PART III.

"Our spirits have climbed high By reason of the passion of our grief,-- And from the top of sense, looked over sense To the significance and heart of things Rather than things themselves."

E. B. BROWNING.

_THE LEADING OF SORROW._

Through a twilight land, a moaning region, Thick with sighs that shook the trembling air, Land of shadows whose dim crew was legion, Lost I hurried, hunted by despair. Quailed my heart like an expiring splendour, Fitful flicker of a faltering fire, Smitten chords which tempest-stricken render Rhythms of anguish from a breaking lyre.

Love had left me in a land of shadows, Lonely on the ruins of delight, And I grieved with tearless grief of widows, Moaned as orphans homeless in the night. Love had left me knocking at Death's portal-- Shone his star and vanished from my sky-- And I cried: "Since Love, even Love, is mortal, Take, unmake, and break me; let me die."

Then, the twilight's grisly veils dividing, Phantom-like there stole one o'er the plain, Wavering mists for ever round it gliding Hid the face I strove to scan in vain. Spake the veiled one: "Solitary weeper, 'Mid the myriad mourners thou'rt but one: Come, and thou shalt see the awful reaper, Evil, reaping all beneath the sun."

On my hand the clay-cold hand did fasten As it murmured--"Up and follow me; O'er the thickly peopled earth we'll hasten, Yet more thickly packed with misery." And I followed: ever in the shadow Of that looming form I fared along; Now o'er mountains, now through wood and meadow, Or through cities with their surging throng.

With none other for a friend or fellow Those relentless footsteps were my guide To the sea-caves echoing with the hollow Immemorial moaning of the tide. Laughed the sunlight on the living ocean, Danced and rocked itself upon the spray, And its shivered beams in twinkling motion Gleamed like star-motes in the Milky Way.

Lo, beneath those waters surging, flowing, I beheld the Deep's fantastic bowers; Shapes which seemed alive and yet were growing On their stalks like animated flowers. Sentient flowers which seemed to glow and glimmer Soft as ocean blush of Indian shells, White as foam-drift in the moony shimmer Of those sea-lit, wave-pavilioned dells.

Yet even here, as in the fire-eyed panther, In disguise the eternal hunger lay, For each feathery, velvet-tufted anther Lay in ambush waiting for its prey. Tiniest jewelled fish that flashed like lightning, Blindly drawn, came darting through the wave, When, a stifling sack above them tightening, Closed the ocean-blossom's living grave.

Now we fared through forest glooms primeval Through whose leaves the light but rarely shone, Where the buttressed tree-trunks looked coeval With the time-worn, ocean-fretted stone; Where, from stem to stem their tendrils looping, Coiled the lithe lianas fold on fold, Or, in cataracts of verdure drooping, From on high their billowy leafage rolled.

Where beneath the dusky woodland cover, While the noon-hush holds all living things, Butterflies of tropic splendour hover In a maze of rainbow-coloured wings: Some like stars light up their own green heaven Some are spangled like a golden toy, Or like flowers from their foliage driven In the fiery ecstasy of joy.

But, the forest slumber rudely breaking, Through the silence rings a piercing yell; At the cry unnumbered beasts, awaking, With their howls the loud confusion swell. 'Tis the cry of some frail creature panting In the tiger's lacerating grip; In its flesh carnivorous teeth implanting, While the blood smokes round his wrinkled lip.

'Tis the scream some bird in terror utters, With its wings weighed down by leaden fears, As from bough to downward bough it flutters Where the snake its glistening crest uprears: Eyes of sluggish greed through rank weeds stealing, Breath whose venomous fumes mount through the air, Till benumbed the helpless victim, reeling, Drops convulsed into the reptile snare.

Now we fared o'er sweltering wastes whose steaming Clouds of tawny sand the wanderer blind. Herds of horses with their long manes streaming Snorted thirstily against the wind; O'er the waste they scoured in shadowy numbers, Gasped for springs their raging thirst to cool, And, like sick men mocked in fevered slumbers, Stoop to drink--and find a phantom pool.

What of antelopes crunched by the leopard? What if hounds run down the timid hare? What though sheep, strayed from the faithful shepherd, Perish helpless in the lion's lair? The all-seeing sun shines on unheeding, In the night shines the unruffled moon, Though on earth brute myriads, preying, bleeding, Put creation harshly out of tune.

Cried I, turning to the shrouded figure-- "Oh, in mercy veil this cruel strife! Sanguinary orgies which disfigure The green ways of labyrinthine life. From the needs and greeds of primal passion, From the serpent's track and lion's den, To the world our human hands did fashion, Lead me to the kindly haunts of men."

And through fields of corn we passed together, Orange golden in the brooding heat, Where brown reapers in the harvest weather Cut ripe swathes of downward rustling wheat. In the orchards dangling red and yellow, Clustered fruit weighed down the bending sprays; On a hundred hills the vines grew mellow In the warmth of fostering autumn days.

Through the air the shrilly twittering swallows Flashed their nimble shadows on the leas; Red-flecked cows were glassed in golden shallows, Purple clover hummed with restless bees. Herdsmen drove the cattle from the mountain, To the fold the shepherd drove his flocks, Village girls drew water from the fountain, Village yokels piled the full-eared shocks.

From the white town dozing in the valley, Round its vast Cathedral's solemn shade, Citizens strolled down the walnut alley Where youth courted and glad childhood played. "Peace on earth," I murmured; "let us linger-- Here the wage of life seems good at least:" As I spake the veiled One raised a finger Where the moon broke flowering in the east.

Faintly muttering from deep mountain ranges, Muffled sounds rose hoarsely on the night, As the crash of foundering avalanches Wakes hoarse echoes in each Alpine height. Near and nearer sounds the roaring--thunder, Mortal thunder, crashes through the vale; Lightning flash of muskets breaks from under Groves once haunted by the nightingale.

Men clutch madly at each weapon--women, Children crouch in cellars, under roofs, For the town is circled by their foemen-- Shakes the ground with clang of trampling hoofs. Shot on shot the volleys hiss and rattle, Shrilly whistling fly the murderous balls, Fiercely roars the tumult of the battle Round the hard-contested, dear-bought walls.

Horror, horror! The fair town is burning, Flames burst forth, wild sparks and ashes fly; With her children's blood the green earth's turning Blood-red--blood-red, too, the cloud-winged sky. Crackling flare the streets: from the lone steeple The great clock booms forth its ancient chime, And its dolorous quarters warn the people Of the conquering troops that march with time.

Fallen lies the fair old town, its houses Charred and ruined gape in smoking heaps; Here with shouts a ruffian band carouses, There an outraged woman vainly weeps. In the fields where the ripe corn lies mangled, Where the wounded groan beneath the dead, Friend and foe, now helplessly entangled, Stain red poppies with a guiltier red.

There the dog howls o'er his perished master, There the crow comes circling from afar; All vile things that batten on disaster Follow feasting in the wake of war. Famine follows--what they ploughed and planted The unhappy peasants shall not reap; Sickening of strange meats and fever haunted, To their graves they prematurely creep.

"Hence"--I cried in unavailing pity-- "Let us flee these scenes of monstrous strife, Seek the pale of some imperial city Where the law rules starlike o'er man's life." Straightway floating o'er blue sea and river, We were plunged into a roaring cloud, Wherethrough lamps in ague fits did shiver O'er the surging multitudinous crowd.

Piles of stone, their cliff-like walls uprearing, Flashed in luminous lines along the night; Jets of flame, spasmodically flaring, Splashed black pavements with a sickly light; Fabulous gems shone here, and glowing coral, Shimmering stuffs from many an Eastern loom, And vast piles of tropic fruits and floral Marvels seemed to mock November's gloom.

But what prowls near princely mart and dwelling, Whence through many a thundering thoroughfare Rich folk roll on cushions softly swelling To the week-day feast and Sunday prayer? Yea, who prowl there, hunger-nipped and pallid, Breathing nightmares limned upon the gloom? 'Tis but human rubbish, gaunt and squalid, Whom their country spurns for lack of room.

In their devious track we mutely follow, Mutely climb dim flights of oozy stairs, Where through gap-toothed, mizzling roof the yellow Pestilent fog blends with the fetid air. Through the unhinged door's discordant slamming Ring the gruesome sounds of savage strife-- Howls of babes, the drunken father's damning, Counter-cursing of the shrill-tongued wife.

Children feebly crying on their mother In a wailful chorus--"Give us food!" Man and woman glaring at each other Like two gaunt wolves with a famished brood. Till he snatched a stick, and, madly staring, Struck her blow on blow upon the head; And she, reeling back, gasped, hardly caring-- "Ah, you've done it now, Jim"--and was dead.

