Part 3

What cry was that which woke me from my dream? I stand upon my native, island shore, And hear the startled curlews round me scream O’er the mute cliffs that make the fierce waves roar; I watch the “stately ships” go sailing by, And wonder how my heart has learned to sigh.

XV.

Ah! _that_ was but a dream. A summer’s eve Breathes all its balmy blessings on my brow; I feel as though the earth had got reprieve From its death-sentence. See, the sun sets now-- The blue of heaven grows gently dark above,-- Below, blue eyes are growing dark with love.

XVI.

_That_, too, was but a dream. What startled me? The winds are making havoc ’mong the leaves Of summer-time, and each once happy tree For its lost darlings rocks itself and grieves. The night is dark, the sky is thick with clouds-- Kind frost-nymphs make the little leaves their shrouds!

WINTER.

Now lies Adonis in Prosérpine’s breast, Who o’er him spreads a mantle lily white, And every dryad, with disordered vest, Teareth her hair for sorrow at the sight. And ere he waketh, many an eye, now bright, Shall deaden; many a rosy cheek shall pale; O’er many a fair, young head shall rise the wail Of those whom Death hath spoiled of their delight. And, when, at touch of Spring, the winding sheet That wraps thee now, Adonis, melts to flowers, To deck thee for thy Queen; and sunny Hours, Dancing around thee on their soft swift feet, Sing “Wake, Adonis;” many a one shall weep For those that in the Earth’s dark bosom sleep.

PER NOCTEM PLURIMA VOLVENS.

I.

When the weary sun has ended his journey and descended, By his own bright, golden pathway, to his mansion in the west, And the sentry stars have taken the sky he has forsaken, To watch till he awaken, bright and smiling, from his rest;

II.

And the Moon is rising slowly with a light serene and holy, The Queen of all the watchers, the sister of the Sun, And hushed are all the noises from Earth’s unnumbered voices, And the heart of sleep rejoices in the conquest he has won;

III.

In the still, unbroken quiet, free from day’s unceasing riot, I love to call around me the friends of long before, And to fill my vacant places with the well-remembered graces Of dear, old familiar faces that may smile for me no more.

IV.

Some that shared my boyish pastime, as they seemed to me the last time That I saw them, full of life and joy and hope that knew no bound, But who now are sad and grieving, and have lost the gay believing In the deeds of hope’s achieving, or--are laid beneath the ground;--

V.

Some, not merely friends for pleasure, but who cherished friendship’s treasure More than gold or worldly honour or gay fashion’s fickle smile, Who would neither scorn nor flatter, who spoke honestly, no matter How the world might grin and chatter, loving truth and hating guile;--

VI.

Some whose silvery hair seemed saintly, and whose eyes though shining faintly, Shed a tender lustre o’er me that will light me till the grave That with all men I inherit takes my body, and my spirit, Trusting in my Savour’s merit, has returned to God who gave;--

VII.

One, whom I have lost forever, but whom I will still endeavour To deserve, though undeserving to have passed before her eyes, For I know that while I love her, what is best and purest of her Near me, through my life shall hover, like an angel from the skies;--

VIII.

These, by Fancy, great enchanter, called, into my presence enter, When the Sun and Earth are sleeping and the Moon and Stars are bright, And whatever past seemed pleasant I live over in the present, And the cares of day are lessened by the magic of the night.

BALAAM.

