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- Herausgeber: Delphi Publishing Ltd
- Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
- Sprache: Englisch
The favourite poet of Queen Victoria, Adelaide Anne Procter was also an important philanthropist and early feminist writer. Her literary career was launched by Charles Dickens in his periodicals, as she submitted verses tackling themes of religion, homelessness, poverty and fallen women, drawing widespread attention to the misery of the conditions under which the poor lived. Her promising literary career was tragically cut short at the age of 38 by her death to tuberculosis, partly fuelled by her extensive charity work. After Alfred, Lord Tennyson, she was deemed by many the most popular poet of her day. The Delphi Poets Series offers readers the works of literature’s finest poets, with superior formatting. For the first time in digital publishing, this volume presents Procter’s complete works, with related illustrations and the usual Delphi bonus material. (Version 1)
* Beautifully illustrated with images relating to Procter’s life and works
* Concise introduction to Procter’s life and poetry
* Excellent formatting of the poems
* Special chronological and alphabetical contents tables for the poetry
* Easily locate the poems you want to read
* Includes Procter’s long-lost poem ‘The Child and the Bird’ — digitised here for the first time
* Features three biographical works, including Dickens’ seminal memoir of Procter — discover her incredible life
* Ordering of texts into chronological order and literary genres
CONTENTS:
The Life and Poetry of Adelaide Anne Procter
Brief Introduction: Adelaide Anne Procter by Elizabeth Lee
Legends and Lyrics: First Series (1858)
Legends and Lyrics: Second Series (1861)
A Chaplet of Verses (1862)
The Child and the Bird (1899)
The Poems
List of Poems in Chronological Order
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
The Biographies
Adelaide Anne Procter (1865) by Charles Dickens
Adelaide Procter (1883) by James Parton
Adelaide Anne Procter (1913) by Patrick Joseph Lennox
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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Adelaide Anne Procter
(1825-1864)
Contents
The Life and Poetry of Adelaide Anne Procter
Brief Introduction: Adelaide Anne Procter by Elizabeth Lee
Legends and Lyrics: First Series (1858)
Legends and Lyrics: Second Series (1861)
A Chaplet of Verses (1862)
The Child and the Bird (1899)
The Poems
List of Poems in Chronological Order
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
The Biographies
Adelaide Anne Procter (1865) by Charles Dickens
Adelaide Procter (1883) by James Parton
Adelaide Anne Procter (1913) by Patrick Joseph Lennox
The Delphi Classics Catalogue
© Delphi Classics 2025
Version 1
Browse the entire series…
Adelaide Anne Procter
By Delphi Classics, 2025
COPYRIGHT
Adelaide Anne Procter - Delphi Poets Series
First published in the United Kingdom in 2025 by Delphi Classics.
© Delphi Classics, 2025.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published.
ISBN: 978 1 80170 241 6
Delphi Classics
is an imprint of
Delphi Publishing Ltd
Hastings, East Sussex
United Kingdom
Contact: [email protected]
www.delphiclassics.com
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NOTE
When reading poetry on an eReader, it is advisable to use a small font size and landscape mode, which will allow the lines of poetry to display correctly.
The Life and Poetry of Adelaide Anne Procter
Bedford Square, Bloomsbury — Procter’s birthplace
25 Bedford Square, Bloomsbury — the birthplace
Brief Introduction: Adelaide Anne Procter by Elizabeth Lee
From ‘Dictionary of National Biography’, 1885-1900, Volume 46
ADELAIDE ANN PROCTER (1825-1864), poetess, eldest daughter and first child of Bryan Waller Procter and his wife Anne Skepper, was born 30 Oct. 1825 at 25 Bedford Square, London. Her parents were residing there with Basil Montagu and his wife, Mrs. Procter’s stepfather and mother (Barry Cornwall, Autobiography). Her father delighted in her, addressing a sonnet to her in November 1825, beginning ‘Child of my heart! My sweet beloved First-born!’ and calling her in one of his songs ‘golden-tressed Adelaide.’ She early showed a fondness for poetry, and grew up amid surroundings calculated to develop her literary taste. Before she could write, her mother used to copy out her favourite poems for her in an album of small notepaper, which ‘looks,’ wrote Dickens, ‘as if she had carried it about like another little girl might have carried a doll.’ Frances A. Kemble wrote in 1832: ‘Mrs. Procter talked to me a great deal about her little Adelaide, who must be a wonderful creature’ (Records of a Girlhood, iii. 203). N. P. Willis describes her as ‘a beautiful girl, delicate, gentle, and pensive,’ looking as if she ‘knew she was a poet’s child’ (Pencillings by the Way). About 1851 she and two of her sisters became Roman Catholics. The incident does not seem to have disturbed the peace of the family (Barry Cornwall, Autobiography).
