* * * * *

NOTE—It will of course be remembered that the celebrated statue of Memnon was believed to utter lugubrious and mournful sounds at sunset, and during the hours of darkness, which changed to sounds of joy as the first rays of morning fell upon it.



A CONCEIT.

The Grey-beard Winter sat alone and still, Locking his treasures in the flinty earth; And like a miser comfortless and chill, Frown'd upon pleasure and rejected mirth;

But Spring came, gentle Spring, the young, the fair, And with her smiles subdued his frosty heart, So that for very joy to see her there, His soul, relenting, play'd the lover's part;

And nought could bring too lovely or too sweet, To lavish on the bright Evangel's head; No flowers too radiant for her tender feet; No joys too blissful o'er her life to shed.

And thus the land became a Paradise, A new-made Eden, redolent of joy, Where beauty blossom'd under sunny skies, And peaceful pleasure reign'd without alloy.



THE LAND'S END.

I stood on the Land's End, alone and still. Man might have been unmade, for no frail trace Of mortal labour startled the wild place, And only sea-mews with their wailing shrill, Circled beneath me over the dark sea, Flashing the waves with pinions snowy white, That glimmer'd faintly in the gloomy light Betwixt the foaming furrows constantly. It was a mighty cape, that proudly rose Above the world of waters, high and steep, With many a scar and fissure fathoms deep, Upon whose ledges lodged the endless snows; A noble brow to a firm-founded world, That at the limits of its empire stood, Fronting the ocean in its roughest mood, And all its fury calmly backward hurl'd. The Midnight Sun rose like an angry god, Girt round with clouds, through which a lurid glow Fev'rously trembled to the waves below, And smote the waters with a fiery rod; Above, the glory circled up the sky, Fainter and fainter to the sullen grey, Till the black under-drift of clouds away Went with the gathering wind, and let it die. A moaning sound swept o'er the heaving ocean, Toss'd hoarsely on from angry crest to crest, Like groans from a great soul in its unrest, Stirring the ranks of men to fierce commotion. My longing vision measured the wide waste, "This cannot be the end of things; that man Should see his path lead on so short a span, And then the unstable ocean mock his haste! Better have stay'd where I could still look on, And see a sturdy world to bear my feet, Than thus outstrip the multitude to cheat Earth of its knowledge, and here find it gone." A Shadow rose betwixt me and the sky, Out of the Ocean, as it seem'd, that set A perfect shape before mine eyes, and yet Hid not the sky that did behind it lie; But, through its misty substance, all things grew Faint, pale, and ghostly, and the risen sun Gleam'd like a fiery globe half quench'd and dun, Through the sere shadow which the spectre threw: It answer'd me, "Man! this is not the end; Progression ceaseth not until the goal Of all perfection stop the running soul, Whither through life its aspirations tend. Spring from thy height, then, for till thou art free From earth, thy course is narrow and restrain'd!" I said, "No! Spirit, nought were thus attain'd; Better pause here than perish in the sea; Man can but do his utmost—there's a length He cannot overleap." The spectre smiled, "Then trust to me; for though the sea be wild, It cannot shake the sinews of my strength,— Within my breast the fearful fall asleep, And wake out of their terrors, calm and still, Having outstripp'd the speed of time and ill, And pass'd unconsciously the stormy deep." Quicker and quicker drew I in my breath, "If there be land beyond, receive me now; I'll trust in thee—but, Spirit, who art thou?" The winds bore on a murmur, "I am Death!"



THE OLDEN TIME.

O! well I mind the olden time, The sweet, sweet olden time; When I did long for eve all day, And watch'd upon the new-mown grass The shadows slowly eastward pass, And o'er the meadows glide away, Till I could steal, with heart elate, Unto the little cottage-gate, In the sweet, sweet olden time.

O! well I mind the olden time, The sweet, sweet olden time; How all the night I long'd for morn, And bless'd the thrush whose early note The silver chords of silence smote With greetings to the day new-born; For then again, with heart elate, I hoped to meet her at the gate, In the sweet, sweet olden time.

But now hath pass'd the olden time, That sweet, sweet olden time; And there is neither morn nor night That bears a freight of hopes and fears, To bless my soul in coming years With any harvest of delight; For never more, with heart elate, Can I behold her at the gate, As in the sweet, sweet olden time.

For the sake of that dear olden time, That sweet, sweet olden time, I look forth ever sadly still, And hope the time may come again, When Life hath borne its meed of pain, And stoutly struggled up the hill, When I once more, with heart elate, May meet her at another gate, Beyond the blighting breath of fate, That chill'd the sweet, sweet olden time.



FATHER AND SON.

The King call'd forth his first-born, and took him by the hand, "Come! boy, and see the people you must soon command:

A bold and stalwart nation, dauntless in the fight, Strong as an iron buckler to guard their monarch's right."

Then the trumpets sounded, and his vassals came, Gather'd round his banner, loudly rang his name;

Clash'd their burnish'd targets, waved their flashing steel A goodly gath'ring look'd they, arm'd from head to heel.

"Child! my heart beats proudly, now I feel a king, As I look around me on this martial ring;

There I see the sinews that support a state, There I see the strength that makes a monarch great.

Men whose life is glory—men whose death is fame, Living still in story past the reach of shame."

Many years pass'd over—the old King was dead, And his child, his first-born, reigned in his stead.

Many years he reigned, and upon his brow Now the frost of age lay like the winter's snow.

So he took his son forth, as his father had, "Come! and see thy people," said he to the lad.

