Produced by David Ross and PG Distributed Proofreaders

POEMS

BY

WALTER R. CASSELS

LONDON

1856

CONTENTS.

MABEL HEBE SPRING THE BITTERN GONE BEATRICE DI TENDA SERENADE THE EAGLE WHITHER? THE MORNING STAR THE DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS THE DARK RIVER WYTHAM WOODS THE STAR IN THE EAST UNDER THE SEA WIND A CHALLENGE AT PARTING A WITHERED ROSE-BUD DE PROFUNDIS THE MOTHER SONNET—DATUR HORA QUIETI SEA MARGINS SONG—"LOVE TOOK ME SOFTLY BY THE HAND" THE BELL LLEWELLYN A SHELL THE RAVEN SONNETS ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON THE PASSAGE-BIRDS MEMNON A CONCEIT THE LAND'S END THE OLDEN TIME FATHER AND SON ORION THE GOLDEN WATER YEARS AGO VULCAN SONG—"THE DAYS ARE PAST" GUY OF WARWICK AT EVENTIDE A DIRGE TO MY DREAM-LOVE A NIGHT SCENE SONNET—"O CLOUD SO GOLDEN" FLOATING DOWN THE RIVER ORPHEUS THE SCULPTOR

M A B E L,
A Sketch.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

ORAN, a Speculative Philosopher.
MABEL, his Wife.
HER FATHER.
MAURICE, }
ROGER, } her brothers.

MABEL.

SCENE I—A Study. Books, pictures, and sculpture about the room, interspersed with chemical and other instruments, globes, &c.; a singular blending of science with art, indicating a delicate and speculative organization in the arranger.

ORAN, MAURICE, and ROGER.

ORAN.

Well, well! and so ye deem I love her not,
Ye and the world that love so passing well?—
That still I trifle with her bright young life,
As the wind plays with some frail water-bell,
Wafting it wantonly about the sky,
Till at some harsher breath it breaks and dies?

MAURICE.

Nay, not thus far would our reflections go.
Friendship paints not with the foul brush of Conscience!
But thou, a man of dark and mystic aims,
Tracking out Science through forbidden ways,
Leaving the light and trodden paths to grope
'Mid fearful speculations and wild dreams,
May'st hunt thy Will-o'-the-wisp until thou lead'st
Our sister, all unwitting, to her death.

ROGER.

That shalt thou answer unto us. Thy life
Shall be to her life like the sun and shade,
Lost in one setting.

ORAN.

Ay! thou sayest well—
Thou sayest well. How oft a random shaft
Striketh King Truth betwixt the armour-joints!—
One life, one sun, one setting for us both.

Which way, then, tend your fears? What certain aim
Have all these strokes you level at my ways?

ROGER.

We say that you, against all light received,
Against all laws of prudence and of love,
Practise dark magic on our sister's soul—
That by strange motions, incantations, spells,
So work you on her spirit that strange sleep,
Sombre as Death's dark shadow, presently
Steals o'er her fragile body, dulls her sense,
And wraps her wholly in its chill embrace;
That thus, spell-bound, lost to the living world,
She lies till thou again unwind her chain,
And wak'st her feebly to this life of earth.
Thus dost thou peril her, thou blinded man!
Sett'st her dear life against thy moonstruck thought,
And slay'st thy dove on Folly's altar-steps.

MAURICE.

Ay! if you loved her, would your eyes have miss'd
The moonish faintness that o'erlaps her now,
Melting the fresh, full, ruddy glow of health
To loveliness most heavenly, yet most sad?
Her cheeks, where youth once summer'd into roses,
Glow now with faint exotic loveliness,
Not native to this harsh and gusty earth;
And from her large dark eyes there seems to gaze
Some angel with mute, melancholy looks,
As from a casement at this jarring world.

ORAN.

Ha! then you too have seen it; it is not,
O Heaven!—is not delusion, this fond dream,
But even now it works, works bliss for her.
Proceed, Sir … you were saying … Sir, I list …
That in her eyes you saw angelic fire,
Pure from the dross, the dimming clouds of earth,
Deem'd now her frame ethereal, unakin
To earth's clay-moulded fabrics—such, perchance,
As entering heaven, might have left its dust
At the bright folding portals, sandal-like,
And thence, repassing in seraphic trance,
Still left unclaim'd the vesture at the gate!

ROGER.

You glory in her weakness! 'Tis too much—
Rash man, beware, a bitter end will come.

MAURICE.

I fain would think that study hath o'erwrought
Your heated brain to this short fever fit,
That soon may pass and leave your vision clear.
In truth, I note strange changes in your mien—
A wandering glance, quick, restless eagerness,
Rapt snatches of deep thought, wherein the mind
Seems cleaving heaven with wild extatic wings:
Your cheeks are pale, and all your nervous frame
Thrills 'neath some strange enthusiastic touch.
Lay by your books awhile, and breathe again,
As in those days gone by, the country air,
The sweet, calm country air, where perfume floats
Like love that finds no heart so godlike large
Can clasp it wholly in its one embrace,
But overflows creation with its bliss.
Thus shall you quickly exorcise this madness,
And cleanse your brain of these pernicious dreams.

ORAN.

This madness! I bethink me of the past,
Of all the great and noble who have toil'd
Amid the deep dark mines of burning thought,
Wearing out life to quarry forth the Truth;
Of all the seers and watchers, early and late
Waiting with eager blood-hot eyes the light
Rising afar in some untrodden East,
Full of divine and precious influence,
Calling, like Mezzuin from his minaret,
The thankless world to worship and be glad;
Of all the patient thinkers of the earth
Who talk'd with Wisdom like familiar friends,
Until their voices unaccustom'd grew,
And men stared blankly at them as they pass'd:
I do bethink me of them all, and know
How each walk'd through his labyrinth of scorn,
And was accounted mad before all men.
But patience!—Winter bears within its breast
The nascent seeds of golden harvest-time.

This only shall I tell you of my ways—
Straying, now here, now there, 'mid science' wealth,
I have discover'd a vast hidden power—
A power that perfected shall surely work
Great revolution in all human laws,—
Where stop its courses I as yet know not;
'Tis to me like the sun, that all the day
Shines godlike in my vision, and, at night,
Though darkness hide its brightness, still, I feel,
Shines on in glory over other spheres;
It is a power beneficent and good,
That grants to spirit infinite control
Over all matter, and that frees the soul
From its flesh shackles, and its sensuous means.
What else its influences, or for health,
For happiness, or blessing, I say not—
Save that such glimpses of vast powers unknown
Dawn on my wondering mind, that like a man
Standing upon some giddy pinnacle,
With a whole world seen faint and small below,
I close mine eyes for very fear and joy.
To her, my Mabel, do I bear in love
Some first-fruits of my finding—make her rich,
That, gazing through her eyes, I may behold
How sweet is heaven, how dear is happiness.
This is the sum of that I work on her;
Then, though I thank you for your good intent,
Leave me untroubled to my life of thought,
Leave her all trustful in the arms of love.

ROGER.

You love her not, false man! your heart and soul
Are steep'd in science till not e'en the heel,
Achilles-like, is vulnerable left.
Ay! wear thus feeling's semblance as you will,
Pale visionary! no more shall I pause,
But with strong hand arrest your mad career!
Soon we return arm'd with a father's power,
To snatch our sister from your fearful arts.

