University of Virginia Library


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DOMESTIC VERSES.


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[_]

In the Churchyard at Inveresk there is a simple Tombstone, to which all the following little Poems, save the first and the Sonnets, bear reference. It is inscribed as follows:—

CHARLES BELL M. Died 17th February 1838, aged four and a half years.

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD M. Died 28th February 1838, aged fifteen months.

DAVID MACBETH M. Died 23d August 1839, aged four years and four months.

Of such is the kingdom of heaven.

Mat. xix. 14.


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SONNETS ON THE SCENERY OF THE TWEED;

INSCRIBED TO C. E. M.

[As we had been in heart, now link'd in hand]

As we had been in heart, now link'd in hand,
Green Learmonth and the Cheviots left behind,
Homeward 'twas ours by pastoral Tweed to wind,
Through the Arcadia of the Border-land:
Vainly would words portray my feelings, when
(A dreary chasm of separation past)
Fate gave thee to my vacant arms at last,
And made me the most happy man of men.
Accept these trifles, lovely and beloved,
And haply, in the days of future years,
While the far past to memory reappears,
Thou may'st retrace these tablets, not unmoved,
Catherine! whose holy constancy was proved
By all that deepest tries, and most endears.
June 1829.

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I. WARK CASTLE.

Emblem of strength, which time hath quite subdued,
Scarcely on thy green mount the eye may trace
Those girding walls which made thee once a place
Of succour, in old days of deadly feud.
Yes! thou wert once the Scotch marauder's dread;
And vainly did the Roxburgh shafts assail
Thy moated towers, from which they fell like hail;
While waved Northumbria's pennon o'er thy head.

Even so far back as the time of Stephen, Wark or Carrum was considered one of the strongest castles on the English border, and is the second of the five noted places enumerated by Ridpath, (Border History, p. 76,) as having been taken by David the First of Scotland, in 1135.

“Carrum,” says Richard of Hexham, “is by the English called Wark.” After two other close and protracted sieges, in 1138, it was at last taken and demolished, but not until the garrison had been reduced to the necessity of killing and salting their horses for food. They were allowed to depart, retaining their arms; and such was the Scottish King's admiration of their heroic resistance, that he presented them with twenty-four horses in lieu of those that had been thus destroyed.

Being afterwards rebuilt, Wark Castle was again besieged in the reign of Henry the Eighth; and Buchanan, the historian and poet, himself an eyewitness, gives a description of it as it then stood. In the inmost area was a tower of great strength and height, encircled by two walls, the outer of which included a large space, wherein, in times of danger, the inhabitants of the neighbourhood found shelter for themselves and cattle. The inner was strongly fortified by ditches and towers. It was provided with a garrison, stores of artillery and ammunition, and all things necessary for protracted defence.

The castle of Wark is now so entirely gone, that it is with some difficulty that even the lines of its ancient fortifications can be traced.


Thou wert the work of man, and so hast pass'd
Like those who piled thee; but the features still
Of steadfast Nature all unchanged remain;
Still Cheviot listens to the northern blast,
And the blue Tweed winds murmuring round thy hill;
While Carham whispers of the slaughter'd Dane.

Carham was the scene of a great and decisive defeat of the Danes by the Northumbrian Saxons. It was formerly the seat of an Abbey of Black Canons, subordinate to Kirkham in Yorkshire. Wallace, whose encampment gave name to an adjoining field, burned it down in 1295.

The present church, overshadowed by fine old trees, stands directly on the banks of the Tweed. At its altar the Author took upon himself the matrimonial vows.



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II. DRYBURGH ABBEY.

Beneath, Tweed murmur'd 'mid the forests green:
And through thy beech-tree and laburnum boughs,
A solemn ruin, lovely in repose,
Dryburgh! thine ivy'd walls were greyly seen:
Thy court is now a garden, where the flowers
Expand in silent beauty, and the bird,
Flitting from arch to arch, alone is heard
To cheer with song the melancholy bowers.
Yet did a solemn pleasure fill the soul,
As through thy shadowy cloistral cells we trode,
To think, hoar pile! that once thou wert the abode
Of men, who could to solitude control
Their hopes—yea! from Ambition's pathways stole,
To give their whole lives blamelessly to God!

The monks of the beautifully situated Abbey of Dryburgh belonged to the order of Premonstratenses, or White Canons. According to Ridpath, (p. 87,) the Monastery of Dryburgh was built by the Constable Hugh de Moreville; but this appears doubtful, as, from a charter of King David, published by Dugdale, (Monasticon, vol. ii.,) and said to have been copied from the original by Sir John Balfour, the foundation of the Church of St Mary at Dryburgh is distinctly attributed to that monarch. Be this as it may, it was founded in 1141.

At the Reformation, Dryburgh Abbey became the property of the Halliburtons of Newmains, ultimately represented by “the Mighty Minstrel” whose ashes rest there, in the cemetery of that ancient family. It is now the seat of the Earl of Buchan.