And they rode together through the busy town: Many a peaceful merchant passing up and down;

Loud the workman's hammer sounded through the air Portly look'd the craftsmen, standing 'mid their ware;

And the sounds of labour, blent with cheerful song, Told of peace and plenty as they rode along.

Smith and craftsman pausing, youth and smiling lass, Trader, man and master, stood to see them pass,

With a bonnet lifted, and "God bless him!" said By many a gentle bosom, many a reverend head.

So the father turn'd him to his son and cried, "Are not these bold subjects worth a monarch's pride?

In their own free circles, by their quiet hearth, Rearing him a bulwark steady as the Earth:

On their mighty anvils, with a giant's skill, Bending stubborn iron to his lightest will:

Prosperous and happy, free in heart and soul, These send forth my glory to the furthest Pole.

Where is there in story any fame above That King's whose deeds are written in his people's love?"



ORION.

"A hunter of shadows, himself a shade."—HOMER.

Oh! weary sleeper by the lone sea-shore, Where billows toil for ever 'mid the rocks, Scourged on by winds in stormy equinox, Rise! rise in haste, or slumber evermore! The stern Earth calls thee, and the Ocean mocks; Roll thy poor sightless orbs about the sky, Through tears of blind and powerless agony; Rise! rise in haste, or slumber evermore!

Ay! blind I stand beside the lone sea-shore; Hearing the mighty murmur of the waves, Shaking with giant arms earth's architraves, Scaling the riven cloud-crags bald and boar, Surging hoarse secrets through the central caves; God! shall thine ocean undiscerned roll, Night on mine eyes, and darkness on my soul, Groping for knowledge blindly evermore?

Wild laugh the winds, Ho! ho! about my face; Heaven! mock me not!—with night-struck eyes upraised, Still fronting full the dome where once I gazed, Yearns my unsighted soul through dimmest space— Before it let these earth-mists sink abased; Let me behold the All before I die, Passing, swift-wing'd, into Eternity; Let me no more these shapeless shadows chase!

Is there not Phoebus in the golden East, Pouring forth floods of brilliancy divine, That fire the spirit more than Jove's own wine? Arise! and drain the droppings of the feast!— Heaven! there's no East for these blind eyes of mine, Staring the sun down into black eclipse! What hand will raise the chalice to my lips? Give me a child to guide me—e'en the least.

Then on! thou giant, child-led, through the land, Tottering feebly with uncertain stride, With heavy moans along the mountain side, Groping the darkness wildly, staff in hand, Staying, deep-voiced, the quick steps of thy guide; On! with wild sightless sockets to the sun, Thirsting for the light-streams that around it run; Far on yon summit, turning eastward, stand!

God! let me rather die than thus, child-led, Totter about the world an infant's slave— Ay! die, and darkly slumber in the grave!— Peace! proud one, bow thine unsubmitting head; Peace! soon the light-streams shall thine eyelids lave, And wash this barren blindness from thy soul, Till these dark mystic vapours backward roll, And leave all nature in thy sight outspread.

We are upon the summit now. Ho! boy, Place me where I shall see the sun arise, When its great glory lightens up; mine eyes— Oh! that I thus should be an infant's toy!— See, now the morning streaks the Eastern skies! Ay! boy, I feel the light-spring bubbling up; My lips are parch'd, and thirsting for the cup That now brims up my everlasting joy.

There is a low thin cloud along the sky, That melts away apace to brightest gold! Ay! boy, so shall my clouds melt fold on fold, Till glory flood my vision utterly. The sun! the sun! I see it upward roll'd,— Day for the world, but life, fire-life for me, Smiting asunder Death's night-mystery With lightning-blade of strength and ecstasy!

Now, on to work and action, seeing clear— Blindness swift throwing to Time's charnel-place— Eyeing, unscathed, the Sun-god face to face! Ho! light! more light! dissolving sphere on sphere! Would that my very life could lighten space, Shining out like some constellation bright, Back beating all the myrmidons of Night, With starry splendors flashing sword and spear!



THE GOLDEN WATER.

[It is scarcely necessary to say that the following fragment is founded upon the beautiful, and well-known tale in the "Arabian Nights," entitled, "The two Sisters who were jealous of their younger Sister;" and the reader need only be reminded that the two brothers of Perizade, Bahman and Perviz, had previously gone in search of the treasures described by the Devotee, and had perished in the attempt,—the fate of the latter having just been intimated to her at the commencement of this episode, by the fixture of the pearls in the magic chaplet, which Perviz had left her for that purpose.]

The days flow'd on, and each day Perizade At morn and eve told o'er the snowy pearls, That morn and eve ran swiftly through her hands; The days flow'd on—one morn the pearls ran not, And well she knew that Perviz too was lost. Tears doubled every bead; but, evermore, Through pain and sorrow, yearn'd her thirsting soul For that far Golden Water in the East, Whence one bright drop would fill her fountain full, With glistening jets still rising in the midst. She rose up straight, and donning man's attire, For that the road was hard and difficult, Took horse, and towards the sunrise swiftly rode, Saying, "Thus much life lacks of perfectness, In God's name on to gain it then, or die."

