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Songs and Poems.
TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE THE EARL OF ELLESMERE, THIS VOLUME IS,
BY HIS LORDSHIP'S PERMISSION, GRATEFULLY AND RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR.
9
THE ROSE OF THE ISLES.
The Crown that encircles Victoria's brow,
Transmitted through ages of fame,
To its claims on our love adds a sweeter one now,
Derived from her sex and her name.
And the Sceptre she wields in her delicate hand,
As she stands in the sunshine of smiles,
Hath a spell to array all the Might of the Land
Around the fair Rose of the Isles!
Transmitted through ages of fame,
To its claims on our love adds a sweeter one now,
Derived from her sex and her name.
And the Sceptre she wields in her delicate hand,
As she stands in the sunshine of smiles,
Hath a spell to array all the Might of the Land
Around the fair Rose of the Isles!
Not a word of division shall burden our breath,
Of the parties or views we prefer;
Howe'er we may differ in feeling or faith,
We are one—in devotion to Her!
Our Charlotte in all but her sadness of doom,
May she live in the sunshine of smiles!
And never may sorrow-blight fall on the bloom
Of the beautiful Rose of the Isles!
Of the parties or views we prefer;
Howe'er we may differ in feeling or faith,
We are one—in devotion to Her!
Our Charlotte in all but her sadness of doom,
May she live in the sunshine of smiles!
And never may sorrow-blight fall on the bloom
Of the beautiful Rose of the Isles!
11
OUR BRITISH HEARTS ARE LOYAL STILL.
No, no!—Severely, sternly tried,
Through many a long and darksome year;
Our wisdom spurned; our worth decried;
Our warnings met by flippant sneer;
And, last and worst, our Faith assailed;—
Still—in the very depth of ill—
Our constancy hath never failed,
Our British hearts are loyal still!
Through many a long and darksome year;
Our wisdom spurned; our worth decried;
Our warnings met by flippant sneer;
And, last and worst, our Faith assailed;—
Still—in the very depth of ill—
Our constancy hath never failed,
Our British hearts are loyal still!
Deserted by our Chiefs long proved,
We paused—then pitied, and forgave;
Forsaken by a King beloved,
We laid resentment in his grave.
Another filled the vacant throne,
Who bent him to the Movement's will;—
Our constancy unaltered shone,
Our British hearts were loyal still!
We paused—then pitied, and forgave;
Forsaken by a King beloved,
We laid resentment in his grave.
Another filled the vacant throne,
Who bent him to the Movement's will;—
Our constancy unaltered shone,
Our British hearts were loyal still!
We will not tell our feelings now—
Estrangement we can calmly bear;
The crown upon Victoria's brow,
We pray Victoria long may wear.
Our love, that needs no sun, will bloom,
If darkest shades inwrap the hill;
For be it gleam, or be it gloom,
Our British hearts are loyal still!
Estrangement we can calmly bear;
The crown upon Victoria's brow,
We pray Victoria long may wear.
Our love, that needs no sun, will bloom,
If darkest shades inwrap the hill;
For be it gleam, or be it gloom,
Our British hearts are loyal still!
12
OUR TRUE BRITISH QUEEN.
If ever in one British heart there was known
A doubt, or its shade, to exist,
Of the pure-minded Being who graces our throne—
Be it now, and for ever dismissed!
As the fair star of eve, when the clouds have passed o'er it,
Shines out in its beauty serene,
So—the shadows of faction no longer before it—
Beams the soul of our true British Queen!
A doubt, or its shade, to exist,
Of the pure-minded Being who graces our throne—
Be it now, and for ever dismissed!
As the fair star of eve, when the clouds have passed o'er it,
Shines out in its beauty serene,
So—the shadows of faction no longer before it—
Beams the soul of our true British Queen!
They dared to asperse her; they said she belonged
To a party, and not to us all;
But we knew that her sense and her goodness they wronged,
And the truth is made clear by their fall.
Respecting the choice of her people, and taking
High care for their weal she is seen:
If attachments there were, those attachments forsaking,
And reigning a true British Queen!
To a party, and not to us all;
But we knew that her sense and her goodness they wronged,
And the truth is made clear by their fall.
Respecting the choice of her people, and taking
High care for their weal she is seen:
If attachments there were, those attachments forsaking,
And reigning a true British Queen!
And for Her—should a menace of battle be heard—
How rapid our gathering would be
On the Land of our love, on the waters that gird
The magnificent Land of the Free!
New Nelsons would rise, and again on the ocean
Be all that the former have been;
And new Wellingtons guard, with heroic devotion,
The throne of our true British Queen!
How rapid our gathering would be
On the Land of our love, on the waters that gird
The magnificent Land of the Free!
New Nelsons would rise, and again on the ocean
Be all that the former have been;
And new Wellingtons guard, with heroic devotion,
The throne of our true British Queen!
13
GOOD OLD GEORGE THE THIRD.
I love one living Monarch well,
Yet would I laud the dead;
Would turn me from the diademed,
To wreath a buried head!
And though he pour a feeble song,
Sincere must be the bard,
Who praises hands, that—generous once—
Can now no song reward.
By British feelings, British hopes,
My heart and harp are stirred,
To sing the English-minded King,
The good old George the Third.
Yet would I laud the dead;
Would turn me from the diademed,
To wreath a buried head!
And though he pour a feeble song,
Sincere must be the bard,
Who praises hands, that—generous once—
Can now no song reward.
By British feelings, British hopes,
My heart and harp are stirred,
To sing the English-minded King,
The good old George the Third.
When crafty statesmen would have reft
One jewel from his crown,
The jewel of his Indian reign,
He met them with a frown:
“Old England's crown is on my head,
Her sceptre in my hand,
Take these—if Britons will it; but—
Abridge not my command!”
O'erawed, the traitors turned away,
The Isles delighted heard,
And hailed with one applausive shout
The good old George the Third.
One jewel from his crown,
The jewel of his Indian reign,
He met them with a frown:
“Old England's crown is on my head,
Her sceptre in my hand,
Take these—if Britons will it; but—
Abridge not my command!”
O'erawed, the traitors turned away,
The Isles delighted heard,
And hailed with one applausive shout
The good old George the Third.
The baffled traitors came again,
A deeper scheme to bring,
A scheme to sap our glorious church
By sanction of its King.
“Firmly to stand by England's church
I pledged a Monarch's troth;
And I dare bow me to the block,
But dare not break my oath!”
Each loyal heart in Britain leaped,
Exultant at the word,
And the Isles rung from shore to shore
With—Good old George the Third!
A deeper scheme to bring,
A scheme to sap our glorious church
By sanction of its King.
14
I pledged a Monarch's troth;
And I dare bow me to the block,
But dare not break my oath!”
Each loyal heart in Britain leaped,
Exultant at the word,
And the Isles rung from shore to shore
With—Good old George the Third!
THANK GOD, WE HAVE PEERS.
When a faction we loathe would endanger the throne;
When the wise have their doubts, and the loyal their fears;
One feeling of confidence yet is our own,
One ray in the darkness—Thank God, we have Peers!
When the wise have their doubts, and the loyal their fears;
One feeling of confidence yet is our own,
One ray in the darkness—Thank God, we have Peers!
With all that ennobles our nature endowed,
With a mind that o'erawes, and a mien that endears,
How far they outshine the select of the crowd,
The stars of the rabble!—Thank God, we have Peers.
With a mind that o'erawes, and a mien that endears,
How far they outshine the select of the crowd,
The stars of the rabble!—Thank God, we have Peers.
To liberty true, like the Barons of old;
All-scornful of threats, as all-mindless of sneers;
They stand in the breach of the fortress they hold,
And will die ere they yield it!—Thank God, we have Peers.
All-scornful of threats, as all-mindless of sneers;
They stand in the breach of the fortress they hold,
And will die ere they yield it!—Thank God, we have Peers.
And O! when the storm shall have passed from the land—
From the State he is proud of, the Church he reveres,
The Patriot's blessing shall rest on the band,
The true—the devoted!—Thank God, we have Peers.
From the State he is proud of, the Church he reveres,
The Patriot's blessing shall rest on the band,
The true—the devoted!—Thank God, we have Peers.
17
THE CHIEF OF WATERLOO.
We will not, need not, name him!
His deeds shall live in fame,
When those that dare to blame him
Have neither place nor name.
But thinking (as we think) him
To Britain's glory true,
In flowing cups we'll drink him—
The Chief of Waterloo!
His deeds shall live in fame,
When those that dare to blame him
Have neither place nor name.
But thinking (as we think) him
To Britain's glory true,
In flowing cups we'll drink him—
The Chief of Waterloo!
To fields of fame he led not
Ambition's gathered might;
His faithful legions bled not,
But for his Country's right.
Her high, devoted Lover,
For her his sword he drew;
And stainless laurels cover
The Chief of Waterloo!
Ambition's gathered might;
His faithful legions bled not,
But for his Country's right.
Her high, devoted Lover,
For her his sword he drew;
And stainless laurels cover
The Chief of Waterloo!
Like him unmatched on Ocean,
This Nelson of the Land;
By one red day's devotion,
No work left for his brand.
But, happier than the Seaman,
He lives with honours due,
The pride of every freeman—
The Chief of Waterloo!
This Nelson of the Land;
By one red day's devotion,
No work left for his brand.
But, happier than the Seaman,
He lives with honours due,
The pride of every freeman—
The Chief of Waterloo!
18
THE CHURCH OF OUR FATHERS.
Half screened by its trees, in the Sabbath's calm smile,
The church of our fathers—how meekly it stands!
O villagers, gaze on the old, hallowed pile—
It was dear to their hearts, it was raised by their hands!
Who loves not the place where they worshipped their God?
Who loves not the ground where their ashes repose?
Dear even the daisy that blooms on the sod,
For dear is the dust out of which it arose!
The church of our fathers—how meekly it stands!
O villagers, gaze on the old, hallowed pile—
It was dear to their hearts, it was raised by their hands!
Who loves not the place where they worshipped their God?
Who loves not the ground where their ashes repose?
Dear even the daisy that blooms on the sod,
For dear is the dust out of which it arose!
Then say, shall the Church that our forefathers built,
Which the tempests of ages have battered in vain,—
Abandoned by us from supineness or guilt,
O say, shall it fall by the rash and profane?
No!—Perish the impious hand that would take
One shred from its altar, one stone from its towers!
The life-blood of martyrs hath flowed for its sake,
And its fall—if it fall—shall be reddened with ours!
Which the tempests of ages have battered in vain,—
Abandoned by us from supineness or guilt,
O say, shall it fall by the rash and profane?
No!—Perish the impious hand that would take
One shred from its altar, one stone from its towers!
The life-blood of martyrs hath flowed for its sake,
And its fall—if it fall—shall be reddened with ours!
MY NATIVE LAND.
Didst thou quail, my Native Land,
When from Gallia's hostile strand
Menace proud and haughty vaunt
Sought thy free-born sons to daunt?
No!—Though Europe's yielded wreath
Blenched the tyrant's foot beneath;
Though a traitorous few—thine own—
Would have crouched before his throne;
Yet the tidings, as—in flame—
O'er thy beaconed hills they came,
Roused a bold, determined band
For thy guard, my Native Land!
When from Gallia's hostile strand
Menace proud and haughty vaunt
Sought thy free-born sons to daunt?
No!—Though Europe's yielded wreath
Blenched the tyrant's foot beneath;
20
Would have crouched before his throne;
Yet the tidings, as—in flame—
O'er thy beaconed hills they came,
Roused a bold, determined band
For thy guard, my Native Land!
Proudly wept the high-souled wife,
Sending forth her lord to strife;
Softer fell the sister's tear,
Bringing out her brother's spear;
Noble was the maiden's manner
As she spread her lover's banner,
Bidding him, as that was borne,
Win her love, or win her scorn!
Struck with shame to see one soul,
One brave purpose, fire the whole,
E'en the traitors, grasping brand,
Rushed to save their Native Land!
Sending forth her lord to strife;
Softer fell the sister's tear,
Bringing out her brother's spear;
Noble was the maiden's manner
As she spread her lover's banner,
Bidding him, as that was borne,
Win her love, or win her scorn!
Struck with shame to see one soul,
One brave purpose, fire the whole,
E'en the traitors, grasping brand,
Rushed to save their Native Land!
Needs the tale be further told?
Who but knows the issue bold?
Who that knows it would despond?
Though a peril—far beyond
That of an invasion-threat—
Claims heroic struggle yet!
Hear it, prelate, prince, and peer—
All that's high and holy, hear!
Hear it, sons of trade and toil—
All that love your native soil!
Deadly peril, nigh at hand,
Menaces our common Land!
Who but knows the issue bold?
Who that knows it would despond?
Though a peril—far beyond
That of an invasion-threat—
Claims heroic struggle yet!
Hear it, prelate, prince, and peer—
All that's high and holy, hear!
Hear it, sons of trade and toil—
All that love your native soil!
Deadly peril, nigh at hand,
Menaces our common Land!
21
By your fathers! proved of old
Men of loyal hearts and bold—
By your fathers! doomed to death,
Martyrs of a purer faith—
By each precious drop that flowed
For their King, and for their God!
Make their glorious path your own:
Round the altar and the throne
Rally!—God will aid the right!
Traitors, shrinking at the sight,
Once again shame-struck shall stand,
And thou be saved, my Native Land!
Men of loyal hearts and bold—
By your fathers! doomed to death,
Martyrs of a purer faith—
By each precious drop that flowed
For their King, and for their God!
Make their glorious path your own:
Round the altar and the throne
Rally!—God will aid the right!
Traitors, shrinking at the sight,
Once again shame-struck shall stand,
And thou be saved, my Native Land!
HURRAH FOR THE BLUE!
Arise, ye stout yeomen, from hill and from valley,
Whose hearts are to freedom and loyalty true!
Around our old strengths let us fearlessly rally;
Our watchward is “England.”—Hurrah for the Blue!
Whose hearts are to freedom and loyalty true!
Around our old strengths let us fearlessly rally;
Our watchward is “England.”—Hurrah for the Blue!
Bring out the Blue Banner! In town and in borough
Ten thousand brave hearts shall bound high at the view;
Ten thousand, forsaking the loom and the furrow,
Shall shout, as ye lift it, Hurrah for the Blue!
Ten thousand brave hearts shall bound high at the view;
Ten thousand, forsaking the loom and the furrow,
Shall shout, as ye lift it, Hurrah for the Blue!
Bring it out!—'Tis the colour our fathers marched under,
When victory waited their flag as it flew;
And our foemen shall learn, with dismay and with wonder,
That triumph still waits it.—Hurrah for the Blue!
When victory waited their flag as it flew;
And our foemen shall learn, with dismay and with wonder,
That triumph still waits it.—Hurrah for the Blue!
22
Bring it out!—'Tis the pledge of what never shall perish,
Of sentiments sacred, of principles true;
For the Queen that we love, for the Faith that we cherish,
We raise the old Banner!—Hurrah for the Blue!
Of sentiments sacred, of principles true;
For the Queen that we love, for the Faith that we cherish,
We raise the old Banner!—Hurrah for the Blue!
THE BLUE ROSETTE.
O! lady, no knight ever proudlier wore
The gift of his love in the tourneys of yore,
Than I the rosette that was plaited by you,
And fixed on my bosom—a breast-knot of Blue!
The gift of his love in the tourneys of yore,
Than I the rosette that was plaited by you,
And fixed on my bosom—a breast-knot of Blue!
It was not a love-gift—the time had gone by
When my heart should be moved with the glance of an eye;
And pure was the feeling within me that grew,
To think of the hand that had decked me the Blue!
When my heart should be moved with the glance of an eye;
And pure was the feeling within me that grew,
To think of the hand that had decked me the Blue!