MAURICE.

Oh! if you love her, Sir, as once you did—
If yet upon the dial of your life
Her sun mark out the short sweet hours of joy,
And all too swiftly on the shadows glide—
If yet you prize the loving heart you hold,
From this most mad delusion waken up,
That blindly blights her whom it seeks to bless;
Cease your Utopian and unsafe essays,
And rather turn your studious care to call
The fading roses back into her cheeks,
And shed health's gladness on her feeble frame;
Reflect whilst yet you may, lest late Remorse
Stalk, ghost-like, through the chambers of your soul,
Haunting their gloomy void for evermore.

[Exeunt Maurice and Roger.

SCENE II.—The Same.

ORAN.

ORAN.

Not love her! O my God! thou knowest me—
Thou, looking through me as the sun at noon
That searches through the being of the world—
Thou setting life against thy glory light,
As men hold up a crystal 'gainst the sun,
Making its frame as nothing in the blaze!

Lo! my heart was like a chaotic world,
Still, silent, 'mid the dreary waste of time.
Man there was not in all its desert bounds,
But hoary ruins of past wondrous things,
Old unbeliefs, fierce doubts, unsightly dreams,
That wearing out their wild hot-breathing life,
Wearily stretch'd their writhing shapes to die;
Then came she moving o'er my awe-hush'd soul,
Like God's own Spirit over earth's void waters,
And there arose order and life through all.
She was my sun, set high to rule the day,
And make my world all bright and beautiful;
She was my moon, amid the stilly night
Subduing darkness with her quiet smiles,
And stealing softly through my anxious dreams,
A sweet-soul'd hostage for departed day;
She was my summer, clothing all my life
With fragrant blossoms of delight and joy.

[A pause.

Not love her! 'Tis as yesterday the time
When first my love stole fainting to her ear,
In deep scarce-worded murmurs of desire.
'Twas evening, and above the weary land
Silence lay dreaming in a golden hush;
The summer's sunset yellow'd in the wheat,
And the ripe year, with harvest promise full,
Slept on the wavy slopes and verdant leas,
Like one who through long hours of toil at last
Sees the glad work accomplish'd, and in peace
Flings him along the meadows to repose;
Below, the bells of even faintly chimed,
And sent their hymnal music up the breeze
To where I stood, half-praying, by her side.
Then all my words and thoughts that came and went,
Waving about the secret of my love,
Like billows plashing on a silent shore,
All at one gush flow'd from me o'er her heart,
And broke the banks of silence; then my love
Sank through her liquid eyes to read her soul,
Like diver that through waving water-floods
Seeketh the priceless pearl that lies below,
And there found life—found joy for evermore:
It is as yesterday that time to me,—
Sweet time, when love entwines the locks of life
With fragrant blossoms, like a one-hour's bride,
And claspeth summer with soft pleading arms,
That she, though ne'er so eager to be gone,
Still tarries smiling for a last embrace,
And drops her hoarded flowers upon the way:
It is as yesterday—my love the same—
The love that led me through all heavy tasks,
All lonely watchings by the midnight lamp,
To win the fame that still might shine on her;
And e'en—how dear the thought!—this wondrous power,
This godlike influence which has dawn'd on me,
Thus from my love takes colouring and aim!
Not love her! Well, well, I'll forget the word—
The sun shines on, though blind eyes see it not.

[A pause.

It cannot be—this aim so deeply—weigh'd,
So long and calmly sifted, cannot fail.
O wondrous power! great mystery of life!
Reserved for me of all the sons of men;
Fruit ripening high upon the wall of heaven
For me to pluck with eager, trembling hands,
And press its vintage out for thirsting worlds
More blessed still that into her sweet cup
First may I pour the clearest of the wine—
For her—for her—ah, yes! for her supreme,
I struggle onward through this blinding light,
E'en at whose dazzling threshold I might stand,
Pale, trembling, like a terror-smitten soul,
Waiting bewilder'd at the gate of heaven.
Yet once again let me the plan review,
Searching within my soul of souls each part,
That doubt or danger, lurking there, may thus
By love's keen-scented instincts hunted be.—

[A long pause.

Yes! it is so—this deep magnetic sleep,
That from my being passes upon her,
Bindeth the body close in deepest thrall,
But setteth free the soul. What real need
Hath spirit of these sensuous avenues,
Through which the soul looks feebly on the world?
This power then opes the prison door awhile,
And sends the spirit chainless o'er the earth.
This know I—without eyes the spirit sees,
Gains instant cognizance of hidden things,
And counts all space for nothing; knowledge comes
Upon it with the falling of the flesh,
So that there is no thing in earth or heaven
But to the unhoused spirit native is—
The mantle falls and leaves the Prophet angel!
Body, then, is the prison-house of soul,
And freedom is its highest happiness,
Its heaven, its primal being full of joy.
This power that holdeth thus the keys of life,
Can then at will give moments of release,
Which to the soul are as the water-brooks
That scantly rise amid a sun-scorch'd waste:
These, oft repeated, must at length destroy
The thraldom of the flesh, and give at will
A freer issue to the practised soul—
At lowest gladden it with gleams of bliss,
Glimpses of heaven amid this exile time.
Yes! thus, my Mabel, shall thy prison'd soul
Rise to its sister angels heavenward still;
And soon the mortal fetters shall hang loose,
Scarce clogging aught its motions glad and free.
Thus shall thy young fair frame no longer be
A prison, but a meetest dwelling-place,
Full of all infinite delights, and dear
As is its nest to the heaven-soaring lark,
That yearns down, singing, to it from the sky.
These men, did they not see it in thine eyes,
Amazed and fearful at the dazzling sight,
As some rude passer gazing up aloft
Sees from some casement, unawares, a face
That makes his great rough heart on sudden rock
With wonder and with worship—in her frame
Did they not see the mortal waxing faint,
The immortal fusing it with heavenly fire?
Ay! the charm works, and thou, my life, my love,
Reapest the first-fruits of my long, long toil.

SCENE III.—A Boudoir. Flowers about it, in beautifully shaped Vases. A Greenhouse at one end. The window-panes delicately tinted, and hung with light fleecy draperies. MABEL working, and singing in a low voice.

MABEL (singing).

At night when stars shine bright and clear,
The soft winds on the casements blow,
And round the chamber rustle low,
Like one unseen, whose voice we hear,
On tiptoe stealing to and fro—

At night when clouds are dark and drear,
They moan about the lattice sore,
And murmur sighs for evermore,
That fill us with a chilly fear,
Oft glancing at the well-barr'd door—

At night, in moonlight or in gloom,
They wander round the drooping thatch,
Like some poor exile thence to catch
Fond glimpses of each well-loved room,
And sigh beside the unraised latch—

O unseen Wind! art thou alone,
Thus breathing round the sleeping land?
Or roams with thee a spirit band,
Blending sad voices with thine own,—
Voices that once with cheerful tone
Made music round the sleeping land?

ORAN (from the Greenhouse, unperceived).

Ah! her dear voice. How all my nature thrills,
My heart, my brain, beneath the mellow sound,
Like some great dome with holy music fill'd!
She is the lark, above my listening soul
Hovering still with carols from Heaven's gate.
She is the perfumed breeze, that evermore
Sweeps music from the Aeolian strings of life.
She is the sea, that fills with sweetest sound
The yearning earth that folds it in its arms.
Not love her—Ah! dear heart, how utterly!