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III. MELROSE ABBEY.

Summer was on thee—the meridian light,
And, as we wander'd through thy column'd aisles,
Deck'd all thy hoar magnificence with smiles,
Making the rugged soft, the gloomy bright.
Nor was reflection from us far apart,
As clomb our steps thy lone and lofty stair,
Till, gain'd the summit, tick'd in silent air
Thine ancient clock, as 'twere thy throbbing heart.
Monastic grandeur and baronial pride
Subdued—the former half, the latter quite,
Pile of king David! to thine altar's site,
Full many a footstep guides, and long shall guide;
Where they repose, who met not, save in fight—
And Douglas sleeps with Evers, side by side!

For a detailed account of the battle of Ancrum Moor, where Lord Evers and his son were slain, see Tytler's Scotland, vol. v. p. 380-384; or Appendix to that noble ballad “The Eve of St John.”—(Border Minstrelsy, vol. iv.)

The chivalrous Douglas, killed at Otterburn in the fight with Percy, was interred beneath the high altar of Melrose, “hys baner hangyng over hym.”—(Froissart, vol. ii.) William Douglas, called the Black Knight of Liddesdale, was also buried here with great pomp and pageantry.—(Godscroft's History of the House of Douglas, vol. ii. p. 123.) His tomb is still shown.

In the battle of Anerum Moor, according to Ridpath, eight hundred of the English were killed, with both their leaders, Evers and Latoun; and a thousand taken prisoners. The Scots are said to have lost only two of their number, and to have treated their enemies with great barbarity.—(Border History, p. 553.)

It is strongly suspected, however, that the Scottish historians have not given a fair account of their loss. “Parta autem victoria,” says Lesly, (p. 478,) “ita in fugientes sævitum est, ut nihil illustre postea gesserimus, quin potius luculenta ad Musselburghum plaga accepta maximas summæ immanitatis pœnas dederimus.”



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IV. ABBOTSFORD.

The calm of evening o'er the dark pine-wood
Lay with an aureate glow, as we explored
Thy classic precincts, hallow'd Abbotsford!
And at thy porch in admiration stood:
We felt thou wert the work, th' abode of Him
Whose fame hath shed a lustre on our age,
The mightiest of the mighty!—o'er whose page
Thousands shall hang, until Time's eye grow dim;
And then we thought, when shall have pass'd away
The millions now pursuing life's career,
And Scott himself is dust, how, lingering here,
Pilgrims from all the lands of earth shall stray
Amid thy cherish'd ruins, and survey
The scenes around, with reverential fear!

This sonnet has been honoured by a translation into Italian— by an accomplished scholar of that country—which appeared in Blackwood's Magazine, November 1829.



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V. NIDPATH CASTLE.

Stern, rugged pile! thy scowl recalls the days
Of foray and of feud, when, long ago,
Homes were thought worthy of reproach or praise
Only as yielding safeguards from the foe:
Over thy gateways the armorial arms
Proclaim of doughty Douglases, who held
Thy towers against the foe, and thence repell'd
Oft, after efforts vain, invasion's harms.
Eve dimm'd the hills, as, by the Tweed below,
We sat where once thy blossomy orchards smiled,
And yet where many an apple-tree grows wild,
Listening the blackbird, and the river's flow;
While, high between us and the sunset glow,
Thy giant walls seem'd picturesquely piled.

Associated with this ancient Castle, the reader of poetry cannot fail to remember the delicately beautiful legend, regarding a daughter of one of the Earls of March and the young Laird of Tushielaw, as it has afforded a theme for the muse of two of our most celebrated contemporaries—to Sir Walter Scott, in his ballad “The Maid of Neidpath;” and to Mr Campbell, in his song of “Earl March looked on his dying child.”

The Castle itself is more distinguished for strength than architectural beauty; and was built by the powerful family of Frazer, from which it passed, by intermarriage, into that of the Hays of Yester, ancestors of the Marquis of Tweeddale. In 1686, the second Earl sold his estates in Peebles-shire to the first Duke of Queensberry, who settled them on his second son, the Earl of March. At the death of the last Duke, the Castle and adjoining estate fell, by succession, to the present Earl of Wemyss, who also assumed the title of Earl of March.



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VI. “THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR.”

As speaks the sea-shell from the window-sill
Of cottage-home, far inland, to the soul
Of the bronzed veteran, till he hears the roll
Of ocean 'mid its islands chafing still;
As speaks the love-gift to the lonely heart
Of her, whose hopes are buried in the grave
Of him, whom tears, prayer, passion could not save,
And Fate but link'd, that Death might tear apart,—
So speaks the ancient melody of thee,
Green “Bush aboon Traquair,” that from the steep
O'erhang'st the Tweed—until, mayhap afar,
In realms beyond the separating sea,
The plaided Exile, 'neath the Evening Star,
Thinking of Scotland, scarce forbears to weep!

