Art and Fashion | ||
SONGS AND POEMS.
THE CHAPEL-BELL.
Like ghosts they shriek across the moor,
Or howl beneath the window sill,
Or shake with gusty hands the door;
And, hour by hour, from some lone bell
A wizard sound at night doth steal—
Sometimes 'tis like a funeral knell,
Sometimes 'tis like a marriage peal!
I know it is some fiend that stands
Within the belfry's ghastly gloom,
And with its stark and fleshless hands
Rings out dead souls from tomb to tomb.
But through the haunted house it sounds,
And through my flesh the chill veins creep
Like wintry worms in burial-grounds.
A shadow flits across the floor;
And then I know it is in vain
To pine, or pray, or struggle more!
Well, let the foul fiend ring till morn—
Till the red sun awakens men:
Yet, though thus tortured and forlorn,
What then I did—I'd do again!
Which woo'd my spirit to his feet;
He raised his false, false eyes above,
And vow'd, what's useless to repeat.
Whate'er he vow'd, there is no name
So black on earth as his deceit;
Whate'er he vow'd, there is no shame
So vile as in his heart did beat!
Ring out, thou bitter fiend, till morn
Awakes the prying eyes of men;
Yet prison'd, madden'd, and forlorn,
What then I did—I'd do again!
For years the whisp'ring false one came,
And nought a saint might fear to shun
Forewarn'd me of the villain's aim.
If dying ought to him might spare;
I would have every pain defied
To save him from a single care!
Toll, toll, thou fiend, ring out, and tell
The murd'rous deed from goal to goal!
I know my name is writ in hell—
I feel there's blood upon my soul!
The bridal train did wait and smile;
As slowly, stately, three by three,
They swept in beauty down the aisle.
I crept behind the pillar'd base;
The bride's white garments fann'd my cheek;
The blood rush'd madly to my face;
I dared not breathe—I could not speak!
Laugh out, thou fiend, laugh out and scorn,
With mocking sounds, my weary ear!
Is there no other—lost—forlorn,
No other wretch whose life's a tear?
A sound that took away my sight;
All things around me seem'd to flow,
And wander in a demon light!
I stepp'd between him and his bride.
Who'd think so black a heart could feel?—
Could pour so warm, so red a tide?
Is there no sinful soul but mine,
Thou endless fiend, that thou must make
These serpent sounds to hiss and twine
Around me till my senses ache!
My noble father's thin gray hairs;
And that, perchance, which tears might draw,
Drew blood upon me unawares.
I flung the shrieking bride apart;
I sprang before him in his guilt;
The steel went quivering to his heart—
Would God my own blood had been spilt!
Laugh out, dark fiend! beside me then
A wilder sound than thine was spread;
A cry I ne'er shall hear again
Till every grave gives up its dead!
A curse lay heavy on my head.
They tell me I have ne'er been sane
Since that wild hour the bridegroom bled!
No midnight tolling haunts the air.
'Tis false! You hear it through the gloom;
And, see, the phantom passes—there!
Mad—mad? 'Twere blissful but to lose
One hour from self—one moment free
From thoughts that every hope refuse—
From life whose lot is misery!
The form it tortured! Never more
Shall I do aught but rave and grieve,
And wish—vain wish—this life were o'er!
Away!—a thousand lives have gone,
A thousand phantoms glide in hell;
But not one perish'd—no, not one
So black in guilt as he who fell!
Night after night, 'mid sounds aghast,
That fiend, that spectre, haunts my way.
What shall I see when life hath past,
And Night is mine that knows no day?
ENDURANCE.
I
Ever struggle and endurance:“Is there no repose?” I cried;
Gives the world but this assurance,—
Others thus have lived and died?
II
On the broad highway of beingCrowds on crowds still ever go;
Nothing more beyond them seeing
Than to toil with foreheads low.
III
To a spot I wander'd dreary,With thick branches overlaid,
For the sunlight made me weary—
There seem'd solace in the shade.
IV
On a bank my limbs reposing,Found a momentary balm;
Spirit worn, my eyelids closing,
Sought forgetfulness and calm.
V
Still that thought, for ever present,Came with purpose unexprest;
As beneath the moon's dim crescent
Glides some ghost that cannot rest.
VI
Seeking hint or clue to guide me,As I leant upon the earth,
I beheld a flower beside me
Struggling, midst the soil, to birth.
VII
Through the winter's wrath and rigour,Pent in dust, and prison'd fast,
Had it forced its path with vigour,
Till obstruction ceased at last!
VIII
Now within its emerald bosomAll the future life reposed—
Swell'd the rich and golden blossom
That the morn would see unclosed.
IX
Then my heart, with sudden motion,Lost the weight so hard to bear;
And some new and sweet devotion
Soothed and sanctified its care.
X
He who thus the flower hath moulded,Sphered its being to this span;
He, too, hath the future folded
In the living soul of man!
XI
For a time the soil is round us,For a time we feel the thorn;
When the spirit-hour hath found us,
Inner glories shall be born!
XII
Welcome struggle and endurance—Welcome toil, to this allied;
Welcome the divine assurance,—
Others thus have lived and died!
XIII
Toil, I kiss thee with affection,Never more shall mortal say
That I view thee with dejection—
That I murmur on my way.
XIV
Through the soil and earthy ember,He who raised the flower from dust—
He will also man remember;
And in Him I move and trust?
YEARS TO COME.
I
A day will dawn I ne'er shall see;A night will set I ne'er shall know;
The wave-tide of humanity
Thus ever surges to and fro.
II
The dew with gems shall bead the flower,The bird make rich the morn with song;
And Mind, still climbing hour by hour,
Find worlds beyond the starry throng.
III
Years shall return to future yearsWhat ages unto them have given,
And that high power which Faith reveals,
Grasp the fixed points of earth and Heaven.
IV
The boy shall loiter through the lane,With school-ward footsteps short and slow;
Afraid each moment to remain,
And yet still more afraid to go!
V
Ah, priceless years! if boyhood knewThe mark and value of such time;
Ah, happy school! could youth but view
The future and its paths sublime.
VI
What younger Howard then might feel—What other Wilberforce arise—
What Burke assert the general weal—
What Rosse or Newton span the skies!—
VII
The joys, the hopes, the interests,That animate the bosom now,
Shall lend their glow to other breasts—
And flush the young enthusiast brow.
VIII
The majesty of manhood thenMay aim at some diviner worth;
And progress grant to future men
A wider brotherhood on earth.
IX
What theory shall then succeed?What deeper power—what newer theme—
What fresh discovery supersede
The electric flash—the steed of steam?
X
Who'll be the bard to England dear,When centuries have filed and fled?
Or who the statesmen crowds will cheer,
Worthy the Peels or Chathams dead?
XI
The passions that distract mankind—The pride, the envy, and mistrust—
Shall they be scatter'd on the wind
That lifts the banner of the just?
XII
Shall Christian sense e'er sheathe the sword?Shall simple Justice rule the land?
Shall Law its shield of right afford,
A right that all may understand?
XIII
The languid sun fades in the sky;The sap within the tree droops low;
The cold wind whispers winter nigh,
And soon the last lorn leaf must go!
XIV
Yet he who in all change can findA providence of goodness shown—
He who is ruler o'er his mind
Is more than he who rules a throne.
XV
A day shall come I ne'er shall see,A day when heart and tongue lie dumb;
That day, O Lord, be Thou with me—
And oh, on earth, Thy kingdom come!
“NIGHT” AND “MORNING.”
[The title of “Night” and “Morning” is given to two excellent paintings by Sir Edwin Landseer. Few of the fine works, even of this our modern master, demand greater attention. The subject is simple in both pictures. In the first we perceive a couple of deer contending for the mastery, on an elevated piece of moorland adjoining a lake; the moon has risen above the distant hills which form the horizon. “Morning” shows to us the result of the combat—the animals are dead.]
And the wings of the Morn scatter crimson and gold;
The voice of the torrent is heard on its way
Proclaiming the power and the glory of day;
While each object the soul with magnificence fills,
And the heart seems to echo the joy of the hills.
What cry comes so swift from the solitude vast?
What feet sweep the glen like the rush of the blast?
Is girt with a grandeur to cities unknown;
He was up with the dawn, over heather and fen—
Over corrie and cairn—over moorland and glen;
Nor stayed he his hoof at Glenbruar nor Chroo;
With the foam-speed of passion he bated no breath,
But away—still away—to the combat of death!
And the wolf holds her watch from her home mid the rocks;
Where the spray of the torrent is hung like a shroud,
And the pine soars aloft through the rack of the cloud;
Still onward he rushes, still bounds at a pass,
Each rugged and stern and precipitous mass;
Up, upward, he toils, by no danger deterr'd,
'Till his rival appears in the midst of the herd!
One moment, each eye-ball is gleaming with wrath;
Now butting, now goring—their haunches they bow;
Now tossing in fury, clash antler and brow;
'Till the fire of their passion falls faint by degrees,
And panting and foaming they sink to their knees;
Still horn linked in horn, still contending with fate,
While the moonlight looks down on their fury and hate!
Over mountain and river a spell of her own:—
A beauty that glorifies hollow and height:
The gold of the summits is tinctured with rose,
And the air with a gladness and holiness glows;
Above—springs enchantment in every breath,
Below—there's the rock—and the vulture—and death.
Who recks what the rage of the rivals hath been?
As, hour after hour, gash'd and gory they stood,
From the fetlock to neck plash'd with foam and with blood,
With antlers so lock'd, that no strength could unclose
The clasp that in life they had fasten'd as foes!
Now the fox to his banquet in silence may prowl,
And the wild eagle shriek to the wolf's hungry howl.
THE BEST ESTATE.
The Mind it hath its wealth untold;
It needs not fortune to be great,
While there's a coin surpassing gold.
Wealth makes not Happiness secure;
A little mind hath little means—
A narrow heart is always poor.
And Misery hath its high compeers;
For Sorrow enters palace halls,
And queens are not exempt from tears.
The scythe and sword, the plume and plough,
Are in the grave of equal note,—
Men live but in the eternal “Now!”
The bravest 'neath defeat may fall;
The high, the rich, the courtly crowd
Find there's calamity for all.
True honour is a thing divine;
It is the mind precedence takes,—
It is the spirit makes the shrine!
A steadfast and contented mind;
And not, till death, consent to part
With that which friend to friend doth bind.
Is heard not by the life without;
There's always something to begin
'Twixt life in faith, and life in doubt!
The rugged path her steps have trod—
She'll be thy friend in other spheres;
Companion in the world of God.
The rich in thought, the great in soul—
Man's mission may be understood,
And part prove equal to the whole!
Nor what awaits, nor what attends,—
We're richer far than we may guess,
Rich as Eternity extends!
The Mind it hath its wealth untold;
It needs not fortune to be great,
While there's a coin surpassing gold!
IN MEMORIAM.
Innumerable souls ascend;
Day after day, we mourn and pray
For some departed friend;
Yet never kinder heart than thine,
And never truer breast
E'er soar'd unto a world divine,
Or won immortal rest.
I muse the long years o'er,
And weep to see the shroud descend
Which folds thee evermore:
I shrink to yield thee to the dust—
To mark the funeral pall;
And strive to teach my heart to trust
In Him who feels for all!
And I left to deplore?
I almost seem to list thy tread—
To hear thee at the door:
The path, it was thy wont to cross,
I gaze upon, and wait;
And scarce can realise my loss,—
A loss so deep—so great!
Again the same light beams;
A different light than falls on men,
A radiance full of dreams.
The future—what it was to be!
When all our hopes seem'd truth;
Alas, the things we live to see
Are not the dreams of youth!
To which thy soul hath fled?
Do we begin the spirit-year,
New-born from out the dead?
Tread we eternity at first,
As we trod time of yore?
Or, does immortal glory burst
At once from God's own shore?
O mystery sublime!
With everlasting wonders rife,
And marvels of all time;—
Say, shall affections still remain?
Shall memories endure?
And links of friendship's endless chain
Eternity secure?
Within that better world?
Shall all the tears and pains we prove
Be ever earthward hurl'd?
Shall friend meet friend in that blest hour,
Before their Saviour's sight,
And feel that Death no more hath power
To separate or blight?
Once more to see thy face;
A few brief years with time to cope,
Then newer worlds to trace!
A few brief years on earth to roam,
And then, when death is o'er,
Angels for friends—and Heaven for home—
And love for evermore!
THE WANDERER.
Three years upon a polar sea:
Ice-wreck'd,—and half his comrades lost;
Once more his native land treads he.
He views where, far, his cottage lies,
A father's transport fills his sight,
A husband's joy o'erflows his eyes!
Each turning brings him still more near;
He sees his first-born child at play—
And calls—but cannot make him hear
Still distant as it was before;
At length, with bursting, grateful tears,
He sees his young wife at the door.
She kisses him with loving joy;
The gazer deems in all the land
There's no such other wife or boy!
Then leaves the narrow wicket gate;
The Wanderer thinks he will not speak,
But gaze and wait—if love can wait!
Come never more those feet so light;
There grew no covert, that he knew,
Whose leaves might hide them from his sight.
And chills the rapture in his eyes;
With eager spring the gate he gains;
And calls, but not a voice replies.
The casement, too, is closed and dark;
Across the path is thrown a bar—
And all wears desolation's mark!
The garden plot is waste and wild;
O God! why doth his wife not hear?
O love! why cometh not his child?
Of form or raiment; nought is seen;
As, with a wild and spectral face,
The gray boughs groan and intervene!
The frail grass mutters to the flower;
With ghost-like wing the long rays shoot,
While tolls the bell the vesper hour.
Again his wife, his child, appear;
They move across the churchyard ground,
And beckon the pale Wanderer near.
The twain within his trembling arms:
Why seems his sinking heart so cold?
