Is she really dead or only asleep
With her sleeping garments on?
She only sleeps, and in meadow and grove
Again in gay dances her steps shall move;
But shall she come back with the friends we love?
God knows, and His will be done.
ON A DEAD FIELD-FLOWER.
Torn by some careless hand
From thy mother’s breast,
Where gentle breezes fann’d
Thy little leaves to rest,
Here dost thou lie, forsaken,
No more shalt thou awaken,
To gladden with thy beauty the wanderer opprest!
No more at early morn,
When the lark’s gay song,
Through grove and meadow borne,
Calls his merry mates along,
Shall thy tiny arms, outspreading,
Their grateful odour shedding,
Give silent, speaking welcome to Nature’s joyous throng!
Peaceful and calm thy sleep!
Thy life’s race run,
Thou hadst no cause to weep,
No duty left undone!
Sweet little withered blossom,
How many a blighted bosom
Would fain repose as softly beneath a summer’s sun!
How many a child of care,
Won by thy power,
Might raise his voice in prayer,
Taught by thee, little flower!
Ah! surely thou wast given,
A gracious boon from heaven,
To throw its charm on sinful earth for one short blissful hour!
Farewell! I may not stay;
Thy frail, drooping form
Heeds not the sun’s fierce ray,
Nor winter’s frowning storm!
Like thee, kind hearts have perish’d
By those that should have cherish’d,
And held the shield of friendship to shelter them from harm.
Like thee, I soon must fade,
And ’neath the sky
Lifeless and cold be laid!
But though I claim no sigh,
Though no fond heart may miss me
When death’s pale lips shall kiss me,
If my short life be pure as thine, I need not fear to die.
MAY, 1857.
LINES
WRITTEN ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE PRINCE OF WALES
FROM PORTLAND, OCTOBER, 1860.
(_Set to Music by_ F. BARNBY, Esq., _and sung at a Concert given in
honour of the Prince, in Montreal, November 9th, 1860_.)
I.
He stands alone upon the deck,
A prince without a peer,
He hears the cannon’s farewell boom,
The loud and loyal cheer--
A prayer from true New England hearts,
Honest and brave and free,
That God would guide Old England’s heir
Safe o’er the stormy sea.
He sees the sad, regretful gaze
That marks him as he goes,
And prays that God may never make
Such trusty friends his foes,
But that, as brothers in the cause
Of Liberty and Right,
Under the sacred flag of Truth
They ever may unite.
II.
He stands alone upon the deck,
Son of the noblest Queen
That ever placed a royal crown
Upon a brow serene.
For her sake did we welcome him,
Who owns an empire’s love;
But now we bless him for his own,--
God bless him from above!
He stands alone, a boy in years,
A “mighty one” by birth,
Crowned with a love that far excels
The brightest crowns of earth;
Nor thinks he of the pomp and power
That wait his glad return,
But thoughts of manly tenderness
Deep in his bosom burn.
III.
He stands alone upon the deck,
Though thousands gaze on him,
He sees them not, for fond regret
Has made his blue eyes dim;
His boyish lip is quivering,
And flushed his boyish cheek,
And his tearful eye speaks more, by far,
Than words could ever speak.
God grant that he may ever be
As good a prince as now,
Nor ever may true virtue’s crown
Be lifted from his brow!
God bless him for his mother’s sake,
God bless him for his own,
As thus he stands upon the deck,
’Mid thousands all alone!
ODE ON THE MARRIAGE OF THE PRINCE OF WALES.
MARCH 10th, 1863.
I.
Roses of England of every hue,
Your heads were lately bowed with the dew
Of sorrow for one that was good and true,
Through the length and breadth of your Island-garden,
Missing a hand that had cared for you!
He sleeps in your midst, O Roses,
The Roses he loved and knew,
And blest was your sorrow, Roses,
You gave unto worth its due!
II.
But, O Roses, smile again,
He for whom you weep
Left his spirit among men
When he fell asleep,--
Left his spirit and his name,
Left his pure, unspotted fame,
One who lives them all can claim.
Smile on him, O Roses!
He whose head reposes
In a sacred spot of your Island-garden,
Left him to you, good, brave and true,
To cherish and guard you, Roses!
III.
And now to you he brings
A treasure to keep and love,
From the north-land home of the old sea kings,--
A beautiful Danish Dove!
I heard proud Ocean’s waves,
England’s and Denmark’s slaves,
Tell it in all the caves
That peep through the wall of your Island-garden!
Then welcome her sweetly, Roses,
She shall nestle among you soon,
And shall be to the loved of him whom you loved
In sorrow a priceless boon!
