And still, from earth and sea, there ever pealeth A voice far softer than leal lover's lay, Bearing the heart, o'er which its true sense stealeth, Far to diviner dreams of joy away, And to the wisdom of a riper day.

THE RAVEN.

There sat a raven 'mid the pines so dark, The pines so silent and so dark at morn A ragged bird with feathers rough and torn, Whetting his grimy beak upon the bark, And croaking hoa.r.s.ely to the woods forlorn.

Blood red the sky and misty in the east-- Low vapours creeping bleakly o'er the hills-- The rain will soon come plashing on the rills-- No sound in all the place of bird or beast, Save that hoa.r.s.e croak that all the woodland fills.

A slimy pool all rank with rotting weeds, Close by the pines there at the highway side; No ripple on its green and stagnant tide, Where only cold and still the horse-leech breeds-- Ugh! might not here some b.l.o.o.d.y murder hide!

Pshaw! ... Cold the air slow stealing through the trees, Scarce rustling the moist leaves beneath its tread-- A fearful breast thus holds its breath for dread!

There is no healthful music in this breeze, It sounds ... ha! ha! ... like sighs above the dead!

What frights yon raven 'mid the pines so dark, The pines so silent and so dark around, With ne'er accomplish'd circlings to the ground Ruffling his wings so ragged and so stark?

Some half-dead victim haply hath he found.

Ho! raven, now with thee I'll share the spoil!

This way, methinks, the dying game hath trod-- Ay! broken twigs, and blood upon the sod-- These thorns are sharp! well! soon will end the toil-- This bough aside, and then the prize ... My G.o.d!...

SONNETS

ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

1.

The Land stood still to listen all that day, And 'mid the hush of many a wrangling tongue, Forth from the cannon's mouth the signal rung, That from the earth a man had pa.s.s'd away-- A mighty Man, that over many a field Roll'd back the tide of Battle on the foe,-- Thus far, no further, shall thy billows go.

Who Freedom's falchion did right n.o.bly wield, Like potter's vessel smiting Tyrants down, And from Earth's strongest s.n.a.t.c.hing Victory's crown; Upon the anvil of each Battle-plain, Still beating swords to ploughshares. All is past,-- The glory, and the labour, and the pain-- The Conqueror is conquer'd here at last.

2.

Yet other men have wrought, and fought, and won, Cutting with crimson sword Fame's Gordian knot, And, dying, nations wonder'd--and forgot,-- But this Man's name shall circle with the sun; And when our children's children feel the glow, That ripens them unconsciously to men, Asking, with upturn'd face, "What did he then?"

One answer from each quicken'd heart shall flow-- "This Man submerg'd the Doer in the Deed, Toil'd on for Duty, nor of Fame took heed; Hew'd out his name upon the great world's sides.

In sure-aim'd strokes of n.o.bleness and worth, And never more Time's devastating tides Shall wear the steadfast record from the Earth."

3.

This Duty, known and done, which all men praise, Is it a thing for heroes utterly?

Or claims it aught, O Man! from thee and me, Amid the sweat and grime of working days?

Stand forth, thou Conqueror, before G.o.d's throne, Thou ruler, thou Earth-leader, great and strong, Behold thy work, thy doing, labour'd long, Before that mighty Presence little grown.

Stand forth, thou Man, low toiling 'mid the lees, That measurest Duty out in poor degrees; Are not all deeds, beside the deeds of Heaven, But as the sands upon the ocean sh.o.r.e, Which, softly breath'd on by G.o.d's winds, are driven Into dim deserts, thenceforth seen no more!

4.

Then make thou Life heroic, O! thou Man, Though not in Earth's eyes, still in Heaven's, which see Each task accomplish'd not in poor degree, But as fain workings out of Duty's plan,-- The hewers and the drawers of the land, No whit behind the mighty and the great, Bearing unmoved the burden of the State,-- Alike each duty challenged at man's hand.

