Poems and Lancashire Songs :: :: University of Virginia Library

Beneath a crag, whose forehead rude
O'erfrowns the mountain side,—
Stern monarch of the solitude,
Dark-heaving, wild, and wide,—
A floweret of the moorland hill
Peeped out unto the sky,
In a mossy nook, where a limpid rill
Came tinkling blithely by.

II

Like a star-seed, from the night-skies flung
Upon the mountains lone,
Into a gleaming floweret sprung,—
Amid the wild it shone;
And bush and brier, and rock and rill,
And every wandering wind,
In interchange of sweet good-will
And mutual love did bind.

III

In the gloaming grey, at close of day,
Beneath the deepening blue,
It lifted up its little cup,
To catch the evening dew:—
The rippling fall, the moorfowl's call,
The wandering night-wind's moan;
It heard, it felt, it loved them all,—
That floweret sweet and lone.

IV

The green fern wove a screening grove
From noontide's fervid ray;
The pearly mist of the brooklet kist
Its leaves with cooling spray;
And, when dark tempests swept the waste,
And north winds whistled wild,
The brave old rock kept off the shock,
As a mother shields her child.

V

And when it died the south wind sighed,
The drooping fern looked dim;
The old crag moaned, the lone ash groaned,
The wild heath sang a hymn;
The leaves crept near, though fallen and sere,
Like old friends mustering round;
And a dew-drop fell from the heather-bell
Upon its burial ground.

VI

For it had bloomed content to bless
Each thing that round it grew;
And on its native wilderness
Its store of sweetness strew:
Fair link in nature's chain of love,
To noisy fame unknown,
There is a register above,
E'en when a flower is gone.

VII

So, lovingly embrace thy lot,
Though lowly it may be,
And beautify the little spot
Where God hath planted thee:
To win the world's approving eyes
Make thou no foolish haste,—
Heaven loves the heart that lives and dies
To bless its neighbouring waste.

TIME IS FLYING.

I

Time is flying!
Are we hieing
To a brighter, better bourne?
Or, unthinking,
Daily sinking
Into night that knows not morn?

II

Oh, what is life
But duty's strife?
A drill; a watchful sentry's round;

A brief campaign
For deathless gain;
A bivouac on battle-ground:

III

An arrow's flight;
A taper's light;
A fitful day of sun and cloud;
A flower; a shade;
A journey made
Between a cradle and a shroud.

IV

Oh, what is death?
A swordless sheath;
A jubilee; a mother's call;
A kindly breast,
That offers rest
Unto the poorest of us all;

V

The wretched's friend;
Oppression's end;
The outcast's shelter from the cold;
To regions dim,
The portal grim
Where misers leave their loads of gold;

VI

A voyage o'er;—
A misty shore,
With time-wrecked generations strown;
Where each mad age
Has spent its rage
Upon a continent unknown.

THE MOORLANDS.

I

Sing, hey for the moorlands, wild, lonely, and stern,
Where the moss creepeth softly all under the fern;
Where the heather-flower sweetens the lone highland lea,
And the mountain winds whistle so fresh and so free!
I've wandered o'er landscapes embroidered with flowers,
The richest, the rarest, in greenest of bowers,
Where the throstle's sweet vesper, at summer day's close,

Shook the coronal dews on the rim of the rose;
But, oh for the hills where the heather-cock springs
From his nest in the bracken, with dew on his wings!
Sing, hey for the moorlands!

II

I've lingered by streamlets that water green plains,
I've mused in the sunlight of shady old lanes,
Where the mild breath of evening came sweetly and slow
From green nooks where bluebells and primroses grow;
But, oh the wild hills that look up at the skies,
Where the green bracken wave to the wind as it flies!
Sing, hey for the moorlands!

III

Away with the pride and the fume of the town,
And give me a lodge in the heatherland brown;
Oh there, to the schemes of the city unknown,
Let me wander with freedom and nature, alone;
Where wild hawks with glee on the hurricane sail,
And the mountain crags thrill to the rush of the gale!
Sing, hey for the moorlands!

IV

In glens which resound to the waterfall's song,
My spirit should play the wild echoes among:
I'd climb the dark steep to my lone mountain home,
And, heartsome and poor, o'er the solitude roam:
And the keen winds that harp on the heathery lea
Should sing the grand anthem of freedom to me!
Sing, hey for the moorlands!

TO THE ROSE-TREE ON MY WINDOW-SILL.

I

Dark is the lot of him with heart so dull
By sensual appetite's unbridled sway,
As to be blind unto the beautiful
In common things that strew the common way.
Trailing the dusty elements of death,
He crawls, in his embruted blindness, proud;
To perishable ends he draws his breath;
His life, a funeral passing through a crowd;
His soul, a shrunken corpse within; his body, but a shroud.

II

Nature! kind handmaid of the thoughtful soul,
Be thy sweet ministrations ever mine;
Thy angel-influences keep me whole,
And lead my spirit into things divine:
Holding thy lovely garment, when a child,
I walked in simple ecstasy with thee;
And now, with sadder heart, and travel-toiled,
Thou hast a sanctuary still for me,
Where oft I find repose from earthly care and misery.

III

In cities proud, by grovelling factions torn,
Where glittering pomp and stony-eyed despair,
Murder and stealth, the lordly and the lorn,
Squalor and wealth, divide the Christian air;—
Where prowling outcasts hug with ignorant rage
Some sense of wrong that smoulders deep within;—

Where mean intrigues their furtive battles wage;
Where they are wrong that lose, and they are right that win,—
And drowning virtue struggles with the waves of sin;—

IV

Where drooping penitence, and pious pride;
The sons of labour and the beasts of prey;
The spoilers and the spoiled, are side by side,
Jostling unkindly on the crowded way;—
E'en there sweet Nature sings her heaven-taught songs,—
Unheeded minstrel of the fuming street,—
For ever wooing its discordant throngs
With sounds and shapes that teem with lessons meet,—
Like thee, fair rose-tree, on my window blooming sweet.

V

Oh, floral comrade of my lonely hours,
Sweet soother of my saddest mood,
The summer's glow, the scents of summer flowers,
Are filling all my solitude:
The thick-leaved groves, whose sylvan rooflets ring
With blending lyrics poured from every tree,
The sleepy streams where swallows dip the wing,
The wild flowers, nodding in the wind, I see,—
And hear the murmurous music of the roving bee.

VI

Taking my willing fancy by the hand,
Thou leadest me through nature like a child,
Where rustling forests robe the pleasant land,
And lonely streamlets ripple through the wild;—

Through verdant nooks, where, on the long, cool grass
The lingering dews light up the leafy shade,
In dreamy bliss, my wandering footsteps pass,
Sweeping from many a lush and bending blade
The load of liquid pearls that such a twinkling made.

VII

Now, through a sunny glade, away, away,—
Oh, let me wander thus a while with thee,—
By many a pleasant streamlet we will play,
And gad o'er many a field in careless glee:
Thus gently, thou, when on life's pathway rude
My heart grows faint as gloomy shadows lower,
Leadest me back into a happier mood,
By some sweet, secret, heaven-inspiréd power,
That lurks in thy fringed leaf and orient-tinted flower.

VIII

My spirit bursts its prison-house of care,
And dreamily, with lingering feet, I stray
Where garden odours fill the golden air,
And blossoms tremble to the wild birds' lay;—
O'er cool moist slopes, beneath the woodland shade,
Where the blithe throstle in his chamber sings,
Then wonders at the music he has made;—
Where the lush bluebell's little censer swings,
And pleasant incense to the wandering breezes flings.

