Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The world is full of lovely things;
We need not borrow Fancy's wings
To waft us through the sky
In quest of change, through any dearth
Of glorious objects here on Earth
To feed our inward eye.

II

Nor deem I that all-bounteous Heaven
Hath, to the poet only, given
A power which doth reveal,
In Nature's every sound and sight,
Deeper and more intense delight
Than common souls can feel.

III

'Tis holy Love—'tis Faith and Hope,
Which Beauty's secret chambers ope
To minds of humblest mould;
And paths of heavenly light are trod
On Earth by every child of God,
Which no gross eyes behold.

172

IV

And he—there's not a spot so sad
But he can make it bright and glad;
No scene so dark and drear,
But he therein doth well discern
Celestial lights, which blaze and burn
Through its thick atmosphere.

V

In towns or woods, on towers or trees,
The impress of God's hand he sees,
And hears his well-known voice;
In hope and fear, in woe and weal,
His presence doth he ever feel,
And in His smile rejoice.

VI

With searching glance 'tis his to scan
The deep, mysterious heart of man—
Its secret movements trace;
The spirit's silent growth to mark,
And track, through windings dim and dark,
The wondrous stream of grace.

VII

The griefs and joys which others feel
More closely to his heart appeal
Than godless minds can guess;
'Tis his with all to smile and weep,
And share, with fevour kind and deep,
Their joy and their distress.

VIII

And thus,—whate'er his walk may be,—
Full of sweet sympathies is he
With pleasure and with pain;
Wherever human hearts are found,

173

Feeling and thought for him abound;—
The world is his domain.

IX

In court or camp, in hall or cot,
Rich contemplations fail him not;—
A peasant at the plough—
A soldier—or a merchant grave—
A monarch—or a menial slave—
His heart hath range enow.

X

And yet, methinks, one task there is
More sweetly and more truly his
Than other tasks can be;—
The gospel message to convey
To souls from Heaven still far astray;—
The task assign'd to me.

XI

To us, and to our pastoral care,
Is many a human heart laid bare
In many a varying mood;
All human sorrows, doubts and fears,
All cares and troubles, smiles and tears,
Supply our mental food.

XII

To us the wounded spirit flees
For words of comfort to appease
Its own afflictive smart;
The penitent, by fears opprest,
Comes to us, and asks ease and rest
For his o'er-burden'd heart.

XIII

Our aid is lent, our prayers are said
By saint and sinner's dying bed

174

To us, in life's last hour,
Confidingly both young and old
The soul's mysterious depths unfold—
Its weakness and its power.

XIV

Then, if I may revive once more
The powers, which, ere life's spring was o'er,
Were mine, or seem'd to be,—
What need to urge, beyond the sphere
Of vision which surrounds me here,
My light-wing'd phantasy?

XV

Nought care I for heroic strains;—
I leave to bolder hearts and brains
The lofty epic style;
Enough for me what I can win
Of calm and tender thought, within
The space of one square mile!

XVI

Here, in this quiet shelter'd spot,
Where Providence hath cast my lot,
In love and peace, so long,—
This spot, which saw my children's birth—
Here, by my own still blissful hearth,
Shall be my world of song.

XVII

From things which gladden or which grieve
Familiar hearts, my Muse shall weave
Such garlands as she can;
Noting, in this her narrow sphere,
All storms which shake, all gleams which cheer
The troublous soul of Man.

175

XVIII

So now to hearts of gentle mould
A simple tale will I unfold—
A tale of humble love,
Of suffering long and faith intense,
In one who late departed hence
To dwell with Christ above.

XIX

Of humble parentage was she,
And yet not born in poverty,
No child of want or shame;
Her parents still in comfort dwell,
And earn a decent living well,
And bear an honest name.

XX

Herself—in sooth I would not speak
Of beaming eye or blooming cheek,
Fine form, or noble mien,
Had such been hers:—'twould suit as well
The unromantic tale I tell,
Had she an Ethiop been.

XXI

There are, whose chance-caught looks express
An intellectual loveliness,
Which makes us turn and start,
Even when no outward sign we trace
Of beauty in the form and face—
Looks kindled from the heart.

XXII

But such were not her looks or mien—
No token in her face was seen

176

Of genius rich and rare;
Even though you sought, you scarce would find
A symptom of superior mind,
Or high-wrought feeling there.

XXIII

She was a meek and simple maid
As ever roam'd in greenwood shade,
Or sat in summer bower;
Though little of green shades or woods,
Lone dells or silent solitudes,
Knew she, or felt the power.

XXIV

Scant store of sentiment refined
Had she—her pure but humble mind
Small culture e'er had known;
Few were her books, nor much she sought,
Through knowledge gain'd of others' thought,
To elevate her own.

XXV

So fares it oft with those design'd
The loftiest place 'midst human kind
In other worlds to hold;
Though here they seem, to human eye,
Compass'd with much infirmity—
The feeblest of the fold.

XXVI

We see not how their spirits grow,
We know not whence the breezes blow
Which life to them convey;
Through what dim workings of the thought
The silent work of grace is wrought,
And error purged away.

177

XXVII

But mark them well—in lowliest hut,
Or, poorest among paupers, shut
Within a workhouse walls;
And you will own that heavenly light,
In streams of glory pure and bright,
On their weak spirits falls.

XXVIII

No doubts have they through learned pride;
They hear God's promise and confide,—
Their faith is faith indeed;
And thus from height to height they go
Of hope and love, while we, below,
Plod on with laggard speed.

XXIX

Yet was not she, of whom I speak,
Left all her little lore to seek,
Or rear her own poor thought;
But placed beneath the Christian rule
Of one who kept a daily school,
And Christ's pure lessons taught.

XXX

Nor may we deem the years mis-spent,
In which, from day to day, she went
To that instructress kind;
Though then no goodly growth was rear'd,
No promise of rich grace appear'd
To blossom in her mind.

