 | Ballads and Other Poems |  |
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LYRICS OF LIFE.
I. FATHER IS COMING.
The clock is on the stroke of six,
The father's work is done;
Sweep up the hearth, and mend the fire,
And put the kettle on.
The wild night-wind is blowing cold,
'Tis dreary crossing o'er the wold.
The father's work is done;
Sweep up the hearth, and mend the fire,
And put the kettle on.
The wild night-wind is blowing cold,
'Tis dreary crossing o'er the wold.
He is crossing o'er the wold apace,
He is stronger than the storm;
He does not feel the cold, not he,
His heart it is so warm.
For father's heart is stout and true
As ever human bosom knew.
He is stronger than the storm;
He does not feel the cold, not he,
His heart it is so warm.
For father's heart is stout and true
As ever human bosom knew.
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He makes all toil, all hardship light:
Would all men were the same!
So ready to be pleased, so kind,
So very slow to blame!
Folks need not be unkind, austere,
For love hath readier will than fear.
Would all men were the same!
So ready to be pleased, so kind,
So very slow to blame!
Folks need not be unkind, austere,
For love hath readier will than fear.
Nay, do not close the shutters, child;
For far along the lane
The little window looks, and he
Can see it shining plain.
I've heard him say he loves to mark
The cheerful fire-light through the dark.
For far along the lane
The little window looks, and he
Can see it shining plain.
I've heard him say he loves to mark
The cheerful fire-light through the dark.
And we'll do all that father likes;
His wishes are so few.
Would they were more! that every hour
Some wish of his I knew!
I'm sure it makes a happy day,
When I can please him any way.
His wishes are so few.
Would they were more! that every hour
Some wish of his I knew!
I'm sure it makes a happy day,
When I can please him any way.
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I know he's coming by this sign,
That baby's almost wild;
See how he laughs and crows and stares—
Heaven bless the merry child!
He's father's self in face and limb,
And father's heart is strong in him.
That baby's almost wild;
See how he laughs and crows and stares—
Heaven bless the merry child!
He's father's self in face and limb,
And father's heart is strong in him.
Hark! hark! I hear his footsteps now;
He's through the garden gate.
Run, little Bess, and ope the door,
And do not let him wait.
Shout, baby, shout! and clap thy hands,
For father on the threshold stands.
He's through the garden gate.
Run, little Bess, and ope the door,
And do not let him wait.
Shout, baby, shout! and clap thy hands,
For father on the threshold stands.
II. TRUE LOVE.
There are furrows on thy brow, wife,
Thy hair is thin and grey,
And the light that once was in thine eye
Hath sorrow stolen away.
Thou art no longer fair, wife,
The rose has left thy cheek,
And thy once firm and graceful form
Is wasted now and weak.
Thy hair is thin and grey,
And the light that once was in thine eye
Hath sorrow stolen away.
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The rose has left thy cheek,
And thy once firm and graceful form
Is wasted now and weak.
But thy heart is just as warm, wife,
As when we first were wed;
As when thy merry eye was bright,
And thy smooth cheek was red.
Ah! that is long ago, wife,
We thought not then of care;
We then were spendthrifts of our joy,
We now have none to spare.
As when we first were wed;
As when thy merry eye was bright,
And thy smooth cheek was red.
Ah! that is long ago, wife,
We thought not then of care;
We then were spendthrifts of our joy,
We now have none to spare.
Well, well, dost thou remember, wife,
The little child we laid,
The three-years' darling, fair and pure,
Beneath the yew-tree's shade.
The worth from life was gone, wife,
We said with foolish tongue;
But we've blessed, since then, the Chastener
Who took the child so young.
The little child we laid,
The three-years' darling, fair and pure,
Beneath the yew-tree's shade.
The worth from life was gone, wife,
We said with foolish tongue;
But we've blessed, since then, the Chastener
Who took the child so young.
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There was John, thy boast and pride, wife,
Who lived to manhood's prime—
Would God I could have died for him
Who died before his time!
There is Jane, thy second self, wife,
A thing of sin and shame;
Our poorest neighbours pity us
When they but hear her name.
Who lived to manhood's prime—
Would God I could have died for him
Who died before his time!
There is Jane, thy second self, wife,
A thing of sin and shame;
Our poorest neighbours pity us
When they but hear her name.
Yet she's thy child and mine, wife,
I nursed her on my knee,
And the evil, woful ways she took
Were never taught by thee.
We were proud of her fair face, wife;
And I have tamely stood,
And not avenged her downfall
In her betrayer's blood.
I nursed her on my knee,
And the evil, woful ways she took
Were never taught by thee.
We were proud of her fair face, wife;
And I have tamely stood,
And not avenged her downfall
In her betrayer's blood.
The thought was in my mind, wife,
I cursed him to his face:
But he was rich, and I was poor;
The rich know no disgrace.
The gallows would have had me, wife;
For that I did not care:
The only thing that saved his life
Were thoughts of thy despair.
I cursed him to his face:
But he was rich, and I was poor;
The rich know no disgrace.
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For that I did not care:
The only thing that saved his life
Were thoughts of thy despair.