The Blue! which is dear, to truth, valour and love,
Is Nature's prized colour below and above;
For the fairest of skies ever takes the loved hue,
And earth's sweetest flower exults in the Blue!
Is Nature's prized colour below and above;
For the fairest of skies ever takes the loved hue,
And earth's sweetest flower exults in the Blue!
Alas! the fair sky is o'erclouded again—
Alas! the sweet flower is chilled by the rain—
But, lady, the rain will soon melt into dew,
When the flower will revive, and the heaven be Blue!
Alas! the sweet flower is chilled by the rain—
But, lady, the rain will soon melt into dew,
When the flower will revive, and the heaven be Blue!
23
THE ISLE OF THE FREE.
'Tis sweet to perceive the first efforts of Spring;
To watch the buds tenderly, timidly ope;
To feel at one's heart the pure freshness they bring,
Till the languid heart leaps to the promise of Hope!
Of Spring talks yon blue sky, of Spring this green land,
Of Spring the gay warblings these valleys that fill—
A proof that the mighty Artificer's hand
Impels the machine of the universe still!
To watch the buds tenderly, timidly ope;
To feel at one's heart the pure freshness they bring,
Till the languid heart leaps to the promise of Hope!
Of Spring talks yon blue sky, of Spring this green land,
Of Spring the gay warblings these valleys that fill—
A proof that the mighty Artificer's hand
Impels the machine of the universe still!
God! dost thou not rule in the armies of heaven?
Thy impulse the stars in their courses obey;
The lightnings themselves, when the dark cloud is riven,
Flash fate as thou biddest, or harmlessly play!
And hast thou relinquished the curb and controul
Of man? Hath thy government ceased from the world?
Then whence this unquietness, madness of soul?
And why are those ensigns of battle unfurled?
Thy impulse the stars in their courses obey;
The lightnings themselves, when the dark cloud is riven,
Flash fate as thou biddest, or harmlessly play!
And hast thou relinquished the curb and controul
Of man? Hath thy government ceased from the world?
Then whence this unquietness, madness of soul?
And why are those ensigns of battle unfurled?
O! with the strong voice that can still the wild sea,
Speak peace to the hearts and the passions of men!
With the power that hath bidden the winter-clouds flee,
Let the sunshine of joy gild their dwellings again!
And with the soft breath that awakens the spring,
Breathe over the minds of the nations, O Lord!
That genuine freedom which comes not from king,
Nor is won, or destroyed, by the conqueror's sword!
Speak peace to the hearts and the passions of men!
With the power that hath bidden the winter-clouds flee,
Let the sunshine of joy gild their dwellings again!
And with the soft breath that awakens the spring,
Breathe over the minds of the nations, O Lord!
That genuine freedom which comes not from king,
Nor is won, or destroyed, by the conqueror's sword!
24
But if for some purpose inscrutable, Thou
Wilt see over Europe wild Anarchy burst,
O! let not my country her honoured neck bow
To the yoke of that despot—the vilest—the worst!
Give wisdom to guard our old strengths, that have stood
The beatings of time, as her rocks the rude sea,
And Albion shall ever o'erlook the blue flood,
The first of the nations—the Isle of the Free!
Wilt see over Europe wild Anarchy burst,
O! let not my country her honoured neck bow
To the yoke of that despot—the vilest—the worst!
Give wisdom to guard our old strengths, that have stood
The beatings of time, as her rocks the rude sea,
And Albion shall ever o'erlook the blue flood,
The first of the nations—the Isle of the Free!
RAISE THE STANDARD, EDINA!
Raise the Standard, Edina!—True Scotsmen shall gather
Around it, exulting, from greensward and heather,—
The peer from his castle, the hind from his shieling,
Urged on by one impulse, and warmed by one feeling;
For if new is the banner, not so is the Cause—
'Tis the old one of “Freedom, Religion, and Laws!”
Around it, exulting, from greensward and heather,—
The peer from his castle, the hind from his shieling,
Urged on by one impulse, and warmed by one feeling;
For if new is the banner, not so is the Cause—
'Tis the old one of “Freedom, Religion, and Laws!”
In a cause so exalted, aroused from her slumbers,
Old England hath marshalled her names and her numbers;
The loyal of Erin, o'ercrowed by the Roman,
To her have looked up as their aid and their omen;
Shall Scotland be laggard, be last in the Cause,
The old one of “Freedom, Religion, and Laws?”
Old England hath marshalled her names and her numbers;
The loyal of Erin, o'ercrowed by the Roman,
To her have looked up as their aid and their omen;
Shall Scotland be laggard, be last in the Cause,
The old one of “Freedom, Religion, and Laws?”
26
No, no!—She remembers the feeling that taught her
To dare, on Culloden, the strife and the slaughter,
When—moved by a loyalty pure, but mistaken—
She stood by young Charlie with courage unshaken;
And her broadsword, if wanted, were prompt in the Cause,
The old one of “Freedom, Religion, and Laws!”
To dare, on Culloden, the strife and the slaughter,
When—moved by a loyalty pure, but mistaken—
She stood by young Charlie with courage unshaken;
And her broadsword, if wanted, were prompt in the Cause,
The old one of “Freedom, Religion, and Laws!”
And O! she remembers the stern, unsubmitting
Resolve—her high spirit so nobly befitting,
When, rather than quaff from a poison-mixed fountain,
She fled with her Bible to cave and to mountain;
And again shall that spirit give life to the Cause,
The old one of “Freedom, Religion, and Laws!”
Resolve—her high spirit so nobly befitting,
When, rather than quaff from a poison-mixed fountain,
She fled with her Bible to cave and to mountain;
And again shall that spirit give life to the Cause,
The old one of “Freedom, Religion, and Laws!”
Raise the Standard, Edina!—True Scotsmen shall gather
Around it, exulting, from greensward and heather,
Inspired by their Faith with a courage unshaken,
And moved by a Loyalty now not mistaken!
Hurrah, then, for Scotland! Hurrah for the Cause,
The old one of “Freedom, Religion, and Laws!”
Around it, exulting, from greensward and heather,
Inspired by their Faith with a courage unshaken,
And moved by a Loyalty now not mistaken!
Hurrah, then, for Scotland! Hurrah for the Cause,
The old one of “Freedom, Religion, and Laws!”
WHO BUT LOVES ERIN?
O! wherefore assert ye that Englishmen hate,
That Cambrian and Scot look with coldness on you?
We are proud of our name, our distinction, our state;
Yet there beats not a heart but gives Erin its due.
We love your green land, and we love your chaste daughters;
Of your bards as our own we have cherished the fame;
And whenever their harpings came o'er the blue waters,
We loved them the more for the Isle whence they came!
That Cambrian and Scot look with coldness on you?
We are proud of our name, our distinction, our state;
Yet there beats not a heart but gives Erin its due.
We love your green land, and we love your chaste daughters;
Of your bards as our own we have cherished the fame;
And whenever their harpings came o'er the blue waters,
We loved them the more for the Isle whence they came!
27
Why rake up the ashes of long-smothered fires?
Why furbish old weapons for modern assault?
We will not defend all the deeds of our sires;
They may have done wrong—but were yours without fault?
O! rather come down to changed times, and to better,
When brand after brand has been rased from your brow;
And see of your chains the last lingering fetter
Struck off by the men ye vituperate now!
Why furbish old weapons for modern assault?
We will not defend all the deeds of our sires;
They may have done wrong—but were yours without fault?
O! rather come down to changed times, and to better,
When brand after brand has been rased from your brow;
And see of your chains the last lingering fetter
Struck off by the men ye vituperate now!
Go—look on the map of broad Europe, and there,
Our group of small Islands, apart, when ye view,
Then think how your Hero, in battle-field fair,
Met the bands of broad Europe—and conquered them too!
Did he that with each phalanx in soul disunited?
No—Brothers in arms and in glory were we!
By union the wrongs of our country we righted,
And by it we shall still be the Feared and the Free!
Our group of small Islands, apart, when ye view,
Then think how your Hero, in battle-field fair,
Met the bands of broad Europe—and conquered them too!
Did he that with each phalanx in soul disunited?
No—Brothers in arms and in glory were we!
By union the wrongs of our country we righted,
And by it we shall still be the Feared and the Free!
O WEEP YE FOR ERIN!
O! weep ye for Erin!—Weep not for the dead;
Their bosoms are still, and their spirits have fled;
They have felt every pang between hunger and death,
And the last one—the lightest—that passed with the breath.
Yet weep for the dead, so untimely laid low,
Their coffins the earth, and their winding-sheets—snow!
Their bosoms are still, and their spirits have fled;
They have felt every pang between hunger and death,
And the last one—the lightest—that passed with the breath.
Yet weep for the dead, so untimely laid low,
Their coffins the earth, and their winding-sheets—snow!
But weep more for the living, condemned to sustain,
In all its gradations, the torture of Pain!
Weep ye who have wealth, and can purchase a treat!
Weep ye who have none—but have something to eat!
Weep all for the living so soon to lie low,
Their coffins the earth, and their winding-sheets—snow!
In all its gradations, the torture of Pain!
28
Weep ye who have none—but have something to eat!
Weep all for the living so soon to lie low,
Their coffins the earth, and their winding-sheets—snow!
Yes, weep, but work also!—ye rich men, unite
Your thousands; ye poor men, contribute your mite;
Smooth the couch of the dying; the healthy man save
From the horrors that lead to a famine-dug grave;
Else vainly ye weep for the myriads laid low,
Their coffins the earth, and their winding-sheets—snow!
Your thousands; ye poor men, contribute your mite;
Smooth the couch of the dying; the healthy man save
From the horrors that lead to a famine-dug grave;
Else vainly ye weep for the myriads laid low,
Their coffins the earth, and their winding-sheets—snow!
THE DREADNOUGHT.
I look on the Dreadnought!—She lies, “a sheer hulk,”
On the tide that once proudly she breasted;
But Glory still hovers around her old bulk,
As when first from her triumphs she rested.
She rested—but not till her Admiral brave
Had won the last battle he fought,
And Britons, remaining the lords of the wave,
Had proved to the world they dread nought!
On the tide that once proudly she breasted;
But Glory still hovers around her old bulk,
As when first from her triumphs she rested.
She rested—but not till her Admiral brave
Had won the last battle he fought,
And Britons, remaining the lords of the wave,
Had proved to the world they dread nought!
The ship was laid up, the commander entombed;
And a race, since that time, have departed;
But the wreath of Trafalgar still blooms, as it bloomed
When a people wept round the bold-hearted.
Fresh wreaths we don't covet; we wish to maintain
The peace that thus dearly we bought;
But rouse them who dare! and bold Britons again
Shall prove to the world they dread nought!
And a race, since that time, have departed;
But the wreath of Trafalgar still blooms, as it bloomed
When a people wept round the bold-hearted.
Fresh wreaths we don't covet; we wish to maintain
The peace that thus dearly we bought;
But rouse them who dare! and bold Britons again
Shall prove to the world they dread nought!
29
MY COUNTRY.
My country! there is not in thee
A path so bare, a scene so rude,
As not to have some charm for me—
Some moss-crowned rock, some lonely tree,
Some flower that loves the solitude;
And poor indeed the charm must be
I would not love—if found in thee!
A path so bare, a scene so rude,
As not to have some charm for me—
Some moss-crowned rock, some lonely tree,
Some flower that loves the solitude;
And poor indeed the charm must be
I would not love—if found in thee!
My country! with to-morrow's shine
My feasted eye shall proudly dwell
On scenes by many a bard of thine
To kindred souls made half divine—
Fair scenes of mountain, lake and fell!
Yet shall not I, for all their lore,
Admire thee—no! nor love thee more!
My feasted eye shall proudly dwell
On scenes by many a bard of thine
To kindred souls made half divine—
Fair scenes of mountain, lake and fell!
Yet shall not I, for all their lore,
Admire thee—no! nor love thee more!
THE KING, IN A BUMPER.
The king, in a bumper!—We'll drink to the crown,
To the sceptre so mildly held o'er us;
For dear are those symbols, of ancient renown—
They were dear to our fathers before us!
And O! when the spell that is in them falls dead
On the ear and the heart of a Briton,
That moment, the glory of England is fled—
That moment, her destiny's written!
To the sceptre so mildly held o'er us;
For dear are those symbols, of ancient renown—
They were dear to our fathers before us!
And O! when the spell that is in them falls dead
On the ear and the heart of a Briton,
That moment, the glory of England is fled—
That moment, her destiny's written!
30
The King of the Isles is no tyrant to fear;
And no faction shall keep him a vassal!
The peasant is free in his cottage—the peer
Is free in the light of his castle:
And shall not our King be, in word and in will,
As free as his people around him?—
O! death to the traitors who, baffling him still,
In fetters would bind, or have bound him!
And no faction shall keep him a vassal!
The peasant is free in his cottage—the peer
Is free in the light of his castle:
And shall not our King be, in word and in will,
As free as his people around him?—
O! death to the traitors who, baffling him still,
In fetters would bind, or have bound him!
THE RICH AND THE POOR.
The high-born Commander who fearlessly leads
His host or his fleet in the “cause of mankind,”
Is enriched, if he lives; and is mourned, if he bleeds;
While his name is in song and in story enshrined.
But the soldier or sailor whose arm won the day,
Who survives, it may be, with the loss of a limb,—
What hand will enrich him? what guerdon repay?
What song will resound through the nations for him?
His host or his fleet in the “cause of mankind,”
Is enriched, if he lives; and is mourned, if he bleeds;
While his name is in song and in story enshrined.
But the soldier or sailor whose arm won the day,
Who survives, it may be, with the loss of a limb,—
What hand will enrich him? what guerdon repay?
What song will resound through the nations for him?
The favoured by Fortune, the favoured by Birth,
Who earned, or inherit, the wealth they have got,
Enjoy all the good Heaven pours upon earth,
And have flatterers that call them the gods they are not.
But the poor man whose toil has produced all this wealth,
Whose sinews have shrunk, and whose eyes have grown dim,—
What heart thinks of him, be he sick or in health?
What flatterer will waste a soft phrase upon him?
Who earned, or inherit, the wealth they have got,
Enjoy all the good Heaven pours upon earth,
And have flatterers that call them the gods they are not.
But the poor man whose toil has produced all this wealth,
Whose sinews have shrunk, and whose eyes have grown dim,—
What heart thinks of him, be he sick or in health?
What flatterer will waste a soft phrase upon him?
31
Enough of old parties and leaders. We want
A leader and party with heart and with nerve,
Who will work with a zeal which no obstacles daunt,
To win for the masses the care they deserve.
O! never in England did party yet drain
A cup filled like theirs, with delight, to the brim!
And never did leader the blessings obtain
That will gratefully rise from all hearts upon him!
A leader and party with heart and with nerve,
Who will work with a zeal which no obstacles daunt,
To win for the masses the care they deserve.
O! never in England did party yet drain
A cup filled like theirs, with delight, to the brim!
And never did leader the blessings obtain
That will gratefully rise from all hearts upon him!
YE GREEN BANKS OF EDEN.
Ye green banks of Eden! I would it were mine
In your calm shades to stray, on your slopes to recline,
To sing by these waters, and suit as I may
To the moods of the river the tones of my lay!
In your calm shades to stray, on your slopes to recline,
To sing by these waters, and suit as I may
To the moods of the river the tones of my lay!
In Spring when the primrose comes out on its side,
And smoothly to ocean it ripples its tide,
How sweetly—were love or were friendship the theme—
Would mingle the murmurs of song and of stream!
And smoothly to ocean it ripples its tide,
How sweetly—were love or were friendship the theme—
Would mingle the murmurs of song and of stream!