XXXI

Her teacher plough'd the virgin ground,
And scatter'd in its soil profound
The seed of truth divine;
Which there unseen, unnoticed lay,

178

Till on her heart, with quickening ray,
Religion's sun should shine.

XXXII

And thus her tender years were past—
Until the time arrived at last
When she, a woman grown,
Should, as the Church's laws allow,
Renewing the baptismal vow,
Confirm it as her own.

XXXIII

A blessed time is that to me,—
Of all my pastoral ministry,
To toil most pleasant given;
When, face to face, in conference sweet,
The younglings of my flock I meet,
To speak of Christ and Heaven.

XXXIV

A blessed time, when heavenly truth
Press'd firmly on the mind of youth
In many a close appeal,
Lays bare undreamt-of depths within,
And the whole mystery of sin
Doth startlingly reveal.

XXXV

A time of fresh and fervent thought,
When Heaven and Hell at once are brought
Before the young mind's eye;
And the thick veil is rent in twain
Which on the wondrous world had lain
Of immortality.

XXXVI

So fell it in that maiden's case;
The deep, mysterious work of grace

179

Seem'd then, in her, begun;
The seeds, in childhood sown, then first
To life and sudden vigour burst,
Beneath religion's sun.

XXXVII

With thoughtful brow and tearful eye
She heard, and in her heart laid by
The lessons then instill'd;
Truths known, but never felt before,
Which now she ponder'd o'er and o'er,
Through soul and spirit thrill'd.

XXXVIII

And when the holy rite was done,
And from the altar, one by one,
Her young companions pass'd,
Whatever thoughts in them might stir—
Some had, that day, been waked in her,
Which would for ever last.

XXXIX

The emptiness she now had learn'd
Of things below—had well discern'd
The worth of things not seen,
And, in the Everlasting arms,
From Earth's temptations, Hell's alarms,
Received and shelter'd been.

XL

Strange passage! from youth's dreams of bliss
Investing such a world as this
With glory most untrue,
To calmest faith and sober love,
Which almost bring the world above
Within the Christian's view.

180

XIL

Strange passage!—and to her most blest!—
For so she found a place of rest
And comfort all her own,
When on her gentle head did rain
A storm of such fierce grief and pain
As few on Earth have known.

XLII

When summer leaves were on the boughs,
She ratified her Christian vows,
Began her Christian race;
But long ere winter's icy chain
Was broke, disease and bitterest pain
Had paled her patient face.

XLIII

She came to church on Christmas Day,
The homage of her love to pay,
And celebrate His birth,
Who, eighteen hundred years ago,
Exchanged Heaven's bliss for human woe,
And dwelt with Man on Earth.

XLIV

That morn what peaceful joy was hers,
As with his chosen worshippers
She at his altar knelt!
But ere another Sabbath day,
Ah me! how like a corpse she lay!
And yet what anguish felt!

XLV

Hard lot, ye think, my readers young,
While every heart and every tongue
Save hers was full of glee,
And friends and neighbours vied in mirth

181

By well-spread board and blazing hearth,
To groan with agony.

XLVI

Hard lot, ye think, was that for her;
And yet was she (I dare aver)
Far happier where she lay,
Than could the loudest laugher be
Of any joyous company
Which then kept holiday.

XLVII

Far happier—for her Saviour stood
Beside her in her solitude,—
Beside her stood and smiled;
And sounds were to her soul convey'd,
Which seem'd to say “Be not afraid,
Mine own adopted child.”

XLVIII

A peace seraphic, night and day,
Upon her gentle spirit lay,—
Peace, sent her from above,
Which told that nought which might betide
Thence-forward should her soul divide
From Heaven's eternal love.

XLIX

And think ye, while she felt this peace,
Nor fear'd lest it should ever cease—
That she could wish to be
Once more with a light-hearted crowd,
Midst roars of laughter long and loud,
And boisterous revelry?

L

Would she one glimpse of Heaven forego
For all Earth's merriment?—ah, no!

182

Her ties to Earth are burst;
She listens to the angels' song,
In draughts of rapture, deep and long,
She slakes her spirit's thirst.

LI

Whoso had look'd on that sick bed
With thoughtful eye, must needs have said
A contrast strange was there;
Disease and racking pain without—
Within—a soul from fear and doubt
Made free as summer air.

LII

And yet 'twas pitiful to see
With what extreme severity
Heaven chasten'd its dear child;
What pangs did that weak frame devour,
From day to day, from hour to hour,
Made fiercer and more wild.

LIII

In sooth but slender skill have I
In phrase of learn'd anatomy;
Nor know I how to name
Whatever tortures urge the pulse
To wildest throbbings, or convulse
Our sinful human frame.

LIV

Yet I may say no limb was free
From its peculiar agony,
But, downward from the face,
Through all her frame convulsions went,
Which every separate fibre rent
In swift and ceaseless race.

183

LV

From year to year did she sustain
A dread diversity of pain,
Still gathering more and more;
And this physicians did declare—
That all which flesh and blood can bear
Their gentle patient bore.

LVI

So three years pass'd;—the fourth begun—
We deem'd that now her race was run,
Her conflict nearly o'er;
For then a storm of pain did pierce
Each part, more fiery and more fierce
Than she had felt before.

LVII

Nor was this all;—the light of day
Was now for ever swept away,
And ceaseless night began;
Her eyelids closed, nor might she trace
Thenceforward any friendly face
Or form beloved of Man.

LVIII

You deem perhaps that then she found
Some compensation from the sound
Of living voices near;
That friends would from a distance walk,
With pleasant and familiar talk
Her loneliness to cheer.

LIX

And that beside her dying bed
From morn to night her sisters read
Sweet words of truth divine;
And prayers were said, and hymns were sung,

184

And comfort dropp'd from many a tongue
More eloquent than mine.

LX

Ah, no!—so fierce her tortures were
That she could now no longer bear
The softest human tone;
A footstep, though it trod on down,—
The rustle of a silken gown
Thrill'd through her to the bone.

