I could not bear the blaze; I could not see the smoke among the light— To wander out through unknown lands, and lead You by the hand through hamlet, port, and town, On, on, until we died; and stand each day To glory in you, as you preached and prayed From rock and bourne-stone, with that voice, those words, Mingled with fire and honey—you would wake, Bend, save whole nations! would not that atone For one short word?—ay, make it right, to save You, you, to fight the battles of the Lord? And so—and so—alas! you knew the rest! You answered me. . . . Ah cruel words! No! Blessed, godlike words. You had done nobly had you struck me dead, Instead of striking me to life!—the temptress! . . . 'Traitress! apostate! dead to God and me!'— 'The smell of death upon me?'—so it was! True! true! well spoken, hero! Oh they snapped, Those words, my madness, like the angel's voice Thrilling the graves to birth-pangs. All was clear. There was but one right thing in the world to do; And I must do it. . . . Lord, have mercy! Christ! Help through my womanhood: or I shall fail Yet, as I failed before! . . . I could not speak— I could not speak for shame and misery, And terror of my sin, and of the things I knew were coming: but in heaven, in heaven! There we should meet, perhaps—and by that time I might be worthy of you once again— Of you, and of my God. . . . So I went out. . . . . . . Will you hear more, and so forget the pain? And yet I dread to tell you what comes next; Your love will feel it all again for me. No! it is over; and the woe that's dead Rises next hour a glorious angel. Love! Say, shall I tell you? Ah! your lips are dry! To-morrow, when they come, we must entreat, And they will give you water. One to-day, A soldier, gave me water in a sponge Upon a reed, and said, 'Too fair! too young! She might have been a gallant soldier's wife!' And then I cried, 'I am a soldier's wife! A hero's!' And he smiled, but let me drink. God bless him for it! So they led me back: And as I went, a voice was in my ears Which rang through all the sunlight, and the breath And blaze of all the garden slopes below, And through the harvest-voices, and the moan Of cedar-forests on the cliffs above, And round the shining rivers, and the peaks Which hung beyond the cloud-bed of the west, And round the ancient stones about my feet. Out of all heaven and earth it rang, and cried, 'My hand hath made all these. Am I too weak To give thee strength to say so?' Then my soul Spread like a clear blue sky within my breast, While all the people made a ring around, And in the midst the judge spoke smilingly— 'Well! hast thou brought him to a better mind?' 'No! He has brought me to a better mind!'— I cried, and said beside—I know not what— Words which I learnt from thee—I trust in God Nought fierce or rude—for was I not a girl Three months ago beneath my mother's roof? I thought of that. She might be there! I looked— She was not there! I hid my face and wept. And when I looked again, the judge's eye Was on me, cold and steady, deep in thought— 'She knows what shame is still; so strip her.' 'Ah!' I shrieked, 'Not that, Sir! Any pain! So young I am—a wife too—I am not my own, But his—my husband's!' But they took my shawl, And tore my tunic off, and there I stood Before them all. . . . Husband! you love me still? Indeed I pleaded! Oh, shine out, kind moon, And let me see him smile! Oh! how I prayed, While some cried 'Shame!' and some, 'She is too young!' And some mocked—ugly words: God shut my ears. And yet no earthquake came to swallow me. While all the court around, and walls, and roofs, And all the earth and air were full of eyes, Eyes, eyes, which scorched my limbs like burning flame, Until my brain seemed bursting from my brow: And yet no earthquake came! And then I knew This body was not yours alone, but God's— His loan—He needed it: and after that The worst was come, and any torture more A change—a lightening; and I did not shriek— Once only—once, when first I felt the whip— It coiled so keen around my side, and sent A fire-flash through my heart which choked me—then I shrieked—that once. The foolish echo rang So far and long—I prayed you might not hear. And then a mist, which hid the ring of eyes, Swam by me, and a murmur in my ears Of humming bees around the limes at home; And I was all alone with you and God. And what they did to me I hardly know; I felt, and did not feel. Now I look back, It was not after all so very sharp: So do not pity me. It made me pray; Forget my shame in pain, and pain in you, And you in God: and once, when I looked down, And saw an ugly sight—so many wounds! 'What matter?' thought I. 'His dear eyes are dark; For them alone I kept these limbs so white— A foolish pride! As God wills now. 'Tis just.' But then the judge spoke out in haste: 'She is mad, Or fenced by magic arts! She feels no pain!' He did not know I was on fire within: Better he should not; so his sin was less. Then he cried fiercely, 'Take the slave away, And crucify her by her husband's side!' And at those words a film came on my face— A sickening rush of joy—was that the end? That my reward? I rose, and tried to go— But all the eyes had vanished, and the judge; And all the buildings melted into mist: So how they brought me here I cannot tell— Here, here, by you, until the judgment-day, And after that for ever and for ever! Ah! If I could but reach that hand! One touch! One finger tip, to send the thrill through me I felt but yesterday!—No! I can wait:— Another body!—Oh, new limbs are ready, Free, pure, instinct with soul through every nerve, Kept for us in the treasuries of God. They will not mar the love they try to speak, They will not fail my soul, as these have done! . . . . . Will you hear more? Nay—you know all the rest: Yet those poor eyes—alas! they could not see My waking, when you hung above me there With hands outstretched to bless the penitent— Your penitent—even like The Lord Himself— I gloried in you!—like The Lord Himself! Sharing His very sufferings, to the crown Of thorns which they had put on that dear brow To make you like Him—show you as you were! I told them so! I bid them look on you, And see there what was the highest throne on earth— The throne of suffering, where the Son of God Endured and triumphed for them. But they laughed; All but one soldier, gray, with many scars; And he stood silent. Then I crawled to you, And kissed your bleeding feet, and called aloud— You heard me! You know all! I am at peace. Peace, peace, as still and bright as is the moon Upon your limbs, came on me at your smile, And kept me happy, when they dragged me back From that last kiss, and spread me on the cross, And bound my wrists and ankles—Do not sigh: I prayed, and bore it: and since they raised me up My eyes have never left your face, my own, my own, Nor will, till death comes! . . . Do I feel much pain? Not much. Not maddening. None I cannot bear. It has become like part of my own life, Or part of God's life in me—honour—bliss! I dreaded madness, and instead comes rest; Rest deep and smiling, like a summer's night. I should be easy, now, if I could move . . . I cannot stir. Ah God! these shoots of fire Through all my limbs! Hush, selfish girl! He hears you! Who ever found the cross a pleasant bed? Yes; I can bear it, love. Pain is no evil Unless it conquers us. These little wrists, now— You said, one blessed night, they were too slender, Too soft and slender for a deacon's wife— Perhaps a martyr's:—You forgot the strength Which God can give. The cord has cut them through; And yet my voice has never faltered yet. Oh! do not groan, or I shall long and pray That you may die: and you must not die yet. Not yet—they told us we might live three days . . . Two days for you to preach! Two days to speak Words which may wake the dead! . . . . . Hush! is he sleeping? They say that men have slept upon the cross; So why not he? . . . Thanks, Lord! I hear him breathe: And he will preach Thy word to-morrow!—save Souls, crowds, for Thee! And they will know his worth Years hence—poor things, they know not what they do!— And crown him martyr; and his name will ring Through all the shores of earth, and all the stars Whose eyes are sparkling through their tears to see His triumph—Preacher! Martyr!—Ah—and me?— If they must couple my poor name with his, Let them tell all the truth—say how I loved him, And tried to damn him by that love! O Lord! Returning good for evil! and was this The payment I deserved for such a sin? To hang here on my cross, and look at him Until we kneel before Thy throne in heaven!

Eversley, 1852.