While sleep had set its seal on many eyes, Balaam, the Seer, was forth beneath the stars, Whose beauty glimmered in Euphrates’ stream, Gemming the mournful willows’ floating hair. Behind him were the mountains of the east, The dark-browed nurses of the blue-eyed founts, Whose lone hearts were the life of Pethor-land. Westward, beyond the river, was the waste, O’er which, this second time, with priceless gifts, Had come from Balak noble messengers; And westward were the eyes of Balaam turned, As one who waits for one who does not come, While wild things came and passed unheeded by, And the night wind, as with an angel’s harp, Played lullaby to all the dreaming flowers. And, gazing on the western sky, he saw A picture, all whose forms were quick with life, Where all was discord, hurrying to and fro, As when two armies strive to gain the field; For, from the outer realms of space, there came Gigantic spearsmen, over whom there waved Gay, many-coloured banners, and these flew, Hither and thither, o’er the starry plain, Pursuing and retreating; others came, And others, till it seemed all Sabaoth Had joined in conflict with the wicked one. And then there was a change; banners and spears Faded away, as fades away the reek Above a hamlet on a frosty morn; And none can tell when he sees last of it. And, in a little while, there grew an arch, Whose keystone was the zenith of the sky, Like to a rainbow, joining east and west, Beautiful, quivering, fearful, ominous, Drawing the heart of Balaam after it. And this, too, vanished, vapor-like, away; And Balaam, though he waited its return, Waited in vain; for warriors, and spears, And banners, and the fiery flash of hosts Embattled, and the mystic arch, were gone, And came no more.

And Balaam stood amazed Long time, while thoughts, conflicting, tore his breast, And barred all passage for his voice. At length, “Hath not the Highest, by this sign, declared His purpose? I MUST GO!” he said, and then Dark-boding terrors shook him and the strain That held his face rapt westward, all relaxed By speech, he felt as one, who, in a dream, Stands on a steep cliff, by the greedy sea, While ruthless foes pursue him. “I MUST GO!” He said, and from ten thousand horrid throats There seemed to come a mocking answer, “Go!” And o’er him came a shiver, as a lake Shivers beneath the burden of a breeze. And then there came a whisper to his ear, “Balaam, God’s prophet! go not with these men! Puttest thou Balak’s honour above His Who chose thee to declare His will to men? Go, and thou art undone! God doth not lie!” Then Balaam, as in answer to a friend: “There came across the desert lordly men From Moab and from Midian, who besought, With many prayers and noble gifts, that I, Balaam, the Seer, would go with them and curse A people who were terrible in war-- To whom the strength of Moab was as grass Before the oxen, feeding on the plains-- If, haply, I might crush them with a curse! These prayed I to abide with me all night, Till I should learn the purpose of the Lord-- And, in a dream, God warned me not to go; And so they went away ungratified. Then came these princes with more precious gifts, And still more precious promises, who said, ‘Balak, our lord, hath sent us unto thee, And prayeth thee to come. He will promote Thee and thy house to honour; and all boons, Whate’er thou askest, he will freely give.’ And I replied, ‘If Balak’s house were full Of gold and silver, and he made it mine, Or more or less than God commandeth me, I could not do. But tarry here to-night, And I will hear the answer of the Lord.’ And then God sent a sign, the like of which I, who know all the faces of the night, And am familiar with all stars that shine Over the hills and plains of Pethor-land, Have never seen before, a sign which said: ‘Balaam, if these men call thee, rise and go.’ Or more or less than God commandeth me I cannot do. Am I in this to blame?” And then the wind came sweeping down the hills, And Balaam heard again the mocking cry, “If these man call thee, Balaam, rise and go.” And though he shuddered, all his face grew dark And knotted, as he said, “God doth not lie, But--doth God mock? Hath he not sent a sign To me, who have the power of reading signs, His own high gift? And now--and now, O God! If thou wouldst send me yet another sign--!” And here the whisper of the still, small voice Came back, “O, Balaam! wretched is their fate, Who, knowing good from evil, choose not good, Or suffer evil, howsoever fair, To make the good less lovely in their eyes! Full well thou knowest that thy heart is set More on the gold of Balak than God’s will. God doth not mock. ’Tis thou that mockest Him, Coming into His presence, full of lust, And seeking for a sign. If thou wert pure No sign were needed. Being as thou art, Wert thou to offer up the land’s whole wealth, Oxen and rams, and corn, and wine, and oil, And all the first-born of thy kings, no sign Would purge thee of those sordid dreams that drag Thy soul from God to hell! It is not yet too late, Perhaps, and but perhaps! O, Balaam, rouse thee! Thou art, e’en yet, God’s prophet! He has shewn His will to none more clearly than to thee. What is it He requireth at thy hands? Be true and honest, pure and merciful, Having thy heart aflame with faith and love, Still walking humbly, as though prone to fall-- Guarding thine eyes from covetous wanderings, Deeming God’s gifts more beautiful than man’s-- And he will keep thee right in all thy ways. Oh! what is Balak’s honour, Balak’s gold, To Balaam, if the Highest be his friend, Who owns the wealth and beauty of the world? Balaam, if these men call thee, do not go.” And Balaam bowed himself unto the ground, And lay upon his face in misery; And in his heart an awful battle raged, Where evil fought with good. Longtime he lay, As one entranced, all motionless, but full, Through every nerve, of wakeful, painful life. And then he rose, as from his grave, so pale And wild his visage; and he looked again, Along the waste, towards the western sky, But saw no sign, save that the stars grew dim, And some were gone; and, even as he looked, He seemed to hear from all the waking earth, Borne through the gloaming on the mountain wind, The words he loved and longed for and yet loathed, “Balaam, if these men call thee, rise and go.”

