C.

Within him was a feeling as of pain,— That melancholy music in whose tone, Though full of sadness, something sweet doth reign, And Rowland for the first time felt alone; How often hath this feeling been our own When all is—what? compared to something dear, When former pleasures all, yea, all have flown, And life is centred in another sphere, And all the world is nothing if one be not near.

CI.

There was a something in the heaven above That corresponded with his state of mind; We all know what it is to be in love, When all Earth's sweetest pleasures seem combined, When Life and Love both, both are intertwined, And the young blood is as the desert's thirst, A scorching wilderness, a torrid wind, A torrent with its flood-gates open burst; When Youth's most cherished hopes within the breast are nursed.

CII.

O tell me not that Youth, all youth is folly, Give me the kiss that youth doth first impress, O let me feel love's ling'ring melancholy, And smile on lips all youthful loveliness! Give me the bosom I can fondly press While Youth's hot blood is burning in the veins, O what but this is earthly happiness? This world no sweeter thing than this contains; When days of youth are o'er, life's foremost pleasure wanes.

CIII.

Yes, Youth was made for such; it is enough To know in some fond heart our words abide; Oh life's not life but death without a love, All ceaseless darkness where she is denied! We know not our existence till we hide Our soul within another's there to be Its very being: like a river wide Love rolls its endless volumes to the sea, Losing itself within its own immensity.

CIV.

There is a sort of torture which attends That most delightful of the heart's delights, A sort of cruelty which somehow blends With passion in its most distracted flights; And absence from a bosom that requites An all-absorbing love is as a flame Fed ten-fold, yet insatiate; it excites Those maddened cravings which the breast inflame, Those fiery, longing gasps within the fevered frame.

CV.

However, I'm too fond of pondering When it's so necessary to proceed, And on to worthless topics wandering To which my friends will pay but little heed, All those I mean who take my book and read Those matters that they studied long ago, Who of such information have no need And want to hear of something they don't know; I know what's due to them and they shall have it so.

CVI.

'Twas Dora, as by now you will have guessed, Who was the burden of poor Rowland's thought, He was not merely by her face impressed But loved her to distraction as he ought, It is you know the popular report That the best love is love at the first sight; If such is true or not it matters nought, I'd rather not discuss the point to-night, It won't affect our story whether wrong or right.

CVII.

I think and I've good reason to suppose This was a first-sight love, but who can say For certain if it was so? Goodness knows If he conceived it in amongst the hay: If I hear rightly ever since that day He had been somewhat quieter than before And had been known to take himself away To wander long alone upon the shore: Such oddities betoken love you may be sure.

CVIII.

Ah, who may tell what crowding thoughts arose Where boiled the tumult of Love's surging sea, That strength this world itself could not enclose, Nor Space with infinite immensity! But there no matter why, love is to be While men and women both are what they are, While eyes can wander unrestrainedly, And light on dimpled cheeks unknown to Ma, Or eyes that glisten like a polished scimitar.

CIX.

Some pierce as deeply, I can tell you, too, And do the dickens in the way of slaughter, And slash the heart to mincemeat through and through, And make ten thousand lives some few years shorter; Those eyes that make beholding lips quite water, Full many a Don Giovani die o' grief, Which yield the love-sick populace no quarter And—(isn't it cruel?) give them no relief, And work no end of miracles in my belief!

CX.

Which rudely tilt Love's overflowing cup, And work a trifle in their little way; Just tip the solar-system downside up, What is there that they can't do, who shall say? While for one glance a thousand pine away, Which certainly is most disastrous when Our span is not too long as you will say, And what of their short three score years and ten? But this may not apply to woman-jilted men.

CXI.

A friend of mine observed some time ago That women were men's guardian-angels—stay, I scarcely think it can be always so Tho' very often certainly it may; At any rate you know I mean to say They very seldom put men at their ease, Once wedded in a week can turn 'em grey, So deuced disagreeable if they please, And I myself have known some two or three of these.

CXII.

I do not mean that I've experienced this— (The subject 'tis a pity I began) I never knew that fancied state of bliss, I'm not, my friends, in short, a married man, So cannot judge as well as others can Who are more fortunate and have a wife, I would much rather live contented than Engaged in all the wars of married life, And what's more troublesome than matrimonial strife?

CXIII.

In fact I often "wish I were a bird" I'd fly and fly and fly to—Heaven knows where, And, if such happy chance to me occurred, I'd visit all the windows of the fair, To see if they had kisses I could bear, And be the General Post Office above, And do all sorts of things I do declare; 'Twere better, too, I think to be a dove, That gentle bird so suited to affairs of love.

CXIV.

Oh, bother interruptions, when a chap Has something most particular to say! My mother calls—there must be some mishap, So I must leave it for another day; I should be whacked severely did I stay, And that would be a pity you must own, And so 'twere better for me to obey With much regret at leaving you alone, But 'tis a great necessity as I have shewn.

