care Being left unto me — to prepare To mingle ^vith the blessed peace, And minolino; with it to increase Its blessedness, as souls perchance The rest of other souls enhance, Gently gathered, one by one, After each day's battle done. So with thee, when duty spoils Wilful grace with Chiistian toils, And confines in narrow bed Thy young life, be comforted. Though less lovely it may be. The road is shorter to the sea. If it gives through public strife A rougher aspect to thy life, StiU the end is nearer brought, The end for wliich thy life hath wrought. Self only dies ; the gasp of death "VMiat is it, but the earliest breath "We draw on that eternal shore, "VMiere there is life for evermore ? Farewell ! and when far off, O tliink Of spots still left on Rothay's brink 33 514 TO THE ROTHAY. Unchanged ; ^vhere I Tvith gurgling fall Am lading still the sunny wall Ivj-mmpled, and the breeze Scatters from the road-side trees Fragi'ant lime-flo^vers, and the feet Of thy familiars daily meet Between the bridges ; thus, when thou Look'st o'er meads fi'om Elton's brow, Where the fourteen yew trees bound The over-peopled church-yard round, Or from off the grassy plot ^^^lere the dwarjfish cedars spot The river's brink, and six chmxh towers In winter through the leafless bowers Look on, and mid the summer green To thee are present, though unseen, I at simimer noons shall bring Broken waters there to sing. Or beneath the tall boughs shading My thin streams, be hourly braiding My long weedy locks of green. In the glossy shallow seen. Beauty, too, shaU be with thee In the sil\^r willow tree, In the unbroken dome of sky. And mighty plain which can supply A bed whereon the sun may die In glory, and the pomps of even, And the breadths of starry heaven. Grassy mm-murs, too, shall wander Where the Nenna doth meander, Freighted oft with such sweet bells, Whose music o'er the lowland swells TO THE ROTIIAY. i> I 0 To many a farm ; thou slialt not Avant A gentle river side to haunt, For Xenna shall thy fancy bless AVith her earthy sileutness. Blessed is the Avill subdued Unto its lot, and fortitude AMiich so refits the local ties Once broken, and the sympathies Dissevered, that they only brighten AMiat hath passed avray, and lighten Sadness of her idle di^eams ; And the heart more hallowed seems, AMiile the years new loves unfold, Superseding not the old ; For kind feeling hath a truth "Which outgrows not its first youth, Feeding on its native power Self-sustained ; the present hour Is then most blameless when recast In the feehngs of the past. Thus, while pious hopes and fears Fill in the blank thy life appears All suddenly to be, and win Without disdain a light from sin. Caution, scarcely falling short Of being a virtue, shall consort "With thy new habits, and beguile Thy spirit with approving smile. Or if altered charms be slow On thy jealous heart to grow, A form on Xenna's bank shall talk "With thee in many a lonely walk. An angel presence that will seem Brighter than poetic dream, 516 THOUGHTS WHILE READING HISTORY. An apparition that outstrips The Yocal praise of minstrel's lips, Even the Spiritual Beauty "Which is the Shadow cast by Duty. CLXXVII. THOUGHTS WPIILE EEADIXG HISTOEY. " Narratione autem historica cum praeteiita etiam hominum instituta narrantur, non inter liumana institata ipsa historia numeranda est ; quia jam quae transierunt, nee infecta fieri possunt, in ordine tempo- rum habenda sunt, quorum est conditor et administrator Deus." S. AUGCSTINE. THE PEESEXT. 1. Magnify not the times in which we hve : The Present is a double shadow cast, Part from the Future, partly from the Past, And deeply blended is the light they give. The shadow is across our spirits thrown, "We know not how much further it hath gone. The great, ennobling Past is only then A misty pageant, an unreal thing. When it is measured in the narrow rinop o And limit of the Present by weak men. The Future is the open trench, the ground Wliereon our deeds are built, wherein we cast, As though we did a reyerend temple found, The corner-stones to build another Past. THOUGHTS WHILE READING HISTORY. 517 2. THE PKESENT. 2. In truth, but his must be a purblind sense, To whom the solemn days in which we live No room for awe, no scenes of rapture, give, Or of historical magnificence. AVhen for long years have men been so intent To march through change unto one steady scope. With hearts to dream, and energy of hope To force their dreams upon accomplishment ? Yet, if there be no other grandeur here. Each Present hath a stirring shadow near, A magnifjdng halo o'er it cast, — The thought that this same strife of good and ill, Which we have helped with indiAidiial will. By time transferred, shall be our children's East. 3. USE OF THE PAST. There is no bent of mind so 'sile, so weak. As that wliich on the glorious Past doth set In currents of inordinate regTet ; And with a sphere of dreams content, doth wreak Itself upon the love of beauty, raw. And not by lowly heart and patient thought To act or inward disposition wrought, Nor made obedient to the manly law Of dihgent love, whereby men would recast For their o^vn times the greatness of the past. But he, who to that temple shall intrude For purpose less beneficent than this, Shall be outlawed unto the barren bliss Of iifeloncr intellectual soHtude. 518 THOUGHTS WHILE REIDIXG HISTORY. CHIYALEY. They built a bridge, and bade the church supply The scaffolding, while thej the keystone brought Of Honour most elaborately wrought, And hailed the new device ^-ith jubilant cry. Thenceforth could men in meek and quiet ways Pass o'er the rudeness of those difficult days. Bolder the arch had seemed, but that within The Chmx^i had left her scaffold undisplaced ; And to that age the edifice was gi-aced By such memorial of its origin. But times came on, to whose fastidious mind That framework seemed uncouth ; and to the groimd Went arch and scaffold : — so was Honour found Too weak to bear the tread of human-kind. 5. KOMAN INFLUENCES. TTading amid a sea of wind-stirred bloom Of some bright crimson heath-plant, there I found Upon a mountain pass in Xoricum, Engulfed, one half in verdure, in the ground The other, a grey milestone of old Eome. Such admonitions in strange sort abound, , Aliens, mid those romantic forms that stir Across the days of that chiralric past, — Eelics whereby Eome's spirit hath recast And mastered their original character. Eor her abiding influence yet indents The face of things ; her very wrecks fulfil An office ; earth wears some expression still Of pagan Eome on her mute lineaments. THOUGHTS WHILE READING HISTORY. 