Life is built up of smallest atomics, Pile upon pile the ramparts still increase, And as those, Roman walls, o'er which in scorn The scoffer leapt, soon held the world at bay, So shall thy deeds of duty, lowly born, Be thy strong tower and glory ere the set of day.

THE Pa.s.sAGE-BIRDS.

Far, far away, over land and sea, When Winter comes with his cold, cold breath, And chills the flowers to the sleep of death, Far, far away over land and sea, Like a band of spirits the Pa.s.sage-birds flee.

Round the old grey spire in the evening calm, No more they circle in sportive glee, Hearing the hum of the vesper psalm, And the swell of the organ so far below; But far, far away, over land and sea, In the still mid-air the swift Pa.s.sage-birds go.

Over the earth that is scarcely seen Through the curtain of vapour that waves between, O'er city and hamlet, o'er hill and plain, O'er forest green, and o'er mountain h.o.a.r, They flit like shadows, and pa.s.s the sh.o.r.e, And wing their way o'er the pathless main.

There is no rest for the weary wing, No quivering bough where the feet can cling; To the North, to the South, to the East, to the West, The ocean lies with its heaving breast, Within it, without it there is no rest.

The tempest gathers beneath them far, The Wind-G.o.d rides on his battle-car, And the roar of the thunder, the lightning-flash, Break on the waves with a sullen crash; But Silence reigns where the Pa.s.sage-birds fly, And o'er them stretches the clear blue sky.

The day wears out, and the starry night Hushes the world to sleep, to sleep; The dew-shower falls in the still moonlight, And none wake now, save those who weep; But rustling on through the starry night, Like a band of spirits the Pa.s.sage-birds flee, Cleaving the darkness above the sea, Swift and straight as an arrow's flight.

Is the wind their guide through the trackless sky?

For here there's no landmark to travel by.

The first faint streak of the morning glows, Like the feeble blush on the budding rose; And in long grey lines the clouds divide, And march away with retreating Night, Whilst the bright gleams of victorious Light, Follow them goldenly far and wide: And when the mists have all pa.s.s'd away, And left the heavens serene and clear, As an eye that has never shed a tear And the universe basks in the smile of Day, Dreamy and still, and the sleepy breeze, Lazily moves o'er the gla.s.sy seas, The Pa.s.sage-birds flit o'er the disc of noon, Like shadows across a mirror's face, For now their journey wanes apace, And the realms of Summer they'll enter soon.

The land looms far through the waters blue, The Land of Promise, the Land of Rest; Through cloud and storm they have travell'd true, And joy thrills now in each throbbing breast Down they sink, with a wheeling flight, Whilst the song of birds comes floating high, And they pa.s.s the lark in the sunny sky; But down, without pausing, down they fly; Their travel is over, their Summer shines bright.

MEMNON.

Hot blows the wild simoom across the waste, The desert waste, amid the dreary sand, With fiery breath swift burning up the land, O'er the scared pilgrim, speeding on in haste, Hurling fierce death-drifts with broad-scorching hand.

O weary Wilderness! No shady tree To spread its arms around the fainting soul; No spring to sparkle in the parched bowl; No refuge in the drear immensity, Where lies the Past, wreck'd 'neath a sandy sea, Where o'er its glories blighting billows roll.

Ho! Sea, yield up thy buried dead again; Heave back thy waves, and let the Past arise; Restore Time's relics to the startled skies, Till giant shadows tremble on the plain, And awe the heart with old-world mysteries!

Old Menmon! Once again thy Poet-voice May sing sweet paeans to the golden Morn, Again may hail the saviour Light sun-born, And bid the wild and desert waste rejoice,-- Again with sighs the looming darkness mourn.

Thou Watchman, waiting weary for the dawn, Breathing low longings for its golden light, Through the dim silence of the drowsy night, What wistful sighs with thine are softly drawn, Till day-beams on the darken'd spirit smite!