[A pause.

What if amid these spirit wanderings,
This so mysterious power can grant at will,—
What if the angels, smitten with her grace,
Woo'd her away for ever from my heart?
The dove came twice again unto the ark,
With messages of peace, and hope, and joy,
But the third time return'd not. She's my dove—
Oh! wing'd she ever from my longing heart,
The waters of my life would quick subside,
And leave me stranded on the shoals of Time.
What if God saw her hovering aloft,
And smiled her in amongst his cherubim?
What if the draught of bliss should, Lethe-like,
Blot me for ever from her memory,
So that she sought me never, never more?
Oblivion! take again this fearful power—
No more shall Fate be tempted with my wealth,
Lest covetous it rob me of my all.

[A pause.

And yet, these are but dreams, poor selfish fears,
That scum-like float and dim Love's limpid tide.
Shall I thus cage my bird from liberty,
And let it beat its life out on the bars,
Lest some dear bliss detain it in the heavens?
Shall I spill rashly forth this wine of joy,
Because for me within the crystal cup
Some dregs may haply rest when she has drunk?
Ah, no! for her alone shall I take thought.
The first pure sacrifice of Love is self!
There is no peril. God that sends the power
Will send the guardian angel to direct.
I work for her—Heaven speed the work of love.

[Enters the room.

MABEL.

I waited for thee, love—'tis past the hour,
And on my dial slumbers Time in shade
When thou comest not to sun me.

ORAN.

I but stood
There on the threshold, following thy voice
Away, away through mazy lengths of dreams.
Music—low music from the lips we love,
Is the true siren that still lures the soul
From cares of earth to the Enchanted Isles.

MABEL.

Methinks that thou art sad to-day, my husband.
Let me share with thee pain as well as joy;
It is the sweetest right that love can claim.
We give our joys to strangers, but our grief
Sighs itself only forth for those we love.
We hang our sorrows on the loved one's ear,
Like jewell'd pendents for a bridal feast.

ORAN.

Tell me, my Mabel, if within this sleep,
To which mine art oft leads thee, there should come
Some angel bright with Heaven's reflected light,
Wooing thee upward with the songs of bliss,—
Tell me, my Mabel, wouldst thou freely go,
Leaving this fair earth-vesture only here,
Leaving me lornly gazing on the sky,
Blotting its sun out with my blinding tears?

MABEL.

There is no angel but the angel Death
Could sever me from thee who art all my life!
What Heaven is there but that which Love creates?
What songs of Bliss, save those by Love intoned?
Ah! thou to me art as the sun to Day,
That dies out with its setting utterly—
Thou art the ever-flowing crystal spring,
That keeps the fountain of my being full—
Thou art the heart that beats with measured pulse
The joyous moments of my flowing life—
Leave thee? How canst thou wrong me with the thought?

ORAN.

Dear Mabel!—Yet to-day thy brothers came,
Taxing me harshly, and in cruel terms,
With practising against thy precious life.

MABEL.

Oh, Heaven!

ORAN.

They dread these trances, whose dim fame
Hath floated on the ignorant air to them.
They deem this priceless power, new-fall'n on me,
And treasured for thy sake, my best beloved,
A most pernicious art, that may, perchance,
Work evil upon thee; say, dost thou fear?
My Mabel, hast thou faith and trust in me?
Shall I proceed, or break this magic wand,
Wherewith they deem that I am dower'd withal?

MABEL.

I trust in thee, my love, with perfect faith—
Am I not as the floating gossamer,
Steering through ether on thy guiding breath?
Am I not as the clay within thy hand,
Taking the shape and image of thy thought?
Heed not these idle tongues, that launch their doubts
In erring love against thy watchful care.
That which thou doest I accept with joy;
I wait for thee as waits a full-sail'd bark
The coming breeze to waft it o'er the sea.

ORAN.

Fear not! I do well think no peril lies
Within this power, but virtue of rare worth,
Else nevermore its wand had waved o'er thee.—
Tell me, dost bring no memory back to Earth
Of all these glorious wanderings above?
No certain visions of the hidden things
Thou seest in that far mystic spirit-land?

MABEL.

Nay! it must be as thou dost tell me oft,
The soul doth lose its secrets at Earth's gate,
And all the blinding glories it hath known
Shed but their mystic influence over life.
Therefore, it may be, 'tis I nought retain
Of that which passeth in these hours of trance.

ORAN.

Yet strive once more to grasp the fleeting dreams,
Else shall I doubt that which I fondly hope.—
Sleep, love, and let thy spirit bask awhile
In Heaven's own sunshine;—yet forget not me!

[Makes passes over her, which shortly sink
her into a state of trance.

'Tis done! she's free! and now this lovely frame
Lies tenantless, a casket whose pure gems
Now sparkle 'mid the opal lights of Heaven.
This earth seems very lone and cold to me
Now she is absent, though a little space!
My heart goes restless wandering around,
Seeking her through old haunts and vacant nooks,
Like one who, waking from some troubled dream,
Findeth his love soft stolen from his side,
And straightway seeketh in a dim amaze
All through the moonlight for her straying feet.

[A pause.

Where art thou, O my dove! about the sky?
Ruffling thy breast across what honey breeze?
Flashing white pinions 'gainst the golden sun,
That fain would nest thee on his ardent breast?
Art thou soft floating through the joys of Heaven,
With Earth far, far beneath thee, like a star
Struggling up through the tremulous sea of light,
That sucks its life down from the eye of day?
About the gate of Heaven there floats my dove,
Fann'd by the breath of melodies divine;
Opes there no casement soft to take her in,
And lay her in the bosom of delight?
O dove, white dove, now at the gate of Heaven!
Wilt thou wing homeward ere the eventide,
On shining pinions to thine own soft nest?

[A pause.

O wonderful! Thou mansion tenantless,
Unswept by memory, untrod by thought,
Where all lies tranced in motionless repose;
No whisper stirring round the silent place,
No foot of guest across the startled halls,
No rustling robes about the corridors,
No voices floating on the waveless air,
No laughters, no sweet songs like angel dreams
On silver wings among the archèd domes,—
No swans upon the mere—no golden prow,
Parting the crystal tide to Pleasure's breeze,—
No flapping sail before the idle wind,—
No music pulsing out its great wild heart
In sweetest passion-beats the noontide through,—
No lovers gliding down sun-chequer'd glades,
In dreams that open wide the Eden gate,
And waft them past the guardian Seraphim.
Sleep over all the Present and the Past—
The Future standing idle at the gate,
Gazing amazed, like one who, in hot haste
Bearing great tidings to some palace porch,
Findeth the place deserted.

[A noise without; enter in haste Father,
Maurice and Roger.

How now?—Friends, you are welcome!

FATHER.

Where's my child,
That you maltreat, most rash and guilty man?

ORAN.

Sir, you are over hasty in your words—
Your child is here.—

[Points to Mabel, who still lies entranced.

FATHER.

Mabel! wake, Mabel—O my God! she's dead!

MAURICE.

How!—Dead!

ROGER.

Ay, murder'd!

FATHER.

O! my child! my child!

ORAN.

Peace! she is well—Sleep folds her in his arms,
And each upheaving of his drowsy breast
Is like a billow upon pleasure's sea,
Wafting her on to far Hesperides.