Adelaide commenced author, unknown to her family, by contributing poems to the ‘Book of Beauty’ in 1843, when she was eighteen. In 1853 she began a long connection with ‘Household Words’ by sending some poems under the name of Mary Berwick. Dickens, the editor, was her father’s friend, and she adopted the policy of anonymity because she did not wish to benefit by his friendly partiality. He approved of her verses, and printed many of them in ignorance of their source. In December 1854 he recommended the Procters to read a pretty poem by ‘Miss Berwick’ in the forthcoming Christmas number of ‘Household Words.’ Next day Adelaide revealed her secret at home. All her poems, except two in the ‘Cornhill’ and two in ‘Good Words,’ were first published in ‘Household Words’ or ‘All the Year Round.’ In 1853 she visited Turin.
In May 1858 her poems were collected and published in two volumes under the title of ‘Legends and Lyrics.’ A second edition was issued in October, a third and fourth in February and December 1859, and a tenth in 1866. In 1859 Miss Procter, who was thoroughly interested in social questions affecting women, was appointed by the council of the National Association for the Promotion of Social Science member of a committee to consider fresh ways of providing employment for women (cf. Emily Faithfull, Victoria Regia, pref.) Mrs. Jameson and Lord Shaftesbury were on the same committee. In 1861 Miss Procter edited a volume of miscellaneous verse and prose, set up in type by women compositors, and entitled ‘Victoria Regia.’ She contributed a poem entitled ‘Links with Heaven.’ Among other contributors were Tennyson, Henry Taylor, Lowell, Thackeray, Harriet Martineau, and Matthew Arnold. The next year Miss Procter published a little volume of poems called ‘A Chaplet of Verse,’ for the benefit of a night refuge.
Her health was never robust. In 1847 Fanny Kemble wrote: ‘Her character and intellectual gifts, and the delicate state of her health, all make her an object of interest to me’ (Records of Later Life, iii. 290). In 1862 she tried the cure at Malvern (cf. Wemyss Reid, Life of Lord Houghton, ii. 84-5); but, after being confined to her room for fifteen months, she died of consumption on 2 Feb. 1864, and was buried in Kensal Green cemetery (cf. the Month, January 1866: Mary Howitt, Autobiography, ii. 155). She was of a cheerful, modest, and sympathetic disposition, with no small fund of humour. An engraved portrait by Jeens appears in the 1866 edition of ‘Legends and Lyrics,’ and there is an oil-painting attributed to Emma Galiotti.
Miss Procter, if not a great poet, had a gift for verse, and expressed herself with distinction, charm, and sincerity. She borrowed little or nothing, and showed to best advantage in her narrative poems. ‘The Angel’s Story,’ the ‘Legend of Bregenz,’ the ‘Legend of Provence,’ the ‘Story of a Faithful Soul,’ are found in numerous poetical anthologies. Her songs, ‘Cleansing Fires,’ ‘The Message,’ and ‘The Lost Chord,’ are well known, and many of her hymns are in common use. Her poems were published in America, and also translated into German. In 1877 the demand for Miss Procter’s poems in England was in excess of those of any living writer except Tennyson (Barry Cornwall, Autobiography, ).
The poet’s father, Bryan Waller Procter (1787-1874) was also a poet, who served as a Commissioner in Lunacy.
The noted novelist Elizabeth Gaskell, featured here in an 1851 portrait by George Richmond, was a close friend of the Procter family.
Dickens, 1867 — the great author was a great admirer of Procter’s verse and employed her to contribute several pomes to his Extra Christmas numbers of ‘Household Words’.
Portrait of Queen Victoria (1819-1901) by Franz Xaver Winterhalter, 1843
Matilda Hays (standing) with Charlotte Cushman, 1858 — Hays is believed to have had a love interest in Procter, who dedicated ‘Legends and Lyrics’ to her. Procter also wrote a love poem for Hays entitled, ‘A Retrospect’. Hays oversaw the tending of Procter’s grave after her death and mourned her passing throughout her later years.
An undated portrait of Procter by Emma Gaggiotti Richards
Legends and Lyrics: First Series (1858)
CONTENTS
THE ANGEL’S STORY.
ECHOES.
A FALSE GENIUS.
MY PICTURE.
JUDGE NOT.
FRIEND SORROW.
ONE BY ONE.
TRUE HONOURS.
A WOMAN’S QUESTION.
