Courage

For them that hope in Thee.... Thou shalt hide them in the secret of Thy face, from the disturbance of men.

Thou shalt protect them in Thy tabernacle from the contradiction of tongues.

Blessed be the Lord, for He hath shewn His wonderful mercy to me in a fortified city. - Psalm xxx.


Beauty and splendor were on every hand:
Yet strangely crawled dark shadows down the lanes,
Twisting across the fields, like dragon-shapes
That smote the air with blackness, and devoured
The life of light, and choked the smiling world
Till it grew livid with a sudden age -
The death of hope.

        O squandered happiness;
Vain dust of misery powdering life's fresh flower!
The sky was holy, but the earth was not.

Men ruled, but ruled in vain; since wretch...

So many stones have been thrown at me,
That I'm not frightened of them anymore,
And the pit has become a solid tower,
Tall among tall towers.
I thank the builders,
May care and sadness pass them by.
From here I'll see the sunrise earlier,
Here the sun's last ray rejoices.
And into the windows of my room
The northern breezes often fly.
And from my hand a dove eats grains of wheat...
As for my unfinished page,
The Muse's tawny hand, divinely calm
And delicate, will finish it.

But two miles more, and then we rest!
Well, there is still an hour of day,
And long the brightness of the West
Will light us on our devious way;
Sit then, awhile, here in this wood,
So total is the solitude,
We safely may delay.

These massive roots afford a seat,
Which seems for weary travellers made.
There rest. The air is soft and sweet
In this sequestered forest glade,
And there are scents of flowers around,
The evening dew draws from the ground;
How soothingly they spread!

Yes; I was tired, but not at heart;
No, that beats full of sweet content,
For now I have my natural part
Of action with adventure blent;
Cast forth on the wide world with thee,
And all my once waste energy
To weighty purpose bent.

Yet, sayst tho...

for Victor Hugo

I.

In sinuous coils of the old capitals
Where even horror weaves a magic spell,
Gripped by my fatal humours, I observe
Singular beings with appalling charms.

These dislocated wrecks were women once,
Were Eponine or Lais! hunchbacked freaks,
Though broken let us love them! they are souls.
Under cold rags, their shredded petticoats,

They creep, lashed by the merciless north wind,
Quake from the riot of an omnibus,
Clasp by their sides like relics of a saint
Embroidered bags of flowery design;

They toddle, every bit like marionettes,
Or drag themselves like wounded animals,
Or dance against their will, poor little bells
That a remorseless demon rings! Worn out

They are, yet they have eyes piercing like...

The evening sky was as green as Jade,
    As Emerald turf by Lotus lake,
Behind the Kafila far she strayed,
    (The Pearls are lost if the Necklace break!)

A lingering freshness touched the air
    From palm-trees, clustered around a Spring,
The great, grim Desert lay vast and bare,
    But Youth is ever a careless thing.

The Raiders threw her upon the sand,
    Men of the Wilderness know no laws,
They tore the Amethysts off her hand,
    And rent the folds of her veiling gauze.

They struck the lips that they might have kissed,
    Pitiless they to her pain and fear,
And wrenched the gold from her broken wrist,
    No use to cry; there were none to hear.

Her scarlet mouth and her onyx eyes,
    Her braided hair in its silken sheen...

There’s a palace in Florence, the world knows well,
And a statue watches it from the square,
And this story of both do our townsmen tell.

Ages ago, a lady there,
At the farthest window facing the East,
Asked, “Who rides by with the royal air?”

The bridesmaids’ prattle around her ceased;
She leaned forth, one on either hand;
They saw how the blush of the bride increased

They felt by its beats her heart expand
As one at each ear and both in a breath
Whispered, “The Great-Duke Ferdinand.”

That self-same instant, underneath,
The Duke rode past in his idle way,
Empty and fine like a swordless sheath.

Gay he rode, with a friend as gay,
Till he threw his head back, “Who is she?”
“A bride the Riccardi brings home today.”

H...

