 | Poems |  |
I. VOL. I.
1
THE SABBATH:
A POEM.
Luce sacra requiescat humus, requiescat arator,
Et grave, suspenso vomere, cesset opus.
Et grave, suspenso vomere, cesset opus.
3
How still the morning of the hallowed day!
Mute is the voice of rural labour, hushed
The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song.
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers,
That yester-morn bloomed waving in the breeze:
Sounds the most faint attract the ear,—the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,
The distant bleating, midway up the hill.
Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud.
To him who wanders o'er the upland leas,
The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale;
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook
Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen;
While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke
O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals,
The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise.
Mute is the voice of rural labour, hushed
The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song.
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers,
That yester-morn bloomed waving in the breeze:
Sounds the most faint attract the ear,—the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,
The distant bleating, midway up the hill.
Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud.
To him who wanders o'er the upland leas,
The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale;
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
4
Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen;
While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke
O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals,
The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise.
With dove-like wings, Peace o'er yon village broods:
The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din
Hath ceased; all, all around is quietness.
Less fearful on this day, the limping hare
Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man,
Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free,
Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large;
And, as his stiff unwieldy bulk he rolls,
His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray.
The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din
Hath ceased; all, all around is quietness.
Less fearful on this day, the limping hare
Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man,
Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free,
Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large;
And, as his stiff unwieldy bulk he rolls,
His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray.
But chiefly Man the day of rest enjoys.
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day.
On other days, the man of toil is doomed
To eat his joyless bread, lonely; the ground
Both seat and board; screened from the winter's cold,
And summer's heat, by neighbouring hedge or tree;
But on this day, embosomed in his home,
He shares the frugal meal with those he loves;
With those he loves he shares the heart-felt joy
Of giving thanks to God,—not thanks of form,
A word and a grimace, but reverently,
With covered face and upward earnest eye.
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day.
On other days, the man of toil is doomed
To eat his joyless bread, lonely; the ground
Both seat and board; screened from the winter's cold,
And summer's heat, by neighbouring hedge or tree;
But on this day, embosomed in his home,
He shares the frugal meal with those he loves;
With those he loves he shares the heart-felt joy
Of giving thanks to God,—not thanks of form,
5
With covered face and upward earnest eye.
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day:
The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe
The morning air, pure from the city's smoke,
While, wandering slowly up the river side,
He meditates on Him, whose power he marks
In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough,
As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom
Around its roots; and while he thus surveys,
With elevated joy, each rural charm,
He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope,
That Heaven may be one Sabbath without end.
The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe
The morning air, pure from the city's smoke,
While, wandering slowly up the river side,
He meditates on Him, whose power he marks
In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough,
As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom
Around its roots; and while he thus surveys,
With elevated joy, each rural charm,
He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope,
That Heaven may be one Sabbath without end.
But now his steps a welcome sound recals:
Solemn the knell, from yonder ancient pile,
Fills all the air, inspiring joyful awe:
Slowly the throng moves o'er the tomb-paved ground:
The aged man, the bowed down, the blind
Led by the thoughtless boy, and he who breathes
With pain, and eyes the new-made grave, well pleased:
These, mingled with the young, the gay, approach
The house of God; these, spite of all their ills,
A glow of gladness feel; with silent praise
They enter in. A placid stillness reigns,
Until the man of God, worthy the name,
Arise, and read the anointed shepherd's lays.
His locks of snow, his brow serene,—his look
Of love, it speaks, “Ye are my children all,
The gray-haired man, stooping upon his staff,
As well as he, the giddy child, whose eye
Pursues the swallow flitting thwart the dome.”
Loud swells the song: O, how that simple song,
Though rudely chaunted, how it melts the heart,
Commingling soul with soul in one full tide
Of praise, of thankfulness, of humble trust!
Next comes the unpremeditated prayer,
Breathed from the inmost heart, in accents low.
But earnest.—Altered is the tone; to man
Are now addressed the sacred speaker's words.
Instruction, admonition, comfort, peace,
Flow from his tongue: O chief let comfort flow!
It is most wanted in this vale of tears:
Yes, make the widow's heart to sing for joy;
The stranger to discern the Almighty's shield
Held o'er his friendless head; the orphan child
Feel, mid his tears, I have a father still!
'Tis done. But hark that infant querulous voice!
Plaint not discordant to a parent's ear:
And see the father raise the white-robed babe
In solemn dedication to the Lord:
The holy man sprinkles with forth-stretched hand
The face of innocence; then earnest turns,
And prays a blessing in the name of Him,
Who said, Let little children come to me;
Forbid them not: The infant is replaced
Among the happy band: they, smilingly,
In gay attire, wend to the house of mirth,
The poor man's festival, a jubilee day,
Remembered long.—
Solemn the knell, from yonder ancient pile,
Fills all the air, inspiring joyful awe:
Slowly the throng moves o'er the tomb-paved ground:
The aged man, the bowed down, the blind
Led by the thoughtless boy, and he who breathes
With pain, and eyes the new-made grave, well pleased:
These, mingled with the young, the gay, approach
The house of God; these, spite of all their ills,
A glow of gladness feel; with silent praise
They enter in. A placid stillness reigns,
6
Arise, and read the anointed shepherd's lays.
His locks of snow, his brow serene,—his look
Of love, it speaks, “Ye are my children all,
The gray-haired man, stooping upon his staff,
As well as he, the giddy child, whose eye
Pursues the swallow flitting thwart the dome.”
Loud swells the song: O, how that simple song,
Though rudely chaunted, how it melts the heart,
Commingling soul with soul in one full tide
Of praise, of thankfulness, of humble trust!
Next comes the unpremeditated prayer,
Breathed from the inmost heart, in accents low.
But earnest.—Altered is the tone; to man
Are now addressed the sacred speaker's words.
Instruction, admonition, comfort, peace,
Flow from his tongue: O chief let comfort flow!
It is most wanted in this vale of tears:
Yes, make the widow's heart to sing for joy;
The stranger to discern the Almighty's shield
Held o'er his friendless head; the orphan child
Feel, mid his tears, I have a father still!
'Tis done. But hark that infant querulous voice!
Plaint not discordant to a parent's ear:
And see the father raise the white-robed babe
In solemn dedication to the Lord:
7
The face of innocence; then earnest turns,
And prays a blessing in the name of Him,
Who said, Let little children come to me;
Forbid them not: The infant is replaced
Among the happy band: they, smilingly,
In gay attire, wend to the house of mirth,
The poor man's festival, a jubilee day,
Remembered long.—
Nor would I leave unsung
The lofty ritual of our sister land:
In vestment white, the minister of God
Opens the book, and reverentially
The stated portion reads. A pause ensues.
The organ breathes its distant thunder-notes,
Then swells into a diapason full:
The people rising, sing, With harp, with harp,
And voice of psalms; harmoniously attuned
The various voices blend; the long-drawn aisles,
At every close, the lingering strain prolong.
And now the tubes a mellowed stop controuls,
In softer harmony the people join,
While liquid whispers from yon orphan band
Recall the soul from adoration's trance,
And fill the eye with pity's gentle tears.
Again the organ-peal, loud-rolling, meets
The halleluiahs of the choir: Sublime,
A thousand notes symphoniously ascend,
As if the whole were one, suspended high
In air, soaring heavenward: afar they float,
Wafting glad tidings to the sick man's couch:
Raised on his arm, he lists the cadence close,
Yet thinks he hears it still: his heart is cheered;
He smiles on death; but, ah! a wish will rise,—
“—Would I were now beneath that echoing roof!
No lukewarm accents from my lips should flow;
My heart would sing; and many a Sabbath-day
My steps should thither turn; or, wandering far
In solitary paths, where wild flowers blow,
There would I bless His name who led me forth
From death's dark vale, to walk amid those sweets;
Who gives the bloom of health once more to glow
Upon this cheek, and lights this languid eye.”
The lofty ritual of our sister land:
In vestment white, the minister of God
Opens the book, and reverentially
The stated portion reads. A pause ensues.
The organ breathes its distant thunder-notes,
Then swells into a diapason full:
The people rising, sing, With harp, with harp,
8
The various voices blend; the long-drawn aisles,
At every close, the lingering strain prolong.
And now the tubes a mellowed stop controuls,
In softer harmony the people join,
While liquid whispers from yon orphan band
Recall the soul from adoration's trance,
And fill the eye with pity's gentle tears.
Again the organ-peal, loud-rolling, meets
The halleluiahs of the choir: Sublime,
A thousand notes symphoniously ascend,
As if the whole were one, suspended high
In air, soaring heavenward: afar they float,
Wafting glad tidings to the sick man's couch:
Raised on his arm, he lists the cadence close,
Yet thinks he hears it still: his heart is cheered;
He smiles on death; but, ah! a wish will rise,—
“—Would I were now beneath that echoing roof!
No lukewarm accents from my lips should flow;
My heart would sing; and many a Sabbath-day
My steps should thither turn; or, wandering far
In solitary paths, where wild flowers blow,
There would I bless His name who led me forth
From death's dark vale, to walk amid those sweets;
Who gives the bloom of health once more to glow
Upon this cheek, and lights this languid eye.”
9
It is not only in the sacred fane
That homage should be paid to the Most High;
There is a temple, one not made with hands,—
The vaulted firmament: Far in the woods,
Almost beyond the sound of city chime,
At intervals heard through the breezeless air;
When not the limberest leaf is seen to move,
Save where the linnet lights upon the spray;
When not a floweret bends its little stalk,
Save where the bee alights upon the bloom;—
There, rapt in gratitude, in joy, and love,
The man of God will pass the Sabbath-noon;
Silence his praise: his disembodied thoughts,
Loosed from the load of words, will high ascend
Beyond the empyrean.—
Nor yet less pleasing at the heavenly throne,
The Sabbath-service of the shepherd-boy.
In some lone glen, where every sound is lulled
To slumber, save the tinkling of the rill,
Or bleat of lamb, or hovering falcon's cry,
Stretched on the sward, he reads of Jesse's son;
Or sheds a tear o'er him to Egypt sold,
And wonders why he weeps; the volume closed,
With thyme-sprig laid between the leaves, he sings
The sacred lays, his weekly lesson, conned
With meikle care beneath the lowly roof,
Where humble lore is learnt, where humble worth
Pines unrewarded by a thankless state.
Thus reading, hymning, all alone, unseen,
The shepherd-boy the Sabbath holy keeps,
Till on the heights he marks the straggling bands
Returning homeward from the house of prayer.
In peace they home resort. O blissful day!
When all men worship God as conscience wills.
Far other times our fathers' grandsires knew,
A virtuous race, to godliness devote.
What though the sceptic's scorn hath dared to soil
The record of their fame! What though the men
Of worldly minds have dared to stigmatize
The sister-cause, Religion and the Law,
With Superstition's name! yet, yet their deeds,
Their constancy in torture, and in death,—
These on tradition's tongue still live, these shall
On history's honest page be pictured bright
To latest times. Perhaps some bard, whose muse
Disdains the servile strain of Fashion's quire,
May celebrate their unambitious names.
With them each day was holy, every hour
They stood prepared to die, a people doomed
To death:—old men, and youths, and simple maids.
With them each day was holy; but that morn
On which the angel said, See where the Lord
Was laid, joyous arose; to die that day
Was bliss. Long ere the dawn, by devious ways,
O'er hills, thro' woods, o'er dreary wastes, they sought
The upland moors, where rivers, there but brooks,
Dispart to different seas: Fast by such brooks,
A little glen is sometimes scooped, a plat
With green sward gay, and flowers that strangers seem
Amid the heathery wild, that all around
Fatigues the eye: in solitudes like these
Thy persecuted children, Scotia, foiled
A tyrant's and a bigot's bloody laws:
There, leaning on his spear, (one of the array,
Whose gleam, in former days, had scathed the rose
On England's banner, and had powerless struck
The infatuate monarch and his wavering host,)
The lyart veteran heard the word of God
By Cameron thundered, or by Renwick poured
In gentle stream: then rose the song, the loud
Acclaim of praise; the wheeling plover ceased
Her plaint; the solitary place was glad,
And on the distant cairns, the watcher's ear
Caught doubtfully at times the breeze-borne note.
But years more gloomy followed; and no more
The assembled people dared, in face of day,
To worship God, or even at the dead
Of night, save when the wintry storm raved fierce,
And thunder-peals compelled the men of blood
To couch within their dens; then dauntlessly
The scattered few would meet, in some deep dell
By rocks o'er-canopied, to hear the voice,
Their faithful pastor's voice: He by the gleam
Of sheeted lightning oped the sacred book,
And words of comfort spake: Over their souls
His accents soothing came,—as to her young
The heathfowl's plumes, when, at the close of eve,
She gathers in, mournful, her brood dispersed
By murderous sport, and o'er the remnant spreads
Fondly her wings; close nestling 'neath her breast,
They, cherished, cower amid the purple blooms.
That homage should be paid to the Most High;
There is a temple, one not made with hands,—
The vaulted firmament: Far in the woods,
Almost beyond the sound of city chime,
At intervals heard through the breezeless air;
When not the limberest leaf is seen to move,
Save where the linnet lights upon the spray;
When not a floweret bends its little stalk,
Save where the bee alights upon the bloom;—
There, rapt in gratitude, in joy, and love,
The man of God will pass the Sabbath-noon;
Silence his praise: his disembodied thoughts,
Loosed from the load of words, will high ascend
Beyond the empyrean.—
Nor yet less pleasing at the heavenly throne,
The Sabbath-service of the shepherd-boy.
In some lone glen, where every sound is lulled
To slumber, save the tinkling of the rill,
Or bleat of lamb, or hovering falcon's cry,
Stretched on the sward, he reads of Jesse's son;
Or sheds a tear o'er him to Egypt sold,
And wonders why he weeps; the volume closed,
With thyme-sprig laid between the leaves, he sings
The sacred lays, his weekly lesson, conned
With meikle care beneath the lowly roof,
10
Pines unrewarded by a thankless state.
Thus reading, hymning, all alone, unseen,
The shepherd-boy the Sabbath holy keeps,
Till on the heights he marks the straggling bands
Returning homeward from the house of prayer.
In peace they home resort. O blissful day!
When all men worship God as conscience wills.
Far other times our fathers' grandsires knew,
A virtuous race, to godliness devote.
What though the sceptic's scorn hath dared to soil
The record of their fame! What though the men
Of worldly minds have dared to stigmatize
The sister-cause, Religion and the Law,
With Superstition's name! yet, yet their deeds,
Their constancy in torture, and in death,—
These on tradition's tongue still live, these shall
On history's honest page be pictured bright
To latest times. Perhaps some bard, whose muse
Disdains the servile strain of Fashion's quire,
May celebrate their unambitious names.
With them each day was holy, every hour
They stood prepared to die, a people doomed
To death:—old men, and youths, and simple maids.
With them each day was holy; but that morn
On which the angel said, See where the Lord
11
Was bliss. Long ere the dawn, by devious ways,
O'er hills, thro' woods, o'er dreary wastes, they sought
The upland moors, where rivers, there but brooks,
Dispart to different seas: Fast by such brooks,
A little glen is sometimes scooped, a plat
With green sward gay, and flowers that strangers seem
Amid the heathery wild, that all around
Fatigues the eye: in solitudes like these
Thy persecuted children, Scotia, foiled
A tyrant's and a bigot's bloody laws:
There, leaning on his spear, (one of the array,
Whose gleam, in former days, had scathed the rose
On England's banner, and had powerless struck
The infatuate monarch and his wavering host,)
The lyart veteran heard the word of God
By Cameron thundered, or by Renwick poured
In gentle stream: then rose the song, the loud
Acclaim of praise; the wheeling plover ceased
Her plaint; the solitary place was glad,
And on the distant cairns, the watcher's ear
Caught doubtfully at times the breeze-borne note.
But years more gloomy followed; and no more
12
To worship God, or even at the dead
Of night, save when the wintry storm raved fierce,
And thunder-peals compelled the men of blood
To couch within their dens; then dauntlessly
The scattered few would meet, in some deep dell
By rocks o'er-canopied, to hear the voice,
Their faithful pastor's voice: He by the gleam
Of sheeted lightning oped the sacred book,
And words of comfort spake: Over their souls
His accents soothing came,—as to her young
The heathfowl's plumes, when, at the close of eve,
She gathers in, mournful, her brood dispersed
By murderous sport, and o'er the remnant spreads
Fondly her wings; close nestling 'neath her breast,
They, cherished, cower amid the purple blooms.
But wood and wild, the mountain and the dale,
The house of prayer itself,—no place inspires
Emotions more accordant with the day,
Than does the field of graves, the land of rest:—
Oft at the close of evening-prayer, the toll,
The solemn funeral-toll, pausing, proclaims
The service of the tomb; the homeward crowds
Divide on either hand; the pomp draws near;
The choir to meet the dead go forth, and sing,
I am the resurrection and the life.
Ah me! these youthful bearers robed in white,
They tell a mournful tale; some blooming friend
Is gone, dead in her prime of years:—'twas she,
The poor man's friend, who, when she could not give,
With angel tongue pleaded to those who could;
With angel tongue and mild beseeching eye,
That ne'er besought in vain, save when she prayed
For longer life, with heart resigned to die,—
Rejoiced to die; for happy visions blessed
Her voyage's last days, and, hovering round,
Alighted on her soul, giving presage
That heaven was nigh:—O what a burst
Of rapture from her lips! what tears of joy
Her heavenward eyes suffused! Those eyes are closed
But all her loveliness is not yet flown:
She smiled in death, and still her cold pale face
Retains that smile; as when a waveless lake,
In which the wintry stars all bright appear,
Is sheeted by a nightly frost with ice,
Still it reflects the face of heaven unchanged,
Unruffled by the breeze or sweeping blast.
Again that knell! The slow procession stops:
The pall withdrawn, Death's altar, thick-embossed
With melancholy ornaments,—(the name,
The record of her blossoming age) appears
Unveiled, and on it dust to dust is thrown,
The final rite. Oh! hark that sullen sound!
Upon the lowered bier the shovelled clay
Falls fast, and fills the void.—
The house of prayer itself,—no place inspires
Emotions more accordant with the day,
Than does the field of graves, the land of rest:—
Oft at the close of evening-prayer, the toll,
The solemn funeral-toll, pausing, proclaims
The service of the tomb; the homeward crowds
Divide on either hand; the pomp draws near;
The choir to meet the dead go forth, and sing,
13
Ah me! these youthful bearers robed in white,
They tell a mournful tale; some blooming friend
Is gone, dead in her prime of years:—'twas she,
The poor man's friend, who, when she could not give,
With angel tongue pleaded to those who could;
With angel tongue and mild beseeching eye,
That ne'er besought in vain, save when she prayed
For longer life, with heart resigned to die,—
Rejoiced to die; for happy visions blessed
Her voyage's last days, and, hovering round,
Alighted on her soul, giving presage
That heaven was nigh:—O what a burst
Of rapture from her lips! what tears of joy
Her heavenward eyes suffused! Those eyes are closed
But all her loveliness is not yet flown:
She smiled in death, and still her cold pale face
Retains that smile; as when a waveless lake,
In which the wintry stars all bright appear,
14
Still it reflects the face of heaven unchanged,
Unruffled by the breeze or sweeping blast.
Again that knell! The slow procession stops:
The pall withdrawn, Death's altar, thick-embossed
With melancholy ornaments,—(the name,
The record of her blossoming age) appears
Unveiled, and on it dust to dust is thrown,
The final rite. Oh! hark that sullen sound!
Upon the lowered bier the shovelled clay
Falls fast, and fills the void.—
But who is he,
That stands aloof, with haggard wistful eye,
As if he coveted the closing grave?
And he does covet it; his wish is death:
The dread resolve is fixed; his own right-hand
Is sworn to do the deed: The day of rest
No peace, no comfort, brings his woe-worn spirit;
Self cursed, the hallowed dome he dreads to enter;
He dares not pray; he dares not sigh a hope;
Annihilation is his only heaven.
Loathsome the converse of his friends! he shuns
The human face; in every careless eye
Suspicion of his purpose seems to lurk.
Deep piny shades he loves, where no sweet note
Is warbled, where the rook unceasing caws:
Or far in moors, remote from house or hut,
Where animated nature seems extinct,
Where even the hum of wandering bee ne'er breaks
The quiet slumber of the level waste;
Where vegetation's traces almost fail,
Save where the leafless cannachs wave their tufts
Of silky white, or massy oaken trunks
Half-buried lie, and tell where greenwoods grew,—
There, on the heathless moss outstretched, he broods
O'er all his ever-changing plans of death:
The time, place, means, sweep, like a stormy rack,
In fleet succession, o'er his clouded soul,—
The poignard,—and the opium draught, that brings
Death by degrees, but leaves an awful chasm
Between the act and consequence,—the flash
Sulphureous, fraught with instantaneous death;—
The ruined tower perched on some jutting rock,
So high that, 'tween the leap and dash below,
The breath might take its flight in midway air,—
This pleases for a time; but on the brink,
Back from the toppling edge his fancy shrinks
In horror; sleep at last his breast becalms,—
He dreams 'tis done; but starting wild awakes,
Resigning to despair his dream of joy.
Then hope, faint hope, revives—hope, that Despair
May to his aid let loose the Demon Frenzy,
To lead scared Conscience blindfold o'er the brink
Of self-destruction's cataract of blood.
Most miserable, most incongruous wretch!
Dar'st thou to spurn thy life, the boon of God,
Yet dreadest to approach his holy place!
O dare to enter in! may be some word,
Or sweetly chaunted strain, will in thy heart
Awake a chord in unison with life.