THE THREE RULERS.
A DEAD PAST.
A DOUBTING HEART.
A STUDENT.
A KNIGHT ERRANT.
LINGER, OH, GENTLE TIME.
HOMEWARD BOUND.
LIFE AND DEATH.
NOW.
CLEANSING FIRES.
THE VOICE OF THE WIND.
TREASURES.
SHINING STARS.
WAITING.
THE CRADLE SONG OF THE POOR.
BE STRONG.
GOD’S GIFTS.
A TOMB IN GHENT.
THE ANGEL OF DEATH.
A DREAM.
THE PRESENT.
CHANGES.
STRIVE, WAIT, AND PRAY.
A LAMENT FOR THE SUMMER.
THE UNKNOWN GRAVE.
GIVE ME THY HEART.
THE WAYSIDE INN.
VOICES OF THE PAST.
THE DARK SIDE.
A FIRST SORROW.
MURMURS.
GIVE.
MY JOURNAL.
A CHAIN.
THE PILGRIMS.
INCOMPLETENESS.
A LEGEND OF BREGENZ.
A FAREWELL.
SOWING AND REAPING.
THE STORM.
WORDS.
A LOVE TOKEN.
A TRYST WITH DEATH.
FIDELIS.
A SHADOW.
THE SAILOR BOY
A CROWN OF SORROW.
THE LESSON OF THE WAR. (1855.)
THE TWO SPIRITS. (1855.)
A LITTLE LONGER.
GRIEF.
THE TRIUMPH OF TIME.
A PARTING.
THE GOLDEN GATE.
PHANTOMS.
THANKFULNESS.
HOME-SICKNESS.
WISHES.
THE PEACE OF GOD.
LIFE IN DEATH AND DEATH IN LIFE.
RECOLLECTIONS.
ILLUSION.
A VISION.
PICTURES IN THE FIRE.
THE SETTLERS.
HUSH!
HOURS.
THE TWO INTERPRETERS.
COMFORT.
HOME AT LAST.
UNEXPRESSED.
BECAUSE.
REST AT EVENING.
A RETROSPECT.
TRUE OR FALSE.
GOLDEN WORDS.
DEDICATION
TO MATILDA M. HAYS.
“OURTOKENSOFlove are for the most part barbarous. Cold and lifeless, because they do not represent our life. The only gift is a portion of thyself. Therefore let the farmer give his corn; the miner, a gem; the sailor, coral and shells; the painter, his picture; and the poet, his poem.” — Emerson’s Essays.
A. A. P.
May, 1858
THE ANGEL’S STORY.
THROUGH the blue and frosty heavens Christmas stars were shining bright;Glistening lamps throughout the City Almost matched their gleaming light;While the winter snow was lying,And the winter winds were sighing, Long ago, one Christmas night.
While, from every tower and steeple, Pealing bells were sounding clear,(Never with such tones of gladness, Save when Christmas time is near,)Many a one that night was merry Who had toiled through all the year.
That night saw old wrongs forgiven, Friends, long parted, reconciled;Voices all unused to laughter, Mournful eyes that rarely smiled,Trembling hearts that feared the morrow, From their anxious thoughts beguiled.
Rich and poor felt love and blessing From the gracious season fall;Joy and plenty in the cottage, Peace and feasting in the hall;And the voices of the children Ringing clear above it all!
Yet one house was dim and darkened; Gloom, and sickness, and despair,Dwelling in the gilded chambers. Creeping up the marble stair,Even stilled the voice of mourning — For a child lay dying there.
Silken curtains fell around him, Velvet carpets hushed the tread.Many costly toys were lying, All unheeded, by his bed;And his tangled golden ringlets Were on downy pillows spread.
The skill of all that mighty City To save one little life was vain;One little thread from being broken,One fatal word from being spoken; Nay, his very mother’s pain,And the mighty love within her, Could not give him health again.
So she knelt there still beside him, She alone with strength to smile,Promising that he should suffer No more in a little while,Murmuring tender song and story Weary hours to beguile.
Suddenly an unseen Presence Checked those constant moaning cries,Stilled the little heart’s quick fluttering, Raised those blue and wondering eyes,Fixed on some mysterious vision, With a startled sweet surprise.
For a radiant angel hovered, Smiling, o’er the little bed;White his raiment, from his shoulders Snowy dove-like pinions spread,And a starlike light was shining In a Glory round his head.
While, with tender love, the angel, Leaning o’er the little nest,In his arms the sick child folding, Laid him gently on his breast,Sobs and wailings told the mother That her darling was at rest.
