Lo, as a careful housewife runs to catch
One of her feather’d creatures broke away,
Sets down her babe, and makes all swift dispatch
In pursuit of the thing she would have stay;
Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase,
Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent
To follow that which flies before her face,
Not prizing her poor infant’s discontent;
So runn’st thou after that which flies from thee,
Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind;
But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me,
And play the mother’s part, kiss me, be kind;
So will I pray that thou mayst have thy ‘Will,’
If thou turn back and my loud crying still.

I pluck Summer blossoms,
And think of rich bosoms--
The bosoms I've leaned on, and worshipped, and won.
The rich valley lilies,
The wood daffodillies,
Have been found in our rambles when Summer begun.

Where I plucked thee the bluebell,
'T was where the night dew fell,
And rested till morn in the cups of the flowers;
I shook the sweet posies,
Bluebells and brere roses,
As we sat in cool shade in Summer's warm hours.

Bedlam-cowslips and cuckoos,
With freck'd lip and hooked nose,
Growing safe near the hazel of thicket and woods,
And water blobs, ladies' smocks,
Blooming where haycocks
May be found, in the meadows, low places, and floods.

And cowslips a fair band
For May ball or garland,
That bloom in the meadows as seen by th...

The glorious sunne went blushing to his bed,
When my soules sunne, from her fayre Cabynet,
Her golden beames had now discouered,
Lightning the world, eclipsed by his set.
Some muz'd to see the earth enuy the ayre,
Which from her lyps exhald refined sweet,
A world to see, yet how he ioyd to heare
The dainty grasse make musicke with her feete.
But my most meruaile was when from the skyes,
So Comet-like, each starre aduanc'd her lyght,
As though the heauen had now awak'd her eyes,
And summond Angels to this blessed sight.
    No clowde was seene, but christalline the ayre,
    Laughing for ioy upon my louely fayre.

She dwelt within a convent wall
Beside the "blue Moselle,"
And pure and simple was her life
As is the tale I tell.

She never shrank from penance rude,
And was so young and fair,
It was a holy, holy thing,
To see her at her prayer.

Her cheek was very thin and pale;
You would have turned in fear,
If 't were not for the hectic spot
That glowed so soft and clear.

And always, as the evening chime
With measured cadence fell,
Her vespers o'er, she sought alone
A little garden dell.

And when she came to us again,
She moved with lighter air;
We thought the angels ministered
To her while kneeling there.

One eve I followed on her way,
And asked her of her life.
A faint blush mantled cheek and brow,
The sign...

Come, walk with me and Memory;
And let us see what we shall see:
A wild green lane of stones and weeds
That to a wilder woodland leads.
An old board gate, the lichens crust,
Whose ancient hinges croak with rust.
A vale; a creek; and a bridge of planks,
And the wild sunflowers that wall its banks:
A path that winds through shine and shade
To a ferned and wildflowered forest glade;
Where, out of a grotto, a voice replies
With a faint hollo to your voice that cries:
And every wind that passes seems
A foot that follows from Lands o' Dreams.
A voice, a foot, and a shadow, too,
That whispers of things your childhood knew:
A girl that waited, a boy that came,
And an old beech tree where he carved her name;
Where still he sees her, whom still he hears
B...

You are my God, and I would fain adore You
    With sweet and secret rites of other days.
Burn scented oil in silver lamps before You,
    Pour perfume on Your feet with prayer and praise.

Yet are we one; Your gracious condescension
    Granted, and grants, the loveliness I crave.
One, in the perfect sense of Eastern mention,
    "Gold and the Bracelet, Water and the Wave."

At noon, upon the mountain's purple height,
Above the pine-woods and the clouds it shone
No larger than the small white dome of shell
Left by the fledgling wren when wings are born.
By night it joined the company of heaven,
And, with its constant light, became a star.
A needle-point of light, minute, remote,
It sent a subtler message through the abyss,
Held more significance for the seeing eye
Than all the darkness that would blot it out,
Yet could not dwarf it.
                        High in heaven it shone,
Alive with all the thoughts, and hopes, and dreams
Of man's adventurous mind.
                            Up there, I knew
The explorers of the sky, the pioneers
Of science, now made ready to attack
That darkness once again, and win new worlds.