And then when the river, high-flooded and strong,
In might and in majesty thundered along,
How grandly would rise, 'mid its triumph of tone,
The lay for old England, her Church, or her Throne!
In might and in majesty thundered along,
How grandly would rise, 'mid its triumph of tone,
The lay for old England, her Church, or her Throne!
Alas, ye green banks, it may never be mine
In your calm shades to stray, on your slopes to recline;
But dear to remembrance, fair Carlisle, shall be
The hearts and the spirits I met with in thee!
In your calm shades to stray, on your slopes to recline;
But dear to remembrance, fair Carlisle, shall be
The hearts and the spirits I met with in thee!
32
THE QUEEN OF OCEAN'S ISLES.
'Tis sweet on this fair bark to lean,
And gaze upon the emerald sea,
Whose wavelets—breaking from the green—
Seem snow-wreaths on an April lea,
Or birds—for so will Fancy veer—
That brightly dive, and re-appear!
And gaze upon the emerald sea,
Whose wavelets—breaking from the green—
Seem snow-wreaths on an April lea,
Or birds—for so will Fancy veer—
That brightly dive, and re-appear!
There's beauty on the tinted brine,
Which is not bounded by the coast;
For yon delightful shores are thine,
My native land, my pride, my boast!
The peerless land where Freedom smiles,
The glorious Queen of Ocean's Isles!
Which is not bounded by the coast;
For yon delightful shores are thine,
My native land, my pride, my boast!
The peerless land where Freedom smiles,
The glorious Queen of Ocean's Isles!
MY HEART IS STILL YOUNG.
I'm wearing out of date, my love,
I've lost my song-repute;
Another race laud other bards,
And I may now be mute.
I wot not why it should be so—
I sing as erst I sung;
And though my head is gray, I feel
My heart it is still young.
I've lost my song-repute;
Another race laud other bards,
And I may now be mute.
I wot not why it should be so—
I sing as erst I sung;
And though my head is gray, I feel
My heart it is still young.
In moods that sometimes visit me
When worldly cares allow,
I hear the songs of other times,
The voices—silent now!
And faces come, that bade my harp
To lays of love be strung—
I start, to find the tear that shows
My heart is still young!
When worldly cares allow,
I hear the songs of other times,
The voices—silent now!
33
To lays of love be strung—
I start, to find the tear that shows
My heart is still young!
Nor live I all within the past—
Warm sympathy I feel
With every measure, every man,
That seeks the public weal.
By all that cheers my country, cheered—
By all that stings it, stung—
Each patriotic throb attests
My heart is still young!
Warm sympathy I feel
With every measure, every man,
That seeks the public weal.
By all that cheers my country, cheered—
By all that stings it, stung—
Each patriotic throb attests
My heart is still young!
THE ROCK OF THE OCEAN.
The Rock of the Ocean, when night-storms rage loudly,
Stands firm in its might, and repels the rude wave;
And the Beacon above it shines calmly and proudly,
How wildly soever waves roll, or winds rave.
That Rock still unmoved, and that Light still appearing,
There is hope for the Bark o'er the billows careering;
For her mariners watch it, and, dauntlessly steering,
Hold on by the Beacon that lightens to save!
Stands firm in its might, and repels the rude wave;
And the Beacon above it shines calmly and proudly,
How wildly soever waves roll, or winds rave.
That Rock still unmoved, and that Light still appearing,
There is hope for the Bark o'er the billows careering;
For her mariners watch it, and, dauntlessly steering,
Hold on by the Beacon that lightens to save!
35
And now, when the tempests of Faction rage loudly,
O! is there no Rock the rude storm to outbrave?
O! shines there no Beacon-light, calmly and proudly,
To guide the State-Bark through the night of the wave?
Yes, Peel! every bosom, not dead to emotion,
Exulting confides in thy fearless devotion;
Thy courage is England's firm Rock of the Ocean,
Thy wisdom her Beacon that lightens to save!
O! is there no Rock the rude storm to outbrave?
O! shines there no Beacon-light, calmly and proudly,
To guide the State-Bark through the night of the wave?
Yes, Peel! every bosom, not dead to emotion,
Exulting confides in thy fearless devotion;
Thy courage is England's firm Rock of the Ocean,
Thy wisdom her Beacon that lightens to save!
TO SIR ROBERT PEEL.
Thou hast fallen, but not with Dishonour;
Thou art stainless—deny it who will;
And England—O shame be upon her,
If she prize thee not, love thee not still!
Thou art stainless—deny it who will;
And England—O shame be upon her,
If she prize thee not, love thee not still!
I have watched thee in sunshine—power-seated,
And greater ne'er filled the high seat;
I have watched thee in shadow—defeated,
But not the less great from defeat!
And greater ne'er filled the high seat;
I have watched thee in shadow—defeated,
But not the less great from defeat!
To the tastes of the many to pander,
As their huge gilded Idol to shine,
Was ne'er thy ambition; not Slander
Dares say that that meanness was thine!
As their huge gilded Idol to shine,
Was ne'er thy ambition; not Slander
Dares say that that meanness was thine!
Yet Reformer thou wast, ere the nation
Had leaped at the name of Reform;
But thine was the safe legislation
Of wisdom, that raises no storm.
Had leaped at the name of Reform;
But thine was the safe legislation
Of wisdom, that raises no storm.
36
When other men rashly, insanely,
Assailed the good ramparts, time-tried,
Thou stood'st their Defender—not vainly,
Though small was the force at thy side.
Assailed the good ramparts, time-tried,
Thou stood'st their Defender—not vainly,
Though small was the force at thy side.
Thou stood'st—and thy single devotion
Aroused, and drew round thee at length,
The might of a people's emotion!—
Then came the proud hour of thy strength.
Aroused, and drew round thee at length,
The might of a people's emotion!—
Then came the proud hour of thy strength.
And England has but to look round her—
Remembering her commerce destroyed,
And revenue gone when it found her—
To see how that hour was employed!
Remembering her commerce destroyed,
And revenue gone when it found her—
To see how that hour was employed!
Thou hast fallen—but not with Dishonour;
Thou art stainless—deny it who will;
And England—O shame be upon her,
If she prize thee not, love thee not still!
Thou art stainless—deny it who will;
And England—O shame be upon her,
If she prize thee not, love thee not still!
MY QUEEN AND MY COUNTRY.
COMPOSED EXTEMPORE ON THE EVENING OF THE NINTH OF APRIL, 1848.
By a Special Constable.
I have written and sung for my country,
I have written and sung for my Queen;
And to-morrow this arm, if 'tis needed,
Not last in their cause shall be seen!
I have written and sung for my Queen;
And to-morrow this arm, if 'tis needed,
Not last in their cause shall be seen!
37
To-morrow!—I'm new to such conflict,
And hardly its feelings can guess;
But base were the heart that would shun it,
And make one Defender the less!
And hardly its feelings can guess;
But base were the heart that would shun it,
And make one Defender the less!
To-morrow!—The ball that shall kill me
May be moulded and waiting its flight;
And the loyal heart, warm in the morning,
May be cold enough long ere the night.
May be moulded and waiting its flight;
And the loyal heart, warm in the morning,
May be cold enough long ere the night.
What then? 'Twere a fitting conclusion
To the life of a patriot bard,
To fall for the cause that he sung for,
And find in its triumph, reward!
To the life of a patriot bard,
To fall for the cause that he sung for,
And find in its triumph, reward!
One sigh for my wife and my children,
At last be permitted to me;
One prayer for my Queen and my country,
And then my glad spirit be free!
At last be permitted to me;
One prayer for my Queen and my country,
And then my glad spirit be free!
A BUMPER WITH ME.
A fig for those fellows who always are sighing
For woes that have been, or for ills that may be,
And ever to brain and to bosom denying
The raptures that wait on a bumper with me!
For woes that have been, or for ills that may be,
And ever to brain and to bosom denying
The raptures that wait on a bumper with me!
This life hath no sorrows—if rightly we view it;
The past is a dream, and if brilliant it be,
The oftener may fancy turn to it and to it,
And live o'er its joys at a bumper with me!
The past is a dream, and if brilliant it be,
The oftener may fancy turn to it and to it,
And live o'er its joys at a bumper with me!
40
If dark are the pictures it offers to vision,
A wise man will shun them—not caring to see,
And solace his spirit with pleasures Elysian,
As Lethe he quaffs in a bumper with me!
A wise man will shun them—not caring to see,
And solace his spirit with pleasures Elysian,
As Lethe he quaffs in a bumper with me!
As the past's but a dream either pleasing or frightful,
The future's unknown; and a blockhead is he
Who names it for aught, but to wish it delightful,
Like the hour that he spends o'er a bumper with me!
The future's unknown; and a blockhead is he
Who names it for aught, but to wish it delightful,
Like the hour that he spends o'er a bumper with me!
Then, since all that is ours of enjoyment is present,
The fool may consume it in railing at glee;
But the man that has wisdom will make it all pleasant,
And steep his gay heart in a bumper with me!
The fool may consume it in railing at glee;
But the man that has wisdom will make it all pleasant,
And steep his gay heart in a bumper with me!
BE FRIENDLY!
Be friendly! be friendly!—since brief is life's day,
And seldom undimmed by some trouble its ray,
'Twere folly in rancour or strife to employ
One moment that might be devoted to joy.
Impressed with this truth are the hearts that meet here
For a banquet of reason and mirth once a year;
And no strife shall intrude, and no rancour ensue—
For “be friendly” 's the word when I'm dining with you.
And seldom undimmed by some trouble its ray,
'Twere folly in rancour or strife to employ
One moment that might be devoted to joy.
Impressed with this truth are the hearts that meet here
For a banquet of reason and mirth once a year;
And no strife shall intrude, and no rancour ensue—
For “be friendly” 's the word when I'm dining with you.
At home we have cares—but we leave them to-day;
In the world there is business—'tis not in our way.
Our business goes on when our joys keep improving,
And our care is—to see that the bottles keep moving!
The Queen, be she happy!—we're happy as she!
The Lords, be they wise!—are they wiser than we?
And as for the Commons, I feel it quite true,
I am not of the Commons when dining with you.
In the world there is business—'tis not in our way.
Our business goes on when our joys keep improving,
And our care is—to see that the bottles keep moving!
41
The Lords, be they wise!—are they wiser than we?
And as for the Commons, I feel it quite true,
I am not of the Commons when dining with you.
Then fill round a bumper, and each in his place
Drink with me—To the weal of the whole human race!—
Whatever his colour, his clime, or his creed,
Be he savage or civilized, fettered or freed,
Each man upon us has the claim of a Brother!
And if you can be touched by the woes of another,
You will pledge me with feelings befitting and due,
Nor allow them to part—when I've parted from you!
Drink with me—To the weal of the whole human race!—
Whatever his colour, his clime, or his creed,
Be he savage or civilized, fettered or freed,
Each man upon us has the claim of a Brother!
And if you can be touched by the woes of another,
You will pledge me with feelings befitting and due,
Nor allow them to part—when I've parted from you!
O! TO REST BESIDE THEE.
O! to rest beside thee, Anna!
O! to rest beside thee, Anna!
Calm beneath the grass and flowers
From love's pure eye that hide thee, Anna!
O! to rest beside thee, Anna!
Calm beneath the grass and flowers
From love's pure eye that hide thee, Anna!
No more thy light heart leaps to glee,
Love's sacred thrillings leave it, Anna;
But all the ills that menace me—
O, none of these can grieve it, Anna!
Love's sacred thrillings leave it, Anna;
But all the ills that menace me—
O, none of these can grieve it, Anna!
O! to rest beside thee, &c.
In vain to thee the summer blooms,
And azure skies bend o'er thee, Anna;
But adverse fortune's deepening glooms
Are never hung before thee, Anna!
And azure skies bend o'er thee, Anna;
But adverse fortune's deepening glooms
Are never hung before thee, Anna!
O! to rest beside thee, &c.
My song would thus embalm thy name,
And thou—thou canst not hear it, Anna;
But gathering hisses blast my fame,
And I survive to bear it, Anna!
And thou—thou canst not hear it, Anna;
But gathering hisses blast my fame,
And I survive to bear it, Anna!
O! to rest beside thee, Anna!
O! to rest beside thee, Anna!
Calm beneath the grass and flowers
From love's pure eye that hide thee, Anna!
O! to rest beside thee, Anna!
Calm beneath the grass and flowers
From love's pure eye that hide thee, Anna!
45
THE HEATH IS GREEN.
The heath is green on Roseden bank,
The eglantine is budding fair,
And yellow waves the broom-wood dank
Its tall and tufted bushes there.
The eglantine is budding fair,
And yellow waves the broom-wood dank
Its tall and tufted bushes there.
But heavy snow concealed the heath,
And sadly bent each bloomless bough,
When, love's sincerest vows to breathe,
I met my fair on Roseden-brow.
And sadly bent each bloomless bough,
When, love's sincerest vows to breathe,
I met my fair on Roseden-brow.
O love can cheer the hardest lot,
O love can soothe the keenest woe,
Can make a palace of a cot,
And warm the chill of winter's snow!
O love can soothe the keenest woe,
Can make a palace of a cot,
And warm the chill of winter's snow!
At noon our words had passed to meet,
And there at noon we kindly met;
Our hearts were true, our talk was sweet,
At eve we parted with regret!
And there at noon we kindly met;
Our hearts were true, our talk was sweet,
At eve we parted with regret!
I have been blest in rosy bower—
I have been blest on daisied lea—
But daisied lea, nor rosy bower,
Could match that snowy bank to me!
I have been blest on daisied lea—
But daisied lea, nor rosy bower,
Could match that snowy bank to me!
46
'TWAS LOVELY!
'Twas lovely! for on high
A thin mist veiled the sky,
And gave richness to the mild yellow moon;
And the gentle light of day
Seemed scarcely gone away,
But mingled with the summer night's noon!
A thin mist veiled the sky,
And gave richness to the mild yellow moon;
And the gentle light of day
Seemed scarcely gone away,
But mingled with the summer night's noon!
'Twas lovely! for the wood
Threw its shadows on the flood,
And the flood lay so calm and so pure—
From its depth it seemed to show
Yet a sweeter world below,
More delicately bright and obscure!
Threw its shadows on the flood,
And the flood lay so calm and so pure—
From its depth it seemed to show
Yet a sweeter world below,
More delicately bright and obscure!
'Twas lovely! for my love
Was with me in the grove,
My young and my new-made bride;
And I marvel I should note,
For I'm sure I never thought
Of a beauty—save the one by my side!
Was with me in the grove,
My young and my new-made bride;
And I marvel I should note,
For I'm sure I never thought
Of a beauty—save the one by my side!
O! THOU ART FAIR.
O! thou art fair, and I am true,
I feel my heart is thine, Mary;
But though thou 'rt fair, and I am true,
Thou never canst be mine, Mary!
I feel my heart is thine, Mary;
But though thou 'rt fair, and I am true,
Thou never canst be mine, Mary!
55
My soul, though formed for raptures high,
Hath sunk in Passion's storm, Mary;
And 'twere a crime in such as I
To clasp an Angel's form, Mary!
Hath sunk in Passion's storm, Mary;
And 'twere a crime in such as I
To clasp an Angel's form, Mary!
And all my views are wrapped in gloom,
No sunbeam shines on me, Mary,
Thy smile could give them light and bloom,
But that were woe to thee, Mary!
No sunbeam shines on me, Mary,
Thy smile could give them light and bloom,
But that were woe to thee, Mary!
No! let me suffer—'tis my fate—
Unwept by mortal eye, Mary;
But O! be thine the happiest state
Beneath the calmest sky, Mary!
Unwept by mortal eye, Mary;
But O! be thine the happiest state
Beneath the calmest sky, Mary!