Dead--dead--dead--the miserable creature-- Never to feel hunger's cruel fang Wring the bowels of rebellious nature That her infants might be spared the pang. "Dead! Good luck to her!" The man's teeth chattered, Stone-still stared he with blank eyes and hard, Then, his frame with one big sob nigh shattered, Fled--and cut his throat down in the yard.

Dark the night--the children wail forsaken, Crane their wrinkled necks and cry for food, Drop off into fitful sleep, or waken Trembling like a sparrow's ravished brood. Dark the night--the rain falls on the ashes, Feebly hissing on the feeble heat, Filters through the ceiling, drops in splashes On the little children's naked feet.

Dark the night--the children wail forsaken-- Is there none, ah, none, to heed their moan? Yea, at dawn one little one is taken, Four poor souls are left, but one is gone. Gone--escaped--flown from the shame and sorrow Waiting for them at life's sombre gate, But the hand of merciless to-morrow Drags the others shuddering to their fate.

But one came--a girlish thing--a creature Flung by wanton hands 'mid lust and crime-- A poor outcast, yet by right of nature Sweet as odour of the upland thyme. Scapegoat of a people's sins, and hunted, Howled at, hooted to the wilderness, To that wilderness of deaf hearts, blunted To the depths of woman's dumb distress.

Jetsam, flotsam of the monster city, Spurned, defiled, reviled, that outcast came To those babes that whined for love and pity, Gave them bread bought with the wage of shame. Gave them bread, and gave them warm, maternal Kisses not on sale for any price: Yea, a spark, a flash of some eternal Sympathy shone through those haunted eyes.

Ah, perchance through her dark life's confusion, Through the haste and taste of fevered hours, Gusts of memory on her youth's pollution Blew forgotten scents of faded flowers. And she saw the cottage near the wild wood, With its lichened roof and latticed panes, Strayed once more through golden fields of childhood, Hyacinth dells and hawthorn-scented lanes.

Heard once more the song of nesting thrushes And the blackbird's long mellifluous note, Felt once more the glow of maiden blushes Burn through rosy cheek and milkwhite throat In that orchard where the apple blossom Lightly shaken fluttered on her hair, As the heart was fluttering in her bosom When her sweetheart came and kissed her there.

Often came he in the lilac-laden Moonlit twilight, often pledged his word; But she was a simple country-maiden, He the offspring of a noble lord. Fading lilacs May's farewell betoken, Fledglings fly and soon forget the nest; Lightly may a young man's vows be broken, And the heart break in a woman's breast.

Gathered like a sprig of summer roses In the dewy morn and flung away, To the girl the father's door now closes, Let her shelter henceforth how she may. Who will house the miserable mother With her child, a helpless castaway! "I, am I the keeper of my brother?" Asks smug virtue as it turns to pray!

Lovely are the earliest Lenten lilies, Primrose pleiads, hyacinthine sheets; Stripped and rifled from their pastoral valleys, See them sold now in the public streets! Other flowers are sold there besides posies-- Eyes may have the hyacinth's glowing blue, Rounded cheeks the velvet bloom of roses, Taper necks the rain-washed lily's hue.

But a rustic blossom! Love and duty Bound up in a child whom hunger slays! Ah! but one thing still is left her--beauty Fresh, untarnished yet--and beauty pays. Beauty keeps her child alive a little, Then it dies--her woman's love with it-- Beauty's brilliant sceptre, ah, how brittle, Drags her daily deeper down the pit.

Ruin closes o'er her--hideous, nameless; Each fresh morning marks a deeper fall; Till at twenty--callous, cankered, shameless, She lies dying at the hospital. Drink, more drink, she calls for--her harsh laughter Grates upon the meekly praying nurse, Eloquent about her soul's hereafter: "Souls be blowed!" she sings out with a curse.

And so dies, an unrepenting sinner-- Pitched into her pauper's grave what time That most noble lord rides by to dinner Who had wooed her in her innocent prime. And in after-dinner talk he preaches Resignation--o'er his burgundy-- Till a grateful public dubs his speeches Oracles of true philanthropy.

Peace ye call this? Call this justice, meted Equally to rich and poor alike? Better than this peace the battle's heated Cannon-balls that ask not whom they strike! Better than this masquerade of culture Hiding strange hyæna appetites, The frank ravening of the raw-necked vulture As its beak the senseless carrion smites.

What of men in bondage, toiling blunted In the roaring factory's lurid gloom? What of cradled infants starved and stunted? What of woman's nameless martyrdom? The all-seeing sun shines on unheeding, Shines by night the calm, unruffled moon, Though the human myriads, preying, bleeding, Put creation harshly out of tune.

"Hence, ah, hence"--I sobbed in quivering passion-- "From these fearful haunts of fiendish men! Better far the plain, carnivorous fashion Which is practised in the lion's den." And I fled--yet staggering still did follow In the footprints of my shrouded guide-- To the sea-caves echoing with the hollow Immemorial moaning of the tide.

Sinking, swelling roared the wintry ocean, Pitch-black chasms struck with flying blaze, As the cloud-winged storm-sky's sheer commotion Showed the blank Moon's mute Medusa face White o'er wastes of water--surges crashing Over surges in the formless gloom, And a mastless hulk, with great seas washing Her scourged flanks, pitched toppling to her doom.

Through the crash of wave on wave gigantic, Through the thunder of the hurricane, My wild heart in breaking shrilled with frantic Exultation--"Chaos come again! Yea, let earth be split and cloven asunder With man's still accumulating curse-- Life is but a momentary blunder In the cycle of the Universe.

"Yea, let earth with forest-belted mountains, Hills and valleys, cataracts and plains, With her clouds and storms and fires and fountains, Pass with all her rolling sphere contains, Melt, dissolve again into the ocean, Ocean fade into a nebulous haze!" And I sank back without sense or motion 'Neath the blank Moon's mute Medusa face.

Moments, years, or ages passed, when, lifting Freezing lids, I felt the heavens on high, And, innumerable as the sea-sands drifting, Stars unnumbered drifted through the sky. Rhythmical in luminous rotation, In dædalian maze they reel and fly, And their rushing light is Time's pulsation In his passage through Eternity.

Constellated suns, fresh lit, declining, Were ignited now, now quenched in space, Rolling round each other, or inclining Orb to orb in multi-coloured rays. Ever showering from their flaming fountains Light more light on each far-circling earth, Till life stirred crepuscular seas, and mountains Heaved convulsive with the throes of birth.

And the noble brotherhood of planets, Knitted each to each by links of light, Circled round their suns, nor knew a minute's Lapse or languor in their ceaseless flight. And pale moons and rings and burning splinters Of wrecked worlds swept round their parent spheres, Clothed with spring or sunk in polar winters As their sun draws nigh or disappears.

Still new vistas of new stars--far dwindling-- Through the firmament like dewdrops roll, Torches of the Cosmos which enkindling Flash their revelation on the soul. Yea, One spake there--though nor form nor feature Shown--a Voice came from the peaks of time:-- "Wilt thou judge me, wilt thou curse me, Creature Whom I raised up from the Ocean slime?

"Long I waited--ages rolled o'er ages-- As I crystallized in granite rocks, Struggling dumb through immemorial stages, Glacial æons, fiery earthquake shocks. In fierce throbs of flame or slow upheaval, Speck by tiny speck, I topped the seas, Leaped from earth's dark womb, and in primeval Forests shot up shafts of mammoth trees.

"Through a myriad forms I yearned and panted, Putting forth quick shoots in endless swarms-- Giant-hoofed, sharp-tusked, or finned or planted Writhing on the reef with pinioned arms. I have climbed from reek of sanguine revels In Cimmerian wood and thorny wild, Slowly upwards to the dawnlit levels Where I bore thee, oh my youngest Child!

"Oh, my heir and hope of my to-morrow, I--I draw thee on through fume and fret, Croon to thee in pain and call through sorrow, Flowers and stars take for thy alphabet. Through the eyes of animals appealing, Feel my fettered spirit yearn to thine, Who, in storm of will and clash of feeling, Shape the life that shall be--the divine.

"Oh, redeem me from my tiger rages, Reptile greed, and foul hyæna lust; With the hero's deeds, the thoughts of sages, Sow and fructify this passive dust; Drop in dew and healing love of woman On the bloodstained hands of hungry strife, Till there break from passion of the Human Morning-glory of transfigured life.

"I have cast my burden on thy shoulder; Unimagined potencies have given That from formless Chaos thou shalt mould her And translate gross earth to luminous heaven. Bear, oh, bear the terrible compulsion, Flinch not from the path thy fathers trod, From Man's martyrdom in slow convulsion Will be born the infinite goodness--God."

