PtSS. I . -7“?

PtSS. I . -7“?.

POEMS

BY

JAMES KELLY.'

GLASGOW: AIKD & COGHILL, 263 ARGYLL STREET.

EDINBURGH AND GLASGOW: JOHN MENZIES & CO.

1 8S8.

v s£0r< Oy Q- S' •>; <r co ^ o

t ■» cn i-

•/vv^0 xV

PREFACE.

Upon a perusal of these poems the experienced littera-

teur may be ready to exclaim : “ What ‘ crudities ’ and

“conceits’!” nor could it be otherwise when the principal

poems in this collection were written ere the author had

attained the age of four-and-twenty; while several

poems at the end of the volume are remembrancers of

his fifteenth year. I am well aware that in literary

circles it is held that one should be chary about

publishing juvenile work : my warrant for so doing is

that to many of my early friends such poems will

prove as interesting as any in the volume. I may state

that in many cases I have deliberately employed

alliteration, believing that the music of a line is in-

tensified thereby; while I have adopted this principle

of versification (old as the English language) I hope

I will not on that account bring myself under the

IV PREFACE.

ban of being pronounced a copyist of some of our

modern poets.

I humbly ask the critic’s candid opinion of my work ;

if ’ the verdict be given that I have never really set

a foot on the sun-smit slopes of Parnassus, it will so far

be a justification for the publication of this volume if

it be admitted that I have seen the Mount of Fire from

afar.

JAMES KELLY.

Carluke, December, 1887.

CONTENTS

DOLORES ADIOS FC7ERTOS, BY THE SEA, THE VISION OF OLD ELEAN, THE OLD AND NEW, . JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER, IN AUTUMN, CLOUDS, .... WAITING FOR HIM, TO THE STARS, THE fishermen’s WIVES, . AT THE MINE, HUMAN ARE WE, . IN WINTER,. JEALOUSY, .... A BALLAD, .... THE MIDNIGHT WIND, .

Sonnets—

TO A BEAUTIFUL CHILD, ARRAN, PESSIMISM, . OPTIMISM, CHARITY, . . .

PAGE 9

13 17 24 26 28 30 32 34

37 39 42 44

47 49 54

56 57 58 59 60

VI CONTENTS.

Sonnets—Continued:— PAGE

THE LEGEND OF THE THISTLE 61 TO W. C. 62 AMONG THE HILLS, 63 IN THE GLENS, 64 WORLD-WOE, 65 LEAVES OF GRASS 66 MV LOVE 67 AT BANGOR, 68 STARS 69 IN MEMORIAM, 70 SCOTLAND, 71

ON THE DEATH OF CARLYLE, .... 72 HOPEFUL, 73 DISCONSOLATE 74 THE POET’S AMBITION, . . . . • • 75 FORSAKEN, 76 RECONCILED, 77 BACKBITING, 78 NIGHT 79 ON THE DEATH OF GILFILLAN, .... 80 THE GARDEN OF LOVE, ..... 81 DEATH, 62 A SOUVENIR, A DREAM, 64 THE PARTING, 65

PSYCHOSSOLLES, 66

THE FLIGHT OF CALLIOPE, ....•• 131 THE world’s WITENAGEMOTE, 145

153 A HOLIDAY SONG,

CONTENTS. Vll

PAGE aurora’s grave, 155 AT THE BAZAAR 158 A TEMPERANCE HYMN, 161 THE POOR OLD MAN, 164 A mother’s reverie, 166 a funereal ode, . 169 AT ROTHESAY, 172

Poems Written before the age of Nineteen—

love, i dreamt of thee 175 i remember the old village, .... 177 THEY MAY FIND ME A HOME, .... 181 TO THE CLYDE, 183 OH ! GIVE ME THAT SPRIG, . . . . . 185 THE LEAF OF EVERGREEN, 186 ADOWN IN THE GLEN, 188 THE MIDNIGHT HOUR, 190 THE MAID O’ GLENCLOE, 192 RAB AND BESSIE BELL, 193 LIZZIE GRAY, . 198

^1^

POEMS.

—>♦»<—

Bolom ^.btoa JFu^rtos.

Thou knowest, Lord, Thou knowest how a child

Dove-eyed, she, beautifully meek,

Beamed forth an holy innocence, and smiled

To keep the kiss warm on her cheek.

Soft summering beneath a mother’s kiss,

Her lips were buds of bursting joy;

Her infancy lay edging up to bliss,

And cherub bright, beyond annoy—

Beyond the wayward tumult of a common fate,

Ribboned, and robed she lay in princely baby state.

“ Thou knowest.”

Lapt was she in the silken calm delight

Of dalliance ! Her childhood fair

As is a sun-kissed blossom opening bright,

Above the earthy touch of care,

Passed like a thing of beauty heavenward.

And life’s stream did her fortunes buoy B

10 DOLORES ADIOS FUERTOS.

So gently, one had thought they scarcely stirred

In one perpetual round of joy,

For all of her was ecstasy, heart-chaste, and meek—

If such she were—what at her death ? We dare not speak,


Where orange blossoms balm the drowsy breeze,

And sun haze blurs the tawny spoils

Of tangled luxury, caressing seas

Smile back to beauty beaming isles !

Amid their glory she, in maiden prime,

Trod underfoot life’s diadem,

And frittered, laughed away her golden time—

Then, like a miser, wept for them.

Far drifting on the haunted seas of vain regret,

Her hopes went down beneath a lurid, dim sunset.


Bright were her years graced with the mellow tinge,

And full veined richness of romance.

They twinkled past, just as the eyelid fringe

Falls softly o’er a timid glance.

As in some love-ripe eye that we adore

By death is chilled the vital ray,

We feel a void—a darkness—something more

Than time shall ever wear away !

DOLORES ADIOS FUERTOS. 11

So when the kindly rays of fortune’s sun had set,

Unfriended, love forlorn ! how did her spirit fret?


Frail things, like flowers far beneath the sea,

By surge and eddy smothered down,

Still live, and smiling with serenity,

Leer at the ocean’s angry frown ;

So fair was she beneath an ocean weight

Of cold neglect—she looked askance

At all its ebb and flow; then pride-elate,

For bread she joined the song and dance.

Amid the blazonry, where thousands fondly stare,

As coffin tinsel cold felt she the gloss, and glare.

“Thou knowest.”

From home afar, and from the languid blush

Of rich, aroma-freighted isles,

To please the ribald throng, her beauty-flush

Had breathed itself away in smiles.

Her life henceforth waned down the luring way

That, pleasing to the mortal gaze,

Slopes down by gentle curves to infamy,

And what beyond is mist, and maze.

Nightmare of conscience ! how she deemed her soul alone,

And how she groped for faith, yet madly struggled on.



From passion avenues of wasted years,

Deep down the night of starless fate

She gazed, and ghost-like, through a mist of tears

The future rose up desolate !

Cold in her heart, as some lone mother bird

Pants o’er affection’s harried nest,

The spirit of remembrance fondly stirred

The dead love in a life unblest.

She felt around her brow, the shades of deathland gloom,

Those simple words she bade them write above her tomb,


Dust goes to dust, and what beyond this earth ?

Who knows ?—we on this headland left

But know that sunless caves to gems give birth,

Black rinds show shining hearts when cleft,

In dunnest midnight stars are trembling bright,

More than we know grace moves abroad,

The darkest heart may trim its tender light,

Nor is man’s love the love of God.

Then our weak visage veil Thou with Thy charity;

Her guilt; and all the rest, O God, we leave with Thee—


(Dolores Adios Fuertos. Vide note, page 199.)

BY THE SEA. 13

18 it t)j£ %ea.

I stood beneath a crannied rock,

The solemn night and gloaming met,

And at my feet sea-wavelets broke

Among the shingle cold and wet.

White, teased like wool by the fingering breeze,

Were the flakes of the foam lapping low on the shore;

All proudly deaf to the clamouring seas

Were the cliffs peering skyward, majestic and hoar,

In the dusk of that summer’s eve.

A drizzling mist crept up the beach,

The rising wind came piping high,

A hand was stretched within my reach,

A face upturned.—My love and I

Lingering wept in that darkening creek;

By a fate that was higher and stronger than we

Our hearts were wrung, and her tear-dabbled cheek

Had a touch of despair when she parted from me,

In the gloom of that summer’s eve.


From passion avenues of wasted years,

Deep down the night of starless fate

She gazed, and ghost-like, through a mist of tears

The future rose up desolate !

Cold in her heart, as some lone mother bird

Pants o’er affection’s harried nest,

The spirit of remembrance fondly stirred

The dead love in a life unblest.

She felt around her brow, the shades of deathland gloom,

Those simple words she bade them write above her tomb,


Dust goes to dust, and what beyond this earth 1

Who knows ?—we on this headland left

But know that sunless caves to gems give birth,

Black rinds show shining hearts when cleft,

In dunnest midnight stars are trembling bright,

More than we know grace moves abroad,

The darkest heart may trim its tender light,

Nor is man’s love the love of God.

Then our weak visage veil Thou with Thy charity ;

Her guilt; and all the rest, O God, we leave with Thee—


(Dolores Adios Fuertos. Vide note, page 199.)

BY THE SEA. 1.-}

18|r tlj£

I stood beneath a crannied rock,

The solemn night and gloaming met,

And at my feet sea-wavelets broke

Among the shingle cold and wet.

White, teased like wool by the fingering breeze,

Were the flakes of the foam lapping low on the shore

All proudly deaf to the clamouring seas

Were the clifis peering skyward, majestic and hoar,

In the dusk of that summer’s eve.

A drizzling mist crept up the beach,

The rising wind came piping high,

A hand was stretched within my reach,

A face upturned.—My love and I

Lingering wept in that darkening creek ;

By a fate that was higher and stronger than we

Our hearts were wrung, and her tear-dabbled cheek

Had a touch of despair when she parted from me,

In the gloom of that summer’s eve.

14 BY THE SEA.

Full face to face, and fate to fate

We felt our inner life was robbed

Of what might leave it desolate ;

I was the stronger, for she sobbed

Good-bye. Good-bye was my only reply,

And the sword of our severance flashed cold between—

A heart-deep gash—one long smothering sigh,

And the mystical strength of a Presence unseen

We had scorned on that summer’s eve.

Afar, where waters seemed to sweep

Like silver from a forge of light,

A flushing twilight crowned the deep,

And shamed the dusky face of night.

A phantom ship from that shadowy bay,

With my lover on deck, glided outward to sea ;

I watched the sail till it vanished away,

And far over a waste that is trackless to me,

She was wafted that summer’s eve.

I lingered by that breezy cove,

And singled out a tangled thread

That Fate’s unwearied fingers wove

To warp live hope to hope quite dead.

BY THE SEA. 15

My fond regret, my ambition unblest,

Was the surge of a sea at the coming of night;

My past of youth was a cloudlet of rest

In the glimmer and twinkle of memory’s light,

So I thought on that summer’s eve.

My thoughts were sad I knew not why,

And sadder while I gazed the more,

Across the waste of sea and sky,

Along the dank and barren shore.

How strange it is to the sorrowing eye

That a sadness reflects it in every scene !

The weight of woe in the cormorant’s cry,

Ah ! the sobs of the sea, with the silence between,

Mocked my thoughts on that summer’s eve.

That outward stretch of shifting sea,

The snow-white sail, the twilight sheen,

The voice that sobbed Good-bye to me,

The silent hills that tipped the scene,

Were as a temple pavilioned with thought,

That my fancy sat under, with fingers of fire

Enkindling feelings with memories fraught—

All the dim written scrolls of a youthful desire,

And the fate of that summer’s eve.

16 BY THE SEA.

Yes ! one in younger years I knew.

We in the twilight said Good-bye.

Though long ago love thoughts pursue

The sober twinkling of her eye.

And, like the flush in that gloaming of sky

That would beckon me on to an ether of rest,

The love-pure soul that illumines that eye

Lives the nearer to God ; and I would I were blest

With her love on a summer’s eve.

THE VISION OF OLD ELEAN. 17

JJtaton of (©Ur CSUan.

Sitting in my oaken chair, while I dreamt one rainy

night,

Fairy phantoms thronged my room, in the faggot’s

shifting light,

Ringed about my knee they came, touched my wrinkled,

bony hand

Tenderly, and bade me write with their fire-tipt fairy

wand.

While I feared the wand would trace only with my

heart’s best blood,

Pulsing to my brain it rushed, in a fevered, burning flood.

With my hands I swept my brow, for I had an inward

sense

That my temples were ensealed by an airy influence.

Then I cleared my dreamy eyes, pressed the terror from

my soul,

Saw an angel form arise where my visioned eyesight

stole.

Oh ! her eyes were dreamy wild—wild beyond all human

sense ;

Yet they were not passion beams, but the beams of

innocence.

18 THE VISION OF OLD ELEAN.

Hers was childhood’s sunny face, and her ringlets golden-

fair

Hung in many a careless braid, like the sunset-braids in

air.

I remembered summer time of my heart now old, and

sere—

All the sweet celestial chimes that enravish childhood’s ear.

Gazed I long upon that face bright and fresh from

nature’s mould

And I guessed her after life in this age whose god is gold.

Could it be that care would blot all the sunshine from

that face,

Rob the fair one of that smile, and the heart of half its

grace ?

Then I stooped and wrote these words, why I wrote I

cannot tell,

Something pressed upon my heart, and my hand obeyed

the spell:—

“ Youth is like a coy cuckoo, coming mellow in the

spring,

Sings a summer in the heart, fleeting—passes on the

wing.”

As a slave, alone, would feel in the shadow of a queen,

I, enraptured, turned mine eyes where the fairy child

had been.

THE VISION OF OLD ELEAN. li)

As the ocean to the moon pulses in a fitful mood,

Pulsed my heart to see the form grown to comely

womanhood.

To the fountain crystal clear we can trace the lucid

stream;

To the heart that throbs with song we ascribe the poet’s

dream;

By the colour of the bud we can tell the future rose;

And the twilight of our life deepens slowly to its close :

Well I knew the eyelid fringe arching in that eye of

blue ;

Only was the golden hair softened to a darker hue;

Still the waves of beauty’s light, rippling o’er her

gleaming face,

In the light and shade of smiles, ebbed and flowed with

perfect grace.

While mine eyes dwelt on that form of angelic loveli-

ness,

Tenderly she plucked a pearl from the foldings of her

dress.

As it were a thing of love, and the idol of her heart,

How she clasped it, muttering : “ You and I shall never

part.”

At her words a vapour rose, and before my eyesight

curled ;

Could it be, the angel one set her heart upon the world ?



cannot tell,

Something pressed upon my heart, and my hand obeyed

the spell:—

“ From the dead flowers of this world keep the heart

that loves in youth,

Lest a lurking worm may coil round the tender roots of

truth.”

As a cloudlet, that, at morn, had been cradled on the

sea,

In the twilight may distil, and forever cease to be;

As the garment of the night fades before the face of

day,

Nature winnows with her fan and the old times pass

away.

Change will thread the human web; and a vista now

appeared;

Far away a taper shone and a crucifix was reared.

There I saw the human form stooping, in a mournful air;

How she clasped her snowy hands as a child would do in

prayer.

While I listened, mellow tones rippled on my raptured

ear.

Then dark shadows filled my room as a heart is filled

with fear.

THE VISION OP OLD ELEAN. 21

I had idolized that being’s chaste perfection, in her prime

Full of promise she had been; as a lake, in some fair

clime,

Gleams in endless summershine, and reflects the land-

scape’s sheen,

She had smiled near heaven’s smile, with a prospect

bright between.

Gone was now the sunny gloss of her ringlets golden-

fair,

And her beauteous face was dim with the mildew of

despair.

How I mourned to think the faith, all the innocence of

youth,

Had vacated trusting eyes meek as were the eyes of

Ruth

Humbly gleaning ears of corn with a blessing in her

soul—

And the tears ran down my cheeks in a flood beyond

control.

Sad it was to see her writhe in that vista’s dim precinct—

See those parched and fevered lips move in murmurs

indistinct!


cannot tell,

Something pressed upon my heart and my hand obeyed

the spell—


“ Sorrow rasps a brother’s heart when fate breaks love’s

golden bow],

Who will link the silver chord dangling from a ruined

soul 1 ”

Tears had drained her heart of woe ; when, at last, I saw

her kneel

Calm contrition blurred her cheek with its cold and

clammy seal.

I have seen the lightning flash singe the green sod at my

feet,

Arrow through the giant oak as an arrow speeds through

sleet,

Light the billows on the deep, sport above the midnight

squall—

Flashing, arch the avalanche and in laughter hail its fall.

But the gleam of Nature’s robes and the sparkle of her

crown

Never gave beneath her smile or the darkness of her

frown

Such a nearness to my soul, shrivelling up my human sense

In the presence of my God, as those looks of penitence.

Gladness thrilled along my veins as a smile illumed her face,

Spurning, from her breast, the cloak starred with gems

and pearly lace,

THE VISION OF OLD ELEAN. 23

She, in snow-white robes, appeared, and with child-like

looks of love,

“ Father, Father, I have sinned,” loud she cried and

looked above.

And as sunbeams, o’er a lake, chase the shadows into

nought,

O’er her face a glory came from the founts of heavenly

thought.

Stilly bright was now the form bending o’er some holy

writ;

How she prayed with steadfast eye—might she see the

angels flit

From the starry gates of heaven with a balm for every

woe,

Hear the rustle of their wings and the streams of mercy

flow:

For sweet voices swept along down the vista’s corridor,

Singing in a mystic hymn, “ Thou art safe for evermore.”

And I feared to gaze aloft, for I saw a lightning gleam ;

Yet I fancy that it traced in the awning of my dream,

Right above the crucifix where her prayer was wont to

glow:—

“ In the blood of Christ your sins shall be washed as

white as snow.”

I

24 THE OLD AND NEW.

#15 an5

About the dripping chimney-tops

The wind clung moaning in the cold—

When through the darkness rent with rain,

The loud heart-thumping bell was tolled,

The New Year, tripping, trampled on

The worn-out garments of the Old,

And hustled her out at the gate,

And pushed her down the narrow lane

Of nevermore ; lost in the dark

She will not come to us again !

I felt my heart beat up against

The pressure of a tender pain.

Old Year ! we loved thee well, thou wert

A boon companion true and tried,

Since first we met, we hand in hand

Along the path of pleasure hied.

Now sorrow edges round the thought—

All breathless yesternight you died !

THE OLD AND NEW. 25

For me I know not what the New

Face-forward Year may have in store,

Far less of blessing, maybe strife,

And sorrows many to deplore—

A rift of sunshine hangs behind,

A misty future lies before.

Last night when on my couch I lay,

And heard the deep throbs of the bell

Beat in the bosom of the night,

A flood of feeling rose and fell;

But hope was upmost—God is good,

He knows what best should us befall:

So may the New Year bring sweet gifts

Of peace and plenty home to all.

c

i

26 jephthah’s daughter.

Iqiljtljalj's Daughter.

The blazoned chariot, along the victor’s path,

By eager, triumph-crested horsemen driven,

Glanced to the setting sun red as a face in wrath.

Above the chieftain’s head a vow in heaven

Hung high, and cast a shadow on his sunny soul,

While thought rose up and stood out in his features,

For mastery rose up strong fear, and calm control—

He idly praised the noble prancing creatures.

Flush did his grizzly bearded face, his lofty look,

When near he saw the old ancestral dwelling,

Grew tremulous and faint, he like an aspen shook,

A storm of tears was in his bosom swelling!

He spied athwart the grove a gleam of raiment white;

From off the chariot her father leaping

Stood dumb with palsied hand across his stricken sight—

A statued spectacle of manhood weeping.

With faces dim as bronze his warriors were ringed

Around him, all in accents wild bewailing;

JEPHTHAH S DAUGHTER. 27

Still rooted to the ground he stooped, and raven-winged

His plume flapped down as if his sorrow veiling.

What loud triumphal song, with timbrels in the dance

A buoyant band of singers came they bounding :

The steeds’ dark eyes all kindled with a proud war-glance,

They neighed as if they heard the battle sounding.

Fair, foremost in the choir, like one that should rejoice,

The ecstasy of innocence revealing,

With fairy step she came, with love’s warm welcome voice

She spoke, and blessed him with a daughter’s feeling.

