Old Year Leaves :: :: University of Virginia Library

The late Autumn is dying,
Dead leaves strew the land—
Signs of sorrow now lying
On every hand;
While I walk full of sadness
In a garden once fair,
Where before all was gladness,
I find trouble there.

In a hedge-row wind-shaken
To wildest unrest,
Forlorn and forsaken,
I see a bird's nest,—
Its soft down decaying—
Its fledglings all flown,—
Nought save the shell staying
Deserted and lone.

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Then the thought cometh cleaving
The depths of my mind—
Soon we too must be leaving
Our loved homes behind,—
The drear tomb will enclose us,
Life's pilgrimage o'er,—
“And the place that now knows us
Shall know us no more.”

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UNFULFILLED YEARNINGS.

When Summer's sweetest influence
Is shed o'er plain and hill,
And Nature gains her recompense
For working Winter's will,
We feel a void—a weary sense
Of something wanting still.

In Autumn, when each searing leaf
With sorrow aye is fraught,
And every garnered golden sheaf
Yields fruit for saddest thought,
We feel a void—our spirits' grief
For something vainly sought.

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When Winter with his ice-cold hand
Grasps giant-like the ground,
And stiff and stark lies all the land
In frost's firm fetters bound,
We feel a void—we understand
'Tis something still unfound.

When Spring returns with fairest face,
Filling the earth with song,
And gladness seems in every place,
And love and life are strong,
Ah me! even then we fail to trace
The dream for which we long.

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GLAD DREAMS OF THE FUTURE COME O'ER US.

Glad dreams of the Future come o'er us,
All radiantly spotless and bright,
And bid us look up—for before us
Are vistas of boundless delight.

O come when our bosoms are weary,
Life-burdened and longing for rest,
And point through the darkness still dreary
To a land which by sunlight is blest.

O come when the world has been gaining
O'er our souls an insidious sway,
Our fickle rash footsteps restraining
From wandering out of the way.

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O come, that o'er all of Earth's changes
Your light as a guide may be shed,
Whether like unto others, or strange is,
The path that in Life we must tread.

And when finished at length is Life's story,
Completed its words and its acts,
Then burst on our sight in your glory
Not as dreams, but immutable facts.

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A SONG OF HOPE.

The vinery's foliage
In Autumn grows sere,
For its wealth of bright beauty
Fades out with the year:
All its branches, where lately
Grape clusters were spread,
Become barren and sapless
And seem as though dead.

But long ere the soft Spring
Clothes the land in glad green,
On its boughs beauteous blossoms
Are lavishly seen,
As it uses the warmth
Which is placed in its power,
And so rallies more swiftly
From Winter's rude hour.

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Thus if we, when some sorrow
O'erwhelming appears,
And which threatens to banish
The light of our years,
Would the blessings still left
In our service employ,
Then whate'er be the issue,
'Twould bring us but joy.

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HOW OFT ARISE TO SOOTHE OUR WOE.

How oft arise to soothe our woe,
And dissipate our sadness,
Fond dreams of faces long ago
When life was love and gladness.
Like, yet unlike the lights that guide
The storm-tossed o'er the ocean,
They in our secret souls abide,
Cherished with deep devotion.

The halcyon Past seems to possess,
When we review its story,
One radiance of happiness,
Nor cloud to dim its glory;

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So ah, 'tis well, when lonely lies
Life's pathway girt with sorrow,
That sometimes visions fair should rise
Which from our Past we borrow.

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HAPPINESS HERE.

There is happiness, dearest—
True happiness here,—
Though the troubles thou fearest
Perchance may appear:
For mid every emotion
Of weal or of woe,
Our depths of devotion
No respite shall know.

Yes,—in Life's twisted tissue
Of gladness and grief,
Love, whate'er be the issue,
Still renders relief.
So there's happiness, dearest—
True happiness here,—
Though the troubles thou fearest
Perchance may appear.

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A SONG IN THE SOUTH.

The proud sun is setting, most fair to behold,
Going down to his rest in a garment of gold,
And, like a young maiden who wishes good-bye
To her dear chosen lover, deep blushes the sky,
All its beautiful tints, ah! how fair to behold
As the sun goeth down in his garment of gold.

Light blue and dark blue and purple are there,
Red, brown, and golden with bounty how rare!
Black clouds o'er the mountains, white clouds o'er the sea,
And a landward breeze cometh soft, joyous, and free.
A prospect how glorious in truth to behold
As the sun goeth down in his garment of gold.

