("Non, l'avenir n'est à personne!"){V. ii., August, 1832.}
Sire, beware, the future's rangeIs of God alone the power,Naught below but augurs change,E'en with ev'ry passing hour.Future! mighty mystery!All the earthly goods that be,Fortune, glory, war's renown,King or kaiser's sparkling crown,Victory! with her burning wings,Proud ambition's covetings,—These may our grasp no more detainThan the free bird who doth alightUpon our roof, and takes its flightHigh into air again.Nor smile, nor tear, nor haughtiest lord's command,Avails t' unclasp the cold and closèd hand.Thy voice to disenthrall,Dumb phantom, shadow ever at our side!Veiled spectre, journeying with us stride for stride,Whom men "To-morrow" call.Oh, to-morrow! who may dareIts realities to scan?God to-morrow brings to bearWhat to-day is sown by man.'Tis the lightning in its shroud,'Tis the star-concealing cloud,Traitor, 'tis his purpose showing,Engine, lofty tow'rs o'erthrowing,Wand'ring star, its region changing,"Lady of kingdoms," ever ranging.To-morrow! 'Tis the rude displayOf the throne's framework, blank and cold,That, rich with velvet, bright with gold,Dazzles the eye to-day.To-morrow! 'tis the foaming war-horse falling;To-morrow! thy victorious march appalling,'Tis the red fires from Moscow's tow'rs that wave;'Tis thine Old Guard strewing the Belgian plain;'Tis the lone island in th' Atlantic main:To-morrow! 'tis the grave!Into capitals subduedThou mayst ride with gallant rein,Cut the knots of civil feudWith the trenchant steel in twain;With thine edicts barricadeHaughty Thames' o'er-freighted trade;Fickle Victory's self enthrall,Captive to thy trumpet call;Burst the stoutest gates asunder;Leave the names of brightest wonder,Pale and dim, behind thee far;And to exhaustless armies yieldThy glancing spur,—o'er Europe's fieldA glory-guiding star.God guards duration, if lends space to thee,Thou mayst o'er-range mundane immensity,Rise high as human head can rise sublime,Snatch Europe from the stamp of Charlemagne,Asia from Mahomet; but never gainPower o'er the Morrow from the Lord of Time!Fraser's Magazine.
("Encore si ce banni n'eût rien aimé sur terre."){V, iv., August, 1832.}
Too hard Napoleon's fate! if, lone,No being he had loved, no single one,Less dark that doom had been.But with the heart of might doth ever dwellThe heart of love! and in his island cellTwo things there were—I ween.Two things—a portrait and a map there were—Here hung the pictured world, an infant there:That framed his genius, this enshrined his love.And as at eve he glanced round th' alcove,Where jailers watched his very thoughts to spy,What mused hethen—what dream of years gone byStirred 'neath that discrowned brow, and fired that glistening eye?'Twas not the steps of that heroic taleThat from Arcola marched to MontmirailOn Glory's red degrees;Nor Cairo-pashas' steel-devouring steeds,Nor the tall shadows of the Pyramids—Ah! Twas not always these;'Twas not the bursting shell, the iron sleet,The whirlwind rush of battle 'neath his feet,Through twice ten years ago,When at his beck, upon that sea of steelWere launched the rustling banners—there to reelLike masts when tempests blow.'Twas not Madrid, nor Kremlin of the Czar,Nor Pharos on Old Egypt's coast afar,Nor shrillréveillé'scamp-awakening sound,Nor bivouac couch'd its starry fires around,Crested dragoons, grim, veteran grenadiers,Nor the red lancers 'mid their wood of spearsBlazing like baleful poppies 'mong the golden ears.No—'twas an infant's image, fresh and fair,With rosy mouth half oped, as slumbering there.It lay beneath the smile,Of her whose breast, soft-bending o'er its sleep,Lingering upon that little lip doth keepOne pendent drop the while.Then, his sad head upon his hands inclined,He wept; that father-heart all unconfined,Outpoured in love alone.My blessing on thy clay-cold head, poor child.Sole being for whose sake his thoughts, beguiled,Forgot the world's lost throne.Fraser's Magazine
{V, vi., August, 1832.}
Say, Lord! for Thou alone canst tellWhere lurks the good invisibleAmid the depths of discord's sea—That seem, alas! so dark to me!Oppressive to a mighty state,Contentions, feuds, the people's hate—But who dare question that which fateHas ordered to have been?Haply the earthquake may unfoldThe resting-place of purest gold,And haply surges up have rolledThe pearls that were unseen!G.W.M. REYNOLDS.
