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FROM   THE   LIBRARY   OF 
REV.    LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,   D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED    BY    HIM    TO 

THE    LIBRARY   OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL   SEMINARY 


MINOR    CHORDS:    AND 
OTHER   POEMS. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2013 


http://archive.org/details/minorchoOOeckl 


0  1933 


/ 

MINOR    CHCKRDS: 


BY 


// 


SOPHIA     MAY     ECKLEY. 


LONDON : 
BELL  AND  DALDY.  YORK  STREET, 

COVENT    GARDEN. 

1869- 


cijiswick   press: PRINTED   by   whittingham   and  WILKINS, 

TOOKS    COURT,    CHANCERY    LANE. 


A  DEDICATION. 

:^j^^jRIENDSHIP  oft  weaves  a  garland  fresh  and  fair, 
&  And  loves  to  twine  it  round  some  fav'rite  shrine, 
§1^353  ^or  dreams  of  aught  to  blight,  or  eren  impair 
New  buds  that  with  the  roses  may  entwine. 
You,  Dear,  have  wander'd  with  me  in  these  hours, 
And  many  a  wild  bloom  pluck'd  from  nettle's  snare, 
Untangling  oft  a  rose  from  thorns  in  bowers. 
Growing,  alas,  where  all  the  fairest  were. 
Unfading  may  it  prove,  as  friendship's  light 
Serene,  as  tender  every  leaf  and  spray, 
To  breathe  of  many  a  foreign  land  and  sight, 
And  many  a  woodland  blossom  pass'd  away  : 
Entwine  it  round  the  bells  that  memory  chimes, 
Cadences  ringing  of  the  sunshine,  rain, 
Keep  it  to  'mind  thee,  too,  of  seasons,  climes, 
Life  passages  in  desert,  tent,  and  plain, 
Endear'd  to  both  by  every  claim  beloved, 
Years  could  not  wither,  but  perennial  proved. 

London, 
November,  186£. 


CONTENTS. 


Mrs'OR  Chord: 
RELUDE 

Chateaulaudrin 
The  Vesper  Hymn 
Outside  the  Church 

The  Stained  Church  Window 

Euterpe 

My  Lyre     . 

My  Lute,  or  Compensation 

A  Soldier's  Grave 

Another  Spring 

Grave-Roses 

Dreams 

Two  Children 

Where  ?     . 

Year  after  Year 

A  Dream -Rose 

Flowers  the  Dead  wear 

Vouee  au  Blanc 

In  Memoriam 


Octav 


Whispers  at  Fontainebleau 

Real  . 

Ideal  . 

"  Golden  Hours" 


Page 
3 
7 
13 
15 
17 
19 
20 
25 
28 
30 
31 
32 
34 
36 
38 
40 
42 
44 
46 


51 
54 


57 


viii  CONTENTS. 

Page 

Two  Landscapes           .......  60 

A  Fragment  of  History 62 

Silver  Acres        ........  64 

My  Winter  Garden 66 

The  Statue  by  the  Sea 68 

The  Song  of  the  Wind 76 

"She's  gone"    .                  77 

Semper  Eadem 79 

Found 81 

Extremes 82 

Barbara 92 

"  The  Last  Supper  "    .......  95 

The  Song  of  the  Reapers     ......  98 

Faith  versus  Philosophy 100 

Bubbles 102 

Wave-footsteps  in  the  Sand          .         .         .         .         .  105 

Memory's  Bells 106 

Intervals, 

Handel Ill 

Sonnet 112 

An  Invocation    .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  113 

The  Song  of  the  Sea 114 

The  Anthem 115 

Adrift 116 

A  Word-Picture 118 

A  New  Gondola  Song  for  Venice,  in  1866    .         .         .  120 

The  "  Night  and  Morning,"  of  Michael  Angel o    .         .  122 

The  Call 123 

A  Portrait           ....'...  1 24 

Flowers  for  Paradise 126 

A  Song  for  the  Critics 127 

The  Dance 129 

The  Sequel 134 

An  unannounced  Visitor  at  the  Tuileries       .         .         .  136 

Christmas  Roses          .         .         .         .         .         .         .  141 

Footsteps  left"  in  an  Egyptian    Tomb  three  thousand 

Years 142 

The  Arno  at  Night 147 

To 148 


CONTENTS. 


IX 


The  Deserted  Chateau         ...... 

A  Legend  .......... 

The  Lighthouse  of  Ailly 

The  Legend  of  the  Church  of  Varengeville,  ( Normandy) 


Page 
149 
153 

157 
159 


Alpine  Echoes. 


Echo 

An  Alpine  Excursion 

"  Even  there  also" 

Under  the  Glacier 

The  Shadow  on  the  Mist 

A  Xew  Moon 

An  Ascent 

The  Organ  of  the  Pines 

Alpen  Flora 

Cloud-Sculptures 

The  An  gel  us 

The  Maid  of  Savoy     . 

The  Shadow  of  Chastellard 

The  Ave     .... 

Sunset  at  the  "  Porte  du  Soleil'" 

A  Frost  Picture  on  a  Window 

Moonlight 

The  Flower  Chorus     . 


Choral  Phra. 

The  Ship    .... 

The  Holy  Catholic  Church 

By  the  Sea  of  Galilee  . 

The  Martyr  Ages 

Trust  .... 

A  Hymn  for  Confirmation    . 

"  A  Pilgrim  and  a  Sojourner  ; 

Guardian  Angels 

A  Hymn  for  Whitsuntide    . 

"  Light  of  the  World" 

A  Hymn  for  the  Holy  Communion 

Via  Crucis     .... 


165 
168 
172 
175 
176 
178 
180 
182 
183 
185 
187 
188 
191 
197 
199 
201 
202 
203 


221 
222 
224 
226 
228 
229 
230 
232 
234 
236 
238 
239 


CONTEXTS. 


Mater  Dolorosa  .... 

A  Funeral  Hymn        .... 

An  Easter  Hymn        .... 

"  At  evening  time  it  shall  be  light "     . 

Perfect  Day        ..... 

An  earh7  Christian  Martyr 

Flowers  on  the  Altar 

A  Hymn  for  All  Saints — The  Song 

At  Jacqueline  Pascal's  Grave 

Time's  Sea  ..... 

A  Paraphrase  on  the  Thirteenth  Chapter  ofCorinthians 

"  He  Leadeth  Them  "...... 


241 
242 

243 
24T) 
247 
248 
249 
251 
254 
256 
259 
263 


Transpositions. 

Sonnet  of  Michelangelo 
Sonnet  of  Laura  Battiferro 
Sonnet  of  Corilla  Olimpica  . 
Sonnet  attributed  to  Petrarch 
From  Heine        ..... 
Prayer  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots    . 
"  O  quot  Undis  Lacrymarum"     . 
A  Vesper  Hymn  to  St.  Monica   . 
A  Paraphrase  on  St.  Augustine 
Hymn  to  the  Saints  in  Heaven. 
"  Mis  Desios"    . 


St.  Augustine 


267 
268 
269 
270 
271 
271 
272 
273 
275 
276 


iS'£M^M^. ; 


MIX OR     CHORDS 


PART    I. 


PRELUDE. 


HE  swallow  wings  her  southward  way. 
Deserted  nests  on  tree-tops  sway, 
Autumnal  winds  blow  sharp  and  drear, 
Through  aspen,  beech,  and  willow  near ; 
Summer's  symphony  is  done, 
Autumn's  prelude  has  begun. 


May  minstrel  Autumn's  echoes  stir, 
From  windy  courts  each  chorister, 
Or  are  we  too  obtuse  to  hear 
The  prelude  of  a  dying  year  ? 
Summer's  symphony  is  done, 
Autumn's  prelude  has  begun. 


PRELUDE. 

Can  music  only  wing  anew, 
From  instruments  we  hear  and  view, 
In  worldly  crowds,  in  heat  and  stir, 
Where  Fashion  flaunts  interpreter? 
Summer's  symphony  is  done, 
Autumn's  prelude  has  begun. 

Ay,  organ,  viol,  harp,  may  lure 
To  melodies  far  more  obscure 
Than  those  we  find  in  Nature's  spell, 
Which  only  poets  love  to  tell ; 
Summer's  symphony  is  done, 
Autumn's  prelude  has  begun. 

Then  pause,  and  listen  to  a  strain 
That  ne'er  repeats  itself  again, 
Comes  new  and  glorious  year  by  year, 
This  prelude  of  the  Autumn's  cheer; 
Summer's  symphony  is  done, 
Autumn's  prelude  has  begun. 

Seek  Nature  in  her  regal  hall, 
With  artists  weird  and  mystical, 


PRELUDE. 

Her  orchestra  so  witching,  deep, 
Her  concords  that  in  all  things  sleep  ; 
Summer's  symphony  is  done, 
Autumn's  prelude  has  begun. 


PART   II. 

^^pATUEE'S  orchestra  is  huslrd. 

§|g  Life  is  by  the  frost-king  crush* d. 
Mark  the  leaves'  wan  carpet  meet, 
Crumbling  underneath  our  feet. 

Winter's  ice,  and  frost,  and  rain, 
Lock  the  rivulets  again  ; 
Autumn's  prelude  now  is  done, 
Winter's  requiem  has  begun. 

November  winds  are  crying  loud, 
The  brittle  leaves  weave  Autumn's  shroud 
Grave  Autumn's  prelude  now  is  done, 
And  Winter's  requiem  has  begun. 


PRELUDE. 

Low  wistful  winds  that  moan  the  fair, 
Wake  dying  echoes  in  the  ah1 ; 
Hark,  the  cadence  sadder  grows, 
Minor  in  its  weary  close. 

Are  our  hearts  in  tune  with  this  ? 
Or  palsied  by  the  world's  death-kiss  ? 
Buried  in  cares,  those  worldly  burrs, 
And  deaf  to  God's  interpreters  ? 
For  Autumn's  prelude  now  is  done, 
And  Whiter' s  requiem  has  begun. 


CHATEAULAUDRIN. 

TO    E.    L.    G. 

"  A  town  in  Brittany  submerged  by  the  bursting  of  a  lake  above 
it  in  1773." — Les  Derniers  Bretons, par  Emtle  SOUVESTKE. 

f^/Y^§ HY  muse  we  here,  since  life  has  flown, 
fe£jX>j  And  death's  faint  footstep  haunts  alone 
Silent  Piazza,  vacant  street  ? — 
Like  rain-drops  fall  his  ghostly  feet, 

Through  Chateaulaudrin  dead  ! 

Muffled  the  breeze,  and  dead  the  air, 
And  desolate  the  weed-grown  square, 
No  voice  is  heard,  no  human  tread, 
No  light  is  from  the  windows  shed 
On  Chateaulaudrin  dead  ! 

Above  the  city  hangs  her  lake, 
Like  some  dark  cloud  at  point  to  break 
On  tile  and  housetop — so  she  stood 
That  morn,  ere  death's  resistless  flood 
Left  Chateaulaudrin  dead. 


CHA  TEA  ULA  UDRIN. 

Thus  Naples  lies,  though  not  jet  cold, 
Vesuvius  his  red  torrent  roll'd 
Up  to  her  gate  but  yesterday, 
Yet  Naples  sleeps  and  dreams  alway, 
Like  Chateaulaudrin  dead ! 

A  hundred  years  have  roll'd  Time's  wheel, 
Since  life  strode  here  with  echoing  heel, 
And  busy  traffic  drove  in  haste, 
Ere  God's  hand  struck  the  vineyard  waste, 
By  Chateaulaudrin  dead  ! 

A  hundred  years,  almost,  since  Fate 
Wrote  here  the  city's  term  and  date — 
August  thirteenth — the  numbers  see, 
Of  fatal  Seventeen-seventy-three, 

For  Chateaulaudrin  dead  ! 


The  square  that  night  was  all  alight, 
Dancing  and  beauty  charm' d  the  sight. 
Brilliant  the  grand  house  in  the  square, 
Zelie  the  beautiful  was  there — 

JSTow,  Chateaulaudrin — dead  ! 


CHA  TEA  ULA  UDRIN. 

Music's  soft  spell  entranced  the  ear, 
Gallery,  terrace,  far  and  near, 
Flutter' d  with  beauty's  life  and  breath, 
Ere  young  and  old  went  down  to  death, 
With  Chateaulaudrin  dead ! 

Sweet  Zelie,  in  her  beauty  rare, 
Stood,  softly  shadow'd  by  her  hair, 
Her  face  just  lit  with  tearful  gleam, 
As  though  the  sad  eyes,  in  a  dream, 
Saw  Chateaulaudrin  dead  ! 

Her  girlish  robes  of  holy  white — 
We  seem  to  see  her  virgin  plight ; 
She  stands  before  us  at  this  hour, 
As  if  e'en  now  her  beauty's  flower 
Lit  Chateaulaudrin  dead  ! 

And  when  she  cross'd  the  crowded  square, 
To  seek  the  shrine  to  breathe  one  prayer, 
Old  women  bless' d  her,  hands  upraised, 
Nor  dream' d,  as  on  her  face  they  gazed, 
Of  Chateaulaudrin  dead  ! 


CHA  TEA  ULA  UDRIN. 

That  night  her  cheek  paled  in  the  dance, 
Her  eye  flash'd  restless,  and  a  glance 
Stole  to  the  door — her  partner  sigh'd, 
For  Zelie  was  that  night  a  bride, 

Nor  Chateaulaudrin  dead. 


The  thunder  mutter' d  of  her  fall, 
The  lightning  fill'd  the  dazzling  hall ; 
The  deep  lake  in  the  distance  groan' d, 
The  hoarse  pine  at  the  window  moan'd — 
"  Dead,  Chateaulaudrin  dead  !" 

The  rattling  sleet  upon  the  blind, 
The  crazy  shrieking  of  the  wind, 
The  deeper  voice  that  rose  and  fell 
With  every  gust,  seern'd  this  to  knell — 
"  Dead,  Chateaulaudrin  dead  !" 

The  dancers  paused,  their  laughter  hush'd, 
Fresh  cheeks  grew  wan,  then  wildly  flush'd, 
And  bold  hearts  falter' d,  terror-tamed, 
And  white  prophetic  lips  proclaim' d — 

"  Dead,  Chateaulaudrin  dead  !" 


CHATEAULAUDRIX.  u 

A  nearer  crash  !  a  louder  roar  ! 
The  lake  had  burst  from  shore  to  shore, 
O'erwhelm'd  the  town,  which  in  a  breath 
Grave  np  its  all  of  life  to  death, 

Gave  Chateaulaudrin — dead  ! 

Chaplets  and  gauds,  and  gold  brocade, 
Corpses  and  chattels,  monk  and  maid, 
Grotesque  cadaverous  brotherhood, 
Floated  upon  the  ghastly  flood, 

O'er  Chateaulaudrin  dead  ! 

But  morning  broke,  the  tempest  spent, 
The  sun  from  out  his  chamber  went, 
JS"o  funeral  face  of  grief  he  wore, 
Xor  veil'd  his  light,  as  to  deplore 

Old  Chateaulaudrin  dead  ! 

But  here's  the  church  !  is  this  too  dead  ? 
The  shrine-lamp  lights  sweet  Mary's  head, 
Yet  Death  even  here,  with  mocking  sign, 
Points  outward,  points  from  cross  to  shrine, 
O'er  Chateaulaudrin  dead  ! 


CHA  TEA  ULA  UDEIN. 

In  honour  of  the  dead  burns  bright 
This  vigil  flame  by  day  and  night ; 
Frail  sunshine  sleeps  within  the  choir, 
Deserted,  like  some  silent  lyre, 

For  CMteaulaudrin  dead ! 

And  calmly  in  the  chapel's  shade 
Is  carved  in  stone  a  sleeping  maid, 
Her  arm  flung  upward  from  her  pillow, 
As  if  to  ward  the  whelming  billow 

From  Chateaulaudrin  dead  ! 

A  rose  falls  loosely  from  her  hair, 
Zelie  the  beautiful  is  there, 
Her  lover  kneels  beside  in  stone, 
The  bride  and  bridegroom  now  are  one, 
And  Chateaulau drin's  dead  ! 

The  lake  still  moans  their  funeral  dirge, 
And  death  still  haunts  the  treacherous  verge, 
Fear  on  the  place  its  evil  spell 
Has  cast — 'tis  y»|j;,  none  will  dwell 
In  Chfiteaulaudrm  dead  ! 


I 


13 


THE    VESPER    HY3IX. 


CHUECH    OF    AEQUES. 


&I  51^5 


OFTLT  steals  the  -wandering  sunlight 
Through  the  stained  oriel  pane, 
Down  npon  the  altar  falling 

Like  a  soft  celestial  rain ; 
Solemn  breathes  the  strain  of  organ, 

Swelling  in  those  arches  dim, 
Till  I  fancy  angels  singing 

In  the  panses  of  the  hymn. 

Softer,  softer  "breathes  the  organ, 

And  those  voices  on  the  air, 
When  the  silence  of  devotion 

Clasps  so  many  souls  in  prayer ; 
Calm  of  ages  softly  veiling 

All  that  venerable  fane, 
Calm  of  saints  long,  long  departed, 

Seems  to  rest  on  us  again. 


14  THE    VESPER    HYMN. 

Tapers  glow  upon  the  altar, 

Summer  lilies  waft  their  prayer 
'Mid  the  clouds  of  incense  floating, 

Trembling  in  the  painted  air, — 
Upward  wreathing,  upward  mounting, 

Breathing  gardens,  0  how  fair  ! 
Garlands  dropt  from  Heaven's  own  bowers, 

Down  upon  the  perfumed  air; 


Where  the  Virgin-Mother,  sculptured, 

With  the  sweet  and  holy  Child, 
Stands,  hands  droop' d  in  benediction, 

As  through  ages  long  she  smiled — 
Smiled  upon  the  sad  and  weary, 

Smiled  upon  the  young  and  fair, 
Waiting  ever  at  that  altar, 

Hailing  thus  the  suppliant's  prayer. 


Hark  !  the  choir  so  softly  singing, 
Sweet,  the  Virgin-Mother's  song, 

Now  the  words  of  deep  thanksgiving 
Rise  and  swell  the  roof  along  ; 


OUTSIDE    THE    CHURCH.  15 

Die  away  the  prayerful  voices, 

Dies  the  organ's  cadence  then, 
And  the  solemn  benediction 

Seems  to  breathe  a  vast  Amen  ! 


OUTSIDE    THE    CHURCH. 

ABQUES. 

^^^TJMMEK  twilight  wraps  the  churchyard, 
M^%&       Where  the  sleeping  are  at  rest, 
With  the  flowers  o'er  them  breathing- 
Of  the  gardens  of  the  blest. 

Ruin'd  windows  rise  majestic, 
Broken  corbels  mount  the  door, 

Tufted  with  the  weed  and  flow'ret — 
Xature  beauty  doth  restore. 

Here  in  shadows  of  the  turret, 
On  this  old  and  sunken  grave, 

Find  I  time  this  brief  half-hour 
Of  the  busy  twelve  to  save — 


1 6  OUTSIDE    THE    CHURCH. 

Save  for  tliouglit  to  turn  life's  pages, 

Mystic  pages  lent  to  nie, 
Where  in  claustral  shadows  holy, 

I  may  tnrn  them,  o'er  with  Thee. 

Here  among  the  dead  safe  shelter' d 
In  the  turf  the  winds  have  swept, 

Where  profanes  no  heedless  footstep, 
Dust  of  those  once  loved,  long  wept. 

Summer's  story  in  the  churchyard, 
Life  and  death's  perpetual  theme, 

Where  the  transept's  stained  windows 
Lure  the  sunlight's  transient  gleam. 

Here  I  muse  on  ages  vanish'd, 
Here  I  read  life's  mystic  scroll, 

And,  'mid  shadows  of  the  churchyard, 
Dream  of  the  undying  soul. 

These  once  lived  whose  graves  record  them, 
These  once  loved,  but  now  they  rest, 

On  their  graves  I  sit  and  ponder, 

"  Dust  to  dust,"  earth's  sole  bequest. 


THE    STAINED     CHURCH    WINDOW. 

Then  how  brief  seems  life's  short  story, 
Yet  who  knows  what  joys  these  knew  ? 

Ages'  sleep  in  hours  I  ponder, 
On  a  grave  beneath  a  yew. 


THE    STAINED    CHURCH    WINDOW. 

®fcs? 

7s  OW  brightly  glow'd  the  Autumn  sun, 

Through  that  great  window  pane, 
Streaming  down  on  the  altar  like 

A  rainbow-rill  of  rain. 
The  Apostles  in  their  niches, 

And  martyr' d  saints  grew  bright, 
As  radiant  shone  each  garment 

In  that  celestial  light. 

I  look'd  up  to  the  window,  as 

The  choir  softly  sang, 
And  a  flood  of  rainbow  colours 

Stream'd  through  the  panes  along  ; 
C 


iS  THE    STAINED    CHURCH    WINDOW. 

And  hosts  of  angels  bright  and  fair, 
Crown?d  martyrs  robed  in  white, 

Were  looking  throngh  those  window-panes 
"With  rapture  infinite. 


Down  look'd  they  all  so  tenderly, 

Into  the  transept  dim, 
And  softly  join'd  the  choristers 

In  the  sweet  evening  hymn. 
Nor  did  they  float  from  earth  away 

As  visions  always  fade, 
Leaving  a  blank  reality 

Where  Heaven's  Light  earth  array'd. 

But  fix'd  upon  the  window  there, 

Stahrd  on  the  lozenged  pane, 
Were  all  these  saints  and  angels  fair, 

In  that  dim  hallow' d  fane ; — 
I  wonder  sometimes,  as  I  look, 

If  they  will  float  away 
From  that  old  cathedral  window 

In  the  chapel  where  I  pray. 


*9 


EUTERPE. 

f^p^N"  the  witching  of  the  gloaming, 
g^ggg  When  the  Spirit  Infinite 
Drops  his  solemn  benediction 

On  the  list'ning  ear  of  night ; 
Whispering  through  primeval  forests, 

Heard  above  the  torrent's  din, 
Pleading  from  the  silent  flowers, 

Comes  the  list'ning  heart  to  win — 
Sweet  Euterpe. 

Throws  her  dreamy  mantle  round  me, 

Drapes  me  with  her  fancies  fine, 
Mocks  Thalia  and  her  Idyls, 

Bids  me  court  her  muse  divine ; 
Breathes  her  wary  flute  so  coyly, 

Sings  a  verse  which  I  repeat, 
If  one  lyric  she  has  taught  me, 

That  alone  is  true  and  sweet — 
From  Euterpe. 


MY    LYRE. 

TE  day  a  lyre  was  given  to  me 
By  an  angel  I  met  across  the  sea ; 
I  had  heard  no  mnsic  for  many  a  day, 
So  I  took  it  gladly,  and  went  my  way. 

Yes,  the  lyre  came  from  an  angel's  hand, 
'Twas  light  and  fragile,  conld  I  withstand 
Snch  a  gentle  gift  on  my  pilgrim-way  ? 
No,  I  took  it  gladly,  and  dared  to  play. 

I  studied  it  well,  and  dream'd  o'er  it  much, 
Its  strings  were  of  gold — how  it  answer' d  my  touch! 
Its  mountings  were  costly,  and  chaste  as  the  dew, 
There  was  music  within  it  my  heart  well  knew. 

But  one  day  pausing  to  study  it  well, 

A  blemish  I  saw  in  the  brittle  shell, 

A  crack  had  been  fill'd,  though  with  passing  skill, 

Yet  it  answer'd  not  quite  to  the  finger's  will. 


31 Y  LYRE. 

But  I  sat  on  the  grass  and  tuned  the  wires,- 
How  proud  I  was  of  my  queen  of  lyres  ! 
It  gave  such  answers  in  music  to  me, 
Such  marvellous  strains  of  rich  melody. 


We  never  were  parted,  my  lyre  and  I, 
It  swung  on  my  shoulder,  or  lay  close  by, 
On  sweet  Tuscan  nights  when  the  nightingale 

sang, 
We  answer' d  each  other  the  dark  pines  among. 


Sometimes  my  angel  then  touch'd  it  for  me, 
When  summer's  storm  smote  the  great  cypress  tree, 
Drowning  the  notes  of  its  cadences  faint, 
With  tones  like  the  voice  of  some  pleading  saint. 


And  often  the  lyre  vibrated  at  will, 

When  no  earthly  touches  the  gold  strings  might 

thrill, 
Wak'ning  the  chords  to  a  soft  reprimand 
For  my  veiled  sense  of  the  near  spirit-land. 


MY  LYRE. 


And  oft  came  the  moon  with  her  silvery  wings, 
Jewell' d  the  mountings,  and  finger' d  the  strings, 
Kindled  strange  music,  gave  words  to  the  breeze, 
And  waken'd  my  lyre  to  voices  like  these. 


The  fountain  dripp'd  down  to  its  soft  minor  chord, 
And  the  river  too  whisper' d  his  low  chiding  word, 
The  nightingale  trill' d  from  the  darks  of  the  pine, 
And  answered  my  lyre  in  echoes  divine  ! 


But  alas  !  every  lyre  will  fall  out  of  tune, 
E'en  gold  strings  will  snap,  either  later  or  soon ; 
Alas  !  every  song  must  come  to  an  end, 
And  Time,  that  robs  blossoms,  earth's  music  may 
rend. 


Thus  even  my  lyre  proved  faithless  at  last, 
In  facing  a  Roman  autumnal  blast ; 
Though  even  an  angel  had  brought  it  to  me, 
All  at  once  it  lost  sweetness,  tone  and  melody. 


MY   LYRE.  23 

The  crack  I  saw  widen,  the  music  impair, 
Nor  could  earthly  fingers  the  evil  repair  ; 
From  each  full  vibration  of  tone,  true  and  clear, 
Came  harshness  and  discord  to  jar  on  mine  ear. 

To  the  garden  I  took  it  all  broken,  unstrung, 
And  down  'mong  the  roses  my  lyre  I  flung, 
No  longer  I  loved  it  as  once  close  by  me, 
Though  I  wept  for  the  Past  and  its  rich  melody. 

I  pick'd  some  green  laurel  all  dripping  with  dew, 
On  the  dear  lyre  I  threw  it,  yet  too  well  I  knew, 
Like  my  tears,  even  this  would  but  rust  the  gold 

strings, 
Nor  recal  the  flown  Past  with  its  merciless  wings. 


0  well  I  remember  how  dawning  crept  on, 
When  first  I  was  sure  that  my  day-dream  was 

gone 
Like   mist   on   the   mountain,    like    dew    on    the 

flowers — 
0  what  have  we  here  that  we  dare  to  call  ours  ? 


24  MY    LYRE. 

Once  more  though  I  lifted  it  wet  from  the  ground, 

With  horror  I  started,  the  mystery  found — 

In  the  heart  of  my  lyre,  which  had  once  seem'd 

divine, 
A  snake  was  coil'd  up' in  the  treacherous  shrine. 

Yes,  there  coil'd  the  snake  in  the  lyre  that  I  loved, 
With  its  venomous  sting,  its  motive  I  proved — 
It  had  gnaw'd  all  the  strings,  it  had  widen'd  the 

seam, 
Had  ruin'd  my  instrument,  shatter'd  my  dream. 


But  0  !  when  the  storm  of  my  passion  was  spent, 
At  night  through  the  dark  to  the  garden  I  went, 
I  lifted  my  lyre  and  the  broken  strings  kiss'd, 
Then  left  it  in  darkness,  in  rain,  and  in  mist. 


MY    LUTE,    OR    COMPENSATION. 

^£ES|g)ROM  the  river  I  came,  my  hands  fall  of 

Of  beautiful  pebbles,  moss,  fern,  willow  seeds, 
I  long  had  been  trying  to  catch,  its  low  song, 
And  the  prelude  it  whisper' d,  the  long  reeds  among. 


I  pull'd  up  the  reeds,  but  the  god  was  not  there 
To  teach  me  to  play,  so  I  took  them  with  care, 
And  carried  them  home,  but  no  music  I  found 
Would  come  from  my  reeds,  not  an  echo  of  sound. 


But  one  day  I  miss'd  them,  those  dear  silent  reeds, 
The  moss  and  bright  pebbles,  and  long  willow-seeds, 
And  close  to  the  shelf  where  their  shadows  they 

threw, 
Hung  a  fairy-like  lute  on  a  ribbon  of  blue. 


26  MY  LUTE. 

My  first  thought  was  sorrow — to  leave  it  and  go, 
Could  I  care  for  this  lute,  or  life's  music  renew  ? 
Yet  I  saw  with  surprise  that  the  lute  had  no  strings, 
So  no  music  could  come  on  melody's  wings. 


But  under  the  ribbon  the  strings  were  low  laid, 
And  ere  I  could  mount  them,  a  soft  serenade 
Breathed  from  the  lute  all  unstrung  as  it  lay, 
A  faint  prelude  first,  then  a  sweet  roundelay. 


What  matter' d  the  strings  then  if  such  strains  could 

come 
Without  even  touches,  and  wing  to  their  home 
Unbidden,  unpray'd  for,  this  heart  for  a  shrine  ? 
0  music,  heart-music  !  and  yet  to  be  mine. 


Not  from  earth's  reeds  then  life's  music  I  found, 
Nor  from  my  own  seeking  the  wide  world  around, 
But  infinite  love  and  compassion  had  given 
Compensation  for  loss,  in  music  from  Heaven. 


MY  LUTE.  27 

When  summer   noon   glows,  how   sweet   are   its 

strains, 
Through  hoar-frost  of  winter,  and  wild  beating  rains, 
It  is  always  in  tune,  and  no  discord  nor  jar 
Ever  comes  from  my  lute,  the  soul's  music  to  mar. 


It  plays  in  the  morning  soft  hymns  before  light, 
Serenades  me  at  evening,  brings  "  songs  in  the 

night," 
Its  notes  but  grow  mellower  as  earth's  hours 

fly, 

And  0  !  will  be  sweeter  in  Heaven  by  and  by. 


But  my  lyre  !  my  poor  lyre  !  it  now  sleeps  in  the 

dust — 
How  often  I  muse  o'er  that  day-dream  of  trust ! 
And  the  tears  will  fall  now,  as  thought  brings 

back  past  hours, 
Which  memory  uproots  with  a  scent  of  dead 

flowers. 


«8 


A    SOLDIER'S    GRAVE. 

In  memory  of  Lieut.  H.  M.  B.  who  died  serving  his  country 
in  the  Battle  of  the  Wilderness,  May,  1864. 

To  M.  D.  and  C.  A.  M. 

~  IGH  in  the  ranks  of  the  Lord  of  Hosts. 

4 

March  the  soldiers  of  the  Right, 
Heroes  transplanted  by  death's  stern  call, 
From  rebellion,  warfare,  night. 

High  in  the  ranks,  not  dead  are  they, 
Though  they  fell  in  the  battle  morn ; 

We  call  them  dead,  and  with  martial  tread 
Their  bodies  to  dnst  are  borne. 