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All wondrously blent as He only can do
Who gives to each tint its own delicate hue,
Who makes Nature's paintings so gorgeously grand,
That man can but copy, not daring to stand
In rivalry open. Yes, fair to behold
Is the sun going down in his garment of gold.

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TWILIGHT MEMORIES.

How once I loved the twilight hour
Of Summer's blissful day,
While watching from each leafy bower
The daylight die away,
And clasping in mine own the hand
Of one I loved the best,
Whose converse soothed, as the sight of land
Doth mariners distressed.

Right bravely he had borne his part
In Earth's incessant strife,
Still labouring on with dauntless heart
Amid the ills of Life.
Had known adversity and pain,—
Hopes blighted—bitter wrong,—
Yet all to sour his soul were vain:
In Heaven-born strength 'twas strong.

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And oft he talked of his vanished years
In the gentle gloaming tide,
Bidding me all my joys and fears
Implicitly confide,
And wisely would my future trace,
Then leaving things of Time,
In raptured tones and with upturned face
Would speak of themes sublime.

His that strange wordless eloquence,
Always a wondrous power,
Which sways the soul with a force intense
In the calm of such an hour.
And when I walk where shadows steal
O'er Summer's fairy view,
I never, never fail to feel
That influence anew.

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A WINTRY MOOR AT NIGHT.

My way led o'er a wintry waste
When evening shades were falling,
And the soft sheep-bells rung in haste
The fleecy flocks were calling,—
For still a few had strayed afield
To wander mid the heather,
Seeking the food the hill-sides yield
Despite such withering weather.
Chorus. A wintry moor! A wintry moor!
Alone at dark of night,
Where in the world may one procure
More desolate a sight?

Black barren rocks were on the right,
Uprising bleak and lone,
Like the fabled forms of men of might
Fast petrified to stone.

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And far and wide on every side,
The mazy mist extended,
Slowly its mass did upwards glide,
Till with the sky it blended.
Chorus. A wintry moor! etc.

I thought of deeds of darkness done
On that drear waste so lonely!
That there had perished many an one
For lack of succour only.
And I strode along with swifter pace,
A thrill o'er my bosom stealing,
Reaching at last my resting-place
With pleasurable feeling.
Chorus. A wintry moor! etc.

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A SEA SONG.

I could not as a landsman live,
Pursuing his poor pleasure,
Each dull delight his course may give
Has nought in it to measure
With the true transport of the soul,
O'er every sense prevailing,
When 'neath our feet the wild waves roll,
We o'er the ocean sailing.
Chorus. A sailor's life! a sailor's life!
Upon the swelling sea,
Whose surges roar in ceaseless strife—
A sailor's life for me.

I love it when in summer-time
It lies, all ill concealing,
And o'er its ripples comes the chime
Of church-bells softly stealing.

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I love it when in grandest storm,
Like some great monster playing;
It spurns on high the vessel's form,
To mock it ere its slaying.
Chorus. A sailor's life! etc.

Then, as our voyage is nearly gone,
And soon to port returning,
I love the waves which waft me on
To soothe my constant yearning.
And when the dear land is espied—
Dispelling all our sadness—
I bless the swiftly flowing tide
Which bears me on to gladness.
Chorus. A sailor's life! etc.

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WHY DO I TRACE.

Why do I trace
On your loved face
Such weary wealth of sorrow,
Where late beamed joy
With nought to cloy,
Caused by the cares to-morrow?

The world I know
Is full of woe,
Encircled round with trouble,—
Yet merely sighs
And mournful eyes,—
But make our griefs redouble.

Look up in haste!
Nor longer waste
Your life in weak bemoanings;—

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Cast grim Despair
From out his lair!
You've known enough of groanings.

No skies o'ercast
One whit more fast
Because we thus are cheerful,—
Clouds come apace
With frowning face
Full oft when we are tearful.

Then may we here
Spurn foolish fear,
Nor let fond Hope forsake us,
So having joy
With nought to cloy
Until the storm o'ertake us.

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A PRACTICAL THEORY OF LIFE.

When musing on the course of Life
How many seem its phases,
Yet every one of them is rife
With trebly tangled mazes.

And though our prospects all are fair,
A scene made for enjoying,
Some canker-worm intrudeth there
Our perfect bliss destroying.

One man is strong and has delight
Merely in Life's possessing,
But pinching Poverty's bleak blight
Marreth his every blessing.

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Another's wealth and friends agree
To lavish pleasures on him,
Yet look, alas! 'tis clear to see
Disease's curse upon him;

Disease—for which weak human skill
Gives scant alleviation,—
He is doomed to dread Existence still
Despite his smiling station.

A third has pulse of purest health
Which yields him nought save gladness,
But private griefs amid his wealth
Impart a sense of sadness.

