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

The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince

Edited by R. A. Douglas Lithgow

Prince, John Critchley (1808-1866)

[section]

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

233

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

POEMS PUBLISHED IN 1861.

235

THE COMING OF THE MAY.

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

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

236

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

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

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

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

237

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

238

THE SAVING ANGEL.

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

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

239

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

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

240

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

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

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

241

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

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

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

242

THE HOLY LAND.

PROLOGUE TO AN UNFINISHED SACRED POEM.

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

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

243

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

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

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

244

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

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

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

245

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

[OMITTED]

246

SONNET TO WORDSWORTH.

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

247

THE MARINER OF LIFE.

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

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

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

248

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

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

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

249

THE BEGGAR BOY.

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

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

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

250

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

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

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

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

251

BIRTHDAY SONNET.

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

252

THE MOUNTAIN TARN.

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

253

CANZONETTE.

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

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

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

254

SPRING SONNETS.

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

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

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

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

255

SUNSHINE

(A STATUE, BY J. DURHAM.)

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

256

THE PALACE OF ART.

(THE MANCHESTER ART-TREASURES EXHIBITION.)

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

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

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

257

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

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

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

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

258

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

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

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

259

THE BENEFACTRESS.

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

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

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

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

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

260

NOW AND THEN.

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

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

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

261

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

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

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

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

262

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

263

WEEDS AND FLOWERS.

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

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

264

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

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

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

265

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

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

266

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

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

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

267

THE DARKEST HOUR.

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

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

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

268

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

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

269

A GOOD MAN GONE.

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

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

270

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

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

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

271

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

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

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

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

272

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

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

273

FAMILY FEUDS.

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

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

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

274

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

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

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

275

ONE ANGEL MORE.

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

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

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

276

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

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

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

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

277

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

278

HOPE AND TRUST.

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

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

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

279

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

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

280

THE YOUNG MARINER.

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

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

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

281

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

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

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

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

282

A FAULT CONFESSED.

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

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

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

283

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

284

A WIDOWER'S LAMENT.

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

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

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

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

285

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

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

286

CHRISTMASTIDE.

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

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

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

287

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

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

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

288

ABJURATION.

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

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

289

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

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

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

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

290

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

From his earliest childhood to youth, the writer was surrounded by intemperance, poverty, and misery.—J. C. P.

291

A PASTORAL.

I reclined 'neath an oak, from the noon's fervid heat,
That shadows yon bright winding stream;
The high-soaring lark sang with ecstasy sweet,
As I thought on his lay for a theme:

When Celia, a shepherdess artless and fair,
Came thither to water her sheep;
A wreath of coy lilies bound up her brown hair,
And a rose on her bosom did weep.

She bent o'er the brook with an aspect of grace,
And viewed her own image awhile;
A sweet, modest pride was expressed in her face,
And her lips were adorned with a smile.

Ye gods! with what wonder, and joy, and surprise,
Did I gaze on her angelic charms!
While the glances that shot from her beautiful eyes
Filled my breast with love's panting alarms.

Unheeded, the rose from her white bosom fell
(That bosom how madly admired!)
She gathered her lambkins, and (grievous to tell)
Took up her light crook and retired.

292

With a feeling of rapture I gazed on the tide,
Which had borne to my feet the fresh flower;
I seized it. “Come, live in my bosom,” I cried,
“As an emblem of her I adore.”

The sun thrice has risen, and gloriously thrown
A blush o'er the fair cheek of morn,
But still my fond heart, a poor captive, is lone,
By love and despair sorely torn.

The flower I possess is quite scentless and pale,
All its odours and beauties are fled;
It silently speaketh a sorrowful tale,
And my few tender hopes are now dead.

The rose was deprived of the bower where it smiled,
It languished, and went to decay;
So I without her who my soul has beguiled,
Must experience as transient a day.

With my flock I will roam o'er these valleys and plains,
And if by kind fortune we meet,
By love she shall make me the happiest of swains,
Or behold me expire at her feet.

293

THE SOLDIER OF PROGRESS.

What are my glorious watchwords now?
“Truth, Virtue, Freedom,” these they are;
These, star-like, on my banner glow,
And lead me to the war;
But not with fierce and fiery hordes,
Not booming cannon, slaughtering swords,
Do I array the battle-van;
But with strong principles of right,
Sharp moral weapons for the fight,
Achieving good for Man.

Come forth, thrice-tempered steel of Truth,
And thou, stern Virtue, lend thy shield,
Immortal Freedom, strong in youth,
Equip me for the field;
Buckle thy corslet on my breast,
Set thy unshivered lance in rest,
Lend all thy panoply to-day;
Plant thy bright casket on my brow,
Crown me with snowy plumes—Ah! now
I'm ready for the fray.

