Memorials of Theophilus Trinal, Student By Thomas T. Lynch. Third Edition, Enlarged |
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| XIV. | CHAPTER XIV. |
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 | CHAPTER XIV. Memorials of Theophilus Trinal, Student |  |
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CHAPTER XIV.
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CHESTNUT ROASTING.
A boyish sort of a papa,
I roasted chestnuts on the bar;
Just dark enough to see a star
It was: and Margaret by my side.
I roasted chestnuts on the bar;
Just dark enough to see a star
It was: and Margaret by my side.
We heard the pat of baby feet,
And then our lamb began to bleat
“Mamma! Mamma!” “The little sweet!
I'll go and fetch him down,” she cried.
And then our lamb began to bleat
“Mamma! Mamma!” “The little sweet!
I'll go and fetch him down,” she cried.
The firelight flickering on her chair,
Her gentle footfall on the stair,
More loving made the silent air,
And hush'd my heart to Memory.
Her gentle footfall on the stair,
More loving made the silent air,
And hush'd my heart to Memory.
Just then a chestnut split apart,
And sent a quiver through my heart;
So quick there came—it made me start—
A vision of the days gone by.
And sent a quiver through my heart;
So quick there came—it made me start—
A vision of the days gone by.
I saw myself and little brother
Off'ring a chestnut to our mother;
Two sisters, kissing one another,
Were near, and it was Christmastide.
Off'ring a chestnut to our mother;
Two sisters, kissing one another,
Were near, and it was Christmastide.
And then I saw all these but one—
The fire and candlelight were gone—
I was my mother's only son,
And we were on a common wide.
The fire and candlelight were gone—
I was my mother's only son,
And we were on a common wide.
Dark garments on a sunny day
We wore, and staidly paced our way,
Not wholly sad, and yet not gay,
Till to a country home we came.
We wore, and staidly paced our way,
Not wholly sad, and yet not gay,
Till to a country home we came.
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Strange medley now!—A wedding bell,
A ship, a family farewell—
A curtain'd bed, a funeral knell—
A night awaked with ruddy flame.
A ship, a family farewell—
A curtain'd bed, a funeral knell—
A night awaked with ruddy flame.
Home of my mother's widow'd years!
Home sweeter for her sacred tears,
And safer for her many fears!
I saw thee; saw my sisters leave.
Home sweeter for her sacred tears,
And safer for her many fears!
I saw thee; saw my sisters leave.
One went to live 'neath India's sky,
Home brighter still one found on high;
My mother then had none but I
Always to love her—oft to grieve.
Home brighter still one found on high;
My mother then had none but I
Always to love her—oft to grieve.
But oh! that hasty, fiery night—
The cry, the effort, the affright,
My mother saved, my fierce delight—
I saw it, felt it all again!
The cry, the effort, the affright,
My mother saved, my fierce delight—
I saw it, felt it all again!
Her dear, revered, familiar face,
Her tremulous but firm embrace,
Our last look at the blacken'd place,
And thanks, forgetting loss and pain.
Her tremulous but firm embrace,
Our last look at the blacken'd place,
And thanks, forgetting loss and pain.
And now—a treeless town, and days
Laborious, economic ways,
A little gold, still scantier praise,
Through all how rapidly I pass'd!
Laborious, economic ways,
A little gold, still scantier praise,
Through all how rapidly I pass'd!
Thanks first to mother's piety,
Thanks then to steadfast industry,
The treeless city bloom'd for me,
And love and Margaret came at last!
Thanks then to steadfast industry,
The treeless city bloom'd for me,
And love and Margaret came at last!
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Came? Memory, give place to Fact—
Fly, sorrowy Past!—That chestnut crack'd,
My Margaret caught me in the act
Of lifting it from out the ashes;
Fly, sorrowy Past!—That chestnut crack'd,
My Margaret caught me in the act
Of lifting it from out the ashes;
For, as into the room they came,
My Margaret and her Monkey-lamb—
That is our little darling's name!—
The fire sent out its cheeriest flashes.
My Margaret and her Monkey-lamb—
That is our little darling's name!—
The fire sent out its cheeriest flashes.
“Hush, noisy one! there's Grandmamma;
I heard her knock, I'm sure she's there;
Now see if you can set a chair;
And, Margaret, ring the bell for tea.”
I heard her knock, I'm sure she's there;
Now see if you can set a chair;
And, Margaret, ring the bell for tea.”
Old greetings, ever dear and new—
“How are you all?” and “How are you?”
Were given, and down the blinds I drew,
Mid Margaret's bantering pleasantry;
“How are you all?” and “How are you?”
Were given, and down the blinds I drew,
Mid Margaret's bantering pleasantry;
For I had broke her household law—
My soil'd and smoky hands she saw!
Alas! I'm boyish, rude, and raw
In many things, I fear, as yet.
My soil'd and smoky hands she saw!
Alas! I'm boyish, rude, and raw
In many things, I fear, as yet.
