Death

Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes,
Which, star-like, sparkle in their skies;
Nor be you proud, that you can see
All hearts your captives, yours, yet free;
Be you not proud of that rich hair
Which wantons with the love-sick air;
When as that ruby which you wear,
Sunk from the tip of your soft ear,
Will last to be a precious stone,
When all your world of beauty's gone.

Ah! why have I indulg'd my dazzled sight
    With scenes in Hope's delusive mirror shown?
    Scenes, that too seldom human Life has known
    In kind accomplishment; - but O! how bright
The rays, that gilded them with varied light
    Alternate! oft swift flashing on the boon
    That might at FAME's immortal shrine be won;
    Then shining soft on tender LOVE's delight. -
Now, with stern hand, FATE draws the sable veil
    O'er the frail glass! - HOPE, as she turns away,
    The darken'd crystal drops. - - Heavy and pale,
Rain-pouring clouds quench all the darts of day;
    Low mourns the wind along the gloomy dale,
    And tolls the Death-bell in the pausing gale.

The twentieth year is well-nigh past
Since first our sky was overcast,
Ah, would that this might be the last!
My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,
I see thee daily weaker grow--
'Twas my distress that brought thee low,
My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store,
For my sake restless heretofore,
Now rust disused, and shine no more,
My Mary!

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,
My Mary!

But well thou playedst the housewife's part,
And all thy threads with magic art
Have wound themselves about this heart,
My Mary!

Thy indistinct expressions seem
Like language uttered in a dream;
Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,
My Mar...

Easter Monday in the city,
Rattle, rattle, rumble, rush;
Tom and Jerry, Nell and Kitty,
All the down-the-harbour “push,”
Little thought have they, or pity,
For a wanderer from the bush.

Shuffle, feet, a merry measure,
Hurry, Jack and find your Jill,
Let her,if it give her pleasure,
Flaunt her furbelow and frill,
Kiss her while you have the leisure,
For tomorrow brings the mill.

Go ye down the harbour, winding
’Mid the eucalypts and fern,
Respite from your troubles finding,
Kiss her, till her pale cheeks burn,
For to-morrow will the grinding
Mill-stones of the city turn.

Stunted figures, sallow faces,
Sad girls striving to be gay
In their cheap sateens and laces.
Ah! how different ’tis to-day
Where they’re going t...

Say, wilt thou go with me, sweet maid,
Say, maiden, wilt thou go with me
Through the valley-depths of shade,
Of bright and dark obscurity;
Where the path has lost its way,
Where the sun forgets the day,
Where there's nor light nor life to see,
Sweet maiden, wilt thou go with me?

Where stones will turn to flooding streams,
Where plains will rise like ocean's waves,
Where life will fade like visioned dreams
And darkness darken into caves,
Say, maiden, wilt thou go with me
Through this sad non-identity
Where parents live and are forgot,
And sisters live and know us not?

Say, maiden, wilt thou go with me
In this strange death of life to be,
To live in death and be the same,
Without this life or home or name,
At once to be and not to...

        There is a courage, a majestic thing
    That springs forth from the brow of pain, full-grown,
    Minerva-like, and dares all dangers known,
        And all the threatening future yet may bring;
        Crowned with the helmet of great suffering;
    Serene with that grand strength by martyrs shown,
    When at the stake they die and make no moan,
        And even as the flames leap up are heard to sing:

        A courage so sublime and unafraid,
    It wears its sorrows like a coat of mail;
    And Fate, the archer, passes by dismayed,
        Knowing his best barbed arrows needs must fail
        To pierce a soul so armored and arrayed
    That Death himself might look on it and quail.

She stood waist-deep among the briers:
Above in twisted lengths were rolled
The sunset's tangled whorls of gold,
Blown from the west's cloud-pillared fires.

And in the hush no sound did mar,
You almost heard o'er hill and dell,
Deep, bubbling over, star on star,
The night's blue cisterns slowly well.

A crane, like some dark crescent, crossed
The sunset, winging towards the west;
While up the east her silver breast
Of light the moon brought, white as frost.

So have I painted her, you see,
The tollman's daughter. What an arm
And throat was hers! and what a form!
Art dreams of such divinity.

What braids of night to hold and kiss!
There is no pigment anywhere
A man might use to picture this
The splendour of her raven hair.

The happy men that lose their heads
They find their heads in heaven,
As cherub heads with cherub wings,
And cherub haloes even:
Out of the infinite evening lands
Along the sunset sea,
Leaving the purple fields behind,
The cherub wings beat down the wind
Back to the groping body and blind
As the bird back to the tree.

Whether the plumes be passion-red
For him that truly dies
By headsmen's blade or battle-axe,
Or blue like butterflies,
For him that lost it in a lane
In April's fits and starts,
His folly is forgiven then:
But higher, and far beyond our ken,
Is the healing of the unhappy men,
The men that lost their hearts.

Is there not pardon for the brave
And broad release above,
Who lost their heads for liberty
Or ...

And Simon Peter stood and warmed himself. John 18:25.


Peter, it was not outward cold
But inward chill thy bosom froze,
Made thee deny with falsehood bold
Thy Lord and Master to his foes.
When we find cheer at Satan's fires
The world is there to work us harm,
To deaden all our pure desires
With its deceitful lure and charm.

Peter, the voice of chanticleer
Fulfilled what Christ had prophesied;
And oh, that pitying look sincere
From him whom thou hadst just denied!
Thy burst of penitential grief!
Heaven those tears did surely send.
Tears give the burdened heart relief;
Dry anguish may its tendrils rend.

