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Poems

By William Walsham How ... New and Enlarged Edition

How, William Walsham (1823-1897)

Funeral of a Child in Spring.

The Floating of the Britannia Tube,

The Home View.

Shelsley Beauchamp.

Cader Idris.

The First Spring Day.

On the Reopening of Owston Church, Leicestershire.

The Last Communion.

The Three Pundits.

Golden-Saxifrage.

The Children's Garden.

On the Death of Bishop Lonsdale of Lichfield,

The Last Bathe.

A Puzzling Question.

Fairyland Lost and Regained.

On the Death of Bishop Gray of Capetown,

Two Burials.

Written in a Lady's Album.

The Babies' Wood Turkey-Cock.

A Tale of the London Mission of 1874.

To the Primate Designate.

Pencil or Pen.

Poetry and the Poor.

The Blind and the Deaf.

My Clergy.

Charity.

“Pasce Verbo, Pasce Vitâ.”

Gentleman John.

From Nature to Man.

“University Settlements” in East London.

The East London Children's Hospital.

A Vision of Barmouth.

Sermon Notes in Verse.

II.

III.

IV.

V.—Confession and Absolution.

VI.

VI.—The Two Natures.

VII.

VII.—The Two Visions.

VIII.

VIII.—The Two Worlds.

IX.

IX.—The Knowledge of God.

X.—Our Life for Others.

XI.

XI.—The Kingdom of Heaven.

XII.

XII.—Man's Littleness and Greatness.

On the Alps.

“Judge Not.”

On Leader's Picture, “Parting-Day.”

England's Pure Homes.

A Day at Thusis.

A Starlit Night by the Seashore.

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Retrospect.

I was walking in an old wood
On the morning of New Year's day:
In a thoughtful and dreamy mood
Had I walked along my way.

The tall trees were grey and sear,
And a red leaf hung on the bramble;
And there did I meet the Old Year,
Like myself, on a lonely ramble.

He was wondrously tall and thin,
Just like a bare old tree;
His bones looked white thro' his skin,—
I was sure that it must be he.

His head was so snowy white,
And his eye was so sad with tears,
That I thought that I must be right,
That sad look must be the Old Year's.

‘Old Year,’ I said, ‘if it be
‘That my eyes are not something dim,’—
(And an awe crept over me
As trembling I spake to him,—)

‘Old Year, thou art dead and gone,
‘Buried at midnight drear;
‘Why comest thou, pale and wan,
‘To walk like a spectre here?’

‘Good Friend,’ the Old Year said,—
(And his voice was like the breeze
Mournfully overhead
Passing among the trees,—)

‘Good Friend, men think that we die,
‘But their thoughts are blind and vain;
‘There's a day drawing ever nigh,
‘When they shall meet us again.

‘Face to face we shall meet,—
‘Ah me! for the folly of men;
‘Our birth they merrily greet,—
‘How will they greet us then?’

‘Oh! I wronged thee,’ I cried, ‘Old Year,
‘And thy brothers that long have past;
‘Had I known them better here,
‘I could meet them better at last.’

‘When thou walkest in this old wood,
‘Though mayest meet them all,’ said he;
‘Now I'll teach thee to thine own good,
‘If thou wilt be taught of me.’

So he taught me a lesson grave,
And thither I oft return:
But I tell not the lesson he gave,—
Thou canst go for thyself and learn.

(1844.)

Llanfihangel.

(A VILLAGE NEAR TAL-Y-LLYN.)

The May-flies hovered in the heat,
And stood upon the lake,
And the quiet trout seemed scarce to dare
The lazy calm to break.

And up the mountain-side I went,
And o'er the mountain-back,
And saw no trace of human-kind
Upon my silent track.

Beyond the mountain-ranges far
I marked the level sea,
And a breeze that way upon my brow
Came blowing pleasantly.

And all the outlines, bound with heav'n,
Were quivering in the sun,—
And from my heart self-bidden streams
Of thankfulness would run.

It was the holy day of rest,
And, when the breezes fell,
There seemed to dream within my ear
The tolling of a bell:

So faintly, that I listened oft
To tell if it were true;
Yet, when I listened, evermore
The breezes voiceless blew.

And o'er the moss and springy turf,
As holden by a spell,
I followed with an eager foot
The phantom of the bell,

Until it smote me loud and clear,
And, where the shapeless hill
Fell off abrupt with rocky face,
I stood in wonder still.

For deep below in hollow glen
A little village lay;—
I never saw a fairer sight
Than I saw upon that day;—

A stream all golden in the sun
'Mid ancient elm-trees crept,
And the light was on their rounded tops,
And deep their shadows slept.

And golden-grey the old church-tower
Its summons sweetly pealed;
And long the train that gathered in
From hill-side and from field.

Oh, happy if ye knew the home
In which ye live and die!
Ye only curse its barrenness,
And pass its beauty by.

(1844.)

The Winter Birthday.

Rimy webs are on the thistles,
Silver-clad comes forth the morn,
Near and shrill the blackbird whistles
On the scarlet-berried thorn.

Then with silent blinding fall
In the eddies of the breeze
Weave the clouds their mighty pall
For the old year's obsequies.

Then the mould'ring fog comes round
With the South-wind's sickly breath,
Drops the wood with dismal sound,
Dropping to the sod beneath.

Every place is chill and raw,
Dreary winds moan as they go;
Rivers, swollen with the thaw,
Roll their sands, and overflow.

Yet it seemeth but a day
Since the summer flowers were here,
Since they stacked the balmy hay,
Since they reaped the golden ear.

It hath gone—the glorious summer;
So the years go, speeding past,
Onward, onward,—each new comer
Swifter speeding than the last.

Can thy life no semblance borrow
From the passing of the years;
Peace to-day, and strife to-morrow,—
Day of hope, and night of tears?

On the ocean of existence
Waves of change for ever roll;—
Waves that, echoing thro' all distance,
Speak in thunder to the soul.

For the seasons, as they go,
Are the shades of human things,
Changing with a ceaseless flow,
Constant in their varyings.

Said I, ‘change’? Yea, such as storm
Sweeping over ocean's face
Maketh in earth's mighty form
Travelling onward into space.

What is that to those who live?
Life is something higher far.
‘Change’! the name I'd sooner give
To the tremblings of a star!

Said I ‘change’? Nay, let the blast
Stir the surface as it may,
Still the soul, like planet vast,
Holdeth steadfast on its way.

That is Life which never ends;—
Brother, such have thou for thine;—
Road that on and onward wends,
Vast eternal discipline.

Scorn upon the idle mind
Dwelling in the things without,
Passive to the veering wind
That tosses empty ships about.

Seize the helm with dauntless will,
Cleave the waves that round thee roar;
Storm or sunshine, onward still
Cleave them straightly evermore.

Touch thou with a rod of power
That which passeth day by day;
Bid the fortune of the hour
Thy calm even will obey.

All events that men call chance,
All things thou dost see and feel,
All the might of circumstance,—
Wrest them strongly to thy weal.

Tho' the outward things around thee
Be but partly understood,
Let their presence not confound thee,—
Bend them to thy endless good.

So the changes, swiftly hasting,
So the chief events of life,
Transient joys, and sorrows lasting,
Peaceful calm, and passion's strife,—

All shall come as comes the snow,
All shall like the sun-ray die,
For thy soul doth truly know
These have no eternity.

But they have a voice in going,
Like the day that passeth o'er,
And their tide in its back-flowing
Leaves its gifts of heavenly lore.

Brother! oh! be this our Life,
True and earnest, deep and strong,
Far above the world's vain strife
Cleaving steadfastly along.

Be it such that, when earth's day
With its hasty work is done,
All of ill shall fall away,
And the life shall still live on!

(1845.)

Sunset at Durham.

(FROM THE PREBENDS' BRIDGE.)

To all the town the sun is set;
Yet glorious on the hill
The mighty House of God is wrapt
In golden sunlight still.

The giant shadow hath crept on
From yonder uplands cast,
And over tree and over bank
Its silent foot hath past.

But now it seemeth for a while
To hold its stealthy pace
In conscious awe, before it touch
The holy building's base.

Under its dusky shroud I see
The shadowy river glide,
And grey mists gather fast between
Dim banks on either side.

The winter trees are cold and black,
The winter wind moans by,
And sunless all the distant fields
Slope upward drearily.

But high o'er all one building burns
So wonderfully bright
One scarce can deem it shineth not
With more than earthly light!

For golden gleam the ancient towers
Against the cloud behind,
And all the tender tracery
With golden fire is twined.

An awful pile of living light
Above a darkened world!
A standard, writ with gleaming words
Of love, from heaven unfurled!

A vision bright,—an Angel form
Poised o'er the dim low ground,
In its own radiance enshrined
'Mid dusky shades around.

Oh! shall the scene to no glad thought
Of thankful hope give birth,
Of triumph, and of better things
Than are the things of earth?

(1845.)

Night at Durham.

(FOR A SONG.)

The groups of holy stars are sailing on,
To the music of the quiet-dropping river,
That down between its deep banks looketh wan
As the shadows of the gaunt trees o'er it shiver

Like silence that is visible, down low
Lie the shadows on the river and the land;
And things around unreal seem to grow,
As with them, alike all motionless, I stand.

Sail on, ye holy stars, toward the West,
Thou queenly Night, sit stately on thy throne,
And ever may the warrings of my breast
The down-raining of your silent spirit own.

(1846.)

Association.

(FOR A SONG.)

The drone of the evening beetle
Rapidly passes by;
And out from the golden sunset
A breeze comes quietly.

Over the many-tongued river
The latest thrush sings loud;
And the wings of the gnats are shrilling
In the dance of their tiny cloud.

In a dreamy odour floats
The breath of the sleeping flow'rs;
And a spirit of awe is borne
On the wings of the silent hours.

'Tis the same to the ear and sense
As it was on a bygone day,
And I dare not look from the turf
To find myself far away!

(1846.)

The Alps.

It is a great and glorious thing to be
High up among the Alpine points of snow,
When all is still and clear,—profoundly still,
Intensely clear; the outlines vast and far
Vividly cut in heav'n's eternal blue,
And fringed with orange light; majestic domes,
Huge ice-rocks, shining alway silently.
Far far down splendid vales are floating still
The golden-surfaced clouds, the burnished roof,
That to the little world below makes heaven
One dimness; even as our sins and follies
Gather above our heads, and hide away
The utter radiance of God's changeless love.
Lo! point o'er point, and range surpassing range,
All gloriously illumined, infinite
In wealth of form; majestic sweeps of shadow;
Broad mountain bosoms, in their hollow depths
Nursing the huge blue streaming glaciers,
That with their thunderous ice-wave, thro' the silence,
Crash to the footfalls of slow-marching time.

Oh! man's desire is of the infinite:
And here is greatness which flings back the bounds
Ev'n to the farthest that may be on earth.
Thyself alone,—yet in an awful presence!
How severed from thy kind! How near to God
Say'st thou the might of these stupendous things
Makes thee feel little? Scorn upon thy feeling!
It is the very pinnacle of greatness
To sit upon thy mountain-throne, and grasp
The might and grandeur of these grandest forms,
And make them all thine own:—to feel them made
For such as thee! Oh! there is more of truth
In the great feelings of an hour like this
Than men will look for. Doth it tell thee nothing
Of thine own soul? Nay—hath it not a voice
That heraldeth the greatness of that thing
Which can conceive an influence so great?
Speaketh it not of immortality,
When the whole soul o'erflows, and all around
Is vaster than thy fancy's vastest thought,
And thou dost know for once that there is that
Within thee which could feel and grasp far more
Than the cramped senses will let pass?

O earth,
Thou glorious thing, ineffable in beauty,
Blinding the heart with tears of painful joy,
Tell me, O earth, O heavenward mountain-slopes,
O rosy pinnacles of glistening shrines,

O airy domes that cut the archèd blue,
O myriad-facèd ice-rocks, O great vales,
Braided afar with silver river-lines,—
Tell me, what is your strange sublimity,
Your regal beauty, your eternal splendour?
An image, a bare chart, we know not what,
Passeth upon the brain. Ay, and the rest
Is in the soul. Oh! those are mocking proofs
That writers bring, and pall the soul's content,
Persuading it of its undying springs
With dry cold subtilty of reasoning,
To him who knows the glory that is born
Among the ancient rocks of sunny snow,
Silent and soulless, shining evermore!

O God, and shall my stricken heart thrill low
With rapture, like great music, and not pour
One strain to Thee? And yet oh! give me words
To pay a tithe of what is in my heart!

(1846.)

The Thunder Cloud.

Vivid against the mighty thunderstorm
Stand up the sunny trees into the sky,
Bright in the darkness, all distinct in form,
And, as the breeze goes by
That freshens onward, glittering cheerfully.

And see how gloriously the silver spire
Is piercing up just where the sullen cloud
Breaks in uneven rent of ruddy fire;
And all the hill is browed
With light, cut out into the awful shroud.

How often with a cold and dreary swell
The fields on that same hill slope far away!
And when the sky is clear, you scarce could tell
The church, so bright to-day,
Were there, still pointing to the heav'n as aye.

And who shall say the sorrow-clouds we meet
With no new lustre clothe the forms between;
And that the hope and joy are not more sweet
Because that there hath been
A cloud and rain-drops on the shining scene?

Oh! if the Church's hand to weary eye
Point up to heav'n more plainly than before,
If on dim earth a heavenly radiance lie,—
Then let us weep no more,
But the dark cloud, for all it shows, adore!

(1847.)

Funeral of a Child in Spring.

Every rounded hawthorn spray
Shines with sunny tufts of May;—
And the child was bright as they.

Now there is a silent gloom,
While about the open tomb
All the turf is burst in bloom.

With a solemn wondering air,
Six little children slowly bear
Their strange and mournful burden there.

And they think, as they go on,
How like some young flow'r she shone,
Scarce believing she is gone.

'Tis so strange to pass away
While the grass they tread is gay
With the blue Veronica.

And they wonder if the dead
Passeth with a silent tread
Thro' the blueness overhead;

If the spirit, sailing near,
Doth their sobs of mourning hear,
Pondereth the shining tear;

If upon her sunny wings
She may visit brighter things
Than the light of earthly Springs.

Oh! it is a solemn scene
Thus to part from what hath been
When the earth is virgin-green.

Other children play around,
And the air is full of sound,
And the earth with light is crowned.

Yet the little mourners stand
Round the grave, a weeping band,
And share their sorrows, hand in hand.

Children! hearken to the Spring,
With her voice in everything,
Balm unto your sorrowing.

Children! watch the verdure shine,
And with quiet gladness twine
Wreaths of flowers for a sign.

Plant upon the rounded clay
Plants that shall be blooming gay
Every year upon this day.

For the seed, that now ye sow
In the chilly earth below,
Shall a glorious flower blow:—

“Sown in weakness, raised in power,”
In the eternal Springtide's bower
It shall bloom, a glorious flower!

(1847.)

Stars and Graves.

“Solemn before us
Veiled, the dark Portal,
Goal of all mortal:—
Stars silent rest o'er us,
Graves under us silent.”
—Goethe. Tr. Carlyle.

The Poet scanned with mighty awe
The mystery of man;
He spake the strange things that he saw:
And thus it ran:—

‘The silent stars are overhead,
‘The silent graves below:
‘A dream between—how quickly fled!—
‘Is all we know.’

He pointed up—he pointed down—
The witnesses were there.
O'er the between a veil was thrown
He could not tear.

The Preacher saw the hand he raised,
And heard the words he spake;
And in his soul with grief amazed
A fire outbrake.

‘Poet,’ he cried, ‘the things we see
‘They are not all we know;
‘The web of thy philosophy
‘I rend it so:’—

He pointed with his eager hand
Behind and then before,—
‘And there, and there, for ever stand
‘Two wonders more.

‘The silent stars sing out with mirth,
‘The graves with grass are green:—
‘Christ cometh twice upon the earth;—
‘We live between!’

(1847.)

A Dream.

(RECORDED AS FAITHFULLY AS POSSIBLE.)

I dreamt a dream last night so fair
That it hath not vanish'd all the day,
But hangeth yet in the mid-noon glare,
Like a sunny mist o'er a landscape bare,
Making it beautiful and gay.

I dreamt that we travelled merrily,
(We three—my brother and sister and I,)
Merrily on in a foreign land,
Where the sun was warm, and the breeze was cool,
And the mountains rose up on either hand,
And the valley between was beautiful.
Gaily we travelled on in the sun,
And we watched the glorious mountains rise,
Backward and backward, 'till that far one
Whose icy point shot into the skies:—
And one said, ‘That way our journey lies.’

