Poems

The night is black with clouds that thou art bringing From the far waters of the stormy main, Welling their woes forth wearily in rain, Betwixt us and the light their dark course winging, And dreary shadows o'er the spirit flinging.

Whence is thy power to smite the silent heart, Till as of old the unseal'd waters run? Whence is thy magic, Oh! thou unseen one, To make still sorrows from their slumbers start, And play again, unsought, their bitter part?

We are all one with Nature--every breeze Stealeth about the chambers of the soul, Haunting their rest with sounds of joy or dole; And every cloud that creepeth from the seas, Traileth its shade o'er human sympathies.

Blow! blow, thou weird wind, till the clouds be rent, And starlight glimmer through the riven seams, Scatter their darkness like the mist of dreams, Till all the fleeting, spectre-gloom be spent, And the bright Future gem the firmament.

Blow! blow! Night's "Mene Tekel" even now Glows on her palace-walls, and she shall pass Like the dim vapour from a burnish'd glass; And no chill shadows o'er the soul shall go, Borne by each weeping West Wind to and fro.

A CHALLENGE.

What art thou--friend or foe? Stand! stand! My heart is true as steel, Steady still in woe and weal, Strong to bear, though quick to feel-- Take my hand!

What art thou--friend or foe? Stand! stand! Only my own ease seek I, I am deaf to Pity's cry, If men hunger, let them die-- Traitor! stand!

What art thou--friend or foe? Stand! stand! I've a kiss for maiden fair, I've a blow for who may dare, I've a song to banish care-- Take my hand!

What art thou--friend or foe? Stand! stand! I'm your servant whilst you're great, As you sink, my cares abate, When you're poor you have my hate,-- Traitor! stand!

What art thou--friend or foe? Stand! stand! If you trust me, I'll be true, If you slight me, I'll slight you, If you wrong me, you shall rue-- Take my hand!

What art thou--friend or foe? Stand! stand! I can work with any tools-- Clothe myself by stripping fools-- Bend the knee whoever rules-- Traitor! stand!

What art thou--friend or foe? Stand! stand! I've a heart that hates all wrong, Aids the weak against the strong, Loves the Truth, and seeks it long-- Take my hand!

What art thou--friend or foe? Stand! stand! I forgive no woman's sin, Hunt her with self-righteous mien, Never take her, mourning, in From the desert of her sin-- Traitor! stand!

What art thou--friend or foe! Stand! stand! I've a heart that melts at sorrow, I've a store the poor may borrow I'm the same to-day, to-morrow-- Take my hand!

AT PARTING.

Peace! Let me go, or ere it be too late; Dip not your arrows in the honey-mead; Paint not the wound through which my heart doth bleed; Leave me unmock'd, unpitied to my fate-- Peace! Let me go.

Think you that words can smooth my rugged track? Words heal the stab your soft white hands have made, Or stir the burthen on my bosom laid? Winds shook not Earth from Atlas' bended back-- Peace! Let me go.

What though it be the last time we shall meet-- Raise your white brow, and wreathe your raven hair, And fill with music sweet the summer air; Not this again shall draw me to your feet-- Peace! Let me go.

No laurels from my vanquish'd heart shall wave Round your triumphant beauty as you go, Not thus adorn'd work out some other's woe-- Yet, if you will, pluck daisies from my grave! Peace! Let me go.

A WITHERED ROSE-BUD.

Time sets his footprints on our little Earth, And, walk he ne'er so softly, some sweet thing Falls 'neath each foot-fall, crush'd amid its mirth, Tracking the course of Life's short wandering, With fallen remnants of its mortal part, Freeing the soul, but weighing down the heart.

Thou flower of Love! thou little treasury Of gentleness, and purity, and grace! What hidden virtue hath Death reft from thee-- What unseen essence melted into space? For now thou liest like a sinless child, Whom God hath homeward to his bosom smiled.

The dew-shower fell on thee, the sunbeam play'd, As Life is ever made of smiles and tears; And ofttimes has the breeze of summer sway'd, And with its mellow music mock'd thy fears; But now, O wonder, thou art pale and wan, And there's a beauty and a fragrance gone!

Thus fade we--thus our hopes and joys, rose-bright, Yield up their sweetness ere they reach their prime, And their poor fabrics lie within our sight, Stript of their radiance e'en in summer-time-- Their spirit hath gone from them, and they wither, But wherefore hath the spirit gone, and whither?

Our knowledge is like dreams amid a sleep-- Faint-pinion'd thoughts that beat the vault of Night, And flutter earthward--so we smile or weep At what we know not, cannot see aright; Life is death, and death is life, perchance, In the dim twilight of our waking trance.