519 6. CHIVALROUS TliMES. 1. Beautiful times ! times past ! when men were not The smooth and formal things they are to-day, When the world, travelling an uneven way, Encountered greater truths in every lot, And individual minds had power to force An epoch, and divert its vassal course. Beautiful times I times past I in whose deep art. As in a field by angels fmTOwed, lay The seeds of heavenly beauty, set apart For altar -flowers and ritual display. Beautiful times ! from whose calm bosom sprung * Abbeys and chantries, and a very host Of quiet places upon every coast. Where Christ was served, and blessed Mary sung. 7. CHIYALEOUS TIMES. 2. Unlovely times ! times past ! when it was thought That peer and peasant were of different earth ; When it was not believed that God had wrought In both one human heart of equal worth, One equal heart, wliich by the Saviour's Birth And Passion, at the selfsame price was bought. Unlovely times ! times past ! within whose womb Rapine and pride and the unmanly jar Of local feuds are ever heard at war. Like midnight sounds within a bad man's tomb. Unlovely times ! when the sweet summer breeze, A merry traveller wending through the land, Found no fair farms and lonesome cottages, ^Miose casements he mioht stir with his soft hand. 520 THOUGHTS WHILE READIXa HISTORY. 8. CHIVALROUS TI:MES. 3. Oh ! if je would not have your spirits shorn Of the deep consolations of the past, Or drop the links, wherewith je can make fiist The Present to the Bygone, think no scorn Of those great times whose double aspect seems Like the revolving phases of our dreams. Could "Nve step back from out this present stir Of good and ill, which interpenetrate In every land and age the social state, How dread would seem its twofold character ! So we revere the past, when time hath furled The skirts of mist, and to our \4sion cleared, In luminous distinction, all unsphered. The adverse circles of the Chm^ch and World. 9. BELGIAX TOWXS. 1. "Was it in many hearts at once, or one — - What was the land, the place, the cause, the hour. When it first dawned in men, that there is power In Xumbers, that the healthy streams which run In poor men's veins are red like other blood ? O blissful dawn ! the thoughtful and the good Do thee glad homage in these antique haunts. Where from ten thousand wills a Popular State Sprang like an arrow from a bow, elate Beneath the pressure of degrading wants. Here, in this street of Ghent, where evening smiles. The Chm^ch and Freedom seem but one great name, And surely they so deemed who reared these piles, As knowing whence and how their freedom came. THOUGHTS WHILE READIXG HISTORY. 521 10. BELGIAN TO^\^'S. 2. Hail to the land of sumptuous abbeys, built By royal-hearted burghers ! Feudal keeps And tourney rings, where highest blood was spilt, I pass, yet my unkindled spirit sleeps. But aU my powers with deepest reverence stir. At wrong and suffering, and the trampling down Of liill and dale^ broad land and merry town, Beneath a kingly heel or knightly spur. See ! from the fettered people's hungry heart, With tossing heat, and many an uncouth start. Indignant patience is inspired to draw, As from a holy womb, that wondrous birth, That truest regal thing upon the earth, The unimpassioned Sovereignty of Law ! ? 11. BELGIAN TO^YXS. 3. Law do I worship as a sovereign thing, The rich man's lord, the poor man's vassal, here In this dim street, where the town -hall doth fling- Quaint shadows on the grass-grown pavement near. And can the scene around no depths unfold, Gable and arch, bay-window, woodwork old ? Do not the forms grotesque in silence wait L^pon the wise man's eye, themselves intent To be the symbols of a Popular State, Interpreting its fashion, gTowth, and bent ? The streets claim kindred with each other ; skills Of diverse trades and ages blend to be One lucid type of that strong harmony, Enorendered of a thousand warrinor wills. 522 THOUGHTS WHILE READIXa HISTORY. 12. THE CEUSADES. In the long discipline of earth, not least "We note how Em^ope, in those ages past, The burden of her martial spirit east, With wise exorcism, far into the east ; And many a noble kingdom, self-relieved, Joyed in new joys, o'er holier sorrows giieved. Then localized affections grew miharmed. And home was felt, and sympathy, before Unknown, ascended to embrace the poor, — Meek wisdom learned by Europe thus disarmed. In this sweet respiration after strife, So rided by Heaven, men's hearts began to draw To peace, the blissful order of calm law. And hallowing restraints of private life. 13. OUK LADY IX THE MIDDLE AGES. I looked upon the earth : it was a floor For noisy pageant and rude bravery, — W^assail, and arms, and chase, among the high, And burning hearts uncheered among the poor, And gentleness fi^om every land withdrew. Methoug-ht that beds of whitest lilies on^ew AJl suddenly upon the earth, in bowers ; And gentleness, that wandered like a wind, And nowhere could meet sanctuary find. Passed like a dewy breath into the flowers. Earth heeded not ; she still was tributary To kings and knights, and man's heart well-nigh failed ; Then were the natural charities exhaled Afresh from out the blessed love of Mary. THOUGHTS WHILE READING HISTORY. 523 14. THE POOH IX THE MIDDLE AGES. 1. It is the Past ye worsliip ; ye do well, — If the sweet dues of reverence which ye pay Be equally disposed, nor lean one way For lack of balance in yoiu^ thoughts. To spell The past in its significance, to ponder, In the embrace of judgment, fear and love In the disguises of those days, should move More than the weak idolatry of wonder, Or beauty-stricken eye ; they should grow part Of the outgoings of your daily heart. And be not scared by show of kings and knights. As if those times were in such gauds embraced ; Remember that the people claim a past. And that the Poor of Christ have lineal rights. 