And once again a shudder shook his frame; And once again he bowed him to the earth, And lay upon his face in misery, Until, from weariness, he fell asleep.

And as he slept, he dreamed he was a child And heard sweet music, soft as is the breeze That steals through corn-fields on a summer’s day, And makes the flowers kiss sweetly, and the leaves On every tree grow tremulous for joy.

And then there came a noble, swelling strain, Like the grand chorus of victorious hosts That still march on to victory; and he heard, And was a man, with men--a king of men, With crown of inspiration on his brow. Around him thronged the chiefs of Pethor-land And others, from afar, who came to hear The wisdom God had given to his lips. But he was still as humble as the child That played of yore amid the flowers, and drew From their sweet breath the beauty of the good. And as he spoke, they listened to his words As to an angel’s: for his words were wise, Wiser than all the wisdom of the East.

Then came a discord, as a sound of waves That dash against tall rocks, while drowning men Try vainly to be heard. And Balaam grew Proud with the pride of vain and worldly men, And thought within his heart how great he was, Forgetting who had made him wise and great; And thought of all the homage and the gifts Yielded to him by princes of all lands, Till his heart turned to evil more than good.

Then came a sound of battle and wild cries, The blare of trumpets, and the clash of swords, And the fierce neigh of war-steeds, and the groans Of dying men,--and Balaam lay with these, Far from the hills and streams of Pethor-land. And, as he lay, he heard an awful voice, High o’er the din of battle, and the words, “If these men call thee, Balaam, rise and go.” And Balaam woke; and on the Eastern hills Beheld the ruddy blossom of the day Bursting from out the sapphire of the sky; And all the earth looked pure as when it rose, At first, in beauty, from the primal sea, And all the heavenly hosts sang songs of joy.

But still the night lingered in Balaam’s soul, And all the pleasant voices of the morn, With which, erstwhile, he joined in hymns of praise, Were buried, as all hues are lost in black, In the dark horrors of one fatal cry, “If these men call thee, Balaam, rise and go.”

And fainter was the whisper than before, And Balaam heard it not, or heeded not, As with slow steps--as one who walks in chains-- And head bowed low upon his breast, he moved Homeward to where the princes waited him.

And Balaam told them not of sign or dream, But only made him ready for the road. And ere the sun was half-way up the sky, Both he and they were far upon the waste That stretched towards Moab,--and he nevermore Beheld the hills and streams of Pethor-land.

GOOD NIGHT.

I.

Good night! God bless thee, love, wherever thou art, And keep thee, like an infant, in His arms! And all good messengers that move unseen By eye sin-darkened, and on noiseless wings Carry glad tidings to the doors of sleep, Touch all thy tears to pearls of heavenly joy. Oh! I am very lonely, missing thee; Yet, morning, noon, and night, sweet memories Are nestling round thy name within my heart, Like summer birds in frozen winter woods. Good night! _Good night!_ oh, for the mutual word! Oh, for the loving pressure of thy hand! Oh, for the tender parting of thine eyes! God bless thee, love, wherever thou art! Good night.

II.