The evil days have come, the poor
Are made a prey;
Bar up the hospitable door,
Put out the fire-lights, point no more
The wanderer's way.
For Pity now is crime; the chain
Which binds our States
Is melted at her hearth in twain,
Is rusted by her tears' soft rain:
Close up her gates.
Our Union, like a glacier stirred
By voice below,
Or bell of kine, or wing of bird,
A beggar's crust, a kindly word
May overthrow!
Poor, whispering tremblers! yet we boast
Our blood and name;
Bursting its century-bolted frost,
Each gray cairn on the Northman's coast
Cries out for shame!
Oh for the open firmament,
The prairie free,
The desert hillside, cavern-rent,
The Pawnee's lodge, the Arab's tent,
The Bushman's tree!
Than web of Persia...

Whose Timidity frequently agitated her, when pressed to gratify her Friends by her Musical Talents.


'Tis said (and I believe it too)
That genuine merit seeks the shade;
Blushing to think what is her due,
As of her own sweet pow'rs afraid: -

Thus, lovely maid! on fluttering wings,
Thy pow'rs a thousand fears pursue,
Which, like thy own harmonious strings,
When press'd enchant, and tremble too!

The pity, which we give, you owe,
For mutual fears on both attend;
While anxious thus you joy bestow,
We fear too soon that joy will end!

(Written in collaboration with R. B. Hamilton.)


When Julius Caesar met his death,
    He muttered in his dying breath:
"It is not patriotism now
    Prompts you to break your friendship's vow."
Quoth Brutus, as he stabbed again
    The greatest of his countrymen:
    "You're in this fix
    Through politics."

As on his path Columbus sped,
    A sailor to the great man said:
"Without a break, without a bend,
    The broad Atlantic has no end."
And to the sailor at his side,
    'Tis rumored, that great man replied:
    "I guess I know.
    You go below."

The snow fell fast on Russia's soil,
    The soldiers, wearied with their toil,
Cried: "'Tis not possible that we
    Our native France again shall see."
Stern e...

Silent, the Lord of the world
Eyes from the heavenly height,
Girt by his far-shining train,
Us, who with banners unfurl’d
Fight life’s many-chanc’d fight
Madly below, in the plain.

Then saith the Lord to his own:
‘See ye the battle below?
Turmoil of death and of birth!
Too long let we them groan.
Haste, arise ye, and go;
Carry my peace upon earth.’

Gladly they rise at his call;
Gladly they take his command;
Gladly descend to the plain.
Alas! How few of them all,
Those willing servants, shall stand
In their Master’s presence again!

Some in the tumult are lost
Baffled, bewilder’d, they stray.
Some as prisoners draw breath.
Others, the bravest, are cross’d,
On the height of their bold-follow’d way,
By the swift...

    What we most need is men of worth,
    Men o' the forest mark,
    Of lofty height and mighty girth
    And green, unbroken bark.

    Not men whom circumstances
    Have stunted, wasted, sapped,
    Men fearful of fighting chances,
    Clinging to by-paths mapped.

    Holding honor and truth below
    Promotion, place and pelf;
    Weaklings that change as winds do blow,
    Lost in their love of self.

    Tricksters playing a game unfair
    (Count them, sirs, at this hour),
    Ready to dance to maddest air
    Piped by the man in power.

    The need, sore need, of this young land
    Is honest men, good sirs,
    Men as her oak trees tall and grand,
    Staunch as her stalwart firs.

    Steadfast, unswer...

At length, my friend, the far-sent letters come,
Charged with thy kindness, to their destin'd home,
They come, at length, from Deva's[2] Western side,
Where prone she seeks the salt Vergivian tide.[3]
Trust me, my joy is great that thou shouldst be,
Though born of foreign race, yet born for me,
And that my sprightly friend, now free to roam,
Must seek again so soon his wonted home.
I well content, where Thames with refluent tide
My native city laves, meantime reside,
Nor zeal nor duty, now, my steps impell
To reedy Cam,[4] and my forbidden cell.[5]
Nor aught of pleasure in those fields have I,
That, to the musing bard, all shade deny.
Tis time, that I, a pedant's threats[6] disdain,
And fly from wrongs, my soul...

