"I BOW BEFORE THE NOBLE MIND THAT FREELY SOME GREAT WRONG FORGIVES ;-(PROCTER)

THERE ARE MORE THINGS IN HEAVEN AND EARTH THAN WE

TO THE SOUTH WIND.

Fair hope is dead, and light

Is quenched in night.

What sound can break the silence of despair?

O doubting heart!

The sky is overcast,

Yet stars shall rise at last,

Brighter for darkness past,
And angels' silver voices stir the air.

[From A. A. Proctor's "Legends and Lyrics," 1859.]

Bryan Waller Procter.

[IN the literary world this agreeable writer is best known by his favourite nom de plume of " Barry Cornwall;" under which he has won no small meed of critical approval as lyrist and dramatist. He has written some of the most vigorous songs in the English language; and not a few which -in terseness of expression, closeness of thought, and happy imageryremind us of the best lyrics of the Elizabethan writers. His larger poems are written with much animation; but perhaps his genius is seen to its highest advantage in his "Dramatic Scenes," where he sometimes copes with Ford, and sometimes rivals Beaumont and Fletcher. His tragedy of "Mirandola❞ was brought out in 1821. His principal works are: "Marcian Colonna," "A Sicilian Story," and "The Flood of Thessaly." He has also written "Memorials of Charles Lamb."

For

Until

1861

Mr. Procter was born in 1790, and educated at Harrow School.
many years he practised at the bar, with considerable success.
he was one of the Commissioners of Lunacy.]

TO THE SOUTH WIND.

SWEET south wind!

Long hast thou lingered 'midst those islands fair,
Which lie, enchanted, on the Indian deep,
Like sea-maids all asleep,

CAN DREAM OF, OR THAN NATURE UNDERSTANDS."-PROCTER.

347

YET NOBLER IS THE ONE FORGIVEN, WHO BEARS THAT BURDEN WELL, AND LIVES."-PROCTER.

"TIS NIGHT! THE MOON IS ON THE STREAM; BRIGHT SPELLS ARE ON THE SOOTHED SEA ;-(CORNWALL)

66

HE WHO DOTH climb the difficult mouNTAIN'S TOP-(CORNWALL)

348

BRYAN WALLER PROCTER.

Charmed by the cloudless sun and azure air!
O sweetest southern wind!

Pause here awhile, and gently now unbind
Thy dark rose-crowned hair!

Wilt thou not unloose now,

In this, the bluest of all hours,
Thy passion-coloured flowers?—

Rest;

and let fall the fragrance from thy brow,
On Beauty's parted lips and closed eyes,

And on her cheeks which crimson like the skies;
And slumber on her bosom, white as snow,
Whilst starry midnight flies.

We, whom the northern blast

Blows on, from night till morn, from morn till eve,
Hearing thee, sometimes grieve

That our poor summer's-day not long may last:
And yet, perhaps, 'twere well
We should not ever dwell

With thee, sweet spirit of the sunny south;
But touch thy odorous mouth
Once, and be gone into our blasts again,
And their bleak welcome, and our wintry snow;
And arm us (by enduring) for that pain
Which the bad world sends forth, and all its woe!

[From Barry Cornwall's "English Songs."]

THE SEA.

HE sea! the sea! the open sea!
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
Without a mark, without a bound,
It runneth the earth's wide regions round;

WILL, THE NEXT DAY, OUTSTRIP AN IDLER MAN!"-BARRY CORNWALL.

AND HOPE, THE CHILD, IS GONE TO DREAM OF PLEASURES WHICH MAY NEVER BE."-BARRY CORNWALL.

"WHAT SIGHT CAN FIERY MORNING SHOW TO SHAME THE STARS OR PALE MOONLIGHT?-(CORNWALL)

"WE DO WHAT WE DESIRE. 'TIS NOT THE SINEWS-(CORNWALL)

WHAT BOUNTY CAN THE DAY BESTOW, LIKE THAT WHICH FALLS FROM GENTLE NIGHT?"-CORNWALL.

["The sea! the sea! the open sea!"]
It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies;

Or like a cradled creature lies.

I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea!

I am where I would ever be!

With the blue above, and the blue below,
And silence wheresoe'er I go;
If a storm should come and awake the deep,
What matter? I shall ride and sleep.

I love (oh, how I love) to ride
On the fierce foaming, bursting tide,
When every mad wave drowns the moon,
Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,
And tells how goeth the world below,

And why the south-west blasts do blow.

HOW BEAUTIFUL IS MORNING, WHEN THE STREAMS-(CORNWALL)

THE HAPPY HOURS.

351

I've lived since then, in calm and strife,
Full fifty summers a sailor's life,

With wealth to spend and a power to range,
But never have sought nor sighed for change;
And Death, whenever he comes to me,
Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea!

[From Barry Cornwall's "English Songs."]

OUR AMBITION, OUR CONTENT LIES IN SIMPLER THINGS."-CORNWALL.

THE HAPPY HOURS.

H, the hours! the happy hours!
When there shone the light of Love,

And all the sky was blue above,
And the earth was full of flowers!
Why should Time and toil
The worth and beauty spoil

Of such happy Hours?

Oh, the hours! the spring-time hours!
When the soul doth forwards bend,
And dream the sweet world hath no end,
Neither spot, nor shade, nor shower!
Can we ne'er resume

The love, the light, the bloom
Of those vernal hours?

Ever do the year's bright hours
Come, with laughing April, round,
And with her walk the grassy ground,
When she calleth forth the flowers:

But no new springs bear
To us thoughts half so fair
As the bygone hours!

[From Barry Cornwall's "English Songs."]

OF LIGHT COME RUNNING UP THE EASTERN SKIES!"-CORNWALL.