No answer—icy-cold, pale quivers on his lips

Froze up all utterance ere words were spoken;

Her heart-pulse leapt and trembled to her finger tips,

She fell upon him like a reed quite broken.

Slow from his bearded lips he moaned :—“ It must be so,

I feel thy tender arms around me clinging,

Alas, my daughter ! thou hast brought me very low—

I weep, for woe is me thou comest singing.”

Waned then and there her beauty moist with mist and woe,

The utter woe from out a young heart riven;

To wail upon the mountains, mourning did she go,

Then bared her bosom to the will of heaven.

28 IN AUTUMN.

ifa Jhtiutttn.

I hear a curlew’s lonely cry

From yonder reedy pool,

I feel the breath upon my brow

Of breezes blowing cool

Beneath a lightsome sky that looks

As white as rippled wool.

An autumn sky of fleecy cloud

Above a sunny bay;

Amid long fields of yellow corn

A farmhouse old and grey;

And on the lea milch-mellow kine

Low at the break of day.

A rosy-bosomed dawning mist

The faint horizon fills

Where morning sits demurely throned

Upon a hundred hills,

Whose grassy slopes are silver-streaked

With laughter flashing rills.

Hark, jocund words of pointed wit

Ring with a blythe, good cheer;

IN AUTUMN. 29

Young men, and maidens rosy-faced,

About the grange appear,

And sally forth right glad to see

The harvest sky so clear.

The bright blade glitters in the grass,

The young folk stand aside,

To work, the mower riseth up,

And with a sturdy stride,

Down where the grain is heavy-eared

He cometh in his pride.

The stout arm swings, and swift and keen

The scythe cuts down amain

The glossy stalks that rustling fall

Top heavy with good grain—-

The farmer smiles to see the sheaves,

And cheers the sweating swain.

For soon the rumbling cart shall come

Along the winding road.

“ Home, harvest home,” shall be the cry

To hail the teeming load :

While we in gratitude avow

The lasting love of God.

30 CLOUDS.

(Klou&s.

Ye wizard clouds, that sweep that stormy sky

In grimly huddled forms and crowds phantasmal,

Weep ye your teardrops as you hurry by,

Dark mantled, as with sackcloth cold, and dismal ?

While the wind your charioteer,

Drives you round this weary earth;

Pilgrims weeping from your birth,

Why shed down your sorrows here ?

Old in sin and full of years,

Earth is bleared with her own tears,

And she heeds not your scowl nor your scorn.

Roll that burden of anguish for ever away!

Lo ! the universe panteth to usher the day—

Sunshiny for aye, an everlasting Sabbath morn.

Ye clouds of war that sweep the vault of time

How long will ye, blood murky, foul and gory,

Crawl over sun-eyed Peace, like heartless rime

Across the heartshine of a pansy’s glory.

CLOUDS. 31

Clouds of battle, God detested,

In your cursed and fiery womb,

Shapen are the bolts of doom,

For the fierce and triumph crested,—

Pride, and all her progeny

Marshalled in your dread array.

War gloom, hurrying, flurrying on !

Cannon rattle and din of the battle display

Die for ever and ever—come dawn of the day,

When love of the angels reign, and war be ever gone.

Ye clouds of guilt that sweep our human hearts,

Sin vapours dark as clouds on deep, dark ocean !

I marvel not ye rain unchristian arts-—

Curse heavy set the wheels of death in motion.

Human feuds, loves incomplete,

Spring from man’s self-righteous will,

And the weeds of human ill

Have their roots in self conceit.

From its heavenly embryo

Peace on earth will never grow,

To the fuller fruit perfect above,

Till the might of the Lord, and the fire of His Word

Will have vanquished the tyrant and melted the sword,

And blossoming peace be sunned in Millennial love.

*

32 WAITING FOR HIM.

Mlatitnjj for Bint.

The mist was heavy on town and wold,

And the kine came lowing through the loan,

When waiting, lorn was his lady love,

She murmuring made a low sweet moan.

A pain was knit on her lofty brow,

And her earnest face was ashy pale;

She looked the pathways across the hill,

And she looked athwart the grassy dale.

Night after night she had kept the tryst;

And the third came gloaming doubly dark,

And storm and rain—how her heart was mocked

When she heard the watch dog’s eerie bark.

Only the oak by the farm-house creaked,

And the black firs faced the lashing rain,

As down she knelt in the oriel,

And was heard in sorrow thus complain :—

“ Alone I sit by the window pane,

And the fitful winds go sobbing by;

To-night I gaze at the weary clouds

As they drift across a dreary sky.

WAITING FOR HIM. 33

“ I wish to sob with the sobbing winds

With my heart as sad as heart could be •

I wish to weep witli the weeping rain,

If my love be cold and false to me.

“ Past blow the winds and they laughed aloud

At my childish moods, they murmur low—

‘ To-night alone you may weep for him,

For your love cares not how tears may flow.’

“ Blow winds, blow loud, and I hear you sob

As you go and come across the lea;

I heed you not though you bid me weep,

For I know my love is true to me.

“ Blow, blow winds, blow ! I will heed you not,

For you moan, you laugh, you are not true;

Not so my love, though you call him false,

He is true I trow, but false are you.”

All night long the houseless wind and rain

Sobbing came and went across the lea,

And still by the pane she sat—she sobbed—

“ I will tryst no more, for false is he ! ”

34 TO THE STARS.

©0 îars.

Isles of a far land,

Beautiful starland!

I love your pulsing light.

In that shifting sea of cloud,

Midnight is a storm-black shroud,

But ye are calm and bright.

Can it be that your To-morrrow

Robs no glory from your spheres;

And a thousand dusty years

Leave no time-wrought streaks of sorrow

On the beauty of your light,

Throbbing—rich in harmony,

As the fiery worded psalters

Of a dread Omnipotence,

Flashing on our human sense;

While the step of reason falters

On the starry ridge of night.

Isles of a far land,

Bliss-beaming starland!

f

TO THE STABS. 35

Clear springs of joy and love,

Welling in the depths afar

Are the twinklings of a star.

Stand still, and look above !

Unto wretched mortals given,

Beacon lights yon stars may be

In that blue celestial sea

Guiding up the soul to heaven,

Past the rocks of unbelief

To the shore Eternity;

As the sailor, tempest driven

In his frail and crazy bark,

Steering hopeless in the dark,

Sees a light and praises Heaven.

While he doffs the weeds of grief.

Isles of a far land

Gems of the starland !

For you I loved the night.

Bright with years my fancies grew,

Still my musing turned to you,

As sunflower to the light.

In his nightly dreams rejoicing,

Frenzy-eyed, the poet sees

In the skies, the burnished keys

Of great nature’s organ voicing

4

36 TO THE STARS.

In the wind-swept choral song

Of the forest’s revelry,

In the ancient runes ascending

From the ocean’s boundless mirth—

Sounds upgathered from the earth

God, into an anthem blending,

Sweeps His hand the stars along.

Isles of a far land

Scanning your starland,

We wildered are, and lost!

Thought would bridge the awful deep,

Climb that cloud-girt silent steep,

To grasp yon starry host:

Like the dove to ark returning,

Having found no resting place

In the shoreless sea of space,

Thought returns, with frenzy burning,

But it brings no olive leaf

To undo the mystery

Of the starry throne of Even,

Still the scale o’er Reason’s eye

Veils the splendours of the sky—

Science from the fields of Heaven

Never brings a full ripe sheaf.

THE FISHERMEN’S WIVES. 37

Wild, wild the north wind blew,

And fast the darkness flew,

Fierce on the firth black storm came sweeping down,

Breakers foaming white,

Hissed and growled in sight

Of the fishermen’s wives looking out from the town.

“Wee bairns,” who smiled in sleep,

Had “ faithers ” on the deep;

Morn saw their bonnie boats, worth many a crown,

Gleam along the sands—

Wringing now their hands

Were the fishermen’s wives looking out from the town.

With bellowing outright,

The sea was hoarse, all night

It boomed and clutched the cliffs to drag them down;

Eerie were the cries,

Sleepless were the eyes


38 THE FISHEEMEN’S WIVES.

The red lights glimmered low,

The storm howled to and fro,

When down into the dark, their grief to drown,

From the cottage door

Trailing to the shore

Went the fishermen’s wives looking out from the town.

Dishevelled in the blast,

The night went sweeping past,

And rose above the brine with murky frown—

Darker were the fears,

Bitter were the tears,


The seascape shimmered bright,

Seen in the morning light,

Some painted spars were drifting up and down;

Still with streaming eyes,

Late, and at sunrise,

Are the fishermen’s wives looking out from the town.

AT THE MINE. 39

JVt ilje

The iron limbs of the engine strong

Went clank-clanking all the day,

And snorts of steam, from its nostrils blown,

Rose up in a cloudy spray.

As steady kept is the horseman’s eye

On his fiery steed and strong,

While, with the thong in his grip he chides,

Or thundering speeds along,

And from the hoofs of the charger flung,

Are columns of dust and sand—

At whirlwind speed though she dashes on,

A touch from his guiding hand

Can make her calm, like a child when calmed

With pleadings of tenderness :

She stands quite still, at her master’s will

And stroke of his kind caress.

So at his post stood the engineman,

Alert with a steady eye,

With whistle loud, and a snatch of song,

He stooped and he made her fly.

AT THE MINE. 40

A simple touch from his master hand

Awoke with a thrill of might

The power that slumbered in her limbs,

Steel sinewed, and strong, and tight.

She stirred, she slipped, then she thundered on,

And spurned with her mighty heel,

Till iron castings, and groove, and slide

Were ready to rock and reel.

The monster stroke shot out with a will,

The coil went a-spinning round;

Loud sang the whorls to the wind aloft,

And whistled a whirring sound.

The signals clashed, and above the din

The clack of the cage rang out,

As up to light, from the dingy depths,

It came with a dash and shout.

So lightly yoked to her traces tough,

All day long with action sweet,

The engine plunged with her mighty arms,

And triumphant at her feet,

Flung were the treasures that make us great,

Give us spheres to flourish in—

Nurse commonweal in the lap of art,

So that all men feel akin.

AT THK MINE. 41

Ho ! ye who moil in a sunless mine,

And pile up our comforts high,

I marvel much that the rich decline

To list to your labour cry !

No scanty pittance be your reward,

But thine the full flush of meed

To make your labour and lot less hard,

And lighten the pinch of need.

All honour be to the dusty face,

The muscle and sinew sound

That slave for us—it is no disgrace

To burrow beneath the ground.

Yours are the power to heap up wealth,

Make us hammers, plough, and spade,

And wheel, and axle to keep in health

The live currents of our trade.

We sing—God speed the heroic band,

False veneer of caste disdain ;

Let us venerate the horny hand,

As well as the working brain.

D

42 HUMAN ARE WE.

Human JUe Mr.

Human are we, and our foibles

Rise up like mists at sea—

Drifted on tides of selfishness,

And blinded with scorn are we.

Rise up the dark, and the riot

Of wrangle, wrath and guile.

We wail the wasted lamp of love,

We smile with a withered smile.

But deep the depths of our natures,

Beneath the surface, ye

May reach pure love, down in the soul,

Like springs in the salted sea.

The winds breathe over the ocean,

They lift the mist away,

And argosies with golden prows

Speed on in the light of day ;

HUMAN ARE WE. 43

Come, breath of love and of blessing,

For discord, spite, and pain,

Before the summer of our heart,

Shall pass like a wintry rain.

Our passion, scorning and fretting,

Rise up like mists at sea ;

In fogs of ill, men drift apart

When kindliest they should be.

Through storm and anger of tempest

And mist of wordy strife,

Like goodly ships sail we abreast

Across the deep sea of life.

Shine on, sweet light of our loving,

The darkness flees away,

White sails are spread in glad sunshine,

And we sing from day to day.

14 IN WINTER.

In 'oExnt^r.

The snow had fallen, ankle-deep—

One night I sauntered forth alone,

When in a doorway, half asleep,

Low sitting on the stone,

I spied a child not eight years old,

With starry twinkling eyes of blue ;

Cold were her hands, and very cold

Her feet without a shoe.

Right sorrowful was I to meet

A simple child so barely clad,

Hers was a face so young, and sweet—

So sweet, because so sad.

“ Poor thing ’’—said I—“ why sit you here,

Half-frozen on this icy stone,

No father—mother have you, dear !

That you are left alone 1 ”

IN WINTER. 45

“ I have a father tall as you ”

(And pearly tears came to her eyes

Like dew upon two gems of blue

Brought down from Paradise),

“ I have a father,” she replied,

“ Who scowls to hear my sobbing cries ;

Two years ago my mother died,

And there my father lies.”

A little finger trembled out,

All clammy wet with bitter tears.

She beckoned me—I turned about;

A huddled form appears.

There in a dark, and grim recess,

Close by the stairway, nearly dead,

The drunkard, cold and comfortless,

Lies like a lump of lead.

Cursed be the cup of fire that sears,

And chars the heart as hard as stone,

To leave a daughter in her tears,

Neglected and alone.

This little child with golden hair

God given as an amulet,

And thou her father in thy lair,

Unmindful of his pet !

46 IN WINTER.

O God ! it is a piteous thing,

When worth and innocence, amiss,

Must bear the sorrow and the sting

Of such a sin as this.

Lord ! lift Thy right arm, dash in twain

The bowl of poison, want, and woe,

And give Thy fallen sons again

Thy chalice here below.

Give them the chalice of Thy love,

And in their sapless souls, inspire

A yearning after things above

The lusts of brute desire :

Give them the inner life of soul—

No more in passion, pain, and loss,

But soberness, and self control,

To bear the Christian cross.

JEALOUSY. 47

Jealousy.

Love, like a star seen in the dark,

Smiles downward on my upward way,

Allures my soul to higher spheres,

And ever shines a brighter ray.

Shine on, heart-cheering light!

Should fate my prospect blight,

In the dark time to come,

I, through an endless night,

Would wander like a stone-blind eye

That vainly seeks the light.

Love is the sunlit runnel gleam

That sparkles through a sandy waste,

And I, the thirsty lips that faint,

And stretch so eagerly to taste—

Sweet waters flowing by !

Should fate thy fountain dry,

In the dark time to come,

With burning, blood-shot eye,

I follow would a false mirage,

And, dying, loathe to die.

48 JEALOUSY.

My love is like a beauteous bird

High-borne to sing one life-long lay,

And I, the breeze to rock her nest

And bear her mellow song away.

My fair one sing to me,

And let thy passion be

In the bright time to come,

For song and minstrelsy,

A solace to this troubled heart

Devoted unto thee.

A BALLAD. 49

H ffiallati.

Ae drumlie dark gloamin’, the win’ blew snell

On Cara’s isle, frae owre the sea;

An’ the big waves cam’ wi’ an unco swell,

Thuddin’ ashore sae eerilie.

An’ aye as the win’ an’ the rain wad sough,

An’ the white faem hissed ’mang the jaggy stanes,

I wow ! but the sea was crabbit eneugh—

Gar’t the sailor talk o’ wee orphan weans.

Whaur the storm was warstlin’ wi’ a’ its micht

Yon auld saugh trees gied mony a jirk;

Spurtin’ eeriesome owre the lift that nicht

Lang tongues o’ fire licked up the mirk.

An’ oh, sic a blusterin’ rowtin win’!

As doon through the dark, grousome nicht it blew,

An’ syne, sic a thunderin’ awfu’ din

O’ wild warrin’ waves as they faught and flew.

50 A BALLAD.

Oh, hey, the first luve o’ a callan rins

To flood his heart baith sune an’ late,

Ochone ! for the lassie wha slichts an’ fin’s

His luve has changed to dreesome hate.

Adoon on the breist o’ that roarin’ sea,

On a rock, canid, cauld wi’ the saut sea-faem,

A lane lassie sat wi’ a tearfu’ e’e,

An’ her waefu’ cry was, “ Oh, tak’ me hame ! ”

Then bide ye awee, gin ye laith the tale,

The heart o’ luve maist tines its lowe,

An’ syne the red lips o’ the maid turns pale

Wha ourie hears o’ Ellen Gow.

The lassie was strang, an’ she sang sae crouse,

As she kamed her hair wi’ the mornin’ liclit;

They wiled her awa’ frae her faither’s house,

An’ her hair was draigled wi’ faem that nicht.

Hell Gow was weel kent in her Heilan’ hame,

An’ mony braw lads gaed her to see;

Her auld-farrant mither, a cankered dame,

Wad gar her wed the Laird o’ Ghlee.

The thrawn dyttered bodie she couldna thole,

But a laddie she lo’ed abune them a’;

Fu’ cheerie she trysted wi’ Colin M£Coll

At Lammas to meet by the birken shaw.

A BALLAD. 51

Hoo she glossed her hair like a raven’s wing,

An’ tied her knot to catch his e’e;

For her luve was cornin’ to hear her sing

Ance mair beside the trystin’ tree..

An’ aye as she kamed, like the rosy dawn,

Wi’ a saft, saft gleamin’, her beauty shone ;

Her e’en aft gaed glintin’ oot owre the lawn,

For she thocht on Colin, and sighed, Ochone !

Oh, oh, hey! she sighed, for the mornin’ hours

Were dreary lang in passin’ by;

Syne she crooned, an’ sang, an’ she gied sic glow Vs

As aft she thocht her Colin nigh.

The blisterin’ sun, wi’ an unco heat,

Glared doon as it ettled to dry the sea,

When proodly he cam’ wi’ his luve to meet

Ance mair by the shade o’ the trystin’ tree.

His buckles were bricht, an’ his faither’s sword,

Sae lang an’ hacket, kept sae clean,

Hung doon by his side, an’ the maid adored

Her faithfu’ luve in armour sheen.

He got but a glint o’ his bonnie Nell

Fu’ cheerie come skelpin’ oot owre the lea;

He ran through the corrie, syne up the dell,

An’ a’ to be first at the trystin’ tree.

52 A BALLAD.

She grippit his han’, an’ he kissed her broo,

An’ whiles the tear stid in her e’e;

She drank in his luve, till her heart was fu’

O’ somethin" heatin’ holilie.

He vowed wi’ an aith, an’ she sabbed, Amen,

An’ nocht was to sever them twa blit daith ;

They pairted—for hame she gaed doon the glen,

An’ what did she meet but her ain cauld wraith'?

Ochone, fairest Ellen, ochone, ochone !

Ye had nae thochts o’ treacherie,

Ye saw na the scoun’rels a’ scowlin’ on

When ye sat by the trystin’ tree.

Ochone for the lassie wha sang sae crouse

As she kamed her hair wi’ the mornin’ licht!

They wiled her awa frae her faither’s house

An’ her hair was draigled wi’ faem that nicht.

Three loons wi’ their faces a choomed for shame

(They say ane was the Laird o’ Ghlee)

Forgathered wi’ her as she daunnered hame,

An’ haurled her warstlin’ to the sea.

Syne they rowed her oot owre the saut sea faem ;

On a slippie stane she was left to droon,

An’ her waefu’ cry was, “ Oh, tak’ me hame,”

As the tide cam’ up an’ the nicht cam’ doon.

A BALLAD. 53

They rowed awa’ frae her to reach the shore;

But a’ at ance the lift grew black,

The storm frae the hills wi’ an unco roar

Broke oot—I wow, they ne’er got back.

The boatie gaed doon, an’ like lumps o’ lead

Were the three big men in the sea sae deep.

An’ noo mang the rocks, wi’ the lang sea-weed

Growin’ owre their heids, they are soun’ asleep.

The lassie wha kamed wi’ the momin’ licht

Syne tore her hair in agonie.

The fate o’ the loons was an unco sicht,

An’ sic a daith she had to dee.

The rowtin’ an’ blusterin’ win’ blew by,

An’ up cam’ the cruel saut, saut sea faem,

But the lassie’s thochts were ayont the sky,

Her Heavenly Faither has ta’en her hame.

54 THE MIDNIGHT WIND.

iHibmgljt tSEinfr.

Mother, I hear the midnight winds

Go sweeping the earth along;

I hear them like the glorious swell

Of some old, triumphant song,

And I think how my soul could cleave the storm,

For the wings of faith are strong.

I hear the distant, dying winds

As they murmur fast away :

Hark ! from afar they come again—

Like a loud war song are they:

And I wonder if dear ones up in heaven

Know what the wild winds say.