So the angel, slowing rising, Spread his wings; and, through the air,Bore the child, and while he held him To his heart with loving care,Placed a branch of crimson roses Tenderly beside him there.
While the child, thus clinging, floated Towards the mansions of the Blest,Gazing from his shining guardian To the flowers upon his breast,Thus the angel spake, still smiling On the little heavenly guest:
“Know, dear little one, that Heaven Does no earthly thing disdain,Man’s poor joys find there an echo Just as surely as his pain;Love, on earth so feebly striving, Lives divine in Heaven again!
“Once in that great town below us, In a poor and narrow street,Dwelt a little sickly orphan; Gentle aid, or pity sweet,Never in life’s rugged pathway Guided his poor tottering feet.
“All the striving anxious forethought That should only come with age,Weighed upon his baby spirit, Showed him soon life’s sternest page;Grim Want was his nurse, and Sorrow Was his only heritage.
“All too weak for childish pastimes, Drearily the hours sped;On his hands so small and trembling Leaning his poor aching head,Or, through dark and painful hours, Lying sleepless on his bed.
“Dreaming strange and longing fancies Of cool forests far away;And of rosy, happy children, Laughing merrily at play,Coming home through green lanes, bearing Trailing boughs of blooming May.
“Scarce a glimpse of azure heaven Gleamed above that narrow street,And the sultry air of Summer (That you call so warm and sweet)Fevered the poor Orphan, dwelling In the crowded alley’s heat.
“One bright day, with feeble footsteps Slowly forth he tried to crawl,Through the crowded city’s pathways, Till he reached a garden-wall;Where ‘mid princely halls and mansions Stood the lordliest of all.
“There were trees with giant branches, Velvet glades where shadows hide;There were sparkling fountains glancing, Flowers, which in luxuriant prideEven wafted breaths of perfume To the child who stood outside.
“He against the gate of iron Pressed his wan and wistful face,Gazing with an awe-struck pleasure At the glories of the place;Never had his brightest day-dream Shone with half such wondrous grace.
“You were playing in that garden, Throwing blossoms in the air,Laughing when the petals floated Downwards on your golden hair;And the fond eyes watching o’er you,And the splendour spread before you, Told a House’s Hope was there.
“When your servants, tired of seeing Such a face of want and woe,Turning to the ragged Orphan, Gave him coin, and bade him go,Down his cheeks so thin and wasted, Bitter tears began to flow.
“But that look of childish sorrow On your tender child-heart fell,And you plucked the reddest roses From the tree you loved so well,Passed them through the stern cold grating, Gently bidding him ‘Farewell!’
“Dazzled by the fragrant treasure And the gentle voice he heard,In the poor forlorn boy’s spirit, Joy, the sleeping Seraph, stirred;In his hand he took the flowers, In his heart the loving word.
“So he crept to his poor garret; Poor no more, but rich and bright,For the holy dreams of childhood — Love, and Rest, and Hope, and Light — Floated round the Orphan’s pillow Through the starry summer night.
“Day dawned, yet the visions lasted; All too weak to rise he lay;Did he dream that none spake harshly — All were strangely kind that day?Surely then his treasured roses Must have charmed all ills away.
“And he smiled, though they were fading; One by one their leaves were shed;‘Such bright things could never perish, They would bloom again,’ he said.When the next day’s sun had risen Child and flowers both were dead.
“Know, dear little one! our Father Will no gentle deed disdain;Love on the cold earth beginning Lives divine in Heaven again,While the angel hearts that beat there Still all tender thoughts retain.”
So the angel ceased, and gently O’er his little burthen leant;While the child gazed from the shining, Loving eyes that o’er him bent,To the blooming roses by him, Wondering what that mystery meant.
Thus the radiant angel answered, And with tender meaning smiled:“Ere your childlike, loving spirit, Sin and the hard world defiled,God has given me leave to seek you — I was once that little child!”
* * *
In the churchyard of that city Rose a tomb of marble rare,Decked, as soon as Spring awakened, With her buds and blossoms fair — And a humble grave beside it — No one knew who rested there.
ECHOES.
STILL the angel stars are shining, Still the rippling waters flow,But the angel-voice is silent That I heard so long ago. Hark! the echoes murmur low, Long ago!
Still the wood is dim and lonely, Still the plashing fountains play,But the past and all its beauty, Whither has it fled away? Hark! the mournful echoes say, Fled away!
Still the bird of night complaineth, (Now, indeed, her song is pain,)Visions of my happy hours, Do I call and call in vain? Hark! the echoes cry again, All in vain!
