English

Silva was marching homeward while the moon
Still shed mild brightness like the far-off hope
Of those pale virgin lives that wait and pray.
The stars thin-scattered made the heavens large,
Bending in slow procession; in the east
Emergent from the dark waves of the hills,
Seeming a little sister of the moon,
Glowed Venus all unquenched. Silva, in haste,
Exultant and yet anxious, urged his troop
To quick and quicker march: he had delight
In forward stretching shadows, in the gleams
That travelleDon the armour of the van,

A HYMN OF THE PAST AND THE FUTURE .

I.

A wondrous pageant fills th' historic page,
Moving through every age —
The long procession of the Gods of Man —
Forms, which his young imagination shaped
And with rich legend draped,
To guide his steps, ere Science yet began
With searching gaze the outer world to scan,
And which, as thought and various knowledge grew,
He moulded oft afresh, or clothed in vesture new.

II.

No human faith will we, with stupid pride,
Disparage or deride;

Trefoil of Erin! as I contemplate
Thy sister leaflets, I behold in these
An emblem of profound triplicities
That live in nature and in man's estate.
Three are the Norns that weave the web of fate
In silent loom — Past, Present, and To-be;
And Feeling, Thought, and Action are the three
Handmaids that on the human spirit wait.
The Apostle of our isle — as legends tell —
Used thee to symbolise a mystery
Now fading from our souls; but thou as well
May'st type for future men who look on thee
Our sacred Triad indivisible —

The Master first brought clearly to our view
That woman's nature is a higher thing
Than man's, and from her, as a living spring,
Ever his noblest impulses he drew.
Yet was this precious truth not wholly new;
To souls elect no secret had it been:
And here the Southern heart had farther seen
Than the cold Northern intellect could do.
Dante on Beatrice upward gazed,
All self-abased, in reverential love,
And with bow'd head receiv'd her grave rebuke;
While Milton's Adam, as God's image rais'd

II.

While still I gazed upon the pictured scene,
The outlines seem'd before mine eyes to swim,
And all the forms to waver and dislimn.
The Father faded in the clear serene
Of space ethereal, and no more was seen.
Slowly receded to the distance dim
The winged host, while, group'd where they had been,
A quire of holy women sang the hymn.
The Virgin still her baby fondly press'd,
But not upon the moon her feet were placed;
Now on our kindly planet did they rest;

I.

Late in a dream methought I slowly stray'd
Through an antique cathedral's spaces vast,
And in the Lady Chapel stood at last
Before a picture, where my steps I stay'd
In contemplation of the group portray'd
By the old master's pencil, which surpass'd
All others in the mystic charm it cast
About the features of the blessed Maid.
Star-crown'd she stood upon a crescent moon,
And to her bosom clasp'd her wondrous boy.
The Eternal Father, stooping from above,

In those last days ere I was left alone —
Days saddest, yet most sacred, I have known —
Seven words she spake, which in my heart shall live
Till sister Death my parting sign shall give.
Write not those words, my hand! but let them be
A holy secret between her and me.

On one I think each morn when dawn is gray,
And keep it for my solace through the day;
And so, within the compass of the week,
All seven I seem to hear my angel speak,
Ah me! but seem — yet will I not repine;
I mourn not my own sufferings, dear! but thine.

Sleepless I often lie at dawn of day —
Then from the convent tower that rises near
The trebly threefold note salutes my ear
That bids the true believer muse and pray.
With answering heart my Angelus I say,
And think of her who was so lately here —
Of her whose love through many a happy year
Brought me all good, and charm'd all ills away.
Again each sacred stage I travel o'er,
From the dusk eve when, hearing first her voice,
(Her face half hid) my heart presaged its choice —

Once Joy each morn our window-curtains drew,
And smiling bade us hail — " Rise, happy pair,
A new day calls you and the world is fair."
But one dark dawning quench'd my zeal to view
Heav'ns matin pomp — its wealth of varying hue.
Now by my lonely bed — she is not there —
The vestal Duty stands with solemn air,
And says — " Remember, thou hast much to do."
I turn and gaze on her, half-blind with tears.
And lo! she is transfigured, and I see
No longer her with looks severe, but thee,

THE A WAKING .

These were but dreams, of Dante's magic bred.
There is no mount of healing pain, I know,
Save that up which, with struggling effort slow,
In this our world repentant sinners tread.
Bright winged creatures do not come and go,
From orb to orb on mystic errands sped;
Nor need I heav'nly visitants to show
How I should think of thee, my dear one dead!
Had Gabriel pass'd me at thy chamber door
With " Ave, gratia plena" on his tongue,
Or had he o'er thee at thy parting hung,