FATHER.

This is no healthy sleep that wraps her now,
Else would she waken at my anxious cry;
'Tis death-sleep, wretched man.

MAURICE.

Let's bear her hence.

ROGER.

Nay! let him now unwind his magic spells,
Or fall our vengeance on his guilty head.

ORAN.

Dismiss your fears, and cease your threats. Old man,
Soon shall I prove how much you wrong my love;
Thus do I call the spirit home again,
And wave the slumber backward from her eyes.

[Makes passes to awaken her, but without effect after long persistence.

FATHER.

Impostor! would you mock e'en Death itself,
Calling it sleep!—You see, Death mocks you back.

MAURICE.

In vain! no further seek to blind our fears.

ORAN.

'Tis strange!… stand back, Sirs … 'tis your influence
Hath neutralized my power—stand off, I say!

[Continuing the passes in great agitation.

ROGER.

By Heaven!—It is too much—Let fall the mask!
O villain! you have done your worst at last,
And ta'en the sweetest life in all the land;
But vengeance swift shall follow on your track.

ORAN.

Hold! hold! young man, talk not of vengeance here;
This sleep shall pass and shame your blood-hot words—
If it pass'd not the vengeance were forestall'd.

[A silence—continuing the passes.

O Mabel! Mabel! hear me where thou art!
Come to the lonely heart that yearns for thee,—
Come to the eyes that seek thee through salt tears!
Patience, Sirs, now methinks the sense returns;
A smile steals o'er her lips, and roseate hues
Make morning on her downy cheek again:
Back … back—my anguish shall unwind the charm!

[A silence.

FATHER.

Sir, I acquit you—pity you—perceive
You loved her, and have err'd against yourself;
But cease these struggles that but mock us now,
They nought avail—my child is dead!…

ORAN.

Mabel! Mabel!

HEBE.

Life's chalice is empty—pour in! pour in!
What?—Pour in Strength!
Strength for the struggle through good and ill;
Through good—that the soul may be upright still,
Unspoil'd by riches, unswerving in will,
To walk by the light of unvarnish'd truth,
Up the flower-border'd path of youth;—
Through ill—that the soul may stoutly hold
Its faith, its freedom through hunger and cold,
Steadfast and pure as the true men of old.
Strength for the sunshine, strength for the gloom,
Strength for the conflict, strength for the tomb;
Let not the heart feel a craven fear—
Draw from the fountain deep and clear;
Brim up Life's chalice—pour in! pour in!
Pour in Strength!

Life's chalice is empty—pour in! pour in!
What—Pour in Truth!
Drink! till the mists that enshroud the soul,
Like sleep's drowsy shadows backward roll,
And show the spirit its radiant goal,
That nought may blind it all its days,
Or tempt it down earth's crooked ways;
Drink! till the soul in the eastern skies
Behold the glorious star arise,
That guides its steps to the promised prize;
Drink! till the strong elixir fire
Each aim of the being with pure desire,
Nerve the courage to dare the world,
Though a thousand scoffers their arrows hurl'd;
Brim up Life's chalice—pour in! pour in!
Pour in Truth!

Life's chalice is empty—pour in! pour in!
What?—Pour in Love!
To quench the thirst of the longing heart,
Heal all its sorrows with wondrous art,
And freshness and joy to its hopes impart;
To make the blossoms of life expand,
And shed their sweetness on every hand;
To melt the frost of each sullen mood,
Cement the bond of true brotherhood,
Subdue the evil of Time with good,
And join the links which death hath riven
Betwixt this fallen sphere and Heaven,
Raising the soul above the sky
On wings of Immortality.
Brim up Life's chalice—pour in! pour in!
Pour in Love!

Life's chalice is empty—pour in! pour in!
What?—Pour in Hope!
The soul looks out through the coming years,
Blinded by doubts, and blinded by tears,
Sear'd with the iron of tyrant fears:—
Is there a break in Life's gloomy sky?
Can the heart reach it before it die?
The path is weary, the desert wide,
And Sorrow stalks by the pilgrim's side—
Oh for a draught of Hope's crystal tide
To cheer the parch'd and fainting one,
Until his toilsome race be run,
And the bright mirage fall from the sky,
Displaced by a sweet reality.
Brim up Life's chalice—pour in! pour in!
Pour in Hope!

Life's chalice is empty—pour in! pour in!
What?—Pour in Faith!
What is Life's fabric, so nobly plann'd,
Its stately dome, and its ramparts grand,
If their foundation rest on the sand,
Ready to shift with Time's ebbing stream,
And melt away like a gorgeous dream?
God! let us trust Thee in very sooth,
Feel that the visions, the dreams of youth,
Its glorious hopes are all based on Truth;—
Thus shall the purpose of Life grow clear;
Love shall be freed from the bondage of fear;
And the soul calmly await the morrow
Untroubled by visions of coming sorrow.
Brim up Life's chalice—pour in! pour in!
Pour in Faith!

SPRING.

On, like a giant, stalketh the strong Wind,
Wrapping the clouds about him, close and dark,
Rifting Creation's soul, for rage is blind,—
No pity hath he for the Earth all stark,
Shivering beneath the loose and drifting snow,
A scanty shroud to hide the dead below.

Dead? There is life within the mother's breast—
So claspeth she her young ones to her heart;—
"The time will come—the time will come—rest! rest!
Let the mad greybeard to his North depart;
Earth shall arise and mock him in his grave—
Patience a little, let the dotard rave!"

The palsied boughs grew still—there came a pause,
And Nature's heart scarce beat for listening,
Gazing abroad from all the tempest-flaws,
With prayerful longing for the saviour Spring;
And when she heard Spring coming up the sky,
Earth rose and threw her shroud off joyfully.

Then she who once had wept like Niobe,
Beheld her children springing round her feet,
Raising young voices in the early day,
That never to her ear had seem'd so sweet;
And the soft murmur of a thousand rills
Proclaim'd how Spring had loosed them on the hills.

The bright Evangel came, girt round with mirth,
And garlanded with youth, and crown'd with flowers
"Awake! arise! ye sons of the new birth,
And move to the quick measure of the hours!
Summer is coming—go ye forth to meet her,
With sweetest hymeneal songs to greet her."

So there arose straightway a joyous train,
Gather'd by every nook and hedgerow shade,
That in its passage o'er the verdant plain,
'Still in the heart a thrilling music made—
Sweet pilgrims they of Love in youth's gay time,
Leading the year on to its golden prime.

The birds sang homage to her evermore;
And myriad wingèd things, whose radiant dyes
Made sunshine beautiful, still hover'd o'er,
And bore her witness in the sunlit skies;
And rising from the tomb in glad amaze,
Came many a sainted flower to hymn her praise.

Thus from the streams, and rivers, from the sea,
From the stirr'd bosom of the mighty hills,
From every glade there rose continually
A blessing for her, till with joyous thrills
Earth's bosom heaved, and in man's heart a voice
Echoed the anthem—"Spring is come! Rejoice!"

THE BITTERN.

The reeds are idly waving o'er the marshy ground,
The rank and ragged herbage rots on many a mound,
And desolate pools and marshes deadly lie around.

