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

Let the boisterous Bacchanal sing of his bowl,
That blight of the body, that scourge of the soul;
Let the libertine boast of the wreck he hath made,—
Of the hearts he hath tempted, and won, and betrayed;
Let the soldier exult o'er the blood-seeking sword,
Though his deeds have by thousands been cursed and deplored:
Be mine the proud pleasure to weave at command,
A song for the poor of my own fatherland.

Let the tyrant send forth his iniquitous law,
To insult the sad millions, and keep them in awe;
Although it were wiser to govern and guide
By justice and love, than oppression and pride;
Let a self-seeking priesthood preach patience to man,
Though to “reck their own rede” be no part of their plan:
Be mine the proud glory to weave at command,
A song for the poor of my own fatherland.

Let the venal bard flatter, and court the caress
Of “the minions of splendour who shrink from distress;”
Let him turn from the lowly, and shut from his songs
Their faith and affections, their rights and their wrongs;
Let him cling to the mighty, and flutter his hour
In the warm smile of plenty, the sunshine of power;
Be mine the proud duty to weave at command,
A song for the poor of my own fatherland.

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No. II. “MAN OF TOIL.”

Man of Toil, wouldst thou be free?
Lend thine ear to Reason's call;
There's folly in the Drunkard's glee—
There's madness in the midnight brawl;
The ribald jest, the vulgar song,
May give a keener sting to care;
The riot of a reckless throng
May lead to ruin and despair:
Let Truth unloose thy fettered soul,—
There is no freedom in the bowl.

Man of Toil, wouldst thou be wise?
The paths of moral right explore;
Pierce the human heart's disguise,
And track its motives to the core;
Creation's boundless beauties scan,
Observe its wonders—search its laws;
Look on the vast, harmonious plan,
And learn to love the Eternal Cause:
Let Truth illume thy darkened soul,—
There is no wisdom in the bowl.

Man of Toil, wouldst thou be blest?
Give thy purest feelings play;

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Bring all that's noble to thy breast,
Let all that's worthless pass away.
Let generous deeds bid sorrow cease,
Let gentlest words thy lips employ;
Scatter the seeds of love and peace,
And reap a harvest full of joy:
Let Truth make glad thy harassed soul—
There are no blessings in the bowl.

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No. III. “THERE IS BEAUTY ON EARTH.”

There is beauty on earth, wheresoever our eyes
May rest on the wonders that tell of a God;
For glory and grandeur look down from the skies,
And loveliness breathes from the streamlet and sod;
But, alas for the poor! they are grievously blind
To the charms which have lived since creation begun;
For sorrow and ignorance brood o'er the mind,
As the shadows of winter brood over the sun.

There is plenty on earth; for the soil that we tread,
In reward of our labour, is sterile no more;
The broad lands are laden with fruitage and bread,
That all may sit down and partake of the store;
But, alas for the poor! they may plant, they may sow,
They may gather the grain, and the tillage renew,
But the blessings which God hath seen good to bestow,
Are torn from the millions to pamper the few.

There is freedom on earth; for a thousand glad wings
In ecstasy sweep o'er the mountains and plains;
The light from its fountain spontaneously springs,—
The winds have no fetters, the waters no chains;

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But, alas for the poor! they are shackled through life,
They are bondsmen in word, and in action the same;
They are wed to the curse of toil, famine, and strife,
And a hope for the future is all they can claim.

A voice speaks within me I cannot control,
Which tells of a time when these ills shall depart:
When knowledge shall win its bright way to the soul,
And beauty, like music, shall soften the heart;
When plenty shall wait on the labours of all,
And pleasure, with purity, sweeten each hour;
When freedom shall spurn degradation and thrall,
And man rise exulting in virtue and power!

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No. IV. “SAD AND SICK UNTO DEATH.”

Sad and sick unto death, on his pallet reclining,
A pauper of England was heard to deplore;
The last beam of day on his pale cheek was shining,
From the sun whose return he might never see more.
No child to receive his last blessing was near him,—
No wife of his bosom to comfort and cheer him;
No kinsman to pity, no friend to revere him,
And smooth the rough way to a happier shore.