I hear the awful, winged winds

Beat up on our cottage door,

They come across that darksome deep

Far stretching to yonder shore,

And I think them the swoop of angel wings

That await to take me o’er.

THE MIDNIGHT WIND. 55

I hear the solemn, mighty winds

Rush on through the star-lit air;

My spirit rushes forth with them,

Home, home, and I have no care,

But I wish that I were with father dear,

And my brother over there.

I hear the woeful, sighing winds,

I think of the bliss to be

Where neither storm, nor sighs, nor tears

Will darken eternity,

With its glory adown the golden streets

By the crystal, flowing sea.

Mother ! come kiss me by thy side !

Though the night be dark, and wild,

I joy to list the loud wind blow—

God’s chariot for thy child !

Oh, it comes with a rush.—The storm was stilled

And in death the maiden smiled.

SONNETS.

^0 a ISânttful (SDIjiltr.

What joy divinely ripens flushed in thee

To lovely incarnation, like a bloom

Of freshest tint, and virginal perfume

Blown from the Eden of the life to be.

Thou art between us and eternity,

A bond of innocence, as if our God,

But yesterday smiled thee along the road

Slow circling back from man to Trinity.

God gives, and by unchangeable decree

Will take unto Himself in ripe good time

The priceless harvest in thy soul sublime

Above things earthy—Heavenly may be

Much in this world with all its bitter crime,

Else could such loveliness environ thee.

ARRAN. 57

3Uran.

Thou island dim with shadows on hillsides,

Sun-broken haze, high altar-cairns of heath,

And clouds for worshippers—many a wreath

Flung from the ocean on thy forehead glides

A dusky splendour ringleted with streams

Of sunshine bursting through bright rainbow-gleams.

Lone isle of splintered rock, and crag, and fell!

Stupendous like a god-built citadel,

Thy foothold is abysmal in the sea.

The waves voluptuous leap up on thee

With dark green dalliance ; and I with them

Would flood thee with the passion born of song—

Come, Poesy, rise rapturous and strong,

To garland Arran with thy Anadem !

E

58 PESSIMISM. . \

Thrice would we plunge in Lethe were the chance

So given, that we might at once forget

What skeins of tangled hope, what foils and fret,

Bind up the soul in worldly circumstance.

The drift of life spins like a giddy dance ;

Along the lines of self men dash away,

And carp and cross each other sullenly !

Our souls long sorely for deliverance,

As did Prometheus from pangs of pain :

Death is the Hercules that breaks the chain,

And at the vulture world quick hurls his lance

Omnipotent beneath his lightning glance.

O Death ! above all care and dire alarms

Lift us up, like a mother in thine arms !

OPTIMISM. 59

dDptttmstn.

The earth is a bride with a rose above

The gleam of her tresses of golden hue,

Her skies are as lovely as eyes of blue

That waken in wonder from dreams of love.

No tears on the gloss of her cheeks bedew

The freshness that never shall dim away,

But glisten, and brighten, from day to day,

With beauty that flashes from you to you!

Then let us be happy, arise, and bless

Her coming afresh from the gates of morn,

Let incense of gladness and hope be borne

And wafted to her in her loveliness.

Earth wedded to heaven in beautiful grace,

Our hearts leap in love to the light of thy face.

60 , CHARITY.

(ftfoariig.

When angels from before the throne of God,

Fresh with the breath of blessing in their wings,

Fling at the feet of men their offerings,

Then sally back to fetch another load,

They leave an after-presence like a balm

That catches at our breath and makes us think—

I call it charity, to heaven’s brink

It lifts us from the storm into a calm.

Come, Charity, inspirit us and be

Our sovereign on the throne of kindly thought;

Life’s dearness thereunto shall be inwrought

To sanctity sweet homage unto thee !

Has man above the brute a dower given

If charity be not our guide to heaven 1

THE LEGEND OP THE THISTLE. 61

of tlj^ dljistk.

The Dane of old brought war into our land,

And wassail bowls were left in dusty halls ;

Mute was the harp amid loud bugle calls,

And clash of halberd on the burnished brand.

Once, in the dead of midnight, sword in hand,

The foe came tiptoe, and our soldiers slept,

By chance, on Scotland’s thistle forth they stept—

With rampant heel they yelled along the strand !

Our men, aroused, down speared them to their ships,

Discomfited or lost in death’s eclipse.

Proud emblem of my country, stern and grand

Art thou in thy rough dignity of mien,

For wild symbolic strength long hast thou been

A free romancer in a happy land !

62 TO W. C. S.

®0 m. at;.

What 1 thou hard worked, and far from being well!

Fame is a bauble at the best, dear bought,

I cried despairing, when an after thought

Made music in my soul, like far off bell

Whose ripe note shakes the dawning—from a dream.

Ah, well—I thought that in the after time,

This feint and foil, and all life’s hoary rime

That gather chill upon us, by a beam

Of heaven’s chaste effulgence shall be spent—

Be crumpled up, like scroll scorched by the fire.

So be it, this I know, my heart’s desire

Is uppermost, that thou shalt, song-intent,

Long live, browbeat the age, and drive through it

Thy car triumphal—poesy and wit!

AMONG THE HILLS. 63

Jlntong t)je Bills.

The cry of plover—plaintive from the lea,

The bleat of sheep—no other sound intrudes

Far up, amid the sun smit solitudes

Whence runnels of dark waters seek the sea.

A brooding weirdness throngs the sultry air,

While summer lies supine, all debonnair

Among wild flowers—and high among the hills

Sun-smurs of dreaminess, whose silence fills

My being with a spirit not mine own.

For who can walk the grass enamelled sod,

And feel it springy as a velvet throne,

No veneration, not a thought of God

Meanwhile to sway and thrill one with disdain

For Man and all the projects of his brain ?

64 IN THE GLENS.

3fn tljfi CSiUns.

The glens in Scotland are a bonny sight:

Their green is dipt in summer’s deepest dyes.

How delicately faint against clear skies

Cloud airy dreams of vapour melt in light!

Yet beauty hath more tenderness to show—

Great Nature’s palace in the cloistered nooks

Of some deep hearted glen, down, where the brooks

Netted in leafy shadows, murmur low,

Then soothed in sunlight, smile—thrice happy shrine,

Where love lies wedded unto gushing streams,

Dim woodland joys, sun-glances, leafy gleams ;

Thick breath of woodruff, thyme and eglantine—

All summer dainties luscious to the core :

Freedom and Scotland ! who could wish for more ?

WORLD-WOE. 65

Morlb-tootf.

With dull narcissus bind the throbbing brow,

And touch with borage leaf the fevered lip !

’Tis vain—the world heaves like a battle ship

In action booming, churning with high prow

The leaden tides of silent, coming years :

And we heave with it, sicken soon, and die,

Heart weary with the mortal hue and cry

Of war-whoops ringing ever in our ears.

Why all this rancour and the curse of spite

Flung like loose drivel in each other’s face 1

And nation fouling nation in their might!

’Twere better far to bind us race to race

In the tight clasp of peace and drive from us

_ Heart burning discord back to Erebus.

66 LEAVES OF GRASS.

lottos of (Stass.

When this world-whir disturbs me I confess

I love the quiet greenness in the grass;

So heart sincere it is, naught can surpass

The beauty in its very humbleness !

By sylvan nooks, cool syke, or sunny knoll,

Enthroned I sit to view the gowan lea—

Its gentle undulations glance to me,

Rapturous as the love-beats in a soul!

Then could I stamp all wrong beneath my feet,

And on the sword point of a mute disdain

Dangle the hearts of spite that do us pain !

Mine is the impulse strong, the purpose fleet,

Yet I have learned from grass leaves to express

Life in meek lowliness—great loftiness !

MY LOVE. 67

lEnfo.

Fresher than leaflet green, the first of spring,

Thy maiden tenderness to me is known—

My heart unto thy grace familiar grown,

Flutters aye, like a bird, to hear thee sing !

As the soft soothing in a sea born shell

Murmurs its birthright to the ravished ear,

Like chimes from heaven are the tones I hear

When thy soul’s sweetness melts me like a spell.

Fairy thy looks, my fancy’s paradise!

Song parted lips, red, like a bursting rose!

A peachy ripeness glowing cheeks disclose

To bask in lovelight from bright beaming eyes—

What charming candour! to my heart aglow

Her hand steals out a clasp of drifted snow!

68 AT BANGOR.

Jit Bangor.

We looked through open windows, on the bay

Resplendent in the full moon’s glancing light:

While in the solemn pauses of the night,

The sea came on, then drew itself away;

We heard the long wash on the sandy beach

Intoning, and a mood of deep unrest

Rose like a flood of impulse in the breast,

To reach what good may lie within our reach.

Three friends and I fresh in the strength of hope

Stood, soul to soul, in wordy bout and jest;

Youth at our feet lay like a sunny slope,

But then opinion sought which way was best

Up manhood’s crowning heights—out came the truth,

Lowliest is highest in old age, or youth.

STARS. 69

^tars.

Bright golden-hearted stars, whose tresses stream

Across that weary wilderness of mist

And darkness far and fathomless, ye seem

An interchange of love. The earth is kissed

By heaven with lips of starshine, and a blush

Steals o’er her face, all bashful to confess

Such sweet avowals from her lover lush

With beauty and low-bending tenderness.

Thought-sick, out in this rich, delicious haze

Of dewy night, the cool, caressing air

Relieves the mind, and, wafted in amaze,

Our spirits pass the barren realms of care,

To feel the starry touch of yonder spheres,

Like lovelight lapsing down the rolling years.

70 IN MEMORIAM.

In jUfomoriam.

Her gentleness hath, like a light, gone out,

Ay, on the threshold of sweet womanhood.

Death conjures in a bold, triumphant mood,

With our soul’s bitterness; while dark, as doubt

Upon pure faith polluting as it falls,

The shadow from another grave lies slant

Across our sunny lives—Hark ! while we chant

The rueful requiem, the Saviour calls

From out the mist deep darkling in the tomb:—

Tear into shreds, by faith, this cloak of gloom

Tied tight across your hearts; on angel wings

She hath arisen to a brighter birth;

Her fair brow crowned with amaranth she flings

The thorns she wore back on this thorny earth.

SCOTLAND. 71

^rotlanir.

Fob all the world I would not barter thee !

The patriot’s spirit fires thy manhood yet

As when in phalanx deep thy spears were set,

And tides of valour swept thee like a sea.

My Fatherland, auld Scotland, long hast thou,

All wreathen in romance and stars of song,

Clung like a crescent on the ocean’s brow,

And westward far thy light has flashed along,

And love of freedom, to New Zealand’s shore,

The Lares of our sires, the good and brave,

Are everywhere, and calling from the grave,

When men run riot, and their cannons roar

From sea to sea, they bid us strike for right—

Love God, our country, peace, and honour bright!

72 ON THE DEATH OF CARLYLE.

©it ttjt Iteatlj of ©arlglo.

Yon stars are awful—feverish to-night!

How strange! for now big-hearted drops of rain

Dash panting down, and lightnings flash amain—

Musing we stand thought stricken at the sight.

In truth great nature’s womb is throed to-night;

Some spirit storm-rapt cleaves that writhing sky,

From out this cramp of life is swaddled high,

The latest born to Everlasting Light!

Morn breaks: and he, whose soul had braved the world,

When in the great apocalypse of truth

He walked with earnest steps up from his youth,

And bared the age as is a flag unfurled,

Had in the rolling night been charioted,

While nature, frantic, mourned her Calchas dead.

HOPEFUL. 73

fjoptful.

Ring merrily, ring the glad wedding bell!

The rose is in blossom to busk the bride,

Whose beauty is flushed with a virgin pride

To hear it keep time with her bosom’s swell,

And cheerily, down by the village well,

The lasses aver that if love be true,

When meadows are green and the skies are blue,

Sweet, sweet is the sound of a wedding bell.

The pitchers are brimming—our lives run on

Like streamlets that flash through the month of May;

A maiden now sits by the well alone;

The bees in the clover humming away

Are least in her thoughts, but her face can tell

She longs for the sound of her wedding bell!

F

74 DISCONSOLATE.

Disronsnlata.

Sweet lady, do not waste thy strength away,

Bowed on the forehead of thy loved one dead.

What carest thou 1—Not to be comforted !

With tears long shed thy face shines cold as clay :

Hath grief sealed up the stars of hope that be

Set in this twilight unto wedded life—

A widow thou who wast so young a wife!

It seems but yesternight thy wedding glee

Rose jubilant, and now—alas ! what woe—

Deep winter woe and storm of tears and cries :

For thou art pale as jessamine; arise

And shake the dust from off thee—prithee go,

Wait heavenward, as drought waits for the rain;

O God ! unsting this sharp, heart-piercing pain.

THE POET S AMBITION. 75

port’s Ambition.

Moisten his lips with nectar—in sweet sleep

Couch him beneath some bosom-pulse divine—

Strong, like a panting star whose pure heartshine

Might fire his soul with inspiration deep.

Ye gods, from high Olympus, up the steep

To Helicon, uplift him in his youth,

And consecrate his lips unto all truth !

Then might the world, amid its headstrong leap

Adown its passions, hesitate, and feel

A piercing point of fire touch at its core—

The fire of earnest eyes of mute appeal:

Stone-world ! the poet in thy cold, cold ear,

Is breathing song and blessing evermore,

Thy heart to soften if thou would’st but hear.

76 FORSAKEN.

^forsaken.

Grim Sorrow’s heavy hand was fastened cold

And clammy on me—grouped foul finger-prints

Along my heart; and by-and-by the tints

Of health-bloom on my cheeks paled as with mould,

A flower crushed, and cankered at the root.

Crept on my soul a darkness thick as night;

As cries a child, I cried for morning light

And friendliness; and, as a lonely coot,

Out on the waters, sees the sunny lake

Betray an eagle’s shadow swooping near,

I felt thy love reflect my scalding tear.

And thus beholden, let me now betake

My broken self to thee—Oh! in my grief

Bear me, as water bears a withered leaf.

RECONCILED. 77

Hwonatetr.

Break forth into blossomy sprays of white,

And purple, and red, in the flush of spring,

Sweet blooms ! In the garden of love ye cling

Together, fresh kissed with the dews of night;

My heart is a garden of light, my love !

And sorrow the night that is overpast;

Tear-memories fall to the ground, and cast

A glamour that glistens like dew above

The lilies of passionate after-joy,

Set in the footprints of a passing pain

That never shall pass through the heart again

Our blessing to blight, or our trust destroy—

The lilies of love early flower away,

And break forth and glow in brighter array.

78 BACKBITING.

fBarkbiting.

I am soul-sick, my spirit is outdone,

The world’s dissembling is too much for me !

Men call you brother; sinless as the sun

They smile into your face, look bland and free

What perfidy ! Forsooth, they start aside,

And smiling still that you may still confide,

They plunge the dagger of backbiting in,

Cold, to the haft, as if it were no sin !

Ho ! comrades mine, out with the imps of sham

That play us false; ’tis well that we should slam

The door of friendship on the crafty crew.

Trust not the fickle, whether with loud song,

Or rosy laughter, they make love to you,

And truth shall follow on the heels of wrong.

NIGHT. 79

The footprints of the silver-footed night,

Are glancing beauteous, along the sky—

Bright specks of dappled cloud are floating by,

Like argosies bespangled with dim light,

And phantom sails of airy wonderment!

God spreads the sky above us, like a tent,

To take us mortals under His kind care,

And hangs it round with lamplights rich, and rare,

To draw our faces upward in amaze;

That, looking heavenward, we might forego

The everlasting friction, and vain show

Of worldliness, thereunto while we gaze,

And scan the works of Providence abroad,

Our souls rise up, in burning thoughts to God.

80 ON THE DEATH OF GILFILLAN.

On tlje Bmtlj 0f dtlfillan.

Gilfillan ! Thou wert born to level wrong,

Thy form itself, the eloquence of might!

Flash did thy pen, a scimitar of light,

Whereof, remembered gleams inspire my song •

Now wedged forever is it in its sheath !

Rare was its blade as is a byssolite !

But in thy grasp it nevermore shall smite,

Keen, like an avalanche on vales beneath,

Down crushing brazen ministries of sham—

Lift not again its heraldry on high

As one would raise a staff of augury

To gazing crowds—bright was the oriflamb

From which, in triumph rolled thy battle cry

Along thy country’s Capitolian Way !

THE GARDEN OF LOVE.

(barton af ICofcrf.

A drooping flower, heart-sick with languishment,

Gives out a fragrance unto sweet decay—

So deep in love we sigh from day to day.

It chanced : old wizard Fate, by Cupid sent

To guard his roses, paced the fields of thought;

Near one fair flower he saw me pause, and wait;

Eager I was to clasp it—’Twas unsought.

So one dark night, I dared to speak with Fate.

“ Give me this beauteous flower, give me but this

I cried ! Slow, he replied, with thoughtful brow,

“ Before I give it, thee, thine heart must bless

Such beauty.”—Then I encored in his ear,

“ I’ll never—never blight it with a tear : ”

Now that I have it, I shall keep my vow.

82 DEATH.

Iteatlj.

The brows of death are bound with asphodel,

Veiling about his full, lack-lustre eyes,

Twined are pale blossoms culled from Paradise.

Dumb Death ! thy mystic touch becomes thee well!

And why men dread thy face I cannot tell;

When thou art near, they look down to the dust,

Forgetful of thy high and holy trust

To bear them to the land where angels dwell.

Swift messenger ! with missive in thy hand

Sealed with the blood of Christ who died for all,

0 Death ! thou comest at thy King’s command

The Christian to relieve and disenthral—

God’s servant sent to open heaven’s gate :

1 know not how, to thee, men bear such hate.

A SOUVENIR. 83

J^rmfotur.

A child thou art, as I was once a child,

With sunny brow, ripe lips, soft cheeks in bloom,

And spirit blithe, and free, and undefiled !

Up from the vale of childhood’s rich perfume

Of fruit, and flowers, and hopes, and gladness full—

I, having reached the heights of manhood’s years,

Smile back to you—my parting from this school,

Seems looking down upon you through my tears.

0 ! my soul’s freshness is a deep, pure thought

Of good opinion, and of love inwrought

That in the after-time you shall be true,

True to all trust, while duty moves abroad—

True to yourselves, your parents, true to God !

And now farewell, a long farewell to you.

84 A DREAM.

31

Ha ! yesternight, I breasted in my dreams,

The yielding softness in a sea of bliss ;

Afar, beneath me, glared rich, sapphire-gleams

Of joy, and lightning-hearted ecstasies !

And upward far, a dim starbeamy mist

Of something unrevealed, shadowed my soul-—

It was delicious ! like one so kissed

By spirit-lips to feel their sweet control

Alluring Godward, I, a lone, live thing,

Was shrined by twin eternities, that sea

So motionless—that mist! Could I but sing

My life away, for that I am awake

’Twere sin to utter that divine keepsake

Enjoyed in dreamland—what will heaven be 1

THE PARTING. 85

®I}£ Parting.

We stood mute at the parting of two ways ;

One led—a vexing stretch of lengthened days,

And sore, foot-weary life, increasing cares

And all the petty things, here kept in trust—

The other seemed a golden flight of stairs,

With trailing blossoms languid in the dust

Around the first step ; all beyond was bright

And radiant to blind our mortal sight.

Love came, my brother ! gently smiled, and bent

His lips to thine that glowed with angel-speech

Inaudible—Love led thee on, and went

Through mystic gates of sapphire from the reach

Of outstretched hands, and lips that strove to say,

Farewell, my brother, on thy heavenward way !

86 PSYCHOSSOLLES.

fspchcrsBoUee.

As darling child, in love-wild ecstasy,

Clasped eagerly unto a mother’s heart,

Toys with her ringlets, woos the lightning glance

Of mirth from her kind eyes, and greedy culls

Ripe kisses from her lips : deep in the soul

That child engraves the earnest mother’s face;

And so do we the face of mother Earth;

Her flowered skirts, her forest garniture,

Her outstretched arms—the lofty reaching hills;

Her moods of beauty, through the seasons four,

Reflected in our own; we know them all,

From valley wrinkle to her inmost heart.

