Poems by the late John Bethune | ||
THEIR HOMELY JOYS, AND DESTINY OBSCURE;
NOR GRANDEUR HEAR, WITH A DISDAINFUL SMILE,
THE SHORT AND SIMPLE ANNALS OF THE POOR.
Gray.
THE DESOLATED CITY.
The thundering balista hath ceased
Its ruining missiles to pour;
For the wall is o'erthrown, and each turret and spire
Of the Temple is shatter'd, and blacken'd with fire:
But where is the warrior and priest?
And where are the young and the beautiful? where
The virgins who moved with the dorcus's tread;
Whose songs were so sweet, and whose smiles were so fair?
Alas! they are silent and dead!
The lovely, the rich, and the free—
The city of palaces, gardens, and bowers—
The mistress of monarchs and seers—where is she?
She gave to the mightiest and wisest their birth,
And fill'd with her glory the nations of earth:
Swoop'd down in the blood-crested eagles of Rome.
O'er the site of the temple and seat of the throne,
The ploughshare of scorn hath been driven,
And the salt of derision contemptuously sown
To denote the displeasure of Heaven.
And there stands not a stone on her desolate street,
For the ritual of mock'ry is darkly complete.
Who whilom bequeathed her a pile,
On whose equal the bright sun shall never again
Look down from his throne with a smile—
Even he who fulfill'd the bequest of his sire,
With a splendour beyond the projector's desire—
Oh! how had he grieved had he look'd on her now,
With the paleness of ashes encrusting her brow!
That city, while yet in her glory she stood—
While glancing with brilliants, and gleaming in gold,
With the eye of a God he foresaw and foretold
The doom which should quench them in blood.
He beheld in the womb of futurity swelling
That wrath which hath crush'd her to dust—
And left in her desolate precincts no dwelling
For the sons of the good and the just.
Yet with pity, which none but a Saviour could feel,
He felt for and wept o'er his enemy's woe,
Lamenting the wounds they forbade him to heal,
And grieving to think that her glory should cease,
For rejecting her King and his message of peace.
How gaily she shone with her turreted wall,
As the Saviour approach'd to her gate,
While a sorcery voluptuous seem'd settled on all—
Every soul save his own was elate:
For the days of futurity, dismal and drear,
Were conceal'd from their sight, though the omens were near.
Did the pharisee, rabbi, and priest,
With each other in courteous solicitude vie
To press him to come to the feast?
Did they pour forth in haste from each splendid abode
To salute with devotion their King and their God?
Did they scatter with roses a path on the street,
Where the glorious Redeemer might tread?
Did they fall down and worship all low at his feet,
And crown with a diadem his head?
And the flowers which in bloom were the fairest
Impress'd by the good in his garland, to breathe
Those perfumes around which were rarest?
Ah no! the salute he received was a blow;
He was hail'd with the hisses of scorn;
And his crown was a chaplet of thorn.
Mid the taunts of the vile and the base—
See the Saviour of earth, who in heaven was caress'd,
Assailed by the finger of mortal disgrace—
As a mark for demoniac derision and jest—
For the miscreants spit in his merciful face.
But, alas! a more sad consummation of woe
Impurpled with anguish the snow of his brow;
For the outcasts of Israel were destined to fill
Their cup with a deadlier iniquity still.
And the sun hid his head in the curtains of shame;
But the dedolent hearts of the Hebrews beheld
The Son of their God in his agony bleed,
Unmoved by the groanings of Nature, which swell'd
With awful convulsions, to witness the deed:
Till the Saviour, in suffering insufferable, cried,
“It is finish'd!” and bow'd himself meekly, and died.
The blood of the sinless for sin hath been spilt;
The chalice of death hath been fill'd to the brim,
And its deadliest drops have been dashed upon him.
Which stains, yet illumines, the annals of time.
It is finish'd!—the glory of Salem is o'er,
And vengeance is ready the vials to pour:
Ay, vengeance itself is commission'd to burst
With the thunder of God, on the city accurst;
By the wrath of Jehovah propell'd, it appears
Like an ocean of fire, and a forest of spears;
And a spirit more potent than Cæsar's is there,
Which forbids the proud Roman the pleasure to spare.
Desolation's oblivious reign is begun;
And never again shall a temple adorn
The tenantless streets of Jerusalem;
Nor the ephod of priesthood in Salem be worn,
For the glory is fled from their city and them;
And divested of all, Mount Moriah shall mourn,
Unbless'd with a wall, and undeck'd with a gem.
For never again shall the Presence divine,
On its once holy top, in the Shechinah shine;
But, though swept from the face of the earth as a blot,
Shall the name of Jerusalem e'er be forgot?
And the stars may be cast from the sky,
And Chaos again be the monarch of space:
But the spot where Messiah descended to die
Shall still be remember'd with reverence and love,
And recall'd in the songs of the angels above.
An engine for throwing stones, used by Titus at the siege of Jerusalem.—See “Artillery,” Penny Cyclopœdia.
ON THE RETURN OF THE JEWS.
In the land of their fathers again to sojourn?
And when shall that country, so barren and lorn,
Again overflow with its honey and corn?
And when shall the pipe, and the song of the bard,
On the soft sunny valleys of Bethl'em be heard?
Or the fishers of Judah at evening awake
The echoes that sleep round Gennesaret's lake,
With an anthem of glory to Him whom the pride
Of their fathers rejected and crucified?
Assures us the wand'rers shall yet be restored;
And we doubt not his power the lost Hebrews to save,
And gather them back to the land which He gave,
Though the bramble and thorn luxuriantly grow
Where the flowers of the fig-tree in spring wont to blow;
Though its hills are deserted, uncultured its plain,
What was fruitful before may be fruitful again.
When the breath of the Lord on the wilderness blows,
Its bleakness shall blossom as fresh as the rose;
And He, who their sires through the wilderness led,
Can convert ev'n the mountain of Horeb to bread,
And again make Idumè and Lebanon pour
Their spices and incense, and Ophir its ore;
Till the temples of Salem to Jesus arise,
Outshining the first in their glory and size.
Of their fathers, and pour'd down the manna for meat;
Who, when blacken'd and scorch'd by the burning sunbeams,
Relieved them from death with miraculous streams;
Who, to shield them from foes, and their hearts to inspire,
Directed their march with a pillar of fire,—
That God, for his wandering people, once more
To the land can its milk and its honey restore.
Uniting the songs of the earth and the skies,
When the exiles of Judah to Judea shall come,
And again be rejoiced with a land and a home—
When the harp, which so long on the willow hath hung,
To the music of Zion again shall be strung,
And the nations their incense and offerings shall bring
To that nation which then shall rejoice with its king;
When He, who of old was rejected and slain,
With his saints in the cities of Salem shall reign.
From the ends of the earth, from the desert and sea,
Returning from lands where in exile they roved,
To the home of their sires—to the land which they loved.
Methinks I can hear their loud shout of delight,
As the mountains of Israel arise to their sight:
In peaceful array, on the untrodden grass;
While each hill which they meet, and each plain they behold,
Tells them tales of their prophets and heroes of old—
Of the words which they spake, and the foes they o'erthrew—
Of the triumphs they sung, and the champions they slew—
And the brook, gently gliding along by their path,
Recalls the defeat of the hero of Gath.
But now shall the triumphs of Judah excel
Her triumphs of old, when her enemies fell;
And her glory surpass all the splendour which shone
On the palace and temple of Solomon.
Now the sound of contention and battle shall cease,
For the Prince whom she owns is the Monarch of Peace;
And sweetly at evening and morning her flocks
Shall whiten her valleys and mantle her rocks,
And, bleating, exult in their strength and their speed,
For their lambkins no more by the altar shall bleed
No smoke shall ascend from her kids or her kine,
For her King hath already atoned for her sin:
To gladden their pastures, and fatten their stall.
And the multiplied flocks, and the fructified soil,
Shall richly reward the attendance and toil
Of the long banish'd wand'rers, whose hearts shall rejoice
In the love of their God and land of their choice.
All their sorrows and suff'rings their hearts shall forget,
As they gaze on the beauties of Mount Olivet;
And, under the shade of their cedars and palms,
Salute their Redeemer with anthems and psalms.
Their tears and their sorrows—their shame and their loss—
Shall all be repaid at the foot of the Cross;
Where the Jew and the Gentile their Saviour shall meet,
And pour forth their love, like a stream, at his feet.
In the land of their fathers again to sojourn;
And soon may that country, so barren and lorn,
Again overflow with its honey and corn;
And soon may the sceptre to it be restored,
For then every heart shall be fill'd with the Lord.
From the east end of the Wilderness you enter the famous Valley of Elah, where Goliah was slain by the Champion of Israel. Its appearance answers exactly to the description in Scripture. Tradition is not required to identify this spot. Nature has stamped it with everlasting features of truth. The brook still flows through it in a winding course from which David took the smooth stones.—Crane's Letters from the East.
A RANDOM THOUGHT.
And live in this low world for ever,
A friend beloved from death's dark river.
Must cross that stream!—what matter when?
The longest here will most endure,
While friends in sorrow see their pain.
When we are left and friends are gone;
And he is poor who cannot grieve
When left upon the earth alone.
Through life, be such a wish as this,
To live until prepared to die,
And only die when fit for bliss.
THE COUCH BY FRIENDSHIP SPREAD.
Though coarse its quilt, and hard its fold!
Where shall the wanderer find a bed,
Though heap'd with down, and hung with gold,
So dearly loved, so warm, so soft,
As that where he hath lain so oft?
Or travel-worn our wearied feet—
So cheering, soothing, and so sweet,
As our own ingle's fitful gleams,
And our own couch of rosy dreams?
While o'er the rugged rocks we climb,
Fancy pourtrays our own abode,
And nerves anew each fainting limb,
To struggle with the dreary steep—
For dear is our own bed of sleep.
Our steps are stayed by dire disease,
Who then, of those who watch the most,
Though kind, can have the power to please
Like those who watch'd disease's strife
At home, and soothed us back to life?
Which binds to earth our spirits weak—
Pardons the peevishness of pain—
Supplies the wants we cannot speak—
And with well-tried and patient care
Inspires our love, and prompts our prayer?
And kind his heart as heart can be,
There is a want—we know not why—
A face beloved we cannot see—
A something round our aching head
Unlike our own endearing bed.
We fling aside the curtain's fold,
It shews a face—a pitying face—
But ah! to us its cast seems cold;
And, with our last remains of pride,
We vainly strive our pain to hide.
Around our couch, with kindred pain—
The long familiar friend or mate,
Whose softness woos us to complain—
Whose tear meets every tear that flows—
Whose sympathy relieves our woes.
A bed where I may lay me down;
A home, a friend, whose every breath
May blend and mingle with my own;
Whose heart with mine in joy may beat,
Whose eye with mine in pain may meet.
Which bids my joy and sorrow cease,
When my pale lips grow hush'd and dumb,
And my tired soul hath fled in peace—
Then may some friend lay down my head
Into its last cold earthy bed.
ANGELS WATCHING FOR THE SPIRITS OF THE JUST.
His faithful friends are weeping,
Angels above, with joyful breath,
His jubilee are keeping.
His holy name is ringing,
And through the halls of heaven it floats:
Seraph and saint are singing.
His soul, unchained from earth,
Ready to mount—a spirit free—
To Him who gave it birth.
Around him as he dies,
The angel-watchers sing, and say,
“He soon shall scale the skies!”
When death hath still'd the strife,
And sighing, say, “Alas! he's dead!”
Angels are shouting “Life!”
His silent dust they lay,
Jesus presents his soul to God,
Clothed in a rainbow-ray.
SACRAMENTAL LINES—1835.
Of the lofty on earth, who are heirs but of death;
There is glory, they say, in their smile—and their word
And their welcome ennobles the least:
But we, in the light of thy presence, O Lord!
Would assemble to-day round a richer board,
To partake of a holier feast.
Ere the fabric of nature was made,
Encircled with glory, which none may declare,
The light of eternity shed,
From his aspect benign, on the glorious abode
Of the angels, who knelt in the palace of God.
Who on Calvary bow'd down his head—
The Lord of the terrible cherubim!
Who descended to earth, and in agony bled,
That the meanest of men, and the deepest in guilt,
In glory might shine when the planets are dim;
When the oil of the bright burning stars shall be spilt,
Like droplets of fire from a chalice's brim;
When the angel shall wake, with a waft of his breath,
A harvest of life from the regions of death;
And the shouts of delight, and the wailings of woe,
Shall mingle to mark his ascent
Through the ruins and wreck of the firmament.
The tempest-charged cloud with its wrath;
Who bids the volcano disgorge all its fires,
And the lightning speed on its path;
Who bids the deep mountain-pent earthquake explode,
And shakes the vast empires of earth with his nod!
For He is the lord of the feast;
It is He in whose presence archangels are dumb—
And He welcomes the poorest, the meanest, the least,
To sit at the table his servants have spread,
To drink of the cup, and to eat of the bread—
Those solemn memorials to men
Of the body he broke, and the blood which he shed,
To restore them from death, and unite them again
To their Saviour, their Lord, and their Head.
To the feast of forgiveness and love.
May each vice thou abhorrest by us be abhorr'd;
May thy spirit descend from above,
And thy graces divine in abundance be pour'd,
Our souls to enlighten, our hearts to improve,
To strengthen our hopes, to encourage our faith,
To humble our pride, to enkindle our zeal,
To solace our grief and our bruises to heal,
And bright comfort to shed in the conflict of death.
SACRAMENTAL LINES—1836.
Another year hath pass'd away,With all its hopes and all its fears,
And brought again this blessed day,
The brightest of our earthly years;
For though our dim eyes cannot see
As yet the glories we shall share,
Yet glorious surely it must be
To sit before the Saviour—
The tokens of his love to take.
With humble hearts and humble eyes
To break the bread, as Jesus brake
Before that glorious sacrifice
Which for a sinful world he made,
When he resign'd himself to die
For guilty man—by man betray'd
To suffer shame and agony.
SACRAMENTAL LINES—1837.
I humbly take my seat
With those who would thy name—adored—
In reverence repeat.
In years that are gone bye,
Upon that table lean my head
Like one about to die:
To thee for comfort look,
While the memorials of thy love
With trembling hand I took;
A silent farewell cast,
Believing that bless'd sacrament
On earth should be my last.
My body faint and weak—
Wearing death's cheerless tokens on
My wan and wasted cheek.
All withering round my heart,
And heard my soul in secret sigh,
Preparing to depart.
And spared me from the grave,
And now, O stretch thy blessed arms
My sinful soul to save.
SACRAMENTAL LINES—1838.
How many mercies have been mine
Since last I met with thee
The holy feast of Bread and Wine
Which was enjoyed by me.
Have been in sickening sadness spent!
How many nights have come
Which promised rest and sweet content,
Yet left behind them when they went
Distress, and grief, and gloom!
How many doubts my heart assail'd!
And held my spirit fast:
How many sins have been bewail'd!
How many follies have prevail'd!
Since I confess'd the last.
And underneath thy shelt'ring wings
A safe asylum seeks;
For this memorial sweetly brings
Remembrance of thy sufferings,
And all thy kindness speaks:
My spirit at thy feet, and say,
“Lord, take it—it is thine:
Teach it to trust, to fear, to pray—
Feed it with love by night and day,
And let thy will be mine.”
The Sacrament here alluded to was administered on the second Sabbath of June; and it may be remarked that it was the last at which the Pastor of the parish, (the Rev. Laurence Millar) officiated, and likewise the last at which the author of these lines took his seat—the former being dead, and the latter too ill to attend before another opportunity occurred. The pieces have been given together, because, with the exception of the last, they are written on the same sheet. One of them at least was composed on the morning of the Sacramental Sabbath; and it is highly probable that the others were the same.
INFANT DEVOTION.
When taught, by sober age, to kneel
Before that awful power, which shakes
Creation with a word, and makes
Vast worlds, like atoms, reel?
Which makes a parent's heart rejoice—
Inspiring love, and faith, and zeal—
Rises above the thunder peal!
Dreams it how far faint accents reach?
Knows it the potency of speech?
Conceives it what it asks? or why
It turns to Heaven its earnest eye?
Are yet too narrow and confined
To comprehend the vast amount
Of mercy craved on Christ's account;
Or to compute the power, above,
Of its own piety and love;
And simple orisons are great.
The hush of deep solemnity
Which I have seen diffused abroad
At mention of the name of God—
Stilling at once the playful noise
Of infant games, and infant joys;—
And by the oft half-hidden tear
Which flow'd some holy truth to hear—
By things like these, as by a part,
I still would judge the infant's heart:
And he who prompts its simple prayer
Will be the best interpreter.