Come on, in all your banded power,
Oppression, falsehood, error, wrong;
If God but help in peril's hour,
I in my cause am strong;

294

Come in the darkness of your guiles,
Lurk in the ambush of your wiles,
Come in your bold and brazen strength,
Come in the midnight or the day,
March, menace, struggle, or waylay,—
I'll conquer ye at length.

Long the unequal strife may last,
With much of human waste and woe,
For the mixed records of the past
Too truly tell me so;
Still will I strive to raise on high
My ever-glorious battle-cry,
“Truth, Virtue, Freedom,” words of light;
And though I'm baffled for a time,
Others will hear the sound sublime,
And vindicate the right.

295

SONNET TO A FRIEND.

Though fate has willed that thou must change thy home,
To seek that bread which thou art here denied,—
Here where rank wealth can raise a lorldly dome,
By ill-fed worth and groaning toil supplied,
While we, alas! must bend to pampered pride,
Reft of the guerdon labour ought to give,
Submissive tremble when our tyrants chide,
And lack the human privilege to live;—
Yet thou wilt not forget the pleasant hours
Which we in social intercourse have spent,
When Poesy has strewn her magic flowers,
And calm Philosophy his wisdom lent.
Let memory its welcome missive send
To me, the youthful bard, who claims thee as his friend.

296

A FLOWER OF THE HOUSEHOLD.

Sweet darling of our wedded souls,
With beauty on thy brow,
We ask that God's best benison
May follow thee from now;—
That little care, and less of sin,
May meet thee on thy way,
Is our heart-uttered hope and prayer
On this thy natal day.

As yet, thou wear'st the hues of Heaven,
Whence thy young spirit came,
To share the chances of our lot,
And bear our lowly name;
As yet, thou art unsoiled by sin,
Aloof from painful strife,
In the first flush of childhood's prime,
The Paradise of life:

Life's Paradise,—for angel eyes
Look on thee from afar,
And see no envious shadow yet
To dim thy natal star;
No messenger is at the gate
To startle and expel,
And drive thee, weeping, from the place
Where thou shouldst ever dwell.

297

And thou hast brought unto our eyes,
From a celestial shore,
Charms which suggest that happy realm
Where seraphim adore;
Grace, innocence, and health, and joy,
Are now thy precious dower;
What pity that the dust of earth
Should stain so sweet a flower!

Gaily thou goest to and fro,
Unconscious of all wrong,
With a sweet light upon thy face,
And music on thy tongue;
And in thy presence we receive,
What make our thoughts more bright,
A portion of thy purity,
A share of thy delight.

Thy pure, spontaneous narratives
Evince mind's growing powers;
Thy artless questions test the strength
Of wiser minds than ours;
Thy transient moods of gravity,
Thy bursts of happy glee,
Thy whole demeanour—brisk or calm—
Strengthen our love for thee.

We watch thy merry winsome ways,
And inwardly rejoice;
Our ears are charmed, our hearts are moved,
By thy seductive voice.
We touch thee with a fond caress,
Our feelings brimming o'er,
And own that Heaven has lent to us
One priceless blessing more.

298

And we, by help of light divine,
Will strive to guide thee so
That hope, faith, firmness, peace, and joy,
May mark thy lot below;
Such is our wish—though we may fail
In what we strive to do;
But the great, good, and guardian Power
Will bring thee safely through.

Cares will be thine, for such we need
To curb unjust desires,
To make us feel our littleness,
And quench unhallowed fires;
But oh! when thou art called to leave
This sphere of strife and sin,
May smiling angels stoop from Heaven,
And take our darling in!

299

AUTUMNAL DAYS.

The Autumn's loosened leaves are falling fast
With a sad rustling sound,
And, chased by fitful breeze or fiercer blast,
Race o'er the shadowy ground;
The solemn woods, though garbed in gorgeous hues,
Are hastening to decay,
As listlessly I wander on, and muse
On things that pass away.

The hardy robin on the garden rail,
Though day is growing cold,
Sits and reiterates his tender tale,
Most musically told;
For gentle robin, with a spirit brave,
Sings in the gloomiest hours,
And even chants an uncomplaining stave
In Winter's naked bowers.

Ere long the northern winds will keenly blow,
The woods and waters roar,
And all the wondrous magazines of snow
Pour forth their fleecy store;
Our window-panes will gleam with silvery rime,
Or sound with rattling hail,
And Winter's voice grow terribly sublime
When angry storms prevail.

300

But with the resurrection of the Spring,
Nature will smile anew,
Resume her crown, and o'er her shoulders fling
Robes of the loveliest hue:
Sweet Spring! that faintly pictures to the mind
Glories beyond the skies,
Where tempest and decay no entrance find,
Where beauty never dies.

