Poems by the late John Bethune :: :: University of Virginia Library

LET NOT AMBITION MOCK THEIR USEFUL TOIL,
THEIR HOMELY JOYS, AND DESTINY OBSCURE;
NOR GRANDEUR HEAR, WITH A DISDAINFUL SMILE,
THE SHORT AND SIMPLE ANNALS OF THE POOR.
Gray.

119

THE DESOLATED CITY.

The clash of the battle is o'er,
The thundering balista hath ceased
Its ruining missiles to pour;
For the wall is o'erthrown, and each turret and spire
Of the Temple is shatter'd, and blacken'd with fire:
But where is the warrior and priest?
And where are the young and the beautiful? where
The virgins who moved with the dorcus's tread;
Whose songs were so sweet, and whose smiles were so fair?
Alas! they are silent and dead!

And where is the city of towers—
The lovely, the rich, and the free—
The city of palaces, gardens, and bowers—
The mistress of monarchs and seers—where is she?
She gave to the mightiest and wisest their birth,
And fill'd with her glory the nations of earth:

120

But she sunk by the vengeance of God, and her doom
Swoop'd down in the blood-crested eagles of Rome.
O'er the site of the temple and seat of the throne,
The ploughshare of scorn hath been driven,
And the salt of derision contemptuously sown
To denote the displeasure of Heaven.
And there stands not a stone on her desolate street,
For the ritual of mock'ry is darkly complete.

Oh! how had the wisest of men,
Who whilom bequeathed her a pile,
On whose equal the bright sun shall never again
Look down from his throne with a smile—
Even he who fulfill'd the bequest of his sire,
With a splendour beyond the projector's desire—
Oh! how had he grieved had he look'd on her now,
With the paleness of ashes encrusting her brow!

But a wiser than Solomon wept to behold
That city, while yet in her glory she stood—
While glancing with brilliants, and gleaming in gold,
With the eye of a God he foresaw and foretold
The doom which should quench them in blood.
He beheld in the womb of futurity swelling
That wrath which hath crush'd her to dust—
And left in her desolate precincts no dwelling
For the sons of the good and the just.

121

He foreknew all the pangs he should there undergo:
Yet with pity, which none but a Saviour could feel,
He felt for and wept o'er his enemy's woe,
Lamenting the wounds they forbade him to heal,
And grieving to think that her glory should cease,
For rejecting her King and his message of peace.
How gaily she shone with her turreted wall,
As the Saviour approach'd to her gate,
While a sorcery voluptuous seem'd settled on all—
Every soul save his own was elate:
For the days of futurity, dismal and drear,
Were conceal'd from their sight, though the omens were near.

And how did they welcome a stranger so high?
Did the pharisee, rabbi, and priest,
With each other in courteous solicitude vie
To press him to come to the feast?
Did they pour forth in haste from each splendid abode
To salute with devotion their King and their God?
Did they scatter with roses a path on the street,
Where the glorious Redeemer might tread?
Did they fall down and worship all low at his feet,
And crown with a diadem his head?

Were the valleys of Judah explored for his wreath?
And the flowers which in bloom were the fairest
Impress'd by the good in his garland, to breathe
Those perfumes around which were rarest?
Ah no! the salute he received was a blow;
He was hail'd with the hisses of scorn;

122

Every face which he met was the face of a foe,
And his crown was a chaplet of thorn.

In the mock robes of royalty spitefully dress'd—
Mid the taunts of the vile and the base—
See the Saviour of earth, who in heaven was caress'd,
Assailed by the finger of mortal disgrace—
As a mark for demoniac derision and jest—
For the miscreants spit in his merciful face.
But, alas! a more sad consummation of woe
Impurpled with anguish the snow of his brow;
For the outcasts of Israel were destined to fill
Their cup with a deadlier iniquity still.

Earth shook with affright through her rock-girded frame,
And the sun hid his head in the curtains of shame;
But the dedolent hearts of the Hebrews beheld
The Son of their God in his agony bleed,
Unmoved by the groanings of Nature, which swell'd
With awful convulsions, to witness the deed:
Till the Saviour, in suffering insufferable, cried,
“It is finish'd!” and bow'd himself meekly, and died.

It is finish'd!—the work of atoning for guilt:
The blood of the sinless for sin hath been spilt;
The chalice of death hath been fill'd to the brim,
And its deadliest drops have been dashed upon him.

123

It is finish'd!—the miscreants have finish'd the crime,
Which stains, yet illumines, the annals of time.
It is finish'd!—the glory of Salem is o'er,
And vengeance is ready the vials to pour:
Ay, vengeance itself is commission'd to burst
With the thunder of God, on the city accurst;
By the wrath of Jehovah propell'd, it appears
Like an ocean of fire, and a forest of spears;
And a spirit more potent than Cæsar's is there,
Which forbids the proud Roman the pleasure to spare.

It is finish'd!—the work of destruction is done;
Desolation's oblivious reign is begun;
And never again shall a temple adorn
The tenantless streets of Jerusalem;
Nor the ephod of priesthood in Salem be worn,
For the glory is fled from their city and them;
And divested of all, Mount Moriah shall mourn,
Unbless'd with a wall, and undeck'd with a gem.
For never again shall the Presence divine,
On its once holy top, in the Shechinah shine;
But, though swept from the face of the earth as a blot,
Shall the name of Jerusalem e'er be forgot?

No!—Earth may be hurl'd like a wreck from its place,
And the stars may be cast from the sky,
And Chaos again be the monarch of space:
But the spot where Messiah descended to die
Shall still be remember'd with reverence and love,
And recall'd in the songs of the angels above.

An engine for throwing stones, used by Titus at the siege of Jerusalem.—See “Artillery,” Penny Cyclopœdia.

The foundations of the city are said to have been ploughed up by the Romans, and sown with salt.

124

ON THE RETURN OF THE JEWS.

Oh! when shall the exiles of Judah return,
In the land of their fathers again to sojourn?
And when shall that country, so barren and lorn,
Again overflow with its honey and corn?
And when shall the pipe, and the song of the bard,
On the soft sunny valleys of Bethl'em be heard?
Or the fishers of Judah at evening awake
The echoes that sleep round Gennesaret's lake,
With an anthem of glory to Him whom the pride
Of their fathers rejected and crucified?

We know not, alas! but the word of the Lord
Assures us the wand'rers shall yet be restored;
And we doubt not his power the lost Hebrews to save,
And gather them back to the land which He gave,
Though the bramble and thorn luxuriantly grow
Where the flowers of the fig-tree in spring wont to blow;
Though its hills are deserted, uncultured its plain,
What was fruitful before may be fruitful again.
When the breath of the Lord on the wilderness blows,
Its bleakness shall blossom as fresh as the rose;
And He, who their sires through the wilderness led,
Can convert ev'n the mountain of Horeb to bread,
And again make Idumè and Lebanon pour
Their spices and incense, and Ophir its ore;
Till the temples of Salem to Jesus arise,
Outshining the first in their glory and size.

125

That God, who divided the sea for the feet
Of their fathers, and pour'd down the manna for meat;
Who, when blacken'd and scorch'd by the burning sunbeams,
Relieved them from death with miraculous streams;
Who, to shield them from foes, and their hearts to inspire,
Directed their march with a pillar of fire,—
That God, for his wandering people, once more
To the land can its milk and its honey restore.

Oh! brightly the dawn of that morning shall rise,
Uniting the songs of the earth and the skies,
When the exiles of Judah to Judea shall come,
And again be rejoiced with a land and a home—
When the harp, which so long on the willow hath hung,
To the music of Zion again shall be strung,
And the nations their incense and offerings shall bring
To that nation which then shall rejoice with its king;
When He, who of old was rejected and slain,
With his saints in the cities of Salem shall reign.

Oh! glorious the sight of their gathering shall be,
From the ends of the earth, from the desert and sea,
Returning from lands where in exile they roved,
To the home of their sires—to the land which they loved.
Methinks I can hear their loud shout of delight,
As the mountains of Israel arise to their sight:

126

Methinks I can see their light step as they pass,
In peaceful array, on the untrodden grass;
While each hill which they meet, and each plain they behold,
Tells them tales of their prophets and heroes of old—
Of the words which they spake, and the foes they o'erthrew—
Of the triumphs they sung, and the champions they slew—
And the brook, gently gliding along by their path,
Recalls the defeat of the hero of Gath.
But now shall the triumphs of Judah excel
Her triumphs of old, when her enemies fell;
And her glory surpass all the splendour which shone
On the palace and temple of Solomon.
Now the sound of contention and battle shall cease,
For the Prince whom she owns is the Monarch of Peace;
And sweetly at evening and morning her flocks
Shall whiten her valleys and mantle her rocks,
And, bleating, exult in their strength and their speed,
For their lambkins no more by the altar shall bleed
No smoke shall ascend from her kids or her kine,
For her King hath already atoned for her sin:

127

And the dews shall descend, and the sunbeams shall fall,
To gladden their pastures, and fatten their stall.
And the multiplied flocks, and the fructified soil,
Shall richly reward the attendance and toil
Of the long banish'd wand'rers, whose hearts shall rejoice
In the love of their God and land of their choice.
All their sorrows and suff'rings their hearts shall forget,
As they gaze on the beauties of Mount Olivet;
And, under the shade of their cedars and palms,
Salute their Redeemer with anthems and psalms.
Their tears and their sorrows—their shame and their loss—
Shall all be repaid at the foot of the Cross;
Where the Jew and the Gentile their Saviour shall meet,
And pour forth their love, like a stream, at his feet.

Oh! soon may the exiles of Judah return,
In the land of their fathers again to sojourn;
And soon may that country, so barren and lorn,
Again overflow with its honey and corn;
And soon may the sceptre to it be restored,
For then every heart shall be fill'd with the Lord.

From the east end of the Wilderness you enter the famous Valley of Elah, where Goliah was slain by the Champion of Israel. Its appearance answers exactly to the description in Scripture. Tradition is not required to identify this spot. Nature has stamped it with everlasting features of truth. The brook still flows through it in a winding course from which David took the smooth stones.—Crane's Letters from the East.

A RANDOM THOUGHT.

If some could 'scape the gloomy grave,
And live in this low world for ever,

128

Then friends might weep if nought could save
A friend beloved from death's dark river.

But all must go; the rich—the poor—
Must cross that stream!—what matter when?
The longest here will most endure,
While friends in sorrow see their pain.

Yet weep!—these drops the heart relieve
When we are left and friends are gone;
And he is poor who cannot grieve
When left upon the earth alone.

Then let our wish to God on high,
Through life, be such a wish as this,
To live until prepared to die,
And only die when fit for bliss.

THE COUCH BY FRIENDSHIP SPREAD.

How sweet the couch by friendship spread,
Though coarse its quilt, and hard its fold!
Where shall the wanderer find a bed,
Though heap'd with down, and hung with gold,
So dearly loved, so warm, so soft,
As that where he hath lain so oft?

Oh! when our forms with toil are tired,
Or travel-worn our wearied feet—

129

What then so much to be desired,
So cheering, soothing, and so sweet,
As our own ingle's fitful gleams,
And our own couch of rosy dreams?

When 'nighted on the mountain road,
While o'er the rugged rocks we climb,
Fancy pourtrays our own abode,
And nerves anew each fainting limb,
To struggle with the dreary steep—
For dear is our own bed of sleep.

And oh! when on a distant coast,
Our steps are stayed by dire disease,
Who then, of those who watch the most,
Though kind, can have the power to please
Like those who watch'd disease's strife
At home, and soothed us back to life?

Where is the heart's soft silver chain
Which binds to earth our spirits weak—
Pardons the peevishness of pain—
Supplies the wants we cannot speak—
And with well-tried and patient care
Inspires our love, and prompts our prayer?

Alas! though kind the stranger's eye,
And kind his heart as heart can be,
There is a want—we know not why—
A face beloved we cannot see—
A something round our aching head
Unlike our own endearing bed.

130

When fired by fever's phantom chase,
We fling aside the curtain's fold,
It shews a face—a pitying face—
But ah! to us its cast seems cold;
And, with our last remains of pride,
We vainly strive our pain to hide.

But dear to us are those who wait
Around our couch, with kindred pain—
The long familiar friend or mate,
Whose softness woos us to complain—
Whose tear meets every tear that flows—
Whose sympathy relieves our woes.

O may I have, in life and death,
A bed where I may lay me down;
A home, a friend, whose every breath
May blend and mingle with my own;
Whose heart with mine in joy may beat,
Whose eye with mine in pain may meet.

And when at last the hour is come
Which bids my joy and sorrow cease,
When my pale lips grow hush'd and dumb,
And my tired soul hath fled in peace—
Then may some friend lay down my head
Into its last cold earthy bed.

131

ANGELS WATCHING FOR THE SPIRITS OF THE JUST.

While round the good man's bed of death
His faithful friends are weeping,
Angels above, with joyful breath,
His jubilee are keeping.

They sing, and in their heavenly notes
His holy name is ringing,
And through the halls of heaven it floats:
Seraph and saint are singing.

They all rejoice with songs to see
His soul, unchained from earth,
Ready to mount—a spirit free—
To Him who gave it birth.

While mortals mourn, and weep, and pray,
Around him as he dies,
The angel-watchers sing, and say,
“He soon shall scale the skies!”

While mortals gather round his bed,
When death hath still'd the strife,
And sighing, say, “Alas! he's dead!”
Angels are shouting “Life!”

And when beneath the verdant sod
His silent dust they lay,
Jesus presents his soul to God,
Clothed in a rainbow-ray.

132

SACRAMENTAL LINES—1835.

There is glory, they say, in the presence and breath
Of the lofty on earth, who are heirs but of death;
There is glory, they say, in their smile—and their word
And their welcome ennobles the least:
But we, in the light of thy presence, O Lord!
Would assemble to-day round a richer board,
To partake of a holier feast.

And He who invites us and welcomes us there,
Ere the fabric of nature was made,
Encircled with glory, which none may declare,
The light of eternity shed,
From his aspect benign, on the glorious abode
Of the angels, who knelt in the palace of God.

We come at the bidding of Him
Who on Calvary bow'd down his head—
The Lord of the terrible cherubim!
Who descended to earth, and in agony bled,
That the meanest of men, and the deepest in guilt,
In glory might shine when the planets are dim;
When the oil of the bright burning stars shall be spilt,
Like droplets of fire from a chalice's brim;
When the angel shall wake, with a waft of his breath,
A harvest of life from the regions of death;
And the shouts of delight, and the wailings of woe,
Shall mingle to mark his ascent

133

From this perishing fire-shrouded world below,
Through the ruins and wreck of the firmament.

We come at the bidding of Him who inspires
The tempest-charged cloud with its wrath;
Who bids the volcano disgorge all its fires,
And the lightning speed on its path;
Who bids the deep mountain-pent earthquake explode,
And shakes the vast empires of earth with his nod!

It is He who invites us to come—
For He is the lord of the feast;
It is He in whose presence archangels are dumb—
And He welcomes the poorest, the meanest, the least,
To sit at the table his servants have spread,
To drink of the cup, and to eat of the bread—
Those solemn memorials to men
Of the body he broke, and the blood which he shed,
To restore them from death, and unite them again
To their Saviour, their Lord, and their Head.

We come at thy bidding, O Lord!
To the feast of forgiveness and love.
May each vice thou abhorrest by us be abhorr'd;
May thy spirit descend from above,
And thy graces divine in abundance be pour'd,
Our souls to enlighten, our hearts to improve,
To strengthen our hopes, to encourage our faith,
To humble our pride, to enkindle our zeal,
To solace our grief and our bruises to heal,
And bright comfort to shed in the conflict of death.

134

SACRAMENTAL LINES—1836.

Another year hath pass'd away,
With all its hopes and all its fears,
And brought again this blessed day,
The brightest of our earthly years;
For though our dim eyes cannot see
As yet the glories we shall share,
Yet glorious surely it must be
To sit before the Saviour—
The tokens of his love to take.
With humble hearts and humble eyes
To break the bread, as Jesus brake
Before that glorious sacrifice
Which for a sinful world he made,
When he resign'd himself to die
For guilty man—by man betray'd
To suffer shame and agony.

SACRAMENTAL LINES—1837.

Once more at thy bless'd table, Lord!
I humbly take my seat
With those who would thy name—adored—
In reverence repeat.

Full often thou hast seen me here
In years that are gone bye,
Upon that table lean my head
Like one about to die:

135

Hast seen me sad and spiritless
To thee for comfort look,
While the memorials of thy love
With trembling hand I took;

And on the worshippers around
A silent farewell cast,
Believing that bless'd sacrament
On earth should be my last.

Thou hast seen my spirit broken down,
My body faint and weak—
Wearing death's cheerless tokens on
My wan and wasted cheek.

Thou hast seen the hopes of happiness
All withering round my heart,
And heard my soul in secret sigh,
Preparing to depart.

And thou to me hast long been kind,
And spared me from the grave,
And now, O stretch thy blessed arms
My sinful soul to save.

SACRAMENTAL LINES—1838.

O Lord! munificent, benign,
How many mercies have been mine
Since last I met with thee

136

In that-blest ordinance of thine—
The holy feast of Bread and Wine
Which was enjoyed by me.

How many days, in goodness sent,
Have been in sickening sadness spent!
How many nights have come
Which promised rest and sweet content,
Yet left behind them when they went
Distress, and grief, and gloom!

How many purposes have fail'd!
How many doubts my heart assail'd!
And held my spirit fast:
How many sins have been bewail'd!
How many follies have prevail'd!
Since I confess'd the last.

But still to thee my spirit springs,
And underneath thy shelt'ring wings
A safe asylum seeks;
For this memorial sweetly brings
Remembrance of thy sufferings,
And all thy kindness speaks:

137

And, like a little child, I lay
My spirit at thy feet, and say,
“Lord, take it—it is thine:
Teach it to trust, to fear, to pray—
Feed it with love by night and day,
And let thy will be mine.”

The Sacrament here alluded to was administered on the second Sabbath of June; and it may be remarked that it was the last at which the Pastor of the parish, (the Rev. Laurence Millar) officiated, and likewise the last at which the author of these lines took his seat—the former being dead, and the latter too ill to attend before another opportunity occurred. The pieces have been given together, because, with the exception of the last, they are written on the same sheet. One of them at least was composed on the morning of the Sacramental Sabbath; and it is highly probable that the others were the same.

INFANT DEVOTION.

How does the feeble infant feel,
When taught, by sober age, to kneel
Before that awful power, which shakes
Creation with a word, and makes
Vast worlds, like atoms, reel?

Believes it that the lisping voice
Which makes a parent's heart rejoice—
Inspiring love, and faith, and zeal—
Rises above the thunder peal!
Dreams it how far faint accents reach?
Knows it the potency of speech?
Conceives it what it asks? or why
It turns to Heaven its earnest eye?

Perchance the limits of its mind
Are yet too narrow and confined
To comprehend the vast amount
Of mercy craved on Christ's account;
Or to compute the power, above,
Of its own piety and love;

138

Where weakest words have mightiest weight,
And simple orisons are great.

Yet, by the earnest look, and by
The hush of deep solemnity
Which I have seen diffused abroad
At mention of the name of God—
Stilling at once the playful noise
Of infant games, and infant joys;—
And by the oft half-hidden tear
Which flow'd some holy truth to hear—
By things like these, as by a part,
I still would judge the infant's heart:
And he who prompts its simple prayer
Will be the best interpreter.

Nor will his promise fail—or truth—
To those who in the bud of youth
On his protecting mercy hung,
And praised him with a lisping tongue;
For “those,” 'tis said, “who early seek
Shall find,” although the voice be weak;
And blessings asked—as unawares—
By infant tongues, in lisped prayers,
May fall upon their riper years
To beautify the “vale of tears,”
As precious treasures, long mislay'd,
Forgot, and lost, but undecay'd,
Discovered in the hour of need,
Give unexpected joy indeed—
So age, in bankruptcy of joy,
May find the blessings which the boy

139

Besought from Heaven, at last descend
To brighten life's dark latter end.
Teach then, ye parents, teach, with care,
To every child the voice of prayer,
That God, when man has done his part,
May claim the homage of the heart.

WITHERED FLOWERS.

Adieu! ye withered flowerets!
Your day of glory's past;
But your latest smile was loveliest,
For we knew it was your last.
No more the sweet aroma
Of your golden cups shall rise,
To scent the morning's stilly breath,
Or gloaming's zephyr sighs.

Ye were the sweetest offerings
Which friendship could bestow—
A token of devoted love
In pleasure or in woe!
Ye graced the head of infancy,
By soft affection twined,
Into a fairy coronal,
Its sunny brows to bind.

Ye deck'd the coffins of the dead,
By yearning sorrow strew'd
Along each lifeless lineament,
In death's cold damps bedew'd;

140

Ye were the pleasure of our eyes
In dingle, wood, and wold,
In the parterre's sheltered premises,
And on the mountain cold.