Ceased the Voice: and as it ceased it drifted Like the seashell's inarticulate moan; From the Deep, on wings of flame uplifted, Rose the sun rejoicing and alone. Laughed in light upon the living ocean, Danced and rocked itself upon the spray, And its shivered beams in twinkling motion Gleamed like star-motes of the Milky Way.

And beside me in the golden morning I beheld my shrouded phantom-guide; But no longer sorrow-veiled and mourning-- It became transfigured by my side. And I knew--as one escaped from prison Sees old things again with fresh surprise-- It was Love himself, Love re-arisen With the Eternal shining through his eyes.

POEMS OF THE OPEN AIR.

"Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, Whether the summer clothe the general earth With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch."

S. T. COLERIDGE.

_THE SOWER._

The winds had hushed at last as by command; The quiet sky above, With its grey clouds spread o'er the fallow land, Sat brooding like a dove

There was no motion in the air, no sound Within the tree-tops stirred, Save when some last leaf, fluttering to the ground, Dropped like a wounded bird:

Or when the swart rooks in a gathering crowd With clamorous noises wheeled, Hovering awhile, then swooped with wranglings loud Down on the stubbly field.

For now the big-thewed horses, toiling slow In straining couples yoked, Patiently dragged the ploughshare to and fro Till their wet haunches smoked.

Till the stiff acre, broken into clods, Bruised by the harrow's tooth, Lay lightly shaken, with its humid sods Ranged into furrows smooth.

There looming lone, from rise to set of sun, Without or pause or speed, Solemnly striding by the furrows dun, The sower sows the seed.

The sower sows the seed, which mouldering, Deep coffined in the earth, Is buried now, but with the future spring Will quicken into birth.

Oh, poles of birth and death! Controlling Powers Of human toil and need! On this fair earth all men are surely sowers, Surely all life is seed!

All life is seed, dropped in Time's yawning furrow, Which with slow sprout and shoot, In the revolving world's unfathomed morrow, Will blossom and bear fruit.

_A SPRING SONG._

Dark sod pierced by flames of flowers, Dead wood freshly quickening, Bright skies dusked with sudden showers, Lit by rainbows on the wing.

Cuckoo calls and young lambs' bleating Nimble airs which coyly bring Little gusts of tender greeting From shy nooks where violets cling.

Half-fledged buds and birds and vernal Fields of grass dew-glistening; Evanescent life's eternal Resurrection, bridal Spring!

_APRIL RAIN._

The April rain, the April rain, Comes slanting down in fitful showers, Then from the furrow shoots the grain, And banks are fledged with nestling flowers; And in grey shaw and woodland bowers The cuckoo through the April rain Calls once again.

The April sun, the April sun, Glints through the rain in fitful splendour, And in grey shaw and woodland dun The little leaves spring forth and tender Their infant hands, yet weak and slender, For warmth towards the April sun, One after one.

And between shower and shine hath birth The rainbow's evanescent glory; Heaven's light that breaks on mists of earth! Frail symbol of our human story, It flowers through showers where, looming hoary, The rain-clouds flash with April mirth, Like Life on earth.

_THE SLEEPING BEAUTY._

There was intoxication in the air; The wind, keen blowing from across the seas, O'er leagues of new-ploughed land and heathery leas, Smelt of wild gorse whose gold flamed everywhere. An undertone of song pulsed far and near, The soaring larks filled heaven with ecstasies, And, like a living clock among the trees, The shouting cuckoo struck the time of year.

For now the Sun had found the earth once more, And woke the Sleeping Beauty with a kiss; Who thrilled with light of love in every pore, Opened her flower-blue eyes, and looked in his. Then all things felt life fluttering at their core-- The world shook mystical in lambent bliss.

_APPLE-BLOSSOM._

Blossom of the apple trees! Mossy trunks all gnarled and hoary, Grey boughs tipped with rose-veined glory, Clustered petals soft as fleece Garlanding old apple trees!

How you gleam at break of day! When the coy sun, glancing rarely, Pouts and sparkles in the pearly Pendulous dewdrops, twinkling gay On each dancing leaf and spray.

Through your latticed boughs on high, Framed in rosy wreaths, one catches Brief kaleidoscopic snatches Of deep lapis-lazuli In the April-coloured sky.

When the sundown's dying brand Leaves your beauty to the tender Magic spells of moonlight splendour, Glimmering clouds of bloom you stand, Turning earth to fairyland.

Cease, wild winds, O, cease to blow! Apple-blossom, fluttering, flying, Palely on the green turf lying, Vanishing like winter snow; Swift as joy to come and go.

_THE MUSIC-LESSON._

A thrush alit on a young-leaved spray, And, lightly clinging, It rocked in its singing As the rapturous notes rose loud and gay; And with liquid shakes, And trills and breaks, Rippled through blossoming boughs of May.

Like a ball of fluff, with a warm brown throat And throbbing bosom, 'Mid the apple-blossom, The new-fledged nestling sat learning by rote To echo the song So tender and strong, As it feebly put in its frail little note.

O blissfullest lesson amid the green grove! The low wind crispeth The leaves, where lispeth The shy little bird with its parent above; Two voices that mingle And make but a single Hymn of rejoicing in praise of their love.

_THE TEAMSTER._

With slow and slouching gait Sam leads the team; He stoops i' the shoulders, worn with work not years; One only passion has he, it would seem-- The passion for the horses which he rears: He names them as one would some household pet, May, Violet.

He thinks them quite as sensible as men; As nice as women, but not near so skittish; He fondles, cossets, scolds them now and then, Nay, gravely talks as if they knew good British: You hear him call from dawn to set of sun, "Goo back! Com on!"

Sam never seems depressed nor yet elate, Like Nature's self he goes his punctual round; On Sundays, smoking by his garden gate, For hours he'll stand, with eyes upon the ground, Like some tired cart-horse in a field alone, And still as stone.

Yet, howsoever stolid he may seem, Sam has his tragic background, weird and wild Like some adventure in a drunkard's dream. Impossible, you'd swear, for one so mild: Yet village gossips dawdling o'er their ale Still tell the tale.

In his young days Sam loved a servant-maid, A girl with happy eyes like hazel brooks That dance i' the sun, cheeks as if newly made Of pouting roses coyly hid in nooks, And warm brown hair that wantoned into curl: A fresh-blown girl.

Sam came a-courting while the year was blithe, When wet browed mowers, stepping out in tune, With level stroke and rhythmic swing of scythe, Smote down the proud grass in the pomp of June, And wagons, half-tipped over, seemed to sway With loads of hay.

The elder bush beside the orchard croft Brimmed over with its bloom like curds and cream; From out grey nests high in the granary loft Black clusters of small heads with callow scream Peered open-beaked, as swallows flashed along To feed their young.

Ripening towards the harvest swelled the wheat, Lush cherries dangled 'gainst the latticed panes; The roads were baking in the windless heat, And dust had floured the glossy country lanes, One sun-hushed, light-flushed Sunday afternoon The last of June.

When, with his thumping heart all out of joint, And pulses beating like a stroller's drum, Sam screwed his courage to the sticking point And asked his blushing sweetheart if she'd come To Titsey Fair; he meant to coax coy May To name the day.

But her rich master snapped his thumb and swore The girl was not for him! Should not go out! And, whistling to his dogs, slammed-to the door Close in Sam's face, and left him dazed without In the fierce sunshine, blazing in his path Like fire of wrath.

Unheeding, he went forth with hot wild eyes Past fields of feathery oats and wine-red clover; Unheeded, larks soared singing to the skies, Or rang the plaintive cry of rising plover; Unheeded, pheasants with a startled sound Whirred from the ground.

On, on he went by acres full of grain, By trees and meadows reeling past his sight, As to a man whirled onwards in a train The land with spinning hedgerows seems in flight; At last he stopped and leant a long, long while Against a stile.

Hours passed; the clock struck ten; a hush of night, In which even wind and water seemed at peace; But here and there a glimmering cottage light Shone like a glowworm through the slumberous trees; Or from some far-off homestead through the dark A watch-dog's bark.

But all at once Sam gave a stifled cry: "There's fire," he muttered, "fire upon the hills!" No fire--but as the late moon rose on high Her light looked smoke-red as through belching mills: No fire--but moonlight turning in his path To fire of wrath.

He looked abroad with eyes that gave the mist A lurid tinge above the breadths of grain Owned by May's master. Then he shook his fist, Still muttering, "Fire!" and measured o'er again The road he'd come, where, lapped in moonlight, lay Huge ricks of hay.

