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Full text of "Fringilla: some tales in verse"

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Fringillarsome tales in verse.Pictvred b 

3 1924 013 435 734 

Cornell University 

The original of tiiis book is in 
the Cornell University Library. 

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the United States on the use of the text. 





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iwiTJEi»iii« pRawinGs* 




-. haec?jSon potui cjualei 
omela cjuerelajTi; " ' 
1 pipttabunda 







[Fringilla loquitur] 

" What means your finch ? " " Being well aware that he cannot 
sing like a Nightingale, 

He flits about from tree to tree, and twitters a little tale." 

ALBEIT he is an ancient bird, who tried 
his pipe in better days, and then was 
scared by random shots, he is fain to 
lift the migrant wing once more towards the 
humble perch, among the trees he loves. All 
gardeners own that he does no harn^, unless 
he flits into a thicket of young buds, or a very 
choice ladies' seed-bed. And he hopes that he is 
now too wise to commit such indiscretions. 

Perhaps it would have been wiser still to 
have shut up his little mandible, or employed it 

only upon grub. But the long gnaw of last 
winter's frost, which set mankind a-shivering, 
even in their most downy nest, has made them 
kindly to the race that has no roof for shelter 
and no hearth for warmth. 

Anyhow, this little finch can do no harm, 
if he does no good; and if he pleases nobody, 
he will not be surprised, because he has never 
satisfied himself. 

May-day, 1895. 


With kind consent of Messrs. Harper, " Buscombe " returns 
in altered form from the other side of the ocean. Two other 
little tales appeared of old, but nobody would look at them, and 
now they are offered after careful trimming. 

Standing afar, I gaze with doubt at other trimmings which 
are not mine. They have conquered the taste of the day perhaps, 
and high art announces them as her last transfiguration. More- 
over they are highly recommended — as the purest art not always 
is — by the modesty of the artist. 

R. D. B. 


To My Pen 

page I 

Lita of the Nile. Part I 


>» II II i-*- 


II II II 111 


Kadisha ; or, The First Jealousy. Part I 





Mount Arafa ; or, The First Parting 

The Parting 


Part I. Adam 


II. Eve 


The Meeting 


The Well of St. John 


Pausias and Glycera. Scene I 






Buscombe ; or, A Michaelmas Goose 


To Fame 


■^^9 The cover design, borders, initial letters, and the 
whole of the full-page illustrations — with the exception 
of the three to ' Pausias and Glycera ' by James W. R. 
Linton — are by Louis Fairfax-Muckley. 


,HOU feeble implement of mind, 
Wherewith she strove to scrawl her 
name ; 
But, like a mitcher, left behind 
No signature, no stroke^ no claim, 
No hint that she hath pined — 

Shall ever come a stronger time, 

When thou shalt be a tool of skill, 

And steadfast purpose, to fulfil 
A higher task than rhyme? 


Thou puny instrument of soul. 

Wherewith she labours to impart 
Her efforts at some arduous goal ; 

But fails to bring thy coarser art 
Beneath a fine control — 

Shall ever come a fairer day, 
When thou shalt be a buoyant plume, 
To soar, where clearer suns illume, 

And fresher breezes play ? 

I b 


Thou weak interpreter of heart, 

So impotent to tell the tale 
Of love's delight, of envy's smart. 

Of passion, and- ambition's bale. 
Of pride that dwells apart — 

Shall I, in length of time, attain 
(By walking in the human ways, 
With love of Him, who made and sways 

To ply thee, less in vain ? 


If s6> thou shalt be more to me 
Than sword, or sceptre, flag, or crown ; 

With mind, and soul, and heart in thee. 
Despising gold, and sham renown ; 
But truthful, kind, and free. 

Then come ; though now a pithless quill. 
Uncouth, unfledged, indefinite, — 
In time, thou shalt be taught to write, 

By patience, and good-will. 


" f\ rl -, « 







'ING, and Father, gift and giver, 
|God revealed in form of river, 
.Issuing perfect, and sublime, 
'From the fountain-hekd of time; 

"Whom eternal mystery 
Unapproached, untracked, unknown ; 
Whom the Lord of heaven encloudeth 
With the curtains of His throne ; 

" From the throne of heaven descending, 
Glory, power, and goodness blending. 
Grant us, ere the daylight dies. 
Token of thy rapid rise." 

^ ft* 




Ha, it Cometh ! Furrowing, flashing, 
Red blood rushing o'er brown breast ; 

Peaks, and ridges, and domes, dashing 
Foam on foam, and crest on crest ! 

Tis the signal Thebes hath waited, 
Libyan Thebes, the hundred-gated : 
Rouse, and robe thee, River-priest 
For thy dedication feast ! 

Follows him the loveliest maiden, 
Afric's thousand hills can show ; 

White apparel'd, flower-laden. 
With the lotus on her brow. 


Votive maid, who hath espousal 
Of the river's high carousal ; 
Twenty cubits if he rise. 
This shall be his bridal prize. 

Calm, and meek of face and carriage, 
Deigning scarce a quicker breath, 

Comes she to the funeral marriage, 
The betrothal of black death. 

Rosy hands, and hennaed fingers. 
Nails whereon the onyx lingers. 
Clasped, as at a lover's tale, 
In the bosom's marble vale. 



Silvery scarf, her waist enwreathing, 
Wafts a soft Sabaean balm ; 

Like a cloud of incense, breathing 
Round the column of a palm : 

Snood of lilies interweaveth 
(Giving less than it receiveth) 
Beauty of her cluster'd brow. 
Calmly bent upon us now. 

Through her dark hair, spread before us. 
See the western glory wane, 

As in groves of dim Cytorus, 
Or the bowers of Taprobane I 


See, the large eyes, lit by heaven, 
Brighter than the Sisters Seven, 
(Like a star the storm hath cowed) 
Sink their flash in sorrow's cloud. 

There the crystal tear refraineth. 
And the founts of grief are dry ; 
" Fatherj Mother — none remaineth ; 
All are dead ; and why not I ?" 

Yet, by God's will, heavenly beauty 
Owes to Heaven alone its duty ; 
Off ye priests, who dare adjudge 
Bride, like this, to slime and sludge! 



When they tread the river's margent, 
All their mitred heads are bowed — 

What hath browned the ripples argent, 
Like the plume of thunder-cloud ? 

Where yestreen the water slumbered, 
With a sickly crust encumbered, 
Leapeth now a roaring flood, 
Wild as war, and red as blood. 

Every billow hurries quicker, 
Every surge runs up the strand ; 

While the brindled eddies flicker, 
Scourged as with a levin brand. 


Every bulrush, parched and welted. 
Lifts his long joints yellow-belted ; 
Every lotus, faint and sick. 
Hangs her fragrant tongue to lick. 

Countless creatures, long unthought of. 
Swarm from every hole and nook ; 

What is man, that he make nought of 
Other entries in God's book? 

Scorpions, rats, and lizards flabby, 
Centipedes, and hydras scabby, 
Asp, and slug, and toad, whose gem 
Outlasts human diadem. 



Therefore hath the priest-procession 
Causeway clean of sandalwood ; 

That no foul thing make transgression 
On the votive maiden's blood. 

Pure of bl6od and soul, she standeth 
Where the marble gauge demandeth, 
Marble pillar, with black style, 
Record of the rising Nile. 

White-robed priests around her kneeling. 

Ibis-banner floating high, 
Conchs, and drums, and sistrals pealing, 

And Sesostris standing nigh. 


He, whose kingdom-city stretches 
Further than our eyesight fetches ; 
Every street it wanders down 
Larger than a regal town ; 

Built, when each man was a giant. 
When the rocks were mason's stones, 

When the oaks were osiers pliant. 
And the mountains scarcely thrones ; 

City, whose Titanic portals 
Scorn the puny modern mortals. 
In thy desert winding-sheet, 
Sacred from our insect feet. 

9 c 


Thebes No-Amon, hundred-gated, 
Every gate could then unfold 

Cavalry ten thousand, plated, 
Man and horse, in solid gold. 

Glancing back through serried ranges, 
Vivid as his own phalanges, 
Every captain might espy 
Equal host in sculpture vie ; 

Down Piromid vista gazing, 
Ten miles back from every gate, 

He can see that teniple blazing. 
Which the world shall never mate. 


But the Nile-flood, when it swelleth, 
Recks not man, nor where he dwelleth ; 
And — e'en while Sesostris reigns- 
Scarce five cubits man attains. 

Lo, the darkening river quaileth. 
Like a swamp by giant trod. 

And the broad commotion waileth, 
Stricken with the hand of God ! 

When the rushing deluge raging 
Flung its flanks, and shook the staging, 
Priesthood, cowering from the brim. 
Chanted thus its faltering hymn. 



" Ocean sire, the earth enclasping, 
Like a babe upon thy knee, 
In thy cosmic cycle grasping 
All that hath been, or shall be ; 

" Thou, that art around and over 
All we labour to discover ; 
Thou, to whom our world no more 
Than a shell is on thy shore ; 

" God, that wast Supreme, or ever 
Orus, or Osiris, saw ; 
God, with whom is no endeavour. 
But thy will eternal law : 


" We, who keep thy feasts and fastings, 
We, who live on thy off-castings. 
Here in low obeisance crave 
Rich abundance of thy wave. 

" Seven years now, for some transgression. 
Some neglect, or outrage vile. 
Vainly hath our poor procession 
Offered life, and soul to Nile. 

" Seven years now of promise fickle, 
Niggard ooze, and paltry trickle. 
Freshet sprinkling scanty dole. 
Where the roaring flood should roll. 



"Therefore are thy children dwindled, 
Therefore is thine altar bare ; 
Wheat, and rye, and millet spindled, 
And the fruits of earth despair. 

" Men with haggard bellies languish. 
Bridal beds are strewn with anguish, 
Mothers sell their babes for bread. 
Half the holy kine are dead. 

" Is thy wrath at last relaxing ? 
Art thou merciful, once more ? 
Yea, behold the torrent waxing ! 
Yea, behold the flooded shore I 


" Nile, that now with life-blood tidest. 
And in gorgeous gold subsidest. 
Richer than our victor tread 
Stirred in far Hydaspes' bed; 

"When thy swelling crest o'er-waveth 
Yonder twenty cubit mark. 
And thy tongue of white foam laveth 
Borders of the desert dark, 

" This, the fairest Theban maiden. 
Shall be thine, with jewels laden ; 
Lift thy furrowed brow, and see 
Lita, dedicate to thee ! " 





Thus he spake, aitd loyvrly stooping 

O'er the Calasiris hem, 
Took the holy water, scooping 

With a bowl of lucid gem ; 

Chanting from the Bybline psalter 
Touched he then her forehead altar ; 
Sleeking back the trickled jet. 
There the marriage-^seal he set. 

" None of mortals dare pursue thee, 
None come near thy hallowed side : 
Nile's thou art, and he shall woo thee,- 
Nile, who swalloweth his bride." 


With despair's, miite self-rreliante, 
She accepted death's affiance ; 
She, who hc^th no home or rest, 
Shrank not from the river's breast. 

Haply there she shall discovier 
Father, lost in wilds unknown, 

Motner slain, and youthful lover, 
Seen as yet in dreams alone. 

Ha ! sweet maid, what sudden vision 
Hath dispelled thy cold derision ? 
What new picture hast thou seen. 
Of a world that. might have been? 



From Mount Seir, Duke Ii^am roveth, 
Three renewals of the moon : 

To see Egypt him behoveth, 
Ere his life be past its noon. 

Soul, and mind, at first fell under 
Flat discomfiture of wonder, 
With the Nile before him spread. 
Temple-crowned, and tempest-fed ! 

Yet a nobler creed he owneth. 
Than to worship things of space : 

One true God his heart enthroneth — 
Heart that throbs with Esau's race. 


Thus he stood, with calm eyes scorning 
Idols, priests, and their adorning ; 
Seeing, e'en in nature's show, 
Him alone, who made it so. 

" God of Abraham, our Father, 

Earth, and heaven, and all we see. 
Are but gifts of thine, to gather 
Us, thy children, back to Thee. 

" All the grandeur spread before us. 
All the miracles shed o'er us, 
Echoes of the voice above, 
Tokens of a Father's love." 



While of heaven his heart indited, 
And his dark eyes swept the crowd, 

Sudden on the maid they lighted. 
Mild and haughty^ meek and proud, 

Rapid as the flash of ssibre, 
Strong as gJaart's to^s of caber. 
Sure as victor's grasp of goal, 
Came the love-stroke through his soul^ 

Gently she, her eyes recalling. 

Felt that Heaven had touched their flight, 
Peeped again, through lashes falling, 

Blushecty and shrank, and shunned the light. 


Ah, what booteth swe^t illusion, 
Fluttering glance, and soft suffusiofl, 
Bliss unknown, but felt in sighs. 
Breast, that shrinks at its own rise ? 

She, who' is the Nile's devoted. 

Courted with a watery smile; 
Her betrothal duly noted 

By the bridesmaid Crocodile ! 

So she bbwed her forehead towly, 
Tightened her tiara holy ; 
And, with- every sigh suppressed. 
Clasped her bands On passion's bfea^.- 

i7 d 



TWICE the moon hath waxed and wasted, 
Lavish of her dew-bright horn ; 
And the wheeling sun hath hasted 
Fifty days, towards Capricorn, 

Thebes, and all the Misric nation, 
Float upon the inundation ; 
Each man shouts and laughs, before 
Landing at his own house door. 

There the good wife doth return it, 
Grumbling, as she shows the dish, 

Chervil, basil, chives, and burnet 
Feed, instead of seasoning, fish. 


Palm trees, grouped upon the highland. 
Here and there make pleasant island ; 
On the bark some wag hath wrote — 
" Who would fly, when he can float ?" 

Udder'd cows are standing pensive, 

Not belonging to that ilk ; 
How shall horn, or tail defensive, 

Keep the water from their milk? 

Lo, the black swan, paddling slowly, 
Pintail ducks, and sheldrakes holy, 
Nile-goose flaked, and herons gray. 
Silver-voiced at fall of day I 
1 8 


Flood hath swallowed dikes and' hedges, 
Lately by Sesostris planned ; 

Till, like ropes, its matted edges 
Quiver on the desert sand. 

Then each former, brisk and mellowj 
Graspeth by thehandvhis fellow; 
And, as one gone labour-proof. 
Shakes his head at the drowned, shadooff 

Soon the.Nuphar comes, beguiling 
Sed|y> spears, and swords aiiound,. 

Like that cradded infant smiling, 
Whom>the royal maiden found.. 


But the time of times for wonder 
Is when ruddy sun goes. under; 
And the dusk throws^ half afraid, 
Silver shuttles o£ liMig shade.. 

Opens then a' scene; the fairesfe 

Ever bursfc on human view ; 
Once behold, and thou comparest 

Nothing in the worid thereto.. 

While the broad flood murmurs glistening 
To the moon that hangeth listening — 
Moon that looketh down the sky, 
Like an aloe-bloom on high — 


S»d<J^ jconoh o'er the waye ringed J 
Ere the date^leaves cease to shake, 

All, that hath existence, springetl^ 
Into broad light, wide^^awake, 

As at a windosw of heaven ikfmm up, 
All in a dazzling bia^e are sl]iown up. 
Mellowing, ere our eyes avail. 
To some soft enchanter's tale. 

Every skiff a big ship seemetil, 
Every bush with tall wings dad ^ 

pvery man his good biain deemeth 
The only brain that is nojt mad, 


Hark ! The putee of measured rowing, 
And the silver clariQns blowiijg, 
From tjie distant darkness, break 
Into this illumined lake, 

Tis Sesositris, lord of nations, 

Victor of three contineijts, 
Visiting tjje celebrations, 

Priests, and pomps, and regiments, 

Kings, froni Jndus, and Arajtes, 
Ister, and the Boreal axes, 
Horsed^hia ciariot to the waves, 
Then emb^kedL his galley-slaves, 



Glitteriu^. stands the giant ix5yal, 
Four tall sons are at his back ; 

Twain, with theif own corpses loyal. 
Bricked the flames Pdusiac 

As he passeth, myriads bless him, 
Glorious .Monarch all confess him, 
Steraly upright,, to jcpndosne 
No injustice, save his owji. 

He, welUpleased, his sceptre swingetli, 
Wljile his four son$ strike the gong ; 

Till the smrkling wat^ ringeth 
Joy and. laughter, joke and spjjg. 


Ah. but while loud meriy-^aaking 
Sets the lights and shadows shaking, 
While tlie.mad world casts away 
Every thought that is not gay, 

Hath not earth, our sweet step-mother, 
Very di&rent scene hard by, 

Tossing one, and trampling other^ 
Some to laugh, and some to sigh ? 

