MR. STEDMAN’S WRITINGS.

I.

POETICAL WORKS. Collective Edition of the author’s Poems which have previously appeared, containing “Lyrics and Idyls,” “Alice of Monmouth,” “The Blameless Prince,” etc., etc. Uniform with Farringford Tennyson. 12mo. With Portrait. Gilt top

$2.25

II.

VICTORIAN POETS. A Critical Review of the Poetry of Great Britain, from the Accession of Victoria down to the Present Time. One volume. 12mo

$2.50

“The main purpose of this book is to examine the lives and productions of such British poets as have gained reputation within the last forty years. Incidentally, I hope to derive from the body of their verse,—so various in form and thought,—and from the record of their different experiences, correct ideas in respect to the aim and province of the art of Poetry, and not a few striking illustrations of the poetic life.”

III.

HAWTHORNE, and other Poems.

Cloth, $1.25

⁂ For sale by all Booksellers. Sent, postpaid, on receipt of price, by the Publishers.

JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., Boston.

THE
POETICAL WORKS
OF
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

COMPLETE EDITION.

BOSTON:
JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY,
Late Ticknor & Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co.
1878.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873,
BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO.,
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

THIRD EDITION.

University Press: Welch, Bigelow, & Co.,
Cambridge.

This Collection
is affectionately and reverently
Dedicated
TO MY MOTHER,
IN GRATITUDE FOR WHATSOEVER PORTION I INHERIT OF
HER OWN SWEET
GIFT OF SONG.

CONTENTS.

EARLY POEMS.

EARLY POEMS.

BOHEMIA.
A PILGRIMAGE.

I.

When buttercups are blossoming,

The poets sang, ’tis best to wed:

So all for love we paired in Spring—

Blanche and I—ere youth had sped,

For Autumn’s wealth brings Autumn’s wane.

Sworn fealty to royal Art

Was ours, and doubly linked the chain,

With symbols of her high domain,

That twined us ever heart to heart;

And onward, like the Babes in the Wood,

We rambled, till before us stood

The outposts of Bohemia.

II.

For, roaming blithely many a day,

Eftsoons our little hoard of gold,

Like Christian’s follies, slipt away,

Unloosened from the pilgrim’s hold,

But left us just as blithe and free;

Whereat our footsteps turned aside

From lord and lady of degree,

And bore us to that brave countree

Where merrily we now abide,—

That proud and humble, poor and grand,

Enchanted, golden Gypsy-Land,

The Valley of Bohemia.

III.

Together from the higher clime,

By terraced cliff and copse along,

Adown the slant we stept, in time

To many another pilgrim’s song,

And came where faded far away,

Each side, the kingdom’s ancient wall,

From breaking unto dying day;

Beyond, the magic valley lay,

With glimpse of shimmering stream and fall;

And here, between twin turrets, ran,

Built o’er with arch and barbacan,

The entrance to Bohemia.

IV.

Beneath the lichened parapet

Grim-sculptured Gog and Magog bore

The Royal Arms,—Hope’s Anchor, set

In azure, on a field of or,

With pendent mugs, and hands that wield

A lute and tambour, graven clear;

What seemed a poet’s scroll revealed

The antique legend of the shield:

Cambrinus. Rex. helde. Wassaille. here.

Joyned. with. ye. Kinge. of. Yvetot.

O. worlde-worne. Pilgrim. passe. belowe.

To. entre. fayre. Bohemia.

V.

No churlish warder barred the gate,

Nor other pass was needed there

Than equal heart for either fate,

And barren scrip, and hope to spare.

Through the gray archway, hand in hand,

We walked, beneath the rampart high,

And on within the wondrous land;

There, changed as by enchanter’s wand,

My sweetheart, fairer to the eye

Than ever, moved along serene

In hood and cloak,—a gypsy queen,

Born princess of Bohemia!

VI.

A fairy realm! where slope and stream,

Champaign and upland, town and grange,

Like shadowy shiftings of a dream,

Forever blend and interchange;

A magic clime! where, hour by hour,

Storm, cloud, and sunshine, fleeting by,

Commingle, and, through shine and shower,

Bright castles, lit with rainbows, tower,

Emblazoning the distant sky

With glimmering glories of a land

Far off, yet ever close at hand

As hope, in brave Bohemia.

VII.

On either side the travelled way,

Encamped along the sunny downs,

The blithesome, bold Bohemians lay;

Or hid, in quaintly-gabled towns,

At smoke-stained inns of musty date,

And spider-haunted attic nooks

In empty houses of the great,

Still smacking of their ancient state,—

Strewn round with pipes and mouldy books,

And robes and buskins over-worn,

That well become the careless scorn

And freedom of Bohemia.

VIII.

For, loving Beauty, and, by chance,

Too poor to make her all in all,

They spurn her half-way maintenance,

And let things mingle as they fall;

Dissevered from all other climes,

Yet compassing the whole round world,

Where’er are jests, and jousts at rhymes,

True love, and careless, jovial times,

Great souls by jilting Fortune whirled,

Men that were born before their day,

Kingly, without a realm to sway,

Yet monarchs in Bohemia;

IX.

