Are they not as the ministers of heaven, Liveried with beauty, and deep tenderness, Missioned in mercy to this fallen sphere Proclaiming peace and blessedness above; Threading the ranks of Earth's fierce battle field, Amid the clangour of death-darting steel, Raising the wounded from their helplessness, And bearing life draughts to the sinking soul!

O Mother Earth! thine arms will fondle her When ingrate man hath drain'd her spirit dry, Fashioned in weakness, yet in weakness strong Where honour were the foeman, what is she Before the onslaught of satanic serfs?-- The mirror of her purity obscured, Polluted by l.u.s.t's pestilential breath-- Pluck'd like a flower to while an hour away, Then cast to wither on the barren ground, Shattered and bruised beneath base pa.s.sion's heel, And all the clinging tendrils of her love Torn bleeding from the stay round which they clung.

Look thou upon that stream, rough with the whirl Of crime, and woe, and wretchedness, that float Like poisoned sc.u.m upon the driving flood, Filling the breath of life with noxious blasts That smite humanity with pestilence.

And tremble thou, though man discern it not, Ten thousand times more foul it shows to G.o.d; Then praise him for the twilight of thy sense.

Yet there is much of good and fair in life, That like the glow upon the eastern sky, Blazons the glory of approaching day.

MAN.

O! is not life then sweetest to the soul In utter solitude, or that deep calm When all of Earth, its cares and interests, Are shaken from the spirit, as the moth Doffs from its wings the natal crysalis And wanders through the blue serene of heaven?

In this pure scene the din of man would sound Harsher than discord amid melody.

Here no rude tongue should whisper of the things Poor Earth bows down to worship--fashion, wealth, And hollow mockings gilded by a name, That makes the calf which browses on the plain Turn to a G.o.d when moulded in the gold.

No thought should rise, that pa.s.sing into speech Might soil the purity of new-born flowers, Fresh with the dews of morn and paradise, But like an angel singing through the skies, Wing the blue empyrean of the mind, And break in music on the thrilling sense.

SPIRIT.

Is there no music in the gentle word That falls in consolation on the sad, Starting the crystal tear into the eye, Filtrate through grat.i.tude till there remain Naught earthy in its brightness? Though the scene Be as a plague spot on the face of earth Sweet Charity can cleanse it, till it shine Bright as the jewels in a monarch's crown, That not the midnight of Earth's blackest sin Can dim. All beauty emanates from soul, And all deformity. The piteous straw Where sickness writhes in suffering and want-- The cold, bleak dwelling where the winds have will To brag o'er man's debas.e.m.e.nt, if possess'd In fort.i.tude and patience, with the heart Clear in its honour, stedfast in its faith, Is to the eye of angels, beautiful as day; And this fair spot with all its waken'd charms Is purgatorial torture to the wretch Whose life shrieks in him under conscience-stings.

Let sunshine be within thee, and without Summer will dwell in everlasting bloom, Whether in light or darkness, in close cell, Or 'neath the blessed canopy of heaven.

SCENE. _A Mountain Summit--Sunrise._

POET.

'Tis glorious to stand thus nigh to heaven, And like a Prophet with the mark of G.o.d Set on him for an everlasting work, With outstretched hands, and earnest-hearted words, To speak unto the Nations. This calm spot, Emblem of Truth's serenity and peace, With no hoa.r.s.e dissonance to stir the deep Of thought to pa.s.sion, till the whirling waves Swallow the love-steered purposes of soul, And leave its being desolate--looks down On Earth, and all its jarring mult.i.tudes, Its miseries of soul and sense, as Earth Looks on the distant glory of the stars, All unpartic.i.p.ant of weal or woe, Save as the gla.s.s is of its mirrored form; Thus Action rises over Thought, and sets Man over man preeminent for and great, As mountains in the sphere of human life.

This were a throne meet for the Sent of G.o.d To rest on, and give laws unto the world, Rooted in the unshaken strength of Earth, With man for footstool, and the disc of heaven For canopy and witness to swell down The quenchless words into the heart of Time; Here to raise up the wand, and smite Earth's soul Till streams of penitence and love gushed out To wipe away her barrenness, and fill The latent seeds of holiness with life, To blossom for the harvest of the Angels.