What are thy fancied woes to his, whose fate
Is (sentence dire!) incurable disease,—
The outcast of a lazar-house, homeless,
Or with a home where eyes do scowl on him!
Yet he, even he, with feeble step draws near,
With trembling voice joins in the song of praise.
Patient he waits the hour of his release;
He knows he has a home beyond the grave.
That stands aloof, with haggard wistful eye,
As if he coveted the closing grave?
And he does covet it; his wish is death:
The dread resolve is fixed; his own right-hand
Is sworn to do the deed: The day of rest
No peace, no comfort, brings his woe-worn spirit;
Self cursed, the hallowed dome he dreads to enter;
He dares not pray; he dares not sigh a hope;
Annihilation is his only heaven.
Loathsome the converse of his friends! he shuns
The human face; in every careless eye
Suspicion of his purpose seems to lurk.
Deep piny shades he loves, where no sweet note
Is warbled, where the rook unceasing caws:
15
Where animated nature seems extinct,
Where even the hum of wandering bee ne'er breaks
The quiet slumber of the level waste;
Where vegetation's traces almost fail,
Save where the leafless cannachs wave their tufts
Of silky white, or massy oaken trunks
Half-buried lie, and tell where greenwoods grew,—
There, on the heathless moss outstretched, he broods
O'er all his ever-changing plans of death:
The time, place, means, sweep, like a stormy rack,
In fleet succession, o'er his clouded soul,—
The poignard,—and the opium draught, that brings
Death by degrees, but leaves an awful chasm
Between the act and consequence,—the flash
Sulphureous, fraught with instantaneous death;—
The ruined tower perched on some jutting rock,
So high that, 'tween the leap and dash below,
The breath might take its flight in midway air,—
This pleases for a time; but on the brink,
Back from the toppling edge his fancy shrinks
In horror; sleep at last his breast becalms,—
He dreams 'tis done; but starting wild awakes,
Resigning to despair his dream of joy.
Then hope, faint hope, revives—hope, that Despair
May to his aid let loose the Demon Frenzy,
16
Of self-destruction's cataract of blood.
Most miserable, most incongruous wretch!
Dar'st thou to spurn thy life, the boon of God,
Yet dreadest to approach his holy place!
O dare to enter in! may be some word,
Or sweetly chaunted strain, will in thy heart
Awake a chord in unison with life.
What are thy fancied woes to his, whose fate
Is (sentence dire!) incurable disease,—
The outcast of a lazar-house, homeless,
Or with a home where eyes do scowl on him!
Yet he, even he, with feeble step draws near,
With trembling voice joins in the song of praise.
Patient he waits the hour of his release;
He knows he has a home beyond the grave.
Or turn thee to that house, with studded doors,
And iron-visor'd windows;—even there
The Sabbath sheds a beam of bliss, tho' faint;
The debtor's friends (for still he has some friends)
Have time to visit him; the blossoming pea,
That climbs the rust-worn bars, seems fresher tinged;
And on the little turf, this day renewed,
The lark, his prison mate, quivers the wing
With more than wonted joy. See, through the bars,
That pallid face retreating from the view,
That glittering eye following, with hopeless look,
The friends of former years, now passing by
In peaceful fellowship to worship God:
With them, in days of youthful years, he roamed
O'er hill and dale, o'er broomy knowe; and wist
As little as the blythest of the band
Of this his lot; condemned, condemned unheard,
The party for his judge:—among the throng,
The Pharisaical hard-hearted man
He sees pass on, to join the heaven-taught prayer,
Forgive our debts, as we forgive our debtors:
From unforgiving lips most impious prayer!
O happier far the victim, than the hand
That deals the legal stab! The injured man
Enjoys internal, settled calm; to him
The Sabbath bell sounds peace; he loves to meet
His fellow-sufferers, to pray and praise:
And many a prayer, as pure as e'er was breathed
In holy fanes, is sighed in prison halls.
Ah me! that clank of chains, as kneel and rise
The death-doomed row. But see, a smile illumes
The face of some; perhaps they're guiltless: Oh!
And must high-minded honesty endure
The ignominy of a felon's fate!
No, 'tis not ignominious to be wronged;
No;—conscious exultation swells their hearts,
To think the day draws nigh, when in the view
Of angels, and of just men perfect made,
The mark which rashness branded on their names
Shall be effaced;—when, wafted on life's storm,
Their souls shall reach the Sabbath of the skies;—
As birds, from bleak Norwegia's wintry coast
Blown out to sea, strive to regain the shore,
But, vainly striving; yield them to the blast,—
Swept o'er the deep to Albion's genial isle,
Amazed they light amid the bloomy sprays
Of some green vale, there to enjoy new loves,
And join in harmony unheard before.
And iron-visor'd windows;—even there
The Sabbath sheds a beam of bliss, tho' faint;
The debtor's friends (for still he has some friends)
Have time to visit him; the blossoming pea,
That climbs the rust-worn bars, seems fresher tinged;
And on the little turf, this day renewed,
The lark, his prison mate, quivers the wing
With more than wonted joy. See, through the bars,
That pallid face retreating from the view,
17
The friends of former years, now passing by
In peaceful fellowship to worship God:
With them, in days of youthful years, he roamed
O'er hill and dale, o'er broomy knowe; and wist
As little as the blythest of the band
Of this his lot; condemned, condemned unheard,
The party for his judge:—among the throng,
The Pharisaical hard-hearted man
He sees pass on, to join the heaven-taught prayer,
Forgive our debts, as we forgive our debtors:
From unforgiving lips most impious prayer!
O happier far the victim, than the hand
That deals the legal stab! The injured man
Enjoys internal, settled calm; to him
The Sabbath bell sounds peace; he loves to meet
His fellow-sufferers, to pray and praise:
And many a prayer, as pure as e'er was breathed
In holy fanes, is sighed in prison halls.
Ah me! that clank of chains, as kneel and rise
The death-doomed row. But see, a smile illumes
The face of some; perhaps they're guiltless: Oh!
And must high-minded honesty endure
The ignominy of a felon's fate!
No, 'tis not ignominious to be wronged;
No;—conscious exultation swells their hearts,
18
Of angels, and of just men perfect made,
The mark which rashness branded on their names
Shall be effaced;—when, wafted on life's storm,
Their souls shall reach the Sabbath of the skies;—
As birds, from bleak Norwegia's wintry coast
Blown out to sea, strive to regain the shore,
But, vainly striving; yield them to the blast,—
Swept o'er the deep to Albion's genial isle,
Amazed they light amid the bloomy sprays
Of some green vale, there to enjoy new loves,
And join in harmony unheard before.
The land is groaning 'neath the guilt of blood
Spilt wantonly: for every death-doomed man,
Who, in his boyhood, has been left untaught
That Wisdom's ways are ways of pleasantness,
And all her paths are peace, unjustly dies.
But ah! how many are thus left untaught,—
How many would be left, but for the band
United to keep holy to the Lord
A portion of His day, by teaching those
Whom Jesus loved with forth-stretched hand to bless.
Behold yon motly train, by two and two,
Each with a bible 'neath its little arm,
Approach, well-pleased as if they went to play,
The dome where simple lore is learnt unbought:
And mark the father 'mid the sideway throng;—
Well do I know him by his glistening eye
That follows stedfastly one of the line.
A dark seafaring man he looks to be;
And much it glads his boding heart to think,
That when once more he sails the vallied deep,
His child shall still receive Instruction's boon.
But hark,—a noise,—a cry,—a gleam of swords!—
Resistance is in vain,—he's borne away,
Nor is allowed to clasp his weeping child.
Spilt wantonly: for every death-doomed man,
Who, in his boyhood, has been left untaught
That Wisdom's ways are ways of pleasantness,
And all her paths are peace, unjustly dies.
But ah! how many are thus left untaught,—
How many would be left, but for the band
United to keep holy to the Lord
A portion of His day, by teaching those
Whom Jesus loved with forth-stretched hand to bless.
Behold yon motly train, by two and two,
Each with a bible 'neath its little arm,
Approach, well-pleased as if they went to play,
The dome where simple lore is learnt unbought:
19
Well do I know him by his glistening eye
That follows stedfastly one of the line.
A dark seafaring man he looks to be;
And much it glads his boding heart to think,
That when once more he sails the vallied deep,
His child shall still receive Instruction's boon.
But hark,—a noise,—a cry,—a gleam of swords!—
Resistance is in vain,—he's borne away,
Nor is allowed to clasp his weeping child.
My innocent, so helpless, yet so gay!
How could I bear to be thus rudely torn
From thee;—to see thee lift thy little arm
And impotently strike the ruffian man,—
To hear thee bid him chidingly,—begone!
How could I bear to be thus rudely torn
From thee;—to see thee lift thy little arm
And impotently strike the ruffian man,—
To hear thee bid him chidingly,—begone!
O ye, who live at home, and kiss each eve
Your sleeping infants ere ye go to rest,
And, 'wakened by their call, lift up your eyes
Upon their morning smile,—think, think of those
Who, torn away without one farewell word
To wife, or children, sigh the day of life
In banishment from all that's dear to man,—
O raise your voices, in one general peal
Remonstrant, for the opprest. And ye, who sit
Month after month devising impost-laws,
Give some small portion of your midnight vigils,
To mitigate, if not remove the wrong.
Your sleeping infants ere ye go to rest,
And, 'wakened by their call, lift up your eyes
Upon their morning smile,—think, think of those
Who, torn away without one farewell word
To wife, or children, sigh the day of life
In banishment from all that's dear to man,—
O raise your voices, in one general peal
Remonstrant, for the opprest. And ye, who sit
20
Give some small portion of your midnight vigils,
To mitigate, if not remove the wrong.
Relentless justice! with fate-furrowed brow!
Wherefore to various crimes of various guilt,
One penalty, the most severe, allot!
Why, palled in state, and mitred with a wreath
Of nightshade, dost thou sit portentously,
Beneath a cloudy canopy of sighs,
Of fears, of trembling hopes, of boding doubts!
Death's dart thy mace!—Why are the laws of God,
Statutes promulged in characters of fire,
Despised in deep concerns, where heavenly guidance
Is most required! The murderer—let him die,
And him who lifts his arm against his parent,
His country,—or his voice against his God.
Let crimes less heinous dooms less dreadful meet,
Than loss of life! so said the law divine,
That law beneficent, which mildly stretched
To men forgotten and forlorn, the hand
Of restitution: Yes, the trumpet's voice
The Sabbath of the jubilee announced:
The freedom-freighted blast, through all the land
At once, in every city, echoing rings,
From Lebanon to Carmel's woody cliffs,
So loud, that far within the desart's verge
The couching lion starts, and glares around.
Free is the bondman now, each one returns
To his inheritance: The man, grown old
In servitude far from his native fields,
Hastes joyous on his way; no hills are steep,
Smooth is each rugged path; his little ones
Sport as they go, while oft the mother chides
The lingering step, lured by the way-side flowers:
At length the hill, from which a farewell look,
And still another parting look, he cast
On his paternal vale, appears in view:
The summit gained, throbs hard his heart with joy
And sorrow blent, to see that vale once more:
Instant his eager eye darts to the roof
Where first he saw the light: his youngest born
He lifts, and, pointing to the much-loved spot,
Says,—“There thy fathers lived, and there they sleep.”
Onward he wends; near and more near he draws:
How sweet the tinkle of the palm-bowered brook!
The sun-beam slanting thro' the cedar grove
How lovely, and how mild! but lovelier still
The welcome in the eye of ancient friends,
Scarce known at first! and dear the fig-tree shade,
'Neath which on Sabbath eve his father told
Of Israel from the house of bondage freed,
Led through the desart to the promised land;—
With eager arms the aged stem he clasps,
And with his tears the furrowed bark bedews:
And still, at midnight-hour, he thinks he hears
The blissful sound that brake the bondman's chains,
The glorious peal of freedom and of joy!
Wherefore to various crimes of various guilt,
One penalty, the most severe, allot!
Why, palled in state, and mitred with a wreath
Of nightshade, dost thou sit portentously,
Beneath a cloudy canopy of sighs,
Of fears, of trembling hopes, of boding doubts!
Death's dart thy mace!—Why are the laws of God,
Statutes promulged in characters of fire,
Despised in deep concerns, where heavenly guidance
Is most required! The murderer—let him die,
And him who lifts his arm against his parent,
His country,—or his voice against his God.
Let crimes less heinous dooms less dreadful meet,
Than loss of life! so said the law divine,
That law beneficent, which mildly stretched
To men forgotten and forlorn, the hand
21
The Sabbath of the jubilee announced:
The freedom-freighted blast, through all the land
At once, in every city, echoing rings,
From Lebanon to Carmel's woody cliffs,
So loud, that far within the desart's verge
The couching lion starts, and glares around.
Free is the bondman now, each one returns
To his inheritance: The man, grown old
In servitude far from his native fields,
Hastes joyous on his way; no hills are steep,
Smooth is each rugged path; his little ones
Sport as they go, while oft the mother chides
The lingering step, lured by the way-side flowers:
At length the hill, from which a farewell look,
22
On his paternal vale, appears in view:
The summit gained, throbs hard his heart with joy
And sorrow blent, to see that vale once more:
Instant his eager eye darts to the roof
Where first he saw the light: his youngest born
He lifts, and, pointing to the much-loved spot,
Says,—“There thy fathers lived, and there they sleep.”
Onward he wends; near and more near he draws:
How sweet the tinkle of the palm-bowered brook!
The sun-beam slanting thro' the cedar grove
How lovely, and how mild! but lovelier still
The welcome in the eye of ancient friends,
Scarce known at first! and dear the fig-tree shade,
'Neath which on Sabbath eve his father told
Of Israel from the house of bondage freed,
Led through the desart to the promised land;—
With eager arms the aged stem he clasps,
23
And still, at midnight-hour, he thinks he hears
The blissful sound that brake the bondman's chains,
The glorious peal of freedom and of joy!
Did ever law of man a power like this
Display? power marvellous as merciful,
Which, though in other ordinances still
Most plainly seen, is yet but little marked
For what it truly is,—a miracle!
Stupendous, ever new, performed at once
In every region,—yea, on every sea
Which Europe's navies plow;—yes, in all lands
From pole to pole, or civilized or rude,
People there are, to whom the Sabbath morn
Dawns, shedding dews into their drooping hearts:
Yes, far beyond the high-heaved western wave,
Amid Columbia's wildernesses vast,
The words which God in thunder from the mount
Of Sinai spake, are heard, and are obeyed.
Thy children, Scotia, in the desart land,
Driven from their homes by fell Monopoly,
Keep holy to the Lord the seventh day.
Assembled under loftiest canopy
Of trees primeval, soon to be laid low,
They sing, By Babel's streams we sat and wept.
Display? power marvellous as merciful,
Which, though in other ordinances still
Most plainly seen, is yet but little marked
For what it truly is,—a miracle!
Stupendous, ever new, performed at once
In every region,—yea, on every sea
Which Europe's navies plow;—yes, in all lands
From pole to pole, or civilized or rude,
People there are, to whom the Sabbath morn
Dawns, shedding dews into their drooping hearts:
Yes, far beyond the high-heaved western wave,
Amid Columbia's wildernesses vast,
The words which God in thunder from the mount
Of Sinai spake, are heard, and are obeyed.
Thy children, Scotia, in the desart land,
Driven from their homes by fell Monopoly,
Keep holy to the Lord the seventh day.
Assembled under loftiest canopy
Of trees primeval, soon to be laid low,
They sing, By Babel's streams we sat and wept.
24
What strong mysterious links enchain the heart
To regions where the morn of life was spent!
In foreign lands, though happier be the clime,
Though round our board smile all the friends we love,
The face of nature wears a stranger's look.
Yea, though the valley which we loved be swept
Of its inhabitants, none left behind,
Not even the poor blind man who sought his bread
From door to door, still, still there is a want;
Yes, even he, round whom a night that knows
No dawn is ever spread, whose native vale
Presented to his closed eyes a blank,—
Deplores its distance now. There well he knew
Each object, though unseen; there could he wend
His way, guideless, through wilds and mazy woods;
Each aged tree, spared when the forest fell,
Was his familiar friend, from the smooth birch,
With rind of silken touch, to the rough elm:
The three gray stones, that marked where heroes lay,
Mourned by the harp, mourned by the melting voice
Of Cona, oft his resting-place had been;
Oft had they told him that his home was near:
The tinkle of the rill, the murmuring
So gentle of the brook, the torrent's rush,
The cataract's din, the ocean's distant roar,
The echo's answer to his foot or voice;
All spoke a language which he understood,
All warned him of his way. But most he feels
Upon the hallowed morn, the saddening change:
No more he hears the gladsome village bell
Ring the blest summons to the house of God:
And,—for the voice of psalms, loud, solemn, grand,
That cheered his darkling path, as, with slow step
And feeble, he toiled up the spire-topt hill,—
A few faint notes ascend among the trees.
To regions where the morn of life was spent!
In foreign lands, though happier be the clime,
Though round our board smile all the friends we love,
The face of nature wears a stranger's look.
Yea, though the valley which we loved be swept
Of its inhabitants, none left behind,
Not even the poor blind man who sought his bread
From door to door, still, still there is a want;
Yes, even he, round whom a night that knows
No dawn is ever spread, whose native vale
Presented to his closed eyes a blank,—
Deplores its distance now. There well he knew
Each object, though unseen; there could he wend
His way, guideless, through wilds and mazy woods;
Each aged tree, spared when the forest fell,
Was his familiar friend, from the smooth birch,
With rind of silken touch, to the rough elm:
The three gray stones, that marked where heroes lay,
Mourned by the harp, mourned by the melting voice
Of Cona, oft his resting-place had been;
Oft had they told him that his home was near:
The tinkle of the rill, the murmuring
So gentle of the brook, the torrent's rush,
The cataract's din, the ocean's distant roar,
The echo's answer to his foot or voice;
25
All warned him of his way. But most he feels
Upon the hallowed morn, the saddening change:
No more he hears the gladsome village bell
Ring the blest summons to the house of God:
And,—for the voice of psalms, loud, solemn, grand,
That cheered his darkling path, as, with slow step
And feeble, he toiled up the spire-topt hill,—
A few faint notes ascend among the trees.
What though the clustered vine there hardly tempts
The traveller's hand; though birds of dazzling plume
Perch on the loaded boughs;-“Give me thy woods,
(Exclaims the banished man) thy barren woods,
Poor Scotland! sweeter there the reddening haw,
The sloe, or rowan's bitter bunch, than here
The purple grape; dearer the redbreast's note,
That mourns the fading year in Scotia's vales,
Than Philomel's, where spring is ever new;
More dear to me the redbreast's sober suit,
So like a withered leaflet, than the glare
Of gaudy wings, that make the Iris dim.”
The traveller's hand; though birds of dazzling plume
Perch on the loaded boughs;-“Give me thy woods,
(Exclaims the banished man) thy barren woods,
Poor Scotland! sweeter there the reddening haw,
The sloe, or rowan's bitter bunch, than here
The purple grape; dearer the redbreast's note,
That mourns the fading year in Scotia's vales,
Than Philomel's, where spring is ever new;
More dear to me the redbreast's sober suit,
So like a withered leaflet, than the glare
Of gaudy wings, that make the Iris dim.”
Nor is regret exclusive to the old:
The boy, whose birth was midway o'er the main,
A ship his cradle, by the billows rocked,—
“The nursling of the storm,”—although he claims
No native land, yet does he wistful hear
Of some far distant country, still called home,
Where lambs of whitest fleece sport on the hills;
Where gold-specked fishes wanton in the streams;
Where little birds, when snow-flakes dim the air,
Light on the floor, and peck the table-crumbs,
And with their singing cheer the winter day.
The boy, whose birth was midway o'er the main,
26
“The nursling of the storm,”—although he claims
No native land, yet does he wistful hear
Of some far distant country, still called home,
Where lambs of whitest fleece sport on the hills;
Where gold-specked fishes wanton in the streams;
Where little birds, when snow-flakes dim the air,
Light on the floor, and peck the table-crumbs,
And with their singing cheer the winter day.
But what the loss of country to the woes
Of banishment and solitude combined!
Oh! my heart bleeds to think there now may live
One hapless man, the remnant of a wreck,
Cast on some desart island of that main
Immense, which stretches from the Cochin shore
To Acapulco. Motionless he sits,
As is the rock his seat, gazing whole days,
With wandering eye, o'er all the watery waste;
Now striving to believe the albatross
A sail appearing on the horizon's verge;
Now vowing ne'er to cherish other hope
Than hope of death. Thus pass his weary hours,
Till welcome evening warn him that 'tis time
Upon the shell-notched calendar to mark
Another day, another dreary day,—
Changeless,—for in these regions of the sun,
The wholesome law that dooms mankind to toil,
Bestowing grateful interchange of rest
And labour, is annulled; for there the trees,
Adorned at once with bud, and flower, and fruit,
Drop, as the breezes blow, a shower of bread
And blossoms on the ground: But yet by him,
The Hermit of the Deep, not unobserved
The Sabbath passes.—'Tis his great delight.
Each seventh eve he marks the farewell ray,
And loves, and sighs to think,—that setting sun
Is now empurpling Scotland's mountain-tops,
Or, higher risen, slants athwart her vales,
Tinting with yellow light the quivering throat
Of day-spring lark, while woodland birds below
Chaunt in the dewy shade. Thus, all night long
He watches, while the rising moon describes
The progress of the day in happier lands.
