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

The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince

Edited by R. A. Douglas Lithgow

Prince, John Critchley (1808-1866)

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IN TWO VOLS.—VOL. I.

II.

IN TWO VOLS.—VOL. II.

THE POETIC ROSARY.

AUTUMN LEAVES.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

FUGITIVE AND UNPUBLISHED POEMS.

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II. IN TWO VOLS.—VOL. II.

THE POETIC ROSARY.

POEMS PUBLISHED IN 1850.

WELCOME TO SPRING.

Hail, jubilant Spring! thou bringer of bright hours!
Thou poem, pictured to my grateful gaze,
With all thy wealth of constellated flowers,
Thy lessening shadows, and thy lengthening days!
Thy gleesome voices and thy genial smile
Have drawn the Dreamer from his sombre room,
To drink the spirit of thy breeze awhile—
Thy breeze imbued with healing and perfume—
Amid the quiet fields, that kindle into bloom.

Oh! I have dreamt of thy glad coming long,
Through many a weary day and wakeful night,
When the wild winds did shout their Winter song,
When the sad sun shed ineffectual light;
When the sharp scourge of pain was on my brow,
When the harsh hand of worldly care oppressed;
But thy blithe presence disenthrals me now,
And I am with thee, a rejoicing guest,
Pacing thy flowery floors, where I was ever blest.

I banquet on thy beauties, rich and rife,
Flung without measure from thy lavish hand,—
Shapes, hues, and motions, redolent of life,
And glorious promise to the glowing land;
Odours and harmonies on every side
Refresh the sense, regale the raptured ear;
My heart is soothed, my soul is satisfied,
My faith exalted, and my joy sincere,
Because all Nature breathes—“Beneficence is here.”

'Tis joy to feel this sunlight, soft and warm,
Touch with a golden flow my pallid face;
To see these trees, unconquered by the storm,
Greening, and growing into ampler grace;
To watch the lark careering up the sky,
Bathing his wings the billowy clouds among,
While the calm earth, uplooking, seems to lie
Listening, enamoured of that passionate song
Which birds of kindred voice symphoniously prolong.

Lo! the rich Rainbow, with prismatic beams,
Builds up the splendours of its braided bridge,
Strides o'er the valleys, glows upon the streams,
Leans on the shoulder of the mountain ridge;
While the quick coming of the twinkling rain
Takes the lone rambler with a sweet surprise,
And bough and blossom, now refreshed and fain,
With flowers that ope their many-coloured eyes,
Droop with a blessed boon—the largess of the skies.

The bow expires with weeping; woods resound,
Heaven's cloudy curtain fades and flits away;
Breaks into brighter smiles the landscape round,
Glad in the sun-god's renovating ray;

Each flowery cup, a living censer, flings
Spontaneous perfume in the grateful air;
Thanksgiving from a thousand voices springs,
(Hear, thankless Man! what Heaven and Earth declare!)
And what is silent seems to stir with inward prayer.

There the pale primrose, lone and lovely, peeps
From the green gloom of that thorn-shadowed nook;
Brightens the bank where fresher verdure creeps
Along the sinuous borders of the brook;
Here crowd the daisies with a silvery smile,
And gleam (Earth's “milky way”) o'er vale and lea,—
Daisies, like daughters of my native isle,
Like the true woman, wheresoe'er she be—
Serene, yet cheerful all, lovely, erect, and free.

Here the wild woodlands build umbrageous halls,
A sylvan realm of shifting lights and shades,
Where the lone streamlet leaps in tiny falls,
Striving with brakes, and singing through the glades.
On every bough—through which the kindly skies,
Flecked with loose clouds, look sweetly from above—
The light leaves quiver when the Zephyr sighs,
Glancing like changeful plumage of the dove,
As with the stir of youth, the ecstasy of love.

Hail, careless cuckoo! whose far call awakes
Some sad, sweet memories of Boyhood's hours;
Hail, merry thrush! whose cheerful music makes,
From dawn till dark, enchantment in the bowers;
Hail, joyous skylark! whose aspiring wing
Soars bravely heavenward from the dewy sod,
Eager to meet the morn, so thou mayst sing—
Even on the threshold by Aurora trod—
Thy greeting to the sun, thy anthem unto God!

Hail, happy Spring! whose resurrection-day,
To the prime law of steadfast Nature true,
Delights the loving, makes the gloomiest gay,—
Moves the low pulse of languid life anew;
Unlocks the heart, gives thought a brighter dream,
Opes a fresh fountain in the fainting soul,
Wakes us to worship of that one Supreme,
That sleepless Spirit of the wondrous whole,
By Whose august decree Suns—Systems—Seasons roll!

Oh! mother Earth! of Love and Wisdom born,
Nurse of all placid thoughts, all pure desires,
Consoler of the weary heart forlorn,
Creator of the Poet's chastest fires;—
How sweet to 'scape the thraldom of the town,
Whose feverish air with sin, strife, sorrow rings,
On thy maternal breast to lay me down,
Swathed in the joys thy unsoiled beauty brings—
And catch rare glimpses thence of God's diviner things!

A SONG FOR MARCH.

Burly March rushes in with a boisterous wing,—
Give him welcome, though brawler he be;
He is here to announce that the beautiful Spring
Re-appears on the forest and lea.
The blithe lark is aware, for his earliest song,
As he flutters the breeze-broken cloudlets among,
Cometh down like melodious rain;
The thrush startles Echo with jovial voice,
And a thousand glad throats, that were made to rejoice,
Will soon tremble with music again.

Already the pastures are greening anew,
Waking Life is astir in the woods;
The speedwell re-opens its sweet eyes of blue,
And the hawthorn is speckled with buds;
Already the daisy, wherever it dare—
The daisy, so English, so homely, yet fair—
Looketh up with frank face to the sky;
In warm woodland hollows the violets unfold,
And their sun-loving sister, with chalice of gold,
Hebe Kingcup, will come by and by.

There's a lull in the winds, let us out while we may,
To partake the first gifts of the prime;
How the lowliest thing that we pass by the way
Seems to feel the fresh touch of the time!

What a genial balm! what a spring-breathing smell
From the mosses that mantle the old wood and well!
What a scent from the sward, as we go!
What a silence! for Thought in this solitude sleeps,
Scarcely broken by bird-notes that drop from the steeps,
Or the song of the brooklet below!

There is health for the ailing, who dare to be glad
'Mid the broad fields of Nature awhile;
There is hope for the doubtfullest soul that is sad,—
For the heart-stricken mourner a smile;
There is beauty for poets, and pastime for clowns;
There is solace for workers that weary in towns,—
Let them snatch the rare joy as they can;
There are charms for the senses, in holiest guise,
There are teachers the spirit may hear, and grow wise,
There are spells for the moodiest man.

What a painful and perilous year was the past!
With dismay and disaster how rife!
While terror and slaughter swept fiercely and fast
Through the highways and byways of life!
Let us bow to the rod, though the loss we deplore,
Let us utter great vows to retrieve, to restore,
Under Heaven's magnificent arch;
If for deeds which may win their acceptance above,
If for peace and progression, for justice and love,
Let our word of endeavour be—“March!”

“THE WEARY OLD YEAR IS NO MORE.”

The weary, the wailing Old Year is no more!
He is swathed in the shadowy shroud of the Past;
I heard his last moans 'mid the rout and the roar
Of the woods and the waters, the rain and the blast;
He is gone! but his lusty heir, blithesome and bold,
With laughter begins his dark course to pursue:
We have had little jesting or joy with the Old,
Let us hope to be merry and wise with the New.

The weary Old Year! he was sadly beset
By a multiform agony, 'gendered of strife;
With blood and with tears his rough pathway was wet,
And a cloud and a curse seemed to hang o'er his life;
Scathed and scorned, in the dust hoary dynasties rolled,
Like the sere leaves of Autumn, thrones—diadems flew:
We have had little promise or peace with the Old,
Let us hope for more calm, and less care, with the New.

In France the dread soul-burst of fury began,
Red Anarchy baring his arm for the fray;
From people to people the turbulence ran,
While Liberty trembled with doubt and dismay;
King, Councillor, Concubine, struck from their hold
On state—honour—title, in panic withdrew:
Strange chances and changes have harassed the Old,
Let us hope for more firmness, more faith with the New.

Whilst Europe, with tumult and terror grown loud,
Heaved, shouted, destroyed, like a storm-ridden sea,
My Country, though menaced, stood placid and proud,—
The fugitive's refuge, the rock of the free;
At once, 'neath the banner of Order enrolled,
Her citizens mustered, to stay or subdue;—
Yet the wings of her Commerce were clipped in the Old,
Let us hope but to fly with more strength in the New.

From Erin, the Nightmare of England, there came
Sounds of treason and turmoil across the wild foam,
While the base breath of Demagogue fanned into flame
The sparks of sedition that smouldered at home;
They were quelled—they were quenched—but we mourn to behold
Deluded and fettered, the foolish and few:
We have fenced and made firmer some rights in the Old,
Let us heal, or expel, many wrongs in the New.

Oh! deem not thy errors are cancelled or missed!
There's a blot on thy 'scutcheon—a stain on thy hand;
Yet among the best nations on Liberty's list
Thou art mightiest—wisest, my own native land!
Good laws and great truths will thy glory uphold,
If justice and mercy thy spirit imbue:
Look back on the horrors that darkened the Old,
And thence gather light for thy guide in the New.

Since the first feeble dawn of the weary Old Year,
What bright links of love have been broken away!
Friendly forms and fair faces, to Memory dear,
Have passed from our eyes into holier day!

Our hearts have grown vacant—our hearths have grown cold,
From the absence of things that enamoured our view;
And the tears that we shed o'er each loss in the Old,
Leave their trace on our features—insulting the New.

Rouse! thinking does much, but the doing does more;
Succumb not, though Fortune or Friendship withdraw;
Despair not, though soul-cherished visions are o'er,—
Adversity proves a benevolent law;
There is good in things evil, as Wisdom hath told,
And Experience declares the great words to be true;
The discords of Evil that jarred in the Old
But prelude the music of good in the New.

January 1849.

THE HOUSEHOLD JEWELS.

A traveller, from journeying
In countries far away,
Repassed his threshold at the close
Of a blest Sabbath-day;
A comely face—a voice of love—
A kiss of chaste delight,
Were the first things to welcome him
On that sweet Sabbath-night.

He stretched his limbs upon the hearth,
Before its friendly blaze,
And conjured up mixed memories
Of gay and gloomy days;
Feeling that none of gentle soul,
However far he roam,
Can e'er forego, can e'er forget,
The quiet joys of Home!

“Bring me my children!” cried the Sire,
With eager, earnest tone;
I long to press them, and to mark
How lovely they have grown!
Twelve weary months have passed away
Since I went o'er the sea,
To feel how sad and lone I am
Without my babes and Thee!”

“Refresh thee, while 'tis needful,” said
The fair and faithful Wife,
The while her pensive features paled,
And stirred with inward strife;—
“Refresh thee, Husband of my heart,—
I ask it as a boon;
Our children are reposing, love,
Thou shalt behold them soon.”

She spread the meal, she filled the cup,
She pressed him to partake;
He sat down blithely at the board,
And all for her sweet sake;
But when the frugal feast was done,
The thankful prayer preferred,
Again Affection's fountain flowed,
Again its voice was heard:—

“Bring me my children, darling Wife,
I'm in an ardent mood;
My soul wants purer aliment,
I crave for other food!
Bring forth my children to my gaze,
Or ere I rage or weep;
I yearn to kiss their happy eyes
Before I turn to sleep.”

“I have a question yet to ask,—
Be patient, Husband dear;
A Stranger, one auspicious morn,
Did send some Jewels here;
Until, to take them from my care,
But yesterday he came,
And I restored them with a sigh;—
Dost thou approve, or blame?”

“I marvel much, sweet Wife, that thou
Shouldst breathe such words to me;—
Repay to Man—resign to God,
Whate'er is lent to thee;
Restore it with a willing heart,—
Be grateful for the trust;
Whate'er may tempt or try us, Wife,
Let us be ever just.”

She took him by the passive hand,
And up the moonlit stair
She led him, to their bridal bed,
With mute and mournful air;
She turned the cover down, and there,
In grave-like garments dressed,
Lay the Twin Children of their love,
In Death's serenest rest!

“These were the Jewels lent to me,
Which God has deigned to own;
The precious caskets still remain,
But, ah! the gems are gone;
But thou didst teach me to resign
What God alone can claim;
He giveth, and He takes away,—
Blest be His holy Name!”

The Father gazed upon his Babes,—
The Mother drooped apart,
While all the Woman's sorrow gushed
From her o'erburdened heart;
And with the striving of her grief,
Which wrung the tears she shed,
Were mingled low and loving words
To the unconscious dead.

When the sad Sire had looked his fill,
He veiled each breathless face,
And down in self-abasement bowed,
For comfort and for grace;
With the deep eloquence of woe,
Poured forth his secret soul,
Rose up, and stood erect and calm,
In spirit healed and whole.

“Restrain thy tears, poor Wife!” he said;
“I learn this lesson still,—
God gives, and God can take away,—
Blest be His holy will!
Blest are my Children, for they live,
From sin and sorrow free;
And I am not all joyless, Wife,
With faith—hope—love, and thee!”

THE ROSE OF CAYPHA.

In the sweet shades of Caypha there bloometh a flower,
By a fountain whose music pervadeth the bower;
'Tis the grace of the garden—the glory that gives
An aspect of Heaven to the spot where it lives.

Through palm-trees the sun sends his loveliest smile,
The winds, as they pass it, grow sweeter the while;
On its leaves are the love-drops of honey-dew shed,
And the nightingale sings his best song o'er its head.

Its eyes, which for tenderness shame the gazelle,
Have the soft, fitful light of the pearl-bearing shell;
Like a lotus that leans on the undulant tide,
The charms of its balmy breast heave and subside.

So rich is its fragrance that floats on the wind,
That the chieftain who flies from a foeman behind,
Checks his steed to inhale it—again to depart
With new strength in his sinews—new hope in his heart.

The blast of the Simoom may scatter away
Common odours, that cling to the garments of day,
But this, where it enters, remains to imbue
The spirit with sweetness, and holiness, too.

Dear Maiden, whose shadowy tresses down flow,
In wavelets of jet, from the arch of thy brow,
Let me breathe in thine ear, in this eloquent hour,
The musical name of this exquisite flower.

Thou blushest! thou droopest! thine eye-lids drop down,
Like the pinions of Even, when sunlight is flown!
The swell of thy bosom enraptures my sight,—
That sigh makes enamoured the breezes of night!

Forgive me, dear Zora! for thou art the Rose
Whose beauty hath broken my pride and repose;
Oh! let me transplant thee, that fondly I may
Watch over thy loveliness day after day!

I will cherish and cheer thee, my Peri—my dove,
With the dews of Affection, the sunshine of Love,
And the barrenest spot where thy presence may be
Will be blooming as Paradise, dearest, with Thee!

BUCKTON CASTLE.

[_]

[Buckton, or, as it is commonly called, Buckton Castle, is a bold, rounded hill at the entrance to the valley of Saddleworth from Ashton-under-Lyne. It is supposed to have been a Roman Station. On its summit may be distinctly traced trenches, and the remains of ancient walls. To the town-pent lover of Nature this romantic locality is well worth a visit.]

Has Spring returned to give a golden close
To old October's few, fast-fleeting hours?
A genial radiance through the calm air glows,
So lately stirred with fitful winds and showers.
It seemeth Spring, albeit too tame and still,—
Scentless the field, and verdureless the tree;
But the sweet Robin, at his cheerful will,
On the bare orchard-bough, or cottage sill,
Pours from his ruddy throat a song of tender glee.

My thoughts are dwarfed, for lack of light and room,—
Feeble the fluttering pulses in my breast;
My fancies dim, and voiceless as the tomb,—
My laggard limbs unstrung, my brain oppressed.
Come forth, my staff,—lie there, my peaceful books,—
Sleep at thy fountain, idle pen, awhile;
Nature invites me, with her kindliest looks,
To pleasant pathways, and to peaceful nooks,—
My very heart leaps up, and kindles at her smile.

Once more, once more, ere Winter lowers and storms,
And the last wreath of waning Autumn rends,
I go to commune with those awful forms;
The hoary hills, my old familiar friends;

Through devious tracks my eager footsteps stray,
Where well-springs shine, where restless runnels sound;
The dead leaves linger on my lonely way,—
Crowd into hollows—with the breezes play,—
Rush in a rustling race, and eddy round and round.

Where buxom mother, rosy babe in arms,
Smiles in the sunshine at her cottage door,
My feet press on, by grey and quiet farms,
Up the wild lane that seeks the swarthy moor;
Still on, while backward fades the distant town,—
Town of tumultuous toil, and churlish care;
On, o'er the springy heath-lands, waste and brown,
Till the dark shoulders and defiant crown
Of Buckton's barren steep loom in the smokeless air.

Halt, hurrying foot! pause, panting heart! for here
Bursts into ken the valley's glorious length;
Hill, hamlet, woodland, river, rock, appear
Blent in harmonious loveliness and strength;
There lofty Haridge lifts his dusky crest
Above his stalwart brethren of the vale;
There gloomy Warmoton heaves his fir-clad breast;
In yon sharp crags stands Olderman confessed,
Stern wooer of the sun, and scorner of the gale!

Before me, single in his solemn pride,
Majestic Buckton swelleth towards the sky,
His belt of dwarf-oak reddening on his side,
Flinging a flush of beauty on the eye.
Up, listless foot! up, languid heart! I came
To sit upon his forehead, bald and dun!
Down the rough slopes, o'er the meandering Tame,
Through dreamy wood-haunts, yet unknown to fame,
Bravely and briefly speed, until the goal be won.

'Tis done! and lo, far towering o'er my head,
The sullen giant stands! with strenuous bound,
Trampling the heather with determined tread,
I grasp his locks, and gaze triumphant round.
Oh! what a draught of gladness in the breeze!
Oh! what a feast of glory in the scene!
Moorlands, and mountain-tops, and clustering trees,—
Hamlets and fanes, homes of luxurious ease,—
Grandeur and gentle grace, with countless charms between!

Like seething cauldron fuming in the air,
Our city sits on the horizon's rim,
Staining with lurid gloom what else were fair,
Making the brightness of the sunset dim.
A place of wildering energy and din,
And dauntless effort, is yon wondrous town,
Of cares and curses, wretchedness and sin;
Yet hath she noble hearts, brave souls, within,
Pure and prolific minds, that make her world-renown.

No cloud, save heaven's, no strife, no clangour here;
No shallow friends; no deep and desperate foes;
The spot is Nature's, undefiled and clear,
Where all is sweetness, beauty, and repose;
No sound, save that of tuneful streams and rills,
Whose hum floats upward as they fall and fret,
Or plaintive bleat of sheep upon the hills,
Or solemn sigh of swooping wind, that fills
The chambers of the soul with music God hath set.

A change has come: some wandering clouds have kissed
The rugged features of my mountain friend,
And I am mantled in a silvery mist,
Rolling in waves that idly break and blend;

Yet all beneath lies tranquillised and bright,
Bathed in the tender glow of evening hours;
The windows twinkle in the level light,
The sombre woods grow golden to the sight,
And like a “burnished snake” the rambling river gleams.

Behold! the rainbow's many-clouded arch
Springs from the vale, and sweeps the skies above,
A splendid path, where angel-shapes might march
Sublimely earthward, messengers of Love!
Oh! glorious spectacle! oh! sacred sign,
By matchless Mercy unto mortals given!
How Noah must have loved thy hues divine,
When first o'er Ararat he saw thee shine,
Limned by the hand of God upon the front of heaven!

In beauteous fragments breaks the bow away,
Whilst envious shadows creep about the West;
The rain is spent, spent is the hurrying day,
And all things lean most lovingly to rest:
Leaving old Buckton to the winds and stars,
Downward with staggering steps I seek the plains;
And as I homeward muse, no discord jars
The music of my mind, no world-thought mars
The vision of delight which in my spirit reigns.

Ye who in crowded town, o'ertoiled, o'erspent,
For bread's sake cling to desk, forge, wheel, and loom,
Come, when the law allows, and let the bent
Of your imprisoned minds have health and room;
So ye may gaze upon the free and fair,
Receive fresh vigour from the mountain sod;
So ye may doff the chrysalis of care
In the pure element of mountain air,
And on the wings of thought draw nearer unto God!

KOSSUTH'S PRAYER.

God of my Country! and her dauntless Brave,
Battling and bleeding with great souls unworn!
To whom the names of Tyrant and of Slave
Are dread and discord—misery and scorn!
From the clam region of Thy starry sphere
Look down upon Thy lowly servant here,
Whilst from his lips a million prayers take flight,
Upward, to magnify Thy mystery and might!

My God! Thy sun in the unmeasured sky
Shines with beneficent and blessed light!
Beneath my feet in quiet glory lie
The bones of brethren who have fallen in fight!
Blue are the heavens; the earth whereon I tread
With the pure blood of martyrdom is red,
The life-blood of the faithful—sons of sires
Who worshipped only Thee, and Freedom's sacred fires!

Oh! let the sun send forth his kindliest ray,
That flowers may flourish on this holy sod!
Let not my brethren sink into decay—
Back into lifeless nothingness, O God!
God of my fathers! hear the people's prayer!
God of the nations! hold them in Thy care!
Nerve them with power, amid the glare and gloom,
To snap the Bondsman's chain, and seal the Oppressor's doom!

As a free man, upon the sacred mould
Which wraps my brethren in a last embrace,
I reverently kneel, yet firm and bold,
True to the truth, and scorner of disgrace!
Such sacrifices sanctify the earth,—
Purge it from sin, and urge a purer birth;
My God! a Serf must never tread these graves,
The very soil would spurn the unhallowed feet of Slaves!

Great Father of my fathers! Thou Most High!
Sole Sovereign of the universe, whose might
Flung into space the countless worlds that lie
Like diamond dust upon the breast of Night!
Behold! a cloud of living light ascends
From the dear ashes of my martyred friends,
Gleams on my warriors, till they seem to glow—
An emblem of their cause—in panoply of snow!

God! in Thy mercy guard this precious dust!
Let it repose in sanctity and peace!
Inspire the living brave with hope and trust,
That they may conquer, and their struggles cease!
Forsake them not, but teach them, and make strong
The arm that battles 'gainst a hideous wrong;
And let our triumph, blown from tongue and pen,
Invigorate the world! My people cry “Amen!”

FORGIVENESS.

Man hath two attendant angels
Ever waiting at his side,
With him wheresoe'er he wanders,
Wheresoe'er his feet abide;
One to warn him when he darkleth,
And rebuke him if he stray;—
One to leave him to his nature,
And so let him go his way:

Two recording spirits, reading
All his life's minutest part,
Looking in his soul, and listening
To the beatings of his heart;
Each, with pen of fire electric,
Writes the good or evil wrought;—
Writes with truth that adds not, errs not,
Purpose—action—word, and thought.

One, the Teacher and Reprover,
Marks each heaven-deserving deed;
Graves it with the lightning's vigour,—
Seals it with the lightning's speed;
For the good that Man achieveth—
Good beyond an angel's doubt—
Such remains for aye and ever,
And can not be blotted out.

One (severe and silent Watcher!)
Noteth every crime and guile,
Writes it with a holy duty,
Seals it not, but waits awhile;
If the Evil-Doer cry not—
“God, forgive me!” ere he sleeps,
Then the sad, stern Spirit seals it,
And the gentler Spirit weeps.

To the Sinner if Repentance
Cometh soon, with healing wings,
Then the dark account is cancelled,
And each joyful angel sings;
Whilst the Erring One perceiveth—
Now his troublous hour is o'er—
Music, fragrance, wafted to him
From a yet untrodden shore.

Mild and mighty is Forgiveness,
Meekly worn, if meekly won;
Let our hearts go forth to seek it,
Ere the setting of the sun!
Angels wait, and long to hear us
Ask it, ere the time be flown;
Let us give it, and receive it,
Ere the midnight cometh down!

December 1849.

THE DESERT AND THE CITY.

Pensive and sad, with weary steps I paced
The Nile's old realm of grandeur in decay:
The hoary sands of Egypt's wondrous waste,
Bare to the brazen splendours of the day.
Much did I marvel, in my toilsome course,
How Time had overcome, with noiseless force,
The mighty works of her meridian hour,
The vast material proofs of her stupendous power.

Methought I saw the Spoiler, proud and lone,
Unsling his fearful scythe, so strong and keen,
And sit him down upon that mystic stone,
The couchant Sphinx, of mild and solemn mien;
Methought he looked, with aspect stern and cold,
Towards voiceless Thebes, and mournful Memphis old,
Then turned away, as with a conqueror's frown,
From the Titanian walls which he had trampled down.

His silent sister, dark Oblivion, drest
In many-folded robes of gloomy pride,
Half sleeping and half waking, leaned at rest
On the great pyramid's gigantic side;
Lay making riddles of a thousand things
That wore the slumbrous shadow of her wings,
And, spite of human energies and schemes,
Changing all glories past to unsubstantial dreams.

To dubious History, shrinking in a cloud
Which dim Tradition flung athwart her face,
With earnest question I exclaimed aloud—
“Explain the marvels of this desert place!
Who willed that these colossal shapes should be?
Who builded up the sombre mystery?
Answer, grey Chronicler! give up thy trust;
Why are they desolate now, and crumbling into dust!”

Straightway a sound, as of a baffled wind
In mountain passes, smote my startled ear;
As if some wakened spirit wailed, and pined
For speech wherewith to make the secret clear;
Forgotten stories in forgotten tongues,
Old fitful legends, fragmentary songs,
Came mingling, moaning o'er the dreary land,—
I listened with mute awe, but nought could understand.

Once more I mused amid the whirl and roar
Of mighty London—'mid the human waves
Whose restless tide, from centre unto shore,
In countless currents rolls, and rolling, raves;
London, where some adventurous vessels sail
Safely, and tack with every veering gale;
While some, by adverse Fortune blown and tossed,
Fall into shattered wreck, and are for ever lost:

London, the world of gay and graceful life,
Of lavish Wealth, and silken-seated Ease;
The place of harsh deformity and strife,
Where Misery sits, “with children round her knees;”
London, where Loyalty upholds a throne,
And virtuous Penury starves and dies—unknown!
London, where friendless Genius toils and smarts,—
The paradise of thieves, the home of noblest hearts.

I looked upon her temples and her halls,
Her river foaming with a thousand keels;
Her dens, where hopeless Wickedness appals,
Where Passion revels, and where Reason reels;
Her myriad-branching streets; her spacious bowers,
Where flaunting Fashion spends its idle hours;
Her schools and jails; her pleasure-haunts and “hells,”
Where Guilt and Sorrow groan, where Folly shakes his bells.

I saw her merchant-palaces; her rooms
Where lettered lore invites the better will;
Her gorgeous theatres; her dangerous glooms,
Peopled with fallen women, reckless still;
Her Mint and Money-change, her crowded marts;
Her domes of Science, treasuries of Arts;
Her stores, where good or evil is supplied
To all who choose to come; and as I saw, I sighed.

Thus spake my soul:—“Far Future, I command
Thy truthful answer to my question now!—
Must this great city, and this greater land,
Flourish or fall,—be purified, or bow?
Must they, like Egypt, sink by slow decay,
And their transcendent glories pass away?
Down thy abyss I send my inquiring cry!”
Alas! the depth was dumb,—it deigned me no reply!

THE STREAM AND THE VINE.

“Joy! joy!” said the jolly-voiced mountain Vine—
“What a pleasant and care-killing nature is mine!
How glorious am I, in the glad vintage time,
When joyance rings loud in the soft sunny clime;
When my lithe, laden branches droop heavily down
O'er the damsel bedecked with my leaf-woven crown;
When my full purple fruitage is gathered and pressed,
To exalt the dull brain, and enrapture the breast;
Whilst my idol-god, Bacchus, with beaker in hand,
Reels, laughing and quaffing, all over the land,
And the dear eyes of Beauty with wilder light shine—
Joy! joy!” said the jolly-voiced mountain Vine.

“Joy! joy!” said the merry-toned mountain Stream,
As it babbled and blushed in the moon's early beam—
“With a silvery song, and a frolicsome flow,
I purify, strengthen, and cheer, as I go;
The grass groweth greener wherever I run,
And brighter the flowers, in shadow or sun;
The traveller loveth my crystalline wave,
The peasant knows well that I solace and save;
I carry no poison, engender no strife,
But offer the boon of a rational life;
My waters give blessings wherever they gleam—
Joy! joy!” said the merry-toned mountain Stream.

“Behold!” said the Vine, “friendly fellows are met,
A jovial crew, a convivial set,
Who sprinkle libations to Bacchus and me,
And quaff my red blood with a boisterous glee;

As up goes the goblet, and down goes the juice,
Frail Reason gets fettered, while Folly gets loose;
Groweth louder the laugh, groweth lewder the tongue,
And the bard breaketh out in delirious song.
On roars the rude revel, till, drunken and dim,
Lamp, bottle, and Bacchanal stagger and swim;
Why, the whole human herd are gone frantic with wine!
Joy! joy!” said the jolly-voiced mountain Vine!

“Behold!” said the Stream, “in yon temple of light
What a vision of peace, what a beauteous sight!
Strong thinkers and workers, in orderly guise,
Fair women, with grateful and joy-beaming eyes,
Hale Age, with the countenance radiant with truth,
Mild Manhood, self-governed, and reverent Youth;—
They assemble to listen, to learn, and to teach
High thought that o'erflows in clear current of speech:
They converse of reforms, and at once they essay
To hasten the dawn of a holier day;
And Heaven will help the benevolent scheme—
Joy! joy!” said the merry-toned mountain Stream.

“Thou art lovely to see,” said the Vine to the Stream,
“But thy draught is as dull as an idiot's dream;
Thou hast but a paltry and puny control,
Thou lendest no fire to the slumbering soul!”
“Thou art graceful to see,” said the Stream to the Vine,
“But a deadly and dangerous spirit is thine;
For madness is born of thy boisterous mirth,
And thy victims grow reckless of heaven or earth!”
Oh! ye who are striving to lift us and bless,
And ye, too, who grovel in savage excess,
Ye fettered and fallen, ye upright and free,
Say, which has your homage—the Wave or the Tree?

THE WINTER'S WALK.

Influence of Nature.

How beautiful is Nature! and how kind,
In every season, every mood and dress,
To him who woos her with an earnest mind,—
Quick to perceive and love her loveliness!
With what a delicate yet mighty stress
She stills the stormy passions of the soul,—
Subdues their tossings with a sweet control,
Till each spent wave grows gradually less,
And settles into calm! The worldling may
Disdain her, but to me, whate'er the grief,—
Whate'er the anger lingering in my breast,
Or pain of baffled hopes,—she brings relief;
Scares the wild harpy-brood of cares away,
And to my troubled heart sublimely whispers—“Rest!”

Forth on this white and dazzling winter noon,
Serene the earth, the heavens with beauty hung—
I come to her, that she may reättune
Discordant thoughts, and feelings all unstrung.
Sorrows the world believeth not have wrung
My heart until it bleeds, but bleeds unseen;
Distressful circumstance has come between
Endeavour and Fruition. I had flung

My hopes unto the winds, but Nature's smile
Cheers the lone chamber where my sorrows dwell;
Her gentle hand is on me, and the spell
My spirit doth of all its fears beguile;
My better being reäwakes and stirs,
And sings an inward song in unison with hers.

Ah, yes! the humblest of external things
Whereby she deigns to enchant us and to teach
(If loving heart the human learner brings),
Are signs of her grand harmonies and speech;—
The lapse of waters o'er a rugged stone,—
A pool of reeds,—a moorland weed or flower,—
A dimpling spring,—a thorn with moss o'ergrown,—
Are symbols of her universal power.
These speak a language to the favoured ear
Loud as the thunder, lofty as the lights
That crowd the cope of cloudless winter nights,
And fill the soul with worship, hope, and fear;—
Dull must he be, oppressed with earthly leaven,
Who looks on Nature's face, yet feels no nearer heaven!

The Solitude.

As farther, farther from the town I go,
And on the loneliest haunts my steps intrude,
The hills in new-donned surplices of snow—
Hills, the old Priesthood of the Solitude—
From their uplifted altars, rent and rude,
Seem preaching to this slumberous grove of pine
Some homily that's wordless, yet divine,
Whereby my listening spirit is subdued.
Whilst, 'mid the calm and congregated trees
(Hooded like friars in their cloisters chill),

Whispers with reverent “Hush!” the languid breeze,—
Wanders away, and all is doubly still;
And I perceive—so Fancy says apart—
The full, perpetual throb of Nature's sleepless heart.

Hushed is the broad and beautiful expanse
Of moorland, mountain, woodland, vale, and fell;
The Earth is slumbering in a holy trance,
The gentle thraldom of a mystic spell;
Whilst from her bosom—as a sea-born shell
Sings to the ear—mysterious murmurs creep
Upwards, as she were moaning in her sleep,
And muttering marvels which she cannot quell:
Vague sounds and dubious syllables they seem,
As though a pensive nun, serene and fair,
Sighed through her veil for joys she cannot share,
Recalling of the past some pleasant dream;
Or like a virgin in her secret bower,
Who whispers prayer to God before the bridal hour.

The Robin.

Behold our minstrel Robin! trustful, tame,
Bird with the stomacher of glowing hue!
How caught his little breast that badge of flame?
Thus, if old legends tell the story true:—
'Tis said—poetic faith believes the tale—
He drank some blood-drops of that precious Fount
Which gushed on awful Calvary's holy mount,
When Nature shuddered, and when men grew pale.
Then, says the legend—let none scorn to hear—
His sympathetic bosom took the stain,
That crimson evidence of Hallowed pain
Which unto Mercy drew the sinner near;
And from that dread yet Man-redeeming day,
Robin became the bird which children fear to slay.

Ah, gentle Robin! I delight to hear,
From hawthorn, apple-tree, or cottage sill,
Thy melting melody, so soft and clear,
Light as the tinklings of a tiny rill.
The wild notes issuing from thy eloquent bill
Are partly sorrowful and partly sad,
Like chastened Grief, endeavouring to be glad,
And wile with words the memory of ill.
But the consoling sounds, wherever heard,
Fall on my heart like drops of genial balm;
Soothe the sharp pangs of many a hope deferred,
And interfuse a sense of inward calm,—
A sense of resignation to the Will
That smites, some hidden goodness to fulfil.

Oh! patient Robin! may I learn from thee,
Thou little teacher on that naked tree,—
A due submission unto Heaven's behest,—
Cheerful humility, and conscious power
To meet and struggle with the roughest hour,
Whate'er the trial, and whate'er the test;
Thankful for smallest blessings, when they come,
Calm in my sorrows, in my triumphs dumb,
Unbowed by care, unawed by lawless wrong;
Firm to endure, but ready to enjoy,
Heedless of scorn, superior to annoy,
And prompt to sing an uncomplaining song,—
A song of praise, too, Robin, like thine own,
Haply to reach the everlasting Throne!

The Old Mill.

Here's the old Mill, shaken, but not outworn,
Which sends its busy “click-clack” down the vale,
Bringing to Fancy fields of waving corn,
Telling of Plenty many a pleasant tale.

'Tis silent now, for, lo! the waters fail;
Yet the blithe Miller, neither hurt nor crossed
By the fantastic doings of John Frost,
Inhales his pipe, and quaffs his horn of ale
At home; or haply to “The Plough” he wends,
Famous for cosy nooks and pots of power—
Where, with a trio of his ancient friends,
He wings the gay, sometimes the noisy hour;
Cracks jokes, laughs loudly, roars a lusty song,
Heedless of Winter's cold, or Woman's sharper tongue.

The Mill is silent only for a space;
When southern winds have set the waters free,
Again the ponderous stones shall run their race,
Whilst the blithe Miller carols in his glee.
Meanwhile, how grand the fettered wheel appears,
Stayed for a time in its industrious whirl—
Bristling with pendent icicles, like spears,
Its mantling mosses hung with glistering pearl!
The Stream, arrested in its wildest course,
How beautifully petrified, and tossed
Into the loveliest shapes, by noiseless force
And wondrous magic of mysterious Frost!
Is not the whole a picture to engage
The Painter's pencil or the Poet's page?

The Village.

Sweet Village, bosomed in “ancestral trees,”
Naked and silent now—I love to come
When, in the summer time, a dubious hum
Floats from the valley on the evening breeze.
But thou art ever pleasant;—with what ease
The Parsonage seems to nestle in its nook,
Wearing a calm and comfortable look,

With its bay-windows and quaint cornices!
How well the venerable Church agrees
With all the ancient features of the scene;—
The low, square tower, and through its ivy screen,
The dial, preaching quiet homilies!
But, hark! that bell proclaims some soul's release,
And calls my footsteps to the “Court of Peace!”

The Court of Peace! ay, verily, no strife
Of soul, heart, voice, comes this lone realm within;
All who were different in their mortal life,
Lofty or low, are equal here, and kin!
All passions quenched, the sources of their sin
Shut up and sealed for ever, here they lie,
Waiting—Oh! awful Mystery!—the din
Of the last trumpet-summons from on High!
Alas! with what dull thought and careless eye
We look upon these graves! as if the strain
Of glorious promise, uttered in the sky
By Angel-tongues, were fabulous and vain!
Brothers in Death! I leave you to your sleep,
So eloquently still, so solemn, and so deep!

Ho, ho! what rout is here? The Village Boys
In mimic warfare with their balls of snow,
Vociferating with triumphant noise,
As they o'ercome some temporary foe!
Poor, thoughtless imps! how soon ye must forego
This harmless conflict for a sterner strife
With Passion, Error, Circumstance, and Woe,
On the arena-ground of future life!
What tongue may tell, what prophecy foreshow
Your coming lot, the course of your career?
In intellect and virtue some may grow;

Some live in shame, and ignorance, and fear;
Sorrow may bow, danger encompass some;—
'Tis well for human peace we know not what's to come!

How shines this low-roofed shed beside the way,
Where the bluff Blacksmith holds his “pride of place!”
Roars the huge bellows, well-timed hammers play
On the responsive anvil's stubborn face;
Amid the shower of sparkles, idling stand
The Village Gossips, who delight to feel
The warmth that issues from the glowing steel,
And mark the cunning of the craftsman's hand.
He tells them tales of many a foreign scene,
Where battle raged, where blood was shed like rain,
Towns sacked and fields laid waste; for he had been
Soldier and farrier on the tented plain;
But now—far better than the work of wrong—
He fashions ploughshares, sings a peaceful song.

Sunset.

Homeward, before the pinions of the Night
Swoop on my path. Behold! yon westering Sun
Flushes the heavens with many-coloured light,
A gorgeous signal that the day is done.
Piled in stupendous masses, many a change,
Wondrous and beautiful, the clouds assume,—
Titanic structures, ever new and strange,
With splendours streaming through their cloven gloom.
Now they are moulded into mountains, rent
And burning to their centres; now they break,
And float apart, like silent ships that seek
Blest isles amid the ethereal element;
Whilst the broad Sun pours forth his latest beams,—
Gently withdraws, and leaves me to my dreams.

The orb is gone, yet on the earth and sky
Lingers some lovely shape, some vestige fair:
Light fleeces, faintly blushing, calmly lie
Like beds of roses in the middle air.
Meanwhile, my soul is softened, and subdued
Into a quiet tenderness of thought;
Feeling, imagination are imbued
With things that Nature to my gaze hath brought.
My Home receives me; at the chimney-side,
Consoled, invigorated, frame and mind
Better for action nerved and purified—
I sit me down, to worldly cares resigned;
Review, with something like a calm content,
The day which has not been unprofitably spent!

DEATH'S DOINGS.

Death on his steed of shadow
Went forth into the night,
For he had many a mission-deed
To do ere morning's light;
Many a soul to loosen
From Life's uneasy thrall,
And many a hopeful heart to lay
Beneath the shroud and pall.

Each star was blinking brightly,
As if no ill were near,—
As if all earthly things were calm
As its own silent sphere;
The drifted clouds were floating
High in the middle air,
And to the placid moonlight turned
Their shifting fringes fair.

Death on his awful mission
Kept his appointed way,
He bore with him the fiat-word
Which does not brook delay;
He stepped aside, and often,
To snatch some final sigh,
But left behind the breaking heart—
The sad surviving cry.

He reached the sickly city,
Dread with incessant din,
The maelstrom of the multitudes,
The crater-mouth of sin;
Strange tragedies were acting
Within that swarming town,
And Pestilence had beckoned him
To pull the curtain down.

He knocked at palace-portals,
He trod the marble floors,
And many a hasty summons breathed
At humbler dwelling doors;
He walked the weary workhouse,
He pierced the crowded jail,
And at his presence countless
Faces grew for ever pale.

He sought the crooked alleys,
The burrow-holes of men,
The haunt of vicious revelry,
The dim and sordid den;
He plunged into the cellar,
He clomb the garret stair,
And fearful were the ravages
His hand committed there.

To souls of doubt and darkness
A Demon's form he bore,
But unto eyes that looked beyond,
An Angel's likeness wore;
He came to punish and appal,
He came to cheer and save,—
So different did the world receive
The Monarch of the Grave!

Death stole into a mansion
Of princely shape and size,
And filled with splendid mockeries,
To dazzle worldly eyes;
On a couch of gorgeous seeming
Lay stretched a man of sin,
Who shrieked with agony to feel
The Shadow coming in.

This man had scorned the lowly,
Had sneered at holiest things,
Had pierced the heart of Innocence
With sorrow's keenest stings;
In warfare with all goodness,
Had grown untimely old,
Till all his passions merged in one,
The burning greed of gold.

