The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince

Edited by R. A. Douglas Lithgow

Prince, John Critchley (1808-1866)

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IN TWO VOLS.—VOL. I.

II.

IN TWO VOLS.—VOL. II.

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I. IN TWO VOLS.—VOL. I.

HOURS WITH THE MUSES

POEMS PUBLISHED IN 1841.

THE POET'S SABBATH.

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“The Sabbath! Blessings and ten thousand blessings be upon that day! and let myriads of thanks stream up to the throne of God, for this divine and regenerating gift to man! As I have sat in some flowery dale, with the sweetness of May around me, on a week-day, I have thought of the millions of immortal creatures toiling for their daily life in factories and shops, amid the whirl of machinery and the greedy craving of mercantile gain; and suddenly that golden interval of time has lain before me in all its brightness—a time and a perpetually recurring time, in which the iron grasp of social tyranny is loosed, and Peace, Faith, and Freedom, the Angels of God, come down and walk once more among men! [OMITTED] For myself, I speak from experience; it has always been my delight to go out on a Sunday, and, like Isaac, meditate in the fields; and especially in the tranquility and amid the gathering shadows of evening; and never, in temple or in closet, did more hallowed influences fall upon my heart. With the twilight and the hush of earth, a tenderness has stolen upon me—a desire for every thing pure and holy—a love for every creature on which God has stamped the wonder of his handiwork, but especially for every child of humanity; and then I have been made to feel that there is no oratory like that which has heavem for its root, and no teaching like the teaching of the Spirit which created, and still overshadows with its infinite wing.”—William Howitt.

Sabbath! thou art my Ararat of life,
Smiling above the deluge of my cares,—
My only refuge from the storms of strife,
When constant Hope her noblest aspect wears,—
When my torn mind its broken strength repairs,
And volant Fancy breathes a sweeter strain.
Calm season! when my thirsting spirit shares
A draught of joy unmixed with aught of pain,
Spending the quiet hours 'mid Nature's green domain.

Once more the ponderous engines are at rest,
Where Manufacture's mighty structures rise:
Once more the babe is pillowed at the breast,
Watch'd by a weary mother's yearning eyes:
Once more to purer air the artist flies,
Loosed from a weekly prison's stern control,
Perchance to look abroad on fields and skies,
Nursing the germs of freedom in his soul,—
Happy if he escape the thraldom of the bowl.

'Tis morn, but yet the full and cloudless moon
Pours from her starry urn a chastened light:
'Tis but a little space beyond the noon—
The still delicious noon of Summer's night;
Forth from my home I take an early flight,
Down the lone vale pursue my devious way,
Bound o'er the meadows with a keen delight,
Brush from the forest leaves the dewy spray,
And scale the toilsome steep, to watch the kindling day.

The lark is up, disdainful of the earth,
Exulting in his airy realm on high;
His song, profuse in melody and mirth,
Makes vocal all the region of the sky;
The startled moor-cock, with a sudden cry,
Springs from beneath my feet; and as I pass,
The sheep regard me with an earnest eye,
Ceasing to nibble at the scanty grass,
And scour the barren waste in one tumultuous mass.

But lo! the stars are waning, and the dawn
Blushes and burns athwart the east;—behold!
The early sun, behind the upland lawn,
Looks o'er the summit with a front of gold;

Back from his beaming brow the mists are rolled,
And as he climbs the crystal tower of morn,
Rocks, woods, and glens their shadowy depths unfold;
The trembling dews grow brighter on the thorn,
And Nature smiles as fresh as if but newly born.

God of the boundless universe! I come
To hold communion with myself and Thee!
And though excess of beauty makes me dumb,
My thoughts are eloquent with all I see!
My foot is on the mountains,—I am free,
And buoyant as the winds that round me blow!
My dreams are sunny as yon pleasant lea,
And tranquil as the pool that sleeps below;
While, circling round my heart, a poet's raptures glow.

Oh, glorious Summer! what a sight is here,
To wean the heart from selfishness and care!
Where the vast prospect, bright, distinct, and clear,
Looks up in silence through the stainless air:
The moorlands are behind me, bleak and bare,
A rude and trackless wilderness of land!
Beneath me lie the vales, calm, rich, and fair,
With Alpine summits rising on each hand!
And stretching far before, the peopled plains expand.

Behold each various feature of the scene,
Shining in light, and softening into shade;
Peak beyond peak, with many a mile between,—
The rude defile, the lonely forest glade,—
The gold-besprinkled meadows, softly swayed
By every fitful frolic of the breeze,—
The river, like a wandering child, conveyed
Back to the bosom of its native seas,—
Paved with all glorious shapes, skies, clouds, hills, rocks, and trees.

Behold the lordly mansion's splendid pride,
The peasant's cottage with its zone of flowers,—
The shepherd's hut upon the mountain's side,
Keeping lone watch through calm and stormy hours,—
The clustered hamlet, with its quiet bowers,—
The pastor's snug abode, and gothic fane,—
The crowded city, with its thousand towers,—
The silvery-sheeted lake, the opening plain,
And, mixed with farthest sky, the blue and boundless main.

Hark, sweetly pealing in the arch of heaven,
The mingled music of the Sabbath bells:
A tide of varying harmony is driven,
In gentle wavelets, over streams and dells:
Now 'tis a melting cadence—now it swells
Full, rich, and joyous on the enamoured ear;
While, through the wondrous halls where Memory dwells,
A thousand visions of the past career,
A thousand joys and griefs in dreamy forms appear.

Now are the temples of a hundred creeds
Thronging with worshippers, where we may trace
Men known to fame by good or evil deeds,
As multiform in feeling as in face:
There Pomp is seated in his pride of place,
Cushioned, and carpeted, and curtained round;
There humbler Piety, with modest grace,
Lists to the blessed Word's consoling sound,
Or breathes, subdued and low, her orisons profound.

There was a time—(two thousand shadowy years
Have swept, since then, o'er earth's still changingball)—
When Christ, the Man of Sorrows and of tears,
Came to redeem our great primeval fall;

And as He preached life, love, and truth to all—
A blessed lore which cannot be defiled—
Rude men and sinful gathered at His call,
Won by the healing words, the aspect mild,
Of God in human mould, yet humble as a child!

Mournful and meek, yet dignified, He came
Before stern Pilate's judgment-seat, to hear
The Jewish hatred cast upon His name,
Yet breathed no murmur of reproach or fear:
Though smit by hands, He shed compassion's tear,—
Bore on His brow the blood-extorting wreath,
And, having made the way of mercy clear,
Spent on the painful cross His latest breath,
To save the human race from everlasting death.

Then Paul arose, the chosen of the Lord,
To nurse the seeds which Christ himself had sown;
To spread the living spirit of the Word
To hearts unborn, to lands as yet unknown:
With simple majesty and earnest tone,
He taught admiring multitudes to love;
His lips dropped manna, while his features shone
With holy light, reflected from above,
And God within his soul sat brooding like a dove.

Let memory turn some fleeting ages back,
When Christian martyrs, with a wondrous power,
Defied the stake, the dungeon, and the rack,
Though human gore was scattered like a shower:
What could sustain them in the trying hour,
But some bright hope unrealized below,—
Some strong conviction—some expected dower
Of peace and joy beyond this world of woe,—
Some mystery concealed, which they had yearned to know?

How calmly, boldly, on their native sod,
Girt with their native hills, sublime and high,
Did Scotland's Covenanters worship God,
Bible in hand, and sword upon the thigh!
Did not the bones of murdered thousands lie
In Alpine hollows of Helvetia's land,
Because they had resolved to live and die
A sternly faithful and religious band,
And fight against the sway of Persecution's hand?

Oh! these are great examples to admire,—
Deeds of the soul's devotion, which surpass
Those of the conqueror; the poet's lyre
Sings them in words outliving stone and brass;
But in our own enlightened days, alas!
Men unto pride and custom bow the knee;
The laboured sermon, and the gorgeous mass,
With idle pageantry, are things that be,—
Eternal One of Heaven! how all unworthy Thee!

Still we must own that there are some, in sooth,
To God devoted, and to man sincere;—
Some whose calm souls are yearning after truth,
With all that holy hope which knows no fear;—
Some who have ministered to virtue here,
Soothed the despairing, succoured the distressed,—
Breathed consolation in the mourner's ear,
And plucked the weed of sorrow from the breast,—
Swayed by the law of Love, the noblest, purest, best!

Oh God! my only hope of bliss above!
Soul of all being, human and divine!
Source of all wisdom! Fountain of all love!
Oh, let Thy light around my footsteps shine!

Oh, teach my stubborn spirit to resign
Pride, passion, lust, and every vicious art!
Oh, make me truly and securely Thine!
Give me a lowly purity of heart,
That I may understand and choose the better part!

Down from the breezy summits of the hills
I turn my lingering footsteps, and descend
A rugged pathway, where a thousand rills
All freshly, brightly, musically blend
Their ever-twinkling waters; now I wend
Along the streamlet's desultory wave,
To reach yon gothic fane, where those attend
Who feign, or feel, that they have souls to save,
Looking for deathless life, beyond the secret grave.

I stand within the walls, whose roof is spread
In the vain strength of architectural might;
Emblazoned banners droop above my head,—
Rich windows glow with many-coloured light;
Altar and shrine are gorgeously bedight
With costly ornament of dazzling sheen;
Proud tombs and cenotaphs the gaze invite,
Recording virtures which have never been;
(Thus self-exalted, man forgets his God, I ween).

The voice of psalms ascends the slumbering air,—
With sweet but stormy breath the organ blows;
The pastor reads the well-remembered prayer,
While murmuring lips respond to every close:
Now comes the brief discourse,—perchance it flows
With less of fervent feeling than of art;
Perchance it lulls some hearer to repose,—
Perchance it trembles in some human heart:
Now, hymn and service done, shepherd and flock depart.

Through pleasant fields, green lanes, and forest glooms,
Back to their humble homes the rustics go;
Save those who linger in the place of tombs,
Musing and mourning o'er the dead below:
There droops the widow in her weeds of woe,
Whose joys lie buried with the lifeless one;
The orphan, too, is there, whose tears o'erflow
For some kind sire or tender mother gone;—
There's comfort in their grief, oh, let their tears flow on!

Now the glad sun, from his ethereal throne,
Rains down the mid-day glory of his beams;
The skies sweep round me like an azure zone,—
Rolling in light the far off ocean gleams;
The hills are clothed with splendour, and the streams
Flash with a quivering radiance here and there;
Earth slumbers in the depth of summer dreams;
Mysterious murmurs stir the sultry air,
As if all Nature's breast throbbed with unuttered prayer.

My heart's religion is an earnest love
Of all that's good, and beautiful, and true!—
My noblest temple is this sky above—
This vast pavilion of unclouded blue:
These mountains are my altars, which subdue
My wildest passions in their wildest hours;
My hymn is ever many-voiced and new,—
From bird and bee, from wind and wave it pours;
My incense is the breath of herbs, leaves, fruits, and flowers.

Here Health and Piety, twin angels, shed
The healing influence of their hallowed wings;
Here joyous Freedom hovers round my head,
And young Hope whispers of immortal things;

Here lavish Music, dainty Ariel, flings
Mellifluous melody on every hand;
Here mild and many-featured Beauty brings
Dim visions of that undiscovered land,
Where the unshackled soul shall boundlessly expand.

Man cannot stand beneath a loftier dome
Than this cerulean canopy of light—
The Eternal's vast, immeasurable home,
Lovely by day, and wonderful by night!
Than this enamelled floor, so greenly bright,
A richer pavement man hath never trod;
He cannot gaze upon a holier sight
Than fleeting cloud, fresh wave, and fruitful sod—
Leaves of that boundless Book, writ by the hand of God!

Here let me rest, within this quiet scene—
This sylvan, shady, and secluded dell;
Where herb and leaf put on a chaster green,
And free-winged choristers in concert dwell;
Where daisies and the king-cup's golden bell,
Smile like a noon-day star-light on the ground;
And airy Echo, from her secret cell,
In mimic tones replies to every sound,
As if some fairy court held jubilee around.

A streamlet from the hills is purling near,
With an unceasing and melodious flow;
Whose twinkling waves, cool, crystalline, and clear,
Through pleasant spots a mazy journey go:
Athwart its face glad wings flit to and fro,
Like bright thoughts glancing through a mind at rest;
Flowers of all hues along its margin grow,
Like those affections blooming in the breast,
Which grace the path of life, and make man's lot more blest.

Here let me spend the peaceful, pensive hour,
Girt with the solemn majesty of trees,
Whose hardy stems defy the tempest's power,
Whose light leaves tremble to the faintest breeze;—
Here let me rest in meditative ease,
Half hidden in the soft luxuriant grass,
And wake those sweet imaginings that please
The tranquil soul, those phantom forms that pass,
Like unforgotten dreams, o'er memory's magic glass.

I lay me down upon the verdant slope,
Gazing around me with a loving eye;
Where waving branches form a leafy cope,
Yielding bright glimpses of the summer sky;
The west-wind greets me with a balmy sigh,
Rich with the rifled odours of the rose—
The honey-laden bee is murmuring nigh—
The wood-dove's voice with mournful murmur flows,
And every ruder thought is cradled to repose.

Now Fancy wafts me to that golden age,
Which blessed our fathers in the days of yore;
Whose semblance lingers on the poet's page,
And in the prophet's visionary lore:
Perchance some future age may yet restore
The lost reality, more pure and bright,
When man shall walk with Nature, to adore
The God of love, of loveliness, and light,
And truth shall teach his heart to worship Him aright.

Blest age of guiltless joy and cloudless truth!
Undimmed by human care, by human crime,—
When earth was in the gladness of her youth,
And man was in the glory of his prime!

Delicious lapse of golden wingéd time!
Thou dost not smile upon us now, as when
Angelic visitants, with port sublime,
Became familiar unto mortal ken,
And even gods came down among the sons of men!

The fabled charms which to thy name belong,
Inspire the patriot's earnest prayer; they lend
A living music to the poet's song,
And with the prophet's dreamy future blend.
Alas! that evil destiny should end
Thy peaceful reign! Thy patriarchal race—
Gone, like the spirit of a joyous friend—
Gone, like a melody that leaves no trace,
Or like a shattered star swept from the realms of space!

With thee the earth was ever rich and fair;
No Summer scorched, no Winter chilled her breast;
Nor storm, nor dearth, nor pestilence, were there,
To break the holy quiet of her rest;
Eternal Spring, with constant beauty dressed,
Walked in a paradise of buds and flowers;
Eternal Autumn, with abundance blest,
Smiled on the fields, and blushed upon the bowers,
Fed by a genial sun and fertilizing showers.

The world was one Arcadian realm, and rife
With graceful shape, soft tint, and pleasing sound;
Unwet by sorrow's tears, unstained by strife,
An Eden bloomed on every spot of ground:
Mankind, a mighty brotherhood, were bound
By the strong ties of Charity and Truth:
With equal hand spontaneous Plenty crowned
The universal feast; no care, no ruth
Furrowed the brow of Age, nor dimmed the eye of Youth.

On aromatic leaves, with tranquil dreams,
They slept the shadows of the night away:
'Mid sunny mountains and rejoicing streams,
They watched and wandered with their flocks by day;
Down the deep valleys they were wont to stray,
Where yet a savage foot had never trod,
To glorify their Maker, and to pray;
Making the green and ever-flowery sod,
Which blessed them with its fruits, the altar of their God!

Fair Woman then was guileless as the dove,
And pure and buoyant as a spring-tide morn;
The roses scattered on her path of love—
Happy for her!—were yet without a thorn:
With wild flowers—like herself, in beauty born,
And fed with dew in many a pleasant place—
She stood, her flowing tresses to adorn,
Beside the waters, whose unruffled face
Gave to her eager glance a form of perfect grace.

She knew that she was lovely, but her charms
Were never wed to meretricious art;
One worthy object filled her tender arms,
Whose constant image slumbered in her heart:
Blest in her choice, she never felt the smart
Of man's neglect, or passion's dark annoy;
She filled the maiden's and the matron's part,
With firmness, fondness, modesty, and joy,—
Virtue her only thought, and love her sole employ.

Peace, Virtue, Wisdom, Liberty, and Health,
Knew no decay beneath thy genial reign;
Then love was power, and happiness was wealth,
To the chaste damsel and the faithful swain:

Hate, Passion, Lust, Ambition, Falsehood, Gain,
Pride and Oppression, Poverty and Wrong,
Crime and Remorse, Disease, Despair, and Pain—
A dark and unextinguishable throng—
Were evils yet unknown to story or to song!

As yet gigantic Commerce had not built
Cities, and towers, and palaces of pride—
Those vast abodes of wretchedness and guilt,
Where Wealth and Indigence stand side by side;
Man had not ventured o'er the waters wide,
To deal in human thraldom, nor unrolled
His hostile banner to the breeze, nor dyed
His selfish hands in kindred blood, nor sold
The joys of Earth, and Heaven, for thrice-accurséd gold!

Man lived as love inspired, till mellow age
Brought his frail footsteps nearer to the tomb;
Prepared to stand upon a higher stage,
He had no fears to wrap his soul in gloom;
His fancy pictured no terrific doom
Of endless agony, for sins unknown,—
But gardens of imperishable bloom,
And forms and faces like unto his own,
All radiant with the light of God's eternal throne!

His youth was like the summer's morning hour,
Fresh, free, and buoyant, laughing and sincere;
His manhood, like the summer's noon-tide power,
Strong, deep, intense, warm, glorious, and clear;
His age like summer's eve, whose skies appear
Filled with a softer and serener light;
And when his day went down, and Death drew near,
To shroud him in the shadows of his night,
'Twas but to rise again with everlasting light!

Transcendent Fiction! though we cannot find
That aught so beautiful hath ever been;
Though thou art but a vision of the mind,
Fancied but felt not,—sought for but unseen;
Yet hope is with us,—let us strive to wean,
Our hearts from selfish influences, and go
Together in the fields of truth, and glean
All it behoves the hungry soul to know,
Creating for ourselves a Paradise below.

Farewell, my pleasant dream! The sinking sun
Is burning in the bosom of the west;
The joyous lark, whose vesper hymn is done,
Folds his light pinions to his weary breast;
The clamorous rook is hovering round his nest—
The thrush sits silent on the thorny spray—
The nectar-gathering bee is gone to rest—
The lonely cuckoo chants a lingering lay;
While I, with careless feet, go loitering on my way.

The sun, now resting on the mountain's head,
Flings rosy radiance o'er the smiling land;
Around his track gigantic clouds are spread,
Like the creation of some wizard hand:
Now they assume new shapes, wild, strange, and grand,
Touched by the breath of eve's ethereal gale:
Like burning cliffs and blazing towers they stand,
Frowning above an emerald-paven vale,
Such as my fancy found in Childhood's fairy tale.

Now they are scattered o'er the quiet sky,
Like those fair isles that gem the southern main;
The fragments of a shadowy realm, they lie,
Imprinting space with many a gorgeous stain;

Now they are fading from the boundless plain
Whereon they shed their splendours, as they grew;
Gone is their brief and transitory reign—
Gone is the sun that gave them glory, too,
And heaven, earth, air, and sea, put on a deeper hue.

Sights, sounds, and odours, that surround me here,
Soften and sanctify the evening hour;
The rose-enamoured nightingale is near,
Breathing delicious music in her bower;
Herds low along the vales—young children pour
Their gladsome voices on the tranquil air;
A richer perfume creeps from every flower—
Skies, fields, and waters, Beauty's mantle wear;
Nature's primeval face was not more calmly fair.

Blest hour of Peace, of Poetry, and Love!
Spell-breathing season—care-subduing time!
Dim emanation of a world above,
Hallowed and still, soft, soothing, and sublime!
My heaven-aspiring spirit seems to climb
Nearer to God, whose all-protecting wing
Shadows the universe; my feelings chime
In unison with every holy thing,
That memory can give, or meditation bring!

The voice of Nature is a voice of power,
More eloquent than mortal lips can make;
And even now in this most solemn hour,
She bids my noblest sympathies awake.
Nature! I love all creatures for thy sake,
But chiefly man, who is estranged from thee!
Oh! would that he would turn from strife, and take
Sweet lessons from thy lore, and learn to be
Submissive to thy laws, wise, happy, good, and free!

Now the lone twilight, like a widowed maiden,
Pale, pure, and pensive, steals along the skies;
With dewy tears the sleeping flowers are laden—
The leaves are stirred with spiritual sighs;
The stars are looking down with radiant eyes,
Like hosts of watchful Cherubim, that guard
A wide and weary world; the glow worm lies,
A living gem upon the grassy sward,
Uncared for and unsought, save by the wandering bard.

Now 'tis the trysting time, when lovers walk
By many a wild and solitary way,
Winging the moments with enraptured talk—
Breaking the silence with some plaintive lay:
Hushed be the tongue that flatters to betray
Confiding Woman in the tender hour;
Sad be the heart that will not own the sway
Of her ennobling, soul-refining power,—
She, of life's stormy wild, the only constant flower.

I journey homeward; for the taper's light
Gleams from the scattered dwellings of the poor,
Down the steep valleys, up the mountain's height,
And o'er the barren surface of the moor.
Shadows are round me as I tread the floor
Of balmy-breathing fields; my weary feet
Bear me right onward to my cottage door;—
I cross my threshold—take my accustomed seat,
And feel, as I have always felt, that home is sweet!

My wife receives me with a quiet smile,
Gentle and kind as wife should ever be;
My joyous little ones press round the while,
And take their wonted places on my knee:

Now with my chosen friends, sincere and free,
I pass the remnant of the night away;
Temper grave converse with becoming glee—
Wear in my face a heart serenely gay,
And wish that human life were one long Sabbath day.

Some poet's song, inspiring hope and gladness,
Gives to my social joys a sweeter zest;
Some tale of human suffering and sadness
Brings out the deeper feelings of my breast.
Sad for the millions stricken and oppressed,
My cheek with tears of sympathy impearled,
I urge my little household unto rest,
Till morn her rosy banner hath unfurl'd,
And care shall call me forth to battle with the world.

Blest Sabbath time! on life's tempestuous ocean,
The poor man's only haven of repose—
Oh, thou hast wakened many a sweet emotion,
Since morning's sun upon thy being rose!
Now thou art wearing gently to a close—
Thy starry pinions are prepared for flight—
A dim forgetfulness within me grows—
External things are stealing from my sight—
Good night! departing Sabbath of my soul—good night!

WHO ARE THE FREE?

Who are the Free?
They who have scorned the Tyrant and his rod,
And bowed in worship unto none but God;
They who have made the Conqueror's glory dim,
Unchained in soul, though manacled in limb;
Unwarped by prejudice, unawed by wrong—
Friends to the weak, and fearless of the strong;
They who would change not with the changing hour,
The self-same men in peril and in power;
True to the law of Right—as warmly prone
To grant another's as maintain their own—
Foes of oppression wheresoe'er it be:—
These are the proudly free!

Who are the Great?
They who have boldly ventured to explore
Unsounded seas, and lands unknown before;
Soared on the wings of science, wide and far,
Measured the sun and weighed each distant star;
Pierced the dark depths of Ocean and of Earth,
And brought uncounted wonders into birth;
Repelled the pestilence—restrained the storm,
And given new beauty to the human form;
Wakened the voice of Reason, and unfurled
The page of truthful Knowledge to the world;

They who have toiled and studied for mankind,
Aroused each slumbering faculty of mind,
Taught us a thousand blessings to create:—
These are the nobly great!

Who are the Wise?
They who have governed with a self-control,
Each wild and baneful passion of the soul;
Curbed the strong impulse of all fierce desires,
But kept alive affection's purer fires;
They who have pass'd the labyrinth of life,
With scarce one hour of weakness or of strife;
Prepared each change of fortune to endure,
Humble though rich, and dignified though poor;
Skilled in the latent movements of the heart—
Learned in that lore which Nature can impart;
Teaching that sweet philosophy aloud,
Which sees the “silver lining” of the cloud;
Looking for good in all beneath the skies:—
These are the truly wise!

Who are the Blest?
They who have kept their sympathies awake,
And scattered good for more than custom's sake;
Steadfast and tender in the hour of need,
Gentle in thought—benevolent in deed;
Whose looks have power to make dissension cease—
Whose smiles are pleasant, and whose words are peace;—
They who have lived as harmless as the dove,
Teachers of truth, and ministers of love,—
Love for all moral power, all mental grace,
Love for the humblest of the human race,—

Love for that tranquil joy which virtue brings,—
Love for the Giver of all goodly things;
True followers of that soul-exalting plan
Which Christ laid down to bless and govern man:
They who can calmly linger at the last,
Survey the future and recall the past;
And with that hope which triumphs over pain,
Feel well assured they have not lived in vain,
Then wait in peace their hour of final rest:—
These are the only blest!

MAY.

Bride of the Summer! gentle, genial May!
I hail thy presence with a child's delight;
For all that poets love of soft and bright,
Lives through the lapse of thy delicious day:
Glad earth drinks deep of thine ethereal ray;
Warmed by thy breath, up spring luxuriant flowers;
Stirred by thy voice, birds revel in the bowers,
And streams go forth rejoicing on their way;
Enraptured childhood rushes out to play,
'Mid light and music, colours and perfumes:
By silent meadow paths, through vernal glooms,
The enamoured feet of low-voiced lovers stray:
In thee Love reigns with Beauty, whose control
Steals joyful homage from the poet's soul.

THE POET TO HIS CHILD.

Hail to this teeming stage of strife,—
Hail, lovely miniature of life;
Parent of many cares untold,
Lamb of the world's extended fold.
Byron.

Welcome! blossom fair!
Affection's dear reward;
Oh! welcome to thy father's sight,
Whose heart o'erflows with new delight,
And tenderest regard;
While on thine eyes
Soft slumber lies,
And, bending o'er thy face, I feel thy breath arise.

Upon thy mother's cheek
Are trembling tears of joy:
We have no thought of worldly pain—
Past hours of bliss are felt again,
Unmingled with alloy;
May Heaven hear
The prayer sincere
Which, for thy earthly weal, a father offers here!

May Death's relentless hand
Some kind protector spare,
To guide thy steps through childhood's day—
To train them in religion's way,

By teaching early prayer;
In every hour
Check evil's power,
And in thy guileless heart plant virtue's fadeless flower!

Youth hath a thousand dreams,
As false as they are fair;
And womanhood's sad season brings
The stern reality of things—
Too oft the blight of care;
For man deceives,
And woman grieves
When passion plucks joy's flower, and scatters all its leaves.

May no such lot be thine,
My loved and only child!
Nor sin's remorse, nor sorrow's ruth;
But wedded love and holy truth
Preserve thee undefiled!
And when life's sun
Its course hath run,
Be thy departing words—“My God! thy will be done!”

A VISION OF THE FUTURE.

Grieved at the crimes and sorrows of mankind,
My soul grows sick of this unquiet world:
When shall the links of Error be untwined,
And withering Falsehood from her seat be hurled?
When shall pure Truth pour sunshine on the mind,
And Love's unspotted pinions be unfurled?
When shall Oppression's blood-stained sceptre fall,
And Freedom's wide embrace encircle all?

Celestial Hope! on thine eternal wings,
Through all thy boundless regions let me fly:
Remembrance of the past no comfort brings,
Oh, give the future to my anxious eye!

'Tis done! and lo, some prophet-spirit flings
The mantle of its power, and I descry,
Through the vast shadows of advancing time,
A cheering vision, lovely and sublime.

Enchanting picture of that happy scheme,
Whose blessings few have known, yet all shall know!
I hail thy coming, for thy dawning beam
Shall fill the world with its unclouded glow!
Ere long the patriot's hope, the poet's dream,
Shall change to sweet reality below;
And man, the slave of ignorance and strife,
Wake to a birth of intellectual life.

In fancy I behold the home of love,
Bathed in the sunlight of an azure June,
Where the rich mountains lift their forms above
The crystal calmness of the bright lagoon;
Where timid Peace, like some domestic dove,
Broods in the lap of Joy, and every boon
That harmonising Liberty can give,
Clings round a spot on which 'tis heaven to live!

I see no splendid tyrant on a throne,
Extorting homage with a bauble rod:
No senate, heedless of a people's moan,
Cursing the produce of the fertile sod;
No sensual priest, with pampered pride o'erblown,
Shielding oppression in the name of God;
No pensioned concubine—no pauper peer,
To scorn the widow's or the orphan's tear.

I see no bondsman at his brother's feet,
The weak one fearing what the strong one saith;
No biass'd wealth upon the judgment-seat,
Urging its victims to disgrace or death;
No venal pleaders, privileged to cheat,
With truth and falsehood in the self-same breath;
No dungeon glooms,—no prisons for the poor—
No partial laws to render power secure.

I see no human prodigy of war,
Borne on the wings of slaughter unto fame,—
The special favourite of some evil star,
Sent forth to gather curses on his name;—
Like him whose grave is o'er the ocean far,
At once his country's idol and her shame,
The bloody vulture of Imperial Gaul,
Whose loftiest flight sustained a fatal fall.

I see no honest toil, unpaid, unfed—
No idler revelling in lust and wine;
No sweat and blood unprofitably shed,
To answer every rash and dark design;
No violation of the marriage bed—
The worst transgression of a law divine—
No tempting devil in the shape of gold,
For which men's hearts and minds are bought and sold.

Instead of these I see a graceful hill,
On whose green sides unnumbered flocks are leaping;
I see the sparkling sheen of flood and rill,
Through cultured vales their tuneful mazes keeping;
And human habitations, too, that fill
A pleasant space, from leafy coverts peeping;
And blithesome swains upon their homeward way,
Singing the burden of some moral lay.

Beneath a lovely and unbounded sky,
Which wears its evening livery the while,
What scenes of beauty captivate the eye!
What spots of bloom—what fields of promise smile!
And where yon calm and peopled dwellings lie,
There breathes no slave, there beats no heart of guile;
But all is freedom, happiness, and quiet,
Far from the world, its restlessness, and riot.

To healthful, moderate, and mutual toil,
Yon sons of Industry go forth at morn,—
Take from indulgent earth a lawful spoil
Of juicy fruitage and nutritious corn.
Thus all the children of the common soil
Draw rich supplies from Plenty's flowing horn;
There is no bondage, no privation there,
To heave the breast, and dim the eye with care.

There Woman moves, with beauty-moulded form,
First inspiration of the Poet's song,
Her heart with fondest, purest feelings warm—
Soul in her eyes, and music on her tongue;
Esteemed and taught, she lives above the storm
Of social discord, poverty, and wrong;
Graceful and good, intelligent and kind,
The loveliest temple of the mighty mind!

Her offspring, too, unfettered as the fawn,
With elfin eyes, and cheeks that mock the rose,
Chase the wild bees o'er many a flowery lawn,
Or gather pebbles where the brooklet flows;
A little world of purity is drawn
Around their steps; a moral grandeur glows,
Serene in majesty, before their eyes,
Moulding their thoughts and feelings as they rise.

Oh, blest Community! calm spot of earth!
Where Love encircles all in his embrace;
Where generous deeds and sentiments have birth,
Warming each heart, and brightening every face;
Where pure Philosophy, and temperate Mirth,
The lore of Science, and the witching grace
Of never-dying Poesy, combine
To feed the hungry soul with food divine!

My flight is finished, and my fitful muse
Descends to cold reality again!
Yet she hath dipped her garments in the hues
Of hope and love, and she shall aid my pen,

With firm though feeble labour to diffuse
The love of truth among the sons of men;
And when her powers shall tremble and decay,
May loftier harps sustain the hallowed lay!

A thousand systems have been formed and wrought,
Where man hath looked for good, but looked in vain;
A thousand doctrines writ, diffused, and taught,
Adding new links to Error's tangled chain:
But, oh! the Apostles of unfettered thought—
Unwearied foes of Falsehood and her train—
Shall lift the veil of mystery at last,
And future times atone for all the past!

TO FRANCE.

When shall I tread thy fertile shores again,
Land of the warlike Gaul, salubrious France!—
Land of the wine-cup, festal song, and dance,—
Sweet lips, bright eyes, and hearts unknown to pain?
My visions are as strong—perchance as vain—
As those which haunt the captive in his cell,
When fancy conjures up his native dell,
With thoughts that make him half forget his chain.
Treasured in memory, thy charms have lain,
Since last I saw thee in the summer glow,
And wandered where Garonne's blue waters flow,
Through scenes where Bacchus holds his joyous reign:
I would in England that my grave should be,
But let my vigorous years, oh, France! be passed with thee!

THE MAID OF A MOUNTAIN LAND.

I met with a joyous few last night,
Gathered around the taper's light:
Warm hearts were glad and bright eyes shone,
Kind words were spoken in friendship's tone;
Calm truth fell pure from every tongue,
And voices awoke in the spell of song;
And one was there of that social band—
The dark-eyed Maid of a Mountain Land.

A smile of delight from all went round,
As she turned to the casket of sleeping sound;
On the tremulous keys her fingers fell,
As rain-drops fall in a crystal well;
Till full on the ear the witchery stole,
And melody melted the captive soul:
She touched the chords with a skilful hand,—
The dark-eyed Maid of a Mountain Land.

She sang of the bards of her native plains,
But Burns was the soul of her breathing strains:
She sang of bold Wallace of Elderslie,
Who died with a spirit unstained and free;
She sang of the deeds of Bruce the brave,
Who fought for the crown his country gave;
She spoke of her home 'mid scenes so grand,—
That dark-eyed Maid of a Mountain Land.

I have been with the buoyant dames of France,
In the pensive hour, in the mirthful dance;
I have looked in the gay Italian's eyes,
Sunny and warm as her own blue skies;
I have talked with the Spaniard, proud and fair,
With her stately step and her haughty air;
But I turn from all of a foreign strand,
And bow to the Maid of a Mountain Land.

THOU ART WOOED AND WON.

Thou art wooed—thou art won—thou art wed,
Thou hast taken the vows of a bride;
May virtue keep watch o'er thy head,
And happiness walk by thy side!
May the man thou hast chosen for life
Prove all that I wish him to be;
May he find every joy in his wife:—
Success to thy husband and thee!

Thou art bound for a land far away,—
Thy bark spreads her wings on the main,
And the bard thou hast praised for his lay
May never behold thee again.
No matter, he will not despair,
But when thou art gone o'er the sea,
Thy name shall be breathed in his prayer:—
Farewell to thy husband and thee!

THE CONTRAST.

“Look on this picture, and on that.”
Shakespeare.

'Twas evening's holy season, when the sun,
Robed in a garment of resplendent dyes,
Was going down in glory to his rest;—
Not like a warrior on a bloody field,
Begirt with all the horrors of his trade;
But like a good man at his final hour,
When weeping eyes are gazing on his face;
When pale but fervent lips stir the hush'd air
With blessings on his head: when kindred hearts
Throb with unuttered feelings for his loss;
And—oh, triumphant hour for him!—when all
The recollections of a well-spent life,
Rich with the hues of charity and love,
Crowd back to gild his passage to the tomb!

At that sweet hour of poetry and peace,
Musing on all the miseries of men,
I wandered far beyond my accustomed walk,
And passed a lowly dwelling on my way,
Whose abject air, and shattered window, told
Where sin-born wretchedness had found a home.
I paused to scan it closely, when a sound
Of hoarse, deep curses smote my startled ear,
Mixed with the breathings of a softer voice

In lowly supplication; and anon,
The sullen echo of repeated blows
Resounded from within; then wildly rang
A thrilling shriek of female agony,
And, flying to escape, the frantic wife,
All bruised and bleeding from her husband's hand,
Rushed from beneath his roof,—a famished race
Of terror-stricken offsprings clinging round her,
Whose cries and tears responded to her own.
Then came the drunkard to his cabin door,—
His odious visage smeared with filth, and flushed
With loathsome drunkenness and baffled rage.
There stood the squalid victim of the dram,
A reeling nuisance in the eye of day,—
A living blotch on fair creation's face;—
There stood he, flinging to the summer breeze
A host of imprecations, strangely mixed
With songs of lewdness and obscenity;
Till, yielding to the overpowering draught,
Whose deadly influence crept through every limb,
The human brute rolled senseless in the dust!

Departing thence, disgusted and amazed,
The sounds of sin still ringing in my ears,
Another homestead met my wandering eye:
This bore a lovelier aspect than the last,
For order's hand had not been wanting here:
The glossy ivy mantled o'er its walls;
Round its bright lattices, the rose of June
Held sweet communion with the woodbine flower;
And, circled with an atmosphere of peace,
It seemed the resting place of holy joy.
I could not choose but linger at its gate,
In contemplation of its varied charms:
Before its humble threshold sat a father,

Earnestly reading to his darling boy
Instructive precepts from some moral page:
There sat a mother, too, mild as the morn,
Plying the needle with a thrifty art,
In whose meek glance shone forth a mind serene:
Stretched on the greensward lay a lovely girl,
With sunny ringlets on a brow of snow—
Like Alpine summits tinged with dying light—
A healthful, innocent, and happy child.

Oh 'twas a scene to wonder at, and love!
For social error had so filled our land
With dens of infamy and homes of strife,
That 'twas a pleasing rarity indeed
To steal upon a spot so sweet as this.
Wrapt in a vision of delight, I stood
Till darkness deepened round, and one by one
The stars came out upon the silent sky,
Like angel eyes that watch o'er fallen man;
Then, with reluctant steps and slow, I left
The sober man's serene and blest abode.

Ye sons and daughters of my native isle,
Who labour at the wheel, the forge, the loom,—
Who wear—yet sigh to break—the oppressor's chain,
Look on the simple pictures I have drawn!
And if one spark of slumbering virtue live
Within your hearts, let zealous Truth be heard,
And Reason guide you to the better choice!

TO POESY.

Thou simple Lyre! thy music wild
Hath served to charm the weary hour,
And many a lonely night hath 'guiled;
When even pain hath owned (and smiled)
Its fascinating power!
—H. K. White.

Best solace of my lonely hours!
Whose tones can never tire,
Oh, how I thrill beneath thy powers,—
Sweet Spirit of the Lyre!
On streamlet's marge, or mountain's steep,
In wild, umbrageous forests deep,
Or by my midnight fire—
Where'er my vagrant footsteps be,
My soul can find a spell in thee!

Thy home is in the human mind,
And in the human breast,
With thoughts unfettered as the wind,
And feelings unexpressed;
With joys and griefs, with hopes and fears,
With pleasure's smiles, with sorrow's tears,
Thou art a constant guest:
And oh, how many feel thy flame,
Without a knowledge of thy name!

Beauty and grandeur give thee birth,
And echo in thy strain—

The stars of heaven, the flowers of earth,
The wild and wondrous main:
With Nature thou art always found
In every shape, in every sound,
Calm, tempest, sun, and rain;—
Yes! Thou hast ever been to me
An intellectual ecstasy!

When Poverty's dark pennons wave
Exulting o'er my head,—
When Hope's best efforts fail to save
My soul from inward dread,—
When Woman's soothing voice no more
Can charm with fondness that before
Such joyous comfort shed;
Thy smile can mitigate my doom
And fling a ray athwart the gloom.

When sickness bends my spirit low,
And dims my sunken eye,
And, wrestling with my subtle foe,
I breathe the bitter sigh;—
Again I seek thee—once again
To weave a meek, imploring strain
To Mercy's source on high!
And—oh, the magic of thy tone!—
I feel as though my pangs were gone!

When light on expectation's wing
My joyous thoughts arise,
Elate with thee I soar, and sing,
And seem to sweep the skies:
Though disappointment's voice of fear
Sternly arrests my wild career,
And expectation dies;

Yet thou, unchanged, art with me still,
Wreathing with flowers the thorns of ill.

Misfortune's blighting breath may kill
Hope's blossoms on the tree;
Mild sorceress! it cannot chill
My cherished love for thee!
When Death put forth his withering hand,
And snatched, of my domestic band,
The darling from my knee,
Thou didst not fail to breathe a lay
Of sorrow o'er its sinless clay.

I loved thee when a very child—
For every song was dear;
In youth, when Shakespeare's “wood-notes wild”
First charmed my ravish'd ear;
In manhood, too, when Byron's hand
Swept the deep chords, and every land
Enraptured turned to hear;
And oh, when age hath touched my brow,
Still may I cling to thee, as now!

The lonely swan's expiring breath
In mournful music flows;
He sings his requiem of death,
Though racked with painful throes;
Sweet Poesy! let such be mine,—
The calm, harmonious decline
To earth's serene repose!
May thy last murmurs still be there,
And tremble through my dying prayer!

HOPE.

Veiled by the shadows of obscurest night,
All Dian's host are shining unrevealed,
Save one fair star on heaven's unbounded field,
All lonely, lovely, fascinating, bright;
How clearly tremulous it hails the sight!
As if 'twould smile away the clouds that lie
Athwart its glorious sisters of the sky,
Prohibiting our earth their holy light:
So, as I stumble on the path of life,
Without one voice to cheer, one heart to love—
When all is darkness round me, and above,
And every bitter feeling is at strife—
The star of Hope my spirit can illume,
And draw fresh lustre from surrounding gloom.

A FATHER'S LAMENT.

My child of love! I look for thee
When night hath chased the day!
Thy sister seeks her father's knee,
But thou—thou art away!
J.B. Rogerson.

A dreamy stillness in the calm air slept;
The moon was cloudless, and serenely wept
Her tears of radiance in my lonely room,
Giving a silvery softness to the gloom;
When Death—that mighty and mysterious shade—
Beneath my roof his first dread visit paid,—
His shadowy banner o'er my hearth unfurled,
And broke the spell that bound me to the world.

Oh, mournful task! at that subduing hour
I watched the withering of a cherished flower;
I bent in silence o'er a dying child,
And felt that grief which cannot be beguiled;
Held on my trembling knee his wasted frame,
As the last shadow o'er his features came;
Saw the dull film that veiled his lovely eyes,—
Received upon my lips his latest sighs;
And as the spirit calmly, softly passed,
I knew that I was desolate at last!

A few brief hours and he was borne away,
And laid, soft sleeping, on his couch of clay.
Fond hearts that loved, and lips that blessed, were there,
That swelled with grief, and breathed the parting prayer.
The pastor gave his treasure unto God;—
I only heard the booming of the clod

That closed for ever on my darling son,
And told that love's last obsequies were done;
Then looking, lingering still—I turned again
To quell my grief amid the haunts of men.

Yes, thou art gone, my beautiful—my boy!
Thy father's solace, and thy mother's joy;
Gone to a far, far world, where sin and strife
Can never stain thy purity of life;
A young, bright worshipper at Mercy's throne,
While I am prisoned here, unblessed and lone,—
Lone as a shattered bark upon the deep,
When unrelenting storms around her sweep;—
Lone as a tree beneath an angry heaven,
Its foliage scattered, and its branches riven:—
Lone as a broken harp, whose wonted strain
Can never wake to melody again!
Thus I have felt for thee, child, since we parted,
Weary and sad, and all but broken-hearted.
I mourn in secret; for thy mother now,
With settled sorrow gathered on her brow,
Looks unto me for comfort in her tears,
While the soul's anguish in her face appears.
We sit together by our evening fire,
And talk of thee with tongues that cannot tire;
Recall thy buoyant form—thy winning ways,—
Thy healthful cheek that promised many days,—
Each pleasant word, each gentle look and tone
That touched the heart, and made it all thine own:
Gaze on the treasures which pertained to thee,
The constant sources of thy boyish glee—
Things which are kept with more than miser care—
The empty garment and the vacant chair;
Till, having eased the burden of the breast,
A tranquil sadness soothes us into rest.

'Twas sweet to kiss thy sleeping eyes at morn,
And press thy lips that welcomed my return;
Twas sweet to hear thy cheerful voice at play,
And watch thy steps the live-long Sabbath day;
'Twas sweet to take thee on my knee, and hear
Thine artless narrative of joy or fear,—
To catch the dawning of inquiring thought,
And every change that time and teaching wrought.
This was my wish,—to guard thee as a child,
And keep thy stainless spirit undefiled:
To guide thy progress upward unto youth,
And store thy mind with every precious truth:
Send thee to mingle with the world's rude throng,
In moral worth and manly virtue strong,
With such rare energies as well might claim
The patriot's glory and the poet's fame;
To go down gently to the verge of death,
And bless thee with a father's parting breath,
Assured that thou would'st duly come to lave,
With filial tears, a parent's humble grave.

Such was my wish, but Providence hath shown
How little wisdom man can call his own!
Such was my wish, but God hath been more just,
And brought my humble spirit to the dust!
I should not murmur that thou couldst not live—
Thou hast a brighter lot than earth can give;
Then let me turn to thy fair sisters here,
And hold them, for thy precious sake, more dear;
Restore them to a place upon my knee,
And yield that love which I reserved for thee.
One hope remains—and one that never dies—
That I may taste thy rapture in the skies;
Here let me bow my stricken soul in prayer,
Till God shall summon me to meet thee there!

A CALL TO THE PEOPLE.

Awake! (the patriot poet cries)—
Awake, each sire and son;
From long degrading sleep arise
Ere ruin is begun!
The very echo of your name—
The very shadow of your fame—
Hath many a battle won;
And can ye stoop to what ye are—
Chained followers of Oppression's car?

Have ye not lavished health and life,
At mad ambition's call!
Have ye not borne the brunt of strife,
Unbroken as a wall!
Have ye not bled for worthless things,—
Priests, placemen, concubines, and kings,—
Have ye not toiled for all!
And can ye, in this startling hour,
Still slumber in the grasp of power?

Awake! but not to spend your breath
In unavailing ire;
Awake! but not to deal in death,
Crime, carnage, blood, and fire;
Awake! but not to hurl the brand
Of desolation round the land,
Till all your hopes expire;

Lest vengeance rise amid the gloom,
To push ye to a deeper doom.

In pity to yourselves, beware
Of battle-breathing knaves,
Who raise their voices in the air
To congregated slaves;—
Those men who Judas-like betray,
Or lead through anarchy the way
To dungeons and to graves:—
Strong arms can work no great reform,
Mind—mind alone—must quell the storm!

Awake! in moral manhood strong,
Endowed with mental might,
With warm persuasion on your tongue,
To plead the cause of right;
Let reason, centre of the soul,
Your wild and wandering thoughts control,
And give them life and light!
Then may ye hope at length to gain
That freedom ye have sought in vain.

O God! the future yet shall see,
On this fair world of thine,
The myriads wise, and good, and free,
Fulfil thy blest design;
The dawn of Truth, long overcast,
Shall kindle into day at last,
Bright, boundless, and divine;
And man shall walk the fruitful sod,
A being worthy of his God!

TO J. B. ROGERSON.

Thou who hast roamed with reverie and song,
And won a wreath from Poesy divine,
I would not change thy pleasant dreams and mine,
For all the splendours that to wealth belong.
Why should we mingle with the sordid throng,
Who strive and struggle in the walks of gain,—
Who sell their souls to purchase care and pain,
And speak of knowledge with a foolish tongue?
Have we not treasures which can not be bought;—
Perception of the lovely and sublime,—
The social converse, and the soothing rhyme,—
The quiet rapture of aspiring thought?
And let us hope that we may learn to claim
Some little portion of unsullied fame.

CLIFTON GROVE.

OCCASIONED BY A VISIT TO THE SCENE OF H. K. WHITE'S POEM OF THAT NAME.

How rich is the season, how soothing the time!
For summer looks forth in its fulness and prime—
As through thy recesses, blest Clifton, I stray,
Where solitude slumbers in varied array:
How lovely these valleys that round me expand,—
The sylvan and soft, with the gloomy and grand,
Where rocks, woods, and waters harmoniously blent
Give beauty and peace to the banks of the Trent.

Meek evening broods o'er the landscape, and flings
A spell of repose from its dew-dropping wings:
No sound from the city disturbs the pure calm,
And the sigh of the zephyr comes mingled with balm:
No vestige remains of the sunset, that gave
A tremulous glow to the breast of the wave;
With the tears of the twilight the woodbine is bent,
As I tread with devotion the banks of the Trent.

How warmly, yet vainly, I yearn for the fire
That lit up the soul of that child of the lyre—
The student of science, of wisdom and song,
Who fled to your shades from the snares of the young!

Aloof from the heartless, the selfish and proud,
From the mirth of the million, unmeaning and loud,
With the fervour of feeling which Nature had lent,
He sought your enchantments, sweet banks of the Trent.

Steal on, placid river; thy freshness diffuse
Through scenes rendered fair by the tints of the Muse;
Where tradition hath cast a mysterious glance,
And fancy created the forms of romance.
Oh, would that my hand with success could assume
The harp of your Minstrel who sleeps in the tomb!
A share of my life and my skill should be spent
In singing your beauties, sweet banks of the Trent!

THE BLIND ENTHUSIAST.

He loved and worshipped all that's fair,
In wondrous ocean, earth, and air;
The grand, the lovely, and the rare,
To him were sacred ever;
The thousand hues that summer brings,
The gorgeous glow that sunset flings—
The source whence every beauty springs—
Can art restore? Oh, never!

He loved the music of the bowers—
He loved the freshness of the showers—
He loved the odours of the flowers
With passion deep and holy;
All that the Poet's song hath stored—
All that the minstrel's strains afford,
Found in his soul a kindred chord
Of mirth and melancholy.

He walks in hopeless darkness now,
With faltering foot and lifted brow;—
If aught may human patience bow,
'Twere loss of noon-day splendour;
Hill, wood, and stream, with sunshine blent—
Bright stars that gem the firmament—
All lovely things that God hath sent,
How painful to surrender!

'Tis true, he wanders forth in gloom,
Dense and unchanging as the tomb,
Yet breathes no murmur at his doom—
No sound of fretful feeling;
For though from outward vision gone,
The things he loved to look upon,
He still beholds them, one by one,
O'er memory's mirror stealing.

He seeks the haunts he sought of yore—
He sings the songs he sang before—
He listens yet to your sweet lore,
Philosophy and fiction:
And, happy in a cloudless mind,
A fancy pure and unconfined,
To heaven's own will he bows resigned,
And smiles beneath affliction.

A SUMMER'S DAY.

Scared at the aspect of advancing Day,
Stern Night puts on his starry robe, and flies;
The joyous lark pours forth his earliest lay,
And bathes his pinions in the dewy skies.
Behold the graceful smoke-wreath warmly rise
From quiet hamlets scattered far and near,
While from his sheltered home the woodman hies,
To win his bread where yonder woods appear.
Look down upon this laughing valley here,
Where stream and pool are kindled into gold,
And on the summer vesture of the eyar,
Flowers of all hues their balmy eyes unfold.
Escaped from slumber's enervating arms,
I bound at Nature's voice, and own her purer charms.

Lo! reared sublime on his meridian seat,
The eternal Sun pours down o'erwhelming rays;
How shall we bear the splendour of his gaze,
His fierce intensity of light and heat?
Nature grows faint where'er his fervours beat;
Shrunk are the flowers in Summer's vestment wove,
Mute is the music of the sky and grove,
And not a zephyr comes, the brow to greet;—
Fit time to seek the woodland's dark retreat,
Where scarce a sunbeam trembles through the shade,
And, on the rivulet's fresh margin laid,

Pass noontide's hour in meditation sweet,
Far from all earthly sights and sounds, save those
Which soothe the harassed mind to solitude's repose.

Like the warm hectic-flush on beauty's cheek,
The hues of sunset linger in the sky;
But lo! as treacherous, they but brightly speak
The hastening close of day's expiring eye.
All richly now yon western glories die,
Quenched in the shadows of approaching night;
The quiet moon hath hung her lamp on high,
And Hesper's star breaks sweetly on the sight;
The flowers are closed, yet Zephyr in his flight
Bears living fragrance on his wanton wings;
Meanwhile a pure uncertainty of light
Steals calm and soft athwart the face of things;
Enchanting eve! mild promiser of rest!
How dear thy presence to the mourner's breast!

Sweet is the smile of dewy-footed morn—
Sweet the bright ardour of the lusty noon—
Sweet are the sighs of evening, when the tune
Of flute-toned voices on the air is borne;—
But sweeter still, when living gems adorn
His awful brow, is philosophic Night:
Then contemplation takes a boundless flight,
Through realms untainted by this world of scorn.
What peace to sit beneath this shadowy thorn,
Where the lone wave steals by with gentle sound—
The wan moon's soft effulgence slumbering round—
And drink from Fancy's everflowing horn!
What joy, when forth the unshackled spirit springs,
To hold high converse with all nobler things!

DOMESTIC MELODY.

Though my lot hath been dark for these many long years,
And the cold world hath brought me its trials and tears,
Though the sweet star of hope scarcely looks through the gloom,
And the best of my joys have been quenched in the tomb;—
Yet why should I murmur at Heaven's decree,
While the wife of my home is a solace to me?

Though I toil through the day for precarious food,
With my body worn down, and my spirit subdued:
Though the good things of life seldom enter my door,
And my safety and shelter are far from secure;—
Still, still I am rich as a poet may be,
For the wife of my heart is a treasure to me!

Let the libertine sneer, and the cold one complain,
And turn all the purest of pleasures to pain;
There is nothing on earth that can e'er go beyond
A heart that is faithful, and feeling, and fond:
There is but one joy of the highest degree,
And the wife of my soul is that blessing to me!

LAND AND SEA.

The seaman may sing of his own vast sea,
And the swain of his own sweet land;
But it boots not where the wanderer be,
With a chainless heart and hand;
In storm the sea hath a fearful power—
A beauty in repose;
And the land is rich in fruit and flower,
Or bleak in winter's snows.

How free to bound o'er the waters wide,
Swift as the rushing gale!
How sweet to look from the mountain's side
On the calm sequestered vale!
There's a charm in the greenwood's summer sigh—
There's a spell in ocean's roar;
I have loved, I have sought them both, as fly
Spring birds from shore to shore.

I was born on the verge of the ocean deep,
I have played with his locks of foam,
And watched his weltering billows leap
From the door of my cottage home:
I would die on the breast of some lonely isle,
Where no rude footsteps sound—
Where a southern heaven on my grave may smile,
And the wild waves boom around.

EPISTLE TO A BROTHER POET.

By some means or other I've gathered a hint
That you sport with the Muses, and show it in print;
So, being a somewhat presumptuous elf,
And touched with the mania of scribbling myself,
I have ventured to write, with the hope, in the end,
To make your acquaintance, and call you my friend;
For nought yields me pleasure more pure, than to find,
In my rambles through life, men of merit and mind.
That you lend me your friendship, is what I request,—
Refuse it or grant it, just as you like best;
But before you do either, pray, hold, if you please—
I will draw you my portrait, and set you at ease:—

I'm a very strange with, with a very strange name,
Unaided by Fortune, unfavoured by Fame:
I am homely in person, and awkward in speech,
Yet am willing to learn, though unable to teach.
Sometimes I am sunny, and buoyant, and gay,
As the breezes and bowers in the bright month of May;
Sometimes, like December, I'm rugged and rough,
And heavy, and gloomy, and peevish enough;

But feelings like these are engendered in life,
By poverty, toil, disappointment, and strife;
But away with reflection, and care, and the rest on't,
I live for to-day, and I'll just make the best on't.

I've a passion for woman, and music, and joyance,
And from children I gain more delight than annoyance—
(As for Woman herself, in the season of need,
Without her this world were a desert indeed!)
In my evenings of leisure I fly to my books,
With their quiet, unchanging, intelligent looks;
Whene'er I am with them, sweet visions come o'er me,
And as to my choice, why, I read all before me;
Be it wisdom or wit, it can ne'er come amiss—
I have learning from that page, and laughter from this;
So between one and t'other, I manage to sweep
O'er a great deal of surface, but never go deep.

In Man I love all that is noble and great,
But war, and oppression, and falsehood, I hate;
And oft has my spirit burst forth into song
Against every species of riot and wrong.
I'm a pleader for freedom in every form;
For my country I feel patriotic and warm,
Yet still I've no wish to disorder the land
With the flame of the torch and the flash of the brand;
I'm for measures more gentle, more certain, in sooth,—
The movement of morals, the triumph of truth;
And my hopes are that men who are toiling and grieving,
Will make this fair Earth like the Heaven they believe in.

My religion is Love,—'tis the noblest and purest;
And my temple the Universe—widest and surest;
I worship my God through his works, which are fair,
And the joy of my thoughts is perpetual prayer.

I awake to new life with the coming of Spring,
When the lark is aloft with a fetterless wing;

When the thorn and the woodbine are bursting with buds,
And the throstle is heard in the depth of the woods;
When the verdure grows bright where the rivulets run,
And the primrose and daisy look up at the sun;
When the iris of April expands o'er the plain,
And a blessing comes down in the drops of the rain;
When the skies are as pure, and the breezes as mild,
As the smile of my wife, and the kiss of my child.

When the Summer in fulness of beauty is born,
I love to be out with the first blush of morn;
And to pause in the field where the mower is blithe,
Keeping time with a song to the sweep of the scythe.
At meridian I love to revisit the bowers,
'Mid the murmur of bees and the breathing of flowers,
And there in some sylvan and shadowy nook,
To lay myself down on the brink of the brook;
Where the coo of the ring-dove sounds soothingly near,
And the light laugh of childhood comes sweet to my ear.
I love, too, at evening, to rest in the dell,
Where the tall fern is drooping above the green well;
When the vesper-star burns—when the zephyr-wind blows,
When the lay of the nightingale ruffles the rose;
When silence is round me, below and above,
And my heart is imbued with the spirit of love;
When the things that I gaze on grow fairer, and seem
Like the fancy-wrought shapes of some young poet's dream.

In the calm reign of Autumn I'm happy to roam,
When the peasant exults in a full harvest-home;
When the boughs of the orchard with fruitage incline,
And the clusters are ripe on the stem of the vine;
When Nature puts on the last smiles of the year,
And the leaves of the forest are scattered and sere;
When the lark quits the sky, and the linnet the spray,
And all things are clad in the garb of decay.

Even Winter to me hath a thousand delights,
With its short gloomy days, and its long, starry nights:
And I love to go forth ere the dawn, to inhale
The health-breathing freshness that floats in the gale;
When the sun riseth red o'er the crest of the hill,
And the trees of the woodland are hoary and still:
When the motion and sound of the streamlet are lost
In the icy embrace of mysterious frost;
When the hunter is out on the shelterless moor,
And the robin looks in at the cottager's door;
When the Spirit of Nature hath folded his wings,
To nourish the seeds of all glorious things;
Till the herb, and the leaf, and the fruit, and the flower,
Shall awake in the fulness of beauty and power.

There's a harvest of knowledge in all that I see,
For a stone or a leaf is a treasure to me;
There's the magic of music in every sound,
And the aspect of beauty encircles me round;
Whilst the fast-gushing joy that I fancy and feel,
Is more than the language of song can reveal.

Did God set his fountains of light in the skies,
That Man should look up with the tears in his eyes?
Did God make this earth so abundant and fair,
That Man should look down with a groan of despair?
Did God fill the world with harmonious life,
That Man should go forth with destruction and strife?
Did God scatter freedom o'er mountain and wave,
That Man should exist as a tyrant and slave?
Away with so hopeless—so joyless a creed,
For the soul that believes it is darkened indeed!

Thus I've told you, without an intent to deceive,
Of the things that I love, and the things I believe;
If I've glossed o'er my failings, you need not abhor me—
What I've now left untold, other tongues may tell for me.

A SONG OF FREEDOM.

Oh, beautiful world! thou art fertile and fair,
But filled with oppression, and strife, and despair;
Hard, hard is the lot which thy children endure—
The thousands are wealthy, the myriads are poor;
These lavish their blood, and their sweat and their tears,—
Those revel in splendour, yet shudder with fears;
But Love shall come down to the nations, and bring
Peace, plenty, and joy in the folds of his wing!

Rejoice! Sons of Industry! triumph! rejoice!
List, list to the sound of a glorious voice!
'Tis the sweet hymn of Freedom that gladdens the gale,
From hamlet and city, from mountain and vale;
Soon, soon shall we gaze on the light of her face—
Soon, soon shall we share her impartial embrace;
Prepare we to meet her wherever she roams,
And welcome her back to our hearts and our homes!

Oh, Isle of my Fathers! fair Queen of the Sea!
Men call thee the land of the fearless and free;
They say thou art first on the records of fame,
They speak of thy glory—but not of thy shame!
Despair not, my country! for Truth is revealed,—
Her hands have the fountains of knowledge unsealed!
Thy children shall gather new life from the stream,
Till the pains of the past are forgot as a dream!

SONNET,

ON RECEIVING THE POEMS OF KEATS FROM A FRIEND.

Thanks for the Song of Keats—as rich a boon
As ever poet unto poet sent:
Oh! thou hast pleased me to my heart's content,
And set my jarring feelings all in tune.
'Twere sweet to lie upon the lap of June,
Half hidden in a galaxy of flowers,
Beneath the shadow of impending bowers,
And pore upon his page from morn till noon.
'Twere sweet to slumber by some calm lagoon,
And dream of young Endymion, the boy
Who nightly snatched a more than mortal joy
From the bright cheek of the enamoured moon.
Thanks for the Song of Keats, whose luscious lay
Hath half dissolved my earthly thoughts away.

LINDA.

A BALLAD.

Along the moorland, bleak and bare,
The blast of winter blew;
O'er midnight's dark and dreary face
The snow tempestuous flew;
When Linda, poor forsaken maid,
With none her griefs to share,
Kept on her rude and lonely path,
In silent, sad despair.

A baby clung to her aching breast,
Whose wild and feeble wail
Filled up the pauses of the storm,
And rose upon the gale;
And, ah! that helpless infant's cry
Smote heavy on her heart,
While visions pressed upon her brain—
Too dreadful to depart.

She kissed its cheek adoringly—
At length it sweetly slept;
She raised to Heaven her streaming eyes,
And thus she prayed and wept:—
“Oh! Thou who see'st my contrite tears,
Assist me in this hour,
And show the spoiler of my peace
Thy mercy and thy power!

“He found me in my quiet home,
While yet my cares were light,—
Ere sin had tinged my inmost thoughts,
Or sorrow breathed its blight;
His sighs of passion fanned my cheek,
But withered all its bloom;
He drew me down from innocence,
And left me to my doom.

“My father drove me from his door,
With curses stern and deep;
My mother watched me as I went,
But only dared to weep;
My comrades in that pleasant vale
Where I was reared and born,—
They strove to shun me as I passed,
Or followed me with scorn.

“And thou, my last, sole solace now,
Reposing calmly still,
Sweet fruit of all my guilty joys,
Whose lips are blanched and chill;
Thy sire's away from thee and me,
Where all are fair and kind,
Regardless of the ruined hopes
That he hath left behind.

“But ah! what fearful sign is this!
I feel no more thy breath!
Thy lips are cold—thy pulse is still!
Thy slumber, then, is death!
O God! let not thy wakened wrath
My shrinking soul pursue,
But since my child is gone to thee,
Oh! take his mother too!”

With shattered frame and mind subdued,
Expiring Linda fell;
But let us hope that heaven forgave,
And mercy whispered, “Well!”
Nor love's, nor friendship's voice was there,
To breathe a soothing tone:—
She died upon that desert heath,
Heart-broken and alone!

Roused early to his daily toil,
A peasant bent his way
Where, stretched in lifeless loveliness,
Seduction's victim lay;
Her bones lie mouldering where she died,
Beneath the barren sod,
Crown'd with a record of her fate,
Appealing unto God!

Young hearts grow sad, and youthful eyes
Grow tearful at her name,
And trembling lips repeat her tale
Of misery and shame;
And gentle hands bring early flowers
To strew above her breast;
And kindred knees imprint the turf
Around her place of rest.

But where is he—the cause of all,—
Lost Linda's only foe;
Who triumphed in that selfish joy
Which made another's woe?
Thou of the false and cruel heart,
Repent thee of the past!
This deed may stand in dark array,
To startle thee at last!

TO HYPATIA.

IN REPLY TO SOME BEAUTIFUL VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR.

I know thee not yet, gentle child of the lyre,—
Thou of the kind and compassionate heart;
But sympathy's song cannot fail to inspire
A wish to behold thee ere life shall depart.

My heart speaks to thine with as trembling a tone,
As ever awoke from its feeble strings yet;
But though 'tis unfit to respond to thine own,
It tells that thy bounty I cannot forget.

If a maiden thou art, in the hey-day of life,
With thy feelings and form in the pride of their spring,
May the hours that fly o'er thee with rapture be rife,
And the purest that fall from old Time's rapid wing!

But if thou art wedded to one of thy choice,
And duty hath called thee to mix with the world,
May thy heart, in its fondness, have cause to rejoice,
And the banner of love o'er thy head be unfurled!

If the sweet, sacred name of a mother be thine,
And beautiful offspring encircle thy knee;
Long, long may those blessings around thee entwine,
Like tendrils that add to the grace of the tree!

The Muse hath been with thee, that spirit of light,
Which flies not, though friendship and fortune decay;
That star through the darkest and loneliest night,
That rainbow of peace through the stormiest day.

Yes, Poesy, sent from some bright source above,
Like a vestal flame burns in the depths of the mind;
'Tis an echo of music, and beauty, and love,
Awaking and melting the hearts of mankind.

The poet hath piety, changeless and strong,
Which turns to the wisdom and wonders of God,
For everything claims his glad worship of song,
From a world in the sky to a weed on the sod.

Abandon not, lady, that glorious dower,
That treasure of thought which thy Maker hath given;
That fervour of feeling,—that language of power,
Those wings of the soul which exalt us to heaven!

Farewell to thee, Lady; wherever I be,
Whether shadow or sunshine descend on my brow,
Remembrance shall turn to thy kindness and thee,
And pray for thy peace as sincerely as now.

And when, after many but brightening years,
The rich flowers of summer above thee shall wave,
May the pilgrim of Poesy come with his tears,
And touch his sad harp as he weeps o'er thy grave!

TO QUINTUS HORTENSIUS.

Quintus, my earliest intellectual friend,—
The first who listened to my artless lay;
The first who had the courage to commend,
And teach me to expect a brighter day;—
This humble tribute to thy worth I pay;
Though brief and rude, it springeth from the heart.
Thy warmth of soul may lessen and decay,
But my first feelings cannot all depart.
Let us not break from Friendship's holy thrall;—
Canst thou forget thine ancient cordial greeting;—
Canst thou forget that joyous Sabbath meeting,
When poesy and music gladdened all?
Then did the light of mind adorn each brow,
And thou wert kind and true, as I would have thee now.

A SKETCH AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.

Dark Kinder! standing on thy whin-clad side,
Where Storm, and Solitude, and Silence dwell,
And stern Sublimity hath set his throne,—
I look upon a region wild and wide,
A realm of mountain, forest haunt, and fell,
And fertile valleys, beautifully lone,
Where fresh and far romantic waters roam,
Singing a song of peace by many a cottage home.

I leave the sickly haunts of sordid men,—
The toil that fetters and the care that kills
The purest feelings of the human breast,—
To gaze on Nature's lineaments again,—
To find, amid these congregated hills,
Some fleeting hours of quiet thought and rest;—
Tread with elastic step the fragrant sod,
Drink the inspiring breeze, and feel myself with God!

Like Heaven-invading Titans, girt with gloom,
The mountains crowd around me, while the skies
Stoop to enfold them in their azure sheen;
The air is rich with music and perfume,
And beauty, like a varying mantle, lies
On barren steep, bright wave, and pasture green,—

On ancient hamlets nestling far below,
And many a wild-wood walk, where childhood's footsteps go.

It is the Sabbath morn,—a blessed hour
To those who have to struggle with a lot
Which clouds the mind, and chains the languid limb:
From yon low temple, bosomed in the bower,
Which prayer and praise have made a hallowed spot,
Soars in the air the peasant's earliest hymn;
And as the sounds come sweetly to my ear,
They say, or seem to say, that happy hearts are near.

Pray Heaven they are so! for this restless earth
Holds much of human misery and crime,—
Much to awake our sympathies indeed;
And though eternal blessings spring to birth
Beneath the footsteps of advancing time,
Myriads of mortal hearts in silence bleed:
Vain is the hungry mourner's suppliant cry:
Oh, Justice! how is this? Let Pride and Power reply!

Away, away with these reflections now!
The natural colours of a pensive mind
Yearning for liberty, and truth, and love!
For, standing upon Kinder's awful brow,
Breathing the healthy spirit of the wind,
Green lands below, and glorious skies above,—
I deem that God, whose hand is ever sure,
Will break the rankling chain that binds the suffering poor.

I look before me,—lo! how wild a change
Hath come upon the scene! yon mountain wall

Wears a vast diadem of fiery gloom;
A lurid darkness, terrible and strange,
Spreads o'er the face of heaven its sultry pall,
As though earth trembled on the verge of doom;
A fearful calm foretells a coming fight,
For Tempest is prepared to revel in its might!

It comes at length, for the awakening breeze
Whirls with a sudden gust each fragile thing
That lay this moment in unwonted rest;
The storm's first drops fall tinkling on the trees,
Heavy, but few, as though 'twere hard to wring
Such painful tears from out its burning breast;
And now a deep, reverberated groan
Is heard amid the span of Heaven's unbounded zone.

The lightning leapeth from the riven cloud,
Vivid and broad upon the startled eye,
Wrapping the mountains in a robe of fire;
The voice of thunder follows, long and loud,—
Hot rain is shaken from the troubled sky,—
The winds rush past me with redoubled ire;
And yon proud pine which stood the wintry shock,
Bows its majestic head, and quits its native rock!

Flash hurries after flash with widening sweep,
And peal meets peal, resounding near and far,
As though some veil of mystery were rent;
The headlong torrent boundeth from the steep
Where I enjoy the elemental jar,
Nor fear its rage, nor wish its passions spent.
But now God curbs the lightning—stills the roar,
And earth smiles through her tears more lovely than before.

How sternly fair! how beautifully wild,
To the sad spirit, is the war of storms,
When thought and feeling mingle with the strife!
Nature, I loved thee when a very child,
In all thy moods, in all thy hues and forms,
Because I found thee with enchantment rife;
And even yet, in spite of every ill,
I feel within my soul that thou art glorious still!

I leave the hoary mountains for the vale,
Which wears the milder features of a scene
Too rarely brought before my longing sight;
And where the streamlet tells its summer tale
To bright flowers bending on its margin green,
I walk with softened and subdued delight,
Breathing the words of some remembered lay,
Or talking with the things that smile around my way.

Oh! is it not religion, to admire,
O God! what thou hast made in field and bower,
And solitudes from man and strife apart!—
To feel within the soul the wakening fire
Of pure and chastened pleasure, and the power
Of natural beauty on the tranquil heart,—
And then to think that our terrestrial home
Is but a shadow still of that which is to come!

This is the fitting temple of high thought
And glorious emotion,—the true place
Of adoration, silent and sincere;
For all that the Eternal Hand hath wrought,
Having the form of grandeur and of grace,
Reminds us of a happier, holier sphere,—
Fills us with wonder, strengthens hope and love,
While the rapt soul aspires to brighter things above.

Farewell each Alpine haunt, each quiet glen,
Farewell each fragrant offspring of the wild,
Each twilight forest and secluded vale!
I go to mingle with my fellow-men,
Bearing within me, pure and undefiled,
A store of beauty which can never fail:
In Memory's keeping ye shall linger long,
And wake my lowly harp to many a future song!

THE CAPTIVE'S DREAM.

He had a dream, ere midnight,
Of a green and sunny dell,
And trees, and streams, and shadowy haunts,
Which he remembered well.
J. B. Rogerson.

Deep in a loathsome dungeon's twilight gloom,
Which scarce received a dubious gleam of day,
Where many a wretch had found a living tomb—
Pining for home,—a prisoned patriot lay.
As the rich hues of sunset waned away,
And land and sea with rosy radiance shone,
Through the barred lattice came the evening ray,
Beaming in beauty on the wall of stone,—
And lingered, loth to leave the Captive sad and lone.

That brief reflection of the summer skies,
Sent from the happier region of the spheres,
Caught the poor mourner's dim and drooping eyes,
And stirred the slumbering fountains of his tears;
For all the rapture of his boyish years,
And all his ardent youth's romantic spell,—
All that fair freedom—all that love endears,
Came like the sad tones of a vesper bell,
While thus the Captive woke the echoes of his cell:—

“Blest was my boyhood! when I wandered free,
Fearless and far, o'er mountain, moor, and vale;

When every season brought its share of glee,—
Life in the sun and gladness in the gale;
When the young moon that rose serenely pale,
Looked like a fairy bark through cloud-waves driven,
And the rich music of the nightingale
Sank like a spirit's voice which God had given
To teach the listening soul the melody of heaven!

“Lured by the genial freshness of the hour,
With buoyant step I bounded forth at morn,
And hied away to some familiar bower
To pluck the wild-rose from the dewy thorn;
Or roved through fields of undulating corn—
Or watched the winding of some wizard stream—
Or lay beneath some beetling rock forlorn,
Wrapt in the quiet ecstasy of dream,
Till Phœbus flushed the west with his departing beam.

“Around the precincts of my tranquil home,
I knew each barren spot, each cultured nook—
The pathless wild, the wood's umbrageous dome—
The tumbling torrent, and the dimpling brook;
And ever and anon my way I took
Through scenes, alas! which I shall view no more;
For Nature was my ever-open book,
Whose peaceful, pleasant, and exhaustless lore,
Gave to my craving soul the choicest of its store.

“When time, at length, had knit my growing form,
And shaped my spirit in a manlier mould,
I loved to share the grandeur of the storm,
As its vast billows o'er the welkin rolled:
Oft have I borne the midnight gloom and cold,

In contemplation of those worlds on high
Which men call stars—those drops of heavenly gold
Which burn and brighten o'er the slumbering sky,
Like gems which cannot fade—like flowers which cannot die!

“All that is lovely, tender, and serene,—
All that is wild, and wonderful, and strong,—
All that is free as it hath ever been,
Spoke to my spirit with a trumpet's tongue:
The rush of winds—the roar of waves—the long
Reverberated thunder—the far boom
Of ever restless Ocean—the glad song
Of birds and bees in sylvan haunts—the bloom
That sleeps in buds and blossoms, cradled in perfume;—

“The opening splendour that Aurora yields,
Deep Noon, rich Eve, and philosophic Night;
The harvest waving on the peaceful fields—
The billowy forest on the mountain's height;
The rainbow's arch, prismatically bright—
The Summer music in the air that rings—
The sweeping cloud—the eagle's sunward flight—
The joyous flutter of a thousand wings,
And all the boundless range of universal things!

“Oh! I was calm and happy, though, as yet,
In all my gladness I had been alone;
But heaven was round my footsteps when I met
One gentle soul congenial with my own.
Like chords that thrill in harmony of tone,
Our thoughts, words, looks, and feelings were the same,
And o'er my heart so sweet a spell was thrown,
That e'en the poet's glowing words were tame,
To paint the gush of joy that o'er my being came!

“And I was blest, if man be blest below,—
The favoured father of as fond a child
As e'er brought gladness in a world of woe;
My household sprite, fair, frolicsome, and wild—
The Ariel of my home, whose voice beguiled
My darkest hours—my peace-preserving dove,
Whose young affections, fresh and undefiled,
Gushed from his heart in syllables of love,
And winged my prayers for him unceasingly above.

“Alas, for all my joys! in evil hour
I yearned to mingle with my fellow-men;
Left the calm pleasures of my cottage bower,
Never to taste tranquillity again:
I found the city a tumultuous den,
Where crime, oppression, ignorance, and strife,
Made up one mass of misery—a fen
Where every vicious weed grew rank and rife,
And flung a withering taint on all the flowers of life.

“But why was this? the earth was passing fair,
Flinging rich gifts from her prolific breast;
The ocean, with its mighty bosom bare,
Wildly magnificent in storm or rest;
The heavens with wondrous beauty were impressed,
Whether in summer's noon, or winter's night!
Lovely, their varying splendours of the west—
Sublime their wilderness of starry light—
Hours when the soul had wings to take unbounded flight.

“A God of wisdom, harmony, and love,
Was seen and felt in all things, from the round
Of burning worlds that wheel their course above,
To the mute glow-worm on the dewy ground:
Where'er I roved, my eager spirit found

Things which reflected Hope's inspiring beam;
Some shape of beauty—some melodious sound,
Which touched my heart with joy; and could I deem
That Man was made to mar Creation's perfect scheme?

“I raised my voice imploringly aloud,
And wicked men were startled into fear!—
Nor vain my cry, for soon a gathering crowd,
Haggard and worn with misery, drew near;
Some came to scoff, and some to lend an ear,
With wondering eyes and faces sadly pale;
My heart waxed warmer, and my voice more clear,
Till soft, persuasive Reason did prevail,
To make the thousands feel my true yet fearful tale.

“Fired with the earnest eloquence of Truth,
My words warmed every listener to the core,
Inspired old Age, and in the soul of Youth
Aroused those energies which slept before:
I strove to teach them, from the sickening lore
Of Europe's annals—dark with many a stain—
How much of human tears and human gore
Had fallen unheeded as the summer rain,
That selfish man might reap unprofitable gain.

“I bade them scan the universe and see
What God had done for man; I bade them seek
That virtuous knowledge which adorns the free,
Softens the strong and dignifies the weak;
I bade them deeply think, and calmly speak,
And promptly act at love or duty's call;
I urged them to be patient, mild, and meek,
But fearless, firm, and watchful; and withal,
To keep heart, mind, and limb, secure from slavish thrall.

“I bade them leave those haunts of vice and gloom,
Where they profaned the Sabbath's holy hours;
To go abroad, and revel in the bloom
That blushed in beauty on a thousand flowers!
To scale the mountains, thread the tangled bowers,
And by the brinks of brawling brooks repair;
To catch the freshness of the summer showers,
And breathe the life of unpolluted air;
Till the wrapt soul was filled with all of pure and fair.

“I prayed that they would strengthen and employ
Each wiser, nobler faculty of mind;
Gather the gems of Science, and enjoy
Those flowers of thought which Genius had entwined;
I bade them walk with Charity, and bind
The stricken heart by sin or sorrow riven;
Succour and serve the feeblest of their kind,
Moved by those sympathies which Love hath given
To soothe the ills of Earth, and win the joys of Heaven.

“Had I been swayed by selfishness, and built
My hopes of glory on a rebel's name,
I could have led my followers into guilt,
And blown the sparks of Discord into flame;
But no; I had a higher, holier aim—
And well my hallowed mission was begun—
To rouse my country from her slavish shame,—
To do what human effort could have done,
To make her free and blest;—and lo! what I have won!

“A felon's fare, and worse than felon's doom,
With fetters rusting on my fleshless bones:
This narrow prison of perpetual gloom—
This cold damp pillow of unyielding stones!
Far from Affection's gentle looks and tones,

My wife's fond smile—my child's rich voice of glee,
With none to silence or to soothe my groans.—
Father of Mercy! let me turn to thee,
I feel thy spirit here, and bow to thy decree!”—

The manly victim of Oppression's law,
Faint with the nightly vigils he had kept,
Sunk down supine upon his couch of straw,
And, lapped in brief forgetfulness, he slept.
Enchanting visions through his memory swept,
Flushed his pale cheek, and heaved his weary breast;
Fair forms and faces round his pillow crept,
Which he in early youth had loved and blest;
And voices such as these stole through his troubled rest:—

THE VOICE OF SPRING.

“Come, Captive, come, let us joyfully roam
O'er the green and reviving earth;
While the skies are fair, and the vocal air
Resounds with the voice of mirth:
The dew-drop lies in the violet's eyes,
And the primrose gems the grass;
On verdurous brinks, the cowslip drinks
Of the brooklets as they pass:—
But Summer is near, and I may not stay,—
Come away, man of grief—come away, come away!

“The lark sings loud in the silvery cloud,
And the thrush in the emerald bowers;
The rainbow expands o'er the smiling lands,
And glows through the twinkling showers;
The breeze, like a thief, from the bud and the leaf
Steals odours newly born,
And wantonly flings, from its viewless wings,
The breath of the blooming thorn—
But Summer is near, and I may not stay,—
Come away, man of grief—come away, come away!

“There is freedom on the hill, there is freshness in the rill—
There is health in the cheering gale;
And the stream runs bright, like a path of light,
Through the maze of the folding vale;
The wildest glen hath a charm again,
And the moor hath a look less stern;—
The cool, clear well, in the woodland dell,
Is fringed with the feathery fern:
But Summer is near, and I may not stay,—
Come away, man of grief—come away, come away!

“Glad Childhood strays through tangled ways,
In solitudes green and lone,
And Youth frolics free, with unwonted glee,
To music's inspiring tone:
Old Age with his staff, and a merry, merry laugh,
Goes forth in my bright domain:
Man, maiden, and boy, feel the spirit of joy,
That comes with my gladsome reign:—
But Summer is near, and I may not stay,—
Come away, man of grief—come away, come away!”

THE VOICE OF SUMMER.

“Come away from the gloom of thy dungeon forlorn,
And escape from the thraldom of sorrow and sleep:
Come, and catch the first hues on the cheek of the morn,
From the pine-covered mountain's precipitous steep:
For the lark hath its matin hymn newly begun,
And the last star that lingered hath melted away;
Every shadow falls back from the face of the sun,
And the world is awake in the fulness of day.

“Come away in the pride of my glorious noon,
And retire to some old haunted forest with me,
While the skies are unrobed, and the air is in tune
With the call of the cuckoo—the boom of the bee:
Where the brook o'er its pebbles runs drowsily by,
And green waving branches bend gracefully o'er,
In a trance of sweet thought thou shalt quietly lie,
And dream all the poet hath told thee before.

“Come away in the silence and softness of eve,
When dimly the last tints of sunset appear;
When daylight and darkness commingle, and weave
A mantle of beauty o'er mountain and mere:
When the breath of the woodbine floats richly about,
And the glow-worm begins its pale lamp to relume:
When a star here and there looketh fitfully out,
And a spirit of tenderness steals through the gloom.

“Come away while the shadowy pinions of night
Brood over the earth, like a bird in its nest;
When the mind seeks to soar to those planets of light,
Which fancy hath made the abodes of the blest.
What heart can resist the deep spell of that hour,
When the moon goeth forth on her journey above,
And the nightingale, hid in the depths of her bower,
Pours abroad her full soul in the music of love!”

THE VOICE OF AUTUMN.

“Thou lonely man of grief and pain,
By lawless power oppressed,
Burst from thy prison—rend thy chain,
I come to make thee blest;
I have no springtide buds and flowers,
I have no summer bees and bowers;
But oh! I have some pleasant hours,
To soothe thy soul to rest.

“Plenty o'er all the quiet land
Her varied vesture weaves,
And flings her gifts with liberal hand
To glad the heart that grieves:
Along the southern mountain steeps,
The vine its purple nectar weeps,
While the bold peasant proudly reaps
The wealth of golden sheaves.

“Forth with the earliest march of morn,
He bounds with footstep free:

He plucks the fruit—he binds the corn,
Till night steals o'er the lea;
Beneath the broad, ascending moon,
He carries home the welcome boon,
And sings some old remembered tune,
With loud and careless glee.

“Then come, before my reign is past,
Ere darker hours prevail,—
Before the forest leaves are cast,
And wildly strew the gale:
There's splendour in the day-spring yet—
There's glory when the sun is set—
There's beauty when the stars are met
Around night's pilgrim pale.

“The lark at length hath left the skies
The throstle sings alone;
And far the vagrant cuckoo flies,
To seek a kinder zone;
But other music still is here,
Though fields are bare and woods are sere—
Where the lone robin warbles clear
His soft and plaintive tone.

“While heaven is blue, and earth is green—
Come, at my earnest call,
Ere winter sadden all the scene
Beneath his snowy pall;
The fitful wailing of the woods—
The solemn roar of deepening floods,
Sent forth from Nature's solitudes,
Proclaim my coming fall.”

THE VOICE OF WINTER.

“Lone victim of Tyranny's doom,
Bowed down to his pitiless will,
I come o'er the earth with my grandeur and gloom,
And though I have nothing of freshness and bloom,
I know that thou lovest me still.

“With a spirit unwearied and warm,
Thou hast sported with me from a child;
Thou hast watch'd my career on the wings of the storm—
Thou hast fearlessly followed my shadowy form
Over mountain, and valley, and wild.

“In the depths of some desolate vale,
Thou hast given thy breast to the blast,
As I built up my snow-drift, and scattered my hail;
Thou didst hear my stern voice in the sweep of the gale,
And shouted with joy as I passed.

“Young Spring may be tender and bland,
With her flowers like the stars of the sky;
Bright Summer may breathe his warm soul o'er the land,
And Autumn may open a bountiful hand;—
But none are so mighty as I.

“Through the silent dominions of Night
I go to my wonderful play;
While the tremulous pole-star burns piercingly bright,
I cover the earth with a mantle of light,
To dazzle the dawning of day.