And now he almost fancies that he hears
The chiming from his native village church:
And now he sings, and fondly hopes the strain
May be the same, that sweet ascends at home
In congregation full,—where, not without a tear,
They are remembered who in ships behold
The wonders of the deep:
he sees the hand,
The widowed hand, that veils the eye suffused;
He sees his orphan'd boy look up, and strive
The widowed heart to sooth. His spirit leans
On God. Nor does he leave his weekly vigil,
Though tempests ride o'er welkin-lashing waves
On winds of cloudless wing; though lightnings burst
So vivid, that the stars are hid and seen
In awful alternation: Calm he views
The far-exploding firmament, and dares
To hope—one bolt in mercy is reserved
For his release; and yet he is resigned
To live: because full well he is assured,
Thy hand does lead him, thy right hand upholds.
Of banishment and solitude combined!
Oh! my heart bleeds to think there now may live
One hapless man, the remnant of a wreck,
Cast on some desart island of that main
Immense, which stretches from the Cochin shore
To Acapulco. Motionless he sits,
As is the rock his seat, gazing whole days,
With wandering eye, o'er all the watery waste;
Now striving to believe the albatross
A sail appearing on the horizon's verge;
Now vowing ne'er to cherish other hope
Than hope of death. Thus pass his weary hours,
Till welcome evening warn him that 'tis time
Upon the shell-notched calendar to mark
27
Changeless,—for in these regions of the sun,
The wholesome law that dooms mankind to toil,
Bestowing grateful interchange of rest
And labour, is annulled; for there the trees,
Adorned at once with bud, and flower, and fruit,
Drop, as the breezes blow, a shower of bread
And blossoms on the ground: But yet by him,
The Hermit of the Deep, not unobserved
The Sabbath passes.—'Tis his great delight.
Each seventh eve he marks the farewell ray,
And loves, and sighs to think,—that setting sun
Is now empurpling Scotland's mountain-tops,
Or, higher risen, slants athwart her vales,
Tinting with yellow light the quivering throat
Of day-spring lark, while woodland birds below
Chaunt in the dewy shade. Thus, all night long
He watches, while the rising moon describes
The progress of the day in happier lands.
And now he almost fancies that he hears
The chiming from his native village church:
And now he sings, and fondly hopes the strain
May be the same, that sweet ascends at home
In congregation full,—where, not without a tear,
They are remembered who in ships behold
28
The widowed hand, that veils the eye suffused;
He sees his orphan'd boy look up, and strive
The widowed heart to sooth. His spirit leans
On God. Nor does he leave his weekly vigil,
Though tempests ride o'er welkin-lashing waves
On winds of cloudless wing; though lightnings burst
So vivid, that the stars are hid and seen
In awful alternation: Calm he views
The far-exploding firmament, and dares
To hope—one bolt in mercy is reserved
For his release; and yet he is resigned
To live: because full well he is assured,
Thy hand does lead him, thy right hand upholds.
And thy right hand does lead him. Lo! at last,
One sacred eve, he hears, faint from the deep,
Music remote, swelling at intervals,
As if the embodied spirit of sweet sounds
Came slowly floating on the shoreward wave:
The cadence well he knows,—a hymn of old,
Where sweetly is rehearsed the lowly state
Of Jesus, when his birth was first announced,
In midnight music, by an angel choir,
To Bethlehem's shepherds, as they watch'd their flocks.
Breathless, the man forlorn listens, and thinks
It is a dream. Fuller the voices swell.
He looks, and starts to see, moving along,
A fiery wave, (so seems it) crescent formed,
Approaching to the land; straightway he sees
A towering whiteness; 'tis the heaven-filled sails
That waft the missioned men, who have renounced
Their homes, their country, nay, almost the world,
Bearing glad tidings to the farthest isles
Of ocean, that the dead shall rise again.
Forward the gleam-girt castle coastwise glides.
It seems as it would pass away. To cry
The wretched man in vain attempts, in vain,
Powerless his voice as in a fearful dream:
Not so his hand; he strikes the flint,—a blaze
Mounts from the ready heap of withered leaves:
The music ceases; accents harsh succeed,
Harsh, but most grateful: downward drop the sails;
Ingulphed the anchor sinks; the boat is launched;
But cautious lies aloof till morning dawn:
O then the transport of the man, unused
To other human voice beside his own,—
His native tongue to hear! he breathes at home,
Though earth's diameter is interposed.
Of perils of the sea he has no dread,
Full well assured the missioned bark is safe,
Held in the hollow of the Almighty's hand.
(And signal thy deliverances have been
Of these thy messengers of peace and joy.)
From storms that loudly threaten to unfix
Islands rock-rooted in the ocean's bed,
Thou dost deliver them,—and from the calm,
More dreadful than the storm, when motionless
Upon the purple deep the vessel lies
For days, for nights, illumed by phosphor lamps;
When sea-birds seem in nests of flame to float;
When backward starts the boldest mariner
To see, while o'er the side he leans, his face
As if deep-tinged with blood.—
One sacred eve, he hears, faint from the deep,
Music remote, swelling at intervals,
29
Came slowly floating on the shoreward wave:
The cadence well he knows,—a hymn of old,
Where sweetly is rehearsed the lowly state
Of Jesus, when his birth was first announced,
In midnight music, by an angel choir,
To Bethlehem's shepherds, as they watch'd their flocks.
Breathless, the man forlorn listens, and thinks
It is a dream. Fuller the voices swell.
He looks, and starts to see, moving along,
A fiery wave, (so seems it) crescent formed,
30
A towering whiteness; 'tis the heaven-filled sails
That waft the missioned men, who have renounced
Their homes, their country, nay, almost the world,
Bearing glad tidings to the farthest isles
Of ocean, that the dead shall rise again.
Forward the gleam-girt castle coastwise glides.
It seems as it would pass away. To cry
The wretched man in vain attempts, in vain,
Powerless his voice as in a fearful dream:
Not so his hand; he strikes the flint,—a blaze
Mounts from the ready heap of withered leaves:
The music ceases; accents harsh succeed,
Harsh, but most grateful: downward drop the sails;
Ingulphed the anchor sinks; the boat is launched;
But cautious lies aloof till morning dawn:
O then the transport of the man, unused
To other human voice beside his own,—
His native tongue to hear! he breathes at home,
Though earth's diameter is interposed.
Of perils of the sea he has no dread,
Full well assured the missioned bark is safe,
31
(And signal thy deliverances have been
Of these thy messengers of peace and joy.)
From storms that loudly threaten to unfix
Islands rock-rooted in the ocean's bed,
Thou dost deliver them,—and from the calm,
More dreadful than the storm, when motionless
Upon the purple deep the vessel lies
For days, for nights, illumed by phosphor lamps;
When sea-birds seem in nests of flame to float;
When backward starts the boldest mariner
To see, while o'er the side he leans, his face
As if deep-tinged with blood.—
Let worldly men
The cause and combatants contemptuous scorn,
And call fanatics them, who hazard health
And life, in testifying of the truth,
Who joy and glory in the cross of Christ!
What were the Galilean fishermen
But messengers, commissioned to announce
The resurrection, and the life to come!
They too, though clothed with power of mighty works
Miraculous, were oft received with scorn;
Oft did their words fall powerless, though enforced
By deeds that marked Omnipotence their friend:
But, when their efforts failed, unweariedly
They onward went, rejoicing in their course.
Like helianthus, borne on downy wings
To distant realms, they frequent fell on soils
Barren and thankless; yet oft-times they saw
Their labours crowned with fruit an hundred fold,
Saw the new converts testify their faith
By works of love,—the slave set tree, the sick
Attended, prisoners visited, the poor
Received as brothers at the rich man's board.
Alas! how different now the deeds of men
Nursed in the faith of Christ!—the free made slaves!
Stolen from their country, borne across the deep,
Enchained, endungeoned, forced by stripes to live,
Doomed to behold their wives, their little ones,
Trembles beneath the white man's fiend-like frown!
Yet even to scenes like these, the Sabbath brings
Alleviation of the enormous woe:—
The oft-reiterated stroke is still;
The clotted scourge hangs hardening in the shrouds.
But see, the demon man, whose trade is blood,
With dauntless front, convene his ruffian crew,
To hear the sacred service read. Accursed,
The wretch's bile-tinged lips profane the word
Of God: Accursed, he ventures to pronounce
The decalogue, nor faulters at that law,
Wherein 'tis written, Thou shalt do no murder;
Perhaps, while yet the words are on his lips,
He hears a dying mother's parting groan;
He hears her orphan'd child, with lisping plaint,
Attempt to rouse her from the sleep of death.
The cause and combatants contemptuous scorn,
And call fanatics them, who hazard health
And life, in testifying of the truth,
Who joy and glory in the cross of Christ!
What were the Galilean fishermen
But messengers, commissioned to announce
The resurrection, and the life to come!
They too, though clothed with power of mighty works
Miraculous, were oft received with scorn;
Oft did their words fall powerless, though enforced
By deeds that marked Omnipotence their friend:
But, when their efforts failed, unweariedly
32
Like helianthus, borne on downy wings
To distant realms, they frequent fell on soils
Barren and thankless; yet oft-times they saw
Their labours crowned with fruit an hundred fold,
Saw the new converts testify their faith
By works of love,—the slave set tree, the sick
Attended, prisoners visited, the poor
Received as brothers at the rich man's board.
Alas! how different now the deeds of men
Nursed in the faith of Christ!—the free made slaves!
Stolen from their country, borne across the deep,
Enchained, endungeoned, forced by stripes to live,
Doomed to behold their wives, their little ones,
Trembles beneath the white man's fiend-like frown!
Yet even to scenes like these, the Sabbath brings
Alleviation of the enormous woe:—
The oft-reiterated stroke is still;
The clotted scourge hangs hardening in the shrouds.
But see, the demon man, whose trade is blood,
With dauntless front, convene his ruffian crew,
To hear the sacred service read. Accursed,
33
Of God: Accursed, he ventures to pronounce
The decalogue, nor faulters at that law,
Wherein 'tis written, Thou shalt do no murder;
Perhaps, while yet the words are on his lips,
He hears a dying mother's parting groan;
He hears her orphan'd child, with lisping plaint,
Attempt to rouse her from the sleep of death.
O England! England! wash thy purpled hands
Of this foul sin, and never dip them more
In guilt so damnable! then lift them up
In supplication to that God, whose name
Is Mercy; then thou may'st, without the risk
Of drawing vengeance from the surcharged clouds,
Implore protection to thy menaced shores;
Then, God will blast the tyrant's arm that grasps
The thunderbolt of ruin o'er thy head;
Then, will he turn the wolvish race to prey
Upon each other; then, will he arrest
The lava torrent, causing it regorge
Back to its source with fiery desolation.
Of this foul sin, and never dip them more
In guilt so damnable! then lift them up
In supplication to that God, whose name
Is Mercy; then thou may'st, without the risk
Of drawing vengeance from the surcharged clouds,
Implore protection to thy menaced shores;
Then, God will blast the tyrant's arm that grasps
The thunderbolt of ruin o'er thy head;
Then, will he turn the wolvish race to prey
Upon each other; then, will he arrest
The lava torrent, causing it regorge
Back to its source with fiery desolation.
Of all the murderous trades by mortals plied,
'Tis War alone that never violates
The hallowed day by simulate respect,—
By hypocritic rest: No, no, the work proceeds.
From sacred pinnacles are hung the flags,
That give the sign to slip the leash from slaughter.
The bells, whose knoll a holy calmness poured
Into the good man's breast,—whose sound solaced
The sick, the poor, the old—perversion dire—
Pealing with sulphurous tongue, speak death-fraught words:
From morn to eve Destruction revels frenzied,
Till at the hour when peaceful vesper-chimes
Were wont to sooth the ear, the trumpet sounds
Pursuit and flight altern; and for the song
Of larks, descending to their grass-bowered homes,
The croak of flesh-gorged ravens, as they slake
Their thirst in hoof-prints filled with gore, disturbs
The stupor of the dying man: while Death
Triumphantly sails down the ensanguined stream,
On corses throned, and crowned with shivered boughs,
That erst hung imaged in the crystal tide.
'Tis War alone that never violates
The hallowed day by simulate respect,—
By hypocritic rest: No, no, the work proceeds.
34
That give the sign to slip the leash from slaughter.
The bells, whose knoll a holy calmness poured
Into the good man's breast,—whose sound solaced
The sick, the poor, the old—perversion dire—
Pealing with sulphurous tongue, speak death-fraught words:
From morn to eve Destruction revels frenzied,
Till at the hour when peaceful vesper-chimes
Were wont to sooth the ear, the trumpet sounds
Pursuit and flight altern; and for the song
Of larks, descending to their grass-bowered homes,
The croak of flesh-gorged ravens, as they slake
Their thirst in hoof-prints filled with gore, disturbs
The stupor of the dying man: while Death
Triumphantly sails down the ensanguined stream,
On corses throned, and crowned with shivered boughs,
That erst hung imaged in the crystal tide.
And what the harvest of these bloody fields?
A double weight of fetters to the slave,
And chains on arms that wielded Freedom's sword.
Spirit of Tell! and art thou doomed to see
Thy mountains, that confessed no other chains
Than what the wintry elements had forged,—
Thy vales, where Freedom, and her stern compeer,
Proud virtuous Poverty, their noble state
Maintained, amid surrounding threats of wealth,
Of superstition, and tyrannic sway—
Spirit of Tell! and art thou doomed to see
That land subdued by Slavery's basest slaves;
By men, whose lips pronounce the sacred name
Of Liberty, then kiss the despot's foot?
Helvetia! hadst thou to thyself been true,
Thy dying sons had triumphed as they fell:
But 'twas a glorious effort, though in vain.
Aloft thy Genius, 'mid the sweeping clouds,
The flag of Freedom spread; bright in the storm
The streaming meteor waved, and far it gleamed;
But, ah! 'twas transient as the Iris' arch,
Glanced from Leviathan's ascending shower,
When mid the mountain waves heaving his head.
Already had the friendly-seeming foe
Possessed the snow-piled ramparts of the land;
Down like an avalanche they rolled, they crushed
The temple, palace, cottage, every work
Of art and nature, in one common ruin.
The dreadful crush is o'er, and peace ensues,—
The peace of desolation, gloomy, still:
Each day is hushed as Sabbath; but, alas!
No Sabbath-service glads the seventh day!
No more the happy villagers are seen,
Winding adown the rock-hewn paths, that wont
To lead their footsteps to the house of prayer;
But, far apart, assembled in the depth
Of solitudes, perhaps a little groupe
Of aged men, and orphan boys, and maids
Bereft, list to the breathings of the holy man,
Who spurns an oath of fealty to the power
Of rulers chosen by a tyrant's nod.
No more, as dies the rustling of the breeze,
Is heard the distant vesper-hymn; no more
At gloamin hour, the plaintive strain, that links
His country to the Switzer's heart, delights
The loosening team; or if some shepherd boy
Attempt the strain, his voice soon faultering stops;
He feels his country now a foreign land.
A double weight of fetters to the slave,
And chains on arms that wielded Freedom's sword.
Spirit of Tell! and art thou doomed to see
35
Than what the wintry elements had forged,—
Thy vales, where Freedom, and her stern compeer,
Proud virtuous Poverty, their noble state
Maintained, amid surrounding threats of wealth,
Of superstition, and tyrannic sway—
Spirit of Tell! and art thou doomed to see
That land subdued by Slavery's basest slaves;
By men, whose lips pronounce the sacred name
Of Liberty, then kiss the despot's foot?
Helvetia! hadst thou to thyself been true,
Thy dying sons had triumphed as they fell:
But 'twas a glorious effort, though in vain.
Aloft thy Genius, 'mid the sweeping clouds,
The flag of Freedom spread; bright in the storm
The streaming meteor waved, and far it gleamed;
But, ah! 'twas transient as the Iris' arch,
Glanced from Leviathan's ascending shower,
When mid the mountain waves heaving his head.
Already had the friendly-seeming foe
Possessed the snow-piled ramparts of the land;
Down like an avalanche they rolled, they crushed
The temple, palace, cottage, every work
Of art and nature, in one common ruin.
The dreadful crush is o'er, and peace ensues,—
The peace of desolation, gloomy, still:
Each day is hushed as Sabbath; but, alas!
36
No more the happy villagers are seen,
Winding adown the rock-hewn paths, that wont
To lead their footsteps to the house of prayer;
But, far apart, assembled in the depth
Of solitudes, perhaps a little groupe
Of aged men, and orphan boys, and maids
Bereft, list to the breathings of the holy man,
Who spurns an oath of fealty to the power
Of rulers chosen by a tyrant's nod.
No more, as dies the rustling of the breeze,
Is heard the distant vesper-hymn; no more
At gloamin hour, the plaintive strain, that links
His country to the Switzer's heart, delights
The loosening team; or if some shepherd boy
Attempt the strain, his voice soon faultering stops;
He feels his country now a foreign land.
O, Scotland! canst thou for a moment brook
The mere imagination, that a fate
Like this should e'er be thine! that o'er those hills,
And dear-bought vales, whence Wallace, Douglas, Bruce,
Repelled proud Edward's multitudinous hordes,
A Gallic foe, that abject race, should rule!
No, no! let never hostile standard touch
Thy shore: rush, rush into the dashing brine,
And crest each wave with steel; and should the stamp
Of Slavery's footstep violate the strand,
Let not the tardy tide efface the mark;
Sweet off the stigma with a sea of blood!
The mere imagination, that a fate
Like this should e'er be thine! that o'er those hills,
And dear-bought vales, whence Wallace, Douglas, Bruce,
Repelled proud Edward's multitudinous hordes,
A Gallic foe, that abject race, should rule!
No, no! let never hostile standard touch
Thy shore: rush, rush into the dashing brine,
37
Of Slavery's footstep violate the strand,
Let not the tardy tide efface the mark;
Sweet off the stigma with a sea of blood!
Thrice happy he who, far in Scottish glen
Retired (yet ready at his country's call,)
Has left the restless emmet-hill of man!
He never longs to read the saddening tale
Of endless wars; and seldom does he hear
The tale of woe; and ere it reaches him,
Rumour, so loud when new, has died away
Into a whisper, on the memory borne
Of casual traveller;—As on the deep,
Far from the sight of land, when all around
Is waveless calm, the sudden tremulous swell,
That gently heaves the ship, tells, as it rolls,
Of earthquakes dread, and cities overthrown.
Retired (yet ready at his country's call,)
Has left the restless emmet-hill of man!
He never longs to read the saddening tale
Of endless wars; and seldom does he hear
The tale of woe; and ere it reaches him,
Rumour, so loud when new, has died away
Into a whisper, on the memory borne
Of casual traveller;—As on the deep,
Far from the sight of land, when all around
Is waveless calm, the sudden tremulous swell,
That gently heaves the ship, tells, as it rolls,
Of earthquakes dread, and cities overthrown.
O Scotland! much I love thy tranquil dales;
But most on Sabbath eve, when low the sun
Slants through the upland copse, 'tis my delight,
Wandering, and stopping oft, to hear the song
Of kindred praise arise from humble roofs;
Or, when the simple service ends, to hear
The lifted latch, and mark the grey-haired man,
The father and the priest, walk forth alone
Into his garden-plat, or little field,
To commune with his God in secret prayer,—
To bless the Lord, that in his downward years
His children are about him: Sweet, meantime,
The thrush, that sings upon the aged thorn,
Brings to his view the days of youthful years,
When that same aged thorn was but a bush.
Nor is the contrast between youth and age
To him a painful thought; he joys to think
His journey near a close,—heaven is his home.
More happy far that man, though bowed down,
Though feeble be his gait, and dim his eye,
Than they, the favourites of youth and health,
Of riches, and of fame, who have renounced
The glorious promise of the life to come,—
Clinging to death.
But most on Sabbath eve, when low the sun
Slants through the upland copse, 'tis my delight,
Wandering, and stopping oft, to hear the song
Of kindred praise arise from humble roofs;
Or, when the simple service ends, to hear
The lifted latch, and mark the grey-haired man,
The father and the priest, walk forth alone
38
To commune with his God in secret prayer,—
To bless the Lord, that in his downward years
His children are about him: Sweet, meantime,
The thrush, that sings upon the aged thorn,
Brings to his view the days of youthful years,
When that same aged thorn was but a bush.
Nor is the contrast between youth and age
To him a painful thought; he joys to think
His journey near a close,—heaven is his home.
More happy far that man, though bowed down,
Though feeble be his gait, and dim his eye,
Than they, the favourites of youth and health,
Of riches, and of fame, who have renounced
The glorious promise of the life to come,—
Clinging to death.
Or mark that female face,
The faded picture of its former self,—
The garments coarse, but clean;—frequent at church
I've noted such a one, feeble and pale,
Yet standing, with a look of mild content,
Till beckoned by some kindly hand to sit.
She has seen better days; there was a time,
Her hands could earn her bread, and freely give
To those who were in want; but now old age,
And lingering disease, have made her helpless.
Yet is she happy, aye, and she is wise,
(Philosophers may sneer, and pedants frown,)
Although her Bible is her only book;
And she is rich, although her only wealth
Is recollection of a well spent life—
Is expectation of the life to come.
Examine here, explore the narrow path
In which she walks; look not for virtuous deeds
In history's arena, where the prize
Of fame, or power, prompts to heroic acts.
Peruse the lives themselves of men obscure:—
There charity, that robs itself to give;
There fortitude in sickness, nursed by want;
There courage, that expects no tongue to praise;
There virtue lurks, like purest gold deep hid,
With no alloy of selfish motive mixed.