("Ainsi l'Hôtel de Ville illumine."){VI., May, 1833.}
Behold the ball-room flashing on the sight,From step to cornice one grand glare of light;The noise of mirth and revelry resounds,Like fairy melody on haunted grounds.But who demands this profuse, wanton glee,These shouts prolonged and wild festivity—Not sure our city—web, more woe than bliss,In any hour, requiring aught but this!Deaf is the ear of all that jewelled crowdTo sorrow's sob, although its call be loud.Better than waste long nights in idle show,To help the indigent and raise the low—To train the wicked to forsake his way,And find th' industrious work from day to day!Better to charity those hours afford,Which now are wasted at the festal board!And ye, O high-born beauties! in whose soulVirtue resides, and Vice has no control;Ye whom prosperity forbids to sin,So fair without—so chaste, so pure within—Whose honor Want ne'er threatened to betray,Whose eyes are joyous, and whose heart is gay;Around whose modesty a hundred arms,Aided by pride, protect a thousand charms;For you this ball is pregnant with delight;As glitt'ring planets cheer the gloomy night:—But, O, ye wist not, while your souls are glad,How millions wander, homeless, sick and sad!Hazard has placed you in a happy sphere,And like your own to you all lots appear;For blinded by the sun of bliss your eyesCan see no dark horizon to the skies.Such is the chance of life! Each gallant thane,Prince, peer, and noble, follow in your train;—They praise your loveliness, and in your earThey whisper pleasing things, but insincere;Thus, as the moths enamoured of the light,Ye seek these realms of revelry each night.But as ye travel thither, did ye knowWhat wretches walk the streets through which you go.Sisters, whose gewgaws glitter in the glareOf your great lustre, all expectant there,Watching the passing crowd with avid eye,Till one their love, or lust, or shame may buy;Or, with commingling jealousy and rage,They mark the progress of your equipage;And their deceitful life essays the whileTo mask their woe beneath a sickly smile!G.W.M. REYNOLDS.
("O Dieu, si vous avez la France."){VII., August, 1832.}
O God! if France be still thy guardian care,Oh! spare these mercenary combats, spare!The thrones that now are reared but to be broke;The rights we render, and anon revoke;The muddy stream of laws, ideas, needs,Flooding our social life as it proceeds;Opposing tribunes, even when seeming one—Soft, yielding plaster put in place of stone;Wave chasing wave in endless ebb and flow;War, darker still and deeper in its woe;One party fall'n, successor scarce preludes,Than, straight, new views their furious feuds;The great man's pressure on the poor for gold,Rumors uncertain, conflicts, crimes untold;Dark systems hatched in secret and in fear,Telling of hate and strife to every ear,That even to midnight sleep no peace is given,For murd'rous cannon through our streets are driven.J.S. MACRAE.