The charming pastoral air, called “The Bonny Bush aboon Traquair,” is of great antiquity—indeed, is considered one of the very oldest which has come down to us; but the original words have been long since lost. The verses to which the melody was afterwards adapted, and to which it is now sung, were the composition of Crauford, the author of “Tweedside,” and other popular songs, and first appeared in the Orpheus Caledonius, 1725. Along with “The Flowers of the Forest,” “The Broom of the Cowden-knowes,” “Polwarth on the Green,” “Fair Helen of Kirkconnel Lee,” and others indigenous to the south of Scotland, it may be adduced as a specimen of what Wordsworth so beautifully designates, the

—“Old songs,
The precious music of the heart.”

A few solitary scraggy trees, on a slope overlooking the lawn of Traquair House, mark out the site of the ancient “Bush.” Not far distant from these a clump has been planted, which is called “The New Bush.” But the spell is untranslateable.



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TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER, E. C. M.

I

There is no sound upon the night,
As by the shaded lamp I trace,
My babe, in smiling beauty bright,
The changes of thy sleeping face.

II

Hallow'd to us shall be the hour,
Yea, sacred through all time to come,
Which gave us thee, a living flower,
To bless and beautify our home.

III

Thy presence is a charm, which wakes
A new creation to my sight;
Gives life another hue, and makes
The wither'd green, the faded bright.

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IV

Pure as a lily of the brook,
Heaven's signet on thy forehead lies,
And Heaven is read in every look,
My Daughter, of thy soft blue eyes!

V

In sleep thy gentle spirit seems
To some bright realm to wander back;
And seraphs, mingling with thy dreams,
Allure thee to their shining track.

VI

Already, like a vernal flower,
I see thee opening to the light,
And day by day, and hour by hour,
Becoming more divinely bright.

VII

Yet in my gladness stirs a sigh,
Even for the blessing of thy birth,
Knowing how sins and sorrows try
Mankind, and darken o'er the earth.

VIII

Ah! little dost thou ween, my child,
The dangers of the way before;
How rocks in every path are piled,
Which few, unharm'd, can clamber o'er.

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IX

Sweet bud of beauty! how wilt thou
Endure the bitter tempest's strife?
Shall thy blue eyes be dimm'd, thy brow
Indented by the cares of life?

X

If years are destined thine, alas!
It may be—ah! it must be so:
For all that live and breathe, the glass
Which must be quaff'd, is drugg'd with woe.

XI

Yet, could a Father's prayers avail,
So calm thy skies of life should be,
That thou should'st glide beneath the sail
Of virtue, on a stormless sea:

XII

And ever on thy thoughts, my child,
This sacred truth should be impress'd—
Grief clouds the soul to sin beguil'd;
Who liveth best, God loveth best:

XIII

Across thy path Religion's star
Should ever shed its healing ray,
To lead thee from this world's vain jar,
To scenes of peace and purer day.

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XIV

Shun Vice—the breath of her abode
Is poison'd, though with roses strewn—
And cling to Virtue; though the road
Be thorny, boldly travel on.

XV

Yes; travel on—nor turn thee round,
Though dark the way and deep the shade;
Till on that shore thy feet be found,
Where bloom the palms that never fade.

XVI

For thee I ask not riches—thou
Wert wealthy with a spotless name;
I ask not beauty—for thy brow
Is fair as Fancy's wish could claim.

XVII

Be thine a spirit loathing guilt,
To duty wed, from malice free;
Be like thy Mother—and thou wilt
Be all my soul desires to see!
May 1830.

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CASA WAPPY.

I

And hast thou sought thy heavenly home,
Our fond, dear boy—
The realms where sorrow dare not come,
Where life is joy?
Pure at thy death, as at thy birth,
Thy spirit caught no taint from earth,
Even by its bliss we mete our dearth,
Casa Wappy!

II

Despair was in our last farewell,
As closed thine eye;
Tears of our anguish may not tell,
When thou didst die;
Words may not paint our grief for thee,
Sighs are but bubbles on the sea
Of our unfathom'd agony,
Casa Wappy!

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III

Thou wert a vision of delight
To bless us given;
Beauty embodied to our sight—
A type of Heaven:
So dear to us thou wert, thou art
Even less thine own self, than a part
Of mine, and of thy Mother's heart,
Casa Wappy!

IV

Thy bright, brief day knew no decline—
'Twas cloudless joy;
Sunrise and night alone were thine,
Beloved boy!
This morn beheld thee blithe and gay;
That found thee prostrate in decay;
And, ere a third shone, clay was clay,
Casa Wappy!

V

Gem of our hearth, our household pride,
Earth's undefiled,
Could love have saved, thou hadst not died,
Our dear, sweet child!
Humbly we bow to Fate's decree;
Yet had we hoped that Time should see
Thee mourn for us, not us for thee,
Casa Wappy!

