A Highland inn among the western hills,

A single parlour, single bed that fills

With fisher or with tourist, as may be;

A waiting-maid, as fair as you can see,

With hazel eyes, and frequent blushing face,

And ample brow, and with a rustic grace

In all her easy quiet motions seen,

Large of her age, which haply is nineteen,

Christian her name, in full a pleasant name,

Christian and Christie scarcely seem the same;—

A college fellow, who has sent away

The pupils he has taught for many a day,

And comes for fishing and for solitude,

Perhaps a little pensive in his mood,

An aspiration and a thought have failed,

Where he had hoped, another has prevailed,

But to the joys of hill and stream alive,

And in his boyhood yet, at twenty-five.

A merry dance, that made young people meet,

And set them moving, both with hands and feet;

A dance in which he danced, and nearer knew

The soft brown eyes, and found them tender too.

A dance that lit in two young hearts the fire,

The low soft flame, of loving sweet desire,

And made him feel that he could feel again;—

The preface this, what follows to explain.

That night he kissed, he held her in his arms,

And felt the subtle virtue of her charms;

Nor less bewildered on the following day,

He kissed, he found excuse near her to stay,—

Was it not love? And yet the truth to speak,

Playing the fool for haply half a week,

He yet had fled, so strong within him dwelt

The horror of the sin, and such he felt

The miseries to the woman that ensue.

He wearied long his brain with reasonings fine,

But when at evening dusk he came to dine,

In linsey petticoat and jacket blue

She stood, so radiant and so modest too,

All into air his strong conclusions flew.

Now should he go. But dim and drizzling too,

For a night march, to-night will hardly do,

A march of sixteen weary miles of way.

No, by the chances which our lives obey,

No, by the heavens and this sweet face he’ll stay.

A week he stayed, and still was loth to go,

But she grew anxious and would have it so.

Her time of service shortly would be o’er,

And she would leave; her mistress knew before.

Where would she go? To Glasgow, if she could;

Her father’s sister would be kind and good;

An only child she was, an orphan left,

Of all her kindred, save of this, bereft.

Said he, ‘Your guide to Glasgow let me be,

You little know, you have not tried the sea;

Say, at the ferry when are we to meet?

Thither, I guess, you travel on your feet.’

She would be there on Tuesday next at three;

‘O dear, how glad and thankful she would be;

But don’t,’ she said, ‘be troubled much for me.’

Punctual they met, a second class he took,

More naturally to her wants to look,

And from her side was seldom far away.

So quiet, so indifferent yet, were they,

As fellow-servants travelling south they seemed,

And no one of a love-relation dreamed.

At Oban, where the stormy darkness fell,

He got two chambers in a cheap hotel.

At Oban of discomfort one is sure,

Little the difference whether rich or poor.

Around the Mull the passage now to make,

They go aboard, and separate tickets take,

First-class for him, and second-class for her.

No other first-class passengers there were,

And with the captain walking soon alone,

This Highland girl, he said, to him was known.

He had engaged to take her to her kin;

Could she be put the ladies’ cabin in?

The difference gladly he himself would pay,

The weather seemed but menacing to-day.

She ne’er had travelled from her home before,

He wished to be at hand to hear about her more.

Curious it seemed, but he had such a tone,

And kept at first so carefully alone,

And she so quiet was, and so discreet,

So heedful, ne’er to seek him or to meet,

The first small wonder quickly passed away.

And so from Oban’s little land-locked bay

Forth out to Jura—Jura pictured high

With lofty peaks against the western sky,

Jura, that far o’erlooks the Atlantic seas,

The loftiest of the Southern Hebrides.

Through the main sea to Jura;—when we reach

Jura, we turn to leftward to the breach,

And southward strain the narrow channel through,

And Colonsay we pass and Islay too;

Cantire is on the left, and all the day

A dull dead calm upon the waters lay.

Sitting below, after some length of while,

He sought her, and the tedium to beguile,

He ventured some experiments to make,

The measure of her intellect to take.

Upon the cabin table chanced to lie

A book of popular astronomy;

In this he tried her, and discoursed away

Of Winter, Summer, and of Night and Day.

Still to the task a reasoning power she brought,

And followed, slowly followed with the thought;

How beautiful it was to see the stir

Of natural wonder waking thus in her;

But loth was he to set on books to pore

An intellect so charming in the ore.

And she, perhaps, had comprehended soon

Even the nodes, so puzzling, of the moon;

But nearing now the Mull they met the gale

Right in their teeth: and should the fuel fail?

Thinking of her, he grew a little pale,

But bravely she the terrors, miseries, took:

And met him with a sweet courageous look:

Once, at the worst, unto his side she drew,

And said a little tremulously too,

‘If we must die, please let me come to you.’

I know not by what change of wind or tide,

Heading the Mull, they gained the eastern side,

But stiller now, and sunny e’en it grew;

Arran’s high peaks unmantled to the view;

While to the north, far seen from left to right,

The Highland range, extended snowy white.

Now in the Clyde, he asked, what would be thought,

In Glasgow, of the company she brought:

‘You know,’ he said, ‘how I desire to stay;

We’ve played at strangers for so long a day,

But for a while I yet would go away.’

She said, O no, indeed they must not part.

Her father’s sister had a kindly heart.

‘I’ll tell her all, and O, when you she sees,

I think she’ll not be difficult to please.’

Landed at Glasgow, quickly they espied

Macfarlane, grocer, by the river side:

To greet her niece the woman joyful ran,

But looked with wonder on the tall young man

Into the house the women went and talked,

He with the grocer in the doorway walked.

He told him he was looking for a set

Of lodgings: had he any he could let?

The man was called to council with his wife;

They took the thing as what will be in life,

Half in a kind, half in a worldly way;

They said, the lassie might play out her play.

The gentleman should have the second floor,

At thirty shillings, for a week or more.

Some days in this obscurity he stayed,

Happy with her, and some inquiry made

(For friends he found) and did his best to see,

What hope of getting pupils there would be.

This must he do, ’twas evident, ’twas clear,

Marry and seek a humble maintenance here.

Himself he had a hundred pounds a year.

To this plain business he would bend his life,

And find his joy in children and in wife,

A wife so good, so tender, and so true,

Mother to be of glorious children too.

Half to excuse his present lawless way,

He to the grocer happened once to say

Marriage would cost him more than others dear,

Cost him, indeed, three hundred pounds a-year.

‘’Deed,’ said the man, ‘a heavy price, no doubt,

For a bit form that one can do without.’

And asked some questions, pertinent and plain,

Exacter information to obtain;

He took a little trouble to explain.

The College Audit now, to last at least

Three weeks, ere ending with the College Feast,

He must attend, a tedious, dull affair,

But he, as junior Bursar, must be there.

Three weeks, however, quickly would be fled,

And then he’d come,—he didn’t say to wed.

With plans of which he nothing yet would say,

Preoccupied upon the parting day,

He seemed a little absent and distrait;

But she, as knowing nothing was amiss,

Gave him her fondest smile, her sweetest kiss.

A fortnight after, or a little more,

As at the Audit, weary of the bore,

He sat, and of his future prospects thought,

A letter in an unknown hand was brought.

’Twas from Macfarlane, and to let him know

To South Australia they proposed to go.

‘Rich friends we have, who have advised us thus,

Occasion offers suitable for us;

Christie we take; whate’er she find of new,

She’ll ne’er forget the joy she’s had with you;

’Tis an expensive pilgrimage to make,

You’ll like to send a trifle for her sake.’

Nothing he said of when the ship would sail.

That very night, by swift-returning mail,

Ten pounds he sent, for what he did not know;

And ‘In no case,’ he said, ‘let Christian go.’

He in three days would come, and for his life

Would claim her and declare her as his wife.

Swift the night-mail conveyed his missive on;

He followed in three days, and found them gone.

All three had sailed: he looked as though he dreamed;

The money-order had been cashed, it seemed.

The Clergyman, ‘This story is mere pain,’

Exclaimed, ‘for if the women don’t sustain

The moral standard, all we do is vain.’

‘But what we want,’ the Yankee said, ‘to know,

Is if the girl went willingly or no.

Sufficient motive though one does not see,

’Tis clear the grocer used some trickery.’

He judged himself, so strong the clinging in

This kind of people is to kith and kin;

For if they went and she remained behind,

No one she had, if him she failed to find.

Alas, this lawless loving was the cause,

She did not dare to think how dear she was.

Justly his guilty tardiness he curst,

He should have owned her when he left her first.

And something added how upon the sea,

She perilled, too, a life that was to be;

A child that, born in far Australia, there

Would have no father and no father’s care.

So to the South a lonely man returned,

For other scenes and busier life he burned,—

College he left and settled soon in town,

Wrote in the journals, gained a swift renown.

Soon into high society he came,

And still where’er he went outdid his fame.

All the more liked and more esteemed, the less

He seemed to make an object of success.

An active literary life he spent,

Towards lofty points of public practice bent,

Was never man so carefully who read,

Whose plans so well were fashioned in his head,

Nor one who truths so luminously said.

Some years in various labours thus he passed,

A spotless course maintaining to the last.

Twice upon Government Commissions served

With honour; place, which he declined, deserved.

He married then,—a marriage fit and good,

That kept him where his worth was understood;

A widow, wealthy, and of noble blood.

Mr. and Lady Mary are they styled,

One grief is theirs—to be without a child.