Then on a plate the nuts I piled,
As Margaret cried, “Hark! there's the child
Saying, ‘Gentle Jesus, meek and mild;
Grand'ma has coax'd her little pet.”
As Margaret cried, “Hark! there's the child
Saying, ‘Gentle Jesus, meek and mild;
Grand'ma has coax'd her little pet.”
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THE TRAVELLER'S CHRISTMAS REVERIE.
I've a jest for the evening,
A story, a song;
I laugh when they tell me
I'm rough and I'm strong;
But thoughts of my childhood
When nobody's by,
Like wells in a desert,
Bring tears to my eye.
A story, a song;
I laugh when they tell me
I'm rough and I'm strong;
But thoughts of my childhood
When nobody's by,
Like wells in a desert,
Bring tears to my eye.
I've toss'd on the waters,
I've roam'd in the wood,
The force and the cunning
Of foes have withstood:
I've swum in the rapid,
I've hurl'd the harpoon,
Borne the heats of the sun
And the frosts of the moon.
I've roam'd in the wood,
The force and the cunning
Of foes have withstood:
I've swum in the rapid,
I've hurl'd the harpoon,
Borne the heats of the sun
And the frosts of the moon.
Yet I feel but a baby
Whenever I pass,
And, turning, I see
In the old chimney-glass,
That the round little face
Which used to peep in
Has lines on the brow,
And a beard on the chin.
Whenever I pass,
And, turning, I see
In the old chimney-glass,
That the round little face
Which used to peep in
Has lines on the brow,
And a beard on the chin.
Where are you, dear mother
Come, look at your child,
Who has fought up to manhood
Through chances so wild.
Where are you, dear father?
Come round to the door,
Come, bring me the pony—
Come, kiss me once more.
Come, look at your child,
Who has fought up to manhood
Through chances so wild.
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Come round to the door,
Come, bring me the pony—
Come, kiss me once more.
My life is a battle,
I wish it was won!
My life is a labour,
I wish it was done!
I feel but a coward,
Though looking so brave;
I wish I was either
In cradle or grave!
I wish it was won!
My life is a labour,
I wish it was done!
I feel but a coward,
Though looking so brave;
I wish I was either
In cradle or grave!
I've nieces and nephews,
A dozen or more;
They've never seen me,
But I've seen them, before;
For, to my eyes, they've all
But come back from the ground
Where Harry and Mary
Are sleeping so sound.
A dozen or more;
They've never seen me,
But I've seen them, before;
For, to my eyes, they've all
But come back from the ground
Where Harry and Mary
Are sleeping so sound.
Ah! Time is a robber,
And Death is his sword;
The grave is his den,
And our dear ones his hoard;
He skulks in the darkness,
And counts up his gain,—
So many are dead,
And so many in pain.
And Death is his sword;
The grave is his den,
And our dear ones his hoard;
He skulks in the darkness,
And counts up his gain,—
So many are dead,
And so many in pain.
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But why am I talking
Such infidel stuff?
I'll be like Old Christmas,
Both tender and rough;
But I will not fear Time,
For if Christ is my Lord,
Time must give up his gains,
And surrender his sword.
Such infidel stuff?
I'll be like Old Christmas,
Both tender and rough;
But I will not fear Time,
For if Christ is my Lord,
Time must give up his gains,
And surrender his sword.
Then hail to Old Christmas!
So tender and rough;
His fires and cold weather,
So genial, so bluff:
We'll mingle together—
For such are our years,
Our feasting and worship,
Our fun and our tears.
So tender and rough;
His fires and cold weather,
So genial, so bluff:
We'll mingle together—
For such are our years,
Our feasting and worship,
Our fun and our tears.
I'll not be too anxious
For comfort and pelf,
I'll not waste my pity
Too much on myself:
I know that our dear ones
In heaven are stored;
I'll fight my way thither,
I'll follow the Lord.
For comfort and pelf,
I'll not waste my pity
Too much on myself:
I know that our dear ones
In heaven are stored;
I'll fight my way thither,
I'll follow the Lord.
THE WIFE'S BIRTHDAY.
Heart! have you any thing of verse
To greet the birthday of a wife?
Tender the words must be, but terse
Suiting the common sense of life;
Rank'd in an honest, steady line,
With nothing false and nothing fine:
To greet the birthday of a wife?
Tender the words must be, but terse
Suiting the common sense of life;
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With nothing false and nothing fine:
But plain and sweet, to please a soul
Of true love's own simplicity;
The parts consistent with the whole,
The whole such as may company
Or with a prayer, or a kiss—
Heart! can you give me verse like this?
Of true love's own simplicity;
The parts consistent with the whole,
The whole such as may company
Or with a prayer, or a kiss—
Heart! can you give me verse like this?
Affection's strength you need not prove—
An overproof suggests pretence—
By warm elaborate words of love,
But with a modest confidence,
Enough, if you will for me say,
“We are more wedded every day.”
An overproof suggests pretence—
By warm elaborate words of love,
But with a modest confidence,
Enough, if you will for me say,
“We are more wedded every day.”
