Presentiment

" Sister, you've sat there all the day,
  Come to the hearth awhile;
The wind so wildly sweeps away,
  The clouds so darkly pile.
That open book has lain, unread,
  For hours upon your knee;
You've never smiled nor turned your head
  What can you, sister, see ? "

" Come hither, Jane, look down the field;
  How dense a mist creeps on !
The path, the hedge, are both concealed,
  Ev'n the white gate is gone;
No landscape through the fog I trace,
  No hill with pastures green;
All featureless is nature's face,
  All masked in clouds her mien.

" Scarce is the rustle of a leaf
  Heard in our garden now;
The year grows old, its days wax brief,
  The tresses leave its brow.
The rain drives fast before the wind,
  The sky is blank and grey;
O Jane, what sadness fills the mind
  On such a dreary day ! "


" You think too much, my sister dear;
  You sit too long alone;
What though November days be drear ?
  Full soon will they be gone.
I've swept the hearth, and placed your chair,
  Come, Emma, sit by me;
Our own fireside is never drear,
Though late and wintry wane the year,
  Though rough the night may be."

" The peaceful glow of our fireside
  Imparts no peace to me:
My thoughts would rather wander wide
  Than rest, dear Jane, with thee.
I'm on a distant journey bound,
  And if, about my heart,
Too closely kindred ties were bound,
  'T would break when forced to part.

" ' Soon will November days be o'er: '
  Well have you spoken, Jane:
My own forebodings tell me more,
For me, I know by presage sure,
  They'll ne'er return again.
Ere long, nor sun nor storm to me
  Will bring or joy or gloom;
They reach not that Eternity
  Which soon will be my home."

Eight months are gone, the summer sun
  Sets in a glorious sky;
A quiet field, all green and lone,
  Receives its rosy dye.
Jane sits upon a shaded stile,
  Alone she sits there now;
Her head rests on her hand the while,
  And thought o'ercasts her brow.

She's thinking of one winter's day,
  A few short months ago,
When Emma's bier was borne away
  O'er wastes of frozen snow.
She's thinking how that drifted snow
  Dissolved in spring's first gleam,
And how her sister's memory now
  Fades, even as fades a dream.

The snow will whiten earth again,
  But Emma comes no more;
She left, 'mid winter's sleet and rain,
  This world for Heaven's far shore.
On Beulah's hills she wanders now,
  On Eden's tranquil plain;
To her shall Jane hereafter go,
  She ne'er shall come to Jane !

The Teacher's Monologue

The room is quiet, thoughts alone
People its mute tranquillity;
The yoke put on, the long task done,–
I am, as it is bliss to be,
Still and untroubled. Now, I see,
For the first time, how soft the day
O'er waveless water, stirless tree,
Silent and sunny, wings its way.
Now, as I watch that distant hill,
So faint, so blue, so far removed,
Sweet dreams of home my heart may fill,
That home where I am known and loved:
It lies beyond; yon azure brow
Parts me from all Earth holds for me;
And, morn and eve, my yearnings flow
Thitherward tending, changelessly.
My happiest hours, aye ! all the time,
I love to keep in memory,
Lapsed among moors, ere life's first prime
Decayed to dark anxiety.

Sometimes, I think a narrow heart
Makes me thus mourn those far away,
And keeps my love so far apart
From friends and friendships of to-day;


Sometimes, I think 'tis but a dream
I measure up so jealously,
All the sweet thoughts I live on seem
To vanish into vacancy:
And then, this strange, coarse world around
Seems all that's palpable and true;
And every sight, and every sound,
Combines my spirit to subdue
To aching grief, so void and lone
Is Life and Earth–so worse than vain,
The hopes that, in my own heart sown,
And cherished by such sun and rain
As Joy and transient Sorrow shed,
Have ripened to a harvest there:
Alas ! methinks I hear it said,
"Thy golden sheaves are empty air."