What shakes him with these dread alarms?
Each mound and monumental stone;
He stands distraught—as one that dreams—
Was he again alone—alone?
He thought that thro' the spectral air
There rose one low, one little word,
Faint echo of some infant prayer!
His pulses with a parent's joy,
Came softly—as in hours beloved—
When on his glad knee sat his boy!
Beneath his feet two lines were read;
Sad lines, that to the eyes once shown,
Do break the heart; that's better dead!
He kiss'd each letter o'er and o'er—
They scorch'd his sight, as if with flame;
They sear'd his worn heart to the core.
My way thro' tempests!—this—to bear;
Still—still, O God—Thy will be done!
Yet one—not one! not one to spare!
And coldly lit each hallow'd spot;
Another morn to him was given—
Another world, where death was not!
A DAILY SCENE.
Deep straw around the gate,
And silence lingering as in pain
Some closing breath to wait.
A sire, whose course is o'er?
A child, mid tears and breaking hearts,
That speeds to death's mute shore?
That early boyhood knew—
When like a lamb from Nature's fold
Life drank the morning dew.
There is no home but tells
Some sorrow in this world below
Of graves and funeral bells.
Some joy that could not last;
Some hope that darken'd into pain;
Some grief that shrouds the past.
In light, and golden air;
The dead hath found another dawn,
A dawn which angels share.
A weight that pains the brow;
There is no fear of rolling wheels;
No need of caution now.
Nor deep straw, borne aside,
To tell us in that darken'd home
Some heart hath loved and died.
THE VICAR'S BLIND DAUGHTER.
For her spirit peace can win;
Blind she is, but darkness only
Dwells without, and not within.
Face of friend or brother never
Lent their image to her eyes;
Yet the world seems kindly ever,
And its love wears no disguise!
Watch her life a single day;
See the angel that doth guide her
Gently through her darken'd way:
Nature hath but one concealment—
All that eloquence can yield
Meets her soul in rich revealment;
Voice of stream, and wood, and field!
Gather their whole heart's perfume
With a sweetness still more holy,
As to sanctify her gloom.
Charm of hue they cannot send her;
Yet her gentle touch they meet
With a softness far more tender,
And a sweetness still more sweet.
Not a ploughman labouring nigh,
But, forgetting toil and tillage,
Blesses her as she goes by:
She knows all the children's voices,
Calls their young names o'er and o'er;
Every mother's heart rejoices
As she standeth by the door.
Careth for them in their care;
Helpeth them to meet the morrow
With the little she's to spare.
In their sickness she is near them,
In each trial of their lot
She is first to aid and cheer them;
None in sorrow are forgot!
With unwearied heart and mind,
Helping all in hard condition,
Leaving sorrow more resign'd!
So each night, by angels tended,
Finds she Nature's rest increase;
And that days in duty ended
Bring the spirit perfect peace.
Hath not God's own word supplied,
Ev'n in darkness, consolation—
Joys, through Jesus, multiplied?
Light, which earthly vision never
Yet beheld on sea or shore,
Hopes, no darkness can dissever,
Lift her soul for evermore!
CRADLE SONG.
Dwells a lip where kisses grow;
Eyes, where little angels dwell,
Each within its azure cell;
Tiny dimples in each cheek
Seem, in Fancy's ear, to speak:
So, at least, the mother sings—
Wond'ring babies have not wings!
Strange how human eyes deceive:
Nothing seem'd, as I stood by,
More than right in chin and eye.
As for infant lips, we know
Where they come, there kisses grow!
But young mothers think such things—
Fancy, babies born with wings!
THE WOODLAND WAY.
I wonder you're not weary, Jane.”
“I go to hear the woodlark, dear,
And list the linnet's merry strain.”
“The lark soars in the sun's warm ray,
The linnet's heard in every lane;
But day by day the woodland way!
There's sure some other reason, Jane?”
And left her friend without a look;
She knew each turn by moss and fern,
Each narrow winding of the brook:
But still a voice within would say,
A conscience-voice, that whisper'd plain,
“Still day by day the woodland way!
There's sure some other reason, Jane?”
She wander'd far, until she found
An aged thorn,—where time had worn
Deep rents and hollows near the ground:
There, soft and white, just hid from sight,
A small seal'd note her fingers gain:
Ah, never bird, that love e'er heard,
Had note so sweet, so dear, to Jane!
NOT MY OWN.
The secret of my soul;
But oh, my heart flew to my eyes,
And told almost the whole!
No more such thoughts reveal!
'Twas vain: Love next upon my cheek
Wrote all I would conceal!
My hidden love made known,
I'm of my very heart afraid,
For it seems not my own!
FREAKS OF FATE.
Life and love are incomplete;
Hearts akin to one another
Rarely are the hearts to meet!
Where's the reason? Tell me whether
'Tis Fate's star that thus decides;
That brings opposites together,
And the similar divides!
Spirits suited lose each other;
Time is but a long deceit;
Hearts akin to one another
Rarely are the hearts to meet.
Where conformity rebels;
As in Nature's plain defiance,
Matching where no fitness dwells!
To an uncongenial state?
Should the soul not make resistance
'Gainst this tyranny of fate?
Spirits suited lose each other,
Life and love are incomplete;
Hearts akin to one another
Rarely are the hearts to meet.
WATCHING AND WAITING.
Ever looking, leaning out;
While the village, in amazement,
Wonder what this grief's about!
With the morn-light, gray and dreary,
Long ere waketh bird or bee,
Mary stands, with spirit weary,
Gazing out upon the sea.
There, until the west sun gloweth,
Lists she to each breeze that blows;
But the wind, though much it knoweth,
Telleth no one what it knows,—
No one—no one—what it knows.
Dug by hard and hasty hands,
Near a low cross, rudely shapen,
Rests a grave upon the sands!
Nothing but the billows' roar;
And a voice—the night stars hear it—
Sighing, “Mary, never more!”
Still, until the west sun gloweth,
Mary lists each breeze that blows;
But the wind, though much it knoweth,
Telleth no one what it knows,—
No one—no one—what it knows.
PAN'S DEW-DROP.
PAN.Hither, Sylphs and Satyrs, hither!
Here's a secret going to wither:
Stand around and answer true,—
Is't a gem or drop of dew?
Is its birthplace high or low,—
Sky or ocean? Ho—ho—ho!
Ho—ho—ho!
Guess and tell me ere it go!
SYLPHS.
'Tis a tear from Luna's eye;
'Tis a star from some lost sky;
'Tis a fairy pearl—a thing
Fallen from Titania's ring!
'Tis a gem from Cupid's bow.
Cupid! Cupid! Ho—ho—ho!
Ho—ho—ho!
Cupid leaves no jewels so.
SYLPHS.
'Tis a spangle from the shoe
Which Queen Mab at Somnus threw;
'Tis a spark of Terra's spar!
Silver stud from Juno's car!
'Tis a rare and tiny shell
Gather'd from some Mermaid's cell!
PAN.
Mermaid! Juno! Ho—ho—ho!
Ho—ho—ho!
'Tis but dew that's frozen so.
SYLPHS.
Who knows what it may conceal?
Atoms can great truths reveal!
Is't a glowworm, fast asleep,
Caught and spell-bound ere't could creep?
Is't an egg some insect knew?
Nothing else but frozen dew!
A bud! a berry! Guess who can:—
'Tis frozen dew, or I'm not Pan!
SYLPHS.
Winter ne'er such gem could show:
'Tis pearl!
PAN.
It is not! Ho—ho—ho!
Ho—ho—ho!
Here's a coil 'bout frost and snow!
BE SURE YOU CALL.
And over it a maiden leant,
Upon her face and youthful grace
A lover's earnest eyes were bent.
“Good-night,” she said, “once more, good-night,
The evening star is rising high;
But early with the morning light
Be sure you call as you pass by,
As you pass by,
Be sure you call as you pass by.”
Brown autumn's hand her treasures threw,
When forth a merry party swept
In bridal garments, two by two;
I saw it was the maid that bless'd
The evening star that rose so high:—
Had often call'd as he pass'd by,
As he pass'd by,
Had often call'd as he pass'd by.
Save love, that wreathes the heart with flowers!
Oh, what's a throne to that dear cot
Whose only wealth is happy hours?
And oft, if o'er the woodland way
The evening star is rising high,
I fancy still I hear her say,
“Be sure you call as you pass by,
As you pass by,
Be sure you call as you pass by.”
FALSE AS WATER.
That maketh all things seem
As deep within thy heart:
Fern, bell, and drooping tree,
Behold themselves in thee;
And yet thou canst depart.
Alas! thy little span
But mimics faithless man!
Like thee, too, he can stray;
Like thee a charm reveal—
Reflect, but never feel—
And singing pass away.
The wounded heart so much
As man's inconstant breath;
Thy false tongue ne'er deceives
Like his, who loves, and leaves;
Takes life, and brings us death!
Our very looks we trace;
Thy falsehood's not so deep
As his whose lips can sigh,
Yet leave the heart to die,—
And, till it dies, to weep!
LOVERS' WALKS.
Nor wanderings by the hill,
When star to star at midnight talks,
And all the world is still:
I laugh'd at all romantic souls,
That half in rapture stood;
I hated strolls—those moonlight strolls—
And always thought I should!
Of beautiful or bright,
No love on earth should tempt me to
A rambling walk by night;
But, ah! one's mind can little guess
To what one's heart is born!
Who'd thought a month, or even less,
Had found me so forsworn?
Nor wanderings through the glen,
My song of life was out of tune,
I knew not Mary then:
Now, I would rather roam till light
Bloom'd o'er the Morn's sweet breast,
Than ever breathe those words, “Good Night!”
Or ever think of rest.
PLAIN FACES.
Can the law of liking prove;
We see all things through affection—
All is lovely seen through love!
Wins us, who hath power to learn!
Beauty, 'tis our satisfaction,
Love can this in all discern!
Plainer forms to passion move;
Joy, that through the heart's affection,
Beauty lives in all we love!
NEVERMORE.
Let me weep alone:
Wherefore bring me hither,
Knowing she is gone?
All that was Elysian
With herself hath flown;
Tears are in the vision
Of that shrine o'erthrown.
Sweet, as she were nigh?
Do the linnets warble
Music, like her sigh?
Neither rose nor linnet
Can the charm restore;
Life hath but one language,
One sad word—“Deplore!”
Starts, and wakes in tears,
So the present seemeth
Girt with doubts and fears:
Still, 'mid hopes that wither,
Sorrow liveth on:
Wherefore bring me hither,
Knowing she is gone?
DID YOU KNOW HER?
Might become her—high or low;
She was fond of admiration,
Few the arts she did not know:
She could droop her eyes, as dreaming,
With a tender, quiet grace;
Then, with sudden, upward beaming,
Flash their lustre on your face!
Fond of saying what she meant;—
You'd confess her words were clever,
But a riddle their intent:
She'd a puzzle of expression,
Half of nature, half of art;
And a perfect self-possession,
Visible in every part.
Pensive in the afternoon;
Changing moods without a warning—
Weeping now—yet laughing soon:
Various as the moments show her,
Still, each moment finds a charm;
And, indeed, if you should know her—
Guard your heart—if it be warm!
NEVER FOUND.
In the heart's young days;
A form we deem divine
In the heart's young days;
But that fancy of the mind,
We may seek—but never find:
'Tis a dream we leave behind
With our heart's young days.
In their heart's young days?
They're the shadows of the soul,
In our heart's young days:
And, though the living grace
May escape from our embrace,
Yet sweet's the vision'd face
Of our heart's young days!
On our heart's young days;
That such loveliness creates
In our heart's young days:
The angel, that we drew,
Remain'd while life was new;
Then back to heaven flew
With our heart's young days!
SMALL GIFTS.
The offering may be,
If it come from the heart
It is welcome to me:
'Tis not in itself
That the value resides;
The jewel is love—
Worth all jewels besides.
Beyond what is bought:
'Tis the growth of the heart—
'Tis the wealth of the thought!
And often we find,
'Mid the gifts of the earth,
The smallest in value
Is greatest in worth!
LYRIC.
[There's a spirit of fancy flowing—]
Flowing in dreams of night;
Sweeping the shores of darkness,
Yet bearing an angel's light.
Reaping the fields of time,
Counting the unsown harvests,
Longing the stars to climb.
What is the spirit's birth?
What is the mind's great sequel?
Is it to end on earth?
There in that region of souls?
Sweetly the vision of heaven
On to the Life-giver rolls!
Flowing in dreams of night;
Sweeping the shores of darkness,
Yet bearing an angel's light.
ROUND THE CORNER.
What will people say?
If you wish to see me
There's a proper way:
Village tongues are ever
Ready with remark;
Eyes are at the casement
If a dog but bark.
Round the corner waiting—
What will people say?
If you wish to see me
There's a proper way.
Link'd two hearts in one,
I shall care but little
How their tongues rail on;
Never let them find
Aught to cause me blushes—
Hurt my peace of mind!
Round the corner waiting—
What will people say?
Manly hearts should ever
Take a manly way.
Things you'd ne'er suppose,
If but something secret
In a neighbour shows:
Boldly take the pathway,
And their lips are stayed;
All are quick to censure
If you seem afraid.
Round the corner waiting—
What will people say?
If you wish to see me
There's a proper way!
THE BRITISH PRESS.
Where else may Freedom find
The ready hand that can redress
The wrongs of human kind?
It is a people's power—
The terror of the strong:
Abler than armies in the hour
Of tyranny and wrong.
The sword may strike oppression down;
But sharper than the sword,
And mightier than a monarch's crown,
The Press maintains its word!
The progress of the time;
Its seal is stamp'd on every page,
In every land and clime:
The brutal hand of force,
And forth, in usefulness and love,
It runs its glorious course!