“There's a silvery crisp on the grass,
And a cluster of gems on the thorn;
The boughs of the forest grow still as I pass,—
The reeds stand erect in the frozen morass,
Unstirred by the breath of the morn.

“On the uttermost verge of the year,
As I sit on my crystalline throne,
I send out my frost-spirit, cloudless and clear,
And the rivers are stayed in their onward career—
The cataracts stiffen to stone.

“But when my vast power hath begun
To lessen the comforts of men,
I withdraw my dim veil from the face of the sun,
And the floods, and the streams, and the rivulets run,
On—on to the ocean again.

“But though I am savage and strong,
And though I am sullen and cold,
I have hearth-stones encircled by many a throng,
Who awaken the jest, and the dance, and the song,
As if they would never grow old.

“Sad Captive, awake from thy thrall,—
Come back to the home of thy birth!
Festivity ringeth in cottage and hall,
Where the holly and mistletoe garland the wall,
And shake to the music of mirth.

“Fair forms which thou canst not forget—
Fond hearts with affection that burn—
The true and the tender are cheerfully met,
Where the wine-cup is filled, and the banquet is set
To welcome thy happy return.

“The face of thy father is bright—
Thy child is awake on his knee—
The wife of thy bosom is mad with delight,
Oh! fly to her faithful embraces to-night,
For liberty waiteth for thee!”

Such were the visions that his grief beguiled;
And as the last voice to his fancy spoke,
He sprang to clasp the mother of his child—
And in the frenzy of his joy—awoke!
Brief was that joy! for on his senses broke
The dread, dark, cold reality of pain;
He heard the midnight bell's discordant stroke—
He heard the clank of his unbroken chain,
And knew that he had dreamed of liberty in vain!

He spoke not, for his feelings kept him dumb;
He did not weep, for sorrow's fount was dry;
He could not move, so faint had he become,—
He only felt how gladly he could die!

Calm was his aspect, though his languid eye
Had something of a wild imploring look;
Without a word, a struggle, or a sigh—
Stretched in the darkness of his dungeon nook,—
He lay till his pure soul her tenement forsook.

Day dawned in splendour, and the summer heaven
Shone with a blue serenity of light;
To the rich bosom of the earth was given
All that is blooming, bountiful, and bright;
Birds hailed the morn, and breezes in their flight
Swept fragrance from the flowers; rejoicing waves
Sang to the ear, and sparkled to the sight;
The world, too lovely for a race of slaves,
Seemed at that pleasant hour as though it held no graves.

But Death had been his latest, kindest friend,
And snatched the Captive from his earthly thrall;
Though brief his course, and desolate his end,
Freedom was strengthened by her martyr's fall.
Ten thousand souls have answered to his call,
And sown the seeds of truth, which soon shall grow
To fair and full maturity for all;
And Man that hour of happiness shall know,
When universal love shall blend all hearts below!

TO SYLVAN.

Bard of the woods, thy tributary lay,
Though brief and simple, is a welcome boon;
Thus may our souls in sympathy commune,
Through the rude song of many a future day.
Thou walkest forth with Nature, whose sweet way
Is ever open, lovely, and serene;
Thy harp is strung to Liberty—the queen
Whose voice all hearts instinctively obey.
The Muse hath moved thee with a gentle sway,
And plucked thee flowers of fancy here and there;
Long may she soothe thee in the time of care,
When things less pure might lead thy soul astray;
May all of good which thou hast wished for me,
Fall back with seven-fold bounty upon thee!

Mr. R. W. Procter of Manchester.

THE PROFLIGATE AWAKENED.

Away from my heart and my haunts, Dissipation!—
Away, for thy smiles are less sweet than before;
Thou temptest in vain, for thy guilty libation
Bewilders my soul and my senses no more!

Oh! curs'd was the hour when thy cup stood before me,
All sparkling with light, and allured me to taste;
For thy spirit of folly and frenzy came o'er me,
And the feelings of virtue were running to waste.

Since then I have lived with thy syren called Pleasure—
(Can Vice be allied with so gentle a name?)
My footsteps have trod each iniquitous measure,
Through mazes of ruin, disorder, and shame.

I have shared all the drunkard's revolting excesses,
The fiend and the brute gleaming fierce in my eyes;
I have smiled at the harlot's dissembling caresses,
And fed on her loathsome and treacherous sighs.

I have sported with Woman's confiding affection,—
Exulted and triumphed o'er purity's fall;
And the pangs that awake in that one recollection,
Imbue every thought—every feeling—with gall.

Shall the wife who despite of my injuries loves me,
Receive undeserving reproaches and pain?
Shall the wife who in sorrow and kindness reproves me,
Appeal to my heart and my judgment in vain?

Ah, no! to the dictates of truth and of reason,
Again, even now, let my ear be inclined;
Some Angel of Pity may bring back the season
Of long-banished virtue and peace to my mind.

Away with the soul-sinking draught that enslaved me—
A slumberless monitor bids me beware;
One drop from the Fountain of Mercy hath saved me
A life of transgression—a death of despair.

Henceforth let the dear ones of home come around me,
With words of affection, and smiles of delight;
Let me cherish those ties by which Nature hath bound me,
The Sober Man's pleasures are boundless and bright.

TO LILLA, WEEPING.

Yes, thou hast cause to weep, lone maiden!
Those dark and drooping lids are laden
With sorrow's bitterest tears;
Thine eye hath lost its wonted brightness,—
Thy cheek its glow—thy step its lightness,—
No smile thine aspect cheers.

Think not of him whose arts bereaved thee
Of peace and joy—whose words deceived thee
In passion's witching tone;
Although thy kindred turn and shun thee,
And cast their cruel scorn upon thee,
For errors scarce thine own.

I, too, have wept o'er many a token
Of hope, and love, and friendship broken,
Which wrung me to the core:—
Fain would I charm thy soul from sadness,
And bring the light of guiltless gladness
Around thee, as before.

One heart hath never yet dissembled,
But with that hopeless feeling trembled,
Which pride could not subdue;
And now, when ready tongues upbraid thee,—
When all abandon and degrade thee,
That heart can still be true.

Come, let us leave the world behind us,
And where its malice may not find us,
Seek out a home of rest;
There shall my own untired devotion
Calm down each memory-stirred emotion
That lingers in thy breast.

THERE IS BEAUTY.

There is beauty o'er all this delectable world,
Which wakes at the first golden touch of the light;
There is beauty when Morn hath her banner unfurled,
Or stars twinkle out from the depths of the Night;
There is beauty on Ocean's vast, verdureless plains,
Though lashed into fury, or lulled into calm;
There is beauty on Land, and its countless domains—
Its corn-fields of plenty—its meadows of balm:—
Oh, God of Creation! these sights are of Thee!
Thou surely hast made them for none but the free!

There is music when Summer is with us on earth,
Sent forth from the valley, the mountain, the sky:
There is music where fountains and rivers have birth,
Or leaves whisper soft as the wind passeth by;
There is music in voices that gladden our homes,
In the lay of the mother—the laugh of the child;
There is music wherever the wanderer roams,
In city or solitude, garden, or wild:—
Oh, God of Creation! these sounds are of Thee!
Thou surely hast made them for none but the free!

STANZAS,

ADDRESSED TO THE CHILD OF MY POET-FRIEND, J. B. ROGERSON.

Young Ariel of the Poet's home,
Thou fair and frolic boy,
May every blessing round thee come,
Unmingled with alloy!
And wheresoe'er thy footsteps stray,
Along the world's uncertain way,
May love, and hope and joy,
Their choicest flowers around thee fling,
Without a blight, without a sting!

A spirit looketh from thine eyes,
So softly, darkly clear;
Thy thoughts gush forth without disguise,
Unchecked by shame or fear:
There is a music in thy words,
Sweet as the sound of brooks and birds,
When summer hours are near;
And every gesture, look, and tone,
Make the beholder's heart thine own.

Thou sportest round thy father's hearth
With ever-changing glee,
And all who listen to thy mirth
Grow young again with thee:

Thy fitful song, thy joyful shout,
Thy merry gambols round about,
Thy laughter fresh and free;
All, all combine to make us bless
Thy form of life and loveliness.

Thou art a fair and tranquil thing,
When wearied into rest,
Like a young lark with folded wing,
Within its grassy nest;
But when the night hath passed, thy lay
Hails the first blush of kindling day,
And from thy mother's breast
Thou leapest forth with gladsome bound,
To walk in Pleasure's daily round.

Oh, what a place of silent gloom
Thy father's house would seem,
If thou wert summoned to the tomb
In childhood's early dream,
With every beauty in thy form,
With all thy first affections warm,
And in thy mind a beam
Of rare and intellectual fire,
Such as hath raised thy gifted sire!

I had a child—and such a child,
O God!—can I forget!
So fair, so fond, so undefiled—
I see his image yet;
With breaking heart, but tearless eye,
I watched my spring-flower fade and die,
My lode-star wane and set;
And still I wrestle with my grief,
For time hath brought me no relief.

I mingle with the thoughtless throng,
But even there I feel;
I breathe some sorrow in my song,
But may not all reveal;
I know that nought of worldly ill
Can agonize my lost one, still
My wounds I cannot heal,
But wander, musing, mourning on,
As though my every hope were gone.

Away with this unquiet strain,—
This echo of despair;
Why should I speak to thee of pain,
Or slow-consuming care?
Much have I seen of human strife,
Along the shadowy path of life,—
Much have I had to bear;
But ah! 'tis yet too soon, my boy,
To break thy transient dream of joy!

Child of delight! had I the power
Thy destiny to weave,
Thou shouldst not know one single hour
To make thy spirit grieve:
But earth should meet thy radiant eyes
Like the first look of Paradise
To love-enraptured Eve,
And heaven at last should take thee in,
Without one stain of mortal sin.

SPRING.

I pause and listen, for the Cuckoo's voice
Floats from the vernal depths of yonder vale,
Whose aspect brightens at the gaze of morn.
Green woods, free winds, and sparkling waves rejoice—
Sweet sounds, sweet odours freight the wanton gale,
And April's parting tear-drops gem the thorn.
Through field and glade the truant school-boy sings,
And where in quiet nooks the primrose springs,
Sits down to weave a coronet of flowers;
From hill to hill a cheering spirit flies,
Talks in the streamlet—laughs along the skies,
And breathes glad music through the forest bowers:—
God of Creation! on this mountain shrine,
I praise, I worship thee, through this fair world of thine!

A FAREWELL TO POESY.

Another weary day was past,—
Another night had come at last,
Its welcome calm diffusing;
Without a light, without a book,
I sat beside my chimney nook,
In painful silence musing.

The cricket chirped within the gloom,
The kitten gambolled round the room
In wild and wanton gladness;
While I, a thing of nobler birth,
A reasoning denizen of earth,
Gave up my soul to sadness.

My children were resigned to sleep,
My wife had turned aside to weep
In unavailing sorrow;
She mourned for one lost, lost for aye,—
Pined o'er the troubles of to-day,
And feared the coming morrow.

I turned the glance of memory back,
Along the rude and chequered track
Which manhood set before me;
Then forward as I cast my eye,
Seeing no gleam of comfort nigh,
Despairing dreams came o'er me:—

I thought of all my labours vain—
The watchful nights, the days of pain,
Which I had more than tasted;
Of all my false and foolish pride,
My humble talents misapplied,
And hours of leisure wasted:—

I thought how I had wandered far,
Allured by some malignant star,
In other lands a stranger!
How often I had gone unfed,
Without a home, without a bed,
And lain me down in danger.

Thus, after twenty years of life
Made up of wretchedness and strife,
Tired hope, and vain endeavour,
I smote my brow in bitter mood,
My mind a peopled solitude,
Remote from peace as ever.

“Hence!” I exclaimed, “ye dazzling dreams!
Nor tempt me with your idle themes,
Soft song, and tuneful story:
I'll break my harp, I'll burn my lays,
I'll sigh no more for empty praise,
And unsubstantial glory.

“Tis true, I've sat on Fancy's throne,
King of a region called my own,
In fairy worlds ideal;
But ah! the charms that Fancy wrought,
Were apt to make me set at nought
The tangible and real.

“I've loved, ‘not wisely, but too well,’
The mixed and soul-dissolving spell
Of poetry and passion:
I've suffered strangely for their sake,—
Henceforth I'll follow in the wake
Of feelings more in fashion.

“Farewell to Shakespeare's matchless name,
Farewell to Milton's hallowed fame,
And Goldsmith's milder measures;
Farewell to Byron's thrilling powers,
Farewell to Moore's resplendent flowers,
And Campbell's polished ‘Pleasures.’

“Farewell, sweet Poet of the Plough,
Who wandered with a thoughtful brow,
By Coila's hills and fountains;
Farewell to thee, too, Shepherd Bard,
Whose strain was wild, whose lot was hard,
On Ettrick's barren mountains.

“Farewell, young Keats, whose luscious lore
With beauty's sweet excess runs o'er,
And all that genius giveth;
Farewell to Shelley, with a sigh,
Whose strengthening fame can never die
While Truth or Freedom liveth.

“Farewell to all the needy throng,
Who waste their energies in song,
And bright illusions cherish:
Here I renounce the Muse divine,
Why should I worship at her shrine,
To please the world—and perish?”

TO THE POLES, AFTER THEIR SUBJUGATION.

Devoted people! are ye fallen at last,
Spite of the widow's prayer, the orphan's wail!
What could a thousand patriot swords avail
Where host on host poured merciless and fast?
Your strength—your hope—your freedom, too, is past!
Crushed by the ruler of a savage land,
In vain ye cried for some supporting hand,
While faithless nations meanly stood aghast;
Shame be their portion! could they hear the blast
Sent forth by harassed Liberty, nor save
Her noblest martyrs, the defeated brave,
Around whose limbs despotic chains are cast!
How could they stand the foremost of the free,
And turn unheeding from thy wrongs and thee?

THE CARRIER TO HIS PONY.

Farewell to thee, Bobby; since fate has decreed,
Though my feelings at parting are painful indeed:
The hand of the stranger may lead thee away
To stables more costly, and pastures more gay;
But fond recollection will still wander back
To thy once happy stall, and its well-supplied rack;
To the friend who bestrode thee with pleasure's sweet throb—
Adieu, my companion! farewell to thee, Bob!

Farewell to thee, Bobby; thy hoof never pressed
The long sunny tracts of Arabia the Blessed,
But Cambria's hills, of all spots upon earth,
Lay claim to thy parentage, breeding, and birth:
Thy coat, though unpolished, was dear unto me;
Thy limbs, too, though slender, were faithful and free;
Thou wert willing to toil, whatsoe'er was the job—
Adieu, my companion! farewell to thee, Bob!

Farewell to thee, Bobby; how oft hast thou sped
Long miles to procure thy old master his bread:
How I felt and acknowledged thy efforts to keep
A cautious, firm foot on the dangerous steep;
How cheerful I've seen thee thy journey pursue,
Till home, that sweet resting-place, rose into view,
With pleasures unknown to the world's giddy mob—
Adieu, my companion! farewell to thee, Bob!

Farewell to thee, Bobby; I ne'er can forget
Thy artless attachment, my Cambrian pet;
For Man and his fellowship offer no charms,
And Nature hath shut me from Woman's fond arms;
Thou wert all that I loved—but 'tis done, thou art sold,
My friend and my peace I have bartered for gold;
I shall sigh as I look on the dross in my fob—
Adieu, my companion! farewell to thee, Bob!

Farewell to thee, Bobby; but ere thou art gone,
Take one measure more of the corn thou hast won:
Indulge once again in a long cooling draught,
From the pool which for years thou hast heartily quaffed:
Thou goest; thine owner, who hears me complain,
Hath mounted thy saddle and taken thy rein!
And I see thee depart with a tear and a sob—
Adieu, my companion! farewell to thee, Bob!

100

THE OAK AND THE SAPLING.

I beheld an oak, a goodly oak,
In his prime he seemed to flourish:
For the sun o'er his boughs in beauty broke,
And the rain came down to nourish:
He shook from his locks the acorn cup,
To the grassy earth around him,
And soon a kindred plant sprung up,
From the fertile soil that bound him.

Then the goodly oak looked calmly down
On the infant stem beside him,
And spread his broad, umbrageous crown,
To shelter, shade, and guide him;
Some summer seasons came and passed,
Some wintry times of danger,
While the thunder stroke, and the boreal blast,
Swept harmless o'er the stranger.

But the tempest came in its ruthless ire,—
Alas, for the fondly cherished!
For the storm-bolt fell with its fatal fire,
And the shattered sapling perished;
Then the parent-tree, a lonely one,
Drooped fast in every weather,
And both, ere many moons were gone,
Lay stretched on the plain together.

101

WRITTEN IN AFFLICTION.

Softly careering on the wintry breeze,
Comes the faint music of yon distant bells,
As sad I sit beneath these naked trees,
Whose mournful sobbings sound like Joy's farewells.
Touched by their melody, my full heart swells—
The cloudy future, and the happy past
Around me come, till retrospection dwells
With vain regret on days which could not last.
Behold me on the sea of Manhood cast,
Without a chart to guide, or helm to steer;
The constant sport of every adverse blast—
No breeze of hope, no port of shelter near;
But time shall speed me o'er the dangerous wave—
There is no peaceful haven but the grave!

102

AN APPEAL ON BEHALF OF THE UNEDUCATED.

“It is not good that man be without knowledge.” Proverbs.

Well may the pure Philanthropist complain
Of Barbarism's rude, protracted reign;
Well may he yearn to curb its savage sway,
When insult galls him on the public way;
When every human haunt, in every hour,
Can furnish proofs of a degrading power,—
Where lewd deportment and unpolished jeer
Offend the eye, and jar upon the ear,
And beings, fashioned by a Power benign,
Seem to forget their Maker's hand divine.

Turn to the city, and let Truth declare
How much of what we mourn is centred there;
At every step how many evils greet
The wandering eye, and catch unwary feet—
The thousands who neglect each worthy aim,
For brutalising sport and vulgar game;
The stately tavern, with unholy light,
Glaring athwart the shadows of the night;
The sickening scene of drunkenness and din,
Where song and music minister to sin;
The ribald language, and the shameless face,
The guilty passion, and the lewd embrace;
The crafty mendicant, the felon vile,
The ruffian's menace, and the harlot's wile;

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The artful gesture, the lascivious leer,
The lip of falsehood, and the specious tear;
The gambler broken upon Fortune's wheel,
The deep despair which pride can not conceal;
And, closing all, the dungeon's awful gloom,
Where ripe transgression finds an early doom.

Such is this moral wilderness; and so
Profuse and rank its thousand evils grow;
And though 'tis true that worthier plants are found,
Struggling for life in uncongenial ground,—
Their buds of promise wither as they spring,
Fanned by Adversity's malignant wing;
Or, far too few a just regard to share,
They waste their “sweetness on the desert air;”
While sordid ignorance and sorrowing ruth,
Usurp the place of happiness and truth.

Not to the town are vicious things confined,
But fly abroad, unfettered as the wind;
O'er human feelings sway with stern control,
And sit in shadow on the human soul.

Behold the wretch, besotted and beguiled,
Whose hours are wasted, and whose thoughts defiled,
Within those dens of drunkenness, that stand
Breathing a moral poison o'er the land:
Say, can ye view his lineaments, and trace
Aught of intelligence and manly grace?
Where is the soul's serene effulgence—where?
Worse than Cimmerian darkness broodeth there.
Pent in a narrow and a noisome room,
Where sound is discord, and where light is gloom—
He drinks, talks loudly, and with many a curse,
Rails at his lot, yet blindly makes it worse;
Of freedom and oppression learns to rave,
Himself at once the enslaver and the slave;—

104

Slave to a thousand vices that destroy
His public honour, and his private joy;
Surround him with an atmosphere of strife,
And take all sweetness from his cup of life.
But hark! at once forgetful of his theme,
“A change comes o'er the spirit of his dream;”
Renewed potations put all cares to flight,
And mirth becomes the watchword of the night.
The ribald tale, loose jest, and song obscene,
Provoke the draught, and fill the pause between;
And as the cup of frenzy circles round,
The last remains of decency are drowned;
Through every vein the subtle demon flies,
Distorts the visage and inflames the eyes;
Brings out the hidden rancour of the breast,
In selfish thoughts malignantly expressed:
From every tongue a loud defiance falls,
Till general uproar echoes round the walls.

Seek ye the drunkard at his sober toil,
Tending the loom, or sweating o'er the soil,—
An unenlightened slave your glance shall greet,
Scarce wiser than the clod beneath his feet.
Then turn ye to his household; who can tell
The daily feuds of that domestic hell?
Where the harsh husband and the fretful wife
Live in a bitter element of strife;
Where sons, grown wild, no gentle force can tame,
Heirs to the father's vices and his shame;
Where daughters from the path of duty stray,
And cast the charm of modesty away:
Without one sweet remembrance of the past,
They wed themselves to misery at last.

Though sad the subject of my feeble strain,
'Tis no creation of the poet's brain;

105

Though rude and dark the picture I have traced,
Its painful truth has yet to be effaced.
All are not equally in heart depraved,—
All are not equally in soul enslaved;
Yet, even those who curb some few desires,
And walk with prudence as the world requires,—
They cannot feel the pure delight that springs
From constant converse with all nobler things;
Bound to a beaten track, they cannot know
How many flowers along its margin grow;
They reap no joy from wit or wisdom's lore,
But toil, eat, drink, and sleep—and nothing more.

And must this ever be? must man's sad doom
Be still to walk in fetters and in gloom;—
An unimproving savage from his birth—
A mere machine of animated earth?
Must he still live in mind and limb a slave,
Groping his weary passage to the grave?
If so, then he was born to wear a chain,
And God endowed him with a soul in vain!

Ye wealthy magnates of my native land,
Stretch forth, in pity, an assisting hand;
Give back a portion of your ample store,
To purchase wholesome knowledge for the poor;
Knowledge to search the universe, and find
Exhaustless food and rapture for the mind;
Knowledge to nurse those feelings of the breast
Which yield them peace, and banish all the rest;
Knowledge to know the wrong and choose the right,
Increasing still in intellectual might,
Till falsehood, error, thraldom, crime, and ruth,
Melt in the splendour of immortal truth.

Priests of Religion, if to you be given
A delegated love and power from heaven,

106

Forget the jar of interests and creeds,
And cherish virtue less in words than deeds.
Give us a proof of your high mission here,—
Be zealous, gentle, upright and sincere;
Use the pure doctrines of the Sacred Page,
To rouse and rectify the selfish age;
Speak to the millions with a father's voice,
Till every child of darkness shall rejoice;
Reject the formal prayer, the flowery speech,—
Your best and noblest province is to teach;
Nor need ye spend your energies for nought,
While one sad soul is willing to be taught.

Oh! glorious task! and be that task your own,
To wake new feelings in the heart of stone,
To free the mind from each unworthy thrall,
And bring the boon of liberty to all.

Go to the sons of Labour, and inspire
Their sluggish souls with intellectual fire:
Teach them to think, and, thinking, to explore
A glorious realm unknown to them before;
Give them the eyes of Knowledge, to behold
The wondrous things which Science can unfold;
Teach them to feel the beauty and the grace
Which breathe unceasingly from Nature's face;
The purity of Spring's delicious morn,
When pleasant sounds and mingled sweets are born;
The silent splendour of a Summer's noon,
When earth is sleeping in the lap of June:
The gorgeous hues of Autumn's evening hour,—
Corn in the fields, and fruitage in the bower;
The night of Winter, whose vast flag unfurled,
Is gemmed with stars, and every star a world:
From these the mind shall wing its way above,
To Him, the soul of harmony and love.

107

Oh, teach them this,—and more than this, impart
A humanizing sympathy of heart;
That God-like feeling of the gentle breast,
For ever blessing, and for ever blest;
That charitable link, which ought to bind
The highest and the humblest of mankind!

Would they be free,—Oh, teach them to despise
The heart of hatred, and the lip of lies,
Of those who seek to lead them from the way
Of peace and truth, to dazzle and betray;
Tell them that freedom never yet was won
By the rash deeds that Anarchy hath done;
Tell them that mental, and that moral power,
Which grows and strengthens with each passing hour,
Shall break the tyrant's rod, the bondsman's chain,
Without the bleeding of one human vein.

Would they be blest,—Oh, teach them to become
The source of blessings in their tranquil home;
To break the stubborn spirit of the child,
With firm example and with precept mild;
To pour into the ear of growing youth,
All the pure things of knowledge and of truth;
To help the gentle and enduring wife,
To banish care, and poverty, and strife;
In every word, in every deed, to blend
The sage, the sire, the husband, and the friend.

Ye sacred Preachers, who profess to show
The shortest path to happiness below,—
Ye sons of Science, who have brought to birth
Ten thousand hidden wonders of the earth,—
Ye mighty Poets, who have sung so well
The beauties of the world wherein ye dwell,—
Ye true Philanthropists, who yearn to chase
The sins and sorrows of the human race,—

108

Your love, your power, your intellect unite,
And bring mankind from darkness into light!

They come, a feeling and a faithful band,
To teach the lowly of my native land;
Knowledge is waving her exulting wings,
And truth is bursting from a thousand springs;
A few brief years, this present hour shall seem
The dim remembrance of a painful dream.

Blest be your efforts, ye enlightened few,
Followers of knowledge, and of virtue too;
Ye who are toiling with a generous zeal,
Your end and hope, the poor man's mental weal:
Blest be your liberal, well-directed plan,
To cheer, instruct, and elevate the man,—
Yield him a solace to subdue his cares,
And make him worthy of the form he wears!

109

THE CHILD OF SONG.

“What is he?
The worshipped and the poor—a child of song!”
Eliza Cook.

A Child of Song! Oh, sadly pleasing name,
Which steals like music o'er my gladdened heart,
And, uttered by the myriad lips of fame,
Becomes a spell whose power will ne'er depart.

Oh! Child of Song, the voice of memory brings
Strange recollections of thy life and lyre;—
The pride that burns, the poverty that stings,
The brief hopes born to dazzle and expire.

I think of him, the mighty one of old—
Time-honoured Homer, aged, poor, and blind;
Who suffered much, as history hath told,
Yet filled the world with his immortal mind.

I think of Ovid, by the lonely main
Mourning his exile from imperial Rome;
Of Tasso, writhing in his dungeon chain,
Removed from love, from liberty, and home.

I think of Milton—Christian, bard, and sage,
Who sang Man's primal purity and sin,
Who strove for freedom in a stormy age,
Bereft of light, save that which burned within.

110

Musing on Chatterton, my eyes grow dim
With heart-felt tears, which will not be denied;
Well may a kindred spirit feel for him,—
“The sleepless boy, who perished in his pride.”

Nor less for Burns, that splendour of the north,
That bright, brief meteor in the heaven of song;
Though frail, his heart could sympathise with worth;
Though poor, his soul could spurn the oppressor's wrong.

And where lies gentle Keats, to whom was given
The rarest gift that moves the hearts of men?
Beneath the blue of an Italian heaven,
Slain by the poison of the critic's pen.

These, and a thousand more, have wrestled hard,
Beneath Misfortune's unrelenting ban;
The selfish world withheld the due reward,—
Worshipped the poet, but o'erlooked the man.

Such is the Minstrel's lot; yet do not deem
That all things unto him are sad and cold;
For he hath joy amid the realms of dream,
And mental treasures which can not be told.

His is the universe,—around, above,
Beauty is ever present to his eye;
He breathes the elements of hope and love,
And shrines his thoughts in words that ne'er will die.

When ills oppress, he grasps the soothing lyre,
And throws his cunning hand athwart the strings,
Feels in his soul the pure ethereal fire,
And links his language with eternal things.

111

Beneath the grandeur of the palace dome
The living music of his song is heard;
Beneath the roof-tree of the humble home,
The strongest soul, the coldest heart is stirred.

Then who would change the Poet's dark career
For all that power can grant, that wealth can give?
Man's common lot may be his portion here,
But when he dies, he does not cease to live!

112

TO B. S.

While yet my harp retains its youthful tone,
And rings responsive to the voice of song;
Ere the cold world shall leave the Bard alone,
While yet my feelings are unstained and strong,—
Thou who wouldst make the slaves of England free,
I weave this tribute of regard to thee.

Thou hast a head for knowledge and for truth,—
Thou hast a heart for friendship and for love;
And though the world may bind thee down, in sooth,
Thy soul doth often take a flight above
The vulgar level of ignoble things,
Sweeping the realms of thought with vigorous wings.

My chequered lot may yet be darker still,—
For thee, old Time may have bright days in store;
But through our brief existence, good or ill,
May our two hearts but sympathise the more,
Without one hour of coldness, care, or strife,
To fling its shadow on the path of life.

113

MY COUNTRY AND MY QUEEN.

Rejoice, rejoice, ye loyal band,
In social mirth and glee,
And yield the Sovereign of your land
The homage of the free;
Let no rude tongue your pleasures mar,
Nor discord come between;
Be this the spell of harmony—
Your Country and your Queen.

Let friendship fill the festal cup,
Dispensing joy to all;
Let the rich forget that they are great,
The poor forget their thrall;
Let generous feelings spring to life,
Where enmity hath been,
And faction hear the Patriot cry—
“My Country and my Queen!”

The Briton's fame o'er all the earth,
Is scattered far and wide;
They own his power on every shore,
He's lord on Ocean's tide;

114

Oh! he hath played a fearless part
In many a glorious scene,
And still his manly breast shall guard
His Country and his Queen.

Why should I sing of blood and strife?—
Let War's red flag be furled,
And never meet the breeze again,
To rouse a peaceful world;
Let nations turn to Freedom's star,
And Truth's unclouded sheen;
Let Britain's sons have cause to bless
Their Country and their Queen.

Then, hail, Victoria! hail to thee!
Our hearts shall be thine own;
We pray that Heaven may lend thee light
To dignify the throne:
Thou rulest o'er as fair a realm
As e'er the sun hath seen;
Long may thy people's watchword be,—
“Our Country and our Queen!”

115

TO JULIUS.

Oh, Julius! friend of the forsaken poor,
Champion of all who feel the Oppressor's wrong—
Teacher of doctrines destined to endure;
Thou fightest for the weak against the strong,—
Thy name is breathed by many a grateful throng:
A few may slander thee, but thousands raise
Their loud and fearless voices in thy praise,
Speaking of virtues which to thee belong.
Keep on, and swerve not in thy high career,—
Be what thou hast been, do as thou hast done;
And if thy heart be, as we think, sincere,
Then heaven will prosper what thou hast begun:
That God who set the sons of Israel free,
Shall shield, shall animate, and strengthen thee!

116

THERE'S FALSEHOOD.

There's falsehood in those eyes of light,
In every glance, in every ray;
Too like those meteors of the night,
Which sparkle, lure us, and betray:—
Oh, turn those fatal eyes from me,
For mine hath ceased to weep for thee.

There's falsehood on thy lip, alas!
Severer far than its disdain;
Oh, that its broken vows could pass,
Lost in oblivion, back again!
That lip hath breathed no truth to me,
And mine shall cease to speak of thee.

There's falsehood in thy heart of guile,—
Couched in the centre, there it lies;
Thy ready tear, and dazzling smile,
Fling o'er the fiend a sweet disguise:—
Away, frail maid! thy heart is free,
And mine hath ceased to throb for thee!

117

LINES

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A SELECTION OF POEMS, ENTITLED “THE TOKEN OF AFFECTION.”

Behold Affection's garden, whose sweet flowers—
A blending of all odours, forms, and hues,—
Were nursed by Fancy and the gentle Muse,
In heaven-born Poesy's delightful bowers.
Ye who appreciate the Poet's powers,
And love the bright creations of his mind,
Come, linger here awhile, and ye shall find
A noble solace in your milder hours:
Here Byron's genius like an eagle towers
In dread sublimity, while Rogers' lute,
Moore's native harp, and Campbell's classic flute,
Mingle in harmony, as beams with showers.
Can their high strains of inspiration roll,
Nor soothe the heart, nor elevate the soul?

118

THE ROSE AND THE NIGHTINGALE.

RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO HYPATIA.

The sun was away in the golden west,
And the lark had returned to his lowly nest;
And a hush and a feeling o'er earth was cast,
Which told that the glory of day was past;—
As I lingered to muse in a valley fair,
Where the Wild-rose blushed in the scented air,
And sighed, as she drooped on her trembling tree—
“My own loved Nightingale, come to me!”

The sun went down, but the summer moon
Rose up from her eastern harem soon,
And flung on the path of approaching Night
Soft gleams from her bosom of pearly light.
Pale Evening paused as she turned and wept
On the folded flowers as they sweetly slept;
But the Rose still sighed on her trembling tree—
“My own loved Nightingale, come to me!”

At length night came,—a mysterious hour,
When silence and gloom have a wondrous power;
And the sky hung o'er my uplifted head,
Like a gem-strewn floor where the angels tread:
The glow-worm shone, and the vesper-star
Looked out from its deep blue home afar,

119

And the Nightingale sang from his shadowy tree,—
“My own loved Rose, I am come to thee!”

The minstrel of solitude sang so well,
That my soul soon caught the melodious spell;
And my fond heart felt what my ear had heard,—
A lesson of love from that lonely bird:
I flew to the maid of my youthful choice,
With a bounding step and an earnest voice,
And cried, as I bent my adoring knee—
“Bright Rose of Truth, I am come to thee!”

120

TEMPERANCE SONG.

Oh! tempt me no more to the wine-brimming bowl,
Nor say 'twill arouse me to gladness;
I have felt how it breaks the repose of the soul,
And fires every frailty to madness;
But fill me a cup where the bright waters flow,
From that health and freshness I'll borrow;
'Tis the purest of nectars that sparkle below,
Since it brings neither sickness nor sorrow.

Oh! look not for me where the drunkard is found,
A stranger to virtue and quiet;
Where the voice of affection and conscience is drowned,
In fierce Bacchanalian riot;
On the hearth of my home, a more tranquil retreat,
My enjoyments are guiltless and cheering,
Where the smile of my wife becomes daily more sweet,
And the kiss of my child more endearing.

Oh! turn thee, deluded one, turn and forsake
Those haunts whose excitements enslave thee;
Be firm in thy manhood, let reason awake,
While Pity is yearning to save thee.
With me all unholy allurements are past—
May I swerve from my rectitude never!
No, rather than sink to perdition at last,
One and all, I abjure them for ever!

121

A SICK MAN'S FANCIES.

In the blessed time of the vernal spring,
A joyless, hopeless, feeble thing—
I lay on a sleepless bed of pain,
While fever burned in my heart and brain;
My eyes were sunk in my throbbing head;
My cheeks with a livid hue were spread;
My thin, withered hands were dry and pale,
As the leaves that float in the autumn gale;
My cries of distress were loud and long,
For a fiery thirst was upon my tongue.
The thoughts that awoke in my wandering mind
Were tossed like trees in a stormy wind;
My ears were stunned with incessant sound,
From a legion of shadows that hemmed me round;
While my fancy flashed into fitful gleams,
And hurried me off to a land of dreams.

Methought I stood at meridian day
In a desolate region far away,
Where the wild Arab roams with a lawless band,
And the desert-ship sails o'er a sea of sand;
Where the ostrich runs with a wondrous speed,
As fleet and as far as the tameless steed;
Where earth puts forth not a spot of bloom,
And feels not a plough but the dread simoom;
Where the sun looks down with oppressive glare,
And the heart grows faint with the sultry air;

122

Where the wanderer thinks of his home in vain,
And finds a lone grave on that wide, wide plain.
'Twas there I stood, and with languid eye
Looked abroad on the dreary earth and sky;
Not a blade of green verdure smiled in my view,—
Not a gleaming of water the sad waste through,—
Not the breath of a breeze, not the scent of a flower,
To cheer my lorn soul in that perilous hour.

Thirsting and weary I wandered on,
But my hopes of relief and rest were gone;
Till at length I beheld what seemed to be
The broad bright face of an inland sea,—
A mass of mute water of silvery sheen,
Where the prow of a vessel had never been.
Oh! how I panted to reach its brink,
And refresh my soul with delicious drink!
Oh! how I yearned to be there, and lave
My feverish limbs in its lucid wave!
I flew o'er the waste with a madman's flight—
But a vision of beauty had mocked my sight;
For scarce a short league had my bare feet sped,
Than my last hope vanished—the waters fled!
And as I looked back with despairing mind,
On the sandy space I had left behind,
I marvelled to see on the farthest plain
The false, fair wave I had followed in vain!

My fancy changed, and methought that I
Lay naked and faint 'neath a tropic sky;
A mariner wrecked, and compelled to float
In a mastless, sailless, rudderless boat;
Above me a cloudless welkin wide,
Below me a green and waveless tide,
Where never a breath o'er its surface blew,—
Where languid and slow the sea-bird flew.

123

In thought I lay many nightless days,
While the terrible sun's unconquered blaze
Blistered and scorched my shrivelled skin,
Till the fountains of blood felt dry within.
The raging of hunger aroused me first,
But that soon passed, and remorseless thirst
Burned in my throat with increased desire,
Till my breath was flame, and my tongue was fire;
And the bitter wave, as I stooped to sip,
Was turned to salt on my baffled lip.

For months and years—for ages of pain,
I lay without hope on the stagnant main,
Consumed and destroyed by slow degrees,
On the pitiless breast of those lonely seas.
I gnawed my flesh with a frantic yell,
And greedily drank of the drops that fell;
Till, strong in my agony, up I sprang—
While the startled air with my curses rang—
And plunged in the sunny and silent deep,
To find in its caverns a long, long sleep.

Still in my dream's unwelcome thrall,
I passed by the ancient Memphian wall,
And wandered, beneath warm Summer's smile,
On the fertile banks of the mighty Nile.
The thirst within me now seemed to be
Increased to a dread intensity;
So great, indeed, I was fain to throw
My weary form in the waters below:
But scarce had I stooped to taste of the flood,
Than its whole bright surface was turned to blood,
And crocodiles came from their slimy lair,
Sent by the fiends to devour me there;
And lest from their jaws I should hope to spring,
They hemmed me round with a terrible ring.

124

With an effort for life, I strove to cry,
But my soundless throat was husk and dry:
I writhed in my agony,—gasped for breath,
And would have rejoiced at a gentler death;
But I could not keep my dire foes at bay—
They gathered around their hopeless prey;
They breathed on my pale and despairing face,
And smothered me soon in their horrid embrace.

I dreamed again, and I stood once more
On giant Columbia's boundless shore;
The land of broad lakes and impetuous floods,—
The land of dark and eternal woods;
Where the Red Man walks in his wild attire,
Compelled to escape from the White Man's ire;—
The land of mountains that rise, and rise,
As if they aspired to reach the skies;
Lifting their vast and fantastic forms
Beyond the dark region of clouds and storms;—
The land of rich prairies, unploughed and green,
Where the foot of the pilgrim hath rarely been.
It was here I roamed with my demon—Thirst,
Shut out from my race like one accursed;
Till I rested at last on St. Lawrence's side,
And wistfully gazed on its roaring tide,
Where Niagara falls from his crescent rock,
And startles the woods with his thunder-shock.
Weary of being,—unquenched within,
Unscared by the cataract's awful din,
I leaped in the torrent both strong and deep,
And shot like a dart o'er the fearful steep:
Down for many a fathom I fell,
Tossed about in the watery hell.
Stunned with a spirit-appalling sound,
In the eddying gulf whirled round and round,

125

I looked to the sky, which seemed to me,
Through the billowy spray, like a troubled sea;
And the mass of rude waters, as down it came,
Went hissing through all my burning frame,
Till my thoughts were lost in the peril and pain,
And madness took hold of my dizzy brain.
My knowledge of danger had waned away,
And my pulse had almost ceased to play;
The scene of my horror was dark and still,
I felt at my heart a death-like chill;
Unconscious of all that passed before,
I struggled a moment, and felt no more.

My vision was changed; and I took my stand,
Once more on the breast of my own green land;
And, Oh! I was glad I had ceased to roam,
And drew so near to my native home.
How fain I beheld, and how well I knew,
Each object that met my delighted view!
It was joy to my soul as I paused to mark
The quivering wing of the soaring lark,
And hear from the boughs of some far off tree,
The cuckoo that called o'er the “pleasant lea.”
And then there were odours from fields and bowers,
Breathed by the lips of the wilding flowers;
Roses that blushed on the briery thorn,
And wild blue-bells by the rivulet born;
Violets that deep in the dingle hide,
And woodbines hung on the hedge-row side;—
All seemed to welcome the wanderer back
From the desolate main and the desert's track.
And though I was thirsting and fevered still,
Unquenched by the waters of river or rill,
I felt it were sweeter to linger and die
Beneath the calm smile of my own blue sky.

126

Such were my thoughts, when my loitering feet
Bore me away to a green retreat,—
A beautiful, quiet, and sheltered dell,
Where first I listened to Fancy's spell,
And learned from her mild and mysterious tongue
The power of beauty, the pleasure of song;
Indeed 'twas a lovely and peaceful spot,
Which seen but once could be never forgot;
'Twas a natural theatre, circled by trees,
Which whispered like harps to the fairy breeze;
Its daisy-paved floor was level and soft,
And the sky, like a canopy, hung aloft;
In its centre uprose a limpid spring,
Like a diamond set in an emerald ring.
Oh! with what rapture I paused to drink,
And knelt me down on its grassy brink;
But scarce had I dimpled its glassy face,
Than its waters shrunk, and left no trace,
But a slimy bottom, that swarmed with life,
With a host of reptiles rank and rife,—
A legion of lizards, and bloated toads,
That crept in crowds from their dark abodes!
There was the scorpion's loathsome form,
The twisted adder, and crawling worm,
And a thousand other unnatural things,
With monstrous legs and preposterous wings.
I started back with a fearful scream,
Which broke the spell of that horrible dream;
And, lo! by the side of my humble bed,
With her arm beneath my distracted head,
My wife bent o'er me with anxious eye,
Alarmed by the sound of my helpless cry.
She held to my lips the cooling draught,
And, Oh! how sweetly,—how deeply I quaffed!

127

It ran through my veins like a blessed balm,
Till my heart grew glad, and my brain grew calm.

The bine at my window hung bright in bloom,
And sent its breath in my lonely room;
The evening breeze blew mild and meek,
And fanned my hair and kissed my cheek.
The golden sun, as he sunk to rest,
In the purple lap of the gorgeous west,
Poured on my face his rosy light,
To cheer me with hope through the shadowy night.
In the glorious smile of the waning day,
I heard my darling boy at play,
Whose voice beguiled me of pleasing tears,
And carried my memory back for years,
To the time when I myself was free
From sickness, and sorrow, and care, as he;
And then I called upon Heaven above
To bless that child of my hope and love.

The soothing scent of the woodbine flower—
The freshening breeze of the evening hour—
The beautiful blush of the setting sun—
The boy at his sport ere day was done—
Were tokens of mercy and peace, which brought
A rapture of feeling and thankful thought:—
I prayed to Him who is strong to save,
And He snatched me back from the yawning grave!

128

TO A BROTHER POET.

Successful suitor at the Muse's feet,
Accept the tribute of a wight whose name
Ne'er found a place upon the scroll of Fame,
Nor gathered from her lips one sentence sweet;
Who never mingled with the crowds that meet
At Learning's shrine, intent to catch the lore
Of soul-exalting Science, and explore
Paths that betray Philosophy's retreat:
Yet Hope hath taught—that ever-welcome cheat—
His intellectual feelings to aspire,
Though Poverty would quench the wakening fire,
And fix Despair on Hope's unsteady seat.
He who doth breathe this unassuming strain,
Would gladly link with thee in Friendship's honoured chain.

129

TO THE CRICKET.

Thou merry minstrel of my cottage hearth,
Again I hear thy shrill and silvery lays;
Where hast thou been these many, many days,
Mysterious thing of music and of mirth?
Thou shouldst not leave thy brother Bard so long—
Sadly without thee pass my evening hours.
Hast thou been roaming in the fields and bowers,
To shame the grasshopper's loud summer song?
When poring o'er some wild, romantic book,
In the hushed reign of thought-awakening night,
I love to have thee near me, wingèd sprite,
To cheer the silence of my chimney nook;
For I have faith that thy prophetic voice
Foretelleth things which come to make my heart rejoice.

130

SONG.

Youthful widow! lovely widow!
With thy fair and thoughtful face;
With thy weeds of sorrow floating
Round thy form of quiet grace;—
Wheresoe'er thy footsteps lead thee,
Magic reigns upon the spot;
I have watched thy mien and motion,—
Could I gaze and love thee not?

Gentle widow! pleasing widow!
Music lingers on thy tongue,—
Sweet when social converse floweth,—
Sweeter in the words of song.
When to thee men turn and listen,
Other things are all forgot;—
I have heard thee, lovely mourner!—
Could I hear, and love thee not?

Pensive widow! faithful widow!
Truth and feeling warm thy heart;—
Virtue flings her light around thee,—
May that glory ne'er depart!
None have dared in wanton malice,
Thine unsullied fame to blot;
I have known thy worth and beauty,—
Could I know, and love thee not?

131

TO MY FRIEND, JOHN DICKINSON.

True-hearted Dickinson! can I forget
Thy warm, impetuous friendship, and how prone
Thou wert to solace me, when first we met,
And I was coinless, hopeless, and unknown?
No! for the generous feeling thou hast shown
To me, an humble minstrel, in my need,
My harp, with feeble but with faithful tone,
Shall tell thee that I cherish every deed.
Let me bear witness that thou hast, withal,
Though rudely earnest, an inquiring mind,—
Pity for human suffering and thrall,
And love for things exalted and refined.
May Heaven afford thee, to thy latest hour,
The joy of doing good, and ne'er deny the power!

132

TO G. R.

Oh, George! it is a cheering thing to know
That, as we travel through the waste of life,
'Mid much of sorrow, weariness, and strife,
There are some spots of beauty as we go:
Yes, there are hours apart from care and woe,
Which we may pleasantly and wisely spend
With wife or child, with lover or with friend,
And feel our lot not all unkind below.
Then let us meet as heretofore, and so
Expand the soul, and ease the burdened breast:
The song, the temperate cup, the harmless jest
Shall gild the fleeting moments as they flow,
And teach us, by our sympathies, to find
The “lights and shadows” of each other's mind.

133

HYMN TO SPRING.

Thou comest once more, fairest child of the Sun!
With all that is lovely to gladden our eyes;
While the ocean that heaves, and the rivers that run,
Flash back the ethereal light of thy skies.
Flowers follow thy footsteps, and blossoms and buds
Are scattered abroad from thy redolent wing:
There is health on the mountains, and joy in the woods;—
Hail! hail to thee! beautiful Spring!

Thou comest once more, from the arms of the South,
Who pursues thee afar with his glances of fire;
And the breath that exhales from thy odorous mouth,
Fans the feelings of youth into bashful desire.
To walk with the maid of our passionate love,
'Mid the sweets and the sounds which thy spirit may bring,
Is a draught from the chalice of pleasure above:—
Hail! hail to thee! beautiful Spring!

Thou comest once more, and thy voices awake
In snatches of melody everywhere,
Glad choristers call from the forest and brake,
To the lark who makes vocal the tremulous air;
The tinkle of waters is heard in the bowers,
And sighs like the tones of the zephyr-harp's string;
The bee murmurs low to the amorous flowers:—
Hail! hail to thee! beautiful Spring!

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Sunny Summer hath charms in the freshness of morn,
In the glory and pomp of voluptuous noon;
And Autumn, who comes with his fruitage and corn,
Rejoiceth my heart with his bountiful boon:
Even Winter is welcome, the wild and the free,
Who walks o'er the earth like a conquering king;
But thy presence hath always a blessing for me:—
Hail! hail to thee! beautiful Spring!

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WHAT IS GLORY? WHAT IS FAME?

In the full strength of youthful prime,
My very soul in flame,
Without a stain of care or crime
Upon my heart or name,—
Impatient of each dull delay,
I yearned to tread the rugged way
To glory and to fame;
And as each kindling thought awoke,
Thus the sweet voice of Fancy spoke:—

“The warrior grasps the battle brand,
And seeks the field of fight,
And madly lifts his daring hand
Against all human right.
He goeth with unholy wrath,
To scatter death along his path,
While nations mourn his might;
And though he win the world's acclaim,
This is not glory—is not fame.

“The roll of the arousing drum,
The bugle's startling bray;
The thunder of the bursting bomb,
The tumult of the fray;
The oft-recurring hour of strife,
The blight of hope, the waste of life,
The proud victorious day:—

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This, this may be a splendid game,
But 'tis not glory—'tis not fame.

“Can we subdue the orphan's cries,
The widow's plaintive wail;
Or turn from mute, upbraiding eyes—
From faces sad and pale?
Can we restore the mind gone dim,
The broken heart, the shattered limb,
By war's exulting tale?
This is ambition, guilt, and shame,
But 'tis not glory—'tis not fame.

“When some aspiring spirit turns
To seize the helm of state,
And with a selfish ardour burns
To make his title great;
Honour and power, and wealth and pride,
May gather round on every side,
And at his bidding wait;
But curs'd be each oppressive aim!—
This is not glory—is not fame.

“The Rebel, too, who rears aloft
The banner of his cause,
And calls upon the people oft
To spurn their country's laws;—
The Rebel, whose destructive hand
Would bring disorder in the land,
Ere Reason think or pause;—
He hath a loud, notorious name,
But 'tis not glory—'tis not fame.

137

“The Patriot, who hath seen too long
His own loved land oppressed,
While all Man's nobler feelings throng
Within his generous breast;—
He who can wield the sword so well,
Like Washington, or Bruce, or Tell,
The bravest and the best—
He lives unknown to fear or blame:
This is glory—this is fame.

“There are who pour the light of truth
Upon the glowing page,
To purify the soul of youth,
To cheer the heart of age:
There are whom God hath sent to show
The wonders of his power below—
Such is the gifted Sage;
And these have learned our love to claim:—
This is glory—this is fame.

“There are, like Howard, who employ
Their healthiest, happiest hours
In shedding peace, and hope, and joy
Around this world of ours;
Who free the captive, feed the poor,
And enter every humble door
Where sin or sorrow lowers,
Till nations breathe and bless their name:—
This is glory—this is fame.

“The poet, whose aspiring Muse
Waves her ecstatic wing,
Clothes thought and language with the hues
Of every holy thing,—

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Of beauty in its thousand forms,
Of all that cheers, refines, and warms,
He loves to dream and sing;
And myriads feel his song of flame:—
This is glory—this is fame.

“Then go, proud Youth! go even now,
Nor heed Misfortune's frown,
And win for thine undaunted brow
A well-deservèd crown.
Look not for false and fleeting state;
But if thou wouldst be loved and great,
Keep pride and passion down;
Let constant virtue be thy aim,
For that is glory—that is fame!”

139

THE VOICE OF THE PRIMROSE.

The sun's last glances through the clear air trembled,
And died in blushes on the changeful stream,
Till all the features of the scene resembled
The dim remembrance of some blessed dream:
A Bard sat musing by a woodland well,
Wrapt in the chain of Thought's delicious spell.

Far hills, green fields, and shadowy woods before him,
Faded with gradual softness into shade,
And as the veil of twilight gathered o'er him,
Each lingering sound to quiet hush was laid;
And, save a breezy whisper in the bower,
Nought broke the calm of that most tender hour.

At length, a voice of fragrant breath, below him,
Pronounced, in silvery syllables, his name:
But there was scarce a gleam of light to show him
From whence the gentle voice and odour came;
Till, stooping down, the murmuring tones to meet,
He saw a Primrose smiling at his feet.

Thus spake the flower:—“Oh! Child of Fancy! listen,
While I my sorrows and my hopes unfold;
And ere the dews upon my leaflets glisten,
My weak ambition shall to thee be told;
And when thou minglest with thy kind again,
Tell them that flowers have griefs as well as men.

140

“I pine in solitude, unknown, unknowing,
From morn's first blushes to the last of eve,
And as the generous sun is o'er me glowing,
Beneath the splendour of his smile I grieve,—
Opening my bosom to the roving gale,
Far from my fragrant sisters of the vale.

“The burly peasants pass me by unheeding,
As forth they loiter to their toil at morn;
And, as they pass, my little heart is bleeding,
That I should linger in a world of scorn:
And then I hope again that I may be
The simple favourite of one like thee.

“When weeping twilight o'er this valley hovers,
And sheds her tears upon the earth, as now,
Oft do I listen to the talk of lovers,
Beneath the shadow of that hawthorn bough;
And then I sigh to grace the bashful fair,
And be entwined within her braided hair.

“Young, happy children, through the woodlands roaming,
Waking the echoes with their joyous play,
Oft cross my path, and as I see them coming,
I wish that they would pluck me by the way:
Alas! regardless of my soft perfume,
They pass me o'er for things of gaudier bloom.

“I have beheld thee in thy fits of musing,
Thy loose hair lifted by the zephyr's sighs;
And I have seen ecstatic tears suffusing
The dreamy depths of thy soul-speaking eyes;
And I have spread my saffron leaves, perchance
To catch, though briefly, thy delighted glance.

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“Now thou hast seen me—heard me, and my story
Shall fall in sweetness from thy magic tongue;
Oh! shrine me in the halo of thy glory—
Give me a place in thine immortal song;
And when I die in this enchanted spot,
The lowly Primrose will not be forgot!”

142

A WINTER'S EVENING.

High o'er the woody crest of yonder hill,
The clear, cold moon through clouds serenely sails,
And glances meekly down; December's gales,
Locked in their secret caves, lie hushed and still;
Now the soft evening, beautiful but chill,
Its shadowy vesture o'er the welkin weaves;
While from yon moss-grown oak, unblest with leaves,
Is heard the Robin's melancholy trill.
In this lone spot of solitude, the rill
Leaps, musically gushing, and the star
Of dewy vesper, twinkling from afar,
Soothes down each thought of sublunary ill.
A blessed influence in this scene I find,
Which, like a dove, broods o'er my heart and mind.

143

I GO FOR EVERMORE.

I go, but ere my steps depart,—
Before my lips pronounce thee free,—
While yet I hold thee to my heart,
That bleeds—how vainly bleeds!—for thee;
Thou hear'st my unavailing sighs,—
The hidden strife will soon be o'er;
Thou seest the tears that dim mine eyes,—
I go—I go for evermore!

I met thee in thy earliest youth,
A meek and unassuming maid,—
The seeming light of holy truth
O'er thine enchanting aspect played;
I loved thee;—that sweet dream is past,
'Twas thine own falsehood broke the spell;
My baffled hopes expire at last,
In one despairing word—Farewell!

144

THE POOR MAN'S APPEAL.

Look down upon the people, gracious God!
The suffering millions need thy special care;
For cruel laws are made to curse the sod
Which thou hast made so fertile and so fair;
Laws which, like harpies on our vitals fed,
Snatch from our lips the life-sustaining bread.

Thou smilest on the fruit-tree and the field,
And beauteous bounty springeth into birth;
Thou breathest in the seasons, and they yield
More than enough for every child of earth:
Then is it just that we should pine and die,
'Mid blessings broad and boundless as the sky?

Listen, ye wealthy magnates of the land,
Girt with the splendour of your palace halls;
Listen, ye mingled law-creating band,
Our chosen voice within the senate walls;
Let wisdom guide your delegated power,
For danger thrives with each succeeding hour.

Who raised our country's greatness?—Britain's slaves,
Chained to the oar of unrequited toil;
The seaman wrestling with the winds and waves,—
The ploughman fainting o'er the furrowed soil,

145

And all the victims of Misfortune's frown,
Who fill the windings of the sickly town:

The famished weaver, bending o'er his loom,
Venting his agonies with smothered breath;
The miner, buried in unbroken gloom,
Looking for life amid the damps of death;
Young children, too, have borne unheeded pains,
To swell the stream of your unhallowed gains.

If ye are husbands, loving and beloved,—
If ye are fathers, in your offspring blest,—
If ye are men, by human passions moved,
Let truth and justice plead for the oppressed:
The sorrowing mothers of our babes behold,
Whose homes are sad, and comfortless, and cold.

Lo! fettered Commerce droops her feeble wing,
And ships lie freightless on the heaving main:
No more with busy sounds our harbours ring—
The breezes come, the tides go back in vain;
And England's artizans, a squalid brood,
Creep from their homes and supplicate for food.

Our once proud marts are desolate and lone,—
Our patriots trembling for the nation's fame;
Prison and poor-house, gorged with victims, groan
With complicated misery and shame;
And public pride, and private joy, no more
Can find a place on our unhappy shore.

Behold where many-armed Rebellion walks,
Gaunt, fierce, and fearless, in the eye of day;
And Crime, the offspring of Oppression, stalks
'Mid scenes of strife, and terror, and dismay;

146

And Vengeance bares his arm, and lifts the brand,
To sweep Injustice from the groaning land.

Forth rush the multitude in mad career,
For unrelenting hunger goads them on;
Stern Anarchy is leagued with frantic Fear;
Safety, and Peace, and Liberty are gone;
Mighty and mean are mingled in the fall,
Now Ruin comes and tramples upon all.

Such is, or shall be, the disastrous end
Of all your stubborn policy and pride:
A wakening people must and will contend
For rights withheld, and sustenance denied:
Thoughts of the painful present and the past
Must bring the hour of reckoning at last.

Be timely just,—your granary gates unbar,—
Let Plenty's golden banner be unfurled;
Let Trade with wingèd ships speed wide and far,
Laden to every corner of the world:
Let Knowledge soothe, let Labour feed the poor,
And make the freedom of the land secure.

Then love, and peace, and virtue shall be found,
Where erst sat discord, hatred, and despair;
Then man shall sow, and God shall bless the ground,
And none shall murmur at another's share;
A social grandeur, and a moral grace
Shall warm each heart, and brighten every face!

147

TO J. P. WESTHEAD, ESQ.

Before I lay my lowly harp aside,—
My constant hope, my solace, and my pride,
Through all the changes of my grief or glee,—
Before its powers grow weaker and depart,
I weave the inmost feelings of my heart
In one true song of thankfulness to thee.

My earthly lot hath been so strangely cast,
That all my musings on the chequered past
Are but a kind of retrospective pain,
Without regret for any day gone by;
To Hopeful Campbell's polished song I fly,
For gentle Rogers sings for me in vain.

When I was yet an unsuspecting child,
I was not thoughtless, frolicsome, and wild,
To sport and pastime, or to mischief prone:
A moody, melancholy, wordless boy,
I always felt a strange and quiet joy
In wandering companionless and lone.

But poverty, and pain, and darker things,
Threw much of withering poison in the springs
Of better feeling in my youthful breast;
In every season and in every place,
I wore a shade of sorrow on my face,—
For I had troubles not to be expressed.

148

With none to strengthen and to teach my mind,
I groped my way like some one lost and blind,
Within the windings of a tangled wood;
But still, by wakeful and inquiring thought,
My watchful spirit in its musings caught
A partial glimpse of what was true and good.

I grew at last to manhood; fear and strife,
With all the bitterest ills of human life,
Beset me round with wretchedness and gloom;
So low, so hopeless, was my abject state,
I thought it vain to wrestle with my fate,
And bowed in passive patience to my doom.

Joyless I struggled on, till I became
A husband and a father; and the name
Fell like the sound of music on my ear;
For spite of indigence and worldly wrong,
The guileless prattle of an infant's tongue
Touched my sad heart, and made existence dear.

My troubles grew apace; my hopes grew less,
And, for my precious children's sake, distress
Entered my spirit with a keener sting;
Man had no love and sympathy for me,
Nor I for tyrant man, who seemed to be
A sordid, selfish, and ignoble thing.

Worn out, at length, I left my cheerless home,
Though rashly, in another land to roam,
Where I became the poorest of the poor;
For I was forced (Oh! soul-degrading task!)
With low and supplicating voice, to ask
The meed of bitter bread from door to door:

149

From house to house—from crowded town to town—
A wretched outcast, wandering up and down,
From every little comfort kept aloof;—
Without a shelter, naked, and unfed,
The cold and stony ground my only bed,
The dark, inclement sky my only roof.

The vast and everlasting hills of God,—
The rock, the stream, the forest, and the sod,
Exultingly I felt were all my own;
But when I mingled with the city's hum,
My soul grew joyless, and my heart grew dumb,
For peopled places made me doubly lone.

By many a river, silent wood, and glen,
Far from the prying eyes of busy men,—
By many a fertile vale, and castled steep,—
On many an ancient and romantic spot,
Where peaceful Nature was, but Man was not,—
I sat me down to meditate and weep.

My mind drank beauty, as the sandy plain
Absorbs the freshness of the summer rain,
That falls so sweetly on its burning face;
At every forward step, some strange delight
Wakened my slumbering heart, and charmed my sight
With some new feature of surpassing grace.

My wondering soul with poesy was fraught,
And higher, nobler, and serener thought,
Which I had never felt or known before;
Back to my native land I gladly flew,
Resolved my best endeavours to renew,
And quit my kindred and my home no more.

150

But, Oh! the many and the bitter tears,—
The daily sorrows and the nightly fears,
My poor and patient wife had borne so long!
The cold, the want, the misery, the blame,
The vulgar scorn, the insult, and the shame,—
'Twere vain to tell in this protracted song!

An older, wiser, and a better man,
I strove to find some calm and steady plan,
Whereby to banish restlessness and want:
Vain were my best resolves; I only found
The same unvaried, dull, and toilsome round
Of unremitting slavery and scant.

Daily I laboured for uncertain food;
But yet my dearest hopes were not subdued
By stern Misfortune's unrelenting frown;
A bright but distant future cheered my way,—
Oh! how I yearned to breathe a living lay,
And win the glory of a Bard's renown!

For I had roamed in Fancy's fairy bower,
And rifled here and there some wilding flower
That grew uncared for in the secret nooks;
I wandered oft in silence and alone,
Gathering some simple shell, some polished stone,
From level sea-sands and meandering brooks.

At length some kind and kindred spirits came
To praise and flatter; and the smothered flame
That burned so feebly in my fettered soul,
Flashed out at once with unexpected gleams,
Taking the shape of dear, delicious dreams,
That woke unceasingly and mocked control.

151

I thirsted then, and I am thirsting still,
Of mind's imaginings to take my fill,
And drink bright thoughts from fountains pure and free.
But I have talked too wildly, and too long;
Here let my willing, but my wayward song,
Come back, respected Westhead! unto thee.

I have my friends—and valued ones—a few
For ever gentle and for ever true,
Bearing the heart within the open palm;
Some are of good estate, and some are poor;—
Oh! may our mutual fellowship endure,
And fill the cup of life with hallowed balm!

But thou hast been a steadfast friend indeed,—
For ever ready, in the hour of need,
To bid my sorrows and my wants depart;
Not with a haughty, patronising pride,
Taking a license to condemn and chide,
But with a perfect sympathy of heart.

A kind adviser thou hast been to me,
Leaving me still in thought and action free;
Oh! let me thank thee for such just regard!
For I believe that thy superior aim
Is but to raise to comfort and to fame
A long-distressed, but now aspiring Bard.

To thee and generous Jellicorse I owe
Much—and my future gratitude shall show
How well I can remember every debt;
The calm benevolence,—the manly tone,—

152

The care,—the kindly feeling ye have shown,
Are things I cannot, if I would, forget.

May peace be with ye both! Should future time
Prosper my energies, and I should climb
Where the far steep of glory proudly towers,
With what pure pleasure I shall then look back,
Along my perilous but upward track,
And bless the friends who cheered my darker hours!

153

THE SLAVE.

Ye may tell of the gladness that wakes with the Spring,
When green-wood and welkin with melody ring;
When, strength in his pinion, and joy in his lay,
The lark flutters up in the face of the day;
When young bud and blossom are bursting to light,
And fields in their emerald freshness are bright:—
What boots this exulting o'er hill, field, and wave?—
Alas! it is lost to the ear of the Slave!

Ye may tell of the glories of Summer-born June,
Of the pride of its morning, the pomp of its noon;
Of its beauty of sunset, ere Night hath unfurled
His star-coloured veil o'er the face of the world;
When the breezes are sweet with the kisses of flowers,
Those odorous gems of the meadows and bowers:—
But the sweat-drops of toil his wan forehead that lave,
Embitter and darken these charms to the Slave.

Ye may tell of the treasures of Autumn's domain,
When fertile abundance enriches the plain;
When the warm blushing orchard begins to unfold
Its various fruitage of purple and gold;
When the song of the reaper grows loud in its mirth,
And the drones of the world claim the gifts of the earth;

154

Though his toil may deserve them, his poverty crave,
How few are bestowed on the comfortless Slave!

Ye may tell of the vigour that Winter sends forth,
On the health-bearing wings of the boisterous North,
When ye sit by the dear social hearth and its fire,
Shut in from the storm in its pitiless ire;
When dainty profusion encumbers the board,—
When ye feel the enjoyments that riches afford,—
Oh! think, when the turbulent elements rave,
How dreary and sad is the home of the Slave!

Ye may tell us that Knowledge hath shed on our isle
The glow of her pure and encouraging smile;
That all may sit down to the banquet, and share
The mental provision untaxed as the air;
But where shall the children of Poverty find
One hour to enlighten or solace the mind?
Farewell to the splendour that circles the knave,
When knowledge and truth are revealed to the Slave!

Ye may say there's a spirit of freedom in all,
Throughout the vast realm of this wonderful ball:—
In the gush of the stream and the fountain 'tis heard,
In the sigh of the gale, in the song of the bird;
'Tis seen in the sun-cloud's ethereal sweep,—
'Tis known in the womb of the fathomless deep:
It lives in the cloud, in the gale, in the wave—
Oh, why is it kept from the labouring Slave!

Must we bear with those dens of pollution that stand
Dark, frequent, and full o'er the once pleasant land,—
Those temples of Bacchus, where thousands are slain
By the poisonous cup at the altar of gain;—

155

Where the mind of the man is degraded and tame,
Where the cheek of the maiden grows callous to shame;
Let them cease to destroy—let them cease to deprave,
Let us blot out the name of the Drunkard and Slave!

Go, watch the poor human automaton rise
With a load at his heart, and reproach in his eyes,
The victim of poverty, vice, and disease;—
How haggard his visage! how feeble his knees!
When hunger hath made its most urgent appeal,
For labour incessant—how scanty the meal!
He hath but one hope and that hope is the grave,
For life is a source of despair to the Slave!

Oh! merciful God of the poor and oppressed,
Who hath promised the sick and the weary one rest—
Look down on the thousands whose sweat has been spilt
To nurse the oppressor in grandeur and guilt!
Oh! let not the proud, the unpitying few,
The many—the broken in spirit—subdue!
Let the words of the gifted, the good, and the brave,
Ring out in behalf of the soul-stricken Slave!

156

A FRAGMENT FOR THE PEOPLE.

Oh! I am sick of this degrading strife,
This harsh reiteration of a theme
Which men call Politics,—this lust of power
By those who would abuse the precious boon,—
This yearning after fame, or infamy—
(They care not which, so the base end be won;)—
This cant of patriotism, too, from lips
That sell their country with a Judas kiss;—
This restless striving for unhallowed gain,—
This false ambition, which, exalting one,
Brings unprotected thousands to the dust;
This mockery of millions who have toiled,
Yet pine for bread for which they toil in vain!

Is it not sad to see a mass of men,—
The sinews of the State—the heart of wealth—
The never-failing life-blood of the land;—
Is it not sad to see them stand like trees,
Swayed by the breath of every wind that blows:—
Drinking with greedy ear the specious tale
Of some deluding orator? And, when
The artful speaker with a flourish makes
The accustomed pause, shouting they know not why,—
Acting they know not how,—till, having sent
The exulting demagogue in triumph home,
They find, alas! what they have ever found,
For freedom—scorn, and words instead of bread.

When will this suffering people learn to think,
And, thinking, learn to know the good from ill,—

157

The true from false,—the metal from the dross?
When will they watch their own frail steps, and shun
That subtle serpent shining in their path,
Whose glance is danger, and whose tongue is death?
Behold, the town is all astir; each house
Sends forth its eager inmates; to and fro,
Promiscuous crowds are hurrying in haste,
With haggard looks, and savage. In the air
Gay banners flaunt it bravely; square and street
Echo the sounds of music, and the shouts
Of gathered multitudes. In Reason's eyes,
This is a foolish jubilee of shame,
When Britons sell their manhood for a promise—
“Kept to the ear but broken to the hope.”

A few more hours of riotous display—
Of wolfish warfare and of party strife—
And Night shall draw her curtain o'er a scene
Unworthy of the glory of the sun:
Then shall this mass of artizans retire
To pass the midnight in a rude debauch,
Till Morn shall wake them to a painful sense
Of all that was and is;—babes without food,—
Wives without peace,—themselves without a hope
Of aught save vengeance for a thousand wrongs!
Poor sons of toil! your destiny is dark,
Without the light of Knowledge; sad your lot,
Without the cheering influence of Truth;
Vain your resolves, till Virtue shall inspire
Your souls with moral dignity, and bring
The power to win what God has given for all.

Come, let me turn from this tumultuous din
Of human voices—this discordant jar
Of human thoughts and passions,—let me turn
To live and think for some few fleeting hours,

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In the calm presence of unsullied Nature,
Where I could live for ever, were it not
That I had sympathy with man, and hope
To walk with him the way to happier times.
Where now I stand the very sky puts on
A frowning face,—the very air feels rank
With falsehood and corruption. Fast and far,
I fly contamination, till at length
The mingled uproar of the distant town
Sounds like the moaning of a far-off sea.

I pause to rest and meditate, and lo!
The fresh, fair country smiles upon me; skies
Bend in their brightness o'er me; slumbering woods
Keep twilight yet, save where the parted boughs
Let in brief intervals of golden day.
Like living things of music and of light,
Streams dance upon their journey,—pastures green,
Studded with quiet cattle, calmly give
Their verdurous bosoms to the summer sun;
Luxuriant meadows, sighing for the scythe,
And prodigal of beauty, rise and fall
Beneath the frolic footsteps of the breeze.
The birds, with ceaseless voices, fill the ear
With pure and delicate melody; the lark,
Caged in the centre of a silvery cloud,
Lets fall a shower of gladness upon earth;
The desultory bees that sing and toil,
Fill up the chorus with their soothing hum;
The flowers, from tiny chalices, pour out
A draught of fragrance for the thirsty soul;
All, all is harmony, and light, and bloom,
Freedom and freshness, peacefulness and joy.

Oh! thou Almighty and Beneficent God!
Beneath thy span of glorious heaven, I kneel

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Upon thine own fair earth, and ask of thee
The boon of truth and liberty for man!
Look down, I pray thee, on this groaning land,
Where Wrong rides rampant o'er the prostrate form
Of helpless Right,—where crime of every shape
Is rife, and that of greatest magnitude
Allowed to go unpunished;—true it is,
That harsh Injustice is the chief of all.
The flower of social virtue scarcely lives,
But droops and saddens 'mid the weeds of vice
That grow on every side. Gaunt Famine sits
Upon the threshold of a thousand homes;
The holy bonds of brotherhood are loosed,
And Man, a worshipper of Self, lifts up
His hand against his neighbour. Every door
Of misery and death is opened wide:
Madness, and suicide, and murder bring
Unnumbered victims to the ready grave;
In parish prisons many pine and die,
And many on their own cold hearths unseen;
Some, bolder than their fellows in distress,
Snatch at the means of life, and find their way
To lonely dungeons, and are sent afar,
From wife and children severed, o'er the seas,
Or else, perchance, the gallows is their fate,
Which waits to take them from a cruel world.

O God of Mercy, Justice, Love, and Peace!
How long must we despair? When wilt Thou make
This part of Thy creation like the rest?
Thy universe is wonderful, and vast,
And beautiful, and pure—sustained and kept
By Thee in perfect harmony for ever!
Then why should Man, thine image, still remain
The jarring string of thine eternal harp?

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Bright Essence of all Good! Oh, deign to give
To human hearts a portion of the bliss
Which Thou hast promised in thy written Word!
Give to the nations liberty, and love,
And plenty of the fruits of thy fair earth,
And charity, and knowledge, and a thirst
For Truth's bright fountains, and a trusting hope
To share, at last, thine immortality!

161

THE POET AT THE GRAVE OF HIS CHILD.

[_]

[The Poet here alluded to is my friend Mr. Samuel Bamford, of Middleton, a gentleman possessing high poetical powers, which, had they been more extensively cultivated, would have made him one of the most eminent, if not the most eminent of our Lancashire bards.]

A bard stood drooping o'er the grave
Where his lost daughter slept,
Where nothing broke the stillness, save
The breeze that round him crept;
And as he plucked the weeds away
That grew above her slumbering clay,
He neither spoke nor wept;
But then he could not all disguise
The sadness looking from his eyes.

Indeed, it was a fitting tomb
For one so young and fair,
Where flowers, as emblems of her bloom,
Scented the summer air.
The primrose told her simple youth,
The violet her modest truth;—
Thus had a father's care
Brought the sweet children of the wild,
To deck the head-stone of his child.

Around that spot of hallowed rest
Grew many a solemn tree,
Where many a wild bird built its nest,
And sung with constant glee;

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And hills upreared their mighty forms
Through Summer's light and Winter's storms;
And streams ran fresh and free,
Through many a green and silent vale,
Kept pure by heaven's untainted gale.

I looked upon the furrowed face
Of that heart-breaking sire,
Where I, methought, could plainly trace
The spirit's fading fire;
For he had stemmed the tide of years
In care, captivity, and tears;
And yet he touched the lyre
With cunning and unfailing hand,
For freedom in his native land.

But now the darling child he had,
The last and only one,
Which always made his spirit glad,
From earth to heaven had gone,
And left him in his hoary age
To finish life's sad pilgrimage;
And, as he travelled on,
To soothe the sorrows of his mate,
And brood upon his lonely fate.

How oft together did they climb
The steep of Tandle hill,
And pause to pass the pleasant time
Beside the mountain rill;
Then he would read some cherished book
Within some leafy forest nook,
All cool, and green, and still:
Or homeward as they went along,
Sing of his own some artless song.

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Such were the well-remembered themes
That told him of the past,
And well might these recurring dreams
Some shade of sadness cast:
Those hearts whose strong affections cling
Too closely round some blessed thing,
Too often bleed at last,
When death comes near the stricken heart,
To tear its dearest ties apart.

True Poet! touch thy harp again,
As was thy wont of yore;
Its voice will charm the sting of pain,
As it hath done before:
Husband, subdue a mother's sorrow,—
Father, expect a brighter morrow,
And nurse thy grief no more;
Man, bow thee to the chastening rod,
And put thy holiest trust in God!

164

LYRICS FOR THE PEOPLE.

No. I. “LET THE BOISTEROUS BACCHANAL.”

Let the boisterous Bacchanal sing of his bowl,
That blight of the body, that scourge of the soul;
Let the libertine boast of the wreck he hath made,—
Of the hearts he hath tempted, and won, and betrayed;
Let the soldier exult o'er the blood-seeking sword,
Though his deeds have by thousands been cursed and deplored:
Be mine the proud pleasure to weave at command,
A song for the poor of my own fatherland.

Let the tyrant send forth his iniquitous law,
To insult the sad millions, and keep them in awe;
Although it were wiser to govern and guide
By justice and love, than oppression and pride;
Let a self-seeking priesthood preach patience to man,
Though to “reck their own rede” be no part of their plan:
Be mine the proud glory to weave at command,
A song for the poor of my own fatherland.

Let the venal bard flatter, and court the caress
Of “the minions of splendour who shrink from distress;”
Let him turn from the lowly, and shut from his songs
Their faith and affections, their rights and their wrongs;
Let him cling to the mighty, and flutter his hour
In the warm smile of plenty, the sunshine of power;
Be mine the proud duty to weave at command,
A song for the poor of my own fatherland.

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No. II. “MAN OF TOIL.”

Man of Toil, wouldst thou be free?
Lend thine ear to Reason's call;
There's folly in the Drunkard's glee—
There's madness in the midnight brawl;
The ribald jest, the vulgar song,
May give a keener sting to care;
The riot of a reckless throng
May lead to ruin and despair:
Let Truth unloose thy fettered soul,—
There is no freedom in the bowl.

Man of Toil, wouldst thou be wise?
The paths of moral right explore;
Pierce the human heart's disguise,
And track its motives to the core;
Creation's boundless beauties scan,
Observe its wonders—search its laws;
Look on the vast, harmonious plan,
And learn to love the Eternal Cause:
Let Truth illume thy darkened soul,—
There is no wisdom in the bowl.

Man of Toil, wouldst thou be blest?
Give thy purest feelings play;

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Bring all that's noble to thy breast,
Let all that's worthless pass away.
Let generous deeds bid sorrow cease,
Let gentlest words thy lips employ;
Scatter the seeds of love and peace,
And reap a harvest full of joy:
Let Truth make glad thy harassed soul—
There are no blessings in the bowl.

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No. III. “THERE IS BEAUTY ON EARTH.”

There is beauty on earth, wheresoever our eyes
May rest on the wonders that tell of a God;
For glory and grandeur look down from the skies,
And loveliness breathes from the streamlet and sod;
But, alas for the poor! they are grievously blind
To the charms which have lived since creation begun;
For sorrow and ignorance brood o'er the mind,
As the shadows of winter brood over the sun.

There is plenty on earth; for the soil that we tread,
In reward of our labour, is sterile no more;
The broad lands are laden with fruitage and bread,
That all may sit down and partake of the store;
But, alas for the poor! they may plant, they may sow,
They may gather the grain, and the tillage renew,
But the blessings which God hath seen good to bestow,
Are torn from the millions to pamper the few.

There is freedom on earth; for a thousand glad wings
In ecstasy sweep o'er the mountains and plains;
The light from its fountain spontaneously springs,—
The winds have no fetters, the waters no chains;

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But, alas for the poor! they are shackled through life,
They are bondsmen in word, and in action the same;
They are wed to the curse of toil, famine, and strife,
And a hope for the future is all they can claim.

A voice speaks within me I cannot control,
Which tells of a time when these ills shall depart:
When knowledge shall win its bright way to the soul,
And beauty, like music, shall soften the heart;
When plenty shall wait on the labours of all,
And pleasure, with purity, sweeten each hour;
When freedom shall spurn degradation and thrall,
And man rise exulting in virtue and power!

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No. IV. “SAD AND SICK UNTO DEATH.”

Sad and sick unto death, on his pallet reclining,
A pauper of England was heard to deplore;
The last beam of day on his pale cheek was shining,
From the sun whose return he might never see more.
No child to receive his last blessing was near him,—
No wife of his bosom to comfort and cheer him;
No kinsman to pity, no friend to revere him,
And smooth the rough way to a happier shore.

“Oh! Sons of my Country! forsaken I leave ye,
Let the lips of a dying man bid ye beware;
Of freedom and bread cruel men would bereave ye,
And force ye to struggle with famine and care.
Be brave, in the name of your fathers before ye,—
Be wise, for the sake of yourselves, I implore ye,—
Let hope and endeavour combine to restore ye
Those rights which ye plead for, but plead in despair.

“I look back to childhood, when life was a pleasure,
And health and enjoyment came pure from above;
I look back to youth, when I found a new treasure
In the fair form of woman, who taught me to love;
I look back to manhood, when, fearing to sever,
I plighted my faith to my Mary for ever,
And strove, by unceasing and honest endeavour,
The joys of a husband and father to prove.

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“My cottage looked out on the meadows and mountains,
Where the odours of Summer came rich on the breeze;
My gardens were watered by Nature's own fountains;
I had kine in my pastures, and fruit on my trees:
My home was a heaven of domestic affection—
Even now there is joy in the sweet recollection—
And the dear ones who looked for my love and protection,
In dutiful fondness encircled my knees.

“But, alas! in a moment of strife and distraction,
My blessings were banished, my visions o'erblown;
My country was raging with tumult and faction,
And Anarchy threatened the cottage and throne:
The sweet dove of Peace on her olive lay bleeding,—
Stern fathers were cursing, sad mothers were pleading;
But the Lords of Oppression turned cold and unheeding
From thousands whom hunger had worn to the bone.

“Then the Angel of Death brooded over my dwelling,
Where poverty reigned with perpetual gloom;
No tears could I shed, though my torn heart was swelling,
As my children were borne, one by one, to the tomb.
My wife mourned aloud with a mother's fond madness,
But her grief was subdued into silence and sadness,
Till her spirit was called to the regions of gladness,
And mine left alone to its desolate doom.

“Forlorn in the wide world, and weary with anguish,—
Expelled from the home which my forefathers gave,
I sought the sad spot where I now lie and languish,
From the stern laws of England a deathbed to crave.
I go to a land where no care can distress me,
Where no sorrow can come, where no power can oppress me,—
Where the beings I loved will receive me and bless me,—
Oh! God of the lowly! I pine for the grave!”

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No. V. “SONS OF MY MOTHER, ENGLAND.”

Sons of my mother, England,
List to the voice of song,
And turn from that degrading path
Which ye have trod so long;
Shake off that mental slavery
Which lays your manhood low;—
Up! awake! for Freedom's sake,
As through the world ye go;
Lift up your faces from the dust,
As through the world ye go.

Sons of my mother, England,
I feel a pang of pain,
That ye should breathe the bondsman's sigh,
And wear the bondsman's chain;
That ye should seek, 'mid scenes of sin,
A refuge from your woe,—
Still to bear the sting of care,
As through the world ye go,
And toil through life for bitter bread,
As through the world ye go.

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Sons of my mother, England,
I know ye are oppressed;
But let not vengeance fire the soul,
Nor burn within the breast;
Let wiser thoughts, let higher deeds,
Let milder language flow,
Nor cherish strife, the bane of life,
As through the world ye go;
But walk with hope and charity,
As through the world ye go.

Sons of my mother, England,
Ye have unconquered been,
On deadly War's unhallowed ground,
'Mid many a fearful scene;—
A nobler warfare ye must wage
With many a subtle foe,
If ye would rise more free and wise,
As through the world ye go,
And with a bloodless banner march,
As through the world ye go.

Sons of my mother, England,
Brave deeds must yet be done;
But 'tis not by man's strength of arm,
That liberty is won;
But ye must bear unclouded minds,
And hearts with love that glow;
And truth must guide your steps of pride,
As through the world ye go,
And shine your constant beacon fire,
As through the world ye go.

Sons of my mother, England,
Girt with her wall of waves,

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Let not your fair and fruitful soil
Give birth to future slaves:
Arise with God-like energy,
Each lingering curse o'erthrow,
And firmly stand by fatherland,
As through the world ye go,
For hearth and home, for each and all,
As through the world ye go.

Sons of my mother, England,
The worst will soon be past,
For Knowledge from a thousand springs
Is pouring pure and fast;
The star of Freedom soon shall burn,
With wider, brighter glow,
And ye shall be the blest and free,
As through the world ye go,—
A mighty and enlightened race,
As through the world ye go.

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No. VI. “OH! DESPISE NOT MY HARP.”

Oh! despise not my harp,—I have cherished it long,
And its voice hath been hailed by the lovers of song;
It hath been my best solace 'mid labour and care,
And strengthened my soul in the hour of despair:
It hath wakened the spirit of love in my heart,
And raised me bright dreams which can never depart;
But, better than all, from my morning of youth,
It hath sounded for freedom and pleaded for truth.

It hath said to the rich—“Ye are wealthy and great,—
Oh! scorn not the thousands of lowly estate;
For the treasures ye hold, and the powers ye possess,
Were lent you to soften the woes of distress:
A bountiful Providence put you in trust,—
As His stewards on earth be ye gentle and just!
And still let this beautiful truth be believed,
That ‘a blessing bestowed is a blessing received.’”

It hath said to the poor—“Ye are feeble and frail,
And well may the hand of oppression prevail,
For passion and ignorance rule ye in turn,
As with sadness ye droop, as with anger ye burn:
Indeed ye have sorrows, and heavy ones, too,
And a feeling of wrong which ye cannot subdue;

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Let me teach ye to hope and prepare for the day,
When your chains shall be broken, your griefs pass away.”

Thus singeth my harp,—thus it ever shall sing,
To the lord and the peasant, the priest and the king;
And though it may pour out its breathings in vain,
It shall never relapse into silence again:
Till the breast of the bondsman with liberty thrill,
The harp of the poet should never be still;
And mine, while the fire in my soul shall endure,
Shall respond unto all that may plead for the poor.

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No. VII. “LET US DRINK TO THE BARDS.”

Let us drink to the Bards of our own native land,
The inspired, the humane, and the brave,
Who have touched the loud lyre with so mighty a hand,
That it thrills through the soul of the slave;
In the army of truth they have marched in the van,
A gifted and glorious band:—
Come, bring me the wine, let me drink like a man,
To the Bards of my dear native land.