Then, on the clouds that dim my day,
One thought, to cheer my breast, Mary,
Shall softly shed its rainbow-ray—
The thought that thou art blest, Mary!
One thought, to cheer my breast, Mary,
Shall softly shed its rainbow-ray—
The thought that thou art blest, Mary!
O! LOVE HAS A FAVOURITE SCENE.
O! love has a favourite scene for roaming—
It is in the dell where the Aire is foaming;
And love has an hour, of all the dearest—
It is when the star of the west is clearest;
It is when the moon on the wave is yellow;
It is when the wood's last song is mellow;
It is when the breeze, o'er the scene reposing,
Stirs not a flower as its leaves are closing;
And every green bough of the briar thou meetest,
Hath rose-buds and roses the softest and sweetest!
It is in the dell where the Aire is foaming;
And love has an hour, of all the dearest—
It is when the star of the west is clearest;
It is when the moon on the wave is yellow;
It is when the wood's last song is mellow;
It is when the breeze, o'er the scene reposing,
Stirs not a flower as its leaves are closing;
And every green bough of the briar thou meetest,
Hath rose-buds and roses the softest and sweetest!
Come, love! 'tis the scene and the hour for roaming,
The dell is green, and the Aire is foaming.
Not purer the light that the west is pouring,
Not purer the gold that the moon is showering,
Not purer the dew on the rose's blossom,—
Than the love, my dear maid, that warms my bosom!
Yet morn will come, when the dew—ascending—
Will leave the dry flower on its stalk depending,
The star the blue west, and the moon the river,
Will quit—but my heart shall be thine for ever!
The dell is green, and the Aire is foaming.
Not purer the light that the west is pouring,
Not purer the gold that the moon is showering,
Not purer the dew on the rose's blossom,—
Than the love, my dear maid, that warms my bosom!
Yet morn will come, when the dew—ascending—
Will leave the dry flower on its stalk depending,
The star the blue west, and the moon the river,
Will quit—but my heart shall be thine for ever!
59
THE SPLENDOURS OF SUNSET.
“The splendours of sunset diffuse their last tinges
Athwart the fine azure, and streak it afar;
While, peeping serene through their faint-meeting fringes,
Appears in its beauty the love-hallowed star.
And see, o'er the summit of Flasby dividing,
The clouds in their bosom the fair Moon receive,
Who, like some pure spirit in majesty gliding,
Comes forth to smile joy on our blithe bridal eve!
Athwart the fine azure, and streak it afar;
While, peeping serene through their faint-meeting fringes,
Appears in its beauty the love-hallowed star.
And see, o'er the summit of Flasby dividing,
The clouds in their bosom the fair Moon receive,
Who, like some pure spirit in majesty gliding,
Comes forth to smile joy on our blithe bridal eve!
“The love I have whispered when such an hour yellowed
The scene of our meeting by stream or by grove,
Which reason hath sanctioned, and intercourse mellowed,
To-morrow will show it was genuine love.
I chose from a world, first allured by thy beauty;
The charms of thy mind have confirmed me thine own;
And the vow I pronounce, will but hallow to duty,
What my heart must have taught me—to love thee alone.
The scene of our meeting by stream or by grove,
Which reason hath sanctioned, and intercourse mellowed,
To-morrow will show it was genuine love.
I chose from a world, first allured by thy beauty;
The charms of thy mind have confirmed me thine own;
And the vow I pronounce, will but hallow to duty,
What my heart must have taught me—to love thee alone.
“But say, canst thou love me alone, and for ever?
Ah, tell me! for loved and adored as thou art,
If one were as dear to thee, yet we might sever;
I would not divide with a Monarch thy heart!”
So spoke a fond Youth, while his Isabel listened,
Nor uttered a word to his doubt or his fear;
But her soft cheek it glowed, and her blue eye it glistened,
And she hid in his bosom her blush and her tear!
Ah, tell me! for loved and adored as thou art,
If one were as dear to thee, yet we might sever;
I would not divide with a Monarch thy heart!”
So spoke a fond Youth, while his Isabel listened,
Nor uttered a word to his doubt or his fear;
But her soft cheek it glowed, and her blue eye it glistened,
And she hid in his bosom her blush and her tear!
60
A ROSE FROM YONDER BLOOMING BOWER.
A Rose from yonder blooming bower,
It is thy favoured lot to bear;
For never yet hath sweeter flower
Been taken from the banks of Aire.
It is thy favoured lot to bear;
For never yet hath sweeter flower
Been taken from the banks of Aire.
And O! through many a future year,
(For poets are prophetic) she
Thy heart shall bless, thy home shall cheer,
And be the “life of life” to thee!
(For poets are prophetic) she
Thy heart shall bless, thy home shall cheer,
And be the “life of life” to thee!
Should clouds thy sunny sky o'ercast,
It shall not all be dark the while;
One steady gleam, amid the blast,
Shall shine and soothe thee—in her smile!
It shall not all be dark the while;
One steady gleam, amid the blast,
Shall shine and soothe thee—in her smile!
Should fortune from thy prospect take
Each bloom along the path that blows,
And all the scene a desert make—
She shall be still that desert's rose!
Each bloom along the path that blows,
And all the scene a desert make—
She shall be still that desert's rose!
Nor to be all the bard foresees,
Is change required in her, I ween;
Since, to please those she seeks to please,
She needs but be—what she hath been!
Is change required in her, I ween;
Since, to please those she seeks to please,
She needs but be—what she hath been!
63
CHEVIOT IS PROUD.
Cheviot is proud this morn, be sure!
(I would I saw him so!)
His crown is of the ether pure,
His mantle of the snow.
And regally he lifts him high,
Amid the early glow,
Above the subject-hills that lie,
And crouch far down below!
(I would I saw him so!)
His crown is of the ether pure,
His mantle of the snow.
And regally he lifts him high,
Amid the early glow,
Above the subject-hills that lie,
And crouch far down below!
What marks he?—Vales of shining white,
Ice-glittering streams marks he;
And smoke-wreaths curling in the light,
Where halls and hamlets be.
There sit Northumbrians—squire and hind—
Each by his hearth-blaze free,
Warm-hearted men, and matrons kind,
And maidens ‘bright of blee’!
Ice-glittering streams marks he;
And smoke-wreaths curling in the light,
Where halls and hamlets be.
There sit Northumbrians—squire and hind—
Each by his hearth-blaze free,
Warm-hearted men, and matrons kind,
And maidens ‘bright of blee’!
TWEED SIDE.
We 're far away frae bonnie Tweed-side,
Whare weel I lik'd to be;
We 're far away frae bonnie Tweed-side,
My dear little bairns an' me!
My bairns 'ill soon get ower their waes;
My babie has nane to bide;
But when will their Mother forget the braes,
An' the banks o' bonnie Tweed-side?
Whare weel I lik'd to be;
We 're far away frae bonnie Tweed-side,
My dear little bairns an' me!
My bairns 'ill soon get ower their waes;
My babie has nane to bide;
But when will their Mother forget the braes,
An' the banks o' bonnie Tweed-side?
My fair-hair'd Meg gaed out yestreen,
Wee Jeanie she led by the hand;
They sought by river and wild-wood green,
An' mony a flower they fand.
They brought their posies hame to me
Wi' mickle o' glee an' pride—
Poor fool! I grat the flowers to see!
They grew na by bonnie Tweed-side.
Wee Jeanie she led by the hand;
They sought by river and wild-wood green,
An' mony a flower they fand.
They brought their posies hame to me
Wi' mickle o' glee an' pride—
Poor fool! I grat the flowers to see!
They grew na by bonnie Tweed-side.
We mauna gang back, we canna gang back,
Altho' our look out be mirk;
For my leil gudeman sleeps now, alack,
By the side o' a Southland kirk.
An' we will stay by his lowly graf,
Betide whatever betide!—
But God will be the orphan's staff,
Tho' far frae bonnie Tweed-side!
Altho' our look out be mirk;
For my leil gudeman sleeps now, alack,
By the side o' a Southland kirk.
An' we will stay by his lowly graf,
Betide whatever betide!—
But God will be the orphan's staff,
Tho' far frae bonnie Tweed-side!
71
TO THE NORTH STAR.
Unveil, unveil, sweet Northern Star!
Thy beams to glad mine eye—
To me the sweetest light by far
That twinkles in the sky!
Thy beams to glad mine eye—
To me the sweetest light by far
That twinkles in the sky!
The star that gems the azure west
Is still the poet's theme;
It wakes the maiden's gentle breast,
The lover's twilight dream.
Is still the poet's theme;
It wakes the maiden's gentle breast,
The lover's twilight dream.
But I, unheeding other gleam,
As thus through night I roam,
With love exclusive hail thy beam,
Because it speaks of home.
As thus through night I roam,
With love exclusive hail thy beam,
Because it speaks of home.
Ay, bard and lover, as they will,
May deem their star divine;
Heart—soul—and memory mingle still
In every ray of thine!
May deem their star divine;
Heart—soul—and memory mingle still
In every ray of thine!
75
THE THAMES.
I've seen fair sunsets light the Tweed;
I've seen them tinge the Tyne;
On Aire, that winds by mount and mead,
I've seen them calmly shine.
Nor would I now remembrance rob
Of those its treasured gems,—
Yet feels my breast a loftier throb
When sunset gilds the Thames!
I've seen them tinge the Tyne;
On Aire, that winds by mount and mead,
I've seen them calmly shine.
Nor would I now remembrance rob
Of those its treasured gems,—
Yet feels my breast a loftier throb
When sunset gilds the Thames!
The Cheviots in their majesty
Reflect the western beam;
And brightly through its daisied lea
Flows every Northern stream.
But though the feelings springing thence,
No mood of mine contemns,—
Of prouder scenes a prouder sense
Is flashed to me from Thames!
Reflect the western beam;
And brightly through its daisied lea
Flows every Northern stream.
80
No mood of mine contemns,—
Of prouder scenes a prouder sense
Is flashed to me from Thames!
In more than earthly radiance, see
Westminster's sacred walls!
The spirit of sublimity
Embodied in St. Pauls!
And that grand semicirque between!—
Not the proud diadems
Of Europe's Kings combined, I ween,
Could buy the wealth of Thames!
Westminster's sacred walls!
The spirit of sublimity
Embodied in St. Pauls!
And that grand semicirque between!—
Not the proud diadems
Of Europe's Kings combined, I ween,
Could buy the wealth of Thames!
O name not wealth! Superior powers
A charm o'er London shed;
Great men have hallowed all her towers,
Her living sons—her dead!
Ay, more than host, and more than fleet,
That guards the tide it stems,
Mind—Mind hath here its regal seat,—
It sways the world from Thames!
A charm o'er London shed;
Great men have hallowed all her towers,
Her living sons—her dead!
Ay, more than host, and more than fleet,
That guards the tide it stems,
Mind—Mind hath here its regal seat,—
It sways the world from Thames!
Fair dreams I had, in ardent youth,
Of fame—still unachieved;
And yet those dreams, compared with truth,
Have but in part deceived.
'Tis something—whether all my views
Time sanctions or condemns—
That I through life shall proudly muse,
And sleep at last by Thames!
Of fame—still unachieved;
And yet those dreams, compared with truth,
Have but in part deceived.
'Tis something—whether all my views
Time sanctions or condemns—
That I through life shall proudly muse,
And sleep at last by Thames!
81
O LET ME ON THY BREAST.
O let me on thy breast, love,
My burning brow recline;
Or let me sink to rest, love,
Thine own reposed on mine!
Perchance my dreams—if dreams should come—
Of brighter things may be,
Than aught Life mingles in the sum
Of ills it heaps on me!
My burning brow recline;
Or let me sink to rest, love,
Thine own reposed on mine!
Perchance my dreams—if dreams should come—
Of brighter things may be,
Than aught Life mingles in the sum
Of ills it heaps on me!
Alas! my heart is soft, love,
Unfit the rush to brave,
Of troubles which too oft, love,
Break o'er me—wave on wave!
'Tis but when thus, all chastely fond,
Thine arms around me twine,
I feel 'twere sinful to despond
While blest with love like thine!
Unfit the rush to brave,
Of troubles which too oft, love,
Break o'er me—wave on wave!
'Tis but when thus, all chastely fond,
Thine arms around me twine,
I feel 'twere sinful to despond
While blest with love like thine!
MARK, ELLEN, HOW FAIR.
Mark, Ellen, how fair on the wild-briar bush
The last single blossom appears!
A rose of September, that ventures to blush
Where nothing protects it or cheers.
Though the sun be o'erclouded, the breezes be chill,
And though bitter showers o'er it have passed,
Round the green boughs that bear it—defying each ill—
Its balm and its beauty are cast!
The last single blossom appears!
A rose of September, that ventures to blush
Where nothing protects it or cheers.
Though the sun be o'erclouded, the breezes be chill,
And though bitter showers o'er it have passed,
Round the green boughs that bear it—defying each ill—
Its balm and its beauty are cast!
89
And seems it not, Ellen, as lonely it blooms,
Like the last of our fair summer friends,
Who clings to us still, though the atmosphere glooms,
And the tempest in fury descends?
Yet it cannot, my love, be an emblem of thee:
When my youth and my fortune are past,
Thy love shall survive, and o'er life's withered tree
Its balm and its beauty be cast!
Like the last of our fair summer friends,
Who clings to us still, though the atmosphere glooms,
And the tempest in fury descends?
Yet it cannot, my love, be an emblem of thee:
When my youth and my fortune are past,
Thy love shall survive, and o'er life's withered tree
Its balm and its beauty be cast!
MY DEAR, IF COLD.
My dear, if cold the world have grown,
If those that smiled have turned away,
And if the light our past hath known,
Shall never gild our future day—
What then? We will not therefore droop,
But bear the change as best we can:
Cheer thou thy little rosy group,
I'll suffer as becomes a Man!
If those that smiled have turned away,
And if the light our past hath known,
Shall never gild our future day—
What then? We will not therefore droop,
But bear the change as best we can:
Cheer thou thy little rosy group,
I'll suffer as becomes a Man!
The term of human life is brief,
The point is how to pass it well:
Small matters both are joy and grief,
Soon ended in the ‘narrow cell.’
But if we ne'er to baseness stoop,
We dignify the little span:
Then cheer, my love, thy rosy group,
I'll suffer as becomes a Man!
The point is how to pass it well:
Small matters both are joy and grief,
Soon ended in the ‘narrow cell.’
But if we ne'er to baseness stoop,
We dignify the little span:
Then cheer, my love, thy rosy group,
I'll suffer as becomes a Man!
90
Yon heartless wretch whose god is gold,
The veriest slave of woman born,
In hate we will not deign to hold—
We'll hardly condescend to—scorn!
Beneath his shade let others droop,
We reck not if he bless or ban!—
Cheer thou thy little rosy group,
I'll suffer as becomes a Man!
The veriest slave of woman born,
In hate we will not deign to hold—
We'll hardly condescend to—scorn!
Beneath his shade let others droop,
We reck not if he bless or ban!—
Cheer thou thy little rosy group,
I'll suffer as becomes a Man!
Life does not terminate with breath,
Nor fame and infamy with life;
There's execration after death,
And tears and glory too, my Wife!
O! who would fawn, or cringe, or stoop,
For aught that He may do or plan?—
No, no! Cheer thou thy rosy group,
I'll suffer as becomes a Man!
Nor fame and infamy with life;
There's execration after death,
And tears and glory too, my Wife!
O! who would fawn, or cringe, or stoop,
For aught that He may do or plan?—
No, no! Cheer thou thy rosy group,
I'll suffer as becomes a Man!
THEY'VE BUILT A HOUSE.
They've built a House on yonder slope
Huge, grim, and prison-like, and dull!