There he paused glaring. Then he turned and waned Like mist into the misty, moon-soaked night, Where the pale silvery fields were blotched and stained With strange fantastic shadows. But what light Is that which leaps up, flickering lithe and long, With licking tongue!

Hungry it darts and hisses, twists and turns, And with each minute shoots up high and higher, Till, wrapped in flames, the mighty hayrick burns And sends its sparks on to a neighbouring byre, Where, frightened at the hot, tremendous glow, The cattle low.

And rick on rick takes fire; and next a stye, Whence through the smoke the little pigs rush out; The house-dog barks; then, with a startled cry, The window is flung open, shout on shout Wakes the hard-sleeping farm where man and maid Start up dismayed.

And with wild faces wavering in the glare, In nightcaps, bedgowns, clothes half huddled on Some to the pump, some to the duck-pond tear In frantic haste, while others splashing run With pails, or turn the hose with flame-scorched face Upon the blaze.

At last, when some wan streaks began to show In the chill darkness of the sky, the fire Went out, subdued but for the sputtering glow Of sparks among wet ashes. Barn and byre Were safe, but swallowed all the summer math By fire of wrath.

Still haggard from the night's wild work and pale, Farm-men and women stood in whispering knots, Regaled with foaming mugs of nut-brown ale; Firing his oaths about like vicious shots, The farmer hissed out now and then: "Gad damn! It's that black Sam."

They had him up and taxed him with the crime; Denying naught, he sulked and held his peace; And so, a branded convict, in due time, Handcuffed and cropped, they shipped him over-seas: Seven years of shame sliced from his labourer's life As with a knife.

But through it all the image of a girl With hazel eyes like pebbled waters clear, And warm brown hair that wantoned into curl, Kept his heart sweet through many a galling year, Like to a bit of lavender long pressed In some black chest.

At last his time was up, and Sam returned To his dear village with its single street, Where, in the sooty forge, the fire still burned, As, hammering on the anvil, red with heat, The smith wrought at a shoe with tongues aglow, Blow upon blow.

There stood the church, with peals for death and birth, Its ancient spire o'ertopping ancient trees, And there the graves and mounds of unknown earth, Gathered like little children round its knees; There was "The Bull," with sign above the door, And sanded floor.

Unrecognized Sam took his glass of beer, And picked up gossip which the men let fall: How Farmer Clow had failed, and one named Steer Had taken on the land, repairs and all; And how the Kimber girl was to be wed To Betsy's Ned.

Sam heard no more, flung down his pence, and took The way down to the well-remembered stile; There, in the gloaming by the trysting brook, He came upon his May--with just that smile For sheep-faced Ned, that light in happy eyes: Oh, sugared lies!

He came upon them with black-knitted brows And clenched brown hands, and muttered huskily: "Oh, little May, are those your true love's vows You swore to keep while I was over-sea?" Then crying, turned upon the other one, "Com on, com on."

Then they fell to with faces set for fight, And hit each other hard with rustic pride; But Sam, whose arm with iron force could smite, Knocked his cowed rival down, and won his bride. May wept and smiled, swayed like a wild red rose As the wind blows.

She married Sam, who loved her with a wild Strong love he could not put to words--too deep For her to gauge; but with her first-born child May dropped off, flower-like, into the long sleep, And left him nothing but the memory of His little love.

Since then the silent teamster lives alone, The trusted headman of his master Steer; One only passion seems he still to own-- The passion for the foals he has to rear; And still the prettiest, full of life and play, Is little May.

_A HIGHLAND VILLAGE._

Clear shining after the rain, The sun bursts the clouds asunder, And the hollow-rumbling thunder Groans like a loaded wain As, deep in the Grampians yonder, He grumbles now and again.

Whenever the breezes shiver The leaves where the rain-drops quiver, Each bough and bush and brier Breaks into living fire, Till every tree is bright With blossom bursts of light.

From golden roof and spout Brown waters gurgle and splutter, And rush down the flooded gutter Where the village children shout, As barefoot they splash in and out The water with tireless patter.

The bald little Highland street Is all alive and a-glitter; The air blows keen and sweet From the field where the swallows twitter; Old wives on the doorsteps meet, At the corner the young maids titter.

And the reapers hasten again, Ere quite the daylight wane To shake out the barley sheaves; While through the twinkling leaves The harvest moon upheaves Clear shining after the rain.

_ON A FORSAKEN LARK'S NEST._

Lo, where left 'mid the sheaves, cut down by the iron-fanged reaper, Eating its way as it clangs fast through the wavering wheat, Lies the nest of a lark, whose little brown eggs could not keep her As she, affrighted and scared, fled from the harvester's feet.

Ah, what a heartful of song that now will never awaken, Closely packed in the shell, awaited love's fostering, That should have quickened to life what, now a-cold and forsaken, Never, enamoured of light, will meet the dawn on the wing.

Ah, what pæans of joy, what raptures no mortal can measure, Sweet as honey that's sealed in the cells of the honey-comb, Would have ascended on high in jets of mellifluous pleasure, Would have dropped from the clouds to nest in its gold-curtained home.

Poor, pathetic brown eggs! Oh, pulses that never will quicken! Music mute in the shell that hath been turned to a tomb! Many a sweet human singer, chilled and adversity-stricken, Withers benumbed in a world his joy might have helped to illume.

_REAPERS._

Sun-tanned men and women, toiling there together; Seven I count in all, in yon field of wheat, Where the rich ripe ears in the harvest weather Glow an orange gold through the sweltering heat.

Busy life is still, sunk in brooding leisure: Birds have hushed their singing in the hushed tree-tops; Not a single cloud mars the flawless azure; Not a shadow moves o'er the moveless crops;

In the glassy shallows, that no breath is creasing, Chestnut-coloured cows in the rushes dank Stand like cows of bronze, save when they flick the teasing Flies with switch of tail from each quivering flank.

Nature takes a rest--even her bees are sleeping, And the silent wood seems a church that's shut; But these human creatures cease not from their reaping While the corn stands high, waiting to be cut.

_APPLE-GATHERING._

Essex flats are pink with clover, Kent is crowned with flaunting hops, Whitely shine the cliffs of Dover, Yellow wave the Midland crops;

Sussex Downs the flocks grow sleek on, But, for me, I love to stand Where the Herefordshire beacon Watches o'er his orchard land.

Where now sun, now shadow dapples-- As it wavers in the breeze-- Clumps of fresh-complexioned apples On the heavy-laden trees:

Red and yellow, streaked and hoary, Russet-coated, pale or brown-- Some are dipped in sunset glory, And some painted by the dawn.

What profusion, what abundance! Not a twig but has its fruits; High in air some in the sun dance, Some lie scattered near the roots.

These the hasty winds have taken Are a green, untimely crop; Those by burly rustics shaken Fall with loud resounding plop.

In this mellow autumn weather, Ruddy 'mid the long green grass, Heaped-up baskets stand together, Filled by many a blowsy lass.

Red and yellow, streaked and hoary, Pile them on the granary floors, Till the yule-log's flame in glory Loudly up the chimney roars;

Till gay troops of children, lightly Tripping in with shouts of glee, See ripe apples dangling brightly On the red-lit Christmas-tree.

_THE SONGS OF SUMMER._

The songs of summer are over and past! The swallow's forsaken the dripping eaves; Ruined and black 'mid the sodden leaves The nests are rudely swung in the blast: And ever the wind like a soul in pain Knocks and knocks at the window-pane.

The songs of summer are over and past! Woe's me for a music sweeter than theirs-- The quick, light bound of a step on the stairs, The greeting of lovers too sweet to last: And ever the wind like a soul in pain Knocks and knocks at the window-pane.

_AUTUMN TINTS._

Coral-coloured yew-berries Strew the garden ways, Hollyhocks and sunflowers Make a dazzling blaze In these latter days.

Marigolds by cottage doors Flaunt their golden pride, Crimson-punctured bramble leaves Dapple far and wide The green mountain-side.

Far away, on hilly slopes Where fleet rivulets run, Miles on miles of tangled fern, Burnished by the sun, Glow a copper dun.

For the year that's on the wane, Gathering all its fire, Flares up through the kindling world As, ere they expire, Flames leap high and higher.

_GREEN LEAVES AND SERE._

Three tall poplars beside the pool Shiver and moan in the gusty blast, The carded clouds are blown like wool, And the yellowing leaves fly thick and fast.

The leaves, now driven before the blast, Now flung by fits on the curdling pool, Are tossed heaven-high and dropped at last As if at the whim of a jabbering fool.