LXI

And thus they lay (her pain and she)
In sorrowful society,
While twelve months more roll'd by;
She wasting silently away
With imperceptible decay,
And yet too strong to die.

LXII

'Twas the meek patience of her heart
Which, through such fierce and fiery smart,
Her life did long sustain;
And had her faith and love been less,
She had escaped the bitterness
Of many a month of pain.

LXIII

Throughout that time full oft did I
For entrance to her room apply,
Which mostly was denied;
Such were her pangs, she could not bear
A soothing word, a whisper'd prayer
Put up at her bedside.

LXIV

At last the final conflict came,
Each part of her exhausted frame

185

Had borne its share of woe;
The lungs with inflammation dire
Were last attack'd, and raging fire
In every vein did glow.

LXV

Then 'twas that me they came to call
In her last tranquil interval
Of partial rest from pain;
Such rest as lulls the wintry deep,
When the spent storms at evening sleep,
Ere morn to wake again.

LXVI

I came;—her quick and struggling breath
Told of the near approach of death,
As by her side I stood;
Her painful toil was nearly done,
The conflict o'er, the victory won,
The sinful soul renew'd.

LXVII

A glorious sight it is to see
A dying saint's felicity,
When death draws gently nigh,
And no sharp pangs disturb the peace
Preceding the glad soul's release,
Or clog the parting sigh.

LXVIII

A glorious sight!—for then Heaven's field
Seems to be visibly reveal'd
To faith's expiring gaze;
And we almost can hear the hymn
Which cherubim and seraphim
For its new inmate raise.

186

LXIX

But deaths like this, I deem, are rare,
For mortal weakness, pain and care,
Cleave to us to the last;
And few of saintliest souls there be
From all life's galling bonds set free
Till life itself is past.

LXX

O! shame! eternal shame to them
Who would the penitent condemn
In his expiring hour,
Because his fainting soul is toss'd
By waves of doubt, nor yet hath lost
All sense of hellish power.

LXXI

O! shame to such! they little know
The warfare to be waged below,—
The mystery, dark and strange,
Of inextinguishable sin,
Subjecting the whole world within
To doubt and fear and change.

LXXII

By many a death-bed have I stood
Both of the wicked and the good,
And this will I maintain,—
That while the former smile on death,
The latter oft yield up their breath
In trouble, fear, and pain.

LXXIII

But such was not our sister's doom:—
Strong pains she had, but care and gloom
And fear had fled for aye;
One toilsome fight was still to win,

187

And then—farewell to grief and sin!
And welcome endless day!

LXXIV

And yet no rapturous flights had she
Of feeling or of phantasy,
No visions heavenly-bright;
'Twas patience all, and faith and love,
Which with her giant sufferings strove,
And triumph'd through God's might.

LXXV

Once, as I bent above her bed—
“Now, Mary, you approach,” I said,
“Death's dark and shadowy vale;”—
“It is not dark”—was her reply,
And a faint smile pass'd radiantly
Across her features pale.

LXXVI

No more she spoke;—her anguish grew
Fiercer and fiercer, till we knew
The final strife was come;
At length the web of life was rent,
And, with a sigh, her spirit went
To its eternal home.

LXXVII

But was this all?—to mortal eye
No more 'twas granted to descry;
And yet the soul within
Had felt a more stupendous strife,—
The struggle between death and life,
Heaven's grace and human sin.

LXXVIII

By prayer intense and fervent thought,
Strange transformation had been wrought

188

In all the inner man;
And ever, as the flesh decay'd,
The spirit was more heavenly made,
A steadier race she ran.

LXXIX

Yet think not that her sainted soul
Of peace and joy attain'd the goal
By easy steps and few;
Or that from height to height she went
With swift and regular ascent,
As happy angels do.

LXXX

Ah, no!—though now, for many a year,
She to her Saviour had been dear,
And in his flock received,—
The Tempter's power was not yet past,
But still assai'd her to the last,
As ere she first believed.

LXXXI

Full surely, all the time, he knew
That all his legions were too few,
His subtlest efforts vain,
The ranks of that bright host to stir,
Invisibly encamp'd round her,
As on a battle plain.

LXXXII

Yet though he could not overcome,
Nor lure her from her heavenly home,
Dread power he wielded still;
Power to disturb, to haunt, to vex,
Confuse and fearfully perplex
With dreams obscure of ill.

189

LXXXIII

The sin which still was unsubdued,
In many a dark and dreary mood,
He show'd to her mind's eye
In frightful forms and hues intense,
O'erwhelming her bewilder'd sense
With fear and agony.

LXXXIV

Doubts and dark thoughts did he suggest,
Robbing her soul of peace and rest;—
“O am I christ's indeed,—
So weak of faith, so cold in love?—
Could he who lives and reigns above
For such a sinner bleed?—

LXXXV

“Hath all this sharp and bitter pain,
Borne for long years, been borne in vain?—
Is all this woe for nought?—
Is this vile heart e'en now unchanged?
From Him—from hope—from Heaven estranged?”
—Thus darkly fancy wrought.

LXXXVI

But soon such terrors pass'd away,
And then in bliss untold she lay,
Though still in grievous pain;
Heaven's gates once more were open thrown,
And Faith and Hope and Love came down
To dwell with her again.

LXXXVII

Nor lack'd she, ere her anguish grew
Too deadly, friends, nor cold nor few,
Who daily to her came,
Spake with her of Christ's dying love,

190

And soar'd with her, in thought, above
This world of sin and shame.

LXXXVIII

And blest, to her, those seasons were,
When to her chamber did repair
Souls touch'd by grace divine;
And the Lord's table there we spread,
And bless'd and brake the living bread,
And shared the mystic wine.

LXXXIX

Thus joy and grief together wrought
To purify her springs of thought,
Her heart for Heaven to train;
Thus was her spirit cleansed from guilt,
And God therein a temple built
Where He might ever reign.

XC

Nor did her faith and patience (shown
Thus sweetly) to herself alone
Most rich in blessing prove;
For few to her sick chamber came
In whom she kindled not the flame
Of her celestial love.

