Betrayal

Down comes the winter rain -
Spoils my hat and bow -
Runs into the poll of me;
But mother won't know.

We've been out and caught a cold,
Knee-deep in snow;
Such a lucky thing it is
That mother won't know!

Rosy lost herself last night -
Couldn't tell where to go.
Yes - it rather frightened her,
But mother didn't know.

Somebody made Willy drunk
At the Christmas show:
O 'twas fun! It's well for him
That mother won't know!

Howsoever wild we are,
Late at school or slow,
Mother won't be cross with us,
Mother won't know.

How we cried the day she died!
Neighbours whispering low . . .
But we now do what we will -
Mother won't know.

I can see the towers
In mind quite clear
Not many hours'
Faring from here;
But how up and go,
And briskly bear
Thither, and know
That are not there?

Though the birds sing small,
And apple and pear
On your trees by the wall
Are ripe and rare,
Though none excel them,
I have no care
To taste them or smell them
And you not there.

Though the College stones
Are smit with the sun,
And the graduates and Dons
Who held you as one
Of brightest brow
Still think as they did,
Why haunt with them now
Your candle is hid?

Towards the river
A pealing swells:
They cost me a quiver -
Those prayerful bells!
How go to God,
Who can reprove
With so heavy a rod
As your swift remove!

I have a boy of five years old;
His face is fair and fresh to see;
His limbs are cast in beautys mold
And dearly he loves me.

One morn we strolled on our dry walk,
Or quiet home all full in view,
And held such intermitted talk
As we are wont to do.

My thoughts on former pleasures ran;
I thought of Kilve's delightful shore,
Our pleasant home when spring began,
A long, long year before.

A day it was when I could bear
Some fond regrets to entertain;
With so much happiness to spare,
I could not feel a pain.

The green earth echoed to the feet
Of lambs that bounded through the glade,
From shade to sunshine, and as fleet
From sunshine back to shade.

Birds warbled round me, and each trace
Of inward sadness had its...

The battle will not cease
Till once again on those white steeds ye ride,
O heaven-descended Twins,
Before humanity's bewildered host.
Our javelins
Fly wide,
And idle is our cannon's boast.
Lead us, triumphant Brethren, Love and Peace.
A fairer Golden Fleece
Our more adventurous Argo fain would seek,
But save, O Sons of Jove,
Your blended light go with us, vain employ
It were to rove
This bleak,
Blind waste. To unimagined joy
Guide us, immortal Brethren, Love and Peace.

NEW CASTLE, JULY 4, 1878

For a hundred years the pulse of time
    Has throbbed for Liberty;
For a hundred years the grand old clime
    Columbia has been free;
        For a hundred years our country's love,
        The Stars and Stripes, has waved above.

Away far out on the gulf of years -
    Misty and faint and white
Through the fogs of wrong - a sail appears,
    And the Mayflower heaves in sight,
        And drifts again, with its little flock
        Of a hundred souls, on Plymouth Rock.

Do you see them there - as long, long since -
    Through the lens of History;
Do you see them there as their chieftain prints
    In the snow his bended knee,
        And lifts his voice through the wintry blast
        In thanks for a peace...

(Written for the lady by whom it was sung.)


Air--"Some love to roam."




Some love to stroll where the wassail-bowl
        And the wine-cups circle free;
None of that band shall win my hand:
        No! a sober spouse for me.
Like cheerful streams when morning beams,
        With him my life would flow;
Not down the crags, the drunkard drags
        His wife to want and wo!
    Oh! no, no, no!--oh! no, no, no!

At midnight dark, the drunkard mark--
        Oh, what a sight, good lack!
As home draws near, to him appear
        Grim fiends who cross his track!
His children's name he dooms to shame--
        His wife to want and wo;
She is betrayed, for wine is made
        Her rival and her foe.
    Oh! no, n...