And they whose meaner minds can scheme
To crush its honest sway,
As well, in fruitless hate, might dream
To check the light of day.
To every manly heart?
What voice is first the right to bless,
To act the patriot's part?
The spirit, manners, customs, arts,
Opinions, changes,—all
That worth to human life imparts,—
Its columns can recall.
It moves—and every bar is hurl'd
Athwart its path like weeds!
It speaks—and it divides the world
In parties, powers, and creeds!
The aspects of the past,—
When different creeds fed mutual hate,
And conscience overcast,—
And ancient errors show;
From these a guiding spirit shines
Which every man should know.
When stood the Press with front of steel,
While meaner champions fled?
When it was crime to set the heel
Upon the serpent's head!
Which hallows every home;
Which lifts the darkness from distress,
And points the light to come!
Which teaches faith when hope is dull;
And, onward as we plod,
Reveals to us the beautiful,
Uprising like a god!
For not uncared for, in his day
Of sorrow, man hath been:
Angels have watched his troubled way,
And helped him when unseen!
That turn with grateful hearts,
To names where every meed is due
That human fame imparts;
The patriot debt we owe;
But there are dates in history yet
Time cannot overthrow!
The men that battled for the right
When right was hard to win;
Who braved the axe, and laugh'd at might,
When Might called Freedom sin.
O Press, revered of yore!
Burke, Milton, More, have crown'd
Thy rule for evermore!
Their sacred banner was “Advance!”
Integrity their guide,
And Truth the consecrated lance
That swept each bar aside!
Such are the names our land should bless!
The song of age and youth
Should still be, Honour to the Press,
And Victory to Truth!
Great be thy justice too;
Be fearless in thy place to state
Whate'er to man is due.
A lamp to every mind;
So shall thy course be sanctified—
Teaching, as God design'd;
And never be thy power abused,
Thy mission here misled;
Oh, never may thou stand accused
Before the Patriot Dead!
Where'er thy voice can reach;
No text is more obey'd
Than that the Press can preach.
Bid trade the wide earth span;
Speed labour to its due;
Bid mind-enlightened man
God's Eden-world renew.
Still every good befriend,
And every ill enthral,
Till man's improvement end
But with the end of all!
BIRTHDAY LYRIC.
When she hath the day before her,
And the East is clasp'd in gold,
Saw I angels swift descending,
With a glory never-ending,
And a majesty untold;
And I whisper'd lowly—slowly—
“Whither tend ye, angels holy?”
Spake they forth—“We bring affection
To a heart of our selection—
To the birthday of a being
We, afar from heaven seeing,
Loved: and bear, by Faith's direction,
One pure, priceless gift—Affection!”
Far away in waves of light;
And a vision like one sainted,
In some old cathedral painted,
Flash'd its wonder on my sight!
In a robe of starry binding,
Moved the Presence upon earth;
And I sought my fear to banish,
Lest, in speaking, it might vanish,
Saying, “Whither, angel fair?”
And it whisper'd, soft as air,
“I bring gifts to one, whose spirit
Well deserveth to inherit—
Friendship, that departeth never!
Love, still faithful, fond for ever!
Equal to a life's endurance—
To another world's securance!
So, when death to heaven may guide her,
Love shall linger still beside her,
Friendship mourn o'er days departed,
Nature weep for the true-hearted;
Virtue every gift commendeth,
May she keep them till life endeth!”
O'er my couch her sunbeams held;
And with touch of golden finger
All my angel-world dispell'd!
Ah, methought, if love were given
Thus, how we should prize its worth—
That might enter aught of earth!
Ah, if friendship falter'd never,
Heart to heart, and thus for ever!
Charm to gain, and skill to bind;
Soul must shine ere friendship's won—
There's no summer without sun!
Heart must glow ere love can rest,
And call God's angel to the breast!
CHRIST BLESSING LITTLE CHILDREN.
A voice in every onward wave;
If every breeze that travell'd far,
An ever-during utterance gave;
They yet must fail to tell the worth
Of those blest words Christ spake on earth.
That left such glory on thy face!
It was a light in Christ begun—
A sun that ne'er will run its race!
A light—a sun—whose endless ray
Shall cheer affliction's darkest day!
Than frail humanity can span;
That thrill—and shall for ages thrill—
The universal heart of man:
Words with eternal comfort rife—
Words throbbing with immortal life!
Half coyly to the Saviour's side;
Though small the lips that lisp'd His name,
Though check'd by His disciples' pride,
He, who beholdeth all things, saw
In each child's face God's written law.
That future suns shall wake to birth;
So, in the child, Christ saw that dower
Which speaks of other worlds than earth!
That germ which sleeps in quiet might
Till God shall call it into light!
What then our Saviour saw and heard—
The glory of another sphere!
The music of Jehovah's word!
To His divine humanity
All things of heaven were open'd free.
That brings the Past before man's eyes;
That bids him from no portion part,
Till angels meet him in the skies!
What worthier theme for painter's skill
Than hope which Christian truths fulfil?
Will still receive and bless them now:
Kneel to Him in your loveliness—
Pray for His hand to press your brow:
That hand which life to all hath given,
That welcomes all from earth to heaven!
And you, with children at your knee,
Still pause, their little steps to lead,
To Him who loves them more than ye?
Teach, father, teach the way He trod;
Lead, mother, lead thy child to God!
LINES WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF MISS FLEMING.
Inscribed to William Fleming, Esq., M.D.
Live, unknowing change or time;
Where the leaves and flowers unblighted
Speak of an eternal clime:
There's a land that knows not sorrow,
Sees not tears of anguish flow;
Fears no trial for the morrow—
To that land, oh, let us go!
Over friends that must depart;
Here we love—but there's no keeping
Those we love around our heart.
Where's the home that death bereaves not?
Where's the heart that ne'er felt woe?
To that land where friendship grieves not—
To that land, oh, let us go!
Which must end in clouds of night;
On the earth we read but “Parting!”
Leaf and flower the same word write.
To that land where Morning dies not,
Where the skies immortal glow,
Where the heart in parting sighs not—
To that land, oh, let us go!
Hymns to God, who doth restore
Heart to heart in endless meeting—
Boundless love for evermore.
Mother, 'tis a child that names thee,
'Tis a seraph whispers low;
Brother, 'tis a sister claims thee—
To that land, oh, let us go!
Let our faith more perfect rise;
Teach our love a brief denial,
Ask that peace which God supplies!
So the future shall grow dearer,
Knowing what it can bestow;
So our mission shall be clearer
In that land to which we go!
HELP EACH OTHER.
But, as Time's seasons ran,
Some seed of hope from it was set
That promised good for man:
I never knew a feeling heart,
In needful cases shown,
But it a spirit could impart
Congenial to its own!
An essence not of earth;
It wreathes the everlasting shrine
Where holiest things have birth:
It hath a life beyond to-day;
And, when this life is o'er,
'Twill meet us smiling on our way,
And good for good restore!
Grow poorer for such deed;
A power we all can understand
Still bids that hand succeed.
Whate'er a noble act may cost,
Whate'er the service given,
A kindness done is never lost;
Neither on earth nor heaven!
A DAY AGO.
A drop upon the stream of life—
A flower upon the summer sward,
Where thousand other flowers are rife!
Yet o'er the dial of our fate
There is a finger moving slow;
How long 't will move, what tongue can state?
What's death was life a day ago!
The value of a moment's space;
Our thoughts and wishes to control,
And look on Truth with fearless face!
To strip from Hope its rainbow dress,
Its false, false glitter, and its show:
All life—to man—is littleness!
All time—to God—a day ago!
Esteem it at its proper worth;
Nor say, were years to come again,
We would act differently on earth.
Be grateful for the bounties sent,
And patient when they cease to flow;
Soon—soon—we learn how much is meant
By those brief words—A day ago!
GOOD ADVICE.
Marks its simple, plain intent?
Who, discarding selfish blindness,
Taketh counsel as 'tis meant?
Ah! too often, what was merely
Urged to caution or improve,
Toucheth vanity too nearly,
Hurts our feeling—pride—self-love
Should be joyed to find a friend
Any hint or thought revealing,
Formed to warn, instruct, amend.
Courtly phrase and false pretences,
Outward smile and servile show,
May indeed avoid offences:
Friends a higher office know!
To each weakness of our youth,
Better to receive with candour,
Honest, open, manly truth.
Take, then, truth without resistance,
Use it, and its worth discern;
To the last day of existence
All have something yet to learn.
THE MERRY HEART.
However short we stay:
There's wisdom in a merry heart,
Whate'er the world may say.
Philosophy may lift its head
And find out many a flaw,
But give me the philosophy
That's happy with a straw.
It brings us, we are told,
What's hard to buy, though rich ones try
With all their heaps of gold.
Then laugh away, let others say
Whate'er they will of mirth;
Who laughs the most may truly boast
He's got the wealth of earth.
A moral beauty, too:
It shows the heart's an honest heart,
That's paid each man his due;
And lent a share of what's to spare,
Despite of wisdom's fears,
And made the cheek less sorrow speak,
The eye weep fewer tears.
The tempest-wrath begin;
It finds a spark to cheer the dark,
Its sunlight is within.
Then laugh away, let others say
Whate'er they will of mirth;
Who laughs the most may truly boast
He's got the wealth of earth.
THE MAGIC GLASS.
Come and view my magic glass!
I can tell you many marvels,
All things as they're sure to pass!
I can see adventure growing,
Through a mystic power sublime;
Watch the hand of Fortune throwing
Treasures in the lap of Time!
Come then, maidens, merry maidens!
Come and see my magic glass!
All the wonders I shall whisper,
True as time, are sure to pass!
Dry and dark, and hard to view;
I can show you how it reareth
Leaf, and bud, and flow'ret too:
Flower of love, that shuns the sight!
Things to other eyes forbidden,
Unto mine are clear as light!
Come then, maidens, merry maidens!
Come and view my magic glass!
All the wonders I shall whisper,
True as time, are sure to pass!
Signs and symbols o'er it crowd,
Wild as wintry stars at midnight,
And they speak to me aloud:
Tell me secrets worth believing,
Secrets with instruction rife—
What the loom of Fate is weaving
From the mingled threads of life.
Come then, maidens, merry maidens!
Come and view my magic glass!
All the wonders I shall whisper,
Sure as time, shall come to pass!
THE FORTRESS.
What sea mourns at its feet?
Its walls “might laugh a siege to scorn,”
Its tide engulph a fleet!
Scant guard the warder keeps;
One at the portal stands and waits,—
One stands, and waits, and weeps.
Above the shipless tide;
The harbour seems in little quest,
Nor pilot here, nor guide.
Who claims? the watcher saith—
One who with joy each angel names,
The heir of all is Faith!
That floats upon the morn;
This is the Rock that all have trod
Who've sprung, through Faith, new born.
Yet shall a day appear,
When God shall strike the gates of sin,
And all shall enter here.
LINES ON THE DEATH OF SIR JOHN POTTER, M.P., FOUNDER OF THE FREE LIBRARY.
More than human thought can span:
What is Death?—the dust remaining
Utters no response to man.
Cannot compass that domain,
Cannot climb that world Elysian
Where the dead new life attain.
He who best that course selects;
Never waiting, asking “Wherefore?”—
Acting as his heart directs!
Lies the secret of all good;
That to make a happy nation,
Men must first be understood!
Short the space 'twixt life and death,
When the lowest shall be brother
To the highest that have breath.
Knew its means and pleasures few,
Thou that sought thy humbler neighbour;
Teaching others what to do!
Shall survey this hallowed ground,
And with tears of silent sorrow
Bless the friend their fathers found!
Passeth from our steps away;
In the path of Faith and Duty
Honour lives, though Man decay.
OLD FRIENDS AND OLD TIMES.
Hopes ne'er to be;
Speaking of old friends
Far o'er the sea:
Distance can change not
Dear ones like you;
Fortune estrange not
Hearts that are true!
Thus, in the twilight,
Fond thoughts will stray
Back to the old homes—
Homes far away!
I no more see,
Is there a kind thought
Ever for me?
One wish, though vain;
If there's but one sigh,
I'll not complain.
Thus in the twilight
Tears oft will stray,
Thinking of old friends,—
Friends far away.
TO THE YOUNG.
Free and boundless in extent,
Hills on which renown was planted,
Soil for widest culture meant;
What would be the donor's sorrow
If that unattended earth
Show'd no promise for the morrow,
Nothing but defect and dearth?
But in patches scatter'd o'er,
Flowers—a few for decoration—
Just in front, and nothing more!
All the vast extent behind it
Left without one seed to grow;
Left—as Time ought ne'er to find it,
Since God bade the sun to glow!
Than the gift of land can be:
Nothing from our kind Creator
Breathes so much of deity;
Nothing through the world's extension
Equals that eternal dower;
Scarce an angel's comprehension
Spans the vastness of its power!
Of that mind true culture knows,
If no tillage gains admission,
Nought that right advancement shows,
Is it grateful to the Donor
Who—some purpose to fulfil—
Made ye of such power the owner,
To be careless of his will?
Poorly thus its worth to scan,
To neglect what you inherit,
Disregard God's gift to man?
Is it wise to rest contented
With this half-instructed state?
Lost time ne'er was unrepented,
But regret may come too late!
Broad the land before you lies,
Neither task nor labour scorning;
Which the fruit of thought supplies;
As you work so choose your station,
Knowing life and its demands;
Knowing 'tis through cultivation
That the living mind expands!
A HEART FOR EVERY ONE.
If every one could find it;
Then up and seek, ere youth be gone,
Whate'er the toil ne'er mind it!
For if you chance to meet at last
With that one heart, intended
To be a blessing unsurpass'd,
Till life itself is ended,
How would you prize the labour done,
How grieve if you'd resign'd it;
For there's a heart for every one,
If every one could find it.