But  safe  from  the  warfare,  fury,  death, 

Released  from  the  foe's  hot  fire, 
Safe  in  the  armies  of  the  Lord , 

They  still  march  higher  and  higher. 


A    SOLDIER'S    GRAVE  29 

In  the  shroud  of  his  country's  stainless  flag, 

With  flowers  that  May  has  given, 
Lay  a  wreath  of  bay  on  this  soldier's  grave, 

Then  follow  his  steps  to  Heaven. 

And  write  on  the  marble  that  hides  his  face, 

"  He  died  for  his  country's  glory," 
And  leave  it  to  History's  page  to  embalm 

The  deeds  of  this  week's  sad  story. 

Though  still  in  the  ranks,  not  dead  are  they, 
These  braves  to  their  country  given, 

They've  but  laid  down  their  arms  at  the  gate  of 
the  King, 
And  are  taking  their  rest  in  Heaven. 


3o 


ANOTHER    SPRING. 

NOTHER  Spring, — the  robins  sing, 

While  leaves  are  wakening  to  the  light, 
Morn  treads  upon  night's  dusky  robes, 
And  Spring  upon  the  frosty  blight 
Of  Winter's  long  campaign. 


Hark  !  carols  loud  from  leafy  shroud, — 
0  early  Spring  and  tenderest  leaves, 

In  all  your  greenery  so  bright ! 

Silence  in  us  the  sigh  that  grieves 
For  what  could  not  remain. 


0  hide  the  bier, — another  year 

Sings  new-born  life  to  bud  and  leaf- 
Shall  robins  sing  another  Spring, 
And  we  grow  sceptic  in  belief, 
Or  lose  our  faith  in  Life  ? 


GRAVE  ROSES.  31 

Life  treads  upon  the  robes  of  death  ; 

Death's  angel  comes,  but  only  wins, 
Till  dawns  the  Resurrection  morn 

The  day  when  that  new  life  begins, 
The  deathless  life  of  love. 


Another  Spring  the  angels  sing, 
While  souls  awaken  to  the  light, 

Morn  treads  upon  night's  dusky  robes, 
Eternal  Spring  on  Winter's  blight, 
And  glorious  Day  on  Xight ! 


GRAVE-ROSES. 

HUXDRED  years  have  swept  this  grave, 
And  only  roses  left  in  trust ! 
But  loving  hands  that  planted  them 
Have  long  since  crumbled  into  dust. 


32  BREA3IS. 

None  are  left  this  grave  to  garnish, 
Nor  bid  fair  Summer's  roses  blow ; 

Only  this  lone  one  drops  her  petals 
Over  the  grave,  like  Memory's  snow. 


Rosy  snow-flakes  !    Death's  December, 
May  Heaven's  perennial  SjDring  be  theirs  ! 

Only  to  ns  a  wintry  churchyard, 

A  lingering  rose,  and  half-breathed  prayers. 


DREAMS. 

EARLY  dreams !    sweet  spring-tide 
dreams 

Of  childhood's  fleeting  hours, 
When  through  youth's  wizard  glass  we  gazed, 
And  trod  her  niyrtlc  bowers. 


DREAMS.  33 

0  Slimmer  dreams,  sweet  Summer  dreams  ! 

0  hope  !  0  trust !  0  jo  y ! 
The  faded  gleams,  the  broken  links 

Leave  gold — but  with  alloy. 


0  later  days,  grey  Autumn  days ! 

Bring  riper  fruits  for  wine, 
And  as  earth's  dreams  prove  only  dreams. 

Clear  Faith  begins  to  shine. 


0  golden  days  !  eternal  days  ! 

The  days  that  are  to  come, 
When  glorified  we  see  His  face, 

And  call  His  Presence  Home  ! 


II. 

One  half  our  lives  we  dream  away, 

Another  half  we  sleep, 
Night-dreams  and  day-dreams  interweave- 

From  sleep  we  wake  to  weep — 

D 


34  TWO    CHILDREN. 

Day-dreams  so  subtle,  vague,  and  wild — 

How  oft  we  kiss  the  chains ! 
Those  chains  of  slavery  fondly  link'd, 

So  sadly  link'd  to  pains. 

But  if  in  dreams  we  wear  away 

The  gold  of  life's  best  hours, 
0  let  us  guard  the  bloom,  at  least, 

Of  holier,  heavenlier  flowers. 

Some  bloom  of  Heaven  kept  in  the  soul, 
Though  faint  the  blossoms  seem, 

Safe  in  that  shrine  where  Christ  should  be 
The  soul's  one  only  dream  ! 


TWO    CHILDREN. 

KNOW  a  child  most  wondrous  fair, 
With  tender  eyes  and  sun-kiss' d  hair, 
The  loving  clasp  of  whose  little  hand 
Seems  a  new  link  to  the  spirit-land. 


TWO    CHILDREN.  35 

But  I  think  of  another  child  as  fair, 
Fairer  than  this  earth's  fairest  fair, 
And  one  whom  an  angel  came  to  kiss, 
That  he  might  awake  in  endless  bliss, 

Where  the  fadeless  days  are  long  and  clear, 
And  blight  and  frost  cannot  draw  near, 
Where  even  the  flowers  may  never  die 
In  the  breath  of  Immortality. 

And  I  love  the  child,  so  wondrous  fair, 
With  his  tender  eyes,  and  sun-kiss' d  hair, 
That  dream  of  Italy  that  round  him  clings — 
Like  a  Northern  bird  on  Southern  wings. 

Then  I  watch  my  own  as  years  sweep  by, 
Growing  in  grace  under  God's  own  eye, 
And  I  marvel  to  think  how  I  could  mourn 
When  the  angel  came  on  that  weary  morn, 

And  press'd  on  his  lips  that  kiss  full  thrice, 
That  he  might  awaken  in  Paradise, 
Whispering,  "  The  angels  are  calling  thee, 
To  play  with  them  by  the  crystal  sea." 


36  WHERE? 

And  often  I've  wiped  the  tears  away, 
And  tried  to  fancy  him  there  at  play ; 
But  sure  I  am  he  is  happier  far 
Than  the  happiest  children  round  me  are. 

But  I  love  the  child  so  wondrous  fair, 
With  those  gentle  eyes,  and  sun-kiss'd  hair, 
The  dream  of  Italy  that  round  him  clings — 
This  Northern  bird  on  Southern  wings. 

And  I  pray  that  the  angels  may  guard  this  flower, 
Shield  him  and  train  him  for  that  same  bower, 
So  when  the  angel  kisses  him  thrice, 
He  too  may  awa,ken  in  Paradise. 


WHERE  ? 

WHERE  will  the  Singers  be, 
In  the  great  Beyond,  0  where  ? 
They  who  have  dropt  their  lyres  crown'd 
With  immortal  laurels  here. 


WHERE?  37 

The  Singers  of  every  clime, 

The  Singers  in  every  key, 
The  Poets,  where  then  will  they  meet 

On  the  banks  of  Eternity  ? 

Say,  will  it  be  nnder  Palms, 

Palms  such,  as  they  loved  to  sing, 
In  scenes  more  grand,  entrancing,  fair, 
Than  a  poet's  dream  can  bring  ? 

And  are  they  now  still  singing 
Without  each  whispering  lyre  ? 

For  they  dropt  them  in  the  shadows  here, 
When  they  were  call'd  still  higher. 

The  stately  march  of  Milton, 

His  rhythm  grave  and  grand, 
Great  singer  of  "Lost  Paradise," 

King  of  the  minstrel  band. 

And  weird,  majestic  Dante, 

Great  Tuscan  Poet,  he 
Who  sang  of  glorious  Paradise, 

In  marvellous  imagery. 


38  YEAR   AFTER    YEAR. 

And  Shakespeare,  Shelley,  Keats, 

0  mystical  array ! 
Have  ye  all  found  that  Pierian  spring 

Which  rippled  to  your  lay  ? 

And  have  ye  bathed  your  lyres 

In  that  celestial  stream, 
To  sing  your  immortality, 

As  ye  were  wont  to  dream  ? 


YEAR    AFTER    YEAR. 

SUMMER  days  !  O  summer  days  ! 
And  are  ye  really  flown  ? 
Yonr  bloom  still  lingers  on  the  soul, 

Though  autumn  winds  will  moan — 
Will  moan  as  thrill  the  dying  leaves 

To  music  as  they  go, 
Whirling  and  eddying  as  they  reach 
The  Avon's  silent  flow, 

Year  after  year. 


YEAR    AFTER    YEAR.  39 

0  Autumn  winds  !  0  Autumn  winds  ! 

0  silent  Avon's  flow  ! 
0  willows  weeping  on  jour  brink  ! 

0  Autumn  winds  that  blow  ! 
Year  after  year,  the  same  refrain, 

Though  varied  be  the  key, 
Is  sung,  and  no  discordant  notes 

Mar  the  sad  symphony, — 

Year  after  year. 

Year  after  year,  to  greet,  to  part, 

0  Summer  days  too  short! 
0  Autumn  winds  !  0  Avon's  stream  ! 

Of  what  then  your  report  ? 
The  loaded  wains,  the  harvest  ripe, 

The  sobbing  winds  but  tell 
Of  Summer  flowers,  of  Summer  fruits, 

That  die  in  each  farewell, — 

Year  after  year. 

0  Summer  days  !  sweet  Summer  days  ! 

Ye  are  not  truly  flown, 
Your  bloom  still  lingers  on  the  Past, 

Though  Autumn  winds  will  moan ; 


40  A    DREAM-ROSE. 

The  bloom  of  Summer  in  the  soul, 

Of  holy  sweet  content, 
Immortal  bloom — immortal  calm, 

In  this  our  banishment, — 

Tear  after  year. 


A    DREAM-EOSE. 

PLUCK' D  a  rose,  all  wet  with  dew, 
It  grew  in  a  garden  wild, 
And  many  a  nettle  wounded  me, 
Ere  I  caught  my  flower-child. 
But  I  put  it  in  my  bosom  then, 

And  wore  it  night  and  day, 
And  sweet  it  perfumed  all  life's  hours, 
Ere  it  wilted  quite  away. 

But  one  day  from  the  stalk  it  fell, 
From  my  bosom  to  the  ground, 

Where  anyone  who  chanced  to  pass, 
Might  find  the  rose  I  own'd ; 


A    DREAM-ROSE.  41 

But  the  leaves  from  which  it  broke  away, 
Still  clung  to  their  resting  place, 

Alas  !  'twas  a  thorn  that  lurking  there, 
Had  caught  them  in  the  lace. 

But  when  it  dropt,  some  petals  fell, 

I  pick'd  them  up  all  dry, 
And  press' d  them  in  my  heart's  lock-book, 

'Tween  leaves  of  Memory ; 
And  when  I  chance  to  ope  that  book, 

And  turn  the  pages  o'er, 
Faint  scent  of  wither'd  petals  brings 

Earth's  requiem,  "  Never  more  ! " 

Then  all  earth's  roses  seem  to  bear 

The  bloom  of  the  sepulchre, 
Vague  spectres  of  those  on  fadeless  shores, 

The  perennial  " Forever"  there  ! 
Dream-roses,  all  of  earth,  farewell ! 

Ye  proved  the  dreams  ye  were, 
I've  long  been  tired  of  grasping  you, — 

Tired  of  castles  of  air. 


42 


FLOWERS    THE    DEAD    WEAR. 

0,  let  them  rest,  for  ever  rest 
In  the  coffin  round  the  head — 
See !  they  have  scarcely  wilted  here 

In  the  winter  of  the  dead. 
But  softly  lift  the  winding-sheet, 

And  in  the  waxen  hand, 
Leave  this  pale  Autumn  rose  to  die 
In  death's  dim  frozen  land. 


He  went  to  sleep  thus  holding  it 

Still  tight  in  his  dying  grasp, 
This  rose  of  life  he  clung  to  here, 

Till  Death  said,  "  'Tis  my  clasp," 
This  rose,  it  seems,  was  only  born 

To  trim  a  shroud  of  death, 
For  long  it  is  since  Summer  kiss'd 

Its  petals  into  breath. 


FLOWERS    THE   DEAD    WEAR.  43 

And  leave  the  portrait  hanging  round 

The  shrunken  marble  neck, 
With  mocking  tress  of  faded  hair, 

A  grave- shroud  now  to  deck  ! 
But  on  the  frozen,  silent  heart 

Which  ne'er  will  beat  again, 
Lay  this  heart's-ease  so  sadly  stain'd 

With  olden  tears  of  pain. 


With  flowers  dead,  with  riven  vows 

Together  let  them  sleep, 
And  best  of  all  the  love  that's  dead — 

See,  Dear,  I  do  not  weep ; 
For  he  was  false  I  thought  so  true — 

For  truth  I  loved  him,  Dear — 
But  stay,  I  have  no  bitterness, 

He  lies  too  helpless  there. 

So  still  and  cold,  he  cannot  feel 
How  weary  life  goes  on — 

So  false — cast  to  the  winds  are  leaves 
On  which  glad  Summer  shone ; 


44  YOUEE    AU   BLANC. 

For  on  he  danced  as  dead  leaves  dance, 
Through  life's  bewildering  plot, 

But  like  dead  leaves,  his  heart  at  length 
Got  trodden  underfoot. 

And  then  he  sought  this  dead  rose  here, 

All  wither' d,  faded,  dry, 
And  blighted  as  the  flowers  once  press'd 

'Tween  leaves  of  Memory. 
So  wrap  the  winding-sheet  close  round 

Love's  statue,  frozen,  dead, 
Then  take  me  from  the  coffin,  Sweet, 

I'm  ready  now  to  wed. 


VOUEE   AU   BLANC. 

ND  they  vow'd  her  to  the  Virgin, 
And  they  clothed  her  all  in  white, 
The  little  Blanche,  the  lily  fair, 
A  blossom  of  earth's  night. 


- 


VOUEE   AU  BLAXC.  45 

They  vow'd  her  to  the  Virgin's  love, 

On  that  cold  and  wintry  day, 
When  Death  drew  near  the  cradle-side 

To  steal  onr  Blanche  away. 

And  all  in  white  they  robed  her, 

And  then  to  the  Virgin's  care 
Consign' d  the  little  lily  Blanche, 

The  fairest  of  the  fair. 

And  she  never  wears  a  colour, 

Save  the  violet  in  her  eyes, 
And  rosy  hands  like  little  shells 

Jnst  dropp'd  from  Paradise, 

And  in  the  flood  of  golden  hair 

That  ripples  from  her  brow, 
As  if  just  spun  from  Heaven's  own  cloud, 

To  consecrate  that  vow. 

Thus  they  vow'd  her  to  the  Virgin, 

That  sweet  and  sunny  child- — 
When  grim  Death  forsook  the  cradle, 

And  sweet  Mary  on  her  smiled. 


46 

IN    MEMORIAM. 

I. 

(HE   vase   is   shatter'd,   and   the   lamp  is 
spent, 

The  flame  burnt  out — 0  darkness,  tears,  lament, 
Ye  can  avail  not !    In  those  silent  halls, 
Cold  winds  her  requiem  wail,  sad  Echo  calls — 
Calls  for  the  song  that  evermore  is  hush'd, 
Calls  for  the  spirit-flower  that  death  has  crush' d, 
Calls  for  one  strain  of  that  immortal  lyre, 
For  one  more  spark  of  that  Promethean  fire  ; — 
But  Silence  weeps  her  rhythm,  voiceless,  grand  ! 
And  Memory,  with  her  funeral  torch,  will  stand 
Lighting  the  labyrinth  of  a  vanish' d  Past, 
As  Love,  her  eyes  still  shading,  casts  one  last 
Long  look,  to  catch  e'en  one  unfinish'd  bar, 
One  strain  of  music  from  lier  home  afar. 

Florence,  June  29,  1861. 


SONNET.  47 


II. 

Though  mute  lier  ljra  in  those  haunted  halls, 
Though  Silence  weeps,  and  Echo  wildly  calls  ; 
Though  all  Italia's  tears  dropp'd  on  those  strings, 
When  came  the  angel  Death  and  gave  her  wings — 
Dark'ning  the  windows  of  a  ruin'd  home, 
The  tireless  hearth,  the  vacant  chair  and  room, 
Where  once  had  breathed  that  gentle  spirit-flower, 
With  all  its  wealth  of  tenderness  and  power — 
Though  dropt  her  lyra  in  the  shadows  here, 
It  fell  not  dumb  on  a  forgotten  bier ; 
Immortal  laurel  blooms  round  each  gold  string, 
Her  music's   strains  the  soft  south  winds   shall 

sing, 
And  Love,  that  counts  no  change,  nor  blight,  nor 

death, 
Shall  sing  her  deathless  fame  to  latest  breath. 


OCTAVES. 


WHISPERS    AT    FONTAINEBLEAU. 

To  C.  C.  and  F.  D.  P. 

USH  !  hush !  for  the  silence  is  pleading 
In  whispers  wherever  we  go, 
E'en  the  leaves  have  their  burden  to  sing  ns, 
While  dying  at  sweet  Fontainebleau. 

As  chords  in  a  symphony  plaintive, 

Will  awaken  some  sad  long-ago, 
So  the  leaves  and  the  silence  are  laden 

With  the  secrets  of  old  Fontaineblean. 


And  the  rain  too  is  falling,  soft  falling 
On  the  leaves  of  this  mystical  score, 

With  the  wind-harp's  sad  interlude  breathing 
Soft  cadences  faint  to.  restore. 


52  WHISPERS    AT  FONTAINEBLEAU. 

But  what  are  these  whispers  that  follow, 

And  haunt  us  wherever  we  go  ? 
Are  they  hid  in  the  rain-drops,  and  wind-harp, 

To  echo  of  past  Fontainebleau  ? 

0  no  !  other  phantoms  pursue  us 

Through  the  aisles  of  this  forest  so  vast, 

Bid  us  follow  their  mournful  procession, 
Sing  their  dirge  of  the  wonderful  Past ! 

Sing  of  kings,  whose  Bright  sceptres  are  shattered, 
And  of  crowns,  now  corroded  by  rust, 

Of  queens,  whose  state  pageants  and  sorrows 
Found  at  length  but  a  pillow  of  dust ! 

In  the  calm  of  this  grand  Mausoleum 
Let  us  wait  till  the  shadows  appear, 

And  watch  them  so  subtly  transforming 
The  whole  to  a  sepulchre  drear. 

Gates  ope  to  the  spirit  of  Even, 

Shrines  light  from  the  great  western  fire, 

Emblazon'd  by  jewels  of  sunset, 

Which  flash  through  the  traceried  choir. 


WHISPERS    AT   FOXTAIXEBLEAU.  5 

From  this  sepulchre  phantoms  are  gliding, 

They  are  bearing  a  mystical  bier, 
While  the  hearse  at  a  distance  is  waiting, 

And  the  death-chant  croons  low  on  mine  ear. 

'Tis  the  burial  of  Summer's  brief  glory, 
'Tis  the  death  of  a  wonderful  year, 

A  ghostly  procession  doth  follow, 

Strewing  wreaths  of  dead  leaves  o'er  the  bier. 

And  such  are  the  Fontainebleau  whispers 
While  that  bier  through  the  forest  is  borne, 

Fern  plumelets  from  far  wave  their  farewells, 
Dim,  rusty,  wind-broken,  and  torn. 

But  turn  we  from  pageants  of  glory, 
From  Emperors,  monarchs,  and  pride, 

To  follow  the  footstejDS  less  fleeting, 

Which  are  waiting  our  wanderings  to  guide 

Through  the  forests  of  life,  though  perplexing, 
Through  the  mazes  and  copses  most  deep, 

And  forget  not  the  endless  awaking, 
After  Time  in  his  chasm  shall  sleep ; 


54 


REAL. 

To  find  earth's  last  forest  is  skirted, 
The  maze  of  all  mazes  pass'd  through, 

Where  the  poets  are  wak'ning  their  lyres 
To  a  song  which  for  ever  is  "new." 

Then  hnsh  !  for  the  silence  has  pleaded 
Her  whispers  while  onward  we  go  ; — 

0,  we  will  not  forget  yon,  wild  echoes 
Of  Autumn  at  sweet  Fontainebleau  ! 

September,  1866. 

REAL. 

SLUGGISH  stream, 
With  treacherous  brink, 
And  slippery  hold 
For  steps  that  sink. 

Long  ragged  grass, 

With  coarse  weeds  rank, 

Fringing  the  brink 
And  crumbling  bank. 


IDEAL,  55 


And  slothful  fish, 
That  rarely  rise 

For  a  floating  meal 
Of  water-flies. 

The  peasant  hums, 
Her  garment  wrings 

In  the  eddying  tide, 
And  careless  sings. 

To  her  a  stream, 
Or  thick  or  clear, 

As  floods  may  swell 
Or  drought  may  sear. 


IDEAL. 

POET  is  musing 

Beside  the  same  stream, 
Yet  different  far 

Is  the  light  of  his  dream. 


IDEAL. 

The  snn  has  bewitch'd  it, 
And  wrought  a  gold  link 

To  chain  brim  to  margin — 
Of  what  does  he  think  ? 

That  weeds  change  to  flowers. 
And  rongh  pebbles  to  gems, 

And  the  grass  and  the  dew-drops 
Weave  diadems. 

There's  a  moral  for  verse, 
As  each  lone  grassy  spire 

Grows  npward  and  onward., 
Still  higher  and  higher* 

Is  it  not  then  our  fault 
If  we  blindfold  will  rove 

On  the  banks  of  Life's  river, 
And  see  not  the  Love 

Which  turns  night  into  day, 
Even  weeds  into  flowers, 

And  from  discords  brings  concords, 
And  makes  all  Nature  ours  ? 


57 


"  GOLDEX    HOURS." 

A   Picture   at  the   Great   Paris  Exposition    by 
F.  Leighton,  A.B.A. 

B^LS?N  an  old  Venetian  palace 
Sil^gg  That  standeth  in  the  sea, 

Whose  steps  are  wash'd  by  tuneful  chords 

Of  wavy  minstrelsy  ; 
In  a  chamber,  ghostly,  solemn, 
With  arras  hung,  and  quaint 
With  Albert  Durer's  carved  oak, 
And  shrine  of  patron  saint, 

And  oriels  looking  to  the  blue, 

The  blue  of  wave  and  sky, 
Like  sapphires  set  with  opals,  dropt 

By  sun-light's  fiery  eye. 
In  this  dim,  deserted  chamber, 

The  spider  swings  her  loom, 
And  knots  her  subtle  meshes, 

Sole  tenant  of  the  oioom, 


58  GOLDEN   HOURS. 

In  tapestries,  all  tatter'd,  stain'd 

With  mildew,  damp,  and  mould, 
She  spins  in  th'  faded  satin,  mocks 

The  needle-wo'rk  of  gold  ; 
Stringing  the  broken  lyre  too, 

And  faded  ribbon  bine, 
And  the  branch  of  wither' d  willow 

Tied  on  the  silver  screw. 


Here  in  its  shadowy  alcove  hangs 

Among  the  lost  and  dead, 
A  wonderful,  sweet  picture,  long 

To  dim  tradition  wed  ; 
Only  a  shrunken  canvas,  which, 

Two  hundred  years  and  more, 
Has  told  the  same  old  story,  and 

Will  tell  it  o'er  and  o'er. 


The  tale  of  Love,  of  Faith,  of  Hope, 
When  golden  seasons  shone, 

Ere  mocking  echoes  whisper' d  sad — 
Where  has  the  gold  all  gone  ? 


GOLD  EX   HOURS.  59 

Xo  more  it  shines  untarnish'd,  bright, 

As  in  that  picture's  gleam, 
That  wizard-picture  of  those  two 

In  love's  first  golden  dreain. 


His  hands  are  wand'ring  o'er  the  keys — 

Unmindful  now  of  all 
Save  him,  she  turns  her  back  on  life, 

Nor  heeds  what  may  befall ; 
%i  Golden  hours,''  by  music  wing'd, 

Your  gold  is  deftly  caught, 
He  was  a  poet-painter,  who 

This  golden  vision  wrought. 


Alas  !  I  wake  from  Southern  dreams, 

From  dreams  of  Venice  bright, 
Far  from  Venetian  phantasies, 

And  myths  of  Venice  light  ; 
The  palace  and  the  classic  sea, 

The  haunted  chamber  lone, 
Where  might  have  hung  this  picture  fair, 

In  golden  seasons  cone. 


6o  TWO    LANDSCAPES. 

My  dream  grows  pale,  and  in  a  crowd 

My  fancy  wings  away, 
In  a  modern  gallery  I  stand, 

This  fair  Parisian  day ; 
But  the  gold  that  lights  that  picture, 

This  fancy  lit  for  me, 
Of  that  old  Venetian  palace 

That  standeth  in  the  sea. 


TWO   LANDSCAPES. 

^•iigij  LOOK  abroad  on  this  gay,  thoughtless 
!>EIeS5  scene, 

The  Tuileries'  garden,  with  its  wealth  of  green, 
The  youth  of  new-born  Summer  on  the  trees, 
As  if  no  blight  could  ever  fall,  or  breeze 
Bring  aught  but  health  upon  th'  elastic  air — 
This  Spring  Parisian,  transient  as  'tis  fair ; 
The  children,  too,  now  mellowing  the  scene, 
Life-flowers  of  every  hue,  of  every  sheen, 


TWO  LANDSCAPES.  61 

And  all  this  life  as  giddy  as  if  sin 

Had  never  stain' d  the  world  where  Christ  hath  been. 

0  trace  the  picture  now  of  inner  sight, 

Another  landscape  rises  in  Faith's  light  ;— 

The  world  is  still  as  fair,  the  children  in 

As  sweet  unconsciousness  of  grief  or  sin, 

Responsibility  to  them  unknown, 

They  only  follow  where  the  way  is  shown ; 

But  this,  the  soul's  rare  picture,  seems  to  me 

Imbued  with  more  abiding  purity, 

For  here  I  mark  a  landscape  swift  unroll, 

With  atmosphere  and  colours  of  the  soul ! 

No  garish  glitter  of  Parisian  day, 

No  rosy  bubbles  vanishing  away  ; 

Not  like  the  pageant  of  a  feverish  dream, 

That,  even  while  discern' d,  can  only  seem, 

While  pleasure's  cup,  ambrosial  to  the  sip, 

A  nectar  holds  that  cloys  upon  the  lip ; 

But  this,  the  inner  landscape  of  the  soul, 

Is  calm,  serene,  God-held — a  happier  whole  ! 

Here  pearly  tints  of  morning,  cool  and  grey, 

Invite  the  angels  in  their  white  array ; 

And  we  can  sit  and  wait  for  them  to  come, 

And  feel  their  shadowy  presence  in  our  home  ! 


62 


A    FRAGMENT    OF   HISTORY. 

Paris,  June  7th,  1867 

S^kS?N  the  shadows  of  the  gloaming, 
^I^SS     Ere  the  spirit  of  the  night 
Dropt  the  dew  from  Eve's  gold  chalice 

On  the  Ely  sees  fading  light, 
Swept  a  cortege  grand,  imposing, 

Life-exciting,  near  and  far, 
With  the  Emperors  of  two  nations — 

Napoleon  and  the  Czar. 

Onward  moved  the  brilliant  cortege, 

Shielded  by  the  glittering  steel, 
Waved  the  plumes  of  bright  battalic 

Warriors  arm'd  from  head  to  heel ; 
'Mid  the  pomp  and  dazzling  glory, 

Splendours  of  a  gala  day, 
Few  were  dreaming  'mid  those  thousands 

Death  was  crouching  in  the  way. 


A   FRAGMEyT   OF  HISTORY.  63 

'Mid  the  strains  of  martial  music, 

Cymbal's  clang  and  clarion's  breath, 
Came,  on  shadow- wings  of  evening, 

Thoughts  of  Poland,  boding  death  ; 
Cries  from  Poland  in  her  anguish, 

Smote  upon  an  exile's  ear, 
One  of  thousands  there  assembled 

Caught  the  word,  the  word  so  dear : — 

Poland  moaning  in  her  anguish, 

Orphan'd,  widow'd,  dead,  and  drear — 
'Twas  rash,  but  yet  it  was  for  Poland 

That  pistol  loaded,  ball  so  near ; 
As  the  assassin's  hand  was  lifted. 

And  the  air  the  bullet  cleaved, 
The  arms  of  France  the  deed  prevented, 

And  the  murderer's  hope  deceived. 

Then  died  the  day  in  clouds  and  showers, 
In  festive  scenes,  night's  masquerades, 

Though  Poland's  tears  bedimm'd  the  banner 
Floating  o'er  the  Elysees'  shades. 


64 


SILVER   ACRES. 

STOOD  at  my  window  watching  the 
night, 

The  night  that  hnng  over  the  sea, 
I  shall  never  forget  that  picture  so  fair, 
Nor  the  vision  that  cheated  me. 

It  was  no  more  a  sea  I  was  gazing  on, 

But  acres  of  glittering  grain, 
Which  were  waving  and  tossing  their  jewell'd  heads, 

Or  bent  low  by  the  summer's  rain. 

And  the  reapers  were  wand'ring  here  and  there, 

With  sickles  of  burnish' d  gold  ; 
And  children  were  playing,- — moon-gems  lit  their 
hair, 

Moon-flowers  they  cull'd  in  this  wold. 

And  ever  and  oft  their  voices  came 

Like  the  rippling  of  parted  waves, 
Then  clear  and  ringing,  as  pebbles  sing 

When  the  last  billow  over  them  laves. 


SILVER    ACRES.  65 

Thus  deep  into  night  at  ray  window  I  stood, 
Near  those  acres  of  glittering  grain, 

Still  waving  and  tossing  their  spangled  heads, 
Amid  sheaves  in  the  high  loaded  wain. 

At  length  from  my  moonlight  dream  I  awoke — 
But  where  were  those  acres  of  grain  ? 

The  reapers  and  children,  where  then,  0  where  ? 
Shaljj  I  never  behold  them  again  ? 

For  the  moon,  night's  illusive  magician  had  been, 

Had  planted  this  wonderful  field, 
In  her  glittering  path  these  acres  had  sown, 

This  harvest  of  fancy  to  yield. 

Yet  often  again  from  that  window  I've  look'd 
For  those  dream-land  acres  of  grain ; 

But  they're  gone — like  the  fading  dreams  of  our 
youth, 
To  return,  alas  !  never  again. 


66 


MY    WINTER    GARDEN. 

TO  F.  A.  E. 

^RESH  roses,  and  lilies,  and  pink  im- 
mortelles, 

And  branches  of  holly  with  bright  scarlet  bells, 
Here  in  their  beauty  so  fresh  and  so  green, 
All  winter  my  own  living  garden  have  been. 