I.

In reel, in waltz, in lancer's maze,
    She moved with pretty air of grace,
And all the ball-room's brilliant blaze
    Seemed borrowed brightness from her face!
O, winsome maid, demure and sweet!
    I'll ne'er forget when first I met her,
And saw the dainty slippered feet
    Glide o'er the floor at Linnietta!


II.

O, dreams of youth and beauty rare,
    What rose-hued visions thou canst paint!
But none in loveliness compare
    With her who seemed Love's patron saint!
Her pictured image haunts the mind,
    And, oh, I never can forget her,
Nor rarer pleasure hope to find
    Than dance with her at Linnietta!


III.

Arrayed in softly flowing gown,
    The love-light flashing from her eyes--
...

    "Sweet are the flowers of life,
    Swept o'er my happy days at home;
    Sweet are the flowers of life
    When I was a little child.


    "Sweet are the flowers of life
    That I spent with my father at home;
    Sweet are the flowers of life
    When children played about the house.


    "Sweet are the flowers of life
    When the lamps are lighted at night;
    Sweet are the flowers of life
    When the flowers of summer bloomed.


    "Sweet are the flowers of life
    Dead with the snows of winter;
    Sweet are the flowers of life
    When the days of spring come on.

    (1) These lines were actually composed by a six-year old child.

What art thou--friend or foe?
Stand! stand!
My heart is true as steel,
Steady still in woe and weal,
Strong to bear, though quick to feel--
Take my hand!

What art thou--friend or foe?
Stand! stand!
Only my own ease seek I,
I am deaf to Pity's cry,
If men hunger, let them die--
Traitor! stand!

What art thou--friend or foe?
Stand! stand!
I've a kiss for maiden fair,
I've a blow for who may dare,
I've a song to banish care--
Take my hand!

What art thou--friend or foe?
Stand! stand!
I'm your servant whilst you're great,
As you sink, my cares abate,
When you're poor you have my hate,--
Traitor! stand!

What art thou--friend or foe?
Stand! stand!
If you trust me, I'll be true,
If you sligh...

In the fair morning of his life,
    When his pure heart lay in his breast,
    Panting, with all that wild unrest
To plunge into the great world's strife

That fills young hearts with mad desire,
    He saw a sunset. Red and gold
    The burning billows surged and rolled,
And upward tossed their caps of fire.

He looked. And as he looked, the sight
    Sent from his soul through breast and brain
    Such intense joy, it hurt like pain.
His heart seemed bursting with delight.

So near the Unknown seemed, so close
    He might have grasped it with his hand.
    He felt his inmost soul expand,
As sunlight will expand a rose.

One day he heard a singing strain -
    A human voice, in bird-like trills.
    He paused, and little raptur...

Tune - "My Peggy's Face."



I.

    My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form,
    The frost of hermit age might warm;
    My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind,
    Might charm the first of human kind.
    I love my Peggy's angel air,
    Her face so truly, heav'nly fair,
    Her native grace so void of art,
    But I adore my Peggy's heart.

II.

    The lily's hue, the rose's dye,
    The kindling lustre of an eye;
    Who but owns their magic sway?
    Who but knows they all decay!
    The tender thrill, the pitying tear,
    The gen'rous purpose, nobly dear,
    The gentle look, that rage disarms
    These are all immortal charms.

Sister, we bid you welcome, - we who stand
On the high table-land;
We who have climbed life's slippery Alpine slope,
And rest, still leaning on the staff of hope,
Looking along the silent Mer de Glace,
Leading our footsteps where the dark crevasse
Yawns in the frozen sea we all must pass, -
Sister, we clasp your hand!