IX

Upon a shady bank, as I recline,
Gazing, with silent joy, the landscape o'er,
I feel its varied glories doubly mine—
My heart's inheritance, my fancy's store;

Above me waves a roof of green and gold—
Delightful shelter from the noontide heat;
Beyond, a wandering streamlet I behold,
Where wind and sunlight on the waters meet
In silvery shimmerings, past description sweet.

X

I hear the skylark, poised on trembling wings,
Teaching the heavenly quire his thrilling lay,
All nature seems to listen as he sings,
Hushed into stillness by his minstrelsy;—
As the blithe lyric streams upon the lea,
Steeping the wild flowers in melodious rain,
The very dewdrops, dancing to the glee,
Look up with me, but, like me, look in vain
To find the heaven-hid singer of that matchless strain.

XI

Now, on rough byways, sauntering through the sun,
From fertile haunts of man I gladly stray,
Up to the sweet brown moorlands, bleak and dun,
While rindling waters tinkle o'er my way;
Where the free eagle lords it in the sky;
Where red grouse, springing from the heath'ry steep,
Wake the wild echoes with their lonely cry;
And whistling breezes unrestrainèd sweep
O'er the old hills, that in the sunlight seem asleep.

XII

O'er yon wild height, between the rugged steeps,
From crag to crag, in many an airy bound
Of mighty glee, the mountain torrent leaps,
And the lone ravine trembles to the sound;

Through cave and cleft, along the narrow glen,
The rushing thunders rage, and roll afar,
Like untamed lions struggling in their den,—
With unavailing rage,—each rocky scar
Hurls back the prisoned roar of elemental war.

XIII

As homeward, down a winding path I stray,
Where mazy midges in the twilight throng:
In plaintive fits of liquid melody,
I hear the lonely ousel's vesper-song;
Odours of unseen flowers the air pervade;
As I sit listening on a wayside mound,
Watching the daylight and its business fade,
The evening stillness fills with weird sound,
And distant waters sing their ancient choral round.

XIV

Mild evening brings the gauzy fringe of dreams
That trails upon the golden skirts of day;

And here and there a cottage candle gleams
With cheerful twinkle o'er my drowsy way;
As flaxen-headed elves, from rambles wild,
With straggling footsteps, to their mothers hie
With woodland trophies, and with garments soiled,
And tired and pleased,—they know not, care not why;—
So from my wand'rings I return, as daylight quits the sky.

XV

Oh, flowery leader of these fancy flights,
Epitome of Nature's charms to me,
Filling my spirit with such fine delights
As I can never more repay to thee,—
For my behoof thou donn'st the summer's sheen,
Smiling benignly on thy prison-spot,

Though exiled from that native nook of green
Where playmate zephyrs seek through bower and grot,
Through all the summer roses seek, but find thee not.

XVI

Fair lamp of beauty, in my cloistral shade,
Through brief at best the time thou hast to shine,
By an almighty artist thou wert made,
And touched with light eternally divine.
Like a caged bird, in this seclusion dim,—
Where slanting sunbeams seldom find a way,—
Singing with patient joy a silent hymn,
That wafts my thought from worldly care away
Into the realms of Nature's endless holiday.

XVII

Sweet specimen of Nature's mystic skill,
Dost thou know aught of human joys and woes?
Can'st thou be gladdened by the glad heart's thrill,
Or feel the writhing spirit's silent throes?
To me thou art a messenger of love—
A leaf of peace amid the storms of woe—
Dropt in my path by that celestial Dove
Who made all things in heaven and earth below,
That wandering man the beautiful and true might know.

KEEN BLOWS THE NORTH WIND.

I

Keen blows the north wind; the woodlands are bare;
The snow-shroud lies white on the flowerless lea;
The red-breast is wailing the death of the year,
As he cowers his wing in the frozen haw-tree.

II

The leaves of the forest, now summer is o'er,
Lie softly asleep in the lap of decay;
And the wildflower rests on the snow-covered shore,
Till the cold night of winter has wandered away.

III

Oh, where are the small birds that sang in yon bowers
When last summer smiled on the green-mantled plain?
Oh, where do they shelter in winter's bleak hours?
Will they come back with spring, to delight me again?

IV

But I may be gone, never more to behold
The wildflowers peep, when the winter has fled;
The chill drifts of sorrow the wanderer may fold,
And the sunshine of spring melt the snow on his bed.

V

But come, ye sweet warblers, and sport in the spray,
Whose tender revival I never may see;

The young buds will leap to your welcoming lay,—
'Twill cheer the sad-hearted, as oft it cheered me.

VI

And should ye, returning, then find me at rest,
Stay sometimes, and sing near the grave of a friend;
Drop a rosemary leaf on his turf-covered breast,
And rejoice that his troublesome journey's at end.

THE CAPTAIN'S FRIENDS.

I

I wandered down by yonder park one quiet autumn day,
When many a humble traveller was going on the way;
And there I saw a company of neighbours great and small,
All gathered round an ancient gate that leads unto the hall.

II

The faded leaves that rustled in the mournful autumn wind
Awoke in me a train of thought that saddened all my mind;

And through the crowd of anxious folk there went a smothered wail,
So I sat me down upon a stone and hearkened to the tale.

III

The sturdy farmer from his fields had hurried to the place,
The cripple on his crutches, and the sick with pallid face;
The poor old dame had wandered with her blind man to the ground,
And the lonely widow, weeping, with her children gathered round.

IV

The well remembered beggar, too, was there—but not to beg;
And the stiff old Chelsea pensioner, upon a wooden leg:

From hamlet, fold, and lonely cot, the humble poor were there,
Each bringing in his moistened eye a tributary tear.

V

Up spake the sturdy farmer to the porter, and he said,
“What news is this that's going round? They say the Captain's dead!”
The quaint old porter laughed, “Aha! Thank God, it isn't true!
It's but the Captain's dog that's dead—they called it ‘Captain’ too!”

VI

Then sprang the cripple on his crutch, and nearly came to ground;
The blind man wandered to and fro, and shook their hands all round;

The dame took snuff, the sick man smiled, and blest the happy day;
And the widow kissed her young ones, as she wiped their tears away.

VII

Up rose the children's voices, mingling music with the gale,
And the beggar's dog romped with them, as he barked and wagged his tail;
The farmer snapt his thumbs, and cried, “Come on, I'll feast you all!”
And the stark old soldier with his stick kept charging at the wall.

VIII

So, now the Captain's dog is dead and sleeping in the ground,
A kind old master by the grave bemoans his gallant hound;

He says, “My hair is white and thin! I have not long to stay!
And, oh, my poor old dog, how I shall miss thee on the way!”

IX

Then here's to every noble heart that's gentle, just, and brave,
That cannot be a tyrant, and that grieves to see a slave.
God save that good old Captain long, and bring his soul to joy;—
The countryside will lose a friend the day he comes to die.

NOW SUMMER'S SUNLIGHT GLOWING.

I

Now, summer's sunlight, glowing,
Streaks the woodland shade with gold;
And balmy winds are blowing
Softly o'er the moorland-wold;
Now sweet smells the bluebell,
'Neath the valley's leafy screen;
And thick grows the wild rose,
Clust'ring o'er the hedges green.
The fern adorns the moorland steep;
The smiling fields are flowered o'er;
And modest little daisies peep
Like children at a mother's door!

II

From dewy meadows springing,
Yonder blinding skies among,
The poet-lark is singing,
As if his heart was made of song!
While gladly and madly
In every grove the wild birds vie,
All tingling and mingling
In tipsy routs of lyric joy!
My throbbing heart with every part
Is dancing to the chorus near,—
The gush, the thrill,—the wizard trill—
Like drops of water tinkling clear!