To those who in the bud of youth
On his protecting mercy hung,
And praised him with a lisping tongue;
For “those,” 'tis said, “who early seek
Shall find,” although the voice be weak;
And blessings asked—as unawares—
By infant tongues, in lisped prayers,
May fall upon their riper years
To beautify the “vale of tears,”
As precious treasures, long mislay'd,
Forgot, and lost, but undecay'd,
Discovered in the hour of need,
Give unexpected joy indeed—
So age, in bankruptcy of joy,
May find the blessings which the boy
To brighten life's dark latter end.
Teach then, ye parents, teach, with care,
To every child the voice of prayer,
That God, when man has done his part,
May claim the homage of the heart.
WITHERED FLOWERS.
Your day of glory's past;
But your latest smile was loveliest,
For we knew it was your last.
No more the sweet aroma
Of your golden cups shall rise,
To scent the morning's stilly breath,
Or gloaming's zephyr sighs.
Which friendship could bestow—
A token of devoted love
In pleasure or in woe!
Ye graced the head of infancy,
By soft affection twined,
Into a fairy coronal,
Its sunny brows to bind.
By yearning sorrow strew'd
Along each lifeless lineament,
In death's cold damps bedew'd;
In dingle, wood, and wold,
In the parterre's sheltered premises,
And on the mountain cold.
Athwart you in your bloom,
And, pale and sickly, now your leaves,
The hues of death assume.
We mourn your vanished loveliness,
Ye sweet departed flowers!
For ah! the fate which blighted you
An emblem is of ours.
Our evanescent span:
For frail as your existence, is
The mortal life of man!
And is the land we hasten to
A land of grief and gloom?
No: there the Lilly of the Vale,
And Rose of Sharon bloom!
Through groves of glory flows,
And on its banks the Tree of Life
In heavenly beauty grows.
And flowers that never fade away,
Whose blossoms never close,
Bloom round the walks where angels stray,
And saints redeem'd repose.
We wither and depart,
And leave beind, to mourn our loss,
Full many an aching heart.
Yet, when the winter of the grave
Is past, we hope to rise,
Warm'd by the Sun of Righteousness,
To blossom in the skies.
PITY.
And sweet is the evening's close,
And sweet is the lily's fair blossom to see,
And sweet is the blush of the rose;
But sweeter to me, and far more dear—
As it falls from the eye—is Pity's bright tear.
That gem of feeling heightens;
And the swimming eye, with a lustre meek,
And a holier radiance, it brightens:
For the beauties of earth, as they shed it, combine
With their frailties the feelings of spirits divine.
As he bends o'er his fallen foes,
And the soft tear of sympathy silently sheds,
While he pities their wounds and their woes,
And sends up to heaven his forgiveness and prayer,
Like the heralds of mercy to welcome them there.
When they look upon sorrow and pain
With tears of compassion; for Jesus bestow'd
His tears on the sufferings of men:
And pity will shine in the sons of renown,
More bright than the gems of a coronet or crown.
Their all—on the griefs of the poor;
In the sight of their God from on high must appear
Like angels, compared with the miser and boor,
Whose hearts, with the hardness of iron, can brook,
Without feelings of pity on sorrow, to look.
And the heart of the orphan rejoice?
It is Pity's benevolent offering,
And Pity's affectionate voice
Which supplies all their wants—overcomes all their fears—
And the gloom of their solitude brightens and cheers.
And buoys up the spirit to bear
Those pangs which Affection would suffer to ease,
And Friendship in sympathy share?
It is Pity's bright tear which distils from the eye,
While the soul is contending for mercy on high.
A moment of victory prove?
Which presents to the Christian the pardoning love
Of Him who renounced all the bliss of the sky,
And descended, in pity, for sinners to die.
MELANCHOLY.
Distinct alike from joy and woe:
'Tis sad, but placid and resigned,
And pleased with all it meets below.
It lurks behind the languid eye;
Its language is the soft and meek
Expression of a noiseless sigh.
And watches nightly with the wise;
And oft the bard, in solitude,
Feels its alternate fall and rise.
The spirit of pathetic song:
And sometimes, too, through mirth it flows,
Gliding all noiselessly along.
It pores with anxious earnestness—
Delighted o'er the dark abyss.
It finds that mystery which inspires
Its musings with the voice of prayer,
And moulds its fancies to desires.
I'd shape this aspect of the mind
Like some fair female—chaste and warm,
And young and beautiful—but blind!
I'd make her sit by Genius' side,
And fan, with her celestial sighs,
His paly brow of thoughtful pride.
A pensive smile I would pourtray;
And make her soft and sightless eye
With deep and thoughtful sadness play.
This modest maid, so meek and holy,
The Muse's sister—Queen of Sighs,
The Poet's bride—Sweet Melancholy.
A SAINT.
A picture which I fain would paint:
Its colours are those virtues—kind—
Sweetly contrasted and combined,
Which meeting make a saint.
I see the embryo Christain cast
Upon a world where all must mourn.
Where joy and grief, applause and scorn,
Alternate follow fast.
Within him passions rise;
And worldly pomp, and worldly show,
Is all his nature seeks to know,
Forgetful of the skies.
And Mammon's golden store,
His soul is fill'd with earthly joys,
And all its energy employs,
These idols to adore.
And with contemptuous eye
Surveys each poor unletter'd name
Which can no earthly honour claim,
Though register'd on high.
As God his power reveals;
And outward pain, and inward woe,
Soften his high fastidious brow,
And his hard heart anneals.
He looks on all with love;
Convinced the meanest here may be
Eternally as great as he,
In the bright world above.
Within his placid breast:
The blandishments of courts he spurns,
And to the lowly Jesus turns,
Deeming that pattern best.
He covets wealth no more:
He longs, with feelings more divine,
To make the sufferer's aspect shine,
And help the helpless poor.
Mingled with earthly strife:
His wish is now to have a claim,
Through Jesus' blood, to write his name
In the fair book of life.
Save power to soothe distress—
The lonely widow's darkest hour
Of solitude to bless.
Or bleeding heart to balm,
His liberal hand, his pitying eye,
With comfort and with aid are nigh,
The sufferer's soul to calm.
His own devoted breast
Receives all that it gives again
In triumphs o'er defeated pain,
And is by blessing bless'd.
He soothes affliction's moan:
No; far above such selfish ways,
His soul hath learn'd its thoughts to raise
To God's eternal throne.
On mercy's errand sent,
He holds through life his blissful way,
And every hour, and every day,
In mercy's work are spent.
And pure benevolence,
Rejoicing o'er defeated death,
Angels shall bear him hence.
THE LAND OF REST.
Though sunk, was beaming bright,
As the deep azure of the sky,
With more than mortal light.
And life's last sands fell fast,
And friends were gone, and he remain'd—
Of all he loved—the last.
That heavenly smile impress'd?
Because he was a pilgrim to—
And near the Land of Rest.
Upon a sick bed lying;
His cheek was pale, his hand was cold,
For he, poor youth, was dying.
A sweet and gentle smile,
Like sunbeam on the mountain snow
Which melts away the while.
The friends who were so dear?
And wherefore did he see them grieve,
Nor answer with a tear?
Fresh as the morning dew—
Since hope with honey'd hand might bring
New joys and pleasures new,
Those visions bright and sweet,
At life's fast fleeting festival,
With friends no more to meet?
A comfort to his breast;
His friends were journeying to—and he
Was near the Land of Rest.
In beauty's sunny morn—
Simplicity's own darling child,
Of sainted mother born.
A lovely flower she grew,
And still it was her family's pride
To have her in their view.
Beloved, and loving well,
Or social scenes to dwell.
Which blanched its rosy charms;
And yet she seem'd, though maiden weak,
To feel no dire alarms.
That cheek's enchanting dye,
But still a soul which scorn'd decay
Beam'd in her kindled eye.
With all the joys of earth—
The youth who won her gentle heart,
The dame who gave her birth,
The sire who soothed her care,
The sisters who, at evening hour,
Had join'd with her in prayer?
To watch her closing eye;
They saw her smile, when speech had fled,
And death was drawing nigh.
By the grim tyrant press'd?
Her soul had caught a glimpse the while
Of the bless'd Land of Rest.
By ties which none may know,
Save those who feel their children's mirth,
And share their children's woe.
And one sweet baby hung
Upon her breast, and with its hand
Her floating tresses wrung.
So winningly it smiled,
That angels might have paused a space
To gaze upon that child.
Appear'd about to go
From smiles of love, and hopes of earth,
To the dark world below.
From her fond babes to part;
And oft she watch'd them while they slept,
With sad and yearning heart.
And paler grew her cheek,
A dawning brightness in her eye
Extatic thoughts would speak.
On a Guardian strong to save,
To summon to the grave.
So tenderly caress'd?
Because she hoped with them to meet
In the bless'd Land of Rest.
Her parting prayer to Heaven,
And trusted to heaven's gracious Lord
The gifts which he had given.
She bless'd with tender care,
Then pass'd, without a sob or tear,
To rest for ever there.
Of heavenly love, impress'd
By Him who died to buy for them
That blessed Land of Rest.
O'ermasters fear and woe;
And, conquering the dread tyrant death,
Conquers our latest foe!
NATIVE SCENES.
Or sportive youth to stray in;
For manhood to enjoy his strength,
Or age to wear away in.
Wordsworth.
The innate gift of noble song,
And glorious energies, divine,
Of stirring eloquence belong.
Yet not unmeet for lady's eyes,
Whose spirit can enjoy the dream
Of flowery fields, and glowing skies—
The unutterable charm which binds
To native groves and native dells
Pure uncontaminated minds.
And beauties of my native lake,
In other hearts perchance may fail
The chords of sympathy to wake;
This simple uninspired song,
Whose hearts have felt, perchance, like me,
That fascination strange and strong.
A rural amphitheatre sweet,
Seem calmly watching the repose
Of the green landscape at their feet.
Of sylvan shades, or waters pure,
Or flowery fields, collected there,
Appears in beauteous miniature.
Whose shade the pensive spirit calms,
More pleasing far, I ween, to me
Than all the pride of Indian palms.
Through silent walks, in thoughtful strain—
Through solitudes I would not change
For myrtle groves or Grecian plain.
No hearts their dwellings to endear—
No friends their absence would bereave,
To distant lands for pleasure steer.
In quest of beauty let them go,
To wander by the banks of Rhine,
Or gaze upon the Alpine snow;
On summer days embark and glide,
Their troubled thoughts and wounded pride.
Behold the lake I love the best;
Still in the woods which round it lie,
Contented let me toil, or rest.
Which winds my native plains among,
Than Hermus or Meander seem
In all the pomp of classic song.
My soul with such delight could fill,
As the scant brooks which murmuring play
Adown each long-frequented hill—
The lake upon whose surface clear
The hues which gild the evening skies
In mirror'd majesty appear;
Surrounding fields, and forests green,
Begemm'd by the bright star of even,
All meet to variegate the scene—
That bright and beautiful display,
And the sad moralist must feel
How soon all earthly joys decay.
Can fairer fields or waters gleam
Than those which fancy renders dear,
When brighten'd by affection's beam.
Life's short'ning and uncertain lease,
And bless'd with hope, await its end,
When He who conquer'd Death may please.
In future years of toil, to roam
Far from each fair familiar spot
Which smiles around my cottage-home,
With joyful footsteps to return,
Once more my native fields to see
Ere life's faint taper cease to burn;
While those sweet scenes around me lie,
Breathe forth my soul in sighs to God,
And 'mid the prayers of friendship die!
THE EARLY DEAD.
The grave of early youth above,
But death will dim the brightest eyes,
And quench, alas! the warmest love:
Yet we would hope the shaft which flies,
Passing the vulture to the dove,
Sends but the holy to the skies,
Through scenes of happiness to move—
To 'scape the toils, and griefs, and cares
Of waning life and hoary hairs.
Of blooming youth consign'd to death,
Nor grieve to think the slimy worm
Should banquet on so sweet a wreath!
It is as if the pride of Spring—
Her fairest flower—the beauteous rose,
Affection's holiest offering,
Were blighted ere its bud unclose—
Its fragrance, and its glorious dyes
For ever lost to mortal eyes.
The early dead resign'd to earth;
All—all must grieve, but chiefly she
Who gave the human floweret birth;
Who nursed it on a mother's knee,
Who watch'd its first essays at mirth—
A gem of more than common worth—
Who pillow'd on her nurturing breast
Its infant head in balmy rest.
When gazing on an only child,
She feels its infantine caress,
Its lisping love, its gambols wild?
And who can picture her distress,
When on the same sweet placid face
She sees the terrible impress
Of death destroying every grace,
And stealing each enchanting charm
From the soft cheek and lip so warm?
The big tears falling thick and fast,
With trembling knees and clasped hands,
Like bulrush quivering in the blast,
No more she meets the soft reply,
Once to her yearning heart so dear,
Of that bedimm'd and closed eye,
Whose ray was wont to be so clear—
Whose smiles around were sown so thick,
Whose glances once had been so quick.
Gilds the far future with its light;
No more through Time's dim telescope
She sees the glowing vision bright,
Fancy was wont to take its flight,
And oft again enjoy'd the dream,
With growing rapture and delight,
When her own child, so fair, so good,
Had grown to man or womanhood.
Is blown, like gossamer, away,
When death's unsparing hand destroys
The mother's promise-bud in May!
Yet we would hope the shaft which flies,
Passing the vulture to the dove,
Sends but the holy to the skies,
Through scenes of happiness to move—
To 'scape the toils, the griefs, the cares,
Of waning life and hoary hairs.
LINES WRITTEN ON THE LAST NIGHT OF THE YEAR 1832.
Veiling in sables her recondite brow—
Last of the year—once pregnant with delight
To my young heart; but oh! how alter'd now!
Gone is gay fancy's soft vivacious light—
Gone are my boyish hopes of bliss below,
And calm and lonely as the anchorite
I count my fleeting hours, and smile upon their flight.
But late, I was a wild and thoughtless boy,
Who would have laugh'd at such a sober thing
As I am now, with nothing to enjoy
Save silent meditation. In the ring
Of frolic I was first, and last to cloy,
But now my spirit hath relax'd its spring,
And sickens o'er the scenes to which it wont to cling.
Was hail'd by my concomitants and me:
Long ere it came, the source of fancied bliss;
And when it came, a fund of fun and glee
To boys, disguised and masking youths, whose dress
Excited mirth—whose long beards reached their knee;
Flowing from chins whose smoothness did confess
They were too long to grow from so much happiness.
Laughing as loud, and mingling with the mirth;
But years of silent sufferance and disease
Tries all our pleasures, and displays their worth,
And makes us court deep solitude and ease,
And calm reflection on the lonely hearth—
For that which pleased in health will scarcely please
The soul whose watchful eye waits for its last release.
LINES
ON HEARING AN UNKNOWN BIRD SING SWEETLY AT HALFPAST THREE ON A SUMMER MORNING.
For that sweet sylvan song of thine;
A sweeter voice I never heard,
Nor saw a fairer plumage shine.
Thou camest from—I know not where;
But this I know—that thou art tame,
And this I see—that thou art fair:
Save thine, bright bird, is fix'd on me.
Sweet minister of melody,
I could for ever gaze on thee.
Thy song to cheer my solitude:
Oh, vain request! thy wings so bright
Already bear thee to the wood.
That song 'mid rust'ling leaves is lost;
And I am left alone to muse
O'er foolish wishes early cross'd.
Enjoy while yet its moments last;
But grieve no more for that or this,
For all we love must soon be past.
SABBATH EVE.
Methinks the heart might cease to grieve
While gazing on that arch so blue,
With mercy mirror'd in its hue,
And think how short a time may bring
Repose from earthly suffering;
Or lend a wing to mount above
The spheres in which the planets move.
But scarce its image strikes the stream,
For summer's faintness o'er it creeps,
And all its bolder sparkles keeps
Entangled 'mid the misty light
Which fills the azure vault of night,
While earth and sky appear imbued
With the deep soul of solitude.
Now evening comes more still and fair;
The holy heavens are free from gloom,
The earth is green, and gay with bloom;
The blackbird's whistled note is high,
Ringing in woodland melody:
And though the cushat 'mid the grove
Be plaining, still his plaint is love.
When heaven and earth their sweets reveal,
On such a solemn eve of peace,
And Nature's stillnes would compose
Our souls, and dissipate our woes;
And from our spirits softly call
Pure hopes and thoughts devotional.
THE WISH.
Not that I wish to shine
In pleasure's circles fine,
Where the gay
Their useless wealth comsume,
Amid luxury and fume,
Nor where faded beauties bloom
In decay.