Where the fane of Hathor lowereth, 
And the black Myrike embpwereth, 
Weepeth one her life gone by ; 
Over- young, oh death, to 4ie I 


Nay, bot lately she was yearning^ 

To be quit of life's turmoil, 
In the land of no returning, 

Where all travel ends, and toiL 

What temptations now entice her ^ 
What hath made the world seem nicer? 
Whence the charm, that strives anew 
To prolong this last adieu ? 

Ah, her heart can understand it. 

Though her tongue can ne'er explain : 

Let yon granite Sphinx demand it — 
Riddle, ever solved in vain. 


No constraint of hands hath bound her, 
Not a chain hath e'er been round her ; 
Silver star hath sealed her brow, 
Holy as an Isis cow. 

Free to wander where she listeth ; 

No immurement must defile 
(So the ancient law insisteth) 

This, the hallowed bride of Nile. 

What recks Abraham's descendant 
Idols, priests, and pomps attendant ? 
And how long shall nature heed 
What the stocks and stones decreed ? 



" Fiendish superstitions hold thee 
To a vile and hideous death. 
Break their bonds ; let love enfold thee ; 
Off, and fly with me ; " — he saith. 

" Off 1 while priests are cutting capers — 
Priests of beetles, cats, and tapirs. 
Brutes, who would thy beauty truck' 
For an inch of yellow muck. 

" Lo, my horse, Pyropus, yearneth 
For the touch of thy light form ; 
Like the lightning, his ^e burnetii ; 
And his nostril, like the storm. 


" What are those unholy pagans ? 
Can they ride ? No more than Dagons. 
Fishtails ne'er could sit a steed ; 
That belongs to Esau's seed, 

"' I will make thee Queen of far lands. 
Flocks, and herds, and camel-trains. 
Milk and honey, fruit and garlands. 
Vines and venison, woods and wains. 

" God is with us ; He shall speed us ; 
Or (if this vile crew impede us) 
Let some light into their brain, 
By the sword of Tubal Cain," 


"Nay," she; answered, dee'ply sighitfgj 
As the maid grew wromanish^-- 

"Love, how hard have I beeii trying' 
To bielieve the thing I wish! 

*' Thou hast taught me holy teai^Mngs; 
Where to offer my beseechirigSV 
Homage due to Heaven alontej 
Not to ghostSj arid graven stone. 

*' Thou hast shown me' truth and ffeeddm, 
Love, and faith in One most High j 
But thou hast riot, Pirinee of Edom, 
Taught me therewithal, to lie. 

" Little dause had I for frettirtgj 
None ori earth to bg regretting ; 
Till I saw thee, brave and kind ; 
And my heart undid my mind* 

*' Better, if the Gods had slain m6, 
When no difference eould be ; 
Ere the joy had eome to pain riie; 
And, alas, my d^ar orie, theef 

" But shall my pOOf life throw shame #il 
Royal lineage of Amon ? 
'Tis of Egy]pt's oldest strains-;. 
Kingly blood flows in my Veiris. 


" Thoii hast seen ; my faith is plighted/ 
That 1 will not fly my doom. 
Honour is a flower unblighted, 
Though the fates cut off its bloom, 

" I have sent my last sun sleeping, 
And I am ashamed of weeping. 
God, my new God, give me graee 
To be worthy of my race. 

" Though this death our bodies sever, 
Thou shalt find me there above ; 
Where I shall be learning ever, 
TO be worthy of thy love." 


From his gaze she tiirned, to borrow 
Pride's assistance against sorrow-" 
God vouchsafes that scanty loan, 
When He taketh all our own. 

Sudden thought of heaven's inspiring . 

Flashed through bold Duke Iram's heart ; 
Angels more than stand admiring, 

When a man takes his own part. 

'Tis the law the Lord hath taught us, 
To undo .what Satan wrought us ; 
To confound the foul fiend s plan, 
With the manliness of man^ 

^ e 


*' Thou art right," he answered lowly, 
As a youth should speak a maid ; 

" Like thyself, thy word is holy ; 
I^ove is hate, if it degrade. 

" But when thou hast well surrendered. 
And thy sacrifice is tendered — 
God dp so, and more to me, 
If I slay not, who slay thee ! 

*' Abraham's God hath ne'er forsaken 
Them who trust in Him alway. 
Thy sweet life shall not be taken. 
Rest, and calm thee, while I pray," 


Like a little child, that kneeleth 
To tell God whate'er he feeleth. 
Bent the tall young warrior there, 
And the palm-trees whispered prayer. 

She, outworn with woe and weeping, 
Shared that influence from above ; 

And the fear of death went sleeping 
In the maiden faith and love. 

Less the stormy water waileth, 
E'en the human tumult faileth ; 
Stars their silent torches light. 
To conduct the car of night. 




LO, how bright-eyed morn awaketh 
Tower and temple, nook and Nile ; 
How the sun exultant maketh 
All the world return his smile I 

O'er the dry sand, vapour twinkleth, 
Like an eye when old age wrinkleth ; 
While, along the watered shore 
Runs a river of gold ore. 

Temple-front and court resemble 
Mirrors swung in wavering light ; 

While the tapering columns tremble 
At the view of their own height. 


Marble shaft, and granite portal„ 
Statues of the Gods immortal 
Quiver, with their figures bent^ 
In a liquid pediment. 

Thence the flood-leat followeth swiftly. 
Where the peasant,, spade in hand, 

Guideth many a runnel deftly 
Through his fruit and pasture-land; 

Oft, the irriguous bank cross-slicing, 
Plaited trickles he keeps enticing ; 
Till their gravelly gush he feels, 
Overtaking his brown heels. 



Life — that long hath born the test of 

More than ours could bear, and live- 
Springs anew, to make the. best of 
' Every chance the Gods may give. 

Doum-tree stiffeneth flagging feather ; 
Date-leaves cease to cling together ; 
Citrons clear their welted rind ; 
Vines their mildewed sprays unwind. 

Gourds, and melons, spread new lustre 
On their veiny dull shagreen ; 

While the starred pomegranates cluster 
Golden balls, with pink between. 


Yea, but heaven hath ordered duly, 
Lest mankind should wax unruly, 
Egypt, garner of all lore, 
Narrow as a threshing-floor. 

East, and West, lies desolation, 
Infinite, untracked, untold— 

Shroud for all of God's creation, 
When the wild blast lifts its fold ; 

There eternal melancholy 
Maketh all delight unholy ; 
As a stricken widow glides 
Past a group of laughing brides, 


Who is this, that so disdaineth 
DomQ and desert, fear and fate ; 

While his jewell'd horse he reineth. 
At Amen-Ra's temple-gate ? 

He, who crushed the kings of Asia, 
Like a pod of colocasia ; 
Whom the sons of Anak fled, 
Puling infants at his tread. 

W,ho, with his own shoulders, lifted 
Thrones of many a conquered land ; 

Who the rocks of Scythia rifted — 
King Sesostris waves his hand, 


Blare of trumpet fills the valley ; 
Slovyly, and majestically, 
Swingeth wide, in solemn state, 
Lord Amen-Ra's temple-gate. 

Thence the warrior-host emergeth. 

Casque, and corselet, spear, and shield ; 

As the tide of red ore surgeth 
From the furnace-door revealed. 

After them, tumultuous rushing, 
Mob, and medley, crowd, and crushing ; 
And the hungry file of priests. 
Loosely zoned for larger feasts, 



" Look 1 " The whispered awe enhances; 
With a thrill their merry treat ; 
As one readeth grim romances, 
In a sunny window-seat. 

^' Look ! It is the maid selected 
For the sacrifice expected : 
By the Gods, how proud and brave 
Steps she to her watery grave ! " 

Strike up cymbals, gongs, and tabours» 
Clarions, double-flutes, and drums ; 

All that bellows, or belabours. 
In a surging discord comes. 


Scarce Duke Iram can keep under 
His wild steed's disdain and wonder. 
While his large eyes ask alway — 
** Dareth man attempt to neigh ?" 

He hath snuffed the great Sahara, 
And the mute parade of stars ; 

Shall he brook this shrill fanfara, 
Ramshorns, pigskins, screechy jars ? 

What hath he to do with rabble ? 
Froth is better than their babble ; 
Let him toss them flakes of froth, 
To pronounce his scorn and wrath. 



With his nostrils fierce dilating, 

With his crest a curling sea, 
All his volumed power is waiting 

For the will, to set it free. 

" Peace, my friend !" The touch he knoweth 
Calms his heart, howe'er it gloweth : 
Horse can shame a man, to quell 
Passion, where he loveth well. 

*' Nay, endure we," saith the rider, 
" Till her plighted word be paid ; 
Then, though Satan stand beside her, 
God shall help me swing this blade." 


Lo, upon the deep-piled dais, 
Wrought in hallowed looms of Sais, 
O'er the impetuous torrent's swoop, 
Stands the sacrificial group I 

Tall High-priest, with zealot fires 

Blazing in those eyeballs old. 
Swathes him, as his rank requires, 

Head to foot, in linen fold. 

Seven attendants round him vying. 
In a lighter vesture plying. 
Four with skirts, and other three 
Tunic'd short from waist to knee, 



Free among- them stands the maiden, 
Clad in white for her long rest ; 

Crowned with gold, and jewel-laden, 
With a lily on her breast. 

Lily is the mark that showeth 
Where that pure and sweet heart gloweth ; 
Here must come, to shed her life, 
Point of sacrificial knife. 

Here the knife is, cold and gleaming, 
Here the colder butcher band. 

Was the true love nought but dreaming, 
Feeble heart, and coward hand ? 


Strength unto the weak is given. 
When their earthly bonds are riven ; 
Ere the spirit is called away, 
Heaven begins its tranquil sway. 

Life hath been unstained, and therefore 

Pleasant to look back upon ; 
But there is not much to care for. 

When the light of love is gone. 

Still,, though love were twice as fleetingj 
Longeth she for one last greeting ; 
If her eyes might only dwell 
Once on his, to say farewell. 



" Glorious Hapi," spake Piromis, 
Lifting high his weapon'd hand ; 

" Earth thy footstool, heaven thy dome is, 
We the pebbles on :^hy strand. 

" Thou baslt^leaped the cubits twenty, 
Dowering us with peace and plenty ; 
Mutha shows thee her retredt, 
And the desert licks thy feet. 

"We have passed through our purgation, 
Once again we are thy kin ; 
God, accept our expiation, — 
Maiden pure of mortal sin." 


" Ha!" the king cried, smiling blandly; 

" Ha I", the trumpets answered grandly. 
Proudly priest whirkd knife on high, 
W^hile the maiden bowed — to die. 

Sudden, through the ranks beside her, 
Scattering men, like sparks of flint. 

Burst a snow-white horse and rider. 
Rapid as the lightning's glint. 

One blow hurls Arch-priest to quiver 
Headless, in, his beloved river. 
In the twinkling of an eye. 
All the rest are dead, or fly. 

33 f 


Iram, from Pyropus sweeping, 

As a mower swathes the rye, 
Caught his love, in terror sleeping. 

And her light form swings on nigh. 

" Soul of Khons I" Sesostris shouted, 
Striding down the planks blood-grouted — 
Into his beard fell something light. 
And he spat, and swooned with fright. 

What hath made this great king stagger. 
Reel, and shriek — " unclean, unclean I" 

Thunderbolt, or flash of dagger ? 
Nay, 'twas but a garden bean. 

Brave Pyropus, blood-bespattered. 
Snorts at men and corpses scattered, 
Throws his noble chest more wide, 
Leaps into the leaping tide. 

Vainly hiss a thousand arrows, 

Launched at random through the foam ; 
Every stroke the 4istance narrows 

Twixt him and his dessert home. 

Sorely tried, and passion-shaken. 
Long amid her foes forsaken. 
Now, in tumult of surprise, 
Lita knows not where she lies. 



Till a bright wave breaks upon her, 
And her clear perceptions wake — ' 

All his valour, prowess, honour, 
Scorn of life, for her poor sake I 

Gently then her eyes she raises, 
(Eyes, whence all the pure soul gazes) 
Softly brings her lips to his — 
Lips, wherein the whole heart is. 

Let the furious waters welter, 
Let the rough winds roar above ; 

Waves are warmth, and storms are shelter, 
In the upper heaven of love. 


Fierce the flood, and wild the danger ; 
Yet the noble desert-ranger 
Flinches not, nor flags, before 
He hath brought them safe ashore. 

Lives there man, who would have striven, 
Reckless thus of storm and sword. 

Leaped into the gulf, and given 
Heart and soul, to please his Lord ? 

With caresses they have plied him, 
Hand in hand they kneel beside him, 
While their mutual vows they plight 
To the God of life and light. 



Ha ! What meaneth yon sword-flashing ? 

Trumps, and shouts from wave and isle ? 
L5, the warrior galleys dashing, 

To avenge insulted Nile I 

Haste ! The brave steed, leaping lightly, 
'Neath his double burden sprightly. 
Challenges, with scornful note. 
Every horse in Pharaoh's boat. 

King of ^gypt, curb thy rages ; 

Lo, how trouble should be borne ! 
Memnon soothes the woe of ages, 

With a sweet song, every morn. 











The citro!^, stephanote, and rose, 
Pomegranate, hoya, calycanth, 
Apd yet unwanted amaranth, 

Were sweetness in repose : 


When rivulets were loth to creep, 

Ejscept unto the pillow moss. 
And 4istant lake, encurtained deep, 

Was but a silver thread across 
The eyes of sleep : 

When nightingales, in the Sycamore, 

Sang low and spft, as an echo dreaming ; 

And slept the moon upon heaven's shore-^ 
The tidal shore of heaven, beaming 

With lazuled ore ; 

«i' - • - ■ - - 

When new-born earth was fain to le^n 
In Summer's arms, recovering 
The unaccustomed toil of Spring, 

Why slept not Eve, their Queen 3 


Upon a smooth fern-hiantled stone 

She sat, ^ijjd watc^ef^ the y^ifke^-g^tQ^ 
Not tii^jd in jhier womfLn's jthrpne, 
Nor lonely m hej- sinles§ state, 
Though air alope ; 

Por having spread her simple board 

With grapes, and peaches, milk, and flowers, 

She strewed sweet mastic o'er the sward. 
And waited through the bridal hours 
Step of her lord. 

Such innocence around her breathed, 
And freshness of young nature's pl2^, 
The sensitive plant shrank not away, 

And cactus' swords were sheathed. 


The vision of her beauty fell. 
Like music on a moonlit place. 

Or trembles of a silver bell. 
Or memories of a sacred face, 
Too dear to tell : 

The grace that wandered free of laws. 
The look that lit the heart's confession. 

Had never dreamed how fair it was ; 
Nor guessed that purity's expression 
Is beauty's cause : 

No more that unenquiring heart 
Perused the sweet home of her breast, 
Than turtle-doves unline their nest 

To scan the outer part. 



Although, in all that garden fair, 

Whate'er delight abode, or grew. 
Flowers, and trees, and balmy air, 

Fountains, and birds, and heaven blue 
Beyond compare : 

In her their various charms had met, 
And grown more varied by combining, 

As budded plants do give and get, 
Each inmate doubling while resigning 
His several debt : 

And yet she nursed one joy, above 

Her thousand charms, nor born of them. 
But blooming on a single stem — 

Her true faith in her love. 


And though, before she heard his foot, 
The moon had climbed the homestead palm, 

Flinging to her the shadowed fruit, 
And tree-frogs ceased to break the calm, 
And birds were mute. 

With sudden transport ever new. 

She blushed, and sprang from forth the bower, 
Her eyes as bright as moon-lit dew» 

Her bosom glad as snow-veiled flower, 
When sun shines through ; 


He, with a natural dignity 
Untaught $el(-CQnsciousness by harm, 
Sustained her with his manly firpi, 

And smiled upon her glee. 


Next day, when early evening shone 

Along the walks of Paradise, 
Strewing with gold the hills, her throne, 

Embarrassing the winds with spice 
(Too rich a loan), 

Fair Eve was in her bower of ease, 
A cool arcade of fruit and flowers, 

From North and East enclasped by trees, 
But open to the Western showers, 
And Southern breeze. 

Here followed she her gardening trade, 
Her favourites' simple needs, attending. 
And singing soft, above them bending, 

A song herself had made. 


In evening's, calm, she walked between 
The tints and shades of rich delight, 
While overhead came, arching green, 
Mmy- a shrub and parasite. 
To grown their Queen ,' 

There laughed the joy of the rose, among 

Myrtle and Iris, heaven's eye, 
Magnole, with cups of moonlight hung, 

And Fuchsia's sunny chandlery, 
And coral tongue ; 

And where the shy brook fluttered through. 
Nepenthe held her chalice leaf 
(Undrained as yet by human grief). 