Though  not  in  stiff  parterres  befringed  with  the 

grass, 
Nor  in  the  green  fields  where  the  cool  shadows 

pass, 
Nor  there  where  the  honey-bee  seeks  her  rare  bliss 
In  the  'wildering  spell  of  a  sweet  blossom-kiss ; 

But  in  a  Parisian  bright  drawing-room,  hung 
With  draperies,  pictures,  and  mirrors  among, 
In  a  shadowy  nook  by  the  warm  fireside, 
My  books  and  my  garden,  my  joy  are  and  pride. 


MY    WINTER    GARDEN.  67 

The  little  French  sparrow  sometimes  ventures  in, 

To  pick  at  my  greenery  from  the  street  din, 

For  the  crumbs  that  I  drop  on  the  broad  window 

sill 
Oft  the  dingy  pets  lure  to  their  shy  breakfast  still. 

But  my  garden  is  blooming  all  fragrant  and  fair, 
And  my  books  seem  the  happier  when  her  flowers 

are  there ; 
My  poets  !  life's  silver  wheat  amid  the  rank  tares, 
Poor  poets  !  how  little  the  world  for  them  cares. 

They  pipe  their  brief  carols,  they  sing  their  sad  lays 
On  the  bough  nearest  heaven,  and  they  court  not 

earth's  praise, 
As  the  nightingales  sing  because  carol  they  must, 
Though  the  world  grovels  on  in  her  turmoil  and 

dust. 

But  my  garden  perennial  is  blooming  and  fair, 
In  spite  of  the  outer  world's  chill  frosty  air, 
And  Love  is  still  dreaming  among  her  thought- 
flowers, 
TTnguess'd  at  her  joys  in  calm  solitude's  hours. 


68 


THE    STATUE  BY    THE    SEA. 


And  the  gay  world  below,  now  in  snnshine,  now 

mist, 
May  call  ns  life- dreamers  and  count  ns  less  blest, 
While  we  with  onr  books,  and  a  few  wint'ry 

flowers, 
Can  find  an  Arcadia  in  life's  darkest  honrs. 


THE    STATUE    BY    THE    SEA. 

THE    LOVER. 

A^JlTH  hair  unkempt,  with  tearful  eyes, 

With  kreel  npon  his  shoulder  slung, 
Low  on  the  golden  sands  he  lies, 

His  arms  upon  the  sea- weed  flung, — 
Watching. 

Wave  over  wave,  each  feathery  crest 
Nets  its  foam-meshes  on  the  shore; 

How  vain,  alas  !  to  dream  of  rest 

Where  ocean  murmurs  "  nevermore,"— 
Watching. 


THE    STATUE  BY   THE    SEA.  69 

The  sea-mew  swoops  above  the  ledge 
That  half  conceals  her  lonely  nest 

Of  white- wing' d  broodlings  in  the  sedge  ; 
Her  startled  cry  invades  his  rest. — 
Watching. 


He  wakes  bewilder' d  from  his  dream, 
The  burden  from  his  shoulders  thrown, 

The  stars  from  out  the  wind- cloud  gleam, 
And  he  stands,  dazed  with  cold — alone — 
Watching. 

Watching  for  what  ?  some  boon  to  gain  ? 

Perchance  his  ladye-love  to  see  ? 
He  long  an  exile, — 0  the  pain  ! 

To  find  her  false,  or  coldly  free, — 

Not  watching. 

Or  haply  find  her  dead  and  gone, 

Or,  worse  than  death,  from  him  estranged, 
Hope,  flattering  whisper' d,  Marion, 

And  love  like  her's  has  never  changed  ; — 
She's  watching. 


7o  THE   STATUE   BY   THE    SEA. 

The   Castle. 

High  on  a  bold  and  rocky  steep, 

Where  beats  the  proud  rebellions  sea, 

Raking  the  pebbles  from  the  deep 
To  hurl  them  upward  scornfully, 

A  castle  stands,  now  ruin-sear d, 
The  vines  exhausted,  and  the  soil, 

Nor  corn,  nor  olive  more  will  yield 
Their  increase  to  the  hireling's  toil. 

Only  the  aloes'  wrinkled  cheek 

Betrays  the  scars  of  centuries  fled, 

And  only  one  is  left  to  seek 

For  life  where  Love  itself  seems  dead. 


A  maiden  in  that  castle  dreams, 
Her  faded  hair  in  moonlight  gleams, 
The  battlements  she  haunts  at  night, 
And  gossips  whisper  of  a  knight — 
Waiting. 


THE    STATUE    BY    THE    SEA,  -i 

An  armed  knight,  with  sword  and  shield, 
And  clanging  spurs,  as  from  some  field 
Of  death  and  victory,  who  had  come, 

Triumphantly  to  lead  her  home, — 
Waiting. 

One  night, — thus  I  the  legend  read, — 
The  absent  lover  came  indeed; 
Long  she  had  plighted  troth  to  him, 
Till  heart  had  fail'd  and  eve  grown  dim. — 
"Waiting. 

They  said  he  never  would  come  back, 
Her  only  answer  was,  "Alack  ! 
Then  can  this  heart  but  find  its  rest 
On  one  more  faithful,  and  be  blest, — 
Waiting. " 

At  length  the  youth  came  back  to  find 
Another  suitor,  one  more  kind, 
To  th'  terrace  swift  he  follow'd  on, 
Where  maid  and  armed  knight  stood  lone — 
Wait  inc. 


72  THE    STATUE  BY   THE    SEA. 

Nor  turn'd  she  e'en  one  glance  on  him, — 
Her  eyes  were  fix'd,  all  glazed  and  dim, 
On  that  strange  knight  who  press'd  her  hand, 
And  whisper' d  of  another  land, — 

Waiting. 

The  thunder  rumbled  in  the  sky, 
The  sea-surge  roar'd  tumultuously, 
Her  mantle  flutter' d  in  the  wind, 
Her  hand  within  the  knight's  was  shrined,- — 

Waiting. 

The  youth  look'd  on  with  evil  eye, 
Crept  through  the  shadows  stealthily, 
At  least  he'd  hear  their  whispers  low, 
At  least  her  broken  vows  would  know, — 

Waiting. 

He  saw  her  head  droop  low,  and  lean 

On  the  knight's  breast; — fierce  grew  his  mien,- 

E'en  heard  her  plead  with  him  to  bear 

His  bride  to  purer,  holier  air, — 

Waiting. 


THE    STATUE   BY    THE    SEA.  73 

Then  stoop' d  the  knight,  her  slight  form  bore 
With  stalwart  arm  to  the  castle  door, 
Cross 'd  the  dark  draw-bridge  with  the  fair, 
Mounted  his  charger  standing  there, — 
"Waiting. 

The  charger  champ' d  his  bit  and  paw'd, 
And  flung  the  foam-flecks  on  the  sword 
And  corslet  of  the  armed  knight, 
Which  glitter'd  in  the  ghastly  light, — 
Waiting". 


Then  fleet  as  wind  the  courser  flew 
With  winged  feet,  nor  bridle  knew, 
Swift  to  the  forest,  out  of  sight, 
Sped  ladye-love  and  spectral  knight, — 
Waiting-. 


Xow  vanish'd  hope,  love's  summer  day, 
To  wint'ry  frosts  and  shivering  gray, 
Loud  swore  the  youth  to  avenge  th'  wrong, 
With  sword  in  deadly  combat  swung, — 
Waiting. 


74  THE    STATUE   BT    THE    SEA. 

Pale  sun-rise  broke  the  shadows  gray, 
On  the  cold  flags  the  lover  lay, 
Like  some  enchanted  sleeper  kept 
His  vigil  there,  nor  moan'd,  nor  wept — 

Waiting1. 


But  lo  !  a  foot-fall  and  a  clang 
Of  sword  and  spear  through  silence  rang, 
He  started  to  his  feet — one  blow — 
He  would  the  treacherous  knight  lay  low 
For  ever. 

He  drew  his  sword  its  blade  to  feel, 
Then  brandish'd  high  the  glittering  steel, 
The  knight  drew  his — his  vizor  raised, 
Speechless  the  lover  stood,  and  gazed 
For  ever. 

There  stands  he  still,  trans  fix' d  in  stone, 
A  statue,  by  rank  weeds  o'ergrown, — 
Such  is  the  legend  told  to  me, 
Of  that  weird  statue  by  the  sea, 

For  ever. 


THE    STATUE   BY   THE    SEA.  75 

The  wild  storms  beat  it  night  and  day, 
And  ocean  breakers  toss  their  spray, 
And  eagles  swoop  and  round  it  fly, 
And  lonely  sea-gulls  scream  and  cry 
For  ever. 

Pitiless  gusts  athwart  it  sweep, 
Remorseless  rains  upon  it  weep, 
And  salt  waves  dash  their  plumed  crests, 
Then  back  retreat  with  mocking  jests 
For  ever. 

But  still  the  statue  stands  unmoved, 
As  hearts  should  stand  when  love  be  proved. 
This  is  the  legend's  secret  pure 
Of  faithful  love  that  should  endure 
For  ever. 

And  this  the  legend  old  and  weird, 
Of  that  haunted  castle  lone  and  fear'd, 
Where  seven  wither'd  chestnut  trees  now  loom 
O'er  that  wild  sea-strand's  dreary  gloom — 
For  ever. 


76 


THE   SONG   OF   THE   WI1STD. 

S^B^T  croons  within  the  chimney, 
•^JMSS     In  wild  gusts  shakes  the  pane, 
And  wails  a  low  accompaniment 
To  the  fitful,  rushing  rain. 

It  whistles  through  the  keyhole, 
On  housetop  lifts  the  slate, 

And  wrestles  with  the  crazy  blind, 
And  grips  the  ill-swung  gate. 

Humming  through  the  door-chink, 
Now  rattling  at  the  latch, 

Moaning  at  the  lattice-pane, 
Laughing  through  the  thatch. 

Is  this  all  the  wind  has  done 
To-night  ?    0  cruel  wind  ! 

Ask  the  madden' d  ocean  then, 
In  mocking  fury  blind  ! 


«  SHE'S    GONE."  77 

What  says  the  surging  deep, 

With  wrecks  and  ruins  strown  ? 

The  billows  mock  us  as  they  drive — 
See  what  this  wind  has  done  ! 

Night  of  the  loss  of  the  "  London/'  1866. 


<&mjf^£> 


"  SHE'S    GOXE." 

tMSt^M  O  young  to  die,  so  young — 
(|||=^>        Life's  day-dreams  o'er, 
Hast  sewn  the  last  stitch  in  her  shroud, 
Or  are  there  more  ? 

So  young  to  die,  so  young — 

Life's  spells,  joys  o'er, 
Has  dimm'd  the  gold,  has  died  the  rose, 

Waiting  for  more  ? 


78  «  SHITS    GONE:1 

So  young  to  die,  so  young — 

Life's  warfare  o'er, 
Has  leaf  d  the  willow  o'er  her  grave, 

Through  winters  hoar  ? 

So  young  to  die,  so  young — 
Life's  friendships  o'er, 

Has  bloom'd  her  amaranthine  wreath 
On  Heaven's  own  shore  ? 

So  young  to  die,  so  young — 

Death's  victory  o'er, 
A  white  rose  in  her  coffin  lay, 

And  grieve  no  more. 


79 


SEMPER   EADEM. 

^wHE  moonlight  waver' d  in  my  dream, 
It  crept  within  my  curtains'  gloom  ; 
I  said,  Are  all  things  as  they  seem 
In  this  secluded  moon-tryst  room  ? 
0  tell  me ! 


I  lured  the  moonlight,  as  it  crept 
From  floor  to  ceiling  as  it  sped, 

I  tried  to  court  it  ere  I  slept, 

It  laugh' d  back  on  a  golden  head 
Beside  me. 

It  glanced  too  on  the  shadowy  wall, 
On  a  loved  portrait,  on  a  book, 

But  no  where  linger' d — dark  grew  all 
Around  me  as  the  moon  forsook, 

Faint,  trembling. 


80  SEMPER    EADEA1. 

Are  all  things  as  they  seem  ?  I  said. 

On  the  gold  hair  pass'd  that  gold  glow, 
Then  softly  kiss'd  the  hands  and  head — 

Yes  !  one  will  be  the  same,  I  know, 
For  ever. 

The  book  may  drop  in  dnst  away, 
The  portrait  fade,  its  colours  die, 

In  vain  the  moon  may  smile  some  day, 

On  these  blank  walls,  when  none  are  nigh- 
Earth's  changes  ! 

But  love's  light  in  the  soul  shall  stay, 
And  one  thing  will  be  e'er  the  same. 

The  head  beside  me  tiirn'd — 'twas  day, 
The  night  was  gone,  the  moon,  my  dream 
The  same. 


L^ 


^A^ 


3i 


FOUND. 

§Mil!Sff  WAS  sitting  one  eve  bv  the  shore  of  the 
J^SSS  sea, 

As  lazy  it  rippled,  retreated,  and  left 
The  print  of  its  footsteps  in  sandals  of  foam, 
With  some  weeds  it  had  dropp'd,  from  sea-caverns 
reft. 


There  a  jewel  I  found  hid  away  by  the  wave, 
A  treasure  once  wreck'd  from  a  casket  long  lost, 
Where  from  groves  of  bright  coral,  few  mysteries 

e'er 
Come  to  breathe   their  lost    secrets  in  whispers 

spray-tost, 

I  pick'd  up  the  jewel  all  wet  with  the  wave, 
Thus  trampled  by  ocean's  swift  sandals  that  roam. 
On  a  gold  thread  I  strung  it,  it  hangs  round  my 

neck, 
This  gem  from  life's  ocean,  this  star  from  its  foam. 
G 


82 


EXTREMES. 

ROM  the  Madeleine  came  slowly 
A  stately  funeral  hearse, 
With  its  trappings  and  its  velvet, 

And  its  plumes  to  nod  averse, 
As  if  pluck' d  from  Death's  wings  sable  ;- 

I  paused  and  held  my  breath, 
For  I  saw  it  was  a  pageant 

From  the  solemn  court  of  Death. 


"  Another  from  the  court  of  Death," 

So  spake  a  passer-by, 
And  I  but  smiled  a  bitter  smile, 

And  do  you  ask  me  why  ? — 
"  The  court  of  Death,"  I  answer' d  him, 

The  king  then — where  is  he  ? 
Though  true,  the  whole  procession  wore 

His  royal  livery. 


EXTREMES.  83 

The  heavy  pall  of  velvet  black, 

Its  fringe  with  silver  deck'd, 
The  manes  of  ebon  horses  tied 

In  plaits  with  silver  fleck'd, 
All  pomp  of  woe,  all  grave-parade, 

This  link  of  death  to  life, 
This  pride,  alas  !  so  pitiful, 

After  life's  ended  strife. 


Half  buried  'midst  this  pomp  of  woe, 

Of  ermine  and  of  cloth, 
Upon  the  coffin's  shrouded  lid, 

Death  thus  to  woo  not  loth, 
A  wreath  of  winter  roses  lay, 

Exhaling  frosty  breath, 
To  make  less  insupportable 

This  catafalque  of  Death. 


Slowly  the  pageant  moved  along 
That  crowded  thoroughfare, 

Now  side  by  side  with  liveries, 
The  rich,  the  gay,  the  fair, 


84  EXTREMES. 

A  solemn  moral  pointing,  as 
It  wended  slow  along ; 

Like  the  solution  of  a  discord 
In  some  impassion'd  song. 


But  as  I  follow'd  musingly 

The  cortege  on  its  way, 
My  ears  were  rudely  startled  by 

A  coarse  and  vagrant  lay, 
Which  from  a  ragged  poor  child  came, 

Who  sate  at  the  palace  gate, 
And  the  burden  of  her  distich  sad 

I  could  not  here  repeat. 


Hush,  hush,  poor  child  !  I  softly  said, 

This  is  no  place  nor  time 
For  ribald  songs,  for  careless  jests, 

With  funeral  bells  to  chime ; 
She  raised  a  wondering  face  to  mine, 

With  look  of  mute  surprise, 
And  the  tears  came  quick,  and  clouded  all 

The  summer  in  her  eyes. 


I 


EXTREMES. 

Quaint  were  her  childish  answers,  as 

My  questions  gently  came, 
She  was  born,  she  said,  in  misery, 

A  very  heir  of  shame  ; 
How  young  she  was,  thus  drifting  down 

The  rapids  of  life's  stream, 
No  hand  of  love  to  guard  her  feet 

Or  sway  life's  treaeh  rous  dream. 


Upon  the  sparrows  then  I  mused, 

The  ravens  too,  that  call 
To  th'  ear  that  never  closed  is, 

But  openyd  wide  to  all ; 
And  that  Voice  that  once  spake  plainly 

On  the  shores  of  Galilee, 
"  Suffer  the  little  children  then 

To  love  and  come  to  me." 


Thus  do  extremes  for  ever  meet 
On  these  highways  of  life, 

Death  leers  sarcastic,  as  he  points 
To  Love  with  folly  rife  ; 


86  EXTREMES. 

To  funeral  honours  paid  by  gold, 
To  coffins  fall  of  dust, 

To  living  souls  still  cheated  here 
Of  birthright  and  of  trust. 


Death's  cortege  still  kept  moving  on, 

Life's  pageants  giving  place, 
A.nd  heads  were  now  uncover'd  as 

It  enter' d  Pere  la  Chaise ; 
A.nd  up  the  sombre  avenue, 

To  the  grave's  mysterious  door, 
Which,  in  mould'ring  blackness  gaping. 

Waited  one  trophy  more. 


They  lower'd  down  the  coffin  slow, 

To  oblivion  and  to  dust, 
Curtain'd  in  Death's  pavilion  drear, 

With  mildew,  worm,  and  rust ; 
And  now,  too  late  for  earth's  regrets, 

For  tears  in  anguish  shed, 
Too  late  for  mourners  then  to  long 

They'd  been  kinder  to  their  dead. 


EXTREMES.  87 

Then  home  !    And  Fancy  drew  the  sketch — 

The  empty  hearse,  despoil'd 
Of  tenant,  trappings,  flowers,  all — 

Its  feathers  wet  and  moil'd ; 
For  cloud-tears  that  down  kept  dripping 

Beneath  the  veiled  sun, 
Seem'd  to  mock  this  passing  pageant 

For  the  dear  and  buried  one. 


Thick  and  fast  the  rain- drops  fell 

On  the  living — on  the  dead, 
But  the  child  drew  closer  to  me, 

To  shelter  her  bare  head ; 
Under  an  archway  long  we  stood, 

More  trustful  grew  the  child, 
And  clung  as  if  awaken' d  from 

Some  vision  sad  and  wild. 


0  have  we  pass'd  from  death  to  life, 
From  darkness  into  light, 

From  folly  into  wisdom's  school, 
From  faith  to  actual  sight  ? 


EXTREMES. 


Such  great  extremes  of  life  dismay, 
Bring  questions  to  peruse, 

Problems  too  intricate  by  far 
For  me  and  my  faint  muse. 


Death's  sable  terrors  oft  impose 

Dark  mysteries  on  the  mind, 
While  moral  death  of  living  souls 

"We  leave  in  thought  behind ; 
We  use  life  as  a  carnival, 

And  wear  a  painted  mask, 
In  self-approving  consciousness, 

Till  death  for  it  must  ask  ! 


But  carnivals  must  cease  at  length, 

And  painted  masks  must  fall, 
And  truth  shall  drive  her  chariot  wheel  sr 

Triumphant,  over  all ; 
And  falsehood,  crime,  oppression,  sin, 

Shall  reap  the  dues  of  dust, 
When  comes  the  judge  to  mark  for  aye 

The  evil  and  the  just. 


EXTREMES. 


How  I  yearn'd  towards  this  orphan, 

Adrift  upon  the  world, 
Like  a  blossom  from  some  lonely  tree 

To  swift  destruction  hurl'd, 
Blown  to  some  wretched  corner  lone. 

Neglected,  starving,  lost, 
Trampled  in  dust  by  careless  feet, 

Or  nipp'd  by  death's  swift  frost. 


Could  I  pluck  this  flower,  I  wonder' d  thenr 

Thrown  vagTant  on  life's  stream, 
Defiled  with  vice  and  misery, 

Ere  sunk  in  sin's  mad  dream  ? 
For  the  petals  of  this  wild  weed  were 

Still  tender,  young,  and  fair, 
Although  ragged  were  her  garments. 

And  matted  was  her  hair. 


Then  I  spoke  of  death,  of  Heaven, 

To  this  abandon' d  child, 
Of  the  goodness  of  our  Father, 

Who  on  all  who  trust  has  smiled  ; 


90  EXTREMES. 

Of  His  patience  and  long-suffering 
With  the  evil  and  the  good, 

Of  our  Master's  deep  compassion, 
His  death  upon  the  rood  ! 


Yea,  the  wondrous  tale  I  told  her, 

Never  tiring,  ever  new, 
How  Jesus,  once  a  little  child, 

In  Bethlehem's  garden  grew; 
And  all  through  His  tender  childhood 

Was  sinless  and  Divine, 
And  now  in  Heaven  was  waiting  for 

Her  soul  as  well  as  mine. 


Had  I  pluck'd,  then,  this  poor  wild  weed 

From  pestilence  of  sin, 
To  lead  her  to  the  gates  of  pearl, 

And  crj — Lord,  let  her  in  ? 
Ere  her  garments  were  more  niired  and  torn, 

On  paths  perplex' d  and  base, 
Could  I  teach,  and  hope  to  win  her 

To  see  her  Father's  face  ? 


EXTREMES.  91 

To  listen  to  this  story,  as 

Slow  pass'd  that  funeral  car, 
Oh  yes  !     But  since  she's  left  me  for 

A  brighter  world  afar ; 
Death  came,  and  loving  took  her,  on 

One  sweet,  calm  summer's  night, 
This  flower  I  plnck'd  from  earth's  dark  paths, 

And  fields  of  Sin  and  blight. 


Not  as  the  terror-king  came  he, 

No  courtly  pride  he  wore, 
But  as  a  peaceful  messenger 

He  enter'd  at  the  door ; 
He  took  her,  and  he  laid  her  down 

At  the  gates  of  endless  day, 
The  face  of  Jesus  to  behold, 

The  Refuge  and  the  Way* 


92 


BARBARA. 


HE  night- wind  raveth, 
The  rain- drop  grievetli 
Athwart  the  lattice — 

Barbara,  Barbara. 


Within  the  old  Tower, 
Alas  !  for  the  bower 
Where  weepeth  and  watcheth 
Barbara,  Barbara. 


Grim  warriors  look  down, 
And  darkly  they  frown 
From  the  gallery  walls — 

Barbara,  Barbara. 


J 


BARBARA.  93 

The  turret  clock  bell 

Tolls  its  sad  knell 

On  the  wearying  ear  of 

Barbara,  Barbara. 

To  the  chapel  she  hieth, 
Near  her  chamber  it  lieth, 
Now  passeth  the  corridor, 

Barbara,  Barbara. 

She  kneels  at  the  Altar, 
Her  fainting  prayers  falter, 
She  kneels  not  alone, 

Barbara,  Barbara. 

But  one  kneels  beside  her, 

It  is  the  black  rider, 

The  false-hearted  knight  of 

Barbara,  Barbara. 

He  sprang  from  the  deep  sea, 
Swore  ever  to  love  thee, 
For  ever  and  ever, 

Barbara,  Barbara. 


94  BARBARA. 

He  lifts  the  black  casque, 
Death  hides  in  the  mask, 
He  clasps  to, his  bosom 

Barbara,  Barbara. 

That  clasp  stole  the  breath, 
That  kiss  it  was  death, 
Now  frozen — a  statue  stands 
Barbara,  Barbara. 

In  the  castell'd  Erbrein, 
That  frowns  on  the  Rhine, 
Is  this  story  in  sculpture — 

Barbara,  Barbara. 

The  legend  is  old, 
The  story  is  told, 
Alas  for  the  lady  ! 

Barbara,  Barbara. 


95 


"THE    LAST    SUPPER." 

LEONARDO   DA   VINCI* 

S^II^ND  still  that  silent  Supper  shines,  shines 

on, 

From  those  dim  walls,  though  convent  walls 
no  more, 
As  shone  it  on  that  brotherhood  of  monks, 
Many  a  winged  century  sung  before, 

When  at  their  silent  board  they  gazed  as  we, 
Upon  those  painted  shadows  on  the  wall, 

The  last  mysterious  Supper  of  the  Twelve, 
Their  pious  love  and  reverence  to  recall. 

It  was  a  holy  custom  in  those  days, 

For  Art  to  clasp  commemorative  each  scene 

Of  Him  who  lowly  lived,  wept, — died  for  all, 
That  we  through  pictures  might  feel  what  had 
been. 


96  "THE    LAST    SUPPERS 

So  when  long  ages  in  their  solemn  flight 

Should  brush  these  records  down  with  reckless 
wing, 

And  wipe  their  memories  from  the  hearts  of  men, 
Their  shadows  still  might  live  to  comfort  bring ; 


Of  scenes  all  hallow'd  by  a  Saviour's  cross, 
And  in  Time's  mazy  halls  for  ever  shine 

From  age  to  age  the  light  of  inspiration's  touch, 
Which  holy  Art  immortal  shall  enshrine. 


So,  they  who  on  these  trophies  look  to-day, 
And  those,  now  dust,  who've  gazed  before,  ay, 
all! 

E'en  those  to  come  who'll  stand  and  gaze  as  we, 
Spell-bound,  before  a  picture  on  a  wall — 


A  crack'd  and  faded  fresco,  dim  and  old, 
Reflected  shadows  from  a  banish'd  sun 

Long  since  gone  down  with  earlier  Christian  Art, 
Which  modern  schools  must  ever  leave  UDWon. 


«  THE   LAST    SUPPERS  97 

Yet  while  we  stand  and  gaze,  we're  minded  of 
The  "  gray  Gerolomite,"  the  last  of  all 

That    brotherhood,    whose    touching    words    we 
quote, 
Which  doth  the  "  Spanish  anecdote "  recall — 

How  once  a  painter  from  a  distant  strand 

Did  cross  the  wave,  this  picture  great  to  see ; 

The  friar  mark'd  his  wondering  look,  and  thus 
Reply  did  make  in  speech  austere  but  free — - 

"  Stranger,  thou  gazest  on  a  picture  there, 
To  me  no  picture  e'en  for  many  a  year, 

Though  I  am  old,  and  my  last  sands  near  run, 
And  soon  these  bones  will  rest  upon  the  bier. 

"  When  I  review  my  youth,  what  I  was  then. 
What  I  am  now,  and  ye  beloved  ones  all, 

I  feel  as  if  these  were  the  living  men, 

And  we  the  colour'd  shadows  on  the  wall.''* 

Vide  "  Spanish  Anecdote." 


THE    SONG   OF    THE    REAPERS. 

^J^MHEY  sow  to  tlie  wind,  Lord,  who  sow  not 
^iSl?  to  Thee, 

For  sowers  and  reapers  we  only  are  here, 
Each  hath  his  own  acre  in  Grod's  world  to  till, 

Ere  the  husbandman  cometh  his  harvest  to  bear. 

We  each  have  onr  acre  alone  here  to  till, 

And  nmst  toil,  if  we  hope  some  harvest  to 
reap ; 
Be  faithful  and  labour  through  sun  and  through 
rain, 
Ere  night  shall  o'ertake  us,  and  death's  silent 
sleep. 

If  we  sow  to  the  wind,  then  the  whirlwind  we 

reap — 

"  Do  thistles  bear  figs,  or  grapes   grow  on  the 

thorn?" 

If  our  wheat  then  we'd  garner  unsown  by  the  tares, 

We  must  labour  at  noon-day,  as  well  as  at  morn. 


THE    SOXG    OF    THE    REAPERS.  99 

\Te  have  only  our  own  prescribed  acre  to  till. 
Not  those  of  our  neighbours,  —  only  help  rlieni 
in  need, 
If  the  thunder-drops  fall,  or  the  heavy  rains 
sweep, 
And  their  sheaves  lie  ungarner'd  in  paths  where 
we  tread, 

'Tis    then  we    must  help  them,    and    garner    the 
sheaves, 
Safe  housed  from  the  tempest,  or  stored  in  the 
wain  ; 
While  our  plot  will  grow  riper,  nor  lose  e'en  one 
sheaf, 
For  a  kindness  love-render'd,  not  asking  again. 

They  sow  to  the  wind  then  who  sow  not    to 
Him, 
The  Lord  of  the  harvest,  who  asketh  no  more 
But  that  we  pay  back  all  our  "  talents"  at  last. 
And   the  sheaves  we    have   bound,  when  He 
knocks  at  our  door. 


FAITH    VERSUS    PHILOSOPHY. 

^IUST  weave  me  a  garment  of  fine  thistle- 
down, 

And  a  hat  from  the  cobweb's  sheer  loom, 
With  a  mantle  fine  spun  from  the  gray  mountain 
mist, 
And  then  through  the  wide  world  I  will  roam 
In   search  of   Earth's    reasons,    God's    truths    to 
maintain, 
And  life's  intricate  problems  thus  prove, 
Though  'twere  better  bj  far  pride's  ice- depths  to 
break, 
And  accept  what  God  hides  in  His  love. 

For  can  we  perceive  how  the  wild  thistle  grows, 
And  the  grass  that  we  tread  under  foot, 

Or  how   the   fruit   bursts    from   the   blossom    so 
sweet, 
Or  the  tree  from  its  deep  buried  root  ? 


FAITH    VERSUS   PHILOSOPHY.  101 

Xo,  Nature's  too  coy  her  deep  secrets  to  tell 
The  most  patient  who  sit  at  her  feet ; 

We  are  shrouded  in  mystery  without  and  within, 
And  man's  wisdom's  a  life-long  defeat. 

Philosophy  proves  but  the  sheer  thistle-down, 

Swiftly  trapp'd  in  a  cobweb's  fine  snare, 
Unbelief  but  a  treacherous  spider  which  waits 

To  allure  faithless  souls  to  her  lair. 
Not  required  are  we  by  our  reason  to  prove 

Aught  that  Infinite  Reason  controls  ; 
I  know  'tis  a  wound  to  all  self-love  and  pride, 

But  beware  of  the  infidel's  shoals. 

"  We  are  bought   with  a   price"  by  Him,  who, 
forsooth, 

Makes  conditions  to  level  our  pride, 
We  must  sit  in  Faith's  childhood,  lie  low  at  His  feet, 

If  we  hope  in  His  peace  to  abide — 
All  lowly  and  guileless  by  Calvary's  cross, 

And  apart  from  the  world  and  its  strife, 
Is  it  hard  to  be  children  through  earth's  fleeting 
day, 

When  if  children,  we're  "  heirs"  of  that  life  ? 


io2  BUBBLES. 

Not  the  life   that  now  is,  with  its   sorrows  and 
cares, 

Contradictions,  discrepancies,  sin ; 
But  behind  that  great  veil  which  o'er  Calvary  hung, 

When  the  Savionr  for  ns  enter'd  in. 


BUBBLES. 