Count the full years we've been together,
And lest she cry, “Ah, full of care!”
Tell her that soon the winter weather
Will soften now, and spring's repair
Bring back to cheer the wayside places
Primroses with their golden faces.
And lest she cry, “Ah, full of care!”
Tell her that soon the winter weather
Will soften now, and spring's repair
Bring back to cheer the wayside places
Primroses with their golden faces.
Speak of the sure immortal light,
And say the mortal heart resembles
Unsteady water, which, though bright,
Is bright but with a beam that trembles;
That faith must tremulously shine,
And yet it is a light divine.
And say the mortal heart resembles
Unsteady water, which, though bright,
Is bright but with a beam that trembles;
That faith must tremulously shine,
And yet it is a light divine.
Hint piously that souls akin
Shall some day one another meet,
And that an early-parted twin
More blest may be, in heaven sweet,
For gentle, secret service kind,
Done to the brother left behind.
Shall some day one another meet,
And that an early-parted twin
More blest may be, in heaven sweet,
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Done to the brother left behind.
Say, too, that though Time drives the years,
God rules the paces and the path,
Oft checks the course for human fears,
And garments warm provided hath:
And as we through the stages come,
We near the gate of distant home.
God rules the paces and the path,
Oft checks the course for human fears,
And garments warm provided hath:
And as we through the stages come,
We near the gate of distant home.
O Heart! can you provide me verse
To say this, and the day to bless?
And better health, a fuller purse,
Some unexpected happiness,
These wish, too, for the day's return—
Then, Heart, my gratitude you earn.
To say this, and the day to bless?
And better health, a fuller purse,
Some unexpected happiness,
These wish, too, for the day's return—
Then, Heart, my gratitude you earn.
“These very words of your request,”
My heart replied, “these offer her;
To verse the choicest and the best
Such words of love she will prefer;
In husband's talk unto his heart
The true wife ever would have part.”
My heart replied, “these offer her;
To verse the choicest and the best
Such words of love she will prefer;
In husband's talk unto his heart
The true wife ever would have part.”
THE SINGER.
“Sing praises unto God, sing praises.”
I heard the winter weep and sob
Through hours of a moonless night,
When the blank fields and naked trees
Were suffering the wind's despite:
And yet, as on my bed I lay,
My heart, she sang in her delight.
Through hours of a moonless night,
When the blank fields and naked trees
Were suffering the wind's despite:
And yet, as on my bed I lay,
My heart, she sang in her delight.
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With change of weeks now shone the moon,
Her beam of double pureness bright
Shining on self-illumined snows
That help'd her beautify the night:
And still, as on my bed I lay,
My heart, she sang in her delight.
Her beam of double pureness bright
Shining on self-illumined snows
That help'd her beautify the night:
And still, as on my bed I lay,
My heart, she sang in her delight.
So sings she on calm summer days,
When even the very grass is still;
And when the winds that herald showers
Sound from the woods, she singeth still.
All times, she saith, their music have;
And sing she must, and sing she will!
When even the very grass is still;
And when the winds that herald showers
Sound from the woods, she singeth still.
All times, she saith, their music have;
And sing she must, and sing she will!
She finds a glory in the dark,
Another glory in the sun;
A glory in the ending year,
A glory in the spring begun;
And thus her changeful, steady song
She sings, as round the seasons run.
Another glory in the sun;
A glory in the ending year,
A glory in the spring begun;
And thus her changeful, steady song
She sings, as round the seasons run.
JANUARY VERSES.
The rough, dark-visaged winter,
Lord of each icy wind,
Is a lover of the beautiful,
And has a warm heart kind.
Lord of each icy wind,
Is a lover of the beautiful,
And has a warm heart kind.
He fashions snow-flakes delicate,
He gives the drift its curl;
He breathes a charm, and magic winds
Make the black trees bright with pearl.
He gives the drift its curl;
He breathes a charm, and magic winds
Make the black trees bright with pearl.
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His icy-finger'd frost-power—
Gentle as it is strong—
Fetters the river flow, and weaves
Ice-lace the sides along.
Gentle as it is strong—
Fetters the river flow, and weaves
Ice-lace the sides along.
In a solemn muse he paces
The silence-haunted pole,
And thoughts of wonder and pity and love
Make music in his soul.
The silence-haunted pole,
And thoughts of wonder and pity and love
Make music in his soul.
Then he besweeps the world with wind
Of soft and sorrowful tone,
That the listening heart of man may hear
A music like his own.
Of soft and sorrowful tone,
That the listening heart of man may hear
A music like his own.
And oft he comes where families
In the fire-shine circle round,
Telling the tale of wonder and hope,
And love that sought and found.
In the fire-shine circle round,
Telling the tale of wonder and hope,
And love that sought and found.
And frost-forms on his fancy crowd
Even as he stops to listen;
Then of story-breath he weaves the flowers
That on the windows glisten.
Even as he stops to listen;
Then of story-breath he weaves the flowers
That on the windows glisten.