With grated walls that shut out Hope,
And cells, of wretched paupers full.
And they, if we for help should call,
Will thither take, and lodge us thus;
But Ellen, no! Their prison wall,
I swear it, was not built for us!
Huge, grim, and prison-like, and dull!
With grated walls that shut out Hope,
And cells, of wretched paupers full.
And they, if we for help should call,
Will thither take, and lodge us thus;
But Ellen, no! Their prison wall,
I swear it, was not built for us!
91
We've lived together fourteen years;
Three boys and four sweet girls are ours;
Our life hath had its hopes and fears,
Its autumn blights, its summer flowers;
But ever with determined front,
And heart that scorned in ill to bow,
Have we sustained misfortune's brunt;
We never quailed—nor will we now!
Three boys and four sweet girls are ours;
Our life hath had its hopes and fears,
Its autumn blights, its summer flowers;
But ever with determined front,
And heart that scorned in ill to bow,
Have we sustained misfortune's brunt;
We never quailed—nor will we now!
Our eldest hope—our Sally—she
Who steals from e'en her play to books,
O God! in yon Bastile to see
The sweetness of her modest looks!
And Esty, who hath little mind
For books when there is time to play,
Her little heart would burst, to find
The same dull prison every day!
Who steals from e'en her play to books,
O God! in yon Bastile to see
The sweetness of her modest looks!
And Esty, who hath little mind
For books when there is time to play,
Her little heart would burst, to find
The same dull prison every day!
His father's picture, too, my Bob,
My double both in head and heart—
And Bill, whom it were sin to rob
Of his red cheek and emulous part—
And Fanny with her craftiness—
And Jack that screams so very low—
Shall they put on their prison-dress?
My dear—my dear—they shall not go!
My double both in head and heart—
And Bill, whom it were sin to rob
Of his red cheek and emulous part—
And Fanny with her craftiness—
And Jack that screams so very low—
Shall they put on their prison-dress?
My dear—my dear—they shall not go!
They shall not go—to pine apart,
Forgetting kindredship and home;
To lose each impulse of the heart
That binds us wheresoe'er we roam!
And we, whom God and Love made one,
Whom Man and Law would disunite,
We will not, Famine's death to shun,
Sleep there, or wake, a single night!
Forgetting kindredship and home;
To lose each impulse of the heart
That binds us wheresoe'er we roam!
92
Whom Man and Law would disunite,
We will not, Famine's death to shun,
Sleep there, or wake, a single night!
Still is their act—in something—mild:
Though I no more must share your rest,
They would permit your infant child
To—tug at an exhausted breast!
And Jack would cease, poor boy! to scream—
Awed by some keeper's rod and threat;
While, sunk in cribs, the rest would dream
Of days—too well remembered yet!
Though I no more must share your rest,
They would permit your infant child
To—tug at an exhausted breast!
And Jack would cease, poor boy! to scream—
Awed by some keeper's rod and threat;
While, sunk in cribs, the rest would dream
Of days—too well remembered yet!
Away! On England's soil we stand;
Our means have, erst, supplied the poor;
We have claims on our father-land;—
No, no—that right is ours no more!
But we will die a Beggar's death,
Rather than pass their hated wall!
On some free hill breathe out our breath—
One nameless grave receiving all!
Our means have, erst, supplied the poor;
We have claims on our father-land;—
No, no—that right is ours no more!
But we will die a Beggar's death,
Rather than pass their hated wall!
On some free hill breathe out our breath—
One nameless grave receiving all!
TO DREAM OF THE DEAD.
Believe not, my love, what the proverb hath said,
That to dream of the Dead is an omen of ill;
But rather esteem it a privilege, made
For the lone and the left who must tarry here still!
That to dream of the Dead is an omen of ill;
But rather esteem it a privilege, made
For the lone and the left who must tarry here still!
93
I know not the waking hour, filled with the deep,
The solemn emotions of joy and of awe,
That thrill—when Invisible Hands, during sleep,
The curtain 'twixt me and the spirit-clime draw!
The solemn emotions of joy and of awe,
That thrill—when Invisible Hands, during sleep,
The curtain 'twixt me and the spirit-clime draw!
To watch the glooms part, and the splendors evolve;
To see the bright habitants moving in bliss;
To note each dear shape, Death has failed to dissolve;
To catch the old smile! and yet something to miss—
To see the bright habitants moving in bliss;
To note each dear shape, Death has failed to dissolve;
To catch the old smile! and yet something to miss—
Some look, or some manner, which, living, they had;
And to find that they speak not!—once kindly that spoke!
Give feelings so strange, so delightful, though sad!—
I never thus dreamt, but I wept when I woke.
And to find that they speak not!—once kindly that spoke!
Give feelings so strange, so delightful, though sad!—
I never thus dreamt, but I wept when I woke.
For I woke to a world—not the world of my youth,
But a new and a cold one of strangers instead:
Alas, we have lived, till we feel the sad truth—
If we dream of our friends, we must dream of the Dead!
But a new and a cold one of strangers instead:
Alas, we have lived, till we feel the sad truth—
If we dream of our friends, we must dream of the Dead!
MY COT WAS LOW.
My cot was low, and scant my fare;
But round my evening fire
Was placed as sweet a group as e'er
Looked love upon their sire.
And there, too, sat my patient wife—
None fairer sat in hall—
My sharer in the ills of life,
And soother of them all!
For them, through cold and heat, I wrought,
But sorely did their number press;
And—Heaven forgive me for the thought!—
I almost wished it less.
But round my evening fire
Was placed as sweet a group as e'er
Looked love upon their sire.
And there, too, sat my patient wife—
None fairer sat in hall—
My sharer in the ills of life,
And soother of them all!
For them, through cold and heat, I wrought,
But sorely did their number press;
And—Heaven forgive me for the thought!—
I almost wished it less.
Affliction came. My fire-side group
Diminished year by year;
One after one, I saw them droop,
The duteous, and the dear!
And when my last was borne to earth,
Wealth grew—I scarce knew how;
But mine was now a childless hearth,
And wealth was nothing now!
Take, take, I cried, my useless gold,
Give back my group my hearth to bless,
And I will work through heat and cold,
Nor ever wish it less!
Diminished year by year;
One after one, I saw them droop,
The duteous, and the dear!
And when my last was borne to earth,
Wealth grew—I scarce knew how;
But mine was now a childless hearth,
And wealth was nothing now!
Take, take, I cried, my useless gold,
Give back my group my hearth to bless,
And I will work through heat and cold,
Nor ever wish it less!
96
THE AULD SCOTTISH TONGUE.
The language o' England, like England's ain race,
Is manly, yet tender; is blunt, yet refin'd;
Reflectin' wi' vigour, wi' pith, an' wi' grace,
Ilk bound o' the breast, an' ilk mood o' the mind.
But ae tongue I like better, nor care wha mak' light o't;
Its dear to me written, or spoken, or sung;
There's somethin' that warms in the soun' an' the sight o't;
An' a' tongues seem poor to the auld Scottish Tongue.
Is manly, yet tender; is blunt, yet refin'd;
Reflectin' wi' vigour, wi' pith, an' wi' grace,
Ilk bound o' the breast, an' ilk mood o' the mind.
But ae tongue I like better, nor care wha mak' light o't;
Its dear to me written, or spoken, or sung;
There's somethin' that warms in the soun' an' the sight o't;
An' a' tongues seem poor to the auld Scottish Tongue.
It isna a dialect found in a dale,
Or fix'd to a province, an' vulgariz'd a';
Its the speech o' a nation—o' nations the wale—
Ance spoken by Monarchs, ance thunder'd in Law.
An' Genius has made it his vehicle: loudly
In tale an' in sang thro' the warl' it has rung,
Till hearts, proud o' Scotland, hae beat yet mair proudly,
To hear in far lands the dear auld Scottish Tongue!
Or fix'd to a province, an' vulgariz'd a';
Its the speech o' a nation—o' nations the wale—
Ance spoken by Monarchs, ance thunder'd in Law.
An' Genius has made it his vehicle: loudly
In tale an' in sang thro' the warl' it has rung,
Till hearts, proud o' Scotland, hae beat yet mair proudly,
To hear in far lands the dear auld Scottish Tongue!
But its no that the tongue is a nation's; its no
That 'twas spoken by Kings, an' has thunder'd in Law;
Its no because Genius has taught it to glow
In tale an' in sang that enchanted us a'.
It isna for them, or for them a'thegither,
That I lo'e it when written, or spoken, or sung:
The tongue o' auld Scotland I learn'd frae my Mither,
An' there's her fire-side in the auld Scottish Tongue!
That 'twas spoken by Kings, an' has thunder'd in Law;
Its no because Genius has taught it to glow
In tale an' in sang that enchanted us a'.
It isna for them, or for them a'thegither,
That I lo'e it when written, or spoken, or sung:
The tongue o' auld Scotland I learn'd frae my Mither,
An' there's her fire-side in the auld Scottish Tongue!
99
THE WARS ARE ALL OVER.
The wars are all over, all over, all over,
The wars are all over, an' our sodgers come hame;
An' in ilk house there's weepin', there's weepin', there's weepin',
But it isna for sorrow, it isna for shame!
Four our lads have done bravely, done bravely, done bravely;
They have fought for their country, an' come back wi' fame;
Yet in ilk house there's weepin', there's weepin', there's weepin',
But the tears are o' pleasure to see them come hame!
The wars are all over, an' our sodgers come hame;
An' in ilk house there's weepin', there's weepin', there's weepin',
But it isna for sorrow, it isna for shame!
100
They have fought for their country, an' come back wi' fame;
Yet in ilk house there's weepin', there's weepin', there's weepin',
But the tears are o' pleasure to see them come hame!
O! I hae nae sodger, nae sodger, nae sodger,
To fly to my welcome, nae lad to come hame!
In the cauld field they've left him, they've left him, they've left him,
On the bed—as they ca' it—of honour and fame.
Wae, wae to their honour, their honour, their honour!
Its a poor, poor conceit to gie death sic a name:
There's naething for me, now, but sickness, heart-sickness,
An' the tear that maun fa', but can ne'er bring him hame!
To fly to my welcome, nae lad to come hame!
In the cauld field they've left him, they've left him, they've left him,
On the bed—as they ca' it—of honour and fame.
Wae, wae to their honour, their honour, their honour!
Its a poor, poor conceit to gie death sic a name:
There's naething for me, now, but sickness, heart-sickness,
An' the tear that maun fa', but can ne'er bring him hame!
THE GOWAN.
When Simmer smiles frae sea to sea,
An' a' her flowers are growin'—o,
The dearest to my love an' me
Is the bonnie, simple gowan,—o.
An' a' her flowers are growin'—o,
The dearest to my love an' me
Is the bonnie, simple gowan,—o.
My love he bade me name a flower,
The violet, rose, or lily—o,
That in the dreary absence-hour
Should mind me o' my Willie—o.
The violet, rose, or lily—o,
That in the dreary absence-hour
Should mind me o' my Willie—o.
101
And he wad choose the same, he said,
To be a true-love token—o,
Of promise to his winsome maid
That never should be broken—o.
To be a true-love token—o,
Of promise to his winsome maid
That never should be broken—o.
I wadna choose the violet blue,
I wadna tak' the lily—o,
Nor yet the rose o' fairest hue,
To mind me o' my Willie—o.
I wadna tak' the lily—o,
Nor yet the rose o' fairest hue,
To mind me o' my Willie—o.
For thae are but a simmer sweet,
An' soon they fa' thegither—o;
They couldna be an emblem meet
O' love that ne'er shall wither—o.
An' soon they fa' thegither—o;
They couldna be an emblem meet
O' love that ne'er shall wither—o.
We turn'd to whare the glen was green,
An' whare the burn was rowin'—o,
An' there our bonnie choice was seen
The sweet, the simple gowan—o!
An' whare the burn was rowin'—o,
An' there our bonnie choice was seen
The sweet, the simple gowan—o!
The gowan lives on muir an' dale,
It glents by shaw an' fountain—o;
Ye'll find it in the lonest vale,
An' on the wildest mountain—o.
It glents by shaw an' fountain—o;
Ye'll find it in the lonest vale,
An' on the wildest mountain—o.
The sma'est bield, when winter blaws,
'Ill fence its hardy blossom—o,
An' to the slightest blink that fa's,
It 'ill spread its bonnie bosom—o.
'Ill fence its hardy blossom—o,
An' to the slightest blink that fa's,
It 'ill spread its bonnie bosom—o.
Nae farther can the flowerie bear
The fond conceit we cherish—o;
The storm maun come that winna spare,
The flower maun feel an' perish—o.
The fond conceit we cherish—o;
The storm maun come that winna spare,
The flower maun feel an' perish—o.
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While love 'ill fend in mirkest hours,
An' when the blast blaws sairest—o;
Ay—when our fate the darkest lowers,
True love blooms aye the fairest—o!
An' when the blast blaws sairest—o;
Ay—when our fate the darkest lowers,
True love blooms aye the fairest—o!
Yet on the hill, or on the lea,
Or whare the burn is rowin'—o,
I like our true-love pledge to see,
The sweet, the simple gowan—o!
Or whare the burn is rowin'—o,
I like our true-love pledge to see,
The sweet, the simple gowan—o!
THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.
The vale of Avoca has long had its fame,
For Erin's high bard gave a charm to its name;
And those “waters” shall “meet” and flow on in his lay,
And that “valley” shall bloom—till Creation decay!
For Erin's high bard gave a charm to its name;
And those “waters” shall “meet” and flow on in his lay,
And that “valley” shall bloom—till Creation decay!
And sweet vale of Akay! thy banks are as green,
Thy waters as bright as Avoca's, I ween;
And would that a Moore came—a pilgrim—to thee,
And mused at the meeting of Rotha and Dee!
Thy waters as bright as Avoca's, I ween;
And would that a Moore came—a pilgrim—to thee,
And mused at the meeting of Rotha and Dee!
To thee all the pleasing attractions belong,
That appealed to his heart, and awakened his song;
For while fresh as Avoca's the bloom thou dost wear,
Thou hast bosoms as friendly, and faces as fair!
That appealed to his heart, and awakened his song;
For while fresh as Avoca's the bloom thou dost wear,
Thou hast bosoms as friendly, and faces as fair!
And O! could he lend me his harp or his skill,
Could he give me the power—as I now have the will—
Then, linked with Avoca's, immortal should be
The fame of the meeting of Rotha and Dee!
Could he give me the power—as I now have the will—
Then, linked with Avoca's, immortal should be
The fame of the meeting of Rotha and Dee!
I KNOW A FACE.
I know a face—that face is thine—
Which he that sees it likes;
Though it might puzzle to define
Where lies the charm that strikes.
Which he that sees it likes;
Though it might puzzle to define
Where lies the charm that strikes.
'Tis not in eyes—at least I've seen
As brilliant ones, unmoved;
Nor cheeks—for cheeks as fair have been,
And yet the face less loved.
As brilliant ones, unmoved;
Nor cheeks—for cheeks as fair have been,
And yet the face less loved.
'Tis not in lip, or glossy hair,
That waves or breathes delight—
These may be matched; and here I swear
Thy looks are matchless quite.
That waves or breathes delight—
These may be matched; and here I swear
Thy looks are matchless quite.
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Nor is it in them all combined,
Though made to warm and win;
The charm we seek, but cannot find,
Must reach us from within!
Though made to warm and win;
The charm we seek, but cannot find,
Must reach us from within!
Thence—pure as mooolight—beams the soul
Through the transparent face!
And thence the kind heart lends the whole
Its own bewitching grace!
Through the transparent face!
And thence the kind heart lends the whole
Its own bewitching grace!