She holds us gently to her teeming breast;

We dally with her tresses—wind and rain •

We look into her glistening eyes—the seas,

And in their depths we find rich beauteous things.

She strews her fruits to usward honey-veined ;

Her smiles warm all our shadows into light,

And in responses we smile back to her.

If earth be beautiful, and thus beloved,

PSYCHOSSOLLES. 87

Shall we deny Creator, Father God.

In all God’s music-pulsing universe,

Sin is the one unholy, jarring chord,

While Nature’s voices are the sweet replies

The wedded earth gives to her lover, heaven :

Resound ye hills and all ye valleys sing—

Come thunder roll of shouting, joy of song,

For what were earth without this choral hymn

Of life from God, and God proclaimed in all?

God has a purpose threading through all life

And circumstance reined up in His right hand;

Then would’st thou happy be, as angels are,

In great—in small things faithful be to God ;

When in humility you face a task

As hard as flint, strike it, it shall bear fire.

If cleaving to thy soul be golden grains

Of worth, mould them all unto loftiness.

A mote of dust, robbed from a butterfly,

Is perfect in itself as is a star;

And small, still heart beats of ephemerals

May prove more wondrous than loud thunder storms.

Yes ! to our thinking, dim immensities

Of starry silence—heaven’s poesy,

Are burning words the autograph of God.

The robes of God are fires of poesy ;

88 PSYCHOSSOLLES.

What is creation but a poem vast,

And wonderful ? bright valleys, seas, and stars

Are set to sweetest music in their spheres.

And there are organ tones abroad the world :

God speaketh in the thunder and all flesh

Are mute; swift lightnings are like javelins

Flung from His hand upon the trembling earth.

Whirlwinds and tempests are His steeds of war;

The dark dishevelled tresses of the storm,

The drift of vapour and the scudding rack

Are pinned and ravelled round His chariot wheels.

Deep merges into deep, and star on star,

Till in a unit are the works of God

Complete and rounded, like one mighty Thought

Pervading all. I deem a poet, thou

Of purpose strong, and restless as a sea,

Who art awaiting, placid in thy depths

Of calm perception, for the moving times

Of inspiration, wait thou, till the touch

Of God’s own finger set thy soul in tune,

Then, sea-like, on the shifting sands of time,

Sob out thy song, and lash them round about.

Earth’s glory still remains all incomplete,

With penitence our lives must flowered be.

Now what avails though once you clasped a gem

PSYCHOSSOLLES. 89

Dropped from your careless hand into the sea ;

But think all loss a gain, all gain a loss,

When such things bar you from eternal truth.

I’d rather be a Lazarus in faith,

Whose crown in heaven sure is as the stars,

Than he on velvets couched, who, all day long,

Plays with a shiny heap of coronets,

And has no more beyond illusive earth.

0 sordid, heartless earth ! thy chains of gold

Inwrought with fantasies, both day and night,

Clasp down thy slaves in sickish labyrinths

Of wild ambition, restless craftiness,

Great longings unfulfilled. My countrymen,

Beware of prophets false, and subterfuge !

Within the folds of gaudy flower-cups,

All brimmed with poison, lurk the germs of death,

And rinds all glossy as a luscious fruit

May prove of bitter dust the coverings ;

So may the false ones counterfeit the true.

Some poets have belied the gifts of God,

The angel ones are singers none the less !

Call him a poet who retails a lie 1

Less is the frenzy than the poet’s faith !

And what is he, who on the wings of song,

Poor moth ! dare challenge God Omnipotent ?

With lips of lewdness kiss creation’s face, G

90 PSYCHOSSOLLES.

And flout the Author of such loveliness 1

Our yesterdays against the living time—

A lie that withers in the grasp of truth—

A rain-drop dimpling on the mighty brow

Of some infinite sea, or snowflake thrust

Against a glaring all-consuming sun,

Are more than he against Almighty God !

A law divine, a poet’s faith should be

Of sympathy for all things beautiful.

All beauty comes, like blessing, straight from God,

So must it be a law infallible—

A Bethel ladder upward from the earth !

A whirlwind of spirit and poetic might

Around the poet’s being ever sweeps

To lift him from the prattle in this world.

Oh, for the tremble of a finer pulse

To feel the starshine quiver on our brows !

Then gloating on her pearly beauty spots,

We would enamoured make love to the night.

And yet a jewelled world is nothingness,

A grain of grace more than Orion’s Belt!

Keep, keep your gold, give me a poet’s faith :

For there are gospels of divinest truth

So writ in every circumstance, and law

And mood of Nature, miracles not yet

PSYCHOSSOLLES. 91

Have been uprooted all from out the world,

Vile though it be, and crusted, like a shrimp,

With lies and incrustations foul with shame.

Flowers, light, dew, starshine are miracles—

Fine germs of blessing sown broadcast from heaven,

And permeations, from the higher spheres,

Pass through unleavened everything of earth,

To vivify all with a usefulness.

Yes! wonders move along the ways of life

As plentiful as leaves in sultry June.

A bosky glen down from the meadow land

Looks quiet as a leaf-piled nunnery !

Unto the music stirred by balmy winds,

Dance all its woodland sylphs on glancing boughs

Of summer foliage; when shines the sun,

Within its caverned coolness oft I stray,

Around my burning temples to entwine

Sweet amaranths of fancy steeped in song.

’Tis noontide, come with me, leave that steep road

Of rough descent, and take this easy stile

Unto the softness grassy on the path,

Beneath yon copse meandering, edging round

The ferny hollows, like a garment trail

Of velvet green most gracefully outspread

Behind the goddess of sincere delight.

PSYCH0SS0LLE8.

Walk slowly ! how the flowers as we pass

Glance up into our eyes, each fondling each;

Among the waving herbage twinkle they

Anemones with features delicate,

Fresh cowslips varnished like a golden couch *

Fit for a sunbeam ; purple hyacinths,

Wood sorrel, daisied tufts, and jessamine ;

Peep well into the grass, and ye shall find

The lovers’ favourite, forget-me-not!

Feel how a warm renewal unto youth

Stirs in our veins to hear that cuckoo call,

And Nature’s universal mellowness

Out from a thousand throats gush happily ;

While sylvan silence, like a prophet veiled,

Breathes through the interludes of melody,

And speaks in oracle inaudible,

But is it not the language, none the less,

Of spirit unto spirit, up to God 1

B,est on this daisied bank; a prospect, fresh

From Nature’s finest pencil, starred and striped

Is bursting in expansion to the view.

Behold, afar, the sloping uplands rise,

Neat, rounded cones of heath, like dusky brows

Of weather-beaten forms in attitude

Of gazing steadfastly across the sea.

PSYCHOSSOLLES. 9:,»

In one of Nature’s freaks, as if to wedge

That close-knit family of clustered hills,

A deep defile sound-haunted, rocky-ribbed,

And with the stubborn oak’s dark leafage plumed,

Runs up to meet the looming heights beyond.

Day after day I stand, but never tire

Reviewing this gay landscape’s finery.

What vales of greenness shimmer far below,

Bright like a well of gladness springing up

In smiles of never-ending loveliness !

While quietly, low lapt in leafy depth,

The cosy hamlet crouches in its lair

Of foliage—I hear the happy hum

Of household voices cheering daily toil:

And prattling round the whitened cottages,

Where garden lawns are velvety and moist

With cultivation, ruddy children chase

Each other through a floating fairyland

In blossom, see, with laughter-dimpled cheeks,

This way, now here—that way, now there—they dart

In playful glee, like sunbeams in and out,

When boughs are bending breezy dalliance.

If stealing charms from one another’s skirts

Be wearisome, alternatives are near—

They shake the milk-white blossoms from the thorn,

And shout, “ In summer do you see that snow 1 ” i

94 PSYCHOSSOLLES.

I love a child, and I was quite a boy

When old Bartholomew, in tenderness,

Led me unto this knoll, one sunny day,

And in his wisdom, told a parable

1 never could forget; as he told me,

I tell it now to you, so will you list ?

A seabeach, like a crescent chastely curved,

And landward terraced, looking to the west;

A graceful sweep of waters running up

Upon white-breasted sands; one tall grey cliff

Capt with a pretty sward of velvet green,

Uprising like a throne in grandeur piled,

To mark the inmost conquests of the sea !

Beyond, and all around, a forest land

Unknown, and pathless clambers up the heights

Of lofty circling everlasting hills,

To lose itself in skyey loveliness

Close knitted in the green luxuriance

Of an eternal spring. One avenue

Through that entanglement, clear, like a dash

Of hope to one forlorn, leads inward far

Unto the great metropolis, whose gates

Are high and pearly ; streets most precious stones ;

Whose King the light thereof; and as a seal

Upon a sacred thing, that clid‘ is placed

PSYCHOSSOLLES. 95

Unto it thus secure from outer worlds

With that vast sea-stretch stretching round it ever.

One eventide that sea lay fast asleep,

And neither frown nor wrinkle on its brow

Revealed the mighty anguish at its heart,

The restless rising, restless ebbing tides ;

But placid, as a mirror crystal clear,

The waters with the sunshine silvered were.

The lightsome sky uplifting from her face

A gauzy veil of vapour smiled to see

Her countenance reflected in the calm

Of smiling ocean—smile thus unto smile.

There was a perfect glory in that scene ;

With slow advance the sun-god westering,

Apparelled in a seamless blaze of light,

Spread out long robes across his chariot wheels,

And trailed them far through glaring amber seas.

All Nature, in the quietude profound,

Most voiceless as if listening intent

For some great advent, seemed in holy guise.

Dark mantled, lofty browed, august, and mute,

Like patriarchs in one assemblage met,

The silent pines were towered round and round.

When lo ! in vestures white, along the strand,

File after file, a long procession gleamed

96 PSYCHOSSOLLES.

From out the green-capt, smooth grey cliff beyond.

A saintly multitude, they, each to each,

Looked with an aspect bright of pure content.'

Each in his right hand held an onyx stone

Whereon new names were written; to the left

A golden harp was pendent, many stringed,

And fragrant with the touch of fingers fine.

A mist—a little cloud dim, fiery dark,

Sailed slowly up across the skyey blue.

Amid such expectation, came a voice

Of thunder ! “ Seraphim, strike, strike the harp ! ”

And suddenly arose a chorus grand,

From twice ten thousand harps, and blended were

The voices multitudinous which sang

“ Holy, holy, holy ! Thine for evermore.”

Then from above the mist came down and down,

And tipped the sea a moment, then became

Invisible; but in its stead a barge

Shone clear upon the waters whence it came

Up from the depths : as if from sea and mist

It had been crystallized into a form

Right beauteous—so fashioned was the barge !

Now twinkling fingers swifter glowed and dashed

Along the harps fast melting into sound.

Now did the anthem swell to thunder tones,

PSYCHOSSOLLKS. 97

And one great voice of joy burst like a fount.

Low rumbling noises on the mountain peaks

Were as the heart-beats of a universe !

Amid such acclamation seven stars

Leapt into shining like red setting suns,

And underneath their blaze, across the bay

Far sailed the barge, with plates of pearly sheen

Strong ribbed and sheathed; poised graceful as a swan

It skimmed the waters like a living thing

Of shapely magnitude, serene and bright.

And from its topmost pinnacle of mast,

Outllashed an oriflamb most gorgeous,

And glancing gay, a banner for the brave.

Forever toward flame-reflecting skies,

Reflected ever at the burnished prow,

A censer burned with flame unquenchable,

Impregnating the air with incense sweet,

As is a prayer on lips of innocence

Beneath a mother’s bending heaven of love.

The barge majestic, gleaming, glided on;

And, like an axle of revolving light,

Its glory quivered on the liquid deep,

And smote its waters into rainbow hues :

Much splendour was there, furthermore, untold,

Against its masts enamelled amethyst,

And rich topazolite, hue unto hue,

PSYCHOSSOLLES. 9iS

Tlie silken, silvery sails hung languidly.

A breathless summer calm on shore, and sea,

Lay like the shadow of a mighty hand

Warm in the warmth of its tranquility ;

And peace hung, like a picture, everywhere. •

Night came, the seven stars waned like to stars,

.Swift evolutions shot along through space.

And then, day after day, the sun rode round,

And with bright beams of light he measured time

Upon the earth, his dial: while the barge

Sailed on clear shining, like a mystic thing

Beneath the sleety winds that blew amain,

Down from the world’s cold, rock-bound, barren shores.

No signs of motion in that gliding ship !

Swift as a shuttle, silently'it sped

To carry blessings unto alien bays—

To weave its subtle web of perfect peace.

Beside the helm, alone, in lowly state,

Reclined a King far fairer than the sun,

Reclined Psychossolles, the King of Kings !

Thus lone, unto the kingdoms, forth He went.

Above the coniines in the realms of sin,

There is a Kingdom famed of fair domain,

A far extending tableland, sunbright,

PSYCHOSSOLLKS. 99

Beyond the reach of mean and selfish men;

It has a richness native to itself,

Clothed in a stretch of fresh felicity—

One vast oasis for the human soul.

Great is the throne reared in the midst thereof

High on this dread and mystic pinnacle,

As if enthroned on columned sunbeams cooled

And crystallized, in majesty alone

Sat one Great Power, round whose forehead wreathed

Were lightnings fierce, unquenchable, and round

About his feet was darkness manifold,

Sky unto sky a midnight chaos piled,

Most terrible—august his personage,

And from his vision came a radiance

Unspeakable, so when his eyelids rose

Its brightness like a tongue of quenchless flame

Licked up the darkness surging black as pitch.

As plunge the shooting stars through winter nights

A living light leaped forth into the void :

The neighbour kingdoms tottered faint for rain,

The far off seas into a boiling foam

Were smitten—in his presence stood no foe !

Bight happy beings circling round that throne,

Protected in its shadow, from dread looks

Of utter righteousness, bowed in the dust,

And magnified their King with angel tongues

100 PSYCHOSSOLLES.

Soft silvered with a longing after good.

Complacent in his glory, their great King

Would close his eyes, and forthwith, sin-arrayed.

From ice-cold Northland came a legion forth,

In line of battle pitched their snowy tents

The cover of the darkness underneath.

And in their clenching grip they held long spears

Of icicles immense, tine-polished, hard

As flint, and ever lengthening the grim

Austere proportion's—freezing unto death !

Such was the cold with that Fire-god asleep.

When he awoke a chilly piercing pang

Through his offended might ran like a stab;

Wronged in his wrath, armed in the plenitude

Of fire consuming, irresistible !

He smote them on the thigh, and right and left,

Tli at palefaced army folded up their tents,

Disguised themselves, and ran into the sea.

And so this warfare raged perpetual

Between vile Wrongs and Right infallible.

A furlong from that long bleak battle plain,

Close by the dark sea marge, stood at the prow

Of his sure sailing barge, Psychossolles !

And marshalled were the wan faced hosts of Wrong,

In horrid lines, right ready for the fray !

PSYCHOSSOLLES. 101

Along the shore a murmuring suspense

From legion went to legion, like a breath

Of air that trails itself along a mist—

As when night silence like an angel steps

Between the fire-lipped volleyings of death,

And soldiers tarry fretting for the dawn,

So was a low sound humming through the camp.

Psychossolles called through the speaking trump

Of love and present opportunity :—

“ Ho ! warriors of Wrong, why battle thus

In warfare unavailing 1 know ye not

That Right is might, and Sin is simply sin

Why for its cursed dominion do ye war 1

Your seeds of action sow not to the winds

Of self and that which God-forsaken is

The barrenness of nature unrenewed !

Prevail ye never—why do ye rebel

Against the throne and righteousness of Right ?

Love ye war thus, for I peacemaker am

To end this stubborn warfare if ye will.

Ho ! ye who languish wearied unto death

With striving after mirages of sin !

While thus ye stand in service unto sin,

Like fire a white heat shut up in the bones,

Your longings are and burning discontent.

102 • PSYCIIOSSOLLES.

But come ye, come, and I will give you grape

And milk and honey that will soothe your woe.

There shall be found in simple trust, more might

Than that which fires great energies mis-spent,

Believe me your peacemaker, follow me,

Unto the Isle of Faith not far away;—

Then with a righteousness ye shall be clad—

Shall practise evermore the arts of peace.”

Such were his words, afar the burnished barge

Sailed on its way, steered by Psychossolles ;

And evening came upon that day of grace.

To westward farther, lies a Kingdom blest,

Three islands landlocked, each embracing each,

And pleasant is the clime around their shores.

Sea chafed by sea is simpering and flings

A gentle warmth upon them ever fair.

Like isles of emerald so fresh, and green,

And cool, the meadows are moist with the dew

Of April gladness always glancing there.

Amid the gloss and glimmering of leaves,

Varnished with sunniness the valleys are

As Nature’s firstborn yet the last to die.

Soft sounds and gladsome, floating musical

From happy singing birds high on the trees,

Are as a soul unto their leafiness.

PSYCHOSSOLLES. 103

While up from greeneries luxuriant,

The streamlet’s tinkle steals upon the sense

Like summer day long dreams of happiness—

Joy is the atmosphere that wraps them round

Warm with the breathings from a life of love.

That people is the greater which from Peace

Secures the greater tenure—great indeed,

Were all the dwellers therein ; spite, or feud

Or falsehood never shadowed even once

Their thresholds as a pleasing welcome guest.

Such were those happy isles, Hesperides !

Three radiant gems upon the ocean’s breast

Clear shining, as upon the virgin grace

Of comely maidenhood, shine jewels rare.

One is the Isle of Faith, and one of Hope,

And one called Charity, most beautiful—

No snow drift in the circle of their year!

Sweet Faith smiles nearest to the wintry seas

Of ice-bound Northland, with its spacious bays

To anchor in from storm—or wind, or rain.

Most happy voyagers from deeps afar,

Are those who reach those regions of the Blest.

Psychossolles for thirty-three long days

And moonless, drizzly nights steered his lone course

Traversing ocean : earnest were his looks

104 PSYCHOSSOLLES.

Along the dim horizon far away.

From verge to verge of dull low skies he looked,

And thought of all the sheen which lay beyond:—

Clear tinkling brooklets ; headlands whose embrace

Took sunned seas to their bosom hushing them ;

And cloudless peaks of hill; great depths of vale—

Green leaves with springtime sunbeams overlaid,

Roofing cool bowers full of active ease,

And friendly greetings making all hearts glad !

Not always to the distance did he look,

For perils many strewn along the ways

Of ocean, were full many times ahead,

Right goodly ships with freights of precious hopes,

And best intentions grated, hour by hour,

Upon them, and became vast utter wrecks :

Wherefore most distant were the Isles of Faith,

And Hope and Charity for which they strove,

Beyond the dim horizon still away !

Many a floating spar with motto writ

“ Procrastination is my only Love,

I yet will false be to her,” “ By and by

Reform shall garment me about,” “ Peace, peace—

Repent I will in time, about to die,”

“ I trust to Fate,” “ I hope,” and one, “Despair”—

Came drifting past, dark gleaming, ominous

PSYCHOSSOLLES. 105

Beneath the censer at the burnished prow

Of that strange barge steered by Psychossolles.

He kept a sharp look-out, for in those seas,

Were fateful quicksands of Indifference ;

Calm, smooth-faced shallows of Self-righteousness ;

And dark, deep, half-hidden whirlpools of Lust.

Coy sirens were of sins most various—

One had long yellow locks, and blandly wiled

Her thousands to the Caves of Drunkenness,

Wave-shattered rocks, with glossy, bristly backs.

Outstretching forelocks of sea-weed, unseen

Beneath the waves awaiting for their prey.

Slow sailed the barge : a dimmer rim arose

Along the dim horizon; that wild sea

Was ragged, raging boisterous it vexed

Itself, and sweated white with flakes of foam.

Hear were the stormy Straits of Unbelief,

And through them every voyager must go

To reach the Isle of Faith—an eminence

Of haggard, sharp-edged, black rain-dripping rock

Is towered up on either hand so high,

Eternal cloud hangs round them, night and day.

And one juts past the other, it appears

The finale of all, with nought beyond

So dark, so grim, so end-all seems the scene. n

10G PSYCHOSSOLLES.

But one straight channel tranquil from the storm

(And few there be that seek it) wends between

Those rocks unto a sunlit peaceful sea;

And then the Isle of Faith shines full in view.

Loathsome are they the Straits of Unbelief !