All fades away; my very home
I think will soon be desolate;
I hear, at times, a warning come
Of bitter partings at its gate;
And, if I should return and see
The hearth-fire quenched, the vacant chair;
And hear it whispered mournfully,
That farewells have been spoken there,
What shall I do, and whither turn ?
Where look for peace ? When cease to mourn ?

'Tis not the air I wished to play,
  The strain I wished to sing;
My wilful spirit slipped away
  And struck another string.
I neither wanted smile nor tear,
  Bright joy nor bitter woe,
But just a song that sweet and clear,
  Though haply sad, might flow.

A quiet song, to solace me
  When sleep refused to come;
A strain to chase despondency,
  When sorrowful for home.
In vain I try; I cannot sing;
  All feels so cold and dead;
No wild distress, no gushing spring
  Of tears in anguish shed;

But all the impatient gloom of one
  Who waits a distant day,
When, some great task of suffering done,
  Repose shall toil repay.
For youth departs, and pleasure flies,
  And life consumes away,
And youth's rejoicing ardour dies
  Beneath this drear delay;

And Patience, weary with her yoke,
  Is yielding to despair,
And Health's elastic spring is broke
  Beneath the strain of care.


Life will be gone ere I have lived;
  Where now is Life's first prime ?
I've worked and studied, longed and grieved,
  Through all that rosy time.

To toil, to think, to long, to grieve,–
  Is such my future fate ?
The morn was dreary, must the eve
  Be also desolate ?
Well, such a life at least makes Death
  A welcome, wished-for friend;
Then, aid me, Reason, Patience, Faith,
  To suffer to the end !

Passion

Some have won a wild delight,
  By daring wilder sorrow;
Could I gain thy love to-night,
  I'd hazard death to-morrow.


Could the battle-struggle earn
  One kind glance from thine eye,
How this withering heart would burn,
  The heady fight to try !

Welcome nights of broken sleep,
  And days of carnage cold,
Could I deem that thou wouldst weep
  To hear my perils told.

Tell me, if with wandering bands
  I roam full far away,
Wilt thou, to those distant lands,
  In spirit ever stray ?

Wild, long, a trumpet sounds afar;
  Bid me–bid me go
Where Seik and Briton meet in war,
  On Indian Sutlej's flow.

Blood has dyed the Sutlej's waves
  With scarlet stain, I know;
Indus' borders yawn with graves,
  Yet, command me go !

Though rank and high the holocaust
  Of nations, steams to heaven,
Glad I'd join the death-doomed host,
  Were but the mandate given.


Passion's strength should nerve my arm,
  Its ardour stir my life,
Till human force to that dread charm
Should yield and sink in wild alarm,
  Like trees to tempest-strife.

If, hot from war, I seek thy love,
  Darest thou turn aside ?
Darest thou, then, my fire reprove,
  By scorn, and maddening pride ?

No–my will shall yet control
  Thy will, so high and free,
And love shall tame that haughty soul–
  Yes–tenderest love for me.

I'll read my triumph in thine eyes,
  Behold, and prove the change;
Then leave, perchance, my noble prize,
  Once more in arms to range.

I'd die when all the foam is up,
  The bright wine sparkling high;
Nor wait till in the exhausted cup
  Life's dull dregs only lie.

Then Love thus crowned with sweet reward,
  Hope blest with fulness large,
I'd mount the saddle, draw the sword,
  And perish in the charge !

Preference

Not in scorn do I reprove thee,
Not in pride thy vows I waive,
But, believe, I could not love thee,
Wert thou prince, and I a slave.
These, then, are thine oaths of passion ?
This, thy tenderness for me ?
Judged, even, by thine own confession,
Thou art steeped in perfidy.
Having vanquished, thou wouldst leave me !
Thus I read thee long ago;
Therefore, dared I not deceive thee,
Even with friendship's gentle show.
Therefore, with impassive coldness
Have I ever met thy gaze;
Though, full oft, with daring boldness,
Thou thine eyes to mine didst raise.
Why that smile ? Thou now art deeming
This my coldness all untrue,–
But a mask of frozen seeming,
Hiding secret fires from view.
Touch my hand, thou self-deceiver,
Nay–be calm, for I am so:
Does it burn ? Does my lip quiver ?


