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Page [vii]

HELLA.

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Page [viii]

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Page [1]

HELLA.

"Kind, gentle, and tractable in all the ordinary intercourse of life; but whenever the emergency required it, rising to a firmness that put manhood to shame. So unassuming, that a transient observer would scarcely suspect the existence of uncommon talents or extensive information: so humble, that no consciousness of superior merit could generate pride; nor could the best deserved praise intoxicate or elate. Charitable from religion and principle; but abundantly benevolent from the impulse of nature."

Not distant from the Rhine a castle stands,
Ancient and proud, with wide-extended lands.
There silence resteth heavily: we seem
To feel its weight; then start, as from a dream,

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And look around, and marvel much how they
Who own such scenes, can bear to live away
From beauty which arrests the wandering eye,
And glads the heart of every passer by.
The old majestic woods in grandeur rear
Their heads, as if to say, "We still are here."
Oh! could they speak indeed, would they not tell
Of feats performed and trials conquered well?
Would they not wave, exulting to record
The long hushed name of many a buried lord,
Whose prowess stamped him hero of the past,
And round his home the light of glory cast?
Would they not boast the charms of many a maid,
Who mused or mourned beneath their friendly shade?
Would they not breathe of her—most fair, most good
Of all who loved their leafy solitude—
The youthful Hella? Tedious years have rolled
Since they beheld her—sportive, uncontrouled—

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Bound like a Dryad o'er the verdant sod,
Which Fancy saw more green where'er she trod.

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Page [58]

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Page 59

THE APOLOGY OF AMYNIAS.

Shame upon Athens! Shame on her who cast
The glory from her! Sentence had been passed
On Æschylus,—that Æschylus whose fame,
Alone, might fill the world with Greece's name.
The death-doomed man was bound,—the stones were piled,
And a mad multitude, with clamours wild,
Called for the spectacle, and strained their eyes
To catch their recent idol's agonies.
When, lo! Amynias, rushing towards the stake,
Beside his brother took his stand and spake:

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Page 60

        "Athenians! when the Persian hosts
            In countless myriads drew near,
        To desolate our Country's coasts,
            And ravage all that we held dear,
                The spirit of dismay
                Upon your faint hearts lay:
        No feeling was awake but dread;
            Resistance did not claim a thought;
        And, dastard like, ye would have fled,
            Or crouched, or any thing but fought;
    Until one voice in cheering accents spoke,
Exhorting you to spurn the proud Barbarian's yoke.

        Excited then to ardour rose
            A gallant and determined throng,
        And vowed to stand against our foes;
            The love of Freedom made them strong.
                Like rays of morning light,
                They burst out to the fight:

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Page 61

        For every man of them had sworn,
            By all we prize in life or death,
        That fetters never should be worn
            In Greece, so long as he had breath.
    Whose voice inspired that constancy divine?
Have ye forgotten whose? Ye men of Athens! mine!

        And Salamis with all its glory!
            Forget ye too the spot which showed
        Its calm sea-waves, defiled and gory
            With the detested blood that flowed
                From the Barbarian veins
                Of them, who came with chains
        For us; and, in their madness, deemed
            That Greeks could live and not be free.
        Of conquest they had wildly dreamed:—
            They knew not aught of Liberty.
    At Salamis, whose death-strokes earliest fell?
Ye men of Athens! mine! and Greece should know it well.

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        Of you who listen to me now,
            The many listened to me then,
        And from my lips caught up the vow
            That made and kept you men.
                Victorious in the plain,
                Victorious on the main,
        To homes and altars ye returned
            Triumphantly, and loved them more:
        Devotion to your country burned
            In you less feebly than before:
    I was not changed in heart, but the right hand
Was lost, which faithfully had served my native land.

        That hand was lost in your defence,
            Athenians! and I never grieved:
        Your freedom was my recompence;
            I asked no other, nor received.
                In truth, I did not think
                To see my brother sink,

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Page 63

        The victim of my country's hate.
            He strove, as valiantly as I,
        To guard her from the threatened fate:
            Ignobly now she bids him die.
    He fought for Greece's liberty and fame;—
Athens rewards him with a miscreant's doom and name.

        Brother! alone thou shalt not fall!
            For Greece I sacrificed a part
        Of this free body: thine be all
            The remnant;—thine this steadfast heart!
                Stern Death shall not divide
                The knot by Nature tied.
        One mother smiled upon our birth;—
            One sire to both his blessing gave;—
        Our still remaining parent, Earth,
            Will not refuse one common grave.
    From men secure, by Gods approved, we'll sleep
Together there, while Athens learns for us to weep."

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Page 64

Amynias ceased. No sound had broke
The listening silence while he spoke;
Among the crowd no voice had stirred;
Murmurless, breathless, they had heard,
And felt too, each indignant word.
But when he paused, a full continuous shout,
From the applauding multitude poured out,
Of "Pardon! pardon! pardon!" echoed round.
The generous brother's single hand unbound
His Æschylus; and with triumphant tread,
Exulting heart, and radiant eye, he led
The rescued victim homewards,—while the air
Rang with loud blessings showered on that illustrious pair:

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Page 65

A VISION.

    Twas in a vision of the day, perchance,
        For she resembled not a thing of night,
    I saw a maid with buoyant step advance,
        Whose joy-inspiring aspect was so bright
That she did seem instinct with pure ethereal light.

    As she drew nigh the flowers appeared more fair;
        The grass looked greener where she set her feet;
    Fresh odours floated through the breezy air;
        The song of birds became more clear and sweet;
Insects burst into being, her approach to greet.

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    She took not breath,—she cast no look behind;
        Onward with never slackening speed she went:
    She did not pause her loosened hair to bind;
        Her head thrown back, her neck was forward bent;
Her eager eyes on some far object were intent.

    My sight, o'erstrained and yet enchanted, tried,
        By gentle power impelled, with hers to cope;
    And then, such scenes of rapture I descried
        As rarely come within the fancy's scope.
The maiden vanished—and I knew that she was Hope.

    I had but just perceived that she was gone,
        When, lo! another followed in her trace:
    But ah! how different! for pale and wan
        And full of trouble was her care-worn face:
Toilsome and slow, yet unremitting, was her pace.

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    Where'er she stepped, there was a floweret crushed;
        The herbage rose not from her heavy tread;
    The insect's hum—the bird's gay note—were hushed:
        When she came near, Nature's glad spirit fled,
And clouds and noisome vapours gathered round her head.

    Her tear-dulled eyes were fixed upon the ground,
        As if to count the weary steps she made,
    Except when, looking dolefully around,
        The voiceless, stirless prospect she surveyed:
And as she gazed, methought the landscape seemed to fade.

    My dream was over. All of mortal birth,
        In sad reality, that maid have known,
    Who follows Hope for ever through the earth,—
        Reaping, while still unripe, what she has sown;
And plucking her fair buds ere they be fully blown.

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Page 68

SCENE IN ANOTHER PLANET.

    MORNING HYMN.

                        The morning breaks:
                        Nature awakes:
                Creatures! arise and pray
                To Him, who made the day.
                His face we have not seen;
                    But we know that He is near;
                For his influence serene
                    Is on all that we love,—
                On whate'er we see or hear,
                    Around and above.

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                    He bids the planets roll;
                        He fixes sun and star;
                        He gives us a soul
                To perceive that these things are.
                    He made our world so fair;
                    And He gives us a power,
                    In fruit and herb and flower,
                        To recognize his care.
                    He deigns to let us know,
                    That when our hearts o'erflow,
                        In gratitude and prayer,
                    He listens to our voice,
                    And wills us to rejoice
                    In the being He bestows,—
                    In the wonders He shows.
                Creatures! your Creator praise:
                    In thanksgiving to his throne
                        Your spirits raise:

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                Creatures! your God adore,
                    Who reigns alone:
                He is, and was, before
                    The universal light:
                In Him we live and move,
                    Existing in his love,
                And glorying in his might.

    MOTHER

    My child! my mournful child! what aileth thee?
        A heavy cloud is hanging on thy brow:
    Thy wonted morning smiles I do not see,
        And my heart misses them. All beings now,
    In the renewal of God's light, are glad—
    Thankful and glad—save thee: and wherefore art thou sad?
        What is thy trouble? Did the Night,
            While brooding o'er Creation, fling,
        Amid thy visions of delight,
            Some dream of suffering from her wing?

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But comfort thee! in dreams alone,
Lie all the sufferings thou hast known.
The messengers from Heaven, who love to pause
Amongst us oft, imparting heavenly laws,
Teach us to estimate the happy lot
Of creatures, who have never yet forgot
The word of their Creator; but fulfil,
Meekly, whate'er has reached them of his will.
Remember how they warn us, when they tell
Of a light race who, scarcely tempted, fell;
And now, rejected from God's presence, dwell
Involved in toil and trial,—working out
The tedious penance of rebellious doubt.
Remember, too, how gladly they have told
That when a round of ages should have rolled
The course appointed, a reward would be
Conceded to our humble constancy:
That then, admitted to the source of grace,
We should behold our Maker face to face;

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Like them, throughout the universe should roam,
    Spreading the radiance of his love and light,—
Bearing his mandates through unbounded space;
    And, oft returning with a quickened flight,
Find in his presence our eternal home.

