Betrayal

The gallows in my garden, people say,
Is new and neat and adequately tall.
I tie the noose on in a knowing way
As one that knots his necktie for a ball;
But just as all the neighbours, on the wall,
Are drawing a long breath to shout "Hurray!"
The strangest whim has seized me.... After all
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

To-morrow is the time I get my pay,
My uncle's sword is hanging in the hall,
I see a little cloud all pink and grey,
Perhaps the rector's mother will not call,
I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall
That mushrooms could be cooked another way,
I never read the works of Juvenal,
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

The world will have another washing day;
The decadents decay; the pedants pall;
And H. G. Wells has...

As Jane walked out below the hill,
She saw an old man standing still,
His eyes in tranced sorrow bound
On the broad stretch of barren ground.

His limbs were knarled like aged trees,
His thin beard wrapt about his knees,
His visage broad and parchment white,
Aglint with pale reflected light.

He seemed a creature fall'n afar
From some dim planet or faint star.
Jane scanned him very close, and soon
Cried, "'Tis the old man from the moon."

He raised his voice, a grating creak,
But only to himself would speak.
Groaning with tears in piteous pain,
"O! O! would I were home again."

Then Jane ran off, quick as she could,
To cheer his heart with drink and food.
But ah, too late came ale and bread,
She found the poor soul stretched ...

She feels outwearied, as though o'er her head
    A storm of mighty billows broke and passed.
Whose hand upheld her?    Who her footsteps led
    To this green haven of sweet rest at last?
What strength was hers, unreckoned and unknown?
What love sustained when she was most alone?


Unutterably pathetic her desire,
    To reach, with groping arms outstretched in prayer,
Something to cling to, to uplift her higher
    From this low world of coward fear and care,
Above disaster, that her will may be
At one with God's, accepting his decree.


Though by no reasons she be justified,
    Yet strangely brave in Evil's very face,
She deems this want must needs be satisfied,
    Though here all slips from out her weak embrace.
And in blind ecstasy o...

    The river is a ribbon wide,
    The falls a snowy feather,
    And stretching far on ilka side
    Are hills abloom wi' heather.
    The wind comes loitering frae the west
    By weight o' sweets retarded;
    The sea-mist hangs on Arran's crest,
    A Golden Fleece unguarded.

    We ken ye weel, ye fond young pair,
    That hand in hand do tarry;
    The youth is Burns, the Bard o' Ayr,
    The lass is Highland Mary.
    He tells her they will never pairt -
    'Tis life and luve taegither -
    The world has got the song by hairt
    He sang among the heather.

    'Twas lang ago, lang, lang ago,
    Yet all remember dearly
    The eyes, the hair, the brow o' snow
    O' her he luved sae dearly.
    And lads still woo their...

My little bark glides steadily along,
    Still and unshaken as a summer dream;
    And never falls the oar into the stream,
For 'tis but morning, and the current strong;
    So let the ripples bear me as they will;
Sweet, sweet is Life, and every sound is song;
    Sorrow lies sleeping, and Joy sends me still
            Swift floating down the River.

Bright shines the sun athwart the linden-trees;
    One little cloud alone steals o'er the sky,
    As o'er the widening stream below steal I,
Fann'd by the same faint perfume-laden breeze;
    Bird-music answers sweetly through the air,
The unheard warbling of heart melodies;
    Thus go I dreaming, free from faintest care,
            Swift floating down the River.

Pure lie the broad-leaved lilies ...

The cigarette-smoke loops and slides above us,
Dipping and swirling as the waiter passes;
You strike a match and stare upon the flame.
The tiny fire leaps in your eyes a moment,
And dwindles away as silently as it came.

This melody, you say, has certain voices,
They rise like nereids from a river, singing,
Lift white faces, and dive to darkness again.
Wherever you go you bear this river with you:
A leaf falls, and it flows, and you have pain.