And broad NyttiphaEfa grew. 


But where the path bent towards the wood, 

Across it hung a sombre screen, 
The deadly night-shade, leaden-hued ; 

And there behind it, darkly seen, 
A Being stood : 

The form, if any form it had. 

Was lik^st to a nightly vision 
In mantle of amazement clad, 

A terror-sense, without precision, 
Of something bad. 

A tremble chillied the forest shade, 

A roving lion turned and fled, 

The birds cowered home in hush of dread ; 
But Eve was not afriaid. 



She stood before him, sweetly bold, 
To keep him from her garden shrine, 

With hair that fell, a shower of gold, 
Around her figure's snowy line 
And rosy mould : 

He (with a re-awakened sense 

Of goodness, long for ever lost, 
And angel beauty's pure defence) 

Shrank back, unable to accost 
Such innocence : 

But envy soon scoffed down his shame ; 
And with a smile, designed for fawning. 
But like hell's daybreak sickly dawning, 

His crafty accents came. 


" Sweet ignorance, 'tis sad and hard 
To break thy fond confiding spell ; 
And my soft heart hath such regard 
For thine, that I will never tell 
What may be spared." 

He turned aside, o'erwhelmed with pain, 
And drew a sigh of deep compassion : 
She trembled, flushed, and gazed again. 
And prayed him quick, in woman's fashion, 
To speak it plain : 

" Then, if thou must be taught to grieve, 
And scorn the guile thou hast adored— 
The man who calls himself thy lord» 
Where goes he, every eve ?" 


" Nay, then," she cried, " if that be all, 
I care not what thou hast to say ; 
The guile that lurks therein is small — 
My husband but retires to pray. 
At evening call." 

"To pray? Oh yes, and on his knees 
May-hap to find a lovely being : 
Devotions so devout as these 
Are best at night, with no one seeing. 
Among the trees." 

She blushed as deep as modesty, 

Then glancing back as bright as pride, 
"What woman can he find," she cried, 
" In all the world, but me ?" 


He laughed with a superior sneer. 
Enough to shake e'en woman's faith ; 
!' Wilt thou believe me, simple dear, 
If I am able now," he saith, 
" To show her here ?" 

49 ^ 

She cried aloud with gladsome heart, 
" Be that the test whereon to try thee ; 
Nature, and heaven shall take my part : 
Come, show this, rival ; I defy thee 
And all thy art." 

A mirror, held in readiness, 

He set upright before her feet — 
" Now can thy simple charms, compete 
With beauty such as this ?" 


A lovelier sight therein she saw 
Than ever yet had charmed her eyes, 

A fairer picture, void of flaw. 
Than any, even Paradise 
Itself, could draw ; 

A woman's form of perfect grace, 

In shadowy softness delicate ; 
Though flushed by sunset's rich embrace, 

A white rose could not imitate 
Her innocent face : 

Then, through the deepening glance of fear, 
The shaft of doubt came quivering, 
The sorrow-shaft — a. sigh its wing, 

And for its barb a tear. 



•' Ah me !" she cried, *' too true it isf 
A simple homely thing, like Eve^, 
Hath not a chance to rival this, 
But must resign herself to grieve 
O'er by-gone bliss. 

" Till now it was enough for me 

To be what God our Father made ;: 
Oh, Adam, I was proud to be 
(As I have felt, and thou hast said) 
A part of thee. 

" No marvel that my lord can spare 

His true and heaven-appointed bride-. 
And yet affection might have, tried 
To fancy me as fair." 


The Tempter, glorying in his wiTe„ 
Hath ta'en his mirror and withdrawn ; 

Again the flowers look up and smile, 
And brightens off from air and lawn 
The taint of guile.. 

But smiles come not again to Eve, 
Nor brightens off her dark reflection : 

Her garland-crown she hath ceased to weave, 
And, plucking, maketh no selection ; 
Only to grieve. 


She feels a dewy radiance steep 
The languid petals of her ey^es, 
And hath another sad surprise, 

To know the way to weep. 



The tears were still in woman's eyes, 
When morn awoke on Paradise ; 
And still her sense of shame forlsade 
To tell her grievance, or upbraid ; 
Nor knew she which was dearer cost. 
To seek him, or to shun him most. 
Then Adam, willing to believe 

A heart by casual fancy moved 

Would soon come back, at voice she loved, 
Addressed his song to Eve. 


OME fairest, while the morn is fair, 

And dews are bright as yon clear eyes ; 
Calm down this tide of troubled hair, 
Forget with me all other sighs 
, Than summer air. 

*' Like me, the woodland shadows roam 
At light (their fairer comrade's) side ; 
And peace and joy salute our home ; 
And lo, the sun in all his pride — 
My sunshine, come 1 

*' The fawns and birds, that know our call, 
Are waiting for our presence — see. 
They wait my presence, love ; and thee, 
The most desired of all. 



"The trees, which thought it grievous thing 
To weep their own sweet leaves away, 
Untaught as yet how soon the Spring 
Upon their nestled heads should lay 
Her callow wing — 

" The trees, whereat we smiled again. 

To see them, in their growing wonder, 
Suppose their buds were verdant rain. 
Until the gay winds rustled under 
Their feathered train, 

" Lo, now they stand in braver mien,, 
And, claiming stronger shadow-right,, 
Make prisoner of the intrusive light, 
And strew the winds with green. 


" Of all the flowers that bow the head,. 
Or gaze erect on sun and sky. 
Not one there is, declines to shed, 
Or standeth up, to qualify 
His incense-meed : 

" Of all that blossom one by one, 

Or join their lips in loving cluster, 
Not one hath now resolved alone. 
Or taken counsel, that his lustre 
Shall be unshown. 


" So let thy soul a blossom be, 

To breathe the fragrance of its praise, 
And lift itself, in early days, 
To Him who fosters thee. 


" Of all the founts, bedropped with light. 
Or silver-tress d with shade of trees, 
Not one there is, but sprinkles bright 
It's plume of freshness on the breeze, 
And jewelled flight : 

" Of all that hush among the moss. 
Or babble to the lily-vases. 
Not one there is but purls across 
A gush of the delight, that causes 
It's limpid gloss. 

" So let thy heart a fountain be, 
To rise in sparkling joy, and fall 
In dimpled melody — and all 
For love of home, and me." 


The only fount her heart became 

Rose quick with sighs, and fell in tears ; 
While pink upon her white cheek came, 
(Like apple-blossom among pear's) 
The tinge of shame. 

Her husband, pierced with new alarm, 
Bent nigh to ask of her distresses, 

Enclasping her with sheltering arm, 
Unwinding by discreet caresses. 
The thread of harm. 

Then she, with sobs of slow relief 
(For silence is the jail of care) 
Confessed, for him to heal or share. 

The first of human grief. 


" I cannot look on thee, and think 

That thou has ceased to hold me dear ; 
I cannot break the loosened link : 
When thou, my only one, art near. 
How can I shrink ? 

" So it were better, love — I mean, 

My lord, it is more wise and right — 
That I, as one whose day hath been, 

Should keep my pain from pleasure's sight, 
And dwell unseen. 

" And — though it break my heart to say — 
However sad my loneliness, 
I fear thou wouldst rejoice in this — 
To have me far away. 



" I know not how it is with man, 
Perhaps his nature is to change, 
On finding consort fairer than — 
But oh, I cannot so arrange 
My nature's plan ! 

"And haply thou hast never thought 
To vex, or make me feel forsaken ; 
But, since to thee the thing was nought, 
Supposed 'twould be as gaily taken. 
As lightly brought. 

" Yet, is it strange that I repine, 
And feel abased in lonely woe, 
To lose thy love — or e'en to know 
That half of it is mine ? 


" For whom have I on earth but thee. 
What heart to love, or home to bless ? 
Albeit I was wrong, I see. 

To think my husband took no less 
Delight in me. 

" But even now, if thou wilt stay. 
Or try at least no more to wander. 
And let me love thee, day by day. 
Till time, or habit, make thee fonder 
(If so it may) — 


" Thou shalt have one more truly bent, 
In homely wise, on serving thee. 
Than any stranger e'er can be ; 
And Eve shall seem content." 


Not loud she wept — but hope could hear ; 

Sweet hope, who in his lifelong race 
Made terms, to win the goal from fear, 

That each alternate step should trace 
A smile and tear. 

But Adam, lost in wide amaze, 
Regarded her with troubled glances, 

Misdoubting 'neath her steady gaze. 
Himself to be in strange romances, 
And dreamy haze : 

Then questioning in hurried voice. 
And scarcely waiting her replies. 
He spoke, and showed the true surprise 

That made her soul rejoice. 


She told him what the Tempter said. 

And what her frightened self had seen, 
(That form in loveliness arrayed. 
With modest face, and graceful mien) 
And how displayed. 

Then well-content to show his bride 
The worldly knowledge he possessed, 

(That world whereof was none beside) 
He laid his hand upon his breast, 
And thus replied : — 

" Wife, mirror'd here too deep to see, 
" A little way down yonder path, 
'.' And I will show the form which hath 

" Enchanted thee, and me." 


Kadisha is a streamlet fair, 

Which hurries down the pebbled way, 
As one who hath small time to spare. 

So far to go, so much to say 
To summer air ; 

Sometimes the wavelets wimple in 
O'erlapping tiers of crystal shelves, 

And little circles dimple in. 

As if the waters quaffed themselves, 
The while they spin : 

Thence in a clear pool, overbent 

With lotus-tree and tamarind flower, 
Empearled, and lulled in golden bower, 

Kadisha sleeps content. 


IP! Ill i^lW MLfc^W,! ■ igj 



And, bending o'er in sweet surprise, 
Perused, with simple child's delight, 
The flowing hair, and forehead white, 

And soft inquiring eyes. 


Then, blushing to a fairer tint 
Than waves might ever hope to catch, 
" I see," she cried, " a lovely print ; 
But surely I can never match 
This lily glint I 

" So pure, so innocent, and bright, 

So charming free, without endeavour. 
So fancy-touched with pensive light I 
I think that I could gaze for ever, 
With new delight. 

" And now that rose-bud in my hair, 
Perhaps it should be placed above — 
And yet, I will not change it, love, 
Since tnou hast set it there. 


•' Vain Eve, why glory thus in Eve ? 
What matter for thy form or face ? 
Thy beauty is, if love believe 
Thee worthy of that treasured place 
Thou ne'er shalt leave. 


"Mount Arafa, situated about a mile from Mecca, is 
held in great veneration by the Mussulmans, as a place very 
proper for penitence. Its fitness in this respect is accounted 
for by a tradition that Adam and Eve, on being banished 
out of Paradise, in order to do penance for their transgression 
were parted from each other^ and after a separation of six 
score years, met again upon this mountain." 

Ockley's " History of the Saracens," p. 60. 



RIVEN away from Eden's 
(With blazing falchions 
fenced about) 
Into a desert desolate, 
A miserable pair came out, 
To meet their fate. 

To wander in a world of woe, 

To ache and starve, to burn and shiver. 
With every living thing their foe — 

The fire of God above, the river 
Of death below. 

Of home, of hope, of Heaven bereft ; 
It is the destiny of man 



To cower beneath his Maker's ban, 
And hide from his own theft ! 


The father of a world unborn— 
Who hath begotten death, ere life-^^ 

In sullen silence plods forlorn ; 
His love and pride in his fair wife 
Are rage and scorn. 

Instead of Angel ministers, 

What hath he now but fiends devouring 
Instead of grapes and melons, burs ; 

In lieu of manna, crab and souring — 
By whose fault ? Hers ! 

Alack, good sire of feeble knees, 

New penance waits thee ; since — when thus 
Thou shouldst have wept for all of us — 

Thou mournest thine own ease I 


The mother of all loving wives 

(Condemned unborn to many a tear) 
Is fain to take his hand, and strives 
In sorrow to be doubly dear — 
But shame deprives. 


■F ^^^ ki^ifc Ji^L,s>»_<i$^Uj . 

The shame, the woe, the black surprise. 

That love's first dream should have such end ing, 

To weep, and wipe neglected eyes I 
Oh loss of true love, far transcending 
Lost Paradise I 

For is it faith, that cannot live 
One gloomy hour, and soar above 

The clouds of fate ? And is it love. 
That will not e'en forgive ? 


The houseless monarch of the earth 

Hath quickly found what empire means ; 

For while he scoffs with bitter mirth, 
And curses, after Eden's scenes, 
This dreary dearth. 

A snake, that twined in playful zeal, 
But yester morn, around his ankle, 

Now driven along the dust to steal. 
Steals up, and leaves its venom'd rankle 
Deep in his heel. 

He groans awhile. He seeks anon 
For comfort to this first of pain, 
Where all his sons to-day are fain ; 

He seeks — but Eve is gone I 



O'er hill, and highland, moor, and plain, 
A hundred years, he seeks in vain ; 
Oer hill and plain, a hundred years, 
He pours the sorrow no one hears ; 
Yet finds, as wildest mourners find, 
Some ease of heart ifi toil of mind. 


YE mountains, that forbid the day, 
Ye glens, that are the steps of night. 
How long amid you must I stray, 
Deserted, banished from God's sight, 
And cast away ? 

" Ye trees and flowers the Lord hath made, 
Ye beasts, to my good-will committed — 
Although your trust hath been betrayed — 
Not long ago ye would have pitied 
Your old comrade. 

" Oh, nature, noblest when alone. 
Albeit I love your outward part ; 
The nature that enthrals my heart 
Must be more like my own. 



" The Maker once appointed me — 
I know not, and I care not why — 
The lord of everything I see, 
Or if they walk, or swim, or fly, 
Whate'er they be. 

" And all the earth whereon they dwell, 
And all the heavens they are inhaling, 
And powers, whereof I cannot tell — 
Dark miscreants, supine and wailing, 
Until I fell. 

" 'Twas good and glorious to believe ; 
But now my majesty is o'er ; 
And I would give it all, and more, 
For one sweet glimpse of Eve. 


" For what is glory, what is power? 

And what the pride of standing first ? 
A twig struck down by a thunder shower, 
A crown of thistle to quench the thirst, 
A sun-scorched flower. 

" God grant the men who spring from me. 
As knowledge waxeth deep and splendid, 
To find a loftier pedigree 

Than any by the Lord intended — 
Frog, slug, or tree I 

73 1 

"So shall they live, without the grief 
Of having womankind to love, 
Find nought below, and less above, 
And be their own belief, 


" So weak was I, so poorly taught, 
By any but my Maker's voice, 
Too happy to indulge in thought. 
Which gives me little to rejoice. 
And ends in nought. 

" But now and then, my path grows clear, 
My mind casts off its grim confusion, 
When I have chanced on goodly cheer : 
Then happiness seems no delusion, 
Even down here. 

"With love and faith, to bless the curse, 
To heal the mind by touch of heart, 
To make me feel my better part, 
And fight against the worse. 


" It may be that I did o'erprize. 
Above the Giver, that rare gift, 
Ungird my will for softer ties. 
And hold my manhood little, thrift 
To woman's eyes, 

"' So fair she was, sO full of gtace,, 
So innocent with coy caresses, 
So proud to step at my own pace^ 
So rosy through: her gofden tresses;, 
Aiid such, a face ! 

" Suffice my sins ; I'll ne'er approve 
A thought against my faithful Eve ;, 
Suffice my sins,;, I'll never believei 
That it was one tOy lOve. 


" Oh, love, if e'er this desert pfein, 

Where I must sweat with axe and spade, 
Shall hold a people sprung from twain, 
Or better made, by Him, who made 
That pair in vain. 

'* Shall any know, as we have known. 
Thy rapture, terror, vaunting, fretting. 
Profound despair, ecstatic tone, 
Crowning of reason, and upsetting 
Of reason's throne^? 

" Bright honey quaff 'd from cells of gall. 
Or crimson sting from creamy rose — 
Thy heavenly half from Eden flows, 
Thy venom from our fall." 


Awhile he ceased; for scorching woe 
Had made a drought of vocal flow ; 
When hungry, weary, desolate, 
A fox cr^t home to his den's gate. 
The sight brought Adam's memory back, 
And touched him with a keener lack. 


" Home ! Where is home ? Of old I thought 
(Or felt in mystery of bliss) 
That so divinely was I wrought 
As not to care for that or mis, 
And value nought ; 

" But sit or saunter, rest or roam, 

Regarding all things most sublimely, 
As if enthroned on heaven's dome ; 
Away with paltry and untimely 
Hankerings for Home / 

" But now the weary heart is fain 
For shelter in some lowly nest — 
To sink upon a softer breast, 
And smile away its pain. 