He stands with the lonely student,
Up-gazing through the air,
At solemn heaven circling slow
Round the ever-fixèd star.
Up-gazing through the air,
At solemn heaven circling slow
Round the ever-fixèd star.
The north sky he makes merry bright,
Light upon light advances
To change and vanish, as in a heart,
Bright bewildering fancies.
Light upon light advances
To change and vanish, as in a heart,
Bright bewildering fancies.
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With cold snow the world he whitens,
Spreads clearest blue above,
Earth and the heaven agreeing fair,
Like purity and love.
Spreads clearest blue above,
Earth and the heaven agreeing fair,
Like purity and love.
And winter looks for coming spring,
As age for a daughter mild;
And hopes to die with his old white head
Reposed upon his child.
As age for a daughter mild;
And hopes to die with his old white head
Reposed upon his child.
THE PRAISE OF NOVEMBER.
November, honour'd by the few,
Though hated by the unthinking many,
'Tis hard that all the months but you
Should have their praise, and you not any!
Though hated by the unthinking many,
'Tis hard that all the months but you
Should have their praise, and you not any!
Fine things they say of April showers,
April, who hailstones at us throws;
Her blue skies and her blue-bell flowers;
Pshaw!—nothing's blue except one's nose.
April, who hailstones at us throws;
Her blue skies and her blue-bell flowers;
Pshaw!—nothing's blue except one's nose.
There's March will only snarl and fret;
Instead of rushing like a warrior
To drive off February's wet,
He cheats our hopes and leaves us sorrier.
Instead of rushing like a warrior
To drive off February's wet,
He cheats our hopes and leaves us sorrier.
The blooming May is sleety too,
And June as cold as any beauty;
Indeed, there's scarce a month but you
That can be found to do its duty.
And June as cold as any beauty;
Indeed, there's scarce a month but you
That can be found to do its duty.
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Thus if we want a Christmas snow,
In vain we trust to old December;
'Tis seen in picture-books, I know—
Who can a real white day remember?
In vain we trust to old December;
'Tis seen in picture-books, I know—
Who can a real white day remember?
January's frosts are all pretences,
Two days or three, and then a thaw;
You lose your temper and your senses
At such a fickle month and raw.
Two days or three, and then a thaw;
You lose your temper and your senses
At such a fickle month and raw.
Poor February gets much abuse,
Yet is of early months the best;
Does dirty work that's full of use,
And finishes before the rest.
Yet is of early months the best;
Does dirty work that's full of use,
And finishes before the rest.
July? Oh! yes, July is bright—
A passionate and selfish lover,
Who, kind for days of brief delight,
Can frown and thunder when they're over.
A passionate and selfish lover,
Who, kind for days of brief delight,
Can frown and thunder when they're over.
August is good, but rather dull,
Brings sometimes weeks of mopy weather;
September's harvest's seldom full,
But fails in part, or altogether.
Brings sometimes weeks of mopy weather;
September's harvest's seldom full,
But fails in part, or altogether.
October is serene and fair,
But being fair, deceit attends her;
She's fine awhile, then soon the air
Grows damp, and brings the influenza.
But being fair, deceit attends her;
She's fine awhile, then soon the air
Grows damp, and brings the influenza.
Let other months then—praised enough!
Own tardy justice to their brother;
And blamed for once, accept reproof,
And mend and comfort one another.
Own tardy justice to their brother;
And blamed for once, accept reproof,
And mend and comfort one another.
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His wind, perhaps, is sometimes rough,
For that a coat will make provision;
His fog is wholesome kind of stuff,
And suits an English disposition.
For that a coat will make provision;
His fog is wholesome kind of stuff,
And suits an English disposition.
In balminess, his finer days
Exceed the finest days of June;
Lights softer than the summer's blaze,
Soun s quieter than autumn's tune
Exceed the finest days of June;
Lights softer than the summer's blaze,
Soun s quieter than autumn's tune
Has he; and skies so pale, so tender,—
Like violets which in lonely places
Appealingly their beauty render,
And bring our love into our faces.
Like violets which in lonely places
Appealingly their beauty render,
And bring our love into our faces.
A pathos is there in November;
With many an hour hush'd and clear
He heals the wounds we long remember,
And mourns the battle of the year.
With many an hour hush'd and clear
He heals the wounds we long remember,
And mourns the battle of the year.
Healing he speaks of conflict yet,
And mourns, but whispering still of peace,
Hope sympathises with regret,
Life sacredly defies decease.
And mourns, but whispering still of peace,
Hope sympathises with regret,
Life sacredly defies decease.
A WARNING.
Woe to her, whoe'er she be,That next an Album brings to me;
About the room I'll fiercely stalk,
And make my tongue a tomahawk:
For eyes and cheeks and shining hair,
And soft entreaties I'll not care;
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Upset my inkstand on the page,
And of Album nigrum make,
That my foes may warning take.
MR. SIMPLE AND THE LADY.
An Album is the one thing white
Of which I cannot bear the sight,
Although a person most polite.