Ah! what availed his treasure,
In this his hour of woe?
It melted from his eager hand
Like early flakes of snow;
Death on his cloudy courser
Bore him the sad night through,
To answer for the evil things
Which he had dared to do.

Into a meaner dwelling
The dread Deliverer passed,
Where one had waited for him long,
And welcomed him at last—
One who beheld no sternness
In Death's triumphant mien,
So truthful and so beautiful
His earthly life had been!

Imbued with gentlest virtues,
Endowed with mental powers,
He left a fair and fruitful name
To grace this world of ours;
But in his work of wisdom
He overtasked his frame,
And smiled with hope and thankfulness
When his Deliverance came.

Death took them on his courser,
Two souls, how different they!
But neither saw, and neither heard
The other on the way;
And as through mist and darkness
Death urged his steed apace,
To one he showed a scowling front,
To one a shining face.

To one low words he uttered,
As stern as they were sad,
But to the other songs of joy,
Which made the spirit glad:
Thus through a realm of shadows
The Inevitable passed—
The eternal gulf of Mystery,
Which all must leap at last!

EXTEMPORE LINES.

TO A YOUNG POET.

Take heed, my poor Friend, ere thou darest to climb
The height that o'erlooketh the far-coming time;
There's a penalty grievous to pay for thy fame,
A shadow to follow the light of thy name!
Beware, ere thou trustest too fondly and blindly
The Muse who, uncalled for, comes softly and kindly!
She is oftentimes fickle and faithless, though fair,
And is absent when most thou desirest her there.
When thy duties are done, she will breathe thee a spell,
And fill up an interval sweetly and well;
She'll console thee, refine thee, and rub off thy rust,
But, alas for her help when thou wantest a crust!

Now, labour is honest, nay, some call it holy,—
Let it gall as it will, 'tis the lot of the lowly:
Hold thee fast to thy handicraft, be't ne'er so mean,
Till Fortune and Fame fling a change o'er the scene;
Guide the wheel, tend the loom, drive the plough, ply the spade,
Dig the quarry, make bargains, and dabble in trade;—
Turn pedlar or tinker, crack stones, cobble shoes,
Do aught but depend for thy bread on the Muse!

Sing on, ne'ertheless, when the Spirit inspires,—
Disdain not her favours, restrain not her fires;
Pour forth all thy feelings, unmixed with alloy,
Let thy sadness be sadness,—thy joyfulness, joy.
And when thou art pleading 'gainst error and wrong,
Be thou fearless and earnest, but just in thy song;
And when wayward Fancy would take higher flight,
Let her freshen her wings in the fulness of light;
And when 'bove the clouds thou hast taken thy round,
Come thee back, like the lark, to thy home on the ground;
Thou shouldst not forego and forget the ideal,
But the earthly—the human—the tangible—real,
Have a claim on thy gifts, and thy mission should be
To arouse the Enslaved, and advance with the Free!

A WISH.

Oh! give me a cot in some wood-shaded glen,
Shut in from the clangour of conflict and pain,—
Far away from the turmoil of town-prisoned men,
Who strive for subsistence, and struggle for gain!
Aloof from all envy, secure from annoy,
My chiefest companions my wife and my child,—
I could think with some purpose, and labour with joy,
In that Home of Seclusion, far, far in the wild.

The lark should arouse me to action and thought,—
I would take my first draught at the health-giving rill;
I would gaze on the beauties that morning had brought,
As I strengthened my limbs up the slope of the hill.
The early prayer uttered, the early meal done,
The day should bring uses and joys undefiled;
Some good should be gathered, some knowledge be won,
In that Home of Seclusion, far, far in the wild.

When the clouds which were golden grew faint in the west,
The sun having left them to melt in the sky,—
When Nature seemed folding her mantle for rest,
And Hesperus hung his bright cresset on high,—
I would draw up my household about the fireside
(Unless the dear Muses my spirit beguiled),
To talk with and teach them, with pleasure and pride,
In that Home of Seclusion, far, far in the wild.

I would have—would kind Fortune her bounty impart,
Nor blind me to virtue, nor steel me to woe—
Some good thing and graceful in Genius and Art:—
Some Music, to make my best feelings o'erflow;
Some touch of the Painter, to solace my eyes,
Some books, to enchant my dark cares till they smiled;
Some shape of the Sculptor, to charm and surprise,
In that Home of Seclusion, far, far in the wild.

Surrounded by Nature, I could not but see
In each change of Season God's goodness unworn;
Young Spring would delight with bloom, beauty, and glee,
Bright Summer with hay-harvest,—Autumn with corn.
Even Winter would charm; I should love to behold
His frost-work fantastic, his snow-drifts up-piled,
His phalanx of storm-clouds arrayed and unrolled,
O'er that Home of Seclusion, far, far in the wild.

I would blend with benevolence nothing austere,—
To the wayward be calm, to the humble be kind;
To the heart of the mourner bring comfort and cheer,
And kindle new hopes in the cloudiest mind;
Thus earnest and helping, confiding and just,
I should get my reward from a source undefiled;
With assurance of mercy go down to the dust,
In that Home of Seclusion, far, far in the wild!

JUNE.

A SONNET.

Hail! fervid, flowery, leafy, lusty June!
First-born of Summer! heir of lavish light!
Month of the genial Morn,—the glowing Noon,—
The dreamy Evening,—the delicious Night!
Season of sunny Harvest, when the hand
Of jocund Toil, 'mid busy-wingèd bees,
Rifles the riches of the grassy leas,
And scatters rural fragrance o'er the land!
Fain would I hail thee, wheresoe'er and when
My feelings prompted, or my fancy led;—
In slumberous forests—on the mountain's head—
By lonely streams, on moorlands high and dun,
In ferny dingles shaded from the sun—
Apart, but not exiled, from cities and from men.

SPRING.

A SONNET.

How bountiful is Nature! how replete
With quiet good, magnificence, and power!
Again the welcome winds of Spring blow sweet,
Rich with the odorous life of bud and flower:
Blest sunshine clothes the land,—the genial shower
Gives lavish largess to the quickening ground;
There's music 'mid the clouds, and every bower
Is resonant again with joyous sound!
Man only is discordant: he with pride
Laughs at her laws, and learns to disobey,—
Flings Love—Peace—Order—Rectitude aside,
And fills the world with clangour and dismay;
Yet she rebukes him with a tranquil face,—
Sustains him with her gifts, and soothes him with her grace.

“MY FATHER'S FARM.”

(INSCRIBED TO J. L., ESQ.)

Methinks I see my father's farm,
In whose sweet fields I used to stray;
Then light of heart and lithe of arm,
I found in Nature every charm,—
In life one summer's day.

I see it, and unbidden tears
'Twere pain to quell, suffuse my eyes;
To that calm spot my earliest years—
Many my pleasures, few my fears—
Were bound by holiest ties.

A moody, meditative boy,
A young enthusiast, free to rove,
I found in everything a joy,
In everything some sweet employ,
Something to learn and love.

In summer's freedom, winter's thrall,
In calm or tempest, shade or shine,
In russet robe or snowy pall,
All Nature's garbs, I loved them all,
And deemed each change divine.

I knew each old and stalwart tree,—
Each savage glen, each sylvan nook,
Each wild wood, murmuring poësy,
Each bird about it flitting free,
Each music-making brook;—

Each rustic gate and rugged stile,
Each lonely cairn and crumbling wall,
Each fairy haunt, each storied pile,
Each silvery lake and slumbering isle,
Each wildering waterfall.

To me each peasant girl that came
Fresh from her cottage on the moor,
Seemed lovelier far than daintiest dame,
Though clothed with beauty, crowned with fame,
That stepped o'er palace floor.

To me each peasant man that trod
With sturdy foot the yielding soil,
Seemed worthy of his native sod,
A free, brave image of his God,
A lord of honest toil.

Alas! that dear departed time
Of irksome toil but pleasant play,
Of gladsome song, romantic rhyme,
Of dawning thought, of dream sublime—
Has softly slid away!

And now, amid the human waves
Heaving and clashing everywhere,—
I strive with Trade's untiring slaves,
Whose spirit ever gives and craves,
And ask and give my share.

Man must not lie on sunny leas,
Counting the daisies on the sward;
Duties well done must purchase ease!
Love—Labour—Virtue—Truth, 'tis these
Must bring life's best reward.

But still some intermittent hours
May come, apart from cares and schemes,
When I may thrid my native bowers,
Walk 'mong my native heather-flowers,
Drink at my native streams.

Sweet hours! when I may dare to seek
The old familiar dwelling-place,
Sit by my father's ingle-cheek,
Hear my fond mother gently speak,
And see my sister's face!

Blest hours! when I may break away
From sweat of brain, or toil of arm,
Roam sunny strath, and blooming brae,
And spend a joyous holiday
Around my Father's Farm!

ON THE DEATH OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT.

Another Poet dead! And who will care
That he hath gone from Life's tumultuous stage?
Ten thousand toiling, thinking men, who share
The encumbered meed of Labour's heritage;—
Men for whose minds he wrote inspiring thought,
Tinged with stern glory, as the storm appears—
For whom, with whom his fearless spirit fought;
These will not fail, 'mid sorrows, struggles, fears,
To guard his grave, and write his epitaph in tears.

No trifling, tinkling, moon-struck Bard was he,
Chanting a love-lay in his lady's bower;
His words, like mountain winds, were fresh and free,
And, like the lightnings, winged with withering power;
Like the sharp clang of tried and stubborn steel,—
Like furnace blast,—like hammers tramping strong;
Like deafening drum-roll, startling trumpet-peal,—
Like bruit of battle-cries—'gainst social wrong
His full and fervid soul leapt out in living song.

Yet do not deem, because he stood alone,
The proud, unpensioned Laureate of the Poor,
Recording, echoing every grief and moan
That hourly issued from the cottage door,—

Oh! do not deem that in his earnest rhymes
(Albeit their virtues he could not forsake)
He veiled their vices, or concealed their crimes;
No! with a champion's well-won right he spake,
And with reproving truth made rudest bosoms quake.

Haply, sometimes, his too indignant mind,
With an impetuous torrent's headlong force,
Rushed with too fierce an energy to find
Pleasure and peace along its troublous course;
But then, the hideous evils which he saw
Flung from the fingers of Oppression dire,
Opened his eyes to many a tyrant law,—
Disturbed his soul, and woke its wildest fire,
As falling stones uprouse the Geyser's slumbering ire!

But he had gentler moods—(and who has not?
Life, though discordant, is not all unrest)—
Moments of pensive calm, when he forgot
The outward world, and all that it possessed;
Then would his harp-strings, with serener strain—
A sad voice calling from his proud heart's core—
Thrill to the memory of some placid pain,
Stir the sweet springs of feeling, shut before,
And make the listener's eyes with tenderest tears run o'er.

No more shall haughty Stanege, bleak and bold,
Clasp him in cloud-robes, as the steep he scales;
No more Win Hill to his rapt gaze unfold
The quiet beauty of his subject-vales;
No more shall Don and Rother, as they flow,
Nor Rivilin, reflecting all that's fair,
Murmur responsive to his joy or woe;
Yet there he reigns! and many a Child of Care,
From Sheffield's crowded glooms, shall seek his spirit there!

AN ARTISAN'S SONG.

I'm a brave-hearted Artisan, honest and free,
And while I'm good-natured I strive to be just;
I've a wife for my bosom, a child for my knee,
And a friend or two, worthy of kindness and trust;
I've a home which, though humble, is tranquil and neat,
With a rood of trim garden that graces the door;
And across the low wicket, believe me, 'tis sweet
To hand coin or crust to the wayfaring poor.

In that home there are fair signs of beauty and taste,
Not costly and splendid, for fashion or show;
Some sweet spots of picture, instructive and chaste;
Some books, which are marshalled in orderly row;
Some vases, to keep my pet flowers undefiled,
And a sunny-faced clock that is constantly heard;
And music,—the pleasure-toned voice of my child,
The chirp of the cricket, the song of my bird.

I am skilled in my handicraft—that of my sire—
For my thoughts with my hands in my labour combine;
And it ministers well to each lawful desire,—
Doing this, I respect it, and never repine;
I am strong, for I dare not encumber my health,
'Tis my backstay, my breakwater, ballast and helm,
And whilst I thus cherish my blessing and wealth,
Common storms may annoy me, but cannot o'erwhelm.

The tavern may tempt, but I steadily pass,
While my co-mates drop in with a smile and a jeer;
Though the triumph is mine, they may laught, but alas!
Such laughter will generate sorrow, I fear.
I'm a silent self-thinker, yet love to enjoy
The good thoughts of others, from tongue or from pen;
Though my chief love is given to my wife and my boy,
I have feeling, I trust, for my own fellow-men.

I turn not aside, though inviting my view,
The partisan bluster, the demagogue bawl;
But when good men and true have a high task to do,
I lend earnest help, be it never so small.
There are errors and wrongs in my country, I know,—
Real tragedies, busy with sickening scenes;
But if wrongs must be riven, and errors laid low,
I would rather achieve it by peacefullest means.

Bad times may come o'er me, but good times repay,
Through my toil and my thrift, so I stoop not to care;
In my mirth, when I'm mirthful, I'm soberly gay,
And my sorrow, when sorrowful, is not despair;
No, Hope through the darkness looks down as my friend,
Sweet Hope, like the lark, seeking heaven as she sings;
But to lie and gaze after her, fails in the end,—
We must follow, and Effort will lend us the wings.

I am glad when the Sabbath steals quietly in,
Of all days the chief lustre, the “pearl” of the seven,
A season when man seems to pause in his sin,
A time, rightly used, giving glimpses of heaven;
Then I seek, with my household, the temples of men,
And to God offer up my own heart-uttered prayer;
But believe me not lost, if I go now and then
To the temple of Nature, and worship Him there.

I can dig me up gold from the desert of life,
For my joys, when I will it, are many and pure;
If I injure no neighbour, engender no strife,
Nor get fretful at trifles, my peace is secure;
Thus at eve, after labour, I take up my flute,
And breathe a sweet spell 'gainst vexation and pain;
While my wife, whose sweet sympathy cannot be mute,
Lends her voice to the words of some old ballad strain.

In the summer my garden,—in winter my room,
Give delights which are harmless, exalted, refined,
And I oftentimes fancy I hear, 'mid the gloom,
Many voices that utter great truths to my mind.
A sublime swell of music, a story well told,
Or a poem inspired, makes my rapture run o'er;
For I feel hidden faculties stir and unfold,
And I go to my toil more refreshed than before.

Thus I walk through the maze of existence, erect,
And erect in my soul may I be to the last;
I would have the sweet heart-flowers, Love and Respect,
Flourish on to my memory when I have passed;
When my friends lay me down 'neath the turf-covered clay,
Their eyes with the tears of true sorrow impearled,
I would have them be able sincerely to say—
“He was true to his order, himself, and the world!”

SPRING.

Some renovating spirit seems to near me,
Weaving a spell which every heart obeys,—
Some sweet and welcome influence seems to cheer me
With the fresh rapture of my early days;
My clouded soul seems kindling into brightness,
My thoughts, like wild birds, seem to flit and sing,
Bound all my pulses with unwonted lightness,—
Joy! 'tis another advent of the Spring!

The merry children, who are out a-playing,
With silvery voices thrill the genial air,
And tiny feet are in the woodlands straying,
Where eager fingers pluck the floweret fair;
Then back they come, of healthful Nature breathing,
And at our feet their fragrant offerings fling,
Garlands and crowns of Childhood's artless wreathing,—
Childhood, the type and favourite of Spring.

They tell me that the primrose tufts are blowing,
With moon-like colours, and with wine-like smells;
The hazel-bough and hawthorn-bush are growing
Greener beside the wood-paths and old wells;
And that the daisies, scattered without number,
O'er every field their starry lustre fling,
And that in loneliest nooks the violets slumber
In dewy sweetness, redolent of Spring.

They tell me that in cloudland larks are panting
With the deep ecstasy of prodigal song,
And that the thrush is never tired of chanting
The deepening shades of forest trees among;
That the sweet season's blithesome call is bringing
Back to our eaves the swallow's weary wing,
And the glad husbandman is proudly flinging
Promise of plenty o'er the breast of Spring.

Oh! let me share the festival of Nature,—
Share all her fragrance, all her sounds of joy!
Gaze on her varied harmony of feature,
With the delight and wonder of a boy;
Break out, my mind! in blossoms of sweet musing,—
Back to my heart its long lost music bring,
That I may feel the hand of Heaven transfusing
Peace in my soul, and know that all is Spring!

THE SHEPHERD'S DOG.

Brave dog was Steadfast, brave and strong,
Faithful as dog has ever been,—
Docile, and never prone to wrong,
With all his instincts quick and keen;
Sagacious, for he reasoned well,
Or seemed to reason, with right will,
And many a shepherd loves to tell
His countless deeds of canine skill.

Duly at morning's early prime
Up the old stair he softly crept—
True to the moment of his time—
To wake his master, if he slept;
With gentle touches of his paw
He stroked his master's drowsy head,
And thus—for custom was his law—
Quickly aroused him from his bed.

From fold to verdurous holm and height,
O'er rugged hill and rifted rock,
It was his duty and delight
To guide and guard the wayward flock:
If danger threatened by the way,
His wakeful instinct told him where,
Then half in earnest, half in play,
He kept aloof his fleecy care.

Sometimes the winter winds would rave
Abrupt among the scattered sheep,
And hurl them in the roaring wave,
Or tomb them in the snow-drift deep;
Then would the dog, with dauntless breast,
Plunge through the storm, blast, rain, or frost,
Nor would he quit his weary quest
Till he had found the treasure lost.

From field to field, from stream to stream,
By stony hollow, reedy fen,
Where chainless cataracts dash and gleam,
On mountain side, in cloven glen—
Bold Steadfast searches, close and well,
His nostrils neighbouring with the ground,
Till he stops short with bark and yell,—
Sign that the buried sheep are found.

Lithe as a mole, with busy strength
He digs a gallery towards the soil,
And human helpers come at length
To aid him in his eager toil!
The flock is saved; a simple feast
Relieves his hunger and his cold,
While all exclaim—“That faithful beast
Is worth his weight in sterling gold!”

Such was old Steadfast; but alas!
Death smote his master in the night;
They dared not let the creature pass,
When came the morning's golden light,
Lest, with his usual care, he sought
To touch the dumb and ghastly head,
And with a sad, instinctive thought,
Lifted his wail above the dead.

They sent him to a distant spot,
Till the funereal rites were o'er,
And when they deemed he had forgot,
They called poor Steadfast home once more;
But, no! he had a different choice,—
He would not tread that dwelling-place;
He did not hear his master's voice,
He did not see his kindly face.

He thought him lost among the hills,
And daily sought him everywhere,
By all the well-known streams and rills,
On all the moorlands brown and bare;
He marshalled each disordered flock
He met by chance upon his way,
But still roamed on from rock to rock,
From dawn until the dusk of day.

But duly at the twilight hour
He came for his allotted food,
And nightly he would whine and cower
Without, in woful solitude;
They spoke to him with stern command,—
They called with gentle words and fair,
They coaxed him with a friendly hand,
In vain, he could not enter there.

From day to day the creature grew
More steeped in gloom, more gaunt and thin;
To wean him home they strove anew,—
Alas! he would not enter in.
His food, his rambles, he forsook,
As if all efforts had been tried,—
Lay down with sad and piteous look,
And on his native threshold—died!

THE WORKMAN'S EVENING SONG.

I'm glad to see yon springtide sun
Go down, albeit I love his light;
My bread is won, my labour done,
My reason clear, my conscience right;
And as I take my homeward way,
I see, with not irreverent eyes,
The grandeur of departing day,
In the rich glory of the skies;
Whilst yet the shadowy coppice rings,
Where the brave throstle blithely sings.

To-morrow, when his earliest beams
Turn to loose gold the quivering rills,—
Rekindle the rejoicing streams,—
In purple vesture swathe the hills,—
With buoyant mind, and sinews strong,
I'll go, with willing heart, to bear
What burdens to my lot belong,
Of honest toil my needful share;
And on my way see beauteous things,
Whilst the glad skylark blithely sings.

But now I seek that quiet nest,
Shut from the outward world's annoy,
My home, where I am ever blest,
The sanctuary of my joy;
There will my gentle wife with me
Partake the cheerful evening meal,—
Talk with confiding speech and free,
Sweetly and calmly, till I feel
The peace, the bliss her presence brings,
Whilst the bright kettle blithely sings.

Then will I sit me at my ease,
Absorbed in some enchanting page,
Something to teach me or to please,—
Tale-teller, Annalist, or Sage;
But chief the Poet shall instil
Into my inmost depths of heart
The lofty spirit of his will;
The essence of his tuneful art;
And lift me high on Fancy's wings,
Whilst the shrill cricket blithely sings.

When Sabbath comes, God's holy boon,—
Blest day, so dear and fugitive!—
I'll ask yon sun, which leaves us soon,
For all the light that he can give;
I'll fly to Nature's tranquil breast,
With the same feelings as of old,
And lay me down for thought and rest
In fields of fluctuating gold;
Or murmur sweet imaginings
Where the fresh brooklet blithely sings.

I'll tread the upland's starry floors,
Climb the rough mountain's shadowy side,
Feel the deep silence of the moors—
Silence that awes all human pride;
The voice of birds 'mid forest glooms,
The lapse of waters in the shade,—
Shapes, colours, motions, sounds, perfumes,
Of Nature's making, shall pervade
My senses with delightful things,
Whilst my rapt soul serenely sings.

“AS WELCOME AS FLOWERS IN MAY.”

“As welcome as flowers in May!”
Kind words with a musical sound;
What can be more welcome than they,
When fair-footed Spring cometh round?
Glad Spring! ever welcome to each,
To Childhood, to Manhood, and Age,
For she comes to delight us and teach,
And she opens a beautiful page.

There are many things welcome as these,
As we thread the dim mazes of life;
A calm sense of pleasure and ease
After seasons of sorrow and strife—
A feeling of safety and glee
When a danger, long threatened, is past,
And even the knowledge to see
That the worst has befallen at last;—

Fresh health on the cheek of a child,
That we feared was escaping above;—
A smile from the maid undefiled,
Who hath kindled one's soul into love;—
The sound of the blithe marriage bell
To the bride who has given her heart,
And the words of her husband, that tell
His devotion will never depart;—

The birth of a child, when we feel
We can foster it, guard it, and guide,
While the smiles of its mother reveal
Her matchless affection and pride;—
Its first broken syllables, made
More closely our bosoms to bind,
And its upgrowing beauty, displayed
In the promising dawn of its mind;—

The first pleasant glimpse of our home,
After travel, with toil and annoy,
When we vow for the moment to roam
No more from its threshold of joy;—
Each form more expanded in grace,—
Each voice more melodious grown;—
The soul-beaming gladness of face
Of the whole household treasure, our own;—

Old Ocean's magnificent roar
To a voyager loving the sea,
And the sight of his dear native shore
When he cometh back scathless and free;—
The music of brooks and of birds
To a captive just loosened from thrall,
And the love-lighted looks and sweet words
Of his wife, who is dearer than all;—

The soul-touching penitent-tears
Of those who have strayed from the light,
When they come, with their hopes and their fears,
To ask us to lead them aright;—
The frank, cordial look of a foe
We have conquered by kindness and peace,
And the pure satisfaction to know
That a friendship begun will increase;—

And then, in our calm chimney nook,
Alone, with a fire burning bright,
How welcome a newly-brought book,
That has startled the world with delight!
How welcome one's own printed name
To our first happy efforts in song,
And the first grateful whisper of Fame,
That bids us speed bravely along!

There are many more subjects, no doubt,
If my Muse had but language and time;
But there's something I must not leave out,—
It will gracefully finish my rhyme:
From a friend how heart-warming to hear,
What his lips with sincerity say,
“Why, your presence brings comfort and cheer;—
“You're as welcome as flowers in May!”

CHRISTMAS.

One cannot choose but love the bells,
With their harmonious din,—
Those speaking bells, whose falls and swells
Ring merry Christmas in;
They sound like angel-voices sent
From some serener sphere,
Singing from out the firmament—
“The Prince of Peace is here!”

“Good will fulfil, fulfil good will!”
Their glad lips seem to say,—
“The best ye can for brother man!”
Goes on the cheerful lay.
And shall we scorn such fancy-songs—
If fancy-songs they be—
Which lift us up from woes and wrongs,
And bid our joys be free?

No; rouse to life the laughing blaze,—
Draw round it, every one;
Away, sad thoughts of former days!—
Cares of to-day, begone!
Ah, now ye wear a Christmas look,
A bright and earnest grace,
Even the old clock within the nook
Trims up its burnished face.

Now pledge we in the wassail bowl,
Warm wishes, long to last!—
'Tis done! we feel from soul to soul
The friendship-flame has passed;
And sternest hearts will now forgive,
And gentlest hearts forget;
Let's live to love, and love to live,
And we'll be happy yet.

Now for an anthem, such as rung
In halls and homes of old;
Let every thought to joy be strung,
Each voice flow free and bold.
Lo! as ye sing, each voiceless thing
Stirs at the tuneful call,
For the berries that blush 'mid the holly-bush
Tremble upon the wall!

Dear Christmas Days! how fair ye seem,
Glad, holy, and sublime!
Like prints of angel feet ye gleam
Along the path of Time!
Foot-prints whereon sweet heart-flowers blow,
By worldly storms unriven,
That we may mark them as we go,
And find our way to Heaven.

A LOVE MELODY.

In the morning of Life, when our feelings are new,
And our pathway is pleasant with sunshine and dew;
When many-toned music pervadeth the air,
And the commonest thing that we look on is fair,—
How sweet the first passion, that prompts us to stray
With one who adds beauty to beautiful May!
While a voice seems to steal through the shade of the bowers,
Singing—“Love is the odour of heavenly flowers!”

When wedded, and home groweth bright with the bride,
An angel to walk through the world by our side,—
When day after day we're enraptured to find
New graces of manner, new treasures of mind,—
Calm temper, clear foresight, disdain of all guile,—
For the mournful a tear, for the mirthful a smile,—
How deeply we feel, when such blessing is ours,
That “Love is the odour of heavenly flowers!”

And, ah! when the fond name of Father we hear,
From young lips and voices, all rosy and clear,—
When the multiplied charms of the Mother are seen
In the cherub-like feature, the infantile mien,
A fountain of joy, undiscovered before,
Opens up in the heart, and runs tenderly o'er,
While expand in the soul fresh affections and powers,—
Such “Love is the odour of heavenly flowers!”

Unto household and kindred, to friend and to man,
If we give all the love that we ought—that we can,
We lose not, we lack not;—such giving is gain,
As the earth gets her own exhalations in rain:
Kind words and good offices go to increase,—
Reverberate sweetly, and bless us with peace;
Let us foster the faith, in this rough world of ours,
That “Love is the odour of heavenly flowers!”

THE GOLDEN LAND OF POESY.

Forth on a venturous voyage I went,
When young, and full of ardent schemes,
To seek some isle or continent
Swathed in a purer element—
Foreshadowed in my daily dreams.
I knew a small and favoured band
Had crossed the intervening sea;
Gifted in soul, had reached the strand,
Had roamed and revelled in the land,
The golden land of Poesy.

They brought from that delicious clime
Rare things, and beautiful withal;
They told, in lofty, living rhyme,
Of many a spectacle sublime,—
Of pleasures that can never pall,—
Of odorous flowers, and fruits that twine
Together on one parent tree,—
Of magic sounds,—of shapes that shine
From light within, and make divine
That golden land of Poesy.

My bark was Hope, all gaily dight,
My crew were Passions, good and ill,—
Some ready with the waves to fight,
Obedient to the rule of right,
And some rebellious to my will;

I had no helm wherewith to steer,
No chart whereby my way to see,
No compass guiding my career
To that resplendent hemisphere,
The golden land of Poesy.

My task was sterner than I deemed,
For scornful voices filled the air;
Storms rose, and lightnings round me gleamed,—
Rude winds and angry waters seemed
To threaten danger and despair;
My crew, impatient of control,
Were mutinous for liberty;
But the best instincts of my soul
Still led me onwards towards the goal,—
The golden land of Poesy.

At length, oh, joy! the enchanted shore
Loomed up in far-off loveliness,
And I grew eager to explore
The wondrous realm; my tears ran o'er
With very gladness of success.
Odours of spices and of flowers
Came on the breezes, blowing free;
Rich branches reft from gorgeous bowers
Bestrewed the wave;—the land was ours,—
The golden land of Poesy!—

Not yet! a barrier crossed my way,—
My shrinking vessel back recoiled;
I could not reach the sheltering bay,
For rocks and shoals about me lay,
And winds opposed, and waters boiled.

Thus baffled by the Poet-god,
I only brought—alas for me!—
Some waifs and strays from that bright sod
Which I have seen, but have not trod,—
The golden land of Poesy!.

May I not now my hopes renew?—
Must failure teach me to be wise?
Meseems I was not of the few
Destined to “feed on honey-dew,
And drink the milk of Paradise.”
Must I content me with the gain
Which loftier spirits bring to me,—
They who are privileged to reign
Lords of that far and fair domain,
The golden land of Poesy?

Perchance 'twere best; albeit that fame
Is a rich guerdon to forego;
To win a Bard's exalted name,
Hailed by a nation's high acclaim,
Is an endowment few can know.
But let me, then, for solace' sake
Send my thoughts thither, fancy-free,—
Dream that I follow in the wake
Of those who hasten to partake
The golden land of Poesy!

THE RESCUE.

In a dim court, shut inward from a street,
Where lounging Vice and toiling Misery meet;
Where squalid forms and cunning faces stray
Idly about, the live-long summer day,
Creeping to crime as wanes the evening light,
Till brawl and revel rouse the middle night;—
A fair girl stands, amid a babbling crowd
Of shameless women, reckless, rude, and loud,
Whose tongues run riot on some evil theme,
Whose restless eyes with wanton passions gleam,—
Whose mien and manner shock the modest mind,—
Whose very words profane the passing wind,
And tell how fallen from virtue and from grace
Are they, poor outcasts of an erring race!
I watch the Maid, and in her pensive eyes
Read thoughts that thrill me with a sad surmise;
I see her quake with sorrow or regret,
I see her cheek with recent weeping wet;
The hues of health and innocence appear
Fresh on her youthful face—What doth she here?

In raiment seemly, and in aspect mild,
A Stranger comes, to cheer the drooping child;
Scatters the crowd, and, taught to teach and feel,
Questions the damsel with a kindly zeal;

To which she answers, with an artless truth
That adds a charm to her unguarded youth:—

“Believe me, Stranger, though my steps have strayed,
I am not lost, yet wildered and dismayed.
Three days ago I left our cottage door,
My once sweet home—a home for me no more!—
Because since Death's inevitable hand
Beckoned my mother to the better land,
My father, once our pattern and our pride,
Has turned from peaceful rectitude aside,
And a dread shadow sits upon his soul,—
The frantic spirit of the baneful bowl.
His lips, whereon hung moving words and mild,
Are now with curses and the cup defiled;
His eyes, once eloquent with gentlest fire,
Burn with the craving of a low desire;
His heart, erewhile with worthiest feelings glad,
Is warped and withered, turbulent or sad,
And that small homestead where my sisters grew,
Like flowers entwining,—where my brothers, too,
Gamboled together, 'neath a mother's gaze
Of sweet solicitude, of silent praise,—
That little spot has now become the lair
Of guilt and grief, disorder and despair,—
Of waste and want, of solitude or din,—
Remorse and tears, and still-recurrent sin.

“Pain-worn at length, grown weary of the strife,
The taint, the torment of this later life,
Forlorn I came to this tumultuous town,
Through its vast mazes wandered up and down,
In the vain quest of refuge, labour, bread,
Or meanest pillow for my aching head;

Till here I stumbled upon dangerous ground,
Verge of a gulf appalling and profound!
Last night, entoiled within that squalid den,
'Mong wanton women, and lascivious men,
I passed in fear the laggard hours away,
And looked with longing for the dawn of day.
With lavish care, and words in kindly guise,
With glowing lures, with rainbow-coloured lies,
They strove to make me that lost thing whose name
Is linked with sorrow, turpitude, and shame;
And hopeless, helpless, friendless, and alone,
My courage flying, and my quiet flown,
No warning voice, no shield or shelter near,
I might have fallen—but God has sent you here!”—

“His be the praise!” the pitying Stranger cried;—
Be He thy Stay, thy Counsellor, thy Guide1
I, a poor servant of His sovereign will,
Would help to snatch thee from impending ill,—
Would rescue from disaster and disgrace,
The fearful chances of this dangerous place.”

“Thanks, from my heart!” exclaimed the grateful Maid,
While the quick joy o'er all her features played;
“Those gentle precepts which my mother taught,
For the clear guidance of each dawning thought,
And the blest quiet of those Sabbath days
Which tuned my soul to peace, my tongue to praise,
Brood in my memory; and I would not scare—
Would Heaven permit—the bright things nestling there.
Give me a lowly home, apart from strife,
'Mid the sweet elements of blameless life,—
Bread for my labour, knowledge for my pains,
Cheerful religion—'bove all earthly gains,

A faith in all the wondrous Word reveals,
A power to soothe when misery appeals,
And I will go where good men's feet have trod,
Honour the giver, and adore my God!”

“Come,” said the Stranger, whose consoling eye
Beamed with the triumph of humanity;
“Come, I will lead thee unto hearts that glow
With pure compassion for all human woe;
Who strive with sin, and long to make it less,
Who yearn to teach, to succour, and to bless:
There, if thy better genius rule the while,
And God vouchsafe the favour of His smile,
Thou mayest expand in goodliness and grace,
Peace in thy heart, and pleasure in thy face;
And so look back to this remembered day
As a new portal to the better way.”

True to her nature, unto virtue true,
Begirt with guardian friends, the Maiden grew,—
Grew into glorious womanhood, a thing
That seemed o'ershadowed by an angel's wing.
Not for herself, her labours and her love,
Nor the deep prayer-thoughts hourly winged above,—
Not for herself alone, but human kind,
And the dear home-ties she had left behind.
Refined in speech, in mental vigour strong,
Tender and quiet, bashful in the throng,
In spirit pure, in moral purpose high,
With all her feelings mirrored in her eye,
Growing in goodness as she grew in grace,
Again she sought the old familiar place,—
Stepped o'er the threshold like a shape of light,
Her bosom bounding, and her aspect bright;

Flew to the parent-breast, so long estranged,
While her quick glance around the dwelling ranged;
With words bedipt in Truth's celestial fire
Appealed, nor vainly, to the man, the sire;
Bound him anew beneath Love's pure control,
Drove out the demon from his sinking soul;
Until, his eyes with free tears gushing o'er,
He kissed her cheek, and vowed to sin no more!

Thus, a kind word with a resistless charm
Drew a poor woman from impending harm;
Thus a good deed, so promptly, wisely done,
Back unto peace an erring mortal won.
The law of kindness hath a noble sway,
Which hardest hearts instinctively obey:
Let us enforce the gentle, genial power,
And so snatch pleasure from each passing hour!

THE FAIRY'S FUNERAL.

A FANTASY.

It was a summer's eventide,
Soft, sweet, and silent, warm and bright,
And all the glorious landscape wide,—
The lowly thorn, the tree of pride,
The grass-blades marshalled side by side,—
Wore, thicker than the cope of Night,
Innumerable drops of light,
Shed from a cloud's dissolving breast,
That journeyed towards the golden west,
And blushed, a fair transfigured thing,
In the bright presence of its king.

That brilliant baptism, cool and brief,
Flung from the font of summer skies,
Came with a fresh and full relief
To all the countless shapes and dyes
That spring from Earth's prolific veins,
And banquet on the genial rains;
For all the languid leaves and flowers,
In tangled brakes and cultured bowers,
In level fields and hollow dells,
By woodside walks and mossy wells;

The limber bine and blooming brier,
The wallflower's mass of cloudy fire,
The fair and many-folded rose,
Reclining in a proud repose,—
The clover filled with honey-dew,
Things of familiar form and hue,—
Sent such a gush of incense up,
From bell and boss, from crown and cup,
As seemed to burden all the air
With Nature's breath of silent prayer,
And give that joyous draught of rain,
Sublimed in fragrance, back again.

The twinkling rain-drops were exhaled,
The sun went down, the welkin paled,
Taking that tender twilight hue
Of silver mingling with the blue,
What time I took my pleasant way
To an old sylvan nook, that lay
A league apart from street and town,
In a deep dingle, hushed and brown,
Through which a streamlet, fed by rills
That babbled of the pleasant hills,
With a low music hurried on
Into far shadow, and was gone.
It was a spot for calmest thought,
All wildly, intricately wrought
Into a dim and fairy bower,
By Nature's unassisted power.
The plume-like fern grew thick and green,
The foxglove stood with stately mien
On grassy slopes, and in the breeze
Shook all its crimson chalices;
The playful leveret limped about
Its sandy burrow, in and out;

From shadowy brake and bough was heard
The “cheep” of some unsettled bird;
The honeysuckle seemed to sigh
To the white wild-rose lovingly,
And both sent through the verdant gloom
The mingled breath of their perfume.

I sat beneath an old oak tree,
Whose branches murmured harmony,
While hill and vale, and copse and glade,
Were gathering into deeper shade,
As night stole on; but sweetly soon
Clomb up the sky the quiet Moon,
Gently diffusing, as she rose,
A softer aspect of repose,—
A light that came to soothe and bless
With beauty and with holiness.
As the blest beams came streaming round,
And made upon the flowery ground
Mosaic spots of shade and sheen,
Worthy the foot of Fairy Queen—
I dropt into a reverie,
My loose thoughts roaming fancy-free,
In realms fantastic, evermore
Bequeathed to us in poet-lore.

Strange visions were they and not few,
That slid athwart my mental view:
Genii, of good and evil might,—
The hideous Ghoul and afreet Sprite;
Dwarf Gnomes, that dwell in mountain caves;
Kelpies, that lure to treacherous waves;
Brownies and Banshees, quaint and wild,
And Pixy, the unbaptized child;
The nine-pin players on Hudson's side,
And Peter Wilkins' wingèd Bride.

I then bethought me (dainty theme!)
Of the great Seer's Midsummer Dream,
And of that little Imp of power
Who pranked it with the purple flower;
Then I beheld the enchanted strand
Where Prospero wavèd wizard-wand,
And heard around the voiceful spell
Of dear and delicate Ariel.

Here, with a sudden thrill and quake,
I woke from dream,—or seemed to wake;
For a strange music, low and sweet,
Seemed to be winding round my feet,
Scarce louder than the hum of bee,
Or gnat's complaining minstrelsy;
But sweeter far, as if the flowers
Sang of the loss of sun and showers;—
A solemn, yet melodious strain,
A dirge of grief, a wail of pain.
Casting around a searching gaze,
With anxious feelings of amaze,
In a broad patch of open light,
A wondrous vision met my sight,—
A train of tiny beings, dressed
In snowy plume and sombre vest,
Moving along in order slow,
As if on business of woe.
Came in the van a little band,
With tuneful instruments in hand,
Playing a wild and mournful spell,
On trumpets of the sweet bluebell;
Then came a rush-made coffin small,
Covered with drooping plantain-pall,
Bedecked with many a violet,
With silvery night-dews freshly wet;

And then a crowd, in sad array,
Followed along the moonlit way.

Six paces from me, where the light
Shone full upon them, softly bright,
They stopped, and with a tender care
Parted the fern-plumes growing there,
Disclosing to my watchful eyes
A little grave of bird-like size,
Wherein they lowered the fairy dead,
And with a reverential tread
Clustered around, while all the throng
Joined in this simple parting song:—

FAIRY SONG.

Oh! loveliest of the Fairy race,
We mourn thy fading, elfin flower!
No more shall we behold thy face
Give beauty to the banquet-bower;
No more wilt thou, 'neath forest bough,
Share in the mystic sport and spell,
No more enhance our midnight dance,
Loveliest sister, Floribel!

And yet, 'tis well that thou art gone,
For we must find departing wings,
Since Man hath set his soul upon
The worth of more material things;
But Poets' songs, and Poets' tongues,
Shall praise and vindicate us well;—
Oh! blest be they whose living lay
Hath shrined us, sister Floribel!

Both Lights of Heaven shall gild thy grave,
And sweet flowers blow upon thy bed;
And many a wild-bird chant a stave
Above thy now unconscious head;

And while we may about thee stay,
On mountain side, in bosky dell,
We'll guard and grace thy resting-place,
Loved, lost sister, Floribel!

The descant done, they shook in showers
From a wild rose-bush all its flowers,
Which fell and veiled the grave below,
Like coverlet of fragrant snow;
But scarcely had they settled there,
Than all the crew in earth or air
Evanished, like the meteor-light
That flits across the face of Night;
Like breath on sunlit mirror's face,
Or vapour in the womb of space.
I listened—there was not a sound
Save a faint breeze that whispered round;
I looked—but nothing could I see
But quivering grass and quiet tree;
And as I did not dare to brave
The secret of that little grave,
I sauntered homeward, all intent
Upon my strange bewilderment;
Concluding that the Moon had shed
Lunatic influence on my head,—
Had set my thoughts too wildly free,
And filled my brain with Fantasy!

A SONG OF THE WOODLANDS.

“The fern and the foxglove for me, yes, for me!”
Was a saying of bold Robin Hood,
When he thought of his life in the forest so free,—
The charms of the merry greenwood.
To him 'twas a pleasure, which others might scorn,
To dwell 'mid their growth and their bloom;
The flower had the shape of his own bugle-horn,
And the fern had the wave of his plume.

