LINES
WRITTEN IN HER BROTHER R. F. F.'S JOURNAL.
"Mark the perfect man, and behold the upright, for the end of that man is peace."—Psalms xxxvii. 37.
The man of heart and words sincere,
Who truth and justice follows still,
Pursues his way with conscience clear,
Unharmed by earthly care and ill.
His promises he never breaks,
But sacredly to each adheres;
Honor's straight path he ne'er forsakes,
Though danger in the way appears.
He never boasts, will ne'er deceive,
For vanity nor yet for gain;
All that he says you may believe;
For worlds he would not conscience stain.
If he desires what others do,
And they deserve it more than he,
He gives to them what is their due,
Happy in his humility.
Not to his friends alone he's kind,
But his foes too with candor sees;
Not to their good intentions blind,
Though hopeless their dislike t' appease.
His eyes are clear, his hands are pure,
To God it is his constant prayer
That, be he rich or be he poor,
He never may wrong actions dare.
If rich, he to the suffering gives
All he can spare, and thinks it just,
That, since he by God's bounty lives,
He should as steward hold his trust.
If poor, he envies not; he knows
How covetousness corrupts the heart,
Whatever a just God bestows
Receiving as his proper part.
O Father, such a man I'd be;
Like him would act, like him would pray:
Lead me in truth and purity
To win thy peace and see thy day.
ON A PICTURE REPRESENTING THE DESCENT FROM THE CROSS.
BY RAPHAEL.
Virgin Mother, Mary mild!
It was thine to see the child,
Gift of the Messiah dove,
Pure blossom of ideal love,
Break, upon the "guilty cross,"
The seeming promise of his life;
Of faith, of hope, of love, a loss,
Deepened all thy, bosom's strife,
Brow down-bent, and heart-strings torn,
Fainting, by frail arms upborne.
All those startled figures show,
That they did not apprehend
The thought of Him who there lies low,
On whom those sorrowing eyes they bend.
They do not feel this holiest hour;
Their hearts soar not to read the power,
Which this deepest of distress
Alone could give to save and bless.
Soul of that fair, now ruined form,
Thou who hadst force to bide the storm,
Must again descend to tell
Of thy life the hidden spell;
Though their hearts within them burned,
The flame rose not till he returned.
Just so all our dead ones lie;
Just so call our thoughts on high;
Thus we linger on the earth,
And dully miss death's heavenly birth.
THE CAPTURED WILD HORSE.[46]
On the boundless plain careering,
By an unseen compass steering,
Wildly flying, reappearing,—
With untamed fire their broad eyes glowing,
In every step a grand pride showing,
Of no servile moment knowing,—
Happy as the trees and flowers,
In their instinct cradled hours,
Happier in fuller powers,—
See the wild herd nobly ranging,
Nature varying, not changing,
Lawful in their lawless ranging.
But hark! what boding crouches near?
On the horizon now appear
Centaur-forms of force and fear.
On their enslaved brethren borne,
With bit and whip of tyrant scorn,
To make new captives, as forlorn.
Wildly snort the astonished throng,
Stamp, and wheel, and fly along,
Those centaur-powers they know are strong.
But the lasso, skilful cast,
Holds one only captive fast,
Youngest, weakest—left the last.
How thou trembledst then, Konick!
Thy full breath came short and thick,
Thy heart to bursting beat so quick;
Thy strange brethren peering round,
By those tyrants held and bound,
Tyrants fell,—whom falls confound!
With rage and pity fill thy heart;
Death shall be thy chosen part,
Ere such slavery tame thy heart.
But strange, unexpected joy!
They seem to mean thee no annoy—
Gallop off both man and boy.
Let the wild horse freely go!
Almost he shames it should be so;
So lightly prized himself to know.
All deception 'tis, O steed!
Ne'er again upon the mead
Shalt thou a free wild horse feed.
The mark of man doth blot thy side,
The fear of man doth dull thy pride,
Thy master soon shall on thee ride.
Thy brethren of the free plain,
Joyful speeding back again,
With proud career and flowing mane,
Find thee branded, left alone,
And their hearts are turned to stone—
They keep thee in their midst alone.
Cruel the intervening years,
Seeming freedom stained by fears,
Till the captor reappears;
Finds thee with thy broken pride.
Amid thy peers still left aside,
Unbeloved and unallied;
Finds thee ready for thy fate;
For joy and hope 'tis all too late—
Thou'rt wedded to thy sad estate.
———
Wouldst have the princely spirit bowed?
Whisper only, speak not loud,
Mark and leave him in the crowd.