There's something in thy face, wife,
That calms my maddened brain:
Thy furrowed cheek, thy hollow eye,
Thy look of patient pain;
Thy lips that never smile, wife,
Thy bloodless cheeks and wan;
Thy form which once was beautiful.
Whose beauty now is gone;
That calms my maddened brain:
Thy furrowed cheek, thy hollow eye,
Thy look of patient pain;
Thy lips that never smile, wife,
Thy bloodless cheeks and wan;
Thy form which once was beautiful.
Whose beauty now is gone;
Oh! these they tell such tales, wife,
They fill my eyes with tears.
We have borne so much together
Through these long thirty years,
That I will meekly bear, wife,
What God appointeth here;
Nor add to thy o'erflowing cup
Another bitter tear.
They fill my eyes with tears.
We have borne so much together
Through these long thirty years,
That I will meekly bear, wife,
What God appointeth here;
Nor add to thy o'erflowing cup
Another bitter tear.
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Let the betrayer live, wife;
Be this our only prayer,
That grief may send our prodigal
Back to the father's care.
Give me thy faithful hand, wife—
O God, who reign'st above,
We bless thee, in our misery,
For one sure solace—love!
Be this our only prayer,
That grief may send our prodigal
Back to the father's care.
Give me thy faithful hand, wife—
O God, who reign'st above,
We bless thee, in our misery,
For one sure solace—love!
III. THE DYING CHILD.
My heart is very faint and low;
My thoughts, like spectres, come and go;
I feel a numbing sense of woe:
Until to-day it was not so,
I know not what this change may be.
The unseen Angel of Death.
My thoughts, like spectres, come and go;
I feel a numbing sense of woe:
Until to-day it was not so,
I know not what this change may be.
It is my voice within, that calls;
It is my shadow, child, that falls
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That hems thee in like dungeon walls;
My presence that o'ershadoweth thee.
Oh, mother, leave me not alone!
I am a-feared; my heart's like stone;
A dull pain cleaveth brain and bone;
I feel a pang till now unknown—
Stay with me for one little hour!
Oh! soothe me with thy low replies;
I cannot bear the children's cries;
And, when I hear their voices rise,
Impatient tears o'erflow my eyes;
My will seems not within my power.
I am a-feared; my heart's like stone;
A dull pain cleaveth brain and bone;
I feel a pang till now unknown—
Stay with me for one little hour!
Oh! soothe me with thy low replies;
I cannot bear the children's cries;
And, when I hear their voices rise,
Impatient tears o'erflow my eyes;
My will seems not within my power.
Poor Johnny brought me flowers last night,
The blue-bell and the violet white,
Then they were pleasant to my sight;
But now they give me no delight,
And yet I crave for something still.
Reach me the merry bulfinch here,
He knows my voice; I think 't will cheer
My heart, his piping song to hear.
—Ah! I forgot that bird so dear
Was sold to pay the baker's bill.
The blue-bell and the violet white,
Then they were pleasant to my sight;
But now they give me no delight,
And yet I crave for something still.
Reach me the merry bulfinch here,
He knows my voice; I think 't will cheer
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—Ah! I forgot that bird so dear
Was sold to pay the baker's bill.
Oh! why was Mary sent away?
I only asked that she might stay
Beside me for one little day;
I thought not to be answered nay,
Just once—I would have asked no more.
—Forgive me if I'm hard to please—
Mother, weep not! Oh, give me ease!
Raise me, and lay me on thy knees!
I know not what new pangs are these;
I never felt the like before.
I only asked that she might stay
Beside me for one little day;
I thought not to be answered nay,
Just once—I would have asked no more.
—Forgive me if I'm hard to please—
Mother, weep not! Oh, give me ease!
Raise me, and lay me on thy knees!
I know not what new pangs are these;
I never felt the like before.
It is so stifling in this room—
Can it be closer in the tomb?
I feel encompassed by a gloom.
O father, father, leave the loom,
It makes me dizzy like the mill.
Father, I feel thy hot tears fall;
If thou hast thought my patience small
Forgive me! Fain would I recall
Each hasty word—I love you all:
I will be patient, will be still.
The unseen Angel of Death.
Can it be closer in the tomb?
I feel encompassed by a gloom.
O father, father, leave the loom,
It makes me dizzy like the mill.
Father, I feel thy hot tears fall;
If thou hast thought my patience small
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Each hasty word—I love you all:
I will be patient, will be still.
Be still! My pinions o'er thee spread;
A duller, heavier weight than lead
Benumbs thee, and the life hath fled.
Child, thou hast passed the portals dread,
Thou now art of the earth no more.
Arise, thy spiritual wings unfold:
Poor slave of hunger, want, and cold,
Thou now hast wealth surpassing gold,
Hast bliss no poet's tongue hath told;
Rejoice! all pain, all fear is o'er.
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IV. JUDGMENT.
Name her not, the guilty one,
Virtue turns aside for shame
At the mention of her name:
Very evilly hath she done.