I did not tell you how he went before

To South Australia, vainly to explore.

The ship had come to Adelaide, no doubt;

Watching the papers he had made it out,

But of themselves, in country or in town,

Nothing discovered, travelling up and down.

Only an entry of uncertain sound,

In an imperfect register he found.

His son, he thought, but could not prove it true;

The surname of the girl it chanced he never knew.

But this uneasy feeling gathered strength

As years advanced, and it became at length

His secret torture and his secret joy

To think about his lost Australian boy.

Somewhere in wild colonial lands has grown

A child that is his true and very own.

This strong parental passion fills his mind,

To all the dubious chances makes him blind.

Still he will seek, and still he hopes to find.

Again will go.

Said I, ‘O let him stay,

And in a London drawing-room some day—

Rings on her fingers, brilliants in her hair,

The lady of the latest millionaire—

She’ll come, and with a gathering slow surprise

On Lady Mary’s husband turn her eyes:

The soft brown eyes that in a former day

From his discretion lured him all astray.

At home, six bouncing girls, who more or less

Are learning English of a governess,

Six boisterous boys, as like as pear to pear;

Only the eldest has a different air.’

‘You jest,’ he said, ‘indeed it happened so.’

From a great party just about to go,

He saw, he knew, and ere she saw him, said

Swift to his wife, as for the door he made,

‘My Highland bride! to escape a scene I go,

Stay, find her out—great God!—and let me know.’

The Lady Mary turned to scrutinise

The lovely brow, the beautiful brown eyes,

One moment, then performed her perfect part,

And did her spiriting with simplest art,

Was introduced, her former friends had known,

Say, might she call to-morrow afternoon

At three? O yes! At three she made her call,

And told her who she was and told her all.

Her lady manners all she laid aside;

Like women the two women kissed and cried.

Half overwhelmed sat Christian by her side,

While she, ‘You know he never knew the day

When you would sail, but he believed you’d stay

Because he wrote—you never knew, you say,—

Wrote that in three days’ time, they need not fear,

He’d come and then would marry you, my dear.

You never knew? And he had planned to live

At Glasgow, lessons had arranged to give.

Alas, then to Australia he went out,

All through the land to find you sought about,

And found a trace, which though it left a doubt.

Sufficed to make it still his grief, his joy,

To think he had a child, a living boy,

Whom you, my love——’

‘His child is six foot high,

I’ve kept him as the apple of my eye,’

Cried she, ‘he’s riding, or you’d see him here.

O joy, that he at last should see his father dear!

As soon as he comes in I’ll tell him all,

And on his father he shall go and call.’

‘And you,’ she said, ‘my husband will you see?

‘O no, it is not possible for me.

The boy I’ll send this very afternoon.

O dear, I know he cannot go too soon;

And something I must write, to write will do.’

So they embraced and sadly bade adieu.

The boy came in, his father went and saw!

We will not wait this interview to draw;

Ere long returned, and to his mother ran:

His father was a wonderful fine man,

He said, and looked at her; the Lady, too,

Had done whatever it was kind to do.

He loved his mother more than he could say,

But if she wished, he’d with his father stay.

A little change she noticed in his face,

E’en now the father’s influence she could trace;

From her the slight, slight severance had begun,

But simply she rejoiced that it was done.

She smiled and kissed her boy, and ‘Long ago,

When I was young, I loved your father so.

Together now we had been living, too,

Only the ship went sooner than he knew.

In loving him you will be loving me:

Father and mother are as one you see.’

Her letter caught him on the following day

As to the club he started on his way.

From her he guessed, the hand indeed was new;

Back to his room he went and read it through.

‘I know not how to write and dare not see;

But it will take a load of grief from me—

O! what a load—that you at last should know

The way in which I was compelled to go.

Wretched, I know, and yet it seems ’twas more

Cruel and wretched than I knew before;

So many years to think how on your day

Joyful you’d come, and found me flown away.

What would you think of me, what would you say?

O love, this little let me call you so;

What other name to use I do not know

O let me think that by your side I sit,

And tell it you, and weep a little bit,

And you too weep with me, for hearing it.

Alone so long I’ve borne this dreadful weight;

Such grief, at times it almost turned to hate.

O let me think you sit and listening long,

Comfort me still, and say I wasn’t wrong,

And pity me, and far, far hence again

Dismiss, if haply any yet remain,

Hard thoughts of me that in your heart have lain.

O love! to hear your voice I dare not go;

But let me trust that you will judge me so.

‘I think no sooner were you gone away,

My aunt began to tell me of some pay,

More than three hundred pounds a-year ’twould be,

Which you, she said, would lose by marrying me.

Was this a thing a man of sense would do?

Was I a fool, to look for it from you?

You were a handsome gentleman and kind,

And to do right were every way inclined,

But to this truth I must submit my mind,

You would not marry. “Speak, and tell me true,

Say, has he ever said one word to you

That meant as much?” O, love, I knew you would.

I’ve read it in your eyes so kind and good,

Although you did not speak I understood.

Though for myself, indeed, I sought it not,

It seemed so high, so undeserved a lot,

But for the child, when it should come, I knew—

O, I was certain—what you meant to do.

She said, “We quit the land, will it be right

Or kind to leave you for a single night,

Just on the chance that he will come down here,

And sacrifice three hundred pounds a-year,

And all his hopes and prospects fling away,

And has already had his will, as one may say?

Go you with us, and find beyond the seas,

Men by the score to choose from, if you please.”

I said my will and duty was to stay,

Would they not help me to some decent way

To wait, and surely near was now the day?

Quite they refused; had they to let you know

Written, I asked, to say we were to go?

They told me yes; they showed a letter, too,

Post-office order that had come from you.

Alas, I could not read or write, they knew.

I think they meant me, though they did not say,

To think you wanted me to go away;

O, love, I’m thankful nothing of the kind

Ever so much as came into my mind.

‘To-morrow was the day that would not fail;

For Adelaide the vessel was to sail.

All night I hoped some dreadful wind would rise,

And lift the seas and rend the very skies.

All night I lay and listened hard for you.

Twice to the door I went, the bolt I drew,

And called to you; scarce what I did I knew.

‘Morning grew light, the house was emptied clear;

The ship would go, the boat was lying near.

They had my money, how was I to stay?

Who could I go to, when they went away?

Out in the streets I could not lie, you know.

O dear, but it was terrible to go.

Yet, yet I looked; I do not know what passed,

I think they took and carried me at last.

Twelve hours I lay, and sobbed in my distress;

But in the night, let be this idleness,

I said, I’ll bear it for my baby’s sake,

Lest of my going mischief it should take,

Advice will seek, and every caution use;

My love I’ve lost—his child I must not lose.

‘How oft I thought, when sailing on the seas,

Of our dear journey through the Hebrides,

When you the kindest were and best of men:

O, love, I did not love you right till then.

O, and myself how willingly I blamed,

So simple who had been, and was ashamed,

So mindful only of the present joy,

When you had anxious cares your busy mind to employ.

Ah, well, I said, but now at least he’s free,

He will not have to lower himself for me.

He will not lose three hundred pounds a-year,

In many ways my love has cost him dear.

‘Upon the passage, great was my delight,

A lady taught me how to read and write.

She saw me much, and fond of me she grew,

Only I durst not talk to her of you.

‘We had a quiet time upon the seas,

And reached our port of Adelaide with ease.

At Adelaide my lovely baby came.

Philip, he took his father’s Christian name,

And my poor maiden surname, to my shame.

O, but I little cared, I loved him so,

’Twas such a joy to watch and see him grow.

At Adelaide we made no length of stay;

Our friends to Melbourne just had gone away.

We followed shortly where they led before,

To Melbourne went, and flourished more and more.

My aunt and uncle both are buried there;

I closed their eyes, and I was left their heir.

They meant me well, I loved them for their care.

‘Ten years ago I married Robert; dear

And well he loved, and waited many a year.

Selfish it seemed to turn from one so true,

And I of course was desperate of you.

I’ve borne him children six; we’ve left behind

Three little ones, whom soon I hope to find.

To my dear boy he ever has been kind.

‘Next week we sail, and I should be so glad,

Only to leave my boy will make me sad.

But yours he is by right—the grief I’ll bear,

And at his age, more easy he can spare,

Perhaps, a mother’s than a father’s care.

Indeed I think him like his father, too;

He will be happier, probably, with you.

’Tis best, I know, nor will he quite forget,

Some day he’ll come perhaps and see his mother yet.

‘O heaven! farewell—perhaps I’ve been to blame

To write as if it all were still the same.

Farewell, write not.—I will not seek to know

Whether you ever think of me or no.’

O love, love, love, too late! the tears fell down.

He dried them up—and slowly walked to town.

* * * * *

To bed with busy thoughts; the following day

Bore us expectant into Boston Bay;

With dome and steeple on the yellow skies,

Upon the left we watched with curious eyes

The Puritan great Mother City rise.

Among the islets, winding in and round,

The great ship moved to her appointed ground.

We bade adieu, shook hands and went ashore:

I and my friend have seen our friends no more.

SONGS IN ABSENCE.

_SONGS IN ABSENCE._[17]

Farewell, farewell! Her vans the vessel tries,

His iron might the potent engine plies;

Haste, wingèd words, and ere ’tis useless, tell,

Farewell, farewell, yet once again, farewell.