    DAUGHTER.

        Mother! I remember all
        The Angels teach us: I recall
Their warnings and their promises: I feel
The blessedness of hope which they reveal:
But I have had a vision in my sleep,
Surpassing all that we conceive of deep,
Unnatural horror. Thou hast marked a star,
Paler than those around, but lovelier far,
Which beams as softly as an Angel's smile:
That, mother! is the world of guilt and guile,
They warn us of. Last night, before I closed
My eyes in rest, while, all beside reposed,

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Upon that beauteous star I fixed my gaze,
And my soul drank in, from its placid rays,
Desire to pass from this, my native sphere,—
From the known joys my God assigns me here,
To prove the imagined pleasures of that orb.
Long did the impious wish my thoughts absorb.
At last I slept; and then I seemed to be
Transported by a hand I did not see,
Through the ethereal realms: we paused above
The world my fancy had presumed to love.
    It was inhabited by creatures strange,
And yet not monstrous, to my mind. Some change
Struck ever on my sight: here, beings fair
As we, almost as Angels, met it; there,
Others so loathsome that the abhorring soul
Recoiled from them: yet that unseen controul
Compelled me to look on. I understood
The cause of all I looked upon—or good

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Or ill—imperfectly: but this I knew,
Those creatures love not, mother! as we do.
Parents and children take discordant parts
In many interests; and kindred hearts
Beat not in kindred bosoms: each desires
That which another joys in; each aspires
To make his will the universal guide.
Self is the worship of that world, and Pride
Its ruling spirit, by whose law they shed
Their very blood: I saw it running red
O'er fields as green and beautiful as ours,
Leaving a stain upon the grass and flowers.
    And, mother! I have learned the power of Death;
That unrelenting power which stops the breath,
Stagnates the senses, stiffens every limb,
Makes the cheek pale, the eye's expression dim:
But I mistook this for the long repose,
Which gently-vivifying Nature throws

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O'er us when we are weary; whence we rise,
Fresh as the dawning light advancing on the skies.
    First, I beheld a father lying dead,
While a young daughter sat beside his bed,
And thought, like me, she watched him as he slept:
But suddenly she kissed him: then she wept
As we do never weep, till others came,
And carried forth her scarcely conscious frame.
I marvelled, for I deemed that he would wake;—
But still I mourned for that young mourner's sake.
She knew what I knew not:—he woke no more.
His features lost the look of life: they bore
The body out and laid it in the cold,
Dark, lonely ground. I listened while they told
To an enquiring child, how 'twould decay
And moulder and commingle with the clay,—
Its kindred element;—since to the earth
To be restored, was the condition of man's birth.

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Yet so replete with anguish is the doom
    Of that unhappy world, that many there
Call upon Death to snatch, in early bloom,
    The beings they most fondly doat on, ere
They shall have measured out their just, full share
Of unremitting, anxious, unrewarded care.
I saw a mother gazing on a child,
    That pale and rigid in her bosom lay.
She knew that it was dead—and yet she smiled;
    And in a calm, sweet voice, I heard her say:
        "Farewell! my little one! with joy,
            I speed thy spirit hence:
            Better to die in innocence,
                Than live to be a toy,
        For grief and passion to destroy.
            Death is the lord of all;
            None disobey his call;
            And they who suffer much,

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                (Oh! are not all men such?)
                Seek not to shun his touch.
                To draw life to its length,
                    Is but to drag a chain,
                    With still encreasing pain:
                To snap it in its strength,
                    Is to elude the woe
                    Our race is meant to know.
                Thou hast been very dear
                    To many a fond heart:
                Some hand was ever near
                To dry each glancing tear,
                    As soon as it could start.
                Some voice was ever ringing
                    Glad sounds upon thine ear:
                Earth's happiness seemed winging
                Her rounds above thy head:—
                Now thou art with the dead.

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            Farewell! thy one short year
            Hath brought but little sorrow:
Thy bright lot might have changed to-morrow.
        Oh! better, as a bud unblown,
            In greenness thus to perish,
        Than live to taste life's agony,
            And lose whate'er we cherish.
        Would I were even now like thee!
    Though all too late, for I have known
        The pangs of living. They alone
            Of mortal birth are blest,
                Who, in unconscious infancy,
                Beneath a mother's eye,
            Upon a mother's breast—
            That one safe place of rest,—
                Like thee, my baby! die."

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Was it not fearful, thinkest thou, to hear
    A loving mother, of her child bereaved,
Rejoice at losing what she held so dear?
    I thought of thee; and how thou would'st have grieved,
            Had we been forced to sever,
    For a short season,—not to say for ever.
Those creatures read not even a kindred mind
With certainty; and when they think to trace,
In some one heart, the transcript of a face
Expressing fondness, they most often find
    The very contrary of what they sought.
And he, who tasks himself to comprehend
    The treasured mystery of another's thought,
Is sure to forfeit what he deemed a friend.
But, stranger still! some who, in tender youth,
    Together cling with actual constancy,
Though true themselves, yet doubt each other's truth;
    And love, for ever trembling lest they be

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Page 80

Loving alone. No mortal dares confide
    Implicitly in mortal's promise:—still
Some jealous tear, inspired or nursed by Pride,
Is on the watch to trouble faithful trust,
    And with suspicion every breast to fill;
Making the generous of that world unjust.
A gentle maid was with a youth: I saw
    Into their souls; and there I read, that love,
Unmixed and mutual, was the single law
    That ruled their impulses, and rose above
All other passions, as a master.—I read this,
And I felt gladdened that a drop of bliss
Was mingling in the tide of human woe.
    In seeming confidence they met, and more
Than seeming fondness: whence, I did not know;
    But, ere they parted, confidence was o'er:
The bond, once vowed eternal, had been rent,
    Like stuff whose substance is scorched out, in twain;

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And with changed looks those unchanged lovers went
    Asunder—purposed not to meet again.
In solitude, the love that would not be supprest,—
    The feelings that would not be quelled,—found vent,
And rushed in agony throughout the breast
    Of both:—but only thus in solitude.
    When others came about them they subdued
Their anguish to a sullenness like rest;
And each deceitful countenance was drest
In smiles. That world's despair puts on
Smiles, to conceal the void whence hope is gone.
    My vision opened on futurity,
        And I beheld, once more, that loving maid;—
    But not, as I had joyed before to see
        Her, in the glow of beauty: she was laid
    Upon her dying bed. Beside it, he,
    The untrusting and untrusted lover, knelt
    In utter wretchedness. He knew—but felt

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Page 82

He knew in vain—that, with unswerving faith,
    Her heart had been his own: ay! till it broke
Beneath its load of love weighed down by grief.
He never would have known it had not Death,
    That world's sole truth-teller, the secret spoke
Through her wan, wasted lips. 'Twas a relief,
At last, her pent-up sorrow to confide
    To those who cared for her;—to speak his name,
And crave to see him once before she died.
    She had not leisure for reserve. He came,
Himself unaltered; but he came too late.
Distrust, Pride's handmaiden, had sealed her fate.
    Mother! I fain would cease to think
        Of that world's misery and crime.
    Oh! that I could the memory sink
        Amid the secret hoards of Time!
    Dear mother! come with me and pray
    That He who sent the vision may,
        In pity, let it pass away.

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Page 83

    MOTHER.

Yes! my poor child! we will go forth and speak
    To our Creator, in Creation's face:
    For He, whose spirit compasseth all space,
    Hath a peculiar care for each small spot,—
    A providence for every separate lot,
        That makes an atom in his universe.
He who is strength, despiseth not the weak.
        He who possesseth power to immerse
    All beings in profound, perpetual woe,
    Wills them immeasurably happy. Throw
    Thy trouble down before his mercy: lay
    Thy heart all open to thy God:—come forth and pray.

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Page 84

OLD TIES.

             "το συγγενες τοι δεινον, η θ' ομιλια."

Æschylus.

You tell me how he injured me:
    And do ye then believe
That I forget that injury,
    Which taught me first to grieve?
You chide me that I seem to gaze
    With kindness on him still:
The memory of other days
    Is stronger than my will.

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Page 85

There are old feelings in my heart,
    Time cannot lull to sleep;
And when I warn them to depart,
    They do but sink more deep.
I know his treachery is great;—
    Alas! I feel its trace;—
I feel it, but I cannot hate
    That once beloved face.

Together we were wont to roam,
    In childhood glad and free,
With those who made my happy home
    What it no more can be.
Together we were wont to learn,
    Together wont to play,
And, oh! it makes my spirit yearn
    To think of that—to pray.

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Page 86

Visions long vanished, crowding round,
    Return when he is near;
His voice's accent brings a sound
    Of past joy to mine ear.
My brother's glance is in his eye;
    He smiles my sister's smile:
Oh God! that looks like theirs should lie
    So near a heart of guile!

The world he worships hath not veiled
    Her splendours from his sight;
Hope's wand of promise hath not failed;
    Love's talisman is bright:
But when he sees the blossoms fade,
    That bloomed round Fortune's shrine,
Because they cannot bear the shade,
    He'll think of me and mine.

