MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

NEAR HASTINGS

    Near Hastings, on the shingle-beach,
      We loitered at the time
    When ripens on the wall the peach,
      The autumn’s lovely prime. 
    Far off—­the sea and sky seemed blent,
      The day was wholly done,
    The distant town its murmurs sent,
      Strangers—­we were alone.

    We wandered slow; sick, weary, faint,
      Then one of us sat down,
    No nature hers, to make complaint;—­
      The shadows deepened brown. 
    A lady past—­she was not young,
      But oh! her gentle face
    No painter-poet ever sung,
      Or saw such saintlike grace.

    She passed us—­then she came again,
      Observing at a glance
    That we were strangers; one, in pain—­
      Then asked—­Were we from France? 
    We talked awhile—­some roses red
      That seemed as wet with tears,
    She gave my sister, and she said,
      God bless you both, my dears!”

    Sweet were the roses—­sweet and full,
      And large as lotus flowers
    That in our own wide tanks we cull
      To deck our Indian bowers. 
    But sweeter was the love that gave
      Those flowers to one unknown,
    I think that He who came to save
      The gift a debt will own.

    The lady’s name I do not know,
      Her face no more may see,
    But yet, oh yet I love her so! 
      Blest, happy, may she be! 
    Her memory will not depart,
      Though grief my years should shade,
    Still bloom her roses in my heart! 
      And they shall never fade!

FRANCE

1870

    Not dead—­oh no—­she cannot die! 
      Only a swoon, from loss of blood! 
    Levite England passes her by,
    Help, Samaritan!  None is nigh;
      Who shall staunch me this sanguine flood?

    ’Range the brown hair, it blinds her eyne,
      Dash cold water over her face! 
    Drowned in her blood, she makes no sign,
    Give her a draught of generous wine. 
      None heed, none hear, to do this grace.

    Head of the human column, thus
      Ever in swoon wilt thou remain? 
    Thought, Freedom, Truth, quenched ominous
    Whence then shall Hope arise for us,
      Plunged in the darkness all again.

    No, she stirs!—­There’s a fire in her glance,
      Ware, oh ware of that broken sword! 
    What, dare ye for an hour’s mischance,
    Gather around her, jeering France,
      Attila’s own exultant horde?

    Lo, she stands up—­stands up e’en now,
      Strong once more for the battle-fray,
    Gleams bright the star, that from her brow
    Lightens the world.  Bow, nations, bow,
      Let her again lead on the way!

THE TREE OF LIFE