There is no life nor motion, save the winds that fly
With the close-muffled clouds in silence through the sky,
There is no sound to stir it, save the Bittern's cry;

The Bittern, sitting sadly on the fluted edges
Of pillars once the prop and pride of palace ledges,
Now smear'd with damp decay and sunk in slimy sedges;

Shatter'd and sunken, with the sculptured architrave
Peering above the surface of the sluggish wave,
Like a gaunt limb thrust fleshless from a shallow grave.

The Bittern sitteth sadly on the time-worn stone,
Upon life's mouldering relics, fearfully alone,
Searing the silence ofttimes with his solemn tone.

The Bittern—monarch of the sad and dreary place,
Mocking the pride and pageant of a ruin'd race,
Whose very name's forgotten, and whose deeds have left no trace.

The pleasant songs of peace, the lute, the lover's sigh,
The statesman's eloquence, the warrior's battle-cry
Have pass'd,—and like their echo from the heedless sky,
The lonely Bittern's note comes sadly floating by.

Oh, melancholy sound! Shall thus for ever end
The glory and the greatness whither all hopes tend,
And as the Past comes booming shall the Present wend?

No ear to listen to the old and hard-earn'd glory,
That wore the heart out, made the locks grow scant and hoary,
No ear to listen, and no tongue to tell the story!

The Bittern sitteth 'midst the marshes of the Past,
Sitteth amidst the ruins, whilst the hours fleet fast,
And at his own hoarse cry he looketh round aghast.

The hours fleet fast unnoted, and the time is nigh,
When even he on noiseless wings shall soar on high,
Till his deep note is lost amid the azure sky.

GONE.

The night is dark, and evermore
The thick drops patter on the pane
The wind is weary of the rain,
And round the thatches moaneth sore;
Dark is the night, and cold the air;
And all the trees stand stark and bare,
With leaves spread dank and sere below,
Slow rotting on the plashy clay,
In the God's-acre far away,
Where she, O God! lies cold below—
Cold, cold below!

And many a bitter day and night
Have pour'd their storms upon her breast,
And chill'd her in her long, long rest,
With foul corruption's icy blight;
Earth's dews are freezing round the heart,
Where love alone so late had part;
And evermore the frost and snow
Are burrowing downward through the clay,
In the God's-acre far away,
Where she, O God! lies cold below,—
Cold, cold below!

Those eyes so full of light are dim;
And the clear chalice of her youth,
All sparkling up with love and truth,
Hath Death drain'd keenly from the brim;—
No more can mortal ear rejoice
In the soft music of her voice;
No wistful eye, through tears of woe,
Can pierce down through the heavy clay,
In the God's-acre far away,
Where she, O God! lies cold below,—
Cold, cold below.

A star shines, sudden, from the sky—
God's angel cometh, pure and bright,
Making a radiance through the night,
Unto the place where, mute, I lie,
Gazing up in rapt devotion,
Shaken by a deep emotion;
And my thoughts no longer go
Wandering o'er the plashy clay,
In the God's-acre far away,
Where she, O God! lay cold below—
Cold, cold below!

God's angel! ah I divinely bright!
But still the olden grace is there—
The soft brown eyes—the raven hair—
The gentle smile of calm delight,
That could such peace and joy impart—
The veil is rent from off my heart,
And gazing upward, well I know
The rain may beat upon the clay
In the God's-acre far away;
But she no longer lies below,
Enshrouded by the frost and snow—
Cold, cold below!

BEATRICE DI TENDA.

1.

It was too sweet—such dreams do ever fade
When Sorrow shakes the sleeper from his rest—
Life still to me hath been a masquerade,
Woe in Mirth's wildest, gayest mantle drest,
With the heart hidden—but the face display'd.

But now the vizard droppeth, crush'd and torn,
And there is nought left but some tinsell'd rags,
To mock the wearer in the face of morn,
As through the gaping world she feebly drags
Her day-born measure of reproach and scorn.

But that his hand should pluck the dream away—
And thus—and thus—O Heaven! it strikes too deep!
The knife that wounds me, if not meant to slay,
Stumbles upon my heart the while I weep:
So be it; no hand of mine its course shall stay.

False? false to him? Release me—let me go
Before Heaven's judgment-seat to make appeal;
Unfold the records of this life, and show
All that the secret pages can reveal,
That Heaven and Earth the inmost truth may know!

He cannot think it in his heart of hearts;
He cannot wear this falsehood in his soul,
Or deem me perjur'd; no delusive arts
Can make him blot my name from honour's scroll:
The sun will shine forth when the cloud departs.

Patience, my heart! Error is quick, but Truth
Moves slowly, but moves surely up the earth,
Wiping from age the heresies of youth,
And kindling warmth on the once blasted hearth:
Patience, my heart! and rage will turn to ruth.

There is no blush upon my brow, though tears
Are in mine eyes, and sorrow in my heart;
This sobbing breast heaves not with traitor fears:
No sighs for sin are these that sadly start,
And bear their bitter burden to thine ears.

And though my woman's strength bend like a reed
Before the flowing of Affliction's river,
Not, not for shame, nor for one strumpet deed
Doth this weak frame bow down, or faintly quiver,
As I stand forth alone in deadly need.

No! before thee, Filippo, and the world,
Cased in its petty panoply of scorn,
With myriad slavish lips in mocking curl'd,
Spotless and innocent, though most forlorn,
Here stand I, 'gainst the shafts Falsehood hath hurl'd.

2.

Confess'd! Confess'd the guilty act! What act?
What act, my Lord, that cometh home to me
Closer than each hot word, by torment rack'd,
Flies at the bidding of false tyranny,
That makes at will the pain-wrung falsehood fact?

There are full many sins confess'd, my Lord,
In pain of body and in pain of soul;
Some from the heart unearth'd by fire and sword,
And stealing forth amid the spirit's dole,
With fiery pain-sweat seething every word;

But none, my Lord, that riseth to the sky,
Bears guilt of mine upon its blister'd tongue;
Though torture's fire is quick to forge a lie,
None from these woman's lips could ere be wrung;
No! none, though on the rack-bed bound to die.

Poor youth! This poison from his writhing throat,
Those hellish instruments have haply drawn,
And pain hath conn'd the aspish lies by rote;
But to my heart no poison'd tooth hath gnawn,
For in its pulses lies Truth's antidote.

These limbs, my Lord, can do their task no more;
The rack hath crush'd them in its wild embrace,
So that Truth's firm-set attitude is o'er,
Else had I met my judges face to face,
And challenged justice, as in days of yore.

Yet is the spirit strong within me still,
And bears me up though manhood's strength succumb,
Unbent by any blighting blast of ill,
Through fiery trials, to all false witness dumb;
They cannot stain me, though perchance they kill!

I am a woman—weak to combat wrong,
But innocent, my Lord, I live or die;
And silent, though my God doth tarry long,
He sees me throughly with His holy eye,
And in my sore, sore need, doth make me strong.

This hapless youth! I do forgive him all;
E'en now remorse must rankle in his breast,
And no cool comfort cometh at his call,
To set the tumult of his soul at rest:
God's pity on his human weakness fall!

3.

Nay, falter not, good friend; thy news is sweet;
Thanks, thanks! Ay, sweet as is the welcome wind
That wafts the calm-lock'd seaman, smooth and fleet,
O'er tropic seas unto his sigh'd-for Ind;
Ay! Death will bring rest to my weary feet!