But ah! a dreary blast hath blown
Athwart you in your bloom,
And, pale and sickly, now your leaves,
The hues of death assume.
We mourn your vanished loveliness,
Ye sweet departed flowers!
For ah! the fate which blighted you
An emblem is of ours.

There comes a blast to terminate
Our evanescent span:
For frail as your existence, is
The mortal life of man!
And is the land we hasten to
A land of grief and gloom?
No: there the Lilly of the Vale,
And Rose of Sharon bloom!

And there a stream of extacy
Through groves of glory flows,
And on its banks the Tree of Life
In heavenly beauty grows.
And flowers that never fade away,
Whose blossoms never close,
Bloom round the walks where angels stray,
And saints redeem'd repose.

141

And though, like you, sweet flowers of earth,
We wither and depart,
And leave beind, to mourn our loss,
Full many an aching heart.
Yet, when the winter of the grave
Is past, we hope to rise,
Warm'd by the Sun of Righteousness,
To blossom in the skies.

PITY.

Oh sweet is the dawn of the morning to me,
And sweet is the evening's close,
And sweet is the lily's fair blossom to see,
And sweet is the blush of the rose;
But sweeter to me, and far more dear—
As it falls from the eye—is Pity's bright tear.

The charms which repose on a woman's soft cheek,
That gem of feeling heightens;
And the swimming eye, with a lustre meek,
And a holier radiance, it brightens:
For the beauties of earth, as they shed it, combine
With their frailties the feelings of spirits divine.

On the brow of the hero what majesty spreads,
As he bends o'er his fallen foes,
And the soft tear of sympathy silently sheds,
While he pities their wounds and their woes,
And sends up to heaven his forgiveness and prayer,
Like the heralds of mercy to welcome them there.

142

The great, greater grow in the sight of their God,
When they look upon sorrow and pain
With tears of compassion; for Jesus bestow'd
His tears on the sufferings of men:
And pity will shine in the sons of renown,
More bright than the gems of a coronet or crown.

The poorest of those who bestow but a tear—
Their all—on the griefs of the poor;
In the sight of their God from on high must appear
Like angels, compared with the miser and boor,
Whose hearts, with the hardness of iron, can brook,
Without feelings of pity on sorrow, to look.

What is it which makes the sad widow to sing,
And the heart of the orphan rejoice?
It is Pity's benevolent offering,
And Pity's affectionate voice
Which supplies all their wants—overcomes all their fears—
And the gloom of their solitude brightens and cheers.

What is it which soothes the sad throb of disease,
And buoys up the spirit to bear
Those pangs which Affection would suffer to ease,
And Friendship in sympathy share?
It is Pity's bright tear which distils from the eye,
While the soul is contending for mercy on high.

What is it which makes the dread moment of death
A moment of victory prove?

143

'Tis the triumph of hope, and the vision of faith,
Which presents to the Christian the pardoning love
Of Him who renounced all the bliss of the sky,
And descended, in pity, for sinners to die.

MELANCHOLY.

There is a feeling of the mind
Distinct alike from joy and woe:
'Tis sad, but placid and resigned,
And pleased with all it meets below.

It mantles o'er the paly cheek,
It lurks behind the languid eye;
Its language is the soft and meek
Expression of a noiseless sigh.

Oft it keeps vigil with the good,
And watches nightly with the wise;
And oft the bard, in solitude,
Feels its alternate fall and rise.

And oft it mounts, and sweetly glows
The spirit of pathetic song:
And sometimes, too, through mirth it flows,
Gliding all noiselessly along.

But chiefly upon future scenes
It pores with anxious earnestness—

144

Fathoms the gulf of time, and leans
Delighted o'er the dark abyss.

It scans eternity—and there
It finds that mystery which inspires
Its musings with the voice of prayer,
And moulds its fancies to desires.

Could soul be shewn in shape or form,
I'd shape this aspect of the mind
Like some fair female—chaste and warm,
And young and beautiful—but blind!

And, like a muse of melodies,
I'd make her sit by Genius' side,
And fan, with her celestial sighs,
His paly brow of thoughtful pride.

And in her mien majestic, high
A pensive smile I would pourtray;
And make her soft and sightless eye
With deep and thoughtful sadness play.

And for a name, I would baptise
This modest maid, so meek and holy,
The Muse's sister—Queen of Sighs,
The Poet's bride—Sweet Melancholy.

145

A SAINT.

A lovely vision fills my mind,
A picture which I fain would paint:
Its colours are those virtues—kind—
Sweetly contrasted and combined,
Which meeting make a saint.

Conceived in sin—in weakness born—
I see the embryo Christain cast
Upon a world where all must mourn.
Where joy and grief, applause and scorn,
Alternate follow fast.

He grows—temptations with him grow,
Within him passions rise;
And worldly pomp, and worldly show,
Is all his nature seeks to know,
Forgetful of the skies.

Allured by fashion's glittering toys,
And Mammon's golden store,
His soul is fill'd with earthly joys,
And all its energy employs,
These idols to adore.

And he is proud of wealth and fame;
And with contemptuous eye
Surveys each poor unletter'd name
Which can no earthly honour claim,
Though register'd on high.

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But mark! a change comes o'er him now
As God his power reveals;
And outward pain, and inward woe,
Soften his high fastidious brow,
And his hard heart anneals.

From earthly vanity set free,
He looks on all with love;
Convinced the meanest here may be
Eternally as great as he,
In the bright world above.

No more proud passion's fever burns
Within his placid breast:
The blandishments of courts he spurns,
And to the lowly Jesus turns,
Deeming that pattern best.

No more he bows at Mammon's shrine;
He covets wealth no more:
He longs, with feelings more divine,
To make the sufferer's aspect shine,
And help the helpless poor.

No more he sighs for earthly fame,
Mingled with earthly strife:
His wish is now to have a claim,
Through Jesus' blood, to write his name
In the fair book of life.

No more he strives for earthly power,
Save power to soothe distress—

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To cheer the orphan's chilly bower,
The lonely widow's darkest hour
Of solitude to bless.

Where'er there is a tear to dry,
Or bleeding heart to balm,
His liberal hand, his pitying eye,
With comfort and with aid are nigh,
The sufferer's soul to calm.

And while diffusing joy to men,
His own devoted breast
Receives all that it gives again
In triumphs o'er defeated pain,
And is by blessing bless'd.

Yet not for earthly pomp or praise
He soothes affliction's moan:
No; far above such selfish ways,
His soul hath learn'd its thoughts to raise
To God's eternal throne.

Thus, like an angel clothed in clay,
On mercy's errand sent,
He holds through life his blissful way,
And every hour, and every day,
In mercy's work are spent.

And when, with the bright smile of faith
And pure benevolence,

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He heaves his last, last earthly breath,
Rejoicing o'er defeated death,
Angels shall bear him hence.

THE LAND OF REST.

I saw an old old man—his eye,
Though sunk, was beaming bright,
As the deep azure of the sky,
With more than mortal light.

Yet life's enchanted cup was drain'd,
And life's last sands fell fast,
And friends were gone, and he remain'd—
Of all he loved—the last.

Why then, 'mid weariness and woe,
That heavenly smile impress'd?
Because he was a pilgrim to—
And near the Land of Rest.

I saw a youth of manly mould
Upon a sick bed lying;
His cheek was pale, his hand was cold,
For he, poor youth, was dying.

Yet on that cheek was seen to glow
A sweet and gentle smile,
Like sunbeam on the mountain snow
Which melts away the while.

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And wherefore did he smile to leave
The friends who were so dear?
And wherefore did he see them grieve,
Nor answer with a tear?

And why, since life was in its spring,
Fresh as the morning dew—
Since hope with honey'd hand might bring
New joys and pleasures new,

Why was he pleased to part with all
Those visions bright and sweet,
At life's fast fleeting festival,
With friends no more to meet?

Far brighter hopes were given to be
A comfort to his breast;
His friends were journeying to—and he
Was near the Land of Rest.

I saw a maiden, modest, mild,
In beauty's sunny morn—
Simplicity's own darling child,
Of sainted mother born.

Brothers and sisters by her side,
A lovely flower she grew,
And still it was her family's pride
To have her in their view.

And she was happy, young, and good,
Beloved, and loving well,

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Fitted alike in solitude
Or social scenes to dwell.

But ah! a chill came o'er her cheek,
Which blanched its rosy charms;
And yet she seem'd, though maiden weak,
To feel no dire alarms.

Consumption slowly stole away
That cheek's enchanting dye,
But still a soul which scorn'd decay
Beam'd in her kindled eye.

And why was she content to part
With all the joys of earth—
The youth who won her gentle heart,
The dame who gave her birth,

The brothers who endear'd her bower,
The sire who soothed her care,
The sisters who, at evening hour,
Had join'd with her in prayer?

These stood around her dying bed
To watch her closing eye;
They saw her smile, when speech had fled,
And death was drawing nigh.

In that dread hour, how could she smile,
By the grim tyrant press'd?
Her soul had caught a glimpse the while
Of the bless'd Land of Rest.

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I saw a mother bound to earth
By ties which none may know,
Save those who feel their children's mirth,
And share their children's woe.

Around her play'd an infant band,
And one sweet baby hung
Upon her breast, and with its hand
Her floating tresses wrung.

And in its mother's fading face
So winningly it smiled,
That angels might have paused a space
To gaze upon that child.

But she who gave that baby birth
Appear'd about to go
From smiles of love, and hopes of earth,
To the dark world below.

And then she wept—that mother wept
From her fond babes to part;
And oft she watch'd them while they slept,
With sad and yearning heart.

But as the dreaded hour drew nigh,
And paler grew her cheek,
A dawning brightness in her eye
Extatic thoughts would speak.

She cast each helpless innocent
On a Guardian strong to save,

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And welcomed the dark message, sent
To summon to the grave.

How could she part from babes so sweet,
So tenderly caress'd?
Because she hoped with them to meet
In the bless'd Land of Rest.

And with a soul sedate she pour'd
Her parting prayer to Heaven,
And trusted to heaven's gracious Lord
The gifts which he had given.

And one by one her children dear
She bless'd with tender care,
Then pass'd, without a sob or tear,
To rest for ever there.

All these had triumph'd through the flame
Of heavenly love, impress'd
By Him who died to buy for them
That blessed Land of Rest.

And thus the simple power of faith
O'ermasters fear and woe;
And, conquering the dread tyrant death,
Conquers our latest foe!

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NATIVE SCENES.

Sweet scenes for childhood's opening bloom,
Or sportive youth to stray in;
For manhood to enjoy his strength,
Or age to wear away in.
Wordsworth.

Alas! to loftier minds than mine
The innate gift of noble song,
And glorious energies, divine,
Of stirring eloquence belong.

Be then my theme, a homely theme,
Yet not unmeet for lady's eyes,
Whose spirit can enjoy the dream
Of flowery fields, and glowing skies—

Whose heart is form'd to feel the spells—
The unutterable charm which binds
To native groves and native dells
Pure uncontaminated minds.

The beauties of my native vale,
And beauties of my native lake,
In other hearts perchance may fail
The chords of sympathy to wake;

But there are some whose eyes may see
This simple uninspired song,
Whose hearts have felt, perchance, like me,
That fascination strange and strong.

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The gentle hills, which round enclose
A rural amphitheatre sweet,
Seem calmly watching the repose
Of the green landscape at their feet.

And whatsoe'er on earth is fair,
Of sylvan shades, or waters pure,
Or flowery fields, collected there,
Appears in beauteous miniature.

There blossoms many a lovely tree
Whose shade the pensive spirit calms,
More pleasing far, I ween, to me
Than all the pride of Indian palms.

At eventide I there may range
Through silent walks, in thoughtful strain—
Through solitudes I would not change
For myrtle groves or Grecian plain.

Let those who have no homes to leave—
No hearts their dwellings to endear—
No friends their absence would bereave,
To distant lands for pleasure steer.

Where Nature's fairest features shine,
In quest of beauty let them go,
To wander by the banks of Rhine,
Or gaze upon the Alpine snow;

Or on Lake Leman's glassy breast,
On summer days embark and glide,

155

Where mightiest bards have soothed to rest
Their troubled thoughts and wounded pride.

But still let my enchanted eye
Behold the lake I love the best;
Still in the woods which round it lie,
Contented let me toil, or rest.

More dear to me the meanest stream
Which winds my native plains among,
Than Hermus or Meander seem
In all the pomp of classic song.

Not even the far-famed Castalay
My soul with such delight could fill,
As the scant brooks which murmuring play
Adown each long-frequented hill—

To feed with ever fresh supplies
The lake upon whose surface clear
The hues which gild the evening skies
In mirror'd majesty appear;

Where, mingling with the clouds of heaven,
Surrounding fields, and forests green,
Begemm'd by the bright star of even,
All meet to variegate the scene—

Till darkness gather to conceal
That bright and beautiful display,
And the sad moralist must feel
How soon all earthly joys decay.

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Oh! not on earth's extended sphere
Can fairer fields or waters gleam
Than those which fancy renders dear,
When brighten'd by affection's beam.

Amid these scenes, I fain would spend
Life's short'ning and uncertain lease,
And bless'd with hope, await its end,
When He who conquer'd Death may please.

But if it be my destined lot,
In future years of toil, to roam
Far from each fair familiar spot
Which smiles around my cottage-home,

May Heaven this boon vouchsafe to me,
With joyful footsteps to return,
Once more my native fields to see
Ere life's faint taper cease to burn;

And in some love-endear'd abode,
While those sweet scenes around me lie,
Breathe forth my soul in sighs to God,
And 'mid the prayers of friendship die!

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THE EARLY DEAD.

Sad is the task to moralize
The grave of early youth above,
But death will dim the brightest eyes,
And quench, alas! the warmest love:
Yet we would hope the shaft which flies,
Passing the vulture to the dove,
Sends but the holy to the skies,
Through scenes of happiness to move—
To 'scape the toils, and griefs, and cares
Of waning life and hoary hairs.

But who can see the lovely form
Of blooming youth consign'd to death,
Nor grieve to think the slimy worm
Should banquet on so sweet a wreath!
It is as if the pride of Spring—
Her fairest flower—the beauteous rose,
Affection's holiest offering,
Were blighted ere its bud unclose—
Its fragrance, and its glorious dyes
For ever lost to mortal eyes.

Yes—all must grieve whose eyes may see
The early dead resign'd to earth;
All—all must grieve, but chiefly she
Who gave the human floweret birth;
Who nursed it on a mother's knee,
Who watch'd its first essays at mirth—

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Dreaming the while it yet should be
A gem of more than common worth—
Who pillow'd on her nurturing breast
Its infant head in balmy rest.

Oh! who can tell a mother's bliss,
When gazing on an only child,
She feels its infantine caress,
Its lisping love, its gambols wild?
And who can picture her distress,
When on the same sweet placid face
She sees the terrible impress
Of death destroying every grace,
And stealing each enchanting charm
From the soft cheek and lip so warm?

Alas! as o'er the dead she stands,
The big tears falling thick and fast,
With trembling knees and clasped hands,
Like bulrush quivering in the blast,
No more she meets the soft reply,
Once to her yearning heart so dear,
Of that bedimm'd and closed eye,
Whose ray was wont to be so clear—
Whose smiles around were sown so thick,
Whose glances once had been so quick.

No more the golden beam of hope
Gilds the far future with its light;
No more through Time's dim telescope
She sees the glowing vision bright,

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As erst, when down life's fairy stream
Fancy was wont to take its flight,
And oft again enjoy'd the dream,
With growing rapture and delight,
When her own child, so fair, so good,
Had grown to man or womanhood.

Oh! what a chain of cherish'd joys
Is blown, like gossamer, away,
When death's unsparing hand destroys
The mother's promise-bud in May!
Yet we would hope the shaft which flies,
Passing the vulture to the dove,
Sends but the holy to the skies,
Through scenes of happiness to move—
To 'scape the toils, the griefs, the cares,
Of waning life and hoary hairs.

LINES WRITTEN ON THE LAST NIGHT OF THE YEAR 1832.

Now heavily returns the solemn night,
Veiling in sables her recondite brow—
Last of the year—once pregnant with delight
To my young heart; but oh! how alter'd now!
Gone is gay fancy's soft vivacious light—
Gone are my boyish hopes of bliss below,
And calm and lonely as the anchorite
I count my fleeting hours, and smile upon their flight.

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Ah! what a change a few short years can bring!
But late, I was a wild and thoughtless boy,
Who would have laugh'd at such a sober thing
As I am now, with nothing to enjoy
Save silent meditation. In the ring
Of frolic I was first, and last to cloy,
But now my spirit hath relax'd its spring,
And sickens o'er the scenes to which it wont to cling.

Oh! with what rapture such a night as this
Was hail'd by my concomitants and me:
Long ere it came, the source of fancied bliss;
And when it came, a fund of fun and glee
To boys, disguised and masking youths, whose dress
Excited mirth—whose long beards reached their knee;
Flowing from chins whose smoothness did confess
They were too long to grow from so much happiness.

And I was there, acting my part with these,
Laughing as loud, and mingling with the mirth;
But years of silent sufferance and disease
Tries all our pleasures, and displays their worth,
And makes us court deep solitude and ease,
And calm reflection on the lonely hearth—
For that which pleased in health will scarcely please
The soul whose watchful eye waits for its last release.

161

LINES

ON HEARING AN UNKNOWN BIRD SING SWEETLY AT HALFPAST THREE ON A SUMMER MORNING.

I thank thee, little warbling bird,
For that sweet sylvan song of thine;
A sweeter voice I never heard,
Nor saw a fairer plumage shine.

Thou art—I cannot spell thy name;
Thou camest from—I know not where;
But this I know—that thou art tame,
And this I see—that thou art fair:

And this I feel—no earthly eye
Save thine, bright bird, is fix'd on me.
Sweet minister of melody,
I could for ever gaze on thee.

Then stay, sweet stranger! I invite
Thy song to cheer my solitude:
Oh, vain request! thy wings so bright
Already bear thee to the wood.

These orient plumes, 'mid many hues,
That song 'mid rust'ling leaves is lost;
And I am left alone to muse
O'er foolish wishes early cross'd.

Yet wherefore mourn?—the hour of bliss
Enjoy while yet its moments last;
But grieve no more for that or this,
For all we love must soon be past.

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SABBATH EVE.

How calm, how still, this hallow'd eve!
Methinks the heart might cease to grieve
While gazing on that arch so blue,
With mercy mirror'd in its hue,
And think how short a time may bring
Repose from earthly suffering;
Or lend a wing to mount above
The spheres in which the planets move.

The vesper star begins to beam,
But scarce its image strikes the stream,
For summer's faintness o'er it creeps,
And all its bolder sparkles keeps
Entangled 'mid the misty light
Which fills the azure vault of night,
While earth and sky appear imbued
With the deep soul of solitude.

The day hath passed in praise and prayer,
Now evening comes more still and fair;
The holy heavens are free from gloom,
The earth is green, and gay with bloom;
The blackbird's whistled note is high,
Ringing in woodland melody:
And though the cushat 'mid the grove
Be plaining, still his plaint is love.

If we could feel as men should feel
When heaven and earth their sweets reveal,

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Our selfish sorrows all would cease
On such a solemn eve of peace,
And Nature's stillnes would compose
Our souls, and dissipate our woes;
And from our spirits softly call
Pure hopes and thoughts devotional.

THE WISH.

I would that wealth were mine!—
Not that I wish to shine
In pleasure's circles fine,
Where the gay
Their useless wealth comsume,
Amid luxury and fume,
Nor where faded beauties bloom
In decay.

It is not that I would pore
On a still-increasing store,
Or with a miser's wish for more
Ever pant;
But that I would impart
Peace to each aching heart
Which feels the bitter smart
Of pale want;

That I the joy might taste
Of spreading forth the feast,
With the hungry for my guest,
And the poor;

164

That beneath my humble shed
The needy might be fed,
And the lame and blind be led
To my door.

It is the purest bliss
Which the wealthy can possess,
To make man's sufferings less,
And behold
In th' lately streaming eye,
With gratitude grown dry,
Turn'd meekly to the sky:
The use of gold.

TRUE WISDOM.

More bless'd is he, his soul more wise,
Who learns himself to know,
Than he who maps the bending skies,
Or counts the flowers which blow;
Or, like the sapient Stygerite,
Can class the burning stars of night;
Or, with the Swedish sage's eyes,
Arrange in families fair and meet
Each shrub, and tree, and grass, which lies
Scatter'd beneath the wanderer's feet.

For flowers must fade, and stars must sink,
And earth must pass away,
But that which thinks must ever think,
And never know decay:

165

And greater he whose soul hath brought
Within control each wandering thought,
Than he whose warlike skill hath led
Armies to battle and renown;
And, while unnumber'd victims bled,
Grasp'd sword and sceptre, throne and crown.