Cease, oh echoes, mournful echoes! Once I loved your voices well;Now my heart is sick and weary — Days of old, a long farewell! Hark! the echoes sad and dreary Cry farewell, farewell!
A FALSE GENIUS.
I SEE a Spirit by thy side,Purple-winged and eagle-eyed,Looking like a Heavenly guide.
Though he seem so bright and fair,Ere thou trust his proffered care,Pause a little, and beware!
If he bid thee dwell apart,Tending some ideal smartIn a sick and coward heart;
In self-worship wrapped alone,Dreaming thy poor griefs are grownMore than other men have known;
Dwelling in some cloudy sphere,Though God’s work is waiting here,And God deigneth to be near;
If his torch’s crimson glareShow thee evil everywhere,Tainting all the wholesome air;
While with strange distorted choice,Still disdaining to rejoice,Thou wilt hear a wailing voice;
If a simple, humble heart,Seem to thee a meaner part,Than thy noblest aim and art;
If he bid thee bow beforeCrowned Mind and nothing more,The great idol men adore;
And with starry veil enfoldSin, the trailing serpent old,Till his scales shine out like gold;
Though his words seem true and wise,Soul, I say to thee — Arise.He is a Demon in disguise!
MY PICTURE.
STAND this way — more near the window — By my desk — you see the lightFalling on my picture better — Thus I see it while I write!
Who the head may be I know not, But it has a student air;With a look half sad, half stately, Grave sweet eyes and flowing hair.
Little care I who the painter, How obscure a name he bore;Nor, when some have named Velasquez, Did I value it the more.
As it is, I would not give it For the rarest piece of art;It has dwelt with me, and listened To the secrets of my heart.
Many a time, when to my garret, Weary, I returned at night,It has seemed to look a welcome That has made my poor room bright.
Many a time, when ill and sleepless, I have watched the quivering gleamOf my lamp upon that picture, Till it faded in my dream.
When dark days have come, and friendship Worthless seemed, and life in vain,That bright friendly smile has sent me Boldly to my task again.
Sometimes when hard need has pressed me To bow down where I despise,I have read stern words of counsel In those sad reproachful eyes.
Nothing that my brain imagined, Or my weary hand has wrought,But it watched the dim Idea Spring forth into armed Thought.
It has smiled on my successes, Raised me when my hopes were low,And by turns has looked upon me With all the loving eyes I know.
Do you wonder that my picture Has become so like a friend? — It has seen my life’s beginnings, It shall stay and cheer the end!
JUDGE NOT.
JUDGE not; the workings of his brain And of his heart thou canst not see;What looks to thy dim eyes a stain, In God’s pure light may only beA scar, brought from some well-won field,Where thou wouldst only faint and yield.
The look, the air, that frets thy sight, May be a token, that belowThe soul has closed in deadly fight With some infernal fiery foe,Whose glance would scorch thy smiling grace,And cast thee shuddering on thy face!
The fall thou darest to despise — May be the angel’s slackened handHas suffered it, that he may rise And take a firmer, surer stand;Or, trusting less to earthly things,May henceforth learn to use his wings.
And judge none lost; but wait, and see, With hopeful pity, not disdain;The depth of the abyss may be The measure of the height of painAnd love and glory that may raiseThis soul to God in after days!
FRIEND SORROW.
DO not cheat thy Heart and tell her, “Grief will pass away,Hope for fairer times in future, And forget to-day.” — Tell her, if you will, that sorrow Need not come in vain;Tell her that the lesson taught her Far outweighs the pain.
Cheat her not with the old comfort, “Soon she will forget” — Bitter truth, alas — but matter Rather for regret;Bid her not “Seek other pleasures, Turn to other things:” — Rather nurse her caged sorrow ‘Till the captive sings.
Rather bid her go forth bravely. And the stranger greet;Not as foe, with spear and buckler, But as dear friends meet;Bid her with a strong clasp hold her, By her dusky wings — Listening for the murmured blessing Sorrow always brings.
ONE BY ONE.
One by one the sands are flowing, One by one the moments fall;Some are coming, some are going; Do not strive to grasp them all.
One by one thy duties wait thee, Let thy whole strength go to each,Let no future dreams elate thee, Learn thou first what these can teach.
One by one (bright gifts from Heaven) Joys are sent thee here below;Take them readily when given, Ready too to let them go.
One by one thy griefs shall meet thee, Do not fear an armèd band;One will fade as others greet thee; Shadows passing through the land.
Do not look at life’s long sorrow; See how small each moment’s pain;God will help thee for to-morrow, So each day begin again.