“The fern and the foxglove for me!” echo I,—
There is poetry e'en in the sound,
When I think of the deer fleeting fearlessly by,
And the birds singing gladsomely round;
Of the twilight that hangs in the stalwart old trees,—
Of the sun-spots and shadows that fall,—
Of the low, mellow boom of the wandering bees,
And a blue, boundless heaven o'er all.

“The fern and the foxglove for us!” echo they
Whose souls have a summertide glow,
When they vow to make merry one “red-letter” day,
Where sweet winds and sweeter flowers blow;

Imagine the meal on the sward in the shade,
The laughter that startleth the noon,
The song that reëchoes through dingle and glade,
And the happy hearts throbbing in tune.

“The fern and the foxglove for us!” echo all
For Freedom and Nature who yearn;
How gladly would thousands escape from their thrall,
To look on the foxglove and fern!
Town-workers, who faint in the world's daily fight,
Oh! waste not the leisure that's given,
But away to the woodlands for health and delight,
For the beauty of earth and of heaven!

A MAY-DAY WALK.

Blest be this bright and breezy May,
Which smiles away my sorrow!
I'll snatch a harmless joy to-day,
Though troubles come to-morrow.
Who would not breathe this generous air,
Which meaner things delight in?—
Who would not Nature's banquet share,
Her own sweet self inviting?

Come forth, my Friend, of kindred mind,
My friend in every weather,—
Leave Mammon's ledger-lore behind,
And let us stray together;
Come forth in quest of liberty,
Nor think of looms and spindles;
There's Health, Peace, Beauty, Poesy,
'Mong mountain-streams and rindles.

“Man liveth not by bread alone!”
Truth from a Source transcendent;—
His soul asks something of its own,
Less gross, and less dependent;
It claims the privilege of Thought
Beyond the dusty Real,
Its hopeful visions, called and caught
From realms of the Ideal.

And genial Nature's humblest things,
In wintry garb or vernal,
Can lend Man's longing spirit wings
To reach some sphere supernal;—
A rose-bush shivering 'gainst the sky,—
A weed of beauteous seeming,—
A dew-drop in a cowslip's eye,
With trembling lustre beaming.

Many the motives and the means
Wherewith God deigns to gift us,
That unto higher, holier scenes,
In thoughtful hours uplift us;
And it is good to break away
From the cold world's harsh laughter,
And soar into a purer day,—
The shadow of Hereafter!

Joy! my dear friend! at length we're out,
Away from crowds and clamours,
From all the rumbling and the rout
Of engines, looms, and hammers;
The mountains rise upon our sight,
Breathing of pleasant places;
We'll feel, ere day drops into night,
Their grandeurs and their graces.

Here daisies greet us as we pass,
In constellated grouping;
And the sweet face of country lass
Flits by, with eyelids drooping;
And wild-wood odours come and go,
As the swart hills draw nearer;
And in a warmer current flow
Our fancies, quick and clearer.

And here's the pathway rent and rude,
The threshold of the mountains,—
And now we're in the solitude
Of mosses, rocks, and fountains;
There's Haridge, towering up to meet
The sunlit clouds above him;
And here's the streamlet at his feet,
Whose waters seem to love him.

How like a strong and sportive child
This hill-born runnel rushes,—
Now foaming, frolicsome, and wild,
With frantic leaps and gushes;
Now in a sort of murmuring dream
Through reed and grass it wimples,—
Anon in Day's unclouded beam
Laughs with a thousand dimples.

Stream, thou art nameless, or thy name
But ill becomes thy beauty;
I fain would make thee known to fame,
As is thy Poet's duty;
I'll christen thee with tongue and pen,
Henceforth let none defame thee;
The Brushes is thy native glen,
And Brushlin Brook I name thee.

And now, my Friend, we'll track the wave
Far upward to its fountain,
And when we've sung a greenwood stave,
We'll dare that haughty mountain;
The lark that thrills yon snowy cloud,—
The thrush that sings before us,—
The cuckoo calling sweet and loud,
Will join us in the chorus.

'Tis done! now upward with strong will,—
No yielding,—no surrender,—
Up to the top, that we may fill
Our souls with May-day splendour.
'Tis toilsome! Yes! but let us try
With sturdy stride together;—
The thing's achieved! albeit we lie
Panting among the heather.

Dear Heaven! what glory swathes the land!
What harmony of feature!
Scattered abroad from God's own hand,
O'er the great face of Nature!
What amplitude of cloudless space!
What mingled hues and gleamings!
What grandeur, softened down with grace,
And in one's soul what dreamings!

Oh! for a page of Wordsworth now,—
Him the great Master-Preacher!
Would we could look upon his face,
And hear the Poet-Teacher!
Hear him relate his wondrous lays,
Sprung from his heart's deep fountains,
Of wisdom, 'mid untrodden ways
Among the solemn mountains.

But since we may not see the Bard,
Let's think upon his glory,—
His high, calm genius, whose reward
Is life in future story;
Oh! when he joins a nobler quire,
To sing still more divinely,
Who shall assume his earthly lyre,
And make it speak so finely?

Alas! our chiefest Bards are old!
Hushed are their tuneful voices;
But at the tales which they have told
Each kindred heart rejoices.
When the five stars we love are gone,
How will their going grieve us!
Canst thou, large-gifted Tennyson,
Console us when they leave us?

Canst thou, soul-soaring “Festus,” sing,
To soothe our great bereavement?
Canst thou, quaint Browning, solace bring
By any new achievement?
Can ye, with power that knows no fear,
Re-wake one harp that slumbers?—
We hope, and wait, and long to hear
Your yet unuttered numbers.

A truce to this old theme, my Friend,
Our spirits grow regretful;
To talk of what we cannot mend
But makes us sad and fretful;
Though Song is something half divine,
With which 'tis sweet to dally,
'Tis bright May-Day, and we must dine,—
Descend we to the valley.

Ah! here's a table for our meal!
Its cover green and golden;
To Him who made it let us feel
How much we are beholden!
The shadows of these waving boughs
Across our faces flitter,
And there a tinkling fountain flows,
Falling with silvery glitter.

This lovely scene and mountain air
Are better, there's no question,
Than costly room and dainty fare,
With spleen and indigestion;
And we have music far more sweet
Than Jullien ever found us,—
The brook that babbles at our feet,
The birds that carol round us.

Commence the banquet, and partake
With gusto keen and hearty;
Now pass the beaker;—don't we make
A most congenial party?
Thanks to the Giver! We have done;
But ere we cross the meadows,
Let us escape the noontide sun,
Within these sylvan shadows.

Sing me some old and simple lay,
Such as I've heard ye humming,
Or chant me of that doubtful day,—
The very “good time coming;”
But since your pipe is out of tune,
I'll e'en for once take pity,
And break the drowsy hush of Noon
With my own foolish ditty:—

SONG.

When golden-haired Sol to the Seasons gave birth,
And saw that his plan was complete,
He told them to govern and gladden the Earth
With interchange needful and sweet;
He marshalled before him the Months and the Hours,
But ere he dismissed them away,
He called unto Flora, the Goddess of Flowers,
And beckoned his favourite May.

“Dear Flora, I pray thee, bestow on my child
Some beautiful gifts of thine own;
I have lent to her countenance light undefiled,
To her voice a most musical tone;
Besprinkle her garments with dews and perfumes,
That shall follow her footsteps alway,
And give her a girdle of exquisite blooms,
Becoming my favourite May.”

She alighted on Earth, and the valley and plain
Were flushed with her glorious hues;
The bees clung about her; the breezes were fain
Her magical sweets to diffuse;
When the Poet beheld her, at once she became
The theme of his loveliest lay;
Since then she is linked with his heart and his fame,
For the month of the Poet is May.

She awoke in the souls of susceptible Youth
New fires, which all others surpass;
Touched the lips of the Wooer with tenderest truth,
With blushes the cheek of the Lass;
In her presence their glances grew bashful, but bright,
Their faces unwontedly gay,
Or grave with a deep and unuttered delight,
For the month of the Lover is May.

Then hail to this Child of Apollo! her smile
Makes Nature laugh out and rejoice;
And the proud heart of Man, growing gentler the while,
Leaps up at the sound of her voice;
She comes like a breath from those gardens above,
Which know neither cloud nor decay,
She bringeth us Poësy, Beauty, and Love,—
What a season of joyance is May!

So ends my descant. Now we'll pass
Through yon romantic wild-wood,
And pull some flowers from out the grass,
To grace the brows of Childhood.

How silent is this bowery way!
The air how sweet and cooling!
Here Jaques might love to shun the day,
And Touchstone act his fooling.

Now we emerge upon the leas,
With floral splendour glowing;
The meadows swell like golden seas,
The breeze is richly blowing;
Alternate glooms, alternate gleams,
O'er hill and vale flit lightly,—
Now a full burst of sunny beams
Blends the whole landscape brightly.

Here's the old bridge, and here's the Tame,
Which seems to glide at leisure;
And here's the way this morn we came,
In search of health and pleasure.
Fresh from the hills, yon murky town
Seems to oppress and blind us,
While the dear woods and moorlands brown
Lie calm and fair behind us.

A puff of steam,—three minutes' space,—
Some clangour, and a scramble,
And we are in our dwelling-place,
Pleased with our Mountain Ramble;
The plant of “old Cathay” shall make
A draught both safe and cheery,
And we will talk as we partake,
Forgetting we are weary.

Rising on Thought's aspiring wing,
We'll talk of Bards and Sages,
Of every pure and precious thing
We've found among their pages;

Of past misdeeds, of present needs,
Of future generations,
And what the age we live in breeds
For the great good of nations.

Science, Philosophy, and Song,
We'll touch, without pretension;
Of what seems right, of what seems wrong,
Converse without dissension;
Thought should be wide and free as air,
Impatient of restriction,—
Free be the words, if they are fair,
And pregnant with conviction.

Thus will we wing the evening hours,
Knowledge with Pleasure blending,—
A May-Day passed 'mid fields and flowers
Should have no foolish ending.
Then to our pillows we will creep,
Mindful of morrow's duties,
And find the visions of our sleep
Clothed with a thousand beauties.

Brushes, the name of the locality.

Wordsworth, Moore, Montgomery, Rogers, and Leigh Hunt.

THE SILVER CHAMBER.

A DREAM.

I had a dream, one sad and restless night,
And the strange vision haunts my memory still:
'Twas of a Silver Chamber, wanly bright,
Shut from the world, and desolate, and chill;
Whilst on my face fell icy drops of light,
Like to the wintry waters of a rill.

Methought, upon a silver-covered bed,
Bowed down with sorrow and with pain, I lay,
And silver curtains, drooping o'er my head,
Smote my hot eye-balls with a sickly ray;
I waited thus, in vague and silent dread,
For the blest dawning of another day.

At length I saw, right through the silver door,
A little Human Form come gently in,
From whose mild eyes a lambent light did pour,
As from a lamp that calmly burned within;
But as the Shape approached me, more and more
I felt the weight and shadow of my sin.

It came, and, looking in the Spirit-face,
I knew its lineaments; She had been one
Of my heart's hopes, as full of love and grace
As e'er an earthly sunlight shone upon;
But Death had taken her to a holier place,
And my chief joy of home and hearth was gone.

“Father,”—thus spake her silver-sounding tongue—
“I saw thy state, I heard thy weary sigh,
And I have come to thee, but not for long,
Commissioned from my happy home on high,
To warn and soothe thee, ere the angel-throng
Recall me to my duties in the sky.

“Alas! I find thee feeble and forlorn,
Wasted and sick, and sore oppressed with woe!
Is it not time that thou shouldst learn to scorn
All worthless things that tempt thee here below,—
Seek inward peace, and hail Heaven's matchless morn,
When thou art called to gird thy loins and go?

“What are to thee, and to thy inner mind,
The low pursuits and pleasures of the earth;—
The Circean charms which strike thy reason blind,
The passionate frenzy, and the foolish mirth,
When thou hast other gifts, which God designed
To do good work, and win a higher birth?

“Strive upward, with an ever upward gaze,
As all good men—all patient men—have striven;
Strive to evangelise thy later days,
Outlive the past, and feel thyself forgiven;
That I may hear thy hopeful voice of praise
Resounding in the radiant halls of Heaven!”

Thus spake, in syllables that left perfume,
My lost Delight, my Angel-Child to me!
My soul at once cast off its pall of gloom;
Up from my heart my tears flowed fast and free:
Oh! may that vision of the Silver Room
Prove Mercy's beacon-light of love to me!

PLEURS; OR, THE TOWN OF TEARS.

Oh! sunny South! oh! bright Italian land!
Sweet shore of Story, Melody, and Song!
Ne'er has it been my privilege to stand
Amid the charms which to thy clime belong;
Ne'er to behold thy olive-shadowed plains,—
Thy mountain slopes, all redolent of wine,—
Thy matchless palaces,—thy ancient fanes,
And other things divine.

Yet once, whilst gazing from Alsatian hills,
I caught a sunset vision of the wall
(Bristling with countless snow-crowned pinnacles)
Which towers between thee and thy sister, Gaul;
The glimpse was grand and gorgeous; white and gold
Gleamed for a space on every mountain crest;
I longed to leap that Alpine barrier bold,
And light upon thy breast.

And still I yearn to sun me in the clime
Where Dante, Tasso, Ariosto sung;
Where graceful Raphael, Angelo sublime,
Divine creations on the canvas hung;
Where Petrarch loved, where Boccace told his tale,
Where great Canova made the marble fair;
Where Time, Tradition, Genius, clothe and veil
With glory all that's there.

Alas! that when our aspirations tend,
With pure desire, towards good and glorious things,
Some ruthless circumstance should come to bend
Sternly to earth even Hope's impatient wings!
No more! Let Fancy aid me to relate
An old, stray story of forgotten woe;—
Of Pleurs, her awful and o'erwhelming fate,
Two hundred years ago:—

There is a broad and beauteous vale
(So says the pilgrim, wandering),
O'er whose sweet face the temperate gale
Sweeps with a soft, salubrious wing;
And gentlest charms are there, I ween:
Meadows arrayed in loveliest sheen,—
Woods from the glare of noontide shut,—
Châlet, and farm, and herdsman's hut,
And many a herd-besprinkled lea;
And Maira, winding towards the sea
In shining curves, like silvery thread,
Through an embroidered garment led;
And glow of vines, and gleam of rills,
On the great insteps of the hills;
And the proud Conto looking o'er
The spot which he o'erwhelmed of yore,

Seeming as steadfast and serene
As though such havoc ne'er had been.
But round this valley's ample breast
A hundred hills sublimely rise,
Piercing with many a splintered crest
The tranquil azure of the skies.
And farther on, enclosing all,
As with a vast eternal wall,
Loom up, with foreheads grey and grand,
The frontier Alps of Switzerland;
Clothed, like the clouds, in shadowy white,
Beneath the full day's downward light;
But, when the sun declines to rest,
In gorgeous chambers of the west,
Wearing upon their scalps of snow
A soft, ethereal, rosy glow;
As if a troop of angels fair
Paused for a space, and rested there,
Diffusing from their wings sublime
The colours of a holier clime.

Once from that lovely vale looked up,
Like pearl-drop in an emerald cup,
The Town of Tears,—a name she bore
From some disaster long before;
Yet she belied that name of woe,
So gaily did she glance and glow
In her own pure Italian air,
With temples, theatres, and towers,
White dwellings gleaming through their bowers,
And other graceful things and fair.
She was a refuge of delight,
To those who from the world's rude fight
Could gladly steal themselves away;—

100

A place of calm and stirring joy,
Where many a pleasure's sweet employ
Beguiled the hours of every day.
The Merchant left his books and care,
To find some rest and solace there;
The Painter put his pencil down,
To seek that laughter-loving town;
The Sculptor came for newer themes,—
The Poet to refresh his dreams;
For song, and dance, and feast, and wine,
And forms of beauty, half divine,
And pleasant smiles, and loving eyes,
Made it a social Paradise.
From morn till noon, from noon till night,
A constant carnival was kept,
That one might say, and say aright,
That Pleurs had laughed until she wept;
For such the solemn truth appears,
Knowing thy doom, poor Town of Tears!

One eventide in vintage time,
When joyance rang throughout the clime,
Alone within the woodland shade
A Youth and Maiden talked and strayed;
Earnest they seemed, without disguise,
With looks that sought each other's eyes;
Save that the Maiden, now and then,
Would turn her glances towards the ground,
Only to bring them back again
To him, with pleasure more profound;
Till in a bower's umbrageous maze,
Which baffled the obtrusive gaze,
They paused to rest; and being there,
Let Fancy draw the loving pair:—

101

The Youth possessed a manly mien,
Yet pale was he, and slight of limb;
His eyes, far-seeing yet serene,
Pensive sometimes, were never dim;
And on his high and marble brow
The light of genius seemed to glow;
Nay, none could misconstrue the air
Of mental beauty reigning there;
And yet the whole seemed overwrought
With deep intensity of thought,
As if the soul had strained her wings
In flying towards ideal things.
The Maiden had a healthier charm,
Buoyant, luxuriant, soft, and warm;
Her whole bright being seeming rife
With keenest sense of love and life.
Her eyes, which changed with every feeling,
Had dew and depth beyond revealing;
Love, laughter, anger, and disdain,
Outward delight, or inward pain,
By turns o'erawed, or pleased, or blest,
Those who beheld and knew her best.
But, Oh! her soft and gracious smile
On the enchanted gazer fell
Like sunburst lingering awhile
On meads of golden asphodel;
And her sweet laughter gushed away
Like rain-drops on a summer's noon;
Or dimpling brook in sparkling play,
Or instrument in rapid tune;
And when her smile and laughter fled,
Beauty and music both seemed dead.
She was, in sooth, a loving child
Of Nature, warm and undefiled,—

102

A perfect woman, chaste as snow,
Formed to be blest and bless below,
Increase man's joy, and share his woe.

“Thou must not leave me, Florio,”
Said the young Maiden, tenderly;
“I cannot yet behold thee go,
My love must plead,—it cannot be!
Thou know'st that long and heavy rains
Have swept these mountain heights and plains,
And that the herdsmen from the hills,
With presage of a thousand ills,
Have brought us tales of gloom and dread;—
Of changes on old Conto's head,
Of rent, and chasm, and awful sound,
Tremblings and cleavings of the ground,
As if the holds of Nature shook,
And quivered loosely as a brook.
Didst thou not see, but t'other day,
A noble vineyard swept away
By avalanche of earth and stone,
Like reeds o'er which the fire has blown?
Oh! quit me not, if I am dear;
I have a sad foreboding here!
Stay to sustain me, I implore,
Lest I should ne'er behold thee more!”
“Francesca,” Florio said, and smiled—
“Be not by foolish fears beguiled;
Dost think the hills, old as the world,
Will from their steadfast seats be hurled,
Because some superstitious minds—
Some simple and unlettered hinds,—
Prognosticate the thing? Ah! no,
'Twere impious to believe it so.

103

Behold! there are no signs of rain,
The great, glad Sun shines out again;
And all is joyous, all is clear,—
Why should thy gentle bosom fear?
Did danger threaten thee, my Pride,
Nothing should take me from thy side;
I would not quit thy faithful breast,
And leave thee unto sad unrest,
For all the gold,—for all the lands
The world could pour into my hands;
But since no dreadful thing portends,
And thou art circled round by friends,—
And since I feel thou art to-day
By a quick fancy led astray,
I dare to go, secure that thou
Wilt be as safe next year as now.
Believe me, when I soon return
I shall behold thy blushes burn,—
Thy smile break out, thy tears o'erflow,
As I have seen them long ago.
No more. Thou know'st how I have yearned,
Tried, failed, and yet unconquered, burned,
To gather light around my name,
To carve my fearless way to fame,
And so by Toil or Genius stand
A Painter in my native land.
The thing's achieved;—Hope whispers so,—
May be in vain, but this I know,
My hand, heart, soul have done their best,—
I leave to Fortune all the rest.
My Picture, which has stolen my nights,
And weaned me from the world's delights,
Has made my forehead throb with pain,—
Made sick, and then has healed again,

104

Which has o'erwhelmed me in despair,
And then uplifted me in air;—
My Picture stands in finished state,
And I with hopeful trembling wait
The judgment of experienced eyes,
To sink to earth, or seek the skies.
Ah! droop not, Dearest, I beseech,—
'Tis but the metaphor of speech.
No, never can I shrink; my Art
Is of myself another part;
She is my second Mistress,—Thou
The foremost, evermore as now;
Thou hast inspired my soul, and she
Must pay some tribute unto thee;
And shall, if in my hand remain
The skill to woo her charms again.
Oh, glorious Art! divinest dower
That ever came to human mind!
Grace, colour, sentiment, and power
Of witching Poësy combined!
Art that receives its chiefest grace
From Woman's dear, angelic face,
Draws its best spirit, soft and warm,
From the chaste contour of her form,—
I cannot leave, for your sweet sakes,
Nor that which gives, nor that which takes!
Beloved Francesca! let us part,
But first, come cling thee to my heart,
Which beats with faithful pulse for thee,
And will while life remains with me;
Ere morrow's sunlight cometh down
On giant Conto's hoary crown,
I must begone; but when the Spring
Calls back the swallow's vagrant wing,

105

I'll come, perchance all flushed with fame,—
Ask for thy hand, and urge my claim;
Then, fame or none, I'll stay to bless
My sight with thy dear loveliness;
Guard, cheer, and love, through every scene,
Till death shall step our joys between.
One kiss from these sweet lips of thine,
Adored and Worshipped! ever mine!”
Then spake the Maiden, trembling, meek,
Whilst the quick tears coursed down her cheek:—
“Thus thou beguil'st me, Florio,
And thou must leave me! Be it so;
For I would have thee to be free
To do whate'er may pleasure thee;
But I will shut thee in my heart,
And nurse that joy, where'er thou art.
Oh! should'st thou find the world's applause
Pall on thy ear, or should its laws
Reject thee, seek my faithful breast,
Where thou shalt find a welcome nest,
And lay thy weary forehead down
Where none shall harm thee, none shall frown.
To part with thee my heart is loth;
Our Holy Mother guard us both,
And ever bend benignant eyes
Upon us from the upper skies!
This kiss for thee, my Florio—
This for thy mother;—let her know
How much I long to clasp her hand,
And listen to her mild command.
Adieu!” A brief half hour had flown,
And both sad lovers were alone.
Morn came, and like a bridegroom shone
The sun on his ethereal throne;

106

Morn with her many voices, sent
From countless sources, sweetly blent;
Hill, vale, town, village, all were bright,
The Maira laughing in the light;
And kindled in the sunny ray
The snow-crowned summits far away.
Then came the hush of Noon, serene,
And, bathed in universal sheen,
The light clouds in the upper air,
Heavy with molten silver there.
Day sped, and as the Night drew nigh
One blaze of beauty lit the sky;
'Twas Sunset; and, O Heaven! the dower
Of glory shed upon that hour!
Just as the Sun-god paused to rest
On the bright borders of the West,
The Clouds came trooping towards their king,
As if they would about him cling,
And as they hung before his face,
They clustered, coloured, changed apace,
Assuming many a giant-shape
Of rocky cleft, and mountain cape,
Teeming, like Etna in his ire,
With floods and flames of gloomy fire.
Incessant change comes o'er them now—
They cleave, and with fierce grandeur glow,
Streaming like blazing banners out,—
Strewn like prismatic dust about,
Sailing like golden ships, and turning
Into a thousand cities burning;
But as the Sun withdraws to cheer
Souls of another hemisphere,
They float far off, all loose and free,
Like rose-beds on a silent sea.

107

Who could behold with careless eyes
Such grand “morgana” of the skies,
Nor lift high homage unto Him
Whose breath inspires the Seraphim,—
Who gives such beauteous signs of power
For us, who ill deserve the dower!

Francesca sat beside her door,
Absorbed in some poetic lore;
It seemed some sad and passionate tale,—
By turns her cheek was flushed and pale;
Perchance 'twas Dante's woful story
Of her own namesake, sad and lorn,
Whom he hath shrined in gloomy glory,
But such as makes one inly mourn;
Perchance 'twas that—more woful still—
Of Cenci's daughter, crushed and lost
Beneath the weight of horrible ill,—
Revenged, but at a fearful cost.
Whate'er it was, it did engage
Her fixed attention; on the page
Fell her unbidden tears like rain,—
Proof that it moved, perchance with pain.
But now the world was all abroad;
The people, late so overawed
By sweeping showers and savage gales,
By dulness, doubts, and dreadful tales,
Threw off the chill of their affright,
To take full measure of delight.
Again the depths of joy were stirred,—
Again the laugh and song were heard,—
Dance, music, feast, and wine, once more
Governed the people as before;

108

The Puppet played in comic state,—
The Improvisatore was great;
Brave was the banquet, high the cheer,
Crowded the gorgeous theatre.
Woman dispensed her sweetest smiles;
Man tried his most seducing wiles;
Whilst children, in more harmless way,
Pleased their dear hearts with boisterous play.
Young, old, rich, poor, with common will
Combined to banish sense of ill;
It seemed to be their chief employ,
That Saturnalia of Joy.
Francesca, ill at ease, walked out
'Mid laughter, music, song, and shout,—
Not with the wish to feel and share
The general pleasure reigning there,
But in the hope she might beguile
Her dumb, deep sorrow for a while.
She paused where, under olive trees,
In proud and merry-hearted ease,
Sat many friends, a pleasant throng,
Who listened to the voice of Song,
And, urged by gentle lips to stay,
She heard this light and simple lay:—

CANZONET.

Oh! give to me Beauty, and Music, and Wine,
The only dear things that are ever divine;
The hour is propitious for pleasures like these,
While our hopes are awake, and our cares are at ease;
Let us seize and enjoy them to-day, friends, to-day,
To-morrow, believe me, is far, far away!

109

'Tis Beauty that kindles and gladdens the soul;
'Tis Music makes time more harmoniously roll;
'Tis Wine that uplifts us above the dull earth,
And to Wit, Love, and Rapture gives lustre and birth;
Let us seize and enjoy them to-day, friends, to-day,
For to-morrow, believe me, is far, far away!

This song's light-hearted levity
Did little please, did ill agree
With the young Maiden's weight of heart;
So she prepared her to depart
Homeward, to soothe her harassed mind,
And leave the noisy crowd behind.
From her quaint casement, vine-embowered,
She looked upon the tranquil night,
Towards where old Conto grandly towered,
Less stern beneath the moon's sweet light.
The stars were out, too, grouping round—
And yet apart—their placid queen;
And where they were not, Heaven profound
Seemed boundless, fathomless, serene.
And then she thought on Florio,
And he renewed that hidden woe
For which she seemed to have no cause,—
So deep, so dim are Nature's laws;
She mused, she mourned, complained, and wept,
And overcome by sorrow—slept.
On went the revels, loud and high,
Till midnight stole upon the sky,
And passed along her starry way,
To meet the not far distant day.
Then did the boisterous sounds subside,
Like murmur of receding tide,
And all the crowd prepared to creep
To home, and hearth, and needful sleep.

110

From shining casements, here and there,
Gleaming athwart the moonlit air,
Out went the lights, and all was still,
Save herdsman's dog upon the hill,
Or Maira's stream, that in its flow
Muttered a soft complaint and low;
Or nightingale, that charmed the hour
With sweetest descant from her bower;—
The sleep-world, late so loud and bright,
Was left to Nature and to Night.
Oh, Night, and Nature! fair ye are,
With meteor, cloud, and moon, and star;—
But ye are solemn, and oppress
The soul with your great loveliness;—
The soul that often strains her wing
To reach and roam your heights sublime,
But falls back, faint and wondering,
Too strong to rest, too weak to climb!
Well, all was still; but towards the morn,
An hour before the day was born,
An awful sound,—a mighty boom,
As if it were the “crack of doom,”—
Loud as the stormy ocean's roar,
When battling 'gainst a rocky shore,—
As the appalling thunder loud,
When raging through the realms of cloud—
Resounded far beyond the vale,
And made the boldest cheek turn pale.
At the first dubious dawn of day,
Filled with a vague and dread dismay,
With quivering nerves, and hearts all cold,
Men came;—and what did they behold?
One half of Conto fallen sheer down
On Pleurs, the death-devoted town,

111

A ponderous avalanche of rock!
And Maira, startled by the shock,
Hurled from her course, to make a path
Away from ruin and from wrath.
Above the fated city hung
A canopy of dust, that flung
Horror upon the gazer's eye,
And blotted out the rosy sky.
The foxes, frightened from their lair,—
The birds all screaming in the air,—
The river riotous and strong,
Tumbling her turbid waves along,—
The lamentations long and loud
Of the still-increasing crowd,—
The strife,—the questioning,—the sound
Of countless voices mingling round;
Made up a scene so sad and dread,
That Reason shook, and Judgment fled,—
A scene that lay all undefined,
Like a great nightmare on the mind!
Oh, awful truth! stupendous fate!
Which even moves me to relate—
The mountain, like a giant lid,
Fell sudden down, and crushed and hid
Three thousand souls, which yesternight
Were full of life and high delight!
And not one soul remained to say
How glad they were but yesterday!
Not all man's energy and skill,—
Not thousands with one common will,—
Not Hate, that keeps his cunning course,—
Not Vengeance, with Herculean force,—
Not Avarice, with his heart of steel,—
Not Love, with his unselfish zeal,—

112

Not all combined by solemn vow,
Could ever see or save them now!
None could behold them,—none could save;
There they reposed in one great grave,
O'er which the cloven Conto looks
With constant warnings and rebukes;
A mighty headstone, left to show
Where died the multitude below,
Whose bones have mingled with the clod,
Whose better parts are with their God!
Quick as the prairie's rolling fire,—
Quick as the whirlwind in its ire,
The terrible tidings swept and spread
With awe, uncertainty, and dread.
Amid the Eternal City's towers,
Where he was straining all his powers,
It smote the ears of Florio,
With sense of overwhelming woe.
Fame, Wealth, and Honour,—What were they,
That he should linger and delay?
He went while yet his fears were new,—
On wings of love and terror flew,
And reached that horror-shadowed vale
Dishevelled, travel-soiled, and pale;
Heard, saw the appalling truth, and how
His joys were shattered at a blow.
He neither talked, nor wailed, nor wept,
But in a neighbouring cottage slept,—
Ay, slept as he would wake no more;
But when that blessed sleep was o'er,
He woke with wandering words and pain,—
Delirium seized upon his brain,
And long, long weeks he lay, like one
Who with the things of earth had done.

113

Kind hearts and gentle hands were there,
To tend him with unselfish care,
And tend they did, with constant zeal,
For they had learned to love and feel.
At length, when he had lain one day,
As if all pain had passed away,
He started from his couch, and smiled,—
An idiot! harmless as a child.
That noble mind, where genius burned,—
That heart, for gentlest love that yearned,
Were crushed and blinded, ne'er again
To know nor hope, nor love, nor pain,—
A holy shrine, a temple chaste,
By sorrow shattered and defaced.
And from that hour he would not go
From that dear spot, the Vale of Woe;
Albeit his mother came, and tried
By all maternal arts to guide
His footsteps homeward; bootless all,
His ears were deaf to Nature's call;
And so she came to sojourn there,
And watched him with unceasing care.
It was his custom, shade or shine—
(Thus far he seemed to have design)—
Among the scattered rocks to roam,
And then at nightfall saunter home;
But on the rocks he would portray
Her who was lost to him for aye;
Repeating, with sad words and low,
This constant burden of his woe;—
“Francesca, love! where dost thou stay?
Thou hast forgot our wedding day!”
And when the maidens of the vale
Heard him repeat this piteous wail,

114

With sympathising hearts and eyes,
Which watched him that he stumbled not,
They gave the tribute of their sighs,
And wept at his unhappy lot.
At length the elements combined
To give the Wanderer peace and rest:
The frost, the snow, the rain, the wind,
That beat against his gentle breast,
Shook his frail frame, and laid him down,
No more to roam, no more to rise;
He died beside the Buried Town,
And sought Francesca in the skies!

Where once was seen the Town of Tears
A strange and rugged scene appears;
But Nature, ever prone to fling
Some beauty round the rudest thing,
Has clothed the avalanche of stone
With moss and lichens, all her own;
And high above that giant grave
A thousand trees all proudly wave;
The chestnut lifts its goodly boughs,—
The calm herds ruminate and browse,—
The herdsman carols o'er the lea,
In concert with the bird and bee.
Sweet Maira tells her wonted tale,
Old Conto frowns upon the vale;
And all is lovely and serene,
As though such ruin ne'er had been.
Such is the tale of doom and woe,
Of Pleurs, two hundred years ago.

115

ZOANA.

Sir Gilbert was a brave and gentle knight,—
Gilbert the Saxon, of old London town;
And to the struggle of the first Crusade
He lent his prowess,—joyful to behold
The snowy standard of the Christian Powers
First float o'er ancient Salem; glad to see
The haughty Crescent quail before the Cross,
And pale its specious beams. But, sad mischance!
One luckless day, in foray or in fight,
He fell into the foeman's toils, and soon
Was hurried o'er the desert far away,
To where Damascus, with her hundred streams,
And bowery gardens, smiles upon the waste.
Here he was captive, manacled and watched;
But he was calm as brave, and he restrained,
In proof of patience, look, and word, and thought.

At length his mild demeanour won its way
With those who watched him, and his chains were loosed;
And he, the same when free as bound, was put
To easy toils within the garden grounds.
This lasted for a time, a year or more,
When in the presence of the Syrian Chief
One day they led him, silent and amazed.
The chief sat gravely on the low divan,

116

And by his side a still and graceful form,
Close veiled, and jewelled like an Eastern bride.
The Chieftain gazed upon the noble Knight,
And yet he opened not his lips; meanwhile
Gilbert surveyed, with keen and hurried glance,
The rich, cool luxury of that inner place,
Wherein a fountain, dancing in the midst,
Fell down like shattered silver, with a sound
Like tinkling of a lute, making the air—
Pervaded, too, with daintiest perfumes—
Delicious to the sense. The Chieftain spake;—
“Christian, I have beheld thy noble mien,
Thy patience and reserve; thy valour, too,
I know from loud report; and I would fain
Do thee some favour. Couldst thou not forego
Thy country and religion, and embrace
The only Faith—our own? Consent to this
And honour waits thee: I will then bestow,
To be thy handmaid, this my only child,
And place thee 'mong the illustrious of the East.
Pause for a moment, so that thy reply
Accord with the indulgence I have shown.”

The Saxon raised his bold and ample front
Erect, while in his full and candid eye
Shone the clear beams of truth, and thus replied:—
“Chieftain, there needs no pause; can I renounce
The Faith for which my veins have often bled,—
The Faith whose holiness I learned to know
From my own mother's lips, and later still,
From that great Oracle Divine whose source
Is only God? 'Twere what thou wouldst not do,
Then how shall I? I can not—will not change,
Even if thraldom waste my life away.”

The fair veiled Being at her father's side

117

Moved with a restless gesture, as the Chief
Waved with a frown the Captive from his sight.
Gilbert withdrew, but still remained unchained,
To his old labour in the garden grounds:
Then thronging visions of his native land,
Her greenness and her beauty, made him pine
And pant for freedom, which seemed more remote
From his attainment than before.

Some months
Flew o'er his weary head, but with such wings
As seemed to make no speed, when one bright day
A slave, with gesture but with silent tongue,
Led him away into a little bower,
A very nest of beauty and delight,
And there he stood, with wonder and mistrust,
Before the Emeer's Daughter, who reclined
Luxuriantly along her cushioned couch,
Wove in the richest looms. But she was veiled,
And hid the loveliness he longed to see;
Save that a scarlet-slippered foot,
Which just betrayed the golden anklet there,
Peeped on his gaze. “Christian,” she softly said—
And at the murmur of that plaintive voice
He who had borne the deafening bruit of war
Shook like a reed—“Christian, wilt thou relate
Some of the wonders of thy native land,
And of that Faith which makes thee bold amid
Captivity and danger? I would hear.
My Sire is fighting 'gainst thy people, but
With me thou art in safety. Tell thy tale.”

Gilbert all reverently bowed
Before the princely Beauty, and began:
With warm and rapid eloquence—inspired
By his own feelings, and the pitying tone

118

Of his exalted Auditor—he drew
A glowing picture, redolent of truth:
Of his own land he told of the renown
In War and Commerce;—of its temperate air,
Its verdurous hills and fields, and constant streams;—
That there no sun o'erpowered, no desert scorched,
But all was mild and genial, as became
The sea-girt Monarch Island of the world.
Of his own Faith he gave the full account,
From its first sunrise: how the Nazarene,
The Man-God, Teacher, Saviour of mankind,
Was Virgin-born within her own bright clime;—
That there He taught, wept, agonised, and died,
And consummated what His love began.
And furthermore, he told her that good men,
Despite contumèly, scorn, hunger, death,
Threatening on every side, had gone abroad
To spread the light and warmth of Gospel Truth:
And not in vain, for that the Christian world
Was numerous as the leaves on Lebanon.

Much more he told her, which the Syrian Maid
Devoured with greedy ear; and when his tongue
At length grew silent, she exclaimed—“Thy tale,
O Christian! moves me! wonderful it is,
By Allah, wonderful! Come sit thee here,
And thou shalt talk again.” And then she smote
Her hands, and slaves obsequious came in
With many-coloured fruits, and cooling drinks,
And cakes of dainty taste; and they partook
Of the light banquet. But ere they began
The Maid unveiled, and to the Saxon's sight
Disclosed a glorious vision, such as ne'er
Haunted the Anchorite in secret cell,
Or the drugged Dreamer in his happiest hour.

119

It was a perfect countenance, as fair
As that of Rachael in the days of old,
Or Ruth's, when blushing 'mid the “alien corn,”
But haughtier, perchance, than either,—proof
Of princely blood. Her eyes were deeply dark,
But tender, too, and full of fire, that shot
Into the gazer's soul the shafts of love.
Gilbert was overpowered, and captive now
In other bonds, which he might never break.

And thus they sat and talked, or mutely looked
Into each other's face most tenderly.
The roses seemed to listen,—bubbling fount
To echo all they uttered; whilst pet doves
Of glorious plumage flitted to and fro,
And filled the bower with sounds of happy life.

“Christian,” Zoana said—for such her name—
“If thou canst love a stranger to thy land,
I will be Christian too. If thou canst love,
Give me some token that shall bind our souls,—
Some token that may cheer me in the hour
When, haply, freedom takes thee from my sight,
And with thee all my joy.” With glowing pride
The Saxon hung about her graceful neck
A jewelled Crucifix, and with a kiss
They sealed the holy compact. “Tell me now
Thy country's name and thine, that I may know
Their sounds, and so repeat them as a spell
To charm me when alone, and link my soul
In memory to thee.” “My country's name
Is England; London the transcendent town
Where I was born; and I am Gilbert named.”
With many a laugh and pleasant look the Maid
Repeated the dear sounds, as does a child
The sweet words of its mother: what is more,

120

She mastered them, and they were words whereby
She mastered greater things; as I shall tell.

At length they parted, but to meet again
When chance and opportunity allowed.
But the Emeer returned, and weary months
Kept them asunder, whilst their hidden love
Fed on their hearts, and turned their faces pale.
Again the Chieftain went, with all his tribe,
To venture open battle, or annoy
The skirts of the Crusaders. Then the pair
Met as before, and strengthened every hour
The spell that bound them; but they never fell
Into the meshes of a low desire,
Nor soiled the hallowed bloom of chastest thoughts.

One day Zoana, with sad looks and sighs,
Percursors of her tears, said—“Gilbert, hear!
I see thee pining for thy native land,—
Thy bones are wasted, and thy eyes' mild light
Darkened with inward sorrow; gold were vain
To ransom thee from thrall; 'tis love alone
Must pay the price of thy delivery,
And I will pay it. Ere to-morrow's sun
Leaps on his way rejoicing, thou art free,
And I alone am captive! Were it not
That age is falling on my father's head,
And were it not that I am chiefest Rose
In all his garden, Light of all his house,
In his paternal eyes,—I would partake
Of liberty and love with thee; but that
Is hopeless yet. Cast slumber from thy eyes
This night, and I will visit thee,—no more
Perchance to see thee upon earth.” The Maid
Wept, wept on Gilbert's sorrow-heaving breast,
Who also wept in concert,—soothed, and prayed,—

121

Implored that she would share with him the gift
She offered; all in vain,—she only felt
The joy of grief, and in the indulgence she
With him wore all the afternoon away.

That night—a glorious night!—when troops of stars
Burned in the depths of heaven, and when the moon,
Of bright and ample disk, o'ertopped the arch
Of solemn midnight, stood beside his couch
The Angel of Delivery. “Oh! haste,
Be silent, fly!” she said, with 'bated breath;
“My favourite barb is champing at the gate;—
Take her, and keep her tenderly for me!
Fleet and sure-footed, she will bear thee soon
Beyond the reach of danger; fly at once!”
“And wilt thou not go with me, Maiden?” “No!
It cannot be! but thou shalt have my love,—
None other ever!” With her gentle hand
She led him forth, by many a sinuous path,
To where the steed stood snorting by the wall,
Impatiently. Zoana on her neck
Shed bitter tears, and with endearing hands
Caressed her. Unto Gilbert then she turned
With loving eyes; one long and ardent gaze,—
One close embrace, one burning kiss, wherein
Two lives seemed centred, and the Saxon Knight
Leaped in the saddle, spurned the dangerous ground,
And sped for life along the rugged road,
Peril before, a breaking heart behind!

