University of Virginia Library

previous section A Rhyming Chronicle of Incidents and Feelings
no next section
203

III. PART III.

[_]

The following series of poems has been the result of a friendship with the editor's family. Several of them were particularly intended to commemorate walks and drives in the neighbourhood of the parsonage.

205

A WALK TO AMINGTON,

ON THE 4TH OF MARCH.

“The days of our life are threescore years and ten.”

I

A birthday;—and a day that rose
With much of hope, with meaning rife—
A thoughtful day from dawn to close,
The middle day of human life.

II

In sloping fields, on narrow plains
The sheep were feeding on their knees,
As we went through the winding lanes,
Strew'd with red buds of alder trees.
206

III

So warm the day,—its influence lent
To flagging thought a stronger wing,
So utterly was winter spent,
So sudden was the birth of spring.

IV

Wild crocus flowers by copse and hedge
In sunlight, clustering thick below,
Sigh'd for the firwood's shaded ledge,
Where sparkled still a line of snow.

V

And crowded snowdrops faintly hung
Their heads yet lower for the heat,
While in still air all branches flung
Their shadowy doubles at our feet.

VI

And through the hedge the sunbeams crept,
And through the maple and the birch;
And in the airy distance slept,
On the broad tower of Tamworth Church.
207

VII

Then lingering on our downward way,
A little space we stay'd and stood,
To see the hazy mist that lay
Down in that vale, and by the wood.

VIII

A distance vague, a dreamy calm
The constant sun had lent the scene;
And dropt a soft and veiling charm,
On broomy knolls and dingles green.

IX

There are some days that die not out,
Nor alter by reflection's power;
Whose converse calm, whose words devout,
For ever rest the spirit's dower.

X

And they are days when drops a veil,
A mist upon the distance past;
And while we say to peace—“All hail!”
We hope that it will always last—
208

XI

Times when the troubles of the heart
Are hush'd—as winds were hush'd that day;
And budding hopes begin to start,
Like those green hedgerows on our way—

XII

When all within and all around,
Like hues on that sweet landscape, blend;
And Nature's hand has made to sound
The echoes that our heartstrings send—

XIII

When there are rays within, like those
That stream'd through maple and through birch;
And rested in such calm repose
On the broad tower of Tamworth Church.
209

TO KATIE, ASLEEP IN THE DAY-TIME.

“Three years she grew in sun and shower,
Then Nature said, ‘A lovelier flower
On earth was never sown:
This child I to myself will take,
She shall be mine, and I will make
A lady of my own!’”
Wordsworth.

I

Little Katie, when your mother
Sees you sleeping on your bed,
Golden hair upon your pillow
Halo-like, around you spread;
List'ning to your gentle breathing,
Bending down to catch the sighs,
And the sleepy words you murmur
When the light is on your eyes:
210

II

When she hears your little footsteps
Running on their devious way,
Sees you with your waxen baby
Hold a never-wearied play:
And with mimic care attend it,
And in loving tones caress,
Fond and tender words repeating
That your own sweet childhood bless:

III

When she holds you to her bosom,
Looking on your dimpled smile,
There is “love that passeth knowledge,”
Working in her heart the while:
And she thinks, “Whatever sorrow
One day in my path may be,
And whatever cares may trouble,
O this same shall comfort me!”

IV

Little Katie, when your father
First beheld your open eyes,
Strange delight was in his blessing,
Half incredulous surprise.
211

Only daughter! There is magic
Surely in a daughter's name,
And the gladness of your birthday
Growing still, is still the same.

V

Little Katie, when your laughter
Rises sweetly to his ear,
Do you know what thoughts it wakens
Of a voice no longer here?
Do you know how much you tell him,
In its clear and joyful tone,
Of lov'd accents that it echoes,
And of features like your own?