She sped right onward nineteen days in haste, Morning and noontide turning not aside; Then, as the next day dawn'd, afar she saw The aged Dervise 'neath his lonely tree. No other shape of man or beast in view, Dull grey the sky, and moaning low the wind. "O! holy man, now tell me, for God's grace, Where in the Land the Golden Water flows?" He, lifting slow his head with locks snow-white, And rheumy eyes, spake out with feeble voice, "Good youth! the place I know, yet ask me not; Bid not these aged lips the secret tell; That hath wooed on so many to their death. Thirst for Earth's honours, for her wealth, her joys, Thirst for the sweetest things beneath the sky, But O! thirst not for that far Golden Spring, By many sought, by none ere found till now." She, softly, with her open hand upraised, "Nay! Father, from afar I hither come. And all my heart is set upon the thing, So that there is no joy 'neath sun and moon, No rarest charm can move me, lacking it; Tell me then all the dangers of the quest, That I may measure well my strength, and know If mortal man may meet it and o'ercome." With sad dissenting mien, and solemn voice, That trembled 'neath its burden, thus spake he,— "Full many of the good and bold have come From every land the pilgrim-sun looks on, All thirsting for this water golden bright; These darkening eyes have seen them all pass on, But ne'er a one return; and I am old. Hear then, poor youth, and turn while yet you may; A mid-day's journey hence a mountain stands, Rugged and bare as outcast poverty, With many a gap and chasm yawning wide, With many a rock to drive the climber back; And, far above, the summit hides in clouds,— There springs the Golden Water through the rock Brighter than sunlight in a summer noon; But as the weary seeker toils aloft, Rude voices rush upon him, loud and shrill, Now far, now near, but all with anger fraught, Rough menace, insult, and hoarse mockery; Whereat the wondering climber, turning back, In fury, or in fear, to meet the foe Shouting loud threats e'en in his very ear, Stands face to face with Death, and sinks transform'd Into cold stone, 'mongst myriads more that lie, And all day fright him with their dreary stare. Ay! he that setteth forth upon this quest, And looketh ever back for friend or foe, For cruel laughter, or for mocking jeers, Turns straight to stone like all beside his path; But once upon the summit, at his feet Flows the pure Golden Water, bright and clear."

"This frights me not, O Father; for meseems He is unworthy who should turn aside For any mocking voice of man or maid; Then tell me quick the way, that I may on; Mine eyes look only forward, and mine ears Hear only the far flowing of the spring. Two brothers there lie lock'd in stony sleep,— I go to wake them on the mountain's side." The Dervise laid his forehead in the dust, "Allah go with thee, since it must be so! Take thou this ebon bowl, and cast it down; The ball will roll before thee swift and sure, Until it stop beneath the mountain's side; There stop thou; and, dismounting, leave thy steed, And climb the fearful hill; but oh! beware Thy glance turn never backward on the way! Above, the golden fountain bubbles clear, Whose water, sprinkled o'er these dead black stones, Will wake the sleepers from their chilly sleep."

With lips compress'd she took the ebon bowl, And cast it on before the startled steed; Swiftly it roll'd, and swiftly follow'd she; The road all desolate—no shade of tree, No living thing about the dreary waste; No sound but of her courser's clanging hoofs, His shaking tassels, and his measured breath; Afar, the mountain black against the sky. Still onward roll'd the ball, until the sun Stood midway in the heavens, a fiery red, Looking through clouds with half his glory quench'd; And then it stopp'd close at the mountain's base. Perizade straightway leapt from off her steed, And threw the bridle on his arching neck With calm caress, and left him neighing low; One glance along the mountain, black and bare, With low mists creeping o'er its rocky sides; Mysterious exhalations veiling all the peak; Dead silence—O but for a passing wind To mimic Life beside her living soul! Then upward with quick footsteps firm and bold. Before her myriad dull black stones lay strewn, Fearful to see, and know that souls of men Lay prison'd in their cold and heavy frames.— Sudden behind her sprang a mighty cry, "Ho! Traitress! turn, or die!" and evermore Voices leapt out to wound her, like sharp swords, With words of contumely, and mocking taunts, Scoffs at her woman's heart 'mid manhood's guise, Threats, rude defiances on every side. At first she clomb, nigh stunn'd with wrathful cries, Now at her side, whilst she would shrink in fear To feel the sword's point pierce her fluttering heart, Now from afar, below her and above, Till she scarce breath'd, awaiting o'erturn'd rocks To crush her in their fury as she went. Yet, minding well the Dervise, still she held Her pale face forward, with eyes ever bent Towards the misty summit far away.

More slowly soon her heart beat, and she laugh'd, Like echo, at the scornful taunts and jeers; "Scoff on!" she cried, "How small a thing it is That scorn pursue us like a backward shade, Whilst there is still the broad sun on before." Weary and steep the path through cloud and mist, Piercing the darkness on an unknown way; But still she onward trod, and near'd the top, Whence voices louder, fiercer ever came, "Back, fool! intruder! sacrilegious wretch! Slay the mad climber! crush her to the dust!" Once stood she half irresolute, her hands Press'd hotly on her too oppressed heart; But still she thirsted for the golden spring, And with her soul made strength to reach the top, Sighing, "Thus much Life lacks of perfectness, In God's name on to gain it then, or die!"

Upon the summit totter'd she at last: Far, far below the vapours tossing lay, A great broad sea of heaving cloud and mist; And upward the clear sky, as soft and blue As a child's heaven—the sun unveil'd and bright. No wrathful voices hover'd round her now, But low sweet music of Aeolian tone, With all the sadness melted into joy. Unto the spring she hurried, breathing short, And there the Golden Water bubbled up, Like summer morning rising in the East,— A crystal chalice sparkled on the marge. She fill'd it from the precious tide in haste, And raised the clear elixir to her lips; And then, as at a draught from Lethe's tide, Her weariness pass'd from her suddenly, And in her heart great peace and joy arose.

