To touch the power we hold, what work has been Of vigorous brawn, and keen contriving brains! Stout men with mighty battle in their limbs; Thinkers, whose cunning struck beyond the strength Of hosts; priests sworn to God, whose daily lives Preached gospel purity and kindliness; Wise chroniclers, whose patience garnered facts For present want and food for coming time; And dames who made their homes a paradise, And kept their husbands great;—have greatly given The light and choicest substance of their lives For generations mingling each with each, Wave multitudinously urging wave, Toward the one great broadening flow of things, Then passed into the gloom that swallows all.

Could I dwell here in our proud Island Home, Preserved by countless victories; made strong By kings and kingly councillors; enriched By artisans, whose skill surpassed all men's; And by such wondrous song immortalised It glorifies mankind: could I dwell here; Here feed on this accumulated wealth, Like senseless swine on acorns of the wood, And own no wish to render thanks in kind? Surely there could be found some waste wild flower To yield one honey-drop that I might drain To swell the general hive!

At last resolved Out to its utmost spray my force should strive, And bring to fruit its yet unopened buds, I, craving gracious aid of Heaven, straightway Began the work which shall be mine till death. If it be granted me that I disroot Some evil weeds; or plant a seed, which time Shall nourish to a tree of pleasant shade, To wearied limbs a boon, and fair to view; I then shall know the Hand that struck me down Has been my guide into the paths of truth.

And She, my lost adored One, where is She? Where has She been throughout these dragging years Of labour?

She has been my light of life! The lustrous dawn and radiance of the day At noon: and She has burned the colours in To richer depth across the sun at setting: And my tired lids She closes: then, in dreams, Descends a shaft of glory barred with stairs And leads my spirit up where I behold My dear ones lost. And thus through sleep, not death, Remote from earthly cares and vexing jars, I taste the stillness of the life to come.

What time his scythe in misty summer morns With cheery ring the mower whets; and kine Move slowly, breathing sweetness, toward the pail Their milking-maid is jingling, as she calls "Hi Strawberry and Blossom, hither Cows;" While slung against the upland with his team The ploughman dimly like a phantom glides: What time that noisy spot of life, the lark, Climbs, shrill with ecstasy, the trembling air; And "Cuckoo, Cuckoo," baffling whence it comes, Shouts the blithe egotist who cries himself; And every hedge and coppice sings: What time The lover, restless, through his waking dream, Nigh wins the hoped-for great unknown delight, Which never comes to flower, maybe; elsewhere, The worshipped Maid, a folded rose o'er-rosed By rosy dawn, asleep lies breathing smiles: Then ofttime through the emptied London streets, When every house is closed and spectral still, And, save the sparrow chirping from the tower Where tolls the passing time, all sounds are hushed; Then walk I pondering on the ways of fate, And file the past before me in review, Counting my losses and my treasured gains, And feel I lost a glory such as man Can never know but once: but how there sprung From out the chastening wear of grief, a scope Of sobered interest bent on vaster ends Than hitherto were mine; and sympathy For struggling souls, that each held dear within A sacred meaning, known or unrevealed:— And these, in their complexities and far Relations with the sum of general power Which is the living world, now are my gain; And grant my spirit from this widened truth A glimpse of that high duty claimed of all. How wildly flares the West about the sun, Now fallen low! And as one, nameless, sails, Lost deep in witching reverie, along A silent river; passing villages Busy with toil; flowered banks and shadowy coves, And cattle browsing peaceful in the meads; Who only wakes to consciousness, when full A burst of sunshine from the sinking orb Smiting the flood first strikes his dazzled sight;— So to the present hour am I recalled By yon red sun-light flaming up the spire, And vane that sparkles in the warm blue heaven And that too-well-remembered tolling bell.