15. THE POOR IX THE MIDDLE AGES. 2. They, in whose hearts those mighty times have wrought Most deeply, have upon their aspect gazed As on an eclipse, ^-ith their eye upraised Throuorh the subduino; mean of sombre thouo;ht. DO O And then it is a very fearful ^dsion To see the uncounted poor, who strayed forlorn With wrono[s unrighted, and with natm^es worn To heartlessness tlirough every day collision With arrogance and wrong. Proud knights, fair dames, And aU the pomp of old cliivalric names. Fade, like a mimic show, from off the past ; And to the Christian's eye ungathered flowers Of suffering meekly borne, in lowliest bowers, With solemn life fill in the populous waste. 524 THOUGHTS WHILE READING HISTORY. 16. THE PAPACY. That such a Power should live and breathe, doth seem A thought from which men fain would be relieved, A gi-andeur not to be endured, a dream Darkening the soul, though it be unbelieved. August conception ! far above king, law. Or popular right ; how calmly dost thou draw Under thine awful shadow mortal pain, And joy not mortal! Witness of a need Deep laid iu man, and therefore pierced in vain, As though thou wert no form that thou shouldst bleed ! While such a power there lives in old man's shape. Such and so dread, should not his mighty will And supernatural presence, godlike, fill The air we breathe, and leave us no escape ? 17. PETEAECH AND LUTHEE AT EOME. Mysterious Eome ! thy very ills are fraught "With somewhat of thy fearful destiny. So that the vision of thy sins hath wrought, Even Hke a curse, within the passer-by. Here gazed of old, with no reHgious eye, Petrarch the worldling ; here the apostate monk Came ere his fall ; and when they saw how nigh Good lay to evil, their base spirits shrunk. As from a touch-stone Tvhich could brino^ to lioht Unworthy natures that must walk by sight Through lack of trust : — and thus are sceptics made. By that half-faith which seeks for good unbound From ill ; and hearts are daily wanting found. Upon the balance of that problem weighed. THOUGHTS WHILE READING HISTORY. 525 18. TIIE IimilLTATIOX OF IIEXEY JX. AT C.VXOSSA. It is a thing to be much dwelt upon, And mastered in its length and breadth of thought, That this strange deed hath verily been wrought Before the face of men in times bygone, — That in one place, and at one solemn hour, The passing shadow of eternal power, In momentary transit, deeply fell On all the pride and pageant of the world "\Mthin one person for that crisis furled. To be eclipsed by things imisible. Men brooked the admonition, and they gazed Like seers inspired, while in their souls they felt That he who stooped was by submission raised Near to the height of that to which he knelt. 19. KIEXZI AT AVIGXOX. Throughout the earth there is a kindred dream Moored alongside of each reality, A gTeatness, prayed for, and yet ne'er to be, Save as the shadow lying by the beam. Yet earth is rich in grandeur unfulfilled : Thereof comes hope, whereby hot hearts are stilled ; And in that dream, as in a waking trance. Great spirits walk, and by serenest law From shadows unexplored they daily draw The strength in which they battle with mischance.* Eienzi in the papal tower doth lie ; His Livy and his Bible near him rest, And in those symbols tangibly compressed, Were Cola's di^eam and his reality. m 526 THOUGHTS WHILE READIXG HISTORY. 20. OEDEALS. Faith Q-wns the rude magnificence of thought, "Wherewith those venturous ages, in the dearth Of homage due to law, as umpire brought The Hand of Heaven to show the right on earth. And so for God's interposition pkied. That they, in weal or woe, were quick to find Foot-prints of marvel. Better to make sure Of earth in Heaven, bj training love and awe To supernatm'al heights, than so to draw Our Heaven within this maze of Hfe obscure. Yet oh ! how far beneath both moods are we, \Mio fi'om om^ place of exile fain would strike. As an intrusive Presence we disHke, The sweet forebodings of eternity I PEIXCE AiLiDIS. A BIOGRAPHY. ^ 521) CLXXVIIL PEIXCE AMADIS. A BIOGRAPHY. T. Prince Amadis lay in a flowery brake, By the side of Locarno's silver lake : It seems a very long while ago, Or else it may be that time goes slow. II. Those were the days when the world of spirit Filled the old earth to the brim, or near it ; And marvels were wrought by wizard elves, "Wliich happen but rarely among om^selves. in. The heart of Prince Amadis did not pant With an indwelling love, or blameless want Of chivalrous friendship, or thirst of power ; His youth was enough for its own bright hour. IV. He floated o'er life like a noon-tide breeze, Or cradled vapor on sunny seas. Or an exquisite cloud, in light arrayed, "Wliich sails through the sky and can throw no shade. V. "Wishes he had, but no hopes and no fears ; He smiled, but his smiles were not gendered of tears: Like a beautiful mute he played his part. Too happy by far in liis own young heart I 530 PRINCE AMADIS. VI. His twentieth summer was well nigh past, Each was more golden and gay than the last ; The glor J of earth, wliich to others grows- dim, Through his unclouded years glittered fresher to him. vn. And oh how he loved ! From the hour of his birth, He was gentle to all the bright insects of earth ; He sate by the green gilded lizards for hours, And laughed, for pure love, at the shoals of pied flowers. VIII. As he walked through the woods in the cool of the day, He stooped to each blossom that grew by the way ; He tapped at the rind of the old cedar trees, AYhen its weak breath had sweetened the evening breeze. IX. He knew all the huge oaks, the wide forest's gems, By their lightning-cleft branches or sisterly stems ; He knew the crowned pines where the starlight is best, And the likeliest banks where the moon would rest. X. He studied with joy the old mossy walls. And probed with his finger their cavernous halls, "Where the wi^en builds her nest, and the lady-bird slumbers, "WTiile winter his short months of icy wind numbers. XT. All things were holy and dear to his mind. All things, — except the hot heart of his kind, And that seemed a flower in a withered hood, WTiich the cold spring cankered within the bud. PRINCE AMADIS. 