Chapter 5

He was a sturdy little wren; And when he came in spring, we knew, Or seemed to know, the flowers would grow To please him, where they always grew, Among the rushes, cheerfully; But not a rush so straight as he!

All summer long that little wren Would chatter like a saucy thing; And in the bush attack the thrush That on the hawthorn perched to sing. Like many noisy little men, Lived, bragged, and fought that little wren.

There was a thoughtful maid, and I, We used to play along the shore, Searching for shells, and culling flowers, As at the threshold of life's door, Through which we had to pass, we stood, Twin types of childish hardihood.

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Year after year we gathered flowers, And grew apace, as children do; And each returning spring we marked The little wrens, they never grew; One over-quiet and sedate, The other, a bird-reprobate.

But now the marsh is overflowed, The rushes rot beneath the sand; No spring brings back the little wrens, No children loiter hand in hand; The maiden rose-bud, pure and good, Grown to the flower of womanhood.

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GRANDPERE.

Old Grandpere gat in the corner, With his grandchild on his knee, Looking up at his wrinkled visage, For his winters were ninety-three.

Fair Eleanor's locks were flaxen, The old man's once were gray, But now, they were white as the snow-drift That lay on the bleak highway.

Her summers rolled on as golden As waves over sunny seas; But Grandpere could perceive no summers, The winters alone were his.

He folded his arms around her, Like Winter embracing Spring; And the angels looked down from heaven, And smiled on their slumbering.

But soon the angelic faces Were filled with seraphic light, As they gazed on a beauteous spirit Passing up through the frosty night:

Till it stood serene before them, A youth most divinely fair; And they saw that the new-born angel Was the spirit of old Grandpere.

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ENGLAND'S HOPE AND ENGLAND'S HEIR.

England's Hope and England's Heir! Head and crown of Britain's glory, Be thy future half so fair As her past is famed in story, Then wilt thou be great, indeed, Daring, where there's cause to dare; Greatest in the hour of need, England's Hope and England's Heir.

By her past, in acts supreme, By her present grand endeavour, By her future, which the gleam Of our fond hopes brings us ever: We can trust that thou wilt be Worthy of a fame so rare, Worthy of thy destiny, England's Hope and England's Heir.

Be thy spirit fraught with hers, Queen, whom we revere and honour; Be thine acts love's messengers, Brightly flashing back upon her; Be what most her trust would deem, Help the answer to her prayer, Realize her holiest dream, England's Hope and England's Heir.

Welcome, Prince! the land is wide, Wider still the love we cherish; Love that thou shalt find, when tried, Is not born to droop and perish;

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Welcome to our heart of hearts; You will find no falsehood there, But the zeal that truth imparts, England's Hope and England's Heir.

Welcome to our woodland deeps, To our inland lakes, and rivers, Where the rapid roars and sweeps, Where the brightest sunlight quivers. Loyal souls can never fail; Serfdom crouches in its lair; But our British hearts are hale, England's Hope and England's Heir.

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ROSE.

When the evening broods quiescent Over mountain, vale and lea, And the moon uplifts her crescent Far above the peaceful sea, Little Rose, the fisher's daughter, Passes in her cedar skiff O'er the dreamy waste of water, To the signal on the cliff.

Have a care, my merry maiden! Young Adonis though he be, Many hearts are secret-laden That have trusted such as he. Has he worth, and is he truthful? Thoughtless maiden rarely knows; But, "He's handsome, brave and youthful," Says the heart of little Rose.

Hark! the horn--its shrill vibrations Tremble through the maiden's breast, As the sweet reverberations Dwindle to their whispered rest; Sweeter far the honied sentence Sealing up her mind's repose; Love as yet needs no repentance In the heart of little Rose.

Heaven shield thee, trusting mortal! Love has heaved its firstborn sigh; But from the pellucid portal Of her calm, indignant eye,

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Darts that make the strong man tremble Pierce his bosom ere he goes; Rank and station may dissemble, There is truth in little Rose.