ON THE DEATH OF A CERTAIN JOURNAL {282}



So die, thou child of stormy dawn, Thou winter flower, forlorn of nurse; Chilled early by the bigot's curse, The pedant's frown, the worldling's yawn.

Fair death, to fall in teeming June, When every seed which drops to earth Takes root, and wins a second birth From steaming shower and gleaming moon.

Fall warm, fall fast, thou mellow rain; Thou rain of God, make fat the land; That roots which parch in burning sand May bud to flower and fruit again.

To grace, perchance, a fairer morn In mightier lands beyond the sea, While honour falls to such as we From hearts of heroes yet unborn,

Who in the light of fuller day, Of purer science, holier laws, Bless us, faint heralds of their cause, Dim beacons of their glorious way.

Failure? While tide-floods rise and boil Round cape and isle, in port and cove, Resistless, star-led from above: What though our tiny wave recoil?

Eversley, 1852.



DOWN TO THE MOTHERS



Linger no more, my beloved, by abbey and cell and cathedral; Mourn not for holy ones mourning of old them who knew not the Father, Weeping with fast and scourge, when the bridegroom was taken from them. Drop back awhile through the years, to the warm rich youth of the nations, Childlike in virtue and faith, though childlike in passion and pleasure, Childlike still, and still near to their God, while the day-spring of Eden Lingered in rose-red rays on the peaks of Ionian mountains. Down to the mothers, as Faust went, I go, to the roots of our manhood, Mothers of us in our cradles; of us once more in our glory. New-born, body and soul, in the great pure world which shall be In the renewing of all things, when man shall return to his Eden Conquering evil, and death, and shame, and the slander of conscience— Free in the sunshine of Godhead—and fearlessly smile on his Father. Down to the mothers I go—yet with thee still!—be with me, thou purest! Lead me, thy hand in my hand; and the dayspring of God go before us.

Eversley, 1852.



TO MISS MITFORD: AUTHORESS OF 'OUR VILLAGE'



The single eye, the daughter of the light; Well pleased to recognise in lowliest shade Some glimmer of its parent beam, and made By daily draughts of brightness, inly bright. The taste severe, yet graceful, trained aright In classic depth and clearness, and repaid By thanks and honour from the wise and staid— By pleasant skill to blame, and yet delight, And high communion with the eloquent throng Of those who purified our speech and song— All these are yours. The same examples lure, You in each woodland, me on breezy moor— With kindred aim the same sweet path along, To knit in loving knowledge rich and poor.

Eversley, 1853.



BALLAD OF EARL HALDAN'S DAUGHTER



It was Earl Haldan's daughter, She looked across the sea; She looked across the water; And long and loud laughed she: 'The locks of six princesses Must be my marriage fee, So hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat! Who comes a wooing me?'

It was Earl Haldan's daughter, She walked along the sand; When she was aware of a knight so fair, Came sailing to the land. His sails were all of velvet, His mast of beaten gold, And 'Hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat! Who saileth here so bold?'

'The locks of five princesses I won beyond the sea; I clipt their golden tresses, To fringe a cloak for thee. One handful yet is wanting, But one of all the tale; So hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat! Furl up thy velvet sail!'

He leapt into the water, That rover young and bold; He gript Earl Haldan's daughter, He clipt her locks of gold: 'Go weep, go weep, proud maiden, The tale is full to-day. Now hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat! Sail Westward ho! away!'

Devonshire, 1854 From Westward Ho!



FRANK LEIGH'S SONG. A.D. 1586



Ah tyrant Love, Megaera's serpents bearing, Why thus requite my sighs with venom'd smart? Ah ruthless dove, the vulture's talons wearing, Why flesh them, traitress, in this faithful heart? Is this my meed? Must dragons' teeth alone In Venus' lawns by lovers' hands be sown?

Nay, gentlest Cupid; 'twas my pride undid me; Nay, guiltless dove; by mine own wound I fell. To worship, not to wed, Celestials bid me: I dreamt to mate in heaven, and wake in hell; For ever doom'd, Ixion-like, to reel On mine own passions' ever-burning wheel.

Devonshire, 1854. From Westward Ho!



ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND



Welcome, wild North-easter. Shame it is to see Odes to every zephyr; Ne'er a verse to thee. Welcome, black North-easter! O'er the German foam; O'er the Danish moorlands, From thy frozen home. Tired we are of summer, Tired of gaudy glare, Showers soft and steaming, Hot and breathless air. Tired of listless dreaming, Through the lazy day: Jovial wind of winter Turns us out to play! Sweep the golden reed-beds; Crisp the lazy dyke; Hunger into madness Every plunging pike. Fill the lake with wild-fowl; Fill the marsh with snipe; While on dreary moorlands Lonely curlew pipe. Through the black fir-forest Thunder harsh and dry, Shattering down the snow-flakes Off the curdled sky. Hark! The brave North-easter! Breast-high lies the scent, On by holt and headland, Over heath and bent. Chime, ye dappled darlings, Through the sleet and snow. Who can over-ride you? Let the horses go! Chime, ye dappled darlings, Down the roaring blast; You shall see a fox die Ere an hour be past. Go! and rest to-morrow, Hunting in your dreams, While our skates are ringing O'er the frozen streams. Let the luscious South-wind Breathe in lovers' sighs, While the lazy gallants Bask in ladies' eyes. What does he but soften Heart alike and pen? 'Tis the hard gray weather Breeds hard English men. What's the soft South-wester? 'Tis the ladies' breeze, Bringing home their true-loves Out of all the seas: But the black North-easter, Through the snowstorm hurled, Drives our English hearts of oak Seaward round the world. Come, as came our fathers, Heralded by thee, Conquering from the eastward, Lords by land and sea. Come; and strong within us Stir the Vikings' blood; Bracing brain and sinew; Blow, thou wind of God!

1854.



A FAREWELL: TO C. E. G.



My fairest child, I have no song to give you; No lark could pipe in skies so dull and gray; Yet, if you will, one quiet hint I'll leave you, For every day.

I'll tell you how to sing a clearer carol Than lark who hails the dawn or breezy down To earn yourself a purer poet's laurel Than Shakespeare's crown.

Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever; Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long; And so make Life, and Death, and that For Ever, One grand sweet song.

February 1, 1856.



TO G. A. G.



A hasty jest I once let fall— As jests are wont to be, untrue— As if the sum of joy to you Were hunt and picnic, rout and ball.

Your eyes met mine: I did not blame; You saw it: but I touched too near Some noble nerve; a silent tear Spoke soft reproach, and lofty shame.

I do not wish those words unsaid. Unspoilt by praise and pleasure, you In that one look to woman grew, While with a child, I thought, I played.

Next to mine own beloved so long! I have not spent my heart in vain. I watched the blade; I see the grain; A woman's soul, most soft, yet strong.

Eversley, 1856.



THE SOUTH WIND: A FISHERMAN'S BLESSINGS



O blessed drums of Aldershot! O blessed South-west train! O blessed, blessed Speaker's clock, All prophesying rain!

O blessed yaffil, laughing loud! O blessed falling glass! O blessed fan of cold gray cloud! O blessed smelling grass!

O bless'd South wind that toots his horn Through every hole and crack! I'm off at eight to-morrow morn, To bring such fishes back!

Eversley, April 1, 1856.