CXV.

I'm hungry too, and I must feed sometimes As other folks accustomed are to do; I'm not of those who fatten on their rhymes, My reader kind, between myself and you; So this abruptly-ended interview With circumstances such you will forgive, The thread of my narration I'll renew To-morrow or the next day if I live, That is of course if your attention you will give.

CXVI.

Ta-ta for now, and may you ever be The good forbearing friend I knew you once, And may you yet proceed indulgently, Permit my story and forgive the dunce, In spite of these most troublesome affronts; Let's see how long since last I flew my kite, Yes, certainly it must be some few months, And here I am again at it to-night, It's enough to tax the patience of a Bedlamite.

CXVII.

You know the author for you see him here, He weeps or smiles as here he doth rehearse, Oh, critic, stay, and drop but Pity's tear, If not for him, the author—for his verse: Full many have done better but few worse, And surely he's the very first to know it, Of course there's much to talk of when converse, Like friend and friend, the critic and his poet, But now I cannot stay, I'm in a hurry, blow it!



CANTO III.

I.

I take my goosequill for some recreation, I'll have a pleasurable time to-night, A little change without the perturbation Of nitro-glycerine and dynamite: Just now I'm somewhat weary of the sight Of dark disclosures in the morning news Which tell of crimes now daily brought to light, Of troublesome investigated clues And horrifying details of the murderer's noose.

II.

These are the days when each successive paper Unfolds a tale which can but make it sell (More usually the latest Irish caper) And vendors should indeed be doing well; When columns upon columns as they tell Of blood-red things of horror and of shame Resemble much a penny horrible, And which, in fact, they are, except in name, Altho' of course proprietors are not to blame.

III.

Who would not wear the ermine-robe of Power, Who would not have the majesty of kings When tremble thrones and courts and nations cower, And strange alarms await all royal things— When armed horsemen guard their wanderings And palaces are silenced with affright, When morn discovers with her gleaming wings The dark and direful mysteries of the night, And men alternate weep and shudder at the sight?

IV.

Of such things as I've said I'm getting weary, Such themes I leave to those who such-like choose, Some people's prospects must be somewhat dreary, I shouldn't care to step within their shoes: However, time I can't afford to lose, I merely say I'm wanting something new, At least my little self I must amuse, If I, my reader, can't enliven you, So take my pen and ink determined what to do.

V.

I will proceed with that which I have writ And tell what came of Dora and her lover, And let me ask you now I think of it To pardon faults if such you should discover, I mean not that I'm anxious you should cover The follies incidental to my case, We must essay to understand each other, And look each other boldly in the face If in each other's sympathy we seek a place.

VI.

Their days had hurried past as doth a dream (This is the favourite simile with us) And taking all together it would seem The dream had not implied an incubus; For my part I am somewhat dubious If days like those before they all had known, Tho' Dora's state had been precarious For some three weeks or more I that must own, But she'd recovered now. Oh how those days had flown!

VII.

Yes, as I say, their time ere then was up— The harvest in—yet still they seemed to tarry, They'd quaffed the measure of their sparkling cup, They'd done their tithe of mischief like Old Harry, And so the days went on with dilly-dally, The Pater seemed unable to decide, At which their expectations seemed to rally, They hoped he'd stay another month beside, While in this doubtful state the days did onward glide.

VIII.

And as for Rowland, there he might be seen Beside his cherished Dora day by day, For regularly as a new machine Across to Elleston Farm he bent his way: There as the daylight softly stole away Would they together sing some little air, She in the gloaming hour would sit and play Some little movement that he liked to hear, Which circumstances made it doubly, trebly dear.

IX.

And there they sat while he, leaf after leaf, O'erturned her music as her bosom rose With words of fondness, ah, so low and brief, That tender softness only woman knows: While even o'er them wound that still repose, That hush of spirit and that soul of prayer, That something which is only known to those Who love and are beloved, who inly share That sacred bliss with which no other can compare.

X.

They sang of love, while in each other's eye Beamed that rich fulness of the throbbing breast, While on their lips there hung the deep-drawn sigh Which told the form it deemed the loveliest: Ah, in those evening moments both were blest, They read each other's bosom, oh, how well! And each to each their paradise confessed— That paradise that lovers love to tell, Which round and round each bosom twined its fairy-spell.

XI.

Now sunset fell upon her gilded hair And tinged her brow with an angelic light, As tho' a heaven-born being lingered there, And Beauty, shamed, were weeping at the sight; Then out they strolled to meet the starlit night, He breathed Love's message on to rosy lips, While each partook that holy calm delight, Those sweetnesses alone a lover sips, And which all other earthly sweetnesses eclipse.

XII.

Oh, Love! Oh, Woman! What are ye that shine Man's ruling planet o'er this tossing sea, Who are the sculptors of his lot condign, Who form the page of each man's destiny? Oh, Love, the greatest of the great of thee Have said, thou sacrificest all to bless, That in thee is a gloom, and are not we Designed for thee, and born but to caress? And those—they know thee not—who can thy joys express.