E  drift  like  bubbles  down  life's  stream — 
Bubbles  that  sport  with  light, 
Only  reflect  life's  treacherous  hues, 

Nor  dream  of  sunless  night. 
When  steals  some  breeze  or  flitting  leaf, 

These  bubbles  break  in  air, 
So  exquisite  they  are,  too  frail 
A  leaf-kiss  e'en  to  bear. 

With  sails  of  silk  we  trim  life's  barque, 

With  anchors  silver- wrought, 
Mann'd  with  bright  hopes,  our  helmsman  Self 

Gives  sunken  shoals  no  thought. 


BUBBLES.  103 


Alas  !  we  drift  on  Life's  rough  sea, 

Lash'cl  to  a  broken  raft, 
If  Christ  be  not  our  pilot  here, 

Heaven's  breezes  do  not  waft. 


We  hang  our  hopes  on  threads  of  gold, 

At  least  we  think  we  do, 
Spun  from  the  loom  of  what  we  wish, 

Rather  than  what  is  true. 
Alas  !  these  hang  on  cobwebs  frail, 

Frailer  than  thistle-down, 
Without  our  God  cements  the  threads, 

And  weaves  them  in  a  crown. 


We  tread  Life's  bridge  of  shadows,  which 

Out  of  the  mist  is  built, 
Frail  as  the  mirage  in  the  sky 

That  fades  in  sunset  gilt. 
Bubbles  we  are,  on  bubbles  tread, 

Bubbles  we  court  and  grasp, 
All,  all  so  shadowy  save  that  Love 

We  might,  but  do  not  clasp. 


io4  BUBBLES. 

If  bubbles  then,  if  shadows  we, 

Who  must  in  shadows  grope, 
There's  comfort  still  in  Christ's  great  Love, 

The  Love  which  brings  us  hope. 
]NTo  more  like  bubbles  then  we  swim 

O'er  waves  of  life's  deep  stream, 
No  more  o'er  shadows  do  we  brood, 

Dark  as  life's  saddest  dream. 


Shall  we  the  lesson  learn  call'd  Life? 

Ere  jet  this  life  is  spun, 
In  shadows  even  find  a  key 

To  pass  Doubt's  rubieon  ? 
That  light  may  then  upon  us  flash, 

Life  from  our  heart's-depths  call, 
Love's  chrism  rest  upon  our  lips. 

His  Love  be  all  in  all  1 


io5 


WAVE-FOOTSTEPS   IX    THE    SAXDS. 

:rM  KIPPLIXG  strings,  soft  touch'd 
fc^Z&i        By  breezes  light, 
Break  ye  in  measures  full, 

Sing  day  and  niglit. 
Hark  !  the  soft  whisper — "  hush  !" 

Steals  o'er  the  strand, 
And  footprints  of  each  wave 
Indent  the  sand. 


E'en  steps  of  wandering  waves, 

That  softly  sweep, 
Leave  footprints  in  the  sands 

Where  ripples  creep. 
While  down  the  stately  nave, 

And  transepts  dim 
Of  ocean's  wave-paved  church, 

Wc  hear  the  hvmn  : — 


io6  MEMORY'S    BELLS. 

"  Thus  leave  jour  impress  in 

Earth's  fleeting  sand, 
That  others,  following  on, 

May  earnest  stand 
In  the  bright  track  you  leave 

On  earth's  pale  shore, 
When  you  have  enter' d  in 

The  golden  door." 


MEMORY'S    BELLS. 

kSIIIx  OFTLY  ringing,  softly  chiming, 
\0£i^%      Faintly  tinkling,  Memory's  bells, 
Chiming  clear  of  vanish' d  hours, 

Golden  hours,  silvery  peals, 
When  the  hum  of  twilight  trembles, 

Ere  soft  clasp'd  in  dewy  night, 

When  the  flowers  fold  their  petals, 

Kiss'd  to  sleep  by  dying  light. 


MEMORY'S    BELLS. 


107 


When  the  night-breeze  shakes  the  cypress, 

Moaning  through  each  waving  bough, 
Chanting  many  a  minor  cadence — 

iEolian  strings,  that  bode  no  woe  ! 
When  the  Angelns,  quick  pealing. 

Calls  the  faithful  ones  to  prayer, 
Through  the  claustral  shadows  stealing, 

Alice,  art  thou  with  me  there  ? 


INTERVALS. 


^0*0^ 


HAXDEL. 


'^jFvHEX  Handel's  stately  measured  tread  I 
mm  heard 

Marching  adown  Tinie's  corridors  revered  ; 

Immortal  Handel,  round  whose  score  divine, 

Enduring  mysteries  of  Faith  entwine 

Their  mazes.      IMany  seek  to  match  thy  power, 

As  torches  mock  the  moon  for  some  brief  hour ; 

Yea,  scores  of  Imitators  rise  and  swell 

The  ranks  where  thou,  great  master,  lone  shalt 

dwell ; 
Thy  genius  leads  where  true  art  only  reigns, 
Binding  the  music-world  in  subtlest  chains. 
Awake  !  great  prophet  of  the  solemn  chords, 
In  song  and  chorus,  make  the  inspired  words  ! 
While  lesser  lights  shall  nicker,  waste,  and  die, 
But  leave  to  Handel  Immortality  ! 


SONNET. 

'igi|R||jHEN  Music  wove  in  dreams  her  wizard 
IB  spell, 

From  viol,  harp- string,  organ's  flow  and  swell, 
Unearthly  concords  lured  my  soul  away 
To  lose  herself  in  trance  and  ecstasy ; 
Beethoven  pleaded,  plaintive  Weber  sigh'd, 
And  Palestrina's  solemn  rhythm  died, 
Striking  wild  chords  in  memory's  octaves  deep, 
Leaving  me  in  my  music-  dream  to  weep  ; 
Then  wordless  songs  came  floating  on  the  hours, 
Filling  the  air  with  gorgeous  music-flowers — 
Entranced  within  my  dream,  so  rich  and  rare, 
I  lost  the  sense  of  sorrow,  need,  or  care. 
Alas  !  'twas  but  a  dream  that  so  beguiled, 
But  I  awoke  again  life-reconciled. 


"3 


AN  INVOCATION. 

rapvOME  !  nightly  whisperer,  come  !  though 


scarce  divined, 
Come,  white-wing'd  messenger,  and  gracious 

bring 
Tour  words  afloat  upon  the  midnight  wind : 
In  the  night-watches  hover  round,  and  sing 
Thoughts  which  e'en  poets   dare  not  call  their 

own, 
Yet  fain  would  catch  the  echoes  till  the  soul 
Dares  utterance  in  language  rhythm-thrown. 
Come  then,  bright  spirit,  in  your  light  patrol, 
Encamp  and  guard  the  threshold  pure,  serene — 
Imagination's  visionary  sphere, 
Whose   star-lit  chambers,   hung  with  fancy's 

sheen, 
Are  peopled  too.     Be  thou  interpreter  ! 
Chambers  of  imagery  !  may  each  threshold  grow 
Meet  for  an  angel's  feet  to  come  and  sro  ! 


ii4 


THE    SONG   OF   THE    SEA. 

^AVE  on  then,  rave  on  then,  0  desolate 
sea! 

Rave  on  in  your  romance  of  dark  mystery, 
Fling  up  your  spectral  arms  high  from  the  deep, 
Ay,  fling   them  and  toss   them   with    passionate 
sweep. 

And  menace  the  rocks  too  that  mock  at  your 

power, 
As  baffled,  ye  bound  from  the  obstinate  shore  ; 
And  rave  on,  ay,  rave  on,  0  desolate  sea  ! 
Rave  on  in  your  wild  world  of  strange  mystery. 

Nor  tell  but  of  those  who  have  sunk  to  their  rest 
Deep  down  your  green  fathoms  below  the  foam 

crest, 
Nor  of  the  bright  gems  in  your  dark  coffers  hid, 
In  grottos  of  coral  that  never  shall  fade ; 


THE  ANTHEM,  115 

But  tell  me,  ay,  tell  me,  0  desolate  sea  ! 

The  burthen,  the  plaint,  of  your  grand  symphony ; 

For  not  to  lost  treasures,  or  the  dead  that  there 

sleep, 
Is  your  burden  sung  ever  in  cadence  thus  deep. 

For,  at  morn  the  waves  sing  it,  0  desolate  sea  ! 
And  at  night  they  repeat  it,  the  same  symphony, 
For  evermore  chaunting  the  grand  jubilee, 
"  Te  Deum  Laudamus,"  the  song  of  the  sea ! 


THE    ANTHEM. 

WEEP   the    grand   wave- chords   full,    0 
wind, 

With  rippling  fingers  light, 
Strike  the  rich  keys  which  rise  and  fall 
To  th'  psalmody  of  night ! 

Ye  glistening  pebbles  on  the  strand, 

Dragg'd  backward  by  the  sea, 
Lend  your  clear  treble,  softly  sweet, 

To  this  grand  symphony. 


u6  ADRIFT. 

Crash  !   waves,  upon  the  hoary  rocks. 
And  whirl  jour  plumes  of  spray, 

Flung  from  the  chariot  of  the  foam 
Death  drives  in  reckless  sway. 

And  ye,  proud  billows,  rise  to  break 

Defiant  in  your  might, 
Swell  the  great  anthem  of  the  sea, 

The  anthem  of  the  night. 

Come,  Silence,  on  your  dreamy  wings, 
And  fold  them — let  no  flush 

Of  worldly  care,  or  idle  mirth 
Disturb  this  anthem — hush  ! 


ADRIFT. 

|EAVE  the  helm,  let  go  the  oars, 
i^^l^I  Fret  no  more  the  reckless  wave, 
Onward,  seaward,  let  us  float — 
Adrift! 


ADRIFT.  117 

Break  the  bubbles  on  the  foam — 
See  the  land  in  distance  die  ; 
Onward,  seaward  let  us  float, — 
Adrift! 

Toss  we  on  the  boiling  surge, 
Passed  the  buoy,  now  out  of  sight — 
Ocean,  be  thou  antetype  ! 

Adrift! 

Passion  on  thy  bosom  sleep, 
Laugh,  pale  sun-beams,  o'er  the  waste ; 
One  word  more,  ay,  one  more  clasp, — 
Adrift ! 

Deep  the  soundings,  yet  how  clear ! 
Mark  the  stones,  the  rocks,  the  weed — 
You  smile — dost  read  my  meaning  now, 
Adrift? 


iiS 


A   WORD-PICTURE. 

Rg|/ HE  room  was  draped  in  shadows  sombre, 
cool, 

That  trifled  with  the  arras,  as  it  fiapp'd 
Its  heavy  folds  in  idle  Tuscan  breeze, 
That  through  the  lattice  pane  came  wandering  in. 
Here  a  great  painter  at  his  easel  sat, 
Limning  the  tender  features  of  a  face 
That  shyly  look'd  from  ont  a  modest  veil, 
Like  some  sweet  exile  from  yon  clouded  sphere, 
Or  distant  planet  gazing  down  on  us 
Poor  mortals,  who  in  dreams  can  only  find 
(Not  always  then)  such  faces  peerless  quite, 
As  sculptured  from  an  alabaster  rock, 
Yet  sensitive  and  varying  as  the  harp 
JEolian,  trembling  to  the  summer  breeze ; 
And  eyes — 0  .wondrous  eyes  !  like  looking  down 
Those  soundless   depths  of  Leman's  quivering 
blue, 


A    WORD-PICTURE.  n9 

Which  lure  in  vain  the  soul  to  sound  those  deeps ; 

The  hair,  too, — where  the  sunset  laid  her  palm, 

Has  tangled  in  its  tresses  skeins  of  gold. 

Xow  dream  the  minstrels  o'er  their  golden  chords, 

Stirring  the  air  to  hush  of  music's  thralls ; 

The  rebeck  and  the  lute  breathe  music-words, 

As  fast  the  painter  weaves  his  colours  in, 

Essays  his  best  to  counterfeit  that  face 

Upon  the  canvas  wakening  to  his  touch. 

The  lady's  eyes  are  never  fix'd  on  him, 

Her  head  is  half- averted,  turn'd  to  mark 

A  figure  standing  by  the  painter's  side, 

With  finger  raised,  as  if  he  said, — Take  care. 

With  reverence  touch  the  shadows  even  mine. 

She  sits,  the  lady,  on  the  dais  raised — 

From  the  oak  screen,  with  cornice  richly  carved, 

Hangs  soft  folds  of  drapery  round  her  head, 

Like  a  mosaic  background  wrought  in  air 

By  checker' d  rays  of  sunlight's  prisms  bright, 

Her  hound  in  glossy  coat  lies  at  her  feet, 

And  upward  gazes  at  his  mistress'  face. 

'Tis  Laura,  Petrarch's  Laura,  as  she  sits, 

'Tis  Petrarch  by  the  painter's  chair  who  stands, 

'Tis  Simon  Zvlemmi,  he  alone  who  dares 


izo  A    NEW    GONDOLA    SONG. 

Upon  that  shred,  that  perishable  shred 
Of  canvas  there  to  lay  creative  tints, 
And  bid  them  connterfeit  fair  Laura's  face — 
This  is  the  picture,  swe'et,  commemorate, 
Of  Petrarch's  Laura  and  of  Petrarch's  love. 


A    NEW    GONDOLA    SONG    FOR 
VENICE,  IN  1866. 

|UT  the  Queen  has  come  back, 
The  Queen  of  the  Sea, 
No  longer  an  exile 
Nor  widow  is  she. 

They  stole  her  regalia, 

They  trampled  her  power, 

Usurp' d  her  dominion, 
And  pilfer 'd  her  dower. 


A    NEW    GONDOLA    SOXG. 

They  emptied  her  coffers, 
The j  mock'd  at  her  pride, 

Wore  even  the  jewels 
Of  Italy's  bride  ! 

But  the  Queen  has  come  back. 

The  Queen  of  the  Sea, 
Her  crown  is  redeem'd,  and 
Our  Venice  is  free  ! 

Xo  more  the  oppressor 

Shall  plant  his  proud  heel 

On  th'  grave  of  San  Marco, 
Or  bid  Venice  kneel. 

Xo — the  Queen  has  come  back, 

Unfetter'  d  and  free, 
She  has  dropt  all  her  weeds 

In  th'  grave  of  her  sea. 

Her  gems  and  her  pictures 
Are  now  all  her  own, 

And  the  fair  Queen,  Venetia, 
Sits  high  on  her  throne. 


THE   "NIGHT  AND   MORNING,"   OF 
MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

J  RE  AT  Angelo  !     His  sinewy  arm  has 
hew'd 

From  living  rock  the  block  from  which  he  strikes 
The  sparks  from  hammer  wielded  in  his  might ; 
And  then  the  finer  work  begins,  and  now 
The  chisel  in  its  office  keen  and  sharp, 
Cuts,  shapes,  proportions  in  th'  incongruous  mass — 
The  file  the  task  completes  with  cunning  skill, 
And  lo  !  the  statues  "  Night  and  Morning"  live  ! 
O  in  that  chapel  where  the  shadows  steal, 
To  hang  their  draperies  o'er  sepulchral  urns, 
There  pause  they,  reverently  kneel  and  fold 
Their  hands  before  this  grand  unfinished  thought, 
Veiling  the  silent  faces,  till  we  dream 
Of  beauty  ideal  as  that  Poet  dream'd, 
Who  left  this  work  for  shadows  to  complete 
With  their  weird  fingers,  pencilling  each  face, 
Till  e'en  far  grander  is  this  rough-hewn  thought, 
Than  if  express'd,  and  that  great  dream  dream'd  out. 


123 


THE    CALL. 

^Ml^HE  fountain  drips  echoless  her  low  minor 

llSfey         phrase, 

And  the  willow  droops  wooingly  down  through 

the  maze, 
She  droops  till  she  half  blends  her  life  with  the 

stream 
Whose  bubbles  she  breaks,  like  the  thread  of  a 

dream. 

And  the  nightingale  calls  from  the  darks  of  the 

pine, 
To  her  mate  to  come  back  to  his  own  leafy  shrine, 
Then  she  waits  for  the  answer,  borne  back  on  the 

breeze, 
Low  whisper' d  by  flowers,  and  repeated  by  trees. 

0  list  to  the  pining  chord,  ever  and  oft, 
Hark  !  hark  !  comes  the  cadence  so  plaintive  and 
soft, 


124  A  PORTRAIT, 

"  Take  the  thorn  from  my  breast,"  this  all  sadly 

she  sings, 
"  Then  hide   me,  safe  hide  me,  love,  under  thy 

wings." 

The  red  shield  of  Mars  seems  to  guard  the  sweet 

grove, 
In  the  silence  of  night  and  the  silence  of  love, 
All  is  dark  save  the  glimmer  of  Autumn's  red 

star, 
With  the  link  of  two  hearts  that  united  now  are. 


A   PORTRAIT. 

"  "ROUND  her  neck  Love's  corals  hang, 
Truth's  pearl  shines  in  her  heart, 
An  aureole  halo  girts  her  head 
With  Wisdom's  better  part. 


A  PORTRAIT.  125 

About  her  wrists  Strength's  sapphires  cling, 

Her  hands  with  rabies  flame, 
Faith's  winged  sandals  bind  her  feet — 

Wow,  canst  thou  guess  her  name  ? 

The  law  of  Kindness  gilds  her  tongue — 

Forbearing  to  the  weak, 
She  patiently  forgives  the  wrong, 

In  wrath  is  slow  to  speak. 

Forgetting  self  in  others'  weal, 

In  Love  and  Truth  complete, 
Meekly  she  bears  her  cross  through  life, 

And  waits  at  Jesu's  feet. 


126 


FLOWERS   FOR  PARADISE. 

S^^MHAT  plants  are  these  ?  what  flowers  sweet 
ivJaJM*K  and  rare, 

That  skirt  earth's  paths  of  sorrow,  sin,  and  care, 
That  meekly  hide  'mid  shadows  cool  and  shy  ? 
Save  for  their  fragrance  we  should  pass  them  by, 
Yet  careless  footsteps  often  on  them  tread, 
Though  bend  they  not,  nor  break,  nor  e'en  are 

dead, 
But  from  each  bruised  stalk  faint  perfume  flies, 
Of  resignation  to  the  bending  skies. 
Life's  forest,  with  her  endless,  devious  ways, 
Her  pathless  copses  lead  to  'wildering  maze, 
Her  dizzy  heights,  abysses  black  and  deep, 
To  crags,  dark  ravines,  and  to  chasms  steep ; 
Her  evanescent  rainbows,  where  the  sun 
Out  of  a  cloud  a  fleeting  dream  has  spun, 
Gorgeous  as  fleeting,  beautiful  as  bright, 
Yet  while  we  gaze  quick  swooning  on  the  sight ; 
But  these  fair  flowers  not  everywhere  are  seen, 


A    SOXG    FOR    THE    CRITICS.  127 

In  paths  of  earth,  so  pure  in  shape  and  mien. 
But  such  the  souls — the  meek,  the  chaste,  the 

true, 
Life-flowers  that  light  the  path  our  steps  pursue 
On  earth,  celestial  plants  for  ever  fair, 
Which  scent  life's  wastes,  perfume  earth's  desert 

air, 
And  God  is  watching,  waiting  in  His  skies 
For  them  to  bloom  with  Him  in  Paradise  ! 


o&x 


A   SOXG   FOR   THE   CRITICS. 

^^^ES,  indeed  we  must  sing,  dear   Critics, 

J^g^)  although 

You  over  our  cages  a  handkerchief  throw, 

If  one  streak  of  pale  sunshine  should  steal  through 

a  chink, 
I'm    afraid   we   shall    chirp    still,    whatever   you 

think  I 


128  A    SONG    FOR    THE    CRITICS. 

But  the  best  way  to  manage  us  seems,  after  all, 
Not  to  clip  our  wings  utterly,  lest  we  should  fall — 
Put  a  lump  of  white  sugar,  at  times,  in  the  cage, 
We    shall   sing   all   the    sweeter,    or   try,   we'll 

engage, 
Till  at  length  we  half  win  you  to  say  we  aspire. 
We   are   not   all   nightingales, — would  that  we 

were ! — 
There  are  larks,  and  to  sing  e'en  the  chaffinches 

dare, 
For  all  have  a  voice  in  Dame  Nature's  bowers, 
And  all  have  their  part  in  life's  passing  hours ; 
For  not  only  the  lark  pours  rhythms  of  sound, 
But  we're  told  not  a  sparrow  falls  aye   to   the 

ground 
Without  the  sure  knowledge  of  Him  who  hath 

made 
The  bird  for  the  sunshine,  the  bird  for  the  shade. 
So  be  patient,  dear  Critic,  with  all  that  must  sing, 
If  their  notes  are  not  false,  no  mocking-bird's 

wing; 
We  are  not  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  as  you 

know, 
We  are  fanciful,  sensitive — breezes  may  blow 


THE    DANCE  129 

Our  song-notes  away,  so  have  patience  with  all, 
And  if  you  can't  praise  us,  0  what  will  befall  ? 
Shall  we  chirp,  warble  still,  in  the  shades  of  life's 

bowers, 
If  not  in  the  noontide,   through  twilight's  sad 

hours  ? 
Some    pilgrim   may   hear   us    in    travel-stained 

dust, 
And  lay  down  his  staff,  and  sandals  adjust, 
Refresh' d  by  some  carol,  go  forth  on  his  way. 
And  bless  some  small  wood-bird  who  sang  such 

a  day. 


THE    DANCE. 


A   BALLAD. 


y$xXLY  another  dance,  he  urged — 
The  king's  son,  it  was  he, 
And  Beatrix  stood  in  her  shining  robes, 
As  the  lady  of  minstrelsy. 

K 


130  THE  DANCE. 

Only  another  dance — he  cried, 

Sounding  the  depths  of  her  eyes — 

To  the  wars  I  go  ere  to-morrow's  sun 
Over  the  East  shall  arise. 

But  Beatrix  raised  those  wonderful  eyes, 
Half  doubtful,  then  she  sprang — 

As  if  throwing  away  some  memory 
Of  a  song  she  once  had  sung — 

So  into  that  dance  she  flings  herself, 

So  giddy,  reckless  seems, 
While  her  peerless  face  and  her  wondrous  eyes, 

Woo  gazers  to  fond  love-dreams. 

Half-awed,  the  king's  son  led  her  on, 

As  if  'twere  profanity 
To  lead  such  a  lady  to  a  dance 

In  a  night  of  revelry. 

Though  reverent  he  clasp'd  the  proffer'd  hand, 

As  she  dropt  it  in  his  own — 
'Twas  clasp'd  In  the  warrior's  bronzed  palm. 

As  a  pearl  in  some  dark  shell  thrown. 


THE  DANCE. 

The  music  dream' d,  the  dance  began. 

Her  hand  the  warrior  press 'd — 
How  beat  her  heart  'neath  clouds  of  lace. 

Upon  that  warrior's  breast  ! 

A  rose  fell  from  the  wreath  she  wore, 

Encircling  the  wavy  gold, 
He  caught  it — but  little  she  reck'd  or  knew 

Of  this  his  theft  so  bold. 

A  strange  repose  stole  o'er  her  soul, 

Unlike  the  fever-gleam 
Which  once  had  blazed  within  her  heart, 

But  proved  a  waking  dream. 

She  could  have  died  that  hour  in  peace. 

He  could  have  died  with  her — 
0  what  a  dance  for  life  was  that 

Which  hearts  to  their  depths  could  stir  ! 

At  length  she  breathed  her  answer  to 

His  deep,  impassion'd  sigh, 
Too  long  she  had  listen' d  for  her  peace 

On  that  nia'ht  of  revelry. 


132  THE  DANCE. 

Slow  came  her  words :   "  I  may  not  wed, 

Betrothed  I  long  have  been, 
Though  he  is  false,, and  a  faithless  knight, 

I  keep  my  heart's  vows  clean. 

"  Nor  can  this  promise  be  forgot, 

It  was  heard  in  holy  heaven ; 
I  mnst  be  true,  thongh  he  be  not, 

For  my  troth  before  God  was  given/' 

Then  the  king's  son  bent  down  on  her 

A  look  of  speechless  love  ; 
Was  this  a  partner  for  a  dance, 

Or  an  angel  from  above  ? 

He  mused,  he  sigh'd,  and  then  he  knelt 

As  praying  at  a  shrine, — 
"  Beatrix,  guardian  of  my  soul, 

0  one  day  thou'lt  be  mine  !" 

She  heard,  she  wept,  and  whisper' d — "  Go, 
Till  some  sweet  summer's  day, 

When  June  shall  bring  her  roses  back, 
And  break  all  thralls  away." 


THE    DAXCE.  133 

It  was  a  death  to  either  heart, 

Xo  troth  could  then  be  given, 
]So  cup  of  love  might  either  taste, 

Since  old  chains  were  not  riven. 

To  war  he  went,  the  king's  own  son, 

With  one  rose  on  his  breast — 
One  faded,  wither'd  ball-room  rose, 

Close  to  his  heart  was  press'd ; 

Caught  from  the  fluttering  laee  that  veil'd 

A  fluttering  heart  beneath, 
And  I  trow  the  warrior  who  caught  it  then, 

Will  wear  it  through  life  and  death. 


134 


THE    SEQUEL. 

0  bring  me  niy  lute — it  hangs  on  the  jew, 


In  the  bower  by  the  clematis  spread  ; 
Then  cut  me  some  roses  all  dripping  with  dew, 
Half  open — the  white  and  the  red. 


Thus  Beatrix  spoke,  that  sweet  desolate  maid, 

As  out  to  the  terrace  she  stole, 
Where  the  moon  ghastly  smiled  over  bower  and 
glade, 

And  the  nightingale  warbled  her  dole. 

Now  bring   me    my  casket,  e'en  here  where  the 
moon 
.May  look  on  my  treasures  and  gems, 
For  under  night's  spell  I  would  count  them  o'er 
soon, 
While  they  rival  the  stars'  diadems. 


THE    SEQUEL.  135 

Thus  Beatrix  stole  to  her  bower  all  hid 

In  clematis,  myrtle  and  rose. 
And  with  a  deep  sigh  she  uplifted  the  lid, 

And  mused  long  in  silent  repose. 


Then  out  of  its  cell  a  small  locket  she  drew. 

'Twas  a  heart  with  red  rubies  a-glow, 
And  a  name  there  was  set  in  the  deep  sapphires 
blue. 

Like  a  flame  lit  on  drifts  of  the  snow. 


Then  trembled  her  hand,  and  though  light  was 
the  press 

On  the  fine  subtle  magical  spring, 
It  brought  out  the  gold  of  a  marvellous  tress, 

And  one  black  as  the  raven's  own  wing. 

Down,  down  in  the  leaves  this  locket  she  press'd, 
Deep  down  in  a  dark  silent  grave : 

Thus  she  buried  the  love  which  once  glow'd  in 
her  breast, 
With  the  gift  that  her  false  lover  gave. 


136  AN    UNANNOUNCED    VISITOR 

Then  back  to  the  castle  sweet  Beatrix  steals, 
When  the  moon  has  forsaken  her  bower, 

With  her  kite,  and  her  casket,  but  nought  that 
reveals 
The  tale  of  that  strange  midnight  hour. 

But  the  rose  that  the  king's  son  wore  on  his  breast, 

And  the  king's  son,  whither  is  he  ? 
For  the  false  knight  sleeps  with  a  lance  in  his 
breast — 

And  Beatrix's  soul  now  is  free. 


AN   UNANNOUNCED   VISITOR   AT 
THE   TUILEBIES. 

j%|§|N^  SAW  ye  not  the  shadow 
|§g^|        That  pass'd  through  the  palace  gate, 
Up  the  broad  steps,  and  through  the  door, 
And  enter' d  the  halls  of  state  ? 


AT    THE    T CILERIES.  137 

Passing  each  wary  sentinel, 

Not  as  a  stranger  might, 
Who  for  the  first  time  feels  her  way 

Where  new  scenes  meet  her  sight ; 

Bnt  as  one  long  familiar 

With  those  galleries  and  halls, 
The  crystal  lamps,  the  gilded  bronze, 

And  frescoes  on  the  walls. 

On,  on  the  shadow  glided  swift, 

Enter'd  the  Hall  of  Peace  : 
Before  an  equestrian  statue  paused, 

And  whisper'd  i;  Blest  release." 

The  statue  of  an  exiled  king, 

From  throne  and  country  driven, 

'Twas  broken,  defaced,  this  ef^gy 
To  ruin's  empire  given. 

A  deep  sigh  from  the  shadow  came. 

That  gazed  upon  the  king, 
A  sigh  that  rent  th'  historic  air, 

As  memories  round  it  cling. 


[38  AN    UNANNOUNCED    VISITOR 

Then  onward,  slow,  the  shadow  moved, 

Enter' d  the  banquet  hall ; 
Glory  and  splendour  fill'd  that  space, 

With  music's  syren  thrall. 

Imperial  splendour  dazed  the  eye, 
And  pomp  and  pageant  shone ; 

Yet  jewell'd  cups  and  ruby  wine 
Hid  not  the  "  skeleton." 

For  close  to  the  imperial  chair 
The  shadow  stole,  and  leant 

Upon  the  velvet  and  the  gold, 
With  eye  and  ear  intent. 

They  spoke  of  one  now  queen  no  more, 
But  exiled,  banish' d,  dead, 

Who  in  these  regal  halls  had  once 
Mild  radiance  on  them  shed. 

Some  said,  "  A  pity  dire  it  was 

That  once  a  random  shot 
Had  not  released  one  martyr's  woes, 

And  saved  one  weary  lot." 


AT    THE    TUILERIES.  139 

And  others  spoke,  but  uone  could  urge 

One  harsh  word  of  the  dead  ; 
But  all  concurred  that  virtues  rare 

Were  on  this  princess  shed. 

That  true  as  mother,  chaste  as  wife, 

By  sorrow  bent,  not  broken, 
Meekly  she  bore  her  cross  on  earth, 

And  left  her  griefs  unspoken. 

Calm  in  her  dignity  had  braved 

The  exile's  lonely  part 
In  the  adopted  home  she  found, 

In  England's  noble  heart. 

At  this  the  shadow  slowly  moved 

Toward  the  draperied  door, 
Pausing  an  instant  as  it  pass'd 

Before  the  Emperor. 

Then  came  a  voice  upon  the  ah1, 
Xot  weird,  not  harsh,  not  dreary, 

But  soft  and  low  as  river's  flow, 
On  summer  nights  so  eerie — 


i4o  AN    UNANNOUNCED    VISITOR. 

"  Earthly  crowns  to  dust  mnst  turn, 
Sceptres  to  broken  reeds ; 
Kingdoms  will  shake,  thrones  be  usurped, 
And  queens  wear  widows'-weeds." 

Then  came  a  cold  blast  through  the  hall, 
Lights  to  their  sconces  quiver'd; 

Beauty  and  flattery  dropp'd  their  masks, 
And  Pleasure's  phantoms  shiver' d. 