Poor Maid! She had a double trial now
To brave and bear, well as her nature might,—
Her Sire's displeasure, and her hopeless love!
Long days and weary weeks she mused and mourned,
Forsook all solace, left her doves to fret,
Her roses to decay, her heart to break,

122

“Yet brokenly live on.” Not dance, nor song,
Nor charm of tuneful instrument, nor word
Of loving slave, nor bulbul's voice among
The acacia boughs, nor free and genial air,
Nor shape of beauty anywhere beguiled
Her sorrow now. She nursed it as a mother
Nurses an ailing child, the more because
It pained and troubled her. She pored long hours
On the dear jewelled Crucifix; she breathed
His name incessantly; she conjured up
His noble image to her inward sight;
She felt his influence in her inmost heart,
And nought could bring her joy. At length her Sire,
By Western soldiers baffled and sent back,
Stepped o'er his threshold. Who can paint the rage
Which shook him like a whirlwind, when he saw
His Captive gone, and from his Daughter's tongue
Learned all her disobedience and her love!
But that she kept strong hold on his affections,
And with her mother's fair transmitted face
Confronted him with gentleness, his hand
Had slain her on the spot. He only dared
To chafe, and fret, and gloom, and grow morose,
Which to Zoana was a constant rack
On which her heart was laid. It might not last.

Twelve moons had travelled through the halls of heaven
Since Gilbert went, and with him, too, a part
Of her existence. Greatly daring, she,
Beneath the friendly shadow of the night,
Quitted her father's palace; taking nought
But every-day adornments, and the garb
Of Eastern beauty she was wont to wear.
Her path she knew not, nor the country round,
For in a gilded cage she had been kept,

123

Unwitting of the world; but Providence,
Or instinct, or some hidden power which love
Created for her guidance, led her right,
And Westward kept her face.

For many a day,
For many a weary day, o'er burning sands,
O'er scarcely trodden paths, through tangled brakes
Where danger lurked, she nobly kept her way;
Eating of fruits that on uncultured trees
By chance she found, and drinking at the rills,
Scanty and few, that tinkled as she passed.
The wild was dangerous, but the haunts of men
More dangerous still. She came at last upon
The tracks of Warfare and of Violence,—
'Mong restless Arabs roaming o'er the waste
For blood or plunder, as the chance might be;
But these she passed, albeit their greedy eyes
Fell on her golden anklets, and the shower
Of costly ornaments that crowned her head.
But she gave look for look, and daring too;
Or, when unnoticed, sped in sudden flight,
Not daring to look back.

At length she came
Among the Western hordes, Crusading bands,—
The blue-eyed Saxon, and the fiery Gaul,
The dark-eyed Norman, warlike brothers all.
Zoana here recalled the darling words
Which were to be her talisman, and now
She “England, England! London, London!” cried,
With earnest voice, appealing with fair face
To all she met. Some jeered her as she passed,
And others with rude hands assailed her charms;
But others—gentle Knights—with courteous care
(Interpreting her well-known words aright)

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Gave her safe escort for a little way,
And pointed out her course.

On, on she went,
But listless, weary, hungry, and oppressed
For needful sleep,—a blessing she had caught
Only at intervals, beneath a tree,
A friendly rock, or thicket-covered dell,
Safe by God's Providence from savage claw
Or man's insulting hand. What is't she sees,
That with arrested step, dilated nostril,
And breast upheaving, she with wondering gaze
Looks on before her? Can it be the Sea?
It is, it is the Ocean! blue and bright,
A mighty desert greater than her own,
And fresher, lovelier far. She now beheld
Strange giant things, unknown to her before,—
Great ships with bellying sails, that strained to go
Out on the briny element of waves.
She was at Ptolemais, the ancient port,
Then famous and thick-peopled. Pilgrims there
In crowds were gathering to embark for home,
And she propitiated with her looks
Their pious natures, crying out alway—
“Oh! England, England!” plucking from her hair
Some gem wherewith to satisfy their claims,
And pay her voyage thither. All amazed,
Yet pitying the while, they took her in;
Gave food, and gentle words, and place of rest,
Where she lay down in happiness, and slept.
When sleep forsook her eyelids it was Eve,
Sweet Eve, with sunset on her brow, and far
They were at sea, no strip of land to break
The level grandeur of the great expanse.

Zoana stood upon the heaving deck,

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Musing on many things; her hope and love,
Her home and father, and her loneliness;
Which loneliness, meanwhile, expanded all
Her thoughts, and made her feel on equal terms
With any fate. But soon she felt a novel qualm,
The penalty which Neptune takes from all
New comers, lassitude of frame,
Sick fancies and sick feelings, and a scorn
Of life. But there were those at hand who knew
Her state, and came with ready help and kind.
When night had gathered deeply in, about
The middle watch, she was erect and well;
Walked on the deck, and stood upon the prow,
Big with her new emotions. Countless Stars—
Moon there was none on that her first sea night—
Clustered in constellations o'er her head:
Boötes and Arcturus,—Charles's Wain,—
Dazzling Orion, and the Golden Lyre,
Which looking down on that night-shadowed deep,
Seemed diamond points thick set in sombre steel.
And then the waves in tortuous play and wild,
Lifted their fringèd edges to the night,
And moved like blazing snakes, ahead—behind,
As if the sea were filled with lustrous life.
Bewildered, yet uplifted in her soul,
She stole to rest, and dreamed of him for whom
She perilled life and honour, all she had.

Morn rose upon that Mid-Terranean sea
In calm, clear glory, and the Syrian Maid
Was up as soon, filling her soul with grandeur.
Where'er she stepped, a silent homage glowed
In rudest hearts; the sailors were subdued
To gentle gestures and respectful looks,—
Proof of the power of Beauty, when 'tis linked

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With chaste demeanour, redolent of Heaven.

On sped the bark, past Cyprus, dedicate
To her the ocean-born, the Queen of Love;
Past Crete to old Melita, where St. Paul
Dropt manna from his lips; and on again
Towards Sicily, the Arcady of Song;
Touching, meanwhile, those many-clustered Isles,
Lipari, where the fires of Stromboli
Flame on incessant, a gigantic plume
Of gloom and glory, swaling towards the sky;
An old and constant beacon-fire to those
Who sail the surface of that lovely sea.
Still on the vessel made her gallant way,
The breeze propitious and the welkin clear,
Until she stayed her helm, and furled her sails,
At Honfleur, superannuated port
Of ancient Normandy.

The voyage o'er,
Zoana stepped upon the shore with joy
And gratitude, an utter stranger there;
And yet she thought 'twas England. Maid forlorn!
Thy trials were not ended! Flushed with hope
She trod the stranger streets, and unto all
Said with inquiring gesture—“England?” “No!”
And then they shook their heads, and with stretched hands
Pointed to distant shores. Zoana drooped,
And with despair unutterable fell
Prone on the ground. But generous hearts were there
Among the Poor—the Poor are ever kind
When Suffering to their feelings makes appeal—
Who took her in and tended her with care.
But on the morrow, restless as before,
The one great object of her hope and love
Unconsummated, she resolved to go.

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They led her forth, and on the great highway
Directed her towards England, but with mute
And kind farewells.

Then on she boldly sped
With resolute endeavour, while the birds
Sang in the wayside trees, and the mild light
Of the Autumnal Sun shone sweetly down,
And gilded all her path. Still on she went,
O'er wide and bare champaigns, through forest glooms
Of dreary length, small towns, and villages
Of rudest structure, rudely peopled; for
The children gathered round her, crying out—
“A Dancing Girl, a Dancing Girl!” and plucked
Her showy robe, and dashed with daring hand
At her bright ornaments, and boldly laughed
In her pale, pensive countenance; but she
Eluded them, and sped with quicker steps
Along her way. Seeing her ornaments
Awoke cupidity, she took them off,
And hid them in her bosom, lest they should
Work her yet greater harm. Within the towns
She met with better treatment, finding food,
And water for ablution, paying ever
With some small jewel from her store. As yet
She did not dare to lodge there, but preferred
To make her couch upon the grassy sward,
Beneath the shelter of a tree or thicket,
Albeit her delicate frame was numbed and chilled,—
Her garments and her tresses wet with dews,—
Her strength diminished and her health decayed.

Days had she travelled, weary and forlorn,
Hungry and faint, with lacerated feet,
And heart that fluttered and grew sick,—
Sick with its own emotions; worn and spent,

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Enfeebled and o'erpowered, and racked with pain,
Prone on a bank she lay despairing down,
What time the night was closing in, dark clouds
Heavy with rain o'erhanging in the sky,
And gusty winds whirling the faded leaves
Around her head. And there she lay and wept,
Calling on Gilbert with a passionate voice,
Till soul and sense in blank unconsciousness
Were blotted out, and moveless there she lay.

By happy chance a stalwart Monk drew nigh,
With hasty steps out-hurrying the storm
That gathered fast; with startled step he paused,
And marvelled much to see a female form,
Lovely and delicate, dressed in foreign garb,
Extended lifeless there. In his strong arms
He bore her gently as a little child,
And took her to his Monastery, where
They chafed her tender limbs, and used
Exciting cordials, haply to restore
The functions of her frame. As they unbound
Her snowy breast, they wondered to behold
The jewelled Crucifix, and pearls which she
Had lately worn. She woke to consciousness,
And found kind faces round her; then she fell
Into a deep and blessed sleep, for long,
Long hours. When slumber left her eyes
The noontide sun shone on the Gothic walls,
And she arose, and donned her robes, and tried
To go straightway, but they with gentle force
Withheld her, pointing to her tender feet.

Three days against her eager will she stayed,
Brooding upon her love. When these elapsed
She sought the Monk, and with inquiring eyes
Said—“England! London!” stretching forth her hand

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Towards where she knew not. He, with kindly looks
And fatherly solicitude, went out,
And put her on her track; but first he drew
Upon a tablet many a branching line
Whereby she might be governed, and not stray
Far from her proper path. And then he laid
His hand upon her head with reverent touch,
And blessed her, watching her receding form
Till it was gone from sight.

And she went on,
Refreshed in frame, renewed in hope, and came
Late in the afternoon upon a town
That looked upon the sea. The sea again!
And her heart sickened at the glorious sight,
Because it seemed interminable, and
A barrier which her courage must surmount.
Among the crowd she mingled, crying ever—
“Oh! England! London!” with most piteous voice.
She took a sparkling jewel from her breast,
And to a rough-faced Master of the Waves
Gave it beseechingly, and with a look
Of earnest pleading, “England!” on her lips.

And she embarked, and in some few brief hours
Saw the white cliffs of Albion looming up
On her enchanted gaze. “England!” they said,
And she set lightsome foot upon the soil,
Bowed down upon the ground, and kissed the stones,
Speeding along with foot as light and fleet,
With eyes as wildly bright, as the gazelle
In the wide plains of Araby the Blest.
Then “London! Gilbert!” she began to cry,
Deeming, poor Maid! that he was known to all.
The people, wondering, pointed out the way,
And gave her bread, and blessed her as she passed,

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Because of her strange beauty, which unlocked
All hearts, and riveted all eyes
In loving gaze.

On, on she went again,
Through Kent, delightful province! fair and green,
With gentle hills, and pastoral vales, and streams
For ever bright and musical. These charms
To young Zoana had a nameless spell
Which knit her to the land, or haply she
Loved it because of Gilbert, for whose love
She had left home and country. Soon she saw
The ancient towers of Canterbury, high
In the clear evening air. Couldst thou have seen
Into the womb of Time, Zoana, thou
Hadst felt a shudder through thy gentle frame,
A strange, dread shadow on thy gentle soul,
Passing this city; for thy haughty Son,
The Churchman Beckett, fell beneath the hands
Of violent assassins, who performed
The wish but not the word of kingly hate.
Within the walls of that Cathedral fane
Thy offspring died, staining with martyr-blood
The altar of the Lord;—so History tells.

The lovely Pilgrim,—Pilgrim of pure love,
Passed through the city, and for many miles
Pierced the unpeopled country, lying down
Beneath the boundless canopy of stars,
The moon her chamber-light, perchance to sleep.
Slumber was stealing o'er her purple lids,
And weariness relaxing all her limbs,
When sounds of heavy feet and boisterous laughter
Roused her to anxious consciousness. A form
Of ruffian aspect and gigantic build
Was drawing near her, with a noisy band

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Behind him. Those were rough, unsettled times,
And these marauders, living upon chance
And crime. “What, ho! what have we here?” exclaimed
The stalwart leader, as with rudest hands
He seized Zoana. “Dainty, by my soul!
A fitting mistress for an outlawed lord;—
Come thou with me!” Zoana, quick as light,
Drew from beneath her robe a trusty friend
She had not used—a short Damascus sword.
With this she pierced the ruffian's heart, and fled,—
Fled for her life a league along the way,
And breathless, hopeless, terrified, and faint,
Entered a village, and with all her weight
Fell 'gainst a cottage door. The inmates came,
Amazed,—beheld the lovely creature there,
And took her in, astonished at the sight.

The mother of that house—a gentle dame—
Was a pure Saxon, flaxen-haired and mild;
And she had daughters of her own, which were
Her household treasures; therefore did she feel
For this strayed Lamb, and in her motherly lap
Took her and nursed her like a petted child.
The sad, pale, patient Syrian Maid relapsed
Into a dangerous illness, which had been
Gathering within her in her pilgrimage.
Fever, delirium, and deep-seated ills
They wot not of, just held her o'er the grave,
But nothing more. For forty days she lay
In that poor cottage in the Wolds of Kent,
And then she rallied, for her very love
Sustained her, for her time was not yet come.

When partial strength returned, she would arise
And go upon her way; reproof was vain.
She poured into the lap of her who saved

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An ample recompense, and hurried out
To consummate her task. But now the ways
Were white with Winter's earliest snows; the trees
Naked and mournful, and the cheerless sun
Feeble in warmth and light; but ne'ertheless
She kept undaunted on, and in three days,
Quivering and aching all her fragile frame,
She trod the skirts of London. Maid forlorn!
A greater desert tasks thy efforts now
Than thine, or Ocean's; may the all-seeing God
Guide thee through all its labyrinths, and lead
Thy faltering footsteps safely to the goal!

Into the very thick and stir of that
Stupendous town she plunged; through countless streets
Reiterated with untiring lips
The darling music;—“Gilbert! Gilbert!” still
She rung in every ear and every place,
Until the sun went down, and she
Shivered through all the night despairingly;
Without a shelter, and without a roof
Save Heaven's. With the late dawning of the sun
She rose again, benumbed, and trembling 'tween
Two lives, of Earth or Heaven; and what were Earth's,
Without the precious link that bound her to't?
From dawn till noon, from noon till dusk of eve
She wandered on, the mocking-bird within
Her lonely heart exclaiming—“Gilbert!” Ne'er
For five brief minutes did the mournful word
Remain unuttered. Round about her came
A motley throng, which followed her about
And clogged her footsteps, which were getting faint
From inward agony.

At length, when night
Was stealing on with dim and dreary face,

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And snow was whirling in the leaden air,
She fell exhausted on the stony step
Of a great house that stood in ancient “Chepe;”
And though her limbs were motionless, her tongue
Cried “Gilbert! Gilbert!” with despairing strength,
The crowd about her roaring like the sea.
In that great mansion casements were unclosed,
And curious eyes looked out, as if to see
The cause of the commotion. Soon there came,
Rushing from out the door, a noble form,
Who gazed upon the wanderer. “God of Heaven!
Oh! can it be! It is!” and looking down,
He saw the jewelled Crucifix, that hung
Glittering upon her breast, and the dear name
Of “Gilbert!” coming faintly from her lips.
He spurned the crowd aside, and in his arms
Took the most precious Burden, and within
Bore her triumphantly, and closed the door.

“Oh! my Zoana! Treasure of my soul!
Bird that hath come from thy far Eastern nest,
For an unworthy mate, come to my heart,
And let me cherish thee unceasingly,—
Nurse thee, and love thee, and devote my life
To make and magnify thy happiness!”

And so he wed her, and for many years
They dwelt in Christian harmony and peace,
The Dove expiring in the nest it sought!

135

AUTUMN LEAVES.

POEMS PUBLISHED IN 1856.

137

A BOOK FOR THE HOME FIRESIDE.

When the night cometh round, and our duties are done,
And a calm stealeth over the breast,
When the bread that is needful is honestly won,
And our worldly thoughts nestle to rest,—
How sweet at that hour is the truth-written page,
With fancy and fiction allied!
The magic of childhood, the solace of age,
Is a Book for the Home Fireside.

There manhood may strengthen a wavering mind
By the sage's severest of lore;
There woman, with sweetness and pathos combined,
Make the fountains of feeling run o'er;
There the voices of children may warble like birds
What the poet has uttered with pride,
And the faint and despairing take heart at the words
Of a Book for the Home Fireside.

Many minds have been trained into goodness and grace,
And many stern hearts chastened down;
Many men have been nerved to look up with bright face,
Whatever misfortune might frown;

138

Many souls have been roused to new life, and grown great,
Though baffled, obstructed, and tried;
Have been schooled to endure, taught to “labour and wait,”
By a Book for the Home Fireside.

And not with the presence of Home is it gone,
For abroad in the fulness of day
Its spirit remains with us, cheering us on
O'er the roughness of life's common way;
And nature is lovely, but lovelier yet
Through the glass of reflection descried;
We have read of her wonders—and who would forget?—
In a Book for the Home Fireside.

Whate'er be my fortune, in shadow or shine,—
'Mid comfort, stern labour, or woe,
May I ne'er miss the taste of those waters divine
From the well-springs of Genius that flow;
I should lose a sweet charm, I should lack a great joy,
And my heart would seem withered and dried,
Did I want what has been my delight from a boy,—
A Book for the Home Fireside.

Bless the Bards and the Prosemen, wherever their clime,
Who bequeath us the wealth of their thought,
Their true revelations, their visions sublime,
Their fancies so tenderly wrought!
We were poor, with the riches of kings for our dower,
Without what their pens have supplied;
And that brain must be barren which owns not the power
Of a Book for the Home Fireside.

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Dear child! let thy leisure be linked with the page,
But one nor too light nor austere;
May its precepts improve thee, its spirit engage,
And its sentiments soften and cheer;
May it keep thy affections in freshness and bloom;
Console thee, exalt thee, and guide;
Be a flower in the sunshine, a star in the gloom,
A Book for the Home Fireside!

140

AUTUMNAL SONNETS.

[It seems but yesterday, when merry Spring]

It seems but yesterday, when merry Spring
Leapt o'er the lea, while clustering round her feet
Sprang buds and blossoms, beautiful and sweet,
And her glad voice made wood and welkin ring.
Now Autumn lords it o'er the quiet lands,
Like Joseph, clad in many-coloured vest,
Flinging rich largess from his bounteous hands,
And calling upon man to be his guest.
Like Joseph, he dispenses needful corn,
And fruitage, too, of many a goodly tree,
So that we may not feel ourselves forlorn,
Pining for sustenance at Nature's knee.
Corn, oil, and wine! there's music in the sound!
Oh, would that none might lack when such blest gifts abound!

[Not yet is autumn desolate and cold]

Not yet is autumn desolate and cold,
For all his woods are kindling into hues
Of gorgeous beauty, mixed and manifold,
Which in the soul a kindred glow transfuse.
The stubble fields gleam out like tarnished gold
In the mild lustre of the temperate day,
And where the ethereal ocean is unrolled,
Light clouds, like barques of silver, float away;

141

Ruffling the colours of the forest leaves,
The winds make music as they come and go;
Whispers the withering brake; the streamlet grieves,
Or seems to grieve, with a melodious woe;
Whilst in soft notes, which o'er the heart prevail,
The ruddy-breasted Robin pours his tender tale.

[The varying seasons ever roll, and run]

The varying seasons ever roll, and run
Into each other, like that are of light,
Born of the shower and coloured by the sun—
Which spans the heavens when April skies are bright.
First comes green-kirtled Spring, who leadeth on
Blue-mantled Summer of maturer age,
Sultana of the year. When she is gone,
Gold-girdled Autumn, solemn as a sage,
Reigns for a time, and on earth's ample page
(Illumined by his hand) writes “Plenty here!”
Then white-cowled Winter steps upon the stage,
Like aged monk, keen, gloomy, and austere.
But he whose soul sustains no cloud nor thrall,
Perceives power, beauty, good, and fitness in them all.

142

THE CHILD AND THE DEW-DROPS.

(IN MEMORY OF A LOST SON).

“O dearest mother! tell me, pray,
Why are the dew-drops gone so soon?
Could they not stay till close of day,
To sparkle on the flowery spray,
Or on the fields till noon?”

The mother gazed upon her boy,
Earnest with thought beyond his years,
And felt a sharp and sad annoy,
That meddled with her deepest joy,
But she restrained her tears.

“My child, 'tis said such beauteous things,
Too often loved with vain excess,
Are swept away by angel wings,
Before contamination clings
To their frail loveliness.

“Behold yon rainbow, brightening yet,
To which all mingled hues are given!
There are thy dew-drops, grandly set
In a resplendent coronet
Upon the brow of heaven.

143

“No stain of earth can reach them there,
Woven with sunbeams there they shine,
A transient vision of the air,
But yet a symbol, pure and fair,
Of love and peace divine.”

The boy gazed upward into space,
With eager and inquiring eyes,
While o'er his fair and thoughtful face
Came a faint glory, and a grace
Transmitted from the skies.

Ere the last odorous sigh of May,
That child lay down beneath the sod;
Like dew, his young soul passed away,
To mingle with the brighter day
That veils the throne of God.

Mother, thy fond, foreboding heart
Truly foretold thy loss and pain;
But thou didst choose the patient part
Of resignation to the smart,
And owned thy loss his gain.

144

MERCY.

God looked, and smiled upon the wakening earth,
In form, power, motion, wondrous and complete—
Which in the flush and beauty of new birth
Breasted the seas of ether at His feet.
Forth with companion worlds, that throbbed and shone
With warmth and light transmitted from His throne,
On noiseless axles ever spinning round,
She took her radiant way along the vast profound.

God called to Him three ministers, who wait
Unceasing on His wise and sovereign will,
Servants, and yet partakers of His state,
And watchers of all human good and ill;
An angel-formed triumvirate, with air
Of lofty thought beaming from foreheads bare,
August in presence as they were in name,
And clothed in flowing robes of many-coloured flame.

Justice was one, in aspect calm and cold,
With a severe, but not oppressive mien;
Another Truth, with brow sublimely bold,
And onward looks, all radiant and serene;
The last was Mercy, whose consoling eyes
Caught the reflection of celestial skies,
Mercy, with beauteous and beseeching face,
And wedded hands upraised with supplicating grace.

145

“Let us make Man, for, lo! yon lovely sphere,
Which in its amplitude of orbit rolls,
Shall be—ye bright Intelligences, hear!—
Place of probation for immortal souls;
There shall Man dwell—there shall he rule and reign,
But not exempt from sinfulness and pain,
Yet destined, 'mid his troubles and his storms,
To people boundless Heaven with countless angel forms.”

“Oh, make him not!” cried Justice; “I foresee
That he will trample on Thy sacred laws,
Doubt, question, violate Thy great decree,
Feel his own being, yet deny its cause.”
“Oh, make him not!” cried Truth; “for he will toil
'Gainst Thee and me, and ruthlessly despoil
Thy sanctuaries, grow corrupt and vain,
Worship himself, and scorn Thy everlasting reign.”

“Create this being, good and gracious Lord!”
Said gentle Mercy, with imploring look—
“And I will guide him by Thy precious Word,
The wisdom of Thy yet unwritten Book;
My voice shall move him with mysterious power;
My wings shall shield him in the perilous hour;
I'll check, subdue, inspire, as best I may,
The soul thou deign'st to breathe into the form of clay.”

“Even so be it!” And Man straightway was born,
Richly endued, and full of love and trust;
Serene, pure, happy, was his early morn,
Till the dread Tempter bowed him to the dust;
Then shame, and sorrow, and recurrent sin,
Shook his best nature, soiled the shrine within;
But Mercy pleaded, and God sent him light
To cheer his darkling soul, and guide his steps aright.

146

Let's take the angel Mercy to our heart,
And with her walk the rugged paths of life;
List to her teachings; learn the exalted art
That conquers hatred, prejudice, and strife.
Not Truth, nor Justice, must we put away,
But lean towards Mercy whensoe'er we may;
Forgive our brother, be ourselves forgiven,
And thus by gentlest deeds sue for the smiles of Heaven.

147

A PLEA FOR WOMAN.

It is well that beauteous woman
Has the quickest sense of wrong;
That the tenderest traits of feeling
To her faithful heart belong;
That her pure, heroic spirit,
Made to soften and prevail,
Wins its way to truth and justice,
When our ruder efforts fail.

Has she not from earliest ages
Borne the heaviest load of life,
Suffered in the silent conflict,
Struggled in the rudest strife?
Has she not with patient meekness
Won and worn the martyr's crown?
Even by her seeming weakness
Pulled the strongest tyrant down?

Day by day she has encountered
In her own domestic round,
Sharpest griefs, severest tortures,
All for language too profound;
Trembled through her woman's nature
Lest the outward world should know,
Single in her calm endurance,
Loving in her lofty woe.

148

Pestilence has not appalled her,
Dungeons have not driven her back,
She has smiled upon the scaffold,
And been silent on the rack.
She, a ministress of mercy,
Has gone forth from door to door,
'Suaging sickness, soothing sorrow,
In the chambers of the poor.

All unselfish, she has pleaded,
With an angel's earnest grace,
'Gainst the brand-mark and the bondage
Of old Afric's dusky race;
And not only for the alien,—
If an alien there can be—
But for all who shrink and suffer
On her own side of the sea:

Pleaded for her sister woman,
Moiling through the joyless day,
Hungering, hopeless, ever trembling
Lest she swerve from virtue's way;
Pleaded for the little children
Growing up to dangerous youth,
For the want of wholesome knowledge,
For the lack of genial truth.

And she has not been ungifted
With the mind's superior powers,
But has brought us bloom and fragrance
From the muse's magic bowers;
She has stirred our inmost natures
With a true and graceful pen,
Even snatched a wreath of honour
From the bolder brows of men.

149

Then let this dear mediator,
This companion of our way,
Have her natural power and province
In the great work of to-day;
Let her go upon her mission,
If she have no wish to roam,
Nor to break the ties that bind her
To the sacred bounds of home.

Let her have the purest knowledge,
That hereafter she may be
Teacher of serenest virtues,
To the children round her knee;
Foresight, faithfulness, forbearance,
Charity, and all good things,
Which prepare the human creature
For its future angel wings.

150

HOME.

Let us honour the gods of the household alway,
Love ever the hearth and its graces,
The spot where serenely and cheerfully play
The smiles of familiar faces;
Where the calm, tender tones of affection are heard;
Where the child's gladsome carol is ringing;
Where the heart's best emotions are quickened and stirred,
By the founts that are inwardly springing.

Oh! what are the charms of the banquet-hour glee,
And the words of frivolity spoken,
To the holier joys 'neath our quiet roof-tree,
When the compact of love is unbroken?
Not the selfish delight, the obstreperous mirth,
Not the glare of conventional splendour,
May compare with the spells that encircle our hearth,
If it hold but the true and the tender.

Too long 'mid the gay revel's profitless scene
The weak one may foolishly linger,
Where false pleasure lures him with treacherous mien,
And holds him with magical finger;

151

But he who has wisdom to baffle the snare
Clings close to his home, and how dearly!
Fond feelings, kind looks, are in store for him there,
And gentle words uttered sincerely.

Howsoever the spirit may struggle and fret
In the conflict of worldly commotion,
There's a solace to soothe and to strengthen us yet,
If home have our truest devotion.
It needeth not hall, nor palatial dome,
To afford us a refuge so holy;
To the loving and pure any spot is a home,
Be it ever so narrow and lowly.

And home, when it is home, sounds sweet in our ears,
For it speaks of our heart-cherished treasure;
'Tis a word which beguiles us of tenderest tears,
Or thrills us with tranquillest pleasure;
It prompts us to set rude enjoyments at nought,
It chastens our speech and demeanour;
It nerves us to action, awakes us to thought,
And makes our whole being serener.

Dear home, rightly guarded and graced, is a soil
Where the virtues are constantly growing;
'Tis a sanctified shelter, the guerdon of toil,
A thousand calm blessings bestowing.
Home, country, humanity, heaven! How they please,
Things leaving all else at a distance!
Who lends a true soul, does his duty to these,
Fulfils the best ends of existence.

152

LOOK UP.

“Look up!” cried the seaman, with nerves like steel,
As skyward his glance he cast,
And beheld his own son grow giddy, and reel
On the point of the tapering mast.
Look up! and the bold boy lifted his face,
And banished his brief alarms,
Slid down at once from his perilous place,
And leapt in his father's arms.

Look up! we cry to the sorely oppressed,
Who seem from all comfort shut,
You had better look up to the mountain crest,
Than down to the precipice foot.
The one offers heights ye may hope to gain,
Pure ether, and freedom, and room;
The other bewilders the aching brain
With roughness, and danger, and gloom.

Look up! meek soul, by affliction bent,
Nor dally with dull despair,
Look up, and with faith, to the firmament,
For Heaven and mercy are there.

153

The frail flower droops in the stormy shower,
And the shadows of needful night,
But it looks to the sun in the after hour,
And takes full measure of light.

Look up! sad man, by adversity brought
From high unto low estate,
Play not with the bane of corrosive thought,
Nor murmur at chance and fate.
Renew thy hopes; look the world in the face,
For it helps not those who repine;
Press on, and its cheer will amend thy pace;
Succeed, and its homage is thine.

Look up! great crowd, who are foremost set
In the changeful battle of life;
Some days of calm may reward ye yet
For years of allotted strife.
Look up, and beyond, there's a guerdon there
For the humble and pure of heart,
Fruition of joys unalloyed by care,
Of peace that can never depart.

Look up! large spirit, by Heaven inspired,
Thou rare and expansive soul!
Look up, with endeavour and zeal untired,
And strive for the loftiest goal;
Advance, and encourage the kindred throng,
Who toil up the slopes behind,
To follow, and hail with triumphant song
The holier regions of mind!

154

NOTHING IS LOST.

Nothing is lost; the drop of dew
That trembles on the leaf or flower
Is but exhaled, to fall anew
In summer's thunder-shower:
Perchance to shine within the bow
That fronts the sun at fall of day;
Perchance to sparkle in the flow
Of fountains far away.

Nought lost, for even the tiniest seed,
By wild birds borne or breezes blown,
Finds something suited to its need,
Wherein 'tis sown and grown;
Perchance finds sustenance and soil
In some remote and desert place,
Or 'mid the crowded homes of toil
Sheds usefulness and grace.

The little drift of common dust,
By the March winds disturbed and tossed,
Though scattered by the fitful gust,
Is changed, but never lost;
It yet may bear some sturdy stem,
Some proud oak battling with the blast,
Or crown with verdurous diadem
Some ruin of the past.

155

The furnace quenched, the flame put out,
Still cling to earth or soar in air,
Transformed, diffused, or blown about,
To burn again elsewhere;
Haply to make the beacon-blaze
That gleams athwart the briny waste,
Or light the social lamp, whose rays
Illume the home of taste.

The touching tones of minstrel art,
The breathings of some mournful flute
(Which we have hard with listening heart),
Are not extinct when mute:
The language of some household song,
The perfume of some cherished flower,
Though gone from outward sense, belong
To memory's after hour.

So with our words, or harsh, or kind,
Uttered, they are not all forgot,
But leave some trace upon the mind,
Pass on, yet perish not.
As they are spoken, so they fall
Upon the spirit spoken to,
Scorch it like drops of burning gall,
Or soothe like honey dew.

So with our deeds, for good or ill
They have their power, scarce understood;
Then let us use our better will
To make them rife with good.
Like circles on a lake they go,
Ring within ring, and never stay;
Oh, that our deeds were fashioned so
That they might bless alway.

156

Then since these lesser things ne'er die,
But work beyond our poor control,
Say, shall that suppliant for the sky,
The greater human soul?
Ah, no! it yet will spurn the past,
And search the future for its rest,
Joyful, if it be found at last
'Mong the redeemed and blest!

157

LOVE.

Love is an odour from the heavenly bowers
Which stirs our senses tenderly, and brings
Dreams which are shadows of diviner things,
Beyond this grosser atmosphere of ours.
An oasis of verdure and of flowers,
Love smileth on the pilgrim's weary way;
There sweeter airs, there fresher waters play;
There purer solace speeds the tranquil hours.
This glorious passion, unalloyed, endowers
With moral beauty all who feel its fire;
Maid, wife and offspring, sister, mother, sire,
Are names and symbols of its hallowed powers.
Love is immortal, from our hold may fly
Earth's other joys, but Love can never die.

158

THE RETURN OF PEACE.

Once more to visit a distracted world,
The spirit of sweet Peace comes trembling down,
As war's ensanguined flag is newly furled,
And the gorged vulture from his banquet flown;
She comes to solace our lorn hearts again
For countless losses in the fatal fray;
Oh, let us give her an enduring reign,
Nor scare the angel visitant away!

Her deeds are bloodless, dignified, and just,
'Gainst the mixed evils of our lower life,
And far more worthy of our hopeful trust
Than the vain victories of mortal strife;
Against injustice, ignorance, and crime,
She sets her hallowed powers in bright array;
Oh, let us make her sojourn here sublime,
Nor scare the angel visitant away.

Let stalwart Labour clear his clouded brow,
Toil on, but with strong rectitude of soul,
Seize manfully the treasures of the Now,
And strive with honour for a loftier goal;
Let him love Freedom, whose refulgent wings
Add richer glory to the glorious day,
And Peace, for the calm blessings that she brings,
Nor scare the angel visitant away.

Let men who make or minister the laws,
So use them that the humblest may rejoice,
And get the noble meed of pure applause
From a united people's grateful voice;

159

Let them give lustre, majesty, and grace,
And vital spirit, to the lands they sway,
Keep faith with Peace, and bless her dear embrace,
Nor scare the angel visitant away.

Art, Science, Knowledge, may serenely grow,
And human virtues quicken and expand,
Even gaunt Poverty o'ercome its woe,
Where Peace remains the guardian of the land;
But he is wilful, pitiless, or blind,
From right, and righteous feeling, all astray,
Foe to his God, his country, and his kind,
Who scares the angel visitant away.

For dormant passion, prejudice, and pride,
Start into evil at War's trumpet-call;
And hearts are seared, and souls are trouble-tried,
And minds subjected to a slavish thrall.
While industry is baffled, Waste runs wild,
And Liberty stands still in mute dismay!
Let us choose Peace, if wise and undefiled,
Nor scare the angel visitant away.

Albeit men differ in their clime and creed,
In thought and predilection, as in tongue,
Say, would the nations murmur to be freed
From hideous War and its unfailing wrong?
Would they could bid the mighty torment cease,
By some great law which none would disobey,
Make an inviolate covenant with Peace,
Nor scare the angel visitant away.

July 1855.

160

SAINT CHRISTOPHER.

A LEGEND.

“My limbs wax strong, my thoughts expand,”
Said Christopher of old,
As he lay musing 'mid the hills,
His flock within the fold,—
“I fain would serve some mighty power,
The highest, if may be,
And change this dull and dreamy life
For one more wide and free.”

He girt his robe about his loins,
And wandered far away,
Until he reached a battle-ground,
That shuddered with the fray.
With stalwart strength, and dauntless heart,
He turned the tide of fight,
And snatched a wreath of victory
Ere waned the evening light.

Then the exulting host bowed down
Before a gorgeous shrine,
And seemed to offer words of praise
Unto a power divine.

161

“A king divine?” said Christopher,
“Where does the monarch dwell?”
“Above, beyond us,” answered they,
“But where we cannot tell.”

Again he gathered up his robe,
And donned his sandal shoes,
Took staff in hand, and wandered forth,
Not knowing where to choose;
Until amid the lonesome wild
He met a hermit hoar,
Who lifted up his kindly eyes,
And scanned him o'er and o'er.

“Where may I find the king divine?”
Outspoke the pilgrim brave,
“I fain would serve him with my strength,
More truly than a slave.”
“His kingdom is not here, my son,
Albeit his cross I wear:
Wouldst win admission to his throne?
Lift up thy voice in prayer.”

“I cannot pray, thou reverent man,
I have not words enow,
But if brave deeds may aught avail,
These will I strive to do.”
“Behold yon torrent!” said the sage,
“That roars from hill to glen;
Wait on its banks, and watch for work;
Serve God by helping men.”

The pilgrim found a leafy tent
Beside that dangerous wave,

162

And daily sought, with earnest zeal,
To succour and to save;
And when he snatched some precious life
From that o'erwhelming stream,
His good, glad feelings found their way
Up to the great Supreme.

One day there came a little child,
With soft and sunny hair,
With eyes that beamed serenely mild,
With face divinely fair;
And with a voice of winning power
The little stranger cried—
“Come help me, valiant Christopher,
Across this angry tide.”

He took the lovely infant up
Upon his shoulders broad,
With strange emotions in his soul,
That pleased, yet overawed;
But fiercer grew the torrent's force,
And heavier grew the child,
Who almost bowed the strong man down
Beneath those waters wild.

“O river! why dost rave the more
In absence of the storm?
And, child, what art thou that I bend
Beneath thy tiny form?”
“Press on, good servant as thou art,
Be faithful to thy word;
Thou bear'st the world's whole weight to-day,
For I am Christ, thy Lord.”

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“The stream is past, the danger o'er,
Blest be thy future powers!
Here plant thy staff. Behold how soon
It blossoms into flowers!
There let it stand and flourish long,
A symbol and a sign
Of thy unswerving faithfulness
Unto the King divine.

“Unsought, untaught of men, thy heart,
Moved by a hidden power,
Did scorn the specious things of earth
For Heaven's transcending dower.
I give thee speech, that thou may'st teach
Hearts kindred to thy own;
Go forth, and bring repentant souls
Unto my Father's throne.”

Prone on the earth, Saint Christopher
His trembling homage paid,
While on his head the holy child
A lasting blessing laid.
When he looked up, the vision fair
Had vanished from his eyes,
But an unwonted glory streamed
Along the wondering skies.

164

THE LOST ONE.

I mourn, albeit I mourn in vain,
To miss that being from my side
Who bound in Love's resistless chain
My selfishness and pride;
She whom I proved in after days
A faultless friend, a faithful wife,
Who cheered me through the roughest ways
Along the vale of life.

I miss her greeting when I rise
To needful toil at early morn,
And the bright welcome of her eyes
When irksome day is worn;
I sorely miss from ear and sight
Her comely face, her gentle tongue,
Which praised me when I went aright,
And warned when I was wrong.

I lack her love, which filled my heart
With kindred tenderness and joy,
And fondly kept my soul apart
From the harsh world's annoy;

165

That love which raised me from the dust
Of sordid wish and low desire,
And taught me by its own sweet trust
How nobly to aspire.

My hopes were wilder than I deemed,
When she espoused my humble lot,
For my connubial pleasures seemed
As they would perish not;
But an unerring Providence,
Whose power is ever just and great,
Called my beloved companion hence,
And left me desolate.

The greenness from my path is gone,
Its springs are sunken in the sand,
And wearily I travel on
Across a desert land.
The prospect round me, once so bright
With glorious hues, seems dim and bare,
But the far distance shows one light
Which keeps me from despair.

Oh, no! not wholly desolate,
For she has left her image here,
And I will wrestle with my fate
For sake of one so dear.
Great God, keep strong and undefiled
The only fledgling in my nest,
My winsome boy, my only child,
And make his father blest.

166

May his lost mother's spirit now
Look down from her exalted place,
And shed on his unconscious brow
A portion of her grace!
May Heaven inspire my widowed soul
For highest duties, holiest things,
And when I near the shadowy goal
Lend me immortal wings.

167

NOT BREAD ALONE.

Albeit for lack of bread we die,
Die in a hundred nameless ways,
'Tis not for bread alone we cry
In these our later days.

It is not fit that man should spend
His strength of frame, his length of years,
In toiling for that daily end,
Mere bread, oft wet with tears.

That is not wholly good and gain
Which seals the mind and sears the heart,
The life-long labour to sustain
Man's perishable part.

His is the need and his the right
Of leisure, free from harsh control,
That he may seek for mental light,
And cultivate his soul.

Leisure to foster into bloom
Affections struggling to expand;
And make his thought, with ampler room,
Refine his skill of hand.

168

And he should look with reverent eyes
On Nature's ever-varying page;
Not solely are the wondrous skies
For schoolman and for sage.

Earth's flower-hues blush, heaven's starlights burn,
Not only for the easy few;
To them the toiling man should turn
For truth and pleasure too.

And he should have his proper share
Of God's great gifts, whate'er they be,
Food, raiment, stainless light and air,
And knowledge pure and free.

But if ye stint his brain or bread,
And drive him in one dreary round
(Since he and his must needs be fed),
Ye crush him to the ground.

His mind can have no soaring wing;
His heart can feel no generous glow,
Ye make of him that wretched thing—
A slave, and yet a foe!

169

THE HOUSEHOLD DARLING.

Little Ella, fairest, dearest
Unto me and unto mine,
Earthly cherub, coming nearest
Unto me and unto mine!
Her brief absence frets and pains me,
Her blithe presence solace brings,
Her spontaneous love restrains me
From a hundred selfish things.

Little Ella moveth lightly,
Like a graceful fawn at play:
Like a brooklet running brightly
In the genial smile of May:
Like a breeze upon the meadows,
All besprent with early flowers;
Like a bird 'mid sylvan shadows,
In the golden summer hours.

You should see her, when with Nature
She goes forth to think or play,
Every limb and every feature
Drinking in the joy of day;
Stooping oft 'mid floral splendour,
Snatching colours and perfumes,
She doth seem, so fair and tender,
Kin to the ambrosial blooms.

170

Sweet thought sitteth like a garland
On her placid brows and eyes,
Eyes which seem to see a far land
Through the intervening skies;
And she seems to listen often
To some voice beyond the spheres,
Whilst her earnest features soften
Into calmness, kin to tears.