Then from the chalice pour'd she on the stones, That lay all cold and black upon the path, And at that mystic baptism, anew Sprang up the chilly sleepers in amaze, Their stony hearts back-melted into Life; Soon follow'd her a train of noble youths, Gather'd from East, and West, and North, and South, The rarest and the goodliest of Earth. Bahman and Perviz, risen with the rest, Walk'd at her side with wonder-stricken hearts, Gazing upon her through kind tearful eyes. Each found his steed beside the mountain base, And mounted, all that goodly company, She with her crystal chalice at the head.

Then with her soft voice trembling through the crowd, "Back let us to the world from whence we came; And since that Life hath many Golden Springs, Hath many joys to gain through toil and doubt, Still let us scale the mountain for the prize, And close our ears to Folly's wagging tongue."

They spurr'd along until the sun sank low, And by the way arose the lonely tree, Mere sat the Dervise, rheumy-eyed and old— Blood-red the western sky—the clouds back waved, And one faint star pale glimmering in the height— There found they still the Dervise 'neath his tree, Where he had pointed them the Eastern way, Now sleeping the last sleep with smiling lips. "The Golden Water found, his task is done, And now the Watcher calmly takes his rest!" Then on in silence through the quiet night.



YEARS AGO.

This day it was—Ah! years ago, Long years ago, when first we met; When first her voice thrill'd through my heart, Aeolian-sweet, thrill'd through my heart; And glances from her soft brown eyes, Like gleamings out of Paradise, Shone on my heart, and made it bright With fulness of celestial light; This day it seems—this day—and yet, Ah! years ago—long years ago.

This day it was—Ah! years ago, Long years ago, when first I knew How all her beauty fill'd my soul, With mystic glory fill'd my soul; And every word and smile she gave, Like motions of a sunlit wave, Rock'd me with divine emotion, Joyous, o'er Life's smiling ocean; This day it seems—this day—and yet, Ah! years ago—long years ago.

This day it was—Ah! years ago, Long years ago, when first I heard, Amid the silence of my soul, The fearful silence of my soul, That warning voice of doom declare— O God! unmoved by my despair— How her soft eyes would lose their light, Their holy, pure, and stainless light, And all the beauty of her being Fade sadly, swiftly from my seeing; This day it seems—Ah me! this day, Though years ago—sad years ago.

This day it was—Ah! years ago, Long years ago, when dumb I stood Beside that little grass-green mound— Would I had lain beneath the mound!— And gazed out through my briny tears, Upon the future lonely years, Upon the cold, bleak, cheerless years, Till Earth should ope her grassy breast, And take me to my welcome rest, Where she in Death's cold arms lay prest; This day it seems—Ah me! this day, Though years ago—sad years ago.

This day it was—Ah! years ago, Long years ago; and yet I still Gaze through moist eyes upon the Past, The cherish'd, unforgotten Past; Gaze onward through the coming days, And wonder, with a sweet amaze, What sunrise with its rosy light Will bring her to my longing sight; What sunset with its golden glow Will o'er the long-sought slumber flow, Amid whose visions she shall gleam, As once she did through youth's sweet dream, Ah! years ago—long years ago.



VULCAN.

From the darksome earth-mine lifted, From the clay and from the rock Loosen'd out with many a shock; Slowly from the clay-dross sifted, Molten in the fire bright-burning, Ever purer, whiter turning— Ho! the anvil, cool and steady, For the soften'd rod make ready!

Blow, thou wind, upon the flame, Raise it ever higher, hotter, Till, like clay before the potter, Soft become the iron frame, Bending at the worker's will, All his purpose to fulfil— Ho! the fire-purged rod is ready For the anvil, cool and steady!

At each stroke the sparks fly brightly Upward from the glowing mass; Hail! the stroke that makes them pass, Fall it heavy, fall it lightly! Now the stubborn strength bends humbly, To the Master yielding dumbly; From the metal, purged and glowing, Forms of freest grace are flowing.

Wield thine hammer well, strong arm! Strength to Beauty [*] wedded brings Glory out of rudest things, Facts from mere imaginings; Strike from steel its hidden charm! Little reck the rocks the blow That makes the living water flow; Little recks man's soul the rod That scourges it through tears to God.

[*Footnote: Vulcan was wedded to Venus.]



SONG.

The days are past, the days are past, When we did meet, my love and I; And youthful joys are fading fast, Like radiant angels up the sky; But still with every dawning day Come back the blessed thoughts of old, Like sunshine in a morn of May, To keep the heart from growing cold.

The flowers are gone, the leaves are shed, That waved about us as we stray'd; And many a bird for aye has fled, That chaunted to us from the glade; Yet every leaf and flower that springs In beauty round the ripening year, And every summer carol brings New sweetness from the old time dear.



GUY OF WARWICK.

AN EPISODE.

Autumn went faintly flying o'er the land, Trailing her golden hair along the West, Weeping to find her waving fields despoil'd, Her yellow leaves all floating on the wind: And Winter grim came stalking from the North. Around the coast rough blasts began to blow, And toss the seas about in giant sport, Lurking without to catch unwary sails, And snap their bellying seams against the mast. So Guy lay idly waiting in the port, Gazing out eastward through the stormy mist, Gazing out eastward morn and closing eve, Seeking some break amid the hurtling clouds. But many days the same wind strongly blew, Keeping his bark close moor'd within the bay, Jerking the cable, like a restive steed. And waiting thus impatient to be gone, Looking out seaward from the dripping wharf, Strange rumours fill'd his ears, from inland come, How all the land around his native place Was devastated by a mighty Beast, Most terrible to see, and passing strong. They told him how it slew both man and brute, Destroying every living thing around, And laying waste the land for many a mile; And how 'twas thought no blade, by mortal wrought, Could cleave its way into the monster's heart; And then they told him how his lord the King Had late proclaim'd through all the country round, That whosoe'er should slay the noisome Beast, Should straight be knighted by his kingly sword, And honour'd greatly in the rescued land.