XIII.

"Disguise can't long hide love," 'tis even so: We'll shake hands over that at any rate, Let me refer to our friend Rochefoucauld, He knows a lot concerning Love and Hate. But still we wont these paths perambulate, What others say I merely here repeat So as my story I can illustrate, And hand you my authority complete; To give my own experience would be indiscreet.

XIV.

Considering I'm but a youngster still, That is to say I'm only just of age, And I, as you will say, should leave it till I'm past my "salad days" and can look sage; Till o'er Life's road I've passed another stage, And learned to smoke the pipe of common sense, Which, you will gather from the present page, I havn't learnt to yet at all events, Of which the present folly is a consequence.

XV.

But I was saying something about Dora But cannot recollect precisely what— Ah yes!—I now remember—her adorer— And all about his most delightful lot, That he had popped the question on the spot (As I'd have done myself had I been he, Yes, no mistake about it, like a shot) While chatting in the arbor vis-a-vis Enjoying love-like sweet nonsensicality.

XVI.

'Twas often that they did together sing, And somehow music's fuel to the fire, The thirsty flame of Love, and to it cling, Those sadnesses which speak the heart's desire; There's in it that which doth the soul inspire. You'll recollect the words of Mirabeau, The very last he spoke,—"Let me expire To the delicious sounds of music"—so He gave a last long sigh and left this world of woe.

XVII.

The greatest deeds this world has ever known Were wrought beneath Euterpe's mystic spell. When War's deep thunders boom and nations groan And rolling thunders tales of terror tell, Then—then the heart rebounds within its cell, As th' charger halts to sniff the gory fray And, with the fiery mettle nought can quell, Bounds o'er the dead and dying on his way To plunge amid the foe and meet the dreadful day.

XVIII.

Give me the sound of martial music while Ten times ten thousand close in clash of war, And, dashing o'er the red and mangled pile, Each man determines "Now or nevermore!" While unsheathed sabres flash and cannons roar, And Fury, blindfold, hisses in its hate, While Valour's shouts resound from shore to shore And nations strive their sons to vindicate And sovereigns bow the knee to t' inexorable Fate.

XIX.

Give me the note which did the true-born pride— That pride of will in all its strength awake, Inflamed the hearts that for it sank and died, Those British hearts that burned for Glory's sake; That song which bids insurgent nations shake Unto their deep foundations, and the world From orient to occident to quake, While battle's blood-red banner is unfurled, And haughty thrones are to their own destruction hurled.

XX.

Give me the notes that hush the raging seas, That urge the horseman and his charger on, Make foes disarm and fall upon their knees, And garlands fade where Victory once had shone, And vigorous Youth to glitter as the sun, And frenzied Prowess with her tossing plume From off the gore-drenched field that she has won To bear the trophies of a nation's doom, While millions weep above an ignominious tomb.

XXI.

There lies the stalwart form in Death's last sleep, There rest the foamy lip, the bloodshot eye, The noble brow o'er which some heart doth weep, Whose only elegy—the buried sigh. There kneels the friend and comrade who would die Beside the form he loved, alas, so well, Now in his last expiring agony, When every breath is as a funeral knell, And the soul bleeds with thoughts that Friendship cannot tell.

XXII.

The last long clasp, the hushed and trembling kiss, The mother weeping at her beauty's side, And Death's last look and stiffening clutch—is this, Is this the outcome of a nation's pride? There lie the clammy corpses far and wide, And locks bedabbled and the princely cheek, Son, father, brother, husband, side by side— Oh, such a tale of horror who can speak! Together heaped the dead and dying, strong and weak.

XXIII.

But to our text, my friends, as parsons say, This is soliloquy, I quite neglect My tale, from which I've wandered far away, But what, from such as I, can you expect? I wished your kind attention to direct Some stanzas back—I think 'twas eight or nine— To Music's wondrous power you'll recollect, But somehow left my subject line by line, To which no doubt you'll say I should myself confine.

XXIV.

I am no minstrel, and I'd have you know it, Altho' that is the title of these pages, Nor do I yet pretend to be a poet, Those things that should be kept in wire cages, That move to Colney Hatch by easy stages, And keep good company upon the road, Consisting of some dozen or two sages, Who, like our tins of dynamite, explode, And really are most dangerous things to be abroad.

XXV.

Now Pater surely something had in view, Beyond his time he stayed so many days, Of this his daughters evidently knew And all their expectations were ablaze; But their excitement soon became a craze Since he had made a grand resolve—in short He had—and be it spoken to his praise— The villa, furnished, with its meadows bought; With much rejoicing this intelligence was fraught.

XXVI.