Thou art a leaf from the great Book of God, Whose lightest word is wiser than the wise; And, meekly resting there upon the sod, Thou breathest upward holy mysteries, In simple tones that steal upon the sense, Like Childhood's prattling truth and innocence.

Then, O sweet flower, that in thy low estate Hast in thee emblems of the life of Man, Read to our beings whispers of the fate That waits us at the end of Time's short span; How short we know not--e'en the bud may be Gather'd in harvest to eternity.

DE PROFUNDIS.

Turn thine eyes from me, Angel of Heaven-- Read not my soul, Angel of Heaven-- Sorrow is steeping my pale cheeks with weeping, Evermore keeping her wand on my heart, On my cold stony heart, while the tear-fountains start To purge it from leaven too sinful for Heaven-- Read not my soul, yet, Angel of Heaven!

Why hast thou ta'en her, Angel of Heaven? Ta'en her so soon, Angel of Heaven? Yearning to gain her, hast thou thus slain her Ere sin could stain her--borne her away, Borne her far, far away, into eternal day, Left me alone to stay--left me to weep and pray? Why hast thou ta'en her, Angel of Heaven? Ta'en her so soon, Angel of Heaven?

Shines the place brighter, Angel of Heaven? Brighter for her, Angel of Heaven? Comes there not streaming into my dreaming, At morning's beaming, rays more divine, Rays from her soul divine, rays giving strength to mine? Shines she not radiantly over the skies, Over the morning skies, ere the Earth-vapours rise, 'Twixt me and Paradise, Angel of Heaven? _Her_ blessed Paradise, Angel of Heaven?

Turn thine eyes to me, Angel of Heaven-- Search through and through me, Angel of Heaven; Read my soul's yearning, wild, endlessly burning, Tumultuously spurning Fate's bitter decree, Fate's tyrannic decree, that tore her from me, Bore her from me to Eternity. Merciless Reaper, no more shalt thou keep her From fond eyes that weep her for ever and ever, Vain thine endeavour our spirits to sever, Take my soul with thee, Angel of Heaven, Bear me unto her, Angel of Heaven.

THE MOTHER.

There is a land whereon the sun's warm gaze, God-like, all-seeing, falls right down through space, And the weak Earth, quite smitten by its rays, Lies scorch'd and powerless with mute silent face, Like a tranced body, where no changing glow Tells that the life-streams through its channels flow.

Peopled it is by nations scant and few, Set far apart among the trackless sands, Unlearn'd, uncultured, wild and swart of hue, Roaming the deserts in divided bands, Where the green pastures call them, and the deer Troop yet within the range of bow and spear.

Unhappy Afric! can thy boundless plains, Where the royal lion snuffs the free pure air, And every breeze laughs at the tyrant's chains, Be but the nest of slavery and despair, Rearing a brood whose craven souls can be Robb'd of the very dream of Liberty?

But, as the shore of this vast sea of sand, Stretches afar a country rich and green, With waving foliage shading all the land, And flowing waters bright with sunny sheen; And here browse countless herds of dappled deer, Blesboks and antelopes, remote from fear.

Amid it mighty mountains proudly rise, Great monarchs of a boundless continent, Rearing their hoary summits to the skies, As claiming empire of the firmament; Gaunt silent majesties of sea and earth, Stern-featured children of Titanic birth.

Within their shadows many peoples dwell; Divided kingdoms gather'd round some chief, With lodges cluster'd by some stream or well, To yield their cattle ever cool relief From the fierce scorching of the burning sun, And slake their hot thirst when the toil is done.

It chanced that war, which still doth enter in Where men are most or fewest, small or great, Here of a sudden raised its hellish din, And woke to fury, lust, and bloody hate; So that with battles, forays, murders, thefts, Rang oft the echoes of the mountain clefts.

There was one tribe that in unconscious ease Slumber'd and thought of danger but in dreams, Heard not the tramp of men upon the breeze, While the stars, watching with faint trembling beams, Saw noiseless spectres round the village creep, Like apparitions of unquiet sleep.

Then, silence-murder'd, what a yell arose! And the scared sleepers, rushing forth in fear, Met death without the portals from dim foes, Or e'er the warrior could grasp his spear, Or fit the arrow to his unstrung bow, Or ward the fatal stroke that laid him low.

So, with the plunder, and a captured band Of hapless women, ere the morning light Flitted the victors swiftly through the land, Red with the trophies of their deadly fight, Leaving the lion and his hungry crew To clear the morning of this bloody dew.