Has mine eye a troubled glow ?
Canst thou call a moment's colour
To my forehead–to my cheek ?
Canst thou tinge their tranquil pallor
With one flattering, feverish streak?
Am I marble ? What ! no woman
Could so calm before thee stand ?
Nothing living, sentient, human,
Could so coldly take thy hand ?
Yes–a sister might, a mother:
My good-will is sisterly:
Dream not, then, I strive to smother
Fires that inly burn for thee.
Rave not, rage not, wrath is fruitless,
Fury cannot change my mind;
I but deem the feeling rootless
Which so whirls in passion's wind.
Can I love ? Oh, deeply–truly–
Warmly–fondly–but not thee;
And my love is answered duly,
With an equal energy.
Wouldst thou see thy rival ? Hasten,
Draw that curtain soft aside,
Look where yon thick branches chasten
Noon, with shades of eventide.
In that glade, where foliage blending
Forms a green arch overhead,
Sits thy rival thoughtful bending
O'er a stand with papers spread–
Motionless, his fingers plying


That untired, unresting pen;
Time and tide unnoticed flying,
There he sits–the first of men !
Man of conscience–man of reason;
Stern, perchance, but ever just;
Foe to falsehood, wrong, and treason,
Honour's shield, and virtue's trust !
Worker, thinker, firm defender
Of Heaven's truth–man's liberty;
Soul of iron–proof to slander,
Rock where founders tyranny.
Fame he seeks not–but full surely
She will seek him, in his home;
This I know, and wait securely
For the atoning hour to come.
To that man my faith is given,
Therefore, soldier, cease to sue;
While God reigns in earth and heaven,
I to him will still be true !

Stanzas

If thou be in a lonely place,
  If one hour's calm be thine,
As Evening bends her placid face
  O'er this sweet day's decline;
If all the earth and all the heaven
  Now look serene to thee,
As o'er them shuts the summer even,
  One moment–think of me !

Pause, in the lane, returning home;
  'Tis dusk, it will be still:
Pause near the elm, a sacred gloom
  Its breezeless boughs will fill.
Look at that soft and golden light,
  High in the unclouded sky;
Watch the last bird's belated flight,
  As it flits silent by.

Hark ! for a sound upon the wind,
  A step, a voice, a sigh;
If all be still, then yield thy mind,
  Unchecked, to memory.
If thy love were like mine, how blest
  That twilight hour would seem,
When, back from the regretted Past,
  Returned our early dream !


If thy love were like mine, how wild
  Thy longings, even to pain,
For sunset soft, and moonlight mild,
  To bring that hour again !
But oft, when in thine arms I lay,
  I've seen thy dark eyes shine,
And deeply felt, their changeful ray
  Spoke other love than mine.

My love is almost anguish now,
  It beats so strong and true;
'Twere rapture, could I deem that thou
  Such anguish ever knew.
I have been but thy transient flower,
  Thou wert my god divine;
Till, checked by death's congealing power,
  This heart must throb for thine.

And well my dying hour were blest,
  If life's expiring breath
Should pass, as thy lips gently prest
  My forehead, cold in death;
And sound my sleep would be, and sweet,
  Beneath the churchyard tree,
If sometimes in thy heart should beat
  One pulse, still true to me.

Evening Solace

The human heart has hidden treasures,
In secret kept, in silence sealed;–
The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures,
Whose charms were broken if revealed.
And days may pass in gay confusion,
And nights in rosy riot fly,
While, lost in Fame's or Wealth's illusion,
The memory of the Past may die.


