Family

(Macmillan's Magazine, Dec. 1864.)


Two days ago with dancing glancing hair,
    With living lips and eyes:
    Now pale, dumb, blind, she lies;
So pale, yet still so fair.

We have not left her yet, not yet alone;
    But soon must leave her where
    She will not miss our care,
Bone of our bone.

Weep not; O friends, we should not weep:
    Our friend of friends lies full of rest;
    No sorrow rankles in her breast,
Fallen fast asleep.

She sleeps below,
    She wakes and laughs above:
    To-day, as she walked, let us walk in love;
To-morrow follow so.

We're older nor we used to be,
But that's noa reason why
We owt to mope i' misery,
An whine an grooan an sigh.

We've had awr shares o' ups an daans,
I' this world's whirligig;
An for its favors or its fraans
We needn't care a fig.

Let them, at's enterin on life
Be worried wi' its cares;
We've tasted booath its joys an strife,
They're welcome nah to theirs.

To tak things easy owt to be
An old man's futer plan,
Till th' time comes when he has to dee, -
Then dee as weel's he can.

It's foolish nah to brood an freeat,
Abaat what might ha been;
At sixty we dooant see wi' th' een,
We saw wi at sixteen.

Young shoolders worn't meant to bear
Old heeads, an nivver will;
Youth had its fling when we wor thear,

        Mother

What's in that cupboard, Mary?

        Mary

Which cupboard, mother dear?

        Mother

The cupboard of red mahogany
    With handles shining clear.

        Mary

That cupboard, dearest mother,
    With shining crystal handles?
There's nought inside but rags and jags
    And yellow tallow candles.

        Mother

What's in that cupboard, Mary?

        Mary

Which cupboard, mother mine?

        Mother

That cupboard stands in your sunny chamber,
    The silver corners shine.

        Mary

There's nothing there inside, mother,
    But wool and thread and flax,
And bits of faded silk and velvet,
    And candles of white wax.
...

Come away with me, Tom,
Term and talk are done;
My poor lads are reaping,
Busy every one.
Curates mind the parish,
Sweepers mind the court;
We'll away to Snowdon
For our ten days' sport;
Fish the August evening
Till the eve is past,
Whoop like boys, at pounders
Fairly played and grassed.
When they cease to dimple,
Lunge, and swerve, and leap,
Then up over Siabod,
Choose our nest, and sleep.
Up a thousand feet, Tom,
Round the lion's head,
Find soft stones to leeward
And make up our bed.
Eat our bread and bacon,
Smoke the pipe of peace,
And, ere we be drowsy,
Give our boots a grease.
Homer's heroes did so,
Why not such as we?
What are sheets and servants?
Superfluity!
Pray for wives and children
Sa...

I am writing this song at the close
Of a beautiful day of the spring
In a dell where the daffodil grows
By a grove of the glimmering wing;
From glades where a musical word
Comes ever from luminous fall,
I send you the song of a bird
That I wish to be dear to you all.

I have given my darling the name
Of a land at the gates of the day,
Where morning is always the same,
And spring never passes away.
With a prayer for a lifetime of light,
I christened her Persia, you see;
And I hope that some fathers to-night
Will kneel in the spirit with me.

She is only commencing to look
At the beauty in which she is set;
And forest and flower and brook,
To her are all mysteries yet.
I know that to many my words
Will seem insignificant things...

In secret place where once I stood
Close by the Banks of Lacrim flood,
I heard two sisters reason on
Things that are past and things to come.
One Flesh was call'd, who had her eye
On worldly wealth and vanity;
The other Spirit, who did rear
Her thoughts unto a higher sphere.
"Sister," quoth Flesh, "what liv'st thou on
Nothing but Meditation?
Doth Contemplation feed thee so
Regardlessly to let earth go?
Can Speculation satisfy
Notion without Reality?
Dost dream of things beyond the Moon
And dost thou hope to dwell there soon?
Hast treasures there laid up in store
That all in th' world thou count'st but poor?
Art fancy-sick or turn'd a Sot
To catch at shadows which are not?
Come, come. I'll show unto thy sense,
Industry hath its recompen...