When Shakespeare came down, like a god from the skies,
Such a light from his spirit he cast,
That he startled the world into love and surprise,
And quenched many stars of the past:
Every passion that sleeps in the depths of the mind
He hath melted and moved at command;—
Let us drink to the best of our country and kind,—
The Bards of our dear native land.

Then Milton arose, like a rocket of fire,
When the nation was buried in gloom,
And the garland he wreathed with the strings of the lyre,
Wore the hues of celestial bloom:
For freedom and glory, for virtue and truth,
He flung the proud tones from his hand:—

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Let us drink to the sons of perpetual youth,—
The Bards of our dear native land.

There was Burns, who hath hallowed the mountains and streams,—
There was Byron, the stern and the strong;
There was Shelley, who lived in the purest of dreams,
There is Moore, the unshackled in song;
All, all have combined, with a wonderful power,
The heart and the soul to expand:—
Let us drink to the heirs of a heavenly dower,—
The Bards of our dear native land.

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No. VIII. “THE PEN AND THE PRESS.”

Young Genius walked out by the mountains and streams,
Entranced by the power of his own pleasant dreams,
Till the silent, the wayward, the wandering thing,
Found a plume that had dropped from a passing bird's wing:
Exulting and proud, like a boy at his play,
He bore the new prize to his dwelling away;
He gazed for awhile on its beauties, and then
He cut it, and shaped it, and called it a Pen.

But its magical use he discovered not yet,
Till he dipped its bright lips in a fountain of jet;
And, Oh! what a glorious thing it became,
For it spoke to the world in a language of flame;
While its master wrote on like a being inspired,
Till the hearts of the millions were melted or fired;
It came as a boon and a blessing to men,—
The peaceful, the pure, the victorious Pen!

Young Genius went forth on his rambles once more,
The vast, sunless caverns of earth to explore;
He searched the rude rock, and with rapture he found
A substance unknown, which he brought from the ground;

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He fused it with fire, and rejoiced at the change,
As he moulded the ore into characters strange,
Till his thoughts and his efforts were crowned with success,
For an engine uprose, and he called it a Press!

The Pen and the Press, blest alliance! combined
To soften the heart and enlighten the mind;
For that to the treasures of Knowledge gave birth,
And this sent them forth to the ends of the earth;
Their battles for truth were triumphant indeed,
And the rod of the tyrant was snapped like a reed;
They were made to exalt us, to teach us, to bless,
Those invincible brothers, the Pen and the Press!

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POEMS PUBLISHED IN 1842.

183

LINES

RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO THE VIRTUOUS AND PATRIOTIC WIVES AND MOTHERS OF ENGLAND.

Daughters of England! forms of love and grace,
Warmed with compassion for a suffering race,
You leave your household pleasures for a while,
The child's companionship—the husband's smile,
To show your hatred of oppressive laws,
To lift your banner in a holy cause,
To lend your mild endeavours to secure
Bread to the hungry—justice to the poor!
Spirits of pity, you were ever prone
To make another's sorrows all your own,
And with a feeling, sacred and sincere,
To soothe and strengthen, sympathise and cheer!
Go forth and triumph in this stirring hour,
Strong in your weakness, gentle in your power!

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Go forth, ye beings, kindred to divine,
And proudly prosper in your task benign!
Go forth, a faithful and angelic band,
And wake the grateful voice of every groaning land!

Manchester, January 7, 1842.

185

ANTI-CORN-LAW LYRIC.

Hark! a nation's suppliant cry
Goeth upward to the sky—
“Give us bread!”
While those who spurn that nation's weal
With stubborn souls and hearts of steel,
Disdain to heed the wild appeal—
“Give us bread!”

Does the God of Justice sleep
While His children wail and weep?—
“Give us bread!”
He sends the soft and summer rain
To feed and fertilise the plain;
Does He work such good in vain?—
“Give us bread!”

No! from His unshaken throne
He hears, and He will help his own:—
“Give us bread!”
Against the oppressors of the land
The Lord shall lift His mighty hand,
Till they shall feel and understand—
“Oh, give us bread!”

February 2, 1842.

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TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.

RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO THE COMPANION OF MY WALK, J. HILL, ESQ.

Young herald of the spring, pale Primrose flower,
Peering so sweetly from the frozen earth,
Why art thou blooming in this sunless hour,
When not a daisy in the field or bower
Hath sprung to birth;—
When Nature sleepeth in her wintry thrall,
Leafless, and verdureless, and silent all?

Thy stainless sister, Snowdrop, is not here,
Though called the earliest of thy fragrant race;
Upon the stormy threshold of the year
None of thy kindred venture to appear
With new-born grace,
Lest the keen frost-wind, with remorseless breath,
Should blow into their hearts the seeds of death.

No lark is chanting o'er the lonely hill,
No thrush is piping in the sheltered vale;
The streams are voiceless, and the silvery rill,
Which seems to quiver, stands subdued and still,
Beneath the gale;

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There is no motion in the tenderest trees,
And the frail bulrush bends not to the breeze.

The buds are yet in embryo; the light
Hath brought no vernal promise to the thorn;
The fields are shrouded in resplendent white,
And in this solemn time—half day, half night—
Follows the morn;
A cold, grey sky bends o'er the barren plain,
And the blind sun looks from his throne in vain.

Welcome thou art, though, like a poor man's child,
Brought without joy into a home of gloom;
'Mid mournful sounds and tearful tempests wild,
Thou comest forth, fresh, fair, and undefiled,
From Nature's womb,
Baring thy breast to the inclement sky,
To brave its storms, or prematurely die.

Gazing on thee, association brings
A thousand golden intervals of time,
A thousand pleasant, unforgotten things,
Which Memory colours with her magic wings,
Bright and sublime;—
Old loves and friendships, happy hearts and faces,
Old songs and tales, and old romantic places.

I feel thy breath, and Fancy leads the way
To many a solitude of youthful choice,
Where the glad lark, his tribute hymn to pay,
Hails the Aurora of returning day
With merry voice,
When the faint starlight of the night-time yields
To the sweet floral starlight of the fields.

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Green forest haunts come back to me, where I
Feasted my soul with man's immortal words;
And winding lanes, where dewy roses sigh
Their odours out to breezes passing by,—
Where happy birds
Sing to the sparkling waters, as they creep
Brightly and blithely, onward to the deep.

I hear the voice of children at their play,
Gathering sweet garlands from the hedge-row side;
I hear the talk of lovers as they stray,
Absorbed in joy, along some bowery way
Or valley wide,
Earnest but soft, with frequent pause they speak,
While blushes mantle on the maiden's cheek.

Fair, fragrant promiser of brighter hours,
Like Hope, thou smilest on my weary eye;—
Fairer, because the firstling of the flowers,—
Dearer, because a shade of sadness lowers
Along the sky,—
Richer, because thou teachest from the sod,
A lore which lifts my musings unto God!

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ON QUITTING NORTH WALES.

Farewell, proud region, where the living God
Hath built a temple for the human heart
To worship in, sincerely: I have trod—
From cloudy towns and fretful men apart—
Thine aisles of majesty: in truth thou art
A vast cathedral, where devotion springs
In feelings, not in words. Thou dost impart
Sublimest doctrines by sublimest things:
The mountains are thy priesthood—Snowdon flings
A silent language from his awful face;
Prayer goeth up from streams—the cataract sings
Incessant anthems to the Throne of Grace;
And I have lingered in thy fane to feel
The Eternal's Presence o'er my spirit steal!

190

STANZAS,

WRITTEN AFTER A WINTER'S WALK IN THE COUNTRY.

Once more, old trees, I seek your solemn shades,
And pensive trample on your fallen leaves:
But, as I pierce your patriarchal glades,
Mythoughts are chastened, and remembrance grieves—
Grieves for the precious but departed hours
Which I have spent away from your embracing bowers.

Sadness is sitting on your boughs, old trees,
Tossed by the blast, and beaten by the rain;
But summer sunlight and the summer breeze
Shall bring your sylvan majesty again;—
So may the renovating hand of Time
Give to my broken mind its former strength and prime!

Bright waters of the solitude, I come
To catch your silvery voices as they flow;
But Frost hath walked upon ye,—ye are dumb,
Sleeping beneath a coverlet of snow;
Your flowers are withered, and your waves at rest,
Your springs of gladness closed, like those within my breast.

But southern airs shall melt your icy sleep,
And send ye singing on your devious way,
And bright, fresh verdure to your sides shall creep,

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And flowers bend listening to your liquid lay;—
May my lorn soul throw off its pall of gloom,
And rise, renewed in power, from Care's oppressive tomb!

All shapes of Nature! ye are wondrous fair,
And ever soothing to my aching mind,
Although I see you cold, unsunned, and bare,
Shorn of your glories by the boreal wind;
Your very silence is a voice, a tone
Of purity and peace, which comes from God alone.

In the dark labyrinths of yonder town,
I feel, alas! that I have stayed too long,
Bringing my soul's proud aspirations down,
By unsubstantial revelry and song;
But now, kind Nature! like a wayward child,
Weary I turn to thee for pleasures undefiled.

What is the voice of Flattery to me,
If it withdraw me from exalted things?
Would we admire the lark's melodious glee,
Yet dispossess him of his skyward wings?
Alas! we pluck the wild-flower with a smile,
Inhale its fragrant breath, but stain its leaves the while!

Let me resume my long-neglected lyre,
The purest solace of my earlier days;
And, if my soul retain that spark of fire
Which gave me poesy and won me praise,
Let me improve the “faculty divine,”
And snatch a wreath from Fame's imperishable shrine.

Manchester.

192

LINES ON SEEING A PICTURE.

I saw two sisters,
The semblance of two lovely human fays,
Which the bold hand of Genius had thrown
Upon the canvas in a happy hour.
On one ten springs had shed their light and bloom,
And seven had waked the other into joy.
Like tendrils on one parent stem, they twined
Their snowy arms around each other's neck,
In gentle dalliance, while their silken locks,
Like waves of amber, on their shoulders fell
In beautiful luxuriance. Some strange thing
Had made them glad, for they were laughing both.
Both faces had a merry look, but each
In mirth's expression differed from the other:
The elder sister's joy seemed uncontrolled,—
For her wild soul sent out its silvery laugh,
Like a full fountain bubbling o'er in music:
The younger elf, with arch and sidelong glance,
And dimpled cheek, was laughing to herself;
Her gladness was not boisterous, but spoke
Mutely but mirthfully in her bright eye,
Her lifted finger, and her cherry lip,
Like some clear well, which sounds not though it shine.

I saw the father of these little dames
Stand with his arms enfolded on his breast,

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Gazing on these his blessed ones, and long,
With earnest scrutiny and inward pride—
(A holy pride, which fathers only feel!)—
Scan every single feature, while his soul
Seemed to absorb their every line and hue.
After a time, I saw his restless lip
Tremble with deep emotion, and a tear
Drop as a witness of the painter's power.
That tear—that one most sweet and eloquent tear—
Reminded me of home and home's affections,—
Of lips which sent their blessings for my weal,
Though far away—of eyes which looked and wept,—
Of hearts which sighed, and ached for my return;
And as I thought, I melted like a child!

“A Portrait of Two Sisters,” by Mr. Hill, Birmingham.

194

TO THE FALL OF THE SWALLOW,

NORTH WALES.

Fall of the Swallow, whose impetuous stream
Sends its astounding voice adown the glen,
A wandering truant from the haunts of men
Comes to behold thy glory, and to dream
An hour within thy presence. Noon's bright beam
In broken splendour sparkles on thy breast,
As if to charm thee from thy wild unrest,
And soothe thee into quiet. Thou dost seem
A mighty prophet in the wilderness,
Placed here to awe, to dazzle, and to bless
With high and holy mysteries. I deem
Thou art a priest within this lonely bower,
Teaching the love of God, His wisdom, and His power!

195

SONNET

WRITTEN IN THE CASTLE OF CAERNARVON.

How glorious is thy fall, rich summer's day!
How deeply tender is thy dying hour!
Lonely I linger on this crumbling tower,
And watch with silent joy thy sweet decay.
Upon the blushing bosom of the bay
Thy last kiss trembles, and the clouds that lie
In beautiful disorder round the sky
Absorb the latest vestige of thy ray.
But now the chill of twilight doth betray
The coming of the night;—yon mountain range
Hath put the garb of darkness on;—a change
Creeps o'er the deepening waters. Who may say
How many griefs, or hopes, or dreams sublime
Awake the human soul in this mysterious time!

196

VERSES,

SUGGESTED BY THE RHAIDR MAWR; OR, THE GREAT WATERFALL, IN THE VALE OF CONWAY.

Thou splendid thing of beauty and of power,
Fed by the mountain rill—the fitful shower,
From spring to winter, and from day to day;
Fain would I build me a domestic bower,
Where I might share love, solitude, and thee,
From toilsome cities and their vices free,
And far away!

Thy voice came to me as I mused below,
Where silvery Conway's tranquil billows flow
Through the rich windings of his fair domain;
And I have laboured up the hill to know
Thine awful features, and to rest awhile,
My world-afflicted spirit to beguile
From care and pain.

I see thee, hear thee, feel thee, but thy face
Hath more of rugged grandeur than of grace,
Which fills the soul and fascinates the eye;
And as I linger in thy “pride of place”
'Tis sweet to watch thee in thy motions stern
Sprinkle with constant baptism the fern
That trembles by.

At first, soft, warbling like a summer bird,
Gushing from verdant darkness, thou art heard,
Falling like strings of pearl from many a steep;

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But soon thy tall and tearful trees are stirred
By the rough chidings of thy waters hoarse,
Which, waxing wilder in their downward course,
Flash, writhe, and leap.

And now I see thee boiling, bounding under
Umbrageous arches, and I hear thy thunder,
As fierce thou fallest from thy rock of pride!
Anon, escaping from thy home of wonder
By channels branching down the mountain's breast,
Thou findest, after all thy troubles, rest
In Conway's tide.

So have I travelled o'er the waste of life
A weary journey, with afflictions rife,
Which stung and tortured me along the way;
But after waging this unequal strife,
May I go down in quietude, like thee,
And find, in regions which I cannot see,
A calmer day!

Yet thou art beautiful, in spite of all
Which waits to hold thee in unwelcome thrall,
Or break the even course of thy career:
The mixed complainings of thy frequent fall,
Thy stern impatience of the rifted rock,
And thine impetuous plunge and startling shock,
Have brought me here.

Even so it seemeth with the child of song,
His very fretfulness doth make him strong—
Awaking fancies which he must reveal;
And as he strives with wretchedness and wrong,
Enduring agony without a choice,
He gains a power, a grandeur, and a voice
Which myriads feel!

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AN EVENING SONG.

'Tis wearing late, 'tis wearing late, I hear the vesper bell,
And o'er yon misty hill the sun hath looked a bright farewell;
The bee is in its honey-home, the bird is in its nest,
And every living being yearns for solace and for rest;
The household gathers round the hearth, and loving souls draw near,—
Young mothers rock, young mothers rock, oh, rock your children dear!

It is the hour, the happy hour, when I was wont to be
Hushed to a calm and blessed sleep upon my mother's knee,
While she would sing with voice subdued, and ever tuneful tongue,
Some well-remembered melody, some old and simple song;
And sometimes on my cheek would fall affection's holy tear,—
Young mothers rock, young mothers rock, oh, rock your children dear!

It is the heart-awakening time when breezes rock the rose,
Which drooping folds its vermeil leaves in Nature's soft repose,
And silvery-winged butterflies, in field or garden fair,
Are swinging in their dewy beds by every passing air;

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And birds are rocked in cradles green, till morning's hues appear,
Young mothers rock, young mothers rock, oh, rock your children dear!

The star-engirdled moon looks down, and sees her welcome beam
Rocked on the undulating breast of ocean, lake, and stream;
And mariners, who love her light, are rocked by wave and wind,
Pining for home and all its joys which they have left behind,
Till Hope's sweet sunshine comes again their sickening souls to cheer,—
Young mothers rock, young mothers rock, oh, rock your children dear!

Oh! it would be a pleasant thing, had we the will and power,
To change the present for the past, and fly to childhood's hour;
To seek old haunts, to hear old tales, resume our former play,—
To live in joyous innocence but one, one little day—
Oh! that would be a precious pause on life's unknown career—
Young mothers rock, young mothers rock, oh, rock your children dear!

200

SONG.

I have rarely sung of Love—
Cherished being of my soul!
Yet that blessing from above
Holds me in its sweet control:
How can I give fitting voice
To a passion so divine?
'Tis enough that I rejoice
That thou art mine—thou art mine.

I have worshipped Beauty's form,
I have wooed as others woo,
Perchance with words less wild and warm,
But with feelings quite as true;
How often have I lingered, dear,
With my fond heart pressed to thine,
And whispered in thy willing ear—
Thou art mine—thou art mine.

Then our divided lot became
Mingled in a world of care,
We had one wish, one life, one name—
Of joy and grief an equal share;
And after sorrow, deep and long,
Our love hath never known decline,
For I can say, in truthful song,
“Thou art mine—thou art mine.”

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THE BANKS OF CONWAY.

I lay me down to rest awhile
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
While summer evening's golden smile
Sleeps on thy waves, sweet Conway!
I lay me down beside thy stream,
To revel in the realms of dream,
Or mourn o'er many a ruined scheme,
Far from thy banks, sweet Conway!

The lark still lingers in the sky,
Above thy banks, sweet Conway!
And drops his image from on high,
Upon thy breast, sweet Conway!
The thrush still singeth from the shade,
The cuckoo answers from the glade,
And every bird for music made
Is on thy banks, sweet Conway!

Yon castle's clustered turrets frown
Beside thy brink, sweet Conway!
And send their feudal shadows down
Upon thy face, sweet Conway!
Their ancient reign of strength is o'er,
Their regal splendours are no more,
But thou hast yet the charms of yore—
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!

202

I've seen the Thames' vast waters flow,—
They're not like thine, sweet Conway!
I've seen the Seine meandering go,
Yet not like thee, sweet Conway!
And, save the blue and storied Rhine,
No waters may compare with thine,
For Nature's beauties all combine—
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!

There are vast mountains, stern and drear,
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
And broken fountains, grand and clear,
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
And there are wild-woods, rich and green,
And broad lands, sunny and serene,
And many a happy home between—
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!

Lo! yonder is thy “mother Sea,”
Whose arms embrace thee, Conway!
And glorious must that mother be
Whose arms embrace thee, Conway!
The clouds will take thee up in rain,
And pour thee on the earth again,
To wander through each vale and plain
That blooms around thee, Conway?

Oh! for a pure and tranquil life
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
Afar from towns of sin and strife,
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
With one unchanged companion nigh,
To watch me with affection's eye,
How calmly could I live and die
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!

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Oh! that the world might hear my name
Beyond thy banks, sweet Conway!
And the enchanting voice of fame
Float o'er thy waters, Conway!
Oh! that the great, the good, the brave
Might come to muse beside thy wave,
And bend above my simple grave
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!

The sun is down, the birds are still
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
The mist is creeping up the hill,
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
The waning of another day
Will see me musing far away,
No more in happy thought to stray
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!

204

STANZAS

SUGGESTED AT THE GRAVE OF SHAKESPEARE.

Once mortal here, but now Immortal One,
Thou great and glorious favourite of Fame,
Thoughtful I stand upon thy grave alone,
Tranced by the mighty magic of thy name;
Filled with a slender portion of thy flame,
Hither, a pilgrim, I have proudly sped,
To linger for a brief but happy space
About the genius-hallowed resting-place
Of England's honoured Dead.

King of the poet's fair, ideal land!
Thou of my country's stars the brightest, best!
I scarce believe me that I waking stand
Where thy far-worshipped relics calmly rest;
But yet this stone, these graven words, attest
That he whose voice hath charmed me, slumbers near;
And truly I rejoice that I am come,
A lonely wanderer from my northern home,
To pay my homage here.

When I was yet a simple-hearted boy,
I heard men whisper of thy wondrous powers;
And it became with me a cherished joy
To ponder o'er thy page in after hours,—
To bathe my spirit in the genial showers

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Of splendour shaken from thy meteor pen;
To fly with thee on Fancy's vagrant wings,
Beyond the reach, the stain of earthly things,
And earthly-minded men.

I've laughed and mused, I've talked and wept with thee,
Drunk with the kindling essence of thy lore,
Until my inmost heart hath seemed to be
With every happier feeling gushing o'er;
And thoughts which slumbered in my soul before
Have sprung to blessed being fast and bright;
And visions wild, tumultuous, and strange,
With constant beauty and with constant change,
Have thrilled me with delight.

Thy worldly wisdom hath great lessons taught;
Thy playful wit hath cleared the brow of care;
Thy stormy grief hath many a wonder wrought;
Thy joy hath conquered e'en the fiend Despair;
Thy power hath laid the hidden secrets bare
Of every human passion, good or ill,
And mingled thousands in thy presence placed,
Who feel by thy gigantic arm embraced,
Are creatures of thy will.

Some look for glory in the fields of strife,
The fools and followers of unholy war,
And some get foremost in the march of life,
Because self-chained to Mammon's golden car;
But thou art higher, greater, nobler far
Than all who seek such false and vain renown;
Thy name shall brighten on from age to age,
But theirs shall keep no place on Memory's page,
For Time will tread them down.

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Thou shouldst be sleeping on that lonely isle
Where banished Prospero was wizard king;
Where sweet Miranda gently did beguile
Her father's sorrows, like some holy thing;
There, through the sunny hours should Ariel sing
Melodious requiems above thy tomb;
And troops of midnight fays should gather round,
To brush the dews from off the moonlit ground,
And scatter buds of bloom.

No gaudy temple, reared by mortal might,
Should rise around that sacred dust of thine;
No arch, save that which God hath filled with light,
With suns that burn, and stars that coldly shine.
The simple sod should be thine only shrine;
And proud green trees which whisper as they wave—
But argosies from every land should sweep
Athwart the silvery bosom of the deep,
With pilgrims to thy grave.

I leave thee to thy slumbers; I must go
Back to the struggles of my adverse lot,
To feel the nameless agonies that flow
From a cold world which understands me not.
Greater than I may linger on this spot,
Of many a language, and of many a shore;
Some other bard of loftier mind may raise
A song more sweet, more lasting, in thy praise,—
But none can love thee more!

207

THE MOUNTAIN SPRING.

Alone I lingered at the rocky foot
Of Snowdon's throne—Snowdon, the awful king
Of Cambria's mountain realm,—and as I gazed
With longing eyes upon his cloudy crown,
I yearned, with feelings strong as they were strange,
To plant my daring foot upon his head
Of glory and sublimity. The wish
Inspired me with the power, and I prepared
With an enthusiast's ardour, to explore
The solitudes of mystery and might.

Wild was the way, and weary was the steep,
Up which I travelled with a tardy pace;
The sun shone fiercely in the summer sky,
And scarce the mountain winds could temper down
His sultry splendour. As I upward strained,
My brow was beaded with the dews of toil;
My tongue was wordless with increasing thirst,
Yet not a rill, or stream, or shaded well
Was seen to twinkle in the burning light.
Yet was the mind the conqueror; my dreams
Sustained and strengthened me along the way
Of savage desolation, till the crown,
The peaked, fantastic crown, on Snowdon's brow,
Loomed sternly, darkly in the azure air,
And lent new vigour to my panting heart.

A moment's rest, a moment's wildering thought,

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A moment's look upon the world below,
And up I bounded with renewed delight,
To end my toilsome task. More wild and steep,
More terrible and strange, more silent yet,
Became the scene of grandeur I had sought;
And as I gained the goal of my desires,—
The utmost summit of the place of storms,
The highest stone in Cambria's magic land,
The granite diadem on Snowdon's head,—
A whirl of wonder and a gush of joy,
A mingled sense of terror and of love,
Came o'er my soul, and, languid as a child,
I sat in speechless ecstasy and awe!

I may not tell, in this imperfect strain,
The things I felt, the glories I beheld,
In this transcendent solitude; a pen
Dipped in a fountain of celestial fire,
And wielded by an angel's mystic hand,
Might fail in fitting language to convey
To mortal ear the feelings of my heart,
Or paint the matchless majesty that reigns
In this enchanting corner of the world.

Thirsting and faint, and feeble with excess
Of pleasure and amazement, I essayed
To find some herb wherewith to cool my lips,
And stay the pangs of agonising thirst.
Long was my search in vain; a scanty grass,
Brown, dry, and seared, was all I found,—anon
A line of glittering moisture on the stones
Caught my expectant eye; soon, soon I traced
The silvery promise to its source, and lo!
A cool delicious spring, a tiny well,
Scarce broader than a maiden's looking-glass,
Displayed its crystal bosom to my sight,

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And wooed my willing lip. With eager haste
I stooped to quaff its nectar, while a thrill
Of exquisite delight ran through my veins,
Imparting strength and gladness. On its brink
I sat, exulting in my loneliness,
Feeding my soul with poesy. Afar
The dim blue circle of the level sea
Zoned the unbounded prospect: lakes and streams,
Gleaming and glittering in the valleys fair,
Mixed in the mighty picture; mountains vast,
Enclosing regions sterile, dark, and stern,
Bristled on every side, as if the world,
Tortured and tossed, like tempest-trodden waves,
To fury inconceivable, had turned
To sudden stone,—a monument of power
Built by the Eternal's wonder-working hand!
Soft snatches of green field, of waving wood,
Of human-dwelling-places, towns, and towers,
And corn-producing plains, filled up the whole,
Leaving an impress on my mind and heart
Which time can never weaken or destroy!

Another draught from the inspiring spring,
And I descended from the silent height
Of storm-defying Snowdon; as I went,
Grateful for dangers past, for beauties won,
For toils accomplished, and for pleasures felt,
In fancy then, but since in feeble words,
I sang the tiny Fountain of the Wild:—

“Well of the Mountain Wild! I leave thee now,
No more to linger by thy crystal side:
No more to stand upon thy father's brow,
Who owns a kingdom wonderful and wide;

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Yet I would help thee to a far renown,
Thou brightest gem on Snowdon's awful crown!

“Other fair scenes may lure me from my home,
Other bright springs may tempt me to partake;
But wheresoe'er my vagrant feet may roam,
Still will I love thee for thy own sweet sake,
For thou didst soothe my painful fever down,
Thou brightest gem on Snowdon's barren crown!

“Thou art old giant Snowdon's tranquil eye!—
His one unsleeping eye without a veil,
Gazing for ever on the changeful sky,
To watch the clouds career before the gale;
Undimmed by lightning or the tempest's frown,
Thou art a gem on Snowdon's lonely crown!

“It were, indeed, a joy by thee to rest,
In calm companionship throughout the night,
While the sweet dew-stars slumbered on thy breast,
And the mild moon beheld her own pure light,
Until the dawn sent kindling glory down,
To wake thy smiles, rich gem on Snowdon's crown!

“By many a wanderer thy place and name
Are known and sought, as they shall ever be;
To other men thy freshness and thy fame
Shall go abroad, till they shall come to thee
From plain and glen, from hamlet and from town
Thou brightest gem on Snowdon's awful crown!”

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THE STUDENT OF NATURE.

A FRAGMENT.

Books are a blessed dower, when they enshrine
Thoughts, words, and feelings of immortal men;—
Gushes of glory from a fount divine,
Flashes of freedom from the chainless pen;
Mirrors of mental light, condensed and strong,
Pure treasures of philosophy and song;
Records of truth which all should understand,
Voices of wisdom heard in every land:
I have a passion for each page of power,
And love to try its spells at midnight's quiet hour!

But my chief study is in Nature's halls,
For ever fair, magnificent, sublime;
The everlasting mountains are its walls,
Which rarely shrink beneath the touch of time.
Pictured with clouds that o'er its surface roam,
Its ceiling is vast heaven's eternal dome;
By day sun-lit with splendour, and by night
Hung with a myriad lamps of never-dying light.

My study hath an ever-open door,
Stretching away from golden east to west;
It hath a broad and variegated floor,
The loveliest human foot hath ever pressed;

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'Tis pranked with flowers of every form and hue,
Woven with streams of living crystal through;
Studded with silvery lakes and shadowy woods,
Glassed with the green expanse of Ocean's restless floods!

On every spot beneath the embracing skies,
In every season, and in every place,
Some page of beauty lingers on my eyes,
A blending of sublimity and grace;
Some living odour hangs upon the air,
From clustered leaves, fresh herbs, and blossoms fair;
Tones of strange melody, from sources dim,
Mingle to greet me with a choral hymn;
All air-born sounds, birds, bees, and gushing springs,
Breathe to my listening soul a thousand happy things!

If I go down to the unconquered deep,
On the frail ship where man embarks his life,
When horror-wingèd storms around me sweep,
Trampling the briny waters into strife—
Tossed upward to the lightning-riven clouds,
Dashed downward even to the topmost shrouds;—
I feel, or could feel, glory in the rout
Of angry waves, a language in the shout
Of wind to wind, of thunder unto thunder—
A wild and dreamy sense of danger and of wonder!

And then to loiter on the shell-paved shore,
When calm broods o'er the billows like a dove,—
Are there not things around me as before,
To see, to feel, to dream upon and love?
Pensive to wander on the sandy verge,
And watch the snow-fringed and advancing surge
Come rolling up from out the tranquil sea,
Is peace, is joy, is luxury to me!

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While the far murmur of the waves at play
Sounds like a grateful voice for troubles passed away.

Away on Fancy's world-exploring pinions,
To Araby's wide wilderness—away;
Where the high sun hangs o'er his dread dominions,
With looks that make intolerable day,
Save when the swift and terrible simoom
Covers the face of heaven with burning gloom;
Walks o'er the surface of the sandy sea,
A formless fiend of dark sublimity;
Builds baseless mountains by his sultry breath,
And reigns, the scourge of life, the minister of death!

'Tis eve—and hark! the camel-bell is ringing;
The caravan, with perilous toils oppressed,
Stays where the tree-girt well is sweetly springing,
To snatch some fleeting hours of blessed rest.
The sun is set, and twilight, like a veil,
Floats o'er the cooling skies; the stars are pale,
But ere another hour the breath of night
Shall fan them till they burn intensely bright;
While the lone wanderers of that desert plain
Shall dream of hope and home till morn return again.

In thought I sojourn in the solitudes,
The silent regions of the western star,—
The awful, dark, interminable woods,
The level prairies, stretching fair and far;
The uninvaded mountain peaks, that stand
Like the stern barriers to an unknown land;
And mighty hollows, where the Storm alone
Hath dared to plant his footsteps and his throne,—
Caverns of gloomy grandeur, where the power
Of Art hath never triumphed to this hour;

214

And all the thousand mysteries sublime
Which rose when Earth began,—the co-mates of old Time.

I come once more unto the milder charms
Of calm, green England, the enlightened Isle
Which lies encircled by old Ocean's arms,
And wears upon its face a placid smile;
I come unto her pastoral vales to dream
Beneath the sylvan shadows, where the stream
Twinkles with chequered radiance, as it singeth
Through grassy dingles where the wild-flower springeth,
Bent by the butterfly and gorgeous bee;
Where birds from sunny sky and trembling tree
Fill the bright summer with melodious voice;
So that my spirit cannot but rejoice
That heaven hath dropped such pleasures from above,
To cheer the human soul with poesy and love!

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THE INQUIRY.

“Tell me, where canst thou be seen,
Poesy?
I yearn to see thy face serene,
Poesy!”
“Ask the stars, the dews, the flowers,
Ask the hills, the brooks, the bowers;
Ask the clouds when lightning-riven,
Or gleaming with the gold of even;
Ask the bow that spans the plain,
Ask the sunny-twinkling rain,—
And they will answer thee!”

“Tell me, where canst thou be heard,
Poesy?
Alas! I pine with hope deferred,
Poesy?”
“Ask the thunders as they leap,
Ask the never-sleeping deep;
Ask the winds that roar, or sigh,
Ask the waters babbling by;
Ask the bee who sings, and sips
Sweets from a thousand fragrant lips;
Ask the language of the leaves,
The shivering thrill of golden sheaves,
The coo of doves, the rush of wings:
Ask the breeze-awakened strings,—

216

Ask the birds in sun and shade,—
Ask all sounds that God hath made,—
And they will answer thee!”

“Tell me, how canst thou be known,
Poesy?
Make thy spirit all my own,
Poesy!”
“Ask the feelings which awake
Within thee for compassion's sake;
Ask the sorrows of thy soul,
Ask the joy which mocks control;
Ask thy hopes—affections—love;
Ask thy dreams of bliss above,—
And they will answer thee!”

“Tell me, how canst thou be spoken,
Poesy?
Give me some unfailing token,
Poesy!”
“Ask the wailings of the poor,
A stricken crowd who much endure;
Ask the child's endearing tongue,
And the mother's answering song;
Ask the fervent vows of youth,
Ask the words of steadfast truth;
Ask the poet, who hath brought
Rich language from the mines of thought;
Ask the breathings of despair,
Ask the contrite sinner's prayer;
Ask the syllables that fall
From Nature's lips—the best of all,—
And they will answer thee!”

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“I thank thee with a gladdened heart,
Poesy;
Henceforth my fears shall all depart,
Poesy!
I'll go abroad upon the earth,
And give my dreamy feelings birth;
My every sense of sadness lull,
By gazing on the beautiful;
‘And rise from out my mean estate,’
By mingling with the good and great,
Whose aim has been, mid toil and strife,
To give a thousand charms to life.
I'll follow thee in all thy moods,
Through Nature's awful solitudes;
I'll seek the ruins of the past,
Mid regions still, and wild, and vast;
Where pride and splendour once have been,
Where weary wastes are only seen
To mock the pilgrim's eye, and show
His lasting home is not below.
Through peopled towns my feet shall pass,
And o'er the barren, dark morass,
And o'er the mountain's giant form,
The nurse and birthplace of the storm.
My lonely footsteps shall abide
In forests wildering and wide,
And on the banks of mighty rivers,
Whose waves are broken into shivers
By gusty winds that o'er them sweep,
Or rocks precipitously steep.
And in the desert I will linger,
When early Morning's golden finger
Plays on Memnon's mystic stone,
And wakes it into music lone.

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Where'er thy genial spirit reigns,
On wintry wastes, or sunny plains,
My vagrant feet shall find a place,
Where I will gaze upon thy face,
Until I utter words of flame,
To wreathe with light my humble name.
I'll talk with thought-exalted things,
Until, on Fancy's strengthened wings,
I pierce the infinite afar,
And journey on from star to star,
Through dazzling files of sun-like spheres,
Which, seen from earth, are but like tears
Which hang on blade, and flower, and thorn
Shook from the dewy locks of Morn.
Or I will travel on the path
Which the mysterious comet hath,
Perchance to see it past me driven,
Filling with fire the cope of heaven,
And roaring like ten thousand seas,
Through its vast realms of mysteries,
Till fierce and far it fades away,
Beyond where human thoughts can stray.

“Grown faint with splendour, Fancy falls
Down from the blue and boundless halls,
Where distant planets wax and wane,
To rest awhile on earth again.
Still thou art with me here below,
Spirit of Song! and well I know
Thou art the soul of every thing
That comes with renovating Spring,—
Of all that Summer wakes to light,
Luxuriant, blooming, green, and bright,—
Of all that reeling Autumn yields,
Of luscious fruits and laden fields,—

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Of all that Winter ushers in
With stormy revelry and din;—
The pictures of fantastic frost,
The feathery snow-shower, tempest-tost,
The fierce and unexpected hail,
Smit downwards by the raging gale;
The trees that sway and groan aghast,
Beneath the wrestling of the blast,
And all the powers which reign sublime
Throughout that cold tumultuous time.
Thou art a spirit, too, at rest
Within the human soul and breast;
Felt beneath the palace dome,
And in the peasant's cottage home;
Spoken by the watchful sage,
Written on the poet's page,
Dispensing light to many a mind,
With joys exalted and refined.

“Spirit of beauty, sound, and feeling!
So calmly o'er my vision stealing,—
Lend me thy purest, holiest fire,
To raise my aspirations higher,
Until I seem to spurn the sod,
And feel thine essence—which is God!”

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POEMS PUBLISHED IN 1847.

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THE THREE ANGELS.

A VISION.

In the shadow of slumber as dreaming I lay,
While the skies kindled up at the coming of day,
Three Angels, with pinions of splendour unfurled,
Came down with the softness of light on the world.
Grace, glory, and gentleness compassed them round,
And their voices came forth with mellifluous sound,
As they uttered sweet words, heard and echoed above,
And departed on God-given missions of love.
From nation to nation one wandered afar,
And the tumult, the broil, the delirium of War,—
The music that mocked the last struggle of life,
The trumpet that wailed through the pauses of strife,
The sod-staining revel, the cloud-cleaving roar,
Were awed into silence, to waken no more:—
The death-dealing bolts of the cannon were stayed,
The soldier flung from him the blood-reeking blade,
The plume was uncared for, the helmet unworn,
The laurel was withered, the banner was torn,

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The gorgeous delusion of warfare was past,
And the spirit of Brotherhood triumphed at last!

Then Science arose from his thraldom, and stole
From the keeping of Nature new gifts for the soul;
Then valorous Enterprise waved his proud hand,
And might and magnificence covered the land;
Then Commerce, from bonds of oppression set free,
Linked country to country, and sea unto sea;
Then Art, with a dream-like devotion, refined
Into beauty and purity, matter and mind;
Then Knowledge let loose all her treasures, and found
Goodly seed springing up in the stoniest ground;
Then lowly-born Industry learned to be blest,
Grew proud of his labour, and pleased with his rest;
The fields with unfailing abundance grew rife,
The cities were peopled with prosperous life;
Power, Plenty, Intelligence, prospered amain,
Secure of a placid and permanent reign;
While the Poet, a prophet, a teacher in song,
Sang hymns of rejoicing to gladden the throng;—
And well might such multiform blessings have birth,
For the Angel of Peace had re-hallowed the earth!

Another dear visitant, sweetly sublime,
Went forth as a pleader for error and crime;
In the palace she tempered the soul of the king,
And his heart opened out at the touch of her wing:
In the senate she governed with eloquent awe,—
She swayed in the council, she lived in the law;
In the prison, mid apathy, terror, and gloom,
To the wretch who lay waiting the word of his doom,
She whispered of hope, breathed a calm o'er his fears,
Till his eyes overflowed with the blessing of tears,—
Till his spirit shook off the sad slouch of despair,
And his lips were inspired with the fervour of prayer.

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By the side of grave Justice she took her proud stand,
And touched the dread scales with so lenient a hand
That the guilty, o'erburthened with gladness, withdrew
To a life of repentance, and usefulness, too,—
To a life which atoned to the world for the past,
And cancelled their records of sinning at last.
Then the axe of the headsman lay rotting with rust;—
Then the gallows and guillotine crumbled to dust;—
Then those legalised slaughters, which reddened the sod
With a sacrifice foul and offensive to God,
Being hideous and useless, went down to decay,
For the Angel of Mercy had willed them away!

That Peace had accomplished, this Mercy had done,
But a great moral conquest had yet to be won;
And the third of these Angels came down to reclaim
A multitude steeped in sin, squalor, and shame.
Mid the children of Penury, Passion, and Toil,
The town-fettered craftsmen, the sons of the soil;—
Mid the by-ways of life, pestilential and cold,
Mid the haunts where the draughts of destruction were sold,
Midst the hovels whose hearthstones were sordid and bare,
Mid the ravings of frenzy, the tears of despair;—
Mid fathers that clung to the thraldom of sin,
Mid mothers that revelled in lewdness and din,
Mid children, poor aliens to comfort and rest,
Who learnt a dread vice as they hung at the breast;—
Mid the lowly who made their sad destiny worse,
Mid the gifted who writhed in the coils of the curse—
The Angel walked forth, clothed in goodness and grace,
And the demon of Drunkenness fled from her face!

But, inspired by her presence, the gifted looked up—
The lowly threw down the insidious cup,

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The father grew blest in the love of his child,
The mother cast from her the things that defiled,
While her offspring grew docile, and happy, and wise,
And beheld their own joy in affectionate eyes;
The dwelling, though poor, became quiet and clean,
And harmony reigned where disorder had been;
Home pleasures, home treasures, home duties, home rest,
Were found to be holiest, calmest, and best;
The haunts of excitement grew empty and still,
Or peopled with souls of a healthier will;
The craftsman in bearing grew sober and trim,
The peasant rejoiced in a sturdier limb;
The tongues of the timid found words to declaim
'Gainst the ills that oppressed them with sorrow and shame;
And a mission of brothers, Age, Manhood, and Youth,
Went out to instil the new essence of truth;
The Orator caught a new theme for his speech,—
The Pastor was glad the new doctrine to teach,
And the Poet, who stood in the van of the throng,
Found his spirit expanding with loftier song:—
And well might his soul to new triumphs aspire,
For the Angel of Temperance kindled his fire!

Then the voice of the multitudes burst into glee,
Like the swell and the shout of a turbulent sea:—
“Peace, Mercy, and Temperance!” Earth seemed to cry—
“Peace, Mercy, and Temperance!” echoed the Sky;
And I started from sleep with a bound and a scream,
Overawed by the splendour and power of my dream!

Disdain not the night-vision's mystical lore,
For “coming events cast their shadows before:”
And the Angels are coming, broad-winged on the wind,
And the pinions of Freedom press closely behind!

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THE ROBIN.

A POEM FOR CHILDHOOD.

The Robin is an English bird, fond of his native sky,
Whate'er the season, fierce or calm, he never deigns to fly;
He, like a patriot tried and true, braves every varying time,
And seems to cling the faithfullest when storms are in his clime.

The Robin is a bonny bird, as merry Childhood knows,
Although he wears no gaudy crown, and dons no dainty clothes;
Although no sun-hues paint his wing, or play about his crest,
One ruddy flush of beauty burns upon his buoyant breast!

The Robin is a sacred bird, by Nature's nameless charm,
Romance and song have hallowed him, and shielded him from harm:
The school-boy, as he roams about, on mischief bent, or play,
Peeps in upon his callow brood, but takes them not away.

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The Robin is a gentle bird,—for so old legends tell;—
The Babes that died in the forest wide, he guarded long and well;
He made for them a winding-sheet of fragrant leaves and flowers,
And sung a daily dirge for them in the dim cathedral bowers.

The Robin is a tuneful bird,—how oft, at shut of day,
With his familiar music, he disturbs the dewy spray!
With song so quaint and querulous, and yet so sweet and wild,
That Age leans on his trembling staff, and listens like a child.

The Robin is a social bird, that loves the kindly poor,—
He scorns the palace porch, but comes to haunt the cottage door;
For bit or crumb he is not dumb, nor insolent, nor shy,
He sets his thanks to melody, and bids his friends goodbye!

The Robin is a patient bird, for in the sternest hour
His grateful anthem gushes forth with most consoling power;
And though a touch of sadness seems to mingle with the strain,
'Tis such as suits the pensive ear, and gives the heart no pain.

The Robin is the Poet's bird, poetic is his name,
And mortal minstrels, not a few, have linked him with their fame;

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Poor Robin Bloomfield spake his praise, as eke did Robin Burns,
And Redbreast sings a requiem above their honoured urns.

The Robin is a welcome bird, when frost is creeping round,
When snow-wreaths wrap the ghostly trees, and clothe the stilly ground;
But woe to them who have no heart to love his simple lay,
For birds, like flowers, are pleasant things that never lead astray.

Then from the Robin let me learn some lessons good and wise,—
Firm faithfulness, sweet cheerfulness, beneath the sternest skies,
A hymn of praise, an upward gaze to Him who guides and gives,
Who moulds and moves, sustains and loves, the humblest thing that lives!

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DREAMS AND REALITIES.

Poems Published in 1847

THE PEN AND THE SWORD.

“One murder made a villain—millions a hero.” Porteus.

Creative Pen, destructive Sword—dread powers!
How strongly ye have stirred this world of ours!
By different means, to different ends ye sway,
One with delight, the other with dismay—
Homes, cities, nations, climes, religions, kings,
And all the boundless range of human things.
One, proud of Peace and her great gifts, aspires
To aid progression in its vast desires:
One, prone to waste, disorder, spoil, and pride,
Would turn the course of onward thought aside;
One lifts, enlightens, purifies, and saves;
One smites, degrades, contaminates, enslaves;
One hath a baneful, one a blest employ,—
One labours to create, one leapeth to destroy!

Giant opponents! leagued with peace and strife,—
One blights, one beautifies, the forms of life;
One leads to pleasures, lofty and refined,
One, while it darkens, tortures humankind.

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Stupendous twain! great ministers on earth
Of good and ill, of plenitude and dearth,—
One is the storm, the pestilence, the grief,
One the mind's health, calm solace, and relief;
One is the hope, the majesty, the dower
Of man, still striving for a wiser power;
And one—dark game, which false ambition plays!
A fierce, but fading, error of old days.

The world grows weary of this sad unrest,
This nightmare of its myriad-hearted breast,—
This monster, breathing horror in its path,
This hideous thing of recklessness and wrath:
New thoughts, new deeds, more kindred to the skies,
Pregnant with better destinies, arise,
And 'mong the old iniquities of men,
The mighty Sword shall fall before the mightier Pen!

Ye worshippers of Warfare, can ye tell
Where are the right, the beauty, and the spell,
The glory, the morality, the gain,
Of the disastrous system ye maintain?
When ye have paved the battle-ground with bones,
To the sad music of a people's groans;
Wakened the cries of multitudinous woe,—
Done all ye can to slaughter and o'erthrow;
Brought man's and nature's fairest doings down,—
Bold hearts and bloody hands! how holy your renown!

Holy? Dear God! War in his whole career
Is rife with lawless force and hopeless fear;
And, spite of gorgeous garniture and forms,
With inward agonies and outward storms;
Lust, riot, ruin hang upon his breath,
Tumultuous conflict, and dishonoured death!
Let not the youth whose spirit pants to win
By lofty labours, fame unsoiled with sin,

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Seek it amid those desolating hordes
That gird Ambition with embattled swords;
Nor desecrate his soul—which God has made
For nobler things—in War's unhallowed trade.
But let him serve his country as he can,
With pen, tongue, action, as becomes a man
Bent upon toils that dignify and grace,
And bring some blessing to the human race.

See the poor soldier—no unworthy name
When wielding moral weapons 'gainst the shame
Born of a thousand social ills and wrongs,
Which dash with bitterness the Poet's songs;—
See the poor soldier, from less guilty life
Coaxed or coerced to tread the fields of strife,
Caught in a tavern; in a barrack bred
To things that blight his heart and cloud his head;
Shut up his sympathies, enslave his soul,
Hold natural impulse in a stern control:
Hoodwink his reason, paralyse his speech,
Uproot his virtues—all that's good unteach,—
Till he becomes,—oh! man thrice brave and blest!—
In war a terror, and in peace a pest!
And if he dare—for manhood sometimes will
Break through its bondage, spite of every ill,—
If he but dare by look, word, act, or flaw,
Mark his impatience of the iron law,
The Lash, laid ready for the needful hour,—
That just and gentle instrument of power,
That man-degrading, man-upbraiding thing,
Bearing at every point a scorpion's sting,—
Tears up the quivering flesh, extorts the groan,
Rouses to vengeance, or subdues to stone,
Making the being it pretends to win
A restless, reckless follower of sin;

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Or a machine, now dead to fear and shame,
Whereby the well-born coward climbs to fame!

Fame, did I say? Can that enchanting thing,
For whose great guerdon Genius strains his wing,
Bedim her lustrous records with the tale
Of deeds, whereat the harassed world turns pale?
They write it fame; but Reason, Truth, and Song,
Must find a darker word to designate the wrong!

But, hark! your country calls! up valiant sons!
Gird on your swords, prepare your murderous guns;
Some new aggression, grand in its design,
Strikes the wise rulers of your land and mine:—
Your country calls, and her strong law and voice
Admit no conscience, and allow no choice:
Ye wear War's gaudy badge, ye willing braves,—
Ask not the why and where, go at it, slaves!
Plenty may fail, and Commerce droop the while,
And Peace, for lack of light, refuse to smile;
The Arts may sicken, Science cease his toils,
And a sad people tremble at your broils.
What boots it if a wilderness be won,
Or a pacific nation half undone?
Go forth, nor let the hostile flag be furled
Till ye have cursed and conquered half the world!

But ere ye go, the Servant of the Lord
Must bless the banner, consecrate the sword;
Must pray the God of Battles—impious prayer!
To make your cohorts His especial care;
And, with a mock solemnity of mien,—
Ah! how unworthy of the sacred scene!—
Ask blessings on a bloody crowd that goes
To fetter human wills, and feast on human woes!

Dear Christ! commissioned from the Eternal Throne
To touch our hearts, and claim them for thine own;

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Man of humility and patient pain,
Word without error, life without a stain;
Teacher of truths reflected from above,—
Pure type of Peace, and miracle of Love!
It shocks the soul, it makes the spirit sad,
To hear these men, in robes of meekness clad,
Beside the altars hallowed in thy name,
Sanction a giant sin, should brand their cheeks with shame!

It is the day of battle; morn's sweet light
Comes surging o'er the lingering shades of night,
And Nature, fresh as in her newest hour,
Looks up with calm and renovated power;
But hostile hosts, impatient for the day,
Panting like hungry tigers for the fray:—
For slaughter eager, and for conquest keen,
Crowd and encumber the enchanting scene;
Preparing to pollute, with gloom and glare,
What God has made so holy and so fair;
And with the life-blood of each other's veins,
Curse and incarnadine the peaceful plains.
The mournful bugle sings a startling note;
The cannon opes its fulminating throat;
Gleams the quick sword; upstarts the bristling lance,—
A thousand files with deadly strength advance,
And with a wild tornado-shock of strife,
Each bosom burning with delirious life—
Meet midway; and the tumult rising high
Shakes the ensanguined ground, and troubles all the sky.

Fiercer and fiercer, till the noon is past,
Rages the battle's desolating blast;
Closer and closer, with unbated breath,
The martial multitudes contend with death,
Till the insulted sun, adown the skies,
Sinks in an ocean of resplendent dyes,

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And pensive twilight, clothed in dewy grey,
Drops her dim curtain o'er the fitful fray;
Till baffled, bleeding, filled with pride and spleen,
Foe shrinks from foe, and darkness steals between.

But not in silence reigns the fearful night,
For muffled sounds denote the hurried flight;
And groans, upheaved from ebbing hearts, ascend
And shriek, and prayer, and malediction blend;
And ruffian violence, and frantic fear,
Strike with abrupt alarm the inquiring ear;
And reckless revel in the camp is heard,
And angry cries at victory deferred,—
And the mixed mockery of laugh and song,
From men that glory in gigantic wrong;
Till a new morning, lovely as before,
Smiles on the field that reeks with human gore,—
Wakes the rough soldier from his haunted sleep,
And gilds a scene “that makes the angels weep!”

For many a day the dread Golgotha lies
Hideous and bare to the upbraiding skies;
The gentle flowers, the yet surviving few,
Droop with the burden of unhallowed dew:
The lark, returning thither, soars and sings
With man's last life-blood on his buoyant wings!
The vagrant butterfly drops down to bear
The stains of slaughter through the summer air:
The quiet cattle startle, as they stray,
At ghastly faces festering into clay;
The stream runs red; the bare and blackened trees
Have ceased to wanton with the wayward breeze;
But the gaunt wolf and hungry vulture, led
By tainted gales that blow athwart the dead,
Hold loathsome banquet; till some friendly hand
Digs a great grave, and clears the cumbered land,

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And pleasant winds, and purifying rains,
Sweep out at last the horror of the plains!

Thought sickens o'er the scene:—come back, sweet Muse!
Nor soil thy sunny garments with the hues
Gathered from gory battle-grounds, and graves
Unheaped with warfare's immolated slaves,
Lest gentle bosoms, and disdainful tongues,
Tire of thy truths, and rail against thy songs.

Lo! in that quiet and contracted room,
Where the lone lamp just mitigates the gloom,
Sits a pale student, stirred with high desires,
With lofty principles and gifted fires.
From time to time, with calm inquiring looks,
He culls the ore of wisdom from his books;
Clears it, sublimes it, till it flows refined
From his alchymic crucible of mind;
And as the mighty thoughts spring out complete,
How the quill travels o'er the snowy sheet!
Till signs of glorious import crowd the page,
Destined to raise and rectify the age;
For every drop from that soul-guided pen
Shall fall a blessing on the hearts of men,—
Shall rouse the listless to triumphant toils,
Wean the unruly from their sins and broils:
Teach the grown man, and in the growing child
Transfuse a power to keep it undefiled;
Solace the weary, animate the sad,
Restrain the reckless, make the dullest glad,
Sow in the bosoms of our rising youth
The seed of unadulterated truth;—
Uproot the lingering errors of the throng,

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Break down the barriers of remorseless Wrong;
Direct mind's onward march, and in the van
Send back electric thought from man to man:
This is the Pen's high purpose—Can it fail?
Soul! scorn the shameful doubt! press forward and prevail!

Oh! for a day of that triumphant time,
That universal jubilee sublime;—
When Marlboroughs shall be useless, and the name
Of Miltons travel through a wider fame;
When other Nelsons shall be out of place,
While other Newtons pierce the depths of space;
When other Wellingtons!—proud name!—shall yield
To mightier Watts, in a far mightier field!
When other Shakespeares shall direct the mind
To Hero-worship of a purer kind;
When War's red banner shall, for aye, be furled,
And Peace embrace all climes, all children of the world!

I find that this passage is an unintentional imitation of a beautiful one in “The Battle of Life,” by Charles Dickens.

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THE PRESS AND THE CANNON.

The Cannon and Press! how they ban, how they bless
This beautiful planet of ours;
The first by the length of its terrible strength,
The other by holier powers.
More and more they are foes as the new spirit grows—
Will their struggles bring joy to the free?
For the wrongful and right—for the darkness and light—
Oh, which shall the conqueror be?

With a war-waking note from its sulphurous throat
The Cannon insulteth the day,
And flingeth about, with a flash and a shout,
The death-bolts that deepen the fray:
“Give me slaughter,” it cries, as it booms to the skies,
And men turn to fiends at the sound;
Till the sun droppeth dun, till the battle is won,
And carnage encumbers the ground.

Then the reveller reels, then the plunderer steals
Like a snake, through the horrible gloom;
Then the maid is defiled, then the widow is wild,
As she fathoms the depths of her doom;
Fierce fires glare aloof, till the night's starry roof
Seems to blush at the doings of wrong;
Sounds of terror and woe through the dark come and go,
With fury, and laughter, and song!

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When the morrow's fair face looketh down on the place,
All trodden and sodden with strife,
The grass and the grain are empurpled with rain
From the fountains of desperate life;
The stream runneth red, and the green leaves are shed,
That o'ershadowed its waters so clear—
For the bale-fire hath been on the desolate scene,
And hath cursed it for many a year!

Reeking ruins abound on the war-withered ground,
In whose ashes sit shapes of despair,
And the voices of wail float afar on the gale,
Till the brute is appalled in his lair:
On the broad battle-floor, in their cerements of gore,
Lie thousands whose conflicts are past,
To furnish a feast for the bird and the beast—
To fester and bleach in the blast.

But the tears of the sad, and the cries of the mad,
And the blood that polluteth the sod,
And the prayers of the crowd—solemn, earnest, and loud—
Together go up unto God!
Nor in vain do they rise—for the good and the wise,
And the gifted of spirit and speech,
Are waking the lands to more holy commands,
For peace is the lesson they teach.

Behold the proud Press! how it labours to bless,
By the numberless tones of its voice!
To lofty and low its grand harmonies flow,
And the multitudes hear and rejoice;
Scarce an alley of gloom, scarce an artizan's room,
Scarce a heart in the mill or the mine,

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Scarce a soul that is dark, but receiveth a spark
Of its spirit, so vast and divine!

The Cannon lays waste, but the Press is in haste
To enlighten, uplift, and renew;
And the life of its lore—can we languish for more?—
Is the beautiful, peaceful, and true.
Man bringeth his thought, in calm solitude wrought,
To be multiplied, scattered, and sown;
And the seed that to-day droppeth down by the way,
Is to-morrow fair, fruitful, and grown.

Joy, joy to the world! Press and People have hurled
Their slings 'gainst the errors of old;
One by one, as they fall, the poor children of thrall
Grow dignified, gladsome, and bold.
The Cannon and Sword—cruel, cursed, and abhorred—
Cannot stay the proud march of the free;
They may ban and beguile the rude nations awhile,
But the Press will the conqueror be!

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A WINTER SKETCH FROM OLDERMANN.

Fair are the Springtide features of the hills—
Glorious their Summer aspect of repose—
Calm in Autumnal hues their shadowy forms—
But not less beautiful when Winter fills—
Their wild untrodden solitudes; and throws
Around them all the grandeur of its storms!
Such are my musings on the craggy crown
Of Oldermann, the sterile, stern, and cold,
As days sink sloping to the evening hour;
Round my proud centre mountain regions frown,
Abrupt and lone, wherein my eyes behold
Gigantic proofs of God's unmeasured power,
Which wake mute worship in the eloquent heart,
And lift the aspiring soul from common things apart.

What a religious silence is outspread
O'er all the rude and solitary scene—
So cold, so pure, so solemn, so serene—
From the deep valley to the mountain's head!
Ice-roofed, the stream runs mutely o'er its bed;
The torrent lingers in its mid-way leap;
The firs, in all their branches, are asleep;
The bird is absent, and the bee is fled;
From moss-fringed fountains not a tear is shed;

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Of human life no shape or voice is near;
And the sole sound that greets my passive ear
Is the crisp snow-floor yielding to my tread:
Dumb seems the earth, and rifled of her bloom,
Like breathless beauty shrouded for the tomb.

Dear Heaven! it is a blessed thing to feel
My heart unwithered by the world,—my mind
Wakeful as ever, and as glad to steal
Into the realms of wonder, unconfined,
As round me drops the drapery of night,
With the delicious dimness of a dream,
While the one herald-star, of restless beam,
Climbs, with the quiet moon, the ethereal height.
Winter is Nature's Sabbath-time; and now,
With all her energies within her breast,
She folds her matron garments round her brow,
Sits down in peace, and takes her holy rest:
For wave, wood, mountain, star, moon, cloud and sky,
In deep-adoring stillness, prove that God is nigh!

A bold precipitous hill in the romantic valley of Saddleworth, a few miles from Ashton-under-Lyne.

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HYMN TO THE CREATOR.

Praise unto God! whose single will and might
Upreared the boundless roof of day and night,
With suns, and stars, and glorious cloud-wreaths hung;
The 'blazoned veil that hides the Eternal's throne,
The glorious pavement of a world unknown,
By angels trodden, and by mortals sung.
To God! who fixed old Ocean's utmost bounds,
And bade the Moon, in her harmonious rounds,
Govern its waters with her quiet smiles;
Bade the obedient winds, though seeming free,
Walk the tumultuous surface of the sea,
And place man's daring foot upon a thousand isles!

Praise unto God! who thrust the rifted hills,
With all their golden veins and gushing rills,
Up from the burning centre, long ago;
Who spread the deserts, verdureless and dun,
And those stern realms, forsaken of the sun,
Where Frost hath built his palace-halls of snow!
To God! whose hand hath anchored in the ground
The forest-growth of ages, the profound

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Green hearts of solitude, unsought of men!
God! who suspends the avalanche,—who dips
The Alpine hollows in a cold eclipse,
And hurls the headlong torrent shivering down the glen!

Praise unto God! who speeds the lightning's wing
To fearful flight, making the thunder spring
Abrupt and awful from its sultry lair,
To rouse some latent function of the earth,
To bring some natural blessing into birth,
And sweep disorder from the troubled air!
To God! who bids the hurricane awake,
The firm rock shudder, and the mountain quake
With deep and inextinguishable fires;
Who urges ghastly pestilence to wrath,
Sends withering famine on his silent path,
The holy purpose hid from our profane desires.

Praise unto God! who fills the fruitful soil
With wealth, awaking to the hand of toil,
With germs of beauty, and abundance, too;
Who bends athwart the footstool of the skies
His braided sunbow of resplendent dyes,
Melting in rain-drops from the shadowy blue!
To God! who sends the seasons, “dark or bright,”
Spring's frequent resurrection of delight;
Summer's mature tranquillity of mien;
The generous flush of the Autumnal time,
The ever-changing spectacle sublime
Of purgatorial Winter, savage or serene!

Praise unto God! whose wisdom placed me here,
A lowly dweller on this lovely sphere—

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This temporary home to mortals given;
Which holds its silent and unerring way
Among the innumerable worlds that stray,
Singing and burning through the halls of heaven!
To God! who sent me hither to prepare,
By wordless worship, and by uttered prayer,
By suffering, humility, and love,
By sympathies and deeds, from self apart,
Nursed in the inmost chambers of the heart,
For that transcendent life of purity above.

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THE QUEEN'S QUESTION; OR, THE RIVAL FLOWERS.

Ladies,—who linger o'er this page
With pure and tranquil pleasure,
Moved by the words of Wit and Sage,
Or Bard's romantic measure,—
Deign to receive this random rhyme,
This brief and simple story,
Of Solomon's transcendent time
Of grandeur and of glory.

Fired at the splendour of his fame,
A proud and regal maiden
To Israel's distant kingdom came
With costly presents laden.
She brought bright gold from Ophir's mine,
Rich gems of mighty prices,
Raiment of colours half divine,
With perfumes and with spices.

With mingled majesty and grace,
A gorgeous crowd attending,
She met the monarch face to face,
In silent homage bending.
With dignified, but gentle, tone,
His eyes with kindness beaming,
The good king placed her on his throne,
In posture more beseeming.

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The feast was spread, the hymn was sung,
The dancers bounded lightly;
Rare music through the palace rung,
And scented lamps burnt brightly:
Meanwhile the monarch urged his guest
To pleasure's sweet employment;
And both, by radiant looks, confessed
The depth of their enjoyment.

With questions subtle, deep, refined,
In changing conversation,
The maiden tasked the monarch's mind
With skilful penetration:
But still, like gold thrice tried by fire,
Wit, wisdom, lore, and learning
Came from the king, the sage, the sire,
With richer lustre burning.

The baffled queen was sorely tried,
And dumb with pleasing wonder;
But what can quell a woman's pride,
Or keep her spirit under?
Sheba, with persevering pains,
Assumes a modest meekness,
For one last question still remains
To prove her strength or weakness.

With quick and cunning hand she culled
A mass of seeming flowers,
And one of real sweetness pulled
From lavish Nature's bowers.
In equal parts, with silken tie,
She bound the blushing roses,
Till each appeared, to casual eye,
Twin pyramids of posies.

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Within the spacious palace hall,
A fair and winsome thing;
She stood apart from each and all,
And thus addressed the king:—
“Pray tell me, thou of high command,
To whom great thoughts are given,
Which is the work of human hand—
Which drank the dews of heaven?”

He gazed with earnest look and long—
The question was repeated;
But still he held a silent tongue,
Half angry, half defeated.
The pleased spectators clustered nigh,
And whispered—almost loudly,—
While Sheba, with inquiring eye,
Stood patiently and proudly.

'Twas summer, and some bees had strayed
Away from fields and bowers;
They hovered round the royal maid,
And round the rival flowers:
To one gay group they clung at last,—
Their own strange instinct guiding;
But careless o'er the other passed,
Not one lone wing abiding.

“Fair queen! those floral gems of thine,
Where yet the wild bee lingers,—
Where all the rainbow hues combine,
Were trained by Nature's fingers!”
Thus spoke old Israel's king, aloud,
And every bosom started;—
The vanquished maiden blushed and bowed,
Then gracefully departed.

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Of Solomon's exalted soul,
Of Sheba's mental merit,
A portion of the glorious whole,
'Tis well, if we inherit;
With sight to see, desire to know,
And reason our adviser,
Better and happier we may grow,
And surely something wiser.

Fair female flowers, which breathe and bloom
Where'er our lot hath bound us;
Flinging Affection's dear perfume
Delightfully around us:
Born with a beauty all your own,
In proud and pure completeness,
May well-deserving bees alone
Enjoy your summer sweetness!

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A LAY FOR THE PRINTER.

Who will deny the dignity of that enduring toil
That penetrates earth's treasure-glooms, and ploughs her sunny soil!
That flings the shuttle, plies the hammer, guides the spinning wheel,
Moulds into shape the rugged ore, and bends the stubborn steel?—
That hews the mountain's rocky heart, piles the patrician dome,
Leans to some lone and lowly craft beneath a lowlier home?
And who shall say that my employ hath not the power to bless,
Or scorn the honest hand that wields the wonder-working Press?

With ready finger, skilful eye, and proudly-cheerful heart,
I link those potent signs that make the magic of my art;
Till word by word, and line by line, expands the goodly book,
Wherein a myriad eyes, ere long, with eager souls will look.
The lightning wit, the thunder-truth, the tempest passion there,
The touching tones of poesy, the lesson pure and fair,

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Come forth upon the virgin page, receive their outward dress,
And, to inspire an anxious world, teem glowing from the Press!

What were the Poet's vision-life, his rapture-moods of mind,
His heavenward aspirations, and his yearnings undefined?—
His thoughts that drop like precious balm in many a kindred breast,
His gorgeous fancies, and his feelings gloriously expressed?—
What were his sentiments that make the hopeful spirit strong,
His fervent language for the right, his fearless 'gainst the wrong?—
What were they to the multitudes—a nation's strength—unless
They sprang in thrice ten thousand streams triumphant from the Press?

The star-seer—honour to his name—with art-assisted sight
May travel 'midst the pathless heavens, and trace their founts of light;
May weigh the planet, watch the comet, pierce those realms that be
Of suns that cluster thick as sands by Wonder's boundless sea;
May mark, with mute exalted joy, some nameless orb arise
To shine a lawful denizen of earth's familiar skies;—

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But these sublime and silent toils how few could know or guess,
Save through the tongue that faileth not, the ever-voiceful Press!

The student of the universe, the searcher of its laws,
Whose soul mounts, link by link, the chain that leads to God, the Cause;
Who reads the old world's history in wondrous things that lay
Tombed in the rock-veins and the seas, ere man assumed his sway;
Who grasps the subtile elements and bows them to his will,
Tracks the deep mysteries of Mind, a nobler knowledge still;
Who adds to human peace and power, makes human darkness less,
What warms, applauds, and cheers him on? His own inspiring Press!

A proud preserver of the past, it gives us o'er again
A Tully's golden tide of speech, a Homer's stirring strain;
Reflects the glory of old Greece, Rome's stern heroic state,
And tells us how they sank beneath the shocks of Time and Fate:
Horatian wit, Virgilian grace, it keeps for us in store,
And every classic dream is fresh and lovely as of yore:—
How had these treasures been consigned to “dumb forget-fulness,”
But for the mirror of great things, the re-creating Press!

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The Press! 'tis Freedom's myriad-voice re-echoed loud and long,
The Poet's world-wide utterance of high and hopeful song;
A trump that blows the barriers down where fear and falsehood lie,
A lever lifting yearning hearts still nearer to the sky!
In good men's hands it multiplies God's Oracles of Grace,
And puts them in a hundred tongues to glad the human race:
Oh! Christian truth! oh! Christian love! twin fires that burn to bless,—
What holier spirit than your own to purify the Press?

And yet it is an evil thing when wicked men combine
To use it for some selfish end, some fierce or dark design;
Who through it pour their poison-creeds, their principles of strife,
To cripple, darken, and degrade the social forms of life.
Oh! ye of strong and upright minds, from such unhallowed things
Defend the mighty instrument whence peaceful knowledge springs;
Make it the bulwark of all right, the engine of redress,
The altar of our country's hopes—a chainless, stainless Press!

254

A RHYME FOR THE TIME.

On! ye have glorious duties to fulfil,
Nor fear, nor falter on the weary way;
Ye, who with earnest rectitude of will
Marshal the millions for the moral fray:
Ye, who with vollied speech and volant lay,
'Gainst the dark crowd of social ills engage,
Lead us from out the darkness to the day
We languish to behold; exalt the age,
And write your names in fire on Truth's unspotted page!

With hopeful heart and faith-uplifted brow
Press on, Crusaders, for the goal is near;
Desert and danger are behind, and now
Sweet winds and waters murmur in our ear;
And plenteous signs of peaceful life appear,
And songs of solace greet us as we go;
And o'er the horizon's rim, not broad, but clear,
The light of a new morning seems to flow,—
We journey sunwards! on, and hail the uprising glow!

In the sad wilderness we've wandered long,
Thirsting amid the inhospitable sand,
Cheered by that burden of prophetic song,—
“The clime, the time of freedom is at hand!”

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And, lo! upon the threshold of the land
We strive and hope, keep patient watch, and wait;
And few and feeble are the foes that stand
Between us and our guerdon:—back, proud gate,
That opes into the realm of Freedom's high estate!

Not ours, perchance, the destiny to see
The unveiled glories of her inner bower,
But myriads following in our steps shall be
Equal partakers of the coming hour;
The unencumbered heritage, the dower
With its full fruits is theirs, with all its store
Of fine fruition and exalted power:
And Truth shall teach them her transcendent lore—
“Man towards the perfect good advanceth evermore!”

And in our upward progress through the past,
What giant evils have been trodden down!
Dread deeds which struck the shrinking soul aghast,
Branding the doer with unblest renown:
The Inquisitor's harsh face and gloomy gown,
Girt with a thousand torture-tools; the flame
In whose fierce folds the martyr won his crown,—
Are gone into the darkness whence they came,—
There let them rust and rot, in God's insulted name!

Knowledge hath left the hermit's ruined cell,
The narrow convent and the cloister's gloom,
With world-embracing wings to soar and dwell
In ampler ether, and sublimer room;
The vollied lightnings of her Press consume
The tyrant's strength, and smite the bigot blind;
Day after day its thunders sound the doom
Of some old wrong, too hideous for the mind
Which reason hath illumed, which knowledge hath refined.

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Knowledge hath dignified the sons of toil,
And taught where purest pleasures may be won;
The peasant leaves his ploughshare in the soil
For mental pastime when the day is done;
The swart-faced miner, shut from breeze and sun,
While Nature reigns in beauty unsubdued,
Creeps from his caverned workshop, deep and dun,
And in his hovel's fire-lit solitude
Storeth his craving mind with not unwholesome food.

'Mid the harsh clangour of incessant wheels,
Beside the stithy and the furnace blaze,
Some soul, still hungering and enlarging, feels
The silent impulse of her quickening rays;
In the lone loom-cell, where for weary days,
And weary nights, the shuttle flies amain,
With his white web the weaver weaveth lays
To speed his labour, or beguile his pain,
Lays which the world shall hear, and murmur o'er again.

Proud halls re-echo with exalted song,
With calm instruction, or impassioned speech;
And who stands foremost in the listening throng?
The artisan, who learns that he may teach:
Longing, acquiring, holding, like the leech,
He cries, “Give, give!” with unallayed desire;
No point of knowledge seems beyond his reach:
Effort begets success, and higher, higher,
Like eagles towards the sun, his full-fledged thoughts aspire!

Nor is there danger in the liberal gift
Of soul-seed, cast abroad by Genius' hand,
Not weeds, but flowers and fruitful stems shall lift
Their forms of grace and grandeur o'er the land.

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Like that proud tree by eastern breezes fanned,
From kindred roots a mighty forest made—
A brotherhood of branches shall expand
From the great myriad mind, affording shade,
Strength, shelter, and supply, when outer storms invade.

And by this patient gathering of thought—
And by this peaceful exercise of will,
What wonders have been nursed, matured, and wrought!
What other wonders will they not fulfil?
Upheaves the valley, yawns the opposing hill,
Man and his hand-work sweep triumphant through;
Time swells, space narrows, prejudice stands still
And dwindles in the distance; high and new
Are all our dreams and deeds:—but much remains to do.

But War, that tawdry yet terrific thing,
The Ethiop's brand and bondage, the vile show
Of God's frail image from the gallows string
Dangling and heaving with convulsive throe:—
These man-made ministers of death and woe,
Shall we not crush them—Reason, Mercy, say?
Shall we not fling behind us, as we go,
These ancient errors? Reason answers “Yea!
Pure hearts and earnest souls will clear the encumbered way.”

Hail to the lofty minds, the truthful tongues
Linked in an universal cause, as now!
Which break no rights, which advocate no wrongs,
Firm to the loom, and faithful to the plough!
Commerce, send out thy multifarious prow

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Laden with goodly things for every land;
Labour, uplift thy sorrow-shaded brow,
Put forth thy strength of intellect and hand,
And plenty, peace, and joy may round thy homes expand.

Hail! mighty Science, nature's conquering lord!
Thou star-crowned, steam-winged, fiery-footed power!
Hail! gentle Arts, whose hues and forms afford
Refined enchantments for the tranquil hour!
Hail! tolerant teachers of the world, whose dower
Of spirit-wealth outweighs the monarch's might!
Blest be your holy mission, may it shower
Blessings like rain, and bring, by human right,
To all our hearts and hearths, love, liberty, and light!

259

POETRY IN COMMON THINGS.

'Twas Saturn's night, dark, silent, chill, and late,
My exhausted fire was dying in the grate;
My taper's wick was waxing large and long,
While I sat musing on the gift of song,
With all its soul-born influences, and power
To soothe or strengthen in the varying hour:
Upon my table, in promiscuous crowd,
Lay the great minds to whom my spirit bowed;—
Shakespeare, the universal, and the bard
Who Gloriana sang without reward,
Save that which Fame accorded him for ever!—
Dryden, the child of change, whose best endeavour
Was aye beset with troubles, though his string
Rang out in praise of Commonwealth and King;
Milton, the mighty, dignified, and pure,
Born with a soul to battle or endure:
Pope, the euphoneous, whose every theme
Is smooth and flowing as the summer stream;
The cold and caustic Swift, whose loveless heart
Knew not the pangs he laboured to impart;
Goldsmith, whose muse is ever undefiled,
“In wit a man—simplicity a child!”
The grave sarcastic Cowper, best of men!
And Crabbe, the moral Hogarth of the pen;

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Calm Campbell, dazzling Moore, to fancy dear;
The erratic Ploughman, and the wayward Peer;
Southey, the sorcerer, whose wizard strain,
Alas! is silent, ne'er to sound again;
Wordsworth, now full of honourable years,
Whose thoughts do often lie “too deep for tears;”
Coleridge, of dreamy lore (who shall excel
His wild and wondrous fragment, “Christabel?”),
Baronial Scott, the heir of deathless glory,
And him who sang Kilmeny's fairy story;
Ideal Shelley, and ethereal Keats,
With their fine gathering of luxurious sweets;
Leigh Hunt, who loves a quaint but cheerful lore,
And Lamb, as gentle as the name he bore;
Elliott the iron-like, but sweetly strong,
And the Montgomery of sacred song;
The fervid Hemans of the magic shell,
And that lorn nightingale, sweet L. E. L.
These are a glorious number, yet not all
Whose words have held me in delicious thrall.

Weary with many thoughts, I went to sleep,
(Mysterious mute existence!), calm and deep
My slumbers came upon me, while my dreams,
Tinged with the beauty of a thousand themes
From childhood cherished, crowded through my brain,—
Bright things a waking eye might seek in vain.—
Freed from its daily struggles with the real,
My spirit sought the infinite ideal,
And revelled in its regions for a time,
Where all is pure, ecstatic, and sublime.
With clear, unbounded intellect, and tongue
To utter at my will undying song,

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My lips dropped poesy, like flakes of light,
As though some wandering angel, in his flight,
Had waved his radiant pinions o'er my head,
And shaken plumage off. Forth from my bed,
When the spring morning shed its lustrous rain,
I leapt in joy, and seized my pen to chain
A thousand splendid visions which had crept
Through my delighted being as I slept;
But like a breath upon a mirror's face,
They lapsed away, nor left a lingering trace.
Finding my muse had crippled both her wings,
And fluttered earthward, back to common things,
I went to breakfast, wrapt in thoughtful gloom,
While Sabbath sunshine, pouring in my room,
Hung brightly upon ceiling, wall, and floor,
And laid a golden bar across my door;
I could not choose but own its silent power,
And feel in calm accordance with the hour.
The scribbling fit was on me, but in lieu
Of soaring into regions high and new
Of perfect Poesy, I strove to climb
The little mole-hill of imperfect Rhyme.

The ample table-cover drooped adown
In graceful folds, white as a bridal gown,
Or childhood's shroud, or vestal-maid's array,
Or blossoms breathing on the lap of May,
Or cygnet's breast, or those fair clouds that lie
Hovering in beauty in a summer sky;
Or snow on Alpine summits;—(thus you see
We get at poesy by simile).
The bread suggested corn-fields broad and yellow,
Touched by the autumn sunbeams mild and mellow;
The rustle of full sheaves, the laugh and song
Of jolly reapers, sickle-armed and strong,

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And all the loud hilarities that come
To swell the triumph of a harvest home.
And then the restless and secluded mill,
Moved by the gushings of a mountain rill,
With its moss-grown and ever-dripping wheel,
Churning the waters till they flash and reel,
Came up distinct before my mental gaze,—
A well-remembered picture of old days.
The unctuous butter and the cooling cream,
Though simple in themselves, inspired a dream
Of quiet granges seated far away
From towns and cities, and of meadows gay
With spring's innumerable flowers: of kine
Feeding in healthful pastures (how I pine
To rush into the fields!), of dairies sweet,
Where buxom damsels, rosy-lipped and neat,
Have pleasant toils; and last, the ingle side,
Scene of the farmer's solacement and pride.
The juicy lettuce and the pungent cress,
At least in fancy's hearing, spoke no less
Of trim-laid gardens, and complaining brooks,
Winding away through green romantic nooks,
To schoolboys and to lovers only known,
Or Poets wandering in their joy alone;
And then the coffee, with its amber shine,
In aromatic richness half divine—
Brought Araby, and Araby the “Nights,”
Which in my boyhood filled me with delights
That linger yet. To memory how dear
The generous Caliph, and the good Vizier:
The silent city with its forms of stone,
Its crowded streets so wonderfully lone:—
Sinbad, of eastern travellers the great;
Aladdin's potent lamp, and splendid state,

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And all that dreamy mystery whose power
Hath kept one wakeful till the morning hour.
Alas! that time's remorseless hand should raze
Those magic mansions of our early days,
Wherein we dwelt in quietude and joy,
As yet unconscious of the world's annoy;
But still, though time, and even truth, be stern,
'Tis well if we can meditate, and learn
To gather solace from the meanest springs,
And see some beauty in the humblest things;
For to the willing heart and thoughtful mind,
To eyes with pride and prejudice unblind,
Germs of enjoyment are for ever rife,
E'en on the waste of unromantic life.

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THE SEASIDE SOJOURN.

TO A POET FRIEND.

My valued Friend! as generous and true
As bard could wish, when steadfast friends are few,—
Friend of the feeling heart and soul of fire,
Restrained and chastened by each just desire:
Whose thoughts are high, exuberant and warm,—
Whose manners win, whose lightest words inform;
Whose deeds are ever on the helpless side
Of all who are oppressed and trouble-tried.
Thou hast not 'scaped the many-headed strife,
Which in the tangled labyrinths of life
Meets us at every turn, and strives to wrest
Peace from the mind, and pleasure from the breast;
But could I, as my wishes urge, extend
A prayer-won blessing unto thee, my friend,
Thy storms should cease, thy clouds should break away,
And leave the experienced evening of thy day
Calm in its joy, and in its brightness bland,
A fleeting foretaste of a happier land.

Sick of the thoughtless revel, and the throng
Of paltry pleasures that have done me wrong,
Of envious malice and of spurious praise
(The bane, the blight of my aspiring days!),
I come, with more than sadness in my breast,
To be with Nature a repentant guest;

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And here, once more by the consoling sea,
Whose constant voice of solemn euphony
Disposes to serene, exalted thought,
I find the tranquil solacement I sought;
Put off my cares, repress regretful tears,
And wake fond memories of departed years.
Many and harmless are the spells that bind
To this calm spot my stricken heart and mind,
The grey and breezy downs, unploughed and bare;
The priceless luxury of healthful air;
The long lone ramble by the sounding shore;
The drip and sparkle of the measured oar;
The white-winged sea-gull's low and laggard flight;
The green wave's fitful and phosphoric light;
The staunch and stately ships that come and go
With the strong tide's unfailing ebb and flow;
The hardy sailor's wild, peculiar cry,
As, with a spirit emulous and high,
His horny hands unfurl the fluttering sail
To catch the fulness of the freshening gale;
The steadfast beacon's red revolving shine,
Far-looking o'er the still or stormy brine
With calm and constant, needful, watchfulness,
To warn from danger, and to cheer distress.
Then the pure pleasantness at eventide,
Our faces brightening by the “ingle side,”—
In social converse, various and new,
Merry or sad, with chosen friends and few,—
Of wit and wisdom, manners, books, and men,
Of the strong sword-plague and the stronger pen;
Of living laws that guard us or degrade;
Of peaceful arts that speed the wings of trade;
Of mild Philosophy's untold delights;
Of fearless Science in his daring flights:

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Of fervid eloquence, whose wondrous tongue
Makes truth and falsehood, rectitude and wrong,—
Play faithless and, withal, fantastic parts
On our deluded ears and doubtful hearts;
Till thou, my Friend, already brimming o'er
With classic story and poetic lore,
Dost lead us gently, by degrees, away
To mental regions of serener day,
Where Genius of a loftier, holier power,
Lives soul-rapt in the quiet of his bower,
Calmly creating and enjoying things
(Born of emotions and imaginings),
So sweet and stainless, truthful and sublime,
And so instinct with life, that even Time,
Who makes material grandeur stern and hoary,
Adds to their strength, their beauty and their glory!
'Tis sweet again, with tranquil heart and limb,
Within my dormitory, small and dim,
To lie and listen to the lengthened roar
Of restless waters rolling on the shore,
And feel o'er all my languid senses creep
The soft and silent witchery of sleep;
With its mysterious crowd of glooms and gleams
Mixed in a wild romance of miscellaneous dreams.

Once more there's pleasure, when my lattice pane
Admits the dewy morning's golden rain,
To hear the merry birds' melodious glee,
And the still sleepless and complaining sea—
Call me to spend another happy day
Of fresh, free thought—too soon to pass away!

But there are other charms that gently hold
My world-sick spirit to thy little fold
Of joyous human lambs, that learn and live
'Mid many pleasures fair but fugitive;

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That wist not wherefore, and that ask not when
Care claims the hearts, and dims the eyes of men.
The first that greets my inquiring eyes at morn
Is the sweet fay, thy loved and latest born:
Her with the ruddy and the rounded cheek,
And flowing elf-locks, amber-hued and sleek,
And ripe lips, like a virgin bud that blows
'Mid summer dews, a stainless infant rose:
Her with the thoughtless brow, and laughing eye,
Clear as the depths of the cerulean sky,
Where storms are brief, where shadows seldom dare
Pollute or trouble the salubrious air.

Well do I know her father hath the power
(A dear, but yet, alas! a dangerous dower!)
To shrine his daughter in a song whose tone
Would be as sweet and lasting as my own;
But since he lays his trembling harp aside,
With a deep sense of not unworthy pride,—
Be mine the privilege, with words sincere,
To please an anxious father's willing ear.

She duly comes—that little sprite of thine,—
A human form, but seeming half divine,
With the young morn, as fresh and free from care
As forest flowers that meet us unaware—
To kiss with ready lips her fond, firm mother,
Her kindly nurse,—her grave and growing brother,
Her yearning father, and her father's friend,
As if she sought her little soul to blend
With souls of sterner mood, and thus impart
Her own spontaneous happiness of heart.
With bright impatient face she rushes out,
Her lips disparted with a gleesome shout,
To make a merry pastime of the hours
In the romantic fields, knee deep in flowers,

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Which with an eager hand she plucks to grace
The unravelled tresses floating round her face.
Else, with her young companions hand in hand,—
Leaving her tiny footprints in the sand,—
Roams the long level of the sloping shore,
Watching the waters—fearless of their roar;
Gathering the stranded shells wherewith to deck
The purer whiteness of her graceful neck;
Till in the full-tide splendours of the noon,
Humming with “vacant joy” some wordless tune,
She comes exulting from her pleasant toils,
And strews the floor with variegated spoils;
Worthless, perchance, to our maturer sight,
But to her own a treasure of delight.
The dinner done, the irksome lesson o'er,
Again she seeks her playmates, to explore
Haunts yet unvisited, or old ones where
All that salutes her earnest eyes is fair;
And every sound to her untutored ears
Is as the fabled music of the spheres.
The shady quiet of some bosky dell,
And the cool sparklings of its little well;
The bustling brooklet hurrying past her feet
With a low murmur, tremulous and sweet;
A fluttering leaf—a waving flower—a tree
Shivering through all its foliage; a bee
Sitting assiduous on the honied bloom
Of clover, blushing in its own perfume:
The song and plumage of some fearless bird—
The cuckoo's shout from dim remoteness heard;
Mysterious Echo's mimic voice, that seems
Like that of spirit from a place of dreams;—
The dauntless pleasure-toils to seek and find
The brown nuts nestling in their rugged rind;

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The feast of bramble-berries black and bright,
Staining the lip that prattles with delight;
The tale of fairy—childhood's cherished creed—
Of wild old thoughts, a treasury indeed!
Yea, all that Nature's outward form imparts
To win the worship of such sinless hearts,
Makes up her waking life, and makes it too
Seem ever gladsome, glorious, and new,—
Sending her home at the calm set of day
Subdued and silent from her joyous play;
Her light limbs weary, and her eyelids prest
By slumber—welcome, though unbidden guest,
Which lays her down, a pure unconscious thing,
In the soft shadow of an angel's wing.