On a still-increasing store,
Or with a miser's wish for more
Ever pant;
But that I would impart
Peace to each aching heart
Which feels the bitter smart
Of pale want;
Of spreading forth the feast,
With the hungry for my guest,
And the poor;
The needy might be fed,
And the lame and blind be led
To my door.
Which the wealthy can possess,
To make man's sufferings less,
And behold
In th' lately streaming eye,
With gratitude grown dry,
Turn'd meekly to the sky:
The use of gold.
TRUE WISDOM.
Who learns himself to know,
Than he who maps the bending skies,
Or counts the flowers which blow;
Or, like the sapient Stygerite,
Can class the burning stars of night;
Or, with the Swedish sage's eyes,
Arrange in families fair and meet
Each shrub, and tree, and grass, which lies
Scatter'd beneath the wanderer's feet.
And earth must pass away,
But that which thinks must ever think,
And never know decay:
Within control each wandering thought,
Than he whose warlike skill hath led
Armies to battle and renown;
And, while unnumber'd victims bled,
Grasp'd sword and sceptre, throne and crown.
And strongest those who feel
Their follies and their faults the most;
For weakness can conceal
Its head beneath the shade of pride,
And pride can weave a web to hide
Its own unhallow'd sway,
But he who knows himself will tear
The tawdry mask away,
And to be humble nobly dare.
Some flowers may still be found—
Some lovely flowers which sin's submerse
Has never wholly drown'd—
Some buds of Eden's happier prime,
Spared in the punishment of crime,
Which Heaven can yet revive
And cherish into bloom,
And we should weed our hearts and strive
To give these blossoms room.
Are still by mortals felt,
And sympathy to melt;
And though around us must remain
The stigma of our primal stain,
Yet those by Heaven made wise,
To watch the wilderness within,
May rear the flowers of Paradise
Above the noxious weeds of sin.
Illume with heavenly light
Each self-inspecting wanderer's heart,
And make its darkness bright,
And aid each mortal effort made
The path in which He trode to tread,
That we through Him may rise,
And like Him shine, and with Him share
The boundless glories of the skies,
Which he hath labour'd to prepare.
INVOCATION.
Sweet harbingers of spring,
For the air, though calm, lacks cheerfulness,
Till you your odours bring.
On the mountain side to play;
Come forth and share the day.
On the rainbow's arch to sing,
And the humble bees, in search of you,
Are humming on the wing.
And drink the crystal dews,
And to the charms of music add
The odours you diffuse.
And gently bring to view
The friends with whom we gather'd flowers
When life to us was new—
With childhood's tiny hands—
Who now have wander'd from their homes
To far and foreign lands.
And gather with a smile
The first sweet flowers which deck the soil
Of their own native isle.
And to our memories bring
Deep dreams of those who coldly sleep
Beyond the reach of Spring.
Who wakes you with his breath—
Whose smile can renovate the dust,
And break the bands of death!
STANZAS—1834.
Grief cannot come o'er the heavy heart,
Nor shadow, nor gloom, of the demon Despair,
A moment of suffering impart.
Oh! to be over death's dark gloomy river,
To rejoice in the day-beam beyond it for ever.
Arise our souls to affright,
And embitter the sweets of our happiest dreams,
As we gaze on that valley of night;
Where the dreary absinthian waters of death
Roll, dashing our hopes, and disturbing our faith.
Are heard 'mid the fathomless gloom,
But no mortal may pierce to the gulf whence they flow,
Or discover the depth of his doom:
For the blackness of darkness appals the poor heart,
Which hath lost its bright pole-star, its compass and chart.
Who knows all its reefs and its rocks,
Enlighten its shadows, and shield from its shocks,
And pilot us safe to that region beyond,
Where the righteous no more shall despair or despond.
THE RETURN OF SPRING.
Ring with the murmurs of the busy bees;
The deep recesses of the sombre grove
Resign their silence to the songs of love;
The teeming earth shakes off the winter's gloom,
And clothes her gentle hills in robes of bloom;
The sunshine, glancing through the tepid shower,
Bursts every bud, and bathes each opening flower;
The balmy zephyrs from the genial south
Come gently, like the healthful breath of youth,
And breathing sweets, and singing birds conspire
To make my walk accord to my desire.
Might waken fancy, or inspire delight,
Or thrill the youthful heart with dreams of love,
Or draw the prayer of piety above.
Each turn I take presents some object dear
To please my eye, or sound to soothe my ear;
The sigh of leaves, the tinkling of the rill,
Oft heard before, yet heard with pleasure still;
To charm the poorest child of earth hath given—
Prove that the pleasures of the poor are dear
To Him who regulates the varying year.
The instrumental and the vocal choir,
Yet arts like these, when long continued, cloy,
And fail to stir the soul to notes of joy:
But who can tire of Nature's artless song,
Though oft repeated, and continued long?
The notes these warblers of the woods inspire,
All can enjoy alike, and all admire.
The sudden gush which fills the fairy dell—
The pause abrupt—the wild instinctive swell—
The deep response return'd from distant trees,
Mellow'd and soften'd on the evening breeze—
Can make the rudest rustic pause to hear,
And charm the nicest, most capricious ear.
THE FIRST OF WINTER.
Along the desert lea;
And moaning 'mid the forest trees
It sings a dirge to me—
The solemn dirge of dying flowers—
The first loud whistled lay
Which summons winter's stormy powers
On his coronation day,
With voice more loud, and louder still
The stormy winds sweep by, and fill
The ear with awful melody.
Each tone of that majestic harp
Wakes other tones within to warp
My soul away, amid its bass,
To the greenwood, which lately was
A picture to my eye—
Which now is murk and bare!—alas!
Its sere leaves rustle by.
A tale which saddens more—
Of hearts it tells where sorrow dwells
On many a rocky shore,
Where the poor bark is dash'd and driven,
And plunged below, and toss'd to heaven,
Amid the ocean's roar.
And oh! its wild and varied song
Hath an appalling power,
As swellingly it sweeps along
O'er broken tree and blasted flower.
The loud, loud laugh of frenzied lips,
The sigh of sorrowing breath,
The dread, dread crash of sinking ships,
The gurgling shriek of death,
Devotion's holiest cry,
Are blended with that maddening blast,
And on the chords of sympathy
Their varying accents now are cast.
Who, wrapp'd in sorrow, sits,
And in her dreaming fancy hears,
Amid its calmer fits,
The shriek of her expiring lover,
As the white wave rolls rudely over
His sinking head and struggling breath,
And dips him in the gulf of death.
It tells of orphans and of mothers,
Poor, helpless, and bereft—
It bears the love, the grief of brothers,
In lonely sufferance left;
It wafts the wail of strong despair,
Mingled with murmur'd sounds of prayer.
And true hearts throb, and bright young eyes
With burning tear-drops glisten,
As round and round its thunders rise,
Or slow in solemn moaning dies,
Saddening the ears that listen.
Of Him who on its murky wing
Rides calmly, and directs its roar,
Or stills it with his nod:
Its voice is raised even now to sing
A wilder melody to God,
Within the hollow of his hand,
Or bids it from his presence rush
In desolation o'er the land:
At his command alone it raves
O'er roofless cots and tumbling waves.
THE SIXTH PSALM.
Nor chasten in thine ire!
With mercy smoothe affliction's path,
And lift me from the mire.
O God, shall sorrow be
The subject of my daily song
And nightly prayer to Thee?
My feeble form to save!
No thanks can issue from the urn,
No praises from the grave.
My sleepless watch I keep,
Making to night my ceaseless moan—
My bed with tears I steep.
O Lord solace my woes—
Let brighter hopes illumine them,
And scatter all my foes!
For God hath heard my voice,
And bless'd with his inspiring smile,
My spirit shall rejoice.
Upon my enemies fall,
And let the grief which from them came
Return upon them all.
THE PRAYER OF THE FATHERLESS.
By thy all wise decree,
O Father of the fatherless,
Our trust is placed in Thee.
Thou know'st our bitter grief—
O Father of the fatherless,
Be near for our relief.
And all our cares dost see,
A rich provider be.
Keep us from evil free,
O Father of the fatherless,
Direct our steps to Thee.
For evermore may we,
O Father of the fatherless,
In Heaven thy children be.
THE HAPPY HOME.
To home, and friends, and country lost,
When from the waves escaped to rest
Upon some desert island's coast!
But if he see the whitening sail
Bear down upon that lonely isle,
Then hopes will o'er his fears prevail,
And paint his aspect with a smile.
Stemming the dark green ocean wave,
Prove, as the desert coast she nears,
Freighted with friends who come to save—
And dashes through the girdling foam,
To reach again his native land,
And kindred dear, and happy home.
Which seems to loiter on its way,
To urge his bark across the seas
To where affection's sunbeams play!
Oh! how he pants again to see
The walks where he was wont to roam,
His native hill, his native tree,
His native lake, and happy home!
The friends who gave each scene a charm—
Who, ere he parted from their grasp,
Bedew'd his hand with tear-drops warm.
And oh! how joyful is the day
Which brings him from the ocean foam,
With them to walk, with them to pray,
With them to share his happy home!
Upon a desert island cast;
If hope or joy our bosoms cheer,
How brief the season which they last!
And when our friends are gone before,
Through happier climes above to roam,
Why linger we upon the shore,
Nor long to reach our happy home?
Ready to hail us from the storm,
With angel eyes so bright, so fair!
With kindred souls so pure, so warm!
And though the waves, which we must cross,
Be dark, or only white with foam,
Why should we fear?—secure from loss,
They bear us to a happy home.
RELIGION.
Religion is in thoughts, and not in words.
Religion walks not in the noon-day blaze,
With pedant pomp, that giddy men may gaze:
Hers is the soul sincere—the bashful heart:
She moves in silence through life's noisy mart.
Humility informs her mien divine,
And calm retirement is her holy shrine.
She goes not forth plumed in audacious pride,
With canting affectation by her side;
But those her gentle spirit would reclaim
From folly's mazes, and the path of shame,
She bears in prayer to Him, whose glorious part
It is to change, as well as rule the heart;
And, by her meek example, strives to teach
Where vanity would prompt to stand and preach!
Nor will she ere to slander condescend:
She veils the failings which she cannot mend.
A friend to all that heart must ever prove,
Whose every thought and feeling still is love.
The spot which Misery moistens with a tear;
Where her soft hand, unknown to all, may pour
The cordial to disease, and health restore:
Or, under cloud of night, while luxury sleeps,
And penury alone his vigil keeps,
She takes her way to where the cottage low
Lies buried in a mass of drifted snow,
And there, depositing her generous boon,
Glides silently away beneath the moon;
Leaving its inmates in amazement deep,
Too happy to enjoy, or wish for sleep;
While she retires, far from their grateful lays,
Well pleased, if good is done, to lose the praise.
THE SHOUT OF VICTORY.
From the dark deep ocean's side?
And why that crash?—and why that cry
From the waves of the tumbling tide?
Majestic amid the deep;
And, white as the swan, o'er the billows dark
Bearing down with graceful sweep?
From far, far distant lands?
And does she bear what cannot be sold;
Free hearts and manly hands?
The smoke of the beacon fire,
Which blazes upon the sea-rock high
Like a tall and beautiful spire?
It rose o'er the groans of death,
As the hope of life with a shriek went out,
From the gallant ship sinking beneath.
Is the smoke of the stately wreck;
And that crash which arose, as if mountains were riven,
Was the sound of her bursting deck.
Is not for friends return'd,
But the savage joy of an enemy
Over foes in the deep inurn'd.
Where the pride of the ocean lies low,
That, though they may exult o'er their deep-sea graves.
The tears of their kindred must flow:
Bereft of their hope and their trust,
Like the tree that is broke, or the floweret that withers,
Are shedding their sweets on the dust!
The time when the sword shall corrode in its sheath;
When the spear shall be sharpen'd for pruning of wood,
And men cease to rejoice at destruction and death.
SONG TO THE RISING SUN.
On his down bed deep;
But I would not repose
While each opening rose
The dews of the morning steep.
He is filling his urn of light.
No grief is seen in his fiery eye,
For the sorrows he saw in his flight:
He tells no tale of the woes and the crimes,
Or the groans which he heard in other climes;
Nor does he drop, on his bright return,
A single tear of sorrow,
For the eyes which met him yestermorn
Quench'd long before the morrow:
No!—he wakes his joyous birds to sing,
And he opens his flowers to bloom;
And from all he has seen of suffering,
He brings no shade of gloom.
He rises as pure and as bright
Put the shadows of Chaos to flight.
Nor years, nor tears have left a mark
On his brow, which shone on the lonely ark.
He hath survived, in that azure sky,
The wrecks of a perish'd world:
He saw its hosts in the deep flood die,
And its cities to ruin hurl'd;
And he saw a phœnix-world arise
From the grasp of the whelming waves,
And forests springing beneath his eyes
From the mud which had cover'd their graves.
Let the sluggard sleep, &c.
He looks on a world of change;
He hath seen proud nations arise, and now
Their very names grow strange.
He hath seen cities sapp'd by the sea-waves' sweep,
And islands arise from the fathomless deep;
He hath seen strong towers, by a nation's strength,
And a nation's wealth cemented,
Fall tumbling down in a ruinous length
Of rubbish, unlamented.
He hath seen tall temples raised to his name,
And his priests come forth at morn;
But their orisons pleased not the god of flame,
For he pass'd them by in scorn.
From Memnon's stony heart;
And mock'd the sculptor's art.
He hath seen the towers of Tadmor grow less,
He hath smiled on the fall of Persepolis;
He saw them wax, and day after day
He shone upon them as he pass'd;
He saw them wane and vanish away,
And their sites are disputed at last.
He hath wanton'd with flowers on Assyria's plain,
He hath gazed on her idols august;
He hath look'd on the glory of Nimrod's reign,
And on Nineveh stretch'd in the dust.
He hath witness'd—the lovely, the free;
He hath warm'd the hearts of her patriots in peace,
And he shone on the pride of Thermopylæ.
He hath witness'd her sages waiting for night,
To consult by the stars or the pale moonlight;
But he hath shone till her wisdom was gone,
And her battlements levell'd low:
Till slavery sat upon Marathon,
And slaves upon Sunium's brow;
Where the wisest and bravest were born
He hath seen, as he sped on his way,
The fool and the coward sit and mourn
Like children when cross'd in their play.
And rival the mightiest in fame;
He saw her again, and she rose to the skies
In a volume of lava and flame—
While hervictor, as thousands around him expired,
Wept over the city his fury had fired.
He hath seen the eagle which floated there,
Plumed with destruction, insultingly skim,
Majcstic and high in the death-fire's glare,
With a bloody flight over all but him.
He hath seen him fall like the powerless moth,
And low in the dust he hath seen him lie—
Trampled upon by the Visigoth,
And spurn'd by the Huns of Attila—
Till the tenantless hall, and the bloody home,
Was all that remain'd of the glory of Rome.
But through the long ages of his career,
Of all which lightens or brightens the heart,
How little, alas! hath he look'd upon here!
He saw the temple of Salem arise,
And the wonder of Babylon ascend to the skies;
And the sights which he looks upon, day by day,
Are cheeks growing pale, and eyes growing dim,
Bright visions eclipsed, and hopes swept away,
And families scatter'd in ruin, like them!
Since all is change which his fiery eye
Hath look'd upon from the day of his birth,
Let us fix our hearts upon hopes more high,
And look no more for rest upon earth.
CHOLERA.
The demon of Death hath approach'd us at last,
Making empty the halls of Old Albion's homes,
And saddening our hearts, and peopling our tombs.
And who shall repell the invader, and save
The pride of our land from the grasp of the grave?
Shall the heroes who saved her, when danger was near,
With the edge of the sword and the point of the spear,
Again rally round the loved land of their birth,
And save her again from the scourge of the earth?
Shouted “victory or death,” with undaunted acclaim,
Subdued by that champion, grow nerveless and pale,
And lay down their courage, their weapons, their mail!
Like the weakest, the vilest, the meanest of men,
They fall down before him, and rise not again!
But one weapon is ours, which the weakest can wield,
Till the stubborn conqu'ror be driven from the field—
And joy re-illumine his walks of dispair:
That weapon is ardent and holiest Prayer.
For dear unto God are the prayers of the young.
The infant who smiles at a mother's caress.
Father! pray—while thy hand may provide
For the blossoms that brighten thy own fireside.
Maiden! pray—ere the pestilence' breath
Hath wither'd thy charms to the paleness of death.
Lover! pray—ere the soft cheek fade,
And the heart which returns thy affection be dead.