Then  down  the  glittering  stairs  she  stole, 
Guards,  muskets,  all  unheeding, 

Close  by  the  sentries  on  she  went, 
No  earthly  summons  heeding. 

"  Je  suis  mieux,"  *  the  last  words  fell 

Slow  on  the  midnight  air, 
And  the  ghost  that  haunted  the  Tuileries, 

Vanish 'd  through  mist  and  glare. 

*  Last  words  of  Queen  Amalie. 


v^-S^—- 


I4I 


CHRISTMAS    ROSES. 

BUBBLE  of  glass,  frail  Venice  glass, 
These  Christmas  roses  to  hold — 
So  graceful  the  pedestal  of  my  vase 
Tight  clasp 'd  in  these  claws  of  gold. 


While  here  and  there  sparkles  a  ruby  red, 

And  Orient  jewel  bright, 
To  mirror  my  roses  and  softly  shed 

A  holy  celestial  light. 

Roses  in  winter  !  thus  sweet  and  rare, 
This  Christmas  morning  shall  bring 

The  thought  of  one  Rose  more  radiant  far, 
Dropt  to-day  from  the  crown  of  the  king. 


<V\ 


142  FOOTSTEPS    LEFT    IN   AN 


FOOTSTEPS    LEFT  'ITS    AN    EGYPTIAN 

TOMB   THREE   THOUSAND 

YEARS. 

V^^^^HE  dead,  the  dead,  the  winged  centuries 
WM$  sing! 

O'er  Lybia's  golden  sands  they  fold  the  wing, 
Brooding  o'er  those  colossal  urns  which  hide 
Ashes  of  Egypt's  kings,  of  Egypt's  pride. 

Here  sleep  they  on,  nor  grim  corruption  know, 
Embalm' d  in  state,  in  mocking  gear  of  woe, 
Cheating  the  silent  banquet  of  the  worm, 
With  gold  and  gems  which  deck  each  mummied 

form. 


Still  sleep  they  on,  nor  Time  their  pride  can  steal, 
Each  in  his  rock-hewn  chamber,  where  the  seal 
Ruthlessly  broken  from  the  sculptured  door, 
Yawns,  but  in  vain  Oblivion  to  implore ; 


EGYPTIAN    TOMB.  143 

Where  wild  beasts  range,  and  vultures  see     their 

prey, 
Where  jackals  cry,  bats  wheel,  and  spectres  stray, 
Hiding  'mid  sculptures  on  the  storied  wails, 
'Mid  baffling  scrolls  which  science  e'en  appals. 


The  winged  globe  surmounts  each  sacred  door, 
Type  of  eternity  for  evermore  ; 
How  perfect  every  symbol,  no  decay 
Is  here,  but  sharp  as  chisell'd  yesterday. 

Mocking  our  wonder  with  strange   types  and 

wings, 
Which  guard  these   death-homes  of  Egyptian 

kings, 
Where  still  the  shifting  sands  drift  high  and  deep, 
Around  the  doors  where  golden  Ages  weep. 

So  cool,  so  dry,  these  chambers  of  the  dead, 
So  spicy,  these  death's  cerements,  where  we  tread — 
0  wither' d  mummies  mocking  monarchs'  state, 
Walk'd  ye  once  Karnac's  halls  now  desolate  ? 


i44  FOOTSTEPS    LEFT   IN  AN 

Are  we  the  first,  too,  that  have  enter' d  here, 
For  thousand,  thousand  years  look'd  on  this  bier  ? 
Shade  of  Osiris  !    dost  thou  haunt  the  gloom, 
As  we  profane  with  steps  thy  kingly  room  ? 

~No,  not  the  first  of  bold  intruders  here 
Since  these  lost  footsteps  left  the  lonely  bier, 
The  frozen  silence  thaw'd,  and  all  reveal' d 
When  Mariette  the  charmed  door  unseal' d ; 

To  mark  strange  footsteps  Ages  trod  before, 
The  sand  so  clear  indented  from  the  door, 
Up  to  the  very  couch  where  Apis  lay, 
Footprints  as  fresh  as  printed  yesterday. 

O  frozen  silence  !  stillness  marvellous, 
That  held  these  mortal  imprints  e'en  to  us, 
What  spell  of  Ages  broke  when  light  reveal' d 
This  wondrous  record  which  those  Ages  seal'd  ! 

Footprints  to  write  a  story  in  a  verse, 
Where  science  baffled,  feebly  can  rehearse 
These  sculptured  records  of  long  Ages  dead, 
Lost  and  forgotten,  to  oblivion  wed. 


EGYPTIAN   TOMB.  145 

Too  soon  the  wind  came  though,  with  reckless 

breath, 
And  bird  and  beast,  to  track  the  path  of  death, 
Erasing  these  memorials  in  a  tomb, 
And  those  last  footsteps  that  awoke  the  gloom. 

Thus  History  writes  upon  this  sandy  floor, 
A  verse  more  plaintive  than  a  requiem's  score, 
Treading  in  footsteps  left  three  thousand  years — 
Echoes  !  bring  back  your  lachrymal  for  tears  ! 

Ay,  wake  yon  echoes  from  your  dreamless  sleep  ! 
From  shadowy  recesses  light-ward  creep, 
We  call — alas  !  ye  answer  in  a  tongue 
Unknown  to  us,  long  lost  the  dead  among. 

0  land  of  Egypt,  mystery  and  dreams  ! 
By  prophets  sung — for  reverie  what  themes  ! 
0  fallen  columns,  broken  architraves, 
^Eolian  wailing  o'er  thy  desert  raves  ! 

Raves  for  a  land  o'ershadow'd  still  by  wings, 
Dark  land  benighted  though  a  land  of  kings  ; 
The  dead,  the  dead,  sing,  winged  centuries  !   sing 
0  funeral  harp,  with  mute  and  shatter' d  string  ! 
L 


146  FOOTSTEPS    LEFT   IN  A    TOMB. 

But  tell  us,  tell  us  of  these  footsteps  here — 
Whose  were  they  last  to  leave  this  sepulchre  ? 
Echoes,  wild  echoes  !  with  the  shadows  weep, 
For  golden  Ages  here  for  ever  sleep. 

None  may  awake  them  from  the  dreamless  dead, 
Save  wand'ring  spirits,  who  with  phantom  tread 
Leave  us  no  footprints  of  their  noiseless  feet, 
But  come  and  go,  and  solemn  vigils  keep. 

Wing  on  then,  cycles  !  golden  cycles,  wing  ! 
In  Egypt's  twilight,  her  lost  centuries  sing, 
Sing  of  the  dead,  forgotten,  shrouded  land, 
Which  mocks  us  but  with  footsteps  left  in  sand. 


H7 


THE   ARXO   AT   NIGHT. 

)^T RIGHT  bubbles   of  glass  imprison  the 
flames 

Which  lighten  the  bridge  swung  over  the  stream, 
Down  dropping  reflections  in  the  swift  flood, 
Like  organ  pipes  shatter' d  in  silvery  gleam. 

The  ripples,  too,  vibrate  in  cadences  soft, 

To  the  spirit  of  night  which  fingers  the  keys 

That  form  in  the  current  that  eddies  along, 
Breathing  its  lay  to  the  wandering  breeze. 

It  is  only  a  river,  methinks  ye  may  say, — 
A  long  row  of  lamps  swung  over  a  stream ; 

A  stretch  of  mere  fancy,  the  organ  pipes  too, 
And  as  to  the  music,  an  enthusiast's  dream  ! 

You  smile — but  the  Poet  finds  "  sermons  in  stones," 
Ay,  "  Books  in  the  brooks,"  even  music  at  call ; 

"  Poor  Poets"  ye  call  us,  but  we  can  smile  too, 
And  sing  although  no  one  may  listen  at  all. 


148 


TO . 

^0  you  -understand  me,  Jessie, 

How  I  mean  to  wear  your  ring  ; 
Only  one  condition  making, 

Which  a  smile  or  tear  may  bring  ? 

If  to  wear  your  ring  "  for  ever," 
One  short  promise  I  must  have — 

If  I  change  my  mind  to-morrow, 

You'll  take  back  the  ring  you  gave. 

Such  a  long  word  is  "  for  ever," 

And  if  this  hand  should  drop  to  dust, 

Whose  will  then  the  ring  be,  Jessie  ? 
I  think  I'll  wait  before  I  trust. 

Too  many  rings  echo  "  for  ever," 
And  too  many  "  thine  alone  ;" 

Too  many  hearts  are  link'd  to  gold-dust, 
Some  grow  chisell'd  into  stone  ! 


DESERTED    CHATEAU  OF  3IIR0MENIL.      149 

We're  all  too  prone  to  say  "  for  ever," 
E'en  a  wedding  ring  may  rust ; 

I  think  I'll  wait,  Dear,  till  to-morrow — 
Can  you  wait,  and  will  yon  trust  ? 


^fe£ 


THE   DESERTED    CHATEAU, 

MIROMEXIL,    ARQUES. 

MlRT  by  a  stately  park,  the  Chateau  stands 
In  sombre  grandeur,   desolate  and 
drear, 
Only  the  rooks  are  left  as  tenants  now, 

To  haunt  the  shadows  in  the  beeches  near ; 

Within  the  tower's  gloom,  the  sparrows  build, 
And  weeds  grow  rank  on  door  and  window 
sill, 

While  flap  the  shutters  on  the  broken  glass, 
Which  once  the  stained  oriel  did  fill ; 


150     DESERTED    CHATEAU   OF   MIBOMENIL. 

The  weather-beaten  clock  is  silent,  dumb, 
No  more  it  answers  to  the  night  of  hours  ; 

The  hell  is  only  swung  by  wayward  winds, 
And  life  exists  alone  in  passing  flowers. 

The  cunning  spider  weaves  her  subtle  loom 
Around    the    spacious    windows,    where    no 
face 
Has  look'd  to  answering  face  for  many  a  year, 
In    haunted    halls    and    gloom-spun    dreary 
space  ; 

The  ivy  drapes  the  tottering  garden  wall, 

The  beech-tree  drops  her  thin  dejected  boughs 

Untrimm'd,  and  snapp'd  away  from  rusty  nails, 
While    sickly   fruit   just    dropp'd,    the    1 
stren 


T       garden  roller  stands  just  where  'twas  left 
AVhen  las!  _  avel  walk  it  careful  roll'd, 

All  wash'd  and  worn  by  blanching  rains  in  bed 
Of  towering  weeds,  half  buried  in  the  mould  ; 


DESERTED    CHATEAU   OE  MIROMENIL.      151 

One  straggling  vine  the  glassless  hot-house  fills, 

The  mildew'd   grapes   drop   sullen  from   their 
stalks  : 
Which  no  hand  gathers — left  to  rot  and  rains. 
Or  peck'd  in  secret  night  by  vagrant  hawks  ; 

And    on   the    lawn    the    grass    grows    wild    and 
rank. 

The  briar  has  usurped  the  gay  parterres, 
The  gaunt  arms  of  the  cedars,  threaten  weird 

In  mocking  pride  among  the  statelier  firs  ; 

The  weeds  have  trampled  out  the  gravelbd  walks, 
Xo  traces  scarcely  of  the  paths  remain  ; 

We  muse  o'er  rustling  trains,  and  rich  brocades. 
And  silverv  laughter  never  heard  again  ; 


The   moat  is  dry,  and   choked  with  briar  and 
brake, 

And  wild  weeds  trample  insubordinate, 
And  Desolation  rampant  stalks  uncheck'd, 

From  park  to  lawn,  from  Chateau  door  to  gate. 


152      DESERTED    CHATEAU  OF  MIROMENIL. 

Ah  !  what  tradition  haunts  the  ghostly  place  ? 

What  glamour  rests  upon  the  silent  scene  ? 
What  wizard's  spell  with  evil  mesh  has  wove 

This  veil  of  mystery  over  what  has  been  ? 

The  echoes  only  mock  us  when  we  ask, 

And  wild  rooks  as  they  caw  from  leafy  towers, 

And  shadows  ring  the  changes  on  the  key 

Of  the   same    score   that's   writ   by  gorgeous 
flowers. 

They  breathe  it  ever  to  the  rising  sun, 

And  when  they  glorify  God's  bright  noon- day, 

They  sigh  it  when  the  coffin  lid  shuts  down — 
The  mournful  Coronach — all  has  past  away  ! 


153 


A   LEGEND. 

E  knew  he  could  not  tempt  her,  though  a 
throne 

He  had  to  offer,  and  a  crown  of  gold 
With  priceless  jewels  on  her  brow  to  blaze  ; 
He  knew  he  could  not  win  her,  though  unwon, 
Unpledged  she  was,  and  even  free  to  love — 
Yet  might  she  not  aweary  grow  some  day, 
Weary  of  sitting  on  that  doorstep  lone, 
Plying  her  distaff  from  the  golden  dawn, 
Until  the  bats  brought  night  upon  their  wings  ? 
And  would  she  never  spin  that  long  thread  out, 
And  then  look  up  towards  that  beetling  cliff, 
Where  stood  the  castle  in  its  towering,  strength  ? 
Yet  reck'd  she  not  that  castle  on  the  hill, 
Nor  its  proud  inmate  in  his  lonely  gloom. 
Flower  of  the  hamlet  was  fair  Geraldine, 
And  to  the  Virgin  vow'd  from  cradle  life, 
But  now  an  orphan  was  she  in  that  Grange ; 


154  A  LEGEND. 

Only  her  old  nurse  fiU'cl  her  mother's  place — 
For  she  in  churchyard  peace  long,  long  had  slept. 
And  yet  the  baron  still  gazed  down  in  hope 
From  battlemented  walls  on  that  lone  house, 
Where — save  the  great  mill,  long  since  wreck'd, 

disused, 
Which  spread  its  arms,  as  if  in  threatening  mood, 
Over  the  reckless  stream  that  long  since  had 
All  barrier  burst,  soft  rippling  on  its  way 
O'er   mossy   stones   and   ferns,    and   flag-leaves 

broad — 
No  other  object  in  that  valley  lone, 
Hinder' d  the  baron's  view  of  that  doorstep 
Where  sat  fair  Geraldine  with  distaff  e'er, 
Plying  the  thread  that  never  seem'd  to  end. 
Still  young  the  baron  was,  an  orphan  too, 
And  comely,  thus  the  village  maidens  said ; 
And  when,  in  earlier  days,  these  two  did  meet, 
And  play  together  by  that  mill-stream's  flow, 
Stringing  wild  cowslips  on  the  same  silk  thread, 
Then  would  he  whisper — "  Geraldine,  some  day 
My  little  wife  wilt  be,  and  thou  shalt  wear 
Brocade  of  gold,  and  drop  these  home-spun  robes ; 
Instead  of  cowslips  round  thy  golden  hair 


A  LEGEND.  155 

A  coronet  of  precious  gems  shalt  wear." 

And  she  his  Queen  should  be,  his  Queen  of  May. 

And  they  should  wedded  be  in  Mary's  month. 

But  then  her  mother  died,  her  first  great  grief, 

She  had  no  room  within  her  heart  for  else 

Than  tears  and  lamentations  ;   and  the  youth 

Was  sent  from  home  in  foreign  wars  to  fight  ; 

And  after  many  a  year,  at  last  came  back, 

And  brought  his  bride,  who  only  lived  a  year, 

And  with  her  babe  slept  in  that  churchyard  too. 

Then  wistful  gazed  the  baron  toward  the  Grange, 

And,  tempting,  offer'd  her  his  hand  once  more, 

For  memory  had  upturn' d  those  early  flowers 

Of  other  days,  when  they  were  children  both. 

But  no — she  would  not  wed  him  now,  she  said, 

For  a  sweet  lady,  clad  in  holy  white, 

With  a  fair  child  she  held,  came  there  one  night, 

(And  gossips  said  a  vision  she  had  seen 

Of  Blessed  Mary  and  the  Holy  Child) 

And  she  had  whisper'd  to  fair  Geraldine 

To  wed  her  soul  to  heaven,  not  to  earth, 

And    bid    her   knot    some    golden    threads    she 

brought, 
And  spin  a  veil,  and  then  a  robe  to  make 


156  A  LEGEND, 

With  this  same  thread — thus  work'd  she  night 

and  day, 
From  golden  dawn  until  the  bats  brought  night ; 
And  when  the  veil  was  spun,  and  robe  was  made, 
She  back  would  come.    Thus  Geraldine  did  spin, 
Nor  wept  she  o'er  the  quiv'ring  woof  she  held ; 
But  one  day,  when  the  baron  came  to  see 
If  she  her  task  had  done,  he  found  her — but 
Standing  within  a  golden  sheen  of  light, 
Array' d  in  bridal  robe  and  virgin  veil, 
Waiting,  she  said,  until  that  lady  came 
With  the  crown' d  child  within  her  tender  arms ; — 
She  came, — and  led  her  through  the  churchyard's 

rest, 
Into  the  golden  cloisters  of  her  home. 
He  watch'd  them  from  the  doorstep  disappear 
Down  through  the  churchyard  into  shadows  merge, 
But  on  the  doorstep  where  she'd  sat  so  long, 
Her  distaff  lay  and  its  last  spinning  spun ; 
Up  from  the  step  he  raised  it  to  his  lips, 
And  press'd  a  holy  kiss  upon  the  thread, 
The  golden  thread  that  Geraldine  had  left 
To  draw  his  soul  to  hers  and  Paradise. 


157 
THE    LIGHTHOUSE    OF    AILLY, 

NORMANDY. 

@|n|||HEIlE  stands  a  lighthouse  on  that  cliff 
igiyiljy     Which  overhangs  the  sea, 

And  brightly  shines  through  rain  and  mist, 
The  star  of  lone  Aillj. 

A  lantern- star,  the  ships  to  warn 
From  that  all  dangerous  cliff, 

Where  centuries  long  the  sea  has  waged 
With  rocks  and  reefs,  her  strife. 

For  miles  far  outward,  o'er  the  main 
Is  seen  this  star's  bright  blaze, 

This  ocean-star,  which  never  wanes, 
Nor  dims  in  deepest  maze. 

Alas  !  this  lighthouse  on  the  cliff 
Is  doom'd, — for  on  that  ledge 

On  which  it  stands,  the  sea  below 
Is  grappling  with  each  wedge — 


158  THE    LIGHTHOUSE    OF   AILLY. 

Each  rocky  wedge  that  holds  that  cliff, 
And  guards  that  lighthouse  there 

Where  looms  the  lantern  of  the  sea, 
And  guides  the  mariner. 

What  mad  device  that  rear'd  this  tower 

Upon  this  crumbling  ledge, 
Where  Nature's  barrier  is  worn  away 

By  Ocean's  hostile  siege  ? 

Already  has  been  swept  away 

By  the  remorseless  sea, 
One  half  that  cliff  and  more,  where  stands 

The  light  of  lone  Ailly. 

And  thus  that  beacon  on  the  cliff 

That  overhangs  the  sea, 
Is  doom'd  to  fall,  to  wane  some  day — 

The  star  of  lone  Ailly. 


159 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  CHURCH  OF  VARENGEVILLE, 
NORMANDY. 

LITTLE  farther  on  that  cliff— 
On  that  same  treacherous  verge, — 
There  stands  the  Church  of  Varengeville, 
Where  beats  the  same  wild  surge  ; 

Of  which  Tradition  thus  relates 

A  legend  quaint  and  old, 
To  drape  the  Church  of  Varengeville 

With  interest  untold. 

Saint  Valery — thus  the  legend  runs — ■ 

Was  an  apostle  here, 
And  Abbe  of  Leuconaus,  once 

The  wildest  district  near. 

The  villagers  had  brought  the  stones 

To  build  their  church,  within 
The  hamlet, — in  a  field  hard  by, — 

All  ready  to  begin. 


160  THE  LEGEND    OF    THE 

But  one  dark  night,  the  holy  saint 
Removed  the  stones  to  where 

The  church  was  built,  to  crown  a  crag 
On  this  wild  cliff  so  bare. 

Between  the  earth  and  heaven  it  rests, 

E'en  like  a  floating  barque, 
For  winds  and  waves  to  homage  bring, 

And  this  lone  church  to  mark. 

'Twould  seem  as  if  no  hand  of  man 

Had  been  so  daring — placed 

This  shrine  upon  a  crumbling  rock, 

To  tempt  the  wave  and  blast. 

A  hundred  times  by  lightning  struck, 
By  tempests  torn  and  riven, 

Its  roof,  and  tower,  and  windows  wreck' d, 
Yet  still  it  points  to  heaven. 

Alone  upon  that  sombre  cliff 
Where  boils  the  surge  below, 

Its  seething  depths  like  lava  floods, 
Threatening  its  overthrow ; 


CHURCH    OF    VAREXGEVILLE.  161 

Yet  still  the  church  of  Varengeville 

Burns  bright  her  beacon  light, 
Her  vestal  flame  lights  Mary's  shrine, 

Undying  day  and  night. 

And  throngh  the  stained  window  gleams 

This  beacon  night  and  day, 
'Twould  seem  the  saint  did  feed  the  flame 

To  light  that  stormy  bay, 

And  that  the  legend  might  be  true — 

For  she  has  braved  all  ill, 
Ocean  and  tempest,  war  and  strife, 

Sweet  church  of  Yarengeville, 

Nor  doomed  is  her  light  to  wane, 

Star  of  the  sea  !  bright  star  ! 
From  Mary's  shrine  send  forth  your  rays, 

And  light  earth's  wanderer  ! 


ALPINE    ECHOES 


*sQ£ 


ECHO. 


DEFT  magician  of  the  silent  wood, 
0  moon-loved  wizard  of  the  sleeping 
lake, 
The  rivers,  streamlets,  answer  to  thy  mood, 

And  turn  to  music  for  an  echo's  sake  ! 
Thou  witching  minstrel  of  the  hill  and  glade, 

Thou  saucy  mimic  by  the  bubbling  rills, 
i^ow  coy,  now  bold,  shy  phantom  of  the  shade, 
The  glamour  of  thy  voice  the  senses  thrills, 
Echo,  fond  playmate  of  the  nightingales  ! 


Mocking  the  eagle  in  her  eerie  high, 

At  hide  and  seek  behind  the  Alpine  cliff ; 

Ringing  the  changes  on  the  bittern's  cry, 

Awak'ning  silence  in  rock-realms  where  life 


1 66  ECHO. 

Stands  like  a  skeleton,  whose  wither'd  bones 
Grimly  rehearse  of  death,  and  spirit  fled  ! 

To  most  of  ns  earth's  solitndes  breathe  tones 
Which  only  wail  the  dirges  of  the  dead, 
Though  Nature  ought  the  soul  to  life-schools 
lead. 

When  veiled  the  hours  are  in  their  mantle  gray; 

When  climbs  the  moon  above  the  high  Alps, 
like 
A  lily  broken  from  her  stem  away, 

Dropp'd  on  a  bank  of  greenish  cloud-^like  streak 
From  some  parterre  detach'd  from  gardens  where 

No  foot  of  earth  e'er  trod  the  silver  wheat ; 
Nor  full  this  lily  moon,  though  peerless,  fair, 

Fairer  than  when  it  blooms  with  jewels  set, 

To  deck  Night's  swarthy  brow  with  coronet ; — 

Then  calls  the  nightingale,  from  bowers  among 
Dark  dewy  shrines,  his  exiled  mate  in  woe 

Now  pleads,  now  cries,  now  pours  his  plaintive 
song 
In  lavish  fulness,  whistling  soft  and  low  ; 


ECHO.  1 6; 

Then  Echo,  laughing,  from  her  couch  upsprings, 
And  flings  the  cadence  back  in  -witching  trills, 

And  the  shy  bird  in  fluttering  haste  swift  wings, 
Till  Silence,  like  a  prayer,  the  silence  fills, 
And  Wight's  iEolian  harp  the  darkness  thrills  ! 

0  mountain,  rill,  and  crag,  and  whispering  grove, 
How  mute  your  tongues  and  lock'd  your  parched 
lips  ! 

0  myrtle-bowers,  grottos  laurel-wove, 

How  lifeless,  dumb,  save  for  fond  Echo's  steps, 

The  witching  prattler  of  Eve's  dusky  court, 

Whose  spells  weave  round  us  many  a  subtle 
thread  ! 

Coy  phantom,  in  thy  mocking  triumphs  short, 
Echo,  immortal  minstrel,  thou  wert  made 
To  haunt  this  Alp-land  wilderness  and  glade  ! 


i68 


AN   ALPINE   EXCURSION. 

TO   A.    B.    L.    G. 

jY  eyes  were  shut,  I  was  dreaming 
|^|§]     Of  our  walk,  Dear,  yesterday, 
When  a  crowd  of  pictures,  thronging, 
Filled  memory's  cloisters  gray. 


How  high  was  that  crag  down- shelving 
To  that  forest  sombre  and  dim  ! 

How  steep  was  that  path  untrodden 
To  solitudes  known  but  to  Him  ! 


How  hush'd  was  the  sound  of  our  voices, 
While  listening  to  streamlet  and  leaf, 

And  filling  our  hands  with  the  flowers 
Of  Alpine's  summer  so  brief ! 


^.V   ALPIXE   EXCURS10X.  169 

How  long,  Dear,  we  sat  there  dreaming, 
Entranced  by  the  air  and  scene, 

Under  that  rock  in  the  shadow, 
That  rock  of  foreboding  mien. 

The  flowers  all  blooming  aronnd  us, 
And  fringing  the  whispering  rills, 

Orchis,  gentiana,  primnla, 

Rhododendrons,  and  bright  daffodils. 

And  in  damp,  odorons  fissures 

Where  waved  the  rich  plumelets  of  fern, 
And  trembled  in  light  dewy  freshness 
The  maiden-hair  too  in  her  turn. 

Then  upward  and  onward  toiling, 
We  reach'd  the  crags  of  fresh  snow, 

Close  to  the  cataract's  thunder, 
Which  leap'd  to  the  valley  below, 

Tearing  great  roots  of  the  pine-tree, 
And  hurling  them  down  in  its  tide, 

Leaping  in  fury  and  madness, 
So  mighty  in  joyance  and  pride. 


170  AN  ALPINE   EXCURSION. 

Far  up  that  perilous  mountain, 

A  lonely  small  chalet  we  reach' d, 
The  flowers  still  clung  to  the  threshold, 

Though  Alp-storms  the  brown  walls  had  bleach'd ; 

$o  smoke  now  curl'd  from  the  chimney, 
And  no  footsteps  trampled  the  weeds, 

Or  the  long  grass  worn  to  a  footpath, 
Or  scatter'd  the  waving  grass-seeds. 

Yet  there  in  its  picturesque  loneness, 

Away  from  all  stir  and  all  life, 
Stood  this  frail  little  storm-beaten  chalet, 

So  far  from  the  world  and  its  strife. 

How  long  we  sat  there  by  that  streamlet 
That  had  broken  away  from  its  course 

In  a  deep  trough,  rough-hewn  from  the  pine- log, 
So  instinct  with  wild  freedom's  force  ! 

It  trickled,  it  dripp'd  on  the  green  sward, 
It  illumined  the  flowers'  brief  dream, 

I  drank  of  that  fresh  mountain  rillet, 

And  bathed  my  hot  brow  with  the  stream. 


AN  ALPINE   EXCURSION.  171 

Then  lo,  through  the  arch  of  the  forest 

Came  arrows  to  herald  the  moon 
Which  lit  up  this  forest  cathedral 

From  shadows,  to  mimic  the  noon. 

Then  came  low  chanting  of  voices, — 

The  nightingale  he  heard  it  too, 
First  he  call'd,  then  he  trill'd,  then  he  warbled, 

His  wandering  love-mate  to  woo. 

And  the  insects  around  us,  they  heard  it, 

And  in  their  fine  treble  join'd  in 
With  the  deep  rolling  bass  of  the  torrent, 

And  the  leaves  rustling — zephyrs  to  win. 

The  chalet  turn'd  all  to  bright  silver, 

The  windows  of  crystal  look'd  out, 
No  longer  recall'd  the  rough  cedar, 

Once  toss'd  by  the  storm-winds  about. 

The  crags  into  amethyst  changing, 

The  green  to  rock  emerald's  light, 
The  flowers — 0  loves  of  the  angels  ! 

Do  ye  drop  them  unseen  here  at  night  ? 


172  «  EVEN    THERE   ALSO." 

Did  they  fall  from  jour  gold  crowns  yonder, 
As  earthward,  on  missions  of  love, 

Ye  sowed  them  to  light  our  steep  pathway, 
Till  we  reach  your  bright  gardens  above  ? 


Thus  with  eyes  shut  I  have  been  dreaming 
Of  our  walk,  Dear,  of  yesterday, 

And  here  are  the  pictures  I've  brought  you 
From  memory's  cloisters  away. 


"EVEN   THERE   ALSO." 

^ILMJN  cathedral  aisles  of  a  forest  dim, 
^fggjg     Where  the  shadows  creep  to  pray, 
And  the  sunlight  thrills  through  the  traceried 
roof 
Of  the  pine  trees'  stately  sway  ; 


"EVEN    THERE   ALSO."  173 

On  a  knoll  we  sat  with  the  pine-cones  spread, 
Sweet  odours  from  bowers  of  spruce 

Wafted  their  fragrance  around  us  like 
Sweet  fancies  that  dreams  unloose. 

The  realm  of  glacier  above  us  slept, 

And  the  Alpine  vale  below  ; 
While  a  thundering  torrent  near  us  plunged, 

And  the  wind-harp  murmur' d  low. 

A  chalet,  perch'd  on  the  slippery  cliff, 

With  its  patch  of  tassell'd  grain, 
Was  all  that  pictured  this  life's  full  pulse, 

Her  pleasures  and  weary  pain. 

I  was  glad  the  flowers  linger' d  still, 
The  grass  round  that  threshold  clung, 

And  hands  were  warm  that  had  tied  those  sheave s, 
And  herbs  round  that  carved  roof  hung. 

For  I  thought  of  the  days  and  dreary  nights 

In  long  Winter's  cold  embrace, 
Alps'  wildering  snows,  and  shivering  drifts — 

And  contentment's  holy  face  ! 


174  "  EVEN    THERE    ALSO" 

Could  anguish,  venture  here,  I  ask'd, 

Or  in  mercy  pass  them  by, 
Where  joys  are  few,  and  life  is  best 

Such  stern  reality  ? 

Then  I  heard  her  footfall  on  the  snow, 
Through  glooms  of  the  forest  steal, 

The  snow  in  her  mantle,  the  sleet  in  her  hair, 
Her  hand  for  the  latch  to  feel. 

I  fancied  the  start  of  the  inmates  too, 
And  a  spectral  face  at  the  pane, 

The  withering  tone  of  a  hollow  voice, 
Dropping  like  funeral  rain. 

I  felt  her  garments  freeze  as  they  touch' d, 
The  blaze  on  the  hearth- stone  quiver, 

Then  swoon  in  a  column  of  smoke  away, 
And  even  the  darkness  shiver  ! 