VI

When you come with baby footsteps,
When you cling about his chair,
And he parts from off your forehead
The soft curls of veiling hair:
Sometimes, looking down, remembrance
Of another face doth rise,
And he sees, but heeds no longer,
Thinking on those buried eyes,—
212

VII

On her face, that now lies cover'd
With a mantle green and fair,
Where at sundown falls the shadow
Of a distant house of prayer:
At whose feet the young tree flourish'd
Ere you came, an infant guest,
One, to whom her name descended,
And her welcome in his breast.

VIII

What if more be gather'd shortly,
If they go to join her there,
Will you fill their vacant places
With your watchful love and care?
Will you learn the silent language
Dimly written on his brow,
Minister to wants unspoken,
To unutter'd wishes bow?

IX

It is much if love attend us,
Something to be understood:
More, if heedful thoughts be on us,
Always waiting for our good.
213

Kindness, more than precious jewels
Or than ornaments of gold,
Beautifies a woman's beauty,
Gives her grace when she grows old.

X

For the sister-voice that never
With his household music blends,
For that lost delight of childhood
Will you make his heart amends?
Till he says, “In all my labours,
Long and toilsome though they be,
And for all remember'd sorrows,
Now this same doth comfort me!”

XI

[OMITTED]

XII

[OMITTED]

XIII

Pleasure, like that ray of glory
By the ancient painters shed
Round some pictur'd fond resemblance
Of the dear Redeemer's head,
214

In the loom of life doth pleasure,
Ere our childish days are told,
With the warp and woof enwoven,
Glitter like a thread of gold!

XIV

Be not anxious to discover,
Questioning with curious thought,
Why in life's embroider'd tissue
Should this golden thread be wrought:
Nor, as some have done before you,
In the midst of joyous play,
Wonder why you are so happy,
And how soon 'twill pass away!

XV

Pass it surely will, and early—
Thoughtless pleasures will not last;
Things that perish in the using—
Morning rime that melteth fast.
But, instead will come perceptions
Of a nature more intense;
Conscious joys — but care-attended,
Growing up with thought and sense:
215

XVI

Things our Childhood did not dream on
While she linger'd with us still,
Making necklaces of daisies—
Sailing fleets along the rill:
She is gone! and with her vanish'd
Much that fancy well may rue,
Theories that shrink from proving,
And beliefs no longer true.

XVII

Then there comes a feeling common
To the disenchanted heart,
As it thinks how marvel ceaseth,
And from earth how wonders part.
“Miracles have long been over,
All things follow changeless rule,—
Angels stir not now the waters,
Of Bethesda's desert pool.

XVIII

“Men forget the worlds above them,
And can see no signs in Heav'n,
Art has almost put out Nature
With her deep insidious leav'n:
216

And our God withdraws his presence,
While perverse, in harden'd mood
Live the Tribes that once He nourish'd,
Forty years on Angels' food.”

XIX

So doth Youth — from fables rising—
Fashion out of all she sees,
Even from this world's condition,
Fellow thoughts and sympathies:
Even Nature's face we colour
With the mind's prevailing tone,
Change her language to a cadence,
Harmonizing with our own!

XX

Thought is free, the sages tell us—
Free to rove, and free to soar,
But affection lives in bondage,
That enthralls her more and more:
From her utmost branch she sendeth,
Downward like the Indian tree,
Roots that with the earth connect her,
Strongly and enduringly.
217

XXI

Yet alas! for something better—
Love is such a helpless thing—
Poor as earthly gold and silver,
Life to buy, or peace to bring.
Like a woman empty-handed,
Weeping for her children's need,
Love can heal no pang it mourneth,
Nor her tears the children feed!

XXII

Then our envy turns upon us—
“What! and would'st thou purchase rest
By the drying up of feeling,
By love's cooling in thy breast?
No! thou would'st not! why complain then,
Simple reasoner that thou art?
How shall these two dwell together—
Quiet life and loving heart?”

XXIII

There is no such thing as silence,
Sleepless echoes round us wait,
Every sound we can interpret
Makes it bear on ev'ry state:
218

Absent voices crowd about us,
Talking with us by the way;
Faces that the grave has cover'd
Look upon us all the day.

