The twilight is sad and cloudy,
    The wind blows wild and free,
And like the wings of sea-birds
    Flash the white caps of the sea.

But in the fisherman's cottage
    There shines a ruddier light,
And a little face at the window
    Peers out into the night.

Close, close it is pressed to the window,
    As if those childish eyes
Were looking into the darkness,
    To see some form arise.

And a woman's waving shadow
    Is passing to and fro,
Now rising to the ceiling,
    Now bowing and bending low.

What tale do the roaring ocean,
    And the night-wind, bleak and wild,
As they beat at the crazy casement,
    Tell to that little child?

And why do the roaring ocean,
    And the night-wind, wild and bleak...

Lad, and can you rest now,
    There beneath your hill!
Your hands are on your breast now,
    But is your heart so still?
'Twas the right death to die, lad,
    A gift without regret,
But unless truth's a lie, lad,
    You dream of Devon yet.

Ay, ay, the year's awaking,
    The fire's among the ling,
The beechen hedge is breaking,
    The curlew's on the wing;
Primroses are out, lad,
    On the high banks of Lee,
And the sun stirs the trout, lad;
    From Brendon to the sea.

I know what's in your heart, lad,---
    The mare he used to hunt---
And her blue market-cart, lad,
    With posies tied in front---
We miss them from the moor road,
    They're getting old to roam,
The road they're on's a sure road
    And n...

How many the troubles that wait
    On mortals!--especially those
    Who endeavour in eloquent prose
To expound their views, and orate.

Did you ever attempt to speak
    When you hadn't a word to say?
    Did you find that it wouldn't pay,
And subside, feeling dreadfully weak?

Did you ever, when going ahead
    In a fervid defence of the Stage,
    Get checked in your noble rage
By somehow losing your thread?

Did you ever rise to reply
    To a toast (say 'The Volunteers'),
    And evoke loud laughter and cheers,
When you didn't exactly know why?

Did you ever wax witty, and when
    You had smashed an opponent quite small,
    Did he seem not to mind it at all,
But get up and smash you again?

If any or all of ...

I had a guinea golden;
I lost it in the sand,
And though the sum was simple,
And pounds were in the land,
Still had it such a value
Unto my frugal eye,
That when I could not find it
I sat me down to sigh.

I had a crimson robin
Who sang full many a day,
But when the woods were painted
He, too, did fly away.
Time brought me other robins, --
Their ballads were the same, --
Still for my missing troubadour
I kept the 'house at hame.'

I had a star in heaven;
One Pleiad was its name,
And when I was not heeding
It wandered from the same.
And though the skies are crowded,
And all the night ashine,
I do not care about it,
Since none of them are mine.

My story has a moral:
I have a missing friend, --
Ple...

    Just think! some night the stars will gleam
    Upon a cold, grey stone,
    And trace a name with silver beam,
    And lo! 'twill be your own.

    That night is speeding on to greet
    Your epitaphic rhyme.
    Your life is but a little beat
    Within the heart of Time.

    A little gain, a little pain,
    A laugh, lest you may moan;
    A little blame, a little fame,
    A star-gleam on a stone.

Provoked By Calverley's "Forever"


"Farewell!" Another gloomy word
    As ever into language crept.
'Tis often written, never heard,
            Except

In playhouse. Ere the hero flits,
    In handcuffs, from our pitying view.
"Farewell!" he murmurs, then exits
            R. U.

"Farewell" is much too sighful for
    An age that has not time to sigh.
We say, "I'll see you later," or
            "Good by!"

When, warned by chanticleer, you go
    From her to whom you owe devoir,
"Say not 'good by,'" she laughs, "but
            'Au Revoir!'"

Thus from the garden are you sped;
    And Juliet were the first to tell
You, you were silly if you said
            "Farewell!"

"Farewell," meant long ago, b...

When life begins anew,
And Youth, from gathering flowers,
From vague delights, rapt musings, twilight hours,
Turns restless, seeking some great deed to do,
To sum his foster'd dreams; when that fresh birth
Unveils the real, the throng'd and spacious Earth,
And he awakes to those more ample skies,
By other aims and by new powers possess'd:
How deeply, then, his breast
Is fill'd with pangs of longing! how his eyes
Drink in the enchanted prospect! Fair it lies
Before him, with its plains expanding vast,
Peopled with visions, and enrich'd with dreams;
Dim cities, ancient forests, winding streams,
Places resounding in the famous past,
A kingdom ready to his hand!
How like a bride Life seems to stand
In welcome, and with festal robes array'd!
He feels her ...

Who with a little cannot be content,
Endures an everlasting punishment.

Look in my book, and herein see
Life endless signed to thee and me.
We o'er the tombs and fates shall fly;
While other generations die.

Willie.