IV.
Winds that sport with the sea,
Go east, west, south and north,
And from every Rose of the English tree
That remembers its English birth
Carry from far and wide
A gentle message of love
To the lone Rose-queen and her garden’s pride,
And his beautiful Danish Dove.
TO A SNOWBIRD.
I.
O gentle little comer
In wintry days,
Far more than songs of summer
I love thy lays.
They come when flowers are sweetest,
And leaves are green;
But thou thy song repeatest
In sterner scene.
II.
In joyous days are many
The friends we find;
In dark ones scarcely any,
To soothe the mind.
But friends in hours of sorrow
Far more we prize
Than those that go to-morrow
If storms arise.
THE CLOUDS ARE BLUSHING.
The clouds are blushing, the sun is gone,
He has been kissing them, every one,
Except the shy ones, that kept away,
And tearfully watched his parting ray;
But they love him no less
For their bashfulness;
The truest of lovers are not the most gay.
The sun is gone, and the blushing clouds
Are growing dimmer, as Night enshrouds
Sky, sea and land in her sombre pall--
The sexton at old Earth’s funeral,
When her race is run,
And her work is done,
And her children are weaned from her, one and all.
The Man of the Moon has lit his lamp,
And is now commencing his airy tramp,
To see how the stars, those merry elves
That wink as he passes, behave themselves.
With steady pace
He is running his race,
Holding his lamp with a dignified grace.
The sun is rising behind the hill,
And I am waiting and watching still--
Waiting and watching, as night goes by,
What queer little scenes take place in the sky,
When the silence is deep
And men are asleep,
And none are awake but the stars and I!
MAY, 1859.
UNSPOKEN.
.... Quis prodere tanta relatu
.... possit?
--_Claudian._
There is a voice that never stirs the lips,--
Felt, but not heard; that vibrates through the soul,--
A solemn music; but no human speech
Can give that music to the ambient air.
The noblest poem poet ever wrote;
The brightest picture artist ever drew;
The loftiest music lyrist ever sung;
The gentlest accents woman ever spoke,--
Are paraphrases of a felt original,
That lip, or pen, or pencil, cannot show
Unto the seeing eye or listening ear.
The thoughts we utter are but half themselves.
The poet knows this well. The artist knows
His hands bear not the burden of his thoughts
Upon the canvas. The musician knows
His soul must ever perish on his lips.
Even the eye,--“the window of the soul,”--
Though it may shed a light a little way,
Gives but a glimpse of that which burns within.
The sweet, unconscious tenderness of flowers;
The boundless awe of star-encircled night;
The tear that trickles down an old man’s cheek;
Ocean’s loud pulse, that makes our own beat high;
The vocal throb of a great multitude;
The pause when we have heard and said “Farewell,”
And feel the pressure of a hand that’s gone;
The thought that we have wronged our truest friend,
When he is sleeping in the arms of Death;
The silent, fathomless anguish that engulfs
Him who has found the precious power to love,
And sees that all he loves is torn from him;
His dying moments who is void of hope;
Jezebel; Nero; Judas; any one
Of all the hideous things that crawled through life
In human form;--what mortal could express
All that he feels in one or all of these,
Giving the very image of his thought?
Life, Death, Hell, Judgment, Resurrection, GOD--
Who can express their meaning? Who can bound
Awe that is infinite in finite words?
Thus much of us must ever be concealed--
Spite of the high ambition to be born
Of what is noblest in us,--till His breath
Who woke the morning stars to sing their song,
Awakes our souls to fuller utterance.
JEPHTHAH.
JUDGES xi.
I.
Rejoice ye tribes of Israel, the Lord was on your side,
Your fierce and daring enemies have fallen in their pride.
In vain the heathen strove against Jehovah’s awful word,
For Ammon’s proud, presumptuous sons have perished by the sword.
II.
From Aroer to Minnith and to Abel’s fertile plain
Of twenty noble cities the “mighty men” are slain;
Rejoice, thou son of Gilead, the Lord hath heard thy vow,--
Thy foes are crushed, thy father’s sons before thy presence bow.
III.
It is an hour of triumph to the warrior and his band,
An hour of stern rejoicing to all the chosen land,
When the conqueror of Ammon, the valiant of his race,
Beholds once more, with well-earned joy, his long-lost native place.
IV.
But who is this advancing with gay attendant crowd?
O Jephthah! dost remember now the vow that thou hast vowed?
Why is thy face so ghastly pale? why sinks thy noble head?
Thy daughter’s blood must now atone for all that thou hast shed!
V.