("Canaris! nous t'avons oublié."){VIII., October, 1832.}
O Canaris! O Canaris! the poet's songHas blameful left untold thy deeds too long!But when the tragic actor's part is done,When clamor ceases, and the fights are won,When heroes realize what Fate decreed,When chieftains mark no more which thousands bleed;When they have shone, as clouded or as bright,As fitful meteor in the heaven at night,And when the sycophant no more proclaimsTo gaping crowds the glory of their names,—'Tis then the mem'ries of warriors die,And fall—alas!—into obscurity,Until the poet, in whose verse aloneExists a world—can make their actions known,And in eternal epic measures, showThey are not yet forgotten here below.And yet by us neglected! glory gloomed,Thy name seems sealed apart, entombed,Although our shouts to pigmies rise—no criesTo mark thy presence echo to the skies;Farewell to Grecian heroes—silent is the lute,And sets your sun without one Memnon bruit?There was a time men gave no peaceTo cheers for Athens, Bozzaris, Leonidas, and Greece!And Canaris' more-worshipped name was foundOn ev'ry lip, in ev'ry heart around.But now is changed the scene! On hist'ry's pageAre writ o'er thine deeds of another age,And thine are not remembered.—Greece, farewell!The world no more thine heroes' deeds will tell.Not that this matters to a man like thee!To whom is left the dark blue open sea,Thy gallant bark, that o'er the water flies,And the bright planet guiding in clear skies;All these remain, with accident and strife,Hope, and the pleasures of a roving life,Boon Nature's fairest prospects—land and main—The noisy starting, glad return again;The pride of freeman on a bounding deckWhich mocks at dangers and despises wreck,And e'en if lightning-pinions cleave the sea,'Tis all replete with joyousness to thee!Yes, these remain! blue sky and ocean blue,Thine eagles with one sweep beyond the view—The sun in golden beauty ever pure,The distance where rich warmth doth aye endure—Thy language so mellifluously bland,Mixed with sweet idioms from Italia's strand,As Baya's streams to Samos' waters glideAnd with them mingle in one placid tide.Yes, these remain, and, Canaris! thy arms—The sculptured sabre, faithful in alarms—The broidered garb, the yataghan, the vestExpressive of thy rank, to thee still rest!And when thy vessel o'er the foaming soundIs proud past storied coasts to blithely bound,At once the point of beauty may restoreSmiles to thy lip, and smoothe thy brow once more.G.W.M. REYNOLDS.
("Seule au pied de la tour."){IX., September, 1833.}
Alone, beneath the tower whence thunder forthThe mandates of the Tyrant of the North,Poland's sad genius kneels, absorbed in tears,Bound, vanquished, pallid with her fears—Alas! the crucifix is all that's leftTo her, of freedom and her sons bereft;And on her royal robe foul marks are seenWhere Russian hectors' scornful feet have been.Anon she hears the clank of murd'rous arms,—The swordsmen come once more to spread alarms!And while she weeps against the prison walls,And waves her bleeding arm until it falls,To France she hopeless turns her glazing eyes,And sues her sister's succor ere she dies.G.W.M. REYNOLDS.
("Oh! n'insultez jamais une femme qui tombe."){XIV., Sept. 6, 1835.}
I tell you, hush! no word of sneering scorn—True, fallen; but God knows how deep her sorrow.Poor girl! too many like her only bornTo love one day—to sin—and die the morrow.What know you of her struggles or her grief?Or what wild storms of want and woe and painTore down her soul from honor? As a leafFrom autumn branches, or a drop of rainThat hung in frailest splendor from a bough—Bright, glistening in the sunlight of God's day—So had she clung to virtue once. But now—See Heaven's clear pearl polluted with earth's clay!The sin is yours—with your accursed gold—Man's wealth is master—woman's soul the slave!Some purest water still the mire may hold.Is there no hope for her—no power to save?Yea, once again to draw up from the clayThe fallen raindrop, till it shine above,Or save a fallen soul, needs but one rayOf Heaven's sunshine, or of human love.W.C.K. WILDE.
("L'aurore s'allume."){XX. a, December, 1834.}
Morning glances hither,Now the shade is past;Dream and fog fly thitherWhere Night goes at last;Open eyes and rosesAs the darkness closes;And the sound that grows isNature walking fast.Murmuring all and singing,Hark! the news is stirred,Roof and creepers clinging,Smoke and nest of bird;Winds to oak-trees bear it,Streams and fountains hear it,Every breath and spiritAs a voice is heard.All takes up its story,Child resumes his play,Hearth its ruddy glory,Lute its lifted lay.Wild or out of senses,Through the world immense isSound as each commencesSchemes of yesterday.W.M. HARDINGE.
