Part 6

In joyous days are many The friends we find; In dark ones scarcely any, To soothe the mind. But friends in hours of sorrow Far more we prize Than those that go to-morrow If storms arise.

THE CLOUDS ARE BLUSHING.

The clouds are blushing, the sun is gone, He has been kissing them, every one, Except the shy ones, that kept away, And tearfully watched his parting ray; But they love him no less For their bashfulness; The truest of lovers are not the most gay.

The sun is gone, and the blushing clouds Are growing dimmer, as Night enshrouds Sky, sea and land in her sombre pall-- The sexton at old Earth’s funeral, When her race is run, And her work is done, And her children are weaned from her, one and all.

The Man of the Moon has lit his lamp, And is now commencing his airy tramp, To see how the stars, those merry elves That wink as he passes, behave themselves. With steady pace He is running his race, Holding his lamp with a dignified grace.

The sun is rising behind the hill, And I am waiting and watching still-- Waiting and watching, as night goes by, What queer little scenes take place in the sky, When the silence is deep And men are asleep, And none are awake but the stars and I!

MAY, 1859.

UNSPOKEN.

.... Quis prodere tanta relatu .... possit?

--_Claudian._

There is a voice that never stirs the lips,-- Felt, but not heard; that vibrates through the soul,-- A solemn music; but no human speech Can give that music to the ambient air.

The noblest poem poet ever wrote; The brightest picture artist ever drew; The loftiest music lyrist ever sung; The gentlest accents woman ever spoke,-- Are paraphrases of a felt original, That lip, or pen, or pencil, cannot show Unto the seeing eye or listening ear. The thoughts we utter are but half themselves. The poet knows this well. The artist knows His hands bear not the burden of his thoughts Upon the canvas. The musician knows His soul must ever perish on his lips. Even the eye,--“the window of the soul,”-- Though it may shed a light a little way, Gives but a glimpse of that which burns within.

The sweet, unconscious tenderness of flowers; The boundless awe of star-encircled night; The tear that trickles down an old man’s cheek; Ocean’s loud pulse, that makes our own beat high; The vocal throb of a great multitude; The pause when we have heard and said “Farewell,” And feel the pressure of a hand that’s gone; The thought that we have wronged our truest friend, When he is sleeping in the arms of Death; The silent, fathomless anguish that engulfs Him who has found the precious power to love, And sees that all he loves is torn from him; His dying moments who is void of hope; Jezebel; Nero; Judas; any one Of all the hideous things that crawled through life In human form;--what mortal could express All that he feels in one or all of these, Giving the very image of his thought?

Life, Death, Hell, Judgment, Resurrection, GOD-- Who can express their meaning? Who can bound Awe that is infinite in finite words?

Thus much of us must ever be concealed-- Spite of the high ambition to be born Of what is noblest in us,--till His breath Who woke the morning stars to sing their song, Awakes our souls to fuller utterance.

JEPHTHAH.

JUDGES xi.

I.

Rejoice ye tribes of Israel, the Lord was on your side, Your fierce and daring enemies have fallen in their pride. In vain the heathen strove against Jehovah’s awful word, For Ammon’s proud, presumptuous sons have perished by the sword.

II.

From Aroer to Minnith and to Abel’s fertile plain Of twenty noble cities the “mighty men” are slain; Rejoice, thou son of Gilead, the Lord hath heard thy vow,-- Thy foes are crushed, thy father’s sons before thy presence bow.

III.

It is an hour of triumph to the warrior and his band, An hour of stern rejoicing to all the chosen land, When the conqueror of Ammon, the valiant of his race, Beholds once more, with well-earned joy, his long-lost native place.

IV.

But who is this advancing with gay attendant crowd? O Jephthah! dost remember now the vow that thou hast vowed? Why is thy face so ghastly pale? why sinks thy noble head? Thy daughter’s blood must now atone for all that thou hast shed!

V.

Honour and pomp and victory are all forgotten now, And clouds of darkest anguish sweep across the father’s brow. He speaks--his words are words of death: he orders--is obeyed-- And lonely mountains mourn the fate of Israel’s queenly maid.

VI.

Rejoice, ye tribes of Israel, the Lord was on your side, Your fierce presumptuous enemies have fallen in their pride? But, Jephthah, thou art childless now, lift up thy voice and weep! No sound of wailing can disturb thy daughter’s dreamless sleep!