Every hour that fleets so slowly Has its task to do or bear;Luminous the crown, and holy, When each gem is set with care.
Do not linger with regretting, Or for passing hours despond;Nor, the daily toil forgetting, Look too eagerly beyond.
Hours are golden links, God’s token, Reaching Heaven; but one by oneTake them, lest the chain be broken Ere the pilgrimage be done.
TRUE HONOURS.
IS my darling tired already, Tired of her day of play?Draw your little stool beside me, Smooth this tangled hair away.Can she put the logs together, Till they make a cheerful blaze?Shall her blind old Uncle tell her Something of his youthful days?
Hark! The wind among the cedars Waves their white arms to and fro;I remember how I watched them Sixty Christmas Days ago:Then I dreamt a glorious vision Of great deeds to crown each year — Sixty Christmas Days have found me Useless, helpless, blind — and here!
Yes, I feel my darling stealing Warm soft fingers into mine — Shall I tell her what I fancied In that strange old dream of mine?I was kneeling by the window, Reading how a noble band,With the red cross on their breast-plates, Went to gain the Holy Land.
While with eager eyes of wonder Over the dark page I bent,Slowly twilight shadows gathered Till the letters came and went;Slowly, till the night was round me; Then my heart beat loud and fast,For I felt before I saw it That a spirit near me passed.
Then I raised my eyes, and shining Where the moon’s first ray was brightStood a winged Angel-warrior Clothed and panoplied in light:So, with Heaven’s love upon him, Stern in calm and resolute will,Looked St. Michael — does the picture Hang in the old cloister still?
Threefold were the dreams of honour That absorbed my heart and brain;Threefold crowns the Angel promised, Each one to be bought by pain:While he spoke, a threefold blessing Fell upon my soul like rain.HELPER OF THE POOR AND SUFFERING; VICTOR IN A GLORIOUS STRIFE;SINGER OF A NOBLE POEM: Such the honours of my life.
Ah, that dream! Long years that gave me Joy and grief as real thingsNever touched the tender memory Sweet and solemn that it brings — Never quite effaced the feeling Of those white and shadowing wings.
Do those blue eyes open wider? Does my faith too foolish seem?Yes, my darling, years have taught me It was nothing but a dream.Soon, too soon, the bitter knowledge Of a fearful trial rose,Rose to crush my heart, and sternly Bade my young ambition close.
More and more my eyes were clouded, Till at last God’s glorious lightPassed away from me for ever, And I lived and live in night.Dear, I will not dim your pleasure, Christmas should be only gay — In my night the stars have risen, And I wait the dawn of day.
Spite of all I could be happy; For my brothers’ tender careIn their boyish pastimes ever Made me take, or feel a share.Philip, even then so thoughtful, Max so noble, brave and tall,And your father, little Godfrey, The most loving of them all.
Philip reasoned down my sorrow, Max would laugh my gloom away,Godfrey’s little arms put round me, Helped me through my dreariest day;While the promise of my Angel, Like a star, now bright, now pale,Hung in blackest night above me, And I felt it could not fail.
Years passed on, my brothers left me, Each went out to take his shareIn the struggle of life; my portion Was a humble one — to bear.Here I dwelt, and learnt to wander Through the woods and fields alone,Every cottage in the village Had a corner called my own.
Old and young, all brought their troubles, Great or small, for me to hear;I have often blessed my sorrow That drew others’ grief so near.Ah, the people needed helping — Needed love — (for Love and HeavenAre the only gifts not bartered, They alone are freely given) —
And I gave it. Philip’s bounty, (We were orphans, dear,) made toilProsper, and want never fastened On the tenants of the soil.Philip’s name (Oh, how I gloried, He so young, to see it rise!)Soon grew noted among statesmen As a patriot true and wise.
And his people all felt honoured To be ruled by such a name;I was proud too that they loved me; Through their pride in him it came.He had gained what I had longed for, I meanwhile grew glad and gay,‘Mid his people, to be serving Him and them, in some poor way.
How his noble earnest speeches, With untiring fervour came;HELPER OF THE POOR AND SUFFERING; Truly he deserved the name!Had my Angel’s promise failed me? Had that word of hope grown dim?Why, my Philip had fulfilled it, And I loved it best in him!
Max meanwhile — ah, you, my darling, Can his loving words recall — ‘Mid the bravest and the noblest, Braver, nobler, than them all.How I loved him! how my heart thrilled When his sword clanked by his side.When I touched his gold embroidery, Almost saw him in his pride!