301

THE SOUL OF THE LAND IS AWAKE.

(A SONG FOR OUR VOLUNTEERS.)

The soul of the land is awake,
Whatever the scorner may say,
And nothing shall sadden her, nothing shall shake
The spirit that moves her to-day;
With the faith and the firmness of yore,
With souls that no threat can appal,
Her sons stand the girdle and shield of her shore,
And are ready—aye ready for all.

Behold how they throng o'er the land,
From city, and hamlet, and plain,
A legion of freemen, a resolute band,
Prepared to do battle again;
From the centre all round to the coast,
They will muster when duty shall call;
Too steady to swerve, and too manly to boast,
They are ready—aye ready for all.

They seek not to strive with the foe,
They challenge not kaiser or king;
They best love the blessings that peace can bestow,
And the triumphs that commerce can bring:
But should reckless ambition presume
To menace with danger and thrall,
Give them heroes to lead them, and plenty of room,
And they're ready—aye ready for all.

302

True Britons can never grow cold
To dignity, honour, and right,
They can prove it to-day, as they proved it of old
In many a glorious fight:
With courage undaunted and keen,
Prepared for what chance may befall,
In defence of their freedom, their country and Queen,
They are ready—aye ready for all.

303

THE LOVER'S CALL.

Oh! when will the sweet Spring come,
With its sunshine, odours, and flowers,
And bring my beloved one home,
To brighten the vernal hours?
Like a worthless weed or a stone
On the verge of the surging sea,
I am silent, and sad, and lone,
Bereft of thy smiles and thee.

To the haunts where we used to rove,
My loitering footsteps go,
Where I heard thy confession of love,
So tremulous, sweet, and low:
But the rivulet seems to moan
That thou art not also there,
And the trees send a plaintive tone,
Like a sigh on the evening air.

I can find no charm in the day,
No calm in the sombre night;
Thou hast ta'en my repose away,
And clouded the cheerful light:
To the heart that can love thee best
Return, if still loyal to me;
Come back, that my soul may rest,—
I am weary waiting for thee.

304

MY BIRTHDAY.

My Birthday!—old familiar sound!
How hopeful once, how mournful now!
For Time's relentless hand has bound
A wreath of wrinkles round my brow;—
Has scattered sleet upon my head,
Shed from his never-tiring wing,
And almost made my spirit dead
To every joyous thing.

In boyhood, how I strove to scan
The footsteps of advancing Time,
Longing that he would stamp me Man,—
Deeming that dignity sublime;
And each recurring birthday brought
New hopes and yearnings to my soul,
With wishful and impatient thought
To reach the golden goal.

Manhood was gained;—but oh! the change
From the pure joy of childhood's hours,
When everything was bright and strange,
And every pathway strewn with flowers!
How different, when I came to tread
The broad arena floor of life,
And for the meed of needful bread
Waged a perpetual strife.

305

The summit, which seemed all a-glow
With golden clouds, as seen from far,
When reached, was clothed with mist and snow,
And dubious light without a star:
And now down life's precipitous steep
I feel and falter as I go,
With a vague thought of joy or sleep
In the calm vale below.

Ah! what are birthdays now to me,
Save that which starts a holier life?—
A life from Time's rude changes free,
In realms unknown to sin and strife.
'Tis sad when Faith grows faint and chill,
And Hope withdraws her roseate smile;
Thank God, these twain are with me still,
Though I am sad the while.

306

ITALY AWAKENED.

Well done at last, thou fair and storied land!
For thou hast broken from the thrall of years,
Cast off thy lethargy, dispelled thy fears,
And grappled tyranny with daring hand;
Watched by the nations, thou didst well withstand
The stubborn Austrian, who oppressed thee sore,
Banished the cruel Bourbon from thy shore,
And raised a wiser monarch to command.
Much hast thou done, but more remains to do
Ere thy new freedom can unclouded shine;
The City of the Waters must be thine,
With all her fertile provinces thereto;
And unprogressive Popedom must not stay
Thy glowing chariot wheels on thy triumphant way.

But in thy triumph thou must not forget
That man of grand simplicity of mind,
With whom thy destiny is now combined,
To whom thou owest a transcendent debt;
The hero-hermit of Caprera's rock
Claims gratitude and trust, which are his due,
For he is valiant, merciful, and true,
And ready to resist Oppression's shock.
He will not fail thee in the perilous hour,
Nor hold a traitorous parley with thy foes;
Where'er he goes, stern honour also goes,
And wisely guides his delegated power:

307

He wars for holiest purposes, and Fame
Will breathe with burning lips great Garibaldi's name.