MAY, 1858.

DE PROFUNDIS.

I’ve seen the Ocean try to kiss the Moon, Till the wild effort of his hopeless love Tortured him into madness, and the roar From his great throat was terrible to hear; And his vast bosom heaved such awful sighs As made Earth tremble to her very bones, And all her children cling to her for fear. And I have watched and seen a gentle change Come over him, till, like a child, he lay, That, disappointed, cries herself asleep, And on her sorrow angels paint a dream So happy that her face is one sweet smile. So have I seen the love-tost Ocean smile After his fury, till I almost hoped That the gay Moon would never tempt him more. But ever his heart throbs at her approach, And he awakes in all the strength of love, And frets himself to madness, watching her.

And when, as I have sometimes seen, the Sun, His mighty rival, struts before his eyes With her he loves, and warmly looks on her, Oh! how his heart is torn with jealousy! Oh! how he froths and foams and moans and raves, Till all his energy is lost in sleep, From which his love will rouse him soon again!

So did I learn the Ocean’s tale of love, Watching him, day by day, for many years, Hearing him often murmur in his sleep Such sweet, sad murmurs, that I pitied him; And, like Electra, sat beside his bed Till all the madness of his love awoke.

O Ocean! thou art like the human heart, Which craves forever what it cannot have, And, though a little it forget its strife Of longing, only wakes to long again For that which is no more accessible Than is the Moon to thee! Yet, shouldst thou lie Dull, sluggish, motionless, thy very life Would grow corrupt, and from the stagnant mass All things abominable would creep forth To soil with slimy poison the fair Earth; And that alone which moves thee to thy heart Can keep thee pure and bright and beautiful!

So, by the anguish of a hopeless love,-- So, by the madness born of mental pain,-- So, by the endless strife of joy and fear,-- So, by all sufferings, tortures, agonies,-- So, by the powers that shake it to its depths,-- So, by the very loss of what it seeks,-- The heart is purified, and that which seems Its death gives it a fresher, truer life.

LOCHLEVEN.

“We passed Lochleven, and saw the Castle on the Lake from which poor Queen Mary escaped.”--_The Queen’s Journal._

I.

Sweet words of pity! Oh! if thou could’st rise, Fair Queen, from out the darkness of the tomb, And their old beauty light again thine eyes, And thy persuasive lips no more be dumb,-- If thou, in all thy charms, should’st thus appear, How thy full heart would throb! With what surprise And rapture thou would’t watch thy gentle peer, By sad Lochleven, as, with tender sighs, She mourned thy fate,--“Poor Mary wandered here.”

II.

This vengeance Time hath brought thee; and thy foe, Should she, too, rise with envy in her breast, Would see thee throned with mercy in the best And purest heart that ever beat below The purple of a Queen; whose veins are warm With that same blood that gave the beauteous glow To thine own cheeks. In her still lives the charm, For which, in spite of all, men worshipped thee,-- Refined by honour, truth and purity.

UNUS ABEST.

I.

A group of merry children played; The smiling sun to watch them stayed; A cloud came by with deadly shade; “Unus abest.”

II.

Bright faces glow ’mid dance and game; Hush! some one named a well-known name; But dance and song go on the same; “Unus abest.”

III.

A father joins his children’s mirth; A mother mourns an awful dearth; “Ashes to ashes, earth to earth;” “Unus abest.”

IV.

One sits before a lonely fire, Watching the flame’s unsteady spire Wasting with suicidal ire; “Unus abest.”

V.

Thus, day by day, in house or street, We miss some form we used to meet; Some human heart has ceased to beat; “Unus abest.”

VI.

The years pass on; our hair is grey; A few years more we’ll pass away, Each leaving to his friends to say “Unus abest.”

VII.

Then let us live that, when the call Of the Great Trumpet wakes us all, These words from God’s high throne may fall: “NULLUS ABEST.”

THE PRODIGAL’S RETURN.

(_St. Luke’s Gospel_, xv. 17-32.)

I.

Long, my Father, have I wandered From the home I loved of old,-- All Thy tender mercies squandered, All Thy loving-kindness sold.

II.