XCI

The careless, when her pangs they view'd
So meekly borne, with hearts subdued
And sadden'd went away;
The weak grew strong, the timid bold,
Her patient warfare to behold
With suffering and decay.

XCII

She was a silent preacher, sent
(Silent, but O! most eloquent!)

191

To teach us how to die;
Showing o'er what fierce depths of pain
A tender maiden's soul can gain,
Through faith, the victory.

XCIII

But little now remains to say;
She died ere dawn upon the day
Of last St. Valentine;
And on the following Monday morn,
With reverence, to her grave was borne;—
The last sad office mine.

XCIV

Few mourners at her burial were,
In truth, the day was far from fair;
And while along the street
The scant and slow procession pass'd,
The thickening clouds pour'd down full fast
A storm of rain and sleet.

XCV

Yet One there was whom all respect,—
A man of noblest intellect,
Great heart, and station high,
Who, that day, all his toils forsook,
And on her funeral came to look
With sad and reverent eye.

XCVI

For service high perform'd to truth,
For Christian lessons taught to youth,
Deep thanks to him are due;
And I, for one, may truly say
How happy I esteem the day
When first his worth I knew.

192

XCVII

Yet ne'er, methinks, for him I felt
Respect so deep as when we knelt
Together by her bier,
And I beheld him not too proud,
Amidst the meanest of the crowd,
To drop a parting tear.

XCVIII

To him, with cordial heart, to-day,
I dedicate this humble lay,
Which he will not despise,
But treasure as a record true
Of one whose faith on earth he knew,
Now throned above the skies.

Written in 1834.

THE SONG OF THE KETTLE.

I

What decks our sober parsonage to-day
With this unusual pomp of festal show?
What mean these tents, bedight with streamers gay?
These tables, spread in long continuous row?—
This throng of busy peasants to and fro?
Yon maypole wreathed with yet unfaded flowers,
Braving the blasts that all too wintry blow,
And ever and anon, with sleety showers,
Bemock the cold mid-May of this wild clime of ours?

II

Not without previous care and tasteful toil
Hath all this rural pageantry been wrought;
But yesternight the meadows' flowery spoil,
By children's hands with childish ardour sought,

193

Was to our pastor's busy parlour brought,
And then and there did gentle ladies twine
Those flowery wreaths, and with fantastic thought,
Primrose and cowslip and blue bell combine
In forms and hues so rich as mock this verse of mine.

III

And here, all day, since earliest peep of dawn,
Hath rustic labour preparation made
For feats gymnastic on the wanton lawn,
With stroke and thrust of hammer, saw, and spade;
Here tilters deft shall dexterously evade
The quintain's swift and ignominious blow;—
Here shall the wrestler at his length be laid,
Lock'd in the gripe of his victorious foe;
Here youths and maids shall point the light fantastic toe.

IV

But wherefore here? where solemn thought should dwell,
And heavenly contemplation oft be found,
And silence house, as in a hermit's cell,
And pious cares and studies aye abound,
Untroubled by the world's intrusive sound?—
Why all this coil of boisterous frolic here?
Startling the tenants of the graves around,
And ever bursting on the living ear
With uproar meeter sure for some less sober sphere?

V

'Tis not our pastor's wont, nor e'er hath been,
Since first in Christian fold a flock he fed,
To mingle with gay crowds in festal scene;—
Full surely to the world we deem'd him dead,
A life so grave and sober hath he led,
Shunning whate'er to puritanic eye
Might cause offence;—so much he seem'd to dread,
Lest keen schismatics should in him espy
Occasion to impeach and mar his ministry.

194

VI

No feaster he, nor sportsman, nor alert
At feats athletic—save that, in his day,
At England's game of games he was expert,
And loved with jovial cricketers to play,
So wasting many a summer holiday;
But now that pastime too he doth forego,
Nor e'er in flannel garb his loins array,
Nor arm his foot with iron spikes below,
Nor wield the ponderous bat with skilful block and blow.

VII

A graver interest warms his heart to-day,
Grave meaning lurks beneath his mirthful mood,
Some graver purpose owns this trim array
Of tents and tables piled with daintiest food—
These garlands wreath'd by tasteful womanhood—
This preparation for athletic sport;—
Mock not, ye graceless—marvel not, ye good;—
Here Temperance holds to-day her solemn court,
Whereto her liegemen true, in festive pomp, resort.

VIII

A Power benignant she, and once on Earth
Well known and honour'd;—health's secure ally,
Sworn friend of household peace and social mirth,
And happiness, and love, and liberty;
Sedate her mien and modest is her eye,
From meretricious wiles exempt and pure;
No care hath she, the casual passer by
With smiles of harlot blandishment to lure,
But wins by quiet worth, and knows her triumph sure.

IX

Small store of season'd viands loads her board,
No sparkling wine-cup at her feasts is seen;
Yet she the choicest dainties doth afford
To healthful tastes, and reigns in state serene,

195

Of true convivial joys the sovereign queen;
Hers is the cheerful home, the fire-side glee,
The rustic game, the dance upon the green;—
And eke the kettle's song, the toast, the tea,
The gleam of household smiles, from guilt and sorrow free.

X

Ah me! that ever nymph so fair and good
Men should have banish'd from our luckless isle
Through lust of tempting drink and luscious food,
Duped and enslaved by that enchanter vile,
Accursed Comus, who doth yet defile
Our homes and hearths with riotous excess,
Stealing the heart and brain with treacherous guile,
And breeding deadlier woe than thought can guess
Through brutish sensual waste and filthy drunkenness.

XI

O shun his proffer'd draught, unthinking swains,
In whom not yet is appetite subdued
To Reason's temperate rule;—that cup contains
Circeian juice with poisonous drugs imbued
Whereof who freely drinks, albeit endued
With natural graces manifold, casts off
His better self, grows sensual, wild and lewd,
And doth at life's true pleasures rail and scoff,
Herding with human swine, and wallowing in their trough.