Have been freely bestow'd on the land of your birth—
By the love which you bear to your country, implore
The mercy of Him whom the wisest adore.
Churchman and statesman, councillor and king,
Join in a penitent offering;
High and low, young and old,
Strong and weak, fearful and bold,
Join your voices with one accord,
And lift your humbled hearts to the Lord—
That He who to Abram bow'd down his ear,
The united cry of a nation may hear;
And send forth his angels that fiend to enchain,
Who drinks up the vitals of nations like rain.
HYMNS OF THE CHURCH-YARD—I.
Let me walk softly o'er it, and survey
Its grassy streets, with melancholy pity!
Where are its children? where their gleesome play?
Alas! their cradled rest is cold and deep,
And slimy worms watch o'er them as they sleep!
Whom I have seen come forth at evening hours,
Leading their aged friends, with feelings dutiful,
Amid the wreaths of spring, to gather flowers?
Alas! no flowers are here, but flowers of death;
And those who once were sweetest sleep beneath.
The crowded buyers of the noisy mart—
The lookers-on—the showy garments rustling—
The money-changers—and the men of art?
Business, alas! hath stopp'd in mid career,
And none are anxious to resume it here.
The rich the great, the glorious, and the wise?
Where are the trappings of the proud, the gay—
The gaudy guise of human butterflies?
Alas! all lowly lies each lofty brow,
And the green sod dizens their beauty now.
Where are the poor—the old—the weary wight—
The scorn'd—the humble—and the man of woes—
Who wept for morn, and sigh'd again for night?
Their sighs at last have ceased, and here they sleep,
Beside their scorners, and forget they weep.
The gloomy are not citizens of death.
Approach and look: where the long grass is plummy,
See them above! they are not found beneath—
Nature, in flowers, contrives her mimic smiles.
And mingled tears o'er those who answer'd not:
And where are they whose eyelids then were wet?
Alas! their griefs, their tears are all forgot;
They, too, are landed in this silent city,
Where there is neither love, nor tears, nor pity.
Hath quail'd to see its shadowy dreariness;
But Christian hope, and heavenly prospects high,
And earthly cares, and nature's weariness,
Have made the timid pilgrim cease to fear,
And long to end his painful journey here.
HYMNS OF THE CHURCH-YARD—II.
With solemn step I tread,
To gaze upon the turf beneath,
Which hides th' unrecorded dead.
O'er monument or bust;
But with soft sadness to explore
The graves of those called “vulgar dust.”
And pour the ready tear;
Or weep above the poor man's bier?
And warm as ever burn'd,
And feelings pure as aught we meet,
Have been, without a stone, inurn'd.
Of names so little known,
Or tell their tales of suffering—
The humble task shall be my own.
Hath ever fann'd or wet;
Yet never dust, from human eye,
Better deserved that unpaid debt.
Who found no rest below,
Till the cold sod her soft cheek press'd,
To terminate a scene of woe.
Leaving that only child,
Who erst had been her staff and pride—
A stranger on life's thorny wild.
And, though her frame was weak,
Had toil'd and watch'd through pain and peril,
For her old bed-rid mother's sake.
Like sunlight upon snow,
Which gently tinged her maiden cheek,
Or on her white and spotless brow,
Could for a moment look—
Nor read an early destiny,
Written in that mysterious book;
When a fond mother's prayer,
And a fond mother's faint caress,
Had banish'd earthly care.
“By pain and sorrow worn,”
Took refuge in this place of rest,
And left her only child to mourn:
In languid beauty shone
On the deep azure of the sky,
Where one by one her friends had gone.
Of loneliness would gush;
While thoughts which swept o'er bygone years,
Crimson'd her cheek with rosy flush.
Too soon it pass'd away—
The beacon fire of slow decay.
A grief that murmur'd not;
It rose with the corrosive sigh,
Yet breath'd contentment with her lot.
She sought the silent shade—
In solitude to weep and pray,
And ponder on the lowly dead.
She thought her mother's voice
Whisper'd, “My Mary, do not grieve:
God calls your spirit to rejoice.”
Of feeling, to her eye
Brought the big tears with quicker rush,
And an intenser sympathy.
Sickness and pain she suffer'd;
No murmuring word escaped her tongue,
And no complaint she ever utter'd.
Her Saviour from on high—
Had sent a sunbeam to enliven
Death's gloomy vale of mystery.
And love-struck beauty sighing;
But they have felt its fullest power,
Who have beheld such beauty dying.
The pale but placid cheek,
Where the faint roses sweetly fade,
The onyx brow composed and meek.
Still dewy, but not wet;
And pure as heaven's blue bending skies—
Beauty like this we ne'er forget!
Who now lies slumb'ring here;
Whose eye was closed in death's embrace,
Without a single sigh or tear.
Was to the dust consign'd;
No friend was there her name to say,
Or load with sighs the passing wind.
Was given to soothe her rest;
If closing here her brief career,
She went to dwell among the blest!
BAPTISM.
Awoke thy little cry,
Were meant to bless, and not appal,
Thy soft blue dreaming eye.
Else smiles, instead of tears;
And love and gratitude to God,
Had been instead of fears.
Dark mysteries to see,
To heavenly blessings are as blind,
Sweet innocent, as thee!
Descends upon thy head,
As on the Lord of life and love,
Where Jordan's waters spread;—
Received that sacred rite,
Pour on thy infant soul a beam
Of pure redeeming light:
To heavenly courts arise;
And in God's golden book of fame
Be read by angel-eyes.
For thee, sweet bud of earth!
In Heaven's immutable record
Attest thy second birth.
For ever wear that smile;
And may thy heart be free, as now
From sorrow and from guile.
And on that soul of thine
May heavenly consolation flow
To bliss thy life's decline.
And Nature sinks, oppress'd,
May the Eternal Sire and Son
Welcome thee to thy rest.
SABBATH EVENING SONG.
All sounds of earth are still,
Save the wild-bee's hum, and the lapwing's cry,
And the little bird's song on the hill;
And the vapoury clouds hang motionless there,
As if they, too, had caught the spirit of prayer:
And all things full of the Deity shine—
Oh! who would not think upon things divine?
There is magic in the hour;
Psalms arise from every hearth,
And over each heart have power—
And the holy melody ascends
To a world where Sabbath never ends;
And angels will smile, as fresh garlands they twine
For those who are thinking of things divine.
The full orb'd moon walks bright,
Holding in chains of mystery
Its restless and angry might,
And writing in silvery words on the wave
The mercies of Him who is mighty to save,
And leading the sailor, with beam benign,
To look upward, and think upon things divine.
Is weak, and will wander astray,
Though the earth, and the sea, and the sky take a part
In calling our spirits to pray;
And the victim of grief still will think of his woes,
Forgetting the hand which can give him repose:
Yet, Lord, at thy smile we will cease to repine—
Illumine our souls by thy wisdom divine.
THANKS TO GOD FOR PATIENCE TO BEAR AFFLICTION.
For me my little portion of distress,
But with each draught—in every bitter cup
Thy hand hath mix'd—to make its sournessless—
Some cordial drop, for which thy name I bless,
And offer up my mite of thankfulness.
Long, obdurate, and painful; and thy hand
Hath wrung cold sweat-drops from my brow: for these
I thank thee too. Though pangs at thy command
Have compass'd me about, still, with the blow,
Patience sustain'd my soul amid its woe.
WARNINGS OF DEATH IN EVERY THING.
Warning the pious man, at dead of night,
Of thy approach grim king, unwelcome Death!
Whose arrows flee in darkness and in light.
And oft the owlet, with unsocial scream,
Hath made the soundest sleeper quickly start,
Who, wakening, pale and shivering from his dream,
Feels the dread warning curdle at his heart.
The sheeted phantom, or the shadowy wraith,
Are said to pace the room with noiseless tread,
As heralds of their king, grim-visaged Death.
That all the stories which have yet been told
By credulous age, to frighten timid youth,
Were as veracious as the mountains old—
These dark foreboding messengers proclaim
No new discovery—tell no wondrous tale:
Ages and elements have taught the same
In plainer language than the phantom pale.
Tells us of stern and uncompounding Death.
Go look abroad upon the smiling earth,
Behold the violet's bloom, the daisy's birth—
Are they not fair as thee? Go look again,
And see them wither'd from the frozen plain.
Look on the louring clouds and murky air,
Lurks not the spirit of contagion there?
The low damp breeze, with pestilential breath,
Whispers “Beware! I sow the seeds of death!”
Go to the revel—look upon the ball,
The music and the songs which gladden all,
Though each musician had a siren's breath,
Are voices from the grave, and tell of Death.
And con the sterner morals of the sea,
And hear Death's genius from that tumbling grave,
While arching with white foam the dark abyss,
His dreadful warnings to your senses hiss;
And, to enforce the appalling voice with deeds,
Behold your brethren dash'd ashore like weeds—
Though erst as full of life and strength as you;
And what is done, he oft again shall do!
Where daily, hourly, he spreads forth a shroud
Upon the whirlpool's breast of dancing foam:
Flee from these terrors to thy peaceful home,
And there, even there, the demon will attend,
His whispers with your happiest hours to blend.
Your very pride hath given the grisly seer
A power to prophecy his own career—
There Genius, wedded to laborious Art,
Hath toil'd to shape his warning to your heart.
And see the smiling lip—the changeless eye—
Pale brow—pure cheek—athletic form—and all
The grave resigns to art of ancestry,
And say, Does not the pantomime of death
Press solemnly and deep these words of fear—
“Poor fleeting race, who perish with each breath,
Soon all your charms shall only sadden here.”
WINTER AND SPRING—MARCH 1831.
Is expanding its buds to the humming bee;
'Twas the hour of the day when the purpling sky
Grows doubly sweet to the poet's eye—
When, coy as the virgin who shuns to be seen,
A beautiful damsel bedizen'd with green,
As the sweet sunbeams on the pale boughs play'd,
Walk'd trippingly down the old promenade:
A necklace of buds on her fair breast hung,
And a wordless music flow'd from her tongue,
And a coronal, made of the snowdrops bright,
Danced on her brow so enchantingly white.
Her slippers of mountain-daisies were made,
Which glow'd with a tinge of the purest red;
And light was her step, as she wantonly stray'd
In the sheltering reach of the old trees' shade.
Where the north wind blew o'er a desert wide,
A form of a different kind was seen:
His gait was unsteady, but haughty his mien.
To his fur-trimm'd robes the snow-flakes clung,
And icicles pure from his grey locks hung:
He appear'd like a giant, in stature and form,
And the cast of his brow was the frown of the storm,
Which heavily falls on the cold heart-string—
The two were the Spirits of Winter and Spring!
His eye caught a glimpse of the beautiful fair;
The sheen of the robes which the damsel had worn,
That evening appear'd to inflate him with scorn,
And, stopping at once the high tramp of his foot,
He address'd her in haste with this angry salute:
“Whence hast thou come? like a glittering toy,
Whose very existence my frown will destroy!
How dar'st thou, gay wanton, thy flowerets to twine,
On the hills I have conquer'd—the vales which are mine?
Vain fool! dost thou think that thy aspect so fair
Could tempt me for once an invader to spare?
No! hence—I have warn'd thee. I warn thee, go hence—
If thou stay'st, it shall be at thy proper expense!”
To his still growing wrath made a gentle reply:
“I come from the land where the orient palm
Spreads softly and sweetly its leaves in the calm;
Where the streams have no voice as they glide to the deep,
Which, embracing the shadows of earth, falls asleep!
From thence did I come with the swallows, to soar
Over inland and ocean, from shore unto shore;
And here have I paused in this isle of the seas,
To rest me awhile, and then fly with the breeze!”
But she met every frown of his brow with a smile,
And the churl began to look pleased in her face:
And slowly the old surly chief and the maid,
Together retired to the forest for shade;
But the moment he saw her set foot in the grove,
Old Winter grew squeamish, and sicken'd of love.
Too late he repented approaching her charms,
And, frowning again, he expired in her arms;
And gaily she smiled as she there laid him down,
For she won with a smile what he lost with a frown.
SONNET ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE YEAR 1832.
Thus thou expirest, thou momentous year—Thy last, last vital moments are departing,
And many a heart o'er thy sad lapse is smarting:
Yet not for thee falls the big burning tear;
But for the friends, than life itself more dear,
Whom thou has swept away, these drops are starting.
Bright forms which bounded lightly at thy birth—
Eyes which with love and hope were sparkling clear—
Have left an empty seat on many a hearth,
And gone where neither hope nor love can cheer:
They “take no note of time;” worms are their guests!
And thy successor, who now dimly starts
Upon us from eternity, fresh feasts
Shall give these reptiles, of fresh human hearts!
ADDRESS TO TIME—AUGUST 1836.
Stern conqueror of kings!
Beneath whose all unbounded sway,
The mightiest nations melt away,
And are forgotten things!
Oh! spare but one poor gift to me,
And I resign the rest to thee!
Or youthful bloom be mine,
Take from thy subject's form and face,
Each faintly marked and fading trace,
Stern spoiler, they are thine;
But dip not thy relentless dart
In the deep fountain of my heart!
Has taken, from my frame;
Take all the little treasured store,
Which memory holds, of hard-earn'd lore,
For these are thine to claim;
But leave me still the power to scan,
Kindly the woes of suffering man!
My soul to sternness here,
And from my heart, by torture, wring
Those gentle sympathies, which spring
Where man to man is dear;
By them be all my firmness tried!
That tender organ tear,
Which o'er the weak—the fall'n—the low—
Vibrates with sympathetic glow—
Those slender springlets spare;
And if denied the means to heal,
Still let me have the power to feel!
SCRAPS—JULY 1831.
There is no word to those who roam,So sweet, so musical, as “Home;”
The sound of its endearing name,
Thrills with delight the wand'rer's frame.
Whether 'mid Zembla's rocks of ice,
Or Syria's flowery paradise;
Whether beneath a brighter sky,
Or darker than his own, his sigh
Is for that spot which love endears,
With mutual smiles and mutual tears!
What, then, must be the thoughts of those
To whom the world gives no repose?
For whom, wherever they may roam,
Time hath no hopes, and earth no home!
They may be bless'd, for God prepares
A home, which nought but goodness shares;
And those who scorn not his command,
May journey to that happy land!
Pierce to those mansions of the sky,
The king would leave his glittering throne—
From tricks the statesman would begone—
The miser would no longer pore
Upon, or count, his precious store—
The lover would forsake his love,
To earth each heart would faithless prove;
And all would turn their eyes to where
These blessed homes they yet might share—
To catch the rapturous rays which fall
Profusely from the crystal wall
Of the Jerusalem above,
Where all is harmony and love!
The greatest of the great: for you
The hand which spread the skies abroad,
Even He who pleads our cause with God,
Who was himself to sorrow bred,
And had not where to lay his head,
Is forming in the courts of light,
Mansions for ever fair and bright—
Mansions from whose eternal walls
No evening shadow ever falls;
For time, unmeasured by the sun,
Shall there in endless ages run!
With those who had no homes shall teem:
Your Saviour's call of love receive;
Obey his will in earthly things;
Expire, and be eternal kings!
Gloomy or bright, where God is not.
His essence fills the vital air,
Upon the deep it flies abroad.
Descend to hell, and He is there—
Ascend to heaven, 'tis His abode.
With morning beams His throne He makes
In the beatitude of light;
And then for His pavilion takes
The shadows of the gloomy night:
All, all in ocean, earth, or sky,
Is ever present to His eye.
His omnipresence doth behold
The slightest motion, act, or thought
Which stirs or moves our mortal mould—
The most minute—the most remote.
The insect sporting on the breeze—
The monster of the northern seas—
With every tribe which intervenes
Betwixt these vast and far extremes—
By Him are every moment seen—
By Him are fed!
A SPRING SONG—1834.
There is a concert on the hill—
There's melody in every breeze,
And music in the murmuring rill.
The shower is past, the winds are still,
The fields are green, the flowerests spring,
The birds, and bees, and beetles fill,
The air with harmony, and fling
The rosied moisture of the leaves
In frolic flight from wing to wing,
Fretting the spider as he weaves
His airy web from bough to bough;
In vain the little artist grieves
Their joy in his destruction now.
The meanest being e'er should feel
The gloomy shadow of despair,
Or sorrow o'er his bosom steal.
But in a world where woe is real,
Each rank in life, and every day,
Must pain and suffering reveal,
And wretched mourners in decay:
When nations smile o'er battles won—
When banners wave, and streamers play,
The lonely mother mourns her son
Left lifeless on the bloody clay;
And the poor widow all undone,
Sees the wild revel with dismay.