XXIV

And their words are not reproachful,
Though we sometimes wish they were,
Pain'd for every past unkindness,
That from us they had to bear.
Many needless things are spoken,
(Words to folly near akin)
Rather than in silence listen
To those voices from within!

XXV

Little Katie, when your childhood
Passeth, like a dream of night,
Then may youth arise unclouded—
Like a summer morning bright.
Having left no absent voices
Any cause to pain you thus—
Live to hear from all who love you—
“O this same doth comfort us!”
July, 1847.
219

HOPWAS WOOD AT THE END OF APRIL.

Never tell me how the sun
Steeps the meadow lands in light;
Stealthy entrance he hath won
Here to drop his star-beams bright.
Changing fretwork here he lays
On the mosses and the grass;
In and out his prying rays
Dash and dart, and gleam and pass.
Under woven branches high,
Down upon the wood-ruffe's head,
Little spots of sunshine lie,
Wandering patches change and spread.
Here the chaffinch and his mate
Build themselves “a mansion small;”
Starlings sit in chattering state,
And the jealous thrushes call.
220

Shall I tell you what they say,
Singing for their own delight?
Listen to the linnet's lay
In the chestnut out of sight.
“O my mate with snowy breast,
And with eyes so bright and black,
Fear not for thy mossy nest,
Leafy shade it doth not lack.
“Sam and Henry did not see,
When to-day they play'd below—
Of the treasure in the tree
Sam and Henry did not know.
“Safe from reach of spoiler's hand,
Sit and dream with half-shut eyes;
Drowsy moths about thee stand,
And blue panting dragon-flies.
“While the chestnut blossoms fall
Thickly on thy nest and thee,
Dusky bees and beetles small
Hum around thee restlessly.
221

“When the rising sun shall peep
At our nestlings laid in down,
Sam and Henry fast asleep
Shall not dream it in the town.
“In the topmost branch enshrin'd,
Look abroad on meadows fair;
And in soft grey moss reclin'd,
Think upon thy speckled care.
“Green beyond thee lies the ridge,
That yon gloomy fir-trees crown;
And the river and the bridge,
And the road into the town.
“Sunk in rushes to their breasts,
Village boys thy bright eye kens,
Wading after ousels' nests,
And the eggs of waterhens.
“Little isles where osiers grow
Stem and fret the shallow tide;
There the white swans floating go,
With the grey one at their side.
222

“And, their arms together link'd,
Witch-elms hang above the well;
While in quietness distinct
Sounds the tinkling chapel bell.
“Fear not thou, but dream at ease,
Shut thy glossy wings and rest;
While the balmy southern breeze
Sways thee gently on thy nest.
“When the moon-beams through the tree,
On thy first-laid egg came down,
Sam and Henry did not see,
Fast asleep in Tamworth Town.”
This was what the linnet said,
Singing of his own delight,
And the happy life he led
In the chestnut out of sight.
July, 1847.
223

THE PARSONAGE GARDEN.

Within these walls has much been done, and much has been effac'd,
For each successor makes a change in what the last had trac'd:
Old-fashion'd plants and flowers are thrown aside in high disdain,
And dwellers next to these perhaps will alter it again.
When the grave old Friars went two and two along the broad straight walks;
When the orange lily and the flag uprear'd their stately stalks,
By beds where herb-angelica and feathery fennels grew,
Sweet marjoram, and basil green, and mint, and balm, and rue—
229

O they little thought, as side by side, with sleek and sober pace,
They talk'd of holy Mother Church, and of our Lady's grace,
That on a day their garden trim so gay a dress would don,
And children's feet would tread its walks, when they were dead and gone.
But if their gambols and their joy those grave old Friars could see,
They would hardly give those children dear their “Benedicite”—
Those little heretics that plant and dig their garden small,
In what was once the bed of herbs beneath the ancient wall.
They would look askance at once trim beds, where double daisies stood,
And groan to find them fill'd with docks and bluebells from the wood;
While the owners delve with might and main in gravel, mould, and clay;
And give their minds to that hard work and toil that boys call play.
230