III

The cottage matron, knitting
In her little garden, sings,
As wild birds, round her flitting,
Fan the blossom with their wings;

And twining, combining,
The honeysuckle and the rose,
Sweet shading, and braiding,
Round her winking lattice goes;
And wild bees through the flowers roam—
The little happy buzzing thieves!—
Here and there, with busy hum,
Rifling all the honeyed leaves.

IV

Now, hamlet urchins roaming,
All the sunny summer day,
From dewy morn till gloaming,
Through the rustling wildwood stray;
There blithely and lithely,
By warbling brook and sylvan grot,
They ramble and gambol,
All the busy world forgot;—

Like birds that wing the sunny air,
And warble in the tangled wild,
Unhaunted by the dreams of care,—
Oh, to be again a child!

V

Sweet scents and sunshine blending;
The wildwoods, in their leafy pride,
To the gentle south wind bending;—
Oh, the bonny summer tide!
The tinkling, the twinkling,
Where little limpid rivers lave;
The sipping, the dipping
Of wild-flowers in the gilded wave;—
The fruitful leas, the blooming trees,
The pleasant fields, embroidered fair;
The wild birds' little melodies,
Scattering gladness everywhere!

THE WORLD.

I

This foolish world doth wink
Its cunning lid;
And, when it thinks, it thinks
Its thoughts are hid.

II

Its piety's a screen
Where vice doth hide;
Its purity's unclean;
Its meekness, pride.

III

Its charity's a bait
To catch a name;
Its kindness covers hate;
Its praise is blame.

IV

Its wisdom soweth seeds
Which follies prove;
And its repentance needs
Repenting of.

V

Its learning's empty talk;
Its heart is cold;
Its church is an exchange;
Its god is gold.

VI

Its pleasures all are blind,
And lead to pain;
Its treasures are a kind
Of losing gain.

VII

Lust moves it more than love,
Fear more than shame;
Its best ambitions have
A grovelling aim.

VIII

Its laws are a disgrace;
Its lords are slaves;
Its honours are misplaced,
E'en on our graves.

IX

Some sorrow doth attend
Its happiest dreams;
And rottenness doth end
Its rotten schemes.

X

Oh, cure this moral madness—
This soul-disease;
Shew us that Vice brings sadness,
And Virtue, ease.

XI

And teach us in the hour
Of Sin's dismay,
That Truth's the only flower
Without decay.

TO A MARRIED LADY.

I

Ah, this wild voyage o'er the sea of life
Needs all the help that heaven to earth can give;
Through its dark storms, and shoals, and battle-strife
God must be pilot to the ships that live.

II

Happy the heart that finds a haven of love,
Where in the tempest it can sweetly moor,
And taste, below, the bliss that but above,
Is ever stainless, and is ever sure.

III

And blest the hearth where pure affections glow—
The husband's and the father's best retreat;
Where heavenward souls in one direction grow,
With darling tendrils round them twining sweet.

IV

Such be thy home; through earth's mutations strange,
A garden, where the flowers of heaven grow;
And, sheltered there from blight, through every change,
Its loves, its hopes, no touch of ruin know.

V

May Time, whose withering finger ever brings,
To Nature's best the doom of sure decline,
Float over thee with gently-fanning wings,
And find the twilight of thy life divine.

VI

And, ever hand in hand, along your path,—
For thee and thine thus doth the poet pray,—
That ye may walk in joy from life to death,
And earth's night be the dawn of heaven's day.

CULTIVATE YOUR MEN.

I

Till as ye ought your barren lands,
And drain your moss and fen;
Give honest work to willing hands,
And food to hungry men;
And hearken—all that have an ear—
To this unhappy cry,—
“Are poor folks' only chances here
To beg, to thieve, or die?”

II

With kindly guerdon this green earth
Rewards the tiller's care,
And to the wakening hand gives forth
The bounty slumbering there;

But there's another, nobler field
Big with immortal gain,—
The morasses of mind untilled;—
Go,—cultivate your men!

III

Oh, ponder well, ye pompous men,
With Mammon-blinded eyes,
What means the poverty and pain
That moaning round you lies:
Go, plough the wastes of human mind
Where weedy ignorance grows,—
The baleful deserts of mankind
Would blossom like the rose.

IV

But penny-wise, pound-foolish thrift
Deludes this venal age;
Blind self's the all-engrossing drift,
And pelf, the sovereign rage.

E'en in the Church, the lamp grows dim,
That ought to light to heaven,
And that which fed its holy flame,
To low ambition's given.

V

Just retribution hovers near
This play of pride and tears;
To heaven all worldly cant is clear,
Whatever cloak it wears;
And high and low are on one path,
Which leads into the grave,—
Where false distinctions flit from death,
And tyrant blends with slave.

OLD MAN'S SONG.

I

Oh! sweetly the morning of childhood
Awoke me to careless delight;
And blithe as a bird of the wildwood
I played in its beautiful light;
The world was a magical treasure
That filled me with wonder and joy;
And I fluttered from pleasure to pleasure,
Delighted—I couldn't tell why:
If I thought of to-morrow,
I dreamt not of sorrow;
And I smiled as the day went by.

II

Gay youth, with its glittering hours,
Came frolicking on, full of glee,
Where hope's charming sunlighted bowers
Were thickly in blossom for me;—
My heart was an harp whose emotion
Awoke to all beautiful things,
And love was the dearest devotion
That played in its tremulous strings:
So, I dallied, delighted,
And carelessly slighted
Old Time and his rustling wings.

III

Now, the noontide of life has gone by me,
The visions of morning have died;
And the world is beginning to try me
With struggles that chasten my pride;—

As the twilight of time, softly stealing,
Comes o'er me with shadows of grey,
I feel the sad truth now revealing,—
It draws to the close of the day;
And thoughtfully eyeing
The past, I sit sighing,
And wondering how long I shall stay.

BIDE ON.

I

When thy heart 'neath its trouble sinks down,
And the joys that misled it are gone,—
When the hopes that inspired it are flown,
And it gropes in the darkness alone,—
Let faith be thy cheer,
Scorn the whispers of fear,
Be righteous, and bravely bide on.

II

When fancy's wild meteor-ray
Allures thee from duty to roam,

Beware its bewildering way,
And rest with thy conscience at home;—
Give ear to its voice;
Let the stream of thy joys
From the fountain of purity come.

III

When, by failure and folly borne down,
The future looks hopelessly drear;
And each day, as it flies, with a frown,
Tells how helpless, how abject we are;
Let nothing dismay
Thy bold effort to-day;—
Be patient, and still persevere.

IV

Be steady, in joy and in sorrow;
Be truthful, in great and in small;

Fear nothing but sin, and each morrow
Heaven's blessing upon thee shall fall:
In thy worst tribulation
Shun low consolation,
And trust in the God that sees all.

THE MOORLAND WITCH.

I

There lives a lass on yonder moor—
She wears a gown of green;
She's handsome, young, and sprightly,
With a pair of roguish een:
She's graceful as the mountain doe
That snuffs the forest air;
And she brings the smell of the heather-bell
In the tresses of her hair.

II

'Twas roaming careless o'er the hills,
As sunlight left the sky,
That first I met this moorland maiden
Bringing home her kye:

Her native grace, her lovely face,
The pride of art outshone;—
I wondered that so sweet a flower
Should blossom thus alone.

III

Alas, that ever I should meet
Those beaming eyes of blue,
That round about my thoughtless heart
Their strong enchantment threw.
I could not dream that falsehood lurked
In such an angel smile;
I could not fly the fate that lured
With such a lovely wile.