("S'il est un charmant gazon."){XXII, Feb. 18, 1834.}
If there be a velvet swardBy dewdrops pearly drest,Where through all seasons fairies guardFlowers by bees carest,Where one may gather, day and night,Roses, honeysuckle, lily white,I fain would make of it a siteFor thy foot to rest.If there be a loving heartWhere Honor rules the breast,Loyal and true in every part,That changes ne'er molest,Eager to run its noble race,Intent to do some work of grace,I fain would make of it a placeFor thy brow to rest.And if there be of love a dreamRose-scented as the west,Which shows, each time it comes, a gleam,—A something sweet and blest,—A dream of which heaven is the pole,A dream that mingles soul and soul,I fain of it would make the goalWhere thy mind should rest.TORU DUTT.
("L'aube naît et ta porte est close."){XXIII., February, 18—.}
Though heaven's gate of light uncloses,Thou stirr'st not—thou'rt laid to rest,Waking are thy sister roses,One only dreamest on thy breast.Hear me, sweet dreamer!Tell me all thy fears,Trembling in song,But to break in tears.Lo! to greet thee, spirits pressing,Soft music brings the gentle dove,And fair light falleth like a blessing,While my poor heart can bring thee only love.Worship thee, angels love thee, sweet woman?Yes; for that love perfects my soul.None the less of heaven that my heart is human,Blent in one exquisite, harmonious whole.H.B. FARNIE.{Footnote 1: Set to music by Sir Arthur Sullivan.}
("Puisque j'ai mis ma lèvre à ta coupe."){XXV., Jan. 1, 1835.}
Since I have set my lips to your full cup, my sweet,Since I my pallid face between your hands have laid,Since I have known your soul, and all the bloom of it,And all the perfume rare, now buried in the shade;Since it was given to me to hear one happy while,The words wherein your heart spoke all its mysteries,Since I have seen you weep, and since I have seen you smile,Your lips upon my lips, and your gaze upon my eyes;Since I have known upon my forehead glance and gleam,A ray, a single ray, of your star, veiled always,Since I have felt the fall upon my lifetime's stream,Of one rose-petal plucked from the roses of your days;I now am bold to say to the swift-changing hours,Pass—pass upon your way, for I grow never old.Flee to the dark abysm with all your fading flowers,One rose that none may pluck, within my heart I hold.Your flying wings may smite, but they can never spillThe cup fulfilled of love, from which my lips are wet.My heart has far more fire than you have frost to chill,My soul more love than you can make my love forget.A. LANG.
("Roses et Papillons."){XXVII., Dec. 7, 1834.}
The grave receives us all:Ye butterflies and roses gay and sweetWhy do ye linger, say?Will ye not dwell together as is meet?Somewhere high in the airWould thy wing seek a home 'mid sunny skies,In mead or mossy dell—If there thy odors longest, sweetest rise.Have where ye will your dwelling,Or breath or tint whose praise we sing;Butterfly shining bright,Full-blown or bursting rosebud, flow'r or wing.Dwell together ye fair,'Tis a boon to the loveliest given;Perchance ye then may choose your homeOn the earth or in heaven.W.C. WESTBROOK
A SIMILE.("Soyez comme l'oiseau."){XXXIII. vi.}
Thou art like the birdThat alights and singsThough the frail spray bends—For he knows he has wings.FANNY KEMBLE (BUTLER)
("À toi, toujours à toi."){XXXIX., 1823}
To thee, all time to thee,My lyre a voice shall be!Above all earthly fashion,Above mere mundane rage,Your mind made it my passionTo write for noblest stage.Whoe'er you be, send blessings to her—sheWas sister of my soul immortal, free!My pride, my hope, my shelter, my resource,When green hoped not to gray to run its course;She was enthronèd Virtue under heaven's dome,My idol in the shrine of curtained home.
