Monimenta: remains in prose and verse of James Hibbert. 1849-1902

Front matter

PR

^Viqla

Monimentairemains in prose and verse of

Preface

As it seems likely that I shall have descendants for some generations, I think that they may some time wish to know what kind of man their progenitor was, having regard to the Chief Architectural Work I leave behind in my native town of Preston.*

These " Remains," extending over fifty years of my life, will, in a measure, show it.

What are called " Confessions " have been avoided : no one is any the better for such.

I here place on record my personal friendships with Garth Wilkinson and Watkiss Lloyd.

Of the makers of books of my own time, I owe most to Carlyle.

JAMES HIBBERT.

Christmas Eve, igoi.

* The scheme I devised of the Harris Free Public Library and Museum, as respects the formation of the Reference Library, and, in part, of the Museum, was left by me incomplete, and fell afterwards into common hands. Hanc fors imperat.

MONIMENTA,

Part I. Occasional Records In Verse

OCCASIONAL RECORDS IN VERSE.

1849-50.

Spring it cometh merrily, The wind gaily blows, And birds are singing cheerily A-top the budding boughs.

But yonder stands a pale-faced lad, Grave and sickly looketh he, — Standeth withering while the round Of Nature breathes so gladly.

— Ah me ! It seemeth sad, Amid this Birth, Death's on yon lad.

II. Fragment

.... And oh!

What thoughts and feelings his who living thus Devotes his life to its own proper use! Glowing in purity, his purpose grand Irradiates a flame in all who stand Around him ; — who, holding in his breast That peace of mind which nought can from him

wrest.

Calm and serene, as day by day rolls by. Looks so on death, as if that hour were nigh.

III. The shades of night now o'er me creep

And I am lone, In musing thought reclining on

A church-yard stone.

My soul is soothed among the graves.

Where, in their bed Of deep repose and lasting calm.

Low lie the dead.

And oft to this church-yard at e'en

My spirit hies, For here, this lettered stone beneath.

My father lies.

A twelve-month 'tis since here he left

This very day, — O father, to thy ashes, I

A tribute pay!

And when death's grasp shall me o'ertake,

I'll gladly die, So may I meet thy form among

The souls on high.

All worldly shapes to me are dim.

And nought I crave ; And now methinks I'll lay me down

Upon his grave.

IV. I WANDER at night

By a faery stream,

Where the ghostly moonlight

Doth ripple and gleam.

And the bands of my soul Enwoven by day, Unswathe and unroll, As she lifts up a lay,

That to all doth respond In creation so still, From the darkness beyond The blue star o'er the hill.

And silence unveils Her mysterious mien.

While I barken the tales Of the Spirits unseen.

V

And so she now doth cast away The heart that once was dear.

And other dreams enchain the thoughts Whose memories of me were.

O trust not in a woman's smile.

Or eyes that now beam bright!

The meteor oft a moment shines.

And then is lost in night.

But while I live no one again

For sterner thoughts shall now be mine.

And I will love no more.

1851-52.

VI

As o'er her graceful form mine eye doth float, And cannot choose but gaze and linger long, The luscious air around wafts down my throat As though from fairy land it came along.

And with mine arm around her in the dance, She presses closely to my beating heart. While I am gazing in delirious trance Upon the sweet curve of her lips apart.

I could have kissed thee, Maiden ! loosed thy

zone.

And twined my quivering fingers in thine hair. Whose long luxurious waves were darkly thrown O'er heaving shoulders, how divinely fair!

In lands afar perchance I oft shall trace Thy lineaments, Beloved ! on memory's days, Regretting, O my sweet! that on thy face I might not alway and for ever gaze.

VII. Fragment

. . . Our boyhood's o'er ; and the severer trials That years do bring, my Friend, have marked thee ; Thy face, with furrows lined, doth evidence Far fiercer battles than I myself have fronted. But be not down-cast ; with toughened spirit rise, And stand erect whate'er befall thee : Arm thyself continually ; — and, should it be Our faces look not on each other more in mortal

guise.

Doubt not that we shall meet again.

VIII. Away with this dreary land

And give me the clime of the East,

The clime of the Sun where the broadening noon

Is a warm and a sensuous feast.

That rouses the ether of life.

That quickens the blood and brings forth The Arabian heaven that never was given The cold-blooded son of the North.

Away to the Eastern climes,

To the land of the scented showers,

Where the pelican dreams in the cooling streams,

And hides him under the bowers.