THE INVITATION: TO TOM HUGHES



Come away with me, Tom, Term and talk are done; My poor lads are reaping, Busy every one. Curates mind the parish, Sweepers mind the court; We'll away to Snowdon For our ten days' sport; Fish the August evening Till the eve is past, Whoop like boys, at pounders Fairly played and grassed. When they cease to dimple, Lunge, and swerve, and leap, Then up over Siabod, Choose our nest, and sleep. Up a thousand feet, Tom, Round the lion's head, Find soft stones to leeward And make up our bed. Eat our bread and bacon, Smoke the pipe of peace, And, ere we be drowsy, Give our boots a grease. Homer's heroes did so, Why not such as we? What are sheets and servants? Superfluity! Pray for wives and children Safe in slumber curled, Then to chat till midnight O'er this babbling world— Of the workmen's college, Of the price of grain, Of the tree of knowledge, Of the chance of rain; If Sir A. goes Romeward, If Miss B. sings true, If the fleet comes homeward, If the mare will do,— Anything and everything— Up there in the sky Angels understand us, And no 'saints' are by. Down, and bathe at day-dawn, Tramp from lake to lake, Washing brain and heart clean Every step we take. Leave to Robert Browning Beggars, fleas, and vines; Leave to mournful Ruskin Popish Apennines, Dirty Stones of Venice And his Gas-lamps Seven— We've the stones of Snowdon And the lamps of heaven. Where's the mighty credit In admiring Alps? Any goose sees 'glory' In their 'snowy scalps.' Leave such signs and wonders For the dullard brain, As aesthetic brandy, Opium and cayenne. Give me Bramshill common (St. John's harriers by), Or the vale of Windsor, England's golden eye. Show me life and progress, Beauty, health, and man; Houses fair, trim gardens, Turn where'er I can. Or, if bored with 'High Art,' And such popish stuff, One's poor ear need airing, Snowdon's high enough. While we find God's signet Fresh on English ground, Why go gallivanting With the nations round? Though we try no ventures Desperate or strange; Feed on commonplaces In a narrow range; Never sought for Franklin Round the frozen Capes; Even, with Macdougall, {295} Bagged our brace of apes; Never had our chance, Tom, In that black Redan; Can't avenge poor Brereton Out in Sakarran; Tho' we earn our bread, Tom, By the dirty pen, What we can we will be, Honest Englishmen. Do the work that's nearest, Though it's dull at whiles, Helping, when we meet them, Lame dogs over stiles; See in every hedgerow Marks of angels' feet, Epics in each pebble Underneath our feet; Once a year, like schoolboys, Robin-Hooding go, Leaving fops and fogies A thousand feet below.

Eversley, August 1856.



THE FIND



Yon sound's neither sheep-bell nor bark, They're running—they're running, Go hark! The sport may be lost by a moment's delay; So whip up the puppies and scurry away. Dash down through the cover by dingle and dell, There's a gate at the bottom—I know it full well; And they're running—they're running, Go hark!

They're running—they're running, Go hark! One fence and we're out of the park; Sit down in your saddles and race at the brook, Then smash at the bullfinch; no time for a look; Leave cravens and skirters to dangle behind; He's away for the moors in the teeth of the wind, And they're running—they're running, Go hark!

They're running—they're running, Go hark! Let them run on and run till it's dark! Well with them we are, and well with them we'll be, While there's wind in our horses and daylight to see: Then shog along homeward, chat over the fight, And hear in our dreams the sweet music all night Of—They're running—they're running, Go hark!

Eversley, 1856.



FISHING SONG: TO J. A. FROUDE AND TOM HUGHES



Oh, Mr. Froude, how wise and good, To point us out this way to glory— They're no great shakes, those Snowdon Lakes, And all their pounders myth and story. Blow Snowdon! What's Lake Gwynant to Killarney, Or spluttering Welsh to tender blarney, blarney, blarney?

So Thomas Hughes, sir, if you choose, I'll tell you where we think of going, To swate and far o'er cliff and scar, Hear horns of Elfland faintly blowing; Blow Snowdon! There's a hundred lakes to try in, And fresh caught salmon daily, frying, frying, frying.

Geology and botany A hundred wonders shall diskiver, We'll flog and troll in strid and hole, And skim the cream of lake and river, Blow Snowdon! give me Ireland for my pennies, Hurrah! for salmon, grilse, and—Dennis, Dennis, Dennis!

Eversley, 1856



THE LAST BUCCANEER



Oh England is a pleasant place for them that's rich and high, But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I; And such a port for mariners I ne'er shall see again As the pleasant Isle of Aves, beside the Spanish main.

There were forty craft in Aves that were both swift and stout, All furnished well with small arms and cannons round about; And a thousand men in Aves made laws so fair and free To choose their valiant captains and obey them loyally.

Thence we sailed against the Spaniard with his hoards of plate and gold, Which he wrung with cruel tortures from Indian folk of old; Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as stone, Who flog men and keel-haul them, and starve them to the bone.

Oh the palms grew high in Aves, and fruits that shone like gold, And the colibris and parrots they were gorgeous to behold; And the negro maids to Aves from bondage fast did flee, To welcome gallant sailors, a-sweeping in from sea.

Oh sweet it was in Aves to hear the landward breeze, A-swing with good tobacco in a net between the trees, With a negro lass to fan you, while you listened to the roar Of the breakers on the reef outside, that never touched the shore.

But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be; So the King's ships sailed on Aves, and quite put down were we. All day we fought like bulldogs, but they burst the booms at night; And I fled in a piragua, sore wounded, from the fight.

Nine days I floated starving, and a negro lass beside, Till for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young thing she died; But as I lay a gasping, a Bristol sail came by, And brought me home to England here, to beg until I die.

And now I'm old and going—I'm sure I can't tell where; One comfort is, this world's so hard, I can't be worse off there: If I might but be a sea-dove, I'd fly across the main, To the pleasant Isle of Aves, to look at it once again.

Eversley, 1857,



THE KNIGHT'S RETURN



Hark! hark! hark! The lark sings high in the dark. The were wolves mutter, the night hawks moan, The raven croaks from the Raven-stone; What care I for his boding groan, Riding the moorland to come to mine own? Hark! hark! hark! The lark sings high in the dark.

Hark! hark! hark! The lark sings high in the dark. Long have I wander'd by land and by sea, Long have I ridden by moorland and lea; Yonder she sits with my babe on her knee, Sits at the window and watches for me! Hark! hark! hark! The lark sings high in the dark.

Written for music, 1857.



PEN-Y-GWRYDD: TO TOM HUGHES, ESQ.



There is no inn in Snowdon which is not awful dear, Excepting Pen-y-gwrydd (you can't pronounce it, dear), Which standeth in the meeting of noble valleys three— One is the vale of Gwynant, so well beloved by me, One goes to Capel-Curig, and I can't mind its name, And one it is Llanberris Pass, which all men knows the same; Between which radiations vast mountains does arise, As full of tarns as sieves of holes, in which big fish will rise, That is, just one day in the year, if you be there, my boy, Just about ten o'clock at night; and then I wish you joy. Now to this Pen-y-gwrydd inn I purposeth to write, (Axing the post town out of Froude, for I can't mind it quite), And to engage a room or two, for let us say a week, For fear of gents, and Manichees, and reading parties meek, And there to live like fighting-cocks at almost a bob a day, And arterwards toward the sea make tracks and cut away, All for to catch the salmon bold in Aberglaslyn pool, And work the flats in Traeth-Mawr, and will, or I'm a fool. And that's my game, which if you like, respond to me by post; But I fear it will not last, my son, a thirteen days at most. Flies is no object; I can tell some three or four will do, And John Jones, Clerk, he knows the rest, and ties and sells 'em too. Besides of which I have no more to say, leastwise just now, And so, goes to my children's school and 'umbly makes my bow.

Eversley, 1857.