"  What  hast  thou  here  for  me  ?"  she  ask'd — 

The  babe  in  its  cradle  started, 
She  clasp' d  it  tight,  and  with  icy  breath 

And  kiss,  the  frail  life  parted. 


UNDER    THE    GLACIER.  175 

'Twas  the  kiss  of  Death,  though  an  angel  smiled, 

And  lifted  the  little  dust, 
To  bear  it  away  on  wings  of  love, 

And  leave  it  in  God's  own  trust. 


UXDER    THE    GLACIER. 


k 


The  calm,  unruffled  snow, 
So  still  and  cold,  you  could  not  guess 
What  rushes  deep  below ; 

A  mighty  torrent,  swift  and  deep, 

In  boiling  fury  flows 
Beneath  the  blocks  of  sparkling  ice, 

And  these  deep  Alpine  snows. 

Thus  in  the  pale,  transparent  face, 
Where  neither  smile  nor  tear 

Betrays  the  stormy  soul  beneath 
That  mirror  cold  and  clear ; 


i76  THE    SHADOW   ON   THE  Ml ST. 

A  mighty  torrent,  swift  and  strong, 

Of  earnest  passion  flows, 
That  wears  its  channel  long  and  deep, 

To  find  in  death  repose. 


IS 


THE  SHADOW  ON"  THE  MIST. 

|||f  HE  night  stole  into  the  valley, 

And  buried  the  mountains  from  sight, 
There  glimmer' d  no  light  in  the  village, 
~Nor  one  star  illumined  the  night. 

At  my  window  I  long  had  been  standing 

To  hear  the  wild  cataract  pour, 
As  it  rush'd  through  the  sombre  forest, 

With  the  burden  of  death  in  its  roar. 

How  black  grew  the  darkness  around  me, 
Which  yawn'd  like  a  pitiless  grave, 

And  smote  on  the  mind  like  those  death  hours. 
When  love,  hope,  and  prayer  may  not  save  ! 


THE    S II ADO  TV    OX   THE  JUST.  177 

Into  this  funereal  picture 

Roll'd  up  through  the  valley  a  mist, 
Like  a  car  it  wheel' d  swift  by  my  window, 

With  a  motion  no  might  could  resist. 

Oh,  was  it  some  spirit,  some  angel, 
With  a  message  to  lighten  my  care  ? 

Till  I  moved  though  the  shadow  still  linger 'd, 
Then  slowly  dissolved  into  air. 

Then  I  moved  the  light  from  the  table. 

But  the  shadow  had  flitted  away ; 
Alas  !  it  was  but  a  reflection — 

"Twas  myself  in  the  mist  thus  astray. 

How  oft  it  is  thus  with  life's  visions — 
Half  the  shadows  around  us  we  see 

Are  only  the  mocking  reflections 
Of  our  own  overwrought  phantasy  ! 


i78 


A  NEW  MOON. 

Dent  du  Midi,  Champery. 

HE  day  crept  out  of  the  valley, 
Entangling  his  mantle,  sun-kiss' d, 
In  leaves  of  the  grand  old  forest, 
To  wrap  it  in  shadow  and  mist. 


I  sat  at  my  window,  long  watching 
For  the  Queen  of  night  to  appear, 

The  ice- crags  above  me  were  shining 
With  the  light  of  her  smile  on  the  air. 


In  fancy  I  climb' d  the  high  mountain, 
And  there,  on  its  dizziest  peak, 

On  a  crag  among  violet  shadows, 
I  found  what  I  went  far  to  seek. 


a  sew  Jio oy.  179 

For  there  lay  a  crown  of  bright  silver — 
The  Queen  of  the  night  laid  it  there — 

Its  jewels  flash' d  over  the  ravine, 
And  kindled  the  dark  chasms  bare ; 

Some  fell  on  the  froth  of  the  torrent, 
Transforming  its  bubbles  to  gems, 

Some  silver' d  the  cones  of  the  pine-trees, 
And  chisell'd  with  frost-work  the  stems  ; 

Some  fell  on  the  shrine  by  the  road-side, 
The  Virgin  seem'd  waiting  for  them. 

They  set  gems  in  her  coronet  faded, 
And  in  the  Christ-child's  diadem. 

The  night  was  all  fill'd  with  moon-glory, 

The  nightingale  warbled  it  too, 
And  the  echoes  they  caught  np  their  lyres, 

And  sang  this  Alp  moon- song  anew. 


i8o 


AN   ASCENT 

TO   THE    SUMMIT    OF    THE    DENT   DU   MIDI,    BY   A.    B.    L.    G. 
AUG.  7TH,   1866. 

j|j)EAREB,  to  heaven  she  seern'd  to  stand 

Jjj  than  earth, 

For  she  had  scaled,  had  reach'd  the  mountain  top  ; 
Dense    clouds    their    vapoury   chariots    wheel'd 

below, 
Though  high  they  look'd  to  us  in  valley  mists  ; 
The  thun  d'ring  torrent  roaring  at  our  feet, 
To  her  so  high,  seem'd  only  like  a  thread, 
A  shimmering  thread  of  broken  silver  wound 
Round  the  hoar  cliffs,  and  dizzy  precipice  ; 
The  forest  like  dwarf' d  shrubberies  below, 
And  church's  tower,  and  chalets  here  and  there, 
Like  children's  toys  on  mimic  play-ground 

spread — 
All  this  to  her  !    To  us  the  giddy  height 
With  peril  fraught,  death's  snowy  acres  vast, 
And  splinter'd  crags  o'er  precipice  of  death, 
The  loosening  foothold  in  the  treacherous  shale. 
The  cutting  frost- wind  and  the  biting  blast, 


AN  ASCEXT.  1S1 

Death's  shafts   in  threatening   stones  above  her 

slung  ! 
Thus  Fancy  draws  the  sketch — I  take  the  glass — 
Minute  as  tiniest  insect  of  the  wood, 
She   starts   to   sight,   her  firm  hand  grasps  a 

cross 
Which  crowns  the  apex  of  that  mountain  s  height. 
A  broken  cross,  so  rudely  carved  and  yet 
The  symbol  sacred.      0  beloved  cross  ! 
See,  now  she  stoops,  beneath  its  shadow  creeps 
To  find  some  shelter  from  the  biting  blast. 
Thus  mayst  thou  climb  that  higher  mount  some 

day, 
As  brave,  if  on  that  other  Cross  thine  eye 
As  steadily  is  fix'd  ;  if  thus,  too,  grasps 
Thy  hand,  by  faith,  that  other  holy  Cross 
Thy  Saviour  bore  so  meekly,  long  for  us, 
And  when  earth's  trials  and  temptations  come. 
Stand  thou  as  firm  a  warrior  as  to-day. 
Thus  shalt  thou  need  no  other  Alpen  staff, 
Nor  earthly  friend  to  guide  thee  on  life's  way  ; 
Thus  plant  thy  footsteps  on  that  higher  Rock, 
Where  peace,  celestial  bliss,  eternal  waits — 
That  last  arid  grand  ascension  won — thus  mount ! 


THE   ORGAN  OF   THE   PINES. 

i$|  ARK  !  to  the  Organ  of  the  Pines, 
S^MSfeShf     How  it  swells  through  the  forest  dim, 
When  Night's  weird  breeze  the  mystic  keys 
Awakens  to  Nature's  Hymn. 

The  Organ  of  the  Pines,  how  grand  ! 

How  mysterious  the  refrain  ! 
So  solemnly  thrills  each  cadence  soft, 

Each  verse  of  that  glorious  strain. 

Faint  rippling  choir  of  insects,  rills, 

In  murmuring  minor  key, 
Lend  to  the  surge  of  the  wailing  pines, 

Their  voices  in  symphony. 

How  stately  the  branches  bend  and  sway 
To  the  song  of  "  the  tuneful  choir  ! " 

How  they  drop  their  cones  like  notes  released 
From  an  orchestra  still  higher ! 


ALPEX   FLORA.  i%i 

For  in  these  forest  arches  grand, 

Where  the  winds  and  the  pine  trees  sing, 

The  wailing  organ  bids  ns  list 

To  the  words  that  round  us  wing  ; 

From  Nature's  own  cathedral  porch, 
From  her  transepts  and  leafy  shrines, 

What  words  are  these  ?  a,  prayer  for  the  dead, 
With  the  surging  of  the  pines. 


^^kr^f> 


ALPEX   FLORA. 


fplstQULD'ST  thou  have  a  garland  of  flowers, 
^ih0l     ^"°t  f°rce(l  under  tropical  glass, 
Not  pluck'd  from  the  belt  of  the  green  sward, 
Xor  from  gardens  through  which  ye  may  pass  ? 


Then  go  to  that  high  Alpine  chalet, 

And  I'll  show  you  the  flowers  more  fair 

Than  e'er  bloom' d  or  in  grove  or  in  garden, 
Or  stifled  in  close  hot-house  air. 


i84  ALP  EN  FLORA. 

I'll  not  fret  you  with  technical  titles 
For  these  children  of  Alp-land  so  dear, 

With  the  baptismal  dew  of  God's  bounty 
On  each  leaf,  and  each  petal  so  clear ; 

Here  are  gentians,  and  orchis,  and  pinks  too, 
With  campanula  elf- cups  that  fill, 

•Rhododendron  and  violets  regal, 

Meadow-sweet  and  the  rich  daffodil. 

Such  a  garland  I'll  weave  for  your  tresses, 
Which  all  others  shall  cast  into  shade, 

Neither  crystal  nor  Sevres  shall  ensnare  them, 
These  smiles  on  the  steep  grassy  glade ; 

All  wet  with  the  untrampled  dew, 
With  an  odour  so  sweet  and  so  faint, 

Like  the  memory  of  loved  ones  departed, 
Or  the  prayers  of  a  glorified  saint. 

It  was  worth  all  our  climb  to  the  chalet, 
These  rare  Alpine  children  to  find, 

For  they  dropt  from  the  hands  of  the  Angels, 
Then  were  sown  in  the  night  by  the  wind. 


\pK 


I85 


CLOUD-SCULPTURES. 

LAKE  LEMAN. 

INE  evening  we  sat  together, 
Under  the  great  lime-tree, 
As  the  shadow-king  stole  softly 
From  his  court  of  mystery. 

The  mist  had  shrouded  the  mountain, 

Only  their  outlines  dim, 
In  the  spectral  light  were  looming, 

Fantastic  in  shape  and  limb. 

But  the  thunder  that  roLTd  above  us, 
And  trembled  within  the  clouds, 

Fill'd  those  chambers  of  imagery 
With  ghostly  shapes  and  shrouds. 

Stretch' d  on  a  couch  funereal, 
On  a  pillow  of  silver  fleece, 

A  monumental  figure  grand, 

Form'd  a  wonderful  frontispiece. 


1 86  CLOUD-SCULPTURES. 

It  wore  the  shape  of  a  poet, 

Like  Dante  stiff  and  cold, 
The  grand,  stern  face  in  death  transfix'd, 

And  draped  in  a  shroud  of  gold. 

While  round  him  roll'd  black  thunder  clouds, 

Fantastically  piled, 
Domes  and  minarets,  strangely  mix'd, 

Cloud-sculptures  weird  and  wild  ! 

Primeval  birds,  and  elfin  sprites, 

And  ghosts  in  winding-sheets, 
With  outstretch' d  arms,  in  vapour  draped, 

And  monks  in  still  retreats. 

Gnomes  and  demons,  sprites  and  fays, 

Whirl' d  in  a  giddy  dance — 
A  waltz  of  shadows  quaint,  bizarre, 

Finish' d  th'  extravagance. 

Then  came  dark  Night  in  widow's  weeds, 

Broke  up  the  spectral  dance, 
Buried  from  sight  the  poet  grand, 

And  ended  the  eve's  romance. 


i87 


THE   AXGELUS. 

y^fp^HE  rain  is  filling  the  valley, 
IfSfei  Dripping  from  crag  and  from  chalet, 
The  chimes  for  the  "Angelas"  ringing, 
The  angels  are  calling  and  singing 
To  prayer  ! 


Yes,  the  angels  call  ns  to  prayer, 
On  Jesn  to  lay  all  our  care, 
Oh  list  to  the  "  Angelus  "  ringing, 
Oh  list  to  the  angels  soft  singing 

To  prayer ! 


THE   MAID  OF   SAYOY. 

ijglS|2<0  girlish  and  fair,  with  her  golden  hair, 
()i|||§§5  And  a  step  as  light  as  the  noiseless  air, 
With  a  voice  as  soft  as  the  wooing  leaves, 
Kiss'd  fondly  at  night  when  the  zephyr  grieves, 
Was  the  Maid  of  Savoy. 

Like  pictures  we  see  by  that  holy  friar, 

Whose  pencil  he  dipp'd  in  devotion's  fire, 

When  angels,    and   saints,    and   Christ's  martyrs 

dead, 
Started  back  into  life  on.  his  canvas'  thread — 
This  the  Maid  of  Savoy. 

As  saintly  as  ever  "  Fra  Beato"  drew, 
And  purer  than  snow,  or  the  harebell's  dew, 
Ay,  calmer  than  moon-kiss'd  Leman  was  she. 
This  daughter  of  Chillon  of  noble  degree, 
And  Maid  of  Savoy. 


THE   MAID    OF    SAVOY.  189 

Whether  in  minuet  stately  she  moved, 
How  sad  was  her  mien, — or  careless  she  roved 
Around  the  old  castle  and  battlements  drear, 
Weaving  pale  violets  in  her  gold  hair — 
Sweet  Maid  of  Savoy. 

Or  tuning  her  rebeck  to  sad  even-song. 
Luring  the  linnets  from  shadows  among, 
Or  on  the  high  terrace,  where  lonely  she  sat 
Watching  the  nightfall,  and  gloom- whirling  bat- 
Sad  Maid  of  Savoy. 

Or   musing  on   Alp-kings  that  round  her  home 

frown' d, 
In  their  mantles  of  snow  by  pine  forests  crown' d ; 
Or  climbing  in  fancy  those  gall'ries  of  ice, 
So  recklessly  hung  on  the  sheer  precipice — 

Dream' d  the  Maid  of  Savoy, 

Or  on  crags  where  the  chamois,  cunning  as  fleet, 
Can  scarce  find  a  foothold  or  path  for  her  feet ; 
Or  lower  down  still,  where  the  vine  grapes  of  Vaucl, 
On  sun-loving  slopes,  bud,  blossom,  and  grow 
For  the  Maid  of  Savoy. 


190  THE   31 AID    OF    SAVOY. 

Her  thought  was  of  him  in  his  dungeon  so  deep, 
Under  the  castle's  black,  fortified  keep — 
A  martyr  for  freedom,  who  paced  his  stone  square, 
Once  priest,  now  Reformer,  the  stern  Bonnivard — 
Sighed  Maid  of  Savoy. 

Six  summers  he  had  to  that  ring  been  enchain'd, 

Till  youth,  hope,  and  life  had  utterly  waned ; 

Like   a   warrior    in    death-wound   Europe   then 
quiver'd, 

The  cry  was,  "  The  faith  to  the  saints  once  de- 
livered ! " 

It  reach'd  the  Maid  of  Savoy. 

But  he  was  the  sorrow  that  shrouded  her  youth, 
The  thorn  in  her  peace,  the  doubt  in  all  truth ; 
And  each  mountain  breeze  that  o'er  her  Alps  came, 
Bore  sighs  from  that  prisoner,  and  Bonnivard's 
name 

To  the  Maid  of  Savoy. 


i9i 


THE    SHADOW   OF    CHASTELLARD. 

Part  I. 

Clarens. 

^^S00MS  the  Castle  on  the  height, 
S^^M  Whistling  winds  in  wayward  flight, 
Sweep  the  turret  with  their  might — 
Proud  Chastellard. 

High  above  the  stormy  lake, 
Whose  waves  on  Chillon's  fortress  break- — 
None  e'er  again  shall  cheer  partake 
In  Chastellard. 

Grim  old  portraits  deck  the  wall, 
And  threadbare  tapestries  down  fall, 
In  banquet  rooms,  and  silent  hall 
Of  Chastellard. 

Voices  whisper  of  the  dead, 
The  dance,  the  song,  the  loved,  the  wed, 
Black  coffin  palls,  and  last  tears  shed 
At  Chastellard. 


j 


192     THE  SHADOW  OF  CHASTELLARD. 

Sad  symphony  of  other  days, 
Quaint  minstrelsy  of  ancient  lays, 
The  wizard  touch  of  Time  betrays — 
Grim  Cha  stellar d. 

A  turret  on  the  western  flank, 
With  ivy  grown,  and  weeds  too  rank 
To  prate  of  sunshine,  falls  a-blank 
On  Chastellard. 

It  scowls  down  on  a  rocky  ledge, 
Where  hawks  hide  sullen  in  the  sedge, 
And  scream  upon  the  ragged  hedge, 
Round  Chastellard. 

There  silence  speaks  of  days  gone  by, 
Of  maiden  fair,  of  history, 
Hinting  some  tale  of  mystery 
Of  Chastellard. 

For  in  that  turret  grim  and  old, 
Wrapt  in  her  mantle's  woof  of  gold, 
Once  sat,  long  sat  in  shivering  cold, 
A  bride  at  Chastellard. 


THE  SHADOW   OF  CHASTELLARJ).  193 

Long  watch' d  she,  waited,  only  said, 
••  Why  tarrieth  he,  so  lately  wed  ?" 
Ah,  well-a-day  !  the  dead,  the  dead 
Haunt  Chastellard. 


Say  a  mass  for  the  wanderer's  soul- 
Mutter'd  a  monk  beneath  his  cowl, 
Nor  heeded  she  that  dismal  dole, 
At  Chastellard. 


Ah,  well-a-day  !  ah,  well-a-day  ! 
The  tarnish' d  gold  and  silver  grey 
Of  bridal  shreds  and  youth's  decay, 
At  Chastellard. 


Part   II. 

The  hawk  skims  through  the  frosty  air, 
Like  some  dark  demon  of  despair, 
Nor  fixes  e'en  his  startled  stare 

On  bride  of  Chastellard. 
0 


1 94  THE  SHADOW  OF  CHASTELLABD. 

For  down  below  that  turret's  base, 
A  deep  black  shadow  sinks  apace, 
Even  the  violets  will  not  grace 

The  shadow  of  Chastellard. 

For  ever  it  stains  the  sickly  grass, 
The  sunlight  never  that  way  doth  pass, 
For  ever,  for  ever,  the  shadow,  alas  ! 

That  haunts  old  Chastellard. 

The  shadow  of  a  bride  just  wed, 
Yet  never  a  wife,  and  every  shred 
Of  nuptial  robe  to  winds  long  sped — 

From  tower  of  Chastellard. 

Two  hundred  years  the  tower  has  swept, 
Two  hundred  years  the  rains  have  wept 
Over  that  shadow,  and  sun  has  crept 

In  vain  round  Chastellard. 

But  now  a  baron  glooms  alone, 
Here  with  his  daughter  still  unwon, 
Her  beauty  now  like  southern  sun 

I\c-lights  old  Chastellard. 


THE   SHADOW   OF  CHASTELLARD.  195 

Now  wandereth  she  at  sunny  noon, 
Now  loitereth  she  by  fickle  moon, 
Now  waits  to  watch  the  shadows  swoon 
Around  grim  Chastellard ; 

Xow  lures  the  ivy  o'er  this  spot, 
And  fosters  rosemary  in  that  plot, 
Now  twines  the  wall-fruit,  apricot, 

O'er  th'  shadow  of  Chastellard. 

In  vain,  in  vain, — 'tis  ever  there, — 
Distraught  the  dress,  and  wind-toss'd  hair, 
Ah,  well-a-day  !  forsaken  Fair, 

That  maid  of  Chastellard  ! 

For  while  the  shadow  there  doth  lie, 
The  curse  of  Chastellard  must  vie 
With  maid  unwed  that  there  must  die. 
Who  blooms  at  Chastellard. 

Her  songs  the  echoes  deaf  may  wake, 
Her  tears  her  harp-strings  rust,  and  break, 
While  still  she  vainly  prays,  "  Oh  take 

This  curse  from  Chastellard!" 


196  THE   SHADOW  OF   CHASTELLARD. 

May  plant  the  rosemary  and  thyme, 
And  strive  in  fortitude  sublime, 
To  coax  that  shadow  ere  her  prime 

Shall  wane  on  Chastellard. 

The  rose  from  off  her  cheek  must  fade, 
And  gold  grow  dim  in  tress  and  braid, 
Her  eyes  lose  light  from  tears  long  shed, 
Long  shed  at  Chastellard. 

Let  tears  drop  o'er  the  clambering  rose, 
And  the  last  broken  lattice  close 
In  that  doom'd  turret's  drear  repose — 
Lone  Chastellard. 

This  is  the  legend  of  the  tower, 
Of  th'  maid  who  ne'er  forsook  her  bower, 
But  watch' d  and  waited  hour  to  hour 
At  Chastellard. 


*97 


THE    AYE. 

WEXT  to  my  church  one  evening, 
S?2S3§        As  Tne  ^ve  was  rmging  clear, 
To  my  forest- church,  my  favourite  shrine. 
Under  firs,  by  the  torrent  near. 

Sublime  was  that  grand  interior  ! 

So  far  from  earth's  noise  and  din, 
With  that  aureate  dome  cerulean, 

Where  the  angels  enter  in. 

And  those  living  columns  round  me, 
Of  the  stately  spruce  and  pine, 

Rearing  masses  of  Gothic  arches, 
Leaf-traceries  to  entwine. 

I  fancied  windows  round  me, 
All  brilliant  with  stained  glass, 

And  saints  here  in  glory  shining, 
As  waiting  for  us  to  pass. 


198  THE    AVE. 

Then  came  the  peal  from  the  torrent, 
With  the  chanting  of  voices  rare, 

And  the  tracery  thrill' d  above  me 
To  the  swell  of  the  heavenly  air. 

It  was  Nature's  own  "  Te  Deum," 

All  join'd  that  Paean  true, 
As  it  rose  and  swell' d  on  the  mystic  air, 

Then  died  in  the  dreamy  bine. 

I  look'd  around — was  I  dreaming  ? 

For  underneath  my  feet 
Bright  flowers,  and  pine-cones  were  mingled, 

And  the  odour  was  damp  and  sweet. 

But  my  church  was  only  a  forest, 

Each  column  a  stately  pine, 
My  seat  but  a  stump  all  moss-grown, 

The  windows  of  Heaven's  design  ! 

For  through  the  tracery  broken, 
Came  the  sun  with  his  pencil  keen, 

And  here  and  there  with  his  magic  touch, 
Left  pictures  where  he  had  been. 


SUNSET  AT   THE  "PORTE  DU   SOLEIL."     199 

At  length  my  reverie  ended, 

In  my  church  in  a  grove  of  pine, 

For  this  had  been  my  cathedral, 
And  this  my  forest  shrine. 


SUNSET   AT   THE   «  PORTE  DU   SOLEIL." 

Morgens. 

1|||HE  Painter  of  the  sky  threw  down 


His  palette  rich  and  rare ; 
It  canght  upon  this  lower  world, 
And  made  it  passing  fair  ! 

With  pencil  dipp'd  in  rainbow  tints, 
He  pencill'd  leaf  and  stem 

Of  spruce,  and  fir,  and  giant  oaks, 
In  hues  that  mock'cl  the  gem. 


2oo     SUNSET  AT  THE  "PORTE  DU  SOLEIL.y 

He  touch'd  the  rocks  and  shelving  cliffs, 
And  in  the  wimpling  stream, 

He  drew  in  gold  his  image  fair, 
Bewitching  as  a  dream. 

He  lit  the  spire,  and  gilt  the  cross, 

Then  dash'd  a  flood  of  tint 
On  the  church  windows'  dusty  panes, 

Till  they  were  all  a-glint. 

An  artist  at  his  easel  sat, 

To  sketch  this  picture  fair  ; 
But  ere  his  palette  tints  were  mix'd, 

He  dropp'd  it  in  despair. 

For  the  stealthy  form  of  Night  drew  near, 

And  that  fair  picture  stole, 
Nor  left  the  grand  original, 

Art's  conquests  to  enroll. 

But  I  fancy  'twas  the  last  attempt 

This  artist  ever  made, 
To  copy  from  that  picture  grand — 

That  sun-lit  pallisade. 


A   FROST   PICTURE   ON  A   WINDOW. 

Montanvert. 

^viN  tlie  window's  frosty  pane, 
The  fickle  moon  is  shining ; 
Silv'ring  groves  of  fir  and  pine, 
The  Frost-king's  own  designing. 

Wandering  rillets  lock'd  in  ice, 
And  woodland  footpaths  winding, 

Into  mysteries  fancy  wove, 

The  Frost-king's  own  reminding. 

Distant  hills  in  frozen  mist, 

And  spangled  shrubs  low  bending, 

Caves  befringed  with  icicles, 

And  stars  their  lanterns  lending  ; 

Cheating  us  on  a  window  pane 
With  pictures  brightly  gleaming  ; 

Till  the  sun  shall  swift  dispel, 
And  find  us  only  dreaming. 


MOON-LIGHT. 

^UEEJST  of  the  Alpine  night ! 
Smile  from  thy  cloudy  height, 
Fling  down  thy  jewels  bright 
On  forest  and  stream. 

Blossoms  of  silver  drop 
Down  on  this  icy  slope, 
Light  up  the  crags  to  hope, 

As  gloomy  they  frown. 

Jewel  the  cascades  foam, 
Light  the  cathedral  dome, 
Lift  from  its  shadow-tomb, 
The  death-precipice. 

Filigree  moonlight  woo, 
Chalets  and  valleys  too, 
Bright  in  thy  silver  glow, 

To  Him  lift  our  hearts  ! 


203 


THE    FLOWER    CHORUS. 


TO    MBS.    P.    C. 


^KROM  the  crowns  of  the  angels  we  dropp'd, 
^J^      Our  gems  in  earth's  valleys  to  sow, 
And  where  their  faint  footsteps  have  stopp'd, 
We  awake,  and  our  chorus  bestow. 


With  the  saints  too  we  lie  down  to  sleep, 
And  weave  o'er  the  shrouds  of  the  blest ; 

Sing  plaintive — their  memories  weep, 
As  we  wander  and  bloom  o'er  their  rest. 

Our  prelude  at  dawn  we  renew, 
Our  chorus,  full  chorus  at  morn, 

Fold  our  hands  when  the  twilight's  soft  dew 
Drips  o'er  the  sun's  gold-shatter' d  urn. 

From  the  crowns  of  the  angels  we  dropp'd, 
And  were  sown  in  the  night  by  the  wind, 

And  where  each  faint  footstep  has  stopp'd, 
We  hallow  each  track  thus  enshrined. 


204  THE    FLOWER    CHORUS. 

Still  softly  our  chorus  we  sing, 

And  mingle  our  voices  where'er 
Sharp  discords  of  earth  harshly  ring, 

And  fill  all  eartn's  wastes  with  our  prayer. 

Just  fancy  your  world  without  flowers  ! 

Can  you  guess  what  a  bier  it  would  prove, 
And  how  much  joy  you  owe  in  life's  hours 

To  our  day-dream  of  beauty  and  love  ? 

What  thoughts,  unexpress'd  and  half-ripe, 
What  yearnings  in  love's  golden  hours, 

That  could  ne'er  ripple  up  to  the  lip, 
Pleaded  softly  in  language  of  flowers. 

E'en  our  ghosts  too  are  often  enshrined, 
All  faded  and  scentless  and  dead, 

With  some  vow  or  some  day-dream  entwined 
With  a  love-song  as  quick  away  sped. 

Round  the  cross,  and  the  shrine  too,  we  cling, 
And  love  to  breathe  life  away  there, 

Round  the  altar  to  bud  and  to  wing 
Our  perfume  with  incense  of  prayer. 


THE   FLOWER    CHORUS.  205 

Thus  list  to  the  chorus  we  sing, 

So  varied  each  voice  is,  so  sweet, 
Xor  scorn  e'en  one  lesson  we  bring, 

Though  thrown  by  a  rose  at  your  feet. 

For  we  spring  from  earth's  dust  to  aspire, 

Our  chorus  we  sing  as  we  rise, 
Till,  caught  by  the  angels,  still  higher 

It  mounts  to  the  blue  of  the  skies, 


Interrupted  by  a  Rouxeelay  of  Roses. 

Boex  in  June, 

Deck'd  a  bride, 
Wreathed  her  brow, 

Girdle  tied. 

Loop'd  her  robe, 

Caught  her  veil, 
Clasp 'd  her  hand 

At  altar  rail. 


2o6  THE    FLOWER    CHORUS. 

Sing  we  then, 
Roses  reign, 

Glory  brief, 

Short  campaign. 

Roses,  roses, 

Summer's  story, 

Shadows  lighting 
Summer's  glory. 

Petals  opening, 
Petals  flying, 

Petals  shutting, 
Petals  dying. 

Roses  blowing, 
Roses  falling, 

Roses  fading, 
Roses  calling. 

Roses  old, 

Roses  new, 
Often  twining 

With  the  rue. 


THE   FLOWER   CHORUS.  207 

Bridal  roses, 

Briefest  glory, 
Summer  roses, 

Sad  their  story. 

Autumn  roses, 

Winter  roses, 
Thus  our  chorus 

Plaintive  closes. 


The  Wild-Flowers  sixg. 

We  breathe  our  lay,  our  mystic  hymn, 
Sweet  octaves  from  untrodden  bowers, 

From  shady  haunts,  from  fissures  dim, 
We  sing  our  reign,  the  woodland  flowers. 

When  stands  the  veiled  bride  so  fair 
At  altar- step,  for  blessing  given 

Upon  a  life  she  hopes  may  wear 

Some  flower-hues  of  happier  heaven  ; 


2o8  THE    FLOWER    CHORUS. 

We  sometimes  mingle  in  her  veil,  . 

And  woodland  blossoms  bind  her  wreath, 
While  tenderly  onr  lives  exhale 

In  transient  but  impassion' d  breath. 

Or  sleeps  in  coffin'd  night  the  dead, 
All  still,  we  hallow  earth's  loved  dnst, 

And  grow  nnbidden  where  ye  tread, 

We  wild-flowers  ling'ring  there  in  trnst. 

Thus  smile  we  on  life's  saddest  hours, 

Exiled  from  heaven  we  light  earth's  dream, 

We  woodland  flowers,  wild  woodland  flowers, 
Breathe  Nature  in  her  holiest  gleam. 

When  music's  spell  in  silence  dies, 

When  pleasure's  phantoms  count  but  hours, 

When  wreathed  smiles  but  fade  in  sighs, 
And  dancing  feet  crush  wither'd  flowers, 

Then  waft  we  still  our  sweetest  breath, 
Though  cuird  at  morn,  to  die  at  eve, 

Nor  vain  our  life,  nor  vain  our  death, 
If  one  sweet  lesson  we  may  leave. 