531 XII. The wrongs of the peasant, the woes of the peer, Ne'er wrung fi^om the prince a true sigh or a tear ; The strife of his fellows seemed heartlessly bright, Like the laurels in winter in cold moonlight. XIII. He cared for no sympathy, living in throngs Of his own sunny thoughts, and his mute inward songs ; And if in the sunset his spirit was weary, Sleep was hard by him, young health's sanctuary. XIV. 'Twould not have been so had he e'er known his mother. Or had had, save the green earth, a playmate and brother ; For deep in his heart a most wonderfid power Of lo\ing lay hid; like an unopened flower. XV. Ah ! luckless it is when a spirit is haunted By all kindly powers, but attractions are wanted, Life's outward attractions, by calm, pensive law Love, sorrow, and pity, from shy hearts to draw ! XVI. Yet mid all the natural forms of delight. Whose footfalls stole round him by day or by night, He was pure as the white lily's dew-beaded cup, "Wliich, bold because stainless, to heaven looks up. XVII. His mind was a fair desert temple of beauty, Unshaded by sorrow, unhallowed by duty ; A dream in a garden, a midsummer bliss Was the youth, the bright youth, of Prince Amadis. 532 PRINCE AMADIS. XVITT. Prince Amaclis lay in the chestnut shade Where the flickering Hght through the green leaves played, And the summer lake, Tv^ith its blue heart throbbing, Chafed the Avhite sand with a reedj sobbing. XIX. He saw not the hills through his half-closed eje, Eut their presence was felt like a spirit nigh ; To the spell of the noon-tide he gave himself up, And his heart overflowed like wine in a cup. XX. He smiled at the silence that stole o'er the day, AMiile the singing birds slumbered upon the spray. Till moss-scented airs o'er the green sward did creep. And tremulous mallow-leaves fanned him asleep. xxr. And dreams whispered to him, the tongues of sweet flowers. Striking the cliimes of the uncounted hours ; And, as though he were sinless, the wood-haunting creatures Bent o'er the sleeper with love in their featui'es. XXII. Sleeping or waking, his vision was one, — That the knots of the world might by him be undone. That the Natures below and the Spirits above Might with man be confused in one Eden of love. XXTII. Beautiful dreamer ! how far hadst thou strayed From the love at thy doors by the pensive earth laid. And the household chains of our true love rent, T\''hich were forp-ed for the soul's enfranchisement ! PRINCE AMADIS. 533 XXIV. The (lay drifted out, like the ebb of the ocean, From the havens of earth with a quiet motion ; And a cool flapping breeze grew out of the air, Which the mallow-leaves fanned to the sleeper there. XXV. Prince Amadis rose from the flowery brake, "While, imaged serenely down in the lake, The roseate sky, with gold bars freaked, By a flight of wild swans was duskily streaked. XXVI. In a stiff-bending line through the rich sunset They wavered like cloud-spots of glossy jet. And with rude piping they marshalled their rear In a phalanx above the tranquil mere. XXVII. There for one moment their huge wings they shake, Then in wide spiral circuits drop down to the lake ; The dark water gurgles, thus suddenly cloven, In wakes of wliite bubbles interwoven. XXVIII. Are there deep instincts that lurk below In those dipping breasts of diiven snow ? Or why do they steer their conscious way To the Prince in the mallow-curtained bay ? XXIX. A pale -feathered cygnet was with them, and he Swam centre of all the company, And round him they anchored in that calm pool, A vision solemn and beautiful. 534 PRINCE AMADIS. XXX. He wore on Ms head a black diadem, Looped to a clasp of orange gem ; His plumage gleamed in the dusk star-bright, Of pm-ple but faintly muffled with white. XXXI.' There needed no, voices : Prince Amadis read A dream in that show interpreted ; He strode the fair cygnet, and rose from the ground T^lth those wild white swans on a voyage bound. XXXII. Young prince ! they will search for thee all through the night, And the lake and the bush will gleam wan with torchlight ; And there will be weeping and wailing then, If monarchs have hearts like other men. XXXIII. But away and away in the midnight blue That fleet of white creatures went steerinoj throuorh : And away and away through the sweet day-break, From the white Alps flashed, their road they take : XXXIV. Through the tingling noon and the evening vapor, A\Tiich Hesper lights with his little taper. Through the tremulous smiles of moonlight mirth. And the balmy descents of dew to the earth, XXXV. Through the calms, through the winds, when the hail- stones ring, The convoy passed with untiring wing. And oft from their course for hours they di'ove, As though they winnowed the air for love. PRINCE AMADIS. 535 xxxvr. And now they would mount and now they would stoop, And almost to earth or river droop, And harshly would pipe through the sheer delight Of their boisterous wings, and theii* strength of flight, XXXVII. They saw the young Save in the next night's moon, They were over Belgrade by the afternoon. And ere the sun set their journey was o'er On a willow-isle by the Danube's shore. XXXVIII. They left the young prince, (for their mission was done,) There on the green willow-isbnd alone ; And, in their hoarse language they bade him farewell, And swept o'er the sun-bleached Bulgarian fell. XXXIX. More and more sadly as daylight died. The breeze-troubled marsh-plants sobbed and sighed. And the pulse of the river with panting sound Beat in the swamps and the hollows round. XL. But the stream travelled on like a pilgrim weary In search of his easterD sanctuary. Through the heart of old Europe guiding his floods From beneath the green boughs of the Freybourg woods. XLI. The lone swampy island lay down in the river, '\yhose strong nervous waves made the ground and trees quiver ; It swung with its head up the stream, anchored lightly By the tree roots and marsh-plants that just held it tightly. 