It is most solemn to contemplate all

The bleached bones of disaster rotting there,

And vestiges of ruin : young and old

Have battled with the surf that lashes round

Those citadels of sin, in every age

They in their turn have shrieked hoarse unto death,

And bared themselves unto an angry sky.

Some have their grey hairs matted dank with spray,

And some are young, their smooth, fair, rounded brows

All beaded over with the cruel brine

Of torment—Ah me ! for, craft after craft

Has been, time after time, asunder cleft

Upon those horny breakers goring them :

Then comes a yelling and the last long gulp—

O Atheist! poor soul out in the cold !

Psychossolles stood at the burnished prow

Of his sure sailing barge; tears down his cheeks

Fell streaming, while his heart was grieved to see

The feeble-kneed, fool-hardy Infidel,

PSYCHOSSOLLES. 107

Right on the horns of doom rush open-eyed.

“ This is the only Way, the Truth, the Life,”

Forth from the blazoned deck he loudly called,

Then steered on slowly like a great sunset

Along the inlet unto better things.

A faint smile quivered round sweet worded lips,

He clasped his hands in attitude of joy,

For lo ! the Isle of Faith—Himself the King !

Moored in the offing rode the stately barge ;

And twilight darkening rushed from the East.

From her bed chamber came a wan, wan moon

So sickly-faced with three attendant stars,

As if from sleep they had been startled, pale.

Then unto everything a gloaming gauze

Was as a coverlet by spirits spread.

The vacant sky, save moon and three lone stars,

Seemed one deep ocean of delightful haze

Wherein the soul alone, might bathe and live—

Tis sweet to commune when an anchored barque

Floats lightly, and beside the dancing prow

One leans above some sad sea’s sobbing waves,

Beneath a moonlight glinting now and then.

Sweet is, at eventide, the ripple faint

Of waters heard, as if they had a voice,

The shadowy dim outlines on the shore,

108 PSYCHOSSOLLES.

To lisp a welcome, or to chicle delay,

So in the offing at his vessel’s prow

Leant King Psychossolles, at eventide.

When round to midnight stilly went the night,

A fresh breeze blew; and fast across the sky,

Cloud chasing was one cloud-wave after wave.

The moon with her unseen most dainty feet,

Curtailed her beamy skirts and waded through ;

Then clearly on the lee the island lay.

His eyes upcast stood at the lonely prow

Of his sure sailing barge, Psychossolles !

Intoning one deep prayer—once did he cry :—

“ O Father ! not my will but Thine be done.”

Therewith a stream of moonbeams sparkled warm

Upon the sea, and yellowed with the touch

It did appear a pathway such as leads

Through dreamland to a glory not of earth.

While loosened from its moorage, sailed the barge

Along the bright reflection guiding it

Into a cove of lime trees arching green,

As is an acorn fitted in its cup,

So perfectly within that sylvan cove,

Lost in the leaves, the vessel was down claspt,

Among sea flowers tangled, snowy white

Like water lilies.

PSYCHOSSOLLES. 109

At that solemn hour,

A man of sorrows was Psychossolles.

With one foot on the burnished prow he stood—-

His right foot on the strand as if to go,

For one great labour yet was unfulfilled.

Sore travail came upon his very soul,

As an eclipse comes darkening the sun.

Up through an interstice of arching boughs,

He turned a pale face to as pale a moon,

“ O God ! why—why hast Thou forsaken me 1 ”

He cried : and in response a thunder cloud

Came up the sky, and all was darkness then.

True sorrow is as fire that burns and takes

•The dross from out our beings, leaving pure

The elements, wherewith we link the chain

That draws us up to God so is it blessed!

The hardest hearts, when channelled inwardly

With well-springs of contrition, doubtless give

The greater flood of passion—doubtless give

A fuller consecration unto pure,

And true, and noble things—tis natural—

The germs of good are quickened by some sin

That stimulates a striving after good,

It is the darkness showing more the light;

It is decay, from it repentance shoots

110 PSYCHOSSOLLES.

As does a blade of corn—a life in death,

For from it die the things repented of—

And lives the grace that reaches forth to grace.

Soft tears on faces lifted up in prayer

Are by an angel shapen as they fall—

To measure from the heart a trail of grief

Like smoke far melting, rising to the sky—

To plunge into the depth of weeping eyes,

And sound the fountains of such eloquence—

To pluck bereavement’s withered leaf of love,

Sore rustled by a whirlwind heaving round

Within the bosom, were vile sacrilege !

For godly sorrow is a sacred trust,

And through long-winding caves of dust and toil.

And languishment, we must repentant go

To reach the daylight unto better things.

Our sad remembrances of former pains

Cross on our spirits, like so many rods

Of fatherly correction; better is

The heart of man for all such chastisements,

When patience unto pain is minister ;

Then, reader, if thou ever hast a woe,

That quickens thee to sorrow for thy sin,

Go shield it round, it is the struggling forth

Of blossom burst beneath the smile of God.

Pray over it, in season it shall yield

PSYCHOSSOLLES. Ill

Good, full-ripe fruit a recompense for tears.

Earth hath no flowery path whereon to tread,

Remote from suffering; and it is true

Kings have their trials as have common men,

Full oft their coronet is one of thorns !

Nor canst thou know the labour, languor, love

All for a kingdom’s weal, self sacrificed—

What sweat of anguish oozed upon the brow

Of King Psychossolles, that, dark, dread hour !

The dim, long lapse of ages coming on,

Pulsed with the holy birth of one great Deed.

Morn smiling came, a bright-faced harbinger,

Bringing glad tidings; sparkle did the sea

Most daintily, it rippled glancing sheen.

Sunbeamy were the waters fringed with rays,

Gold threaded through the azure, stitch on stitch,

Far brighter than the robe of any queen.

Lo ! on the Isle of Faith, what glory glows

Still brighter than bright vales, or sea, or sun !

Where, from yon silent, sombre belt of pines,

The mountain’s shoulder bare and glossy shines

Up to its skyey verge, a flood of light

Sweeps downward ever like a dazzling fall

Of dust-small diamonds—which Mount of Fire,

Gaze whosoever will, uplifts a Cross

112 PSYCHOSSOLLES.

High interceding for all men to heaven.

While its far splendour gleams across the sea,

It shimmers like an angel’s countenance

Between the haggard, black, rain-dripping rocks t

Of Unbelief, as Mercy’s mournful eyes

In love would wet with tears the face of Guilt.

O ! holy Hill of Light! heart-searching Cross !

Would that all men would will to do the right—

And Thou, Psychossolles hear—hear our cry !

Cold is the world to what may last for good;

Cold to the tried-in-trust old rules of faith,

And customs that like goodly alchymists

Made all things glitter in a golden age.

Once at high noon sungleams of honour shone

But barren baseness bound all in eclipse.

The stifling dark of discord came right down

On many households where the light had been.

Yes ! cold the times are to the loyal life

That waits upon a wonder-working faith,

The leaven to unleavened life and love,

How selfish Hate stands like a low-browed Cain

Erect in many doorways in the land—

Blushless, each brother by the other wronged !

Woe worth the usage that usurps this age,

And darts a deadness through earth’s life of love

PSYCHOSSOLLES. 113

Woe worth the law lapt in men’s low desires—

Bad, base-born wishes that confound the right

With wrong, and so corrupt life’^ sustenance !

Woe to such manners breeding foul disgrace!

Woe worth the shameless shame, the scar of scorn

Red scorched somehow on faces that we meet—

But praised be Love’s great bond of brotherhood

That shall unite all races, consecrate

All things unto a fuller, better use,

Expand the truer trust, the perfect faith,

The universal love that leadeth on

The everlasting Jubilee of Man.

The world reels with its weight of wickedness.

Hereafter, when Jehovah’s fiats rush

Like warsteeds through hot battle clouds of doom,

Shall not the order of this universe

Snatch its deliverance and be no more 1

Sweet is conjecture to the lofty mind,

The holiest of holy, inmost thoughts

Man’s morbid sense shall never mortalize !

Were heaven, heaven, without its mysteries'?

O ! in the very eagerness to know

What, Where, and When, we are all heavenly-

minded !

14 PSVOIIOSSOLLKS.

I peered from memory’s high arch, and saw

The years go rolling down the misty past.

By channels pebbled with remembrances,

Where once had flowed the stealing tides of time.

Reflection led me to the deadened joys

That clustered on the sunny banks of youth,

Like springtime’s flowers balmy, fresh, and fair.

And in a sadly strange, uncertain light,

I saw great brain-endeavours—mighty works

That on the cupola of time may raise

Creations prompting to infinitude ;

Such greatness crowns those wondrous prodigies.

We muse on them, and new upwelling thoughts

Would cling unto their great all-sidedness,

Like budding leaves unto the trees in spring.

Lost in the dream-work of such frenzied moods,

I thought all men a solemn brotherhood

Whose welded aspirations might build up

Pure, golden deeds to touch the floor of heaven.

And poets in seraphic multitudes

Seemed crowding round the living worth of things.

While old Bartholomew, from out that mist

Of deep entombed forgetfulness, called me

By name, and bade me write my dreamy thoughts.

O spirit voices of the loved ones dead !

Ye fire the empyrean in our souls

PSYCHOSSOLLES. 115

With your kind benedictions, and I would

That I might ever keep this ardent heart

True to the instincts born of early love—

Then would I have each kindly, happy thought

Thus given to this wild impassive world,

As blossom gives its fragrance to the cold

Ungrateful gales of flower-embroidered spring,

Breathed in the dull ear of the age, for good,

With unforgotten names, and For-your-sakes.

He is best friend who doeth kind things best:

And thus to me dear is the memory

Of old Bartholomew, friend that he was !

His kindness, ever, when I think of it,

Melts in my heart like light into the sea.

Old though I be, I am a child again

In moments of communion strange and sweet—

My dreams are fresh, like landscapes after rain !

We loiter hand in hand through dim, green woods.

Grand in the splendour of remembered years—

Pure childhood longings crowd upon my sense,

And all the happiness that used to be.

The old man’s speech seems like a sun-smit chord

That ever glows with words of tenderness

Repeating oft his tale about the Love

Of King Psychossolles—looks in mine eyes,

116 PSYCHOSSOLLES.

“ Boy ! to the Isle of Faith, chaste wilt thou go 1 ”

When I grew up a youth, for his dear sake,

(Ay, he is dead, long, many years ago)

I wrapped his mystic mantle round my soul;

And whomsoever, on life’s troublous sea,

I may encounter, this, my greeting is :—

“ Ho ! to the Isle of Faith, friend, hast thou been 1

For if thou hast not, haste thee, make thee haste ! ”

Our lives hang on the present, like a thread

Upon a sword-point dangled in the air.

Then live, as if our next and nearest step

Would bring us face to face with that Great Judge

And Censor of all time, Eternity !

From whose dread judgment there is no appeal

To plead probation in our lives again.

In the dead-earnest present, thus it is

Our duties fall upon us divers ways

To wai'p the issues in a future state,

Around the goal of our immortal souls,

For bliss, or pangs of conscience, evermore.

Would’st thou toil on a stormy deep of wrong,

And brook vile buffets from the demon hands

That rise up from it—hands all foul with crime,

When thou might’st live a monarch to thyself,

PSYCHOSSOLLES.

And wear a crown of peace inviolate 1

Beneath the revelations of God’s love

Our fates lie plastic, shapen at our will.

“ Thou, Sinner, art a suicide in sin ”

Is Conscience’ decalogue—stern is that truth

Vibrating through the age, like mercy’s heart

Hard-pleading, ay, betwixt the ribs of time.

How long, 0 Lord, how long shall it be so,

That men will starve themselves on husks of sin,

And rich, sweet fruited Isles of Faith quite near

Atheist! breast thou God’s inspiring tides

Of revelation—plunge thou into Love,

Weak starveling on that barren beach of Self.

Within dost thou not feel thy conscience burn

Like hunger in the soul ? bow down thine ear,

Hear thou the pulsing of my heart for thee;

O brother, see the pulsing of yon stars !

God’s charity, like life-blood ever young,

And full, and free is circling, rushing through

The myriad veins in Nature—ocean-tides

Are flowings palpable, so every law

That lives and throbs throughout creation is

The warrant of a universal Love.

From Nature comes an interchange of love.

118 PSYCHOSSOLLES.

Proud as a king, enthroned on mossy turf

I love to moralize amid the bliss

Of summershine beneath a panting sun—

Scenes pastoral! in truth, ye have inwrought

My thoughts into a fabric of such joy,

I think they have a something that is mine,

The rich embroidered curtains of the sky !

Those lofty wooded heights and happy vales—

The changing glories round a setting sun—-

The still suspense of gloaming, and the sweets

Of moonrise cool amid the falling dew.

I think they have a something that is mine,

The silence of the stai’s so thoughtful-eyed,

Rich depth of darkness on the midnight’s brow,

The dappled dawn, the sunrise roseate—

And all the pageantry that waits upon

The beauteous going-forth of Mother Earth.

Where Nature has a smile for everyone,

On summer nights I love to wander forth

In twilight’s peace-imparting shadowings :

My face turned to the Past, I count and mourn

The slighted golden opportunities

That paved my path from childhood up to man.

Alas ! how we are eager to pursue

Delusive pleasures, frail, in fancy’s realm

PSYCHOSSOLLES. 119

As rainbow-tinted bubbles in the air—-

I stood upon a bridge, the twilight shades

Hung like a veil on Nature’s lovely face,

In moonlight splendour stood umbrageous trees

All wreathed with silver haze, and motionless.

Still was the grove, and on each dewy leaf,

That cast a shadow in the tender light,

A dreamy stillness slept—my breast was moved,

Though silence seemed to reign enthroned supreme

Where darkness deepened in the distant glade,

Through giant trees that stretched across the stream

Their leafy boughs to kiss it, bowing down

As in devotion to a solemn joy,

Upon mine ears would come, at intervals,

The restless ripple’s mournful, purling voice

Blent with a life-throb from the neighbouring town—

A hollow, bubbling, and care-burdened cry

That whispered in the sylvan solitudes,

Then died upon the trailing skirts of night.

When on the bridge I stood, that twilight hour,

Some three and twenty autumn suns had warmed

The ripening tinge of age upon my brow.

Now sober-minded I had no delight

Among the thoughtless in the village crowd

To dally with cobwebs the gossip spun.

120 PSYCHOSSOLLES.

I rather was a worshipper in glens

At eventide, or by the moorland wild,

And solitary tarn on mountain side.

But most of all, when like a silver rain

The moonlight lavished lustre on each scene

Refreshing it, was I a lover fond

Of lone glens, copses wild, and waterfalls.

So was it that I felt the outward calm

Of heaven-reaching hills—the ambient

Cool quietude in fragrant, dim greenwoods

Slip stilly in along my burning veins.

How did I joy to feel the inner life

Of Nature palpitate far from the rust

That reddens all things breathed on by the world.

That night I, tiptoe from the verge of life

And opportunity, looked down afar

Upon the waste of years I had traversed.

How was my prospect widened, since, a boy,

Companion loved by old Bartholomew,

I listened to his tale, “ Psychossolles.”

Within the range of quickened insight, lay

Thoughts manifold, unknown to childhood’s years,

And that sweet season of my younger love.

Methought I stood on truth, as on a hill,

The vale of Revelation at my feet!

PSYCHOSSOLLES. 121

In splendid pageantry appeared to pass,

File after file, a saintly multitude

From out the green-capt, smooth, grey cliff beyond.

And in my vision of sweet ravishment,

Choice music came and went, like summer rain

Murmuring on green leaflets musical.

I saw the little cloud dim, fiery dark,

Transformed into a barge most beauteous.

In lowly state I saw Psychossolles,

Reclining at the helm, the King of Kings,

As lone unto the kingdoms forth he went.

Methought I was one of the host of Wrong,

Against the throne and righteousness of Right

I warred and wayward was in all my ways.

Like fire a white heat shut up in my bones

My longings were and burning discontents.

Thanks be to God, I heard Psychossolles

A furlong from the long, bleak battleplain

Close by the dark sea-marge, call unto me :—

Come ye, come—come ! and I will give you grape,

And milk, and honey, that will soothe your woe.

I came—I launched my soul, both day and night,

To keep as best I could the shiny track

Of that bright barge steered by Psychossolles.

Methought I passed with him, the awful front

Of haggard, black, rain-dripping rocks—the Straits i

122 PSYCHOSSOLLES.

Of Unbelief—and came to shiny seas:

For lo ! the Isle of Faith was full in view.

Forthwith, aside were laid my garments soiled,

My discontents and sorrows shied away !

What solace had I in fresh blossom heaps

And all the glories of that happy Isle—

Rich blade, and bud, and leaf, and full-blown blooms.

It seems to me wild flowers are the thoughts

Of Nature unto men made visible ;

Of thoughts the choicest, in a poet’s mind

Thought is to word as flowers to our sense

Of beauty beaming in them beautiful!

A galaxy of sleek-faced violets,

Beside a hedgerow from the crowd remote,

Will more than all the tangled, snaky maze

Of human greatness, me control and awe.

Lush violets ! of flowers rare ye are

The soberest, the sweetest—godliest!

Moved in your presence my perception shrinks,

As conscious sin were touching holiness-—

A flower grew created white as snow,

When Mother Eve, in the primeval spring,

Admiring much its perfect symmetry,

Had looked upon it with a long, fond gaze,

Thereat the pale-faced blossom blushed, like one

PSYCIIOSSOLLES. 123

In love, and so its heart blood in its cheek

Was stayed half melancholy, half in smiles,

Worshipping evermore chaste Womanhood,

Called by a name the sweetest—Violet!

There is affinity to human joy,

And sorrow in all God-created things,

We find it so, whenever with the quick

Kind eye of sympathy we them perceive.

I know a covert, pleasantly alive

With newborn violets; by their soft spells

Inspirited I ofttimes steal away

From ruder charms amid the world’s hubbub,

To find a solace in that wonderland

Of budding beauty ; when those hooded blooms,

At morn delaying amorous, and cloy

With moistures mellowing the sultry touch

Of kissing sunbeams, open up their hearts

Of virgin purity, and half ashamed

Look out upon existence with surprise,

Then close, at night, eyes dewy with regret—

In balmy adulation, warm south winds

Breathe over them like lovers breathing love,

And by their soft converse, the flowers stirred

Unto their very roots tremble with joy

Then list intent for such coy flattery.

124 PSYCHOSSOLLES.

With them, my heart hath trembled oft, for joy,

And wept the tear of gladness all alone ;

Yes ! I have lain for hours in loneliness—

Yet felt myself one of a company !

O ! it is rich, in poverty to lie

Reclined amidst a teeming world of wealth

Sheafed up in Nature’s bounty free to all—

To feel the fan-like motion of green leaves

In thousands, round a thought-sick burning brow.

Breathe as they were fresh benisons from God.

O violets in bloom ! for poets’ food

Ye are kind Nature’s milk of excellence.

And i n't he spirit of your softest looks

Lush pansies ! I have steeped my heart

As if in anodyne, bruised with the spite,

The friction, scorch and scowl of multitudes.

When coming back from woodland sacraments

The chaste remembrance of your softness pied,

Hangs ever round me like an amulet!

In such a mood I love the evening bells—

To hear them speaking in low monotones

Reverberating, like the smothered sob

Of passionate young maiden, when her eyes

Are moist with sleep, she dreams her lover false

And sends her clear shrill voice deep piercing through

PSYCHOSSOLLES. 125

The brooding awful silence in the night.

And such is life, a few convulsive shrieks—

A midnight sound close by a sepulchre—

The nightmare frenzy in a panting heart—

An ebbing toll, faint, dying far away !

If life be so, this side that borderland

That from the present adds unto the past,

And compasseth the shrinking rim of Time—

What art thou, life hereafter—tears of blood

My human heart would weep, to know what robes—

With what delights, what strength, thou art begirt!

With hungry looks I smile up in thy face,

Eternity ! thou like some beauty veiled

From outward gaze, implacable, and still

Art near, while I beseech thee answer me !

I am a lover rooted at thy shrine,

And thou a silent awful Mystery !

What after death—O my poor fevered sense—

Towards thy silence ebbs fast, fast away.