But greatest those who fear to boast,
And strongest those who feel
Their follies and their faults the most;
For weakness can conceal
Its head beneath the shade of pride,
And pride can weave a web to hide
Its own unhallow'd sway,
But he who knows himself will tear
The tawdry mask away,
And to be humble nobly dare.

Within the mind—a universe—
Some flowers may still be found—
Some lovely flowers which sin's submerse
Has never wholly drown'd—
Some buds of Eden's happier prime,
Spared in the punishment of crime,
Which Heaven can yet revive
And cherish into bloom,
And we should weed our hearts and strive
To give these blossoms room.

Benevolence, charity, and love,
Are still by mortals felt,

166

And pity still hath power to move,
And sympathy to melt;
And though around us must remain
The stigma of our primal stain,
Yet those by Heaven made wise,
To watch the wilderness within,
May rear the flowers of Paradise
Above the noxious weeds of sin.

May He who knows our weakest part
Illume with heavenly light
Each self-inspecting wanderer's heart,
And make its darkness bright,
And aid each mortal effort made
The path in which He trode to tread,
That we through Him may rise,
And like Him shine, and with Him share
The boundless glories of the skies,
Which he hath labour'd to prepare.

INVOCATION.

Come forth ye gentle flowerets,
Sweet harbingers of spring,
For the air, though calm, lacks cheerfulness,
Till you your odours bring.

The gentle gales are gone abroad,
On the mountain side to play;

167

The sunbeams dance upon the plain:
Come forth and share the day.

The joyous lark hath mounted high,
On the rainbow's arch to sing,
And the humble bees, in search of you,
Are humming on the wing.

Come forth from your cold beds of dust,
And drink the crystal dews,
And to the charms of music add
The odours you diffuse.

Come forth, like emblems of the past,
And gently bring to view
The friends with whom we gather'd flowers
When life to us was new—

Who twined with us the daisy's wreath
With childhood's tiny hands—
Who now have wander'd from their homes
To far and foreign lands.

Oh! how they would rejoice to see,
And gather with a smile
The first sweet flowers which deck the soil
Of their own native isle.

Come forth, memorials of the dead,
And to our memories bring
Deep dreams of those who coldly sleep
Beyond the reach of Spring.

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Come forth and show the power of Him
Who wakes you with his breath—
Whose smile can renovate the dust,
And break the bands of death!

STANZAS—1834.

Oh! to be landed in safety where
Grief cannot come o'er the heavy heart,
Nor shadow, nor gloom, of the demon Despair,
A moment of suffering impart.
Oh! to be over death's dark gloomy river,
To rejoice in the day-beam beyond it for ever.

But appalling groans, and ominous screams,
Arise our souls to affright,
And embitter the sweets of our happiest dreams,
As we gaze on that valley of night;
Where the dreary absinthian waters of death
Roll, dashing our hopes, and disturbing our faith.

The shrieks of despair, and the wailings of woe,
Are heard 'mid the fathomless gloom,
But no mortal may pierce to the gulf whence they flow,
Or discover the depth of his doom:
For the blackness of darkness appals the poor heart,
Which hath lost its bright pole-star, its compass and chart.

May He who has pass'd through that river before,
Who knows all its reefs and its rocks,

169

A passage of peace for our spirits explore,
Enlighten its shadows, and shield from its shocks,
And pilot us safe to that region beyond,
Where the righteous no more shall despair or despond.

THE RETURN OF SPRING.

Sweet Spring returns: again the blossoming trees
Ring with the murmurs of the busy bees;
The deep recesses of the sombre grove
Resign their silence to the songs of love;
The teeming earth shakes off the winter's gloom,
And clothes her gentle hills in robes of bloom;
The sunshine, glancing through the tepid shower,
Bursts every bud, and bathes each opening flower;
The balmy zephyrs from the genial south
Come gently, like the healthful breath of youth,
And breathing sweets, and singing birds conspire
To make my walk accord to my desire.

This lovely scene—this calm and tranquil night—
Might waken fancy, or inspire delight,
Or thrill the youthful heart with dreams of love,
Or draw the prayer of piety above.
Each turn I take presents some object dear
To please my eye, or sound to soothe my ear;
The sigh of leaves, the tinkling of the rill,
Oft heard before, yet heard with pleasure still;

170

The song of birds—that melody which heaven
To charm the poorest child of earth hath given—
Prove that the pleasures of the poor are dear
To Him who regulates the varying year.

The rich can purchase harp, and lute, and lyre,
The instrumental and the vocal choir,
Yet arts like these, when long continued, cloy,
And fail to stir the soul to notes of joy:
But who can tire of Nature's artless song,
Though oft repeated, and continued long?
The notes these warblers of the woods inspire,
All can enjoy alike, and all admire.
The sudden gush which fills the fairy dell—
The pause abrupt—the wild instinctive swell—
The deep response return'd from distant trees,
Mellow'd and soften'd on the evening breeze—
Can make the rudest rustic pause to hear,
And charm the nicest, most capricious ear.

THE FIRST OF WINTER.

Oh! sadly sighs the wint'ry breeze
Along the desert lea;
And moaning 'mid the forest trees
It sings a dirge to me—
The solemn dirge of dying flowers—

171

The death-song of the emerald bowers—
The first loud whistled lay
Which summons winter's stormy powers
On his coronation day,

Darker and darker grows the sky;
With voice more loud, and louder still
The stormy winds sweep by, and fill
The ear with awful melody.
Each tone of that majestic harp
Wakes other tones within to warp
My soul away, amid its bass,
To the greenwood, which lately was
A picture to my eye—
Which now is murk and bare!—alas!
Its sere leaves rustle by.

But ah! that tempest music tells
A tale which saddens more—
Of hearts it tells where sorrow dwells
On many a rocky shore,
Where the poor bark is dash'd and driven,
And plunged below, and toss'd to heaven,
Amid the ocean's roar.
And oh! its wild and varied song
Hath an appalling power,
As swellingly it sweeps along
O'er broken tree and blasted flower.
The loud, loud laugh of frenzied lips,
The sigh of sorrowing breath,
The dread, dread crash of sinking ships,
The gurgling shriek of death,

172

Affection's wildest, warmest wish,
Devotion's holiest cry,
Are blended with that maddening blast,
And on the chords of sympathy
Their varying accents now are cast.

Sad voies to the maid it bears
Who, wrapp'd in sorrow, sits,
And in her dreaming fancy hears,
Amid its calmer fits,
The shriek of her expiring lover,
As the white wave rolls rudely over
His sinking head and struggling breath,
And dips him in the gulf of death.
It tells of orphans and of mothers,
Poor, helpless, and bereft—
It bears the love, the grief of brothers,
In lonely sufferance left;
It wafts the wail of strong despair,
Mingled with murmur'd sounds of prayer.
And true hearts throb, and bright young eyes
With burning tear-drops glisten,
As round and round its thunders rise,
Or slow in solemn moaning dies,
Saddening the ears that listen.

Yet more—it tells of more—
Of Him who on its murky wing
Rides calmly, and directs its roar,
Or stills it with his nod:
Its voice is raised even now to sing
A wilder melody to God,

173

Who holds it in night's silent hush
Within the hollow of his hand,
Or bids it from his presence rush
In desolation o'er the land:
At his command alone it raves
O'er roofless cots and tumbling waves.

THE SIXTH PSALM.

O Lord, rebuke me not in wrath,
Nor chasten in thine ire!
With mercy smoothe affliction's path,
And lift me from the mire.

My soul is also sad. How long,
O God, shall sorrow be
The subject of my daily song
And nightly prayer to Thee?

Return, O Lord, in peace return,
My feeble form to save!
No thanks can issue from the urn,
No praises from the grave.

In weariness and pain alone
My sleepless watch I keep,
Making to night my ceaseless moan—
My bed with tears I steep.

174

My eyes with grief grow old and dim—
O Lord solace my woes—
Let brighter hopes illumine them,
And scatter all my foes!

Depart from me, ye sons of guile,
For God hath heard my voice,
And bless'd with his inspiring smile,
My spirit shall rejoice.

But let the brand of sin and shame
Upon my enemies fall,
And let the grief which from them came
Return upon them all.

THE PRAYER OF THE FATHERLESS.

Since thou hast call'd our parents hence
By thy all wise decree,
O Father of the fatherless,
Our trust is placed in Thee.

Thou know'st our fears and loneliness—
Thou know'st our bitter grief—
O Father of the fatherless,
Be near for our relief.

Thou know'st the wants that trouble us,
And all our cares dost see,

175

O Father of the fatherless,
A rich provider be.

Thou see'st the bands that fetter us,
Keep us from evil free,
O Father of the fatherless,
Direct our steps to Thee.

When freed at last from earthliness,
For evermore may we,
O Father of the fatherless,
In Heaven thy children be.

THE HAPPY HOME.

How sad the wanderer's lonely breast,
To home, and friends, and country lost,
When from the waves escaped to rest
Upon some desert island's coast!
But if he see the whitening sail
Bear down upon that lonely isle,
Then hopes will o'er his fears prevail,
And paint his aspect with a smile.

And if the bark which now appears,
Stemming the dark green ocean wave,
Prove, as the desert coast she nears,
Freighted with friends who come to save—

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How quick he leaves the barren strand,
And dashes through the girdling foam,
To reach again his native land,
And kindred dear, and happy home.

How earnestly he woos the breeze,
Which seems to loiter on its way,
To urge his bark across the seas
To where affection's sunbeams play!
Oh! how he pants again to see
The walks where he was wont to roam,
His native hill, his native tree,
His native lake, and happy home!

And how he longs again to clasp
The friends who gave each scene a charm—
Who, ere he parted from their grasp,
Bedew'd his hand with tear-drops warm.
And oh! how joyful is the day
Which brings him from the ocean foam,
With them to walk, with them to pray,
With them to share his happy home!

And what are we but exiles here?
Upon a desert island cast;
If hope or joy our bosoms cheer,
How brief the season which they last!
And when our friends are gone before,
Through happier climes above to roam,
Why linger we upon the shore,
Nor long to reach our happy home?

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We know our parted friends are there,
Ready to hail us from the storm,
With angel eyes so bright, so fair!
With kindred souls so pure, so warm!
And though the waves, which we must cross,
Be dark, or only white with foam,
Why should we fear?—secure from loss,
They bear us to a happy home.

RELIGION.

As valour is in hearts, and not in swords,
Religion is in thoughts, and not in words.

Religion walks not in the noon-day blaze,
With pedant pomp, that giddy men may gaze:
Hers is the soul sincere—the bashful heart:
She moves in silence through life's noisy mart.
Humility informs her mien divine,
And calm retirement is her holy shrine.
She goes not forth plumed in audacious pride,
With canting affectation by her side;
But those her gentle spirit would reclaim
From folly's mazes, and the path of shame,
She bears in prayer to Him, whose glorious part
It is to change, as well as rule the heart;
And, by her meek example, strives to teach
Where vanity would prompt to stand and preach!
Nor will she ere to slander condescend:
She veils the failings which she cannot mend.
A friend to all that heart must ever prove,
Whose every thought and feeling still is love.

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And still her gentle step will linger near
The spot which Misery moistens with a tear;
Where her soft hand, unknown to all, may pour
The cordial to disease, and health restore:
Or, under cloud of night, while luxury sleeps,
And penury alone his vigil keeps,
She takes her way to where the cottage low
Lies buried in a mass of drifted snow,
And there, depositing her generous boon,
Glides silently away beneath the moon;
Leaving its inmates in amazement deep,
Too happy to enjoy, or wish for sleep;
While she retires, far from their grateful lays,
Well pleased, if good is done, to lose the praise.

THE SHOUT OF VICTORY.

What means that shout, so wild and high,
From the dark deep ocean's side?
And why that crash?—and why that cry
From the waves of the tumbling tide?

Does it hail the approach of some proud bark,
Majestic amid the deep;
And, white as the swan, o'er the billows dark
Bearing down with graceful sweep?

And is she laden with jewels and gold
From far, far distant lands?
And does she bear what cannot be sold;
Free hearts and manly hands?

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And is that cloud which darkens the sky
The smoke of the beacon fire,
Which blazes upon the sea-rock high
Like a tall and beautiful spire?

Ah no!—That shout was the victor's shout,
It rose o'er the groans of death,
As the hope of life with a shriek went out,
From the gallant ship sinking beneath.

That curling cloud which ascends to the heaven
Is the smoke of the stately wreck;
And that crash which arose, as if mountains were riven,
Was the sound of her bursting deck.

And the smile which you meet in every eye
Is not for friends return'd,
But the savage joy of an enemy
Over foes in the deep inurn'd.

They think not, while dashing along the dark waves,
Where the pride of the ocean lies low,
That, though they may exult o'er their deep-sea graves.
The tears of their kindred must flow:

They think not that orphans, and widows, and mothers,
Bereft of their hope and their trust,
Like the tree that is broke, or the floweret that withers,
Are shedding their sweets on the dust!

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Oh! hasten, we pray thee, Great Father of Good,
The time when the sword shall corrode in its sheath;
When the spear shall be sharpen'd for pruning of wood,
And men cease to rejoice at destruction and death.

SONG TO THE RISING SUN.

Let the sluggard sleep
On his down bed deep;
But I would not repose
While each opening rose
The dews of the morning steep.

The sun is up: in the eastern sky
He is filling his urn of light.
No grief is seen in his fiery eye,
For the sorrows he saw in his flight:
He tells no tale of the woes and the crimes,
Or the groans which he heard in other climes;
Nor does he drop, on his bright return,
A single tear of sorrow,
For the eyes which met him yestermorn
Quench'd long before the morrow:
No!—he wakes his joyous birds to sing,
And he opens his flowers to bloom;
And from all he has seen of suffering,
He brings no shade of gloom.

Let the sluggard sleep, &c.

The sun is up: o'er the eastern lawn
He rises as pure and as bright

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As he first arose, when his primal dawn
Put the shadows of Chaos to flight.
Nor years, nor tears have left a mark
On his brow, which shone on the lonely ark.
He hath survived, in that azure sky,
The wrecks of a perish'd world:
He saw its hosts in the deep flood die,
And its cities to ruin hurl'd;
And he saw a phœnix-world arise
From the grasp of the whelming waves,
And forests springing beneath his eyes
From the mud which had cover'd their graves.
Let the sluggard sleep, &c.

The sun is up: with a changeless brow
He looks on a world of change;
He hath seen proud nations arise, and now
Their very names grow strange.
He hath seen cities sapp'd by the sea-waves' sweep,
And islands arise from the fathomless deep;
He hath seen strong towers, by a nation's strength,
And a nation's wealth cemented,
Fall tumbling down in a ruinous length
Of rubbish, unlamented.
He hath seen tall temples raised to his name,
And his priests come forth at morn;
But their orisons pleased not the god of flame,
For he pass'd them by in scorn.

Let the sluggard sleep, &c.

The sun is up: he hath heard the song
From Memnon's stony heart;

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And he hath survived that worship long,
And mock'd the sculptor's art.
He hath seen the towers of Tadmor grow less,
He hath smiled on the fall of Persepolis;
He saw them wax, and day after day
He shone upon them as he pass'd;
He saw them wane and vanish away,
And their sites are disputed at last.
He hath wanton'd with flowers on Assyria's plain,
He hath gazed on her idols august;
He hath look'd on the glory of Nimrod's reign,
And on Nineveh stretch'd in the dust.

Let the sluggard sleep, &c.

The sun is up: the glories of Greece
He hath witness'd—the lovely, the free;
He hath warm'd the hearts of her patriots in peace,
And he shone on the pride of Thermopylæ.
He hath witness'd her sages waiting for night,
To consult by the stars or the pale moonlight;
But he hath shone till her wisdom was gone,
And her battlements levell'd low:
Till slavery sat upon Marathon,
And slaves upon Sunium's brow;
Where the wisest and bravest were born
He hath seen, as he sped on his way,
The fool and the coward sit and mourn
Like children when cross'd in their play.

Let the sluggard sleep, &c.

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He saw proud Carthage in glory arise,
And rival the mightiest in fame;
He saw her again, and she rose to the skies
In a volume of lava and flame—
While hervictor, as thousands around him expired,
Wept over the city his fury had fired.
He hath seen the eagle which floated there,
Plumed with destruction, insultingly skim,
Majcstic and high in the death-fire's glare,
With a bloody flight over all but him.
He hath seen him fall like the powerless moth,
And low in the dust he hath seen him lie—
Trampled upon by the Visigoth,
And spurn'd by the Huns of Attila—
Till the tenantless hall, and the bloody home,
Was all that remain'd of the glory of Rome.

Let the sluggard sleep, &c.

The sun is up—to enlighten each part—
But through the long ages of his career,
Of all which lightens or brightens the heart,
How little, alas! hath he look'd upon here!
He saw the temple of Salem arise,
And the wonder of Babylon ascend to the skies;
And the sights which he looks upon, day by day,
Are cheeks growing pale, and eyes growing dim,
Bright visions eclipsed, and hopes swept away,
And families scatter'd in ruin, like them!
Since all is change which his fiery eye
Hath look'd upon from the day of his birth,
Let us fix our hearts upon hopes more high,
And look no more for rest upon earth.

The Areopagus, an Athenian tribunal, which met in the open air by night.

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CHOLERA.

From Indian groves on the wings of the blast,
The demon of Death hath approach'd us at last,
Making empty the halls of Old Albion's homes,
And saddening our hearts, and peopling our tombs.
And who shall repell the invader, and save
The pride of our land from the grasp of the grave?
Shall the heroes who saved her, when danger was near,
With the edge of the sword and the point of the spear,
Again rally round the loved land of their birth,
And save her again from the scourge of the earth?

Ah, no! our brave youths, who, 'mid battle and flame,
Shouted “victory or death,” with undaunted acclaim,
Subdued by that champion, grow nerveless and pale,
And lay down their courage, their weapons, their mail!
Like the weakest, the vilest, the meanest of men,
They fall down before him, and rise not again!
But one weapon is ours, which the weakest can wield,
Till the stubborn conqu'ror be driven from the field—
And joy re-illumine his walks of dispair:
That weapon is ardent and holiest Prayer.

Infant! pray with thine infantine tongue:
For dear unto God are the prayers of the young.

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Mother! pray—while yet thou canst press
The infant who smiles at a mother's caress.
Father! pray—while thy hand may provide
For the blossoms that brighten thy own fireside.
Maiden! pray—ere the pestilence' breath
Hath wither'd thy charms to the paleness of death.
Lover! pray—ere the soft cheek fade,
And the heart which returns thy affection be dead.

Sages and patriots, whose courage and worth
Have been freely bestow'd on the land of your birth—
By the love which you bear to your country, implore
The mercy of Him whom the wisest adore.
Churchman and statesman, councillor and king,
Join in a penitent offering;
High and low, young and old,
Strong and weak, fearful and bold,
Join your voices with one accord,
And lift your humbled hearts to the Lord—
That He who to Abram bow'd down his ear,
The united cry of a nation may hear;
And send forth his angels that fiend to enchain,
Who drinks up the vitals of nations like rain.

HYMNS OF THE CHURCH-YARD—I.

Ah, me! this is a sad and silent city;
Let me walk softly o'er it, and survey
Its grassy streets, with melancholy pity!
Where are its children? where their gleesome play?
Alas! their cradled rest is cold and deep,
And slimy worms watch o'er them as they sleep!

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This is pale beauty's bourn: but where the beautiful
Whom I have seen come forth at evening hours,
Leading their aged friends, with feelings dutiful,
Amid the wreaths of spring, to gather flowers?
Alas! no flowers are here, but flowers of death;
And those who once were sweetest sleep beneath.

This is a populous place: but where the bustling—
The crowded buyers of the noisy mart—
The lookers-on—the showy garments rustling—
The money-changers—and the men of art?
Business, alas! hath stopp'd in mid career,
And none are anxious to resume it here.

This is the home of grandeur: where are they—
The rich the great, the glorious, and the wise?
Where are the trappings of the proud, the gay—
The gaudy guise of human butterflies?
Alas! all lowly lies each lofty brow,
And the green sod dizens their beauty now.

This is a place of refuge and repose:
Where are the poor—the old—the weary wight—
The scorn'd—the humble—and the man of woes—
Who wept for morn, and sigh'd again for night?
Their sighs at last have ceased, and here they sleep,
Beside their scorners, and forget they weep.

This is a place of gloom: where are the gloomy?
The gloomy are not citizens of death.
Approach and look: where the long grass is plummy,
See them above! they are not found beneath—

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For these low denizens, with artful wiles,
Nature, in flowers, contrives her mimic smiles.

This is a place of sorrow: friends have met,
And mingled tears o'er those who answer'd not:
And where are they whose eyelids then were wet?
Alas! their griefs, their tears are all forgot;
They, too, are landed in this silent city,
Where there is neither love, nor tears, nor pity.

This is a place of fear: the firmest eye
Hath quail'd to see its shadowy dreariness;
But Christian hope, and heavenly prospects high,
And earthly cares, and nature's weariness,
Have made the timid pilgrim cease to fear,
And long to end his painful journey here.