536 PRINCE AMADIS. XLir. It trembles for ever as the ruffled stream rushes, And the mud-bubbles splutter and quake in the bushes ; Xay, it seemed in the twilight to float bj the marge. Uneasily slow, Hke a half-sunken barge. XLnr. He looked to the shore, — faded herbage, wild swamp, One ruined old mosque, all begreened with the damp • The willows leaned over in half- fallen ranks. And the cold river gurgled imder the banks. XLIV. The moon could scarce rise, and she rose all of blood, And with lurid reflection bedabbled the flood ; And the night- wind fled' fi'ightenedlj past with a wail. As if some deed of murder had fL^eighted the gale. XLV. Then when the wind had passed on out of hearing. Came an audible hush, as if spirits were nearing The lone willow-island, and made the Prince shiver, And Ion or to seek rest in that black rushins: river. XL VI. Then straightway wild music played over the scene. The moon became white, and the earth moonlit green, And the breaths fi'om the mosses like incense rose up. And each still open flower caught the dew in its cup. XLVII. What is it ? the featm-es of earth seem uncommon ; His heart glows with thoughts that are wilder than human ; And surely that music, those waves of bright Hght, Are more than the charm of a beautiful nis^ht. PRINCE AMADIS. 537 XLViir. He felt the strange wall of the music dissolving The life that was in him, and new life evolving ; His innermost being turned fluent, and fled, As if maixnets were drawincj it out of its bed. XLIX. He saw it go forth in thin streams of gray light, Which was greedily drunk by the darkness of night ; For a moment he seemed to flow out upon nature, Without personality, substance, or feature. L. Then back came his life like a tide-wave sublime ; It had circled the world in that moment of time. But what was it like ? Was it matter, or spirit ? Should he welcome it, love it? or shun it, and fear it ? LI. He felt all at once \^ewless arms were around liim ; Flesh and blood had no sinews like those that now bound him ; He felt hands witliin him, — then all things gave way, His soul lay down and fluttered in extatic dismay. LII. His heart turned to stone ; a strange panic had chilled him ; His old life died out, as this new terror filled him ; He felt as if throuojh some ordeal he was winninoj His way to some grand but terrific beginning. LIU. He was colder than ice, with an inward cold pain, And his blood left his heart, and encircled his brain ; Man's life was unmade in him, crossed by new sections, With mind for a centre instead of affections. 638 PRIXCE AMADIS. LIV. We are plants, ve are beasts, "vre are metals, and earth. And the life of the stars too went in us at bii^th ; We are all things in one thing, life's manifold flame Chaos gave us, when out of its bosom we came. LV. So now in Prince Amadis, down in his being, The plant to the plant-life was evermore fleeing, The beasts to the beast-life ; star, metal, and gem Paired ofi" with the inner life suited to them. LVI. And now they flowed into him, now they flowed out. And mingled and circled and wavered about ; One life now repelled, now invited another, But the pulses that beat in them answered each other. LVII. Xew unity too did his nature discover ; He had but one sense, he was eye-sight all over : He saw tastes, he saw touches, strange mortal was he ! He saw somids, he saw scents, — he did notliing but see ! LVIII. He had sympathies too, but not after man's fashion ; He loved, but his love was a cold shiny passion : Father-love, sister-love, all were effaced. And all his old home -idols rudely displaced. LIX. In spite of himself his whole being must hasten Its affections on wholly new objects to fasten; He must speak a new language which nature will teach, But a many-tongued silentness now must be speech. PRINCE AMADIS. 539 LX. Darkness ^vas to him what sorrow had been, And liorht was his joy, with its smiles of white sheen ; And colour was pathos, and sympathy flowers, And his homes were unnumbered, — all beautiful bowers. LXI. Alas ! I much fear that poetic desire Had grown in his heart, like a cosmical fire ; He had burned for a change, and had found the change there, And a di'eam had been answered as if it were prayer ! LXIC. From the deeps of the Danube there rose right before liim A glorious spirit, with a light-halo o'er him, Whose heart was transparent, yet visibly heaying, With the light shining through, and yet real and living. Lxiir. 'Twas the essence of beauty, the spii-it of earth, The Kosmos, that lurked in the marvellous birth Of the outlying universe, orbs without number, Xothinoiiess waked from its unmeaninoj slumber. LXIV. O who shall define this strange life of the world, That for ever unfurls all the tilings that are furled, A power unfatigued, and a life ever vernal, Immaterial matter, and almost eternal. LXY. Like angel he seemed, with a look on his features Of a human sort, dashed with the lowlier creatm^es, And he seemed at each winnow to shake from his wings The splendour of all terrestrial things. 540 PRINCE AMADIS. LXYI. He spoke, — what a voice of most musical sweetness, Like streams in their flowing, like winds in their fleetness ! It was wildest enchantment, incredible bliss To the listening heart of the Princ^ Amadis. Lxvir. Art thou weary, he cried, of that intricate strife, "Which for lack of a better sad mortals call life ; Then change places with me, and deep shalt thou di'ink Of the fountain that springs on eternity's brink. Lxviir. I will give thee mj powers ; thou wilt need to be brave ; ]My far-reaching subtlety too thou shalt have ; My science infused in thy spirit shall be ; Thou shalt beat as the world-soul awhile, 'stead of me. LXIX. Thy mind shall be filled with all sweet shapes and shows ; Mute creation shall watch o'er thine equal repose ; And unmoral beauty shall be to thy soul An incessant delight while the weary worlds roll. LXX. Beauty shall feed thee at heaven's own portals, "With an exquisite influx unknown to poor mortals ; Thou shalt drink of the sunstream of light as it flows, And the sight of fair things be thy spirit's repose. LXXT. Art thou weary of wills, of hearts sinful and rude, Of earth's dark and bright mixtures, and cm'ses that brood O'er a whole stricken race, and the service they need, Wliere the eyes ever weep, and the hearts ever bleed ? rniNCE AMADIS. 