Of which I cannot bear the sight,
Although a person most polite.
Bold in ability to tease,
The crafty owner, quite at ease,
Says, “Mr. Simple, if you please,
The crafty owner, quite at ease,
Says, “Mr. Simple, if you please,
“I hope you'll be so very kind,
At the first leisure that you find,
To write just what you feel inclined,
At the first leisure that you find,
To write just what you feel inclined,
“In my poor book: I'll only plead
For a few verses, so you need
Not the least trouble take, indeed.”
For a few verses, so you need
Not the least trouble take, indeed.”
Does Madam think that verses grow
Coolly as snowdrops in the snow,
Whether the season smiles or no?
Coolly as snowdrops in the snow,
Whether the season smiles or no?
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Can I, industrious or lazy,
Bloom any where, just like a daisy,
Whether the days be bright or hazy?
Bloom any where, just like a daisy,
Whether the days be bright or hazy?
Or poems yield when ladies beg,
Each perfect as a new-laid egg,
By screwing up my brains a peg?
Each perfect as a new-laid egg,
By screwing up my brains a peg?
Or is my head a thistle-crown,
The prickly thoughts that make me frown,
To soften into floating down?
The prickly thoughts that make me frown,
To soften into floating down?
Lady, if verse I must compose,
Then I will tell you of a rose
That sometimes in my garden grows.
Then I will tell you of a rose
That sometimes in my garden grows.
Red is it when it opens first,
But scarce has into blossom burst,
When, like a heart in cares immersed,
But scarce has into blossom burst,
When, like a heart in cares immersed,
Its blushing hues become less bright,
And soon the red has faded quite,
And left it like an Album—white.
And soon the red has faded quite,
And left it like an Album—white.
But, oh! how sweet its leaves, no sweeter
A lady's Album leaves that greet her,
When old affections come to meet her.
A lady's Album leaves that greet her,
When old affections come to meet her.
The blush that on the flower shone
Has paled, while still the rose blooms on,
But fragrance lasts when both are gone.
Has paled, while still the rose blooms on,
But fragrance lasts when both are gone.
So life outlives its own decays;
But goodness has yet higher praise,
For through, and after, life it stays.
But goodness has yet higher praise,
For through, and after, life it stays.
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WORDS.
Oh! sweet, sweet words, that tenderly besprinkleOur best affections with a sunny rain,
Gentle as winds that scarce the waters wrinkle,
Or bend the grasses on the meadowy plain.
Wise is the lady that can add your sweetness
To the pure quiet of her smiling eyes,
And all the household forms of graceful neatness
That her ingenious busy hand supplies:
Still from her heart, the flower, her voice, the bee
Brings honey forth, and murmurs pleasantly.
THE HERMIT SPEAKS AT LAST.
For nineteen years the Hermit walk'd
In places sweet and shady;
And much he thought, but never talk'd,
Until there came a lady;
And then he said—what could he say
To one as bright as Cytherea,
Who sweeter made his shady way?
He said—that he was pleased to see her.
In places sweet and shady;
And much he thought, but never talk'd,
Until there came a lady;
And then he said—what could he say
To one as bright as Cytherea,
Who sweeter made his shady way?
He said—that he was pleased to see her.
“And pleased to say so, too,” said she—
Saucy she was, though good and kind;
“Ah! Hermit, beards may whiter be,
And yet no wiser grow the mind:
These nineteen years the birds have sung,
The roots have yielded flowers;
And you, with unproductive tongue,
Have lost the fruitful hours.
Saucy she was, though good and kind;
“Ah! Hermit, beards may whiter be,
And yet no wiser grow the mind:
These nineteen years the birds have sung,
The roots have yielded flowers;
And you, with unproductive tongue,
Have lost the fruitful hours.
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“The horse that never caracoles,
The goat that never capers,
Are emblems of the silly souls
That silent live, in vapours;
And speak not lest they should offend,
Nor ever laugh lest they should err;
Not knowing that mirth is wisdom's friend,
And only malice angers her.”
The goat that never capers,
Are emblems of the silly souls
That silent live, in vapours;
And speak not lest they should offend,
Nor ever laugh lest they should err;
Not knowing that mirth is wisdom's friend,
And only malice angers her.”
The reverend hermit cried, “Alack!”
And heaved a very mournful sigh—
He wish'd his tawny beard was black,
And youthful yet his faded eye:
In love he fell; and soon his love
Held a permitted sway,
For, by his side, “Papa,” she cried,
“I'm twenty-one to-day!”
And heaved a very mournful sigh—
He wish'd his tawny beard was black,
And youthful yet his faded eye:
In love he fell; and soon his love
Held a permitted sway,
For, by his side, “Papa,” she cried,
“I'm twenty-one to-day!”
“My daughter Susan! Susan dear,
My daughter! is it you?”
Said he, in joy, and half in fear.
Said she, “Papa, 'tis true:
I've tongue enough for both, Papa,
I know, but now I've broke the spell;
You'll talk to show how wise you are,
I'll listen to the tale you tell.”