When swell'd the bridal song on high—
When every voice was tuned to mirth
And joy was shot from eye to eye,
I've heard a sadly stifled sigh;
And 'mid the garlands rich and fair
I've seen a cheek, which once could vie
In beauty with the fairest there,
Grown deadly pale, although a smile
Was worn above to cloak despair:
Poor maid! it was a hapless wile
Of long conceal'd and hopeless love,
To hide a heart which broke the while
With pangs no lighter heart could prove.
With perfumed gifts together meet,
And from the rosy lips of May
Breathe music soft, and odours sweet:
And still my eyes delay my feet
To gaze upon the earth and heaven,
And hear the happy birds repeat
Their anthems to the coming even:
Yet is my pleasure incomplete—
I grieve to think how few are given
To feel the pleasures I possess,
While thousand hearts, by sorrow riven,
Must pine in utter loneliness,
Or be to desperation driven.
Some Eden of the deep blue sea,
Upon whose soil, from sorrow free,
Grew only pure felicity;
Who would not brave the stormiest main
Within that blessful isle, to be
Exempt from sight or sense of pain?
There is a land we cannot see
Whose joys no pen can e'er pourtray,
And yet, so narrow is the road,
From it our spirits ever stray.
Shed light upon that path, O God!
And lead us in the appointed way.
More high than mortal thoughts can reach,
For there the just and good shall meet
Pure in affection, thought, and speech;
No jealousy shall make a breach,
Nor pain their pleasure e'er alloy—
There sunny streams of gladness stretch,
And there the very air is joy.
There shall the faithful, who relied
On faithless love, till life would cloy,
And those who sorrow'd till they died,
O'er earthly pain, and earthly woe,
See pleasure, like a whelming tide,
From an unbounded ocean flow.
RESIGNATION.
By heavenly mercy blest,
When days of sorrow come at last,
To own God's pleasure best.
And though 'tis hard with joy to part,
Yet may the power be mine,
What Heaven demands, all patiently
And calmly to resign.
On earth, is hope and health—
For hope is purest happiness,
And health the greatest wealth.
But hope, and health, and happiness
Are now no longer mine,
Lord, help me, hope and health, and all,
With patience to resign.
THE POETICAL PREACHER.—No. I.
Way-worn upon life's thorny road,
Whose limbs must falter, hour by hour,
Beneath affliction's heavy load?
To thee, the voice of God address'd,
Invites to an eternal rest.
Worn down by pain and dire disease,
Till all the infirmities of age
Cluster around thy trembling knees?
Sigh not, nor mourn, for thou art press'd
To come and have eternal rest.
On earthly evanescence built,
Whose schemes in disappointment keen
Have terminated, and in guilt?
With penitential thoughts impress'd,
Come and receive eternal rest.
Some dearly loved, and valued friend,
By early death, untimely laid
Where him thou mayest no more attend?
O cease to grieve! God's will is best—
Believe, and thou shalt yet have rest.
In weariness, and want, and woe,
Give to the Lord an humble heart,
Ask and believe—He will bestow;
For all who mourn, with cares oppress'd,
May claim from Him the promis'd rest.
POETICAL PREACHER.—No. II.
Her favours o'er thy lot,
Where'er thou go'st, the opening doors
Of palace and of cot
Will welcome thee, to rest and share
Whate'er they can afford;
And ready hands will soon prepare
The downy couch, and sumptuous board.
Its cold benumbing snows
Upon thy weary heart and head,
These doors at once will close;
For kindness here is only won
By wealth—which wants it not;
While all would shun the wretch undone
As only fit to be forgot.
It is a Saviour's voice;
He woos the poor to heavenly halls,
Where all that dwell rejoice.
The meanest wretch who here may roam
May come without a doubt,
And find a glorious welcome home:
God will not cast the wretched out.
POETICAL PREACHER.—No. III.
In the spring-time of life, when the sunshine of joy
And the purple of health are combined on the cheek;
When the sweet bud of childhood unfolds in the boy,
When the passions are warm, and the judgment is weak,
Then all we behold is invested with bliss—
Delighted we gaze on the ocean and sky;
Nor wish for a paradise purer than this—
It is then that we tremble to think we must die.
To friendship and love we have plighted our faith,
And our hearts in the lap of enjoyment are laid,
Ere the sorrows of life, or the darkness of death,
Our friends have destroyed, or our hopes have betray'd;
But when toss'd by the storm, in the offing of years,
The scenes which were lovely seem lovely no more:
It is then that the voyager, 'mid sorrows and fears,
Feels pleased that the ocean of life hath a shore.
Life's bloom, like the May-thorn's foliage, deceives—
In summer the pride of the forest and plain;
But autumn divests it of fragrance and leaves,
And nought but the fruit and the prickles remain.
The fruit of existence is virtue and truth,
And happy is he in whose bosom they grow;
For they shall survive the gay foliage of youth,
And soothe the sad prickles of age and of woe:
Or dream of the gay-golden prospects to come,
The pleasures of life will decline to the last,
And its cares will increase as we march to the tomb.
Even those who have reached to the margin of time,
And worn all the blessings life gave them to wear,
Whether soaring in goodness, or sinking in crime,
Would shrink from eternal mortality here.
Yet, fear not the pressure of age or of pain,
Nor, for sorrows behind thee, disconsolate mourn:
Though life may be dark, yet it is not in vain,
And eternity's dawn shall its ending adorn.
Though the bright sun of hope on the valley of tears
May have set, in its brightness no more to arise,
We are bless'd, if the Day-Star of Mercy appears
To illumine our path through its gloom to the skies.
And in this let our hearts still rejoice and be glad,
Though surrounded with suff'rings o'er which we must grieve,
That we shall not live always, nor always be sad;
For the scene is a scene which we shortly must leave.
THE RESURRECTION OF CHRIST.
Had scarcely yet begun to shine,
Had marked the dim horizon's line,
When through the still remaining gloom
A female form was seen to stray:
She sought alone her Saviour's tomb—
She went to weep where Jesus lay.
With huried step, and look forlorn,
Along the garden path she moved,
Where late in silent grief was borne
That Master she so dearly loved.
With spices and with myrrh she came,
His sacred body to embalm;
And once again to name his name
In sorrow's sad and sick'ning qualm:
But lo! the tomb was burst!—the stone
Which barr'd its gate was backward roll'd;
The great—the glorious Dead, was gone!
Of him, the grave had lost its hold.
A moment, with suspended breath,
That faithful mourner stood to gaze
Upon the late abode of death
Thrown open to the morning rays;
Then hurriedly she went to call
Her Saviour's followers, to explore
That empty cave, and corseless pall,
Where his remains were found no more.
They came and found his funeral dress
Along the cold sepulchre strown,
But, with unspeakable distress,
They saw not him, for he was gone.
Their souls were dark, their faith was weak:
They dream'd not that their Lord could rise
Through all a passage to the skies!
And soon the sad disciples left
That melancholy spot, to mourn
Their loss—of Him they loved bereft:
They knew not that he should return.
But she who first appeared there,
Lingering—her soul's deep anguish pour'd
Before the ransack'd sepulchre
Which lately held her blessed Lord.
And down upon her knees she bent,
And turned within her streaming eyes
To give her yearning heart full vent,
When lo! a vision from the skies
Astonished her bewilder'd sight!
She saw two forms, whose garments shone,
Like sun-illumined snow—so bright
They scarcely could be look'd upon:
Yet mild were their majestic faces,
And mild their eyes of heavenly blue,
Which beam'd with more than mortal graces—
Dazzling, yet fascinating too;
And when they sweetly smiled and spoke,
And ask'd the cause of Mary's tears,
Their words, like heavenly music, broke
From the dim cavern on her ears.
Abash'd by such dread charms, she turn'd
Aside her sad and drooping head;
But still her heart in sorrow yearn'd
To know where she might find the dead.
Beaming with looks of tenderness,
An eye more bright, a face more fair
Than those she left within, were His!
Yet seemed He mortal—for His hand
Displayed a deep impurpled wound;
And sure in heaven's eternal band
No semblance of a scar is found.
But never mortal form before
Seem'd half so glorious to her eye
As His whose brow so kindly wore
Compassion with its majesty.
He saw her weep, and question'd why,
But she mistook his words—though clear—
And answered, with a burning sigh,
“I seek for one who is not here.
Rabboni, pray thee, tell me where
The body of the Lord is laid,
That I may to the spot repair,
And weep once more above the dead!”
“Mary!”—He said: that tender tone
In one short moment brought to mind
A friend whom she before had known—
A friend benevolent and kind;
And in her gladness at the sight,
Her risen Saviour she had press'd:
Then stooping down, in humble plight,
His very feet with rapture kiss'd.
But he forbade that fond embrace,
Yet offer'd no austere rebuke;
For mercy mantled o'er his face,
And mercy beam'd in every look.
Thy steps to where my brethren pine;
Say that their Lord shall soon ascend
Up to their Father, and to mine.”
Vanished from her still longing eyes;
And Mary, fluttering with delight,
Went forth his followers to surprise.
That mourning brotherhood to bless,
Who, reckless of contempt and shame,
Had followed him in faithfulness.
Still, of the Twelve, one had not seen
His Saviour since from death he rose;
For he before had absent been
And doubts and fears still round him close.
And yet once more when silent night
Hung heavy o'er the slumbering land,
That Saviour burst upon their sight,
And show'd his perforated hand,
And pointed to his pierced side,
That all their doubts, and all their fears,
For ever might be satisfied—
And cheer'd their hearts, and dried their tears.
A fountain, sinful souls to lave;
He rose and took the sting from death,
And wrench'd the terrors from the grave.
And suns and moons through darkness driven,
With angel hosts, on fiery cars,
He comes from the high gates of heaven—
When all the generations gone,
At the archangel's voice appear,
And, ranged around his Judgment Throne,
Stand tremblingly their doom to hear,
Who shall not quake with fear to see
Creation's mighty fabric shake
Before that Man of Galilee
Who suffer'd once for sinners' sake?
OH! LET NO TEAR.
Oh! let no tearBedew your eye, to see me die;
Nor any fear
Disturb your heart, to follow where I fly!
WARNING GIVEN BY THE SETTING SUN—1831.
The tranquil stillness of the evening hourBrings to my mind the deeper hush of death;
To me, the breathing zephyrs have a power,
Which speaks of the last sigh of parting breath:
Even the bright sun, as slow he sinks away,
Thus writes with his red beam upon the lake:
“Many bright eyes which shone with me, to-day,
With me, to-morrow, shall no more awake!”
THE PASTOR.
As with a parent's eye—
To teach the young, and warn the old,
That all on earth must die:
And more than all, to paint, to prove
To the faint gaze of faith,
How Jesus' sacrificial love
Brought life to them from death;
To tame the proud with truths severe—
The vile dissembler's mask
To rend, without respect or fear;
This is the Pastor's task!
Bold vice triumphant boast—
To deem his vigils and his prayers,
By God and mankind lost;
To feel the everlasting fate
Of sinners on his head;
And tremble, as he scans the weight
Of guilt and judgment dread;
To think they scorn his warning voice,
Whose souls to him are dear—
And court damnation as their choice;
This is the Pastor's fear!
To wait with patient eye,
Mid sufferings which he cannot cure,
Wants he can not supply;
Whose children, in despair,
Just hush their wailing cry for bread
To listen to his prayer;
To hear the groans, and see the woes,
Which will not brook relief—
The widow's and the orphan's woes;
This is the Pastor's grief!
So full of grief and fear?
Has earth no scenes his heart to glad?
No sounds his soul to cheer?
Yes!—holy, happy is his choice,
When sinners round him meet
To listen to his sacred voice,
And all their fears repeat:
The trickling tears, and upturn'd eyes,
Which give their spirits scope,
Promise to him a heavenly prize;—
This is the Pastor's hope!
Touch'd by his warm appeal,
Is taught to think, repent, and pray,
With faith, and love, and zeal:
When he beholds some maiden's tear
Fall o'er the word of God,
And knows her feelings are sincere,
And that from love it flow'd:
If maiden, man, or boy,
Seem'd turn'd from darkness to the sky;
This is the Pastor's joy!
When earth's proud pomp shall fade;
When God shall burst her burial clay,
And raise her countless dead—
To meet, amid the blest in heaven,
Many to whom he bore
The sacred hope of sins forgiven,
And warn'd to sin no more—
Mortals who pity him!—this is,
For all his labours hard—
Who would not wish to call it his?—
The Pastor's blest reward!
THE LAST FAREWELL.
Dear christian, fare-thee-well!
The glory thou shalt soon inherit
No mortal tongue can tell!
That last adieu of thine:
Ah! who could part with one so dear—
So loved—and not repine?
On earth we miss the most;
Yet those who long on earth have striven,
Sigh for that peaceful coast.
And He, whose staff and rod
Supports thee in the vale of death,
Shall ever be thy God.
And mourn thy vacant clay,
Thy soul shall wing its flight on high,
Beyond the milky way!
And blest are those who die
In Jesus; for their bodies rest—
Their spirits scale the sky:
And, to their crowns above,
Their King shall add a heavenly gem
For every work of love.
No; brighter hopes remain:
There comes at last a glorious day
When we shall meet again.
Our souls shall meet in heaven;
Our sins shall be forgiven.
Dear christian, fare-thee-well!
The glory thou shalt soon inherit
No mortal tongue can tell!
MY GRANDMOTHER.
And pain and poverty have pass'd,
Since last I listen'd to her prayer,
And look'd upon her last—
Yet how she spoke, and how she smiled
Upon me, when a playful child;
The lustre of her eye—
The kind caress—the fond embrace—
The reverence of her placid face—
All in my memory lie
As fresh as they had only been
Bestow'd, and felt, and heard, and seen
Since yesterday went by.
Her household tasks so featly done—
Even the old willow-wicker seat
On which she sat and spun—
The table where her Bible lay,
Open from morn till close of day—
The standish, and the pen,
With which she noted, as they rose,
Her thoughts upon the joys, the woes,
The final fate of men,
And sufferings of her Saviour-God—
Each object in her poor abode
Is visible as them.
The faithful admonitions given,
And glorious hopes which flattered not,
But led the soul to heaven:
These had been hers, and have been mine
When all beside had ceased to shine—
When sadness and disease,
And disappointment and suspense,
Had driven youth's fairest fancies hence,
Short'ning its fleeting lease:
'Twas then these hopes amid the dark,
Just glimmering like an unquench'd spark,
Dawn'd on me by degrees.
Brighter than sun or star supplied;
And never did they shine more bright
Than just before she died.
Gray clouds had clothed the evening skies,
And darkness was abroad;
But still she turn'd her gaze above,
As if the eternal light of love
On her glazed organs glowed;
Like beacon fire at closing even,
Hung out between the earth and heaven,
To guide her soul to God.
Beaming with everlasting bliss,
As if the eternal world in view
Had wean'd her eyes from this;
And every feature was composed,
As with a placid smile they closed
On those who stood around,
Who felt it was a sin to weep
O'er such a smile, and such a sleep,
So peaceful, so profound:
And though they wept, their tears express'd
Joy for her time-worn frame at rest—
Her soul with mercy crown'd.
Were, “Friends and daughters, lay me down:
In Jesus bosom let me hide
Your spirits and my own!”
She stretch'd her limbs, composed her arms,
As death had been the prince of charms—
Nor breath'd a sigh or groan:
Which fell upon her reverent face!
Wrinkles, than roses blown
Seemed fairer far; the spirit shed
Such beauty, as it upward fled
To the eternal throne!
THE PARTING GIFT.
As rated in the world's esteem,
Which makes the boon by Friendship left
A thing of such importance seem:
Its worth can ne'er be weigh'd in gold—
Its value never can be told.
The recollections which endear,
The memory of those sympathies
Which flow'd forth with the parting tear,
When that last pledge of love was given
Full in the eye of earth and heaven.
Whatever tends to bring to view
The friend who bow'd his head in grief,
And bade his cherish'd friends adieu,
To the lorn heart is dearer far
Than all the gold of Istakar.
Who've felt the heaviness of heart
Which follows that sad word “Farewell,”
When friends, by time endear'd, depart,
How fondly the lone spirit clings
To faithful love's minutest things.
When wandering in a foreign land;
The lovely vale—the mountain high—
The rock magnificently grand?
Ah, no! it is that little token
Given by a heart, at parting, broken.
He bears it wheresoe'er he goes;
He holds it in his dreams of rest,
He grasps it 'mid his toils and woes;
And vain were Nature's brightest smile,
If it had caught his glance the while.
His ear hath caught a sweeter sound;
His kindled eye is blind with tears,
And all is vacancy around:
The home of his sweet infant years,
And those he loved, alone appears.