Now on the broad mysterious ocean leans The sailor o'er his vessel's side, and feels The buzzing joys of home; wondering if fate Will bear him on to end his being there. Now pleased the housewife down the path descries Her husband's footsteps hitherward; his meal Prepared, the children each made tidy; she With smiling comfort means to soothe her man, By labour wearied, through the evening hours. They whirl their life web, humming like a wheel, These airy insects. Birds have ceased to sing, But twitter faintly, settling to their rest; And not a rook's caw rends the placid air. I must begone; but ere I go, will kneel To kiss this ivy—modest earthly type, That would with constant verdure grace her name, As I enshroud her memory with my love! For She has been the blessing that has nerved My strength in failing hours of blackest night, When doubts oppress and fears distract; and when Gigantic Evil's hoofs are crushing good, And pity burns in terror; while, appalled, Blanched Justice shrinks aloof; and not a voice, The smallest, dares uplift itself against The dripping blood-red horror which pollutes With death and danger, heaven and earth and sea; When men's belief grows wild, seeing alone The dreadful black abominable sin, Forgetful that the light still shines beyond; And doubting last the very truth of God, They hate their fellow creatures and themselves; Groaning beneath a Despot, who thinks less Of precious human blood, than shipwrights count Of water in the dock, so many feet Will bear so many tons, if it but aid One little step his brutalising aims, Who as an armed thief sacks his people's wealth. Then shines my Love's star-brightness thro' the gloom; And comes, as comes a glorious Conqueror Returning from that Despot's overthrow, His brow yet flashed and pale with victory: Whose prowess long withstood the charging shocks Of hosts that swarmed; who, baffling with his skill Their cunning combinations, in good time Closed his own force and wrought them utmost woe; Smashed the huge liners of the hostile fleet, Their swiftest frigates sank to watery hell: Others he scared like fowls; and trailed the rest In foamed victorious wake, a captured prize, Where thronged his people stand in proud acclaim Of "Welcome, Welcome, Welcome! To our hearts O Saviour of thy country! to our hearts O Father of thy people! welcome back!" And shout in exultation his dear name; Who moves through storms of music, and beholds Gay seas of faces tossed with happiness, And lit through rapture into wondering awe. And as that grateful multitude forgets Whatever wrong he may have done, do I My scathing sorrow, and embrace the good.

And when, in after years, that honoured One Returns at last unto his native land, From having wrought his last great victory, A solemn corpse; in state his people close, Solemnly to do honour to the dead, And stand in silence, mid the mournful sway Of martial music wailing he is gone Who saved them from the shackles they abhorred; And in all reverence, with tenderest hands, And tearful eyes, and hearts that burn and throb, They lower their consecrated Hero down, Down sinking slowly to his lasting rest: Whose glory rises to a settled star Lighting the land he loved for evermore. So comes my love to me: its glorious light Yet hovers sacredly, and guides me on To grander prospects, and more noble use Of powers entrusted me. Henceforth my soul Will never lack a spot whither to flee, When crowding evils war to shake my faith In righteousness: for thinking of Her life Made up of gracious act and sweet regard, Compassionately tender; and enshrined In such a form, that oft to my fond eyes She seemed divine, I scarcely can withhold My wonder Heaven could spare Her to a world So stained as ours. And now, whatever come Of wrong and bitterness to break my strength; Whatever darkness may be mine to know; A ray has pierced me from the highest heaven— I have believed in worth; and do believe.

II. WORK.

Sweet is the moisture of the trellis-rose Dripping in music down through glistening leaves; And sweeter still its fragrance that we breathe On throwing wide our lattice to the morn. Sweet to see thrushes bright-eyed speckle-bosomed, Search dew-grey lawns with keen inspective glance; And rabbits nimbly nibble tender grasses, Or pause when startled at each other's shade. And when the orchard boughs bend low with fruit, With joy we watch the mounded harvest wains Glide amid singing hedgerows smoothly by. 'Tis fair to watch hung pale in milky azure Mist slowly closing into wandering cloud Driven by the clean and light elastic wind; And through that lone harmonious sunshine hum Of unseen life mark how the floating seeds Pass like flown fancies out beyond regard.

But sweeter than all roses, sights of birds, Richer than fruit, more than whole lands of corn, Fairer than glories of the brightest day, Dearer than any old familiar sound Of childhood hours, than every glittering joy Thrown from the teeming fountain of the earth, Is our impulsive answer to the call Of Duty.

They who would be something more Than they who feast, and laugh and die, will hear The voice of Duty, as the note of war, Nerving their spirits to great enterprise, And knitting every sinew for the charge. It makes them quit a happy silvan life For contest in the roaring capital. And in its ever-widening roar stand firm And fixed amid the thunder, foot to foot With opposition, smiting for the truth. To such the rage of battle charms beyond The heaviest ocean-plunges dashed on cliffs, The tempest's fury on the grinding woods, Or elemental crashing in the heavens: Beyond a lover's gladness when he feels His maiden's bosom throbbing tremulously, Beyond a father's when he feels in hand The rounded warmth of little firstborn's limb, Or in beholding him grown tall and strong: And their delight will never wane, but wax In greatness with the roll of time, and burn More brightly fed with noble deeds. For souls Obedient to divine impulse, who urge Their force in steadfastness until the rocks Be hewn of their obstruction, till the swamp's Insatiability be choked and bound A hardened road for traffic and disport, Tall giant arches stride across the flood, Till tortured earth release its mysteries Which straight become slaves pliant unto man, Till labours at the desk at length result In law: who pondering on the stars proclaim Their size and distance and pursue their course; Who work whatever will give greater power Or profit man with leisure to observe The wondrous heavens and loveliness of earth; Who will instruct him in the truth whereby He learns to reverence more his fellow man; Who point his spirit to the worshipping Imperishable things, from which he comes To scorn the fluttering vanities of wealth As poisoned sweets and baubles should they dim His eyes one instant to that awful light Wherein he moves; who do and who have done All that has ever aided man to free Himself, imperfectly, from grosser self And made his seeing pure:—such souls sublime Will never want for blessed joy in work, Working for Duty which can never die.