Take my hand, my fisher maiden, There's a grasp for thee and thine; Constancy is love's bright Aiden, Self-denial is divine. Take my hand upon this pláteau, Let me share thy mortal throes; Come, dear Love! we'll build our cháteau In the heart of little Rose.

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THE DREAMER.

Spirit of Song! whose whispers Delight my pensive brain, When will the perfect harmony Ring through my feeble strain?

When will the rills of melody Be widened to a stream! When will the bright and gladsome Day Succeed this morning dream?

"Mortal," the spirit whispered, "If thou wouldst truly win The race thou art pursuing, Heed well the voice within:

And it shall gently teach thee To read thy heart, and know No human strain is perfect, However sweet it flow.

And if thou readest truly, As surely shalt thou find That truths, like rills, though diverse, Are choicest in their kind.

The souls of Poet-Dreamers Touch heaven on their way; With the light of Song to guide them It should be always Day."

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NIGHT AND MORNING.

The winds are piping loud to-night, And the waves roll strong and high; God pity the watchful mariner Who toils 'neath yonder sky!

I saw the vessel speed away, With a free, majestic sweep, At evening as the sun went down To his palace in the deep.

An aged crone sat on the beach, And, pointing to the ship, "She'll never return again," she said, With a scorn upon her lip.

The morning rose tempestuous, The winds blew to the shore, There were corpses on the sands that morn, But the ship came nevermore!

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WITHIN THINE EYES.

Within thine eyes two spirits dwell, The sweetest and the purest That ever wove Love's mystic spell, Or plied his arts the surest: No smile of morn, Though heaven-born, Nor sunshine earthward straying, E'er charmed the sight With half the light That round thy lips is playing.

The stars may shine, the moon may smile, The earth in beauty languish, Life's sorrows these can but beguile, But thou canst heal its anguish. Thy voice, like rills Of silver, trills Such sounds of liquid sweetness, Each accent rolls Along our souls, In lyrical completeness.

If Friendship lend thee such a grace, That men nor gods may slight it, How blest the one who views thy face When Love comes down to light it! And, oh, if he Who holds in fee Thy beauty, truth, and reason, A traitor prove To thee and Love, We'll spurn him for his treason.

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GERTRUDE.

Underneath the maple-tree Gertrude worked her filigree, All the summer long; To sweet airs her voice was wed, As she plied her golden thread; Echo stealing through the grove Filched away the words of love, And the birds, from tree to tree, Bore the witching melody Through avenues of Song.

Underneath the maple-trees Zephyrs chant her melodies, All the summer long; Words and airs no longer wed, Death has snapped the vocal thread Echo sleeping in the grove Dreams of liquid airs of love, And the birds among the trees Fill with sweetest symphonies Whole avenues of Song.

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FLOWERS.

Thank God I love the Flowers! Mute voices of the Spring, That gladden all her bowers With their varied blossoming; They weave a charm around them On each summer dale and bough, For a Fairy train has bound them In wreaths upon her brow.

Far up along the mountain, And in the valleys green, In the field, and by the fountain, The smiling ones are seen; Some looking up to heaven, With eyes of deepest blue; Some stooping down at even To quaff the sparkling dew.

And from them all there speaketh A language sweet and pure, Fitted for him who seeketh A God's nomenclature. As tidal pulses thrill the seas, And moments build the hours, Heaven breathes her unvoiced mysteries In sermons from the Flowers.

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THE UNATTAINABLE.

I yearn for the Unattainable; For a glimpse of a brighter day, When hatred and strife, With their legions rife, Shall forever have passed away; When pain shall cease, And the dawn of peace Come down from heaven above, And man can meet his fellow-man In the spirit of Christian Love.

I yearn for the Unattainable; For a Voice that may long be still, To compel the mind, As heaven designed, To work the Eternal Will; When the brute that sleeps In the heart's still deeps Will be changed to Pity's dove, And man can meet his fellow-man In the spirit of Perfect Love.

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YEARNINGS.

I long for diviner regions,-- The spirit would reach its goal; Though, this world hath surpassing beauty, It warreth against the soul.