They would look askance at the arbour nigh, where haply they might see
A student grave with a dimpled cheek, and a book upon his knee;
A-reading of Aladdin's Lamp, or famous Robin Hood,
Of simple Susan and her lamb, or the Children in the Wood.
Perhaps where green the terrace bank slopes downward to the grass,
Where to her school the mistress now doth every morning pass,
Or where the nurse walks up and down with children at her knees,
Grew beds of borage long ago, to feed the Friars' bees.
Perhaps where this young sycamore waves lightly over-head,
The Friars stood to give away the weekly dole of bread;
And thought to reach the gates of Heaven, by that more easy way,
And make themselves a name on earth, that never should decay.
231

This ancient wall of all their works is standing now alone;
With here a range of rugged bricks, and there a rough-hewn stone.
O! well for us that little more doth of their works remain!
O! sad would be the day that saw the Friars here again!
232

HOPWAS WOOD AT THE END OF MAY.

I had a dream last night, a pleasant dream,
After the busy day,
Full of delightful thoughts of many things,
And places far away.
A dream, my Mother, of that quiet wood,
To some blest souls akin;
Round which, though stormy winds may pine and rave,
They cannot come within.
Methought I enter'd by the mossy gate,
And went up all alone,
Where, thick as stars upon a frosty night,
The primrose flowers were strewn—
Among the arums and the prone woodbine,
Through bushy broom and heath,
233

Where spiral grass peer'd through the last year's leaves,
That rustled underneath.
And further down into the deepest glades,
Where lady-ferns grew high,
And where a few long sunbeams cross'd the slopes,
And glimmer'd quietly.
And where blue egg-shells on the ground were strew'd,
And golden king-cups shone,
I went, and thought how seldom in my life
I had been quite alone.
It was a pleasant thought to be shut in,
Whatever winds might rise,
Shelter'd and safe, with matted boughs o'er head,
And hid from human eyes.
Among the silver birch trees and the oaks,
Down to the quiet stream,
In light sent down through half-transparent leaves,
I wander'd in my dream.
234

And heard the birds that sat apart and sang,
Each from his leafy spray—
Notes, cheerful as the sound of morning bells,
That ring in Christmas day.
They never stopp'd, but sent among the trees
Their voices clear and strong;
While humming insects kept throughout my way
An endless under-song.
There was an osier basket in my hand,
And I had fill'd it well
With spotted orchis flowers and woodruffe sweet
And “dewy asphodel;”
Brown cones from larches dropt, wood-sorrels red,
And mosses green and grey,
And blue-barr'd feathers that in chase had fallen
From wing of chattering jay.
So, come at last to a most shady dell,
Where pines and larches stood,
I knew how broadly shone upon their heads
The sun above the wood.
235

Though underneath among their sloping boughs,
That bending low did meet,
A soft green twilight made the summer noon
Like evening, dim and sweet.
And in my dream reclining on the moss,
With daisy buds o'erlaid,
Methought I saw two of the fairy folk
Down walking in the shade—
Two fairy dames, no taller than a span,
With hair of golden hue;
And, as the skies upon a summer day,
Their open eyes were blue.
They did not look at me, but as they went,
In voice as small and sweet
As the slight humming of the laden bee,
With pollen-covered feet—
I heard one fairy speak of me, and say,
“How found she then so soon
This place where little crested wrens resort,
To keep their honey-moon?”
236

“She's only dreaming,” said the answering voice,
“She is not truly here,
For she has made no foot-prints in the moss,
Nor bent the branches near.
“O these immortals often live and die,
And leave no trace behind—
Not in one place that they have trodden here,
Nor one yet living mind.
“She's dreaming, and her life is half a dream,
Leave her in peace alone,
The daughters of her race dream much and oft
Of things to us unknown.”
So wending on, they soon pass'd out of view
The antler'd ferns between,
With snowy robes and mystic girdles rare,
And gentle pace serene.
And I, with thoughts perplex'd, suspicions vague,
That these things did but seem,
Was only half surpris'd to see you stand
Beside me in my dream.
237