THE OLD BARD'S SONG.
Had Song brought the name it has brought me to-day,
Ere the friends—the first friends—of my heart died away,
To whom all my young aspirations were known,
And whose faith in my destiny equalled my own!
How sweet 'twould have been to reflect, that the few
Who predicted my fame, could exult in it too!
To know that the plaudits which hailed my success,
Were felt by one heart it was rapture to bless!
For the spring-gale of Fame gains a fragrance above
Its own—from the flowers of Friendship and Love!
Ere the friends—the first friends—of my heart died away,
To whom all my young aspirations were known,
And whose faith in my destiny equalled my own!
How sweet 'twould have been to reflect, that the few
Who predicted my fame, could exult in it too!
To know that the plaudits which hailed my success,
Were felt by one heart it was rapture to bless!
For the spring-gale of Fame gains a fragrance above
Its own—from the flowers of Friendship and Love!
But mournful it is, the wished name to receive,
When a new race look on at the deeds I achieve—
With wonder, perhaps, but O! not with that swell
Of the heart they would feel, who in youth loved me well!
With pleasure, it may be, but not with the smile
That she would bestow, could she greet me the while!
Oh, none can describe—save the wretch who has known—
How worthless is Fame, when the Valued are gone;
When the spring-gale has nought its own fragrance above;
When dead are the flowers of Friendship and Love!
When a new race look on at the deeds I achieve—
With wonder, perhaps, but O! not with that swell
Of the heart they would feel, who in youth loved me well!
With pleasure, it may be, but not with the smile
That she would bestow, could she greet me the while!
Oh, none can describe—save the wretch who has known—
How worthless is Fame, when the Valued are gone;
When the spring-gale has nought its own fragrance above;
When dead are the flowers of Friendship and Love!
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O! ASK ME NOT.
O! ask me not, as I was wont,
To hail with you the opening year!
I meet it with a placid front,
But will not hope, and will not fear.
To hail with you the opening year!
I meet it with a placid front,
But will not hope, and will not fear.
If aught of joy its course bestow,
It can but be what I have known;
And if it bring a weight of woe,
I bore it in the year that's flown.
It can but be what I have known;
And if it bring a weight of woe,
I bore it in the year that's flown.
It will but sweep—as all have swept—
Over a bosom never still,
And see the same contention kept
Between ‘low wants’ and ‘lofty will’;
Over a bosom never still,
And see the same contention kept
Between ‘low wants’ and ‘lofty will’;
See each new effort feebler grow
To reach the point I fain would win;
And high resolves I can't forego,
Still planned, but ever to begin.
To reach the point I fain would win;
And high resolves I can't forego,
Still planned, but ever to begin.
But for some hearts my death would grieve,
And some dear wards that claim my stay,
Methinks that I could gladly leave
The weary scene, and pass away!
And some dear wards that claim my stay,
Methinks that I could gladly leave
The weary scene, and pass away!
Then ask me not, as I was wont,
To hail with you the opening year;
I meet it with a placid front,
But will not hope, and will not fear.
To hail with you the opening year;
I meet it with a placid front,
But will not hope, and will not fear.
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HOW SLEEP THE DEAD.
How sleep the dead in yon Church-yard,
Where chequering moonbeams purely fall?
How sleep the dead beneath the sward?
Calmly—softly—sweetly all!
Where chequering moonbeams purely fall?
How sleep the dead beneath the sward?
Calmly—softly—sweetly all!
In mute companionship they lie—
No hearts that ache, no eyes that weep!
Pain, sickness, trouble, come not nigh
The beds of those that yonder sleep.
No hearts that ache, no eyes that weep!
Pain, sickness, trouble, come not nigh
The beds of those that yonder sleep.
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Around, the world is passion-tost—
War, murder, crime, for ever reign;
Of sacred peace alone may boast
The church-yard's undisturbed domain.
War, murder, crime, for ever reign;
Of sacred peace alone may boast
The church-yard's undisturbed domain.
The stormy sea of human life,
With all its surges, roars around;
Their barrier-wall repels its strife—
No wave breaks o'er their hallowed ground!
With all its surges, roars around;
Their barrier-wall repels its strife—
No wave breaks o'er their hallowed ground!
Around, the summer sun may scorch—
The dead feel not the sultry ray;
Winter may howl in spire and porch—
The dead are reckless of his sway.
The dead feel not the sultry ray;
Winter may howl in spire and porch—
The dead are reckless of his sway.
Thus sleep the dead in yon Church-yard,
Where chequering moonbeams purely fall;
Thus sleep the dead beneath the sward—
Calmly—softly—sweetly all!
Where chequering moonbeams purely fall;
Thus sleep the dead beneath the sward—
Calmly—softly—sweetly all!
THOUGH WINTER'S CHILL BREEZES.
Though winter's chill breezes have blighted each flower,
And nature is sad in the gloom of the hour,
The blithe smile of summer o'er mountain and plain,
To garden and grove will bring beauty again.
But the Rose that has fallen by Breamish's side,
In the glow of its tints, and the height of its pride,
What dew shall refreshen? what sunbeam restore?
'Tis vanished from earth, and shall grace it no more!
And nature is sad in the gloom of the hour,
The blithe smile of summer o'er mountain and plain,
To garden and grove will bring beauty again.
But the Rose that has fallen by Breamish's side,
In the glow of its tints, and the height of its pride,
What dew shall refreshen? what sunbeam restore?
'Tis vanished from earth, and shall grace it no more!
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The clouds that envelope the sun in mid course,
That sun yet will vanquish, and shine in his force;
As dark on my soul are the sorrow-clouds met,
But the sun that should chase them, for ever hath set!
Farewell! I must mourn thee, a bright vision gone,
Of beauty that bloomed, and of virtue that shone;
For, though fair among angels, 'tis thine to adore,
'Tis mine—to behold and to clasp thee, no more!
That sun yet will vanquish, and shine in his force;
As dark on my soul are the sorrow-clouds met,
But the sun that should chase them, for ever hath set!
Farewell! I must mourn thee, a bright vision gone,
Of beauty that bloomed, and of virtue that shone;
For, though fair among angels, 'tis thine to adore,
'Tis mine—to behold and to clasp thee, no more!
MY WILLIAM.
My William died in London,
In London broad and brave;
His little life was but a drop
Dashed from her mighty wave!
And few there were that mourned my boy,
When he went to his grave.
In London broad and brave;
His little life was but a drop
Dashed from her mighty wave!
And few there were that mourned my boy,
When he went to his grave.
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Few mourned—and when we laid him
In his earth-bed cold and low,
No hireling Mute, I said, should stand
In mimicry of woe;
But genuine tears from eyes he loved,
Flowed forth—as still they flow.
In his earth-bed cold and low,
No hireling Mute, I said, should stand
In mimicry of woe;
But genuine tears from eyes he loved,
Flowed forth—as still they flow.
I thought—but that was weakness—
I had rather seen him laid
In the distant, rural, green church-yard
Near which a child he played,
With daisies o'er the turf to bloom,
And no dull walls to shade.
I had rather seen him laid
In the distant, rural, green church-yard
Near which a child he played,
With daisies o'er the turf to bloom,
And no dull walls to shade.
How shall we e'er forget him?
His eye, instinct with light—
His cheek's fair bloom, which Death itself
Found it most hard to blight—
His little manly bearing—all
That made our cottage bright!
His eye, instinct with light—
His cheek's fair bloom, which Death itself
Found it most hard to blight—
His little manly bearing—all
That made our cottage bright!
Above a boy ambitious
To learn, to work, to rise—
Beyond his years considerate,
And ominously wise—
O how I prized him! Now, it seems
That half I did not prize.
To learn, to work, to rise—
Beyond his years considerate,
And ominously wise—
O how I prized him! Now, it seems
That half I did not prize.
O London! fatal London!
How proud to come was I!
How proud was he! how proud were all!
And all have come—to die!
Pass on, sad years! and close the tale
With its best words—“Here lie”—
How proud to come was I!
How proud was he! how proud were all!
And all have come—to die!
Pass on, sad years! and close the tale
With its best words—“Here lie”—
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SHE SHALL NOT DIE.
“She shall not die—as thousands die—
To be forgot ere long;
The poet's friend shall claim a sigh
While lives the poet's song!”
To be forgot ere long;
The poet's friend shall claim a sigh
While lives the poet's song!”
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Such was my inward thought, or vow,
When o'er my hour of mirth
The tidings flashed, that cold was now
The kindest heart on earth.
When o'er my hour of mirth
The tidings flashed, that cold was now
The kindest heart on earth.
Then winter wrapped the land in snow;
The summer decks it now;
Yet unawaked one note of woe,
And unfulfilled my vow.
The summer decks it now;
Yet unawaked one note of woe,
And unfulfilled my vow.
And ah! unless the poet could
Take all of sweet and fair
That summer sheds by vale and wood,
And all the music there—
Take all of sweet and fair
That summer sheds by vale and wood,
And all the music there—
Could take from flowers their fairest hues,
Their sweetest notes from birds,
And by some magic skill transfuse
The whole into his words—
Their sweetest notes from birds,
And by some magic skill transfuse
The whole into his words—
How should he hope, in phrases meet,
His tribute to prefer?
Or how reflect the virtues sweet
That lived and bloomed in Her?
His tribute to prefer?
Or how reflect the virtues sweet
That lived and bloomed in Her?
Vain effort! She who sleeps below,
Must sleep unsung as now—
Still unawaked one note of woe,
And unfulfilled my vow;
Must sleep unsung as now—
Still unawaked one note of woe,
And unfulfilled my vow;
Save for these rhymes, which, unreproved,
May this proud boast prolong—
“He had a friend too much beloved,
Too deeply mourned, for song!”
May this proud boast prolong—
“He had a friend too much beloved,
Too deeply mourned, for song!”
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THE DEAREST OF A'.
Mony auld frien's to Town come, in kindness, to me,
Wi' the heart in the hand, an' the soul in the e'e;
An' blithely I meet them, as aft as they ca';
But there's ane that comes never—the dearest of a'!
Wi' the heart in the hand, an' the soul in the e'e;
An' blithely I meet them, as aft as they ca';
But there's ane that comes never—the dearest of a'!
There's aften some failin' where maist ane wad lean;
Some mickle 'ill phraise when but little they mean.
You felt his heart beat in ilk word he let fa';
But that kind ane comes never—the dearest of a'!
Some mickle 'ill phraise when but little they mean.
You felt his heart beat in ilk word he let fa';
But that kind ane comes never—the dearest of a'!
It isna the distance—that soon wad be pass'd;
Its nae fit o' cauldness—that short while wad last;
Its the stern grip o' Death that keeps Hudson awa',
An' he will come never—the dearest of a'!
Its nae fit o' cauldness—that short while wad last;
Its the stern grip o' Death that keeps Hudson awa',
An' he will come never—the dearest of a'!
My ain day is closin', an' I, too, maun die;
I scarce care how soon—if we him I may be;
For nane but gude fellows around him 'ill draw,
An' be they a' Monarchs, he's King o' them a'!
I scarce care how soon—if we him I may be;
For nane but gude fellows around him 'ill draw,
An' be they a' Monarchs, he's King o' them a'!
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BEAUMONT SIDE.
O Beaumont-side!—The banks of Aire
Before that flash of memory fade;
And Lanton Hills are towering there,
With Newton's vale beneath them laid.
There wave the very rock-sprung trees
My curious youth with wonder eyed,
And here the long broom scents the breeze—
The yellow broom of Beaumont-side!
Before that flash of memory fade;
And Lanton Hills are towering there,
With Newton's vale beneath them laid.
There wave the very rock-sprung trees
My curious youth with wonder eyed,
And here the long broom scents the breeze—
The yellow broom of Beaumont-side!
128
On these hill-tops, at break of day,
My feet have brushed the pearly dew,
And I have marked the dawn-star's ray
Lost in the orient's kindling blue;
Then turned to see each neighbouring height
In Morning's rosy splendours dyed,—
While mists ascending, calm and white,
Disclosed the banks of Beaumont-side.
My feet have brushed the pearly dew,
And I have marked the dawn-star's ray
Lost in the orient's kindling blue;
Then turned to see each neighbouring height
In Morning's rosy splendours dyed,—
While mists ascending, calm and white,
Disclosed the banks of Beaumont-side.
No passion then—and unpursued
The phantom hopes of Love and Fame;
My breast, with piety imbued,
Admitted—knew—no other flame.
The hill, the stream, the flower, the tree,
The wandering cloud, and ether wide—
All spoke of glorious things to me,
The lonely Boy of Beaumont-side!
The phantom hopes of Love and Fame;
My breast, with piety imbued,
Admitted—knew—no other flame.
The hill, the stream, the flower, the tree,
The wandering cloud, and ether wide—
All spoke of glorious things to me,
The lonely Boy of Beaumont-side!
For then, as yet untaught to scoff
At all my simple sires believed,
I had not joined the Deist's laugh,
Nor night instead of day received.
Amid yon broom, my Bible dear,
And David's harp my joy and pride,
I felt as Angels hovered near—
Was half in heaven on Beaumont-side!
At all my simple sires believed,
I had not joined the Deist's laugh,
Nor night instead of day received.
Amid yon broom, my Bible dear,
And David's harp my joy and pride,
I felt as Angels hovered near—
Was half in heaven on Beaumont-side!
But shadows dim the sunniest hill,
And dark thoughts o'er my spirit sped—
For yonder lay the church-yard still,
With all its time-collected dead.
And O! to me it seemed so sad
For ages in the grave to 'bide,
No breeze to blow, no sun to glad!—
My tears fell fast on Beaumont-side.
And dark thoughts o'er my spirit sped—
For yonder lay the church-yard still,
With all its time-collected dead.
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For ages in the grave to 'bide,
No breeze to blow, no sun to glad!—
My tears fell fast on Beaumont-side.
“Why weep, fond Boy?” a kind voice said,
“'Tis but the shell that wastes in earth.”
I dashed away the tear just shed,
And knew myself of deathless birth!
—I ask not Glory's cup to drain,
I ask not Wealth's unebbing tide;
O for the innocence again
My young heart knew on Beaumont-side!
“'Tis but the shell that wastes in earth.”
I dashed away the tear just shed,
And knew myself of deathless birth!
—I ask not Glory's cup to drain,
I ask not Wealth's unebbing tide;
O for the innocence again
My young heart knew on Beaumont-side!
THE CONFESSION.
Worn to the bone by sickness and unrest;
The same couch pressing he for years had pressed,
By day, by night—long night, and weary day!
In what his last hour seemed, an Old Man lay.
Seemed—for the few that stood beside his bed,
So oft had thought, perchance had wished him dead,
And still beheld him linger on, that now
They marked his agony with dubious brow.
All life-like hue had left his face; the skin
Clung to, and showed the shapes of, bones within;
His eyes, the while, protruding, full, and bright,
Appalled the gazer with unnatural light!
Was that the glance the Soul, at parting, throws
—Her last—on earthly friends, or earthly foes?
The gazers almost thought so. Foes, in sooth,
Those gazers were not; yet impartial Truth
Must add, they were not friends. For he who lay
On that low couch, breathing his life away,
Had not been born, or bred among them; but
Had come an old man, and had ta'en the hut
He occupied—a hovel on a moor,
Hardly a shelter; but the man was poor;
And poverty—though not esteemed a crime,
And therefore punished, as in later time—
Was left, at least, to struggle as it might,
While good men thought—Whatever is, is right!
He came an old man and a Stranger—none
Knew whence or wherefore; but he came alone,
And dwelt apart; all intimacy fleeing
A shy, reserved, and melancholy Being!
When pains of body, and perhaps of mind,
Compelled the wretch at last a couch to find,
E'en then no aid he sought, but would have died,
Like stag, heart-broken in the chase defied!