So says the tune to you, but what to me?
What to the waiter, as he pours your coffee,
The violinist who suavely draws his bow?
That man, who folds his paper, overhears it.
A thousand dreams revolve and fall and flow.

Some one there is who sees a virgin stepping
Down marble stairs to a deep tomb of roses:...

My Lords, we heard you speak: you told us all
That England’s honest censure went too far,
That our free press should cease to brawl,
Not sting the fiery Frenchman into war.
It was our ancient privilege, my Lords,
To fling whate’er we felt, not fearing, into words.


We love not this French God, the child of hell,
Wild War, who breaks the converse of the wise;
But though we love kind Peace so well,
We dare not even by silence sanction lies.
It might be safe our censures to withdraw,
And yet, my Lords, not well; there is a higher law.


As long as we remain, we must speak free,
Tho’ all the storm of Eurpoe on us break.
No little German state are we,
But the one voice in Europe; we must speak,
That if to-night our greatness were struck dead,

    Discord and plots, which have undone our age,
    With the same ruin have o'erwhelm'd the stage.
    Our house has suffer'd in the common woe,
    We have been troubled with Scotch rebels too.
    Our brethren are from Thames to Tweed departed,
    And of our sisters, all the kinder-hearted,
    To Edinburgh gone, or coach'd, or carted.
    With bonny bluecap there they act all night
    For Scotch half-crown, in English three-pence hight.
    One nymph, to whom fat Sir John Falstaff's lean,
    There with her single person fills the scene.
    Another, with long use and age decay'd,
    Dived here old woman, and rose there a maid.
    Our trusty doorkeepers of former time
    There strut and swagger in heroic rhyme.
    Tack but a copper-lace to drugget suit,<...

And now the verse proceeds to torments new,
Fit argument of this the twentieth strain
Of the first song, whose awful theme records
The spirits whelm'd in woe. Earnest I look'd
Into the depth, that open'd to my view,
Moisten'd with tears of anguish, and beheld
A tribe, that came along the hollow vale,
In silence weeping: such their step as walk
Quires chanting solemn litanies on earth.

As on them more direct mine eye descends,
Each wondrously seem'd to be revers'd
At the neck-bone, so that the countenance
Was from the reins averted: and because
None might before him look, they were compell'd
To' advance with backward gait. Thus one perhaps
Hath been by force of palsy clean transpos'd,
But I ne'er saw it nor believe it so.

Now, reader! think wit...

    I.

    A gentle wind, of western birth
    On some far summer sea,
    Wakes daisies in the wintry earth,
    Wakes hopes in wintry me.

    The sun is low; the paths are wet,
    And dance with frolic hail;
    The trees--their spring-time is not yet--
    Swing sighing in the gale.

    Young gleams of sunshine peep and play;
    Clouds shoulder in between;
    I scarce believe one coming day
    The earth will all be green.

    The north wind blows, and blasts, and raves,
    And flaps his snowy wing:
    Back! toss thy bergs on arctic waves;
    Thou canst not bar our spring.


    II.

    Up comes the primrose, wondering;
    The snowdrop droopeth by;
    The holy spirit of the spring
    ...

Ye sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth!
In whose collegiate shelter England's Flowers
Expand, enjoying through their vernal hours
The air of liberty, the light of truth;
Much have ye suffered from Time's gnawing tooth:
Yet, O ye spires of Oxford! domes and towers!
Gardens and groves! your presence overpowers
The soberness of reason; till, in sooth,
Transformed, and rushing on a bold exchange,
I slight my own beloved Cam, to range
Where silver Isis leads my stripling feet;
Pace the long avenue, or glide adown
The stream-like windings of that glorious street
An eager Novice robed in fluttering gown!

    Ther's sunshine an storm as we travel along,
Throo life's journey whear ivver we be;
An its wiser to leeten yor heart wi' a song,
Nor to freeat at wbat fate may decree;
Yo'll find gooid an bad amang th' fowk 'at yo meet,
An' form friendships maybe yo'll regret;
But tho' some may deceive an lay snares for yor feet,
Pass 'em by, - an' Forgive an' Forget.