The poor man's boon, that stints him of his bread,
Is prized more highly in the sight of Him,
Who sees the heart, than golden gifts from hands
That scarce can know their countless treasures less:
Yea, the deep sigh that heaves the poor man's breast
To see distress, and feel his willing arm
Palsied by penury, ascends to heaven;
While ponderous bequests of lands and goods
Ne'er rise above their earthly origin.
The faded picture of its former self,—
The garments coarse, but clean;—frequent at church
I've noted such a one, feeble and pale,
Yet standing, with a look of mild content,
Till beckoned by some kindly hand to sit.
She has seen better days; there was a time,
Her hands could earn her bread, and freely give
To those who were in want; but now old age,
And lingering disease, have made her helpless.
Yet is she happy, aye, and she is wise,
39
Although her Bible is her only book;
And she is rich, although her only wealth
Is recollection of a well spent life—
Is expectation of the life to come.
Examine here, explore the narrow path
In which she walks; look not for virtuous deeds
In history's arena, where the prize
Of fame, or power, prompts to heroic acts.
Peruse the lives themselves of men obscure:—
There charity, that robs itself to give;
There fortitude in sickness, nursed by want;
There courage, that expects no tongue to praise;
There virtue lurks, like purest gold deep hid,
With no alloy of selfish motive mixed.
The poor man's boon, that stints him of his bread,
Is prized more highly in the sight of Him,
Who sees the heart, than golden gifts from hands
That scarce can know their countless treasures less:
Yea, the deep sigh that heaves the poor man's breast
To see distress, and feel his willing arm
40
While ponderous bequests of lands and goods
Ne'er rise above their earthly origin.
And should all bounty, that is clothed with power,
Be deemed unworthy?—Far be such a thought!
Even when the rich bestow, there are sure tests
Of genuine charity: Yes, yes, let wealth
Give other alms than silver or than gold,—
Time, trouble, toil, attendance, watchfulness,
Exposure to disease;—yes, let the rich
Be often seen beneath the sick man's roof;
Or cheering, with inquiries from the heart,
And hopes of health, the melancholy range
Of couches in the public wards of woe:
There let them often bless the sick man's bed,
With kind assurances that all is well
At home; that plenty smiles upon the board,—
The while the hand, that earned the frugal meal,
Can hardly raise itself in sign of thanks.
Above all duties, let the rich man search
Into the cause he knoweth not, nor spurn
The suppliant wretch as guilty of a crime.
Be deemed unworthy?—Far be such a thought!
Even when the rich bestow, there are sure tests
Of genuine charity: Yes, yes, let wealth
Give other alms than silver or than gold,—
Time, trouble, toil, attendance, watchfulness,
Exposure to disease;—yes, let the rich
Be often seen beneath the sick man's roof;
Or cheering, with inquiries from the heart,
And hopes of health, the melancholy range
Of couches in the public wards of woe:
There let them often bless the sick man's bed,
With kind assurances that all is well
At home; that plenty smiles upon the board,—
The while the hand, that earned the frugal meal,
Can hardly raise itself in sign of thanks.
Above all duties, let the rich man search
Into the cause he knoweth not, nor spurn
The suppliant wretch as guilty of a crime.
41
Ye blessed with wealth! (another name for power
Of doing good) O would ye but devote
A little portion of each seventh day,
To acts of justice to your fellow men!
The house of mourning silently invites:
Shun not the crowded alley; prompt descend
Into the half-sunk cell, darksome and damp;
Nor seem impatient to begone: Inquire,
Console, instruct, encourage, sooth, assist;
Read, pray, and sing a new song to the Lord;
Make tears of joy down grief-worn furrows flow.
Of doing good) O would ye but devote
A little portion of each seventh day,
To acts of justice to your fellow men!
The house of mourning silently invites:
Shun not the crowded alley; prompt descend
Into the half-sunk cell, darksome and damp;
Nor seem impatient to begone: Inquire,
Console, instruct, encourage, sooth, assist;
Read, pray, and sing a new song to the Lord;
Make tears of joy down grief-worn furrows flow.
O Health! thou sun of life, without whose beam
The fairest scenes of nature seem involved
In darkness, shine upon my dreary path
Once more; or, with thy faintest dawn, give hope,
That I may yet enjoy thy vital ray!
Though transient be the hope, 'twill be most sweet,
Like midnight music, stealing on the ear,
Then gliding past, and dying slow away.
Music! thou soothing power, thy charm is proved
Most vividly when clouds o'ercast the soul;—
So light its loveliest effect displays
In lowering skies, when through the murky rack
A slanting sun-beam shoots, and instant limns
The etherial curve of seven harmonious dyes,
Eliciting a splendour from the gloom:
O Music! still vouchsafe to tranquillize
This breast perturbed; thy voice, though mournful, soothes;
And mournful ay are thy most beauteous lays,
Like fall of blossoms from the orchard boughs,—
The autumn of the spring. Enchanting power!
Who, by thy airy spell, canst whirl the mind
Far from the busy haunts of men to vales
Where Tweed or Yarrow flows; or, spurning time,
Recall red Flodden field; or suddenly
Transport, with altered strain, the deafened ear
To Linden's plain!—But what the pastoral lay,
The melting dirge, the battle's trumpet-peal,
Compared to notes with sacred numbers linked
In union, solemn, grand! O then the spirit,
Upborne on pinions of celestial sound,
Soars to the throne of God, and ravished hears
Ten thousand times ten thousand voices rise
In halleluias,—voices, that erewhile
Were feebly tuned perhaps to low-breathed hymns
Of solace in the chambers of the poor,—
The Sabbath worship of the friendless sick.
The fairest scenes of nature seem involved
In darkness, shine upon my dreary path
Once more; or, with thy faintest dawn, give hope,
That I may yet enjoy thy vital ray!
Though transient be the hope, 'twill be most sweet,
Like midnight music, stealing on the ear,
Then gliding past, and dying slow away.
Music! thou soothing power, thy charm is proved
Most vividly when clouds o'ercast the soul;—
So light its loveliest effect displays
In lowering skies, when through the murky rack
A slanting sun-beam shoots, and instant limns
The etherial curve of seven harmonious dyes,
Eliciting a splendour from the gloom:
42
This breast perturbed; thy voice, though mournful, soothes;
And mournful ay are thy most beauteous lays,
Like fall of blossoms from the orchard boughs,—
The autumn of the spring. Enchanting power!
Who, by thy airy spell, canst whirl the mind
Far from the busy haunts of men to vales
Where Tweed or Yarrow flows; or, spurning time,
Recall red Flodden field; or suddenly
Transport, with altered strain, the deafened ear
To Linden's plain!—But what the pastoral lay,
The melting dirge, the battle's trumpet-peal,
Compared to notes with sacred numbers linked
In union, solemn, grand! O then the spirit,
Upborne on pinions of celestial sound,
Soars to the throne of God, and ravished hears
Ten thousand times ten thousand voices rise
In halleluias,—voices, that erewhile
Were feebly tuned perhaps to low-breathed hymns
Of solace in the chambers of the poor,—
The Sabbath worship of the friendless sick.
Blest be the female votaries, whose days
No Sabbath of their pious labours prove,
Whose lives are consecrated to the toil
Of ministering around the uncurtained couch
Of pain and poverty! Blest be the hands,
The lovely hands, (for beauty, youth, and grace,
Are oft concealed by Pity's closest veil,)
That mix the cup medicinal, that bind
The wounds, which ruthless warfare and disease
Have to the loathsome lazar-house consigned.
No Sabbath of their pious labours prove,
Whose lives are consecrated to the toil
Of ministering around the uncurtained couch
43
The lovely hands, (for beauty, youth, and grace,
Are oft concealed by Pity's closest veil,)
That mix the cup medicinal, that bind
The wounds, which ruthless warfare and disease
Have to the loathsome lazar-house consigned.
Fierce Superstition of the mitred king!
Almost I could forget thy torch and stake,
When I this blessed sisterhood survey,—
Compassion's priestesses, disciples true
Of Him, whose touch was health, whose single word
Electrified with life the palsied arm,—
Of him, who said, Take up thy bed, and walk,—
Of him, who cried to Lazarus, Come forth.
Almost I could forget thy torch and stake,
When I this blessed sisterhood survey,—
Compassion's priestesses, disciples true
Of Him, whose touch was health, whose single word
Electrified with life the palsied arm,—
Of him, who said, Take up thy bed, and walk,—
Of him, who cried to Lazarus, Come forth.
And he who cried to Lazarus, Come forth,
Will, when the Sabbath of the tomb is past,
Call forth the dead, and re-unite the dust
(Transformed and purified) to angel souls.
Extatic hope! belief! conviction firm!
How grateful 'tis to recollect the time
When hope arose to faith! Faintly, at first,
The heavenly voice is heard: Then, by degrees,
Its music sounds perpetual in the heart.
Thus he, who all the gloomy winter long
Has dwelt in city-crowds, wandering afield
Betimes on Sabbath morn, ere yet the spring
Unfold the daisy's bud, delighted hears
The first lark's note, faint yet, and short the song,
Checked by the chill ungenial northern breeze;
But, as the sun ascends, another springs,
And still another soars on loftier wing,
Till all o'erhead, the joyous choir, unseen,
Poised welkin high, harmonious fills the air,
As if it were a link 'tween earth and heaven.
Will, when the Sabbath of the tomb is past,
Call forth the dead, and re-unite the dust
(Transformed and purified) to angel souls.
Extatic hope! belief! conviction firm!
How grateful 'tis to recollect the time
When hope arose to faith! Faintly, at first,
The heavenly voice is heard: Then, by degrees,
Its music sounds perpetual in the heart.
Thus he, who all the gloomy winter long
Has dwelt in city-crowds, wandering afield
44
Unfold the daisy's bud, delighted hears
The first lark's note, faint yet, and short the song,
Checked by the chill ungenial northern breeze;
But, as the sun ascends, another springs,
And still another soars on loftier wing,
Till all o'erhead, the joyous choir, unseen,
Poised welkin high, harmonious fills the air,
As if it were a link 'tween earth and heaven.
“And they brought young children to him, that he should touch them; and his disciples rebuked those that brought them. But when Jesus saw it he was much displeased, and said unto them, suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not; for of such is the kingdom of God. Verily I say unto you, Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child, he shall not enter therein. And he took them up in his arms, put his hands upon them, and blessed them.” — Mark, x. 13, 14, 15, 16.
Towards the end of Columbus's voyage to the new world, when he was already near, but not in sight of land, the drooping hopes of his mariners (for his own confidence seems to have remained unmoved) were revived by the appearance of birds, at first hovering round the ship, and then lighting on the rigging.
“And it came to pass on the third day in the morning, that there were thunders and lightnings, and a thick cloud upon the mount, and the voice of the trumpet exceeding loud; so that all the people that was in the camp trembled.”— Exod. xix. 16.
“And thou shalt number seven Sabbaths of years unto thee, seven times seven years; and the space of the seven Sabbaths of years shall be unto thee forty and nine years. Then shalt thou cause the trumpet of the jubilee to sound on the tenth day of the seventh month, in the day of atonement shall ye make the trumpet sound throughout all your land. And ye shall hallow the fiftieth year, and proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof: it shall be a jubilee unto you; and ye shall return every man unto his possession, and ye shall return every man unto his family.”— Lev. xxv. 8. 9. 10.
“And these words which I command thee this day shall be in thine heart: And thou shalt teach them diligently unto thy children, and shalt talk of them when thou sittest in thine house, and when thou walkest by the way, and when thou liest down, and when thou risest up.—Thou shalt say unto thy son, We were Pharaoh's bondmen in Egypt; and the Lord brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand.”— Deut. vi. 6. 7. 21.
“They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters; these see the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep.”— Psal. cvii.
“If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me.”— Psal. cxxxix.
“And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flocks by night. And, lo! the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them, and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not, for, behold! I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you, Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”— Luke, ii. 8.—14.
“In some seas, as particularly about the coast of Malabar, as a ship floats along, it seems during the night to be surrounded with fire, and to leave a long tract of light behind it.
Whenever the sea is gently agitated, it seems converted into little stars; every drop as it breaks emits light, like bodies electrified in the dark.”—Darwin.
Sun flower. “The seeds of many plants of this kind are furnished with a plume, by which admirable mechanism they are disseminated far from their parent stem.”—Darwin.
After a heavy cannonade, the shivered branches of trees, and the corpses of the killed, are seen floating together down the rivers.
“And Jesus sat over against the treasury, and beheld how the people cast money into the treasury; and many that were rich cast in much. And there came a certain poor widow, and she threw in two mites, which make a farthing. And he called unto him his disciples, and saith unto them, Verily I say unto you, that this poor widow hath cast more in, than all they which have cast into the treasury: For all they did cast in of their abundance, but she of her want did cast in all that she had, even all her living.”— Mark, xii. 41.—44.
45
SABBATH WALKS.
47
A SPRING SABBATH WALK.
Most earnest was his voice! most mild his look,
As with raised hands he blessed his parting flock.
He is a faithful pastor of the poor;—
He thinks not of himself; his Master's words,
Feed, feed my sheep, are ever at his heart,
The cross of Christ is ay before his eyes.
O, how I love, with melted soul, to leave
The house of prayer, and wander in the fields
Alone! What tho' the opening spring be chill!
Altho' the lark, checked in his airy path,
Eke out his song, perched on the fallow clod,
That still o'ertops the blade! Altho' no branch
Have spread its foliage, save the willow wand,
That dips its pale leaves in the swollen stream!
What tho' the clouds oft lower! Their threats but end
In sunny showers, that scarcely fill the folds
Of moss-couched violet, or interrupt
The merle's dulcet pipe,—melodious bird!
He, hid behind the milk-white sloe-thorn spray,
(Whose early flowers anticipate the leaf,)
Welcomes the time of buds, the infant year.
As with raised hands he blessed his parting flock.
He is a faithful pastor of the poor;—
He thinks not of himself; his Master's words,
Feed, feed my sheep, are ever at his heart,
The cross of Christ is ay before his eyes.
O, how I love, with melted soul, to leave
The house of prayer, and wander in the fields
Alone! What tho' the opening spring be chill!
48
Eke out his song, perched on the fallow clod,
That still o'ertops the blade! Altho' no branch
Have spread its foliage, save the willow wand,
That dips its pale leaves in the swollen stream!
What tho' the clouds oft lower! Their threats but end
In sunny showers, that scarcely fill the folds
Of moss-couched violet, or interrupt
The merle's dulcet pipe,—melodious bird!
He, hid behind the milk-white sloe-thorn spray,
(Whose early flowers anticipate the leaf,)
Welcomes the time of buds, the infant year.
Sweet is the sunny nook, to which my steps
Have brought me, hardly conscious where I roamed,
Unheeding where,—so lovely all around,
The works of God, arrayed in vernal smile!
Have brought me, hardly conscious where I roamed,
Unheeding where,—so lovely all around,
The works of God, arrayed in vernal smile!
Oft at this season, musing, I prolong
My devious range, till, sunk from view, the sun
Emblaze, with upward-slanting ray, the breast,
And wing unquivering of the wheeling lark,
Descending, vocal, from her latest flight,
While, disregardful of yon lonely star,—
The harbinger of chill night's glittering host,—
Sweet Redbreast, Scotia's Philomela, chaunts,
In desultory strains, his evening hymn.
My devious range, till, sunk from view, the sun
Emblaze, with upward-slanting ray, the breast,
And wing unquivering of the wheeling lark,
Descending, vocal, from her latest flight,
While, disregardful of yon lonely star,—
The harbinger of chill night's glittering host,—
Sweet Redbreast, Scotia's Philomela, chaunts,
In desultory strains, his evening hymn.
“So when he had dined, Jesus saith to Simon Peter, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me more than these? He saith unto him, Yea, Lord, thou knowest that I love thee. He saith unto him, Feed my lambs. He saith to him again the second time, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me? He saith unto him, Yea, Lord, thou knowest that I love thee. He saith unto him, Feed my sheep. He saith unto him the third time, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me? Peter was grieved, because he said unto him the third time, Lovest thou me? And he said unto him, Lord, thou knowest all things, thou knowest that I love thee. Jesus saith unto him, Feed my sheep.”— John, xxi. 15—17.
49
A SUMMER SABBATH WALK.
Delightful is this loneliness; it calms
My heart: pleasant the cool beneath these elms,
That throw across the stream a moveless shade.
Here nature in her midnoon whisper speaks:
How peaceful every sound!—the ring-dove's plaint,
Moaned from the twilight centre of the grove,
While every other woodland lay is mute,
Save when the wren flits from her down-coved nest,
And from the root-sprigs trills her ditty clear,—
The grashopper's oft-pausing chirp,—the buzz,
Angrily shrill, of moss-entangled bee,
That, soon as loosed, booms with full twang away,—
The sudden rushing of the minnow shoal,
Scared from the shallows by my passing tread.
Dimpling the water glides, with here and there
A glossy fly, skimming in circlets gay
The treacherous surface, while the quick-eyed trout
Watches his time to spring; or, from above,
Some feathered dam, purveying 'mong the boughs,
Darts from her perch, and to her plumeless brood
Bears off the prize:—Sad emblem of man's lot!
He, giddy insect, from his native leaf,
(Where safe and happily he might have lurked)
Elate upon ambition's gaudy wings,
Forgetful of his origin, and, worse,
Unthinking of his end, flies to the stream;
And if from hostile vigilance he 'scape,
Buoyant he flutters but a little while,
Mistakes the inverted image of the sky
For heaven itself, and, sinking, meets his fate.
My heart: pleasant the cool beneath these elms,
That throw across the stream a moveless shade.
Here nature in her midnoon whisper speaks:
How peaceful every sound!—the ring-dove's plaint,
Moaned from the twilight centre of the grove,
While every other woodland lay is mute,
Save when the wren flits from her down-coved nest,
And from the root-sprigs trills her ditty clear,—
The grashopper's oft-pausing chirp,—the buzz,
Angrily shrill, of moss-entangled bee,
That, soon as loosed, booms with full twang away,—
The sudden rushing of the minnow shoal,
Scared from the shallows by my passing tread.
Dimpling the water glides, with here and there
A glossy fly, skimming in circlets gay
50
Watches his time to spring; or, from above,
Some feathered dam, purveying 'mong the boughs,
Darts from her perch, and to her plumeless brood
Bears off the prize:—Sad emblem of man's lot!
He, giddy insect, from his native leaf,
(Where safe and happily he might have lurked)
Elate upon ambition's gaudy wings,
Forgetful of his origin, and, worse,
Unthinking of his end, flies to the stream;
And if from hostile vigilance he 'scape,
Buoyant he flutters but a little while,
Mistakes the inverted image of the sky
For heaven itself, and, sinking, meets his fate.
Now, let me trace the stream up to its source
Among the hills; its runnel by degrees
Diminishing, the murmur turns a tinkle.
Closer and closer still the banks approach,
Tangled so thick with pleaching bramble-shoots,
With brier, and hazel branch, and hawthorn spray,
That, fain to quit the dingle, glad I mount
Into the open air: Grateful the breeze
That fans my throbbing temples! smiles the plain
Spread wide below: how sweet the placid view!
But, O! more sweet the thought, heart-soothing thought,
That thousands, and ten thousands of the sons
Of toil, partake this day the common joy
Of rest, of peace, of viewing hill and dale,
Of breathing in the silence of the woods,
And blessing Him, who gave the Sabbath day.
Yes, my heart flutters with a freer throb,
To think that now the townsman wanders forth
Among the fields and meadows, to enjoy
The coolness of the day's decline; to see
His children sport around, and simply pull
The flower and weed promiscuous, as a boon,
Which proudly in his breast they smiling fix.
Among the hills; its runnel by degrees
Diminishing, the murmur turns a tinkle.
Closer and closer still the banks approach,
Tangled so thick with pleaching bramble-shoots,
With brier, and hazel branch, and hawthorn spray,
That, fain to quit the dingle, glad I mount
Into the open air: Grateful the breeze
That fans my throbbing temples! smiles the plain
Spread wide below: how sweet the placid view!
But, O! more sweet the thought, heart-soothing thought,
That thousands, and ten thousands of the sons
51
Of rest, of peace, of viewing hill and dale,
Of breathing in the silence of the woods,
And blessing Him, who gave the Sabbath day.
Yes, my heart flutters with a freer throb,
To think that now the townsman wanders forth
Among the fields and meadows, to enjoy
The coolness of the day's decline; to see
His children sport around, and simply pull
The flower and weed promiscuous, as a boon,
Which proudly in his breast they smiling fix.
Again I turn me to the hill, and trace
The wizard stream, now scarce to be discerned;
Woodless its banks, but green with ferny leaves,
And thinly strewed with heath-bells up and down.
The wizard stream, now scarce to be discerned;
Woodless its banks, but green with ferny leaves,
And thinly strewed with heath-bells up and down.
Now, when the downward sun has left the glens,
Each mountain's rugged lineaments are traced
Upon the adverse slope, where stalks gigantic
The shepherd's shadow thrown athwart the chasm,
As on the topmost ridge he homeward hies.
How deep the hush! the torrent's channel, dry,
Presents a stony steep, the echo's haunt.
But hark, a plaintive sound floating along!
'Tis from yon heath-roofed shielin; now it dies
Away, now rises full; it is the song
Which He,—who listens to the halleluiahs
Of choiring Seraphim—delights to hear;
It is the music of the heart, the voice
Of venerable age,—of guileless youth,
In kindly circle seated on the ground
Before their wicker door: Behold the man!