Not all mirthful is her manner,
Though no laugh so blithe as hers;
Grave demeanour comes upon her
When her inmost nature stirs.
When a gentle lip reproves her,
All her gladsome graces flee,
But the word “forgiveness” moves her
With new confidence and glee.

Should a shade of sickness near me,
Then she takes a holier grace,
Comes to strengthen and to cheer me,
With her angel light of face.
Up the stair I hear her coming,
Duly at the morning hour,
Softly singing, sweetly humming,
Like a bee about a flower.

Good books wake serenest feelings
In her undeveloped mind,
Holy thoughts, whose high revealings
Teach her love for human kind.
Music thrills her with a fervour
As from songs of seraphim;
May bright spirits teach and nerve her
To partake their perfect hymn!

171

We will show her things of beauty
In the purest form and hue,
And the charms of moral duty,
Though our virtues are but few;
We will strive, despite our weakness,
So to train her thoughts and deeds
That true firmness, linked with meekness,
May sustain her when she needs.

God of Heaven! in Thy good seeing
Spare this darling child to me,
Spare me this unsullied being
Till she brings me close to Thee!
Unseen angels! bless her, mould her
Into goodness, clothed with grace,
That at last I may behold her
Talking with ye, face to face!

172

THE DRUMMER'S DEATH-ROLL.

To a region of song and of sunnier day,
The battle-host wended its wearisome way,
Through the terrible Splugen's tenebrious gloom,
That seemed to lead on to the portals of doom.
But the Alp-spirit struggled to break and to bar
The resolute march of those minions of war;
For the savage winds howled through the gorges of stone;
And the pine forest muttered a menace and moan;
And the rush of the hurricane caused them to reel;
And the frost-breezes smote them like sabres of steel;
And the torrents incessantly thundered and hissed;
And the scream of the eagle came harsh through the mist;
And the avalanche stirred with a deep, muffled roar,
Like the boom of the sea on a desolate shore,
Till it leapt from its throne with a flash, and a speed
That hurled to destruction both rider and steed;
And Love could not hope, by the strongest endeavour,
To weep on the spot where they slumber for ever!

A drummer went down with the burden of snow,
But struggled, and lived, 'mid the buried below,
Survived for a brief, but how awful a space!
In the granite-bound depth of that horrible place.

173

He looked from the jaws of that rock-riven grave,
And called on the Mother of Jesus to save;
But Heaven seemed deaf to his piteous wail,
And men could not hear his sad voice on the gale;
And, alas! human help could not come to him there,
Nor the breezes waft home the farewell of his prayer.
But still he clung closely to hope and to life,
And waged with disaster a desperate strife,—
A conflict which midnight might solemnly close,
And leave him the peace of a lasting repose.

A sudden thought thrilled through his wandering brain,
His drum lay beside him, he smote it amain,
And brought from its hollow a vigorous sound,
That wakened the wild mountain echoes around,
And startled the vulture that circled away,
But returned to his vigil, impatient for prey.
Roll, roll went the drum till the sunset was passed,
And scattered its tones on the hurrying blast,
While his friends, far away on their Alpine career,
Caught the dolorous sound with a sorrowful ear;
For they knew that a comrade was hopelessly lost,
Left alone to the tortures of hunger and frost,
Cut off from the reach of humanity there,
And beating his drum with the strength of despair!

But who can imagine his quick-coming fears,
His visions, his agonies, yearnings, and tears,
When paralysed, spent, and benumbed to the bone,
He sank on his snow-bed to perish alone?
What fancy can bring back the pictures that passed
O'er the brain of the desolate lost one at last,
Ere death came to still the last pulse in his breast,
And stretch out his limbs in a petrified rest?

174

Perchance his bright childhood came back to his thought,
And his youth, when his heart in love's meshes was caught,
And his village, embowered in a vine-covered vale,
With peace in its aspect, and health in its gale;
The blithe peasant maiden he learned to adore,
And his home which his shadow would darken no more,
That home where his parents and kindred were gay,
In the hope of his coming at no distant day,
That meeting which never would gladden their eyes,
Save in the blest climate of holier skies.

Whate'er his last hope, aspiration, and prayer,
Untended, he died in his loneliness there,
In a place of sublimities, horrors, and storms,
Surrounded by Nature's most terrible forms,
Where the voices of avalanche, wild wind and wave,
Sang a varying dirge o'er his rock-riven grave.
Let us hope that his soul, in the hour of its gloom,
By its faith cast aside all the terrors of doom,
Left the desolate dust to commix with the clod,
And awakened with joy in the regions of God!

175

TO A BLIND POET.

Judge me not harshly, aged man and blind,
If in my rude, brief song, I fail to bring
Aught worthy of thy worth. I cannot sing
All I have seen of thy unworldly mind.
Thy clouded eyes; thy silvery hairs; thy kind
And calm deep-thoughted countenance; thy smile
Of generous confidence, which beams midwhile
With quiet mirth, and memories unconfined;
Thy child-like love of poetry refined;
Thy thirst for Nature's melodies; thy light
Of soul which burns behind the external night;
Thy tolerant piety; thy heart resigned,
Make thee a rare example, and our pride
Is humbled to behold thy blindness glorified.

176

GERALDINE.

There thou goest, there thou goest,
In thy virgin robes arrayed,
Pale and drooping, for thou knowest,
What true heart thou hast betrayed.
Hark! thy bridal bells are ringing!
Do they waken happy tears?
Their exulting peal is flinging
Torture, discord in my ears.
Are they tuneful unto thine,
Fair and fickle Geraldine?

Now thou standest at the altar,
Where truth only should be heard;
Dost not inly feel, and falter
To pronounce one fateful word?
No! I hear thy lips of beauty
Utter the degrading “yes,”
And the pastor, as in duty,
Stretches forth his hands to bless.
Can such compact be divine,
Fair, false-hearted Geraldine?

Of the tender vows we plighted
Thine were flung in empty air,
And my spirit is benighted
In the darkness of despair!

177

Gold has bought thee; will it bless thee?
With thou find it ought but dross?
Will the hands that now caress thee
Pay thee for a true heart's loss?
Time, perchance, will show the sign,
Fair and faithless Geraldine!

Go, and may all ill betide thee!
Go, to splendid misery led,
With that mindless worm beside thee,—
Him whom thou hast dared to wed!
May the ring that rounds thy finger
Seem a serpent to thy gaze,
And a sense of loneness linger
With thee all thy coming days;
Loveless, childless, may'st thou pine,
Fair, false-hearted Geraldine!

Frenzied words! I will not blame thee,
I whose soul thy beauty won;
Sense of duty overcame thee
In the wrong which thou hast done.
Thou has left a grief within me,—
Grief which time may yet repress,
But let sweet forgiveness win me
To desire thy happiness.
Whatsoe'er of pain be mine,
Peace be with thee, Geraldine.

178

CHRISTMAS EVE.

Christmas Eve came to us darkly,
Darkly to our cottage door,
Not with brave and boisterous greeting,
As it used to come of yore;
Not with soft and silent snow-fall,
Nor with frost-wind brisk and keen,
Yet it brought its berries blushing
'Mid the holly, hale and green.

Many busy footsteps pattered
Through our little thoroughfare,
Children sent on pleasant errands
For the dainties they must share;
Young and merry-hearted maidens
Gaily flitted to and fro,
With a quick throb in their bosoms,
With their faces in a glow.

And the clean and cheerful windows
Gleamed upon the sombre night,
While commingled voices, singing,
Told of leisure and delight;
Genial voices, linked together
In some quaint and homely rhyme,
In some old and hopeful carol,
Fitted for the holy time.

179

In that little street of workers,
Brightening up from side to side,
One poor dwelling showed no signal
Of the merry Chrismastide;
Feebly shone a single taper
By the hearthstone, cold and bare;
Poverty and tribulation
Hung their mournful banners there.

A forlorn and friendless widow
Gazed upon her only boy,
Whose young stream of life was ebbing
Back unto a realm of joy;
And as Time, with stealthy footstep,
Strode into another day,
Death stood by that lonely mourner,
For the life had ebbed away.

With the first burst of her anguish—
“Hark! what news the angels bring!”
Rang from loud and joyous voices,
Mixed with tuneful flute and string;
And she thought she heard her darling,
High among the radiant spheres,
Singing with melodious gladness—
“Mother, mother, dry thy tears!”

And she dried them, and subdued them,
Kept their fountains sealed within,
Lest her unavailing sorrow
Should be written down as sin;
But the cheering faith came o'er her
That she was not all alone,
That the Child-God of the manger
Had the keeping of her own.

180

PRECIOUS TIME.

When we have passed beyond life's middle arch,
With what accelerated speed the years
Seem to flit by us, sowing hopes and fears
As they pursue their never-ceasing march!
But is our wisdom equal to the speed
That brings us nearer to the shadowy bourn,
Whence we must never, never more return?
Alas! each wish is wiser than the deed!
“We take no note of time but from its loss,”
Sang one who reasoned solemnly and well;
And so it is, we make that dowry dross
Which would be treasure, did we learn to quell
Vain dreams and passions. Wisdom's alchemy
Transmutes to priceless gold the moments as they fly!

181

A THOUGHT ON WAR.

'Tis strange, profanely strange, but men will stand
Upon some spot of blighted happiness,
Where the Omnipotent's mysterious hand
Has fallen with disaster and distress,
And they, perchance, will question His just laws,
Wax grave, and sigh, and look demurely wise,
As if, poor fools! they could arraign the Cause,
And see with Wisdom's never-failing eyes!
But let them saunter o'er a battle-plain,
Still red and reeking from the recent strife,
Where, spurred by lust of conquest and of gain,
Relentless heels have trod out human life,
And they will prate of greatness, glory, fame!
God! how Thy creature man insults Thy holy name!

182

JUDGE NOT TOO HASTILY.

Oh! judge not too hastily man and his mind,
Nor deem ye can read him at once and for aye,
There is some reservation, some secret behind
The face that ye look upon, look as ye may.
The moon has her aspects of change in the skies,
With her broad shield of silver, her crescent of gold,
But still there remains, turned away from our eyes,
A part of her orb we can never behold.
Even such is our nature, yet do not despair,
But foster kind feeling whatever befall;
Wait, watch, and examine, with kindness and care,
And grudge not the charity due unto all.

In outward demeanour, look, action and speech,
We alter with circumstance, meaning no ill,
Unconsciously changing our manner to each,
Through an instinct that prompteth the heart or the will.
In the presence of some our affections rebel,
With others our natural sympathies glow;
But the power, which, by turns, doth attract and repel,
Is beyond what our limited wisdom can know.
Even such is our nature, but be of good cheer,
Nor let a first feeling your reason enthral;
Ye can be kind and truthful to those ye hold dear,
And still render charity due unto all.

183

How oft we encounter, from home-life apart,
The shy and forbidding, the frank and the bold!
But the sternest in face may be kindest at heart,
And the liveliest inwardly shallow and cold.
Yon stranger who seemeth all goodness and grace,
In worldly proprieties careful alway,
May be burning with passions that warp and debase,
And building up schemes to allure and betray.
Even such is man's nature, yet be ye not sad
That the light of his virtues seems fitful and small,
Acknowledge all good, make the best of the bad,
And thus render charity due unto all.

A false one may hail us in vesture of light,
And scatter with flowers the by-ways of wrong;
A true one may haunt us in robes of the night,
And watch that we stumble not, passing along;
One frowns in his virtues; one smiles in his crimes,
One smites, while another uplifts from the ground;
But our faith should be this—for we feel it sometimes—
That commixed with all evil some good may be found.
Then judge not too hastily, lest ye condemn,
And banish some angel ye cannot recall;
To the firm of pure purpose, give honour to them,
To the frail give the charity due unto all.

184

THE HAPPY CHANGE.

(A TEMPERANCE RHYME.)

“Oh! will he come?” said Alice Wray,
“He did not once deceive,
And for the dear sake of the past
I will again believe.”
So faithful Alice trimmed the hearth,
And made the kettle sing,
Responsive to the cricket's voice
That made the cottage ring.

Fair Alice and her children three,
In clean, though poor attire,
Together chatted pleasantly
Beside the evening fire.
Hark! slowly beats the minster clock!
Be patient yet awhile,
Another brief half-hour, Alice,
Will make thee weep or smile.

She waited with a throbbing heart
Until the middle chime,
When William o'er the threshold stepped,
Hours ere his wonted time.
Sober, erect, and thoughtful, too,
He clasped his joyful wife,
Who deemed that sombre winter eve
The happiest of her life.

185

“I've vowed,” he cried, “no more to touch
The cup of deadly ill;
God! help me to retrieve the past
With well-directed will!
And now, dear wife, let us partake
The food which God has blessed.”
And never was a frugal meal
Enjoyed with sweeter zest.

With reverent hands he oped the Page
He had not touched for years,
And read and wept, but found at last
Hope, comfort, in his tears.
Then the contented pair lay down
In peace, but newly won,
With the consoling consciousness
Of one great duty done.

And William swerved not; from that hour
He chose the better way,
And from the path of usefulness
Scarce had one thought to stray;
With speech, heart, soul, he strove to wean
The drunkard from hsi bane;
Nor were his labours profitless,
Nor were his teachings vain.

Few are the minds so prompt and firm
As this once-erring one;
Would there were more to help the frail,
Ere every hope is gone!
Blest be the cause for which they toil,
And may their power expand,
Till they have crushed the giant curse,
The nightmare of the land!

186

A VOICE FROM THE FACTORY.

(WRITTEN IN APRIL 1851.)

I hear men laud the coming Exhibition,
I read its promise in the printed page,
And thence I learn that its pacific mission
Is to inform and dignify the age;
It comes to congregate the alien nations,
In new, but friendly bonds, old foes to bind;
It comes to rouse to nobler emulations
Man's skill of hand, man's energy of mind.

A thousand vessels breasting wind and ocean,
A thousand fire-cars, snorting on their way,
Will startle London with a strange commotion,
Beneath the genial radiance of May;
And we shall hail the peaceable invasion
With voice of welcome, cordial grasp of hand,
And, in the grandeur of the great occasion,
See signs of brotherhood 'tween every land.

Would I might walk beneath that dome transcendent,
Than old Alhambra's halls more proudly fair,
Nay, than Aladdin's palace more resplendent,
Bright as if quarried from the fields of air;
Would I might wander in its wondrous mazes,
Filled with embodied thought in every guise,
See Art and Science in their countless phases,
And bless the power that gave them to my eyes.

187

Men are about me with pale, vacant faces,
Human in shape, in spirit dark and low;
They do not care for Genius and its graces,
Nor understand, nor do they seek to know.
But I have read and pondered, feeling ever
Deep reverence for the lofty, good, and true,
And, therefore, yearn to see this high endeavour
Stand grandly realised before my view.

But what to me are these inspiring changes,
That gorgeous show, that spectacle sublime?
My labour, leagued with poverty, estranges
Me from this mental marvel of our time.
I cannot share the triumph and the pageant,
I a poor toiler at the whirling wheel,
The slave, not ruler, of a ponderous agent,
With bounding steam-pulse, and with arms of steel.

My ears are soothed by no melodious measures,
No work of sculptor charms my longing gaze,
No painter thrills me with exalted pleasures,
But books and thought have cheered my darkest days.
Thank God for Sundays! Then impartial Nature
Folds me within the shelter of her wings,
And drinking in her every voice and feature,
I feel more reconciled to men and things.

I shall not see our Babel's summer wonder,
Save in the proseman's page or poet's song,
But I shall hear it in the far-off thunder
Of other lands, applauding loud and long.
Why should I murmur? I shall share with others
The glorious fruits of that triumphant day;
Hail, to the time that makes all nations brothers!
Hail, to the advent of the coming May!

188

HARVEST HYMN.

The nations heave with throes of strife,
And men look on with wondering eyes,
Mourn the dread waste of human life,
Yet raise their angry battle-cries.
While poets cheer the valiant throng
With chants of hope or victory,
Be mine a pure thanksgiving song,—
Lord of the harvest, praise to Thee!

Thy tented fields how different they,
How lovely, soothing, and serene!
Where the ripe sheaves, in long array,
Smile in the soft autumnal sheen;
And where no ruder sounds are heard
Than the blithe reaper's voice of glee,
Or vagrant breeze, or gladsome bird,—
Lord of the harvest, praise to Thee!

Whoever fails, Thou dost not fail;
Whoever sleeps, Thou dost not sleep;
With fattening shower, and fostering gale,
Thy mercy brings the time to reap;
Man marks each season and its sign,
And sows the seed and plants the tree,
But form, growth, fulness, all are Thine,—
Lord of the harvest, praise to Thee!

189

O God! it is a pleasant thing
To see the precious grain expand,
And the broad hands of Plenty fling
Her golden largess o'er the land;
To see the fruitage swell and glow,
And bow with wealth the parent tree;
To see the purple vintage flow,—
Lord of abundance, praise to Thee!

Praise for the glorious harvest days,
And all the blessings that we share;
For the unbounded sunlight praise,
And for the free and vital air;
Praise for the faith that looks above;
The hope of immortality;
For life, health, virtue, truth and love,
Maker and Giver, praise to Thee!

190

THE ARAB'S SONG.

In Caypha's hallowed garden-grounds,
All shadowy, green and cool,
Where leaps the living fountain-jet,
Where sleeps the glassy pool,—
Swathed in an atmosphere of joy,
There dwells a virgin flower,
Whose breath and beauty seem to fill
Its consecrated bower.

The bulbul seems to love it, too,
And pours its pensive tune
Through the soft lapse and slumbrous light
Of the admiring moon;
And when the morning kindleth up,
The sun's enamoured beams
Look in to bless with fostering glow
This flower of all my dreams.

The acacia drops its silver dew,
The palm its tender gloom,
To cherish this “consummate flower,”
And share its full perfume;
And Syria's ardent sky looks down
On its expanding form,
But seldom there hangs lowering cloud,
Or wakes the voice of storm.

191

Its eyes (oh, wild, yet winning eyes!),
Which shame the proud gazelle,
Shine like twin trembling gems that lie
In ocean's rosy shell.
Now they repose in quiet trance
Beneath thought's holy sway;
Anon, they burn with haughty fire,
To scare my hopes away.

So sweet its fragrance, and so far
It floats on breeze and blast,
The pilgrim halts within its reach,
And deems the desert passed;
The chief who flies on foaming steed
Before unequal foes,
Checks for a space his fearful flight
To breathe it as he goes.

The simoom's fleet and fiery wing
Abhors all grateful smells,
And enters with its baneful power
Where aught of freshness dwells;
But this one odour, closely sealed
Within my faithful heart,
Outlives the weary, wasting wind,
And will not thence depart.

In the soft air of pastoral life,
Away from griefs and glooms,
Untouched by sorrow, sin, or strife,
This garden glory blooms.
Maiden, that blush of modest thought
Reveals some hidden power,
Think of thy own dear, gentle name,
And thou wilt know the flower.

192

Oh, 'twere a blessing lent of Heaven
Through long enraptured years,
To watch and shed around thee, too,
Pure love's ecstatic tears!
My desert home, my tribe, my steed,
My sword, my roving will,
I'd yield them all with thee, sweet flower,
To dwell on Carmel's hill!

193

HAPPY OLD AGE.

I feel that age has overta'en
My steps on Life's descending way,
But Time has left no lingering pain,
No shadow of an evil day;
And you, my children, gather near
To smooth and solace my decline,
And I have hope that your career
Will be as blest as mine.

Not all exempt has been my sky
From threatening storm and lowering cloud,
But sunbursts shed from source on high
Have cheered my spirit when it bowed;
Not all without the shard and thorn
Has been my path, from first to last,
But springs and flowers, of Mercy born,
Have soothed me as I passed.

I have not lived all free from sin,
For what imperfect nature can?
But I have no remorse within
For scorn of my poor fellow-man;
Kin to the humblest of my race,
And 'bove all worldly sects and creeds,
I never turned disdainful face
Against a brother's needs.

194

And now my mind, all clear and cool,
(As I serenely talk or muse),
Is tranquil as yon glassy pool,
Reflecting Autumn's sunset hues;
Time has not dulled my moral sense,
Nor has it dimmed my mental sight;
No passions weaken my defence,
No doubts and cares affright.

But Retrospection, even yet,
Will lead me through past trodden ways,
And I remember—why forget?—
The magic of my early days;
All Nature so divinely wrought,
The unravelled mystery of things,
Awoke me to exalted thought,
And lent my spirit wings.

And I remember how I grew
Up to the sunny noon of youth;
From youth to manhood, till I knew
That love was near akin to truth.
My trials, bravely overcome,
My triumphs, not of purpose vain,
All these, with vague but pleasant hum
Still murmur through my brain.

My children, offspring of a tree
Whose top is hoary with decay,
Whose trunk is shaken as may be
Before it falls and fades away—
Receive what faithful men unfold;
Revere what truthful men proclaim;
And before Heaven and man uphold
The honour of my name.

195

For me, I have no mortal fear,
No tremblings as I hurry down,
My way is clear, the end is near,
The goal, the glory, and the crown.
Then shed no bitter tears for me
As ye consign me to the dust,
Rather rejoice that I shall be
With God, my strength and trust.

196

MAY.

May, May! song-honoured May!
Whom the youthful poet has loved alway,
What has become of thy genial air,
Thy voices of music everywhere;—
The blessed blue of thy kindly skies,
Thy blooms that greet us with sweet surprise,
Thy hedgerows covered with odorous snow,
Thy waters that laugh with joy as they go?
Why art thou sullen and sad to-day,
Song-honoured May?

May, May! ever-welcome May!
How strangely thou lookest on earth to-day,
Cloudy and tearful, cold and wild,
Like a petulant woman, or wayward child!
Has winter been striving to keep thee back?
Have his bullying gales waylaid thy track?
Or is there a change 'mid the stars sublime?
Or a fitful pause in the flight of time?
Thy name is here, but thy presence away,
Ever-welcome May!

May, May! salubrious May!
We were wont to make merry thy natal day,
But custom, and feeling, are altered now,
And the people are changed even more than thou:

197

But we used to wander, in days of old,
Through fields of floral silver and gold,
Catching the apple-tree's breath and bloom,
And the ancient hawthorn's heavy perfume,
While our glad hearts beat with a healthful play,
Salubrious May!

But nothing goes wrong in the hands of God,
For His bounty lives in the quiet sod,
Whether clothed in the garb of frost or flower,
Or the liberal harvest's golden dower.
With a thoughtless spirit we oft complain,
But the doings of Nature are ne'er in vain,
For Wisdom governs the humblest things,
And Love o'ershadows with guardian wings:
In God's just power there is no delay,
O glorious May!

198

A SOUL IN SHADOW.

Lo, a Soul in Shadow! shaken
By the stormy winds of sin,
By the draught of deadly fire!
By the wiser world forsaken,
To the lowest herds akin,
He has but one fierce desire.

One desire, to quench in madness
Recollections dark and keen,
Memories of the wasted past.
How can he feel touch of gladness
Brooding over what has been,
While his conscience starts aghast?

Vain remorse! Behold his weakness
'Mid the revel and the rout,
Where dissolves his better will!
Where the host, with cunning sleekness,
Hands the treacherous wine about,
Or a draught more deadly still.

Now with mingled curse and clamour
Drink's poor victims rouse the brawl,
With wild brain and tainted breath;
Sing, blaspheme, and reel and stammer,
Reckless, ruthless, shameless all,
'Mid the blazonry of death.

199

But the darkling Soul! Oh, sorrow!
How he struggles through the night
Of a phantom-haunted sleep!
Till the sweet dawn of the morrow
Shows his helplessness and blight!—
Angels, ye have cause to weep!

Home has no regards and graces
For this waif on Ruin's wild,
And he seeks no solace there.
Wasted forms and gloomy faces
Cannot make him reconciled
To that dwelling of despair.

Yet, that Soul was once unclouded,
Quick with intellectual fire,
Dignified with moral power;
Till the dread Temptation shrouded
Hope, and peace, and pure desire,
Which grew weaker every hour.

Exorcise him! drive the Demon
Out from his remorseful soul,
Out from his unquiet heart!
Lift him up, a grateful freeman,
With the means of self-control,
And ye do a noble part!

Exorcise him! not with preaching,
Not with language harsh and cold,
Not with looks of virtuous pride;
But with Charity's mild teaching,
With forgiveness manifold,
Till his soul is purified.

200

England, old heroic nation!
What avail thy lofty lore,
Moral precepts, mighty words?
Cleanse thee from this degradation,
Which within thy sea-girt shore
Slayeth more than all thy swords!

201

THE WASTE OF WAR.

Give me the gold that War has cost,
In countless shocks of feud and fray,
The wasted skill, the labour lost,
The mental treasure thrown away,—
And I will buy each rood of soil
In every yet discovered land,
Where hunters roam, where peasants toil,
Where many-peopled cities stand.

I'll clothe each ragged wretch on earth
In needful, yea, in brave attire,
Vesture befitting banquet mirth,
Which kings might envy and admire.
In every vale, on every plain,
A school shall glad the gazer's sight,
Where every poor man's child may gain
Pure knowledge, free as air and light.

I'll build asylums for the poor,
By age or ailment made forlorn;
And none shall thrust them from the door,
Or sting with looks and words of scorn.
I'll link each alien hemisphere;
Help honest men to conquer wrong;
Art, Science, Labour, nerve and cheer;
Reward the poet for his song.

202

In every crowded town shall rise
Halls academic, amply graced,
Where ignorance may soon be wise,
And coarseness learn both art and taste.
To every province shall belong
Collegiate structures, and not few,
Filled with a truth-exploring throng,
With teachers of the good and true.

In every free and peopled clime
A vast Walhalla hall shall stand,
A marble edifice sublime
For the illustrious of the land;
A pantheon for the truly great,
The wise, benevolent, and just!
A place of wide and lofty state
To honour or to hold their dust.

A temple to attract and teach
Shall lift its spire on every hill,
Where pious men shall feel and preach
Peace, mercy, tolerance, good-will.
Music of bells on Sabbath days
Round the whole earth shall gladly rise,
And one great Christian song of praise
Stream sweetly upward to the skies.

203

THE SUNDAY SCHOOL.

(WRITTEN FOR JUVENILES.)

The people of our Christian land
Have cause to bless the men who planned
That place of gentle power and rule,
The noble British Sunday School;
For there the poor man's child may come,
As to a consecrated home,
And in its hallowed precincts find
Knowledge and comfort for the mind.

The man of toil has many a care,
And little, haply, can he spare,
To teach and elevate his child,
And keep its nature undefiled;
But here, whate'er his creed, or none,
His offspring will be looked upon
With kindly eyes, and shown the way
That opens into joyful day.

Some men of toil, though husbands, sires,
May cherish selfish, low desires,
And waste the means which, wisely spent,
Would bring their household calm content.
Or they may be—how sad the case!—
In language rude, of manners base,
And by a false and fierce control
Corrupt the young untutored soul.

204

Then more the need that there should be
This refuge of humanity,
Where one day, richest of the seven,
The child may learn of love and Heaven.
But if the mother does not feel
For moral and religious weal;
If all her better instincts sleep,
Well may the pitying angels weep!

'Tis pleasant on a Sabbath morn,
When music on the air is borne,
To see young children, trim and neat,
Come forth from many a crowded street,
From mountain side, and vale and lea,
Where'er their dwelling-place may be,
To seek the Sunday School again,
Their own unbought and free domain.

And is it not a joy, I ask,
To hear them at the holy task,
Like bees assiduous in the hive,
Hoarding the sweets on which they thrive?
Seeking to know, and know aright,
The sacred Word, the Gospel light,
The glorious Gospel, which has power
To cheer the Christian's darkest hour.

'Tis grand on some great holiday
To see their orderly array,
Marshalled by zealous men, whose pride
Is to be with them, side by side.
They go to spend a day of joy
Unmingled with the world's alloy,
In Nature's presence to adore,
And learn from God one lesson more.

205

They seek the woodland's slumbrous shade
Which the fierce sun can scarce invade,
Where, banquet done, and prayer preferred,
The foliage of the trees is stirred
With a thanksgiving hymn of power,
That sanctifies that sylvan bower,
Whilst angels, listening with glad eyes,
Call the song upward to the skies.

This day will serve them through the year
With thoughts of pleasantness and cheer,
Enhance their love of harmless things,
And quicken young Devotion's wings.
Ye careful parents, when ye find
Good seed sown in the youthful mind,
Foster its growth with all your power,
And bring it into beauteous flower.

O Sunday Schools! O Christian land!
Long may your institutions stand,
The wonder of the farthest zone,
The strength and glory of your own!
Be this the Sabbath teacher's prayer,
For those beneath his watchful care,
“Father, thy countless flock behold,
And bring them safely to Thy fold.”

206

MY FRIENDS OF CHORLEY.

The earth lay entranced in the glories of June,
The flowers were in splendour, the birds were in tune,
When I, a poor wayfarer, plodded along,
Surrounded by beauty, and fragrance, and song;
But weary and hungry, in quest of employ,
My soul could not mingle with Nature's great joy;
Till at length I encountered a friend by the way,—
A friend I had known in a happier day—
And he without coldness, or question, or guile,
Gave the bread and the cup, with a kind word and smile;
And more, for he stirred other hearts to my need,
And their aid and their sympathy cheered me indeed.

I shall ever remember that sociable night,
When my friends gathered round me to help and delight;
Honest men and hard-workers, a right pleasant throng,
Who could feel for the bard, while they honoured his song.
How quickly and cheerfully passed the brief time,
With the bountiful mixture of reason and rhyme,
With the good-natured banter, which gave no offence,
With the laught of good humour, the speech of good sense,
With song, recitation, and other good things,
Which sped the brief hours on delectable wings:
And more than all this, there was mixed with the whole,
A feeling which touched and exalted the soul.

207

And who shall presume to discourage with scorn
The brave son of toil, with his duties o'erworn,
Who seeks to enjoy, in a rational way,
The small leisure left him throughout the long day?
Not I; for dear freedom, in action and mind,
When used with right reason, and justly defined,
Is the claim of all men, yea, their claim and their need,
And the stark son of labour deserves it indeed.

Dear friends, newly found, I will try to retain
Your hearty good-will till I meet you again,
And may our next meeting come gladly and soon,
And may fickle Fortune just grant me a boon,
That I may reward you, with feelings of glee,
For the delicate aid that you rendered to me.

Let us give when we can, for to give is to gain,
As the earth gets her own exhalations in rain;
Each free gift of charity goes to increase,
And returns to us sweetly to bless us with peace;
Let us foster kind feeling in this world of ours,
For such is the “odour of heavenly flowers.”

Fellow-workers, 'twere vain my rude verse to prolong,
For I cannot tell all my emotions in song,
But I'll cherish your memory, happen what may,
Whate'er be my fortune, for many a day;
May your blessings be many, your sorrows be few,
May health, peace, and virtue befriend you! Adieu!

208

A PRAYER FOR PEACE.

Peace for the nations, God,
For the harassed earth complains
That her sons are defiling the fertile sod
With the blood of each other's veins;
And sounds of rage and regret are rife;
And men grow mad 'mid the waste of life;
Labour's broad brow grows furrowed and pale,
And homes are disturbed with the voice of wail,
And fast coming griefs, bewildering fears,
From countless hearts wring curses and tears;
While the spirit of Progress back recoils
At the far-borne bruit of unhallowed broils,
And Freedom shudders with strange dismay,
As she veils her face from the light of day!
Restore to us Peace, a transcendent dower,
If such be the will of Thy holy power.

Peace for the household, Lord!
Let each unto each so cling,
That all may appear in a bright accord,
Like pearls on a golden string.
Let love be the sweet and presiding grace
To charm into beauty the dwelling-place;
To soften the language of firm command,
And lighten the cares of the household band;

209

To mould the heart with a delicate stress,
And wake its emotions of tenderness;
To train the mind to exalted things,
And lift the soul upon skyward wings;
Peace for the hearth, and the purest air,
That thought may burst into constant prayer,
Into silent worship, serenely rife
'Mid the duties and pains of mortal life,
That earth may grow on her changeful sod
Immortal blooms for Thy gardens, God!

210

WHITTLE SPRINGS.

(A REMINISCENCE.)

RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO THOMAS HOWARD, ESQ., OF HYDE, OWNER OF THE ESTATE.

It was a Summer's gorgeous eventide,
Softly and sweetly silent, warm and bright,
And all the breadth of glorious landscape wide
Was swathed in vesture of serenest light;
When with a friend I took my pleasant way
To an old shadowy, sylvan nook, that lay
A league apart from any street and town,
In a romantic valley, hushed and brown.
Our winding pathway led through lonely lanes,
Now busy with the fragrant harvest wains,
Where banks of plume-like fern grew thick and green,
Where groups of foxglove stood with stately mien
On grassy slopes, and in the fragrant breeze
Shook all their wealth of crimson chalices.
From shadowy brake and wavering bough was heard
The frequent voice of some unsettled bird;
The limber honeysuckle seemed to sigh
Unto the clustering wild-rose lovingly,
And both sent through the calm and verdant gloom
The mingled breathings of their rich perfume.

211

We entered by a low and Gothic gate
Into a sweet retreat of fairy state,—
A lone and lovely spot, that smiled at rest
On the green valley's ever-quiet breast;
A refuge quaint of chequered light and shade,
All cunningly and beautifully made
By art and nature's harmonising power
Into an intricate and magic bower;
Embroidered everywhere with richest dyes,
And curtained o'er with soft and cloudless skies;
Encircled with a zone of beauteous things,
A place of pleasure,—welcome Whittle Springs!

With loitering feet we traced the cultured grounds,
And calmly listened to the various sounds
Of childish gladsomeness and youthful glee,
And ballad strains of ancient melody.
We watched the athletic bowlers on the green,
As a great billiard-table smooth and clean;
Stopped to regard a troop of merry boys,
Holding their pastime with obstreperous noise;
Wound through the verdant mazes of the brake
All richly redolent with rarest flowers,
Bright forms of full perfume, that sweetly spake
Of southern climates and their gorgeous bowers.

We paused awhile beside the tranquil pool,
Ample in breadth, pellucid, bright, and cool,
Scarce ruffled by the graceful moving pair
Of snowy swans that idly floated there;
And then, with honour to the place, we quaffed
A doubly copious and refreshing draught
From the twin Springs, whose ever-healthful powers
Bring cheerful thousands to their pleasant bowers.

212

But now the sinking Sun-god paused to rest
On the bright borders of the purpling west,
While hill and vale, and distant copse and glade
Began to gather into deeper shade,
And we withdrew within, intent to spend
A pleasant hour with stranger and with friend
In sweet and social converse, such as binds
In peaceful union true hearts and minds.
Within the lofty and antique saloon,
With many-coloured windows gaily dight,
We sat and watched the now ascending moon
Pour in the sweetness of her mellow light;
And we beheld with mute but glad surprise
Things which enchant the silent gazer's eyes,
A hundred shapes and hues of pictured grace,
The healthful bloom of many a lovely face,
And sculptured forms, majestical and fair,
Which give the whole a chaste and classic air;
Beauties that make us half forget that we
Are near the murky realm of noisy trade,
And make us glad that we can quickly be
Where its rude sounds cannot our ears invade.
O Whittle Springs! thou art a pleasant spot,
Where human sorrow may be half forgot;—
A tranquil refuge of serene delight
To those made weary in the world's rude fight;
A place of quiet or of stirring joy,
Where harassed minds may find some sweet employ!
The thoughtful penman leaves his books and care
To find some calm and cheerful solace there;
The weary worker coming from the town;
The wayward painter puts his pencil down,
And cometh here in quest of newer themes;
The poet cometh to refresh his dreams;

213

For song, and dance, and temperate feast and wine,
And forms of beauty which seem half divine,
And pleasant smiles, and laughter-beaming eyes,
Make thee at times a social paradise;
And still my fond and faithful memory clings
To thy serene delights, famed Whittle Springs!

This secluded spot of resort and harmless recreation is becoming daily more popular. In addition to its medicinal springs, it possesses charms of a varied character. Art has combined with nature in rendering it a place pleasant to visit and remember. The proprietor of the grounds has spared no pains and expense in providing for the pleasure and comfort of his visitors. To the people of Blackburn, Preston, Chorley, and neighbourhoods, there are cheap facilities of reaching it. Altogether, Whittle Springs is worthy the patronage of any class, and a most attractive and desirable place of resort for the toiling community of Lancashire. May it meet with that support it so highly deserves. J. C. P.

214

HUMAN BROTHERHOOD.

The king who is swathed in the splendours of state,
Whose power and possessions are wide,
Is akin to the beggar who whines at his gate,
Howe'er it may torture his pride;
He is subject to ailments, and dangers, and woes,
As the wretch who encounters the blast,
And despite of his grandeur, his bones must repose
In the same grave of nature at last.

The beauty, surrounded by homage and wealth,
Whose glance of command is supreme,
Who walks in the grace of rich raiment and health,
Whose life seems a musical dream,—
Is sister to her who, old, haggard and worn,
Receives a chance crust by the way;
The proud one may treat her with silence and scorn,
But their kinship no truth can gainsay.

The scholar who glories in gifts of the mind,
Who ransacks the treasures of Time,
Who scatters his thoughts on the breath of the wind,
And makes his own being sublime,—
Even he is a brother to him at the plough,
Whose feet crush the flowers in their bloom;
And to him who toils on with a care-furrowed brow
In chambers of clangour and gloom.

215

Chance, circumstance, intellect, change us in life,
Repulse us and keep us apart,
But would we had less of injustice and strife,
And more of right reason and heart.
One great human family, born of one Power,
Each claiming humanity's thought,
We should let our best sympathies flow like a dower,
And give and receive as we ought.

216

BROAD CAST THY SEED.

Broad cast thy seed;
If thou hast ought of wealth to lend
Beyond what reason bids thee spend,
Seek out the haunts of want and woe,
And let thy bounty wisely flow;
Lift modest merit from the dust,
And fill his heart with joy and trust;
Take struggling genius by the hand,
And bid his striving soul expand;
Where virtuous men together cling,
To vanquish some unhallowed thing,
Join the just league, and not withhold
Thy heart, thy counsel, and thy gold;
Thus to achieve some noble deed,
Broad cast thy seed.

Broad cast thy seed;
If thou hast mind, thou hast to spare,
And giving may increase thy share;
Pour forth thy thought with friendly zeal,
And make some stubborn spirit feel
The grace, the glory, the delight,
That spring from knowledge used aright;
The improving wealth, which none can take,
Though fortune fly, and friends forsake;
The mental vision, more and more,
Expanding as he dares to soar.

217

Virtue and knowledge, glorious twain!
The more they give the more they gain!
Wouldst have thy humbler brother freed?
Broad cast thy seed.

Broad cast thy seed;
Although some portion may be found
To fall on uncongenial ground,
Where sand, or shard, or stone may stay
Its coming into light of day,
Or when it comes, some pestilent air
May make it droop and wither there,
Be not discouraged; some may find
Congenial soil, and gentle wind,
Refreshing dew and ripening shower,
To bring it into beauteous flower,
From flower to fruit, to glad thy eyes,
And fill thy soul with sweet surprise.
Do good, and God will bless thy deed;
Broad cast thy seed!

218

THE “NEW YEAR.”

The poet sings of many things
In lands, and seas, and skies,
As Fancy's many-coloured wings
Flutter before his eyes;
But I, who love the tuneful throng,
And hold the Muses dear,
Offer an unpretending song
To hail the Glad New Year.

Again has come the festive time,
Which holds us in control,
Morn of a mystery sublime
Linked with the human soul;
We serve with hospitable care
Our daintiest Christmas cheer,
Grow free and friendly, and prepare
To hail the Glad New Year.

Now is the season to forgive
The wayward and unkind,
Let the heart's best emotions live
To purify the mind;
To let the memory retrace
Our fitful past career,
To look the future in the face,
And hail the Glad New Year.

219

Sorrows and losses we have borne,
Been baffled and dismayed,
And felt the prick of many a thorn
By our own follies made;
But hope and effort may improve
What now seems most severe,
If we begin with earnest love,
And hail the Glad New Year.

Let us be thankful that God's power
Has spared us yet awhile,
Strive to enjoy the present hour,
And make the future smile;
Let us with charity and peace
Make life more calm and clear,
Pray that discordant things may cease,
As dawns the Glad New Year.

The sad old year is waning fast,
And we are fading too,
But let our minds not stand aghast
At what remains to do;
Good will to all! may joy prevail
In homes both far and near,
And hope inspire us as we hail
The gracious, Glad New Year.

220

HOPE AND PERSEVERANCE.

Strive on, brave souls, and win your way
By energy and care,
Waste not one portion of the day
In languor or despair;
A constant drop will wear the stone,
A constant effort clear
Your way, however wild and lone—
Hope on and persevere.

Strive on, and if a shadow fall
To dim your forward view,
Think that the sun is over all,
And will shine out anew;
Disdain the obstacles ye meet,
And to one course adhere,
Advance with quick but cautious feet—
Hope on and persevere.

Rough places may deform the path
That ye desire to tread,
And clouds of mingled gloom and wrath
May threaten overhead,
Voices of menace and alarm
May startle ye with fear,
But faith has a prevailing charm—
Believe and persevere.

1865.

221

FORGIVENESS.

My heart was galled with bitter wrong,
Revengeful feelings fired my blood;
I cherished hate with passion strong,
While round my couch dark demons stood.
Kind slumber wooed my eyes in vain,
My burning brain conceived a plan—
“Revenge!” I cried in frantic strain;
But Conscience whispered, “Be a man!”

“Forgive,” a gentle spirit cried;
I yielded to my nobler part,
Uprose, and to my foeman hied,
And then forgave him from my heart.
The big tears from their fountains rose,
He melted—vowed my friend to be;
That night I sank in sweet repose,
And dreamed that angels smiled on me.