If we the daily deeds recite
Which form Life's present measure,
The wrong preponderates o'er the right,
And suffering over pleasure.

And thus whate'er our lot may be,
Our life is but a bubble,
Blown from some bleak and cruel sea
By the tornado Trouble.

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Ah! what a mystery is this!
And yet if we revolve it,
Perchance we may not muse amiss,
But find a clue to solve it.

It oft appears absurd to believe
In a God of infinite kindness,
Who, seeming paradox, can leave
Us in such woe and blindness,

In perfect Goodness—omnipotent Power,
Permitting Evil to enter
Its fair dominions, and to shower
Such griefs on man, their centre,

But if we accept the sceptic view,
Denying a God and Life's fruition,
What do we gain even were that true?
For it is merely demolition

Of many hopes which man holds dear
Of a swiftly coming morrow,
When we shall know with joy sincere
No sense of sin or sorrow,

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Without revealing to our sight
A future fair and clearer:
Nay, leaving all in deepest night—
Far darker, lone and drearer.

For we still must bear the woes of Life
With the longings which oft come o'er us
Whilst seeing no rest beyond its strife,
Save nothingness before us.

While a Heavenly hope amid our woe
Will cheer our Life's endeavour,
And yield us nought save good, although
At death it may fly for ever.

Thus, even if we set aside
Religion's proofs completely,
It gives more joy our minds to guide
Till, apprehending meetly

That doubtless though upon the earth
Our path is oft perplexing,
Its lack of love and chastened mirth
Our spirits sorely vexing,

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There must exist a place which gained
Through faith and strong endeavour,
What seems unjust will be explained,
Or rectified for ever:—

That there's a God who made Man's mind
With certain comprehension,
But yet Who has seen fit to bind
Its limits of extension.

Who also deemed it best for Man
Here to experience sadness,
As training for a higher plan
Of grandly growing gladness.

Thus human Reason's utmost sphere
Of thought is reached full early;
And thus to us men's lots appear
So often dealt unfairly.

That Life's dark mysteries but transcend,
Not contradict our reason,
And so when earthly life shall end
There comes a sun-lit season,

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When with enlarged God-given powers
And intellects commanding,
One bliss of Heaven's bright halcyon hours
Shall be the understanding

Of problems which distressed the sage
Of deepest skill and learning,
But now that we have burst our cage
Are easy of discerning,

While “themes with which we cannot cope”
Fade 'neath our Heavenly vision,
“And Earth's worst phrenzies, marring hope,
Will mar not Hope's fruition.”

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EVENING THOUGHTS.

It was evening, and sadness
Around me was cast—
For rejoicing and gladness
Too swiftly were past.
Then methought with deep anguish,
In Life's dreary day,
All we love must soon languish
And wither away.

Ah! how futile each token
Of love given here,
Merely made to be broken
When friendships grow sere;
Though sweet youth's summer morning
Dawned balmy and bright,
Yet our sorrow soon scorning,
It darkened to night.

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Thus in bitter bewailing
I poured forth my grief,
When this glad hope prevailing
Gave richest relief:
As the blossoms of May-time
Must fade and grow sere,
Ere the ripe Autumn gay time
Of fruit can appear,

So Love's bright buds immortal
Must seemingly die,
Ere within Heaven's portal
They blossom on high,
In fruition for ever
To each constant soul
Who through faithful endeavour
Gains Life's glorious goal.

184

THOUGHT-LINKS.

Mysterious are the links that firmly bind
Our trains of thought together. First we brood
On some small trivial matter—tiny germ
Of somewhat grander musings—then we find
A thread is woven with our thought, and lo
It leads to higher themes!—vast vistas new
For serious contemplation:—and we gain
Sublimest heights, while God-reflected thoughts
Transcending Reason flood our human mind.

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JOY AND GRIEF.

Nought gives true happiness unless it touch
Some chord of subtle feeling in the soul,
And thus what oft appear most trivial things
Impart such great delight:—a kindly phrase,
A friendly greeting in the street, or snatch
Of melody but for a moment heard:—
Or even some phrases in a general talk
Addressed to others, heard through being near.
Each of us is an instrument, but each
Is in some notes at least diversely strung
From all our fellows. The musician Joy
With mystic power can play upon our hearts,
And through the heart can ope the hidden door
That guards the sanctuary of the soul.

Grief has an equal power, and quickly finds
The portals of the soul, but having found,

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He enters not to play with skilful touch,
But roughly beats with rude untutored hand
Upon responsive tender notes, and so
Instead of music only discord comes.