But that Humanity, when that she saw,
First roused the vicinage, and then the law:
The latter food, the former sent a nurse,
For which he deigned no blessing—and no curse.
No thanks expressed he, if with kindness tried;
Showed no resentment were a wish denied;
But, as if all the outward world he scorned,
Turned to his own within, and mused—and mourned!
The same couch pressing he for years had pressed,
By day, by night—long night, and weary day!
In what his last hour seemed, an Old Man lay.
Seemed—for the few that stood beside his bed,
So oft had thought, perchance had wished him dead,
And still beheld him linger on, that now
They marked his agony with dubious brow.
All life-like hue had left his face; the skin
Clung to, and showed the shapes of, bones within;
His eyes, the while, protruding, full, and bright,
Appalled the gazer with unnatural light!
Was that the glance the Soul, at parting, throws
—Her last—on earthly friends, or earthly foes?
The gazers almost thought so. Foes, in sooth,
Those gazers were not; yet impartial Truth
Must add, they were not friends. For he who lay
On that low couch, breathing his life away,
Had not been born, or bred among them; but
Had come an old man, and had ta'en the hut
He occupied—a hovel on a moor,
Hardly a shelter; but the man was poor;
And poverty—though not esteemed a crime,
And therefore punished, as in later time—
Was left, at least, to struggle as it might,
While good men thought—Whatever is, is right!
He came an old man and a Stranger—none
Knew whence or wherefore; but he came alone,
And dwelt apart; all intimacy fleeing
140
When pains of body, and perhaps of mind,
Compelled the wretch at last a couch to find,
E'en then no aid he sought, but would have died,
Like stag, heart-broken in the chase defied!
But that Humanity, when that she saw,
First roused the vicinage, and then the law:
The latter food, the former sent a nurse,
For which he deigned no blessing—and no curse.
No thanks expressed he, if with kindness tried;
Showed no resentment were a wish denied;
But, as if all the outward world he scorned,
Turned to his own within, and mused—and mourned!
Thus day by day, thus year by year had passed;
But now a crisis seemed arrived at last;
Which brought his neighbours—neighbours near, yet strange—
Around his couch, to wait and watch the change!
But now a crisis seemed arrived at last;
Which brought his neighbours—neighbours near, yet strange—
Around his couch, to wait and watch the change!
And startling change—though not the last—appeared!
Himself the sick man, by an effort, reared;
And lifted up—as one who would command
Attention to his words—a bony hand,
Whose fingers, long and fleshless, seemed to those
That there stood round, to clatter as it rose!
There needed no such signal; every ear
Was open to his words, and bent to hear.
Himself the sick man, by an effort, reared;
And lifted up—as one who would command
Attention to his words—a bony hand,
Whose fingers, long and fleshless, seemed to those
That there stood round, to clatter as it rose!
There needed no such signal; every ear
Was open to his words, and bent to hear.
“Hearken, my friends. No longer will I try
To hide the truth. I cannot—cannot die!
There is a Power that keeps me in control,
Prevents my parting, and shuts in my soul!
Extends my body on his vengeance-rack,
And when my life is flying, holds it back!
—I took an oath that I would ne'er disclose
The secret of my guilt, and of my woes;
But Heaven itself compels me to transgress
That impious oath, and all that guilt confess!
Hear it, ye Young! and pray for strength in time,
To shun the lures and miseries of crime:
Hear it, ye Old! and if less stained ye be,
Thank God ye ne'er were tempted—like to me.
To hide the truth. I cannot—cannot die!
There is a Power that keeps me in control,
141
Extends my body on his vengeance-rack,
And when my life is flying, holds it back!
—I took an oath that I would ne'er disclose
The secret of my guilt, and of my woes;
But Heaven itself compels me to transgress
That impious oath, and all that guilt confess!
Hear it, ye Young! and pray for strength in time,
To shun the lures and miseries of crime:
Hear it, ye Old! and if less stained ye be,
Thank God ye ne'er were tempted—like to me.
“There is a dale in Yorkshire—bless the dale!
Green are its banks, and watered by the Swale.
There was my birth-place; there my mind put forth
The buds of early lore, and future worth;
And there I first saw her, for love of whom,
By one rash deed I blasted all my bloom!
—Had you seen Ellen!—I behold her now!
Her sunny ringlets, and her snowy brow,
Her meek, blue eyes, her figure like the fay's—
As fays are fashioned in our Northern lays!
She was a thing to cherish—not to kill;
And yet, O God! I murdered her.—Be still;
I did not shed her blood—I was no fiend—
Though I became one!—Not much longer screened
Shall be the rest; but spare me! I would stay,
And linger, while I can, upon a way
That hath an end so horrible!—I won
My Ellen's heart, and thereby was undone!
The conquest which to gain, employed my hours,
Absorbing all my purposes and powers—
And would have been—nay, was—my highest pride,
Became her ruin, and my own beside!
Her father had some wealth, and mine had none;
Her father coldly eyed my father's son;
Yet said, good humouredly, his child should wait,
And see if Fortune would amend my state.
‘Get rich,’ he cried. ‘The lamp of love burns pale,
Without its oil, in any cot on Swale!’
—I felt the reason of his speech. I went,
My mind made up, and gained my love's consent,
That I, for three years' space, should leave the dale,
And try to gather riches—far from Swale.
She vowed, unasked—for well her heart I knew—
That I should find her as I left her—true.
Green are its banks, and watered by the Swale.
There was my birth-place; there my mind put forth
The buds of early lore, and future worth;
And there I first saw her, for love of whom,
By one rash deed I blasted all my bloom!
—Had you seen Ellen!—I behold her now!
Her sunny ringlets, and her snowy brow,
Her meek, blue eyes, her figure like the fay's—
As fays are fashioned in our Northern lays!
She was a thing to cherish—not to kill;
And yet, O God! I murdered her.—Be still;
I did not shed her blood—I was no fiend—
Though I became one!—Not much longer screened
Shall be the rest; but spare me! I would stay,
And linger, while I can, upon a way
That hath an end so horrible!—I won
My Ellen's heart, and thereby was undone!
The conquest which to gain, employed my hours,
Absorbing all my purposes and powers—
142
Became her ruin, and my own beside!
Her father had some wealth, and mine had none;
Her father coldly eyed my father's son;
Yet said, good humouredly, his child should wait,
And see if Fortune would amend my state.
‘Get rich,’ he cried. ‘The lamp of love burns pale,
Without its oil, in any cot on Swale!’
—I felt the reason of his speech. I went,
My mind made up, and gained my love's consent,
That I, for three years' space, should leave the dale,
And try to gather riches—far from Swale.
She vowed, unasked—for well her heart I knew—
That I should find her as I left her—true.
“In a new scene I laboured, hand and head;
Ay, laboured virtuously; yet ill I sped.
Two years were spent, and still my purse was light;
When one unhappy, most unhappy night,
At a blithe village fair I met a man—
An evil meeting!—just as gloom began,
Which passed from nature's breast at morning's shine,
But which no morning ever drove from mine!
We talked, we drank; and still, as flowed the bowl,
Increasing confidence unlocked my soul;
And as my treasured wishes out I spread,
My new acquaintance grasped my hand, and said:
‘I like thee! Thou hast virtue; thou hast worth;
And must, and shalt be happy!—Let us forth.
But first exhaust that glass—and now, another—
A third!—By Jove, I love thee as a brother!
One more—it smacks of nectar!—Come, sir! Now,
Thou shalt be wealthy, and I'll show thee how.’
We rose; and leaving fast the lights that flared
From caravan and show-booth, forth we fared;
Reached a wide moor, o'er which—to vanish soon—
A faint light trembled from the setting Moon;
Enough to indicate that all around
Was furze and heath, or marsh and broken ground.
‘Here may be won,’ he said, ‘if thou hast nerve,
The meed thy virtue and thy love deserve;
Won—not by labour, and by slow degrees—
But snatched in one bold moment, and with ease!
—A Highlander will shortly come this way,
Whose cattle stocked one half yon fair to-day,
Who ne'er turned homeward, it is well avouched,
Without his hundreds made, and snugly pouched.
This eve—unseen—myself beheld it told,
A thousand full, and all in solid gold!
A man of craft, he ever comes abroad
In meanest garb, and shuns the common road,
Selecting this—an unsuspected route,
And therefore safe. And so it is, no doubt,
For us, if not for him.’ An under-laugh
Escaped the villain. ‘Aid, and thou hast half!’
I staggered from his speech, as from a blow;
And 'twas some time, ere I could utter—‘No!
If me so lost you deem, you widely err.
Poor man I am—but not a Murderer!’
Low-toned at first, then loud, his answer came:
‘Thou fool! If what thou hintest were my aim,
I should not thee have asked, but come alone—
Thus armed, I am myself a match for one’—
A dagger glimmered in the moonshine cold—
‘His life I want not, but would share his gold!
And wouldst thou save him? Then, I tell thee, thou
Canst only save him—by assisting now.
One word—thou'lt aid?—Thou wilt not? Then, by Hell,
What thou hast learnt, thou go'st not hence to tell!’
Ay, laboured virtuously; yet ill I sped.
Two years were spent, and still my purse was light;
When one unhappy, most unhappy night,
At a blithe village fair I met a man—
An evil meeting!—just as gloom began,
Which passed from nature's breast at morning's shine,
But which no morning ever drove from mine!
We talked, we drank; and still, as flowed the bowl,
Increasing confidence unlocked my soul;
And as my treasured wishes out I spread,
My new acquaintance grasped my hand, and said:
‘I like thee! Thou hast virtue; thou hast worth;
And must, and shalt be happy!—Let us forth.
But first exhaust that glass—and now, another—
A third!—By Jove, I love thee as a brother!
One more—it smacks of nectar!—Come, sir! Now,
143
We rose; and leaving fast the lights that flared
From caravan and show-booth, forth we fared;
Reached a wide moor, o'er which—to vanish soon—
A faint light trembled from the setting Moon;
Enough to indicate that all around
Was furze and heath, or marsh and broken ground.
‘Here may be won,’ he said, ‘if thou hast nerve,
The meed thy virtue and thy love deserve;
Won—not by labour, and by slow degrees—
But snatched in one bold moment, and with ease!
—A Highlander will shortly come this way,
Whose cattle stocked one half yon fair to-day,
Who ne'er turned homeward, it is well avouched,
Without his hundreds made, and snugly pouched.
This eve—unseen—myself beheld it told,
A thousand full, and all in solid gold!
A man of craft, he ever comes abroad
In meanest garb, and shuns the common road,
Selecting this—an unsuspected route,
And therefore safe. And so it is, no doubt,
For us, if not for him.’ An under-laugh
Escaped the villain. ‘Aid, and thou hast half!’
I staggered from his speech, as from a blow;
And 'twas some time, ere I could utter—‘No!
If me so lost you deem, you widely err.
Poor man I am—but not a Murderer!’
Low-toned at first, then loud, his answer came:
‘Thou fool! If what thou hintest were my aim,
I should not thee have asked, but come alone—
Thus armed, I am myself a match for one’—
A dagger glimmered in the moonshine cold—
144
And wouldst thou save him? Then, I tell thee, thou
Canst only save him—by assisting now.
One word—thou'lt aid?—Thou wilt not? Then, by Hell,
What thou hast learnt, thou go'st not hence to tell!’
“Stood I before an earthly judge, to plead
In my own cause,—the burden of the deed
That followed, I might speciously transfer
To him who taught and tempted me to err:
I might assert, since he on crime was bent,
I shared the less, the greater to prevent—
A sophism with which I've often sought
To sooth the torture of unsleeping Thought.
But as I speak to clear my breast—impelled
By that high Power by whom my life is held!—
I do confess, the gold, that seemed within
My grasp, I burned—at every risk—to win!
And that his menace, deadly though it was,
And sure of execution, pleased—because
A semblance of compulsiveness it threw
On that which I had pre-resolved to do!
—‘Come, come,’ I said, ‘our chance were marred by strife:
Share we his gold, but let us spare his life!’
‘Agreed.’ His dagger then resumed its sheath,
And, side by side, we couched among the heath.
In my own cause,—the burden of the deed
That followed, I might speciously transfer
To him who taught and tempted me to err:
I might assert, since he on crime was bent,
I shared the less, the greater to prevent—
A sophism with which I've often sought
To sooth the torture of unsleeping Thought.
But as I speak to clear my breast—impelled
By that high Power by whom my life is held!—
I do confess, the gold, that seemed within
My grasp, I burned—at every risk—to win!
And that his menace, deadly though it was,
And sure of execution, pleased—because
A semblance of compulsiveness it threw
On that which I had pre-resolved to do!
—‘Come, come,’ I said, ‘our chance were marred by strife:
Share we his gold, but let us spare his life!’
‘Agreed.’ His dagger then resumed its sheath,
And, side by side, we couched among the heath.
“Short time we lay, two villains leagued for wrong;
But ne'er to me had time appeared so long!
Rushed through my brain a thousand thoughts of fear!
I felt relief when something scampered near.
‘His dog!’ my comrade muttered. ‘Had he brought
Within my dagger's reach his currish throat!
But see—yon figure moving on—'tis he!’
—Now, Ellen, for five hundred pounds and thee!
Such was th'inspiring thought, that—'mid alarm—
Subdued conflicting fears, and nerved my arm.
Like two gaunt tigers leaped we from the ground,
And clutched our victim. But no lamb we found!
Not of our purpose entertaining doubt,
Like mountain bull he tossed himself about—
A moment freed him—tore his plaid away—
Assailed in turn, and kept us both at bay!
'Twas but a moment. Failing in his guard,
One blow I gained, that stretched him on the sward;
When my staunch comrade, prompt his part to bear,
Upon him threw his weight, and held him there.
‘I know you!’ gasped the Scot. Most fatal word!
Replied to by a thrust, as soon as heard.
‘Tell that to-morrow!’—Back he drew his blade,
And gushed a torrent from the wound it made.
The deed was done. Then first I understood
The dreadful import of a deed of blood!
But ne'er to me had time appeared so long!
Rushed through my brain a thousand thoughts of fear!
I felt relief when something scampered near.
‘His dog!’ my comrade muttered. ‘Had he brought
145
But see—yon figure moving on—'tis he!’
—Now, Ellen, for five hundred pounds and thee!
Such was th'inspiring thought, that—'mid alarm—
Subdued conflicting fears, and nerved my arm.
Like two gaunt tigers leaped we from the ground,
And clutched our victim. But no lamb we found!
Not of our purpose entertaining doubt,
Like mountain bull he tossed himself about—
A moment freed him—tore his plaid away—
Assailed in turn, and kept us both at bay!
'Twas but a moment. Failing in his guard,
One blow I gained, that stretched him on the sward;
When my staunch comrade, prompt his part to bear,
Upon him threw his weight, and held him there.
‘I know you!’ gasped the Scot. Most fatal word!
Replied to by a thrust, as soon as heard.
‘Tell that to-morrow!’—Back he drew his blade,
And gushed a torrent from the wound it made.
The deed was done. Then first I understood
The dreadful import of a deed of blood!
“In silence and in gloom, the corse we laid
Within the foldings of his ample plaid;
And bore it till a marshy pool we found
With beetling banks of moss encompassed round.
There thrown, we watched it as in mud it sank;
Then o'er it crushed the scooped and loose-hung bank—
A burial, like the murder, brief and black!
—Fast from the scene, but on a different track,
Across the moor we rushed; nor lost we time
To cleanse our garments from the marks of crime.
In this heart-sickening task, the morn's first beam
Beheld us busied at a mountain stream,
Which, as it murmured to the wakening birds,
To me but gurgled with his choking words!