ODE ON THE INSTALLATION OF THE DUKE OF DEVONSHIRE, CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE, 1862 {303}



Hence a while, severer Muses; Spare your slaves till drear October. Hence; for Alma Mater chooses Not to be for ever sober: But, like stately matron gray, Calling child and grandchild round her, Will for them at least be gay; Share for once their holiday; And, knowing she will sleep the sounder, Cheerier-hearted on the morrow Rise to grapple care and sorrow, Grandly leads the dance adown, and joins the children's play. So go, for in your places Already, as you see, (Her tears for some deep sorrow scarcely dried), Venus holds court among her sinless graces, With many a nymph from many a park and lea. She, pensive, waits the merrier faces Of those your wittier sisters three, O'er jest and dance and song who still preside, To cheer her in this merry-mournful tide; And bids us, as she smiles or sighs, Tune our fancies by her eyes.

Then let the young be glad, Fair girl and gallant lad, And sun themselves to-day By lawn and garden gay; 'Tis play befits the noon Of rosy-girdled June: Who dare frown if heaven shall smile? Blest, who can forget a while; The world before them, and above The light of universal love. Go, then, let the young be gay; From their heart as from their dress Let darkness and let mourning pass away, While we the staid and worn look on and bless.

Health to courage firm and high! Health to Granta's chivalry! Wisely finding, day by day, Play in toil, and toil in play. Granta greets them, gliding down On by park and spire and town; Humming mills and golden meadows, Barred with elm and poplar shadows; Giant groves, and learned halls; Holy fanes and pictured walls. Yet she bides not here; around Lies the Muses' sacred ground. Most she lingers, where below Gliding wherries come and go; Stalwart footsteps shake the shores; Rolls the pulse of stalwart oars; Rings aloft the exultant cry For the bloodless victory. There she greets the sports, which breed Valiant lads for England's need; Wisely finding, day by day, Play in toil, and toil in play. Health to courage, firm and high! Health to Granta's chivalry!

Yet stay a while, severer Muses, stay, For you, too, have your rightful parts to-day. Known long to you, and known through you to fame, Are Chatsworth's halls, and Cavendish's name. You too, then, Alma Mater calls to greet A worthy patron for your ancient seat; And bid her sons from him example take, Of learning purely sought for learning's sake, Of worth unboastful, power in duty spent; And see, fulfilled in him, her high intent.

Come, Euterpe, wake thy choir; Fit thy notes to our desire. Long may he sit the chiefest here, Meet us and greet us, year by year; Long inherit, sire and son, All that their race has wrought and won, Since that great Cavendish came again, Round the world and over the main, Breasting the Thames with his mariners bold, Past good Queen Bess's palace of old; With jewel and ingot packed in his hold, And sails of damask and cloth of gold; While never a sailor-boy on board But was decked as brave as a Spanish lord, With the spoils he had won In the Isles of the Sun, And the shores of Fairy-land, And yet held for the crown of the goodly show, That queenly smile from the Palace window, And that wave of a queenly hand. Yes, let the young be gay, And sun themselves to-day;— And from their hearts, as from their dress, Let mourning pass away. But not from us, who watch our years fast fleeing, And snatching as they flee, fresh fragments of our being. Can we forget one friend, Can we forget one face, Which cheered us toward our end, Which nerved us for our race? Oh sad to toil, and yet forego One presence which has made us know To Godlike souls how deep our debt! We would not, if we could, forget.

Severer Muses, linger yet; Speak out for us one pure and rich regret. Thou, Clio, who, with awful pen, Gravest great names upon the hearts of men, Speak of a fate beyond our ken; A gem late found and lost too soon; {306} A sun gone down at highest noon; A tree from Odin's ancient root, Which bore for men the ancient fruit, Counsel, and faith and scorn of wrong, And cunning lore, and soothing song, Snapt in mid-growth, and leaving unaware The flock unsheltered and the pasture bare Nay, let us take what God shall send, Trusting bounty without end. God ever lives; and Nature, Beneath His high dictature, Hale and teeming, can replace Strength by strength, and grace by grace, Hope by hope, and friend by friend: Trust; and take what God shall send. So shall Alma Mater see Daughters fair and wise Train new lands of liberty Under stranger skies; Spreading round the teeming earth English science, manhood, worth.

1862.



SONGS FROM 'THE WATER-BABIES'



THE TIDE RIVER

Clear and cool, clear and cool, By laughing shallow, and dreaming pool; Cool and clear, cool and clear, By shining shingle, and foaming wear; Under the crag where the ouzel sings, And the ivied wall where the church-bell rings, Undefiled, for the undefiled; Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child.

Dank and foul, dank and foul, By the smoky town in its murky cowl; Foul and dank, foul and dank, By wharf and sewer and slimy bank; Darker and darker the farther I go, Baser and baser the richer I grow; Who dare sport with the sin-defiled? Shrink from me, turn from me, mother and child.

Strong and free, strong and free, The floodgates are open, away to the sea. Free and strong, free and strong, Cleansing my streams as I hurry along To the golden sands, and the leaping bar, And the taintless tide that awaits me afar, As I lose myself in the infinite main, Like a soul that has sinned and is pardoned again. Undefiled, for the undefiled; Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child.

From The Water-Babies. Eversley, 1862.

YOUNG AND OLD

When all the world is young, lad, And all the trees are green; And every goose a swan, lad, And every lass a queen; Then hey for boot and horse, lad, And round the world away; Young blood must have its course, lad, And every dog his day.

When all the world is old, lad, And all the trees are brown; And all the sport is stale, lad, And all the wheels run down; Creep home, and take your place there, The spent and maimed among: God grant you find one face there, You loved when all was young.

From The Water-Babies. 1862

THE SUMMER SEA

Soft soft wind, from out the sweet south sliding, Waft thy silver cloud webs athwart the summer sea; Thin thin threads of mist on dewy fingers twining Weave a veil of dappled gauze to shade my babe and me.

Deep deep Love, within thine own abyss abiding, Pour Thyself abroad, O Lord, on earth and air and sea; Worn weary hearts within Thy holy temple hiding, Shield from sorrow, sin, and shame my helpless babe and me.

From The Water-Babies. 1862

MY LITTLE DOLL

I once had a sweet little doll, dears, The prettiest doll in the world; Her cheeks were so red and so white, dears, And her hair was so charmingly curled. But I lost my poor little doll, dears, As I played in the heath one day; And I cried for more than a week, dears, But I never could find where she lay.

I found my poor little doll, dears, As I played in the heath one day: Folks say she is terribly changed, dears, For her paint is all washed away, And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears And her hair not the least bit curled: Yet for old sakes' sake she is still, dears, The prettiest doll in the world.

From The Water-Babies. Eversley, 1862.



THE KNIGHT'S LEAP: A LEGEND OF ALTENAHR



'So the foemen have fired the gate, men of mine; And the water is spent and gone? Then bring me a cup of the red Ahr-wine: I never shall drink but this one.

'And reach me my harness, and saddle my horse, And lead him me round to the door: He must take such a leap to-night perforce, As horse never took before.

'I have fought my fight, I have lived my life, I have drunk my share of wine; From Trier to Coln there was never a knight Led a merrier life than mine.

'I have lived by the saddle for years two score; And if I must die on tree, Then the old saddle tree, which has borne me of yore, Is the properest timber for me.

'So now to show bishop, and burgher, and priest, How the Altenahr hawk can die: If they smoke the old falcon out of his nest, He must take to his wings and fly.'

He harnessed himself by the clear moonshine, And he mounted his horse at the door; And he drained such a cup of the red Ahr-wine, As man never drained before.

He spurred the old horse, and he held him tight, And he leapt him out over the wall; Out over the cliff, out into the night, Three hundred feet of fall.

They found him next morning below in the glen, With never a bone in him whole— A mass or a prayer, now, good gentlemen, For such a bold rider's soul.