To suit each other dearly;
But each one takes a different way,
A way not found so clearly!—
The trouble's worth the taking,
For what the life of home endears
Like hearts of angels' making?
Then haste, and guard the treasure won,
When fondly you've enshrin'd it;
For there's a heart for every one,
If every one could find it?
THANK GOD FOR ALL.
A cottage garden leads unto the door,
A few wild plants the lowly casement cheers,
And all around looks neat, though all is poor.
There Philip dwells, and takes a neighbour's part,
Though little be the means his help to test;
Yet still, though poor, he says, with grateful heart,
'Tis well to labour,—and that God knows best!
As blithe of heart he quits his cottage gate;
The golden village lane with dawn is sweet,
And Philip feels content, though low his state;
For labour unto him can joy impart,
'Tis independence to his honest breast;
And still, though poor, he says, with grateful heart,
'Tis well to labour,—and that God knows best!
His children's voices meet him half the way,
And while the sun within the west doth burn,
And bird and brook sing sweet the close of day,
Philip forgets his toil, his chair to find,
By little arms and little lips caress'd;
And gazing round, exclaims, with grateful mind,
Thank God for all,—thank God, who knoweth best!
THE CROSS OF CHRIST.
INSCRIBED TO THE REV. J. M. BELLEW, S.C.L.
Cherish'd in secret 'gainst a bad world's hate;
Now on the neck of maiden beauty worn—
Blazing 'mid arms and banners of the state—
The flags of navies, crown'd and consecrate!
Erst type of persecution, shame, and blood;
Now the bow'd knees of nations on thee wait;
And kings adore, where burning martyrs stood,
Like Faith amidst the flames, unchanged and unsubdued!
Not thine the torture and the bigot chain,
Not thine the unsparing creed, the zealot pride
That would, through persecution, Christ attain!
But ever com'st by love and mercy led;
Yet wert thou parent call'd by many a Cain,
Who from the altar struck his brother dead,
And pray'd with gore-stain'd hands, as if 'twere incense shed!
Come with thy brow of truth, thy lip of grace—
Thy peace, which is the light of Jesus' throne;
Thy hope, which beameth like an angel's face;
Oh, come, Religion, all the world embrace!
For all are brothers, and God's home would seek:
Back to thy breast our erring footsteps trace;
Teach us with Christian charity to speak,
Nor crouch to high estate, nor trample on the weak!
Strengthen the weak, upraise the poor and low;
To seek in humble breasts the struggling spark,
And with the breath of truth to bid it glow:
To lead the frail, irresolute, and slow
Unto the fount of everlasting light!
To teach them to believe what God doth show
In every dawning day and setting night:
To call the erring back, and guide their feet aright.
To lead through love, persuade through Mercy's tongue:
And thou, to whom I dedicate each word,
Whose zeal, whose genius I have honour'd long,
Still, arm'd with eloquence, convince the throng;
Assure the doubtful—win the heedless breast,
Bid lips, long mute, thrill with Jehovah's song!
Show the afflicted where their griefs may rest,—
So shall thy name be loved, and thy true mission blest!
THE OLD EVENINGS.
But others now live there;
I thought about the old times
And all we used to share.
How happy 'twas our wont to meet,
When friends came frank and free.
Ah, when shall we such faces greet
As once we used to see
In those old merry evenings,
Those pleasant friendly evenings,
Beneath the old roof tree?
We still should lack old cheer,
The old friends in the old house
Were all that made it dear!
And never more may we
Revive the music of their tread—
The joys that used to be
In those old friendly evenings,
Those long-departed evenings,
Beneath the old roof tree!
THE CHARITIES OF LIFE.
Turn back a little way,
Let not “thy giving” be a part
To act another day!
Give whilst the weary eye is dim,
And if a tear should fall,
'Twill be in gratitude to Him
Who heard the mourner's call.
Oh, in the charities of life
This impulse still obey;
And if thou'st pass'd an aching heart
Turn back a little way!
The shadow cometh fast;
And whether we move fast or slow,
'Tis to one bourn at last.
Kind actions will appear
Like angels waiting at thy side
To bless thee, and to cheer!
Then in the charities of life
This impulse still obey;
And if thou'st pass'd an aching heart
Turn back a little way!
LITTLE REQUIRED.
A cot just removed from the way,
All cover'd with woodbine and briar,
And Norah still with me each day.
We can live upon nothing at all,
For what do we care for display?
Love can smile though his income be small,
Yes, that's what he used to say!
Ah, me! that's what he used to say!
No figure so fair as my own;
Now figures in columns of three
Perplex him and alter his tone!
He wonders how bills can come in
In this strange unaccountable way;
And frowns, with his hand to his chin,
And forgets what he used to say,
Ah, me! forgets what he used to say!
There's nothing, at least, I detect;—
But a maid when she changes her name
Hath many a change to expect.
I wish better times would appear,
That Harry again might be gay,
And whisper once more in my ear
The words that he used to say,
Ah, me! the words that he used to say!
EVERYBODY'S GIPSY.
Fortune's hidden light revealing;
Whisp'ring better stars are rife
In the depths the cloud's concealing:
She is seen at many gates—
Many sighs to her are given;—
If we credit all she states,
She's her knowledge straight from heaven.
More than any gipsy known
She sets all things in confusion:
She's the one whose power alone
Keeps the whole world in delusion!
High and low her spells she tosses;
E'en the poor and aged stay
When their path of life she crosses:
Sailors on the stormy ocean,
Unto her their secrets yield;
None on earth have such devotion.
More than any gipsy known
She sets all things in confusion;
She's the one whose power alone
Keeps the whole world in delusion.
WHAT'S YOUR OPINION?
Your heart to any one you know,
Or let your cheek with blushes glow,
You shorten Love's dominion:
But if you pause, or seem to be
Indifferent to his urgent plea;
The colder you—the warmer he:
Now tell me your opinion,
Your opinion;
Do tell me your opinion.
To guard the word that seeks the tongue;
And hide the secret well—and long:
But who would lose dominion?
The hopes that in their bosoms beat?
Whate'er I felt—he should not see't!
At least, that's my opinion,
My opinion;
At least, that's my opinion!
Too over-proud to take advice;
I only pray you to think twice
Before you quit dominion:
The more your looks, your lips, express,
The more you sigh, he'll sigh the less;
'Till he proposed I'd ne'er confess!
At least, that's my opinion,
My opinion;
At least, that's my opinion!
THE WHEREWITHAL.
And humour and wit at his call;
But what do these matter on earth
If he has not the wherewithal?
His home may be circled with friends,
If he only can keep up the ball;
But friendship soon changes and ends
If he has not the wherewithal.
Then seek for the wherewithal—
Make sure of the wherewithal,
For pleasure, like friendship, soon ends
If you have not the wherewithal.
Shows best where the sunlight doth fall;
He always is first in the race,
Who is first with the wherewithal!
Some hint that the great can be small;
But trifles like these are not seen,
If bless'd with the wherewithal!
Then seek for the wherewithal—
Make sure of the wherewithal,
For pleasure, like friendship, soon ends,
If short of the wherewithal.
A picture within to enthral;
When gold's in the heart of the rose,
There's love in the wherewithal?
Yes; men may have wisdom and worth,
And humour and wit at their call,
But what do these matter on earth
If they have not the wherewithal!
Then seek for the wherewithal—
Make sure of the wherewithal,
For pleasure, like friendship, soon ends,
If short of the wherewithal!
PASSING AWAY.
I
Look from the casement!—look, and tellWhat's passing, mother, dear;
Since dawn I've heard a funeral bell,
Slow pealing on my ear;
And now there comes the solemn fall
Of footsteps sweeping nigh.
Look down the street, I hear their feet,
Some funeral's passing by.
The mother gazed with anxious face,
But nothing there was seen,
Except each old accustom'd place,
And what had always been.
II
A moment yet, dear mother, stay;Strange sounds are on the air,
Like angels singing on their way
Or voices deep in prayer!
For I am faint and low;
Help me to look upon the sky,
And bless them ere they go!
The mother raised her daughter's head,
But no word could she speak;
The hope that from her bosom sped
Left tears upon her cheek.
III
The night look'd through the casement old,And saw a cheek so pale—
A form so wasted, thin, and cold—
No skill might there prevail;
But that which conquers Death yet beam'd
Upon her wasted brow;
And sweet, as though an angel dream'd,
The sufferer rested now!
Ah, who the mother's grief may tell?
Or who may comfort bring?
Yet, high above the funeral bell,
She heard the angels sing!
DEAD, YET UNDIVIDED.
The parted still are one!
Their love our being's home can fill,
Although the loved be gone!
The mystery of the spirit's birth
Outfathoms human skill;
Though one's in heaven, and one on earth,
They are together still!
The distant and the dead;
The last sweet bloom that winter blights,
Yet leaves the odour shed:
And thus affection lives beyond
Death's dark and withering will;
No power hath he to part the fond,—
They meet, in spirit, still!
That spirit all pervades,
It lends a glory to the air
When every planet fades;
It circles all with holiness,
It blunts the barb of ill;
And e'en the parted it can bless,
And link together still!
THE HOPES GONE BY.
A golden path to other years;
Ere yet our hearts had known a shade,
Or life had lost what life endears:
The bounding heart—the spirits' play—
The thoughts that seem'd on wings to fly—
We ask in vain,—ah, where are they?
The days, the dreams, the hopes gone by!
And life seems cold as wintry snow;
For some are changed, and some are dead,
That knew and loved us long ago!
Those golden visions come no more
As once they came, when hope was high,
Yet dear, till life's last pulse is o'er,
Will be the days, the hopes, gone by!
FLOWERS.
How ye sport and spring,
Smiling between bank and brook,
Mossy marge, and woody nook,
Where the linnets sing;
Climbing hedgerow, bush, and brier,
As your spirit ne'er would tire,
Thorough lane and lea:
Full of life, and full of mirth.
Ye alone enjoy the earth,—
Happy children ye!
How ye roam and race,
By the valley—up the hill,
With an everchanging will,
Haunting every place;
Where the wild stag dare not leap,
In your reckless glee;
Or, where snows eternal blanch,
Listening to the avalanche,—
Bold adventurers ye!
How ye dance and twine
With the loveliest born of Spring,
Moving in an endless ring—
An exhaustless line!
Sometimes shy and singly seen,
Like some nun, in cloister green,
Offering incense free;
Sometimes over marsh and moor,
Resting by the cottage-door,—
Welcome comers ye!
How ye love to meet
Far away from human sound,
Making Nature hallow'd ground—
Even loneness sweet;
Where some fount, 'mid mountain-springs,
Singing falls, and falling sings
Blooming where no step is heard,
Save the light foot of some bird,—
Favour'd children ye!
Loved by moon and star;
Loved by little ramblers lone,
Seated on some grassy stone,—
Many a footstep far!
Loved by all that God hath made,
All that ever watch'd and pray'd:
For ye seem to me,
In your bright and boundless span,
Silent speakers unto man
Of the world to be!
MORN.
Is sailing divine;
Her barque is all golden
And purple each line;
Her flag blue and crimson;
And over the skies
She sweeps in her beauty,
To gladden all eyes.
Spreads wide on the sight,
Like islands of glory
Where angels alight!
And the barque dashes onward
O'er billows of clouds,
Whilst the lark, like a sailor,
Sings high 'mid the shrouds!
Whatever storm wars,
Would keep his soul's pennant
Still fix'd 'mid the stars!
Till the harbour appearing,
For which he had striven,
Life's vessel might rest,
Safely anchor'd in Heaven.
THE HIDDEN DELL.
Or fallen low for winds to sweep about,
Just as Aurora show'd her drowsy head,
As if to wake or slumber still in doubt,
Straight from the path—the rude, broad path, scoop'd out
Abrupt and startling—there appear'd a dell,
From whose green mouth, as from some shrine devout,
The panting waters seem'd with pride to swell,
Then down the rocky cleft with rapid music fell.
Until a broken arch and gate were seen,
That to a strange deserted garden led;
O'ergrown, and all one melancholy green,
Save here and there some flowery shrub between,
Or ancient statue from its column cast,—
A majesty of grandeur that had been
A memory of the proud and prosperous past,—
Stood haughty in decay—still stately to the last!
And from the trembling leaves hung many a tear,
Which the stern winds, as angry, brushed aside—
For what might tears avail gaunt ruin here?
Nor grief could change, nor gleam of gladness cheer
The desolation and the blight around:
Yet one lone flower, like infant beauty near,
Kiss'd with its honey'd lip the wither'd ground,
And smiled upon the thorns to which its bloom was bound.
'Midst grandeur and neglect I wander'd on,
Till, all at once, the path show'd touch of care;
In golden groups the tended flowrets shone,
Bright as Love's footsteps, and as swiftly gone;
A broken rose-stem, with a ribbon tied,
Told of a maiden's hand—some lovely one
Perchance still near: quick sought I every side,
But still nor fluttering veil, nor vestment white espied.
Then lost itself in venerable shade;
My very breath with toil seem'd almost spent,
When shot a gleam of silver through the glade.
By path which human footstep rarely chose;
Willing to seek, and yet to stir afraid,
Tiptoe I followed where the dim boughs close,
And looking down beheld my Maiden of the Rose.
Bathing her beauty in the happy brook,
Whose waters clasp'd her in a pearly flood;
Or, flowing fondly, stole an upward look,
As of her beauty they some portion took;
Then, turning, leapt unto her waist: whilst she
From her white hands the liquid sparkles shook,
And cast them in the air, like diamonds free,
A thousand times more pure, more beautiful to see.
To which she call'd, and with a timid grace
It sidled near her—quiet as a dream!