The wanderer's farewell ditty sung—
Of parting friendship never wrung;
Who never have been doom'd to mark
The dead man's bier, or exile's bark.
And while we breathe in mortal dust—
Although it tear and rend the heart
In twain, yet part, for once, we must;
For the strong arm of tyrant Death
Will break the firmest earthly faith.
And parting gifts again be given,
For this hath been decreed to all
Who breathe beneath the cope of heaven;
But those who meet in that domain
Shall never, never part again.
THE RETURN.
The soul directs her flight
Where some faint beams of earthly hope
Begem the general night.
Each point which scintillates the gloom
Of this low world, appears
A star of promise; but, alas!
It must be quench'd in tears,
Too often and too long,
And bless'd the sparkling vanities
Whose lustre led me wrong:
Like crystal spars at distance seen,
They glitter'd on my sight;
But they were cold as icicles,
And brittle, too, as bright.
In distant lands to roam,
My soul went forth in search of them
Far from its native home;
And, like the prodigal, at last,
It spent its little store
To purchase pleasures, which, when touch'd,
Shrunk to return no more;
On which the vulgar feed,
Seem'd to my famish'd soul a feast,
Though not for me decreed:
The greedy herd had gulp'd them down,
While I stood gazing by;
Too proud to share their gluttony,
To join their ranks too shy.
When all his wealth was gone,
My soul now looks for happiness
To a Father's love alone.
At last, O Lord, to thee;
Unworthy to be call'd thy son,
Thy servant let me be.
With friends or foes to meet;
But let thy love sustain my heart,
Thy grace direct my feet.
Let all my pleasures and my hopes
From thee derive their birth,
But ne'er permit my heart again
To trust its all to earth.
We know thou wilt not spurn—
Bless me with true humility,
And welcome my return.
Oh let thy cheering promises
Shine on my darkness here,
And those bright hopes, which thou canst give,
Still dissipate my fear.
A VISION, OF AMBITION.
Was giften to behold
A heart whose aspirations high
Were hid in mortal mould:
Its workings, which no eye could see,
Were seen and visible to me.
I had the power to scan;
Although they glow'd not on the cheek
Of that mysterious man;
For of his heart I felt the heat,
And heard the pulse of passion beat.
I knew him from a boy,
And watch'd the progress of his mind,
And mark'd its pain and joy;
Nor did he e'er to me disguise
The feelings hid from other eyes.
And unassuming gait,
Whose form had been right rarely seen
Among the proud or great;
And never did he court their gaze,
Or seem solicitous of praise.
A lonely life he led—
Shadows which bound in solitude
The home where he was bred;
And in that sacred calm he nursed
Strange dreams and fancies from the first.
And poverty, he knew,
Was held in scorn by every boor,
And therefore he withdrew,
He loved mankind, and mourn'd their woes.
Within his humble home,
Which rose all selfishness above,
And still'd the wish to roam;
His parents twain—a hoary pair
Bending with feeble age—were there.
Their dim and fading eyes;
And morn and even their earnest prayer
For him was heard to rise:
Like ancient trees, they seem'd to lean
On one still vigorous, young, and green.
And braved the winter's blast;
Alternate drench'd with rain and sweat,
His early life was pass'd;
And he had nought to lure his heart
From those deep shadows to depart.
Itself on all he did;
Though from the few with whom he mix'd,
As said, it had been hid:
And here, too, I could scan its aim,
Although unknown, unscann'd by them.
Yet his ambition was,
That God's own Son should call him Brother,
And plead with God his cause,
And raise him to a throne and crown,
From which on kings he should look down.
AUTUMNAL VERSES—1836.
Along the wintry wood,
Ye bear a warning in your voice
To the wicked and the good.
And rustle at our feet,
Ye bring a moral to the heart,
Alas! both sad and sweet.
Vain Beauty, in thy bloom—
Behold this scene, and humbly brook
An emblem of your doom!
Bedeck'd with foliage fairest,
Must soonest meet the blasts that beat
Its bending twigs the barest:
Danced lightest to the day,
Now with the lowest lie, and now
Mix in the same decay.
Thus fall the proud and high,
And, in the same dark region met,
On the same level lie.
Which power and pride display;
And go ye smiles of loveliness
Which last but for a day.
Through Nature's ample range,
Must perish with the years that pass,
Or with the seasons change;
And smiles that cannot die,
I now would teach my heart to rise,
And lift my drooping eye.
In blood the Saviour shed—
To them, and Him who ransom'd them,
Be all my wishes led.
In this low world of care,
And live for ever there.
Which earthward howl and hiss,
Shall be unfolded, gloriously,
In that high world of bliss.
From these bright forms above,
Be their fair images on earth
The objects of my love.
THE BENEVOLENCE AND SUFFERINGS OF THE SAVIOUR.
Who died for sinners to atone,
Think on your Lord, and hope not here,
Freedom from sorrow and from fear;
Think not self-sacrificing love,
Unnoticed by the Powers above,
Nor falter in your faith;
Nor deem benevolence in vain,
Though kindness shown to suffering men
Should seem repaid with grief and pain,
Or even with groans and death.
Spoke peace to men where'er he trod
Obedient to his Father's will,
Labour'd for their salvation still;
Pitied their woes, and, o'er the grave,
Wept for the dead he came to save:
He was the widow's prop,
The orphan's stay, the stranger's shield;
And lepers cleansed, and sickness heal'd,
Bespoke His kindness, and reveal'd
His power with Death to cope.
Though free from sin, from suffering free!
He lived a Man of Woe, and died
With malefactors side by side:
And why should earth to us afford
Enjoyments she denied her Lord?
While here still let us try,
In midst of suffering and shame,
To praise and bless His holy name,
Who took upon Himself our blame,
And deign'd for us to die.
SELFISHNESS.
And mony a ane I've paidled,
Between auld Cupar toun and Perth,
Unbridled and unsaddled—
Upon the land that bore me,
The sisters, Greed and Selfishness,
Were trottin' aye before me.
And aften I hae seen them
Wi' Justice, an auld cripple carle,
Jog, jogging on between them.
Were worn to perfect tatters;
His coat was plaister'd owre wi' grease,
And dow'd as ony hatter's.
Through mony a mire they'd broden—
He lost his sword, his dirk, his brogues,
As far back as Culloden;
Were now his last protection,
And aft he quoted verse and clause,
And chapter, page, and section;
Sair sloutch'd, and scuff'd, and cloutit;
His back was bow'd, and like to break,
And low the body loutit.
And sair the limmers jogg'd him—
They elbow'd him, and flogg'd him;
On week-day, or on Sunday,
Which ne'er a minute still did stand—
Jow'd sair at ilka jundy.
Yet nae gudewill they bore him;
And aye when they desired to meet,
They reakit round before him:
In their refined embraces,
They aften clutch'd and peel'd the skin
Frae ane anither's faces.
In the familiar grapple;
For aft the headstrong limmers, baith,
Were rivin' at his thrapple.
Whae'er has heard or seen them,
Declares he leads an awfu' life,
O' tear an' wear between them.
THE DYING MOTHER.
'Twas summer's sweetest time—
The rose was in its richest bloom,
The lily in its prime;
And shed his softest light
Upon the moss-clad cottages,
Half hidden from the sight.
Which spread their arms above
These shelter'd homes of humble life,
And unassuming love.
The birds their softest song;
The pearly dew was glittering
The long green grass among.
Upon the village green,
And grey-hair'd sires, with sober smiles,
Stood gazing on the scene.
With ivy tendrils bound,
A little group in silence sat,
Heedless of all around.
Twin babes they seem'd to be—
Look'd sadly in each other's face
While leaning on her knee.
And tears were in her eye;
And her poor infants also wept—
Alas! they knew not why.
To their poor mother's heart,
They could not feel the farewell pang
Which told that they must part.
They felt no withering fears;
They saw their mother's heart was sad,
And theirs were filial tears:
With resignation strove,
And sorely was she tried to leave
These objects of her love.
As if she could compress
An age of weeping tenderness
Into that wild caress;
To heaven with fearful smiles,
Which lay like purple isles.
There rose a transient bloom,
Alas! it was the blush of death—
A blossom from the tomb.
Where soon she hoped to dwell,
Full soon again her sadden'd eye
On her fair infants fell;
And clasp'd them close and long;
And while she kissed their rosy cheeks,
Her soul broke forth in song.
THE SONG.
There comes a time to weep,
When no fond mother's care shall soothe
Your sobbing hearts to sleep;
So feebly and so low,
Your mother's sadden'd soul is warn'd
That hence it soon must go.
The warning it hath given,
Then I must cease to grieve, my babes:
There is no grief in heaven.
Will labour to provide;
And smile, when evening comes, to see
Your little wants supplied?
Or kiss away the tears
Which gather on your dimpled cheeks,
And calm your infant fears?
The works of God to scan?
Or teach your hearts how merciful
His Maker is to man?
With persevering care;
And teach your tongues to lisp betimes
God's holy name in prayer?
It wrings my withering heart
To leave you lone and comfortless—
To think that we must part.
Your smiles to dry my tears
Will watch your wandering footsteps, and
Protect your helpless years.
I wept, but wept not so:
Beyond the reach of woe.
In a cold world of strife,
Where cares, and snares, and sufferings,
At every step are rife.
Nor doubt my endless love,
Though I must leave you here below
To join the blest above.
Your sainted sire, and kiss
My cherub, who will know me well
Amid the bowers of bliss.
My spirit shall return
To those whom I have left on earth,
In want and woe to mourn.
A supplicating breath
For beings loved, and left below,
Amid the snares of death,
With an unceasing prayer,
Till you, and all I loved earth,
Are safely landed there.”
THE MANIAC.
For sad, sad's the tale that it tells unto you;
And pity, ye maids, who in love's sweetest shades,
Ha'e the lads that are dearest aye nearest in view:
Were sprinkling wi' roses the bonny blue sky,
A gallant ship rode, wi' her canvass abroad,
'Mid the roar o' the wild waves and waterfowls' cry;
A waefu' look back to their friends on the quay,
Who watch'd o'er her way, as she dash'd through the spray,
And lit wi' her white sails the waste o' the sea.
There linger'd to gaze on that gallant ship's crew;
And wi' hearts fu' o' fears, and e'en fu' o' tears,
They bade their sad sailors a silent adieu.
And the blush on her cheek sae enchantingly fair?
Why heaves she sae high her young breast wi' a sigh?
Nae father nor friend has the lone maiden there.
And shame-faced, and silent, and trembling she stood,
To watch the proud vessel, wi' prouder waves wrestle,
As gaily she dash'd through the white foaming flood.
Apart, to their homes, now deserted by those
Whose eyes' lovely light had illum'd them last night,
Whose songs o' the ocean had soothed their repose.
And linger alane on the cauld narrow quay?
And why does she mark that foreign-bound bark,
As if a' that she loved on the earth were at sea?
The cause o' her blushes, the cause o' her pain—
A scream from the girl gave the tidings of peril,
And each eye turn'd back to the bark on the main.
A boat was flung off by the crew from her bow;
And all could perceive, as they gazed but to grieve,
That the poor maiden's lover was drowning below.
For cauld, cauld he lay in the deep rolling sea:
Herswimming brain burn'd a moment, then turn'd!
A poor homeless stranger, and maniac, was she!
She sang her sad dirges in sickness and sorrow,
Till the sea-mews on high, to her seem'd to cry,
“Thy sailor—thy lover—he'll meet thee tomorrow!”
And smilingly kiss'd them, then droopingly sigh'd;
And his offerings of pearl, and sea-shells, and coral,
She press'd to her quick-beating heart as she died!
THE LAND OF BEAUTY.
To this melodious store
Of treasured memories, would add
One faint memorial more.
Where beauty's eyes may beam,
A stranger would insert his own,
Though that were but a dream.
Not his the serious lay
Which warns the young how soon the charms
Of youth must pass away.
Nor heard a yellow leaf
Fall, rustling, from the autumn groves
Without a shade of grief;
T' anticipate the time
When youth and beauty, withering,
Must mourn their fleeting prime;
A joyful solace seek
In visions of that happy land
Where youth is on each cheek;
And there no leaf is sere,
And there no autumns blight the bloom
Of an eternal year.
Like sunny waters, play
On faces whose transcendent charms
Can never know decay.
In liquid lustre shine,
Can dim their beam benign.
Of rapturous songs arise,
From lips whose every breath is tuned
To anthems of the skies.
In that celestial Land,
To hold communion chaste and high
With beauty's holiest band;
The young—the good—the fair,
To veil their evancscent charms,
And seek for glory there;
Alone may beauty be
From withering eares, and blighting time,
And sin and sorrow free.
THE ORPHAN WANDERER;
OR, KINDNESS FOR KINDNESS.
PART I.
While cauld winds whistled o'er,
A wee bit tremblin' wanderer
Came to my cottage door.
And warm'd his little feet;
And asked him why he wander'd thus?
And wherefore did he greet?
When the young stranger said:—
“Alas! good sir, my father kind,
And mother dear, are dead!”
In pitying tones, said I;
“Ye hae gude cause to wander thus—
Gude reason, too, to cry!
Nor place where ye may rest,
Nor friend, nor relative, to whom
Your wants may be express'd?”
“Nae freind remains to me—
My last, last dear protector, died
When my mither closed her e'e!
Who pledged his blessed word
To guard the helpless orphan's head;
And bade me trust the Lord!
His wisdom to direct me—
His mercy to forgive my sins—
His shadow to protect me.
And aye try to believe
The truths my mither tell'd to me;
For she could ne'er deceive.
And cauld winds round me blew,
I thought upon her dying words,
And time has proved them true!
And he dispised me not;
Me to your shelt'ring cot!”
Said I; “and cease to fear;
You're welcome here this night to rest,
And share our hamely cheer:
Is very, very sma',
And though our house but scantly keeps
At bay the drifting snaw,
I trust God aye will lend
The means to shelter hameless heads
Wham He may hither send!
And from your modest mien,
You have not learn'd the vagrant art,
Nor long a wanderer been:
Dims the soul's noblest ray;
And bashfulness and modesty
In misery wear away.
With the quick blush between;—
How long, my little man, have you
A lonely wanderer been?”
“Aye since my mither died;
But on her grave, the grassy sod
Nae simmer's sun has dried.
A dowy day to me—
They laid her in the cauld kirk-yard,
Beneath a leafless tree.
But nae kind friend was there
To shed a tear above the dead,
Or for her orphan care.
At Mr Moldwart's mill,
And gladly for my daily bread,
I'd been a spinner still;
My dear, dear mither dying,
And lull'd by the incessant sound
Of wheels around me flying,
Was past, I fell asleep:”—
Remembrance here o'ercame the boy—
He paused awhile to weep;
And swore the mill was broken;
With oaths I ne'er have spoken.
By me be minced or mutter'd;
For my mither said they were unfit
By mortal to be utter'd.
With neither friend nor brither
To tak me in, or pity me,
Except my dying mither.
Upon the warld driven,
I've been a lonely wanderer,
Without a guide but Heaven!”
I doubtna, ye hae borne
From those who think the wandering poor
Fit objects for their scorn.
Ye may hae to endure;—
But whether are ye treated best
Amang the rich or poor?”
“The rich, at times, gie mair;
But in my sorrows and distress,
They never seem to share;
They tried to treat me weel,
That folk maun aye be puir themsel's
Before they learn to feel.
The first nicht I was out;
An' then ye'll ken how they, at times,
Can drive puir things about.
He chased me wi' his dog;
And tell'd me to be gone, and said,
I was a thieving rogue.
Nor shelter at his farm,
Though I was hungry, sick, an' cauld,
An' he was weel an' warm.”
Attentively I listen'd,
The little orphan still pursued
That tale with eyes which glisten'd:—
With neither barn nor byre;
And there a poor man took me in,
And warm'd me at his fire.
Though he had little store—
And said that he was vex'd to think
He could not give me more.
Where, in a cattle-shed,
Puir hameless beggar wanderers
Had sometimes found a bed.
Wha, with an angry stare,
Said, that nae wandering vagabond
Sould ever nestle there:
His stable had defiled
With vermin waur than mice or rats;
And then the rich man smiled.
Wi' beatin' heart I turn'd—
Half-choked wi' grief, to think that I
Had been sae proudly spurn'd.
Nae place remain'd for me,
To lay me down an' die.
And cluds o' whirlin' drift,
Wi' death in view, an' no a starn
In a' the darkenin' lift,
Ae hope had power to charm—
The hope my wither's soul would meet
Wi' mine an' mak it warm.
Nae mair to rise again;
An' yet sae weary was my life,
The thought gae little pain.