The docks, the streets, the houses past us fly,

Without a strain the great ship marches by;

Ye fleeting banks take up the words we tell,

And say for us yet once again, farewell.

The waters widen—on without a strain

The strong ship moves upon the open main;

She knows the seas, she hears the true waves swell,

She seems to say farewell, again farewell.

The billows whiten and the deep seas heave;

Fly once again, sweet words, to her I leave,

With winds that blow return, and seas that swell,

Farewell, farewell, say once again, farewell.

Fresh in my face and rippling to my feet

The winds and waves an answer soft repeat,

In sweet, sweet words far brought they seem to tell,

Farewell, farewell, yet once again, farewell.

Night gathers fast; adieu, thou fading shore!

The land we look for next must lie before;

Hence, foolish tears! weak thoughts, no more rebel,

Farewell, farewell, a last, a last farewell.

Yet not, indeed, ah not till more than sea

And more than space divide my love and me,

Till more than waves and winds between us swell,

Farewell, a last, indeed, a last farewell

* * * * *

Ye flags of Piccadilly,

Where I posted up and down,

And wished myself so often

Well away from you and town,—

Are the people walking quietly

And steady on their feet,

Cabs and omnibuses plying

Just as usual in the street?

Do the houses look as upright

As of old they used to be,

And does nothing seem affected

By the pitching of the sea?

Through the Green Park iron railings

Do the quick pedestrians pass?

Are the little children playing

Round the plane-tree in the grass?

This squally wild north-wester

With which our vessel fights,

Does it merely serve with you to

Carry up some paper kites?

Ye flags of Piccadilly,

Which I hated so, I vow

I could wish with all my heart

You were underneath me now!

* * * * *

Come home, come home! and where is home for me,

Whose ship is driving o’er the trackless sea?

To the frail bark here plunging on its way,

To the wild waters, shall I turn and say

To the plunging bark, or to the salt sea foam,

You are my home?

Fields once I walked in, faces once I knew,

Familiar things so old my heart believed them true,

These far, far back, behind me lie, before

The dark clouds mutter, and the deep seas roar,

And speak to them that ’neath and o’er them roam

No words of home.

Beyond the clouds, beyond the waves that roar,

There may indeed, or may not be, a shore,

Where fields as green, and hands and hearts as true,

The old forgotten semblance may renew,

And offer exiles driven far o’er the salt sea foam

Another home.

But toil and pain must wear out many a day,

And days bear weeks, and weeks bear months away,

Ere, if at all, the weary traveller hear,

With accents whispered in his wayworn ear,

A voice he dares to listen to, say, Come

To thy true home.

Come home, come home! and where a home hath he

Whose ship is driving o’er the driving sea?

Through clouds that mutter, and o’er waves that roar,

Say, shall we find, or shall we not, a shore

That is, as is not ship or ocean foam,

Indeed our home?

1852

* * * * *

Green fields of England! wheresoe’er

Across this watery waste we fare,

Your image at our hearts we bear,

Green fields of England, everywhere.

Sweet eyes in England, I must flee

Past where the waves’ last confines be,

Ere your loved smile I cease to see,

Sweet eyes in England, dear to me.

Dear home in England, safe and fast

If but in thee my lot lie cast,

The past shall seem a nothing past

To thee, dear home, if won at last;

Dear home in England, won at last.

1852

* * * * *

Come back, come back, behold with straining mast

And swelling sail, behold her steaming fast;

With one new sun to see her voyage o’er,

With morning light to touch her native shore.

Come back, come back.

Come back, come back, while westward labouring by,

With sailless yards, a bare black hulk we fly.

See how the gale we fight with sweeps her back,

To our lost home, on our forsaken track.

Come back, come back.

Come back, come back, across the flying foam,

We hear faint far-off voices call us home,

Come back, ye seem to say; ye seek in vain;

We went, we sought, and homeward turned again.

Come back, come back.

Come back, come back; and whither back or why?

To fan quenched hopes, forsaken schemes to try;

Walk the old fields; pace the familiar street;

Dream with the idlers, with the bards compete.

Come back, come back.

Come back, come back; and whither and for what?

To finger idly some old Gordian knot,

Unskilled to sunder, and too weak to cleave,

And with much toil attain to half-believe.

Come back, come back.

Come back, come back; yea back, indeed, do go

Sighs panting thick, and tears that want to flow;

Fond fluttering hopes upraise their useless wings,

And wishes idly struggle in the strings;

Come back, come back.

Come back, come back, more eager than the breeze,

The flying fancies sweep across the seas,

And lighter far than ocean’s flying foam,

The heart’s fond message hurries to its home.

Come back, come back.

Come back, come back!

Back flies the foam; the hoisted flag streams back;

The long smoke wavers on the homeward track,

Back fly with winds things which the winds obey,

The strong ship follows its appointed way.

1852

* * * * *

Some future day when what is now is not,

When all old faults and follies are forgot,

And thoughts of difference passed like dreams away,

We’ll meet again, upon some future day.

When all that hindered, all that vexed our love,

As tall rank weeds will climb the blade above,

When all but it has yielded to decay,

We’ll meet again upon some future day.

When we have proved, each on his course alone,

The wider world, and learnt what’s now unknown,

Have made life clear, and worked out each a way,

We’ll meet again,—we shall have much to say.

With happier mood, and feelings born anew,

Our boyhood’s bygone fancies we’ll review,

Talk o’er old talks, play as we used to play,

And meet again, on many a future day.

Some day, which oft our hearts shall yearn to see,

In some far year, though distant yet to be,

Shall we indeed,—ye winds and waters, say!—

Meet yet again, upon some future day?

1852

* * * * *

Where lies the land to which the ship would go?

Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know.

And where the land she travels from? Away,

Far, far behind, is all that they can say.

On sunny noons upon the deck’s smooth face,

Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace;

Or, o’er the stern reclining, watch below

The foaming wake far widening as we go.

On stormy nights when wild north-westers rave,

How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave!

The dripping sailor on the reeling mast

Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past.

Where lies the land to which the ship would go?

Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know.

And where the land she travels from? Away,

Far, far behind, is all that they can say.

1852

* * * * *

The mighty ocean rolls and raves,

To part us with its angry waves;

But arch on arch from shore to shore,

In a vast fabric reaching o’er,

With careful labours daily wrought

By steady hope and tender thought,

The wide and weltering waste above—

Our hearts have bridged it with their love.

There fond anticipations fly

To rear the growing structure high

Dear memories upon either side

Combine to make it large and wide.

There, happy fancies day by day,

New courses sedulously lay;

There soft solicitudes, sweet fears,

And doubts accumulate, and tears.

While the pure purpose of the soul,

To form of many parts a whole,

To make them strong and hold them true,

From end to end, is carried through.

Then when the waters war between,

Upon the masonry unseen,

Secure and swift, from shore to shore,

With silent footfall travelling o’er,

Our sundered spirits come and go,

Hither and thither, to and fro,

Pass and repass, now linger near,

Now part, anew to reappear.

With motions of a glad surprise,

We meet each other’s wondering eyes,

At work, at play, when people talk,

And when we sleep, and when we walk.

Each dawning day my eyelids see

You come, methinks, across to me,

And I, at every hour anew,

Could dream I travelled o’er to you.

1853

* * * * *

That out of sight is out of mind

Is true of most we leave behind;

It is not sure, nor can be true,

My own and only love, of you.

They were my friends, ’twas sad to part;

Almost a tear began to start;

But yet as things run on they find

That out of sight is out of mind.

For men, that will not idlers be,

Must lend their hearts to things they see;

And friends who leave them far behind,

When out of sight are out of mind.

I blame it not; I think that when

The cold and silent meet again,

Kind hearts will yet as erst be kind,

’Twas ‘out of sight,’ was ‘out of mind.’

I knew it when we parted, well,

I knew it, but was loth to tell;

I felt before, what now I find,

That ‘out of sight’ is ‘out of mind.’

That friends, however friends they were,

Still deal with things as things occur,

And that, excepting for the blind,

What’s out of sight is out of mind.

But love, the poets say, _is_ blind;

So out of sight and out of mind

Need not, nor will, I think, be true,

My own and only love, of you.

1853

* * * * *

Were you with me, or I with you,

There’s nought, methinks, I might not do;

Could venture here, and venture there,

And never fear, nor ever care.

To things before, and things behind,

Could turn my thoughts, and turn my mind,

On this and that, day after day,

Could dare to throw myself away.

Secure, when all was o’er, to find

My proper thought, my perfect mind,

And unimpaired receive anew

My own and better self in you.

1853

* * * * *

Am I with you, or you with me?

Or in some blessed place above,

Where neither lands divide nor sea,

Are we united in our love?

Oft while in longing here I lie,

That wasting ever still endures;

My soul out from me seems to fly,

And half-way, somewhere, meet with yours.

Somewhere—but where I cannot guess—

Beyond, may be, the bound of space,

The liberated spirits press

And meet, bless heaven, and embrace.

It seems not either here nor there,

Somewhere between us up above,

A region of a clearer air,

The dwelling of a purer love.

1852

* * * * *

Were I with you, or you with me,

My love, how happy should we be;

Day after day it is sad cheer

To have you there, while I am here.

My darling’s face I cannot see,

My darling’s voice is mute for me,

My fingers vainly seek the hair

Of her that is not here, but there.