'Tis strange—but now the word falls on mine ear
Soft as the singing of a little child,
Heaven's music on light pinions floateth near,
Through all the strife of Earth, so harsh and wild;
Time's stream is rippling on its marges clear.

The end is nigh—the end of grief and pain,
And Life's broad gates are opening to my soul;
O'er my weak heart no more shall sorrow reign,
Enfranchised soon 'twill spurn the harsh control,
And never feel its empiry again.

No more, Filippo, shall my hapless life
Stand betwixt thee and pleasure,—Duty's knot
Shall soon be sever'd by the headsman's knife;
And upon memory one crimson blot
Shall be the record of a spotless wife.

'Tis well! I would not wander through a haunted mind,
Ghost-like and fearful in the evening hours;
Would God that I could leave my peace behind,
To bless thee when the night of sorrow lours,
And thou art rifted by Affliction's wind!

Shouldst thou awake when I have pass'd away,
Shouldst thou see clear the error and the wrong,
And Truth break on thee with its dazzling ray,
As sure it will, for Innocence is strong,
Then may my prayers thine every pang allay!

For thee, poor youth,—go not unto the grave
With a red lie upon thy trembling tongue—
Not for myself, but for thy soul I crave,—
Death's champions should have sinews tightly strung,
And thou wilt falter where I shall be brave.

In that dim world there flows no cooling stream,
No Lethe for the guilty and the fever'd,
There is no answer to their parching scream,
From hope and mercy they are ever sever'd,
There is no waking from their spectral dream.

Then pause or e'er thou stampest on thy soul
Eternally such misery as thine,
And writest on God's conscience-blasting scroll,
A wife's dishonour, and a tarnish'd line,
To weigh for thee thine everlasting dole…

Friend, let thine arm be strong, good sooth there's need,
Thou cuttest through a weary depth of woe!—
Well! that will pass, and soon rest come indeed,—
Ay, ay! the robe's white now … will't long be so?…
Yet better far the crimson tide should flow,
Than the heart inly with its anguish bleed.

SERENADE.

The day is fading from the sky,
And softly shines the Star of Even,
As watching with a lover's eye
The rest of Earth the peace of Heaven;
The dew is rising cool and sweet,
And, zephyr-rock'd, the flowers are closing,
The Night steals on with noiseless feet,
Oh! gentle be my love's reposing.

The streamlet, as it flows along,
Sounds like a voice 'mid childhood's slumbers;
And from the brake the Queen of Song
Pours forth her softest, clearest numbers;
And ever through the stirless leaves
The summer moon is brightly streaming,
Light fancies on the sward it weaves,—
As radiant be my lady's dreaming.

The silent hours move swiftly on,
With many a blessed vision laden,
That all the night has softly shone
Upon the hearts of youth and maiden;
And now, in golden splendors drest,
The new-born day is gladly breaking,
Oh! blissful be my lady's rest,
And sweet as Morn be her awaking.

THE EAGLE.

The winds sweep by him on his mountain throne,
Hurling the clouds together at his feet,
Till Earth is hidden, lost, and swallow'd up
As in the flood of waters,—and he sits
Eyeing the boundless firmament above,
Proud and unruffled, till his heart exclaims,—
"I am a god, Heaven is my home,—the Earth
Serveth me but for footstool."

The strong winds
Sweep on, and wide his pinions spreadeth he,—
"Bear me afar!" and on the mighty storm
He rides triumphant, spurning the dim Earth—
Whither, O whither goest thou? What star
Shall raise its mountains for thee? What far orb
Echo the fierceness of thy battle-cry?

What dost thou when the thunder is unloosed?
"I sit amongst the crags, and feel the Earth
Tremble beneath me, whilst my heart is firm.
I gaze upon the lightning, and my lid
Quivers not. Is their aught 'neath which my gaze
Quaileth, or waxeth faint—I read the sun
Undazzled where the stars grow dim and pale.

"Men gather them to battle—host meets host—
And I am borne aloft to marshal them,—
I, the great King of Battles, that go forth
Conquering and to conquer. So do men
Worship me. Oh! the mighty crash ascends,—
The shoutings, and the glory, and the woe,
One great full chaunt of homage to mine ears,—
And there I wait the while the sacrifice
Is slain before me; then down with a swoop
I get me from my skyey throne, and dye
Deep in the ruddy stream my talons grey—
Hurrah! hurrah! blood red's the flag for me!"

The time will come, proud one, when thou shalt die!
"Die! Death I cast from me as these loose plumes
That moult out from my pinions—let them go
To Earth, and Death go with them, both I leave
To mortals. What have I to do with Time?
Let him pat forth his speed—these wings of mine
Shall match him stroke for stroke, until we reach
The limits of his empire, and I shake him off
Like dust upon the threshold of the world."

WHITHER?

Whither away, youth, whither away,
With lightsome step, and with joyous heart,
And eyes that Hope's gay glances dart?
Whither away—whither away?

Into the world, the glorious world,
To gain the prize, of the brave and bold,
To snatch the crown from the age of gold—
Into the world—into the world!

Whither away, girl, whither away?
Thy soft blue eyes are suffused with love,
And thy smile is as bright as the sunshine above,—
Whither away, whither away?

Into the world, the beautiful world,
To meet the heart that must mate with mine,
And make the measure of life divine,—
Into the world, into the world.

Whither away, old man, whither away,
With locks of white, and form bent low,
And trembling hands, and steps so slow?
Whither away,—whither away?

Out of the world, Oh! the weary world,
With its empty pleasures, and poison'd joys,
Whose draught first gladdens, and then destroys—
Out of the world, out of the world,
With shatter'd hopes, and with feeble frame,
From Life's sharp struggle, and unsped aim,—
Out of the world, Oh! the weary world.

Whither away, poor one, whither away?
Hurrying swiftly, with weeping eyes,
And hectic cheeks, and smother'd sighs,
Whither away—whither away?

Out of the world, oh! the cold, cold world!
Oh! Father, my heart … but there is rest
For the sinking soul, and the bruisèd breast,
Out of the world—out of the world!

THE MORNING STAR.

Night's heavy hand is lifted up at last,
And my freed heart beats evenly again,
Unpress'd by that dull heavy weight of pain
Cast backward from the unforgotten Past;
Darkness no longer muffles Time's slow tread,
Till my own pulse-beat mark the moment fled.

Over the speeding shadows, calm and clear,
Rises the Star of Morn upon the Earth,
Eternal Prophet of the Sun-god's birth,
Shining serenely from its silver sphere
Mute mystic meanings on the strengthen'd soul,
Till all its night-bred vapours backward roll.

Oh, bright-eyed Angel of the undimm'd Light,
Standing upon Heaven's pinnacle, thy glance
Pierces like two-edged sword through many a trance,
Dividing Truth from Dreaming in its might,
Scourging Doubt's myriads from Day's temple-gate,
Leaving Life's worship pure, its heart elate.

No herald thou of Night, like Hesper fair,
Pale with the dreaded Future's shapeless gloom,
Leading the spirit to an unknown doom,
Through clouds and darkness heavy fraught with care,
Hesper the beautiful alone our guide,
Beset by blinding fears on every side.

Groping through Night's dim chambers wearily,
Longing to leave its cold sepulchral aisles,
Comest thou with thy calm assuring smiles,
Like Nemesis to lead us tenderly
Through all the dangers of the murky way,
Unto the golden portals of the Day.