We had finished our pitiful morsel,
    And both sat in silence a while;
At length we looked up at each other.
    And I said, with the ghost of a smile, -
"Only two little potatoes
    And a very small crust of bread -
And then?" - "God will care for us, Lucy!"
    John, quietly answering, said.

"Yes, God will provide for us, Lucy!"
    He said, after musing a while -
I'd been quietly watching his features
    With a feeble attempt at a smile -
"For, 'trust in the Lord, and do good,'
    Our Father in Heaven has said,
'So shalt thou dwell in the land,
    And verily thou shalt be fed!'"

Scarcely the words had he spoken,
    When a faint, little tap at the door
Surprised us, - for all the long morning
    The rain had continue...

WRITTEN IN A POCKET BOOK, 1822.


They tell us of an Indian tree,
    Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky
May tempt its boughs to wander free,
    And shoot and blossom wide and high,
Far better loves to bend its arms
    Downward again to that dear earth,
From which the life that, fills and warms
    Its grateful being, first had birth.
'Tis thus, tho' wooed by flattering friends,
    And fed with fame (if fame it be)
This heart, my own dear mother, bends,
    With love's true instinct, back to thee!

Wan-Visaged thing! thy virgin leaf
To me looks more than deadly pale,
Unknowing what may stain thee yet, -
A poem or a tale.

Who can thy unborn meaning scan?
Can Seer or Sibyl read thee now?
No, - seek to trace the fate of man
Writ on his infant brow.

Love may light on thy snowy cheek,
And shake his Eden-breathing plumes;
Then shalt thou tell how Lelia smiles,
Or Angelina blooms.

Satire may lift his bearded lance,
Forestalling Time's slow-moving scythe,
And, scattered on thy little field,
Disjointed bards may writhe.

Perchance a vision of the night,
Some grizzled spectre, gaunt and thin,
Or sheeted corpse, may stalk along,
Or skeleton may grin.

If it should be in pensive hour
Some sorrow-moving theme I try...

To-day the world is wide and fair
With sunny fields of lucid air,
And waters dancing everywhere;
The snow is almost gone;
The noon is builded high with light,
And over heaven's liquid height,
In steady fleets serene and white,
The happy clouds go on.

The channels run, the bare earth steams,
And every hollow rings and gleams
With jetting falls and dashing streams;
The rivers burst and fill;
The fields are full of little lakes,
And when the romping wind awakes
The water ruffles blue and shakes,
And the pines roar on the hill.

The crows go by, a noisy throng;
About the meadows all day long
The shore-lark drops his brittle song;
And up the leafless tree
The nut-hatch runs, and nods, and clings;
The bluebird dips with flashing w...

ACT I.

Clara winds a skein, and sings with Brackenburg.

THE drum gives the signal!

Loud rings the shrill fife!
My love leads his troops on

Full arm'd for the strife,
While his hand grasps his lance
As they proudly advance.

My bosom pants wildly!
My blood hotly flows!
Oh had I a doublet,
A helmet, and hose!

Through the gate with bold footstep

I after him hied,
Each province, each country

Explored by his side.
The coward foe trembled
Then rattled our shot:
What bliss e'er resembled

A soldier's glad lot!

ACT III.

CLARA sings.


Gladness

And sadness
And pensiveness blending

Yearning

And burning
In torment ne'er ending...

In my dream, methought I trod,
Yesternight, a mountain road;
Narrow as Al Sirat's span,
High as eagle's flight, it ran.

Overhead, a roof of cloud
With its weight of thunder bowed;
Underneath, to left and right,
Blankness and abysmal night.

Here and there a wild-flower blushed,
Now and then a bird-song gushed;
Now and then, through rifts of shade,
Stars shone out, and sunbeams played.

But the goodly company,
Walking in that path with me,
One by one the brink o'erslid,
One by one the darkness hid.

Some with wailing and lament,
Some with cheerful courage went;
But, of all who smiled or mourned,
Never one to us returned.

Anxiously, with eye and ear,
Questioning that shadow drear,
Never hand in token stirr...