A palace of love I will build.

Embosomed by loftiest trees.

Where the sycamores slake their leaves in the lake,

And murmur replies to the breeze.

IX. O THAT it were mine to dream this weary life

away!

Reclining by some fountain, gazing idly while the

spray Were lisping charmed silvery tales within the ear

of noon, .

And bounding in the rays of an eternal summer

sun.

Where gorgeous flowers perfume the air luxuriously

lying, Lulled by strains of music and by troops of fairies

sighing,

Curtained all around me by unclouded Eastern skies, .

And breathing air as lustrous as the light of lovers' eyes.

Peopling this my paradise from fancy's gayest

bowers, Where dark-eyed houris dance whose hair adown

them floats in showers, Forms that ne'er Hellenic art in palmiest eras

knew, Warmer and more glowing far than Tiziano drew.

O that I were dreaming then this weary life away! Dreaming in the realms of my imagination gay. With circling houris sweeping round and warbling

in mine ear.

Thy youth, O Mortal, is Immortal, Mortal, rest thee

here !

X. Sweet and dear, sweet and dear

Are thy tones to me ; Through the portals of mine ear

Comes their lullabie ; The night wind murmurs through the trees.

Nodding their leaves to thee.

Sing away, sing away,

While I list to thee!

A voice that wells from the glassy lake

Not clearer sounds to me ; The orb of day is far away.

And the moon beams plaintively.

OCCASIONAL RECORDS IN VERSE. i;

Sing to me, O sing to me

Through all the deep night long!

Thy voice, upon the soft wind borne. Echoes the hills among ;

Floating along, faintly and strong,

Now here, now there — Ding-dong !

XL

Why should I live?

Were it not better far Since in the future is no star For me to die?

Why should I live

To sell .each hour of time

To souls that but the gold-chink's rhyme

Can hear or feel?

Why should I live To be of these the slave?

Existing but this side the grave To earn my bread.

Why should I live?

No joy on earth I see.

Friends have I none, nor loves — from me

All stand aloof.

Why should I live Veiled wisdoms to unfold?

Alas! Full soon shall I be old.

And nothing known.

O then!— Why live To run this feverish race?

Death past, I see as face to face. And know as known.

B

XII

As some lone traveller that doth tread for aye, Through day and twilight dim, across a way Beset with many a pitfall and delay, To an horizon he can scarce descry. Stops to complain it seemeth not more nigh. But, like the shapes that haunt the morning gray. Seems ever gliding footlessly away As 'tis advanced upon : — So I

When Night across Day's face her robe doth fling. And o'er me bends her forehead, Argus-eyed, Do lend mine ear to what my soul doth sing : — Suns set and years roll by: The muddy tide Of adverse things I breast, Alas! in vain — Unrest ! Unrest ! — Rest can I not attain !

1853-55.

XIII

Scarred by continual combat with the crowd ; Compelled into fulfilling the behest Of common life ; hearing laughter loud Ringing attendance on the obscene jest, Which, like a snake that crawleth o'er the earth. Crawls over me, and leaves a noisome slime. That cannot be effaced by after -time, I almost wish that I had never birth ; For, the heroic flames that should have vent. So scorch me with their pent-up fires, that e'er My manhood dawns, I would my life were spent:- But, Amielle, while my lips impress thine hair. So sweet a vision do my closed eyes see. That I would live for ever, loving Thee !

XIV

Whom the gods love, die young ! — So be it, stop the oars, Youth on the prow ; For, though but manhood's years surmount my

brow, Hope me has fled, or else, with silent step. Cares not to babble to me on our way : From out the brooding morn comes creeping day. Monotonous and slow ; and wanes, till night Steals in with shadows and unleavened gloom. Across the twilight of my lonely room, Where thought and I oft mark the taper's flight. And liken my desires to its life-wasting light.

I cannot run the race With men who never lift themselves from earth ; For them, Ambition folds the wing — What worth Were it mid such to gain distinctive place? And, round the coming years, no visions twine Of gentle wife to lay her cheek to mine. Or smiling children clustering round my knee ; For, in unpassioned hour, I would not launch A life from mine out on this troublous sea Of human kind, for fear of fatal chance, That, stung by wish for action, it should be Complaining ever of un-souled activity.