XII

Yet sweet, at first, the luscious beverage seems,
Which, like an adder, stingeth at the last,—
The wine that sparkles in rich ruby gleams,
The ale by amber's clearness unsurpass'd;—
And pleasures throng around it thick and fast—
Gay spirits—generous feelings—social glee,
And blithe good humour by no cloud o'ercast,—
Frolic and song and laughter loud and free—
Yea, all the joys that wait on jocund jollity.

196

XIII

Right pleasant 'twere to quaff that charmed cup,
And feel its inspiration rich and fine,
Were no sharp bitters with the dregs mix'd up,
Were social gladness all that flows from wine;
Then Bacchus were indeed a god divine,
And Circe's son a welcome guest on Earth;
But soon alas! those giddy joys decline,
And furious folly takes the place of mirth,
And fever'd brain and blood to lust and rage give birth.

XIV

Strange sight it is, I ween, at lordly feast,
Or alehouse revel, (as the case may be)
To mark the gradual change of man to beast,
The quick transition from convivial glee
To tipsy fun and senseless ribaldry;
Thence to mad riot and unseemly brawl,
Or brutish, base insensibility,
As, in their strength or weakness, one and all,
Beneath the enchanter's spell, in swift succession fall.

XV

Gentle at first his stealthy influence seems;
He opens the shut heart, and frees the tongue
Of shy reserve, and lights the eye with gleams
Of kindling humour round the table flung,
And cheers the drooping soul which seem'd unstrung
For boisterous joys, and tunes the timid voice
To jovial ditties in full chorus sung,
And charms the ear with talk so quaint and choice
As makes the dull applaud—the sorrowful rejoice.

XVI

Anon a change doth o'er this spirit pass,
Discourse more freely, but less clearly, flows;
This grows a pert, and that a solemn ass,
And maudlin fervour makes sworn friends of foes,

197

Till from embraces straight they come to blows,
(Extremes so nearly meet,) and you may see
Black eye, and broken head, and bloody nose,
Marring the mirth of this fair company;—
Sure Circe's swine themselves could scarce more swinish be.

XVII

And one, with solemn air and swimming eyes,
Draws saws of tipsy morals to deaf ears;
One, at full length, beneath the table lies
In most unsavoury plight, nor sees nor hears
The brawls or babble of his drunk compeers,
So well the wine hath done its work on him;
There let him lie till sober morn appears,
Then wake with throbbing brow and aching limb;—
Woke never mortal wight in more unseemly trim.

XVIII

Time was when scenes like these you might behold
E'en in the Palace-Halls of Albion's isle;
So closely did the curst Enchanter hold
Peasant and Prince in bondage base and vile,
And all the virtues of all ranks defile;
Nor Learning's cloister'd shades withstood his power,
Nor shrank he back abash'd from Beauty's smile,
But durst, with steps profane, invade her bower,
Reeling from revels gross, prolong'd for many an hour.

XIX

Then without shame on drawing-rooms' retreat,
Whereto, ere wine grows wanton, dames retire,
Would sots intrude, who scarce could keep their feet,—
The drunken lord and doubly drunken squire,
Their brains bewilder'd, and their blood on fire.
Then felt the enamour'd youth, thro' hot excess,
His bashful love transform'd to bold desire,
And gazed upon his fair one's loveliness
With looks from which she shrank as from a fiend's caress.

198

XX

Those days are past;—but tho' at length expell'd
From courtly halls, or there with chains fast bound,
And wand reversed,—the miscreant, yet unquell'd,
In lowlier homes and meaner haunts is found,
Still too triumphant upon British ground;
Him taverns worship, him the alehouse owns
Lord of each loathsome sight and bestial sound;
Him the gin-palace in full state enthrones—
That charnel, fair without, but fill'd with dead men's bones.

XXI

And in the streets, at midnight, you may hear
His votaries from their orgies staggering out,
Flush'd high with brandy or ignoble beer,
And roaming, like enfranchised fiends, about,
With many a wanton song and deafening shout,
Startling the sober citizen from sleep,
Who haply opes his casement, and thereout
At those mad revels doth affrighted peep,
Which they, in frantic sport, right mischievously keep.

XXII

Then from obnoxious doors are knockers wrung,
And pannels with incongruous paint o'erspread,
And signs torn down, till watchmen's rattles sprung
Sound to the charge, and soon some senseless head,
Split by the official staff's congenial lead,
Discloses to men's eyes its lack of brains;
And one, self-rescued, staggers home to bed,
And one, all night, in durance vile remains,
Consign'd to watch-house base—fit guerdon for his pains.

XXIII

These, Comus, are thy triumphs—but alas!
Not these alone—ah would that these were all!
For thou all fiends in mischief dost surpass,
Plague most accurst of this terrestrial ball!

199

Health, fortune, reputation, conscience fall
Beneath thy blasting spell;—alas for those
Whom thou, with fatal witcheries, dost enthrall!
No more shall they in peaceful homes repose,
But waste in swift decay, pierced through with many woes.

XXIV

Theirs is the trembling hand, the pimpled cheek,
The purple nose, the lean and shrunken limb,
The bloated trunk, the gait infirm and weak,
The palsied head, the eyeball blear'd and dim.
Woe to the sot! yet not alone to him;
Woe, woe to those whom once he held most dear!—
His little ones a prey to famine grim,
His wife left weeping in her chamber drear,
Yet waiting his return with less of hope than fear.

XXV

Ah wretched she! more wretched for the peace
Which once was hers, and which, when life was young,
She fondly hoped with life alone should cease,
When he upon her neck, enamour'd, hung,
And vowed with winning and persuasive tongue,
His life, himself, his body, soul and sense
Hers until death;—nor were such pleasures flung
At random from his lips in base pretence,
But breathed in honest truth and frankest confidence.