My daughter! is it you?”
Said he, in joy, and half in fear.
Said she, “Papa, 'tis true:
I've tongue enough for both, Papa,
I know, but now I've broke the spell;
You'll talk to show how wise you are,
I'll listen to the tale you tell.”
THE POET'S HOUSE.
A happy poet built a house of glass,
And light from every side stream'd gently in,
But, ah! I saw a cloud of censure pass,
Which from its cold breast shot with clattering din
Hailstones, that, beating on the house, alas!
It fell to ruin, for it was too thin.
And light from every side stream'd gently in,
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Which from its cold breast shot with clattering din
Hailstones, that, beating on the house, alas!
It fell to ruin, for it was too thin.
No thoughts consoling could his woe beguile,
Till to his succour came wise Diotima;
“Arise!” cried she, with a half angry smile,
“Arise at once, and build a house sublimer;
A fabric lasting for so short a while
Is not a Poet's—only suits a rhymer.
Till to his succour came wise Diotima;
“Arise!” cried she, with a half angry smile,
“Arise at once, and build a house sublimer;
A fabric lasting for so short a while
Is not a Poet's—only suits a rhymer.
“Arise, I say, the rocky crystal take,
As clear as wisdom and as strong as love,
And through it the congenial beams will make
Their noiseless way, each like a tender dove;
The hail may buffet, but it cannot shake
A house as stable as heaven's dome above.”
As clear as wisdom and as strong as love,
And through it the congenial beams will make
Their noiseless way, each like a tender dove;
The hail may buffet, but it cannot shake
A house as stable as heaven's dome above.”
HEAR THE WEATHERCOCK!
A weathercock perch'd up on high,
While turning in the gusty sky,
Spake thus, in loud soliloquy,
“Fickle is all the world but I:
While turning in the gusty sky,
Spake thus, in loud soliloquy,
“Fickle is all the world but I:
“Even the very clock below
Is sometimes fast and sometimes slow;
But look at me and you will know
Exactly how the wind may blow.
Is sometimes fast and sometimes slow;
But look at me and you will know
Exactly how the wind may blow.
“Why, all the stars begin to fly
When little fleecy clouds run by;
But steadfast through the night am I,
And serve my master faithfully.
When little fleecy clouds run by;
But steadfast through the night am I,
And serve my master faithfully.
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“Obedient, I turn any way,
At any hour of night or day,
And never mind what people say
Who wish the wind to go or stay;
At any hour of night or day,
And never mind what people say
Who wish the wind to go or stay;
“No, not the girls so nicely drest,
Nor farmers, for the crops distrest,
Who always fancy they know best,
And will look north, though I look west.
Nor farmers, for the crops distrest,
Who always fancy they know best,
And will look north, though I look west.
“Old Hodge, that hobbles on his stick,
Old Susan, of the ague sick,
Old Lady Grumbles, with the tick,
Would like the warmest winds to pick;
Old Susan, of the ague sick,
Old Lady Grumbles, with the tick,
Would like the warmest winds to pick;
“But storms I neither seek nor shun,
I glisten in the evening sun,
Or darken ere the day is done—
And down by me the lightnings run.
I glisten in the evening sun,
Or darken ere the day is done—
And down by me the lightnings run.
“I'm wet with rain or white with snow,
Or ruddy with the morning glow;
I love the gales that noisiest grow,
And clouds that darkest shadows throw.
Or ruddy with the morning glow;
I love the gales that noisiest grow,
And clouds that darkest shadows throw.
“The sun his brightest smiles may try—
I shall not turn for him, not I!
The Wind's my Master, and that's why
I wait upon his lightest sigh:
I shall not turn for him, not I!
The Wind's my Master, and that's why
I wait upon his lightest sigh:
“And let him bluster from the sea,
Or whisper from the grassy lea—
Come as he will he pleases me,
I am the pink of constancy!”
Or whisper from the grassy lea—
Come as he will he pleases me,
I am the pink of constancy!”
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PROVIDENCE.
The very hairs upon our head are number'd,
And noticed in the change from bright to gray;
For God with multitude is not encumber'd,
Well knows each atom what his voice doth say;
Why then so fearful are we, ever counting
Our cares, our enemies, our troubles over;
Perplexing silly self with sums amounting
Unto a total only God can cover?
And noticed in the change from bright to gray;
For God with multitude is not encumber'd,
Well knows each atom what his voice doth say;
Why then so fearful are we, ever counting
Our cares, our enemies, our troubles over;
Perplexing silly self with sums amounting
Unto a total only God can cover?
Who from the dusty road would miss a sparrow,
Or in a garden hear one chirp the less?
Kind as our hearts may be our views are narrow,
But God each thing can notice and can bless:
With careful love He gives the humblest creatures
Their tiny cups of brimful happiness,
And makes them in their turns impressive preachers
Of faith, hope, charity, and good success.
Or in a garden hear one chirp the less?
