Puslapio vaizdai
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CLEAR and cool, clear and cool,

By laughing shallow and dreaming pool;
Cool and clear, cool and clear,
Dy shining shingle and foaming weir;
Under the crag where the ousel sings,

And the ivied wall where the church-bell rings,
Undefiled, for the undefiled;

Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child.

Dank and foul, dank and foul,

By the smoky town in its murky cowl;
Foul and dank, foul and dank,
By wharf and sewer and slimy bank;
Darker and darker the further I go,
Baser and baser the richer I grow;
Who dare sport with the sin-defiled?

Shrink from me, turn from me, mother and child.

Strong and free, strong and free,
The flood-gates are open, away to the sea.
Free and strong, free and strong,
Cleansing my streams as I hurry along
To the golden sands and the leaping bar,
And the taintless tide that awaits me afar,
As I lose myself in the infinite main,

Like a soul that has sinned and is pardoned


Undefiled, for the undefiled;

Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child.


"ARE you ready for the steeple-chase, Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree?

Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Baree.

You're booked to ride your capping race to-day at Coulterlee,

You're booked to ride Vindictive, for all the world to see,

To keep him straight, and keep him first and win the run for me.

Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Baree."

She clasped her new-born baby, poor Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree,

Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Baree,

"I can not ride Vindictive, as any man might


And I will not ride Vindictive with this baby on my knee;

He's killed a boy, he's killed a man, and why must he kill me?"

"Unless you ride Vindictive, Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree,

Unless you ride Vindictive to-day at Coulterlee, And land him safe across the brook, and win the blank for me,

It's you may keep your baby, for you'll get no keep from me."

"That husbands could be cruel," said Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree,

"That husbands could be cruel, I have known for seasons three;

But, oh! to ride Vindictive while a baby cries for me,

And to be killed across a fence at last, for all the world to see!"

She mastered young Vindictive-oh! the gallant lass was she,


IN circle of

recent years the name of Mr. Mackenzie Bell

And she kept him straight and won the race, as near as neear could be;

But he killed her at the brook against a pollard

willow tree,

Oh! he killed her at the brook-the brute-for all the world to see,

And no one but the baby cried for poor Lorraine, Lorree.


Our wanton accidents take root, and grow To vaunt themselves God's laws.

-Saint's Tragedy, Act II, Scene 4.


Night's son was driving

His golden-haired horses up;

Over the eastern firths
High flashed their manes.

-The Longbeard's Saga.


Those clouds are angels' robes. That fiery west Is paved with smiling faces.

-Saint's Tragedy, Act I, Scene 3.


Oh! 'tis easy

To beget great deeds; but in the rearing of them-
The threading in cold blood each mean detail,
And fury brake of half-pertinent circumstance-
There lies the self-denial.

-Ibid, Act IV, Scene 3.


Life is too short for logic; what I do

I must dó simply; God alone must judgeFor God alone shall guide, and God's elect. -Ibid, Act III, Scene 3.


Oh, noble soul! which neither gold, nor love, Nor scorn can bend.

-Ibid, Act IV, Scene 1.


The world goes up and the world goes down
And the sunshine follows the rain;
And yesterday's sneer and yesterday's frown
Can never come over again,

Sweet wife,

No, never come over again.

-Dolcino to Margaret.

readers through his monograph on Charles Whitehead, and his contributions to the Academy and other London journals, both in prose and verse. Not that his career by any means began with these; he has been an assiduous verse-writer and essayist for a number of years; but he was, till about 1884, little known to the general public. He has had from childhood to struggle against physical drawbacks which would have discouraged most men; and, in choosing the career of literature, which he did on coming to reside in London a few years ago, he showed no little boldness and determination. Suffering from a weakness in the right side the result of infantile paralysis—he has exhibited indefatigable perseverance and devotion to his loved pursuits and studies. He has to use his left hand for writing. In all his compositions there are the marks of patient culture. In his prose studies keen curiosity for facts and careful analysis are the leading notes, with a well-controlled sympathy, which seldom becomes effusive. His poetry is varied in style from the ballad to the simple lyric, from the dramatic sketch to the patriotic or didactic song.

Mr. Mackenzie Bell was born on the 2d of March, 1856. His father, who had been for many years a resident in Buenos Ayres, was then a Liverpool merchant. His mother is a sister of the late Scottish judge, Lord Mackenzie, author of the wellknown "Studies in Roman Law." His physical weakness in youth caused him to be educated almost entirely at home; but his own aptitude for learning so far made up for this disadvantage that, in the beginning of 1874, it was arranged he should go to the University of Edinburgh with the view of taking his M. A. degree, and afterwards proceeding to Trinity Hall, Cambridge, preparatory to entering on a legal career in London. Working very hard with this object proved too much for his strength. His health completely broke down; and he had, under medical orders, to relinquish the plan, and eventually to go abroad, visiting many noted health resorts. Spain exercised a powerful influence on his mind, as was to be expected, and it is visible in his writings. By and by he was so far recovered as to be able to fall back on habits of study and literary work, and produced many verses, most of which appear in his published volumes. "The Keeping of the Vow," a very successful ballad, was written in 1877. His first volume, to which this poem