XXVI

Nor lack'd their early years of wedded love
The choicest pleasures which that state can yield,
Until strong drink seduced his steps to rove
From duty's path, and soon his bosom steel'd
Against all power which Love and Hymen yield;
For he of pious parents born and bred,
His vows devoutly at the altar seal'd,
And long the tenderest husband's life had led;
Seem'd never mortal pair with brighter hopes to wed.

200

XXVII

And blessed was their basket and their store,
For industry and honest thrift were theirs;
And still they loved each other more and more,
For that joint burden of parental cares
Which grew and gather'd round them unawares
As sons and daughters, year by year, were born,—
Dear subjects of new hopes, and fears, and prayers;
Alas that e'er such home should be forlorn,
Or heart so fond as hers by such fierce anguish torn!

XXVIII

Sly was the fiend's approach;—in friendship's guise,
And hand in hand with “Auld lang syne” he came;
And if the victim's heart, more warm than wise,
Too freely open'd, few would harshly blame,—
Few, in his place, but would have done the same.
Yet there the first and fatal fault crept in,
And at its heels came sorrow, guilt, and shame,
Remorse in liquor quench'd, and deepening sin,
So steep is Hell's descent when we to err begin!

XXIX

First tyrant Custom fill'd the dangerous cup
In Friendship's name, and thus the alehouse dire
Was, in his thoughts, with holier things mix'd up;
Then, by degrees, insatiable desire
Of that fell poison set his throat on fire,
Weaning his heart from his pure peaceful home,
Till, day by day, would he from work retire
To that foul den, nor near his cottage come,
Its pleasures now appear'd so tame and wearisome.

XXX

His home-spent hours—ah! wherefore flag they now?
They flagg'd not when a life of toil he led,
By daily sweat of his industrious brow
Earning his wife's, his children's daily bread;

201

And now by whom shall they be clothed and fed?
What shelter shall they find from winter's cold?
Alas for them!—far better were they dead!—
Their food withheld—their raiment pawn'd or sold,—
Their mother sick and weak, for very grief grown old.

XXXI

No hope for her!—with hard and ceaseless toil
Early she labours, and but late takes rest;
In vilest drudgery doth her beauty soil,—
No murmur utter'd, no complaint express'd,
Though wasting anguish is her daily guest;
And still her needful food doth she forego,
To calm their hunger whom she loveth best;
And still, thro' wintry frost and driving snow,
Ill shod and scantly clothed, to daily labour go.

XXXII

No hope for her!—scarce all her toil can win
A scanty pittance of the coarsest bread;
And when, sore spent, at evening, she comes in,
Cowering she sits, and trembles, pale with dread,
If she but hear her husband's coming tread,
Lest he that pittance from her children tear,
And barter it for drink;—their marriage-bed
Long since was sold;—of table, stool, and chair,
Yea all, save mouldering walls, her wretched hut is bare.

XXXIII

Cowering she sits beside her fireside hearth,
Her children shivering in their straw with cold,—
Till, with a sudden shout of brutal mirth,
The crazy door is shatter'd, and behold!
Him whom her youthful arms were wont to fold
In tenderest transport, now, in drunken ire,
Showering fierce blows and curses uncontroll'd
On her—on her so long his heart's desire,—
For whose dear sake he toil'd, with zeal which nought could tire.

202

XXXIV

No hope for her!—the subtle fiend in him
Hath done its perfect work, and he hath grown
A reckless tyrant, sensual, sullen, grim;
His heart, once flesh, is now transform'd to stone.
Deaf is he to his famish'd children's moan,
And if benigner death should set them free
From life-long woes, would mock their dying groan
With drunken shouts of most unnatural glee;—
So lost to human love—to human shame is he.

XXXV

No hope for her!—yes, one, she thinks, is left—
O! if perchance in some long wished-for hour,
When, not of sense and feeling quite bereft
By dire intoxication's deadly power,
He yet might ope his bosom to a shower
Of loving words, kind looks, and gentle smiles,
Still might she lead her lost one to a tower
Of sure defence against temptation's wiles,
And quell the enchanter curst who now his soul beguiles.

XXXVI

Oh! could she tempt him, by persuasion bland,
To join this sober festival to-day,
And see convivial pleasure hand in hand
With peace domestic, chasing grief away,
With sport, and dance, and jocund roundelay—
Or could she ope his sluggish ears to hear
What that good man will in his lecture say—
His better mind might yet unquench'd appear,
And he, from guilt reclaim'd be more than ever dear.

XXXVII

But hark!—the near church clock with sudden stroke
Proclaims the long expected hour of one,
And straight the tents are throng'd with hungry folk,
And (grace first said) the banquet hath begun:

203

Joints roast and boil'd, to nice perfection done,
With multifarious garden-stuff combined—
Plum-puddings which no epicure would shun,
With thin potations of the choicest kind—
Furnish a feast at which Apicius might have dined.

XXXVIII

Nor lack we music to regale the ear,
And keener relish to our meat impart,
For brethren skill'd in minstrelsy are here,
Each well-prepared, with willing hand and heart,
In instrumental clang to bear his part;—
Clarion and fife and double drum have we,
And hautboy blown with no ignoble art;
Hark! how attuned to blithe triumphant key,
They breathe (what could they less?) the soul of social glee!

XXXIX

Brief is the meal, as Earth's best pleasures are;
Few condiments the flagging taste provoke,
No Bacchanalian toasts the banquet mar,
For our unfetterr'd banqueters have broke
The tyrant Custom's arbitrary yoke,
And eat as hunger, drink as thirst impels;
But hark! once more with swift, repeated stroke,
The solemn music of the vesper bells
The hour of public prayer, now fast approaching, tells.

XL

And at the signal, in procession long,
Our men in office marshal their array,
With trump and timbrel and low-murmur'd song,
And parti-colour'd streamers bright and gay;
—Brief compass fetch'd—they crowd the queen's highway,—
Aloft the Temperance banners are unroll'd,
And emblems meet and mottoes quaint display,

204

Emblazon'd with devices manifold,
Which well, with quaking hearts, may publicans behold.