HYMNS OF THE CHURCH-YARD—II.

Again within thy precincts, Death,
With solemn step I tread,
To gaze upon the turf beneath,
Which hides th' unrecorded dead.

I came not here to pry and pore
O'er monument or bust;
But with soft sadness to explore
The graves of those called “vulgar dust.”

Each marble has its bard to praise,
And pour the ready tear;

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But who, alas! will waste heir lays,
Or weep above the poor man's bier?

Yet hearts as firm as ever beat,
And warm as ever burn'd,
And feelings pure as aught we meet,
Have been, without a stone, inurn'd.

And since no bard will deign to sing
Of names so little known,
Or tell their tales of suffering—
The humble task shall be my own.

Here lies a grave, which tear nor sigh
Hath ever fann'd or wet;
Yet never dust, from human eye,
Better deserved that unpaid debt.

It is an orphan's place of rest,
Who found no rest below,
Till the cold sod her soft cheek press'd,
To terminate a scene of woe.

Sad was the day her mother died—
Leaving that only child,
Who erst had been her staff and pride—
A stranger on life's thorny wild.

She was a kind and duteous girl,
And, though her frame was weak,
Had toil'd and watch'd through pain and peril,
For her old bed-rid mother's sake.

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But who could gaze upon that streak,
Like sunlight upon snow,
Which gently tinged her maiden cheek,
Or on her white and spotless brow,

Or who upon her deep blue eye
Could for a moment look—
Nor read an early destiny,
Written in that mysterious book;

Yet she had hours of happiness
When a fond mother's prayer,
And a fond mother's faint caress,
Had banish'd earthly care.

But, ah! that friend—the last the best,
“By pain and sorrow worn,”
Took refuge in this place of rest,
And left her only child to mourn:

And from that day her swimming eye,
In languid beauty shone
On the deep azure of the sky,
Where one by one her friends had gone.

And still by yon low grave her tears
Of loneliness would gush;
While thoughts which swept o'er bygone years,
Crimson'd her cheek with rosy flush.

It was not health's bright hue that rose—
Too soon it pass'd away—

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It was the hectic beam which glows
The beacon fire of slow decay.

Her's was a grief that pass'd not by—
A grief that murmur'd not;
It rose with the corrosive sigh,
Yet breath'd contentment with her lot.

And duly at the close of day,
She sought the silent shade—
In solitude to weep and pray,
And ponder on the lowly dead.

And oft upon the breeze of eve,
She thought her mother's voice
Whisper'd, “My Mary, do not grieve:
God calls your spirit to rejoice.”

And then a fresher, warmer gush
Of feeling, to her eye
Brought the big tears with quicker rush,
And an intenser sympathy.

Patient as martyr, though so young,
Sickness and pain she suffer'd;
No murmuring word escaped her tongue,
And no complaint she ever utter'd.

Her eye had caught a glimpse of heaven—
Her Saviour from on high—
Had sent a sunbeam to enliven
Death's gloomy vale of mystery.

191

Poets have sung of beauty's bower,
And love-struck beauty sighing;
But they have felt its fullest power,
Who have beheld such beauty dying.

The ruby lip's expiring red—
The pale but placid cheek,
Where the faint roses sweetly fade,
The onyx brow composed and meek.

The softness of the seraph eyes,
Still dewy, but not wet;
And pure as heaven's blue bending skies—
Beauty like this we ne'er forget!

And such adorn'd the orphan's face,
Who now lies slumb'ring here;
Whose eye was closed in death's embrace,
Without a single sigh or tear.

By stranger hands, her beauteous clay
Was to the dust consign'd;
No friend was there her name to say,
Or load with sighs the passing wind.

But what though neither sigh nor tear
Was given to soothe her rest;
If closing here her brief career,
She went to dwell among the blest!

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BAPTISM.

Hush thee sweet child!—these drops, whose fall
Awoke thy little cry,
Were meant to bless, and not appal,
Thy soft blue dreaming eye.

Thou little know'st the gift bestow'd,
Else smiles, instead of tears;
And love and gratitude to God,
Had been instead of fears.

Yet we, who boast a mightier mind,
Dark mysteries to see,
To heavenly blessings are as blind,
Sweet innocent, as thee!

Although from heaven no holy dove
Descends upon thy head,
As on the Lord of life and love,
Where Jordan's waters spread;—

May He who erst in Jordan's stream
Received that sacred rite,
Pour on thy infant soul a beam
Of pure redeeming light:

And may thy whisper'd earthly name
To heavenly courts arise;
And in God's golden book of fame
Be read by angel-eyes.

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And may the prayers by mortals pour'd
For thee, sweet bud of earth!
In Heaven's immutable record
Attest thy second birth.

Now thou art pleased!—and may thy brow
For ever wear that smile;
And may thy heart be free, as now
From sorrow and from guile.

With thee, in growth, may wisdom grow,
And on that soul of thine
May heavenly consolation flow
To bliss thy life's decline.

And when at last thy race is run,
And Nature sinks, oppress'd,
May the Eternal Sire and Son
Welcome thee to thy rest.

SABBATH EVENING SONG.

'Tis Sabbath! over the sky,
All sounds of earth are still,
Save the wild-bee's hum, and the lapwing's cry,
And the little bird's song on the hill;
And the vapoury clouds hang motionless there,
As if they, too, had caught the spirit of prayer:
And all things full of the Deity shine—
Oh! who would not think upon things divine?

194

'Tis Sabbath! over the earth,
There is magic in the hour;
Psalms arise from every hearth,
And over each heart have power—
And the holy melody ascends
To a world where Sabbath never ends;
And angels will smile, as fresh garlands they twine
For those who are thinking of things divine.

'Tis Sabbath! over the sea
The full orb'd moon walks bright,
Holding in chains of mystery
Its restless and angry might,
And writing in silvery words on the wave
The mercies of Him who is mighty to save,
And leading the sailor, with beam benign,
To look upward, and think upon things divine.

'Tis Sabbath! and yet the heart
Is weak, and will wander astray,
Though the earth, and the sea, and the sky take a part
In calling our spirits to pray;
And the victim of grief still will think of his woes,
Forgetting the hand which can give him repose:
Yet, Lord, at thy smile we will cease to repine—
Illumine our souls by thy wisdom divine.

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THANKS TO GOD FOR PATIENCE TO BEAR AFFLICTION.

O God of Glory! thou hast treasured up
For me my little portion of distress,
But with each draught—in every bitter cup
Thy hand hath mix'd—to make its sournessless—
Some cordial drop, for which thy name I bless,
And offer up my mite of thankfulness.

Thou hast chastised my frame with dire disease,
Long, obdurate, and painful; and thy hand
Hath wrung cold sweat-drops from my brow: for these
I thank thee too. Though pangs at thy command
Have compass'd me about, still, with the blow,
Patience sustain'd my soul amid its woe.

WARNINGS OF DEATH IN EVERY THING.

Poets have sung of music's melting breath
Warning the pious man, at dead of night,
Of thy approach grim king, unwelcome Death!
Whose arrows flee in darkness and in light.
And oft the owlet, with unsocial scream,
Hath made the soundest sleeper quickly start,
Who, wakening, pale and shivering from his dream,
Feels the dread warning curdle at his heart.

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And oft at midnight's stirless hour of dread
The sheeted phantom, or the shadowy wraith,
Are said to pace the room with noiseless tread,
As heralds of their king, grim-visaged Death.

But granting that each legend were a truth—
That all the stories which have yet been told
By credulous age, to frighten timid youth,
Were as veracious as the mountains old—
These dark foreboding messengers proclaim
No new discovery—tell no wondrous tale:
Ages and elements have taught the same
In plainer language than the phantom pale.

Ah, who can doubt the truth! since all beneath
Tells us of stern and uncompounding Death.
Go look abroad upon the smiling earth,
Behold the violet's bloom, the daisy's birth—
Are they not fair as thee? Go look again,
And see them wither'd from the frozen plain.
Look on the louring clouds and murky air,
Lurks not the spirit of contagion there?
The low damp breeze, with pestilential breath,
Whispers “Beware! I sow the seeds of death!”
Go to the revel—look upon the ball,
The music and the songs which gladden all,
Though each musician had a siren's breath,
Are voices from the grave, and tell of Death.

If still you doubt, then leave the earth with me,
And con the sterner morals of the sea,

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Behold in awful swell the mountain wave,
And hear Death's genius from that tumbling grave,
While arching with white foam the dark abyss,
His dreadful warnings to your senses hiss;
And, to enforce the appalling voice with deeds,
Behold your brethren dash'd ashore like weeds—
Though erst as full of life and strength as you;
And what is done, he oft again shall do!

Turn from the deep, where his dread voice is loud,
Where daily, hourly, he spreads forth a shroud
Upon the whirlpool's breast of dancing foam:
Flee from these terrors to thy peaceful home,
And there, even there, the demon will attend,
His whispers with your happiest hours to blend.
Your very pride hath given the grisly seer
A power to prophecy his own career—
There Genius, wedded to laborious Art,
Hath toil'd to shape his warning to your heart.

Behold the lofty gallery's pictured wall,
And see the smiling lip—the changeless eye—
Pale brow—pure cheek—athletic form—and all
The grave resigns to art of ancestry,
And say, Does not the pantomime of death
Press solemnly and deep these words of fear—
“Poor fleeting race, who perish with each breath,
Soon all your charms shall only sadden here.”

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WINTER AND SPRING—MARCH 1831.

'Twas the time of the year when the forest tree
Is expanding its buds to the humming bee;
'Twas the hour of the day when the purpling sky
Grows doubly sweet to the poet's eye—
When, coy as the virgin who shuns to be seen,
A beautiful damsel bedizen'd with green,
As the sweet sunbeams on the pale boughs play'd,
Walk'd trippingly down the old promenade:
A necklace of buds on her fair breast hung,
And a wordless music flow'd from her tongue,
And a coronal, made of the snowdrops bright,
Danced on her brow so enchantingly white.
Her slippers of mountain-daisies were made,
Which glow'd with a tinge of the purest red;
And light was her step, as she wantonly stray'd
In the sheltering reach of the old trees' shade.

Stalking alone on the opposite side,
Where the north wind blew o'er a desert wide,
A form of a different kind was seen:
His gait was unsteady, but haughty his mien.
To his fur-trimm'd robes the snow-flakes clung,
And icicles pure from his grey locks hung:
He appear'd like a giant, in stature and form,
And the cast of his brow was the frown of the storm,
Which heavily falls on the cold heart-string—
The two were the Spirits of Winter and Spring!

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As Winter came on, with a dedolent air,
His eye caught a glimpse of the beautiful fair;
The sheen of the robes which the damsel had worn,
That evening appear'd to inflate him with scorn,
And, stopping at once the high tramp of his foot,
He address'd her in haste with this angry salute:
“Whence hast thou come? like a glittering toy,
Whose very existence my frown will destroy!
How dar'st thou, gay wanton, thy flowerets to twine,
On the hills I have conquer'd—the vales which are mine?
Vain fool! dost thou think that thy aspect so fair
Could tempt me for once an invader to spare?
No! hence—I have warn'd thee. I warn thee, go hence—
If thou stay'st, it shall be at thy proper expense!”

Thus spoke he; and she, with a smile in her eye,
To his still growing wrath made a gentle reply:
“I come from the land where the orient palm
Spreads softly and sweetly its leaves in the calm;
Where the streams have no voice as they glide to the deep,
Which, embracing the shadows of earth, falls asleep!
From thence did I come with the swallows, to soar
Over inland and ocean, from shore unto shore;
And here have I paused in this isle of the seas,
To rest me awhile, and then fly with the breeze!”

Thus spoke she; and Winter stood frowning the while;
But she met every frown of his brow with a smile,

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Till anger and wrath to affection gave place,
And the churl began to look pleased in her face:
And slowly the old surly chief and the maid,
Together retired to the forest for shade;
But the moment he saw her set foot in the grove,
Old Winter grew squeamish, and sicken'd of love.
Too late he repented approaching her charms,
And, frowning again, he expired in her arms;
And gaily she smiled as she there laid him down,
For she won with a smile what he lost with a frown.

SONNET ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE YEAR 1832.

Thus thou expirest, thou momentous year—
Thy last, last vital moments are departing,
And many a heart o'er thy sad lapse is smarting:
Yet not for thee falls the big burning tear;
But for the friends, than life itself more dear,
Whom thou has swept away, these drops are starting.
Bright forms which bounded lightly at thy birth—
Eyes which with love and hope were sparkling clear—
Have left an empty seat on many a hearth,
And gone where neither hope nor love can cheer:
They “take no note of time;” worms are their guests!
And thy successor, who now dimly starts
Upon us from eternity, fresh feasts
Shall give these reptiles, of fresh human hearts!

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ADDRESS TO TIME—AUGUST 1836.

Gray monarch of decay!
Stern conqueror of kings!
Beneath whose all unbounded sway,
The mightiest nations melt away,
And are forgotten things!
Oh! spare but one poor gift to me,
And I resign the rest to thee!

If aught of manly grace,
Or youthful bloom be mine,
Take from thy subject's form and face,
Each faintly marked and fading trace,
Stern spoiler, they are thine;
But dip not thy relentless dart
In the deep fountain of my heart!

Take health, as thou before
Has taken, from my frame;
Take all the little treasured store,
Which memory holds, of hard-earn'd lore,
For these are thine to claim;
But leave me still the power to scan,
Kindly the woes of suffering man!

If tyranny must sting
My soul to sternness here,
And from my heart, by torture, wring
Those gentle sympathies, which spring
Where man to man is dear;

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Then bait me with the sons of pride—
By them be all my firmness tried!

But ne'er by guile or woe,
That tender organ tear,
Which o'er the weak—the fall'n—the low—
Vibrates with sympathetic glow—
Those slender springlets spare;
And if denied the means to heal,
Still let me have the power to feel!

SCRAPS—JULY 1831.

There is no word to those who roam,
So sweet, so musical, as “Home;”
The sound of its endearing name,
Thrills with delight the wand'rer's frame.
Whether 'mid Zembla's rocks of ice,
Or Syria's flowery paradise;
Whether beneath a brighter sky,
Or darker than his own, his sigh
Is for that spot which love endears,
With mutual smiles and mutual tears!
What, then, must be the thoughts of those
To whom the world gives no repose?
For whom, wherever they may roam,
Time hath no hopes, and earth no home!
They may be bless'd, for God prepares
A home, which nought but goodness shares;
And those who scorn not his command,
May journey to that happy land!

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Oh! could the glance of mortal eye
Pierce to those mansions of the sky,
The king would leave his glittering throne—
From tricks the statesman would begone—
The miser would no longer pore
Upon, or count, his precious store—
The lover would forsake his love,
To earth each heart would faithless prove;
And all would turn their eyes to where
These blessed homes they yet might share—
To catch the rapturous rays which fall
Profusely from the crystal wall
Of the Jerusalem above,
Where all is harmony and love!

Then envy not, ye homeless few,
The greatest of the great: for you
The hand which spread the skies abroad,
Even He who pleads our cause with God,
Who was himself to sorrow bred,
And had not where to lay his head,
Is forming in the courts of light,
Mansions for ever fair and bright—
Mansions from whose eternal walls
No evening shadow ever falls;
For time, unmeasured by the sun,
Shall there in endless ages run!

These mansions, boundless though they seem,
With those who had no homes shall teem:

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Then cease, ye homeless few, to grieve,
Your Saviour's call of love receive;
Obey his will in earthly things;
Expire, and be eternal kings!

Creation hath no single spot,
Gloomy or bright, where God is not.
His essence fills the vital air,
Upon the deep it flies abroad.
Descend to hell, and He is there—
Ascend to heaven, 'tis His abode.
With morning beams His throne He makes
In the beatitude of light;
And then for His pavilion takes
The shadows of the gloomy night:
All, all in ocean, earth, or sky,
Is ever present to His eye.
His omnipresence doth behold
The slightest motion, act, or thought
Which stirs or moves our mortal mould—
The most minute—the most remote.
The insect sporting on the breeze—
The monster of the northern seas—
With every tribe which intervenes
Betwixt these vast and far extremes—
By Him are every moment seen—
By Him are fed!

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A SPRING SONG—1834.

There is a concert in the trees—
There is a concert on the hill—
There's melody in every breeze,
And music in the murmuring rill.
The shower is past, the winds are still,
The fields are green, the flowerests spring,
The birds, and bees, and beetles fill,
The air with harmony, and fling
The rosied moisture of the leaves
In frolic flight from wing to wing,
Fretting the spider as he weaves
His airy web from bough to bough;
In vain the little artist grieves
Their joy in his destruction now.

Alas! that in a scene so fair
The meanest being e'er should feel
The gloomy shadow of despair,
Or sorrow o'er his bosom steal.
But in a world where woe is real,
Each rank in life, and every day,
Must pain and suffering reveal,
And wretched mourners in decay:
When nations smile o'er battles won—
When banners wave, and streamers play,
The lonely mother mourns her son
Left lifeless on the bloody clay;
And the poor widow all undone,
Sees the wild revel with dismay.

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Even in the happiest scenes of earth,
When swell'd the bridal song on high—
When every voice was tuned to mirth
And joy was shot from eye to eye,
I've heard a sadly stifled sigh;
And 'mid the garlands rich and fair
I've seen a cheek, which once could vie
In beauty with the fairest there,
Grown deadly pale, although a smile
Was worn above to cloak despair:
Poor maid! it was a hapless wile
Of long conceal'd and hopeless love,
To hide a heart which broke the while
With pangs no lighter heart could prove.

The joyous spring, and summer gay,
With perfumed gifts together meet,
And from the rosy lips of May
Breathe music soft, and odours sweet:
And still my eyes delay my feet
To gaze upon the earth and heaven,
And hear the happy birds repeat
Their anthems to the coming even:
Yet is my pleasure incomplete—
I grieve to think how few are given
To feel the pleasures I possess,
While thousand hearts, by sorrow riven,
Must pine in utter loneliness,
Or be to desperation driven.

Oh! could we find some happy land,
Some Eden of the deep blue sea,

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By gentle breezes only fann'd,
Upon whose soil, from sorrow free,
Grew only pure felicity;
Who would not brave the stormiest main
Within that blessful isle, to be
Exempt from sight or sense of pain?
There is a land we cannot see
Whose joys no pen can e'er pourtray,
And yet, so narrow is the road,
From it our spirits ever stray.
Shed light upon that path, O God!
And lead us in the appointed way.

There only, joy shall be complete,
More high than mortal thoughts can reach,
For there the just and good shall meet
Pure in affection, thought, and speech;
No jealousy shall make a breach,
Nor pain their pleasure e'er alloy—
There sunny streams of gladness stretch,
And there the very air is joy.
There shall the faithful, who relied
On faithless love, till life would cloy,
And those who sorrow'd till they died,
O'er earthly pain, and earthly woe,
See pleasure, like a whelming tide,
From an unbounded ocean flow.

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RESIGNATION.

'Tis wise in mortals who have been
By heavenly mercy blest,
When days of sorrow come at last,
To own God's pleasure best.
And though 'tis hard with joy to part,
Yet may the power be mine,
What Heaven demands, all patiently
And calmly to resign.

The sweetest treasure life affords
On earth, is hope and health—
For hope is purest happiness,
And health the greatest wealth.
But hope, and health, and happiness
Are now no longer mine,
Lord, help me, hope and health, and all,
With patience to resign.

THE POETICAL PREACHER.—No. I.

“Come unto me all ye that labour, and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”—Mat. xi. 28.

Art thou a pilgrim, old and poor,
Way-worn upon life's thorny road,
Whose limbs must falter, hour by hour,
Beneath affliction's heavy load?
To thee, the voice of God address'd,
Invites to an eternal rest.

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Or art thou, in life's early stage,
Worn down by pain and dire disease,
Till all the infirmities of age
Cluster around thy trembling knees?
Sigh not, nor mourn, for thou art press'd
To come and have eternal rest.

Or art thou one whose hopes have been
On earthly evanescence built,
Whose schemes in disappointment keen
Have terminated, and in guilt?
With penitential thoughts impress'd,
Come and receive eternal rest.

Or art thou mourning o'er the dead—
Some dearly loved, and valued friend,
By early death, untimely laid
Where him thou mayest no more attend?
O cease to grieve! God's will is best—
Believe, and thou shalt yet have rest.

Whate'er thou be, whoe'er thou art,
In weariness, and want, and woe,
Give to the Lord an humble heart,
Ask and believe—He will bestow;
For all who mourn, with cares oppress'd,
May claim from Him the promis'd rest.

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POETICAL PREACHER.—No. II.

“Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out.”— John vi. 37.

While Fortune smiles, and Plenty pours
Her favours o'er thy lot,
Where'er thou go'st, the opening doors
Of palace and of cot
Will welcome thee, to rest and share
Whate'er they can afford;
And ready hands will soon prepare
The downy couch, and sumptuous board.