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Page 87

In bitterness he'll think of us,
    And of his early youth;
And wish he had not slighted thus
    The hearts whose love was truth.
Yes! he will learn—what I so long
    Have known and mourned—that when
We break old ties, none half so strong
    Does life e'er weave again.

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Page 88

IS THIS EXISTENCE ACTUAL?

Is this existence actual? What we deem
    Man's attributes—love, hate, hope, fear, joy, grief,—
Are they, indeed, the passions which they seem,—
Or shall we wake and find 'twas all a dream?
    If so, will that awaking give relief?
        Or are there none of us who would,
Gladly, escape Earth's ills by forfeiting Earth's good?

If we be only sleeping through this stage
    Of being, where shall we awake? and when?
In one of those far planets that engage,
In our life's dream, the interest of the sage—
    As we pronounce that mortal amongst men,
        Who hath some casual glimpses caught
Of scenes beyond the common range of human thought?

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Page 89

Will all that we have felt or fancied here,
    To our aroused and real faculties,
Subtle or gross, sublime or mean appear?
Will that which in our trance was held most dear,
    Increase or lose its value in our eyes?
        And, freed from sleep's deluding thrall,
Shall we ascend in the created scale, or fall?

Futile enquiries these,—and such as bring
    To doubt and darkness those who deem that they
May soar unhurt upon the spirit's wing,
Through the wide realms of man's imagining.
    If we know aught, it is that we are clay,—
        Moulded with too obtuse a sense,
To comprehend the workings of Omnipotence.

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Page 90

THE LAST WORDS OF GIROLAMO OLGIATO.

Carlo Visconti, Giovanni Andrea Lampognano, and Girolamo Olgiato, three young Milanese Noblemen, formed a conspiracy to deliver their country from the yoke of the atrocious tyrant Galeazzo Sforza. They stabbed him mortally in the Church of San Stefano, at Milan, upon the 26th of December, 1476.

Lampognano and Visconti were killed on the spot by the guards of Galeazzo. Olgiato fled and concealed himself in the house of a friend; but he was soon taken, and put to excruciating tortures. It was with lacerated flesh and dislocated joints that he composed the circumstantial narrative of the conspiracy required from him, which is still extant: that narrative is animated by confidence in the justice of his cause and in the approbation of his God.

Olgiato was only twenty-three years of age. He was condemned to have his flesh torn off with red hot pincers, and to be then cut in pieces alive. In the midst of his sufferings a priest exhorted him to repentance: the substance of his reply is given in the following poem. The executioner, in tearing the skin from his breast, extorted from him a single scream; but recovering himself instantly, he exclaimed: "Mors acerba, fama perpetua: stabit vetus memoria facti."—These were the last words of Girolamo Olgiato.

The hour is at hand,—the judges are met,—
The engines of torture in order are set:
The culprit is bound;—and they bid him prepare
The terrible doom of a traitor to bear.
    "Traitor!" That word's chill weight of shame,
    Which oft hath crushed a patriot's fame,

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    To nobler victim never clung,
    Than the proud youth from whom was wrung
    His life blood drop by drop away,
    But not his constancy, that day.
He lies on the rack and he feels every vein
To bursting swell—every sinew strain
To the snapping point—and he wishes for death:
But no murmur disgraces the hero's breath.
    "Repent!" he hears the confessor cry,
    "Repent of thy sins before thou die!
    "But, chiefly, my son! of the foul offence
    "For which thy spirit is passing hence,—
    "And may God accept thy penitence!"
Hark! even there where he bleeds as he lies,
Unblenching, undaunted, the martyr replies:
"I know that many a deed of error wrought
"In wantonness, and many a sinful thought,
"Have made me worthy to be piece-meal torn
"With these, or greater torments still,—if borne

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Page 92

"Torments more great by this weak frame might be.
"I know my guilt: and, therefore, Lord! to thee
"In humble, heartfelt penitence, I bow,—
"Owning thy justice: let thy mercy now,
"Thy frail and suffering creature's strength sustain
"To bear, unshrinkingly, this passing pain.
"Most holy Friar! though my soul's remorse
"For its remembered sins exceeds the force
"Of all corporeal tortures, still there lives
"A hope within my heart,—a hope which gives
"Courage to struggle through the inward strife
"Of pangs, whose price hath been a tyrant's life.
"What says that hope? It says that, for the sake
"Of this one virtuous action, God will make
"My former failings in his balance light:—
"It bids me look for favour in his sight.
"For, trust me, Father! not through deeds like this
"Do men forego their claim to heavenly bliss.

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Page 93

"The God that made the fluttering insect free,
"Meant not that man the slave of man should be
"Who rids the world of tyrants does his will,—
"And, ghostly Father! I would do it still.
"Yes! could my soul ten separate times resume
"The flesh, to undergo the self-same doom,
"Each time, as now, would I devote my blood,
"My strength, my spirit, to my Country's good!"
Intently they watched him, and sought to trace,
In the writhing lines of his death-pale face,
The outward symptoms of suffering within:
And they mocked him and bade him boast on of his sin.
Then they paused,—they hushed their insulting tones,
While they anxiously listened and longed for his groans.
From his lips there burst forth a single shriek,—
It came not from his heart—for that was not weak,—
But he mastered his anguish, and firmly he spoke,
Once more, ere the bonds of the spirit were broke:

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Page 94

"This death is bitter! it will soon be past;—
"But the remembrance of the deed shall last
"For which I die,—unfading, hallowed, pure,
"While heavenly justice, human rights endure."
    Olgiato died exulting in a crime
Which looked like virtue in that darkened time.
His soul was formed to move in virtue's way;
But maddening wrongs had driven it astray,—
Had crushed the hopes indulgent Nature gave,—
And made his memory their perpetual grave.
One wish survived—to see his Country free.
He clung to it, and worshipped Liberty,
Till, for her sake, to Reason's clouded view
Assassination lost its guilty hue.
    Ye tyrants of the earth, who hold so cheap
The heart-wrung tears afflicted subjects weep!
How may ye answer to the King of Kings,
For the dark shadow which oppression flings

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Page 95

O'er generous spirits? for the nipping blight
Injustice casts upon their sense of right?
Look to it well! not your misdeeds alone,
Are registered as yours before God's throne;
But, with them, those of many a better man,
Whose score of ill on your account began.
    If he who turns one brother's soul from sin,
Shall for unnumbered faults forgiveness win,
Oh! what atonement must that mortal make,
Who forces thousands God's commands to break.

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Page 96

A SKETCH.

"Oft wenn der alte Mann gefragt wurde, 'Wie er sich so frisch erhalten,'
so antwortete er, 'Durch die Erinnerung an die edeln Thaten Meines
theuren Sohnes.' "
F. Von Matthisson.

There was an ancient man, whose calm old age
    Bore record of a pure and virtuous youth:
His countenance was like an unstained page
    In Nature's book of holy love and truth.

His life was waning: yet exhaustless springs
    Of happiness seemed bubbling freshly up
Through his existence; and created things
    Had all a gift to charm his being's cup.

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Page 97

His means were scanty: but the earth and skies
    Did minister their treasures and impart
Wealth to his mind, employment to his eyes,
    And overflowing gladness to his heart.

It was a joy to watch that old man's face
    Casting its cheerful, loving looks around,
As if he held a faculty to trace
    Good in all shapes,—music in every sound.

We asked him once, "What is it, aged friend,
    "That turns to gold the sands so nearly run,
"And brightens days that must so shortly end?"
    Proudly he spoke,—" The virtues of my son!

"My only son,—a youth who, from his birth
    "Hath been my hope, and is his Country's now:
"His virtues make my pilgrimage on earth
    "A heavenly walk;—his glory crowns my brow.

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Page 98

"Where'er I turn, his form is at my side:
    "His cheering voice is ever in my ear:
"I see his looks reflect creation's pride;
    "For all creation to his soul is dear.

"And well I know that he remembers me,
    "In court and camp and on the battle day:
"Yea! kneeling to his God, he thinks how we,
    "In Nature's face, together used to pray."

When next I saw that aged man, his mind
    Was but a desert; hope had withered there.
The pulses wont to throb for all his kind
    Were still:—no breathing thing could win his care.

His son had earned a nation's gratitude,
    And, for his sake, upon the father's head
Honours were heaped by all her great and good:
    The tribute was in vain:—his son was dead!

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Page 99

The old man never smiled again;—the source
    Of smiles was overclouded in his breast:
He watched no more the bird's or insect's course;
    He marked not Nature look her loveliest.

He heeded not the seasons as they changed,—
    The tree's first leaf, or earliest floweret's bloom:
From all that told of life he was estranged;
    His sympathies were gathered in a tomb.

He spoke not of his sorrow,—but it wore
    The spirit age could ne'er have made a prey:
His kindly heart was blighted at the core:
    Silent and shadow-like he passed away.

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Page 100

LOVE AND HONOUR.

"Unmöglich ist was Edle nicht vermögen."
Göthe.

Tell me to scale the mountain's height
    Where human foot hath never trod;
This very instant, in thy sight,
    I'll tread it like the velvet sod:
Send me to plunge into the wave,
    Which not a ship presumes to ride,
And though it be my certain grave,
    Yet will I breast for thee that tide.