And I said, “Mother, is there nothing real?
Truly I cannot tell—
Perhaps I never saw this wood before,
I seem to know so well.
“Perhaps there is not such a place on earth—
If now I sleep, again
I may awake and utterly forget,
And lose it from my brain.
“Perhaps I never saw these woodbine wreaths,
The sapling oaks that span,
Nor heard the wind awaken on its path
These notes Æolian.
“And yet it seems to me in this same place,
That looking down the glade,
We waited till the books were brought, and read,
Here, in this pleasant shade.
“What was it that those fairy people said?
Their voices haunt me still,
I see there are no human footprints trac'd
Upon this sloping hill.
238

“Of those who trod a hundred years ago
These paths, the woods are dumb—
O, will they be for these dear friends of mine
A hundred years to come?
“The place is gleaming with this sunny sheen,
With songs of thrushes sweet,
The shadows of the leaves with flickerings light
Are dancing at my feet;
“As on an April day not long ago
They waver'd in the wind,
While we sat listening to that Roman tale,
Beneath the trees reclin'd.
“But summer has forgotten spring, and wears
Than hers a fairer face,
The morning has forgotten night, and bears
Of her lost stars no trace.
“The goldfinch has forgot his last year's mate,
With this as well content,
The hare forgets her full-grown leveret's fate,
And heeds not where he went.
239

“And the forgetful woods, now birds are come,
Repeat their voices clear,
And keep no echo of that Roman tale,
That once was taught them here.
“And when those listeners thread these paths no more,
The birds will still be gay,
Spring will forget them, and their names shall melt
Like wintry snows away.”
And then methought you spoke to me, and said,
“E'en such shall be their lot!
Yet though the present must forget the past,
And be in turn forgot—
“Though the unborn a hundred years to come,
Know not their place of rest,
Though Earth forget her buried children, laid
To sleep in her cold breast—
“What will it matter to the souls in bliss,
That, gather'd to their fold,
Abide upon the everlasting hills,
And blest communion hold?
240

“Safe in a city that no light doth need
From sun, nor moon, nor star,
Where souls redeem'd of martyrs and of saints,
And kings and prophets are—
“A city where no sighing is, nor tears,
Nor fear of death affrays,
Whose ‘walls’ are call'd ‘salvation to the Lord,’
And all whose ‘gates’ are ‘praise.’
“To whose inhabitants their wanderings here,
And lives on earth may seem,
With all their thoughts and changes manifold,
No longer than a dream—
“‘A dream when one awaketh!’” and with this
I thought you turn'd away,
And with a sigh I suddenly awoke,
And found that it was day.
And through my curtains slanting to the wall,
Came down a golden beam,
As partly pleas'd and partly pain'd, I knew
That this too was a dream.
241

A HYMN OF SUPPLICATION.

I.

Light of the world, when gloomy fears oppress,
When darkness shrouds us here,
Shine, and the desolate with comfort bless,
The sad in spirit cheer.
Break through the clouds, thy smile on earth shall be
As Heaven on earth begun—
Arise, thy beams of mercy let us see,
O God, our Sun!
Fort of defence, whereto in ages past
Thy saints for safety fled,
Be thou a shelter from the stormy blast,
From snares around us spread.
Be still a refuge for the weary feet
Of this thy praying flock;
Be unto us a shadow from the heat,
O God, our rock!
242

A HYMN OF PRAISE.

II.