But if pale poverty should shed
Its cold benumbing snows
Upon thy weary heart and head,
These doors at once will close;
For kindness here is only won
By wealth—which wants it not;
While all would shun the wretch undone
As only fit to be forgot.

But hark! a voice of mercy calls—
It is a Saviour's voice;
He woos the poor to heavenly halls,
Where all that dwell rejoice.
The meanest wretch who here may roam
May come without a doubt,
And find a glorious welcome home:
God will not cast the wretched out.

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POETICAL PREACHER.—No. III.

“I loathe it—I would not live alway.—Job vii. 16.”

In the spring-time of life, when the sunshine of joy
And the purple of health are combined on the cheek;
When the sweet bud of childhood unfolds in the boy,
When the passions are warm, and the judgment is weak,
Then all we behold is invested with bliss—
Delighted we gaze on the ocean and sky;
Nor wish for a paradise purer than this—
It is then that we tremble to think we must die.
To friendship and love we have plighted our faith,
And our hearts in the lap of enjoyment are laid,
Ere the sorrows of life, or the darkness of death,
Our friends have destroyed, or our hopes have betray'd;
But when toss'd by the storm, in the offing of years,
The scenes which were lovely seem lovely no more:
It is then that the voyager, 'mid sorrows and fears,
Feels pleased that the ocean of life hath a shore.
Life's bloom, like the May-thorn's foliage, deceives—
In summer the pride of the forest and plain;
But autumn divests it of fragrance and leaves,
And nought but the fruit and the prickles remain.
The fruit of existence is virtue and truth,
And happy is he in whose bosom they grow;
For they shall survive the gay foliage of youth,
And soothe the sad prickles of age and of woe:

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For, whate'er we may think of the pains that are past,
Or dream of the gay-golden prospects to come,
The pleasures of life will decline to the last,
And its cares will increase as we march to the tomb.
Even those who have reached to the margin of time,
And worn all the blessings life gave them to wear,
Whether soaring in goodness, or sinking in crime,
Would shrink from eternal mortality here.
Yet, fear not the pressure of age or of pain,
Nor, for sorrows behind thee, disconsolate mourn:
Though life may be dark, yet it is not in vain,
And eternity's dawn shall its ending adorn.
Though the bright sun of hope on the valley of tears
May have set, in its brightness no more to arise,
We are bless'd, if the Day-Star of Mercy appears
To illumine our path through its gloom to the skies.
And in this let our hearts still rejoice and be glad,
Though surrounded with suff'rings o'er which we must grieve,
That we shall not live always, nor always be sad;
For the scene is a scene which we shortly must leave.

THE RESURRECTION OF CHRIST.

'Twas early morn, and dawning day
Had scarcely yet begun to shine,

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Although a faintly struggling ray
Had marked the dim horizon's line,
When through the still remaining gloom
A female form was seen to stray:
She sought alone her Saviour's tomb—
She went to weep where Jesus lay.
With huried step, and look forlorn,
Along the garden path she moved,
Where late in silent grief was borne
That Master she so dearly loved.
With spices and with myrrh she came,
His sacred body to embalm;
And once again to name his name
In sorrow's sad and sick'ning qualm:
But lo! the tomb was burst!—the stone
Which barr'd its gate was backward roll'd;
The great—the glorious Dead, was gone!
Of him, the grave had lost its hold.
A moment, with suspended breath,
That faithful mourner stood to gaze
Upon the late abode of death
Thrown open to the morning rays;
Then hurriedly she went to call
Her Saviour's followers, to explore
That empty cave, and corseless pall,
Where his remains were found no more.
They came and found his funeral dress
Along the cold sepulchre strown,
But, with unspeakable distress,
They saw not him, for he was gone.
Their souls were dark, their faith was weak:
They dream'd not that their Lord could rise

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To burst the bands of death, and break
Through all a passage to the skies!
And soon the sad disciples left
That melancholy spot, to mourn
Their loss—of Him they loved bereft:
They knew not that he should return.
But she who first appeared there,
Lingering—her soul's deep anguish pour'd
Before the ransack'd sepulchre
Which lately held her blessed Lord.
And down upon her knees she bent,
And turned within her streaming eyes
To give her yearning heart full vent,
When lo! a vision from the skies
Astonished her bewilder'd sight!
She saw two forms, whose garments shone,
Like sun-illumined snow—so bright
They scarcely could be look'd upon:
Yet mild were their majestic faces,
And mild their eyes of heavenly blue,
Which beam'd with more than mortal graces—
Dazzling, yet fascinating too;
And when they sweetly smiled and spoke,
And ask'd the cause of Mary's tears,
Their words, like heavenly music, broke
From the dim cavern on her ears.
Abash'd by such dread charms, she turn'd
Aside her sad and drooping head;
But still her heart in sorrow yearn'd
To know where she might find the dead.

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She turn'd her round: who meets she there?
Beaming with looks of tenderness,
An eye more bright, a face more fair
Than those she left within, were His!
Yet seemed He mortal—for His hand
Displayed a deep impurpled wound;
And sure in heaven's eternal band
No semblance of a scar is found.
But never mortal form before
Seem'd half so glorious to her eye
As His whose brow so kindly wore
Compassion with its majesty.
He saw her weep, and question'd why,
But she mistook his words—though clear—
And answered, with a burning sigh,
“I seek for one who is not here.
Rabboni, pray thee, tell me where
The body of the Lord is laid,
That I may to the spot repair,
And weep once more above the dead!”
“Mary!”—He said: that tender tone
In one short moment brought to mind
A friend whom she before had known—
A friend benevolent and kind;
And in her gladness at the sight,
Her risen Saviour she had press'd:
Then stooping down, in humble plight,
His very feet with rapture kiss'd.
But he forbade that fond embrace,
Yet offer'd no austere rebuke;
For mercy mantled o'er his face,
And mercy beam'd in every look.

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“Touch me not yet,” he said; “but bend
Thy steps to where my brethren pine;
Say that their Lord shall soon ascend
Up to their Father, and to mine.”

The Saviour, robed in rays of light,
Vanished from her still longing eyes;
And Mary, fluttering with delight,
Went forth his followers to surprise.

Yet once again from heaven he came,
That mourning brotherhood to bless,
Who, reckless of contempt and shame,
Had followed him in faithfulness.
Still, of the Twelve, one had not seen
His Saviour since from death he rose;
For he before had absent been
And doubts and fears still round him close.
And yet once more when silent night
Hung heavy o'er the slumbering land,
That Saviour burst upon their sight,
And show'd his perforated hand,
And pointed to his pierced side,
That all their doubts, and all their fears,
For ever might be satisfied—
And cheer'd their hearts, and dried their tears.

He open'd, with his dying breath,
A fountain, sinful souls to lave;
He rose and took the sting from death,
And wrench'd the terrors from the grave.

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And when at last, 'mid falling stars,
And suns and moons through darkness driven,
With angel hosts, on fiery cars,
He comes from the high gates of heaven—
When all the generations gone,
At the archangel's voice appear,
And, ranged around his Judgment Throne,
Stand tremblingly their doom to hear,
Who shall not quake with fear to see
Creation's mighty fabric shake
Before that Man of Galilee
Who suffer'd once for sinners' sake?

OH! LET NO TEAR.

Oh! let no tear
Bedew your eye, to see me die;
Nor any fear
Disturb your heart, to follow where I fly!

WARNING GIVEN BY THE SETTING SUN—1831.

The tranquil stillness of the evening hour
Brings to my mind the deeper hush of death;
To me, the breathing zephyrs have a power,
Which speaks of the last sigh of parting breath:
Even the bright sun, as slow he sinks away,
Thus writes with his red beam upon the lake:
“Many bright eyes which shone with me, to-day,
With me, to-morrow, shall no more awake!”

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THE PASTOR.

To watch the world's distracted fold,
As with a parent's eye—
To teach the young, and warn the old,
That all on earth must die:
And more than all, to paint, to prove
To the faint gaze of faith,
How Jesus' sacrificial love
Brought life to them from death;
To tame the proud with truths severe—
The vile dissembler's mask
To rend, without respect or fear;
This is the Pastor's task!

To see, despite his toils and cares,
Bold vice triumphant boast—
To deem his vigils and his prayers,
By God and mankind lost;
To feel the everlasting fate
Of sinners on his head;
And tremble, as he scans the weight
Of guilt and judgment dread;
To think they scorn his warning voice,
Whose souls to him are dear—
And court damnation as their choice;
This is the Pastor's fear!

Within the dwellings of the poor
To wait with patient eye,
Mid sufferings which he cannot cure,
Wants he can not supply;

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To kneel beside the parent's bed,
Whose children, in despair,
Just hush their wailing cry for bread
To listen to his prayer;
To hear the groans, and see the woes,
Which will not brook relief—
The widow's and the orphan's woes;
This is the Pastor's grief!

Then who would choose a task so sad,
So full of grief and fear?
Has earth no scenes his heart to glad?
No sounds his soul to cheer?
Yes!—holy, happy is his choice,
When sinners round him meet
To listen to his sacred voice,
And all their fears repeat:
The trickling tears, and upturn'd eyes,
Which give their spirits scope,
Promise to him a heavenly prize;—
This is the Pastor's hope!

When some poor wretch, in guilt grown gray,
Touch'd by his warm appeal,
Is taught to think, repent, and pray,
With faith, and love, and zeal:
When he beholds some maiden's tear
Fall o'er the word of God,
And knows her feelings are sincere,
And that from love it flow'd:

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Then beats his heart with rapture high!—
If maiden, man, or boy,
Seem'd turn'd from darkness to the sky;
This is the Pastor's joy!

And oh! when time shall pass away—
When earth's proud pomp shall fade;
When God shall burst her burial clay,
And raise her countless dead—
To meet, amid the blest in heaven,
Many to whom he bore
The sacred hope of sins forgiven,
And warn'd to sin no more—
Mortals who pity him!—this is,
For all his labours hard—
Who would not wish to call it his?—
The Pastor's blest reward!

THE LAST FAREWELL.

Fare-thee-well, thou parting spirit!
Dear christian, fare-thee-well!
The glory thou shalt soon inherit
No mortal tongue can tell!

Yet sadly sounds in friendship's ear,
That last adieu of thine:
Ah! who could part with one so dear—
So loved—and not repine?

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For those who are most meet for heaven,
On earth we miss the most;
Yet those who long on earth have striven,
Sigh for that peaceful coast.

Then go! sweet saint, resign thy breath;
And He, whose staff and rod
Supports thee in the vale of death,
Shall ever be thy God.

And while we close thy lifeless eye,
And mourn thy vacant clay,
Thy soul shall wing its flight on high,
Beyond the milky way!

Then haste to mansions of the blest;
And blest are those who die
In Jesus; for their bodies rest—
Their spirits scale the sky:

And all their works shall follow them;
And, to their crowns above,
Their King shall add a heavenly gem
For every work of love.

And though we part, 'tis not for aye—
No; brighter hopes remain:
There comes at last a glorious day
When we shall meet again.

Our dust shall mingle in the grave,
Our souls shall meet in heaven;

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For, by His love who died to save,
Our sins shall be forgiven.

Then fare-thee-well, thou parting spirit!
Dear christian, fare-thee-well!
The glory thou shalt soon inherit
No mortal tongue can tell!

MY GRANDMOTHER.

Long years of toil and care,
And pain and poverty have pass'd,
Since last I listen'd to her prayer,
And look'd upon her last—
Yet how she spoke, and how she smiled
Upon me, when a playful child;
The lustre of her eye—
The kind caress—the fond embrace—
The reverence of her placid face—
All in my memory lie
As fresh as they had only been
Bestow'd, and felt, and heard, and seen
Since yesterday went by.

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Her dress so simply neat—
Her household tasks so featly done—
Even the old willow-wicker seat
On which she sat and spun—
The table where her Bible lay,
Open from morn till close of day—
The standish, and the pen,
With which she noted, as they rose,
Her thoughts upon the joys, the woes,
The final fate of men,
And sufferings of her Saviour-God—
Each object in her poor abode
Is visible as them.

Nor are they all forgot—
The faithful admonitions given,
And glorious hopes which flattered not,
But led the soul to heaven:
These had been hers, and have been mine
When all beside had ceased to shine—
When sadness and disease,
And disappointment and suspense,
Had driven youth's fairest fancies hence,
Short'ning its fleeting lease:
'Twas then these hopes amid the dark,
Just glimmering like an unquench'd spark,
Dawn'd on me by degrees.

To her they gave a light
Brighter than sun or star supplied;
And never did they shine more bright
Than just before she died.

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Death's shadow dimm'd her aged eyes,
Gray clouds had clothed the evening skies,
And darkness was abroad;
But still she turn'd her gaze above,
As if the eternal light of love
On her glazed organs glowed;
Like beacon fire at closing even,
Hung out between the earth and heaven,
To guide her soul to God.

And then they brighter grew,
Beaming with everlasting bliss,
As if the eternal world in view
Had wean'd her eyes from this;
And every feature was composed,
As with a placid smile they closed
On those who stood around,
Who felt it was a sin to weep
O'er such a smile, and such a sleep,
So peaceful, so profound:
And though they wept, their tears express'd
Joy for her time-worn frame at rest—
Her soul with mercy crown'd.

Her last words, ere she died,
Were, “Friends and daughters, lay me down:
In Jesus bosom let me hide
Your spirits and my own!”
She stretch'd her limbs, composed her arms,
As death had been the prince of charms—
Nor breath'd a sigh or groan:

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And then the calm, the heavenly grace
Which fell upon her reverent face!
Wrinkles, than roses blown
Seemed fairer far; the spirit shed
Such beauty, as it upward fled
To the eternal throne!

THE PARTING GIFT.

'Tis not the value of the gift,
As rated in the world's esteem,
Which makes the boon by Friendship left
A thing of such importance seem:
Its worth can ne'er be weigh'd in gold—
Its value never can be told.

It is the feelings which arise,
The recollections which endear,
The memory of those sympathies
Which flow'd forth with the parting tear,
When that last pledge of love was given
Full in the eye of earth and heaven.

The lowliest flower, the simplest leaf,—
Whatever tends to bring to view
The friend who bow'd his head in grief,
And bade his cherish'd friends adieu,
To the lorn heart is dearer far
Than all the gold of Istakar.

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Yes—those, and those alone, can tell,
Who've felt the heaviness of heart
Which follows that sad word “Farewell,”
When friends, by time endear'd, depart,
How fondly the lone spirit clings
To faithful love's minutest things.

What fixes most the exile's eye,
When wandering in a foreign land;
The lovely vale—the mountain high—
The rock magnificently grand?
Ah, no! it is that little token
Given by a heart, at parting, broken.

He wears it ever in his breast,
He bears it wheresoe'er he goes;
He holds it in his dreams of rest,
He grasps it 'mid his toils and woes;
And vain were Nature's brightest smile,
If it had caught his glance the while.

No more the cataract's roar he hears—
His ear hath caught a sweeter sound;
His kindled eye is blind with tears,
And all is vacancy around:
The home of his sweet infant years,
And those he loved, alone appears.

But happiest they who never heard
The wanderer's farewell ditty sung—

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Whose hearts the last low whisper'd word
Of parting friendship never wrung;
Who never have been doom'd to mark
The dead man's bier, or exile's bark.

But men were made to meet and part;
And while we breathe in mortal dust—
Although it tear and rend the heart
In twain, yet part, for once, we must;
For the strong arm of tyrant Death
Will break the firmest earthly faith.

And hearts must bleed, and tears must fall,
And parting gifts again be given,
For this hath been decreed to all
Who breathe beneath the cope of heaven;
But those who meet in that domain
Shall never, never part again.

THE RETURN.

Vainly, in search of happiness,
The soul directs her flight
Where some faint beams of earthly hope
Begem the general night.
Each point which scintillates the gloom
Of this low world, appears
A star of promise; but, alas!
It must be quench'd in tears,

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I've follow'd these delusive lights
Too often and too long,
And bless'd the sparkling vanities
Whose lustre led me wrong:
Like crystal spars at distance seen,
They glitter'd on my sight;
But they were cold as icicles,
And brittle, too, as bright.

Yet, like the prodigal, who loved
In distant lands to roam,
My soul went forth in search of them
Far from its native home;
And, like the prodigal, at last,
It spent its little store
To purchase pleasures, which, when touch'd,
Shrunk to return no more;

And even the husks of happiness,
On which the vulgar feed,
Seem'd to my famish'd soul a feast,
Though not for me decreed:
The greedy herd had gulp'd them down,
While I stood gazing by;
Too proud to share their gluttony,
To join their ranks too shy.

And like the lonely prodigal,
When all his wealth was gone,
My soul now looks for happiness
To a Father's love alone.

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My dreams were false, and I return
At last, O Lord, to thee;
Unworthy to be call'd thy son,
Thy servant let me be.

Send me abroad where'er thou wilt,
With friends or foes to meet;
But let thy love sustain my heart,
Thy grace direct my feet.
Let all my pleasures and my hopes
From thee derive their birth,
But ne'er permit my heart again
To trust its all to earth.

The humble and the penitent
We know thou wilt not spurn—
Bless me with true humility,
And welcome my return.
Oh let thy cheering promises
Shine on my darkness here,
And those bright hopes, which thou canst give,
Still dissipate my fear.

A VISION, OF AMBITION.

I had a vision; for my eye
Was giften to behold
A heart whose aspirations high
Were hid in mortal mould:
Its workings, which no eye could see,
Were seen and visible to me.

230

The thoughts which he forbore to speak,
I had the power to scan;
Although they glow'd not on the cheek
Of that mysterious man;
For of his heart I felt the heat,
And heard the pulse of passion beat.

In closest intercourse combined,
I knew him from a boy,
And watch'd the progress of his mind,
And mark'd its pain and joy;
Nor did he e'er to me disguise
The feelings hid from other eyes.

He was a youth of humble mien,
And unassuming gait,
Whose form had been right rarely seen
Among the proud or great;
And never did he court their gaze,
Or seem solicitous of praise.

In the deep shadows of a wood,
A lonely life he led—
Shadows which bound in solitude
The home where he was bred;
And in that sacred calm he nursed
Strange dreams and fancies from the first.

His friends were few; for he was poor,
And poverty, he knew,
Was held in scorn by every boor,
And therefore he withdrew,

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But not in wrath or hate—heaven knows—
He loved mankind, and mourn'd their woes.

But he had found that faithful love
Within his humble home,
Which rose all selfishness above,
And still'd the wish to roam;
His parents twain—a hoary pair
Bending with feeble age—were there.

On him was fix'd with anxious care,
Their dim and fading eyes;
And morn and even their earnest prayer
For him was heard to rise:
Like ancient trees, they seem'd to lean
On one still vigorous, young, and green.

For them he braved the summer's heat,
And braved the winter's blast;
Alternate drench'd with rain and sweat,
His early life was pass'd;
And he had nought to lure his heart
From those deep shadows to depart.

Yet had ambition early fix'd
Itself on all he did;
Though from the few with whom he mix'd,
As said, it had been hid:
And here, too, I could scan its aim,
Although unknown, unscann'd by them.

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Though mortal was his sire and mother,
Yet his ambition was,
That God's own Son should call him Brother,
And plead with God his cause,
And raise him to a throne and crown,
From which on kings he should look down.

AUTUMNAL VERSES—1836.

Ye winds that sigh so solemnly
Along the wintry wood,
Ye bear a warning in your voice
To the wicked and the good.

Ye yellow leaves that lie so thick,
And rustle at our feet,
Ye bring a moral to the heart,
Alas! both sad and sweet.

Ambition, in thy glory, look—
Vain Beauty, in thy bloom—
Behold this scene, and humbly brook
An emblem of your doom!

The loftiest bough that lifts its head,
Bedeck'd with foliage fairest,
Must soonest meet the blasts that beat
Its bending twigs the barest:

233

Its leaves which, in the summer breeze,
Danced lightest to the day,
Now with the lowest lie, and now
Mix in the same decay.

Thus fall the good and beautiful,
Thus fall the proud and high,
And, in the same dark region met,
On the same level lie.

Then go ye faithless blandishments
Which power and pride display;
And go ye smiles of loveliness
Which last but for a day.

Since leaf, and flower, and living thing,
Through Nature's ample range,
Must perish with the years that pass,
Or with the seasons change;

To beauties more unperishing,
And smiles that cannot die,
I now would teach my heart to rise,
And lift my drooping eye.

To those who erst have wash'd their robes
In blood the Saviour shed—
To them, and Him who ransom'd them,
Be all my wishes led.

Those smiles which wither on the cheek,
In this low world of care,

234

Shall be renew'd and beautified,
And live for ever there.

The blossoms wither'd by the blasts
Which earthward howl and hiss,
Shall be unfolded, gloriously,
In that high world of bliss.

And should my soul descend again
From these bright forms above,
Be their fair images on earth
The objects of my love.