XLI

And now, defiling through the churchyard gate.
The music hush'd at once, in order due,
Within the church they crowd and congregate;
Well fill'd ere long, I ween, is every pew—
With gazers all, with sneerers not a few:
Meanwhile, the organ's deep, harmonious swell
With notes prelusive gives the choir their cue,
And they the Psalm intone which sings so well
How sweet for brethren 'tis in unity to dwell.

XLII

And soon each heart is wrapt, or seems to be,
In solemn worship by our pastor led;—
Well with the occasion by strange chance agree
The lessons in the daily service read;—
“Destroy not him for whom Christ's blood was shed
By meat and drink;—all things indeed are pure;
Yet is it good e'en lawful meat to dread,
Which makes a brother's walking insecure;”
Thus saith St. Paul to day and what he saith is sure.

XLIII

—The prayer concluded and the priest retired
To doff the surplice and to don the gown,—
Once more the choir, by tuneful zeal inspired,
With choral hymn the solemn service crown;
While rustic voices the full organ drown,
Swelling from aisle and gallery, loud and clear.
That hymn let us, who hearken, here set down,
Albeit, uncouth and rugged it appear,
And all unfit to please a critic's dainty ear.

205

HYMN.

1

God of this fair creation!
In whom we live and move;
With hymns of adoration
We own that Thou art love;
Before thine altar kneeling
Thy gracious name we bless
For life, for health, for feeling,
For all Earth's plenteousness.

2

For all that soothes our sorrows,
And gives our sickness ease,—
For corn that fills our furrows,
For fruit that bends our trees,—
For wine, its balm diffusing
Through souls by pain opprest,
Which use as not abusing,—
O Lord, thy name be blest!

3

May food which nature needeth
To us be daily given,
While still the spirit feedeth
On bread sent down from heaven!
From streams by drought unwasted
May we these draughts obtain,
Which he who once hath tasted
Shall never thirst again!

XLIV

And now, full arm'd for controversial fight,
Yet more by mild persuasion bent to win,
Our pastor climbs the pulpit's well-known height,
And (prayer first duly utter'd,) doth begin

206

With scripture phrase, well cull'd, to usher in
His theme, repulsive to the public maw;
Nor heeds the sneerer's ill-dissembled grin,
Nor much of fair objectors stands in awe,
So he may fence his cause with Heaven's expounded law.

XLV

Calmly he shows how Christian men should look
Each to his neighbour's welfare as his own;
How Paul himself permitted meat forsook,
Lest brethren's souls thereby might be o'erthrown;
Yet all harsh judgment strictly does disown
Of those who use what God for use hath given;
Deeming, in sooth, small sense or wisdom shown
By those grim zealots of fanatic leaven,
Who fain to all who taste would bar the gates of Heaven.

XLVI

—The sermon ended—from the Church once more
In proud procession moves the long array;
Some haply not displeased that (service o'er)
They as they list may now keep holiday;
Again drums thunder, and loud trumpets bray,
And now the tented lawn is throng'd apace
With squire and peasant, lord and lady gay,
Plebeian beauty and patrician grace;
Was ne'er such motley crowd beheld in such a place.

XLVII

Within the tents again the festive board,
But now with daintier fare, hath been supplied;
Soul-cheering Tea, by fairest fingers pour'd,
And piles of bread and butter, side by side
With cakes which friends with liberal zeal provide;
Around, domestic, happy groups appear,—
Husband and wife, each now the other's pride,
With children to both parents grown more dear;
All former wrongs effaced, all grief forgotten here.

207

XLVIII

Elsewhere athletic youths, with strength adroit,
In sports gymnastic sturdily contend;
Some strike the quintain, and some hurl the quoit,
Some, with firm grasp, the slippery rope ascend
'Midst favouring shout and laughter without end;
And round the maypole, with bright garlands hung,
Age, rank and sex, in circling dances blend—
Scholar and clown—the aged and the young;
Meanwhile, in lusty notes, is this blithe chorus sung.

SONG.

1

Come brothers, be hearty! our Teetotal party
Should surely the mirth of the alehouse outvie,
Where sots o'er their liquor grow duller and sicker,
And fools mimick fun with a drop in their eye.
Better pleasures are ours—blue skies and green bowers,
And merry tea-tables set out on the grass;
With sunshine above us, and faces that love us,
The wife with her husband—the lad with his lass.

2

Let blockheads too stupid for Hymen or Cupid
To charm with a sweetheart or bless with a spouse,
Their addle-brains muddle with publican's puddle,
And drink themselves dumb in a sulky carouse.
We've daughters and spouses, the joy of our houses,
To share all our pleasures as blithely as we;
In bumpers o'er-brimming, come—health to the women!
And thanks for their company!—drink it in tea!

3

'Tis they who best cheer us, when sorrow comes near us,
And would not their absence our revels condemn?

208

Let's banquet like brothers, with sisters, wives, mothers,—
Shame, shame on the churl who would feast without them!
The brawls and brute quarrels which flow from beer barrels
We leave to the slave of the bottle and bowl;
No strife shall divide us, while they sit beside us,
To smile on our frolics and yet to control.

4

Let sots in deep swilling who spend their last shilling,
Lose food for the belly and clothes for the back;
With coats all in tatters and puddingless platters,
And health gone to ruin and home gone to rack.
So end their carouses;—we've peace in our houses,
Glad smiles to receive us, and family glee;
So a fig for ale-bottles!—let tee-total throttles
Shout Glory for ever to Temperance Tea!

XLIX

But daylight waneth, and our sports must end,
For moderation best befits the wise;
Nor would our brethren by excess offend
Foes who malign or friends who patronize;
Anon, at signal sounded, all arise;
Tent, maypole, quintain are deserted straight,
And soon upon the ear the music dies,
Even the last straggler follows through the gate,
And all is silence now, where all was mirth so late.