Which mocked me with its purity, and stole
Away—scarce tinged by all that steeped my soul!
We shared our guilty spoil beside that brook;
And there, too, ere our separate paths we took,
A deep, a deadly, nay, a damning oath
To endless secrecy had pledged us both!
God! I am in thy hand; to thee 'tis known,
I would have kept it still—my will my own!
Within the foldings of his ample plaid;
And bore it till a marshy pool we found
With beetling banks of moss encompassed round.
There thrown, we watched it as in mud it sank;
Then o'er it crushed the scooped and loose-hung bank—
A burial, like the murder, brief and black!
—Fast from the scene, but on a different track,
Across the moor we rushed; nor lost we time
146
In this heart-sickening task, the morn's first beam
Beheld us busied at a mountain stream,
Which, as it murmured to the wakening birds,
To me but gurgled with his choking words!
Which mocked me with its purity, and stole
Away—scarce tinged by all that steeped my soul!
We shared our guilty spoil beside that brook;
And there, too, ere our separate paths we took,
A deep, a deadly, nay, a damning oath
To endless secrecy had pledged us both!
God! I am in thy hand; to thee 'tis known,
I would have kept it still—my will my own!
“Was no alarm-cry raised? no search begun?
Thus would you question; and I answer—None.
'Twas only known that he had left the fair
For home—and that his dog alone came there.
But in what part of the long route he fell,
Suspicion never found a tongue to tell.
The gold was mine; six feet concealed the corse;
And I was left in safety—to remorse!
Remorse, whose power, I flattered me, would fail,
With love and Ellen on the banks of Swale.
Alas, I knew not, till an after hour,
That love and Ellen but enhanced its power!
Thus would you question; and I answer—None.
'Twas only known that he had left the fair
For home—and that his dog alone came there.
But in what part of the long route he fell,
Suspicion never found a tongue to tell.
The gold was mine; six feet concealed the corse;
And I was left in safety—to remorse!
Remorse, whose power, I flattered me, would fail,
With love and Ellen on the banks of Swale.
Alas, I knew not, till an after hour,
That love and Ellen but enhanced its power!
“I stood before the altar with my Bride;
But little felt the triumph, or the pride.
Hues not their own, all objects round me took—
Blood tinged the priest's white surplice, tinged his book,
Blushed on the ring, and stained the finger slight
Round which I placed it in the nuptial rite!
My bridal moon, my bridal year, rolled on:
My moody days were spent apart, alone.
My nights were torture, waking or asleep;
I slept to struggle, or I waked to weep;
Again to grapple with my victim—hear
The choking words—the stab!—and then in fear—
In agony of terror—cling to her,
Who woke, perchance,—to clasp a Murderer!
And try, all tenderly, to soothe to rest
My visioned woes—whose source she more than guessed!
Ay—more than guessed—I know it. Far above
Common attachments was that woman's love—
It was the heart's Idolatry, of which
I was the object, love the offering rich!
—To her, one blot upon my name—a breath
Blown by another—would have been as death;
But when she found, in slumber, half-revealed
The guilt that ne'er my waking lips unsealed,
She pressed me not—she asked me not—to own
That aught was real which my sleep made known;
But kept the sad conviction locked within,
And mourned and brooded o'er her husband's sin!
Grief, like the canker in the rose, consumed
The inward leaves, while all the outward bloomed;
And, save myself, none saw that, day by day,
My loveliest wasted from the world away!
She died—and as her pure, meek spirit went,
‘Repent!’ she said, and pressed my hand—‘Repent!’
Then pointed to our Boy—a mute appeal,
But eloquent of more than words reveal!
But little felt the triumph, or the pride.
Hues not their own, all objects round me took—
Blood tinged the priest's white surplice, tinged his book,
147
Round which I placed it in the nuptial rite!
My bridal moon, my bridal year, rolled on:
My moody days were spent apart, alone.
My nights were torture, waking or asleep;
I slept to struggle, or I waked to weep;
Again to grapple with my victim—hear
The choking words—the stab!—and then in fear—
In agony of terror—cling to her,
Who woke, perchance,—to clasp a Murderer!
And try, all tenderly, to soothe to rest
My visioned woes—whose source she more than guessed!
Ay—more than guessed—I know it. Far above
Common attachments was that woman's love—
It was the heart's Idolatry, of which
I was the object, love the offering rich!
—To her, one blot upon my name—a breath
Blown by another—would have been as death;
But when she found, in slumber, half-revealed
The guilt that ne'er my waking lips unsealed,
She pressed me not—she asked me not—to own
That aught was real which my sleep made known;
But kept the sad conviction locked within,
And mourned and brooded o'er her husband's sin!
Grief, like the canker in the rose, consumed
The inward leaves, while all the outward bloomed;
And, save myself, none saw that, day by day,
My loveliest wasted from the world away!
She died—and as her pure, meek spirit went,
‘Repent!’ she said, and pressed my hand—‘Repent!’
Then pointed to our Boy—a mute appeal,
But eloquent of more than words reveal!
148
“Repent! I know not what the word implies.
But if through heart and soul to agonize;
To meet but blood-tints in the morning's bloom;
To cope with spectres in the midnight's gloom;
And to have seen the beings loved the most,
Wrenched from my heart—for my crime wrenched and lost;
If all this, calmly borne as justly sent,
Be not repentance—I can not repent!
If, maugre all, my guilt is unatoned—
Still—Death I beg!—nor ask what lies beyond.
My victim sleeps—his soul, perchance, in weal:
Has Hell a pang I have not felt, or feel?
If so, e'en that my soul may learn to bear:
Give me a change! no matter what, or where.—
I wander—but will now come back.
But if through heart and soul to agonize;
To meet but blood-tints in the morning's bloom;
To cope with spectres in the midnight's gloom;
And to have seen the beings loved the most,
Wrenched from my heart—for my crime wrenched and lost;
If all this, calmly borne as justly sent,
Be not repentance—I can not repent!
If, maugre all, my guilt is unatoned—
Still—Death I beg!—nor ask what lies beyond.
My victim sleeps—his soul, perchance, in weal:
Has Hell a pang I have not felt, or feel?
If so, e'en that my soul may learn to bear:
Give me a change! no matter what, or where.—
I wander—but will now come back.
“My child
Grew up—a hardy blossom on the wild;
Formed to delight all eyes, and from each heart,
Except my own, to bid all gloom depart.
At twenty, not a stripling in the dale
Could match my manly son—the pride of Swale!
'Twas then that Charles—for mine and others' ills—
Unfurled his banner on the Scottish hills;
When round it gathered, by one impulse moved,
The Highlands, armed to guard the Prince they loved;
And—like a torrent burst from mountain-gorge—
Met and o'erthrew the forces of King George.
Roused by this daring, and the hopes it gave,
My ill-starred boy, adventurous and brave,
Fled to the rebel camp. You know the tale
Of that rash inroad—it was doomed to fail.
My gallant boy reached Derby. There, retreat
Was counselled, which he knew but meant defeat.
He saw his hopes—whate'er they were—o'erturned;
Nor veiled the feelings that within him burned.
A clansman heard; believed his Chief reviled;
Dared him to fight. All strangers round my child,
What hope of fairness? Blood was up, and shed.
Short was the strife, and fierce. My son fell dead!
He perished, like his Mother, for my guilt;
For mine, for mine, his innocent blood was spilt!—
And by whose hand? Ay, guess it, ye that can,
And own a marvel never heard by man!
Mysterious retribution there was done—
My poor boy's slayer—was—my Victim's Son!”
Grew up—a hardy blossom on the wild;
Formed to delight all eyes, and from each heart,
Except my own, to bid all gloom depart.
At twenty, not a stripling in the dale
Could match my manly son—the pride of Swale!
'Twas then that Charles—for mine and others' ills—
Unfurled his banner on the Scottish hills;
When round it gathered, by one impulse moved,
The Highlands, armed to guard the Prince they loved;
And—like a torrent burst from mountain-gorge—
Met and o'erthrew the forces of King George.
Roused by this daring, and the hopes it gave,
My ill-starred boy, adventurous and brave,
Fled to the rebel camp. You know the tale
Of that rash inroad—it was doomed to fail.
149
Was counselled, which he knew but meant defeat.
He saw his hopes—whate'er they were—o'erturned;
Nor veiled the feelings that within him burned.
A clansman heard; believed his Chief reviled;
Dared him to fight. All strangers round my child,
What hope of fairness? Blood was up, and shed.
Short was the strife, and fierce. My son fell dead!
He perished, like his Mother, for my guilt;
For mine, for mine, his innocent blood was spilt!—
And by whose hand? Ay, guess it, ye that can,
And own a marvel never heard by man!
Mysterious retribution there was done—
My poor boy's slayer—was—my Victim's Son!”
Till now—though Feeling, as the tale went on,
By fits had changed the glance, and choked the tone—
Still had the speaker nerved himself, to give,
With truth and power, his varying narrative.
But at this point—subduing strength—there came
A strong convulsion o'er his wasted frame.
With eyes that shrunk, as if they sought to shun
Some object which he feared to look upon—
With lips that quivered—and with long-drawn breath
That came and went—he sank in seeming death.
They brought him water, but he could not sip;
They bathed the temple, and they wet the lip;
And when he rallied, marked not that, between,
One neighbour more had entered on the scene—
A venerable man, of aspect sage,
And bent at once by illness and by age,
One who—but soft! the sick man stirs—he tries
To rise again—he never more will rise!
“Too late,” he muttered, and his eye still sought,
Yet shrunk to meet, the object of his thought—
“Thou com'st too late.”—He lay a moment dumb,
Then thus aloud: “I deemed the change had come!
And that—without revealing more—my Soul
Might be allowed to reach its destined goal!
But all must be disclosed!—
By fits had changed the glance, and choked the tone—
Still had the speaker nerved himself, to give,
With truth and power, his varying narrative.
But at this point—subduing strength—there came
A strong convulsion o'er his wasted frame.
With eyes that shrunk, as if they sought to shun
Some object which he feared to look upon—
With lips that quivered—and with long-drawn breath
That came and went—he sank in seeming death.
They brought him water, but he could not sip;
They bathed the temple, and they wet the lip;
And when he rallied, marked not that, between,
One neighbour more had entered on the scene—
A venerable man, of aspect sage,
And bent at once by illness and by age,
150
To rise again—he never more will rise!
“Too late,” he muttered, and his eye still sought,
Yet shrunk to meet, the object of his thought—
“Thou com'st too late.”—He lay a moment dumb,
Then thus aloud: “I deemed the change had come!
And that—without revealing more—my Soul
Might be allowed to reach its destined goal!
But all must be disclosed!—
“Solicitude
About my boy, had calmed—if not subdued—
Remorseful thought; my crime began to seem
But the dark memory of some dreadful dream;
When I was wakened by his death, to find
Revived and strong—the Scorpion of the Mind!
And lest my pangs from time should win relief,
New horror soon was blended with my grief.
—Some labourers, while trenching moorland ground,
A human body in the moss had found;
And what the wonder raised, although it must
Have lain there long enough to turn to dust,
Save for the hue—the marsh-caught hue—it bore,
It might have been inhumed the week before;
So life-like were the features, and so fresh
The garb that wrapped—what hardly yet seemed flesh!
Their wonder left the body undisturbed.
All flocked to gaze. Desire not to be curbed,
Impelled e'en me—the Murderer—in spite
Of fear and prudence, to behold the sight!
I went. Among an eager crowd I stole,
And saw—what shook me to the inmost soul.
There lay my victim, as he had been laid
That fatal night. Calm—cold—and undecayed,
His features looked reproach!—I heard it told
How the damp marsh preserves the human mould;
I heard, but heeded not. I only saw
For me suspended Nature's general law;
And the poor carcass, buried years before,
Restored to day—to blast my sight once more!
O how I envied him his rest!—Bereft
Of all that bound to life; not even left
A coin of that ill-gotten wealth;—I longed
To tell my guilt to those that round me thronged,
And give myself to justice—blood for blood!
But while I thus deliberating stood,
I met a Stranger's eye—'twas fixed on me
Fully and sternly!—Yes! by Heaven, 'tis He!
He, the foul wretch that tempted me, and still
Maintained th'ascendant o'er my weaker will!
'Twas he indeed. As if he had divined
The very impulse acting on my mind,
He signalled me—and went himself—aside;
I felt my Tyrant, and as Serf complied.
He mocked my weakness; he re-schooled my heart
To play, as erst, the stern, unyielding part;
‘But lest,’ he added, ‘this weak fit return,
I will be near—to watch thee, and to warn!’
He kept, and keeps his word! My shadow hath,
Less constantly than he, bedimmed my path;
And—loathed as are his presence and his power—
He comes to darken e'en my dying hour!”
About my boy, had calmed—if not subdued—
Remorseful thought; my crime began to seem
But the dark memory of some dreadful dream;
When I was wakened by his death, to find
Revived and strong—the Scorpion of the Mind!
And lest my pangs from time should win relief,
New horror soon was blended with my grief.
—Some labourers, while trenching moorland ground,
A human body in the moss had found;
And what the wonder raised, although it must
Have lain there long enough to turn to dust,
Save for the hue—the marsh-caught hue—it bore,
It might have been inhumed the week before;
So life-like were the features, and so fresh
The garb that wrapped—what hardly yet seemed flesh!
Their wonder left the body undisturbed.
All flocked to gaze. Desire not to be curbed,
Impelled e'en me—the Murderer—in spite
Of fear and prudence, to behold the sight!
I went. Among an eager crowd I stole,
151
There lay my victim, as he had been laid
That fatal night. Calm—cold—and undecayed,
His features looked reproach!—I heard it told
How the damp marsh preserves the human mould;
I heard, but heeded not. I only saw
For me suspended Nature's general law;
And the poor carcass, buried years before,
Restored to day—to blast my sight once more!
O how I envied him his rest!—Bereft
Of all that bound to life; not even left
A coin of that ill-gotten wealth;—I longed
To tell my guilt to those that round me thronged,
And give myself to justice—blood for blood!
But while I thus deliberating stood,
I met a Stranger's eye—'twas fixed on me
Fully and sternly!—Yes! by Heaven, 'tis He!
He, the foul wretch that tempted me, and still
Maintained th'ascendant o'er my weaker will!
'Twas he indeed. As if he had divined
The very impulse acting on my mind,
He signalled me—and went himself—aside;
I felt my Tyrant, and as Serf complied.
He mocked my weakness; he re-schooled my heart
To play, as erst, the stern, unyielding part;
‘But lest,’ he added, ‘this weak fit return,
I will be near—to watch thee, and to warn!’
He kept, and keeps his word! My shadow hath,
Less constantly than he, bedimmed my path;
And—loathed as are his presence and his power—
He comes to darken e'en my dying hour!”
152
“He! who?”—“There! there!”—Pointed his feeble hand
To where the latest comer kept his stand;
And, with that effort of exhausted strength,
Came on the struggle that released at length;
When the long-tortured Soul, without a groan,
Escaped from earth, and passed to worlds unknown!
To where the latest comer kept his stand;
And, with that effort of exhausted strength,
Came on the struggle that released at length;
When the long-tortured Soul, without a groan,
Escaped from earth, and passed to worlds unknown!
Appalled with horror, not unmixed with dread,
Yet pitying still—they gazed upon the Dead;
Until a sudden and a heavy fall,
Accompanied by a moan, attracted all.
It was th'Accused!—They raised his prostrate form—
A thing to fill a grave, and feed the worm!
Yet pitying still—they gazed upon the Dead;
Until a sudden and a heavy fall,
Accompanied by a moan, attracted all.
It was th'Accused!—They raised his prostrate form—
A thing to fill a grave, and feed the worm!
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