And we thought how wonderful it would be
When up on that shining rock to see
Over the West the sunset glow,
And the mountain summits all ranged below,
And the road we had travelled merrily.

But suddenly in our wondering mood
We came to the edge of a little wood;
And we drove straight thro' on the springy moss,
And the shade was silent and dark and green,
And the boughs so thickly were twined across
That little the blue sky seen between.
And then we came to a virgin lake,
Where never the fall of a weary breeze
The image of margin-mosses brake
Round the mighty roots of the ancient trees.
And as, I ween, you may chance to see
In some quaint book of Mythology
An Ocean-god in his car of shell
Cleaving the waters that round him swell,—
So with one bold plunge we brake the spell,
And shattered the quiet imagery.
And we rode thro' the waters swift and strong,
With a mighty purpose and steadfast gaze,
Dashing the crystals that trembled along
To the very marge with a million rays.
And a joy and a triumph and conscious might
Rested serene, as a crown of gold,

On the upward brow that was bent so bold
On the distant Alp with its rosy light,
Over the green trees rosy-white.
And many times did we peer below
Where the waters were brighter than those that flow
Under the walls of Zurich town
To the blue lake evermore gushing down.
And we saw the mosses golden and brown
In a tiny forest deep away
Distinct with delicate branch and spray.
And over the sunny surface wide
There swam and swung with a pearly light,
Like birds on the sea at eventide,
Great flocks of water-lilies white;
Yet not like others, but fairer far,
For their delicate wings all seemed to be
Gleaming with light transparently,
And crowned in the midst with a golden star.
And oh! it was childlike joy to part
The shining water with down-stretched hand,
And to see the broken surface start
And wide in glittering curves expand.
And on, and on, all adown the lake
We clove the waters and left our wake,
All before us as strangely still
As the future that hideth its good and ill,
And all behind us trembling on
In the misty sunlight that slanting shone,

Like a memory soft of things that are gone.
And methought, when the evening light was o'er,
And the folded shadows came dimly down,
We sat and talked on the quiet shore
Of the glorious Alp with its snowy crown.
And the peace of the present was pure and deep,
And the hope of the future was calmly bright:
And oh! I would that the dream of sleep
Had its counterpart in the hours of light!
For methinks 'twere easy to twine my song
With a moral sweet and a lesson true,
Of blending the near and distant view,
And charming the road, as we travel along,
With a lofty aim and a purpose strong.

(1848.)

Hymn of Praise,

ON THE APPEARANCE OF THE NORTHERN LIGHTS.

O God, Thy glory is abroad this hour
Flushing the pure calm face of saintly Night;
Who seemeth, as she sitteth on her throne,
To gather all her powers into praise,
And in exulting joy to worship Thee
With the full beauty of her holiness.
See where among the feathered clouds flows on
A wondrous sea of rosy waves; and swords
Of brightness strike up from the Northern distance
Ev'n to the highest heavens, where the stars
Seem crowding Westward like far companies
Of Angels going up to some high feast,
As the wind moves the light clouds onwards! See
How all the spaces of the moonless sky
Are blue against the fire-flood! And, o'er all,
Broad ceaseless waves of streaming radiance flow
In a swift tide across the trembling heavens,

As tho' some storm-wind coursed them from the pole!
Lo! hath an awful daybreak gloriously
Burst forth among the stars at midnight hour,
Climbing the topmost skies with giant-strides,
Impatient of the long delay that melts
The darkness into daylight? Or hath Eve
Forgotten her sweet office, and come back
From gathering in the lagging hues that trail
Behind her lord the sun, to see for once
The wonders of the night that followeth her?
Oh ever-changing beauty! Now it ebbeth,
Sucking, as doth the sea, its airy billows
Back to the margin of the sky, and now
It poureth up once more, with strength renewed
Passing its former bounds, and gushing on
In creek and bay!

O mighty mighty Night!
Yea, rather, mighty God, who makest night,
For Thy great glory I give thanks to Thee!
My heart is full of praise I cannot speak:
Oh! if its song be inarticulate,
Yet be it, God, as true to Thee as Night's,
Who in her stillness praiseth Thee the most,
With her fair earnest face turned full on Thee,
All senses lost in one deep speechless worship!

(1848.)

Spring Ride.

(LEATON KNOLLS, NEAR SHREWSBURY.)

O sister, 'twas so sweet a time,
Our ride of yesterday,
I needs must turn it into rhyme,
Lest all should fade away.

And it may be a pleasant thing,
When colder-hearted grown,
To catch a faint re-echoing
Of feelings that are flown.

'Twas after show'rs of gentle rain
Had past across the sky,
And cleared the vapours from the plain,
And brought the distance nigh;

On one of those soft days ere yet
The woodbine leaves unfold,
While garden-plots are thickly set
With aconites of gold;

We rode out in a fitting mood
A joyous heart to win,
And all the outward springing wooed
The joyousness within.

We rode between the meadow-lands,
And many a gleaming sheet
Of red earth shot with greenest bands
Of early-growing wheat:

We heard the thrush's wild rich song
Full of the bursting Spring,
We saw the tree-buds all along
In soft light glimmering:

Until we reached that fairest spot
Where, opening out between,
On either side a lonely knot
Of fir-trees dark and green

Stood out into the depth of sky
Like night against its blue,
A mighty frame of ebony
For all the glorious view.

And thro' the grassy hollow there
The woodlands golden-brown
With curving slopes dipt onward where
The river runneth down.

And all the wide plain darkly clear
Was thronged with richest hues,
One tint could not be added there,
One tint we could not lose.

The clouds were clustered overhead,
And but a single gleam
Fringed the tree-tops with softest red
Above the river's stream.

But oh! I would that I could paint
The glories far away,
Where with excess of brightness faint
The mountain-ranges lay;

The foremost dark with shades distinct,
The hindmost drowned in light,
Range after range in grandeur linked
Alternate dark and bright!

It seemed as tho' the mountain-piles
That crowned the farthest West,
Scarce hid those fabled happy isles
With cloudless sunshine blest.

Oh would I might to other's eye
That close-writ page unroll,
Whose everlasting memory
I drink into my soul;

Whose influence thro' smiles and tears
Shall last as it began;
A happiness for after years,
A new part of the man!

(1848.)

Christmas Holly.

Oh! warm, ye gleams of early years,
Around my heart ye throng,
Till melting streams of frozen tears
Flow down, with ancient song.

Old words all linked with childish glee,—
Old thoughts remembered now,—
The ring of bells,—the frosted tree,—
The sparkling holly-bough,—

The hymn we said with happy pride
To those that are no more,—
The tune we heard in church, and tried
To sing, when church was o'er,—

All memories of joyous things,
That were unto the boy,
The mirth of this glad season brings
To stir the man with joy.

The holly from its darkling leaves
Old feelings raineth down,
And old old dreams the chiming weaves,
That cometh from the town.

But chief of all a charm there lies
To fill the pondering soul
In that sweet chant that from the skies
O'er Bethlehem's shepherds stole.

What tho' the passing of the hours
Has softened all the view,
And on the light of spring-time bowers
Are tints of mellower hue,—

'Tis sweet to blend with calm content
Light-hearted joys long flown,
Soft shadows of a merriment
That may not now be known.

I would not now those joys replace,
That light heart of the past,
To lose the melancholy grace
That years upon them cast.

One single note I would not drown,
Though sad the cadence be,
Of that sweet song that trembleth down
From soaring memory.

Oh! happy they who harmonize
The man's deep earnest part
With strains of simple songs that rise
From childhood's joyous heart.

And oh! that ever, as I go
My destined way on earth,
I could but bid around me flow
Such tones of heavenly birth!

Yet long long seasons still there are
When these sweet songs are dumb,
When holy things seem faint and far,
And life grows wearisome;—

When manhood's fire, and boyhood's glee,
Alike lie cold and dead;—
When faith lacks strength to rise and see
The great things overhead;—

When fervour pines, and zeal and love
And interest decay;—
When duties flag, and slowly move
The footsteps of the day.

Oh! then I sometimes wish that I
Were such as I have known,
Whose gladsome moments lightly fly,
As they have ever flown.—

Yet better the calm work of man
Than gladness of the boy;—
So let me work the while I can,—
And leave to God the joy.

(1848.)

Habberly Valley.

(NEAR KIDDERMINSTER.)

Out from the gloomy rows of homes—(what homes
For man with his home-loving heart!)—far out
Beyond the discontented murmuring
Of streets that throb with the great looms, where I
Day after day sad-hearted move along,—
Far out this holy evening have I past.

It is an evening of such temperament
As makes the heart gush out with streams of beauty,
Mingling its own with that which is without,
Making a tenfold loveliness. I choose
The head of a small valley for my throne,
And all the spirits of beauty do my bidding.
The soft turf where I sit is intertwined
With mosses delicate, and eyebrights pure
Dot all its smoothness, with rock-roses frail
And crimson-lipped cup-moss; and on the stone,

That stands out rough and grey on either side,
Grow maiden-hair and tufts of purple heath.
And far away above the swelling copse
And ferny hollow with its close-cropt grass,
Where the sheep browse and tinkle their small bells,
And far beyond the green and level fields,
Whose trees crowd up upon the slanting sight
Into one constant woodland, there is reared
Beautiful Malvern, purple-robed and faint,
With sunny streaks upon his Western summit.

Oh! know'st thou not when evening fair as this
Will call back to thy mind far other scenes
Of bygone years when thou hast felt the same,
And memory pours sweetness on the thought
And absence sorrow, till thou needst must weep?
So I will dream awhile. I'll lay me here
Upon the thymy hill, with eyes half-closed
And pondering the swimming depths of blue.
The slanting sun plumeth the gnats with gold
That dance across my sight; the fresh young breeze,
That slept all day, cometh across the vale;
And oh! a flood hath set unto my soul—
A flood of eddying thoughts—the strange sad sense
Of utter loneliness, and time, and change,—
The bright bright days of old, the ancient scenes
Full of a thousand bursting memories,
All of sad hue, and yet how beautiful!

O ye soft airs, and sunny warmth of heaven,
Ye sounds and sights I love, ye have a spell
To conjure up dead feelings, and old dreams,
And ancient homes of thought, long ruinous,
And flowers that now are food for canker-worms.
Ye sympathies that bind the living heart
To all the outward glory of the earth,
Ye pour swift streams of recollection round me
That ripple onward to the far far past,
Till my whole soul is full of their sad music!
I wander far away;—I see again
The glorious haunts of former days, those scenes
That taught me first of beauty and of love.
I see the graves of many hopes and joys;
Ay, and about the graves are flitting still
The shades of things that were. O happy days
Light-hearted days, again ye wander by,
Spectre-like company! the same, yet changed!
The very lights and shadows pass again,
And yet they seem half-new. Ah! Memory,
Wander thou where thou wilt, thou canst not banish
That sense of distance and of creeping change,
That linketh all the present to the past:—
Seek thou what fairest times and scenes thou wilt,
Times and scenes crowded with life's sunniest flowers,
Thou'lt find some straggling wreaths of sadder hue,
Whose root is in the present, twining there!

(1848.)

The Floating of the Britannia Tube,

June 20, 1849;

OR, THIRTEEN AN UNLUCKY NUMBER.

(FOUNDED UPON FACT.)

Good Owen Williams of Tyn-y-bryn,
That is hard by Maes-y-Pandy,
Had a market-cart that was painted green,
And the best brown cob that ever was seen,
And the brown cob's name was Dandy.

Dandy the cob, he never was gay,
As he tugged the loads of lumber,
Yet he looked right plump and sleek that day,
For he'd had a pinch of corn to his hay,
—And yet thirteen, as I've heard men say,
Is a terrible luckless number.

And thirteen souls, both great and small,
With his wife and sister and cousin,

Good Owen Williams he treated them all,
And packed them in till (woe befall!)
There was one beside the dozen.

Now Dandy tugged right well at the trace
Till his wind grew something shorter;
And yet he looked in capital case,
For they'd combed his forelock down his face,
And dipped the comb in water.

Bless me! but it was a pretty sight
To see them fairly started,
With their hats so smooth and their frills so white,
A dozen blithe women in holiday plight,
Well-dressed and merry-hearted!

And Dandy had ne'er such a load before,
Tho' I trow he never went faster,
For a huge brown pitcher the green cart bore,
With baskets crammed with no sparing store
For the dozen beside the master.

And oh! but it was a noisy ride!
And I'll lay you a pound to a penny
They laughed till it echoed far and wide,
As they trotted o'er moor and mountain-side,
Down to the shore where the narrow tide
Comes washing up the Menai.

And good ten thousand were gathered there
To see the tunnel afloat,
And Stevenson the engineer,
With Claxton shouting his orders clear,
And slowly down to the foot of the pier
Steering the mighty boat.

Now Owen Williams had moored his craft
(To use the nautical diction)
On the side of the common, where they quaffed
From the huge brown pitcher, and roared and laughed;—
For in prosperity men are so daft
They never think of affliction.

The brown cob grazed on the close-cropt green:
In a pond behind were swimming
A flock of white geese, all ragged and lean,
Twelve and the gander:—Ill luck to thirteen
With a dozen to one of them women!

The shafts were propped up, and the day was warm,
And the beer was tapped right gladly:
And little they thought there was cause for alarm
In the flies that seemed to do no great harm
Save teazing Dandy sadly.

But to the wise man nothing is small,
As I shall show most clearly;

For who would have thought that a fly on the wall
Some twenty yards off, unseen by all,
Concerned them yet so nearly?

The tube had started without a hitch,
And the cheers uprose stupendous:—
When the fly on the wall flew over the ditch
To Dandy's nose, which began to itch
With an itching most tremendous.

He whisked his tail, and he shook his ears,
With a movement most impatient,
But all in vain are his kicks and rears,
Till at last with a steady course he steers
To where his cart is stationed.

Owen Williams he smacked his whip,
But Dandy's purpose was settled,
He marched to the shaft, and rubbed his lip
Up and down at the very tip
On the place the fly had nettled.

Never was luck to a dozen and one,
(To question the fact were idle,)
Dandy's object was quietly won,
And he lifted his head when the rubbing was done,
But the shaft was caught in the bridle.

Oh! for the screams when the cart uprose!
And verily, for that matter,

A dozen Welsh women, as every one knows,
(Or at least, if you don't, you may well suppose,)
Can kick up a pretty clatter.

Slowly up went the shafts in the sky,
And, to cut the story shorter,
Dandy lifted his head so high
That he tumbled the whole of the company
Heels over head in the water

Oh! for a Turner's mystic brush
To seize on the situation,
And weirdly picture the crash and crush,
And the geese, and the womankind, and slush,
And dismay, and consternation!

And Owen Williams, he vowed, I ween,
With a vow right strong and hearty,
That never again should he be seen
Making one of a fatal thirteen,
Be it ever so tempting a party!

The Home View.

(NEARWELL, SHREWSBURY.)

Oh! God be praisèd for a home
Begirt with beauty rare,
A perfect home, where gentle thoughts
Are trained mid' scenes so fair.

And where (God grant it so) the heart
That loves a beauteous view,
The while it grows in truth and taste,
May grow in goodness too.

For 'tis my creed that part to part
So clingeth in the soul,
That whatsoe'er doth better one,
That bettereth the whole:

And whoso readeth nature's book
Wide spread throughout the earth,
Will something add unto his love
Of wisdom and of worth.

Then God be praisèd for a home,
With dower of beauty blest,
That seeth o'er a sunny plain
The mountains in the West—

Fair hills, where tender hues and tints
With flecks of sunshine stray,
So full of change that some new grace
Comes up with each new day;

Now cut in the clear depth of sky
With outline sharp and pure!
Now distanced by the hazy sun,
In misty lights obscure.

I see them now all softly shine
In one wide azure glow,
While bands of shadow o'er the lands
Between are moving slow.

And now all dark in solemn range
At evening hour they stand,
Fringed upward to green spaces clear
With shining orange band.

On gleamy days I see full oft
A fall of sunrays drop
Gently as flocks of birds alight
Upon a southern slope.

Or else I see them softly steal
Up some gorse-golden steep,
Or down a hazel-feathered gorge,
Slowly, like browsing sheep.

The passing storm will oft throw out
(In sunny contrast seen)
Upon the grassy mountain-side
A space of vivid green.