There's a cloud in the eastern heaven; Beyond it, a cold gray sky; But I know that the sun's rare radiance Will brighten it by and by.

In the fane of my soul is glowing The joy of a hope to come, That will touch with its Memnon finger The lips that are cold and dumb:

Till illumed by the smile of heaven, And blest with a purer life, Will the gloom that o'ershades my spirit Depart like a vanquished strife.

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INGRATITUDE.

Full on the wave the moonlight weeps, To quiet its weary breast; Cruelly cold the mad wave leaps, With the moonshine on its crest; Or with scowl, or growl, to the shore it creeps, And sinks to its selfish rest.

Full on yon man-brute smiles the wife, To gladden his turbid breast; Savagely stern he seeks the life Where he erewhile sought for zest; With a curse, or worse, he ends the strife, And sinks to his drunken rest.

Sea! has the moon no charms for thee That can touch thy cruel breast? Man! cannot woman's charity Give ease to thy soul oppressed? Thou shalt flee, O sea! the moon's witchery, Till man has his final rest!

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TRUE LOVE.

Her love is like the hardy flower That blooms amid the Alpine snows; Deep-rooted in an icy bower, No blast can chill its sweet repose; But fresh as is the tropic rose, Drenched in mellowest sunny beams, It has as sweet delicious dreams As any flower that grows.

And though an avalanche came down And robbed it of the light of day, That which withstood the tempest's frown In grief would never pine away. Hope might withhold her feeblest ray, Within her bosom's snowy tomb Love still would wear its everbloom, The gayest of the gay.

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AN EVENING THOUGHT.

Bird of the fanciful plumage, That foldest thy wings in the west, Imbuing the shimmering ocean With the hues of thy delicate breast, Passing away into Dreamland, To visions of heavenly rest!

Spirit! when thou art permitted To bask in the sunset of life; Serene in thine eventide splendour, Thy countenance victory rife; Leaving the world where thou'st triumphed Alike o'er its greatness and strife:

Thine be the destiny, spirit, To set like the sun in the west; Folding thy wings of rare plumage, Conscious of infinite rest, Heralded on to thy haven, The Fortunate Isles of the Blest.

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A THOUGHT FOR SPRING.

I am happier for the Spring; For my heart is like a bird That has many songs to sing, But whose voice is never heard Till the happy year is caroling To the daisies on the sward.

I'd be happier for the Spring, Though my heart had grown so old Like a crone 'twould sit and sing Its shrill runes of wintry cold; For I'd know the year was caroling To the daisies on the wold.

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THE SWALLOWS.

I asked the first stray swallow of the spring, "Where hast thou been through all the winter drear? Beneath what distant skies did'st fold thy wing, Since thou wast with us here, When Autumn's withered leaves foretold the passing year?"

And it replied, "Whither has Fancy led The plumy thoughts that circle through thy brain? Like birds about some mountain's lofty head, Singing a sweet refrain: There, without bound, I've been, and must return again."

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SONG.--CLARA AND I.

We have a joke whenever we meet, Clara and I; Prattle and laughter, and kisses sweet, Clara and I. Were I but twenty, and not two score, Clara and I would laugh still more, With plenty of hopeful years in store For Clara and I, Clara and I; With plenty of hopeful years in store For Clara and I.

We will be true as Damascus steel, Clara and I; Sealing our truth with a honied seal, Clara and I. Eyes so loving, and lips of rose, Cheeks where the dainty ripe peach grows, And mouth where the sly god smiles jocose At Clara and I, Clara and I; And mouth where the sly god smiles jocose At Clara and I.

We have a kiss whenever we part, Clara and I; Grasping of hand, and flutter of heart, Clara and I. Were she but twenty, and not sixteen, Over my love she'd reign the queen,

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And no fair rival should come between My Clara and I, Clara and I; And no fair rival should come between My Clara and I.

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THE APRIL SNOW-STORM--1858.

Spread lightly, virgin shower, Your winding-sheet of snow; Winter has lost his power, But mock not at his woe.

Fall not so cold and bleak, Nor blow the breath of scorn; Gently. Thy sire is weak; And thou, his latest-born.