And so, being dead to life, I hail as harbinger that sleep shall soon Come whispering in mine ear a lute-like tune. That never more shall morn its sorrow bring ; But, carolling like birds, my thoughts shall wing For ever skyward, fresh as singing showers Of sun-borne fountains upon odorous flowers.

XV

Sweetest spirits hover o'er thee, Watch and ward, from year to year, Circling waves of music from thee. Heard by only lover's ear —

O thou Maiden ! free and fearless, Shimmering light from golden hair. Stepping firmly o'er the arches Bridging life from here to There.

XVI

To sit by the fire and smoke a short pipe. When alone, all alone at his leisure,

Be-slippered and gowned, in collar turn-down, I ween is a bachelor's pleasure.

He hath no wife to fret out his life.

And let it bring joy or bring sorrow,

With his feet on the hob, he hath not a throb, Nor a thought for the coming to-morrow.

But he puffeth away from his short smutty clay.

The while on the clear night air. The clocks all about the long hours give out,

He listens, and he doesn't care.

But to bed he doth go when his fire gets low. And he thinks, with so little at stake.

Come weal or come woe, he would care not a straw. If he never again were to wake.

XVII. The Song of the Soldier before Sebastopol

Drink, boys ! Their blood, boys,

Shall not be shed in vain, Let our last breath avenge the death

Of all our comrades slain.

They talk at home of peace with foes,

Who, when the fight was o'er.

Sought out the fallen Britishman,

For peace with Russians, cowards, fiends. At Dovvning Street they vote ; —

You're frozen there, revenge is here. Upsurging in the throat.

But no, my Men ! My blood-roused Men !

Our gor^d brothers cry, From kindred riven, to us, to heaven.

For vengeance ere they die.

So drink, boys ! their blood, boys.

Shall not be shed in vain, Let our last breath avenge the death

Of comrades foully slain.

Far from them children, mothers, wives.

With tears on faces wan.

But, by those tears ! approaches, nears

Another Inkermann.

So drink, boys ! their blood, boys.

Shall not be shed in vain.

Let our last breath avenge the death

Of comrades foully slain.

XVIII. Why do I dwell apart, companionless ?

Men move along in crowds, and gaily utter

Stimulant flatteries in each other's ear ;

The gloss of each man's life is what is gained

Of estimation from his fellows. But I,

Poor lonely wretch! nor give nor take, and ever

My life flows sullen as a tideless river,

Unto an unknown sea that floweth never.

XIX. Money-making, pleasure seeking

Life an ignorance and a lie ; — All the world is gone a-fooling. Why not I?

XX. Vive l'amour!

An aimless life!

A fly i' the spider web of trade —

Here's Vive l'amour !

Days of laborious sloth !

Hands thrumming busy, with the head and heart

Far, far away !

Or hushed by force;

Repressed five fathom deep in mud abodes, Upraising sudden to the earth and stars Immortal cries !

Morns sick at coming days Of irksome toil ; Nights spent in maddened tears At useless days!

Save books, no friends !

Alone to seek in all impoverished hours

The hidden light!

No fair-haired girl With calm and azure eyes ; No carmine lips, Portals of purest soul !

A death in life! —

Yet give me ruddiest wine :

E'en in such soul-less depths I drink to men —

Vive I'amour !

1856-57.

XXI

MARGARET ANNE HIBBERT, loquitur, ON HER LAST Birthday, January 27TH, 1856. Obiit. March qth,

1856. Mtat. 19 YEARS.

As the waves of time are heaving

Swift to shore.

Rearward this my birthday leaving

Evermore,

Janus-like, before, behind me.

Stretch mine eyes.

While before, remote and dimly.

Shapes arise —

Angel shapes in misty whiteness. Beckoning me !

XXII. She sleeps an earthly sleep, The last that ere

Shall o'er her mortal senses creep : For her no morrow shall its dawn unfold, And nevermore her life shall we behold : Soft let us breathe, for fear that we should seem To sway the motion of her sweet death-dream — Her sun goes down while yet is but day, But o'er her meek soul light ariseth from the Eternal ray.

XXIII

Ere I do yield myself, oblivious of the world,

To sleep, who me with drowsy eyelids seeks to woo,

Let me mine intellectual armoury undo.

Against whose proof so many slings are hurled ;

So shall I then my soul recipient make

Of thy sweet influence, Eros, thine alone.

Which o'er my reason holdeth loftiest throne: —

Now let me slumber swift, and I shall see

In dreams the face of her who loves — Not Me !

