And at the close of all the wonderment

(Which himself shared) near and more near would come
Into the inmost ear, and whisper there
Breathings so soft, so low, so full of life,
Touched beyond sense, and only to be borne
By pauses which made each less bearable,
That out of pure necessity for relief

From that heaped joy, and bliss that laughed for pain,
The thunder of the uprolling house came down,
And bowed the breathing sorcerer into smiles.

CAPTAIN SWORD AND CAPTAIN PEN. (1835.)

THE BATTLE-FIELD AT NIGHT

'TIS a wild night out of doors;
The wind is mad upon the moors,
And comes into the rocking town,
Stabbing all things, up and down,
And then there is a weeping rain
Huddling 'gainst the window-pane
And good men bless themselves in bed;
The mother brings her infant's head
Closer, with a joy like tears,

And thinks of angels in her prayers;

Then sleeps, with his small hand in hers.

Two loving women, lingering yet Ere the fire is out, are met,

Talking sweetly, time-beguiled,

One of her bridegroom, one her child,

The bridegroom he. They have received

Happy letters, more believed

For public news, and feel the bliss

The heavenlier on a night like this.

They think him housed, they think him Elect,

Curtained in the core of rest,

Danger distant, all good near;

Why hath their "Good-night" a tear?

Behold him! By a ditch he lies
Clutching the wet earth, his eyes
Beginning to be mad. In vain

His tongue still thirsts to lick the rain,
That mocked but now his homeward tears;
And ever and anon he rears

His legs and knees with all their strength,
And then as strongly thrusts at length.
Raised, or stretched, he cannot bear
The wound that girds him, weltering there:
And "Water!" he cries with moonward stare.

His nails are in earth, his eyes in air,
And "Water!" he crieth-he may not forbear.
Brave and good was he, yet now he dreams
The moon looks cruel; and he blasphemes.

"Water! water!" all over the field:

To nothing but Death will that wound-voice yield.
One, as he crieth, is sitting half bent;
What holds he so close?-his body is rent.
Another is mouthless, with eyes on cheek;
Unto the raven he may not speak.

One would fain kill him; and one half round

The place where he writhes, hath up-beaten the ground.
Like a mad horse hath he beaten the ground,
And the feathers and music that litter it round,
The gore, and the mud, and the golden sound.
Come hither, ye cities! ye ball-rooms, take breath!
See what a floor hath the Dance of Death!

A shriek-Great God! what superhuman
Peal was that? Not man, nor woman,
Nor twenty madmen, crushed, could wreak
Their soul in such a ponderous shriek.
Dumbly, for an instant, stares

The field; and creep men's dying hairs.

O friend of man! O noble creature!
Patient and brave, and mild by nature,
Mild by nature, and mute as mild,
Why brings he to these passes wild,

Thee, gentle horse, thou shape of beauty?
Could he not do his dreadful duty
(If duty it be, which seems mad folly),
Nor link thee to his melancholy?

Two noble steeds lay side by side,
One cropped the meek grass ere it died;
Pang-struck it struck t'other, already torn,
And out of its bowels that shriek was born.

Sneereth the trumpet, and stampeth the drum,
And again Captain Sword in his pride doth come;
He passeth the fields where his friends lie lorn,
Feeding the flowers and the feeding corn,
Where under the sunshine cold they lie,
And he hasteth a tear from his old grey eye.
Small thinking is his but of work to be done,
And onward he marcheth, using the sun:
He slayeth, he wasteth, he spouteth his fires
On babes at the bosom, and bed-rid sires;

He bursteth pale cities, through smoke and through yell.
And bringeth behind him, hot-blooded, his hell.
Then the weak door is barred and the soul all sore,
And hand-wringing helplessness paceth the floor,
And the lover is slain, and the parents are nigh

Oh God! let me breathe, and look up at thy sky! Good is as hundreds, evil as one;

Round about goeth the golden sun.

THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS.

(The New Monthly Magazine, May 1836.)

KING FRANCIS was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court; The nobles filled the benches, with the ladies in their pride, And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sighed :

And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.

Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws ; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws;

With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another,

Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother;

The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air;

Said Francis then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there."

De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a beauteous lively dame With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seemed the same;

She thought, the Count my lover is brave as brave can be; He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of

me;

King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine;
I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be

mine.

She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then looked at him and smiled;

He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild : The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regained his

place,

Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face.

"By Heaven!" said Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat :

"No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that."

SONGS OF THE FLOWERS.

(The New Monthly Magazine, May 1836.)

ROSES.

WE are blushing Roses,

Bending with our fulness, 'Midst our close-capped sister buds, Warming the green coolness.

Whatsoe'er of beauty

Yearns and yet reposes,

Blush, and bosom, and sweet breath, Took a shape in roses.

Hold one of us lightly

See from what a slender

Stalk we bower in heavy blooms,

And roundness rich and tender.

Know you not our only

Rival flower-the human? Loveliest weight on lightest foot, Joy-abundant woman?

LILIES.

We are Lilies fair,

The flower of virgin light; Nature held us forth, and said, "Lo! my thoughts of white."

Ever since then, angels

Hold us in their hands;

You may see them where they take In pictures their sweet stands.

Like the garden's angels

Also do we seem,

And not the less for being crowned With a golden dream.