O Thou that from Thy throne set on the flood Of measureless Eternity, dost bind The mighty thunder in its misty cave, And still'st its throbbings with a single word; That break'st the chain which holdeth it, and send'st It booming o'er the boundless Universe, Thy minister to testify of Thee, And shake the pillars of the firm-set Earth With knowledge of Thy majesty and strength; That with the trenchant lightning dost search out The limits of immensity, and bare Its inmost soul to Thy dread scrutiny, Before whose holiness the sun grows dim, And vanishes to nothingness like mist; That bidd'st the winds sweep o'er the bounds of s.p.a.ce, Strong in the terror of Thy mightiness, Till stars are shaken from their seats, like fruit From the autumnal fulness of the bough; Breathe Thou upon me till my soul be full Of deathless inspiration, that may flow In burning currents through all s.p.a.ce and Time, And stir up generations with warm life, To battle for the cause of Truth and Heaven.

Let my words ring upon the sleeper's ear Clear as the trump that wakes the dead for doom, Fright him from false security and sloth, And rouse the _man_ within him, though it be Feeble and powerless as a creeping babe.

Let them break on the conscience of the base, As billows break upon the shifting sands, Crumbling the false foundations of his hope, And sweeping all his theories to naught: Let them rush swifter on him as he flees, Circle him with their terrors everywhere, s.n.a.t.c.h from his clutching fingers every prop That guilt or error flings him, till he fall Into the waves of truth a drowning man With not a straw to grasp at. Let them smite Wrong and oppression like a gnawing blight, Eating into the heart, till like dead leaves, Shrivell'd and pow'rless, beggars tread them down.

Let them fall on the pure in heart like dews, To strengthen and to nourish all sweet thoughts, Raising the drooping and the weary up, And adding sweetness to the path of life.

To all may they be wafted on the wings Of love, not the false love that shines alike On flower and weed, until the evil rise To choke the good seed with its overgrowth; But let deep kindness fill them utterly, In comfort, or in sorrow, or in doom.

Hard is their journey, and unsmooth their way Who walk like pilgrims to eternal fame, Raising for ever hymns of love and beauty, Amid the jar and weariness of life, Working through joy and sorrow equally To stamp their names upon the world's great heart, And piercing their own bosoms, like the bird, For glowing streams to nourish it for aye.

Yet it is glorious to make this life Great in the strength of Action, till it stand A landmark and a guide immoveable, To witness of the struggle and the end; A life of thought is blossom without fruit.

O Life! would I could map thy minutes out, And give to each its purpose, like a king To claim just tribute from futurity; Would I could freight ye with such spirit power, That, like a huge rock cast into the sea, Ye sent Time waving back for evermore; Would ye could track your footsteps out in deeds, Like prints in the soft sands that heaven's decree Changeth into the adamantine rock, Till time nor tide can wipe the trace away.

Let my steps march right onward, pausing none For pleasure or for folly, for the path Is long, and difficult, and hard to walk, And at its limit lies Eternity.

Let no false weakness clog me in the work, And cramp the motions of my willing soul, But let me gird my spirit up to run Before the chariot of the speeding age, A Prophet, and a Poet, and a guide!

O! my heart thrills to that great watchword "Act,"

To leave no record written on the sand For the first wave to crumble into naught, But to materialize on thought--to raise A standard glorious with the sign of heaven, And set it waving o'er oblivion; To seize on spirit like a willow rod, And bend and fashion it to perfect use, Curbing its wayward fancies and desires, Until it sway true to the Poet's creed; To move Earth's mult.i.tudes with nervous power, And burning eloquence, as leaves are swept Before the breathing of a mighty wind, Urging them on for Truth and n.o.bleness, And leading on the van to show the way-- No prating coward framing theories For other men to build on, with "Do _this_"

For empty precept--but there, standing forth, Set _deeds_ in the world's face, and cry "Do _thus_!"

The Poet's life is action spiritualized, Words sublimate by earnestness and truth To the reality and force of deed-- Falling upon the great world's soul like spells That take the reason captive, and subdue Its motions to the gentle sway of love.

His thoughts are like the moonlight that enshrines All earth and heaven with beauty and soft grace, Pouring rich floods of radiance divine O'er life's reality of grief and pain, Making e'en sorrow luminous and sweet, And freighting sighs with gentlest melody.

His creed is--Love--Love perfect, uncontrolled; Twining round all the good and beautiful, As ivy twineth round the sapling oak, Evermore growing with its growth more strong, Till not e'en Death can tear those arms away; Love--winging o'er creation like the morn And show'ring light and beauty as it flies O'er mountain, vale, and streamlet, equally-- In flowery mead and desert solitude Making itself a presence of delight, A radiant glory sweeter than all forms, All shows, all substance--rising in the soul, Like water in the desert--heaven in death!