THE BENEVOLENCE AND SUFFERINGS OF THE SAVIOUR.

Disciples of that Holy One,
Who died for sinners to atone,
Think on your Lord, and hope not here,
Freedom from sorrow and from fear;
Think not self-sacrificing love,
Unnoticed by the Powers above,
Nor falter in your faith;
Nor deem benevolence in vain,
Though kindness shown to suffering men
Should seem repaid with grief and pain,
Or even with groans and death.

235

Your Saviour—even the Son of God!—
Spoke peace to men where'er he trod
Obedient to his Father's will,
Labour'd for their salvation still;
Pitied their woes, and, o'er the grave,
Wept for the dead he came to save:
He was the widow's prop,
The orphan's stay, the stranger's shield;
And lepers cleansed, and sickness heal'd,
Bespoke His kindness, and reveal'd
His power with Death to cope.

All power was His; yet was not He,
Though free from sin, from suffering free!
He lived a Man of Woe, and died
With malefactors side by side:
And why should earth to us afford
Enjoyments she denied her Lord?
While here still let us try,
In midst of suffering and shame,
To praise and bless His holy name,
Who took upon Himself our blame,
And deign'd for us to die.

SELFISHNESS.

Since first I set a fit on earth—
And mony a ane I've paidled,
Between auld Cupar toun and Perth,
Unbridled and unsaddled—

236

Whare'er I set my waefu' face
Upon the land that bore me,
The sisters, Greed and Selfishness,
Were trottin' aye before me.

Trig active maidens baith appear'd,
And aften I hae seen them
Wi' Justice, an auld cripple carle,
Jog, jogging on between them.

His breeks were threadbare, and the knees
Were worn to perfect tatters;
His coat was plaister'd owre wi' grease,
And dow'd as ony hatter's.

His shoon were weighty wooden clogs,
Through mony a mire they'd broden—
He lost his sword, his dirk, his brogues,
As far back as Culloden;

And bits of paper, ca'd “The Laws,”
Were now his last protection,
And aft he quoted verse and clause,
And chapter, page, and section;

His bannet braid hung owre his neck,
Sair sloutch'd, and scuff'd, and cloutit;
His back was bow'd, and like to break,
And low the body loutit.

He stagger'd on between them twa,
And sair the limmers jogg'd him—

237

And aye when he was like to fa',
They elbow'd him, and flogg'd him;

And then the weigh-bauk in his hand,—
On week-day, or on Sunday,
Which ne'er a minute still did stand—
Jow'd sair at ilka jundy.

But though they kept him on his feet,
Yet nae gudewill they bore him;
And aye when they desired to meet,
They reakit round before him:

And though they were so near a-kin
In their refined embraces,
They aften clutch'd and peel'd the skin
Frae ane anither's faces.

Nor did the carle 'scape frae scaith
In the familiar grapple;
For aft the headstrong limmers, baith,
Were rivin' at his thrapple.

And ilka ane, baith man and wife,
Whae'er has heard or seen them,
Declares he leads an awfu' life,
O' tear an' wear between them.

238

THE DYING MOTHER.

The eve was calm and beautiful—
'Twas summer's sweetest time—
The rose was in its richest bloom,
The lily in its prime;

The sun in setting glory shone,
And shed his softest light
Upon the moss-clad cottages,
Half hidden from the sight.

Green were the patriarchal trees,
Which spread their arms above
These shelter'd homes of humble life,
And unassuming love.

The flowers sent forth their sweetest scents
The birds their softest song;
The pearly dew was glittering
The long green grass among.

The village boys their gambols play'd
Upon the village green,
And grey-hair'd sires, with sober smiles,
Stood gazing on the scene.

But at the door of one lone cot,
With ivy tendrils bound,
A little group in silence sat,
Heedless of all around.

239

There a young mother and her babes—
Twin babes they seem'd to be—
Look'd sadly in each other's face
While leaning on her knee.

The mother's lips were pale as death,
And tears were in her eye;
And her poor infants also wept—
Alas! they knew not why.

While folded in a faint embrace
To their poor mother's heart,
They could not feel the farewell pang
Which told that they must part.

No thought of death was in their dreams,
They felt no withering fears;
They saw their mother's heart was sad,
And theirs were filial tears:

But nature hard in her young breast
With resignation strove,
And sorely was she tried to leave
These objects of her love.

She clasp'd her babes as fervently
As if she could compress
An age of weeping tenderness
Into that wild caress;

And then she raised her tearful eyes
To heaven with fearful smiles,

240

And gazed upon the gorgeous clouds
Which lay like purple isles.

And o'er her pale transparent face
There rose a transient bloom,
Alas! it was the blush of death—
A blossom from the tomb.

But from that gorgeous scenery
Where soon she hoped to dwell,
Full soon again her sadden'd eye
On her fair infants fell;

And over them she wept again,
And clasp'd them close and long;
And while she kissed their rosy cheeks,
Her soul broke forth in song.

THE SONG.

“Oh! weep not yet my little ones,
There comes a time to weep,
When no fond mother's care shall soothe
Your sobbing hearts to sleep;

“For by this flutt'ring pulse, which beats
So feebly and so low,
Your mother's sadden'd soul is warn'd
That hence it soon must go.

“And when it ceases to repeat
The warning it hath given,
Then I must cease to grieve, my babes:
There is no grief in heaven.

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“But who for your necessities
Will labour to provide;
And smile, when evening comes, to see
Your little wants supplied?

“And who will sing your lullaby,
Or kiss away the tears
Which gather on your dimpled cheeks,
And calm your infant fears?

“Who will instruct your op'ning minds
The works of God to scan?
Or teach your hearts how merciful
His Maker is to man?

“Or watch your souls' development
With persevering care;
And teach your tongues to lisp betimes
God's holy name in prayer?

“Alas! alas! my little ones,
It wrings my withering heart
To leave you lone and comfortless—
To think that we must part.

“Yet live—oh, live! and He who gave
Your smiles to dry my tears
Will watch your wandering footsteps, and
Protect your helpless years.

“When my first babe forsook my breast
I wept, but wept not so:

242

I knew he left me for a land
Beyond the reach of woe.

“But now I leave you, lovely ones
In a cold world of strife,
Where cares, and snares, and sufferings,
At every step are rife.

“Yet do not fear my faithfulness,
Nor doubt my endless love,
Though I must leave you here below
To join the blest above.

“I go at God's command, to meet
Your sainted sire, and kiss
My cherub, who will know me well
Amid the bowers of bliss.

“But still, from that delightful place,
My spirit shall return
To those whom I have left on earth,
In want and woe to mourn.

“And if the laws of heaven permit
A supplicating breath
For beings loved, and left below,
Amid the snares of death,

“I will surround the throne on high
With an unceasing prayer,
Till you, and all I loved earth,
Are safely landed there.”

243

THE MANIAC.

Oh! list to my lay, ye lovely, ye gay,
For sad, sad's the tale that it tells unto you;
And pity, ye maids, who in love's sweetest shades,
Ha'e the lads that are dearest aye nearest in view:

Ae morning o' May, while the first beams o' day
Were sprinkling wi' roses the bonny blue sky,
A gallant ship rode, wi' her canvass abroad,
'Mid the roar o' the wild waves and waterfowls' cry;

And aft frae the mast, her kind mariners' cast
A waefu' look back to their friends on the quay,
Who watch'd o'er her way, as she dash'd through the spray,
And lit wi' her white sails the waste o' the sea.

Fathers and mothers, and sisters and brothers,
There linger'd to gaze on that gallant ship's crew;
And wi' hearts fu' o' fears, and e'en fu' o' tears,
They bade their sad sailors a silent adieu.

But oh! what is she wi' the tear in her e'e,
And the blush on her cheek sae enchantingly fair?
Why heaves she sae high her young breast wi' a sigh?
Nae father nor friend has the lone maiden there.

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Apart from the rest, in a simple robe dress'd,
And shame-faced, and silent, and trembling she stood,
To watch the proud vessel, wi' prouder waves wrestle,
As gaily she dash'd through the white foaming flood.

In silence and yearning, the crowd was returning,
Apart, to their homes, now deserted by those
Whose eyes' lovely light had illum'd them last night,
Whose songs o' the ocean had soothed their repose.

But why does that maid draw around her her plaid,
And linger alane on the cauld narrow quay?
And why does she mark that foreign-bound bark,
As if a' that she loved on the earth were at sea?

A voice on the blast told the secret at last—
The cause o' her blushes, the cause o' her pain—
A scream from the girl gave the tidings of peril,
And each eye turn'd back to the bark on the main.

Every broad bending sail flutter'd loose in the gale—
A boat was flung off by the crew from her bow;
And all could perceive, as they gazed but to grieve,
That the poor maiden's lover was drowning below.

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She saw him nae mair at the kirk or the fair,
For cauld, cauld he lay in the deep rolling sea:
Herswimming brain burn'd a moment, then turn'd!
A poor homeless stranger, and maniac, was she!

And mony a lang day, by the rock-girded bay,
She sang her sad dirges in sickness and sorrow,
Till the sea-mews on high, to her seem'd to cry,
“Thy sailor—thy lover—he'll meet thee tomorrow!”

And she spread by the wave all the gifts which he gave,
And smilingly kiss'd them, then droopingly sigh'd;
And his offerings of pearl, and sea-shells, and coral,
She press'd to her quick-beating heart as she died!

THE LAND OF BEAUTY.

[_]

(Inscribed in an Album, March 1837.)

A lone and melancholy spirit,
To this melodious store
Of treasured memories, would add
One faint memorial more.

'Midst offerings of the beautiful,
Where beauty's eyes may beam,
A stranger would insert his own,
Though that were but a dream.

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Not his the moralizing strain,
Not his the serious lay
Which warns the young how soon the charms
Of youth must pass away.

He never saw a rose-bud die,
Nor heard a yellow leaf
Fall, rustling, from the autumn groves
Without a shade of grief;

And ill, I ween, his heart could bear
T' anticipate the time
When youth and beauty, withering,
Must mourn their fleeting prime;

And therefore doth his pensive soul
A joyful solace seek
In visions of that happy land
Where youth is on each cheek;

For there no flower is philomote,
And there no leaf is sere,
And there no autumns blight the bloom
Of an eternal year.

He sees the smiles of spirits pure,
Like sunny waters, play
On faces whose transcendent charms
Can never know decay.

He sees, with joy, seraphic eyes
In liquid lustre shine,

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And gladly knows no burning tear
Can dim their beam benign.

He hears the hallow'd harmony
Of rapturous songs arise,
From lips whose every breath is tuned
To anthems of the skies.

He longs to mingle with the blest—
In that celestial Land,
To hold communion chaste and high
With beauty's holiest band;

And he would lure the lovely here,
The young—the good—the fair,
To veil their evancscent charms,
And seek for glory there;

For in that Land, where beauty blooms,
Alone may beauty be
From withering eares, and blighting time,
And sin and sorrow free.

248

THE ORPHAN WANDERER;

OR, KINDNESS FOR KINDNESS.

PART I.

Ae dreary night o' dark December,
While cauld winds whistled o'er,
A wee bit tremblin' wanderer
Came to my cottage door.

I set him by the blazin' fire,
And warm'd his little feet;
And asked him why he wander'd thus?
And wherefore did he greet?

My questions had their full reply,
When the young stranger said:—
“Alas! good sir, my father kind,
And mother dear, are dead!”

“Ah! wae's my heart, my little man!”
In pitying tones, said I;
“Ye hae gude cause to wander thus—
Gude reason, too, to cry!

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“Yet say—have ye no shelt'ring home,
Nor place where ye may rest,
Nor friend, nor relative, to whom
Your wants may be express'd?”

“I hae nae hame,” the boy replied;
“Nae freind remains to me—
My last, last dear protector, died
When my mither closed her e'e!

“But she said I had a friend above,
Who pledged his blessed word
To guard the helpless orphan's head;
And bade me trust the Lord!

“She bade me daily seek his aid—
His wisdom to direct me—
His mercy to forgive my sins—
His shadow to protect me.

“And still I trust his promises—
And aye try to believe
The truths my mither tell'd to me;
For she could ne'er deceive.

“When night so dark and dreary grew,
And cauld winds round me blew,
I thought upon her dying words,
And time has proved them true!

“I pray'd to God, to help me, then—
And he dispised me not;

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For through the dreary gloom, he led
Me to your shelt'ring cot!”

“Then thank Him now, my little lad,”
Said I; “and cease to fear;
You're welcome here this night to rest,
And share our hamely cheer:

“For though our fortune, like your ain,
Is very, very sma',
And though our house but scantly keeps
At bay the drifting snaw,

“While health and strength are spared to us,
I trust God aye will lend
The means to shelter hameless heads
Wham He may hither send!

“But guessing from your timid eye,
And from your modest mien,
You have not learn'd the vagrant art,
Nor long a wanderer been:

“For soon such wayward life as thine,
Dims the soul's noblest ray;
And bashfulness and modesty
In misery wear away.

“But still unchanged your cheek appears,
With the quick blush between;—
How long, my little man, have you
A lonely wanderer been?”

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“I've wandered,” said th' boy in tears;
“Aye since my mither died;
But on her grave, the grassy sod
Nae simmer's sun has dried.

“It was on merry Christmas day—
A dowy day to me—
They laid her in the cauld kirk-yard,
Beneath a leafless tree.

“They heap'd the earth upon her head;
But nae kind friend was there
To shed a tear above the dead,
Or for her orphan care.

“I was a cotton-spinner then,
At Mr Moldwart's mill,
And gladly for my daily bread,
I'd been a spinner still;

“But wearied out with watching lang
My dear, dear mither dying,
And lull'd by the incessant sound
Of wheels around me flying,

“Ae luckless night, when ten o'clock
Was past, I fell asleep:”—
Remembrance here o'ercame the boy—
He paused awhile to weep;

Then thus resumed:—“My master came
And swore the mill was broken;

252

And then he kick'd me from my frame
With oaths I ne'er have spoken.

“And never shall such awful words
By me be minced or mutter'd;
For my mither said they were unfit
By mortal to be utter'd.

“Thus I was banish'd frae my work
With neither friend nor brither
To tak me in, or pity me,
Except my dying mither.

“And since the day on which she died,
Upon the warld driven,
I've been a lonely wanderer,
Without a guide but Heaven!”

“Puir thing,” said I; “and muckle pain,
I doubtna, ye hae borne
From those who think the wandering poor
Fit objects for their scorn.

“And muckle mair of suffering yet
Ye may hae to endure;—
But whether are ye treated best
Amang the rich or poor?”

“I scarce can tell,” the boy replied;
“The rich, at times, gie mair;
But in my sorrows and distress,
They never seem to share;

253

“And I have sometimes thought, even when
They tried to treat me weel,
That folk maun aye be puir themsel's
Before they learn to feel.

“But I can tell ye what I met
The first nicht I was out;
An' then ye'll ken how they, at times,
Can drive puir things about.

“When I gaed to a farmer's door,
He chased me wi' his dog;
And tell'd me to be gone, and said,
I was a thieving rogue.

“He neither gave me bread nor cheese,
Nor shelter at his farm,
Though I was hungry, sick, an' cauld,
An' he was weel an' warm.”

Pleased when he saw that to his tale
Attentively I listen'd,
The little orphan still pursued
That tale with eyes which glisten'd:—

254

“Next I gaed to a little cot
With neither barn nor byre;
And there a poor man took me in,
And warm'd me at his fire.

“And then he gave me bread and milk—
Though he had little store—
And said that he was vex'd to think
He could not give me more.

“And then he show'd a farm-toun,
Where, in a cattle-shed,
Puir hameless beggar wanderers
Had sometimes found a bed.

“But the rich man again I met,
Wha, with an angry stare,
Said, that nae wandering vagabond
Sould ever nestle there:

“For late a band of beggar brats
His stable had defiled
With vermin waur than mice or rats;
And then the rich man smiled.

“And sadly down the guttery loan
Wi' beatin' heart I turn'd—
Half-choked wi' grief, to think that I
Had been sae proudly spurn'd.

“I thought in a' the warld wide
Nae place remain'd for me,

255

But by some snawy dyke at last
To lay me down an' die.

“But still amid the gatherin' night,
And cluds o' whirlin' drift,
Wi' death in view, an' no a starn
In a' the darkenin' lift,

“When near my end, as then I thought,
Ae hope had power to charm—
The hope my wither's soul would meet
Wi' mine an' mak it warm.

“An' down I sat, as I believed,
Nae mair to rise again;
An' yet sae weary was my life,
The thought gae little pain.

‘I had begun to feel my legs
Grow cauld, an' stiff, an' stark,
When a bit lighty blinkit out,
Like aizle mid the dark.

“Ance mair a spark o' earthly hope
Broke in upon my breast;
For that sma' glimmer seem'd to gie
Promise o' bield an' rest.”

Here paused again the little man,
And turn'd his head about;
But warming as his story ran,
I long'd to hear it out.

256

And when assured it would not tire,
A lang, lang breath he drew;
And where his simple tale left aff
He thus began anew:—

“I startit up, an' weel it was,
For twa-three minutes mair
Had left me frozen to the snaw,
To feed the croupies there.

“My legs would scarcely move, but yet
I tried my feet to rin;
An', as I ran, I felt a glow
Down at my taes begin.

“I follow'd fast the flickering light
Owre a braid trackless moor,
Until that friendly lamp-lowe brought
Me to a laigh-house door.

“And entering joyfully, within
That little lanely sheil,
I saw a lassie like mysel',
And a woman at her wheel.

“The woman had a pleasant face;
But she seem'd sad and sick;
For marks o' sorrow an' disease
Were baith upon her cheek.

“The lassie lookit something wae,
For tears were in her e'e;

257

But baith appear'd to be content,
An' baith were kind to me.

“An' by their words, an' sighs, an' tears,
I soon was gi'en to learn,
That the lassie, wha was fatherless,
Was her mither's only bairn.

“I tell'd them, wi' a falterin' tongue,
The sufferin's I had borne—
The wants and waes o' poverty—
An' sneers o' bitter scorn.

“The woman listen'd to my tale,
As she had been my mither;
An' I thought the lassie's face grew pale,
As if I'd been her brither.

“‘Alas! alas!’ the woman said,
While tears were on her cheek,
‘How had your mither's heart been wrung—
But, oh!—I scarce can speak!

“‘How had her heart been wrung, if she
Had kenn'd what was to be,
And seen the bitter, bitter blasts,
Her orphan was to dree.

“‘Oh! what an awfu’ nicht for ane,
Sae simple an' sae young,
To wander owre the dreary moor
Whare the robber-man was hung!

258

“‘I'm sure your little heart might quake,
Puir manny, when ye pass'd
The rickle whare the murder'd laird
Last winter breathed his last!’

“While thus the woman pitied me,
The lassie left her chair,
An' bade me come an' warm my feet,
An' thaw my frozen hair.

“And in that lonely cottar-house,
I got the warmest seat;
An' frae the hands o' poverty
Received baith heat an' meat.

“Wi' that puir lassie soon I grew
As happy as a brither;
For we were nearly the same age,
An' likit ane-anither.

“An' as the widow dourely span
At her lang weary task,
We had a thousand little things
To answer an' to ask.

“An' when the mither's task was done,
She, on the hearthstane, spread
Her ain red cloak an' coverlit,
For me to mak' a bed.

“An' then she said we baith might rest,
An' bade us baith to pray

259

For peace with God, and thank Him for
The mercies o' the day.

“An' she beside the fire that nicht,
A happy watch would keep;
For when a stranger was within,
She said she couldna sleep.

“I felt my heart sink heavily,
As thus the widow spoke;
An', guessing what was passin' there,
Again she silence broke:—

“‘She thought that she could lippen me,
For she believed me good;
But a woman she had lately lodged
Had stown awa her hood.’

“I was right glad to hear her say
She did not think me ill;
For to be thought a thief, had gi'en
Me cause of sorrow still.

“And though the storm, wi' ceaseless sough,
Howl'd dowily an' deep,
The warmness o' her little fire
Soon lull'd me fast asleep.

“That nicht my dreams were a' as sweet
As I had found again
A mither's house, and mither's fire,
And mither o' my ain;

260

“For she had been sae gude, an' kind,
An' mitherly to me,
That I forgot the ills I'd borne,
An' ills I had to dree.

“I wauken'd as the wooden clock,
That clickit on the wa',
Began to bir and then to strike
The little hour o' twa.

“I peepit up, that I might see
The widow whare she sat—
And, oh! the anguish o' her look
I never can forget.

“The blood sae aften came an' went—
Her face seem'd time-about
As red as is the redest rose,
An' white 's the whitest clout.

“And still I look'd up and listen'd,
And thought a whisper there,
At times, came from her sickly lips,
As if they moved in prayer.

“She look'd at me, an' then she look'd
Whare her ain Phemy slept;
And clasp'd her hands in agony,
And hung her head, an' wept.

“Then she grew calmer, an' the fit
O' feelin' or disease,

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Pass'd frae her sakeless countenance
Awa by slow degrees.