THE    FLOWER    CHORUS.  209 


A   Rose    Geranium   sings. 

You  may  crush  us  and  break  us  at  will, 
But  forgiveness  may  hide  in  a  grief; 

Forgiveness  !   sweet  unction  of  fragrance, 
Bruised  from  a  geranium  leaf. 

You  may  cherish  us  too  when  we're  dead, 
All  wither'd,  forgot,  in  some  book, 

Yet  we'll  waft  you  the  scent  of  old  bye-gones, 
If  you  ever  by  chance  on  us  look. 

We'll  bring  back  that  long- vanish' d  day-dream- 
Xow  don't  look  so  grave  and  severe 

If  Time's  finger  points  to  a  wrinkle, 
Or  a  silver  lock  hides  there  or  here  ! 

Alas  !  what  a  long  agone  season — 

Almost  a  tradition — you  smile  ! 
When  this  spray  was  once  freshly  blooming, 

And  cherish 'd  in  happy  exile  ! 
p 


210  THE    FLOWER    CHORUS. 

The  record  of  one  moon-tryst  glory, 
Once  worn  next  yonr  heart  in  a  leaf 

All  folded  in  rose-tinted  paper, 

That  breathed  bnt  a  Nightingale's  grief. 

Alas  !  'tis  a  very  old  story, 

We  are  dead — and  e'en  love  will  estrange  ; 
But  hark  to  the  chorus  of  insects — 

The  burthen  is  evermore — Change  ! 


Insect  Choir. 

We  hum  in  the  day  when  the  sunbeams  play 
Among  laughing   leaves   and  the  flowers'  brief 

sway, 
Down  dipping  our  wings  in  the  rills  of  gold, 
Which  flow  with  the  sunbeams  down  on  the  wold. 

All  arm'd  too  we  are  in  our  bright  array, 
With  swords  and  with  darts  for  the  wood  affray, 
E'en  beetles  wear  cuirasses  bronzed  bright, 
And  the  dragon-fly,  stately  as  armour' d  knight ; 


THE    FLOWER    CHORUS.  211 

We  court  the  bright  sunbeams,  but  hide  in  the 

night, 
We  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  cold  starlight, 
But  rest  in  leaf-palaces,  hid  in  the  bowers, 
To  be  folded  to  sleep  in  the  hearts  of  the  flowers. 

You  think  we've  no  mission  perhaps  to  perform. 
We  legion  of  insects  that  round  you  oft  swarm  : 
But  we've  not  lived  in  vain,  I  know  you  will  say, 
If  we've  praised  our  Creator  but  one  summer- 
day. 

But  hark  to  the  sunbeams  !  their  carol  they  sing, 
So  much  we  owe  them  for  the  gold  on  each  wing, 
For  bronzing  our  cuirasses,  burnish' d  so  bright. 
To  niirror  the  roses  that  clasp  us  at  night. 


Carol  of  Sunbeams. 

At,  glance  we,  dance  we, 
True  artists  we  are, 

Gilding  the  pictures 
That  shadows  ensnare, 


THE   FLOWER    CHORUS. 

Mingling  our  colours 
On  palettes  of  light 

Caught  from  the  rainbow, 
Or  cloud  of  the  night. 

Painting  at  evening, 

When  the  vase  of  the  sun 
Lies  shatter' d,  broken, 

With  day's  glory  gone. 

Catching  each  fragment, 
To  gild  leaf  and  flower, 

Grold-fringing  the  shadows 
That  drape  the  night-hour. 

Ay,  spin  we,  weave  we, 

True  artists  we  are, 
Carrying  our  pencils 

Gold-tipp'd  in  the  air. 

So  frail  are  we  sunbeams 
To  vie  with  the  flowers, 

Or  sing  in  their  chorus 
The  song  of  the  hours. 


THE    FLOWER    CHORUS. 

Though  we  paint  every  petal, 
And  gild  every  spray, 

Thus  aiding  their  chorus 
Our  own  sunny  way. 

But  hark  now  to  the  hours  ! 

They  sing  as  they  fly, 
Though  our  carol  of  sunbeams 

With  twilight  must  die. 


The  Song  oi  the  Houes. 

A  shadowy  band  are  we, 

Sing  flying,  flying  ! 
One  brush  of  our  robes  astray. 

Hear  roses  sighing  ! 

A  shadowy  band  are  we, 
Sing  passing,  passing  ! 

A  touch  of  our  light  array, 
Zephyrs  surpassing. 


214  THE    FLOWER    CHORUS. 

Roses  blow,  roses  go, 
Sing  fading,  fading, 

If  the  last  of  the  floating  band 
Comes  rudely  shading. 


Roses  drop,  roses  die, 

Sing  dying,  dying, 
Only  the  flowers  count  by  hours, 

Sing  flying,  flying  ! 

A  shadowy  band  are  we, 
Sing  changing,  ranging; 

There  is  only  one  sun-dial  true, 
One  lyre  rings  unchanging. 


Willows  weeping. 

Willows  weeping,  willows  weeping 
O'er  the  streamlet,  bubbles  reaping ; 

Only  bubbles  for  their  keeping, 
Giddy  bubbles,  bubbles  sweeping. 


THE    FLOWER    CHORUS.  115 

Willows  drooping,  willows  stooping 
Over  nrns  where  bays  are  grouping, 

Funeral  urns  bnt  ashes  cooping, 

Willows,  willows,  drooping,  drooping  ! 

Willows  weep  o'er  streamlets  brawling, 
Nature's  mourners, — gTief  enthralling  ; 

Willows  weeping — leaf-tears  falling 
O'er  the  grave  where  we  stand  calling. 


The  Lay  of  the  Gladiolus. 

Gladioli  !  Gladidli ! 
Sing  jour  lay,  all  sweet  and  holy, 
Sheathe  your  daggers  in  the  glade, 
'Mid  the  daisies  hide  each  blade, 
Matchless  hilts  of  glowing  lilies, 
Brighter  than  the  daffodillies, 
Upward  from  each  blade  thus  climbing, 
To  our  chorus  lend  your  rhyming. 

Gladioli!    Gladioli! 

Summer's  pride,  and  summer's  wholly, 


2i 6  THE    FLOWER    CHORUS. 

For  the  shadow-king's  own  warfare, 
With  spectral  armies  of  the  night  air  ; 
Dewy  copse  and  glade  thus  haunting, 
And  the  day-king  ever  daunting, 
Sing  your  lay  all  sweet  and  holy, 
Gladioli!    Gladioli! 

Gladioli!    Gladioli! 
Point  your  allegory  holy, 
Sheathe  your  daggers  in  the  belt 
Of  the  green- sward — ye  have  dealt 
Your  moral,  that  forgiveness  may 
Sheathe  a  dagger  in  a  fray; 
Thus  to  breathe  your  lay  all  holy, 
Gladioli!    Gladioli! 

Gladioli!    Gladioli! 

One  more  word  to  point  more  fully, — 

Daggers  of  detraction  never, 

Nor  envy's  tongue  can  really  sever 

Truth  from  falsehood,  for  I  ween 

The  motive  oft  is  clearly  seen ; 

Such  daggers  may  be  flower-hilted, 

With  Heav'n's  bright  blossoms  never  wilted, 


THE    FLOWER    CHORUS.  217 

If  Christ's  sweet  patience — that  meek  flower — 
Blooms  fragrant  in  the  heart's  cold  hour, 
And  such  lessons  make  ns  lowly, 
Gladioli!    Gladioli! 


The  Lily. 

Virgin  Lily,  silver  gleaming, 
Lift  thy  veil,  reveal  thy  dreaming ; 
Emblem  of  the  Holy  Virgin, 
In  thy  stately  grace,  iromerge  in 
Rippling  dew-drops,  thy  white  splendour, 
Wash'd  so  pure,  thou  sweet  Defender  ! 
From  the  nettles  round  thee  growing, 
From  the  hemlock  round  thee  blowing, 
Thus  towering  upward,  queenly  flower, 
In  thy  stately  grace  and  power, 
Upward  from  thy  flaunting  compeers, 
Wand'ring  'mid  the  weeds  and  wild  tares, 
Emblem  in  thy  holy  splendour 
Of  the  pure  life  we  should  render 
Back  to  Him  who  proved  your  glory 
Greater  than  a  king's  life  story — 


2i 8  THE    FLOWER    CHORUS. 

"  E'en  Solomon  who  in  his  pride, 
And  glory  too,  was  not  arrayed 
Like  one  of  these." — 0  Lily  fair  ! 
O  Qneen  of  flowers,  hear  our  prayer  ! 
*  *  *  * 

Thus  the  chorus  of  flowers 

And  the  roses'  brief  lay, 
With  the  song  of  the  hours, 

Float  softly  away. 

The  insects'  soft  humming, 

And  geraniums'  grief, 
The  plaint  of  the  willow, 

And  wild  flowers  brief, 

All  carol  the  story 

So  sadly  and  sweet ; 
Sing  on  then,  0  chorus  ! 

Your  day-dream  complete. 

#  *  #  # 

For  from  crowns  of  the  angels  ye  fell, 

And  were  sown  by  the  wind  in  the  sod, 
Your  mission  is  ended,  ye've  sung 

Your  chorus,  0  flowers  !  to  God. 


CHOEAL   PHEASES. 


1  The  Holy  Church  throughout  all  the  world  doth 
acknowledge  Thee." 

Te  Deum. 


^h^ 


THE    SHIP. 


lESIDE  the  ocean's  shelving  lip  I  stood, 
t\  Watching    the    billows    in    the    distance 
break ; 
How  idly  flapp'd  the  sails  in  anchored  crafts, 
How  bright  the  beacon's  tongue  lick'd  up  the 

surf ! 
There  standing  on  a  drift  of  weed  I  mused, — 
So  crisp  it  was  from  sun  and  wand'ring  wave 
Which  raked  the  heaps,  and  sprinkled  them  with 

shells, 
And  limpets  clinging  to  the  Alga?  fast. 
Thus  stands  the  Christian  pilgrim  by  the  shore — 
That  mystic  shore  which  bounds  the  future  life — 
Where   like    Christ's  watchman   list'ning   to   the 

night, 


222  THE    SHIP. 

He  marks  the  Church,  the  battle  ship  of  Faith, 
Riding  majestic  through  the  surging  deep ; 
Though  splintered  be  her  masts,  and  bulwarks 

wreck 'd, 
And  sails  in  tatters  torn  before  the  gale, 
Yet  on  she  floats,  her  rudder  safely  mann'd 
By  Him  the  Captain  of  Salvation's  hosts  ; 
Through  the  dim  mists  one  beacon  ever  shines, 
And  distant  on  the  far  horizon  looms 
Its  steadfast  and  unfailing  star  of  hope. 
Come  persecution,  bitterness,  and  woe, 
Still  floats  she  on — Christ's  Apostolic  ship, 
Her  destiny  the  port  of  Heaven  to  reach, 
Her  anchor  dropp'd  in  Heaven's  eternal  calms. 


223 


THE  HOLY  CATHOLIC  CHURCH. 

TO    S.    F.    A.    C. 

^OOK  on  thy  Bride,  0  Lord, 
Thy  Bride,  the  Church  in  her  captivity  ; 
Each  fetter  snap,  each  golden  link  restore, 
That  mars  her  unity. 

Thy  spotless  Bride,  the  Church, 

As  in  the  early  Apostolic  day, 
When  glow'd  the  light  upon  her  altars,  e'en 

Through  persecution's  sway. 

That  Light  that  never  waned, 

When  all  was  darkest  then  the  brighter  shone, 
That  cheer' d  each  steadfast  heart,  and  led  the  way 

Where  shines  th'  Eternal  Throne. 

Look  on  thy  Bride,  0  Lord, 

Thy  Bride  the  Church,  in  her  captivity  ; 
Lift  up  her  veil,  that  all  the  world  may  see 

Her  truth  and  majesty. 


224 


BY   THE   SEA   OF    GALILEE. 

[EACE  !"  whisper  o'er  these  sacred  shores, 
Sad  waves  of  Galilee  ; 
Naught  save  the  wild  birds'  plaintive  cry 

Profanes  the  melody. 
An  ancient  convent  shelves  the  brink — 

0  sea  !  where  breezes  moan — 
Weaving  dim  shadows  o'er  those  waves, 
Of  Him  who  walk'd  here  lone. 


Sad  echoes  of  the  world's  great  Light, 

That  Light  which  once  here  shone, 
That  dawn'd  upon  a  guilty  world, 

In  sin's  dark  night  o'erthrown. 
Mount  Hermon's  glittering  shield  of  ice, 

Breastplate  of  virgin  snow, 
Bears  its  proud  height  in  majesty 

O'er  solemn  wastes  below. 


BY    THE    SEA    OF    GALILEE.  225 

Divinely  sweet,  though  sadly  sad, 

To  wander  here  alone, 
To  feel  the  withering  blight  that  rests 

On  hill,  on  plain,  on  stone  ; 
Where  He  once  taught  "  the  Way,  the  Truth," 

Here  whisper'd,  "  Peace,  be  still," 
Here  calm'd  the  tempest  by  His  voice, 

Subdued  the  heart's  proud  will ; 


When  all  was  beautiful  and  fair, 

The  olive  and  the  vine 
Luxuriant  girdling  hill  and  vale 

Of  sacred  Palestine  ! 
But  now  the  Bedouin  haunts  the  shores, 

His  black  tent  stains  the  sward, 
Fierce  sons  of  Isniael  dwell  here  now, 

A  lawless,  barbarous  horde. 


But  "  lilies  of  the  field"  still  bloom, 
And  breathe  faint  odours  sweet 

O'er  scenes  once  hallow'd  by  His  love, 
Trod  by  His  sacred  feet. 
Q 


226  THE    MARTYR    AGES. 

But  not  alone  I  paced  thy  shores, 

0  Galilean  Lake  ! 

Hearing  the  wild-fowls'  plaintive  cry 
The  holy  silence  break. 

A  pilgrim  though,  but  not  alone 

Was  I  beside  that  sea, 
When  came  the  whisper,  "  Peace  be  still," 

"  My  peace  I  give  to  thee." 
I  heard  that  voice,  I  felt  that  touch 

1  ask'd  for  nothing  more, 

But  kiss'd  my  pilgrim's  staff,  and  wept 
Beside  that  rippling  shore. 

Tiberias. 


THE   MARTYR  AGES. 

"The  noble  army  of  Martyrs  praise  Thee." 

pjfDOWN"  the  shadowy  Past  they  float, 
lyJfygk     Procession  calm  and  grand, 
With  shining  robes,  with  crowns  of  gold, 
Palms  in  each  outstretch'd  hand. 


THE    MARTYR    AGES.  227 

Thus  walk  they  now  with  Him  in  white. 

That  great  and  ransom' d  throng, 
Christ's  martyr'd  saints,  whose  voices  swell 

The  everlasting  song. 

Adown  Time's  shadowy  cloisters  dim. 

These  saints  of  earth's  renown 
Still  bear  to  us  the  words  of  hope, 

"  Thy  cross  must  win  Thy  crown." 

Each  holy  face  looks  down  on  us 

As  if  in  pity  bent, 
Each  branch  of  palm,  each  crown  of  gold. 

Speak  words  so  eloquent ! 

That  burning  stake,  nor  torturing  rack, 

Xor  persecution's  sword, 
Are  now  the  tests  in  this  our  day 

Of  service  to  our  Lord. 

But  patience,  gentleness,  and  love, 

In  works  of  mercy  shown, 
Renunciation  of  the  will 

For  His  true  Will  alone. 


TRUST. 

Thus  Faith,  and  Hope,  and  Charity, 
From  Him  now  heavenward  come, 

To  teach  us  here  to  win  the  palm 
And  crown'  of  martyrdom. 


TRUST. 

0  God  I  lift  my  heart  in  praise, 
To  God  I  wing  my  prayer, 
No  hour  is  sad,  no  day  is  dark, 
If  Thou,  my  Christ,  art  there. 

No  cup  too  bitter  then  to  drain, 

No  loneliness  too  lone, 
No  pain  too  wearisome  to  bear, 

Since  all  by  Him  is  known. 

No  doubting  plaint,  no  anxious  dread, 
No  murmuring  question  "  Why  ?" 

"  The  Lord  hath  done  it,"  rest  my  soul 
On  Him  eternally. 


229 


A   HYMN   FOR    CONFIRMATION. 

^fjJ^AKE  Thou  my  heart,  my  Saviour,  all  be 
SBB  Thine, 

My  every  thought  I  consecrate  to  Thee ; 
What  are  life's  joys  and  fading  dreams  at  best. 
Compared  with  perfect  bliss  eternally  ? 

That  restful  rest,  in  life's  perplexing  cares. 
That  peaceful  peace,  which  but  in  Thee  is  found. 
That  trust  triumphant  anchored  on  the  Cross 
Once  borne  when  Night  and  Death  on  Calvary 
frown' d. 

How  shadowy  seem  life's  fading  dreams  at  best. 
How  brief  her  trials,  disappointments,  woes, 
How  lightly  tread  we  earth's  bewildering  maze. 
With  heaven  before  us,  and  her  long  repose. 

Take  then  my  heart,  my  Saviour,  all  be  Thine, 
My  life,  my  death,  I  consecrate  to  Thee  ; 
Only  one  prayer  I  breathe,  that  in  return 
Thou  wilt,  my  Saviour,  give  Thyself  to  me. 


230 


'  A  Pilgrim  and  a  Sojourner  as  all  my  Fathers  were. 

?  ERE  then  I  have  no  country, 
SsrtSllv      No  fix'd,  no  steady  gleam, 
Here  I  am  a  pilgrim  still, 
A  wanderer  in  a  dream. 


Here  then  I  tread  on  shadows, 
Life's  bridge  from  shadows  spun, 

From  floating  mists  that  vanish  swift 
Before  the  race  is  won. 


Here  all  is  fleeting,  transient, 
Vague  as  a  feverish  dream, 

The  brightest  joys,  like  rainbow  hues, 
Fade  in  a  sickly  gleam. 


A    PILGRIM   AXD  A    SOJOURNER.  231 

There  only  is  my  country, 

Where  I  shall  no  more  roam 
When  Death  shall  take  my  pilgrim's  staff, 

And  call  the  wanderer  home. 

And  there  where  life's  dark  shadows 

Shall  fade  in  eternal  sun, 
And  where  sweet  rest  shall  come  at  last, 

When  life's  brief  race  is  won. 

Thus  to  the  world  then  dying, 

To  its  phantoms  and  its  cares, 
Through  Faith  I  see  the  silver  wheat 

Shine  now  amid  the  tares. 

There  then  I  have  my  country, 

Where  I  shall  no  more  roam 
When  death  shall  take  my  pilgrim's  staff, 

And  call  the  wanderer  home. 


*$%&* 


232 
GUARDIAN  ANGELS. 

"  He  giveth  His  angels  charge  concerning  thee." 

H,  ye  who  watch  us  night  and  day, 
And  round  about  our  pathway  glide, 
Help  us  to  love,  to  watch,  to  pray, 

Lest  our  frail  footsteps  swerve  or  slide. 

Oh,  ye  celestial  spirits  bright, 

Who  watch  beside  us  night  and  day, 

Guard  us  from  our  eternal  foe, 
And  guide  us  lest  we  go  astray. 

Spread  your  bright  wings,  and  shelter  give, 
With  noiseless  footfall  linger  near, 

Shield  us  from  foes  without,  within, 
And  keep  us  safe  from  year  to  year. 

How  oft  weVe  wander'd,  turn'd  aside, 
Nor  heard  the  gentle  footfall  near, 

Nor  the  sweet  voice,  "  With  Him  abide, 
With  Him,  your  Saviour,  ever  here. 


GUARDIAN   ANGELS.  233 

"  He  gives  us  charge  concerning  thee, 
To  keep  thee  from  dark  evil's  snare, 

Abide  in  faith,  and  lowly  wait, 

Guarded  by  faith's  best  corselet — prayer. 

"  Unseen,  unheard,  we  patient  wait, 
Our  Master  sends  us,  we  are  His, 

He  gives  us  charge  concerning  thee, 
To  help  thee  heavenward  where  He  is. 

"  We  screen  thee  oft  from  danger's  fear, 
We  draw  thee  oft  to  secret  prayer, 

Though  still  unconscious  ye  may  be, 
Your  guardian  angel  sojourns  near." 

Oh  ye  who  watch  us  night  and  day  ! 

Blest  spirits  rest  where'er  we  stray, 
If  dark  the  path,  if  sharp  the  stones, 

Then  lead  us  in  the  happier  way, 

And  softly  sing  celestial  hymns, 

To  Christ  we  love  tune  all  your  wires, 

And  let  us  join  our  feeble  strains 
To  anthems  of  celestial  choirs. 


234 


FOR  WHITSUNTIDE. 

"  Awake  0  North wir»4  and  come  thou  South,  blow  upon  my 
garden,  that  the  spices  thereof  may  flow  out.55 

Canticles. 

^^&WAKE  0  JNTorthwind  !  come  thou  South, 
rj^|@l      Blow  on  this  garden  fair, 

That  Love's  sweet  spices  may  exhale 
And  wake  the  lifeless  air. 


Revive  the  dying  flowers,  that  still 

About  her  borders  live, 
Breathe  on  their  petals  in  the  dust, 

Love's  dew  in  mercy  give. 

Come  to  Thy  garden,  Lord  of  Light ! 

Thy  Church's  bowers  so  fair, 
Dispel  each  cloud  that  hides  the  sight 

Of  Thy  great  Presence  there. 

Come  Thou  dear  Sunlight  of  the  soul, 

Each  drooping  spirit  raise 
From  shadows  of  earth's  twilight  dim, 

From  frosts  of  faithless  days. 


FOR    WHITSUNTIDE.  235 

That  every  path  may  reach  that  shrine, 

The  altar  of  Thy  grace, 
Where  faith's  undying  flame  ne'er  wanes, 

But  lights  the  sacred  place. 

That  every  flower  may  turn  to  Thee, 

From  error's  cold  and  night, 
Shoot  forth  its  feeble  tendrils,  clasp, 

And  live  ao-ain  in  light. 

In  Saoramental  light  and  life, 

0  mystery  unspoken  ! 
Come  to  Thy  garden,  Lord  of  Light, 

Revive  the  flowers  broken. 

Each  countless  blade  of  grass,  ay,  weeds, 

Rank  in  neglected  bowers, 
Revive  to  life  through  Thy  great  love, 

And  change  these  weeds  to  flowers. 

"  Awake  then,  North  wind,  come  thou  South,"' 

Come  from  those  bowers  of  spice, 
Come  to  the  Church  Christ  planted  here 

To  bloom  in  Paradise. 


236 


"LIGHT   OF   THE   WORLD." 


FOR    HOLT    COMMUNION. 


®IlGHT  of  the  World  !"  we  bow  to  Thee, 


And  at  Thine  Altar  bend  the  knee, 
To  seek  Communion,  calm,  and  blest, 
In  perfect  union,  perfect  rest. 


The  Angel- guardians  linger  here, 
While  softly  float  their  garments  near, 
And  visions  of  celestial  bowers 
Steal  o'er  these  Sacramental  hours. 


The  tapers'  glow,  symbolic  light 
Of  Him,  the  sun  of  earth's  sad  night, 
Bid  darkness  at  His  presence  flee — 
"  Light  of  the  World,"  we  worship  Thee  ! 


'•  LIGHT    OF    THE     WORLD" 


-\~ 


And  breathe  your  mystic  hymn,  sweet  flowers, 

;.gh  silent  as  these  lips  of  ours. 
When  at  the  Altar  of  His  grs.ce. 
He  lifts  the  veil,  reveals  His  face. 

0  Bread  of  Angels  !   Feast  of  Heaven  ! 
0  Wine  of  Life,  by  Jesn  given  ! 
Here  on  the  Altar  of  His  grace, 
Behold  the  solemn  Sacrifice. 

0  manna  in  life's  wilderness  ! 
The  food  of  angels,  kiss  of  peace. 
Visions  of  Home,  yet  earth's  rare  gem. 
Jerusalem.  Jerusalem  ! 


/^•s-*  ^O^s*.  ^cyi_-*\ 


l?l 


a  ht::\  fob  the  holy 
MMimioir 

Ft  ^-T;   _  _ 

EE:SI  •     r.=  .  tout  ~y 

"..ijr'O    A^i  e:ise::    -     these  roral  h 
It-  :  ixi  sense,  upward  : 

"~ r  ■  ers  ~     the  skk  ;. 

Son  of  id  eet 

C  m  bearfa  nm  _  The*  h  _:-:r:. 

"one  Li.  TLt  £  ftly  near, 
R.evt    .7 

S   d     :  11  i  "i  B  avicnir  mine  ! 
Eh " d  frl     I 

■ 
In:::: 

■ 

e  aL 
:    L 

— Throe. 


VIA    CRUCIS.  239 

Xot  wholly  dead,  if  sear'd  and  dry, 

0  blessed  vast  reality  ! 
Still  are  we  branches  of  that  "  Vine," 

Through  Sacramental  feast  divine. 

0  beatific  vision  blest  ! 

0  wondrous  love  !   0  peaceful  rest  ! 
0  Thou  the  Life,  the  Truth,  the  ••  Vine," 

Revive  these  wither* d  branches — Thine. 


VIA     CRUCIS. 

FOE   GOOD   FRIDAY. 

v\X  that  lonely  dreary  wav, 

Where  the  shades  of  darkness  stray, 
Meek  beneath  a  traitor's  sting, 
"Bow'd  before  an  earthly  kino- — 

Qui'  Jesus  Lord. 


240  VIA     CRUCIS. 

Mock'd,  reviled,  and  thrice  denied, 
With  the  guilty  crucified, 
Son  of  Mary,  thus  for  me 
The  crucified  on  Calvary — 

Our  Jesus  Lord. 

Let  my  tears  in  anguish  flow, 
Let  my  head  dejected  bow, 
Oh,  let  me  find  Thy  Cross  but  bliss, 
And  whisper — 0  what  love  was  this, 
Our  Jesus  Lord  ! 

And  for  all  Thy  love  and  grace, 

Calvary's  cross  and  Death's  embrace, 
And  that  plaint  of  agony — 
My  God,  hast  Thou  forsaken  me  ? 
0  Jesus  Lord  ! 

Jesu  !   on  this  solemn  day 
We  follow  Thee  !  0  mournful  way  ! 
Ours  the  shame,  the  Cross  to  bear, 
Ours  the  crown  of  thorns  to  wear, 

Blest  Jesus  Lord. 


241 


MATER   DOLOROSA. 

Sj  Eg/if  Y  the  Cross  her  watch  still  keeping, 
glggt^     In  those  vigils  nought  could  stir, 
When  night's  dews  were  o'er  Him  weeping, 
In  the  lonely  sepulchre, 

Stood  sweet  Mary  sad,  forsaken, 
Pale  with  weeping,  watching,  woe. 

Now  her  Dearest  from  her  taken, 
Laid  in  Joseph's  garden  low. 

Faint  with  anguish,  grief  unspoken, 
0  that  drear  tremendous  night, 

When  o'erhung  the  heights  of  Calvary, 
The  wrath  of  God,  the  Infinite  ! 

Lone  upon  that  rocky  summit 

Stood  the  Cross,  the  sacred  Sign, 

Streaming  with  the  sacred  blood-dr 
Where  He  hung,  the  Lord  divine. 
B 


242  FUNERAL    HY3IN. 

Holy  Virgin,  lonely,  weeping, — 

See  her  tears  bedew  the  sod, 
Monrning  for  a  dying  nation, 

A  world  that  would  not  know  its  God  ; 

Till  cold  dawn  o'er  Calvary  breaking, 
Through  the  clouds  pale  sunlight  crept, 

Pierced  the  blackness,  breathed  faint  comfort- 
Still  the  Virgin-mother  wept. 


A    FUNERAL     HYMN. 

"  Planted  in  His  likeness." 

OWN  in  weakness, — raised  in  power, 
Sown  in  dust,  in  sorrow,  sin, 
Sown  the  mortal,  raised  immortal, 
Incorruption  thus  to  win. 

,  "  Dust  to  dust," — to  ashes  render'd, 
Inglorious  seed  in  ruin  sown, 

But  from  the  germ  a  heav'nly  flower 
Now  in  Paradise  hath  blown. 


V-i 


EASTER    HY3IX.  243 

And  the  earthly  vase,  though  broken, 
Scattered  in  the  mould  must  lie, 

Yet  it  held  a  germ  immortal, 

Blossoming  now  beyond  the  sky. 

Thus  death  only  sows  these  blossoms 
Where  the  little  children  tread, 

And  the  stately  yew  perennial, 
Solemn  guards  the  peaceful  dead. 


AN  EASTER   HYMN. 

WAKE  !  awake  !  put  on  thy  strength- 
Thy  strength  0  Zion,  sing  ! 
The  Lord  is  risen,  rise  with  Him, 
And  hail  our  Easter  King. 

Mark  how  the  Light  on  Judah's  hills 
Lifts  the  death  glooms  of  night ; 

Behold  your  Sun  of  Righteousness, 
Behold  your  Lord  of  Light  ! 


244  EASTER    HYMN. 

Our  Lenten  fasting,  mourning  o'er, 
Onr  world  without  her  King — 

0  Grave,  where  is  thy  victory  now  ? 
O  Death,  where  is  thy  sting  ? 

The  Sun  has  dawned  upon  our  night — 
Ring,  chimes  of  Easter,  ring  ! 

And  praiseful  anthems  rise  and  swell, 
To  hail  our  risen  King. 

Let  sorrow's  voice  be  soothed  to  rest, 
Pale  mourners,  blossoms  bring, 

And  deck  the  grave,  'tis  now  the  shrine 
Where  rose  our  Easter  King ! 

Beside  that  grave,  beneath  His  Cross, 
Earth's  sufferings  meekly  lay, 

Triumphant  sing  our  risen  King, 
And  welcome  Easter  Day. 


245 


'  At  evening  time  it  shall  be  light." — Zee.  ziv.  7. 

;)0T  day,  nor  night,  "  not  clear,  nor  dark" — 
Thus    sang   the    Prophet   in   fore- 
shadow'd  night, 
Sang  of  the  Light  to  fall  on  Judah's  hills, 
"  At  evening  time  it  shall  be  light." 

Then  came  the  Light !  and  darkness  fled, 
As  ages  lapsed,  and  wheel'd  their  reckless  flight, 
The  Prophet  slept  in  death,  but  not  his  words, 
"  At  evening  time  it  shall  be  light." 

Oft  as  life's  shadows  gather  round, 
And  clouds  adrift  obscure  the  moonless  night, 
He  softly  whispers  to  the  faintest  heart, 
"  At  evening  time  it  shall  be  light." 

Thus  evening  falls  when  death  draws  near, 
When  life  is  ebbing,  softly  folds  the  night, 
The  dying  hear  when  all  to  us  is  dark, 
"  At  evening  time  it  shall  be  light." 