L

Is all then o'er?—and shall our revel fade
E'en like a dream, and leave no trace behind?
Nay, yet one final effort must be made
To shake the stubborn, fix the wavering mind,
And weak resolve by strengthening pledge to bind.
Lo! where to yonder schoolroom crowds repair
Each on the alert to gain the foremost place,
For one well-known to-night will lecture there;
And now the room is full;—our pastor takes the chair.

209

LI

At first some meaner orators, with speech
Simple and rude, the attentive crowd address;
Themselves reclaim'd, would fain their brethren teach
How small indulgence leads to sure excess;
And many a homely tale, as you may guess,
They tell, and many a pungent jest essay,
Mocking each phase of filthy drunkenness,
The alehouse gabble and the tipsy fray,
The pains and sickness dire which topers feel next day.

LII

“Somewhat too much of this—but now 'tis past;”
A murmur of impatience, quickly heard,
Dies into silence;—lo! he comes at last,
The speaker to all speakers far preferr'd:—
He rises, but, or ere he speaks a word,
The echoing walls with loud applause are rent;
One cheer has sunk,—a second—then a third
Rise, roar, and fall—till all their breath have spent,
And hang upon his words with eager looks intent.

LIII

A noticeable man is he, with brow
High and projecting, and of broad expanse,
Plough'd, by long thought, in deepening furrows now,
As past life's middle stage his years advance;
From his benign and manly countenance
Intelligence and mild good-humour beam;
Around the room he casts one kindling glance,
And straight, when hush'd and still the hearers seem,
Lets loose his deep-toned voice in full, continuous stream.

LIV

At first, in gentlest phrase, with utterance low,
And half, it seems, in earnest, half in jest,
He courts attention both from friend and foe,
And lays unwilling prejudice to rest,

210

Which else with rude disturbance might molest
His after speech; and now some tale he tells,
Now on some caustic apologue, express'd
With dry, grave humour, for a moment dwells,
Till, roused by its own rush, the soul within him swells.

LV

Anon, in fearful colours, he portrays
The drunkard's headlong course of sin and shame,—
His short and bitter term of evil days,—
His frantic joys unworthy of the name,—
His children beggar'd, or of ruin'd fame—
To guilty deeds by grinding hunger driven,—
Yet he in heart and conduct still the same,—
His every hope long lost in Earth and Heaven,
For how should slave so curst repent and be forgiven?

LVI

In vigorous contrast he exhibits next
The abstainer's blameless life and blissful lot;
His days of peaceful industry, unvex'd
By guilt or fear,—his clean, well-furnish'd cot,—
The plenteous meal, well dress'd and smoking hot,—
The jocund circle round his evening fire,—
His marriage-vow unstain'd by speck or blot,
But bless'd by mutual love and chaste desire,
And sweet domestic joys too pure to fade or tire.

LVII

Nor ends the contrast with expiring Time;—
Eternity's dark veil is rent in twain,
And lo! the direful fruit of sensual crime!
The deep damnation—the immortal pain
In which the drunkard must for aye remain!
The fire unquench'd!—the worm which never dies!
And Heaven discern'd far off distinct and plain,
Throng'd with the spirits of the just, who rise
From death's sepulchral sleep to reign above the skies!

211

LVIII

“Now look on these twin pictures, ye who doubt,
And choose,” quoth he, “the better while ye may;
Beware lest appetite drive reason out,
Or rash indulgence Heaven's whole bliss betray;
Now, in the sunshine of your mortal day,
By strong resolve the insidious Tempter shun,
Cast from your lips the dangerous cup away,
And half life's battle is already won,
And half its direst troubles ended ere begun.

LIX

“Strong is the magic of our Temperance pledge,
The pledge of brethren against evil bound,
Fencing, with an impenetrable hedge,
Each weak and wavering brother round and round;
Sole aid against the spells of Bacchus found,—
Religion's handmaid, Virtue's friend secure,—
Extirpator of vice from British ground,—
Firm aid of all things lovely, good, and pure,—
Heaven's instrument it seems, all social ills to cure.

LX

“Once bound and circled in its mystic chain,
The timid become bold, the feeble strong,
The self-indulgent can, thenceforth, refrain
From sinful pleasure, loved and cherish'd long:
Man's tyranny and woman's bitter wrong
Its potent influence quickly doth allay;
And, where 'tis kept, domestic pleasures throng,
And social joyance makes all faces gay;—
Witness the mirthful crowds assembled here to-day!”

LXI

Our festival is o'er;—the crowds disperse,
And silence dwells in the deserted room;
A few remain, who from the avenging curse,
And all the dreadful depths of guilt and gloom,

212

To which intemperance doth her victims doom,
Would, in that vaunted pledge, safe shelter find.
For such let Earth's least fading garlands bloom,—
Love, joy, and peace, from sensual dross refined;—
And theirs be vigorous health of body and of mind!

LXII

Nor need our pastor grieve with vain regret,
Tho' he no more the inspiring glass should drain,
His throat no more with port or sherry wet,—
No more his lips, at costlier tables, stain
With ruddy claret or the pink champagne:
In sooth, such draughts were never sweet to him;
Better he loves the juice of British grain—
The porter, foaming o'er the tankard's brim—
The ale, whose dazzling gleam makes e'en the topaz dim.

LXIII

Nor thankless he, of old, for cyder press'd
From the rich growth of Worcester's fruitful shire;
Nor scorn'd on Sunday evenings, when at rest
From pulpit toils (for pulpit toils will tire)
With wine and egg, commingled o'er the fire,
His drooping strength and spirits to restore,—
Well pleased to think the body might require
Such aid;—these thoughts are, for the present, o'er,
And he, on thinnest drinks, grows lustier than before.

LXIV

And if, ere long, by sore experience taught,
That which he now upholds he must oppose,
'Twill yet to him be no unpleasant thought,
That vice and he were here, as ever, foes.
But, for the present, thus our song we close,—
For hark! the urn is hissing, and the tea
In fragrant streams for our regalement flows,—
While Fanny's voice, in clear, melodious key,
Warbles prelusive strains of choicest minstrelsy.

Written in 1839.