“And rising wi' a reverent air,
An auld and weel-worn book,
From its ain shelf upon the wa',
Wi' carefu' hand she took;

“And bending owre its sacred page—
It was the Book o' God—
A smile came owre her sadden'd face—
Her e'en mair brightly glow'd:

“Turn'd up to heaven they sweetly shone,
As if in heaven above
Her ardent look could fix upon
Some object of her love.

“And when she lookit down, her cheek
Glow'd wi' a tint sae bonny,
That I hae never seen sinsyne
A face sae fair on ony.

“But then from ilka e'e there hung
A clear an' sparklin' tear,
Which show'd her joy was mix'd wi' grief—
Her hope combined wi' fear.

“With e'en half steekit still I look'd;
And owre and owre again
I thought, on earth, what could it be
Had gi'en her sicken pain?

262

“I lookit till I fell asleep,
And, strange as it may seem,
I saw that widow-woman still;
For she was in my dream.

“Sometimes she seem'd in bloomin' health,
And sometimes she seem'd dying,
Wi' her orphan greetin' owre the bed
Whare her last friend was lying.

“And in the anguish o' that dream,
I, too, began to weep;
For something, dinnelin', owre the nerves
O' a' my frame did creep.

“It wauken'd me when mornin' grey
Had just unclosed its e'e;
And, in a dover, there she sat—
Her head upon her knee.

“But short, I wat, was her repose—
She wauken'd wi' a start;
And then the fang o' dire disease
Seem'd cankerin' at her heart.

“Pollutin' a' the fount o' life,
And a' the springs o' joy;
But powerless were the pains she felt,
Her pity to destroy.

“Amid the ruins o' her hopes,
Benevolence seem'd to melt;

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Her sympathies sprang sweeter forth
With every pang she felt.

“Oh! she was like my mither, when
She stretch'd hersel' and sigh'd!
Oh! she was like my mither then,
A fortnight ere she died!

Pale was her face, and her poor bairn
I thought might shortly be
As hameless, and as fatherless,
And mitherless as me!

“But still the widow seem'd resigned,
And, though baith weak and wae,
She raise, an' through her morning moil,
Prepared hersel' to gae.

“And patiently she stirr'd the fire,
And patiently prepared
Her frugal meal, and generously
Wi' me her parritch shared.

“But for hersel', she scarcely preid
The food I thought sae fine;
Her heart had lost the tone o' health
That animated mine.

“The sweetest meat was lost to her—
Her breast sae warm an' kind,
Was fu' o' sorrow and o' pain,
And now her form seem'd pined.

264

“She said, ‘It was a blessing still,
When strength to win and have
Was gane, the blunted appetite
Had ceased support to crave.

“Then as an earnest look she turn'd
Of pity upon me,
‘Puir laddie, whare your mither is,
Mae mithers soon maun be!

“‘For there is something working here’,
Her hand was on her breast—
‘Which warns me that my throbbing heart,
Ere it be lang, maun rest!’

“The lassie here began to greet,
And then her mither stay'd
Her speech to me, and turning round,
‘What ails ye now?’ she said.

“‘Oh! dinna fear, my Phemy dear—
My first, my latest, born:
Oh! dinna fear, while God is near,
Though I be from you torn!

“‘And then, Oh! then, God help my bairn;
When none remain to care
For her complaints—look down on her,
And hear her humble prayer!

“‘For every blessing which He takes,
God's mercy will supply

265

A double blessing to the poor
Who upon him rely.

“‘When grieving owre your helplessness
Last night, I sadly pray'd
A promise in His Holy Book
Has open'd to my aid.

“‘And I believe the hand that feeds
The raven's helpless brood
Will guard your head in danger's hour,
And still provide your food;

“‘Then dinna fear, my Phemy dear,
Nor mourn at God's decree;
For He can doubly recompense
You for the loss o' me.’

“Oh, it was sad for me to see
The widow sae resign'd:
It brought my mither's latest looks,
And last words, to my mind.

“And as I lookit on the face
O' her puir helpless bairn,
And thought upon my ain hard fate,
My heart began to yearn.

“And sunk in sorrow's deepest trance
We there thegither sat,
Exchanging mony a waefu' look
As silently we grat.

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“And sair we grat, and lang we sat:
It wrung my heart to leave
The widow an' her orphan bairn
In solitude to grieve:

“For though I was a stranger, wha
Could yield them nae relief,
There was a link o' friendship in
Our very, very grief.

“And when I left them, it might touch'd
A heart o' stane or steel,
To hear the widow biddin' me
A lang and last fareweel.

“And oh, how sad puir Phemy seem'd—
I think I see her yet;
Her tremblin' lips, and shakin' hands,
I never can forget,

“As she said owre her fareweel too,
And lean'd against the wa'
Breathless, and pale, and pantin', like
The fainting e'er they fa'.

“I never thought a single nicht
Could mak' a place sae dear:
How gladly had I linger'd there
Again their words to hear!

“But he, alas! wha has nae hame
Maun set his heart on nane,

267

Sae I began to gang awa',
Wi' heavy heart, my lane.

“But ere I enter'd down the glen—
Whare a' thing disappears—
I turn'd to look upon the place
I had bedew'd wi' tears—

“Whare I had met wi' sympathy,
And been sae very glad,
And seen sae muckle sorrow, and
Had grown sae very sad:

“I saw them baith—the lassie sat
On the auld divet seat,
The mither lean'd against the wa'—
My heart began to beat.

“I sat down on a muckle stane
Upon a sandy knowe,
And no a breath o' wind wad blaw
To cool my breast or brow.

“The heavy dowy breezeless air
That fit o' sorrow nursed:
I loosed my waistcoat buttons there,
And thought my heart wad burst.

“And lang I sat, and hung my head,
In that wild spot alane,
And grat till I was sick again
Upon that auld grey stane.

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“And aften has my heart grown grit,
And sad, and sair, sinsyne,
When thinkin' on that lassie's fate,
Sae like, alas! to mine;

“For sair, I fear, her mither's heart,
That was sae gude an' kind,
Lies cauld, cauld in the kirkyard now,
That dwellin' o' the pined.

“I see her in my nightly dream
Wi' cauld an' hunger black—
A friendless, hameless, helpless thing,
Wi' nane her part to tak'.

“But naething in my wanderin's
O Phemy can I hear,
And though she's seldom frae my mind,
I dinna like to spier.

“Yet muckle, muckle do I dread
A thing sae slim and weak
Will sink aneath the withering
That chill's the orphan's cheek;

“And muckle, muckle do I fear
I'll never see her mair,
But while a thought in memory lives,
Her image will be there!”

Here terminated, with a sigh,
The little wanderer's story—

269

A sigh which was expressive of
His sympathetic sorrow.

By this the porridge an' the milk
In timmer plates were servin',
An' glad was he to tak a share,
Like ane wha had been starvin'.

And when his little kite was fou,
Nae langer watch he keepit,
For down we spread his little bed,
And there he soundly sleepit.

But what a train o' mournfu' thoughts,
And sympathies, and fears,
Were rais'd by that wee wand'rers' tale
O' sorrows an' o' tears.

The widow an' her orphan girl
Before my fancy rose,
With all her wants and sufferings,
And unbefriended woes.

And he, her poor historian,
Sae little an' sae young,
Intelligent and desolate—
For him my heart was wrung.

Niest day was rain frae morn to night,
And still he was my guest,
And simple as his fare might be,
He said “it was a feast.”

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And ilka tear the laddie shed,
And ilka sigh he drew,
Still brought his noble sympathies
And sorrows a' to view.

His mournfu' spirit seem'd to feed
On pity, when bestow'd;
And ever and anon his cheek
With richer crimson glow'd.

I saw he was intelligent,
And through the wild deray
Of his untutor'd mind, I saw
The beams of genius play.

The soul of poetry unsung
Lay sleepin' in his e'e,
And music dwelt upon his lips
As rich as rich could be:

'Twas untaught Nature's melody,
Like blackbird's on the tree—
And from his glowing heart it gush'd
As sweetly and as free.

The ditties of the Scottish muse
Had been his solace lang,
And aften had he soothed his woes
With some bewailing sang.

That mournful lay, The Forest Flowers,
He sung with touching skill:

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Gil Morris' melting melody
He, too, full well could trill.

How beam'd his sympathetic eye!
And how the big tears sprung!
While the sang o' Highland Mary
With laigh sweet air he sung.

To his sweet voice, his early woes
A mournfu' tone had given,
That suited well the poet's lay
To his lost love in Heaven:

For a' the passion o' the bard,
By lang, lang years unspent,
I'the wand'rer's thrillin' notes were heard,
As he warbled that lament.

And wi' sic sangs as I hae named,
Which stir the heart to feel,
The darksome day, and lang dark e'en,
Pass'd owre our heads fu' weel.

When mornin' roused the wanderer
Wi' the cock's unwelcome craw,
I felt mair pain wi' him to part
Than wi' some ither twa.

His fate sae hung about my heart
Through mony a' after year,
I cou'dna think on his sad tale
And shun to shed a tear.

272

II. PART II.

Wha kens where friends or foes may meet,
And frowns or favours be return'd?
Oh, let not then the poorest thing
That breathes on earth, be proudly spurn'd!

Winter was shining on the hills
In sheets o' frozen snaw,
An' gorgin' in the glens an' vales
In an uncertain thaw.

The burns frae neighbourin' braes came down
Owre whiten'd rocks o' frost,
An' mining through the fretted ice,
In hidden tracks were lost.

The nights were lang, an' dreary too,
An cauld, cauld was the day,
When the voice o' dire Necessity—
Which none may dare gainsay—

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Commandit me to leave my hame—
My little cottage ha'—
An' gang whare strange was ilky face,
An' ilky sight I saw.

I ne'er had left my hame afore,
An' when the last kent hill
Was lost among the distant mist,
I felt my heart grow chill.

A momentary swither pass'd
Through ilka nerve an' vein,
As I thought on the faces there
I ne'er might see again.

The wee, wee helpless bairnies
Wham I had left alane,
Wha had nae friend to pity them,
Nor guide, if I were gane.

The fears I felt at partin' were
A father's anxious fears;
The tears that then bedew'd my e'en,
They were a father's tears.

For I had mony a weary mile
O' unken'd gait to gae,
Owre mony a muir, through mony a glen,
Up mony a weary brae.

Nae scrip weel fill'd had I to bear;
But what was far, far worse,

274

I bore a load upon my heart—
I bore an empty purse!

And weel I saw that in my path
Were pains and perils rife,
And though for life I trembled then,
'Twas for a father's life;

For I had aft confronted death
Before, without a fear,
When there was none beside mysel
To whom my life was dear.

I pass'd Loch Leven's grassy bank,
And saw its waters play
Around the isle where Scotland's Queen,
The lovely Mary, lay;

And wept her captive tears, and gazed
Upon those hills sae blue,
Whare ance the falcons o' her sires
In glorious freedom flew.

I pass d the lonely kirkyard, whare
The humble dust reposed
O' him wha sung o' that green isle,
An' her its wa' s enclosed;

Wha sat upon his unmade grave,
And saw the lovely Spring

275

Unfauld her sweets, but felt that she
Nae joy to him could bring.

I pass'd around the Lomond's base,
And high aboon me saw
The twin-hills hap their towerin' heads
In heaps o' driftit snaw;

And wheelin' round an' round their taps
The seamaws scream'd aloud,
Wi' wild an' stormy melody,
Beneath a threatenin' cloud.

I pass'd by Falkland's Palace grey—
A structure bleach'd an' blear'd—
Whare Scotland's ancient dynasty
In regal pomp was rear'd.

But the glare o' royalty was gane
Frae that auld palace wa,’
An' the courtiers an' the parasites
Had left its silent ha'.

I enter'd Eden's cheerless muir—
A sandy solitude,
Wi' here an' there a cultured field
'Mid wastes o' heath an' wood.

An' past that muir the Eden winds
Wi' mony a wanderin' sweep,

276

An' irrigates mair fertile fields
While journeyin' to the deep.

That stream which wont to be so still
Had burst outowre the lea,
And laid the level haughs around
Beneath a muddy sea.

And as the gloomy nicht drew near,
My heart wi' fears was fash'd,
And faster owre the slushy muir,
Wi' weary legs I splash'd;

For i' the waste whare I was now,
Ae stormy wintry day,
A traveller perish'd in the snaw,
An' a packman lost his way.

An aye, as darker grew the nicht,
Mair doubtfu' grew the track,
Till I ken'dna whether to proceed,
Or whether to turn back.

Nae shepherd's shiel, nor ploughman's hut,
In a' that wild I knew,
An' ilka minute gloomier still.
The dreary gloamin' grew,

Till black an' perfect darkness fell
Around my lanely head,
Wi' silence maist as terrible
As if Nature had been dead.

277

I had rejoiced to hear the scream
Even o' the howlet drear,
For then I would hae ken'd at least
A livin' thing was near.

I stood an' listen'd 'mid the gloom
Until my brain ran round,
But no ae sough o' wind pass'd by,
Nor breath o' cheerfu' sound.

And fate seem'd gatherin' owre me; for
A storm o' feathery snaw,
In deep an' smotherin' density,
Around me 'gan to fa':

And it seem'd death to linger there,
And it seem'd death to flee:
Nae hope had I but i' the muir
An unken'd death to dee.

And sadly was my heart resign'd
To meet my snawy fate,
Till visions came across my mind
Which made me spurn its weight.

I thought upon my infant race
Left fatherless at hame,
An' their sad case had power to brace
My fast relaxin' frame;

And onward, onward through the muir
In wilder'd haste I pass'd,

278

Though aft 'mid bramble bush an' brier
I was entangled fast:

Yet onward, onward, onward still
Wi' restless feet I ran,
In hope to find some place o' rest—
Some bless'd abode o' man.

But worn wi' lang protracted toil,
I felt my feeble strength
Unequal to the hopeless search—
My spirit sunk at length;

And down into a thorny ditch
In a dreary drow I fell,
And there was nane to see me die,
Or my sad death to tell.

But, flake on flake, I felt the snaw
Around my temples wreath,
An' round my breast, an' round my brow,
Stiflin' my very breath:

But yet it fell sae silently,
An' on my senses press'd
Sae lightly, that my weary limbs
Enjoy'd a sort o' rest.

And there I lay—a dizen'd wretch—
Half-doverin' in despair;
Yet frae that bed o' death I breathed
To Heaven a fervent prayer.

279

Then through the stillness o' the nicht,
Fell on my listenin' ear,
The sweetest sang of a' the sangs
I ever yet did hear:

And ne'er did heart o' mortal man
Wi' sic a joy rejoice
As mine, when roused again to life
By that delightfu' voice.

Then strugglin' frae that ditch sae deep,
I cast my fears awa',
An' frae my stiff an' tangled hair,
Shook aff the wreathin' snaw.

I stood maist as astonish'd there
As auld Golumbus stood
When he saw the light, at dead o' night,
Glance through an Indian wood.

What being can it be, thought I,
Wha sings sae sweetly there?
Oh! can it be a mortal, or
A spirit o' the air?

Or can it be that I am free
Frae mortal life an' breath,
An' this some magic melody,
Or happy dream o' death?

Ah, no! it is a mortal's voice
That now salutes my ear;

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For hope returns wi' every note
An' every word I hear!

And bless'd for ever be the tongue
That syllabled that sang,
Which seem'd as if an angel sung
To lead my steps alang.

And doubtless He whose pillar-cloud
Led Israel's fearfu' host,
When through the trackless wilderness,
Before their foes they cross'd—

E'en He my 'wilder'd cry had heard,
For He is ever near,
An' graciously inspired the sang
That sounded in my ear.

It led me through the dismal gloom
Safe to a cot-house door,
An' never mair shall I forget
That dwellin' o' the moor.

For there a youthfu' father sat—
A bairnie on his knee;
An there a youthfu' mither watch'd
Its smiles wi' faithfu' e'e;

An' baith at ance they raise to bid
Me to their fireside come,
As kindly and as couthily
As it had been my hame.

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The young gudeman an' young gudewife
Seem'd courteously to vie
Wha would be first to bring me food,
An' first my duds to dry.

And aye the gudeman gazed on me,
As if he seem'd to ken
A face that he had seen before,
But coudna mind again.

And there was something, too, I thought,
About his sparklin' e'e,
That didna seem as he had been
A stranger aye to me.

And when my duds were dried, an' I
Began to tell the tale
O' a' my wilder'd wanderings
Through Eden's trackless vale,

He said that he could guess the pangs
That struggled in my breast
While splashin' owre the slushy moor,
Without a place o' rest.

For he had been a stranger aft
Beneath the gloom o' nicht,
Without a friend, or hame, or hope,
Or star to bless his sicht.

And he had felt the bitterness
O' his ain cheerless fate,

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When spurn'd again into the storm,
Frae many a proud man's gate.

And he had felt the happiness
O' bein' received within,
When at the point o' perishing,
Wi' a sair droukit skin.

For he had been an orphan left,
An' wander'd far an' near,
Through mony a dismal winter nicht,
In hopelessness an' fear.

He said, too, he should ne'er forget,
Till his life's latest day,
The kindness that he ance had met
At a place ca'd Gowany Brae.

“Gin ye hae met wi' kindness there,”
Said I, wi' meikle glee—
“I've had my share; for kind hearts there,
This nicht are sair for me.

“An' gin I were at Gowany Brae,
Fu' mony a gratefu' tear
Shall fa' frae e'en ye ne'er hae seen,
For kindness shown me here.”

The gudeman startit frae his chair,
An' took me by the hand
Wi' smiles o' recollection that
I scarce could understand.

283

“Oh! mind ye not that fearfu' nicht,”
Wi' earnest voice, he said;
“When ye kindly shelter'd frae the storm
A hameless laddie's head?

“An' mind ye na the tale he tell'd,
O' the widow an' her bairn—
For whose sad fate his little heart
Sae piteously did yearn?”

“I mind the nicht and laddie weel,”
Said I, “o' which ye speak;
An' aft I've thought on him sinsyne,
Wi' tears upon my cheek.

“But no ae word I've heard o' him
For mony a bygane year;
And yet I think I see him still,
And still his voice I hear.”

“Ye'r right, ye'r right—my faithfu' friend!”
Wi' firmer grasp, said he;
“For ye hear his voice, an' see his face,
When me ye hear an' see!

“It was me ye shelter'd frae the storm,
Wi' kind an' tender care;
And here's the widow's orphan bairn,
For whom my heart was sair!

“I likit her when first we met;
An' when we met again

284

She gave her heart an' hand to me,
An' now she is my ain!”

“How wond'rous is the Hand,” said I;
“That regulates our ways;
Thus ‘bread upon the waters cast,
Is found in many days!’

“For I, wha ance, by chance, bestow'd
On thee some little aid,
Am guided back by Providence,
Again to be repaid!

“And she wha ance had treatit thee
Wi' pity in thy need,
Although unsought, hath seen thee brought
Back to return the meed.

“An' lang, lang may ye baith be spared,
An' blest to ane anither,
Wi' bosoms leal that beat an' feel
In happy time thegither.

“An' may your bairnies a' be blest
Wi' bairnies o' their ain,
To cheer their hearts ere ye frae them
By Death's cauld hand be ta'en.

“But tell me, if ye can, gudewife,
Did your puir mither die
O' that disease she suffer'd from
When the gudeman met wi' me?”

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“Oh! yes—oh! yes”—the young gudewife
Wi' tender tears replied;
“In that disease my mither dear
Dwined on a while an' died!”

“An' ye would e'en be destitute,”
Said I; “when she was gane,
An' ye was left, an orphan bairn,
In this wide warld alane.”

“Aye, destitute indeed!” said she;
“And in my want o' faith,
I pray'd to God, at times, to send
The bitter boon o' death!

“I had nae friend to counsel me—
Nae helping hand to save—
Nor hame to hap my helpless head,
Except my mither's grave!

“Nae wonder, then, though my young heart,
In agony an' grief,
Was blindly covetous o' death,
Which promised sure relief!

“But God, in mercy unto me,
Denied my sinfu' prayer,
And sent a friend—a faithfu' friend—
To solace my despair!”

“An' how we were ye providit for?—
If it be fair to spier—

286

For a' the ways o' Providence,”
Said I; “I fain would hear.

“We ken that in His blessed Word
He promises to be
‘A Father to the fatherless;’
Has He been such to thee,”

“Oh! He is faithfu' to His Word”,
The gudeman answer'd me;
“But neither Phemy nor mysel',
Frae sufferin' sair were free.

“God aften leaves us for a while,
To sorrow an' to pain,
That we may feel his mercy mair
When He returns again.

“The maist feck o' my history,
Ye've listen'd to langsyne;
An' Phemy's, though less curious,
Is something like to mine.

“The farmer o' Gudedivetland
Met her ae rainy day,
An' took her to the minister,
To see what he would say.