O leaves, once rustling green and cool! Two met here where one moans aghast With wild heart heaving towards the past: Three tall poplars beside the pool.

_THE HUNTER'S MOON._

The Hunter's Moon rides high, High o'er the close-cropped plain; Across the desert sky The herded clouds amain Scamper tumultuously, Chased by the hounding wind That yelps behind.

The clamorous hunt is done, Warm-housed the kennelled pack; One huntsman rides alone With dangling bridle slack; He wakes a hollow tone, Far echoing to his horn In clefts forlorn.

The Hunter's Moon rides low, Her course is nearly sped. Where is the panting roe? Where hath the wild deer fled? Hunter and hunted now Lie in oblivion deep: Dead or asleep.

_THE PASSING YEAR._

No breath of wind stirs in the painted leaves, The meadows are as stirless as the sky, Like a Saint's halo golden vapours lie Above the restful valley's garnered sheaves. The journeying Sun, like one who fondly grieves, Above the hills seems loitering with a sigh, As loth to bid the fruitful earth good-bye, On these hushed hours of luminous autumn eves.

There is a pathos in his softening glow, Which like a benediction seems to hover O'er the tranced earth, ere he must sink below And leave her widowed of her radiant Lover, A frost-bound sleeper in a shroud of snow While winter winds howl a wild dirge above her.

_THE ROBIN REDBREAST._

The year's grown songless! No glad pipings thrill The hedge-row elms, whose wind-worn branches shower Their leaves on the sere grass, where some late flower In golden chalice hoards the sunlight still. Our summer guests, whose raptures used to fill Each apple-blossomed garth and honeyed bower, Have in adversity's inclement hour Abandoned us to bleak November's chill.

But hearken! Yonder russet bird among The crimson clusters of the homely thorn Still bubbles o'er with little rills of song-- A blending of sweet hope and resignation: Even so, when life of love and youth is shorn, One friend becomes its last, best consolation.

_THE RED SUNSETS, 1883._

The boding sky was charactered with cloud, The scripture of the storm--but high in air, Where the unfathomed zenith still was bare, A pure expanse of rose-flushed violet glowed And, kindling into crimson light, o'erflowed The hurrying wrack with such a blood-red glare, That heaven, igniting, wildly seemed to flare On the dazed eyes of many an awe-struck crowd.

And in far lands folk presaged with blanched lips Disastrous wars, earthquakes, and foundering ships Such whelming floods as never dykes could stem, Or some proud empire's ruin and eclipse: Lo, such a sky, they cried, as burned o'er them Once lit the sacking of Jerusalem!

_THE RED SUNSETS, 1883._

The twilight heavens are flushed with gathering light, And o'er wet roofs and huddling streets below Hang with a strange Apocalyptic glow On the black fringes of the wintry night. Such bursts of glory may have rapt the sight Of him to whom on Patmos long ago The visionary angel came to show That heavenly city built of chrysolite.

And lo, three factory hands begrimed with soot, Aflame with the red splendour, marvelling stand, And gaze with lifted faces awed and mute. Starved of earth's beauty by Man's grudging hand, O toilers, robbed of labour's golden fruit, Ye, too, may feast in Nature's fairyland.

_ON THE LIGHTHOUSE AT ANTIBES._

A stormy light of sunset glows and glares Between two banks of cloud, and o'er the brine Thy fair lamp on the sky's carnation line Alone on the lone promontory flares: Friend of the Fisher who at nightfall fares Where lurk false reefs masked by the hyaline Of dimpling waves, within whose smile divine Death lies in wait behind Circean snares.

The evening knows thee ere the evening star; Or sees thy flame sole Regent of the bight, When storm, hoarse rumoured by the hills afar, Makes mariners steer landward by thy light, Which shows through shock of hostile nature's war How man keeps watch o'er man through deadliest night.

_CAGNES._

ON THE RIVIERA.

In tortuous windings up the steep incline The sombre street toils to the village square, Whose antique walls in stone and moulding bear Dumb witness to the Moor. Afar off shine, With tier on tier, cutting heaven's blue divine, The snowy Alps; and lower the hills are fair, With wave-green olives rippling down to where Gold clusters hang and leaves of sunburnt vine.

You may perchance, I never shall forget When, between twofold glory of land and sea, We leant together o'er the old parapet, And saw the sun go down. For, oh, to me, The beauty of that beautiful strange place Was its reflection beaming from your face.

_A WINTER LANDSCAPE._

All night, all day, in dizzy, downward flight, Fell the wild-whirling, vague, chaotic snow, Till every landmark of the earth below, Trees, moorlands, roads, and each familiar sight Were blotted out by the bewildering white. And winds, now shrieking loud, now whimpering low, Seemed lamentations for the world-old woe That death must swallow life, and darkness light.

But all at once the rack was blown away, The snowstorm hushing ended in a sigh; Then like a flame the crescent moon on high Leaped forth among the planets; pure as they, Earth vied in whiteness with the Milky Way: Herself a star beneath the starry sky.

LOVE IN EXILE.

"Whatever way my days decline, I felt and feel, tho' left alone, His being working in mine own, The footsteps of his life in mine."

LORD TENNYSON.

_SONGS._

I.

Thou walkest with me as the spirit-light Of the hushed moon, high o'er a snowy hill, Walks with the houseless traveller all the night, When trees are tongueless and when mute the rill. Moon of my soul, O phantasm of delight, Thou walkest with me still.

The vestal flame of quenchless memory burns In my soul's sanctuary. Yea, still for thee My bitter heart hath yearned, as moonward yearns Each separate wave-pulse of the clamorous sea: My Moon of love, to whom for ever turns The life that aches through me.

II.

I was again beside my Love in dream: Earth was so beautiful, the moon was shining; The muffled voice of many a cataract stream Came like a love-song, as, with arms entwining, Our hearts were mixed in unison supreme.

The wind lay spell-bound in each pillared pine, The tasselled larches had no sound or motion, As my whole life was sinking into thine-- Sinking into a deep, unfathomed ocean Of infinite love--uncircumscribed, divine.

Night held her breath, it seemed, with all her stars: Eternal eyes that watched in mute compassion Our little lives o'erleap their mortal bars, Fused in the fulness of immortal passion, A passion as immortal as the stars.

There was no longer any thee or me; No sense of self, no wish or incompleteness; The moment, rounded to Eternity, Annihilated time's destructive fleetness: For all but love itself had ceased to be.

III.

I am athirst, but not for wine; The drink I long for is divine, Poured only from your eyes in mine.

I hunger, but the bread I want, Of which my blood and brain are scant, Is your sweet speech, for which I pant.

I am a-cold, and lagging lame, Life creeps along my languid frame; Your love would fan it into flame.

Heaven's in that little word--your love! It makes my heart coo like a dove, My tears fall as I think thereof.

IV.

I would I were the glow-worm, thou the flower, That I might fill thy cup with glimmering light; I would I were the bird, and thou the bower, To sing thee songs throughout the summer night.

I would I were a pine tree deeply rooted, And thou the lofty, cloud-beleaguered rock, Still, while the blasts of heaven around us hooted, To cleave to thee and weather every shock.

I would I were the rill, and thou the river; So might I, leaping from some headlong steep, With all my waters lost in thine for ever, Be hurried onwards to the unfathomed deep.

I would--what would I not? O foolish dreaming! My words are but as leaves by autumn shed, That, in the faded moonlight idly gleaming, Drop on the grave where all our love lies dead.

V.

Dost thou remember ever, for my sake, When we two rowed upon the rock-bound lake? How the wind-fretted waters blew their spray About our brows like blossom-falls of May One memorable day?

Dost thou remember the glad mouth that cried-- "Were it not sweet to die now side by side, To lie together tangled in the deep Close as the heart-beat to the heart--so keep The everlasting sleep?"

Dost thou remember? Ah, such death as this Had set the seal upon my heart's young bliss! But, wrenched asunder, severed and apart, Life knew a deadlier death: the blighting smart Which only kills the heart.

VI.

O moon, large golden summer moon, Hanging between the linden trees, Which in the intermittent breeze Beat with the rhythmic pulse of June!

O night-air, scented through and through With honey-coloured flower of lime, Sweet now as in that other time When all my heart was sweet as you!

The sorcery of this breathing bloom Works like enchantment in my brain, Till, shuddering back to life again, My dead self rises from its tomb.

And, lovely with the love of yore, Its white ghost haunts the moon-white ways; But, when it meets me face to face, Flies trembling to the grave once more.

VII.

Why will you haunt me unawares, And walk into my sleep, Pacing its shadowy thoroughfares, Where long-dried perfume scents the airs, While ghosts of sorrow creep, Where on Hope's ruined altar-stairs, With ineffectual beams, The Moon of Memory coldly glares Upon the land of dreams?