The grandsire and the saint; his silvery locks
Beam in the parting ray; before him lies,
Upon the smooth-cropt sward, the open book,
His comfort, stay, and ever new-delight;
While, heedless, at a side, the lisping boy
Fondles the lamb that nightly shares his couch.
Each mountain's rugged lineaments are traced
Upon the adverse slope, where stalks gigantic
The shepherd's shadow thrown athwart the chasm,
As on the topmost ridge he homeward hies.
How deep the hush! the torrent's channel, dry,
Presents a stony steep, the echo's haunt.
But hark, a plaintive sound floating along!
'Tis from yon heath-roofed shielin; now it dies
Away, now rises full; it is the song
52
Of choiring Seraphim—delights to hear;
It is the music of the heart, the voice
Of venerable age,—of guileless youth,
In kindly circle seated on the ground
Before their wicker door: Behold the man!
The grandsire and the saint; his silvery locks
Beam in the parting ray; before him lies,
Upon the smooth-cropt sward, the open book,
His comfort, stay, and ever new-delight;
While, heedless, at a side, the lisping boy
Fondles the lamb that nightly shares his couch.
53
AN AUTUMN SABBATH WALK.
When homeward bands their several ways disperse,
I love to linger in the narrow field
Of rest, to wander round from tomb to tomb,
And think of some who silent sleep below.
Sad sighs the wind, that from these ancient elms
Shakes showers of leaves upon the withered grass:
The sere and yellow wreaths, with eddying sweep,
Fill up the furrows 'tween the hillocked graves.
But list that moan! 'tis the poor blind man's dog,
His guide for many a day, now come to mourn
The master and the friend—conjunction rare!
A man, indeed, he was of gentle soul,
Though bred to brave the deep: the lightning's flash
Had dimmed, not closed, his mild, but sightless eyes.
He was a welcome guest through all his range;
(It was not wide:) no dog would bay at him:
Children would run to meet him on his way,
And lead him to a sunny seat, and climb
His knee, and wonder at his oft-told tales.
Then would he teach the elfins how to plait
The rushy cap and crown, or sedgy ship:
And I have seen him lay his tremulous hand
Upon their heads, while silent moved his lips.
Peace to thy spirit! that now looks on me,
Perhaps with greater pity than I felt
To see thee wandering darkling on thy way.
I love to linger in the narrow field
Of rest, to wander round from tomb to tomb,
And think of some who silent sleep below.
Sad sighs the wind, that from these ancient elms
Shakes showers of leaves upon the withered grass:
The sere and yellow wreaths, with eddying sweep,
Fill up the furrows 'tween the hillocked graves.
But list that moan! 'tis the poor blind man's dog,
His guide for many a day, now come to mourn
The master and the friend—conjunction rare!
A man, indeed, he was of gentle soul,
Though bred to brave the deep: the lightning's flash
Had dimmed, not closed, his mild, but sightless eyes.
He was a welcome guest through all his range;
(It was not wide:) no dog would bay at him:
Children would run to meet him on his way,
54
His knee, and wonder at his oft-told tales.
Then would he teach the elfins how to plait
The rushy cap and crown, or sedgy ship:
And I have seen him lay his tremulous hand
Upon their heads, while silent moved his lips.
Peace to thy spirit! that now looks on me,
Perhaps with greater pity than I felt
To see thee wandering darkling on thy way.
But let me quit this melancholy spot,
And roam where nature gives a parting smile.
As yet the blue-bells linger on the sod
That copes the sheepfold ring; and in the woods
A second blow of many flowers appears,
Flowers faintly tinged, and breathing no perfume.
But fruits, not blossoms, form the woodland wreath,
That circles Autumn's brow: The ruddy haws
Now clothe the half-leaved thorn; the bramble bends
Beneath its jetty load; the hazel hangs
With auburn bunches, dipping in the stream
That sweeps along, and threatens to o'erflow
The leaf-strewn banks: Oft, statue-like, I gaze,
In vacancy of thought, upon that stream,
And chace, with dreaming eye, the eddying foam,
Or rowan's clustered branch, or harvest sheaf,
Borne rapidly adown the dizzying flood.
And roam where nature gives a parting smile.
As yet the blue-bells linger on the sod
That copes the sheepfold ring; and in the woods
A second blow of many flowers appears,
Flowers faintly tinged, and breathing no perfume.
But fruits, not blossoms, form the woodland wreath,
That circles Autumn's brow: The ruddy haws
Now clothe the half-leaved thorn; the bramble bends
Beneath its jetty load; the hazel hangs
With auburn bunches, dipping in the stream
That sweeps along, and threatens to o'erflow
The leaf-strewn banks: Oft, statue-like, I gaze,
In vacancy of thought, upon that stream,
And chace, with dreaming eye, the eddying foam,
Or rowan's clustered branch, or harvest sheaf,
Borne rapidly adown the dizzying flood.
55
A WINTER SABBATH WALK.
How dazzling white the snowy scene! deep, deep
The stillness of the winter Sabbath day,—
Not even a foot-fall heard. Smooth are the fields,
Each hollow pathway level with the plain:
Hid are the bushes, save that here and there
Are seen the topmost shoots of brier or broom.
High-ridged, the whirled drift has almost reached
The powdered key-stone of the church-yard porch.
Mute hangs the hooded-bell; the tombs lie buried;
No step approaches to the house of prayer.
The stillness of the winter Sabbath day,—
Not even a foot-fall heard. Smooth are the fields,
Each hollow pathway level with the plain:
Hid are the bushes, save that here and there
Are seen the topmost shoots of brier or broom.
High-ridged, the whirled drift has almost reached
The powdered key-stone of the church-yard porch.
Mute hangs the hooded-bell; the tombs lie buried;
No step approaches to the house of prayer.
The flickering fall is o'er: the clouds disperse,
And shew the sun, hung o'er the welkin's verge,
Shooting a bright but ineffectual beam
On all the sparkling waste. Now is the time
To visit nature in her grand attire;
Though perilous the mountainous ascent,
A noble recompense the danger brings.
How beautiful the plain stretched far below!
Unvaried though it be, save by yon stream
With azure windings, or the leafless wood.
But what the beauty of the plain, compared
To that sublimity which reigns enthroned,
Holding joint rule with solitude divine,
Among yon rocky fells, that bid defiance
To steps the most adventurously bold!
There silence dwells profound; or if the cry
Of high-poised eagle break at times the hush,
The mantled echoes no response return.
And shew the sun, hung o'er the welkin's verge,
Shooting a bright but ineffectual beam
On all the sparkling waste. Now is the time
To visit nature in her grand attire;
56
A noble recompense the danger brings.
How beautiful the plain stretched far below!
Unvaried though it be, save by yon stream
With azure windings, or the leafless wood.
But what the beauty of the plain, compared
To that sublimity which reigns enthroned,
Holding joint rule with solitude divine,
Among yon rocky fells, that bid defiance
To steps the most adventurously bold!
There silence dwells profound; or if the cry
Of high-poised eagle break at times the hush,
The mantled echoes no response return.
But let me now explore the deep sunk dell.
No foot-print, save the covey's or the flock's,
Is seen along the rill, where marshy springs
Still rear the grassy blade of vivid green.
Beware, ye shepherds, of these treacherous haunts,
Nor linger there too long: the wintry day
Soon closes; and full oft a heavier fall,
Heaped by the blast, fills up the sheltered glen,
While, gurgling deep below, the buried rill
Mines for itself a snow-coved way. O, then,
Your helpless charge drive from the tempting spot,
And keep them on the bleak hill's stormy side,
Where night winds sweep the gathering drift away:—
—So the great Shepherd leads the heavenly flock
From faithless pleasures, full into the storms
Of life, where long they bear the bitter blast,
Until at length the vernal sun looks forth,
Bedimmed with showers: Then to the pastures green
He brings them, where the quiet waters glide,
The streams of life, the Siloah of the soul.
No foot-print, save the covey's or the flock's,
Is seen along the rill, where marshy springs
Still rear the grassy blade of vivid green.
Beware, ye shepherds, of these treacherous haunts,
Nor linger there too long: the wintry day
Soon closes; and full oft a heavier fall,
Heaped by the blast, fills up the sheltered glen,
While, gurgling deep below, the buried rill
Mines for itself a snow-coved way. O, then,
Your helpless charge drive from the tempting spot,
And keep them on the bleak hill's stormy side,
Where night winds sweep the gathering drift away:—
57
From faithless pleasures, full into the storms
Of life, where long they bear the bitter blast,
Until at length the vernal sun looks forth,
Bedimmed with showers: Then to the pastures green
He brings them, where the quiet waters glide,
The streams of life, the Siloah of the soul.
59
BIBLICAL PICTURES.
61
THE FIRST SABBATH.
Six days the heavenly host, in circle vast,Like that untouching cincture which enzones
The globe of Saturn, compassed wide this orb,
And with the forming mass floated along,
In rapid course, through yet untravelled space,
Beholding God's stupendous power,—a world
Bursting from Chaos at the omnific will,
And perfect ere the sixth day's evening star
On Paradise arose. Blessod that eve!
The Sabbath's harbinger, when, all complete,
In freshest beauty from Jehovah's hand,
Creation bloomed; when Eden's twilight face
Smiled like a sleeping babe: The voice divine
A holy calm breathed o'er the goodly work:
Mildly the sun, upon the loftiest trees,
Shed mellowly a sloping beam. Peace reigned,
62
Their orisons poured forth: love, concord, reigned:
The falcon, perched upon the blooming bough
With Philomela, listened to her lay;
Among the antlered herd the tiger couched,
Harmless; the lion's mane no terror spread
Among the careless ruminating flock.
Silence was o'er the deep; the noiseless surge,
The last subsiding wave,—of that dread tumult
Which raged, when Ocean, at the mute command,
Rushed furiously into his new-cleft bed,—
Was gently rippling on the pebbled shore;
While, on the swell, the sea-bird, with her head
Wing-veiled, slept tranquilly. The host of heaven,
Entranced in new delight, speechless adored;
Nor stopped their fleet career, nor changed their form
Encircular, till on that hemisphere,—
In which the blissful garden sweet exhaled
Its incense, odorous clouds,—the Sabbath dawn
Arose; then wide the flying circle oped,
And soared, in semblance of a mighty rainbow:
Silent ascend the choirs of Seraphim;
No harp resounds, mute is each voice; the burst
Of joy, and praise, reluctant they repress,—
For love and concord all things so attuned
To harmony, that Earth must have received
The grand vibration, and to the centre shook:
63
They reached, then what a storm of sound, tremendous,
Swelled through the realms of space! The morning stars
Together sang, and all the sons of God
Shouted for joy! Loud was the peal; so loud,
As would have quite o'erwhelmed the human sense;
But to the Earth it came a gentle strain,
Like softest fall breathed from Æolian lute,
When 'mid the chords the evening gale expires.
Day of the Lord! creation's hallowed close!
Day of the Lord! (prophetical they sang)
Benignant mitigation of that doom,
Which must, ere long, consign the fallen race,
Dwellers in yonder star, to toil and woe!
64
THE FINDING OF MOSES.
Slow glides the Nile: amid the margin flags,Closed in a bulrush ark, the babe is left,
Left by a mother's hand. His sister waits
Far off; and pale, 'tween hope and fear, beholds
The royal maid, surrounded by her train,
Approach the river bank; approach the spot
Where sleeps the innocent: She sees them stoop
With meeting plumes; the rushy lid is oped,
And wakes the infant, smiling in his tears,—
As when along a little mountain lake,
The summer south-wind breathes with gentle sigh,
And parts the reeds, unveiling, as they bend,
A water-lily floating on the wave.
65
JACOB AND PHARAOH.
Pharaoh, upon a gorgeous throne of stateWas seated; while around him stood submiss
His servants, watchful of his lofty looks.
The Patriarch enters, leaning on the arm
Of Benjamin. Unmoved by all the glare
Of royalty, he scarcely throws a glance
Upon the pageant show; for from his youth
A shepherd's life he led, and viewed each night
The starry host; and still where'er he went
He felt himself in presence of the Lord.
His eye is bent on Joseph, him pursues.
Sudden the king descends; and, bending, kneels
Before the aged man, and supplicates
A blessing from his lips: the aged man
Lays on the ground his staff, and, stretching forth
His tremulous hand o'er Pharaoh's uncrowned head,
Prays that the Lord would bless him and his land.
66
JEPHTHA'S VOW.
From conquest Jephtha came, with faultering step,And troubled eye: His home appears in view;
He trembles at the sight. Sad he forebodes,—
His vow will meet a victim in his child:
For well he knows, that, from her earliest years,
She still was first to meet his homeward steps:
Well he remembers, how, with tottering gait,
She ran, and clasped his knees, and lisped, and looked
Her joy; and how, when garlanding with flowers
His helm, fearful, her infant hand would shrink
Back from the lion couched beneath the crest.
What sound is that, which, from the palm-tree grove,
Floats now with choral swell, now fainter falls
Upon the ear? It is, it is the song
He loved to hear,—a song of thanks and praise,
Sung by the patriarch for his ransomed son.
67
It may not be her voice!—Fain would he think
'Twas not his daughter's voice, that still approached,
Blent with the timbrel's note. Forth from the grove
She foremost glides of all the minstrel band:
Moveless he stands; then grasps his hilt, still red
With hostile gore, but, shuddering, quits the hold;
And clasps, in agony, his hands, and cries,
“Alas, my daughter! thou hast brought me low.”—
The timbrel at her rooted feet resounds.
68
SAUL AND DAVID.
Deep was the furrow in the royal brow,When David's hand, lightly as vernal gales
Rippling the brook of Kedron, skimmed the lyre:
He sung of Jacob's youngest born,—the child
Of his old age,—sold to the Ishmaelite;
His exaltation to the second power
In Pharaoh's realm; his brethren thither sent;
Suppliant they stood before his face, well known,
Unknowing,—till Joseph fell upon the neck
Of Benjamin, his mother's son, and wept.
Unconsciously the warlike shepherd paused;
But when he saw, down the yet-quivering string,
The tear-drop trembling glide, abashed, he checked,
Indignant at himself, the bursting flood,
And, with a sweep impetuous, struck the chords:
From side to side his hands transversely glance,
69
Arises 'mid the clang, and straightway calms
The harmonious tempest, to a solemn swell
Majestical, triumphant; for he sings
Of Arad's mighty host by Israel's arm
Subdued; of Israel through the desart led,
He sings; of him who was their leader, called,
By God himself, from keeping Jethro's flock,
To be a ruler o'er the chosen race.
Kindles the eye of Saul; his arm is poised;—
Harmless the javelin quivers in the wall.
70
ELIJAH FED BY RAVENS.
Sore was the famine throughout all the boundsOf Israel, when Elijah, by command
Of God, journeyed to Cherith's failing brook.
No rain-drops fall, no dew-fraught cloud, at morn,
Or closing eve, creeps slowly up the vale;
The withering herbage dies; among the palms,
The shrivelled leaves send to the summer gale
An Autumn rustle; no sweet songster's lay
Is warbled from the branches; scarce is heard
The rill's faint brawl. The prophet looks around,
And trusts in God, and lays his silvered head
Upon the flowerless bank; serene he sleeps,
Nor wakes till dawning: Then, with hands enclasped,
And heavenward face, and eyelids closed, he prays
To Him who manna on the desart showered,
To Him who from the rock made fountains gush:
71
By sound of wheeling wings, with grateful heart,
He sees the ravens fearless by his side
Alight, and leave the heaven-provided food.
72
THE BIRTH OF JESUS ANNOUNCED.
Deep was the midnight silence in the fieldsOf Bethlehem; hushed the folds; save that, at times
Was heard the lamb's faint bleat: the shepherds, stretched
On the green sward, surveyed the starry vault:
The heavens declare the glory of the Lord,
The firmament shews forth thy handy work;
Thus they, their hearts attuned to the Most High;—
When, suddenly, a splendid cloud appeared,
As if a portion of the milky way
Descended slowly in a spiral course.
Near, and more near it draws; then, hovering, floats,
High as the soar of eagle, shedding bright,
Upon the folded flocks, a heavenly radiance,
From whence was uttered loud, yet sweet, a voice,—
73
For unto you is born this day a Saviour!
And this shall be a sign to you,—the babe,
Laid lowly in a manger, ye shall find.
The angel spake; when, lo! upon the cloud,
A multitude of Seraphim, enthroned,
Sang praises, saying,—Glory to the Lord
On high; on earth be peace, good will to men.
With sweet response harmoniously they choired,
And while, with heavenly harmony, the song
Arose to God, more bright the buoyant throne
Illumed the land: The prowling lion stops,
Awe-struck, with mane upreared, and flattened head;
And, without turning, backward on his steps
Recoils, aghast, into the desart gloom.
A trembling joy the astonished shepherds prove,
As heavenward re-ascends the vocal blaze
Triumphantly; while, by degrees, the strain
Dies on the ear, that self-deluded listens,—
As if a sound so sweet could never die.
74
BEHOLD MY MOTHER AND MY BRETHREN.
Who is my mother, or my brethren?—He spake, and looked on them who sat around,
With a meek smile, of pity blent with love,
More melting than e'er gleamed from human face,—
As when a sun-beam, through a summer shower,
Shines mildly on a little hill-side flock;
And with that look of love, he said, Behold
My mother, and my brethren: for I say,
That whosoe'er shall do the will of God,
He is my brother, sister, mother, all.
75
BARTIMEUS RESTORED TO SIGHT.
Blind, poor, and helpless, Bartimeus sate,Listening the foot of the wayfaring man,
Still hoping that the next, and still the next,
Would put an alms into his trembling hand.
He thinks he hears the coming breeze faint rustle
Among the sycamores; it is the tread
Of thousand steps; it is the hum of tongues
Innumerable: But when the sightless man
Heard that the Nazarene was passing by,
He cried, and said,—“Jesus, thou son of David,
Have mercy upon me!” and, when rebuked,
He cried the more, “Have mercy upon me.”
Thy faith hath made thee whole; so Jesus spake,
And straight the blind beheld the face of God.
76
LITTLE CHILDREN BROUGHT TO JESUS.
Suffer that little children come to me,Forbid them not. Emboldened by his words,
The mothers onward press; but, finding vain
The attempt to reach the Lord, they trust their babes
To strangers' hands: The innocents, alarmed
Amid the throng of faces all unknown,
Shrink, trembling,—till their wandering eyes discern
The countenance of Jesus, beaming love
And pity; eager then they stretch their arms,
And, cowring, lay their heads upon his breast.
77
JESUS CALMS THE TEMPEST.
The roaring tumult of the billowed seaAwakes him not: high on the crested surge,
Now heaved, his locks flow streaming in the blast;
And, now descending, 'tween the sheltering waves,
The falling tresses veil the face divine:
Meek though that veil a momentary gleam,
Benignant, shines; he dreams that he beholds
The opening eyes,—that long hopeless had rolled
In darkness,—look around bedimmed with tears
Of joy; but, suddenly, the voice of fear
Dispelled the happy vision: Awful he rose,
Rebuked the wind, and said unto the sea,
Peace, be thou still! and straight there was a calm,
With terror-mingled gladness in their looks,
The mariners exclaim,—What man is this,
That even the wind and sea obey his voice!
78
JESUS WALKS ON THE SEA,
AND CALMS THE STORM.
Loud blew the storm of night; the thwarting surgeDashed, boiling on the labouring bark: Dismay,
From face to face reflected, spread around:—
When, lo! upon a towering wave is seen
The semblance of a foamy wreath, upright,
Move onward to the ship: The helmsman starts,
And quits his hold; the voyagers, appalled,
Shrink from the fancied Spirit of the Flood:
But when the voice of Jesus, with the storm
Soft mingled, It is I, be not afraid,
Fear fled, and joy lightened from eye to eye.
Up he ascends, and, from the rolling side,
Surveys the tumult of the sea and sky
79
Sinks to a sudden calm; the clouds disperse;
The moon-beam trembles on the face divine,
Reflected mildly in the unruffled deep.
80
THE DUMB CURED.
His eyes uplifted, and his hands close clasped,The dumb man, with a supplicating look,
Turned, as the Lord passed by: Jesus beheld,
And on him bent a pitying look, and spake:
His moving lips are by the suppliant seen,
And the last accents of the healing sentence
Ring in that ear which never heard before.
Prostrate the man restored falls to the earth,
And uses first the gift, the gift sublime,
Of speech, in giving thanks to him, whose voice
Was never uttered but in doing good.
81
THE DEATH OF JESUS.
'Tis finished: he spake the words, and bowedHis head, and died.—Beholding him far off,
They, who had ministered unto him, hope,—
'Tis his last agony: The Temple's vail
Is rent; revealing the most holy place,
Wherein the cherubims their wings extend,
O'ershadowing the mercy-seat of God.
Appalled, the leaning soldier feels the spear
Shake in his grasp; the planted standard falls
Upon the heaving ground: The sun is dimmed,
And darkness shrouds the body of the Lord.
82
THE RESURRECTION.
The setting orb of night her level rayShed o'er the land, and, on the dewy sward,
The lengthened shadows of the triple cross
Were laid far stretched,—when in the east arose,
Last of the stars, day's harbinger: No sound
Was heard, save of the watching soldier's foot:
Within the rock-barred sepulchre, the gloom
Of deepest midnight brooded o'er the dead,
The holy one; but, lo! a radiance faint
Began to dawn around his sacred brow:
The linen vesture seemed a snowy weath,
Drifted by storms into a mountain cave:
Bright, and more bright, the circling halo beamed
Upon that face, clothed in a smile benign,
Though yet exanimate. Nor long the reign
Of death; the eyes, that wept for human griefs,
83
Yes; with returning life, the first emotion
That glowed in Jesus' breast of love, was joy
At man's redemption, now complete; at death
Disarmed; the grave transformed into the couch
Of faith; the resurrection and the life.