Forth from the bosom of infinite space

The languid comet, overflushed with shame

To think the stars gaze at her, all alone,

Goes shuddering along the vault of night,

126 PSYCHOSSOLLES.

Then hurries on to kind obscurity

Who waits with open arms to take her in,

As mother would a sickly, frightened child.

Men are as comets though they know it not:

From birth to death is but a midnight sky,

And man a changeling full of fretfulness—

A satellite with borrowed radiance,

That in itself has needs to be ashamed.

But saints on earth exult as kin to Christ.

Around the pearl of faith in spiral folds

Their immortality is waxing strong,

And reaching ever to a fuller bliss.

Like mote along a sunbeam charioted,

Were man uplifted to yon star remote,

Would farther stars not start in multitudes

Along the dim horizon of his sense ?

Believe me out of every excellence

Achieved, a purer excellence will rise

Like morning sun to a meridian height.

There is no end perfecting perfection

Amid the curse-crowned customs on this earth !

Existent in all tilings, a restlessness

Throbs with a life within life natural.

The stern procession of necessities

Are here in Nature, there, and everywhere;

And so creation’s round of changefulness

PSYCHOSSOLLES. 12

Is verging to infinitude in heaven—

Eternity corrodes the Isle of Time

And shall become a shoreless, crystal sea.

Between this stretch of life, and Evermore,

Time! thou art doomed, the great, hereafter Morn,

Blank as a rainy sky, shall thee behold !

Gathering up the stars from out all space,

Pile upon pile shall be the Great White Throne—

God’s trumpet blast shall rock the whining hills;

The frighted worlds shall shriek “ Time is no more.”

But spirit trails of our immortal souls

Shall yet outmeasure the long course of time,

And compass round the citadels of heaven.

If but one soul death could forever quench,

To-morrow that clear sky would rain down stars,

Such is the unity of man in God !

Wherefore to me those godly meteor-shafts

Of inspiration flashed athwart man’s mind,

Are just so many nigh-spent arrowlets

Fired with the life that nerves an angel’s wing.

O thou afflatus of the bliss beyond,

Worth living for ! To-day man’s tawdry life

Is but the salted lips of ocean, all

The pure, fresh, hidden depths are yet to come.

Frail men in cast-off robes of Deity,

128 PSYCHOSSOLLES.

Engirdled round with purpose all sublime,

Send science forth, like hound along the trail,

To course the flowery meads where sovereign Night

Spreads her dark mantles, jealous of her wealth—

To spy her jewelry of diamonds

Rich, vast, and numberless, and far within

Her treasuries to wander, laying bare

Her secret hoarded stars—ethereal,

And marvellous, live finger-prints of God,

Empearled when in ages primitive

He hung yon fadeless canopy of sky !

Such are God’s finger-prints—His image, man

With perfect excellence, quick subtleties

Of mind and sense, great god-like attributes !

For naught beyond existence bare, and brief,

Destined is Man ? Ye scoffers, answer me !

Oh ! answer me—from out the darkness, speak !

What, do you weep 1—atheist, take my hand,

Thou art my brother, we will go to God.

Life, like a narrow stretch of barren beach,

Is traversed once, and then the deep of Death !

Fear not its lashing surge, dark though it be !

To save you in the offing rides the staunch,

Sure sailing barge of King Psychossolles,

Whereto there is a cable at your feet—

PSYCHOSSOLLES. 129

Grasp it for heaven’s sake, all will be well!

On Faith exalted, as upon a rock,

In jutting vantage for the last, long leap,

Mute, stands a goodly company, in prayer

Each piously awaits his turn to go.

Dim is the blazoned deck seen through that mist

Of awful expectation, while a voice,

Sweet as a fanfare heard of lutes afar,

Comes ever usward, earnest, solemn-toned,

And loudest in the silence so intense,

That one can hear the living conscience beat

Its muffled deep existence in the soul.

And dost thou list, hark ! hear it even now

“ Ho ! men of Faith, and Hope, and Charity

Stop not your ears against God’s battle-cry,

For this world hath some grievance ever new,

Updarting like a snake, day after day,

And ye must conflict with it, fear ye not,

God gives you spirit wherewith, in your grasp,

It shall not backbite—bruise it with your heel,

Then cast it from you like a harmless thing !

Ho ! men of Faith, the mighty, many ills,

If ye shall faint not, ye shall overcome.

Can profit anything the flesh unclean 1

Can aught be gotten from a thing corrupt 1

Dead is the flesh—dead those who trust in it!

130 PSYCHOSSOLLES.

But God gives spirit which shall quicken you

From life to life, and clothe your souls about

With that good courage of a conscience pure.

Be patient with this mortal brunt of life—

A little while, and then the more and more

For ever, ye shall enter into rest!

Yes ! enter into rest, and face to face,

Shall sup with King Psychossolles—The Christ.”

THE FLIGHT OF CALLIOPE. 131

m* flxgljt of (Kalliopt.

Throughout the night high-browed Arion strove

With dreamy yearnings after things divine;

And passively around his temples wove

A coronet unutterably fine,

With subtle streaks of strange poetic fire,

Caught in the act of darting like a sting,

’Twas moulded in a band of strong desire,

That on his forehead lay a heavy thing.

“ What midnight dread bedims the face of earth,"

He cried enraptured, when a fierce light shone.

And thereupon, with panacean mirth,

Unceasing, as a current round a zone,

An impulse fired his veins—his passions leapt

Towards the flash as fountains sunward leap.

And, forthwith in a whirlwind was he swept,

Nearer to heaven, up the pleasant steep

Of dreamland’s palaces; claspt in his hand,

He held Calliope’s, white, pure as snow,

But burning like a live coal. As he scanned

Her robes of light, his own began to glow.

132 THE FLIGHT OF CALLIOPE.

And upward, on they sped, until he deemed

Himself an inmate in a spirit world.

High overhead, celestial censers gleamed,

Beneath his feet, he saw the star bolts hurled

Like red shot from the battlements of heaven.

To heights supernal, he, with joy elate,

Was thus exalted ; unto him was given

The holy salve prophetical of fate,

That he might thoroughly anoint his eyes

And in the lashing glare of sunlights thrust

His brow to stare right on them—spirit wise,

Sheer through the universal earthy crust

That ever bars from things immaculate,

The aspirations in a poet’s will,

He was uplifted in triumphant state :

He saw the fountain springs of good and ill.

Downward, through fairy grots of rifted clouds,

He cast his eyes; a city, fair to see,*

Smiled in its marble loveliness, and crowds

Of merchants rich in all the sovereignty

Of titled heroes, lords of wide domain

Peopled the triumphs in its merchandise.

And in that dazzle of luxurious gain,

Women, whose beauty conquered avarice,

* See Note 1, Appendix (page 199).

THE FLIGHT OF CALLIOPE. m

Walked queenly, smiling with a wealtli of dreams

In their soft lovelit eyes; and through each square.

And street, and city garden, flowed great streams

Of people happy in a scene so fair !

Fine polished masonry serenely rose,

Whose brightness cooling shadows ever crossed

At intervals ; long stately porticoes,

And minarets with alabaster glossed,

Stood out in monumental passiveness

Revealing all the grace, and plenitude

Of living art. In sombre massiveness

Time hallowed domes, and solemn temples stood

Bequeathed from the dead past. ’Mid serpentine

Rich traceries of fleckered porphyry,

That skyward reeled with finely chiselled line,

The connoisseur would evermore descry

Along the street, or in piazza shade,

Some beauty bursting on him, some delight

Unfelt before. And there were, overlaid

With gold, chaste images; and paintings bright

Placed, each to each, in pleasant circumstance,

Beside those praying in the twilight calm

Of gilded fanes, while in a thoughtful trance,

The train of worshippers dropping an alms

Before Madonna, still would come and go;

And out along the ways resounded psalms,

And hymns thanksgiving, solemn voiced, and low.


Many a knight, emblazoned in the sheen

Of vaunted arms, strode through the busy streets.

Lips firmly braced for righteous war were seen,

And dark, stern, eagle eyes; anon great feats

Of strength and valour were forthcoming aye,

If youth or beauty were but slightly wronged.

By paths, where frescoes bright, would here portray

Scenes pastoral, and there, devotion, thronged

Fine men with earnest looks; they, in crusade,

Had fought—each taking in his hand, his life,

Pure faith enshrined beneath it—not afraid,

If, conquered, they should die in holy strife.

And in that populace seafaring knights,

Inured to hardship joined the pleasant scene

At Raniero’s festival delights.*

The music rolled—each coy, blush-blooming queen,

With ecstasy glowed to the finger-tips,

For by her side walked noble manliness

Whose brawny arms could shield her, and his lips

Of truth could yield the antidotal kiss.

Fair are thy daughters, classic Italy !

There did thy fairest, meekest, thoughtfullest,

Walk stately in that city’s pageantry,

With eyes full full of dreams and faith the best.

* See Note 2 (page 199).


Oh ! all the sprightliness of life was there,

And what may be of promise, hope, or love,

In bland profusion summered everywhere;

As if a star had blazoned from above,

And on the plain, in lustrous fragments lay,

Each part a beauty in itself to trance

The one who gazes at it, day by day

That city looked so fair, its every glance

Displayed reflections of a new delight.

For pomp of wealth, and art and circumstance

•Conspired their charms the prospect to bedight.

Most beautiful with archness all complete,

And fond demeanour more than that of love,

The seraph blessed Arion at her feet,

And bowed with kind inquiry him above.

He looked to her, and wondrously inspired

She caught the meaning lurking in his eye,

And answered as his longing soul desired:—

“ That city is proud Pisa, you descry

Fair Pisa in its excellence of yore.

Calliope exalts thee to behold

That empire rampant as if evermore

It would be Pisa, Pisa as of old—

Those yawning gulfs are ages in the past,

Thy vision is entheal, in the sheen


Of this, thy golden season do thou cast

Thine eyes athwart and tell me what is seen.”

Then answered he : “A river silver grey,

Trailing its waters westward, where the sea,

Outstretching for it, hungers night and day.

In sparkling links—by garden, wood, and lea>

As if in sunlight, silvery cinctures flashed

Enclasping beauty—flashing waters glide.

And sinuous, through vales by ages gashed

Deep in the side of earth, flows, like a tide

Of healing, that sweet river sweeping round

Wild craggy heights, low copses, rich parterres.

As if such varied scenes its clasp had bound

In pleasant sisterhood. The landscape wears

A garb of freshest brightest colouring !

Afar and near the straggling vines grow green.

All softly darkened by the pensive swing

Of cypresses ; and homesteads intervene

Among the oleasters floating grey.

In happy groups, along the river’s brink

I see the peasant’s nut-brown children play ;

Their arms they toss aloft—the blink

Of new-born blooms espying in the grass.

While some repose whose tresses black as jet

Lie on white sheaves of lilies, others pass

Away to cool retreats whose fountains wet


The tulips scarlet, golden daffodils,

White lilac sprays and blooming pomegranate—

Rich orange, pink, and crimson ! fragrance fills

Those lovely garden reaches breathing late

And early incense like a sacrifice.

All beautiful! ”

Arion clasped his hands

For suddenly arose such horrid cries

As loudly as from hollow, brazen strands

Would rise the sounding of a cataract,

And looking eastward slow continued he

Soliloquizing : “ Now yon city sacked

And blackened is, whatever I can see

Along its spacious streets, and underneath

Its marble archways is baptized with blood.

Woe worth oppression ! demagogues unsheathe

Far flashing swords reflected in a flood

Of tears most womanly—right keen of edge

Their stretched-out lances famish for a draught

Of blood, more blood-life-blood ! as in the sedge

By hungry leech the victim’s blood is quaffed,

Unsatiable they ! I conjure thee

In seeming manhood on thy crumbling throne,

False Ugolino ! * why this misery ?

Inhuman tyrant, tell us, dost thou own

* See Note 3 (page 199). K


This blood-writ ledger 1 answer those wild cries

Of suppliants who at thy door-post weep !

Ah me ! what woful lamentations rise,

And fateful changes jostling changes sweep

Upon that city blighted; as a bride

Adorned with jewels, clad in raiment line,

Before the altar stands, and by her side

Stands he, her lover with love’s mystic wine

Their hearts as one inspiring, when a breath

Of fate, down, quick as lightning blanches her

In utter lifelessness, but after death

She seems to quiver with a life-like stir

Deceiving those who see it, with such joy,

Such strong delight her heart was overcharged

So was it with that city rich, and cloy

With everything of sweetness; it enlarged

Time after time its borders, now behold

Its people’s wrongs, wars, ashes, sufferings 1

As if the miseries of years untold

Had crowded on its citizens and kings,

In one black crisis—lovely nevermore !

Ha ! Ugolino, like a roused sleuth hound

That will not be denied, beside thy door

Stands retribution; in dark dungeon bound,

With foul flesh-biting manacles shalt thou

Be mated to starvation, day by day


That scowl shall grow the darker on thy brow,

Until thy life in anguish pass away.”

He gazed thereafter; centuries had bowed

Upon the prospect leaving new impress.

In lofty contemplation, he, endowed

With gifts entheal, weighed the changefulness

Of all things human, saw the fat-brained world

Careering on unmindful of its fate.

And modern Pisa cringing had unfurled

The tattered ensigns of departed state.

Yes ! it is true the Arno sweeps along

Through fruitful plains, as graceful as of yore.

But where her argosies once by a song

Of triumph heralded along the shore 1

Where are the stately ships her sailors manned,

The foremost in a warfare on the sea 1

Nor were they laggard when the kingly band

Of Pisa’s rulers bade them on the lee

Leave much loved Italy, and steer their fleets

An embassy of blessing to all men.

Yet it is true that Pisa has her streets

Of dusky splendour ; let the poet's pen

Revere them as the sanctuary, where,

The keenest visioned artists first enshrined

140 THE PLIGHT OF CALLIOPE.

The arts of Italy; * well may we stare

With disappointed, melancholy mind

On those spoiled palaces, for beggars loll

Where quick-souled artists thoughtfully have toiled

Perceiving here and there a Capitol

Of ruined greatness, many frescoes soiled

Beneath the damp of age, and relics fraught

With wonderful suggestion, ever stands

The traveller arrested with the thought,

Those works of art bespeak God-guided hands.

And congregating by yon river’s tide,

A venerable group of marble piles

Rise with bald, polished foreheads to preside

In solemn state, above near domiciles.

A mute Quaternity, they much have seen

Beneath them in that city come and go.

Yet they are much the same as they have been

In ages heretofore, a massive show

Of august masonry and Thou art one

Amongst them, Leaning Tower of Pisa, famed

In wondrous story, with Thy visage dun

And time-begotten, well might’st Thou be named

Havilah,* for Thou seemest to be bowed

To earthward, by some cramping, inward pang

See Notes 4 and 5 (page 200).


And Campo Santo* with thy ghastly crowd

Thick peopled as the poet’s mind, who sang

Of Torre della Fame,* was with dreams,

Thou art another, in that brotherhood

Of hoary age, reflecting back the beams

Of sunlight, or of moonlight in a mood

Of sadness, solemnized with memories

That conjure up deep reveries of thought;

For erst, in Pisa’s ancient argosies

Thrice hallowed earth, from Calvary, was brought

And strewn by storied urn, and marble pile,

To sanctify thee through the years to come.

Thus while the Muse, with faint sepulchral smile,

Frequents Thy shades, that heart is cold and numb

That would not love Thee for the wrinkled lines,

And faded cycles graven on Thy face.

And Thou art one amongst them, with the signs

Of slow decay fretting the chiselled grace

Of Thy magnificence, forsooth Thou art

Diotisalvi’s pillared fane,* the shrine

Of what come richest, warmest from the heart

Of any nation—sympathies divine

And free-will offerings. And Thou the chief

In that serene coeval fellowship,

See Notes 6, 7, and 8 (page 200).

142 THE PLIGHT OP CALLIOPE.

Cathedral-front of Pisa ! * as in grief

A hoary sire would pause, and fondly grip

The dulcet reins of memory that guide

Athwart some paradise of long ago,

Thou lookest melancholy in Thy pride,

To feel within that city’s ebb and flow

Such great vicissitudes, thine aspect sad

Glooms mindful of the glory that has been.

Thus shall it be, that all things good, or bad,

Serve but their day upon this earthly scene.

Most beautiful with archness all complete

And fond demeanour more than that of love.

The seraph blessed Arion at her feet,

And smiled with kind inquiry him above,

To know his thoughts, and all the force of soul

That gave his winged words an impetus.

He smiled responsive to her sweet control,

And in soliloquy he ended thus:—

“ Reviewing Pisa, from thy countenance,

Imagination ! one might ever strike,

As from a flinty rock, a fire whose glance

Can quicken us with purpose, heaven-like,

To hang above us; as an ocean might

Shrink down into the compass of a hand,

See Note 9 (page 200).


Then in expansion rule throughout a night

Of warring elements that lash the strand,

A thing almighty ; such creations are

The subtleties that move poetic souls,

Strange, yet familiar ; near, and yet afar !

And so it is that as the Arno rolls

Unceasingly to seaward, uncontrolled

A stream of thought has swept upon my mind.

If I, in song, have rapturous extolled

Rich storied Pisa, much is undefined

Of what impressed me; how my young heart leapt

The while I gloated on yon dingy walled

Old University,* I could have stepped

Within it, feeling as a child appalled.

Believe me, Pisa, that its very name,

To me, has half atoned for all thy sin.

I venerate such worth, I thought its fame

Would flourish more, and in the clash and din

Of worldliness, thou yet wouldst have a voice,

A great and wonder-working sovereignty.”

U nanswered, he had asked the seraph thrice,

“ In future tell us what shall Pisa be I ”

When she departing brushed him as with wings,

Imagining he fell he strove to scream,

* See Note 10 (page 200).


He madly clutched the air and many things

Impalpable—he woke and all a dream !

Soon starting up, brow flushed with thoughts of her,

He hastily aside the curtains drew,

And looked abroad the landscape for a stir—

In drowsy quietude far stretched the view.

Save round the coast and nigh among the rocks

As giant would his head in sickness toss

Upon a craggy pillow, foamy locks

Uplifting in the ravelled braid and gloss

Of grandeur he beheld the sleepless sea.

A craving had he for some absent thing !

Aweary with being wearied, ah me !

Before the wind the trees were cowering,

While, gemmed with necklaces of pearly dew,

The flowers banqueting danced on the lawn,

And where the sky assumed an opal hue,

The rising sun came shouldering the dawn.

THE WORLD’S WITENAGEMOTE. 145

Marlifs Mtti:nagemotc.

Beside a sun-smit hollow, nigh three hills

Uplifting their bald foreheads to the skies,

Serene and still, above the deafening din

Of many voices jarring at their feet,

Gathered the world’s great Witenagiimote,

Assembled squire, and hind, prim peers, and salt

Of all the earth—stout hearted working men.

On each hill rising up majestical,

Stood one dense multitude great more or less,

And facing each to each in steadfast mood—

One was the Hill of Commonalty, dark

And blackened to the top with one great throng—

Of Deputies, another, gleaming bright

With falchions of wit, and statesmanship—

The Hill of Thanes the third, capt with a mist,

As with a hood, and downward vapours hung

Upon it like a stole; seen from afar,

This hill looked like the figure of a gnome

Effete, and olden, doting o’er his wine.

146 THE world’s WITENAGEMOTE.

The din subsided, then a breezy breath,

Of keen expectancy filled all the air.

Uprose from off the Hill of Deputies

Its Genius with wreaths of amaranth

Bound round his brows securely, like a crown ;

Forth in the hush unto these words he gave

A kingly and far-sounding utterance :—

“ Man is the breath of God that moves, and works

With palpable emotion on this earth—

No shadow, but a substance of the great

Eternal might thus meted out to man

Created in a likeness unto God.

The platform of high heaven, raised aloft,

Is one dead level, and the life to be

Is one great store of blessing free to all.

The likest thereunto we emulate,

When man looks up to man, as God in love

Looks on us, common Father unto all:

Now that the acme wanted in a just

And wise intelligence is touched by this,

Our noble race from caste emancipate,

Each shall a brother be in love to each.

The universe cries out for equity!

Does not the lion sniff the fresh free air,

With nostrils pride dilated—blinded things

Low wriggling in the dust, though less in strength,

THE WORLD’S WITENA6EMOTE. 147

In their own spheres proportionally great,

Have equal selfsame rights to sustenance,

And perfect freedom in companionship !