("Qui leur eût dit l'austère destineé?"){II. v., November, 1836.}
Whothen, to them{1} had told the Future's story?Or said that France, low bowed before their glory,One day would mindful beOf them and of their mournful fate no more,Than of the wrecks its waters have swept o'erThe unremembering sea?That their old Tuileries should see the fallOf blazons from its high heraldic hall,Dismantled, crumbling, prone;{2}Or that, o'er yon dark Louvre's architrave{3}A Corsican, as yet unborn, should graveAn eagle, then unknown?That gay St. Cloud another lord awaited,Or that in scenes Le Nôtre's art createdFor princely sport and ease,Crimean steeds, trampling the velvet glade,Should browse the bark beneath the stately shadeOf the great Louis' trees?Fraser's Magazine.{Footnote 1: The young princes, afterwards Louis XVIII. and Charles X.}{Footnote 2: The Tuileries, several times stormed by mobs, was soirreparably injured by the Communists that, in 1882, the Paris TownCouncil decided that the ruins should be cleared away.}{Footnote 3: After the Eagle and the Bee superseded the Lily-flowers,the Third Napoleon's initial "N" flourished for two decades, but hasbeen excised or plastered over, the words "National Property" or"Liberty, Equality, Fraternity" being cut in the stone profusely.}
("Dans les vieilles forêts."){X., April 20, 1837.}
Through ancient forests—where like flowing tideThe rising sap shoots vigor far and wide,Mounting the column of the alder darkAnd silv'ring o'er the birch's shining bark—Hast thou not often, Albert Dürer, strayedPond'ring, awe-stricken—through the half-lit glade,Pallid and trembling—glancing not behindFrom mystic fear that did thy senses bind,Yet made thee hasten with unsteady pace?Oh, Master grave! whose musings lone we traceThroughout thy works we look on reverently.Amidst the gloomy umbrage thy mind's eyeSaw clearly, 'mong the shadows soft yet deep,The web-toed faun, and Pan the green-eyed peep,Who deck'd with flowers the cave where thou might'st rest,Leaf-laden dryads, too, in verdure drest.A strange weird world such forest was to thee,Where mingled truth and dreams in mystery;There leaned old ruminating pines, and thereThe giant elms, whose boughs deformed and bareA hundred rough and crooked elbows made;And in this sombre group the wind had swayed,Nor life—nor death—but life in death seemed found.The cresses drink—the water flows—and roundUpon the slopes the mountain rowans meet,And 'neath the brushwood plant their gnarled feet,Intwining slowly where the creepers twine.There, too, the lakes as mirrors brightly shine,And show the swan-necked flowers, each line by line.Chimeras roused take stranger shapes for thee,The glittering scales of mailèd throat we see,And claws tight pressed on huge old knotted tree;While from a cavern dim the bright eyes glare.Oh, vegetation! Spirit! Do we dareQuestion of matter, and of forces found'Neath a rude skin-in living verdure bound.Oh, Master—I, like thee, have wandered oftWhere mighty trees made arches high aloft,But ever with a consciousness of strife,A surging struggle of the inner life.Ever the trembling of the grass I say,And the boughs rocking as the breezes play,Have stirred deep thoughts in a bewild'ring way.Oh, God! alone Great Witness of all deeds,Of thoughts and acts, and all our human needs,God only knows how often in such scenesOf savage beauty under leafy screens,I've felt the mighty oaks had spirit dower—Like me knew mirth and sorrow—sentient power,And whisp'ring each to each in twilight dim,Had hearts that beat—and owned a soul from Him!MRS. NEWTON CROSLAND