My simple story is of those times ere the magic power of steam
First whirled the traveller o'er the plains with the swiftness of a dream,
Reducing to a few days' time the journey of many a week,
That fell of old to the miner's lot ere he "sighted" tall Pikes Peak.

'Neath liquid sunshine filling the air, 'mid masses of wild flowers gay,
A prairie waggon followed the track that led o'er the plains away;
And most of those 'neath its canvas roof were of lawless type and rude -
Miners, broad-chested and strongly built, a reckless, gold-seeking brood.

Yet two of the number surely seemed most strangely out of place,
A girl with fragile, graceful form, shy look, and beauteous face,
One who had wrought out the old, old tale, left her home and friends for aye,
Braved family frowns a...

Yes, I love the homestead. There
In the spring the lilacs blew
Plenteous perfume everywhere;
There in summer gladioles grew
Parallels of scarlet glare.

And the moon-hued primrose cool
Satin-soft and redolent;
Honeysuckles beautiful,
Filling all the air with scent;
Roses red or white as wool.

Roses, glorious and lush,
Rich in tender-tinted dyes,
Like the gay tempestuous rush
Of unnumbered butterflies,
Clustering o'er each bending bush.

Here japonica and box,
And the wayward violets;
Clumps of star-enamelled phlox,
And the myriad flowery jets
Of the twilight four-o'-clocks.

Ah, the beauty of the place!
When the June made one great rose,
Full of musk and mellow grace,
In the garden's humming close,
O...

Phoebus, arise!
And paint the sable skies
With azure, white, and red:
Rouse Memnon’s mother from her Tithon’s bed
That she may thy career with roses spread:
The nightingales thy coming each-where sing:
Make an eternal spring!
Give life to this dark world which lieth dead;
Spread forth thy golden hair
In larger locks than thou wast wont before,
And emperor-like decore
With diadem of pearl thy temples fair:
Chase hence the ugly night
Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light.

This is that happy morn,
That day, long-wished day,
Of all my life so dark,
(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn,
And fates my hopes betray),
Which, purely white, deserves
An everlasting diamond should it mark.
This is the morn should bring unto this ...

If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped,
And ne'er would nestle in your palm again;
If the white feet into the grave had tripped"

When Bessie died -
We braided the brown hair, and tied
It just as her own little hands
Had fastened back the silken strands
A thousand times - the crimson bit
Of ribbon woven into it
That she had worn with childish pride -
Smoothed down the dainty bow - and cried
When Bessie died.

When Bessie died -
We drew the nursery blinds aside,
And as the morning in the room
Burst like a primrose into bloom,
Her pet canary's cage we hung
Where she might hear him when he sung -
And yet not any note he tried,
Though she lay listening folded-eyed.

When Bessie died -
We writhed in prayer unsatisfied...

You have taken away my cloak,
My cloak of weariness;
Take my coat also,
My many-coloured coat of life....

On this great nursery floor
I had three toys,
A bright and varnished vow,
A Speckled Monster, best of boys,
True friend to me, and more
Beloved and a thing of cost,
My doll painted like life; and now
One is broken and two are lost.

From the Arabic of John Duncan.

    Last night I lay in an open field
    And looked at the stars with lips sealed;
    No noise moved the windless air,
    And I looked at the stars with steady stare.

    There were some that glittered and some that shone
    With a soft and equal glow, and one
    That queened it over the sprinkled round,
    Swaying the host with silent sound.

    "Calm things," I thought, "in your cavern blue,
    I will learn and hold and master you;
    I will yoke and scorn you as I can,
    For the pride of my heart is the pride of a man."

    Grass to my cheek in the dewy field,
    I lay quite still with lips sealed,
    And the pride of a man and his rigid gaze
    Stalked like swords on heaven's ways.

    But through a sudden gate there st...

I never shall hear your voice again,
Your voice so gentle and low
But the thought of you, Jenny Allen,
Will go with me where I go.
Your sweet voice drowns the Atlantic wave
And the rush of the Alpine snow.