Eversley, 1864.



THE SONG OF THE LITTLE BALTUNG. A.D. 395



A harper came over the Danube so wide, And he came into Alaric's hall, And he sang the song of the little Baltung To him and his heroes all.

How the old old Balt and the young young Balt Rode out of Caucaland, With the royal elephant's trunk on helm And the royal lance in hand.

Thuringer heroes, counts and knights, Pricked proud in their meinie; For they were away to the great Kaiser, In Byzant beside the sea.

And when they came to the Danube so wide They shouted from off the shore, 'Come over, come over, ye Roman slaves, And ferry your masters o'er.'

And when they came to Adrian's burgh, With its towers so smooth and high, 'Come out, come out, ye Roman knaves, And see your lords ride by.'

But when they came lo the long long walls That stretch from sea to sea, That old old Balt let down his chin, And a thoughtful man grew he.

'Oh oft have I scoffed at brave Fridigern, But never will I scoff more, If these be the walls which kept him out From the Micklegard there on the shore.'

Then out there came the great Kaiser, With twice ten thousand men; But never a Thuring was coward enough To wish himself home again.

'Bow down, thou rebel, old Athanarich, And beg thy life this day; The Kaiser is lord of all the world, And who dare say him nay?'

'I never came out of Caucaland To beg for less nor more; But to see the pride of the great Kaiser, In his Micklegard here by the shore.

'I never came out of Caucaland To bow to mortal wight, But to shake the hand of the great Kaiser, And God defend my right.'

He shook his hand, that cunning Kaiser, And he kissed him courteouslie, And he has ridden with Athanarich That wonder-town to see.

He showed him his walls of marble white— A mile o'erhead they shone; Quoth the Balt, 'Who would leap into that garden, King Siegfried's boots must own.'

He showed him his engines of arsmetrick And his wells of quenchless flame, And his flying rocks, that guarded his walls From all that against him came.

He showed him his temples and pillared halls, And his streets of houses high; And his watch-towers tall, where his star-gazers Sit reading the signs of the sky.

He showed him his ships with their hundred oars, And their sides like a castle wall, That fetch home the plunder of all the world, At the Kaiser's beck and call.

He showed him all nations of every tongue That are bred beneath the sun, How they flowed together in Micklegard street As the brooks flow all into one.

He showed him the shops of the china ware, And of silk and sendal also, And he showed him the baths and the waterpipes On arches aloft that go.

He showed him ostrich and unicorn, Ape, lion, and tiger keen; And elephants wise roared 'Hail Kaiser!' As though they had Christians been.

He showed him the hoards of the dragons and trolls, Rare jewels and heaps of gold— 'Hast thou seen, in all thy hundred years, Such as these, thou king so old?'

Now that cunning Kaiser was a scholar wise, And could of gramarye, And he cast a spell on that old old Balt, Till lowly and meek spake he.

'Oh oft have I heard of the Micklegard, What I held for chapmen's lies; But now do I know of the Micklegard, By the sight of mine own eyes.

'Woden in Valhalla, But thou on earth art God; And he that dare withstand thee, Kaiser, On his own head lies his blood.'

Then out and spake that little Baltung, Rode at the king's right knee, Quoth 'Fridigern slew false Kaiser Valens, And he died like you or me.'

'And who art thou, thou pretty bold boy, Rides at the king's right knee?' 'Oh I am the Baltung, boy Alaric, And as good a man as thee.'

'As good as me, thou pretty bold boy, With down upon thy chin?' 'Oh a spae-wife laid a doom on me, The best of thy realm to win.'

'If thou be so fierce, thou little wolf cub Or ever thy teeth be grown; Then I must guard my two young sons Lest they should lose their own.'

'Oh, it's I will guard your two lither lads, In their burgh beside the sea, And it's I will prove true man to them If they will prove true to me.

'But it's you must warn your two lither lads, And warn them bitterly, That if I shall find them two false Kaisers, High hanged they both shall be.'

Now they are gone into the Kaiser's palace To eat the peacock fine, And they are gone into the Kaiser's palace To drink the good Greek wine.

The Kaiser alone, and the old old Balt, They sat at the cedar board; And round them served on the bended knee Full many a Roman lord.

'What ails thee, what ails thee, friend Athanarich? What makes thee look so pale?' 'I fear I am poisoned, thou cunning Kaiser, For I feel my heart-strings fail.

'Oh would I had kept that great great oath I swore by the horse's head, I would never set foot on Roman ground Till the day that I lay dead.

'Oh would I were home in Caucaland, To hear my harpers play, And to drink my last of the nut-brown ale, While I gave the gold rings away.

'Oh would I were home in Caucaland, To hear the Gothmen's horn, And watch the waggons, and brown brood mares And the tents where I was born.

'But now I must die between four stone walls In Byzant beside the sea: And as thou shalt deal with my little Baltung, So God shall deal with thee.'

The Kaiser he purged himself with oaths, And he buried him royally, And he set on his barrow an idol of gold, Where all Romans must bow the knee.

And now the Goths are the Kaiser's men, And guard him with lance and sword, And the little Baltung is his sworn son-at-arms, And eats at the Kaiser's board,

And the Kaiser's two sons are two false white lads That a clerk may beat with cane. The clerk that should beat that little Baltung Would never sing mass again.

Oh the gates of Rome they are steel without, And beaten gold within: But they shall fly wide to the little Baltung With the down upon his chin.

Oh the fairest flower in the Kaiser's garden Is Rome and Italian land: But it all shall fall to the little Baltung When he shall take lance in hand.

And when he is parting the plunder of Rome, He shall pay for this song of mine, Neither maiden nor land, neither jewel nor gold, But one cup of Italian wine.

Eversley, 1864.



ON THE DEATH OF LEOPOLD, KING OF THE BELGIANS {319}



A King is dead! Another master mind Is summoned from the world-wide council hall. Ah, for some seer, to say what links behind— To read the mystic writing on the wall!

Be still, fond man: nor ask thy fate to know. Face bravely what each God-sent moment brings. Above thee rules in love, through weal and woe, Guiding thy kings and thee, the King of kings.

Windsor Castle, November 10, 1865.



EASTER WEEK



(Written for music to be sung at a parish industrial exhibition)

See the land, her Easter keeping, Rises as her Maker rose. Seeds, so long in darkness sleeping, Burst at last from winter snows. Earth with heaven above rejoices; Fields and gardens hail the spring; Shaughs and woodlands ring with voices, While the wild birds build and sing.

You, to whom your Maker granted Powers to those sweet birds unknown, Use the craft by God implanted; Use the reason not your own. Here, while heaven and earth rejoices, Each his Easter tribute bring— Work of fingers, chant of voices, Like the birds who build and sing.

Eversley, 1867.



DRIFTING AWAY: A FRAGMENT



They drift away. Ah, God! they drift for ever. I watch the stream sweep onward to the sea, Like some old battered buoy upon a roaring river, Round whom the tide-waifs hang—then drift to sea.

I watch them drift—the old familiar faces, Who fished and rode with me, by stream and wold, Till ghosts, not men, fill old beloved places, And, ah! the land is rank with churchyard mold.

I watch them drift—the youthful aspirations, Shores, landmarks, beacons, drift alike. . . . . . I watch them drift—the poets and the statesmen; The very streams run upward from the sea. . . . . . . Yet overhead the boundless arch of heaven Still fades to night, still blazes into day. . . . . . Ah, God! My God! Thou wilt not drift away

November 1867.