And oft a train of distant smoke
(So in God's earth and sky
All things have beauty, rightly seen,)
Like silver floweth by.

And every hue that painters know,
And every shade they love,
Cometh upon those beauteous hills,
Down from the heavens above.

And I might sing of fairest things
Within the nearer plain,
And count the glorious works of God
Once more in scanty strain.

For there are meadows golden green,
Where shadows broad and deep
Of rounded elms, and dark-leav'd oaks,
And crookèd hawthorns, sleep.

And there are wooded banks and curves,
Uprising far and nigh,
And gracefully thro' copsewood slopes
The poplar shooteth high.

And thus by morning and by eve,
The same yet ever new,
I drink into my inmost soul
The glories of the view:—

Thanking the God of heaven and earth
For making all so fair;
And hallowing my perfect joy
With praises and with prayer.

(1850.)

Shelsley Beauchamp.

Thou say'st that it is nobler far to sing
Of Man, with all his majesty of will,
His Godlike mind, his mysteries of thought,
His might of hope and dread and joy and woe,
The crown of all creation,—than to sing
God's lesser works, the things in earth and sky
Most beautiful, the mountains, and the wood,
The breezy lake, and clouds suffused with light
And hues unutterable, the delicate flower,
The voicèd spring,—all perfect things that move
The loving heart to thankfulness and joy;—
Man is the poet's subject.

Be it so:—
Then I will plead great lack of nobler thoughts,
And of the skill to mould them into rhyme.
Be mine the lowlier aim: for on my heart
Never hath deed of high renown, or scene
Of tender interest, drawn by purest art,
Fall'n with such true and living influence

As some sweet passing touch that hath awaked
A memory of Nature's simple truth.
And I would dwell in that which is divine,
Least fallen; I would train my heart to feel
The mystic might of things that never change,
Things whose great meaning always is the same,
Whose voices always speak to them that hear,—
The glory and the beauty of the world.
Yes, I would change thy saying, if I might;
Man is the poet's object: there we meet.
To make man feel what he himself hath felt,
This is the poet's work. To rouse the heart,
By all the gentle artifice of verse
Winning the imagination to our side
And gaining subtle entrance, to smite then
With all those touches that have smitten us
For pleasure or for good:—this is our work.

O Nature! high and pure and holy Nature!
Grant me the lowliest place within thy courts,
Where I may serve thee, winning golden smiles.
Oh for the voice of song to hymn thy might!
Oh for the genius that should set in rhyme
All richly chased the jewels of thy wealth
For men to gaze upon! Yea, I would tell
Of wondrous thoughts, and courage, and resolve,
And holy hope, and power to conquer life,
Born of the eternal stars;—such truth and power

As never proudest deed of man best told
Hath given: I would tell of glorious joy
Gathered among the lonely glist'ning snows
Of Alpine summits; of large stores of love
Drawn from the moving shadows of the woods;
Of praise o'erflowing midst the sunny slopes
Of hills; and valleys that have made me pray.
Oh! I could pass in memory one by one
A thousand station-points, rich varied scenes
Of plain and mountain, moors and riverside,
Sunsets, and glorious nights, and first Spring days,
Deep woodland hollows, rock-clefts fringed with ferns,
The roll of mighty waves, the still blue lake,
The wide earth and the airy ocean seen
From mountain-summits, the pale light of mists,
The full-toned colouring of clouded days:—
Points where my heart hath halted in its journey
And laid up stores for all its after need.

That moment when upon the gloomy pass
Thro' clouds and dreary wastes ascending slow
First I could pierce Dunlow's long rugged gorge,
And through the rent, as through a wondrous glass,
(The roof all hung with curtains of thick cloud,)
Could see far off a little glittering space
Of sunny plain,—that moment is to me
A rich possession, richer far than e'er

I won from plain where classic battle raged,
Or town where storied names have lived and wrought.

An hour of calm pure moonlight, all too brief,
Beside thy ripply marge, O fair Lugano,
That perfect night when shoreward breezily
The quivering waters all their shining tost,
Is worth to me all hours that e'er I passed
Tracking memorials of mighty men
In castles camps and palaces.

And thou,
Sweet Shelsley, 'mid the wanderings of my thought
And dreamy recollections of fair spots,
Now gatherest up thy beauties one by one,
Building thyself into a perfect truth.
Oh! to awake unto a woodland scene,
To gaze with the first look on golden fields
And curvèd hill-sides bowered with shadowy trees,
The freshness and the beauty and the sun,
When thou hast dwelt in some great town, and seen
From thy dim lattice nought but weary streets
Of squalid misery,—what joy of joys!
Thus, fairest Shelsley, on thy perfect vale
I gazed entranced on one sweet summer morn.
From a long slope I looked across the fields,
The lush and flowery fields, where gentle Teme

Glided amidst his willows, to the hills
That opposite were ruddy as they woke,
Lifting their dewy freshness to the day.
The butterflies were fluttering on the grass,
The swallows raced and twined in giddy maze,
With tiny joyous scream, incessantly:—
And I was glad with them.

And then a voice
Spake in my soul, disloyally it spake:—
‘Oh for a lot cast amid all that's fair,
‘Where my great work might only be to learn
‘The glory and the beauty of God's earth!’
But soon another voice made answer thus:—
‘A truer wisdom were alway to take
‘Beauty within thy heart, a gentle inmate,
‘Cheering thy steps, like music after toil.
‘Thy portion is not here; go, work thy work.’

(1850.)

Cader Idris.

Thou Form sublime, that drawest upward ever
To airy points thy far receding slopes,—
Cathedral mountain, 'mid the thousand shrines
That lift their gorgeous steeples all around,
Replete with heavenward praise, where every morn
The wild winds ring for worship; let me add
My puny voice to all the mighty chant
That down thy sculptured aisles a thousand streams
Chant as they march white-vested. Temple vast,
Great Dome, instinct with awe and thought profound,
Whose silent regions and unmeasured space
Distil a sense of power and majesty,—
Whose mighty walls of fretted rock, and slopes
That front all aspects of the hollow sky,—
Whose forms that in their changes infinite
Make thee complete in unity,—whose vastness
And grandeur, that do unimpaired embrace
The exquisite perfection of each part

Wrought with minutest skill, — whose noon-day glory
Scored with black shades of deep-cut masonry,—
Whose vaults with lavish beauty studded, bossed
With clusters of huge angles, feathered o'er
With foliage of all grace,—whose marble floors
Of airy lakes, that see the starry hosts
March nightly by,—whose proud head wreathèd round
With lightning storms, — whose sudden shouting rush
Of hurricane, and tumult of swift winds,—
Whose winter torrents, and whose glazèd snows,—
Yea, and whose gem-like flower most delicate
Nursed in a cleft of rock amid the spray
Of waterfalls,—all gloriously exalt
Thine awful Architect;—I would bow low,
Great Mountain, in thy vast and silent courts,
Filling my soul with worship unto Him
Who built thee for a temple to His praise.

(1850.)

The First Spring Day.

“Heaven lies about us in our infancy.”

Is Winter dreaming of sweet summer hours,
As guilty men may dream of innocence,
This perfect day, that stealeth soft and still
In between moaning winds and skies of grey,
Tenderly fair, like a celestial clime
Islanded in a sullen wintry sea?
'Tis such a day as this that melts the heart,
Hard beaten with the tramp of passing years,
Stirring its pulses with such trembling joy
They needs must break forth into flowers of song.

I stand alone, and gather to my soul
The strange sweet influences that are poured
Around me in the soft and shining calm.
Silence is on the hill, whose Western slopes
Are strewn with dreamy lights like gossamer,
Whose swelling knolls are lit each with his crown

Of slanting rays, above the hollow curves
Filled with dim shadows, which stretch far away
To where the Eastern scar falls off abrupt
In purple gloom. Silence is on the hill,
And in the trees, that, mid' the lichened crags,
Themselves as bare and gaunt, stand singly out,
And burn with ruddy fire. And deep below
In narrow hollow, massed in sombre shade,
Black yew-trees brood like Night, the tender mist
Of sun-rays dimly streaking their broad crowns
Over the grassy ridge; and from their feet
A little stream comes creeping ever on
From stone to stone with tremulous whispering;
While up against their blackness, in the calm
Of airy space suffused with golden haze,
Dim insects float like wandering sparks of fire.

I note each separate grace;—yet, while I stand
And marvel, over all there passeth down
A might of trancèd calm, a silent awe,
A dreamy mystery of grief-like joy,
That thro' the utter stillness and the gleam
Poureth around the heart a trembling sense
Of fair things far away. Oh! strange sweet power
In that which is itself so very fair
To banish all the present, and bring near
Only the farthest distance! Why is it
That when the scene, with all its mellow lights

And glorious hues, and with its subtle charm
Of tender influences strewn around,
Might well content with only that which is,—
Why is it that the spirit in such hour
To that which is not floateth far away,
List'ning intent to delicate undertones
That vibrate now from all the viewless strings
Which bind it ever to the golden past?
Where is the touch that plays those wondrous strings,
Whisp'ring along the spaces far away
In airy music, sad, aye unto tears,
Yet oh, how perfect!—Where the mystic power
That bears the wistful heart so far far off,
Like to some bird that on its poisèd wings
All motionless is ever onward borne
By airy stream, till, passing from all ken,
It seems to vanish thro' some opal gate
Of sunset heavens?—'Tis that such a day
Standeth apart from that on either side,
All unlike in its aspect, its soft calm
Cheating the heart with sweet forgetfulness,
And in its very strangeness banishing
The sense and memory of present things,
The chills of yesterday, the morrow's rain.
It cometh in its strangeness like a dream
Apart from all before and after it,
Too strange, too bright, too tender, to belong

To present things,—its very air suffused
With trembling fragile visions of fair scenes
Long past and far away,—its thrilling stillness
Instinct with memories, too sad for joy,—
Too sweet for sorrow,—yet all undefined,
Half-memories of all bright and far-off things,
Of strange sweet feelings, such as this day stirs,
Felt long ago:—I call them memories,
Yet, as they come, they seem to pass away
In infinite longings, hopes that reach far forth
Into a mystic void that only seems
That which I want,—and very far away.
The present is all gone; and thro' my soul
Two voices pour their intense harmony,
Wordless, yet taking captive all my being
With their great song,—ev'n Memory and Hope!

Oh! why so rarely now come days like this?
Why must the daily round of trivial cares
And outward duties hang like a dark veil
Shutting away from me the joyous light
Of Nature's earnest face, which once I loved
How eagerly! For 'twas not always so.
My childhood's home was in a town, but there
A garden-terrace looked o'er meadow-lands
Out to a hill, whose hollow banks were rich
With knots of varied foliage. I should pass

Such scene a hundred times scarce noticed now.
But that was then my secret store of joy,
And thither I would run alone each day,
And oft-times in a day, to taste anew
The deep mysterious draught of my delight.
There too I well remember how my heart
Leapt up exulting, with a startled joy
And sudden thrill that held the breath, to see
Cracking the wintry earth with points of green
The venturous spirelets of the crocus-buds.

O glorious joys of childhood, what are ye?
O tender lights, that floated round my path,
O heavenly beauty, strewn before my feet,
O love intense, the dower of childish years,
Whence came ye? Whither have ye passed away?
To-day I seem to set my foot once more
Within the borders of your fairy-land.
Oh! tell me, ere ye go, ye fleeting guests,
What message bear ye? Are ye shattered lights
From a more luminous sphere,—faint memories
Of that which man once was, when from God's hand
Godlike he came, and streams of heav'n's own light
Played round him still? Are ye dim memories
Coming all intertwined with splendid hopes
Which may abide, when ye are seen no more?
Yea, I will wrest an answer, ere ye pass,
And ye shall speak these words unto my soul:

‘O man, that weepest for youth's golden hours
When on the earth there lay a heavenly gleam
And lustrous radiance thou canst no more find,
Turn thou and gaze before thee.—Far away,
Over the weary plains, where thou must tread
In calm content thine ever onward path,
There on the dim horizon, faint and far,
Are striking up, like shadowy spears of fire
In northern midnights, gleams of wavering light
From some vast unseen glory. Yea, for there,
Whither thou goest, is the very fount
Whence flowed the early radiance and the gleam
That lit the earth to thy young eyes; and there
Thou shalt behold it yet again:—but now
No dim reflection, no rare transient joy,
Gilding some blissful solitary hour,
A dream of interwoven tremulous rays,
So delicately spun its airy woof
Melts at the breathing of a little word,
Fades at the coming of thy closest friend;—
But one eternal rapture, where all hearts
Are widened to embrace all joys in one,
And, banded in great love, are flooded o'er
With bliss that changeless ever seemeth new,
Seeing in glorious vision evermore
The infinite beauty, which no speck nor flaw
May sully, of the “very far off land.”’

(1858.)

Haughmond Hill, as seen from the Stone House, Shrewsbury.

On the Reopening of Owston Church, Leicestershire.

See the Church her head once more hath lifted;
Seemly order dwells within her gate;
God-sent art adorns her holy precincts,
And no more she lieth desolate.

What is it that she is saying, brothers?
All the subtle skill of graver's hand,
All the heavenward shafts, and bended arches,
Utter speech to those that understand.

You can hear them telling some things loudly,
Telling of ungrudging love and care;—
But I catch an inner voice that pleadeth
Soft and sweet, like music in the air.

And it saith, from every wreathèd column,
Every leafy carving, breathing low,—
‘Take our message, O ye living temples,
‘Fold it in your hearts before ye go.

‘Purge the shrine of your own souls within you
‘From all stain of pride and sloth and sin,
‘Grace it with all saintly decoration,—
‘Then your God shall come and dwell within.’

(1861.)

The Last Communion.

(ON A FEEBLE OLD MAN COMING ONCE MORE TO THE HOLY COMMUNION AFTER ILLNESS.)

He had been near unto the golden gate:
Serene he waited for his Master's calling;
It came,—‘A little longer thou must wait,
‘The sands of life have not yet ceased their falling.’

Once more he passeth by the well-known way,
Tho' sight be dim, tho' footstep fail and falter,
Led by the hand, once more this holy day
He draweth nigh unto his Lord's dear altar.

He kneeleth low; he heareth words of bliss;
With hand upspread and eyelid closed he kneeleth;
Oh, what an hour of peace and joy is this!
Oh, in what love his Lord Himself revealeth!

We see the trembling form; but far from sight
The spirit passeth to more glorious regions,
Behind the veil, upborne on wings of light,
Blending its worship with Angelic legions.

Entranced he gazeth on the wounded Side,
The precious Stream for him in mercy flowing,
The low-bowed Head, the Arms outstretching wide,
The awful Cross with mystic radiance glowing.

Servant of God! Thou hast not long to stay;
Soon the weak bonds that hold thee here shall sever:
Then shalt thou gaze upon the perfect day,
And Him thou lov'st, for ever and for ever.

The Three Pundits.

A Bishop, a Dean, and a Canon, they say,
Were discussing a difficult passage one day.

Said the Canon, ‘I rather
‘Agree with a father,
‘And fancy I see
‘A profound mystery,
‘Which confutes, when unravelled, with stringent austerity
‘Modern impugners of Catholic verity.’

Said the Dean, ‘It is clear
‘There's a knotty point here;
‘And I really can't say
‘That I quite see my way:
‘The Germans no doubt
‘Have found it all out:

‘Ah no! But the Canon is wrong, I am sure;
‘So it's best, as we find it, to leave it—obscure.’

Said the Bishop, ‘To me
‘The solutions seem three,
‘Which I'll call a, b, c.
‘In favour of a
‘There is much to say;
‘Something for b,
‘And a little for c.
‘Against a I find
‘Reasons strong to my mind;
‘But by stronger ones yet
‘B and c are both met.
‘And so when the three I impartially weigh,
‘I'm disposed to give in my adhesion to a.’

It was thus that the Canon
Patristical ran on;
It was thus that the Dean
Halted doubting between;
It was thus that the Bishop
The meaning did fish up:
It was thus that Dean, Canon, and Bishop, they say,
Discussed that most difficult passage one day.

Bishop Ellicott of Gloucester, Dean Alford, and Canon Wordsworth (afterwards Bishop of Lincoln).

Golden-Saxifrage.

(PONT-VAEN, NEAR CHIRK.)