The nymph kept, like a statue, in her place;
Then sudden stoop'd, and scatter'd in its face
A thousand wave-drops—back it fled in fear,
Ruffled its brilliant feathers from the chase,
Then slowly round its sidelong course did steer,
Stretch'd its broad wings, and boldly darted near!
Then caught a scarf, with which the boughs were drest,
And flung it o'er its wings—it sprang in air!
Flash'd the white waters from its panting breast,
Whilst she laugh'd loud, and mock'd its ruffled crest!
Seeming some creature of ethereal birth;
Ere long a butterfly besought her quest—
Up flew the scarf in light and playful mirth,
The butterfly and maid seem'd both too bright for earth!
From 'neath the woods, a dappled fawn tripp'd slow;
Gazing askance with ever restless eye,
Until half gain'd the singing stream below;
Anon he listen'd—unresolved to go.
Then did the merry drops in music sink:
Onward he leapt all eager for its flow,
And bent his beauteous head as if to drink,
Unconscious he of nymph close watching at the brink.
It plunged, it swerved—away the wavelets flew;
With matchless grace the maid her captive brought
Amidst the weeds, and kept it struggling through;
It rear'd, it leapt!—the stream in fountains spread!
Oh, Love, the sport, the strife, between the two!
At last a rush of waters o'er her head
O'erpower'd the laughing nymph, and free the glad fawn fled.
Nor let one breaking branch my haunt betray,
But left to sweetness and to innocence
The Beauty and her bath, and stepp'd away.
Guarded by angels be her sanctuary!
Still her companions prove the swan and fawn,
Still happy with the butterfly to play,
Bathe in the brook, or dance upon the lawn,
Or meet with lips of song the golden grace of dawn.
THE SOUL.
A light which chance hath waked to birth;
Nor is that power, Necessity,
The mother of the earth.
Materialists in vain may teach
That Nature form'd this glorious whole;
In worlds which science cannot reach,
“God!—God made man a living soul!”
A gift of that immortal Hand
Which from blind chaos struck the day,
And held, unpoised, the sea and land;
Who o'er the earth shed beauty rife,
Who gave the Elements their might,
Who waked the planets into life,
And bowed the starry globe of night.
Call order from the dreams of chance—
Bid your material god replace
The heavenly fountain we advance:
The seasons would return no more,
The erring planets lose their track,
Confusion stalk from shore to shore,
And Ruin shout to Chaos back!
O'erload the reason's glorious might;
Imagination's wing restrain,
And blind our intellectual sight?—
No: the rivers of the world combined
Have never fill'd the boundless sea;
And what is ocean to the mind?
Like time unto eternity!
But vice—that, even in our youth,
Saith to Religion's light—“Go hence!
I will not, dare not, know the truth!
If I deceive myself, 'tis well:
Let me live on, and still deceive;
If sinners tread the brink of hell,
'Twere death to Tremble and believe!”
O Jesus, Saviour of the world!
Bid knowledge spread from pole to pole,
Be Faith's bright banner wide unfurl'd.
For whatsoe'er the soul may be,
Or wheresoe'er the soul may dwell,
To live for God's eternity
Is better than to live for hell!
AN EARLY VISITOR.
Came sighing fond, and blushing sweet;
And o'er the casement's flowery stand
Reclined her warm and brilliant hand;
Stole from the rose its rath perfume,
And leapt, all glowing, in the room;
Shook gold upon the carpet round,
Each printed form, with sunthreads bound.
Anon—as if half weary there—
Her golden limbs adorned a chair;
And flashed a hundred brilliant hues
On classic Reynolds' “Tragic Muse;”
Pressed golden kisses o'er the pearl
Of Christall's lovely “Shepherd Girl;”
And, spite of Shakspere's verse of old,
Kept gilding still refinèd gold!—
At last a little over-free,
She threw herself upon my knee;
In beaming glances met my looks,
And blinded me for reading books:
I found where'er my sight could fall;
'Till, half provoked, I wish'd the maid
Were fairly buried in the shade!
For, jealous of the least advance,
She struck the fire out with a glance;
Then, as with music's gifts to please,
Her sparkling fingers touched the keys!
'Twas something to be seen, not heard,
Too eloquent for note, or word:
Cecilia's hand, though oft admired,
Had ne'er such brilliancy inspired;
Could ne'er intenser gaze enthral;
But then, alas, the touch was all!
Engagements with commercial men
Sped swift the time; whilst Morn withdrew
To vernal scenes and pleasures new;
Through lanes with honeysuckle sweet,
Through many a sylvan, calm retreat;
Danced with the ripple of the brook,
Still gilding every path she took;
And, oh! till we again may meet,
May Heaven bless those golden feet!
BLAME ME NOT.
This silent woe they blame:
They little know how sweet's despair,
If it but breathe thy name!
They little think how passing dear
Is sadness unto me;
How sweet the sorrow, sweet the tear,
In silence shed for thee!
The dove hath lost her ark—
The very face of heaven above
Seems hopeless now and dark:
Yet little think they, still how dear
Is sadness unto me—
How sweet the sorrow, sweet the tear,
In silence shed for thee!
THE DEAD SWAN.
(THE STREAM LAMENTETH FOR HER LOST COMPANION.)
Night on me descends;
Once and but once only
We've been parted friends!
What doth Life inherit
That can Hope impart?
Oh, sweet Bird, or Spirit,
Tell me where thou art!
Came the Night profound;
With a sigh revealing
Sorrow all around!
Sounds too sad to lose them
Through the forest crept,
Whilst upon my bosom
Thou in beauty slept!
Through the wildest night;
There thou lay beside me
Like a beam of light!
Till the dark hour ending,
To thy happy stream,
Forest deer descending
Woke thee from thy dream!
All its rays of light,
Like a sylph thou started
In thy sparkling flight!
Whilst the deer—though frighted
From the water's brink—
Paused, as half delighted,
And forgot to drink.
In my heart have slept,
Fate's decree now soften:
Long and lone I've wept!
Where is she whose brightness
Lent the rash delight;
Know ye, in your lightness?
Answer, Stars of night!
Tidings where thou art,
Save the wave that beateth
O'er my troubled heart;
Save the winds that slowly
'Neath the sedges rise,
Every feeling holy
Into silence dies!
Back to life and day;
Why should I then linger?
Waste, poor Stream, away!
What doth Life inherit
That can Hope impart?
Oh, sweet Bird, or Spirit,
Tell me where thou art!
THE LOST ONE FOUND.
A truant from the morning meal, till now the close of day;
And whither he hath wandered, what field-path he hath cross'd,
She knows not, but distractedly is seeking for her lost!
No wanderer after bee and bird—he loved his mother more!
And now, though every spot she'd search'd within the village ground,
She dared not meet her husband's face until his boy was found.
She sought; she ask'd each cotter's girl—but none had seen him there;
She told them of his fair young face, his sunny curls, his years;
But when she strove to tell them more, she could not for her tears.
Until she near'd a rushy brook, whose bridge was but a plank;
And, half afraid to look therein, she hurried o'er and found
Two foot-prints small—the mother knelt and kiss'd the grassy ground!
And 'midst the grass a flower-crush'd spot as where a child had lain;
And scatter'd rushes wild about show'd where his feet had stray'd—
Her child had cross'd the dangerous brook, and must have reach'd the glade.
The viper hides his venom'd fang, and noxious insects breed;
Where—ah! was that a garment moved? She rush'd into the wood,
Alas! 'twas but the hawthorn gray before whose boughs she stood.
It could not be so mere a child thus far had rambled on:
And, sinking down bewilder'd, unknowing how to stir,
She heard a voice, a little voice, but, oh! 'twas bliss to her!
Put up his fruit-stain'd lips to kiss, and tried each art to please;
And bade the weeper not to cry, although his own poor cheek
Show'd traces of his day's-long tears in many a piteous streak.
And bade her boy remember Him who'd watch'd him from on high!
Had sent his influence down to guard his little footsteps there;
So with her child, the mother knelt—and blessed her God in prayer.
TORQUATO TASSO.
[Torquato Tasso, one of the most celebrated poets that Italy ever produced, was born at Sorrento in 1544. His works show him to have been a philosopher, an orator, a logician, a critic, and a poet, excelling in every kind of composition. While he was at the court of Alphonso, Duke of Ferrara, he incurred that prince's anger by his passion for the Princess Leonora of Este, his patron's sister; and being somewhat disordered in his intellect, he was ungenerously shut up in a madhouse for seven years, where he underwent the most illiberal treatment. Tasso himself says that every rigour and inhumanity it is possible to conceive were practised towards him. The remonstrances of several Italian princes at length procured his release; and when Cardinal Aldobrandini ascended the papal chair by the name of Clement VIII., he invited him to Rome, resolving to confer upon him the laureate crown in the Capitol. While, however, the preparations were going on for this ceremony with the greatest magnificence and pomp—promising to be the most splendid pageant beheld in Italy for centuries—Tasso was taken ill, and died in 1595.]
The hour which marries twilight to the stars;
When Memory speaks to Beauty, and the air
Seems languishing for silence; at that hour,
Portray'd the poet's fortune, Tasso slept.
The dying day oft through the parted clouds
Shot sudden gleams, and o'er the slumberer's cheek
Now light, now shadow swept; and haply these
Might touch or influence the poet's dream;
For, as he said, two spirits sought his side,
And each, alternate, pictured to his mind
Visions immortal. Fame and Truth were they,
And thus address'd the poet's slumbering ear:—
SPIRIT OF FAME.
Which greets thee on her flight;
The star that shall illume thy name
Now trembles into light:
Around thee glories wait
In long triumphal line;
The classic throne, its crown and state,
Laurel and lyre, are thine.
Pour, heart of love, thy lay!
Hopes that immortal minds inspire
Shed triumph on thy way.
The music of thy name;
Wake, Tasso, wake! thou heir of song!
It is the voice of Fame.
SPIRIT OF TRUTH.
Shun the betrayer's tongue;
When did the laurel e'er rejoice
One victim heart of song!
Soar thou the topmost height,
Attain the classic leaf,
But know the hours of loftiest flight
Are ever the most brief.
To grace a monarch's state,
And nourish Fame's frail flowers with tears,
And learn repentance late!
Go, court the vain of earth,
Seek praise from Beauty's eyes;
Then learn how little is the worth
Of that thy soul did prize!
And fill'd with power to move
The loftiest minds to chivalry,
The noblest hearts to love;
And they on whose renown
A nation's shouts attend
Shall be the first thy lyre to crown,
The first to call thee friend.
The banquet and the ball,
These of thine honours shall be least,
Thy fame transcend them all:
The proud and princely throng
Shall worship at thy shrine,
Assert the sovereignty of song,
And own its gifts divine.
SPIRIT OF TRUTH.
Of popular acclaim;
And purchased often but by death
Is an illustrious name!
Is but the type of tears;
And Glory's harvest, like the snow,
Dissolves and disappears.
The penury and pain—
Oh, better hadst thou ne'er been born
Than wake the poet's strain!
That voice doth but deceive:
Avoid ambition's goal,
Nor let the fire of fancy leave
Its ashes on thy soul.
SPIRIT OF FAME.
Link'd with the glorious twain,
With triumphs Ariosto won,
With Dante's matchless strain;
For unto thee are given
The thoughts that angels breathe;
And Tasso's song of heaven
The light of hosts shall wreathe.
The high-born and the young,
Shall deem it fame to kiss the hand
That wrote Jerusalem's song.
Shake off this soulless thrall,
And arm for victory's field;
When beauty, love, and glory call,
Can Tasso's spirit yield?
SPIRIT OF TRUTH.
A voice that loads the air
With wrongs too terrible to speak,
With madness and despair.
It tells of genius lost,
Of beauty unattain'd,
Of love pursued at reason's cost,
Of glory sunk and stain'd.
That wing'd to heaven its flight;
The frenzied eyes, far worse than blind,
Blaze with delirious light:
That hand, the Muse inspired,
'Gainst phantom-horror strives;
Now flees the maniac's gyves.
SPIRIT OF FAME.
Rome's banners wave on high,
And garlands belt the classic ground,
As though a king swept by.
The hero-bard ascends
His coronation throne;
And hark! is that a shout which rends
Those oracles of stone?
In hymns of joy and praise,
Cittern, and lyre, and clarion note,
Their lofty triumph raise;
The Capitolian throng
With music sound thy name;
Wake, Tasso, wake! thou heir of song!
It is the voice of Fame.
SPIRIT OF TRUTH.
Dark sounds of grief arise;
Where a dying minstrel lies.
Ah, what are shows or state
To that pale drooping head?
The tardy triumph comes too late
Which comes to crown the dead.
One meed of grace impart?
Can Fame relieve the anguish'd brow,
Or bind the broken heart?
With misery rack'd and bow'd
Illustrious Tasso lies;
And what avail the applauding crowd,
Or shouts that rend the skies?
Thou'lt spend thy soul's rich power!
Alas, unhappy bard,
Thine is a fatal dower!
Yet when were hearts e'er found
By Fame's proud breath unstirr'd?
Woe that Delusion should be crown'd,
And Truth so little heard!
ADAM.
The dial of the brain
Points not to hours, but years sublime,
That o'er oblivion reign!
Immortal as its primal source,
It scatters centuries in its course—
Explores the worlds of thought;
Nor folds its heav'n-enfranchised wing,
Till reach'd that intellectual spring
Which crowns the shore it sought!
The Present fades—is gone!
The feelings of unnumber'd years
Are centred into one!
A radiance o'er my vision glows,
While spreads that Eden of repose
I see that morn, whose light unfurl'd,
Woke the first Sabbath of the world
Upon the soul of man!
Earth smiles amidst her flowers,
As though that moment God had been
In her Elysian bowers!
Yet holier than the earth or sky,
A presence born of Deity,
With grace-illumined brow,
Glorious, as from Jehovah's hands,
The parent of earth's millions stands
Before my vision now.