So we parted; he all eager To uphold the name he bore,Leaving in my charge — he loved me — Some one whom he loved still more:I must tend this gentle flower, I must speak to her of him,For he feared — Love still is fearful — That his memory might grow dim.
I must guard her from all sorrow, I must play a brother’s part,Shield all grief and trial from her, If it need be, with my heart.Years passed, and his name grew famous; We were proud, both she and I;And we lived upon his letters, While the slow days fleeted by.
Then at last — you know the story, How a fearful rumour spread,Till all hope had slowly faded, And we heard that he was dead.Dead! Oh, those were bitter hours; Yet within my soul there dweltA warning, and while others mourned him, Something like a hope I felt.
His was no weak life as mine was, But a life, so full and strong — No, I could not think he perished Nameless, ‘mid a conquered throng.How she drooped! Years passed; no tidings Came, and yet that little flameOf strange hope within my spirit Still burnt on, and lived the same.
Ah! my child, our hearts will fail us, When to us they strongest seem;I can look back on those hours As a fearful, evil dream.She had long despaired; what wonder That her heart had turned to mine?Earthly loves are deep and tender, Not eternal and divine!
Can I say how bright a future Rose before my soul that day?Oh, so strange, so sweet, so tender — And I had to turn away.Hard and terrible the struggle, For the pain not mine alone;I called back my Brother’s spirit, And I bade him claim his own.
Told her — now I dared to do it — That I felt the day would riseWhen he would return to gladden My weak heart and her bright eyes.And I pleaded — pleaded sternly — In his name, and for his sake:Now, I can speak calmly of it, Then, I thought my heart would break.
Soon — ah, Love had not deceived me, (Love’s true instincts never err,)Wounded, weak, escaped from prison, He returned to me; to her.I could thank God that bright morning, When I felt my Brother’s gaze,That my heart was true and loyal, As in our old boyish days.
Bought by wounds and deeds of daring, Honours he had brought away;Glory crowned his name — my Brother’s; Mine too! — we were one that day.Since the crown on him had fallen, “VICTOR IN A NOBLE STRIFE,”I could live and die contented With my poor ignoble life.
Well, my darling, almost weary Of my story? Wait awhile;For the rest is only joyful; I can tell it with a smile.One bright promise still was left me, Wound so close about my soul,That, as one by one had failed me, This dream now absorbed the whole.
“SINGER OF A NOBLE POEM,” — Ah, my darling, few and rareBurn the glorious names of Poets, Like stars in the purple air.That too, and I glory in it, That great gift my Godfrey won;I have my dear share of honour, Gained by that beloved one.
One day shall my darling read it; Now she cannot understandAll the noble thoughts, that lighten Through the genius of the land.I am proud to be his brother, Proud to think that hope was true;Though I longed and strove so vainly, What I failed in, he could do.
I was long before I knew it, Longer ere I felt it so;Then I strung my rhymes together Only for the poor and low.And, it pleases me to know it, (For I love them well indeed,)They care for my humble verses, Fitted for their humble need.
And, it cheers my heart to bear it, Where the far-off settlers roam,My poor words are sung and cherished, Just because they speak of Home.And the little children sing them, (That, I think, has pleased me best,)Often, too, the dying love them, For they tell of Heaven and rest.
So my last vain dream has faded; (Such as I to think of fame!)Yet I will not say it failed me, For it crowned my Godfrey’s name.No; my Angel did not cheat me, For my long life has been blest;He did give me Love and Sorrow, He will bring me Light and Rest.
A WOMAN’S QUESTION.
BEFORE I trust my Fate to thee, Or place my hand in thine,Before I let thy Future give Colour and form to mine,Before I peril all for thee, question thy soul to-night for me.
I break all slighter bonds, nor feel A shadow of regret:Is there one link within the Past, That holds thy spirit yet?Or is thy Faith as clear and free as that which I can pledge to thee?
Does there within thy dimmest dreams A possible future shine,Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe, Untouched, unshared by mine?If so, at any pain or cost, oh, tell me before all is lost.
Look deeper still. If thou canst feel Within thy inmost soul,That thou hast kept a portion back, While I have staked the whole;Let no false pity spare the blow, but in true mercy tell me so.
Is there within thy heart a need That mine cannot fulfil?One chord that any other hand Could better wake or still?Speak now — lest at some future day my whole life wither and decay.
Lives there within thy nature bid The demon-spirit Change,Shedding a passing glory still On all things new and strange? — It may not be thy fault alone — but shield my heart against thy own.
Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day And answer to my claim,That Fate, and that to-day’s mistake, Not thou — had been to blame?Some soothe their conscience thus: but thou, wilt surely warn and save me now.