My yearning eyes were fain to look Upon your hidden face; Their love, alas! you could not brook, But in your own you mutely took My hand, and for a space You wrung it till I throbbed and shook, And woke with wildest moan And wet face channelled like a brook With your tears or my own.

VIII.

When you wake from troubled slumbers With a dream-bewildered brain, And old leaves which no man numbers Chattering tap against the pane; And the midnight wind is wailing Till your very life seems quailing As the long gusts shudder and sigh: Know you not that homeless cry Is my love's, which cannot die, Wailing through Eternity?

When beside the glowing embers, Sitting in the twilight lone, Drop on drop you hear November's Melancholy monotone, As the heavy rain comes sweeping, With a sound of weeping, weeping, Till your blood is chilled with fears; Know you not those falling tears, Flowing fast through years on years, For my sobs within your ears?

When with dolorous moan the billows Surge around where, far and wide, Leagues on leagues of sea-worn hollows Throb with thunders of the tide, And the weary waves in breaking Fill you, thrill you, as with aching Memories of our love of yore Where you pace the sounding shore, Hear you not, through roll and roar, Soul call soul for evermore?

IX.

In a lonesome burial-place Crouched a mourner white of face; Wild her eyes--unheeding Circling pomp of night and day-- Ever crying, "Well away, Love lies a-bleeding!"

And her sighs were like a knell, And her tears for ever fell, With their warm rain feeding That purpureal flower, alas! Trailing prostrate in the grass, Love lies a-bleeding.

Through the yews' black-tufted gloom Crimson light dripped on the tomb, Funeral shadows breeding: In the sky the sun's light shed Dyed the earth one awful red-- Love lies a-bleeding.

Came grey mists, and blanching cloud Bore one universal shroud; Came the bowed moon leading, From the infinite afar Star that rumoured unto star-- Love lies a-bleeding.

X.

On life's long round by chance I found A dell impearled with dew, Where hyacinths, gushing from the ground, Lent to the earth heaven's native hue Of holy blue.

I sought that plot of azure light Once more in gloomy hours; But snow had fallen overnight And wrapped in mortuary white My fairy ring of flowers.

XI.

Ah, yesterday was dark and drear, My heart was deadly sore; Without thy love it seemed, my Dear, That I could live no more.

And yet I laugh and sing to-day; Care or care not for me, Thou canst not take the love away With which I worship thee.

And if to-morrow, Dear, I live, My heart I shall not break: For still I hold it that to give Is sweeter than to take.

XII.

Yea, the roses are still on fire With the bygone heat of July, Though the least little wind drifting by Shake a rose-leaf or two from the brier, Be it never so soft a sigh.

Ember of love still glows and lingers Deep at the red heart's smouldering core; With the sudden passionate throb of yore We shook as our eyes and clinging fingers Met once only to meet no more.

XIII.

We met as strangers on life's lonely way, And yet it seemed we knew each other well; There was no end to what thou hadst to say, Or to the thousand things I found to tell. My heart, long silent, at thy voice that day Chimed in my breast like to a silver bell.

How much we spoke, and yet still left untold Some secret half revealed within our eyes: Didst thou not love me once in ages old? Had I not called thee with importunate cries, And, like a child left sobbing in the cold, Listened to catch from far thy fond replies?

We met as strangers, and as such we part; Yet all my life seems leaving me with thine; Ah, to be clasped once only heart to heart, If only once to feel that thou wert mine! These lips are locked, and yet I know thou art That all in all for which my soul did pine.

XIV.

You make the sunshine of my heart And its tempestuous shower; Sometimes the thought of you is like A lilac bush in flower, Yea, honey-sweet as hives in May. And then the pang of it will strike My bosom with a fiery smart, As though love's deeply planted dart Drained all its life away.

My thoughts hum round you, Dear, like bees About a bank of thyme, Or round the yellow blossoms of The heavy-scented lime. Ah, sweeter you than honeydew, Yet dark the ways of love, For it has robbed my soul of peace, And marred my life and turned heart's-ease Into funereal rue.

XV.

Dear, when I look into your eyes My hurts are healed, my heart grows whole; The barren places in my soul, Like waste lands under April skies, Break into flower beneath your eyes.

Ah, life grows lovely where you are; Only to think of you gives light To my dark heart, within whose night Your image, though you bide afar, Glows like a lake-reflected star.

Dare I crave more than only this: A thrill of love, a transient smile To gladden all my world awhile? No more, alas! Is mortal bliss Not transient as a lover's kiss?

XVI.

Ah, if you knew how soon and late My eyes long for a sight of you, Sometimes in passing by my gate You'd linger until fall of dew, If you but knew!

Ah, if you knew how sick and sore My life flags for the want of you, Straightway you'd enter at the door And clasp my hand between your two, If you but knew!

Ah, if you knew how lost and lone I watch and weep and wait for you, You'd press my heart close to your own Till love had healed me through and through, If you but knew!

XVII.

Your looks have touched my soul with bright Ineffable emotion; As moonbeams on a stormy night Illume with transitory light A seagull on her lonely flight Across the lonely ocean.

Fluttering from out the gloom and roar, On fitful wing she flies, Moon-white above the moon-washed shore; Then, drowned in darkness as before, She's lost, as I when lit no more By your beloved eyes.

XVIII.

Oh, brown Eyes with long black lashes, Young brown Eyes, Depths of night from which there flashes Lightning as of summer skies, Beautiful brown Eyes!

In your veiled mysterious splendour Passion lies Sleeping, but with sudden tender Dreams that fill with vague surmise Beautiful brown Eyes.

All my soul, with yearning shaken, Asks in sighs-- Who will see your heart awaken, Love's divine sunrise In those young brown Eyes?

XIX.

Once on a golden day, In the golden month of May, I gave my heart away-- Little birds were singing.

I culled my heart in truth, Wet with the dews of youth, For love to take, forsooth-- Little flowers were springing.

Love sweetly laughed at this, And between kiss and kiss Fled with my heart in his: Winds warmly blowing.

And with his sun and shower Love kept my heart in flower, As in the greenest bower Rose richly glowing.

Till, worn at evensong, Love dropped my heart among Stones by the way ere long; Misprizèd token.

There in the wind and rain, Trampled and rent in twain, Ne'er to be whole again, My heart lies broken.

XX.

What magic is there in thy mien, What sorcery in thy smile, Which charms away all cark and care, Which turns the foul days into fair, And for a little while Changes this disenchanted scene From the sere leaf into the green, Transmuting with love's golden wand This beggared life to fairyland?

My heart goes forth to thee, oh friend, As some poor pilgrim to a shrine, A pilgrim who has come from far To seek his spirit's folding star, And sees the taper shine; The goal to which his wanderings tend, Where want and weariness shall end, And kneels ecstatically blest Because his heart hath entered rest.

_HEART'S-EASE._

As opiates to the sick on wakeful nights, As light to flowers, as flowers in poor men's rooms, As to the fisher when the tempest glooms The cheerful twinkling of his village lights; As emerald isles to flagging swallow flights, As roses garlanding with tendrilled blooms The unweeded hillocks of forgotten tombs, As singing birds on cypress-shadowed heights,

Thou art to me--a comfort past compare-- For thy joy-kindling presence, sweet as May Sets all my nerves to music, makes away With sorrow and the numbing frost of care, Until the influence of thine eyes' bright sway Has made life's glass go up from foul to fair.

_UNTIMELY LOVE._

Peace, throbbing heart, nor let us shed one tear O'er this late love's unseasonable glow; Sweet as a violet blooming in the snow, The posthumous offspring of the widowed year, That smells of March when all the world is sere, And, while around the hurtling sea-winds blow-- Which twist the oak and lay the pine tree low-- Stands childlike in the storm and has no fear.

Poor helpless blossom orphaned of the sun, How could it thus brave winter's rude estate? Oh love, more helpless love, why bloom so late, Now that the flower-time of the year is done? Since thy dear course must end when scarce begun, Nipped by the cold touch of untoward fate.

_THE AFTER-GLOW._

It is a solemn evening, golden-clear-- The Alpine summits flame with rose-lit snow And headlands purpling on wide seas below, And clouds and woods and arid rocks appear Dissolving in the sun's own atmosphere And vast circumference of light, whose slow Transfiguration--glow and after-glow-- Turns twilight earth to a more luminous sphere.

Oh heart, I ask, seeing that the orb of day Has sunk below, yet left to sky and sea His glory's spiritual after-shine: I ask if Love, whose sun hath set for thee, May not touch grief with his memorial ray, And lend to loss itself a joy divine?