IV

And when she comes into the vale,
To try her beauty's power,
She'll leave a spell on many a heart
That fluttered free before.

But, oh, beware her witching smile,—
'Tis but a fowler's snare;
She's fickle as the mountain wind
That frolics with her hair!

THE CHURCH CLOCK.

I

Oh thou, who dost these pointers see,
And hear'st the chiming hour,
Say, do I tell the time to thee,
And tell thee nothing more;—
I bid thee mark life's little day
By strokes of duty done;—
A clock may stop at any time,
But time will travel on.

II

I am a preacher to a few,—
A servant unto all,
As here I stand tick, ticking,
Like a death-watch in a wall;

And, it were well that those who see
These fingers gliding on,
Should think a moment, now and then,
How fast the moments run.

III

There's some of you are wealthy,
And some of you are proud;
And some are poor, and some are sad,
And waiting for a shroud;—
Be patient yet a while, for see
This little yard below,—
The man who goes the longest way,
Has not so far to go.

IV

A christ'ning; then, a wedding comes;
And then, a passing bell;
'Tis just the ancient tale that time
Has always had to tell:

The very clock that marks the hour,
With ticking wears away;
The gladdest pulse of life contains
The music of decay.

GOD BLESS THEE, OLD ENGLAND!

I

God bless thee, old England, the home of the free;
A garden of roses, begirt by the sèa!
The wild waves that fondle thy darling green shore
Shall sing thy proud story till time be no more;
And nations unborn, looking over the wave,
Shall tell of the isle of the free and the brave,
Where liberty's battle, through ages of old,
Was fought in the hearts of the just and the bold;—
Old England, the Queen of the Sea!

II

May truth ever flourish thy children among;
And deeds that awaken the spirit of song
Inspire future bards with emotion divine,
Till earth has no anthem so noble as thine!
Green cradle of manliness, beauty, and worth!
May thy name be a watchword of joy in the earth
When I have long mouldered beneath the green sod,—
A country devoted to freedom and God;—
Old England, the Queen of the Sea!

CHRISTMAS SONG.

I

In the dark-clouded sky no star shews a gleam;
The drift-laden gale whistles wild in the tree;
The ice-mantle creeps o'er the murmuring stream,
That glittering runs through the snow-covered lea;
But, hark! the old bells fling the news to the wind!—
Good Christians awake to their genial call;—
The gale may blow on, we'll be merry and kind;—
Blithe yule, and a happy new year to us all!

Bring in the green holly, the box, and the yew,
The fir, and the laurel, all sparkling with rime;
Hang up to the ceiling the mistletoe-bough,
And let us be jolly another yule-time!

II

While, garnished with plenty, together we meet
In carolling joy, as the glad moments flee,
Thus sheltered away from the frost and the sleet,
With friends all around us, in festival glee,
We'll still keep the heavenly lesson in mind,—
A gentle Redeemer was born at this tide;
The wind may blow keenly, but we will be kind,
And think of the poor folk that shiver outside.
Bring in the green holly, the box, and the yew,
The fir, and the laurel, all sparkling with rime;
Hang up to the ceiling the mistletoe-bough,
And let us be jolly another yule-time!

III

He's a cur who can bask in the fire's cheery light,
And hearken, unheeded, the winter wind blow,
And care not a straw for the comfortless wight
Who wanders about in the frost and the snow;
But we'll think of the mournful the while we are glad;
Our hearts shall be kind as the winter is keen;
And we'll share our good cheer with the poor and the sad,
Who sorrow and struggle in corners unseen.
Bring in the green holly, the box, and the yew,
The fir, and the laurel, all sparkling with rime;
Hang up to the ceiling the mistletoe-bough,
And let us be jolly another yule-time!

LOVE AND GOLD.

I

We were but poor young people,
My Margaret and I;
And well I knew she loved me,
Although her looks were shy:
But I longed to see strange countries,
That lie beyond the main;
And when I'd gathered riches,
Come flaunting home again.

II

When I parted from my true love,
A rover's fate to try,
She was full of strange forebodings,
And tears were in her eye.

Pale looks of silent sorrow
She gave to all my glee,
When I said, “I'll win some gold, love,
And bring it back to thee!”

III

But my heart was proudly beating,
And I was in my prime,
So, in chase of golden treasure,
I went from clime to clime;
In giddy chase of pleasure,
Beyond the foaming sea,
All heedless of the maiden
Who pined at home for me.

IV

So I sought for gold, and won it,
And still I wanted more,
And as my treasure gathered,
Was poorer than before:

For it made me proud and heartless;
It made me hard and cold;
It made me slight my true love—
That cursèd yellow gold!

V

But, in spite of all my riches,
I was growing old and worn;
So I took a ship for England,
The place where I was born;
I took a ship for England,
With all my golden store,
To dazzle those that knew me
Full thirty years before.

VI

When I landed with my gold-bags,
The friends of old were gone;
And, in spite of all my riches,
I felt myself alone.

Though strangers fluttered round me
I knew their hearts were cold;
And I sought in vain the true love,
That's never bought with gold.

VII

My skin was parched and yellow,
My hair was thin and grey,
And she that loved me dearly,
Was sleeping in the clay.
She had long been in the churchyard,
Sleeping sweet and sound;—
And I was but an outcast
Upon the lonely ground.

VIII

Now to her grave I wander,
And sit upon the stone,
Where all is still and silent,—
Except my lonely moan;

But I shall soon be going,
For I am ill and old;
And my gold will deck the mourners,
Who wish my body cold.

ALL ON A ROSY MORN OF JUNE.

I

All on a rosy morn of June,
When farmers make their hay,
Down by yon bonny woodland green
A milking maid did stray;
And oh, but she was sweet and fair,—
The flower of all the vale;
In her hand a wild white rose she bare,
And on her head a pail.

II

Across the fields, as she did rove,
The pretty maiden sang
A plaintive lay of tender love,
That through the valley rang:

Blithe as a linnet on the spray,
Among the wildwood green,
She lilted on her flowery way,—
And vanished from the scene.

III

When next I saw that pleasant vale—
Twelve moons had wandered by—
A matron told her hapless tale
With tear-drops in her eye;
For there had been, with winsome wile,
A careless-hearted lad,
And plucked the flower whose lovely smile
Made all the valley glad.

IV

The woods were gay and green again;
The sun was smiling on;
But the charmer of the rural glen
For evermore was gone:

Now, mouldering near the churchyard way,
All stricken in her pride,
The white rose of the valley lay,
With an infant by her side.

GLAD WELCOME TO MORN'S DEWY HOURS.

I

Glad welcome to morn's dewy hours
The birds warble blithe to the gale,
While the sun shimmers through the green bowers,
And plays with the stream in the vale;
But, as clouds o'er the heavens come streaming,
Then silence, with shade, creeps along:
They pass,—and again the woods, gleaming,
At once wake to sunlight and song.

II

So I sport, till the storm gathers o'er me;
Then, pensively hushed in the gloom,

My heart looks around and before me
For something the shade to illume;
Yet though, folding the wings of my gladness,
I'm mute in the hurricane's howl,
Thou com'st, through the gloomiest sadness,
A sunbeam of joy to my soul.

III

Fair star of remembrance, endearing,
Still lend me thy brilliant ray,
My wanderings chastening and cheering,
Till life, with its light, fade away;
And, oft as my pathway thou greetest,
I'll waken my harp-string to thee,
And sing how the brightest and sweetest
Are always the swiftest to flee.