Bid me ascend to yonder star,
    That moves in glory through the sky;
And though the way be strange and far,
    For love of thee, at least I'll try.
Demand from me whate'er thou will:
    Hard, very hard, the task must be,

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Page 101

That I attempt not to fulfil,
    In the dear hope to pleasure thee.

Provided that it do not wear
    A form which honour scorns to take,
There is no peril but I'll dare,
    And die, or pass it, for thy sake.
I could endure man's hardest lot,
    To give thee but a moment's bliss;
And feel the world, for me, had not
    A happiness so great as this.

But thou might'st sue on bended knees
    For woman's easiest, lightest whim;
To float a feather on the breeze,
    Or make a leaf of myrtle swim;
And if to grant thy suit could stain
    My pure renown, or stir the breath
Of honest blame, that suit were vain,—
    Though to refuse it were my death.

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Page 102

DEATH THE MEDIATOR.

"Ein mächtiger Vermittler ist der Tod."
Schiller.

Death is a mighty mediator. Life
Aboundeth with the elements of strife,—
Hope dimmed by fear, crushed love, unslumbering hate,
Which makes assurance of a foe's dark fate
Appear a brightening of our own. And then
The paltry, clashing interests of men!
The ever straining, still uncertain aim
Of each to outsoar his fellows—make a name,
                            And be a thing of fame!

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Page 103

Earth's sweetest potion hath a taste of gall;
    Earth's loveliest visions are dispersed in air;
Earth's proudest glory mounteth but to fall;
    Earth's gayest laugh is echoed by Despair;
Earth's noblest spirits bear the heaviest load;
    Earth's best affections feel the earliest blight;
Earth's tenderest children tread the roughest road;
    Earth's lords with joy see strength outbalance right,
                            And justice crouch to might.

Earth's life is wrapt in selfishness: but Death,
Who stays the giant's as the infant's breath,—
Death the all-tranquillizing,—brings a balm
To heal deep wounds: he hath a spell to calm
Revenge:—the living war not with the dead.
Behold the corse whence recently hath fled
The soul that ruled it through its passage here:—
That soul is summoned to another sphere:
                            Its judgment hour is near.

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Page 104

What were that man's crimes? Was he one who made
    The orphan's bread more bitter?—quenched the fire
That cheered a widow's hearth?—or who betrayed
    A trusting friend?—deceived a generous sire?
Was he a brother—loving till the tide
    Of jealous discord rose and swelled within
His bosom, drowning nature? Was his pride
    A people's curse? and did he strive to win
                            Power, by a tyrant's sin?

Each hour that passes o'er his stiffening clay,
Clears from our thoughts some injury away.
His faults are cancelled: every glance we give
At his pale form, reminds us that we live
To die like him. Oh! who would anger bear
Against the unresisting object there?
A mass of crumbling atoms, soon to be
Dispersed,—is that fit mark for enmity?
                            Men! mortals! answer ye.

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Page 105

Death palliates all wrongs: a rival's tomb
    Becomes an altar to the God of peace.
Hate dares not penetrate the grave's deep gloom:
    The race of passions, at that goal, must cease.
Death softens living hearts, and from their core
    The poison-drop of black resentment wrings:
Death is akin to Charity, and o'er
    Memory's long record of offending things
                            A veil of mercy flings.

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Page 106

SUSPENSE.

         "..............μηδε μ' οικτισας
         ξυνθαλπε μυθοις ψευδεσιν νοσημα γαρ
         αισχιστον ειναι φημι συνθετους λογους."

Æschylus.

Forbear those cheering words to speak!
    The pity in your eye,
The wavering colour on your cheek,
    Such mockery bely.
You treat me with this tenderness
    Because I am bereaved:
You know me not! I suffer less,
    Heart-broken than deceived.

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Page 107

Better the storm at once should burst,
    Since pass away 'twill not:
Have mercy! let me know the worst:
    I'll bear my own dark lot.
Give certainty—I do not care
    Of sorrow how intense;
Give me assurance of despair,
    But free me from suspense,

That monster of the mind—whose prey
    Is hope, for ever doomed
To be renewed from day to day,
    From day to day consumed.
I will not waste by slow degrees!
    My nature has not strength
To undergo the agonies
    Of perishing at length.

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Page 108

WHO IS HAPPY?

"Glücklich!
Wer ist denn glücklich?"
Göthe.

Ay! who is happy? Is it he whose ease
    Is pampered by the spirit-fretting toil
Of thousands? He who, but to please
    His selfish fancy, scruples not to spoil
    Projects which, in a righteous hand,
    Had glorified his native land?
        What matters it to him
    That a whole people's pride be dim?
    He hath the sparkle of his whim.
Is this man happy in his grandeur? Go,
Dive down into his depths of conscience: "No!"
Is graven on some secret tablet there,
In characters eternal, by Despair.

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Page 109

Or is he happy who received from God
    The gift of genius, and who, by the might
Of intellect, hath gained the summits trod
    By intellectual giants? From that height
    He looketh in abstraction proud
    Upon the distant, pigmy crowd:
        The petty cares of life
    He feels not; does not heed the strife
    With which the stormy world is rife.
But is he happy in his calm world? Ask
Whether he doth fulfil his being's task,
Or wear, in useless trials of his mind,
Powers meant for active service to mankind.

Is the youth happy from whose morning star
    The mingled rays of hope and pleasure beam?
Alas! the light of hope is still afar,
    And that of pleasure passes like a dream.

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Page 110

        Look through the telescope of years:
        Is not it stained with that youth's tears?
            The shadows cast by Time
        Are dark ere he has reached his prime:
        Well if they be of grief, not crime.
The spring of life, in flowery garlands drest
While the sun shineth, has no bower of rest
To shelter in when sorrow clouds the sky:
The early fortunate should early die.

Or is he happy, on whom Fate bestows
    The brightest boon of love she can impart?
Oh! let him tremble while he grasps the rose!—
    There is a canker hidden at its heart:
        And he will have to watch the leaves
        Drop piecemeal,—and the more he grieves,
            The faster will their bloom
        Fade—it may be upon a tomb;—
        But that is love's least mournful doom:

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Page 111

Caprice and falsehood oftener snatch away
What Nature should have charmed against decay;
Or cold Ambition stifles the sweet breath
Which might be Memory's incense after death.

Who then is happy? He—and he alone—
    Whose anchor is not cast on earthly bliss:
He to whom glimpes of a world are shown
    Too free from sin to be conceived in this:
        He who enjoyeth every good
        But as a source of gratitude;
            And beareth every ill
        As an infliction of God's will,
        And loves and trusts God's mercy still:
He to whose sight is ever present here,
The staff of promise—not the rod of fear:
He who, preparing for the grave's deep rest,
Knows he shall wake upon his Saviour's breast.

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Page 112

Letter from William, Duke of Suffolk, to his Son,
written in the Tower of London.

Neele's Romance of History. —"THE PROPHECY."

While yet is thrilling to my sinking heart
The stern decree which bids all hope depart,
While yet is sounding in my shuddering ear
"Exile" from all that injured heart holds dear,
From home and friends, from country, kindred, wife,
And every tie which binds the brave to life;—
Amid shocked nature's paralyzing chill,
One constant pulse beats warm and steady still:
Amid the ruins of a spirit crushed,
One lingering feeling,—uncontrouled, unhushed,—
Still hovers round its desolated shrine:—
That pulse, that feeling, oh my son! are thine.

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Page 113

While the false visions of ambitious pride,
Like phantom ships, in disappointment's tide
Are sunk, and leave behind no brightening trace,
Thy cherished form assumes their vacant place:
While selfish thoughts are palsied into rest,
Parental love keeps vigil in my breast,
And all the father's fond emotions swell
To prompt a long—perhaps a last farewell
To thee, the object of my latest care,
And offer for thy sake a parting prayer
To Him, the God of Heaven and of Earth,
Whose Spirit brooded o'er creation's birth;
Whose will imparts our being's vital breath;
Upon whose mighty will, in life, in death,
Our hopes and fears and destinies depend;—
Our God, our judge, our sovereign, father, friend.
May He conduct thee through the gloom and doubt
That gather round thy prospects from without,

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Page 114

And give thee strength to quell each rising sin
Whose growth might mar thy happiness within!
But should temptation lead thee into wrong—
For men are weak and human passions strong,—
Then pray to Him to stem the impetuous flood
Whose torrent rages in thy youthful blood:
Upon his mercy let thy spirit cast
Its trembling fears, its guilt and sufferings past;
To his redeeming word confiding cling,
And soaring heavenward on repentant wing,
The storms of this tumultuous world above,
Rest in the shadow of Almighty love.
    When earthly hopes and human friendships fail,
Or, scattered, fly before misfortune's gale;—
When thy indignant soul shall stoop to count,
In bitterness of grief, the base amount
Of broken vows and benefits forgot,—
Then turn to Him whose promise faileth not:

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Page 115

Turn to the God of righteousness and truth:
Be his commands thy law in buoyant youth;
Be the rich treasure of his sacred page
The stay and comfort of thy drooping age.
And if it be his high and gracious will
The measure of thy lot with joys to fill,
While yet those joys are mantling to the brim,
Remember that the measure comes from Him:
Remember that the hand which lavished all
Thy best delights can those delights recall.
Be pious in prosperity; in grief,
From God alone expect a sure relief:
So may He shield thee from thy father's doom—
A life of banishment,—an alien's tomb:
So may the shafts of malice harmless play,
Or blunted drop around thy patriot way:
So may thy manhood, nerved with virtue's force,
Maintain its free, undeviating course;

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Page 116

And the pure bliss of home and country shine,
In tranquil splendour, over thy decline.
    Next to thy God, in will, in deed, in word,
Fail not to serve thy sovereign earthly lord,—
Thy father's king and thine,—to whom alone
Are due that father's homage and thine own;
And rather die than let one traitor thought
From its allegiance be seduced or bought.
But, oh! what words of deepest tenderness
May teach the duty I would next impress
Upon thy memory—no! upon thy heart—
Upon its holiest, most enduring part?
My son! while one slight thread of life remains—
While one warm drop is circling through thy veins—
Desert not her on whose maternal breast
Thy helplessness first found a place of rest;
Her whose soft voice thy infant wailings soothed,—
Whose gentle hand thy bed of sickness smoothed;

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Page 117

Whose smile's enchantment checked thy gushing tears,
And chased or cheered away thy childish fears.
Herself must now, alas! from springs more deep
Than thy young sorrow, tears of anguish weep.
Be it thy care, my son! those tears to dry,
And light once more a sparkle in the eye
Whose glance of rapture hath so often beamed
The glowing hopes a mother's fondness dreamed:
Let those proud hopes a firm foundation find
In the matured perfections of thy mind.
Yes! let thy glory from her thoughts efface
The dark impression of thy sire's disgrace:
Let her rejoice to see thy cloudless fame
Dispel the mists that hang round Suffolk's name.
    Next, far as father may a son command,
Do I enjoin and urge thee to withstand
The evil counsel of the base, the vain,
The proud, the false, the covetous of gain.

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Page 118

Avoid them as thou would'st the baleful sight
Of fiends whose very aspect bears a blight.
Choose for thy friends the chosen of the land—
The true of heart, the liberal of hand—
Whose virtue stands above reproach or fear.
To such with never slackening trust adhere:
Thus shall thy innocence, unharmed, ungrieved,
Ne'er know the bitterness of being deceived.
But ah! what dark anticipations rise
To oppress my boding heart and dim my eyes!
Still as I write my spirit writhes to think
That I must leave thee, even on manhood's brink,
Amidst thy father's foes; perhaps a prey
To foes as cruel and more false than they:
Leave thee, my gallant boy! more formed to dare
The warrior's sword than shun the traitor's snare.
How shall thy noble nature scan the guile
That lurks beneath a villain's poisoned smile?

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Page 119

How shall it read his mind's base mysteries? how
Unmask the smoothness of his treacherous brow?
My son! distrust thine unassisted wit,
Lest on that rock thy fortune's vessel split:
In all thy works, in all thy ways, advise
With such as I have named; who, upright, wise,
Thy recently launched bark shall safely steer
Through dangers thou might'st scarcely see or fear.
    And, last of all, with breast as fond and true
As e'er sent forth a sorrowful adieu,
My child! sole hope of an expiring line!
I ask God's blessing and I give thee mine.

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Page 120

WHAT IS DEATH?

They say Earth's creatures all must die—
    Must yield their fleeting breath—
And bound in death's cold bondage lie:
    But, mother! what is death?

Death is, my child! a torpor deep
    On Nature doomed to fall;
A dreamless and untroubled sleep
    Which comes alike to all.

Comes death alike to every thing?
    Mother! that cannot be:
The flowers that bloom, the birds that sing,
    Shall those things die like me?

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Page 121

For thou thyself hast often said
    I was worth more than they;
And yet shall I, like them, be dead?
    Shall I, like them, decay?

No! my dear child! thou shalt not. No!
    Man's body dies alone:
His better self, his soul, will go
    Where death shall be unknown:

Where everlasting life shall reign,
    From Earth's corruption free:
Where grief shall not be felt, or pain,
    Throughout eternity.

Yet all men's souls will not be there,
    Enjoying endless bliss:
They, only, that good world shall share,
    Who serve the Lord in this.

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Page 122

Different, my child! will be the doom
    Of those who do not so:
For them the passage of the tomb
    Leads to a world of woe.

And better 'twere to be a bird,
    A senseless stone, or flower,
Than violate God's holy word,
    And brave God's awful power.

Then do his will unceasingly:—
    Thus shall thy life be blest;
And thus the bed of death, for thee,
    Shall be a bed of rest.

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Page 123

WAR SONG.

        A star of promise beams!
        The flag of Freedom streams
            O'er ocean's swelling breast!
        That star shall never set:
        That flag shall flutter yet,
In triumph o'er a tyrant's grave unblest—
    In triumph o'er his grave unblest.
            On! onward to the death!
        For your country! for your faith!
    And every dying groan that hour shall be
        A signal note for victory.

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Page 124

        Think of those who are no more,—
        The vanished lights that o'er
            Our midnight shone, and passed:
        Like a meteor's vivid ray,
        Their glory flashed away;
But a glory to endure is dawning at last—
    The glory long pined for dawns at last.
            On! onward to the death!
        For your country! for your faith!
    And every dying groan that hour shall be
        A signal note for victory.

        Think of those who now are left,
        Heart-stricken and bereft,
            To bear alone the chain:
        Think of those whose tears are shed
        For the unavenged dead:

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Page 125

Shall the widow and the orphan still weep in vain—
    Shall they weep for ever in vain?
            No! onward to the death!
        For your country! for your faith!
    And every dying groan that hour shall be
        A signal note for victory.

        By the memory of the brave
        Whom their valour could not save,
            Whose spirits are hovering round,—
        By the hearts that are breaking,
        By the hopes that are waking,
We'll burst the servile links with which we are bound,
    And dash down our shame to the ground.
            On! onward to the death!
        For our country! for our faith!
    And every dying groan that hour shall be
        A pledge of new born Liberty!

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Page 126

THE MEMORY OF GRIEF.

"Im Glück erinnere ich mich gern der frühern bösen Zeit."
Raumer.

    Gloomy has been our fate
Pale sorrow long hath been our mate,
    With constancy to shame
Many who cling to friendship's name.

    A change is come at last:
Say, shall we now forget the past,
    And from our hearts expel
Feelings which harboured there too well?

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Page 127

    No! though grief's memory,
Spectre of suffering, seem to be
    An ill befitting guest
To cherish in a gladdened breast,—

    Yet let her live in ours:
For she possesseth holy powers,
    By virtue from on high,
Earth's cup of bliss to purify.

    She bids us strive to heal
The woes we see a brother feel:
    She bids us not destroy,
Lightly, a brother's rising joy.

    She holds the electric chain
Of sympathy with human pain,
    Which God ordained to bind,
In social harmony, mankind.

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Page 128

    Oh! let us not forget
Our stormy days: for then we met
    Comrades whose truth was tried,
And rose above the troubled tide.

    We lack not hands to clasp
At present: there were hands, whose grasp
    Was felt into the core
Of our afflicted hearts of yore.

    Eyes beam upon us now,
Where once we saw a frowning brow:
    But there were eyes, whose light
Cheered us when nothing else looked bright.

    Praise flows from many a tongue
That once with sneering censure rung:
    But there were tongues, whose words
Were like sweet notes from hoping birds.

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Page 129

    Where'er we turn us, while
Our summer lasts, we meet a smile:
    But there were smiles, whose play
Oft soothed us through a wintry day.

    Shall we forget the friends
Who loved us without selfish ends?
    No! better be again
Oppressed and poor as we were then!

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Page 130

THE SICILIAN CAPTIVE'S RETURN.

Alas! it is a weary thing
        To bear an exile's lot,
With wishes always wandering,
        And eye that follows not;
To dream we tread again the ground
        Our childhood used to share,
And then to wake and gaze around,
        And see we are not there:

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Page 131

To start, and fancy that we hear
        Some old familiar tone;
And then remember that our ear
        Is, like our heart, alone:
On stranger brow to think we trace
        A look we knew of yore;
Then wonder what beloved face
        Will ever greet us more.

But if the exile be a slave,
        What words shall speak that pain?
Oh! who could fill a freeman's grave,
        Yet live to drag a chain?
Tyrants! tormentors of your kind!
        The worst that even ye,
'Mid all your tortures, have designed,
        Is loss of liberty.

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Page 132

There was a man whose prime had passed
        In Moslem bonds away:
They told him he was free at last;—
        He gasped,—and blessed the day.
Long had he struggled to repress
        Each home-returning thought:
Now, revelling in hope's excess,
        His brain with home was fraught.

And he forgot the tedious years
        That had bowed down his head,
Since he had felt the parting tears
        His mother o'er him shed:
And only yesterday it seemed,
        That he was warmly pressed
To many, as he fondly deemed,
        A still unaltered breast.

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Page 133

He roamed once more, as in his youth,
        Through Sicily's dear plains,
Beside fair beings, on whose truth
        Life yet had left no stains.
He thought not how the eyes were dim,—
        The smiles no longer bright,—
Which then had scattered round, for him,
        Love's purity and light.