In a strange land, to her unknown,

I sit and think of her alone;

And in that happy chamber where

We sat, she sits, nor has me there.

Yet still the happy thought recurs

That she is mine, as I am hers,

That she is there, as I am here,

And loves me, whether far or near.

The mere assurance that she lives

And loves me, full contentment gives;

I need not doubt, despond, or fear,

For, she is there, and I am here.

1852

* * * * *

Were you with me, or I with you,

There’s nought methinks I could not do;

And nothing that, for your dear sake,

I might not dare to undertake.

With thousands standing by as fit,

More keen, perhaps more needing it,

To be the first some job to spy,

And jump and call out, Here am I!

O for one’s miserable self

To ask a pittance of the pelf,

To claim, however small, a share,

Which other men might think so fair:

It was not worth it! a first time

A thought upon it seemed a crime;

To stoop and pick the dirty pence,

A taint upon one’s innocence.

My own! with nothing sordid, base.

Or mean, we would our love disgrace;

Yet something I methinks could do,

Were you with me, or I with you:

Some misconstruction would sustain;

Count some humiliation gain;

Make unabashed a righteous claim,

And profess merit without shame:

Apply for service; day by day

Seek honest work for honest pay,

Without a fear by any toil

The over-cleanly hand to soil:

Secure in safety to return,

And every pettiness unlearn;

And unimpaired still find anew

My own and better self in you.

* * * * *

O ship, ship, ship,

That travellest over the sea,

What are the tidings, I pray thee,

Thou bearest hither to me?

Are they tidings of comfort and joy,

That shall make me seem to see

The sweet lips softly moving

And whispering love to me?

Or are they of trouble and grief,

Estrangement, sorrow, and doubt,

To turn into torture my hopes,

And drive me from Paradise out?

O ship, ship, ship,

That comest over the sea,

Whatever it be thou bringest,

Come quickly with it to me.

1853

ESSAYS IN CLASSICAL METRES.

_TRANSLATIONS OF ILIAD._

(I. 1-32.)

Goddess, the anger sing of the Pelean Achilles,

Fatal beginning of griefs unnumbered to the Achæans;

Many valiant souls untimely it hurried to Hades,

And the heroes left themselves of dogs to be eaten

And of ravenous birds—till Zeus’s plan was accomplished—

From the day when first contention arose to dissever

Atrides the King and the godlike hero Achilles.

What divinity thus incited them to contention?—

Zeus and Leto’s son; who, in anger with Agamemnon,

Sent a deadly disease on the host, destroying the people,

On account of the wrong the King to his worshipper offered,

Chryses, who had come to the hollow ships of Achaia,

To recover his daughter, with gifts of costly redemption,

Carrying in his hands the wreaths of the archer Apollo

Set on a golden staff—beseeching all the Achæans,

And the Atridæ in chief, the two in command of the nations:

‘Ye, Atreus’ sons, and other well-greaved Achaïan heroes,

May the gods, who live in Olympian houses, accord you

Capture of Priam’s town and safe to return to Achaia,

But liberate to me my child and take the redemption—

Fearing Zeus’s son, the far-death-dealing Apollo.’

Then the Achæans all with acclamation assented,

Honour to show to the priest, and take the costly redemption;

Only to Atrides Agamemnon it was unpleasing,

Sternly who dismissed him with contumelious answer:

‘Old man, let me not, by the hollow ships of Achaia

Lingering find you now, or henceforth ever appearing,

Lest to defend you fail the staff and wreaths of Apollo.

Her do I not release until old age come upon her,

In my house in the land of Argos, far from her country,

Stepping at the loom and in the chamber attending.

Go, and trouble me not, that your return be the safer.’

(I. 121-218.)

And replying, said godlike, swift-footed Achilles:

‘Atrides, our chief, as in rank, so in love of possessions,

Say, in what way shall the noble Achæans find you a present?

Little we yet have gained the general stock to replenish,

Distributed were all the spoils we took from the cities,

And to recall our gifts and reapportion befits not—

Yield you the maiden to-day to the god, and we, the Achæans,

Three or four times over will compensate it, if ever

Zeus the capture accord of the well-walled Ilian city.’

And with words of reply the King Agamemnon addressed him:

‘Think not, great as you are, O god-resembling Achilles,

Thus to dissimulate and evade me with a profession;

Is it that you desire to enjoy your prize, and to let me

Sit empty-handed here, and mine you bid me surrender—

Doubtless, if the noble Achæans find me another

Suitable to my wants and answerable in value;

But, if they do not give, myself will make my election—

Yours, or that, if I please, of Ajax or of Ulysses,

I for my own will take, and leave the loser lamenting.

At a suitable time this, after, will we determine;

Now proceed we to haul a swift ship into the water,

Choose the rowers to take her, and send the cattle aboard her

For sacrifice, and bring the beautiful daughter of Chryses

Also on board, and appoint some prudent chief to convey her—

Ajax shall it be, or Idomeneus, or Ulysses?

Or will Pelides, incomparable of heroes,

Go, and with holy rite appease the wrath of Apollo?’

And with a frown swift-footed Achilles eyed him, and answered:

‘O me! clothed-upon with impudence, greedy-hearted,

How shall any Achæan again be willing to serve you,

Make any expedition, or fight in battle to help you?

Certainly not upon any account of the Troïan horsemen

Came I hither to fight; they never gave me occasion,

Never carried away any cattle of mine, any horses,

Nor in Phthia ever, the rich land, feeder of people,

Devastated the fruit; since numerous, to divide them,

Mountains shadowy lie, and a sea’s tumultuous water:

To’ attend thee we came, on thy effrontery waiting,

Reparation to take of the Trojans for Menelaus,

And thy unblushing self. All which you little remember,

And can threaten to-day of my reward to deprive me,

Dearly with labour earned, and given me by the Achæans.

Do I ever receive any gift your gifts to compare with,

When the Achæans sack any wealthy town of the Trojans?

Truly the larger part of the busy, hurrying warfare

My hands have to discharge; but, in the day of division,

Yours is the ample share, and I, content with a little,

Thankfully turn to my ships, well wearied out with the fighting.

Now to Phthia I go—far wiser for me to do so,

Home with my hollow ships to travel, than for another

Accumulate riches to be requited with insult.’

And replying, said the king of men, Agamemnon:

‘Go, if to go be your wish; I keep you not—do not ask you

For my honour to stay; I have others here to support it,

Who—and Zeus above all, the Counsellor—will uphold me

You are the hatefullest to me of the Zeus-fed princes,

Lover for evermore of brawl and battle and discord.

Strong if you are, your strength was by some deity given.

Home with your hollow ships, and with your people returning

Order the Myrmidonans: expect not me to regard you,

Or to observe your wrath. I advertise you beforehand—

As Chryseïda Phœbus Apollo hath bid me surrender,

I in a ship of my own will with my people remit her

Home, and the beautiful-cheeked Briseïda then to replace her

Out of your tent, your prize, will carry; an argument to you

How much greater I am than yourself, and a warning to others

Not to oppose my will and talk with me as an equal.’

So said he, and pain seized Pelides, and in the bosom

Under his hairy breast two purposes he divided,

Either, from by his thigh the glittering blade unsheathing,

To put aside the rest and straightway kill Agamemnon,

Or to repress his wrath and check himself in his anger.

With the purposes yet conflicting thus in his bosom,

From the sheath the huge sword was issuing out, when Athena

Came from heaven: the goddess, the white-armed Hera, desired it,

Solicitous for the good of the one alike and the other.

Standing behind, by the yellow hair she drew back Achilles,

Visible only to him, of the rest to no one apparent;

And with wonder seized he turned, and knew in a moment

Pallas Athenæa, with dreadful eyes looking at him;

And he opened his lips with wingèd words and addressed her:

‘Wherefore art thou come, O child of the ægis-bearer;

Was it the fury to see of Atrides Agamemnon?

Lo, I declare it now, and you will see it accomplished,

His injurious acts will bring his death-blow upon him.’

And replying, said the blue-eyed goddess, Athena:

‘To repress I came, if practicable, your anger,

Out of heaven,—the goddess, the white-armed Hera, desired me,

Solicitous for the good of the one alike and the other.

Abstain from violence, put back the sword in the scabbard,

Let opprobrious words, if necessary, requite him;

For I declare it now, and you will see it accomplished,

Three times as many gifts will soon, as costly, be sent you

In reparation of this; be ruled by us to be patient.’

And replying, spoke and said swift-footed Achilles:

‘Unto admonition of you two given, O goddess,

Even the greatly incensed should yield; ’tis well to obey you;

Who to the voice of the gods is obedient, they will assist him.’

_ELEGIACS._

I

From thy far sources, ’mid mountains airily climbing,

Pass to the rich lowland, thou busy sunny river;

Murmuring once, dimpling, pellucid, limpid, abundant,

Deepening now, widening, swelling, a lordly river.

Through woodlands steering, with branches waving above thee,

Through the meadows sinuous, wandering irriguous;

Towns, hamlets leaving, towns by thee, bridges across thee,

Pass to palace garden, pass to cities populous.

Murmuring once, dimpling, ’mid woodlands wandering idly,

Now with mighty vessels loaded, a mighty river.

Pass to the great waters, though tides may seem to resist thee,

Tides to resist seeming, quickly will lend thee passage,

Pass to the dark waters that roaring wait to receive thee;

Pass them thou wilt not, thou busy sunny river.