Pity is on her misspent:
She was born of guilty kin,
Her life's course hath guilty been;
Never unto school she went,
And whate'er she learned was sin;
Let her die!
Virtue turns aside for shame
At the mention of her name:
Very evilly hath she done.
Pity is on her misspent:
She was born of guilty kin,
Her life's course hath guilty been;
Never unto school she went,
And whate'er she learned was sin;
Let her die!
She was nurtured for her fate;
Beautiful she was, and vain;
Like a child of sinful Cain,
She was born a reprobate.
Lives like hers the world defile;
Plead not for her, let her die
As the child of infamy,
Ignorant and poor and vile,
Plague-spot in the public eye;
Let her die!
The Heart of the Outcast.
Beautiful she was, and vain;
Like a child of sinful Cain,
She was born a reprobate.
Lives like hers the world defile;
Plead not for her, let her die
As the child of infamy,
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Plague-spot in the public eye;
Let her die!
I am young, alas! so young;
And the world has been my foe;
And by hardship, wrong, and woe,
Hath my bleeding heart been stung.
There was none, O God! to teach me
What was wrong and what was right.
I have sinned before thy sight;
Let my cry of anguish reach thee,
Piercing through the glooms of night,
God of love!
And the world has been my foe;
And by hardship, wrong, and woe,
Hath my bleeding heart been stung.
There was none, O God! to teach me
What was wrong and what was right.
I have sinned before thy sight;
Let my cry of anguish reach thee,
Piercing through the glooms of night,
God of love!
Man is cruel, and doth smother
Tender mercy in his breast;
Lays fresh burdens on the oppressed;
Pities not an erring brother,
Pities not the stormy throes
Of the soul despair hath riven,
Nor the brain to madness driven.
No one but the sinner knows
What it means to be forgiven,
God of love!
Tender mercy in his breast;
Lays fresh burdens on the oppressed;
Pities not an erring brother,
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Of the soul despair hath riven,
Nor the brain to madness driven.
No one but the sinner knows
What it means to be forgiven,
God of love!
Therefore will I put my trust
In thy merey: and I cleave
To that love which can forgive;
To that judgment which is just;
Which can pity all my weakness;
Which hath seen the life-long strife
Of passions fiercer than the knife;
Known the desolating bleakness
Of my desert path through life,
God of love!
In thy merey: and I cleave
To that love which can forgive;
To that judgment which is just;
Which can pity all my weakness;
Which hath seen the life-long strife
Of passions fiercer than the knife;
Known the desolating bleakness
Of my desert path through life,
God of love!
I must perish in my youth;
And had I been better taught,
And did virtue as it ought,
And had grey-haired wisdom ruth,
I should not have fallen so low.
'Tis the power of circumstance,
'Tis the wretch's dire mischance,
To be born to sin and woe.
Pity thou my ignorance,
God of love!
And had I been better taught,
And did virtue as it ought,
And had grey-haired wisdom ruth,
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'Tis the power of circumstance,
'Tis the wretch's dire mischance,
To be born to sin and woe.
Pity thou my ignorance,
God of love!
V. A SUNDAY.
Our six days' toil is over:This is the day of rest;
The bee hums in the clover,
The lark springs from her nest.
The old thatch, grey and mossy,
With golden stonecrop gleams;
The pigeon, sleek and glossy,
Basks in the morning beams.
All living things are cheery
Upon this Sabbath morn;
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Of singing on the thorn;
The sheep within the meadow
Like driven snow they look;
The cows stand in the shadow,
Within the willowy brook.
'Tis like that famous picture
Which came from London down:
You must go and see that picture
When next you're in the town.
And then there's that engraving
I told you of last spring:
—I've been these six months saving,
To buy that lovely thing.
Well, both of them resemble
This view at early day,
When diamond dew-drops tremble
Upon the dog-rose spray:
In both there is the river,
The church-spire, and the mill;
The aspens seem to shiver;
The cloud floats o'er the hill.
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We'll forth this merry morn,
Among the fragrant clover,
And through the summer corn:
In the great church of Nature,
Where God himself is priest,
We'll join each joyful creature,
Flower, insect, bird, and beast.
The birds praise God in singing
Among the leafy sprays,
And a loving heart is worship,
A joyful soul is praise.
Dear wife, this day of seven,
God's gift to toil, shall be
A little bit of heaven
On earth for thee and me.
'Tis I the babe will carry,
My youngest, darling boy;
And Bess and little Harry,
They will be wild with joy:
For them the wild rose mingles
With woodbine on the bough,
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Shout welcomes to them now.
Sweet wife, make haste: down yonder,
Down by the miller's farm,
Through old field-paths we'll wander,
Thy hand within my arm.
For Sunday leisure heeding,
The books I've brought are these,
The very books for reading
Beneath the summer trees.
They're by that brave young poet
Who wrote of Locksley Hall;
That charming verse—you know it—
You saw it first of all.
And 'neath the lime trees shady,
Among the summer corn,
I'll read of Burleigh's lady,
A village maiden born.
Haste, haste, and get thee ready,
The morn is wearing on;
The woodland lawns are shady;
The dew dries; let's be gone!
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