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VI

Do what I may, go where I will,
Thou meet'st my sight;
There dost thou glide before me still—
A form of light!
I feel thy breath upon my cheek,
I see thee smile, I hear thee speak,
Till oh! my heart is like to break,
Casa Wappy!

VII

Methinks, thou smil'st before me now,
With glance of stealth;
The hair thrown back from thy full brow
In buoyant health:
I see thine eyes' deep violet light,
Thy dimpled cheek carnation'd bright,
Thy clasping arms so round and white,
Casa Wappy!

VIII

The nursery shows thy pictured wall,
Thy bat, thy bow,
Thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball;
But where art thou?
A corner holds thine empty chair;
Thy playthings idly scatter'd there,
But speak to us of our despair,
Casa Wappy!

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IX

Even to the last, thy every word—
To glad—to grieve—
Was sweet, as sweetest song of bird
On summer's eve;
In outward beauty undecay'd,
Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade,
And, like the rainbow, thou didst fade,
Casa Wappy!

X

We mourn for thee, when blind blank night
The chamber fills;
We pine for thee, when morn's first light
Reddens the hills;
The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea,
All—to the wall-flower and wild-pea—
Are changed: we saw the world thro' thee,
Casa Wappy!

XI

And though, perchance, a smile may gleam
Of casual mirth,
It doth not own, whate'er may seem,
An inward birth:
We miss thy small step on the stair;
We miss thee at thine evening prayer;
All day we miss thee—every where—
Casa Wappy!

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XII

Snows muffled earth when thou didst go,
In life's spring-bloom,
Down to the appointed house below—
The silent tomb.
But now the green leaves of the tree,
The cuckoo, and “the busy bee,”
Return; but with them bring not thee,
Casa Wappy!

XIII

'Tis so; but can it be—(while flowers
Revive again)—
Man's doom, in death that we and ours
For aye remain?
Oh! can it be, that, o'er the grave,
The grass renew'd should yearly wave,
Yet God forget our child to save?—
Casa Wappy!

XIV

It cannot be; for were it so
Thus man could die,
Life were a mockery—Thought were woe—
And Truth a lie—
Heaven were a coinage of the brain—
Religion frenzy—Virtue vain—
And all our hopes to meet again,
Casa Wappy!

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XV

Then be to us, O dear, lost child!
With beam of love,
A star, death's uncongenial wild
Smiling above!
Soon, soon, thy little feet have trode
The skyward path, the seraph's road,
That led thee back from man to God,
Casa Wappy!

XVI

Yet, 'tis sweet balm to our despair,
Fond, fairest boy,
That Heaven is God's, and thou art there,
With Him in joy!
There past are death and all its woes,
There beauty's stream for ever flows,
And pleasure's day no sunset knows,
Casa Wappy!

XVII

Farewell, then—for a while, farewell—
Pride of my heart!
It cannot be that long we dwell,
Thus torn apart:
Time's shadows like the shuttle flee;
And, dark howe'er life's night may be,
Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee,
Casa Wappy!
March 1838.
 

The self-appellative of a beloved child.


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WEE WILLIE.

I

Fare-thee-well, our last and fairest,
Dear wee Willie, fare-thee-well!
God, who lent thee, hath recall'd thee
Back, with Him and His to dwell:
Fifteen moons their silver lustre
Only o'er thy brow had shed,
When thy spirit join'd the seraphs,
And thy dust the dead.

II

Like a sunbeam, thro' our dwelling
Shone thy presence, bright and calm;
Thou didst add a zest to pleasure,
To our sorrows thou wert balm;—
Brighter beam'd thine eyes than summer;
And thy first attempt at speech
Thrill'd our heartstrings with a rapture
Music ne'er could reach.

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III

As we gazed upon thee sleeping,
With thy fine fair locks outspread,
Thou didst seem a little angel,
Who to earth from Heaven had stray'd;
And, entranced, we watch'd the vision,
Half in hope, and half affright,
Lest what we deem'd ours, and earthly,
Should dissolve in light.

IV

Snows o'ermantled hill and valley,
Sullen clouds begrimed the sky,
When the first drear doubt oppress'd us,
That our child was doom'd to die.
Through each long night-watch, the taper
Show'd the hectic of his cheek;
And each anxious dawn beheld him
More worn out and weak.

V

Oh, the doubts, the fears, the anguish
Of a parent's brooding heart,
When despair is hovering round it,
And yet hope will scarce depart—
When each transient flush of fever
Omens health's returning light,
Only to involve the watchers
'Mid intenser night!

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VI

'Twas even then Destruction's angel
Shook his pinions o'er our path,
Seized the rosiest of our household,
And struck Charlie down in death!
Fearful, awful! Desolation
On our lintel set his sign;
And we turn'd from his quick death-scene,
Willie, round to thine!