And struck his forehead dim;
Ere, exiled to eternal shame
By swords of cherubim,
He heard the voice of God complain—
Saw branded on the brow of Cain
The mark with murder red;
Knew all the horrors guilt must know,
Which, like an avalanche of woe,
Swept ruin on his head!
In their immortal bloom;
Unmarr'd by one degrading line
Prophetic of their doom;
I gaze—and back the steeds of thought,
Midst years of blood one act had wrought;
Then trace the steps of time
Through all that sad mortality—
The universe of graves to be—
From flood, disease, and crime!
Their toil-oppressed race;
Merit neglected on her way,
Whilst Pride usurps her place:
There lies the plague-polluted corse,—
Envy, and Hatred, and Remorse,
The Passions' burning flow;
There lurks Revenge with poinard bare—
Terror that darkens to despair—
And Infamy, and Woe!
That majesty of glance,
That brow o'er which the soul's wild storm
Of passions ne'er advance?—
Mark Adam's seed in sorrow cast,
Still mourners upon earth:—
Then, on the Cross of Calvary,
Thy crucified Redeemer see,
And learn Man's second birth.
And wake the hymn of life!
Praise Him, ye Eighteen Hundred Years
With man's salvation rife!
Though sin, and woe, and death prevail,
The Rock of Ages shall not fail
Whilst Faith on earth may dwell;
The soul baptised in Christ shall rise
Triumphant to its native skies,
Despite the powers of hell!
WAITING FOR THE COUNTESS.
(FROM LANDSEER'S DRAWING OF LADY BLESSINGTON'S FAVOURITE HOUND.)
O'er mountains bleak and bare,
To view the clouds, like vessels, take
The azure sea of air!
To watch morn's magic pencil touch
Each golden stream and grove;—
And sweet it is, when loving much,
To wait for her we love.
But oft his acts declare
His friendship is a dream of youth,
His faith a thing of air!
And if an honest heart on earth
Is really to be found,
'Tis not so oft in human worth
As in the worthier hound!
Nor bard's impassion'd breath,
Nor cavalier in maiden's ear,
Ere seem'd more true to death
Than this half-reasoning, noble brute,
That puts Man's truth to shame;
This creature—eloquent though mute!—
And friend—in more than name!
And famed as beauty's famed;
Admired wherever thou hast moved,
Renown'd wherever named;
Not one of all the friends thou'st found,
Whose words and looks were sweet,
Ere loved thee better than this hound
That waits thy coming feet!
If all yet fail to win
A heart still true to friendship's call,
Still warm with love within?
Oh, Life is lone, and little worth,
Unless affection meet
A faithfulness like his on earth,
That waits thy coming feet!
YOUTH AND AGE.
Is—“Would I were a Man!”
The golden years that lie between
Youth, like a dream, would span:
'Tis in its thought—'tis in its heart—
'Tis ever on its tongue;
But oh, the poetry of age,
It is—“When I was young!”
Would distant pathways find;
The sun still face to face we meet—
The shadow falls behind!
But when the morn of life is o'er,
And Nature grows less kind;
The length'ning shadow creeps before—
The sunlight falls behind!
The stream of life flows on;
That which we prized not when we had
Is doubly prized when gone!
And many a sad and solemn truth
Lies written on life's page;
Between the “Poetry of Youth!”
And “Poetry of Age!”
RIVA DI SAN MARCO.
[It must be borne in mind that the legend which we are about to produce is recorded by more than one authentic chronicler, and that it was sufficiently believed to give birth to a public religious ceremony. In the year 1341, an inundation of many days' continuance had raised the water three cubits higher than it had ever before been seen in Venice; and during a stormy night, while the flood appeared to be still increasing, a poor old fisherman sought what refuge he could find by mooring his bark close to the Riva di San Marco. The storm was yet raging, when three persons approached, and offered him a good fare if he would convey them to the two castles of Sido. Scarcely had they gained the strait, when they saw a galley, rather flying than sailing up the Adriatic, manned (if we may so say) with devils, who seemed hurrying, with fierce and threatening gestures, to sink Venice in the deep. The strangers conjured the fiends to depart: at the word, the demoniacal galley vanished, and the three holy passengers were quietly landed. “Go to the Doge,” said one, “and the procuratori, and assure them that, but for we three, Venice would have been drowned. I am St. Mark; my two comrades are St. George and St. Nicholas.” On the morrow the fisherman did as he was told, and he not only received his fare, but an annual pension to boot. Moreover, a solemn procession and thanksgiving were appointed, in gratitude to the three holy corpses which had rescued from such calamity the land affording them burial. —Abridged from Sketches of Venetian History.]
And blessings on the fisherman who steer'd the gallant bark;
And wild and high the waves howl'd by, foaming and white with rage!
Like flaming brands by demons forged amidst that hellish rout;
The proudest halls of Venice rock'd unto their very base,
And mothers gazed in agony upon their children's face.
Calm as the eagle floats along its cloud-beleaguer'd track;
The whirlwind own'd the spirit-grasp of some superior sway,
And, shrieking, vanish'd like a fiend defeated of its prey!
And moved the helm with trembling hand, and marvell'd silently;
For rays of light upon his sight in angel-beauty gleam'd
From brows more eminently fair than poet's fancy dream'd!
As through the Adriatic strait the venturous vessel steer'd!
A galley throng'd with demons foul was scudding o'er the wave,
Which deeper grew, and faster flew, at every sign they gave!
Doom'd to the last and worst despair, mother, and sire, and child!
Devoted towers, and palaces, and temples, to that tide
Whose dreadful billows leap'd around in their tempestuous pride!
The demons stretch'd their wings of flame, and howling, turn'd and fled!
The horrors of that spectral sea at once were put to flight,
As the morning stole, like a parting soul, from the grave of the buried night!
The grateful mother clasps her child, and half forgets her woes:
The sea hath moan'd itself to sleep within the tranquil bay,
And sunny is the welcome sky, and beautiful its ray!
For shielded hath our city been by influence divine!
Thanksgiving to the Virgin pour beside this hallow'd bark;
And glory to St. Nicholas, St. George, and good St. Mark!
THE ANGEL'S CALL.
IN MEMORY OF JULIANA ANNE TAVARÉ.
Sisters come!
To the churchyard where she's laid,
Sisters come!
When the ninth day downward dips
Will the spirit leave her lips;—
Bear her home!
Earth and shroud may then be spared,—
Angels have her house prepared,—
Bear her home!
Sisters come!
Spotless as a flower new born,
Sisters come!
'Till her image fill'd each heart,—
Bear her home!
Never death kiss'd maiden's eyes
Fitter for our Father's skies,—
Bear her home!
Sisters come!
Anguish in the Mother's heart,—
Sisters come!
Teach the mourner's faith to rise
To that Mansion in the skies,
Where she's gone;
Teach the Mother's lips to say,
'Mid the tears that must have way,
Thy will be done!
ALL THINGS FOR GOOD.
No sight, no shape throughout creation,
But hath, if rightly understood,
Some wise and spiritual relation.
The outer of the inner telleth;
Each seed is but a germ sublime,
Where wisdom, love, and beauty dwelleth.
That flowers, and trees, and all that groweth,
Have sympathy with hearts below,
And love the hand that love bestoweth.
The slender chain which life enforces?—
A drop of dew may show some law,
That guides the planets in their courses.
May teach a truth without our seeing;
And e'en a simple blade of grass
Proclaim the Universal Being.
THE FLOWER SPIRIT.
Ere grief or gloom had marr'd its hue,
And Paradise, unknown to crime,
Beneath the love of angels grew,
Each flower was then a spirit's home,
Each tree a living shrine of song;
And, oh! that ever hearts could roam—
Could quit for sin that seraph throng!
Though dimness o'er our visions fall;
And flowers that seem with dewdrops wet
Weep angel-tears for human thrall;
And sentiments and feelings move
The soul, like oracles divine;
All hearts that ever bow'd to love
First found it by the flowers' sweet shrine.
Language that hath in life no sound
Still haunts, like Truth, the Spirit-flower,
And hallows even Sorrow's ground.
The wanderer gives it Memory's tear,
Whilst home seems pictured on its leaf;
And hopes, and hearts, and voices dear,
Come o'er him—beautiful as brief.
It is the spirit power within,
Which melts and moves our souls, to share
The Paradise we here might win.
For Heaven itself around us lies,
Not far, not yet our reach beyond,
And we are watch'd by angel's eyes,
With hope and faith still fond!
Within the flower! least changed of all
That of the pass'd Immortal tells—
The glorious meeds before man's fall;
Yet, still, though I should never see
The mystic grace within it shine—
Its essence is sublimity,
Its feeling all divine.
THE SHIP OF HEAVEN.
A DREAM.
No human eye may see;
Like a mighty shroud, the heavy air
Hangs dim and drearily!
The falcon sits forlorn,
Awaiting, cold and restlessly,
The coming of the morn.
Flashes along the deep,
And, hark! dull whispers of the blast
Through the old forest sweep.
By some magician's wand:
It is no sun that lights the deep—
No blast that sweeps the land!
By ancient tempests riven,
Opens in wild sublimity
The lofty arch of heaven!
Mysteriously away,
As darkness melts to radiance
Before the power of day.
Of variegated light
Burst, from that everlasting sphere,
Upon my trancéd sight.
Mild as the lunar ray—
Fountains that overflow with stars,
Shine up the open way!
Like lightning when storms rave,
A bow of atmospheric hues
Spans the vast heaven and wave.
Her sails are clouds of snow,
Fine as the summer moon shines through,
On pleasant eves below.
She takes her beauteous flight;
And launching on the tide of air,
Speeds down the waves of light.
With organ melody;—
And, at the sound, ten thousand shapes
Spring from the groaning sea!
Its brave, its honour'd dead;
Their thronging footsteps press the deck,
But soundless is their tread!
The stately and the fair,
The warrior-knight and lowly hind—
The prince and slave—meet there.
That evermore dilate,
As if with the thin gelid air
Engross'd—incorporate.
Upon a rapid stream—
Pale, shadowy, changeful—still in all
Identical they seem!
Her wondrous path doth take;
Silently she moves o'er the sea—
Her vast stern leaves no wake!
A ponderous column, bound
With demon-chains upon my breast,
Confines me to the ground.
Language denies the power
To tell the bitter agony—
The terror of this hour!
The fever'd blood springs, now,
And the illusions of dark sleep
Fast leave my aching brow!
THE EVE OF ST. JOHN.
She sitteth on the ground;
While the moonlight, like a mantle,
Wraps her tenderly around!
She sitteth through the cold, cold night,
But not a step draws near,
Though his name is on her trembling lips,
His voice meets not her ear!
What droning sound swept there?
She listens!—still no human tone
O'erhears she anywhere!—
Oh! was't the forest bough that took
That sad and spectral mien?
She looketh round distractedly,
But there is nothing seen!
Her shadowy form is thrown;
With a strange and lonely mournfulness,
It seems not like her own!
She glanceth o'er her shoulder fair,
The moon is gleaming wide;
She turneth—Jesu! what is there
Pale sitting by her side?
She hearkens for a tone;
And terror pains her chilling veins,
For breath or sound—is none!
The silence—oh, it racks her brain,
It binds it like a chord!
She'd given worlds though but to hear
The chirping of a bird!
It stood upon the stream:
“O blessed shadow, ease my soul,
And tell me 'tis a dream!
Thou tak'st the form of one they vow'd
Mine eyes should see no more!”
The shadow stood across the stream,
And beckon'd pale before.
Yet deign'd her no reply;
The ladye rose, and straight the stream
To its pebbly breast was dry!
It pass'd the wood—it cross'd the court—
The gate flew from its chain—
The gentle ladye knew she stood
Within her own domain!
Without or breath or tone,
Until it came to a sullen sluice
'Mid yellow sand and stone,
But the rock and sand disdain'd to stand,
The water scorn'd to flow;
Thus blood was seen down the rift between,
And the dead reveal'd below.
And the ladye knew it well!
She kiss'd its cheek with a piercing shriek,
With a woe no tongue may tell,
The gory shadow beckon'd on,
And still her steps implored;
But she follow'd not, for on that spot
She found a shiver'd sword.
Her own fair skill had wove;
A brother's hand had struck the dead—
His sword had slain her love!
She took the corpse upon her knees,
Its cheek lay next her own;
Like sculpture fair, in the moonlight there,
Like misery turn'd to stone!
The gibbet serves them true,
With young, and sweet, and dainty meat,
As e'er the ravens knew;
And few they see near the gibbet-tree,
For a bleeding form glides on,
From the haunted stream, in the moon's cold beam,
On the Eve of good Saint John!
NOT TO-NIGHT.
In the moonlit street;
There's a fond voice calling,
Calling low, and sweet:
To and from the window,
To and from the gate;
Half resolved to enter,
Half inclined to wait!
While the chimes of midnight
Float upon the gale;
Thus the shadow passeth
In the moonlight pale.
Burns the Christmas fire;
Round its flame are seated
Daughter, son, and sire:
On the casement pane;
Oft a step is ventured,
Then returns again.
Still the shadow falleth,
Still the moments go,
Still that low voice calleth
How to let him know!
One light on the stair;
Well the Watcher knoweth
Wherefore they are there!
Slowly—very slowly—
'Neath the moonlight ray,
Passeth voice and shadow,
From the path away:
While the chimes of midnight
Following still his feet,
Whisper of the morrow,
When they two may meet.
THE TEMPLE.
The harps of all Nations are there
The hymn, and the anthem, and song,
God's voice and the music of prayer!
The visions of ages surround
That temple of beauty and grace;
And the stream that encircles the ground
Reflects in each wavelet a face!
Lov'st thou its banner of fame!