But, there are hours of lonely musing,
Such as in evening silence come,
When, soft as birds their pinions closing,
The heart's best feelings gather home.
Then in our souls there seems to languish
A tender grief that is not woe;
And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish,
Now cause but some mild tears to flow.

And feelings, once as strong as passions,
Float softly back–a faded dream;
Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations,
The tale of others' sufferings seem.
Oh ! when the heart is freshly bleeding,
How longs it for that time to be,
When, through the mist of years receding,
Its woes but live in reverie !

And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer,
On evening shade and loneliness;
And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer,
Feel no untold and strange distress–
Only a deeper impulse given
By lonely hour and darkened room,
To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven,
Seeking a life and world to come.

Parting

There's no use in weeping,
Though we are condemned to part:
There's such a thing as keeping
A remembrance in one's heart:

There's such a thing as dwelling
On the thought ourselves have nurs'd,
And with scorn and courage telling
The world to do its worst.

We'll not let its follies grieve us,
We'll just take them as they come;
And then every day will leave us
A merry laugh for home.

When we've left each friend and brother,
When we're parted wide and far,
We will think of one another,
As even better than we are.

Every glorious sight above us,
Every pleasant sight beneath,
We'll connect with those that love us,
Whom we truly love till death !


In the evening, when we're sitting
By the fire perchance alone,
Then shall heart with warm heart meeting,
Give responsive tone for tone.

We can burst the bonds which chain us,
Which cold human hands have wrought,
And where none shall dare restrain us
We can meet again, in thought.

So there's no use in weeping,
Bear a cheerful spirit still;
Never doubt that Fate is keeping
Future good for present ill !

Apostasy

This last denial of my faith,
  Thou, solemn Priest, hast heard;
And, though upon my bed of death,
  I call not back a word.
Point not to thy Madonna, Priest,–
  Thy sightless saint of stone;
She cannot, from this burning breast,
  Wring one repentant moan.


Thou say'st, that when a sinless child,
  I duly bent the knee,
And prayed to what in marble smiled
  Cold, lifeless, mute, on me.
I did. But listen ! Children spring
  Full soon to riper youth;
And, for Love's vow and Wedlock's ring,
  I sold my early truth.

'Twas not a grey, bare head, like thine,
  Bent o'er me, when I said,
" That land and God and Faith are mine,
  For which thy fathers bled."
I see thee not, my eyes are dim;
  But, well I hear thee say,
" O daughter, cease to think of him
  Who led thy soul astray.

Between you lies both space and time;
  Let leagues and years prevail
To turn thee from the path of crime,
  Back to the Church's pale."
And, did I need that thou shouldst tell
  What mighty barriers rise
To part me from that dungeon-cell,
  Where my loved Walter lies ?

And, did I need that thou shouldst taunt
  My dying hour at last,
By bidding this worn spirit pant
  No more for what is past ?


Priest–must I cease to think of him ?
  How hollow rings that word !
Can time, can tears, can distance dim
  The memory of my lord ?

I said before, I saw not thee,
  Because, an hour agone,
Over my eye-balls, heavily,
  The lids fell down like stone.
But still my spirit's inward sight
  Beholds his image beam
As fixed, as clear, as burning bright,
  As some red planet's gleam.

Talk not of thy Last Sacrament,
  Tell not thy beads for me;
Both rite and prayer are vainly spent,
  As dews upon the sea.
Speak not one word of Heaven above,
  Rave not of Hell's alarms;
Give me but back my Walter's love,
  Restore me to his arms !

Then will the bliss of Heaven be won;
  Then will Hell shrink away,
As I have seen night's terrors shun
  The conquering steps of day.
'Tis my religion thus to love,
  My creed thus fixed to be;
Not Death shall shake, nor Priestcraft break
  My rock-like constancy !


Now go; for at the door there waits
  Another stranger guest:
He calls–I come–my pulse scarce beats,
  My heart fails in my breast.
Again that voice–how far away,
  How dreary sounds that tone !
And I, methinks, am gone astray
  In trackless wastes and lone.