" For me, what home, what hope is left? 
What difference of good or ill ? 
Of all I ever loved bereft, 

Disgraced, discarded, outlawed still, 
For one small theft 1 

" I sicken of my skill and pride ; 
I work, without a bit of caring. 
The world is waste, the world is wide ; 

Why make good things, with no one sharing 
Them at my side ? 

" What matters how I dwell, or die ? 
Away with such a niggard life 1 
The Lord hath robbed me of my wife ; 
And life is only I. 


" God, who hast said it is not good 
For man, thy son, to live alone ; 
Is everlasting solitude. 
When once united bliss was known, 
A livelier food ? 

" Can'st thou suppose it right or just. 

When thine own creature so misled us, 
In virtue of our simple trust. 
To torture us like this, and tread us 
Back into dust ? 

" Oh, fool I am. Oh, rebel worm ! 
If, when immortal, I was slain, 
For daring to impugn his reign, 
How shall I, thus infirm ? 



" Woe me, poor me I No humbler yet, 
For all the penance on me laid I 
Forgive me, Lord, if I forget 
That I am but what Thou hast made,, 
My soul Thy debt 1 

" Inspire me to survey the skies,, 

And tremble at their golden wonder. 
To learn the space that /comprise, 
At once to marvel, and to ponder. 
And drop mine eyes. 

" And grant me — ^for I do but find. 

In seeking more than God hath shown, 
I scorn His power and lose my own — 
Grant me a lowly mind. 


"A lowly mind! Thou wondrous sprite. 
Whose frolics make their master weep ; 
Anon, endowed with eagle's flight, 
Anon, too impotent to creep. 
Or blink aright j — 

" Howe'er, thy trumpery flashes play 
Among the miracles above thee, 
Be taught to feel thy Maker's sway, 
To labour, so that He shall love thee. 
And guide thy way. 

" Be led, from out the cloudy dreams 
Of thy too visionary part, 
To listen to the whispering heart, 
And curb thine own extremes. 


" Then hope shall shine from heaven, and give 
To fruit of hard work, sunny cheek. 
And flowers of grace and love revive, 
And shrivelled pasturage grow sleek, 
And corn shall thrive. 

" Beholding gladness, Eve and I, 
Enfolding it also in each other. 
May talk of heaven without a sigh ; 
Because our heaven in one another 
Love shall supply. 

" For courage, faith, and bended knees. 
By stress of patience, cure distress, 
And turn wild Love-in-idieness 
Into the true Heartsease." 

The Lord breathed on the first of men, 
And strung his limbs to strength again; 
He scorned a century of ill, 
And girt his loins to climb the parting hill. 



Meanwhile through lowland, holt, and glade, 

Sad Eve her lonely travel made ; 

Not fierce, or proud, but well content 

To own the righteous punishment ; 

Yet found, as gentle mourners find. 

The heart's confession soothe the mind. 


YE valleys, and ye waters vast, 
Who answer all that look on you 
With shadows of themselves, that last 
As long as they, and are as true — 
Where hath he past ? 

" Oh woods, and heights of rugged stone, 
Oh weariness of sky above me. 
For ever must I pine and moan. 
With none to comfort, none to love me, 
Alone, alone ? 

" Thou bird, that hoverest at heaven's gate, 
Or cleavest limpid lines of air, 
Return — for thou hast one to care — 
Return to thy dear mate. 


" For me, no joy of earth or sky, 

No commune with the things I see. 
But dreary converse of the eye 
With worlds too grand to look at me— = 
No smile, no sigh ! 

" In vain I fall upon my knees, 

In vain I weep and sob for ever ; 
All other miseries have ease. 
All other prayers have ruth — -but nevef 
Any for these. 

" Are we endowed with heavenly breath, 
And God's own form, that we should wiii 
A proud priority of sin, 
And teach creation death ? 


" Nay, that is too profound for me. 
Too lofty for a fallen thing. 
More keenly do I feel than see ; 
Far liefer would I, than take wing, 
Beneath it be* 

" The night-^the dark-^-will soon be here, 
The gloom that doth my heart appal so ! 
How can I tell what may be near ? 
My faith is in tiie Lord— but also 
He hath made fear. 

8i m 

" I quail, I cower, I strive to flee ; 

Though oft I watched without affright, 
The stern magnificence of night, 
When Adam was with me 


" My husband ! Ah, I thought sometime 
That I could do without him well. 
Communing with the heaven at prime, 
And in my womanhood could dwell 
Calm and sublime. 

" Declining, with a playful strife, 

All thoughts below my own transcendence, 
All common-sense of earth and life, 
And counting it a poor dependence 
To be his wife. 

" But now I know, by trouble's test. 

How little my poor strength can bear. 
What folly wisdom is, whene'er 
The grief is in the breast I 

" The grief is in my breast, because 
I have not always been as kind 
As woman should, by nature's laws. 
But showed sometimes a wilful mind, 
Carping at straws. 

" While he, perhaps, with larger eyne. 

Was pleased, instead of vexed, at seeing 
Some little petulance in mine. 
And loved me all the more, for being 
Not too divine. 

" Until the pride became a snare,. 
The reason a deceit,, wherein 
I dallied; face to face with sin,^ 
And madfe a mortal pair. 


** Dark sin, the deadly foe of love. 

All bowers of bliss thou shalt infest,. 
Implanting thorns the flowers above. 
And one black feather in the breast 
Of purest dove. 

'" Almighty Father, once our friend',. 
And ready even now to love us. 
Thy pitying gaze upon us bend. 
And through the tempest-clouds above us 
Thine arm extend. 

" That so tky children may begin 
In lieu of bliss,, to earn content. 
And find that sinful Eve was meant 
Not only for a sin." 


Awhile she ceased; for memory's flow 
flad drowned the utterance of woe ; 
Until a young hind crossed the lawn, 
And fondly trotted forth her fawn, 
Whose frolics of delight made Eve, 
As in ci weeping vision, grieve. 


*' For me, poor me, no hope to learn 
That sweeter bliss than Paradise, 
The joy that makes a mother yearn 
O'er that bright message from the skies 
Her pains do earn, 

" She stoops entranced ; she fears to stir, 
Or think ; lest e'en a thought endanger 
(While two enraptured hearts confer) 
That wonderful and wondering stranger, 
Come home to her, 

** He watches her, in solemn style ; 
A world of love flows to and fro ; 
He smiles ; that he may learn to know 
His mother by her smile, 


«' Oh, bliss, that to all other bliss 
Shall be as sunrise unto night, 
Or heaven to such a place as this, 

Or God's own voice, with angels bright, 
To serpent's hiss I 

" Have I betrayed thee, or cast by 

The pledge in which my soul delighted— 
That afl this wrong and misery 

Should be avenged at last, and righted, 
And so should 1 ? 

" Belike, they look on me as dead, 

Those fiends that found me soft and sweet ; 
But God hath promised me one treat — 
To crush that serpent's head ! 


" Revenge ! Oh, heaven, let some one rise, 
Some woman, since revenge is small, — 
Who shall not care about its size, 
If only she can get it all. 
For those black lies ! 

" Poor Adam is too good and great, 
I felt it, though he said so little — 
To hate his foes, as I can hate — 
And pay them every jot, and tittle. 
At their own rate, 

" For was there none but I to blame? 
God knows that if, instead of me, 
There had been any other she, 
She would have done the same. 



" Poor me ! Of course the whole disgrace^ 
In spite of reason, falls on me : 
And so all women of my race, 

In pure right, shall be reason-free^ 
In every case. 

" It shall not be in power of man 

To bind them to their own contentions ;^ 
But each shall speak, as speak she can,. 
And start anew with fresh inventions, 
Where she began. 

" And so shall they be dearer still ; 

For man shall ne'er suspect in them. 
The plucking of the fatal stem, 
That brought him all his ill,. 


" And when hereafter — as there must,. 

Since He, that made us, so hath sworn — 
From that whereof we are, the dust, 
And whereunto we shall return 
In higher trust — 

" There spring a grand and countless race, 
Replenishing this vast possession. 
Till life hath won a larger space 

Than death, by quick and fair succession 
Of health and grace ; 

" They too shall find as I have found 
The grief, that lifts its head on high, 
A dewy bud the sun shall dry — 
But not while on the ground. 


" Then men shall love their wives again, 
Allowing for the frailer kind, 
Content to keep the heart's Amen, 
Content to own the turns of mind 
Beyond their ken. 

" And wives shall in their lords be blest. 
Their higher sense of right perceiving 
(When possible) with love their test ; 
Exalting, solacing, believing 
All for the best. 

" And for the best shall all things be, 
If God once more will shine around, 
And lift my husband from the ground, 
And teach him to lift me." 

New faith inspired the first of wives, 
She smiles, and drooping hope revives; 
She scorns a hundred years of woe. 
And binds her hair, because the breezes blow. 




THE wind is hushed, the mooll is bright, 
More stars on heaven than may be told ; 
Young flowers are coying with the light, 
That softly tempts them to unfold, 
Aftd trust the night. 

What form comes bounding ffoitt abov6 
Down Arafa, the mountain lonely. 

Afraid to scare its long-lost dove, 
Yet swift as joy—" It can be only, 
Only my love I *' 

"What shape is that — too fair to leave 

On Arafa, the mountain lone ? 

So trembling, and so faint-^" My own, 
It must be my own Eve ! " 


As when the mantled heavens display 

The glory of the morning glow, 
And spread the mountain heights with day, 

And bid the clouds and shadows go 
Trooping away. 

The Spirit of the Lord arose, 

And made the earth and heaven to quiver, 
And scattered all his hellish foes, 

And deigned his good stock to deliver 
From all their woes- 

So long the twain had strayed apart, 
That each as at a marvel gazed, 
With eyes abashed, and brain amazed ; 

While heart enquired of heart. 


Our God hath made a fairer thing 
Than fairest dawn of summer day — 

A gentle, timid, fluttering, 

Confessing glance, that seeks alway 
Rest for its wing. 

A sweeter sight than azure skies, 
Or golden star thereon that glideth ; 

And blest are they who see it rise, 
For, if it cometh, it abideth 
In woman's eyes. 

The first of men such blessing sued ; 

The first of women smiled consent ; 

For husband, wife and home it meant, 
And no more solitude I 


We trample now the faith of old, 

We make our Gods of dream and doubt ; 
Yet life is but a tale untold, 

Without one heart to love, without 
One hand to hold — 









1. • • .( 


. til • it 


. V (!fI^ « 



The old well of Saint John, in the parish of Newton-Nottage, 
Glamorganshire, has a tide of its own, which appears to run exactly 
counter to that of the sea, some half-mile away. The water is beau- 
tifully bright and fresh, and the quaint dome among the lonely sands 
is regarded with some awe and reverence. 


HERE is plenty of room for two in 

Within the steep tunnel of old 

grey stone ; 
And the well is so dark, and the 

spring so dear, 
It is quite unsafe to go down alone." 


" It is perfectly safe, depend upon it. 

For a girl who can count the steps, like me ; 
And if ever I saw dear mother's bonnet, 
It is there on the hill by the old ash-tree," 







" There is nobody but Rees Hopkin's cow 
Watching the dusk on the milk-white sea ; 
'Tis the time and the place for a life-long vow, 
Such as I owe you, and you owe me." 


"Oh, Willie, how can I, in this dark well ? 

I shall drop the brown pitcher if you let go ; 
The long roof is murmuring like a sea-shell. 
And the shadows are shuddering to and fro." 


" 'Tis the sound of the ebb, in Newton Bay, 
Quickens the spring, as the tide grows less ; 
Even as true love flows alway 
Counter the flood of the world's success." 


" There is no other way for love to flow. 

Whenever it springs in a woman's breast ; 
With the tide of its own heart it must go, 
And run contriry to all the rest." 


" Then fill the sweet cup of your hand, my love, 
And pledge me your maiden faith thereon. 
By the touch of the letter'd stone above, 
And the holy water of Saint John." 



" Oh, what shall I say? My heart sinks low ; 
My fingers are cold, and my hand too flat, 
Is love to be measured by handfuls so ; 
And you know that I love you — without that." 

# # * # 

They stooped, in the gleam of the faint light, over 
The print of themselves on the limpid gloom ; 

And she lifted her full palm toward her lover. 
With her lips preparing the words of doom. 

But the warm heart rose, and the cold hand fell,. 

And the pledge of her faith sprang sweet and clear, 
From a holier source than the old Saint's well, 

From the depth of a woman's love— a tear. 





(Plin. Nat. Hist., xxxv. ii) 

Scene I : — Outside the gate of Sky on — Morning. Glycera 
weaving garlands, Pausias stands admiring. 


E Gods, I thought myself the Prince 
of Art, 

By Phoebus, and the Muses set apart, 

To smite the critic with his own com- 

And teach the world the proper way 
to paint. 

But lo, a young maid trips out of a 
And what becomes of all I understood ? 


I stand and stare ; I could not draw a line, 

If ninety Muses came, instead of nine. 

Thy name, fair maiden, is a debt to me ; 

Teach him to speak, whom thou hast taught to see. 

Myself already some repute have won, 

For I am Pausias, Brietes' son. 

To boast behoves me not, nor do I need, 

But often wish my friends to win the meed. 

So shall they now ; no more will I pursue 
The beaten track, but try what thou hast shown, 
New forms, new curves, new harmonies of tone. 

New dreams of heaven, and how to make them true." 

" Fair Sir, 'tis only what I plucked this morn. 
Kind nature's gift, ere you and I were born. 
Through mossy woods, and watered vales, I roam, 
While day is young, and bring my treasure home ; 
Each lovely bell so tenderly I bear. 
It knoweth not my fingers from the air. 
Lo now, they scarce acknowledge their surprise, 
And how the dewdrops sparkle in their eyes ! " 

" Because the sun shines out of thine. But hush, 
To praise a face praiseworthy, makes it blush, 
I am not of the youths who find delight. 
In every pretty thing that meets their sight. 
My father is the sage of Sicyon ; 
And I — well, he is proud of such a son." 

97 o 


*' And proud am t, my mother's child to be, 
And earn for her the life she gave to me. 
Her name is Myrto of the silver hair, 
Not famed for wisdom, but loved everywhere." 

" Then whence thine art ? Hath Phoebus given thee boon 
Of wreath and posy, fillet and festoon? 
Of tint and grouping, balance, depth, and tone—* 
Lo, I could cast my palette down, and groan ! " 


" No art, fair sir, hath ever crossed my thought, 
The lesson I delight in comes untaught. 
The flowers around me take their own sweet way, 
They tell me what they wish — and I obey% 
Unlike poor us, they feel no spleen or spite, 
But earn their joy, by ministering delight. 
So loved and cherished, each may well suppose 
Itself at home again just where it grows. 
No dread have they of what the Fates may bring. 
But trust their Gods, and breathe perpetual Spring," 


" Fair child of Myrto, simple-hearted maid. 
Thy innocence doth arrogance upbraid. 
Ye Gods, I pray you make a flower of me ; 
That I may dwell with nature, and with thee," 


* I see the brave sun leap the city wall I 
The gates swing wide ; I hear the herald's ealll 
The Archon hath proclaimed the market-day ; 
And mother will shed tears at my delay. 
The priest of Zeus hath ordered garlands three %, 
And while I tarry, who will wait for me ? " 

' No picture have I sold for many, a moon, 
But fortune must improve her habits soon ; 
Then will I purchase all thy stock-in-trade. 
And thou shalt lead me to thy bower of green. 
There will I paint the flowers, and thee their Queen- 
The Queen of flowers, that nevermore shall fade," 

' I know a wood-nymph, who her dwelli-ng hath 
Among the leaves, and far beyond the path, 
With myrtle and with jasmin roofed, across,. 
Enlaced with vine,, and carpeted with moss,, 
Whose only threshold is a plaited brook,. 
Whereby the primrose at herself may look ; 
While birds of song melodious make the air — 
But oh 1 I must not take a. stranger there." 

' Nay, but a friend.. No stranger now am I.. 
Good art is pledge, of perfect modesty. 
From chastened heights the. painter glanceth down ; 
No maid can fear a youth who: loves renown," 


"Thy words are trim. If mother deems them true, 
Thou shalt come with me. But till then, adieu ! " 

" O ! where am I ? The mind is all for art — 
But one warm breath transforms it into heart." 

Scene II: — A JVood near Sicyon. Pausias with his 
easel, &c. Glycera carrying flowers. 

" Confounded tangle ! Who could paint all this ? 
A bear might hug him, or a serpent hiss ! 
For love of nature justly am I famed ; 
Butwhen she goes so far as this, she ought to be ashamed." 