Thou need'st not spies nor jailers have;
The free will serve thee like the slave,
Coward shrinking from the brave.
And thy cohorts, when they come
To take the weary captive home,
Need only beat the retreating drum.
EPILOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF ESSEX.
SPOKEN IN THE CHARACTER OF THE QUEEN.—TRANSLATED FROM GŒTHE.
No Essex here!—unblest—they give no sign.
And shall such live, while earth's best nobleness
Departs and leaves her barren? Now too late
Weakness and cunning both are exorcised.
How could I trust thee whom I knew so well?
Am I not like the fool of fable? He
Who in his bosom warmed the frozen viper,
And fancied man might hope for gratitude
From the betrayer's seed? Away! begone!
No breath, no sound shall here insult my anguish.
Essex is dumb, and they shall all be so;
No human presence shall control my mood.
Begone, I say! The queen would be alone!
(They all go out.)
Alone and still! This day the cup of woe
Is full; and while I drain its bitter dregs,
Calm, queenlike, stern, I would review the past.
Well it becomes the favorite of fortune,
The royal arbitress of others' weal,
The world's desire, and England's deity,
Self-poised, self-governed, clear and firm to gaze
Where others close their aching eyes, to dream.
Who feels imperial courage glow within
Fears not the mines which lie beneath his throne;
Bold he ascends, though knowing well his peril—
Majestical and fearless holds the sceptre.
The golden circlet of enormous weight
He wears with brow serene and smiling air,
As though a myrtle chaplet graced his temples.
And thus didst thou. The far removed thy power
Attracted and subjected to thy will,
The hates and fears which oft beset thy way
Were seen, were met, and conquered by thy courage.
Thy tyrant father's wrath, thy mother's hopeless fate,
Thy sister's harshness,—all were cast behind;
And to a soul like thine, bonds and harsh usage
Taught fortitude, prudence, and self-command,
To act, or to endure. Fate did the rest.
One brilliant day thou heard'st, "Long live the Queen!"
A queen thou wert; and in the heart's despite,
Despite the foes without, within, who ceaseless
Have threatened war and death,—a queen thou art,
And wilt be, while a spark of life remains.
But this last deadly blow—I feel it here!
Yet the low, prying world shall ne'er perceive it.
"Actress" they call me,—'tis a queen's vocation!
The people stare and whisper—what would they
But acting, to amuse them? Is deceit
Unknown, except in regal palaces?
The child at play already is an actor.
Still to thyself, let weal or woe betide,
Elizabeth! be true and steadfast ever!
Maintain thy fixed reserve: 'tis just; what heart
Can sympathize with a queen's agony?
The false, false world,—it wooes me for my treasures,
My favors, and the place my smile confers;
And if for love I offer mutual love,
My minion, not content, must have the crown.
'Twas thus with Essex; yet to thee, O heart!
I dare to say it, thy all died with him!
Man must experience—be he who he may—
Of bliss a last, irrevocable day.
Each owns this true, but cannot bear to live
And feel the last has come, the last has gone;
That never eye again in earnest tenderness
Shall turn to him,—no heart shall thickly beat
When his footfall is heard,—no speaking blush
Tell the soul's wild delight at meeting,—never
Rapture in presence, hope in absence more,
Be his,—no sun of love illume his landscape!
Yet thus it is with me. Throughout this heart
Deep night, without a star! What all the host
To me,—my Essex fallen from the heavens!
To me he was the centre of the world,
The ornament of time. Wood, lawn, or hall,
The busy mart, the verdant solitude,
To me were but the fame of one bright image;
That face is dust,—those lustrous eyes are closed,
And the frame mocks me with its empty centre.
How nobly free, how gallantly he bore him,
The charms of youth combined with manhood's vigor!
How sage his counsel, and how warm his valor,—
The glowing fire and the aspiring flame!
Even in his presumption he was kingly!
But ah! does memory cheat me? What was all,
Since Truth was wanting, and the man I loved
Could court his death to vent his anger on me,
And I must punish him, or live degraded.
I chose the first; but in his death I died.
Land, sea, church, people, throne,—all, all are nought,
I live a living death, and call it royalty.
Yet, wretched ruler o'er these empty gauds,
A part remains to play, and I will play it.
A purple mantle hides my empty heart,
The kingly crown adorns my aching brow,
And pride conceals my anguish from the world.
But in the still and ghostly midnight hour,
From each intruding eye and ear set free,
I still may shed the bitter, hopeless tear,
Nor fear the babbling of the earless walls.
I to myself may say, "I die! I die!
Elizabeth, unfriended and alone,
So die as thou hast lived,—alone, but queenlike!"