Where budding alders drop their trellised shadows on the stream,
By the margin of the narrow meadow's golden breadth of gleam;
Where round about the mossy stones the glimmering water whirls
With bubbles making rings of light and strewing shadowy pearls;
Where thro' the sunlights and the shadows, by the ancient roots,
Under the grey arch fringed with fern the arrowy ousel shoots;
Where the larch's glorious greenness shines all up the slanting height,
Greenness shining not a colour but a tender living light;
Where the sorrel hangs its graceful bells; ere yet, with dreamy glow,

The purple haze of hyacinths floats in the wood below;—
There mid the margin-mosses, far from dusty ways of men,
The Saxifrage with lavish wealth of gold endows the glen.
Ah! River, on thy glimmering banks, and down thy glistening sands,
Bring not the golden grains to lure unloving eager hands;
But ever pour about thy marge the flush of golden flowers,
To make the heart rich with sweet thoughts to store for dimmer hours.

The Children's Garden.

(A PLOT IN THE CHURCHYARD AT WHITTINGTON RESERVED FOR CHILDREN ONLY.)

Where is the children's garden-ground?—
Near the church, where the stately lime
Hums all day with a dreamy sound
In the leafy summer-time.

What is the seed in that garden sown?—
It is poor and feeble and little worth,
And we sow it in tears, in the cold dim earth
Buried deep deep down.

Tell me, when will the Spring-tide be?—
When the Day-star riseth upon the gloom,
And He who maketh each flower and tree
Biddeth the garden bloom.

How will blossom that garden-plot?—
Rows of lilies, all pure and white
As woodland snow-wreaths without a spot,
Shining with living light.

What are those blossoms so brightly fair?—
The little ones, at the trumpet's sound
Springing up in their beauty there
From the children's garden-ground.

A Sunbeam.

(TO L. C.)

When the thorn-leaves golden-brown
One by one were trembling down,
And across the misty dell
Slanted bars of amber fell;

Then a little winning face,
Pure and bright and full of grace,
Softly as the slanting ray
Fell upon my heart one day.

Smiles of Autumn quickly fly,
Amber mists are floating by,
And the glistening sunrays pass
From the silver-braided grass:

But my little sunbeam lies
In my heart, a life-long prize;
Storm or shadow, come what will,
It will live and shine there still.

Homeward.

(LOSING SIGHT OF CADER IDRIS.)

Round this purpled shoulder, like a pageant,
One by one the mountain summits die:—
Even as earth's narrow outlines near us
Hide the infinite glories from the eye.

Homeward once again. Ah! vanished mountains,—
Like old friends, your faces many a day
O'er the bowery woods shall rise before me
And the level corn-lands far away.

By the dreamy rippling in the sunlight,
By the windy surgings of the shore,
Up the thymy sheep-tracks thro' the heather,
I must wander, glad of heart, no more.

Yet I bear with me a new possession;
For the memory of all beauteous things
Over dusty tracks of straitened duties
Many a waft of balmy fragrance brings.

Was it thriftless waste of golden moments
That I watched the seaward-burning West,
That I sought the sweet rare mountain-flowers,
That I climbed the rugged mountain-crest,—

That I wandered up the narrowing valleys,
Plying oft the angler's lonely art,
Valleys deepening from the glorious ocean
Far into the mountain's silent heart,—

Splendid glens, instinct with magic beauty,—
Glimmering lights among the tender green—
Glancing waters, trembling into hollows,
Thro' the latticed branches dimly seen,—

Upward still to wilder lonelier regions,
Where the patient river fills his urn
From the oozy moorlands, 'mid the boulders
Cushioned deep in moss and fringed with fern,—

That I wandered, treasuring the beauties,—
Unfamiliar forms to lowland eye,—
Filling all the soul with silent praises
For the glory of the earth and sky?

Let me rather deem that I have gathered,
On the lustrous shore and gleamy hill,
Strength to bravely do the daily duty,
Strength to calmly bear the chancing ill.

Mountain-Pansies.

(MOELYDD, NEAR OSWESTRY.)

Up among the dainty mountain-mosses,
Where the freshest breezes ever blow,
On the slopes that front the open heavens,
There, like gems, the purple pansies grow.

All around are glorious mountain-ranges,
Some in shade and some with sunlight browed,
And soft gleams of green and gold and purple
Fall thro' windy rents of drifting cloud.

Rough and lichened rocks, in knolls and ledges,
All their hollows crowded up with fern,
Break the springy turf, and round about them
Golden-blossomed gorses brightly burn.

There, with keen eye gazing on the distance,
Standing on the wild and breezy down,
You can see full many a home and hamlet,—
See the dim spires of the far-off town.

It is here, where all is free and open,
Here, where wild winds ever come and go,
Here, with nought between them and the heavens,
That the gemlike purple pansies grow.

Open all thy soul to God's great glory,
Let all heavenly influence round thee pour,
Then thy heart, like the wide breezy mountain,
Shall with gemlike thoughts be studded o'er.

Converse.

(PENMAENMAWR.)

Two friends sat wrapped in converse low and grave,
Heart open unto heart, hand linked in hand,
Hearing, yet hearing not, the pulsing wave
Beat on the shadowy strand;

Gazing in frequent pause with dreaming eye
O'er the wide silver sea into the West,
Making sweet silences, when faint words die,
And loving hearts take rest;

Sweet silences, that strangers never know,
Between the murmured words, that, like a dream,
Wander amid the past scenes dim and low,—
Oh, how far off they seem!

Words following silence, silence following words,
So sped the golden sunset, till the land
Grew dimmer, and the last white flock of birds
Flashed on the glimmering sand.

Then all at once upstreamed in rippling flow
Of silent rosy waves a second sea,
Surging across all heaven, a trancing show
Of gorgeous pageantry!

The feathered cloudlets filled the plains of air,
Ranged by the soft wind's delicate marshalling,
Till you could fancy Angel armies there,
Nought seen but burnished wing.

Then more low converse till the last rose paled:—
But oh! if earth may bear such peace and love,
What shall the converse be when earth has failed
And spirits meet above!

(1867.)

On the Death of Bishop Lonsdale of Lichfield,

Oct. 19, 1867.

The pulses of a great and loving heart
Are still, and tears are dimming many eyes.
Scarce had the echoing outbursts time to die
That rose but now from that vast deep-stirred throng,
Responsive to his gracious parting words,—
Scarce had that voice itself its pleadings ceased
For the dear Church he loved and ruled so well,
When weary he lay down and fell asleep.
“Labour and sorrow” with his fourscore years
Came not. With sword in hand upon the field
The white-haired warrior fell. Oh, blissful end!

Who would not pray, “My last end be like his”?
Full sorely shall we miss the calm wise mind;
The wide and ready sympathy; the love
Unselfish, patient, Christlike; the large soul
That held in its embrace all good and true;
The single heart that thought and knew no guile.
A noble life hath nobly wrought itself,
And graven in a thousand stricken hearts
A deathless monument that evermore,
Like the fair spires of his own glorious fane,
Stands pointing, calm and motionless, to heaven.

The Church Congress at Wolverhampton.

The meeting held at Stafford on the day of his death in behalf of Canon Woodard's Scheme of Middle-Class Church Education.

The Last Bathe.

Into the arms of a little bay,
Rock-encompassed on either side,
Dredging the many-hued stones as they lay,
Tore and thundered the passionate tide.
All up the slippery slabs of the rocks,
With long white arms and back-strewn locks,
Like forms of Despair that shrieked and sang,
The upward-shivering cataracts sprang.

Father and son stood side by side,
Watching the glorious tide
With its thunderous shocks
Smite the echoing rocks,
And the mighty breakers tower and curl,
Marbled with emerald and pearl
And the backward foam of the yeasty swirl.

And the father said, “Oh, were it not joy
To plunge in those beautiful waves, my boy—
To be borne on high
As the billows rush by,
And then deep down in the hollows to lie!
I have never yet swum in so grand a sea,
But I'll dare it to-day, and thou'lt dare it with me!”

The huge billow broke
With a hungry roar,
And its headlong stroke
Drove the boy to the shore;
But the father he fought through the battling wave,
And out from the land struck joyous and brave.

The great green lines of the swift strong sea
Came by like charges of cavalry
With their coats of mail and their snowy crests,
But they bore him up on their mighty breasts,
Up on high
In their rushing by,
Then dropt him low in the hollow to lie.
It was joy to brave
The glorious wave:
He had never swum in a sea so grand,
But he dared it then as he struck from the land.

Sweetest of mothers! she sits by the bay,
Half a mile away,

Smiling to see her youngest-born play,
With his little bare feet
Venturing near as the waves retreat,
Then running away,
Half afraid, half in play,
Shouting, “O mother! look, look at the sea!
It was such a big one; it nearly caught me!”
Sweetest of mothers! she smiles in her joy—
She smiles for her love of her merry-voiced boy.

He has turned and struck out shoreward again,
And he swims with might and main—
Why is his strength so vain?
The great green rushing mountains of sea
Are coursing shoreward impetuously,
And they lift him high
In their surging by,
Then drop him low in the hollow to lie;
And he swims for dear life, and he thinks each crest,
That lifts him high on its awful breast,
Must carry him onward; but never more
Nears he that coveted shore!

Oh, sweetest mother!—oh, gentlest wife!
Thy loved one is struggling for thee and for life!
The winds have heard that one dread cry,
“I am drowning! Oh, help me!”—but they pipe by
Singing their storm-song lustily:—

And thou, sweet mother, art smiling with joy
As they blow in the locks of thy blue-eyed boy.

A current is sweeping out of the bay
With an under-sucking might;
And ended at last is the deadly fray,
And fought the desperate fight.
Like a broken spar, or a tangled weed,
He is rolled in the billow with none to heed,
And none to help, for the thunderous roar
Is all that is heard on the foam-wreathed shore.

The boy has gazed at last on the sea—
“Oh! where is my father? Oh! where is he?”
And his heart turns faint, and his straining eye
Glares in a speechless agony—
Can it be?—can it be?

Who will tell her? Oh! who will dare?
Who will go to her there?
Who will say that the splendid wave
Is of all her life the grave—
That the light of the home is gone,
That the life of her life is done,
That the heart of her heart is no more?
There she smiles as she sits on the shore.
Oh! who will go to her there?
Who will dare?—who will dare?

The wind fell as the sun went down.
Next day it was calmly bright.
And there on the sandy reaches brown,
With the manifold sea-weed strown,
In the glittering morning light,
Smiling, as if in happy play,
The sea gave up its prey.
There, in its awful soulless glee,
With a musical wash the ebbing sea,
As it bared the broadening lands,
Laid him down exultingly,
Face upwards on the sands.

(1868.)

The narrative is true, except that the author was mercifully saved when all seemed over.

A Puzzling Question.

“Why does the Rector keep an ass?”
This was the theme of a hot dispute,
As ruefully cropping the scanty grass
In front of the Rectory stood the brute.

His collar was chained to an iron peg;
A fetter was strapped to each fore-leg;
And he brayed out a long-drawn asinine volley,
The essence of musical melancholy.

A lady famed for practical views
Offered a simple explanation:—
‘The donkey,’ quoth she, ‘they constantly use
‘For drawing the Rector's beer from the station.’

Said a second, ‘For shame! It is perfectly clear
‘The Rector cannot drink all that beer.
‘I believe that the ass (which is far more pleasant)
‘From some dear friend was a touching present:

‘Perhaps it was little when first he had it,
‘And little donkeys are dear little things,
‘And I'm sure it does his feelings credit
‘If, now it is old, to the beast he clings.’

‘I,’ said an epicure, ‘venture to speak:—
‘You saw in the Times how uncommonly well
‘A party of gentlemen only last week
‘Dined upon horse at the Langham Hotel:

‘Well, it strikes me as not such a very bad guess
‘That the Rector, regarding the dearness of food,
‘Thinks if horse-flesh turns out such a savoury mess,
‘In all probability donkey's as good.’

Said another, ‘My notion is speedily told:
‘The Rector is troubled with corns on his toes,
‘So in primitive guise, like a patriarch old,
‘To visit his flock on his donkey he goes.’

‘What nonsense you talk!’ said a boy fresh from school,
‘Why, you'd make out the Rector a regular fool:
‘Each summer, I tell you, he gives a school-feast,
‘And to run in the races he keeps the good beast.’

‘Now I have a notion,’ cried one, ‘in my brain:—
‘The Rector for learning a character bears,
‘While his flock are mere rustics, and hard is the strain
‘To bring down his thoughts and his language to theirs:

‘So just as a barber selects the fair tresses,
‘And first manufactures his wigs on a block,
‘To the donkey the Rector his sermons addresses,
‘Thus fitting his words to the brains of his flock.’

Then a lady propounded one other solution,
While a little smile twinkled half-hid in her eye:—
‘The Rector,’ she said, ‘has a constitution
‘Full of brotherly love and sympathy.’

Fairyland Lost and Regained.

(ON RE-VISITING WORKINGTON IN CUMBERLAND.)

There is, or there was, for I scarce know which,
Or I once believed there to be,
A home with all golden treasures rich,
On the shore of a Northern Sea.

I knew it well, when a child I played
With the shells on that pebbly strand;
Never were shells in such hues arrayed
As the shells of my Fairyland!

I knew it well, on the thymy flat
When I gathered a harebell blue;
Never was harebell so wondrous as that
In my Fairyland which grew!

I knew it well, when the marvellous ships
Lay moored at the harbour quay;
But the gladdest thing was to watch the dips
Of the boat coming in from the sea.

I have been there again, as a grey-haired man:
Ah me that I'd stayed away!
I knew the spot where a child I ran
With the shells and the flowers to play:—

It is not others have marred the spot;
Nor Time with his pitiless hand
That has wrought the changes which blur and blot
The light of my Fairyland;

It was no weird trick of a fairy elf
That the child or the man beguiled:—
It is I myself that have robbed myself,
The man that has robbed the child!

Ah me! for the stunted flowers that stoop
Their smoke-sickened bells on the lea!
Ah me! for the sordid collier-sloop
That steers for the harbour quay!

Ah me! for the shells that were once so fair!
For the hues with which they shone!
There are refuse heaps of the shells still there,
But the grace and the tint are gone.

And yet—and yet—there are pictures twain;
And both I have surely seen:
I saw it once, and I saw it again—
And who shall judge between?

The child he saw it all tenderly lit
With the light of childish glee:
The man he came and he looked on it,
And he saw—what he could see.

And who shall say that the child's pure eye
Saw not a truer thing
Than to his critical phantasie
The man's worn sight could bring?

For I think that sight is the truest sight
Of God's own beautiful world
That seeth His teachings of love and of light
In the meanest place unfurled.

And even as it is good to be
A child in heart and in mind,
So I think full often the child can see,
Where the full-grown man is blind.

And of my two pictures the first I choose,
When Fairyland round me smiled:
The man's scant vision I will to lose,
And to see as saw the child!

(1870.)

On the Death of Bishop Gray of Capetown,

Sept. 1, 1872.

Rest, Heart, from all thy pulsing fire that beat
At trumpet-call of high self-sacrifice,
Rest till another trumpet bid thee rise,
Oh, rest from all the burden and the heat!
Champion of God! no more thine eager feet
Shall track the prints of Him who went before,
And woke thy heart-love for the cross He bore,
And drew thee to Him by His love so sweet.
To thee God's Word was true, for God was true,
Christ's Church beloved for love of Christ who died;
Well didst thou wield the sword the long day through
To guard from loss the Word, from stain the Bride.
O bravest tenderest heart, all fire, all love!
Thy work is done! Rest with the saints above!

Two Burials.

[_]

[The two following entries stand next to each other in the Register of Whittington Parish, Shropshire, in the year 1877:—

Sept. 13.—Ellenor Watkins, of Borth, aged 31. Oct. 9.—Ellenor Watkins, of Borth, aged one month.]

Sleep, sweet mother! Thy task is done;
It is time for thee to rest.
Trustfully leave thy little one
To lie on another's breast.
God's love, O mother, is greater than thine,
And He calls thee away to a peace divine.

Bright was the vision that met her eyes,
Yet it was not wholly fair;
And sweet were the glades of Paradise,
Yet she missed one sweetness there:
For Heaven itself would lack one grace
Till the mother might look on her little one's face.

And God looked down from His golden throne
On the mother's heart of love,
And He sent to the earth a shining one
To carry her child above;
And He laid it down on her yearning breast,—
And then the mother had perfect rest.

Written in a Lady's Album.

Mid warriors, statesmen, poets, and musicians,
Valhalla-names, all crowned with deathless fame,
This is no place for men of lowlier missions,
Of simple life and unhistoric name.