Grow cauld, an' stiff, an' stark,
When a bit lighty blinkit out,
Like aizle mid the dark.
Broke in upon my breast;
For that sma' glimmer seem'd to gie
Promise o' bield an' rest.”
And turn'd his head about;
But warming as his story ran,
I long'd to hear it out.
A lang, lang breath he drew;
And where his simple tale left aff
He thus began anew:—
For twa-three minutes mair
Had left me frozen to the snaw,
To feed the croupies there.
I tried my feet to rin;
An', as I ran, I felt a glow
Down at my taes begin.
Owre a braid trackless moor,
Until that friendly lamp-lowe brought
Me to a laigh-house door.
That little lanely sheil,
I saw a lassie like mysel',
And a woman at her wheel.
But she seem'd sad and sick;
For marks o' sorrow an' disease
Were baith upon her cheek.
For tears were in her e'e;
An' baith were kind to me.
I soon was gi'en to learn,
That the lassie, wha was fatherless,
Was her mither's only bairn.
The sufferin's I had borne—
The wants and waes o' poverty—
An' sneers o' bitter scorn.
As she had been my mither;
An' I thought the lassie's face grew pale,
As if I'd been her brither.
While tears were on her cheek,
‘How had your mither's heart been wrung—
But, oh!—I scarce can speak!
Had kenn'd what was to be,
And seen the bitter, bitter blasts,
Her orphan was to dree.
Sae simple an' sae young,
To wander owre the dreary moor
Whare the robber-man was hung!
Puir manny, when ye pass'd
The rickle whare the murder'd laird
Last winter breathed his last!’
The lassie left her chair,
An' bade me come an' warm my feet,
An' thaw my frozen hair.
I got the warmest seat;
An' frae the hands o' poverty
Received baith heat an' meat.
As happy as a brither;
For we were nearly the same age,
An' likit ane-anither.
At her lang weary task,
We had a thousand little things
To answer an' to ask.
She, on the hearthstane, spread
Her ain red cloak an' coverlit,
For me to mak' a bed.
An' bade us baith to pray
The mercies o' the day.
A happy watch would keep;
For when a stranger was within,
She said she couldna sleep.
As thus the widow spoke;
An', guessing what was passin' there,
Again she silence broke:—
For she believed me good;
But a woman she had lately lodged
Had stown awa her hood.’
She did not think me ill;
For to be thought a thief, had gi'en
Me cause of sorrow still.
Howl'd dowily an' deep,
The warmness o' her little fire
Soon lull'd me fast asleep.
As I had found again
A mither's house, and mither's fire,
And mither o' my ain;
An' mitherly to me,
That I forgot the ills I'd borne,
An' ills I had to dree.
That clickit on the wa',
Began to bir and then to strike
The little hour o' twa.
The widow whare she sat—
And, oh! the anguish o' her look
I never can forget.
Her face seem'd time-about
As red as is the redest rose,
An' white 's the whitest clout.
And thought a whisper there,
At times, came from her sickly lips,
As if they moved in prayer.
Whare her ain Phemy slept;
And clasp'd her hands in agony,
And hung her head, an' wept.
O' feelin' or disease,
Awa by slow degrees.
An auld and weel-worn book,
From its ain shelf upon the wa',
Wi' carefu' hand she took;
It was the Book o' God—
A smile came owre her sadden'd face—
Her e'en mair brightly glow'd:
As if in heaven above
Her ardent look could fix upon
Some object of her love.
Glow'd wi' a tint sae bonny,
That I hae never seen sinsyne
A face sae fair on ony.
A clear an' sparklin' tear,
Which show'd her joy was mix'd wi' grief—
Her hope combined wi' fear.
And owre and owre again
I thought, on earth, what could it be
Had gi'en her sicken pain?
And, strange as it may seem,
I saw that widow-woman still;
For she was in my dream.
And sometimes she seem'd dying,
Wi' her orphan greetin' owre the bed
Whare her last friend was lying.
I, too, began to weep;
For something, dinnelin', owre the nerves
O' a' my frame did creep.
Had just unclosed its e'e;
And, in a dover, there she sat—
Her head upon her knee.
She wauken'd wi' a start;
And then the fang o' dire disease
Seem'd cankerin' at her heart.
And a' the springs o' joy;
But powerless were the pains she felt,
Her pity to destroy.
Benevolence seem'd to melt;
With every pang she felt.
She stretch'd hersel' and sigh'd!
Oh! she was like my mither then,
A fortnight ere she died!
I thought might shortly be
As hameless, and as fatherless,
And mitherless as me!
And, though baith weak and wae,
She raise, an' through her morning moil,
Prepared hersel' to gae.
And patiently prepared
Her frugal meal, and generously
Wi' me her parritch shared.
The food I thought sae fine;
Her heart had lost the tone o' health
That animated mine.
Her breast sae warm an' kind,
Was fu' o' sorrow and o' pain,
And now her form seem'd pined.
When strength to win and have
Was gane, the blunted appetite
Had ceased support to crave.
Of pity upon me,
‘Puir laddie, whare your mither is,
Mae mithers soon maun be!
Her hand was on her breast—
‘Which warns me that my throbbing heart,
Ere it be lang, maun rest!’
And then her mither stay'd
Her speech to me, and turning round,
‘What ails ye now?’ she said.
My first, my latest, born:
Oh! dinna fear, while God is near,
Though I be from you torn!
When none remain to care
For her complaints—look down on her,
And hear her humble prayer!
God's mercy will supply
Who upon him rely.
Last night, I sadly pray'd
A promise in His Holy Book
Has open'd to my aid.
The raven's helpless brood
Will guard your head in danger's hour,
And still provide your food;
Nor mourn at God's decree;
For He can doubly recompense
You for the loss o' me.’
The widow sae resign'd:
It brought my mither's latest looks,
And last words, to my mind.
O' her puir helpless bairn,
And thought upon my ain hard fate,
My heart began to yearn.
We there thegither sat,
Exchanging mony a waefu' look
As silently we grat.
It wrung my heart to leave
The widow an' her orphan bairn
In solitude to grieve:
Could yield them nae relief,
There was a link o' friendship in
Our very, very grief.
A heart o' stane or steel,
To hear the widow biddin' me
A lang and last fareweel.
I think I see her yet;
Her tremblin' lips, and shakin' hands,
I never can forget,
And lean'd against the wa'
Breathless, and pale, and pantin', like
The fainting e'er they fa'.
Could mak' a place sae dear:
How gladly had I linger'd there
Again their words to hear!
Maun set his heart on nane,
Wi' heavy heart, my lane.
Whare a' thing disappears—
I turn'd to look upon the place
I had bedew'd wi' tears—
And been sae very glad,
And seen sae muckle sorrow, and
Had grown sae very sad:
On the auld divet seat,
The mither lean'd against the wa'—
My heart began to beat.
Upon a sandy knowe,
And no a breath o' wind wad blaw
To cool my breast or brow.
That fit o' sorrow nursed:
I loosed my waistcoat buttons there,
And thought my heart wad burst.
In that wild spot alane,
And grat till I was sick again
Upon that auld grey stane.
And sad, and sair, sinsyne,
When thinkin' on that lassie's fate,
Sae like, alas! to mine;
That was sae gude an' kind,
Lies cauld, cauld in the kirkyard now,
That dwellin' o' the pined.
Wi' cauld an' hunger black—
A friendless, hameless, helpless thing,
Wi' nane her part to tak'.
O Phemy can I hear,
And though she's seldom frae my mind,
I dinna like to spier.
A thing sae slim and weak
Will sink aneath the withering
That chill's the orphan's cheek;
I'll never see her mair,
But while a thought in memory lives,
Her image will be there!”
The little wanderer's story—
His sympathetic sorrow.
In timmer plates were servin',
An' glad was he to tak a share,
Like ane wha had been starvin'.
Nae langer watch he keepit,
For down we spread his little bed,
And there he soundly sleepit.
And sympathies, and fears,
Were rais'd by that wee wand'rers' tale
O' sorrows an' o' tears.
Before my fancy rose,
With all her wants and sufferings,
And unbefriended woes.
Sae little an' sae young,
Intelligent and desolate—
For him my heart was wrung.
And still he was my guest,
And simple as his fare might be,
He said “it was a feast.”
And ilka sigh he drew,
Still brought his noble sympathies
And sorrows a' to view.
On pity, when bestow'd;
And ever and anon his cheek
With richer crimson glow'd.
And through the wild deray
Of his untutor'd mind, I saw
The beams of genius play.
Lay sleepin' in his e'e,
And music dwelt upon his lips
As rich as rich could be:
Like blackbird's on the tree—
And from his glowing heart it gush'd
As sweetly and as free.
Had been his solace lang,
And aften had he soothed his woes
With some bewailing sang.
He sung with touching skill:
He, too, full well could trill.
And how the big tears sprung!
While the sang o' Highland Mary
With laigh sweet air he sung.
A mournfu' tone had given,
That suited well the poet's lay
To his lost love in Heaven:
By lang, lang years unspent,
I'the wand'rer's thrillin' notes were heard,
As he warbled that lament.
Which stir the heart to feel,
The darksome day, and lang dark e'en,
Pass'd owre our heads fu' weel.
Wi' the cock's unwelcome craw,
I felt mair pain wi' him to part
Than wi' some ither twa.
Through mony a' after year,
I cou'dna think on his sad tale
And shun to shed a tear.
II. PART II.
And frowns or favours be return'd?
Oh, let not then the poorest thing
That breathes on earth, be proudly spurn'd!
In sheets o' frozen snaw,
An' gorgin' in the glens an' vales
In an uncertain thaw.
Owre whiten'd rocks o' frost,
An' mining through the fretted ice,
In hidden tracks were lost.
An cauld, cauld was the day,
When the voice o' dire Necessity—
Which none may dare gainsay—
My little cottage ha'—
An' gang whare strange was ilky face,
An' ilky sight I saw.
An' when the last kent hill
Was lost among the distant mist,
I felt my heart grow chill.
Through ilka nerve an' vein,
As I thought on the faces there
I ne'er might see again.
Wham I had left alane,
Wha had nae friend to pity them,
Nor guide, if I were gane.
A father's anxious fears;
The tears that then bedew'd my e'en,
They were a father's tears.
O' unken'd gait to gae,
Owre mony a muir, through mony a glen,
Up mony a weary brae.
But what was far, far worse,
I bore an empty purse!
Were pains and perils rife,
And though for life I trembled then,
'Twas for a father's life;
Before, without a fear,
When there was none beside mysel
To whom my life was dear.
And saw its waters play
Around the isle where Scotland's Queen,
The lovely Mary, lay;
Upon those hills sae blue,
Whare ance the falcons o' her sires
In glorious freedom flew.
The humble dust reposed
O' him wha sung o' that green isle,
An' her its wa' s enclosed;
And saw the lovely Spring
Nae joy to him could bring.
And high aboon me saw
The twin-hills hap their towerin' heads
In heaps o' driftit snaw;
The seamaws scream'd aloud,
Wi' wild an' stormy melody,
Beneath a threatenin' cloud.
A structure bleach'd an' blear'd—
Whare Scotland's ancient dynasty
In regal pomp was rear'd.
Frae that auld palace wa,’
An' the courtiers an' the parasites
Had left its silent ha'.
A sandy solitude,
Wi' here an' there a cultured field
'Mid wastes o' heath an' wood.
Wi' mony a wanderin' sweep,
While journeyin' to the deep.
Had burst outowre the lea,
And laid the level haughs around
Beneath a muddy sea.
My heart wi' fears was fash'd,
And faster owre the slushy muir,
Wi' weary legs I splash'd;
Ae stormy wintry day,
A traveller perish'd in the snaw,
An' a packman lost his way.
Mair doubtfu' grew the track,
Till I ken'dna whether to proceed,
Or whether to turn back.
In a' that wild I knew,
An' ilka minute gloomier still.
The dreary gloamin' grew,
Around my lanely head,
Wi' silence maist as terrible
As if Nature had been dead.
Even o' the howlet drear,
For then I would hae ken'd at least
A livin' thing was near.
Until my brain ran round,
But no ae sough o' wind pass'd by,
Nor breath o' cheerfu' sound.
A storm o' feathery snaw,
In deep an' smotherin' density,
Around me 'gan to fa':
And it seem'd death to flee:
Nae hope had I but i' the muir
An unken'd death to dee.
To meet my snawy fate,
Till visions came across my mind
Which made me spurn its weight.
Left fatherless at hame,
An' their sad case had power to brace
My fast relaxin' frame;
In wilder'd haste I pass'd,
I was entangled fast:
Wi' restless feet I ran,
In hope to find some place o' rest—
Some bless'd abode o' man.
I felt my feeble strength
Unequal to the hopeless search—
My spirit sunk at length;
In a dreary drow I fell,
And there was nane to see me die,
Or my sad death to tell.
Around my temples wreath,
An' round my breast, an' round my brow,
Stiflin' my very breath:
An' on my senses press'd
Sae lightly, that my weary limbs
Enjoy'd a sort o' rest.
Half-doverin' in despair;
Yet frae that bed o' death I breathed
To Heaven a fervent prayer.
Fell on my listenin' ear,
The sweetest sang of a' the sangs
I ever yet did hear:
Wi' sic a joy rejoice
As mine, when roused again to life
By that delightfu' voice.
I cast my fears awa',
An' frae my stiff an' tangled hair,
Shook aff the wreathin' snaw.
As auld Golumbus stood
When he saw the light, at dead o' night,
Glance through an Indian wood.
Wha sings sae sweetly there?
Oh! can it be a mortal, or
A spirit o' the air?
Frae mortal life an' breath,
An' this some magic melody,
Or happy dream o' death?
That now salutes my ear;
An' every word I hear!
That syllabled that sang,
Which seem'd as if an angel sung
To lead my steps alang.
Led Israel's fearfu' host,
When through the trackless wilderness,
Before their foes they cross'd—
For He is ever near,
An' graciously inspired the sang
That sounded in my ear.
Safe to a cot-house door,
An' never mair shall I forget
That dwellin' o' the moor.
A bairnie on his knee;
An there a youthfu' mither watch'd
Its smiles wi' faithfu' e'e;
Me to their fireside come,
As kindly and as couthily
As it had been my hame.
Seem'd courteously to vie
Wha would be first to bring me food,
An' first my duds to dry.
As if he seem'd to ken
A face that he had seen before,
But coudna mind again.
About his sparklin' e'e,
That didna seem as he had been
A stranger aye to me.
Began to tell the tale
O' a' my wilder'd wanderings
Through Eden's trackless vale,
That struggled in my breast
While splashin' owre the slushy moor,
Without a place o' rest.
Beneath the gloom o' nicht,
Without a friend, or hame, or hope,
Or star to bless his sicht.
O' his ain cheerless fate,
Frae many a proud man's gate.
O' bein' received within,
When at the point o' perishing,
Wi' a sair droukit skin.
An' wander'd far an' near,
Through mony a dismal winter nicht,
In hopelessness an' fear.
Till his life's latest day,
The kindness that he ance had met
At a place ca'd Gowany Brae.
Said I, wi' meikle glee—
“I've had my share; for kind hearts there,
This nicht are sair for me.
Fu' mony a gratefu' tear
Shall fa' frae e'en ye ne'er hae seen,
For kindness shown me here.”
An' took me by the hand
Wi' smiles o' recollection that
I scarce could understand.
Wi' earnest voice, he said;
“When ye kindly shelter'd frae the storm
A hameless laddie's head?
O' the widow an' her bairn—
For whose sad fate his little heart
Sae piteously did yearn?”
Said I, “o' which ye speak;
An' aft I've thought on him sinsyne,
Wi' tears upon my cheek.
For mony a bygane year;
And yet I think I see him still,
And still his voice I hear.”
Wi' firmer grasp, said he;
“For ye hear his voice, an' see his face,
When me ye hear an' see!
Wi' kind an' tender care;
And here's the widow's orphan bairn,
For whom my heart was sair!
An' when we met again
An' now she is my ain!”
“That regulates our ways;
Thus ‘bread upon the waters cast,
Is found in many days!’
On thee some little aid,
Am guided back by Providence,
Again to be repaid!
Wi' pity in thy need,
Although unsought, hath seen thee brought
Back to return the meed.
An' blest to ane anither,
Wi' bosoms leal that beat an' feel
In happy time thegither.
Wi' bairnies o' their ain,
To cheer their hearts ere ye frae them
By Death's cauld hand be ta'en.
Did your puir mither die
O' that disease she suffer'd from
When the gudeman met wi' me?”