541 Lxxir. Art thou sick of distractions from self, and would fain Let thy soul walk at large in a world Avithout pain, 'SMiere law, not caprice, shall direct every force, And the absence of sin make you free of remorse ? ' LXXIII. Lo ! I am the Kosmos ! such beauty is mine, AVliere all things in truth and in harmony shine, 'SMiere no word of command, since the first one, is spoken, "\Miere no work is unmeaning, no decree ever broken, LXXIV. Where the swerving of systems is the rising and falling Of unmeasured epochs to each other calhng, "\Miere change and variety blend without flaw, And calm and catastrophe are but one law. LXXV. Eut, if this grand life is to go into thee, ImjDassible, passionless, cold, must thou be ; A single stray tenderness quick would dispel The new life thou hast on, and which fits thee so well. LXXVI. I rannot put from thee thy flesh-and-blood heart ; I have set it alone in a corner apart ; — Only see that earth's pity wake it not up again, — If thou sheddest one tear, my gift is all vain. LXXVII. Magnificence cannot be meek in a creature : 'Tis a stretch that would wear out and break up his nature ; To be high, — high above all our kind we must dwell ; He who longs to be grand must be cruel as well. 542 PRINCE AMADIS. LXXVIII. He spoke, and there came on the earth such a hush ! He threw off from himself a scarce visible flush Of the rosiest liglit, that passed into the heart Of the wondering Prince, with an exquisite smart. LXXIX. For a moment a mist-shadow seemed just to hover — The low stars looked through it — the moonlit stream over, Then Kosmos unsouled, earth's king dispossessed, Laid down in the bed of the Danube to rest. LXXX. The stars ceased to twinkle, the moon shed no beam, There came a strange murmur all over the stream ; Earth felt just the slightest vibration, — ^then tore Eight away through cold space unconcerned as before. LXXXI. For a moment the Prince in astonishment mused. Till he felt his whole being without effort diffused Thro^ the unsurvejed universe, and his new wings Seemed to drop life for ever into the natm*e of things. LXXXII. Then away, and away, and away, — ^from the haunts Of poor moping man, and his numberless wants. Away o'er the regions of beauty that lie Beneath and beyond the wide dome of the sky ! LXXXIII. Sense of power was the very first thought that possessed liim. And infinite space, he expected, would rest him ; So he darted aloft on the wings of the night, And in secret the soundless air closed on his flight. PRINCE AMADIS. 543 LXXXIV. O grand TS'as the hush of sidereal space, Mid the huge orbs that looked at him full in the face ; There his mind ^vorked in greatness, unlimited then Bj the shrill interruptions of frivolous men. LXXXV. Majestic he traversed our own !Milkj Way, Tracked each winding cmTent, and sounded each bay ; Its collections of worlds are the neighbours, next door To the planet that lies on Sol's furthermost shore. LXXXVI. He was lonely as poet could e'er wish to be. From all outward entanglement blessedly fi'ee As second-rate greatness could covet, whose charm Is in license that startles^ and power to do harm. LXXXVII. He was where the wistfullest vacancy broods O'er the great empty stars and their bright solitudes, Where space, running over, petitioned for bounds, And silence itself almost ached for sweet sounds. LXXXVIII. Yet the ^lilky Way world is our own, and his home Was not far enough off; he must still further roam; For the sense of magnificence o'er his soul stealing Was narrowed, he felt, by some patriot feeling. LXXXIX. Yes ! the IMilky Way world is but one step in space : It is but as France is to England, a place Scarcely foreign when seen o'er the sun-misty strait, With the wild German ocean crowding in at the gate. 544 PRINCE AMADIS. xc. The Tvoiids ^vhere poor man hatli got nothing to do. — There are plenty of such in the neighbouring blue ! — "Will not meet ^hat he vants ; oh no ! he must be In a world wliich not telescopes even can see. xci. There are plenty of such, ere we come to the end Where the actual things with the possible blend. Other oceans of blue, a conceivable place ; — But it bm'dens my heart to imagine such space ! XCII. Art thou sure, gentle Prince ! there is no sorrow there, Ko laws helping laws, no angelical care ? Ai't thou sm-e that obedience and duty intrude Xot at all in that viewless and far solitude ? xciir. For the lonely have duties, thyself mid the rest; Like a wounded bii^d bleeding, the heart in thy breast Sheds remorse on the air, and imkings thee when highest, Yrhile duties undone mark the track where thou fliest. xciv. Then away, in thy striving to get clear of strife ! There is nought youth loves more than an unwit- nessed life. Thou art gone, out of sight amid nameless worlds fleeing, "^^Ith the earth-string of conscience at work in thy being. xcv. "When he came to the edge of the Milky "Way world Tracts of space lay before him in silence unfurled ; But he winged his way o'er the blue gulfs without check To worlds far beyond, fi'om which this looked a speck. 1 PRINCE AMADIS. 545 XCVI. All the systems of suns that we see in the night Dwindled down to a point, and then vanished from sight ; Then came fresh sets of worlds, and more inlets of space, Old tj^es disappearing, new forms in their place. xcvfi. They rose up to idew, like the tall masts of ships Out at sea, when the sky-Kne of dark ocean dips ; "Worlds round him, above, and beneath him, were seen, Like woods in a mist with abysses between. xcviir. Huge nebular regions, oases of light, Strewed thickly or thinly the void infinite ; Each of which in itself countless worlds can compress, As thick as the sands of the wide wilderness ; — xcix. Long islands of worlds, far apart in the blue, Xow so near that a bridge of great suns joins the two ; Now an isthmus of orbs, now a wide continent "WTiere the numberless worlds in a bright patch are blent :— c. Worlds made, worlds preparing, worlds then and there making, And inchoate spirals their white tresses shaking, Worlds Hquid, worlds solid, worlds vapour all over, Worlds with or without atmospherical cover. CI. He went, horror hushing the songs in his mouth. To that drear restless universe down in the south, And he trembled to see reeling Argus so flicker, Like a torch as we wave it, now slower, now quicker. 