XXIV

Dark-haired Maiden! dark-eyed Maiden! Darting glances all love-laden.

He who gains thee gains Elysium;

What on earth could be more glorious Than imprinting kisses furious On those ruby lips luxurious ?

Life to me were fair and flowery, Thee possessed, a heavenly dowry. Luscious, orient, glowing houri !

XXV

ALICE HIBBERT, loquitur in morte, Obiit. May 9TH, 1857. jEtat. 28 YEARS.

" Wrapt in the burial sheets.

Close in the coffin doth my body lie, And friends around are weeping bitterly.

"Yet do I live; This airier life affords me keener sense Of that gross world whereof I have deliverance.

"Pure as the mountain breeze Is the fair region of my soul's confine, And I am well."

XXVI,

In Memoriam. JOHN ADDISON, Judge of the County Court of Preston. Obiit. July 1.4TH, 1859.

While as we wander in life's motley halls,

With sense regardless of the unholy hum,

And slow, sad hearts, whose grief, in silence dumb,

Mourns him whose presence ne'er again shall come;

Yet let us pause, and think how memory calls

Not all in vain as witness of our love ;

And, like as journeying down some minster aisle.

Mid organ notes re-echoing from above,

That pause at broken intervals, awhile

A voice cries — "Peace ! The good man never dies"-

We'll comfort take in this, to reconcile

The drooping heart, and bid our souls uprise :

Anon perchance his spirit here may stray

In silence midst us through the live-long day.

Prologue

Spoken at the Amateur Dramatic Performance in

AID OF THE Preston Rifles Volunteer Fund,

February, i86i.

Of you, kind audience, ere the curtain rise. And we unveil our faults before your eyes. Indulgence first we ask ; for in such suits As we shall soon appear, we're raw recruits, Undrilled, unpractised in the mode and form, Through which the Actor takes the town by storm: When, therefore, on the stage our play appears. Let all your faces smile away our fears. Not for our pleasure, but the public good. And safety of the Realm, we here are stood ; Bold in our cause, defiant of all sneers. That none but trucklers launch at Volunteers, We come at duty's call, to brave the fire, We fear the most of all, the Critic's ire ; Who, though he bend his brow in rugged frown, Knows all the while we keep the taxes down ;

Let him bethink, in editorial den, We'll stand a shot, who tremble at his pen —

(Bell rings.) Hark ! that's the prompter's bell, the play succeeds.

And now the curtain rises on our deeds : 'Tis not alone by war we seek renown. Or deathless song, to hand our triumphs down ; If your applause to-night our efforts gain, We'll boast of having made a good campaign.

XXVIII. Prologue

Spoken at the Amateur Dramatic Performance in

AID OF THE Preston Rifles Volunteer Fund,

November, i86i.

Mine errand, ladies fair, and good friends all Who here to-night assemble at our call. Responding to the urgent need for aid Of that good cause in which we are arrayed. Is first to proffer here the warmest thanks Of all who render service in our ranks.

And while we to our patrons homage pay, Shall we unmindful be of one away? Who never — to his glory be it told — By servile arts the public voice cajoled, — The rare old English squire, whom, from the

spheres.

His grandsire hails through just a hundred

years.

Of both it shall be said they nobly filled The civic chair of our time-honoured Guild ; Long, in our annals, may their ancient name, Through centuries yet to come record their fame.

No high-flown actors we, who e'er aspire

To strike the chords of Shakespere's mighty lyre,

Or wear the garb of philosophic Dane ;

Too high are parts like these for us to play,

That none but genius' self should dare essay ;

Content are we to woo the comic Muse,

Thalia gay, who sure will ne'er refuse

To grant the suits, we have not failed to press,

Deserving — if they don't command — success.

From you, before whose presence we shall

stand.

We fain would hope to have no reprimand. But rather praise, for daring to appear In face of such an audience as is here ; It is no joke ; — we do assure the critic. Who may e'en now be conning a philippic, W'hatever he may think, in point of fact, 'Tis easier far to criticise than act : —

Enough : We ask beforehand pardon for the sins We may commit — and now the Play begins.

XXIX. Skipton Castle

" Build me a portal to o'erlook the burgh ; And carve aloft upon its highest cope The motto of our House ; proclaiming far And wide through all the region of the land, Where dwells the rumour of our ancient name, A sign that its authority and rule

..Prevails and shall endure from this time forth." So spake Anne Clifford, proudest of her race, —

And straightway rose the pile encrowned now- With letters sharp and clear against the sky: Desonnais.