Wi' tender tears replied;
“In that disease my mither dear
Dwined on a while an' died!”
Said I; “when she was gane,
An' ye was left, an orphan bairn,
In this wide warld alane.”
“And in my want o' faith,
I pray'd to God, at times, to send
The bitter boon o' death!
Nae helping hand to save—
Nor hame to hap my helpless head,
Except my mither's grave!
In agony an' grief,
Was blindly covetous o' death,
Which promised sure relief!
Denied my sinfu' prayer,
And sent a friend—a faithfu' friend—
To solace my despair!”
If it be fair to spier—
Said I; “I fain would hear.
He promises to be
‘A Father to the fatherless;’
Has He been such to thee,”
The gudeman answer'd me;
“But neither Phemy nor mysel',
Frae sufferin' sair were free.
To sorrow an' to pain,
That we may feel his mercy mair
When He returns again.
Ye've listen'd to langsyne;
An' Phemy's, though less curious,
Is something like to mine.
Met her ae rainy day,
An' took her to the minister,
To see what he would say.
Her to the spinnin'-mill;
‘Sic birth,’ he said; ‘for ane like her,
It might do no that ill.’
That he would send his cart
Wi' her; for out o' charity
He wish'd to do his part.
An' tell'd what they had done;
An' a the things that they had gi'en—
The auld claes and auld shoon.
Up came auld Charlie Dick;
And baith stood glowrin' as they'd seen
A bogle, or Auld Nick.
This minute, ye are free;
Leave Poverty to Poverty,
An' Phemy leave to me.
A heart as heard as steel
May whimper over sentiments,
It ne'er was form'd to feel.
And eloquently groan;
But never mair, in pity, speer
For Phemy Morrison.
For some great tragic chief;
The wail o' real grief.
Gae hame an' sympatheeze
In Christian love an' charity,
An' keep ye at your ease.
An' nae expense will spare
To make her worthy o' my love
An' worthy o' my care.’
And led her fast awa',
Leavin' ahint them Doctor Drone
And Mr Mucklecraw.
Had mair distress in store;
And I maun tell ye a' the trials
The orphan lassie bore:
Her kind protector lay;
She watch'd him on his dying bed,
And saw his dying day;
A helpless orphan flung,
In friendless, hameless, poverty,
Her little hands she wrung.
Ae early winter morn,
Met her beside her mither's grave,
Greeting, like ane forlorn.
Wha wore a bannet blue:
An' the orphan an' the widow aye
His tenderest pity drew.
Poor Phemy's case to see:
He took her kindly by the hand,
While tears were in his e'e;
He led my Phemy hame
To his auld Lodge, at Landledale,
And his auld sonsy dame.
Act a parental part:
They gae her wark, an' gae her lear,
An' sooth'd her sorrowin' heart,
Which God's eternal word
Has offer'd to the faithfu' few
Wha humbly seek the Lord.
My Phemy was his guide,
An' still was at his side.
O' his lang happy life;
And, jestin', aft he ca'd his guide,
“His little young gudewife!”
An' labourin' for my bread,
I met wi' Phemy an' the laird,
As down the burn they stray'd.
The laird sae sweet, in age,
That, to my wonderin' sicht, they seem'd
A seraph an' a sage.
But love's delightfu' lowe
Was kindled in my heart, an' burn'd,
I couldna tell ye how.
Frae an auld man by the way,
An' to the Lodge o' Landledale,
Came back that very day.
Upon the gowany lea,
Beneath a chesnut tree.
Was fresh upon her cheek,
And yet a smile was on her lip
When first she tried to speak.
We felt ance mair to meet:
Our intercourse that e'enin' was
Baith rapturous an' sweet;
And soon were doom'd to part,
That hour had found a place for me
E'en in a lassie's heart;
Ae feelin' o' langsyne,
Nor blotted out ae lineament
O' her loved face frae mine.
A servant man required;
And sic a kindly master was
By mony a ane desired.
My master being dead;
For we, by daily labour, aye
Maun win our daily bread.
The laird, wha saw them not;
But his kind lady recognised
The lines her brither wrote.
Afore she saw me here,
Yet, to a sister's yearnin' heart,
Her brither's name was dear.
To ca' the cart an' plough
On Landle's bonny banks an' braes,
An' Landle's gowany howe.
Since then, the same roof-tree
That keepit Phemy frae the storm,
Has also keepit me.
Bequeath'd a lease for life
O' this wee cot, an' park o' land,
To me an' my guidwife;
As man an' wife may live,
Whase little wants are a' supplied,
An' something left to give,
In days o' their distress;
Have made our little less.”
Was now tell'd till an end,
And little mair hae I to tell
To either foe or friend.
An' got my errand done,
An' stood afore my ain house door
Juist at the set o' sun.
Kindness for Kindness still
Cements the hearts o' faithfu' friends,
An' saves frae muckle ill.
Even to a generous foe,
Has been repaid wi' sympathy
In future days o' woe.
THE FAITHFUL SERVANT.
A BALLAD.
For the low world where he was placed,
Poor Harold was not made to be
By rising Fortune's favours graced.
With simpering look and supple knee;
He did not tremble at his word,
With craven-nerved timidity.
Upon the haughty debauchee,
Who vainly strove to scowl him down
From his own native dignity.
He saw the favours they obtain'd;
But he despised their venal life,
And all their vile rewards disdain'd.
To servants with such hearts as he,
Who scorn to flatter in the hall,
Or pamper pride and vanity.
While worthless menials round him rose;
But patient still in his disgrace,
Unbendingly he downward goes.
And still erect his head was borne,
And all might treat him with neglect,
Though none might dare to treat with scorn.
The truth of every fawning slave,
And who deserves a master's love—
The faithful, or the flattering knave?
Assembled, many a fierce brigand,
Impatient, for their leader wait
With pistol and with sword in hand.
He comes as proud, as fearlessly,
As if that plume and robber's garb
Were royalty's own livery.
As if by freedom's glorious laws
He led his country's patriot bands
To battle in his country's cause.
The first to conquer or to fall;
For bold is he who guards the wall.
And well supplied with weapons bright,
And dearly shall the robbers' gain
Be bought—if gain they get to-night.
Summons the Castle to submit:
In vain the sun shall gild the morn,
Ere proud Count Vasco deign' to quit.
All idly sweeps the useless blast—
Booming along the midnight skies,
It dies among the hills at last.
Impatient stands the robber-chief;
But quick must be the work of fate—
The counsel short—the orders brief.
What will not bend we well can break:
To-night our sabres must be dyed—
Down with the gate for Vasco's sake!”
Upon the massy postern dash;
And whirling from the splinter'd oak,
Beneath the moon the fragments flash.
And on they rush—the pass is free;
But some shall ne'er return again
To celebrate their victory.
The happy guard must slumber well;
And now if they should chance to rise,
They may forget their tale to tell.
With flashing eyes and dashing feet,
Upon that band the moonbeams glance—
But where the foes they came to meet?
Where are the cowardly menials gone?—
The proud Count Vasco meets them there—
But, ah! the Count is all alone!
And firm his step, and firm his tone;
And flattering hope, and faint despair,
Seem both alike to him unknown.
But in the dim uncertain light,
Though sternly aim'd by steady eyes,
The distant mark deceives the sight.
With better success, ball for ball;
Though dark, he cannot miss them all.
And soon that haughty lord must yield
His Castle to superior might,
Or fall, with none his head to shield.
And every step with blood is red;—
Count Vasco, thine shall soon atone
For that thou hast so boldly shed!
A hopless frantic mourner stand,
For thou must fight, not one by one,
But all at once—that robber band!
He welcomes on the bloody train;
Once more their fury he defies,
And nearly turns them back again.
Though some have sunk beneath his might,
One sword may not contend with all:
His death must close the doubtful fight.
Yet neither flies nor begs for life:
His blood flows fast—he falls!—and brief
Is mercy's gleam, in such a strife.
Waves, in a hand unused to spare,
The deeply dyed and thirsty blade—
But mark!—who comes with weapon bare?
And turns its vengeful force aside;
And down before that stranger foe
Is borne the robber's plume of pride.
Dismounting from their foaming steeds,
And forming, at their leader's call,
A gallant band the entrance threads;
The din of stroke, and groan, and cheer,
Which mingles in that dubious hall,
A trumpet's blast rings loud and clear.
And boldly meet more equal foes!
Now let your fiercest passions burn,
And man to man in battle close.
Their footsteps now the robbers hear;
And silent stand, but not in dread,
For theirs are hearts unused to fear.
They lean upon their ponderous swords;
From man to man, in whisper'd words,
And every hand is rais'd on high
To take that oath—the last—the last!
Which binds the brotherhood to die.
In hotter conflict to engage;
And none shall spare, and none be spared
In the next burst of wrath and rage.
'Tis given! and down they madly rush,
Impatient of their dubious fate—
Burning, their cautious foes to crush.
And pistols flash, and sabres shiver;
And some, beneath their foeman's feet,
Have sunk to rise no more for ever.
Devoid of fear, devoid of hope:
Despair unites their lessening band,
And nerves with numbers still to cope.
And man by man expire: the last
Stands lonely by the bloody wall,
And round him bullets rattle fast:
Lie stretch'd in blood! The strife is past,
And Silence reigns within the hall
Whence Mercy lately fled aghast!
Senseless he lies where first he fell,
But lives—though bloody be his brow;
For he maintain'd that conflict well.
Between him and the desperate strife,
When but a moment more had closed
The struggle with Count Vasco's life?
Blood on his bosom and his head;
But now, alas! his closed eyes
Tell that the hero's soul hath fled.
When danger came, with all their speed,
And leave their lord alone to die—
Deserted at his utmost need:
With nobler thoughts his bosom burn'd;
Successful in his generous aim,
In happy time he back return'd.
And fast outran the fleetest steed—
Came boldly for his lord to bleed.
Too late for him, that master learn'd
That truest hearts for ever scorn
To feed on favours basely earn'd.
A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE.
Poor, pious, and content
With the laborious lot in life
Which Heaven to them had lent:
And thankful for their health—
More thankful than the thoughtless rich,
For all their unearn'd wealth?
And gladden'd by the sight,
I felt my heart expand, and glow,
With warmer feelings, bright.
As one they seem'd to move;
Cordial in all their intercourse,
And constant in their love.
Invent a scene so fair,
As that ingenuous family
Met at their evening prayer.
The sacred volume took,
And read, for their instruction here,
A portion from that book:
And heard his spirit rise,
In solemn supplicating tones,
To One above the skies,
In his paternal voice
Which thrilled each sympathetic heart
With pure and heavenly joys.
In all their pomp and pride,
Envy the quiet happiness
Which beam'd by that fireside;
Of pure unmingled bliss,
'Tis found by such a family,
At such an hour as this.
The blow which Fate prepares;
Or warmest tears, or prayers,
The dearest to remove,
From fond affection upon earth,
To happiness above.
At Duty's bidding, go
To where fierce Fever's fiery fang
Held a poor parent low;
With anxious care he hung,
And held the cordial to his lips
To cool his burning tongue;
Though conscious that his breath
Came, freighted, from a poison'd source,
With dire disease and death.
The tale, his head would shake,
And tremble for that faithful friend,
And for his family's sake.
For Death was onward led
From house to house, triumphantly,
And pass'd from bed to bed.
His last expiring groan,
With slow and solemn step retired,
Ere long to breathe his own.
Had reach'd the fount of life;
And soon within his throbbing veins
Commenced the fatal strife.
And every art was vain:
Affection could not cool his blood—
Nor med'cine cure his pain.
By one with sleepless eye—
One who had shared in all his woes,
Nor shrunk for him to die.
Had been endowed to take
Those direful pangs, all willingly
She 'd borne them for his sake.
Was all the speechless man
Could offer back to her who wept
The shortness of his span.
And wilder grew his eye;
Save sobs of agony.
Had closed that struggle brief;
And death, and death alone, can close
The widow'd mourner's grief.
While life is in its spring,
A few short months fresh promises
Of future joy will bring.
Days, weeks, nor months, nor years
Shall ere restore its former joys,
Or fairly dry her tears.
Sad as her lot hath been—
Hope holds a bless'd communion there
With piety, unseen:
Before the eternal throne;
And Piety presents the prize,
And bids her follow on:
Still strive to enter in,
And reign with those who triumph there
O'er doubt, and death, and sin.
THE SOLDIER'S WIFE.
At lordly board—in lordly bed—
Deem that no noble feeling
Can settle on the poor man's head,
Or glad his humble shieling;
Even if to move you it should fail,
Amid the playthings and the pranks
Of elevated life,
I pray you listen to the tale
Of a poor soldier of the ranks,
And of his faithful wife.
And British swords below:
Was this a sight for woman's eye,
Which melts o'er every woe?
And round and round, from rank and file,
The musket volleys play'd;
And, scattering death for many a mile,
The ceaseless cannonade
Thunder'd, with deafening shouts between,
Of charging columns, and the din
Of many a bickering blade.
Those inlets of delights and fears
So delicate, so slight,
That they appear as only made
To listen, in some silvan shade,
To Zephyrs breathing light?
And stiffening in their gore,
Or struggling in their life-blood lay
Thousands of gallant men,
Who fell to rise no more;
While heedless o'er their mangled slain
The routed squadron fled
To rally in the rear,
And when they turn'd to charge again,
Regardless of their kindred dead,
And friends and comrades dear,
They dash'd with doubly reckless tread,
And spirit-maddening cheer.
That timid thing, to bear?
Could aught so soft—so fearful oft—
In female form, be there?
As warm as ever shed
The pearly drops of Pity's dew
Above the living or the dead,
Borne, by its wild excess of love,
Amid the conflicts' heat,
Though timid as the turtal dove,
In sickening anguish beat.
Beside her bleeding husband kneeling,
Regardless of the thickening strife—
Lost in that extacy of feeling
A moment ere all hope depart.
Unheard, unheeded, in her ears:
Her's was that agony of soul
Which neither feels, nor sees, nor hears,
Save that one image of despair—
The object of its hopes and fears.
And her devoted love was there,
Expiring where he fell,
And murmuring to her tender care
A long and last farewell.
That gash'd his manly chest;
Her ear but heard the life-drops drip
On her own burning breast;
And still she strove to staunch their flow,
And bathed his quivering lip
With water from the spring,
(That last sad solace of his woe,)
Which he had lost the power to sip,
Though close beside him murmuring.
His breath more deeply drawn and slow;
But still his glazing eye
Gazed sadly on his helpless wife,
And even when all grew vacancy,
Its rayless, sightless, changeless stare,
Was fixed on his young widow there.
And must stern hands that mourner tear
From that beloved dead?
Must she, the victim of despair,
Back to her native land be led,
In solitude to pine?
Must those who never parted part?
No—Heaven forbade a doom so dread,
And sent, as fortune more benign,
The ball which whistled to the heart.
And lock'd him in a last embrace;
And breast to breast, and face to face,
All lifeless there they lay:
Their faithful blood together flow'd
In one untainted stream;
Their souls, united, rose to God
Like one relucent beam.
On that red field, to tell
And Love's young martyr fell;
But when the veteran victors came,
With slow and mournful tread,
From gathering vultures to reclaim
Their loved and honoured dead,
Then wept the generous hearted and the brave,
As o'er that youthful pair they sadly spread
The blood-soak'd earth of their untimely grave—
The covering of their last connubial bed!
And mute the muse's lay
O'er that young matron's humble name,
And o'er her dying day,
The proudest belle in Beauty's mart,
Or bower of regal life,
Might learn a lesson of the heart
From that poor soldier's wife,
Who fearlessly in duty fell
With her own soldier boy,
'Mid cannon's roar, and battle's yell,
On the field of Fontenoy.
ON THE EMANCIPATION OF THE SLAVES, AUGUST 1836.
Than that which rose to-day,
To break the scourge of Tyranny,
And tear its bonds away.
Religion bless'd its beam;
And stainless spirits in the skies
Made it their glorious theme!
From Britain's scutcheon'd fame;
And made the Mistress of the World
Deserving of the name.
SONNET ON THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER 1835.
And thou art gone, sweet summer—sweet and brief—With all thy gay associations gone:
The season of the sere and yellow leaf,
With pale and melancholy face, comes on;
And I behold, with deep but bootless grief,
The flowers all wither'd, and the foliage strown;
For these were friends which, in my solitude,
Oft fill'd my heart with many a pleasing thought—
Aye, they were images of beings good
And innocent, which to my fancy brought
Pictures of that society above,
Whose calm and peaceful spirit they had caught
From the descending dews, which, nightly frought,
Come down, in beauty, gentleness, and love.
Poems by the late John Bethune | ||