Oh! Childhood is the Paradise of Life,
Long safe from sin, and separate from strife;
And heaven-appointed spirits hover round,
To guard from evil the enchanted ground,
Till the dread thing o'erleaps the hallowed wall,
Basks in our path, and lures us to our fall:
Bright thoughts and pure all stealthily depart,
Leaving a strange vacuity of heart;
Some necessary impulse seems to press
Our footsteps nearer to the wilderness,
Until we learn the knowledge of our doom
From the “small voice” that whispers through the gloom,
While unseen hands, and powerful, compel
Our going from the Eden where we dwell;
And at the boundary, the angel Truth,
With looks of pity on our dawning youth,
Waves the stern flame-sword in our startled eyes,
And turns us to the world where danger lies:
But happy we, if in our hearts we find
Aught holy from the home for ever left behind.

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I may not predicate what grief or glee
Awaits the darling of thy wife and thee,—
Her fate lies folded in the breast benign
Of Him who holds her in His hand divine:
But hope is soothing, and despair is vain,
And gentle precept leadeth with a chain
Stronger than passion's, from the path of wrong,
And firm example doeth more than song.

Thus with the teaching thou alone canst give,
Serene in virtue she may learn to live;
And though some bitter taints the cup of all,
Her's in its sweetness, may subdue the gall.
Oh! may these written thoughts, when after life
Hath merged the maiden in the prouder wife,
Awake sweet memories of departed years,
And call the tribute down of none but happy tears.

I go, heart-strengthened by the little space
Of calm enjoyment in as calm a place,
Enlarged in sympathy, refreshed in mind,
With loftier thoughts, and feelings more refined;
Earnest and hopeful, anxious to explore
A clearer region of poetic lore,
Where I may toil with purer soul, and stand
Among the worthiest of my native land.

In sadness I depart, but not in pain,
Trusting to clasp thy cordial hand again:
Take thou and thine my blessing and farewell,—
Peace to thy house and all therein that dwell!

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COME TO MY HOME.

Come to my calm but lonely home,
With all thy grace, and love, and light,
That I may watch thee day by day,
And be thy guardian through the night;
Be thou my household's happy queen,
The pride and beauty of my bower;
My wayward soul's presiding star,—
My fond heart's sweetest, dearest flower.

Light labours only wait thee here,—
My peerless and my chosen one!
For thou shalt train the nectar-tree
To hang its tresses in the sun.
By thee the honey-fingered bine
Shall mantle round our rural shed;
And the Sultana summer rose
Lift high her proud imperial head.

Through radiant summer's gorgeous time,
When pleasant toils are duly told:
When burn upon the western skies
The sun's rich robes of cloudy gold,—

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We'll tread the green and fragrant sward,
And, leaning by some laggard stream,
Breathe to the sweet and listening air
The words of some immortal dream.

When garish day fades softly out,
Religious twilight gathering o'er,—
We'll read upon the book of heaven
Its God-illuminated lore;
Then filled with quiet thankfulness
While odorous night winds round us creep,
We'll turn with homeward steps, and slow,
To woo the tranquil bliss of sleep.

When moonlight snow is on the roof,
And pictured frost is on the pane;
When clustering stars look keenly forth,
And clouds discharge their solid rain,—
We'll nestle near the chimney side,
Unenvious of the festive throng,
And drown the moaning of the blast
In the united tones of song.

Should sickness bow thy fragile form,
Or sorrow rifle thee of rest,—
Should aught of human ill destroy
The peaceful rapture of thy breast,
My lips shall speak of home and health,
To cheat thee of thy grief and pain,
And all my faculties combine
To bring thee back to peace again.

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When other voices than our own,
And other forms which are not here,
Shall fill these walls with childish glee,
And make existence doubly dear;
What shall estrange us heart from heart,
When such connubial joys are given?
Come, be the angel of my life,
And make my earthly home a heaven!

Originally entitled “The Request,” and contributed to “The Athenæum Souvenir”—a publication associated with the Athenæum Bazaar, held in Manchester Town-Hall in 1843.

A SUMMER'S EVENING SKETCH.

In tranquil thought, last eventide, I went my wonted way,
Along the foldings of a vale where quiet beauty lay,
To breathe the living air, and watch with fancies half divine,
The clouds that gathered near the sun, to grace his grand decline.

The new-mown meadows, smooth and broad, gay in their second green,
The sinuous river gliding on in shadow and in sheen;
The orchard and its little cot, with low and mossy eaves,
And tiny lattice twinkling through its chequered veil of leaves.

The costly mansion, here and there, 'mid solemn groves and still;
The mass of deep and wave-like woods uprolling on the hill;
The grey and Gothic church that looked down on its graveyard lone,
And on the hamlet roofs and walls, coeval with its own;

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Old farms remote and far apart, with intervening space
Of black'ning rock, and barren down, and pasture's pleasant face;
The white and winding road, that crept through village, vale, and glen,
And o'er the dreary moorlands, far beyond the homes of men.

The changeful glory of the sky, the loveliness below;
The tree-tops tinged with rosy fire, the bright pool's borrowed glow;
The blaze of windows, and the smile of fields so soon to fade,
And when the lingering sun went down, the tenderness of shade;

The throstle's still untiring song, loud as at early morn;
The grasshopper's shrill serenade amid the ripening corn;
The careless schoolboy's gleesome shout; the low of homeward herds;
The voice of mother and of child, let loose in loving words;

The rose that sighed its fragrant soul upon the summer air;
The breath of honeysuckle wild, that met me unaware;
The smell of cribs where oxen lay, of dairies dim and small;
Of herb, and moss, and fruit, that grew within the garden wall;

All pleasant things that wooed the sense in odour, sound, or hue,
Came with as sweet an influence as if they had been new,—

275

And so disposed my mind to love, to gentleness, and trust,
I blessed all seemly forms that God life-kindled from the dust.

The mingled magic of the scene, the season, and the hour,
Fell on my world-sick spirit then with most consoling power;
Old friendships seemed revived again—old enmities forgiven,
Suspended as my feelings were midway 'tween earth and heaven.

I could have sported with a child, myself a child again;
I could have hailed the veriest wretch of penury and pain;
Religion, love, humanity, awoke within my breast,
And filled me with a solemn joy my tears alone expressed.

Thus nature wins her peaceful way, with silent strength and grace,
To souls that love her lineaments, and meet her face to face.
Blest privilege! to leave behind the paths of toil we trod,
And live an hour of purity with Nature and with God!

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THE WANDERER.

In a lonely valley yonder,
Where the Rhenish wine-tree grows,
I sat me down to rest and ponder
On the mystery of woes:
For I was travel-stained and weary,
Sore of foot and faint of limb,
Helpless, hungry, heart-sick, dreary,
My eyes with want and watching dim.

It was a sunny Sabbath morning,
In the briefest days of Spring—
Infant buds the boughs adorning,
Larks upon the skyward wing:
Flowers, in fragrant childhood blowing,
Drank the golden light of day;
Streams, in clearer gladness flowing,
Found a sweeter, greener way.

The peasant poor to worship wending,—
Wrinkled dame and ruddy lass,
With a kind obeisance bending,
Greet the pilgrim as they pass:—

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Welcome, though their homely graces,
Buoyant footstep, aspect free,
Stranger forms and stranger faces
Are not those he yearns to see.

A simple Sabbath-chime was ringing
From a grey and leafy tower,—
A sweet and solemn music flinging
Over vineyard, vale, and bower;
The very woods and hills seemed listening,
In a holy calm profound,
And the lingering dew-drops, glistening,
Seemed to tremble at the sound.

Present sorrow,—baleful shadow!
Slid from off my languid mind,
Like a cloud-shade from a meadow,
Leaving greener spots behind.
Recollections, sad or splendid,
Came with softened smiles and tears,
And the future, hope-attended,
Beckoned unto brighter spheres.

England's temples of devotion,
Unassuming, old, and dim,
Where the deepest heart-emotion
Answers to the holy hymn;
In whose grave-yards, greened with ages,
Eyes the tears of memory shed,
Looking on those solemn pages—
Stony records of the dead.

278

I saw a sleeping babe receiving
Baptismal drops upon its face,
A blushing bride the portal leaving
With a proud and modest grace:
I saw a dark assembly gather
Round an open grave and deep,
And a wifeless, childless father
Stricken till he could not weep.

Then my youth rose up before me,
Fresh as in its newest hour,
When that deeper life came o'er me,
Love's pure passion and its power;
When a crowd of different feelings
In my growing heart took birth,
Different thoughts, whose sweet revealings
Uttered more of heaven than earth.

Memory opened out her treasures,
Which had lain unheeded long,—
Trials, triumphs, pains, and pleasures,
A mingled and familiar throng:
Scenes, where I had wandered lonely,
In my boyhood's dreamy days,
When the shapes of Nature only
Soothed and satisfied my gaze.

Wood haunts, where I lay and lingered,
At my stolen, but happy ease,
While the west wind, frolic-fingered,
Stirred the umbrage of my trees;

279

While the fern and fox-glove nigh me
Whispered things, too seldom heard;
And brook and bee that flitted by me
Held light concert with the bird.

England's soft and slumbering valleys,
With happy homesteads scattered o'er,
Where the honeysuckle dallies
With the rose, about the door:
England's ancient halls and granges,
In some woodland nestled low,
Through whose shades the river ranges
With a dark and devious flow.

Then I saw new things, and fairer,
In the stars, clouds, fields, and flowers;
Then I heard new sounds, and rarer,
In the ever-voiceful bowers:
Then with stronger life came laden
Every breeze that wandered wide,
Because one loved, one loving maiden,
Smiled, looked, listened, by my side.

Every spot of blissful meeting
Rose before my inner sight;
Every fond and joyous greeting
Thrilled me with an old delight.
Precious hours of speedy pinion—
Ye with purest passion rife,
Alas! to feel your dear dominion
Once only in the lapse of life!

280

Still that Sabbath-chime was ringing,
Where the Rhenish wine-tree grows,
Sterner recollections bringing,
Tinctured with a thousand woes:—
Poverty's resistless terrors,
Careless words, and careless deeds,
Rash resolves, and thoughtless errors,
For which the wiser spirit bleeds.

Absent voices, absent faces,
Which I longed to hear and see;
Hearts, which yearned for my embraces,
And beat with faithful pulse for me.
Thoughts like these, with strong appealings,
Tinged with hopes, and touched with fears,
Only asked for human feelings,
And I answered with my tears.

Thus that Sabbath-chime, though simple,
Stirred me with its hallowed sound,
As a still lake's smallest dimple
Moves the whole bright surface round.
That sweet music, and the brightness
Of the young and buoyant day,
Gave to my soul new strength, new lightness,
As I journeyed on my way.

281

WAR.

Scourge of the nations, and the bane of freedom, hope, and life!
Stern reveller in gory fields, exulting in the strife!
Thou terror of ten thousand homes, thou sword-plague of the world!
When shall we see thy balefires quenched, thy bloodstained banners furled?

Ambition-born, and power-begot, with passions dark and vile,
And fostered by the cruel arts of avarice and guile,
Thou goest forth with reckless hosts to slaughter and enslave,
Thou trampler upon human hearts, thou gorger of the grave!

Thy oriflamme floats wantonly in the pure unconscious air;
The chorus of thy drums gives out the warning note “Prepare;”
Thy cymbals ring, thy trumpets sing with shrill and vaunting breath,
Alas! that such vain pageantry should grace the feast of death!

Growing in peaceful splendour stands some proud and prosperous town,
Till thy dread footsteps pass her gates, and tread her glories down;
While panic sweeps her wildering streets, and all thy hounds of prey,
Make riot in her homes, and leave dishonour and dismay.

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Some village, nestling tranquilly amid its happy shades,
Girt with the calm amenities of corn-fields, streams, and glades,
Beholds thee pause upon thy march, and in thy fierce employ
Despoil its blooming paradise of quietude and joy.

A province withers at thy frown, a kingdom mourns to see
Her desecrated temples torn, her towers o'erthrown by thee;
Bewails her commerce paralysed, her fields unploughed and wild,
And all her household sanctities invaded and defiled.

And yet the land that sends thee forth, what land soe'er it be,
Leaps at thy lawless victories, and lifts the voice of glee,
And songs are sung, and bells are rung, and merry bonfires blaze,
While false, or foolish pens, distil the poison of their praise.

And at the crowded banquet board quick tongues diffuse thy fame,
And columns lift proud capitals in honour of thy name.
And virgins, pure and beautiful, give their fond hearts away
To men who trod out human life in the carnage yesterday.

Thy trophies, brought in triumph home, attest what thou hast done,
What valour lavished on the foe, what fields of glory won;
But men who scorn thy painful pomp, survey with blushing face
Such signs of sanguinary power, such symbols of disgrace.

283

Ay, strip thee of thy dainty garb, thy tinsel robe of pride,
Lay glistering helm, and flaunting plume, and specious names aside,—
And what remains of that gay thing that dazzled us before?
A monster, hideous to behold—an idol smeared with gore!

The widow's curse is on thee, War; the orphan's suppliant cries,
Mixed with the mother's malison, ascend the placid skies;
And bones that bleach upon the shore, and welter in the sea,
Appeal,—and shall it be in vain? against thy deeds and thee.

The green earth fain would fling thee off from her polluted breast:
The multitudes are yearning, too, for knowledge and for rest,
And lips inspired by Christian love all deprecate thy wrongs,
And poets fired with purer themes, disdain thee in their songs.

“The embattled corn” is lovelier far than thy embattled hordes;
One plough in Labour's honest hand is worth ten thousand swords;
The engine's steam pulse, fitly plied, hath nobler conquests made
Than all the congregated serfs of thy abhorrent trade.

More courage in the miner's heart than captain ever knew;
More promise in the peasant's frock than coats of scarlet hue;

284

More honour in the craftsman's cap, and in the student's gown;
More glory in the pastor's robe than all thy vain renown.

England, my own, my mother land, as fair as thou art free!
Thou Island queen! whose wide domains o'ersprinkle earth and sea,
What need that thou should'st yearn again to conquer and subdue?
Thy power has long been known to all, shall not thy mercy too?

Forbear to use the cruel sword, or, if thou wilt invade,
Be it with palm or olive branch, that maketh none afraid;
Be it with Bible in thy hand, with justice in thy breast,
Give peaceful arts; give Gospel light; give rectitude and rest.

If strong ambition dares to doom his weaker foe to bleed,
Raise high the trumpet-voice of truth against the ruthless deed;
With magnanimity of heart, with calm and fearless brow,
Be thou the umpire and the friend—the mediator thou.

So shall the nations look to thee, as one ordained to keep
The balance of the social world, the portals of the deep;
And history shall write thee down, with proud and willing hand,
A realm of mind and majesty, a wise and Christian land!

285

WINTER MUSINGS.

Stern Winter time! thy shrouded skies oppress me,
And fling funereal shadows o'er my brain:
Sad thoughts and visions, spectre-like, distress me,
And waken all my sympathies to pain;
Sad thoughts of yonder multitudinous city,
Where care too often festers into crime:
Where hearts heave out their life for lack of pity,
Or, living, dread thy coming, Winter time!

Sad thoughts of sinful and pestiferous places,
Where love, hope, joy, breeze, sunlight, never comes;
Where pen and pencil never lend their graces,
Nor common comforts quiet, to their homes—
Oh! no, not homes, but dens—where God's own creatures
Creep through the roughest ways of lowest life;
Where untaught minds make savage forms and features,
And hold perpetual fellowship with strife.

Sad thoughts! that virtue and that vice together
Stir the thick air with curses and with groans,
Pine through the day, and in the fiercest weather
Herd nightly on the cold and cruel stones;
Or desperate men put off their fear and starkness,
To wreak their vengeance on some guiltless head;
Or women, roaming through the storm and darkness,
Barter their beauty for dishonoured bread.

286

Even where royalty, oppressed with splendour,
Free as the humblest from repulsive pride,
While ready hands and willing hearts attend her,
Walks in her gardens beautiful and wide—
There, even there, with gorgeous wealth surrounded,
The lost, the scorned, the outcasts of their kind,
Lie down a heap of indigence confounded,
Fellows in misery, if not in mind.

Sad thoughts! that in yon town's bewildering mazes,
Dark veins far stretching from its giant heart,
Man in his saddest moods and sternest phases
Lives from all healthy influence apart:
Souls that have missed their way lie there benighted,
With all their sensual instincts wild and bare;
And hearts, once prone to love, are warped and blighted
For lack of genial sustenance and care.

Fathers sit brooding on the threatening morrow,
With looks of anger kindling into hate;
And mothers, with a mute, but deeper sorrow,
Cease to resist the thraldom of their fate:
Children, grown prematurely old, are pining
In apathetic squalor, day by day;
Round their young natures vicious weeds are twining,
Which thrust the flowers of purity away.

Perchance, within those lazar-dens of riot
Insidious sickness saps the shattered frame:
Where is the yielding couch, the room of quiet?
The pensive taper-light's unfailing flame?
Where is the cleanly hearthstone, blithely glowing?
The cordial offered ere the lips request?
Where are affection's eyes, with grief o'erflowing?
The forms that wait, yet fear, the final rest?

287

Where is the skilful leech, man's health-director,
With words of honey all unmixed with gall?
The pastor praying to the great Protector,
Without whose will a sparrow cannot fall!
Alas! not there! no love, no skill, no teaching,
Touches with hopeful light the hour of gloom,
The lorn wretch thinks high heaven beyond his reaching,
And, dying, braves the horrors of his doom!

Strange contrast! lo! yon lofty windows brighten
From chambers as an eastern vision fair,
Where lips and eyes with pleasure smile and lighten,
While song and music thrill the throbbing air;
Where Art hath brought her triumphs and her graces,
The glowing canvas, and the breathing stone;
Where rich refinements from a thousand places
Are tributes from the lands of every zone.

There lusty lacqueys round the banquet gliding
With costly dainties court the pampered taste,
While Joy and Plenty o'er the board presiding
See southern nectars run to wanton waste;
There Fortune's idol learns to love and languish,
Swathed in the splendour and the pride of birth,
Uncaring, or unconscious, of the anguish
That bows her lowly sisters of the earth.

And yet there are, beside the hall or palace,
Shapes of humanity, unhoused, unfed,
Untaught, unsought, unheeded, fierce or callous,
The sky their curtain, and the earth their bed:
Shapes which are all of one Almighty's making,
Imploring, threatening, near the rich man's feet,
With sin grown savage, or with sorrow quaking,
Frenzied for food his dogs refuse to eat.

288

“The poor shall cease not,” God's blest word declareth;
But are they less of human mould than kings?
Must they grow faint for what kind Nature beareth,
For what she gives to all her meaner things?
Must they exist in darkness and distraction,
Doubting if Heaven be merciful and just?
Shut out from joy, unnerved for glorious action,
And scarce uplifted from the grovelling dust?

Formed for all fitting faculties and feelings
By Him who gives the tiniest worm a law,
Who fills His humblest work with high revealings,
Sustains the skies, and keeps the stars in awe,—
Shall they, oppressed with famine and wrong doing,
With crowded cares, and unassuasive pain,
Obey, toil, falter, rush to deeper ruin,
Reason, implore, grow mad, and all in vain?

Forbid it, God! who deigns to guide and gift us!
Ye mild and moral principles of right—
Ye liberal souls that labour to uplift us—
Rise up against it with resistless light:
And all ye holy sympathies that slumber
Unstirred, unfruitful in the human breast,
Spring into active phalanx without number,
And give the poor hope, help, and happier rest.

Forbid it, Pen—for thou canst vanquish error;
Forbid it, Press—proud ally of the Pen!
Forbid it, Speech, that carries truth or terror
To the hard bosoms of unthinking men.
Pen, Press, and Speech, creators of opinion—
Opinion armed 'gainst ignorance and wrong—
League all the lands beneath your blest dominion,
Till the glad poet sings a calmer song.

289

THE PARTITION OF THE EARTH.

PARAPHRASED FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER.

“Take the Earth!” uttered God, from the height of His throne,
As He looked on the children He made, from above:
“Take the Earth, with its treasures, and call it your own,
But divide it with justice and brotherly love!”

By myriads men came when they heard the decree,—
Age, manhood, and youth hurried on in the race;
The husbandman ruled o'er the corn-covered lea,—
The forest was given to the sons of the chase.

The merchant took all that his stores would contain,
While the priest—holy man! took the choicest of wine;
The king took the highways and byways for gain,
By a law which the people believed was divine.

At length, when each mortal rejoiced in his lot,
Came the poet, who loved not the boisterous throng;
But, alas! when he came he beheld not a spot,
Save the breadth of a grave, for the pilgrim of song.

Then he threw himself down at the throne of his Sire,
And cried to the Being who gave him his birth,—
“Oh! grant a poor outcast his only desire,
Let the child of Thy wrath be forgotten on earth.”

290

God said, “If thou liv'st in the empire of thought,
The cause of thy sorrow pertains not to me:—
Where, where hast thou stayed while My bidding was wrought?”
Said the Poet, “Oh, God! I was near unto Thee!

“If my eyes were entranced by Thy glory and might,
And my ears by the music that breathes in Thy skies;
If my soul was absorbed in Thy love and Thy light,
Forgive that the Earth disappeared from mine eyes.”

“Content thee,” God said, “for Earth's riches are given,—
As such was My pleasure, and hence My decree,
Thou shalt live with thy Lord in His own blessed heaven,
For whenever thou comest 'tis open to thee!”

THE PATRIOT'S BATTLE PRAYER.

PARAPHRASED FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER.

Father of Life! to Thee, to Thee I call—
The cannon sends its thunders to the sky;
The wingèd fires of slaughter round me fall;
Great God of Battles! let Thy watchful eye
Look o'er and guard me in this perilous hour,
And if my cause be just, oh! arm me with Thy power!

Oh! lead me, Father, to a glorious end,
To well-won freedom, or a martyr's death;
I bow submissive to Thy will, and send
A soul-felt prayer to Thee in every breath:
Do with me as beseems Thy wisdom, Lord,
But let not guiltless blood defile my maiden sword!

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God, I acknowledge Thee, and hear Thy tongue
In the soft whisper of the falling leaves,
As well as in the tumult of the throng
Arrayed for fight—this human mass that heaves
Like the vexed ocean. I adore Thy name,
Oh, bless me, God of grace, and lead me unto fame.

Oh! bless me, Father! in Thy mighty hand
I place what Thou hast lent—my mortal life;
I know it will depart at Thy command,
Yet will I praise Thee, God, in peace or strife;
Living or dying, God, my voice shall raise
To Thee, Eternal Power, the words of prayer and praise!

I glorify thee, God, I come not here
To fight for false ambition, vainly brave;
I wield my patriot sword for things more dear,—
Home and my fatherland; the name of slave
My sons shall not inherit. God of Heaven!
For Thee and Freedom's cause my sacred vow is given!

God, I am dedicate to Thee for ever;
Death, which is legion here, may hem me round;
Within my heart the invader's steel may quiver,
And spill my life-blood on the crimson ground:
Still am I Thine, and unto Thee I call,—
Father, I seek the foe—forgive me if I fall!

292

ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT SOUTHEY, LATE POET LAUREATE.

From the bright coronal of living minds,
The grace and glory of these later days,
A gem is shaken to the dust; a star
Which rose in thought's wide hemisphere, and grew
Resplendent with the calm, sweet light of Song
Hath faded into darkness, while our eyes
Gaze with sad yearning after it—in vain!
The fitful winds, which sweep with varying voice
O'er the broad breast of Keswick's wrinkled lake,
Sing dirges o'er the mountain-girdled grave
Where Southey sleeps. A fitting tomb for him
Whose heart did feed itself amid a scene
So strangely beautiful; for many a sound,
And silence—which is sound made awful—will
Breathe about his resting place, from glens,
From green hill tops, from old time-twisted trees,
From wave-worn caverns in the rifted rock,
From waters, sleepless as the listening stars
On which they gaze, from breezes touched and tuned
To storms or zephyrs; for in them he heard
What unto him was Poesy, and she
Peopled his solitude with things of joy!
Sad to remember that that laurelled brow,
Which held such wild imaginings, such powers

293

To clothe in lofty language lofty truths,
And sentiments which humanised and stirred,
Wears the cold hues of death. That cunning hand,
Which traced upon the page the living line,
Is paralysed; and that once piercing eye,
Lit with the reflex of an ardent soul,
Is veiled and quenched. That spark of deathless fire,
Which filled its shrine with glory, hath returned
To the pure fountain of immortal light
From whence it sprang, leaving its “darkened dust”
To mingle with its elements for ever!

Men lightly say—“This is the common lot;”
But when the gifted and the good depart,
We stand aghast, as if some well-touched string,
Breathing divinest music in our ears,
Was snapped asunder, even while our hearts
Were throbbing to its tones. But have we not,
Within a few brief moons, been called to weep
O'er the sad loss of many an eloquent mind
Of strength and beauty? For a voice hath said,
That he who fixed his soul in marble lives
In fame alone; that Wilkie's magic hand,
Which threw upon the canvas genuine life,
Hath lost its power in the remorseless grave;
That honest Allan, of the hardy north,
Hath hung his harp upon the cypress bough,
And joined a nobler choir; and Southey, last,
But far from least of these, hath rent away
The gyves of earth, and soared to happier spheres.

Yet let us not despair,—for Southey lives,—
Lives in the labours of a quiet life,
Well spent and richly fruitful. Few may claim
The laurel crown which he hath laid aside,
And wear the wreath so nobly and so long.

294

The lustrous diamond in profoundest gloom
Retains the light it gathered from the sun
From age to age; so hath the world received
And treasured up the lustre of the mind
Of him we mourn, which shall not melt away.
Let us imbibe his spirit, like old wine
Long caverned in the earth, and mellowed down
To strength and purity; but let us not,
Because some lees remain within the cup,
Reject as worthless the inspiring draught.

Those first brief bursts of his unsullied muse—
Those earlier flights of her rejoicing wing,
Light as the lark and buoyant as his lay,
Are ours to think upon and love. How well
He sang the sorrows of his race, and cried
Aloud against its wrongs! How sweetly breathed
His harp-strings, when the charms of Nature wooed
Their eloquent voices out! For these alone,—
For these few flashes of a feeling soul,
His laurel leaves shall keep for ever green!

Wordsworth!
Thou priest and patriarch of Nature!—thou,
Who wast a brother of the buried bard
In mind and fame! awake thine ancient lyre
To one last mournful melody, and mine
Shall shrink to silence at thy loftier song!

295

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO MY FRIEND JOHN BALL.

December 1843.

Dear Friend,

Free for an interval of time
To sleep or think, to read or rhyme,—
I hear yon steeple's measured chime,
With solemn weight,
Fling to the silent night sublime
The hour of eight.

Snug-seated by the chimney-cheek,
Too calmly indolent to speak,—
An evening custom through the week,
My tube of clay
Sends forth a light and odorous reek,
Like ocean spray.

The spiral cloud soars to the ceiling,
To Fancy's eye strange forms revealing,
Until I find around me stealing
So sweet a rest
That every kind and gentle feeling
Stirs in my breast.

296

(Thou tiny censer, burning slow,
Whose fire and fragrance soothe my woe,
I would not willingly forego
Thy quiet power
For all the dainty dazzling show
Of Fashion's hour.)

The flickering fire is dancing bright,
Dispensing genial warmth and light,
While beings pleasant to my sight
Are seated round;
And one doth read, and one doth write,
With scarce a sound.

Meanwhile, within the glowing grate
I see things wild and desolate,—
Rocks, mountains, towers, in gloomy state,
With other traces
Of monsters savagely sedate,
With gorgon faces.

But as I gaze they slowly change
To regions beautiful and strange,
Where lovely creatures seem to range
The red realm through;
Or English temple, cot, and grange
Start into view.

Outside, the myriad-fingered rain
Is drumming on the window pane,
And the strong night-winds wail in vain
To enter here:—
Alas! they move upon the main
With wrath and fear!

297

And now my thoughts are sent afar
To where the peril-seeking tar,
Without the light of moon or star,
Battles aghast,
And hears his proud ship's sail and spar
Rent in the blast.

Poor souls! who tempt the dangerous wave,
Your home, your empire, and your grave,
When winds and waters round you rave
In mighty madness,
Who shall extend the hand to save,
And give ye gladness?

Upbuoyed on Ocean's heaving flood,
A thousand breathing beings stood,
The brave, the gifted, and the good,
But yesterday,
Till the storm came in maddest mood,—
And where are they?

God of the tempest-ridden sea!
The solemn secret rests with Thee,—
With finite sense we are not free
To scan thy law;
'Tis ours alone to bow the knee
In silent awe!

Thus the sad chiding of the wind
Wakes memories of a mournful kind,
Which pour upon the restless mind
A tranquil balm,
As thoughtful here I sit reclined,
Secure and calm.

298

And thinking on the sleepless sea,
“Hungering for peace,” I think of thee,
And how with friendly souls and free
We strayed together,
To talk and dream of Poesy,
In summer weather.

I see that little rustic place
Where our “blithe friend,” with pleasant face,
Displayed with hospitable grace
Those goodly things,
Which quicken Time's lame, laggard pace,
And speed his wings.

The full o'erflowing of the breast,
The frank and unoffending jest,
The bright idea well expressed,—
The laugh and song;
The talk of Spenser, and the rest
Of Fancy's throng;

The antique chamber, warm and small,
The firelight flashing on the wall,
The social cup unmixed with gall,—
The whole delight
Passed like a vision to enthral
My memory quite.

Deferred too long, I seize my pen
(My wand of fancy now and then),
To tell you why, and where, and when
I scrawled this letter;
For in these courtesies, ye ken,
I am your debtor.

299

Yon crowded town, where stunned and tossed
I lingered long, and to my cost,
Caressed to-day—to-morrow crossed,
I've left at last;
And as I count the moments lost
I stand aghast.

And here I am, three leagues away,
Earning my dinner every day
As I was wont, before my lay
Found willing ears—
Without a single friend to say
“Put off thy fears.”

But yet I am not friendless—No!
My wife, fond sharer of my woe,
And Hope, that spirit-joy below,
Are with me still;
And God has blessings to bestow,—
I wait His will.

I have a corner in my heart
For thee, all generous as thou art;
For thou, like me, hast felt the smart
Of the world's wrong;
And thou art loth to live apart
From darling song.

And, therefore, do I wish to learn
If fortune's features grow less stern,
And if thou dost as yet discern
A brighter real,
Or if thy hidden thoughts still yearn
For the ideal.

300

Does Myra's cheek with gladness glow,
And her sweet mouth with laughter flow
As wont? Do all thy children grow
In sense and duty?
And does thy wife put off the woe
That veils her beauty?

With us the wretched rains and damps
Have turned the level fields to swamps,
And through the mist the drowsy lamps
Look dim and dreary;
But, save some fitful aches and cramps,
I'm well and cheery.

I've fallen in love, but not with Flora,
Nor Cynthia chaste, nor young Aurora,
Nor dark Gulnare, nor sweet Medora,
But with the shade
Of fair, fond, faithful fervent Zora,
A Syrian Maid!

Simply, I mean to weave a lay
Of love, to cheer me on my way;
And in my silent hours I pray
“God speed my pen,”
To which, methinks I hear you say
“Amen! Amen!”

Night wears, and, therefore, 'gainst my will,
I use the last drop in my quill
To tell thee I esteem thee still
In shade or shine;
And be our lot or good or ill,
I'm ever thine.

301

THE POWER OF PLEASANT MEMORIES.

Low drooping o'er my toil this afternoon,
With downward aspect, sombre as the air
Which slept around me, echoes of despair
Passed through my thoughts and put them out of tune.
Strong hope, of man the blessing and the dower,
With the calm will to fashion dreams, which rose
Instinct with mental splendour and repose,
Seemed shorn of their consolatory power.
Thus as I sat with melancholy face,
Resisting sadness with a faint endeavour,
“A thing of beauty is a joy for ever,”—
That verse of truthful melody and grace
Flashed through my darkened spirit, like the smile
Of sudden sunlight on a solemn pile.

As from her trance upleaps the joyous spring,
Like a young virgin on her bridal morn—
Flushed with expanding glories newly born,
While earth and air with merry greeting ring;
And Nature, strengthened by her rest, is rife
With fascinating purity and gladness,
So did my spirit, from its sleep of sadness
Start into active and delighting life.
Straightway I stood amid the classic glooms
Flung from the lavish pencil of young Keats,
Realms of immortal shapes, of mingled sweets,

302

Uncloying music, and unfading blooms;
The shadows of creations, which the boy
Nursed in his soul, and watched with silent joy.

Not one, but Legion, were the forms and places,
Laughing and lovely, solemn, and serene,
Which came with all their wonders and their graces
From Memory's treasure-halls, where they had been
Hoarded with miser passion. Spenser's sheen
And grandeur of romance; great Shakespeare's Muse,
Which holds all human sympathies between
The foldings of her pinions; Milton's hues
Stolen from the deathless amaranths of Heaven,
And woven in his own seraphic song;
These to my wakened faculties were given,
An ever moving, ever pleasing throng,
Until I stood, enraptured and alone,
In a strange world of beauty, boundless, and my own!

NEW YEAR'S DAY ASPIRATIONS.

Great God! a mighty multitude of years,
Unnumbered as the Heaven-adorning spheres,
Lit, living, moving, and upheld by Thee—
Are gone to that interminable sea
Which is unknown, unfathomed, and sublime,
The everlasting grave of all the things of Time.

The first faint dawning of another still,
Born of the sleepless goodness of Thy will,

303

Breaks newly, sweetly, through the kindling skies,
To which are turned our simultaneous eyes,
Filled with the heart's unbidden tears, which spring
A lowly, but a grateful offering
To Thee, our strength and hope from first to last
For blessings dropped beside our pathway of the past.

God of the world, and of the human soul
Held in the mystic bonds of Thy control,—
Maker of Virtue, Loveliness, and Truth,
The sister triad of eternal youth—
I glorify Thee, wander though I may,
Blindly or weakly, from Thy peaceful way;
Else why this restless longing to inquire
Into Thy hidden wonders—this desire
To read Thy book of stars, and see Thy power
Of silent working in the Summer flower?
Do I not worship when Thy lightnings break
Through the mid cloud-realm; when Thy thunders speak
With a tremendous eloquence, that thrills
The stony hearts of all the stalwart hills?
And in Thy other voices, which are heard,
From tiny organ of rejoicing bird;
From lapse of waters, twinkling as they run;
From bees assiduous in the sultry sun;
From leaves made tremulous by every breeze,
And the grand choir of stormy winds and seas,
Do I not hear in every sound a tone
Which speaks of Thy transcendent touch alone?

Thy grandeur, scattered with a goodly hand
O'er the upheaving breast of every land,
Hung in the boundless palace of the skies,
Fleeting or fixed to my enamoured eyes;
Holding an ancient solitary reign
O'er the mysterious empire of the main;

304

Clothing Thy change of seasons, ever rife
With mute and passive, loud and stirring life—
All glad my eye, and purify my heart
With joy and glory, of Thyself a part,
Till filled and blended with the things I see
I deem them symbols of Thy love and Thee!

Soul-searcher, Heart-sustainer! humbly now,
With the young year's first breathings on my brow,
With a fresh dawn expanding on my sight,
Melting the morning star's concentred light—
I ask Thy holy benison, and pray
That Thou wilt watch me from this very day,
As Wisdom watches o'er a wayward child,
Bidding me stand erect and undefiled!
Gird me with high resolves, and such desires
As fill the spirit with serener fires—
Which shine upon and warm, but not destroy
The seeds of virtue, and the flowers of joy.
Let not the worldling with insidious power,
Beguile me from Thee for a single hour;
Nor dim the “magic mirror” of my mind,
Hoodwink my judgment, smite my reason blind;
Nor freeze the well of charity, that flows
Freighted with feelings for all human woes;
Nor stir my meaner passions, till I rise
A strange anomaly to good men's eyes.
But let the lamp, which Thou hast lit within
This frail receptacle of grief and sin,
Fed by the life of Thine enduring love,
Burn on, aspiring to its source above—
A pure and steady guiding light to fame,
A sacred altar-fire in honour of Thy name.
And as Thou spar'st me for a little while,
Lend me Thy heart-regenerating smile;

305

Expunge my countless errors of the past,
Till my life's record, stainless at the last,—
The good acknowledged, and the ill forgiven,
Stand as my passport to Thy blessed Heaven!

TO A YOUNG POETESS.

I know thou hast within thee, child of dreams,
Songs which have not been uttered—veins of thought
As rich and rare as ever genius wrought,
Brightening thine inmost soul with golden gleams.
Enthusiast of the Muse! thy dark eye beams
Light intellectual; thy youthful cheek
Looks tinged with fancies which thou wilt not speak,
And through thy heart affection's current streams.
Vanish thy maiden fears! it well beseems
A gifted one of Poesy to sing:
Reanimate thy harp and bid it ring
Loudly, but sweetly, to a thousand themes—
Express the yearnings of thy soul, till fame
Yield thee a wreath of light to crown thy after name.

306

THE WOODLAND WELL.

I shall ever remember that morning of May
When I wandered to watch the first footsteps of day;
When I made a green path through the silvery dew,
And trampled the feather-like fern where it grew.
Untutored, but thoughtful, I then was a child,
In love with the silence that reigned in the wild,
And thus by the power of invisible spell,
I was led to the brink of the bright Woodland Well!

Sweet shadowy place of my musing, thy spring
Seemed ever a buoyant and beautiful thing,
As its waters leapt up from the depths of the ground
With a flash and a sparkle, a bubble and bound:
They sang in the shade, and they laughed in the light,
As blithe as the birds in their first summer flight,—
Then onward they went with a low pleasant voice,
Like bees in the sunshine let loose to rejoice,
Through banks sloping down from the green twilight bowers,
On—on was their march through a legion of flowers,
Which, shaking their bells as the waters passed by,
Paid homage in many an odorous sigh;
Let fancy pursue them for many a mile,
Through forests that frown, and through meadows that smile,
Through many a valley, and corn-field, and lea,
Till they mingle with rivers that rush to the sea.

Come back to the woodland, come back to the well,
That musical mirror of Barley-wood dell,—

307

That treasure of crystal, to memory dear,
Exhaustless and restless for many a year.
When the rose folded up at the close of the day,
And the rich hues of sunset waned slowly away,
The light-footed maiden would step o'er the stile,
To replenish her pitcher, and tarry awhile,
Till her lover would steal through the shadowy bower
To snatch from existence one rapturous hour;
They would talk and caress, they would laugh, they would sing,
Till the bird in the bough, with a tremulous wing,
Would start from its slumber, and wheel round its nest,
Till silence restored brought it back to its rest.
Could that fountain have told all the secrets that fell
From the lips of the loving that met in the dell,
What a story of truthfulness, sorrow, or gladness,
Of moments of ecstasy, followed by sadness,
Of vows that were uttered too soon to be broken,
Of hearts that were won by the words that were spoken.
Some lovely and lost one might thither repair,
And drop in its waters the tears of despair;
Perchance e'en the faithful, the tender, the true,
Might return to the spot former joys to renew,
And allude to the past, with no wish to forget
The enchantment that hung round the place where they met.
In gloomy December, or glorious June,

That fountain unceasingly mirror'd the skies;
The meteor, the sun, and the silver-bowed moon,

The stars, with their numberless magical eyes;
The vapour-built cloud, with its protean form,
Whether pausing in calm, or pursued by the storm.
All—all in their turn o'er its surface would pass,
Like dreams over Fancy's mysterious glass;
Those visions of splendour and darkness that creep
Through the brain of the Bard in the season of sleep.

308

Such—such was the well that I knew as a child,
In its green nook of quietness never defiled;
But, alas! after twenty long winters of strife
In the crowded arena of many-hued life,
I flew to revisit with feelings of joy
The scene which had made my romance when a boy,
And found it, not what I had left it, a spot
Where quiet, and beauty, and pleasure were not;
For the bold foot of Mammon had dared to intrude
On the sylvan recesses of Barley-brook Wood.
The trees were uprooted, the fern and the flowers
No longer grew gay in the sunlight and showers;
The well was laid bare, and its waters conveyed
To be tortured and tossed in the uses of Trade;
And the scene which was once my retreat and delight
Lay withered, and blackened, and bleak to my sight.
No longer the voice of the maiden was heard,
Nor the lisp of the leaf, nor the song of the bird,
Nor the lapse of the rill, nor the musical moan
Of the stream, as it danced over pebble and stone;
But sounds of rude clangour invaded the ear,
Which changed into discord the wild echoes near;
Like a pilgrim returned to the home of his birth,
When all that he loved has departed from earth,
I lingered awhile in the thraldom of thought,
To mourn o'er the ruin that Mammon had brought,
Then turned me away from the desolate scene,
As though, save in fancy, it never had been.

But still in my moments of grief and of gloom,
It comes, like a picture, in beauty and bloom,
As green and as silent, as fresh and as bright,
As when I first found it by May's morning light,
And though I look back with a sigh of regret,
The Well and the Woodland remain with me yet.

309

JANUARY.

A FRAGMENT.

He cometh!—the elder-born child of the year,
With a turbulent voice, and a visage austere;
But his cold callous hand, and his boreal breath,
Prepare for new life the lorn relics of death!
To-day he is sullen, and solemn, and wild,—
To-morrow, as calm as a slumbering child.
To-day he is weeping a black, chilly dew,—
To-morrow, he smileth the weary waste through.
To-day he enrobes him in hues of the night,—
To-morrow in garments resplendently white.
A changeling in temper, but ever sublime,
Is this moody, mad offspring of stern winter time.

'Tis eventide. Roofed and shut in from the storm,
How dear is the hearthstone, so laughing and warm!
Where my cat sits composing her puritan face,
And my dog at my feet has his privileged place;
While a friend I have tried, and a wife that is true,
And a sweet child of promise, all smile in my view!
With the blessing of books, and a spirit to feel
The glory and goodness their pages reveal,

310

I cling to the gods of my household—and hark—
Like a sorrowful outcast, that roams in the dark,—
The wind waileth by, and the fierce falling rain
Knocketh loud at my window, but knocketh in vain.
With the time-cherished legend, the heart-waking song,
With the prattle of childhood that never seems wrong;
With the voice of my friend in good-humoured debate,
And the smile of my wife, as she listens sedate,—
I feel the infusion of Heavenly things
As the hours hurry past on invisible wings:
Then a shake of the hand, and a look at the sky
Where the stars through a cloud-rift are winking on high;—
And I turn with a satisfied calmness of breast
Unto sleep, and the dream-life that covers my rest.

We sleep! But the Giver of sleep is awake,
For the snow, with its frost-fashioned, feathery flake,
Floats earthward, and falls on the bosom of night
With as silent a touch as the pulses of light.
Behold! through the mist of the dubious morn,—
His round, ruddy face of its bright tresses shorn,
The sun, like a reveller stealing to bed,
Affords but a glimpse of his comfortless head;
But he freshens, and lo! like a fame-eaten scroll,
Back—back from its beamings the fog-billows roll,
And we mark with delight on our dim lattice pane,
But yesterday dulled with a deluge of rain—
Quaint pictures of wavelet, and tendril, and curl,
Arrayed in the moon-coloured tints of the pearl;
And woodland and waterfall, temple and tree,
And shapes of the coralline depths of the sea,
In dainty confusion most cunningly tossed
By the fanciful pencil of frolicsome Frost.

I am out. (Who would prison his senses by walls,
When health-holy nature so lovingly calls?)

311

I am out—and my veins and my vision are rife
With a positive feeling of glorious life:
For my step is a triumph, my breathing a joy,
My thoughts a sweet madness unmixed with alloy.
I am out in the country, and who will gainsay
That pleasure and profit await me to-day?

I am pacing the fields, where a rabble-rout crew
With foot-ball and snow-ball their pastime pursue.
I have passed the rude hamlet, all lonely and still,
Overtopp'd by the fir-feathered crest of the hill;
I am walking the woodlands, whose tribe of old trees,
Erect in adversity, baffle the breeze;
Where the many-armed, weather-warped, long-honoured oak
Seemeth bent with the weight of his white winter cloak;
Where berries, like ruby drops, nestle between
The leaves of the holly bough, glossy and green;
Where the pool hath no ripple, the river no sound,
And the petrified rill hangs aloof from the ground;
Where the sociable robin, alone on the spray,
Saluteth my ear with his querulous lay,
And shaketh to earth by the stir of his wings
Such jewels as deck not the ermine of kings!
Where the scene hath a beauty no words can disclose,
As it lies in a solemn, but splendid repose,
And the whole realm of majesty, silence, and light,
In the trance of mid-winter, appears to my sight
Like the worship of mute and inanimate things,
Overshadowed and hushed by Omnipotent wings:
And my soul, in accordance with nature lies bare,
Overburthened with wordless, but eloquent prayer!

312

APRIL.

Sighing, storming, singing, smiling,
With her many moods beguiling,
April walks the wakening earth;
Wheresoe'er she looks and lingers,
Wheresoe'er she lays her fingers,
Some new charm starts into birth.

Fitful clouds about her sweeping—
Coming, going, frowning, weeping—
Melt in fertile blessings round;
Frequent rainbows that embrace her,
And with gorgeous girdles grace her,
Drop in flowers upon the ground.

Gay and green the fields beneath her,
Blue the broad unfathomed ether
Bending o'er her bright domain;
Full the buds her hands are wreathing,
Fresh the breezes round her breathing,
Fair her footprints on the plain.

Daisies sprinkle mead and mountain,
Violets by the mossy fountain
Ope their velvet vesture wide;
Cowslips bloom in open splendour,
But the primrose, pale and tender,
In lone places doth abide.

313

Nature now hath many voices—
Every living thing rejoices
In the spirit of the time;
Winds with leaves in whispers dally,
Streams run singing down the valley,
In the gladness of the prime.

Larks have long been up and chanting,
And the woodland is not wanting
In the sounds we love to hear;
For the thrush calls long and loudly,
And quaint echo answers proudly
From romantic hollows near.

Now the cuckoo, “blithe new-comer,”
Faithful seeker of the summer
Wheresoe'er its footsteps be,
Sits in places calm and lonely
And, in measured cadence only,
Sends wild music o'er the lea.

Who doth not delight to hear her?
Children's careless eyes grow clearer
As they look and listen long;
Manhood pauses on his travel,
Age endeavours to unravel
Old thoughts waking at her song.

Unbeliever, wan and wasted,
If the cup which thou hast tasted
Turns to poison as it flows,
Come, while gentler spirits call thee,
Let her summons disenthral thee
Of thy weakness and thy woes.

314

With the world if thou art weary,
If with doubt thy soul be dreary—
Crushed thy generous heart with care—
There is hope and there is healing,
Purer fancy, nobler feeling,
In this free, untainted air.

Mark this floweret, sweetly peeping
From the sod, where safe and sleeping
It hath lain the winter through—
How it opens with soft seeming,
To the breeze, and to the beaming
Of the sun-shower and the dew.

God hath made it, fed it, trained it
Into beauty, and maintained it
For thy use and solace, man;
Can such Guardian be forgetful
Of the selfish, sinful, fretful
Human portion of His plan?

All is gladness, all is beauty—
Nature with instinctive duty
Lifts her joyous homage high;—
Why should'st thou, with gloom ungrateful,
Turn on goodly things a hateful
Thankless heart, a scornful eye?

Wayward, wilful though thou seemest,
Dark and doubtful though thou deemest
The Eternal's glory, power, and name;
Nature, true to her designing,
Goeth on without repining,
Ever changing, yet the same.

315

All thy thoughts are full of error;
Disappointment, strife, and terror
Make thy journey sad and rough;
Nature never can deceive thee,
But of half thy cares relieve thee,
If thou hast but faith enough:

Faith to feel that all her wonders,
Stars, flowers, seasons, calms, and thunders,
Seas that rave, and streams that roll,
Are God's every day revealings—
Mute and many-toned appealings
To thine apathetic soul.

Come and woo her—she will bless thee;
Let her fresh free winds caress thee—
Let her smiles thy love repay:
Come while she is proudly wearing
Bridal garments, and preparing
For the festival of May.

JULY.

Proudly, lovely, and serenely,
Power and passion in her eye,
With an aspect calm and queenly,
Comes the summer nymph, July—
Crowned with azure, clothed with splendour,
Gorgeous as an eastern bride,
While the glowing hours attend her
O'er the languid landscape wide.

316

Now the mantle of Aurora
Streams along the morning skies,
But the bridal wreath of Flora
Loses half its sweets and dyes.
Fierce the noontide glory gushes
From the fountains of the sun,
And a thousand stains and flushes
Strew the heavens when day is done.

Then the heavy dew-pearls glisten
In the twilight pure and pale,
And the drooping roses listen
To the love-lorn nightingale:
While the stars come out and cluster
With a dim and dreary light,
And the moon's pervading lustre
Takes all sternness from the night.

Scarce the weary lark betakes him
To his ground-nest on the plain,
Than returning day-spring wakes him
Into gladsome voice again;
Scarce the dew hath wet the grasses,
Or the wild-flower's curvèd cup,
Than the thirsty sunbeam passes,
Drinking all its nectar up.

Now the lurid lightning breaketh
Through the dull and lingering rack,
And the solemn thunder speaketh
From its cloud-throne bronzed and black.
Gleaming in the fitful flashes,
Swathing all the welkin round,
Rain, smit earthward, dances, dashes,
With a quick, tumultuous sound.

317

As the lightning, rain, and thunder,
Vanish with the cloven gloom,
All the breadth of nature under
Wakes to beauty and perfume.
Birds again essay their voices;
Bees renew their devious toil;
Man with grateful heart rejoices
O'er the promise of the soil.

Now the harvest-gathered meadows
With a second green are gay;
Now the wood's enwoven shadows
Lure us from the dusty way;
More than wont the streams delight us,
As they run their pleasant race—
And the lucid pools invite us
To their calm and cool embrace.

Shall I not, as here I wander,
Soul, and sense, and footstep free,
Where the fretful streams meander,
With a music dear to me—
Shall I not remember sadly
Those who have nor hope nor rest,—
Those who cannot know how gladly
Nature welcomes every guest?

Would the dwellers of the alleys,
In the city's stony heart,
Could behold these blithesome valleys,
From their wants and cares apart!
Would the pale and patient maiden,
Martyred at the shrine of Wealth,
Could but feel these breezes, laden
With the priceless blessing, health!

318

Would the tiny toiling creatures
In the noisome mine and mill,
On whose withered hearts and features
Moral mischief works its will;
Would that they might lift their faces
In this liberal light and air,
And perceive the nameless graces
Of a scene so passing fair!

Let me homeward by the river,
As the golden sunset glows,
Where the corn-fields swell and shiver
To the blandest wind that blows:
By the woodland brooks that darkle
Through the tangles of the glade;
By the mossy wells that sparkle
In the hawthorn's chequered shade.

Through the dingle deep and bowery,
Up the pasture paths above,
Through the silent lane and flowery,
Sacred to the vows of love.
Homeward, yet I pause, exploring
All thy burning breadth of sky,
While my spirit sings, adoring
Him, thy God and mine, July.

319

OCTOBER.

October a blithe and benevolent fellow,
Is here with his tresses enwreathed with the vine;
His broad visage glowing with purple and yellow,
As if he had quaffed of his own barley-wine.

His cloud-car of shifting and shadowy whiteness,
Up caught in mid air through the welkin careers;
His shield is the harvest moon, blest in her brightness,
His sword a light sickle, untarnished with tears.

His crown is a corn-sheaf—magnificent, truly!
Which whispers of peace as it waves to and fro;
His mantle of forest leaves, shaken down newly,
Is clasped with a belt of ripe apple and sloe.

'Tis a time for thanksgiving, oh let us be grateful
For beauties and bounties the season hath brought!
The heart of that being is woeful or hateful
Who can not, or will not, rejoice as he ought.

The grain in the garner, the grape in the presses,
Give earnest of plenty, and promise of joy;
And the soul, in the language of silence, confesses
His goodness, whose mandate can make or destroy.

Come, walk me the landscape, and cheerfully follow
The beck of our free-footed fancies to-day,—
By wild-wood and river-path, hill-side and hollow,
From shadows and sounds of the city away;

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For children are out on their devious ramble
(Sweet childhood! I cling to thy memories yet),
Who rifle the hazel-bough, halt by the bramble,
And stain laughing lips with its fruitage of jet.

How golden the garment of sunlight that covers
Earth's manifold features of glory and grace!
How teeming with silver the cloud-fleece that hovers
Above, in the measureless marvel of space!

The solemn old woods how they sadden! and slumber
In gorgeous tranquillity, fading though fair,
As if some rich sunset of hues, without number,
Had fallen, and rested in permanence there.

The cuckoo is gone, and the swallow prepareth
To wing his broad passage to far distant bowers;
Some region of splendours and spices, that weareth
The freshly-born beauties of bright summer hours.

Now turn we our steps, for the lusty sun lieth,
O'erhung with his banners of flame, in the west;
The rook to his cloud-gazing citadel flieth,
The hind to his homestead, the steer to his rest.

Let us feast upon nature, for silence and sadness
Will fling their stern fetters about her, ere long;
But the heart that is wont to partake of her gladness
Will find her, still living and blooming, in song.

High thought! that the soul of our mould is immortal!
Unwithered, unwasted, by season or time;
That a springtide eternal may open its portal,
And beckon us in to a happier clime!

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AUTUMN.

“Sweet is the quiet prime of Autumn time!”
A voice, like happy boyhood's, seemed to sing,
As half unconscious of the idle rhyme,
He carolled gaily, like a thoughtless thing.
“Sweet Autumn time! though jocund Spring be gone,
And Summer's fuller glories, one by one,—
Spring, with her lavish wealth of early flowers,
And early music in her festal bowers;
Her brief, resplendent rainbows, and her breeze
Rich with the breath of blossom-bearing trees,
Which drink the genial sunlight, as 'twere wine
Poured from a golden chalice half divine!
Summer, with languishing yet ardent looks
That stilled the fretful brawling of the brooks,
Till lightnings, born of many a labouring cloud,
Elanced their fires, and thunders, low or loud,—
Shook to the grateful earth the loosened rain,
And woke the waters into voice again.
When unmown meadow-lands were full and fair,
When slumbrous sounds were in the stirless air
Of bee that wavered on its sunny way,
Or weary song-birds' half forgotten lay;
When pleasure dimpled on the shadowy pool,
And tangled wood-haunts, still, remote, and cool,
Seemed full of sylvan visions, quaint and wild,
The dainty dream-life of the poet child,—

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Though these are gone, Autumnal season, thou
Wilt be my teacher and companion now.
Thy fields all golden with the ‘embattled’ grain;
Thy woods that glow with many a gorgeous stain;
Thy homestead orchards with fair fruit that blush;
Thy jet-bright berries on the bramble bush;
Thy rough, ripe, clustering nuts, that hang between
The lowly umbrage of the hazel green;
Thy shifting shadows on the silent waste;
Thy lightsome, lonely, lofty clouds that haste
Athwart the ethereal wilderness, and stray
Like wild flocks scattered on a trackless way!
These, and thy buoyant winds that come and go
While corn, fruit, foliage, waver to and fro;—
These, while the sturdy swain with skilful ease
Reaps the proud produce of the fertile leas,
Flinging his merry harvest songs around
With the unstinted tribute of the ground,—
These can delight, can thrill with nameless joy
The restless spirit of the roving boy.”

“A generous, joyous prime hath Autumn time,”
A voice, like hardy manhood's, seemed to cry,
Breathing a loud, heart-uttered, earnest rhyme,
Which rang beneath the mellow morning sky!

“Glad Autumn time! how leaps the expectant heart
At thy blithe coming, laden as thou art
With wine to cheer, with bread to feed the frame,—
Autumn, there's hope and promise in thy name!
Mothers and maids, young men and elders, see
What blest abundance clothes the quiet lea,
Bring forth the sickle,—bare the encumbered brow,
And nerve the lusty arm to labour now!

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Behold how droops the heavy harvest down,
A graceful plume for Plenty's golden crown!
There, let us bind the prostrate sheaves, the while
The noontide sun looks on with kindly smile,
And leave the poor man's progeny to glean
The scattered wheat-ears that we drop between!
'Tis done: and now the strong and ample wain
Receives its load of life-sustaining grain.
Uppiled, a trembling pyramid of gold,
It moves through stubble, pasture-field, and fold,—
Through woodland shades, by old romantic ways,
Beneath the low broad moon's unclouded gaze,
Until we store it, warm and weather proof,
Beneath the granary's capacious roof;
And anxious neighbours, unforbidden, come,
To share the triumph of our harvest home.

The cup is filled, the liberal board is set,
But ere we banquet, let us not forget
To lift the heart's best homage unto God
Who breathed His blessing on the pregnant sod!
Nor let us slight the unexampled few,
True to themselves, to natural justice true,
Who crushed the mighty error, and the power
That crippled commerce and withheld her dower;
That laid its selfish hands upon the soil,
Nor sought, nor soothed the home—the heart of toil.
That wrong is swept away, and other wrongs,
Scared by the eloquence of truthful tongues,—
Awed by the press, and perilled by the pen,
Shall cease to lord it o'er enlightened men!
Drink we in temperate draughts of generous ale—
God speed the plough, the sickle, and the flail!
Ye vintage gatherers, a lowly band,
Ye tillers of the ground in every land;

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Men at the spindle, women at the loom,—
Poor sempstress, pining in the sunless room,
Workers that weary in the perilous mine,
Ye toilers, tossed upon the stormy brine;
Smith at the anvil, grinder at the wheel,
Lone fisher leaning on thy venturous keel;
Hewers of stone, and builders of the wall,
Craftsmen that labour at the bench and stall;
May health, hope, freedom, plenty, peace, prepare
To bless your toils, and make your future fair!
Help is at hand, the darkness breaks away
From the quick dawning of serener day,
When ye shall sing in many a grateful rhyme
The gifts and glories of the Autumn time.”

“A sweet, yet solemn prime hath Autumn time!”
A pensive voice, like Age's, seemed to say,—
“Each of its warnings hath a tone sublime,
Each feature tells of splendour in decay!”
Sad Autumn time! sweet symbol of repose,
Can I behold thy rich harmonious close,—
All duties done, all promises fulfilled,
As an unerring Providence hath willed,
Nor feel, as Christian ought, a calm desire
Like thee in finished glory to expire?
I hear thy sere leaves, reft by every breeze
From the forsaken branches of the trees,
Shiver in air, and fall upon the ground
With a mysterious eloquence of sound!
I hear thy winds with mournful music sing
O'er naked fields that wait another spring;
Through woods that answer with a fitful moan
That make their solitudes seem doubly lone;

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But there's a language in thy tone, a power
That arms my spirit for the final hour;—
A language of high teaching, rich and rife
With happy promise of immortal life.
These trees shall bud again—these shades rejoice
With a full concert of melodious voice;
These fields shall smile, these sombre waters play
In the glad light of renovated day;
These skies shall put a gayer garment on
When needful Winter and his storms are gone:
But I must lay me in the quiet sod,
My faith unshaken in the love of God,
To re-awake in that celestial clime
Where perfect beauty reigns and knows no fading time.

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NORTH WALES.

ADDRESSED TO A POET-FRIEND.

These records of thy wanderings awake
Dear memories of that bold romantic land,
That mingling of the beautiful and grand
By God in nature moulded; where the lake
Sleeps in gigantic shadows, and the tower
(Which, crumbling, yet outlives the human power
That raised it) of the past records a troublous hour.

Make holiday once more; thou hast not seen
Cloud-girdled Snowdon's majesty of mien,
With all his rock-realm, wonderful and wide,
Where stern Llanberris lifts on either side
Twin lakes, his storm-rent citadels of stone,
Dark, splintered, inaccessible, and lone!

Thou hast not travelled up the sinuous length
Of pastoral Conway; nor beheld the strength
And beauty of its waters, as they boom
And flash, down leaping, in their glens of gloom.

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Thou hast not fettered Fancy with a spell
In grey Carnarvon, stalwart in decay,
Which calmly looks upon the busy bay
With all its chambers desolate and cold,—
A gaunt “romance in stone,” which seems to tell
A wild, strange story of the days of old.

Thou hast not trod with pilgrim foot the ground
Where sleeps the canine martyr of distrust,
Poor Gelert, famed in song, as brave a hound
As ever guarded homestead, hut, or hall,
Or leapt exulting at the hunter's call;
As ever grateful man consigned to dust.

Enthusiast as thou art, thou hast not heard,
In fair Llangollen's wilderness of charms
(Aloof from city vices and alarms),
The bleat of many flocks; the voice of bird
Sweet issuing from the sylvan depths of green
Which clothe the quiet slopes of that secluded scene.

Thou hast not passed the threshold of those homes,
Peaceful and far apart, o'er vale and hill—
Where those of ancient tongue, a simple race,
Cherish such virtues as in lordly halls
Die of neglect, and with glad heart and face
Perform harsh duties with a strenuous will.

Thou hast not listened by their evening fires
To lore, descended unto sons from sires,
Of ghastly legend and of oral song
By Cadwallador and Taleisen made,
Recording deeds of struggle, storm, and wrong,
When from the Roman's red resistless blade

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They fled amazed, in peril's bloodiest hour,
And in their mountain land withstood the invader's power.

Would we could go together, and explore,
With ready means, and minds of kindred mood,
Each quiet place that slumbers by the shore,
And all the inner haunts of solitude;
The cloud-crowned mountain, and the cloven glen,
Through which the fretful river leaps and flows;
Swart moors far stretching from the homes of men
In sullen silence, savage in repose;
Remnants of feudal pride and monkish power,
By the tenacious ivy clothed and graced,
And shepherd-peopled hamlets, grey and wild,
By circling hills and crowding woods embraced,
Where clustering graves, and consecrated tower,
Mementoes of a hopeful creed and mild,
Stand solemnly apart, for feelings undefiled.

Lakes gathered in stern hollows of the land,
Swept by the winds in their sublimest might—
Our eyes should gaze upon, and we should stand
Wrapt in tumultuous, but mute delight,
In presence of fierce waters, drinking in,
Till sense and soul were filled, their grandeur and their din.

And we would wander pensively along
The yellow beach, communing with the ocean,
Or sit and listen to the fisher's song,
Our hearts expanding with a sweet emotion,
Till sunset's magical and mingling hues
Had burned and faded, one by one, away,
Leaving the tender twilight to diffuse
A silent softness, a transparent grey

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O'er sky and wave; till o'er the mountain's rim
The moon and her one vassal-star should swim,
In the deep ether, with a dreamy light,
And call forth other stars to beautify the night.
Then for an hour or two we would abide
By the snug hostel's ample chimney-side;
Exult o'er toils o'ercome, recount our pleasures,
And linger fondly over memory's treasures;
Old times, old rhymes, old bards, old books, old places,
New dreams, new hopes, new knowledge, and new faces.

And we would visit (curious to behold
The moods, the manners, and the homely life
Of Cambria's hardy children, fair and bold,
The sire, the son, the husband, and the wife)
Quaint towns on festival and market days,
See bargains made, see purse and pannier laden;
Admire the lusty dance, and in its maze
Take hands ourselves, with some blithe pleasant maiden;
Exchange the courteous cup, and join the song
(Well as we could in so uncouth a tongue),
Snatch joy from the occasion, and increase
Our love of social unity and peace;
Or, when the Sabbath bell with morning chime
Broke on the holy stillness of the time—
To village churches quietly repair,
And offer up the heart's best homage there,
Rejoicing to behold good seed take birth
In such remote recesses of the earth;
And we would linger by the graves to know
How lived, how died, the occupant below,
Learn how the living sorrowed at the loss,
Yet leaned for strength and comfort on the Cross.

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So would we move and meditate awhile
In this, the loveliest corner of our isle;
Deep in its glooms and glories would we roam,
Till duty and affection called us home.
Here to admiring listeners we would tell
Of mountain cleft, rough cataract, and dell,
That stayed us on our pilgrimage; of nooks
Peopled and peaceful—all untold in books;
Or, left to silence and our thoughts, recall
From out the dimness of our cottage wall,
Shapes of stern grandeur, looming into light
And spots of beauty, soothing to the sight,
Transmissions of the memory to drown
The commonplaces of our crowded town:
From such warm solace what warm soul can sever?
“A thing of Beauty is a Joy for ever!”

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THE MERCHANT AND THE MOURNER.

I lingered at a lordly gate, before a lordly hall
With grove and garden girt around with low and mossy wall,
And from the gate a gravelled path swept gracefully and wide,
Up to the stately steps beneath the pillared door of pride.

Within that princely dwelling-place the Painter's master hand
Had hung the walls with Poesy from many a lovely land:
There soft Italia's sunny vales in quiet semblance smiled,
With mountain, lake, and waterfall, from Switzerland the wild.

And there were books of mental life, in student-like array,
More for the solace of the soul than splendour and display;
And goodly instruments of sound were placed in order there,
And woke to pleasant voice beneath the fingers of the fair.

And mirrors, set in massy gold, shed lustre on the sight,
And lamps of cunning workmanship diffused a mellow light,
And costly carpets clothed the floor, and couches offered ease,
And every fireside comfort met the child of wealth to please.

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And in the far-extended grounds triumphant Art had been,
To bring within her proper bounds the wild luxuriant scene;
There built the rook, there sang the bird of homely English dyes;
There flowers and fruitage blushed and bloomed, in spite of angry skies.

There bowers of shady solitude allured the musing mind,
Sweet spots of sylvan loveliness secure from sun and wind;
And there, reflecting cloud and star, transparent waters lay,
Scarce ruffled by the swan that moved along her silent way.

And he who owned that paradise, the Merchant of renown,
The honoured of the hamlet, and the flattered of the town,
Who duly went to Church and 'Change, and sought the shades of woe,
Was, in the spring-tide of his years, among the lowest low.

But kindness entered in his soul, even in his boyish days;
Give him the means of giving peace, he did not wish for praise;
The best of human sympathies awoke within his breast,
His words, his deeds, his secret tears, the gentle power confessed.

More kindly grew his honest heart to all the human race,
The language of benevolence was written on his face;
With self-denying prudence he, without or fear or guile,
Wooed Fortune in her mazy haunts until she deigned to smile.

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Wealth came, but did not bring the mien of insolence and pride,
Respectful to the powerful, he loved all else beside:
Thus, with his gold and gentleness he blessed the needy throng,
A constant guardian to the weak, a pattern to the strong.

At length, to please a polished taste, he bought him house and land,
And paid for household luxuries with large and liberal hand;
Sat down in peace and plentitude, with mind unwarped and free,
“Like wisdom,” so the poet sings, “with children round his knee.”

I lingered at his lordly gate the while my feelings rose
In silent homage to the man, and prayed for his repose;
And o'er my mental vision passed a scene remembered well,
Linked with a little history, which I essay to tell.

One evening in my wanderings near to our noisy town,
When Autumn breathed upon the woods, and turned their foliage brown,
I paused beside a lowly cot that looked upon the road,
Lifted the latch, and stood within the comfortless abode.

I saw beside the fireless earth a woman's well-known form,
Whose haggard features bore the marks of many a bitter storm;
The fire of joy, the bloom of health, from eye and cheek were fled,
And grief had sown its early grey upon that drooping head.

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Her sombre garments hung around her, labour-stained and wild,
And on her milkless bosom lay a weak and wailing child;
The cleanly cap of widowhood around her visage pale,
With her decayed and dreary weeds, disclosed too sad a tale.

I knew it all:—six months before, in the very prime of spring,
When bird, and bee, and butterfly, were roving on the wing;
When every hue was loveliness, when every sound was mirth,
A sudden cloud and silence fell upon the joyous earth.

Her loving husband, ailing long, with his departing breath
Muttered a blessing on her cheek, and slept the sleep of death;
Gone was the father, firm, though fond, the husband true and kind,
But woe, despair, and poverty, alas! remained behind.

His violin hung on the wall, the hat he used to wear,
There in the corner leaned his staff, there stood his vacant chair;
His favourite bird yet sang aloft at its capricious will,
And the old Bible that he loved lay in the window still.

But nearly all beside had gone for scanty means of life,
But not without a parting pang of deep and inward strife;
Then, even then, her eldest born dead on the pallet lay;—
Calmly the mother-mourner said, “She died but yesterday.”

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Dear God! what could that woman do, and all her helpless brood,
Within the wide and thoughtless world for shelter and for food?
Who would bestow upon her child a coffin and a grave?—
I prayed within my inmost soul that Heaven would stoop to save!

Startling my thoughts, some gentle hand smote the rude cottage door,
And one well known in sorrow's haunts stepped o'er the sanded floor;
The merchant's daughter fair and young, by many a heart beloved,
Her father's graceful almoner where'er her footsteps moved.

She gazed around the sad abode with quick and mute surprise,
While precious drops of sympathy suffused her earnest eyes;
She sat her down all pensively, with joy-abandoned air,
And for a moment seemed to breathe her soul in secret prayer.

With unobtrusive questions she drew forth the widow's woe,
While the rich blood upon her cheek went flitting to and fro;
With patient ear, and parted lips, the dark account she heard,
Till the deep fountains of her heart with kindred grief were stirred.

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She laid a purse of tinkling gold within the widow's palm,
Rose to depart, and spake again with voice subdued and calm:
“Mourner, the God who gave us wealth has sent his servant here,
Remember, in thy after need, my father's house is near.”

She went with blessings on her head, with beauty in her face,
A sister of sweet Charity, a messenger of Grace,
She went in virgin holiness, bent on her pure employ,
Leaving within the mourner's heart peace, thankfulness, and joy.

Like dew and showers in summer hours, shed from the wings of night,
Felt as a blessing on the earth when wakes the morning light,
The merchant's bounty fell abroad spontaneous and the same,
Refreshing many a languid soul that wist not whence it came.

When Heaven exalteth such as he, what hand would bring them down?
What heart would fret when Worth succeeds, what face at Virtue frown?
As well the fields might curse the clouds because they ride so high,
Or envious flowers upbraid the stars that burn along the sky.

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It is a rare and pleasant task to sing of generous power,
Oh! for a theme so beautiful for every passing hour!
When shall our mournful harps forget that sad, unheeded song
Of wants and woes, of toils and tears, too truthful and too long?

VINDICATORY STANZAS.

Whate'er I am, whatever sign I wear upon my sleeve,
Whatever creed my inmost heart may prompt me to believe,
Whatever right I recognise, whatever wrong endure,
I ne'er can yield my honest love for freedom and the poor.

The lowly and the suffering, the life-blood of the earth,
I'm one of them, to one of them I owe my children's birth;
And in my after years of life, however high my state,
I never can forget to plead for their unhappy fate.

For freedom did I say? ah, yes! for freedom just and true,
But not the lawless monster of the rancour-breathing few,
Who glide, like serpents, into hearts by toil and sorrow torn;
On them and their unholy deeds I fling my proudest scorn.

Freedom, whose law is Order, and whose action, wide and strong,
Can raise the wretched from the dust, and quell the rebel throng;

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Can weigh, adjust, withhold, bestow, with calm and steady hand,
And work in beauty, peace, and truth, for all within the land!

The poetry of England, in all its forms and hues;
The glowing words, the living thoughts of her transcendent muse;
The poetry that clings around her temples, halls, and towers,
And nestles in the sylvan depths of all her vales and bowers;

The poetry that clothes alike the cottage and the throne,
And speaks from every classic haunt, with high, majestic tone;
These have my deepest reverence, in these my thoughts rejoice;
“But the poetry of poverty should have a fitting voice.”

It has a voice, a stirring voice, sent from a thousand tongues,
From hearts that wish for all its rights, and feel for all its wrongs;
'Tis not the voice of fierce complaint, loud insolence and threat,
But that of calm, persuasive power,—the best and surest yet.

And mine, too, feeble though it be, and of a fitful sound,
But still the echo of a soul of sympathies profound,
Shall sometimes mingle with the rest, in pain's or peril's hour,
To warn, cheer, teach, and elevate,—if such may be its power.

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Perchance my lay hath ever been unsuited to the ear
Of those who feast on fiery thought, on bitter taunt and jeer;
But I am not of those who deem that words unwise and wild,
Can win one blessing for the poor, and make men reconciled.

A little song of cheerfulness to make their labours light;
A strain to open out their souls, and make them think aright;
A lesson which may lead them on to mend their common weal,
But not the stern anathema of false and factious zeal.

There are who with a puny pride my outward errors scan,
Alas! what little power is theirs to judge the inner man!
They think that my poor yielding heart, that impulse still controls,
Is narrow as their sympathies, and niggard as their souls.

Could they but read the hidden book, the life-book in my breast,
With sorrows, which they never knew, a thousand fold impressed,—
Could they but see its sentiments, its yearning, love, and trust,
And weigh its good against the ill, they could not but be just.

But that is not for them, and I dare not presume to claim
More virtues than the lowliest who bear a human name,
But in this world where men applaud, mistake, misjudge, condemn,
I only ask that charity which I would yield to them.

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There's good in all things, and 'tis well to seek it everywhere,
And when 'tis found, to honour it, and cherish it with care;
There's good in all the various forms of still and stirring life,
For all the boundless universe with excellence is rife.

And man hath always something good, or be he high or low
In intellect or circumstance, in happiness or woe;
His errors pity and remove, with mild and manly will,
And be his higher gifts your care and admiration still.

My badge is that which singles me from out the lower clay;
My motto, hope and thankfulness for blessings day by day;
My creed, that holy creed of love which Christ Himself hath given;
My party, all who walk the earth anticipating Heaven!

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CONTRITION.

Lord! in a weary labyrinth,
A wilderness of ways,
I've passed the freshness of my youth,—
The summer of my days;
Playing with Fancy's bubble thoughts,
Which as they glittered brake,
Snatching at flowers to feel the thorn,
Or venom of the snake.

But now I lay me at Thy feet,
With sad and trembling heart,
Or ere my better feelings fail,
My higher hopes depart,
I come—so late a sinful slave
In folly's low employ,—
To ask those better means of life
Which lead to holier joy.

In the calm hour of solitude
I lift my pensive eye
To read the burning language writ
Upon the silent sky;
And feel that He who lit the stars
And bade the planets roll,
Can chase the shadow and the strife
That linger in my soul.

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With sweet and simultaneous voice
All universal things
Speak of Thy watchful care, and feel
The shadow of Thy wings;
The placid and prolific earth,
The ever-wakeful sea,
And heaven's serene and starry depths,
Declare Thy love and Thee.

And wilt Thou not console me, Lord,
Admonish me and guide,
In tribulation's troublous time,
And in the hour of pride?
And wilt Thou not vouchsafe, at last,
By Thine own means, to win
Back to Thy fold an erring child
Of frailty, grief, and sin?

Thou canst, and when it seemeth good,
Thou wilt afford the clue
Whereby to leave the tangled path
My faltering feet pursue;—
Oh! bring me from the chilling gloom,
The cavern of despair,
That I may see the open day,
And breathe a purer air!

Oh! help me in my deepest need,
My Father, Friend, and Lord!
And make me drink with eager lip
The waters of Thy word!

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So I may rise refreshed and glad,
Unbowed by earthly ill,
My business and my pleasure both
To do Thy holy will.

For His dear sake who left Thy side
A fallen race to save,
To take all agony from death,
All terror from the grave,
Receive me 'mong the chosen ones
Who journey towards the sky,
And fit me for that Perfect Home
Where bliss can never die.

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LEONORE.

Oh! for a day of that departed time
When thou and I, lost Leonore, were young!
That dawn of feeling, that delicious prime
When Hope sang for us an unceasing song!
When life was love, and love was joy unworn,
And clouds turned all their silver to our gaze;
When each sweet night brought forth a sweeter morn—
Where art thou, dearest of my early days?

Oh! what a world of poesy was ours,
And poesy with passion undefiled!
Heaven with its stars, and earth with all her flowers,
Seemed made for us, for us alone they smiled;
Fused in each other's dreams, a constant spring,
One, yet apart, we trod all pleasant ways,
Sat down with Nature, heard her teach and sing,—
Where art thou, dearest of my early days?

With thee all beauty wore a lovelier face;
With thee all grandeur a sublimer mien;
With thee all music was a holier grace;
With thee all motion ecstasy unseen;
Without thee life was colourless and vain,
And common pleasure a bewildering maze,
All thought was languor, and all effort vain,—
Where art thou, dearest of my early days?

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I loved, how well let this worn cheek attest,
And these sad eyes with fresh tears streaming o'er;
Deep in the hidden chambers of my breast
The fire burns on, but ne'er to bless me more:—
Oh! Nevermore! a dreary word that falls
Like a dread knell that sets the brain acraze,
A word of doom that withers and appals,—
Where art thou, dearest of my early days?

We loved, but one with unrelenting power,
With selfish soul intent on cruel schemes—
Stepped in between us one disastrous hour,
And swept to ruin all our hopes and dreams;
And we were parted, thou to share the life
Of the gay crowd that dazzles and betrays,
I to contend with penury and strife,—
Where art thou, dearest of my early days?

I see thee as I saw thee “long ago”
(A fond, yet fatal time for thee and me),
When with the eloquence of love and woe
We blessed each other 'neath the alder tree;—
The aged alder, whose umbrageous boughs
Sigh where our native river sings and plays;
Which heard our earliest and our latest vows,—
Where art thou, dearest of my early days?

I see thee as I saw, when, one sweet eve,
I dared to pour my passion in thine ear,
And thou didst lean to listen and believe,
With mixed emotions of delight and fear;
I see the quick blush flitting o'er thy cheek,
And the soft fire of thy confiding gaze,
I feel thy heart in throbbing language speak,—
Where art thou, dearest of my early days?

346

I see thee as I saw thee everywhere,
In the calm household graceful, quiet, kind,
In the broad sunshine and the breezy air
Bright as the beam, and buoyant as the wind;
I see thee flushed, and floating like a cloud
In the gay festival's enchanting maze,
And, lovelier still, in prayer serenely bowed,—
Where art thou, dearest of my early days?

Thou wast my earliest Muse: from thee I drew
My inspiration, which hath found a tongue,
The feeling quickened, germinated, grew,
Till I was shadowed with a bower of song;
And now men hail and syllable my name,—
Would thou couldst share the glory and the praise,
Thy love would lift me to a loftier fame,—
Where art thou, dearest of my early days?

Art thou of earth, sweet spirit of the past?
The lost and mourned, the adored and unforgot!
Hast thou been beaten by Misfortune's blast?
Or dost thou revel in a brighter lot?
Is there another whom thine eyes approve?
Is there another whom thy heart obeys?—
Or dost thou sorrow o'er thy blighted love?
Where art thou, dearest of my early days?

Art thou of Heaven? and dost thou now behold,
Stooping, in pity, from thy sainted sphere—
Thy poor, forsaken worshipper of old,
Despairing, desolate, and darkling here?
I look for thee, I long for thee, I languish
To press thee, bless thee, ere my life decays;
Still my lorn soul cries after thee with anguish,
Where art thou, dearest of my early days?

347

THE POET'S WELCOME.

EXTEMPORE LINES READ AT A LITERARY MEETING IN 1842.

Welcome! ye worshippers of that sweet power,
The sweet mysterious power of Poesy,
That echo of the beautiful in shape,
Sound, hue, and fragrance; that calm voice
Of man's affections, aspirations, dreams;
That strange, impalpable, and blessed thing
Whose home is narrow as the human heart,
And wide as is the universe; that shade
Of God which passes through the mind of man,
And wakes within him thoughts which, wed to words,
Become the thoughts of millions; that pure ray
Sent down from the eternal fount of glory,
A sign and earnest of immortal life
Beyond the dim, dread barriers of Death!

Welcome! ye lovers of that spellful art
Which few possess, yet thousands can enjoy:
Welcome to this our festival of soul
And heart, where we may interchange the things
Which lie enshrined within us,—mental flowers
Which soon might languish, perish, pass away
Unnoticed of the world, did we not seek
To bring them from their solitudes, and throw

348

The light of friendship round them, in the hope
That Fame will stoop to gather them ere long,
And weave them into wreaths for her eternal shrines.

The Poet's soul, bless Heaven, is rife with means
To multiply the pleasures of his race:
His warm heart thrills in sympathy with all
The suffering of the earth. The great and good
To him are ever glorious, and he yearns
“To throw those feelings out which bear him up”
Against the storms and sorrows of the world!
The scattered sons of humanising song,
Like twilight stars, ought not to reign apart,
As jealous of each other's light; but come
Clustering in one most glorious galaxy
Of mental splendour, as I see ye now!

Welcome again to this our old retreat,
This corner of antiquity! This group
Of wilding flowers which open to the night,
Breathing the holy incense of high thought,
May one day send its odours through the world!

349

“THE TEMPTATION” AND “THE EXPULSION.”

EXTEMPORE LINES SUGGESTED BY DUBUFFE'S PICTURES.

Stranger! wouldst thou be charmed, here stand thee still
And scan that canvas, where the Poet's pen,
The Painter's pencil, and the hues of heaven,
Have made a mimic Paradise. How fair!
How femininely fair that perfect form
Of gentle Eve!—who, leaning on the ground
In sidelong loveliness, bribes Adam's hand
With the rich fruit of the forbidden tree!
That seraph-face, sweet, yearning, full of love,
With passionate appeal upturned to his,
Might almost tempt an angel form to sin,
Though kindred forms stood by. Observe thee, too,
The troubled aspect of our human sire:—
Full of a natural dignity and grace—
Is sad with doubts, perplexities, and fears,
As trembling 'twixt the evil and the good,
He sits in mute uncertainty. “Beware!”
For so our busy fancies seem to say—
Timely beware! nor touch the fatal fruit;
Seal up thine ear against the insidious words
Of her thou lovest, for a pitiless Fiend,
God's enemy and thine, inspires her tongue
With more than mortal eloquence and power.
Gird up thy spirit to resist her plea—
Think on the tenure of thy happy state,
Lest thy infraction of Divine command
Bring sin, tears, ruin, on thy after race!”

350

Stranger! thy steps depart not, for behold
The great, dread deed at which the infant earth
Shuddered through all her veins; while angels wept
In unavailing pity—hath drawn down
The long and awful curse. Oh! what a change
Hath come upon that Eden, which, but now,
Smiled, the abode of purity and joy,
And peaceful compact 'tween all living things.
The elements are up in warfare; clouds
Hang hot and heavy in the troubled air,
Save where a lurid and mysterious light
Streams through the cloven darkness, and reveals
All other horrors of that fearful scene!
Look on our guilty parents, what dismay
And terror in the wild uplifted look
Of our primeval mother, as she lies
Prone, and encircled by the eager arms
Of him who shares the peril and the pain!
Half kneeling, with a face of strange distress,
Mixed with compassion, wonder, and despair,
He bends above the bringer of his fate,
As if to shield her from the dread effect
Of God's most just displeasure; while the Fiend,
Exulting in the havoc he hath made,
Askant surveys his victims, breathing flame,—
The fire of that interminable hate
Which shut him out eternally from Heaven!

Thus man's conception and designing hand,
With the sweet aid of many-coloured light,
Have boldly given to our admiring eyes
Twin pictures, vivid, truthful, and sublime;
And as we ponder on the solemn theme
Which gave them birth, involuntary thought
Pays silent tribute to the Painter's power!

351

TO THE MEMORY OF A DECEASED FRIEND.

'Mid the harsh Babel of the busy crowd
A sudden voice my inward spirit bowed,
A friendly voice, that told me of thy doom;—
That years, and sorrows, and the world's rude strife,
Had pushed thee from the battle-ground of life
To the oblivious calm that dwelleth in the tomb.

Shade of my friend! although my languid lyre
Withheld the mournful tribute of its fire,
Not the less dear thy memory to me;
Deep in my heart the solemn feeling lay,
Till the renewed remembrance of to-day
Came forth in feeble language, all unworthy thee!

Warm was thy soul, without or pride or guile;
Thy liberal hand, thy sympathising smile,
Were prompt the suffering wretch to cheer and raise:
To God devoted, and to nature true,
Gentle and genial as the summer dew
Thy silent bounty fell, nor asked for human praise.