Good night, my love! Another day has brought Its load of grief and stowed it in my heart, So full already, Joy is crushed to death, And Hope stands mute and shivering at the door. Still Memory, kind angel, stays within, And will not leave me with my grief alone, But whispers of the happy days that were Made glorious by the light of thy pure eyes. Oh! shall I ever see thee, love, again, My own, my darling, my soul’s best beloved, Far more than I had ever hoped to find Of true and good and beautiful on earth? Oh! shall I _never_ see thee, love, again? My treasure found and loved and lost, good night.

III.

Good night, my love! Without, the wintry winds Make the night sadly vocal; and within, The hours that danced along so full of joy, Like skeletons have come from out their graves, And sit beside me at my lonely fire,-- Guests grim but welcome, which my fancy decks, In all the beauty that was theirs when thou Didst look and breathe and whisper softly on them. So do they come and sit, night after night, Talking to me of thee till I forget That they are mere illusions and the past Is gone forever. They have vanished now, And I am all alone, and thou art--where? My love, good angels bear thee my good night!

WINTER SUNSHINE.

The “Miserere” of the wintry earth Went up to Heaven on the wings of air-- I heard it, sitting by my lonely hearth-- An awful music; sighs and moans of prayer, The anguish human words could never bear Into God’s ear, the agony whose birth The soul hides from itself were mingled there With the fierce undertones of frantic mirth. Then came a hush, and suddenly the floor Was carpeted with sunshine, living gold, That filled the heart with summer; Heaven’s door Was touched and opened, and at once there rolled, In strains of sweetest music from above, Back to the earth an answer, “God is Love!”

CHRISTUS SALVATOR.

I.

C horo sancto nunciatus, H omo, Deus Increatus, R egum, Rex, Puellâ natus, I n ignaris habitat; S umit vilem carnis vestem, T radens Gloriam Cœlestem U t dispellat culpæ pestem, S atanamque subigat.

II.

S urgit Stella prophetarum, A dest Victor tenebrarum, L umen omnium terrarum, V ia, Vita, Veritas. A nimas illuminavit, T enebrarum vim fugavit, O ras Cœlicas monstravit R edemptoris Claritas.

CHRISTMAS, 1864.

DEW.

“Who hath begotten the drops of dew?”--JOB xxxviii, 28.

I.

Who hath begotten the drops of dew? Tell, if you can, the tale of their birth; Have the stars from Heaven come down to woo The flowers, the beautiful daughters of earth?

II.

Who hath begotten the drops of dew? Have angels open’d the pearly doors, And, leaving their streets of golden hue, Blest with their footsteps our grassy floors?

III.

Who hath begotten the drops of dew? Doth not each orb in its bosom bear Ruby and topaz and sapphire blue, And all the colours that angels wear?

IV.

Who hath begotten the drops of dew? Are they the tears of the saints above, Returned to visit the scenes they knew, And to weep and pray for some earthly love?

V.

Who hath begotten the drops of dew? Who, the good that in all things lies? Who, the primal beauty that grew Into myriad forms in Paradise?

VI.

Who hath begotten the drops of dew? Tell, if you can, the tale of their birth; Are they not, children of men, with you, Sons of the Lord of _Heaven_ and _Earth_?

THALATTA! THALATTA!

I.

In my ear is the moan of the pines--in my heart is the song of the sea, And I feel his salt breath on my face as he showers his kisses on me, And I hear the wild scream of the gulls, as they answer the call of the tide, And I watch the fair sails as they glisten like gems on the breast of a bride.

II.

From the rock where I stand to the sun is a pathway of sapphire and gold, Like a waif of those Patmian visions that wrapt the lone seer of old, And it seems to my soul like an omen that calls me far over the sea-- But I think of a little white cottage and one that is dearest to me.

III.

Westward ho! Far away to the East is a cottage that looks to the shore-- Though each drop in the sea were a tear, as it was, I can see it no more; For the heart of its pride with the flowers of the “Vale of the Shadow” reclines, And--hushed is the song of the sea and hoarse is the moan of the pines.

RIZPAH.