" Nay, be not frightened by a small affray, 
Pure love of nature cannot pave its way. 
But lo, where yonder coney-tracks begin. 
My nymph hath made her favourite bower within. 
Yon oak hath reared its rugged antlers thus, 
Before Deucalion lived, or Daedalus. 
Inside her woodland Majesty doth keep 
A world of wonders— if one dared to peep — 
Of things that burrow, glide, spin webs, or creep ; 
Strange creatures, which before they live must die. 
And plants that hunt for prey, and flowers that fly I " 


" My love of nature freezes in a trice ; 
I loathe all earwigs, beetles, and wood-lice. 
Outside her bower the lady must remain, 
If she doth wish to have her portrait ta'en." 

" 'Tis not the lady thou must paint — but me." 

" Aha, that will I, with a glow of glee. 
But when I offered, somebody was vexed, 
And blushed,and frowned,and longed tosay, 'whatnext?" 

"A painter's tongue hath learnt to paint, I trow. 
But oh that order — I remember now — 
For twenty. chaplets, from the priest of Zeus ! 
Ah, what a grand majestic Hiereus ! " 
So pleased he was that morning with those three,, 
And such a customer he means to be ! 

" The priest, of Dis/ a scoundrel with three wives ! 
I'll pull his triple beard, if he arrives." 

" High words and threats profane this hallowed place. 
Where Time rebukes the fuss of human race. 
And gentle sir, what harm hath he done thee ? 
It is my mother whom he comes to see, 


Lo, how the Gods our puny wrath deride^ 
With peace and beauty spread on every side I' 
This earth with pleasure of the Spring complete, 
Too bright to dwell on, were it not so sweet. 
No theft of man it's affluence impairs,, 
A thousand flowers, without a loss, it spares ;, 
Whose bashful elegance no brush can trace,. 
Heartfelt delight, and plenitude of grace ; 
No palettes match their brilliance, although 
Pandora filled her box from Iris' bow.'" 

" Her want of faith sweet Glycera will rue, 
When she hath seen what Pausias can do" 

" Forgive me^ sir; In truth it was no. taunt.. 
A great man can do anything — but vaunt.."' 

" E'en that he can do, if he sees the need 
But out on words, when time hath come for deed I 
Up leaps the sun, to. paint thee with his plume. 
And every blossom seems to be thy bloom." 

" Why stand we here, so early of the morn, 
In love with things that treat our love with scorn — = 
Grey crags, where Time with folded pinion broods^ 
And ever young antiquity of woods ;, 


The brooks that babble, and the flowers that blush, 

Ere woman was a reed, or man a rush ? 

And he for ever, as the Gods ordain. 

Would fain revive with art what he hath slain ; 

Shall nature fail to laugh, while man doth yearn 

To teach the canvas what he ne'er can learn ? " 

" Sweet Muse, while thus through heaven's too distant 
Thy great mind roves — how shall we earn our salt ? 
Though art is not encouraged as of old. 

She is worth a score of nature ; I design 
To manufacture, from these flowers of thine, 
A silver* talent — or perhaps of gold I " 

" Good heavens, how precious is your Worship's time I 
Some minds are lowly, others too sublime* 
Before thee all my simple flowers I spread ; 
Long may they live, when Glycera is dead 1 " 

*' The Gods forefend ! Fair omen from fair maid — 
Bright tongue, recall the dark thing thou hast said I " 

" Then long live they, with Glycera to aid ! " 

* Lucullus is said to have given two talents for a mere copy of this picture, 


Scene III. — A western slope near Sicyon. Pausias 
has his easel set, Glycera is dressed in white. 

" Seven times the moon hath filled her silver horn, 
And twice a hundred suns awoke the morn, 
Since thou and I — for half the praise is thine— ^ 
Began this study of the flowers divine." 

" Alas 1 how swiftly have the months gone by I " 

" Not swift alone, but passing sweet for me." 

"The world, that was so large, is you and I." 

" And shall be larger still, when it is ' We.' " 

(Aside) « Sweet dual I Alas, that this shall never be 1 " 

"A tear, bright Glycera in those Qyes of thine. 
Those tender eyes, that should with triumph shine I 
When I, the owner of that precious heart, 
Am shouting lo Paean of high art ; 
The noblest picture underneath the sun — 
A few more strokes, and victory is won I " 

105 P 

" Nay, heed me not. True pleasure is not dry ; 
The sunrise of the heart bedews the eye." 

" If that were all — but lately there hath been 
A listless air beneath thy lively mien ; 
Thyself art all fair petal, and sweet perfume. 
And smiles that light the damask of thy bloom ; 
Yet some pale distance seems to chill the whole." 

" Forgive me, love, forgive a timorous soul. 
Through brightest hours untimely vapours rise — 
But while I prate, the lucky moment flies. 
The work, the weather, and the world are fair ; 
A few more strokes — and fame flies everywhere." 

" Who cares for fame, except with love to share ? " 

" To share I N*ay every breath of it is mine. 
Whene'er it breathes on thee ; for I am thine. 
But pardon now — if I have seemed sometime 
Impatient, glib, too pert for things sublime. 
Remember that I meant not so to sink ; 
Forgive your Glycera, when you come to think." 

1 06 

" I'll not forgive my Glycera — until 
She hath discovered how to do some ill. 
Now don once more this coronet of bloom, 
While lilies sweet thy sweeter breast illume. 

(Aside) ** Ah me, what brightness wasted upon gloom I 
(Aloud) Oh fling thy sponge across this wretched face, 
A patch uncouth amid a world of grace." 

" Sweet love, thy beauty far outshineth them ; 
The tinsel they are, thou the living gem. 
Great gift of Gods I Shall flowers of earth despise 
Those flowers of heaven — thy tresses, and thine eyes ? 
Away with gloom ! let no ill-boding make 
My heart to falter, or my hand to shake. 
One hour is all I crave. If that be long, 
Sweet lips beguile it with my favourite song." 

" A song like mine, a childish lullaby. 
Will close — ^when needed wide-awake — thine eye. 
But since thou so demandest, let me try. 

" In the fresh woods have I been, 
Sprinkled with the morning dew; 
And of all that I have seen, 
Lo, the fairest are for you ! 

Take your choice of many a flower, 

Lily, rose, and melilot, 
Lilac, myrtle, virgin's bower, 

Pansy, and forget-me-not. 

Ladies'-tresses, and harebell, 

Jasmin, daphne, violet. 
Meadow-sweet, and pimpernel. 

Maidenhair, and mignonette. 

What is gold, that doth allure 

Foolish hearts from field and flower? 

If you plant them in it pure. 
Will they keep alive an hour? 

What is fame, compared with these, 
Fame of wisdom, sword, or pen? 

Who would quit the meadow breeze. 
For the sultry breath of men ? 

These have been my childhood's love. 
These my maiden visions were ; 

When I meet their gaze above. 
These will tell me, God is there." 

" 'Tis done ! No more the palsied doubt molests ; 
The crown of glory on my labour rests. 
Thy clear voice hath my flagging thoughts supplied. 
My model thou, my teacher, and my bride ! 
Now stand, beloved one, where the soft glow lies. 
Yet judge not rashly, ere the colour dries. 


Find every fault, pick every flaw thou canst ; 
I'll not be vexed ; true art is thus advanced. 
So meek is art, that (when it comprehends) 
It loves the carping of its dearest friends. 
If my own bride condemns my efforts — let her. 
A poor daub ? Well let some one do it better." 

' My love, my lord, my monarch of high art. 
Forgive a tongue held fast and bound by heart. 
Not Orpheus, Linus, or great Hermes could 
Find words to make their rapture understood. 
No Muse, no Phoebus, hath this work inspired. 
But Jove himself, with heaven's own splendour fired, 
I see the nursing fingers of the day, 
And night as well, upon their offspring play — 
The silent glide of moon, that hushed their sleep, 
(As mother at her infant steals a peep) 
Anon, with pearly glances half withdrawn, 
The gentle hesitation of the dawn ; 
I see the sun his golden target raise, 
And drive in tremulous ranks the woodland haze ; 
Awakened by whose call the flowers arise, 
With tears of joy and blushes of surprise ; 
From bulb and bush, from leaf and blade, spring up 
Bell, disk, or star, plume, sceptre, fan, or cup ; 
A thousand forms, a thousand hues of bloom 
Fill earth and heaven with beauty and perfume. 
All this, by thine enchantment, liveth here ; 
Oh wondrous power, that chills my pride with fear!" 


" Thy praise, sweet critic, makes thee doubly dear. 
But what of thy fair self — thy form, thy face, 
The flower of flowers, the gracefulness of grace ?" 

*' I see why thou hast placed me among these ; 
I serve a purpose — 'tis to scare the bees. 
Sweet love hath right to place me anywhere ; 
And yet I mourn, to find myself so fair." 

" A maid lament her beauty I Thou hast shown, 
A thousand times, a wit beyond mine own ; 
Yet is it kind to such a love as mine. 
To grudge it refuge in a lovely shrine ?" 

" No shrine, no throne, of earth or heaven above. 
Can be too fair a dwelling-place for love. 
But that which makes me grieve, myself to see. 
Is memory of the bitter loss to thee ; 
That earthly charms — as men such things esteem- 
Should tantalize thee, in a weeping dream ! " 

" My own, my only love, what wouldst thou say ? 
My heart hath borne a heavy bode, all day." 


" I durst not tell thee, till thy work was done ; 
But now I must, before the setting sun. 
Last night, when life was lapsed in quietude, 
Beside my couch a stately figure stood — 
A virgin form, in garb of chace arrayed, 
With bow and quiver, baldric, and steel blade ; 
Majestic as a palm that scorns the wind. 
And taller than the daughters of mankind. 
'Twas Artemis, close-girt in silver sheen. 
The Goddess of the woods, the Maiden-queen. 
Cold terror seized me, and mute awe, the while 
She oped her proud lips, with an icy smile — 
' Whose votary art thou ? Shall I resign 
' To wanton Cypris this sworn nymph of mine ? 
' Have I enfeoffed thee of my holiest glen, 
' To have thee tainted by the lips of men ? 
' Shall urchin Eros laugh at my decree ? 
' No Hymen torch, no loosened zone for thee ! 
' To-morrow, when my crescent tops yon oak, 
' Thou shalt return unto thy proper yoke.* 
She closed her lips, and like the barb of frost. 
Her fingers on my bounding heart outspread : 
My breast is ice, my soul is of the dead : 
The sod, the cold clay, are my marriage-bed ; 
Sweet sun, sweet flowers, sweet Love, for ever lost 1 " 

*' I'll not endure it ; it shall ne'er be true ; 
If that cold tyrant comes — I'll run her through." 


HEN I was Head of Blundell's 

Before the age of stokers, 
Compelled by rank to look a fool 

Betwixt a pair of " chokers," 

Tom Tanner's father's wrote, to 
That we should both of us come, 
To spend Saint Michael's holiday . 
At the Vicarage of Buscombe. 

One trifle marred this merry plan — 
I had contrived, though barr'd up. 

To typify the future man, 
By getting very hard up. 

"3 q 

Oh biittetallic champion, some 
New ratio doth seem proper, 

When the circulating medium 
Has fallen to half a coppet. 

Vile mammon hence! Thy low amount 

Too paltry is to mope for ; 
The more we have in hand to count. 

The less in heart to hope for. 

Bright youth itself is golden ore. 
And health the best gold-beater : 

Without a sigh for two penGe more, 
We passed the gates of Peter. 

A nod suffices surly Cop, 

Who grins his bonajidesl- 
As Cerberus preferred his sop 

To Orpheus and Alcides. ' 

But Mother Cop ! Her cooking knack 
Would conquer fifty Catos — 

The Queen of tarts, and tuck, and tack. 
And cream, and fried potatoes. 

And rashers ! Sweet Ulysses, say 

Old Homer was mistaken ; 
The Goddess must have had her way. 

And turned thee into bacon. 

That Circe came, and wished us joy, 
And said, " Goodbye, my dearie ! " 

Because I was an honest boy, 
And pauper meo cere. 

So Tom and I, like men on strike, 
Shook hands with all our cronies. 

Walked fifty yards, to save the pike, 
And jumped upon our ponies. 

Of apples, nuts, and goose galore 

I chattered, like a stupid. 
And thought of shooting coneys, more 

Than being shot by Cupid, 

* * * # 

At racing pace the turnpike road 
(Great Western, in this quicker age) 

Was swallowed up with whip and goad. 
And soon we saw the Vicarage. 

A ^weet seclusion, to forget 
The world and its disasters, 

And fill the mind with mignonette, 
Clove^pinks, aad German asters ; 

In pensive, or in playful mood, 

To saunter here, and dally 
With leafy calm of solitude. 

Or sunshine of the valley. 

The Vicar loved his parish well, 
And well was he loved by it ; 

Religion did not him compel 
To harass and defy it. 

No price he charged for Heavenly love, 

No discount on Resurgo ; 
His conscience told him — one side-shove 

Is worth ten kicks a tergo. 

But while the path of life he showed 
To win the Christian guerdon, 

No post was he, to point the road. 
But a man to share the burden. 

The lapse of years made manifest 

The sanctuary of holy age ; 
As clearer grows the ring-dove's nest. 

When time hath stripp'd the foliage. 

The Vicar's wife was much the same, 

In fairer form presented — 
A lively, yet a quiet dame. 

With home, sweet home, contented. 

In parish needs, and household arts, 

A lesson to this glib age ; 
Well versed in pickles, jams, and tarts, 

Piano, chess, and cribbage. 

And well she loved the flowers, that speak 

A language undefildd — 
The flowers that lift the dimpled cheek, 

Or droop the dewy eyelid. 

tF TT ^ -If 

Now, if she lingers after us, 
What ground have we for snarling ? 

What act prohibits private buss, 
Reserved for " Tommy darling" ? 

* ^ * ^ 

But who are these, so fresh and sweet. 

In lovely hats and dresses. 
Who half advance, and half retreat, 

And peep through clouds of tresses ? 

" Come, dears I " They shyly offer hand. 

Beneath the jasmin trellis ; 
" Say who you are, girls " — Charlotte, and 

Her sister, Caroline Ellis ! 

Sweet Charlotte hath a serious face, 

A gaze almost parental ; 
A type of every maiden grace. 

But a wee bit sentimental. 

Bright Caroline hath eyes that dance. 
While buoyant airs engirdle her ; 

Her playful soul may love romance, 
But not a creepy curdler. 

Sweet Charlotte's are the deep grey eyes 

That win profound devotion ; 
Bright Carry's flash, like azure skies^ 

With heliograph in motion. 

As merry as the vintage ray, 

That dances down the grape-rill ; 

As tender as the dews of May, 
Or apple-buds of April. 

Their charms are safe to grow more bright 
For at least two lustral stages ; 

And so it seems not unpolite 
To enquire what their age is. 

' Last May, I was fifteen"; with glee 

Replies the laughing Carry ; 
Sage Charlotte adds—" And I shall be 
Seventeen, next February." 

To the dining-room we walk on air, 

Disdaining jots and tittles ; 
To feed seems such a low affair — 

And yet; hurrah for victuals I 

Could e'en a boy ply knife and fork, 

In presence so poetic, 
Until the vicar draws a cork, 

Arid gives the sniff prophetic } 

And when the evening games began, 
Pope Joan, and Speculation — 

What head could keep its poise and plan, 
With the heart in palpitation ? 

Until, in soft white-curtained bed, 

We sink to slumber lowly, 
And angels fan the childish head, 

With visions sweet and holy. 

■JF W ^ TP 

" Now I do declare," exclaimed our host. 
As he strode back from the arish, 

" Those railway fellows soon will boast 
They have undermined my parish I 

" Though none can say I have ever set 
My face against improvement, 
I cannot quite perceive as yet 
The good of this new movement. 

" Like Hannibal, these folk confound 
All nature's institutions, 
And shun, with a great dive underground. 
Parochial contributions 1 

" Come boys and girls, let us see their craft. 
These hills of Devon will task it ; 
'Tis a pretty walk to White-Ball shaft. 
If the boys will take a basket. 

" Dear wife, if your poor feet are right, 
The miracles of this cycle 
Will give you a noble appetite, 

For the roast goose of Saint Michael." 

In a twinkle, we had baskets twain 
Of the right stuff for a journey. 

And beautiful gooseberry Champagne, 
Superior to Epernay. 

TT "IP Tf 

What myriad joys of heart and mind 

Flit in and out our brief age ! 
That day it was grand to see how kind 

The sun looked through the leafage I 

While the leaves for their part pricked their 

With a dewy simper waiting ; 
They were conscious of some amber tips — 

But those were his own creating. 

Can the heart of man alone be dull. 
And the mind of man be spiteful, 

When all above is beautiful, 
And all below delightful ? 

When Season bright, and Season rich, 
Make bids against each other ; 

And earth, uncertain which is which. 
Smiles up at Nature Mother. 
1 20 

The copse, the lane, the meadow path. 
The valleys, banks, and hedges, 

Were green with summer's aftermath, 
And gold with autumn's pledges. 