Arrangements had been made. The early train He took to town to settle matters there, Intending shortly to return again If all his town arrangements turned out fair. He'd travelled up on three occasions ere His wife's idea had met with his consent, No doubt about some business affair O'er which in town a day or two he'd spent, Now for the self-same reason there he pitched his tent.

XXVII.

He did not tarry long but home did fly, His daughters went to meet him at the station, And at the news they were in spirits high As was apparent by their conversation; He was, of course, the very consummation Of all that was "delicious" and "divine," A home at Elleston pleased their contemplation, And as the sun each countenance did shine, The very cocks and hens beamed with a look benign.

XXVIII.

The London residence was given o'er, The furniture that was not sold was sent, As it had been arranged it should before, To Elleston, and much labour too they spent In fixing all things to their hearts' content, And cook, of course, was busy down there too, While Pater often up to London went, He had, as you may guess, a lot to do, And had his City business also to pursue.

XXIX.

So all was settled that he should divide The time the City and his home between, For farm indeed he could, and well—for wide His earlier experience had been. The farm, tho' small, was large enough I ween, In fact it was a nice convenient size, A prettier little spot was never seen Than Elleston Farm, I'm sure, by human eyes, And all seemed very happy in the enterprise.

XXX.

Some weeks elapsed e'er everything was straight; The shorter days were slowly coming round, And all things told the year was getting late, And evening mists fell heavy to the ground. The distant woods were getting seared and browned, And Autumn seemed abandoning her reign, While leaf by leaf fell with a rustling sound, That elegy of all the spreading plain, And Winter, with his glistering crown, was near again.

XXXI.

The groves were still, save when the startled breeze, Like a sad smile which comes then fades away, Swept faintly o'er the amber of the trees, And Nature's wheels moved slow and Life was gray: Sadly and surely, like the darkening day, Came dreary tokens of th' impending gloom; Fainter and fainter waned the solar ray And all was heavy as the slumbering tomb, Far thro' the hazy air did th' distant woodlands loom.

XXXII.

The lonesome, lingering rose was drenched with dew, With hanging head aggrieving for its mate, It wept above the ground on which it grew, With smiles all past and life disconsolate: There was the flower that clambered o'er the gate Shrunk like the furrows of an old man's tear, Each leaf had fallen at the touch of fate And sunk to die upon its autumn bier, And every breeze was sighing for the death-dealt year.

XXXIII.

Be still, O heart, for Death steps noiseless nigh, Hist to the dirges o'er the sleeping sea! Dim funeral trains pass melancholy by And monotone their mournful minstrelsy. It is the grave that opes by Heav'n's decree, And steeps each thing in its sepulchral breath, The self-same grave that soon must yawn for thee, The grave wherein all darkness slumbereth, While all around is fastened in the fangs of Death.

XXXIV.

The garments of the arbour fell to earth, The arbour was deserted and the lawn Knew no repast of eve, no song of mirth, No noonday lounge, for summer days were gone. The villa of its mantle all was shorn, No blinking puppy stretched upon the grass Enjoying sleepily the sunny morn, No sportive kitten frolicked there—alas! No gaudy-tinted butterfly that way did pass.

XXXV.

When strolling through the dew-bespangled lane, We pause, and, thoughtful, gaze upon the scene, Within there speaks a something as of pain— Some sort of still lament for what hath been. A few short days ago and festoons green Clustered upon the bank in deepened shade With graceful negligence, while close between The thorny twigs the autumn flowers played, And the broad leaves swung lazily beside the glade.

XXXVI.

Now all was silence—like a palace hushed, Or hush of a deserted banquet-hall Where wine so lately like a fountain gushed And Grandeur stalked with mein imperial; Where death-like stillness doth the breast appal, Where revelry is changed to slumber sound And echoes only answer to the call, Save when along the corridors resound Departing footfalls, while in mystery all is bound.

XXXVII.

Like some strange chamber—dimly lighted—vast— Where but an hour ago did Splendour tread, Where royal feet swept on and Beauty passed, Where now the chaplet lies—forsaken—dead; Where Pleasure's palsied and the music fled, Where peers the painted figure from the frame, With dusky mantle and with hanging head, As tho' it felt the pang of inward shame For an imperial ancient line and tarnished name.

XXXVIII.

Yes, autumn sped away and with it passed Its ruddy rich delights, and winds blew high, And shriveled Winter, limping, came at last, And leaden clouds flew o'er the dreary sky; Yet still our cheerful heroines did defy, As all of them accustomed were to do, The weather's threatening inclemency, And long their old enjoyments did pursue, They walked as they had done the happy summer through.

XXXIX.

Now Rowland and his brothers' home lay near Across the fields, it was a farmhouse too, No parents had they and from year to year They'd given their bailiff orders what to do. There side by side in harmony they grew, Their days were pleasant and their income kind, And each his occupation did pursue With happy smiles and a contented mind, And hitherto to home their joys had been confined.

XL.