_L'ENVOI._

Thou art the goal for which my spirit longs; As dove on dove, Bound for one home, I send thee all my songs With all my love.

Thou art the haven with fair harbour lights; Safe locked in thee, My heart would anchor after stormful nights Alone at sea.

Thou art the rest of which my life is fain, The perfect peace; Absorbed in thee the world, with all its pain And toil, would cease.

Thou art the heaven to which my soul would go! O dearest eyes, Lost in your light you would turn hell below To Paradise.

Thou all in all for which my heart-blood yearns! Yea, near or far-- Where the unfathomed ether throbs and burns With star on star,

Or where, enkindled by the fires of June, The fresh earth glows, Blushing beneath the mystical white moon Through rose on rose--

Thee, thee I see, thee feel in all live things, Beloved one; In the first bird which tremulously sings Ere peep of sun;

In the last nestling orphaned in the hedge, Rocked to and fro, When dying summer shudders in the sedge, And swallows go;

When roaring snows rush down the mountain-pass, March floods with rills, Or April lightens through the living grass In daffodils;

When poppied cornfields simmer in the heat With tare and thistle, And, like winged clouds above the mellow wheat, The starlings whistle;

When stained with sunset the wide moorlands glare In the wild weather, And clouds with flaming craters smoke and flare Red o'er red heather;

When the bent moon, on frostbound midnights waking, Leans to the snow Like some world-mother whose deep heart is breaking O'er human woe.

As the round sun rolls red into the ocean, Till all the sea Glows fluid gold, even so life's mazy motion Is dyed with thee:

For as the wave-like years subside and roll, O heart's desire, Thy soul glows interfused within my soul, A quenchless fire.

Yea, thee I feel, all storms of life above, Near though afar; O thou my glorious morning star of love, And evening star.

* * * * *

PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.

* * * * *

WORKS BY MATHILDE BLIND.

Poetry.

THE PROPHECY OF SAINT ORAN, and other Poems. THE HEATHER ON FIRE.

Prose Fiction.

TARANTELLA: A Romance.

Monographs.

GEORGE ELIOT. MADAME ROLAND.

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.

THE PROPHECY OF SAINT ORAN,

And other Poems.

"There is perhaps no phase of our history more capable of poetic treatment than the sainted lives of the Irish monks who first spread the Christian faith over the western shores of Scotland, and yet it would be difficult to point to a single representative poem having Saint Columba and the devoted band of his disciples for its heroes. An attempt at filling up this gap has recently been made by Miss Blind in a narrative poem devoted to the fate of St. Oran, the friend and disciple of St. Columba.... Apart from the sonorous beauty of her lines, there is in her diction a straightforwardness and simplicity, and an entire absence of affectation and false sentiment, which, combined with considerable power of characterization, make her volume a remarkable contribution to English literature."--_Times_, September 26, 1881.

"To disturb the _motif_ of a legend is always a bold, and mostly a rash, proceeding.... And yet so skilfully is the story handled that the main incidents of the legend do not lose, but gain by this disturbance of the _motif_, and the character of Oran, which with the old _motif_ could only have presented the single side of the religious enthusiast, becomes a character exhibiting that complexity which modern taste demands.... Directness of style and lucidity of narrative are the characteristic excellences of the poem. There are few contemporary poets who could have done so much dramatic business in so few lines.... In each of the sonnets there is a thought that is well expressed, and worth expressing."--_Athenæum_, July 30, 1881.

"It is in the domain of character that the poem is distinguished by its highest excellence. There is an ideal statuesqueness embodied in the person of St. Columba such as is felt to possess a powerful appeal to the imagination. The poem embraces many passions, of which the most tender and beautiful finds expression in the exquisite creation of the radiant golden-haired girl for whose love St. Oran breaks his vow of chastity. But the really powerful contribution to our knowledge of character which this book contains is fittingly centred in St. Oran himself. A dramatic instinct of high order finds utterance in his struggles between opposing passions. Nor are the metrical excellences of the poem less conspicuous.... If one were in need of some single phrase by which to denote the ultimate effect produced by this book, one might say that it seems the most _mature_ of all recent first efforts, even of established rank."--_Academy_, July 16, 1881.

"In the choice of a subject for her chief poem she has been singularly fortunate.... That a story such as this is full of poetical suggestiveness is obvious, and Miss Blind has proved herself equal to the occasion. She has avoided writing anything approaching to a 'tendency poem.' She metes out justice with an equal hand to all her characters. The genuine enthusiasm and religious zeal of the monks are set forth in language as inspired as is the final protest of St. Oran against their narrow fanaticism; and one of the best passages in the book is indeed the Sermon in which St. Columba announces the Gospel of love and redemption to the islanders."--_Pall Mall Gazette_, August 22, 1881.

"'The Prophecy of Saint Oran' is skilfully told and vigorously written. In the description of nature and scenery; in the delineation of character; and in the management of singularly difficult positions there is visible a firm and practised hand, a bold and unmistakable power. 'The Street Children's Dance' not unworthily ranks with some of the touching pieces of Hood, Mrs. Barrett Browning, and others."--_British Mail_, September 1, 1881.

"The only excuse for street music that can reasonably be considered valid is the touching plea for public toleration which is embodied in Miss Mathilde Blind's poem, wherein the spectacle of poor children dancing round an organ is as pathetically moralized and as tender and full of loving pity as Mrs. Browning's 'Cry of the Children.'"--_Daily Telegraph_, September 1, 1881.

"The poem is rich in true description of sea and sky and mountain, and glows in sympathy with the deeper feelings which stir humanity. There has been published no poem of such creative suggestiveness as this for many a day, and we hope and believe that it is the precursor of other work by the same unfaltering hand. This poem is a true work of art, complete and beautiful. There is in the volume other work which shows a master's touch...."--_Manchester Examiner and Times_, July 1, 1882.

"Il y a là bien plus qu'une simple facilité de versification. Le récit du poeme d'ouverture est grand et fort, la manière de raconter est pleine de poésie et d'effet. Depuis la mort de Mrs. Barrett Browning, nous n'avons point eu de poésie aussi hautement inspirée qui ait jailli d'une source féminine."--_Le Livre_, Paris, October 10, 1881.

THE HEATHER ON FIRE:

A Tale of the Highland Clearances.

"Miss Blind has produced one of the most noticeable and moving poems which recent years have added to our shelves.... As a singer with a message her attempt is praiseworthy, and her performance is fairly self-consistent. It is eminently homogeneous; the passion once felt, the inspiration once obeyed, the well-head pours forth its stream in a strong and uniform current, which knows no pause until its impulse ceases.... The story is pathetic at once in its simplicity and in its terror.... We congratulate the author upon her boldness in choosing a subject of our own time, fertile in what is pathetic, and free from any taint of the vulgar and conventional. Poetry of late years has tended too much towards motives of a merely fanciful and abstruse, sometimes a plainly artificial, character; and we have had much of lyrical energy or attraction, with little of the real marrow of human life, the flesh and blood of man and woman. Positive subject-matter, the emotion which inheres in actual life, the very smile and the very tear and heart-pang, are, after all, precious to poetry, and we have them here. 'The Heather on Fire' may possibly prove to be something of a new departure, and one that was certainly not superfluous."--_Athenæum_, July 17, 1886.

"Miss Blind has chosen for her new poem one of those terrible Highland clearances which stain the history of Scotch landlordism. Though her tale is a fiction it is too well founded on fact.... It may be said generally of the poem that the most difficult scenes are those in which Miss Blind succeeds best; and on the whole we are inclined to think that its greatest and most surprising success is the picture of the poor old soldier Rory driven mad by the burning of his wife. In his frenzy he mixes up his old battles with the French and the descent of the landlord's ejectors upon the village."--_Academy_, August 7, 1886.

"In this versified tale of Highland clearances, Mathilde Blind has, with genuine poetic instinct, selected a family the fortunes of which form the burden of her story.... Literature and poetry are never seen at their best save in contact with actual life.... This little book abounds in vivid delineation of character, and is redolent with the noblest human sympathy."--_Newcastle Daily Chronicle_, June 3, 1886.

"A subject which has painfully preoccupied public opinion is, in the poem entitled 'The Heather on Fire,' treated with characteristic power by Miss Mathilde Blind. Irish evictions have offered so convenient a theme to party strife, that the sufferings of the unhappy Highland crofters have not always met with the compassion they were so well calculated to inspire. In eloquent and forcible verse, Miss Blind tells the tale of their wrongs, their resistance to the hard fate imposed upon them, and describes the bitter grief with which

'Crowding on the decks with hungry eyes, Straining towards the coast that flies and flies,'

those among them driven into exile look on the shores to which many bid an eternal farewell. Both as a narrative and descriptive poem 'The Heather on Fire' is equally remarkable."--_Morning Post_, July 30, 1886.