Opening the unseen gates of Heaven, till sense Dream of its utter blessedness and peace; Leading life onward like an angel pure, Through strife and sorrow scatheless and secure, Scattering joy around it evermore, Like benisons shed from a mother's heart, Making the weary and the bruized glad, Wiping the tears from sorrow's clouded eyes, And soothing pain like woman's tenderness.

Let me love all things with a perfect love, That would e'en coin its own heart-drops to pay Life's ransom from the bitterness of woe, Bear tenderly upon the weaknesses Of flesh, and its oft seen infirmities, And turn with hope and trustfulness to man; Let me not be a stunted thorn on earth, With jagged points to scare all fondness off, Unsweeten'd by a blossom or a bud, And branded deep with harsh sterility, But like a soft wind breathing to and fro, May love and sympathy wave through the Earth.

Life without love, is sorrow without hope.

O Love! thou law of Heaven! thou joy of Earth!

That like the Star of Bethlehem dost rest Above the cradle of a Poet's soul, The witness and the seal of holy birth; Before whose brightness all earth's shadows fade Like fiends before the angel of the Lord; That rend'st in twain the veil of doubt and fear Shrouding the perfectness of heaven's pure bliss, Till man may worship with unsmitten soul Before the glory of the inner shrine; O Love! the Quenchless! Pure! and Beautiful!

Be to me as the Prophet's cruize of oil, That wasteth not, nor minisheth with use, To nourish me through this life's famine time, And strengthen me unto the poet's work; Fold my soul throughly in thy sweet embrace, In honour, or in sorrow, or in joy, Filling it with thy holy influence, As air is filled with sunshine at the noon, Till all thought feel its blessedness and peace.

Thus would I furnish me for life's long march, Arm for its dangers, cater for its wants, Work out its ends with confidence and truth, And rest unstained, unwearied at the goal!

ALCESTe.

I.

Beautiful Florence! e'en thy very name Falls on the ear with a strange magic spell, As though upon the wings of Time there came A breathing of sweet chances that befell In days of old, all chronicled by Fame, Whose faintest whisper makes the bosom swell With kindred feelings, as a sea-flower waves Concordant to the tale the ripple laves.

II.

Thou art entwined with all lovely things That bind a rosy chaplet round the earth; The life of Poets, whose sweet utterings Have the soft cadence of an angel's mirth; The springs of genius--high imaginings That are the wealth of ages, and the birth Of Art, beneath whose vivifying wand The stone, the canvas, animated, stand.

III.

Thy very dust is hallowed, and we tread The footsteps of the mighty, meeting ever The prized memorials of the Living Dead, Those whose sublimed spirits, waning never, Hover around the struggling world and shed Their blessings o'er it, which nor time can sever, Nor can oblivion crush, but which endure Strong in their greatness, in their truth secure.

IV.

Would that some faint ray of the heavenly light Shower'd on thy children now might rest on me, Illume my twilight thoughts and grant me sight Into the depths of Nature's poesie; And tune my faltering tones to breathe aright That which my heart so fondly feels of thee, For 'twere a music sweet as heaven's own lays, Could love's deep soul be cadenced in thy praise.

V.

There was a garden sloping to the west, Smooth'd downward from the giant Apennines, The serried outlines of whose h.o.a.ry crest Blent with the distant heavens in mystic lines, At eventide with golden splendours drest, When the red sun its farewell greeting shines; A palace topped it, from whose terraced height Wound a broad stair of marble, snowy white.

VI.

And paths went wandering beneath the sweep Of Orange boughs and trelliced vines, whose leaves Gave in their parting many a transient peep Of the blue sky, as through soft-tinted eaves; And oft they led to arbours shaded deep, As are the nooks the midway forest weaves, And carven forms of nymphs and dryads gleamed Through leafy screens, as though a Poet dreamed.

VII.

A fountain rippled in the midst, and threw Coolness into the sky; the sculptor's thought A quaint conceit--Aurora flinging dew Upon the earth--the marble finely wrought, Till through the Iris-tinted drops it grew Warm with existence, all its fair limbs fraught With grace and motion--'twas a thing so human, The heart forgot the G.o.ddess in the woman.

VIII.