He, that ever following her commands, On with toil of heart and knees and hands.

Thro' the long gorge to the far light has won

His path upward, and prevail'd, Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled

Are close upon the shining table-lands To which our God Himself is moon and sun.

Such was he his work is done,

But while the races of mankind endure.

Let his great example stand
Colossal, seen of every land,

And keep the soldier firm, the statesman pure ;

Till in all lands and thro' all human story

The path of duty be the way to glory; And let the land whose hearths he saved from shane

For many and many an age proclaim At civic revel and pomp and game And when the long-illumined cities flame,

Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame, With honor, honor, honor, honor to him,

Eternal honor to his name.

IX.

Peace, his triumph will be sung
By some yet unmoulded tongue
Far on in summers that we shall not
see:

Peace, it is a day of pain

For one about whose patriarchal knee
Late the little children clung
O peace, it is a day of pain

For one, upon whose hand and heart and brain

Once the weight and fate of Europe hung.

Ours the pain, be his the gain !
More than is of man's degree
Must be with us, watching here
At this, our great solemnity.
Whom we see not we revere,
We revere, and we refrain
From talk of battles loud and vain,
And brawling memories all too free
For such a wise humility

As befits a solemn fane:
We revere, and while we hear
The tides of Music's golden sea
Setting toward eternity,

Uplifted high in heart and hope are

we,

Until we doubt not that for one so true
There must be other nobler work to do
Than when he fought at Waterloo,
And Victor he must ever be.
For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill
And break the shore, and evermore
Make and break, and work their will;
Tho' world on world in myriad myriads
roll

Round us, each with different powers,

And other forms of life than ours, What know we greater than the soul? On God and Godlike men we build our trust.

Hush, the Dead March wails in the

people's ears:

The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears:

The black earth yawns: the morta' disappears;

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust;

He is gone who seem'd so great.—
Gone but nothing can bereave him
:
Of the force he made his own
Being here, and we believe him
Something far advanced in State,
And that he wears a truer crown
Than any wreath that man can weave
him.

Speak no more of his renown,
Lay your ear:hly fancies down,
And in the vast cathedral leave him.
God accept him, Christ receive him.
1852.

THE DAISY.

WRITTEN AT EDINBURGH.

O LOVE, what hours were thine and mine

In lands of palm and southern pine

In lands of palm, of orange blossom, Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine. What Roman strength Turbia show'd In ruin, by the mountain road;

How like a gem, beneath, the city
Of little Monaco, basking, glow'd.
How richly down the rocky dell
The torrent vineyard streaming fell

To meet the sun and sunny waters,
That only heaved with a sunimerswell.
What slender campanili grew
By bays, the peacock's neck in hue;
Where, here and there, on sandy
beaches

A milky-bell'd amaryllis blew.
How young Columbus seem'd to rove,
Yet present in his natal grove,

Now watching high on mountain cornice,

And steering, now, from a purple cove,
Now pacing mute by ocean's rim
Till, in a narrow street and dim,

I stay'd the wheels at Cogoletto, And drank, and loyally drank to him. Nor knew we well what pleased u18 most,

Not the clipt palm of which they boast:

But distant color, happy hamlet, A moulder'd citadel on the coast, Or tower, or high hill-convent, seen A light amid its olives green :

Or olive-hoary cape in ocean; Or rosy blosseni in hot ravine, Where oleanders flush'd the bed

of silent torrents, gravel-spread :

And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten Of ice, far up on a mountain head. We loved that hall, tho' white and cold,

Those niched shapes of noble mould,

A princely people's awful princes, The grave, severe Genovese of old. At Florence too what golden hours, In those long galleries, were ours; What drives about the fre-h Cascinè, Or walks in Boboli's ducal bowers. In bright vignettes, and each complete, Of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet,

Or palace, how the city glitter'd, Thro' cypress avenues, åt our feet. But when we erost the Lombard plain Remember what a plague of rain."

Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma ;
At Lodi, rain, Piacenza, rain.

And stern and sad (so rare the smiles
Of sunlight) look'd the Lombard piles;
Porch-pillars on the lion resting,
And sombre, old, colonnaded aisles.
O Milan, O the chanting quires,
The giant window's blazon'd fires,

The height, the space, the gloom, the glory

A mount of marble a hundred spires! I climb'd the roofs at break of day; Sun-smitten Alps before me lay.