Yet none was found so stout of heart and limb, To venture in this perilous emprize; "But ah!" they said, supposing him far off, "If famous Guy were here, there were a man Would rid us of this monster presently. But as for him, he speeds away through France, Bearing to other lands his strength, that, faith, Were better spent at home amongst his kin."

And still the East wind bluster'd to the shore.

Now Guy, whose ears still tingled all the day With these strange murmurs of the troubled land, Began to feel his heart with pity move; And, for his soul still fretted at delay, Like a leash'd hound that scents the flying game, He straight resolved to take this quarrel up, And for his country's weal to slay the Beast.

So he arose, girt on his trusty sword, And with his bow and quiver slung behind, And at his belt his mighty battle-axe, Rode calmly forth to slay the hurtful Beast. And no man knew that he was Guy, for all Believed him far away on foreign shores; Which pleased him passing well, "Because," he said, "I do this thing for Phoelice and the King, And none shall know but Heaven that sees the deed. But when the country feels returning joy, Her heart will flutter with a secret thought."

And all the land was desolate and waste; The fields stood rotting 'neath the Autumn rains, And no man pluckt the sodden corn that lay, Dead ripe, along the furrows 'mid the weeds; No cattle browsed upon the long rank grass, Or paused to gaze upon him as he rode; The cottages, deserted all in haste, Stood open-door'd and rifted by the winds, With cold grey ashes scatter'd o'er the hearth. Here he beheld the homely meal spread forth, Which no man ate; and there, upon the floor, An o'erturn'd cradle, whence a mother late Had snatch'd her babe up with a cry, and fled.

And all his heart was sore with what he saw, For he met none to wish him once "God speed;" So he spurr'd onward swifter to the place Where lurk'd the monster that thus spoil'd the land; And long the road seem'd to him in his wrath. At last he came unto the fearful spot, Mark'd with the blanching bones of man and beast; A thicket planted by a lonely heath, O'ergrown with brambles and unwholesome weeds, That clasping trees around with witch-like arms, Poison'd their life out, and still held them dead. And at one side there stretch'd a stagnant pool, Unstirr'd by any grateful breeze, but thick With slimy leaves, and rushes all forlorn, And every footstep on the spongy bank Fill'd straightway with the oozing of decay. The Beast hid in the bosom of this wood; And as Guy went he saw two eyes of fire Burn through the darkness of the wood, like blasts Sent from a smith's forge suddenly at night. But, nought dismay'd, he bent his bow of steel, And sent an arrow whirring through the leaves. He heard the shaft ring on the monster's ribs, And backward leap, as when a falchion strikes Full on a warrior's casque with fiery force; Whereat with roaring horrible to hear, Like storm-winds belching through a cavern's mouth, Forth rush'd the monster, furious and grim, With open jaws and reeking breath at Guy; Who, leaping nimbly back, put forth his strength, And struck her full between the eyes a blow That made the stout axe quiver in his hand. But, nothing hurt, the madden'd Beast rush'd on, And nigh o'erwhelm'd him in her headlong course, Denting his breastplate, wrought of temper'd steel, With the close home-thrust of her pointed horns. But Guy, swift wheeling round his snorting steed, Thought on his Phoelice, and, with mighty strength, Launch'd forth a stroke that made the thick blood flow In loathsome torrents from a gaping wound. So, cheer'd at heart, he thunder'd blow on blow, Till, with a bellow of despair and pain, The monster tore the earth, and, writhing, died.

And when Guy saw that he had slain the Beast, He was right glad, and full of sweet content. And so he wiped his blood-stain'd battle-axe, And rode with lighten'd heart in haste away To bear the welcome tidings to the town. And as he pass'd, or that he dreamt, or saw, It seem'd as though the land bloom'd up again, And sunshine fill'd the air with hope and life. And so he bore the tidings to the town— And when the people heard the Beast was dead, They gather'd round with tears and cries of joy, And scarce found words to thank and honour him. And one brought forth her babe, and held him up, And cried, "Look, child upon him, that your soul May know the fashion of a noble man!"

But still he told no man that he was Guy.

And all desired to lead him to the King, But he would not, and turn'd another way— "Nay! friends," said he, "I need no recompense. For in the doing of a worthy deed Lies all the honour that a man should seek." And thus he turn'd away unto the sea, And would not tarry, or for prayers, or tears; And when he came unto the quiet port, He said no word unto his waiting men, But gazed out seaward; and the waves were down, The clouds fast breaking, and the West wind blew; And many a sail sped swiftly o'er the main, White in the sunshine as a sea-gull's wing— And so he went on ship-board cheerily, And they hove anchor with a right good-will, And spreading canvas to the welcome breeze, Bore swiftly out into the open sea; And Guy stood silent in the dipping bows, Gazing out seaward with a strange still smile.



AT EVENTIDE.

The day fades fast; And backward ebbs the tide of light From the far hills in billows bright, Scattering foam, as they sweep past, O'er the low clouds that bank the sky, And barrier day off solemnly.

Above the land Grey shadows stretch out, still and cold, Flinging o'er water, wood, and wold, Mysterious shapes, whose ghastly hand Presses down sorrow on the heart, And silence on the lips that part.