“Oh! Sons of my Country! forsaken I leave ye,
Let the lips of a dying man bid ye beware;
Of freedom and bread cruel men would bereave ye,
And force ye to struggle with famine and care.
Be brave, in the name of your fathers before ye,—
Be wise, for the sake of yourselves, I implore ye,—
Let hope and endeavour combine to restore ye
Those rights which ye plead for, but plead in despair.

“I look back to childhood, when life was a pleasure,
And health and enjoyment came pure from above;
I look back to youth, when I found a new treasure
In the fair form of woman, who taught me to love;
I look back to manhood, when, fearing to sever,
I plighted my faith to my Mary for ever,
And strove, by unceasing and honest endeavour,
The joys of a husband and father to prove.

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“My cottage looked out on the meadows and mountains,
Where the odours of Summer came rich on the breeze;
My gardens were watered by Nature's own fountains;
I had kine in my pastures, and fruit on my trees:
My home was a heaven of domestic affection—
Even now there is joy in the sweet recollection—
And the dear ones who looked for my love and protection,
In dutiful fondness encircled my knees.

“But, alas! in a moment of strife and distraction,
My blessings were banished, my visions o'erblown;
My country was raging with tumult and faction,
And Anarchy threatened the cottage and throne:
The sweet dove of Peace on her olive lay bleeding,—
Stern fathers were cursing, sad mothers were pleading;
But the Lords of Oppression turned cold and unheeding
From thousands whom hunger had worn to the bone.

“Then the Angel of Death brooded over my dwelling,
Where poverty reigned with perpetual gloom;
No tears could I shed, though my torn heart was swelling,
As my children were borne, one by one, to the tomb.
My wife mourned aloud with a mother's fond madness,
But her grief was subdued into silence and sadness,
Till her spirit was called to the regions of gladness,
And mine left alone to its desolate doom.

“Forlorn in the wide world, and weary with anguish,—
Expelled from the home which my forefathers gave,
I sought the sad spot where I now lie and languish,
From the stern laws of England a deathbed to crave.
I go to a land where no care can distress me,
Where no sorrow can come, where no power can oppress me,—
Where the beings I loved will receive me and bless me,—
Oh! God of the lowly! I pine for the grave!”

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No. V. “SONS OF MY MOTHER, ENGLAND.”

Sons of my mother, England,
List to the voice of song,
And turn from that degrading path
Which ye have trod so long;
Shake off that mental slavery
Which lays your manhood low;—
Up! awake! for Freedom's sake,
As through the world ye go;
Lift up your faces from the dust,
As through the world ye go.

Sons of my mother, England,
I feel a pang of pain,
That ye should breathe the bondsman's sigh,
And wear the bondsman's chain;
That ye should seek, 'mid scenes of sin,
A refuge from your woe,—
Still to bear the sting of care,
As through the world ye go,
And toil through life for bitter bread,
As through the world ye go.

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Sons of my mother, England,
I know ye are oppressed;
But let not vengeance fire the soul,
Nor burn within the breast;
Let wiser thoughts, let higher deeds,
Let milder language flow,
Nor cherish strife, the bane of life,
As through the world ye go;
But walk with hope and charity,
As through the world ye go.

Sons of my mother, England,
Ye have unconquered been,
On deadly War's unhallowed ground,
'Mid many a fearful scene;—
A nobler warfare ye must wage
With many a subtle foe,
If ye would rise more free and wise,
As through the world ye go,
And with a bloodless banner march,
As through the world ye go.

Sons of my mother, England,
Brave deeds must yet be done;
But 'tis not by man's strength of arm,
That liberty is won;
But ye must bear unclouded minds,
And hearts with love that glow;
And truth must guide your steps of pride,
As through the world ye go,
And shine your constant beacon fire,
As through the world ye go.

Sons of my mother, England,
Girt with her wall of waves,

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Let not your fair and fruitful soil
Give birth to future slaves:
Arise with God-like energy,
Each lingering curse o'erthrow,
And firmly stand by fatherland,
As through the world ye go,
For hearth and home, for each and all,
As through the world ye go.

Sons of my mother, England,
The worst will soon be past,
For Knowledge from a thousand springs
Is pouring pure and fast;
The star of Freedom soon shall burn,
With wider, brighter glow,
And ye shall be the blest and free,
As through the world ye go,—
A mighty and enlightened race,
As through the world ye go.

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No. VI. “OH! DESPISE NOT MY HARP.”