Nay, answer not — I dare not hear, The words would come too late;Yet I would spare thee all remorse, So, comfort thee, my Fate — Whatever on my heart may fall — remember I would risk it all!
THE THREE RULERS.
I SAW a Ruler take his standAnd trample on a mighty land;The People crouched before his beck,His iron heel was on their neck,His name shone bright through blood and pain,His sword flashed back their praise again.
I saw another Ruler rise — His words were noble, good, and wise;With the calm sceptre of his penHe ruled the minds and thoughts of men;Some scoffed, some praised — while many heard,Only a few obeyed his word.
Another Ruler then I saw — Love and sweet Pity were his law:The greatest and the least had part(Yet most the unhappy) in his heart — The People, in a mighty band,Rose up, and drove him from the land!
A DEAD PAST.
SPARE her at least: look, you have taken from meThe Present, and I murmur not, nor moan;The Future too, with all her glorious promise;But do not leave me utterly alone.
Spare me the Past — for, see, she cannot harm you,She lies so white and cold, wrapped in her shroud;All, all my own! and, trust me, I will hide herWithin my soul, nor speak to her aloud.
I folded her soft hands upon her bosom,And strewed my flowers upon her — they still live — Sometimes I like to kiss her closed white eye-lids,And think of all the joy she used to give.
Cruel indeed it were to take her from me;She sleeps, she will not wake — no fear — again:And so I laid her, such a gentle burthen,Quietly on my heart to still its pain.
I do not think that any smiling Present,Any vague Future, spite of all her charms,Could ever rival her. You know you laid her,Long years ago, then living, in my arms.
Leave her at least — while my tears fall upon her,I dream she smiles, just as she did of yore;As dear as ever to me — nay, it may be,Even dearer still — since I have nothing more.
A DOUBTING HEART.
WHERE are the swallows fled? Frozen and dead,Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore. Oh doubting heart! Far over purple seas, They wait, in sunny ease, The balmy southern breeze,To bring them to their northern homes once more.
Why must the flowers die? Prisoned they lieIn the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain. Oh doubting heart! They only sleep below The soft white ermine snow, While winter winds shall blow,To breathe and smile upon you soon again.
The sun has hid its rays These many days;Will dreary hours never leave the earth? Oh doubting heart! The stormy clouds on high Veil the same sunny sky, That soon (for spring is nigh)Shall wake the summer into golden mirth.
Fair hope is dead, and light Is quenched in night.What sound can break the silence of despair? Oh doubting heart! Thy sky is overcast, Yet stars shall rise at last, Brighter for darkness past,And angels’ silver voices stir the air.
A STUDENT.
OVER an ancient scroll I bent,Steeping my soul in wise content,Nor paused a moment, save to chideA low voice whispering at my side.
I wove beneath the stars’ pale shineA dream, half human, half divine;And shook off (not to break the charm)A little hand laid on my arm.
I read; until my heart would glowWith the great deeds of long ago;Nor heard, while with those mighty dead,Pass to and fro a faltering tread.
On the old theme I pondered long — The struggle between right and wrong;I could not check such visions high,To soothe a little quivering sigh.
I tried to solve the problem — Life;Dreaming of that mysterious strife,How could I leave such reasonings wise,To answer two blue pleading eyes?
I strove how best to give, and when,My blood to save my fellow-men — How could I turn aside, to lookAt snowdrops laid upon my book?
Now Time has fled — the world is strange,Something there is of pain and change;My books lie closed upon the shelf;I miss the old heart in myself.
I miss the sunbeams in my room — It was not always wrapped in gloom:I miss my dreams — they fade so fast,Or flit into some trivial past.
The great stream of the world goes by;None care, or heed, or question, whyI, the lone student, cannot raiseMy voice or hand as in old days.
No echo seems to wake againMy heart to anything but pain,Save when a dream of twilight bringsThe fluttering of an angel’s wings!
A KNIGHT ERRANT.
THOUGH he lived and died among us, Yet his name may be enrolledWith the knights whose deeds of daring Ancient chronicles have told.
Still a stripling, he encountered Poverty, and struggled long,Gathering force from every effort, Till he knew his arm was strong.
Then his heart and life he offered To his radiant mistress — Truth;Never thought, or dream, or faltering, Marred the promise of his youth.
So he rode forth to defend her, And her peerless worth proclaim;Challenging each recreant doubter Who aspersed her spotless name.
First upon his path stood Ignorance, Hideous in his brutal might;Hard the blows and long the battle Ere the monster took to flight.