And yet not always are the lives of mortals
With chances of heroic act endowed;
Valhalla opens not its jealous portals
To every toiler in the passing crowd.

Our greatness lies in doing small things greatly,
And noble motive glorifies the least;
Therefore, O lady, mid the grand and stately
Scorn not the poor words of a rustic priest.

(1878.)

The Babies' Wood Turkey-Cock.

FACT AND FABLE.

At Babies' Wood Farm lived a Turkey Cock—
(In Scotland they'd call him a ‘Bubbly-Jock’)—
A jolly old fellow, portly and stout,
Who stuck out his crop as he strutted about,
And blustered and gobbled and chuckled all day
In a highly self-satisfied sort of a way.
He could swagger and brag at no end of a pace,
And could fly in a rage, and get red in the face,
For I fear that his temper was none of the best,
And was apt now and then to be freely expressed.
On the rest of the poultry he looked with disdain,
And thought no small beer of himself, it was plain:
While, to judge by his countenance, really I think
One might just have suspected him fond of his drink.

Now this jolly old bird of wives had a pair,
Matronly, modest, sleek, and fair:
(The Turks in Turkey, if men say true,
Are never content with less than two:)

100

And the worthy creatures, as good wives should,
Each of them hatched him a promising brood.
And he stuck out his crop as he strutted away,
And blustered and gobbled and chuckled all day,
‘Oh! arn't I a swell!’ cried this jolly old Turk,
‘The hens mind the young ones—that's mere woman's work.’

Ah, me! how chequered with trouble and woe
Is the life of men and of birds below!
Lo! the joy of the eve is the morning's sorrow,
And the pride of to-day the despair of to-morrow!

Alas! and alas! for that rollicking bird!
'Tis the mournfullest story that ever was heard:—
The fox, he came stealing at dead of night,
And there rose one horrible scream of fright,
For he pounced alike upon fledgling and mother,
Carrying havoc from one to another,
Till, in merciless wanton thirst of blood,
He had slaughtered the half of the helpless brood:
And, when on the earth smiled the rosy morn,
There they lay headless and mangled and torn,—
The two fair hens that had been his pride,
And a dozen or so of the poults beside.
And he, poor fellow, with downcast tail,
And with pendulent crest, and his comb all pale,

101

Blubbered and gobbled most piteously,
And cackled his grief in a minor key.

Now had he only been man, not bird,
Or had he ever by good luck heard
How Christian fathers at such times do,
He might have been spared much trouble, it's true.
In that case this is what he'd have said:—
‘My two poor wives are both of them dead;
‘It's very sad, but to mourn and fret
‘Never did any one much good yet.
‘So I'd better bear it as best I may;
‘And as for the little ones, well-a-day!
‘I can't be bothered with things like those,
‘Somebody'll look to them, I suppose.
‘So, just to cheer up my spirits, I think
‘I'll go to the public, and have some drink.’

Ah! but the poor old Bubbly-Jock,
He wasn't a Christian, but only a cock:
So you couldn't expect him to know, like you,
What a Christian in such a case would do.
Besides he had never been to school:—
So what do you think he did, poor fool?
Why, he called his little ones round about him,
(For how, poor things, could they do without him?)
And, brushing a tear from the end of his beak,
With a heart-broken gobble began to speak:—

102

‘My dears, since you've lost your mothers, you see
‘You'll have for the future to look to me.’

The little ones stood, like dutiful birds,
With their heads on one side, as they pondered his words;
But the weather was cold, and for shelter and rest
They longed for just one thing—a mother's warm breast.
And they longed not in vain; for the penitent Turk
No longer talks bigly of ‘mere woman's work.’
See, he calls them all close, and, without more delay,
He broodles them quite in a motherly way:
And he leads them about, and looks after their food,
And never was mother more kind to her brood.
And now that they all have grown bigger and stronger,
And need his paternal assistance no longer,
You may sometimes detect in the swell of his breast,
In the flirt of his tail, or the hue of his crest,
That the pride of his nature's not out of him quite;
For he gobbles by day, and he chuckles by night,
Saying ‘Arn't I a swell! For, I swear by my beard,
‘There are no finer turkeys than those that I reared.’

MORAL.

All ye unfeathered bipeds! mark my word:
A man may learn some lessons from a bird.

103

Barmouth.

(AN AGGRIEVED VISITOR.)

Listen, men and maidens fair,
Who to Barmouth do repair,
Seeking health and pastime there,
Basking in its sunny air,
While of grievances a pair
With a sad heart I declare.

First of all, you are aware
That no prospect can compare
(Search the land through everywhere)
With the river view so rare.
How then could those Vandals dare
To block out the sweet view there
By that wall all gaunt and bare
Built along the road so fair?
'Tis enough to make men swear,
And fair maidens tear their hair,
As on tip-toe, in despair,

104

Vainly they attempt to stare
O'er the stones so rude and square.
Men of Barmouth! if you care
For the wealth of beauty rare
Which your glades and mountains wear,
Surely from your wall so bare
Two feet you might rightly spare:—
That would just the wrong repair.

But another wrong I bear
In my bosom, rankling there.
Listen, men and maidens fair,
And with me my sorrows share.
Why, oh! why, I ask, whene'er,
Rising from my easy chair,
I would breathe the balmy air,
Pacing on your thoroughfare,
Seeking to dispel dull care
With the sight of all things fair,—
Why must every rocky lair
On its cloven surface bear—
Not the dainty Maidenhair,
Not the Sea-Fern—would it were!—
But (it is too bad, I swear!)
Posters—hideous, vulgar, square,
That with sallow sickening glare,
Blurring nature, flaunt and flare
On the grey rocks everywhere?

105

Men of Barmouth! hear my prayer:
If a worthy pride you share
In your country, do and dare!
From that wall, so gaunt and bare
Four and twenty inches pare:
And from all the rock-slabs there
Those atrocious posters tear;
Nor in future let them bear
Ought the eye of taste to scare
Save this—

Bill-stickers, Beware!

106

Old and New.

(DONINGTON CHURCH.)

[_]

[At the re-opening of this church on April 29, 1879, the tower was lying in ruins, having fallen suddenly a few weeks before.]

Lapsed in ruin, blotted from the landscape,
Lies the ancient belfry to the West:
Graced with loving tendance, Nave and Chancel
Eastward rise in novel beauty dressed.

Yet amid the gifts of new adornment
Age-worn carvings bear their sombre part,
And the fair proportions witness ever
To the old-world builders' reverent art.

And I see it rise—that ancient belfry—
Once more perfecting the maimèd view,
(Life and order out of death and ruin,)
Old in plan, in strength and structure new.

107

Thus for self, and thus for Church and Nation,
We would pray Thee, Lord, the life to mould,
In the great unfoldings of Thy mercy
Interblending still the new and old.

Teach Thy children, still with reverence tracing
Saintly footprints in the ancient ways,
All new gifts of strength and grace and wisdom
Upward ever on the old to raise.

108

Thrift the Plant.

(ARMERIA VULGARIS.)

On sandy wastes, ere yet the frugal root
Of tender grass can feed the springing shoot,
Fringing each sterile bank and rocky rift
Green grow the tufted cushions of the Thrift.

Thick set with grass-like leaves it nestles there,
A home for statelier herbage to prepare;
And, graceful in its modest duty, robes
The strand with rosy Lilliputian globes.

Nor will our dainty flower the task disdain,
Trim order in our gardens to maintain,
Guarding from wanton growth or ruthless tread
The shapely outline of each chequered bed.

Ah, well-named flower! For of a Thrift we sing
Skilled, like thyself, a fertile growth to bring,
In barren wastes with Hope's sweet verdure rife,
The pledge and potency of statelier life!

109

Our Thrift shall fertilize the springing blade,
And fence our life-plots with a fairy braid;
'Tis better worth, and comelier beside,
Than that rank Saxifrage called “London Pride!”

(1883.)

Written for the first number of the Periodical “Thrift.”

110

London Pride.

(SAXIFRAGA UMBROSA.)

(An Apology.)

Poor London Pride! Forgive the cruel wrong
I did thee in my ill-considered song.
“Comparisons are odious,” I know,
And 'twas not fair, dear flower, to treat thee so.
Thou art not proud, so pleads thine advocate,
And I confess my error, tho' so late.
Thy dubious name speaks not thy quality,
But rather argues London proud of thee.
For I have seen thee in the sylvan glen,
Deep hidden from the curious gaze of men,
Crowning the mossy boulder, low between
The lacing willows and the brooklet's sheen.
I've seen thee where thou lovest best to dwell
Gracing green Erin's cooler hill and dell,

111

Showering thy leafy wealth and floral spray
With lavish love to make lone mountains gay.
Yet dost thou not our meaner tracts despise,
Smoke-laden breezes, fog-encumbered skies,
With face of gay content disdaining not
The unkempt nook of urban garden-plot.
Oh, humble Pride! Thy just revenge forego,
And in my London garden come and blow.

(1883.)

The author received a remonstrance against the last line of the preceding poem.

112

The Boy Hero.

(A TRUE STORY IN ITS MAIN FACTS.)

Children, listen to the story I will try my best to tell,
Of a hero brave as any that in battle nobly fell;
It was not in long-past ages, nor in country far away,
But the scene was Bristol city, and it was the other day;
And the hero of my story was a boy but six years old,
Yet I think his name is worthy to be written up in gold.

Johnnie Carr and Willie Stephens went out playing in the street,
Willie was two years the younger, and his face was pale and sweet;
Little Willie! pretty Willie! many a stranger passing by
Turned and smiled at little Willie with his wide blue wondering eye.

113

Johnnie Carr was strong and rosy, curly haired, and hazel eyed,
Bright and merry—who can wonder Johnnie was his mother's pride?
Yet there was a spark of mischief lurking in those dimpled cheeks,
Though you never could be angry at his little thoughtless freaks.

Willie's hoop, see, he has taken, running laughing on before;
Little Willie tries to catch him, till he scarce can follow more:
Then the tears come, yet he follows with his little weary feet,
Follows to the fields and hedges far beyond the busy street;
Then he sits beside the pathway, crying in his childish woe,
Weeping sadly for his mother, asking home again to go.
Chilly is the autumn evening, quickly falls the deepening shade;
Johnnie takes the little hand and bids him not to be afraid.
So a little while they wander, but they miss the homeward track,
And the wind is blowing colder, and the night comes drear and black.

114

‘Oh, I am so tired, Johnnie!’ little Willie sadly cries;
‘And I'm cold and hungry, Johnnie!’ Tears are now in Johnnie's eyes:
He has teased the little fellow, and he's full of sad remorse,
‘Get up, Willie,’ he is saying; ‘get up; I will be your horse.’
Then upon his back he took him, staggering on beneath his load,
Staggering just a little distance on the dark and friendless road;
But the burden was too heavy, and he set poor Willie down:—
Sorely puzzled now was Johnnie how to get to Bristol town.
‘Don't be frightened, Willie,’ said he; ‘we will stop out here to-night,
‘And we'll find our way directly when there comes the morning light.’
On a gate they sat a little, then said Johnnie, ‘Let us look,
‘P'rhaps within the field behind us we may find a sheltered nook.’
So into the field they clambered, and a sheltered nook they found,
Where the little tired fellows laid them down upon the ground.

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But the sodden earth was chilly, and they shivered lying there,
Little Willie, cold and hungry, sobbing for his mother's care.

Then got up our little hero—he was only six years old,
Yet he could not bear that Willie should be crying with the cold.
In his brave love all unconscious, just in simple childish guise,
Never thinking he is sharing in a mightier Sacrifice,
Johnnie took his little jacket, laid it down to make a bed,
And his other clothing simply over little Willie spread:
Then himself laid down uncovered (save his little socks and shirt),
Thinking, ‘I am strong, but Willie's very small and shan't be hurt.’

With a start there came to Johnnie sudden thought of One who cares
For His children, and he whispered, ‘Willie, we forgot our prayers.’
There they knelt, the little fellows, side by side upon the sod,

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With their simply lisped ‘Our Father’ casting all their care on God.
Then once more they lay enfolded in each other's arms so fast,
And the night wind bleak and cruel froze them with its chilling blast.

See those fathers, half distracted, friends and neighbours pressing near,
Into every nook and corner how with eager haste they peer!
See those mothers, broken-hearted for their darlings, how they gaze
Wheresoe'er the friendly lanterns high uplifted cast their rays!
Aye, but chiefly, as the tide falls, longing much yet dreading more,
Hollow-eyed the oozy mud-banks of the river they explore.
Hour by hour of chill and darkness (oh, how slow the morning light!)
In their hopeless search they wander all that long and dreadful night.

It is morning: they have found them. Lo! a labourer on his way
Came upon them as still folded in each other's arms they lay.

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They are breathing, barely breathing, all unconscious, cold as stone:
Noble Johnnie! pretty Willie! yes, the life has not quite flown.
And they take them to a cottage, and they chafe each frozen limb;
Little Willie has been covered, there is better hope for him,
And the mothers stand there watching, and their tears are falling fast.
Little Willie's eyelids tremble; yes, there's hope for him at last!
See the warm milk he has swallowed! See, he sighs a little sigh!
Then he smiles, as on his mother he uplifts his large blue eye.
But the little hero, Johnnie—ah! they chafe his limbs in vain!
Never shall his merry laughter echo through the house again.
Faint and fainter comes his breathing, marble white that open brow;
Who will dare to speak of comfort to those stricken watchers now?
‘O my Johnnie! O my Johnnie! speak to me one little word!’
Sobbed the mother, but I know not whether Johnnie ever heard.

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Yet at once, as one awaking, with his eyelids open wide,
Just one word he whispered faintly—it was, ‘Willie!’— then he died.

In the churchyard Johnnie's sleeping underneath the grassy mould:
No one puts a stone upon it lettered with the tale in gold:—
‘'Neath this stone a little hero, Johnnie Carr of Bristol, lies,
‘Who to save his little playmate gave his life a sacrifice.’

Children! think how, when the nations gather round the mighty throne,
He who gave His life for others will claim Johnnie for His own.
Think how full of strange sweet wonder will the gracious tidings be,
‘What thou didst to little Willie, that I count as done to Me.’

119

A Tale of the London Mission of 1874.

‘Come in! Come in!’ the lady said,—the door stood open wide,
The church was bright, and young and old were ranging side by side:
The lady's look was soft and grave, her voice was low and sweet:—
The girl half stopped and turned—and then went faster down the street.
One moment, and a gentle hand upon her arm was pressed,
‘Oh, won't you stay?’ the kind voice said, ‘Come in, come in and rest:
‘The missioner will preach to-night, and all the church is free,
‘You won't refuse me now, my child; come in, and sit by me.’
‘No, no,’ she said, yet stopped and looked, (it was not hard to trace
The conflict passing like a cloud across that fair young face)—

120

Then hastily, as though she feared her heart at last might fail,
Passed in and sat beside the door, so weary, sad, and pale.
The preacher spoke of God's great love, and how the Saviour blest
Called weary souls to come to Him that He might give them rest.
He spoke no grand or learned words, he used no studied art,
He simply spoke as one who tried to reach his brother's heart.
It was the old old story, that can never pall or tire
When the lips with grace are fervent, and the heart with love on fire.
And the lady marked how one by one the tear-drops grew and fell,
While eagerly those wistful eyes were fixed as by a spell.
And then a hymn rose all around—no cultured choir's display,
For every voice and every heart seemed moved to sing that day;
And faster, faster, rained the tears, for with the wellknown air
Came back her childhood's happy days, her childhood's home so fair.

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She sees her father's thin white locks, her mother's loving eyes—
This night she cannot put aside the memory, if she tries:
She sees—she cannot help but see—the little sister sweet;
She hears upon the broad old stairs the little pattering feet:
They laid her in the old churchyard beneath the sombre yew—
And ‘Oh! my God!’ the poor girl sobs, ‘that I were laid there too!’

And now the preacher stands and waits, and bids who will to stay,
For he is yearning for their souls, and he has more to say.
The lady still is kneeling there, but kneeling all alone,
She lifts her head,—alas! the girl has left the church and gone.
She had so yearned to take her hand and help her, and she sighs
To think of that poor suffering face, those eager tearful eyes.