ALAS! HOW HARD IT IS TO SMILE.

I

Alas! how hard it is to smile
When all within is sad;
And rooted sorrow to beguile
By mingling with the glad.
The heart that swells with grief disdains
Pretension's mean alloy,
And feels far less its keenest pains
Than mockeries of joy.

II

How few among the thoughtless crowds
Can tell the jealous care
With which a gentle spirit shrouds
Its pangs from worldly glare.

The harp of sorrow wooes the touch
Of sympathy alone;
Its trembling fibres shrink from such
As cannot feel their tone.

III

The gay may sport upon the wave
Of life's untroubled tides,—
Like birds that warble on a grave,
They dream not what it hides;
But pleasure's wretched masquerade
Wakes sorrow's keenest throe;—
The saddest look is not so sad
As the strainèd smile of woe.

YE GALLANT MEN OF ENGLAND.

I

Ye gallant men of England,
Of noble races bred,
Remember how your fathers
For liberty have bled;
Stand to your ancient banners,
In a thousand battles torn—
The banners of Great Britain,
To a thousand victories borne.

II

When flags of tyrants, flying,
Insult the air again,
And freedom's sons are dying
Upon the bloody plain,

Rush to the gory havoc
With all your native might,
And carve your way to justice,
Or perish for the right.

III

Ye sons of ancient heroes,
And heirs of England's fame,
Wherever danger threatens
Be worthy of your name;
And hurl each bold aggressor
Into his native lair,
To rule the slaves and traitors
That crawl around him there.

IV

Though knaves and cowards tremble
Beneath despotic sway,
And fools to wily tyrants
Resign, a willing prey,

The race of island lions,
Bred by the Western main,
The freedom won by battle
By battle can maintain.

HERE'S TO MY NATIVE LAND.

I

Here's to my native land;
And here's to the heathery hills,
Where the little birds sing on the blooming boughs,
To the dancing moorland rills.

II

There's a lonely little cot,
And it stands by a spreading tree,
Where a kind old face has looked from the door
Full many a time for me;—

III

On the slope of a flowery dell,
And hard by a rippling brook;
And it's oh for a peep at the chimney-top,
Or a glint of the chimney-nook!

IV

And there is a still churchyard,
Where many an old friend lies;
And I fain would sleep in my native ground
At last, when they close my eyes.

V

When summer days were fine,
The lads of the fold and I
Have roved the moors, till the harvest moon
Has died in the morning sky.

VI

Oh, it's sweet in the leafy woods
On a sunny summer's day;
And I wish I was helping the moorland lads
To tumble their scented hay!

VII

Though many a pleasant nook
In many a land I've seen,
I'd wander back to my own green hills,
If the wide world lay between.

VIII

They say there's bluer skies
Across the foaming sea:—
Each man that is born has a land of his own,
And this is the land for me!

WHAT MAKES YOUR LEAVES FALL DOWN?

I

What makes your leaves fall down,
Ye drooping autumn flowers?
What makes your green go brown,
Ye fading autumn bowers?
Oh, thou complaining gale,
That wand'rest sad and lone,
What sorrows swell the tale
Of that funereal moan?

II

Have ye felt love like mine,
And met with like return,

That ye do thus decline,
And thus appear to mourn?
Ah, no! content, methinks,
Ye glide into decay,
As pensive evening sinks,
At close of summer day.

III

Fall down, ye leafy bowers!
And drift upon the gales;
Fade on, ye sleepy flowers!
It is my heart that wails;
Blow on, thou quiet wind!
It was a fancied moan—
The echo of a mind
That feels its pleasure gone.

WHEN DROWSY DAYLIGHT.

I

When drowsy daylight's drooping e'e
Closes o'er the fading lea,—
When evening hums his vesper-song,
And twinkling dews the meadow throng,
I'll come to meet thee, Mary!

II

The lazy hours refuse to fly;
As gaudy day goes creeping by,
I count each moment with a sigh,
Until the hour of shade steals nigh,
That brings me to my Mary!

III

The flower is dear unto the lea,
The blossom to the parent tree:—
Thou'rt more than flower and leaf to me—
This heart of mine, by love of thee,
Must bloom or wither, Mary.

IV

The summer woods are waving fair;
The bluebell scents the evening air;
The small bird woos its mate to share
Its little nest and loving care:—
Oh, be my own, my Mary!

MARY.

I

My Mary is the queen of girls!
Cupid's archers round her play,
And bivouac among the curls
Which her noble head array!

II

Her modest glances to and fro—
Ah, little knows she how they win!—
Would draw an angel down below,
Or woo the fall'n to heaven again.

III

The fairest form that ever played
A poet's brightest dreams among,
Was not so lovely as the maid
That wakes this heart of mine to song.

IV

And oh, her eyes, of heavenly hue!
The mystic spell of those twin skies,—
When love's sweet witchery lights the blue,
The stainless blue of Mary's eyes!

V

Oh, Mary, such a love as mine
Idolatry can never be:—
Earth has no altar more divine,—
No purer paradise, for me.

OH! HAD SHE BEEN A LOWLY MAID.

I

Oh! had she been a lowly maid
That stole this heart of mine,
She would have filled the humblest shade
With radiance divine:—
The moon of beauty's starry skies,
She glides serenely fair,
Absorbing in her gleaming eyes
The brightest planet there.

II

Oh! were she but a flower of spring
Upon the dewy lea,

To watch its lovely blossoming
My heart's delight would be;
And when its leaves began to fade,
Their fading I would moan;
And treasure up the sacred dust
To mingle with my own.

THE OLD BARD'S WELCOME HOME.

Bring me a goblet of drink divine,
To welcome a minstrel friend of mine!
Enfranchised from the dreary crowd,
That wrapt his spirit like a shroud,
Once more he climbs the moorlands dun,
And hears his native rindles run;
Through pleasant vales he takes his way,
Where wild-flowers with the waters play;
And listens with enchanted mind
As wizard voices in the wind
Sing of his darling native earth,
The rude, the true, the hardy north!

His native dales, his native streams—
The angels of his exile-dreams—
Each dingle green, each breezy height,
Awakes his spirit to delight.
Oh, welcome to the fresh old hills!
The mossy crags, and tinkling rills—
To field, and wood, and moorland glen,
Welcome, welcome home again!

Well may the pleasant summer air
Fondly play with thy silver hair;
Well may the brooklet's ripples clear
Leap as thy footsteps wander near;
Well may the wild-flowers on the lea,
Nodding their pretty heads to thee,
Scatter abroad their sweetest sweet,
Their fond old poet friend to meet;—
They've waited, and have listened long,
For thee, oh, white-haired son of song!

Though tempests rage and clouds are black,
The sun keeps on his glorious track,
Serenely shining, to the west,
And, grandly smiling, sinks to rest.
Thy task, old bard, is nearly done:
Oh, may the evening coming on,
Long lingering sweetly round thy way,
Close like a cloudless summer day!

OH! COME ACROSS THE FIELDS.

I

Now, from dreary winter's dream awaking,
Glad nature robes herself to meet the spring;
Hark, how the blithesome birds are making
Among the trees their songs of welcoming!
Oh, come across the fields, my love,
And through the woods with me;
As nature moves toward the spring,
So moves my heart to thee, my love,
So moves my heart to thee!

II

See, from their silent shelters sweetly peeping,
The budding wild-flowers steal with timid glee

See the soft fresh verdure, gently creeping,
Is mantling over the delighted lea!
Then come across the fields, my love,
And through the woods with me;
As nature moves toward the spring,
So moves my heart to thee, my love,
So moves my heart to thee!