222

RANDOM RHYMES.

Let stand-still souls bemoan the dreary past,
With all its errors numberless and vast;
Its waste in warfare, torture-tools, and fires,
Its false ambitions and its fierce desires,
Its clouded intellects and fettered tongues,
Its rank intolerance and its lawless wrongs,
Its savage serfdom and its sordid power,
Its horrors fearful as delirium's hour,
Its cruel codes and desolating crimes,
Unlike the triumphs of our later times.
These peaceful unions of the great and small,
That crowd and dignify this spacious hall;
These proofs of progress, these inspiring sights,
That give us hope of loftier delights;
These signs and promises of things that throng
The prophet's vision, and the poet's song—
Shadows that seem, but shadows that shall grow
To bright and blest realities below.

Onward, still onward, with assiduous speed,
And be your efforts equal to your need;
Linger not, languish not, in march nor mind,
Nor stay to look upon the plain behind;
One footstep lost, another gains the race,
And leaves you toiling in a backward place.
Onward, still onward, with unshrinking soul,
Your children follow and shall win the goal,

223

Shall win the guerdon of your toils, and stray
Within the opening dawn of Freedom's perfect day.

Workers that weary in the mill and mine,
Come to the banquet, which is half divine;
Craftsmen that labour at the bench and stall,
The door is open and the cost is small;
Shopmen who sicken with the cares of trade,
Seek the Lyceum for your solace made;
Magnates who struggle with unwieldy wealth,
Fly to our refuge for your spirits' health.
All, all are welcome, be they high or low,
We've food for laughter, we have balm for woe.
Go on rejoicing, steadfast in the right,
Increasing still in intellectual might,
And I, a unit in the worldly throng,
Will wake my lowly harp, and cheer your way with song.

224

AT MY WIFE'S GRAVE SIDE.

Six years have passed, my loved lost wife,
Since thou wast taken from my breast,
And cradled in thy final rest,
Leaving me lone with grief and strife.

And now I stand upon the sward
That vails thy simple burial-place;
And with a pale and drooping face,
Survey it with a sad regard.

And as I gaze sweep through my brain
Things of the past on wings of gloom,
So that the mosses on thy tomb
Are watered by my tears of pain.

I see thee in the strength of youth,
With beauty in thy face and form,
With all thy feelings pure and warm,
Thy language sweet with artless truth.

Again I see thee sorely tried
Beneath an overwhelming cloud—
Thy freshness gone, thy spirit bowed
By poverty's dark ills allied.

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I see thee in that troublous hour
When death smote down our darling child,
Made thee disconsolate and wild,
And me o'erawed by his dread power.

'Mid all I found thee wholly true
Unto thy offspring and to me.
May God, who set thy spirit free,
Console and strengthen me anew.

226

THE POSTMAN.

The Postman is the people's man,
Ready of foot and eye and hand,
Who bears a blessing or a ban
To many in the land.
But whether he bring hope or dread,
Tending to make me rich or poor,
As he so bravely earns his bread,
He's welcome at my door.

With muttered word and smothered sigh
We look and listen for his feet,
And watch him with a wary eye
As he comes down the street.
But if I dwell in field or town,
Upon a mud or marble floor,
Whether my fortune smile or frown,
He's welcome at my door.

The statesman bent on lofty schemes,
Good for the people or the throne;
The poet weaving pleasant dreams,
Alike the Postman own.
He lends the lover's mind new wings,
In crowded mart, on lonely moor;
And though he brings me few good things,
He's welcome at my door.

227

He braves the time, whate'er it be,
The stormy wind, the hail, the shower,
And leaves his words of grief or glee
At the appointed hour.
He bears his missives morn and eve
Alike unto the rich and poor,
But if he make me glad or grieve,
He's welcome at my door.

He scatters wide the printed page,
Filled with the various thoughts of men,
For much does our inquiring age
Owe to the press and pen.
He brings the book to teach and please
The ever-toiling, patient poor;
And while he offers things like these,
He's welcome at my door.

When comes the Christmas holiday
Let's not forget this herald true,
But strive to help his scanty pay
By some free gift that's due.
He wakes strange feelings in the breast
Of proud patrician, squire, or boor;
And whether he make or mar my rest,
He's welcome at my door.

228

THE WORKMAN TO HIS WIFE.

Dear wife, we struggle in a time
Saddened by many a shade,
For warfare in another clime
Has paralysed my trade;
And 'mong the thousands of our class,
So meanly clothed and fed,
We've had our share of grief, alas!
Pining for needful bread.

But let us not relax, and fret
As if all hope were gone;
Let us not murmur and forget
The all-sustaining One.
His is the justice, His the power
To chasten and subdue;
But even in the gloomiest hour
His mercy shineth through.

Together let us strive to bear,
With resolute calm will,
The burden of our daily care,
Hoping and trusting still.

229

As we are human, we must feel
Our portion of distress;
But working with a righteous zeal
Should make our trouble less.

Being but human, we must show
Some frailties and some fears,
Blindly creating needless woe,
And shedding needless tears.
But, O my wife! let thee and me
Refrain from foolish strife,
And so behave that we may be
Heirs to a holier life.

Of sorrow we must bear our part
While in this lower sphere,
But let us keep a loving heart,
And hold each other dear.
Though poverty may keep us down,
Making us sad the while,
Let us not dare God's awful frown,
But pray to gain His smile.

230

THE RETURN OF SPRING.

How calm and how beneficent is God
To all His creatures in this world of ours!
Spring is returned with renovating powers,
To clear the sky, and fertilise the sod,
To make the expanded landscape greenly bright,
And fill the genial air with music and delight.

I, like a weather-beaten plant, have grown
Seedy and frail, the sport of every wind;
Yet in my daily watchfulness I find,
That in my weakness I am not alone—
Not an exception in the general plan,
But a still hopeful, striving, sinful, sorrowing man.

I long to wander where the old hills stand,
And where the woods will soon grow newly green—
To mark the silent changes of the scene,
Made by the hallowed touch of God's own hand—
To see the resurrection and the life
Of countless earthly things with strength and beauty rife.

I long to see the blithe lark soaring high,
And the sweet thrush on his accustomed tree—
To hear the loosened waters flowing free
Through places pleasant to the poet's eye—
To hear the murmur of the odorous breeze,
And the responsive sigh of congregated trees—

231

To hear the sportive children here and there
In lonely hamlets nestled in the vales—
To hear the aged people telling tales
Of their own youth when everything was fair—
To hear the voices of great nature raise
A simultaneous hymn of thankfulness and praise.

What sinless pleasure to explore again
The fields bestarr'd with daisies far and wide—
The slender king-cup in its graceful pride
Holding its golden chalice for the rain—
The cowslip's bell, the dandelion's shield,
Lending their mingled hues to beautify the field.

What peaceful joy to find in woodland shades
The modest violet besprent with dews,
The fragrant primrose with its dainty hues,
And other floral sisters of the glades;
Birds, leaves, and flowers, colours and perfumes,
And all the rich array of spring's ambrosial blooms.

Lord and Creator of these wondrous things,
Oh! grant me health, that I may feel once more
Thy love and wisdom, as I felt of yore,
When I had many thoughts without their stings.
Oh! spare and strengthen me a little time,
That I may worship Thee, and read thy works sublime.

232

THE SONGS OF THE PEOPLE.

Oh! the Songs of the People are voices of power
That echo in many a land;
They lighten the heart in the sorrowful hour,
And quicken the labour of hand;
They gladden the shepherd on mountain and plain,
And the mariner tossed on the sea:
The poets have given us many a strain,
But the Songs of the People for me.

The artisan, wending full early to toil,
Sings a snatch of old song by the way;
The ploughman, who sturdily furrows the soil,
Cheers the morn with the words of his lay;
The man at the stithy, the maid at the wheel,
The mother with babe on her knee,
Chant simple old rhymes, which they tenderly feel;—
Oh! the Songs of the People for me.

An anthem of triumph, a ditty of love,
A carol 'gainst sorrow and care,
A hymn of the household that rises above,
In the music of hope or despair;
A strain patriotic that wakens the soul
To all that is noble and free;
These lyrics o'er men have a stirring control;—
Oh! the Songs of the People for me.

233

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

POEMS PUBLISHED IN 1861.

235

THE COMING OF THE MAY.

All Nature seems to feel the power—
The gracious influence of the time;
The quickening sun, the fostering shower
Of the returning prime;
The tranquil and the lessening night,
The genial and the lengthening day,
Which moves us with a new delight,
And speak of coming May.

Trees bourgeon into leafy grace;
The hedgerows wear a vernal fleece;
The brooklets leave a greener trace
Along their paths of peace:
A flower-light dawns upon the leas;
The woodland nooks grow sweetly gay;
And whispers every passing breeze,
The coming of the May.

236

A voyager the clouds among,
That sail athwart the ethereal sea,—
The lark pours forth his joyous song
Of rich melodious glee:
The throstle in the forest dell
Begins to chant his changeful lay;
And other voices soon will swell
The music of the May.

Awhile, and the clear country air
A thousand odours will diffuse;
And cultured gardens, here and there,
Kindle with dazzling hues;
The meads will gleam with floral gold,
With silver every hawthorn spray;
And children's eyes with joy behold
The blooming of the May.

Young children—oh! how like they are
To this enchanting month of flowers,
When through her realm they wander far
To spend their playful hours:
With shout and laughter on they speed
Through pleasant field and woodland way;
And health and pleasure are their meed
Beneath the smile of May.

And should not toiling man rejoice
For every good the seasons bring,
Responsive to each gladsome voice
That wakens with the Spring?
Let his soul open, and be calm,
So that it may let in the day,
The bloom, the beauty, and the balm,—
The blessing of the May.

237

And while we love the glorious skies,
The gifts and grandeurs of the sod,
Let the heart's hidden incense rise
Unto the Giver—God!
May we so live a life of prayer,—
The prayer of virtuous deeds,—alway,
That we may breathe the holier air
Of Heaven's eternal May.

238

THE SAVING ANGEL.

How fair is England in her lofty state!
Great in her conquests, in her commerce great,
Great in her science and industrial arts,
Strong in her ready hands and willing hearts;
Rich in her means of fructifying good,
Prompt in each purpose rightly understood;
Fair, wise, magnificent, and mighty she,
And bearing the proud title “Country of the Free!”

But, oh! how nobler were my native land,
If she could banish from her sea-girt strand
The Fiend which, roaming through this realm of ours,
Wastes her best strength, and weakens all her powers;
The nightmare of the nation, which weighs down
Her labouring breast; the blot on her renown;
The Fiend which paralyses heart and limb,
Makes virtue's star and reason's lamp grow dim;
Robs child and mother of their common right,
Home wants, home rectitude, and home delight;
Makes the frail father reckless and sin-worn,
Madman to-day, an idiot on the morn;
Makes the poor boasted freeman worse than slave;
And with unnumbered victims gluts a dishonoured grave.

239

Know ye the Demon? Hear him in the street,
As ye pass onward with home-seeking feet;
Ye hear his voice from many a noisome den,
Where he deludes—degrades the minds of men;
Ye hear him in his temple, gaily dight,
All gaud and glitter in a blaze of light,
Where congregated bacchanals adore,
From beardless boyhood unto frail fourscore;
Ye hear him in the curses flung about,
In the wild song and the obstreperous shout;
Ye see his looks in many a face and eye,
Maudlin or vicious, as ye hurry by;
Ye see him in the havoc he has made,
And in the bane of his abhorrent trade;
Ye feel him in the rudeness and the strife
Which shock you in the by-way paths of life;
Ye feel him in the sordidness and woe
That smite your senses as ye come and go:
Ye feel,—but how much less ye feel, than they
Who suffer hour by hour, and perish day by day.

Look on this picture (many more there be
As sad and sombre in their misery);—
Mark the cold aspect of this lowly place,
Devoid of comfort, cleanliness, and grace,
Where the pale mother sits beside the grate
With listless looks, as gloomy as her fate;
While her rude children, dirt-begrimed and lean,
With noisy squabbles fill the wretched scene;
Half slattern and half lunatic she seems,
Now loud in wrath, now lapsing into dreams;
Waiting for him who should be duly there
To rule his household with a parent's care.

240

He comes at length,—a curse is at the door,
And his scared offspring, starting from the floor,
Shrink into corners with a mute dismay,
Fearing the voice they learn to disobey.
He enters in, that man without control,
With the dread Demon sitting on his soul;
Raves and blasphemes, drinks deep, and calls for more,
Making the place more hideous than before.

Alas! no sunshine cheers that narrow spot;
There knowledge, peace, and rectitude are not;
No single bosom is divinely stirred,
No song of praise, no voice of prayer is heard;
No gentle accents of confiding love,
No gracious thoughts that wing their way above;
But sin and squalor, hopelessness and dread,
Surround the daily board, and haunt the nightly bed.

But who is this, meandering down the street,
With brain beclouded, and with wavering feet,
Wild in his manner, with a glance of eye
Half brave, half bashful, as he hurries by?
That man is gifted; but the mental dower
Lies in abeyance to the Demon's power;
That man has commerced with the farthest skies,
And looked on Nature with a poet's eyes;
Has painted Virtue with a pen of grace,
Revered her, too, and loved the human race;
Panted for peaceful happiness and fame,
And had half won them when the tempter came,
Crossed the noon brightness of his hopeful pride,
And scared his better angel from his side.
Come back, sweet spirit of his joy and trust,
And exorcise the Fiend that bows him to the dust!

241

Such, and so harrowing, are the ills that flow
From this dark type of sinfulness and woe!
Such, and more awful, are the things that lie
Hid from the notice of the public eye.

Despair not yet, ye Christian souls,—for hark!
A sound of solace cometh from the dark;
A bright form issues from the heavy gloom,
And as she passes on makes ampler room:
It is the angel Temperance;—rejoice!
And hail her advent with a thankful voice!
She comes to drive the Demon from his lair,
To cleanse from crime, and mitigate despair,—
Comes with her handmaid Charity, to bless
The soul-bowed slaves of loathsome drunkenness.
Faces once shadowed, shall grow bright with peace;
Hearts once enthralled, shall find a glad release;
Minds once eclipsed, shall glow with purer fire,
Greatly expand, and gloriously aspire;
And home, once filled with sorrow and annoy,
Shall be a peaceful place of virtue and of joy.

Come to her banner, ye upgrowing youth,
Strengthen her phalanx, men of nerve and truth,
Add to her numbers, ye of suasive tongues,
Swell her glad music, Poets, with your songs;
Together breathe her hallowed atmosphere,
And help her in her glorious mission here.
The day will come—let hope believe it so—
When we shall see the Demon's overthrow;
See the sweet Angel's standard wide unfurled,
And her white wings embrace all children of the world.

242

THE HOLY LAND.

PROLOGUE TO AN UNFINISHED SACRED POEM.

Oh! sad yet sacred land! lorn Palestine!
God's chosen scene of man-redeeming power,
Land of a thousand mysteries divine,
Linked with my own land's worship to this hour
Would it were mine, from worldly thrall unbound,
To press with pilgrim foot thy storied ground!
Muse in thy vales, where solemn beauty reigns,
Watch on thy hills, and wander o'er thy plains;
Feel on my brow thy odorous winds, and taste
Thy scanty waters in the stony waste;
Pitch my rude tent beside thy sacred streams,
And fill my slumbers with exalted dreams;
Explore each spot, with thoughtful reverence due,
Which bard or prophet, saint or Saviour knew;
Catch inspiration from the humblest thing,
And plume my spirit with a holier wing!

Not such my privilege; albeit I sigh
To look upon thy aspect, ere I die;
Yet even now, at Fancy's wondrous will,
I plant my footsteps on that holy hill,
Gigantic Tabor! round whose lofty crown
Sweep the wide regions of an old renown;

243

Where Hermon, on whose head the stars diffuse
The healing freshness of unfailing dews,
Tabor's twin sharer of the sun and gale,—
Uplifts his stalwart shoulders from the vale.

Here, tuned in pastoral quiet towards the skies,
The field of many fights, Esdraelon lies;
And yonder, towering up in calm disdain,
Majestic Carmel stems the audacious main:
There, with its barren belt of wave-worn steeps,
Blue Galilee in tranquil splendour sleeps,
Whence willowy Jordan, joyous here and free,
Bounds on its journey to a joyless sea.
Lo! in romantic hollow, like a nest,
Secluded Cana's lowly dwellings rest;
And many a rocky haunt, sublime and wild,
And many a fertile landscape undefiled,
Hamlet and ancient town, lone mosque and tower,
And quiet convent shut in cypress bower,
Mix in the mighty theatre, and throng
The heart with feelings all too deep for song;
While, far remote, like white clouds soaring high
In the serener ether of the sky,
The wintry peaks of Lebanon aspire,
Tinged with the glowing kiss of sunset's golden fire.

Again my fancy bears me on;—and lo!
A childless widow, voiceless in her woe,
Smit by the awful vengeance of the Just,
Forsaken Salem sitteth in the dust,
Her beauty faded, and her garments torn,
Her sceptre broken, and her power outworn,—
A lonely spectacle of grief and gloom,
A ruined record of prophetic doom!

244

Here, from the Hill of Olives, dark and bold,
The whole sad city is at once unrolled;
Queen of a stony wilderness, she lies
In sombre beauty, looking towards the skies:
Fair to the eye, but silent to the ear,
And solemn to the heart, she seemeth here;
No music ringeth from her towers and domes,
No smoke-wreath springeth from her clustering homes;
No busy crowds, with social life elate,
No chariot-wheels forth issue from her gate;
Still as a region of unpeopled glooms,
Sad as a place of congregated tombs,
A shape bereft of spirit, she appears
Too desolate and dead for either joy or tears!

But now some sadder features of the scene
Tempt my lone footsteps to a dim ravine,
Where, scarce illumined by meridian day,
The scanty Kedron makes its weary way.
Behold Gethsemane's impressive shade,
For inward prayer, and heavenward musing made,
Beneath whose roof, of giant boughs inwrought,
The dear Redeemer worshipped, wept, and taught:
Here Judas, reckless of eternal bliss,
Betrayed and sold Him with unholy kiss;
Here His disciples slumbered through the hour
He strove, in silence, with His passion's power,
Shook and adored, and on His trembling knees
Drank the deep draught of sorrow to the lees;
While the o'erflowing sweat-drops of His pain
Bedewed His patient brow with sanguinary stain!

A little farther, and the place of graves,
Where the pent wind in mournful madness raves,

245

Gloomy Jehoshaphat's funereal vale,
To the rapt spirit tells a fearful tale.
Once from that terrace, Titan-like and high,
The towering Temple clomb the quiet sky;
In mystic silence sprang, and stood alone,
A vast, majestic miracle of stone!
Hail, holy Zion! David's home of pride,
Revered and hallowed o'er the world beside;
Zion, whose echoes answered to the lyre,
Whose cords were kindled with seraphic fire!
Transcendent Minstrel! whose exalted song
Ten thousand brighter ages shall prolong,
What earthly harp may yet compare with thine,
Thou regal heir of Poesy divine!
Triumph and trial, prophecy and praise,
Found mighty utterance in thy living lays:
When peril threatened, and when pain oppressed,
When woe or worship trembled in thy breast,
When God's dread shadow o'er thy spirit came,
When prescient ardour lit thy soul with flame,—
Thy songs, true, tender, terrible, sublime,
Send mighty voices forth to all succeeding time!

[OMITTED]

246

SONNET TO WORDSWORTH.

But thy last gift!—how precious to my sight!
But to my soul much more, is the rich page
Of Wordsworth, bard, interpreter, and sage
Of Nature in her majesty and might!
With what an earnest, yet serene delight,
He seeks her beauties, all her moods and forms
And gives them language, till his spirit warms
With a desire to take the loftiest flight!
I like him well, when “'mid the untrodden ways,”
Among the lowly dwellings of the poor,
He finds some wisdom at the humblest door,
And weaves it in the tissue of his lays.
Who with right feeling reads his tranquil song,
Should grow more calm and wise, more purified and strong.

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THE MARINER OF LIFE.

A mariner sailed on a perilous sea,
And though frail was his bark, a brave spirit had he:
Hope beckoned him onward, Faith strengthened his soul,
And Love gave him impulse to steer for the goal,—
That glorious land, o'er the main far away,
Whose skies have the lustre of loveliest day,
Whose flowers have the breath of unfailing perfume,
Whose fields wear the hues of perpetual bloom.

He had trust in his Anchor, should wild waves assail,
And rouse into rage at the scourge of the gale;
He had trust in his Compass, which pointed afar
To the orb of one bright and particular star;
He had trust in his Glass, which was searching and clear,
And warned him when outward obstruction was near;
He had trust in his Chart, for no error was there,
And its truthfulness kept him from doubt and despair.

Yet strife was around him, and danger, and dark,
And wild waters battered the ribs of his bark,
And treacherous currents oft turned him aside,
And mists gathered thick o'er the face of the tide,
And icebergs encumbered the breast of the sea,
And winds howled about him in boisterous glee;
But, oh! there were moments of sunshine and calm,
When the billows were bright, and the breezes were balm.

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His food was unfailing from day unto day,
A provision that suffered nor scant nor decay,
A manna to satisfy, strengthen, sustain,
And give him new courage to battle with pain;
His drink from an ever-free fountain o'erflowed,
And great were the comfort and joy it bestowed,
A heart-helping, soul-cheering chalice of wine,
Replenished alway from a vintage divine.

Still, still he sped on towards the land that he sought,
Recruited in vigour, exalted in thought;
But many and sad were the things that he saw,
While he yearned with compassion, and trembled with awe.
Other barks foundered round him, all filled with despair,
Though he helped when he could, both with effort and prayer;
And the few God permitted His servant to save,
Smoothed the mariner's path o'er the turbulent wave.

Still, still he sped onward, but nearer the goal,
For he felt a new effluence touching his soul;
And hills swathed in purple arose on his sight,
And lands that lay lovely in soft golden light,
And glory and quiet reigned over the seas,
And perfume and music came rich on the breeze;
And Christian, the mariner, knew he was blest,
For he entered the haven of heavenly rest.

249

THE BEGGAR BOY.

A beggar boy sank at a lordly door,
Feeble with hunger and cold;
His father had died of the poorest poor,
And his mother waxed weary and old;
He had left her alone in their sordid shed,
In darkness to mutter and grieve,
And had come to crave for the bitterest bread,
'Mid the snows of Christmas-eve.

He saw the broad windows gaily shine,
He heard the glad sounds within;
He fancied the flow of the fragrant wine,
And the greetings of friends and kin:
And children were there,—for he heard the sound
Of their laughter, blithely elate;
And the beggar boy wept with a grief profound,
As he thought of his own sad fate.

He beat the steps with his tingling feet,
And wished for the coming of day;
He caught each sound in the sombre street,
But thought of his mother alway.
He brushed the snow from his piteous face,
To gaze at the starless sky,
And anon he appealed with a touching grace
To the heart of each passer-by.

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In vain—in vain! for no ear was bent
To hearken his sorrowful plaint;
And he felt that his heart was crushed and rent,
As his words grew fewer and faint:
In vain! for his suppliant murmurs died
Unheard in the misty air;
Careless or callous, all turned aside,
And left him to perish there.

At length, from a hundred old towers rang
The tones of the midnight chime;
And a hundred voices joyously sang
A lay of the hallowed time.
The boy looked up with a glad surprise,
At those sweet sounds of the night;
And lo! there appeared to his startled eyes
A Vision, divinely bright.

'Twas an angel shape, and its raiment shone
Like the moon in her brightest hour;
Its voice had a soft and persuasive tone,
That thrilled with a wondrous power:
“Poor child!” it said, “enough hast thou striven,
Thou shalt hunger and grieve no more;
I am Christ,—come and live in the climes of Heaven,
Where thy mother has gone before.”

“I am ready and glad!” cried the beggar boy,
As he sprang through the blinding snow,
While his young heart throbbed with a tremulous joy,
And his face had an angel's glow.
He went with the Vision;—and when morn smiled,
On the pitiless pavement lay
All that remained of the orphan child,
For the spirit had passed away.

251

BIRTHDAY SONNET.

Upon the threshold of another year,
Let me shake off the sordid mire of sin
And with a reverent feeling enter in,
Thoughtful as if my final hour was near;
And let me supplicate for light to cheer
My darkling soul, that stumbles through the gloom
Which shrouds the dubious pathway to the tomb,
The end of all our strife and struggle here.
True aspirations towards the good should clear
My grief-beclouded mind; good thoughts should bring
The power to do a good and holy thing,
Making me strenuous, steadfast, and sincere;
Good deeds should help me o'er the rugged way
To a diviner realm. Let me begin to-day.

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THE MOUNTAIN TARN.

Thou lonely tarn, with rocks begirt around,
Gleaming amid this wilderness of hills,
Fed by the passing clouds, the neighbouring rills,
And cradled in a solitude profound,—
How goes the world with thee? What changes pass
O'er the calm surface of thy crystal face,
When o'er thee the fierce tempest rides apace,
And the dread thunder sings its wondrous bass?
Spring doth awake thee into smiles of light;
Summer doth tinge thee with celestial blue;
Autumn with many a sunset's gorgeous hue;
And Winter with the shadows of his might.
Oh! for a hermitage, where I might be
With God, high thought, calm solitude, and thee!

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CANZONETTE.

I know a star, whose gentle beams
Shine with a pure and constant ray,
Inspire me with delicious dreams,
And cheer me on my lonely way:
I gaze upon its tender light,
And to it bow the adoring knee;
But, oh! how dreary were my night
Were it to shine no more for me!

I know a flower of beauteous form,
Whose sweetness is beyond compare;
I fain would shield it from the storm,
And keep it ever young and fair:
It glads my eyes, it soothes my heart,
It is a daily charm to see;
But, oh! how bitter were my smart,
Were it to bloom no more for me!

Thou art the star—thou art the flower,
My precious, peerless maiden, mine!
And from our first fond meeting-hour,
My love, my life, were wholly thine:
But wert thou called beyond the spheres,
How joyless would the wide world be!
How sad my sighs, how true my tears,
Wert thou to live no more for me!

254

SPRING SONNETS.

[Be glad, my spirit, for the world of snows]

Be glad, my spirit, for the world of snows
Has turned to one of greenness and of grace;
No longer the harsh breath of Winter blows,
But genial breezes fan me in the face;
Voices, long silent, wake to joyous sound,
Waters, long sullen, twinkle as they run;
Fresh flowers begin to constellate the ground,
Warmed into beauty by a brighter sun.
All seasons have their charms; but unto me,
Whose ailing frame has shivered in the blast,
Whose mind with sombre cares is overcast,
How sweet is Springtide's hope-inspiring glee!
April, on welcome but capricious wing,
Leaps o'er the verdant hills, and Nature cries, “'Tis Spring!”

[Month of sweet promise! her mixed tears and smiles]

Month of sweet promise! her mixed tears and smiles
Shed light and fragrance on the grateful earth;
Her very changefulness the heart beguiles,
And in the soul wakes thoughts of gladsome birth.
Sometimes she is as buoyant and as bright
As is the wood-nymph in her native bowers;
Sometimes a nun enswathed in chastened light;
Anon a very Magdalen in showers.
Yet all her moods are pleasant to our eyes,
And all her sighs are breathing of perfumes,
Lovely precursor of serener skies,
Of richer verdure, and of brighter blooms:
Behind her I behold her sister May,
Waiting to usher in her own delicious day.

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SUNSHINE

(A STATUE, BY J. DURHAM.)

A form of sweet simplicity, whose hand
Shades her young eyes from the meridian blaze,
As if she bent her fixed and longing gaze
O'er gleaming seas, or o'er the glowing land.
She seems to sit upon a sunny strand,
To mark some coming ship, too long away;
Or from some green hill-side she sees a band
Of merry rustics 'mid the odorous hay.
Strange fancies, and yet pleasant, for her mien
Suggesteth Summer in her noontide hours,
Rich fields, bright waters, and umbrageous bowers,
Young love, and maiden innocence serene.
Praise to the sculptor, whose poetic thought
Conceived this shape of grace, so delicately wrought.

256

THE PALACE OF ART.

(THE MANCHESTER ART-TREASURES EXHIBITION.)

Behold this treasury of glorious things,
This shrine of genius, this enchanting place,
Where every muse some precious tribute brings
Of blended beauty, majesty, and grace!
Enter with calm and reverential heart,
With earnest purpose and unclouded mind,
So that thy soul, amid transcendent art,
May feel at once refreshed, exalted, and refined.

Hark to that tremulous harmony, that swells
Into a gentle surge of solemn sound,
That with a magic influence dispels
The silence, and pervades the air around.
It makes the breast with new emotions sigh,
It stirs the hidden fountains of our tears,
And seems to lift the longing spirit high,
Even to the loftier choir of the according spheres.

While those sweet sounds yet linger in the ear,
Let's thread this glowing wilderness of charms,
And calmly ponder on each object here
That moves, refines, and fascinates, and warms;

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Lovely creations that, in happiest hour,
The painter's hand has o'er the canvas thrown,
And shapes of beauty, that the sculptor's power
Has fashioned in his mind, and conjured from the stone.

Those mighty masters of the early art,
Those magic wizards of the elder day,
From worldly thoughts and worldly things apart,—
What grandeur did their faculties display!
Lofty conceptions did their souls pervade,
And took immortal shapes at their command;
While reverential feeling moved and swayed,
And wondrously inspired the cunning of their hand.

And have not we, in this our later time,
Our own art-treasures, famous, and not few,
The gay, the graceful, even the sublime,
The sweetly tender, and the grandly true?
Amid the walks of intermingled life
We make our study, find our pictures there,
And send imagination—richly rife
With germs of glorious thought—into a holier air.

Oh, genius! whose mysterious powers invite
The restless spirit to serenest things,
Fill its recesses with a purer light,
And lend its aspirations heavenward wings;
A noble energy pertains to thee,
A hopeful and a hallowed task is thine,
To set our natures from low passions free,
And give unto our souls glimpses of realms divine!

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Music, with stirring or with soothing tones,
Painting, with all thy harmony of hues,
Sculpture, that sitteth upon marble thrones,
And thou, not least of these, poetic muse;—
If ye from earth at once were swept away,
With all the memory of your magic powers,
And all the fires of genius in decay—
Oh, what a priceless loss, what a sad world were ours!

This may not be; for ye shall more and more
Expand in kindred majesty and grace,
And mingle with each other mighty lore,
To cheer, refine, exalt the human race.
He who inspired the great ones of the past,
He by whom good and beauteous things are given,
Will deign to leave His children to the last
This intellectual dower, this one foretaste of Heaven.

Praise to the men of energy who planned
This princely place, this treasure-crowded hall!
Praise to the wealthy of our native land,
Who nobly answered to a noble call!
And when these riches, which improve the heart,
Are to their wonted places back consigned,
May this transcendent spectacle of art
Be mirrored in our souls, leaving its light behind.

259

THE BENEFACTRESS.

I know thee not, lady, in feature or form,
For distance and circumstance keep us apart,
But I know that thy feelings are kindly and warm,
For the Angel of Charity sits at thy heart.

And long may the spirit remain in thy breast,
To prompt thee to actions both gentle and wise;
Together with Hope, a celestial guest,
And Faith that uplifteth the soul to the skies.

Not charity only in helping the low
With what thou canst spare from thy scrip and thy store,
But in word, thought, and judgment, that blessings may flow
From sources unopened, unheeded before.

May the cold shade of poverty keep from thy way,
Nor deaden thy efforts and sicken thy soul;
Peace watch thee by night, and contentment by day,
Till thou of life's pilgrimage draw near the goal.

And when the calm twilight of age cometh on,
And thou longest to rise from mortality's leaven,
May the summons that bids thee prepare and be gone
Be the voice of an angel, who calls thee to Heaven.

260

NOW AND THEN.

Now is a constant warning stroke
Beat by the ceaseless clock of Time,
A voice our wisdom to evoke,
A mandate solemnly sublime;
It bids us keep the soul awake,
To do the best our means allow,
To toil for truth and virtue's sake,
And make the effort Now.

Now is the watchword of the wise,
And often wins its wondrous way
Through hosts of dangers in disguise,
That wait to baffle and betray.
The specious Then doth oft deceive,
Brings pain of heart, and gloom of brow;
But would we some good work achieve,
Let's make the effort Now.

Now gilds the banner of the brave,
And Prudence wears it on her breast;
That talisman has power to save
From vain remorse and sad unrest.
Then leads us by an easy reign,
And breaks our well-intentioned vow:
But would we earn some sterling gain,
Let's make the effort Now.

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Then may not come,—but Now is here,
All ready at our own right hand,
Perhaps with aspect half austere,
Yet prompt to help, if we command:
Strive with it, and its blessings fall,
Like sweet fruit from a laden bough;
But we must feed on husks of gall,
If we neglect the Now.

In youth, if just ambition fire,
And seem to lift the soul on wings;
If the heart glow with pure desire
For worthy and exalted things;—
Wait not, but rouse your latent power,
Nor shrink your purpose to avow;
The only safe, propitious hour,
Is the fresh foremost Now.

In manhood, with our passions strong,
Oft hard to conquer or to guide,
If some insidious power of wrong
Has drawn our faltering feet aside,—
Sorrows will come, regrets and fears
Will make the humbled spirit bow;
But, to atone for wasted years,
Let's seek the right, and Now.

If 'mid the world's rude shock and strife,
Thou hast no sense of things divine,
No longing for the holier life,—
Oh, what a priceless loss is thine!
If thou wouldst hope, strength, comfort find,
God's oracle will teach thee how:
Go, with a meek, inquiring mind,
And hear its voices Now.

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Procrastination, foe to bliss,
Curse far more baneful than it seems,
What treasure we have lost by this,
In vain and unsubstantial dreams!
From this dear moment, let us start
With brave endeavour, righteous vow:
Up, drooping soul! up, languid heart!
And seize the golden Now!

263

WEEDS AND FLOWERS.

Well spake the ancient gardener
Unto the lady gay,
Who came to view his handiwork
One February day.
His parterres were all overrun
With many a useless thing,
And he had only just begun
To trim them for the Spring.
“How fast this tangled rubbish breeds,
Even in the wintry hours!”
“Ah, yes!” quoth he,
With roguish glee,
“The soil is mother to the weeds,
But only step-dame to the flowers!”

And so it is in many a home;
Where'er we chance to turn,
Some wayward and unruly child
Will make his mother mourn;
Yet she will give him her chief love,
Her closest watch and care;
While the docile and dutiful
Receive the lesser share.
Perchance she feeleth that he needs
Her best maternal powers;

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And proves anew
The saying true—
“The soil is mother to the weeds,
But only step-dame to the flowers!”

So in the mixed and mighty world,
From some continuous cause
A multitude go all astray,
And violate its laws;
While poverty and misery
Spring up on every side,
As if to choke the very path
Of gorgeous wealth and pride.
Since effort but in part succeeds
Against this bane of ours,
Well may we say,
From day to day,
“The soil is mother to the weeds,
But only step-dame to the flowers!”

Among the countless worshippers
Of Heaven's supernal Lord,
What difference and intolerance,
Where all should well accord;
Some calmly, wisely, stand apart
From the unhallowed strife;
While some would shut their brother out
From the eternal life.
Since thus amid conflicting creeds
Insidious evil cowers,
Well may we sigh,
And inly cry—
“The soil is mother to the weeds,
But only step-dame to the flowers!”

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Oh! 'tis a pleasant thing to see
Such being going to and fro,
With aspect genial and free,
Yet pure as spotless snow:
One who performs her duties, too,
With steady and becoming grace,
Giving to each attention due,
In fitting time and place:

One who can use her husband's means
With careful thrift from day to day,
And when misfortune intervenes,
Put needless wants away;
Who smooths the wrinkles from his brow,
When more than common cares oppress,
And cheers him—faithful to her vow—
With hopeful tenderness:

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One who, when sorrow comes, can feel
With woman's tenderness of heart;
And yet can strive with quiet zeal,
To ease another's smart;
One who, when Fortune's sun grows bright,
And flings the clouds of care aside,
Can bask with pleasure in its light,
Yet feel no foolish pride:

One who can check, with saint-like power,
Wild thoughts that spring to dangerous birth,
And wake pure feelings, as the shower
Of Spring awakes the earth;—
Bring forth the latent virtues shrined
Within the compass of the breast,
And to the weak and tortured mind
Give confidence and rest.

Good neighbour, not to envy prone;
True wife, in luxury or need;
Fond mother, not unwisely shown,
Blameless in thought and deed.
Whoever claims so rare a wife,
Thus should his earnest words be given,
“She is the angel of my life,
And makes my home a Heaven!”

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THE DARKEST HOUR.

Despair not, Poet, whose warm soul aspires
To breathe the exalted atmosphere of fame;
Give thy heart words, but purify its fires,
So that thy song may consecrate thy name:
Sing on, and hope, nor murmur that the crowd
Are slow to hear and recognise thy lay;
Thy time will come, if thou art well endowed;—
The darkest hour is on the verge of day.

Despair not, Genius, wheresoe'er thou art,
Whate'er the bent and purpose of thy mind;
Use thy great gifts with an unfailing heart,
And wait till Fortune deigneth to be kind;
The world is tardy in its help and praise,
And doubts and dangers may obstruct thy way;
But light oft pierces through the heaviest haze;—
The darkest hour is on the verge of day.

Despair not, Patriot, who, in dreams sublime,
See'st for thy country glories yet unborn,
And fain would chide the laggard wings of Time,
Because they bring not the transcendent morn:
Be firm in thy devotion, year by year
We seem to travel on a sunward way,
And what seems dubious now, may yet be clear;—
The darkest hour is on the verge of day.

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Despair not, Virtue, who in sorrow's hour
Sigh'st to behold some idol overthrown,
And from the shade of thy domestic bower
Some green branch gone, some bird of promise flown;
God chastens but to prove thy faithfulness,
And in thy weakness He will be thy stay;
Trust and deserve, and He will soothe and bless;—
The darkest hour is on the verge of day.

Despair not, Man, however low thy state,
Nor scorn small blessings that around thee fall;
Learn to disdain the impious creed of fate,
And own the Providence that governs all.
If thou art baffled in thy earnest will,
Thy conscience clear, thy reason not astray,
Be this thy faith and consolation still,—
The darkest hour is on the verge of day.

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A GOOD MAN GONE.

Brought by the wingèd messenger of fire
Along the chords of the mysterious wire,
In silence and in secret sweeping by,
What mingled tales, what varied tidings fly!
Tidings of horror, anarchy, and gloom;
Tales of quick vengeance and appalling doom;
Signs of great triumph for some victory won;
Symbols reporting deeds of virtue done;
Stories of danger and o'erwhelming woe,
That make the heart's-blood leap, the tears o'erflow,—
Or, with a strong and terrible control,
Strike the tongue dumb, and paralyse the soul!
These, and much more, the subtle agent brings,
Snatched from the mighty sum of human things:
And now to us, the toiling and the poor,
It comes, and leaves a sorrow at our door—
A sudden sorrow, telling us at last
That a good man has gone, a gentle spirit passed.

“Carlus is gone!” is heard from every tongue;
“Our friend is dead!” repeat the mournful throng:
“Who shall succeed him?” is the general cry;
“Alas! we know not!” is the faint reply.
“None can supply his now deserted place
With the same kindness, dignity, and grace;

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None will essay to bring such blessings down
On the poor denizens of Ashburn town.”
Such is the language of the people here,
And who will dare to say that they are not sincere?

A man of peace, he sought each gentle way
Whereby to mitigate the feud and fray
Of families and nations, hoping then
That Peace might sojourn 'mid the sons of men;
A man of quiet energy, he sought
To make the best of gifts that Commerce brought;
A man of steadfast principle, he saw
That all should heed the universal law
Which bindeth man to man—the common tie
That makes us equal brothers 'neath the sky;
A man of charity, he strove with zeal
For all pertaining unto human weal;
Gave with no stinted measure from his store;
Fostered the mental culture of the poor;
Helped and encouraged, whensoe'er he could,
Whate'er was just, and generous, and good;
Receiving for his meed, which was not small,
Respect, good-will, and gratitude from all.

And was he happy, this lamented one—
This man and Christian, from our presence gone?
Did wealth and goodness make his lot below
Free from the shadow of all human woe?
Faith and approving conscience lent him rest
When sorrow came: but who is wholly blest
Where the unseen inevitable comes,
To snatch some light and treasure from our homes?
Gold cannot buy exemption from all pain,
It cannot bring the lost and mourned again,

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Who from our fond embrace too soon depart,
And leave an aching vacancy of heart.

Our friend had losses gold could not supply:
Twice did he see a loving partner die
And desolate his hearth; then, one by one,
His precious children sickened, and were gone.
One daughter, and one only, yet remained,
And his strong sorrow softened and restrained;
With him she went to many a foreign strand,
The plains of Syria, and the Bible land;
Walked on the shore of the Asphaltic sea;
Read, 'mid the rocks of Edom, God's decree;
Knelt where the suffering Saviour taught and died,
And felt the littleness of human pride.
Thus the kind father saw his only child
Grow up in love and knowledge undefiled;
A sweet companion in his lonely days,
Whose presence soothed his soul, and cheered life's darkest ways.

A change came o'er the aspect of her life
By the exalted duties of a wife;
And 'mid a mother's tenderness and care
She sought her heart, and found her father there;
Found, too, that priceless blessing from above,
A triple fountain of enduring love,
Which kept her feelings in perpetual bloom,
Till the Eternal called her to the tomb.