(2 SAMUEL xxi. 10.)

It is growing dark. At such a sunset I have been with Saul-- But saw it not. I only saw his eyes And the wild beauty of his roaming locks, And--Oh! there never was a man like Saul! Strong arm, and gentle heart and tender ways To win a woman’s very soul, were his. When he would take my hand and look on me, And whisper “Rizpah”--Ah! those days are gone! Why should I weep? was I not loved by Saul? And Saul was king of all the Land of God.

“God save the king!” But, hush! what noise was that? Oh heaven! to think a mother’s eyes should look On such a sight! Away! vile carrion-beast! Those are the sons of Saul,--poor Rizpah’s sons. O my dead darlings! O my only joy! O sweet twin treasure of my lonely life, Since that most mournful day upon Gilboa, Torn from me thus! I have no tears to shed. O God! my heart is broken! Let me die!

* * * * *

Gilboa! David wrote a song on it, And had it put in _Jasher_--“Weep for Saul.” Armoni used to sing it to his harp. Poor blackened lips!······ ······I wonder if they dream, My pretty children······ ······Come, Mephibosheth, Here is your father; say “God save the king!” The Gibeonites! Ah! that was long ago. Why should they die for what they never did? No; David never would consent to that!

* * * * *

Whose son is he, this youth? Dost know him, Abner? Ha, ha! they shout again “God save the king.”

* * * * *

Was I asleep? I came not here to sleep. O poor old eyes, sorrow has made you weak. My sons! No, nought has touched them. O, how cold! Cold, cold! O stars of God, have pity on me, Poor lonely woman! O my sons, Saul’s sons! Kind stars, watch with me; let no evil beast Rend that dear flesh. O God of Israel, Pardon my sins! My heart is broken!

NATALIE.

I.

Such a pretty, siren face Thine was, Natalie! Such a merry, winning grace Drew my heart to thee, In those distant, happy days When thy heart was free.

II.

Fearless then we gathered joy, Not a care had we, Happier girl and happier boy Well there could not be; In our bliss was no alloy, Playmate, Natalie.

III.

Time is cruel. Thou and I Parted, Natalie! And thy kissed lips said “Good bye! Surely write to me.” Thou wast then too young to sigh, Little Natalie!

IV.

One day, after years had flown, Something came to me, ’Twas a portrait of my own Playmate, Natalie,-- Natalie,--but not my own, Never mine to be!

V.

There she sat, so lovely grown, Like a queen to see,-- There she sat--but not alone,-- With her--who is he? So my boyish dream has flown, Faithless Natalie!

VI.

In my heart there is a place Still for Natalie! For the pretty, siren face, For the sweetly, winning ways, That were dear to me, In those happy far-off days, When her heart was free.

THE FENIAN RAID.

_June, 1866._

I.

The breath of the south wind was laden with woe As it moaned to the Northland “Prepare for the foe!” And the Northland was silent a moment, and then There was hieing and arming and marching of men.

II.

To the front! There’s a struggle--the crisis is past! The foemen are flying! woe, woe to the last! There’s a hush, only stirred by the zephyr of peace, Wafting thanks to the God who makes fighting to cease.

III.

But, oh! with the voice of that zephyr a cry Strives up after justice that seemeth to fly From the nations of earth.--O our God have regard To that cry; let the cause of the injured be heard!

IV.

From the blood of the true, the unselfish, the brave, From the women and children they perished to save, Goes a cry that no sound of rejoicing can still: “Judge between us and those who have sanctioned this ill.”

_Humanum est errare, Divinum condonare._

’Tis easy to cry “Raca”[B] from within Cold, passionless morality’s strong tower, To those who struggle fiercely, hour by hour, ’Gainst grim Goliaths of unconquered sin.

’Tis easy, safely far from battle’s din, To wave a sword or raise a banner high To those who have to fight each inch, or--die; Who must be wounded, even if they win.

’Tis easy to point clean, weak hands of scorn When some much-tempted brother falls or flies; Or some sweet Eve has strayed from Paradise Into the outer world of briar and thorn.