("Puisqu'ici-bas tout âme."){XL, May 19, 1836.}Since everything below,Doth, in this mortal state,Its tone, its fragrance, or its glowCommunicate;Since all that lives and movesUpon the earth, bestowsOn what it seeks and what it lovesIts thorn or rose;Since April to the treesGives a bewitching sound,And sombre night to grief gives ease,And peace profound;Since day-spring on the flowerA fresh'ning drop confers,And the fresh air on branch and bowerIts choristers;Since the dark wave bestowsA soft caress, imprestOn the green bank to which it goesSeeking its rest;I give thee at this hour,Thus fondly bent o'er thee,The best of all the things in dow'rThat in me be.Receive,-poor gift, 'tis true,Which grief, not joy, endears,—My thoughts, that like a shower of dew,Reach thee in tears.My vows untold receive,All pure before thee laid;Receive of all the days I liveThe light or shade!My hours with rapture fill'd,Which no suspicion wrongs;And all the blandishments distill'dFrom all my songs.My spirit, whose essayFlies fearless, wild, and free,And hath, and seeks, to guide its wayNo star but thee.No pensive, dreamy Muse,Who, though all else should smile,Oft as thou weep'st, with thee would choose,To weep the while.Oh, sweetest mine! this giftReceive;—'tis throe alone;—My heart, of which there's nothing leftWhen Love is gone!Fraser's Magazine.
("Devant la blanche ferme."){XV., May, 1837.}
Before the farm where, o'er the porch, festoonWild creepers red, and gaffer sits at noon,Whilst strutting fowl display their varied crests,And the old watchdog slumberously rests,They half-attentive to the clarion of their king,Resplendent in the sunshine op'ning wing—There stood a cow, with neck-bell jingling light,Superb, enormous, dappled red and white—Soft, gentle, patient as a hind unto its young,Letting the children swarm until they hungAround her, under—rustics with their teethWhiter than marble their ripe lips beneath,And bushy hair fresh and more brownThan mossy walls at old gates of a town,Calling to one another with loud criesFor younger imps to be in at the prize;Stealing without concern but tremulous with fearThey glance around lest Doll the maid appear;—Their jolly lips—that haply cause some pain,And all those busy fingers, pressing now and 'gain,The teeming udders whose small, thousand poresGush out the nectar 'mid their laughing roars,While she, good mother, gives and gives in heaps,And never moves. Anon there creepsA vague soft shiver o'er the hide unmarred,As sharp they pull, she seems of stone most hard.Dreamy of large eye, seeks she no release,And shrinks not while there's one still to appease.Thus Nature—refuge 'gainst the slings of fate!Mother of all, indulgent as she's great!Lets us, the hungered of each age and rank,Shadow and milk seek in the eternal flank;Mystic and carnal, foolish, wise, repair,The souls retiring and those that dare,Sages with halos, poets laurel-crowned,All creep beneath or cluster close around,And with unending greed and joyous cries,From sources full, draw need's supplies,Quench hearty thirst, obtain what must eftsoonForm blood and mind, in freest boon,Respire at length thy sacred flaming light,From all that greets our ears, touch, scent or sight—Brown leaves, blue mountains, yellow gleams, green sod—Thou undistracted still dost dream of God.TORU DUTT.