Sin soon will crucify our Lord,
Thy sin, and all the world's beside.
He gave himself, the Living Word,
Our shel...

High the vanes of Shrewsbury gleam
Islanded in Severn stream;
The bridges from the steepled crest
Cross the water east and west.

The flag of morn in conqueror's state
Enters at the English gate:
The vanquished eve, as night prevails,
Bleeds upon the road to Wales.

Ages since the vanquished bled
Round my mother's marriage-bed;
There the ravens feasted far
About the open house of war:

When Severn down to Buildwas ran
Coloured with the death of man,
Couched upon her brother's grave
The Saxon got me on the slave.

The sound of fight is silent long
That began the ancient wrong;
Long the voice of tears is still
That wept of old the endless ill.

In my heart it has not died,
The war that sleeps on Severn side;

    O silly love! O cunning love!
    An old maid to trepan:
    I cannot go about my work
    For loving of a man.
    I cannot bake, I cannot brew,
    And, do the best I can,
    I burn the bread and chill the mash,
    Through loving of a man.

    Shrove Tuesday last I tried, and tried,
    To turn the cakes in pan,
    And dropt the batter on the floor,
    Through thinking of a man.
    My mistress screamed, my master swore,
    Boys cursed me in a troop;
    The cat was all the friends I had,
    Who helped to clean it up.

    Last Christmas eve, from off the spit
    I took the goose to table,
    Or should have done, but teasing Love
    Did make me quite unable;
    And down slipt dish, and goose, and all
    With...

    Sweet, sweet days are passing
    O'er my happy home.
    Passing on swift wings through the valley of life.
    Cold are the days when winter comes again.
    When my sweet days were passing at my happy home,
    Sweet were the days on the rivulet's green brink ;
    Sweet were the days when I read my father's books;
    Sweet were the winter days when bright fires are blazing."

"Thou shalt be - Nothing." - OMAR KHAYYAM.
"Tombless, with no remembrance." - W. SHAKESPEARE.

Dead shalt thou lie; and nought
Be told of thee or thought,
For thou hast plucked not of the Muses' tree:
And even in Hades' halls
Amidst thy fellow-thralls
No friendly shade thy shade shall company!

Who looked for thee, thou little song of mine?
    This winter of a silent poet's heart
    Is suddenly sweet with thee, but what thou art,
Mid-winter flower, I would I could divine.

Art thou a last one, orphan of thy line?
    Did the dead summer's last warmth foster thee?
    Or is Spring folded up unguessed in me,
And stirring out of sight,--and thou the sign?

Where shall I look--backwards or to the morrow
    For others of thy fragrance, secret child?
            Who knows if last things or if first things claim thee?

--Whether thou be the last smile of my sorrow,
    Or else a joy too sweet, a joy too wild?
            How, my December violet, shall I name thee?

How oft have I seen her upon the sea-shore,
While tearful, her face, she would hide,
In sad silence the loss of the Sailor deplore
Who from infancy call'd her his bride,

The Sailor she lov'd was a Fisherman's son,
All dangers he triumph'd to meet;
Well repaid, if a smile from his Mary he won,
As he proffer'd his spoils at her feet.

But soon from her smiles was he summon'd away,
His fortunes at sea to pursue:
And grav'd on their hearts was the sorrowful day
That witness'd their final adieu.

They spoke not, ah, no; for they felt their hearts speak
A language their tongues could not tell;
As he kiss'd off the tears that fell fast on her cheek,
As she sigh'd on his bosom, farewel.

Full oft, the sad season of absence to charm,
To the ro...

'Tis well to have a goal in mind,
A life-aim, high and true;
Clear as the day, and well defined,
And ever kept in view.
But God has strewn along the way
Bright flowers of every hue.
Gather the brightest while you may,
For they were meant for you.

Heaven's joy transcends the joys of earth,
But if earth's joys be pure
They must have had a heavenly birth,
And bless while they endure;
So pluck the flower before it fades--
Drink from the purling stream;
Nor look for sorrow's darkening shades,
But for the morning gleam.

Life's burdens lose full half their weight
If gay our spirits be;
The rest beyond we antedate,
And serve, though ever free.
Our lamentations all will end,
Exchanged for smile and song,
And men will mark our u...

Never did sculptor's dream unfold
A form which marble doth not hold
In its white block; yet it therein shall find
Only the hand secure and bold
Which still obeys the mind.
So hide in thee, thou heavenly dame,
The ill I shun, the good I claim;
I alas! not well alive,
Miss the aim whereto I strive.
Not love, nor beauty's pride,
Nor Fortune, nor thy coldness, can I chide,
If, whilst within thy heart abide
Both death and pity, my unequal skill
Fails of the life, but draws the death and ill.

When you mournfully rivet your tear-laden eyes,
    That have seen the last sunset of hope pass away,
On some bright orb that seems, through the still sapphire skies,
    In beauty and splendour to roll on its way:

Oh, remember this earth, if beheld from afar,
    Appears wrapt in a halo as soft, and as bright,
As the pure silver radiance enshrining yon star,
    Where your spirit is eagerly soaring to-night.

And at this very midnight, perhaps some poor heart,
    That is aching, or breaking, in that distant sphere;
Gazes down on this dark world, and longs to depart
    From its own dismal home, to a happier one here.