Yea! Night and Death shall pass away, and we,
By resurrection sweet, arise new-born
Like thee in glory, bright one, Sons of Morn,
Without a shade on our felicity,
Eyeing the fleeting vapours of the Past,
As thou dost now Night's mists dissolving fast.

THE DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS.

How light and pleasant is the way
Across this quiet valley, whose soft mead
Springs lightly as the air that angels tread,
Beneath our footsteps weariless all day!
This crystal river flowing by our side,
One stream of sunshine, still has seem'd a guide
From Heaven in pure angelical array.

These purple mountains now are nigh,
That all the valley through have fill'd our eyes
With day-dreams of the distant Paradise,
Their sun-surrounded summits can descry—
We mount them now upon Hope's bounding wing,
That makes each short swift footstep long to spring
Suddenly upward to the shadeless sky.

The air methinks is lighter here—
And the breast heaves with full untrammell'd ease,
Drinking the life-draught of the fragrant breeze,
That wafts its soul-sighs to another sphere.
Earth groweth little in our eyes, but fair,
Fair as though sin had never enter'd there—
Earth groweth little as Heaven draweth near.

This rock—and then at last we stand
Upon the silent summit—scarce I dare
Gaze outward, through the clear and azure air,
Towards the radiance of the Promised Land:
I am so weak and fallen, friend, I fear
Mine eyes will dazzle, and the light appear
Darkness, so that I shall not see the Promised Land.

Look thou afar, and tell me true
What thou discernest!—Oh! my eyes grow dim,
And floods of golden glories seem to swim,
Wave upon wave, through all the cloudless blue,
Blinding me with their sunny splendors quite,
So that, amid the pure excess of light,
But vaguest visions faintly glimmer through.

Yet now, methinks, I seem to see
One spot of burning brightness, beaming clear
Through all the floating glory, like a sphere
Quenching light with its own intensity.
Yes! yes! it is the Holy City I behold,
With God's sun, from its towers of burnish'd gold,
Reflected broadly through immensity!

I must gaze out, although I die:
Ah! yes, I see it through my longing tears—
A great clear glow of glory there appears,
Like a light-fountain in the eastern sky,
That as I gaze pours forth its living light,
Flooding Creation, till the dazzled sight
Sees Heaven in all things that around it lie.

So shall it ever henceforth be—
Who, that discerneth once God's dwelling-place,
Can blot from vision the refulgent trace!
Ay! henceforth all things shall be Heaven to me—
And as I journey on shall brightly rise
Divinest semblances of Paradise—
Heaven mine in Time and in Eternity.

THE DARK RIVER.

Across the mountains and the hills,
Across the valleys and the swelling seas,
By lakes and rivers whose deep murmur fills
Earth's dreams with sweet prophetic melodies,
Together have we come unto this place,
And here we say farewell a little space:

You, backward turning through the land,
To tarry 'mid its beauty yet awhile—
I, o'er the River, to another strand
With cheerful heart, so part we with a smile.
Shall space have any power o'er god-like souls?
Love shall bridge o'er the stream that 'twixt us rolls!

Together wend we to the tide,
And as the first wave wets my foot, we part;—
E'en now methinks I see the other side;
And, though the stream be swift, a steady heart
And stalwart arm shall quell its cold dark waves.
Faith falters not e'en when the tempest raves.

Dark stream flowing so blackly on,
Thy turbid billows roll o'er golden sands;
Beneath the surface all thy fear is gone,
And precious gems fill full the diver's hands.
Yet how the heart lists breathless for the roar
Of billows plashing on the other shore!

The other shore!—Oh thou dim Land!
Hid by faint mists from the spent swimmer's eyes,
Until upon the sloping bank he stand,
Mute in the light of Eden-mysteries;
Thou golden Ophir of Youth's spirit-dream,
Shall I then reach thee through this turbid stream?

Friend! quail not! This same gloomy tide
Rolling its fearful breakers to the shore,
Shall be transform'd, upon the other side,
Into the crystal Life-stream, shaded o'er
By Paradisal groves, whose mellow fruit
Shall heal the sorrows of the destitute.

These ghostly vapours, brooding low,
Shall melt to sunny glories o'er my head,
And through them shall the golden city glow,
Whither I hasten singing, angel-led;
Friend! there is but a cloud-veil 'twixt us and the light,
One step beyond, and Heaven is in our sight.

Now the stream laps my vesture hem;
Back thou from my sad bosom to the world,
Leaving me here this current cold to stem;
Soon from thy sight shall I be swiftly whirl'd
Into the mystic darkness—never fear!
God's hand shall guide me unto vision clear.

Already thou art growing dim,
And distant on the fast receding shore;
The tide is strong, but still I trust in Him,
And know that I shall safely struggle o'er,
For now the plash on yonder shore I hear,
Amid sweet angel voices calm and clear.

WYTHAM WOODS.

'Mid the waving Woods of Wytham,
Now so far, so far from me,
Where the grand old beeches be,
And the deer-herds feeding by them:
'Mid the mossy Woods of Wytham,
Oft I roam in memory;

Down the grand wide-arching alleys,
Marged by plumy ferns and flowers,
Whence all through the noontide hours
Many a fearless leveret sallies;
For amid those grassy alleys
Never hound nor huntsman scours.

Still I see, through leafy casements,
Wytham Hall so quaint and old,
Remnant of the age of gold,
Gabled o'er from roof to basement
In most fanciful enlacement,
Looking far o'er wood and wold;

With the mere outspread before it;
Whitest swans upon its tide,
That in mystic beauty glide;
And the wild fowl flapping o'er it,
To the reeds that broadly shore it,
Spear-like, on the sunny side.

Through the waving Woods of Wytham,
Now so far, so far from me,
Where I roam in memory;
'Mid the leaves, or flashing by them,
Like sunshine to glorify them,
On my sunless heart gleams she.

Falling like the dreams of summer,
Making holy all the place,
Visions of that sweet pale face,
Sweeter than all dreams of summer,
Dearer than all dreams of summer,
Still in bower and glade I trace!

Still her eyes come deeply glowing
Through the leafy lattices;
And the rustle of the trees,
'Neath the west wind softly blowing,
Only emulates the flowing
Of her love-toned melodies.

Oh! those waving Woods of Wytham—
Ceased she thus to hover near
Radiant from her happy sphere,
Like sunshine to glorify them,
Never would I wander nigh them—
Madly weeping should I fly them,
Till their memory e'en grew sere.

But ah! no, in endless slimmer,
Roams my heart through Wytham Woods,
Meeting in their solitudes
Evermore that angel comer,
Sweeter than the light of summer
Making golden Wytham Woods,
Now so far, so far from me
In the world of Memory.

THE STAR IN THE EAST.

O'er the wide world I wander evermore,
Through wind and weather heedless and alone,
Alike through summer, and through winter hoar,
On cloud-capt mountain, by the sea-wash'd shore,
Seeking the star that riseth in the East.

O'er the wide world—the world that knows not why,
And stares with stupid scorn to see me go;
Whilst I with solemn secret face pass by,
To laugh in desert spots where none are nigh,
Laugh loud and shrill unto the winds, Ho! Ho!
For that which none but I and it do know.

To think how when I find this lucky star,
And stand beneath it, like the Wise of old,
I shall mount upward on a golden car,
Girt round with glory unto worlds afar,
While Earth amazed the wonder shall behold,
That bears me unto happiness untold!