Majestical he rose; trembled the earth;
The ponderous gate of stone was rolled away;
The keepers fell; the angel, awe-struck, shrunk
Into invisibility, while forth
The Saviour of the World walked, and stood
Before the sepulchre, and viewed the clouds
Empurpled glorious by the rising sun.
84
JESUS APPEARS TO THE DISCIPLES.
The evening of that day, which saw the LordRise from the chambers of the dead, was come.
His faithful followers, assembled, sang
A hymn, low-breathed; a hymn of sorrow, blent
With hope;—when, in the midst, sudden he stood.
The awe-struck circle backward shrink; he looks
Around with a benignant smile of love,
And says, Peace be unto you: faith and joy
Spread o'er each face, amazed:—as when the moon,
Pavilioned in dark clouds, mildly comes forth,
Silvering a circlet in the fleecy rack.
85
PAUL ACCUSED
BEFORE THE TRIBUNAL OF THE AREOPAGUS.
Listen, that voice! upon the hill of Mars,Rolling in bolder thunders, than e'er pealed
From lips that shook the Macedonian throne;
Behold his dauntless outstretched arm, his face
Illumed of heaven:—he knoweth not the fear
Of man, of principalities, of powers.
The Stoic's moveless frown; the vacant stare
Of Epicurus' herd; the scowl and gnash malign
Of Superstition, stopping both her ears;
The Areopagite tribunal dread,
From whence the doom of Socrates was uttered;—
This hostile throng dismays him not; he seems,
86
A terror in his soul;—as if the vision,
Which, when he journeyed to Damascus, shone
From heaven, still swam before his eyes,
Out-dazzling all things earthly; as if the voice,
That spake from out the effulgence, ever rang
Within his ear, inspiring him with words,
Burning, majestic, lofty, as his theme,—
The resurrection, and the life to come.
87
PAUL ACCUSED
BEFORE THE ROMAN GOVERNOR OF JUDEA.
The Judge ascended to the judgment-seat.Amid a gleam of spears the Apostle stood.
Dauntless, he forward came; and looked around,
And raised his voice, at first, in accents low,
Yet clear; a whisper spread among the throng:—
So when the thunder mutters, still the breeze
Is heard, at times, to sigh; but when the peal,
Tremendous, louder rolls, a silence dead
Succeeds each pause,—moveless the aspen leaf.
Thus fixed, and motionless, the listening band
Of soldiers forward leaned, as from the man,
Inspired of God, truth's awful thunders rolled.
No more he feels, upon his high raised arm,
88
The bracelet, formed of many a flowery link.
Heedless of self, forgetful that his life
Is now to be defended by his words,
He only thinks of doing good to them
Who seek his life; and, while he reasons high
Of justice, temperance, and the life to come,
The Judge shrinks trembling at the prisoner's voice.
89
THE RURAL CALENDAR.
91
JANUARY.
Long ere the snow-veiled dawn, the bird of morn
His wings quick claps, and sounds his cheering call:
The cottage hinds the glimmering lantern trim,
And to the barn wade, sinking, in the drift;
The alternate flails bounce from the loosened sheaf.
Pleasant these sounds! they sleep to slumber change;
Pleasant to him, whom no laborious task
Whispers, arise!—whom neither love of gain,
Nor love of power, nor hopes, nor fears, disturb.
His wings quick claps, and sounds his cheering call:
The cottage hinds the glimmering lantern trim,
And to the barn wade, sinking, in the drift;
The alternate flails bounce from the loosened sheaf.
Pleasant these sounds! they sleep to slumber change;
Pleasant to him, whom no laborious task
Whispers, arise!—whom neither love of gain,
Nor love of power, nor hopes, nor fears, disturb.
Late daylight comes at last, and the strained eye
Shrinks from the dazzling brightness of the scene,—
One wide expanse of whiteness uniform.
As yet no wandering footstep has defaced
The spotless plain, save where some wounded hare,
Wrenched from the springe, has left a blood-stained track.
How smooth are all the fields! sunk every fence;
The furrow, here and there, heaped to a ridge,
O'er which the sidelong plough-shaft scarcely peers.
Shrinks from the dazzling brightness of the scene,—
One wide expanse of whiteness uniform.
As yet no wandering footstep has defaced
The spotless plain, save where some wounded hare,
92
How smooth are all the fields! sunk every fence;
The furrow, here and there, heaped to a ridge,
O'er which the sidelong plough-shaft scarcely peers.
Cold blows the north-wind o'er the dreary waste.—
O ye that shiver by your blazing fires,
Think of the inmates of you hut, half sunk
Beneath the drift: from it no smoke ascends;
The broken straw-filled pane excludes the light,
But ill excludes the blast: The redbreast there
For shelter seeks, but short, ah! very short
His stay; no crumbs, strewn careless on the floor,
Attract his wistful glance;—to warmer roofs
He flies; a welcome, soon a fearless guest,
He cheers the winter day with summer songs.
O ye that shiver by your blazing fires,
Think of the inmates of you hut, half sunk
Beneath the drift: from it no smoke ascends;
The broken straw-filled pane excludes the light,
But ill excludes the blast: The redbreast there
For shelter seeks, but short, ah! very short
His stay; no crumbs, strewn careless on the floor,
Attract his wistful glance;—to warmer roofs
He flies; a welcome, soon a fearless guest,
He cheers the winter day with summer songs.
Short is the reign of day, tedious the night.
The city's distant lights arrest my view,
And magic fancy whirls me to the scene.
There vice and folly run their giddy rounds;
There eager crowds are hurrying to the sight
Of feigned distress, yet have not time to hear
The shivering orphan's prayer. The flaring lamps
Of gilded chariots, like the meteor eyes
Of mighty giants, famed in legends old,
Illume the snowy street; the silent wheels
On heedless passenger steal unperceived,
Bearing the splendid fair to flutter round
Amid the flowery labyrinths of the dance.
But, hark! the merry catch: good social souls
Sing on, and drown dull care in bumpers deep;
The bell, snow-muffled, warns not of the hour;
For scarce the sentenced felon's watchful ear
Can catch the softened knell, by which he sums
The hours he has to live. Poor hopeless wretch!
His thoughts are horror, and his dreams despair;
And ever as he, on his strawy couch,
Turns heavily, his chains and fetters, grating,
Awake the inmates of some neighbouring cell,
Who bless their lot, that debt is all their crime.
The city's distant lights arrest my view,
And magic fancy whirls me to the scene.
There vice and folly run their giddy rounds;
There eager crowds are hurrying to the sight
Of feigned distress, yet have not time to hear
The shivering orphan's prayer. The flaring lamps
Of gilded chariots, like the meteor eyes
Of mighty giants, famed in legends old,
93
On heedless passenger steal unperceived,
Bearing the splendid fair to flutter round
Amid the flowery labyrinths of the dance.
But, hark! the merry catch: good social souls
Sing on, and drown dull care in bumpers deep;
The bell, snow-muffled, warns not of the hour;
For scarce the sentenced felon's watchful ear
Can catch the softened knell, by which he sums
The hours he has to live. Poor hopeless wretch!
His thoughts are horror, and his dreams despair;
And ever as he, on his strawy couch,
Turns heavily, his chains and fetters, grating,
Awake the inmates of some neighbouring cell,
Who bless their lot, that debt is all their crime.
94
FEBRUARY.
The treacherous fowler, in the drifted wreath,
The snare conceals, and strews the husky lure,
Tempting the famished fowls of heaven to light:
They light; the captive strives in vain to fly,
Scattering around, with fluttering wing, the snow.
Amid the untrod snows, oft let me roam
Far up the lonely glen, and mark its change;
The frozen rill's hoarse murmur scarce is heard;
The rocky cleft, the fairy bourne smoothed up,
Repeat no more my solitary voice.
The snare conceals, and strews the husky lure,
Tempting the famished fowls of heaven to light:
They light; the captive strives in vain to fly,
Scattering around, with fluttering wing, the snow.
Amid the untrod snows, oft let me roam
Far up the lonely glen, and mark its change;
The frozen rill's hoarse murmur scarce is heard;
The rocky cleft, the fairy bourne smoothed up,
Repeat no more my solitary voice.
Now to the icy plain the city swarms.
In giddy circles, whirling variously,
The skater fleetly thrids the mazy throng,
While smaller wights the sliding pastime ply.
Unhappy he, of poverty the child!
Who, barefoot, standing, eyes his merry mates,
And, shivering, weeps, not for the biting cold,
But that he cannot join their slippery sport.
In giddy circles, whirling variously,
The skater fleetly thrids the mazy throng,
While smaller wights the sliding pastime ply.
Unhappy he, of poverty the child!
95
And, shivering, weeps, not for the biting cold,
But that he cannot join their slippery sport.
Trust not incautiously the smooth expanse;
For oft a treacherous thaw, ere yet perceived,
Saps by degrees the solid-seeming mass:
At last the long piled mountain snows dissolve,
Bursting the roaring river's brittle bonds;
The shattered fragments down the cataract shoot,
And, sinking in the boiling deep below,
At distance re-appear, then sweep along,
Marking their height upon the half-sunk trees.
For oft a treacherous thaw, ere yet perceived,
Saps by degrees the solid-seeming mass:
At last the long piled mountain snows dissolve,
Bursting the roaring river's brittle bonds;
The shattered fragments down the cataract shoot,
And, sinking in the boiling deep below,
At distance re-appear, then sweep along,
Marking their height upon the half-sunk trees.
No more the ploughman hurls the sounding quoit;
The loosened glebe demands the rusted share,
And slow the toiling team plods o'er the field.
But oft, ere half the winding task be done,
Returning frost again usurps the year,
Fixing the ploughshare in the unfinished fur;
And still, at times, the flaky shower descends,
Whitening the plain, save where the wheaten blade
Peering, uplifts its green and hardy head,
As if just springing from a soil of snow.
The loosened glebe demands the rusted share,
And slow the toiling team plods o'er the field.
But oft, ere half the winding task be done,
Returning frost again usurps the year,
Fixing the ploughshare in the unfinished fur;
And still, at times, the flaky shower descends,
Whitening the plain, save where the wheaten blade
Peering, uplifts its green and hardy head,
As if just springing from a soil of snow.
While yet the night is long, and drear, and chill,
Soon as the slanting sun has sunk from view,
The sounding anvil cheerily invites
The weary hind to leave his twinkling fire,
And bask himself before the furnace glare;
Where, blest with unbought mirth, the rustic ring,
Their faces tinted by the yellow blaze,
Beguile the hours, nor envy rooms of state.
Soon as the slanting sun has sunk from view,
96
The weary hind to leave his twinkling fire,
And bask himself before the furnace glare;
Where, blest with unbought mirth, the rustic ring,
Their faces tinted by the yellow blaze,
Beguile the hours, nor envy rooms of state.
97
MARCH.
The ravaged fields, waste, colourless, and bleak,
Retreating Winter leaves, with angry frown,
And lingering on the distant snow-streaked hills,
Displays the motley remnants of his reign.
Retreating Winter leaves, with angry frown,
And lingering on the distant snow-streaked hills,
Displays the motley remnants of his reign.
With shouldered spade, the labourer to the field
Hies, joyful that the softened glebe gives leave
To toil; no more his children cry for bread,
Or, shivering, crowd around the scanty fire;
No more he's doomed, reluctant, to receive
The pittance, which the rich man proudly gives,
Who, when he gives, thinks heaven itself obliged.
Vain man! think not there's merit in the boon,
If, quitting not one comfort, not one joy,
The sparkling wine still circles round thy board,
Thy hearth still blazes, and the sounding strings,
Blent with the voice symphonious, charm thine ear.
Hies, joyful that the softened glebe gives leave
To toil; no more his children cry for bread,
Or, shivering, crowd around the scanty fire;
No more he's doomed, reluctant, to receive
The pittance, which the rich man proudly gives,
Who, when he gives, thinks heaven itself obliged.
Vain man! think not there's merit in the boon,
If, quitting not one comfort, not one joy,
The sparkling wine still circles round thy board,
98
Blent with the voice symphonious, charm thine ear.
The redbreast now, at morn, resumes his song,
And larks, high soaring, wing their spiral flight,
While the light-hearted ploughboy singing, blythe,
The broom, the bonny broom of Cowdenknows,
Fills with delight the wandering townsman's ear;
May be, though carolled rude in artless guise,
Sad Flodden field, of Scotia's lays most sweet,
Most mournful, dims, with starting tear, his eye.
Nor silent are the upland leas; cheerily
The partridge now her tuneless call repeats,
Or, bursting unexpected from the brake,
Startles the milkmaid singing o'er the ridge.
Nor silent are the chilly leafless woods;
The thrush's note is heard amid the grove,
Soon as the primrose, from the withered leaves
Smiling, looks out: Rash floweret! oft betrayed,
By summer-seeming days, to venture forth
Thy tender form,—the killing northern blast,
Will wrap thee lifeless in a hoar-frost shroud.
And larks, high soaring, wing their spiral flight,
While the light-hearted ploughboy singing, blythe,
The broom, the bonny broom of Cowdenknows,
Fills with delight the wandering townsman's ear;
May be, though carolled rude in artless guise,
Sad Flodden field, of Scotia's lays most sweet,
Most mournful, dims, with starting tear, his eye.
Nor silent are the upland leas; cheerily
The partridge now her tuneless call repeats,
Or, bursting unexpected from the brake,
Startles the milkmaid singing o'er the ridge.
Nor silent are the chilly leafless woods;
The thrush's note is heard amid the grove,
Soon as the primrose, from the withered leaves
Smiling, looks out: Rash floweret! oft betrayed,
By summer-seeming days, to venture forth
Thy tender form,—the killing northern blast,
Will wrap thee lifeless in a hoar-frost shroud.
99
APRIL.
Descend, sweet April, from yon watery bow,
And, liberal, strew the ground with budding flowers,
With leafless crocus, leaf-veiled violet,
Auricula, with powdered cup, primrose
That loves to lurk below the hawthorn shade.
At thy approach health re-illumes the eye:
Even pale Consumption, from thy balmy breath,
Inhales delusive hope; and, dreaming still
Of length of days, basks in some sunny plat,
And decks her half-foreboding breast with flowers,—
With flowers, which else would have survived the hand
By which they're pulled. But they will bloom again:
The daisy, spreading on the greensward grave,
Fades, dies, and seems to perish, yet revives.
Shall man for ever sleep? Cruel the tongue,
That, with sophistic art, snatches from pain,
Diseas, and grief and want, that antidote,
Which makes the wretched smile, the hopeless hope.
And, liberal, strew the ground with budding flowers,
With leafless crocus, leaf-veiled violet,
Auricula, with powdered cup, primrose
That loves to lurk below the hawthorn shade.
At thy approach health re-illumes the eye:
Even pale Consumption, from thy balmy breath,
Inhales delusive hope; and, dreaming still
Of length of days, basks in some sunny plat,
And decks her half-foreboding breast with flowers,—
With flowers, which else would have survived the hand
By which they're pulled. But they will bloom again:
The daisy, spreading on the greensward grave,
Fades, dies, and seems to perish, yet revives.
Shall man for ever sleep? Cruel the tongue,
100
Diseas, and grief and want, that antidote,
Which makes the wretched smile, the hopeless hope.
Light now the western gale sweeps o'er the plain;
Gently it waves the rivulet's cascade;
Gently it parts the lock on beauty's brow,
And lifts the tresses from the snowy neck,
And bends the flowers, and makes the lily stoop,
As if to kiss its image in the wave;
Or curls, with softest breath, the glassy pool,
Aiding the treachery of the mimic fly;
While, warily, behind the half-leaved bush,
The angler screened, with keenest eye intent,
Awaits the sudden rising of the trout:
Down dips the feathery lure; the quivering rod
Bends low; in vain the cheated captive strives
To break the yielding line; exhausted soon,
Ashore he's drawn, and, on the mossy bank
Weltering, he dyes the primrose with his blood.
Gently it waves the rivulet's cascade;
Gently it parts the lock on beauty's brow,
And lifts the tresses from the snowy neck,
And bends the flowers, and makes the lily stoop,
As if to kiss its image in the wave;
Or curls, with softest breath, the glassy pool,
Aiding the treachery of the mimic fly;
While, warily, behind the half-leaved bush,
The angler screened, with keenest eye intent,
Awaits the sudden rising of the trout:
Down dips the feathery lure; the quivering rod
Bends low; in vain the cheated captive strives
To break the yielding line; exhausted soon,
Ashore he's drawn, and, on the mossy bank
Weltering, he dyes the primrose with his blood.
101
MAY.
On blythe May morning, when the lark's first note
Ascends, on viewless wing, veiled in the mist,
The village maids then hie them to the woods,
To kiss the fresh dew from the daisy's brim;
Wandering in misty glades they lose their way,
And, ere aware, meet in their lovers' arms,
Like joining dew-drops on the blushing rose.
Ascends, on viewless wing, veiled in the mist,
The village maids then hie them to the woods,
To kiss the fresh dew from the daisy's brim;
Wandering in misty glades they lose their way,
And, ere aware, meet in their lovers' arms,
Like joining dew-drops on the blushing rose.
Sweet month! thy locks with bursting buds bedecked,
With opening hyacinths, and hawthorn blooms,
Fair still thou art, though showers bedim thine eye;
The cloud soon quits thy brow, and, mild, the sun
Looks out with watery beam, looks out, and smiles.
With opening hyacinths, and hawthorn blooms,
Fair still thou art, though showers bedim thine eye;
The cloud soon quits thy brow, and, mild, the sun
Looks out with watery beam, looks out, and smiles.
102
Now, from the wild flower bank, the little bird
Picks the soft moss, and to the thicket flies;
And oft returns, and oft the work renews,
Till all the curious fabric hangs complete:
Alas! but ill concealed from schoolboy's eye,
Who, heedless of the warbler's saddest plaint,
Tears from the bush the toil of many an hour;
Then, thoughtless wretch! pursues the devious bee,
Buzzing from flower to flower: She wings her flight,
Far from his following eye, to walled parterres,
Where, undisturbed, she revels 'mid the beds
Of full-blown lilies, doomed to die unculled,
Save when the stooping fair (more beauteous flower!)
The bosom's rival brightness half betrays,
While chusing 'mong the gently bending stalks,
The snowy hand a sister blossom seems.
Picks the soft moss, and to the thicket flies;
And oft returns, and oft the work renews,
Till all the curious fabric hangs complete:
Alas! but ill concealed from schoolboy's eye,
Who, heedless of the warbler's saddest plaint,
Tears from the bush the toil of many an hour;
Then, thoughtless wretch! pursues the devious bee,
Buzzing from flower to flower: She wings her flight,
Far from his following eye, to walled parterres,
Where, undisturbed, she revels 'mid the beds
Of full-blown lilies, doomed to die unculled,
Save when the stooping fair (more beauteous flower!)
The bosom's rival brightness half betrays,
While chusing 'mong the gently bending stalks,
The snowy hand a sister blossom seems.
More sweet to me the lily's meekened grace
Than gaudy hues, brilliant as summer clouds
Around the sinking sun: to me more sweet
Than garish day, the twilight's softened grace,
When deepening shades obscure the dusky woods;
Then comes the silence of the dewy hour,
With songs of noontide birds, thrilling in fancy's ear,
While from yon elm, with water-kissing boughs,
Along the moveless winding of the brook,
The smooth expanse is calmness, stillness all,
Unless the springing trout, with quick replunge,
Arousing meditation's downward look,
Ruffle, with many a gently circling wave
On wave, the glassy surface undulating far.
Than gaudy hues, brilliant as summer clouds
Around the sinking sun: to me more sweet
Than garish day, the twilight's softened grace,
When deepening shades obscure the dusky woods;
Then comes the silence of the dewy hour,
With songs of noontide birds, thrilling in fancy's ear,
While from yon elm, with water-kissing boughs,
Along the moveless winding of the brook,
103
Unless the springing trout, with quick replunge,
Arousing meditation's downward look,
Ruffle, with many a gently circling wave
On wave, the glassy surface undulating far.
104
JUNE.
Short is the reign of night, and almost blends
The evening twilight with the morning dawn.
Mild hour of dawn! thy wide-spread solitude,
And placid stillness, sooth even misery's sigh:
Deep the distress that cannot feel thy charm!—
As yet the thrush roosts on the bloomy spray,
With head beneath his dew-besprinkled wing,
When, roused by my lone tread, he lightly shakes
His ruffling plumes, and chaunts the untaught note,
Soon followed by the woodland choir, warbling
Melodiously the oft-repeated song,
Till noon-tide pour the torpor-shedding ray.
Then is the hour to seek the sylvan bank
Of lonely stream, remote from human haunt;
To mark the wild bee voyaging, deep-toned,
Low weighing down each floweret's tender stalk;
To list the grashopper's hoarse creaking chirp;
And then to let excursive fancy fly
To scenes, where roaring cannon drown the straining voice,
And fierce gesticulation takes the place
Of useless words. May be some Alpine brook,
That served to part two neighbouring shepherds' flocks,
Is now the limit of two hostile camps.
Weak limit! to be filled, ere evening star,
With heaps of slain: Far down thy rocky course,
The midnight wolf, lapping the gore-stained flood,
Gluts his keen thirst, and oft, and oft returns,
Unsated, to the purple, tepid stream.
The evening twilight with the morning dawn.