246 

Apostles,  ministers  of  Christ, 

Can  only  lead  souls  to  that  mystic  Grate, 

There  leave  them,  for  the  paradise  beyond, 

When  even- tide  brings  them  "  the  light." 

For  not  at  glow  of  noon-tide  sun, 

Nor  yet  in  blaze  of  giddy  honrs  most  bright, 

No,  not  till  all  of  earth  wanes  dim  and  pale, 

Shall  "  evening  time  "  bring  ns  "  the  light." 

Love  then  must  fold  her  drooping  wings, 

And  veil  her  face,  for  mark  how  wondrous  bright, 

How  passing  radiant  is  that  room  of  death, 

Which  brings  the  dying  Christian  "  light." 

Dim  shadows  of  the  Great  Beyond 
Shroud  us — for  him,  no  more  the  feud,  the  fight ; 
Christ's  warrior  sleeps  !  while  angels  round  him 
sing — 
"  At  evening  time  it  shall  be  light." 

0  glorious  prospect,  thus  to  wait, 
As  glooms  earth's  waning  shadows  on  the  sight, 
Faith's  taper  light !   0  live,  the  promise  wait — 
"  At  evening  time  it  shall  be  light." 


. 


247 

PERFECT   DAY. 

"  And  there  shall  be  no  night  there." 

HEN  days  are  dark,  and  nights  are  drear, 
Forlorn  and  cold,  no  haven  near, 
Guide  Thou  my  feet,  make  Thou  my  way, 
And  turn  my  darkest  night  to  day. 

Guide  me,  0  guide  me  to  that  shore 
Where  sin  and  pain  are  known  no  more, 
Where  no  dark  days,  and  no  more  night, 
Shall  hide  Thy  presence  from  my  sight. 

If  days  are  dark,  and  nights  are  drear, 
Forlorn  and  cold,  no  haven  near, 
Trust  thou  in  God,  be  sure  His  way 
Shall  lead  thee  to  the  perfect  day. 


24S 


AN   EARLY   CHRISTIAN   MARTYR. 
(A  Picture  by  Paul  de  la  Roche.) 

DOWN  Death's  weary  river  lone  she  drifts, 


The  night  glooms  black,  the  tide  runs 
swift  and  deep, 
Faintly  the  glimm'ring  stars  above  her  shine, 
And  o'er  her  watery  couch  their  vigils  keep. 

The  martyr's  crown  lights  np  the  silv'ry  wake, 
Peaceful  and  happy,  on  death's  wave  she  lies, 

The  night  will  wane,  and  early  morning  break 
For  her,  and  she  will  wake  in  paradise. 

Serene  she  sleeps  on  death's  remorseless  flood, 
Nought  now  to  her  the  night,   the   cold,   the 
tides, 

Her  arms  are  folded  on  her  peaceful  breast, 
As  onward  to  the  haven  calm  she  glides. 


FLOWERS    ON    THE   ALTAR.  249 

Hark  !  angels  singing,  hovering  in  her  wake, 
Softly  the j  whisper,  "  Sister  spirit  blest, 

Thy  martyr's  cross  at  length  has  won  thy  crown, 
And  thon  hast  enter'd  into  perfect  rest." 

For  her  no  darkness  now,  where  all  is  light, 
For  her  no  torturing  rack,  no  prison  bars, 

Death's  tide  has  only  borne  her  swiftly  home, 
And  now  "  she  lives  in  peace  beyond  the 
stars."* 


FLOWERS   ON   THE   ALTAR. 

To  E.  T.  H. 

I  HE    blossoms,  Lord,  more  sweetly  grow, 
That  round  thine  Altar  bud  and  blow, 
In  this  great  calm,  this  heavenly  air 
Breathing  devotion,  love  and  prayer. 


*  Inscription  on  a  martyr's  tomb  in  the  Basilica  of  St.  Agnese. 
Rome. 


250  FLOWERS    ON    THE    ALTAR. 

Dim  is  the  light  by  shadows  spun — 
Here,  think  you,  pine  they  for  the  sun, 
Or  rains  of  heaven,  or  dews  of  night, 
Or  earth's  sad  sod  to  bloom  more  bright  ? 

0  no — for  angels  tend  them  here, 
They  love  the  church's  atmosphere, 
Blossoms  so  fragrant,  earth's  true  gems, 
Just  dropt  from  seraph's  diadems. 

So  let  the  flowers  live  and  grow, 
And  round  His  Altar  bud  and  blow, . 
The  incense  of  their  bloom  to  rise 
With  our  faint  prayers  to  Paradise. 


25i 


£, 


A   HYMN   FOR   ALL   SAINTS. 

INSCRIBED    TO    THE    KEY.    ARCHER    GURXEY. 

EAL  we  the  anthem  grand  ! 
§§"      Through  the  arches,  hark  !  it  rolls, 
The  tide  of  praise,  from  heart  and  voice, 
Till  it  breaks  on  the  shore  of  souls, — 
Alleluia  ! 

On  Heaven's  transplendent  shore, 
Where  the  great  and  mystic  throng 

Of  crowned  saints  now  tune  their  harps 
To  the  everlasting  son  or, — 

Alleluia  ! 

That  song  no  man  may  learn, 

Save  earth's  redeem'd  and  crown'd, 

With  "  Harpers  harping  with  their  harps,'"' 
And  silver  trumpets'  sound, — 
Alleluia  ! 


252  THE    SONG. 

Before  the  Lamb  they  kneel, 

By  the  "great  white  throne"  they  stand 
In  shining  robes  of  righteousness, 

With  palms  in  each  outstretch' cl  hand — 
Alleluia ! 

The  Song. 

Rev.  xv.  3. 

REAT  and  marvellous  are  thy  works, 
Lord  God  Almighty — just  and  true 
In  all  thy  ways,  0  King  of  Saints, 
Morning  and  evening,  ever  new  ! 

Who  shall  not  fear  Thee,  mighty  Lord, 
And  glorify  Thy  wondrous  name  ? 

0  Holy,  Holy,  Lord  of  Hosts, 
Through  all  eternity  the  same — 
Alleluia,  Amen ! 

0  Alleluia  grand ! 

"  Let  earth  keep  silence,"  when 
The  courts  of  Heaven  hush  their  praise 

To  that  sublime  "  Amen." 


THE    SOXG.  253 

For  silver  trumpets  call 

And  myriad  golden  strings  ; 
While  seraphs  veil  their  faces  in 

The  silence  of  their  wings. 

0  wave  of  vrondrous  might ! 

0  sonndless  depths  of  praise  ! 
0  earthly  anthems  !  faint  your  type 

Of  those  the  ransomed  raise  ! 

Let  Alleluias  ring  ! 

Faint  echoes  from  that  shore 
May  teach  us  here  that  song  to  sing 

In  Heaven  for  evermore. 

Amen. 


254 


AT  JACQUELINE  PASCAL'S  GRAVE. 

LEEP  on,  sweet  Saint,  and  take  your  rest 
In  this  green  hallow' d  shade, 
Beneath  the  cross,  the  sacred  sign, 
Among  the  blossoms  laid. 

Beneath  the  cross,  so  meekly  borne, 

So  lowly  at  His  feet ; 
Till  life  thou  didst  not  count  too  dear, 

To  make  thy  death  complete. 

Faithful,  so  faithful  to  the  last, 

Meek  servant  of  the  cross  ; 
Who  for  one  well  beloved  Name, 

Counted  all  Earth's  gain  loss. 

Plant  laurel  then,  with  lilies  white, 

And  "  Sisters,"  here  entwine 
Sweet  summer  roses  to  adorn 

This  gentle  Saint's  low  shrine. 


AT  JACQUELIXE  PASCAL'S    GRAVE.        25: 

For  now  she  lives  beyond  the  stars. 

Life's  battle  boldly  won  ; 
Above  the  cross  she  saw  her  crown 

Which  "mid  all  darkness  shone. 

gh  cloister  shades  her  upward  } 

Led  peaceful,  calm,  and  blest, 
'Twas  through  her  cross  she  reach'd  her  crow:  . 
And  enter* d  into  rest. 

And  this  sweet  burden  all  her  lrf 

The  Cross,  the  Cross.  > 
Till  sinking  from  its  weight  at  la 

She  reach'd  the  Golden  Door. 


256 


TIME'S   SEA. 

^^WlME'S  sea  rolls  on  o'er  life's  wild  ebbing 
lliyiliff  shore, 

Where  wrecks  and  broken  spars  bestrew  the 
strand ; 
Far,  far  we  gaze  beyond  earth's  misty  main, 

Where  Time's  sea  breaks  npon  another  land. 


Celestial  waves  !  methinks  I  hear  ye  break 
In  hnshful  whispers  on  that  tuneful  shore ; 

Chiming  to  one  grand  rhythm,  one  great  verse — 
Eternity's  full  anthem,  "  Evermore  ! " 


Here,  wither' d  hopes  and  broken  shrines  sleep 
low, 

Here  faded  garlands  untwined,  bloom  to  die, 
Here  buried  in  the  drifts  of  shale  and  weed, 

The  lone  shell  breathes  her  hollow  minstrelsy. 


TIME'S    SEA.  257 

There,  crystal  wavelets  murmur  peaceful  rest,  j 
Immortal  garlands  breathe  no  more  decay ; 

There,  footsteps  in  the  golden  sands  but  track 
Earth's  happy  wanderers  in  their  new  array. 

Now  spirits  glorified,  redeemed,  and  freed 

From  sorrow,  sickness,  and  temptation's  power  ; 

Who've  wash'd  their  spotless  robes  in  blood  of  Him 
Whose  lives  were  bought  by  His  in  earth's  brief 
hour. 

Where  walls  of  jasper  shut  the  holy  in, 

And  chrysolite  and  beryl  flash  their  light ; 

Where  every  gate  a  single  pearl  doth  shine, 

And  where  the  nations  saved  now  "  walk  in 
white." 

There  wander  they  in  robes  of  spotless  white, 
Among  the  many  mansions  of  the  blest, 

There  walk  they  in  those  "  golden  streets  "  of  Life, 
There  live  they  on,  in  love  and  changeless  rest. 

Where  neither  sun  nor  moon  nor  planet's  rays 
Shall  ever  needed  be  in  that  great  light ; 

And  where  the  night  shall  no  more  dim  the  clay, 
And  where  the  gates  are  never  shut  at  night, 
s 


258  TIME'S    SEA. 

And  where  the  sun  shall  never  more  go  down, 
And  Christ  shall  wipe  all  tears  of  earth  away ; 

And  sin  no  more  shall  weave  her  death-shroud  o'er 
The  one  eternal  and  transplendent  day. 

Beside  that  mighty  "  River's"  crystal  depths, 
Beneath  the  fragrant  shade  of  that  great  tree  ; 

The  "  tree  of  life"  whose  bending  branches  bear 
The  glowing  fruits  of  Immortality, 

Calm  rest  they  with  their  golden  harps  re-strung, 
And  little  children  too  of  earth's  brief  day, 

Who  never  knew  our  schools  of  error,  guilt, 
But  in  their  sinless  season  pass'd  away. 

There  play  they  now  with  roses,  lilies  fair, 

And  pluck  sweet  fruits  that  know  no  worm  at 
core  ; 

Where  no  remember' d  sins  can  ever  blight 
Their  perfect  happiness  for  evermore. 

And  there  the  loving  and  the  loved  at  length 
Shall  never  know  one  pang,  one  doubt,  one  pain, 

But  hand  in  hand  shall  wander  evermore 
And  parting  never,  never  know  again. 


259 


A   PARAPHRASE 

ON    THE    THIRTEENTH    CHAPTER    OF    CORINTHIANS. 

HOTJGH  I  speak  with  the  tongues  of  men, 
§|>       Of  angels  pure  and  great ; 
And  have  not  the  gift  of  charity, 
My  words  evaporate. 

Like  the  clanging  sound  of  brass, 

Or  the  cymbal's  tinkling  ire, 
All  eloquence  of  earth  is  mute, 

Save  charity  inspire. 

Yet  if  the  gift  of  prophecy 

Were  e'en  vouchsafed  to  me, 
With  power  to  solve  and  analyse 

All  knowledge — mystery  ; 

And  though  I  had  all  steadfast  faith, 

The  mountains  to  remove  ; 
And  had  not  the  gift  of  charity, 

The  Heavenly  gift  of  Love  ; 


z6o  PARAPHRASE    ON    THIRTEENTH 

And  though  my  goods  I  all  bestow, 
To  feed  and  clothe  the  poor ; 

And  give  my  body  to  be  burn'd, 
It  profiteth  no  more, 

If  love  within  my  heart  be  dead, 
There  hard,  nnkind,  and  cold, 

Severe,  detracting,  envions, 
And  slow  to  praise  or  hold 

The  good  I  in  my  neighbour  see, 
The  good  in  him  I  know — 

All  my  best  works  drop  down  to  dust, 
And  I  for  darkness  sow. 

Ay  !  though  I  seem  a  saint  in  white, 

And  have  not  charity, 
Like  a  dead  corpse  without  the  life, 

My  master  judgeth  me. 

For  charity  doth  suffer  long, 

For  charity  is  kind, 
For  charity  to  failings,  faults 

Of  others,  must  be  blind. 


CHAPTER    OF    CORINTHIANS.  261 

0  sweetest  grace  of  charity  ! 

0  Godlike  gift  of  love  ! 
Transforming  e'en  the  features  to 

The  angel-type  above. 

Nor  envieth  she,  nor  vaunteth  e'er 

Herself  to  other's  eyes, 
Xor  in  her  intercourse  is  harsh, 

But  gentle,  loving,  wise  ; 

As  hides  the  ragged  rents,  and  crowns 

The  ivy  evergreen, 
So  charity  must  grow  from  roots 

In  Paradise,  I  ween. 

Xot  easily  provoked  is  she, 

And  evil  thinketh  none, 
Suspicion  clouds  not  her  sweet  face. 

But  love  is  stamp'd  thereon. 

She  mourneth  o'er  iniquity, 

Bejoiceth  in  the  truth  ; 
Beareth  all  things  patiently, 

And  keeps  the  grace  of  youth. 


262  A    PARAPHRASE. 

This  love  then  never  faileth  ns, 

But  prophecies  shall  fail, 
And  tongues  shall  lose  their  eloquence, 

When  death  shall  life  assail. 

But  here  abideth  Faith  and  Hope, 

Love — godlike  Trinity  ; 
But  the  greatest  gift  and  grace  of  all, 

My  child,  is  Charity. 


263 


"HE    LEADETH   THEM." 
To  A.  B.  L.  G. 

"  And  now  beside  thee,  bleating  lamb, 

I  can  lie  down  and  sleep, 
Or  think  on  Him  who  bore  thy  name, 

Graze  after  thee  and  weep." 

William  Blake, 

E  leadeth  them,  He  leadeth  theni 
Beside  still  waters'  flow, 
He  resteth  thera,  and  feedeth  them 
Where  greenest  pastures  grow. 


O'er  stony  steeps,  o'er  grassless  plains, 
O'er  'wildering  crags,  through  heat, 

And  cold,  and  storm,  and  beating  rains, 
He  finds  paths  for  their  feet. 


The  lambs  He  in  His  bosom  bears, 
In  shelter  safe  and  warm, 

And  gently  leads  the  wanderers 
Back  to  the  fold  from  harm. 


264  "HE    LEADETH    THEM:' 

Thus,  dearest  Shepherd  of  Thy  fold, 

Lead  us  to  waters  still  ; 
Nor  let  our  wayward  fancies  bold, 

Seek  self  without,  or  will. 

From  Thine  own  Shrine  to  sheltering  palms, 

O  guide  our  wandering  feet, 
Till,  folded  in  the  eternal  calms, 

We  rest  from  earth's  short  beat. 

How  faithless  we  who  bear  Thy  name, 

How  faltering  each  step, 
Although  Thine  own — the  path  the  same 

We  follow,  Lord,  but  weep. 


TRANSPOSITIONS. 


cui3i&-' 


SOXXET   OF   MICHELANGELO. 


^J^!B;OR  hath  the  mighty  artist  one  conceit, 
gl^ilig   That     is    not    in    the    marble    block    en- 
shrined, 
And  only  he  may  hope  success  to  meet, 
Who  makes  his  work  obedient  to  his  mind. 
The  ill  I  flee,  the  good  that  I  would  fain 
Centre  in  thee,  fair  lady,  goddess  proud, 
There  hides  itself,  and  whilst  I  live,  in  vain 
My  art  would  war  on  longings,  trebly  vow'd ; 
Love  here  has  wrought  not  e'en  thy  beauty  great. 
Nor  fortune,  coldness,  nor  supreme  disdain, 
For  my  great  fault,  or  destiny,  or  fate, 
But  if  within  thy  heart  lives  pity's  strain. 
Although  but  powerless  to  win  thy  love, 
There   still   remains   but  Death's  faint   sweet.-  to 
prove. 


263 

SONNET. 

OF    LAURA    BATTIFERRO. 

(1560). 

v^S^/HIJS  as  a  pitying  father  sees  his  son, 
§iiyig$  Wandering  afar  in  error's  fatal  snares, 
And  turning  from  the  right  path  unawares, 
In  which  so  long  he  train 'd  his  feet  to  run, 
And  still  with  face  benign,  and  spirit  mild, 
He  threatens  not,  nor  blames,  but  hourly  prays 
For  the  return  to  truth  and  happier  ways, 
Of  this  his  wayward  and  rebellious  child. 
So,  O  great  God,  more  partial  far  than  he, 
Art  Thou  to  this  thy  erring  daughter,  though 
Stamp'd  in  Thy  image  but  a  wanderer  too, 
Yet  now  mj  soul  returns  all  lovingly, 
In  sweet  repentance  yearning  yet  to  be 
Drawn  by  Thy  love  e'en  closer  still  to  Thee. 


Y^^ 


:69 


SOXXET. 
Of  MM.  Moeelli  Fermndez  (fea  gli  Abcadi) 

COEILLA    OlIMPICA. 

Poetessa  Laueeata  ix  Campidoglio. 

(1775). 

^SftTfeO  fond  conceit  nor  false  ambition  vain. 

fllipgS    Allured  me  here — Imperial  Rome,  I  come 

To  muse  npon  thy  trophies'  countless  sum. 

In  guardianship  of  Time's  edacious  reign. 

And  as  a  torch  illumes  the  sacred  cave, 

Spinning  from  dense  and  blackest  night  the  light, 

So  is  my  silent  soul  subdued  at  sight 

Of  thee,  grows  eloquent,  and  strong,  and  brave ; 

Arcadia's  forests  long  beguiled  my  feet, 

Sacred  to  Phoebus,  muses,  sylvan  gods. 

To  worship  wisdom  in  the  silent  woods  ; 

Xow  fortune  smiles  on  me  with  honours  great. 

If  her  rewards  I've  toil'd  for  honestly, 

Let  none  my  laurel  crown  usurp  from  me. 


270 


SONNET. 

ATTRIBUTED    TO    PETRARCH, 
(FOUND   IN    THE   TOMB   OF   MADONNA   LAURA   IN   AVIGNON.) 

1558. 

}  ERE  lie  the  chaste  remains  and  cherish'd 
bones 

Of  that  sweet  spirit,  rarest  sonl  on  earth, 
Buried  beneath  these  cold  remorseless  stones, 
Are  honour,  fame,  and  beauty's  matchless  worth, 
Death  the  green  laurel  now  hath  cut  and  torn, 
Each  tender  root,  and  my  poor  warfare's  o'er  ; 
Four  "  lustres  "  once  beamed  o'er  me  ;  now  forlorn 
The  spectral  glooms  descend ;  to  rise  no  more  ! 
0  happy  plant  in  shades  of  Avignon, 
That  bloom'd  and  died  !    Alas  !  with  thee  must  lie 
The  poet's  pen  and  pencil — Genius  gone. 
0  lovely  body,  living  torch  !  0  why 
Hast  still  no  power  to  warm  ?    I  bend  my  knee, 
And  pray  to  God  His  love  hath  welcomed  thee. 


271 


A   PARAPHRASE   ON   HEINE. 

LAY  thy  hand,  Dear,  on  my  heart, 
Dost  hear  it  in  its  chamber  beat  ? 
For  there  a  secret  carpenter 
Is  making  me  my  coffin  neat. 

There  hammers  he  all  night  and  day, 
From  happy  sleep  my  eyes  to  keep. 
Make  haste  then,  master  carpenter, 
For  I  am  ready  now  to  sleep. 


LATIN  PRAYER  OF  MARY,  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS. 

^(sf^s'^"  ^J0T^  mJ  God?  I  hope  in  Thee  ! 

<4^si   0  Jesu  mine,  deliver  me  ! 

In  heavy  chains,  in  weary  pains, 
Tims  longing  I  desire  bnt  Thee. 


272        «  0    QUOT    UNDIS    LACRYMARU3V 

Fainting  ever,  groaning  ever, 
Lord,  to  Thee  I  bend  the  knee, 
While  adoring,  while  imploring, 
That  Thou  wouldst  deliver  me. 


"  0  QUOT  TJKDIS  LACRYMARUM." 

mfiPc  ^-^-^^  waves  of  tears  are  rolling  ! 
5^§|fs|   0  what  anguish  never  known  ! 
Lo  !  the  Virgin,  and  reposing 

In  her  arms  her  bleeding  One — 
From  the  blood-stain'd  cross  descended, 
See  the  Blessed  Virgin's  son. 

0  that  face,  that  form  so  lovely  ! 

0  that  sweetest  side  where  beat 
Once  the  sacred  heart  of  Jesus  ! 

Wash,  0  tears,  those  bloodstain'd  feet  ! 
0  those  hands,  transfix'd  and  bleeding, 

Blessed  hands,  so  pale  and  sweet ! 


A    VESPER  HYMN  TO  ST.    MONICA.       273 

Countless  times  she  clasps  the  body, 
Countless  kisses  press  each  wound, 

All  her  soul  is  steep' d  in  anguish, 
Here  love's  faithfulness  is  found — 

Till  that  tender  form  exhausted, 
Drooping  faints  in  woe  profound. 

Blessed  Mary,  we  invoke  thee 

By  those  tears  o'er  Jesus  wept, 
By  those  purple  wounds  all  bleeding, 

By  the  grief  thou  didst  accept, 
May  we  share  thy  grief  and  sorrow, 

May  we  weep  as  thou  hast  wept ! 


A   VESPER   HYMN   TO    ST.   MONICA. 

"  Ave  dies  lastitiae." 

rk  fp  ^i  AIL  !  bright  day  of  joy  and  gladness, 
jg-g^^      Day  of  days,  refulgent,  great ; 
Which  the  Church  appoints,  rejoicing, 
And  loving,  we  commemorate. 

T 


274        A    VESPER    HYMN  TO    ST.   MONICA. 

Brightly  glows  the  Altar's  splendour 
On  the  Faithful  lowly  bent, 

Who  swell  with  joy  th'  exultant  chorus 
To  Monica  the  holy  saint. 

Of  virgins  chaste  this  saint  was  chastest, 
Of  marriage  too,  a  mirror  fair  ; 

Of  widows  was  the  purest  widow, 
Of  each  three  an  example  rare. 

O  saintly  one  in  thy  sad  weeping, 
A  seed  didst  sow  in  every  tear, 

To  exultant  spring — returning 
On  the  Church  new  every  year. 

Holy  Saint !  we  thus  invoke  thee, 
Thy  maternal  heart  to  move, 

By  the  "  Holy  Three"  protect  us, 
Intercede  for  us  above. 


275 


A   PARAPHRASE   ON    ST.   AUGUSTINE. 


)||UT  dust  and  ashes  are  we,  Lord, 


-§lgi>     Yet  Thou  hast  deign'd  to  throw 
Thine  eyes  of  pity  on  this  dust, 
Thus  endless  love  to  show. 

Ay,  on  this  dust  Thine  eyes  have  look'd, 

The  clay  in  mould  then  laid 
With  tenderest  pity, — Lo  !  a  vase, 

For  glory  Thou  hast  made  ; 

And  gilded  it  with  dropping  rays 
From  Thine  own  fingers  bright ; 

And  in  this  golden  vase  hast  hid 
Thine  own  immortal  light. 

Charging  Thine  Angels  from  above, 

To  keep  it  safe  below  ; 
Bidding  them  e'er  defend  Thy  vase, 

From  sin's  sad  overthrow. 


276 


A  HYMN   TO   THE   SAINTS   IN  HEAVEN. 
(A  Paraphrase  on  St.  Augustine.) 

|/pM  !  stars  of  glory,  lights  of  Heaven  ! 
£§^i&3        Shed  down  on  me  yonr  mystic  light ; 
Illume  the  storms  that  round  me  threaten, 
Reveal  the  perils  of  the  night 

Through  which  my  barque  of  life  is  steering, 

So  frail — to  pirates  oft  exposed  ; 
Guard  it  from  rocks  and  reefs  of  peril, 

Till  in  the  eternal  port  enclosed, 

The  little  freight  is  moor'd  in  safety, 
Which  I  have  tried  to  garner  here 

In  commerce  spiritual,  hoping 
It  yet  may  reach  the  haven  dear. 

Then  stars  of  glory,  lights  of  Heaven, 
Shed  down  on  me  your  mystic  light, 

Guide  me,  0  guide  me  to  the  haven 
Where  Faith  is  swallow' d  up  in  Sight. 


277 


"  MIS   DESIOS." 
(From  the  Spanish  of  D.  Juan  Bautista  de  Arriaza.) 

":-?J^F  God  should  on  me  one  great  gift  confer, 
!-JrMtJ§      Of  all  I  might  receive,  and  He  bestow, 
Nor  gold,  nor  silver,  would  I  then  prefer, 

Nor  empires,  crowns,  nor  earthly  fame  below. 
Or  if  one  talent  were  vouchsafed  to  me, 

'Twere  happiness  I  would  elect  as  chief; 
For  e'en  the  sages  proved  all  vanity, 

All  science  incomplete  for  life  so  brief. 
Thus  only  one  great  boon  I'd  ask  from  Heaven, 

One  gift  of  happiness  conceded  here, 
And  which  would   crown  my  earthly  peace   if 
given — 

Namely,  one  faithful  friend  for  life,  for  e'er, 
One  true  and  noble  heart,  and  only  one — 

I  have  that  friend — that  friend  hath  led  me  on  ! 


CHISWIOK  PRESS! PRINTED    BY   WHITTINGHAM  AND   WILKINS, 

TOOKS  COURT,  CHANCERY  LANE. 


POEMS 

BY    SOPHIA   MAY    ECKLEY. 
FIRST    VOLUME. 

OPINIONS   OF   THE  PRESS. 

"  Quaint,  delicate,  mystical.  We  could  quote  several,  in- 
deed, that  might  have  been  written  by  Uhland,  so  minute  are 
they  in  expression,  so  fantastically  subtle  in  idea,  In  short, 
we  have  here  revealed  a  mind  rich  in  poetic  fancy.  .  .  . 
Still,  considering  the  mystical  school  to  which  these  poems 
belong,  their  suggestive  vagueness  is  not  extreme  :  it  is  in- 
deed  an  essential  part  of  their  effect.  Sometimes  indeed  the 
writer  is  content  to  paint  real  scenes,  and  she  does  so  with  a 
touch  so  fine,  that  the  merits  of  her  work  will  escape  all  who 
do  not  look  into  it  closely-  As  examples  of  this  kind  we  may 
name  two  pictures  of  interiors— the  one  called,  ;i  Christmas 
Night,"  the  other,  the  "  House  of  Shadows.*'  Both  scenes 
have  sufficient  nicety  of  detail  to  give  them  distinctness  ;  and 
in  both  the  reality  so  produced  is  touched  and  raised  by  emo- 
tion. If  we  do  not  err,  the  picture  last  named  refers  to  a 
void  still  recent  in  our  company  of  singers,  and  will  thus  have 
an  added  interest  for  all  to  whom  the  memory  of  our  first 
poetess  is  dear — we  have  not  space  for  either  of  these  poems. 
As  a  brief  but  characteristic  instance  of  the  writer  we  quote 
the  following  ("  A  Memory.")  There  is  fancy  in  this,  soft 
as  the  moonlight  of  which  it  tells,  and  a  sigh  of  memory 
gentle  as  that  of  the  breeze  through  the  roses." — Athenaeum. 

i:  Mrs.  Eckley  writes  with  much  sweetness  and  power,  and 
all  her  poems  bear  the  stamp  of  a  devotional  spirit.''" 

Churchman's  Shilling  Magazine. 


u  These  are  poems  which  come  home  to  us  men,  and  read 
us  a  lesson  which  we  are  too  apt  at  forgetting.  A  Christian 
Heine  seems  a  contradiction  in  terms,  and  yet  our  authoress 
comes  very  near  the  right  to  claim  such  a  title." — John  Bull. 

"  These  poems  give  signs  of  a  great  deal  of  thought  and 
feeling." — Church  and  State  Review. 

"  Un  charmant  volume  de  Mrs.  Sophia  May  Eckley,  qui 
prefere  le  chant  du  rossignol  d'Europe  a  celui  de  l'oiseau 
moqueur  de  sa  terre  natale.  Quoique  tres-varies  de  sujets, 
presque  tous  les  poemes  de  Mrs.  Sophia  May  Eckley  ont  une 
note  melancolique.  Les  ames  reveuses  y  trouveront  une  dou- 
ceur toute  particuliere,  en  s'identifiant  a  des  regrets  dont  la  per- 
sonnalite  est  tres-delicatement  deguisee.  J'ignore  a  quelle 
croyance  appartient  Pauteur,  mais  sa  poesie  est  plus  Catholique 
que  protestante  a  en  juger  par  les  impressions  que  Mrs.  Eckley 
a  rapportees  de  son  voyage  en  Italic  Mais  elle  n'a  pas 
sejourne  seulement  en  Italie;'Mrs.  Eckley  a  vuPOrient,  cette 
autre  source  de  poesie,  et  elle  a  vu  la  Suisse,  dont  les 
montagnes  et  les  forets  lui  apparaissent  comme  le  temple  la 

plus  sublime  du  Createur Les  critiques  Anglais 

ont  dit  de  Mrs.  Eckley  qu'elle  rappelait  tour  a  tour  Uhland 
et  Heine.  Je  ne  la  comparerai  a  aucun  de  nos  poetes,  de 
peur  de  paraitre  douter  de  son  originalite.  Elle  n'imite 
personne  ne  s'inspirant  que  de  ses  propres  sentiments  et  de 
cette  melancolie  un  peu  mystique  qui  voile  ses  douleurs  d'une 
pudique  discretion." — Revue  Britannique. 

(i  There  is  great  originality  throughout  the  whole  collection. 
These  poems  display  a  great  amount  of  tender  feeling,  and  at 
the  same  time  possess  strength  and  poetical  power." 

Jersey  Times. 

Ct  Mrs.  Eckley's  gift  of  song  is  genuine." 

Victoria  Magazine. 


^^ 


4a