Hush! I'll not whisper it, lest some should hear,
And hurry on before me to the spot,
Leaving me bound for ever to this sphere,
Parted for ever from my child—I here,
She in the realm that I could enter not.

Hush! I must hurry on—for many nights
Have I sought for the star about the sky,
And found it not amid the myriad lights,
Greater and lesser with their satellites,
Flashing confusedly upon mine eye.

I must unravel every golden hair
Upon the brow of Night for what I seek,
Lift every straggler from its moony lair,
Lest too the star should haply linger there,
Unnoted by mine eyes so faint and weak.

For as the Wise Men did in old time trace
The Holy Child by this same guiding star,
So I know well that by the Virgin's grace,
I too by it shall come unto the place
Where my sweet babe and its nurse-angels are.

Wearisome are the days, they mock me so,
Pouring down light that seems to bid me see,
Yet hides the starry pilot by its glow,
Whose light I thirst for, whilst light-fountains, flow
Around me like the swelling of the sea.

Wearisome are they, till the sun-god pales
Beneath the surges of the western wave,
And the last fold of his golden mantle trails
O'er the horizon where Earth's vision fails,
And space becomes a darkness and a grave.

I ofttimes think to curse the Day, that tries
To keep my babe hid in its envious breast,
Smit with its hair of gold, and large blue eyes,
Close hid within its mantle, careless of my sighs,
That night and day must wake it from its rest.

But Patience! when the sun is in the deep,
The Star will beam upon me suddenly,
And ere the sun-god waketh from his sleep,
The dear one shall be mine for whom I weep,
Mine, mine alone for all eternity.

They call me crazed—Ha! ha!—They little know
Who are the crazed of Earth, or they, or I—
They, by their greed of gold urged to and fro,
For petty pleasures bending God's soul low—
I, seeking for my star about the sky.

When it is found,—when it is found, how great
Will be the wonder of these blind and mad!
How great will be the wonder and the hate,
Waking to see the glorious truth too late
Will he, too, see his error, and be sad?

The wind sweeps weirdly o'er the heaven to-night,
Weirdly and black, as though from guilty deeds,—
From some sad shipwreck, it has taken flight,
Leaving the drowning in their direful plight—
Leaving the drown'd low waving in the weeds.

No stars, no stars again! Oh woe! again
Night drowns me in its darkness and its gloom,
And I must crouch amidst the wind and rain,
Without one hope-gleam lightening my pain;
All things are leagued to darken down my doom.

Perchance it is that I am growing weak,
And faint with wandering afar, afar,
And my dim eyes see not the thing I seek;
And yet I must not ask, I must not speak,
Nor tell—the secret of the Saviour star.

No! dumb,—dumb,—I shall set me down to scan
Each twinkling orb that rolleth up through space,
Hesper, heaven's loveliest, leading up the van—
To-morrow—yes! to-morrow I shall watch, and man
Shall see this wonder when I reach the place.

Will the babe know me—ope its sweet blue eyes—
And stretch its little arms to clasp me round?
Ah! yes, God will send knowledge from the skies,
In pity for my prayers, and tears, and sighs,
Angels will sing for joy that I have found
My treasure, and he—he will hear the sound!

Cold—cold it is—the wind is bitter chill—
And the rain falls like curses on my head—
No! no! not curses, for the drops say still
That there's an end to sorrow, and all ill
Flows from us like the water down a hill;
The star shall shine, and all the clouds be sped….

* * * * *

The sought-for Star uprose upon the dead.

UNDER THE SEA.

Deep in the bosom of the ocean,
Where sunshine fades to twilight gloom,
The pure pearls lie, and the coral bloom
Rests unsway'd by the upper motion—
Calm and still the hours pass by
The lovely things that sleeping lie,
Deep in the bosom of the ocean.

The thunder rolls from cloud to cloud,
And the bitter blast sweeps o'er the sea,
Shaking the waters mightily;
But ne'er the tempest's voice so loud,
Sinketh down to the things that lie—
The lovely things that sleeping lie,
Deep in the bosom of the ocean.

The icebergs crack with a sullen boom,
Riven by the hands of the angry North;
And, like the Angel of Wrath sent forth,
The whirlwind stalks with the breath of doom,
Crushing, like dust 'neath its heavy tread,
The last frail spar o'er the seaman's head;
But nought can reach the things that lie—
The lovely things that sleeping lie,
Deep in the bosom of the ocean.

Deep in the bosom of God's-acre,
Beyond the reach of grief or care,
As sweetly rest the good and fair,
Where Life's rude foes can ne'er o'ertake her;
Calmly and sweetly the hours pass by
The blessèd ones who sleeping lie,
Deep in the bosom of God's-acre.

Patience! thou poor one, faint and weary,
For thou shalt come unto this rest,
And leaning on a mother's breast,
Forget the world to thee so dreary:
Calmly and sweetly the hours pass by
The happy ones who hoping lie
Deep in the bosom of God's-acre.

WIND.

Oh! weird West Wind, that comest from the sea,
Sad with the murmur of the weary waves,
Wand'ring for ever through old ocean caves,
Why troublest thou the hearts that list to thee,
With echoes of forgotten misery?

The night is black with clouds that thou art bringing
From the far waters of the stormy main,
Welling their woes forth wearily in rain,
Betwixt us and the light their dark course winging,
And dreary shadows o'er the spirit flinging.

Whence is thy power to smite the silent heart,
Till as of old the unseal'd waters run?
Whence is thy magic, Oh! thou unseen one,
To make still sorrows from their slumbers start,
And play again, unsought, their bitter part?

We are all one with Nature—every breeze
Stealeth about the chambers of the soul,
Haunting their rest with sounds of joy or dole;
And every cloud that creepeth from the seas,
Traileth its shade o'er human sympathies.

Blow! blow, thou weird wind, till the clouds be rent,
And starlight glimmer through the riven seams,
Scatter their darkness like the mist of dreams,
Till all the fleeting, spectre-gloom be spent,
And the bright Future gem the firmament.

Blow! blow! Night's "Mene Tekel" even now
Glows on her palace-walls, and she shall pass
Like the dim vapour from a burnish'd glass;
And no chill shadows o'er the soul shall go,
Borne by each weeping West Wind to and fro.

A CHALLENGE.

What art thou—friend or foe?
Stand! stand!
My heart is true as steel,
Steady still in woe and weal,
Strong to bear, though quick to feel—
Take my hand!

What art thou—friend or foe?
Stand! stand!
Only my own ease seek I,
I am deaf to Pity's cry,
If men hunger, let them die—
Traitor! stand!

What art thou—friend or foe?
Stand! stand!
I've a kiss for maiden fair,
I've a blow for who may dare,
I've a song to banish care—
Take my hand!

What art thou—friend or foe?
Stand! stand!
I'm your servant whilst you're great,
As you sink, my cares abate,
When you're poor you have my hate,—
Traitor! stand!

What art thou—friend or foe?
Stand! stand!
If you trust me, I'll be true,
If you slight me, I'll slight you,
If you wrong me, you shall rue—
Take my hand!

What art thou—friend or foe?
Stand! stand!
I can work with any tools—
Clothe myself by stripping fools—
Bend the knee whoever rules—
Traitor! stand!