35 546 PRINCE AMADIS. CII. He had favourite tracts out in space ^vhere he toured, And, from old childish longings, he deftly explored Those dark mottled patches, once scorned as delusion, Molten light, molten darkness, in orderly fusion. cm. Creation, so deemed he, Tvas scarcely begun, A grandeur in childhood, a race yet to run, A hymn that this moment through new space has rung, The first strophe of -which has yet scarcely been sung. CIV. He saw rings part from centres in flaming projection. Worlds weltering wildly towards their perfection, ^liere the work that was done appeared more like undoing, Contraction, explosion, dark deluge, and ruin. cv. He met rays of light falling earthward, like tears. That had been on their travels thirty millions of years. Cleaving like lightning the thin purple gloom. Yet would hardly reach earth until after the Doom. cvi. "WTiat is distance but nature's best poem, that sings As it lengthens its flight, throwing ofi" fr'om its wings The most magical softness, which veils and discloses, Bringing out, filHng up, wheresoever it reposes. CVII. It is distance which robes far and near with their tints. Excites by concealing, and heightens by hints. On earth blends green forests and indigo mountains. And above presses star-worlds to single light-fountains. PRINCE AMADIS. 547 CVIII. His homo ttqs the poet's home, space, and beyond, All the worlds knit in one Avorld, with thought for a bond, Strong musical thought to repel and to draw, With metre for ether, and song for a law. cix. For his thoughts peopled space, or at times drew it in To itself, making all things its kith and its kin ; The bleakest of nebulas gave him as much Of a home as the lake which the alp-shadows touch. ex. He was not more at home, where his own Lombard sky Looks down through the chestnuts, than when he * might lie On forlorn wisps of stars that with pendulous motion Writhe about over space, like the wrecks on the ocean. CXI. "WTien his boat on Locarno scarce heaved in the calm. Things around him were clothed not in more homely charm, Than the gulfs where gaunt systems in awful embrace Put forth arms made of worlds, like huge feelers, in space, cxir. The uniyerse taught him that space was less yast Than the world of his soul, which all time will outlast; And mind, more colossal than matter, can come In the world of Orion to be straitened for room. CXIII. What hope for the future, he thought, when he saw Orbs condense and compress themselyes, plainly by law. Worlds by millions slow gathering in dread concen- tration, To some maiwellous oneness of undi^eamed creation ! 548 PRINCE AMADIS. CXIV. He watched giant systems break up, and re-form, Like nations renewed by a popular storm : It was fearful to see how they cracked, swang asunder. And closed up in new systems of order and wonder. cxv. He beheld with glad terror our own Milky "Way At its north and south poles self-unrivet, out-sway, And some world-groups heave anchor, like icebergs sublime, Thawed out in the lapse of un writ cable time. ex VI. So the Clouds of Magellan drifted off and dipped do^Ti Towards earth, as a cloud settles over a town, Mighty realms of white worlds, their soft tremulous shining "^Mth the sunsets of earth most fraternally twining. cxvii. All is change and advance, not a cyclical race ; Love only sur\ives wrecks of Time, Force, and Space ; Love only shall see out of all revolution How creation shall perfect its grand constitution. CXVII I. All around us is Home ; the heart owns no Abroad In the lap of this beautiful Free Act of God ; His Love is the instinct that pilots its Course, And His sweet Will its true Imperceptible Force. cxix. O how his heart grew with the largeness of things I His sights were all thoughts, and his thoughts were all wings ; Yet one look of love from his sister were bliss More eternal, more infinite surely than this. PRINCE AMADIS. 549 CXX. Then Tvent he, and stood in the face of the sun, At the end of the race ^^hich that orb has to run, An invisible goal in ethereal seas, Which lies to the north of the bright Hercules. CXXI. But ah I ^hen the sun that far home hath attained, We maj hope that our souls better homes will have gained, Fairer heavens above, where earth's troubles will cease, Eut not without winning us glorj and peace. cxxn. The Prince goes on hunting for beauty, nor dreams That the beauty of earth is above what it seems, That the heart is the trial of what we are worth. And the best of all heavens is made out of earth I CXXIII. He watched the swift moon, when her shadow first nips The bright edge of the sun in a total eclipse ; And he flew to those strange rosy thumbs that protrude From the moon-darkened rim, when the light is subdued. cxxiv. He went near the sun to see comets unbind Their long lucent ringlets now flowing behind. And saw the scared things, as they looked in the glass, Euffle back their light tresses the moment they pass. cxxv. Xear the grand double stars he would watch with delight The beautiful quarrel between day and night. Blue sunset, red sunrise, both striding together, Weird landscapes, weird foliage, and the weirdest of weather. 550 PRINCE AMADIS. CXXYI. He loved to see planets in sweet occultation Pass under the moon, while the double vibration, Like an echo of light, makes the planet start back, As if frightened to let the moon ride o'er its track. CXXVII. He watched Jupiter's moon jumping back in alarm, Keeping step with its mother, who put forth her arm, And di^ew the young child with herself into night, Herself more to blame than the poor satellite ! CXXVIII. Then right in the flames of the sun would he go, Where an unconsumed planet lies dazzling and low, Deeper down in the sunshine than Hermes, all drowned To mortal research in the light-floods around. CXXIX. He trod the outsldrts of the last solar seas, "WTiere the cold is not measured by human degrees, "WTiere the orbs seem uncertain on what line to venture, Lest the sun might not prove their legitimate centre, — CXXX. Tar out in the dreary cold, far, far away, Beyond Neptune, where outlying planets obey, Eeluctant and sluggish, the suck of the sun. But who drag in their orbits rather than run. cxxxr. Then for change would he seek the least jewels of night. The gardens of crystal that swing into sight Every year, 'twixt the lines on which Jupiter rolls, And Mars with the white cap of snow on his poles. PRINCE AMADIS. 