Oh! for another Tasso, who could write
Of Italy delivered, and rehearse
In stirring, truthful, and immortal verse,
Thy patriotic prowess in the fight;—
Sing of her patient suffering through the past,
Till the two tyrants goaded her to strife;—
Speak of her present newly-kindled life,
And hopes, which may be realised at last;—
Expatiate on the future of her time,
When Peace shall fold her in her stainless wing,
And the pure light of Liberty shall bring
New charms to all the beauties of her clime.
Thus, with the in-born prescience of a seer,
The Poet would foreshow her glorious career.

308

A NIGHT THOUGHT.

How grandly solemn is this arch of night,
How wonderfully beautiful and vast,
Crowded with worlds enswathed in living light,
Coeval with the immeasurable past!
With what a placid and effulgent face
The mild moon travels 'mid her golden isles,
And on the earth, asleep in night's embrace,
Pours the sweet light of her serenest smiles!
Can I, O God, who tremble here with awe,
Doubt the Designer, scoff at the design,
Deny that all is of Thy wisdom Thine,
Fashioned by Thee, and governed by Thy law?
I marvel at that being who can see,
In these Thy mighty works, no evidence of Thee.

309

THE MOUNTAINS.

I have a passion for the mountains; they
Lift me above the din of earthly things,
And seem to lend imagination wings
To roam in wondrous regions far away;
They have a nameless power, by night or day,
Which doth attract, yet overawe the mind
With grandeur and with silence, till we find
The soul expand, obedient to their sway.
The passing clouds linger about their forms,
Or the light milky mists enswathe them round,
Or their dim glens and cavities resound
With the wild clamour of invading storms;
Then is the hour their rugged heights to climb,
And hear, behold, enjoy, the turbulence sublime.

The mountain peak feels the first breath of day,
And first reflects Aurora's rosy wing,
While scattered clouds bestrew the eastern way,
And kindle at the coming of their king:
Then does he bask in the full sheen of light,
His aspect changing with each passing hour,
Until the cold dominion of the night
Returns again with its mysterious power.
Then the winds swoop upon his shadowy breast,
And the stars cluster round his giant head
Like swarms of golden bees; the moonbeams shed
A calm, sweet glory on his heathery crest,

310

Soften the features of his rocky face,
And to his beauteous vales add a serener grace.

The mountains soonest catch the precious rains
Engendered in the wondrous firmament,
Receive and hoard them in their countless veins,
Till they are purified, whence they are sent
In streams of fruitfulness o'er all the land,
Gathered at last to the insatiate main,
Till the attraction of the Master Hand
Draws them to travel in the clouds again:
While their feet bathe in the bright summer glow,
The mountains lift old Winter from the vales,
And seat him on their shoulders, where the snow,
With a profuse supply that never fails,
Feeds the gigantic glacier, old and hoar,
Which creeps adown the slopes, and moveth evermore.

A sense of strength and freedom they impart
To those who 'mong them first drew breath of life;—
Hence Tell and Schamyl, each with dauntless heart,
Battled for liberty, a glorious strife.
On the scarred front of Sinai's fearful height
Did the Almighty give the graven Law
To Moses, who, with reverence and awe,
Shook and adored through many a day and night.
And on the Mount the dear Redeemer wept,
And prayed, and suffered sanguinary sweat,
Until the ground with bloody drops was wet;
While His disciples, bowed with sorrow, slept.
Then blessed be the mountains, for they bring
Strange memories, and dreams of many a wondrous thing.

311

A WIFE'S EVENING PRAYER.

(FROM THE GERMAN.)

A day well spent, as a just God approves,
Is more than earthly wealth—far more than gold;
Some care, indeed, my anxious spirit moves,
Yet are my daily sufferings briefly told.

But I have been sustained in heart and powers;
At my right hand my gracious Lord has stood;
In needful toil I've gladly passed my hours,
And a fond mother's busy life pursued.

Now wondrous sleep its leaden sceptre sways,
Till morning shall begin the day anew;
And every grateful spirit humbly prays
For help, for pardon, and for blessing too.

My little inmates are already sleeping
(How free from care!) in sombre night's embrace,
While I alone a silent watch am keeping,
Inwardly asking for more strength and grace.

I, too, O Guardian Lord! shall soon be resting;
But thou dost wake while all Thy creatures sleep;
I toil, and think, and meditate, still trusting
That thou a Father's watch will near me keep.

312

Defend me, Lord, from bitter pain and sorrow,
And with sweet quiet all my being bless,
And grant me, on the dawning of the morrow,
Thy gracious Spirit's inward joyfulness.