Mild hour of dawn! thy wide-spread solitude,
And placid stillness, sooth even misery's sigh:
Deep the distress that cannot feel thy charm!—
As yet the thrush roosts on the bloomy spray,
With head beneath his dew-besprinkled wing,
When, roused by my lone tread, he lightly shakes
His ruffling plumes, and chaunts the untaught note,
Soon followed by the woodland choir, warbling
Melodiously the oft-repeated song,
Till noon-tide pour the torpor-shedding ray.
Then is the hour to seek the sylvan bank
Of lonely stream, remote from human haunt;
To mark the wild bee voyaging, deep-toned,
105
To list the grashopper's hoarse creaking chirp;
And then to let excursive fancy fly
To scenes, where roaring cannon drown the straining voice,
And fierce gesticulation takes the place
Of useless words. May be some Alpine brook,
That served to part two neighbouring shepherds' flocks,
Is now the limit of two hostile camps.
Weak limit! to be filled, ere evening star,
With heaps of slain: Far down thy rocky course,
The midnight wolf, lapping the gore-stained flood,
Gluts his keen thirst, and oft, and oft returns,
Unsated, to the purple, tepid stream.
But let me fly such scenes, which, even when feigned,
Distress. To Scotia's peaceful glens I turn,
And rest my eyes upon her waving fields,
Where now the scythe lays low the mingled flowers.
Ah, spare, thou pitying swain! a ridge-breadth round
The partridge nest; so shall no new-come lord—
To ope a vista to some distant spire—
Thy cottage raze; but, when the toilsome day
Is done, still shall the turf-laid seat invite
Thy weary limbs; there peace and health shall bless
Thy frugal fare, served by the unhired hand,
That seeks no wages save a parent's smile.
Thus glides the eve, while round the strawy roof
Is heard the bat's wing in the deep-hushed air,
And from the little field the corncraik's harsh,
Yet not unpleasing note, the stillness breaks,
All the night long, till day-spring wake the lark.
Distress. To Scotia's peaceful glens I turn,
And rest my eyes upon her waving fields,
Where now the scythe lays low the mingled flowers.
Ah, spare, thou pitying swain! a ridge-breadth round
The partridge nest; so shall no new-come lord—
To ope a vista to some distant spire—
Thy cottage raze; but, when the toilsome day
Is done, still shall the turf-laid seat invite
Thy weary limbs; there peace and health shall bless
Thy frugal fare, served by the unhired hand,
That seeks no wages save a parent's smile.
106
Is heard the bat's wing in the deep-hushed air,
And from the little field the corncraik's harsh,
Yet not unpleasing note, the stillness breaks,
All the night long, till day-spring wake the lark.
107
JULY.
Slow move the sultry hours. O, for the shield
Of darkening boughs, or hollow rock grotesque!
Of darkening boughs, or hollow rock grotesque!
The pool transparent to its pebbly bed,
With here and there a slowly gliding trout,
Invites the throbbing, half reluctant, breast
To plunge: The dash re-echoes from the rocks,
And smooth, in sinuous course, the swimmer winds,
Now, with extended arms, rowing his way;
And now, with sunward face, he floating lies;
Till, blinded by the dazzling beam, he turns,
Then to the bottom dives, emerging soon
With stone, as trophy, in his waving hand:
Blythe days of jocund youth, now almost flown!
Meantime, far up the windings of the stream,
Where birken witchknots o'er the channel meet,
The sportive shriek, shrill, mingled with the laugh,
The bushes hung with beauty's white attire,
Tempt, yet forbid, the intrusive eye's approach.
With here and there a slowly gliding trout,
Invites the throbbing, half reluctant, breast
To plunge: The dash re-echoes from the rocks,
And smooth, in sinuous course, the swimmer winds,
Now, with extended arms, rowing his way;
And now, with sunward face, he floating lies;
Till, blinded by the dazzling beam, he turns,
Then to the bottom dives, emerging soon
With stone, as trophy, in his waving hand:
Blythe days of jocund youth, now almost flown!
Meantime, far up the windings of the stream,
Where birken witchknots o'er the channel meet,
The sportive shriek, shrill, mingled with the laugh,
108
Tempt, yet forbid, the intrusive eye's approach.
Unhappy he, who, in this season, pent
Within the darksome gloom of city lane,
Pines for the flowery paths, and woody shades,
From which the love of lucre, or of power,
Enticed his youthful steps. In vain he turns
The rich descriptive page of Thomson's muse,
And strives to fancy that the lovely scenes
Are present: So the hand of childhood tries
To grasp the pictured bunch of fruit, or flowers,
But, disappointed, feels the canvas smooth:
So the caged lark, upon a withering turf,
Flutters from side to side, with quivering wings,
As if in act of mounting to the skies.
Within the darksome gloom of city lane,
Pines for the flowery paths, and woody shades,
From which the love of lucre, or of power,
Enticed his youthful steps. In vain he turns
The rich descriptive page of Thomson's muse,
And strives to fancy that the lovely scenes
Are present: So the hand of childhood tries
To grasp the pictured bunch of fruit, or flowers,
But, disappointed, feels the canvas smooth:
So the caged lark, upon a withering turf,
Flutters from side to side, with quivering wings,
As if in act of mounting to the skies.
At noontide hour, from school, the little throng
Rush gaily, sporting o'er the enamelled mead.
Some strive to catch the bloom-perched butterfly;
And if they miss his mealy wings, the flower,
From which he flies, the disappointment sooths.
Others, so pale in look, in tattered garb,
Motley, with half-spun threads and cotton flakes,
Trudge, drooping, to the many-storied pile,
Where thousand spindles whirling stun the ear,
Confused: There, prisoned close, they wretched moil.
Sweet age, perverted from its proper end!
When childhood toils, the field should be the scene,—
To tend the sheep, or homeward drive the herd
Or, from the corn-ridge, scare the pilfering rooks,
Or to the mowers bear the milky pail.
But, Commerce, Commerce, Manufactures, still
Weary the ear; health, morals, all must yield
To pamper the monopolising few,
To make a wealthy, but a wretched state.
Blest be the generous band, that would restore
To honour due the long-neglected plough!
From it expect peace, plenty, virtue, health:
Compare with it, Britannia, all thine isles
Beyond the Atlantic wave! thy trade! thy ships
Deep-fraught with blood!
Rush gaily, sporting o'er the enamelled mead.
Some strive to catch the bloom-perched butterfly;
And if they miss his mealy wings, the flower,
From which he flies, the disappointment sooths.
Others, so pale in look, in tattered garb,
Motley, with half-spun threads and cotton flakes,
Trudge, drooping, to the many-storied pile,
Where thousand spindles whirling stun the ear,
Confused: There, prisoned close, they wretched moil.
109
When childhood toils, the field should be the scene,—
To tend the sheep, or homeward drive the herd
Or, from the corn-ridge, scare the pilfering rooks,
Or to the mowers bear the milky pail.
But, Commerce, Commerce, Manufactures, still
Weary the ear; health, morals, all must yield
To pamper the monopolising few,
To make a wealthy, but a wretched state.
Blest be the generous band, that would restore
To honour due the long-neglected plough!
From it expect peace, plenty, virtue, health:
Compare with it, Britannia, all thine isles
Beyond the Atlantic wave! thy trade! thy ships
Deep-fraught with blood!
But let me quit such themes! and, peaceful, roam
The winding glen, where now the wild-rose pale
And garish broom, strew, with their fading flowers,
The narrow greenwood path. To me more sweet
The greenwood path, half hid, 'neath brake and briar,
Than pebbled walks so trim; more dear to me
The daisied plat, before the cottage door,
Than waveless sea of widely spreading lawn,
'Mid which some insulated mansion towers,
Spurning the humble dwellings from its proud domain.
The winding glen, where now the wild-rose pale
And garish broom, strew, with their fading flowers,
The narrow greenwood path. To me more sweet
The greenwood path, half hid, 'neath brake and briar,
Than pebbled walks so trim; more dear to me
The daisied plat, before the cottage door,
Than waveless sea of widely spreading lawn,
'Mid which some insulated mansion towers,
Spurning the humble dwellings from its proud domain.
110
AUGUST.
Farewell, sweet summer, and thy fading flowers!
Farewell, sweet summer, and thy woodland songs!
No woodland note is heard, save where the hawk,
High from her eyry, skims in circling flight,
With all her clamorous young, first venturing forth
On untried wing: At distance far, the sound
Alarms the barn-door flock; the fearful dam
Calls in her brood beneath her ruffling plumes;
With crowding feet they stand, and frequent peep
Through the half-opened wing. The partridge quakes
Among the rustling corn. Ye gentle tribes,
Think not your deadliest foe is now at hand.
To man, bird, beast, man is the deadliest foe;
'Tis he who wages universal war.
Soon as his murderous law gives leave to wound
The heathfowl, dweller on the mountain wild,
The sportsman, anxious, watching for the dawn,
Lies turning, while his dog, in happy dreams,
With feeble bark anticipates the day.
Some, ere the dawn steals o'er the deep blue lake,
The hill ascend: vain is their eager haste,—
The dog's quick breath is heard panting around,
But neither dog, nor springing game, is seen
Amid the floating mist; short interval
Of respite to the trembling dewy wing.
Ah, many a bleeding wing, ere mid-day hour,
Shall vainly flap the purple bending heath.—
Fatigued, at noon, the spoiler seeks the shade
Of some lone oak, fast by the rocky stream,—
The hunter's rest, in days of other years,
When sad the voice of Cona, in the gale,
Lamentingly the song of Selma sung.
Farewell, sweet summer, and thy woodland songs!
No woodland note is heard, save where the hawk,
High from her eyry, skims in circling flight,
With all her clamorous young, first venturing forth
On untried wing: At distance far, the sound
Alarms the barn-door flock; the fearful dam
Calls in her brood beneath her ruffling plumes;
With crowding feet they stand, and frequent peep
Through the half-opened wing. The partridge quakes
Among the rustling corn. Ye gentle tribes,
Think not your deadliest foe is now at hand.
To man, bird, beast, man is the deadliest foe;
'Tis he who wages universal war.
Soon as his murderous law gives leave to wound
111
The sportsman, anxious, watching for the dawn,
Lies turning, while his dog, in happy dreams,
With feeble bark anticipates the day.
Some, ere the dawn steals o'er the deep blue lake,
The hill ascend: vain is their eager haste,—
The dog's quick breath is heard panting around,
But neither dog, nor springing game, is seen
Amid the floating mist; short interval
Of respite to the trembling dewy wing.
Ah, many a bleeding wing, ere mid-day hour,
Shall vainly flap the purple bending heath.—
Fatigued, at noon, the spoiler seeks the shade
Of some lone oak, fast by the rocky stream,—
The hunter's rest, in days of other years,
When sad the voice of Cona, in the gale,
Lamentingly the song of Selma sung.
How changeful, Caledonia, is thy clime!
Where is the sun-beam that but now so bright
Played on the dimpling brook? Dark o'er the heath
A deepening gloom is hung; from clouds, high piled
On clouds, glances the sudden flash; the thunder,
Reverberated 'mong the cliffs, rolls far;
Nor pause; but ere the echo of one peal
Has ceased, another, louder still, the ear appals.
The sporting lamb hastes to its mother's side;
The shepherd stoops into the mountain-cave,
At every momentary flash illumed
Back to its innermost recess, where gleams
The vaulted spar; the eagle, sudden smote,
Falls to the ground lifeless; beneath the wave
The sea-fowl plunges; fast the rain descends;
The whitened streams, from every mountain side,
Rush to the valley, tinging far the lake.
Where is the sun-beam that but now so bright
Played on the dimpling brook? Dark o'er the heath
A deepening gloom is hung; from clouds, high piled
On clouds, glances the sudden flash; the thunder,
Reverberated 'mong the cliffs, rolls far;
Nor pause; but ere the echo of one peal
Has ceased, another, louder still, the ear appals.
The sporting lamb hastes to its mother's side;
112
At every momentary flash illumed
Back to its innermost recess, where gleams
The vaulted spar; the eagle, sudden smote,
Falls to the ground lifeless; beneath the wave
The sea-fowl plunges; fast the rain descends;
The whitened streams, from every mountain side,
Rush to the valley, tinging far the lake.
113
SEPTEMBER.
Gradual the woods their varied tints assume;
The hawthorn reddens, and the rowan-tree
Displays its ruby clusters, seeming sweet,
Yet harsh, disfiguring the fairest face.
The hawthorn reddens, and the rowan-tree
Displays its ruby clusters, seeming sweet,
Yet harsh, disfiguring the fairest face.
At sultry hour of noon, the reaper band
Rest from their toil, and in the lusty stook
Their sickless hang. Around their simple fare,
Upon the stubble spread, blythesome they form
A circling groupe, while humbly waits behind
The wistful dog, and with expressive look,
And pawing foot, implores his little share.
Rest from their toil, and in the lusty stook
Their sickless hang. Around their simple fare,
Upon the stubble spread, blythesome they form
A circling groupe, while humbly waits behind
The wistful dog, and with expressive look,
And pawing foot, implores his little share.
The short repast, seasoned with simple mirth,
And not without the song, gives place to sleep.
With sheaf beneath his head, the rustic youth
Enjoys sweet slumbers, while the maid he loves
Steals to his side, and screens him from the sun.
And not without the song, gives place to sleep.
114
Enjoys sweet slumbers, while the maid he loves
Steals to his side, and screens him from the sun.
But not by day alone the reapers toil:
Oft in the moon's pale ray the sickle gleams,
And heaps the dewy sheaf;—thy changeful sky,
Poor Scotland, warns to seize the hour serene.
Oft in the moon's pale ray the sickle gleams,
And heaps the dewy sheaf;—thy changeful sky,
Poor Scotland, warns to seize the hour serene.
The gleaners, wandering with the morning ray,
Spread o'er the new-reaped field. Tottering old age,
And lisping infancy, are there, and she
Who better days has seen.—
No shelter now
The covey finds; but, hark! the murderous tube.
Exultingly the deep-mouthed spaniel bears
The fluttering victim to his master's foot:
Perhaps another, wounded, flying far,
Eludes the eager following eye, and drops
Among the lonely furze, to pine and die.
Spread o'er the new-reaped field. Tottering old age,
And lisping infancy, are there, and she
Who better days has seen.—
No shelter now
The covey finds; but, hark! the murderous tube.
Exultingly the deep-mouthed spaniel bears
The fluttering victim to his master's foot:
Perhaps another, wounded, flying far,
Eludes the eager following eye, and drops
Among the lonely furze, to pine and die.
115
OCTOBER.
With hound and horn, o'er moor, and hill, and dale,
The chace sweeps on; no obstacle they heed,
Nor hedge, nor ditch, nor wood, nor river wide.
The clamorous pack rush rapid down the vale,
Whilst o'er yon brushwood tops, at times, are seen
The moving branches of the victim stag:
Soon far beyond he stretches o'er the plain.
O, may he safe elude the savage rout,
And may the woods be left to peace again!
The chace sweeps on; no obstacle they heed,
Nor hedge, nor ditch, nor wood, nor river wide.
The clamorous pack rush rapid down the vale,
Whilst o'er yon brushwood tops, at times, are seen
The moving branches of the victim stag:
Soon far beyond he stretches o'er the plain.
O, may he safe elude the savage rout,
And may the woods be left to peace again!
Hushed are the faded woods; no song is heard,
Save where the redbreast mourns the falling leaf.
At close of shortened day, the reaper, tired,
With sickle on his shoulder, homeward hies.
Night comes with threatening storm, first whispering low,
Sighing amid the boughs; then, by degrees,
With violence redoubled at each pause,
Furious it rages, scaring startled sleep.
The river roars. Long-wished, at last, the dawn,
Doubtful, peeps unsullied with a tear;
Lights on the eyes unsullied with a tear;
Nor flies, but at the plough-boy's whistle gay,
Or hunter's horn, or sound of hedger's bill.
Placid the sun shoots through the half-stript grove;
The grove's sere leaves float down the dusky flood.
Save where the redbreast mourns the falling leaf.
At close of shortened day, the reaper, tired,
With sickle on his shoulder, homeward hies.
Night comes with threatening storm, first whispering low,
116
With violence redoubled at each pause,
Furious it rages, scaring startled sleep.
The river roars. Long-wished, at last, the dawn,
Doubtful, peeps unsullied with a tear;
Lights on the eyes unsullied with a tear;
Nor flies, but at the plough-boy's whistle gay,
Or hunter's horn, or sound of hedger's bill.
Placid the sun shoots through the half-stript grove;
The grove's sere leaves float down the dusky flood.
The happy schoolboy, whom the swollen streams,
Perilous to wight so small, give holiday,
Forth roaming, now wild berries pulls, now paints,
Artless, his rosy cheek with purple hue;
Now wonders that the nest, hung in the leafless thorn,
So full in view, escaped erewhile his search;
On tiptoe raised,—ah, disappointment dire!
His eager hand finds nought but withered leaves.
Perilous to wight so small, give holiday,
Forth roaming, now wild berries pulls, now paints,
Artless, his rosy cheek with purple hue;
Now wonders that the nest, hung in the leafless thorn,
So full in view, escaped erewhile his search;
On tiptoe raised,—ah, disappointment dire!
His eager hand finds nought but withered leaves.
Night comes again; the cloudless canopy
Is one bright arch,—myriads, myriads of stars.
To him who wanders 'mong the silent woods,
The twinkling orbs beam through the leafless boughs,
Which erst excluded the meridian ray.
Is one bright arch,—myriads, myriads of stars.
To him who wanders 'mong the silent woods,
The twinkling orbs beam through the leafless boughs,
Which erst excluded the meridian ray.
117
NOVEMBER.
Languid the morning beam slants o'er the lea;
The hoary grass, crisp, crackles 'neath the tread.
The hoary grass, crisp, crackles 'neath the tread.
On the haw-clustered thorns, a motley flock
Of birds, of various plume, and various note,
Discordant chirp; the linnet, and the thrush
With speckled breast, the blackbird yellow-beaked,
The goldfinch, fieldfare, with the sparrow, pert
And clamorous above his shivering mates,
While, on the house-top, faint the redbreast plains.
Of birds, of various plume, and various note,
Discordant chirp; the linnet, and the thrush
With speckled breast, the blackbird yellow-beaked,
The goldfinch, fieldfare, with the sparrow, pert
And clamorous above his shivering mates,
While, on the house-top, faint the redbreast plains.
Where do ye lurk, ye houseless commoners,
When bleak November's sun is overcast;
When sweeps the blast fierce through the deepest groves,
Driving the fallen leaves in whirling wreaths;
When scarce the raven keeps her bending perch;
When dashing cataracts are backward blown?
When bleak November's sun is overcast;
When sweeps the blast fierce through the deepest groves,
Driving the fallen leaves in whirling wreaths;
118
When dashing cataracts are backward blown?
A deluge pours; loud comes the river down:
The margin trees now insulated seem,
As if they in the midway current grew.
Oft let me stand upon the giddy brink,
And chace, with following gaze, the whirling foam,
Or woodland wreck: Ah me, that broken branch,
Sweeping along, may tempt some heedless boy,
Sent by his needy parents to the woods
For brushwood gleanings for their evening fire,
To stretch too far his little arm!—he falls,
He sinks. Long is he looked for, oft he's called;
His homeward whistle oft is fancied near:
His playmates find him on the oozy bank,
And, in his stiffened grasp, the fatal branch.
The margin trees now insulated seem,
As if they in the midway current grew.
Oft let me stand upon the giddy brink,
And chace, with following gaze, the whirling foam,
Or woodland wreck: Ah me, that broken branch,
Sweeping along, may tempt some heedless boy,
Sent by his needy parents to the woods
For brushwood gleanings for their evening fire,
To stretch too far his little arm!—he falls,
He sinks. Long is he looked for, oft he's called;
His homeward whistle oft is fancied near:
His playmates find him on the oozy bank,
And, in his stiffened grasp, the fatal branch.
Short is the day; dreary the boisterous night:
At intervals the moon gleams through the clouds,
And, now and then, a star is dimly seen.
At intervals the moon gleams through the clouds,
And, now and then, a star is dimly seen.
When daylight breaks, the woodman leaves his hut,
And oft the axe's echoing stroke is heard;
At last the yielding oak's loud crash resounds,
Crushing the humble hawthorn in its fall.
The husbandman slow plods from ridge to ridge,
Disheartened, and rebuilds his prostrate sheaves.
And oft the axe's echoing stroke is heard;
At last the yielding oak's loud crash resounds,
Crushing the humble hawthorn in its fall.
The husbandman slow plods from ridge to ridge,
Disheartened, and rebuilds his prostrate sheaves.
119
DECEMBER.
Where late the wild flower bloomed, the brown leaf lies;
Not even the snow-drop cheers the dreary plain:
The famished birds forsake each leafless spray,
And flock around the barn-yard's winnowing store.
Not even the snow-drop cheers the dreary plain:
The famished birds forsake each leafless spray,
And flock around the barn-yard's winnowing store.
Season of social mirth! of fireside joys!
I love thy shortened day, when, at its close,
The blazing tapers, on the jovial board,
Dispense o'er every care-forgetting face
Their cheering light, and harmless mirth abounds.
Now far be banished, from our social ring,
The party wrangle fierce, the argument
Deep, learned, metaphysical, and dull,
Oft dropt, as oft again renewed, endless:
Rather I'd hear stories twice ten times told,
Or vapid joke, filched from Joe Miller's page,
Or tale of ghost, hobgoblin dire, or witch;
Nor would I, with a proud fastidious frown,
Proscribe the laugh-provoking pun; absurd
Although it be, and hard to be discerned,
It serves the purpose, if it shake our sides.
