Hobert Stephen Hawker THE SONG OF THE WESTERN A GOOD Sword and a trusty hand! King James's men shall understand And have they fix'd the where and when? Out spake their captain brave and bold, A merry wight was he : "If London Tower were Michael's hold, We'll set Trelawny free! "We'll cross the Tamar, land to land, The Severn is no stay, With one and all,' and hand in hand, And who shall bid us nay? "And when we come to London Wall, A pleasant sight to view, Come forth! come forth, ye cowards all, Here's men as good as you! "Trelawny he's in keep and hold, Trelawny he may die; But here's twenty thousand Cornish bold, Will know the reason why!" MAWGAN OF MELHUACH 'T WAS a fierce night when old Mawgan died, Men shudder'd to hear the rolling tide : The wreckers fled fast from the awful shore, They had heard strange voices amid the roar. "Out with the boat there," some one cried,— "Will he never come? we shall lose the tide: His berth is trim and his cabin stor'd, He's a weary long time coming on board." The old man struggled upon the bed: He knew the words that the voices said; Wildly he shriek'd as his eyes grew dim, "He was dead! he was dead! when I buried him." Hark yet again to the devilish roar, Hard was the struggle, but at the last, With a stormy pang old Mawgan past, And away, away, beneath their sight, Gleam'd the red sail at pitch of night. FEATHERSTONE'S DOOM TWIST thou and twine! in light and gloom A spell is on thine hand; The wind shall be thy changeful loom, Twine from this hour, in ceaseless toil, Where crested surges roar. "Tis for that hour, when, from the wave, Near voices wildly cried; When thy stern hand no succor gave, Twist thou and twine! in light and gloom "PATER VESTER PASCIT ILLA” OUR bark is on the waters: wide around The wandering wave; above, the lonely sky. Hush! a young sea-bird floats, and that quick cry Shrieks to the levell'd weapon's echoing sound, Grasps its lank wing, and on, with reckless bound! Yet, creature of the surf, a sheltering breast When whales first plunged with life, and the proud deep Felt unborn tempests heave in troubled sleep; Thou didst provide, e'en for this nameless bird, Home, and a natural love, amid the surging seas. THE SILENT TOWER OF BOTTREAU TINTADGEL bells ring o'er the tide, He hears that sound, and dreams of home But why are Bottreau's echoes still? Yet the strange chough that home hath found, The lamb lies sleeping on the ground. The ship rode down with courses free, The pilot heard his native bells Hang on the breeze in fitful swells; "Thank God," with reverent brow he cried, "We make the shore with evening's tide." "Come to thy God in time!" It was his marriage chime : Youth, manhood, old age past, His bell must ring at last. "Thank God, thou whining knave, on land, But thank, at sea, the steersman's hand," The captain's voice above the gale: "Thank the good ship and ready sail." "Come to thy God in time!" Sad grew the boding chime : "Come to thy God at last!" Boom'd heavy on the blast. Uprose that sea! as if it heard Long did the rescued pilot tell When gray hairs o'er his forehead fell, Still when the storm of Bottreau's waves TO ALFRED TENNYSON THEY told me in their shadowy phrase, Caught from a tale gone by, That Arthur, King of Cornish praise, Died not, and would not die. Dreams had they, that in fairy bowers I read the rune with deeper ken, A bard should rise, mid future men, He would great Arthur's deeds rehearse And so the King in laurell'd verse Edward, Lord Lytton (EDWARD LYTTON BULWER) Rich. [reading]. "In silence, and at night, the Conscience feels That life should soar to nobler ends than Power." So sayest thou, sage and sober moralist! But wert thou tried? Sublime Philosophy, Thou art the Patriarch's ladder, reaching heaven, And bright with beckoning angels-but, alas! We see thee, like the Patriarch, but in dreams, By the first step, dull-slumbering on the earth. I am not happy!- with the Titan's lust Whereby pale seers shall from their aëry towers Con all the ominous signs, benign or evil, That make the potent astrologue of kings. But shall the Future judge me by the ends That I have wrought, or by the dubious Upon the dark and stormy tides where life Gives battle to the elements, — and man Wrestles with man for some slight plank, whose weight Will bear but one, while round the desperate wretch The hungry billows roar, and the fierce Fate, Like some huge monster, dim-seen through the surf, Waits him who drops;-ye safe and formal men, Who write the deeds, and with unfeverish hand Weigh in nice scales the motives of the Great, Ye cannot know what ye have never tried! Without the roundness and the glow of life I have wrought Great uses out of evil tools, and they In the time to come may bask beneath the light Which I have stolen from the angry gods, And warn their sons against the glorious theft, Forgetful of the darkness which it broke. 'Tis that I felt my country in my veins, And smote her sons as Brutus smote his own. And yet I am not happy: blanch'd and sear'd Before my time; breathing an air of hate, And seeing daggers in the eyes of men, And wasting powers that shake the thrones of earth In contest with the insects; bearding kings And brav'd by lackies; murder at my bed; And lone amidst the multitudinous web, With the dread Three, that are the Fates who hold The woof and shears - the Monk, the Spy, the Headsman. And this is power? Alas! I am not happy. Nay, I forgive. The Statesman writes the doom, But the Priest sends the blessing. I forgive them, But I destroy; forgiveness is mine own, Destruction is the State's! For private life, Scripture the guide - for public, Machiavel. Would fortune serve me if the Heaven were wroth? For chance makes half my greatness. Beneath the aspect of a bright-eyed star, How Life and Death again! I In one slight bark upon the shoreless sea; The yoked steer, after his day of toil, Forgets the goad, and rests: to me alike Or day or night Ambition has no rest! Shall I resign? who can resign himself? For custom is ourself; as drink and food Become our bone and flesh, the aliments Nurturing our nobler part, the mind, thoughts, dreams, Passions, and aims, in the revolving cycle Of the great alchemy, at length are made Our mind itself; and yet the sweets of leisure, An honor'd home far from these base intrigues, An eyrie on the heaven-kiss'd heights of wisdom. [Taking up the book. Speak to me, moralist! I'll heed thy counsel. WHEN STARS ARE IN THE WHEN stars are in the quiet skies, As stars look on the sea! For thoughts, like waves that glide by night, There is an hour when angels keep When coarser souls are wrapp'd in sleep- My thoughts of thee too sacred are For daylight's common beam : I can but know thee as my star, My angel and my dream; When stars are in the quiet skies, Then most I pine for thee; Bend on me then thy tender eyes, As stars look on the sea! NOTE. Another lyric by Lord Lytton will be found in the BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. William Edmondstoune Aptoun And blew the note with yell and shout It would have made a brave man's heart To watch the keen malignant eyes There sat their gaunt and wither'd dames, Was full as full might be With black-rob'd Covenanting carles, But when he came, though pale and wan, So noble was his manly front, And each man held his breath, |