Man is the loftier by many a league.

Let Freedom’s carnival be free to all,

Who wear the same rich garb of honesty

And loyal truthfulness to serve the State,

As citizens of good and true report—

Equality becomes a diadem

Set on the brow of keen intelligence !

Proud Thanes ! dissembling with your fellow-men,

At best equivocation is a fort

Whereto a weak camp may betake itself;

But in the earnest test of wordy strife,

Your guns are spiked with the cold steel of truth.

Ere you can man the useless citadel.

And thus it is, in ultimate success,

Fate with pure justice ever is allied !

Thanes ! know ye not, beneath the cupola

That shades the mighty workings in the State,

Great forces simmer in the people’s trust!

The marrow in the backbone of the world

Is simply work, the honest growth, and strength

Of sinew centred in the brawny arms

Of cunning, lofty-minded artisans.

God speed the workers earnest, strong, and true,

148 THE WORLD’S WITENAGEMOTE.

Destined to shape the world to brotherhoods

Of cosmopolitan, kind intercourse,

And build a strong, high tower in the land

Wherein all virtues shall have dwelling place.”

Those words had died away—a sudden rush

Of winged acclamation filled the sky,

All palpitating with prolonged huzzas,

And burning interjections deep and loud,

Up from the heights of Commonalty sent,

As hills volcanic send forth belching fires :

Then silence settled slowly on the scene.

A Genius rose from the Hill of Thanes;

In mist he bawled :—“ ‘ The world is out of joint,’

“ We dare not trust the people if we willed.

Their passions loose, like torrents in a spate,

Can never be restrained, nor channelled in,

By any means or manner foul or fair.

Then for the good and weal of Church and State,

Build up the barriers and keep them down.

It is quite true that we, as Thanes and heirs

Of land, and lake, and sky, should keep the germs

Of privilege in these, our blessed hands;

We raise them up to show you they are clean—

By right divine we deal and distribute;

It is by our indulgence you perceive

the world’s witenagemote. 149

The smut on workmen sometimes washed away,

The black skin changed at leisure into white—

We have beheld the age when shut in cells,

And dens of labour void of breathing space,

They seldom saw the sunshine, or a book !

Such boons we give—let them most thankful be,

Ours is the way perforce to raise up realms,

And set due bounds to proud democracy.

Pass not the reins among too many hands,

For fear the chariot may go to wreck—

The road to ruin radical slopes down,

By steep gradations unto anarchy,

By any means escape such consequence !

To venerate the living worth of things,

Rear, higher yet, pure rank and pedigree,

For what are these, but commoners, and worse !

Now from the shrine of this felicitous,

Most sacred oracle, forth in decree

Shall go unto the ends of all the earth

These words immutable, as long as we

Have any strength and standing in the State :—

Some say that seven circles glorified

Sum up the bliss of heaven, by degrees

From rank to rank, so be it more or less,

Let each realm truly be an antitype,

And give us seven ranks down from the throne !

150 THE WORLD’S WITENAGEMOTE.

For well remember we are lofty Thanes,

Our footstools are above all common things ;

Great heaven-born prerogatives are ours,

To shape out destinies, and by decree

To weld the kingdoms unto righteousness.”

The speech was drowned in the great eagerness,

Wherewith the people strove to find a voice,

And empty forth their hearty feelings pent,

And outraged by the evil in those words.

Out from the Hill of Commonalty stood

A Genius; in bold relief he said :—

“ Proud Thanes ! in council here, assembled all,

Know ye, we are in earnest, we are men.

Our souls rise up, like incense unto God,

On altars of high faith we offer them,

To Him acceptable, whose name is Love.

True unto God, can we be traitors then,

Unto the throne, and you, our fellow men?

Our ears are heavy with these words of hate

And rancour that rise up, for we are poor.

Poor are we by no crime, no fault, no shame,

But rather, poor, that some might still make rich.

We tell you once for all, and face to face,

Our pride is in our honest poverty—

And yours, in empty titles, stars of fame,

the world’s witenagemote. 151

But which is which, the better, or the worse ?

Thanes of the realm, and senators precise,

Your gold and glitter—troops of gilded friends

Are but the coffin tinsel, with the corpse

Of dark suspicion hideous beneath !

Yet, ye will tell us, we are baser men.

Proud Thanes ! you hate us, you equivocate—

The liberty wherewith we have been called

To fence the nation’s welfare at the heart,

Cannot be bought and sold—’tis sanctified

In pure devotion to our country’s cause;

To do, and work for weal with willing hands,

We hold ourselves in loyal readiness,

So might we be a bulwark in the land,

With barriers against the flow of vice,

And communistic, godless ignorance.

Stout-hearted workers, we lay down the rails,

And vans of progress spin adown our track;

We have the making of the world to be.

This age rolls on to age, and life on earth

Is swallowed in the gulping deep of Time,

The mighty Past—ay, we must face the heights

Up to a life hereafter, we must climb

From purpose unto purpose, rise and build

Great golden stairways with the strength of truth

And love and present opportunities—

152 THE WORLD S WITENAGEMOTE.

We bring the keystone for the lofty arch

High bridging through the evil in this world.”

His speech thus ended, and with one accord,

From out the world’s great Witenagemote

Went forth a piercing voice of loud acclaim

“ So be it, we are brothers, we are men !”

A HOLIDAY SONG. 153

HoUtrair ^krng.

Bright are the woods in their summer sheen

As they bend in the breezy vale;

The meadows are sweet and glancing green,

While winding athwart yon sylvan scene

In breaks of light, and leafy shade,

See ! the river’s silver trail.

Out where the choir of the summer sings

Many a joy to man is given,

While darting swallows with glossy wings,

Dive, and away the laverock springs

Skyward to float his hearty song,

Like a chord from us to heaven.

Breathing the dust of the city’s fight

Oft I long for a respite sweet—

Longing to be where the landscape blight

Drinks from the cup of the summer’s light,

A gladsome cheer, while duty keeps us

Moiling through the smoky street. L

154 A HOLIDAY SONG.

In woody dells as the tinkling rills

Lapse and lisp through the summer day,

Under the lee of the windy hills,

While Flora her lap with beauty fills,

Here in the cool of bosky glades

I could dream my life away.

Yes ! it is pleasant out in the smile

Of this greenery summer fair,

And hill and dale for many a mile-—

Far from the boom of sweltering toil,

And busy clang of jaded crowds

In the city street and square.

aurora’s grave. 155

Aurora’s Gkato.

Hear the merle from yonder tree-top—

Ripples lisp along the Clyde,

And the village vesper voices

Throng the balmy eventide.

Now the gloaming settles slowly;

While I tread my lonely way,

Shadows deepen and in darkness

Close the portals of the day.

In the springtime of her beauty,

With the maid I loved the best,

Here, I roamed, through many seasons

Saw the sun flare down the west—

Heard the merles up on the tree-tops

Making love in tuneful freak,

Then methought a deeper colour

Gathered on the maiden’s cheek.

156 AURORAS GRAVE.

For she loved me with the pulses

Of emotion leaping strong,

And I loved her with the fulness

Of a heart attuned to song—

In the morning’s golden promise

Hope rose like a rising tide,

And we sang of sweet to-morrow,

In the sunset, side by side.

But fell death, rough, ready handed,

Struck her heart strings to the core,

And the music of her being

Shall uplift me nevermore.

Lone, I wander in the daymare

Of a dream-beleaguered mood—

Dark the shadows of the cypress

All about me seem to brood.

On this fresh cut mound the moonlight

Sleeps so mournfully and still—

While the rising wind goes moaning

Through yon pines upon the hill.

In my heart I feel the lapping

Of a heaving passion wave,

And my tear-stained face falls buried

In the daisies on her grave.

aurora’s grave. 157

Then I realise how deep down,

She is lying, angel fair,

With the willow’s tender rootlets

Tangled in her yellow hair.

Loved one, dead beneath this marble,

Sleeping safe and sound thou art,

But a darker stone sepulchral

Lies across my living heart

158 AT THE BAZAAR.

JU tb* laâar.

Built on a sunny slope, a little town

To southward overlooks a rivulet;

About it crofts and garden plots are set,

And higher up, a moorland bare and brown.

Green are the English lanes in summer time,

Far famed the classic hills of stately Rome ;

Though beauty hath a charm in every clime,

Give me the halo round my native home—

Blue rim of hills that rise to kiss that sky,

In yonder distance boldly beautiful—

Midway what bonny glens and orchards lie

About the river rushing clear and cool !

In smiles of happy sunshine on the town

Hyperion looks down this gladsome morn,

To view the pleasant scene, and gild the crown

Of calm rejoicing, on the forehead borne

By young and old, all making holiday.

Hang high the glancing banner in the hall—

Many a heart beneath it, light and gay,

Beats rapturous. Yes, let the footstep fall

AT THE BAZAAR. 159

Elastic, keeping time with that sweet chime

Of happy voices—low love-laughter blent

With repartee and soft replies that rhyme

Long after in the heart! Cupid has bent

His bow to-day, and beauty walks supreme.

All matchless are ye, maidens in your prime,

Eyes lit with love and deepened with a dream

Of the dear future and the summer time

Of life elapsing like a merry tune.

O happy hearts unclouded in the noon

Of sunny maidenhood, so pure and true

As ye are faithful unto duty’s trust!

Carluke ! thy lovely daughters honour you,

Praise you, keep warm love for you, from the dust

They lift you, saying, Dear old mother town !

And thus their dainty fingers have inwrought

Such things of beauty, and to their renown

Have fashioned fancy work so nicely fraught

With wonderful suggestion, patient toil,

) And impulse that bespeak a woman’s heart,

While all around displayed are web and coil

Of chaste perfection in domestic art—

Thy hardy sons, full well, for honest toil

Deserve the compliment, and foremost they

Where duty calls, be it in sportive fray

160 AT THE BAZAAR.

Or earnest emulation, still the smile

Of victory allures them to the goal

Of happy triumph, be it great or small.

There is a music in the human soul,

The poet hears it ever rise and fall

With holy cadence, unto it he gives

A sweet interpretation and a voice—

In fond remembrance Lightbody still lives !

And in the deeds of others we rejoice :

For thou hast had thy Hampdens in the past,

And men of mighty impulse, word, and deed,

Who with a strength of purpose could down cast

The plummet far into the age, and read

The signs and currents I’unning through all time.

And we have seen that even on this earth

The lofty tenor in a life sublime

Above the petty things of self—true worth,

And unassuming greatness shall obtain

Due recognition ! Stranger, look around

And venerate this monumental fane,

In memory of one who had been crowned

With goodwill all his life. Ay, now he lies

Low in the tomb, but see this blazoned wall

And read the writing, read and moralize

Upon these words—“ Rankin Memorial.”

A TEMPERANCE HYMN. 161

<31 temperance ijgmn.

We mourn, O Lord, before Thy throne,

The sins that in the world prevail;

On every hand comes up a groan,

An orphan cry, a hunger wail—

Drink like a serpent coils around

The wretched lives of young and old,

Who in its clammy toils are bound,

To suffer miseries untold.

Bless us, O Lord, while we unite

In sober faith an earnest band

To visit homes devoid of light

And gospel grace throughout the land—

The drunken husband to reclaim,

To raise the fallen drunken wife,

And take them from their sin and shame,

To lead a better, sweeter life.

162 A TEMPERANCE HYMN.

Help us, O Lord, and in Thy strength,

Be Thou our leader in the fight!

This serpent fury shall at length

Be scotched and trampled out of sight;

And peace and love shall most abound,

Where’er Thy blessing is supreme,

To guide men in the perfect round

Of downright honest self-esteem.

Guard us, O Lord, from all the ills

By which our footsteps are beset,

And in Thy goodness bend our wills

To Thine, that we may not forget

The drunkard trembling at our gate,

All bruised and bleeding—may we bind

The good teetotal amulet

Around the hearts of all mankind.

Take us, O Lord, into Thy care

And prosper us in heart and hand,

To clear away this fatal snare—

The drinking customs of our land !

When sore reproach, and want, and woe

Are flaunted by the demon Drink

As all the trophies he can show,

In truth, we know not what to think.

A TEMPERANCE HYMN. 163

Grant us, O Lord, the willing heart

To consecrate a noble cause,

And by example do our part

In framing pure, domestic laws,

Whereby our brothers shall be led

To spurn away the bowl of wine,

And put thy chalice in its stead,

And all the glory shall be Thine !

164 THE POOR OLD MAN.

®lj£ $0or CDIii ^tan.

Heavily the leaden sky hangs o’er the dim church tower,

Eerilie sobs the sleety wind around the eaves, to-night,

Clanging, with a rusty tongue, the old bell chimes the

hour,

Over our heads the wings of time beat out in silent

flight.

Feeling the weak pulse of age, with tresses thin and grey,

Solemnly sits a poor old man beside the hearth, to-night,

Friendless ; in a moody freak his thoughts steal far away

Back to the fairyland of youth, seen in a dim dreamlight.

Once in childhood’s merry maze a fair-browed boy he ran;

Glad were the tongues that prattled once around a

mother’s chair.

Where were all those friends of youth that life with him

began'!

Down the dead past through roofless aisles an echo

answers —Where 1

THE POOR OLD MAN. 165

New-Year times—no visitor to wish him Christmas cheer!

Half-a-crust is all his store within the house to-night.

Want and sorrow drug his sense, while mystic shapes

appear,

Limning scenes of long ago in colours warm and bright.

Silver-footed memories go gliding down the past,

With a palsied tear-wet hand he covers his wan face;

While from heaven athwart his dreams a mellow light

is cast;

In the glamour he can feel a clasping soft embrace.

Ashy-grey the fire sinks low, the wind has ceased to moan,

Numb and cold the tear-wet hand droops slowly by

his side.

Through the sky the midnight chime rang with a hollow

tone;

While the rich sat at his wine, the poor old man had

died.

166 a mother’s reverie.

3V IKotljer’s Kcbcrt^.

Dear child, uplifted in mine arms, thine is a fairy face,

When thou art caught and fondled in a mother’s warm

embrace,

The sun of infant love illumes thy mien of cloudless

mirth,

That o’er a mother’s world of care has sparkled from thy

birth.

O cherub child, a mother’s heart may flutter thee to

sleep,

Above thy sleeping innocence she well may doat and

weep;

The holy calm, the half-divine—and all thy winning grace

Are as a mirror, when in sin we stand before thy face.

Through trying scenes in after life wilt thou be still the

same?

Love, like a fountain welling up to spurn each grain of

shame—

A little sunshine streaming down the shadows to dispart

A few warm tears to lay the dust—that is a mother’s heart.

a mother’s reverie. 167

On summer nights when winds are still lire blossoms

burst above,

Their radiance stars the river’s depths like flowers of

angel-love;

And so I think of thee, my child, for in thy streams of

mirth,

I see bright images that bid me look beyond this earth.-

And faith and hope clasp in the light of love within

thine eyes,

I see the mounts of visioned bliss far in thy future rise ;

While thus thy sunny soul is tuned to love’s swfeet

roundelay,

Life’s compass trembles to the pole of star-bright destiny.

Around thy nature’s comeliness are flashed the magic keys,

Unlocking sparkling gems of joy the saddest heart to

please.

And who, O child, so foul as clot the web of thy delight,

Too soon some brittle thread will stay the shuttle’s

laughter flight.

Romp while thou wilt in playful glee, my bright-eyed,

darling boy !

The dust of manhood’s years will clog thy chariot wheels

of joy.

168 a mother’s reverie.

Then wilt thou pause like one betrayed by earth’s

deceitful charms,

And start to feel the clammy fold of care’s embracing arms.

Some who have hugged the world’s delights, and felt its

heart so cold,

Remember how in youth they dreamt of manhood’s crown

of gold—

They wear it now with drooping head that crown is lined

with thorns

And for a child-like coronet their better nature mourns.

For he is strongest, noblest, best, who likest to a child

In manhood’s strength feels yet so weak, is stern and yet

so mild.

Yes! childlike love is holy love, and childlike faith is

more,

A cable from the sea of love to God upon the shore.

A-cold with age I love to kiss thy glowing chubby cheek,

Thy spirit flow is clear and strong, and mine is dim and

weak ■,

Dear, happy boy, thy pleasant life is one long Bethel

dream,

Descending seraphs bless thee, child, thy smile is just

their gleam !

A FUNEREAL ODE. 169

^ Jmmal ©fo.

Ay ! bitter the tears we weep, bitter as brine

Of a dark winter sea in a storm.

Ay ! over the light of a holy hearth-shrine,

Has fallen a shadow’s dismal form.

Pale Death went down to our Lady’s hall,

"With stealthy gait, and a soft footfall,

And whispered how the Master, wise

And merciful, in Paradise

Had need of her we loved so dear.

Look we now on the wreathed bier !

While up from our bosom’s most sacred deep,

The tribute of many a tear we weep :

For we know in a chilly, snow-white fold

Lies the mantle of death, and still, and cold

The form beneath—while thus we weep,

God giveth His beloved sleep.

Ay ! bitter the tears we weep, for grief untold,

The tears that down our faces roll!

Ay ! heavy the hearts of the young and the old—

Beneath that bell’s deep mournful toll, M

170 A FUNEREAL ODE.

The orphan’s is about to break ;

The widow for the Lady’s sake

Covers her face with a palsied hand,

While pacing slow comes a sable band

Of mourners, as, with solemn tread,

They bear along the dear one dead

To the grim silence in the musty tomb—

Buried for ever, in its stifling gloom,

Is the bright philter of thy well-spent life,

Lily-handed giver of alms

And a tender-hearted, dutiful wife !

Thine the salve and solace of balms

That were gifted to soothe, and sweeten life.

Still fresh, the memory of thee

Among thy people shall not die,

But bloom, like some majestic tree

That haply seems to touch the sky—

Aflection prompt to mark thy blest abode,

Shall fling her thoughts down at the feet of God.

Ay ! bitterly weep, bitterly we complain ;

The pall and tinsel fade from view;

The doors of the tomb flap down, like wings in pain,

Beneath the silent, drooping yew.

We look beyond this mist of tears,

Beyond the rush and flight of years—

A FUNEREAL ODE. 171

By faith the clouds of doubt uproll;

A balm of blessing fills the soul.

Over death’s dark Galilee

Walking on the surge we see

No faithless Peter sinking down,

But, stepping forward for the crown,

Thou, unto thy Saviour going,

With a heart of-love o’erflowing,

Art safe upon the golden strand

Of glory ; the nail-printed hand

Has placed upon thy spotless brow

The crown of pure rejoicing now,

While love-low voices seem to say

Great were thy faith and charity—

Oh ! God is good, why should we weep ?

He giveth His beloved sleep !

172 AT KOTHESAY.

JU iloifasstr.

The gloaming dusk spread, like a gauze,

When by the sad sea-marge we strolled,

And solemnly, along the beach,

The ocean’s anthem rolled.

Then were we young, and free at heart;

We knew no trouble,—no control,

Only the clasping link of love

To draw us soul to soul.

Up from our path, along the shore,

The dim woods clambered on the slopes,

In their soft shadows loitered we,

And communed with our hopes.

Love-happy thoughts glowed in our eyes ;

We paused among the boulders grey,—

With feelings strange, and manifold,

We gazed across the bay.

AT ROTHESAY. 173

A tiny skiff with four bright souls

Came gliding gracefully along ;

We listened, in a joyous mood,

Unto their evening song.

Young hearts in song, O voices sweet

We heard you, and you made us glad,

In after years it were a joy

To think what joy we had !

Dear maiden, comely my beloved !

That gloaming seated by my side,

Do you remember how we joyed

To watch the rising tide—

And in the offing, here and there,

To view such fairy, fleeting sights—

The sheeny sea, the dusky ships,

The far off shifting lights.

We saw the mellow moonbeams glance

Across the waters far away,

As if along that beauteous path

The road to heaven lay.

Then were we silent, much impressed,

We hushed the throbbing pulse of mirth,

For faith came whispering to us

Of life beyond this earth.

r

174 AT KOTHESAY.

A tenderness appeared to bless,

And hover everything above,

As if some angel hand had spread

The coverture of love.