And I have marked thy countenance and mien,
Quiet, but kindly—watchful, but serene,
Govern thy household more by love than fear;
And I have seen thy manly features glow,
And heard thy lips with eloquent speech o'erflow,
When souls of kindred mood around thy board drew near.

352

Scorning vain show, thy not untutored mind
Cherished a lofty sense of things refined,—
Things that adorn, and dignify, and bless;
And loving Truth for her sweet sake divine,
That best religion of the heart was thine,
A yearning evermore to make man's sorrows less.

And thou did'st glory in the poet's song,—
Poet thyself, though nameless 'mid the throng
That cheer, charm, elevate the human race;
But now thou hear'st the everlasting hymn,
The harps and voices of the seraphim
That kneel in radiant ranks before the throne of grace.

If e'er again my vagrant footsteps stray
Along each pleasant and romantic way
We trod together in the summer glow,
Each form and feature of the varied scene
Will wake sad memories of what hath been,
And lift my chastened thoughts from transient things below.

In lofty Marsden's cultivated glades,
In lordly Gisborne's proud, patrician shades,
By gentle Calder's ever-tuneful stream,
On cloud-communing Pendle's barren side,
'Mid Whalley's ruins of monastic pride,
Fancy will raise thee up, to stir me like a dream.

In grassy Craven's long-withdrawing dales,
In gloomy Gordale, where the storm prevails,
By Malham's giant cliff and secret wave,

353

And by that lonely tarn where once we sang,
Till the rough rocks with startled echoes rang,
Some thought of thee will come and whisper of the grave.

Friend of my later days! thou sleepest well;
And many a grateful tongue is left to tell
What gentle thoughts, what generous deeds, were thine;
And in that calm and consecrated spot,
Where thou, forgetting, wilt not be forgot,—
With thy dear children's tears I fain would mingle mine.

354

ON THE DEATH OF TWO INFANT CHILDREN.

Alas for me!
Two bonny buds but newly-blown,
But into winning beauty grown,
From my domestic garden torn,
Have left me feeble and forlorn;
I miss them from my household tree,—
Alas for me!

Alas for me!
Two lambs, a blessing to behold,
Are taken from their earthly fold,
'Mid fairer pasture-fields to roam,
Round the great Shepherd's happier home;
And though I bow submissive knee,
Alas for me!

Alas for me!
Two jewels rarest of the treasure
Set in my crown of human pleasure,
Are shaken earthward, and each gem
Recalled to God's own diadem,
To shine where sinless seraphs be,—
Alas for me!

355

Alas for me!
Two love-beams, sent from heaven to cheer
My lot of storm and darkness here,
Are gathered to the central light
Of climes unknown to death or night;
Would that my own sad soul were free—
Alas for me!

Alas for thee!
My own, my true, my patient wife,
Dear antidote of care and strife;
Fond mother of my babes that rest
In the mute earth's maternal breast!
What must thy double sorrow be?
Alas for thee!

But why repine?
Though the cold earth enshrines my dears;
Though moments scarcely count our tears,
A little hope, a little trust,
A little thought beyond the dust,
May fit us for that home of joy
Where they can never feel annoy,
Where they, perchance, keep watch, and wait
Our coming to that radiant gate
That opens into life divine,—
Then why repine?

356

SABBATH EVENING THOUGHTS.

In the calm shadow of this Sabbath night,
Restraining vicious thought and vain desire,
I sit with sober, but unseen delight,
In the blither presence of my flickering fire;—
Recall my struggles with the stormy past,
And wonder how my heart withstood the trying blast.

And yet it beats within my quiet breast
As warmly, not as wildly, as of old;
Perchance a little better for the test
Of human sorrows, mixed and manifold:
Perchance more fitted to repel or bear
The now familiar stings of poverty and care.

Books are about me, full of glorious things,
Left by the good and gifted of the earth,—
Pearls shaken, like the dews, from Fancy's wings,
Burnings of pathos, scintillings of mirth;
And, what is nearer unto Heaven allied,
The Christian's treasure-page, and comforter, and guide!

Beings, how dearly loved! are circled round,
Talking together in an undertone
Of pleasant voices, lest too rude a sound
Should wake the dreamer from his musings lone:

357

While the old cricket in his corner dim,
Pours on my passive ear his undisturbing hymn.

My street-bound home is unadorned and small,
With an accessible and ready door;—
No picture smiling on the plaster wall,
No carpet sleeping on the stony floor;
No graceful garniture, no couch of down,
No rich array of robes to make the envious frown.

But there is food prepared from day to day,
Won by the energies of hand and brain;
A hard, but grateful bed, whereon to lay
The limb of labour, and the head of pain:
And peace is with my household morn and night,
While through life's passing clouds love looks with purer light.

Beholding others sinking deeper still
On the rough road of our uncertain life,
Feeble, indeed, though resolute in will,
Waging with fortune a perpetual strife;
Partly forgetful of my darker days,
My silent soul sends up involuntary praise.

Originally entitled “Moments of Meditation; an extempore fragment,” and dated 10th February 1844.

358

LINES

WRITTEN IN RHUDDLAN CASTLE, NORTH WALES.

Retreat of our fathers, who battled and bled
Against the unhallowed invasion of Rome,
Who, vanquished by numbers, were scattered and fled
To find 'mid these solitudes freedom and home,
Preserving through sorrows and changes untold,
The firmness, the feelings, the language of old.

I come, in the light of the blue summer skies,
To visit thy beauties, wild Cambrian land!
Already thy mountains rise dark on my eyes,
And blooming before me thy valleys expand;
Thy rude rocks invite me, thy floods, as they flow,
Allure me to follow wherever they go.

I will muse in thy castles, I'll look from thy hills,
I'll plunge in the depths of thy forests and vales;
I will climb to thy cataracts, drink at thy rills,
And list to thy songs and thy stories, old Wales!
I will dream by thy rivers, and proudly explore
Every path which Tradition hath trodden before.

A pilgrim I am, and a pilgrim I've been,
And a pilgrim I would be while vigour remains,
My fond feet have wandered o'er many a scene,
But none which surpasses thy mountains and plains;

359

And I marvel that e'er I could linger to see
A land less enchanting, less glorious than thee.

There are beings I love without coldness or guile,
There are friends I would cling to whatever betide,
My absence from these may be borne for awhile,
But the others will mourn me away from their side;
Yet a season will come when my manhood is past,
That will bind me to one little circle at last.

With a feeling of wonder I pause on my way,
In a ruin where monarchs held splendour and place,
But pleasures await me for many a day,
In a region of poesy, grandeur, and grace;
For a time I will linger by hill, stream, and glen,
Then back to the common existence of men.

END OF VOL. I.

II. IN TWO VOLS.—VOL. II.

THE POETIC ROSARY.

POEMS PUBLISHED IN 1850.

WELCOME TO SPRING.

Hail, jubilant Spring! thou bringer of bright hours!
Thou poem, pictured to my grateful gaze,
With all thy wealth of constellated flowers,
Thy lessening shadows, and thy lengthening days!
Thy gleesome voices and thy genial smile
Have drawn the Dreamer from his sombre room,
To drink the spirit of thy breeze awhile—
Thy breeze imbued with healing and perfume—
Amid the quiet fields, that kindle into bloom.

Oh! I have dreamt of thy glad coming long,
Through many a weary day and wakeful night,
When the wild winds did shout their Winter song,
When the sad sun shed ineffectual light;
When the sharp scourge of pain was on my brow,
When the harsh hand of worldly care oppressed;
But thy blithe presence disenthrals me now,
And I am with thee, a rejoicing guest,
Pacing thy flowery floors, where I was ever blest.

I banquet on thy beauties, rich and rife,
Flung without measure from thy lavish hand,—
Shapes, hues, and motions, redolent of life,
And glorious promise to the glowing land;
Odours and harmonies on every side
Refresh the sense, regale the raptured ear;
My heart is soothed, my soul is satisfied,
My faith exalted, and my joy sincere,
Because all Nature breathes—“Beneficence is here.”

'Tis joy to feel this sunlight, soft and warm,
Touch with a golden flow my pallid face;
To see these trees, unconquered by the storm,
Greening, and growing into ampler grace;
To watch the lark careering up the sky,
Bathing his wings the billowy clouds among,
While the calm earth, uplooking, seems to lie
Listening, enamoured of that passionate song
Which birds of kindred voice symphoniously prolong.

Lo! the rich Rainbow, with prismatic beams,
Builds up the splendours of its braided bridge,
Strides o'er the valleys, glows upon the streams,
Leans on the shoulder of the mountain ridge;
While the quick coming of the twinkling rain
Takes the lone rambler with a sweet surprise,
And bough and blossom, now refreshed and fain,
With flowers that ope their many-coloured eyes,
Droop with a blessed boon—the largess of the skies.

The bow expires with weeping; woods resound,
Heaven's cloudy curtain fades and flits away;
Breaks into brighter smiles the landscape round,
Glad in the sun-god's renovating ray;

Each flowery cup, a living censer, flings
Spontaneous perfume in the grateful air;
Thanksgiving from a thousand voices springs,
(Hear, thankless Man! what Heaven and Earth declare!)
And what is silent seems to stir with inward prayer.

There the pale primrose, lone and lovely, peeps
From the green gloom of that thorn-shadowed nook;
Brightens the bank where fresher verdure creeps
Along the sinuous borders of the brook;
Here crowd the daisies with a silvery smile,
And gleam (Earth's “milky way”) o'er vale and lea,—
Daisies, like daughters of my native isle,
Like the true woman, wheresoe'er she be—
Serene, yet cheerful all, lovely, erect, and free.

Here the wild woodlands build umbrageous halls,
A sylvan realm of shifting lights and shades,
Where the lone streamlet leaps in tiny falls,
Striving with brakes, and singing through the glades.
On every bough—through which the kindly skies,
Flecked with loose clouds, look sweetly from above—
The light leaves quiver when the Zephyr sighs,
Glancing like changeful plumage of the dove,
As with the stir of youth, the ecstasy of love.

Hail, careless cuckoo! whose far call awakes
Some sad, sweet memories of Boyhood's hours;
Hail, merry thrush! whose cheerful music makes,
From dawn till dark, enchantment in the bowers;
Hail, joyous skylark! whose aspiring wing
Soars bravely heavenward from the dewy sod,
Eager to meet the morn, so thou mayst sing—
Even on the threshold by Aurora trod—
Thy greeting to the sun, thy anthem unto God!

Hail, happy Spring! whose resurrection-day,
To the prime law of steadfast Nature true,
Delights the loving, makes the gloomiest gay,—
Moves the low pulse of languid life anew;
Unlocks the heart, gives thought a brighter dream,
Opes a fresh fountain in the fainting soul,
Wakes us to worship of that one Supreme,
That sleepless Spirit of the wondrous whole,
By Whose august decree Suns—Systems—Seasons roll!

Oh! mother Earth! of Love and Wisdom born,
Nurse of all placid thoughts, all pure desires,
Consoler of the weary heart forlorn,
Creator of the Poet's chastest fires;—
How sweet to 'scape the thraldom of the town,
Whose feverish air with sin, strife, sorrow rings,
On thy maternal breast to lay me down,
Swathed in the joys thy unsoiled beauty brings—
And catch rare glimpses thence of God's diviner things!

A SONG FOR MARCH.

Burly March rushes in with a boisterous wing,—
Give him welcome, though brawler he be;
He is here to announce that the beautiful Spring
Re-appears on the forest and lea.
The blithe lark is aware, for his earliest song,
As he flutters the breeze-broken cloudlets among,
Cometh down like melodious rain;
The thrush startles Echo with jovial voice,
And a thousand glad throats, that were made to rejoice,
Will soon tremble with music again.

Already the pastures are greening anew,
Waking Life is astir in the woods;
The speedwell re-opens its sweet eyes of blue,
And the hawthorn is speckled with buds;
Already the daisy, wherever it dare—
The daisy, so English, so homely, yet fair—
Looketh up with frank face to the sky;
In warm woodland hollows the violets unfold,
And their sun-loving sister, with chalice of gold,
Hebe Kingcup, will come by and by.

There's a lull in the winds, let us out while we may,
To partake the first gifts of the prime;
How the lowliest thing that we pass by the way
Seems to feel the fresh touch of the time!

What a genial balm! what a spring-breathing smell
From the mosses that mantle the old wood and well!
What a scent from the sward, as we go!
What a silence! for Thought in this solitude sleeps,
Scarcely broken by bird-notes that drop from the steeps,
Or the song of the brooklet below!

There is health for the ailing, who dare to be glad
'Mid the broad fields of Nature awhile;
There is hope for the doubtfullest soul that is sad,—
For the heart-stricken mourner a smile;
There is beauty for poets, and pastime for clowns;
There is solace for workers that weary in towns,—
Let them snatch the rare joy as they can;
There are charms for the senses, in holiest guise,
There are teachers the spirit may hear, and grow wise,
There are spells for the moodiest man.

What a painful and perilous year was the past!
With dismay and disaster how rife!
While terror and slaughter swept fiercely and fast
Through the highways and byways of life!
Let us bow to the rod, though the loss we deplore,
Let us utter great vows to retrieve, to restore,
Under Heaven's magnificent arch;
If for deeds which may win their acceptance above,
If for peace and progression, for justice and love,
Let our word of endeavour be—“March!”

“THE WEARY OLD YEAR IS NO MORE.”

The weary, the wailing Old Year is no more!
He is swathed in the shadowy shroud of the Past;
I heard his last moans 'mid the rout and the roar
Of the woods and the waters, the rain and the blast;
He is gone! but his lusty heir, blithesome and bold,
With laughter begins his dark course to pursue:
We have had little jesting or joy with the Old,
Let us hope to be merry and wise with the New.

The weary Old Year! he was sadly beset
By a multiform agony, 'gendered of strife;
With blood and with tears his rough pathway was wet,
And a cloud and a curse seemed to hang o'er his life;
Scathed and scorned, in the dust hoary dynasties rolled,
Like the sere leaves of Autumn, thrones—diadems flew:
We have had little promise or peace with the Old,
Let us hope for more calm, and less care, with the New.

In France the dread soul-burst of fury began,
Red Anarchy baring his arm for the fray;
From people to people the turbulence ran,
While Liberty trembled with doubt and dismay;
King, Councillor, Concubine, struck from their hold
On state—honour—title, in panic withdrew:
Strange chances and changes have harassed the Old,
Let us hope for more firmness, more faith with the New.

Whilst Europe, with tumult and terror grown loud,
Heaved, shouted, destroyed, like a storm-ridden sea,
My Country, though menaced, stood placid and proud,—
The fugitive's refuge, the rock of the free;
At once, 'neath the banner of Order enrolled,
Her citizens mustered, to stay or subdue;—
Yet the wings of her Commerce were clipped in the Old,
Let us hope but to fly with more strength in the New.

From Erin, the Nightmare of England, there came
Sounds of treason and turmoil across the wild foam,
While the base breath of Demagogue fanned into flame
The sparks of sedition that smouldered at home;
They were quelled—they were quenched—but we mourn to behold
Deluded and fettered, the foolish and few:
We have fenced and made firmer some rights in the Old,
Let us heal, or expel, many wrongs in the New.

Oh! deem not thy errors are cancelled or missed!
There's a blot on thy 'scutcheon—a stain on thy hand;
Yet among the best nations on Liberty's list
Thou art mightiest—wisest, my own native land!
Good laws and great truths will thy glory uphold,
If justice and mercy thy spirit imbue:
Look back on the horrors that darkened the Old,
And thence gather light for thy guide in the New.

Since the first feeble dawn of the weary Old Year,
What bright links of love have been broken away!
Friendly forms and fair faces, to Memory dear,
Have passed from our eyes into holier day!

Our hearts have grown vacant—our hearths have grown cold,
From the absence of things that enamoured our view;
And the tears that we shed o'er each loss in the Old,
Leave their trace on our features—insulting the New.

Rouse! thinking does much, but the doing does more;
Succumb not, though Fortune or Friendship withdraw;
Despair not, though soul-cherished visions are o'er,—
Adversity proves a benevolent law;
There is good in things evil, as Wisdom hath told,
And Experience declares the great words to be true;
The discords of Evil that jarred in the Old
But prelude the music of good in the New.

January 1849.

THE HOUSEHOLD JEWELS.

A traveller, from journeying
In countries far away,
Repassed his threshold at the close
Of a blest Sabbath-day;
A comely face—a voice of love—
A kiss of chaste delight,
Were the first things to welcome him
On that sweet Sabbath-night.

He stretched his limbs upon the hearth,
Before its friendly blaze,
And conjured up mixed memories
Of gay and gloomy days;
Feeling that none of gentle soul,
However far he roam,
Can e'er forego, can e'er forget,
The quiet joys of Home!

“Bring me my children!” cried the Sire,
With eager, earnest tone;
I long to press them, and to mark
How lovely they have grown!
Twelve weary months have passed away
Since I went o'er the sea,
To feel how sad and lone I am
Without my babes and Thee!”

“Refresh thee, while 'tis needful,” said
The fair and faithful Wife,
The while her pensive features paled,
And stirred with inward strife;—
“Refresh thee, Husband of my heart,—
I ask it as a boon;
Our children are reposing, love,
Thou shalt behold them soon.”

She spread the meal, she filled the cup,
She pressed him to partake;
He sat down blithely at the board,
And all for her sweet sake;
But when the frugal feast was done,
The thankful prayer preferred,
Again Affection's fountain flowed,
Again its voice was heard:—

“Bring me my children, darling Wife,
I'm in an ardent mood;
My soul wants purer aliment,
I crave for other food!
Bring forth my children to my gaze,
Or ere I rage or weep;
I yearn to kiss their happy eyes
Before I turn to sleep.”

“I have a question yet to ask,—
Be patient, Husband dear;
A Stranger, one auspicious morn,
Did send some Jewels here;
Until, to take them from my care,
But yesterday he came,
And I restored them with a sigh;—
Dost thou approve, or blame?”

“I marvel much, sweet Wife, that thou
Shouldst breathe such words to me;—
Repay to Man—resign to God,
Whate'er is lent to thee;
Restore it with a willing heart,—
Be grateful for the trust;
Whate'er may tempt or try us, Wife,
Let us be ever just.”

She took him by the passive hand,
And up the moonlit stair
She led him, to their bridal bed,
With mute and mournful air;
She turned the cover down, and there,
In grave-like garments dressed,
Lay the Twin Children of their love,
In Death's serenest rest!

“These were the Jewels lent to me,
Which God has deigned to own;
The precious caskets still remain,
But, ah! the gems are gone;
But thou didst teach me to resign
What God alone can claim;
He giveth, and He takes away,—
Blest be His holy Name!”

The Father gazed upon his Babes,—
The Mother drooped apart,
While all the Woman's sorrow gushed
From her o'erburdened heart;
And with the striving of her grief,
Which wrung the tears she shed,
Were mingled low and loving words
To the unconscious dead.

When the sad Sire had looked his fill,
He veiled each breathless face,
And down in self-abasement bowed,
For comfort and for grace;
With the deep eloquence of woe,
Poured forth his secret soul,
Rose up, and stood erect and calm,
In spirit healed and whole.

“Restrain thy tears, poor Wife!” he said;
“I learn this lesson still,—
God gives, and God can take away,—
Blest be His holy will!
Blest are my Children, for they live,
From sin and sorrow free;
And I am not all joyless, Wife,
With faith—hope—love, and thee!”

THE ROSE OF CAYPHA.

In the sweet shades of Caypha there bloometh a flower,
By a fountain whose music pervadeth the bower;
'Tis the grace of the garden—the glory that gives
An aspect of Heaven to the spot where it lives.

Through palm-trees the sun sends his loveliest smile,
The winds, as they pass it, grow sweeter the while;
On its leaves are the love-drops of honey-dew shed,
And the nightingale sings his best song o'er its head.

Its eyes, which for tenderness shame the gazelle,
Have the soft, fitful light of the pearl-bearing shell;
Like a lotus that leans on the undulant tide,
The charms of its balmy breast heave and subside.

So rich is its fragrance that floats on the wind,
That the chieftain who flies from a foeman behind,
Checks his steed to inhale it—again to depart
With new strength in his sinews—new hope in his heart.

The blast of the Simoom may scatter away
Common odours, that cling to the garments of day,
But this, where it enters, remains to imbue
The spirit with sweetness, and holiness, too.

Dear Maiden, whose shadowy tresses down flow,
In wavelets of jet, from the arch of thy brow,
Let me breathe in thine ear, in this eloquent hour,
The musical name of this exquisite flower.

Thou blushest! thou droopest! thine eye-lids drop down,
Like the pinions of Even, when sunlight is flown!
The swell of thy bosom enraptures my sight,—
That sigh makes enamoured the breezes of night!

Forgive me, dear Zora! for thou art the Rose
Whose beauty hath broken my pride and repose;
Oh! let me transplant thee, that fondly I may
Watch over thy loveliness day after day!

I will cherish and cheer thee, my Peri—my dove,
With the dews of Affection, the sunshine of Love,
And the barrenest spot where thy presence may be
Will be blooming as Paradise, dearest, with Thee!

BUCKTON CASTLE.

[_]

[Buckton, or, as it is commonly called, Buckton Castle, is a bold, rounded hill at the entrance to the valley of Saddleworth from Ashton-under-Lyne. It is supposed to have been a Roman Station. On its summit may be distinctly traced trenches, and the remains of ancient walls. To the town-pent lover of Nature this romantic locality is well worth a visit.]

Has Spring returned to give a golden close
To old October's few, fast-fleeting hours?
A genial radiance through the calm air glows,
So lately stirred with fitful winds and showers.
It seemeth Spring, albeit too tame and still,—
Scentless the field, and verdureless the tree;
But the sweet Robin, at his cheerful will,
On the bare orchard-bough, or cottage sill,
Pours from his ruddy throat a song of tender glee.

My thoughts are dwarfed, for lack of light and room,—
Feeble the fluttering pulses in my breast;
My fancies dim, and voiceless as the tomb,—
My laggard limbs unstrung, my brain oppressed.
Come forth, my staff,—lie there, my peaceful books,—
Sleep at thy fountain, idle pen, awhile;
Nature invites me, with her kindliest looks,
To pleasant pathways, and to peaceful nooks,—
My very heart leaps up, and kindles at her smile.

Once more, once more, ere Winter lowers and storms,
And the last wreath of waning Autumn rends,
I go to commune with those awful forms;
The hoary hills, my old familiar friends;

Through devious tracks my eager footsteps stray,
Where well-springs shine, where restless runnels sound;
The dead leaves linger on my lonely way,—
Crowd into hollows—with the breezes play,—
Rush in a rustling race, and eddy round and round.

Where buxom mother, rosy babe in arms,
Smiles in the sunshine at her cottage door,
My feet press on, by grey and quiet farms,
Up the wild lane that seeks the swarthy moor;
Still on, while backward fades the distant town,—
Town of tumultuous toil, and churlish care;
On, o'er the springy heath-lands, waste and brown,
Till the dark shoulders and defiant crown
Of Buckton's barren steep loom in the smokeless air.

Halt, hurrying foot! pause, panting heart! for here
Bursts into ken the valley's glorious length;
Hill, hamlet, woodland, river, rock, appear
Blent in harmonious loveliness and strength;
There lofty Haridge lifts his dusky crest
Above his stalwart brethren of the vale;
There gloomy Warmoton heaves his fir-clad breast;
In yon sharp crags stands Olderman confessed,
Stern wooer of the sun, and scorner of the gale!

Before me, single in his solemn pride,
Majestic Buckton swelleth towards the sky,
His belt of dwarf-oak reddening on his side,
Flinging a flush of beauty on the eye.
Up, listless foot! up, languid heart! I came
To sit upon his forehead, bald and dun!
Down the rough slopes, o'er the meandering Tame,
Through dreamy wood-haunts, yet unknown to fame,
Bravely and briefly speed, until the goal be won.

'Tis done! and lo, far towering o'er my head,
The sullen giant stands! with strenuous bound,
Trampling the heather with determined tread,
I grasp his locks, and gaze triumphant round.
Oh! what a draught of gladness in the breeze!
Oh! what a feast of glory in the scene!
Moorlands, and mountain-tops, and clustering trees,—
Hamlets and fanes, homes of luxurious ease,—
Grandeur and gentle grace, with countless charms between!

Like seething cauldron fuming in the air,
Our city sits on the horizon's rim,
Staining with lurid gloom what else were fair,
Making the brightness of the sunset dim.
A place of wildering energy and din,
And dauntless effort, is yon wondrous town,
Of cares and curses, wretchedness and sin;
Yet hath she noble hearts, brave souls, within,
Pure and prolific minds, that make her world-renown.

No cloud, save heaven's, no strife, no clangour here;
No shallow friends; no deep and desperate foes;
The spot is Nature's, undefiled and clear,
Where all is sweetness, beauty, and repose;
No sound, save that of tuneful streams and rills,
Whose hum floats upward as they fall and fret,
Or plaintive bleat of sheep upon the hills,
Or solemn sigh of swooping wind, that fills
The chambers of the soul with music God hath set.

A change has come: some wandering clouds have kissed
The rugged features of my mountain friend,
And I am mantled in a silvery mist,
Rolling in waves that idly break and blend;

Yet all beneath lies tranquillised and bright,
Bathed in the tender glow of evening hours;
The windows twinkle in the level light,
The sombre woods grow golden to the sight,
And like a “burnished snake” the rambling river gleams.

Behold! the rainbow's many-clouded arch
Springs from the vale, and sweeps the skies above,
A splendid path, where angel-shapes might march
Sublimely earthward, messengers of Love!
Oh! glorious spectacle! oh! sacred sign,
By matchless Mercy unto mortals given!
How Noah must have loved thy hues divine,
When first o'er Ararat he saw thee shine,
Limned by the hand of God upon the front of heaven!

In beauteous fragments breaks the bow away,
Whilst envious shadows creep about the West;
The rain is spent, spent is the hurrying day,
And all things lean most lovingly to rest:
Leaving old Buckton to the winds and stars,
Downward with staggering steps I seek the plains;
And as I homeward muse, no discord jars
The music of my mind, no world-thought mars
The vision of delight which in my spirit reigns.

Ye who in crowded town, o'ertoiled, o'erspent,
For bread's sake cling to desk, forge, wheel, and loom,
Come, when the law allows, and let the bent
Of your imprisoned minds have health and room;
So ye may gaze upon the free and fair,
Receive fresh vigour from the mountain sod;
So ye may doff the chrysalis of care
In the pure element of mountain air,
And on the wings of thought draw nearer unto God!

KOSSUTH'S PRAYER.

God of my Country! and her dauntless Brave,
Battling and bleeding with great souls unworn!
To whom the names of Tyrant and of Slave
Are dread and discord—misery and scorn!
From the clam region of Thy starry sphere
Look down upon Thy lowly servant here,
Whilst from his lips a million prayers take flight,
Upward, to magnify Thy mystery and might!

My God! Thy sun in the unmeasured sky
Shines with beneficent and blessed light!
Beneath my feet in quiet glory lie
The bones of brethren who have fallen in fight!
Blue are the heavens; the earth whereon I tread
With the pure blood of martyrdom is red,
The life-blood of the faithful—sons of sires
Who worshipped only Thee, and Freedom's sacred fires!

Oh! let the sun send forth his kindliest ray,
That flowers may flourish on this holy sod!
Let not my brethren sink into decay—
Back into lifeless nothingness, O God!
God of my fathers! hear the people's prayer!
God of the nations! hold them in Thy care!
Nerve them with power, amid the glare and gloom,
To snap the Bondsman's chain, and seal the Oppressor's doom!

As a free man, upon the sacred mould
Which wraps my brethren in a last embrace,
I reverently kneel, yet firm and bold,
True to the truth, and scorner of disgrace!
Such sacrifices sanctify the earth,—
Purge it from sin, and urge a purer birth;
My God! a Serf must never tread these graves,
The very soil would spurn the unhallowed feet of Slaves!

Great Father of my fathers! Thou Most High!
Sole Sovereign of the universe, whose might
Flung into space the countless worlds that lie
Like diamond dust upon the breast of Night!
Behold! a cloud of living light ascends
From the dear ashes of my martyred friends,
Gleams on my warriors, till they seem to glow—
An emblem of their cause—in panoply of snow!

God! in Thy mercy guard this precious dust!
Let it repose in sanctity and peace!
Inspire the living brave with hope and trust,
That they may conquer, and their struggles cease!
Forsake them not, but teach them, and make strong
The arm that battles 'gainst a hideous wrong;
And let our triumph, blown from tongue and pen,
Invigorate the world! My people cry “Amen!”

FORGIVENESS.

Man hath two attendant angels
Ever waiting at his side,
With him wheresoe'er he wanders,
Wheresoe'er his feet abide;
One to warn him when he darkleth,
And rebuke him if he stray;—
One to leave him to his nature,
And so let him go his way:

Two recording spirits, reading
All his life's minutest part,
Looking in his soul, and listening
To the beatings of his heart;
Each, with pen of fire electric,
Writes the good or evil wrought;—
Writes with truth that adds not, errs not,
Purpose—action—word, and thought.

One, the Teacher and Reprover,
Marks each heaven-deserving deed;
Graves it with the lightning's vigour,—
Seals it with the lightning's speed;
For the good that Man achieveth—
Good beyond an angel's doubt—
Such remains for aye and ever,
And can not be blotted out.

One (severe and silent Watcher!)
Noteth every crime and guile,
Writes it with a holy duty,
Seals it not, but waits awhile;
If the Evil-Doer cry not—
“God, forgive me!” ere he sleeps,
Then the sad, stern Spirit seals it,
And the gentler Spirit weeps.

To the Sinner if Repentance
Cometh soon, with healing wings,
Then the dark account is cancelled,
And each joyful angel sings;
Whilst the Erring One perceiveth—
Now his troublous hour is o'er—
Music, fragrance, wafted to him
From a yet untrodden shore.

Mild and mighty is Forgiveness,
Meekly worn, if meekly won;
Let our hearts go forth to seek it,
Ere the setting of the sun!
Angels wait, and long to hear us
Ask it, ere the time be flown;
Let us give it, and receive it,
Ere the midnight cometh down!

December 1849.

THE DESERT AND THE CITY.

Pensive and sad, with weary steps I paced
The Nile's old realm of grandeur in decay:
The hoary sands of Egypt's wondrous waste,
Bare to the brazen splendours of the day.
Much did I marvel, in my toilsome course,
How Time had overcome, with noiseless force,
The mighty works of her meridian hour,
The vast material proofs of her stupendous power.

Methought I saw the Spoiler, proud and lone,
Unsling his fearful scythe, so strong and keen,
And sit him down upon that mystic stone,
The couchant Sphinx, of mild and solemn mien;
Methought he looked, with aspect stern and cold,
Towards voiceless Thebes, and mournful Memphis old,
Then turned away, as with a conqueror's frown,
From the Titanian walls which he had trampled down.

His silent sister, dark Oblivion, drest
In many-folded robes of gloomy pride,
Half sleeping and half waking, leaned at rest
On the great pyramid's gigantic side;
Lay making riddles of a thousand things
That wore the slumbrous shadow of her wings,
And, spite of human energies and schemes,
Changing all glories past to unsubstantial dreams.

To dubious History, shrinking in a cloud
Which dim Tradition flung athwart her face,
With earnest question I exclaimed aloud—
“Explain the marvels of this desert place!
Who willed that these colossal shapes should be?
Who builded up the sombre mystery?
Answer, grey Chronicler! give up thy trust;
Why are they desolate now, and crumbling into dust!”

Straightway a sound, as of a baffled wind
In mountain passes, smote my startled ear;
As if some wakened spirit wailed, and pined
For speech wherewith to make the secret clear;
Forgotten stories in forgotten tongues,
Old fitful legends, fragmentary songs,
Came mingling, moaning o'er the dreary land,—
I listened with mute awe, but nought could understand.

Once more I mused amid the whirl and roar
Of mighty London—'mid the human waves
Whose restless tide, from centre unto shore,
In countless currents rolls, and rolling, raves;
London, where some adventurous vessels sail
Safely, and tack with every veering gale;
While some, by adverse Fortune blown and tossed,
Fall into shattered wreck, and are for ever lost:

London, the world of gay and graceful life,
Of lavish Wealth, and silken-seated Ease;
The place of harsh deformity and strife,
Where Misery sits, “with children round her knees;”
London, where Loyalty upholds a throne,
And virtuous Penury starves and dies—unknown!
London, where friendless Genius toils and smarts,—
The paradise of thieves, the home of noblest hearts.

I looked upon her temples and her halls,
Her river foaming with a thousand keels;
Her dens, where hopeless Wickedness appals,
Where Passion revels, and where Reason reels;
Her myriad-branching streets; her spacious bowers,
Where flaunting Fashion spends its idle hours;
Her schools and jails; her pleasure-haunts and “hells,”
Where Guilt and Sorrow groan, where Folly shakes his bells.

I saw her merchant-palaces; her rooms
Where lettered lore invites the better will;
Her gorgeous theatres; her dangerous glooms,
Peopled with fallen women, reckless still;
Her Mint and Money-change, her crowded marts;
Her domes of Science, treasuries of Arts;
Her stores, where good or evil is supplied
To all who choose to come; and as I saw, I sighed.

Thus spake my soul:—“Far Future, I command
Thy truthful answer to my question now!—
Must this great city, and this greater land,
Flourish or fall,—be purified, or bow?
Must they, like Egypt, sink by slow decay,
And their transcendent glories pass away?
Down thy abyss I send my inquiring cry!”
Alas! the depth was dumb,—it deigned me no reply!

THE STREAM AND THE VINE.

“Joy! joy!” said the jolly-voiced mountain Vine—
“What a pleasant and care-killing nature is mine!
How glorious am I, in the glad vintage time,
When joyance rings loud in the soft sunny clime;
When my lithe, laden branches droop heavily down
O'er the damsel bedecked with my leaf-woven crown;
When my full purple fruitage is gathered and pressed,
To exalt the dull brain, and enrapture the breast;
Whilst my idol-god, Bacchus, with beaker in hand,
Reels, laughing and quaffing, all over the land,
And the dear eyes of Beauty with wilder light shine—
Joy! joy!” said the jolly-voiced mountain Vine.

“Joy! joy!” said the merry-toned mountain Stream,
As it babbled and blushed in the moon's early beam—
“With a silvery song, and a frolicsome flow,
I purify, strengthen, and cheer, as I go;
The grass groweth greener wherever I run,
And brighter the flowers, in shadow or sun;
The traveller loveth my crystalline wave,
The peasant knows well that I solace and save;
I carry no poison, engender no strife,
But offer the boon of a rational life;
My waters give blessings wherever they gleam—
Joy! joy!” said the merry-toned mountain Stream.

“Behold!” said the Vine, “friendly fellows are met,
A jovial crew, a convivial set,
Who sprinkle libations to Bacchus and me,
And quaff my red blood with a boisterous glee;

As up goes the goblet, and down goes the juice,
Frail Reason gets fettered, while Folly gets loose;
Groweth louder the laugh, groweth lewder the tongue,
And the bard breaketh out in delirious song.
On roars the rude revel, till, drunken and dim,
Lamp, bottle, and Bacchanal stagger and swim;
Why, the whole human herd are gone frantic with wine!
Joy! joy!” said the jolly-voiced mountain Vine!

“Behold!” said the Stream, “in yon temple of light
What a vision of peace, what a beauteous sight!
Strong thinkers and workers, in orderly guise,
Fair women, with grateful and joy-beaming eyes,
Hale Age, with the countenance radiant with truth,
Mild Manhood, self-governed, and reverent Youth;—
They assemble to listen, to learn, and to teach
High thought that o'erflows in clear current of speech:
They converse of reforms, and at once they essay
To hasten the dawn of a holier day;
And Heaven will help the benevolent scheme—
Joy! joy!” said the merry-toned mountain Stream.

“Thou art lovely to see,” said the Vine to the Stream,
“But thy draught is as dull as an idiot's dream;
Thou hast but a paltry and puny control,
Thou lendest no fire to the slumbering soul!”
“Thou art graceful to see,” said the Stream to the Vine,
“But a deadly and dangerous spirit is thine;
For madness is born of thy boisterous mirth,
And thy victims grow reckless of heaven or earth!”
Oh! ye who are striving to lift us and bless,
And ye, too, who grovel in savage excess,
Ye fettered and fallen, ye upright and free,
Say, which has your homage—the Wave or the Tree?

THE WINTER'S WALK.

Influence of Nature.

How beautiful is Nature! and how kind,
In every season, every mood and dress,
To him who woos her with an earnest mind,—
Quick to perceive and love her loveliness!
With what a delicate yet mighty stress
She stills the stormy passions of the soul,—
Subdues their tossings with a sweet control,
Till each spent wave grows gradually less,
And settles into calm! The worldling may
Disdain her, but to me, whate'er the grief,—
Whate'er the anger lingering in my breast,
Or pain of baffled hopes,—she brings relief;
Scares the wild harpy-brood of cares away,
And to my troubled heart sublimely whispers—“Rest!”

Forth on this white and dazzling winter noon,
Serene the earth, the heavens with beauty hung—
I come to her, that she may reättune
Discordant thoughts, and feelings all unstrung.
Sorrows the world believeth not have wrung
My heart until it bleeds, but bleeds unseen;
Distressful circumstance has come between
Endeavour and Fruition. I had flung

My hopes unto the winds, but Nature's smile
Cheers the lone chamber where my sorrows dwell;
Her gentle hand is on me, and the spell
My spirit doth of all its fears beguile;
My better being reäwakes and stirs,
And sings an inward song in unison with hers.

Ah, yes! the humblest of external things
Whereby she deigns to enchant us and to teach
(If loving heart the human learner brings),
Are signs of her grand harmonies and speech;—
The lapse of waters o'er a rugged stone,—
A pool of reeds,—a moorland weed or flower,—
A dimpling spring,—a thorn with moss o'ergrown,—
Are symbols of her universal power.
These speak a language to the favoured ear
Loud as the thunder, lofty as the lights
That crowd the cope of cloudless winter nights,
And fill the soul with worship, hope, and fear;—
Dull must he be, oppressed with earthly leaven,
Who looks on Nature's face, yet feels no nearer heaven!

The Solitude.

As farther, farther from the town I go,
And on the loneliest haunts my steps intrude,
The hills in new-donned surplices of snow—
Hills, the old Priesthood of the Solitude—
From their uplifted altars, rent and rude,
Seem preaching to this slumberous grove of pine
Some homily that's wordless, yet divine,
Whereby my listening spirit is subdued.
Whilst, 'mid the calm and congregated trees
(Hooded like friars in their cloisters chill),

Whispers with reverent “Hush!” the languid breeze,—
Wanders away, and all is doubly still;
And I perceive—so Fancy says apart—
The full, perpetual throb of Nature's sleepless heart.

Hushed is the broad and beautiful expanse
Of moorland, mountain, woodland, vale, and fell;
The Earth is slumbering in a holy trance,
The gentle thraldom of a mystic spell;
Whilst from her bosom—as a sea-born shell
Sings to the ear—mysterious murmurs creep
Upwards, as she were moaning in her sleep,
And muttering marvels which she cannot quell:
Vague sounds and dubious syllables they seem,
As though a pensive nun, serene and fair,
Sighed through her veil for joys she cannot share,
Recalling of the past some pleasant dream;
Or like a virgin in her secret bower,
Who whispers prayer to God before the bridal hour.

The Robin.

Behold our minstrel Robin! trustful, tame,
Bird with the stomacher of glowing hue!
How caught his little breast that badge of flame?
Thus, if old legends tell the story true:—
'Tis said—poetic faith believes the tale—
He drank some blood-drops of that precious Fount
Which gushed on awful Calvary's holy mount,
When Nature shuddered, and when men grew pale.
Then, says the legend—let none scorn to hear—
His sympathetic bosom took the stain,
That crimson evidence of Hallowed pain
Which unto Mercy drew the sinner near;
And from that dread yet Man-redeeming day,
Robin became the bird which children fear to slay.

Ah, gentle Robin! I delight to hear,
From hawthorn, apple-tree, or cottage sill,
Thy melting melody, so soft and clear,
Light as the tinklings of a tiny rill.
The wild notes issuing from thy eloquent bill
Are partly sorrowful and partly sad,
Like chastened Grief, endeavouring to be glad,
And wile with words the memory of ill.
But the consoling sounds, wherever heard,
Fall on my heart like drops of genial balm;
Soothe the sharp pangs of many a hope deferred,
And interfuse a sense of inward calm,—
A sense of resignation to the Will
That smites, some hidden goodness to fulfil.

Oh! patient Robin! may I learn from thee,
Thou little teacher on that naked tree,—
A due submission unto Heaven's behest,—
Cheerful humility, and conscious power
To meet and struggle with the roughest hour,
Whate'er the trial, and whate'er the test;
Thankful for smallest blessings, when they come,
Calm in my sorrows, in my triumphs dumb,
Unbowed by care, unawed by lawless wrong;
Firm to endure, but ready to enjoy,
Heedless of scorn, superior to annoy,
And prompt to sing an uncomplaining song,—
A song of praise, too, Robin, like thine own,
Haply to reach the everlasting Throne!

The Old Mill.

Here's the old Mill, shaken, but not outworn,
Which sends its busy “click-clack” down the vale,
Bringing to Fancy fields of waving corn,
Telling of Plenty many a pleasant tale.

'Tis silent now, for, lo! the waters fail;
Yet the blithe Miller, neither hurt nor crossed
By the fantastic doings of John Frost,
Inhales his pipe, and quaffs his horn of ale
At home; or haply to “The Plough” he wends,
Famous for cosy nooks and pots of power—
Where, with a trio of his ancient friends,
He wings the gay, sometimes the noisy hour;
Cracks jokes, laughs loudly, roars a lusty song,
Heedless of Winter's cold, or Woman's sharper tongue.

The Mill is silent only for a space;
When southern winds have set the waters free,
Again the ponderous stones shall run their race,
Whilst the blithe Miller carols in his glee.
Meanwhile, how grand the fettered wheel appears,
Stayed for a time in its industrious whirl—
Bristling with pendent icicles, like spears,
Its mantling mosses hung with glistering pearl!
The Stream, arrested in its wildest course,
How beautifully petrified, and tossed
Into the loveliest shapes, by noiseless force
And wondrous magic of mysterious Frost!
Is not the whole a picture to engage
The Painter's pencil or the Poet's page?

The Village.

Sweet Village, bosomed in “ancestral trees,”
Naked and silent now—I love to come
When, in the summer time, a dubious hum
Floats from the valley on the evening breeze.
But thou art ever pleasant;—with what ease
The Parsonage seems to nestle in its nook,
Wearing a calm and comfortable look,

With its bay-windows and quaint cornices!
How well the venerable Church agrees
With all the ancient features of the scene;—
The low, square tower, and through its ivy screen,
The dial, preaching quiet homilies!
But, hark! that bell proclaims some soul's release,
And calls my footsteps to the “Court of Peace!”

The Court of Peace! ay, verily, no strife
Of soul, heart, voice, comes this lone realm within;
All who were different in their mortal life,
Lofty or low, are equal here, and kin!
All passions quenched, the sources of their sin
Shut up and sealed for ever, here they lie,
Waiting—Oh! awful Mystery!—the din
Of the last trumpet-summons from on High!
Alas! with what dull thought and careless eye
We look upon these graves! as if the strain
Of glorious promise, uttered in the sky
By Angel-tongues, were fabulous and vain!
Brothers in Death! I leave you to your sleep,
So eloquently still, so solemn, and so deep!

Ho, ho! what rout is here? The Village Boys
In mimic warfare with their balls of snow,
Vociferating with triumphant noise,
As they o'ercome some temporary foe!
Poor, thoughtless imps! how soon ye must forego
This harmless conflict for a sterner strife
With Passion, Error, Circumstance, and Woe,
On the arena-ground of future life!
What tongue may tell, what prophecy foreshow
Your coming lot, the course of your career?
In intellect and virtue some may grow;

Some live in shame, and ignorance, and fear;
Sorrow may bow, danger encompass some;—
'Tis well for human peace we know not what's to come!

How shines this low-roofed shed beside the way,
Where the bluff Blacksmith holds his “pride of place!”
Roars the huge bellows, well-timed hammers play
On the responsive anvil's stubborn face;
Amid the shower of sparkles, idling stand
The Village Gossips, who delight to feel
The warmth that issues from the glowing steel,
And mark the cunning of the craftsman's hand.
He tells them tales of many a foreign scene,
Where battle raged, where blood was shed like rain,
Towns sacked and fields laid waste; for he had been
Soldier and farrier on the tented plain;
But now—far better than the work of wrong—
He fashions ploughshares, sings a peaceful song.

Sunset.

Homeward, before the pinions of the Night
Swoop on my path. Behold! yon westering Sun
Flushes the heavens with many-coloured light,
A gorgeous signal that the day is done.
Piled in stupendous masses, many a change,
Wondrous and beautiful, the clouds assume,—
Titanic structures, ever new and strange,
With splendours streaming through their cloven gloom.
Now they are moulded into mountains, rent
And burning to their centres; now they break,
And float apart, like silent ships that seek
Blest isles amid the ethereal element;
Whilst the broad Sun pours forth his latest beams,—
Gently withdraws, and leaves me to my dreams.

The orb is gone, yet on the earth and sky
Lingers some lovely shape, some vestige fair:
Light fleeces, faintly blushing, calmly lie
Like beds of roses in the middle air.
Meanwhile, my soul is softened, and subdued
Into a quiet tenderness of thought;
Feeling, imagination are imbued
With things that Nature to my gaze hath brought.
My Home receives me; at the chimney-side,
Consoled, invigorated, frame and mind
Better for action nerved and purified—
I sit me down, to worldly cares resigned;
Review, with something like a calm content,
The day which has not been unprofitably spent!

DEATH'S DOINGS.

Death on his steed of shadow
Went forth into the night,
For he had many a mission-deed
To do ere morning's light;
Many a soul to loosen
From Life's uneasy thrall,
And many a hopeful heart to lay
Beneath the shroud and pall.

Each star was blinking brightly,
As if no ill were near,—
As if all earthly things were calm
As its own silent sphere;
The drifted clouds were floating
High in the middle air,
And to the placid moonlight turned
Their shifting fringes fair.

Death on his awful mission
Kept his appointed way,
He bore with him the fiat-word
Which does not brook delay;
He stepped aside, and often,
To snatch some final sigh,
But left behind the breaking heart—
The sad surviving cry.

He reached the sickly city,
Dread with incessant din,
The maelstrom of the multitudes,
The crater-mouth of sin;
Strange tragedies were acting
Within that swarming town,
And Pestilence had beckoned him
To pull the curtain down.

He knocked at palace-portals,
He trod the marble floors,
And many a hasty summons breathed
At humbler dwelling doors;
He walked the weary workhouse,
He pierced the crowded jail,
And at his presence countless
Faces grew for ever pale.

He sought the crooked alleys,
The burrow-holes of men,
The haunt of vicious revelry,
The dim and sordid den;
He plunged into the cellar,
He clomb the garret stair,
And fearful were the ravages
His hand committed there.

To souls of doubt and darkness
A Demon's form he bore,
But unto eyes that looked beyond,
An Angel's likeness wore;
He came to punish and appal,
He came to cheer and save,—
So different did the world receive
The Monarch of the Grave!

Death stole into a mansion
Of princely shape and size,
And filled with splendid mockeries,
To dazzle worldly eyes;
On a couch of gorgeous seeming
Lay stretched a man of sin,
Who shrieked with agony to feel
The Shadow coming in.

This man had scorned the lowly,
Had sneered at holiest things,
Had pierced the heart of Innocence
With sorrow's keenest stings;
In warfare with all goodness,
Had grown untimely old,
Till all his passions merged in one,
The burning greed of gold.

Ah! what availed his treasure,
In this his hour of woe?
It melted from his eager hand
Like early flakes of snow;
Death on his cloudy courser
Bore him the sad night through,
To answer for the evil things
Which he had dared to do.

Into a meaner dwelling
The dread Deliverer passed,
Where one had waited for him long,
And welcomed him at last—
One who beheld no sternness
In Death's triumphant mien,
So truthful and so beautiful
His earthly life had been!

Imbued with gentlest virtues,
Endowed with mental powers,
He left a fair and fruitful name
To grace this world of ours;
But in his work of wisdom
He overtasked his frame,
And smiled with hope and thankfulness
When his Deliverance came.

Death took them on his courser,
Two souls, how different they!
But neither saw, and neither heard
The other on the way;
And as through mist and darkness
Death urged his steed apace,
To one he showed a scowling front,
To one a shining face.

To one low words he uttered,
As stern as they were sad,
But to the other songs of joy,
Which made the spirit glad:
Thus through a realm of shadows
The Inevitable passed—
The eternal gulf of Mystery,
Which all must leap at last!

EXTEMPORE LINES.

TO A YOUNG POET.

Take heed, my poor Friend, ere thou darest to climb
The height that o'erlooketh the far-coming time;
There's a penalty grievous to pay for thy fame,
A shadow to follow the light of thy name!
Beware, ere thou trustest too fondly and blindly
The Muse who, uncalled for, comes softly and kindly!
She is oftentimes fickle and faithless, though fair,
And is absent when most thou desirest her there.
When thy duties are done, she will breathe thee a spell,
And fill up an interval sweetly and well;
She'll console thee, refine thee, and rub off thy rust,
But, alas for her help when thou wantest a crust!

Now, labour is honest, nay, some call it holy,—
Let it gall as it will, 'tis the lot of the lowly:
Hold thee fast to thy handicraft, be't ne'er so mean,
Till Fortune and Fame fling a change o'er the scene;
Guide the wheel, tend the loom, drive the plough, ply the spade,
Dig the quarry, make bargains, and dabble in trade;—
Turn pedlar or tinker, crack stones, cobble shoes,
Do aught but depend for thy bread on the Muse!

Sing on, ne'ertheless, when the Spirit inspires,—
Disdain not her favours, restrain not her fires;
Pour forth all thy feelings, unmixed with alloy,
Let thy sadness be sadness,—thy joyfulness, joy.
And when thou art pleading 'gainst error and wrong,
Be thou fearless and earnest, but just in thy song;
And when wayward Fancy would take higher flight,
Let her freshen her wings in the fulness of light;
And when 'bove the clouds thou hast taken thy round,
Come thee back, like the lark, to thy home on the ground;
Thou shouldst not forego and forget the ideal,
But the earthly—the human—the tangible—real,
Have a claim on thy gifts, and thy mission should be
To arouse the Enslaved, and advance with the Free!

A WISH.

Oh! give me a cot in some wood-shaded glen,
Shut in from the clangour of conflict and pain,—
Far away from the turmoil of town-prisoned men,
Who strive for subsistence, and struggle for gain!
Aloof from all envy, secure from annoy,
My chiefest companions my wife and my child,—
I could think with some purpose, and labour with joy,
In that Home of Seclusion, far, far in the wild.

The lark should arouse me to action and thought,—
I would take my first draught at the health-giving rill;
I would gaze on the beauties that morning had brought,
As I strengthened my limbs up the slope of the hill.
The early prayer uttered, the early meal done,
The day should bring uses and joys undefiled;
Some good should be gathered, some knowledge be won,
In that Home of Seclusion, far, far in the wild.

When the clouds which were golden grew faint in the west,
The sun having left them to melt in the sky,—
When Nature seemed folding her mantle for rest,
And Hesperus hung his bright cresset on high,—
I would draw up my household about the fireside
(Unless the dear Muses my spirit beguiled),
To talk with and teach them, with pleasure and pride,
In that Home of Seclusion, far, far in the wild.

I would have—would kind Fortune her bounty impart,
Nor blind me to virtue, nor steel me to woe—
Some good thing and graceful in Genius and Art:—
Some Music, to make my best feelings o'erflow;
Some touch of the Painter, to solace my eyes,
Some books, to enchant my dark cares till they smiled;
Some shape of the Sculptor, to charm and surprise,
In that Home of Seclusion, far, far in the wild.

Surrounded by Nature, I could not but see
In each change of Season God's goodness unworn;
Young Spring would delight with bloom, beauty, and glee,
Bright Summer with hay-harvest,—Autumn with corn.
Even Winter would charm; I should love to behold
His frost-work fantastic, his snow-drifts up-piled,
His phalanx of storm-clouds arrayed and unrolled,
O'er that Home of Seclusion, far, far in the wild.

I would blend with benevolence nothing austere,—
To the wayward be calm, to the humble be kind;
To the heart of the mourner bring comfort and cheer,
And kindle new hopes in the cloudiest mind;
Thus earnest and helping, confiding and just,
I should get my reward from a source undefiled;
With assurance of mercy go down to the dust,
In that Home of Seclusion, far, far in the wild!

JUNE.

A SONNET.

Hail! fervid, flowery, leafy, lusty June!
First-born of Summer! heir of lavish light!
Month of the genial Morn,—the glowing Noon,—
The dreamy Evening,—the delicious Night!
Season of sunny Harvest, when the hand
Of jocund Toil, 'mid busy-wingèd bees,
Rifles the riches of the grassy leas,
And scatters rural fragrance o'er the land!
Fain would I hail thee, wheresoe'er and when
My feelings prompted, or my fancy led;—
In slumberous forests—on the mountain's head—
By lonely streams, on moorlands high and dun,
In ferny dingles shaded from the sun—
Apart, but not exiled, from cities and from men.

SPRING.

A SONNET.

How bountiful is Nature! how replete
With quiet good, magnificence, and power!
Again the welcome winds of Spring blow sweet,
Rich with the odorous life of bud and flower:
Blest sunshine clothes the land,—the genial shower
Gives lavish largess to the quickening ground;
There's music 'mid the clouds, and every bower
Is resonant again with joyous sound!
Man only is discordant: he with pride
Laughs at her laws, and learns to disobey,—
Flings Love—Peace—Order—Rectitude aside,
And fills the world with clangour and dismay;
Yet she rebukes him with a tranquil face,—
Sustains him with her gifts, and soothes him with her grace.

“MY FATHER'S FARM.”

(INSCRIBED TO J. L., ESQ.)

Methinks I see my father's farm,
In whose sweet fields I used to stray;
Then light of heart and lithe of arm,
I found in Nature every charm,—
In life one summer's day.

I see it, and unbidden tears
'Twere pain to quell, suffuse my eyes;
To that calm spot my earliest years—
Many my pleasures, few my fears—
Were bound by holiest ties.

A moody, meditative boy,
A young enthusiast, free to rove,
I found in everything a joy,
In everything some sweet employ,
Something to learn and love.

In summer's freedom, winter's thrall,
In calm or tempest, shade or shine,
In russet robe or snowy pall,
All Nature's garbs, I loved them all,
And deemed each change divine.

I knew each old and stalwart tree,—
Each savage glen, each sylvan nook,
Each wild wood, murmuring poësy,
Each bird about it flitting free,
Each music-making brook;—

Each rustic gate and rugged stile,
Each lonely cairn and crumbling wall,
Each fairy haunt, each storied pile,
Each silvery lake and slumbering isle,
Each wildering waterfall.

To me each peasant girl that came
Fresh from her cottage on the moor,
Seemed lovelier far than daintiest dame,
Though clothed with beauty, crowned with fame,
That stepped o'er palace floor.

To me each peasant man that trod
With sturdy foot the yielding soil,
Seemed worthy of his native sod,
A free, brave image of his God,
A lord of honest toil.

Alas! that dear departed time
Of irksome toil but pleasant play,
Of gladsome song, romantic rhyme,
Of dawning thought, of dream sublime—
Has softly slid away!

And now, amid the human waves
Heaving and clashing everywhere,—
I strive with Trade's untiring slaves,
Whose spirit ever gives and craves,
And ask and give my share.

Man must not lie on sunny leas,
Counting the daisies on the sward;
Duties well done must purchase ease!
Love—Labour—Virtue—Truth, 'tis these
Must bring life's best reward.

But still some intermittent hours
May come, apart from cares and schemes,
When I may thrid my native bowers,
Walk 'mong my native heather-flowers,
Drink at my native streams.

Sweet hours! when I may dare to seek
The old familiar dwelling-place,
Sit by my father's ingle-cheek,
Hear my fond mother gently speak,
And see my sister's face!

Blest hours! when I may break away
From sweat of brain, or toil of arm,
Roam sunny strath, and blooming brae,
And spend a joyous holiday
Around my Father's Farm!

ON THE DEATH OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT.

Another Poet dead! And who will care
That he hath gone from Life's tumultuous stage?
Ten thousand toiling, thinking men, who share
The encumbered meed of Labour's heritage;—
Men for whose minds he wrote inspiring thought,
Tinged with stern glory, as the storm appears—
For whom, with whom his fearless spirit fought;
These will not fail, 'mid sorrows, struggles, fears,
To guard his grave, and write his epitaph in tears.

No trifling, tinkling, moon-struck Bard was he,
Chanting a love-lay in his lady's bower;
His words, like mountain winds, were fresh and free,
And, like the lightnings, winged with withering power;
Like the sharp clang of tried and stubborn steel,—
Like furnace blast,—like hammers tramping strong;
Like deafening drum-roll, startling trumpet-peal,—
Like bruit of battle-cries—'gainst social wrong
His full and fervid soul leapt out in living song.

Yet do not deem, because he stood alone,
The proud, unpensioned Laureate of the Poor,
Recording, echoing every grief and moan
That hourly issued from the cottage door,—

Oh! do not deem that in his earnest rhymes
(Albeit their virtues he could not forsake)
He veiled their vices, or concealed their crimes;
No! with a champion's well-won right he spake,
And with reproving truth made rudest bosoms quake.

Haply, sometimes, his too indignant mind,
With an impetuous torrent's headlong force,
Rushed with too fierce an energy to find
Pleasure and peace along its troublous course;
But then, the hideous evils which he saw
Flung from the fingers of Oppression dire,
Opened his eyes to many a tyrant law,—
Disturbed his soul, and woke its wildest fire,
As falling stones uprouse the Geyser's slumbering ire!

But he had gentler moods—(and who has not?
Life, though discordant, is not all unrest)—
Moments of pensive calm, when he forgot
The outward world, and all that it possessed;
Then would his harp-strings, with serener strain—
A sad voice calling from his proud heart's core—
Thrill to the memory of some placid pain,
Stir the sweet springs of feeling, shut before,
And make the listener's eyes with tenderest tears run o'er.

No more shall haughty Stanege, bleak and bold,
Clasp him in cloud-robes, as the steep he scales;
No more Win Hill to his rapt gaze unfold
The quiet beauty of his subject-vales;
No more shall Don and Rother, as they flow,
Nor Rivilin, reflecting all that's fair,
Murmur responsive to his joy or woe;
Yet there he reigns! and many a Child of Care,
From Sheffield's crowded glooms, shall seek his spirit there!

AN ARTISAN'S SONG.

I'm a brave-hearted Artisan, honest and free,
And while I'm good-natured I strive to be just;
I've a wife for my bosom, a child for my knee,
And a friend or two, worthy of kindness and trust;
I've a home which, though humble, is tranquil and neat,
With a rood of trim garden that graces the door;
And across the low wicket, believe me, 'tis sweet
To hand coin or crust to the wayfaring poor.

In that home there are fair signs of beauty and taste,
Not costly and splendid, for fashion or show;
Some sweet spots of picture, instructive and chaste;
Some books, which are marshalled in orderly row;
Some vases, to keep my pet flowers undefiled,
And a sunny-faced clock that is constantly heard;
And music,—the pleasure-toned voice of my child,
The chirp of the cricket, the song of my bird.

I am skilled in my handicraft—that of my sire—
For my thoughts with my hands in my labour combine;
And it ministers well to each lawful desire,—
Doing this, I respect it, and never repine;
I am strong, for I dare not encumber my health,
'Tis my backstay, my breakwater, ballast and helm,
And whilst I thus cherish my blessing and wealth,
Common storms may annoy me, but cannot o'erwhelm.

The tavern may tempt, but I steadily pass,
While my co-mates drop in with a smile and a jeer;
Though the triumph is mine, they may laught, but alas!
Such laughter will generate sorrow, I fear.
I'm a silent self-thinker, yet love to enjoy
The good thoughts of others, from tongue or from pen;
Though my chief love is given to my wife and my boy,
I have feeling, I trust, for my own fellow-men.

I turn not aside, though inviting my view,
The partisan bluster, the demagogue bawl;
But when good men and true have a high task to do,
I lend earnest help, be it never so small.
There are errors and wrongs in my country, I know,—
Real tragedies, busy with sickening scenes;
But if wrongs must be riven, and errors laid low,
I would rather achieve it by peacefullest means.

Bad times may come o'er me, but good times repay,
Through my toil and my thrift, so I stoop not to care;
In my mirth, when I'm mirthful, I'm soberly gay,
And my sorrow, when sorrowful, is not despair;
No, Hope through the darkness looks down as my friend,
Sweet Hope, like the lark, seeking heaven as she sings;
But to lie and gaze after her, fails in the end,—
We must follow, and Effort will lend us the wings.

I am glad when the Sabbath steals quietly in,
Of all days the chief lustre, the “pearl” of the seven,
A season when man seems to pause in his sin,
A time, rightly used, giving glimpses of heaven;
Then I seek, with my household, the temples of men,
And to God offer up my own heart-uttered prayer;
But believe me not lost, if I go now and then
To the temple of Nature, and worship Him there.

I can dig me up gold from the desert of life,
For my joys, when I will it, are many and pure;
If I injure no neighbour, engender no strife,
Nor get fretful at trifles, my peace is secure;
Thus at eve, after labour, I take up my flute,
And breathe a sweet spell 'gainst vexation and pain;
While my wife, whose sweet sympathy cannot be mute,
Lends her voice to the words of some old ballad strain.

In the summer my garden,—in winter my room,
Give delights which are harmless, exalted, refined,
And I oftentimes fancy I hear, 'mid the gloom,
Many voices that utter great truths to my mind.
A sublime swell of music, a story well told,
Or a poem inspired, makes my rapture run o'er;
For I feel hidden faculties stir and unfold,
And I go to my toil more refreshed than before.

Thus I walk through the maze of existence, erect,
And erect in my soul may I be to the last;
I would have the sweet heart-flowers, Love and Respect,
Flourish on to my memory when I have passed;
When my friends lay me down 'neath the turf-covered clay,
Their eyes with the tears of true sorrow impearled,
I would have them be able sincerely to say—
“He was true to his order, himself, and the world!”

SPRING.

Some renovating spirit seems to near me,
Weaving a spell which every heart obeys,—
Some sweet and welcome influence seems to cheer me
With the fresh rapture of my early days;
My clouded soul seems kindling into brightness,
My thoughts, like wild birds, seem to flit and sing,
Bound all my pulses with unwonted lightness,—
Joy! 'tis another advent of the Spring!

The merry children, who are out a-playing,
With silvery voices thrill the genial air,
And tiny feet are in the woodlands straying,
Where eager fingers pluck the floweret fair;
Then back they come, of healthful Nature breathing,
And at our feet their fragrant offerings fling,
Garlands and crowns of Childhood's artless wreathing,—
Childhood, the type and favourite of Spring.

They tell me that the primrose tufts are blowing,
With moon-like colours, and with wine-like smells;
The hazel-bough and hawthorn-bush are growing
Greener beside the wood-paths and old wells;
And that the daisies, scattered without number,
O'er every field their starry lustre fling,
And that in loneliest nooks the violets slumber
In dewy sweetness, redolent of Spring.

They tell me that in cloudland larks are panting
With the deep ecstasy of prodigal song,
And that the thrush is never tired of chanting
The deepening shades of forest trees among;
That the sweet season's blithesome call is bringing
Back to our eaves the swallow's weary wing,
And the glad husbandman is proudly flinging
Promise of plenty o'er the breast of Spring.

Oh! let me share the festival of Nature,—
Share all her fragrance, all her sounds of joy!
Gaze on her varied harmony of feature,
With the delight and wonder of a boy;
Break out, my mind! in blossoms of sweet musing,—
Back to my heart its long lost music bring,
That I may feel the hand of Heaven transfusing
Peace in my soul, and know that all is Spring!

THE SHEPHERD'S DOG.

Brave dog was Steadfast, brave and strong,
Faithful as dog has ever been,—
Docile, and never prone to wrong,
With all his instincts quick and keen;
Sagacious, for he reasoned well,
Or seemed to reason, with right will,
And many a shepherd loves to tell
His countless deeds of canine skill.

Duly at morning's early prime
Up the old stair he softly crept—
True to the moment of his time—
To wake his master, if he slept;
With gentle touches of his paw
He stroked his master's drowsy head,
And thus—for custom was his law—
Quickly aroused him from his bed.

From fold to verdurous holm and height,
O'er rugged hill and rifted rock,
It was his duty and delight
To guide and guard the wayward flock:
If danger threatened by the way,
His wakeful instinct told him where,
Then half in earnest, half in play,
He kept aloof his fleecy care.

Sometimes the winter winds would rave
Abrupt among the scattered sheep,
And hurl them in the roaring wave,
Or tomb them in the snow-drift deep;
Then would the dog, with dauntless breast,
Plunge through the storm, blast, rain, or frost,
Nor would he quit his weary quest
Till he had found the treasure lost.

From field to field, from stream to stream,
By stony hollow, reedy fen,
Where chainless cataracts dash and gleam,
On mountain side, in cloven glen—
Bold Steadfast searches, close and well,
His nostrils neighbouring with the ground,
Till he stops short with bark and yell,—
Sign that the buried sheep are found.

Lithe as a mole, with busy strength
He digs a gallery towards the soil,
And human helpers come at length
To aid him in his eager toil!
The flock is saved; a simple feast
Relieves his hunger and his cold,
While all exclaim—“That faithful beast
Is worth his weight in sterling gold!”

Such was old Steadfast; but alas!
Death smote his master in the night;
They dared not let the creature pass,
When came the morning's golden light,
Lest, with his usual care, he sought
To touch the dumb and ghastly head,
And with a sad, instinctive thought,
Lifted his wail above the dead.

They sent him to a distant spot,
Till the funereal rites were o'er,
And when they deemed he had forgot,
They called poor Steadfast home once more;
But, no! he had a different choice,—
He would not tread that dwelling-place;
He did not hear his master's voice,
He did not see his kindly face.

He thought him lost among the hills,
And daily sought him everywhere,
By all the well-known streams and rills,
On all the moorlands brown and bare;
He marshalled each disordered flock
He met by chance upon his way,
But still roamed on from rock to rock,
From dawn until the dusk of day.

But duly at the twilight hour
He came for his allotted food,
And nightly he would whine and cower
Without, in woful solitude;
They spoke to him with stern command,—
They called with gentle words and fair,
They coaxed him with a friendly hand,
In vain, he could not enter there.

From day to day the creature grew
More steeped in gloom, more gaunt and thin;
To wean him home they strove anew,—
Alas! he would not enter in.
His food, his rambles, he forsook,
As if all efforts had been tried,—
Lay down with sad and piteous look,
And on his native threshold—died!

THE WORKMAN'S EVENING SONG.

I'm glad to see yon springtide sun
Go down, albeit I love his light;
My bread is won, my labour done,
My reason clear, my conscience right;
And as I take my homeward way,
I see, with not irreverent eyes,
The grandeur of departing day,
In the rich glory of the skies;
Whilst yet the shadowy coppice rings,
Where the brave throstle blithely sings.

To-morrow, when his earliest beams
Turn to loose gold the quivering rills,—
Rekindle the rejoicing streams,—
In purple vesture swathe the hills,—
With buoyant mind, and sinews strong,
I'll go, with willing heart, to bear
What burdens to my lot belong,
Of honest toil my needful share;
And on my way see beauteous things,
Whilst the glad skylark blithely sings.

But now I seek that quiet nest,
Shut from the outward world's annoy,
My home, where I am ever blest,
The sanctuary of my joy;
There will my gentle wife with me
Partake the cheerful evening meal,—
Talk with confiding speech and free,
Sweetly and calmly, till I feel
The peace, the bliss her presence brings,
Whilst the bright kettle blithely sings.

Then will I sit me at my ease,
Absorbed in some enchanting page,
Something to teach me or to please,—
Tale-teller, Annalist, or Sage;
But chief the Poet shall instil
Into my inmost depths of heart
The lofty spirit of his will;
The essence of his tuneful art;
And lift me high on Fancy's wings,
Whilst the shrill cricket blithely sings.

When Sabbath comes, God's holy boon,—
Blest day, so dear and fugitive!—
I'll ask yon sun, which leaves us soon,
For all the light that he can give;
I'll fly to Nature's tranquil breast,
With the same feelings as of old,
And lay me down for thought and rest
In fields of fluctuating gold;
Or murmur sweet imaginings
Where the fresh brooklet blithely sings.

I'll tread the upland's starry floors,
Climb the rough mountain's shadowy side,
Feel the deep silence of the moors—
Silence that awes all human pride;
The voice of birds 'mid forest glooms,
The lapse of waters in the shade,—
Shapes, colours, motions, sounds, perfumes,
Of Nature's making, shall pervade
My senses with delightful things,
Whilst my rapt soul serenely sings.

“AS WELCOME AS FLOWERS IN MAY.”

“As welcome as flowers in May!”
Kind words with a musical sound;
What can be more welcome than they,
When fair-footed Spring cometh round?
Glad Spring! ever welcome to each,
To Childhood, to Manhood, and Age,
For she comes to delight us and teach,
And she opens a beautiful page.

There are many things welcome as these,
As we thread the dim mazes of life;
A calm sense of pleasure and ease
After seasons of sorrow and strife—
A feeling of safety and glee
When a danger, long threatened, is past,
And even the knowledge to see
That the worst has befallen at last;—

Fresh health on the cheek of a child,
That we feared was escaping above;—
A smile from the maid undefiled,
Who hath kindled one's soul into love;—
The sound of the blithe marriage bell
To the bride who has given her heart,
And the words of her husband, that tell
His devotion will never depart;—

The birth of a child, when we feel
We can foster it, guard it, and guide,
While the smiles of its mother reveal
Her matchless affection and pride;—
Its first broken syllables, made
More closely our bosoms to bind,
And its upgrowing beauty, displayed
In the promising dawn of its mind;—

The first pleasant glimpse of our home,
After travel, with toil and annoy,
When we vow for the moment to roam
No more from its threshold of joy;—
Each form more expanded in grace,—
Each voice more melodious grown;—
The soul-beaming gladness of face
Of the whole household treasure, our own;—

Old Ocean's magnificent roar
To a voyager loving the sea,
And the sight of his dear native shore
When he cometh back scathless and free;—
The music of brooks and of birds
To a captive just loosened from thrall,
And the love-lighted looks and sweet words
Of his wife, who is dearer than all;—

The soul-touching penitent-tears
Of those who have strayed from the light,
When they come, with their hopes and their fears,
To ask us to lead them aright;—
The frank, cordial look of a foe
We have conquered by kindness and peace,
And the pure satisfaction to know
That a friendship begun will increase;—

And then, in our calm chimney nook,
Alone, with a fire burning bright,
How welcome a newly-brought book,
That has startled the world with delight!
How welcome one's own printed name
To our first happy efforts in song,
And the first grateful whisper of Fame,
That bids us speed bravely along!

There are many more subjects, no doubt,
If my Muse had but language and time;
But there's something I must not leave out,—
It will gracefully finish my rhyme:
From a friend how heart-warming to hear,
What his lips with sincerity say,
“Why, your presence brings comfort and cheer;—
“You're as welcome as flowers in May!”

CHRISTMAS.

One cannot choose but love the bells,
With their harmonious din,—
Those speaking bells, whose falls and swells
Ring merry Christmas in;
They sound like angel-voices sent
From some serener sphere,
Singing from out the firmament—
“The Prince of Peace is here!”

“Good will fulfil, fulfil good will!”
Their glad lips seem to say,—
“The best ye can for brother man!”
Goes on the cheerful lay.
And shall we scorn such fancy-songs—
If fancy-songs they be—
Which lift us up from woes and wrongs,
And bid our joys be free?

No; rouse to life the laughing blaze,—
Draw round it, every one;
Away, sad thoughts of former days!—
Cares of to-day, begone!
Ah, now ye wear a Christmas look,
A bright and earnest grace,
Even the old clock within the nook
Trims up its burnished face.

Now pledge we in the wassail bowl,
Warm wishes, long to last!—
'Tis done! we feel from soul to soul
The friendship-flame has passed;
And sternest hearts will now forgive,
And gentlest hearts forget;
Let's live to love, and love to live,
And we'll be happy yet.

Now for an anthem, such as rung
In halls and homes of old;
Let every thought to joy be strung,
Each voice flow free and bold.
Lo! as ye sing, each voiceless thing
Stirs at the tuneful call,
For the berries that blush 'mid the holly-bush
Tremble upon the wall!

Dear Christmas Days! how fair ye seem,
Glad, holy, and sublime!
Like prints of angel feet ye gleam
Along the path of Time!
Foot-prints whereon sweet heart-flowers blow,
By worldly storms unriven,
That we may mark them as we go,
And find our way to Heaven.

A LOVE MELODY.

In the morning of Life, when our feelings are new,
And our pathway is pleasant with sunshine and dew;
When many-toned music pervadeth the air,
And the commonest thing that we look on is fair,—
How sweet the first passion, that prompts us to stray
With one who adds beauty to beautiful May!
While a voice seems to steal through the shade of the bowers,
Singing—“Love is the odour of heavenly flowers!”

When wedded, and home groweth bright with the bride,
An angel to walk through the world by our side,—
When day after day we're enraptured to find
New graces of manner, new treasures of mind,—
Calm temper, clear foresight, disdain of all guile,—
For the mournful a tear, for the mirthful a smile,—
How deeply we feel, when such blessing is ours,
That “Love is the odour of heavenly flowers!”

And, ah! when the fond name of Father we hear,
From young lips and voices, all rosy and clear,—
When the multiplied charms of the Mother are seen
In the cherub-like feature, the infantile mien,
A fountain of joy, undiscovered before,
Opens up in the heart, and runs tenderly o'er,
While expand in the soul fresh affections and powers,—
Such “Love is the odour of heavenly flowers!”

Unto household and kindred, to friend and to man,
If we give all the love that we ought—that we can,
We lose not, we lack not;—such giving is gain,
As the earth gets her own exhalations in rain:
Kind words and good offices go to increase,—
Reverberate sweetly, and bless us with peace;
Let us foster the faith, in this rough world of ours,
That “Love is the odour of heavenly flowers!”

THE GOLDEN LAND OF POESY.

Forth on a venturous voyage I went,
When young, and full of ardent schemes,
To seek some isle or continent
Swathed in a purer element—
Foreshadowed in my daily dreams.
I knew a small and favoured band
Had crossed the intervening sea;
Gifted in soul, had reached the strand,
Had roamed and revelled in the land,
The golden land of Poesy.

They brought from that delicious clime
Rare things, and beautiful withal;
They told, in lofty, living rhyme,
Of many a spectacle sublime,—
Of pleasures that can never pall,—
Of odorous flowers, and fruits that twine
Together on one parent tree,—
Of magic sounds,—of shapes that shine
From light within, and make divine
That golden land of Poesy.

My bark was Hope, all gaily dight,
My crew were Passions, good and ill,—
Some ready with the waves to fight,
Obedient to the rule of right,
And some rebellious to my will;

I had no helm wherewith to steer,
No chart whereby my way to see,
No compass guiding my career
To that resplendent hemisphere,
The golden land of Poesy.

My task was sterner than I deemed,
For scornful voices filled the air;
Storms rose, and lightnings round me gleamed,—
Rude winds and angry waters seemed
To threaten danger and despair;
My crew, impatient of control,
Were mutinous for liberty;
But the best instincts of my soul
Still led me onwards towards the goal,—
The golden land of Poesy.

At length, oh, joy! the enchanted shore
Loomed up in far-off loveliness,
And I grew eager to explore
The wondrous realm; my tears ran o'er
With very gladness of success.
Odours of spices and of flowers
Came on the breezes, blowing free;
Rich branches reft from gorgeous bowers
Bestrewed the wave;—the land was ours,—
The golden land of Poesy!—

Not yet! a barrier crossed my way,—
My shrinking vessel back recoiled;
I could not reach the sheltering bay,
For rocks and shoals about me lay,
And winds opposed, and waters boiled.

Thus baffled by the Poet-god,
I only brought—alas for me!—
Some waifs and strays from that bright sod
Which I have seen, but have not trod,—
The golden land of Poesy!.

May I not now my hopes renew?—
Must failure teach me to be wise?
Meseems I was not of the few
Destined to “feed on honey-dew,
And drink the milk of Paradise.”
Must I content me with the gain
Which loftier spirits bring to me,—
They who are privileged to reign
Lords of that far and fair domain,
The golden land of Poesy?

Perchance 'twere best; albeit that fame
Is a rich guerdon to forego;
To win a Bard's exalted name,
Hailed by a nation's high acclaim,
Is an endowment few can know.
But let me, then, for solace' sake
Send my thoughts thither, fancy-free,—
Dream that I follow in the wake
Of those who hasten to partake
The golden land of Poesy!

THE RESCUE.

In a dim court, shut inward from a street,
Where lounging Vice and toiling Misery meet;
Where squalid forms and cunning faces stray
Idly about, the live-long summer day,
Creeping to crime as wanes the evening light,
Till brawl and revel rouse the middle night;—
A fair girl stands, amid a babbling crowd
Of shameless women, reckless, rude, and loud,
Whose tongues run riot on some evil theme,
Whose restless eyes with wanton passions gleam,—
Whose mien and manner shock the modest mind,—
Whose very words profane the passing wind,
And tell how fallen from virtue and from grace
Are they, poor outcasts of an erring race!
I watch the Maid, and in her pensive eyes
Read thoughts that thrill me with a sad surmise;
I see her quake with sorrow or regret,
I see her cheek with recent weeping wet;
The hues of health and innocence appear
Fresh on her youthful face—What doth she here?

In raiment seemly, and in aspect mild,
A Stranger comes, to cheer the drooping child;
Scatters the crowd, and, taught to teach and feel,
Questions the damsel with a kindly zeal;

To which she answers, with an artless truth
That adds a charm to her unguarded youth:—

“Believe me, Stranger, though my steps have strayed,
I am not lost, yet wildered and dismayed.
Three days ago I left our cottage door,
My once sweet home—a home for me no more!—
Because since Death's inevitable hand
Beckoned my mother to the better land,
My father, once our pattern and our pride,
Has turned from peaceful rectitude aside,
And a dread shadow sits upon his soul,—
The frantic spirit of the baneful bowl.
His lips, whereon hung moving words and mild,
Are now with curses and the cup defiled;
His eyes, once eloquent with gentlest fire,
Burn with the craving of a low desire;
His heart, erewhile with worthiest feelings glad,
Is warped and withered, turbulent or sad,
And that small homestead where my sisters grew,
Like flowers entwining,—where my brothers, too,
Gamboled together, 'neath a mother's gaze
Of sweet solicitude, of silent praise,—
That little spot has now become the lair
Of guilt and grief, disorder and despair,—
Of waste and want, of solitude or din,—
Remorse and tears, and still-recurrent sin.

“Pain-worn at length, grown weary of the strife,
The taint, the torment of this later life,
Forlorn I came to this tumultuous town,
Through its vast mazes wandered up and down,
In the vain quest of refuge, labour, bread,
Or meanest pillow for my aching head;

Till here I stumbled upon dangerous ground,
Verge of a gulf appalling and profound!
Last night, entoiled within that squalid den,
'Mong wanton women, and lascivious men,
I passed in fear the laggard hours away,
And looked with longing for the dawn of day.
With lavish care, and words in kindly guise,
With glowing lures, with rainbow-coloured lies,
They strove to make me that lost thing whose name
Is linked with sorrow, turpitude, and shame;
And hopeless, helpless, friendless, and alone,
My courage flying, and my quiet flown,
No warning voice, no shield or shelter near,
I might have fallen—but God has sent you here!”—

“His be the praise!” the pitying Stranger cried;—
Be He thy Stay, thy Counsellor, thy Guide1
I, a poor servant of His sovereign will,
Would help to snatch thee from impending ill,—
Would rescue from disaster and disgrace,
The fearful chances of this dangerous place.”

“Thanks, from my heart!” exclaimed the grateful Maid,
While the quick joy o'er all her features played;
“Those gentle precepts which my mother taught,
For the clear guidance of each dawning thought,
And the blest quiet of those Sabbath days
Which tuned my soul to peace, my tongue to praise,
Brood in my memory; and I would not scare—
Would Heaven permit—the bright things nestling there.
Give me a lowly home, apart from strife,
'Mid the sweet elements of blameless life,—
Bread for my labour, knowledge for my pains,
Cheerful religion—'bove all earthly gains,

A faith in all the wondrous Word reveals,
A power to soothe when misery appeals,
And I will go where good men's feet have trod,
Honour the giver, and adore my God!”

“Come,” said the Stranger, whose consoling eye
Beamed with the triumph of humanity;
“Come, I will lead thee unto hearts that glow
With pure compassion for all human woe;
Who strive with sin, and long to make it less,
Who yearn to teach, to succour, and to bless:
There, if thy better genius rule the while,
And God vouchsafe the favour of His smile,
Thou mayest expand in goodliness and grace,
Peace in thy heart, and pleasure in thy face;
And so look back to this remembered day
As a new portal to the better way.”

True to her nature, unto virtue true,
Begirt with guardian friends, the Maiden grew,—
Grew into glorious womanhood, a thing
That seemed o'ershadowed by an angel's wing.
Not for herself, her labours and her love,
Nor the deep prayer-thoughts hourly winged above,—
Not for herself alone, but human kind,
And the dear home-ties she had left behind.
Refined in speech, in mental vigour strong,
Tender and quiet, bashful in the throng,
In spirit pure, in moral purpose high,
With all her feelings mirrored in her eye,
Growing in goodness as she grew in grace,
Again she sought the old familiar place,—
Stepped o'er the threshold like a shape of light,
Her bosom bounding, and her aspect bright;

Flew to the parent-breast, so long estranged,
While her quick glance around the dwelling ranged;
With words bedipt in Truth's celestial fire
Appealed, nor vainly, to the man, the sire;
Bound him anew beneath Love's pure control,
Drove out the demon from his sinking soul;
Until, his eyes with free tears gushing o'er,
He kissed her cheek, and vowed to sin no more!

Thus, a kind word with a resistless charm
Drew a poor woman from impending harm;
Thus a good deed, so promptly, wisely done,
Back unto peace an erring mortal won.
The law of kindness hath a noble sway,
Which hardest hearts instinctively obey:
Let us enforce the gentle, genial power,
And so snatch pleasure from each passing hour!

THE FAIRY'S FUNERAL.

A FANTASY.

It was a summer's eventide,
Soft, sweet, and silent, warm and bright,
And all the glorious landscape wide,—
The lowly thorn, the tree of pride,
The grass-blades marshalled side by side,—
Wore, thicker than the cope of Night,
Innumerable drops of light,
Shed from a cloud's dissolving breast,
That journeyed towards the golden west,
And blushed, a fair transfigured thing,
In the bright presence of its king.

That brilliant baptism, cool and brief,
Flung from the font of summer skies,
Came with a fresh and full relief
To all the countless shapes and dyes
That spring from Earth's prolific veins,
And banquet on the genial rains;
For all the languid leaves and flowers,
In tangled brakes and cultured bowers,
In level fields and hollow dells,
By woodside walks and mossy wells;

The limber bine and blooming brier,
The wallflower's mass of cloudy fire,
The fair and many-folded rose,
Reclining in a proud repose,—
The clover filled with honey-dew,
Things of familiar form and hue,—
Sent such a gush of incense up,
From bell and boss, from crown and cup,
As seemed to burden all the air
With Nature's breath of silent prayer,
And give that joyous draught of rain,
Sublimed in fragrance, back again.

The twinkling rain-drops were exhaled,
The sun went down, the welkin paled,
Taking that tender twilight hue
Of silver mingling with the blue,
What time I took my pleasant way
To an old sylvan nook, that lay
A league apart from street and town,
In a deep dingle, hushed and brown,
Through which a streamlet, fed by rills
That babbled of the pleasant hills,
With a low music hurried on
Into far shadow, and was gone.
It was a spot for calmest thought,
All wildly, intricately wrought
Into a dim and fairy bower,
By Nature's unassisted power.
The plume-like fern grew thick and green,
The foxglove stood with stately mien
On grassy slopes, and in the breeze
Shook all its crimson chalices;
The playful leveret limped about
Its sandy burrow, in and out;

From shadowy brake and bough was heard
The “cheep” of some unsettled bird;
The honeysuckle seemed to sigh
To the white wild-rose lovingly,
And both sent through the verdant gloom
The mingled breath of their perfume.