gave the title, was issued in 1879. "Verses of Varied Life" followed in 1882. In the autumn of 1883 "Old Year Leaves" appeared. It contains some of his most finished work. In 1884 he published his biographical and critical monograph: "A Forgotten Genius: Charles Whitehead"— a man of remarkable genius, admired by Dickens and Rossetti, but, like so many men of genius, the victim of vices that at last undid him. Mr. Bell's volume, discriminating and effective as it is, asserts for him something of classic position, and will do much to preserve his memory and send students of literature to his books. It was very favorably received by the most influential critical journals. Mr. Bell has written a book dealing with fiction during the last eighty years. In 1885 new editions of Mr. Bell's poems were issued with considerable re-arrangement of contents. A. H. J.


(A, D. 1330.)

KING Robert Bruce is dying, uncertain comes his breath,

And the last strife for failing life will soon be won by death;

Around his couch the courtiers stand and heave full many a sigh,

In dire dismay and grief are they to see their monarch die.

"Sir James of Douglas, come!" he cries, "thou ever wast my friend,

And though we part, 'tis well thou art with me unto the end.

When in great straits, I vowed to God, if He would grant to me

That war should cease in perfect peace, and Scotland should be free,

His blessed banner I would bear to sacred Palestine,

With arms to quell the infidel: such my supreme design.

And grieved am I that here I lie, life ebbing fast away,

This gnawing pain now proving vain the hope my vow to pay.

Then promise me right faithfully, when I am laid

at rest,

That with my heart thou wilt depart to do my last behest!"

"I pledge my knightly word, my liege, thy bidding

shall be done,

And though so sad, yet am I glad such favor to

have won!

Safe in my bosom shall thy trust abide with me for ever,

Unless perchance in peril's hour 'twere best that we should sever."

The king smiles faintly in reply-then gently falls his head,

And on his grand old follower's breast bold Robert Bruce lies dead.

With pennons gay and proud array doth Douglas then depart,

And in a casket carefully he keeps the kingly heart. Crossing the main and sighting Spain, he hears of

that wild war

Which Moor and Christian long have waged with ceaseless conflict sore;

Forthwith he deems that here it seems his mission first should be,

And with his host soon swells the boast of Spanish chivalry.

The armies twain on Tebas' plain extend, a splen

did sight,

In armor dight with weapons bright, impatient for the fight;

The summer sunbeams on the shields of warriors brave are glancing,

And o'er the plain spurs many a man with charger proudly prancing,

Whose gallant crest, stirred by the breeze, full gaily now is dancing,

While each Moslem there with scimitar, upon his Arab horse,

Moves with a calm, courageous mien, unswerving in his course;

And thus at length the stately strength the Cross and Crescent wield,

As deadly foes now darkly close upon this fatal field.

The Spaniards' stroke. has bravely broke the

dense opposing line!

Yet none the less both armies press around their standard-sign,

And though many a Paynim late so proud lies lifeless on the plain,

While good Castilian jennets seem unguided by the rein.

First in the van the Douglas rides, with all his men-at-arms;

A valiant company they are, inured to war's


The veterans of a hundred fields, for whom it had

its charms;

With spur and rein they onward strain on the

retreating foe,

And in the chase can scarcely trace the road by which they go,

Till, looking back upon their track, with horror now they see

The ranks opposed once more have closed-they are in jeopardy!

"We find full late the danger great," Sir Douglas cries. "Return!

And charge the foe like Scots who know the rout at Bannockburn;

Surely the men who vanquished then vain Edward's vast array

No caitiff Moor can e'er e'ercome on this victorious day!"

Thus speaking, swift he turns his steed and gallops to the rear,

Mid battle's tide his dauntless ride as gallant doth appear

As the swimmer's strife who strives for life, yet feels no craven fear.

And as they passed the blows fell fast: stern was the conflict wild.

With steeds and men, who ne'er again would rise, the field was piled.

Yet Douglas true, and still a few, have almost cut their way

With wondrous force, resistless, straight through the grim array,

When, glancing quickly round, he sees, still strug

gling in the fight,

The noble Walter St. Clair, a very valiant knight. They oft were nigh in days gone by, on many a bloody field,

And oft had they in tourney gay their chargers swiftly wheeled,

"Ride to the rescue!" Douglas shouts, "dash on, and do not spare,

To save yon matchless comrade, which man of you will not dare!"

Urging his horse with headlong force, he rushes to to his aid,

And many a tunic's fold is cleft by his resistless blade;

Yet he is left of friends bereft, fierce foemen all around,

And mid the roar of mortal strife of succor not a sound.