But now abroad did Rowland daily roam, And of him little did his brothers see, He knew no pleasure in the gates of home, But pensive strolled beside the surging sea, Delighting in its vast sublimity, And in the thunders of its mighty roll, While all his love flowed forth in poesy, That love that fed the fountain of the soul: In her his youthful hopes were folded like a scroll.

* * * * *

XLI.

The scene is changed and years have onward sped; Dora and Rowland had been long since one; She'd wept above her parents lying dead, She—whose sole murmur was "Thy will be done." Yet life was happy as it had begun, For tears but sweetened what was all so fair, Their days were golden as the sinking sun; The calm pervading all the soundless air, And heavenly smiles descended on that happy pair.

XLII.

Flora and Rose ('twas strange that such should be) Were single still, nor on the way to marriage, Deeming a wife's responsibility Perhaps a trifle more than they could manage; By no means am I tending to disparage By my last line those who would wear the ring, Repeat each phrase and step within their carriage, By all means let them do the happy thing, Yet such a matter's worthy of considering.

XLIII.

At least, whate'er the truth may be, they tell (And little folks will always have their say) That Rose was once engaged to Lionel Who swore to love for ever and a day; But matters (and they often chance that way) Abruptly turned and took a fitful start, 'Twas whispered too, but be that as it may. That Rose with pestle and mortar broke his heart; So now it's up for auction in an auction-mart.

XLIV.

And also, to the best of my belief, To Flora Gilbert fell upon his knees, But somehow matters seemed extremely brief, He rose, I fancy, somewhat ill at ease, Then cursed his stars and hers for their decrees (I wouldn't swear I'm telling you the truth), And so the clerk and parson lost their fees, Decidedly their stars were most uncouth, For Flora was as gunpowder to Gilbert's youth.

XLV.

So Lionel and Gilbert went abroad— As youngsters do with circumstances thus— They left behind them all that they adored, And said "Good morning" with no further fuss; Their resignation was miraculous, Indeed what could they be but be resigned Beyond a tear upon their exodus, A muttered oath or two when so inclined, Which served in some degree to soothe their state of mind.

XLVI.

Rowland and Dora, as before I said, Located were three furlongs from the sand, Three furlongs 'twas exactly from the head Where sweeping views stretched wide on every hand, Far, far the eye could reach, o'er sea and land, And in the glories of a summer's day Their children, by the ocean breezes fanned, Would gambol long beneath the noontide ray, And with bright laughter wile the long, long hours away.

XLVII.

O God, could I so feel that young delight— That young delight that knows no thought of pain, Where all is now the ceaseless gloom of night, O give me but my childhood back again; O let me wander o'er that flowery plain And once more pluck the sweets of other days, Few, few of childhood's joys for me remain, And life is bent o'er sterner, stonier ways Whose solitary solace is a backward gaze.

XLVIII.

Still by the sands live Rowland and his wife, And now the old house rings with boyhood's glee, For truly both are getting on in life, Their sturdy youngsters number two or three; So they are quite a happy family With Rose and Flora and their blithesome fun, With circumstances thus they ought to be, Their lot is good enough for anyone. And now, my indulgent readers all, my tale is done.

XLIX.

My tale is done—'tis even so—I fear That very few have borne with me till now, For laurels are exorbitantly dear, And so I can't expect a laureled brow; Permit me then to make my humble bow, My title-page must bid me blush for shame; O reader, stay, ere you my Muse allow, And add thy pity to the meagre name, Forsooth no solitary laurel can it claim.

L.

I really can't excuse myself—and more, I'm certain that I can't excuse my rhyme, But now 'tis simply useless to deplore, I may do better though another time; My tedious numbers are, I know, a crime, An outrage on the world of common sense, 'Tis certain I've not yet contrived to climb The literary pole, at all events, Or scale Olympus where the Muses pitch their tents.

LI.

My reader, 'tis with feelings as of sorrow I lay aside my paper and my pen, I've half a mind to drown myself to-morrow And will myself to Hell, like other men, For writing such a thing of rhyme—but then, As someone wrote, "There's good in everything," So we must both have faith, you see, and when We meet again I hope that I may sing A song that's much more worthy of the publishing.



BRIGHT SCENES MUST ALL DEPART.

Bright scenes must all depart as they've departed, Unshadowed years will fly as they have flown, And fairer visions leave us silent-hearted, Keen, lashing blasts must blow as they have blown.

Old mem'ries must grow dim and fade away, Across the world's wide wastes the sun shall set, Thou shalt press forward on thy toil-trod way, Nor leave me one, just one, one sad regret.

Ah, where shall I be then?—forgot—estranged, When years have rolled their glory at thy feet, When friends and kindred all, yea, all have changed And others come their chosen one to greet.

And yet what prayer from me could now implore, Could crave for all it would, for words have fled? May Heaven preserve thee as thou wast before, And multiply all blessings on thy head.