I fain would rest a little while:
  Where can I find a stay,
Till dawn upon the hills shall smile,
  And show some trodden way ?
" I come ! I come !" in haste she said,
   " 'Twas Walter's voice I heard !"
Then up she sprang–but fell back, dead,
  His name her latest word.

Winter stores

We take from life one little share,
  And say that this shall be
A space, redeemed from toil and care,
  From tears and sadness free.

And, haply, Death unstrings his bow
  And Sorrow stands apart,
And, for a little while, we know
  The sunshine of the heart.

Existence seems a summer eve,
  Warm, soft, and full of peace;
Our free, unfettered feelings give
  The soul its full release.

A moment, then, it takes the power,
  To call up thoughts that throw
Around that charmed and hallowed hour,
  This life's divinest glow.

But Time, though viewlessly it flies,
  And slowly, will not stay;
Alike, through clear and clouded skies,
  It cleaves its silent way.


Alike the bitter cup of grief,
  Alike the draught of bliss,
Its progress leaves but moment brief
  For baffled lips to kiss.

The sparkling draught is dried away,
  The hour of rest is gone,
And urgent voices, round us, say,
  " Ho, lingerer, hasten on !"

And has the soul, then, only gained,
  From this brief time of ease,
A moment's rest, when overstrained,
  One hurried glimpse of peace ?

No; while the sun shone kindly o'er us,
  And flowers bloomed round our feet,–
While many a bud of joy before us
  Unclosed its petals sweet,–

An unseen work within was plying;
  Like honey-seeking bee,
From flower to flower, unwearied, flying,
  Laboured one faculty,–

Thoughtful for Winter's future sorrow,
  Its gloom and scarcity;
Prescient to-day, of want to-morrow,
  Toiled quiet Memory.


'Tis she that from each transient pleasure
  Extracts a lasting good;
'Tis she that finds, in summer, treasure
  To serve for winter's food.

And when Youth's summer day is vanished,
  And Age brings Winter's stress,
Her stores, with hoarded sweets replenished,
  Life's evening hours will bless.

The missionary

Plough, vessel, plough the British main,
Seek the free ocean's wider plain;
Leave English scenes and English skies,
Unbind, dissever English ties;
Bear me to climes remote and strange,
Where altered life, fast-following change,
Hot action, never-ceasing toil,
Shall stir, turn, dig, the spirit's soil;


Fresh roots shall plant, fresh seed shall sow,
Till a new garden there shall grow,
Cleared of the weeds that fill it now,–
Mere human love, mere selfish yearning,
Which, cherished, would arrest me yet.
I grasp the plough, there's no returning,
Let me, then, struggle to forget.

But England's shores are yet in view,
And England's skies of tender blue
Are arched above her guardian sea.
I cannot yet Remembrance flee;
I must again, then, firmly face
That task of anguish, to retrace.
Wedded to home–I home forsake,
Fearful of change–I changes make;
Too fond of ease–I plunge in toil;
Lover of calm–I seek turmoil:
Nature and hostile Destiny
Stir in my heart a conflict wild;
And long and fierce the war will be
Ere duty both has reconciled.

What other tie yet holds me fast
To the divorced, abandoned past?
Smouldering, on my heart's altar lies
The fire of some great sacrifice,
Not yet half quenched. The sacred steel
But lately struck my carnal will,


My life-long hope, first joy and last,
What I loved well, and clung to fast;
What I wished wildly to retain,
What I renounced with soul-felt pain;
What–when I saw it, axe-struck, perish–
Left me no joy on earth to cherish;
A man bereft–yet sternly now
I do confirm that Jephtha vow:
Shall I retract, or fear, or flee ?
Did Christ, when rose the fatal tree
Before him, on Mount Calvary ?
'Twas a long fight, hard fought, but won,
And what I did was justly done.