And now my weary head in calm reposes,
Safe in Thy love and in Thy watchful sight;
Sweet prayer my daily joys and duties closes,
At peace with all mankind I hope to rest this night.

313

LILLY AND HER NEWFOUNDLAND DOG.

Truly 'tis a pleasant picture—
(Oh, that we should e'er grow old!)
Lilly with her brave companion,
Hector, beautiful and bold;
Lilly, graceful in her girlhood,
Hector, generous in his pride,
Sporting cheerfully together,
Friends whom nothing can divide.

Painter, take thy cunning pencil,
Dip it in the brightest hues,
And portray these playful creatures,
Worthy of the poet's muse;
Then the father's heart with gladness,
And the mother's eyes with tears,
Will confess that thou hast left them
Pleasure for their after years.

Death, inevitable spoiler,
Sharp and sudden, stern and slow,
All too soon may snatch their treasure,
And o'erwhelm their souls with woe.

314

Then the dear and mute resemblance
Oft will draw their earnest gaze,
And with silent power remind them
Of the joys of former days.

Better far such simple pictures,
Then the glare of warlike things,
Than the deeds of tragic story,
Than the gorgeous pomp of kings:
For they keep the home affections
Ever fresh with life and bloom;
Soothe the heart in its bereavement,—
Mitigate the spirit's gloom.

Lilly, first-born of thy mother,
'Neath whose eye thy beauty grew,
Earliest offspring of thy father,
Chiefest darling of the two;—
Now thy nature is unsullied,
Free from shadow, free from care,
May no unexpected sorrow
Come upon thee unaware!

May thy mind, which is but dawning
With a rich and rosy ray,
Quicken gently, softly open,
Into clear and ample day;
May thy heart receive all goodness,
With its passions at command,
Till thy loving parents see thee
“Perfect woman, nobly planned.”

315

Changeful time, perchance, may bring thee
Sterner duties to fulfil;
May'st thou meet them, and perform them,
With calm spirit and goodwill.
Whosoever wins and claims thee
For his hearthstone and his heart,
May he cherish thee, and keep thee
From all evil things apart.

And should children come around thee,
Cheering home with gladsome din,
May they long remain beside thee,
Free from sorrow—safe from sin.
But through all life's chances, changes,
Keep thy feelings undefiled;
Loving still thy father, mother,
Even as a little child.

Whatsoever may betide thee,
Good or evil, foul or fair,
Strive to keep thy soul exalted
'Bove the clouds of common care;
Thank thy God for smallest blessing,
Meet His stroke with soul resigned,—
Still believing that all darkness
Has some mercy-light behind.

As for Hector, he will never
Waver in his love for thee;
But, perhaps, hereafter gambol
With the children round thy knee.
Cherish, then, thy true companion,
With his fond, sagacious ways;
While he lives he will remind thee
Of thy happy early days.

316

CHRISTMAS.

Blest Morn, by the Redeemer made the holiest of the year!
In the encircling silence now I feel thy drawing near;
The very frost-wind stealing past, upon my forehead flings
A freshness, wafted by the stir of thy advancing wings:
In clustering constellations, too, the star-troops seem to burn
In all their bright emblazonry, to welcome thy return.
Hail to thy coming once again, thou spiritual time!
Morn of a mighty mystery, soul-saving, and sublime!

Rejoice, my spirit, hopefully; yon temple's hoary tower
Gives to the far-pervading night the consecrated hour;
And human voices, here and there, uplift with glad acclaim
A sweet old song of thankfulness to God's transcendent name;
While fancy hears the angel hymn, and sees the star whose ray
Smiled on the lowly manger-roof where God Incarnate lay.
Hail to thy coming once again, thou praise-inspiring time!
Morn of a mighty mystery, soul-saving and sublime!

317

Imagination hovers o'er thee, glorious Palestine!
Proud birthplace of the Saviour, that prodigy divine;
Thou saw'st His miracles of love, His excellence of life,
And how He bore with holy calm the malice and the strife
Of cruel and calumnious power, of unbelieving pride,
Though sold, scourged, menaced, and reviled, and by His own denied.
Hail to thy coming once again, thou solemnising time!
Morn of a mighty mystery, soul-saving, and sublime!

Land which beheld upon His brow the diadem of thorns,
Planted by ruffian hands, amid indignities and scorns;
While some, more reckless than the rest, exulting in their deeds,
Spat in that pale and patient face, distained with bloody beads,
Whence came with meek humility the words of sorrow true,
“Father, forgive their ignorance, they know not what they do!”
Hail to thy coming once again, thou sad yet soothing time!
Morn of a mighty mystery, soul-saving, and sublime!