III

Oh! listen, love; it is the throstle's carol,
In yonder elm-tree ringing loud and clear;—
“First come the buds, and then the bonny blossom—
The golden summer time will soon be here!”
Then come across the fields, my love,
And through the woods with me;
As nature moves toward the spring,
So moves my heart to thee, my love,
So moves my heart to thee!

IV

My heart is like a flowerless wintry wild,
Where tuneless joy sits lone, with folded wing,
Until thy beauty comes, enchantress mild,
To melt the gloom, and make the flowers spring!
Oh, shine upon this longing heart,
And I thy charms will sing,
For thy sweet re-appearing
Is like another spring, my love,
Is like another spring!

OH! WEAVE A GARLAND FOR MY BROW.

I

Oh! weave a garland for my brow,
Of roses and of rue;
For once I loved a bonny lass,—
Alas, she was not true!
But when she slighted all my grief,
I knew that grief was vain,
And I hid the wound that pained my heart,
Until it healed again.

II

Then, gentle lover, pine no more,—
Thy tenderness is blind;
Sighing to one whose heart is cold
Will never make her kind.
Go, take some comfort to thy breast—
The world is fair to see—
And on some genial bosom rest
Whose pulses beat for thee.

TO THE SPRING WIND.

I

Sweet minstrel of the scented spring,
Ten thousand silver bells,
To welcome thee, are all a-swing,
Upon the dewy fells:
To sing with thee, I should be fain,
Thou harper blithe and free!
But love has bound me with a chain,
That wrings the heart of me.

II

Oh, hasten to my love, and tell
Her how she makes me pine;
And ask her if she thinks it well
To slight a heart like mine;

For if my suit her scorn doth move,
It shall no longer be,—
Although I know she's made for love,
And I wish that she loved me.

NIGHTFALL.

I

The green leaves answer to the night-wind's sigh,
And dew-drops winking, on the meadows lie;
The sun's gone down
O'er the drowsy town;
And the brooks are singing to the listening moon.

II

The soft wind whispers on its moody way;
The plumy woodlands in the moonlight play;
Night's tapers gleam
In the gliding stream;
Heaven's eyes are watching while the earth doth dream.

III

The lovely light that dwells in woman's eyes,
Softly curtained by the fringed lids lies;
Sleep's Lethean hand
Waves o'er the land,
And the weary toiler to his shelter hies.

IV

Old nurse, whose lullaby can soothe them all,
Oh, hap them kindly in thy downy pall!
They've gone astray
On life's rough way;
But, rest them; rest them for another day.

V

The living, sleeping in their warm beds lie;
The dead are sleeping in the churchyard, nigh;
The mild moon's beam
O'er all doth stream,
And life and death appear a mingling dream.

100

VI

Decay, that in my very breath doth creep,
Thou surely art akin to this soft sleep,
That shows the way
To a bed of clay,
Whose wakeless slumbers close the mortal day.

VII

And thus, with ceaseless roll, time's silent wave
Lands me each night upon a mimic grave,
Whose soft repose
Hints at life's close,—
Death's fleets are cruising where life's current flows.

101

TO A YOUNG LADY,

WHO LENT ME AN OLD BOOK.

I

This learnèd volume doth not tell
A story so divine,
Nor point a moral half so well
As that young face of thine.

II

Thou shouldst have sent a rose to me,
With morning dew bestarred;
It would have better likened thee,—
Sweet rosebud of the bard!

102

III

But mornings fly, and dewdrops dry,
And many a lovely rose
Is plucked, and thrown neglected by,
Before it fairly blows.

IV

Sweet maid, thy budding time is fair;
So may thy blooming be;
And never blighting blast of care
Untimely wither thee.

V

Flower on, in gladness, free from stain,
Until the autumn's past;
And, like a fading rose, retain
Thy sweetness to the last.

103

POOR TRAVELLERS ALL.

I

Poor travellers all,
Both great and small,
How thoughtlessly we play
In a country
Of mortality,
Where never a man can stay.

II

Our birth is but
A starting foot
Upon the fatal road,

104

Where death keeps watch
O'er life, to snatch
The jewel back to God.

III

Time's sickle reaps,
In restless sweeps,
The harvest of decay;
On every ground
His sheaves are bound,
And garnered in the clay.

IV

Though hints divine,
In symbols fine,
With warnings strew the way,—
Beseeching us,
And teaching us,
The danger of delay,—

105

V

We dally still,
With fitful will,
Among delusive joys;
Heeding them not,
Except for sport,—
As children play with toys.

VI

We romp and run
Mad in the sun;
We murmur at the cloud;
And where's the breast
That's quite at rest
Until it's in a shroud?

VII

Thus glides away
Life's little day,
In giddiness and glooms;

106

And never a one
Can feel it's gone,
Until his bed-time comes.

VIII

Poor travellers all,
Both great and small,
How thoughtlessly we play,
In a country
Of mortality,
Where never a man can stay.

107

THE DYING ROSE.

I

Brown Autumn sings his anthem drear
O'er Summer's waning pride;
And the water-lily to its bier
Droops by the brooklet side:
The hour has come, my floral gem,
That beckons thee away,
To join these relics of the bower,
In neighbourly decay.

II

I saw thy bud, with orient tip,
Peep forth in beauty rare;
I saw the dewdrops throng thy lip—
Thou sweetheart of the air!

108

But brief, alas, the charm it wrought
In this delighted eye;
For, 'twas unmingled with a thought
That thou wert doomed to die.

III

The golden sunshine smiled to see
How beautiful thou grew;
Rich with thy perfume, o'er the lea
The whispering breezes flew;
The wild bee well might linger long
Within thy rosy folds,—
'Twas there he purchased, for a song,
The sweetest wealth he holds.

IV

But Summer's golden glory's o'er;
All nature seems to moan:
Both leaf and flower have had their hour,
And home again are gone;

109

The greenwood's tresses, fallen away,
Upon the ground are laid:
And chill winds in the sear leaves play
The requiem of the dead.

V

Not long, at best, oh fading flower,
Has man to stay behind;
Cold death may still at any hour
The fever of his mind;
May check his frets of joy and grief,
Extinguish all his pride,
And lay him, like a blighted leaf,
To moulder at thy side.

VI

But go thy way; 'twas ever so
With what's beneath the sky;
We do not all so sweetly grow,
But, we as surely die:

110

Companions, in a graveward throng,
Upon a rugged way,
Where trouble cannot keep us long,
Though joy doth never stay.

VII

Go, rest in peace thy weary head,
Death's silent winter through;
New spring shall cheer thy lonely bed,
And wake thy life anew:
So thou, my soul, shalt rise again,
To breathe a purer breath,
In climes beyond the fatal chain
That binds this realm of death.

111

LINES.

Oh! whatever betide thee,
Thou needst not despair;
Where conscience doth guide thee,
Thy safety is there.

If fortune delight thee,
Beware its alloy;
And should it despite thee,
Endure it with joy.

For, to win its caressing 's
A dangerous gain;
And Heaven's best blessings
Are hidden in pain.

112

While youth and health bless thee,
Remember the day
When mourners shall dress thee
To sleep in the clay.

Do good unto all men,
Contented, unknown;
Expecting thy payment
From Heaven alone.

113

THE MAN OF THE TIME.

I

He is a sterling nobleman
Who lives the truth he knows;
Who dreads the slavery of sin,
And fears no other foes.

II

Who scorns the folly of pretence;
Whose mind from cant is free;
Who values men for worth and sense,
And hates hypocrisy.