Formed to be great, ennobled in thy pride, Move on to Honour's portal and, below, All human reverence shall not be denied, And Earth shall give thee all it can bestow.

Then Glory's chaplet shall adorn thy brow, Thy sun shall rise, before it Night shall flee, And Heaven with all prosperity endow, And lift a smiling countenance on thee.



MY BEAUTY'S HOME.

My beauty lives in a cottage grey by a gentle river's mouth, A cottage grey by the lone sea-shore away in the sunny south, Her eye's as fair, oh fairer, than the moonlight o'er the sea, And I love to look in my darling's face as she sits and sings to me.

I'm as happy as a monarch as she lingers at my side, As we watch the far horizon of the ever-tossing tide, While the cool refreshing zephyr bears her tresses in its train, Now starting into motion and now slumbering again.

She trips beside the waters on the distant yellow sand While holy vespers steal across the ocean and the land, And the sea bears the reflection of the worlds that roll above And every breath of even seems to whisper but of love.

Oh what to me is Glory, what is Power, what is Pride! I care not for this bauble with my loved one at my side. I want no other beauty than the beauty of her face, What brighter vision is there than her comeliness and grace!



AH, HAST THOU GONE?

Ah, hast thou gone from him whose breast Bleeds with the thought we are apart, Whose tears fall vainly and unblest, Whose all—a crushed—a broken heart!

Thou hastenest on Life's thorny way Where torrid suns the mountains burn, Where parch the thirsty plains—yet say, Oh, say thou wilt to me return.

Beyond the rolling wave art thou O'er which I waft a sigh to thee, Beyond the lurid sunset now Ablaze upon the western sea.

Oh, think of him whose only thought That thought which Friendship cannot tell, While flows the burning tear unsought, He loved, alas, he loved too well.

Farewell to thee than whom all joy No brighter vision e'er can lend, Go, he will be to thee, my boy, A brother—more than that—a friend.



STANZAS ADDRESSED TO A LADY COMING OF AGE.

There are moments we can look to, we can cherish in the past, As the fleeting days that numbered them are dwindling to their last, Like the roses in the autumn that are severed from their stem, Like the dew-bespangled petals when we sit and sigh for them.

There were sweetnesses unrivalled in those halcyon days of truth, Yet fairy hopes are budding in the sunset glow of youth, When like the cloudlets o'er the far horizon of the sea, Each fringed with sheeny splendour, are the days of infancy.

Yet there are days and moments for enjoyment on before, Tho' the golden skies of youth shall never smile upon us more, When the brow of early womanhood looks forth to pleasures new, And sweeter, lovelier visions are unfolding to the view.

O take the gift and when though look'st upon it let it be A token of the wishes, of the hopes I have for thee, A silent language which can speak when Friendship's voice is dumb, A small yet dear remembrancer in years that are to come.



GOOD NIGHT.

O slumber on, untaught to feel The weight of care and sorrow's blight. Here have I often loved to steal And o'er thee breathe a soft "good night."

And gentle as thy beauty's ray Be all the visions of thy dreams, Thy years be joyous as to-day, And life be always what it seems.

Ah, may it ne'er be thine to know The sleepless eye, the tossing head; May He above ordain it so, And guardian angels shield thy bed.

Now o'er thy cheek the smile betrays Some sweetness in thy dreaming eye, Alas that thou must wake and gaze On things that cause thy breast a sigh!

So placid is thy pillow here, 'Tis sweet, indeed, to know thy peace, To smoothe thy locks and drop a tear, To clasp a hand I must release.

Ah, dost thou dream of me! we part While summer tints thy childhood's light, I leave thee with an aching heart While angels sing "Good night, Good night."



THE FRIENDS.

We were friends, and the warmest of friends, he and I, Each glance was a language that broke from the heart, No cloudlet swept over the realm of the sky, And beneath it we swore that we never would part.

Our fingers were clasped with the clasp of a friend, Each bosom rebounded with youthful delight, We were foremost to honour and strong to defend, And Heaven, beholding, was charmed at the sight.

Around us the pine-crested mountains were piled, The sward in the vale was as down to the feet, The far-rolling woodlands were pathless and wild, And Nature was garbed in a grandeur complete.

Said he, "We are here side by side and alone, Let us thus in the shade for a little remain, For we may not return here ere boyhood is flown, It may be we never shall meet so again.

Come, friend, and record on this reverend oak Thy name by my own, they shall stand side by side" And I hastened to do so with glee as he spoke, And I gazed on the names with a feeling of pride.

Traced deep on the bark they were goodly to see— What traced by the finger of Friendship is not? Together they smiled on the trunk of the tree And as brothers we stood on that sanctified spot.

But alas for a murmur that swept through the trees, For the sound was a sound as of something sad, Like a wail that awakes in a breast ill at ease, 'Twas strange it should be so when all was so glad.