CHRISTMAS DAY



How will it dawn, the coming Christmas Day? A northern Christmas, such as painters love, And kinsfolk, shaking hands but once a year, And dames who tell old legends by the fire? Red sun, blue sky, white snow, and pearled ice, Keen ringing air, which sets the blood on fire, And makes the old man merry with the young, Through the short sunshine, through the longer night? Or southern Christmas, dark and dank with mist, And heavy with the scent of steaming leaves, And rosebuds mouldering on the dripping porch; One twilight, without rise or set of sun, Till beetles drone along the hollow lane, And round the leafless hawthorns, flitting bats Hawk the pale moths of winter? Welcome then At best, the flying gleam, the flying shower, The rain-pools glittering on the long white roads, And shadows sweeping on from down to down Before the salt Atlantic gale: yet come In whatsoever garb, or gay, or sad, Come fair, come foul, 'twill still be Christmas Day. How will it dawn, the coming Christmas Day? To sailors lounging on the lonely deck Beneath the rushing trade-wind? Or to him, Who by some noisome harbour of the East, Watches swart arms roll down the precious bales, Spoils of the tropic forests; year by year Amid the din of heathen voices, groaning Himself half heathen? How to those—brave hearts! Who toil with laden loins and sinking stride Beside the bitter wells of treeless sands Toward the peaks which flood the ancient Nile, To free a tyrant's captives? How to those— New patriarchs of the new-found underworld— Who stand, like Jacob, on the virgin lawns, And count their flocks' increase? To them that day Shall dawn in glory, and solstitial blaze Of full midsummer sun: to them that morn, Gay flowers beneath their feet, gay birds aloft, Shall tell of nought but summer: but to them, Ere yet, unwarned by carol or by chime, They spring into the saddle, thrills may come From that great heart of Christendom which beats Round all the worlds; and gracious thoughts of youth; Of steadfast folk, who worship God at home; Of wise words, learnt beside their mothers' knee; Of innocent faces upturned once again In awe and joy to listen to the tale Of God made man, and in a manger laid— May soften, purify, and raise the soul From selfish cares, and growing lust of gain, And phantoms of this dream which some call life, Toward the eternal facts; for here or there, Summer or winter, 'twill be Christmas Day.

Blest day, which aye reminds us, year by year, What 'tis to be a man: to curb and spurn The tyrant in us; that ignobler self Which boasts, not loathes, its likeness to the brute, And owns no good save ease, no ill save pain, No purpose, save its share in that wild war In which, through countless ages, living things Compete in internecine greed.—Ah God! Are we as creeping things, which have no Lord? That we are brutes, great God, we know too well; Apes daintier-featured; silly birds who flaunt Their plumes unheeding of the fowler's step; Spiders, who catch with paper, not with webs; Tigers, who slay with cannon and sharp steel, Instead of teeth and claws;—all these we are. Are we no more than these, save in degree? No more than these; and born but to compete— To envy and devour, like beast or herb; Mere fools of nature; puppets of strong lusts, Taking the sword, to perish with the sword Upon the universal battle-field, Even as the things upon the moor outside? The heath eats up green grass and delicate flowers, The pine eats up the heath, the grub the pine, The finch the grub, the hawk the silly finch; And man, the mightiest of all beasts of prey, Eats what he lists; the strong eat up the weak, The many eat the few; great nations, small; And he who cometh in the name of all— He, greediest, triumphs by the greed of all; And, armed by his own victims, eats up all: While ever out of the eternal heavens Looks patient down the great magnanimous God, Who, Maker of all worlds, did sacrifice All to Himself? Nay, but Himself to one; Who taught mankind on that first Christmas Day, What 'twas to be a man; to give, not take; To serve, not rule; to nourish, not devour; To help, not crush; if need, to die, not live. O blessed day, which givest the eternal lie To self, and sense, and all the brute within; Oh, come to us, amid this war of life; To hall and hovel, come; to all who toil In senate, shop, or study; and to those Who, sundered by the wastes of half a world, Ill-warned, and sorely tempted, ever face Nature's brute powers, and men unmanned to brutes— Come to them, blest and blessing, Christmas Day. Tell them once more the tale of Bethlehem; The kneeling shepherds, and the Babe Divine: And keep them men indeed, fair Christmas Day.

Eversley, 1868.



SEPTEMBER 21, 1870 {325}



Speak low, speak little; who may sing While yonder cannon-thunders boom? Watch, shuddering, what each day may bring: Nor 'pipe amid the crack of doom.'

And yet—the pines sing overhead, The robins by the alder-pool, The bees about the garden-bed, The children dancing home from school.

And ever at the loom of Birth The mighty Mother weaves and sings: She weaves—fresh robes for mangled earth; She sings—fresh hopes for desperate things.

And thou, too: if through Nature's calm Some strain of music touch thine ears, Accept and share that soothing balm, And sing, though choked with pitying tears.

Eversley, 1870.



THE MANGO-TREE



He wiled me through the furzy croft; He wiled me down the sandy lane. He told his boy's love, soft and oft, Until I told him mine again.

We married, and we sailed the main; A soldier, and a soldier's wife. We marched through many a burning plain; We sighed for many a gallant life.

But his—God kept it safe from harm. He toiled, and dared, and earned command; And those three stripes upon his arm Were more to me than gold or land.

Sure he would win some great renown: Our lives were strong, our hearts were high. One night the fever struck him down. I sat, and stared, and saw him die.

I had his children—one, two, three. One week I had them, blithe and sound. The next—beneath this mango-tree, By him in barrack burying-ground.

I sit beneath the mango-shade; I live my five years' life all o'er— Round yonder stems his children played; He mounted guard at yonder door.

'Tis I, not they, am gone and dead. They live; they know; they feel; they see. Their spirits light the golden shade Beneath the giant mango-tree.

All things, save I, are full of life: The minas, pluming velvet breasts; The monkeys, in their foolish strife; The swooping hawks, the swinging nests;

The lizards basking on the soil, The butterflies who sun their wings; The bees about their household toil, They live, they love, the blissful things.

Each tender purple mango-shoot, That folds and droops so bashful down; It lives; it sucks some hidden root; It rears at last a broad green crown.

It blossoms; and the children cry— 'Watch when the mango-apples fall.' It lives: but rootless, fruitless, I— I breathe and dream;—and that is all.

Thus am I dead: yet cannot die: But still within my foolish brain There hangs a pale blue evening sky; A furzy croft; a sandy lane.

1870.



THE PRIEST'S HEART



It was Sir John, the fair young Priest, He strode up off the strand; But seven fisher maidens he left behind All dancing hand in hand.

He came unto the wise wife's house: 'Now, Mother, to prove your art; To charm May Carleton's merry blue eyes Out of a young man's heart.'

'My son, you went for a holy man, Whose heart was set on high; Go sing in your psalter, and read in your books; Man's love fleets lightly by.'

'I had liever to talk with May Carleton, Than with all the saints in Heaven; I had liever to sit by May Carleton Than climb the spheres seven.

'I have watched and fasted, early and late, I have prayed to all above; But I find no cure save churchyard mould For the pain which men call love.'

'Now Heaven forefend that ill grow worse: Enough that ill be ill. I know of a spell to draw May Carleton, And bend her to your will.'

'If thou didst that which thou canst not do, Wise woman though thou be, I would run and run till I buried myself In the surge of yonder sea.

'Scathless for me are maid and wife, And scathless shall they bide. Yet charm me May Carleton's eyes from the heart That aches in my left side.'

She charmed him with the white witchcraft, She charmed him with the black, But he turned his fair young face to the wall, Till she heard his heart-strings crack.

1870



'QU'EST QU'IL DIT' {330}



Espion aile de la jeune amante De l'ombre des palmiers pourquoi ce cri? Laisse en paix le beau garcon plaider et vaincre— Pourquoi, pourquoi demander 'Qu'est qu'il dit?'