Now let the temperate cup inspire the song,
The catch, the glee; or list! the melting lays
Of Scotia's pastoral vales,—they ever please.
I love thy shortened day, when, at its close,
The blazing tapers, on the jovial board,
Dispense o'er every care-forgetting face
Their cheering light, and harmless mirth abounds.
Now far be banished, from our social ring,
The party wrangle fierce, the argument
Deep, learned, metaphysical, and dull,
Oft dropt, as oft again renewed, endless:
120
Or vapid joke, filched from Joe Miller's page,
Or tale of ghost, hobgoblin dire, or witch;
Nor would I, with a proud fastidious frown,
Proscribe the laugh-provoking pun; absurd
Although it be, and hard to be discerned,
It serves the purpose, if it shake our sides.
Now let the temperate cup inspire the song,
The catch, the glee; or list! the melting lays
Of Scotia's pastoral vales,—they ever please.
Loud blows the blast; while, sheltered from its rage,
The social circle feel their joys enhanced.
Ah, little think they of the storm-tossed ship,
Amid the uproar of the winds and waves,
The waves unseen, save by the lightning's glare,
Or cannon's flash, sad signal of distress.
The trembling crew each moment think they feel
The shock of sunken rock:—at last they strike:
Borne on the blast, their dying voices reach,
Faintly, the sea-girt hamlet; help is vain:
The morning light discloses to the view
The mast alternate seen and hid, as sinks
Or heaves the surge. The early village maid
Turns pale, like clouds when o'er the moon they glide;
She thinks of her true love, far, far at sea;
Mournful, the live long day she turns her wheel,
And ever and anon her head she bends,
While with the flax she dries the trickling tear.
The social circle feel their joys enhanced.
Ah, little think they of the storm-tossed ship,
Amid the uproar of the winds and waves,
The waves unseen, save by the lightning's glare,
Or cannon's flash, sad signal of distress.
The trembling crew each moment think they feel
The shock of sunken rock:—at last they strike:
Borne on the blast, their dying voices reach,
Faintly, the sea-girt hamlet; help is vain:
The morning light discloses to the view
The mast alternate seen and hid, as sinks
Or heaves the surge. The early village maid
Turns pale, like clouds when o'er the moon they glide;
121
Mournful, the live long day she turns her wheel,
And ever and anon her head she bends,
While with the flax she dries the trickling tear.
123
THE WILD DUCK AND HER BROOD.
How calm that little lake! no breath of windSighs through the reeds; a clear abyss it seems
Held in the concave of the inverted sky,—
In which is seen the rook's dull flagging wing
Move o'er the silvery clouds. How peaceful sails
Yon little fleet, the wild duck and her brood!
Fearless of harm, they row their easy way;
The water-lily, 'neath the plumy prows,
Dips, re-appearing in their dimpled track.
Yet, even amid that scene of peace, the noise
Of war, unequal, dastard war, intrudes.
Yon revel rout of men, and boys, and dogs,
Boisterous approach; the spaniel dashes in;
Quick he descries the prey, and faster swims,
And eager barks: the harmless flock, dismayed,
124
All but the parent pair; they, floating, wait
To lure the foe, and lead him from their young;
But soon themselves are forced to seek the shore.
Vain then the buoyant wing; the leaden storm
Arrests their flight; they fluttering, bleeding fall,
And tinge the troubled bosom of the lake.
125
TO A REDBREAST,
THAT FLEW IN AT MY WINDOW.
From snowy plains, and icy sprays,
From moonless nights, and sunless days,
Welcome, poor bird! I'll cherish thee;
I love thee, for thou trustest me.
Thrice welcome, helpless, panting guest!
Fondly I'll warm thee in my breast:—
How quick thy little heart is beating!
As if its brother flutterer greeting.
Thou need'st not dread a captive's doom;
No! freely flutter round my room;
Perch on my lute's remaining string,
And sweetly of sweet summer sing.
That note, that summer note, I know;
It wakes, at once, and soothes my woe,—
I see those woods, I see that stream,
I see,—ah, still prolong the dream!
Still, with thy song, those scenes renew,
Though through my tears they reach my view.
From moonless nights, and sunless days,
Welcome, poor bird! I'll cherish thee;
I love thee, for thou trustest me.
Thrice welcome, helpless, panting guest!
Fondly I'll warm thee in my breast:—
How quick thy little heart is beating!
As if its brother flutterer greeting.
Thou need'st not dread a captive's doom;
No! freely flutter round my room;
Perch on my lute's remaining string,
And sweetly of sweet summer sing.
126
It wakes, at once, and soothes my woe,—
I see those woods, I see that stream,
I see,—ah, still prolong the dream!
Still, with thy song, those scenes renew,
Though through my tears they reach my view.
No more now, at my lonely meal,
While thou art by, alone I'll feel;
For soon, devoid of all distrust,
Thou'lt, nibbling, share my humble crust;
Or on my finger, pert and spruce,
Thou'lt learn to sip the sparkling juice;
And when (our short collation o'er)
Some favourite volume I explore,
Be't work of poet or of sage,
Safe thou shalt hop across the page;
Unchecked, shalt flit o'er Virgil's groves,
Or flutter 'mid Tibullus' loves.
Thus, heedless of the raving blast,
Thou'lt dwell with me till winter's past;
And when the primrose tells 'tis spring,
And when the thrush begins to sing,
Soon as I hear the woodland song,
Freed, thou shalt join the vocal throng.
While thou art by, alone I'll feel;
For soon, devoid of all distrust,
Thou'lt, nibbling, share my humble crust;
Or on my finger, pert and spruce,
Thou'lt learn to sip the sparkling juice;
And when (our short collation o'er)
Some favourite volume I explore,
Be't work of poet or of sage,
Safe thou shalt hop across the page;
Unchecked, shalt flit o'er Virgil's groves,
Or flutter 'mid Tibullus' loves.
Thus, heedless of the raving blast,
Thou'lt dwell with me till winter's past;
And when the primrose tells 'tis spring,
And when the thrush begins to sing,
Soon as I hear the woodland song,
Freed, thou shalt join the vocal throng.
127
EPITAPH
ON A BLACKBIRD, KILLED BY A HAWK.
Winter was o'er, and spring-flowers decked the glade;
The Blackbird's note among the wild woods rung:
Ah, short-lived note! the songster now is laid
Beneath the bush, on which so sweet he sung.
The Blackbird's note among the wild woods rung:
Ah, short-lived note! the songster now is laid
Beneath the bush, on which so sweet he sung.
Thy jetty plumes, by ruthless falcon rent,
Are now all soiled among the mouldering clay;
A primrosed turf is all thy monument,
And, for thy dirge, the Redbreast lends his lay.
Are now all soiled among the mouldering clay;
A primrosed turf is all thy monument,
And, for thy dirge, the Redbreast lends his lay.
128
THE POOR MAN'S FUNERAL.
Yon motley, sable-suited throng, that wait
Around the poor man's door, announce a tale
Of woe; the husband, parent, is no more.
Contending with disease, he laboured long,
By penury compelled; yielding at last,
He laid him down to die; but, lingering on
From day to day, he, from his sickbed, saw,
Heart-broken quite, his childrens' looks of want
Veiled in a clouded smile; alas! he heard
The elder, lispingly, attempt to still
The younger's plaint,—languid he raised his head,
And thought he yet could toil, but sunk
Into the arms of death, the poor man's friend.
Around the poor man's door, announce a tale
Of woe; the husband, parent, is no more.
Contending with disease, he laboured long,
By penury compelled; yielding at last,
He laid him down to die; but, lingering on
From day to day, he, from his sickbed, saw,
Heart-broken quite, his childrens' looks of want
Veiled in a clouded smile; alas! he heard
The elder, lispingly, attempt to still
The younger's plaint,—languid he raised his head,
And thought he yet could toil, but sunk
Into the arms of death, the poor man's friend.
129
The coffin is borne out; the humble pomp
Moves slowly on; the orphan mourner's hand
(Poor helpless child!) just reaches to the pall.
And now they pass into the field of graves,
And now around the narrow house they stand,
And view the plain black board sink from the sight.
Hollow the mansion of the dead resounds,
As falls each spadeful of the bone-mixed mould.
The turf is spread; uncovered is each head,—
A last farewell: all turn their several ways.
Woes me! those tear-dimmed eyes, that sobbing breast!
Poor child! thou thinkest of the kindly hand
That wont to lead thee home: no more that hand
Shall aid thy feeble gait, or gently stroke
Thy sun-bleached head, and downy cheek.
But go, a mother waits thy homeward steps;
In vain her eyes dwell on the sacred page,—
Her thoughts are in the grave; 'tis thou alone,
Her first-born child, canst rouse that statue gaze
Of woe profound. Haste to the widowed arms;
Look with thy father's look, speak with his voice,
And melt a heart that else will break with grief.
Moves slowly on; the orphan mourner's hand
(Poor helpless child!) just reaches to the pall.
And now they pass into the field of graves,
And now around the narrow house they stand,
And view the plain black board sink from the sight.
Hollow the mansion of the dead resounds,
As falls each spadeful of the bone-mixed mould.
The turf is spread; uncovered is each head,—
A last farewell: all turn their several ways.
Woes me! those tear-dimmed eyes, that sobbing breast!
Poor child! thou thinkest of the kindly hand
That wont to lead thee home: no more that hand
Shall aid thy feeble gait, or gently stroke
Thy sun-bleached head, and downy cheek.
But go, a mother waits thy homeward steps;
In vain her eyes dwell on the sacred page,—
Her thoughts are in the grave; 'tis thou alone,
Her first-born child, canst rouse that statue gaze
Of woe profound. Haste to the widowed arms;
Look with thy father's look, speak with his voice,
And melt a heart that else will break with grief.
130
TO ENGLAND,
ON THE SLAVE TRADE.
Of all thy foreign crimes, from pole to pole,
None moves such indignation in my soul,
Such hate, such deep abhorrence, as thy trade
In human beings!
Thy ignorance thou dar'st to plead no more;
The proofs have thundered from the Afric shore.
Behold, behold, yon rows ranged over rows,
Of dead with dying linked in death's last throes.
Behold a single victim of despair,
Dragged upon deck to gasp the ocean air;
Devoid of fear, he hears the tempest rise,—
The ship descending 'tween the waves, he eyes
With eager hope; he thinks his woes shall end:
Sunk in despair he sees her still ascend.
None moves such indignation in my soul,
Such hate, such deep abhorrence, as thy trade
In human beings!
Thy ignorance thou dar'st to plead no more;
The proofs have thundered from the Afric shore.
Behold, behold, yon rows ranged over rows,
Of dead with dying linked in death's last throes.
Behold a single victim of despair,
Dragged upon deck to gasp the ocean air;
Devoid of fear, he hears the tempest rise,—
The ship descending 'tween the waves, he eyes
With eager hope; he thinks his woes shall end:
Sunk in despair he sees her still ascend.
131
What barbarous race are authors of his woe?
With freights of fetters, who the vessel stow?
Who forge the torture-irons, who plait the scourge?
Whose navies shield the pirates o'er the surge?
Who, from the mother's arms, the clinging child
Tears? It is England,—merciful and mild!
Most impious race, who brave the watery realm
In blood-fraught barks, with Murder at the helm!
Who trade in tortures, profit draw from pain,
And even whose mercy is but love of gain!
Whose human cargoes carefully are packt,
By rule and square, according to the Act!—
And is that gore-drenched flag by you unfurled,
Champions of right, knights-errant of the world?
“Yes, yes,” your Commons said, “Let such things be,
“If others rob and murder, why not we?”
In the smoothed speech, and in the upraised hand,
I hear the lash, I hear the fierce command;
Each guilty nay ten thousand crimes decreed,
And English mercy said, Let millions bleed!
With freights of fetters, who the vessel stow?
Who forge the torture-irons, who plait the scourge?
Whose navies shield the pirates o'er the surge?
Who, from the mother's arms, the clinging child
Tears? It is England,—merciful and mild!
Most impious race, who brave the watery realm
In blood-fraught barks, with Murder at the helm!
Who trade in tortures, profit draw from pain,
And even whose mercy is but love of gain!
Whose human cargoes carefully are packt,
By rule and square, according to the Act!—
And is that gore-drenched flag by you unfurled,
Champions of right, knights-errant of the world?
“Yes, yes,” your Commons said, “Let such things be,
“If others rob and murder, why not we?”
In the smoothed speech, and in the upraised hand,
I hear the lash, I hear the fierce command;
Each guilty nay ten thousand crimes decreed,
And English mercy said, Let millions bleed!
132
SONG.
[O lassie, will ye gang wi' me]
O lassie, will ye gang wi' me,
And dwell amang yon hielan' hills;—
Trim is my skiff, saft rows the sea,
The summer breeze the sail scarce fills.
And dwell amang yon hielan' hills;—
Trim is my skiff, saft rows the sea,
The summer breeze the sail scarce fills.
The sea-bird on her white breast lights,
And, floating trig, her feathers laves;
Or on the wing, in wheeling flight,
Darts at her image in the waves.
And, floating trig, her feathers laves;
Or on the wing, in wheeling flight,
Darts at her image in the waves.
The hielan' hills, though bare and bleak,
Hae bonny glens and shaws between,
Whare blooms the wild-rose like thy cheek,
And bluebells like thy downcast een.
Hae bonny glens and shaws between,
Whare blooms the wild-rose like thy cheek,
And bluebells like thy downcast een.
133
What though nae houses, bien and braw
Rise proudly on yon heathery braes,—
A shielin is a lordly ha',
If there wi' thee I pass my days.
Rise proudly on yon heathery braes,—
A shielin is a lordly ha',
If there wi' thee I pass my days.
ANSWER.
Yes, laddie, I will gang wi' thee;
Wi' thee I'll trust the faithless main;
Wi' thee I'll live, wi' thee I'll die,
I fear na ought, if thou'rt my ain.
Wi' thee I'll trust the faithless main;
Wi' thee I'll live, wi' thee I'll die,
I fear na ought, if thou'rt my ain.
On heathery bents I'll lay my head,
Hardship, whan tholed for thee, has charms;
Wi' thee I'll ask nae other bed,
Nae other shielin than thy arms.
Hardship, whan tholed for thee, has charms;
Wi' thee I'll ask nae other bed,
Nae other shielin than thy arms.
134
SONG.
[O marion is a bonny lass]
O marion is a bonny lass,
There's glawmry in her smile;
And yet by a' it is confest,
That Marion's free frae guile.
There's glawmry in her smile;
And yet by a' it is confest,
That Marion's free frae guile.
Ilk rising thought, before she speaks,
Ye maist wad think ye saw;
An' then her voice comes like the breeze
Blawn o'er the birken shaw.
Ye maist wad think ye saw;
An' then her voice comes like the breeze
Blawn o'er the birken shaw.
Whane'er she sings, her artless notes
In sweetness far exceed
The echo, that, frae rock to rock,
Repeats the shepherd's reed:
In sweetness far exceed
The echo, that, frae rock to rock,
Repeats the shepherd's reed:
135
An' a' the while a wavering blush
Her modest fears discloses,
Like a bonny bird that sings embowered
Amang a bush o' roses.
Her modest fears discloses,
Like a bonny bird that sings embowered
Amang a bush o' roses.
Whan coming frae the fair wi' her,
Though e'er sae late at een,
The gloom is light, an hour's a blink,
The muir's a foggy green.
Though e'er sae late at een,
The gloom is light, an hour's a blink,
The muir's a foggy green.
But what I like the best of a',
She says whan I'm beside her,
Be't light, be't dark, she never thinks
That skaith can e'er betide her.
She says whan I'm beside her,
Be't light, be't dark, she never thinks
That skaith can e'er betide her.
136
MAIDA,
OR THE BEGINNIN' O'T.
At Maida our Scotch lads gied Frenchmen a fleg,
Was na that a guid beginnin' o't!
For numbers maist double they cared na a feg;
That was na an ill beginnin' o't.
Puir Regnier drew up on the side o' a brae,
Wi' a bog an' a wood atween him and the fae;
But for braes, bogs, and woods, Scotchmen cared na a strae,
An' they wist but to see the beginnin' o't.
Was na that a guid beginnin' o't!
For numbers maist double they cared na a feg;
That was na an ill beginnin' o't.
Puir Regnier drew up on the side o' a brae,
Wi' a bog an' a wood atween him and the fae;
But for braes, bogs, and woods, Scotchmen cared na a strae,
An' they wist but to see the beginnin' o't.
Up the hill, like a misty cloud after a shower,
Our lads breasted up to the winnin' o't;
Fare the right to the left ilka face leukit doure,
An' wist but to hear the beginnin' o't.
Now the silence was dead, till mak ready! was heard,
Syne click gied ilk lock; level laigh was the word:—
Here and there some French braggers lay flat on the yird;
Was na that a guid beginnin' o't!
Our lads breasted up to the winnin' o't;
Fare the right to the left ilka face leukit doure,
An' wist but to hear the beginnin' o't.
Now the silence was dead, till mak ready! was heard,
Syne click gied ilk lock; level laigh was the word:—
Here and there some French braggers lay flat on the yird;
Was na that a guid beginnin' o't!
137
But a' this was sport to the deeds o' the day,
For what was it but the beginnin' o't,—
Till Stuart cries—charge! then hey for the fae,
And our callans push on to the winnin' o't.
But at the first clash that the bagonets gie,
The Frenchmen they swither, they stoiter, they flee:
In the race, as in fechtin', our lads bear the gree,
O that was a bonny rinnin' o't!
For what was it but the beginnin' o't,—
Till Stuart cries—charge! then hey for the fae,
And our callans push on to the winnin' o't.
But at the first clash that the bagonets gie,
The Frenchmen they swither, they stoiter, they flee:
In the race, as in fechtin', our lads bear the gree,
O that was a bonny rinnin' o't!
138
THE COTTAR'S LAMENT.
An' maun we leave our heartsome hame,
To wander far awa';
An' maun we leave the glen sae lown,
Below the birken shaw;
To wander far awa';
An' maun we leave the glen sae lown,
Below the birken shaw;
An' maun our wee things nae mair wade,
An' paidle in the burn;
An' maun we a', baith auld and young,
Learn,—Man was made to mourn!
An' paidle in the burn;
An' maun we a', baith auld and young,
Learn,—Man was made to mourn!
In some unhalesome, darksome town,
We'll, ablins, find a bield;
An' whan we're sick, the house o' dool
Our helpless heads will shield:
We'll, ablins, find a bield;
An' whan we're sick, the house o' dool
Our helpless heads will shield:
139
But nae kent faces there will sit
To watch the troubled hour;
An' stranger's hands will turn the couch,
Wi' looks baith cauld and doure:
To watch the troubled hour;
An' stranger's hands will turn the couch,
Wi' looks baith cauld and doure:
The bloom upon the infant cheeks,
That glint wi' thoughtless glee,
Will fade right fast; and for the rose,
A sallow hue we'll see.
That glint wi' thoughtless glee,
Will fade right fast; and for the rose,
A sallow hue we'll see.
O then gif fok, wha hae the power,
This ae cot-house wad spare!
Our wee things' hands, up wa' and roof,
Wad train the woodbine fair.
This ae cot-house wad spare!
Our wee things' hands, up wa' and roof,
Wad train the woodbine fair.
A sweetbrier hedge we'd plant a' round,
To scent the gloamin' hour;
And change a cottar's hamely hut
Into a bonny bower.
To scent the gloamin' hour;
And change a cottar's hamely hut
Into a bonny bower.
O gin the fok, wha hae the power,
Wad say the word—remain;
What they in gowd and siller tint,
They wad in blessins gain:
Wad say the word—remain;
What they in gowd and siller tint,
They wad in blessins gain:
140
Aye, nameless ways, by us unseen,
God weel or wae extends,
An' aften as the deed deserves,
Heaven's dew or blight descends.
God weel or wae extends,
An' aften as the deed deserves,
Heaven's dew or blight descends.
141
THE THANKSGIVING
OFF CAPE TRAFALGAR.
Upon the high, yet gently rolling wave,The floating tomb that heaves above the brave,
Soft sighs the gale, that late tremendous roared,
Whelming the wretched remnants of the sword.
And now the cannon's peaceful summons calls
The victor bands, to mount their wooden walls,
And from the ramparts, where their comrades fell,
The mingled strain of joy and grief to swell:
Fast they ascend, from stem to stern they spread,
And crowd the engines whence the lightnings sped:
The white-robed Priest his upraised hands extends;
Hushed is each voice, attention leaning bends;
Then from each prow the grand hosannas rise,
Float o'er the deep, and hover to the skies.
142
And tears of love celestial joys exclude.
The wounded man, who hears the soaring strain,
Lifts his pale visage, and forgets his pain;
While parting spirits, mingling with the lay,
On halleluiahs wing their heavenward way.
143
TO MY SON.
Twice has the sun commenced his annual round,Since first thy footsteps tottered o'er the ground;
Since first thy tongue was tuned to bless mine ear,
By faultering out the name to fathers dear.
O! nature's language, with her looks combined,
More precious far than periods thrice refined!
O! sportive looks of love, devoid of guile,
I prize you more than beauty's magic smile;
Yes, in that face, unconscious of its charm,
I gaze with bliss, unmingled with alarm.
Ah, no! full oft a boding horror flies
Athwart my fancy, uttering fateful cries.
Almighty Power! his harmless life defend,
And if we part, 'gainst me the mandate send.
And yet a wish will rise,—would I might live,
Till added years his memory firmness give!
| Poems | |