114

III

Who glows with love that's free from taint;
Whose heart is kind and brave;
Who feels that he was neither meant
For tyrant nor for slave.

IV

Who loves the ground, where'er he roam,
That's trod by human feet,
And strives to make the world a home
Where peace and justice meet.

V

Whose soul to clearer heights can climb,
Above the shows of things,—
Cleaving the mortal bounds of time,
On meditative wings.

115

VI

Malice can never mar his fame;
A heaven-crowned king is he;
His robe, a pure immortal aim;
His throne, eternity.

116

THE WANDERER'S HYMN.

I

Happy the heart that's simply pure;
Happy the heart that's nobly brave;
Happy the man that breaks the lure
That winds like death round folly's slave.

II

Wandering in the worldly throng,
The dust of earth still keeps us blind;
The judgment's weak, the passions strong,
The will as fitful as the wind.

117

III

Disguised in joy's deceitful beams,
A thousand fitful meteors ply
About our path the demon-schemes,
That dazzle only to destroy.

IV

Who can we ask for aid but Thee,
Our only friend, our only guide?
What other counsellor have we?
Where else, oh, where, can we abide?

V

Oh! hear and help us while we pray;
And travel with us all the way!
Oh! hold our hands, and be our stay!
Oh! set us right whene'er we stray!

118

ALONE, UPON THE FLOWERY PLAIN.

I

Alone, upon the flowery plain
I rove, in solitary pain;
Looking around the silent lea
For something I shall never see.

II

Yon hedge-row blossoms as before,
And roses shade yon cottage door;
But oh, I miss the tresses fair,
And eyes that glowed with welcome there

119

III

The streamlet, still, in rippling pranks,
Kisses the wild flower on its banks;
But I am lonely on the shore,
To which my love returns no more.

IV

The lark, aloft in sunny air,
Carols, as if my love was there;
And the wind goes by, with mournful sound,
Murmuring, “No more, on mortal ground.”

120

LIFE'S TWILIGHT.

I

Now silver threads begin to shine
Among my thinning hair;
And down the slope of life's decline
I thoughtfully repair.
The fire that once was in mine eyes
Has dimmed its fervid ray,
And every hour of life that flies,
Is stealing light away.
Oh, let me, with untroubled breast,
A while in shadow lie,
Before I lay me down to rest,
And bid the world “Good bye.”

121

II

With Time, that wrestler old and grim.
I've had a gallant round;
But ah, there's little chance with him
Who bringeth all to ground.
Although the world still rolleth on
Its merry, motley way,
My little part of life is done,
Except to watch the play.
Then, let me, with untroubled breast,
A while in shadow lie,
Before I lay me down to rest,
And bid the world “Good bye.”

III

In youth, to pleasure's lightest trill,
My heart leaped blithe and free;
Now, she may play what tune she will,
It is not so with me;

122

For though a smile may sometimes steal
Across my furrowed brow,
My joys are all akin, I feel,
To contemplation now.
Then, let me, with untroubled breast,
A while in shadow lie,
Before I lay me down to rest,
And bid the world “Good bye.”

123

CHRISTMAS MORNING.

I

Come all you weary wanderers,
Beneath the wintry sky;
This day forget your worldly cares,
And lay your sorrows by;
Awake, and sing;
The church bells ring;
For this is Christmas morning!

II

With grateful hearts salute the morn,
And swell the streams of song,
That laden with great joy are borne,
The willing air along;

124

The tidings thrill
With right good will;
For this is Christmas morning!

III

We'll twine the fresh green holly wreath,
And make the yule-log glow;
And gather gaily underneath
The winking misletoe;
All blithe and bright
By the glad fire-light;
For this is Christmas morning!

IV

Come, sing the carols old and truo,
That mind us of good cheer,
And, like a heavenly fall of dew,
Revive the drooping year;
And fill us up
A wassail-cup;
For this is Christmas morning!

125

V

To all poor souls we'll strew the feast,
With kindly heart, and free;
One Father owns us, and, at least,
To-day we'll brothers be;
Away with pride,
This holy tide;
For it is Christmas morning!

VI

So now, God bless us one and all
With hearts and hearthstones warm;
And may He prosper great and small,
And keep us out of harm;
And teach us still,
His sweet good-will,
This merry Christmas morning!

126

SONG.

I

At the close of day, her melting lay
As Philomel began,
A maiden sang as she did stray,
And thus the carol ran:

II

Oh, the daisy, and the sweet bluebell,
And the bonny celandine;
My darling's feet have touched the dell,
And made the posies fine.

127

III

Soft whispering gales, on viewless wings,
Come o'er the rippling sea;
But ah, no news the west wind brings
From my true love to me.

IV

The wild bee roves the flowery wold;
Be still, dear heart of mine;
My darling is a cup of gold
That's running o'er with wine.

V

Sweet bird, whose tender warble fills
The ear of fading day,
Go, sing for me those liquid trills,
That fond complaining lay.

128

THE WOUNDED LARK.

WRITTEN ON THE ILLNESS OF AN EMINENT MUSICIAN.

I

Lay low thine ear with kindly care,
And gently tread the ground;
Some mourner haunts the grassy lair;
What means this plaintive sound?

II

Here, 'mongst his little nestlings, lies
A lark, with broken wing,
Gazing aloft into the skies,
Where once he used to sing.

129

III

No more, up-springing from the lawn,
To greet the brightening sky,
High-poised, 'mid rosy tints of dawn,
He'll thrill the world with joy.

IV

No more above the sun-tipt hills
He'll fan his happy wings;
His notes have sunk to mournful trills,
And sorrow's all he sings.

V

So prone lies he, whose genial power
Once led the tuneful train;
So fate has changed his joyous dower
To cadences of pain.

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VI

Thus, daily, minstrel tones do creep
In sadness, one by one,
Into the silent land, where sleep
The voices that are gone.

131

SEA WEEDS.

I

The land has its gardens of roses,
Its flowers of every hue,
Which close as the daylight closes,
And wake to the morning dew;
It has sweet-scented groves of pleasure,
Where the bee roves all day long,
And, at eve, with her load of treasure,
Flies home to a drowsy song.

II

There, summer her mantle of verdure,
With posies so sweet enweaves,

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That the sunshine delays on their beauty,
Till it falls asleep in the leaves;
And the spell-bound rain comes dreeping,
To brighten their eyes anew;
And their folds are by young winds fondled,
And kist by the silvery dew.

III

But the grand old sea hides wonders
That never met mortal eye,—
Bright bowers that never have rustled
To soft wind's dreamy sigh;
Strange groves of mystical beauty,
And flowers of rainbow hue.
Bloom wild in those old sea-gardens,
All under the waters blue!

IV

And when the pale moon is sleeping,
At night, on the trembling sea,

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And the coral-paved halls of Neptune
Re-echo the kelpies' glee:
Oh, the floral festoons of magic,
That curtain those pearly caves,
Where the water-sprites revel in splendour,
All under the drowsy waves!

V

Ye fairy-tinged groves of ocean,—
Your delicate banners wave,
Where the fisherman sleeps in the lonely deeps,
In his cold, uncrowded grave:
Wave on your beautiful tendrils,
In your gardens wild and free,
Caressed by the gleaming waters,
Of the grand old heaving sea!

134

THINGS GONE BY.

I

Twas evening; sad November's gale
Was moaning wild and cold;
Night's deep'ning shade had dimm'd the vale,
And hid the distant wold;
In dreamy mood, as all grew still
Beneath the waning sky,
I sat beside my window-sill,
And thought of things gone by.