Freshwater, 1861.

II

Trunks the forest yielded with gums ambrosial oozing,

Boughs with apples laden beautiful, Hesperian,

Golden, odoriferous, perfume exhaling about them,

Orbs in a dark umbrage luminous and radiant;

To the palate grateful, more luscious were not in Eden,

Or in that fabled garden of Alcinoüs;

Out of a dark umbrage sounds also musical issued,

Birds their sweet transports uttering in melody:

Thrushes clear piping, wood-pigeons cooing, arousing

Loudly the nightingale, loudly the sylvan echoes;

Waters transpicuous flowed under, flowed to the list’ning

Ear with a soft murmur, softly soporiferous;

Nor, with ebon locks too, there wanted, circling, attentive

Unto the sweet fluting, girls, of a swarthy shepherd;

Over a sunny level their flocks are lazily feeding,

They of Amor musing rest in a leafy cavern.

1861

_ALCAICS._

So spake the voice: and as with a single life

Instinct, the whole mass, fierce, irretainable,

Down on that unsuspecting host swept;

Down, with the fury of winds, that all night

Upbrimming, sapping slowly the dyke, at dawn

Fall through the breach o’er holmstead and harvest; and

Heard roll a deluge: while the milkmaid

Trips i’ the dew, and remissly guiding

Morn’s first uneven furrow, the farmer’s boy

Dreams out his dream; so, over the multitude

Safe-tented, uncontrolled and uncon-

trollably sped the Avenger’s fury.

_ACTÆON._[18]

Over a mountain slope with lentisk, and with abounding

Arbutus, and the red oak overtufted, ’mid a noontide

Now glowing fervidly, the Leto-born, the divine one,

Artemis, Arcadian wood-rover, alone, hunt-weary,

Unto a dell cent’ring many streamlets her foot unerring

Had guided. Platanus with fig-tree shaded a hollow,

Shaded a waterfall, where pellucid yet abundant

Streams from perpetual full-flowing sources a current:

Lower on either bank in sunshine flowered the oleanders:

Plenteous under a rock green herbage here to the margin

Grew with white poplars overcrowning. She thither arrived,

Unloosening joyfully the vest enfolded upon her,

Swift her divine shoulders discovering, swiftly revealing

Her maidenly bosom and all her beauty beneath it,

To the river water overflowing to receive her

Yielded her ambrosial nakedness. But with an instant

Conscious, with the instant the’ immortal terrific anger

Flew to the guilty doer: that moment, where amid amply

Concealing plane-leaves he the’ opportunity pursued,

Long vainly, possessed, unwise, Actæon, of hunters,

Hapless of Arcadian, and most misguided of hunters,

Knew the divine mandate, knew fate directed upon him.

He, to the boughs crouching, with dreadful joy the desired one

Had viewed descending, viewed as in a dream, disarraying,

And the unclad shoulders awestruck, awestruck let his eyes see

The maidenly bosom, but not—dim fear fell upon them—

Not more had witnessed. Not, therefore, less the forest through

Ranging, their master ceasing thenceforth to remember,

With the instant together came trooping, as to devour him

His dogs from the ambush.—Transformed suddenly before them,

He fled, an antlered stag wild with terror to the mountain,

She, the liquid stream in, her limbs carelessly reclining,

The flowing waters collected grateful about her.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

_COME, POET, COME!_[19]

Come, Poet, come!

A thousand labourers ply their task,

And what it tends to scarcely ask,

And trembling thinkers on the brink

Shiver, and know not how to think.

To tell the purport of their pain,

And what our silly joys contain;

In lasting lineaments pourtray

The substance of the shadowy day;

Our real and inner deeds rehearse,

And make our meaning clear in verse:

Come, Poet, come! for but in vain

We do the work or feel the pain,

And gather up the seeming gain,

Unless before the end thou come

To take, ere they are lost, their sum.

Come, Poet, come!

To give an utterance to the dumb,

And make vain babblers silent, come;

A thousand dupes point here and there,

Bewildered by the show and glare;

And wise men half have learned to doubt

Whether we are not best without.

Come, Poet; both but wait to see

Their error proved to them in thee.

Come, Poet, come!

In vain I seem to call. And yet

Think not the living times forget.

Ages of heroes fought and fell

That Homer in the end might tell;

O’er grovelling generations past

Upstood the Doric fane at last;

And countless hearts on countless years

Had wasted thoughts, and hopes, and fears,

Rude laughter and unmeaning tears;

Ere England Shakespeare saw, or Rome

The pure perfection of her dome.

Others, I doubt not, if not we,

The issue of our toils shall see;

Young children gather as their own

The harvest that the dead had sown,

The dead forgotten and unknown.

_THE DREAM LAND._

I

To think that men of former days

In naked truth deserved the praise

Which, fain to have in flesh and blood

An image of imagined good,

Poets have sung and men received,

And all too glad to be deceived,

Most plastic and most inexact,

Posterity has told for fact;—

To say what was, was not as we,

This also is a vanity.

II

Ere Agamemnon, warriors were,

Ere Helen, beauties equalling her,

Brave ones and fair, whom no one knows,

And brave or fair as these or those.

The commonplace whom daily we

In our dull streets and houses see,

To think of other mould than these

Were Cato, Solon, Socrates,

Or Mahomet or Confutze,

This also is a vanity.

III

Hannibal, Cæsar, Charlemain,

And he before, who back on Spain

Repelled the fierce inundant Moor;

Godfrey, St. Louis, wise and pure,

Washington, Cromwell, John, and Paul,

Columbus, Luther, one and all,

Go mix them up, the false and true,

With Sindbad, Crusoe, or St. Preux,

And say as he was, so was he,

This also is a vanity.

IV

Say not: Behold it here or there,

Or on the earth, or in the air.

That better thing than can be seen

Is neither now nor e’er has been;

It is not in this land or that,

But in a place we soon are at,

Where all can seek and some can find,

Where hope is liberal, fancy kind,

And what we wish for we can see,

Which also is a vanity.

_IN THE DEPTHS._

It is not sweet content, be sure,

That moves the nobler Muse to song,

Yet when could truth come whole and pure

From hearts that inly writhe with wrong?

’Tis not the calm and peaceful breast

That sees or reads the problem true;

They only know on whom ’t has prest

Too hard to hope to solve it too.

Our ills are worse than at their ease

These blameless happy souls suspect,

They only study the disease,

Alas, who live not to detect.

_DARKNESS._

But that from slow dissolving pomps of dawn

No verity of slowly strengthening light

Early or late hath issued; that the day

Scarce-shown, relapses rather, self-withdrawn,

Back to the glooms of ante-natal night,

For this, O human beings, mourn we may.

_TWO MOODS._

Ah, blame him not because he’s gay!

That he should smile, and jest, and play

But shows how lightly he can bear,

How well forget that load which, where

Thought is, is with it, and howe’er

Dissembled, or indeed forgot,

Still is a load, and ceases not.

This aged earth that each new spring

Comes forth so young, so ravishing

In summer robes for all to see,

Of flower, and leaf, and bloomy tree,

For all her scarlet, gold, and green,

Fails not to keep within unseen

That inner purpose and that force

Which on the untiring orbit’s course

Around the sun, amidst the spheres

Still bears her thro’ the eternal years.

Ah, blame the flowers and fruits of May,

And then blame him because he’s gay.

Ah, blame him not, for _not_ being gay,

Because an hundred times a day

He doth not currently repay

Sweet words with ready words as sweet,

And for each smile a smile repeat.

To mute submissiveness confined,

Blame not, if once or twice the mind

Its pent-up indignation wreak

In scowling brow and flushing cheek,

And smiles curled back as soon as born,

To dire significance of scorn.

Nor blame if once, and once again

He wring the hearts of milder men,

If slights, the worse if undesigned,

Should seem unbrotherly, unkind;

For though tree wave, and blossom blow

Above, earth hides a fire below;

Her seas the starry laws obey,

And she from her own ordered way

Swerves not, because it dims the day

Or changes verdure to decay.

Ah, blame the great world on its way,

And then blame him for not being gay.

_YOUTH AND AGE._

Dance on, dance on, we see, we see

Youth goes, alack, and with it glee,

A boy the old man ne’er can be;

Maternal thirty scarce can find

The sweet sixteen long left behind;

Old folks must toil, and scrape, and strain,

That boys and girls may once again

Be that for them they cannot be,

But which it gives them joy to see,

Youth goes and glee; but not in vain,

Young folks, if only you remain.

Dance on, dance on, ’tis joy to see;

The dry red leaves on winter’s tree,

Can feel the new sap rising free.

On, on, young folks; so you survive,

The dead themselves are still alive;

The blood in dull parental veins

Long numbed, a tingling life regains.

Deep down in earth, the tough old root

Is conscious still of flower and fruit.

Spring goes and glee but were not vain:

In you, young folks, they come again.

Dance on, dance on, we see, we feel;

Wind, wind your waltzes, wind and wheel,

Our senses too with music reel;

Nor let your pairs neglect to fill

The old ancestral scorned quadrille.

Let hand the hand uplifted seek,

And pleasure fly from cheek to cheek;

Love too; but gently, nor astray,

And yet, deluder, yet in play.

Dance on; youth goes: but all’s not vain,

Young folks, if only you remain.