And errant wielders of the quill;

And old-world princes, strayed afar,

In thread-bare exile chasing still

The glimpses of a natal star;

And Woman—taking refuge there

With woman’s toil, and trust, and song,

And something of a piquant air

Defiant, as who must and dare

Steer her own shallop, right or wrong.

A certain noble nature schools,

In scorn of smaller, mincing rules,

The maidens of Bohemia.

X.

But we pursued our pilgrimage

Far on, through hazy lengths of road,

Or crumbling cities gray with age;

And stayed in many a queer abode,

Days, seasons, years,—wherein were born

Of infant pilgrims, one, two, three;

And ever, though with travel worn,

Nor garnered for the morrow’s morn,

We seemed a merry company,—

We, and the mates whom friendship, or

What sunshine fell within our door,

Drew to us in Bohemia.

XI.

For Ambrose—priest without a cure—

Christened our babes, and drank the wine

He blessed, to make the blessing sure;

And Ralph, the limner—half-divine

The picture of my Blanche he drew,

As Saint Cecilia ’mong the caves,—

She singing; eyes a holy blue,

Upturned and rapturous; hair, in hue,

Gold rippled into amber waves.

There, too, is wayward, wild Annette,

Danseuse and warbler and grisette,

True daughter of Bohemia,

XII.

But all by turns and nothing long;

And Rose, whose needle gains her bread;

And bookish Sibyl,—she whose tongue

The bees of Hybla must have fed;

And one—a poet—nowise sage

For self, but gay companion boon

And prophet of the golden age;

He joined us in our pilgrimage

Long since, one early Autumn noon

When, faint with journeying, we sate

Within a wayside hostel-gate

To rest us in Bohemia.

XIII.

In rusty garb, but with an air

Of grace, that hunger could not whelm,

He told his wants, and—“Could we spare

Aught of the current of the realm—

A shilling?”—which I gave; and so

Came talk, and Blanche’s kindly smile;

Whereat he felt his heart aglow,

And said: “Lo, here is silver! lo,

Mine host hath ale! and it were vile,

If so much coin were spent by me

For bread, when such good company

Is gathered in Bohemia.”

XIV.

Richer than Kaiser on his throne,

A royal stoup he bade them bring;

And so, with many of mine own,

His shilling vanished on the wing;

And many a skyward-floating strain

He sang, we chorusing the lay

Till all the hostel rang again;

But when the day began to wane,

Along the sequel of our way

He kept us pace; and, since that time,

We never lack for song and rhyme

To cheer us, in Bohemia.

XV.

And once we stopped a twelvemonth, where

Five-score Bohemians began

Their scheme to cheapen bed and fare,

Upon a late-discovered plan;

“For see,” they said, “the sum how small

By which one pilgrim’s wants are met!

And if a host together fall,

What need of any cash at all?”

Though how it worked I half forget,

Yet still the same old dance and song

We found,—the kindly, blithesome throng

And joyance of Bohemia.

XVI.

Thus onward through the Magic Land,

With varying chance. But once there past

A mystic shadow o’er our band,

Deeper than Want could ever cast,

For, oh, it darkened little eyes!

We saw our youngest darling die,

Then robed her in her palmer’s guise,

And crossed the fair hands pilgrim-wise,

And, one by one, so tenderly,

Came Ambrose, Sibyl, Ralph, and Rose,

Strewing each sweetest flower that grows

In wildwoods of Bohemia.

XVII.

But last the Poet, sorrowing, stood

Above the tiny clay, and said:

“Bright little Spirit, pure and good,

Whither so far away hast fled?

Full soon thou tryest that other sphere:

Whate’er is lacking in our lives

Thou dost attain; for Heaven is near,

Methinks, to pilgrims wandering here,

As to that one who never strives

With fortune,—has not come to know

The pride and pain that dwell so low

In valleys of Bohemia.”

XVIII.

He ceased, and pointed solemnly

Through western windows; and we saw

That lustrous castle of the sky

Gleam, touched with flame; and heard with awe,

About us, gentle whisperings

Of unseen watchers hovering near

Our dead, and rustling angel wings!

Now, whether this or that year brings

The valley’s end, or, haply, here

Our pilgrimage for life must last,

We know not; but a sacred past

Has hallowed all Bohemia.

THE DIAMOND WEDDING.

O love! Love! Love! what times were those,

Long ere the age of belles and beaux

And Brussels lace and silken hose,

When, in the green Arcadian close,

You married Psyche, under the rose,

With only the grass for bedding!

Heart to heart, and hand in hand,

You followed Nature’s sweet command—

Roaming lovingly through the land,

Nor sighed for a Diamond Wedding.

So have we read, in classic Ovid,

How Hero watched for her beloved,

Impassioned youth, Leander.

She was the fairest of the fair,

And wrapt him round with her golden hair,

Whenever he landed cold and bare,

With nothing to eat and nothing to wear

And wetter than any gander;