Wild rose hung coral beads above, 
And satchel'd nuts grew nigh them ; 

Like tips of a little maiden's glove, 
Ere ever she has to buy them. 

* # # m 

But ours are not the maids to bite 

A gore or gusset undone ; 
How neat they look, how trim and tight I 

Those frocks were made in London. 

Long time, we glance in awe and doubt, 

Suppressing all frivolity ; 
Till the spirit of the age breaks out, 

And all is mirth and jollity. 

One flash, that stole from eyes demure, 
Hath scattered all convention ; 

And then a pearly laugh makes sure 
That fun is her intention. 

The smiling elders march ahead ; 

We dance, without a fiddler. 
We play at cross-touch, White and Red, 

Tip-cat, and Tommy Tidier. 

121 f 

We laugh and shout, much more than speak, 

No etiquette importunes ; 
The trees were made for hide-and-seek. 

The flowers to tell our fortunes ; 

The hills, for pretty girls to pantj 

And glow with richer roses ; 
The wind itself, to toss askant 

The curls that hide their noses. 

Then sprightly Carry shouts in French — 
" All boys and girls, come nutting ! " 
We are slipping down a mighty trench — 
Why, it is the Railway cutting! 

Before us yawns a dark-browed arch. 

Paved with a muddy runnel ; 
A thousand giant navvies march 

To delve the White-Ball tunnel. 

Oh, if a man of them but did 

Presume to glance at Carry, 
Though he were Milo, or John Ridd, 

I would toss him to Old Harry. 

I pull my jacket off, like him 

Who would shatter England's pillars— 
From the tunnel comes an order grim, 
" Get out of the way you chil'lers ! " 


And the same stern order doth apply 
To the pranks of this remote age ; 

We are sure alike to be thrust by» 
In our nonage, and our dotage. 

Yet who shall grudge the tranquil age, 
When nought can now betide ill, 

To glance, from a distant hermitage, 
At a summer morning idyll ? 
* * * * 

Oh agony, despair, and woe f 
Oh two-edged sword to us come ! 

To Blundell's must the body go, 
While the heart remains at Buscombe. 

All breakfast time, how glum we looked ! 

Our tears were threatening dribblets ; 
Too truly had our goose been cooked. 

To leave us e'en our giblets. 

Sweet Charlotte, did you share the thrill, 
The pang no throat may utter. 

And strive an aching voidf to fill 
With heartless toast and butter ? 

And were you sad, bright Caroline, 
Although you never said so ? 

You did cast down your lovely eyne, 
And you crumbled up your bread so ! 

But the Vicar's views were more sublime, 
As he asked in all simplicity, 
" My youthful friends, what is the prime 
Of all mundane felicity ?" 

My answer, though it sounded cool, 
Was given with trepidation — 
" Tp stay at home, and send to school 
The rising generation." 

A gentle smile flits o'er his lip, 

He eyes me with benignity ; 
He yearns to offer goodly tip. 

Yet fears to wound my dignity. 

True benefactor, be not shy. 

Thou seest a humble fellow, 
Thy noble impulse gratify — 

My stars, if it isn't yellow I 

* * * * 

But time is over, and above. 

To end this charming visit ; 
And must we part my own true love ? 

Though I am not sure, which is it. 

Sweet Charlotte lingered in the shade. 

Most gentle of all houris ; 
Bright Carry in the lobby played 

With a pair of polished cowries. 

She showed me how alike they were, 
So Heaven had pleased to make them. 

Though fortune might divide the pair, 
She ne'er could separate them. 

I blushed, and stammered at her touch, 

I feared to beg for either ; 
My heart was in my mouth so much, 

I could say " Goodbye" to neither. 

« « * * 

Two strings are wise for every bow, 
To meet the change of weather ; 

And Cupid's shafts give softer blow, 
When two are tied together. 

Oh, Charlotte sweet, and Carry bright. 
My whole, or double-half love, 

Let no maturer wisdom slight 
A simple tale of calf-love. 

A blessing on the maiden grace. 

That beautifies the real, 
To make the world a fairer place. 

And lift the low ideal ! 

If one, or both, by any chance. 

Behold what I confess here. 
Make auld lang syne of young romance, 

By sending your address here. 


RIGHT Fairy of the morn, with 
flowers arrayed, 
Whose beauties to thy young 

pursuer seem 
Beyond the ecstasy of poet's 
dream — 
Shall I o'ertake thee, ere thy 
lustre fade ? 


Ripe glory of the noon, august, and proud, 

A vision of high purpose, power, and skill, 
That melteth into mirage of good-will — 

Do I o'ertake thee, or embrace a cloud ? 


Gray shadow of the evening, gaunt and bare, 
At random cast, beyond me or above, 
And cold as memory in the arms of love — 

If I o'ertook thee now, what should I care ? 



" No morn, or noon, or eve am I," she said ; 

" But night — the depth of night behind the sun ; 
By all mankind pursued ; but never won, 
Until my shadow falls upon a shade." 



List of Books 


Belles Lettres 


London : Elkin Mathews, Vigo Street, W. 

Telegraphic Address-^ 
'Elecantia, London.' 

Lector! erne, lege^ & gaudebis . 

List of Books 



(Including some Transfers) 

Elkin Mathews 


N.S.-~-The Authors and Puhlisher reserve the right of reprinting 
any booh in this list, except in cases where a stipulation has been made 
to the contrary^ and of printing a separate edition of any of the books for 
America. In the case of limited Editions, the numbers tneniioned do 
not include the copies sent for review, nor those supplied to the public 
libraries. The Prices of books not yet published are.subject to variation. 

The Books mentioned in this Catalogue can be obtained to order by any 
Bookseller. It should be noted also that they are supplied to the Trade on 
terms whioh "will not allow of discount. 

The following are a few of the Authors represented in this Catalogue : 

P. Addleshaw. Lionel Johnson. 

B.. D. Blackmorb. Charles Lamb. 

F. W. BouRDiLLON. Richard Le Gallienne. 

Bliss Carman. P. B. Marston. 

E. R. Chapman, Hon. Roden Noel. 

Ernest Dowson. May Probyn. 

Michael Field. F. York Powell. 

T. Gordon Hake. J. A. Symonds. 

Arthur Hallam. John Todhunter. 

Katharine Hinkson. Henry Van Dyke. 

Herbert P. Horne. Theodore Watts. 

Richard Hovey. Frederick Wedmore. 

Leigh Hunt. P. H. Wicksteed. 

Selwyn Image. W. B. Yeats. 

The Publications of Elkin Mathews 

JBBorr (DR. a c). 

Travels in a Tree-Top. Sm. 8vo. 5^. nei, 
Philadelphia : J. B, Lippincott Company. 

'' Dr. Abbott pleases by the interest he takes In the subject which he treats . . 
and he adorns his matter with a good English style . . . Altogether, with its 
dainty printing, it would be a charming book to read in the open air on a bright 
summer's day. — Athenaum, 

** He has an observant eye, a warm sympathy, and a pen that enables us to see 
with him. Nothing could be more restful than to read the thoughts of such nature- 
lovers . The very titles of his chapters suggest quiet and gentle things," — Dublin Herald. 

*' A delightful volume this of Nature Sketches. X)r. Abbott writes about New 
England woods and streams, scenes neither quite familiar nor quite straiige to us who 
know the same things in the old country. The severer winter makes some difference, 
as, for instance, in ue number of birds that migrate there, but are stationary here; 
and there are, of course, other differences in both fauna and flora; nevertheless, we 
feel, in a way, at home, when Dr. Abbott takes us on one of liis delightful winter or 
summer excursions. This is a book which we cannot recommend too highly." — 

The Birds About Us. 73 Engravings. Second Edition. 

Thick cr, 8vo. ^s. 6d. net. 
Philadelphia : y, B, Lippincott Company, 

A Volume of Poems. With a title design Ly P. Wilson 
Steer. ^Shortly, 


Lyric Poems, with title page by Selwyn Image. Sq. 
i6mo. 5j. net. 

'^Thislittle volume of Lybic Poems displays a grace of Ancy, a spontaneity 
and individuality of inspiration, and a felicitous command of metre and diction, which 
lift the writer above the average of the minor singers of our time. . . . We may 
expect much from the writer of * An April Day,' or of the strong concluding lines on 
the present age from a piece entitled ' Present and Future.' " — Times. 

** The product of a definite and sympathetic personality." — Globe. 

^*The impression that this volume makes upon us is that the writer has caught 
the spirit of Matthew Arnold, and that in no common degree. ■ . . Quite 
Titianesque in its &rce and colour." — Spectator. 


Fringilla : OR, Some Tales in Verse, By the Author 
of "Lorna Doone." With Eleven full-page Illustrations 
and numerous vignettes and initials by Louis Fairfax- 
MucKLEY and Three by James W. R. Linton. 
Crown 8vo. los. net. 
(Quorsum haec? Non potui qualem Philomela querelam; Sed 
fringilla velut pipitabunda, vagor.) 

The Publications of Elkin Mathews 

BLACKMORE {R. D.)— continued, 

, . . " This volume of poems, with its Silastic title, is one of the literary 
events of the hour.*' — Queen. 

'' Mr. Blackmore, the novelist, has always been knotvn among his friends as poet 
and scholar too. The llrat book he published, at the age of thirty-two, was a transla- 
tion of the first two books of the * Georgics.' That was seven years before he wrote 
'• Loma Doone,' which made him famous. He is now about to appeal to the public 
as poet on his own account with a book of Tales in Verse, entitled '• Fringilla.' . . . 
Some day perhaps he will give us some Georgics of his own, informed and inspired by 
the experience, insight, and aJtections gained as a market-gardener now of consider- 
able standing.' — St. yames's Gaxette. 


Summer Snows : a Tale. 1/m preparaiion. 


A Lost God : a Poem in Three Books. With illustrations 

by H. J. Ford. Printed at the Chiswick Press. 

500 copies. 8vo. [Very few remain. 

Also 50 copies, royal 8vo., L.P. i^s. 6d. net. 

*' A graceful presentation in blanlc verse, with sliglit but eflective dramatic setting, 

of tlie legend of the death of Pan on the morning that Christ began his teaching.'* — 

[Isham Facsimile Reprint.] 

No Whippinge, nor Trippinge, but a kinde 
FRIENDLY Snippinge. London, 1601. A Facsimile 
Reprint, with the original Borders to every pag^ with 
a Bibliographical Note by Charles Edmonds. 200 
copies, printed on hand-made paper at the Chiswick 
Press. i2mo. 3^. 6d. net. 

Also 50 copies Large Paper. <,s. net. 
Facsimile reprint from the semi-unique copy discovered in the autumn of 1867 by 
Mr. Charles Edmonds in a disused lumber room at Lamport Hall, Northanis (Sir 
Charles E. Isham's), and purchased lately by the British Museum authorities. When 
Dr. A. B. Grosart collected Breton's Works a few years ago for his ^^Chertsey 
Worthies Library," he was forced to confess that certain of Breton's most coveted 
books were missing and absolutely unavailable. The semi-unique example under 
notice was one of these. 


Songs from Vagabondia. With Decorations by Tom 

B. Meteyard. Fcap. 8vo. 5^. net. 
Boston : Copeland dr" Day. 
" The Authors of the small joint volume called * Songs from Vagabondia,* have 
an unmistakable right to the name of poet. These little snatches have the spirit of a 

Vigo Street, London, W. 


gipsy Omar Khayy&mj They have always careless verve, and often careless felicity ; 
uey are masculine and rough, as roving songs should be. . . . Here, certainly, 
is the poet's soul. . . . You have ttie whole spirit of the book in such an unfor- 
getabte little lyric as ' In the House of Idiedally.* . . We refer the reader to the 
delightful little volume itself, which comes as a welcome interlude amidst the highly 
wrought introspective poetry of the day."— Francis Thompson, in Merry England. 

*^ Bliss Carman is the author of a delightful volume of verse, *■ Low Tide on 
Grand Pre,' and Richard Hovey is the foremost of the living poets of America, with 
the exception, perhaps, of Bret Harte and Joaquim Miller, whose names are more 
familiar. He sounds a deeper note than either of these, and deals with loftier 
themes.'* — Dublin Express, 

^^Both possess the power of investing actualities with fancy, and leaving them 
none the less actual ; of setting the march music of the vagabond's feet to words ; of 
being comrades with nature, yet without presumption. And they have that charm, 
raie in writers of verse, of drawing the reader into the fellowship of their own zest 
and contentment." — Athenaum. 


A Little Child's Wreath : A Sonnet Sequence. With 

title page and cover designed by Selwyn Image. 

Second Edition. Sq. i6mo. , green buckram, -^s. 6d. net. 

New York : Dodd^ Mead &^ Company. 

*^ Contains many tender and pathetic passages, and some really exquisite and 

subtle touches of childhood nature. . . . The average excellence of the sonnets 

is undoubted." — Spectator. 

*Mn these forty pages of poetry ... we have a contribution inspired by 
grief for the loss of a child of seven, which is not unworthy to take its place even 
beside ^ In Memoriam.' . . . Miss Chapman has ventured upon sacred ground, 
but she has come off safely, with the inspiration of a divine sympathy in hci soul, and 
with lips touched with the live coal from the altar on which glows th ilame ot 
immortal love " — W. T. STEAD, in The Review ef Reviews. 

"■ Full of a very solemn and beautiful but never exaggerated seni inent.*> — 

LOGROLLER, in Star. 

^^ While they are brimming with tenderness and tears, they are marked witht 
skilled workmanship of the real ^ocX.."~Glasgow Herald. 

*^ Evidently describes very real and intense sorrow. Its strains of tender sym- 
pathy will appeal specially to those whose hearts have been wrung by the loss of a 
young child, and the verses are touching in their simplicity " — Morning Post. 

'^ Re-assures us on its first page by its sanity and its simple tenderness." — Bookman. 


The Sanctity of Confession : A Romance, and edi- 
tion. Printed by Clowes & Son. 250 copies. Cr. 8vo. 
3^-, neL [ Very few remain, 

'* Mr. Stephen Coleridge's sixteenth-century romance is well and pleasantly 
written. The style is throughout in keepmg with the story; and we should imagine 
that the historical probabilities are well observed." — Rail Mall Gaxette. 

Mr. Gladstone writes :— "I have read the singularly well told story. . . . 
It opens up questions both deep and dark ; it cannot be right to accept in religion 
or anything else a secret which destroys the life of an innocent fellow creature." 

The Publications of Elkin Mathews 


The Elizabethan Hamlet: A Study of the Sources, 
and of Shakspere's Environment, to show that the Mad 
Scenes had a Comic Aspect now. Ignored. With a 
Prefatory Note by F. York Powell, Professor of 
Modern History at the University of Oxford, Small 
4to. 3J. 6ii. net. 
New York : Charles Scridner^s Sons, 
This book is a study of the sources of " Hamlet,'' and of Shakespeare's environ- 
ment, with the object of showing that the mad scenes in the play had a comic 
aspect now ignored. Mr. Corbin^s general standpoint is that Shakespeare naturally 
wrote the drama for Elizabethan audiences. They in their time saw jest in what 
would seem to us only the severest tragedy. What he wishes to get at is the comedy 
in "Hamlet" according to the Elizabethan point of view. 

..." When we add that so competent a judge as Professor York Powell 
expresses his belief in a Prefatoiy Note that Mr. Corbin has * got hold of a truth that 
has not been clearly, if at all, expressed in our Elizabethan studies — to wit, that the 
i6th century audience's point of view, and, of necessity, the playwright's treatment 
of his subject, were very different from ours of to-day in many matters of mark' — and 
express our own concurrence in this, we have said enough to recommend Mr. Corbin's 
little book to the attention of all Shakespearian students." — Times, 


The Ancient Crosses of Dartmoor ; with a Descrip- 
tion of their Surroundings. With II plates. 8vo. cloth. 
4J. 6d. net. [ Very few remain. 

DAVIES {R. R.). 

Some Account of the Old Church at Chelsea and 
OF ITS Monuments. [/n preparation. 


Under the Hawthorn, and Other Verses. With 
Frontispiece by Walter Crane. Printed at the 
Rugby Press. 300 copies. Cr. 8vo. Si. net. 
Also 30 copies on Japanese vellum. 15^. net. 
" Melodious in metri:, graceful in fancy, and not wlttiout spontaneity of inspira- 
tion." — Times. 

" Very tender and melodious is much of Mrs. De Gruchy's verse. Rare imaginative 
power marlcs the dramatic monologue * In the Prison Van.' '' — Speaker. , 

" Distinguished by the attractive qualities of grace and refinement, and a purity 
of style that is as refreshing as a limpid stream in the heat of a summer's noon. . . . 
The charm of these poems lies in their naturalness, which is indeed an admirable 
quality in song.'' — Saturday Review, 


POEMES SANS RiMES. Imprime k Londres aux Presses de 
Chiswick, d'apres les dessins de Herbert P. Horne. 
25 copies for sale. Square cr. Svo. 8i. 6d. net. 