And often since then have I roamed through the vale, My way have I bent to my favourite tree, But its branches resound with the self-same wail Which seems to repeat "Where is he, where is he?"

And again and again have I loved to behold And fashion the storm-beaten letters anew, While lingering there as in summers of old, That spot—it is sweet, it is dear to me too!

Our steps—ah! how fond was our intercourse then— Like the leaves of the autumn have drifted apart, And the voices that moan in that overgrown glen Now melt into weeping the sorrowful heart.



ON PLUCKING A HEDGEROW ROSE.

I saw on a hedge that was flourishing by A rose that was stirred by the breath of the morn, So smiling and fragrant it looked there, that I Was tempted to seize it, forgetting the thorn.

I eagerly plucked it but found to my pain 'Twas scentless and in it an insect was curled, So I flung it away to the hedgerow again And I thought of the joys of this troublesome world.



THE SHADOW OF A LIFE.

There's a face that beclouds like a shadow my pathway at morn and eve, There's a form that glides before me which my eyes can never leave, When I pore above the hearth and heavy thoughts my bosom fill, I start like a sleeper from dreaming, for it's standing beside me still.

When I stroll in the gloom of the evening is that figure before me cast With its strange and measured footfall, like the shadow of something past, All through my summer wandering does it darken the light of the sun, And it sits like a phantom to mock me when the work of the day is done.

It is ever present with me like an overhanging blight, Thro' the heaviness of morning and the wakefulness of night, When I bend within my chamber in the attitude of prayer— With a look of wrapt devotion is it kneeling—kneeling there.

There's a strangeness in its features, there's a horror in its eye, There's a sadness in its visage like the tremour of a sigh, And as silently as ever it precedes me thro' the day While I long for the hush of midnight ere its hours have passed away.

Oh when shall that figure leave me, are its terrors to haunt me still Like the ever deepening twilight in the valley o'er the hill? And its wild and ill forebodings—must they—can they never cease? When its shadow rests above me, is there none to whisper peace?

Is there no one that can soothe me? Is there no one that can save? No, that figure still must haunt me and shall haunt me to my grave, From my cradle to my coffin is that vision doomed to be A scare of Hell and darkness—a thing of terror unto me!



ALONE.

Alone in my chamber, forsaken, unsought, My spirit's enveloped in shadows of night, Is there no one to give me a smile or a thought? Is there none to restore to me faded delight?

The zephyrs disport with a light-bosomed song, And the joy-laden songsters flit over the lea— Yet the hours of the spring as they hurry along Bring nothing but sadness and sighing to me!

There were friends—but their love is departed and dead, And alone must the tear-drop disconsolate start, All the beauty of Life, all its sweetness is fled, Oh, who shall unburden this weight at my heart!



DRINK.

I.

An English village, a summer scene, A homely cottage, a garden green, An opening vista, a cloudless sky, A bee that hums as it passes by; A babe that chuckles among the flowers, A smile that enlivens the mid-day hours, A wife that is fair as the sunny day, A peace that the world cannot take away, A hope that is humble and daily bread, A thankful soul that is comforted, A cosy cot and a slumbering child, A life and a love that are undefiled, A thought that is silent, an earnest prayer, The noiseless step of a phantom there!

II.

A drunken husband, a wailing wife; Oh, a weary way is the way of life! A heartless threat and a cruel blow And grief that the world can never know; A tongue obscene and a will perverse, A horrid oath and a muttered curse, A winter drear and a scanty meal, A heart so hard, oh, a heart of steel! A wizened look and an infant's cry, The cold, cold clutch of Poverty, A withered hand and a blanched cheek, Alone, and, ah, no friend to seek! A chilly hearth and a ragged dress, A home that is all heaviness!

III.

A grim grey court in a City's gloom, A frantic fear of eternal doom, A wretch besotted and depraved And cries that cursed the curse they craved, Pollution all, no light! no light! "Oh, where shall be my drink, to-night!" A wretched garret, a straw-strewn bed, A husband stretched in a corner—dead. A shriek of anguish, a choking sigh, "Oh let me perish, let me die!" An agony of dire despair, A picture of torn and dishevelled hair, And none to succour, none to save, A pauper's hearse and an early grave. A voiceless widow, a wringing of hands, A long, long wish for some far off sands, A staring eye and a vacant mood, "Oh Father, teach me to be good" A strengthless effort, a feverish start, A prostrate form and—a broken heart.

IV.