Land which beheld, when Heaven had brimmed His earthly cup with woes,
His ordeal of sanguine sweat, His agonising throes,
What time in lone Gethsemane's funereal depths of shade,
A more than human misery was on His spirit laid;
The while with pinched and parched lips, he murmured—“From thy Son
Oh! pass this draught of bitterness; but still, Thy will be done!”
Hail to thy coming once again, thou mournful, musing time!
Morn of a mighty mystery, soul-saving, and sublime!

318

Land which beheld the final scene of man-redeeming love,
When the dear Jesus loosed His soul to wing its way above;
While rude, remorseless men looked on with wild and wolfish eyes,
Laughed at the spectacle, nor deemed how great the sacrifice,
Till earth put on the dreary robe of black, unnatural night,
Shook tower and temple on her breast, and smote them with affright.
Hail to thy coming once again, thou awe-creating time!
Morn of a mighty mystery, soul-saving, and sublime!

Sweet to behold thy influence o'er all the Christian world;
To see the banner of “good will” spontaneously unfurled;
To find our daily fears forgot, our enmities forgiven,
And hearts grow dearer each to each, and nearer unto heaven:
To know that 'midst the multitudes one simultaneous tone
Of joyance and benevolence respondeth to our own.
Hail to thy coming once again, thou humanising time!
Morn of a mighty mystery, soul-saving, and sublime!

In crowded cities men forego their wretchedness and wrongs,
New pleasure lighteth up their eyes, and leapeth from their tongues;
In palace and in cottage homes, one sentiment is rife;
On mountain slopes, in lonely glens, awakes more buoyant life;
In stern, unpeopled forest glooms, on 'wildering seas and wide,
Hand claspeth hand, soul clings to soul, and care is cast aside.
Hail to thy coming once again, thou sympathetic time!
Morn of a mighty mystery, soul-saving, and sublime!

319

Blest season! when the friendly draught, in darkness prisoned long,
Flows o'er the laughing lip, and wakes the slumbering voice of song;
When music thrills the holly bough, and stirs the languid breast,
And frankly from the glowing heart is flung the harmless jest;
When modest maidenhood grows gay, and childhood frolics wild,
And age remembers lovingly that Jesus was a Child.
Hail to thy coming once again, thou free and festive time!
Morn of a mighty mystery, soul-saving, and sublime!

Blest season! yet not blest to all, save in the holy sense
Of sweet salvation, and the power of high omnipotence;
How many at this festal time confront the coming year
With desperate hearts, upbraiding eyes, and souls which know no cheer:
Oh! that the human family could each and all partake
One creed, one comfort, and one joy, blithe Christmas! for thy sake.
Hail to thy coming once again, thou meditative time!
Morn of a mighty mystery, soul-saving, and sublime!

320

SONNET TO THE OLD YEAR.

Thou slumberest with the past, old forty-four,
But thou hast left thy footprints on the earth,
And good will grow thereon; yet at thy birth
How many hearts grew glad, that throb no more!
Mine was distraught, and aching to the core,
When jolly winter brought thee by the hand
To claim allegiance for thee; bright and bland
Thou gav'st me merry morning at the door.
'Twas answered with good will, and I forgot
In thy blithe presence my untoward lot,
Grew bold and cheerful, resolute to thrive;
Alas for my resolves! behold me now
Receive with scanty store and care-worn brow
Thy young successor, hopeful forty-five!

321

MIDNIGHT IMAGININGS.

COMPOSED DURING SICKNESS.

With an angry wing, and an awful wail,
Sad o'er my roof-tree hurries the gale
Of moonless November, drenched and drear,
With a dirge-like tone for the falling year;
Flinging the fierce and incessant rain
Full on the sounding window-pane.
Without, in the damp and deserted street,
Is heard the brief tread of belated feet,
And the vulgar reveller reeling along,
Answers the wind with a snatch of song;
While, muffled and hoarse, in the driving shower,
The watchman heralds the midnight hour.

Now in the tempest there comes a lull,
And I mark on my chamber-walls bare and dull,
The ghostly shadows that frown and fade,
By the flickering light of my night-fire made:
I list to the cricket-song, shrill and lone,
And the purr of the cat on the dim hearthstone,
And the restless clock, and the breathing deep
Of dear ones around me, who calmly sleep.
Alas! no repose for my aching lids!
The fever within me that burns, forbids

322

The natural blessing that falls so mild
On the stalwart man, and the sinless child.
But blest be the Being who takes and gives,
Who governs the humblest thing that lives,
Who hath laid His hand on my wayward soul,
With a just reproof and a kind control,—
Sweet fancies and memories still remain
To fill up the pauses of fitful pain.
Even now is the spirit of thought at play,
Like a passenger bird on its trackless way,
That stoopeth to rest on those far-off isles
Where lingering summer in beauty smiles.