The look that thy sweet eyes on mine impress

The pledge thy lips to mine convey, the kiss,

He who, like me, hath knowledge sure of this,
Can he in aught beside find happiness?

Removed from thee, friend-sever'd, in distress,

These thoughts I vainly struggle to dismiss:

They still return to that one hour of bliss,
The only one; then tears my grief confess.

But unawares the tear makes haste to dry:

He loves, methinks, e'en to these glades so still,

And shalt not thou to distant lands extend?

Receive the murmurs of his loving sigh;

My only joy on earth is in thy will,

Thy kindly will tow'rd me; a token send!

"Sweet Memory, wafted by thy gentle gale,
Oft up the stream of time I turn my sail." - ROGERS.


Come, my Crony, let's think upon far-away days,
And lift up a little Oblivion's veil;
Let's consider the past with a lingering gaze,
Like a peacock whose eyes are inclined to his tail.

Aye, come, let us turn our attention behind,
Like those critics whose heads are so heavy, I fear,
That they cannot keep up with the march of the mind,
And so turn face about for reviewing the rear.

Looking over Time's crupper and over his tail,
Oh, what ages and pages there are to revise!
And as farther our back-searching glances prevail,
Like the emmets, "how little we are in our eyes!"

What a sweet pretty innocent, half-a-yard long,
On a dimity lap of true nu...

Three happy children in a darkened room!
What do they gaze on with wide-open eyes?
A dense, dense forest, where no sunbeam pries,
And in its centre a cleared spot.--There bloom
Gigantic flowers on creepers that embrace
Tall trees; there, in a quiet lucid lake
The white swans glide; there, "whirring from the brake,"
The peacock springs; there, herds of wild deer race;
There, patches gleam with yellow waving grain;
There, blue smoke from strange altars rises light,
There, dwells in peace, the poet-anchorite.
But who is this fair lady? Not in vain
She weeps,--for lo! at every tear she sheds
Tears from three pairs of young eyes fall amain,
And bowed in sorrow are the three young heads.
It is an old, old story, and the lay
Which has evoked sad Sîta from the past

Unless you come of the gipsy stock
That steals by night and day,
Lock your heart with a double lock
And throw the key away.
Bury it under the blackest stone
Beneath your father's hearth,
And keep your eyes on your lawful own
And your feet to the proper path.
Then you can stand at your door and mock
When the gipsy vans come through...
For it isn't right that the Gorgio stock
Should live as the Romany do.

Unless you come of the gipsy blood
That takes and never spares,
Bide content with your given good
And follow your own affairs.
Plough and harrow and roll your land,
And sow what ought to be sowed;
But never let loose your heart from your hand,
Nor flitter it down the road!
Then you can thrive on your boughten food
As the gipsy van...

'Tis true, dear Ben, thy just chastising hand
Hath fix'd upon the sotted age a brand
To their swoll'n pride and empty scribbling due;
It can nor judge, nor write, and yet 'tis true
Thy comic muse, from the exalted line
Touch'd by thy Alchemist, doth since decline
From that her zenith, and foretells a red
And blushing evening, when she goes to bed;
Yet such as shall outshine the glimmering light
With which all stars shall gild the following night.
Nor think it much, since all thy eaglets may
Endure the sunny trial, if we say
This hath the stronger wing, or that doth shine
Trick'd up in fairer plumes, since all are thine.
Who hath his flock of cackling geese compar'd
With thy tun'd choir of swans? or else who dar'd
To call thy births deform'd? But if thou bind

Wealth and dominion fade into the mass
Of the great sea of human right and wrong,
When once from our possession they must pass;
But love, though misdirected, is among
The things which are immortal, and surpass
All that frail stuff which will be - or which was.