I have sinned against Thy goodness, Mocked Thy sorrow, scorned Thy love; Treated all Thy care with rudeness, ’Gainst Thy gentle Spirit strove.

III.

Far from Thy free, bounteous table, I have fed on husks of sin; Wayward, thankless, and unstable, Father, wilt Thou take me in?

IV.

Take me, oh! in mercy take me, To Thy blessed home again, And let no enticement shake me,-- Satan’s wiles nor wicked men.

V.

I am sinful, doubting, fearing-- Thou canst banish all alarm; I am weak, and blind, and erring-- Thou canst shield from every harm.

VI.

Look upon me, crushed and broken, Humble, contrite, at Thy feet. Dost Thou know me? Hast Thou spoken? “Hast Thou come Thy child to meet!”

VII.

Lost and found! Once dead, now living! Once an outcast, now a son! Once despairing, now believing,-- I my Father’s house have won.

BALLYSHANNON, 1855.

IT IS THE QUIET HOUR.

It is the quiet hour, when weary Day Whispers adieu in his dark Sister’s ear, And my lone soul is wandering away To blissful scenes that are no longer near; And well-known faces seem to smile again, And voices long unheard sound blithe and gay, As, when, of yore, a happy, careless train, We plucked the flowers that grew by life’s young way. Sweet flowers!--destined to a swift decay! Bright faces!--that on earth have smiled your last! Gay voices!--that have ceased to sing the lay That rose spontaneous in the joyous past! Memory’s own stars amid my night of pain, Shine out and tell me “Love is not in vain!”

ESSAYS

IN

TRANSLATION.

HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE.

THE PARTING.

(_Homer’s Iliad_ vi. 369-503.)

Thus, having done his duty to his gods And to his country, Hector sought his home, Where Art and Nature vied in loveliness. Love winged his feet; his home he quickly found. But her whom his soul loved he found not there, Her of the snowy arms, Andromache: For she, with infant child and well-robed nurse, Unto a tower that faced the Grecian camp Had gone to watch and weep. So Hector paused Upon the threshold, as he left the house, And made enquiry of the household maids: “Come now, handmaidens, answer me in truth, Whither white-armed Andromache has gone, To seek my sisters, or my brothers’ wives, Or to Athene’s temple, where a crowd Of matrons seek the bright-haired goddess’ wrath To turn to mercy by the strength of tears?” A trusty servant quickly made response: “Hector, my lord, right willingly my lips Shall answer truthfully thy eager quest,-- Not to thy sisters, nor thy brothers’ wives, Nor to Athene’s temple, where a crowd Of matrons seek the bright haired goddess’ wrath To turn to mercy by the strength of tears, Has gone Andromache; but she has gone Unto a lofty tower of Ilion To watch the contest, for bad tidings came Of Greeks victorious and of Trojans slain; And at this moment, like a frenzied one, She rushes to the rampart, while, behind, Her darling boy is carried by his nurse.”

She ceased; nor waited Hector long, but rushed Forth from the house, along the very way That he had come, through fair-built Troja’s streets; Nor paused he till he reached the Scæan gate, (Through which he meant to hie him to the plain). But here Andromache of queenly dower, His wife, the daughter of Eëtion, Who dwelt erstwhile ’neath Placus’ woody height, In Thebe, ruling o’er Cilician men, Came running till she met him in the way. With her, the nurse, who to her bosom held An innocent-hearted babe, their only son, His father’s joy, in beauty like a star, Scamandrius named by Hector, but the host Called him Astyanax, the City’s King, Honouring Hector chief defence of Troy. And now he looked on him, and smiled a smile That spake his heart more than a thousand words, And called the tears into his mother’s eyes. She, clinging to her husband, grasped his hand, And, sobbing “Hector,” spoke to him these words: “Ah! love, thy bravery will be thy bane, And, seeking glory, thou forgettest _him_ And me, ah! hapless me when thou art gone! Soon, soon, I know it, all the foes of Troy, Rushing on thee at once, shall take thy life. And, when I miss thee, it were better far That I were laid beneath the ground: for I Shall then have none to comfort me, not one, But woes on woes, when thou hast left me, Hector! No sire have I, nor gentle mother left,-- _Him_, as thou know’st, the proud Achilles slew, And razed his fair-built city to the ground. High-gated Thebe. Yet he spoiled him not, Although he slew him, but, with reverence, Laid him in glittering arms upon the pyre, And raised a mound in honour of his name, Which the hill-nymphs garlanded round with elms, The daughters of the ægis-bearing Zeus. And my seven brothers, in one fatal day, Entered the gloomy shades where Pluto reigns, Slain by the ruthless hand that slew my sire, As, in their native fields, they watched the herds Of kine, slow-footed, and of snowy sheep. Nor did my queenly mother long survive, For, led a captive to the Grecian camp, With other spoils, the victor sent her home, For goodly ransom, only to be slain By the sure shaft of huntress Artemis. But thou art father, mother, brother, spouse, My pride, my Hector! Oh! then, pity me! Stay here and watch with me upon this tower,-- Stay, stay, my Hector, go not hence to make Thy child an orphan and a widow me! But set the forces by the Fig-tree Hill, Where the chief risk of hostile entrance lies, And where the wall is weakest. At that point Already have the bravest of our foes-- Idomeneus and either Ajax, Diomede, And the two sons of Atreus--made assault, Whether incited thither by some voice Prophetic, or high hope of victory. So stay, my Hector, they will need thee here.”