Kind as our hearts may be our views are narrow,
But God each thing can notice and can bless:
With careful love He gives the humblest creatures
Their tiny cups of brimful happiness,
And makes them in their turns impressive preachers
Of faith, hope, charity, and good success.
He clothes the rugged rocks with tender mosses,
He floats the lilies on the water's brim;
He is chief Shepherd, and each lamb that crosses
The mountain steep is led and fed by Him;
He gives the butterfly and flower their beauty—
His promise in a parable they speak
To all who will fulfil the simple duty
Of trusting Him, and heavenly glory seek.
He floats the lilies on the water's brim;
He is chief Shepherd, and each lamb that crosses
The mountain steep is led and fed by Him;
He gives the butterfly and flower their beauty—
His promise in a parable they speak
To all who will fulfil the simple duty
Of trusting Him, and heavenly glory seek.
There is no searching of His understanding,
From stars to grasses He extends His care;
And weary spirits on the bright shore landing,
Find all they want is known and ready there:
We live for heaven, but earth, too, has its blessing;
If more in worth the jewel than the casket,
Yet God keeps both: our soul His grace possessing,
Corn for the body will not fail our basket.
From stars to grasses He extends His care;
And weary spirits on the bright shore landing,
Find all they want is known and ready there:
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If more in worth the jewel than the casket,
Yet God keeps both: our soul His grace possessing,
Corn for the body will not fail our basket.
PROOFS.
The man that can and will
In the rough waters swim,
And calmly keep his courage still—
We know the proof of him.
In the rough waters swim,
And calmly keep his courage still—
We know the proof of him.
The man by praise unbought,
And free from haste and whim,
Who speaks aloud his inward thought—
We know the proof of him.
And free from haste and whim,
Who speaks aloud his inward thought—
We know the proof of him.
The man who hails the morn,
While yet with dazzling rim
The day's new monarch is unborn—
We know the proof of him.
While yet with dazzling rim
The day's new monarch is unborn—
We know the proof of him.
The man who not for gold
His way will wind and trim,
But rich or poor is just and bold—
We know the proof of him.
His way will wind and trim,
But rich or poor is just and bold—
We know the proof of him.
The man who will not plead
His weary head and limb,
When love is at its sorest need—
We know the proof of him.
His weary head and limb,
When love is at its sorest need—
We know the proof of him.
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The man who hates excess,
Yet fills up to the brim
His every cup of kindliness—
We know the proof of him.
Yet fills up to the brim
His every cup of kindliness—
We know the proof of him.
The man who fears no cry
Of party-bigot grim,
But meekly stands, and sturdily—
We know the proof of him.
Of party-bigot grim,
But meekly stands, and sturdily—
We know the proof of him.
The man whose laughter rings
A puzzle to the prim;
Yet who no witty poison flings—
We know the proof of him.
A puzzle to the prim;
Yet who no witty poison flings—
We know the proof of him.
The man who plunging dives
Where others only skim,
And so at real truth arrives—
We know the proof of him.
Where others only skim,
And so at real truth arrives—
We know the proof of him.
The man who brightly shines,
Not flickering and dim,
But steady as the heavenly signs—
We know the proof of him.
Not flickering and dim,
But steady as the heavenly signs—
We know the proof of him.
This man for our behoof,
In body stout or slim,
Hath manfully wrought out the proof—
That God hath wrought in him.
In body stout or slim,
Hath manfully wrought out the proof—
That God hath wrought in him.
KING CRAS.
King Cras on his deceitful throne
Sits gravely hearing cases;
But judgment he will still postpone
Amid the moral faces
Of courtiers, who every one
Can logically say,
Why what is pleading to be done
Should not be done to-day.
Sits gravely hearing cases;
But judgment he will still postpone
Amid the moral faces
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Can logically say,
Why what is pleading to be done
Should not be done to-day.
King Cras, though he is threaten'd oft
With certain deposition,
By always speaking people soft
Can change their disposition:
He promises them much and well,
Proposes novel schemes;
If they begin their woes to tell,
King Cras, he tells his dreams.
With certain deposition,
By always speaking people soft
Can change their disposition:
He promises them much and well,
Proposes novel schemes;
If they begin their woes to tell,
King Cras, he tells his dreams.
King Cras, he likes to hear the cries
Of any one aspirant,
“Rebellion let us organize,
Our king, he is a tyrant!”
Full well he knows he is exempt
From cause of fear and sorrow,
When told the rebels their attempt
Have put off till to-morrow.
Of any one aspirant,
“Rebellion let us organize,
Our king, he is a tyrant!”
Full well he knows he is exempt
From cause of fear and sorrow,
When told the rebels their attempt
Have put off till to-morrow.
King Cras has his peculiar way
Of valuing time present;
He eats and drinks and laughs to-day,
Does all that he finds pleasant:
He has besides his daily work;
This work, it is—to borrow;
But other busi ess he will shirk—
He leaves it till to-morrow.