"We are happy in being able to extend to the present poem a welcome equally sincere and equally hearty; for it is a poem that is rich not only in power and beauty but in that 'enthusiasm of humanity' which stirs and moves us, and of which so much contemporary verse is almost painfully deficient. Miss Blind does not possess her theme; she is possessed by it, as was Mrs. Browning when she wrote 'Aurora Leigh.'... We can best describe the kind of her success by noting the fact that while engaged in the perusal of her book we do not say, 'What a fine poem!' but 'What a terrible story!' or, more probably still, say nothing at all, but read on and on under the spell of a great horror and an over-powering pity. Poetry of which this can be said needs no other recommendation, and, therefore, we need not unduly lengthen our review of 'The Heather on Fire.'"--_Manchester Examiner and Times_, September 1, 1886.

"There are charming pictures of West Highland scenery, in Arran apparently, and of the surroundings and conditions of Highland cottar life."--_Scotsman_, July 20, 1886.

"In 'The Heather on Fire' she exhibits a clearness and beauty of diction, a rhythmical correctness, a grace and simplicity of style which mark her out as no slavish follower of any poetic 'school,' but an unaffected and truthful expression of her own feelings.... Whatever the reader's opinion may be on the grievance which Miss Blind throws into such fierce light, he cannot fail to be pleased with her graceful tale, so gracefully and simply told."--_Glasgow Herald_, July 20, 1886.

"Miss Mathilde Blind's poem is the tragic epic of the old evictions in the Highlands of Scotland. It is a strange fact that the general reader knows more about the siege of Troy, the Norman Conquest, and the Wars of the Roses, than about such matters in the very history of our own days as the depopulation of the Highlands of Scotland by the landlords. The old story comes to the front just now by reason of the crofter agitation. In the preface to her fine and touching epic, and in the notes at the end, Miss Blind passes in review some of the facts of the eviction of the Glen Sannox people by the Duke of Hamilton in 1832, where, as she says, 'the progress of civilization, which has redeemed many a wilderness and gladdened the solitary places of the world, has come with a curse to these Highland glens, and turned green pastures and golden harvest fields once more into a desert.' The 'Heather on Fire' is a poem in four cantos--or 'Duans'--comprising about two hundred stanzas."--_School Board Chronicle_, July 10, 1886.

"It is written in a strain which must of necessity appeal to the sympathies of all grades of society, and at the same time it is eminently poetical, both in thought and rhythm."--_Western Antiquary_, August, 1886.

"A book like this forms an admirable corrective to the harsh and cold-blooded theories of such landlords as the Duke of Argyle on the rights of his class."--_Cambridge Independent Press_, August, 1886.

"There is a sonorous beauty, a classic dignity and depth of pathos throughout her four cantos, and a vivid and thrilling description is given of the industrious hamlets, the contented happy people, and the ruthless manner in which the evictions were effected by the stewards and ground-officers."--_Elgin Courant_, August, 1886.

TARANTELLA:

A Romance.

"The author of this two-volumed romance is favourably known by other works, and by her appreciative 'Life of George Eliot.' The strange effects of the bite of a tarantula spider, so firmly believed in by the Italian peasantry, and the marvellous power of musical enthusiasm, supply the motive of the story; and the characters are portrayed with great force, pathos, and a touch of homely humour."--_Bookseller_, Christmas, 1884.

"Miss Blind may be congratulated on 'Tarantella,' her first novel. In the _récit_ (as we have called it) of the musician, Emanuel Sturm, nearly all the interest of the book is concentrated. The violinist, poor and unknown, finds himself at Capri. Accident brings him, one evening, to a frightened group of women, one of whom has just been bitten by the tarantula, and, according to the popular superstition, he is implored to play, in order to drive the poison out of her. He refuses at first, but afterwards consents, and, finding himself almost supernaturally inspired, plays an improvised 'Tarantella' throughout a whole stormy night, finally curing the girl. The tune thus strangely hit on spreads, and ultimately makes him famous, but the love he has conceived for his Antonella brings him almost as much misery as his music brings him fame."--_Pall Mall Gazette_, February 5, 1885.

"Admiration of the delicate sketching now in vogue should not blind us to the very opposite kind of charm of which 'Tarantella' is full. Entirely poetical in conception (save that it is not written in metre), 'Tarantella' is more essentially a poem than many a narrative written in smooth and elegant verse.... 'Tarantella' is indeed full of strange originality and scenic effects of uncommon powers. The dance among the ruins is not likely to be soon forgotten by the most unimaginative of readers, and it is rarely, we think, that in an English novel the psychology of the poetic temperament has been touched by a hand so delicate and at the same time so strong."--_Athenæum_, January 17, 1885.

"There is abundant imagination, and the language is generally fresh and vigorous.... The author finds many opportunities of introducing scenes from German life, which are evidently written with intimate knowledge.... This is distinctly a novel to read."--_Echo_, June 16, 1886.

"This powerful and pathetic tale has carried us more completely out of ourselves and along with it than any work of fiction we have read for many a day.... Her (Miss Blind's) word-pictures glow with rich local colours; she is a complete mistress of the art of dramatic cause and effect. When once fairly under weigh, she never allows the interest to flag for a single moment. Thus it is only when we have laid down the final volume that we have time or inclination to pause and recognize the care and art which have contributed to this triumphant result; to turn back ... and dwell on the author's extraordinary knowledge of the human heart--extraordinary alike for its depth and its range. As for the wit and humour with which the book is freely sprinkled, the poetic and artistic spirit which pervades it throughout, they can only be appreciated on a second or a third perusal."--_Life_, December 25, 1884.

"'Tarantella' is extremely clever, and the treatment of the weird subject she has chosen picturesque in the extreme. The local colouring is especially fine, and her character studies extremely strong. Thrice welcome in its two-volume form, 'Tarantella' is a book bound to make its mark."--_Whitehall Review_, December 11, 1884.

"We have very ingenious resources in music and the bite of the tarantula, which alone music is said to heal. Notwithstanding the sense of improbability, we follow the strange fortunes of Antonella, Countess Ogotshka, and her almost magical transformation with interest. Mina, the innocent girl, her friend, is well delineated, and Emanuel Sturm, the wonderful violinist and composer, for whose portrait Paganini has doubtless been available, is original, no less than his friend the painter."--_British Quarterly_, January, 1885.

"'Tarantella' is a very clever story, with plenty of action and not without tragic incidents. The author has also plenty of humour, and there is at least as much light as shade in the book. Mina is not less delightful than the Countess is objectionable, in spite of her beauty and her daring."--_London Figaro_, November 20, 1886.

"We shall not spoil the story by hinting at its _dénouement_. It is a deeply interesting one; and the characters, three of them at least, are sufficiently original to give the author a high rank as a novelist.... The book abounds in striking and interesting pictures of Italian and German life and scenery."--_Dublin Mail_, November, 1886.

"'Tarantella' is, indeed, a novel unlike the common--full of power and imagination and originality.... It would be unjust to deny to this very remarkable book a large share of what the world calls genius."--_Melbourne Argus_, March 14, 1885.

"By her recent works, 'The Prophecy of Saint Oran' and the 'Life of George Eliot,' Miss Blind brought herself before the public as a writer of considerable ability, and her latest novel will do much to increase her reputation.... 'Tarantella' deserves to be classed among the best novels of the present day."--_Scottish News_, June 15, 1886.

"There is an inherent charm about 'Tarantella' which will be apparent to the reader from a perusal of the first chapter. This agreeable quality does not end there, however. The whole of the tale, which is divided into forty-six chapters, is permeated with features of an exceptionally attractive description. Not the least noteworthy character of the story is its novelty. Most of the incidents, which are carefully elaborated and follow in logical sequence, are conspicuous for an airy freshness in nature and treatment. Every chapter has its specific purpose, there being a uniform overflow of idea and sentiment; and each development of the pleasing romance opens to the mental vision of the thoughtful reader incidents of a more or less engrossing description. Continental scenes and customs are described with freeness and perspicuity, and the varied and eventful adventures of the principal characters--pleasingly typical, it may be mentioned, of the romanticism invariably associated with 'love's young dream,' when, as in the present instance, there is a combination of youth and beauty--are recorded with a poetical fervour and gracefulness of diction which are certain to be generally admired."--_Western Daily Press_, June 2, 1886.