Dance on, dance on, ’tis joy to see;

We once were nimble e’en as ye,

And danced to give the oldest glee;

O wherefore add, as we, you too,

Once gone your prime cannot renew;

You too, like us, at last shall stand

To watch and not to join the band,

Content some day (a far-off day)

To your supplanters soft to say,

Youth goes, but goes not all in vain,

Young folks, so only you remain,

Dance on, dance on, ’tis joy to see.

_SOLVITUR ACRIS HIEMS._

Youth, that went, is come again,

Youth, for which we all were fain;

With soft pleasure and sweet pain

In each nerve and every vein,

Circling through the heart and brain,

Whence and wherefore come again?

Eva, tell me!

Dead and buried when we thought him,

Who the magic spell hath taught him?

Who the strong elixir brought him?

Dead and buried as we thought,

Lo! unasked for and unsought

Comes he, shall it be for nought?

Eva, tell me!

Youth that lifeless long had lain,

Youth that long we longed in vain for,

Used to grumble and complain for,

Thought at last to entertain

A decorous cool disdain for,

On a sudden see again

Comes, but will not long remain,

Comes, with whom too in his train,

Comes, and shall it be in vain?

Eva, tell me!

_THESIS AND ANTITHESIS._

If that we thus are guilty doth appear,

Ah, guilty tho’ we are, grave judges, hear!

Ah, yes; if ever you in your sweet youth

’Midst pleasure’s borders missed the track of truth,

Made love on benches underneath green trees,

Stuffed tender rhymes with old new similes,

Whispered soft anythings, and in the blood

Felt all you said not most was understood—

Ah, if you have—as which of you has not?—

Nor what you were have utterly forgot,

Then be not stern to faults yourselves have known,

To others harsh, kind to yourselves alone.

That we, young sir, beneath our youth’s green trees

Once did, not what should profit, but should please,

In foolish longing and in love-sick play

Forgot the truth and lost the flying day—

That we went wrong we say not is not true,

But, if we erred, were we not punished too?

If not—if no one checked our wandering feet,—

Shall we our parents’ negligence repeat?—

In future times that ancient loss renew,

If none saved _us_, forbear from saving you?

Nor let that justice in your faults be seen

Which in our own or was or should have been?

Yet, yet, recall the mind that you had then,

And, so recalling, listen yet again;

If you escaped, ’tis plainly understood

Impunity may leave a culprit good;

If you were punished, did you then, as now,

The justice of that punishment allow?

Did what your age consents to now, appear

Expedient then and needfully severe?

In youth’s indulgence think there yet might be

A truth forgot by grey severity.

That strictness and that laxity between,

Be yours the wisdom to detect the mean.

’Tis possible, young sir, that some excess

Mars youthful judgment and old men’s no less;

Yet we must take our counsel as we may

For (flying years this lesson still convey),

’Tis worst unwisdom to be overwise,

And not to use, but still correct one’s eyes.

_ἀνεμώλια._

Go, foolish thoughts, and join the throng

Of myriads gone before;

To flutter and flap and flit along

The airy limbo shore.

Go, words of sport and words of wit,

Sarcastic point and fine,

And words of wisdom wholly fit,

With folly’s to combine.

Go, words of wisdom, words of sense,

Which, while the heart belied,

The tongue still uttered for pretence,

The inner blank to hide.

Go, words of wit, so gay, so light,

That still were meant express

To soothe the smart of fancied slight

By fancies of success.

Go, broodings vain o’er fancied wrong;

Go, love-dreams vainer still;

And scorn that’s not, but would be, strong;

And Pride without a Will.

Go, foolish thoughts, and find your way

Where myriads went before,

To languish out your lingering day

Upon the limbo shore.

November, 1850

_COLUMBUS._

How in God’s name did Columbus get over

Is a pure wonder to me, I protest,

Cabot, and Raleigh too, that well-read rover,

Frobisher, Dampier, Drake, and the rest.

Bad enough all the same,

For them that after came,

But, in great Heaven’s name,

How _he_ should ever think

That on the other brink

Of this wild waste terra firma should be,

Is a pure wonder, I must say, to me.

How a man ever should hope to get thither,

E’en if he knew that there was another side;

But to suppose he should come any whither,

Sailing straight on into chaos untried,

In spite of the motion

Across the whole ocean,

To stick to the notion

That in some nook or bend

Of a sea without end

He should find North and South America,

Was a pure madness, indeed I must say, to me.

What if wise men had, as far back as Ptolemy,

Judged that the earth like an orange was round,

None of them ever said, Come along, follow me,

Sail to the West, and the East will be found.

Many a day before

Ever they’d come ashore,

From the ‘San Salvador,’

Sadder and wiser men

They’d have turned back again;

And that _he_ did not, but did cross the sea,

Is a pure wonder, I must say, to me.

_EVEN THE WINDS AND THE SEA OBEY._

Said the Poet, I wouldn’t maintain,

As the mystical German has done,

That the land, inexistent till then,

To reward him then first saw the sun;

And yet I could deem it was so,

As o’er the new waters he sailed,

That his soul made the breezes to blow,

With his courage the breezes had failed;

His strong quiet purpose had still

The hurricane’s fury withheld;

The resolve of his conquering will

The lingering vessel impelled:

For the beings, the powers that range

In the air, on the earth, at our sides,

Can modify, temper and change

Stronger things than the winds and the tides,

By forces occult can the laws—

As we style them—of nature o’errule;

Can cause, so to say, every cause,

And our best mathematics befool;

Can defeat calculation and plan,

Baffle schemes ne’er so wisely designed,

But will bow to the genius of man,

And acknowledge a sovereign mind.

_REPOSE IN EGYPT._

O happy mother!—while the man wayworn

Sleeps by his ass and dreams of daily bread,

Wakeful and heedful for thy infant care—

O happy mother!—while thy husband sleeps,

Art privileged, O blessed one, to see

Celestial strangers sharing in thy task,

And visible angels waiting on thy child.

Take, O young soul, O infant heaven-desired,

Take and fear not the cates, although of earth,

Which to thy hands celestial hands extend,

Take and fear not: such vulgar meats of life

Thy spirit lips no more must scorn to pass;

The seeming ill, contaminating joys,

Thy sense divine no more be loth to allow;

The pleasures as the pains of our strange life

Thou art engaged, self-compromised, to share.

Look up, upon thy mother’s face there sits

No sad suspicion of a lurking ill,

No shamed confession of a needful sin;

Mistrust her not, although of earth she too:

Look up! the bright-eyed cherubs overhead

Strew from mid air fresh flowers to crown the just

Look! thy own father’s servants these, and thine,

Who at his bidding and at thine are here.

In thine own word was it not said long since

Butter and honey shall he eat, and learn

The evil to refuse and choose the good?

Fear not, O babe divine, fear not, accept;

O happy mother, privileged to see,

While the man sleeps, the sacred mystery.

_TO A SLEEPING CHILD._

Lips, lips, open!

Up comes a little bird that lives inside—

Up comes a little bird, and peeps, and out he flies.

All the day he sits inside, and sometimes he sings,

Up he comes, and out he goes at night to spread his wings.

Little bird, little bird, whither will you go?

Round about the world, while nobody can know.

Little bird, little bird, whither do you flee?

Far away around the world, while nobody can see.

Little bird, little bird, how long will you roam?

All round the world and around again home;

Round the round world, and back through the air,

When the morning comes, the little bird is there.

Back comes the little bird and looks and in he flies,

Up wakes the little boy, and opens both his eyes.

Sleep, sleep, little boy, little bird’s away,

Little bird will come again, by the peep of day;

Sleep, little boy, the little bird must go

Round about the world, while nobody can know.

Sleep, sleep sound, little bird goes round,

Round and round he goes; sleep, sleep sound.

_TRANSLATIONS FROM GOETHE._

I

Over every hill

All is still;

In no leaf of any tree

Can you see

The motion of a breath.

Every bird has ceased its song,

Wait; and thou too, ere long,

Shall be quiet in death.

II

Who ne’er his bread with tears hath ate,

Who never through the sad night hours

Weeping upon his bed hath sate,

He knows not you, you heavenly powers.

Forth into life you bid us go,

And into guilt you let us fall,

Then leave us to endure the woe

It brings unfailingly to all.

III

You complain of the woman for roving from one to another:—

Where is the constant man whom she is trying to find?

IV

Slumber and Sleep, two brothers appointed to serve the immortals,

By Prometheus were brought hither to comfort mankind;

But what in heaven was light, to human creatures was heavy:—

Slumber became our Sleep, Sleep unto mortals was Death.

V

Oh, the beautiful child! and oh, the most happy mother!

She in her infant blessed, and in its mother the babe—

What sweet longing within me this picture might not occasion,

Were I not, Joseph, like you, calmly condemned to stand by!

VI

Diogenes by his tub, contenting himself with the sunshine,

And Calanus with joy mounting his funeral pyre:—

Great examples were these for the eager approving of Philip,

But for the Conqueror of Earth were, as the earth was, too small.

_URANUS._[20]

When on the primal peaceful blank profound,

Which in its still unknowing silence holds

All knowledge, ever by withholding holds—

When on that void (like footfalls in far rooms),

In faint pulsations from the whitening East

Articulate voices first were felt to stir,

And the great child, in dreaming grown to man,

Losing his dream to piece it up began;

Then Plato in me said,

‘’Tis but the figured ceiling overhead,

With cunning diagrams bestarred, that shine

In all the three dimensions, are endowed

With motion too by skill mechanical,

That thou in height, and depth, and breadth, and power,

Schooled unto pure Mathesis, might proceed

To higher entities, whereof in us

Copies are seen, existent they themselves

In the sole kingdom of the Mind and God.