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AFTER FIVE YEARS.

After five years!
What changes will have come
Among the circle of our firmest friends!
Some will have gone to widely severed lands,—
While others—than whom none seemed closer bound
In silken chains of love—will then perchance,
Urged by some paltry source of petty feud,
Made greater by their pride, have ceased to meet
In harmony. And silent callous Death
Will certainly have stayed the mortal course
Of not a few, though friends we have not now
We shall know then.

In circumstances also
What changes will have dawned! The man esteemed
Almost a pauper now may then have wealth

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Unbounded,—he whose store of riches seems
Limitless now may be a beggar then.
He who enjoys the bliss of nerveless health
May then be broken down and weak of limb,
While he who now an invalid, though dowered
With youth, his ills all conquered, may be strong.

What alterations will have come to pass
Throughout the world! Peace in the place of war
Or war in place of peace; and the appearance
Of present party strife in politics
Will then be altered quite,—while topics new
Will eagerly be canvassed. Many names
Novel to us will then have sprung to fame
In Life's inconstant whirl, while designations
Notorious now may even be then forgotten.
Yet there is one thing while the Earth remains
That will not change, and that one thing is—Change.

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MATERNAL LOVE.

Maternal love is ever tender and kind,
From sinful dross of selfishness refined;
In infant years it is a tender guide
To keep us safe from harm on every side;
And when our cherished childhood's days are past,
It nerves us to endure the world's rough blast.

Its mellowed memory is with us still,
In joy or sorrow, happiness or ill,
And like some beauteous flower of growth sublime,
Transplanted for awhile to this chill clime,
It sheds its sweetest fragrance on our way,
Reviving drooping hearts in Life's dark day.

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PARTING WORDS.

How oft the parting words of loved ones dear
Are cherished fondly all our lifetime here,
And Memory, in calm reflection's hour,
Recalls them to the mind with vivid power;
And frequently most bitterly we feel
The impotence of Time our grief to heal.

Ah! tender parting words, how soon is felt
Your influence the hardest heart to melt—
And as a babe upon its mother's breast
Is soothed unconsciously to quiet rest,
So gradually it steals o'er each sad soul,
And holds our feelings in its firm control.

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HOMEWARD.

I.

Each moment nearing fast her home,
A ship is cleaving through the foam,—
Home! ah, how sweet to those
Who in strange lands have absent been,
But still recalling each loved scene—
Their heart with rapture glows.
Thus there is boundless joy on board,
And jocundly with one accord
Are all prepared to land;
For when this last long night is done
Their hopes rise with the morrow's sun,—
Their haven is at hand.
Some sense-o'erstrainèd cannot sleep,
And through the watches wakeful keep,—
Longing for dawn of light;

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The deck is paced by dauntless men,
The night is dark, save now and then
When stars appear in sight.

II.

What was that crash! that dismal sound
Which echoes through the darkness round—
That sharp soul-stricken scream?
The glance doth on confusion fall,
Those on the deck are wild, and all
Is like a dreadsome dream.
The ship has struck not far from shore,
But boisterously the billows roar,
Along a rock-bound bay;
Two boats are manned to put to land,
And struggling hard to gain the strand,
Pull through the blinding spray,
Leaving the rest to face their fate as best they may.

III.

The scene so lately still and calm
Seems nothing now save loud alarm,
And dread and direful woe—

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One sight of sorrow meets the eye
On deck or down below.
While wind and seething waters vie
In working ill around,
Like sorcerers resolved to try
Their secret arts profound.
Shrill shrieks are heard on every side,
And none now aid nor seek to guide
The mad unresting crowd,
Who, scarce aware of what they do,
Pace passionately the deck; a few
Murmur a prayer heartfelt and true,
Or bitter moans—or curses too
In accents lewd and loud.

IV.

Down in a cabin lies a child
Heedless of death or tumult wild,
By sleep with blissful dreams beguiled:
A man reclines, removed a space,
Scarce entered middle life—
Yet in whose face you well may trace
Sad signs of care and strife.

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V.

Now to the infant's side he springs,
And very speedily he brings
His charge from down below.
He casts one glance upon the storm,
Then tightly grasps the tiny form—
Nor shrinking seems to know.

VI.

His thoughts revert to long ago,
When fragile as this little child,
A mother's love upon him smiled
As it assuaged each infant woe:—
And taught him to be true and brave
In this weak world of sordid strife,
And even content to part with life
Did it perchance another save.
And then he prays to One above
To guide him in this deed of love.

VII.