Oh! despise not my harp,—I have cherished it long,
And its voice hath been hailed by the lovers of song;
It hath been my best solace 'mid labour and care,
And strengthened my soul in the hour of despair:
It hath wakened the spirit of love in my heart,
And raised me bright dreams which can never depart;
But, better than all, from my morning of youth,
It hath sounded for freedom and pleaded for truth.

It hath said to the rich—“Ye are wealthy and great,—
Oh! scorn not the thousands of lowly estate;
For the treasures ye hold, and the powers ye possess,
Were lent you to soften the woes of distress:
A bountiful Providence put you in trust,—
As His stewards on earth be ye gentle and just!
And still let this beautiful truth be believed,
That ‘a blessing bestowed is a blessing received.’”

It hath said to the poor—“Ye are feeble and frail,
And well may the hand of oppression prevail,
For passion and ignorance rule ye in turn,
As with sadness ye droop, as with anger ye burn:
Indeed ye have sorrows, and heavy ones, too,
And a feeling of wrong which ye cannot subdue;

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Let me teach ye to hope and prepare for the day,
When your chains shall be broken, your griefs pass away.”

Thus singeth my harp,—thus it ever shall sing,
To the lord and the peasant, the priest and the king;
And though it may pour out its breathings in vain,
It shall never relapse into silence again:
Till the breast of the bondsman with liberty thrill,
The harp of the poet should never be still;
And mine, while the fire in my soul shall endure,
Shall respond unto all that may plead for the poor.

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No. VII. “LET US DRINK TO THE BARDS.”

Let us drink to the Bards of our own native land,
The inspired, the humane, and the brave,
Who have touched the loud lyre with so mighty a hand,
That it thrills through the soul of the slave;
In the army of truth they have marched in the van,
A gifted and glorious band:—
Come, bring me the wine, let me drink like a man,
To the Bards of my dear native land.

When Shakespeare came down, like a god from the skies,
Such a light from his spirit he cast,
That he startled the world into love and surprise,
And quenched many stars of the past:
Every passion that sleeps in the depths of the mind
He hath melted and moved at command;—
Let us drink to the best of our country and kind,—
The Bards of our dear native land.

Then Milton arose, like a rocket of fire,
When the nation was buried in gloom,
And the garland he wreathed with the strings of the lyre,
Wore the hues of celestial bloom:
For freedom and glory, for virtue and truth,
He flung the proud tones from his hand:—

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Let us drink to the sons of perpetual youth,—
The Bards of our dear native land.

There was Burns, who hath hallowed the mountains and streams,—
There was Byron, the stern and the strong;
There was Shelley, who lived in the purest of dreams,
There is Moore, the unshackled in song;
All, all have combined, with a wonderful power,
The heart and the soul to expand:—
Let us drink to the heirs of a heavenly dower,—
The Bards of our dear native land.

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No. VIII. “THE PEN AND THE PRESS.”

Young Genius walked out by the mountains and streams,
Entranced by the power of his own pleasant dreams,
Till the silent, the wayward, the wandering thing,
Found a plume that had dropped from a passing bird's wing:
Exulting and proud, like a boy at his play,
He bore the new prize to his dwelling away;
He gazed for awhile on its beauties, and then
He cut it, and shaped it, and called it a Pen.

But its magical use he discovered not yet,
Till he dipped its bright lips in a fountain of jet;
And, Oh! what a glorious thing it became,
For it spoke to the world in a language of flame;
While its master wrote on like a being inspired,
Till the hearts of the millions were melted or fired;
It came as a boon and a blessing to men,—
The peaceful, the pure, the victorious Pen!

Young Genius went forth on his rambles once more,
The vast, sunless caverns of earth to explore;
He searched the rude rock, and with rapture he found
A substance unknown, which he brought from the ground;

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He fused it with fire, and rejoiced at the change,
As he moulded the ore into characters strange,
Till his thoughts and his efforts were crowned with success,
For an engine uprose, and he called it a Press!

The Pen and the Press, blest alliance! combined
To soften the heart and enlighten the mind;
For that to the treasures of Knowledge gave birth,
And this sent them forth to the ends of the earth;
Their battles for truth were triumphant indeed,
And the rod of the tyrant was snapped like a reed;
They were made to exalt us, to teach us, to bless,
Those invincible brothers, the Pen and the Press!