Because thine only Son thou didst not spare,
But sent him down to die,
Great King of Heaven, didst yet for rebels care,
And bring the aliens nigh—
Therefore thy sovereign bounty we will praise,
And of thy mercies sing,
Telling of this thy love through endless days,
O God our King!
Because Thou dost thy gracious care bestow,
And thy protecting arm
Extend to us in every time of woe,
Of danger and alarm—
We will make mention of thy glorious name,
To Thee our praises yield—
Thou art a refuge ever found the same,
O God our Shield.
243

Because Thou hast prepar'd for us a place,
Where toil and turmoil cease,
Where strife must flee away before thy face,
And conflict change to peace—
We will remember this thy love, and pray,
“Father thy name be blest,
Hasten the dawning of Redemption's day,
O God our Rest!”
Because thy grace Thou didst to us extend,
And bid us sinners live,
Because Thou wilt preserve us to the end,
And thy free spirit give—
Therefore with angels will we praise thy name,
Before thy footstool fall,
And raise our songs to thee with loud acclaim,
O God our All!
244

HENRY,

AGED SEVEN YEARS.

Yellow leaves, how fast they flutter — woodland hollows thickly strewing,
Where the wan October sunbeams scantly in the mid-day win,
While the dim grey clouds are drifting, and in sadden'd hues embuing
All without and all within!
All within! but winds of autumn, little Henry, round their dwelling
Did not load your father's spirit with those deep and burden'd sighs;—
Only echo'd thoughts of sadness, in your mother's bosom swelling,
Fast as tears that dim her eyes.
245

Life is fraught with many changes, check'd with sorrow and mutation,
But no grief it ever lighten'd such a truth before to know:—
I behold them — father, mother — as they seem'd to contemplation,
Only three short weeks ago!
Sadden'd for the morrow's parting — up the stairs at midnight stealing—
As with cautious foot we glided past the children's open door,
—“Come in here” they said, the lamplight dimpled forms at rest revealing,
“Kiss them in their sleep once more”
You were sleeping, little Henry, with your eyelids scarcely closing,
Two sweet faces near together, with their rounded arms entwin'd:—
And the rosebud lips were moving, as if stirr'd in their reposing
By the movements of the mind!
246

And your mother smooth'd the pillow, and her sleeping treasures number'd,
Whispering fondly — “He is dreaming” — as you turn'd upon your bed—
And your father stoop'd to kiss you, happy dreamer, as you slumber'd,
With his hand upon your head!
Did he know the true deep meaning of his blessing? No! he never
Heard afar the summons utter'd — “Come up hither” — never knew
How the awful Angel faces kept his sleeping boy for ever,
And for ever in their view.
Awful Faces, unimpassion'd, silent Presences were by us,
Shrouding wings — majestic beings — hidden by this earthly veil —
Such as we have call'd on, saying, “Praise the Lord, O Ananias,
Azarias and Misael!”
247

But we saw not, and who knoweth, what the mission'd Spirits taught him,
To that one small bed drawn nearer, when we left him to their will?
While he slumber'd, who can answer for what dreams they may have brought him,
When at midnight all was still?
Father! Mother! must you leave him on his bed, but not to slumber?
Are the small hands meekly folded on his breast, but not to pray?
When you count your children over, must you tell a different number,
Since that happier yesterday?
It was well then, since this must be, that the Angels stood before him,
To enfold the ransom'd spirit, newly enter'd into rest—
From his mother's mournful bosom, from his father's prayer they bore him,
Safe to his Redeemer's breast.
248

Father! Mother! weep if need be, since this is a “time” for weeping,
Comfort comes not for the calling, grief is never argued down—
Coldly sounds the admonition, “Why lament? in better keeping
Rests the child than in your own.”
“Truth indeed! but, oh! compassion! Have you sought to scan my sorrow?”
(Mother, you shall meekly ponder, list'ning to that common tale,)
“Does your heart repeat its echo, or by fellow-feeling borrow
Ev'n a tone that might avail?
“Might avail to steal it from me, by its deep heart-warm affection?
Might perceive by strength of loving how the fond words to combine?
Surely no! I will be silent, in your soul is no reflection
Of the care that burdens mine!”
249