A dismal eve and a howling dog, A ghostly silence, a river fog, A byway deserted, a dingy street, A glimmer to light life's feeble feet. A trembling step and a beaded brow, "Oh where, oh where, shall I hasten now?" No eye hath seen nor ever shall, On, on in the gloom, to the still canal; Hush, hush, a murmur—a fearful pause— A footfall—oh horror; a slam of doors— A sinking down to former repose, "Oh darkness come and end my woes." Away like a phantom, down far to the East, "Oh when shall the weary and sad be released?" An alley, a prayer, a soundless wharf, A biting wind and a graveyard cough, A heap of rags and a starving child, Alas, alas for the undefiled! A heavy tide and a moon obscured, A shapeless mass of barges moored, Nor light, nor sound and a flood that gapes, A frowning pile of horrid shapes. All darkness, blackness, deep despair, "My burden is greater than I can bear!" A rolling river, the dead of night, A form all palsied with affright, Alone, yes, alone, yet so afraid, A hurried stride from that inky shade; On over the barges away from the shore, One breathless clasp, one long clasp more— A heavy plunge and a gurgling groan, Two clammy corpses cold as stone, A brow distorted, a clenched fist, A babe the Lord Himself has kissed.



THE MUSICIAN'S[1] GRAVE.

Thou'rt gone like the meteor that blazed in the sky, And the spot thou hast smiled upon knows thee no more, Is there no one that heaves o'er thy ashes a sigh? Is there none to regret? Is there none to deplore?

Thy note—it is silent, thy song—it is hushed, No more shall thy music entrance or enthral, The music that like the blue rivulet gushed, A finger of terror has silenced it all.

When far through the cloisters the anthem was stealing, Thy heart was ablaze with a heavenly ray— When thy organ was softly and tenderly pealing, Or the bass of thy bourdon was rolling away.

Thy vespers were sweet and thy exquisite numbers Swelled gently and hung on the tremulous air, And, light as the prayer before infancy's slumbers, Ascended on high—thou hast followed them there.

And like the dim eve was thy spirit's repose, When loftily o'er thee, while musing alone, Within the cathedral thine echoes arose And melted to feeling the passionless stone.

While sculptured recess and immortalized shrine And far-stretching arches were bathed in the flood Of the lingering sunset, whose beauties were thine, And the motionless figures were blazoned in blood.

But an undertone rose thro' the chords like a wail, 'Twas thy elegy mourning thee deep in the sound, Soon, soon did that something of sadness prevail, And the minors commingled and fell to the ground.

Rest peacefully, Minstrel, He took thee who gave, That passion is still that once swelled in thy lay, Thy notes are departed, thy fame is thy grave, For the angels descended and bore thee away.

[Footnote 1: The late John Amott, for over thirty years Organist of Gloucester Cathedral, who fell dead immediately after the rendering of the anthem "Oh that I had the wings of a dove, for then would I flee away and be at rest."]



THE SUMMER SHOWER.

The eve is still and silent and above the tinted plain The passing clouds are driving gentle showers of summer rain, And the scent of hay-strewn meadows and the fresh-besprinkled ground Is mingling with the perfume of the flowers that bloom around.

Off I wander and I stroke the gleeful spaniel at my side, And, delighted with each other, do we ramble far and wide, While a ditty is the tribute to the joy that gives it birth, And the leaves, refreshed, are pouring their cool nectar to the earth.

Oh let me gaze again upon the moisture-laden sky, Let me see the rolling masses, let me hear the plover's cry, While enveloping the distant mountain-summits like a shroud, Like a head bent down and hoary, hangs a heavy wreath of cloud.

Let me gaze upon the sunshine as it breaks upon the mist, As it bathes the stony mountains that the clouds have lately kissed, As it tips the dripping leaflet with a scintillating gem, Like the far-resplendent treasure in a monarch's diadem.

Let me tread the shining pasture-lands, the greenest of the green, Let me quaff the luscious perfume of the smiling, glistering scene, While beautified and golden stands the ripe and waving grain, And all Nature sings for gladness now that sunshine follows rain.



WHEN THE TWILIGHT SHADOWS DEEPEN.

When the twilight shadows deepen and the far-off lands are dim, And the vesper dirge is stealing like the chant of cherubim, There's a prayer within my bosom that's responsive to the sound, There's a thought that springs within me—but 'tis sad and silence-bound.

There's a sorrow in those shadows as they lengthen on the lawn, For the joy of life has vanished and its sweetness—all is gone, And the purple mists of even as they hover o'er the glade Seem to hush in voiceless gloom the deep recesses of the shade.

Oh thou beyond those heathery hills, beyond those woodlands blue, Which, as they meet the eastern sky, receive its azure hue, Ah, must I lonely linger here, where nought but griefs await, Where life is but one long, long sigh, and all disconsolate?

I'm weeping, yes I'm weeping, with the sun of youth gone down, With the blossoms of the summer-time all withering and brown, Thou can'st not know that rending pain, those sobs thou can'st not hear, Thou can'st not feel those burning throbs whence wells the sparkling tear.

Oh say thou wilt not turn away, oh say we must not part, Thou would'st not spurn this aching breast, nor crush this breaking heart, Without thee, what is Life?—a name—in which no life can be, Oh give me back thy smile, thy tear—'tis all the world to me.



Farncombe & Co., Printers, Lewes.

THE END