Yet, Helen ! from thy love I turned,
When my heart most for thy heart burned;
I dared thy tears, I dared thy scorn–
Easier the death-pang had been borne.
Helen ! thou mightst not go with me,
I could not–dared not stay for thee !
I heard, afar, in bonds complain
The savage from beyond the main;
And that wild sound rose o'er the cry
Wrung out by passion's agony;
And even when, with the bitterest tear
I ever shed, mine eyes were dim,
Still, with the spirit's vision clear,
I saw Hell's empire, vast and grim,
Spread on each Indian river's shore,
Each realm of Asia covering o'er.


There, the weak, trampled by the strong,
Live but to suffer–hopeless die;
There pagan-priests, whose creed is Wrong,
Extortion, Lust, and Cruelty,
Crush our lost race–and brimming fill
The bitter cup of human ill;
And I–who have the healing creed,
The faith benign of Mary's Son;
Shall I behold my brother's need
And, selfishly, to aid him shun ?
I–who upon my mother's knees,
In childhood, read Christ's written word,
Received his legacy of peace,
His holy rule of action heard;
I–in whose heart the sacred sense
Of Jesus' love was early felt;
Of his pure full benevolence,
His pitying tenderness for guilt;
His shepherd-care for wandering sheep,
For all weak, sorrowing, trembling things,
His mercy vast, his passion deep
Of anguish for man's sufferings;
I–schooled from childhood in such lore–
Dared I draw back or hesitate,
When called to heal the sickness sore
Of those far off and desolate ?
Dark, in the realm and shades of Death,
Nations and tribes and empires lie,
But even to them the light of Faith
Is breaking on their sombre sky:


And be it mine to bid them raise
Their drooped heads to the kindling scene,
And know and hail the sunrise blaze
Which heralds Christ the Nazarene.
I know how Hell the veil will spread
Over their brows and filmy eyes,
And earthward crush the lifted head
That would look up and seek the skies;
I know what war the fiend will wage
Against that soldier of the cross,
Who comes to dare his demon-rage,
And work his kingdom shame and loss.
Yes, hard and terrible the toil
Of him who steps on foreign soil,
Resolved to plant the gospel vine,
Where tyrants rule and slaves repine;
Eager to lift Religion's light
Where thickest shades of mental night
Screen the false god and fiendish rite;
Reckless that missionary blood,
Shed in wild wilderness and wood,
Has left, upon the unblest air,
The man's deep moan–the martyr's prayer.
I know my lot–I only ask
Power to fulfil the glorious task;
Willing the spirit, may the flesh
Strength for the day receive afresh.
May burning sun or deadly wind
Prevail not o'er an earnest mind;


May torments strange or direst death
Nor trample truth, nor baffle faith.
Though such blood-drops should fall from me
As fell in old Gethsemane,
Welcome the anguish, so it gave
More strength to work–more skill to save.
And, oh ! if brief must be my time,
If hostile hand or fatal clime
Cut short my course–still o'er my grave,
Lord, may thy harvest whitening wave.
So I the culture may begin,
Let others thrust the sickle in;
If but the seed will faster grow,
May my blood water what I sow !

What ! have I ever trembling stood,
And feared to give to God that blood ?
What ! has the coward love of life
Made me shrink from the righteous strife ?
Have human passions, human fears
Severed me from those Pioneers,
Whose task is to march first, and trace
Paths for the progress of our race ?
It has been so; but grant me, Lord,
Now to stand steadfast by thy word !
Protected by salvation's helm,
Shielded by faith–with truth begirt,
To smile when trials seek to whelm
And stand 'mid testing fires unhurt !


Hurling hell's strongest bulwarks down,
Even when the last pang thrills my breast,
When Death bestows the Martyr's crown,
And calls me into Jesus' rest.
Then for my ultimate reward–
Then for the world-rejoicing word–
The voice from Father–Spirit–Son:
" Servant of God, well hast thou done !"