“Then Doctor Drone proposed to send
Her to the spinnin'-mill;
‘Sic birth,’ he said; ‘for ane like her,
It might do no that ill.’

287

“And Mr Mucklecraw declared
That he would send his cart
Wi' her; for out o' charity
He wish'd to do his part.

“Meikle they said o' charity,
An' tell'd what they had done;
An' a the things that they had gi'en—
The auld claes and auld shoon.

“But just as they had settled it,
Up came auld Charlie Dick;
And baith stood glowrin' as they'd seen
A bogle, or Auld Nick.

“‘Awa,’ said Charlie; ‘baith o ye
This minute, ye are free;
Leave Poverty to Poverty,
An' Phemy leave to me.

“‘And let me tell ye, Mr. Craw,
A heart as heard as steel
May whimper over sentiments,
It ne'er was form'd to feel.

“‘Then speed ye to your leman dear,
And eloquently groan;
But never mair, in pity, speer
For Phemy Morrison.

“‘Gae thraw your mou' in sympathy,
For some great tragic chief;

288

But never wi' your presence mock
The wail o' real grief.

“‘And as for you, gude Doctor Drone
Gae hame an' sympatheeze
In Christian love an' charity,
An' keep ye at your ease.

“‘I take poor Phemy for my ain,
An' nae expense will spare
To make her worthy o' my love
An' worthy o' my care.’

“Wi' that he took my Phemy's hand
And led her fast awa',
Leavin' ahint them Doctor Drone
And Mr Mucklecraw.

“But Providence, to try her, yet
Had mair distress in store;
And I maun tell ye a' the trials
The orphan lassie bore:

“Soon stricken down wi' sair disease
Her kind protector lay;
She watch'd him on his dying bed,
And saw his dying day;

“And then ance mair upon the world
A helpless orphan flung,
In friendless, hameless, poverty,
Her little hands she wrung.

289

“Till the guid laird o' Landledale,
Ae early winter morn,
Met her beside her mither's grave,
Greeting, like ane forlorn.

“He was a sober guid auld man,
Wha wore a bannet blue:
An' the orphan an' the widow aye
His tenderest pity drew.

“An' his kind heart at ance grew grit,
Poor Phemy's case to see:
He took her kindly by the hand,
While tears were in his e'e;

“And wi' a faither's tenty care,
He led my Phemy hame
To his auld Lodge, at Landledale,
And his auld sonsy dame.

“An' daily did the twa, to her,
Act a parental part:
They gae her wark, an' gae her lear,
An' sooth'd her sorrowin' heart,

“Wi' the consolin' promises
Which God's eternal word
Has offer'd to the faithfu' few
Wha humbly seek the Lord.

“An' when the guide auld laird grew blind,
My Phemy was his guide,

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An' led him in his daily walks,
An' still was at his side.

“The laird was cheerfu' to the last
O' his lang happy life;
And, jestin', aft he ca'd his guide,
“His little young gudewife!”

“'Twas there, when grown up to a man,
An' labourin' for my bread,
I met wi' Phemy an' the laird,
As down the burn they stray'd.

“The maid sae lovely was in youth.
The laird sae sweet, in age,
That, to my wonderin' sicht, they seem'd
A seraph an' a sage.

“I didna ken my Phemy then;
But love's delightfu' lowe
Was kindled in my heart, an' burn'd,
I couldna tell ye how.

“I learn'd her name an' history
Frae an auld man by the way,
An' to the Lodge o' Landledale,
Came back that very day.

“The sun was blinkin' bonnily
Upon the gowany lea,

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When I met Phemy by hersel’
Beneath a chesnut tree.

“The blush o' maiden modesty
Was fresh upon her cheek,
And yet a smile was on her lip
When first she tried to speak.

“But nane can tell the happiness
We felt ance mair to meet:
Our intercourse that e'enin' was
Baith rapturous an' sweet;

“For though we'd met but ance afore,
And soon were doom'd to part,
That hour had found a place for me
E'en in a lassie's heart;

“An' time or distance ne'er effaced
Ae feelin' o' langsyne,
Nor blotted out ae lineament
O' her loved face frae mine.

“Just at that time the gude auld laird
A servant man required;
And sic a kindly master was
By mony a ane desired.

“And I was needfu' o' a place,
My master being dead;
For we, by daily labour, aye
Maun win our daily bread.

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“I gave my testimonials to
The laird, wha saw them not;
But his kind lady recognised
The lines her brither wrote.

“And though she ne'er had seen my face
Afore she saw me here,
Yet, to a sister's yearnin' heart,
Her brither's name was dear.

“And I was fee'd and arled there,
To ca' the cart an' plough
On Landle's bonny banks an' braes,
An' Landle's gowany howe.

“An' blest for ever be that day!
Since then, the same roof-tree
That keepit Phemy frae the storm,
Has also keepit me.

“The laird, in his last testament,
Bequeath'd a lease for life
O' this wee cot, an' park o' land,
To me an' my guidwife;

“And here we've lived as happily
As man an' wife may live,
Whase little wants are a' supplied,
An' something left to give,

“To help the poor an' destitute
In days o' their distress;

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An' never do I think sic gifts
Have made our little less.”

My kindly entertainer's tale
Was now tell'd till an end,
And little mair hae I to tell
To either foe or friend.

Niest day I wi' the mornin' rose
An' got my errand done,
An' stood afore my ain house door
Juist at the set o' sun.

Thus happily my story ends:—
Kindness for Kindness still
Cements the hearts o' faithfu' friends,
An' saves frae muckle ill.

An' aft a little kindness shewn,
Even to a generous foe,
Has been repaid wi' sympathy
In future days o' woe.

Michael Bruce

See an elegy by the young and neglected genius mentioned in the last note.

294

THE FAITHFUL SERVANT.

A BALLAD.

With dreams of good and ill too high
For the low world where he was placed,
Poor Harold was not made to be
By rising Fortune's favours graced.

He did not fawn before his lord,
With simpering look and supple knee;
He did not tremble at his word,
With craven-nerved timidity.

He did not fear again to frown
Upon the haughty debauchee,
Who vainly strove to scowl him down
From his own native dignity.

He knew that sycophants were rife—
He saw the favours they obtain'd;
But he despised their venal life,
And all their vile rewards disdain'd.

And masters' favours seldom fall
To servants with such hearts as he,
Who scorn to flatter in the hall,
Or pamper pride and vanity.

295

From year to year he sunk apace,
While worthless menials round him rose;
But patient still in his disgrace,
Unbendingly he downward goes.

Though poor, his mien was still erect,
And still erect his head was borne,
And all might treat him with neglect,
Though none might dare to treat with scorn.

But Time in his career will prove
The truth of every fawning slave,
And who deserves a master's love—
The faithful, or the flattering knave?

Behold, around yon Castle gate,
Assembled, many a fierce brigand,
Impatient, for their leader wait
With pistol and with sword in hand.

And see upon his jet-black barb
He comes as proud, as fearlessly,
As if that plume and robber's garb
Were royalty's own livery.

And hark! he issues his commands,
As if by freedom's glorious laws
He led his country's patriot bands
To battle in his country's cause.

Dismounted now he leads the way,
The first to conquer or to fall;

296

And bloody sure shall be the fray,
For bold is he who guards the wall.

And numerous is his menial train,
And well supplied with weapons bright,
And dearly shall the robbers' gain
Be bought—if gain they get to-night.

But hark! again the robber's horn
Summons the Castle to submit:
In vain the sun shall gild the morn,
Ere proud Count Vasco deign' to quit.

No bolt is drawn—no voice replies;
All idly sweeps the useless blast—
Booming along the midnight skies,
It dies among the hills at last.

A moment at the Castle gate,
Impatient stands the robber-chief;
But quick must be the work of fate—
The counsel short—the orders brief.

“Comrades! our summons is defied—
What will not bend we well can break:
To-night our sabres must be dyed—
Down with the gate for Vasco's sake!”

Axes and hammers—stroke on stroke—
Upon the massy postern dash;
And whirling from the splinter'd oak,
Beneath the moon the fragments flash.

297

It creaks—it bends—it bursts in twain;
And on they rush—the pass is free;
But some shall ne'er return again
To celebrate their victory.

Now onward—onward for the prize—
The happy guard must slumber well;
And now if they should chance to rise,
They may forget their tale to tell.

Hurrying along the airy trance,
With flashing eyes and dashing feet,
Upon that band the moonbeams glance—
But where the foes they came to meet?

Without a stroke they reach the stair—
Where are the cowardly menials gone?—
The proud Count Vasco meets them there—
But, ah! the Count is all alone!

Yet stern his look—his sword is bare—
And firm his step, and firm his tone;
And flattering hope, and faint despair,
Seem both alike to him unknown.

Now pistols flash, and shouts arise;
But in the dim uncertain light,
Though sternly aim'd by steady eyes,
The distant mark deceives the sight.

And he returns each volley sent
With better success, ball for ball;

298

For where the robber-horde are pent,
Though dark, he cannot miss them all.

But on they press to closer fight;
And soon that haughty lord must yield
His Castle to superior might,
Or fall, with none his head to shield.

The long contested stair is won,
And every step with blood is red;—
Count Vasco, thine shall soon atone
For that thou hast so boldly shed!

Soon shall thy mother, o'er her son,
A hopless frantic mourner stand,
For thou must fight, not one by one,
But all at once—that robber band!

Long baited there, with flashing eyes
He welcomes on the bloody train;
Once more their fury he defies,
And nearly turns them back again.

But now his blows more feebly fall—
Though some have sunk beneath his might,
One sword may not contend with all:
His death must close the doubtful fight.

He reels before the robber chief,
Yet neither flies nor begs for life:
His blood flows fast—he falls!—and brief
Is mercy's gleam, in such a strife.

299

Already o'er his helpless head
Waves, in a hand unused to spare,
The deeply dyed and thirsty blade—
But mark!—who comes with weapon bare?

Another's sword receives the blow,
And turns its vengeful force aside;
And down before that stranger foe
Is borne the robber's plume of pride.

And now, beneath the castle wall,
Dismounting from their foaming steeds,
And forming, at their leader's call,
A gallant band the entrance threads;

And swelling wildly over all,
The din of stroke, and groan, and cheer,
Which mingles in that dubious hall,
A trumpet's blast rings loud and clear.

Now turn, ye bloody bandits, turn,
And boldly meet more equal foes!
Now let your fiercest passions burn,
And man to man in battle close.

They come—they come! with steady tread;
Their footsteps now the robbers hear;
And silent stand, but not in dread,
For theirs are hearts unused to fear.

A moment in dark counsel mix'd,
They lean upon their ponderous swords;

300

And now—their deadly purpose fix'd—
From man to man, in whisper'd words,

The secret sign is quickly pass'd,
And every hand is rais'd on high
To take that oath—the last—the last!
Which binds the brotherhood to die.

And now the robbers stand prepared
In hotter conflict to engage;
And none shall spare, and none be spared
In the next burst of wrath and rage.

A moment for the word they wait—
'Tis given! and down they madly rush,
Impatient of their dubious fate—
Burning, their cautious foes to crush.

And now, like maddening waves, they meet;
And pistols flash, and sabres shiver;
And some, beneath their foeman's feet,
Have sunk to rise no more for ever.

Pent to the wall, the robbers stand,
Devoid of fear, devoid of hope:
Despair unites their lessening band,
And nerves with numbers still to cope.

But fast the fierce marauders fall,
And man by man expire: the last
Stands lonely by the bloody wall,
And round him bullets rattle fast:

301

He too is struck, and one and all
Lie stretch'd in blood! The strife is past,
And Silence reigns within the hall
Whence Mercy lately fled aghast!

And where is proud Count Vasco now?
Senseless he lies where first he fell,
But lives—though bloody be his brow;
For he maintain'd that conflict well.

And where is he who interposed
Between him and the desperate strife,
When but a moment more had closed
The struggle with Count Vasco's life?

Not distant from his lord he lies—
Blood on his bosom and his head;
But now, alas! his closed eyes
Tell that the hero's soul hath fled.

Poor Harold saw the flatterers fly,
When danger came, with all their speed,
And leave their lord alone to die—
Deserted at his utmost need:

And he, too, fled, but not like them—
With nobler thoughts his bosom burn'd;
Successful in his generous aim,
In happy time he back return'd.

'Twas he the faithful rescue led,
And fast outran the fleetest steed—

302

He, when the fawning menials fled,
Came boldly for his lord to bleed.

Poor as he was, and humbly born,
Too late for him, that master learn'd
That truest hearts for ever scorn
To feed on favours basely earn'd.

A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE.

Oh! saw ye e'er a family
Poor, pious, and content
With the laborious lot in life
Which Heaven to them had lent:

Thankful for life, and leave to toil,
And thankful for their health—
More thankful than the thoughtless rich,
For all their unearn'd wealth?

Late, such a family I saw,
And gladden'd by the sight,
I felt my heart expand, and glow,
With warmer feelings, bright.

Peaceful and patient in their toil,
As one they seem'd to move;
Cordial in all their intercourse,
And constant in their love.

303

And ne'er did novelist or bard
Invent a scene so fair,
As that ingenuous family
Met at their evening prayer.

Twas then their venerable sire
The sacred volume took,
And read, for their instruction here,
A portion from that book:

And when they knelt around his chair,
And heard his spirit rise,
In solemn supplicating tones,
To One above the skies,

There was a pathos and a power
In his paternal voice
Which thrilled each sympathetic heart
With pure and heavenly joys.

Well might the vicious and the vain,
In all their pomp and pride,
Envy the quiet happiness
Which beam'd by that fireside;

For if this earth afford a drop
Of pure unmingled bliss,
'Tis found by such a family,
At such an hour as this.

But, oh! even virtue will not ward
The blow which Fate prepares;

304

Nor prudence, piety, or love,
Or warmest tears, or prayers,

Avert the shaft by Heaven decreed,
The dearest to remove,
From fond affection upon earth,
To happiness above.

I saw that venerable man,
At Duty's bidding, go
To where fierce Fever's fiery fang
Held a poor parent low;

And o'er the sufferer's sleepless bed
With anxious care he hung,
And held the cordial to his lips
To cool his burning tongue;

And o'er him bent his head in prayer,
Though conscious that his breath
Came, freighted, from a poison'd source,
With dire disease and death.

Then each poor neighbour, when he heard
The tale, his head would shake,
And tremble for that faithful friend,
And for his family's sake.

No idle fancies made them fear;
For Death was onward led
From house to house, triumphantly,
And pass'd from bed to bed.

305

The patient died!—and he who heard
His last expiring groan,
With slow and solemn step retired,
Ere long to breathe his own.

The subtle poison of disease
Had reach'd the fount of life;
And soon within his throbbing veins
Commenced the fatal strife.

He laid him down upon his bed,
And every art was vain:
Affection could not cool his blood—
Nor med'cine cure his pain.

Yet he was kindly watch'd, I ween,
By one with sleepless eye—
One who had shared in all his woes,
Nor shrunk for him to die.

If mortal power from her beloved
Had been endowed to take
Those direful pangs, all willingly
She 'd borne them for his sake.

It might not be!—a look of love
Was all the speechless man
Could offer back to her who wept
The shortness of his span.

At midnight, louder grew his moans,
And wilder grew his eye;

306

At morn, no sound was heard within,
Save sobs of agony.

The dim—the deep repose of death
Had closed that struggle brief;
And death, and death alone, can close
The widow'd mourner's grief.

Though loud the fatherless lament,
While life is in its spring,
A few short months fresh promises
Of future joy will bring.

But to the widow's mourning heart,
Days, weeks, nor months, nor years
Shall ere restore its former joys,
Or fairly dry her tears.

Yet desolate as is her heart—
Sad as her lot hath been—
Hope holds a bless'd communion there
With piety, unseen:

Hope points her husband in the skies,
Before the eternal throne;
And Piety presents the prize,
And bids her follow on:

Bids her with patience, prayer, and faith,
Still strive to enter in,
And reign with those who triumph there
O'er doubt, and death, and sin.

307

THE SOLDIER'S WIFE.

Ye few, who nobly born an' bred
At lordly board—in lordly bed—
Deem that no noble feeling
Can settle on the poor man's head,
Or glad his humble shieling;
Even if to move you it should fail,
Amid the playthings and the pranks
Of elevated life,
I pray you listen to the tale
Of a poor soldier of the ranks,
And of his faithful wife.

The British banner waved on high,
And British swords below:
Was this a sight for woman's eye,
Which melts o'er every woe?
And round and round, from rank and file,
The musket volleys play'd;
And, scattering death for many a mile,
The ceaseless cannonade
Thunder'd, with deafening shouts between,
Of charging columns, and the din
Of many a bickering blade.

Were these meet sounds for woman's ears—
Those inlets of delights and fears
So delicate, so slight,
That they appear as only made
To listen, in some silvan shade,
To Zephyrs breathing light?

308

Rank after rank was swept away
And stiffening in their gore,
Or struggling in their life-blood lay
Thousands of gallant men,
Who fell to rise no more;
While heedless o'er their mangled slain
The routed squadron fled
To rally in the rear,
And when they turn'd to charge again,
Regardless of their kindred dead,
And friends and comrades dear,
They dash'd with doubly reckless tread,
And spirit-maddening cheer.

Was this a part for woman's heart,
That timid thing, to bear?
Could aught so soft—so fearful oft—
In female form, be there?

Yes—there a heart as kind, as true,
As warm as ever shed
The pearly drops of Pity's dew
Above the living or the dead,
Borne, by its wild excess of love,
Amid the conflicts' heat,
Though timid as the turtal dove,
In sickening anguish beat.

There was a youthful soldier's wife
Beside her bleeding husband kneeling,
Regardless of the thickening strife—
Lost in that extacy of feeling

309

Which gathers round the bursting heart
A moment ere all hope depart.

And swords might clash, and cannons roll,
Unheard, unheeded, in her ears:
Her's was that agony of soul
Which neither feels, nor sees, nor hears,
Save that one image of despair—
The object of its hopes and fears.
And her devoted love was there,
Expiring where he fell,
And murmuring to her tender care
A long and last farewell.

Her eye but saw the death-wound deep
That gash'd his manly chest;
Her ear but heard the life-drops drip
On her own burning breast;
And still she strove to staunch their flow,
And bathed his quivering lip
With water from the spring,
(That last sad solace of his woe,)
Which he had lost the power to sip,
Though close beside him murmuring.

His moans grew more convulsed and low,
His breath more deeply drawn and slow;
But still his glazing eye
Gazed sadly on his helpless wife,
And even when all grew vacancy,
Its rayless, sightless, changeless stare,

310

As if his love outlasted life,
Was fixed on his young widow there.
And must stern hands that mourner tear
From that beloved dead?
Must she, the victim of despair,
Back to her native land be led,
In solitude to pine?
Must those who never parted part?
No—Heaven forbade a doom so dread,
And sent, as fortune more benign,
The ball which whistled to the heart.

She sunk upon her soldier's clay
And lock'd him in a last embrace;
And breast to breast, and face to face,
All lifeless there they lay:
Their faithful blood together flow'd
In one untainted stream;
Their souls, united, rose to God
Like one relucent beam.

No name was carved, nor column raised,
On that red field, to tell

311

Where Love's last glorious look was gazed,
And Love's young martyr fell;
But when the veteran victors came,
With slow and mournful tread,
From gathering vultures to reclaim
Their loved and honoured dead,
Then wept the generous hearted and the brave,
As o'er that youthful pair they sadly spread
The blood-soak'd earth of their untimely grave—
The covering of their last connubial bed!

Though silent was the trump of fame,
And mute the muse's lay
O'er that young matron's humble name,
And o'er her dying day,
The proudest belle in Beauty's mart,
Or bower of regal life,
Might learn a lesson of the heart
From that poor soldier's wife,
Who fearlessly in duty fell
With her own soldier boy,
'Mid cannon's roar, and battle's yell,
On the field of Fontenoy.

ON THE EMANCIPATION OF THE SLAVES, AUGUST 1836.

No sun hath ever risen more bright
Than that which rose to-day,
To break the scourge of Tyranny,
And tear its bonds away.

312

Freedom, exulting, hail'd its rise,
Religion bless'd its beam;
And stainless spirits in the skies
Made it their glorious theme!

This day hath wash'd the blackest blot
From Britain's scutcheon'd fame;
And made the Mistress of the World
Deserving of the name.

SONNET ON THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER 1835.

And thou art gone, sweet summer—sweet and brief—
With all thy gay associations gone:
The season of the sere and yellow leaf,
With pale and melancholy face, comes on;
And I behold, with deep but bootless grief,
The flowers all wither'd, and the foliage strown;
For these were friends which, in my solitude,
Oft fill'd my heart with many a pleasing thought—
Aye, they were images of beings good
And innocent, which to my fancy brought
Pictures of that society above,
Whose calm and peaceful spirit they had caught
From the descending dews, which, nightly frought,
Come down, in beauty, gentleness, and love.