Men may seem playthings of ironic fate: One stoutly shod paces a velvet sward; And one is forced with naked feet to climb Sharp slaty ways alive with scorpions, While wolfish hunger strains to catch his throat; One lingers o'er his purple draught and laughs, One shuddering tastes his bitter cup and groans; But there is hope for all. Though not for all To sail through sunny ripples to the end, Chatting of shipwrecks as pathetic tales; All are not born to nurse the dainty pangs That herald love's completion, and behold Their darlings flourish in the tempered air Of comfort till themselves become the springs Of a yet milder race: all are not born To touch majestic eminence and shine Directing spirits in their nations' sight And radiate unformed posterity: But through transcendent mercy all are born To enter on a nobler heritage Than these, if each but wills to choose aright In serving Duty, man's prerogative: Which is far pleasanter than paths of flowers, Than warmest clustering of household joys, And prouder than the proudest shouts of fame That follow action not in conscience wrought.

Fair Duty, most unlike the blight of death, Whose dismal presence levels men to ruin, Lifts up his nature into rarer life. Hers is a broad estate open to poor And rich alike: here rudest peasant may Move as their equal with baronial lords, And those who serve be great as those who rule: Here a smirched artisan who merely bolts The plates of iron fortress, breathes the pride Of that trained chieftain who commands its guns; And one that points or fires a single piece Claims honour with the mind who planned the war.

Fair Duty, hard and perilous to serve, Exacts devotion that is absolute, Ere she reveal the heaven of her smile; And gnaws with misery the traitor slave Who having known her countenance and moved At her behest relapses into sloth, Or drudges serf to his own base desires:— Sworn knight, and armed with mail and sword of proof, But coaxing brutish ignorance with praise, And with the wasted hearts of honest men Gorging the monster he went forth to slay. But whoso faithfully reveres her law As primal, and of every want supreme, Making edged danger discipline his strength, That changes hindrance into past delight, Fair Duty dowers with her celestial love, From which the mystic blessing glory grows: And glory born of Duty is a crown Of light.

And all thus crowned illume their work In splendour that no earthly eye may pierce, And know that every seed they set, and stone They fix, and truth they reach, unite to found A well-planned city in a governed land That rising babes high a Temple built Firm in its centre to the praise of God. And each beholds his labours glorified, Alike the toiler at the desk, a king Upon his throne, or builder of the bridge: The desk in lustre shines a kingly throne, The throne diffuses radiance like a sun, The bridge spans death—a pathway to the stars.

MARCH, 1865.



NELLY DALE.

Ah, Nelly Dale, nigh fifty years Since you and I set out together, Joyful both, as the summer weather, That swarmed our pathway to the meres So rich with blossom, and opulent Successive honeysuckle scent, It smiled a golden garden, gay With flutter of insects all the way!

The kine were white and smooth as silk At Flowerdew's, where we went for milk With jug and can. The can you bore Jingled and tumbled when you tore Your new frock striped with lilac, while Crossing that high-built awkward stile.

Leaving our cottage gates at noon, Adown the dusty hill we soon Turned in a water-alley, dry As our discourse; for we were shy, Speaking not till the double ranks Of willows on their shadowed banks Had closed us from the road, and we Were all we saw and cared to see.

As if let out from school we ran, Until we settled stride for stride To even walking, side by side; And tho' to keep apart we tried, The jug kept clinking against the can! Once pausing in an upper path That hemmed great pasture ribbed with math, We saw the prospect openly Melt in remote transparent sky; Some fancy kindled, and I began To whistle "Tom the Piper's Son," Wondering whether, when grown a man, I should remain to plod, or plan, As others about had always done, Or to some wondrous country stray, Over the hills and far away! But turning to your comely face, The opened flower of native grace That casts a charm on homely ways, Your mother's boast, her constant praise; Contented here, I hoped I might Be never from my darling's sight.