From the doomed ship without delay
Through the wild waves he cleaves his way,
Needing surpassing strength

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And dauntless courage thus to dare
To hold his burden and to bear
A swim of such a length.
The ruthless waters round him roll,
He well-nigh loses all control—
Yet still he struggles on;
And clasping to his breast the child,
He grapples with the billows wild
Till strength is almost gone.

VIII.

But see! his task is nearly o'er,
If he can swim a few yards more,
They surely reach the longed-for shore;
Brief moments now their fate will show
Whether it be of weal or woe.

IX.

And still he shapes his steadfast course
Straight onward to the land,
Yet with each stroke makes less the force
Which he can still command.
But all seems well—an instant more
Will see them safely on the shore.

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X.

Sudden a gasp—a gurgling sound—
A short convulsive groan,—
And nothing now is heard around
Save the fierce storm alone.
For he has sunk to rise no more,
Exhausted with the conflict sore,
And as a rain-drop falling on a lake
Ripples its surface, yet can scarcely break
The depths beneath, so softly thus sinks he
Into the Ocean of Eternity.

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AN OCEAN GLOAMING.

I pray you, hark,—
What is it that each seems to crave,
As over each mid-ocean wave
It groweth dark?

The angry gale
Strikes our stout ship in mockery,
And now they fiercely fight to see
Who shall prevail.

The seething spray
Dashes on high, and has the whole
Range of the deck without control
Under its sway.

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Our sturdy ship's
Tossings and creaks are like to pain,
And ofttimes in the surging main
Her beams she dips.

Look, just in sight,
Two creamy piles of foam between,
A little barque is rolling seen
Mid gathering night.

A signal goes
Quick up her mast and there remains;
“Where now she is,” the mate explains,
“She scarcely knows,

And asks that we
Should tell her.” Swiftly our reply
Runs up the mast, and then we try
To find if she

Perceives the sign,
Ere yet she's out of sight. Full slow
Pass the dread hours ere Morning's glow
Makes Night to pine,

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And die away.
But when the light is come at length,
We're sheltered safe from Ocean's strength
Within the bay.

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A SUMMER SCENE.

Bright beams of sunlight gild the lawn,
And the whole landscape seems as drawn
From some enchanter's treasure;—
The songsters carol loud and clear,
Ah, how I dearly love to hear
Their sweet melodious measure.

And while I loiter 'neath the trees,
Delicious perfumes by the breeze
Are wafted from the hay-field,
Where village urchins pleasure court,
And making round the ricks their sport,
Transform it to a play-field.

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Must this fair vision fade away?
It must—and for its death to-day
I feel a sense of sorrow;
But gladness comes to fill its place
When Hope reminds with smiling face—
“'Twill live again to-morrow.”

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SUMMER SORROW.

Each season hath its sadness, and for me
Summer not least of all. I know not why,
But though its sylvan beauty soothes my soul
Into delicious reveries; while birds,
Discoursing music, fill my dreamy mind
With melodies, and thoughts, and deep delight,
I never felt before—yet still there lurks
Within my heart a strange unfathomed grief,
Which, even amidst harsh Autumn's ravages,
Or grim old Winter's storms, I rarely feel.

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A SUMMER EVENING IN THE WOODS.

How beautiful the forest looks to-night,
The trees just moving in the still calm air;
And very many of the birds delight
In warbling forth their notes without a care.
The graceful boughs which erst were gaunt and bare
Have donned their fairest dress; the insects keep
A dreamy, murmuring revel everywhere;
But in the woodland glades, so dark and deep,
Save but for these few sounds, all nature seems to sleep.

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The stars come slowly out, and very soon
The summer day in peace and calmness ends;
And by-and-by, as rises slow the moon,
Her light with splendour on the scene descends:
While she amid the clouds her pathway wends
Majestic as a queen, and they stand near
Like courtiers round her throne; each object lends
Fresh beauty to the landscape dim, yet clear
Enough to let its wondrous loveliness appear.

Scenes like to this exert a mighty power
To soothe us, and to cause our minds to stray—
If only for a brief and transient hour—
From weary cares which fill them day by day;
And soon our thoughts fly swiftly far away
To some bright reminiscence of the past,
And for a while engrossed with it they stay;
And when our reverie is done at last,
How deeply we regret such moments fly so fast!

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TWILIGHT THOUGHTS.

How charming is the summer eve, removed from cities far,
Where Nature's spotless loveliness nought intervenes to mar;
Where wild-rose and convolvulus are woven in the hedge,
And buttercups and foxgloves gay rise from the brooklet's edge;
Where zephyrs waft their sweetest scents adown the waving wood,
And the soothing songs of Nature's choir impel us to intrude:—
When shadows creep across our path, and Day is well-nigh dead,
'Tis then that Summer ever seems her glamour best to spread.