Alas, for human foresight !

Time rolls relentless on in measured round, And strands full many a purpose on his shores : Fled are the Cliffords their ancestral pile ; A cicerone shows you what remains. While locomotives whistle past the walls, And cattle-drovers haggle in the streets.

XXX. Prologue

Spoken at the Amateur Dramatic Performance in

AID OF THE Lancashire Cotton Famine Fund,

Yet once again, most gracious friends, we crave Indulgence while the public frown we brave : Of vain display unconscious, pr applause, We simply seek to aid a righteous cause. Not ours to-night the royal theme to plead. Defence of hearth and home in Britain's need, Which ne'er hath failed to rouse the patriot fire, Or generous heart, or liberal hand inspire.

And if we oft have sought, nor sought in vain, Your help to keep our shores from foreign stain, O may we not, emboldened by our task. With more than common zeal your aid now ask? Go forth into the street ; with patience mark The myriad souls that pace from morn till dark.

From door to door in all unwearying moan, Beseeching help, perchance where help is none ! While on our paths the hungry children wait. And glare with ravenous eyes in ragged state.

Or come with me, where, screened from public gaze, Mute Poverty presides o'er darksome days ; Behold him ! poor but proud, in moody state, Reflecting grimly by the fireless grate — Creation's noblest work, an honest man. The battle left to fight as best he can ! See how his wife, who fain would soothe his fears. Must check the sob, and hide her gathering tears ; While children roam about with frightened tread. And search the accustomed shelves in vain for bread !

And if the picture be not thus o'er-drawn, Shall not Compassion then descend her throne, And with her sweetness move us all to prove That human life shall ne'er want human love? Nor while in plenty are our tables spread Shall faultless poverty go by unfed? Till happier times, when Commerce, with her

train Of peaceful navies, sweeps the prosperous main. And calls on Industry again to rise. From out the torpor that now o'er her lies.

To-night, let it be ours to ease the smart, A task in which we all can take a part. As audience you — and actors we — 'tis plain Our Pleasure serves as minister to Pain.

XXXI. The Caliph And The Dervise

(Verbum Sat.)

While here in Lancashire abides the stress Of wintry season and of sharp distress, A story I would tell — an ancient fable — With such unvarnished skill as I am able,

A dervise came to Bagdad when the Crown Sat on the mighty forehead of Haroun, — A prince whose sway was feared by every Khan, From ancient Nile to distant Khorassan ; In whom the people owned so firm a trust That he was named Al Raschid, or The Just: And who so held his court that, in a word, None came or went but might be daily heard.

The dervise prostrate bowed, then raised his head. And to the monarch spake, and thus he said : — " O Caliph ! in the Prophet's name ! to whom Across the Syrian desert, have I come. From mournful groves of palm, where Tadmor lies. Distraught by women's wail and children's cries ; They and the Scheiks who once were first in war. Struck down by famine and an hungered are ; Their stores consumed of corn, and wine, and oil. Their flocks a prey to murrain, and a spoil, — Whence shall this people in their need be fed, If not by thee, O King?" The dervise said, — " To thee they cry, ere yet their strength be spent. In this great vengeance that the Lord hath sent : Allah's decree is just, though it be sore ; We crave thine aid till Allah's wrath be o'er."

The Caliph mused. " How say'st thou, then," he said,

"Does Allah justly pour on Tadmor's head

His heavenly wrath?" "Yea, so," was the reply.

"Then," quoth the Caliph, "to what end should I

Transgress the fiat of the Will Most High?

Whatever ill befall, it is most fit , .

To reach some good transcendent : So 'tis Writ."

The dervise answered, — " Far as thy renown Hath stretched o'er land and sea, most sage Haroun, For learning taught in schools of Magian lore, But little hast thou conned the Sacred store: Know, then, it consorts with divine decree That men should learn divinest Charity! Should feel that holier life is understood Alone in deeds of gracious brotherhood : Feed, then, the hungry, that thou may'st perceive How nobler far to give than to receive ; And so thy mind shall rend the veil, arid see The secret purpose of hard Fate's decree."

Then, turning to Giafar, his good Vizier, Than whom ne'er Eastern King possessed the peer, — " Go," said the Caliph, " send the hungry food ; 'Tis Allah's will that we should all do good."

Moral : If any doubt how good should come from bad.