Ah, me, our young delight to roam Along that lane so far from home! Laughter, and chatter of this or that; Ripening strawberries, mice and cat; The birthday near; the birthday treat, With something extra good to eat, And currant, cowslip, elder wine, As real lords and ladies dine!

Equal delight our silence next; Making-believe that you are vext, When swooping round to kiss you I Tumble your bonnet all awry, And promptly you the strings untie To set it duly straight again; How smartly twinkle ribands twain To bows, turned sidewise in disdain, Till by your nimble fingers fixed They settle amicably mixed! Moments of mutual mute surprise Made converse of our glancing eyes, As we went onward, all things seeming Strange, and rich, and fair, while dreaming Transient glimpses of what alone Is ever by great-winged angels known.

We knew not whether you or I First saw the splendid butterfly Trembling about us as we turned To watch how blue and crimson burned In flashes 'twixt those blushing wings! Nelly, I see you watch the lark That fluttering high, aspiring sings; We both watch till our sight grows dark, And wonder whither he is fled In sapphire ether overhead. Tho' vanished, still his rapture rings And thrills our bosoms, marching slow Our winding way; when brilliant, lo From somewhere starting, re-appears Our friendly butterfly, and nears A spider-web, in holly spun With rainbow hues that net the sun, Making coy circles ere he alight Entangled in the toil of death! Forward I spring, without my breath, To see the fiend, high-elbowed, whirl Around those limbs and wings, and twirl His thread to thwart the chance of flight. Fate on a single instant hangs, And ready the demon's eager fangs To penetrate that sylphic breast! Nipping the wing-tips gently I Flirt him from danger suddenly; Strike with my cap a rapid blow, Dashing the enemy down below Thro' grass crushed safely into dust. There shivering on my stretched forefinger A little while his terrors linger, Doubting if yet his wings to trust, Ere, with a bolder flap or two, He flutters into airy blue.

Could any mortal boy resist, When heavenward, in a rosy pout Your lips you offered to be kissed; Fresh as carnations breaking out Of dewy sheaths, on summer dawns Yet pale upon the misty lawns! We pass from shadowy splendour soon To face the blazoned afternoon, Where wide around the basking sun Lies on the meadow fast asleep. Near random bushes, one by one, Nestled around a pond, the sheep Are scattered and doze in graceful shade; And hazed cornfields beyond the glade, Undulating and dazzling sight, Seem quivering for predestined flight To worlds of unrevealed delight. In lustrous sheen, their stately looks Sedate as parsons reading books, Flock grey-billed, see-saw-gaited rooks Strutting; or when they wings assume Pluck the warm air with fingered plume, Labouring, anxious if weight and size Make flight most hazardous or wise! Nelly we sauntered on and on By hedgerows, brightly overhung And sprinkled thick with snowy showers Of woodbine stars; where bindweed flowers Ample and moon-white nobly shone, And over green abysses slung, Mid honey-haunted sound of bees, Swayed lightly to the scented breeze.

In passing starwort's silvery gems, By maple's warm fawn-tinted stems, Caprices that gnarled the oak and thorn, A sudden scream of rageful scorn Startles us from the hedgerow nigh; Whence two disturbed fierce blackbirds fly Uttering threats of vengeance dire! While we, who lit this angry fire, Are wondering such discordant throats Can tune those soft melodious notes The fondest lover's listening ear, At even, turns entranced to hear!

But if I sang of every sight That afternoon which gave delight, Those treasures would my numbers throng Beyond the compass of my song; Therefore, Nelly, to be precise, We bought the milk, and paid the price Charged in that rural paradise. The rolls of butter, the jars of cream, Churn, and cleanly pans, now seem, Thro' fifty years of vanished time, The memories of a nursery rhyme; Or story, like The "Babes in the Wood," Written for children to make them good.