Vigo Street, London, W. 


;"';;■ See Horne. 

Dilemmas : Stories and Studies in Sentiment. (A Case of 
Conscience, — The Diary of a Successful Man. — An 
Orchestral Violin. — The Statute of Limitations. — 
Souvenirs of an Egoist). Crown 8vo. 3j. dd. net. 
Poems {Diversi Colores Series). With a title design by 
H. P. Horne. Printed at the Chiswick Press, on 
hand-made paper. i6mo. <,s. net. [Shortly. 

** Mr. Dowson's contributions to tlie two series of the Rhymer^t Boai were 
subtle and exquisite poems. He lias a touch of Elizabethan distinction. . . . 
Mr. Dowson^s stories are very remarkable in quality." — Baitm Literary Jip^rld. 


Sight and Song (Poems on Pictures). Printed by 
Constables. 400 copies. i2mo. ^s. net. 

[ Very few remain, 

" This is a &cinating; little volume ; one that will give to many readers a 
new interest in the examples of pictorial art with which it deals. Certainly, in the 
delight in the beauty of the human form, and of the fair shows of earth, and sea, 
and sky which it manifests^ and in the harmonious verbal expression which this 
delight has found, the book is one of the most Keats-like things that has been 
produced since Keats himself took his seat among the immortals.''^— .^eotfem/. 

^* The verses have a sober grace and harmony, and the truth and poetic delicacy 
of the work is only realised on a close comparison with the picture itself. It is 
soothing and pleasant to participate in such leisurely degustation and enjoyment, such 
insistent penetration, for these poems are far removed ftom mere description, and the 
renderings, though somewhat lacking in the sense of humour, show both courage and 
poetical imagination.*' — Weitminster Review, 

Stephania : A Trialogue in Three Acts. Frontis- 
piece, colophon, and ornament for binding designed 
by Selwyn Image. Printed by Folkard & Son. 
250 copies (200 for sale). Pott 4to. 6s. net. 

[ Very few remain, 

"We have true drama in 'Stephania.' .... Stephania, Otho, and 

Sylv'ester II., the three persons of the play, are more than mere names 

Besides great effort, commendable effort, there is real greatness in this play ', and the 
blank verse is oflen sinewy and strong with thought and ^^^ion." —Speaker. 

**• Stephania' is striking in design and powerful in execution. It is a highly 
dramatic ' trialogue ' between the Emperor Otho III., his tutor Gerbert, and Stephania, 
the widow of the murdered Roman Consul, Crescentius. The poem contains much 
fine work, and is picturesque and of poetical accent. . y—lVeitminster Review. 

A Question of Memory: a Play in Four Acts. 
100 copies only. 8vo. 5^. net. [ Very few remain. 

8 The Publications of Elkin Mathews 


Essays upon Matthew Arnold {DiversiColores Series), 
Printed at the Chiswick Press on hand-made pajper, 
Cr. 8vo. ^, \_In preparation, 


An a. B.C. Book. Rhymed and Pictured by Mrs. 
Arthur Gaskin. [/« preparation. 

HAKE {DR. r. GORDON, " TAe Parable Poet.") 

Madeline, and other Poems. Crown 8vo. ' 55. net. 
Transferred to the present Publish^. 

"The ministry of the angel Daphne to her erring human aigter is frequently 
related in strains of pure and elevated tenderness. Nor does the poet who can show 
so much delicacy ^il in strength. The description of Madeline as she passes in 
trance to her vengeance is full of vivid pictures and charged with tragic feeling. 
The individuality of the writer lies in his deep sympathy with whatever affects the 
being and condition of man. . , . Taken as a whole, the book has high and 
unusual claims." — Athmaum. 

"I have been reading 'Madeline* again. For sheer.originality, both of conception 
and of treatment, I consider that it stands alone."— Mr. Theodore Watts. 

Parables and Tales. (Mother and Child. — The Crip- 
ple.— The Blind Boy.— Old Morality. —Old Souls.— 
The Lily of the Valley.— The Deadly Nightshade.— 
The Poet). With a Biographical Sketch by Theodore 
Watts. 9 illustrations by Arthur Hughes. New 
Edition. Crown 8vo. 3J. 6rf. net. 
*' The qualities of Dr. GorHon Hake's work were t rom the first fully admitted 
and warmly praised by one of the greatest of contemporary poets, who was also a 
critic of exceptional acuteness — Rossetd. Indeed, the only two review articles which 
Rossetti ever wrote were written on two of Dr. Hake's books : * Madeline,* which he 
reviewed in the Atademy in 1871, and * Parables and Tales,' which he reviewed in 
the Fortnightly in 1873. Many eminent critics have expressed a decided preference 
for ' Parables and Tales ' to Dr. Hake^s other works, and it had the advantage of being 
enriched with the admirable illustrations of Arthur Hughes."— ^atun/o/ Review^ 
January, 1895. 

" The piece called * Old Souls ' is probably secure of a distinct place in the liter- 
ature of our day, and we believe the same may be predicted of other poems in the 
little collection Just issued. . . . Should Dr. Hake's more restricted, but lovely 
and sincere contributions to the poetry of real life not find the immediate response 
they deserve, he may at least remember that others also have failed 10 meet at once 
wi& full justice and recognition. But we will hope for good encouragement to his 
present and future work; and can at least ensure the lover of poetry that in these 
simple pages he shall find not seldom a humanity limpid and pellucid — the well-spring 
of a true heart, with which his tears must mingle as with their own element. 

** Dr. Hake has been fortunate in the beautiful drawings which Mr. Arthur 
Hughes has contributed to his little volume. No poet could have a more congenial 
yoke-fellow than this gifted and Imaginative artist,"— D. G, RossETTI, in the 
Fortnightly. 1873. 

Vigo Street, London, W. 


The Poems of Arthur Henry Hallam, together with 
his Essay "On Some of the Characteristics of 
Modern Poetry, and on the Lyrical Poems of 
Alfred Tennyson," reprinted from the Englishman's 
Magazine, 1831, edited, with an introduction, hy 
Richard le Gallienne. 550 copies (500 for sale). 
Small 8vo. 5^. net. 

New York : Macmillan &' Co. 
Many of these Poems are of great Tennysonian interest, having 

been addressed to Alfred, Charles, and Emily Teflnyson. 


The Ballad of Hadji, and Other Poems. With 

etched frontispiece by WillIam Strang. Printed 

at the Chiswick Press. 550 copies, izmo. 3^. net. 

Transferred by the Author to the present Publisher. 

" Here is a dainty Tolume of clear, sparkling verse. The thought is aparlding, 

and the lines limpid and lightly flowing.''— 5M*jMflw. 


Revolted Woman : Past, Present, and to Come. 

Printed by Strangeways. Illustrated with numerous 

original drawings and facsimiles by the Author. 

Crown 8vo. ^s. net. 

" Mr. Harper, like a modern John Knox, denounces the monstrous regiment ot 

women, making the ' New Woman' the textofa discourse that bristles with historical 

instances and present day portraits."— S<«uri/ii;i Revimi. 

" The illustrations are distinctly clever.''- PaiWJBWJ Ctrmlar. 


OtT OF Egypt : Stories from the Threshold of the East. 
Cover design by Gleeson White. Crown Svo. 
3J. 6d. net. 

" This is a strong ^xok'^—Acadimy. 

" This isa remarkable book. Egyptian life has seldom been portrayed ftom the 

i nside The author's knowledge of Arabic, his sympathy with the religion 

of Islam.' above all his entire freedom ftom Western prejudice, have enabled him to 

■ learn mire of what modern Egypt reaUy is than the average Englishman could 

possibly acquire in a Ufetime at Cairo or Port %M:'— African Riviem 

"A lively and picturesque style. . . . undoubted talent."— M<i«cSM<tr 

"But seldom that the first production o. an author is so mature and so finished in 
style as this ... The sketches are veritable spoils of the ECTptians-genis of 
prose in a setting of clear air, sharp outlines, and wondrous skies.— Mommj Ltadtr. 

10 The Publicatioiis of Elkin Mathews 

HEMINGWAY {PERCT)— continued. 

"This book places its author amongst those writers from whom lasting work of 
high aim is to be expected.*'— >Ti» Star, 

*' The tale ... is treated with daring directness. . . An impressive and 
pathetic close to a story told throughout with arreating strength and- simplicity." — 
JJailj/ News. 

** Genuine power aud pathos." — Pall Mall Gaxette, 

The Happy Wanderer (Poems). "With title design by 
Charles I. flfoulkes. Printed at the Chiswick Press, on 
hand-made paper. Sq. i6mo. 5^. net. [In the press. 

mCKEY {EMILY i/.)- 

A Volume of Poems. [In preparation. 

Verse Tales, Lyrics and Translations. Printed at 

the Arnold Press. 300 copies. Imp. i6mo. 5^. net. 

[ Very few ^remain, 
'Miss Hickf^'s 'Verse Tales,. Lyrics, and Translations* almost invariably 
r^ch a^gh level of finish and completeness. The book is a string of little rounded 
pearls. — Atktnaum. 


Dublin Verses. By Members op Trinity Coli,ege. 
Selected and Edited by H. A. Hinkson, late Scholar 
of Trinity College, Dublin. Pott 4to. S^. net. 

2)ublin: Hodges, Figgis &'. Co.,, Limited, 

Includes contributions by the following : — Aubrey de Vere, 
Sir Stephen de Vere, Oscar Wilde, J. K. Ingram, A. P. Graves, 
J. Todhunter, W. E. H. Lecky, T. W. RoUeston, Edward 
Dowden, G. A. Greene, Savage- Armstrong, Douglas Hyde, 
R. Y. Tyrrell, G. N. Plunkett, W. Macneile Dixon, William 
Wilkins, George Wilkins, and; Edlvin Hamilton. 

** A pleasant volume of contemporary Irish Vejw. . . A judicious selectioQ." 
— Tim«, 

*^ Wllererer tliere is a group of Irish readefs in near or fiu'-off' lands, these 
( Dublin Verses ' will be sure to command attention and-applau6e.**^G/ȣoi.irrraU, 


Sloes on the Blackthorn : a Volume of. Xrish 
Stories. Crown 8vo., 3*, 6d. net. [In preparation. 


An Illustrated Art Miscellany, Edited by Herbeiw: 
P. HORNE. The Fourth Number of the New Series 
will shortly appear, after which Mr. Mathews will 
publish all the numbers in a volume, price ;^l, is, net, 

Boffon : Cof eland &• JJay. 

Vigo Street, London, W. ii 


DiVEKSi CoLORES : Poems. Vignette, &c., designed by 
the Author. Printed at the Chiswick Press. 250 
copies. i6mo. 5^. net. 

Transferred by the Author to the present Fnilisher. 

*' In these few poems Mr. Home has set before a tasteless age, and an extravagant 
age, examples of poetry which, without fear or hesitation, we consider to be of true 
and pure beauty." — jinti'yacobin, 

" With all his fondness for sixteenth century styles and themes, Mr. Home is yet 
sufficiently individual in his thought and manner. Much of his sentiment is quite 
latter-day in tone and rendering ; he is~a child of his time." — Glebe, 

** Mr. Home's work is almost always carefiilly felicitous and may be compared 
with beautiful filagree work in verse. He is fully, perhaps too fiilly, conscious of the 
value of restraint, and is certainly in need of no more culture in the handling of verse 
— of such verse as alone he cares to work in. He has already the merits of a finished 
artist — or, at all events, of an artist who is capable of the utmost finish.** — Pall 
Mall Gaxettt, 

The Series of Books begun in "Diversi Colores" by 
Mr. Herbert P. Horne„ will continue to be pub- 
lished by Mr. Elkin Mathews. 

The intention of the series is to give, in a collected and 
sometimes revised form, Poems and Essays by various 
writers, whose names have hitherto been chiefly asso- 
ciated with the Hobby Horse. The series will be edited 
by Mr. Herbert P. Home, and will contain : 

No. II. Poems and Carols. By Selwyn Image. 

[jfust published. 
No. III. Essays ueon. Matthew Arnold. By Ar- 
thur Galton. [Immediateljr. 

No. IV. Poems. By Ernest Dowson. 

No. V. The Letters and Papers of Adam Le- 


Each volume. will contain 1 new title-page and ornaments 
designed by the Editor ; and, the volumes of verse will be 
uniform with. " Diversi Colores." 


Poems. [Shortfy. 


Sonnets AND Poems. With a frontispiece. {Shortly. 

12 The Publications of Elkin Mathews 

See Hake. 


A Volume of Essays now collected for the first time. 
Edited with a. critical Introduction by R. W. M, 
Johnson. [/« tAe press, 


Poems and Carols, ipiversi Colores Series. — New 
Volume). Title design by H. P. Horne. Printed 
on hand-made paper at the Chiswick Press. i6mo. 
5j. net, \Jf*st ready, 

"Among the artists who have turned poets will shortly have to be reckoned Mr. 
Selwyn Image. A volume of poems from his pen will be published by Mr. Elkin 
Mathews before long. Those who are acquainted ivith Mr. Selwyn Image's work 
will expect to £nd a real and deep poetic charm in this book." — Daily Chronicle. 

"• No one else could have done it (i.e., written ' Poems and Carols ') in just this 
way, and the artist himself could have done it in no other way.'* '* A remarkable 
impress of personality, and this personality of singular rarity and interest. Every 
piece is perfectly composed ; the ^ mental cartooning,* to use Rossetti's phrase, has 
been adequately done . . . an air of grave and homely order . . . a union of 
quaint and subtly simple homeliness, with a somewhat abstract severity. ... It 
is a new thing, the revelation of a new poet. . . . Here is a book which may be 
trusted to outlive most contemporary literature." — Saturday Review. 

" An intensely personal expression of a personality of singular charm, gravity, 
fencifulness, and interest 5 work which is alone among contemporary verse alike in 
regard to substance and to form . . . comes with more true novelty than any 
boolt of verse published in England for some years." — Athenaum. 

'"'• Some men seem to avoid fame as sedulously as the majority seek it. Mr. Selwyn 
Image is one of these. He Iws achieved a charming fame by his very shyness and 
mystery. His very name has a look of having been designed by the Century Guild, 
and it was certainly first published in The Century Guild Hobby Hone.^'* — The Realm. 

"In the tiny little volume of verse, * Poems and Carols,' by Selwyn Image, 
we discern a note of spontaneous inspiration, a delicate and graceful ^cy, and 
considerable, but unequal, skill of versification. The Carols are skilfiil reproductions 
of that rather archaic form of composition, devotional in tone and felicitous in 
sentiment. Love and nature are the principal themes of the Poems. It is diiHcult 
not to be hackneyed in the treatment of such themes, but Mr. Image successfully 
■bvercomes the difficulty." — The Times. 

'^ The Catholic movement in literature, a strong reality to-day in England as in 
t'rance, if workinjg within narrow limits, has its newest interpretation in Mr. Selwyn 
Image's * Poems and Carols.' Of course the book is charming to look at and to 
handle, since it Is his. The Chiswick Press and Mr. Mathews have helped him to 
realize his design." — The Sketch. 


See Breton and Southwell. 
*„* New Elizabethan Literature at the British Museum, see 
T^ Times, 31 August, 1894, also Niftes and Qmrks^ Septj 1894. 

Vigo Street, London, W. 13 

[By the Author of The Art of Thomas Hardy]. 

Poems. With a title design and colophon by H. P. Horne. 
Printed at the Chiswick Press, on hand-made paper. 
Sq. post 8vo. 5j. net. 
Also, 25 special copies at 15^. net. 
Boston : Copeland and Day. 

'* Full of delicate fancy, and display much lyrical grace and felicity."— Timw. 

** An air of solidity, combined with something also of severity, is the first 
impression one receives from these pages. . . . The poems are more massive 
than most lyrics are; they aim at dignity and attain it. This is, we believe, the first 
book of verse that Mr. Johnson has published \ and we would say, on a first reading, 
that for a first book it was remarkably mature. And so it is, in its accomplishment, 
its reserve of strength, its unfaltering style. . . . Whatever form his writing 
takes, it wilt be the expression of a rich mind, and a rare talent." — Saturday Review. 