Of valuing time present;
He eats and drinks and laughs to-day,
Does all that he finds pleasant:
He has besides his daily work;
This work, it is—to borrow;
But other busi ess he will shirk—
He leaves it till to-morrow.
King Cras, he has a palace vast,
So rapid was the building,
That from the rougher work they pass'd
At once unto the gilding.
To-day must every nerve be strain'd
To make the gilding grand;
To-morrow might be ascertain'd
Whether the walls would stand.
So rapid was the building,
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At once unto the gilding.
To-day must every nerve be strain'd
To make the gilding grand;
To-morrow might be ascertain'd
Whether the walls would stand.
King Cras is so magnificent,
Expensive is his budget;
But when he meets his Parliament
They're never found to grudge it:
His dearest project is their pet,
They feel no hesitation,
Pleased to increase the public debt—
The sole wealth of the nation.
Expensive is his budget;
But when he meets his Parliament
They're never found to grudge it:
His dearest project is their pet,
They feel no hesitation,
Pleased to increase the public debt—
The sole wealth of the nation.
Approach the city of King Cras,
And strange is the illusion,
All fair and stately seems, whereas
All's ruin and confusion;
Mansions have but a gate and tower,
A church is but a steeple;
And roofless houses every hour
Come tumbling on the people.
And strange is the illusion,
All fair and stately seems, whereas
All's ruin and confusion;
Mansions have but a gate and tower,
A church is but a steeple;
And roofless houses every hour
Come tumbling on the people.
King Cras has many travellers
To visit his dominions,
With whom he readily confers,
And gives them his opinions;
Their interests he'll make his own,
He says, and they believe him,
And very few of them are known
Who ever after leave him.
To visit his dominions,
With whom he readily confers,
And gives them his opinions;
Their interests he'll make his own,
He says, and they believe him,
And very few of them are known
Who ever after leave him.
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King Cras, he swaggers and cajoles,
But, it must be confest,
Rules over miserable souls,
Tormented with unrest;
Some with a cureless palsy sigh,
Some of despair are dying;
The bitterer the wish to fly
The less the power of flying.
But, it must be confest,
Rules over miserable souls,
Tormented with unrest;
Some with a cureless palsy sigh,
Some of despair are dying;
The bitterer the wish to fly
The less the power of flying.
No land there is, nor any seven—
Oh, terrible to tell!—
Where people talk so much of heaven
And feel so much of hell;
No land like Crasland in the earth,
Where ruinously scatter'd,
Lie minds and hearts of choicest worth
All broken and bespatter'd.
Oh, terrible to tell!—
Where people talk so much of heaven
And feel so much of hell;
No land like Crasland in the earth,
Where ruinously scatter'd,
Lie minds and hearts of choicest worth
All broken and bespatter'd.
Crasland, the land of wealth and waste,
Of laziness and action,
Of mad delay, and madder haste,
Of boast and of distraction:
Where schemes of plenty and of peace
In war and famine finish;
And as the nation's hopes increase,
The grounds of them diminish.
Of laziness and action,
Of mad delay, and madder haste,
Of boast and of distraction:
Where schemes of plenty and of peace
In war and famine finish;
And as the nation's hopes increase,
The grounds of them diminish.
Though all is finery atop,
All's wretchedness beneath;
Of pleasure there is not a drop
But is a drop of death:
Each hour as it dribbles past
A darker sadness tinges;
And there are cruel pangs at last,
Where first were only twinges.
All's wretchedness beneath;
Of pleasure there is not a drop
But is a drop of death:
Each hour as it dribbles past
A darker sadness tinges;
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Where first were only twinges.
King Cras, he boldly perseveres
In promising and sinning;
His remedy for tears and fears
Is—something new beginning.
“All things,” he says, with royal smile,
“To-morrow will be better.”
The more with hope he can beguile,
The heavier will he fetter.
In promising and sinning;
His remedy for tears and fears
Is—something new beginning.
“All things,” he says, with royal smile,
“To-morrow will be better.”
The more with hope he can beguile,
The heavier will he fetter.
King Cras, he has been oft assail'd
With Resolutions banded;
But over millions has prevail'd
Most doughtily commanded:
His flag of truce possesses charms
To foil the bold endeavour;
Captains and men throw down their arms,
And cry, “King Cras for ever!”
With Resolutions banded;
But over millions has prevail'd
Most doughtily commanded:
His flag of truce possesses charms
To foil the bold endeavour;
Captains and men throw down their arms,
And cry, “King Cras for ever!”
King Cras was crown'd in ancient days,
And it is doubtful whether
Until the last consuming blaze,
He'll vanish altogether:
The sanguine say, “He's ruled so long
That realm of wreck and sorrow,
His health must now be far from strong,
Perhaps he'll die—to-morrow!”
And it is doubtful whether
Until the last consuming blaze,
He'll vanish altogether:
The sanguine say, “He's ruled so long
That realm of wreck and sorrow,
His health must now be far from strong,
Perhaps he'll die—to-morrow!”
| CHAPTER XIV. Memorials of Theophilus Trinal, Student | |