Where is the being whose tongue
Speaks not in praise of its name?
While spirits with liberty glow—
While hearts with affection are rife—
The song of that temple shall flow,
And its voice be the music of life.
THE HEART.
Its fancies and follies are more
Than the dews which fall round us in spring,
Or the wind-beaten sands of the shore:
Though fed upon kindness—it pines
The moment you wander away;
It is merry as long as Life shines—
As long as Love smiles it is gay!
Then pause ere you threaten to part,
Reflect ere you bid it adieu;
Ah! what can one do with a Heart
So fond, yet so changeable, too?
Its follies the kindest would try;
The next, if it see but your pain,
To solace that pain it would die!
In seeking new ways to excel,
And angels might envy the joys
In the core of its being that dwell:
So pause ere you threaten to part,
Reflect ere you bid it adieu;
Ah! what can one do with a Heart
So fond, yet so changeable, too?
THE CAPTIVE.
For, fair as their mother first smiled on my sight,
My daughters around me in innocence bloom'd,
And my sons the free bearing of manhood assumed;
While Christmas came round with mirth, music, and song,
And their sire was the proudest of all that gay throng.
And the guiltless from home to a prison were led!
From the arms of my children they tore me away,
No anguish could move them—no mercy had they!
And Christmas came round—but, ah! changed were its strains,
To the clank of my fetters—to darkness and chains!
To behold my sweet home—kiss my children once more!
I prayed to the God of the captive, and wept!
Till memory grew wearied, and blighted its power,
And Christmas came round, and I knew not the hour!
'Twas a void, a delirium, a life in the grave—
A chaos of thought—a dream, wild yet awake;
But, alas! such a dream as no morning could break;
And Christmas came round, but its brightness was o'er;
It found not the captive, he knew it no more!
When my form had grown feeble and bent with decay,
The door of my cell grated open—for me!
I was dragg'd into day and there told I was free!
It was winter: the wind whistled cold o'er my brow;
But methought it seem'd Christmas, and welcomed its snow!
Though its light was but torture—its loveliness pain.
I was free! I forgot the sad years that had roll'd;
I forgot I was poor, and decrepid, and old!
And methought that sweet Christmas again would appear
In the home of my heart, with the beings most dear!
But its walls lay in dust, and my wife in the tomb!
My daughters were scatter'd the wild waters wide,
And my sons midst the wars for their country had died!
So I turn'd to the dungeon, and craved for my chains,
For the captive no home and no Christmas remains!
EARTHLY BEAUTY.
Who brought them dew from sainted springs;
And came with heaven's own glowing hours
Upon her white and sparkling wings;
Then sat enamour'd all the morn,
Lone gazing on her bower of bliss;
For, oh! she thought Love's self was born
In some sweet paradise like this.
In beauty round her flowery bands.
That seem'd almost as if they knew
Their buds were fed by angel hands.
And thus she half forgot the sky,
Such feeling warm'd her spirit fair!
Till one by one they droop'd to die,
And left the angel weeping there.
Who let the heart's affections rest
On forms that have such heavenly grace,
Yet fade away when loved the best?
Alas! that beauty such as thine
Should die, O Earth, and love deplore!
From thee I wing my way divine,
Where beauty blooms for evermore.”
DESPONDENCY.
Why anxious ever?
Is boding Care believed,
And sweet Hope never?
Look, ere the day's amount
Of woes confound thee,—
Look up, sad heart, and count
Thy friends around thee.
Shine on unheeded;
'Tis only Night reveals
How much they're needed!
Is there no heavenly fount
Whose dews have found thee?
Look up, sad heart, and count
God's blessings round thee.
FAITHFUL AND FAITHLESS.
Hung drooping o'er the streamlet side;
But ah! the sear and sultry hours
The shallow rippling stream had dried!
So many a trust on earth is lost—
So many a human friend deceives:
The flow'rets found it to their cost,
In wasted bloom and wither'd leaves.
And, twined in one another, thought
That whilst the breath of life they drew,
The stream would feed them as it ought!
And yet, alas! for earthly trust,
For all reliances below,
Their roots were pining in the dust,
And still the stream no aid could show!
The morn on wings of cloud descends;
And fast and fresh the bounteous rain
To every thirsting leaflet sends!
Then woke the flowers to second birth;
A second life to them was given:
Oh, mortal, is thy trust on earth?
Then change thy heart, and trust in Heaven!
ANGELS.
And Angels may visit Man's pathway no more;
Oh, still o'er our lot is their influence shed,
With a feeling as radiant and sweet as of yore!
Yes; Angels, bright Angels, still hallow our sight,
Still speak to our souls thro' the dreams of the night!
A shadow of glory yet mantles our birth;
For Seraphs smile over the child as he strays—
And Heaven is beaming around us on Earth!
Yes; Angels, bright Angels, still hallow our sight,
Still speak to our souls thro' the dreams of the night!
LOVE THEE?
I'd learnt in earlier day,
Thou ne'er shouldst leave my lips for long,
Be from my thought away!
No; thou shouldst be my theme at morn,
My bird of love at noon;
And I—the happiest lover born—
Would let none list that tune!
In every fountain-fall;
The birds around, the stars above—
Oh, thou shouldst live in all!
The last sweet rose that dew might sip,
In summer's fading breath,
Should hear that song upon my lip,
Companion sweet in death!
In Memory's pensive ear,
Still wouldst thou be my only choice—
A sound for ever dear.
But loving, blooming, all mine own,
And all Life's bliss to prove,
How couldst thou, in so sad a tone,
E'er question if I love?
MY LIFE WAS LIKE A FOUNTAIN.
From Nature's heart that flows,
And ripples down the mountain,
Still singing as it goes;
The flowers sprang all around it,
The sun illumed its way:
The lark's glad music found it
And every wave was gay!
Where Love would often roam;
And Time sit down and tell me
Of some ideal home!—
Some home that true affection
And youthful Hope might win;
With roses climbing o'er it,
And happy hearts within!
That even out of storm
Could gather tints of beauty,
Some arch of hope to form!
But now the fount hath taken
A wider, darker shore;
Love's garden is forsaken!
Life's golden light is o'er.
THE FALSE ONE.
To woo him, win him, to thy side;
Play with his heart as with a flower,
Then change, and all his hopes deride:
And it was triumph to impart
Such woe as language ne'er exprest;
Oh shame upon the cruel art
Which thus could wound one human breast!
That beam'd on Eden's bower of yore;
Though thou wert . . . oh, away, away!
May heart of man ne'er love thee more!
Would that the angel-hand of Truth
Might straight unveil thy syren brow;
Disrobe thee of thy bloom of youth,
And show thee false, as thou art now!
Ere life as yet had known a shade;
And I could weep unmanly tears
To see the wreck thy arts have made.
But go!—assume thy gayest dress—
Sport lightly with the pleasures nigh;
Why shouldst thou wear one smile the less
Because a breaking heart must die!
WILL HE COME?
The wintry winds blow drear,
The gloomy day is waning,
And yet he is not here!
The old lamp in the casement
But dimly throws its light;
The way is wild and lonely—
Do you think he'll come to-night?
A hand is at the door;
A voice—I know each whisper—
And love it more and more:
He comes—though dark the hill-side,
And long its weary height:
You know I never doubted,
I said he'd come to-night.
THE CAMP IS UP!
The drums arousing beat,
The signal trumpet's martial bray,
The tramp of myriad feet,
Still call me from thy last fond kiss,
And all I deem divine!
For, not in Heaven, where beauty is,
Can be such charms as thine!
That beat the troubled air;
The trumpet!—'twas the eagle's wail
Above her rocky lair!
But go—if fame be greater bliss,
If honour brighter shine—
I'll ask the stars what glory is,
And that I'll say is thine!
And earth and sky seem fair,
Yet night, deep night, is in this heart—
There is no morning there!
But go—if over love and youth
Still darkly fortune lowers,
We'll ask the Angels what is truth,
And that we'll say is ours!
LITTLE THINGS.
Though small the help may be;
There's comfort oft in little things,
Far more than others see!
It takes the sorrow from the eye,
It leaves the world less bare,
If but a friendly hand come nigh,
When friendly hands are rare!
Then cheer the hearts which toil each hour,
Yet find it hard to live;
And though but little's in our power,
That little let us give.
Some service may achieve;
The humblest voice, if kindly,
Some sorrow may relieve:
Drag on from day to day,
When e'en the little that they need
Costs more than they can pay!
Then cheer the hearts that toil each hour,
Yet find it hard to live;
And though but little's in our power
That little let us give.
SOIL OF ENGLAND.
Where'er thy power prevails;
A grandeur robes thy greenwood—
A glory crowns thy dales!
Oh, place me wheresoe'er ye will,
With but one sod of thine,—
And Freedom's self shall hallow it,
As 'twere her native shrine!
With England's proudest name;
And Nelson's spirit start therefrom,
In all its naval fame!
A sound shall thrill that sod of Earth
As swept a host to war;
And Wellington's unconquer'd sword
Gleam o'er it like a star!
To things of higher worth;
The genius of my Native Land
Would grace that treasured Earth!
I need no charm of mount or vale,
No glimpse of England's sea—
A shred of her immortal soil
Is eloquent to me!
THINKING OF OTHER DAYS.
When we met on those long summer eves,
And the flowers took you, love, for some fairy,
So lightly you tripp'd o'er their leaves!
But now 'tis a mem'ry of sorrow,
To muse over joys that are o'er;
Though beauty may come with the morrow,
There's a beauty it brings me no more!
Where pleasure once smiled there is aching,
Each month passes by like a year;
And my heart if it be not now breaking.
May break but too soon, Mary dear,
Mary dear,
May break but too soon, Mary dear.
The village has ne'er look'd the same;
The flowers seem as if they were grieving,
The winds as if sighing thy name!
I call for a letter in vain;
Each spot that thy fancy selected
I wander again and again!
Where pleasure once smiled there is aching,
Each month passes by like a year,
And my heart, if it be not now breaking,
May break but too soon, Mary dear,
Mary dear,
May break but too soon, Mary dear.
LET NOBODY KNOW.
Of the warm summer day,
And it's only at night
One may venture away;
But think when the shadow
Falls dark from the tree,
There is one near the meadow
That's waiting for Thee:
But although you may love me
It secret must be,
For no mortal must know
You are waiting for me.
Are so fond of their talk;
They'd jest for a month
If they saw us two walk;
And a something would find,
If we even shook hands,
Or but look'd the least kind;
So whate'er they may guess,
Or pretend they may see;
Still let nobody know
You are thinking of me.
WAIT TILL I PUT ON MY BONNET.
My mother, she's fond of her chair,
But I, oh! I dote upon moonlight,
Sweet walks, and the soft quiet air;
The field with the dew-star upon it,
The scent of the newly-mown hay;
Oh, wait till I put on my bonnet,
Night's sweeter by far than the day!
There are bonnets with ribbon and feather,
But mine's like a gipsy's, so brown;
A bonnet that's careless of weather,
But happy's the head 'neath its crown.
But night was a gift to the heart;
When neighbour might visit with neighbour,
And love have its whisper apart:
And time walks in silver array;
Oh, wait till I put on my bonnet,
Night's sweeter by far than the day!
There are bonnets with ribbon and feather,
But mine's like a gipsy's, so brown;
A bonnet that's careless of weather,
But happy's the head 'neath its crown.
THE GARDEN STREAM.
A wild young stream, for ever singing—
Where bloom'd a rose-tree in its pride,
With crimson buds around it springing:
Oh! tell me why the streamlet flows,
With notes so sweet I fear to lose 'em?
Is it because the blooming rose
Is imaged on its tuneful bosom?
The stream's young wave had flow'd in sadness;
For what is life, however long,
Without the love which yields it gladness?
What charm can make the hours so blest?
What wing so fair hath so much fleetness?
O Love! thine image in his breast,
First fill'd the life of man with sweetness.
THE HAND OF A FRIEND.
If the bright rose of Friendship entwined not its door;
And Misery's self would find residence there,
If Friendship's glad voice might inspire it no more!
Then, wherever the star of my destiny shine,—
Whether pleasures await me, or perils attend,—
Whilst one lingering pulse of existence is mine,
Oh, give me the hand and the heart of a Friend!
Like the footstep of Friendship to chase it afar?
If danger surround us, still safety is found
In the light and the guidance of Friendship's true star.
Then, wherever the light of my destiny shine,—
Whether pleasures await me, or perils attend,—
Whilst one lingering pulse of existence is mine,
Oh, give me the hand and the heart of a Friend!
WIFE OF THE PIRATE.
The foundering vessel wore,
And many a heart in agony
Grew cold and palsied o'er,
As rush'd the fate, which none might flee,
Athwart that stormy shore!
Its friendly light in vain,
And youthful eyes, to sorrow new,
Gazed on in hopeless pain,
As wild the foamy billows flew
Along that dreadful main!
Joanna, sought that strand!
Thy beacon, like affection's shrine,
Shed brightness o'er the land,
But none might light that stormy brine
Save Heaven's almighty hand!
As they would never go;
'Till pale upon the topmost height
Morn show'd her face of woe,
As though she wept the bitter sight
Of aching hearts below!
The distant waves display;
But fast the morn grew calm and pale,
The winds lull'd with the day,
'Till the last murmur of the gale
Died slow and sad away!
The night breeze swept ashore;
'Twas marvel how, amidst the dark,
Without or mast or oar,
It found the Pirate's rocky ark,
Or saved the crew it bore!
Where they the storm-boat cast—
She rush'd to clasp in fond embrace
Her loved—her lord—at last!
And wild she gazed upon each face,
'Till every hope had past!
A prisoner!—and alone!
And they could leave him, thus to be
In Wolfe's stern dungeon thrown!
She heard—a shriek was on the sea
Far wilder than its own!
