Thunder harsh and dry,
Shattering down the snow-flakes
   Off the curdled sky. 
Hark!  The brave North-easter! 
   Breast-high lies the scent,
On by holt and headland,
   Over heath and bent. 
Chime, ye dappled darlings,
   Through the sleet and snow. 
Who can over-ride you? 
   Let the horses go! 
Chime, ye dappled darlings,
   Down the roaring blast;
You shall see a fox die
   Ere an hour be past. 
Go! and rest to-morrow,
   Hunting in your dreams,
While our skates are ringing
   O’er the frozen streams. 
Let the luscious South-wind
   Breathe in lovers’ sighs,
While the lazy gallants
   Bask in ladies’ eyes. 
What does he but soften
   Heart alike and pen? 
’Tis the hard gray weather
   Breeds hard English men. 
What’s the soft South-wester? 
   ‘Tis the ladies’ breeze,
Bringing home their true-loves
   Out of all the seas: 
But the black North-easter,
   Through the snowstorm hurled,
Drives our English hearts of oak
   Seaward round the world. 
Come, as came our fathers,
   Heralded by thee,
Conquering from the eastward,
   Lords by land and sea. 
Come; and strong within us
   Stir the Vikings’ blood;
Bracing brain and sinew;
   Blow, thou wind of God!

1854.

A FAREWELL:  TO C. E. G.

My fairest child, I have no song to give you;
   No lark could pipe in skies so dull and gray;
Yet, if you will, one quiet hint I’ll leave you,
      For every day.

I’ll tell you how to sing a clearer carol
   Than lark who hails the dawn or breezy down
To earn yourself a purer poet’s laurel
      Than Shakespeare’s crown.

Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever;
   Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long;
And so make Life, and Death, and that For Ever,
      One grand sweet song.

February 1, 1856.

TO G. A. G.

A hasty jest I once let fall—­
   As jests are wont to be, untrue—­
   As if the sum of joy to you
Were hunt and picnic, rout and ball.

Your eyes met mine:  I did not blame;
   You saw it:  but I touched too near
   Some noble nerve; a silent tear
Spoke soft reproach, and lofty shame.

I do not wish those words unsaid. 
   Unspoilt by praise and pleasure, you
   In that one look to woman grew,
While with a child, I thought, I played.

Next to mine own beloved so long! 
   I have not spent my heart in vain. 
   I watched the blade; I see the grain;
A woman’s soul, most soft, yet strong.

Eversley, 1856.

THE SOUTH WIND:  A FISHERMAN’S BLESSINGS

O blessed drums of Aldershot! 
   O blessed South-west train! 
O blessed, blessed Speaker’s clock,
   All prophesying rain!