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Where in this weary world can more of perfect peace be found,
Than when on such a scene we gaze in sympathy around?
And often will some fair wild flowers more truly touch the heart
Than the resplendent trophies of rare botanic art;
The sweet-briar which, perchance unseen, pours perfume on the air,
I would not barter for what proved the florist's proudest care;
I'll leave the rich their bowers of art in which to rear rare flowers,
Enough for me each common plant in Summer's gloaming hours.

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A LESSON IN THE GLOAMING.

One even of a summer's day
I walk scarce whither knowing,
Save by a river's side I stray
Where balmy winds are blowing.

'Tis the loved hour of twilight's close,
When o'er the landscape stealing,
The last faint ray of sunset glows,
Its beauty half revealing.

Rich foliage hides the rippling stream
From the fair view completely,
And gently as in halcyon dream,
Its murmur softly, sweetly,

Comes zephyr-borne, as on I move
With light heart void of sadness,

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Nor caring what to-morrow prove,
So that to-day be gladness.

Sudden is heard the plash of oars,
A sense of pleasure bringing,—
While plaintively a rower pours
His soul thus out in singing:

In Summer's choicest day,
When round each fragrant spray
The blithesome breezes stray—
Ah, what delight!
But brightest days contain
The seeds of future pain,
And Winter comes again,
Their bliss to blight!

Not so the joys of Mind,
Unfathomed, unconfined,
They soar and leave behind
Trammels of Earth:—
They teach mankind to face
Both honour and disgrace,
And gain at last the Place
Which gave them birth.

The boat sweeps on,—the words depart
In cadences alluring,—
But they have pierced my flippant heart,
And left a mark enduring.

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MEADOW MUSINGS.

While treading with purest of pleasure
The pathways grass-grown of the fields,
The thought that will come without measure
Is strange as the fruit that it yields.

We dream that on spot we are standing
To gaze on the glorious view—
Perchance some stern Druid commanding
Performèd his orisons due,

Ere vengeful and fierce as his foeman,
And eager for spoil and applause,
He ventured to meet the bold Roman
To fight in his dear country's cause.

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Some Saxon, it may be, with sadness
Here mourned the mailed Norman's advance,
And on the morrow he ended his madness
At the point of the enemy's lance.

Perchance after great baron's wassail—
In days when such doings were rife,
With feudal foes here fought each vassal
In bitter inglorious strife.

Or the Roundhead recounted the glory
Of routing the gay Cavalier,
Nor wept, while reciting the story,
For former companions a tear.

And still as the swiftly winged Ages
Press on with impetuous pace,
The fools of the Earth and its sages
May pause for a while in this place.

Then darting away, will commingle
In the turmoil with which Life is fraught,
And never again will they single
This spot out for care or for thought.

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FLOWER-GATHERING.

Two merry children in a meadow see,
With faces all aglow with Childhood's glee—
While finding fragrant flowrets here and there
To weave into a chaplet fresh and fair,
Till of the sweet wild flowers they gaily make
A guerdon to reward the pains they take.

So 'tis, methinks, amid Life's tedious toil,
And sordid strife and harassing turmoil;
As surely as we seek, we pleasures find,
Which bring kind Hope to cheer each mournful mind:
And our attempts to seize them oft repay
By showering blessings on our weary way.

224

GARDEN MUSINGS.

Ah, what a sadness wells within our soul
Whilst loitering in garden where erewhile
We used to hold sweet interchange of thought
With a dearly lovèd lost one; and to know
Such days are dead for ever! That for us,
Though May-time blossoms make the orchard trees
Most beauteous to behold, and every sense
In bliss is saturated by the wealth
Of Nature's charms profusely spread around,
There yet remains enthroned within our heart
A deep, dull void, which nought on earth can fill.

225

A COMPARISON.

The landscape bright is very fair to see,
And all around the birds are blithely singing;
And yonder to that venerable tree
Tenaciously the ivy's boughs are clinging.

But soon the tree is felled and ta'en away,
And each slight tendril from its trunk is taken;
And now the ivy's beauty will decay,
Bereft of its support, lone, and forsaken.

So frequently it happens with us all,
Round some lov'd object twin'd is our affection,
But soon 'tis snatched away beyond recall,
And leaves us nothing save its recollection.

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Then deepest grief and anguish rend the breast,
And oft we seem to hear a voice repeating:
“Our life is but a shadow at the best,
And nought abides, but all is brief and fleeting.”

229

IN TENEBRIS LUX.