Gone is the storm, and the wind, and the gloom,
Gone the blank walls of my cheerless room;
Rafter and roof are vanished from sight,
And the starless robe of November night;
And I walk like a creature for gladness born,
In the first faint flush of a Spring-tide morn,
Where the dew-pearls lie on the flowery grass,
Bathing my feet as I pensively pass.
Heaves the round sun o'er the cold, clear line
Of the mountain fringed with the sombre pine;
Kindles the cloud with a rosier gleam,
Laughs in the lustre the singing stream,
Smile the rich woods in their gayest of green,
And the slumbering meadow-slopes lying between.
The lark is above me, the first to pay
Melodious tribute to regal Day;
And the linnet replies from the hawthorn bush,
To the echoing call of the woodland thrush;
Crows the shrill cock from his home on the hill,
Starts into labour the moss-grown mill,

323

Rings from the forest the woodman's stroke,
Soars from the hamlet the feathery smoke:
Fresh airs and musical wander about,
Laden with sweets from the flowers flung out;
The mantle of May on the landscape lies,
No shadow shuts out the blue breadth of the skies;
While the unsealed springs of enjoyment start
In the healthful pulse and the grateful heart.

Leaning against the far western steep,
With his fiery foot in the glowing deep,
The Sun-god sits, and stains the skies
With gorgeous glooms and dazzling dyes;
Mingling and changing, melting soon,
As the pearly face of the milder moon
Looks from the star-paved portals of night,
Pervading the air with her clear sweet light.

I pace the smooth surface of sea-sands wide,
Wrinkled and ribbed by the downward tide;
Where the foam-fringed waves, that sink and swell
On rounded pebble and glistening shell,
With the muffled hum of the distant town,
Sent on the seaward breezes down,
Make lovely music, and thrill the chords
Of memories far “too deep for words!”
With stately spar, and clustering sail
Big with the breath of the wayward gale,
The shadowy ships go forth afar,
By the life-like needle and Arctic star
Obedient now to the calm command
Of the master's word and the helmsman's hand;
Till they sink from sight o'er the dusky line
Where the gray sky stoops to the level brine;

324

And fancy follows them over the main,
And the heart asks—“Shall they return again?”

But my moonlight vision is past, and now
With a languid limb, and a beaded brow,
O'er the odorous field, and the footworn stile,
I thoughtfully wander; but tarry awhile
Where the prostrate meadow-grass, dry and dun,
Absorbeth the rays of the summer sun;
While the rustic group, “man, maiden, and boy,”
Who have left for an hour their sweet employ,
Sit aloof, 'mid the music of bird and bee,
In the ample shade of the broad beech-tree.
On—on to the woods that I love so well,
Where beauty, and quiet, and coolness dwell:
I am there in the heart of the wildest shade,
Where the red deer glances athwart the glade;
To a deeper gloom, to a lovelier spot,
Where the wanderer's foot may disturb him not;
Where the leveret springs as I slowly pass
Through the pensile fern and the pliant grass,
As though 'twere forbidden for man to roam
In the tangled haunts of her sylvan home.

At length on the sward, in a side-long rest,
With a busy brain and a tranquil breast,
I lie where the harebell about my knees
Stoops low to the kiss of the roving breeze.
Around me a shadowy realm appears
Of woods with the strength of a hundred years,
With slumbrous aisles that charm the sight
With doubtful distance, and dubious light;
Above me, a roof where the heaven of blue
Through a legion of leaves breaks sweetly through;

325

Beside me, the page of the poet, whose name
Is a world-uttered word with a world-wide fame;
And I take it up lovingly, turning awhile
From charm unto charm, with a tear and a smile,
Till I plunge in a cluster of sweets outright,
Re-dreaming “the Dream of a Midsummer's Night.”
O'ercome by the region of moonlight spells,
Half hid in a curtain of wild blue-bells,
In the dim deep forest-paths far away,
I repose by the side of the Queenly Fay,
And fancy that Puck, so vivacious and wise,
Is dropping his juice in my languid eyes;
And I feel the light fingers of welcome sleep,
With a healing touch o'er my senses creep.
For this brief visit of calm, sweet rest,
Oh, God! in Thy mercies be praised and blest!
Sustain me and guard me, a helpless thing,
By the shadow and strength of Thy holy wing.

326

THE TEMPLE OF NATURE.

Were there no temple reared by mortal hands,
No altar-stone, no consecrated shrine,
No edifice for purposes divine,
To congregate the people of the lands,—
Still would the flame of adoration's fire
Survive in human hearts, and heavenward aspire.