II

An old and lonely man was there,
By labour sorely worn;

135

The frost of age had thinn'd his hair,
And sorrow made him lorn;
His wrinkled cheek long time had play'd
With wind, and rain, and sun;
That weary man, he sigh'd, and said—
“It's dark—and nothing done.”

III

On life, and death, and mortal fret,
I musing then began;
And on the dangers that beset
The pilgrimage of man:
I thought of days for ever flown,
And hopes for ever fled;
I sigh'd for friends asunder thrown,
Or sleeping with the dead.

IV

Since life's first wand'ring step began
They've strewn the fatal way,

136

And only here and there a man
Has reach'd the close of day;
Like leaflets, drifted to and fro,
When autumn's cold winds rave,
Some fluttering wild, some trampled low,
Some mould'ring in the grave.

V

The days are gone when, light and free,
I roved the mountains wild;
The light no more will shine for me
On morning's hour that smiled:
No sun or rain can e'er again
Revive youth's faded flowers;
No sad regret, nor sigh of pain,
Recall the fleeted hours.

137

MINNIE.

I

My Minnie's as shy as a little wild rose,
That fills all around with delight as it blows;
Its leaves, pleasant-scented,
Unfolding, contented
To sweeten the nook where it grows.

II

Kate flutters her wings, and a lady would be;
She's ribboned, and jewelled, and flounced to the knee;

138

But she's keen, and she's cold,
And she's proud of her gold,—
The dule take her ribbons, for me!

III

My Minnie's as poor as a little red-breast,
“With nought in the wide world but God and its nest;”
Yet the star of a king
Is a pitiful thing
To the jewel that glows in her breast.

IV

Kate's handsome and bold, and she's haughty and chill;
She's a winterly smile for the heart she can kill;
And she bears off the bell
From the girls of the dell,—
With a clapper that never lies still.

139

V

Though Minnie's as blithe as the skylark that springs
From its roost in the meadow, with dew on its wings—
'Tis her own little nest,
And the mate she loves best,
That gladden the song that she sings.

VI

What care I for riches, and gaudy array—
What care I to flaunt with the heartlessly gay?
If my little wild-rose
Love me on to life's close,
And sweeten its troublesome way.

140

THE MOORLAND MAID.

I

There's a limpid rindling fountain,
Yonder moorland hills among;
From the heather-breasted mountain
Tinkling drips its liquid song;
To its lonely music list'ning,
Once a maiden sat thereby;
Oh, that maiden's dark eye glist'ning—
It will haunt me till I die.

II

In that fragrant, wild seclusion.
With the soaring lark above,

141

Blooming nature's glad profusion
Listen'd to our vows of love:
Sunny skies, and flow'rs around us,
On my rustic darling smiled;
And the dewy twilight found us
Ling'ring still amid the wild.

III

Oh, mild hour, when eve's lone planet
Gilds the pearls on every blade;
Angel-zephyrs came to fan it—
Blissful hour of mystic shade;
Sweet the wild-birds's trilling vespers
Died upon the dewy lea;
But my darling's gentle whispers
Never more will fade from me.

IV

Ah, that scene is now too sadd'ning—
Saddest in its richest bloom;

142

Summer flowers, the wild hills gladd'ning,
Move my heart to deeper gloom;
Birds may hail the scented blossom
Oft on smiling hill and plain,
But the green earth's silent bosom
Ne'er will yield my love again.

V

Thus to meet thee, but to sever;
Thus to love, and then to part—
Oh, the bliss, the pain, for ever
Mingling in my lonely heart:
Oh, those lovely glances, darting
Modest gleams of timid glee;
Oh, the last sad hour of parting,
'Tween my own true love and me.

VI

Farewell to yon breezy mountain;
Farewell to the flow'ry dell;

143

Farewell to the rindling fountain,
And the lonely moorland well;
Farewell to the streamlet, purling
Sweetly through yon silent glen;
Oh, farewell, the dark-eyed darling
I shall never see again!

144

PROLOGUE

(WRITTEN ON THE OCCASION OF THE MANCHESTER LETTERPRESS PRINTERS' DRAMATIC ENTERTAINMENT, APRIL 4TH, 1868.)

When first, from old Westminster's hoary pile,
The Art of Printing dawned on Britain's isle,
In some dim chapel of that sacred fane
The venerable Caxton ruled his train,—
Whose artful toil, foredoomed by mystic tie,
Flushed the young stream of England's liberty.
England! where noble hearts had wrestled long,
In dumb contention between right and wrong,

145

'Twas there in cloistered shade, he wove the spell
At whose behest the chain of silence fell;
And, nursing skill, with strange mutations fraught,
Gave freedom to the prisoned realms of thought!
Strange were the implements, the labour strange;
The little rill of art was big with change;
With loving care, the initiated few
There, brought the infant mystery to view;
And, as in dim secluded gloom they toiled,
Fate's folded skein of printed thought uncoiled;
Whilst the hushed murmurs of the working throng
Mingled with solemn strains of sacred song:
There learned churchmen pondered in amaze,
And kingly patrons dealt bewildered praise:
Ah, little dreamt they what that germ contained,—
What vast, upheaving powers, heaven-ordained!

146

Rude were the artist's tools, the product slight;
Costly and few the works it brought to light;
Mysterious came the first imprinted page,
To th' wondering gaze of an unletter'd age;
And small the inducement such an art to ply,
When only clerks could read, and only kings could buy.

But time,—the soil of life's eventful field—
Was doomed, by fate, the mighty plant to yield;
Doomed to sustain, and nurture, through the night
Of undergrowth, until it burst to sight,
And cheered the nations with its presence bright!
Slow grew the art—though often checked,—it grew;
Now, nipt with frost, now fed with rain and dew;
Slow grew the struggling art, but still, it grew.
In patient majesty, the nursling rose;

147

Rooted by struggle, and made strong by blows;
Till e'en its nurses watched it with surprise,
And tyrants trembled as they saw it rise!
For, as it grew, to realms of light it led,
And fed the freedom upon which it fed.
Oh, freedom! Spark of heaven-descended fire,
That never fades from noble heart's desire!
The bird that in the wild wood carols free—
No bird, imprisoned, sings so well as he!
Thanks to those lofty stars of England's night,
Who cheered her struggling sons with steadfast light!
Thanks to the men who fought and suffered long,
To make the right triumphant over wrong!
Thanks to those gallant hearts of later breed,
By whom the Press was from its trammels freed,—
Now, thousands print what millions rush to read!

148

But stay, my roving muse,—restrain thy flight
What is it brings the Press-gang here to-night?
Come they, as erst, some wandering slave to seize?
Ah, no,—our mission is to free, and please
In mutual self-reliance to combine,
To soothe the last sad hours of life's decline;
To help the feeble and to cheer the sad;
The worn-out workman's sinking heart to glad;
From bitter penury the sick to save,
And smooth the totterer's way unto the grave.
And feeble, though, our histrionic skill,
It humbly seeks to lessen human ill.
Then, oh, with generous hearts, give kind acclaim,
And cheer the labour for its noble aim.

Oh, Printing, Art with mystic power fraught!
Thou swift dispenser of undying thought!
Strew lofty lessons still, at heaven's behest.

149

And teach us Charity above the rest!
And, till we're summoned hence, by fatal call,—
Father of Nature's Chapel, bless us all!

In the old printing-offices of England, and even in many of the best printing-offices of the kingdom now, the workmen form a little court of law, summoned occasionally for the settlement of disputes among themselves. This court they call “The Chapel,” and the President of the court is called “The Father of the Chapel.” Doubtless these names arise from the fact that the first English printing-office was one of the chapels of Westminster Abbey.