Not like a daring, bold, aggressive boy,
    Is inspiration, eager to pursue,
But rather like a maiden, fond, yet coy,
    Who gives herself to him who best doth woo.

Once she may smile, or thrice, thy soul to fire,
    In passing by, but when she turns her face,
Thou must persist and seek her with desire,
    If thou wouldst win the favor of her grace.

And if, like some winged bird she cleaves the air,
    And leaves thee spent and stricken on the earth,
Still must thou strive to follow even there,
    That she may know thy valor and thy worth.

Then shall she come unveiling all her charms,
    Giving thee joy for pain, and smiles for tears;
Then shalt thou clasp her with possessing arms,
    The while she murmurs music in thine ears.

B...

Late-born and woman-souled I dare not hope,
The freshness of the elder lays, the might
Of manly, modern passion shall alight
Upon my Muse's lips, nor may I cope
(Who veiled and screened by womanhood must grope)
With the world's strong-armed warriors and recite
The dangers, wounds, and triumphs of the fight;
Twanging the full-stringed lyre through all its scope.
But if thou ever in some lake-floored cave
O'erbrowed by hard rocks, a wild voice wooed and heard,
Answering at once from heaven and earth and wave,
Lending elf-music to thy harshest word,
Misprize thou not these echoes that belong
To one in love with solitude and song.

In the courts of truth tread softly,
Though your tread be firm and bold;
Your steps may awaken echoes,
Resounding through years untold.
The trend of the age is onward,
And you should not lag behind;
If men's minds are bound with fetters,
Perchance you may some unbind.

Our creed, say you, needs revising,
In line with the growth of light;
Be sure you have made real progress
Before you assume the right,
By stroke of pen, to unsettle
The faith of the long ago;
For many who err in judgment
Stand fast to the truth they know.

You bring from the mine rare jewels,
That you think the world should see;
But, perhaps, their estimation
With your own may not agree;
They may lack discrimination,
And their worth may not discern;
So pol...

By the side of a rock on the hill, beneath
the aged trees, old Oscian
sat on the moss; the last of the race of
Fingal. Sightless are his aged eyes;
his beard is waving in the wind. Dull
through the leafless trees he heard the
voice of the north. Sorrow revived in
his soul: he began and lamented the
dead.

How hast thou fallen like an oak,
with all thy branches round thee! Where
is Fingal the King? where is Oscur my
son? where are all my race? Alas! in
the earth they lie. I feel their tombs
with my hands. I hear the river below
murmuring hoarsely over the stones.
What dost thou, O river, to me? Thou
bringest back the memory of the past.

The race of Fingal stood on thy
banks, like a wood in a fertile soil.
Keen were their spears of...

Not like a daring, bold, aggressive boy,
    Is inspiration, eager to pursue,
But rather like a maiden, fond, yet coy,
    Who gives herself to him who best doth woo.

Once she may smile, or thrice, thy soul to fire,
    In passing by, but when she turns her face,
Thou must persist and seek her with desire,
    If thou wouldst win the favour of her grace.

And if, like some winged bird, she cleaves the air,
    And leaves thee spent and stricken on the earth,
Still must thou strive to follow even there,
    That she may know thy valour and thy worth.

Then shall she come unveiling all her charms,
    Giving thee joy for pain, and smiles for tears;
Then shalt thou clasp her with possessing arms,
    The while she murmurs music in thine ears.

Virtue

O wanton one, O wicked one, how was it that you came,
Down from the paths of purity, to walk the streets of shame?
And wherefore was that precious wealth, God gave to you in trust,
Flung broadcast for the feet of men to trample in the dust?

Vice

O prudent one, O spotless one, now listen well to me.
The ways that led to where I tread these paths of sin, were three:
And God, and good folks, all combined to make them fair to see.

Virtue

O wicked one, blasphemous one, now how could that thing be?

Vice

The first was Nature's lovely road, whereon my life was hurled.
I felt the stirring in my blood, which permeates the world.
I thrilled like willows in the spring, when sap begins to flow,
It was young passion in my veins, b...