To meet them joyous forth their women came, And led them back in triumph to the fold; Taunting their foes with many a bitter shame, Though now they lay in Death's aims stark and cold: Whilst the poor captives, rack'd with fear and woe, Cower'd close together from Fate's hapless blow.

Soon there came traders from the coast, and then The weeping captives all were marshall'd out, And barter'd singly with the heartless men, Each bosom trembling still with fear and doubt; But when the truth burst on them, a hoarse cry Of wild despair ascended to the sky.

There was one there who from the Tree of Life Pluck'd yet the blossoms with the fruit of years; Scarce yet a woman, though a meek-soul'd wife, And with a babe to claim her prayers and tears, A tender bud of early summer time Ere breezy woods are in their verdant prime.

Her 'mongst the rest they barter'd, and the child, Too young to sever from its mother's breast, Left they unnoticed, whilst she, poor one, wild 'Twixt hope and fear, still held it closely prest Unto her heart, whose throbbings, loud and deep, Beat an alarum through the infant's sleep.

But soon her master, as he hasten'd off With his new purchases, the infant caught, And bid the mother, with a heartless scoff, Fling it away: said he, "'Tis good for nought; None of this lumber can we have, the road Is long enough to tread without a load."

The mother clasp'd her babe with bitter cry, But a rude hand enforced it from her arms, And the rough steward held it up on high, Laughing aloud the while at her alarms; Said he unto his master; "This shall be A bait to draw her on with willingly."

He bound around the infant's waist a line, That fasten'd to his crupper, and then gave The babe back to her, laughing,--"That end's thine-- The other stays with me;" "A witty slave!" The master chuckled, and they moved away, She following with anguish and dismay.

They journey'd o'er the desert, 'neath a sky Scorch'd by the fiery footsteps of the sun, Without a shade to bless the wistful eye; And soon her fellow slaves droop'd, one by one, Callous to blows that harshly drove them on, Strength, hope, and love of life all seeming gone.

But she went onward with no word or plaint, Clasping the child unto her bosom still, Unflagging when all else began to faint, Intent to save her little one from ill; And they look'd on her as she sped along, Wond'ring what made so frail a creature strong.

At eve she bent above her sleeping treasure, With eyes that wept for pity and for love, Filling its cup of life in richer measure, With the blest care that watches us above; And in the morn they bound the babe again, And so drew on the mother in their train.

Her tender feet soon wounded were, and sore With the rough travel, and the weary way, And her slight limbs, o'ertask'd and loaded, bore Less lightly up their burden day by day; But, nature failing, Love imparted power To bear her steps up to the resting hour.

Alas! the mother gazed with aching eyes Upon the life-spring in her little child, As one laid by a fountain while it dries; Daily she watch'd it ebb, till she grew wild With anguish at the Angel drawing near, And bared her own breast for his fatal spear.

She lost all sense of weariness and pain, And with hot tearless eyes still hurried on, Bearing the child girt by its cruel chain, All thought save of her cherish'd burden gone, Fearful alone lest other eyes should guess The feeble thing her longing arms did press.

At last they saw the babe was weaker growing, That soon the little spark of life must fade, So, spite of all her prayers, and wild tears flowing, Beside a spring the sleeping child they laid, And bid her onward, heedless of her woe But on the earth she fell, and would not go.

They raised her up, and bound her on a steed, And so march'd onward on their weary way-- For there was none to help her in her need, And thus they travell'd eastward all the day, But when they rested, and on each bow'd head Sleep heavy lay, the mother rose and fled.

And speeding swiftly with a lapwing's flight, Backward she hurried to the little spring, Led by a power that knoweth not the night, But flies through darkness with unerring wing; And so e'er morning shimmer'd in the East, She clasp'd her dead babe to her panting breast.

At morn they miss'd her, and the women said, "She seeks her babe beside the distant well, There wilt thou find her, if she be not dead, For O! the love of mother who can tell." And so the steward gallop'd back in haste, To seek the lost one in the desert waste.

At last the spring rose in the distant sand, With its close verdure pleasant to the eye, And there, as, nearing it, the place he scann'd, He saw the mother with her infant lie, Quiet and stilly on each other's breast, Folded together in unbroken rest;

Her arms around it thrown, that e'en in sleep Still press'd the infant to her stricken heart, No rest so perfect, no repose so deep, From her sweet babe the mother's love to part. Before him loud and bitter curses sped-- Who heard him?--for the mother too lay dead.

SONNET.

DATUR HORA QUIETI.