Honour and pomp and victory are all forgotten now,
And clouds of darkest anguish sweep across the father’s brow.
He speaks--his words are words of death: he orders--is obeyed--
And lonely mountains mourn the fate of Israel’s queenly maid.
VI.
Rejoice, ye tribes of Israel, the Lord was on your side,
Your fierce presumptuous enemies have fallen in their pride?
But, Jephthah, thou art childless now, lift up thy voice and weep!
No sound of wailing can disturb thy daughter’s dreamless sleep!
MAY, 1858.
DE PROFUNDIS.
I’ve seen the Ocean try to kiss the Moon,
Till the wild effort of his hopeless love
Tortured him into madness, and the roar
From his great throat was terrible to hear;
And his vast bosom heaved such awful sighs
As made Earth tremble to her very bones,
And all her children cling to her for fear.
And I have watched and seen a gentle change
Come over him, till, like a child, he lay,
That, disappointed, cries herself asleep,
And on her sorrow angels paint a dream
So happy that her face is one sweet smile.
So have I seen the love-tost Ocean smile
After his fury, till I almost hoped
That the gay Moon would never tempt him more.
But ever his heart throbs at her approach,
And he awakes in all the strength of love,
And frets himself to madness, watching her.
And when, as I have sometimes seen, the Sun,
His mighty rival, struts before his eyes
With her he loves, and warmly looks on her,
Oh! how his heart is torn with jealousy!
Oh! how he froths and foams and moans and raves,
Till all his energy is lost in sleep,
From which his love will rouse him soon again!
So did I learn the Ocean’s tale of love,
Watching him, day by day, for many years,
Hearing him often murmur in his sleep
Such sweet, sad murmurs, that I pitied him;
And, like Electra, sat beside his bed
Till all the madness of his love awoke.
O Ocean! thou art like the human heart,
Which craves forever what it cannot have,
And, though a little it forget its strife
Of longing, only wakes to long again
For that which is no more accessible
Than is the Moon to thee! Yet, shouldst thou lie
Dull, sluggish, motionless, thy very life
Would grow corrupt, and from the stagnant mass
All things abominable would creep forth
To soil with slimy poison the fair Earth;
And that alone which moves thee to thy heart
Can keep thee pure and bright and beautiful!
So, by the anguish of a hopeless love,--
So, by the madness born of mental pain,--
So, by the endless strife of joy and fear,--
So, by all sufferings, tortures, agonies,--
So, by the powers that shake it to its depths,--
So, by the very loss of what it seeks,--
The heart is purified, and that which seems
Its death gives it a fresher, truer life.
LOCHLEVEN.
“We passed Lochleven, and saw the Castle on the Lake from which
poor Queen Mary escaped.”--_The Queen’s Journal._
I.
Sweet words of pity! Oh! if thou could’st rise,
Fair Queen, from out the darkness of the tomb,
And their old beauty light again thine eyes,
And thy persuasive lips no more be dumb,--
If thou, in all thy charms, should’st thus appear,
How thy full heart would throb! With what surprise
And rapture thou would’t watch thy gentle peer,
By sad Lochleven, as, with tender sighs,
She mourned thy fate,--“Poor Mary wandered here.”
II.
This vengeance Time hath brought thee; and thy foe,
Should she, too, rise with envy in her breast,
Would see thee throned with mercy in the best
And purest heart that ever beat below
The purple of a Queen; whose veins are warm
With that same blood that gave the beauteous glow
To thine own cheeks. In her still lives the charm,
For which, in spite of all, men worshipped thee,--
Refined by honour, truth and purity.
UNUS ABEST.
I.
A group of merry children played;
The smiling sun to watch them stayed;
A cloud came by with deadly shade;
“Unus abest.”
II.
Bright faces glow ’mid dance and game;
Hush! some one named a well-known name;
But dance and song go on the same;
“Unus abest.”
III.
A father joins his children’s mirth;
A mother mourns an awful dearth;
“Ashes to ashes, earth to earth;”
“Unus abest.”
IV.
One sits before a lonely fire,
Watching the flame’s unsteady spire
Wasting with suicidal ire;
“Unus abest.”
V.
Thus, day by day, in house or street,
We miss some form we used to meet;
Some human heart has ceased to beat;
“Unus abest.”
VI.
The years pass on; our hair is grey;
A few years more we’ll pass away,
Each leaving to his friends to say
“Unus abest.”
VII.
Then let us live that, when the call
Of the Great Trumpet wakes us all,
These words from God’s high throne may fall:
“NULLUS ABEST.”
THE PRODIGAL’S RETURN.