He saw Sicilian roses blush;
        Their breath was ne'er so sweet:
He heard the well-known waters gush;
        They murmured at his feet.
Within his father's halls he stood,
        Which echoed joyous words:
"Welcome!" rang out o'er lawn and wood,
        Ay! from the very birds.

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Page 134

The pined-for hour is close at hand;—
        The ransomed crowd depart;—
Upon the vessel's deck they stand,
        With gladness at each heart.
Thanksgiving flows from every tongue,
        As on the waves they ride:
Triumphant songs and shouts are flung
        To swell the breeze's pride.

But where is he, whose soul despair
        Touched, but could never bow?
Has he no voice of praise and prayer
        To speak his raptures now?
He sits with face turned to the sea;
        His hands support his head;
His eyes are strained towards Sicily,—
        They see not:—he is dead!

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Page 135

Oh! better thus to die of joy,
        From Fancy's chalice quaffed,
Than live to see stern Truth destroy
        The cup, and spill the draught:
Better to close our dazzled eyes
        While forms, in light arrayed,
Are marshalled in the glorious skies,
        Than watch the vision fade.

Then lay him gently in the earth
        To which his spirit cleaved;
None who rejoiced to see his birth
        Will for his death be grieved:
But he will sleep amongst his own;
        And in his father's grave
The exile will be less alone,
        Than when he was a slave.

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Page 136

THE FULFILMENT OF A FATHER'S HOPE.

"εαν δ' αναγκασθης κινδυνευειν, αιρου καλως τεθναναι
μαλλον η ζην αισχρως."
Isocrates.

There was a father who with joy had seen
His son grow up to manhood. Hope had been
For ever busy with him, to foretell
The glorious future of the boy he loved so well.

The time arrived when he should send him out
To try the great world. Hope still stirred about
His breast: her whispered promise made him strong
To part with what had been his light of love so long.

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Page 137

"Go forth, my son!" the sanguine father cried,
"Go forth! and be, as heretofore, my pride.
"Meet danger boldly, if it cross thy way;
"Nor let it turn thy steps from honour's path astray.

"Remember always that a hero's death
"Is worth eternity of coward breath:
"Fear not the loss of treasures which are prized
"By common men: fear nought—except to live despised."

Years passed before that father saw again
His soldier son:—he saw him lifeless then:
But Victory's wreath was on his pallid brow.
The old man gasped out,—"God! I die contented now."

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Page 138

THE LAST DAYS OF A GOOD MAN.

"ως ευ ισθι οτι εμοιγε οσον αι αλλαι αι κατα το σωμα
ηδοναι απομαραινονται, τοσουτον αυξονται αι περι τους
λογους επιθυμιαι τι και ηδοναι."
Plato.

    In a sick chamber tranquilly lay one
        Whose life was waning slowly, though his eye
    With the pure light of intellect still shone
        As brightly, as when health was bounding high
    Within his veins: he knew that he must die
        Of this his malady; but he and Death
    Had long been friends at distance; and the nigh
        Approach of him who often harroweth
Stout spirits, ruffled not this placid sufferer's breath.

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Page 139

    Disease, which wasted his external frame,
        Touched not the inward man: his vigorous mind
    Lived on amid his body's wreck the same
        As formerly; and even seemed to find
    Sources of pleasure, not before divined,
        Peculiar to itself—free from the alloy
    Of all corporeal feelings; of a kind
        Beyond the spoiler's science to destroy—
Above the grosser creature's nature to enjoy.

    And, to the last, he loved to see around
        Him gathered, the dear faces anxious yet
    With hopes for him: he loved to hear the sound
        Of tongues whose hearts, he knew, would not forget;
    And look into the eyes whose lids were wet
        With sorrow for the pangs he could not hide.
    When by his couch this faithful band were met,
        Their souls and his he often fondly tried
To knit in ties, which Death himself should not divide.

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Page 140

    Of his own dissolution he would speak
        As of his spirit's triumph: the decay
    Which wore his body out, or made him weak
        For this world's active efforts, he would say,
    But cleared his mind's encumbrances away;
        And gave it space and energy to soar
    Through realms of pure intelligence; and play
        Its part amongst the beings who adore
The eternal mind more fully as they know it more.

    He passed away as softly as a wreath
        Of vapour, when the glorious morning sun
    Looks down on it. His body rests beneath
        Yon turf: his soul—which had begun
    To visit Heaven ere its course was done
        On Earth, and which so gently strove to gain
    Companions on the way—has it not won
        A lasting home, where grief and care and pain
Shall enter not, and where Death's threatenings are in vain?

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Page 141

THE PATRIOT AND HIS MOTHER.

    There was a prison, where a noble heart
        Was languishing, as many such have done,
    For the pure blessings Nature can impart,
        In every ray that streameth from the sun,—
    In every blossom bursting on the trees,—
Ay! in each spider's thread that floats along the breeze.

    To the clear spirit which perceives aright,
        These things are types of heaven-born Liberty;
    And teach, that He who did create the light,
        The flower, the insect, made them to be free
    For use and for enjoyment. Is it meet
That God's free works with man's oppression be replete?

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Page 142

    This captive was a youthful patriot who
        Had fought and failed: to life he had been bound
    By ties of love and happiness; but true
        To that soul-summons, which awakes no sound
    Unless it strikes a rightly tempered breast,
He rose in Freedom's cause, and left to God the rest.

    They deemed that his example might have sway
        O'er many; and they urged him to submit
    To stern necessity, and coldly lay
        His country's rights aside; and calmly sit,
    In splendid ignominy, down; and school
Himself and his compatriots to their master's rule.

    Pardon, yea! honours, did they promise him;
        And sent his widowed mother, whose pale cheek
    Was yet more blanched,—whose eye had grown more dim
        With weeping for his sake,—whose limbs were weak
    For want of her heart's staff,—to tempt him now,
Beneath a gilded yoke his neck in shame to bow.

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Page 143

    Who may describe the meeting of that pair?
        Hope had been at their parting: she was fled,
    And Disappointment, kindred to Despair,
        Was in her place. 'Twas long ere either said
    A word: the mother was the first who broke
The silence, and her mission faithfully she spoke.

    She spoke—and, with anxiety intense,
        She watched the workings of that well-known face,
    Which never had she seen stained with a sense
        Of what might bear the semblance of disgrace.
    Now, with indignant scorn she saw it dyed
Until she ceased,—and then, the insulted youth replied:

    "Alas! my mother! has affliction turned
        "Thy lofty mind astray? There was a time
"When from thy sight and love thou would'st have spurned
        "The son who had but thought on such a crime.
    "From thee I learned, that in a patriot's death
"There lay no sting: mine be a patriot's dying breath!

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Page 144

    "Return to those who sent thee hither: tell
        "Them who, perverting Nature's holiest laws,
    "Would have the parent bribe the child to sell
        "His conscience for his life—his country's cause
    "For her oppressor's favour,—that thy son
"Will never see thee blush for aught that he hath done."

    She clasped her hands and cried, "I thank thee, God!
        "My glorious son! they bade me come and try
    "To lure thee from thy path of virtue—trod
        "Since childhood: now, thy doom is but to die
    "As thou hast lived, with honour. We shall be
"Together in yon Heaven of perfect liberty!"

    They met but once again,—and that was where
        Men part to meet no more on Earth. He made
    His last, as he had made his earliest prayer,
        Beside his mother: then his head he laid
    Upon the block in peaceful trust: before
The stroke had fallen on him her sufferings were o'er.

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Page 145

NOT IN ITS CLOUDY SEASON ONLY.

"Im Glück bedarf ich deiner so whol als in andern Zeiten"
Johannes v. Müller.

Not in its cloudy season only,
    My heart had need of thee;
When I desponded and was lonely,
    And few remembered me.

Thy love indeed was then a treasure
    I had not lived without;
A blessing such as they can measure,
    Whose friends have taught them doubt;

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Page 146

Who, having smiled to watch the springing
    Of insects into light,
Have wept to mark the flutterers winging
    Their gay course out of sight;—

Then slowly, with a spirit mourning
    For things of sun and air,
To their dark solitude returning,
    Have found a tame bird there.

Thy constancy was never veering,
    While Grief sat on the prow:
The stormy atmosphere is clearing:
    Wilt thou desert me now?

Thou had'st a charm Despair to banish
    With thy soul-touching voice;
And young Hope's visions, too, will vanish,
    If thou say not—"Rejoice!"

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Page 147

Thou tellest me, I am surrounded
    By friendship's glowing rays:
But tell me, is that friendship founded
    Like thine of former days?

Tell me, will they who in my sorrow
    Looked unconcerned and strange,
Not fly away again to-morrow,
    If Fortune bring a change?

Or, tell me, will they ever enter
    Into my bosom's core,
And to my feelings be a centre,
    As thou hast been of yore?

Thine should not be the hand my gladness,
    By chilling, to destroy:
Thou wert my only trust in sadness;
    Oh! be my life in joy!

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Page 148

SCENE BEFORE THE WALLS OF CALAIS.