Mind not the stars, mind thou thy Mind and God.’

By that supremer Word

O’ermastered, deafly heard

Were hauntings dim of old astrologies;

Chaldean mumblings vast, with gossip light

From modern ologistic fancyings mixed,

Of suns and stars, by hypothetic men

Of other frame than ours inhabited,

Of lunar seas and lunar craters huge.

And was there atmosphere, or was there not?

And without oxygen could life subsist?

And was the world originally mist?—

Talk they as talk they list,

I, in that ampler voice,

Unheeding, did rejoice.

_SELENE._

My beloved, is it nothing

Though we meet not, neither can,

That I see thee, and thou me,

That we see, and see we see,

When I see I also feel thee;

Is it nothing, my beloved?

Thy luminous clear beauty

Brightens on me in my night,

I withdraw into my darkness

To allure thee into light.

About me and upon me I feel them pass and stay,

About me, deep into me, every lucid tender ray.

And thou, thou also feelest

When thou stealest

Shamefaced and half afraid

To the chamber of thy shade,

Thou in thy turn,

Thou too feelest

Something follow, something yearn,

A full orb blaze and burn.

My full orb upon thine,

As thine erst, gently smiling,

Softly wooing, sweetly wiling,

Gleamed on mine;

So mine on thine in turn

When thou feelest blaze and burn,

Is it nothing, my beloved?

My beloved, is it nothing

When I see thee and thou me,

When we each other see,

Is it nothing, my beloved?

Closer, closer come unto me.

Shall I see thee and no more?

I can see thee, is that all?

Let me also,

Let me feel thee,

Closer, closer, my beloved,

Come unto me, come to me, come!

O cruel, cruel lot, still thou rollest, stayest not,

Lookest onward, look’st before,

Yet I follow, evermore.

Oh, cold and cruel fate, thou rollest on thy way,

Scarcely lookest, wilt not stay,

From thine alien way.

The inevitable motion

Bears me forth upon the line

Whose course I cannot see.

I must move as it conveys me

Evermore. It so must be.

O cold one, and I round thee

Revolve, round only thee,

Straining ever to be nearer

While thou evadest still;

Repellest still, O cold one,

Nay, but closer, closer, closer,

My beloved, come, come, come!

The inevitable motion

Carries both upon its line,

Also you as well as me.

What is best, and what is strongest,

We obey. It so must be.

Cruel, cruel, didst thou only

Feel as I feel evermore,

A force, though in, not of me,

Drawing inward, in, in, in.

Yea, thou shalt though, ere all endeth

Thou shalt feel me closer, closer,

My beloved, close, close to thee,

Come to thee, come, come, come!

The inevitable motion

Bears us both upon its line

Together, you as me,

Together and asunder,

Evermore. It so must be.

_AT ROME._

O richly soiled and richly sunned,

Exuberant, fervid, and fecund!

Is this the fixed condition

On which may Northern pilgrim come,

To imbibe thine ether-air, and sum

Thy store of old tradition?

Must we be chill, if clean, and stand

Foot-deep in dirt on classic land?

So is it: in all ages so,

And in all places man can know,

From homely roots unseen below

The stem in forest, field, and bower,

Derives the emanative power

That crowns it with the ethereal flower,

From mixtures fœtid, foul, and sour

Draws juices that those petals fill.

Ah Nature, if indeed thy will

Thou own’st it, it shall not be ill!

And truly here, in this quick clime,

Where, scarcely bound by space or time,

The elements in half a day

Toss off with exquisitest play

What our cold seasons toil and grieve,

And never quite at last achieve;

Where processes, with pain, and fear,

Disgust, and horror wrought, appear

The quick mutations of a dance,

Wherein retiring but to advance,

Life, in brief interpause of death,

One moment sitting taking breath,

Forth comes again as glad as e’er,

In some new figure full as fair,

Where what has scarcely ceased to be,

Instinct with newer birth we see—

What dies, already, look you, lives;

In such a clime, who thinks, forgives;

Who sees, will understand; who knows,

In calm of knowledge find repose,

And thoughtful as of glory gone,

So too of more to come anon,

Of permanent existence sure,

Brief intermediate breaks endure.

O Nature, if indeed thy will,

Thou ownest it, it is not ill!

And e’en as oft on heathy hill,

On moorland black, and ferny fells,

Beside thy brooks and in thy dells,

Was welcomed erst the kindly stain

Of thy true earth, e’en so again

With resignation fair, and meet

The dirt and refuse of thy street,

My philosophic foot shall greet,

So leave but perfect to my eye

Thy columns, set against thy sky!

_LAST WORDS. NAPOLEON AND WELLINGTON._

NAPOLEON.

Is it this, then, O world-warrior,

That, exulting, through the folds

Of the dark and cloudy barrier

Thine enfranchised eye beholds?

Is, when blessed hands relieve thee

From the gross and mortal clay,

This the heaven that should receive thee?

‘Tête d’armée.’

Now the final link is breaking,

Of the fierce, corroding chain,

And the ships, their watch forsaking,

Bid the seas no more detain,

Whither is it, freed and risen,

The pure spirit seeks away,

Quits for what the weary prison?

‘Tête d’armée.’

Doubtless—angels, hovering o’er thee

In thine exile’s sad abode,

Marshalled even now before thee,

Move upon that chosen road!

Thither they, ere friends have laid thee

Where sad willows o’er thee play,

Shall already have conveyed thee!

‘Tête d’armée.’

Shall great captains, foiled and broken,

Hear from thee on each great day,

At the crisis, a word spoken—

Word that battles still obey—

‘Cuirassiers here, here those cannon;

Quick, those squadrons, up—away!

To the charge, on—as one man, on!’

‘Tête d’armée.’

(Yes, too true, alas! while sated

Of the wars so slow to cease,

Nations, once that scorned and hated,

Would to Wisdom turn, and Peace;

Thy dire impulse still obeying,

Fevered youths, as in the old day,

In their hearts still find thee saying,

‘Tête d’armée.’)

Oh, poor soul!—Or do I view thee,

From earth’s battle-fields withheld,

In a dream, assembling to thee

Troops that quell not, nor are quelled,

Breaking airy lines, defeating

Limbo-kings, and, as to-day,

Idly to all time repeating

‘Tête d’armée’?

WELLINGTON.

And what the words, that with his failing breath

Did England hear her aged soldier say?

I know not. Yielding tranquilly to death,

With no proud speech, no boast, he passed away.

Not stirring words, nor gallant deeds alone,

Plain patient work fulfilled that length of life;

Duty, not glory—Service, not a throne,

Inspired his effort, set for him the strife.

Therefore just Fortune, with one hasty blow,

Spurning her minion, Glory’s, Victory’s lord,

Gave all to him that was content to know,

In service done its own supreme reward.

The words he said, if haply words there were,

When full of years and works he passed away,

Most naturally might, methinks, refer

To some poor humble business of to-day.

‘That humble simple duty of the day

Perform,’ he bids; ‘ask not if small or great:

Serve in thy post; be faithful, and obey;

Who serves her truly, sometimes saves the State.’

1852

_PESCHIERA._

What voice did on my spirit fall,

Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost?

‘’Tis better to have fought and lost,

Than never to have fought at all.’

The tricolor—a trampled rag

Lies, dirt and dust; the lines I track

By sentry boxes yellow-black,

Lead up to no Italian flag.

I see the Croat soldier stand

Upon the grass of your redoubts;

The eagle with his black wings flouts

The breath and beauty of your land.

Yet not in vain, although in vain,

O men of Brescia, on the day

Of loss past hope, I heard you say

Your welcome to the noble pain.

You say, ‘Since so it is,—good-bye

Sweet life, high hope; but whatsoe’er

May be, or must, no tongue shall dare

To tell, “The Lombard feared to die!”’

You said (there shall be answer fit),

‘And if our children must obey,

They must; but thinking on this day

’Twill less debase them to submit.’

You said (Oh not in vain you said),

‘Haste, brothers, haste, while yet we may;

The hours ebb fast of this one day

When blood may yet be nobly shed.’

Ah! not for idle hatred, not

For honour, fame, nor self-applause,

But for the glory of the cause,

You did, what will not be forgot.

And though the stranger stand, ’tis true,

By force and fortune’s right he stands;

By fortune, which is in God’s hands,

And strength, which yet shall spring in you.

This voice did on my spirit fall,

Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost,

‘’Tis better to have fought and lost,

Than never to have fought at all.’

1849

_ALTERAM PARTEM._

Or shall I say, Vain word, false thought,

Since Prudence hath her martyrs too,

And Wisdom dictates not to do,

Till doing shall be not for nought?

Not ours to give or lose is life;

Will Nature, when her brave ones fall,

Remake her work? or songs recall

Death’s victim slain in useless strife?

That rivers flow into the sea

Is loss and waste, the foolish say,

Nor know that back they find their way,

Unseen, to where they wont to be.

Showers fall upon the hills, springs flow,

The river runneth still at hand,

Brave men are born into the land,

And whence the foolish do not know.

