Playmates of pearly smiles, and yet
So often and so sadly wet,
That Pity wonder'd to conceive,
How lady so belov'd could grieve.
And oft would both those ladies rare,
Like enchantments out of air,
In a sudden show'r descend
Of balm on want, or flow'rs on friend;
No matter how remote the place,
For fairies laugh at time and space.
From their hearts the gifts were given,
As the light leaps out of heaven.
Their very house was fairy:none
Might find it without favour won
For some great zeal, like errant-knight,
Or want and sorrow's holy right;
And then they reach'd it by long rounds
Of lanes between thick pastoral grounds
Nest-like, and alleys of old trees,
Until at last, in lawny ease,
Down by a garden and its fountains,
In the ken of mild blue mountains,
Rose, as if exempt from death,
Its many-centuried household breath.
The stone-cut arms above the door
Were such as earliest chieftains bore,
Of simple gear, long laid aside;
And low it was, and warm and wide,-
A home to love, from sire to son,
By white-grown servants waited on.
Hear a door opening breath'd of bowers
Of ladies, who lead lives of flowers;
There, walls were books; and the sweet witch,
Painting, had there the rooms made rich
With knights; and dames, and loving eyes
Of heav'n-gone kindred, sweet and wise;
Of bishops, gentle as their lawn,
And sires, whose talk was one May-dawn.
Last, on the roof, a clock's old grace
Look'd forth, like some enchanted face
That never slept, but in the night
Dinted the air with thoughtful might
Of sudden tongue which seem'd to say,
"The stars are firm, and hold their way."
Behold me now, like knight indeed,
Whose balmed wound had ceas'd to bleed,
Behold me in this green domain
Leading a palfrey by the rein,
On which the fairy lady sat
In magic talk, which men call "chat,"
Over mead, up hill, down dale,
While the sweet thoughts never fail,
Bright as what we pluck'd 'twixt whiles,
The mountain-ash's thick red smiles;
And aye she laugh'd, and talk'd, and rode,
And to blest eyes her visions show'd
Of nook, and tow'r, and mountain rare,
Like bosom, making mild the air;
And seats, endear'd by friend and sire,
Facing sunset's thoughtful fire.
And then, to make romances true,
Before this lady open flew
A garden gate; and lo! right in,
Where horse's foot had never been,
Rode she! The gard'ner with a stare
To see her threat his lilies fair,
Uncapp'd his bent old silver hair,
And seem'd to say, "My lady good
Makes all things right in her sweet mood."
O land of Druid and of Bard, Worthy of bearded Time's regard, Quick-blooded, light-voiced, lyric Wales, Proud with mountains, rich with vales, And of such valour that in thee Was born a third of chivalry,
(And is to come again, they say,
Blowing its trumpets into day,
With sudden earthquake from the ground,
And in the midst, great Arthur crown'd,)
I used to think of thee and thine
As one of an old faded line
Living in his hills apart,
Whose pride I knew, but not his heart:-
But now that I have seen thy face,
Thy fields, and ever youthful race,
And women's lips of rosiest word
(So rich they open), and have heard
The harp still leaping in thy halls,
Quenchless as the waterfalls,
I know thee full of pulse as strong
As the sea's more ancient song,
And of a sympathy as wide;
And all this truth, and more beside,
I should have known, had I but seen,
O Flint, thy little shore; and been
Where Truth and Dream walk, hand-in-hand,
Bodryddan's living Fairy-land.
AN OFFERING OF GRATITUDE ON HER MAJESTY'S BIRTHDAY.
THE lark dwells lowly, Madam,-on the ground,—
And yet his song within the heavens is found;
The basest heel may wound him ere he rise,
But soar he must, for love exalts his eyes.
Though poor, his heart must loftily be spent,
And he sings free, crown'd with the firmament.
A poet thus (if love and later fame
May warrant him to wear that sacred name)
Hoped, in some pause of birthday pomp and power, His carol might have reach'd the Sovereign's bower;
Voice of a heart twice touch'd; once in its need,
Once by a kind word, exquisite indeed :
But Care, ungrateful to a host that long
Had borne him kindly, came and marr❜d his song,
Marr'd it, and stopp'd, and in his envious soul
Dreamt it had ceas'd outright, and perish'd whole.
Dull god! to know not, after all he knew,
What the best gods, Patience and Love, can do.
The song was lamed, was lated, yet the bird
High by the lady's bower has still been heard,
Thanking that balm in need, and that delightful
word.
Blest be the queen! Blest when the sun goes down;
When rises, blest. May Love line soft her crown.
May music's self not more harmonious be,
Than the mild manhood by her side and she.
May she be young forever-ride, dance, sing,
'Twixt cares of state carelessly carolling,
And set all fashions healthy, blithe, and wise,
From whence good mothers and glad offspring rise.
May everybody love her. May she be
As brave as will, yet soft as charity;
And on her coins be never laurel seen,
But only those fair peaceful locks serene,
Beneath whose waving grace first mingle now
The ripe Guelph cheek and good straight Coburgh
brow,
-Pleasure and reason! May she, every day,
See some new good winning its gentle way
By means of mild and unforbidden men!
And when the sword hath bow'd beneath the pen,
May her own line a patriarch scene unfold
As far surpassing what these days behold
E'en in the thunderous gods, iron and steam,
As they the sceptic's doubt, or wild man's dream!
And to this end-oh! to this Christian end,
And the sure coming of its next great friend,
May her own soul, this instant, while I sing,
Be smiling, as beneath some angel's wing,
O'er the dear life in life, the small, sweet, new,
Unselfish self, the filial self of two,
Bliss of her future eyes, her pillow'd gaze,
On whom a mother's heart thinks close, and prays.
Your beadsman, Madam, thus, "in spite of sorrow,
Bids at your window, like the lark, good morrow.
TO THE INFANT PRINCESS ROYAL.
WELCOME, bud beside the rose,
On whose stem our safety grows;
Welcome, little Saxon Guelph;
Welcome for thine own small self;
Welcome for thy father, mother,
Proud the one and safe the other;
Welcome to three kingdoms; nay,
Such is thy potential day,
Welcome, little mighty birth,
To our human star the earth.
Some have wish'd thee boy; and some
Gladly wait till boy shall come,
Counting it a genial sign
When a lady leads the line.
What imports it, girl or boy?
England's old historic joy
Well might be content to see
Queens alone come after thee,—
Twenty visions of thy mother
Following sceptred, each the other,
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