Forget you not the Caliph of Bagdad.

xxxn.

YORK.

Lapt in the languor of delicious dream, I nightly, with half-closed and slumberous eye. Recall the hours that sped too swiftly by. Her sweet surrender and caress supreme ;

And, on the shifting tablets of my brain, The record of that time I oft engrain, Evoke the scenes I never more may see, Save through the misty aisles of memory; And then, O my dear love, my other life! If such a mind as mine be reckoned worth Deliverance free of solitude and strife. Which oft have been my portion here on earth. It is my hope that I have found a shrine My footsteps may approach with Love divine.

XXXIII. Dies Illa

As one who, roaming o'er a desert plain. Espies a lone sea-shell, by wandering tides Forgot in far-off ages, while the waves Sweep other shores, — forlorn there in the sand, And wasting weary days beneath the sun, — Holds to his ear the relic, which gives voice. In plaintive tone and languishing desire, For moist sea-beach, cool grot, and ebb and flow ; And, as he listens, hears, afaint, afar, The seas of other days come rolling back. Remote within the caverns of his thought — So I, at sight of this forgotten page. Writ in the fiery heats of fervent youth. Renew my memories of the buried past — The sin and shame I thought for ever dead. The futile aspirations for the good, the true. The pride by which the fallen angel fell,

The mingled schemings, envies, hates, and scorns, The daring passion that o'erlept the law : —

Great God ! How shall I look upon that day, When every thought and deed is gathered up. And holden in the hollow of Thine Hand!

XXXIV. Worcester Cathedral

The Grave in the Cloister.

" How slow the cold creeps up my wasted limbs ! I die — Is that the priest? 'Tis well. Good brother, reach to my lips a patient ear: — I may not here confess my mortal sin, Alas ! too great for man to give me shrift ; 'Twas done in secret, and shall so remain Till the last trump recall my life again ; But I would not through after years forego The blessed prayer which haply may release This wretched soul from purgatorial pain ; So lay me dead before the cloister door, Where constant footfalls meekly pass to pray Within the holy minster day by day ; And that compassion may recall a tear For me who die lost to all heavenly hope, Let there be graven on the simple stone. To lie o'er all my deeds and what I was. No date to tell the day of birth or death. No long inscription of ancestral line, Nor name, nor word, nor token, save this sign — ' MISERRIMUS ! ' "

XXXV. Lincoln Cathedral

Christmas Afternoon.

Not cloister gray, nor old cathedral gloom, Where the ribbed roofs their sinewy arms thrust out. And clasping hands o'erhead in endless rout, The dim and silent spaces thus entomb ; While, quickening into magic life around, The myriad arches leap with cunning bound. And goblins grin from many a nook profound, To start Imagination in her soul, Or scare away Philosophy's parole ; But let serener fane to me invite Devoutness unappalled by dread affright — This breezy air, and sky from pole to pole, Shall chase the Dantesque pallor off my cheek. And leave me calm to face the Power I seek.

XXXVI. She comes not with the moon at lengthening hour

On these warm July nights ; Nor shall the advancing seasons e'er endower

Me with her gay delights: Alas! that envious time should thus despoil The fairest expectation of its bloom. Now slowly withering in ungenial soil. And worn away toward the edge of doom : — O never shall we walk the meadows green. Or make a pathway through the waving grass, Or climb the hill to view the long serene, Where summer shadows swiftly play and pass ;

Again in antique chambers never lie, Where olden lord and ladye oft have lain, While Dian stays her course with curious eye, And gleams bewildered through the mullioned pane; And ne'er again at cock-crow of the morn Shall slanting suns our fitful slumbers break, Awhile I turn with passion newly born, And fold her in my arms for dear love's sake — Lost, lost to me for ever now she seems. Nor more the hours are charged again to bring her. But ghostly footfalls come and go in dreams, And in the corridors are heard to linger.

XXXVII. By The Avon At Warwick

April smiles at Winter's ruth.

Till his eyes brim o'er in showers ; Lads and lasses, wandering sooth. In the sweet spring-time of flowers ; Virgin fancies, snowdrop white, Come full soon to primrose yellow ; Maidens yield, with shy delight, Kisses to the destined fellow ; Lambs are frisking in the meads, Larks toward the sun are soaring. Rain-drops hang in crystal beads On the boughs where' birds are pouring Madrigals that might remove Space between me and my Love — O could I behold her charms, Rapt within my bounding arms !