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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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