I sat beneath an old oak tree,
Whose branches murmured harmony,
While hill and vale, and copse and glade,
Were gathering into deeper shade,
As night stole on; but sweetly soon
Clomb up the sky the quiet Moon,
Gently diffusing, as she rose,
A softer aspect of repose,—
A light that came to soothe and bless
With beauty and with holiness.
As the blest beams came streaming round,
And made upon the flowery ground
Mosaic spots of shade and sheen,
Worthy the foot of Fairy Queen—
I dropt into a reverie,
My loose thoughts roaming fancy-free,
In realms fantastic, evermore
Bequeathed to us in poet-lore.

Strange visions were they and not few,
That slid athwart my mental view:
Genii, of good and evil might,—
The hideous Ghoul and afreet Sprite;
Dwarf Gnomes, that dwell in mountain caves;
Kelpies, that lure to treacherous waves;
Brownies and Banshees, quaint and wild,
And Pixy, the unbaptized child;
The nine-pin players on Hudson's side,
And Peter Wilkins' wingèd Bride.

I then bethought me (dainty theme!)
Of the great Seer's Midsummer Dream,
And of that little Imp of power
Who pranked it with the purple flower;
Then I beheld the enchanted strand
Where Prospero wavèd wizard-wand,
And heard around the voiceful spell
Of dear and delicate Ariel.

Here, with a sudden thrill and quake,
I woke from dream,—or seemed to wake;
For a strange music, low and sweet,
Seemed to be winding round my feet,
Scarce louder than the hum of bee,
Or gnat's complaining minstrelsy;
But sweeter far, as if the flowers
Sang of the loss of sun and showers;—
A solemn, yet melodious strain,
A dirge of grief, a wail of pain.
Casting around a searching gaze,
With anxious feelings of amaze,
In a broad patch of open light,
A wondrous vision met my sight,—
A train of tiny beings, dressed
In snowy plume and sombre vest,
Moving along in order slow,
As if on business of woe.
Came in the van a little band,
With tuneful instruments in hand,
Playing a wild and mournful spell,
On trumpets of the sweet bluebell;
Then came a rush-made coffin small,
Covered with drooping plantain-pall,
Bedecked with many a violet,
With silvery night-dews freshly wet;

And then a crowd, in sad array,
Followed along the moonlit way.

Six paces from me, where the light
Shone full upon them, softly bright,
They stopped, and with a tender care
Parted the fern-plumes growing there,
Disclosing to my watchful eyes
A little grave of bird-like size,
Wherein they lowered the fairy dead,
And with a reverential tread
Clustered around, while all the throng
Joined in this simple parting song:—

FAIRY SONG.

Oh! loveliest of the Fairy race,
We mourn thy fading, elfin flower!
No more shall we behold thy face
Give beauty to the banquet-bower;
No more wilt thou, 'neath forest bough,
Share in the mystic sport and spell,
No more enhance our midnight dance,
Loveliest sister, Floribel!

And yet, 'tis well that thou art gone,
For we must find departing wings,
Since Man hath set his soul upon
The worth of more material things;
But Poets' songs, and Poets' tongues,
Shall praise and vindicate us well;—
Oh! blest be they whose living lay
Hath shrined us, sister Floribel!

Both Lights of Heaven shall gild thy grave,
And sweet flowers blow upon thy bed;
And many a wild-bird chant a stave
Above thy now unconscious head;

And while we may about thee stay,
On mountain side, in bosky dell,
We'll guard and grace thy resting-place,
Loved, lost sister, Floribel!

The descant done, they shook in showers
From a wild rose-bush all its flowers,
Which fell and veiled the grave below,
Like coverlet of fragrant snow;
But scarcely had they settled there,
Than all the crew in earth or air
Evanished, like the meteor-light
That flits across the face of Night;
Like breath on sunlit mirror's face,
Or vapour in the womb of space.
I listened—there was not a sound
Save a faint breeze that whispered round;
I looked—but nothing could I see
But quivering grass and quiet tree;
And as I did not dare to brave
The secret of that little grave,
I sauntered homeward, all intent
Upon my strange bewilderment;
Concluding that the Moon had shed
Lunatic influence on my head,—
Had set my thoughts too wildly free,
And filled my brain with Fantasy!

A SONG OF THE WOODLANDS.

“The fern and the foxglove for me, yes, for me!”
Was a saying of bold Robin Hood,
When he thought of his life in the forest so free,—
The charms of the merry greenwood.
To him 'twas a pleasure, which others might scorn,
To dwell 'mid their growth and their bloom;
The flower had the shape of his own bugle-horn,
And the fern had the wave of his plume.

“The fern and the foxglove for me!” echo I,—
There is poetry e'en in the sound,
When I think of the deer fleeting fearlessly by,
And the birds singing gladsomely round;
Of the twilight that hangs in the stalwart old trees,—
Of the sun-spots and shadows that fall,—
Of the low, mellow boom of the wandering bees,
And a blue, boundless heaven o'er all.

“The fern and the foxglove for us!” echo they
Whose souls have a summertide glow,
When they vow to make merry one “red-letter” day,
Where sweet winds and sweeter flowers blow;

Imagine the meal on the sward in the shade,
The laughter that startleth the noon,
The song that reëchoes through dingle and glade,
And the happy hearts throbbing in tune.

“The fern and the foxglove for us!” echo all
For Freedom and Nature who yearn;
How gladly would thousands escape from their thrall,
To look on the foxglove and fern!
Town-workers, who faint in the world's daily fight,
Oh! waste not the leisure that's given,
But away to the woodlands for health and delight,
For the beauty of earth and of heaven!

A MAY-DAY WALK.

Blest be this bright and breezy May,
Which smiles away my sorrow!
I'll snatch a harmless joy to-day,
Though troubles come to-morrow.
Who would not breathe this generous air,
Which meaner things delight in?—
Who would not Nature's banquet share,
Her own sweet self inviting?

Come forth, my Friend, of kindred mind,
My friend in every weather,—
Leave Mammon's ledger-lore behind,
And let us stray together;
Come forth in quest of liberty,
Nor think of looms and spindles;
There's Health, Peace, Beauty, Poesy,
'Mong mountain-streams and rindles.

“Man liveth not by bread alone!”
Truth from a Source transcendent;—
His soul asks something of its own,
Less gross, and less dependent;
It claims the privilege of Thought
Beyond the dusty Real,
Its hopeful visions, called and caught
From realms of the Ideal.

And genial Nature's humblest things,
In wintry garb or vernal,
Can lend Man's longing spirit wings
To reach some sphere supernal;—
A rose-bush shivering 'gainst the sky,—
A weed of beauteous seeming,—
A dew-drop in a cowslip's eye,
With trembling lustre beaming.

Many the motives and the means
Wherewith God deigns to gift us,
That unto higher, holier scenes,
In thoughtful hours uplift us;
And it is good to break away
From the cold world's harsh laughter,
And soar into a purer day,—
The shadow of Hereafter!

Joy! my dear friend! at length we're out,
Away from crowds and clamours,
From all the rumbling and the rout
Of engines, looms, and hammers;
The mountains rise upon our sight,
Breathing of pleasant places;
We'll feel, ere day drops into night,
Their grandeurs and their graces.

Here daisies greet us as we pass,
In constellated grouping;
And the sweet face of country lass
Flits by, with eyelids drooping;
And wild-wood odours come and go,
As the swart hills draw nearer;
And in a warmer current flow
Our fancies, quick and clearer.

And here's the pathway rent and rude,
The threshold of the mountains,—
And now we're in the solitude
Of mosses, rocks, and fountains;
There's Haridge, towering up to meet
The sunlit clouds above him;
And here's the streamlet at his feet,
Whose waters seem to love him.

How like a strong and sportive child
This hill-born runnel rushes,—
Now foaming, frolicsome, and wild,
With frantic leaps and gushes;
Now in a sort of murmuring dream
Through reed and grass it wimples,—
Anon in Day's unclouded beam
Laughs with a thousand dimples.

Stream, thou art nameless, or thy name
But ill becomes thy beauty;
I fain would make thee known to fame,
As is thy Poet's duty;
I'll christen thee with tongue and pen,
Henceforth let none defame thee;
The Brushes is thy native glen,
And Brushlin Brook I name thee.

And now, my Friend, we'll track the wave
Far upward to its fountain,
And when we've sung a greenwood stave,
We'll dare that haughty mountain;
The lark that thrills yon snowy cloud,—
The thrush that sings before us,—
The cuckoo calling sweet and loud,
Will join us in the chorus.

'Tis done! now upward with strong will,—
No yielding,—no surrender,—
Up to the top, that we may fill
Our souls with May-day splendour.
'Tis toilsome! Yes! but let us try
With sturdy stride together;—
The thing's achieved! albeit we lie
Panting among the heather.

Dear Heaven! what glory swathes the land!
What harmony of feature!
Scattered abroad from God's own hand,
O'er the great face of Nature!
What amplitude of cloudless space!
What mingled hues and gleamings!
What grandeur, softened down with grace,
And in one's soul what dreamings!

Oh! for a page of Wordsworth now,—
Him the great Master-Preacher!
Would we could look upon his face,
And hear the Poet-Teacher!
Hear him relate his wondrous lays,
Sprung from his heart's deep fountains,
Of wisdom, 'mid untrodden ways
Among the solemn mountains.

But since we may not see the Bard,
Let's think upon his glory,—
His high, calm genius, whose reward
Is life in future story;
Oh! when he joins a nobler quire,
To sing still more divinely,
Who shall assume his earthly lyre,
And make it speak so finely?

Alas! our chiefest Bards are old!
Hushed are their tuneful voices;
But at the tales which they have told
Each kindred heart rejoices.
When the five stars we love are gone,
How will their going grieve us!
Canst thou, large-gifted Tennyson,
Console us when they leave us?

Canst thou, soul-soaring “Festus,” sing,
To soothe our great bereavement?
Canst thou, quaint Browning, solace bring
By any new achievement?
Can ye, with power that knows no fear,
Re-wake one harp that slumbers?—
We hope, and wait, and long to hear
Your yet unuttered numbers.

A truce to this old theme, my Friend,
Our spirits grow regretful;
To talk of what we cannot mend
But makes us sad and fretful;
Though Song is something half divine,
With which 'tis sweet to dally,
'Tis bright May-Day, and we must dine,—
Descend we to the valley.

Ah! here's a table for our meal!
Its cover green and golden;
To Him who made it let us feel
How much we are beholden!
The shadows of these waving boughs
Across our faces flitter,
And there a tinkling fountain flows,
Falling with silvery glitter.

This lovely scene and mountain air
Are better, there's no question,
Than costly room and dainty fare,
With spleen and indigestion;
And we have music far more sweet
Than Jullien ever found us,—
The brook that babbles at our feet,
The birds that carol round us.

Commence the banquet, and partake
With gusto keen and hearty;
Now pass the beaker;—don't we make
A most congenial party?
Thanks to the Giver! We have done;
But ere we cross the meadows,
Let us escape the noontide sun,
Within these sylvan shadows.

Sing me some old and simple lay,
Such as I've heard ye humming,
Or chant me of that doubtful day,—
The very “good time coming;”
But since your pipe is out of tune,
I'll e'en for once take pity,
And break the drowsy hush of Noon
With my own foolish ditty:—

SONG.

When golden-haired Sol to the Seasons gave birth,
And saw that his plan was complete,
He told them to govern and gladden the Earth
With interchange needful and sweet;
He marshalled before him the Months and the Hours,
But ere he dismissed them away,
He called unto Flora, the Goddess of Flowers,
And beckoned his favourite May.

“Dear Flora, I pray thee, bestow on my child
Some beautiful gifts of thine own;
I have lent to her countenance light undefiled,
To her voice a most musical tone;
Besprinkle her garments with dews and perfumes,
That shall follow her footsteps alway,
And give her a girdle of exquisite blooms,
Becoming my favourite May.”

She alighted on Earth, and the valley and plain
Were flushed with her glorious hues;
The bees clung about her; the breezes were fain
Her magical sweets to diffuse;
When the Poet beheld her, at once she became
The theme of his loveliest lay;
Since then she is linked with his heart and his fame,
For the month of the Poet is May.

She awoke in the souls of susceptible Youth
New fires, which all others surpass;
Touched the lips of the Wooer with tenderest truth,
With blushes the cheek of the Lass;
In her presence their glances grew bashful, but bright,
Their faces unwontedly gay,
Or grave with a deep and unuttered delight,
For the month of the Lover is May.

Then hail to this Child of Apollo! her smile
Makes Nature laugh out and rejoice;
And the proud heart of Man, growing gentler the while,
Leaps up at the sound of her voice;
She comes like a breath from those gardens above,
Which know neither cloud nor decay,
She bringeth us Poësy, Beauty, and Love,—
What a season of joyance is May!

So ends my descant. Now we'll pass
Through yon romantic wild-wood,
And pull some flowers from out the grass,
To grace the brows of Childhood.

How silent is this bowery way!
The air how sweet and cooling!
Here Jaques might love to shun the day,
And Touchstone act his fooling.

Now we emerge upon the leas,
With floral splendour glowing;
The meadows swell like golden seas,
The breeze is richly blowing;
Alternate glooms, alternate gleams,
O'er hill and vale flit lightly,—
Now a full burst of sunny beams
Blends the whole landscape brightly.

Here's the old bridge, and here's the Tame,
Which seems to glide at leisure;
And here's the way this morn we came,
In search of health and pleasure.
Fresh from the hills, yon murky town
Seems to oppress and blind us,
While the dear woods and moorlands brown
Lie calm and fair behind us.

A puff of steam,—three minutes' space,—
Some clangour, and a scramble,
And we are in our dwelling-place,
Pleased with our Mountain Ramble;
The plant of “old Cathay” shall make
A draught both safe and cheery,
And we will talk as we partake,
Forgetting we are weary.

Rising on Thought's aspiring wing,
We'll talk of Bards and Sages,
Of every pure and precious thing
We've found among their pages;

Of past misdeeds, of present needs,
Of future generations,
And what the age we live in breeds
For the great good of nations.

Science, Philosophy, and Song,
We'll touch, without pretension;
Of what seems right, of what seems wrong,
Converse without dissension;
Thought should be wide and free as air,
Impatient of restriction,—
Free be the words, if they are fair,
And pregnant with conviction.

Thus will we wing the evening hours,
Knowledge with Pleasure blending,—
A May-Day passed 'mid fields and flowers
Should have no foolish ending.
Then to our pillows we will creep,
Mindful of morrow's duties,
And find the visions of our sleep
Clothed with a thousand beauties.

Brushes, the name of the locality.

Wordsworth, Moore, Montgomery, Rogers, and Leigh Hunt.

THE SILVER CHAMBER.

A DREAM.

I had a dream, one sad and restless night,
And the strange vision haunts my memory still:
'Twas of a Silver Chamber, wanly bright,
Shut from the world, and desolate, and chill;
Whilst on my face fell icy drops of light,
Like to the wintry waters of a rill.

Methought, upon a silver-covered bed,
Bowed down with sorrow and with pain, I lay,
And silver curtains, drooping o'er my head,
Smote my hot eye-balls with a sickly ray;
I waited thus, in vague and silent dread,
For the blest dawning of another day.

At length I saw, right through the silver door,
A little Human Form come gently in,
From whose mild eyes a lambent light did pour,
As from a lamp that calmly burned within;
But as the Shape approached me, more and more
I felt the weight and shadow of my sin.

It came, and, looking in the Spirit-face,
I knew its lineaments; She had been one
Of my heart's hopes, as full of love and grace
As e'er an earthly sunlight shone upon;
But Death had taken her to a holier place,
And my chief joy of home and hearth was gone.

“Father,”—thus spake her silver-sounding tongue—
“I saw thy state, I heard thy weary sigh,
And I have come to thee, but not for long,
Commissioned from my happy home on high,
To warn and soothe thee, ere the angel-throng
Recall me to my duties in the sky.

“Alas! I find thee feeble and forlorn,
Wasted and sick, and sore oppressed with woe!
Is it not time that thou shouldst learn to scorn
All worthless things that tempt thee here below,—
Seek inward peace, and hail Heaven's matchless morn,
When thou art called to gird thy loins and go?

“What are to thee, and to thy inner mind,
The low pursuits and pleasures of the earth;—
The Circean charms which strike thy reason blind,
The passionate frenzy, and the foolish mirth,
When thou hast other gifts, which God designed
To do good work, and win a higher birth?

“Strive upward, with an ever upward gaze,
As all good men—all patient men—have striven;
Strive to evangelise thy later days,
Outlive the past, and feel thyself forgiven;
That I may hear thy hopeful voice of praise
Resounding in the radiant halls of Heaven!”

Thus spake, in syllables that left perfume,
My lost Delight, my Angel-Child to me!
My soul at once cast off its pall of gloom;
Up from my heart my tears flowed fast and free:
Oh! may that vision of the Silver Room
Prove Mercy's beacon-light of love to me!

PLEURS; OR, THE TOWN OF TEARS.

Oh! sunny South! oh! bright Italian land!
Sweet shore of Story, Melody, and Song!
Ne'er has it been my privilege to stand
Amid the charms which to thy clime belong;
Ne'er to behold thy olive-shadowed plains,—
Thy mountain slopes, all redolent of wine,—
Thy matchless palaces,—thy ancient fanes,
And other things divine.

Yet once, whilst gazing from Alsatian hills,
I caught a sunset vision of the wall
(Bristling with countless snow-crowned pinnacles)
Which towers between thee and thy sister, Gaul;
The glimpse was grand and gorgeous; white and gold
Gleamed for a space on every mountain crest;
I longed to leap that Alpine barrier bold,
And light upon thy breast.

And still I yearn to sun me in the clime
Where Dante, Tasso, Ariosto sung;
Where graceful Raphael, Angelo sublime,
Divine creations on the canvas hung;
Where Petrarch loved, where Boccace told his tale,
Where great Canova made the marble fair;
Where Time, Tradition, Genius, clothe and veil
With glory all that's there.

Alas! that when our aspirations tend,
With pure desire, towards good and glorious things,
Some ruthless circumstance should come to bend
Sternly to earth even Hope's impatient wings!
No more! Let Fancy aid me to relate
An old, stray story of forgotten woe;—
Of Pleurs, her awful and o'erwhelming fate,
Two hundred years ago:—

There is a broad and beauteous vale
(So says the pilgrim, wandering),
O'er whose sweet face the temperate gale
Sweeps with a soft, salubrious wing;
And gentlest charms are there, I ween:
Meadows arrayed in loveliest sheen,—
Woods from the glare of noontide shut,—
Châlet, and farm, and herdsman's hut,
And many a herd-besprinkled lea;
And Maira, winding towards the sea
In shining curves, like silvery thread,
Through an embroidered garment led;
And glow of vines, and gleam of rills,
On the great insteps of the hills;
And the proud Conto looking o'er
The spot which he o'erwhelmed of yore,

Seeming as steadfast and serene
As though such havoc ne'er had been.
But round this valley's ample breast
A hundred hills sublimely rise,
Piercing with many a splintered crest
The tranquil azure of the skies.
And farther on, enclosing all,
As with a vast eternal wall,
Loom up, with foreheads grey and grand,
The frontier Alps of Switzerland;
Clothed, like the clouds, in shadowy white,
Beneath the full day's downward light;
But, when the sun declines to rest,
In gorgeous chambers of the west,
Wearing upon their scalps of snow
A soft, ethereal, rosy glow;
As if a troop of angels fair
Paused for a space, and rested there,
Diffusing from their wings sublime
The colours of a holier clime.

Once from that lovely vale looked up,
Like pearl-drop in an emerald cup,
The Town of Tears,—a name she bore
From some disaster long before;
Yet she belied that name of woe,
So gaily did she glance and glow
In her own pure Italian air,
With temples, theatres, and towers,
White dwellings gleaming through their bowers,
And other graceful things and fair.
She was a refuge of delight,
To those who from the world's rude fight
Could gladly steal themselves away;—

100

A place of calm and stirring joy,
Where many a pleasure's sweet employ
Beguiled the hours of every day.
The Merchant left his books and care,
To find some rest and solace there;
The Painter put his pencil down,
To seek that laughter-loving town;
The Sculptor came for newer themes,—
The Poet to refresh his dreams;
For song, and dance, and feast, and wine,
And forms of beauty, half divine,
And pleasant smiles, and loving eyes,
Made it a social Paradise.
From morn till noon, from noon till night,
A constant carnival was kept,
That one might say, and say aright,
That Pleurs had laughed until she wept;
For such the solemn truth appears,
Knowing thy doom, poor Town of Tears!

One eventide in vintage time,
When joyance rang throughout the clime,
Alone within the woodland shade
A Youth and Maiden talked and strayed;
Earnest they seemed, without disguise,
With looks that sought each other's eyes;
Save that the Maiden, now and then,
Would turn her glances towards the ground,
Only to bring them back again
To him, with pleasure more profound;
Till in a bower's umbrageous maze,
Which baffled the obtrusive gaze,
They paused to rest; and being there,
Let Fancy draw the loving pair:—

101

The Youth possessed a manly mien,
Yet pale was he, and slight of limb;
His eyes, far-seeing yet serene,
Pensive sometimes, were never dim;
And on his high and marble brow
The light of genius seemed to glow;
Nay, none could misconstrue the air
Of mental beauty reigning there;
And yet the whole seemed overwrought
With deep intensity of thought,
As if the soul had strained her wings
In flying towards ideal things.
The Maiden had a healthier charm,
Buoyant, luxuriant, soft, and warm;
Her whole bright being seeming rife
With keenest sense of love and life.
Her eyes, which changed with every feeling,
Had dew and depth beyond revealing;
Love, laughter, anger, and disdain,
Outward delight, or inward pain,
By turns o'erawed, or pleased, or blest,
Those who beheld and knew her best.
But, Oh! her soft and gracious smile
On the enchanted gazer fell
Like sunburst lingering awhile
On meads of golden asphodel;
And her sweet laughter gushed away
Like rain-drops on a summer's noon;
Or dimpling brook in sparkling play,
Or instrument in rapid tune;
And when her smile and laughter fled,
Beauty and music both seemed dead.
She was, in sooth, a loving child
Of Nature, warm and undefiled,—

102

A perfect woman, chaste as snow,
Formed to be blest and bless below,
Increase man's joy, and share his woe.

“Thou must not leave me, Florio,”
Said the young Maiden, tenderly;
“I cannot yet behold thee go,
My love must plead,—it cannot be!
Thou know'st that long and heavy rains
Have swept these mountain heights and plains,
And that the herdsmen from the hills,
With presage of a thousand ills,
Have brought us tales of gloom and dread;—
Of changes on old Conto's head,
Of rent, and chasm, and awful sound,
Tremblings and cleavings of the ground,
As if the holds of Nature shook,
And quivered loosely as a brook.
Didst thou not see, but t'other day,
A noble vineyard swept away
By avalanche of earth and stone,
Like reeds o'er which the fire has blown?
Oh! quit me not, if I am dear;
I have a sad foreboding here!
Stay to sustain me, I implore,
Lest I should ne'er behold thee more!”
“Francesca,” Florio said, and smiled—
“Be not by foolish fears beguiled;
Dost think the hills, old as the world,
Will from their steadfast seats be hurled,
Because some superstitious minds—
Some simple and unlettered hinds,—
Prognosticate the thing? Ah! no,
'Twere impious to believe it so.

103

Behold! there are no signs of rain,
The great, glad Sun shines out again;
And all is joyous, all is clear,—
Why should thy gentle bosom fear?
Did danger threaten thee, my Pride,
Nothing should take me from thy side;
I would not quit thy faithful breast,
And leave thee unto sad unrest,
For all the gold,—for all the lands
The world could pour into my hands;
But since no dreadful thing portends,
And thou art circled round by friends,—
And since I feel thou art to-day
By a quick fancy led astray,
I dare to go, secure that thou
Wilt be as safe next year as now.
Believe me, when I soon return
I shall behold thy blushes burn,—
Thy smile break out, thy tears o'erflow,
As I have seen them long ago.
No more. Thou know'st how I have yearned,
Tried, failed, and yet unconquered, burned,
To gather light around my name,
To carve my fearless way to fame,
And so by Toil or Genius stand
A Painter in my native land.
The thing's achieved;—Hope whispers so,—
May be in vain, but this I know,
My hand, heart, soul have done their best,—
I leave to Fortune all the rest.
My Picture, which has stolen my nights,
And weaned me from the world's delights,
Has made my forehead throb with pain,—
Made sick, and then has healed again,

104

Which has o'erwhelmed me in despair,
And then uplifted me in air;—
My Picture stands in finished state,
And I with hopeful trembling wait
The judgment of experienced eyes,
To sink to earth, or seek the skies.
Ah! droop not, Dearest, I beseech,—
'Tis but the metaphor of speech.
No, never can I shrink; my Art
Is of myself another part;
She is my second Mistress,—Thou
The foremost, evermore as now;
Thou hast inspired my soul, and she
Must pay some tribute unto thee;
And shall, if in my hand remain
The skill to woo her charms again.
Oh, glorious Art! divinest dower
That ever came to human mind!
Grace, colour, sentiment, and power
Of witching Poësy combined!
Art that receives its chiefest grace
From Woman's dear, angelic face,
Draws its best spirit, soft and warm,
From the chaste contour of her form,—
I cannot leave, for your sweet sakes,
Nor that which gives, nor that which takes!
Beloved Francesca! let us part,
But first, come cling thee to my heart,
Which beats with faithful pulse for thee,
And will while life remains with me;
Ere morrow's sunlight cometh down
On giant Conto's hoary crown,
I must begone; but when the Spring
Calls back the swallow's vagrant wing,

105

I'll come, perchance all flushed with fame,—
Ask for thy hand, and urge my claim;
Then, fame or none, I'll stay to bless
My sight with thy dear loveliness;
Guard, cheer, and love, through every scene,
Till death shall step our joys between.
One kiss from these sweet lips of thine,
Adored and Worshipped! ever mine!”
Then spake the Maiden, trembling, meek,
Whilst the quick tears coursed down her cheek:—
“Thus thou beguil'st me, Florio,
And thou must leave me! Be it so;
For I would have thee to be free
To do whate'er may pleasure thee;
But I will shut thee in my heart,
And nurse that joy, where'er thou art.
Oh! should'st thou find the world's applause
Pall on thy ear, or should its laws
Reject thee, seek my faithful breast,
Where thou shalt find a welcome nest,
And lay thy weary forehead down
Where none shall harm thee, none shall frown.
To part with thee my heart is loth;
Our Holy Mother guard us both,
And ever bend benignant eyes
Upon us from the upper skies!
This kiss for thee, my Florio—
This for thy mother;—let her know
How much I long to clasp her hand,
And listen to her mild command.
Adieu!” A brief half hour had flown,
And both sad lovers were alone.
Morn came, and like a bridegroom shone
The sun on his ethereal throne;

106

Morn with her many voices, sent
From countless sources, sweetly blent;
Hill, vale, town, village, all were bright,
The Maira laughing in the light;
And kindled in the sunny ray
The snow-crowned summits far away.
Then came the hush of Noon, serene,
And, bathed in universal sheen,
The light clouds in the upper air,
Heavy with molten silver there.
Day sped, and as the Night drew nigh
One blaze of beauty lit the sky;
'Twas Sunset; and, O Heaven! the dower
Of glory shed upon that hour!
Just as the Sun-god paused to rest
On the bright borders of the West,
The Clouds came trooping towards their king,
As if they would about him cling,
And as they hung before his face,
They clustered, coloured, changed apace,
Assuming many a giant-shape
Of rocky cleft, and mountain cape,
Teeming, like Etna in his ire,
With floods and flames of gloomy fire.
Incessant change comes o'er them now—
They cleave, and with fierce grandeur glow,
Streaming like blazing banners out,—
Strewn like prismatic dust about,
Sailing like golden ships, and turning
Into a thousand cities burning;
But as the Sun withdraws to cheer
Souls of another hemisphere,
They float far off, all loose and free,
Like rose-beds on a silent sea.

107

Who could behold with careless eyes
Such grand “morgana” of the skies,
Nor lift high homage unto Him
Whose breath inspires the Seraphim,—
Who gives such beauteous signs of power
For us, who ill deserve the dower!

Francesca sat beside her door,
Absorbed in some poetic lore;
It seemed some sad and passionate tale,—
By turns her cheek was flushed and pale;
Perchance 'twas Dante's woful story
Of her own namesake, sad and lorn,
Whom he hath shrined in gloomy glory,
But such as makes one inly mourn;
Perchance 'twas that—more woful still—
Of Cenci's daughter, crushed and lost
Beneath the weight of horrible ill,—
Revenged, but at a fearful cost.
Whate'er it was, it did engage
Her fixed attention; on the page
Fell her unbidden tears like rain,—
Proof that it moved, perchance with pain.
But now the world was all abroad;
The people, late so overawed
By sweeping showers and savage gales,
By dulness, doubts, and dreadful tales,
Threw off the chill of their affright,
To take full measure of delight.
Again the depths of joy were stirred,—
Again the laugh and song were heard,—
Dance, music, feast, and wine, once more
Governed the people as before;

108

The Puppet played in comic state,—
The Improvisatore was great;
Brave was the banquet, high the cheer,
Crowded the gorgeous theatre.
Woman dispensed her sweetest smiles;
Man tried his most seducing wiles;
Whilst children, in more harmless way,
Pleased their dear hearts with boisterous play.
Young, old, rich, poor, with common will
Combined to banish sense of ill;
It seemed to be their chief employ,
That Saturnalia of Joy.
Francesca, ill at ease, walked out
'Mid laughter, music, song, and shout,—
Not with the wish to feel and share
The general pleasure reigning there,
But in the hope she might beguile
Her dumb, deep sorrow for a while.
She paused where, under olive trees,
In proud and merry-hearted ease,
Sat many friends, a pleasant throng,
Who listened to the voice of Song,
And, urged by gentle lips to stay,
She heard this light and simple lay:—

CANZONET.

Oh! give to me Beauty, and Music, and Wine,
The only dear things that are ever divine;
The hour is propitious for pleasures like these,
While our hopes are awake, and our cares are at ease;
Let us seize and enjoy them to-day, friends, to-day,
To-morrow, believe me, is far, far away!

109

'Tis Beauty that kindles and gladdens the soul;
'Tis Music makes time more harmoniously roll;
'Tis Wine that uplifts us above the dull earth,
And to Wit, Love, and Rapture gives lustre and birth;
Let us seize and enjoy them to-day, friends, to-day,
For to-morrow, believe me, is far, far away!

This song's light-hearted levity
Did little please, did ill agree
With the young Maiden's weight of heart;
So she prepared her to depart
Homeward, to soothe her harassed mind,
And leave the noisy crowd behind.
From her quaint casement, vine-embowered,
She looked upon the tranquil night,
Towards where old Conto grandly towered,
Less stern beneath the moon's sweet light.
The stars were out, too, grouping round—
And yet apart—their placid queen;
And where they were not, Heaven profound
Seemed boundless, fathomless, serene.
And then she thought on Florio,
And he renewed that hidden woe
For which she seemed to have no cause,—
So deep, so dim are Nature's laws;
She mused, she mourned, complained, and wept,
And overcome by sorrow—slept.
On went the revels, loud and high,
Till midnight stole upon the sky,
And passed along her starry way,
To meet the not far distant day.
Then did the boisterous sounds subside,
Like murmur of receding tide,
And all the crowd prepared to creep
To home, and hearth, and needful sleep.

110

From shining casements, here and there,
Gleaming athwart the moonlit air,
Out went the lights, and all was still,
Save herdsman's dog upon the hill,
Or Maira's stream, that in its flow
Muttered a soft complaint and low;
Or nightingale, that charmed the hour
With sweetest descant from her bower;—
The sleep-world, late so loud and bright,
Was left to Nature and to Night.
Oh, Night, and Nature! fair ye are,
With meteor, cloud, and moon, and star;—
But ye are solemn, and oppress
The soul with your great loveliness;—
The soul that often strains her wing
To reach and roam your heights sublime,
But falls back, faint and wondering,
Too strong to rest, too weak to climb!
Well, all was still; but towards the morn,
An hour before the day was born,
An awful sound,—a mighty boom,
As if it were the “crack of doom,”—
Loud as the stormy ocean's roar,
When battling 'gainst a rocky shore,—
As the appalling thunder loud,
When raging through the realms of cloud—
Resounded far beyond the vale,
And made the boldest cheek turn pale.
At the first dubious dawn of day,
Filled with a vague and dread dismay,
With quivering nerves, and hearts all cold,
Men came;—and what did they behold?
One half of Conto fallen sheer down
On Pleurs, the death-devoted town,

111

A ponderous avalanche of rock!
And Maira, startled by the shock,
Hurled from her course, to make a path
Away from ruin and from wrath.
Above the fated city hung
A canopy of dust, that flung
Horror upon the gazer's eye,
And blotted out the rosy sky.
The foxes, frightened from their lair,—
The birds all screaming in the air,—
The river riotous and strong,
Tumbling her turbid waves along,—
The lamentations long and loud
Of the still-increasing crowd,—
The strife,—the questioning,—the sound
Of countless voices mingling round;
Made up a scene so sad and dread,
That Reason shook, and Judgment fled,—
A scene that lay all undefined,
Like a great nightmare on the mind!
Oh, awful truth! stupendous fate!
Which even moves me to relate—
The mountain, like a giant lid,
Fell sudden down, and crushed and hid
Three thousand souls, which yesternight
Were full of life and high delight!
And not one soul remained to say
How glad they were but yesterday!
Not all man's energy and skill,—
Not thousands with one common will,—
Not Hate, that keeps his cunning course,—
Not Vengeance, with Herculean force,—
Not Avarice, with his heart of steel,—
Not Love, with his unselfish zeal,—

112

Not all combined by solemn vow,
Could ever see or save them now!
None could behold them,—none could save;
There they reposed in one great grave,
O'er which the cloven Conto looks
With constant warnings and rebukes;
A mighty headstone, left to show
Where died the multitude below,
Whose bones have mingled with the clod,
Whose better parts are with their God!
Quick as the prairie's rolling fire,—
Quick as the whirlwind in its ire,
The terrible tidings swept and spread
With awe, uncertainty, and dread.
Amid the Eternal City's towers,
Where he was straining all his powers,
It smote the ears of Florio,
With sense of overwhelming woe.
Fame, Wealth, and Honour,—What were they,
That he should linger and delay?
He went while yet his fears were new,—
On wings of love and terror flew,
And reached that horror-shadowed vale
Dishevelled, travel-soiled, and pale;
Heard, saw the appalling truth, and how
His joys were shattered at a blow.
He neither talked, nor wailed, nor wept,
But in a neighbouring cottage slept,—
Ay, slept as he would wake no more;
But when that blessed sleep was o'er,
He woke with wandering words and pain,—
Delirium seized upon his brain,
And long, long weeks he lay, like one
Who with the things of earth had done.

113

Kind hearts and gentle hands were there,
To tend him with unselfish care,
And tend they did, with constant zeal,
For they had learned to love and feel.
At length, when he had lain one day,
As if all pain had passed away,
He started from his couch, and smiled,—
An idiot! harmless as a child.
That noble mind, where genius burned,—
That heart, for gentlest love that yearned,
Were crushed and blinded, ne'er again
To know nor hope, nor love, nor pain,—
A holy shrine, a temple chaste,
By sorrow shattered and defaced.
And from that hour he would not go
From that dear spot, the Vale of Woe;
Albeit his mother came, and tried
By all maternal arts to guide
His footsteps homeward; bootless all,
His ears were deaf to Nature's call;
And so she came to sojourn there,
And watched him with unceasing care.
It was his custom, shade or shine—
(Thus far he seemed to have design)—
Among the scattered rocks to roam,
And then at nightfall saunter home;
But on the rocks he would portray
Her who was lost to him for aye;
Repeating, with sad words and low,
This constant burden of his woe;—
“Francesca, love! where dost thou stay?
Thou hast forgot our wedding day!”
And when the maidens of the vale
Heard him repeat this piteous wail,

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With sympathising hearts and eyes,
Which watched him that he stumbled not,
They gave the tribute of their sighs,
And wept at his unhappy lot.
At length the elements combined
To give the Wanderer peace and rest:
The frost, the snow, the rain, the wind,
That beat against his gentle breast,
Shook his frail frame, and laid him down,
No more to roam, no more to rise;
He died beside the Buried Town,
And sought Francesca in the skies!

Where once was seen the Town of Tears
A strange and rugged scene appears;
But Nature, ever prone to fling
Some beauty round the rudest thing,
Has clothed the avalanche of stone
With moss and lichens, all her own;
And high above that giant grave
A thousand trees all proudly wave;
The chestnut lifts its goodly boughs,—
The calm herds ruminate and browse,—
The herdsman carols o'er the lea,
In concert with the bird and bee.
Sweet Maira tells her wonted tale,
Old Conto frowns upon the vale;
And all is lovely and serene,
As though such ruin ne'er had been.
Such is the tale of doom and woe,
Of Pleurs, two hundred years ago.

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ZOANA.

Sir Gilbert was a brave and gentle knight,—
Gilbert the Saxon, of old London town;
And to the struggle of the first Crusade
He lent his prowess,—joyful to behold
The snowy standard of the Christian Powers
First float o'er ancient Salem; glad to see
The haughty Crescent quail before the Cross,
And pale its specious beams. But, sad mischance!
One luckless day, in foray or in fight,
He fell into the foeman's toils, and soon
Was hurried o'er the desert far away,
To where Damascus, with her hundred streams,
And bowery gardens, smiles upon the waste.
Here he was captive, manacled and watched;
But he was calm as brave, and he restrained,
In proof of patience, look, and word, and thought.

At length his mild demeanour won its way
With those who watched him, and his chains were loosed;
And he, the same when free as bound, was put
To easy toils within the garden grounds.
This lasted for a time, a year or more,
When in the presence of the Syrian Chief
One day they led him, silent and amazed.
The chief sat gravely on the low divan,

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And by his side a still and graceful form,
Close veiled, and jewelled like an Eastern bride.
The Chieftain gazed upon the noble Knight,
And yet he opened not his lips; meanwhile
Gilbert surveyed, with keen and hurried glance,
The rich, cool luxury of that inner place,
Wherein a fountain, dancing in the midst,
Fell down like shattered silver, with a sound
Like tinkling of a lute, making the air—
Pervaded, too, with daintiest perfumes—
Delicious to the sense. The Chieftain spake;—
“Christian, I have beheld thy noble mien,
Thy patience and reserve; thy valour, too,
I know from loud report; and I would fain
Do thee some favour. Couldst thou not forego
Thy country and religion, and embrace
The only Faith—our own? Consent to this
And honour waits thee: I will then bestow,
To be thy handmaid, this my only child,
And place thee 'mong the illustrious of the East.
Pause for a moment, so that thy reply
Accord with the indulgence I have shown.”

The Saxon raised his bold and ample front
Erect, while in his full and candid eye
Shone the clear beams of truth, and thus replied:—
“Chieftain, there needs no pause; can I renounce
The Faith for which my veins have often bled,—
The Faith whose holiness I learned to know
From my own mother's lips, and later still,
From that great Oracle Divine whose source
Is only God? 'Twere what thou wouldst not do,
Then how shall I? I can not—will not change,
Even if thraldom waste my life away.”

The fair veiled Being at her father's side

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Moved with a restless gesture, as the Chief
Waved with a frown the Captive from his sight.
Gilbert withdrew, but still remained unchained,
To his old labour in the garden grounds:
Then thronging visions of his native land,
Her greenness and her beauty, made him pine
And pant for freedom, which seemed more remote
From his attainment than before.

Some months
Flew o'er his weary head, but with such wings
As seemed to make no speed, when one bright day
A slave, with gesture but with silent tongue,
Led him away into a little bower,
A very nest of beauty and delight,
And there he stood, with wonder and mistrust,
Before the Emeer's Daughter, who reclined
Luxuriantly along her cushioned couch,
Wove in the richest looms. But she was veiled,
And hid the loveliness he longed to see;
Save that a scarlet-slippered foot,
Which just betrayed the golden anklet there,
Peeped on his gaze. “Christian,” she softly said—
And at the murmur of that plaintive voice
He who had borne the deafening bruit of war
Shook like a reed—“Christian, wilt thou relate
Some of the wonders of thy native land,
And of that Faith which makes thee bold amid
Captivity and danger? I would hear.
My Sire is fighting 'gainst thy people, but
With me thou art in safety. Tell thy tale.”

Gilbert all reverently bowed
Before the princely Beauty, and began:
With warm and rapid eloquence—inspired
By his own feelings, and the pitying tone

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Of his exalted Auditor—he drew
A glowing picture, redolent of truth:
Of his own land he told of the renown
In War and Commerce;—of its temperate air,
Its verdurous hills and fields, and constant streams;—
That there no sun o'erpowered, no desert scorched,
But all was mild and genial, as became
The sea-girt Monarch Island of the world.
Of his own Faith he gave the full account,
From its first sunrise: how the Nazarene,
The Man-God, Teacher, Saviour of mankind,
Was Virgin-born within her own bright clime;—
That there He taught, wept, agonised, and died,
And consummated what His love began.
And furthermore, he told her that good men,
Despite contumèly, scorn, hunger, death,
Threatening on every side, had gone abroad
To spread the light and warmth of Gospel Truth:
And not in vain, for that the Christian world
Was numerous as the leaves on Lebanon.

Much more he told her, which the Syrian Maid
Devoured with greedy ear; and when his tongue
At length grew silent, she exclaimed—“Thy tale,
O Christian! moves me! wonderful it is,
By Allah, wonderful! Come sit thee here,
And thou shalt talk again.” And then she smote
Her hands, and slaves obsequious came in
With many-coloured fruits, and cooling drinks,
And cakes of dainty taste; and they partook
Of the light banquet. But ere they began
The Maid unveiled, and to the Saxon's sight
Disclosed a glorious vision, such as ne'er
Haunted the Anchorite in secret cell,
Or the drugged Dreamer in his happiest hour.

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It was a perfect countenance, as fair
As that of Rachael in the days of old,
Or Ruth's, when blushing 'mid the “alien corn,”
But haughtier, perchance, than either,—proof
Of princely blood. Her eyes were deeply dark,
But tender, too, and full of fire, that shot
Into the gazer's soul the shafts of love.
Gilbert was overpowered, and captive now
In other bonds, which he might never break.

And thus they sat and talked, or mutely looked
Into each other's face most tenderly.
The roses seemed to listen,—bubbling fount
To echo all they uttered; whilst pet doves
Of glorious plumage flitted to and fro,
And filled the bower with sounds of happy life.

“Christian,” Zoana said—for such her name—
“If thou canst love a stranger to thy land,
I will be Christian too. If thou canst love,
Give me some token that shall bind our souls,—
Some token that may cheer me in the hour
When, haply, freedom takes thee from my sight,
And with thee all my joy.” With glowing pride
The Saxon hung about her graceful neck
A jewelled Crucifix, and with a kiss
They sealed the holy compact. “Tell me now
Thy country's name and thine, that I may know
Their sounds, and so repeat them as a spell
To charm me when alone, and link my soul
In memory to thee.” “My country's name
Is England; London the transcendent town
Where I was born; and I am Gilbert named.”
With many a laugh and pleasant look the Maid
Repeated the dear sounds, as does a child
The sweet words of its mother: what is more,

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She mastered them, and they were words whereby
She mastered greater things; as I shall tell.

At length they parted, but to meet again
When chance and opportunity allowed.
But the Emeer returned, and weary months
Kept them asunder, whilst their hidden love
Fed on their hearts, and turned their faces pale.
Again the Chieftain went, with all his tribe,
To venture open battle, or annoy
The skirts of the Crusaders. Then the pair
Met as before, and strengthened every hour
The spell that bound them; but they never fell
Into the meshes of a low desire,
Nor soiled the hallowed bloom of chastest thoughts.

One day Zoana, with sad looks and sighs,
Percursors of her tears, said—“Gilbert, hear!
I see thee pining for thy native land,—
Thy bones are wasted, and thy eyes' mild light
Darkened with inward sorrow; gold were vain
To ransom thee from thrall; 'tis love alone
Must pay the price of thy delivery,
And I will pay it. Ere to-morrow's sun
Leaps on his way rejoicing, thou art free,
And I alone am captive! Were it not
That age is falling on my father's head,
And were it not that I am chiefest Rose
In all his garden, Light of all his house,
In his paternal eyes,—I would partake
Of liberty and love with thee; but that
Is hopeless yet. Cast slumber from thy eyes
This night, and I will visit thee,—no more
Perchance to see thee upon earth.” The Maid
Wept, wept on Gilbert's sorrow-heaving breast,
Who also wept in concert,—soothed, and prayed,—

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Implored that she would share with him the gift
She offered; all in vain,—she only felt
The joy of grief, and in the indulgence she
With him wore all the afternoon away.

That night—a glorious night!—when troops of stars
Burned in the depths of heaven, and when the moon,
Of bright and ample disk, o'ertopped the arch
Of solemn midnight, stood beside his couch
The Angel of Delivery. “Oh! haste,
Be silent, fly!” she said, with 'bated breath;
“My favourite barb is champing at the gate;—
Take her, and keep her tenderly for me!
Fleet and sure-footed, she will bear thee soon
Beyond the reach of danger; fly at once!”
“And wilt thou not go with me, Maiden?” “No!
It cannot be! but thou shalt have my love,—
None other ever!” With her gentle hand
She led him forth, by many a sinuous path,
To where the steed stood snorting by the wall,
Impatiently. Zoana on her neck
Shed bitter tears, and with endearing hands
Caressed her. Unto Gilbert then she turned
With loving eyes; one long and ardent gaze,—
One close embrace, one burning kiss, wherein
Two lives seemed centred, and the Saxon Knight
Leaped in the saddle, spurned the dangerous ground,
And sped for life along the rugged road,
Peril before, a breaking heart behind!

Poor Maid! She had a double trial now
To brave and bear, well as her nature might,—
Her Sire's displeasure, and her hopeless love!
Long days and weary weeks she mused and mourned,
Forsook all solace, left her doves to fret,
Her roses to decay, her heart to break,

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“Yet brokenly live on.” Not dance, nor song,
Nor charm of tuneful instrument, nor word
Of loving slave, nor bulbul's voice among
The acacia boughs, nor free and genial air,
Nor shape of beauty anywhere beguiled
Her sorrow now. She nursed it as a mother
Nurses an ailing child, the more because
It pained and troubled her. She pored long hours
On the dear jewelled Crucifix; she breathed
His name incessantly; she conjured up
His noble image to her inward sight;
She felt his influence in her inmost heart,
And nought could bring her joy. At length her Sire,
By Western soldiers baffled and sent back,
Stepped o'er his threshold. Who can paint the rage
Which shook him like a whirlwind, when he saw
His Captive gone, and from his Daughter's tongue
Learned all her disobedience and her love!
But that she kept strong hold on his affections,
And with her mother's fair transmitted face
Confronted him with gentleness, his hand
Had slain her on the spot. He only dared
To chafe, and fret, and gloom, and grow morose,
Which to Zoana was a constant rack
On which her heart was laid. It might not last.

Twelve moons had travelled through the halls of heaven
Since Gilbert went, and with him, too, a part
Of her existence. Greatly daring, she,
Beneath the friendly shadow of the night,
Quitted her father's palace; taking nought
But every-day adornments, and the garb
Of Eastern beauty she was wont to wear.
Her path she knew not, nor the country round,
For in a gilded cage she had been kept,

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Unwitting of the world; but Providence,
Or instinct, or some hidden power which love
Created for her guidance, led her right,
And Westward kept her face.

For many a day,
For many a weary day, o'er burning sands,
O'er scarcely trodden paths, through tangled brakes
Where danger lurked, she nobly kept her way;
Eating of fruits that on uncultured trees
By chance she found, and drinking at the rills,
Scanty and few, that tinkled as she passed.
The wild was dangerous, but the haunts of men
More dangerous still. She came at last upon
The tracks of Warfare and of Violence,—
'Mong restless Arabs roaming o'er the waste
For blood or plunder, as the chance might be;
But these she passed, albeit their greedy eyes
Fell on her golden anklets, and the shower
Of costly ornaments that crowned her head.
But she gave look for look, and daring too;
Or, when unnoticed, sped in sudden flight,
Not daring to look back.

At length she came
Among the Western hordes, Crusading bands,—
The blue-eyed Saxon, and the fiery Gaul,
The dark-eyed Norman, warlike brothers all.
Zoana here recalled the darling words
Which were to be her talisman, and now
She “England, England! London, London!” cried,
With earnest voice, appealing with fair face
To all she met. Some jeered her as she passed,
And others with rude hands assailed her charms;
But others—gentle Knights—with courteous care
(Interpreting her well-known words aright)

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Gave her safe escort for a little way,
And pointed out her course.

On, on she went,
But listless, weary, hungry, and oppressed
For needful sleep,—a blessing she had caught
Only at intervals, beneath a tree,
A friendly rock, or thicket-covered dell,
Safe by God's Providence from savage claw
Or man's insulting hand. What is't she sees,
That with arrested step, dilated nostril,
And breast upheaving, she with wondering gaze
Looks on before her? Can it be the Sea?
It is, it is the Ocean! blue and bright,
A mighty desert greater than her own,
And fresher, lovelier far. She now beheld
Strange giant things, unknown to her before,—
Great ships with bellying sails, that strained to go
Out on the briny element of waves.
She was at Ptolemais, the ancient port,
Then famous and thick-peopled. Pilgrims there
In crowds were gathering to embark for home,
And she propitiated with her looks
Their pious natures, crying out alway—
“Oh! England, England!” plucking from her hair
Some gem wherewith to satisfy their claims,
And pay her voyage thither. All amazed,
Yet pitying the while, they took her in;
Gave food, and gentle words, and place of rest,
Where she lay down in happiness, and slept.
When sleep forsook her eyelids it was Eve,
Sweet Eve, with sunset on her brow, and far
They were at sea, no strip of land to break
The level grandeur of the great expanse.

Zoana stood upon the heaving deck,

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Musing on many things; her hope and love,
Her home and father, and her loneliness;
Which loneliness, meanwhile, expanded all
Her thoughts, and made her feel on equal terms
With any fate. But soon she felt a novel qualm,
The penalty which Neptune takes from all
New comers, lassitude of frame,
Sick fancies and sick feelings, and a scorn
Of life. But there were those at hand who knew
Her state, and came with ready help and kind.
When night had gathered deeply in, about
The middle watch, she was erect and well;
Walked on the deck, and stood upon the prow,
Big with her new emotions. Countless Stars—
Moon there was none on that her first sea night—
Clustered in constellations o'er her head:
Boötes and Arcturus,—Charles's Wain,—
Dazzling Orion, and the Golden Lyre,
Which looking down on that night-shadowed deep,
Seemed diamond points thick set in sombre steel.
And then the waves in tortuous play and wild,
Lifted their fringèd edges to the night,
And moved like blazing snakes, ahead—behind,
As if the sea were filled with lustrous life.
Bewildered, yet uplifted in her soul,
She stole to rest, and dreamed of him for whom
She perilled life and honour, all she had.

Morn rose upon that Mid-Terranean sea
In calm, clear glory, and the Syrian Maid
Was up as soon, filling her soul with grandeur.
Where'er she stepped, a silent homage glowed
In rudest hearts; the sailors were subdued
To gentle gestures and respectful looks,—
Proof of the power of Beauty, when 'tis linked

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With chaste demeanour, redolent of Heaven.

On sped the bark, past Cyprus, dedicate
To her the ocean-born, the Queen of Love;
Past Crete to old Melita, where St. Paul
Dropt manna from his lips; and on again
Towards Sicily, the Arcady of Song;
Touching, meanwhile, those many-clustered Isles,
Lipari, where the fires of Stromboli
Flame on incessant, a gigantic plume
Of gloom and glory, swaling towards the sky;
An old and constant beacon-fire to those
Who sail the surface of that lovely sea.
Still on the vessel made her gallant way,
The breeze propitious and the welkin clear,
Until she stayed her helm, and furled her sails,
At Honfleur, superannuated port
Of ancient Normandy.

The voyage o'er,
Zoana stepped upon the shore with joy
And gratitude, an utter stranger there;
And yet she thought 'twas England. Maid forlorn!
Thy trials were not ended! Flushed with hope
She trod the stranger streets, and unto all
Said with inquiring gesture—“England?” “No!”
And then they shook their heads, and with stretched hands
Pointed to distant shores. Zoana drooped,
And with despair unutterable fell
Prone on the ground. But generous hearts were there
Among the Poor—the Poor are ever kind
When Suffering to their feelings makes appeal—
Who took her in and tended her with care.
But on the morrow, restless as before,
The one great object of her hope and love
Unconsummated, she resolved to go.

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They led her forth, and on the great highway
Directed her towards England, but with mute
And kind farewells.

Then on she boldly sped
With resolute endeavour, while the birds
Sang in the wayside trees, and the mild light
Of the Autumnal Sun shone sweetly down,
And gilded all her path. Still on she went,
O'er wide and bare champaigns, through forest glooms
Of dreary length, small towns, and villages
Of rudest structure, rudely peopled; for
The children gathered round her, crying out—
“A Dancing Girl, a Dancing Girl!” and plucked
Her showy robe, and dashed with daring hand
At her bright ornaments, and boldly laughed
In her pale, pensive countenance; but she
Eluded them, and sped with quicker steps
Along her way. Seeing her ornaments
Awoke cupidity, she took them off,
And hid them in her bosom, lest they should
Work her yet greater harm. Within the towns
She met with better treatment, finding food,
And water for ablution, paying ever
With some small jewel from her store. As yet
She did not dare to lodge there, but preferred
To make her couch upon the grassy sward,
Beneath the shelter of a tree or thicket,
Albeit her delicate frame was numbed and chilled,—
Her garments and her tresses wet with dews,—
Her strength diminished and her health decayed.

Days had she travelled, weary and forlorn,
Hungry and faint, with lacerated feet,
And heart that fluttered and grew sick,—
Sick with its own emotions; worn and spent,

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Enfeebled and o'erpowered, and racked with pain,
Prone on a bank she lay despairing down,
What time the night was closing in, dark clouds
Heavy with rain o'erhanging in the sky,
And gusty winds whirling the faded leaves
Around her head. And there she lay and wept,
Calling on Gilbert with a passionate voice,
Till soul and sense in blank unconsciousness
Were blotted out, and moveless there she lay.

By happy chance a stalwart Monk drew nigh,
With hasty steps out-hurrying the storm
That gathered fast; with startled step he paused,
And marvelled much to see a female form,
Lovely and delicate, dressed in foreign garb,
Extended lifeless there. In his strong arms
He bore her gently as a little child,
And took her to his Monastery, where
They chafed her tender limbs, and used
Exciting cordials, haply to restore
The functions of her frame. As they unbound
Her snowy breast, they wondered to behold
The jewelled Crucifix, and pearls which she
Had lately worn. She woke to consciousness,
And found kind faces round her; then she fell
Into a deep and blessed sleep, for long,
Long hours. When slumber left her eyes
The noontide sun shone on the Gothic walls,
And she arose, and donned her robes, and tried
To go straightway, but they with gentle force
Withheld her, pointing to her tender feet.

Three days against her eager will she stayed,
Brooding upon her love. When these elapsed
She sought the Monk, and with inquiring eyes
Said—“England! London!” stretching forth her hand

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Towards where she knew not. He, with kindly looks
And fatherly solicitude, went out,
And put her on her track; but first he drew
Upon a tablet many a branching line
Whereby she might be governed, and not stray
Far from her proper path. And then he laid
His hand upon her head with reverent touch,
And blessed her, watching her receding form
Till it was gone from sight.

And she went on,
Refreshed in frame, renewed in hope, and came
Late in the afternoon upon a town
That looked upon the sea. The sea again!
And her heart sickened at the glorious sight,
Because it seemed interminable, and
A barrier which her courage must surmount.
Among the crowd she mingled, crying ever—
“Oh! England! London!” with most piteous voice.
She took a sparkling jewel from her breast,
And to a rough-faced Master of the Waves
Gave it beseechingly, and with a look
Of earnest pleading, “England!” on her lips.

And she embarked, and in some few brief hours
Saw the white cliffs of Albion looming up
On her enchanted gaze. “England!” they said,
And she set lightsome foot upon the soil,
Bowed down upon the ground, and kissed the stones,
Speeding along with foot as light and fleet,
With eyes as wildly bright, as the gazelle
In the wide plains of Araby the Blest.
Then “London! Gilbert!” she began to cry,
Deeming, poor Maid! that he was known to all.
The people, wondering, pointed out the way,
And gave her bread, and blessed her as she passed,

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Because of her strange beauty, which unlocked
All hearts, and riveted all eyes
In loving gaze.

On, on she went again,
Through Kent, delightful province! fair and green,
With gentle hills, and pastoral vales, and streams
For ever bright and musical. These charms
To young Zoana had a nameless spell
Which knit her to the land, or haply she
Loved it because of Gilbert, for whose love
She had left home and country. Soon she saw
The ancient towers of Canterbury, high
In the clear evening air. Couldst thou have seen
Into the womb of Time, Zoana, thou
Hadst felt a shudder through thy gentle frame,
A strange, dread shadow on thy gentle soul,
Passing this city; for thy haughty Son,
The Churchman Beckett, fell beneath the hands
Of violent assassins, who performed
The wish but not the word of kingly hate.
Within the walls of that Cathedral fane
Thy offspring died, staining with martyr-blood
The altar of the Lord;—so History tells.

The lovely Pilgrim,—Pilgrim of pure love,
Passed through the city, and for many miles
Pierced the unpeopled country, lying down
Beneath the boundless canopy of stars,
The moon her chamber-light, perchance to sleep.
Slumber was stealing o'er her purple lids,
And weariness relaxing all her limbs,
When sounds of heavy feet and boisterous laughter
Roused her to anxious consciousness. A form
Of ruffian aspect and gigantic build
Was drawing near her, with a noisy band

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Behind him. Those were rough, unsettled times,
And these marauders, living upon chance
And crime. “What, ho! what have we here?” exclaimed
The stalwart leader, as with rudest hands
He seized Zoana. “Dainty, by my soul!
A fitting mistress for an outlawed lord;—
Come thou with me!” Zoana, quick as light,
Drew from beneath her robe a trusty friend
She had not used—a short Damascus sword.
With this she pierced the ruffian's heart, and fled,—
Fled for her life a league along the way,
And breathless, hopeless, terrified, and faint,
Entered a village, and with all her weight
Fell 'gainst a cottage door. The inmates came,
Amazed,—beheld the lovely creature there,
And took her in, astonished at the sight.

The mother of that house—a gentle dame—
Was a pure Saxon, flaxen-haired and mild;
And she had daughters of her own, which were
Her household treasures; therefore did she feel
For this strayed Lamb, and in her motherly lap
Took her and nursed her like a petted child.
The sad, pale, patient Syrian Maid relapsed
Into a dangerous illness, which had been
Gathering within her in her pilgrimage.
Fever, delirium, and deep-seated ills
They wot not of, just held her o'er the grave,
But nothing more. For forty days she lay
In that poor cottage in the Wolds of Kent,
And then she rallied, for her very love
Sustained her, for her time was not yet come.

When partial strength returned, she would arise
And go upon her way; reproof was vain.
She poured into the lap of her who saved

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An ample recompense, and hurried out
To consummate her task. But now the ways
Were white with Winter's earliest snows; the trees
Naked and mournful, and the cheerless sun
Feeble in warmth and light; but ne'ertheless
She kept undaunted on, and in three days,
Quivering and aching all her fragile frame,
She trod the skirts of London. Maid forlorn!
A greater desert tasks thy efforts now
Than thine, or Ocean's; may the all-seeing God
Guide thee through all its labyrinths, and lead
Thy faltering footsteps safely to the goal!

Into the very thick and stir of that
Stupendous town she plunged; through countless streets
Reiterated with untiring lips
The darling music;—“Gilbert! Gilbert!” still
She rung in every ear and every place,
Until the sun went down, and she
Shivered through all the night despairingly;
Without a shelter, and without a roof
Save Heaven's. With the late dawning of the sun
She rose again, benumbed, and trembling 'tween
Two lives, of Earth or Heaven; and what were Earth's,
Without the precious link that bound her to't?
From dawn till noon, from noon till dusk of eve
She wandered on, the mocking-bird within
Her lonely heart exclaiming—“Gilbert!” Ne'er
For five brief minutes did the mournful word
Remain unuttered. Round about her came
A motley throng, which followed her about
And clogged her footsteps, which were getting faint
From inward agony.

At length, when night
Was stealing on with dim and dreary face,

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And snow was whirling in the leaden air,
She fell exhausted on the stony step
Of a great house that stood in ancient “Chepe;”
And though her limbs were motionless, her tongue
Cried “Gilbert! Gilbert!” with despairing strength,
The crowd about her roaring like the sea.
In that great mansion casements were unclosed,
And curious eyes looked out, as if to see
The cause of the commotion. Soon there came,
Rushing from out the door, a noble form,
Who gazed upon the wanderer. “God of Heaven!
Oh! can it be! It is!” and looking down,
He saw the jewelled Crucifix, that hung
Glittering upon her breast, and the dear name
Of “Gilbert!” coming faintly from her lips.
He spurned the crowd aside, and in his arms
Took the most precious Burden, and within
Bore her triumphantly, and closed the door.

“Oh! my Zoana! Treasure of my soul!
Bird that hath come from thy far Eastern nest,
For an unworthy mate, come to my heart,
And let me cherish thee unceasingly,—
Nurse thee, and love thee, and devote my life
To make and magnify thy happiness!”

And so he wed her, and for many years
They dwelt in Christian harmony and peace,
The Dove expiring in the nest it sought!

135

AUTUMN LEAVES.

POEMS PUBLISHED IN 1856.

137

A BOOK FOR THE HOME FIRESIDE.

When the night cometh round, and our duties are done,
And a calm stealeth over the breast,
When the bread that is needful is honestly won,
And our worldly thoughts nestle to rest,—
How sweet at that hour is the truth-written page,
With fancy and fiction allied!
The magic of childhood, the solace of age,
Is a Book for the Home Fireside.

There manhood may strengthen a wavering mind
By the sage's severest of lore;
There woman, with sweetness and pathos combined,
Make the fountains of feeling run o'er;
There the voices of children may warble like birds
What the poet has uttered with pride,
And the faint and despairing take heart at the words
Of a Book for the Home Fireside.

Many minds have been trained into goodness and grace,
And many stern hearts chastened down;
Many men have been nerved to look up with bright face,
Whatever misfortune might frown;

138

Many souls have been roused to new life, and grown great,
Though baffled, obstructed, and tried;
Have been schooled to endure, taught to “labour and wait,”
By a Book for the Home Fireside.

And not with the presence of Home is it gone,
For abroad in the fulness of day
Its spirit remains with us, cheering us on
O'er the roughness of life's common way;
And nature is lovely, but lovelier yet
Through the glass of reflection descried;
We have read of her wonders—and who would forget?—
In a Book for the Home Fireside.

Whate'er be my fortune, in shadow or shine,—
'Mid comfort, stern labour, or woe,
May I ne'er miss the taste of those waters divine
From the well-springs of Genius that flow;
I should lose a sweet charm, I should lack a great joy,
And my heart would seem withered and dried,
Did I want what has been my delight from a boy,—
A Book for the Home Fireside.

Bless the Bards and the Prosemen, wherever their clime,
Who bequeath us the wealth of their thought,
Their true revelations, their visions sublime,
Their fancies so tenderly wrought!
We were poor, with the riches of kings for our dower,
Without what their pens have supplied;
And that brain must be barren which owns not the power
Of a Book for the Home Fireside.

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Dear child! let thy leisure be linked with the page,
But one nor too light nor austere;
May its precepts improve thee, its spirit engage,
And its sentiments soften and cheer;
May it keep thy affections in freshness and bloom;
Console thee, exalt thee, and guide;
Be a flower in the sunshine, a star in the gloom,
A Book for the Home Fireside!

140

AUTUMNAL SONNETS.

[It seems but yesterday, when merry Spring]

It seems but yesterday, when merry Spring
Leapt o'er the lea, while clustering round her feet
Sprang buds and blossoms, beautiful and sweet,
And her glad voice made wood and welkin ring.
Now Autumn lords it o'er the quiet lands,
Like Joseph, clad in many-coloured vest,
Flinging rich largess from his bounteous hands,
And calling upon man to be his guest.
Like Joseph, he dispenses needful corn,
And fruitage, too, of many a goodly tree,
So that we may not feel ourselves forlorn,
Pining for sustenance at Nature's knee.
Corn, oil, and wine! there's music in the sound!
Oh, would that none might lack when such blest gifts abound!

[Not yet is autumn desolate and cold]

Not yet is autumn desolate and cold,
For all his woods are kindling into hues
Of gorgeous beauty, mixed and manifold,
Which in the soul a kindred glow transfuse.
The stubble fields gleam out like tarnished gold
In the mild lustre of the temperate day,
And where the ethereal ocean is unrolled,
Light clouds, like barques of silver, float away;

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Ruffling the colours of the forest leaves,
The winds make music as they come and go;
Whispers the withering brake; the streamlet grieves,
Or seems to grieve, with a melodious woe;
Whilst in soft notes, which o'er the heart prevail,
The ruddy-breasted Robin pours his tender tale.

[The varying seasons ever roll, and run]

The varying seasons ever roll, and run
Into each other, like that are of light,
Born of the shower and coloured by the sun—
Which spans the heavens when April skies are bright.
First comes green-kirtled Spring, who leadeth on
Blue-mantled Summer of maturer age,
Sultana of the year. When she is gone,
Gold-girdled Autumn, solemn as a sage,
Reigns for a time, and on earth's ample page
(Illumined by his hand) writes “Plenty here!”
Then white-cowled Winter steps upon the stage,
Like aged monk, keen, gloomy, and austere.
But he whose soul sustains no cloud nor thrall,
Perceives power, beauty, good, and fitness in them all.

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THE CHILD AND THE DEW-DROPS.

(IN MEMORY OF A LOST SON).

“O dearest mother! tell me, pray,
Why are the dew-drops gone so soon?
Could they not stay till close of day,
To sparkle on the flowery spray,
Or on the fields till noon?”

The mother gazed upon her boy,
Earnest with thought beyond his years,
And felt a sharp and sad annoy,
That meddled with her deepest joy,
But she restrained her tears.

“My child, 'tis said such beauteous things,
Too often loved with vain excess,
Are swept away by angel wings,
Before contamination clings
To their frail loveliness.

“Behold yon rainbow, brightening yet,
To which all mingled hues are given!
There are thy dew-drops, grandly set
In a resplendent coronet
Upon the brow of heaven.

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“No stain of earth can reach them there,
Woven with sunbeams there they shine,
A transient vision of the air,
But yet a symbol, pure and fair,
Of love and peace divine.”

The boy gazed upward into space,
With eager and inquiring eyes,
While o'er his fair and thoughtful face
Came a faint glory, and a grace
Transmitted from the skies.

Ere the last odorous sigh of May,
That child lay down beneath the sod;
Like dew, his young soul passed away,
To mingle with the brighter day
That veils the throne of God.

Mother, thy fond, foreboding heart
Truly foretold thy loss and pain;
But thou didst choose the patient part
Of resignation to the smart,
And owned thy loss his gain.

144

MERCY.

God looked, and smiled upon the wakening earth,
In form, power, motion, wondrous and complete—
Which in the flush and beauty of new birth
Breasted the seas of ether at His feet.
Forth with companion worlds, that throbbed and shone
With warmth and light transmitted from His throne,
On noiseless axles ever spinning round,
She took her radiant way along the vast profound.

God called to Him three ministers, who wait
Unceasing on His wise and sovereign will,
Servants, and yet partakers of His state,
And watchers of all human good and ill;
An angel-formed triumvirate, with air
Of lofty thought beaming from foreheads bare,
August in presence as they were in name,
And clothed in flowing robes of many-coloured flame.

Justice was one, in aspect calm and cold,
With a severe, but not oppressive mien;
Another Truth, with brow sublimely bold,
And onward looks, all radiant and serene;
The last was Mercy, whose consoling eyes
Caught the reflection of celestial skies,
Mercy, with beauteous and beseeching face,
And wedded hands upraised with supplicating grace.

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“Let us make Man, for, lo! yon lovely sphere,
Which in its amplitude of orbit rolls,
Shall be—ye bright Intelligences, hear!—
Place of probation for immortal souls;
There shall Man dwell—there shall he rule and reign,
But not exempt from sinfulness and pain,
Yet destined, 'mid his troubles and his storms,
To people boundless Heaven with countless angel forms.”

“Oh, make him not!” cried Justice; “I foresee
That he will trample on Thy sacred laws,
Doubt, question, violate Thy great decree,
Feel his own being, yet deny its cause.”
“Oh, make him not!” cried Truth; “for he will toil
'Gainst Thee and me, and ruthlessly despoil
Thy sanctuaries, grow corrupt and vain,
Worship himself, and scorn Thy everlasting reign.”

“Create this being, good and gracious Lord!”
Said gentle Mercy, with imploring look—
“And I will guide him by Thy precious Word,
The wisdom of Thy yet unwritten Book;
My voice shall move him with mysterious power;
My wings shall shield him in the perilous hour;
I'll check, subdue, inspire, as best I may,
The soul thou deign'st to breathe into the form of clay.”

“Even so be it!” And Man straightway was born,
Richly endued, and full of love and trust;
Serene, pure, happy, was his early morn,
Till the dread Tempter bowed him to the dust;
Then shame, and sorrow, and recurrent sin,
Shook his best nature, soiled the shrine within;
But Mercy pleaded, and God sent him light
To cheer his darkling soul, and guide his steps aright.

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Let's take the angel Mercy to our heart,
And with her walk the rugged paths of life;
List to her teachings; learn the exalted art
That conquers hatred, prejudice, and strife.
Not Truth, nor Justice, must we put away,
But lean towards Mercy whensoe'er we may;
Forgive our brother, be ourselves forgiven,
And thus by gentlest deeds sue for the smiles of Heaven.

147

A PLEA FOR WOMAN.

It is well that beauteous woman
Has the quickest sense of wrong;
That the tenderest traits of feeling
To her faithful heart belong;
That her pure, heroic spirit,
Made to soften and prevail,
Wins its way to truth and justice,
When our ruder efforts fail.

Has she not from earliest ages
Borne the heaviest load of life,
Suffered in the silent conflict,
Struggled in the rudest strife?
Has she not with patient meekness
Won and worn the martyr's crown?
Even by her seeming weakness
Pulled the strongest tyrant down?

Day by day she has encountered
In her own domestic round,
Sharpest griefs, severest tortures,
All for language too profound;
Trembled through her woman's nature
Lest the outward world should know,
Single in her calm endurance,
Loving in her lofty woe.

148

Pestilence has not appalled her,
Dungeons have not driven her back,
She has smiled upon the scaffold,
And been silent on the rack.
She, a ministress of mercy,
Has gone forth from door to door,
'Suaging sickness, soothing sorrow,
In the chambers of the poor.

All unselfish, she has pleaded,
With an angel's earnest grace,
'Gainst the brand-mark and the bondage
Of old Afric's dusky race;
And not only for the alien,—
If an alien there can be—
But for all who shrink and suffer
On her own side of the sea:

Pleaded for her sister woman,
Moiling through the joyless day,
Hungering, hopeless, ever trembling
Lest she swerve from virtue's way;
Pleaded for the little children
Growing up to dangerous youth,
For the want of wholesome knowledge,
For the lack of genial truth.

And she has not been ungifted
With the mind's superior powers,
But has brought us bloom and fragrance
From the muse's magic bowers;
She has stirred our inmost natures
With a true and graceful pen,
Even snatched a wreath of honour
From the bolder brows of men.

149

Then let this dear mediator,
This companion of our way,
Have her natural power and province
In the great work of to-day;
Let her go upon her mission,
If she have no wish to roam,
Nor to break the ties that bind her
To the sacred bounds of home.

Let her have the purest knowledge,
That hereafter she may be
Teacher of serenest virtues,
To the children round her knee;
Foresight, faithfulness, forbearance,
Charity, and all good things,
Which prepare the human creature
For its future angel wings.

150

HOME.

Let us honour the gods of the household alway,
Love ever the hearth and its graces,
The spot where serenely and cheerfully play
The smiles of familiar faces;
Where the calm, tender tones of affection are heard;
Where the child's gladsome carol is ringing;
Where the heart's best emotions are quickened and stirred,
By the founts that are inwardly springing.

Oh! what are the charms of the banquet-hour glee,
And the words of frivolity spoken,
To the holier joys 'neath our quiet roof-tree,
When the compact of love is unbroken?
Not the selfish delight, the obstreperous mirth,
Not the glare of conventional splendour,
May compare with the spells that encircle our hearth,
If it hold but the true and the tender.

Too long 'mid the gay revel's profitless scene
The weak one may foolishly linger,
Where false pleasure lures him with treacherous mien,
And holds him with magical finger;

151

But he who has wisdom to baffle the snare
Clings close to his home, and how dearly!
Fond feelings, kind looks, are in store for him there,
And gentle words uttered sincerely.

Howsoever the spirit may struggle and fret
In the conflict of worldly commotion,
There's a solace to soothe and to strengthen us yet,
If home have our truest devotion.
It needeth not hall, nor palatial dome,
To afford us a refuge so holy;
To the loving and pure any spot is a home,
Be it ever so narrow and lowly.

And home, when it is home, sounds sweet in our ears,
For it speaks of our heart-cherished treasure;
'Tis a word which beguiles us of tenderest tears,
Or thrills us with tranquillest pleasure;
It prompts us to set rude enjoyments at nought,
It chastens our speech and demeanour;
It nerves us to action, awakes us to thought,
And makes our whole being serener.

Dear home, rightly guarded and graced, is a soil
Where the virtues are constantly growing;
'Tis a sanctified shelter, the guerdon of toil,
A thousand calm blessings bestowing.
Home, country, humanity, heaven! How they please,
Things leaving all else at a distance!
Who lends a true soul, does his duty to these,
Fulfils the best ends of existence.

152

LOOK UP.

“Look up!” cried the seaman, with nerves like steel,
As skyward his glance he cast,
And beheld his own son grow giddy, and reel
On the point of the tapering mast.
Look up! and the bold boy lifted his face,
And banished his brief alarms,
Slid down at once from his perilous place,
And leapt in his father's arms.

Look up! we cry to the sorely oppressed,
Who seem from all comfort shut,
You had better look up to the mountain crest,
Than down to the precipice foot.
The one offers heights ye may hope to gain,
Pure ether, and freedom, and room;
The other bewilders the aching brain
With roughness, and danger, and gloom.

Look up! meek soul, by affliction bent,
Nor dally with dull despair,
Look up, and with faith, to the firmament,
For Heaven and mercy are there.

153

The frail flower droops in the stormy shower,
And the shadows of needful night,
But it looks to the sun in the after hour,
And takes full measure of light.

Look up! sad man, by adversity brought
From high unto low estate,
Play not with the bane of corrosive thought,
Nor murmur at chance and fate.
Renew thy hopes; look the world in the face,
For it helps not those who repine;
Press on, and its cheer will amend thy pace;
Succeed, and its homage is thine.

Look up! great crowd, who are foremost set
In the changeful battle of life;
Some days of calm may reward ye yet
For years of allotted strife.
Look up, and beyond, there's a guerdon there
For the humble and pure of heart,
Fruition of joys unalloyed by care,
Of peace that can never depart.

Look up! large spirit, by Heaven inspired,
Thou rare and expansive soul!
Look up, with endeavour and zeal untired,
And strive for the loftiest goal;
Advance, and encourage the kindred throng,
Who toil up the slopes behind,
To follow, and hail with triumphant song
The holier regions of mind!

154

NOTHING IS LOST.

Nothing is lost; the drop of dew
That trembles on the leaf or flower
Is but exhaled, to fall anew
In summer's thunder-shower:
Perchance to shine within the bow
That fronts the sun at fall of day;
Perchance to sparkle in the flow
Of fountains far away.

Nought lost, for even the tiniest seed,
By wild birds borne or breezes blown,
Finds something suited to its need,
Wherein 'tis sown and grown;
Perchance finds sustenance and soil
In some remote and desert place,
Or 'mid the crowded homes of toil
Sheds usefulness and grace.

The little drift of common dust,
By the March winds disturbed and tossed,
Though scattered by the fitful gust,
Is changed, but never lost;
It yet may bear some sturdy stem,
Some proud oak battling with the blast,
Or crown with verdurous diadem
Some ruin of the past.

155

The furnace quenched, the flame put out,
Still cling to earth or soar in air,
Transformed, diffused, or blown about,
To burn again elsewhere;
Haply to make the beacon-blaze
That gleams athwart the briny waste,
Or light the social lamp, whose rays
Illume the home of taste.

The touching tones of minstrel art,
The breathings of some mournful flute
(Which we have hard with listening heart),
Are not extinct when mute:
The language of some household song,
The perfume of some cherished flower,
Though gone from outward sense, belong
To memory's after hour.

So with our words, or harsh, or kind,
Uttered, they are not all forgot,
But leave some trace upon the mind,
Pass on, yet perish not.
As they are spoken, so they fall
Upon the spirit spoken to,
Scorch it like drops of burning gall,
Or soothe like honey dew.

So with our deeds, for good or ill
They have their power, scarce understood;
Then let us use our better will
To make them rife with good.
Like circles on a lake they go,
Ring within ring, and never stay;
Oh, that our deeds were fashioned so
That they might bless alway.

156

Then since these lesser things ne'er die,
But work beyond our poor control,
Say, shall that suppliant for the sky,
The greater human soul?
Ah, no! it yet will spurn the past,
And search the future for its rest,
Joyful, if it be found at last
'Mong the redeemed and blest!

157

LOVE.

Love is an odour from the heavenly bowers
Which stirs our senses tenderly, and brings
Dreams which are shadows of diviner things,
Beyond this grosser atmosphere of ours.
An oasis of verdure and of flowers,
Love smileth on the pilgrim's weary way;
There sweeter airs, there fresher waters play;
There purer solace speeds the tranquil hours.
This glorious passion, unalloyed, endowers
With moral beauty all who feel its fire;
Maid, wife and offspring, sister, mother, sire,
Are names and symbols of its hallowed powers.
Love is immortal, from our hold may fly
Earth's other joys, but Love can never die.

158

THE RETURN OF PEACE.

Once more to visit a distracted world,
The spirit of sweet Peace comes trembling down,
As war's ensanguined flag is newly furled,
And the gorged vulture from his banquet flown;
She comes to solace our lorn hearts again
For countless losses in the fatal fray;
Oh, let us give her an enduring reign,
Nor scare the angel visitant away!

Her deeds are bloodless, dignified, and just,
'Gainst the mixed evils of our lower life,
And far more worthy of our hopeful trust
Than the vain victories of mortal strife;
Against injustice, ignorance, and crime,
She sets her hallowed powers in bright array;
Oh, let us make her sojourn here sublime,
Nor scare the angel visitant away.

Let stalwart Labour clear his clouded brow,
Toil on, but with strong rectitude of soul,
Seize manfully the treasures of the Now,
And strive with honour for a loftier goal;
Let him love Freedom, whose refulgent wings
Add richer glory to the glorious day,
And Peace, for the calm blessings that she brings,
Nor scare the angel visitant away.

Let men who make or minister the laws,
So use them that the humblest may rejoice,
And get the noble meed of pure applause
From a united people's grateful voice;

159

Let them give lustre, majesty, and grace,
And vital spirit, to the lands they sway,
Keep faith with Peace, and bless her dear embrace,
Nor scare the angel visitant away.

Art, Science, Knowledge, may serenely grow,
And human virtues quicken and expand,
Even gaunt Poverty o'ercome its woe,
Where Peace remains the guardian of the land;
But he is wilful, pitiless, or blind,
From right, and righteous feeling, all astray,
Foe to his God, his country, and his kind,
Who scares the angel visitant away.

For dormant passion, prejudice, and pride,
Start into evil at War's trumpet-call;
And hearts are seared, and souls are trouble-tried,
And minds subjected to a slavish thrall.
While industry is baffled, Waste runs wild,
And Liberty stands still in mute dismay!
Let us choose Peace, if wise and undefiled,
Nor scare the angel visitant away.

Albeit men differ in their clime and creed,
In thought and predilection, as in tongue,
Say, would the nations murmur to be freed
From hideous War and its unfailing wrong?
Would they could bid the mighty torment cease,
By some great law which none would disobey,
Make an inviolate covenant with Peace,
Nor scare the angel visitant away.

July 1855.

160

SAINT CHRISTOPHER.

A LEGEND.

“My limbs wax strong, my thoughts expand,”
Said Christopher of old,
As he lay musing 'mid the hills,
His flock within the fold,—
“I fain would serve some mighty power,
The highest, if may be,
And change this dull and dreamy life
For one more wide and free.”

He girt his robe about his loins,
And wandered far away,
Until he reached a battle-ground,
That shuddered with the fray.
With stalwart strength, and dauntless heart,
He turned the tide of fight,
And snatched a wreath of victory
Ere waned the evening light.

Then the exulting host bowed down
Before a gorgeous shrine,
And seemed to offer words of praise
Unto a power divine.

161

“A king divine?” said Christopher,
“Where does the monarch dwell?”
“Above, beyond us,” answered they,
“But where we cannot tell.”

Again he gathered up his robe,
And donned his sandal shoes,
Took staff in hand, and wandered forth,
Not knowing where to choose;
Until amid the lonesome wild
He met a hermit hoar,
Who lifted up his kindly eyes,
And scanned him o'er and o'er.

“Where may I find the king divine?”
Outspoke the pilgrim brave,
“I fain would serve him with my strength,
More truly than a slave.”
“His kingdom is not here, my son,
Albeit his cross I wear:
Wouldst win admission to his throne?
Lift up thy voice in prayer.”

“I cannot pray, thou reverent man,
I have not words enow,
But if brave deeds may aught avail,
These will I strive to do.”
“Behold yon torrent!” said the sage,
“That roars from hill to glen;
Wait on its banks, and watch for work;
Serve God by helping men.”

The pilgrim found a leafy tent
Beside that dangerous wave,

162

And daily sought, with earnest zeal,
To succour and to save;
And when he snatched some precious life
From that o'erwhelming stream,
His good, glad feelings found their way
Up to the great Supreme.

One day there came a little child,
With soft and sunny hair,
With eyes that beamed serenely mild,
With face divinely fair;
And with a voice of winning power
The little stranger cried—
“Come help me, valiant Christopher,
Across this angry tide.”

He took the lovely infant up
Upon his shoulders broad,
With strange emotions in his soul,
That pleased, yet overawed;
But fiercer grew the torrent's force,
And heavier grew the child,
Who almost bowed the strong man down
Beneath those waters wild.

“O river! why dost rave the more
In absence of the storm?
And, child, what art thou that I bend
Beneath thy tiny form?”
“Press on, good servant as thou art,
Be faithful to thy word;
Thou bear'st the world's whole weight to-day,
For I am Christ, thy Lord.”

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“The stream is past, the danger o'er,
Blest be thy future powers!
Here plant thy staff. Behold how soon
It blossoms into flowers!
There let it stand and flourish long,
A symbol and a sign
Of thy unswerving faithfulness
Unto the King divine.

“Unsought, untaught of men, thy heart,
Moved by a hidden power,
Did scorn the specious things of earth
For Heaven's transcending dower.
I give thee speech, that thou may'st teach
Hearts kindred to thy own;
Go forth, and bring repentant souls
Unto my Father's throne.”

Prone on the earth, Saint Christopher
His trembling homage paid,
While on his head the holy child
A lasting blessing laid.
When he looked up, the vision fair
Had vanished from his eyes,
But an unwonted glory streamed
Along the wondering skies.

164

THE LOST ONE.

I mourn, albeit I mourn in vain,
To miss that being from my side
Who bound in Love's resistless chain
My selfishness and pride;
She whom I proved in after days
A faultless friend, a faithful wife,
Who cheered me through the roughest ways
Along the vale of life.

I miss her greeting when I rise
To needful toil at early morn,
And the bright welcome of her eyes
When irksome day is worn;
I sorely miss from ear and sight
Her comely face, her gentle tongue,
Which praised me when I went aright,
And warned when I was wrong.

I lack her love, which filled my heart
With kindred tenderness and joy,
And fondly kept my soul apart
From the harsh world's annoy;

165

That love which raised me from the dust
Of sordid wish and low desire,
And taught me by its own sweet trust
How nobly to aspire.