The siege, for months sustained, at length was o'er;
In triumph conquering Edward sat before
The walls so dearly, desperately, bought;
His brow o'ercast, his soul with vengeance fraught.
With looks of fixed, unblenching fortitude,
Near him six self-devoted victims stood:

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Page 149

Around the Monarch, many a mournful eye
Of British Baron spoke of sympathy
With those doomed men; and many a knightly word
Of intercession had in vain been heard:
The stern decree had passed his lips;—unmoved,
Edward had listened to the son he loved,—
Cressy's young hero: the last sign was given
To send those patriot souls from Earth to Heaven;
When, lo! the Queen,—she who for years had known
Her consort's feelings, bent before his throne.
With deepened frown, he saw her kneeling there,
And steeled his purpose to resist her prayer.
    "A moment, Edward! but a moment, pause!
"I will not advocate the hopeless cause
"Of these offenders, doomed by thee to fall,
"A poor atonement for the guilt of all—
''If guilt it be, undauntedly to die
"Rather than purchase life with treachery.

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Page 150

"I will not ask, if Edward does not fear
"The ill effect of such example here;
"And dread his subjects, at some future time,
"Thus warned, may deem a long defence a crime.
"That fear were groundless:—England's sons would drain
"Their own life-blood from every throbbing vein,
"Ere one amongst the meanest would betray
"His country's trust, and own a foreign sway.
"This hardly conquered, much enduring band
"Have fought as we should fight; and here they stand,
"Strong in a strength which suffering cannot shake,
"Firm in a courage fetters cannot break.
"How brave they are, I will not—need not tell:
"Their long resistance teaches that too well.
"But not for them,—for one more high, more dear,—
''Edward! for thee, I kneel a suppliant here!
"For thine own noble nature do I sue:—
''Be to that ever noble nature true!

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Page 151

"Dost thou not feel it working in thy breast—
''Struggling 'mid doubts thou can'st not scare to rest?
"Thou dost! I know how that most royal heart
"Unused, unfit, to play the tyrant's part,
"Even now, in secret mercy melting, yearns
"To save the victims savage Vengeance spurns.
"Yield to its dictates! Oh! my Liege! my King!
"Imagine what it is to feel the sting
"Of penitence, when penitence hath not
"A virtue still to weep away the blot,
"That one dark deed has left upon the fame,
"Where lives enshrined a conquerer's deathless name.
"I do not plead for these:—a single hour
"May set them free, and far beyond thy power;
"May send them to a court more just than thine,
"To stand the sentence of a Judge divine.
"Let them not say before the King of Kings,
"Thy God,—the God of all created things,

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Page 152

"Who holds no human balance,—in whose sight
"A crowned creature's life may weigh more light
"Than the least drop of blood by peasants shed,
"When peasant-patriots for their homes have bled:—
"Let them not say, in that high presence, where
"To utter falsehood liars do not dare,
"That England's royal Edward ne'er forgave
"A vanquished foe, whom he had found too brave."
    She ceased: with look intent she sought to trace
A softened spirit in the Monarch's face.
A moment passed—his inward strife was done:
That generous Queen's heroic suit was won.

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Page 153

LEISURE.

             "σχολη δε πλειων η θελω παρεστι μοι."

Æschylus.

"Leisure!" indeed I have too much;
    I only wish that I had less:
Alas! alas! 'tis not to such
    As I, that it is happiness
To have of leisure hours a store:
    My leisure time is but employed
In counting blessings that are o'er,
    And hopes experience has destroyed.

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Page 154

"Leisure!" I have enough to spend
    In calling back the vanished face
Of many a dear but faithless friend,
    Whose friendship passed and left no trace:
I have enough to throw away
    Upon the memory of love;
Enough to mourn o'er the decay
    Of what I prized my life above:

I have enough to build, in thought,
    The fabric of life's highest bliss;
And watch it crumble, as it ought
    In truth, to ruin such as this:
I have enough to summon round,
    Joys it were worth a world to gain,
And find them—what I've ever found
    The things I treasured—false and vain.

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Page 155

Oh! dost thou deem the leisure not
    Too much, which forces into light
All that had better be forgot;
    And paints to the unwilling sight
All that the heart hath loved and lost?
    Give me a choice, and I will be
By active sorrow tempest-tost:
    Not worn by idle misery.

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Page 156

THE TEST OF VIRTUE.

"....αι μεν γαρ ευτυχιαι και τοις φαυλοις των
ανθρωπων τας κακιας συγκρυπτουσιν, αι δε
δυσπραξιαι ταχεως καταφανεις ποιουσιν οποιοι
τινες εκαστοι τυγχανουσιν οντες"
Isocrates.

Prosperity conceals the nature base
Of evil men, and casts a sort of grace
Around their words and actions, to deceive
The lightly judging world: let fortune leave
Them desolate and poor:—the world will see
What the true temper of their souls may be.

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Page 157

Affliction is the touchstone of the heart,
And has a power to test the dearest part
Of the affection's treasures: let grief sink
To feeling's depth:—if the heart do not shrink,
And yield itself a victim to despair,
Be sure that virtue hath a firm hold there.

Glorious it is to see man's spirit soar
Above his destiny,—and triumph o'er
The tyranny of want and care and pain,—
Spurning aside temptation's gilded chain:
To brave all trials—bear all sufferings strong,
Except the consciousness of doing wrong.

Ye who, by luxury too fondly nurst,
Have never felt of life the awful worst,
Pause ere your erring brethren ye condemn:
Have you been tried to the heart's core like them?
Their sins may be their fate's;—yours are your own:
To God, our Judge, the balances are known.

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Page 158

THE SCEPTIC AND HIS DYING SON.

Amongst old woods, arose a mansion where
    Renown, without a blot upon the page,
A line of heroes had recorded: there,
    Honour and fame were as an heritage.

The evening sunlight streamed profusely, through
    Glass richly painted, on the marble floor
Of stately halls; and all that met the view
    Showed grand and gorgeous: Death was at the door.

In a gilt chamber lay a boy,—and he
    Was beautiful, like Love in grief; decay
Was passing o'er his face as tenderly,
    As if it but caressed so fair a prey.

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Page 159

He wasted without suffering: at his side,
    His father sat with a despairing heart:
That boy had been his blessing and his pride,
    And now he felt that they must surely part:—

Part not to meet again:—for this world's bound
    Was the horizon of his mental scope:
The voice which fills creation was a sound
    That in his bosom roused no echoing hope.

The universal spirit which looks out
    From things that vegetate and breathe, from him
Met no adoring glance;—his creed was doubt
    Of all which Reason's arrogance makes dim.

He sat and contemplated, day by day,
    His earthly treasure mouldering into dust:
He saw his earthly visions fade away,
    And would not seek in Heaven a surer trust.

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Page 160

The boy had been asleep, and when he woke
    There was a change upon his cheek and eye
To more than natural loveliness: he spoke,—
    "Father! I know I am about to die.

"Well hast thou tended me:—yet I must leave
    "A life whose morning hath not been o'ercast
"By gloom or sorrow: thou wilt sorely grieve
    "When I am gone,—thy youngest and thy last.

"And oh! the grief it is to me to go
    "Away from thee,—from all I love and prize,—
''And be as nothing. Father! is it so?
    "Or lives the spirit when the body dies?

"From time to time, obscurely, I have heard
    "Allusions to a life beyond the grave;
"And mention of a God, whose holy word
    "Is fraught with power believing souls to save:

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Page 161

"And often have I wished to question thee
    "Of what this meant; but thou hast ever said,
"Mortals knew nought of immortality,—
    "The living could not comprehend the dead.

"But tell me now, dear father! if indeed
    "There be a chance that we again may live,—
''A God to whose compassion we may plead:
    "I will implore him that new life to give.

"Tell me, and quickly, for my spirits sink;
    "Strange sounds are mingling wildly in my ear:
"Father! I stand upon extinction's brink—
    "Speak! give me hope! my father! dost thou hear?'

The father spoke not—but a heavy groan
    Burst from his quivering lips: he hid his face:
When he looked up again, he was alone:
    The untrained soul was summoned to its place.

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Page 162

CONSTANCY.

             "......δολιος γαρ αιων
             Επ ανδρασι κρεμαται,
             Ελισσων βιοτου πορον.
             Ιατα δ' εστι βροτοις
             Συν γ' ελευθερια
             Και τα. χρη δ' αγαθαν
             Ελπιδ' ανδρι μελειν."

Pindar.

Troubles are gathering fast, you say,
    And thickening o'er our head:
    The joys we prized are fled;
The friends we loved have dropped away,
                    Faithless or dead.

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Page 163

Our fortune is, indeed, all changed:
    Whatever meets our view
    Beareth an aspect new;
And some who should not be estranged,
                    Are altered too.

But courage! let us not despair!
    A cure for every ill,
    Which life's dark cup may fill,
If loss of freedom be not there,
                    Is ready still.

The more we suffer, yet the more
    Together we will cling;
    And call on Hope to bring
Healing for hearts depressed and sore,
                    With rapid wing.

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Page 164

THE TRIAL OF SOPHOCLES.