VII

Like the shot-star in blue midnight,
Like the rainbow, ray by ray,
Thou wert waning as we watch'd thee,
Loveliest, in thy last decay!
As a zephyr, so serenely
Came and went thy last, low breath,
That we paused, and ask'd our spirits—
Is it so? Can this be death?

VIII

As the beams of Spring's first morning
Through the silent chamber play'd,
Lifeless, in my arms I raised thee,
And in thy small coffin laid;
Ere the day-star with the darkness
Nine times had triumphant striven,
In one grave had met your ashes,
And your souls in Heaven!

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IX

Five were ye, the beauteous blossoms
Of our hopes, our hearts, our hearth;
Two asleep lie buried under—
Three for us yet gladden earth.
Thee, our hyacinth, gay Charlie—
Willie, thee our snow-drop pure—
Back to us shall second spring-time
Never more allure!

X

Yet while thinking, oh! our lost ones,
Of how dear ye were to us,
Why should dreams of doubt and darkness
Haunt our troubled spirits thus?
Why across the cold dim churchyard
Flit our visions of despair?
Seated on the tomb, Faith's angel
Says, “Ye are not there!”

XI

Where, then, are ye? With the Saviour
Blest, for ever blest, are ye,
'Mid the sinless, little children,
Who have heard his “Come to me!”
'Yond the shades of death's dark valley
Now ye lean upon his breast,
Where the wicked dare not enter,
And the weary rest.

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XII

We are wicked—we are weary—
For us pray and for us plead;
God, who ever hears the sinless,
May through you the sinful heed:
Pray that, through the Mediator,
All our faults may be forgiven;
Plead that ye be sent to greet us
At the gates of Heaven!
March 1838.

CASA'S DIRGE.

I

Vainly for us the sunbeams shine,
Dimm'd is our joyous hearth;
O Casa, dearer dust than thine
Ne'er mixed with mother earth!
Thou wert the corner-stone of love,
The keystone of our fate;
Thou art not! Heaven scowls dark above,
And earth is desolate!

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II

Ocean may rave with billows curl'd,
And moons may wax and wane,
And fresh flowers blossom; but this world
Shall claim not thee again.
Closed are the eyes which bade rejoice
Our hearts till love ran o'er;
Thy smile is vanish'd, and thy voice
Silent for evermore!

III

Yes; thou art gone—our hearth's delight,
Our boy so fond and dear;
No more thy smiles to glad our sight,
No more thy songs to cheer;
No more thy presence, like the sun,
To fill our home with joy:
Like lightning hath thy race been run,
As bright as swift, fair boy.

IV

Now winter, with its snow departs,
The green leaves clothe the tree;
But summer smiles not on the hearts
That bleed and break for thee:
The young May weaves her flowery crown,
Her boughs in beauty wave;
They only shake their blossoms down
Upon thy silent grave.

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V

Dear to our souls is every spot
Where thy small feet have trod;
There odours, breathed from Eden, float,
And sainted is the sod;
The wild-bee with its buglet fine,
The blackbird singing free,
Melt both thy Mother's heart and mine—
They speak to us of thee!

VI

Only in dreams thou comest now
From Heaven's immortal shore,
A glory round that infant brow,
Which Death's pale signet bore:
'Twas thy fond looks, 'twas thy fond lips,
That lent our joys their tone;
And life is shaded with eclipse,
Since thou from earth art gone.

VII

Thine were the fond, endearing ways,
That tenderest feeling prove;
A thousand wiles to win our praise,
To claim and keep our love;
Fondness for us thrill'd all thy veins;
And, Casa, can it be
That nought of all the past remains
Except vain tears for thee?

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VIII

Idly we watch thy form to trace
In children on the street;
Vainly, in each familiar place,
We list thy pattering feet;
Then, sudden, o'er these fancies crush'd,
Despair's black pinions wave;
We know that sound for ever hush'd—
We look upon thy grave.

IX

O heavenly child of mortal birth!
Our thoughts of thee arise,
Not as a denizen of earth,
But inmate of the skies:
To feel that life renew'd is thine,
A soothing balm imparts;
We quaff from out Faith's cup divine,
And Sabbath fills our hearts.

X

Thou leanest where the fadeless wands
Of amaranth bend o'er;
Thy white wings brush the golden sands
Of Heaven's refulgent shore.
Thy home is where the psalm and song
Of angels choir abroad;
And blessed spirits, all day long,
Bask round the throne of God.

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XI

There chance and change are not; the soul
Quaffs bliss as from a sea,
And years, through endless ages, roll,
From sin and sorrow free:
There gush for aye fresh founts of joy,
New raptures to impart;
Oh! dare we call thee still our boy,
Who now a seraph art?