Frail type of life thou art: At first, pure as the snow We come--abide--depart; What more, th' Immortals know.

Fall gently, virgin shower, Though wild the west wind raves; Watch through this midnight hour Above the new-made graves!

Spread gently, virgin shower, Your winding sheet of snow; My heart has lost its power, But mock not at its woe.

Fall not so cold and bleak, Treat not her corse with scorn; Gently. My heart is weak; She, too, was April-born.

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Fall gently, virgin shower; The heart once strong and brave Hath lost its wonted power; 'Tis buried in her grave.

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GOOD NIGHT.

We never say, "Good Night;" For our eager lips are fleeter Than the tongue, and a kiss is sweeter Than parting words, That out like swords; So we always kiss Good Night.

We never say "Good Night." Words are precious, love, why lose 'em? Fold them up in your maiden bosom; There let them rest, Like love unconfessed, While we kiss a sweet Good Night.

There comes a last Good Night. Human life--not love--is fleeting; Heaven send many a birth-day greeting; Dim years roll on To life's gray-haired dawn, Ere we kiss our last Good Night.

We've kissed our last Good Night! Love's warm tendrils torn and bleeding, Vain all human interceding! Oh, life! how dark! Its one vital spark Was quenched with our last GOOD NIGHT!

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HOPELESS.

I think through the long, long evenings, Such thoughts of intensest pain, And I hope and watch for her coming, But I hope and watch in vain, My life is a long, long journey Over a barren moor, With nought but my own dark shadow Hastening on before.

I'm weary of all this watching, Aweary of life and thought; For there's little hope in the distance, And for peace--I know it not! Oh, why must we think and shudder, And shudder and think again? When life's but a dance of shadows Haunting a barren plain!

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INTO THE SILENT LAND.

I.

"Oh for a pen of light, a tongue of fire, That every word might burn in living flame Upon the age's brow, and leave one name Engraven on the future! One desire Fills every nook and cranny of my heart; One hope--one sorrow--one belovèd aim! She whose pure life was of my life a part, As light is of the day, could she inspire My unmelodious muse, or tune the lyre To diapasons worthy of the theme, How would her joy put on its robes of light, And nestle in my bosom once again, As when life, like an Oriental dream, Fanned by Arabian airs, glode down the stream To music whose remembrance is a pain. The foot of time might trample on my strain, But could not quench its essence. There was might, And majesty, and greatness in the love She blest me with--a blessing without stain, And that was earthly; since her spirit-sight Looked through the veil, and learned love's true delight, Which sainted ministrants alone can prove Who taste the waters of eternal love: I pause to think how wonderful has grown The love that was to me so wondrous here! Chained as I am to this terrestrial sphere, Groping my way through darkness, and alone,

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Like a blind eaglet soaring towards the sun, How would her full experience lift and cheer The heart that never feels its duty done, And with a girdle of pure light enzone My flowery world of thought, and make it all her own."

Thus mused the Minstrel, for his heart was sad. Death had bereaved him of his bride, while youth, And looming years of future trust and truth, Knit them together, till their souls were clad With joy ineffable. Love's great High Priest Sacrificed in their hearts to Him that doeth All things well; and such rare, perpetual feast Of love and truth no mortals ever had, To keep their memories green, their lives serene and glad,

He sat again within the quiet room, Where Death had snapped one golden thread of life, And the pale hand of Sickness, sorrow-rife, Robbed the plump cheek of childhood of its bloom; Where she, another Philomena, moved Like a fond Charity--the coming wife Ordained to crown his being: And he loved. The future rose before him, joy and gloom; For where the sunlight shone, there waved the sable plume.

And yet he failed not, for the coming pain; The coming bliss would counterbalance all. The sight prophetic that perceived the pall, Looked far beyond for the celestial gain.

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They do not truly love who cannot yield The mortal up at the Immortal's call, Or fail to triumph for the soul that's sealed. His mind was strung to one harmonious strain: To give when God should ask, and not resign in vain.