551 cxxxir. He sa^v little earth hold its atmosphere doTvn, "VVliile space-matter strove the poor orb to uncrown ; Outside its crisp top he hung poised in the sky To see Tvith what fleetness the planet flew by. CXXXIII. In all the wide worlds, great and little, he saw, "With sweet re-assurance one beautiful lavr, — That each world to itself its own centre should seem, An honest untruth, a self-realized dream. cxxxiv. He saw that the people's large language was better Than the phrases of science, and for common use meeter ; For thus all the orbs, through the vastness that roam. Feel themselves in each nook of creation at home. cxxxv. For what is each heart, wheresoe'er it may live. But the centre of all the love God has to give. As dear to its Father, whatever its station. As if it by itself were the whole of creation ? cxxxvi. 0 Prince ! hast thou not in thy heart some misgiving Of the centreless life that thy selfwiU is living ? For where self is the centre, all life is abroad, Unrooted in home, and unfastened to God. CXXXVII. O good for the soul is the merciful strain Of a grave obligation ; still better the pain Of repentance, whose tears are professions of faith In the God who forgives, in the life after death. 552 PRINCE A3IADIS. CXXXVIII. Then wander no longer, thou sunshiny cloud ! "With thy shadow just dappling the fields on thy road ; "Weep away to the earth in soft rain, and the shower Shall at least make one green spot more green than before. cxxxix. Life that lives for itself in an unrooted youth Must one day do penance for all its untruth, Must revenge on itself what it slighted before, In old age cast away on a desolate shore. CXL. There are plants in the woods of Brazil, parasites, Who give out their fragrances only at nights. Fresh rooted each moment in wandering airs. Which are solid enough for such thin roots as theirs. CXLI. Even such is thy round in this beautiful ring. An air-rooted, windshaken, unlife-like thing, Perfumino^ for no one niorht's untrodden bowers, DO ' With no holier pain than a headache of flowers. CXLII. When could others awaken fond youth from a dream ? It must wake of itself: for it flows like a stream, — It is gone while we speak, its STvdft cmTents unbinding; Its home is in seeking, its exile in finding! CXLIII. In love have wo spoken ; for this Prince is our brother; Put one beauty reminds him far ofi" of another. And, ere we had time our advice to rehearse. Twice or thrice has he gone round the whole universe. PRINCE AMADIS. 553 CXLIV. 0 see how he wheels up aloft in the air ! Heavy wisdom from earth cannot reach to him there; Now he drops, but it is in the thick of yon wood, "SMiere precipitous rocks overhang the dark flood. CXLV. There again! he has left us in lightning-like flight, And is hidden far up in the whiteness of light, Whence faint sparkles fall like a rocket-shower breaking, TThere from pinions unseen the soft motes he is shaking. CXLVI. Then down the blue waters of islandless ocean He dives, like the gale, with exulting emotion, Now passively floats as the frolic wind blows him. Now tunnels the crests of cold brine that oppose him. cxLvir. When he teases the earth in his low-drooping flight It is not home draws him . he will not alight ; He but skims, like a swallow, in swift mazy rings. And feeds, like the bfrd, on imisible things. cxLviir. When he hovers o'er earth it is only to sing, Beating time for himself with his vibrating wing ; ^Miile the hot spell is on him perforce must he roam. For an uneasy heart is most homeless at home. CXLIX. He has thoughts, so he thinks, above all thoughts of ours, Inconceivable echoes from heavenly bowers ; He has words, so he says, which we always mistake, And a silenee of song which we rude mortals break. 55-i PRINCE AMADIS. CL. Ah ! little he deems how much deeper a thing Is the action of life, a more bountiful spring Of beauty, of wonder, of truth, and of power, A joy more long-Hved, a more heavenly dower. CLI. Tears shed for others are waters that rise To their levels above in the grace -giving skies ; Time wasted for others is paid back at last, Counted out in eternities, future and past. CLII. Though thy life may be fretful and swift, yet delay To soothe the least sorrow that comes in thy way ; For sympathy, happily choosing its times. Cheers the long nights of grief with its beautifid chimes. CLIII. More tall than the stars is the wonderful height Of unselfishness, always reposing in light. On whose glorious summits the night falleth never, But the seen Face of God is its sunrise for ever. CLIV. How great is the gift to have sisters and brothers ! They only who lose them can estimate mothers ! For to hearts, where the world would fain fling its first spell, A home can be almost religion as well. CLV. Souls only sell dear in the markets of heaven, And on earth for hearts only high prices are given : Men who love while they suffer, and work while they grieve, Heaven and earth in their one web of life interweave. PRINCE a:madis. 555 CLVI. They only Tvho love, and love meekly, are blest ; And true love is nothing but self dispossessed ; They only ^vho labour at last Avin the prize ; They only avIio sorrow can ever be wise. CLVII. All these beauties are toys to thee, Prince Amadis ! Thy chase is not life ; it was ne'er meant for this. A schoolboy at play will outweigh thy worth soon, If he gives and takes kindly one whole afternoon. CLVIII. Hast thou got any purse in the which thou canst treasui^e The fine glowing sunsets that give thee such pleasure ? Do the angels in heaven hoard the scents of the flowers, Or photograph all the fair lights of the hours ? CLIX. The secrets of children, who whisper and chatter, Are worth half a score of the secrets of matter. Unless they can make us still more the world' s master. To sail our ships safer, or go our way faster. CLX. If too much is made of them, earth, sun, and moon Are but sights at a theatre, songs out of tune ; And the round stars are only like hoops up on high, TThich child-poets trundle though infinite sky. CLXI. O man is the beauty, and hearts are the glory Of all the world's science and all the world's story ; And sorrow is softness, a heavenly birth. To prevent our becoming as hard as the earth. 556 PRINCE AMADIS. CLXII. These far worlds astonish the mind out of breath, So yastlj outstretched in magnificent death ; But grandeur ^vants something more changeful to rest it; It a