The dew-mist broods Heavy and low o'er field and fen, Like gloom above the souls of men; And through the forest solitudes The fitful night-wind rustles by, Breathing many a wailing sigh—

O Day! O Life! Ending in gloom together here— Though not one star of Hope appear, Still through the cold bleak Future gaze, That mocks thee with its murky haze; Soon morn shall end the doubt, the strife, And give unto thy weeping eyes The far night-guarded Paradise!



A DIRGE.

Winds are sighing round the drooping eaves; Sadly float the midnight hours away; Dun and grey athwart the ivy-leaves, Fall the first pale chilly tints of day, Ah me! the weary, weary tints of day.

Soon the darkness will be past and gone; Soon the silence spread its noiseless wing; Sleep will strike its tent and hurry on; Life commence its weary wandering, Ah me! its weary, weary wandering.

Not the sighing of my lonely heart, Not the heavy grief-clouds hanging o'er, Not its silence can with night depart: Gloom hangs o'er it ever, evermore, Ah me! darkness ever, evermore.



TO MY DREAM-LOVE.

Where art thou, oh! my Beautiful? Afar I seek thee sadly, till the day is done, And o'er the splendour of the setting sun, Cold, calm, and silvery, floats the evening star; Where art thou? Ah! where art thou, hid in light That haunts me, yet still wraps thee from my sight?

Not wholly—ah! not wholly—still Love's eyes Trace thy dim beauty through the mystic veil, Like the young moon that glimmers faint and pale, At noontide through the sun-web of the skies; But ah! I ope mine arms, and thou art gone, And only Memory knows where thou hast shone.

Night—Night the tender, the compassionate, Binds thee, gem-like, amid her raven hair; I dream—I see—I feel that thou art there— And stand all weeping at Sleep's golden gate, Till the leaves open, and the glory streams Down through my tranced soul in radiant dreams.

Too short—too short—soon comes the chilly morn, To shake from love's boughs all their sleep-born bloom, And wake my heart back to its bitter doom, Sending me through the land down-cast, forlorn, Whilst thou, my Beautiful, art far away, Bearing the brightness from my joyless day.

I stand and gaze across Earth's fairest sea, And still the plashing of the restless main, Sounds like the clashing of a prisoner's chain, That binds me, oh! my Beautiful, from thee. Oh! sea-bird, flashing past on snow-white wing, Bear my soul to her in thy wandering.

My heart is weary gazing o'er the sea; O'er the long dreary lines that close the sky; Through solemn sun-sets ever mournfully, Gazing in vain, my Beautiful, for thee; Hearing the sullen waves for evermore Dashing around me on the lonely shore.

But tides creep lazily about the sands, Washing frail landmarks, Lethe-like, away, And though their records perish day by day, Still stand I ever, with close clasped hands, Gazing far westward o'er the heaving sea, Gazing in vain, my Beautiful, for thee.



A NIGHT SCENE.

The lights have faded from the little casement, As though her closing eyes had brought on night; And now she dreams—Ah! dreams supremely bright, While silence reigns around from roof to basement. And slow the moon is mounting up the sky, Drawing Heaven's myriads in her queenly train, Flinging rich largesse, as she passes by, Of beauty freely over hill and plain.

Around the lattice creep the pure white roses, And one light bough rests gently on the pane, The diamond pane, through which the angel train Gaze on the sister saint who there reposes; The moonlight silvers softly o'er it now; And round the eaves the south wind whispers lowly, Waving the leaves like curls on maiden's brow; The peace and stillness make the place seem holy.

The little garden where she daily strays, Sleeps like the precinct of a place enchanted; And many a flower by her own dear hands planted, Waves mystically 'neath the starry rays. There is such strange still beauty in the spot, That in the misty moonshine oft it seems A vision that the waking eye sees not, But some fair plesaunce blooming up in dreams.

The dew distilled perfumes richly rise, And float unseen about the silent air, Breathing a balmy sweetness everywhere, Like some blest secret fresh from Paradise; Upon the soul dim thoughts of Eden press, Within the stillness of this inner shrine, Where Nature has unveil'd her loveliness, And to the angels bared her soul divine.

There is no sound upon the ear of Night; The distant watch-dog's bay hath sunk to rest; The thrush is brooding o'er his quiet nest; And the light clouds sweep on with noiseless flight. O heart, why beat so wildly—she will hear, And start from slumber in serene surprise— Away! away! why longer linger here To mar the silence with thy swelling sighs!



SONNET.

O Cloud so golden, stealing o'er the sky, Like pensive thought across a virgin mind, Scarce sadder than the sunshine left behind; Would that o'er heaven with thee my soul could fly, Scanning Earth's beauty with a lover's eye, Tracing the waving waters and the woods, Their sleepy shades and silent solitudes, Where all the summer through I long to lie. O Cloud so golden stealing o'er the sky, Sail'd I within thy bosom o'er heaven's main, Methinks that, gazing downward on the glory, The liquid loveliness of sea and plain, Of mountain, isle, and leafy promontory, My soul would melt and fall again in rain.



FLOATING DOWN THE RIVER.

My little bark glides steadily along, Still and unshaken as a summer dream; And never falls the oar into the stream, For 'tis but morning, and the current strong; So let the ripples bear me as they will; Sweet, sweet is Life, and every sound is song; Sorrow lies sleeping, and Joy sends me still Swift floating down the River.

Bright shines the sun athwart the linden-trees; One little cloud alone steals o'er the sky, As o'er the widening stream below steal I, Fann'd by the same faint perfume-laden breeze; Bird-music answers sweetly through the air, The unheard warbling of heart melodies; Thus go I dreaming, free from faintest care, Swift floating down the River.