XII

A little while—a little while—
Ah! long it cannot be!
And thou again on us wilt smile,
Where angels smile on thee.
How selfish is the worldly heart—
How sinful to deplore!
Oh! that we were where now thou art,
Not lost, but gone before.

The almost Christian sentiment of the great heathen moralist, Seneca.


April 1838.

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ELEGIAC STANZAS.

TO THE MEMORY OF D. M. M.

I

Brightly the sun illumes the skies,
But Nature's charms no bliss impart;
A cloud seems spread before the eyes,
Whose wintry shadow chills the heart:
Oh! eyes that, for my children's sake,
Have poured forth tears like summer rain!
Oh! breaking heart, that will not break,
Yet never can be whole again!

II

Two years agone, and where shone hearth
So fraught with buoyant mirth as ours?
Five fairies knit our thoughts to earth
With bands like steel, tho' wreath'd of flowers:
How wildly warm, how softly sweet,
The spells that bade our hearts rejoice;
While echo'd round us pattering feet,
And voices—that seem'd Joy's own voice!

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III

Then light and life illumed each eye,
And rapture beam'd from each young brow,
And eager forms were flitting by,
That would not—could not rest; but now—
The light is quench'd, the life is fled;
Where are the feet that bounded free?
Thrice have we wept the early dead,
And one small grave-turf covers three!

IV

The spell is broken! never more
Can mortal life again seem gay;
No future ever can restore
The perish'd and the past away!
Though many a blessing gilds our lot,
Though bright eyes still our hearth illume;
Yet, O dear lost ones! ye are not,
And half the heart is in your tomb!

V

Sudden it fell, the fatal shaft,
That struck blithe Charlie down in death;
And, while Grief's bitterest cup we quaff'd,
We turned to watch wee Willie's breath,
That faintly ebb'd, and ebb'd away,
Till all was still; and, ere the sun
A tenth time shed his parting ray,
Their bed of dreamless rest was one!

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VI

And next, dear David, thou art gone!
Beloved boy, and can it be,
That now to us remains alone
Our unavailing grief for thee?
Yet, when we trace thine upward track
To where immortal spirits reign,
We do not, dare not, wish thee back—
Back to this world of care again!

VII

Summer was on the hills; the trees
Were bending down with golden fruit;
The bushes seem'd alive with bees,
And birds whose songs were never mute;
But 'twas even then, dear boy, when flowers,
O'ermantling earth, made all things gay,
That winter of the heart was ours,
And thine the hues of pale decay!

VIII

Yes! David, but two moons agone,
And who so full of life as thou?
An infant Samson, vigour shone
In thy knit frame and fearless brow.
Oh! how our inmost souls it stirr'd,
To listen to thine alter'd tongue,
And see thee moping like a bird,
Whose strength was like the lion's young.

34

IX

Yet so it was;—and, day by day,
Unquench'd thy thirst for sun and air,
Down the smooth walks, with blossoms gay,
We wheel'd thee in thy garden-chair;
And as we mark'd thy languid eye,
Wistful, the beds of bloom survey,
We dared not think thou wert to die,
Even in a briefer space than they.

X

Now gleams the west, a silver sea
Besprent with clouds of wavy gold;
Earth looks like Eden; can it be
That all thy days and nights are told?
Is there no voice, whose potent sway,
Can pierce through Death's Cimmerian gloom,
Can bid the dead awake, and say—
“Arise! 'tis morning in the tomb?”

XI

Yes! such there is; and thou that voice
Hast heard—hast heard it, and obey'd;
And we should mourn not, but rejoice
That Heaven is now thy dwelling made—
That thou hast join'd thy brothers lost—
That thou hast reach'd a happy shore,
Where peace awaits the tempest-tost,
And stormy billows rage no more.

35

XII

Three blessed beings! ye are now
Where pangs and partings are unknown,
Where glory girds each sainted brow,
And golden harps surround the throne:
Oh! to have hail'd that blissful sight,
Unto the angels only given,
When thy two brothers, robed in light,
Embraced thee at the gates of Heaven!

XIII

David, farewell! our mourning thus
We know 'tis vain; it may not be
That thou can'st come again to us,
But we, dear child, will go to thee:

“When David saw that his servants whispered, David perceived that the child was dead: therefore David said unto his servants, Is the child dead? And they said, He is dead.

“Then David arose from the earth, and washed, and anointed himself, and changed his apparel, and came into the house of the Lord, and worshipped: then he came to his own house; and when he required, they set bread before him, and he did eat.

“Then said his servants unto him, What thing is this that thou hast done? thou didst fast and weep for the child while it was alive; but when the child was dead, thou didst rise and eat bread.

“And he said, While the child was yet alive, I fasted and wept: for I said, Who can tell whether God will be gracious to me, that the child may live?

“But now he is dead, wherefore should I fast? can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me.”

—2 Samuel, xii. 19-23.