The sun is slowly sinking in the West; The plough lies idle, and the weary team, Cool'd with the freshness of the shallow stream, Over the meadows hasten to their rest; The breeze is hush'd, and no more turns the mill, With its light sails upon yon rising crest; Its busy music now awhile is still, And not a sound heaves up from Nature's breast; The barks upon the river smoothly ride, With sails all furl'd, and flags that listless fall, Unrock'd, unshaken by the flowing tide; The cattle lazy lie within the stall; And thus the Time-stream on doth sweetly glide, Bearing repose and slumber unto all.

SEA MARGINS.

Ever restless, ever toiling, Fretting fiercely on its narrow bounds, Still filling heaven and earth with mournful sounds, Old ocean, sullen from its rocks recoiling, Rearing wild waves foam-crested to the sky, Lashes again the beaches angrily:

Slowly victor-like advancing, Marching roughly o'er the conquer'd land, Clean sweeping olden limits from the strand, In proud derision o'er the spoil'd Earth glancing, Where 'neath its ruthless tide on hill or plain, No flower or shady leaf shall bud again.

Slowly thus the ocean creeping, Creeping coldly o'er the world of old, Stole many an Eden from the Age of Gold, And gazing now we see blank billows sweeping, Long cheerless wavings of the sullen seas, Were once the sun shone bright on flowery leas.

Over Earth, and over Being, Over many glories of the Past, Remorseless floods are flowing fierce and fast, Snatching sun-lighted Tempes from our seeing, Rolling their dreary surges o'er the shore, Where Love had hoped to dwell for evermore.

Sadly on Time's heaving ocean, Waving darkly o'er Youth's Paradise, Back gaze we ever with dim tearful eyes, Seeking old joys beyond its rude commotion, Seeking the old world glories pass'd away, Seeking the golden shores of Life's Cathay.

SONG.

Love took me softly by the hand, Love led me all the country o'er, And show'd me beauty in the land, That I had never dreamt before, Never before, Oh! Love! sweet Love!

There was a glory in the morn, There was a calmness in the night, A mildness by the south wind borne, That I had never felt aright, Never aright, Oh! Love! sweet Love!

But now it cannot pass away, I see it wheresoe'er I go, And in my heart by night and day, Its gladness waveth to and fro, By night and day, Oh! Love! sweet Love!

THE BELL.

Through the calm and silent air Floats the tolling funeral bell, Swooning over hill and dell, Heavy laden with despair; Mute between each muffled stroke, Sad as though a dead voice spoke, Out of the dim Past time spoke, Stands my heart all mute with care.

The Bell is tolling on, and deep, Deep and drear into my heart All its bitter accents dart. Peace! sad chime, I will not weep-- What is there within thy tone, That should wring my heart alone, Rive it with this endless moan? Peace! and let past sorrows sleep!

Fling your music on the breeze, Mock the sighing of the willows, Mock the lapping of the billows, Mock not human sympathies; Slow chime, sad chime, mock me not, With that loved voice ne'er forgot, Flooding me with tears blood-hot; Mock not soul-deep memories!

Come not from the unseen Past, Flying up the silent gale, With that deep and muffled wail, Slaying me with lying tale, Base chime, false chime from the Past! Not in sighs of mortal pain, Pain and anguish rise again, Voices from the far Death-plain-- Not thus speaks she from the Past.

Peace! yet--for though she speaks not From her Paradise in thee, Whispers nevermore to me In my lonely misery, Oh! that loved voice ne'er forgot, Thou dost wake my brooding soul, Smit'st it till the bitter dole Breaks aloud beyond controul, While the briny tear-drops roll, Drowning, cries which she hears not.

Cruel Bell! harsh Bell! ring on, I shall turn my heart to stone, Flinging back thy mocking tone, Callous of thy deepest moan Lying Bell! thy power is gone! Spake she from her golden cloud, Spake she to my heart aloud, Every murmur of her voice, Would bid my lone heart rejoice; Every murmur of her voice, Ah! would make my heart rejoice, Lying Bell! thy power is gone.

LLEWELLYN.

I.--_In the Porch._

MORGAN _and a_ MONK.

MORGAN.

The tale is pitiful. 'Twas on this wise-- Llewellyn went at morn among the hills, To hunt, as is his use. My lady, too, With all her maidens, early sallied forth, A pilgrimage among the neighbouring vales, Culling of simples, nor yet comes she home; And so the child lay sleeping in his crib, With Gelert--you remember the old hound? He pull'd the stag of ten down by the Holy Well-- With Gelert set to watch him like a nurse.

MONK.