The pleading voice has ceased, yet still a scattered few are there,
As one by one the Missioner kneels by their side in prayer:

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And one by one they pass away with hearts that throb to feel
They have been very near to One whose touch hath power to heal.
‘Oh! had that poor child only stayed and told her tale of grief,’
The lady thinks, ‘perchance she too had found the blest relief!’
And now from out the silent church she with a friend departs;
Their words are few, but fewest words speak best from fullest hearts.
They part at last; and there behold! half eager and half shy,
The girl with those poor tear-stained cheeks, that sad beseeching eye.
‘Oh, it was long to wait,’ she said, ‘I thought it ne'er would end:
‘And then I could not speak to you, for you were with your friend;
‘Oh, help me, help me, if you can!’ The lady gently smiled—
‘I will,’ she said, ‘but God is Love, and He will help His child.’
‘Oh, no! oh, no!’ the poor girl cried, despair in every tone,
‘You cannot know how far away from His true fold I've gone.

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‘I'm not as one who never knew; time was I used to pray,
‘I tried to do the right, but oh! I've sinned His Love away!
‘Five years have passed since I wrote home, and now I cannot tell
‘Whether my parents are alive: they don't know where I dwell.
‘And all that time I never once have crossed the church's door
‘Until this night—and now, O God! there's hope for me no more!’
‘Nay, nay, that can't be true, my child,’ (and oh! like gentle rain
The words fell on that withered heart and softened it again);
‘Why did God let me come to you? Why did He let you stay,
‘Unless He had some word of hope to speak to you to-day?
‘Oh, offer Him this very night that worthiest sacrifice,
‘The broken and the contrite heart which He will not despise.
‘We both have need of pardoning grace; yes, sister, we will lay
‘Our sin-stained souls before His feet, and for His mercy pray.

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‘And promise me one thing—this night, before aught else you do,
‘That you will to your mother write, and ask her pardon too.’
‘I will,’ she sobbed; and then her hand the lady kindly took,
And bade her read the blessed words of peace in God's own Book.
‘I have no Bible now,’ she said: the lady sadly smiled,
‘That must not be,’ she said, ‘take mine; and now good night, my child.’

Next morning at a hospital the lady needs must call—
Ah! little dreamt she of the tale that on her ears would fall.
Why runs the nurse to meet her there ere she can speak a word?
‘Oh! is it not most strange and sad! Nay, surely you have heard?
‘A girl has been brought in to-day, but only just to die,
‘By some rough driver in the street struck down and left to lie.
‘We know her not, but you may know, for, strange as it may sound,
‘A Bible with your name in it was all the clue we found,’

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‘Oh, let me see,’ the lady said, ‘I think I know too well—
‘Yes, it is she—but tell me, nurse, whate'er there is to tell.’
‘Not much,’ she said, ‘but once she spoke, before she passed away;
‘We thought she gasped, “Thank God! Thank God! this was not yesterday!”’

Next day there stood before the gate, with hearts too full to speak,
A father with his thin white locks, a mother grave and meek.
The kind folk at the lodging-house had guessed their errand well,
And sent them on, but had not heart the thing they knew to tell.
The lady sees them standing there; she knows who it must be;
No need to ask them who they are, or whom they come to see.
She runs to meet them—‘Yes,’ she cries, ‘I know what you would say;
‘Your child is here; my poor, poor friends, it happened yesterday.
‘Come in, come in: God comfort you, and make you firm and brave,
‘For oh! your child has gone to Him, and found Him strong to save.’

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And then she took them by the hand like little children weak;
They went with her, scarce knowing aught, too stunned to think or speak.
And then she told them all the tale, in loving words and slow:—
Ah me! they came to find their child—and they have found her so!

She lay there white and beautiful, no trace of conflict now,
No lines that told of sin or shame upon that marble brow.
The aged pair they knelt beside the bed where she was laid,
And “Not our will but Thine be done!” amid their sobs they prayed.
What though the flower of childhood's grace no more be blooming there,
His snow-white lily Death has laid upon that form so fair.
“Blest are the pure in heart”—so once the Friend of sinners cried:—
Yet not unblest, methinks, are those whom He has purified!

(1882.)

127

To the Primate Designate.

[_]

[Written on the news of the nomination of the Bishop of Truro (Benson) to the Primacy.]

As full of awe as Death's own awful call,
The voice that from thy dear young Western flock
Summons thee to the forefront of the field.
For thine the charge, 'mid darkling cloud and storm,
To hold on high the banner of the Cross,
Rallying the armies of the God of hosts.
Nay, sterner tasks are thine: we summon thee
From strange confusions to elicit peace;
To blend with strength of ancient loyalty
The impetuous forces of swift-rushing days;
To weave the web of old historic power
With woof of newer thoughts and fresher life;
To trace high principle 'mid tangled facts;
To bravely spurn the false, maintain the true.
The Church hath need of thee, thou man of God!
Oh, win the Christless thousands back to her;

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Oh, shrine her in a nation's loyal trust;
Oh, crown her with a people's generous love!
God make thee wise and strong and brave to guard
Her life, her unity, her liberties!

December 1882.

129

Pencil or Pen.

(CWM ELAN, NEAR RHAYADR.)

Oh, for the spell of the artist's brush,
To carry this golden glen,
And to set it there 'mid the roar and rush
Of wearily toiling men!

They should gaze on the mountain's eloquent face,
They should breathe its fragrant air,
And perchance a dream of the wondrous grace
Might lighten a dim heart there.

Ah, toiler! not for myself alone
Would I love all fair things well;—
Thou shalt sit with me on my mossy throne
At the foot of the upland dell.

Thou shalt gaze with me on the mountain sweep,
With its manifold changeful hue;
Thou shalt watch with me the cloudlet sleep
On the breast of the changeless blue.

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Here purple with heather, there green with fern,
The broad slopes gleam afar;
And ruddy the slanting sun-rays burn
In the thorn-bush on the scar.

Thou shalt watch the stream, from pool to pool
Singing and smiling still,
In its mimic waterfalls, bright and cool,
As it drops from the far-drawn hill.

See how it creeps by the alder-roots
And the mosses brown and green!
See how in silver bars it shoots
The boulder-stones between!

See how the fountains of snowy spray,
As joyously on they run
Over the level slabs of grey,
Are dancing in the sun!

I envied thee, painter, thy artist eye,
As I looked on the hollow hill;
Yet are there no graces too softly shy
For the magic of thy skill?

Lo! wonderful mosses and tiny flowers
Make the marge of the streamlet fair,
For it is not a grudging hand that dowers
The glen with its beauty rare.

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And the mystic wonder of the place,
In things both great and small,
Is the witchery of exquisite grace
That crowns and perfects all.

And while thou, O artist, the great things seest,
And the splendour, as 'tis meet,
I may turn my freer gaze to feast
On the small grace at my feet.

The Pimpernel twines its tender thread
'Mid the mosses green and wet,
And the Sundew nestles in russet bed
With its glistening coronet.

The Wild-thyme curves out its fretted spray,
And many a cushion swells
Of the Ivy-leafed Campanula
With its thousand fairy bells.

Then the magic pencil I'll crave no more,
But I'll wield my uncouth pen,
And the mosses and flowers shall bring their store
For the solace of weary men.

And the care-worn toiler in dusty ways
The things that I see shall see,
And shall sing to the Giver his song of praise,
As he shares my joy with me.

(1883.)

132

Poetry and the Poor.

‘The world is very beautiful!’ I said,
As yesterday, beside the brimming stream,
Glad and alone, I watched the tremulous gleam
Slant thro' the wintry wood, green carpeted
With moss and fern and curving bramble-spray,
And bronze the thousand russet margin-reeds,
And in the sparkling holly glint and play,
And kindle all the briar's flaming seeds.

‘The world is very horrible!’ I sigh,
As, in my wonted ways, to-day I thread
Chill streets, deformed with dim monotony,
Hiding strange mysteries of unknown dread,—
The reeking court, the breathless fever-den,
The haunts where things unholy throng and brood;
Grim crime, the fierce despair of strong-armed men,
Child-infamy, and shameless womanhood.

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And men have looked upon this piteous thing—
Blank lives unvisited by beauty's spell—
And said, ‘Let be: it is not meet to bring
‘Dreams of sweet freedom to the prison-cell.
‘Sing them no songs of things all bright and fair,
‘Paint them no visions of the glad and free,
‘Lest with purged sight their miseries they see,
‘And, thro' vain longings, pass to black despair.’

O brother, treading ever-darkening ways,
O sister, whelmed in ever-deepening care,
Would God we might unfold before your gaze
Some vision of the pure, and true, and fair!
Better to know, tho' sadder things be known,
Better to see, tho' tears half blind the sight,
Than thraldom to the sense, and heart of stone,
And horrible contentment with the night.

Oh! bring we then all sweet and gracious things
To touch the lives that lie so chill and drear,
That they may dream of some diviner sphere,
Whence each soft ray of love and beauty springs.
Each good and perfect gift is from above;
And there is healing for Earth's direst woes;
God hath unsealed the springs of light and love,
To make the desert blossom as the rose.

(1883.)

By the river below the Churchyard at Salwarpe, Worcester-shire.

134

The Blind and the Deaf.

I marked a blind man, at the pulsing hush
Of thousand-voiced low-breathing harmony,
Illumined with deep rapture's eager flush,
And all forgetful that he could not see.

I marked a deaf man gaze with trancèd awe
On sunset skies with God's own splendour crowned,
All lost in marvel at the things he saw,
And all forgetful that he heard no sound.

The blind man saw in vision, as he heard,
Sights that to seeing eyes are veiled and dim:
The deaf man, as he gazed, caught many a word
Of love and gladness whispered but to him.

So God for each had compensation meet,
Rounding to fulness either narrowed sphere:—
But what when, gathered at the Healer's feet,
The blind wake up to see, the deaf to hear!

(1884.)

135

My Clergy.

I.

“Christ pleasèd not Himself;” the Master's lore,
Bowed at His feet, full well the servant learnt;
For in his breast a strong pure love there burnt,
That for unlovely souls but glowed the more.
Full many a wounded lamb he homeward bore,
As all night long he paced the desolate street,
Winning, with love most patient, far-strayed feet
From the dark paths that they had known before.
Keen-eyed to judge, in action quick and sure,
No trumpet-blower, scorning all display,
Of simple life, a brother of the poor;
Yet had he genial mood and store of mirth,
And all the poor lads loved his kindly sway,
And knew they had one friend upon the earth.

136

II.

From house to house on pastoral mission bound,
Or duly to God's temple day by day,
With hurrying step he passes on his way,
Ever in duty's lowly pathway found.
Scant leisure wins he from the ceaseless round
Of varied service—now by sick men's bed,
Now 'mid the little ones—well skilled to shed
The light which makes this dark earth hallowed ground.
No ruffled brow the vain intruder meets,
Smiling he gives the time he holds so dear,
And those he gives to know not that he gives.
With kindly cheer both rich and poor he greets;
And on that open brow 'tis written clear,
That for his God and for his flock he lives.

137

III.

Of joyous eloquence in word and mien,
Whether with kindling eye and ringing voice
Telling the news which bids the soul rejoice,
Or with bright pleasantry in homelier scene
Seeking the toiler from his care to wean:
No thrice told toils his gladsome spirit broke;
For simple love of our poor Eastern folk
Deep-rooted in his heart of hearts had been.
He was no stern ecclesiastic, bound
In iron rules, but held there still to be
In alien modes some virtue to be found:
Yet for his Church he wrought with voice and pen,
Blending old order with new liberty,
And asking for reward but souls of men.

138

IV.

Like some tall rock that cleaves the headlong might
Of turgid waves in full flood onward borne,
So stood he, fronting all the rage and scorn,
And calmly waiting the unequal fight.
He fashioned his ideal—stately rite,
High ceremonial, shadowing mystic lore;
The Cross on high before the world he bore,
Yet lived to serve the lowliest day and night.
He could not take offence: men held him cold;
Yet was his heart not cold, but strongly just,
And full of Christ-like love for young and old.
They knew at last, and tardy homage gave;
They crowned him with a people's crown of trust;
And strong men sobbed in thousands at his grave.

139

V.

The genial friend, the ever-welcome guest,
Of keenly-flashing wit and strenuous mien,
With home ancestral in the woodlands green
Courting to rural joys and leisured rest;
Yet this the dwelling-place he chose as best,
Where all the wild sea-life of many a coast
Flings on our river-marge its motley host
To swell the surge of sin and strife unblest.
What though from land to land he loves to roam
Keen-eyed and eager-hearted as a boy,
Yet evermore his heart is in his home;
And there he rules with strong but gracious sway,
And sad men catch the infection of his joy
As cheery-voiced he greets them on their way.

140

VI.

His love held all the world in its embrace:
He was a man; and nought that toucheth men
His human heart e'er counted alien,
Some germ of good in each one skilled to trace.
'Mid sordid homes he fixed his dwelling-place,
And there, with her whose wide heart beat to share
His every well-planned scheme and generous care,
He lived to soothe the sad and raise the base.
The old paths hold him not: nor Church nor Creed
Bars the on-rushing flood of woe and wrong;
There must be ventures in this hour of need:
Like Orpheus to the nether shades forlorn,
He will go down in love (for love is strong)
And lead them out into the light of morn.

141

VII.

Sunlight was round about him everywhere:
He left his sylvan home and soft repose
To toil 'mid lives unblest and graceless woes,
And with him a strange spell of joy he bare.
The rough men greeted as he passed them there,
And children put their little hands in his,
Or held wan wistful faces up to kiss,
And careworn women smiled away their care.
Brave-hearted went he forth, in manly cheer,
Smiling his bright smile on the lone and sad,
Treading with free firm foot the sordid ways;
And as the light that shone in him so clear
Broke forth around to make the world more glad,
He found his life one psalm of ceaseless praise.

142

VIII.

‘We know no God,’ they cry, ‘we cannot know:’—
Not carnal men, who dare not face the light,
But strong men, lovers of the truth and right,
And inly wroth with human wrong and woe.
And ofttimes to their gatherings one would go,
Full weary, with his Lord's-day labour o'er,
Yet yearning all their troubles to explore,
And brave with manly sympathy's warm glow.
He set his faith in midst of fiercest fires,
Daring all loss, accepting wound and scar,
That he might bring souls out into the light:
For his was love that never faints or tires,
And his was faith that, like the silver bar,
Comes from the furnace but more strong and bright.

143

IX.

At morn he fed his soul with Angels' food,
Holding with Heaven high mystic communing,
That from the mount some radiance he might bring
Down to the weary earth-bound multitude.
At night among the reckless throng he stood,
Sharer of all their mirth and revels gay,
Yet holding over all a watchful sway,
And tempering every rude ungracious mood.
Not in cheap words he owned mankind his kin,
For them his life, his all, he yearned to spend,
That he their love and trust might wholly win,
And all their rough ways to his moulding bend,
Shielding them from the unholy grasp of sin,
And owned by them a brother and a friend.

(1884.)

144

Charity.

The rich man gave his dole, nor ill-content
To find his heart still moved by human woe:
The poor man to his neighbour simply lent
The scanty savings he could scarce forego.

The one passed on, and asked to know no more:
The other's wife all night, with pity brave,
That neighbour's dying child was bending o'er,
And never deeming it was much she gave.

Oh! God forgive us that we dare to ask
Solace of costless gifts and fruitless sighs!
Scorn on the sigh that shuns the unwelcome task,
The dole that lacks the salt of sacrifice!

No gilded palm the crushing weight may lift;
No soothing sigh the maddening woe may cure:
'Tis Love that gives its wealth to every gift;
Ill would the poor man fare without the poor.

(1884.)

145

“Pasce Verbo, Pasce Vitâ.”

—ST. BERNARD.

Lo! this one preached with fervent tongue:
The world went forth to hear;
Upon his burning words they hung,
Intent, with ravished ear.

Like other lives the life he led,
Men spake no word of blame:
And yet unblest, unprofited,
The world went on the same.

Another came, and lived, and wrought,
His heart all drawn above;
By deeds, and not by words, he taught
Self-sacrificing love.

No eager crowds his preaching drew;
Yet one by one they came;
The secret of his power they knew,
And caught the sacred flame.

146

And all around, as morning light
Steals on with silent wing,
The world became more pure and bright,
And life a holier thing.

Ah! Pastor, is thy heart full sore
At all this sin and strife?
Feed with the Word, but oh! far more
Feed with a holy life.

(1884.)

147

Gentleman John.

A TALE TOLD AT A VILLAGE INN TO A NATURALISTS' FIELD-CLUB ON A WET DAY.

[_]

(Founded on fact.)