The chiefs of Athens sat to try a cause,
And weigh their Country's against Nature's laws;
But their indignant feelings loathed the task,
Whose strict performance Justice dared to ask.
They sat to judge the intellect of one,
Whose genius, with a quenchless radiance, shone
'Mid Grecian glories:—one who, at his will,
Had wrought all spells by which men's bosoms thrill
With passion's agony or virtue's pride.
And now, his mind was to be sifted, tried
By common minds! his master-spirit bowed
To meet the inquisition of the crowd.
But wherefore this? Ye nations! shuddering read—
His children were the authors of the deed.

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Page 165

    The charge of imbecility was laid.
He listened calmly, nor a gesture made
Of wrath or scorn. In dignity of soul,
He rose and stood erect; and, from a scroll,
He read aloud of that old sightless man,
Whose self-inflicted pangs his years outran;
But who, throughout his sorrows strange and wild,
Possessed the solace of a pious child,—
The young Antigone; the maid who grew
More firm in love, as others waxed untrue.
The very day that saw her childhood end,
Saw her go forth a wandering sire to tend:
Through changing scenes and seasons, to his side
She clung unshrinking—his support and guide.
The sun's intemperate heat, the raging storm,
Reached not the heart that ruled her tender form;
Strong in that heart's devotedness, she passed,
With naked feet, o'er rugged paths;—nor cast

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Page 166

A wish towards all the luxuries of home,
But joyed an alien, for his sake, to roam:
To ease his sufferings her single care;—
Her chosen lot, those sufferings to share.
    The poet read: then paused and looked around
Upon an audience breathless, wonder-bound.
Coldly he smiled: "Is that the work," he said,
"Of one whose intellectual powers are dead?"

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Page 167

FREEDOM AND A TOMB.

         "της σης λατρειας την εμην δυσπραξιαν,
         σαφως επιστας, ουκ αν αλλαξαιμ' εγω."

Æschylus.

Do not presume to pity me!
    My sorrows are not for thy touch:
They loathe the luke-warm sympathy
    Of one who loves himself so much.
There was a time when I believed
    That we could never feel apart,
And fondly thought that if I grieved,
    My grief would fill thy faithful heart.

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Page 168

But thou hast chosen other ways
    Than mine, to journey on through life:
Thine eyes have worshipped glory's blaze;
    Thine ears ring with ambition's strife.
And this were well, if Honour's voice
    Could find an echo in thy breast:
I should not then condemn thy choice,
    Or deem my mournful fate the best:

I should not spurn thee from me so,—
    Companion of my happy years!
And tell thee, solitary woe
    Galls less than do a traitor's tears.
But now I bid thee, if thou will,
    Search thy base soul to see if there
One feeling lingers, worthy still
    An honest sufferer's pangs to share.

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Page 169

Go! bend thy knee at Fortune's shrine,
    And drag the idol's golden chain!
I would not change my lot for thine,
    Or take thy pleasure for my pain.
I can endure my joyless doom;
    Thy slavery I never could:
Give me but freedom and a tomb,—
    And keep thy sceptred servitude.

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Page 170

THE PRIDE OF INTELLECT.

             "θνατα θνατοισι πρεπει."

Pindar.

             "ουποτε την Διος αρμονιαν
             θνητων παρεξιασι βουλαι."

Æschylus.

    It is a glorious thing to feel the mind
        Far above earthly speculations rise,
    And deem that the empyreal rays which blind
        The vulgar sight, give clearness to our eyes:
    It is a glorious thing to tread the skies,
        In fancy even, while our spirits drink
    Pure draughts from each inspiring source that lies
        In those imagined regions, and to think
How steadily we poise us on creation's brink.

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Page 171

    Glorious it is to strive to comprehend
        The counsels of Omniscience; and to mete,
    With finite measure, that which hath no end;
        To question the All-ruling will, replete
    With power; to summon Nature from the seat
        Of her mysterious workings, and require
    That what her Maker taught her to secrete,
        Should be brought forth to nourish Reason's fire:
Glorious it is to dream she yields to our desire.

    All this is glorious. Is it wise and right?
        Have we, Earth-worms, no touch of earthly fear
    That He, who gave enough of mental light
        To guide us safely on our passage here,
    May quench that little all, to us so dear,
        If mis-applied; and let us grope, without
    The aid of Reason's torch, around our sphere
        Of vanity, and darkly roam about
The interminable realms of philosophic doubt?

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Page 172

    There was a man whom other men called sage:
        For he had tried to scrutinize the laws
    Of his Creator's universe; the page
        Of destiny had scanned; had sought the cause
    Of what is self-originated. Pause
        He never made in his career of pride,
    To weigh with God's approval the applause
        Of creatures like himself. God's truth he tried
By human faith;—a witness which hath often lied.

    I saw that man: his mind was gone astray,
        And of its course there scarce remained a trace.
    He was become an idiot, and he lay,
        Heedless, it seemed, of all around: his face,
    Which had been radiant with the conscious grace
        Of intellectual play, had now the weak,
    Unchanging look of foolishness: in place
        Of the controuling glance that used to speak
Command, his eye's humility was more than meek

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Page 173

    In his noon-day of scientific fame,
        Philosophers had striven for the prize
    Of his approving smile: now, madmen came
        To peep upon him with their curious eyes.
    "There is a God—and He alone is wise
        "And just and powerful!" This was all he said
    For tedious years. Chance visions might arise
        At times, although his intellect seemed dead,
Within his brain of that which he had forfeited.

    Oh! do the Angels look on us and grieve,
        Like mothers for sick, wayward infants, o'er
    Creatures whose frailties they may not conceive?
        Do they, whose privilege is to adore
    The unveiled Majesty, and stand before
        God in his glory, pity or disdain
    Beings who, pinionless, attempt to soar;
        And at each effort closer wind the chain
Which, since man's first rebellion, on his race hath lain?

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Page 174

HECUBA'S SPEECH OVER THE BODY OF
ASTYANAX.

Translation from the "Troades" of Euripides.

Laid on the ground let Hector's buckler be;—
A very mournful spectacle for me!
Victorious Greeks! less famed for sense than arms,
Whom an anticipated foe alarms,
In this poor child united, did ye dread
There might revive a host of slaughtered dead?
Or deem that fallen Troy, at his command,
Again might rise, and Greece's power withstand?

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Page 175

We yielded,—while to save us Hector sought,
And thousand heroes more beside him fought:
Our city taken and our warriors slain,
Ye feared this babe! I laud not fears so vain.
    Oh! how unhappy, dearest! is thy doom—
A cruel death, and an ignoble tomb!
Had'st thou for Freedom and thy Country died,
In the perfection of young manhood's pride,—
Of power and godlike sovereignty possest,—
If these be blessings, then thou had'st been blest.
Thy house's treasures, seen but not enjoyed,
Availed thee little ere thou wert destroyed.
Ill-fated head! thy locks are roughly shorn
By thy paternal walls:—Apollo's towers have torn
The clustering curls try mother used to dress
With gentle care and many a fond caress;
And Murder laughs, with exultation wild,
Upon thy mangled limbs, my slaughtered child!

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Page 176

Hands! where in miniature I used to see
The likeness of those bands so dear to me,
Disjointed now ye hang: mouth! which hast spoke
Such tender boasts, thy promises are broke.
How often, clinging to me, hast thou said,
"Mother! I'll cut my hair when thou art dead,
"And lead a youthful chorus to thy grave."
Oh! for the hopes thy pious childhood gave!
Those rites thou never wilt perform for me:
Old, homeless, and bereaved, I bury thee.
The dear embrace,—my rapture while I fed,
Or watched thee in thy sleep,—these joys are fled.
How must thy epitaph be written? "Here
"Lies a young victim of Achaian fear:
"Greeks slew the babe to give their terrors peace."
A shameful record for triumphant Greece!
Though of thy princely heritage bereft,
This shield, my child, is for thy burial left.

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Page 177

    Oh thou! accustomed to protect, of yore,
Hector's strong arm, thy owner is no more.
Upon thy burnished surface, many a stain
Shows where the sweat of Hector's brow hath lain
In battle toils,—his spirit's mark is there:
Now let thy last sad office be to bear
This body to the dead............

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Page 178

FALLEN GREATNESS.

"Erst wenn der Eichbaum hingestreckt liegt, wird man es ganz gewahr, wie gross er in die Wolken ragte."
Matthisson.

When the proud oak lies prostrate on the ground,
No more to fling its giant shade around,
We late discover, with admiring eyes,
How close it reared its glory to the skies;
And gaze, with wonder newly roused and vain,
Upon the fallen monarch of the plain.

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Page 179

Thus, when some master-spirit—scarcely known
For what it was, because it rose alone
So high above the vulgar, grovelling crowd—
Beneath the universal stroke hath bowed,
Men calculate how vast the mind subdued
By death, and marvel at its magnitude.

Ay! then, they measure the gigantic mind
Which overtopped the standard of its kind,
And, in its meanest, least aspiring hope,
Was raised above the world's contracted scope.
Oh! mark that world's amazement at the strength,
Which, brought to Earth, it estimates at length.

Stern Death the leveller! who dares to say
Thou art not juster than thy slaves of clay,—
The intellectual pigmies who pretend
To mete the powers they cannot comprehend?
They judge, from seeming, objects placed afar;
Thou showest all things simply as they are.