Pure lie the broad-leaved lilies on the tide, With glowing petals in the midst, that rest Like the gold shower on Danae's lovely breast; And the tall rushes cluster on the side. Ho! sweet-lipp'd lily, thou must be my prize— Thus shall I pluck thee in thy beauty's pride! Fail'd—all too steadily my shallop hies, Swift floating down the River.

The stream fast widens, and upon the shore Rise busy hamlets 'mid the falling woods, Filling their shorn and broken solitudes, With labour's clamour ever more and more: No more, no more in dreams of love all day, Rich set in music from the forests hoar, Now gaily speeds my untoss'd bark away, Swift floating down the River.

Let me take oar, and turn mine eager prow, Back to the quiet waveless source again, Where no harsh sound breaks on the dreaming brain, And winds steal softly round the careless brow,— Swift as a dream my tiny bark hath gone, And stoutly though I ply the oar, yet now My weary shallop still goes sadly on, Swift floating down the River.

Ah! never more for me—Ah! never more Return those blessed morning hours again; The sun beats hotly on my throbbing brain, And no cool shade waves friendly from the shore: My feeble oar dips powerless utterly, And onward, onward, though I struggle sore, Still goes my bark towards the surging sea, Swift floating down the River.

Welcome art thou, O cool and fragrant eve! Welcome art thou, though night pursue thee fast With thee the burning and the toil roll past, And there is time to gaze back and to grieve. Hoarse ocean-murmurs fall upon mine ears, And round me now prophetic billows heave, As on I go, out-looking through salt tears, Swift floating down the River, Swift floating to the Sea.



ORPHEUS.

About the land I wander, all forlorn, About the land, with sorrow-quenched eyes; Seeking my love among the silent woods; Seeking her by the fountains and the streams; Calling her name unto lone mountain tops; Sending it flying on the clouds to heaven. I drop my tears amid the dews at morn; I trouble all the night with prayers and sighs, That, like a veil thick set with golden stars, Hideth my woe, but cannot silence it; Yet never more at morning, noon, or night, Cometh there answer back, Eurydice, Thy voice speaks never more, Eurydice; O far, death-stricken, lost Eurydice!

Hear'st thou my weary cries, Eurydice? Hearing, but answering not from out the past, Wrapp'd in thy robe of everlasting light, Round which the accents flutter faintingly, Like larks slow panting upward to the sun? Or roll the golden sands of day away, And never more the voice of my despair Trickles among them o'er thine unmoved ear, Though every grove doth multiply the sound, And all the land sigh forth "Eurydice"?

My heart is all untamed for evermore; The strings hang loose and warp'd for evermore; The rocks resound not with my olden songs, Nor melt in echoes on the tranced breeze; The streams flow on to music all their own; The magic of my lyre hath pass'd away, For Love ne'er sweeps sweet music from its chords; For thou art pass'd away, Eurydice; Thou tuner of my song, Eurydice; And there is nought to guide the erring tones That once breath'd but of thee, Eurydice; That made each breeze sweet with Eurydice; And taught each fountain and each running stream To sing of thee, O lost Eurydice!

The serpent saw thee, O Eurydice! The serpent slew thee, O Eurydice! Stealing amongst the grass, Eurydice; The long rank grass, that stretched Briarian arms To clasp thee to itself, Eurydice! And soon they laid thee from the sight of men; Laid thee beneath the rankly waving grass; Opening Earth's portals wide to let thee wend Forth to Plutonian realms of gloom away; And never more about the waiting land Stray'd thy light steps at morn or shady eve. No fountain hid thine image in its heart; No flowers leapt up to wreathe thy golden hair; No more the fawns within the forest glade Follow'd a foot more lightsome than their own; The moon stole through the night in dim surprise; And all the stars look'd pale with wondering; For thou cam'st not, O lost Eurydice! Earth found thee not, O lost Eurydice! Love found thee not, O lost Eurydice!

I could not stay where thou wert not, forlorn; I could not live, O lost Eurydice!— Not Acheron itself could fright me back From where thy footsteps wander'd, best beloved! And so I sought thee e'en at Hades' gate, Charm'd wide its leaves with melody of woe, And dared the grave to keep me from thine arms; I flow'd away upon a stream of song, E'en to dark Pluto's grimly guarded throne, Melting the cruel Cerberus himself, The Parcae, and snake-lock'd Eumenides, To pity of my measureless despair. I sang thy beauty, O Eurydice! I sigh'd my love forth, O Eurydice! With tears and weary sighs, Eurydice! And at thy name the pains of Hell grew light; Ixion's wheel stopp'd in its weary rounds, The rock of Sisyphus forgot to roll, And draughts of comfort flow'd o'er Tantalus:— Then from old Dis's hands the keys slipp'd down, And words of hope and pity spake he forth. He promised thee again if I would go, Never back-looking, from those realms of gloom, Those realms of gloom where thou wert, best beloved.

How could I leave thee thus, Eurydice? Without one look, one glance, Eurydice? And I perchance no more to gaze on thee, Snared by some fatal falsehood from thy side? Yet strove I hard; until at length I came Where Lethe flow'd before me, faint and dim; Ye gods! how could I cross it from my love, That might wash out her memory for aye; That I should live and dream of her no more; That I should live and love her never more; That I should sing no more, Eurydice; That I should leave her in the grip of Hell, Nor bear her forth e'en on the wings of thought. And so I turn'd to gaze, Eurydice! I turn'd to clasp thee, O Eurydice!— And lo! thy form straightway dissolved away; Thy beauty in the light dissolved away; And Hades and all things dissolved away; Until I found me on thy cold, cold grave, Amid the grass that I would grew o'er me, Clasping us close within one narrow home, Where I no more might wake and find thee gone.— The earth oped not unto my frantic cries; The portals closed thee from me evermore— Else had I melted Hell itself with prayers, And borne thee back to Earth triumphantly.