I stood among the silent statues, And statued pinnacles, mute as they. How fainly-flush'd, how phantom-fair, Was Monte Rosa, hanging there

A thousand shadowy-pencill'd valleys
And snowy dells in a golden air.
Remember how we came at last
To Como; shower and storm and blast
Had blown the lake beyond his limit
And all was flooded; and how we past
From Como, when the light was gray,
And in my head, for half the day,

The rich Virgilian rustic measure
Of Lari Maxume, all the way,
Like ballad-burden music, kept,
As on The Lariano erept

To that fair port below the castle
Of Queen Theodolind, where we slept;
Or hardly slept, but watch'd awake
A cypress in the moonlight shake,
The moonlight touching o'er a ter-

гасе

One tall Agavè above the lake.
What more? we took our last adieu,
And up the snowy Splugen diew,

But re we reach'd the highest summit

I pluck'd a daisy, I gave it you.

It told of England then to me,
And now it tells of Italy.

O love, we two shall go no longer
To lands of summer across the sea;
So dear a life your arms enfold
Whose crying is a cry for gold:

Yet here to-night in this dark city, When ill and weary, alone and cold,

I found, tho' crush'd to hard and dry, This nursling of another sky

Still in the little book you lent me, And where you tenderly laid it by: And I forgot the clouded Forth, The gloom that saddens Heaven and Earth,

The bitter east, the misty summer And gray metropolis of the North. Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain, Perchance, to charm a vacant brain, Perchance, to dream you still beside

TO THE REV, F. D. MAURICE. COME, when no graver cares employ, God-father, come and see your boy:

Your presence will be sun in winter, Making the little one leap for joy; For, being of that honest few, Who give the Fiend himself his due, Should eighty-thousand college councils

Thunder "Anathema," friend, at you: Should all our churchmen foam in spite

At you, so careful of the right, Yet one lay-hearth would give you welcome

(Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight; Where, far from noise and smoke of

town,

I watch the twilight falling brown

All round a careless-order'd garden Close to the ridge of a noble down. You'll have no scandal while you dine, But honest talk and wholesome wine, And only hear the magpie gossip Garrulous under a roof of pine: For groves of pine on either hand, To break the blast of winter, stan 1;

And further on, the hoary Channel Tumbles a breaker on chalk and sand; Where, if below the milky steep Some ship of battle slowly creep,

And on thro' zones of light and shadow

Glimmer away to the lonely deep,
We might discuss the Northern sin
Which made a selfish war begin;

Dispute the claims, arrange the chances:

Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win:

Or whether war's avenging rod
Shall lash all Europe into blood;

Till you should turn to dearer matters,

Dear to the man that is dear to God; How best to help the slender store, How mend the dwellings, of the poor;

Our wills are ours, we know not how:

Our wills are ours, to make them thine.

Our little systems have their day;

They have their day and cease to bé: They are but broken lights of thee, And thou, O Lord, art more than they. We have but faith: we cannot know: For knowledge is of things we see ; And yet we trust it comes from thee, A beam in darkness: let it grow. Let knowledge grow from more to

more,

But more of reverence in us dwell; That mind and soul, according well, May make one music as before, But vaster. We are fools and slight; We mock thee when we do not fear: But help thy foolish ones to bear; Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. Forgive what seem'd my sin in me; What seem'd my worth since I began:

For merit lives from man to man, And not from man, O Lord, to thee. Forgive my grief for one removed,

Thy creature, whom I found so fair. I trust he lives in thee, and there I find him worthier to be loved. Forgive these wild and wandering cries,

Confusions of a wasted youth:

Forgive them where they fail in truth,

And in thy wisdom make me wise.

IN MEMORIAM.

A. H. H.

OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII.

I.

1819.

I HELD it truth, with him who sings To one clear harp in divers tones, That men may rise on steppingstones

Of their dead selves to higher things. But who shall so forecast the years And find in loss a gain to match? Or reach a hand thro' time to catch The far-off interest of tears?

Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown'd,

Let darkness keep her raven gloss : Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss. To dance with death, to beat the ground,

Than that the victor Hours should

II.

