The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince :: :: University of Virginia Library

I lingered at a lordly gate, before a lordly hall
With grove and garden girt around with low and mossy wall,
And from the gate a gravelled path swept gracefully and wide,
Up to the stately steps beneath the pillared door of pride.

Within that princely dwelling-place the Painter's master hand
Had hung the walls with Poesy from many a lovely land:
There soft Italia's sunny vales in quiet semblance smiled,
With mountain, lake, and waterfall, from Switzerland the wild.

And there were books of mental life, in student-like array,
More for the solace of the soul than splendour and display;
And goodly instruments of sound were placed in order there,
And woke to pleasant voice beneath the fingers of the fair.

And mirrors, set in massy gold, shed lustre on the sight,
And lamps of cunning workmanship diffused a mellow light,
And costly carpets clothed the floor, and couches offered ease,
And every fireside comfort met the child of wealth to please.

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And in the far-extended grounds triumphant Art had been,
To bring within her proper bounds the wild luxuriant scene;
There built the rook, there sang the bird of homely English dyes;
There flowers and fruitage blushed and bloomed, in spite of angry skies.

There bowers of shady solitude allured the musing mind,
Sweet spots of sylvan loveliness secure from sun and wind;
And there, reflecting cloud and star, transparent waters lay,
Scarce ruffled by the swan that moved along her silent way.

And he who owned that paradise, the Merchant of renown,
The honoured of the hamlet, and the flattered of the town,
Who duly went to Church and 'Change, and sought the shades of woe,
Was, in the spring-tide of his years, among the lowest low.

But kindness entered in his soul, even in his boyish days;
Give him the means of giving peace, he did not wish for praise;
The best of human sympathies awoke within his breast,
His words, his deeds, his secret tears, the gentle power confessed.

More kindly grew his honest heart to all the human race,
The language of benevolence was written on his face;
With self-denying prudence he, without or fear or guile,
Wooed Fortune in her mazy haunts until she deigned to smile.

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Wealth came, but did not bring the mien of insolence and pride,
Respectful to the powerful, he loved all else beside:
Thus, with his gold and gentleness he blessed the needy throng,
A constant guardian to the weak, a pattern to the strong.

At length, to please a polished taste, he bought him house and land,
And paid for household luxuries with large and liberal hand;
Sat down in peace and plentitude, with mind unwarped and free,
“Like wisdom,” so the poet sings, “with children round his knee.”

I lingered at his lordly gate the while my feelings rose
In silent homage to the man, and prayed for his repose;
And o'er my mental vision passed a scene remembered well,
Linked with a little history, which I essay to tell.

One evening in my wanderings near to our noisy town,
When Autumn breathed upon the woods, and turned their foliage brown,
I paused beside a lowly cot that looked upon the road,
Lifted the latch, and stood within the comfortless abode.

I saw beside the fireless earth a woman's well-known form,
Whose haggard features bore the marks of many a bitter storm;
The fire of joy, the bloom of health, from eye and cheek were fled,
And grief had sown its early grey upon that drooping head.

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Her sombre garments hung around her, labour-stained and wild,
And on her milkless bosom lay a weak and wailing child;
The cleanly cap of widowhood around her visage pale,
With her decayed and dreary weeds, disclosed too sad a tale.

I knew it all:—six months before, in the very prime of spring,
When bird, and bee, and butterfly, were roving on the wing;
When every hue was loveliness, when every sound was mirth,
A sudden cloud and silence fell upon the joyous earth.

Her loving husband, ailing long, with his departing breath
Muttered a blessing on her cheek, and slept the sleep of death;
Gone was the father, firm, though fond, the husband true and kind,
But woe, despair, and poverty, alas! remained behind.

His violin hung on the wall, the hat he used to wear,
There in the corner leaned his staff, there stood his vacant chair;
His favourite bird yet sang aloft at its capricious will,
And the old Bible that he loved lay in the window still.

But nearly all beside had gone for scanty means of life,
But not without a parting pang of deep and inward strife;
Then, even then, her eldest born dead on the pallet lay;—
Calmly the mother-mourner said, “She died but yesterday.”

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Dear God! what could that woman do, and all her helpless brood,
Within the wide and thoughtless world for shelter and for food?
Who would bestow upon her child a coffin and a grave?—
I prayed within my inmost soul that Heaven would stoop to save!

Startling my thoughts, some gentle hand smote the rude cottage door,
And one well known in sorrow's haunts stepped o'er the sanded floor;
The merchant's daughter fair and young, by many a heart beloved,
Her father's graceful almoner where'er her footsteps moved.

She gazed around the sad abode with quick and mute surprise,
While precious drops of sympathy suffused her earnest eyes;
She sat her down all pensively, with joy-abandoned air,
And for a moment seemed to breathe her soul in secret prayer.

With unobtrusive questions she drew forth the widow's woe,
While the rich blood upon her cheek went flitting to and fro;
With patient ear, and parted lips, the dark account she heard,
Till the deep fountains of her heart with kindred grief were stirred.

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She laid a purse of tinkling gold within the widow's palm,
Rose to depart, and spake again with voice subdued and calm:
“Mourner, the God who gave us wealth has sent his servant here,
Remember, in thy after need, my father's house is near.”

She went with blessings on her head, with beauty in her face,
A sister of sweet Charity, a messenger of Grace,
She went in virgin holiness, bent on her pure employ,
Leaving within the mourner's heart peace, thankfulness, and joy.

Like dew and showers in summer hours, shed from the wings of night,
Felt as a blessing on the earth when wakes the morning light,
The merchant's bounty fell abroad spontaneous and the same,
Refreshing many a languid soul that wist not whence it came.

When Heaven exalteth such as he, what hand would bring them down?
What heart would fret when Worth succeeds, what face at Virtue frown?
As well the fields might curse the clouds because they ride so high,
Or envious flowers upbraid the stars that burn along the sky.

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It is a rare and pleasant task to sing of generous power,
Oh! for a theme so beautiful for every passing hour!
When shall our mournful harps forget that sad, unheeded song
Of wants and woes, of toils and tears, too truthful and too long?