"Mr. Lionel Johnson's poems have the advantage of a two-fold inspiration. 
Many of these austere strains could never have been written if he had not been 
steeped in the most golden poetry of the Greeks ; while, on the other hand, side by 
side with the mellifiuous chanting, there comes another note, mild, sweet, and 
unsophisticated— the very bird-note of Celtic poetry. And then again one comes on 
a very ripe and affluent, as of one who has spoiled the very goldenest harvests of song 
of cultivated ages. . . . Mr. Johnson's poetry is concerned with lofty thines and 
is never less than passionately sincere. It is sane, high-minded, and full of felicities." 
^^Illustrated London News, 

^*The most obvious characteristics of Mr, Johnson's verse are dignity and 
distinction ; but beneath these one feels a passionate poetic impulse, and a grave 
fascinating music passes from end to end of the volume." — Realm. 

** It is at once stately and passionate, austere, and fi'ee. His passion has a sane 
mood ; his fire a white heat. . . . Once again it i« the Celtic spirit that makes 
for higher things. Mr. Johnson's muse is concerned only with the highest. Her 
flight is as of a winged thing, that goes *■ higher still and higher,' and has few 
flutterings near earth. — Irish Daily Independent, 


In the Fire, and other Fancies. With frontispiece 
by Walter Crane. Imperial i6mo. 3^. 6rf. net. 


Beauty and the Beast. With an Introduction by 

Andrew Lang. Facsimile Reprint of the rare First 

Edition. With 8 cftoice stipple engravings in brown 

ink, after the original plates. Royal l6mo. 3j. 6d. net. 

Transferred to the present Publisher. 


A Volume of Short Stories. [In preparation. 

14 The Publications of Elicin Mathews 


A Last Harvest : Lyrics and Sonnets from the 
Book of Love. Edited, with Biographical Sketch, 
by Louise Chandler Moulton. 500 copies. Printed 
by Miller & Son. Post 8vo. is. net. 

[ Very few remain. 

Also 50 copies on hand-made L.P. los. 6d. net. 

[ Very few remain. 

"Among the sonnets with which the volume concludes, there are some fine 
examples of a form of verse in which all competent authorities allow that MarstoR 
excelled. 'The Breadth and Beauty of the Spacious Night,' 'To All in Haven,' 
'Friendship and Love,' 'Love's Deserted Palace' — these, to mention no others, 
have the 'nigh seriousness ' which Matthew Arnold made the test of true poetry." — 

" Mrs. Chandler Moulton's biography is a beautifiil piece of writing, and her 
estimate of his work — a high estimate — is also a just one." — Block and WBtt, 

MASON {A. E. W.). 

A Romance of Wastdale. Crown 8vo. 3J. dd. net. 


MORRISON (G. £.). 

Alonzo Quixano, otherwise Don Quixote: being a 
dramatization of the Novel of Cervantes, and espe- 
cially of those parts which he left unwritten. Cr. 8vo. 
IS. net. 


Selected and Edited by Mrs. William Sharp. 

[/» preparation. 

Portrait as Beatrice Cenci. With Critical Notice 
containing Four Letters from Robert Browning. 
8vo. 2s. net. 


My Sea, and other posthumous Poems. With an Intro- 
duction by Stanley Addleshaw. [/» preparation. 

Selected Lyrics from the Works of the late Hon. 
Roden Noel, With a Biograpliical and Critical 
Essay by Percy Addleshaw. Illustrated with Two 
Portraits, including a reproduction of the famous 
picture by W. B. Richmond, A. [/« preparation. 

Vigo Street, London, W. 15 

NOEL (HON. RODEN)— continued. 

Poor People's Christmas. Printed at the Aylesbury 
Press. 250 copies. i6mo. is. net. 

[ Very few remain. 

** Displays the author at his best Mr. Noel always has something 

to say worth saying, and his technique— though like Browning, he is too intent upon 
idea to bestow all due care upon form — ia generally sufficient and sometimes 
masterly. We hear too seldom from a poet of such deep and kindly sympathy." — 
Sunday Times. 


Poems. With a title-design by Selwyn Image. 

[In preparation. 


Pansies : A Book of Poems. With a title-page and cover 
design by Minnie Mathews. Fcap. 8vo. y. 6d, net. 

"De mm jardirif voyageur, 
Vous me demandex une fieur ? 
CueiUex toujours — mats je n'aij 
yhjiageury que des pensees." 
" Miss Probyn's new volume is a slim one, but rare in quality. She is no mere 
pretty verse maker ; her spontaneity and originality are beyond question, and so far 
as colour and picturesqueness go, only Mr. Francis Thompson rivals her among the 
English Catholic poets of to-day." — Sketch. 

"■ This too small book is a mine of the purest poetry, very holy, and very 
refined, and removed as far as possible from the tawdry or the common-place."— In'jA 

** The religious poems are in their way perfect, with a tinge of the mysticism 
one looks for in the poetry of two centuries ago, but so seldom meets with nowadays.'* 
—Catholic Timts. 

** Full of a delicate devotional sentiment and much metrical felicity." — Times. 


Contributions by E. DowsoN, E. J. Ellis, G. A. Greene, 
A. HiLLiER, Lionel Johnson, Richard le Gal- 
LiENNE, Victor Plarr, E. Radford, E. Rhys, 
T. W. Rollestone, Arthur Symons, J. Tod- 
hunter, W. B. Yeats. Printed by Miller & Son. 
500 copies (of which 400 are for sale). l6mo. 5^. net. 
50 copies on hand-made L.P. los. 6d. net. 
New York : Dodd, Mead &= Co. 

"The work of twelve very competent verse writers, many of them not unknown 
to fame. This form of publication is not a new departure exactly, but it is a recur- 
rence to the excellent fashion of the Elizabethan age, when 'England's Helicon,' 

i6 The Publications of Elkin Mathews 


Davison's ' Poetical Rhapsody,' and ' Phoenix Nest,' with scores of other collections, 
contained the best songs of the best song-writers of that tuneful epoch." — Black and 

"The future of these thirteen writers, who have thus banded themselves 
together, will be watehed with interest. Already there Is fulfiiment in their work, 
and there is much promise." —Speaker. 

"In Ae intervals of Welsh rarebit and stout provided for them at the 'Cheshire 
Cheese,' in Fleet Street, the members of the Rhymers' Club have produced some very 
pretty poems, which Mr. Elkin Mathews has issued in his notoriously dainty 
manner." — Pall Mall Gaxette, 


Spring Voices. \_Shortly. 


Occasional Portraits. With comments on the Per- 
sonages by various writers. [In preparation. 


Literature and Poetry : Papers on Dante, Latin 
Hymns, &c. Portrait and Plates. lOO copies only. 
8vo. lOJ. net. [ Very few remain. 

SCULL (^. D.). 

The Garden of the Matchboxes, and other Stories. 
Crown 8vo. y. 6(1. net. ^In preparation. 


A Book of Thoughts. [In preparation. 

[Isham Facsimile Reprint]. 


A Fovrefovld Meditation, of the foure last 
THINGS. Composed in a Diuine Poeme. By R. S. 
The author of S. Peter's complaint. London, 1606. 
A Facsimile Reprint, with a Bibliographical Note by 
Charles Edmonds. 150 copies. Printed on hand- 
made paper at the Chiswick Press. Roy. i6mo. 
5j. net. 
Also JO copies, large paper, ^s. 6d. net. 
Facsimile reprint from tlie unique fragment discovered in tlie autumn of 1867 by- 
Mr. Charles Edmonds in a disused lumber room at Lamport Hall, Nortbants, and 
lately purchased by the British Museum authorities. This fragment supplies the first 
sheet of a previously unknown poem by Robert Southwell, the Roman Catholic poet, 
whose religious fervour lends a pathetic beauty to everything that he wrote, and 
future editors of Southwell's works will find it necessary to give it close study. The 
whole of the Poem has been completed from two MS. copies, which difier in the 
number of Stanzas. 

Vigo Street, London, W. 17 


In the Key of Blue, and other Prose Essays. 
With cover designed by C. S. Ricketts. Printed at 
the Ballantyne Press. Second Edition. Thick 
cr. 8vo. Ss, 6d, net. 
New York : Macmillan 6* Co, 
" The variety of Mr, Symonda' interests ! Here are criticisms upon the Venetian 
Tiepolo, upon M. Zola, upon Medixval Norman Songs, upon Elizabethan lyrics, 
upon Plato's and Dante's ideals of love \ and not a sign anywhere, except may be in 
the last, that he -has more concern for, or knowledge of, one theme than another. 
Add to these artistic themes the delighted records of English or Italian scenes, with 
their rich beauties of nature or of art, and the human passions that inrbrm them. 
How joyous a sense of great possessions won at no man's hurt or loss must such a 
man retain." — Daily Chronicle, 

** Some of the essays are very charming, in Mr. Symonds' best style, but the 
first one, that which gives its name to the volume, is at least the most curious of the 
lot." — Speaker. 

*'The other essays are the work of a sound and sensible critic." — National 

*' The literary essays are more restrained, and the prepared student will find them 
full of illumination and charm, while the descriptive papers have the attractiveness 
which Mr. Symonds' always gives to work in this genre." — Mr. Jas, ASHCROFT 
Noble, in The Literary World. 


See Hallam, — Van Dyke. 


A Sicilian Idyll. With a Frontispiece by Walter 
Crane. Printed at the Chiswick Press. 250 copies. 
Imp. i6mo. $s. net. 50 copies hand-made L.P. Fcap. 
4to. 10^. 6d. net. [Very few remain. 

" He combines his notes skilfully, and puts his own voice, so to speak, into 
them, and the music that results is sweet and of a pastoral tunefulness."— S^M^er. 

'* The blank verse is the true verse of pastoral, quiet and scholarly, with frequent 
touches of beauty. The echoes of Theocritus and of the classics at large are modest 
and felicitous," — jinti-yanbin. 

"A charming little pastoral play in one act. The verse is singularly graceful, 
and many bright gems of wit sparkle in the dialogues."— irtwary World. 

*•'' Well worthy of admiration for its grace and delicate finish, its clearness, and 
its compactness.'*— ^j&entfum. 

Also the following works by the same Author transferred 
to the present Publisher, viz. : — Laurella, and other 
Poems, 5^. net. — Alcestis, a Dramatic Poem, 45. net. 
— A Study of Shelley, 5^.6^. net. — Forest Songs, 
and other Poems, 3^. «£A— The Banshee, 3^. net.— 
Helena in Troas, 2s, 6d, net. 

1 8 The Publications of Elkin Mathews 



The Poetry of Tennyson. Third Edition, enlarged. 
Cr. 8vo. 5^. 6(i. net. 

The additions consist of a Portrait, Two Chapters, and the 

Bibliography expanded. The Laureate himself gave valuable 
aid in correcting various details. 

"Mr. Elkin Mathews publishes a new edition, revised and enlarged, of that 
excellent work, 'The Poetry of Tennyson,' by Henry Van Dyke. The additions 
are considerable. It is extremeiy interesting to go over the bibliographical notes 
to see the contemptuous or, at best, contemptuously patronising tone of the reviewers 
in the early thirties gradually turning to civility, to a loud chorus of applause."— 

" Considered as an aid to the study of the Laureate, this labour of lore merits 
warm commendation. Its grouping of the poems, its bibliography and chronology, 
its catalogue of Biblical allusion and quotations, are each and all substantial accessories 
to the knowledge of the author."— Dr. Richard Garnett, in the Illustrated 
London News. 


The Unconscious Humourist, and other Essays. 

[In preparation. 

[_Mr. JVedmor^s Short Stories. New and Uniform Issue. 
Crown Svo.j each Volume 3^. fid. net.'] 


Pastorals of France. Fourth Edition. CrowTi 8vo. 
3^. 6d. net. \Ready. 

Neiv York : Charles Scribner^s Sons. 

*• a writer in whom delicacy of literary touch is united with an almost disem- 
bodied fineness of sentiment," — Athenaum. 

" Of singular quaintness and beauty." — Contemporary Review. 

*'The stories are exquisitely told." — The World. 

" Delicious idylls, written with Mr. Wedmore's Biscinating command of 
sympathetic incident, and with his characteristic charm of style." — Illustrated London 

" The publication of the ' Pastorals ' may be said to have revealed, not only a new 
talent, but a new literary i-enrtf. , Thecharmof the writing never foils." — Bookman 

*' In their simplicity, their tenderness, their quietude, their truthfulness to the 
remote life that they depict, * Pastorals of France ' are almost perfect."— S/w/a/or. 

Vigo Street, London, W. 19 

WEDMORE {FREDERICK}— continued. 

Rehunciations. Third Edition. With «, Portrait by 
J. J. Shannon. Cr. 8vo. 35. 6d. net. [Ready, 

New York : Charles Scribner's Sons. 

*' These are clever studies in polite realism.'' — Athenaum. 

'* They are quite unusual. The picture of Richard Pelse, with his one moment 
of romance, is exquisite." — St. gamers Gaxette. 

" ' The Chemist in the Suburbs,' in ' Renunciations,' is a purejoy. . , . The 
story of Richard Felsc's life is told with a power not unworthy oitbe now disabled 
hand that drew for us the lonely old age of M. Parent." — Mr. Traill, in The 
New Review, 

*' The book belongs to the highest order of imaginative work. ' Renunciations ' 
are studies from the life — pictured which make plain to us some of the innermost 
workings of the heart," — Academy. 

*'Mr. Wedmore has gained for himself an enviable reputation. His style has 
distinction, has form. He has the poet's secret how to bring out the beauty of 
common things. . . * The Chemist in the Suburbs,' in * Renunciations,' is his 
masterpiece." — Saturday Review. 

'•^ We congratulate Mr. Wedmore on his vivid, wholesome, and artistic work, so 
fUIl of suppressed feeling and of quiet strength." — Standard. 

English Episodes. Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 3^. 6d. 
net, [Ready, 

New York : Charles Scribner's Sons, 

** Distinction is the characteristic of Mr. Wedmore's manner. These things 
remain on the mind as things seen ; not read oV—Daily News. 

" A penetrating insight, a fine pathos. Mr. Wedmore is a peculiarly fine and 
sane and carefully deliberate aitiaU'— Westminster Gaxette. 

"In 'English Episodes' we have another proof of Mr. Wedmore's unique 
position among the writers of fiction of the day. We hardly think of his short 
volumes as ' stories,' but rather as life-secrets and hearts' blood, crystalised somehow, 
and, in their jewel-foim, cut with exceeding skill by the hand of a master-workman .' 
, The faultless episode of the 'Vicar of Pimlico' is the best in loftiness of 
purpose and keeness of interest ; but the * Fitting Obsequies ' is its equal on different 
lines, and deserves to be a classic."— ^orW. 

"'English Episodes' are worthy successors of 'Pastorals' and 'Renunciations,' 
and with them should represent a permanent addition to Literature." — Academy. 

There may also be had the Collected Edition (iSgs) of ^^ Pastorals 
of France''^ and "-^ Renunciations,^'* with Title-page by 
John Fulleylove, R.L 5j. net, 

WICKSTEED (P. H., Warden of Uni'versity Hall), 
Dante : Six Sermons. 
*^* A Fourth Edition. (Unaltered Reprint). Cr. 8vo. 

2s. net. 

" It is impossible not to be struck wtth the reality and earnestness with which 
Mr. Wickstced seela to do justice to what are the supreme elements of the Commedia^ 
its spiritual significance, and the depth and insight of its moral Kz^ctim%:'— Guardian. 

20 The Publications of Elkin Mathews 


Whisper ! A Volume of Verse, Fcap. 8vo. buckram. 
2s, 6d. net. 

Transferred by the Author to the present Publisher, 

" A little volume of singularly sweet and graceiul poems, hardly one of which 
can be read by any lover of poetry without definite pleasure, and everyone who reads 
either of them without is, we venture to say, unable to appreciate that play of light 
and shadow on the heart of man which is of the very essence ofpoetry."— S^tfrfafor, 

simple^ _._. 

agreeable Vmuui^ ui v^iia^, 0111.1.1^331 ui u^ iw uic mc 

Mr. ANDREW Lang, in Longmari^s Magaxtne. 

YEArS {W. B.). 

The Shadowy Waters. A Poetic Play. \^Th preparation. 

The Wind among the Reeds (Poems). [In preparation. 

Mr. Elkin Mathews holds likewise the only copies of the 
following Books printed at the Private Press of the Rev. 
C. Henry Daniel, Fellow of Worcester College, Oxford. 


The Growth of Love. Printed in Fejl's old English 
type, on Whatman paper. loo copies. Fcap. 4to. 
£2. I2s. 6d. net. 

SHORTER Poems. Printed in Fell's old English type, on 
Whatman paper. lOO copies. Five Parts. Fcap, 4to. 
£2. I2J. 6d. net. [ Very few remain. 

Small 8vo. (1882), ;^i. 15^. net. 

Sq. l6mo. 100 copies only. 12s. 6d. net. 

Sq. i6mo. 10;, 6d. net.