It's a tale you want, sirs? Well, to be sure, it's a right down nasty day,
And the quarry's uncommon dirty where them fossils mostly lay.
But when they told me to meet you, and show you the way to go,
I thought I'd best look out a few of the shells and things, you know:
You can have them up at my cottage; there's a tidy lot, I think;
You can give the men at the quarry just a shilling or two for drink.
P'raps you'll be coming again, sirs; I should like to take you round,
And we'd have a look at the shale stuff where them butterflies are found;

148

Of course I know that's not what they are; it's the name they call them by;
They were telling me they're the ancientest things that ever lived, well night;
You'll know all about 'em, sirs, no doubt. I ask your pardon, though,
You're wanting to hear some sort of a tale to while the time, I know.
Well, I'm taken rather aback, sirs, like a parson the other day,
A stranger that came to our church; he's a friend of the squire's, they say:
Well, our parson was took right poorly in the middle of a prayer,
So he sends and asks the stranger to preach to us, then and there:
So he ups and gets in the pulpit, and gives out a decent text;
Then he hums and haws and stammers till you wonder what he'll do next.
Thinks I to myself, Well, I don't know but what I could do as well,
It's a curious sort of a parson that's got no tale to tell.
And now you ask for a story, I'm taken aback, you see,
And maybe the stranger parson could do it better than me.

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I haven't been foreman here, sirs, not much above a year;
It was my wife that brought me, she was born and bred up here;
So I don't know much of the old world things the folk about might know;
And somehow one doesn't hear such now, as one used to long ago.
We're getting desperate new, sirs, now there's such a lot of schools;
And the young ones, with their learning, they count us old ones fools.
Why, there's lots of words where I was bred one used to hear men speak,
That now-a-days they don't understand any more than if 'twere Greek.
I was down there just at Christmas-time, but I scarcely knew the place,
They've got a railway station now, and the church clock's got a new face,
And the old pews in the church all gone, and the old stocks on the green;
It's all right, I dare say, but dear! what changes I have seen!
Them Christmas carols too—no doubt they were something old and queer,—
‘There ships came sailing on the sea,’ and ‘The running of the deer,’—

150

Why, I used to sing them once myself; well, they're gone with all the rest:
The parson's taught them new ones, but I liked the old ones best.

I'm ‘something slow at starting,’ you say? Well, I won't deny it's true;
But I'm thinking and thinking all the time what tale I can find for you.
Well, p'raps it's as good as another:—so, gentlemen, if you please,
I'll tell you a bit of a story that happened over the seas.
It's nothing to do with hereabouts, nor with days of long ago,
If there arn't much in it, you'll please excuse, but I'll tell you what I know.
I've had a roving life, you see, and some few years gone by
We thought we'd go to America our fortune there to try.
We'd got a cousin there doing well, and so it came to pass,
We sold what bits we had, and away we sailed with our little lass.
Well, we didn't make our fortune, but that's neither here nor there;
We went to some mining works far West, and a roughish lot we were.

151

I might have done better in time no doubt, but I wasn't content to stay;
It was no fit place for the missis, nor yet for our little May.
They were godless rowdy chaps, and they'd drink, and fight, and curse;—
I arn't so very particular, but I knew they made me worse.

One day there came to our quarries a fellow seeking a job;
Not like the rest of our chaps a bit—he looked a sort of a nob;
Tall, good-looking enough, with his clothes well-made but worn;
But his hands they were soft and white as a girl's,—he wasn't to labour born.
He was very quiet and silent, we chaps all called him high;
Well, p'rhaps he was, and p'rhaps he wasn't; you'll know more bye-and-bye.
They gave him work, and at it he went, and blistered his hands with the pick;
He worked as if he was paid by the piece,—there was none of us worked so quick.
Of course we didn't best like it, but he wasn't one to ask
Leave of another man, you see, when he'd set his mind to a task.

152

He got some rough words, you may be sure, from the chaps he worked among,
But they never could get his blood up, tho' they didn't oil the tongue:
Till one day one of them says to his mate, ‘When a fellow never speaks,
‘It's my belief as he's robbed a bank, and run away from the beaks.’
Then you should have seen the flash in his eye, and his cheeks in a burning glow,
And down with the pick, and up with his fist, and he floors him with just one blow;
Then back to his work as if nothing had passed, and the chaps all looking on;—
But somehow after that day it was he got nicknamed ‘Gentleman John.’
They got to like him middling at last, for they soon began to learn,
Give him a chance, and he'd always do a fellow a kindly turn.
He lived out a bit beyond us, and passed by every day,
But he never passed without a smile and a word for our little May.
Sometimes, when he'd see her out of doors, he'd give a turn to his hand,
Ever so slight, but the little lass (bless her!) she'd understand;

153

And she'd slip her little hand in his, and trot along by his side,—
He never said much to her, I think, but the child was satisfied.
And when he got to his door he'd stoop, and just say, ‘Goodbye, May,’
And give her a kiss on her forehead, and send her skipping away.

A sweet little thing our May is, with soft brown hair, and blue-eyed,
Tho' I that shouldn't say it;—you'll pardon a father's pride:
I am a bit foolish about her, I know; well, gentlemen, let that pass;
But somehow I think I never saw a bonnier little lass.
She's a way of smiling all over like, with eyes and mouth and chin,—
But, bless me, sirs, I can never stop if on this tack I begin.

Well, months went on, and then for two days no Gentleman John came by;
The missus wondered, and as for the child, she looked like going to cry;
So the second evening I just stepped on to see what I could learn,—
‘Down with the fever,’ was what they said, ‘and a terrible nasty turn.’

154

When I came back, my wife got up, and looked at me as she stood,—
I know that look; it means to say as arguing's no good,—
‘I must go and nurse him,’ was all she said, and I didn't say her nay,
And she went that night, and we were left—that's me and little May.

My wife (God bless her!) I often said as she was born a nurse,
(If ever you gentlemen's taken bad, may you never have a worse!)
The way she'd go about the room, so gentle and smiling and bright,
Noticing every little thing, and putting all tidy and right!
And she'd sit with her work beside the bed, waiting till you would stir,—
Why there's children there as would only take their physic-stuff from her.
That woman where John was lodging, she never could keep awake
To give you your physic, nor notice when the pillows wanted a shake;
One time she'd seem to forget you, and another she'd give you no peace,
And she'd smoke the milk in the pudding, and bring up the broth all grease.

155

Well-meaning, no doubt; but what of that? There's well-meaning folks I've known
That had better learn to do something well, and let well-meaning alone.
No, sirs, my wife was right, I say; she knew what her conscience bid:
She said as she'd go and nurse him,—and go and nurse him she did.

The child she fretted a bit at first, and seemed like quite subdued,
Her singing and laughing was stopped, and she scarce could take to her food:
And the sort of scare that was in her eye (she'd no need to use her tongue)
When I came home with the latest news—it was curious in one so young.
I always went of an evening, after my work was done,
And my wife she'd come to a window, and tell me how things went on;
And when she couldn't leave him, or was resting tired out quite,
A Bible put up in the window would tell me that all was right.
He moidered and rambled off and on for six weeks night and day;
But one thing we couldn't understand—he was always calling May:

156

And now he'd call her his sweetheart, and now his darling wife,—
We couldn't help laughing a bit, you know, tho' he hung betwixt death and life.
We said not a word to May, for indeed we were something vexed,
It seemed so silly, and what to think of it all we were right perplexed.
Well, at last one day he fell asleep, and slept like a little child;
And when he woke he'd come to himself, and he looked at my wife and smiled;
And he asked her what was the matter, and what had made him so weak,
And she told him about his illness, but she wouldn't let him speak;
Not then at least; but after a while, when he seemed to mend a bit,
She fancied he'd something on his mind, tho' he never hinted it.
But one fine day he'd been lying still, when he asked her sudden and quick,
‘Did I talk any nonsense, missus, when I was lying sick?’
So she laughed, and told him of course he'd talked some little foolish and wild,
As they mostly do in the fever, and how he'd been calling the child.

157

So he lay a little silent, and then says, ‘Missus, some day
I'll tell you all about it, but it wasn't your little May.’

She learnt it by little and little; for he told her as he could;
He liked to talk about all the past, and he said it did him good.
And my wife, I know how she'd sit there, speaking scarcely a word,
But looking as if it were all her own—the trouble, I mean, she heard.
Somehow men liked to tell her their bits of troubles and scares;
She'd mostly find them some comfort to drive away their cares.
Well, the story was sad enough, sirs, as you'll hear before it's done;
May, you see, was the parson's daughter, and he was the squire's son.
I thought he'd a bit of breeding, and I said so all along,
Tho' I blame the fellow, and so did my wife, and she told him he'd done wrong.
‘Why, what had he done?’ Beg pardon, sirs, I was letting my thoughts run on;
I suppose he was a bit headstrong and proud;—but all that's past and gone.

158

You see, sirs, telling a story's like driving out here from the town,
Sometimes you'll be going up hill, and sometimes you'll be going down.
Well, they'd played together as boy and girl, and he showed my missus one day
A picture he'd got of her as a child—it was desperate like our May.
But it wasn't till John was growing up, leastwise no more a boy,
And May was as bright as a summer morning, but getting a little coy,
When her brother brought a young college chap to spend a week or two,
A nice young fellow enough, John said, but till then he never knew
He cared so much for the girl; but now he found that he couldn't 'bide
That another fellow was all day long a dangling at her side;
While he that met them just now and then could see, tho' she was but a child,
He was over head and ears in love, and it almost drove him wild.
The parson, he was a busy man, and had other things in hand,
And the parson's wife wasn't over strong, so the young ones took command;

159

They planned all sorts of frolics, and John was asked to come,
But he couldn't stand it, and made excuse that he'd things to do at home.
At last the young fellow went away, and John and May they met,
It was on the pathway thro' the fields,—he was out of sorts like yet,
And was brooding and thinking and wondering, as he leant his arms on the stile,
When May came up on a sudden:—she always used to smile,
But now she looked grave, as she asked him, speaking hurried and low,
What had been the matter that he should have treated them so?
‘Why, May, you didn't care?’ he said, but she only answered ‘John!’
And ran down the path like a wild thing, and left him brooding on.
But somehow she gave him just one look, as she said the word and went,
It might have been nothing, he said to himself, but it made him more content.

Well, they didn't see much of each other for two or three years from then;
He was sent to travel in foreign parts with a couple of other men.

160

But when they met, tho' he didn't speak, in his secret heart he knew
He loved her better and better, and he fancied she knew it too.
He was the second son, was John; the brother was seldom there,
He was a good bit older, and of course was the son and heir;
Something wild, I fancy, from what the other let fall:
But anyhow it seems he didn't get on with his father at all.

Now the squire had got a scheme in his head, which he thought of early and late,
That John should marry a girl they knew that would come to a big estate:
There was nothing amiss in the girl, John said; she could sing, and dance, and ride:
She was all very well to be friends with,—but May was his joy and pride.
At last one evening his father the squire—a silentish sort of man—
He took him aside, and then in a nervous hasty way began:—
It was time, he said, he should settle, high time; and why should he wait and wait,
When a girl was ready to have him who would come to a fine estate?

161

A girl he liked too, sensible, it wasn't a chance to lose;
If he ever should have a daughter, she was just the sort he'd choose;
He'd make him a good allowance:—but John, dumbfoundered you see
At first, broke in, and told him plain out that it couldn't be;
He was vexed to go against him, but what could he do or say?
For, if ever he married, he'd marry no other girl but May.
Then his father's brow grew black, and the storm broke fierce and fast,
And bitter words were spoken, that left their sting as they passed;
And John, he made up his mind he would go and fight his way,
For, come what would, he would marry no other girl but May.

Well, just as he left his father, all hot and trembling still,
Who should he meet but May, on the pathway up the hill.
How could he help it? He told her all; and there in the evening light,
They promised to wait for each other, happen what happen might.

162

And now, sirs, comes the wrong of it all, for it happened May was sent
To stay with some friends near Liverpool, and there it was John went
To settle his plans for crossing the sea, and somehow it came about
That he got her to marry him secretly the day before he went out.
They met at the church, and they parted there, and as he went away,
He gave her one kiss on the forehead, and just said, ‘Good-bye, May.’
It was selfish of him to do such a thing. Dear me! and we little guess
What a heap of trouble and sorrow may come from a little selfishness!
He showed my wife the wedding-ring, and the marriage-lines as well:
She didn't take notice, she said, and so the name she never could tell.
It seems they'd come to some sort of terms, for he'd promised his father that he
Would send neither message nor line to the girl for two years from over the sea.
It's curious how we can take ourselves in:—he was mainly honest and true,—
But to promise he wouldn't write to the girl, and then such a thing to do!

163

He wasn't at ease in his mind, no doubt, and that made him silent and glum:
And it's my belief, when a fellow's done wrong, the punishment's sure to come.
He vexed himself too at getting no news, waiting from fall to fall;
And as he durstn't tell the truth, he wouldn't write home at all.
My wife, she pleaded again and again, when she found he was getting strong,
He should just go back, and confess to all, and try and undo the wrong.
She spoke to him straight and open, and told him his sin was pride;
He should humble himself to his father;—but anyhow there was his bride:
She didn't pretend to be learned, but somehow it seemed to her plain
His duty was just to take ship, and go back to England again.
Well, John, poor fellow, he listened, and it came to him more and more
That she was advising him right, tho' it made him sad and sore;
For he'd hoped to get on and make money, and his luck was bad from the first,
And now, with his months of illness, why, matters had come to the worst.

164

He wasn't over-strong yet, you see; and he'd money enough to go;
And the two years were all but over; and at last it was settled so.
The child was half broken-hearted, and the mother about the same,—
You see we'd been fond of the fellow ever since he came.
He was gentler after his illness too, and, when all alone with my wife,
He'd talk quite grave, and be making schemes for a better sort of a life.
And she'd often say, when we talked of him, in her quiet sort of a way,
That's a man that, if I mistake not, will do right good work some day.

Well, gentlemen, I must close my tale, for it's brighter overhead,
And the rain has stopped, and I think there'll be time to look at the fossil-bed.
There isn't much more to tell:—Poor John! he took his passage across
In the Ocean King; you can't have forgot the story of her loss?
She was never heard of more, you know, nor any soul on board;
Bits of wreckage and floating spars was all the sea restored.

165

There was many a tear for others; but it's only us that knew
That John had sailed in that vessel with all its luckless crew.
I haven't got much to spare, sirs, but I'd give five pounds to-day
If I could only get tidings of that poor young widowed May.

(1884.)

166

From Nature to Man.

Time was when Nature's every mystic mood
Poured round my heart a flood of eager joy;
When pageantry of sunsets moved the boy
More than high ventures of the great and good;
When trellised shadows in the vernal wood,
And little peeping flowers, so sweet and coy,
Were simple happiness without alloy,
And whispered to me things I understood.
But now the strange sad weight of human woe,
And all the bitterness of human wrong,
Press on my saddened spirit as I go,
And stir the pulsings of a graver song:
Dread mysteries of life and death I scan,
And all my soul is only full of Man.

(1885.)

See “Shelsley Beauchamp,” p. 52.

167

“University Settlements” in East London.

They come brave-hearted from high learning's seat,
With wealth of Art and Culture's gracious lore,
To offer, with free welcome, of their store
To weary toilers in the dismal street.
‘These homes,’ they cry, ‘we will make bright and sweet,
‘Into these empty lives our fulness pour;
‘Perchance where love and beauty go before
‘Some path may open for an Angel's feet.’
Yet weary souls scarce lift a listless eye
To scan the proffered boon, and so pass by.
Ah! what if Angel feet best lead the way,
And thoughts of God wake men as from the dead,
Dreams of new beauty visit souls that pray,
And Art but follow whither Faith hath led?

(1885.)

168

The East London Children's Hospital.

Have we seen them tattered and mire-defiled
On the door-steps at their play?
Have we heard their voices so shrill and wild
'Mid the roar of the thronging way?

Are they the same—so quiet and pale
In their cots of snowy white,
Like bells of Word-sorrel tender and frail
In the gleamy April light?

There are no rude looks in those hollow eyes
With their wistful wondering gaze:
Soft sad whispers are all that rise
From the lips that have learnt new ways.

Children's hearts they are easy to reach,
And love has had its turn;
And sickness has holy lessons to teach,
And the little ones quickly learn.

169

They might have been children of high degree
And of proud historic race,
For God has made them as fair to see,
And as sweet in their childish grace.

Ah children! Ah children! It is not in vain
Ye are suffering thus, if ye knew;
For the world would be hard without sorrow and pain,
And we should be hard without you.

(1885.)