'Tis night, and darkness as a pall
Enwraps the sable scene,
Nor doth one glimmering ray recall
Where sunshine erst hath been.

Till the moon peereth 'neath a cloud
'Mong floods of borrowed light,
And piercing through the landscape's shroud,
Dispels the gloom of night.

So 'tis in life; mid deepest woe,
Oft drawing nigh despair,
God-borrowed beams alone still show
That joy abideth there.

230

A MORNING MEDITATION.

Now the black night will speedily be gone,
And the delicious dawning draweth near—
Charming each sense, while calmly gazing on
The freshly budding beauty which is here;
Almost a paradise doth soon appear,
Dowered with a glittering flood of dewdrops bright;
As the sun's radiance from a higher sphere
Seems to produce, even by its gladsome sight,
In careworn human hearts a wonderful delight.

Ah! who at sunrise could be aught save glad!
For 'tis a prototype of perfect day,
When we shall wake to bliss, no longer sad,
And feel the glowing God-begotten ray

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Which bids us fling aside all fears which may
Still cleave to us; and with enraptured soul
Speed to the land where trouble flees away
Before His presence, that long-looked-for goal,
Where all Earth's weary wounds for ever are made whole.

232

THE WARBLERS' MISSION.

One bright day, sad and weary,
I wandered the fields,
Which often, when dreary,
Much happiness yields,—
Yet not softest of sighing
Of sweet summer breeze,
Nor the beauties near lying,
My burden could ease.

But a bird's note of gladness,
Clear borne on the air,
Changed my sense of strange sadness
And sorrowful care;—
And full soon o'er me stealing,
In place of my grief,
Came a rapturous feeling
Of peace and relief.

233

Then I wondered if pinions
Were given birds thus
To work, mid God's dominions,
A mission to us;—
Of shedding, midst sadness,
Rejoicing and love,
And through soothing and gladness,
To guide us above.

So perchance they flew ever,
Devoting their days
With ceaseless endeavour
To carolling praise:—
As true types, though terrestrial,
Till song-time be o'er,
Of the angels celestial
Who chant and adore.

234

MIDNIGHT MUSINGS.

The moonbeams' pure brightness
Has entered my room,
Thus shedding some lightness
Where late all was gloom.
Yet it leaves much uncertain
Which Day would make clear,
For the Night's darksome curtain
Still lies dim and drear.

So, methinks, as in sadness
I restlessly toss,
'Tis with dreams of past gladness
Our spirits that cross:—
Though oftentimes cheering
Our souls by their light,
We by their appearing
Perceive our deep night.

235

“'TIS GONE.”

“'Tis gone,” with mournful voice we say,
When some great joy departs;
And we pursue our weary way
With sad and heavy hearts.

“'Tis gone,” with gladsome voice we cry,
When grief or pain is o'er:—
And all the prospect far and nigh
Is brighter than before.

Seems it not strange that keenest woe
This phrase can thus express,
And yet be often used to show
The highest happiness?

236

ACROSTICS.

BURNS.

Born of the people with a dower of song;—
Unlearnt in academic lore, yet strong;
Ranging each chord of lyric minstrelsy
'Neath genius-tutored fingers grandly free;
Still sweet and clear thy tones for Time eterne shall be.

238

COWPER.

Calm and clear-toned the music of thy song,
Of depths diviner than to bards belong,
Who scale Parnassian heights with sordid aim:—
Pure as a ray of brightly flashing flame
Eradiating from Truth's torch to show
Rash Man a heavenward path amid Life's woe.

239

THE ELDER HOOD.

How brilliant and how versatile art thou,—
Of every style a master. Deep-souled thought
On many themes is here, rare puns, and now
Disports a freak of fancy genius-fraught.

240

KIRKE WHITE.

Kind and true-hearted was thy youthful life,
In every manly attribute most rife;
Rich in a mind rare cultured, and which sought
Knowledge with pursuit keen, and ever thought
Each effort well repaid that learning brought.

Wise thought on such as thee doth cheer the heart,
Having their course before us as a chart,
In which is shown a way whereby each one,
Though sore the toil and scorching be Life's sun,
Elated shall receive God's glad “Well done.”

241

A LIFE-CHRONICLE.

I.

Long years ago a peasant boy
Lives as his widowed mother's joy,
Her cherished firstborn son;
For though her love the others share,
They are but babes—for them the care
Of life has scarce begun.
While the brave brother manfully
Strives steadfastly to gain their bread,
Resolved to do as well as he
Is able in their father's stead.

242

II.