Then let our thoughts ascend on high,
To Him whose arm is strong to save;
Hope gives to Faith the victory,
And glory dawns beyond the grave!
September 1839.

36

THE LOST LAMB.

A shepherd laid upon his bed,
With many a sigh, his aching head,
For him—his favourite boy—to whom
Death had been dealt—a sudden doom.
“But yesterday,” with sobs he cried,
“Thou wert, with sweet looks, at my side
Life's loveliest blossom, and to-day,
Woe's me! thou liest a thing of clay!
It cannot be that thou art gone;
It cannot be that now, alone,
A greyhaired man on earth am I,
Whilst thou within its bosom lie?
Methinks I see thee smiling there,
With beaming eyes, and sunny hair,
As thou wert wont, when fondling me,
To clasp my neck from off my knee!
Was it thy voice? Again, oh speak,
My son, or else my heart will break!”
Each adding to that father's woes,
A thousand bygone scenes arose;

37

At home—a-field—each with its joy,
Each with its smile—and all his boy!
Now swelled his proud rebellious breast,
With darkness and with doubt opprest,
Now sank despondent, while amain
Unnerving tears fell down like rain:
Air—air—he breathed, yet wanted breath—
It was not life—it was not death—
But the drear agony between,
Where all is heard, and felt, and seen—
The wheels of action set ajar;
The body with the soul at war.
'Twas vain—'twas vain; he could not find
A haven for his shipwreck'd mind;
Sleep shunn'd his pillow. Forth he went—
The moon from midnight's azure tent
Shone down, and, with serenest light,
Flooded the windless plains of night;
The lake in its clear mirror showed
Each little star that twinkling glowed;
Aspens, that quiver with a breath,
Were stirless in that hush of death;
The birds were nestled in their bowers;
The dewdrops glittered on the flowers:
Almost it seemed as pitying Heaven
A while its sinless calm had given
To lower regions, lest despair
Should make abode for ever there;
So softly pure, so calmly bright,
Brooded o'er earth the wings of night.

38

O'ershadowed by its ancient yew,
His sheep-cote met the shepherd's view;
And, placid, in that calm profound,
His silent flocks lay slumbering round:
With flowing mantle by his side,
Sudden, a stranger he espied;
Bland was his visage, and his voice
Soften'd the heart, yet bade rejoice.—
“Why is thy mourning thus?” he said,
“Why thus doth sorrow bow thy head?
Why faltereth thus thy faith, that so
Abroad despairing thou dost go?
As if the God, who gave thee breath,
Held not the keys of life and death!—
When from the flocks that feed about,
A single lamb thou choosest out,
Is it not that which seemeth best
That thou dost take, yet leave the rest?—
Yes! such thy wont; and, even so,
With his choice little ones below
Doth the Good Shepherd deal; he breaks
Their earthly bands, and homeward takes,
Early, ere sin hath render'd dim
The image of the seraphim!”
Heart-struck, the shepherd home return'd;
Again within his bosom burn'd
The light of faith; and, from that day,
He trode serene life's onward way.

Something like the sentiment inculcated in this little poem is that contained in the following epitaph on a child, written by one of the early Christians;—it has been kindly pointed out to me by my erudite friend, Mr William Hay:—

“Pareite vos lachrymis, dulces cum conjuge natæ,
Viventemque Deo credite flere nefas.”


39

TO THE BUST OF MY SON CHARLES.

Tender was the time,
When we two parted, ne'er to meet again!
Home.

I

Fair image of our sainted boy,
Whose beauty calmly shows,
Blent with life's sunny smiles of joy,
Death's most serene repose—
I gaze upon thee, overcast
With sweet, sad memories of the past;
Visions which owed to thee their birth,
And, for a while, made Heaven of earth,
Return again in hues of light,
To melt my heart, yet mock my sight,
And sink amid the rayless gloom,
Which shadows thy untimely tomb.
Our fair, fond boy! and can it be,
That this pale mould of clay
Is all that now remains of thee,
So loving, loved, and gay?

40

II

The past awakens—thou art there
Before me, even now—
The silken locks of sunny hair,
Thrown backward from thy brow—
Thy full white brow of sinless thought;
Thy cheeks by smiles to dimples wrought;
Thy radiant eyes, to which were given
The blue of autumn's midnight heaven;
Thy rose-bud mouth, whose voice's tone
Made every household heart thine own,
Our fondling child, our winning boy,
Whose thoughts, words, looks, were all of joy—
Yes! there thou art, from death come back;
And vainly we deplore,
That earth had once a flowery track,
Which ne'er shall blossom more!

III

A fresh life renovates dull earth,
Now spring renews the world;
The little birds in joy sing forth,
'Mid leaflets half uncurl'd;—
But, Charlie, where art thou? We see
The snowdrops fade, uncull'd by thee;
We hear no more thy feet—thy voice—
Sweet sounds that made our hearts rejoice;
And every dear, familiar spot
Says—here thou wert, who now art not;

41

Thy beauty is a blossom crush'd;
Thy being is a fountain hush'd;
We look—we long for thee in vain—
The dearest soonest die!
And bankrupt Age but finds the brain
In all its sluices dry.