My hopes were wilder than I deemed,
When she espoused my humble lot,
For my connubial pleasures seemed
As they would perish not;
But an unerring Providence,
Whose power is ever just and great,
Called my beloved companion hence,
And left me desolate.

The greenness from my path is gone,
Its springs are sunken in the sand,
And wearily I travel on
Across a desert land.
The prospect round me, once so bright
With glorious hues, seems dim and bare,
But the far distance shows one light
Which keeps me from despair.

Oh, no! not wholly desolate,
For she has left her image here,
And I will wrestle with my fate
For sake of one so dear.
Great God, keep strong and undefiled
The only fledgling in my nest,
My winsome boy, my only child,
And make his father blest.

166

May his lost mother's spirit now
Look down from her exalted place,
And shed on his unconscious brow
A portion of her grace!
May Heaven inspire my widowed soul
For highest duties, holiest things,
And when I near the shadowy goal
Lend me immortal wings.

167

NOT BREAD ALONE.

Albeit for lack of bread we die,
Die in a hundred nameless ways,
'Tis not for bread alone we cry
In these our later days.

It is not fit that man should spend
His strength of frame, his length of years,
In toiling for that daily end,
Mere bread, oft wet with tears.

That is not wholly good and gain
Which seals the mind and sears the heart,
The life-long labour to sustain
Man's perishable part.

His is the need and his the right
Of leisure, free from harsh control,
That he may seek for mental light,
And cultivate his soul.

Leisure to foster into bloom
Affections struggling to expand;
And make his thought, with ampler room,
Refine his skill of hand.

168

And he should look with reverent eyes
On Nature's ever-varying page;
Not solely are the wondrous skies
For schoolman and for sage.

Earth's flower-hues blush, heaven's starlights burn,
Not only for the easy few;
To them the toiling man should turn
For truth and pleasure too.

And he should have his proper share
Of God's great gifts, whate'er they be,
Food, raiment, stainless light and air,
And knowledge pure and free.

But if ye stint his brain or bread,
And drive him in one dreary round
(Since he and his must needs be fed),
Ye crush him to the ground.

His mind can have no soaring wing;
His heart can feel no generous glow,
Ye make of him that wretched thing—
A slave, and yet a foe!

169

THE HOUSEHOLD DARLING.

Little Ella, fairest, dearest
Unto me and unto mine,
Earthly cherub, coming nearest
Unto me and unto mine!
Her brief absence frets and pains me,
Her blithe presence solace brings,
Her spontaneous love restrains me
From a hundred selfish things.

Little Ella moveth lightly,
Like a graceful fawn at play:
Like a brooklet running brightly
In the genial smile of May:
Like a breeze upon the meadows,
All besprent with early flowers;
Like a bird 'mid sylvan shadows,
In the golden summer hours.

You should see her, when with Nature
She goes forth to think or play,
Every limb and every feature
Drinking in the joy of day;
Stooping oft 'mid floral splendour,
Snatching colours and perfumes,
She doth seem, so fair and tender,
Kin to the ambrosial blooms.

170

Sweet thought sitteth like a garland
On her placid brows and eyes,
Eyes which seem to see a far land
Through the intervening skies;
And she seems to listen often
To some voice beyond the spheres,
Whilst her earnest features soften
Into calmness, kin to tears.

Not all mirthful is her manner,
Though no laugh so blithe as hers;
Grave demeanour comes upon her
When her inmost nature stirs.
When a gentle lip reproves her,
All her gladsome graces flee,
But the word “forgiveness” moves her
With new confidence and glee.

Should a shade of sickness near me,
Then she takes a holier grace,
Comes to strengthen and to cheer me,
With her angel light of face.
Up the stair I hear her coming,
Duly at the morning hour,
Softly singing, sweetly humming,
Like a bee about a flower.

Good books wake serenest feelings
In her undeveloped mind,
Holy thoughts, whose high revealings
Teach her love for human kind.
Music thrills her with a fervour
As from songs of seraphim;
May bright spirits teach and nerve her
To partake their perfect hymn!

171

We will show her things of beauty
In the purest form and hue,
And the charms of moral duty,
Though our virtues are but few;
We will strive, despite our weakness,
So to train her thoughts and deeds
That true firmness, linked with meekness,
May sustain her when she needs.

God of Heaven! in Thy good seeing
Spare this darling child to me,
Spare me this unsullied being
Till she brings me close to Thee!
Unseen angels! bless her, mould her
Into goodness, clothed with grace,
That at last I may behold her
Talking with ye, face to face!

172

THE DRUMMER'S DEATH-ROLL.

To a region of song and of sunnier day,
The battle-host wended its wearisome way,
Through the terrible Splugen's tenebrious gloom,
That seemed to lead on to the portals of doom.
But the Alp-spirit struggled to break and to bar
The resolute march of those minions of war;
For the savage winds howled through the gorges of stone;
And the pine forest muttered a menace and moan;
And the rush of the hurricane caused them to reel;
And the frost-breezes smote them like sabres of steel;
And the torrents incessantly thundered and hissed;
And the scream of the eagle came harsh through the mist;
And the avalanche stirred with a deep, muffled roar,
Like the boom of the sea on a desolate shore,
Till it leapt from its throne with a flash, and a speed
That hurled to destruction both rider and steed;
And Love could not hope, by the strongest endeavour,
To weep on the spot where they slumber for ever!

A drummer went down with the burden of snow,
But struggled, and lived, 'mid the buried below,
Survived for a brief, but how awful a space!
In the granite-bound depth of that horrible place.

173

He looked from the jaws of that rock-riven grave,
And called on the Mother of Jesus to save;
But Heaven seemed deaf to his piteous wail,
And men could not hear his sad voice on the gale;
And, alas! human help could not come to him there,
Nor the breezes waft home the farewell of his prayer.
But still he clung closely to hope and to life,
And waged with disaster a desperate strife,—
A conflict which midnight might solemnly close,
And leave him the peace of a lasting repose.

A sudden thought thrilled through his wandering brain,
His drum lay beside him, he smote it amain,
And brought from its hollow a vigorous sound,
That wakened the wild mountain echoes around,
And startled the vulture that circled away,
But returned to his vigil, impatient for prey.
Roll, roll went the drum till the sunset was passed,
And scattered its tones on the hurrying blast,
While his friends, far away on their Alpine career,
Caught the dolorous sound with a sorrowful ear;
For they knew that a comrade was hopelessly lost,
Left alone to the tortures of hunger and frost,
Cut off from the reach of humanity there,
And beating his drum with the strength of despair!

But who can imagine his quick-coming fears,
His visions, his agonies, yearnings, and tears,
When paralysed, spent, and benumbed to the bone,
He sank on his snow-bed to perish alone?
What fancy can bring back the pictures that passed
O'er the brain of the desolate lost one at last,
Ere death came to still the last pulse in his breast,
And stretch out his limbs in a petrified rest?

174

Perchance his bright childhood came back to his thought,
And his youth, when his heart in love's meshes was caught,
And his village, embowered in a vine-covered vale,
With peace in its aspect, and health in its gale;
The blithe peasant maiden he learned to adore,
And his home which his shadow would darken no more,
That home where his parents and kindred were gay,
In the hope of his coming at no distant day,
That meeting which never would gladden their eyes,
Save in the blest climate of holier skies.

Whate'er his last hope, aspiration, and prayer,
Untended, he died in his loneliness there,
In a place of sublimities, horrors, and storms,
Surrounded by Nature's most terrible forms,
Where the voices of avalanche, wild wind and wave,
Sang a varying dirge o'er his rock-riven grave.
Let us hope that his soul, in the hour of its gloom,
By its faith cast aside all the terrors of doom,
Left the desolate dust to commix with the clod,
And awakened with joy in the regions of God!

175

TO A BLIND POET.

Judge me not harshly, aged man and blind,
If in my rude, brief song, I fail to bring
Aught worthy of thy worth. I cannot sing
All I have seen of thy unworldly mind.
Thy clouded eyes; thy silvery hairs; thy kind
And calm deep-thoughted countenance; thy smile
Of generous confidence, which beams midwhile
With quiet mirth, and memories unconfined;
Thy child-like love of poetry refined;
Thy thirst for Nature's melodies; thy light
Of soul which burns behind the external night;
Thy tolerant piety; thy heart resigned,
Make thee a rare example, and our pride
Is humbled to behold thy blindness glorified.

176

GERALDINE.

There thou goest, there thou goest,
In thy virgin robes arrayed,
Pale and drooping, for thou knowest,
What true heart thou hast betrayed.
Hark! thy bridal bells are ringing!
Do they waken happy tears?
Their exulting peal is flinging
Torture, discord in my ears.
Are they tuneful unto thine,
Fair and fickle Geraldine?

Now thou standest at the altar,
Where truth only should be heard;
Dost not inly feel, and falter
To pronounce one fateful word?
No! I hear thy lips of beauty
Utter the degrading “yes,”
And the pastor, as in duty,
Stretches forth his hands to bless.
Can such compact be divine,
Fair, false-hearted Geraldine?

Of the tender vows we plighted
Thine were flung in empty air,
And my spirit is benighted
In the darkness of despair!

177

Gold has bought thee; will it bless thee?
With thou find it ought but dross?
Will the hands that now caress thee
Pay thee for a true heart's loss?
Time, perchance, will show the sign,
Fair and faithless Geraldine!

Go, and may all ill betide thee!
Go, to splendid misery led,
With that mindless worm beside thee,—
Him whom thou hast dared to wed!
May the ring that rounds thy finger
Seem a serpent to thy gaze,
And a sense of loneness linger
With thee all thy coming days;
Loveless, childless, may'st thou pine,
Fair, false-hearted Geraldine!

Frenzied words! I will not blame thee,
I whose soul thy beauty won;
Sense of duty overcame thee
In the wrong which thou hast done.
Thou has left a grief within me,—
Grief which time may yet repress,
But let sweet forgiveness win me
To desire thy happiness.
Whatsoe'er of pain be mine,
Peace be with thee, Geraldine.

178

CHRISTMAS EVE.

Christmas Eve came to us darkly,
Darkly to our cottage door,
Not with brave and boisterous greeting,
As it used to come of yore;
Not with soft and silent snow-fall,
Nor with frost-wind brisk and keen,
Yet it brought its berries blushing
'Mid the holly, hale and green.

Many busy footsteps pattered
Through our little thoroughfare,
Children sent on pleasant errands
For the dainties they must share;
Young and merry-hearted maidens
Gaily flitted to and fro,
With a quick throb in their bosoms,
With their faces in a glow.

And the clean and cheerful windows
Gleamed upon the sombre night,
While commingled voices, singing,
Told of leisure and delight;
Genial voices, linked together
In some quaint and homely rhyme,
In some old and hopeful carol,
Fitted for the holy time.

179

In that little street of workers,
Brightening up from side to side,
One poor dwelling showed no signal
Of the merry Chrismastide;
Feebly shone a single taper
By the hearthstone, cold and bare;
Poverty and tribulation
Hung their mournful banners there.

A forlorn and friendless widow
Gazed upon her only boy,
Whose young stream of life was ebbing
Back unto a realm of joy;
And as Time, with stealthy footstep,
Strode into another day,
Death stood by that lonely mourner,
For the life had ebbed away.

With the first burst of her anguish—
“Hark! what news the angels bring!”
Rang from loud and joyous voices,
Mixed with tuneful flute and string;
And she thought she heard her darling,
High among the radiant spheres,
Singing with melodious gladness—
“Mother, mother, dry thy tears!”

And she dried them, and subdued them,
Kept their fountains sealed within,
Lest her unavailing sorrow
Should be written down as sin;
But the cheering faith came o'er her
That she was not all alone,
That the Child-God of the manger
Had the keeping of her own.

180

PRECIOUS TIME.

When we have passed beyond life's middle arch,
With what accelerated speed the years
Seem to flit by us, sowing hopes and fears
As they pursue their never-ceasing march!
But is our wisdom equal to the speed
That brings us nearer to the shadowy bourn,
Whence we must never, never more return?
Alas! each wish is wiser than the deed!
“We take no note of time but from its loss,”
Sang one who reasoned solemnly and well;
And so it is, we make that dowry dross
Which would be treasure, did we learn to quell
Vain dreams and passions. Wisdom's alchemy
Transmutes to priceless gold the moments as they fly!

181

A THOUGHT ON WAR.

'Tis strange, profanely strange, but men will stand
Upon some spot of blighted happiness,
Where the Omnipotent's mysterious hand
Has fallen with disaster and distress,
And they, perchance, will question His just laws,
Wax grave, and sigh, and look demurely wise,
As if, poor fools! they could arraign the Cause,
And see with Wisdom's never-failing eyes!
But let them saunter o'er a battle-plain,
Still red and reeking from the recent strife,
Where, spurred by lust of conquest and of gain,
Relentless heels have trod out human life,
And they will prate of greatness, glory, fame!
God! how Thy creature man insults Thy holy name!

182

JUDGE NOT TOO HASTILY.

Oh! judge not too hastily man and his mind,
Nor deem ye can read him at once and for aye,
There is some reservation, some secret behind
The face that ye look upon, look as ye may.
The moon has her aspects of change in the skies,
With her broad shield of silver, her crescent of gold,
But still there remains, turned away from our eyes,
A part of her orb we can never behold.
Even such is our nature, yet do not despair,
But foster kind feeling whatever befall;
Wait, watch, and examine, with kindness and care,
And grudge not the charity due unto all.

In outward demeanour, look, action and speech,
We alter with circumstance, meaning no ill,
Unconsciously changing our manner to each,
Through an instinct that prompteth the heart or the will.
In the presence of some our affections rebel,
With others our natural sympathies glow;
But the power, which, by turns, doth attract and repel,
Is beyond what our limited wisdom can know.
Even such is our nature, but be of good cheer,
Nor let a first feeling your reason enthral;
Ye can be kind and truthful to those ye hold dear,
And still render charity due unto all.

183

How oft we encounter, from home-life apart,
The shy and forbidding, the frank and the bold!
But the sternest in face may be kindest at heart,
And the liveliest inwardly shallow and cold.
Yon stranger who seemeth all goodness and grace,
In worldly proprieties careful alway,
May be burning with passions that warp and debase,
And building up schemes to allure and betray.
Even such is man's nature, yet be ye not sad
That the light of his virtues seems fitful and small,
Acknowledge all good, make the best of the bad,
And thus render charity due unto all.

A false one may hail us in vesture of light,
And scatter with flowers the by-ways of wrong;
A true one may haunt us in robes of the night,
And watch that we stumble not, passing along;
One frowns in his virtues; one smiles in his crimes,
One smites, while another uplifts from the ground;
But our faith should be this—for we feel it sometimes—
That commixed with all evil some good may be found.
Then judge not too hastily, lest ye condemn,
And banish some angel ye cannot recall;
To the firm of pure purpose, give honour to them,
To the frail give the charity due unto all.

184

THE HAPPY CHANGE.

(A TEMPERANCE RHYME.)

“Oh! will he come?” said Alice Wray,
“He did not once deceive,
And for the dear sake of the past
I will again believe.”
So faithful Alice trimmed the hearth,
And made the kettle sing,
Responsive to the cricket's voice
That made the cottage ring.

Fair Alice and her children three,
In clean, though poor attire,
Together chatted pleasantly
Beside the evening fire.
Hark! slowly beats the minster clock!
Be patient yet awhile,
Another brief half-hour, Alice,
Will make thee weep or smile.

She waited with a throbbing heart
Until the middle chime,
When William o'er the threshold stepped,
Hours ere his wonted time.
Sober, erect, and thoughtful, too,
He clasped his joyful wife,
Who deemed that sombre winter eve
The happiest of her life.

185

“I've vowed,” he cried, “no more to touch
The cup of deadly ill;
God! help me to retrieve the past
With well-directed will!
And now, dear wife, let us partake
The food which God has blessed.”
And never was a frugal meal
Enjoyed with sweeter zest.

With reverent hands he oped the Page
He had not touched for years,
And read and wept, but found at last
Hope, comfort, in his tears.
Then the contented pair lay down
In peace, but newly won,
With the consoling consciousness
Of one great duty done.

And William swerved not; from that hour
He chose the better way,
And from the path of usefulness
Scarce had one thought to stray;
With speech, heart, soul, he strove to wean
The drunkard from hsi bane;
Nor were his labours profitless,
Nor were his teachings vain.

Few are the minds so prompt and firm
As this once-erring one;
Would there were more to help the frail,
Ere every hope is gone!
Blest be the cause for which they toil,
And may their power expand,
Till they have crushed the giant curse,
The nightmare of the land!

186

A VOICE FROM THE FACTORY.

(WRITTEN IN APRIL 1851.)

I hear men laud the coming Exhibition,
I read its promise in the printed page,
And thence I learn that its pacific mission
Is to inform and dignify the age;
It comes to congregate the alien nations,
In new, but friendly bonds, old foes to bind;
It comes to rouse to nobler emulations
Man's skill of hand, man's energy of mind.

A thousand vessels breasting wind and ocean,
A thousand fire-cars, snorting on their way,
Will startle London with a strange commotion,
Beneath the genial radiance of May;
And we shall hail the peaceable invasion
With voice of welcome, cordial grasp of hand,
And, in the grandeur of the great occasion,
See signs of brotherhood 'tween every land.

Would I might walk beneath that dome transcendent,
Than old Alhambra's halls more proudly fair,
Nay, than Aladdin's palace more resplendent,
Bright as if quarried from the fields of air;
Would I might wander in its wondrous mazes,
Filled with embodied thought in every guise,
See Art and Science in their countless phases,
And bless the power that gave them to my eyes.

187

Men are about me with pale, vacant faces,
Human in shape, in spirit dark and low;
They do not care for Genius and its graces,
Nor understand, nor do they seek to know.
But I have read and pondered, feeling ever
Deep reverence for the lofty, good, and true,
And, therefore, yearn to see this high endeavour
Stand grandly realised before my view.

But what to me are these inspiring changes,
That gorgeous show, that spectacle sublime?
My labour, leagued with poverty, estranges
Me from this mental marvel of our time.
I cannot share the triumph and the pageant,
I a poor toiler at the whirling wheel,
The slave, not ruler, of a ponderous agent,
With bounding steam-pulse, and with arms of steel.

My ears are soothed by no melodious measures,
No work of sculptor charms my longing gaze,
No painter thrills me with exalted pleasures,
But books and thought have cheered my darkest days.
Thank God for Sundays! Then impartial Nature
Folds me within the shelter of her wings,
And drinking in her every voice and feature,
I feel more reconciled to men and things.

I shall not see our Babel's summer wonder,
Save in the proseman's page or poet's song,
But I shall hear it in the far-off thunder
Of other lands, applauding loud and long.
Why should I murmur? I shall share with others
The glorious fruits of that triumphant day;
Hail, to the time that makes all nations brothers!
Hail, to the advent of the coming May!

188

HARVEST HYMN.

The nations heave with throes of strife,
And men look on with wondering eyes,
Mourn the dread waste of human life,
Yet raise their angry battle-cries.
While poets cheer the valiant throng
With chants of hope or victory,
Be mine a pure thanksgiving song,—
Lord of the harvest, praise to Thee!

Thy tented fields how different they,
How lovely, soothing, and serene!
Where the ripe sheaves, in long array,
Smile in the soft autumnal sheen;
And where no ruder sounds are heard
Than the blithe reaper's voice of glee,
Or vagrant breeze, or gladsome bird,—
Lord of the harvest, praise to Thee!

Whoever fails, Thou dost not fail;
Whoever sleeps, Thou dost not sleep;
With fattening shower, and fostering gale,
Thy mercy brings the time to reap;
Man marks each season and its sign,
And sows the seed and plants the tree,
But form, growth, fulness, all are Thine,—
Lord of the harvest, praise to Thee!

189

O God! it is a pleasant thing
To see the precious grain expand,
And the broad hands of Plenty fling
Her golden largess o'er the land;
To see the fruitage swell and glow,
And bow with wealth the parent tree;
To see the purple vintage flow,—
Lord of abundance, praise to Thee!

Praise for the glorious harvest days,
And all the blessings that we share;
For the unbounded sunlight praise,
And for the free and vital air;
Praise for the faith that looks above;
The hope of immortality;
For life, health, virtue, truth and love,
Maker and Giver, praise to Thee!

190

THE ARAB'S SONG.

In Caypha's hallowed garden-grounds,
All shadowy, green and cool,
Where leaps the living fountain-jet,
Where sleeps the glassy pool,—
Swathed in an atmosphere of joy,
There dwells a virgin flower,
Whose breath and beauty seem to fill
Its consecrated bower.

The bulbul seems to love it, too,
And pours its pensive tune
Through the soft lapse and slumbrous light
Of the admiring moon;
And when the morning kindleth up,
The sun's enamoured beams
Look in to bless with fostering glow
This flower of all my dreams.

The acacia drops its silver dew,
The palm its tender gloom,
To cherish this “consummate flower,”
And share its full perfume;
And Syria's ardent sky looks down
On its expanding form,
But seldom there hangs lowering cloud,
Or wakes the voice of storm.

191

Its eyes (oh, wild, yet winning eyes!),
Which shame the proud gazelle,
Shine like twin trembling gems that lie
In ocean's rosy shell.
Now they repose in quiet trance
Beneath thought's holy sway;
Anon, they burn with haughty fire,
To scare my hopes away.

So sweet its fragrance, and so far
It floats on breeze and blast,
The pilgrim halts within its reach,
And deems the desert passed;
The chief who flies on foaming steed
Before unequal foes,
Checks for a space his fearful flight
To breathe it as he goes.

The simoom's fleet and fiery wing
Abhors all grateful smells,
And enters with its baneful power
Where aught of freshness dwells;
But this one odour, closely sealed
Within my faithful heart,
Outlives the weary, wasting wind,
And will not thence depart.

In the soft air of pastoral life,
Away from griefs and glooms,
Untouched by sorrow, sin, or strife,
This garden glory blooms.
Maiden, that blush of modest thought
Reveals some hidden power,
Think of thy own dear, gentle name,
And thou wilt know the flower.

192

Oh, 'twere a blessing lent of Heaven
Through long enraptured years,
To watch and shed around thee, too,
Pure love's ecstatic tears!
My desert home, my tribe, my steed,
My sword, my roving will,
I'd yield them all with thee, sweet flower,
To dwell on Carmel's hill!

193

HAPPY OLD AGE.

I feel that age has overta'en
My steps on Life's descending way,
But Time has left no lingering pain,
No shadow of an evil day;
And you, my children, gather near
To smooth and solace my decline,
And I have hope that your career
Will be as blest as mine.

Not all exempt has been my sky
From threatening storm and lowering cloud,
But sunbursts shed from source on high
Have cheered my spirit when it bowed;
Not all without the shard and thorn
Has been my path, from first to last,
But springs and flowers, of Mercy born,
Have soothed me as I passed.

I have not lived all free from sin,
For what imperfect nature can?
But I have no remorse within
For scorn of my poor fellow-man;
Kin to the humblest of my race,
And 'bove all worldly sects and creeds,
I never turned disdainful face
Against a brother's needs.

194

And now my mind, all clear and cool,
(As I serenely talk or muse),
Is tranquil as yon glassy pool,
Reflecting Autumn's sunset hues;
Time has not dulled my moral sense,
Nor has it dimmed my mental sight;
No passions weaken my defence,
No doubts and cares affright.

But Retrospection, even yet,
Will lead me through past trodden ways,
And I remember—why forget?—
The magic of my early days;
All Nature so divinely wrought,
The unravelled mystery of things,
Awoke me to exalted thought,
And lent my spirit wings.

And I remember how I grew
Up to the sunny noon of youth;
From youth to manhood, till I knew
That love was near akin to truth.
My trials, bravely overcome,
My triumphs, not of purpose vain,
All these, with vague but pleasant hum
Still murmur through my brain.

My children, offspring of a tree
Whose top is hoary with decay,
Whose trunk is shaken as may be
Before it falls and fades away—
Receive what faithful men unfold;
Revere what truthful men proclaim;
And before Heaven and man uphold
The honour of my name.

195

For me, I have no mortal fear,
No tremblings as I hurry down,
My way is clear, the end is near,
The goal, the glory, and the crown.
Then shed no bitter tears for me
As ye consign me to the dust,
Rather rejoice that I shall be
With God, my strength and trust.

196

MAY.

May, May! song-honoured May!
Whom the youthful poet has loved alway,
What has become of thy genial air,
Thy voices of music everywhere;—
The blessed blue of thy kindly skies,
Thy blooms that greet us with sweet surprise,
Thy hedgerows covered with odorous snow,
Thy waters that laugh with joy as they go?
Why art thou sullen and sad to-day,
Song-honoured May?

May, May! ever-welcome May!
How strangely thou lookest on earth to-day,
Cloudy and tearful, cold and wild,
Like a petulant woman, or wayward child!
Has winter been striving to keep thee back?
Have his bullying gales waylaid thy track?
Or is there a change 'mid the stars sublime?
Or a fitful pause in the flight of time?
Thy name is here, but thy presence away,
Ever-welcome May!

May, May! salubrious May!
We were wont to make merry thy natal day,
But custom, and feeling, are altered now,
And the people are changed even more than thou:

197

But we used to wander, in days of old,
Through fields of floral silver and gold,
Catching the apple-tree's breath and bloom,
And the ancient hawthorn's heavy perfume,
While our glad hearts beat with a healthful play,
Salubrious May!

But nothing goes wrong in the hands of God,
For His bounty lives in the quiet sod,
Whether clothed in the garb of frost or flower,
Or the liberal harvest's golden dower.
With a thoughtless spirit we oft complain,
But the doings of Nature are ne'er in vain,
For Wisdom governs the humblest things,
And Love o'ershadows with guardian wings:
In God's just power there is no delay,
O glorious May!

198

A SOUL IN SHADOW.

Lo, a Soul in Shadow! shaken
By the stormy winds of sin,
By the draught of deadly fire!
By the wiser world forsaken,
To the lowest herds akin,
He has but one fierce desire.

One desire, to quench in madness
Recollections dark and keen,
Memories of the wasted past.
How can he feel touch of gladness
Brooding over what has been,
While his conscience starts aghast?

Vain remorse! Behold his weakness
'Mid the revel and the rout,
Where dissolves his better will!
Where the host, with cunning sleekness,
Hands the treacherous wine about,
Or a draught more deadly still.

Now with mingled curse and clamour
Drink's poor victims rouse the brawl,
With wild brain and tainted breath;
Sing, blaspheme, and reel and stammer,
Reckless, ruthless, shameless all,
'Mid the blazonry of death.

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But the darkling Soul! Oh, sorrow!
How he struggles through the night
Of a phantom-haunted sleep!
Till the sweet dawn of the morrow
Shows his helplessness and blight!—
Angels, ye have cause to weep!

Home has no regards and graces
For this waif on Ruin's wild,
And he seeks no solace there.
Wasted forms and gloomy faces
Cannot make him reconciled
To that dwelling of despair.

Yet, that Soul was once unclouded,
Quick with intellectual fire,
Dignified with moral power;
Till the dread Temptation shrouded
Hope, and peace, and pure desire,
Which grew weaker every hour.

Exorcise him! drive the Demon
Out from his remorseful soul,
Out from his unquiet heart!
Lift him up, a grateful freeman,
With the means of self-control,
And ye do a noble part!

Exorcise him! not with preaching,
Not with language harsh and cold,
Not with looks of virtuous pride;
But with Charity's mild teaching,
With forgiveness manifold,
Till his soul is purified.

200

England, old heroic nation!
What avail thy lofty lore,
Moral precepts, mighty words?
Cleanse thee from this degradation,
Which within thy sea-girt shore
Slayeth more than all thy swords!

201

THE WASTE OF WAR.

Give me the gold that War has cost,
In countless shocks of feud and fray,
The wasted skill, the labour lost,
The mental treasure thrown away,—
And I will buy each rood of soil
In every yet discovered land,
Where hunters roam, where peasants toil,
Where many-peopled cities stand.

I'll clothe each ragged wretch on earth
In needful, yea, in brave attire,
Vesture befitting banquet mirth,
Which kings might envy and admire.
In every vale, on every plain,
A school shall glad the gazer's sight,
Where every poor man's child may gain
Pure knowledge, free as air and light.

I'll build asylums for the poor,
By age or ailment made forlorn;
And none shall thrust them from the door,
Or sting with looks and words of scorn.
I'll link each alien hemisphere;
Help honest men to conquer wrong;
Art, Science, Labour, nerve and cheer;
Reward the poet for his song.

202

In every crowded town shall rise
Halls academic, amply graced,
Where ignorance may soon be wise,
And coarseness learn both art and taste.
To every province shall belong
Collegiate structures, and not few,
Filled with a truth-exploring throng,
With teachers of the good and true.

In every free and peopled clime
A vast Walhalla hall shall stand,
A marble edifice sublime
For the illustrious of the land;
A pantheon for the truly great,
The wise, benevolent, and just!
A place of wide and lofty state
To honour or to hold their dust.

A temple to attract and teach
Shall lift its spire on every hill,
Where pious men shall feel and preach
Peace, mercy, tolerance, good-will.
Music of bells on Sabbath days
Round the whole earth shall gladly rise,
And one great Christian song of praise
Stream sweetly upward to the skies.

203

THE SUNDAY SCHOOL.

(WRITTEN FOR JUVENILES.)

The people of our Christian land
Have cause to bless the men who planned
That place of gentle power and rule,
The noble British Sunday School;
For there the poor man's child may come,
As to a consecrated home,
And in its hallowed precincts find
Knowledge and comfort for the mind.

The man of toil has many a care,
And little, haply, can he spare,
To teach and elevate his child,
And keep its nature undefiled;
But here, whate'er his creed, or none,
His offspring will be looked upon
With kindly eyes, and shown the way
That opens into joyful day.

Some men of toil, though husbands, sires,
May cherish selfish, low desires,
And waste the means which, wisely spent,
Would bring their household calm content.
Or they may be—how sad the case!—
In language rude, of manners base,
And by a false and fierce control
Corrupt the young untutored soul.

204

Then more the need that there should be
This refuge of humanity,
Where one day, richest of the seven,
The child may learn of love and Heaven.
But if the mother does not feel
For moral and religious weal;
If all her better instincts sleep,
Well may the pitying angels weep!

'Tis pleasant on a Sabbath morn,
When music on the air is borne,
To see young children, trim and neat,
Come forth from many a crowded street,
From mountain side, and vale and lea,
Where'er their dwelling-place may be,
To seek the Sunday School again,
Their own unbought and free domain.

And is it not a joy, I ask,
To hear them at the holy task,
Like bees assiduous in the hive,
Hoarding the sweets on which they thrive?
Seeking to know, and know aright,
The sacred Word, the Gospel light,
The glorious Gospel, which has power
To cheer the Christian's darkest hour.

'Tis grand on some great holiday
To see their orderly array,
Marshalled by zealous men, whose pride
Is to be with them, side by side.
They go to spend a day of joy
Unmingled with the world's alloy,
In Nature's presence to adore,
And learn from God one lesson more.

205

They seek the woodland's slumbrous shade
Which the fierce sun can scarce invade,
Where, banquet done, and prayer preferred,
The foliage of the trees is stirred
With a thanksgiving hymn of power,
That sanctifies that sylvan bower,
Whilst angels, listening with glad eyes,
Call the song upward to the skies.

This day will serve them through the year
With thoughts of pleasantness and cheer,
Enhance their love of harmless things,
And quicken young Devotion's wings.
Ye careful parents, when ye find
Good seed sown in the youthful mind,
Foster its growth with all your power,
And bring it into beauteous flower.

O Sunday Schools! O Christian land!
Long may your institutions stand,
The wonder of the farthest zone,
The strength and glory of your own!
Be this the Sabbath teacher's prayer,
For those beneath his watchful care,
“Father, thy countless flock behold,
And bring them safely to Thy fold.”

206

MY FRIENDS OF CHORLEY.

The earth lay entranced in the glories of June,
The flowers were in splendour, the birds were in tune,
When I, a poor wayfarer, plodded along,
Surrounded by beauty, and fragrance, and song;
But weary and hungry, in quest of employ,
My soul could not mingle with Nature's great joy;
Till at length I encountered a friend by the way,—
A friend I had known in a happier day—
And he without coldness, or question, or guile,
Gave the bread and the cup, with a kind word and smile;
And more, for he stirred other hearts to my need,
And their aid and their sympathy cheered me indeed.

I shall ever remember that sociable night,
When my friends gathered round me to help and delight;
Honest men and hard-workers, a right pleasant throng,
Who could feel for the bard, while they honoured his song.
How quickly and cheerfully passed the brief time,
With the bountiful mixture of reason and rhyme,
With the good-natured banter, which gave no offence,
With the laught of good humour, the speech of good sense,
With song, recitation, and other good things,
Which sped the brief hours on delectable wings:
And more than all this, there was mixed with the whole,
A feeling which touched and exalted the soul.

207

And who shall presume to discourage with scorn
The brave son of toil, with his duties o'erworn,
Who seeks to enjoy, in a rational way,
The small leisure left him throughout the long day?
Not I; for dear freedom, in action and mind,
When used with right reason, and justly defined,
Is the claim of all men, yea, their claim and their need,
And the stark son of labour deserves it indeed.

Dear friends, newly found, I will try to retain
Your hearty good-will till I meet you again,
And may our next meeting come gladly and soon,
And may fickle Fortune just grant me a boon,
That I may reward you, with feelings of glee,
For the delicate aid that you rendered to me.

Let us give when we can, for to give is to gain,
As the earth gets her own exhalations in rain;
Each free gift of charity goes to increase,
And returns to us sweetly to bless us with peace;
Let us foster kind feeling in this world of ours,
For such is the “odour of heavenly flowers.”

Fellow-workers, 'twere vain my rude verse to prolong,
For I cannot tell all my emotions in song,
But I'll cherish your memory, happen what may,
Whate'er be my fortune, for many a day;
May your blessings be many, your sorrows be few,
May health, peace, and virtue befriend you! Adieu!

208

A PRAYER FOR PEACE.

Peace for the nations, God,
For the harassed earth complains
That her sons are defiling the fertile sod
With the blood of each other's veins;
And sounds of rage and regret are rife;
And men grow mad 'mid the waste of life;
Labour's broad brow grows furrowed and pale,
And homes are disturbed with the voice of wail,
And fast coming griefs, bewildering fears,
From countless hearts wring curses and tears;
While the spirit of Progress back recoils
At the far-borne bruit of unhallowed broils,
And Freedom shudders with strange dismay,
As she veils her face from the light of day!
Restore to us Peace, a transcendent dower,
If such be the will of Thy holy power.

Peace for the household, Lord!
Let each unto each so cling,
That all may appear in a bright accord,
Like pearls on a golden string.
Let love be the sweet and presiding grace
To charm into beauty the dwelling-place;
To soften the language of firm command,
And lighten the cares of the household band;

209

To mould the heart with a delicate stress,
And wake its emotions of tenderness;
To train the mind to exalted things,
And lift the soul upon skyward wings;
Peace for the hearth, and the purest air,
That thought may burst into constant prayer,
Into silent worship, serenely rife
'Mid the duties and pains of mortal life,
That earth may grow on her changeful sod
Immortal blooms for Thy gardens, God!

210

WHITTLE SPRINGS.

(A REMINISCENCE.)

RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO THOMAS HOWARD, ESQ., OF HYDE, OWNER OF THE ESTATE.

It was a Summer's gorgeous eventide,
Softly and sweetly silent, warm and bright,
And all the breadth of glorious landscape wide
Was swathed in vesture of serenest light;
When with a friend I took my pleasant way
To an old shadowy, sylvan nook, that lay
A league apart from any street and town,
In a romantic valley, hushed and brown.
Our winding pathway led through lonely lanes,
Now busy with the fragrant harvest wains,
Where banks of plume-like fern grew thick and green,
Where groups of foxglove stood with stately mien
On grassy slopes, and in the fragrant breeze
Shook all their wealth of crimson chalices.
From shadowy brake and wavering bough was heard
The frequent voice of some unsettled bird;
The limber honeysuckle seemed to sigh
Unto the clustering wild-rose lovingly,
And both sent through the calm and verdant gloom
The mingled breathings of their rich perfume.

211

We entered by a low and Gothic gate
Into a sweet retreat of fairy state,—
A lone and lovely spot, that smiled at rest
On the green valley's ever-quiet breast;
A refuge quaint of chequered light and shade,
All cunningly and beautifully made
By art and nature's harmonising power
Into an intricate and magic bower;
Embroidered everywhere with richest dyes,
And curtained o'er with soft and cloudless skies;
Encircled with a zone of beauteous things,
A place of pleasure,—welcome Whittle Springs!

With loitering feet we traced the cultured grounds,
And calmly listened to the various sounds
Of childish gladsomeness and youthful glee,
And ballad strains of ancient melody.
We watched the athletic bowlers on the green,
As a great billiard-table smooth and clean;
Stopped to regard a troop of merry boys,
Holding their pastime with obstreperous noise;
Wound through the verdant mazes of the brake
All richly redolent with rarest flowers,
Bright forms of full perfume, that sweetly spake
Of southern climates and their gorgeous bowers.

We paused awhile beside the tranquil pool,
Ample in breadth, pellucid, bright, and cool,
Scarce ruffled by the graceful moving pair
Of snowy swans that idly floated there;
And then, with honour to the place, we quaffed
A doubly copious and refreshing draught
From the twin Springs, whose ever-healthful powers
Bring cheerful thousands to their pleasant bowers.

212

But now the sinking Sun-god paused to rest
On the bright borders of the purpling west,
While hill and vale, and distant copse and glade
Began to gather into deeper shade,
And we withdrew within, intent to spend
A pleasant hour with stranger and with friend
In sweet and social converse, such as binds
In peaceful union true hearts and minds.
Within the lofty and antique saloon,
With many-coloured windows gaily dight,
We sat and watched the now ascending moon
Pour in the sweetness of her mellow light;
And we beheld with mute but glad surprise
Things which enchant the silent gazer's eyes,
A hundred shapes and hues of pictured grace,
The healthful bloom of many a lovely face,
And sculptured forms, majestical and fair,
Which give the whole a chaste and classic air;
Beauties that make us half forget that we
Are near the murky realm of noisy trade,
And make us glad that we can quickly be
Where its rude sounds cannot our ears invade.
O Whittle Springs! thou art a pleasant spot,
Where human sorrow may be half forgot;—
A tranquil refuge of serene delight
To those made weary in the world's rude fight;
A place of quiet or of stirring joy,
Where harassed minds may find some sweet employ!
The thoughtful penman leaves his books and care
To find some calm and cheerful solace there;
The weary worker coming from the town;
The wayward painter puts his pencil down,
And cometh here in quest of newer themes;
The poet cometh to refresh his dreams;

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For song, and dance, and temperate feast and wine,
And forms of beauty which seem half divine,
And pleasant smiles, and laughter-beaming eyes,
Make thee at times a social paradise;
And still my fond and faithful memory clings
To thy serene delights, famed Whittle Springs!

This secluded spot of resort and harmless recreation is becoming daily more popular. In addition to its medicinal springs, it possesses charms of a varied character. Art has combined with nature in rendering it a place pleasant to visit and remember. The proprietor of the grounds has spared no pains and expense in providing for the pleasure and comfort of his visitors. To the people of Blackburn, Preston, Chorley, and neighbourhoods, there are cheap facilities of reaching it. Altogether, Whittle Springs is worthy the patronage of any class, and a most attractive and desirable place of resort for the toiling community of Lancashire. May it meet with that support it so highly deserves. J. C. P.

214

HUMAN BROTHERHOOD.

The king who is swathed in the splendours of state,
Whose power and possessions are wide,
Is akin to the beggar who whines at his gate,
Howe'er it may torture his pride;
He is subject to ailments, and dangers, and woes,
As the wretch who encounters the blast,
And despite of his grandeur, his bones must repose
In the same grave of nature at last.

The beauty, surrounded by homage and wealth,
Whose glance of command is supreme,
Who walks in the grace of rich raiment and health,
Whose life seems a musical dream,—
Is sister to her who, old, haggard and worn,
Receives a chance crust by the way;
The proud one may treat her with silence and scorn,
But their kinship no truth can gainsay.

The scholar who glories in gifts of the mind,
Who ransacks the treasures of Time,
Who scatters his thoughts on the breath of the wind,
And makes his own being sublime,—
Even he is a brother to him at the plough,
Whose feet crush the flowers in their bloom;
And to him who toils on with a care-furrowed brow
In chambers of clangour and gloom.

215

Chance, circumstance, intellect, change us in life,
Repulse us and keep us apart,
But would we had less of injustice and strife,
And more of right reason and heart.
One great human family, born of one Power,
Each claiming humanity's thought,
We should let our best sympathies flow like a dower,
And give and receive as we ought.

216

BROAD CAST THY SEED.

Broad cast thy seed;
If thou hast ought of wealth to lend
Beyond what reason bids thee spend,
Seek out the haunts of want and woe,
And let thy bounty wisely flow;
Lift modest merit from the dust,
And fill his heart with joy and trust;
Take struggling genius by the hand,
And bid his striving soul expand;
Where virtuous men together cling,
To vanquish some unhallowed thing,
Join the just league, and not withhold
Thy heart, thy counsel, and thy gold;
Thus to achieve some noble deed,
Broad cast thy seed.

Broad cast thy seed;
If thou hast mind, thou hast to spare,
And giving may increase thy share;
Pour forth thy thought with friendly zeal,
And make some stubborn spirit feel
The grace, the glory, the delight,
That spring from knowledge used aright;
The improving wealth, which none can take,
Though fortune fly, and friends forsake;
The mental vision, more and more,
Expanding as he dares to soar.

217

Virtue and knowledge, glorious twain!
The more they give the more they gain!
Wouldst have thy humbler brother freed?
Broad cast thy seed.

Broad cast thy seed;
Although some portion may be found
To fall on uncongenial ground,
Where sand, or shard, or stone may stay
Its coming into light of day,
Or when it comes, some pestilent air
May make it droop and wither there,
Be not discouraged; some may find
Congenial soil, and gentle wind,
Refreshing dew and ripening shower,
To bring it into beauteous flower,
From flower to fruit, to glad thy eyes,
And fill thy soul with sweet surprise.
Do good, and God will bless thy deed;
Broad cast thy seed!

218

THE “NEW YEAR.”

The poet sings of many things
In lands, and seas, and skies,
As Fancy's many-coloured wings
Flutter before his eyes;
But I, who love the tuneful throng,
And hold the Muses dear,
Offer an unpretending song
To hail the Glad New Year.

Again has come the festive time,
Which holds us in control,
Morn of a mystery sublime
Linked with the human soul;
We serve with hospitable care
Our daintiest Christmas cheer,
Grow free and friendly, and prepare
To hail the Glad New Year.

Now is the season to forgive
The wayward and unkind,
Let the heart's best emotions live
To purify the mind;
To let the memory retrace
Our fitful past career,
To look the future in the face,
And hail the Glad New Year.

219

Sorrows and losses we have borne,
Been baffled and dismayed,
And felt the prick of many a thorn
By our own follies made;
But hope and effort may improve
What now seems most severe,
If we begin with earnest love,
And hail the Glad New Year.

Let us be thankful that God's power
Has spared us yet awhile,
Strive to enjoy the present hour,
And make the future smile;
Let us with charity and peace
Make life more calm and clear,
Pray that discordant things may cease,
As dawns the Glad New Year.

The sad old year is waning fast,
And we are fading too,
But let our minds not stand aghast
At what remains to do;
Good will to all! may joy prevail
In homes both far and near,
And hope inspire us as we hail
The gracious, Glad New Year.

220

HOPE AND PERSEVERANCE.

Strive on, brave souls, and win your way
By energy and care,
Waste not one portion of the day
In languor or despair;
A constant drop will wear the stone,
A constant effort clear
Your way, however wild and lone—
Hope on and persevere.

Strive on, and if a shadow fall
To dim your forward view,
Think that the sun is over all,
And will shine out anew;
Disdain the obstacles ye meet,
And to one course adhere,
Advance with quick but cautious feet—
Hope on and persevere.

Rough places may deform the path
That ye desire to tread,
And clouds of mingled gloom and wrath
May threaten overhead,
Voices of menace and alarm
May startle ye with fear,
But faith has a prevailing charm—
Believe and persevere.

1865.

221

FORGIVENESS.

My heart was galled with bitter wrong,
Revengeful feelings fired my blood;
I cherished hate with passion strong,
While round my couch dark demons stood.
Kind slumber wooed my eyes in vain,
My burning brain conceived a plan—
“Revenge!” I cried in frantic strain;
But Conscience whispered, “Be a man!”

“Forgive,” a gentle spirit cried;
I yielded to my nobler part,
Uprose, and to my foeman hied,
And then forgave him from my heart.
The big tears from their fountains rose,
He melted—vowed my friend to be;
That night I sank in sweet repose,
And dreamed that angels smiled on me.

222

RANDOM RHYMES.

Let stand-still souls bemoan the dreary past,
With all its errors numberless and vast;
Its waste in warfare, torture-tools, and fires,
Its false ambitions and its fierce desires,
Its clouded intellects and fettered tongues,
Its rank intolerance and its lawless wrongs,
Its savage serfdom and its sordid power,
Its horrors fearful as delirium's hour,
Its cruel codes and desolating crimes,
Unlike the triumphs of our later times.
These peaceful unions of the great and small,
That crowd and dignify this spacious hall;
These proofs of progress, these inspiring sights,
That give us hope of loftier delights;
These signs and promises of things that throng
The prophet's vision, and the poet's song—
Shadows that seem, but shadows that shall grow
To bright and blest realities below.

Onward, still onward, with assiduous speed,
And be your efforts equal to your need;
Linger not, languish not, in march nor mind,
Nor stay to look upon the plain behind;
One footstep lost, another gains the race,
And leaves you toiling in a backward place.
Onward, still onward, with unshrinking soul,
Your children follow and shall win the goal,

223

Shall win the guerdon of your toils, and stray
Within the opening dawn of Freedom's perfect day.

Workers that weary in the mill and mine,
Come to the banquet, which is half divine;
Craftsmen that labour at the bench and stall,
The door is open and the cost is small;
Shopmen who sicken with the cares of trade,
Seek the Lyceum for your solace made;
Magnates who struggle with unwieldy wealth,
Fly to our refuge for your spirits' health.
All, all are welcome, be they high or low,
We've food for laughter, we have balm for woe.
Go on rejoicing, steadfast in the right,
Increasing still in intellectual might,
And I, a unit in the worldly throng,
Will wake my lowly harp, and cheer your way with song.

224

AT MY WIFE'S GRAVE SIDE.

Six years have passed, my loved lost wife,
Since thou wast taken from my breast,
And cradled in thy final rest,
Leaving me lone with grief and strife.

And now I stand upon the sward
That vails thy simple burial-place;
And with a pale and drooping face,
Survey it with a sad regard.

And as I gaze sweep through my brain
Things of the past on wings of gloom,
So that the mosses on thy tomb
Are watered by my tears of pain.

I see thee in the strength of youth,
With beauty in thy face and form,
With all thy feelings pure and warm,
Thy language sweet with artless truth.

Again I see thee sorely tried
Beneath an overwhelming cloud—
Thy freshness gone, thy spirit bowed
By poverty's dark ills allied.

225

I see thee in that troublous hour
When death smote down our darling child,
Made thee disconsolate and wild,
And me o'erawed by his dread power.

'Mid all I found thee wholly true
Unto thy offspring and to me.
May God, who set thy spirit free,
Console and strengthen me anew.

226

THE POSTMAN.

The Postman is the people's man,
Ready of foot and eye and hand,
Who bears a blessing or a ban
To many in the land.
But whether he bring hope or dread,
Tending to make me rich or poor,
As he so bravely earns his bread,
He's welcome at my door.

With muttered word and smothered sigh
We look and listen for his feet,
And watch him with a wary eye
As he comes down the street.
But if I dwell in field or town,
Upon a mud or marble floor,
Whether my fortune smile or frown,
He's welcome at my door.

The statesman bent on lofty schemes,
Good for the people or the throne;
The poet weaving pleasant dreams,
Alike the Postman own.
He lends the lover's mind new wings,
In crowded mart, on lonely moor;
And though he brings me few good things,
He's welcome at my door.

227

He braves the time, whate'er it be,
The stormy wind, the hail, the shower,
And leaves his words of grief or glee
At the appointed hour.
He bears his missives morn and eve
Alike unto the rich and poor,
But if he make me glad or grieve,
He's welcome at my door.

He scatters wide the printed page,
Filled with the various thoughts of men,
For much does our inquiring age
Owe to the press and pen.
He brings the book to teach and please
The ever-toiling, patient poor;
And while he offers things like these,
He's welcome at my door.

When comes the Christmas holiday
Let's not forget this herald true,
But strive to help his scanty pay
By some free gift that's due.
He wakes strange feelings in the breast
Of proud patrician, squire, or boor;
And whether he make or mar my rest,
He's welcome at my door.

228

THE WORKMAN TO HIS WIFE.

Dear wife, we struggle in a time
Saddened by many a shade,
For warfare in another clime
Has paralysed my trade;
And 'mong the thousands of our class,
So meanly clothed and fed,
We've had our share of grief, alas!
Pining for needful bread.

But let us not relax, and fret
As if all hope were gone;
Let us not murmur and forget
The all-sustaining One.
His is the justice, His the power
To chasten and subdue;
But even in the gloomiest hour
His mercy shineth through.

Together let us strive to bear,
With resolute calm will,
The burden of our daily care,
Hoping and trusting still.

229

As we are human, we must feel
Our portion of distress;
But working with a righteous zeal
Should make our trouble less.

Being but human, we must show
Some frailties and some fears,
Blindly creating needless woe,
And shedding needless tears.
But, O my wife! let thee and me
Refrain from foolish strife,
And so behave that we may be
Heirs to a holier life.

Of sorrow we must bear our part
While in this lower sphere,
But let us keep a loving heart,
And hold each other dear.
Though poverty may keep us down,
Making us sad the while,
Let us not dare God's awful frown,
But pray to gain His smile.

230

THE RETURN OF SPRING.

How calm and how beneficent is God
To all His creatures in this world of ours!
Spring is returned with renovating powers,
To clear the sky, and fertilise the sod,
To make the expanded landscape greenly bright,
And fill the genial air with music and delight.

I, like a weather-beaten plant, have grown
Seedy and frail, the sport of every wind;
Yet in my daily watchfulness I find,
That in my weakness I am not alone—
Not an exception in the general plan,
But a still hopeful, striving, sinful, sorrowing man.

I long to wander where the old hills stand,
And where the woods will soon grow newly green—
To mark the silent changes of the scene,
Made by the hallowed touch of God's own hand—
To see the resurrection and the life
Of countless earthly things with strength and beauty rife.

I long to see the blithe lark soaring high,
And the sweet thrush on his accustomed tree—
To hear the loosened waters flowing free
Through places pleasant to the poet's eye—
To hear the murmur of the odorous breeze,
And the responsive sigh of congregated trees—

231

To hear the sportive children here and there
In lonely hamlets nestled in the vales—
To hear the aged people telling tales
Of their own youth when everything was fair—
To hear the voices of great nature raise
A simultaneous hymn of thankfulness and praise.

What sinless pleasure to explore again
The fields bestarr'd with daisies far and wide—
The slender king-cup in its graceful pride
Holding its golden chalice for the rain—
The cowslip's bell, the dandelion's shield,
Lending their mingled hues to beautify the field.

What peaceful joy to find in woodland shades
The modest violet besprent with dews,
The fragrant primrose with its dainty hues,
And other floral sisters of the glades;
Birds, leaves, and flowers, colours and perfumes,
And all the rich array of spring's ambrosial blooms.

Lord and Creator of these wondrous things,
Oh! grant me health, that I may feel once more
Thy love and wisdom, as I felt of yore,
When I had many thoughts without their stings.
Oh! spare and strengthen me a little time,
That I may worship Thee, and read thy works sublime.

232

THE SONGS OF THE PEOPLE.

Oh! the Songs of the People are voices of power
That echo in many a land;
They lighten the heart in the sorrowful hour,
And quicken the labour of hand;
They gladden the shepherd on mountain and plain,
And the mariner tossed on the sea:
The poets have given us many a strain,
But the Songs of the People for me.

The artisan, wending full early to toil,
Sings a snatch of old song by the way;
The ploughman, who sturdily furrows the soil,
Cheers the morn with the words of his lay;
The man at the stithy, the maid at the wheel,
The mother with babe on her knee,
Chant simple old rhymes, which they tenderly feel;—
Oh! the Songs of the People for me.

An anthem of triumph, a ditty of love,
A carol 'gainst sorrow and care,
A hymn of the household that rises above,
In the music of hope or despair;
A strain patriotic that wakens the soul
To all that is noble and free;
These lyrics o'er men have a stirring control;—
Oh! the Songs of the People for me.

233

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

POEMS PUBLISHED IN 1861.

235

THE COMING OF THE MAY.

All Nature seems to feel the power—
The gracious influence of the time;
The quickening sun, the fostering shower
Of the returning prime;
The tranquil and the lessening night,
The genial and the lengthening day,
Which moves us with a new delight,
And speak of coming May.

Trees bourgeon into leafy grace;
The hedgerows wear a vernal fleece;
The brooklets leave a greener trace
Along their paths of peace:
A flower-light dawns upon the leas;
The woodland nooks grow sweetly gay;
And whispers every passing breeze,
The coming of the May.

236

A voyager the clouds among,
That sail athwart the ethereal sea,—
The lark pours forth his joyous song
Of rich melodious glee:
The throstle in the forest dell
Begins to chant his changeful lay;
And other voices soon will swell
The music of the May.

Awhile, and the clear country air
A thousand odours will diffuse;
And cultured gardens, here and there,
Kindle with dazzling hues;
The meads will gleam with floral gold,
With silver every hawthorn spray;
And children's eyes with joy behold
The blooming of the May.

Young children—oh! how like they are
To this enchanting month of flowers,
When through her realm they wander far
To spend their playful hours:
With shout and laughter on they speed
Through pleasant field and woodland way;
And health and pleasure are their meed
Beneath the smile of May.

And should not toiling man rejoice
For every good the seasons bring,
Responsive to each gladsome voice
That wakens with the Spring?
Let his soul open, and be calm,
So that it may let in the day,
The bloom, the beauty, and the balm,—
The blessing of the May.

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And while we love the glorious skies,
The gifts and grandeurs of the sod,
Let the heart's hidden incense rise
Unto the Giver—God!
May we so live a life of prayer,—
The prayer of virtuous deeds,—alway,
That we may breathe the holier air
Of Heaven's eternal May.

238

THE SAVING ANGEL.

How fair is England in her lofty state!
Great in her conquests, in her commerce great,
Great in her science and industrial arts,
Strong in her ready hands and willing hearts;
Rich in her means of fructifying good,
Prompt in each purpose rightly understood;
Fair, wise, magnificent, and mighty she,
And bearing the proud title “Country of the Free!”

But, oh! how nobler were my native land,
If she could banish from her sea-girt strand
The Fiend which, roaming through this realm of ours,
Wastes her best strength, and weakens all her powers;
The nightmare of the nation, which weighs down
Her labouring breast; the blot on her renown;
The Fiend which paralyses heart and limb,
Makes virtue's star and reason's lamp grow dim;
Robs child and mother of their common right,
Home wants, home rectitude, and home delight;
Makes the frail father reckless and sin-worn,
Madman to-day, an idiot on the morn;
Makes the poor boasted freeman worse than slave;
And with unnumbered victims gluts a dishonoured grave.

239

Know ye the Demon? Hear him in the street,
As ye pass onward with home-seeking feet;
Ye hear his voice from many a noisome den,
Where he deludes—degrades the minds of men;
Ye hear him in his temple, gaily dight,
All gaud and glitter in a blaze of light,
Where congregated bacchanals adore,
From beardless boyhood unto frail fourscore;
Ye hear him in the curses flung about,
In the wild song and the obstreperous shout;
Ye see his looks in many a face and eye,
Maudlin or vicious, as ye hurry by;
Ye see him in the havoc he has made,
And in the bane of his abhorrent trade;
Ye feel him in the rudeness and the strife
Which shock you in the by-way paths of life;
Ye feel him in the sordidness and woe
That smite your senses as ye come and go:
Ye feel,—but how much less ye feel, than they
Who suffer hour by hour, and perish day by day.

Look on this picture (many more there be
As sad and sombre in their misery);—
Mark the cold aspect of this lowly place,
Devoid of comfort, cleanliness, and grace,
Where the pale mother sits beside the grate
With listless looks, as gloomy as her fate;
While her rude children, dirt-begrimed and lean,
With noisy squabbles fill the wretched scene;
Half slattern and half lunatic she seems,
Now loud in wrath, now lapsing into dreams;
Waiting for him who should be duly there
To rule his household with a parent's care.

240

He comes at length,—a curse is at the door,
And his scared offspring, starting from the floor,
Shrink into corners with a mute dismay,
Fearing the voice they learn to disobey.
He enters in, that man without control,
With the dread Demon sitting on his soul;
Raves and blasphemes, drinks deep, and calls for more,
Making the place more hideous than before.

Alas! no sunshine cheers that narrow spot;
There knowledge, peace, and rectitude are not;
No single bosom is divinely stirred,
No song of praise, no voice of prayer is heard;
No gentle accents of confiding love,
No gracious thoughts that wing their way above;
But sin and squalor, hopelessness and dread,
Surround the daily board, and haunt the nightly bed.

But who is this, meandering down the street,
With brain beclouded, and with wavering feet,
Wild in his manner, with a glance of eye
Half brave, half bashful, as he hurries by?
That man is gifted; but the mental dower
Lies in abeyance to the Demon's power;
That man has commerced with the farthest skies,
And looked on Nature with a poet's eyes;
Has painted Virtue with a pen of grace,
Revered her, too, and loved the human race;
Panted for peaceful happiness and fame,
And had half won them when the tempter came,
Crossed the noon brightness of his hopeful pride,
And scared his better angel from his side.
Come back, sweet spirit of his joy and trust,
And exorcise the Fiend that bows him to the dust!

241

Such, and so harrowing, are the ills that flow
From this dark type of sinfulness and woe!
Such, and more awful, are the things that lie
Hid from the notice of the public eye.

Despair not yet, ye Christian souls,—for hark!
A sound of solace cometh from the dark;
A bright form issues from the heavy gloom,
And as she passes on makes ampler room:
It is the angel Temperance;—rejoice!
And hail her advent with a thankful voice!
She comes to drive the Demon from his lair,
To cleanse from crime, and mitigate despair,—
Comes with her handmaid Charity, to bless
The soul-bowed slaves of loathsome drunkenness.
Faces once shadowed, shall grow bright with peace;
Hearts once enthralled, shall find a glad release;
Minds once eclipsed, shall glow with purer fire,
Greatly expand, and gloriously aspire;
And home, once filled with sorrow and annoy,
Shall be a peaceful place of virtue and of joy.

Come to her banner, ye upgrowing youth,
Strengthen her phalanx, men of nerve and truth,
Add to her numbers, ye of suasive tongues,
Swell her glad music, Poets, with your songs;
Together breathe her hallowed atmosphere,
And help her in her glorious mission here.
The day will come—let hope believe it so—
When we shall see the Demon's overthrow;
See the sweet Angel's standard wide unfurled,
And her white wings embrace all children of the world.

242

THE HOLY LAND.

PROLOGUE TO AN UNFINISHED SACRED POEM.

Oh! sad yet sacred land! lorn Palestine!
God's chosen scene of man-redeeming power,
Land of a thousand mysteries divine,
Linked with my own land's worship to this hour
Would it were mine, from worldly thrall unbound,
To press with pilgrim foot thy storied ground!
Muse in thy vales, where solemn beauty reigns,
Watch on thy hills, and wander o'er thy plains;
Feel on my brow thy odorous winds, and taste
Thy scanty waters in the stony waste;
Pitch my rude tent beside thy sacred streams,
And fill my slumbers with exalted dreams;
Explore each spot, with thoughtful reverence due,
Which bard or prophet, saint or Saviour knew;
Catch inspiration from the humblest thing,
And plume my spirit with a holier wing!

Not such my privilege; albeit I sigh
To look upon thy aspect, ere I die;
Yet even now, at Fancy's wondrous will,
I plant my footsteps on that holy hill,
Gigantic Tabor! round whose lofty crown
Sweep the wide regions of an old renown;

243

Where Hermon, on whose head the stars diffuse
The healing freshness of unfailing dews,
Tabor's twin sharer of the sun and gale,—
Uplifts his stalwart shoulders from the vale.

Here, tuned in pastoral quiet towards the skies,
The field of many fights, Esdraelon lies;
And yonder, towering up in calm disdain,
Majestic Carmel stems the audacious main:
There, with its barren belt of wave-worn steeps,
Blue Galilee in tranquil splendour sleeps,
Whence willowy Jordan, joyous here and free,
Bounds on its journey to a joyless sea.
Lo! in romantic hollow, like a nest,
Secluded Cana's lowly dwellings rest;
And many a rocky haunt, sublime and wild,
And many a fertile landscape undefiled,
Hamlet and ancient town, lone mosque and tower,
And quiet convent shut in cypress bower,
Mix in the mighty theatre, and throng
The heart with feelings all too deep for song;
While, far remote, like white clouds soaring high
In the serener ether of the sky,
The wintry peaks of Lebanon aspire,
Tinged with the glowing kiss of sunset's golden fire.

Again my fancy bears me on;—and lo!
A childless widow, voiceless in her woe,
Smit by the awful vengeance of the Just,
Forsaken Salem sitteth in the dust,
Her beauty faded, and her garments torn,
Her sceptre broken, and her power outworn,—
A lonely spectacle of grief and gloom,
A ruined record of prophetic doom!

244

Here, from the Hill of Olives, dark and bold,
The whole sad city is at once unrolled;
Queen of a stony wilderness, she lies
In sombre beauty, looking towards the skies:
Fair to the eye, but silent to the ear,
And solemn to the heart, she seemeth here;
No music ringeth from her towers and domes,
No smoke-wreath springeth from her clustering homes;
No busy crowds, with social life elate,
No chariot-wheels forth issue from her gate;
Still as a region of unpeopled glooms,
Sad as a place of congregated tombs,
A shape bereft of spirit, she appears
Too desolate and dead for either joy or tears!

But now some sadder features of the scene
Tempt my lone footsteps to a dim ravine,
Where, scarce illumined by meridian day,
The scanty Kedron makes its weary way.
Behold Gethsemane's impressive shade,
For inward prayer, and heavenward musing made,
Beneath whose roof, of giant boughs inwrought,
The dear Redeemer worshipped, wept, and taught:
Here Judas, reckless of eternal bliss,
Betrayed and sold Him with unholy kiss;
Here His disciples slumbered through the hour
He strove, in silence, with His passion's power,
Shook and adored, and on His trembling knees
Drank the deep draught of sorrow to the lees;
While the o'erflowing sweat-drops of His pain
Bedewed His patient brow with sanguinary stain!

A little farther, and the place of graves,
Where the pent wind in mournful madness raves,

245

Gloomy Jehoshaphat's funereal vale,
To the rapt spirit tells a fearful tale.
Once from that terrace, Titan-like and high,
The towering Temple clomb the quiet sky;
In mystic silence sprang, and stood alone,
A vast, majestic miracle of stone!
Hail, holy Zion! David's home of pride,
Revered and hallowed o'er the world beside;
Zion, whose echoes answered to the lyre,
Whose cords were kindled with seraphic fire!
Transcendent Minstrel! whose exalted song
Ten thousand brighter ages shall prolong,
What earthly harp may yet compare with thine,
Thou regal heir of Poesy divine!
Triumph and trial, prophecy and praise,
Found mighty utterance in thy living lays:
When peril threatened, and when pain oppressed,
When woe or worship trembled in thy breast,
When God's dread shadow o'er thy spirit came,
When prescient ardour lit thy soul with flame,—
Thy songs, true, tender, terrible, sublime,
Send mighty voices forth to all succeeding time!

[OMITTED]

246

SONNET TO WORDSWORTH.

But thy last gift!—how precious to my sight!
But to my soul much more, is the rich page
Of Wordsworth, bard, interpreter, and sage
Of Nature in her majesty and might!
With what an earnest, yet serene delight,
He seeks her beauties, all her moods and forms
And gives them language, till his spirit warms
With a desire to take the loftiest flight!
I like him well, when “'mid the untrodden ways,”
Among the lowly dwellings of the poor,
He finds some wisdom at the humblest door,
And weaves it in the tissue of his lays.
Who with right feeling reads his tranquil song,
Should grow more calm and wise, more purified and strong.

247

THE MARINER OF LIFE.

A mariner sailed on a perilous sea,
And though frail was his bark, a brave spirit had he:
Hope beckoned him onward, Faith strengthened his soul,
And Love gave him impulse to steer for the goal,—
That glorious land, o'er the main far away,
Whose skies have the lustre of loveliest day,
Whose flowers have the breath of unfailing perfume,
Whose fields wear the hues of perpetual bloom.

He had trust in his Anchor, should wild waves assail,
And rouse into rage at the scourge of the gale;
He had trust in his Compass, which pointed afar
To the orb of one bright and particular star;
He had trust in his Glass, which was searching and clear,
And warned him when outward obstruction was near;
He had trust in his Chart, for no error was there,
And its truthfulness kept him from doubt and despair.

Yet strife was around him, and danger, and dark,
And wild waters battered the ribs of his bark,
And treacherous currents oft turned him aside,
And mists gathered thick o'er the face of the tide,
And icebergs encumbered the breast of the sea,
And winds howled about him in boisterous glee;
But, oh! there were moments of sunshine and calm,
When the billows were bright, and the breezes were balm.

248

His food was unfailing from day unto day,
A provision that suffered nor scant nor decay,
A manna to satisfy, strengthen, sustain,
And give him new courage to battle with pain;
His drink from an ever-free fountain o'erflowed,
And great were the comfort and joy it bestowed,
A heart-helping, soul-cheering chalice of wine,
Replenished alway from a vintage divine.

Still, still he sped on towards the land that he sought,
Recruited in vigour, exalted in thought;
But many and sad were the things that he saw,
While he yearned with compassion, and trembled with awe.
Other barks foundered round him, all filled with despair,
Though he helped when he could, both with effort and prayer;
And the few God permitted His servant to save,
Smoothed the mariner's path o'er the turbulent wave.

Still, still he sped onward, but nearer the goal,
For he felt a new effluence touching his soul;
And hills swathed in purple arose on his sight,
And lands that lay lovely in soft golden light,
And glory and quiet reigned over the seas,
And perfume and music came rich on the breeze;
And Christian, the mariner, knew he was blest,
For he entered the haven of heavenly rest.

249

THE BEGGAR BOY.

A beggar boy sank at a lordly door,
Feeble with hunger and cold;
His father had died of the poorest poor,
And his mother waxed weary and old;
He had left her alone in their sordid shed,
In darkness to mutter and grieve,
And had come to crave for the bitterest bread,
'Mid the snows of Christmas-eve.

He saw the broad windows gaily shine,
He heard the glad sounds within;
He fancied the flow of the fragrant wine,
And the greetings of friends and kin:
And children were there,—for he heard the sound
Of their laughter, blithely elate;
And the beggar boy wept with a grief profound,
As he thought of his own sad fate.

He beat the steps with his tingling feet,
And wished for the coming of day;
He caught each sound in the sombre street,
But thought of his mother alway.
He brushed the snow from his piteous face,
To gaze at the starless sky,
And anon he appealed with a touching grace
To the heart of each passer-by.

250

In vain—in vain! for no ear was bent
To hearken his sorrowful plaint;
And he felt that his heart was crushed and rent,
As his words grew fewer and faint:
In vain! for his suppliant murmurs died
Unheard in the misty air;
Careless or callous, all turned aside,
And left him to perish there.

At length, from a hundred old towers rang
The tones of the midnight chime;
And a hundred voices joyously sang
A lay of the hallowed time.
The boy looked up with a glad surprise,
At those sweet sounds of the night;
And lo! there appeared to his startled eyes
A Vision, divinely bright.

'Twas an angel shape, and its raiment shone
Like the moon in her brightest hour;
Its voice had a soft and persuasive tone,
That thrilled with a wondrous power:
“Poor child!” it said, “enough hast thou striven,
Thou shalt hunger and grieve no more;
I am Christ,—come and live in the climes of Heaven,
Where thy mother has gone before.”

“I am ready and glad!” cried the beggar boy,
As he sprang through the blinding snow,
While his young heart throbbed with a tremulous joy,
And his face had an angel's glow.
He went with the Vision;—and when morn smiled,
On the pitiless pavement lay
All that remained of the orphan child,
For the spirit had passed away.

251

BIRTHDAY SONNET.

Upon the threshold of another year,
Let me shake off the sordid mire of sin
And with a reverent feeling enter in,
Thoughtful as if my final hour was near;
And let me supplicate for light to cheer
My darkling soul, that stumbles through the gloom
Which shrouds the dubious pathway to the tomb,
The end of all our strife and struggle here.
True aspirations towards the good should clear
My grief-beclouded mind; good thoughts should bring
The power to do a good and holy thing,
Making me strenuous, steadfast, and sincere;
Good deeds should help me o'er the rugged way
To a diviner realm. Let me begin to-day.

252

THE MOUNTAIN TARN.

Thou lonely tarn, with rocks begirt around,
Gleaming amid this wilderness of hills,
Fed by the passing clouds, the neighbouring rills,
And cradled in a solitude profound,—
How goes the world with thee? What changes pass
O'er the calm surface of thy crystal face,
When o'er thee the fierce tempest rides apace,
And the dread thunder sings its wondrous bass?
Spring doth awake thee into smiles of light;
Summer doth tinge thee with celestial blue;
Autumn with many a sunset's gorgeous hue;
And Winter with the shadows of his might.
Oh! for a hermitage, where I might be
With God, high thought, calm solitude, and thee!

253

CANZONETTE.

I know a star, whose gentle beams
Shine with a pure and constant ray,
Inspire me with delicious dreams,
And cheer me on my lonely way:
I gaze upon its tender light,
And to it bow the adoring knee;
But, oh! how dreary were my night
Were it to shine no more for me!

I know a flower of beauteous form,
Whose sweetness is beyond compare;
I fain would shield it from the storm,
And keep it ever young and fair:
It glads my eyes, it soothes my heart,
It is a daily charm to see;
But, oh! how bitter were my smart,
Were it to bloom no more for me!

Thou art the star—thou art the flower,
My precious, peerless maiden, mine!
And from our first fond meeting-hour,
My love, my life, were wholly thine:
But wert thou called beyond the spheres,
How joyless would the wide world be!
How sad my sighs, how true my tears,
Wert thou to live no more for me!

254

SPRING SONNETS.

[Be glad, my spirit, for the world of snows]

Be glad, my spirit, for the world of snows
Has turned to one of greenness and of grace;
No longer the harsh breath of Winter blows,
But genial breezes fan me in the face;
Voices, long silent, wake to joyous sound,
Waters, long sullen, twinkle as they run;
Fresh flowers begin to constellate the ground,
Warmed into beauty by a brighter sun.
All seasons have their charms; but unto me,
Whose ailing frame has shivered in the blast,
Whose mind with sombre cares is overcast,
How sweet is Springtide's hope-inspiring glee!
April, on welcome but capricious wing,
Leaps o'er the verdant hills, and Nature cries, “'Tis Spring!”

[Month of sweet promise! her mixed tears and smiles]

Month of sweet promise! her mixed tears and smiles
Shed light and fragrance on the grateful earth;
Her very changefulness the heart beguiles,
And in the soul wakes thoughts of gladsome birth.
Sometimes she is as buoyant and as bright
As is the wood-nymph in her native bowers;
Sometimes a nun enswathed in chastened light;
Anon a very Magdalen in showers.
Yet all her moods are pleasant to our eyes,
And all her sighs are breathing of perfumes,
Lovely precursor of serener skies,
Of richer verdure, and of brighter blooms:
Behind her I behold her sister May,
Waiting to usher in her own delicious day.

255

SUNSHINE

(A STATUE, BY J. DURHAM.)

A form of sweet simplicity, whose hand
Shades her young eyes from the meridian blaze,
As if she bent her fixed and longing gaze
O'er gleaming seas, or o'er the glowing land.
She seems to sit upon a sunny strand,
To mark some coming ship, too long away;
Or from some green hill-side she sees a band
Of merry rustics 'mid the odorous hay.
Strange fancies, and yet pleasant, for her mien
Suggesteth Summer in her noontide hours,
Rich fields, bright waters, and umbrageous bowers,
Young love, and maiden innocence serene.
Praise to the sculptor, whose poetic thought
Conceived this shape of grace, so delicately wrought.

256

THE PALACE OF ART.

(THE MANCHESTER ART-TREASURES EXHIBITION.)

Behold this treasury of glorious things,
This shrine of genius, this enchanting place,
Where every muse some precious tribute brings
Of blended beauty, majesty, and grace!
Enter with calm and reverential heart,
With earnest purpose and unclouded mind,
So that thy soul, amid transcendent art,
May feel at once refreshed, exalted, and refined.

Hark to that tremulous harmony, that swells
Into a gentle surge of solemn sound,
That with a magic influence dispels
The silence, and pervades the air around.
It makes the breast with new emotions sigh,
It stirs the hidden fountains of our tears,
And seems to lift the longing spirit high,
Even to the loftier choir of the according spheres.

While those sweet sounds yet linger in the ear,
Let's thread this glowing wilderness of charms,
And calmly ponder on each object here
That moves, refines, and fascinates, and warms;

257

Lovely creations that, in happiest hour,
The painter's hand has o'er the canvas thrown,
And shapes of beauty, that the sculptor's power
Has fashioned in his mind, and conjured from the stone.

Those mighty masters of the early art,
Those magic wizards of the elder day,
From worldly thoughts and worldly things apart,—
What grandeur did their faculties display!
Lofty conceptions did their souls pervade,
And took immortal shapes at their command;
While reverential feeling moved and swayed,
And wondrously inspired the cunning of their hand.

And have not we, in this our later time,
Our own art-treasures, famous, and not few,
The gay, the graceful, even the sublime,
The sweetly tender, and the grandly true?
Amid the walks of intermingled life
We make our study, find our pictures there,
And send imagination—richly rife
With germs of glorious thought—into a holier air.

Oh, genius! whose mysterious powers invite
The restless spirit to serenest things,
Fill its recesses with a purer light,
And lend its aspirations heavenward wings;
A noble energy pertains to thee,
A hopeful and a hallowed task is thine,
To set our natures from low passions free,
And give unto our souls glimpses of realms divine!

258

Music, with stirring or with soothing tones,
Painting, with all thy harmony of hues,
Sculpture, that sitteth upon marble thrones,
And thou, not least of these, poetic muse;—
If ye from earth at once were swept away,
With all the memory of your magic powers,
And all the fires of genius in decay—
Oh, what a priceless loss, what a sad world were ours!

This may not be; for ye shall more and more
Expand in kindred majesty and grace,
And mingle with each other mighty lore,
To cheer, refine, exalt the human race.
He who inspired the great ones of the past,
He by whom good and beauteous things are given,
Will deign to leave His children to the last
This intellectual dower, this one foretaste of Heaven.

Praise to the men of energy who planned
This princely place, this treasure-crowded hall!
Praise to the wealthy of our native land,
Who nobly answered to a noble call!
And when these riches, which improve the heart,
Are to their wonted places back consigned,
May this transcendent spectacle of art
Be mirrored in our souls, leaving its light behind.

259

THE BENEFACTRESS.

I know thee not, lady, in feature or form,
For distance and circumstance keep us apart,
But I know that thy feelings are kindly and warm,
For the Angel of Charity sits at thy heart.

And long may the spirit remain in thy breast,
To prompt thee to actions both gentle and wise;
Together with Hope, a celestial guest,
And Faith that uplifteth the soul to the skies.

Not charity only in helping the low
With what thou canst spare from thy scrip and thy store,
But in word, thought, and judgment, that blessings may flow
From sources unopened, unheeded before.

May the cold shade of poverty keep from thy way,
Nor deaden thy efforts and sicken thy soul;
Peace watch thee by night, and contentment by day,
Till thou of life's pilgrimage draw near the goal.

And when the calm twilight of age cometh on,
And thou longest to rise from mortality's leaven,
May the summons that bids thee prepare and be gone
Be the voice of an angel, who calls thee to Heaven.

260

NOW AND THEN.

Now is a constant warning stroke
Beat by the ceaseless clock of Time,
A voice our wisdom to evoke,
A mandate solemnly sublime;
It bids us keep the soul awake,
To do the best our means allow,
To toil for truth and virtue's sake,
And make the effort Now.

Now is the watchword of the wise,
And often wins its wondrous way
Through hosts of dangers in disguise,
That wait to baffle and betray.
The specious Then doth oft deceive,
Brings pain of heart, and gloom of brow;
But would we some good work achieve,
Let's make the effort Now.

Now gilds the banner of the brave,
And Prudence wears it on her breast;
That talisman has power to save
From vain remorse and sad unrest.
Then leads us by an easy reign,
And breaks our well-intentioned vow:
But would we earn some sterling gain,
Let's make the effort Now.

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Then may not come,—but Now is here,
All ready at our own right hand,
Perhaps with aspect half austere,
Yet prompt to help, if we command:
Strive with it, and its blessings fall,
Like sweet fruit from a laden bough;
But we must feed on husks of gall,
If we neglect the Now.

In youth, if just ambition fire,
And seem to lift the soul on wings;
If the heart glow with pure desire
For worthy and exalted things;—
Wait not, but rouse your latent power,
Nor shrink your purpose to avow;
The only safe, propitious hour,
Is the fresh foremost Now.

In manhood, with our passions strong,
Oft hard to conquer or to guide,
If some insidious power of wrong
Has drawn our faltering feet aside,—
Sorrows will come, regrets and fears
Will make the humbled spirit bow;
But, to atone for wasted years,
Let's seek the right, and Now.

If 'mid the world's rude shock and strife,
Thou hast no sense of things divine,
No longing for the holier life,—
Oh, what a priceless loss is thine!
If thou wouldst hope, strength, comfort find,
God's oracle will teach thee how:
Go, with a meek, inquiring mind,
And hear its voices Now.

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Procrastination, foe to bliss,
Curse far more baneful than it seems,
What treasure we have lost by this,
In vain and unsubstantial dreams!
From this dear moment, let us start
With brave endeavour, righteous vow:
Up, drooping soul! up, languid heart!
And seize the golden Now!

263

WEEDS AND FLOWERS.

Well spake the ancient gardener
Unto the lady gay,
Who came to view his handiwork
One February day.
His parterres were all overrun
With many a useless thing,
And he had only just begun
To trim them for the Spring.
“How fast this tangled rubbish breeds,
Even in the wintry hours!”
“Ah, yes!” quoth he,
With roguish glee,
“The soil is mother to the weeds,
But only step-dame to the flowers!”

And so it is in many a home;
Where'er we chance to turn,
Some wayward and unruly child
Will make his mother mourn;
Yet she will give him her chief love,
Her closest watch and care;
While the docile and dutiful
Receive the lesser share.
Perchance she feeleth that he needs
Her best maternal powers;

264

And proves anew
The saying true—
“The soil is mother to the weeds,
But only step-dame to the flowers!”

So in the mixed and mighty world,
From some continuous cause
A multitude go all astray,
And violate its laws;
While poverty and misery
Spring up on every side,
As if to choke the very path
Of gorgeous wealth and pride.
Since effort but in part succeeds
Against this bane of ours,
Well may we say,
From day to day,
“The soil is mother to the weeds,
But only step-dame to the flowers!”

Among the countless worshippers
Of Heaven's supernal Lord,
What difference and intolerance,
Where all should well accord;
Some calmly, wisely, stand apart
From the unhallowed strife;
While some would shut their brother out
From the eternal life.
Since thus amid conflicting creeds
Insidious evil cowers,
Well may we sigh,
And inly cry—
“The soil is mother to the weeds,
But only step-dame to the flowers!”

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Oh! 'tis a pleasant thing to see
Such being going to and fro,
With aspect genial and free,
Yet pure as spotless snow:
One who performs her duties, too,
With steady and becoming grace,
Giving to each attention due,
In fitting time and place:

One who can use her husband's means
With careful thrift from day to day,
And when misfortune intervenes,
Put needless wants away;
Who smooths the wrinkles from his brow,
When more than common cares oppress,
And cheers him—faithful to her vow—
With hopeful tenderness:

266

One who, when sorrow comes, can feel
With woman's tenderness of heart;
And yet can strive with quiet zeal,
To ease another's smart;
One who, when Fortune's sun grows bright,
And flings the clouds of care aside,
Can bask with pleasure in its light,
Yet feel no foolish pride:

One who can check, with saint-like power,
Wild thoughts that spring to dangerous birth,
And wake pure feelings, as the shower
Of Spring awakes the earth;—
Bring forth the latent virtues shrined
Within the compass of the breast,
And to the weak and tortured mind
Give confidence and rest.

Good neighbour, not to envy prone;
True wife, in luxury or need;
Fond mother, not unwisely shown,
Blameless in thought and deed.
Whoever claims so rare a wife,
Thus should his earnest words be given,
“She is the angel of my life,
And makes my home a Heaven!”

267

THE DARKEST HOUR.

Despair not, Poet, whose warm soul aspires
To breathe the exalted atmosphere of fame;
Give thy heart words, but purify its fires,
So that thy song may consecrate thy name:
Sing on, and hope, nor murmur that the crowd
Are slow to hear and recognise thy lay;
Thy time will come, if thou art well endowed;—
The darkest hour is on the verge of day.

Despair not, Genius, wheresoe'er thou art,
Whate'er the bent and purpose of thy mind;
Use thy great gifts with an unfailing heart,
And wait till Fortune deigneth to be kind;
The world is tardy in its help and praise,
And doubts and dangers may obstruct thy way;
But light oft pierces through the heaviest haze;—
The darkest hour is on the verge of day.

Despair not, Patriot, who, in dreams sublime,
See'st for thy country glories yet unborn,
And fain would chide the laggard wings of Time,
Because they bring not the transcendent morn:
Be firm in thy devotion, year by year
We seem to travel on a sunward way,
And what seems dubious now, may yet be clear;—
The darkest hour is on the verge of day.

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Despair not, Virtue, who in sorrow's hour
Sigh'st to behold some idol overthrown,
And from the shade of thy domestic bower
Some green branch gone, some bird of promise flown;
God chastens but to prove thy faithfulness,
And in thy weakness He will be thy stay;
Trust and deserve, and He will soothe and bless;—
The darkest hour is on the verge of day.

Despair not, Man, however low thy state,
Nor scorn small blessings that around thee fall;
Learn to disdain the impious creed of fate,
And own the Providence that governs all.
If thou art baffled in thy earnest will,
Thy conscience clear, thy reason not astray,
Be this thy faith and consolation still,—
The darkest hour is on the verge of day.

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A GOOD MAN GONE.

Brought by the wingèd messenger of fire
Along the chords of the mysterious wire,
In silence and in secret sweeping by,
What mingled tales, what varied tidings fly!
Tidings of horror, anarchy, and gloom;
Tales of quick vengeance and appalling doom;
Signs of great triumph for some victory won;
Symbols reporting deeds of virtue done;
Stories of danger and o'erwhelming woe,
That make the heart's-blood leap, the tears o'erflow,—
Or, with a strong and terrible control,
Strike the tongue dumb, and paralyse the soul!
These, and much more, the subtle agent brings,
Snatched from the mighty sum of human things:
And now to us, the toiling and the poor,
It comes, and leaves a sorrow at our door—
A sudden sorrow, telling us at last
That a good man has gone, a gentle spirit passed.

“Carlus is gone!” is heard from every tongue;
“Our friend is dead!” repeat the mournful throng:
“Who shall succeed him?” is the general cry;
“Alas! we know not!” is the faint reply.
“None can supply his now deserted place
With the same kindness, dignity, and grace;

270

None will essay to bring such blessings down
On the poor denizens of Ashburn town.”
Such is the language of the people here,
And who will dare to say that they are not sincere?

A man of peace, he sought each gentle way
Whereby to mitigate the feud and fray
Of families and nations, hoping then
That Peace might sojourn 'mid the sons of men;
A man of quiet energy, he sought
To make the best of gifts that Commerce brought;
A man of steadfast principle, he saw
That all should heed the universal law
Which bindeth man to man—the common tie
That makes us equal brothers 'neath the sky;
A man of charity, he strove with zeal
For all pertaining unto human weal;
Gave with no stinted measure from his store;
Fostered the mental culture of the poor;
Helped and encouraged, whensoe'er he could,
Whate'er was just, and generous, and good;
Receiving for his meed, which was not small,
Respect, good-will, and gratitude from all.