'Qu'est qu'il dit?' Ce que tu dis toi-meme Chaque mois de ce printemps eternel; Ce que disent les papillons qui s'entre-baisent, Ce que dit tout bel jeun etre a toute belle.

Importun! Attende quelques lustres: Quand les souvenirs 1'emmeneront ici— Mere, grand'mere, pale, lasse, et fidele, Demande mais doucement—'Et le vieillard, Qu'est qu'il dit?'

Trinidad, January 10, 1870



THE LEGEND OF LA BREA {331a}



Down beside the loathly Pitch Lake, In the stately Morichal, {331b} Sat an ancient Spanish Indian, Peering through the columns tall.

Watching vainly for the flashing Of the jewelled colibris; {331c} Listening vainly for their humming Round the honey-blossomed trees.

'Few,' he sighed, 'they come, and fewer, To the cocorite {331d} bowers; Murdered, madly, through the forests Which of yore were theirs—and ours

By there came a negro hunter, Lithe and lusty, sleek and strong, Rolling round his sparkling eyeballs, As he loped and lounged along.

Rusty firelock on his shoulder; Rusty cutlass on his thigh; Never jollier British subject Rollicked underneath the sky.

British law to give him safety, British fleets to guard his shore, And a square of British freehold— He had all we have, and more.

Fattening through the endless summer, Like his own provision ground, He had reached the summum bonum Which our latest wits have found.

So he thought; and in his hammock Gnawed his junk of sugar-cane, Toasted plantains at the fire-stick, Gnawed, and dozed, and gnawed again.

Had a wife in his ajoupa {332}— Or, at least, what did instead; Children, too, who died so early, He'd no need to earn their bread.

Never stole, save what he needed, From the Crown woods round about; Never lied, except when summoned— Let the warden find him out.

Never drank, except at market; Never beat his sturdy mate; She could hit as hard as he could, And had just as hard a pate.

Had no care for priest nor parson, Hope of heaven nor fear of hell; And in all his views of nature Held with Comte and Peter Bell.

Healthy, happy, silly, kindly, Neither care nor toil had he, Save to work an hour at sunrise, And then hunt the colibri.

Not a bad man; not a good man: Scarce a man at all, one fears, If the Man be that within us Which is born of fire and tears.

Round the palm-stems, round the creepers, Flashed a feathered jewel past, Ruby-crested, topaz-throated, Plucked the cocorite bast,

Plucked the fallen ceiba-cotton, {333} Whirred away to build his nest, Hung at last, with happy humming, Round some flower he fancied best.

Up then went the rusty muzzle, 'Dat de tenth I shot to-day:' But out sprang the Indian shouting, Balked the negro of his prey.

'Eh, you Senor Trinidada! What dis new ondacent plan? Spoil a genl'man's chance ob shooting? I as good as any man.

'Dese not your woods; dese de Queen's woods: You seem not know whar you ar, Gibbin' yuself dese buckra airs here, You black Indian Papist! Dar!'

Stately, courteous, stood the Indian; Pointed through the palm-tree shade: 'Does the gentleman of colour Know how yon Pitch Lake was made?'

Grinned the negro, grinned and trembled— Through his nerves a shudder ran— Saw a snake-like eye that held him; Saw—he'd met an Obeah man.

Saw a fetish—such a bottle— Buried at his cottage door; Toad and spider, dirty water, Rusty nails, and nine charms more.

Saw in vision such a cock's head In the path—and it was white! Saw Brinvilliers {334} in his pottage: Faltered, cold and damp with fright.

Fearful is the chance of poison: Fearful, too, the great unknown: Magic brings some positivists Humbly on their marrow-bone.

Like the wedding-guest enchanted, There he stood, a trembling cur; While the Indian told his story, Like the Ancient Mariner.

Told how—'Once that loathly Pitch Lake Was a garden bright and fair; How the Chaymas off the mainland Built their palm ajoupas there.

'How they throve, and how they fattened, Hale and happy, safe and strong; Passed the livelong days in feasting; Passed the nights in dance and song.

'Till they cruel grew, and wanton: Till they killed the colibris. Then outspake the great Good Spirit, Who can see through all the trees,

'Said—"And what have I not sent you, Wanton Chaymas, many a year? Lapp, {335a} agouti, {335b} cachicame, {335c} Quenc {335d} and guazu-pita deer.

'"Fish I sent you, sent you turtle, Chip-chip, {335e} conch, flamingo red, Woodland paui, {335f} horned screamer, {335g} And blue ramier {335h} overhead.

'"Plums from balata {335i} and mombin, {335j} Tania, {335k} manioc, {335l} water-vine; {335m} Let you fell my slim manacques, {335n} Tap my sweet moriche wine. {335o}

'"Sent rich plantains, {336a} food of angels; Rich ananas, {336b} food of kings; Grudged you none of all my treasures: Save these lovely useless things."

'But the Chaymas' ears were deafened; Blind their eyes, and could not see How a blissful Indian's spirit Lived in every colibri.

'Lived, forgetting toil and sorrow, Ever fair and ever new; Whirring round the dear old woodland, Feeding on the honey-dew.

'Till one evening roared the earthquake: Monkeys howled, and parrots screamed: And the Guaraons at morning Gathered here, as men who dreamed.

'Sunk were gardens, sunk ajoupas; Hut and hammock, man and hound: And above the Chayma village Boiled with pitch the cursed ground.

'Full, and too full; safe, and too safe; Negro man, take care, take care. He that wantons with God's bounties Of God's wrath had best beware.

'For the saucy, reckless, heartless, Evil days are sure in store. You may see the Negro sinking As the Chayma sank of yore.'

Loudly laughed that stalwart hunter— 'Eh, what superstitious talk! Nyam {337} am nyam, an' maney maney; Birds am birds, like park am park; An' dere's twenty thousand birdskins Ardered jes' now fram New Yark.'

Eversley, 1870.



HYMN {338}



Accept this building, gracious Lord, No temple though it be; We raised it for our suffering kin, And so, Good Lord, for Thee.

Accept our little gift, and give To all who here may dwell, The will and power to do their work, Or bear their sorrows well.

From Thee all skill and science flow; All pity, care, and love, All calm and courage, faith and hope, Oh! pour them from above.

And part them, Lord, to each and all, As each and all shall need, To rise like incense, each to Thee, In noble thought and deed.

And hasten, Lord, that perfect day, When pain and death shall cease; And Thy just rule shall fill the earth With health, and light, and peace.

When ever blue the sky shall gleam, And ever green the sod; And man's rude work deface no more The Paradise of God.

Eversley, 1870.



THE DELECTABLE DAY



The boy on the famous gray pony, Just bidding good-bye at the door, Plucking up maiden heart for the fences Where his brother won honour of yore.

The walk to 'the Meet' with fair children, And women as gentle as gay,— Ah! how do we male hogs in armour Deserve such companions as they?

The afternoon's wander to windward, To meet the dear boy coming back; And to catch, down the turns of the valley, The last weary chime of the pack.

The climb homeward by park and by moorland, And through the fir forests again, While the south-west wind roars in the gloaming, Like an ocean of seething champagne.

And at night the septette of Beethoven, And the grandmother by in her chair, And the foot of all feet on the sofa Beating delicate time to the air.

Ah, God! a poor soul can but thank Thee For such a delectable day! Though the fury, the fool, and the swindler, To-morrow again have their way!

Eversley, 6th November 1872.