The spoiler and the tomb! dread words that shake
The coldest heart, and make the strongest quake.
The sorrowing father, once again bereft,
Felt that he had no earthly comfort left;

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And, spite of Christian solace and relief,
Succumbed beneath the burden of his grief;
Girt up his loins with an unwavering hand,
Smiled, and departed for the better land.

Ye wealthy magnates, who have gold, and power
Whereby to scatter blessings like a shower,
Think of the worth of this lamented man,
And emulate his virtues when ye can;
True to yourselves, be kindly and sincere
To all who labour in a lower sphere,
Help and enlighten them, whene'er ye may,
And cast some gifts of goodness in their way;
Give, but give wisely, from your ample store,
And let our toiling town boast of one Carlus more.

273

FAMILY FEUDS.

In truth, it is a grievous sight
To see domestic signs of strife,
Which deaden every sense of right
That ought to sweeten life;
Which rend affection from the heart,
Justice and judgment from the brain,
And to our clouded days impart
An atmosphere of pain.

What glooms, and storms, and treacherous calms,
Environ us on every side,
But no consoling gleams and balms
To soothe our wounded pride:
Distracting doubt, and sad unrest,
From day to day our steps pursue,
And hatred gendered in the breast,
Which time can scarce subdue.

Sometimes, indeed, we long to leave
Th' encumbering incubus behind,
But fail, because we cannot weave
One harmonising mind;
Entangled in the mesh, we strive
Against each other as before;
Which only keeps our wrath alive,
And fetters us the more.

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Could we but calmly pause and think,
And with the just and good agree,
Then, one by one, each galling link
Would break, and set us free:
But since our passions lead astray,
Too oft against our better will,
How dark becomes our tangled way,
Best by every ill!

Forbear, then, and be reconciled,
Ye who are mixed in feuds like these;
Be not bewildered and beguiled
By specious claims and pleas;
Take quiet counsel each with each,
Let prejudice and passion cease,
Bind up the wounds, make up the breach,
And let the end be peace.

So shall ye banish needless strife,
So banish self-made sorrow, too,
And in your after days of life
A friendlier course pursue.
Life is too short to waste as dross,
In deeds as barren as the wind;
And waste of soul—a priceless loss!—
Should teach us to be kind.

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ONE ANGEL MORE.

A bonny and a blessed bird
Has gone from out my nest,
And left a void of agony
Within the parent breast;
A young and loving bird it was,
Whose chirp and song were gay,
Chasing away the darkest thoughts
Of every cloudy day.

Of the sweet birds within my nest,
I had but only three,
And this which took its heavenward flight,
Was very dear to me!
Her gleesome voice, her sunny face,
Gave melody and light;
But, oh! her loss has plunged us both
In grief's oppressive night.

Both, did I say?—Ah! yes, indeed,
Her fond and mournful mother
Weeps for her lost and lovely one,
As if she had no other:
But time may soothe the stricken heart,
And calm the troubled mind,
And only make us love the more
The dear ones left behind.

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And yet, we cannot help but keep
Remembrance of the past,—
Recall her winning ways, that made
All love her to the last:
And when some neighbour breathes the name
Of our delightsome thing,
Up from our hearts the hidden tears
Gush like a sudden spring.

Oh! it was sweet at eventide
To watch her winsome wiles,—
Our bosoms beating with delight,
Our faces wreathed with smiles;
While she would blithely prattle on,
Over some pictured page,
With questions and suggestive words
Beyond her infant age.

But when her sister's fingers touched
The casket of sweet sound,
She started from her book or play
With an exultant bound,
And listened to the melody,
As if it ne'er could cloy;
The music seemed to her young soul
A passion and a joy.

And in the summer fields, how bright
Grew her inquiring eyes!
For every object touched her heart
With gladness and surprise;
Sweet Nature seemed to swathe her round
With a diviner grace;
While the quick light of wakening thought
Flashed out upon her face.

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It cannot now avail to us
How she appeared on earth;
But let us dream of what she is
Since her celestial birth:
Let us not mourn that her white feet
Tread the transcendent shore;
The loss is ours,—but Heaven has gained
One little angel more.

278

HOPE AND TRUST.

Oh! sigh not—weep not, if some day
Fling shard or shadow on thy way;
Remember, thou hast but thy share
Of the great sum of human care;
Think of the things beyond thy sphere
Thou canst not see, thou canst not hear,—
Of labour's trammels lightly worn,
Of mighty sorrows bravely borne;
And then, subdue thy lesser pain—
The clouded sun will shine again.

The earth, beneath the sombre night,
Awaits the dawning of new light
To sweep the darkness from the hills,
To kindle up the streams and rills;
And come it will, whate'er the clime,
Whate'er the season or the time:
So will a cheerful light return
Unto the humblest minds that mourn,
If they believe this truthful strain—
The clouded sun will shine again.

Frail flowers that droop beneath the blast,
Smile with new beauty when 'tis passed;
And looking from the fields below,
Behold the many-coloured bow—

279

The Arch of Hope, whose glorious form
Gleams through the shadows of the storm.
Uplift thy face, and see the sign,
Reflecting love and peace divine;
And then, thy selfish grief restrain—
The clouded sun will shine again.

“Hope on and trust,” in sorrow's hour,
Are words of music and of power;
“Hope and endeavour,” better still,
Lighten the load of human ill;
They gild the passing clouds of care,
Dispel the darkness of despair,
Strengthen the heart 'gainst evil things
And lend the soul aspiring wings:
Be this the burden of our strain—
The clouded sun will shine again.

280

THE YOUNG MARINER.

Young Cheerwell, inspired with true love at eighteen,
Fancied life more enchanting than e'er it had been;
For visions of beauty, and virtue, and joy,
Came over the brain of the proud sailor boy:
And now, with a spirit right honest and brave,
He roamed the wide realm of the turbulent wave,
Resolved every pathway of right to pursue,
For the maiden to whom he had sworn to be true.

On the mighty expanse of the slumberless main,
With Love to exalt him, and Hope to sustain,
He clung to his duties with resolute will,
Resolved every purpose of life to fulfil;
While the image of her he had left far behind,
Like an angel of memory, haunted his mind,—
Came oft in his waking hours, coloured his sleep,
And brightened his way o'er the dangerous deep.

When the waters grew fierce, and the tempest grew loud,
His heart was undaunted, his spirit unbowed;
For fancy recalled the calm grace of her form,
And her eyes seemed to smile thro' the gloom of the storm;

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And in the night-watches, her voice seemed to come
To his ear with sweet tidings of country and home;—
Gave him courage to strive with the perilous hour,
And trust with firm faith to a merciful Power.

When his comrades would fain have him join their carouse,
He turned from temptation, and clung to his vows,
For he saw the sweet maid, with a tear in her eye,
Like an angel to counsel and guard him, stand by.
“Beware of the danger!” her lips seemed to say;
“Be wise, for the sake of a happier day!”
So he strengthened his heart, kept his soul free from stain,
And turned to his duties and studies again.

Thus earnest and hopeful, and thoughtful and true,
In brave manly beauty and goodness he grew:
She charmed him with loveliness, blest him with truth,
And covered with sunshine the days of his youth,
Till he wooed her, in words that are never forgot,
To share in his future, and sweeten his lot;
And she, with a heart of affection and trust,
Gave a bashful consent, and the guerdon was just.

Should his good ship return from the Indian shore,
And bring him to her blessed presence once more,
Then doubt, and delay, and long absence will cease,
Two souls will commingle in virtue and peace;—
Two hearts, long divided by distance, will blend
In the husband and wife, the companion and friend.
May the blithe bridal bells ring a prelude to joy,
Many days, many pleasures, unmixed with alloy.

282

A FAULT CONFESSED.

“A fault confessed is half redressed,”
A simple saying, brief and wise,
For the dear truth is ever best,
If truth without disguise.
If in a weak and angry hour
We utter bitter words and strong,
Oh! let us strive with all our power
To rectify the wrong.

If we attempt to mar and stain
A fellow-being's peace and name,
What does our selfish spirit gain
But fretfulness and shame?
Remember that we but distress
Another's quiet and our own:
Then let us hasten to confess,
And, if we can, atone.

But there are words breathed in the dark,
More baneful still than careless speech;
'Tis when we single out a mark
That secret spite may reach:
An arrow from an unseen hand
Is winged to wound some guiltless breast;
And who can such a foe withstand,
Hidden and unconfessed?

283

God judgeth justly, and will bring
Grief for the mischief that we do;
We cannot do an evil thing
But we shall suffer too.
Then let us lay the bosom bare
Before the injured one and Heaven,
And in a gush of heartfelt prayer
Confess, and be forgiven.

284

A WIDOWER'S LAMENT.

The traveller in desert lands,
Amid the inhospitable sands,
Pines for the limpid stream;
With parching lip, and throbbing brow,
He feels its priceless value now,
And makes it all his dream.

So I, departed wife, perceive
More clearly now the things that grieve
My lone and widowed breast;
Thy presence gone, thy trials o'er,
I feel thy value more and more,
And know nor joy nor rest.

Morn has no cheerfulness for me,
At noon I find no sympathy,
No balsam for my woes;
When evening comes, I sit and pine
For the calm comfort that was mine,
And night brings no repose.

Friends may be kind, and children true,
Striving my sorrows to subdue,
And lighten my distress;
But nought can match thy faithful zeal,
Thy interest in my worldly weal,
Thy household watchfulness.

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Who shall console with kindly voice,
Who shall rejoice when I rejoice,
So truthfully as thou?
Alas! I little thought to bear
The gloom, despondency, and care,
Which weigh upon me now.

Time may assuage these pangs of mine,
But my sad soul can ne'er resign
Fond memories there impressed;
But here I bow me to the rod,
And trust that in the realms of God
Thou art received and blest.

286

CHRISTMASTIDE.

How the heart leapeth up at the festival sound
Of “Christmastide! Christmastide!” echoing round;
That joy-giving season, that holiest time,
Which speaks to our souls of a marvel sublime,
When the Bethlehem guiding-star throbbed in the sky,
And a phalanx of angels sang sweetly on high,—
“Good-will unto man, on this glorious morn
Be there peace upon earth, for a Saviour is born!”

Now in hamlet and city, and cottage and hall,
The holly and mistletoe garland the wall,
And the time-honoured carol comes sweet to the ear,
And the brave bowl of wassail gives comfort and cheer;
And the log of the yule blazes up on the hearth,
To brighten each face of contentment and mirth;
And the song, and the feast, and good wishes are rife,
For the season admits not of bicker and strife:
Old friendships are strengthened, old feuds are suppressed,
And a glow of kind feeling comes over the breast;
And hearts that were severed are newly allied
By the genial magic of blithe Christmastide.

And then the New Year!—oh! with what merry din
We wait for his coming, and welcome him in;
Albeit that he adds to our number of days,
And lessens our vigour for life's roughest ways.

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Fond Memory mourns, with her glance backward cast,
O'er the failings and sorrows that darkened the past;
But Hope scans the future with bright beaming eye,
And looks for the good that may come by-and-by:
And we make new resolves to be wise, and obey
The laws of that Being who watches alway;
And we go forth with feelings of friendship and joy,
And a feeling of pleasure unmixed with alloy;—
Shake hands and are social, look brisk and benign,
And glow with a touch of the nature divine.

I have sat at my casement, to feel on my face
The breath of the New Year, coming apace;
And when he has come, I have fancied I heard
The sigh of some spirit with agony stirred,
And the rush of great wings going hastily by,
And in the dark distance a wail and a cry;
And thought for a moment—my reason astray—
'Twas the voice of the Old Year passing away.
And then the sweet clamour of musical bells,
With their varying cadences, fallings, and swells,
Have wakened me up into gladsome surprise,
And brought, all unbidden, the tears to my eyes.

Then I've sat down in peace by my glowing fireside,
And mused on God's mysteries, countless and wide;
On the marvellous doings of ongoing Time,
And the coming Eternity, darkly sublime;
And my soul has bowed down with submission and awe,
To the Maker and Giver's inscrutable law;
Till a voice has cried to me with solace and cheer—
“Live in faith, and use wisely the present New Year!”

288

ABJURATION.

'Tis done! 'tis well!—I've freely signed
The Pledge that prompts me to be wise;—
To keep the balance of my mind,
To cast the film from off my eyes:
Help me, divine, unerring Power!
To Thee, not man, do I appeal;
Oh! lend me strength this very hour,
For my eternal weal.

How frail—how failing I have been
In man's best duties here below!
My thoughts how dark, my pangs how keen,
He, the All-Wise, can only know.
Yet I have yearned—in sorrow yearned,
To keep my soul unsoiled within;
For I too prematurely learned
The misery of sin.

289

To shun the cup that sometimes cheers,
But often deadens and destroys,
Will not bring back my wasted years,
My withered hopes, my banished joys:
But it may help to make the best
Of what remains of mortal life,—
Yield me an interval of rest,
And banish needless strife.

To scorn the draught that bringeth blight,
Sad waste of body, dearth of soul,
Will not afford the perfect light,
Nor make us calmly, truly whole;
But it may lend us strength to rise
To higher duties, holier aims,—
Give us an impulse towards the skies,
And purify our claims.

A crowd of enemies remain
To curb or conquer, if we can;
A hundred nameless things, that stain
And hurt the better part of man;—
The lust of passion, pride, and gold,
The uncharitable thought and deed,
With errors mixed and manifold,
Must fall ere we are freed.

Here I abjure the bane whose power
Holds countless souls in shameful thrall;
Aroused to reason, from this hour
I shun, scorn, loathe it, once for all!
Humbly, and with remorseful pain,
I ask the merciful Supreme
To banish from my restless brain
The past, a hideous dream.

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Come, Temperance, pioneer and guide
To purer regions of delight,
And help me not to turn aside
From the true path of moral right;
But chiefly thou, Religion, come,
Without thee other aids are frail;
Hope, faith, truth, virtue, are the sum,
These over all prevail.

From his earliest childhood to youth, the writer was surrounded by intemperance, poverty, and misery.—J. C. P.

291

A PASTORAL.

I reclined 'neath an oak, from the noon's fervid heat,
That shadows yon bright winding stream;
The high-soaring lark sang with ecstasy sweet,
As I thought on his lay for a theme:

When Celia, a shepherdess artless and fair,
Came thither to water her sheep;
A wreath of coy lilies bound up her brown hair,
And a rose on her bosom did weep.

She bent o'er the brook with an aspect of grace,
And viewed her own image awhile;
A sweet, modest pride was expressed in her face,
And her lips were adorned with a smile.

Ye gods! with what wonder, and joy, and surprise,
Did I gaze on her angelic charms!
While the glances that shot from her beautiful eyes
Filled my breast with love's panting alarms.

Unheeded, the rose from her white bosom fell
(That bosom how madly admired!)
She gathered her lambkins, and (grievous to tell)
Took up her light crook and retired.

292

With a feeling of rapture I gazed on the tide,
Which had borne to my feet the fresh flower;
I seized it. “Come, live in my bosom,” I cried,
“As an emblem of her I adore.”

The sun thrice has risen, and gloriously thrown
A blush o'er the fair cheek of morn,
But still my fond heart, a poor captive, is lone,
By love and despair sorely torn.

The flower I possess is quite scentless and pale,
All its odours and beauties are fled;
It silently speaketh a sorrowful tale,
And my few tender hopes are now dead.

The rose was deprived of the bower where it smiled,
It languished, and went to decay;
So I without her who my soul has beguiled,
Must experience as transient a day.

With my flock I will roam o'er these valleys and plains,
And if by kind fortune we meet,
By love she shall make me the happiest of swains,
Or behold me expire at her feet.

293

THE SOLDIER OF PROGRESS.

What are my glorious watchwords now?
“Truth, Virtue, Freedom,” these they are;
These, star-like, on my banner glow,
And lead me to the war;
But not with fierce and fiery hordes,
Not booming cannon, slaughtering swords,
Do I array the battle-van;
But with strong principles of right,
Sharp moral weapons for the fight,
Achieving good for Man.

Come forth, thrice-tempered steel of Truth,
And thou, stern Virtue, lend thy shield,
Immortal Freedom, strong in youth,
Equip me for the field;
Buckle thy corslet on my breast,
Set thy unshivered lance in rest,
Lend all thy panoply to-day;
Plant thy bright casket on my brow,
Crown me with snowy plumes—Ah! now
I'm ready for the fray.

Come on, in all your banded power,
Oppression, falsehood, error, wrong;
If God but help in peril's hour,
I in my cause am strong;

294

Come in the darkness of your guiles,
Lurk in the ambush of your wiles,
Come in your bold and brazen strength,
Come in the midnight or the day,
March, menace, struggle, or waylay,—
I'll conquer ye at length.

Long the unequal strife may last,
With much of human waste and woe,
For the mixed records of the past
Too truly tell me so;
Still will I strive to raise on high
My ever-glorious battle-cry,
“Truth, Virtue, Freedom,” words of light;
And though I'm baffled for a time,
Others will hear the sound sublime,
And vindicate the right.

295

SONNET TO A FRIEND.

Though fate has willed that thou must change thy home,
To seek that bread which thou art here denied,—
Here where rank wealth can raise a lorldly dome,
By ill-fed worth and groaning toil supplied,
While we, alas! must bend to pampered pride,
Reft of the guerdon labour ought to give,
Submissive tremble when our tyrants chide,
And lack the human privilege to live;—
Yet thou wilt not forget the pleasant hours
Which we in social intercourse have spent,
When Poesy has strewn her magic flowers,
And calm Philosophy his wisdom lent.
Let memory its welcome missive send
To me, the youthful bard, who claims thee as his friend.

296

A FLOWER OF THE HOUSEHOLD.

Sweet darling of our wedded souls,
With beauty on thy brow,
We ask that God's best benison
May follow thee from now;—
That little care, and less of sin,
May meet thee on thy way,
Is our heart-uttered hope and prayer
On this thy natal day.

As yet, thou wear'st the hues of Heaven,
Whence thy young spirit came,
To share the chances of our lot,
And bear our lowly name;
As yet, thou art unsoiled by sin,
Aloof from painful strife,
In the first flush of childhood's prime,
The Paradise of life:

Life's Paradise,—for angel eyes
Look on thee from afar,
And see no envious shadow yet
To dim thy natal star;
No messenger is at the gate
To startle and expel,
And drive thee, weeping, from the place
Where thou shouldst ever dwell.

297

And thou hast brought unto our eyes,
From a celestial shore,
Charms which suggest that happy realm
Where seraphim adore;
Grace, innocence, and health, and joy,
Are now thy precious dower;
What pity that the dust of earth
Should stain so sweet a flower!

Gaily thou goest to and fro,
Unconscious of all wrong,
With a sweet light upon thy face,
And music on thy tongue;
And in thy presence we receive,
What make our thoughts more bright,
A portion of thy purity,
A share of thy delight.

Thy pure, spontaneous narratives
Evince mind's growing powers;
Thy artless questions test the strength
Of wiser minds than ours;
Thy transient moods of gravity,
Thy bursts of happy glee,
Thy whole demeanour—brisk or calm—
Strengthen our love for thee.

We watch thy merry winsome ways,
And inwardly rejoice;
Our ears are charmed, our hearts are moved,
By thy seductive voice.
We touch thee with a fond caress,
Our feelings brimming o'er,
And own that Heaven has lent to us
One priceless blessing more.

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And we, by help of light divine,
Will strive to guide thee so
That hope, faith, firmness, peace, and joy,
May mark thy lot below;
Such is our wish—though we may fail
In what we strive to do;
But the great, good, and guardian Power
Will bring thee safely through.

Cares will be thine, for such we need
To curb unjust desires,
To make us feel our littleness,
And quench unhallowed fires;
But oh! when thou art called to leave
This sphere of strife and sin,
May smiling angels stoop from Heaven,
And take our darling in!

299

AUTUMNAL DAYS.

The Autumn's loosened leaves are falling fast
With a sad rustling sound,
And, chased by fitful breeze or fiercer blast,
Race o'er the shadowy ground;
The solemn woods, though garbed in gorgeous hues,
Are hastening to decay,
As listlessly I wander on, and muse
On things that pass away.

The hardy robin on the garden rail,
Though day is growing cold,
Sits and reiterates his tender tale,
Most musically told;
For gentle robin, with a spirit brave,
Sings in the gloomiest hours,
And even chants an uncomplaining stave
In Winter's naked bowers.

Ere long the northern winds will keenly blow,
The woods and waters roar,
And all the wondrous magazines of snow
Pour forth their fleecy store;
Our window-panes will gleam with silvery rime,
Or sound with rattling hail,
And Winter's voice grow terribly sublime
When angry storms prevail.

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But with the resurrection of the Spring,
Nature will smile anew,
Resume her crown, and o'er her shoulders fling
Robes of the loveliest hue:
Sweet Spring! that faintly pictures to the mind
Glories beyond the skies,
Where tempest and decay no entrance find,
Where beauty never dies.

301

THE SOUL OF THE LAND IS AWAKE.

(A SONG FOR OUR VOLUNTEERS.)

The soul of the land is awake,
Whatever the scorner may say,
And nothing shall sadden her, nothing shall shake
The spirit that moves her to-day;
With the faith and the firmness of yore,
With souls that no threat can appal,
Her sons stand the girdle and shield of her shore,
And are ready—aye ready for all.

Behold how they throng o'er the land,
From city, and hamlet, and plain,
A legion of freemen, a resolute band,
Prepared to do battle again;
From the centre all round to the coast,
They will muster when duty shall call;
Too steady to swerve, and too manly to boast,
They are ready—aye ready for all.

They seek not to strive with the foe,
They challenge not kaiser or king;
They best love the blessings that peace can bestow,
And the triumphs that commerce can bring:
But should reckless ambition presume
To menace with danger and thrall,
Give them heroes to lead them, and plenty of room,
And they're ready—aye ready for all.

302

True Britons can never grow cold
To dignity, honour, and right,
They can prove it to-day, as they proved it of old
In many a glorious fight:
With courage undaunted and keen,
Prepared for what chance may befall,
In defence of their freedom, their country and Queen,
They are ready—aye ready for all.

303

THE LOVER'S CALL.

Oh! when will the sweet Spring come,
With its sunshine, odours, and flowers,
And bring my beloved one home,
To brighten the vernal hours?
Like a worthless weed or a stone
On the verge of the surging sea,
I am silent, and sad, and lone,
Bereft of thy smiles and thee.

To the haunts where we used to rove,
My loitering footsteps go,
Where I heard thy confession of love,
So tremulous, sweet, and low:
But the rivulet seems to moan
That thou art not also there,
And the trees send a plaintive tone,
Like a sigh on the evening air.

I can find no charm in the day,
No calm in the sombre night;
Thou hast ta'en my repose away,
And clouded the cheerful light:
To the heart that can love thee best
Return, if still loyal to me;
Come back, that my soul may rest,—
I am weary waiting for thee.

304

MY BIRTHDAY.

My Birthday!—old familiar sound!
How hopeful once, how mournful now!
For Time's relentless hand has bound
A wreath of wrinkles round my brow;—
Has scattered sleet upon my head,
Shed from his never-tiring wing,
And almost made my spirit dead
To every joyous thing.

In boyhood, how I strove to scan
The footsteps of advancing Time,
Longing that he would stamp me Man,—
Deeming that dignity sublime;
And each recurring birthday brought
New hopes and yearnings to my soul,
With wishful and impatient thought
To reach the golden goal.

Manhood was gained;—but oh! the change
From the pure joy of childhood's hours,
When everything was bright and strange,
And every pathway strewn with flowers!
How different, when I came to tread
The broad arena floor of life,
And for the meed of needful bread
Waged a perpetual strife.

305

The summit, which seemed all a-glow
With golden clouds, as seen from far,
When reached, was clothed with mist and snow,
And dubious light without a star:
And now down life's precipitous steep
I feel and falter as I go,
With a vague thought of joy or sleep
In the calm vale below.

Ah! what are birthdays now to me,
Save that which starts a holier life?—
A life from Time's rude changes free,
In realms unknown to sin and strife.
'Tis sad when Faith grows faint and chill,
And Hope withdraws her roseate smile;
Thank God, these twain are with me still,
Though I am sad the while.

306

ITALY AWAKENED.

Well done at last, thou fair and storied land!
For thou hast broken from the thrall of years,
Cast off thy lethargy, dispelled thy fears,
And grappled tyranny with daring hand;
Watched by the nations, thou didst well withstand
The stubborn Austrian, who oppressed thee sore,
Banished the cruel Bourbon from thy shore,
And raised a wiser monarch to command.
Much hast thou done, but more remains to do
Ere thy new freedom can unclouded shine;
The City of the Waters must be thine,
With all her fertile provinces thereto;
And unprogressive Popedom must not stay
Thy glowing chariot wheels on thy triumphant way.

But in thy triumph thou must not forget
That man of grand simplicity of mind,
With whom thy destiny is now combined,
To whom thou owest a transcendent debt;
The hero-hermit of Caprera's rock
Claims gratitude and trust, which are his due,
For he is valiant, merciful, and true,
And ready to resist Oppression's shock.
He will not fail thee in the perilous hour,
Nor hold a traitorous parley with thy foes;
Where'er he goes, stern honour also goes,
And wisely guides his delegated power:

307

He wars for holiest purposes, and Fame
Will breathe with burning lips great Garibaldi's name.

Oh! for another Tasso, who could write
Of Italy delivered, and rehearse
In stirring, truthful, and immortal verse,
Thy patriotic prowess in the fight;—
Sing of her patient suffering through the past,
Till the two tyrants goaded her to strife;—
Speak of her present newly-kindled life,
And hopes, which may be realised at last;—
Expatiate on the future of her time,
When Peace shall fold her in her stainless wing,
And the pure light of Liberty shall bring
New charms to all the beauties of her clime.
Thus, with the in-born prescience of a seer,
The Poet would foreshow her glorious career.

308

A NIGHT THOUGHT.

How grandly solemn is this arch of night,
How wonderfully beautiful and vast,
Crowded with worlds enswathed in living light,
Coeval with the immeasurable past!
With what a placid and effulgent face
The mild moon travels 'mid her golden isles,
And on the earth, asleep in night's embrace,
Pours the sweet light of her serenest smiles!
Can I, O God, who tremble here with awe,
Doubt the Designer, scoff at the design,
Deny that all is of Thy wisdom Thine,
Fashioned by Thee, and governed by Thy law?
I marvel at that being who can see,
In these Thy mighty works, no evidence of Thee.

309

THE MOUNTAINS.

I have a passion for the mountains; they
Lift me above the din of earthly things,
And seem to lend imagination wings
To roam in wondrous regions far away;
They have a nameless power, by night or day,
Which doth attract, yet overawe the mind
With grandeur and with silence, till we find
The soul expand, obedient to their sway.
The passing clouds linger about their forms,
Or the light milky mists enswathe them round,
Or their dim glens and cavities resound
With the wild clamour of invading storms;
Then is the hour their rugged heights to climb,
And hear, behold, enjoy, the turbulence sublime.

The mountain peak feels the first breath of day,
And first reflects Aurora's rosy wing,
While scattered clouds bestrew the eastern way,
And kindle at the coming of their king:
Then does he bask in the full sheen of light,
His aspect changing with each passing hour,
Until the cold dominion of the night
Returns again with its mysterious power.
Then the winds swoop upon his shadowy breast,
And the stars cluster round his giant head
Like swarms of golden bees; the moonbeams shed
A calm, sweet glory on his heathery crest,

310

Soften the features of his rocky face,
And to his beauteous vales add a serener grace.

The mountains soonest catch the precious rains
Engendered in the wondrous firmament,
Receive and hoard them in their countless veins,
Till they are purified, whence they are sent
In streams of fruitfulness o'er all the land,
Gathered at last to the insatiate main,
Till the attraction of the Master Hand
Draws them to travel in the clouds again:
While their feet bathe in the bright summer glow,
The mountains lift old Winter from the vales,
And seat him on their shoulders, where the snow,
With a profuse supply that never fails,
Feeds the gigantic glacier, old and hoar,
Which creeps adown the slopes, and moveth evermore.

A sense of strength and freedom they impart
To those who 'mong them first drew breath of life;—
Hence Tell and Schamyl, each with dauntless heart,
Battled for liberty, a glorious strife.
On the scarred front of Sinai's fearful height
Did the Almighty give the graven Law
To Moses, who, with reverence and awe,
Shook and adored through many a day and night.
And on the Mount the dear Redeemer wept,
And prayed, and suffered sanguinary sweat,
Until the ground with bloody drops was wet;
While His disciples, bowed with sorrow, slept.
Then blessed be the mountains, for they bring
Strange memories, and dreams of many a wondrous thing.

311

A WIFE'S EVENING PRAYER.

(FROM THE GERMAN.)

A day well spent, as a just God approves,
Is more than earthly wealth—far more than gold;
Some care, indeed, my anxious spirit moves,
Yet are my daily sufferings briefly told.

But I have been sustained in heart and powers;
At my right hand my gracious Lord has stood;
In needful toil I've gladly passed my hours,
And a fond mother's busy life pursued.

Now wondrous sleep its leaden sceptre sways,
Till morning shall begin the day anew;
And every grateful spirit humbly prays
For help, for pardon, and for blessing too.

My little inmates are already sleeping
(How free from care!) in sombre night's embrace,
While I alone a silent watch am keeping,
Inwardly asking for more strength and grace.

I, too, O Guardian Lord! shall soon be resting;
But thou dost wake while all Thy creatures sleep;
I toil, and think, and meditate, still trusting
That thou a Father's watch will near me keep.

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Defend me, Lord, from bitter pain and sorrow,
And with sweet quiet all my being bless,
And grant me, on the dawning of the morrow,
Thy gracious Spirit's inward joyfulness.

And now my weary head in calm reposes,
Safe in Thy love and in Thy watchful sight;
Sweet prayer my daily joys and duties closes,
At peace with all mankind I hope to rest this night.

313

LILLY AND HER NEWFOUNDLAND DOG.

Truly 'tis a pleasant picture—
(Oh, that we should e'er grow old!)
Lilly with her brave companion,
Hector, beautiful and bold;
Lilly, graceful in her girlhood,
Hector, generous in his pride,
Sporting cheerfully together,
Friends whom nothing can divide.

Painter, take thy cunning pencil,
Dip it in the brightest hues,
And portray these playful creatures,
Worthy of the poet's muse;
Then the father's heart with gladness,
And the mother's eyes with tears,
Will confess that thou hast left them
Pleasure for their after years.

Death, inevitable spoiler,
Sharp and sudden, stern and slow,
All too soon may snatch their treasure,
And o'erwhelm their souls with woe.

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Then the dear and mute resemblance
Oft will draw their earnest gaze,
And with silent power remind them
Of the joys of former days.

Better far such simple pictures,
Then the glare of warlike things,
Than the deeds of tragic story,
Than the gorgeous pomp of kings:
For they keep the home affections
Ever fresh with life and bloom;
Soothe the heart in its bereavement,—
Mitigate the spirit's gloom.

Lilly, first-born of thy mother,
'Neath whose eye thy beauty grew,
Earliest offspring of thy father,
Chiefest darling of the two;—
Now thy nature is unsullied,
Free from shadow, free from care,
May no unexpected sorrow
Come upon thee unaware!

May thy mind, which is but dawning
With a rich and rosy ray,
Quicken gently, softly open,
Into clear and ample day;
May thy heart receive all goodness,
With its passions at command,
Till thy loving parents see thee
“Perfect woman, nobly planned.”

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Changeful time, perchance, may bring thee
Sterner duties to fulfil;
May'st thou meet them, and perform them,
With calm spirit and goodwill.
Whosoever wins and claims thee
For his hearthstone and his heart,
May he cherish thee, and keep thee
From all evil things apart.

And should children come around thee,
Cheering home with gladsome din,
May they long remain beside thee,
Free from sorrow—safe from sin.
But through all life's chances, changes,
Keep thy feelings undefiled;
Loving still thy father, mother,
Even as a little child.

Whatsoever may betide thee,
Good or evil, foul or fair,
Strive to keep thy soul exalted
'Bove the clouds of common care;
Thank thy God for smallest blessing,
Meet His stroke with soul resigned,—
Still believing that all darkness
Has some mercy-light behind.

As for Hector, he will never
Waver in his love for thee;
But, perhaps, hereafter gambol
With the children round thy knee.
Cherish, then, thy true companion,
With his fond, sagacious ways;
While he lives he will remind thee
Of thy happy early days.

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CHRISTMAS.

Blest Morn, by the Redeemer made the holiest of the year!
In the encircling silence now I feel thy drawing near;
The very frost-wind stealing past, upon my forehead flings
A freshness, wafted by the stir of thy advancing wings:
In clustering constellations, too, the star-troops seem to burn
In all their bright emblazonry, to welcome thy return.
Hail to thy coming once again, thou spiritual time!
Morn of a mighty mystery, soul-saving, and sublime!

Rejoice, my spirit, hopefully; yon temple's hoary tower
Gives to the far-pervading night the consecrated hour;
And human voices, here and there, uplift with glad acclaim
A sweet old song of thankfulness to God's transcendent name;
While fancy hears the angel hymn, and sees the star whose ray
Smiled on the lowly manger-roof where God Incarnate lay.
Hail to thy coming once again, thou praise-inspiring time!
Morn of a mighty mystery, soul-saving and sublime!

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Imagination hovers o'er thee, glorious Palestine!
Proud birthplace of the Saviour, that prodigy divine;
Thou saw'st His miracles of love, His excellence of life,
And how He bore with holy calm the malice and the strife
Of cruel and calumnious power, of unbelieving pride,
Though sold, scourged, menaced, and reviled, and by His own denied.
Hail to thy coming once again, thou solemnising time!
Morn of a mighty mystery, soul-saving, and sublime!

Land which beheld upon His brow the diadem of thorns,
Planted by ruffian hands, amid indignities and scorns;
While some, more reckless than the rest, exulting in their deeds,
Spat in that pale and patient face, distained with bloody beads,
Whence came with meek humility the words of sorrow true,
“Father, forgive their ignorance, they know not what they do!”
Hail to thy coming once again, thou sad yet soothing time!
Morn of a mighty mystery, soul-saving, and sublime!

Land which beheld, when Heaven had brimmed His earthly cup with woes,
His ordeal of sanguine sweat, His agonising throes,
What time in lone Gethsemane's funereal depths of shade,
A more than human misery was on His spirit laid;
The while with pinched and parched lips, he murmured—“From thy Son
Oh! pass this draught of bitterness; but still, Thy will be done!”
Hail to thy coming once again, thou mournful, musing time!
Morn of a mighty mystery, soul-saving, and sublime!

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Land which beheld the final scene of man-redeeming love,
When the dear Jesus loosed His soul to wing its way above;
While rude, remorseless men looked on with wild and wolfish eyes,
Laughed at the spectacle, nor deemed how great the sacrifice,
Till earth put on the dreary robe of black, unnatural night,
Shook tower and temple on her breast, and smote them with affright.
Hail to thy coming once again, thou awe-creating time!
Morn of a mighty mystery, soul-saving, and sublime!

Sweet to behold thy influence o'er all the Christian world;
To see the banner of “good will” spontaneously unfurled;
To find our daily fears forgot, our enmities forgiven,
And hearts grow dearer each to each, and nearer unto heaven:
To know that 'midst the multitudes one simultaneous tone
Of joyance and benevolence respondeth to our own.
Hail to thy coming once again, thou humanising time!
Morn of a mighty mystery, soul-saving, and sublime!

In crowded cities men forego their wretchedness and wrongs,
New pleasure lighteth up their eyes, and leapeth from their tongues;
In palace and in cottage homes, one sentiment is rife;
On mountain slopes, in lonely glens, awakes more buoyant life;
In stern, unpeopled forest glooms, on 'wildering seas and wide,
Hand claspeth hand, soul clings to soul, and care is cast aside.
Hail to thy coming once again, thou sympathetic time!
Morn of a mighty mystery, soul-saving, and sublime!

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Blest season! when the friendly draught, in darkness prisoned long,
Flows o'er the laughing lip, and wakes the slumbering voice of song;
When music thrills the holly bough, and stirs the languid breast,
And frankly from the glowing heart is flung the harmless jest;
When modest maidenhood grows gay, and childhood frolics wild,
And age remembers lovingly that Jesus was a Child.
Hail to thy coming once again, thou free and festive time!
Morn of a mighty mystery, soul-saving, and sublime!

Blest season! yet not blest to all, save in the holy sense
Of sweet salvation, and the power of high omnipotence;
How many at this festal time confront the coming year
With desperate hearts, upbraiding eyes, and souls which know no cheer:
Oh! that the human family could each and all partake
One creed, one comfort, and one joy, blithe Christmas! for thy sake.
Hail to thy coming once again, thou meditative time!
Morn of a mighty mystery, soul-saving, and sublime!

320

SONNET TO THE OLD YEAR.

Thou slumberest with the past, old forty-four,
But thou hast left thy footprints on the earth,
And good will grow thereon; yet at thy birth
How many hearts grew glad, that throb no more!
Mine was distraught, and aching to the core,
When jolly winter brought thee by the hand
To claim allegiance for thee; bright and bland
Thou gav'st me merry morning at the door.
'Twas answered with good will, and I forgot
In thy blithe presence my untoward lot,
Grew bold and cheerful, resolute to thrive;
Alas for my resolves! behold me now
Receive with scanty store and care-worn brow
Thy young successor, hopeful forty-five!

321

MIDNIGHT IMAGININGS.

COMPOSED DURING SICKNESS.

With an angry wing, and an awful wail,
Sad o'er my roof-tree hurries the gale
Of moonless November, drenched and drear,
With a dirge-like tone for the falling year;
Flinging the fierce and incessant rain
Full on the sounding window-pane.
Without, in the damp and deserted street,
Is heard the brief tread of belated feet,
And the vulgar reveller reeling along,
Answers the wind with a snatch of song;
While, muffled and hoarse, in the driving shower,
The watchman heralds the midnight hour.

Now in the tempest there comes a lull,
And I mark on my chamber-walls bare and dull,
The ghostly shadows that frown and fade,
By the flickering light of my night-fire made:
I list to the cricket-song, shrill and lone,
And the purr of the cat on the dim hearthstone,
And the restless clock, and the breathing deep
Of dear ones around me, who calmly sleep.
Alas! no repose for my aching lids!
The fever within me that burns, forbids

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The natural blessing that falls so mild
On the stalwart man, and the sinless child.
But blest be the Being who takes and gives,
Who governs the humblest thing that lives,
Who hath laid His hand on my wayward soul,
With a just reproof and a kind control,—
Sweet fancies and memories still remain
To fill up the pauses of fitful pain.
Even now is the spirit of thought at play,
Like a passenger bird on its trackless way,
That stoopeth to rest on those far-off isles
Where lingering summer in beauty smiles.

Gone is the storm, and the wind, and the gloom,
Gone the blank walls of my cheerless room;
Rafter and roof are vanished from sight,
And the starless robe of November night;
And I walk like a creature for gladness born,
In the first faint flush of a Spring-tide morn,
Where the dew-pearls lie on the flowery grass,
Bathing my feet as I pensively pass.
Heaves the round sun o'er the cold, clear line
Of the mountain fringed with the sombre pine;
Kindles the cloud with a rosier gleam,
Laughs in the lustre the singing stream,
Smile the rich woods in their gayest of green,
And the slumbering meadow-slopes lying between.
The lark is above me, the first to pay
Melodious tribute to regal Day;
And the linnet replies from the hawthorn bush,
To the echoing call of the woodland thrush;
Crows the shrill cock from his home on the hill,
Starts into labour the moss-grown mill,

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Rings from the forest the woodman's stroke,
Soars from the hamlet the feathery smoke:
Fresh airs and musical wander about,
Laden with sweets from the flowers flung out;
The mantle of May on the landscape lies,
No shadow shuts out the blue breadth of the skies;
While the unsealed springs of enjoyment start
In the healthful pulse and the grateful heart.

Leaning against the far western steep,
With his fiery foot in the glowing deep,
The Sun-god sits, and stains the skies
With gorgeous glooms and dazzling dyes;
Mingling and changing, melting soon,
As the pearly face of the milder moon
Looks from the star-paved portals of night,
Pervading the air with her clear sweet light.

I pace the smooth surface of sea-sands wide,
Wrinkled and ribbed by the downward tide;
Where the foam-fringed waves, that sink and swell
On rounded pebble and glistening shell,
With the muffled hum of the distant town,
Sent on the seaward breezes down,
Make lovely music, and thrill the chords
Of memories far “too deep for words!”
With stately spar, and clustering sail
Big with the breath of the wayward gale,
The shadowy ships go forth afar,
By the life-like needle and Arctic star
Obedient now to the calm command
Of the master's word and the helmsman's hand;
Till they sink from sight o'er the dusky line
Where the gray sky stoops to the level brine;

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And fancy follows them over the main,
And the heart asks—“Shall they return again?”

But my moonlight vision is past, and now
With a languid limb, and a beaded brow,
O'er the odorous field, and the footworn stile,
I thoughtfully wander; but tarry awhile
Where the prostrate meadow-grass, dry and dun,
Absorbeth the rays of the summer sun;
While the rustic group, “man, maiden, and boy,”
Who have left for an hour their sweet employ,
Sit aloof, 'mid the music of bird and bee,
In the ample shade of the broad beech-tree.
On—on to the woods that I love so well,
Where beauty, and quiet, and coolness dwell:
I am there in the heart of the wildest shade,
Where the red deer glances athwart the glade;
To a deeper gloom, to a lovelier spot,
Where the wanderer's foot may disturb him not;
Where the leveret springs as I slowly pass
Through the pensile fern and the pliant grass,
As though 'twere forbidden for man to roam
In the tangled haunts of her sylvan home.