IV

Methinks the afternoons come back,
When, perch'd upon my knee,
Renew'd in heart, I roam'd the track
Of fairy-land with thee;
Or told of Joseph, when, within
The sack of little Benjamin,
The cup was found, and how he strove
In vain to smother filial love;
Or Joshua and his mail-clad men;
Or Daniel in the lions' den;
Or Jonah whelm'd beneath the sea;
Or Absalom, when to the tree
Fix'd by his tresses floating wild,
Until by Joab slain!
While David mourn'd his rebel child
The more—because in vain!

V

And sweet it was, on summer days,
To saunter through the park,
Amid the frisking lambs at graze,
And listen to the lark;

42

While thou wouldst run before, behind,
Blue-bell and butter-cup to find;
A gaysome elf, whose heart had ne'er
Been tamed by grief, or scathed by fear:
I see thy flush'd and open brow;
I hear thy soft voice, even now;
And scent the wild-flowers bright and bland,
Compress'd within thy warm white hand.
Still bloom the daisies there; the bee
Booms round each fragrant spot;
The small birds sing from bush and tree;
And only thou art not!

VI

Thy voice was like a summer brook,
For ever singing on;
And every thing around thee took
From happiness its tone:
We think of thee, and of the blue
Bright heaven, with sunshine streaming thro';
Of blossom'd groves; of oceans calm;
Of zephyrs breathing nought but balm;
Thy life was bliss—and can it be,
That only now remains for thee
The grave's blank horror, the despair
Of silence, that endureth there?
And is this love which shall decay
Only with being's breath,
But wasted on a thing of clay,
That sleeps in endless death?

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VII

No, Charlie, thus it cannot be:—
And, gazing on thy bust,
I would not stop to dream of thee,
As perishable dust;
Open'd for thee the golden doors
Of Heaven, thy feet are on its floors,
With jasper, beryl, and gems inlaid,
To which our sunshine is like shade;
And all we dream of bright and fair
For evermore are with thee there;
A halo glows around thy brow;
The seraphs are thy playmates now.—
It must be so—and dear, fond boy,
If glad and glorious thus,
'Twere sin to wish thee back from joy,
To pain and care with us!

VIII

A year hath circled since that day—
That day of doleful gloom,
When thou wert rapt from earth away,
In beauty's opening bloom;
That day of woe, when, horror-smote,
To know, to feel, that thou wert not,
We hung above thy bed of death,
And listen'd to thy last low breath,
And linger'd, nor would turn away,
To own thee but a thing of clay!

44

That day when thou did'st ope thine eyes
In bliss—an angel in the skies!
Oh blind, blank hour for us! Oh dawn
Of endless life for thee!
Noon saw thy soul from earth withdrawn,
Night, at the Saviour's knee.

IX

Farewell, sweet loan divine, which Heaven,
Beholding that man's heart
Less loved the Giver than the given,
Took to itself apart!
The waves of Time roll on—its sea
Still bears us more remote from thee,
As hour on hour, and day on day,
Melt in the spectral past away.
Yet art thou like a star on high,
To lure from earth the mental eye;
And I would hate my heart, if e'er
Its love of thee it could outwear:
No! in its core, aye to remain,
Thy sainted form shall dwell,
Until on high we meet again:—
Farewell!—dear boy, Farewell!
February 1839.

45

SONNET.

How change our days! not oftener doth its hue
The lank chameleon change, than we our joys;
The bliss that feeds upon the heart destroys;
Little is done, while much remains to do:
We fix our eyes on phantoms and pursue;
We chase the airy bubbles of the brain;
We leave, for Fancy's lures, the fix'd and true;
Destroy what time hath spared, yet build again:
Years o'er us pass, and age, that comes to few,
Comes but to tell them they have lived in vain;
Sin blights — Death scatters — Hope misleads — Thought errs—
Joy's icicles melt down before Time's sun—
And, ere the ebbing sands of life be run,
Another generation earth prefers!

46

VICISSITUDE.

All things around us preach of Death; yet Mirth
Swells the vain heart, darts from the careless eye,
As if we were created ne'er to die,
And had our everlasting home on earth!
All things around us preach of death:—the leaves
Drop from the forests—perish the bright flowers—
Shortens the day's shorn sunlight, hours on hours—
And o'er bleak sterile fields the wild wind grieves.
Yes! all things preach of death—we are born to die:
We are but waves along Time's ocean driven;
Life is to us a brief probation given,
To fit us for a dread Eternity.
Hear ye that watch with Faith's unslumbering eye?—
Earth is our pilgrimage, our home is Heaven!