Rest with us in the hour that Heaven has lent
Before the swift descent.
Look! the warm sunbeams kiss the glittering ice;
See! next the snow-drift blooms the edelweiss;
The mated eagles fan the frosty air;
Life, beauty, love, around us everywhere,
And, in their time, the darkening hours that bear
Sweet memories, peace, content.

Thrice welcome! shining names our missals show
Amid their rubrics' glow,
But search the blazoned re...

Hush, sweet Lute, thy songs remind me
    Of past joys, now turned to pain;
Of ties that long have ceased to bind me,
    But whose burning marks remain.
In each tone, some echo falleth
    On my ear of joys gone by;
Every note some dream recalleth
    Of bright hopes but born to die.

Yet, sweet Lute, though pain it bring me,
    Once more let thy numbers thrill;
Tho' death were in the strain they sing me,
    I must woo its anguish still.
Since no time can e'er recover
    Love's sweet light when once 'tis set,--
Better to weep such pleasures over,
    Than smile o'er any left us yet.

The day is fading from the sky,
    And softly shines the Star of Even,
As watching with a lover's eye
    The rest of Earth the peace of Heaven;
The dew is rising cool and sweet,
    And, zephyr-rock'd, the flowers are closing,
The Night steals on with noiseless feet,
    Oh! gentle be my love's reposing.

The streamlet, as it flows along,
    Sounds like a voice 'mid childhood's slumbers;
And from the brake the Queen of Song
    Pours forth her softest, clearest numbers;
And ever through the stirless leaves
    The summer moon is brightly streaming,
Light fancies on the sward it weaves,--
    As radiant be my lady's dreaming.

The silent hours move swiftly on,
    With many a blessed vision laden,
That all the night has softly shone
...

A stream, to mingle with your favourite Dee,
Along the vale of meditation flows;
So styled by those fierce Britons, pleased to see
In Nature's face the expression of repose;
Or haply there some pious hermit chose
To live and die, the peace of heaven his aim;
To whom the wild sequestered region owes
At this late day, its sanctifying name.
Glyn Cafaillgaroch, in the Cambrian tongue,
In ours, the vale OF friendship, let 'this' spot
Be named; where, faithful to a low-roofed Cot,
On Deva's banks, ye have abode so long;
Sisters in love, a love allowed to climb,
Even on this earth, above the reach of Time!

In Virgil's Sacred Verse we find,
That Passion can depress or raise
The Heav'nly, as the Human Mind:
Who dare deny what Virgil says?
But if They shou'd; what our Great Master
Has thus laid down, my Tale shall prove.
Fair Venus wept the sad Disaster
Of having lost her Fav'rite Dove.
In Complaisance poor Cupid mourn'd;
His Grief reliev'd his Mother's Pain;
He vow'd he'd leave no Stone unturn'd,
But She shou'd have her Dove again.
Tho' None, said He, shall yet be nam'd,
I know the Felon well enough:
But be She not, Mamma, condemn'd
Without a fair and legal Proof.
With that, his longest Dart he took,
As Constable wou'd take his Staff:
That Gods desire like Men to look,
Wou'd make ev'n Heraclitus laugh.
Loves Subaltern, a Duteous Band,
Like...

I. Winter in Northumberland


Outside the garden
The wet skies harden;
The gates are barred on
The summer side:
"Shut out the flower-time,
Sunbeam and shower-time;
Make way for our time,"
Wild winds have cried.
Green once and cheery,
The woods, worn weary,
Sigh as the dreary
Weak sun goes home:
A great wind grapples
The wave, and dapples
The dead green floor of the sea with foam.

Through fell and moorland,
And salt-sea foreland,
Our noisy norland
Resounds and rings;
Waste waves thereunder
Are blown in sunder,
And winds make thunder
With cloudwide wings;
Sea-drift makes dimmer
The beacon's glimmer;
Nor sail nor swimmer
Can try the tides;
And snowdrifts thicken
Where, when leaves qu...