Then valiant Hector, of quick-glancing helm, Thus made reply: “Of all that thou hast said, My own true wife, I feel, I know the truth, But--could I bear the taunts of Trojan chiefs And stately Trojan dames, if, coward-like, I skulked from battle in my country’s need? Nor does my spirit keep me from the fight, For I have learned, brave-hearted, ’mid the first, To draw my sword in Ilion’s defence, To struggle for the honour of my sire And for my own. Although too well I know The day shall come when sacred Troy must fall, And Priam and his war-like hosts, who well Can wield in fight the ashen-handled spear! But not the woes of my brave countrymen, Nor yet my mother’s nor my kingly sire’s, Nor all my brethren’s who shall bite the dust ’Neath bitter foes, touch me so much as thine, When some one of the brass-mailed Greeks shall end Thy days of freedom, leading thee away In tears; and, haply, in far Argos, thou May’st tend another’s loom or water draw From Hyperea’s or Messeis’ fount,-- A slavish duty forced on thee by fate. And some one, looking on thy tears, may say: ‘_She_ was the wife of Hector, who excelled In fight among the chiefs that fought for Troy.’ And thy poor heart will ache with vain regret For him whose strong right arm would keep thee free. Then may his heaped-up grave keep Hector’s eyes From looking on thy sorrow and disgrace!”

So spake the noble Hector, and his arms Extended to receive his son; but _he_ Shrank, crying, to his well-robed nurse’s breast, Fearing the war-like presence of his sire, His brazen armour and the horse-hair crest Above his helmet nodding fearfully. And Hector took the helmet off his head And laid it down, all gleaming, on the ground; And then he kissed and dandled him, and prayed To Zeus and all the gods on his behalf: “O Zeus and all ye gods, I pray you, grant That this, my son, may, as his sire, excel, And may he truly be the City’s King! And may men say of him, as he returns From war: ‘He’s braver than his father was.’ May he from war-like men take gory spoils, And may his mother glory in his might!”

Such was the warrior’s prayer; and in the arms Of his dear wife he placed the little child. She clasped the treasure to her fragrant breast, Tearfully smiling. And her husband’s soul Was touched with pity, and he nursed her hand, And called her by her name: “Andromache, My love, fret not thyself too much for me! No man descends to Hades ere his time, And none whoe’er is born escapes his fate, Whether his heart be cowardly or brave. But, love, returning home, apply thyself To household duties, and thy handmaidens Despatch to theirs, the distaff and the loom. For war must be the business of men, And of all men that have been born in Troy, This war has need of none so much as me.” Thus having spoken, noble Hector placed The waving helmet on his head again. And, silently, Andromache returned (Oft looking back through her fast-gushing tears) To the fair mansion of her warrior spouse.

And there, amid her handmaidens, she wept; And they wept, too, mourning their lord as dead, While yet he lived: for, though he lived, they said They knew that he would never more return, Exulting in his prowess, from the war.

THE LAMENT OF ANDROMACHE FOR HECTOR.

(_Homer’s Iliad_ xxii. 437-515.)