Poetry

"The warrior, sage, and poet fill their story With all the various honours of mankind ; — May thy young reign achieve yet truer glory, The pure, enlightened triumphs of the mind ! Too much in this wide world yet needs redressing ; But with thy reign Hope’s loveliest promise came. May thy sweet youth be sheltered by the blessing A nation breathes upon Victoria’s name !"

"The prayer for another, to Heaven addrest, Comes back to the breather thrice blessing and blest."

"Lay her in the gentle earth, Where the summer maketh mirth ; Where young violets have birth ; Where the lily bendeth. Lay her there, the lovely one ! With the rose, her funeral stone ; And for tears, such showers alone As the rain of April lendeth."

"And such is still the recompense appointed for the mind, That seeketh, with its eyes afar, the glory of its kind. The poet yields the beautiful that in his being lives : Unthankful, cold, and careless, are they to whom he gives."

"It shall never be lowered, the black flag we bear ; If the sea be denied us, we sweep through the air."

"A little while hast thou to be a child, Thy lot is all too high ; Thy face is very fair, thine eyes are mild, But duties on thine arduous path are piled— A nation’s hopes and fears blend with thy destiny."

"They were poor, and by their cabin, Pale want sat at the door ; And the summer to their harvest Brought insufficient store."

"Again I am beside the lake, The lonely lake which used to be The wide world of the beating heart, When I was, love, with thee."

"Hither, famed Ulysses, steer, Pass not, pride of Greece, along To our haven come and hear, Come and hear the Sirens' song."

"Human heart this history Is thy fated lot, Even such thy watching For what cometh not Till with anxious waiting dull Round thee fades the beautiful."

"How many are the lovely lays That haunt our English tongue, Defrauded of their poet’s praise Forgotten he who sung."

"’Twas the deep forest bodied forth that fane, So rose the arches of the old oak trees, So wreathed the close set branches at their side, So through the open spaces gleamed the sun ; While like an anthem sang the morning birds."

"Life in its many shapes was there, The busy and the gay; Faces that seemed too young and fair To ever know decay. …. There came a slow and silent band In sad procession by: Reversed the musket in each hand, And downcast every eye. They bore the soldier to his grave; The sympathising crowd Divided like a parted wave By some dark vessel ploughed. …. Again, all filled with light and breath, I passed the crowded street— Oh, great extremes of life and death, How strangely do ye meet!"

"It is the minstrel’s part to fling Around the present’s common cope, The solemn hues on Memory’s wing, The spiritual light of Hope. The scene that to a careless eye Seems nothing but itself to be, Has charmed earth and haunted sky — Seen as the minstrel’s eye can see. Himself is but an instrument Inspired by that diviner hour, When first Imagination lent To earth its passion and its power."

"For the present doth inherit All the glories of the past ; We retain what was its spirit, While its dust to dust is cast, All good angels guard the sleep Of the ancient warriors, The warriors of olden time"

"He cometh from the purple hills, Where the fight has been to-day; He bears the standard in his hand— Shout round the victor’s way. The sun-set of a battle won, Is round his steps from Marathon."

"She comes with the midnight—meet not her cold eye, It shines but on those who are fated to die. She comes with the midnight, when spirits have power— She comes with the midnight, and evil the hour."

"Little the present careth for the past, Too little,—’tis not well! For careless ones we dwell Beneath the mighty shadow it has cast."

"Thus with some sweet dream’s assistance, Float they down life’s stream; Would to heaven our whole existence Could be such a dream!"

"You must come back, my brother, For Christmas is so near, And Christmas is the crowning time, The purple of the year ;"

"Sympathy is the softener of death, and memory of the loved and the lost is the earthly shadow of their immortality. But who turns aside amid those crowds that hurry through the thronged and noisy streets?—No one can love London better than I do; but never do I wish to be buried there. It is the best place in the world for a house, and the worst for a grave."

"I come from my home in the depth of the sea, I come that thy dreams may be haunted by me ; Not as we parted, the rose on my brow, But shadowy, silent, I visit thee now."

"Mournfully they pass away, The dearest and the fairest ; Beauty, thou art common clay, Common doom thou sharest."

"For years, long years, Years that make centuries—those dimlit aisles, Where rainbows play, from coloured windows flung, Have echoed to the voice of prayer and praise ; With the last lights of evening flitting round, Making a rosy atmosphere of hope."

"Few save the poor feel for the poor, The rich know not how hard It is to be of needful food And needful rest debarred."

"Alas, alas ! those ancient towers, Where never now the vespers ring, But lonely at the midnight hours, Flits by the bat on dusky wing. No more beneath the moonlight dim, No more beneath the planet ray, Those arches echo with the hymn That bears life’s meaner cares away."