Homeward we went in soberer mood; Haply the weight we had to carry, By stile and gate oft made us tarry To change our hands, and ease the weight By making both co-operate. At length we knew the hour grew late, Because we saw our shadows rise, Mocking our motions, thrice our size; And keeping faithful phantom pace, Tempting us to an elfin race For fairy treasure; all in play! For which, whatever they might say, We knew our lives would have to pay! Both breaking into prattle showed How pleased we trod the dusty road Once more; and rested where the rill Sings issuing, halfway up the hill; Where maids and wives their pitchers bring To fill, and gossip at the spring. To gossip ourselves we durst not stop, As we had yet to reach the top Where, starting from before the moon, Our church spire quickened, rose, and danced Higher and higher as we advanced, And on a sudden ceased, as soon As we were on the level; then, There your mother stood at the gate Impatient we were out so late; Inquiring how, and why, and when; She thought we had been drowned, and lost, And by some savage mad bull tossed; So long had she been looking out! Whatever had we been about? Altho' we saw so much that day, But little then had we to say, And told her a bewildered tale Of garment torn by splintered rail; Of spiders, blackbirds, butterflies; Of rooks so near that looked so wise! Of ghostly shadows, some of the way, That had been tempting us to play, Tho' sure they must have known we should Be making all the haste we could! The gentle scolding given and past, We bade each other good-night at last When floating in the stillness by Came sounds like "late," and "supper," and "bed;" And brighter through a deepening sky A million stars shone o'er my head, And bats flew fast and silently.

When memory wings her way to you, I nurse my faith to think it true For one day, Nelly, you were mine! Ah, Dearest, had that day divine Made us two one for good and all! The nursery words I now recall, Of Tom the Piper's Son's one tune, Mused over in that day of June, Have proved the prelude to my fate! We were not fashioned to translate Each other's will as man and wife: And tho' I was not broken-hearted, As Burns when from his Mary parted, And fled the fragrance of his life; Yet are you near and dear to me! For on the bridge below the hill I see you smile as sweetly still; And in your clear wide-opened eyes The spacious wonder of the skies. While every thoughtful dainty grace Rests well contented in your face, All fascinations of the rose, Uniting in your presence close. Indeed, from glowing hair to feet, So lightly poised, shaped so complete You seem a being 'twixt a flower, The glory of a shining hour, And one ordained to satisfy The claims of immortality.

Your beauty, like a queen's or king's Good word, gives price to common things: That can your ruddy fingers hold Hangs lovelier there than purest gold; And, as the poor, grown rich by chance, Run raptured in extravagance, My fancy riots in the fields' Increasing wealth its charter yields: And at your lintel, by the bower Of vine leaves screening noonday heat; The grapes, that hang there small and sour, Are soft in bloom and more than sweet!

Beholding kittens as they play, Black, tortoise, white, or silver grey; Or ducklings on the water glide, Yellow and soft, and artless eyed: Or neatly-shapen chicks astray, Pecking incessantly on their way; Each such a trim completed creature, In perfect movement, hue, and feature: A foolish sadness makes me sigh They lack immutability. But you, my Nelly, are ever young. Fresh and happy you dwell among The brightest flowers, and flourish where Meadows are ever fresh and fair. As you were then I see you now, Standing beneath an apple bough; Your face amid its blossoms, bright With rosy laughter and delight, You seem a blossom the partial sun Has chosen to make a larger one.

What may your pilgrimage have been, Since both of us lost our Eden days, I never rashly tried to glean; And know not if your childhood ways Were trodden by your maiden feet When, flushed and shy with hope and fear, You went your loitering swain to meet And listen to sounds you loved to hear! But if sometimes your heart was fain Along our honeysuckle lane Again to roam, in gracious flight Your memory would have found delight In wandering there a child again! And if a matron you became, With a matron's worries and daily strife; The pain and sorrow, the hurt and blame Mixed with pleasure, of being a wife, I know not. But of this am sure, That if with daughters you were blessed, They found your bright example lure, Thro' ways by wisdom proven best, And sympathetic, generous trust To kindly conduct more than just. If old experience yet holds true, And by a generation's lapse Your daughter's child resembles you, Then by that happy law perhaps Another Nelly may be seen To grace some other village green; As native there as morning dew; Or larks aloft, when lost to view They lift us thro' the trembling blue To soar with them in ecstasy; Or primroses, whose welcome faces From sunny banks and shady places, Tenderly glimmer in pallid gold Caught as early morning broke, When, dreaming daylight they awoke Enamoured from the moistened mold. And if a Nelly, tho' changed in name, Her fair endowments will the same Point every grace that charmed before Thro' unrenowned ancestresses, Then still there beams a joy that blesses The traveller by your cottage door; Who, pleased in after years to trace Remembrance of your playful face, May linger on your presence while Before him still you turn to smile.

NOTE.

The two portions of "My Beautiful Lady," entitled "My Beautiful Lady," and "My Lady in Death," were written in 1849, and published on the 1st of January, 1850, in "The Germ," a magazine which ran to only four numbers. "Dawn," and "My Lady's Glory," were written about the same time; but all the other poems were written between 1857 and 1861. The first complete edition appeared in 1863; the second in 1864; and the third in 1866.

"Nelly Dale" was written in 1886.

T. W.

THE END