THE DAWN.
With star-sandall'd feet and cloud-mantle of gray;
When the skies seem with grandeur and mystery laden,
But there's nothing so sweet as the dawn of the day.
An hour that can all his devotion repay,
'Tis when harmony, beauty, and grace are revealing
Their charms at the dawn, the bright dawn of the day!
It woke the first breath of the lark's matin-lay;
When the Spirit of God moved the face of the waters,
All Eden lay blest in the dawn of the day.
His sun-banner'd hosts in their gorgeous array;
Though the Moon may win hearts they are hearts that dissemble;
For there's nothing so fair as the dawn of the day.
World-weary and languid, bereft of each stay;
When he turns to a dawn yet immortally breaking,
The God-promised dawn of a heavenly day.
Their charms for the dawn of our care-compass'd way,
What bliss must be theirs who, through Jesus ascending,
Behold with archangels the dawn of His day!
VOYAGE OF LIFE.
Fill'd with enchanted wind,
Swept to the land they sought—
Each shore and realm of mind!
Youth sat the helm above,
And mark'd each glorious trace—
All beauty—feeling—love—
All poetry and grace!
Were out upon the dark,
'Neath sky of storm inwrought,
With, wild and wide, a spark:
A star that might prevail
To point where dangers heaved.
'Twas Manhood reef'd the sail,
And mourn'd for Youth deceived.
All riven, went aground;
No shore that Youth had sought,
No port that Manhood found,
Proved like that heaven which shone
On golden sails of yore!
No; Life's romance was gone!
Youth's poetry was o'er!
THE LONELY HOME.
No friend my little fire to share;
The old hoarse clock ticks drearily,
And makes the silence worse to bear.
Gone! all are gone!—the fondest, best,
And loveliest that I call'd mine own:
After brief suffering they're at rest;
They—they lived not to wail alone!
I see the cold chairs keep their place;
I watch the dusty spider weave,
Where once there shone a household grace.
The brightness of my home is dull—
The busy faces all are gone;
I gaze—and oh! my heart is full—
My aching heart, that breaks alone!
The same my hapless grandsire read;
But tears stain fast and deep that page
Which keeps their names—my loved—my dead!
The wandering stranger by my door—
The passing tread—the distant tone—
All human sounds but deepen more
The feeling I am lone—alone!
Its pleasant porch, its sanded floor—
Ah! Time's dread touch hath changed the scene,
What was, alas! is now no more!
The key hath rusted in the lock,
So long since I the threshold cross'd:
Why should I see the sun but mock
The blessed light my home hath lost?
But Death forsakes the lone and old;
Seeks the blithe cheek of youth to fade,
To crush the gay, the strong, the bold.
Yet sometimes through the long dull night,
When hours find supernatural tone,
I hear a promise of delight:
Thou, God! Thou leav'st me not alone.
As slow a coffin pass'd the road;
No mourner there was seen to weep—
No follower to that last abode!
Yet there a broken heart found peace—
The peace that but in death it knew!
Alas! that human loves increase
Our human woes and miseries too!
WHICH HOME?
Or brighter lot than thine!
None richer dress wherein to roam,
Or jewels more divine!
Attendants gay shall lead the way,
Where'er thy steps appear;
And life shall be a dream of May—
And May last all the year!
My heart would lonely be;
And pine to gain its humble cot—
Its humble friends to see!
And oh, there's one—though far he's gone
Across the severing wave;
For whose dear sake, I'd die ere break
The parting vow I gave!
And blight a heart so true,
What proof have ye I should not be
As false, ere long, to you?
A gem more fair than queens can wear
Is truth in woman's eye;
That gem so dear, so sweet, sincere,
I'll keep until I die!
THE WORLDLY VOICE.
Sweet wanderers from a bright and better sphere,
Why weep ye o'er the rude leaf, worn and sere—
Ye that in heaven were born?
Why waste thine odours on the careless night?
Exchanging perfume for unwholesome blight—
Rubb'd by each wind that blows!
Nor wander lorn by porch and abbey;
Why o'er the dead must thy fond shadow fall?
The Dead can serve thee not!
The Dews of Morn have their brief mission given;
Their part fulfill'd, they soar again to heaven,
And bid new spheres rejoice.”
“Like deeds by generous hearts in secret done,
I glad the path of those the selfish shun,
And lend what Heaven bestows!”
Rejoin'd the Ivy—“Voice the World respects—
I love to shield the Worth which Pride neglects,
And serve without reward!
One simple truth to calculating Man—
Without reward, to do what good he can,
Is God's first law of love!”
Dew, Flower, and Leaf, that holy theme convey:
Oh, what were Man, if Man would but obey
Thee, Nature—and his God!
NE'ER WILL I FORSAKE THEE, MOTHER.
Dear thy closing life shall be;
Never will I love another
As my heart now loveth thee!
For its truth I here engage:
Thou my youth hast nourish'd kindly,
And I will console thine age!
Still receive yet nothing give?
Shall I leave thee old and lonely?
Never, mother, whilst I live!
Still thy growing cares assuage;
What thou wert unto my childhood,
That I will be to thine age!
A LAMENT.
Count the raindrops which fall o'er the desolate leaves;
They are light to the sorrows that visit the heart,
They are few to the tears which no solace relieves.
Every chord of his heart round one object alone;
Yet must watch o'er her life as it hourly declines,
That life which is dearer by far than his own!
Strike the heart with some barrenness yet undescried:
For affection is sorrow,—to love is to weep,—
Man never placed fondness on aught—but it died!
FIRST EMOTIONS.
And in thy absence every moment tell—
If when thou speak'st, it is new life to hear thee!
If this be love—why, then, I love thee well.
Toying with hawk or hound, by rock or fell;
Moving or lingering still like one that dreameth!
If this be love—then do I love thee well!
And round thy path be privileged to dwell;
To be all tremor, if I hear one name thee!—
If this be love—I love—and love thee well!
THE DOOMED CITY.
Which bathed the citadel;
Over ocean and over land,
The calm of slumber fell.
A red and flashing light,
Like a star—but it broader spread—
It was no star of night.
On wings of might it flew;
And a glory over the soundless deep,
Like a robe of lightning threw:
As it swept to the shore more near;
Earth and sky seem'd voiceless with awe,
Before that thing of fear!
And her deck with beings rife;
Whose hearts through their fleshless ribs appear'd,
Throbbing, and warm with life!
With ruin upon her speed;
Her tatter'd sails, like dead men's shrouds,
To the silent night were freed.
There was not a breath of air,
Yet rapidly, rapidly sail'd that ship,
As both wind and tide were there.
On my fear-fraught vision lay;
Worlds I'd have given to quit that spot,
Yet I could not turn away.
And the earth grew black and rank—
There was one wild rush of wind and wave,
And the ship and her dread crew sank!
In deep and fearful pain;
And many dark months flew over my head,
Ere I saw her proud towers again.
Through her wide streets grass had grown;
And of all her grace and majesty,
Her strong towers remain'd alone.
The aged, the young, and the fair;
I ask'd what that sight might mean,
They told me the Plague had been there.
When the pestilence first spread:
I knew 'twas the night I had seen the ship;
I knew 'twas the hour I had fled.
The strength of her towers fell low;
And over the pride of her palaces,
The dark waves of ocean flow.
LOVE UNTOLD.
My soul's sweet day, and yet my spirit's night!
While thou stand'st by, I sigh as one forlorn—
Yet when afar, I languish for thy sight.
Apart from thee, my heart can find no cheer,
Yet starts with tremour when thy step is near!
And waking, ask of fate if this must be?
The realm of feeling hath unnumber'd streams,
And every stream but bears my thought to thee:
Yet did thy form appear—my feet would stray,
As if they loved thee not, another way!
A something hoped, which dies when hope is given;
A sweet delight, and yet a strange unrest;
A thought that trembles betwixt earth and heaven.
Would I loved less; or would the power were here
To own my love—and triumph over fear!
THE SNOW SHIP.
Belted thick with ice and snow,
Fetter'd by a frozen chain,
Many a fathom down below,
Fix'd 'mid hills and vales of Frost,
See a stately ship appears!
Long amidst the glaciers lost—
None may say how many years!
Wildly gleams that ship of snow,
Where the northern whirlwinds blow!
Strung with gems each rope and line;
Shimmering in the polar gale,
Like some brilliant crystal mine.
Arch o'erhanging arch, between
Stands a solid bridge of glass,
Midway earth and heaven seen,
As for angel feet to pass
When the Arctic whirlwinds blow!
Lock'd within that realm of death;
Many a long, imploring prayer
Pass'd, with many a passing breath;
Never yet might mortal tell
Whom that fated vessel bore;
Ocean keeps her secrets well,
Deep and dark for evermore!
Whilst the mast, like spire of snow,
Points to heaven from human woe!
THUS NATURE SPEAKS.
Thus Nature speaks—thus, since the world began,Her spirit led the aspiring thought of man!
Whether the Star of Science lit the way,
And oped the gates of an immortal day,
Or moved by Harmony's celestial hand,
The poet's song first triumph'd o'er the land,
It matters not—to Him be all the praise,
Who spread this heaven of stars to human gaze;
Lavish'd the wonders of Almighty thought
Over that world His word in glory wrought:
Who to the artist lent a spark divine,
And said—“Behold, this beauteous earth is thine!”
To Him should poetry uplift its gaze,
To Him philosophy still utter praise;
It matters not which first, which best, we find,
If Truth exalt and Wisdom rule the mind.
Let not contention jar man's fleeting hour,
But give the praise to Him who gave the power!
HYMN TO THE CROSS.
Hear, ye nations of the free,
Where Atlantic billows toss,
List, ye dwellers on the sea,
For the mission of our Saviour hath pass'd;
And hath scatter'd o'er the plain
Its false temples, rent in twain,
With their idol gods profane,
Like the blast!
With its whirlwind-wheels of flame,
Whilst the conscious mountains bow'd,
He, the great Messiah, came!
But the meekest star of heaven shed its glow,
And the leafless boughs did wave
O'er the Mightiest to save,—
O'er the Conqueror of the grave,—
Sleeping low!
From the vengeance of His word;
And the wild graves of the dead
Shrank and trembled as they heard,
For the mystery of God was on His breath:
Although priest and scribe denied,
In the madness of their pride,
What the gates of hell knew wide,—
And deep Death.
Who the mount of faith hath rear'd;
Who hath stricken down the strong,
And the lost and lowly cheer'd;
Descending like a dove upon their souls!
When the orphan's wail was sore;
And the wreck'd and wind-beat shore
Heard the cry of those no more,
Christ consoles.
Brought no beauty—lent no light—
At His touch their world was born:
For their Jesus gave them sight;
And the deaf, who never heard
A fond mother's grateful word;
And the dumb—sang like the bird
To the sun!
That immortal blessings shed,
Whilst the wilderness He trod—
Knew not where to lay His head,
Though the wild lynx and leopard had their lair.
But the heavens bow'd, and came
At a whisper of His Name;
And sleep mantled His worn frame,
Even there!
Amid gold and purple bound,
Whilst a myriad lamps, like day,
Shed a summer softness round;
And vassals throng'd in thousands at his tone.
But the mockery that lies
In rich gems and ophir dyes,
When Jehovah opes the skies,
Will be shown!
So its coming soon may be,
When the arrogant and bold
Shall grow weak o'er land and sea;
And the conquest-shout of empire be unknown;
The devouring sword no more,
Nor war's arrows, drunk with gore,
Scatter carnage, as of yore,
For a throne!
Mid the zealot's scoff and gibe,
When the “cursed” of God and man,
Sold his Saviour for a bribe!
Where the fatal tree frown'd dark 'neath the sky,
As, all bruised and bound, they led
Their Redeemer, blood to shed—
The heavens veil'd their head
Upon high!
With an earthquake-voice of woe;
And the buried rose to tell
All the horror guilt must know;
“Let the shuddering seas proclaim,
And the hills, struck dark with shame,
In their far depths own the name
Of their God!”
GOD HELP THE ORPHAN.
Homeless and desolate,
Few to commiserate,
God help the orphan!
Sad to be brotherless,
Woe to be motherless;
God help the orphan!
Deeper than tongue can tell;
Help Thou the orphan!
Fatherless none can be,
Whilst in eternity
Ruleth the Deity,
None can be fatherless!
Dews of Thy mercy shed
On the poor orphan's head;
Look up to heaven, and see,
Though those he loved are gone,
Still there is ever One
Feels for the fatherless!
“Father, who art in heaven;”
Oh, in our utmost need,
Father art Thou indeed;
Ever when lonely thus,
Sending some friend to us;
Soothing, consoling us;
Thou, who art still the same,
Thou, whom our prayers doth claim,
“Hallowed be Thy Name,”
God of the fatherless!
Touching with love the cold,
Prompting sweet pity's tear,
Ever in spirit near,
Guarding each tender frame,—
Bless'd be Thy holy Name,
God of the fatherless!
Gratefully cling to Thee!
Thou, who from Heaven thus
Kindly hast given us
Friends, that like parents feel,
Watching the orphan's weal;
Friends, who commiserate,
Feel for the desolate:
Friends Thine own hand hath given,
“Father, who art in heaven;”
Ever Thy Name we bless,
God of the Fatherless,
Guide of the Motherless,
Help of the Orphan!
LINES ON THE DEATH OF HENRY DRINKWATER BIRCH, AGED SEVEN YEARS.
Evermore—evermore:
Nothing can restore
That which made existence dear;
Pass'd—like music on the ear—
Evermore!
With the angels evermore,
Evermore!
Ever dark—ever dark;
Lost Hope's latest spark:
For the beautiful hath fled—
And a shadow wraps the dead—
Ever dark!
But God's Word, to mourners said,
Lights the dark!
Art and Fashion | ||