170

A Vision of Barmouth.

Yes, I saw it; a sketch in a window; and passably done:
Just a mountain, with rocks, and dim shadows, and glintings of sun.
Was it that, or a mere summer longing astir in my breast
As I paced the hot street, that has borne me away to the West?
It uprises before me—the well-known, the dearly-loved view,
With its glories of form and its splendours of shadow and hue:
I am there, 'mid the mountains with gorse and with heather aglow,
And the sheen of the water far down in the valley below,
And the Lady-ferns, red-stemmed and green-stemmed, in densest array,
Half choking the bright little runnel that borders the way.

171

I am there, by the shore: rocks above me are purple and gold,
And the short springy turf is all flower-bestrewn, as of old;—
Red Geranium, and sweet Lady's-tresses, and Centaury gay,
Scotch-rose with its great ruddy hips, and Thyme's delicate spray:
On the sand-hills 'twixt me and the sea, lo! the tall rushes stand,
And the wind is still tracing its rings with their tips on the sand:
And there in that gorge, where the streamlet has carved out its dell,
Yellow Poppies beneath the old Elder-tree cluster and dwell.
And look how a pathway of gold, as the sun sinks to rest,
Stretches over to yonder long line of fair hills in the West.
Ah me! yet the spot that is fairest and dearest to me
Is a little lone grave by the side of the broad shining sea!

(1885.)

172

Sermon Notes in Verse.

I.—Christianity.

[_]

Text: 1 Cor. ii. 2.

Two Tables graven with unbending laws,—
Unveilings of the glorious things to be,—
Deep searchings into the primæval Cause,—
A faultless scheme of pure morality;—

Is this, O man, the pearl of costless price?
For this hath God sent down the Eternal Son?
What meaneth then this awful Sacrifice?
What victory is this that God hath won?

Nay, it is He Himself, nought else but He,—
God infinite made one with finite Man,—
No creed, no system, no philosophy,—
That fills my needs in this life's straitened span:—

One of all joy and peace the unfailing spring,
My hidden treasure and my pearl unpriced,
A Heart where trembling love can hide and cling,
The warm and living touch—the touch of Christ!

173

II.—Faith.

[_]

Text: 2 Cor. iv. 18.

Oh, tear in twain the gaudy painted veil
This puny world still hangs before our eyes!
Why scarce discerned, in vision dim and pale,
The greater world that round about us lies?

We want to see: but lo! our eyes are blind
With gazing on this lurid earthly glare;
When we would lift the veil and peer behind,
We cannot trace the eternal glories there.

Lord, open Thou our eyes that we may see;
Make real to us, as our way we tread,
The presence that shall ever with us be,
The glory that is burning overhead.

What though the cloud be hanging thick and low,
And glimpses of the light be scant and brief,
Oh, shine Thou for us with Thine inner glow,—
Lord, we believe; help thou our unbelief!

174

III.—Hope.

[_]

Text: Rom. viii. 24.

I cannot labour if I may not hope:
But what the hope that shall my work inspire,
And give to all my life its nobler scope,
And light in this cold heart the heavenly fire?

Is it such vision of far glorious things
As I have pictured when the dreaming eye
Sees golden cloudlets ranged like Angel wings
O'er the deep spaces of the sunset sky?

Nay, I will hope a better hope than this;—
In Christlike love and wisdom still to grow,
Some fault to mend that hath been sore amiss,
Some lacking grace to win, before I go.

I hope on earth some saddened heart to cheer,
On some chill life a ray of peace to pour,—
Then learn things greater than are whispered here,
And see the face of God for evermore.

175

IV.—Love.

[_]

Text: St. John xxi. 15.

And dare I then discourse of heavenly Love,
And bid men love the Lord with all their heart,—
I, whose faint soul scarce lifts its gaze above,
Whose chill desires scarce seek the better part?

As on a dim horizon we may deem,
Yet scarcely deem, we saw a flash of light,
So, as we look within, our love will seem
Now but a transient gleam, now quenched in night.

Ah, loveless hearts! Yet God Himself is Love;
And that Love burns not low when ours is dim;
Our scanty measures mete not things above;
He loves us even though we love not Him.

And Love hath been unveiled to human view,
Shrined in the Face of the Incarnate Word:—
O God, forgive me if it be not true,
And yet ‘Thou knowest that I love Thee,’ Lord.

176

V.—Confession and Absolution.

[_]

Text: Ps. xxxii. 5.

As the poor child that has its father grieved
Comes weeping back to own its little wrong,
Nor, till the waiting pardon is received,
Dares join the gladness of the merry throng:

So we, with humble voice and low-bent knee,
Would seek our Father in Confession meet,
Still sorrowing till in deep humility
We lay our sins down at His awful feet;

Then listening for the assuring word of peace,
The pledge of mercy, and the stay of faith,—
Ah! blessed Gospel message of release,
Full of deep solemn joy!—‘He pardoneth.’

Teach us, O God, as unto Thee we turn,
To set ourselves in Thy all-searching light,
That by Thy mercy we our sin may learn,
And by our sin may know Thy mercy's might!

177

VI.—The Two Natures.

[_]

Text: 2 Cor. xii. 2.

I knew a man—it was long years ago—
With glorious visions blest and saintly dreams,
Lit with a pure ambition's tremulous glow,
Thrilled with high musings on all heavenly themes.

I knew a man—strange darkness reigned within;
All Love seemed frozen in him, all Faith dead;
Down-dragged as by a curse, haunted by sin,
By fierce Satanic envoys buffeted.

For this one all my soul is filled with shame;
Of that one I will glory, glad of heart;
For, into my despairings, lo! there came
A God-sent hope to win the better part.

And, in this double self, my will I set
To scorn the ill, to choose the good and true.
Ah, Lord, Thy servant strengthen even yet
To rise out of the old into the new!

178

VII.—The Two Visions.

[_]

Text: Isa. vi. 5.

Two visions passed before me as I prayed:
I saw the King the Lord of hosts unveiled,
In robes of awful purity arrayed;
And in the blinding light my spirit quailed.

And then mine eyes fell downward; and within,
Lit with the searching fires that pierced me through,
I saw a soul all stained with hateful sin;
And bowed in shame I shrank back from the view.

Then, as once more I sought with trembling awe
To scan the glories of the heavenly height,
A Face of tenderest love methought I saw
Shape itself out from that deep home of light.

And then I knew this double look could win
The twofold grace that lifts the soul above;
For penitence beholds the guilt within,
While Faith looks out upon a Saviour's love.

179

VIII.—The Two Worlds.

[_]

Text: Rom. i. 20.

‘Ah, why the trammels of this graceless flesh,
Cramping the spirit in her heavenly flight,
Caging her freedom in the tangled mesh
Of hollow form and soul-encumbering rite?’

Nay, peace, poor soul! Nor cherish idle dreams:
Shared not the Son of God a human birth,
Crowning this dim life with His heavenly beams,
And hallowing all the common things of earth?

And lo! Eternal Wisdom, Love profound,
Dowering with choicest boons the ransomed race,
In sacramental blessedness hath bound
Together outward sign and inward grace.

For in vast counterpart God only-wise
Outer and inner things alike hath planned,
That Man, through earthly type, with undazed eyes
The deeper things of God might understand.

180

IX.—The Knowledge of God.

[_]

Text: St. John xvii. 3.

To know God: this is life! And dare I stand
Blinding these dim eyes with the awful light,
And in the hollow of this pigmy hand
Thinking to grasp and hold the Infinite?

‘We cannot know,’ men cry, ‘we cannot know:
How should this crass and carnal nature find,
In its poor restless searchings here below,
The mystic essence of the Eternal Mind?’

Yet we, who know not all, may know in part:
And, as we stand upon the narrow shore,
Yearning to pierce great Ocean's hidden heart,
May gather many a gem to enhance our store.

And Thou, O Father, hast Thyself made known
In Him who once for us was sacrificed:
O God, we praise Thee, who in love hast shown
Thy glory in the face of Jesus Christ.

181

X.—Our Life for Others.

[_]

Text: 2 Cor. i. 6.

And hath God sent thee sorrow's aching blank,
Or keener stab of bitter human wrong?
Deem not the pang from which thy spirit shrank
Held but one grace—to ‘suffer and be strong.’

In trust for others was thy sorrow lent,
That in thy heart a gentler love might glow,
And day by day thy willing steps be bent
To carry peace to shrouded homes of woe.

Each gift of God is but a gracious loan;
And, be it smile-enwreathed or sorrow-crowned,
Oh, send it (for it is not all thine own)
Some boon to carry to the world around.

One strength thou hast the Master might not wield;
Thyself a sinner thou canst pity sin:
Ah! let the love which hath thy pardon sealed
Some brother-sinner to his Saviour win!

182

XI.—The Kingdom of Heaven.

[_]

Text: St. Matt. iv. 23.

The Gospel of the Kingdom! Aye, good news!
No selfish creed for separate soul's content;
No distant dream on which the heart may muse;
No home beyond, when life's swift sands are spent.

For lo! the Kingdom of our God is here,
A gracious bond of common strength and love,
Filling with heavenly light this lower sphere,
And dowered with holy graces from above.

Glad tidings! For behold a kingdom crowned
With righteousness and peace and joy divine!
For thee this kingdom Christ came down to found;
Rise, claim thine heritage, for it is thine!

Ah, blessèd they whose purgèd eyes discern
Of holy fellowship the gladdening spring,
To brother men with love all Christlike burn,
And in the kingdom ever find the King!

183

XII.—Man's Littleness and Greatness.

[_]

Text: Ps. viii. 4.

Among the myriad stars one faintest fleck
Scarcely with straining sight could I descry:—
I moved the mighty glass; and lo! the speck
Became a sun-bespangled galaxy!

And is it given with awe-struck eye to trace
Fresh universes, star-groups, dim and vast,
Beyond the staggering depths of trackless space?
And is this still the farthest and the last?

Perchance these myriad orbs that throng the sky,
Flashing their fires from awful heights afar,
Are but a little dust that whirleth by,
Beside the vastness of the things that are.

Lord, what is Man that from Thy heavenly throne
Thou condescendedst to his mean estate,
Blending his very nature with Thine own?
O Man, how little art thou! And how great!

(1884-5.)

184

On the Alps.

Up thro' long sweeping mists of nascent morn,
By trail of quaint hay-sledge, with patient tread
We clomb the veilèd heights, while overhead,
Thro' gap of vapours by the young wind torn,
Visions of sunlit snow were dimly born.
We heard the hurtling of the torrent-bed,
The tinkling bells of kine that unseen fed,
The bellowing of the far Alp's strident horn.
So sped long hours, mid' changeful fears and hopes;
Then on the heights one infinite surprise,
Marvels of fairest flowers upon the slopes,
And awful splendours of the earth and skies.
O God, a life not unlike this I pray:
Dim fears, calm toil, and then—pure light of day!

(1885.)

185

“Judge Not.”

I met a soul all steeped in sunny calm,
Taking all love unquestioned, as the light,
Glad to possess, not claiming as of right,
And chanting ever one long happy psalm.
I met another soul, that found no balm
For sores of wounded pride and fancied slight,
Thinking unloving thoughts in love's despite:—
And not to this one gave mankind the palm.
Then came an Angel with a measuring-rod,
Gauging the hearts of men, as gaugeth God.
‘This sunny life,’ he said, ‘hath ventured nought;
‘This shrouded soul hath suffered, prayed, and fought:
‘By sin resisted, lo! I measure grace;
‘The fiercest battle wins the foremost place.’

(1885.)

186

On Leader's Picture, “Parting-Day.”

LATELY IN THE LOAN COLLECTION AT THE BETHNAL GREEN MUSEUM.

Was it only five minutes ago I stood
In the streets of Bethnal Green,
Nursing a weary querulous mood
At the grim unlovely scene?

Where are the sordid homes, all thronged
With the sorrows and sins of earth?
Where are the hollow-eyed children, wronged
Of the child's sweet dower of mirth?

O brothers! And shall they be always such—
These homes of our fatherland?
But lo! they are gone at the magic touch
Of a wonder-working hand.

I am caught away in the flush and glow
Of the soft bright eventide;
And here on the river the light gleams low,
And there the dim shadows hide.

187

And oh! for the depth of the sunny air
That is flooding the far-drawn sky,
With its dreamy spaces supremely fair
In their delicate purity!

And, marshalled and ranged by the gracious sway
Of the zephyr's gentle might,
The cloudlets lie in their faint array,
Just tinged with the rosy light.

There are sunset glories to crown the view
On the far hill-ranges showered;
There are splendours of nearer warmth and hue
On the homestead tree-embowered.

O Leader, I thank thee that, 'mid the rush
Of the surging thunderous street,
Thou hast woven us here with thy magic brush
A vision so pure and sweet.

But the toilers, weary of heart and limb,
Go by with their load of care,
For the world is too dreary and life too dim
For dreams of the sweet and fair.

What is it to them that the arching West
Is aflame with the burning gold?
What is it to them that the soft lights rest
On the crests of the purpling wold?

188

Why should they pause with unseeing eye
To stare at the art-clad wall?
'Tis a painted river and painted sky,
A picture—and that is all.

Who shall teach them the charm and the grace
That, for eyes that have learnt to see,
Still gleam so softly from Nature's face
In her unstained purity?

Were it better, perchance, that these should pass
Unvexed to their stifling rooms,
Or seek their cheer 'mid the flaunting gas
And the tavern's poisoned fumes?

Have ye ever told them of joys more sure,
Of a life that is better worth?
Have ye told them of Him who loved the poor,
And lived with the poor on earth?

Have ye told them how God from His high estate
Looks down on their toil and care,
And that not alone for the rich and great
He hath made the world so fair?

Have ye bettered the poor man's narrowed span?
Have ye brightened the way he's trod?
Perchance, when he knows the love of man,
He may learn the love of God.

(1885.)

189

England's Pure Homes.

‘The unclean worm hath eaten to the core,
And killed the bud of Purity's white flower:’
So spake the scorner, presaging the hour
When England's sweet home life would be no more.
Yet many a home there lies in memory's store,—
The rustic cot, the hall of ample dower,—
Where no unholy thing dare lurk and cower,
And lily-graces all their fragrance pour.
Ah, happy homes! where chivalry disdains
To wrong the weak, and manly strength is pure,
And womanhood, made rich with freedom's gains,
On mercy's gracious errands walks secure!
Bright gardens, where God's fairest flowers are set,
The sunlight of His smile is on you yet!

(1885.)

190

A Day at Thusis.

O'er gorges where the glacier-torrents swell,
Past the high castle, where on burning wing
A thousand butterflies are quivering
'Mid feathery pink and slender asphodel,
And in the sunshine on the slanting fell
A thousand grasshoppers are chirrupping,
We sought the lone Alp whose cool grasses spring
For summer kine that browse with musical bell.
O vastness of the sunny depths of air!
O freedom of the mountain winds that blow!
O splendour of the snowy ranges fair!
As round me in a tide of joy ye flow,
Ye bid strange yearnings in the spirit rise—
Strange yearnings which perchance are prophecies.

(1885.)

191

A Starlit Night by the Seashore.

SUGGESTED BY MATTHEW ARNOLD'S “SELF-DEPENDENCE.”

O great Stars, aflame with awful beauty!
O great Sea, with glittering heaving breast!
Stars, that march all calm in lines of duty;
Sea, that swayest to stern law's behest;—

Mighty in your unimpassioned splendour,
Ye are filling all my puny soul
With the longing this vexed self to render
Wholly to calm Duty's sure control.

It were restful so to let the ruling
Of the mightier law sway all the life,
Eager will and passionate spirit schooling,
Till unfelt the pains of lesser strife.

Yet, O Stars, your quivering shafts unheeding
On these tangled human sorrows smite;
Merciless Stars! that on hearts crushed and bleeding
Pour the sharp stings of your bleak cold light.

192

Yet, O Sea, that glittering breast is heaving,
All unconscious of the life it rears,
Shouting in the mirth of its bereaving,
Laughing o'er a thousand widows' tears.

No! I ask not for a life high lifted
O'er the changeful passions of mankind,
Undistracted, self-contained, and gifted
With a force to feebler issues blind.

Rather fill my soul to overflowing
With the tide of this world's grief and wrong:
Let me suffer; though it be in knowing,
Suffering thus, I am not wholly strong.

Let what grandeur crown the life of others,
Let what light on lone endurance shine;
I will set myself beside my brothers,
And their toils and troubles shall be mine.

(1885.)