("Regardez: les enfants."){XX., June, 1884.}
See all the children gathered there,Their mother near; so young, so fair,An eider sister she might be,And yet she hears, amid their games,The shaking of their unknown namesIn the dark urn of destiny.She wakes their smiles, she soothes their cares,On that pure heart so like to theirs,Her spirit with such life is rifeThat in its golden rays we see,Touched into graceful poesy,The dull cold commonplace of life.Still following, watching, whether burnThe Christmas log in winter stern,While merry plays go round;Or streamlets laugh to breeze of MayThat shakes the leaf to break away—A shadow falling to the ground.If some poor man with hungry eyesHer baby's coral bauble spies,She marks his look with famine wild,For Christ's dear sake she makes with joyAn alms-gift of the silver toy—A smiling angel of the child.Dublin University Magazine
("Enfants! Oh! revenez!"){XXII, April, 1837}
Children, come back—come back, I say—You whom my folly chased awayA moment since, from this my room,With bristling wrath and words of doom!What had you done, you bandits small,With lips as red as roses all?What crime?—what wild and hapless deed?What porcelain vase by you was splitTo thousand pieces? Did you needFor pastime, as you handled it,Some Gothic missal to enrichWith your designs fantastical?Or did your tearing fingers fallOn some old picture? Which, oh, whichYour dreadful fault? Not one of these;Only when left yourselves to pleaseThis morning but a moment here'Mid papers tinted by my mindYou took some embryo verses near—Half formed, but fully well designedTo open out. Your hearts desireWas but to throw them on the fire,Then watch the tinder, for the sightOf shining sparks that twinkle brightAs little boats that sail at night,Or like the window lights that springFrom out the dark at evening.'Twas all, and you were well content.Fine loss was this for anger's vent—A strophe ill made midst your play,Sweet sound that chased the words awayIn stormy flight. An ode quite new,With rhymes inflated—stanzas, too,That panted, moving lazily,And heavy Alexandrine linesThat seemed to jostle bodily,Like children full of play designsThat spring at once from schoolroom's form.Instead of all this angry storm,Another might have thanked you wellFor saving prey from that grim cell,That hollowed den 'neath journals great,Where editors who poets floutWith their demoniac laughter shout.And I have scolded you! What fateFor charming dwarfs who never meantTo anger Hercules! And IHave frightened you!—My chair I sentBack to the wall, and then let flyA shower of words the envious use—"Get out," I said, with hard abuse,"Leave me alone—alone I say."Poor man alone! Ah, well-a-day,What fine result—what triumph rare!As one turns from the coffin'd deadSo left you me:—I could but stareUpon the door through which you fled—I proud and grave—but punished quite.And what care you for this my plight!—You have recovered liberty,Fresh air and lovely scenery,The spacious park and wished-for grass;The running stream, where you can throwA blade to watch what comes to pass;Blue sky, and all the spring can show;Nature, serenely fair to see;The book of birds and spirits free,God's poem, worth much more than mine,Where flowers for perfect stanzas shine—Flowers that a child may pluck in play,No harsh voice frightening it away.And I'm alone—all pleasure o'er—Alone with pedant called "Ennui,"For since the morning at my doorEnnui has waited patiently.That docto-r-London born, you mark,One Sunday in December dark,Poor little ones—he loved you not,And waited till the chance he gotTo enter as you passed away,And in the very corner whereYou played with frolic laughter gay,He sighs and yawns with weary air.What can I do? Shall I read books,Or write more verse—or turn fond looksUpon enamels blue, sea-green,And white—on insects rare as seenUpon my Dresden china ware?Or shall I touch the globe, and careTo make the heavens turn uponIts axis? No, not one—not oneOf all these things care I to do;All wearies me—I think of you.In truth with you my sunshine fled,And gayety with your light tread—Glad noise that set me dreaming still.'Twas my delight to watch your will,And mark you point with finger-tipsTo help your spelling out a word;To see the pearls between your lipsWhen I your joyous laughter heard;Your honest brows that looked so true,And said "Oh, yes!" to each intent;Your great bright eyes, that loved to viewWith admiration innocentMy fine old Sèvres; the eager thoughtThat every kind of knowledge sought;The elbow push with "Come and see!"Oh, certes! spirits, sylphs, there be,And fays the wind