And was he happy, this lamented one—
This man and Christian, from our presence gone?
Did wealth and goodness make his lot below
Free from the shadow of all human woe?
Faith and approving conscience lent him rest
When sorrow came: but who is wholly blest
Where the unseen inevitable comes,
To snatch some light and treasure from our homes?
Gold cannot buy exemption from all pain,
It cannot bring the lost and mourned again,

271

Who from our fond embrace too soon depart,
And leave an aching vacancy of heart.

Our friend had losses gold could not supply:
Twice did he see a loving partner die
And desolate his hearth; then, one by one,
His precious children sickened, and were gone.
One daughter, and one only, yet remained,
And his strong sorrow softened and restrained;
With him she went to many a foreign strand,
The plains of Syria, and the Bible land;
Walked on the shore of the Asphaltic sea;
Read, 'mid the rocks of Edom, God's decree;
Knelt where the suffering Saviour taught and died,
And felt the littleness of human pride.
Thus the kind father saw his only child
Grow up in love and knowledge undefiled;
A sweet companion in his lonely days,
Whose presence soothed his soul, and cheered life's darkest ways.

A change came o'er the aspect of her life
By the exalted duties of a wife;
And 'mid a mother's tenderness and care
She sought her heart, and found her father there;
Found, too, that priceless blessing from above,
A triple fountain of enduring love,
Which kept her feelings in perpetual bloom,
Till the Eternal called her to the tomb.

The spoiler and the tomb! dread words that shake
The coldest heart, and make the strongest quake.
The sorrowing father, once again bereft,
Felt that he had no earthly comfort left;

272

And, spite of Christian solace and relief,
Succumbed beneath the burden of his grief;
Girt up his loins with an unwavering hand,
Smiled, and departed for the better land.

Ye wealthy magnates, who have gold, and power
Whereby to scatter blessings like a shower,
Think of the worth of this lamented man,
And emulate his virtues when ye can;
True to yourselves, be kindly and sincere
To all who labour in a lower sphere,
Help and enlighten them, whene'er ye may,
And cast some gifts of goodness in their way;
Give, but give wisely, from your ample store,
And let our toiling town boast of one Carlus more.

273

FAMILY FEUDS.

In truth, it is a grievous sight
To see domestic signs of strife,
Which deaden every sense of right
That ought to sweeten life;
Which rend affection from the heart,
Justice and judgment from the brain,
And to our clouded days impart
An atmosphere of pain.

What glooms, and storms, and treacherous calms,
Environ us on every side,
But no consoling gleams and balms
To soothe our wounded pride:
Distracting doubt, and sad unrest,
From day to day our steps pursue,
And hatred gendered in the breast,
Which time can scarce subdue.

Sometimes, indeed, we long to leave
Th' encumbering incubus behind,
But fail, because we cannot weave
One harmonising mind;
Entangled in the mesh, we strive
Against each other as before;
Which only keeps our wrath alive,
And fetters us the more.

274

Could we but calmly pause and think,
And with the just and good agree,
Then, one by one, each galling link
Would break, and set us free:
But since our passions lead astray,
Too oft against our better will,
How dark becomes our tangled way,
Best by every ill!

Forbear, then, and be reconciled,
Ye who are mixed in feuds like these;
Be not bewildered and beguiled
By specious claims and pleas;
Take quiet counsel each with each,
Let prejudice and passion cease,
Bind up the wounds, make up the breach,
And let the end be peace.

So shall ye banish needless strife,
So banish self-made sorrow, too,
And in your after days of life
A friendlier course pursue.
Life is too short to waste as dross,
In deeds as barren as the wind;
And waste of soul—a priceless loss!—
Should teach us to be kind.

275

ONE ANGEL MORE.

A bonny and a blessed bird
Has gone from out my nest,
And left a void of agony
Within the parent breast;
A young and loving bird it was,
Whose chirp and song were gay,
Chasing away the darkest thoughts
Of every cloudy day.

Of the sweet birds within my nest,
I had but only three,
And this which took its heavenward flight,
Was very dear to me!
Her gleesome voice, her sunny face,
Gave melody and light;
But, oh! her loss has plunged us both
In grief's oppressive night.

Both, did I say?—Ah! yes, indeed,
Her fond and mournful mother
Weeps for her lost and lovely one,
As if she had no other:
But time may soothe the stricken heart,
And calm the troubled mind,
And only make us love the more
The dear ones left behind.

276

And yet, we cannot help but keep
Remembrance of the past,—
Recall her winning ways, that made
All love her to the last:
And when some neighbour breathes the name
Of our delightsome thing,
Up from our hearts the hidden tears
Gush like a sudden spring.

Oh! it was sweet at eventide
To watch her winsome wiles,—
Our bosoms beating with delight,
Our faces wreathed with smiles;
While she would blithely prattle on,
Over some pictured page,
With questions and suggestive words
Beyond her infant age.

But when her sister's fingers touched
The casket of sweet sound,
She started from her book or play
With an exultant bound,
And listened to the melody,
As if it ne'er could cloy;
The music seemed to her young soul
A passion and a joy.

And in the summer fields, how bright
Grew her inquiring eyes!
For every object touched her heart
With gladness and surprise;
Sweet Nature seemed to swathe her round
With a diviner grace;
While the quick light of wakening thought
Flashed out upon her face.

277

It cannot now avail to us
How she appeared on earth;
But let us dream of what she is
Since her celestial birth:
Let us not mourn that her white feet
Tread the transcendent shore;
The loss is ours,—but Heaven has gained
One little angel more.

278

HOPE AND TRUST.

Oh! sigh not—weep not, if some day
Fling shard or shadow on thy way;
Remember, thou hast but thy share
Of the great sum of human care;
Think of the things beyond thy sphere
Thou canst not see, thou canst not hear,—
Of labour's trammels lightly worn,
Of mighty sorrows bravely borne;
And then, subdue thy lesser pain—
The clouded sun will shine again.

The earth, beneath the sombre night,
Awaits the dawning of new light
To sweep the darkness from the hills,
To kindle up the streams and rills;
And come it will, whate'er the clime,
Whate'er the season or the time:
So will a cheerful light return
Unto the humblest minds that mourn,
If they believe this truthful strain—
The clouded sun will shine again.

Frail flowers that droop beneath the blast,
Smile with new beauty when 'tis passed;
And looking from the fields below,
Behold the many-coloured bow—

279

The Arch of Hope, whose glorious form
Gleams through the shadows of the storm.
Uplift thy face, and see the sign,
Reflecting love and peace divine;
And then, thy selfish grief restrain—
The clouded sun will shine again.

“Hope on and trust,” in sorrow's hour,
Are words of music and of power;
“Hope and endeavour,” better still,
Lighten the load of human ill;
They gild the passing clouds of care,
Dispel the darkness of despair,
Strengthen the heart 'gainst evil things
And lend the soul aspiring wings:
Be this the burden of our strain—
The clouded sun will shine again.

280

THE YOUNG MARINER.

Young Cheerwell, inspired with true love at eighteen,
Fancied life more enchanting than e'er it had been;
For visions of beauty, and virtue, and joy,
Came over the brain of the proud sailor boy:
And now, with a spirit right honest and brave,
He roamed the wide realm of the turbulent wave,
Resolved every pathway of right to pursue,
For the maiden to whom he had sworn to be true.

On the mighty expanse of the slumberless main,
With Love to exalt him, and Hope to sustain,
He clung to his duties with resolute will,
Resolved every purpose of life to fulfil;
While the image of her he had left far behind,
Like an angel of memory, haunted his mind,—
Came oft in his waking hours, coloured his sleep,
And brightened his way o'er the dangerous deep.

When the waters grew fierce, and the tempest grew loud,
His heart was undaunted, his spirit unbowed;
For fancy recalled the calm grace of her form,
And her eyes seemed to smile thro' the gloom of the storm;

281

And in the night-watches, her voice seemed to come
To his ear with sweet tidings of country and home;—
Gave him courage to strive with the perilous hour,
And trust with firm faith to a merciful Power.

When his comrades would fain have him join their carouse,
He turned from temptation, and clung to his vows,
For he saw the sweet maid, with a tear in her eye,
Like an angel to counsel and guard him, stand by.
“Beware of the danger!” her lips seemed to say;
“Be wise, for the sake of a happier day!”
So he strengthened his heart, kept his soul free from stain,
And turned to his duties and studies again.

Thus earnest and hopeful, and thoughtful and true,
In brave manly beauty and goodness he grew:
She charmed him with loveliness, blest him with truth,
And covered with sunshine the days of his youth,
Till he wooed her, in words that are never forgot,
To share in his future, and sweeten his lot;
And she, with a heart of affection and trust,
Gave a bashful consent, and the guerdon was just.

Should his good ship return from the Indian shore,
And bring him to her blessed presence once more,
Then doubt, and delay, and long absence will cease,
Two souls will commingle in virtue and peace;—
Two hearts, long divided by distance, will blend
In the husband and wife, the companion and friend.
May the blithe bridal bells ring a prelude to joy,
Many days, many pleasures, unmixed with alloy.

282

A FAULT CONFESSED.

“A fault confessed is half redressed,”
A simple saying, brief and wise,
For the dear truth is ever best,
If truth without disguise.
If in a weak and angry hour
We utter bitter words and strong,
Oh! let us strive with all our power
To rectify the wrong.

If we attempt to mar and stain
A fellow-being's peace and name,
What does our selfish spirit gain
But fretfulness and shame?
Remember that we but distress
Another's quiet and our own:
Then let us hasten to confess,
And, if we can, atone.

But there are words breathed in the dark,
More baneful still than careless speech;
'Tis when we single out a mark
That secret spite may reach:
An arrow from an unseen hand
Is winged to wound some guiltless breast;
And who can such a foe withstand,
Hidden and unconfessed?

283

God judgeth justly, and will bring
Grief for the mischief that we do;
We cannot do an evil thing
But we shall suffer too.
Then let us lay the bosom bare
Before the injured one and Heaven,
And in a gush of heartfelt prayer
Confess, and be forgiven.

284

A WIDOWER'S LAMENT.

The traveller in desert lands,
Amid the inhospitable sands,
Pines for the limpid stream;
With parching lip, and throbbing brow,
He feels its priceless value now,
And makes it all his dream.

So I, departed wife, perceive
More clearly now the things that grieve
My lone and widowed breast;
Thy presence gone, thy trials o'er,
I feel thy value more and more,
And know nor joy nor rest.

Morn has no cheerfulness for me,
At noon I find no sympathy,
No balsam for my woes;
When evening comes, I sit and pine
For the calm comfort that was mine,
And night brings no repose.

Friends may be kind, and children true,
Striving my sorrows to subdue,
And lighten my distress;
But nought can match thy faithful zeal,
Thy interest in my worldly weal,
Thy household watchfulness.

285

Who shall console with kindly voice,
Who shall rejoice when I rejoice,
So truthfully as thou?
Alas! I little thought to bear
The gloom, despondency, and care,
Which weigh upon me now.

Time may assuage these pangs of mine,
But my sad soul can ne'er resign
Fond memories there impressed;
But here I bow me to the rod,
And trust that in the realms of God
Thou art received and blest.

286

CHRISTMASTIDE.

How the heart leapeth up at the festival sound
Of “Christmastide! Christmastide!” echoing round;
That joy-giving season, that holiest time,
Which speaks to our souls of a marvel sublime,
When the Bethlehem guiding-star throbbed in the sky,
And a phalanx of angels sang sweetly on high,—
“Good-will unto man, on this glorious morn
Be there peace upon earth, for a Saviour is born!”

Now in hamlet and city, and cottage and hall,
The holly and mistletoe garland the wall,
And the time-honoured carol comes sweet to the ear,
And the brave bowl of wassail gives comfort and cheer;
And the log of the yule blazes up on the hearth,
To brighten each face of contentment and mirth;
And the song, and the feast, and good wishes are rife,
For the season admits not of bicker and strife:
Old friendships are strengthened, old feuds are suppressed,
And a glow of kind feeling comes over the breast;
And hearts that were severed are newly allied
By the genial magic of blithe Christmastide.

And then the New Year!—oh! with what merry din
We wait for his coming, and welcome him in;
Albeit that he adds to our number of days,
And lessens our vigour for life's roughest ways.

287

Fond Memory mourns, with her glance backward cast,
O'er the failings and sorrows that darkened the past;
But Hope scans the future with bright beaming eye,
And looks for the good that may come by-and-by:
And we make new resolves to be wise, and obey
The laws of that Being who watches alway;
And we go forth with feelings of friendship and joy,
And a feeling of pleasure unmixed with alloy;—
Shake hands and are social, look brisk and benign,
And glow with a touch of the nature divine.

I have sat at my casement, to feel on my face
The breath of the New Year, coming apace;
And when he has come, I have fancied I heard
The sigh of some spirit with agony stirred,
And the rush of great wings going hastily by,
And in the dark distance a wail and a cry;
And thought for a moment—my reason astray—
'Twas the voice of the Old Year passing away.
And then the sweet clamour of musical bells,
With their varying cadences, fallings, and swells,
Have wakened me up into gladsome surprise,
And brought, all unbidden, the tears to my eyes.

Then I've sat down in peace by my glowing fireside,
And mused on God's mysteries, countless and wide;
On the marvellous doings of ongoing Time,
And the coming Eternity, darkly sublime;
And my soul has bowed down with submission and awe,
To the Maker and Giver's inscrutable law;
Till a voice has cried to me with solace and cheer—
“Live in faith, and use wisely the present New Year!”

288

ABJURATION.

'Tis done! 'tis well!—I've freely signed
The Pledge that prompts me to be wise;—
To keep the balance of my mind,
To cast the film from off my eyes:
Help me, divine, unerring Power!
To Thee, not man, do I appeal;
Oh! lend me strength this very hour,
For my eternal weal.

How frail—how failing I have been
In man's best duties here below!
My thoughts how dark, my pangs how keen,
He, the All-Wise, can only know.
Yet I have yearned—in sorrow yearned,
To keep my soul unsoiled within;
For I too prematurely learned
The misery of sin.

289

To shun the cup that sometimes cheers,
But often deadens and destroys,
Will not bring back my wasted years,
My withered hopes, my banished joys:
But it may help to make the best
Of what remains of mortal life,—
Yield me an interval of rest,
And banish needless strife.

To scorn the draught that bringeth blight,
Sad waste of body, dearth of soul,
Will not afford the perfect light,
Nor make us calmly, truly whole;
But it may lend us strength to rise
To higher duties, holier aims,—
Give us an impulse towards the skies,
And purify our claims.

A crowd of enemies remain
To curb or conquer, if we can;
A hundred nameless things, that stain
And hurt the better part of man;—
The lust of passion, pride, and gold,
The uncharitable thought and deed,
With errors mixed and manifold,
Must fall ere we are freed.

Here I abjure the bane whose power
Holds countless souls in shameful thrall;
Aroused to reason, from this hour
I shun, scorn, loathe it, once for all!
Humbly, and with remorseful pain,
I ask the merciful Supreme
To banish from my restless brain
The past, a hideous dream.

290

Come, Temperance, pioneer and guide
To purer regions of delight,
And help me not to turn aside
From the true path of moral right;
But chiefly thou, Religion, come,
Without thee other aids are frail;
Hope, faith, truth, virtue, are the sum,
These over all prevail.

From his earliest childhood to youth, the writer was surrounded by intemperance, poverty, and misery.—J. C. P.

291

A PASTORAL.

I reclined 'neath an oak, from the noon's fervid heat,
That shadows yon bright winding stream;
The high-soaring lark sang with ecstasy sweet,
As I thought on his lay for a theme:

When Celia, a shepherdess artless and fair,
Came thither to water her sheep;
A wreath of coy lilies bound up her brown hair,
And a rose on her bosom did weep.

She bent o'er the brook with an aspect of grace,
And viewed her own image awhile;
A sweet, modest pride was expressed in her face,
And her lips were adorned with a smile.

Ye gods! with what wonder, and joy, and surprise,
Did I gaze on her angelic charms!
While the glances that shot from her beautiful eyes
Filled my breast with love's panting alarms.

Unheeded, the rose from her white bosom fell
(That bosom how madly admired!)
She gathered her lambkins, and (grievous to tell)
Took up her light crook and retired.

292

With a feeling of rapture I gazed on the tide,
Which had borne to my feet the fresh flower;
I seized it. “Come, live in my bosom,” I cried,
“As an emblem of her I adore.”

The sun thrice has risen, and gloriously thrown
A blush o'er the fair cheek of morn,
But still my fond heart, a poor captive, is lone,
By love and despair sorely torn.

The flower I possess is quite scentless and pale,
All its odours and beauties are fled;
It silently speaketh a sorrowful tale,
And my few tender hopes are now dead.

The rose was deprived of the bower where it smiled,
It languished, and went to decay;
So I without her who my soul has beguiled,
Must experience as transient a day.

With my flock I will roam o'er these valleys and plains,
And if by kind fortune we meet,
By love she shall make me the happiest of swains,
Or behold me expire at her feet.

293

THE SOLDIER OF PROGRESS.

What are my glorious watchwords now?
“Truth, Virtue, Freedom,” these they are;
These, star-like, on my banner glow,
And lead me to the war;
But not with fierce and fiery hordes,
Not booming cannon, slaughtering swords,
Do I array the battle-van;
But with strong principles of right,
Sharp moral weapons for the fight,
Achieving good for Man.

Come forth, thrice-tempered steel of Truth,
And thou, stern Virtue, lend thy shield,
Immortal Freedom, strong in youth,
Equip me for the field;
Buckle thy corslet on my breast,
Set thy unshivered lance in rest,
Lend all thy panoply to-day;
Plant thy bright casket on my brow,
Crown me with snowy plumes—Ah! now
I'm ready for the fray.

Come on, in all your banded power,
Oppression, falsehood, error, wrong;
If God but help in peril's hour,
I in my cause am strong;

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Come in the darkness of your guiles,
Lurk in the ambush of your wiles,
Come in your bold and brazen strength,
Come in the midnight or the day,
March, menace, struggle, or waylay,—
I'll conquer ye at length.

Long the unequal strife may last,
With much of human waste and woe,
For the mixed records of the past
Too truly tell me so;
Still will I strive to raise on high
My ever-glorious battle-cry,
“Truth, Virtue, Freedom,” words of light;
And though I'm baffled for a time,
Others will hear the sound sublime,
And vindicate the right.

295

SONNET TO A FRIEND.

Though fate has willed that thou must change thy home,
To seek that bread which thou art here denied,—
Here where rank wealth can raise a lorldly dome,
By ill-fed worth and groaning toil supplied,
While we, alas! must bend to pampered pride,
Reft of the guerdon labour ought to give,
Submissive tremble when our tyrants chide,
And lack the human privilege to live;—
Yet thou wilt not forget the pleasant hours
Which we in social intercourse have spent,
When Poesy has strewn her magic flowers,
And calm Philosophy his wisdom lent.
Let memory its welcome missive send
To me, the youthful bard, who claims thee as his friend.

296

A FLOWER OF THE HOUSEHOLD.

Sweet darling of our wedded souls,
With beauty on thy brow,
We ask that God's best benison
May follow thee from now;—
That little care, and less of sin,
May meet thee on thy way,
Is our heart-uttered hope and prayer
On this thy natal day.

As yet, thou wear'st the hues of Heaven,
Whence thy young spirit came,
To share the chances of our lot,
And bear our lowly name;
As yet, thou art unsoiled by sin,
Aloof from painful strife,
In the first flush of childhood's prime,
The Paradise of life:

Life's Paradise,—for angel eyes
Look on thee from afar,
And see no envious shadow yet
To dim thy natal star;
No messenger is at the gate
To startle and expel,
And drive thee, weeping, from the place
Where thou shouldst ever dwell.

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And thou hast brought unto our eyes,
From a celestial shore,
Charms which suggest that happy realm
Where seraphim adore;
Grace, innocence, and health, and joy,
Are now thy precious dower;
What pity that the dust of earth
Should stain so sweet a flower!

Gaily thou goest to and fro,
Unconscious of all wrong,
With a sweet light upon thy face,
And music on thy tongue;
And in thy presence we receive,
What make our thoughts more bright,
A portion of thy purity,
A share of thy delight.

Thy pure, spontaneous narratives
Evince mind's growing powers;
Thy artless questions test the strength
Of wiser minds than ours;
Thy transient moods of gravity,
Thy bursts of happy glee,
Thy whole demeanour—brisk or calm—
Strengthen our love for thee.

We watch thy merry winsome ways,
And inwardly rejoice;
Our ears are charmed, our hearts are moved,
By thy seductive voice.
We touch thee with a fond caress,
Our feelings brimming o'er,
And own that Heaven has lent to us
One priceless blessing more.

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And we, by help of light divine,
Will strive to guide thee so
That hope, faith, firmness, peace, and joy,
May mark thy lot below;
Such is our wish—though we may fail
In what we strive to do;
But the great, good, and guardian Power
Will bring thee safely through.

Cares will be thine, for such we need
To curb unjust desires,
To make us feel our littleness,
And quench unhallowed fires;
But oh! when thou art called to leave
This sphere of strife and sin,
May smiling angels stoop from Heaven,
And take our darling in!

299

AUTUMNAL DAYS.

The Autumn's loosened leaves are falling fast
With a sad rustling sound,
And, chased by fitful breeze or fiercer blast,
Race o'er the shadowy ground;
The solemn woods, though garbed in gorgeous hues,
Are hastening to decay,
As listlessly I wander on, and muse
On things that pass away.

The hardy robin on the garden rail,
Though day is growing cold,
Sits and reiterates his tender tale,
Most musically told;
For gentle robin, with a spirit brave,
Sings in the gloomiest hours,
And even chants an uncomplaining stave
In Winter's naked bowers.

Ere long the northern winds will keenly blow,
The woods and waters roar,
And all the wondrous magazines of snow
Pour forth their fleecy store;
Our window-panes will gleam with silvery rime,
Or sound with rattling hail,
And Winter's voice grow terribly sublime
When angry storms prevail.

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But with the resurrection of the Spring,
Nature will smile anew,
Resume her crown, and o'er her shoulders fling
Robes of the loveliest hue:
Sweet Spring! that faintly pictures to the mind
Glories beyond the skies,
Where tempest and decay no entrance find,
Where beauty never dies.

301

THE SOUL OF THE LAND IS AWAKE.

(A SONG FOR OUR VOLUNTEERS.)

The soul of the land is awake,
Whatever the scorner may say,
And nothing shall sadden her, nothing shall shake
The spirit that moves her to-day;
With the faith and the firmness of yore,
With souls that no threat can appal,
Her sons stand the girdle and shield of her shore,
And are ready—aye ready for all.

Behold how they throng o'er the land,
From city, and hamlet, and plain,
A legion of freemen, a resolute band,
Prepared to do battle again;
From the centre all round to the coast,
They will muster when duty shall call;
Too steady to swerve, and too manly to boast,
They are ready—aye ready for all.

They seek not to strive with the foe,
They challenge not kaiser or king;
They best love the blessings that peace can bestow,
And the triumphs that commerce can bring:
But should reckless ambition presume
To menace with danger and thrall,
Give them heroes to lead them, and plenty of room,
And they're ready—aye ready for all.

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True Britons can never grow cold
To dignity, honour, and right,
They can prove it to-day, as they proved it of old
In many a glorious fight:
With courage undaunted and keen,
Prepared for what chance may befall,
In defence of their freedom, their country and Queen,
They are ready—aye ready for all.

303

THE LOVER'S CALL.

Oh! when will the sweet Spring come,
With its sunshine, odours, and flowers,
And bring my beloved one home,
To brighten the vernal hours?
Like a worthless weed or a stone
On the verge of the surging sea,
I am silent, and sad, and lone,
Bereft of thy smiles and thee.

To the haunts where we used to rove,
My loitering footsteps go,
Where I heard thy confession of love,
So tremulous, sweet, and low:
But the rivulet seems to moan
That thou art not also there,
And the trees send a plaintive tone,
Like a sigh on the evening air.

I can find no charm in the day,
No calm in the sombre night;
Thou hast ta'en my repose away,
And clouded the cheerful light:
To the heart that can love thee best
Return, if still loyal to me;
Come back, that my soul may rest,—
I am weary waiting for thee.

304

MY BIRTHDAY.

My Birthday!—old familiar sound!
How hopeful once, how mournful now!
For Time's relentless hand has bound
A wreath of wrinkles round my brow;—
Has scattered sleet upon my head,
Shed from his never-tiring wing,
And almost made my spirit dead
To every joyous thing.

In boyhood, how I strove to scan
The footsteps of advancing Time,
Longing that he would stamp me Man,—
Deeming that dignity sublime;
And each recurring birthday brought
New hopes and yearnings to my soul,
With wishful and impatient thought
To reach the golden goal.

Manhood was gained;—but oh! the change
From the pure joy of childhood's hours,
When everything was bright and strange,
And every pathway strewn with flowers!
How different, when I came to tread
The broad arena floor of life,
And for the meed of needful bread
Waged a perpetual strife.

305

The summit, which seemed all a-glow
With golden clouds, as seen from far,
When reached, was clothed with mist and snow,
And dubious light without a star:
And now down life's precipitous steep
I feel and falter as I go,
With a vague thought of joy or sleep
In the calm vale below.

Ah! what are birthdays now to me,
Save that which starts a holier life?—
A life from Time's rude changes free,
In realms unknown to sin and strife.
'Tis sad when Faith grows faint and chill,
And Hope withdraws her roseate smile;
Thank God, these twain are with me still,
Though I am sad the while.

306

ITALY AWAKENED.

Well done at last, thou fair and storied land!
For thou hast broken from the thrall of years,
Cast off thy lethargy, dispelled thy fears,
And grappled tyranny with daring hand;
Watched by the nations, thou didst well withstand
The stubborn Austrian, who oppressed thee sore,
Banished the cruel Bourbon from thy shore,
And raised a wiser monarch to command.
Much hast thou done, but more remains to do
Ere thy new freedom can unclouded shine;
The City of the Waters must be thine,
With all her fertile provinces thereto;
And unprogressive Popedom must not stay
Thy glowing chariot wheels on thy triumphant way.

But in thy triumph thou must not forget
That man of grand simplicity of mind,
With whom thy destiny is now combined,
To whom thou owest a transcendent debt;
The hero-hermit of Caprera's rock
Claims gratitude and trust, which are his due,
For he is valiant, merciful, and true,
And ready to resist Oppression's shock.
He will not fail thee in the perilous hour,
Nor hold a traitorous parley with thy foes;
Where'er he goes, stern honour also goes,
And wisely guides his delegated power:

307

He wars for holiest purposes, and Fame
Will breathe with burning lips great Garibaldi's name.

Oh! for another Tasso, who could write
Of Italy delivered, and rehearse
In stirring, truthful, and immortal verse,
Thy patriotic prowess in the fight;—
Sing of her patient suffering through the past,
Till the two tyrants goaded her to strife;—
Speak of her present newly-kindled life,
And hopes, which may be realised at last;—
Expatiate on the future of her time,
When Peace shall fold her in her stainless wing,
And the pure light of Liberty shall bring
New charms to all the beauties of her clime.
Thus, with the in-born prescience of a seer,
The Poet would foreshow her glorious career.

308

A NIGHT THOUGHT.

How grandly solemn is this arch of night,
How wonderfully beautiful and vast,
Crowded with worlds enswathed in living light,
Coeval with the immeasurable past!
With what a placid and effulgent face
The mild moon travels 'mid her golden isles,
And on the earth, asleep in night's embrace,
Pours the sweet light of her serenest smiles!
Can I, O God, who tremble here with awe,
Doubt the Designer, scoff at the design,
Deny that all is of Thy wisdom Thine,
Fashioned by Thee, and governed by Thy law?
I marvel at that being who can see,
In these Thy mighty works, no evidence of Thee.

309

THE MOUNTAINS.

I have a passion for the mountains; they
Lift me above the din of earthly things,
And seem to lend imagination wings
To roam in wondrous regions far away;
They have a nameless power, by night or day,
Which doth attract, yet overawe the mind
With grandeur and with silence, till we find
The soul expand, obedient to their sway.
The passing clouds linger about their forms,
Or the light milky mists enswathe them round,
Or their dim glens and cavities resound
With the wild clamour of invading storms;
Then is the hour their rugged heights to climb,
And hear, behold, enjoy, the turbulence sublime.

The mountain peak feels the first breath of day,
And first reflects Aurora's rosy wing,
While scattered clouds bestrew the eastern way,
And kindle at the coming of their king:
Then does he bask in the full sheen of light,
His aspect changing with each passing hour,
Until the cold dominion of the night
Returns again with its mysterious power.
Then the winds swoop upon his shadowy breast,
And the stars cluster round his giant head
Like swarms of golden bees; the moonbeams shed
A calm, sweet glory on his heathery crest,

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Soften the features of his rocky face,
And to his beauteous vales add a serener grace.

The mountains soonest catch the precious rains
Engendered in the wondrous firmament,
Receive and hoard them in their countless veins,
Till they are purified, whence they are sent
In streams of fruitfulness o'er all the land,
Gathered at last to the insatiate main,
Till the attraction of the Master Hand
Draws them to travel in the clouds again:
While their feet bathe in the bright summer glow,
The mountains lift old Winter from the vales,
And seat him on their shoulders, where the snow,
With a profuse supply that never fails,
Feeds the gigantic glacier, old and hoar,
Which creeps adown the slopes, and moveth evermore.

A sense of strength and freedom they impart
To those who 'mong them first drew breath of life;—
Hence Tell and Schamyl, each with dauntless heart,
Battled for liberty, a glorious strife.
On the scarred front of Sinai's fearful height
Did the Almighty give the graven Law
To Moses, who, with reverence and awe,
Shook and adored through many a day and night.
And on the Mount the dear Redeemer wept,
And prayed, and suffered sanguinary sweat,
Until the ground with bloody drops was wet;
While His disciples, bowed with sorrow, slept.
Then blessed be the mountains, for they bring
Strange memories, and dreams of many a wondrous thing.

311

A WIFE'S EVENING PRAYER.

(FROM THE GERMAN.)

A day well spent, as a just God approves,
Is more than earthly wealth—far more than gold;
Some care, indeed, my anxious spirit moves,
Yet are my daily sufferings briefly told.

But I have been sustained in heart and powers;
At my right hand my gracious Lord has stood;
In needful toil I've gladly passed my hours,
And a fond mother's busy life pursued.

Now wondrous sleep its leaden sceptre sways,
Till morning shall begin the day anew;
And every grateful spirit humbly prays
For help, for pardon, and for blessing too.

My little inmates are already sleeping
(How free from care!) in sombre night's embrace,
While I alone a silent watch am keeping,
Inwardly asking for more strength and grace.

I, too, O Guardian Lord! shall soon be resting;
But thou dost wake while all Thy creatures sleep;
I toil, and think, and meditate, still trusting
That thou a Father's watch will near me keep.

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Defend me, Lord, from bitter pain and sorrow,
And with sweet quiet all my being bless,
And grant me, on the dawning of the morrow,
Thy gracious Spirit's inward joyfulness.

And now my weary head in calm reposes,
Safe in Thy love and in Thy watchful sight;
Sweet prayer my daily joys and duties closes,
At peace with all mankind I hope to rest this night.

313

LILLY AND HER NEWFOUNDLAND DOG.

Truly 'tis a pleasant picture—
(Oh, that we should e'er grow old!)
Lilly with her brave companion,
Hector, beautiful and bold;
Lilly, graceful in her girlhood,
Hector, generous in his pride,
Sporting cheerfully together,
Friends whom nothing can divide.

Painter, take thy cunning pencil,
Dip it in the brightest hues,
And portray these playful creatures,
Worthy of the poet's muse;
Then the father's heart with gladness,
And the mother's eyes with tears,
Will confess that thou hast left them
Pleasure for their after years.

Death, inevitable spoiler,
Sharp and sudden, stern and slow,
All too soon may snatch their treasure,
And o'erwhelm their souls with woe.

314

Then the dear and mute resemblance
Oft will draw their earnest gaze,
And with silent power remind them
Of the joys of former days.

Better far such simple pictures,
Then the glare of warlike things,
Than the deeds of tragic story,
Than the gorgeous pomp of kings:
For they keep the home affections
Ever fresh with life and bloom;
Soothe the heart in its bereavement,—
Mitigate the spirit's gloom.

Lilly, first-born of thy mother,
'Neath whose eye thy beauty grew,
Earliest offspring of thy father,
Chiefest darling of the two;—
Now thy nature is unsullied,
Free from shadow, free from care,
May no unexpected sorrow
Come upon thee unaware!

May thy mind, which is but dawning
With a rich and rosy ray,
Quicken gently, softly open,
Into clear and ample day;
May thy heart receive all goodness,
With its passions at command,
Till thy loving parents see thee
“Perfect woman, nobly planned.”

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Changeful time, perchance, may bring thee
Sterner duties to fulfil;
May'st thou meet them, and perform them,
With calm spirit and goodwill.
Whosoever wins and claims thee
For his hearthstone and his heart,
May he cherish thee, and keep thee
From all evil things apart.

And should children come around thee,
Cheering home with gladsome din,
May they long remain beside thee,
Free from sorrow—safe from sin.
But through all life's chances, changes,
Keep thy feelings undefiled;
Loving still thy father, mother,
Even as a little child.

Whatsoever may betide thee,
Good or evil, foul or fair,
Strive to keep thy soul exalted
'Bove the clouds of common care;
Thank thy God for smallest blessing,
Meet His stroke with soul resigned,—
Still believing that all darkness
Has some mercy-light behind.

As for Hector, he will never
Waver in his love for thee;
But, perhaps, hereafter gambol
With the children round thy knee.
Cherish, then, thy true companion,
With his fond, sagacious ways;
While he lives he will remind thee
Of thy happy early days.

316

CHRISTMAS.

Blest Morn, by the Redeemer made the holiest of the year!
In the encircling silence now I feel thy drawing near;
The very frost-wind stealing past, upon my forehead flings
A freshness, wafted by the stir of thy advancing wings:
In clustering constellations, too, the star-troops seem to burn
In all their bright emblazonry, to welcome thy return.
Hail to thy coming once again, thou spiritual time!
Morn of a mighty mystery, soul-saving, and sublime!

Rejoice, my spirit, hopefully; yon temple's hoary tower
Gives to the far-pervading night the consecrated hour;
And human voices, here and there, uplift with glad acclaim
A sweet old song of thankfulness to God's transcendent name;
While fancy hears the angel hymn, and sees the star whose ray
Smiled on the lowly manger-roof where God Incarnate lay.
Hail to thy coming once again, thou praise-inspiring time!
Morn of a mighty mystery, soul-saving and sublime!

317

Imagination hovers o'er thee, glorious Palestine!
Proud birthplace of the Saviour, that prodigy divine;
Thou saw'st His miracles of love, His excellence of life,
And how He bore with holy calm the malice and the strife
Of cruel and calumnious power, of unbelieving pride,
Though sold, scourged, menaced, and reviled, and by His own denied.
Hail to thy coming once again, thou solemnising time!
Morn of a mighty mystery, soul-saving, and sublime!

Land which beheld upon His brow the diadem of thorns,
Planted by ruffian hands, amid indignities and scorns;
While some, more reckless than the rest, exulting in their deeds,
Spat in that pale and patient face, distained with bloody beads,
Whence came with meek humility the words of sorrow true,
“Father, forgive their ignorance, they know not what they do!”
Hail to thy coming once again, thou sad yet soothing time!
Morn of a mighty mystery, soul-saving, and sublime!

Land which beheld, when Heaven had brimmed His earthly cup with woes,
His ordeal of sanguine sweat, His agonising throes,
What time in lone Gethsemane's funereal depths of shade,
A more than human misery was on His spirit laid;
The while with pinched and parched lips, he murmured—“From thy Son
Oh! pass this draught of bitterness; but still, Thy will be done!”
Hail to thy coming once again, thou mournful, musing time!
Morn of a mighty mystery, soul-saving, and sublime!

318

Land which beheld the final scene of man-redeeming love,
When the dear Jesus loosed His soul to wing its way above;
While rude, remorseless men looked on with wild and wolfish eyes,
Laughed at the spectacle, nor deemed how great the sacrifice,
Till earth put on the dreary robe of black, unnatural night,
Shook tower and temple on her breast, and smote them with affright.
Hail to thy coming once again, thou awe-creating time!
Morn of a mighty mystery, soul-saving, and sublime!

Sweet to behold thy influence o'er all the Christian world;
To see the banner of “good will” spontaneously unfurled;
To find our daily fears forgot, our enmities forgiven,
And hearts grow dearer each to each, and nearer unto heaven:
To know that 'midst the multitudes one simultaneous tone
Of joyance and benevolence respondeth to our own.
Hail to thy coming once again, thou humanising time!
Morn of a mighty mystery, soul-saving, and sublime!

In crowded cities men forego their wretchedness and wrongs,
New pleasure lighteth up their eyes, and leapeth from their tongues;
In palace and in cottage homes, one sentiment is rife;
On mountain slopes, in lonely glens, awakes more buoyant life;
In stern, unpeopled forest glooms, on 'wildering seas and wide,
Hand claspeth hand, soul clings to soul, and care is cast aside.
Hail to thy coming once again, thou sympathetic time!
Morn of a mighty mystery, soul-saving, and sublime!

319

Blest season! when the friendly draught, in darkness prisoned long,
Flows o'er the laughing lip, and wakes the slumbering voice of song;
When music thrills the holly bough, and stirs the languid breast,
And frankly from the glowing heart is flung the harmless jest;
When modest maidenhood grows gay, and childhood frolics wild,
And age remembers lovingly that Jesus was a Child.
Hail to thy coming once again, thou free and festive time!
Morn of a mighty mystery, soul-saving, and sublime!

Blest season! yet not blest to all, save in the holy sense
Of sweet salvation, and the power of high omnipotence;
How many at this festal time confront the coming year
With desperate hearts, upbraiding eyes, and souls which know no cheer:
Oh! that the human family could each and all partake
One creed, one comfort, and one joy, blithe Christmas! for thy sake.
Hail to thy coming once again, thou meditative time!
Morn of a mighty mystery, soul-saving, and sublime!

320

SONNET TO THE OLD YEAR.

Thou slumberest with the past, old forty-four,
But thou hast left thy footprints on the earth,
And good will grow thereon; yet at thy birth
How many hearts grew glad, that throb no more!
Mine was distraught, and aching to the core,
When jolly winter brought thee by the hand
To claim allegiance for thee; bright and bland
Thou gav'st me merry morning at the door.
'Twas answered with good will, and I forgot
In thy blithe presence my untoward lot,
Grew bold and cheerful, resolute to thrive;
Alas for my resolves! behold me now
Receive with scanty store and care-worn brow
Thy young successor, hopeful forty-five!

321

MIDNIGHT IMAGININGS.

COMPOSED DURING SICKNESS.

With an angry wing, and an awful wail,
Sad o'er my roof-tree hurries the gale
Of moonless November, drenched and drear,
With a dirge-like tone for the falling year;
Flinging the fierce and incessant rain
Full on the sounding window-pane.
Without, in the damp and deserted street,
Is heard the brief tread of belated feet,
And the vulgar reveller reeling along,
Answers the wind with a snatch of song;
While, muffled and hoarse, in the driving shower,
The watchman heralds the midnight hour.

Now in the tempest there comes a lull,
And I mark on my chamber-walls bare and dull,
The ghostly shadows that frown and fade,
By the flickering light of my night-fire made:
I list to the cricket-song, shrill and lone,
And the purr of the cat on the dim hearthstone,
And the restless clock, and the breathing deep
Of dear ones around me, who calmly sleep.
Alas! no repose for my aching lids!
The fever within me that burns, forbids

322

The natural blessing that falls so mild
On the stalwart man, and the sinless child.
But blest be the Being who takes and gives,
Who governs the humblest thing that lives,
Who hath laid His hand on my wayward soul,
With a just reproof and a kind control,—
Sweet fancies and memories still remain
To fill up the pauses of fitful pain.
Even now is the spirit of thought at play,
Like a passenger bird on its trackless way,
That stoopeth to rest on those far-off isles
Where lingering summer in beauty smiles.

Gone is the storm, and the wind, and the gloom,
Gone the blank walls of my cheerless room;
Rafter and roof are vanished from sight,
And the starless robe of November night;
And I walk like a creature for gladness born,
In the first faint flush of a Spring-tide morn,
Where the dew-pearls lie on the flowery grass,
Bathing my feet as I pensively pass.
Heaves the round sun o'er the cold, clear line
Of the mountain fringed with the sombre pine;
Kindles the cloud with a rosier gleam,
Laughs in the lustre the singing stream,
Smile the rich woods in their gayest of green,
And the slumbering meadow-slopes lying between.
The lark is above me, the first to pay
Melodious tribute to regal Day;
And the linnet replies from the hawthorn bush,
To the echoing call of the woodland thrush;
Crows the shrill cock from his home on the hill,
Starts into labour the moss-grown mill,

323

Rings from the forest the woodman's stroke,
Soars from the hamlet the feathery smoke:
Fresh airs and musical wander about,
Laden with sweets from the flowers flung out;
The mantle of May on the landscape lies,
No shadow shuts out the blue breadth of the skies;
While the unsealed springs of enjoyment start
In the healthful pulse and the grateful heart.

Leaning against the far western steep,
With his fiery foot in the glowing deep,
The Sun-god sits, and stains the skies
With gorgeous glooms and dazzling dyes;
Mingling and changing, melting soon,
As the pearly face of the milder moon
Looks from the star-paved portals of night,
Pervading the air with her clear sweet light.

I pace the smooth surface of sea-sands wide,
Wrinkled and ribbed by the downward tide;
Where the foam-fringed waves, that sink and swell
On rounded pebble and glistening shell,
With the muffled hum of the distant town,
Sent on the seaward breezes down,
Make lovely music, and thrill the chords
Of memories far “too deep for words!”
With stately spar, and clustering sail
Big with the breath of the wayward gale,
The shadowy ships go forth afar,
By the life-like needle and Arctic star
Obedient now to the calm command
Of the master's word and the helmsman's hand;
Till they sink from sight o'er the dusky line
Where the gray sky stoops to the level brine;

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And fancy follows them over the main,
And the heart asks—“Shall they return again?”

But my moonlight vision is past, and now
With a languid limb, and a beaded brow,
O'er the odorous field, and the footworn stile,
I thoughtfully wander; but tarry awhile
Where the prostrate meadow-grass, dry and dun,
Absorbeth the rays of the summer sun;
While the rustic group, “man, maiden, and boy,”
Who have left for an hour their sweet employ,
Sit aloof, 'mid the music of bird and bee,
In the ample shade of the broad beech-tree.
On—on to the woods that I love so well,
Where beauty, and quiet, and coolness dwell:
I am there in the heart of the wildest shade,
Where the red deer glances athwart the glade;
To a deeper gloom, to a lovelier spot,
Where the wanderer's foot may disturb him not;
Where the leveret springs as I slowly pass
Through the pensile fern and the pliant grass,
As though 'twere forbidden for man to roam
In the tangled haunts of her sylvan home.

At length on the sward, in a side-long rest,
With a busy brain and a tranquil breast,
I lie where the harebell about my knees
Stoops low to the kiss of the roving breeze.
Around me a shadowy realm appears
Of woods with the strength of a hundred years,
With slumbrous aisles that charm the sight
With doubtful distance, and dubious light;
Above me, a roof where the heaven of blue
Through a legion of leaves breaks sweetly through;

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Beside me, the page of the poet, whose name
Is a world-uttered word with a world-wide fame;
And I take it up lovingly, turning awhile
From charm unto charm, with a tear and a smile,
Till I plunge in a cluster of sweets outright,
Re-dreaming “the Dream of a Midsummer's Night.”
O'ercome by the region of moonlight spells,
Half hid in a curtain of wild blue-bells,
In the dim deep forest-paths far away,
I repose by the side of the Queenly Fay,
And fancy that Puck, so vivacious and wise,
Is dropping his juice in my languid eyes;
And I feel the light fingers of welcome sleep,
With a healing touch o'er my senses creep.
For this brief visit of calm, sweet rest,
Oh, God! in Thy mercies be praised and blest!
Sustain me and guard me, a helpless thing,
By the shadow and strength of Thy holy wing.

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THE TEMPLE OF NATURE.

Were there no temple reared by mortal hands,
No altar-stone, no consecrated shrine,
No edifice for purposes divine,
To congregate the people of the lands,—
Still would the flame of adoration's fire
Survive in human hearts, and heavenward aspire.

What need of graceful arch and storied pane
To a poor suffering sinner on his knees?
The universe has greater things than these
Wherewith to decorate God's boundless fane;
And many voices of sublimer powers,
Which send into the skies a grander psalm than ours.

With never-failing lamps the heavens are hung,
The mighty sun by fiery robes embraced,
The changeful moon, so beautiful and chaste,
The crowded stars in countless systems strung,
And meteors speeding with a fearful flight
Through all the realms of space, and swathed in marvellous light.

And there are sounds of worship that arise
From birds and trees, in many a sigh and song,
From winds and waters hurrying along,
From restless oceans heaving towards the skies;

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And flowers, fruits, spices, streams of incense send
Up to the floating clouds, where they in sweetness blend.

On mountain-tops we'd breathe our matin hymn,
While the lark chanted to the new-born day;
At noon retire to meditate and pray
In the old forest aisles, so cool and dim;
At night, amid our household seek the Lord,
And learn the precious truths shrined in His blessed Word.

And yet, 'tis well that men should congregate
To read, expound, and venerate the Page
Which shall extend from brightening age to age—
The hopeful promise of a holier state;
'Tis well to meet with souls that look above,
To form and propagate a brotherhood of love.

Oh! for one simple creed, which all could share,
The mildest, purest, mercifullest, best,
That we might follow God's divine behest,
And worship Him in gladness everywhere;
Free from all doubt, intolerance, and pride,
Pursue the better way, with Jesus for our guide.

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THE PAUPER'S GRAVE.

Behold ye how calmly he sinks to death!
His last pulse flutters, his eyes grow dim;
But those who await his parting breath
Can cherish no feeling of grief for him;
Unmoved as his prison walls they stand,
Till the tide of existence has ebbed away,
Prepared with a rude and remorseless hand
To render to earth the insulted clay.
He dies,—and already some hungry slave
Is breaking the sod for the Pauper's grave.

With many a jest on his woes untold,
They lift from its pallet the lifeless load;
Ere the stirless streams of his veins are cold,
They hurry him forth to his last abode;
Nor friendship nor love attends him there,
Not a knell is rung, not a tear is shed;
But hurried and brief is the burial prayer,
By a worldly priest o'er the sacred dead:
But the minion of power, and unfeeling knave,
Deign not to look on the Pauper's grave.

But where can the wife of his bosom be?—
With a broken heart she has gone before;
And the son whom he taught to be just and free?—
He selleth his blood on a foreign shore.

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But the dove of his household, has she, too, flown?—
Alas! there is woe in the lost one's name,
For a pitiless destiny brought her down
To the harlot's ruin, remorse, and shame:
And he, the fond father, who yearned to save,
Forgets his despair in a Pauper's grave.

Born on our own unconquered soil,
His life was pure, though his lot was hard;
His days were devoted to painful toil,
And precarious bread was his best reward;
But his arm waxed faint, and his Workhouse doom
Was darker far than the lot he bore;
For, shut from the world in a living tomb,
Nor mother nor offspring beheld him more.
Arise and avenge him, ye good and brave,
For blood cries out from the Pauper's grave!

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RETROSPECTION.

“I might have been”—oh! sad, suggestive words!
So full of hidden meaning, yet so vain!
How sadly do they sound on memory's chords,
And waken feelings of regretful pain!
I might have been a wiser, better man,
With signs of well-won honour on my brow,
Had I adhered to nature's simple plan,
Or reasoned with myself, as I do now.
True that my life has been with ills beset,
Early neglect, and poverty, and gloom,
Within whose shades—how well remembered yet!—
My mind found neither sustenance nor room;
Yet, with instinctive longing for the right,
It sought for fitting food, and struggled towards the light.

Too late to gather up the waste of years,
And turn to profit the encumbering dross;
The gold has vanished,—and these sudden tears
Attest my silent sorrow for the loss.
Too late to win the humble meed of fame
I hoped and strove for in my early days;
Too late to cast the shadow from my name,
And turn the world's hard censure into praise;
Too late to ask the dear beloved and lost,
Forgiveness for stern word and galling deed,
Uttered and done at such a fearful cost
That I am bankrupt,—and too late to plead:
But oh, my God! here on my suppliant knee
I ask,—Am I too late for mercy and for Thee?

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SUPPLICATION.

Oh! help me in my deepest need,
My Father, Friend, and Lord!
And make me drink with eager lip
The waters of Thy word;
So I may rise refreshed and glad,
Unbowed by earthly ill,
My business and my pleasure both
To do Thy holy will.

For His dear sake, who left Thy side
A fallen race to save,
To take all agony from death,
All terror from the grave,
Receive me 'mong the chosen ones
Who journey towards the sky,
And fit me for that perfect home
Where love can never die!

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FUGITIVE AND UNPUBLISHED POEMS.

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TO THE MUSE.

In my forlorn and visionary youth,
Dear Muse! I sought companionship with thee,
Heard thy first murmur of melodious truth
With a new sense of dignity and glee.
Thy many-toned revealings day and night
Haunted my spirit with a vague delight,
Quickened the life of thought, and lent it wings
To seek, if not to share, diviner things,
Where Genius, self-enthroned, sits calm and pure,
Crowned with the beams of Truth, on Fame's proud palace-floor.

'Twas thee that strengthened those delicious moods
Which slept like angel shadows on my mind,
When in the depths of slumbrous solitudes
My soul was flushed with fancies undefined.
'Twas thee that gave to Nature's varying form,
In gloom or gladness, quietude or storm,
While all her changes passed into my face—
More than external lineament and grace,
A voice which whispered wheresoe'er I trod,
Of fitness, perfect mould, life, harmony, and God!

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'Twas thee that gave to summer earth and air
A fuller glory, a serener dye;
To winter, wayward, desolate, and bare,
A wilder beauty, a sublimer sky;
A richer life and language to the flower,
To sound and silence more impressive power,
To every interchange that went and came
O'er the glad world and its resplendent frame
A majesty and mystery, that woke
Feelings of love and awe, as if an angel spoke.

'Twas thee that wrought the tissue of my dreams
Out of the mingled elements that throng
The temple of the universe—high theme!
That make the charm of many a living song!
And in those dreams of rife and rapturous thought
My soul, impatient of its bondage, sought
To look beyond the visible, to Him
Who tuned the harp-strings of the seraphim,—
Who clothes the sun in glory or eclipse,—
Who shook the prophet's frame, who fires the poet's lips.

Sweet dewdrops twinkling with prismatic light,
Strewn for the joyous coming of young day,
Star-systems crowding in the cope of night,
Clouds in their fleeting splendour of array;
The lapse of waters, and the stir of trees,
The war of thunders, and the wail of seas,
Mountains in steadfast grandeur, and the glow
Of gorgeous sunsets on their crowns of snow,
Twilight in quiet fields, and in the wild
The dim and dreamy sheen of moonlight undefiled.

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These, and whate'er was Nature's, and pertained
To beauty, and sublimity, and power,
At once my inquiring faculties enchained,
And tinged with transport meditation's hour:
But had I caught the cunning to diffuse
All thou hast shadowed forth, dear spirit-muse!
How had I bounded up the steep of fame!
How had I gathered glory round my name!
With what proud triumph had I voiced the lyre,
And used for holiest ends thy consecrated fire!

So sped my youth; but in my after years,
When the cold world was freezing round my heart,
When stern realities, obtrusive fears,
And selfish sorrows warned thee to depart,
Thou didst not leave me to my sombre fate
All callous, comfortless, and desolate,
But breathing in my ear some quickening tale
Of hopes that urge, of efforts that prevail,
Gilded the gloom, assuaged the internal strife,
And armed me to endure the fitful storms of life.

Disaster drove me to a stranger-land,
But thy calm shadow travelled by my side;
Oppression smote me with his ruffian hand,
But thou sustained my intellectual pride;
I maddened at my wrongs, but thou didst stay
To soothe my frenzy with the poet's lay;
Thoughtless, I roamed on Error's tangled track,
But thy sweet voice could ever lure me back,
And bring before me, as by magic spell,
A banquet from the bowers where Truth, Peace, Beauty dwell.

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My children pined for perishable food,
Their mother battled with the stalwart ill;
I, in a passive but bewildered mood,
Saw, thought, and suffered, but adored thee still;
I sickened, but thy spirit floated by
With songs which were the echoes of the sky;
Death trampled on my flowers, but thou didst fling
The dews of resignation from thy wing,
And whispered through the darkness of the hour,
“There's mercy in the Hand that awes thee with its power!”

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THE SPIRIT OF SOUND.

Mysterious Spirit of the tremulous air!
Music! Thou unseen sorceress of sound,
How I have worshipped thee! Thy lips have breathed
O'er the still chords of my susceptive soul
Till I have wept with ecstasy, and seen,
In the fast-changing mirror of my thoughts,
Visions of matchless splendour, which the Past,
The Present, and the Future, too, have lent
To lift me for a time above the world.

Nature is full of thee: thy voices flow
Spontaneous o'er the earth, whose waters sing
In roarers or in murmurs; while the birds,
Through the bright lapse of gorgeous summer-time,
Are eloquent unceasingly with song!
Say, who can hear the low-complaining bees
Nestling in fragrant calyces of gold,
Nor feel that thou art with them? Who can hear
The hum of myriad insects on the wing,
The doves' soft cooing, and the shivering leaves,
Nor own thy blessed influence of peace?
Can we lie listening to the solemn rage
Of winds at midnight, or the thunder's voice,
Which rends the silence of the sultry noon,
Nor feel that thou art speaking to us still,
If not in melody, at least in tones

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Which thoughtful minds make music? Can we hear
The fitful dash of sudden hail and rain,
The melancholy moaning of the sea,
Nor willingly believe thou art the power,
The self-same power which tinkles in the rill,
And tunes the impassioned nightingale to joy?

Art thou not present in the homes of men,
Heard in the fond extravagance that flows
From loving hearts, through love-expressing lips?
And art thou not most audible and sweet
In the exuberant laughter of the child,
The father's blessing, and the mother's song,
Which soothes her weary offspring into rest?

Thou art all these, and yet thy voice might fall
Dull and unheeded on the human ear,
Were there no feelings in the human heart,
No chords of sympathy within the soul,
To hearken to and answer it. Where'er
Love, Hope, Affection, Joy, or Sorrow lives,
There wilt thou find an entrance;—a response
To all thy rich revealings, and become
An earthly rapture—perfect but in Heaven.

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THE COUNTRY WEDDING.

(A SKETCH).

No more of grief:—the viol is awake,
Pouring its brisk and blood-bestirring soul
In gushes of quaint melody. Behold!
Down the dim vista of yon bowery lane,
Through whose full foliage peeps the house of God—
A troop of joyous villagers, who come
In all the fresh hilarity of youth
To grace the wedding of a rustic pair.
Let me draw near in sympathy, and be
A brief partaker of their liberal joy;
For though our years have passed the lusty noon
Of fleeting life, it is a pleasure still,
If care hath eaten not our hearts away,
To see another's gladness, and to feel
We live more sweetly when we live for all.
Hither they come, and marching in the van
The silver-haired musician of the vales
Leads the gay group with merry music home.
With what a sturdy mien, and beaming eye
The bridegroom walks! With what a timid grace
The yet bewildered bride, whose fluttering heart
Is brimming with a new, subdued delight!

They little deem, poor souls! that they have passed
From out the garden of that bright romance

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Wherein they learned to love; they little deem
They stand upon the threshold of a new
And yet uncertain being, which may bring
Sorrow and strife, or peacefulness and joy,
As the mixed passions of their souls prevail.
But be our blessings with them:—they are near
The dwelling of their kin, a rural spot,
Half-hidden in the may-bloom of its trees—
Where rose and woodbine round each humble door
Marry in summer sweetness, while the bees,
Like summer friends, cling clustering about
The flowers that feed them. Mark with what a look
Of pleasurable pride the parents greet
Their happy children,—though the mother's kiss
Hath left a tear upon the daughter's cheek
Which was not there! With what a gladdening shout
Of boisterous friendship, genuine though rude,
Old co-mates mingle; while each brawny hand
Is shaken with a heartiness of soul
Scarce known beyond the dwellings of the poor!
Meanwhile the calm and sunny afternoon
(To two, at least, the loveliest of the year)
Is winged with many a pleasantry and joke,
With many a story of departed times.
And now the ale-cup with its amber draught
Goes round incessantly; the fragrant smoke,
In many a graceful wreath from many a pipe,
Soars circling to the roof; the laugh grows loud,
The song grows gay, the converse less confined,
Till warmed and wakened into wild delight,
The old musician twangs his ready strings
(Just as the ruddy sun goes westering down),
And calls them to the dance. “A dance!” “A dance!”

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With simultaneous voice the guests exclaim;
And eager to provide a fitting space,
Chair, table, chest, against the homely walls
They pile in pyramids. Up start the throng,
And rank, promiscuous partners, face to face;
The old musician grasps his friendly bow,
And, leaning to his instrument as one
Who holds communion with some hidden power,
He stamps his earnest foot upon the ground,
And dashing off some brave and buoyant air,
Whirls all his listeners into sudden life.
On moves the living labyrinth, where feet
That bid defiance unto time and tune
Torture the tender toe, and threaten oft
Disastrous warfare to the fragile gown.
The dancers smile—they pant, they toil, they shout
With still determined vigour;—as for grace
They understand it not; anon they flag,
Exhausted strength retards the bounding step;
Each maiden's cheek is burning with the blood
Gathered from all her veins—her eyes grow bright
With soul-exciting labour: still untired,
The old musician, with a roguish leer,
Inexorable mortal! plies his bow
With quick, remorseless energy, and keeps
That human whirlpool, that resistless throng,
Still on their weary feet: but faint at length
“The force of fiddle can no farther go,”
And strange disorder ends the maddening dance.

The supper passed, the due thanksgiving breathed,
The cheering tankard set upon the board
And honoured oft, a few more happy hours—
Ere quiet midnight shows her inmost stars—
Are passed in glad communion round the hearth.

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The old musician, skilled in many things,
Awakes his viol to some tender theme
Of love and song, some story of distress,
Some legend of old times: his artless voice
With natural pathos answering to the string
His hand makes eloquent. Is it not strange
The self-same agent of unconscious sound
Should stir our laughter and provoke our tears;
Should rouse, subdue, electrify, and awe?
And yet 'tis even so; this friendly group,
Late mad with mirth, extravagant with joy,
Sit mute and mournful, fettered by a spell
Whose power they feel but cannot understand.
“The song hath ceased, the minstrel's task is done,”
The well-won praise leaps forth from every tongue,
And grateful pleasure looketh from the soul
Through every face:—alas! the hour is come,
Too soon for many a reveller, the brief,
The angel-wingèd hour of new delight,
Which comes but once through all the linkèd years
Of mortal life. That hour of bridal bliss
Let none profane, but on that humble roof,
Now rendered consecrate to hallowed love,
Invoke a blessing, and depart in peace!

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THE MEETING OF THE WINDS.

(IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH.)

From the four points of the horizon's ring
(For so I've heard the voice of fancy sing),
The winds assembled in a lonely vale,
Each to recount his own peculiar tale.
When these fierce children of Æolus spoke,
Strange sounds of fury on the silence broke,
As each in turn let loose his noisy tongue,
And told of deeds scarce fit for peaceful song.
One boasted, with a laugh of savage mirth,
That he had torn from the reluctant earth
The gnarlèd oak, and with relentless shock
Thrown the proud pine-tree from its native rock.
Another, sweeping o'er a desert land,
Had built a thousand giant tombs of sand,
Had ravished corn-fields, blighted blooming bowers,
And carried poison to the fruits and flowers.
Another, still, had blown upon the deep,
And raised its waters from a treacherous sleep,
Trampled the mariner beneath the wave
Down to a green, illimitable grave,
Seized on the gallant ship's majestic form,
And rent it up to glut the angry storm.

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The mightiest of the four had boldly spoken,
Till the returning silence they had broken
Was stirred by gentle Zephyr's plaintive voice,
Whose softness makes the listening heart rejoice;
“You see the difference that fate hath made
Between yourselves and me,” bland Zephyr said:
“Mischief is pleasure unto you I know,
I would not harm the humblest thing below;
Ye range and riot over land and sea,
I am a blessing wheresoe'er I be;
For, faithful to the impulse of my soul,
I work no woe, I hold no harsh control.
With my calm kiss I woo the fertile ground,
And at my whisper verdure springs around;
I follow streams in their bright courses lone,
And mix my sweetest murmurs with their own;
I love the swains and damsels, when at morn
They rest awhile beneath the budding thorn,
Or when, at quiet eve, they talk and sing,
Moved by the amorous spirit of the spring;
Within their loosened locks I love to linger,
And touch each blushing cheek with cooling finger;
Nor doth self-shielded Innocence deny
My warm caresses as I wander by:
All in my presence live 'mid ‘light and bloom,’
But feel, when I depart, a soul-pervading gloom.”

Thus spoke young Zephyr, candid as a sage,
While his wild brothers, with increasing rage,
Indignant at his language and his mien,
Blew in his tranquil face with pride and spleen;
And, with a voice intended to affright,
Cried out, “Begone from our insulted sight,

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Thou fickle creature of the wanton wing,
Thou puny, perfumed, and dishonoured thing!”

Zephyr obeyed them with a willing heart,
But, ere he swayed his pinions to depart,
He turned, and said, with a reproachful smile,
“Go, ye destructive ministers, and vile!
I will return to many a pleasant place,
Exhaling fragrance, and imparting grace;
I'll seek green haunts, fresh brooks, umbrageous bowers,
And make my wonted visit to the flowers;
Go to your reckless sport, alarm, destroy!
Be mine the peaceful lot of gentleness and joy.”

MORAL.

Need more be writ, my meaning to express?
Have we no evils cruel to excess,
No whirlwind passions, no ambitious deeds,
No war and waste, no wild conflicting creeds,
No sin of soul, no wilfulness of heart,
Which thrust our best humanities apart?
Need I extol the purity and power
Of quiet virtues, acting hour by hour,
Benevolence, meek toil, and generous thought,
And prompt, spontaneous justice, never bought;—
Of meek deportment when great things are won,
Of calm conclusions when a wrong is done,
Of free forgiveness to a contrite foe,
And love for everything of good below?
Read human nature, and ye cannot fail
To see the simple moral of my tale.

348

ADDRESS:

SPOKEN BY THE AUTHOR AT THE ANCIENT SHEPHERDS' ANNIVERSARY, TOWN HALL, ASHTON, JANUARY IST, 1846.

Mid the gleam and the gladness of waters and vales,
That fling a proud charm o'er the realm of old Wales,
In a cot that hung midway 'tween mountain and moor,
Where silence and solitude guarded the door,
Dwelt Ruthin, the shepherd, as honest a hind
As e'er breasted the tempest, or battled the wind!
Rude, hardy, yet gentle, good-humoured and brave;
Ever ready to succour, and reckless to save;—
With a heart full of love, and a soul full of mirth,
A simple, unpolished, free child of the earth!
Though his dwelling was lonely, and lowly, and bare—
Though his raiment was weather-worn—scanty his fare;
Enough for to-day set him proof against sorrow,
He knew not, he sought not the ills of to-morrow:
For a faithful and frugal, a village-born wife,
Who strengthened his fortitude—softened his life;
And children, a comely but boisterous race,
Came fondly about him and gladdened the place!
And nightly with earnestness—sometimes with tears,
He prayed for the peace of his young mountaineers.

But alas! o'er his threshold stepped sickness one day,
And Death followed after with dread and dismay,

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Touched the heart of the mother so watchful and mild,
Put his hand on the brow of the loveliest child;
And the husband—the father—stood soul-stricken there,
In a motionless, voiceless, and tearless despair!
Till the little ones shook his sad spirit with cries,
And the fulness of sorrow o'erflowed at his eyes.

In the palace, where plenty and splendour abide,
Death may veil his dread form in the trappings of pride;
But in the lorn hovel where penury reigns,
How awful his aspect, how piercing his pains!
Poor Ruthin, o'erwhelmed and bewildered with woe,
Sank prostrate—for poverty doubled the blow.
Desponding and destitute, where could he crave
The last solemn boon of a coffin and grave?
But God sent him succour: from hamlet and glen
Came rough-handed, kind-hearted, poor, patient men;
And each from the mourner took part of his grief,
And each brought his tribute of timely relief;
And the mother was laid, with her child on her breast,
In the shadow and stillness of hallowèd rest;
But never did Ruthin grow cold at the deed,
Or shut up his heart to a brother in need.

This “short simple annal” of life may portray,
By its homely example our purpose to-day;
For we, too, though Shepherds but only in name,
Each to each in our sorrows would practise the same!
With the deeds of our Virgin-born Pastor in view,
We are bound in a covenant steadfast and true;
In a brotherly compact of peace to sustain
The trouble-tried spirit that bows to its pain;
To enter where sickness appalleth the poor,
And keep foe and famine aloof from the door;

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To give to misfortune e'en more than a tear;
To watch by the death-bed, and wait on the bier;
To comfort the widow, the orphan to guide,
And all without falsehood, or folly, or pride;
Save that honest pride which the conscience forgives,
As it pleads for the lowliest being that lives.

No sword flashes proudly at Shepherdry's gate,
No symbols of mystery garnish our state,
No banners hang round us in foolish array,
No words, cabalistic, mislead or betray!
Benevolence needeth not these to proclaim,
Its feelings and doings, its purpose and name;
It is simple in manner, and humble in mien;
It is earnest in private, in public serene;
In action 'tis strenuous, kindly, and warm,
It is ready to plan, it is prompt to perform;
It seeketh not honour, it asketh not praise,
It is deaf to our whisper, and blind to our gaze;
If its conscience approve what its bounty hath given,
It is happy on earth, it is hopeful in heaven!

Benevolence bids us, with thankful delight,
To hail you as friends on this festival night;
This night of the newly-born year, when the mind
More than wont is consoling, confiding and kind!
And ye will not forget on the calm-coming morrow
The heirs of misfortune, and suffering, and sorrow;
For ye come here to help, to encourage, to bless
With your heart-given tribute, the child of distress;
And still let this beautiful truth be believed—
That “A blessing bestowed is a blessing received.”

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FREEDOM OF CONSCIENCE.

“Freedom of Conscience!” glorious theme for pencil, pen, or tongue;
How worthy of the purest fire, the proudest voice of song!
More fitting for those lofty thoughts which thrill the harp divine,
Than the weak words that tremble through this lowly lyre of mine.

“Freedom of Conscience!” let me sing, how slight soe'er, my power,
This universal privilege, this consecrated dower;
God claims the homage of my soul, yet leaves its reason free,
And shall a mortal shadow come between my God and me?

Shall human law prescribe my creed, and tell me when to kneel?
Shall state or priest coerce me to a form I cannot feel?
Shall stole or surplice, cowl or cap, or any outward guise,
Show me the clearest, nearest path to glory in the skies?

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Oh no! Religion needeth not compulsion or parade,
'Twas not for these the Nazarene's dread sacrifice was made;
But oh! it is a blessed sight, 'neath temple, cloud, or tree,
To see sincere and solemn crowds bow down the adoring knee!

No need of arch, and storied pane, of fixed and formal prayer,
The heart that learns to lean towards Heaven can worship everywhere;
In chapel, closet, cloister gloom, or forest shade, we may,
If the spirit, not the form, inspires, cast off the world, and pray.

Some love the eye-alluring pomp of fulminating Rome,
The blazing altar, dreary mass, the high and gorgeous dome,
And some, the ancient English Church, of venerable grace,
In whose time-hallowed grounds how few would scorn a resting-place!

And some, more simple in their faith, but with a lofty aim,
'Mid lowliest walls would glorify Jehovah's power and name;
And thus, on Nature's broad, free floor, beneath Heaven's boundless gaze,
Would fill the breezes as they pass with songs of earnest praise.

And others—would they were but few! with mingled doubt and pride,
Stray from each happier fold, and meet in mockery aside

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Poor slaves to sense and circumstance, they wander far apart;
Love all and scorn not! God alone may judge the inner heart.

Let each who thinks, and by his thought can rise above the clay,
Let all who, strong in love and faith, pursue their peaceful way,
Let every being, whatsoe'er his creed, clime, colour be,
Rejoice in chainless soul and limb, for God hath made him free!

But thou, my own creative land! the favoured of the isles!
On whom the light of gifted minds the Gospel-glory smiles,
Go with thy power of intellect, with peace upon thy tongue,
And wean the wayward and the weak from ignorance and wrong.

“Freedom of conscience!” who divulged this thrice transcendent creed,
By whose pure force the fettered lips, the famished mind was freed?
A few brave men, a very few, the noblest, gentlest, best,
'Mid many who had bowed and bled at Bigotry's behest!

Great Nye! methinks I hear thy voice within that ancient hall,
To some imparting hope and joy, and wonder unto all.
Methinks I see thy manly mien, thy broad, uplifted brow,
Honour to thee, exalted one! we feel thy spirit now!

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For full, emancipated speech, for thought's immortal right,
For power to worship as we list, the God of love and light;
For the sweet sake of Charity to all the sons of earth,
This champion oped his giant heart, and gave its feelings birth!

And lo! the painter's soul hath caught the greatness of that hour,
And thrown it on the canvas field with genius' magic power.
There Cromwell (gentle Selden by), with hard, heroic face,
Lists to the wingéd words that fill that consecrated place.

There, 'mid a mute and anxious crowd, stands Milton's youthful form,
His soul with high poetic thought, his heart with freedom warm;
And many a mind of generous mood, and many an eye of scorn,
Seem to make up the spectacle of that triumphant morn.

Like breeze-borne seeds, that pregnant truth went forth from zone to zone,
Took root, and flourished free and fair, in places wild and lone;
And out of that devoted band, the fearless, firm eleven,
An independent multitude press peacefully to heaven!

355

STANZAS FOR THE NEW YEAR.—[1859.]

The Old Year is numbered with those of the past,
He has done with his chances for right or for wrong;
May the good that he gave us remain to the last,
And the evil be dead and forgotten ere long!
Some griefs which he brought us may linger awhile,
But to-day let us have neither murmur nor tear;
We have met with a kindly and sociable smile
To hail with warm welcome the gladsome New Year.

Some things the Old Year has achieved, we must own,
Which the spirit of progress will wisely extend,—
He has added new grandeur and strength to the throne—
New glories to Science, true Liberty's friend.
He has shown us that language can fly through the seas,—
That lands, the remotest, may seem to draw near;
Let us give the departed due honour for these,
As we hail with warm welcome the gladsom New Year.

Some kindred and friends the Omnipotent Will
Has summoned and snatched from our tenderest care,
But beings to comfort us cling round us still,
And chase from our souls discontent and despair.
By turns 'tis the lot of unsatisfied man
To hope and to grieve, to rejoice and to fear;
Let us cherish the blessings we have, while we can,
And hail with warm welcome the gladsome New Year.

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The wings of old Time change their hues as he flies
With an onward, still onward, but varying flight;
To-day they are sombre as sorrow's own skies,—
To-morrow as lovely as Hope's rosy light.
The darkness should raise us to efforts anew,
The brightness should charm us with solace and cheer;
Then, keeping both duty and pleasure in view,
Let us hail with warm welcome the gladsome New Year.

The gladsome New Year is a time when a race
For the good things of life should in earnest begin,
If we wish to attain a more prominent place,
And the goal of success and fruition to win.
Old ties should be strengthened, new friendships be sought,
Old signs of stern feeling should now disappear,—
New plans for improvement be tried and be taught,
When we've hailed with warm welcome the gladsome New Year!

Thou hast come to thy heritage, young Fifty-Nine!
May peace, knowledge, freedom give grace to thy time!
May all that's exalted and noble be thine—
Thy coming triumphant, thy going sublime!
May thy presence bring something of good and of great,
To elevate man in his mortal career;
But, whatever it be, we must “labour and wait,”
And give thee warm welcome, thou gladsome New Year!

We rejoice; but, oh! let us remember with awe
The merciful Giver of blessings untold,—
The Source of all wisdom, and order, and law,—
The infinite Power to whom nothing is old.
Let the thoughts of our thankfulness rise unto Him,
Who made and sustains every system and sphere,
So that nothing unworthy our pleasures may dim,
As we hail with warm welcome the gladsome New Year.

357

ALICE THE FAIR.

I deemed my affections were destined no more
To flourish in vigour and bloom,
That my mind, once so hopeful and ready to soar,
Would wear a perpetual gloom;
But a change for the better has softened my woe
And chased discontent and despair,
And the pleasure that thrills through my being, I owe
To the magic of Alice the Fair.

Oh! blest was the circumstance, happy the hour
When I caught the first smile of her face,
And felt, as by instinct, the exquisite power
Of her kindliness, beauty, and grace;
And now, not a day that goes by but I seem
To see her dear form in the air,
Not a night but I muse on her beauty, or dream
Of the sweet eyes of Alice the Fair.

Oh! would I could win her as wholly my own,
With no hollow hearts coming nigh;
No lord in his palace, no king on his throne,
Would feel so exalted as I.
She would make my existence more tranquil and bright,
Would wean me from sorrow and care,
Be a flower in the day-time, a star in the night,
My peerless one, Alice the Fair.

358

PROLOGUE,

SPOKEN, ON THE OCCASION OF AN AMATEUR PLAY, FOR A CHARITABLE PURPOSE.

Friends of the Drama! gathered here to-night,
With hearts of feeling and with looks of light;
Humbly, but hopefully, we crave once more,
That kind indulgence ye have shown before.

Roused into pity for the pining Poor,
We venture now to tread this honoured floor;
This great arena where the Kemble stood,
And fiery Kean portrayed the deed of blood;
Where gifted Cooke drew down your willing cheers,
And graceful Young beguiled you of your tears;
Where manly Vandenhoff, with true disguise,
Brought the unyielding Roman to your eyes;
Where stern Macready, mighty in his age,
Hath dared to dignify the drooping stage;
Well may we feel distrustful of our powers,
When men like these have charmed your evening hours,
And we are willing humbly to confess,
“'Tis not in mortals to command success;”
But should we violate dramatic laws,
Deign to forgive us—for our holy cause!

When haggard thousands cry aloud for bread,
With scarce a shelter for each weary head;

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When desperate fathers lift the felon hand,
And naked mothers wander o'er the land—
Mothers whose hearts are racked with daily pain,
To hear their offspring wail for food in vain!
Can we do less than sympathise, and try
To wipe one tear-drop from the sufferer's eye?
Can we do less than faithfully combine
With others labouring in the work divine;—
That work of Charity! which must impart
A mutual blessing to the human heart?

To you, dear friends, we venture to appeal,
Fully assured that ye have souls to feel,
And as within ye Pity's pleadings wake,
O'erlook our failures for sweet Pity's sake!

The gentle Author of our chosen scene,
Kind to his fellow-man hath ever been;
And he hath suffered, more than many know,
Yet won renown which none can overthrow.
For him we plead not, for the public voice
Hath spoken loudly, proudly of our choice;
Be his alone the triumph and the fame,
And, if your judgment will it, ours the blame;
'Tis your's to hear, and flatter, or to frown,
'Tis our's to lay our free-will offerings down,
In the full hope that we shall bear away
Your smiles and favours till some future day.

Leigh Hunt, “A Legend of Florence.”

360

THE SPIRIT OF CHARITY.

(WRITTEN FOR A CHARITABLE PURPOSE.)

When Messiah was born, and the Bethlehem star
Led the wise of the East to their worship afar—
A spirit came down from the realm of its birth,
To rest and remain with the children of earth;
It awoke in the soul of that God-given child,
Illuming His lips as He talked or He smiled,
And when He went forth in His wisdom of youth,
To win by His gentleness, teach by His truth,
This spirit was heard in the words of His tongue,
As He raised his meek voice to the wondering throng.
It moved in His actions, it beamed in His eyes,
It burned in His tears, and it breathed in His sighs;
It oozed in His sweat-drops of passionate pain,
It gushed in His blood—but it gushed not in vain;
He had finished the task which His mercy designed,
But the Spirit of Charity lingered behind!

And then that pure being found welcome and rest
In some human hearts, which it softened and blest;
And they who could feel its warm pleadings within,
Sought out the lone haunts of affliction and sin;
On the hungry and sad they essayed to intrude,
And e'en the unworthy were favoured with food;
Rejoicing, they sheltered the fatherless child,
And the widow forgot her distraction, and smiled.

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They entered the dungeon where, prostrate in gloom,
The frail son of error awaited his doom;
They appealed to his manhood, they soothed his despair,
Till his obdurate nature was melted in prayer.
They ventured where warfare and pestilence ran
On the message of death through the dwellings of man,
And often they stood by the dying and dead,
Alone by the side of some sufferer's bed;
Giving pity and aid through the terrible night,
Unscathed and undaunted as angels of light;
But if in such mission one chancèd to fall,
Like a martyr he died with the blessings of all!
Human hearts so devoted were rare, it is true,
But the Spirit of Charity strengthened and grew,
Waxed wider and brighter, like opening day,
Till millions, rejoicing, acknowledged its sway!
A small band of friends, with a noble desire,
Which the breath of the spirit had fanned into fire—
Met, talked, and determined, with laudable pride,
To scatter the seeds of benevolence wide;
To befriend the poor wayfarer far from his home,
When fortune compelled him neglected to roam,
To cheer him in sickness, in death to be kind
To those he might leave in deep sorrow behind;
To fly to the succour of fatherless grief,
To give to the desolate widow relief;
To strengthen the feeble, to soften the strong,
Till love should subdue all the errors of wrong;
To cling to their purpose with temperate zeal,
Till the world should be taught to respect them and feel;
These, these were their objects, how noble! how high!
How worthy of souls which are never to die!
And oh! how much nobler! how higher by far,
Than the deeds which are done by the minions of war!

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The result is a proud one. These friends of their race
Are gathering, and widening, and soaring apace,
And the loneliest hamlet on Britain's green isle,
Partakes of the light of their covenant-smile;
And the cities and towns of this beautiful land
Are thronged with the sons of this glorious band.
If you go to Columbia, the free and the fair,
This tree of benevolence flourisheth there!
In the wildest, the uttermost regions of earth,
This star of humanity bursts into birth;
And this wonderful brotherhood, strange though it be,
Embrace o'er the hills, and shake hands o'er the sea.

But where doth this spirit of pity appear?
The peri is present—the angel is here,
In the hearts of the men who have toiled with success,
To solace affliction, and lighten distress:
'Tis here in fair woman's compassionate glance;
It breathes in the music, it moves in the dance;
It glows in the bosoms, unmixed with alloy,
Of all who are friends to this generous joy.
Before I return to the world and its care,
Be this my sincerest, my holiest prayer,—
May the Christian exhort, and the patriot appeal,
Till God shall awaken new hearts that can feel;
New hands that will open, obedient to Heaven,
And scatter what God hath abundantly given:
May the idols of self from their altars be hurled,
And the Spirit of Charity govern the world!

363

STANZAS,

TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE JOSEPH BROTHERTON, ESQ., M.P.

God sent His summons down,
And a calm spirit from among us passed,—
One who has donned victoriously at last
The palm-wreath, and the crown.

In his sad household now
They miss his presence at the evening hour,
When he was wont, with gentle, genial power
To clear each clouded brow.

In many a poor man's cot,—
Where fell his bounty like the silent dew,
Opening the fountains of the heart anew,
He will not be forgot.

In many a public place
Souls will be found his memory to revere,
For he united with good men to cheer
And help the human race.

In lecture-room or mart,—
In hall of justice, or in house of prayer,
All who beheld his welcome presence there
Knew of his guileless heart.

364

Within the senate walls
His mild, good sense was honoured long ago;
He never lost a friend, nor made a foe,
Within those noble halls.

Oh! when a good man dies,—
Albeit we cannot choose but shed the tear,—
Let the example of his own career
Uplift us towards the skies.

Calm, temperate, and just,
Opposed to falsehood, prejudice, and strife,
Through the long lapse of an unsullied life
He found both love and trust.

Peace to thy resting-place,
Christian, just wakened to diviner birth!
And may the seed which thou hast sown on earth
Grow in the light of grace!

365

PROLOGUE.

Patrons and friends, your presence here to-night
Moves us with gratitude and pure delight;
For such prompt answer to our poor appeal
Proves ye have minds to think, and hearts to feel;
And we were all unworthy of your thought,
Did we not prize your kindness as we ought.

A band of many brothers, our chief aim
Is to establish an unsullied name
For peace, benevolence, and watchful care
Of the scant means that fall to Labour's share;—
For reverence for lawful things alone,
Love for the Sovereign, honour for the Throne.
Love, Friendship, Truth, our motto and our guide,
Are with celestial Charity allied,—
The angel Charity, so oft a guest
In gentle Woman's sympathising breast,
Adding a milder beauty to her face,
To all her motions a serener grace,
A softer music to her words of balm,
And to her kindly heart a holier calm;
Long may she Charity's blest power obey,
Nor scare the angel visitant away.

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There is no nobler labour for the mind
Than to assuage the sufferings of mankind;
It is a pleasure to console and please
The widow and the fatherless; for these
We step aside from our accustomed way
To comfort and to help them, if we may;
And your unstrained beneficence shall bear
Hope, peace, and joy to many a heart of care.

Think of the widow, reft of him whose hand
Brought daily bread unto the household band,
He who was cheerful in the darkest hour,
Whose heart was gentle, and whose will was power;
Gone is the friend and husband, firm and kind,
Leaving despair and poverty behind,
While to her mournful eyes a sudden cloud
Covers the earth as with a funeral shroud.
What can she do, and all her helpless brood,
In the cold world, for shelter and for food?
Unless some little largess we bestow
On this poor widowed woman in her woe,—
Give with a generous impulse of the heart
Which shall a tenfold blessing back again impart!

Think of the orphan, whom no father's eye
Can overlook when danger cometh nigh,
No father's voice can soften and restrain,
And when he wanders, bring him back again.
Left to themselves, the fatherless forsake
The path which parent love would have them take;
In evil deeds grow prematurely bold,
Like wanton cattle broken from the fold;
Or still and stealthy cunning takes the place
Of childhood's natural gaiety and grace,
While their harsh destiny implants such seeds
As rankly germinate in moral weeds,

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Which thrust the flowers of gentleness apart,
And drain the dews of goodness from the heart.
Oh! wake the holier sympathies that lie
Hid in the depths of your humanity;
Help the poor mother, that her care may guide
And guard the helpless flock that linger by her side.

We, the poor actors of a fleeting hour,
With emulous feelings, but with little power,
Ask your indulgence for our lack of skill,
Which must be all unequal to our will;
Deign to forgive our failings of to-night,
So ye will make our self-taught task more light;
For the dear sake of our devoted cause
Grant us your smiles, your patience, your applause;
And at our parting we shall bear away
Glad thoughts to cheer our hearts for many a coming day.

368

EXTEMPORE LINES.

TO MY FRIEND, JAMES GRIMSHAW, ESQ., ON THE DEATH OF HIS MOTHER.

Once more the mighty leveller hath been
O'er the dear threshold of that home serene
Where first the light broke o'er thine infant head;
A new bereavement calleth for thy tears,—
A mother, full of honour and of years,
Hath found the tranquil slumber of the dead.

Too well I know that cold, condoling words
Can never heal the lacerated chords
Which Death hath shattered in the human breast;
Yet may a friend, with sympathy unbought,
Pay the poor tribute of melodious thought,
To charm thy spirit from its sad unrest.

Our wildest wailings never can restore
To earth, to us, the loved ones gone before,—
The fair, the good, from our embraces riven:—
Had we no sorrow in this lower life,
No broken hopes, no agonies, no strife,
What need of Immortality and Heaven?

Thy father's dust is mingling with the sod;—
Thy wife, a nearer one, is with her God,

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And now thou weepest o'er thy mother's tomb:
But other treasures there are left behind,
To cheer thy heart, to tranquillise thy mind,
The lingering star-lights of thy household gloom.

Thy children yet are spared to thee,—in them
Thou hast the reflex of that one lost gem,—
The brightest in thy coronet of love:
She who became the idol of thy youth;
Who clave to thee with undecaying truth,—
She who beholds thy sorrows from above.

Oh! mourn not for the dead: their lot is bright,—
All purity and joy; all strength and light,—
All peace and power, and love without its stings:
Then mourn not for the dead:—if tears must fall,
Be it for those who lie beneath the pall—
The cold, oppressive pall of earthly things.

THE END.