Now snatches he the jeweled casque in which the Heart reposes

('Twas strange to see how lovingly his hand upon it closes),

And flings it forward 'mong the foe around him, with the cry,

"Press on, brave Heart, as thou wert wont: I follow thee or die!"

With lifted lance he makes advance to where his

treasure fell,

Each crash of blow, now fast, now slow, like a rude requiem knell,

And left alone, yet ne'er o'erthrown, he grapples with the foe,

Until a sword-thrust piercing him at last doth lay him low;

Then gallantly he fights awhile, half kneeling on the plain,

And there, exhausted by his wounds, he finally is slain.

So died this grand old hero! In Douglas Kirk he sleeps,

While history the record proud of his achievements keeps.


THOUGH many dismal years I've been
To dull old Care apprenticed,
The worst of the small woes I've seen
Is-waiting for the dentist!

How dreary is the cheerless room

In which you bide his pleasure! The very chairs seem steeped in gloom And sorrow without measure,

As if so wild mute-molar grief,

So uncontrolled its swelling,— That its fierce tide had sought relief By deluging the dwelling.

What though of literature a store Is lying on the table,

You only think the books a bore; To read you are unable.

What from the window, though, perchance,
You see forms full of graces,

They merely make you look askance,
And think how sore your face is.

On many chairs and sofas, too,

More martyrs round you languish, You glance at them, they glance at you, And give a groan of anguish.

You deem it hard their turn arrives
Before you in rotation,

Or they wax wroth that yours deprives
Their case of consolation.

You muse upon the ruthless wrench
Which buys a tooth's departing,
Or how the stopping pangs to quench,
In which you may be starting.

Or haply on these ivory chips,
Harsh Nature may deny you,
But which the "golden key" equips
Man's genius to supply you.

No words your mood of mind express,
A mood devoid of quiet,

In which pain, pleasure and distress
Mingle in hopeless riot.

Yes, though much sorrow one must know,

While to old Care apprenticed,

The greatest unheroic woe
Is-waiting for the dentist.


(Obiit, April 5, 1886.)

Он, stalwart man and pure, whose earnest face Mirrored thy fair-orbed soul; whose every deed Made answer to thy word; who gav'st no heed To foolish babble or the lust of place.

Who, grieved to see thy country's hapless case For lack of knowledge, cam'st when great her need,

With succor just and meet; whose civic creed Was not of party, but took in the race.

A year has passed since thou wast laid to rest,
Yet fragrant is thy memory; thy bequest

A work whose scope and grandeur Time shall

England some day-her daughter-lands apart
No longer,-will remember thee whose heart
Fired hers to win her world-wide heritage.


THE leaves which in the autum of the year
Fall auburn-tinted, leaving reft and bare
Their parent trees, in many a sheltered lair
Where Winter waits and watches, cold, austere,

Will lie in drifts; and when the snowdrops cheer The woodland shadows, still the leaves are there, Though through the glades the balmy southern air

And birds and boughs proclaim that Spring is here.

So lost hopes severed by the stress of life
Lie all unburied yet before our eyes,
Though none but us regard their mute decay;
And ever amid this stir, and moil, and strife,
Fresh aims and growing purposes arise
Above the faded hopes of yesterday.


THERE is a tomb, all monumentless yet,

Hard by a moss-grown church's Gothic door, Within the hearing of the ocean's roar, Where lies a man the world will not forget. And here the world's extremes are surely met, For round about him are the tombs of those Who led long lives obscure until their close, And when their days were done their suns were set. Wild thyme and violets grow upon his grave, Summer's fair heralds; and a stranger now

Visits with reverence his resting-place,

A harbinger of many who will crave
On each sad anniversary to avow

True love's regret that ne'er they saw his face.


WHEN Summer's sweetest influence
Is shed o'er plain and hill,
And Nature gains her recompense
For working Winter's will,
We feel a void, a weary sense
Of something wanting still.

In Autumn, when each searing leaf
With sorrow aye is fraught,
And every garnered golden sheaf
Yields fruit for saddest thought,
We feel a void, our spirits' grief

For something vainly sought.
When Winter with his ice-cold hand
Grasps giant-like the ground,
And stiff and stark lies all the land
In frost's firin fetters bound,

We feel a void, we understand

'T is something still unfound.

When Spring returns with fairest face,
Filling the earth with song,
And gladness seems in every place,
And love and life are strong,

Ah me! even then we fail to trace
The dream for which we long.


BLIND passion ever proves a maddening power
Enthroned within us, a sin-garnered dower

Of quenchless loves and longings, a fierce storm Breaking the beauteous boughs, where, sheltered warm,

Repose, like unfledged nestlings, Life's chief joys. Its wave sweeps o'er the soul and swift destroys Our store of peace—what years of labor cost Perchance by one false step for ever lost.

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