Well I remember those delights,

And charming scenes beside the sea ;

Believe me, maiden fair, thou wert

The dearest charm to me.

LOVE, I DREAMT OP THEE. 175

POEMS WRITTEN BEFORE THE AGE OF NINETEEN.

lôbc, I Dreamt of ^hee.

I dreamt, in wildwood lone, we dwelt,

Around our cabin door

In clusters crept a fairy flower

All dew bespangled o’er.

Chaste as the moisture of an eye

Where dewdrops sparkling lay

Upon the blooms, like beams of love,

I saw the sunlight play.

Yet worshipped I thy bright blue eyes

Whence love-beams ever dart,

0 ! thou wert near, to love me still,

Thou sunbeam of my heart.

1 dreamt we walked in gardens rare,

Where in perfection grew

The fruits and flowers of sunny climes,

Expanding to the view.

I saw nor bloom, nor fruited spray

In all their splendour vie,

176 LOVE, X DREAMT OF THEE.

The roses blooming on thy cheeks

Took my admiring eye.

When thou wert near, what could I love,

Or beauty else could see—

The grace and charm of thy dear face

Were paradise to me.

I dreamt we roamed in exile sad,

On some forsaken shore;

Though tossed in storms of wild despair,

You fondly loved me more.

You smoothed my pillow, tear-bedewed,

And soothed my aching breast—

You seemed an angel from above,

To calm my wild unrest.

Then courted I thy mellow voice,

Though bulbul charmed the isle—

O ! thou wert there, to love me still,

And bless me with thy smile.

I REMEMBER THE OLD VILLAOE. 177

H iUttumtor ilj* tillage.

I remember the old village, and the cottage by the shore,

With its antique window lattice, fresh with ivy trellised

o’er—

Known to me was every blossom peering through the

glancing leaves,

Where the twittering swallows summered in its cool and

shady eaves.

Often through the opened window came the murmur of

the main,

With the soft and breezy whispers of the sailors’ merry

strain.

Many friendly, glad ovations echoed round that sunlit

bay,

In our jesting and the songs that sped the golden time

away.

Still the light of memory lingers and my fancies ever

roam

To the bright associations kindled in that seaside home,

By the airy, sunny rambles that revealed such wondrous

sights,

By the jocund tales that circled round the hearth on

winter nights.

178 I REMEMBER THE OLD VILLAGE.

Solemn, as a benediction, from the mists of former years,

Breathe those loving voices to me, I can answer but in

tears.

Like a holy balm my heart enshrines the ecstasies they

gave,

Buried deep as a treasure heap in a sunless ocean cave.

I remember in the gloamings of the springs of long ago,

How we gazed upon the surges gleaming in the depths

below,

How we listened with a passion to the moaning of the sea,

The remembrance of that feeling stirs a rougher mood

in me.

Often, hand in hand, we loitered on the cliffs when

silently

Rose the moon, like new-born Vesta, from the bosom of

the sea.

In those still and silvery moonlights when our hearts

were fond and free,

We had thoughts and vague surmisings what our after

life would be.

Restless were our hearts and heavy when we thought of

parting then;

We had loved and lived together far from mazy haunts

of men ;

I REMEMBER THE OLD VILLAGE. 179

Pale we stood while o’er the billows came the sea bird’s

hollow scream,

Ominous he passed before us like a phantom in a

dream.

I remember when the twilight of a dark December day

Crept from out the rocky crannies, shadowy, across the

bay,

Sad, a lonely star was beaming through the oak trees

brown and sere,

As it were an eye of sorrow bending o’er the dying year.

Wild, the icy wind was piping, when we circled round

the fire,

Moralizing on the greatness cradled in a pure desire—

On the dusty toilsome marches in the pilgrimage of life,

And the wild endeavours woven round the panoply of

strife.

Oft a gleam of holiness into our earnest faces stole,

For the shades of friends departed thronged the

chambers of the soul;

On the tapestry of fancy glowed the light of other

years,

When our friendship, like a rainbow, beautified a world

of tears.

180 I REMEMBER THE OLD VILLAGE.

I remember at the midnight how we traced the wintry

scene,

Saw the snow-white village fane, and the dark ravine

between.

Ay, we deemed that snow a shroud to robe the old year

for the tomb,

And our voices seemed to falter as we whispered in the

gloom.

Silent, as the night decampeth and the streaks of morn

appear,

Went the old and frosty-bearded, came the new and

wanton year;

Yet the chalice of existence gave to us a draught of

pain,

When we thought of that which was, and shall not be

with us again.

Hearts were trembling when the church bell, in a

requiem, deep and low,

Died away with sad bewailing through the darkness and

the snow;

Then the starry brow of midnight quivered in the silent

air,

And the holy peace of slumber came to us on wings of

prayer.

THEY MAY FIND ME A HOME. 181

Sad is now the recollection of that memory-hallowed

shore,

With those kindly hearts and voices I shall parley

nevermore;

Still with sunny thoughts and musings come those

visions unto me

Of the friends and scenes departed from that cottage by

the sea.

JttaB Jinb Jftc a ôme.

They may find me a home on an isle of the sea

With its peace-breathing grottos of gladness and love ;

Where to banish my sadness a solace would be

In the song of the maiden, the coo of the dove—

Where the spirit of pleasure through valleys might stray,

Like the streamlets of silver the forests infold

When in beauty they smile, in the mellowing ray

Of rare twilights of saffron, and daylight of gold.

182 THEY MAY FIND ME A HOME.

Though the sand of my mind inspiration might lave,

Where affections are many and follies are few—

Where the gleam of a bud and the sheen of a wave

Are the altars of light and the tenderest hue,

Not the magic of Nature will stifle regret,

Still I’ll covet the smile of the lady I love,

And her love-ripened eyes will I ever forget

For their beams are reflections of glory above.

To the hermit that lives, but of Nature a guest,

The bright star of the evening hallows the skies,

When its beams tremble over his sorrowful breast,

On a pathway of light his devotions arise.

Oh! if she were my star in my heaven of love—

She, the soul of my thought, of my being a part!

To her tender desires my oblation would prove

Of the holiest feeling that wells in my heart.

Will the sunbeams of fortune abandon my hope 1

All the dew of my love from my floweret to sip !

But my burthen of mind could my language unstop—

Does my name ever rest with the smile on her lip ?

At the shrine of her being, affection will vow ;

If my heart be love’s casket can time take away—

And my thoughts like the tresses that garland her brow

Shall encircle her beauty and banish decay.

TO THE CLYDE. 183

®o ilj£ ©Igii*.

On thee, sweet Clyde ! the hues of evening glow;

Faint rays of light now linger in the west;

On balmy zephyr swells thy gentle flow,

And lulls the burning passions in my breast.

I love the pleasing murmur of thy waters,

When on their bosom floats the woodland strain ;

I love the humble love-songs of thy daughters,

And rustic jest of thy heart-happy swain.

The wild birds warble in thy peaceful glades,

A joyful sound their mellow songs impart—

With purer bliss, the voices of thy maids

Breathe forth their deepest wishes from the heart;

And yet another strain I would awaken,

Above thy stream I’ll hang the poet’s lyre,

Nor thy sequestered shades will be forsaken,

While I to sing their beauties can aspire.

184 TO THE CLYDE.

I love thy flowers and, with the vestal themes

They teach me, pleasant thoughts steal back again

Upon my restless mind, like quiet dreams

Upon the sleeper after nights of pain.

And yet still more I love the pensive maid,

Who culls forget-me-nots, my brow to wreathe,

When in each gem I see love’s smile displayed,

I smile beneath her smile, her breath I breathe.

While bright suggestions gleam along thy course

Responsive to the calm reflective eye,

Clear flowing Clyde ! my heart can well endorse

The lessons that within thy compass lie.

Men change and pass away, but thou art still

Through all the years a thing of strange delight—

Now calm, then wild, and up beneath yon hill,

A world of tumult in thy leaping might.

Would on thy sylvan bank to rest for ever,

When from this earthly thrall the soul has fled,

The flowing of thy waters, lovely river !

Would chant an endless requiem for the dead.

And thus thy trailing brightness will for ever

Reflect that sunny sky when winds are still,

Like holy thoughts that flush life’s mighty river,

The calm reflections of God’s higher Will.

OH ! GIVE ME THAT SPRIG. 185

©b! (Sito me tljat %rxg.

Oh ! give me that sprig from my own native glen—

That nosegay of heather from Scotia’s shore !

It tells me of pleasures aye dear to my ken,

And wafts me again to the misty Ben More.

Though fondlings of wealth in proud luxury dream,

I covet the passion, in youth that I bore,

When chasing through heather the bickering stream

That sparkles so free o’er the braes of Ben More.

The bird o’er the mountain that soareth afar,

In boyhood, I’ve watched from the old cottage door;

I longed with the eagle to sport on the scar,

And cling to a home on the lofty Ben More.

O silent Ben More! I can fancy thee now—

My nature is linked to thy dark dreary form :

For sacred to me is thy cloud-kissing brow,

When nestling serene in the breast of the storm.

Ben More ! though my pleasures and friendships decay,

In ecstasy still through the heather I’d roam,

To live in thy shadow ere life wears away,

And woo back the visions of childhood and home. N

186 THE LEAF OF EVERGREEN.

®fj£ leaf of dbergrmt.

In the sable cloud of night, when the wintry winds were

blowing,

I have lingered thoughtfully by the margin of yon

stream.

I have watched with strange emotion the silvery wavelets

flowing

Tremulous beneath the shimmering of the pale moonbeam.

But a loving voice and dearer has stirred my inmost feeling,

Dear, although the stream may lisp in its never-ending

song;

All unheeded were the moonbeams across the waters

stealing,

When my darling in the gloaming came trippingly along.

I remember when we met by yon castle ruin hoary,

The endearments of her heart were unbosomed unto me,

As the sunset tints the ocean with a pure departing

glory,

.For we parted and her love-sweet face I nevermore shall

see.

THE LEAF OF EVERGREEN. 187

With affection, or with beauty, remembrance may restore

her,

I will praise it nevermore with the pure and wild delight

That inspired me when, enamoured, I bowed my face

before her,

To accept the evergreen as the token of her plight.

Verdant was the spray she gave as the emblem of her

passion,

But a paleness blanched the green where the sunbeams

used to rest.

Oh ! the rosy lips that blessed it, what artist them could

fashion !

Death has stilled with one cold touch, and his hand lies

on her breast.

In my dreams her grave I visit, when moonbeams tremble

o’er it,

In low tones her voice I hear, and her form has not yet

fled.

Still I’ll cherish it in love and in sadness I’ll adore it—

That dull spray stained and withered with the tears that

I have shed.

188 ADOWN IN THE GLEN.

JUtofon in ilje (Hint.

Adown in the glen stands the old water mill,

And over the mill stream long shadows are cast,

I hear the old song when I gaze on that rill:—

“ The mill cannot grind with the water that’s past.”

How often the forest has faded and blown,

Since morning of life when we roamed in its shade.

The sungleams of youth with their pleasures are gone,

Oh ! what can restore them ? for ever they fade.

I cherish a love for yon old alder tree,

And trace the endearment to years passed away ;

Our arms oft encircled its trunk, now you see

The ivy entwining to comfort decay :

Its tendrils cling closer when howls the wild blast;

So fondly affection is knit to yon glen—

Remembrance embalms the pure joys of the past,

And I, in my fancy, renew them again.

ADOWN IN THE GLEN. 189

I’ve marked the proud glance of thy dark loving eye

Pursuing the lark when he rose from the fell;

I’ve heard thy clear voice, while you hailed him on high,

Recall the weird echo from yon rocky dell.

Although we may meet by the meandering burn,

Where often we met, where we parted at last,

The sunshine of childhood can never return—


Swift time is afoot, dearest friend of my youth !

Around us the shadows are lengthening fast.

’Tis long since we learned as a maxim of truth :—


The first fruits of friendship are ripe in my breast,

Though loudly between us resounds the deep sea,

Mine eyes shall for ever be settled in rest,

Ere I will renounce my affection for thee.

190 THE MIDNIGHT HOUR.

^ht WjO\xt.

Stars twinkling bright bestud the skies,

And like the angels’ watchful eyes

Those distant orbs appear;

In dews that fill the chilly air,

While yearning o’er this world of care,

Each seems to shed a tear.

The zephyr murmurs through this bower,

Amid the dead leaves’ rustling shower,

“ Is there no rest for me ? ”

The fading flowers on Autumn’s brow,

Then whisper as they pensive bow,

“We are disturbed by thee ! ”

All Nature seems a deep unrest,

Responsive to my aching breast,

And thought will not be still—

All things seem weaving their death-shroud -

The hermit lone, the rabble crowd

Are girt about with ill.

THE MIDNIGHT HOUR. 191

And dreary at this midnight hour,

The owl pours from the ivied tower

His eerie tale of woe ;

Its echo mutters in the wood,

Where, of the stream’s contending flood,

Resounds the ceaseless flow.

Quaint owl, thy plaint is still untold,

Thy mystic tale none can unfold,

Nor quieted wilt thou be—

Alas ! my joys are dim with care,

My hopes are sullied with despair,

And should I mope like thee 1

192 THE MAID OF GLENCLOE.

^hc JHaib o’ Skndoe. i

Bright stream, silver-breasted, in ecstasy flow

Thy dark gloomy moorland and mountains among !

’Twas here, charming Flora, the maid o’ Glencloe,

Bewitched me, as round her my plaidie I flung.

Yon mountains the mists of the morning enshroud,

Where brackens grow bonny, and heather bells blow—

May peace be her portion, may sorrow ne’er cloud

My fairest and dearest, the maid o’ Glencloe!

Unscared on the heath the blythe linnet sings clear,

As dew from the bloom of the heather he sips;

As happy am I when I sing to my dear,

And court the sweet smiles that encircle her lips.

Dark, dark is the moorland, and steep is the path,

That leads to the shieling, where, waiting for me,

My darling young Flora, the pride o’ the strath,

Is watching, and longing her lover to see.

HAB AND BESSIE BELL. 193

flab ant) Jessie $dl.

As down the rugged mountain side,

Spey’s swollen waters swept,

And dolesome, o’er the heath-clad waste,

Its sullen echoes leapt,

Within a cot a maiden sat,

Her face with grief o’ercast,

And with a beating heart she sighed

At every passing blast.

Her father, ere the gloaming fell,

Across the Spey had rowed;

Beneath his plaid, his manly heart,

With Highland warmth, o’erflowed—

He loved the sound of rolling Spey,

Although it seemed the same,

As when in childhood’s tender tears

He learned to know its name.

194 RAB AND BESSIE BELL.

It oft recalled unto his mind

Those scenes when, flushed with joy,

He saw within its crystal stream

The image of the boy—

He saw, and longed to be a man,

When safely he could brave

The howling tempest’s angry scowl,

The torrent’s brawling wave.

And, as the Spey swells on its course,

He grew a sturdy wight,

To roam, with steady step, its banks,

To climb the mountain height.

No wonder then that, on that night,

Spey’s rapid roaring fell,

Like rolling music, on the ear

Of honest Robin Bell.

The ferry he in safety crossed,

And reached his neighbour’s ha’,

Where merry round the ruby wine,

His loving friends he saw.

His conscience smote him to the core,

And fain would he retire ;

But kindly welcomed by them all,

He hailed the cheery tire.

RAB AND BESSIE BELL. 195

His moistened plaid aside he threw,

And joined the jocund ring ;

And some would tell a fairy tale,

A ballad some would sing.

While tempted oft to taste the wine,

Douce Robin’s nature sank,

The first glass in his life he took,

And yet, again, he drank.

Till with a slow and quivering step—

With maddened, reeling brain,

At midnight’s hour he left that cot

To seek his home again.

Before the rushing Spey he stood,

The raindrops kissed his cheek,

“ Come, boatman, come and row me o’er,”

He cried in accents weak.

And oft he cried, no voice he heard

But Spey’s deep thunder roar;

To swim the flood he madly plunged,

And then was seen no more.

The tempest spread a darksome pall;

None heard his dying shriek;

But death bedewed his chilly brow,

And glazed his pallid cheek.

196 EAB AND BESSIE BELL.

His daughter oft, that dreary night,

In fancy heard his tread;

Hope glimmered in her soul awhile,

And then again was dead.

Still by the flickering candle’s light,

Alone, but undismayed,

She, like a guardian angel, sat,

And, waiting, watched and prayed.

The sun, in seeming condolence,

Shone gloomy in the vale,

As with a melting heart she heard

Her neighbours tell the tale,

How her dear father met his fate—

It was too much to bear :

Her heart was riven with a wound,

Time never could repair.

She ne’er again could look with pride

Upon her native hills;

Her undelighted ear oft caught

The murmur of their rills ;

And as fair flowers, torn from their stem,

Beneath the sunshine fade,

The world’s delights could never cheer

That gentle Highland maid.

KAB AND BESSIE BELL. 197

Next spring, beneath the willow’s shade,

In quiet sleep she lay;

From all the pain and ills of life

Her soul had fled away.

In vain her pet lambs oft shall bleat

To get her fond embrace,

In vain the mountaineers shall long

To see her winning face.

Yet fondly to her memory

Full oft they shed a tear;

When gloaming comes, joined in their hymns

Her voice they seem to hear :

And when they see the poisoning cup,

Their hearts with pity swell,—

They ponder o’er and tell the tale

Of Rab and Bessie Bell.

198 LIZZIE GRAY.

Wiffu ©rail.

The dainty daisy sweetly blooms upon the dewy lawn ;

The laverock, exulting, sings his matin to the dawn;

But let the laverock charm the air, the daisy deck the

lea,

Far sweeter is the voice and form of Lizzie Gray to me.

So sweetly I have heard her sing beside yon fountain

clear,

The warbling birds would cease to sing, and rather

choose to hear;

While I, for flowers to deck her hair, roamed over haugh

and brae,

But ne’er a flower I yet could see to vie with Lizzie

Gray.

My pleasures fly when not on me her smiling fondly

strays;

My dying dirge would be her song sung in another’s

praise.

If I to her should prove untrue, may toil beset my

way,

And night winds aye disturb my rest for the sake of

Lizzie Gray.

APPENDIX.

“ Dolores Araos Fuertos.”

An American poetess, born at New Orleans in 1839. Early left an orphan she was adopted by a rich planter in Cuba. This gentleman also died and his will, which had been drawn up in her favour, was set aside. At 14 years of age she came out on the stage as a dancer. After living “a turbid and irregular life” she died at Paris in 1868. On her deathbed she expressed the wish that her resting-place should be marked with nothing more than a plain piece of wood bearing the words “Thou Knowest.” See American Poems edited by William Michael Rossetti. {E. Moxon Son & Co.)

“ The Flight of Calliope.”

Note 1.—“A city fair to see.” Pisa on the Arno, in Italy, a place of great antiquity, famous in early times as a common- wealth maritime, crusading, and imperial.

Note 2.—“Raniero’s festival delights.” A season of great festivity observed by the people of Pisa in the days of its glory.

Note 3.—“ False Ugolino.” A ruler of Pisa, who was banished from the city, but regained his power and possessions. His cruelty and tyranny were so intolerable that the people ultimately revolted and starved him to death.

200 APPENDIX.

Note. 4—“Enshrined the arts of Italy.” Pisa was the chief sanctuary of early Italian painting.

Note 5.—“Havilah” signifies pain-bearing.

Note 6.—“ Campo Santo.” The national cemetery surrounded by cloisters and frescoes now decayed, the work of eminent artists. When the Campo Santo was formed, a fleet of 53 ships were commissioned to convey earth from Calvary in order to sanctify the graves of citizens.

Note 7.—“ Torre della Fame.” The Tower of Hunger, in which it is supposed Ugolino and his children were starved to death. (See Dante’s Inferno, Canto 33.)

Note 8.—“Diotisalvi’s pillared fane.” The Baptistery, a pillared circular temple begun by Diotisalvi and built by the freewill offerings of the people.

Note 9.—“ Cathedral front of Pisa.” The booty captured by the crusaders of Pisa, in their achievements against the Saracens, was voted to erect a cathedral most splendid in those days.

Note 10.—“Dingy-walled old University.” Pisa has a venerable and celebrated university.

AIRD 4 COGHILL, PRINTERS, GLASGOW

Documents

PtSS. I . -7“?