OLD Yew, which graspest at the stones That name the under-lying dead, Thy fibres net the dreamless head, Thy roots are wrapt about the bones. The seasons bring the flower again,

And bring the firstling to the flock; And in the dusk of thee, the clock Beats out the little lives of men. O not for thee the glow, the bloom, Who changest not in any gale, Nor branding summer suns avail To touch thy thousand years of gloom: And gazing on thee, sullen tree,

Sick for thy stubborn hardihood, I seem to fail from out my blood And grow incorporate into thee.

III.

O SORROW, cruel fellowship.

O Priestess in the vaults of Death, O sweet and bitter in a breath, What whispers from thy lying lip? "The stars," she whispers, "blindly run;

A web is wor'n across the sky; From out waste places comes a cry, And murmurs from the dying sun: "And all the phantom, Naturo stands

With all the music in her tone,
A hollow echo of my own,-
A hollow form with empty hands."
And shall I take a thing so blind,
Embrace her as my natural good;
Or crush her, like a vice of blood,
Upon the threshold of the mind?

IV.

To Sleep I give my powers away;
My will is bondsman to the dark;
I sit within a helmless bark,
And with my heart I muse and say:

O heart, how fares it with thee now, That thou shouldst fail from thy desire,

Who scarcely darest to inquire, "What is it makes me beat so low?”

Something it is which thou hast lost, Some pleasure from thine early years.

Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears,

That grief hath shaken into frost! Such clouds of nameless trouble cross All night below the darken'd eyes : With morning wakes the will, and cries,

"Thou shalt not be the fool of loss."

V.

I SOMETIMES hold it half a sin
To put in words the grief I feel;
For words, like Nature, half reveal
And half conceal the Soul within.

But, for the unquiet heart and brain,
A use in measured language lies;
The sad mechanic exercise,
Like dull narcoties, numbing pain.

In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er,

Like coarsest clothes against the cold;

But that large grief which these enfold

Is given in outline and no more.

VI.

ONE writes, that "Other friends remain,"

That Loss is common to the race,”And common is the commonplace, And vacant chaft well meant for grain. That loss is common would not make My own less bitter, rather more: Too common! Never morning wore To evening, but some heart did break. O father, wheresoe'er thou be,

Who pledgest now thy gallant son; A shot, ere half thy draught be done, Hath still'd the life that beat from thee,

O mother, praying God will save

Thy sailor, while thy head is bow'd,

His heavy-shotted hammock-shrond. Drops in his vast and wandering grave.

Ye know no more than I who wrought
At that last hour to please him well;
Who mused on all I had to tell,
And something written, something
thought;

Expecting still his advent home;

And ever met him on his way With wishes, thinking, here to-day, Or here to-morrow will he come. O somewhere, meek unconscious dove, That sittest ranging golden hair; And glad to find thyself so fair, Poor child, that waitest for thy love! For now her father's chimney glows In expectation of a guest;

And thinking this will please him best,"

She takes a riband or a rose ;

For he will see them on to-night; And with the thought her color burns;

And, having left the glass, she turns Once more to set a ringlet right;

And, even when she turn'd, the curse
Had fallen, and her future Lord
Was drown'd in passing thro' the
ford,
Or kill'd in falling from his horse.

O what to her shall be the end?

And what to me remains of good? To her, perpetual maidenhood, And unto me no second friend.

VII.

DARK house, by which once more I stand

Here in the long unlovely street. Doors, where my heart was used to beat

So quickly, waiting for a hand,

A hand that can be clasp'd no more,→
Behold me, for I cannot sleep,
And like a guilty thing I creep
At earliest morning to the door.
He is not here; but far away

The noise of life begins again,
And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain
On the bald street breaks the blank
day.

VIII.

A HAPPY lover who has come

To look on her that loves him well, Who lights and rings the gateway bell,

And learns her gone and far from home;

IIe saddens, all the magie light

Dies off at once from bower and hall, And all the place is dark, and all The chambers emptied of delight : So find I every pleasant spot

In which we two were wont to meet, The field, the chamber, and the street,

For all is dark where thou art not.
Yet as that other, wandering there

In those deserted walks, may find
A flower beat with rain and wind,
Which once she foster'd up with care;
So seems it in my deep regret,
O my forsaken heart, with thee
And this poor flower of poesy
Which little cared for fades not yet.
But since it pleased a vanish'd eye,
I go to plant it on his tomb,

That if it can it there may bloom, Or dying, there at least may die.