"None heed the wandering boy who sings, An orphan though so young; None think how far the singer brings The songs which he has sung."

"None watched the lonely Indian girl,— She passed unmarked of all, Until they saw her slight canoe Approach the mighty Fall! Upright, within that slender boat They saw the pale girl stand, Her dark hair streaming far behind— Uprais’d her desperate hand. The air is filled with shriek and shout— They call, but call in vain; The boat amid the waters dash'd— ’Twas never seen again!"

"Summer is come, with her leaves and her flowers— Summer is come, with the sun on her hours; The lark in the clouds, and the thrush on the bough, And the dove in the thicket, make melody now. The noon is abroad, but the shadows are cool Where the green rushes grow in the dark forest pool."

"A stranger to her forest home, That fair young stranger came; They raised for him the funeral song— For him the funeral flame. Love sprang from pity,—and her arms Around his arms she threw; She told her father, “If he dies, Your daughter dieth too.” For her sweet sake they set him free— He lingered at her side; And many a native song yet tells Of that pale stranger’s bride."

"See, he bears the line away, Round him flies the snowy spray. I have given him length and line, One last struggle, he is mine. Fling the green arbutus bough On the glowing ashes now ; Let the cup with red wine foam,— I have brought the salmon home."

"Low it lieth—earth to earth— And to which that earth gave birth— Palace, market-street, and fane ; Dust that never asks in vain, Hath reclaimed its own again. Dust, the wide world’s king."

"Thou beautiful new comer, With white and maiden brow ; Thou fairy gift from summer, Why art thou blooming now ? This dim and sheltered alley Is dark with winter green ; Not such as in the valley At sweet spring-time is seen."

"Float on—float on—my haunted bark, Above the midnight tide; Bear softly o’er the waters dark The hopes that with thee glide."

"The sledge is yoked, away we go, Amid the firs, o’er the soundless snow."

"Alas ! for our ancient believings, We have nothing now left to believe ; The oracle, augur, and omen No longer dismay and deceive."

"Downwards from that slender waist, By a golden zone embraced, Do the many folds escape, Of the subtle serpent’s shape.— Bright with many-coloured dyes All the glittering scales arise, With a red and purple glow Colouring the waves below! At the strange and fearful sight, Stands in mute despair the knight,— Soon to feel a worse despair, Melusina sees him there! And to see him is to part With the idol of her heart, Part as just the setting sun Tells the fatal day is done."

"She leaves it to the sacred stream, She leaves it to the tide, Her little child—her darling one, And she has none beside."

"Come what will, of weal or wo, ’Tis the best the worst to know."

"By the love that makes thee mine I am deeply, dearly thine. But a spell is on me thrown, Six days may each deed be shown. But the seventh day must be Mine, and only known to me. Never must thy step intrude On its silent solitude."

"Then his jealous fancies rose, (Our Lady keep the mind from those!) Like a fire within the brain, Maddens that consuming pain. Henceforth is no rest by night, Henceforth day has no delight. Life hath agonies that tell Of their late left native hell. But mid their despair is none Like that of the jealous one."

"She comes ! So comes the Moon, when has she found A silvery path wherein through heaven to glide ? Fling the white veil—a summer cloud—around ; She is a bride !"

"Willows by that river grow With their leaves half green, half snow, Summer never seems to be Present all with that sad tree. With its bending boughs are wrought Tender and associate thought, Of the wreaths that maidens wear In their long neglected hair. Of the branches that are thrown On the last, the funeral stone."

"And the thought of what has been, And the thought of what might be, Makes us crave the fancied scene, And despise reality."

"Easy ’tis advice to give, Hard it is advice to take Years that lived—and years to live, Wide and weary difference make."

"Who has not, when but a child, Treasured up some vision wild: Haunting them with nameless fear, Filling all they see or hear, In the midnight’s lonely hour, With a strange mysterious power?"

"How wonderful the common street, Its tumult and its throng, The hurrying of the thousand feet That bear life's cares along. How strongly is the present felt, With such a scene beside; All sounds in one vast murmur melt The thunder of the tide."

"Why did she love her mother’s so? It hath wrought her wondrous wo."

"The stately stranger’s head was bound With a bright and golden round; Curiously inlaid, each scale Shone upon his glittering mail;"

"Still illusion’s purple light Was upon the morning tide, And there rose before her sight The loveliness of life untried. Three sweet genii, —Youth, Love, Hope, — Drew her future horoscope. Must such lights themselves consume? Must she be her own dark tomb?"