What need of graceful arch and storied pane
To a poor suffering sinner on his knees?
The universe has greater things than these
Wherewith to decorate God's boundless fane;
And many voices of sublimer powers,
Which send into the skies a grander psalm than ours.

With never-failing lamps the heavens are hung,
The mighty sun by fiery robes embraced,
The changeful moon, so beautiful and chaste,
The crowded stars in countless systems strung,
And meteors speeding with a fearful flight
Through all the realms of space, and swathed in marvellous light.

And there are sounds of worship that arise
From birds and trees, in many a sigh and song,
From winds and waters hurrying along,
From restless oceans heaving towards the skies;

327

And flowers, fruits, spices, streams of incense send
Up to the floating clouds, where they in sweetness blend.

On mountain-tops we'd breathe our matin hymn,
While the lark chanted to the new-born day;
At noon retire to meditate and pray
In the old forest aisles, so cool and dim;
At night, amid our household seek the Lord,
And learn the precious truths shrined in His blessed Word.

And yet, 'tis well that men should congregate
To read, expound, and venerate the Page
Which shall extend from brightening age to age—
The hopeful promise of a holier state;
'Tis well to meet with souls that look above,
To form and propagate a brotherhood of love.

Oh! for one simple creed, which all could share,
The mildest, purest, mercifullest, best,
That we might follow God's divine behest,
And worship Him in gladness everywhere;
Free from all doubt, intolerance, and pride,
Pursue the better way, with Jesus for our guide.

328

THE PAUPER'S GRAVE.

Behold ye how calmly he sinks to death!
His last pulse flutters, his eyes grow dim;
But those who await his parting breath
Can cherish no feeling of grief for him;
Unmoved as his prison walls they stand,
Till the tide of existence has ebbed away,
Prepared with a rude and remorseless hand
To render to earth the insulted clay.
He dies,—and already some hungry slave
Is breaking the sod for the Pauper's grave.

With many a jest on his woes untold,
They lift from its pallet the lifeless load;
Ere the stirless streams of his veins are cold,
They hurry him forth to his last abode;
Nor friendship nor love attends him there,
Not a knell is rung, not a tear is shed;
But hurried and brief is the burial prayer,
By a worldly priest o'er the sacred dead:
But the minion of power, and unfeeling knave,
Deign not to look on the Pauper's grave.

But where can the wife of his bosom be?—
With a broken heart she has gone before;
And the son whom he taught to be just and free?—
He selleth his blood on a foreign shore.

329

But the dove of his household, has she, too, flown?—
Alas! there is woe in the lost one's name,
For a pitiless destiny brought her down
To the harlot's ruin, remorse, and shame:
And he, the fond father, who yearned to save,
Forgets his despair in a Pauper's grave.

Born on our own unconquered soil,
His life was pure, though his lot was hard;
His days were devoted to painful toil,
And precarious bread was his best reward;
But his arm waxed faint, and his Workhouse doom
Was darker far than the lot he bore;
For, shut from the world in a living tomb,
Nor mother nor offspring beheld him more.
Arise and avenge him, ye good and brave,
For blood cries out from the Pauper's grave!

330

RETROSPECTION.

“I might have been”—oh! sad, suggestive words!
So full of hidden meaning, yet so vain!
How sadly do they sound on memory's chords,
And waken feelings of regretful pain!
I might have been a wiser, better man,
With signs of well-won honour on my brow,
Had I adhered to nature's simple plan,
Or reasoned with myself, as I do now.
True that my life has been with ills beset,
Early neglect, and poverty, and gloom,
Within whose shades—how well remembered yet!—
My mind found neither sustenance nor room;
Yet, with instinctive longing for the right,
It sought for fitting food, and struggled towards the light.

Too late to gather up the waste of years,
And turn to profit the encumbering dross;
The gold has vanished,—and these sudden tears
Attest my silent sorrow for the loss.
Too late to win the humble meed of fame
I hoped and strove for in my early days;
Too late to cast the shadow from my name,
And turn the world's hard censure into praise;
Too late to ask the dear beloved and lost,
Forgiveness for stern word and galling deed,
Uttered and done at such a fearful cost
That I am bankrupt,—and too late to plead:
But oh, my God! here on my suppliant knee
I ask,—Am I too late for mercy and for Thee?

331

SUPPLICATION.

Oh! help me in my deepest need,
My Father, Friend, and Lord!
And make me drink with eager lip
The waters of Thy word;
So I may rise refreshed and glad,
Unbowed by earthly ill,
My business and my pleasure both
To do Thy holy will.

For His dear sake, who left Thy side
A fallen race to save,
To take all agony from death,
All terror from the grave,
Receive me 'mong the chosen ones
Who journey towards the sky,
And fit me for that perfect home
Where love can never die!

University of Virginia Library