Oh, unforgotten and only lover,
Many years have swept us apart,
But none of the long dividing seasons
Slay your memory in my heart.
In the clash and clamour of things unlovely
My thoughts drift back to the times that were,
When I, possessing thy pale perfection,
Kissed the eyes and caressed the hair.

Other passions and loves have drifted
Over this wandering, restless soul,
Rudderless, chartless, floating always
With some new current of chance control.
But thine image is clear in the whirling waters -
Ah, forgive - that I drag it there,
For it is so part of my very being
That where I wander it too must fare.

Ah, I have given thee strange companions,
To thee - so slender and chaste and cool -
But a white star loses no glimmer of beauty

Draw thi cheer nigher th' foir, put th' knittin away,
Put thi tooas up o'th' fender to warm:
We've booath wrought enuff, aw should think, for a day,
An a rest willn't do us mich harm.
Awr lot's been a rough en, an tho' we've grown old,
We shall have to toil on to its end;
An altho' we can booast nawther silver nor gold,
Yet we ne'er stood i'th' want ov a Friend.

Soa cheer up, old lass,
Altho' we've grown grey,
An we havn't mich brass,
Still awr hearts can be gay:
For we've health an contentment an soa we can say,
'At we're gradely weel off after all.

As aw coom ovver th' moor, a fine carriage went by,
An th' young squire wor sittin inside;
An wol makkin mi manners aw smothered a sigh,
As for th' furst time aw saw his young bride.
Shoo wor...

        If fate had held a careless knife
            And clipped one line that drew,
        Of all the myriad lines of life,
            From Eden up to you;
        If, in the wars and wastes of time,
            One sire had met the sword,
        One mother died before her prime
            Or wed some other lord;

        Or had some other age been blest,
            Long past or yet to be,
        And you had been the world's sweet guest
            Before or after me:
        I wonder how this rose would seem,
            Or yonder hillside cot;
        For, dear, I cannot even dream
            A world where you are not!

        Thus heaven forfends that I shall drink
            The gall that might have been,
        If aught had...

[1]Giovanni Battista Manso, Marquis of Villa, is an Italian Nobleman of the highest estimation among his countrymen, for Genius, Literature,and military accomplishments. To Him Torquato Tasso addressed his "Dialogue on Friendship," for he was much the friend of Tasso, who has also celebrated him among the other princes of his country, in his poem entitled "Jerusalem Conquered" (Book XX).

                Among cavaliers magnanimous and courteous
                - Manso is resplendent.

During the Author's stay at Naples he received at the hands of the Marquis a thousand kind offices and civilities, and, desirous not to appear ungrateful, sent him this poem a short time before his departure from that city.


These verses also to thy praise the Nine[2]
Oh Manso! happy in tha...

Brighter shone the golden shadows;
On the cool wind softly came
The low, sweet tones of happy flowers,
Singing little Violet's name.
'Mong the green trees was it whispered,
And the bright waves bore it on
To the lonely forest flowers,
Where the glad news had not gone.

Thus the Frost-King lost his kingdom,
And his power to harm and blight.
Violet conquered, and his cold heart
Warmed with music, love, and light;
And his fair home, once so dreary,
Gay with lovely Elves and flowers,
Brought a joy that never faded
Through the long bright summer hours.

Thus, by Violet's magic power,
All dark shadows passed away,
And o'er the home of happy flowers
The golden light for ever lay.
Thus the Fairy mission ended,
And all Flower-Land was...

Here where the season turns the land to gold,
Among the fields our feet have known of old,
When we were children who would laugh and run,
Glad little playmates of the wind and sun,
Before came toil and care and years went ill,
And one forgot and one remembered still;
Heart of my heart, among the old fields here,
Give me your hands and let me draw you near,
Heart of my heart.

Stars are not truer than your soul is true
What need I more of heaven then than you?
Flowers are not sweeter than your face is sweet
What need I more to make my world complete?
O woman nature, love that still endures,
What strength has ours that is not born of yours?
Heart of my heart, to you, whatever come,
To you the lead, whose love hath led me home.
Heart of my heart.