You were very fair, Jenny Allen,
Fair as a woodland rose;
Your heart was pure as an angel's heart,
Too good for earth and its woes,
And I loved you, Jenny Allen,
With a sorrowful love, God knows.

You loved me, Jenny Allen,
My sorrow made me wise;
And I read your heart, 'twas an easy task,
For within your clear blue eyes,
Your pure and innocent thoughts shone out
Like stars from the summer skies.

He had riches and fame with his seventy years
When he won you for his wife;
You were but a child, and poor, and tired,
Tir...

I.

O many-toned rain!
O myriad sweet voices of the rain!
How welcome is its delicate overture
At evening, when the glowing-moistur'd west
Seals all things with cool promise of night's rest!

At first it would allure
The earth to kinder mood,
With dainty flattering
Of soft, sweet pattering:
Faintly now you hear the tramp
Of the fine drops falling damp
On the dry, sun-seasoned ground
And the thirsty leaves around.
But anon, imbued
With a sudden, bounding access
Of passion, it relaxes
All timider persuasion,
And, with nor pretext nor occasion,
Its wooing redoubles;
And pounds the ground, and bubbles
In sputtering spray,
Flinging itself in a fury
Of flashing white away;
Till the dusty road
Flings a perfume da...

Vogelweid the Minnesinger,
    When he left this world of ours,
Laid his body in the cloister,
    Under Wurtzburg's minster towers.

And he gave the monks his treasures,
    Gave them all with this behest:
They should feed the birds at noontide
    Daily on his place of rest;

Saying, "From these wandering minstrels
    I have learned the art of song;
Let me now repay the lessons
    They have taught so well and long."

Thus the bard of love departed;
    And, fulfilling his desire,
On his tomb the birds were feasted
    By the children of the choir.

Day by day, o'er tower and turret,
    In foul weather and in fair,
Day by day, in vaster numbers,
    Flocked the poets of the air.

On the tree whose heavy branches...

Thine is my all, how little when 'tis told
    Beside thy gold!
Thine the first peace, and mine the livelong strife;
Thine the clear dawn, and mine the night of life;
    Thine the unstained belief,
    Darkened in grief.

Scarce even a flower but thine its beauty and name,
    Dimmed, yet the same;
Never in twilight comes the moon to me,
Stealing thro' those far woods, but tells of thee,
    Falls, dear, on my wild heart,
    And takes thy part.

Thou art the child, and I - how steeped in age!
    A blotted page
From that clear, little book life's taken away:
How could I read it, dear, so dark the day?
    Be it all memory
    'Twixt thee and me!

The lady lay in her bed,
Her couch so warm and soft,
But her sleep was restless and broken still;
For turning often and oft
From side to side, she mutter'd and moan'd,
And toss'd her arms aloft.

At last she startled up,
And gazed on the vacant air,
With a look of awe, as if she saw
Some dreadful phantom there -
And then in the pillow she buried her face
From visions ill to bear.

The very curtain shook,
Her terror was so extreme;
And the light that fell on the broider'd quilt
Kept a tremulous gleam;
And her voice was hollow, and shook as she cried: -
"Oh me! that awful dream"!

"That weary, weary walk,
In the churchyard's dismal ground!
And those horrible things, with shady wings,
That came and flitted round, -
Dea...

    "I'm taking pen in hand this night, and hard it is for me;
    My poor old fingers tremble so, my hand is stiff and slow,
    And even with my glasses on I'm troubled sore to see. . . .
    You'd little know your mother, boy; you'd little, little know.
    You mind how brisk and bright I was, how straight and trim and smart;
    'Tis weariful I am the now, and bent and frail and grey.
    I'm waiting at the road's end, lad; and all that's in my heart,
    Is just to see my boy again before I'm called away."

    "Oh well I mind the sorry day you crossed the gurly sea;
    'Twas like the heart was torn from me, a waeful wife was I.
    You said that you'd be home again in two years, maybe three;
    But nigh a score of years have gone, and still the years go by.
    I kno...