JUVENTUS MUNDI



List a tale a fairy sent us Fresh from dear Mundi Juventus. When Love and all the world was young, And birds conversed as well as sung; And men still faced this fair creation With humour, heart, imagination. Who come hither from Morocco Every spring on the sirocco? In russet she, and he in yellow, Singing ever clear and mellow, 'Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet you, sweet you, Did he beat you? Did he beat you?' Phyllopneustes wise folk call them, But don't know what did befall them, Why they ever thought of coming All that way to hear gnats humming, Why they built not nests but houses, Like the bumble-bees and mousies. Nor how little birds got wings, Nor what 'tis the small cock sings— How should they know—stupid fogies? They daren't even believe in bogies. Once they were a girl and boy, Each the other's life and joy. He a Daphnis, she a Chloe, Only they were brown, not snowy, Till an Arab found them playing Far beyond the Atlas straying, Tied the helpless things together, Drove them in the burning weather, In his slave-gang many a league, Till they dropped from wild fatigue. Up he caught his whip of hide, Lashed each soft brown back and side Till their little brains were burst With sharp pain, and heat, and thirst, Over her the poor boy lay, Tried to keep the blows away, Till they stiffened into clay, And the ruffian rode away: Swooping o'er the tainted ground, Carrion vultures gathered round, And the gaunt hyenas ran Tracking up the caravan. But—ah, wonder! that was gone Which they meant to feast upon. And, for each, a yellow wren, One a cock, and one a hen, Sweetly warbling, flitted forth O'er the desert toward the north. But a shade of bygone sorrow, Like a dream upon the morrow, Round his tiny brainlet clinging, Sets the wee cock ever singing, 'Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet you, sweet you, Did he beat you? Did he beat you?' Vultures croaked, and hopped, and flopped, But their evening meal was stopped. And the gaunt hyenas foul Sat down on their tails to howl. Northward towards the cool spring weather, Those two wrens fled on together, On to England o'er the sea, Where all folks alike are free. There they built a cabin, wattled Like the huts where first they prattled, Hatched and fed, as safe as may be, Many a tiny feathered baby. But in autumn south they go Past the Straits and Atlas' snow, Over desert, over mountain, To the palms beside the fountain, Where, when once they lived before, he Told her first the old, old story. 'What do the doves say? Curuck Coo, You love me and I love you.'

1872.



VALENTINE'S DAY



Oh! I wish I were a tiny browny bird from out the south, Settled among the alder-holts, and twittering by the stream; I would put my tiny tail down, and put up my tiny mouth, And sing my tiny life away in one melodious dream.

I would sing about the blossoms, and the sunshine and the sky, And the tiny wife I mean to have in such a cosy nest; And if some one came and shot me dead, why then I could but die, With my tiny life and tiny song just ended at their best.

Eversley, 1873



BALLAD: LORRAINE, LORRAINE, LORREE



1

'Are you ready for your steeple-chase, Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree? Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Baree, You're booked to ride your capping race to-day at Coulterlee, You're booked to ride Vindictive, for all the world to see, To keep him straight, to keep him first, and win the run for me. Barum, Barum,' etc.

2

She clasped her new-born baby, poor Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree, 'I cannot ride Vindictive, as any man might see, And I will not ride Vindictive, with this baby on my knee; He's killed a boy, he's killed a man, and why must he kill me?'

3

'Unless you ride Vindictive, Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree, Unless you ride Vindictive to-day at Coulterlee, And land him safe across the brook, and win the blank for me, It's you may keep your baby, for you'll get no keep from me.'

4

'That husbands could be cruel,' said Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree, 'That husbands could be cruel, I have known for seasons three; But oh! to ride Vindictive while a baby cries for me, And be killed across a fence at last for all the world to see!'

5

She mastered young Vindictive—Oh! the gallant lass was she, And kept him straight and won the race as near as near could be; But he killed her at the brook against a pollard willow-tree, Oh! he killed her at the brook, the brute, for all the world to see, And no one but the baby cried for poor Lorraine, Lorree.

Last poem written in illness. Colorado, U.S.A. June 1874.



MARTIN LIGHTFOOT'S SONG {346}



Come hearken, hearken, gentles all, Come hearken unto me, And I'll sing you a song of a Wood-Lyon Came swimming out over the sea.

He ranged west, he ranged east, And far and wide ranged he; He took his bite out of every beast Lives under the greenwood tree.

Then by there came a silly old wolf, 'And I'll serve you,' quoth he; Quoth the Lyon, 'My paw is heavy enough, So what wilt thou do for me?'

Then by there came a cunning old fox, 'And I'll serve you,' quoth he; Quoth the Lyon, 'My wits are sharp enough So what wilt thou do for me?'

Then by there came a white, white dove, Flew off Our Lady's knee; Sang 'It's I will be your true, true love, If you'll be true to me.'

'And what will you do, you bonny white dove? And what will you do for me?' 'Oh, it's I'll bring you to Our Lady's love, In the ways of chivalrie.'

He followed the dove that Wood-Lyon By mere and wood and wold, Till he is come to a perfect knight, Like the Paladin of old.

He ranged east, he ranged west, And far and wide ranged he— And ever the dove won him honour and fame In the ways of chivalrie.

Then by there came a foul old sow, Came rookling under the tree; And 'It's I will be true love to you, If you'll be true to me.'

'And what wilt thou do, thou foul old sow? And what wilt thou do for me?' 'Oh, there hangs in my snout a jewel of gold, And that will I give to thee.'

He took to the sow that Wood-Lyon; To the rookling sow took he; And the dove flew up to Our Lady's bosom; And never again throve he.



Footnotes:

{211} This and the following poem were written at school in early boy-hood.

{216} Lines supposed to be found written in an illuminated missal.

{260} Found among Sandy Mackaye's papers, of a hairy oubit who would not mind his mother.

{282} The Christian Socialist, started by the Council of Associates for promotion of Co-operation.

{295} Bishop of Labuan, in Borneo.

{303} This Ode was set to Professor Sterndale Bennet's music, and sung in the Senate House, Cambridge, on the Day of Installation.

{306} His Royal Highness the Prince Consort, Chancellor of Cambridge University.

{319} Impromptu lines written in the album of the Crown Princess of Germany.

{325} Time of the Franco-Prussian War.

{330} The Qu'est qu'il dit is a Tropical bird.

{331a} This myth about the famous Pitch Lake of Trinidad was told almost word for word to a M. Joseph by an aged half-caste Indian who went by the name of Senor Trinidada. The manners and customs which the ballad described, and the cruel and dangerous destruction of the beautiful birds of Trinidad, are facts which may be easily verified by any one who will take the trouble to visit the West Indies.

{331b} A magnificent wood of the Mauritia Fanpalm, on the south shore of the Pitch Lake.

{331c} Humming-birds.

{331d} Maximiliana palms.

{332} Hut of timber and palm-leaves.

{333} From the Eriodendron, or giant silk-cotton.

{334} Spigelia anthelmia, a too-well-known poison-plant.

{335a} Coelogenys Paca.

{335b} Wild cavy.

{335c} Armadillo.

{335d} Peccary hog.

{335e} Trigonia.

{335f} Penelope.

{335g} Palamedea.

{335h} Dove.

{335i} Mimusops.

{335j} Spondias.

{335k} An esculent Arum.

{335l} Jatropha manihot, 'Cassava.'

{335m} Vitis Caribaea.

{335n} Euterpe, 'mountain cabbage' palm.

{335o} Mauritia palm.

{336a} Musa.

{336b} Pine-apple.

{337} Food.

{338} Sung by 1000 School Children at the Opening of the New Wing of the Children's Hospital, Birmingham.

{346} Supposed to be sung at Crowland Minster to Leofric, the Wake's Mass Priest, when news was received of Hereward's second marriage to Alftruda.

THE END