He little learning could acquire,
Except when sitting at the fire,
When work was done on a wintry night,
But then it was his chief delight
To linger o'er some well-conned page,
Dowered with the wisdom of the sage.
His thought for every lesser one
How charming 'twas to view;
And often would he join the fun
As leader of the crew.
Yet sometimes when apart from man,
Upon the lone hill-side,
His future anxiously would scan,
And long for one to guide
His steps to higher spheres of life,
If even through severest strife.

III.

But soon his mood would grow more gay,
Like lark which soars at dawn of day;
And then before his eyes would play
Visions of regions far away.

243

Yet calmly he resolved to stay
Till some brief years were o'er,
And then a fond farewell to say,
And leave his native shore,
Boldly to seek his fortune there,
And never yield him to despair.

IV.

The time now comes to say farewell,
That word how full of sadness!
And yet for aught which one may tell
The harbinger of gladness.
At least to think so sore he tries
When with stout heart but wistful eyes
He bids them not to grieve,
Saying they soon shall have surprise
Which they will scarce believe.
Then gently doth bright dreams unfold
Of his return with wealth untold.

244

V.

Long years have passed, and now once more
He views again his native shore;
Nor has his stay been spent in vain,
For ere he crosses now the main
He has of gold an ample store,
And better still a well-earned name
For honest worth, with nought of shame.
His now indeed a bright career,
In which each blessing given man here
Is granted to him, as if sent
As guerdon for his past content,
While amid much labour patiently
He strove against grim poverty;
And succouring the deep-distressed,
Proved now the passion of his breast.
So when at length in death he slept
Many a mourner for him wept.

245

A DREAM OF LONG AGO.

A dream of youth comes o'er me—
A dream of long ago,
When life was light before me,
Nor knew the taint of woe.

'Tis of a sun-lit village
Built by the bright sea's strand,
With widespread fields in tillage
Stretching on every hand,—

Save on one side where moorland
The landscape closes in,
Which, though men deemed it poor land,
Was dowered with blooming whin.

246

Here there were boundless pleasures
For me, a town-bred boy;
Here first I found the treasures
That country-folk enjoy.

Great was my bliss bird-nesting,
When butterflies I sought,
Or when in quiet resting
On turf with fragrance fraught.

Its charms indeed were legion,
With its odours of wild flowers;
It seemed a fairy region
To spend the halcyon hours.

Once with a strange emotion,
I found a blackbird's brood,
And watched the dam's devotion,
Yet dreaded to intrude.

I loved this moorland dearly,
With its spots for rest and play—
And in my day-dreams clearly
Still see it day by day.

247

How pretty looked the river—
Which gave the spot its name—
As its wavelets used to quiver
Beneath the sunset's flame,

Which dyed them with a lightness
That soon must disappear,
Fit emblem of the brightness
Which human life has here.

What sport to watch the fishers
As they left their homes at morn—
Surrounded with well-wishers,
Holding dread and fear in scorn!

And how gladsome were the greetings
When they returned at night,
And merry were the meetings,
For faces all were bright.

Life here had much of gladness
Despite its dull day's round,—
And less of care and sadness
Than oft in cities found.

248

How great was my diversion
(I was but eight years old)
When I went a short excursion,
A cart my chariot bold.

As onward thus I travelled
Mid balmy summer air,
Life's skein for me was ravelled
With bliss in place of care.

I saw them cutting fuel
To feed their wintry fire,
And, ah, I thought it cruel
When bidden to retire.

How pleasant the postman meeting,
With his merrily sounding horn,
And his grave yet gladsome greeting
Bestowed on me each morn.

While the village people ever,
Though rude and unrefined,
To me seemed good and clever
Because they all were kind.

249

Ah, vision calm and cheering!
Soul-soothing none the less,
Despite the callous sneering
Cold cynics may profess.

Thy memories shall not perish
Whate'er betide of grief—
Yes, evermore I'll cherish
This dream to bring relief.

252

IMAGINATION'S HARVEST.

Oh, how powerless we seem to secure Fancy's dream,
Though before our rapt gaze it be floating;
And to garner a mine of the rich gems that shine,
Yet are lost for the lack of our noting.

Thus in sickness sometimes, like strange musical chimes,
Come sweet visions enchanting to meet us;
But they pass from our sight like a bird in its flight,
And are gone ere their gladness can greet us.

253

Then, if buoyant in health, they deny us their wealth,
And leave us to commonplace duties;
Though with bliss Life is fraught, we scarce harbour a thought
Of their wondrous though swift-fleeting beauties.

While oft in our mind when their traces we find,
We would pen their pure brilliance for others,
But the glories we see, though entrancing they be,
Are as nought in the eyes of our brothers.