I cried, heart-stricken, on Proserpina; I rent the rocks around with endless prayers; I told her all the story of our love, I launch'd my sorrows on her woman's heart; I sought her through the barren winter-time, The woful winter-time for Earth and me; And, "Oh!" I thought, "her soul will soon relent, And rush in crystal torrents from her eyes, Till in the joy of sympathetic tears, She woo my love from Pluto's stony heart." I waited, and I question'd long the Spring; I question'd every flower and budding spray, If thou didst come among them back again; I conjured each bright blossom, each green leaf, That, leaving Earth, she bears full-arm'd to Dis, But backward flingeth ere her glad return, That every step of glorious liberty, Fall upon flowers throughout the happy land; But never came response, Eurydice,— The flowers were dumb, O lost Eurydice! They would not see thee spring from Earth like them, Outshining all their fainter loveliness, And so they left me to my lorn despair; She left me lorn, O false Proserpina! And never more may I behold thee here, In Spring or Summer, O Eurydice! By day or night, O lost Eurydice!

They shall not keep me from thee, O beloved! Dis shall not keep me from thee, O beloved; But I shall shake his gates in my despair, Until they open wide to let me pass; I'll take my life up like a mighty rock, And so beat breaches in the walls of Time; I'll cast existence from me like a wrestler's robes, And with my supple, naked soul throw Fate; I'll snap the shackles whose Promethean links Bind down my soul unto this narrow earth.— Dost hear my voice dim floating to thee now, Along the waves that ripple at my feet? Thus do I come to thee, Eurydice, Through waving water-floods, Eurydice, I come, I come, beloved Eurydice!



THE SCULPTOR.

The dream fell on him one calm summer night, Stealing amid the waving of the corn, That waited, golden, for the harvest morn— The dream fell on him through the still moonlight.

The land lay silent, and the new mown hay Rested upon it like a dreamy sleep; And stealing softly o'er each yellow heap, The night-breeze bore sweet incense-breath away.

The dew lay thick upon the unstirr'd leaves; The glow-worm glisten'd brightly as he pass'd; The thrush still chaunted, but the swallows fast Hied to their home beneath lone cottage eaves.

He had been straying through the land that day, Dreaming of beauty as some dream of love; And all the earth beneath, the heaven above, In mirror'd glory on his spirit lay.

And, as he went, from every sight and sound, From silence, from the sweetness in the air, From earth, from heaven, from nature everywhere, Gleam'd forth a deep dim thought and clasp'd him round.

The thought oppress'd him with a weary joy, Seeking for ever for its perfect shape, That from his eager eyes would still escape, Flatter him onward—then his hopes destroy.

He sought it in the bosom of the hills; He sought it in the silence of the woods, Their sunny nooks and shady solitudes; He sought it in the fountains and the rills.

He watch'd the stars come faintly through the skies; And on his upturn'd brow the clear moon shone, Flooding his heart like pale Endymion; But still the thought hid dimly from his eyes;

Its voice came to him on the evening breeze, That flutter'd faintly through his summer dreams— He heard it through the flowing of the streams; He heard it softly rustling through the trees.

Yet still the thought that murmur'd through his heart, He found not anywhere about the land; Ne'er saw its spirit shape before him stand, Though from all nature it seem'd prone to start.

And thus he wander'd homeward, dreaming still Of all the beauty that had haunted him, With mystic meanings shadowy and dim, By woodland, and by meadow, vale and hill:

He wander'd homeward, and in musing mood Stay'd his slow steps beside a marble block, Hewn from some far unstain'd Italian rock, That for his shaping chisel waiting stood.

Then his heart spoke out to him, "Not alone This thought divine hides in the streams and woods, Seeking expression through their solitudes, Perchance e'en lies it in this unhewn stone.

It may be that the soul which fills all space, And speaks up to us from each thing we see, In words that are for ever mystery, Within this Parian, too, hath resting-place."

He gazed on, dreaming through the dim twilight, And to his inner sight the marble grew Clear and translucent, so that, gazing through, A mystic shape form'd to his wondering sight,

That seem'd imprison'd in the Parian cell, Seeking in vain release and utterance; For evermore, with upward beaming glance, Framing the words its lips could never tell.

The vision pass'd; but still with unseen power, It stirr'd within his heart by night and day; And swift to hew the prison walls away, The Sculptor toil'd, love-strengthen'd, from that hour.

He wrought with patience, and at length, amazed, Beheld the mystic form all perfect stand, Released in beauty by his artist hand, He scarce knew how, and wonder'd as he gazed.

It was a lovely form whose lifted arms Yearn'd towards heaven with all its radiant frame, As though the soul within on wings of flame Up from the earth would waft its angel charms;

But still one touch retain'd it to the ground; So that the love that beam'd up from its eyes Flow'd evermore towards the distant skies, And yet to earth the shape remain'd spell-bound.

The dream fell on him one calm summer night; And thus in that fair form still heavenward turning Eternal aspiration, endless yearning, Stood now the Thought before his gladden'd sight.



THE END.



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EIDOLON, AND OTHER POEMS.