(_St. Luke’s Gospel_, xv. 17-32.)
I.
Long, my Father, have I wandered
From the home I loved of old,--
All Thy tender mercies squandered,
All Thy loving-kindness sold.
II.
I have sinned against Thy goodness,
Mocked Thy sorrow, scorned Thy love;
Treated all Thy care with rudeness,
’Gainst Thy gentle Spirit strove.
III.
Far from Thy free, bounteous table,
I have fed on husks of sin;
Wayward, thankless, and unstable,
Father, wilt Thou take me in?
IV.
Take me, oh! in mercy take me,
To Thy blessed home again,
And let no enticement shake me,--
Satan’s wiles nor wicked men.
V.
I am sinful, doubting, fearing--
Thou canst banish all alarm;
I am weak, and blind, and erring--
Thou canst shield from every harm.
VI.
Look upon me, crushed and broken,
Humble, contrite, at Thy feet.
Dost Thou know me? Hast Thou spoken?
“Hast Thou come Thy child to meet!”
VII.
Lost and found! Once dead, now living!
Once an outcast, now a son!
Once despairing, now believing,--
I my Father’s house have won.
BALLYSHANNON, 1855.
IT IS THE QUIET HOUR.
It is the quiet hour, when weary Day
Whispers adieu in his dark Sister’s ear,
And my lone soul is wandering away
To blissful scenes that are no longer near;
And well-known faces seem to smile again,
And voices long unheard sound blithe and gay,
As, when, of yore, a happy, careless train,
We plucked the flowers that grew by life’s young way.
Sweet flowers!--destined to a swift decay!
Bright faces!--that on earth have smiled your last!
Gay voices!--that have ceased to sing the lay
That rose spontaneous in the joyous past!
Memory’s own stars amid my night of pain,
Shine out and tell me “Love is not in vain!”
ESSAYS
IN
TRANSLATION.
HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE.
THE PARTING.
(_Homer’s Iliad_ vi. 369-503.)
Thus, having done his duty to his gods
And to his country, Hector sought his home,
Where Art and Nature vied in loveliness.
Love winged his feet; his home he quickly found.
But her whom his soul loved he found not there,
Her of the snowy arms, Andromache:
For she, with infant child and well-robed nurse,
Unto a tower that faced the Grecian camp
Had gone to watch and weep. So Hector paused
Upon the threshold, as he left the house,
And made enquiry of the household maids:
“Come now, handmaidens, answer me in truth,
Whither white-armed Andromache has gone,
To seek my sisters, or my brothers’ wives,
Or to Athene’s temple, where a crowd
Of matrons seek the bright-haired goddess’ wrath
To turn to mercy by the strength of tears?”
A trusty servant quickly made response:
“Hector, my lord, right willingly my lips
Shall answer truthfully thy eager quest,--
Not to thy sisters, nor thy brothers’ wives,
Nor to Athene’s temple, where a crowd
Of matrons seek the bright haired goddess’ wrath
To turn to mercy by the strength of tears,
Has gone Andromache; but she has gone
Unto a lofty tower of Ilion
To watch the contest, for bad tidings came
Of Greeks victorious and of Trojans slain;
And at this moment, like a frenzied one,
She rushes to the rampart, while, behind,
Her darling boy is carried by his nurse.”
She ceased; nor waited Hector long, but rushed
Forth from the house, along the very way
That he had come, through fair-built Troja’s streets;
Nor paused he till he reached the Scæan gate,
(Through which he meant to hie him to the plain).
But here Andromache of queenly dower,
His wife, the daughter of Eëtion,
Who dwelt erstwhile ’neath Placus’ woody height,
In Thebe, ruling o’er Cilician men,
Came running till she met him in the way.
With her, the nurse, who to her bosom held
An innocent-hearted babe, their only son,
His father’s joy, in beauty like a star,
Scamandrius named by Hector, but the host
Called him Astyanax, the City’s King,
Honouring Hector chief defence of Troy.
And now he looked on him, and smiled a smile
That spake his heart more than a thousand words,
And called the tears into his mother’s eyes.
She, clinging to her husband, grasped his hand,
And, sobbing “Hector,” spoke to him these words:
“Ah! love, thy bravery will be thy bane,
And, seeking glory, thou forgettest _him_
And me, ah! hapless me when thou art gone!
Soon, soon, I know it, all the foes of Troy,
Rushing on thee at once, shall take thy life.
And, when I miss thee, it were better far
That I were laid beneath the ground: for I
Shall then have none to comfort me, not one,
But woes on woes, when thou hast left me, Hector!