Roget, droop not, see the spring
Is the earth enamelling,
And the birds on every tree
Greet this morn with melody:
Hark, how yonder thrustle chants it,
And her mate as proudly vants it
See how every stream is dress'd
By her margin with the best
Of Flora's gifts; she seems glad
For such brooks such flow'rs she had.
All the trees are quaintly tired
With green buds, of all desired;
And the hawthorn every day
Spreads some little show of May:
See the primrose sweetly set
By the much-lov'd violet,
All the banks do sweetly cover,
As they would invite a lover
With his lass to see their dressing
And to grace them by their pressing:
Yet in all this merry tide
When all cares are laid aside,
Roget sits as if his bloo...

Time was upon
The wing, to fly away;
And I call'd on
Him but awhile to stay;
But he'd be gone,
For aught that I could say.

He held out then
A writing, as he went,
And ask'd me, when
False man would be content
To pay again
What God and Nature lent.

An hour-glass,
In which were sands but few,
As he did pass,
He shew'd, and told me too
Mine end near was;
And so away he flew.

The sun upon the lake is low,
The wild birds hush their song,
The hills have evening’s deepest glow,
Yet Leonard tarries long.
Now all whom varied toil and care
From home and love divide,
In the calm sunset may repair
Each to the loved one’s side.

The noble dame, on turret high,
Who waits her gallant knight,
Looks to the western beam to spy
The flash of armour bright.
The village maid, with hand on brow
The level ray to shade,
Upon the footpath watches now
For Colin’s darkening plaid.

Now to their mates the wild swans row,
By day they swam apart,
And to the thicket wanders slow
The hind beside the hart.
The woodlark at his partner’s side
Twitters his closing song,
All meet whom day and care divide,
But Leonard tar...

A voice of grave, deep emphasis
Is in the woods to-night;
No sound of radiant day is this,
No cadence of the light.
Here in the fall and flights of leaves
Against grey widths of sea,
The spirit of the forests grieves
For lost Persephone.

The fair divinity that roves
Where many waters sing
Doth miss her daughter of the groves
The golden-headed Spring.
She cannot find the shining hand
That once the rose caressed;
There is no blossom on the land,
No bird in last year’s nest.

Here, where this strange Demeter weeps
This large, sad life unseen
Where July’s strong, wild torrent leaps
The wet hill-heads between,
I sit and listen to the grief,
The high, supreme distress,
Which sobs above the fallen leaf
Like human tenderne...

O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stainèd
With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit
Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest,
And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,
And all the daughters of the year shall dance!
Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.

`The narrow bud opens her beauties to
The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;
Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and
Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve,
Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing,
And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head.

`The spirits of the air live on the smells
Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round
The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.'
Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat;
Then rose, girded himself, and o'...

I.

I had a vision when the night was late:
A youth came riding toward a palace-gate.
He rode a horse with wings, that would have flown,
But that his heavy rider kept him down.
And from the palace came a child of sin,
And took him by the curls, and led him in,
Where sat a company with heated eyes,
Expecting when a fountain should arise:
A sleepy light upon their brows and lips–
As when the sun, a crescent of eclipse,
Dreams over lake and lawn, and isles and capes–
Suffused them, sitting, lying, languid shapes,
By heaps of gourds, and skins of wine, and piles of grapes.


II.

Then methought I heard a mellow sound,
Gathering up from all the lower ground;
Narrowing in to where they sat assembled
Low voluptuous music winding trembled...

("Gastibelza, l'homme à la carabine.")

[XXII., March, 1837.]


Gastibelza, with gun the measure beating,
    Would often sing:
"Has one o' ye with sweet Sabine been meeting,
    As, gay, ye bring
Your songs and steps which, by the music,
    Are reconciled -
Oh! this chill wind across the mountain rushing
    Will drive me wild!

"You stare as though you hardly knew my lady -
    Sabine's her name!
Her dam inhabits yonder cavern shady,
    A witch of shame,
Who shrieks o' nights upon the Haunted Tower,
    With horrors piled -
Oh! this chill wind, etc.

"Sing on and leap - enjoying all the favors
    Good heaven sends;
She, too, was young - her lips had peachy savors
    With honey blends;
Give to that ...

Tune - "Wae is my heart."



I.

    Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my e'e;
    Lang, lang, joy's been a stranger to me;
    Forsaken and friendless, my burden I bear,
    And the sweet voice of pity ne'er sounds in my ear.

II.

    Love, thou hast pleasures, and deep hae I loved;
    Love, thou hast sorrows, and sair hae I proved;
    But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my breast,
    I can feel by its throbbings will soon be at rest.

III.

    O, if I were happy, where happy I hae been,
    Down by yon stream, and yon bonnie castle green;
    For there he is wand'ring, and musing on me,
    Wha wad soon dry the tear frae his Phillis's e'e.

        If night should come and find me at my toil,
        When all Life's day I had, tho' faintly, wrought,
        And shallow furrows, cleft in stony soil
        Were all my labour:    Shall I count it naught

        If only one poor gleaner, weak of hand,
        Shall pick a scanty sheaf where I have sown?
        "Nay, for of thee the Master doth demand
        Thy work:    the harvest rests with Him alone."