Love was to him life's chiefest victory; He knew no greater, and he sought no less. Like a green isle surrounded by the sea That gives it health and vigour, so was he The centre of love's sphere of perfectness; He breathed its heavenly atmosphere; the key That opened every chamber in love's court Was in his hand; love's mystery was his sport, He knelt within love's fane and worshipped there-- But not alone, for one was by his side Whose love refined his being, filled the air Of life's irradiated sky with light, As the sun floods the heavens with a tide Of renovating freshness, as the night Is mellowed by the ample moon. And hoping for the recompense That would be theirs in life's approaching noon, They built on hope's high eminence Their airy palaces, whose magnificence Surpassed the dreams that fancy drew, So fair the promised land that lay within their view.

And here they lived; just within reach of heaven. They could put forth their hands and touch the skies That brooded o'er the walls of chrysolite, The airy minarets, and golden domes

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Of their new home, by Love, the Maker, given, Steeped in his brightest dyes. All nature opened up her ponderous tomes, Whereby they had new knowledge and new sight, Learned greater truths, and saw the paths of light, Mosaic-paven, which to Duty led. And there were secrets written overhead, In burning hieroglyphs of thought, From which they gleaned such lessons as are taught Only to those whom heaven, in graciousness, Lifts in her arms with a divine caress. Earth, like a joyous maiden whose pure soul Is filled with sudden ecstacy, became A fruitful Eden; and the golden bowl That held their elixir of life was filled To overflowing with the rarest draught Ever by gods or men in rapture quaffed; Till from the altar of their hearts love's flame Passed through the veins of the world, and thrilled The soul of the rejoicing universe, Which became theirs, and like true neophytes They drained the sweet nepenthe, and love's rites Wiped from their hearts all trace of the primeval curse.

The happy months rolled on; each wedded day A bridal; and each calm and holy eve Strewed with rare blessings all the sunny way Through which they passed, with so divine a joy That in his brain would meditation weave Love's roses into garlands of sweet song, To deck the brow of his devoted wife.

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In this their El Dorado, no alloy Mixed with the coinage of their wedded life; The workmen in the mint an honest throng. No wonder, then, that with go fine a bliss Informing every fibre of his brain, His thoughts begat impressions such as this; Linking their lives together with a chain Of melody as rare as some divine refrain:

Like dew to the thirsty flower, Like sweets to the hungry bee, Is love's divinest dower, Its tenderness and power, To thee, dear Wife! to thee.

Like light to the darkened spirit, Like oil to the turbid sea, Like truthful words to merit, Are the blessings I inherit With thee, dear Wife! with thee.

Afar in the distant ages, Soul-ransomed, and spirit-free, I'll read all being's pages, Unread by mortal sages, With thee, dear Wife! with thee.

None but the happy heart could carol thus; A feather stolen from Devotion's wing, To keep as a memento of the time When earth met heaven, in life's duteous And prayerful journey towards the shadowy clime;

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Ere they descended from their height sublime, Where at Love's well-filled table, banqueting, They sat, and watched the first glad year, Earthlike, revolving round the sun Of their true life. Within that sphere Was the new Eden. One by one The precious moments dropped like golden sands, And formed the solid hours. No perilous strands Delayed life's blissful current, as it sped Through flowery realms with blue skies overhead, To songs and laughter musically sweet, As if all sorrow had forever fled; And idylls, sung with cheerful tone, Haunted the calm, enchanted zone That hemmed them in, Where, like a stately queen, Sate Peace, beatified, serene, The guardian, heaven-sent, of this their fair demesne:

LOVE'S ANNIVERSARY.

Like a bold, adventurous swain, Just a year ago to-day, I launched my bark on a radiant main, And Hymen led the way: "Breakers ahead!" he cried, As he sought to overwhelm My daring craft in the shrieking tide, But Love, like a pilot bold and tried, Sat, watchful, at the helm.

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And we passed the treacherous shoals, Where many a hope lay dead, And splendid wrecks were piled, like the ghouls Of joys forever fled. Once safely over these, We sped by a fairy realm, Across the bluest and calmest seas That were ever kissed by a truant breeze, With Love still at the helm.