No sire have I, nor gentle mother left,--
_Him_, as thou know’st, the proud Achilles slew,
And razed his fair-built city to the ground.
High-gated Thebe. Yet he spoiled him not,
Although he slew him, but, with reverence,
Laid him in glittering arms upon the pyre,
And raised a mound in honour of his name,
Which the hill-nymphs garlanded round with elms,
The daughters of the ægis-bearing Zeus.
And my seven brothers, in one fatal day,
Entered the gloomy shades where Pluto reigns,
Slain by the ruthless hand that slew my sire,
As, in their native fields, they watched the herds
Of kine, slow-footed, and of snowy sheep.
Nor did my queenly mother long survive,
For, led a captive to the Grecian camp,
With other spoils, the victor sent her home,
For goodly ransom, only to be slain
By the sure shaft of huntress Artemis.
But thou art father, mother, brother, spouse,
My pride, my Hector! Oh! then, pity me!
Stay here and watch with me upon this tower,--
Stay, stay, my Hector, go not hence to make
Thy child an orphan and a widow me!
But set the forces by the Fig-tree Hill,
Where the chief risk of hostile entrance lies,
And where the wall is weakest. At that point
Already have the bravest of our foes--
Idomeneus and either Ajax, Diomede,
And the two sons of Atreus--made assault,
Whether incited thither by some voice
Prophetic, or high hope of victory.
So stay, my Hector, they will need thee here.”
Then valiant Hector, of quick-glancing helm,
Thus made reply: “Of all that thou hast said,
My own true wife, I feel, I know the truth,
But--could I bear the taunts of Trojan chiefs
And stately Trojan dames, if, coward-like,
I skulked from battle in my country’s need?
Nor does my spirit keep me from the fight,
For I have learned, brave-hearted, ’mid the first,
To draw my sword in Ilion’s defence,
To struggle for the honour of my sire
And for my own. Although too well I know
The day shall come when sacred Troy must fall,
And Priam and his war-like hosts, who well
Can wield in fight the ashen-handled spear!
But not the woes of my brave countrymen,
Nor yet my mother’s nor my kingly sire’s,
Nor all my brethren’s who shall bite the dust
’Neath bitter foes, touch me so much as thine,
When some one of the brass-mailed Greeks shall end
Thy days of freedom, leading thee away
In tears; and, haply, in far Argos, thou
May’st tend another’s loom or water draw
From Hyperea’s or Messeis’ fount,--
A slavish duty forced on thee by fate.
And some one, looking on thy tears, may say:
‘_She_ was the wife of Hector, who excelled
In fight among the chiefs that fought for Troy.’
And thy poor heart will ache with vain regret
For him whose strong right arm would keep thee free.
Then may his heaped-up grave keep Hector’s eyes
From looking on thy sorrow and disgrace!”
So spake the noble Hector, and his arms
Extended to receive his son; but _he_
Shrank, crying, to his well-robed nurse’s breast,
Fearing the war-like presence of his sire,
His brazen armour and the horse-hair crest
Above his helmet nodding fearfully.
And Hector took the helmet off his head
And laid it down, all gleaming, on the ground;
And then he kissed and dandled him, and prayed
To Zeus and all the gods on his behalf:
“O Zeus and all ye gods, I pray you, grant
That this, my son, may, as his sire, excel,
And may he truly be the City’s King!
And may men say of him, as he returns
From war: ‘He’s braver than his father was.’
May he from war-like men take gory spoils,
And may his mother glory in his might!”
Such was the warrior’s prayer; and in the arms
Of his dear wife he placed the little child.
She clasped the treasure to her fragrant breast,
Tearfully smiling. And her husband’s soul
Was touched with pity, and he nursed her hand,
And called her by her name: “Andromache,
My love, fret not thyself too much for me!
No man descends to Hades ere his time,
And none whoe’er is born escapes his fate,
Whether his heart be cowardly or brave.
But, love, returning home, apply thyself
To household duties, and thy handmaidens
Despatch to theirs, the distaff and the loom.
For war must be the business of men,
And of all men that have been born in Troy,
This war has need of none so much as me.”
Thus having spoken, noble Hector placed
The waving helmet on his head again.
And, silently, Andromache returned
(Oft looking back through her fast-gushing tears)
To the fair mansion of her warrior spouse.
And there, amid her handmaidens, she wept;
And they wept, too, mourning their lord as dead,
While yet he lived: for, though he lived, they said
They knew that he would never more return,
Exulting in his prowess, from the war.
THE LAMENT OF ANDROMACHE FOR HECTOR.
(_Homer’s Iliad_ xxii. 437-515.)