At length on the sward, in a side-long rest,
With a busy brain and a tranquil breast,
I lie where the harebell about my knees
Stoops low to the kiss of the roving breeze.
Around me a shadowy realm appears
Of woods with the strength of a hundred years,
With slumbrous aisles that charm the sight
With doubtful distance, and dubious light;
Above me, a roof where the heaven of blue
Through a legion of leaves breaks sweetly through;

325

Beside me, the page of the poet, whose name
Is a world-uttered word with a world-wide fame;
And I take it up lovingly, turning awhile
From charm unto charm, with a tear and a smile,
Till I plunge in a cluster of sweets outright,
Re-dreaming “the Dream of a Midsummer's Night.”
O'ercome by the region of moonlight spells,
Half hid in a curtain of wild blue-bells,
In the dim deep forest-paths far away,
I repose by the side of the Queenly Fay,
And fancy that Puck, so vivacious and wise,
Is dropping his juice in my languid eyes;
And I feel the light fingers of welcome sleep,
With a healing touch o'er my senses creep.
For this brief visit of calm, sweet rest,
Oh, God! in Thy mercies be praised and blest!
Sustain me and guard me, a helpless thing,
By the shadow and strength of Thy holy wing.

326

THE TEMPLE OF NATURE.

Were there no temple reared by mortal hands,
No altar-stone, no consecrated shrine,
No edifice for purposes divine,
To congregate the people of the lands,—
Still would the flame of adoration's fire
Survive in human hearts, and heavenward aspire.

What need of graceful arch and storied pane
To a poor suffering sinner on his knees?
The universe has greater things than these
Wherewith to decorate God's boundless fane;
And many voices of sublimer powers,
Which send into the skies a grander psalm than ours.

With never-failing lamps the heavens are hung,
The mighty sun by fiery robes embraced,
The changeful moon, so beautiful and chaste,
The crowded stars in countless systems strung,
And meteors speeding with a fearful flight
Through all the realms of space, and swathed in marvellous light.

And there are sounds of worship that arise
From birds and trees, in many a sigh and song,
From winds and waters hurrying along,
From restless oceans heaving towards the skies;

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And flowers, fruits, spices, streams of incense send
Up to the floating clouds, where they in sweetness blend.

On mountain-tops we'd breathe our matin hymn,
While the lark chanted to the new-born day;
At noon retire to meditate and pray
In the old forest aisles, so cool and dim;
At night, amid our household seek the Lord,
And learn the precious truths shrined in His blessed Word.

And yet, 'tis well that men should congregate
To read, expound, and venerate the Page
Which shall extend from brightening age to age—
The hopeful promise of a holier state;
'Tis well to meet with souls that look above,
To form and propagate a brotherhood of love.

Oh! for one simple creed, which all could share,
The mildest, purest, mercifullest, best,
That we might follow God's divine behest,
And worship Him in gladness everywhere;
Free from all doubt, intolerance, and pride,
Pursue the better way, with Jesus for our guide.

328

THE PAUPER'S GRAVE.

Behold ye how calmly he sinks to death!
His last pulse flutters, his eyes grow dim;
But those who await his parting breath
Can cherish no feeling of grief for him;
Unmoved as his prison walls they stand,
Till the tide of existence has ebbed away,
Prepared with a rude and remorseless hand
To render to earth the insulted clay.
He dies,—and already some hungry slave
Is breaking the sod for the Pauper's grave.

With many a jest on his woes untold,
They lift from its pallet the lifeless load;
Ere the stirless streams of his veins are cold,
They hurry him forth to his last abode;
Nor friendship nor love attends him there,
Not a knell is rung, not a tear is shed;
But hurried and brief is the burial prayer,
By a worldly priest o'er the sacred dead:
But the minion of power, and unfeeling knave,
Deign not to look on the Pauper's grave.

But where can the wife of his bosom be?—
With a broken heart she has gone before;
And the son whom he taught to be just and free?—
He selleth his blood on a foreign shore.

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But the dove of his household, has she, too, flown?—
Alas! there is woe in the lost one's name,
For a pitiless destiny brought her down
To the harlot's ruin, remorse, and shame:
And he, the fond father, who yearned to save,
Forgets his despair in a Pauper's grave.

Born on our own unconquered soil,
His life was pure, though his lot was hard;
His days were devoted to painful toil,
And precarious bread was his best reward;
But his arm waxed faint, and his Workhouse doom
Was darker far than the lot he bore;
For, shut from the world in a living tomb,
Nor mother nor offspring beheld him more.
Arise and avenge him, ye good and brave,
For blood cries out from the Pauper's grave!

330

RETROSPECTION.

“I might have been”—oh! sad, suggestive words!
So full of hidden meaning, yet so vain!
How sadly do they sound on memory's chords,
And waken feelings of regretful pain!
I might have been a wiser, better man,
With signs of well-won honour on my brow,
Had I adhered to nature's simple plan,
Or reasoned with myself, as I do now.
True that my life has been with ills beset,
Early neglect, and poverty, and gloom,
Within whose shades—how well remembered yet!—
My mind found neither sustenance nor room;
Yet, with instinctive longing for the right,
It sought for fitting food, and struggled towards the light.

Too late to gather up the waste of years,
And turn to profit the encumbering dross;
The gold has vanished,—and these sudden tears
Attest my silent sorrow for the loss.
Too late to win the humble meed of fame
I hoped and strove for in my early days;
Too late to cast the shadow from my name,
And turn the world's hard censure into praise;
Too late to ask the dear beloved and lost,
Forgiveness for stern word and galling deed,
Uttered and done at such a fearful cost
That I am bankrupt,—and too late to plead:
But oh, my God! here on my suppliant knee
I ask,—Am I too late for mercy and for Thee?

331

SUPPLICATION.

Oh! help me in my deepest need,
My Father, Friend, and Lord!
And make me drink with eager lip
The waters of Thy word;
So I may rise refreshed and glad,
Unbowed by earthly ill,
My business and my pleasure both
To do Thy holy will.

For His dear sake, who left Thy side
A fallen race to save,
To take all agony from death,
All terror from the grave,
Receive me 'mong the chosen ones
Who journey towards the sky,
And fit me for that perfect home
Where love can never die!

333

FUGITIVE AND UNPUBLISHED POEMS.

335

TO THE MUSE.

In my forlorn and visionary youth,
Dear Muse! I sought companionship with thee,
Heard thy first murmur of melodious truth
With a new sense of dignity and glee.
Thy many-toned revealings day and night
Haunted my spirit with a vague delight,
Quickened the life of thought, and lent it wings
To seek, if not to share, diviner things,
Where Genius, self-enthroned, sits calm and pure,
Crowned with the beams of Truth, on Fame's proud palace-floor.

'Twas thee that strengthened those delicious moods
Which slept like angel shadows on my mind,
When in the depths of slumbrous solitudes
My soul was flushed with fancies undefined.
'Twas thee that gave to Nature's varying form,
In gloom or gladness, quietude or storm,
While all her changes passed into my face—
More than external lineament and grace,
A voice which whispered wheresoe'er I trod,
Of fitness, perfect mould, life, harmony, and God!

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'Twas thee that gave to summer earth and air
A fuller glory, a serener dye;
To winter, wayward, desolate, and bare,
A wilder beauty, a sublimer sky;
A richer life and language to the flower,
To sound and silence more impressive power,
To every interchange that went and came
O'er the glad world and its resplendent frame
A majesty and mystery, that woke
Feelings of love and awe, as if an angel spoke.

'Twas thee that wrought the tissue of my dreams
Out of the mingled elements that throng
The temple of the universe—high theme!
That make the charm of many a living song!
And in those dreams of rife and rapturous thought
My soul, impatient of its bondage, sought
To look beyond the visible, to Him
Who tuned the harp-strings of the seraphim,—
Who clothes the sun in glory or eclipse,—
Who shook the prophet's frame, who fires the poet's lips.

Sweet dewdrops twinkling with prismatic light,
Strewn for the joyous coming of young day,
Star-systems crowding in the cope of night,
Clouds in their fleeting splendour of array;
The lapse of waters, and the stir of trees,
The war of thunders, and the wail of seas,
Mountains in steadfast grandeur, and the glow
Of gorgeous sunsets on their crowns of snow,
Twilight in quiet fields, and in the wild
The dim and dreamy sheen of moonlight undefiled.

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These, and whate'er was Nature's, and pertained
To beauty, and sublimity, and power,
At once my inquiring faculties enchained,
And tinged with transport meditation's hour:
But had I caught the cunning to diffuse
All thou hast shadowed forth, dear spirit-muse!
How had I bounded up the steep of fame!
How had I gathered glory round my name!
With what proud triumph had I voiced the lyre,
And used for holiest ends thy consecrated fire!

So sped my youth; but in my after years,
When the cold world was freezing round my heart,
When stern realities, obtrusive fears,
And selfish sorrows warned thee to depart,
Thou didst not leave me to my sombre fate
All callous, comfortless, and desolate,
But breathing in my ear some quickening tale
Of hopes that urge, of efforts that prevail,
Gilded the gloom, assuaged the internal strife,
And armed me to endure the fitful storms of life.

Disaster drove me to a stranger-land,
But thy calm shadow travelled by my side;
Oppression smote me with his ruffian hand,
But thou sustained my intellectual pride;
I maddened at my wrongs, but thou didst stay
To soothe my frenzy with the poet's lay;
Thoughtless, I roamed on Error's tangled track,
But thy sweet voice could ever lure me back,
And bring before me, as by magic spell,
A banquet from the bowers where Truth, Peace, Beauty dwell.

338

My children pined for perishable food,
Their mother battled with the stalwart ill;
I, in a passive but bewildered mood,
Saw, thought, and suffered, but adored thee still;
I sickened, but thy spirit floated by
With songs which were the echoes of the sky;
Death trampled on my flowers, but thou didst fling
The dews of resignation from thy wing,
And whispered through the darkness of the hour,
“There's mercy in the Hand that awes thee with its power!”

339

THE SPIRIT OF SOUND.

Mysterious Spirit of the tremulous air!
Music! Thou unseen sorceress of sound,
How I have worshipped thee! Thy lips have breathed
O'er the still chords of my susceptive soul
Till I have wept with ecstasy, and seen,
In the fast-changing mirror of my thoughts,
Visions of matchless splendour, which the Past,
The Present, and the Future, too, have lent
To lift me for a time above the world.

Nature is full of thee: thy voices flow
Spontaneous o'er the earth, whose waters sing
In roarers or in murmurs; while the birds,
Through the bright lapse of gorgeous summer-time,
Are eloquent unceasingly with song!
Say, who can hear the low-complaining bees
Nestling in fragrant calyces of gold,
Nor feel that thou art with them? Who can hear
The hum of myriad insects on the wing,
The doves' soft cooing, and the shivering leaves,
Nor own thy blessed influence of peace?
Can we lie listening to the solemn rage
Of winds at midnight, or the thunder's voice,
Which rends the silence of the sultry noon,
Nor feel that thou art speaking to us still,
If not in melody, at least in tones

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Which thoughtful minds make music? Can we hear
The fitful dash of sudden hail and rain,
The melancholy moaning of the sea,
Nor willingly believe thou art the power,
The self-same power which tinkles in the rill,
And tunes the impassioned nightingale to joy?

Art thou not present in the homes of men,
Heard in the fond extravagance that flows
From loving hearts, through love-expressing lips?
And art thou not most audible and sweet
In the exuberant laughter of the child,
The father's blessing, and the mother's song,
Which soothes her weary offspring into rest?

Thou art all these, and yet thy voice might fall
Dull and unheeded on the human ear,
Were there no feelings in the human heart,
No chords of sympathy within the soul,
To hearken to and answer it. Where'er
Love, Hope, Affection, Joy, or Sorrow lives,
There wilt thou find an entrance;—a response
To all thy rich revealings, and become
An earthly rapture—perfect but in Heaven.

341

THE COUNTRY WEDDING.

(A SKETCH).

No more of grief:—the viol is awake,
Pouring its brisk and blood-bestirring soul
In gushes of quaint melody. Behold!
Down the dim vista of yon bowery lane,
Through whose full foliage peeps the house of God—
A troop of joyous villagers, who come
In all the fresh hilarity of youth
To grace the wedding of a rustic pair.
Let me draw near in sympathy, and be
A brief partaker of their liberal joy;
For though our years have passed the lusty noon
Of fleeting life, it is a pleasure still,
If care hath eaten not our hearts away,
To see another's gladness, and to feel
We live more sweetly when we live for all.
Hither they come, and marching in the van
The silver-haired musician of the vales
Leads the gay group with merry music home.
With what a sturdy mien, and beaming eye
The bridegroom walks! With what a timid grace
The yet bewildered bride, whose fluttering heart
Is brimming with a new, subdued delight!

They little deem, poor souls! that they have passed
From out the garden of that bright romance

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Wherein they learned to love; they little deem
They stand upon the threshold of a new
And yet uncertain being, which may bring
Sorrow and strife, or peacefulness and joy,
As the mixed passions of their souls prevail.
But be our blessings with them:—they are near
The dwelling of their kin, a rural spot,
Half-hidden in the may-bloom of its trees—
Where rose and woodbine round each humble door
Marry in summer sweetness, while the bees,
Like summer friends, cling clustering about
The flowers that feed them. Mark with what a look
Of pleasurable pride the parents greet
Their happy children,—though the mother's kiss
Hath left a tear upon the daughter's cheek
Which was not there! With what a gladdening shout
Of boisterous friendship, genuine though rude,
Old co-mates mingle; while each brawny hand
Is shaken with a heartiness of soul
Scarce known beyond the dwellings of the poor!
Meanwhile the calm and sunny afternoon
(To two, at least, the loveliest of the year)
Is winged with many a pleasantry and joke,
With many a story of departed times.
And now the ale-cup with its amber draught
Goes round incessantly; the fragrant smoke,
In many a graceful wreath from many a pipe,
Soars circling to the roof; the laugh grows loud,
The song grows gay, the converse less confined,
Till warmed and wakened into wild delight,
The old musician twangs his ready strings
(Just as the ruddy sun goes westering down),
And calls them to the dance. “A dance!” “A dance!”

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With simultaneous voice the guests exclaim;
And eager to provide a fitting space,
Chair, table, chest, against the homely walls
They pile in pyramids. Up start the throng,
And rank, promiscuous partners, face to face;
The old musician grasps his friendly bow,
And, leaning to his instrument as one
Who holds communion with some hidden power,
He stamps his earnest foot upon the ground,
And dashing off some brave and buoyant air,
Whirls all his listeners into sudden life.
On moves the living labyrinth, where feet
That bid defiance unto time and tune
Torture the tender toe, and threaten oft
Disastrous warfare to the fragile gown.
The dancers smile—they pant, they toil, they shout
With still determined vigour;—as for grace
They understand it not; anon they flag,
Exhausted strength retards the bounding step;
Each maiden's cheek is burning with the blood
Gathered from all her veins—her eyes grow bright
With soul-exciting labour: still untired,
The old musician, with a roguish leer,
Inexorable mortal! plies his bow
With quick, remorseless energy, and keeps
That human whirlpool, that resistless throng,
Still on their weary feet: but faint at length
“The force of fiddle can no farther go,”
And strange disorder ends the maddening dance.

The supper passed, the due thanksgiving breathed,
The cheering tankard set upon the board
And honoured oft, a few more happy hours—
Ere quiet midnight shows her inmost stars—
Are passed in glad communion round the hearth.

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The old musician, skilled in many things,
Awakes his viol to some tender theme
Of love and song, some story of distress,
Some legend of old times: his artless voice
With natural pathos answering to the string
His hand makes eloquent. Is it not strange
The self-same agent of unconscious sound
Should stir our laughter and provoke our tears;
Should rouse, subdue, electrify, and awe?
And yet 'tis even so; this friendly group,
Late mad with mirth, extravagant with joy,
Sit mute and mournful, fettered by a spell
Whose power they feel but cannot understand.
“The song hath ceased, the minstrel's task is done,”
The well-won praise leaps forth from every tongue,
And grateful pleasure looketh from the soul
Through every face:—alas! the hour is come,
Too soon for many a reveller, the brief,
The angel-wingèd hour of new delight,
Which comes but once through all the linkèd years
Of mortal life. That hour of bridal bliss
Let none profane, but on that humble roof,
Now rendered consecrate to hallowed love,
Invoke a blessing, and depart in peace!

345

THE MEETING OF THE WINDS.

(IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH.)

From the four points of the horizon's ring
(For so I've heard the voice of fancy sing),
The winds assembled in a lonely vale,
Each to recount his own peculiar tale.
When these fierce children of Æolus spoke,
Strange sounds of fury on the silence broke,
As each in turn let loose his noisy tongue,
And told of deeds scarce fit for peaceful song.
One boasted, with a laugh of savage mirth,
That he had torn from the reluctant earth
The gnarlèd oak, and with relentless shock
Thrown the proud pine-tree from its native rock.
Another, sweeping o'er a desert land,
Had built a thousand giant tombs of sand,
Had ravished corn-fields, blighted blooming bowers,
And carried poison to the fruits and flowers.
Another, still, had blown upon the deep,
And raised its waters from a treacherous sleep,
Trampled the mariner beneath the wave
Down to a green, illimitable grave,
Seized on the gallant ship's majestic form,
And rent it up to glut the angry storm.

346

The mightiest of the four had boldly spoken,
Till the returning silence they had broken
Was stirred by gentle Zephyr's plaintive voice,
Whose softness makes the listening heart rejoice;
“You see the difference that fate hath made
Between yourselves and me,” bland Zephyr said:
“Mischief is pleasure unto you I know,
I would not harm the humblest thing below;
Ye range and riot over land and sea,
I am a blessing wheresoe'er I be;
For, faithful to the impulse of my soul,
I work no woe, I hold no harsh control.
With my calm kiss I woo the fertile ground,
And at my whisper verdure springs around;
I follow streams in their bright courses lone,
And mix my sweetest murmurs with their own;
I love the swains and damsels, when at morn
They rest awhile beneath the budding thorn,
Or when, at quiet eve, they talk and sing,
Moved by the amorous spirit of the spring;
Within their loosened locks I love to linger,
And touch each blushing cheek with cooling finger;
Nor doth self-shielded Innocence deny
My warm caresses as I wander by:
All in my presence live 'mid ‘light and bloom,’
But feel, when I depart, a soul-pervading gloom.”

Thus spoke young Zephyr, candid as a sage,
While his wild brothers, with increasing rage,
Indignant at his language and his mien,
Blew in his tranquil face with pride and spleen;
And, with a voice intended to affright,
Cried out, “Begone from our insulted sight,

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Thou fickle creature of the wanton wing,
Thou puny, perfumed, and dishonoured thing!”

Zephyr obeyed them with a willing heart,
But, ere he swayed his pinions to depart,
He turned, and said, with a reproachful smile,
“Go, ye destructive ministers, and vile!
I will return to many a pleasant place,
Exhaling fragrance, and imparting grace;
I'll seek green haunts, fresh brooks, umbrageous bowers,
And make my wonted visit to the flowers;
Go to your reckless sport, alarm, destroy!
Be mine the peaceful lot of gentleness and joy.”

MORAL.

Need more be writ, my meaning to express?
Have we no evils cruel to excess,
No whirlwind passions, no ambitious deeds,
No war and waste, no wild conflicting creeds,
No sin of soul, no wilfulness of heart,
Which thrust our best humanities apart?
Need I extol the purity and power
Of quiet virtues, acting hour by hour,
Benevolence, meek toil, and generous thought,
And prompt, spontaneous justice, never bought;—
Of meek deportment when great things are won,
Of calm conclusions when a wrong is done,
Of free forgiveness to a contrite foe,
And love for everything of good below?
Read human nature, and ye cannot fail
To see the simple moral of my tale.

348

ADDRESS:

SPOKEN BY THE AUTHOR AT THE ANCIENT SHEPHERDS' ANNIVERSARY, TOWN HALL, ASHTON, JANUARY IST, 1846.

Mid the gleam and the gladness of waters and vales,
That fling a proud charm o'er the realm of old Wales,
In a cot that hung midway 'tween mountain and moor,
Where silence and solitude guarded the door,
Dwelt Ruthin, the shepherd, as honest a hind
As e'er breasted the tempest, or battled the wind!
Rude, hardy, yet gentle, good-humoured and brave;
Ever ready to succour, and reckless to save;—
With a heart full of love, and a soul full of mirth,
A simple, unpolished, free child of the earth!
Though his dwelling was lonely, and lowly, and bare—
Though his raiment was weather-worn—scanty his fare;
Enough for to-day set him proof against sorrow,
He knew not, he sought not the ills of to-morrow:
For a faithful and frugal, a village-born wife,
Who strengthened his fortitude—softened his life;
And children, a comely but boisterous race,
Came fondly about him and gladdened the place!
And nightly with earnestness—sometimes with tears,
He prayed for the peace of his young mountaineers.

But alas! o'er his threshold stepped sickness one day,
And Death followed after with dread and dismay,

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Touched the heart of the mother so watchful and mild,
Put his hand on the brow of the loveliest child;
And the husband—the father—stood soul-stricken there,
In a motionless, voiceless, and tearless despair!
Till the little ones shook his sad spirit with cries,
And the fulness of sorrow o'erflowed at his eyes.

In the palace, where plenty and splendour abide,
Death may veil his dread form in the trappings of pride;
But in the lorn hovel where penury reigns,
How awful his aspect, how piercing his pains!
Poor Ruthin, o'erwhelmed and bewildered with woe,
Sank prostrate—for poverty doubled the blow.
Desponding and destitute, where could he crave
The last solemn boon of a coffin and grave?
But God sent him succour: from hamlet and glen
Came rough-handed, kind-hearted, poor, patient men;
And each from the mourner took part of his grief,
And each brought his tribute of timely relief;
And the mother was laid, with her child on her breast,
In the shadow and stillness of hallowèd rest;
But never did Ruthin grow cold at the deed,
Or shut up his heart to a brother in need.

This “short simple annal” of life may portray,
By its homely example our purpose to-day;
For we, too, though Shepherds but only in name,
Each to each in our sorrows would practise the same!
With the deeds of our Virgin-born Pastor in view,
We are bound in a covenant steadfast and true;
In a brotherly compact of peace to sustain
The trouble-tried spirit that bows to its pain;
To enter where sickness appalleth the poor,
And keep foe and famine aloof from the door;

350

To give to misfortune e'en more than a tear;
To watch by the death-bed, and wait on the bier;
To comfort the widow, the orphan to guide,
And all without falsehood, or folly, or pride;
Save that honest pride which the conscience forgives,
As it pleads for the lowliest being that lives.

No sword flashes proudly at Shepherdry's gate,
No symbols of mystery garnish our state,
No banners hang round us in foolish array,
No words, cabalistic, mislead or betray!
Benevolence needeth not these to proclaim,
Its feelings and doings, its purpose and name;
It is simple in manner, and humble in mien;
It is earnest in private, in public serene;
In action 'tis strenuous, kindly, and warm,
It is ready to plan, it is prompt to perform;
It seeketh not honour, it asketh not praise,
It is deaf to our whisper, and blind to our gaze;
If its conscience approve what its bounty hath given,
It is happy on earth, it is hopeful in heaven!

Benevolence bids us, with thankful delight,
To hail you as friends on this festival night;
This night of the newly-born year, when the mind
More than wont is consoling, confiding and kind!
And ye will not forget on the calm-coming morrow
The heirs of misfortune, and suffering, and sorrow;
For ye come here to help, to encourage, to bless
With your heart-given tribute, the child of distress;
And still let this beautiful truth be believed—
That “A blessing bestowed is a blessing received.”

351

FREEDOM OF CONSCIENCE.

“Freedom of Conscience!” glorious theme for pencil, pen, or tongue;
How worthy of the purest fire, the proudest voice of song!
More fitting for those lofty thoughts which thrill the harp divine,
Than the weak words that tremble through this lowly lyre of mine.

“Freedom of Conscience!” let me sing, how slight soe'er, my power,
This universal privilege, this consecrated dower;
God claims the homage of my soul, yet leaves its reason free,
And shall a mortal shadow come between my God and me?

Shall human law prescribe my creed, and tell me when to kneel?
Shall state or priest coerce me to a form I cannot feel?
Shall stole or surplice, cowl or cap, or any outward guise,
Show me the clearest, nearest path to glory in the skies?

352

Oh no! Religion needeth not compulsion or parade,
'Twas not for these the Nazarene's dread sacrifice was made;
But oh! it is a blessed sight, 'neath temple, cloud, or tree,
To see sincere and solemn crowds bow down the adoring knee!

No need of arch, and storied pane, of fixed and formal prayer,
The heart that learns to lean towards Heaven can worship everywhere;
In chapel, closet, cloister gloom, or forest shade, we may,
If the spirit, not the form, inspires, cast off the world, and pray.

Some love the eye-alluring pomp of fulminating Rome,
The blazing altar, dreary mass, the high and gorgeous dome,
And some, the ancient English Church, of venerable grace,
In whose time-hallowed grounds how few would scorn a resting-place!

And some, more simple in their faith, but with a lofty aim,
'Mid lowliest walls would glorify Jehovah's power and name;
And thus, on Nature's broad, free floor, beneath Heaven's boundless gaze,
Would fill the breezes as they pass with songs of earnest praise.

And others—would they were but few! with mingled doubt and pride,
Stray from each happier fold, and meet in mockery aside

353

Poor slaves to sense and circumstance, they wander far apart;
Love all and scorn not! God alone may judge the inner heart.

Let each who thinks, and by his thought can rise above the clay,
Let all who, strong in love and faith, pursue their peaceful way,
Let every being, whatsoe'er his creed, clime, colour be,
Rejoice in chainless soul and limb, for God hath made him free!

But thou, my own creative land! the favoured of the isles!
On whom the light of gifted minds the Gospel-glory smiles,
Go with thy power of intellect, with peace upon thy tongue,
And wean the wayward and the weak from ignorance and wrong.

“Freedom of conscience!” who divulged this thrice transcendent creed,
By whose pure force the fettered lips, the famished mind was freed?
A few brave men, a very few, the noblest, gentlest, best,
'Mid many who had bowed and bled at Bigotry's behest!

Great Nye! methinks I hear thy voice within that ancient hall,
To some imparting hope and joy, and wonder unto all.
Methinks I see thy manly mien, thy broad, uplifted brow,
Honour to thee, exalted one! we feel thy spirit now!

354

For full, emancipated speech, for thought's immortal right,
For power to worship as we list, the God of love and light;
For the sweet sake of Charity to all the sons of earth,
This champion oped his giant heart, and gave its feelings birth!

And lo! the painter's soul hath caught the greatness of that hour,
And thrown it on the canvas field with genius' magic power.
There Cromwell (gentle Selden by), with hard, heroic face,
Lists to the wingéd words that fill that consecrated place.

There, 'mid a mute and anxious crowd, stands Milton's youthful form,
His soul with high poetic thought, his heart with freedom warm;
And many a mind of generous mood, and many an eye of scorn,
Seem to make up the spectacle of that triumphant morn.

Like breeze-borne seeds, that pregnant truth went forth from zone to zone,
Took root, and flourished free and fair, in places wild and lone;
And out of that devoted band, the fearless, firm eleven,
An independent multitude press peacefully to heaven!

355

STANZAS FOR THE NEW YEAR.—[1859.]

The Old Year is numbered with those of the past,
He has done with his chances for right or for wrong;
May the good that he gave us remain to the last,
And the evil be dead and forgotten ere long!
Some griefs which he brought us may linger awhile,
But to-day let us have neither murmur nor tear;
We have met with a kindly and sociable smile
To hail with warm welcome the gladsome New Year.

Some things the Old Year has achieved, we must own,
Which the spirit of progress will wisely extend,—
He has added new grandeur and strength to the throne—
New glories to Science, true Liberty's friend.
He has shown us that language can fly through the seas,—
That lands, the remotest, may seem to draw near;
Let us give the departed due honour for these,
As we hail with warm welcome the gladsom New Year.

Some kindred and friends the Omnipotent Will
Has summoned and snatched from our tenderest care,
But beings to comfort us cling round us still,
And chase from our souls discontent and despair.
By turns 'tis the lot of unsatisfied man
To hope and to grieve, to rejoice and to fear;
Let us cherish the blessings we have, while we can,
And hail with warm welcome the gladsome New Year.

356

The wings of old Time change their hues as he flies
With an onward, still onward, but varying flight;
To-day they are sombre as sorrow's own skies,—
To-morrow as lovely as Hope's rosy light.
The darkness should raise us to efforts anew,
The brightness should charm us with solace and cheer;
Then, keeping both duty and pleasure in view,
Let us hail with warm welcome the gladsome New Year.

The gladsome New Year is a time when a race
For the good things of life should in earnest begin,
If we wish to attain a more prominent place,
And the goal of success and fruition to win.
Old ties should be strengthened, new friendships be sought,
Old signs of stern feeling should now disappear,—
New plans for improvement be tried and be taught,
When we've hailed with warm welcome the gladsome New Year!

Thou hast come to thy heritage, young Fifty-Nine!
May peace, knowledge, freedom give grace to thy time!
May all that's exalted and noble be thine—
Thy coming triumphant, thy going sublime!
May thy presence bring something of good and of great,
To elevate man in his mortal career;
But, whatever it be, we must “labour and wait,”
And give thee warm welcome, thou gladsome New Year!

We rejoice; but, oh! let us remember with awe
The merciful Giver of blessings untold,—
The Source of all wisdom, and order, and law,—
The infinite Power to whom nothing is old.
Let the thoughts of our thankfulness rise unto Him,
Who made and sustains every system and sphere,
So that nothing unworthy our pleasures may dim,
As we hail with warm welcome the gladsome New Year.

357

ALICE THE FAIR.

I deemed my affections were destined no more
To flourish in vigour and bloom,
That my mind, once so hopeful and ready to soar,
Would wear a perpetual gloom;
But a change for the better has softened my woe
And chased discontent and despair,
And the pleasure that thrills through my being, I owe
To the magic of Alice the Fair.

Oh! blest was the circumstance, happy the hour
When I caught the first smile of her face,
And felt, as by instinct, the exquisite power
Of her kindliness, beauty, and grace;
And now, not a day that goes by but I seem
To see her dear form in the air,
Not a night but I muse on her beauty, or dream
Of the sweet eyes of Alice the Fair.

Oh! would I could win her as wholly my own,
With no hollow hearts coming nigh;
No lord in his palace, no king on his throne,
Would feel so exalted as I.
She would make my existence more tranquil and bright,
Would wean me from sorrow and care,
Be a flower in the day-time, a star in the night,
My peerless one, Alice the Fair.

358

PROLOGUE,

SPOKEN, ON THE OCCASION OF AN AMATEUR PLAY, FOR A CHARITABLE PURPOSE.

Friends of the Drama! gathered here to-night,
With hearts of feeling and with looks of light;
Humbly, but hopefully, we crave once more,
That kind indulgence ye have shown before.

Roused into pity for the pining Poor,
We venture now to tread this honoured floor;
This great arena where the Kemble stood,
And fiery Kean portrayed the deed of blood;
Where gifted Cooke drew down your willing cheers,
And graceful Young beguiled you of your tears;
Where manly Vandenhoff, with true disguise,
Brought the unyielding Roman to your eyes;
Where stern Macready, mighty in his age,
Hath dared to dignify the drooping stage;
Well may we feel distrustful of our powers,
When men like these have charmed your evening hours,
And we are willing humbly to confess,
“'Tis not in mortals to command success;”
But should we violate dramatic laws,
Deign to forgive us—for our holy cause!

When haggard thousands cry aloud for bread,
With scarce a shelter for each weary head;

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When desperate fathers lift the felon hand,
And naked mothers wander o'er the land—
Mothers whose hearts are racked with daily pain,
To hear their offspring wail for food in vain!
Can we do less than sympathise, and try
To wipe one tear-drop from the sufferer's eye?
Can we do less than faithfully combine
With others labouring in the work divine;—
That work of Charity! which must impart
A mutual blessing to the human heart?

To you, dear friends, we venture to appeal,
Fully assured that ye have souls to feel,
And as within ye Pity's pleadings wake,
O'erlook our failures for sweet Pity's sake!

The gentle Author of our chosen scene,
Kind to his fellow-man hath ever been;
And he hath suffered, more than many know,
Yet won renown which none can overthrow.
For him we plead not, for the public voice
Hath spoken loudly, proudly of our choice;
Be his alone the triumph and the fame,
And, if your judgment will it, ours the blame;
'Tis your's to hear, and flatter, or to frown,
'Tis our's to lay our free-will offerings down,
In the full hope that we shall bear away
Your smiles and favours till some future day.

Leigh Hunt, “A Legend of Florence.”

360

THE SPIRIT OF CHARITY.

(WRITTEN FOR A CHARITABLE PURPOSE.)

When Messiah was born, and the Bethlehem star
Led the wise of the East to their worship afar—
A spirit came down from the realm of its birth,
To rest and remain with the children of earth;
It awoke in the soul of that God-given child,
Illuming His lips as He talked or He smiled,
And when He went forth in His wisdom of youth,
To win by His gentleness, teach by His truth,
This spirit was heard in the words of His tongue,
As He raised his meek voice to the wondering throng.
It moved in His actions, it beamed in His eyes,
It burned in His tears, and it breathed in His sighs;
It oozed in His sweat-drops of passionate pain,
It gushed in His blood—but it gushed not in vain;
He had finished the task which His mercy designed,
But the Spirit of Charity lingered behind!

And then that pure being found welcome and rest
In some human hearts, which it softened and blest;
And they who could feel its warm pleadings within,
Sought out the lone haunts of affliction and sin;
On the hungry and sad they essayed to intrude,
And e'en the unworthy were favoured with food;
Rejoicing, they sheltered the fatherless child,
And the widow forgot her distraction, and smiled.

361

They entered the dungeon where, prostrate in gloom,
The frail son of error awaited his doom;
They appealed to his manhood, they soothed his despair,
Till his obdurate nature was melted in prayer.
They ventured where warfare and pestilence ran
On the message of death through the dwellings of man,
And often they stood by the dying and dead,
Alone by the side of some sufferer's bed;
Giving pity and aid through the terrible night,
Unscathed and undaunted as angels of light;
But if in such mission one chancèd to fall,
Like a martyr he died with the blessings of all!
Human hearts so devoted were rare, it is true,
But the Spirit of Charity strengthened and grew,
Waxed wider and brighter, like opening day,
Till millions, rejoicing, acknowledged its sway!
A small band of friends, with a noble desire,
Which the breath of the spirit had fanned into fire—
Met, talked, and determined, with laudable pride,
To scatter the seeds of benevolence wide;
To befriend the poor wayfarer far from his home,
When fortune compelled him neglected to roam,
To cheer him in sickness, in death to be kind
To those he might leave in deep sorrow behind;
To fly to the succour of fatherless grief,
To give to the desolate widow relief;
To strengthen the feeble, to soften the strong,
Till love should subdue all the errors of wrong;
To cling to their purpose with temperate zeal,
Till the world should be taught to respect them and feel;
These, these were their objects, how noble! how high!
How worthy of souls which are never to die!
And oh! how much nobler! how higher by far,
Than the deeds which are done by the minions of war!

362

The result is a proud one. These friends of their race
Are gathering, and widening, and soaring apace,
And the loneliest hamlet on Britain's green isle,
Partakes of the light of their covenant-smile;
And the cities and towns of this beautiful land
Are thronged with the sons of this glorious band.
If you go to Columbia, the free and the fair,
This tree of benevolence flourisheth there!
In the wildest, the uttermost regions of earth,
This star of humanity bursts into birth;
And this wonderful brotherhood, strange though it be,
Embrace o'er the hills, and shake hands o'er the sea.

But where doth this spirit of pity appear?
The peri is present—the angel is here,
In the hearts of the men who have toiled with success,
To solace affliction, and lighten distress:
'Tis here in fair woman's compassionate glance;
It breathes in the music, it moves in the dance;
It glows in the bosoms, unmixed with alloy,
Of all who are friends to this generous joy.
Before I return to the world and its care,
Be this my sincerest, my holiest prayer,—
May the Christian exhort, and the patriot appeal,
Till God shall awaken new hearts that can feel;
New hands that will open, obedient to Heaven,
And scatter what God hath abundantly given:
May the idols of self from their altars be hurled,
And the Spirit of Charity govern the world!

363

STANZAS,

TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE JOSEPH BROTHERTON, ESQ., M.P.

God sent His summons down,
And a calm spirit from among us passed,—
One who has donned victoriously at last
The palm-wreath, and the crown.

In his sad household now
They miss his presence at the evening hour,
When he was wont, with gentle, genial power
To clear each clouded brow.

In many a poor man's cot,—
Where fell his bounty like the silent dew,
Opening the fountains of the heart anew,
He will not be forgot.

In many a public place
Souls will be found his memory to revere,
For he united with good men to cheer
And help the human race.

In lecture-room or mart,—
In hall of justice, or in house of prayer,
All who beheld his welcome presence there
Knew of his guileless heart.

364

Within the senate walls
His mild, good sense was honoured long ago;
He never lost a friend, nor made a foe,
Within those noble halls.

Oh! when a good man dies,—
Albeit we cannot choose but shed the tear,—
Let the example of his own career
Uplift us towards the skies.

Calm, temperate, and just,
Opposed to falsehood, prejudice, and strife,
Through the long lapse of an unsullied life
He found both love and trust.

Peace to thy resting-place,
Christian, just wakened to diviner birth!
And may the seed which thou hast sown on earth
Grow in the light of grace!

365

PROLOGUE.

Patrons and friends, your presence here to-night
Moves us with gratitude and pure delight;
For such prompt answer to our poor appeal
Proves ye have minds to think, and hearts to feel;
And we were all unworthy of your thought,
Did we not prize your kindness as we ought.

A band of many brothers, our chief aim
Is to establish an unsullied name
For peace, benevolence, and watchful care
Of the scant means that fall to Labour's share;—
For reverence for lawful things alone,
Love for the Sovereign, honour for the Throne.
Love, Friendship, Truth, our motto and our guide,
Are with celestial Charity allied,—
The angel Charity, so oft a guest
In gentle Woman's sympathising breast,
Adding a milder beauty to her face,
To all her motions a serener grace,
A softer music to her words of balm,
And to her kindly heart a holier calm;
Long may she Charity's blest power obey,
Nor scare the angel visitant away.

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There is no nobler labour for the mind
Than to assuage the sufferings of mankind;
It is a pleasure to console and please
The widow and the fatherless; for these
We step aside from our accustomed way
To comfort and to help them, if we may;
And your unstrained beneficence shall bear
Hope, peace, and joy to many a heart of care.

Think of the widow, reft of him whose hand
Brought daily bread unto the household band,
He who was cheerful in the darkest hour,
Whose heart was gentle, and whose will was power;
Gone is the friend and husband, firm and kind,
Leaving despair and poverty behind,
While to her mournful eyes a sudden cloud
Covers the earth as with a funeral shroud.
What can she do, and all her helpless brood,
In the cold world, for shelter and for food?
Unless some little largess we bestow
On this poor widowed woman in her woe,—
Give with a generous impulse of the heart
Which shall a tenfold blessing back again impart!

Think of the orphan, whom no father's eye
Can overlook when danger cometh nigh,
No father's voice can soften and restrain,
And when he wanders, bring him back again.
Left to themselves, the fatherless forsake
The path which parent love would have them take;
In evil deeds grow prematurely bold,
Like wanton cattle broken from the fold;
Or still and stealthy cunning takes the place
Of childhood's natural gaiety and grace,
While their harsh destiny implants such seeds
As rankly germinate in moral weeds,

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Which thrust the flowers of gentleness apart,
And drain the dews of goodness from the heart.
Oh! wake the holier sympathies that lie
Hid in the depths of your humanity;
Help the poor mother, that her care may guide
And guard the helpless flock that linger by her side.

We, the poor actors of a fleeting hour,
With emulous feelings, but with little power,
Ask your indulgence for our lack of skill,
Which must be all unequal to our will;
Deign to forgive our failings of to-night,
So ye will make our self-taught task more light;
For the dear sake of our devoted cause
Grant us your smiles, your patience, your applause;
And at our parting we shall bear away
Glad thoughts to cheer our hearts for many a coming day.

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EXTEMPORE LINES.

TO MY FRIEND, JAMES GRIMSHAW, ESQ., ON THE DEATH OF HIS MOTHER.

Once more the mighty leveller hath been
O'er the dear threshold of that home serene
Where first the light broke o'er thine infant head;
A new bereavement calleth for thy tears,—
A mother, full of honour and of years,
Hath found the tranquil slumber of the dead.

Too well I know that cold, condoling words
Can never heal the lacerated chords
Which Death hath shattered in the human breast;
Yet may a friend, with sympathy unbought,
Pay the poor tribute of melodious thought,
To charm thy spirit from its sad unrest.

Our wildest wailings never can restore
To earth, to us, the loved ones gone before,—
The fair, the good, from our embraces riven:—
Had we no sorrow in this lower life,
No broken hopes, no agonies, no strife,
What need of Immortality and Heaven?

Thy father's dust is mingling with the sod;—
Thy wife, a nearer one, is with her God,

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And now thou weepest o'er thy mother's tomb:
But other treasures there are left behind,
To cheer thy heart, to tranquillise thy mind,
The lingering star-lights of thy household gloom.

Thy children yet are spared to thee,—in them
Thou hast the reflex of that one lost gem,—
The brightest in thy coronet of love:
She who became the idol of thy youth;
Who clave to thee with undecaying truth,—
She who beholds thy sorrows from above.

Oh! mourn not for the dead: their lot is bright,—
All purity and joy; all strength and light,—
All peace and power, and love without its stings:
Then mourn not for the dead:—if tears must fall,
Be it for those who lie beneath the pall—
The cold, oppressive pall of earthly things.