blows often here;The gnomes that squat the ceiling near,In corners made by old books dim;The long-backed dwarfs, those goblins grimThat seem at home 'mong vases rare,And chat to them with friendly air—Oh, how the joyous demon throngMust all have laughed with laughter longTo see you on my rough drafts fall,My bald hexameters, and allThe mournful, miserable band,And drag them with relentless handFrom out their box, with true delightTo set them each and all a-light,And then with clapping hands to leanAbove the stove and watch the scene,How to the mass deformed there cameA soul that showed itself in flame!Bright tricksy children—oh, I prayCome back and sing and dance away,And chatter too—sometimes you may,A giddy group, a big book seize—Or sometimes, if it so you please,With nimble step you'll run to meAnd push the arm that holds the pen,Till on my finished verse will beA stroke that's like a steeple whenSeen suddenly upon a plain.My soul longs for your breath againTo warm it. Oh, return—come hereWith laugh and babble—and no fearWhen with your shadow you obscureThe book I read, for I am sure,Oh, madcaps terrible and dear,That you were right and I was wrong.But who has ne'er with scolding tongueBlamed out of season. Pardon me!You must forgive—for sad are we.The young should not be hard and coldAnd unforgiving to the old.Children each morn your souls ope outLike windows to the shining day,Oh, miracle that comes about,The miracle that children gayHave happiness and goodness too,Caressed by destiny are you,Charming you are, if you but play.But we with living overwrought,And full of grave and sombre thought,Are snappish oft: dear little men,We have ill-tempered days, and then,Are quite unjust and full of care;It rained this morning and the airWas chill; but clouds that dimm'd the skyHave passed. Things spited me, and why?But now my heart repents. BeholdWhat 'twas that made me cross, and scold!All by-and-by you'll understand,When brows are mark'd by Time's stern hand;Then you will comprehend, be sure,When older—that's to say, less pure.The fault I freely own was mine.But oh, for pardon now I pine!Enough my punishment to meet,You must forgive, I do entreatWith clasped hands praying—oh, come back,Make peace, and you shall nothing lack.See now my pencils—paper—here,And pointless compasses, and dearOld lacquer-work; and stoneware clearThrough glass protecting; all man's toysSo coveted by girls and boys.Great China monsters—bodies muchLike cucumbers—you all shall touch.I yield up all! my picture rareFound beneath antique rubbish heap,My great and tapestried oak chairI will from you no longer keep.You shall about my table climb,And dance, or drag, without a cryFrom me as if it were a crime.Even I'll look on patientlyIf you your jagged toys all throwUpon my carved bench, till it showThe wood is torn; and freely too,I'll leave in your own hands to view,My pictured Bible—oft desired—But which to touch your fear inspired—With God in emperor's robes attired.Then if to see my verses burn,Should seem to you a pleasant turn,Take them to freely tear awayOr burn. But, oh! not so I'd say,If this were Méry's room to-day.That noble poet! Happy town,Marseilles the Greek, that him doth own!Daughter of Homer, fair to see,Of Virgil's son the mother she.To you I'd say, Hold, children all,Let but your eyes on his work fall;These papers are the sacred nestIn which his crooning fancies rest;To-morrow winged to Heaven they'll soar,For new-born verse imprisoned stillIn manuscript may suffer soreAt your small hands and childish will,Without a thought of bad intent,Of cruelty quite innocent.You wound their feet, and bruise their wings,And make them suffer those ill thingsThat children's play to young birds brings.But mine! no matter what you do,My poetry is all in you;You are my inspiration brightThat gives my verse its purest light.Children whose life is made of hope,Whose joy, within its mystic scope,Owes all to ignorance of ill,You have not suffered, and you stillKnow not what gloomy thoughts weigh downThe poet-writer weary grown.What warmth is shed by your sweet smile!How much he needs to gaze awhileUpon your shining placid brow,When his own brow its ache doth know;With what delight he loves to hearYour frolic play 'neath tree that's near,Your joyous voices mixing wellWith his own song's all-mournful swell!Come back then, children! come to me,If you wish not that I should beAs lonely now that you're afarAs fisherman of Etrétat,Who listless on his elbow leansThrough all the weary winter scenes,As tired of thought—as on Time flies—And watching only rainy skies!MRS. NEWTON CROSLAND.