No! no vain voice did on me fall,

Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost,

‘_’Tis_ better to have fought and lost,

Than never to have fought at all.’

1849

_SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT AVAILETH._

Say not the struggle nought availeth,

The labour and the wounds are vain,

The enemy faints not, nor faileth,

And as things have been they remain.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;

It may be, in yon smoke concealed,

Your comrades chase e’en now the fliers,

And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,

Seem here no painful inch to gain,

Far back, through creeks and inlets making,

Comes silent, flooding in, the main,

And not by eastern windows only,

When daylight comes, comes in the light,

In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly,

But westward, look, the land is bright.

1849

FOOTNOTES

[1] This and the following Early Poems are reprinted from the volume

called _Ambarvalia_.

[2] This was written for the twenty-fifth wedding-day of Mr. and Mrs.

Walrond, of Calder Park.

[3] Ho Thëos meta sou—God be with you!

[4] The manuscript of this poem is very imperfect, and bears no title.

[5] The manuscript of this poem is incomplete; but it has been thought

best to give all the separate fragments, since they evidently are

conceived on the same plan, and throw light on each other.

[6] This poem, as well as the ‘Mari Magno,’ was not published during the

author’s lifetime, and should not be regarded as having received his

finishing touches.

[7] Flood.

[8] Reap.

[9] Reaping.

[10] Shocks.

[11] Public-house in the hamlet.

[12] This poem is reprinted from the volume called _Ambarvalia_.

[13]

Hic avidus stetit

Vulcanus, hic matrona Juno, et

Nunquam humeris positurus arcum;

Qui rore puro Castaliæ lavit

Crines solutos, qui Lyciæ tenet

Dumeta natalemque silvam,

Delius et Patareus Apollo.

[14]

——domus Albuneæ resonantis,

Et præceps Anio, et Tiburni lucus, et uda

Mobilibus pomaria rivis

[15] These Sonnets have been brought together from very imperfect

manuscripts. It is not to be supposed that their author would have given

them to the public in their present state; but they are in parts so

characteristic of his thought and style, that they will not be without

interest to the readers of his poems.

[16] These Tales were written only a few months before the writer’s

death, during his journeys in Greece, Italy, and the Pyrenees, and had

not been revised by him.

[17] These songs were composed either during the writer’s voyage across

the Atlantic in 1852, or during his residence in America.

[18] Passages of the second letter of Parepidemus (vol. i. pp. 400, 401)

illustrate the theory which Mr. Clough has carried into practice in these

hexameters as well as in the Translations from the Iliad.

[19] A great proportion of the Poems described as Miscellaneous have,

like some included in previous divisions, been brought together from

rough copies and unfinished manuscripts. Fragmentary and imperfect as

they are, they yet are so characteristic of their writer, that they have

been placed here along with others more finished.

[20] This thought is taken from a passage on astronomy in Plato’s

_Republic_, in which the following sentence occurs, vii. 529, D: ‘We

must use the fretwork of the sky as patterns, with a view to the study

which aims at these higher realities, just as if we chanced to meet with

diagrams cunningly drawn and devised by Dædalus or some other craftsman

or painter.’

INDEX OF THE FIRST LINES.

PAGE

A Highland inn among the western hills 384

A youth and maid upon a summer night 352

A youth was I. An elder friend with me 325

Across the sea, along the shore 94

Ah, blame him not because he’s gay! 431

Am I with you, or you with me? 410

And replying, said godlike, swift-footed Achilles 418

As, at a railway junction, men 35

As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 38

Away, haunt thou not me 11

Beside me,—in the car,—she sat 260

Blessed are those who have not seen 90

Bright October was come, the misty-bright October 236

But a revulsion again came over the spirit of Elspie 245

But if as not by that the soul desired 321

But that from slow dissolving pomps of dawn 430

But whether in the uncoloured light of truth 320

Cease, empty Faith, the Spectrum saith 89

Come back again, my olden heart! 8

Come back, come back, behold with straining mast 404

Come home, come home! and where is home for me 403

Come, Poet, come! 427

Dance on, dance on, we see, we see 432

Dear Eustatio, I write that you may write me an answer 269

Dearest of boys, please come to-day 329

Diogenes by his tub, contenting himself with the sunshine 442

Duty—that’s to say, complying 181

Each for himself is still the rule 183

Eastward, or Northward, or West? I wander and ask as I wander 305

Edward and Jane a married couple were 374

Farewell, farewell! Her vans the vessel tries 401

Farewell, my Highland lassie! when the year returns around 29

For she confessed, as they sat in the dusk, and he saw not her

blushes 239

From thy far sources, ’mid mountains airily climbing 422

Go, foolish thoughts, and join the throng 436

Goddess, the anger sing of the Pelean Achilles 417

Green fields of England! wheresoe’er 404

Hearken to me, ye mothers of my tent 69

Here am I yet, another twelvemonth spent 12

Hope evermore and believe, O man, for e’en as thy thought 188

How in God’s name did Columbus get over 437

How often sit I, poring o’er 14

I dreamed a dream: I dreamt that I espied 96

I have seen higher, holier things than these 19

I saw again the spirits on a day 186

I stayed at La Quenille, ten miles or more 361

If it is thou whose casual hand withdraws 321

If that we thus are guilty doth appear 434

If, when in cheerless wanderings, dull and cold 20

In controversial foul impureness 93

Is it illusion? or does there a spirit from perfecter ages 280

Is it this, then, O world-warrior 448

Is it true, ye gods, who treat us 39

It fortifies my soul to know 90

It is not sweet content, be sure 430

It may be true 91

It was but some few nights ago 3

It was the afternoon; and the sports were now at the ending 201

I’ve often wondered how it is, at times 371

Light words they were, and lightly, falsely said 34

Like a child 14

Lips, lips, open! 440

Lo, here is God, and there is God! 81

Matthew and Mark and Luke and holy John 95

Morn, in yellow and white, came broadening out from the mountains 207

My beloved, is it nothing 443

My sons, and ye children of my sons 74

My wind is turned to bitter north 18

O God! O God! and must I still go on 171

O happy mother!—while the man wayworn 439

O happy they whose hearts receive 189

O kind protecting Darkness! as a child 15

O let me love my love unto myself alone 87

O only Source of all our light and life 85

O richly soiled and richly sunned 446

O ship, ship, ship 413

O stream descending to the sea 196

O tell me, friends, while yet we part 36

O Thou whose image in the shrine 86

Oh, the beautiful child! and oh, the most happy mother! 442

‘Old things need not be therefore true’ 93

On grass, on gravel, in the sun 260

On the mountain, in the woodland 31

Once more the wonted road I tread 16

Or shall I say, Vain word, false thought 452

Over a mountain slope with lentisk, and with abounding 423

Over every hill 441

Over the great windy waters, and over the clear-crested summits 269

Put forth thy leaf, thou lofty plane 197

Roused by importunate knocks 15

Said the Poet, I wouldn’t maintain 438

Say not the struggle nought availeth 452

Say, will it, when our hairs are grey 190

Shall I decide it by a random shot? 322

Since that last evening we have fallen indeed! 43

Slumber and Sleep, two brothers appointed to serve the immortals 441

So I went wrong 7

So in the cottage with Adam the pupils five together 232

So in the golden morning they parted and went to the westward 215

So in the golden weather they waited. But Philip returned not 224

So in the sinful streets, abstracted and alone 104

So on the morrow’s morrow, with Term-time dread returning 250

So spake the voice: and as with a single life 423

Some future day when what is now is not 406

Sweet streamlet bason! at thy side 10

That children in their loveliness should die 319

That out of sight is out of mind 409

That there are better things within the womb 319

The grasses green of sweet content 193

The human spirits saw I on a day 185

The mighty ocean rolls and raves 407

The scene is different, and the place, the air 109

The Silver Wedding! on some pensive ear 20

The skies have sunk, and hid the upper snow 259

There is a city, upbuilt on the quays of the turbulent Arno 309

These are the words of Jacob’s wives, the words 77

Thou shalt have one God only; who 184

Though to the vilest things beneath the moon 12

Thought may well be ever ranging 25

Through the great sinful streets of Naples as I past 100

To see the rich autumnal tint depart 320

To spend uncounted years of pain 91

To think that men of former days 428

To wear out heart, and nerves, and brain 182

Trunks the forest yielded with gums ambrosial oozing 422

Truth is a golden thread, seen here and there 6

’Twas on a sunny summer day 5

Upon the water, in the boat 195

Well, well,—Heaven bless you all from day to day! 13

Were I with you, or you with me 411

Were you with me, or I with you 410

Were you with me, or I with you 412

What voice did on my spirit fall 450

What we, when face to face we see 92

Whate’er you dream with doubt possest 194

When on the primal peaceful blank profound 442

When panting sighs the bosom fill 26

When soft September brings again 10

When the dews are earliest falling 30

Whence are ye, vague desires 191

Whence comest thou, shady lane? and why and how? 8

Where lies the land to which the ship would go? 407

Who is this man that walketh in the field 72

Who ne’er his bread with tears hath ate 441

Why should I say I see the things I see not? 23

Ye flags of Piccadilly 402

Yes, I have lied, and so must walk my way 13

Yet to the wondrous St. Peter’s, and yet to the solemn Rotonda 293

You complain of the woman for roving from one to another 441

Youth, that went, is come again 434

THE END.

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