When the winter twilight gathers, Father, and your thoughts shall wander,
Sitting lonely you shall blend him with your listless reveries,
Half forgetful what division holds the form whereon you ponder
From its place upon your knees—
With a start of recollection, with a half-reproachful wonder,
Of itself the heart shall question, “Art Thou then no longer here?
Is it so, my little Henry? Are we set so far asunder
Who were wont to be so near?”
While the fire-light dimly flickers, and the lengthen'd shades are meeting,
To itself the heart shall answer, “Never more, oh! never more
I shall hear without, his footsteps, nor the child's sweet voice entreating
For admission at my door!”
250

But upon your fair, fair forehead, no regrets nor griefs are dwelling,
Neither sorrow nor disquiet do the peaceful features know;
Nor that look, whose wistful beauty seem'd their sad hearts to be telling,
“Daylight breaketh, let me go!”
Daylight breaketh, little Henry; in its beams your soul awaketh—
What though night should close around us, dim and dreary to the view—
Though our souls should walk in darkness, far away that morning breaketh
Into endless day for you!
Monday, 15th October, 1849.
251

SAMUEL,

AGED NINE YEARS.

They have left you, little Henry, but they have not left you lonely—
Brothers' hearts so knit together could not, might not separate dwell,
Fain to seek you in the mansions far away—One linger'd only
To bid those behind farewell!
Gentle Boy!—His child-like nature in most guileless form was moulded,
And it may be that his spirit woke in glory unawares,
Since so calmly he resign'd it, with his hands still meekly folded,
Having said his evening prayers.
252

Or—if conscious of that summons—“Speak, O Lord, Thy servant heareth”—
As one said, whose name they gave him, might his willing answer be,
“Here am I”—like him replying—“At Thy gates my soul appeareth,
For behold Thou calledst me!”
A deep silence—utter silence, on his earthly home descendeth:—
Reading, playing, sleeping, waking—he is gone, and few remain!
“O the loss”—they utter weeping—every voice its echo lendeth—
“O the loss!”—But, O the gain!
On that tranquil shore his spirit was vouchsaf'd an early landing,
Lest the toils of crime should stain it, or the thrall of guilt control—
Lest that “wickedness should alter the yet simple understanding,
Or deceit beguile his soul!”
253

“Lay not up on earth thy treasure”—they have read that sentence duly,
Moth and rust shall fret thy riches—earthly good hath swift decay—
“Even so,” each heart replieth—“As for me, my riches truly
Make them wings and flee away!”
“O my riches!—O my children!—dearest part of life and being,
Treasures look'd to for the solace of this life's declining years,—
Were our voices cold to hearing—or our faces cold to seeing,
That ye left us to our tears?”
“Rolling time and God's good blessing twin'd for us a wreath of roses,
Seven rosebuds bloom'd upon it—none else knew how sweet they were:
Comes the blast—the buds lie scatter'd—e'en the sweetest fades and closes—
Cherish'd buds, ye promis'd fair!”
254

“Fast a Heavenly Hand is twining now again those buds together,
(Broken wreath of home, too precious to adorn an earthly brow!)
Wrought into a fairer chaplet, blooming safe from wintry weather,
They await our advent now.”
“We inherit conscious silence, ceasing of some merry laughter,
And the hush of two sweet voices—(healing sounds for spirits bruis'd!)
Of the tread of joyous footsteps in the pathway following after,
Of two names no longer used!”
Question for them, little Sister, in your sweet and childish fashion—
Search and seek them, Baby Brother, with your calm and asking eyes—
Dimpled lips that fail to utter fond appeal or sad compassion,
Mild regret or dim surprise!
255

When the words above you graven, speak the sorrow of the living,
When the passers by shall read them, and behold your early doom,
They shall sigh, and say—“God comfort, with the peace of his own giving,
Those who laid them in this tomb!
“And God soothe their mother's sorrow, heal the sharp, keen pain of parting”—
(Many a mother's voice shall utter, when her feet approach the place)
“Whisper comfort to her spirit—dry those mournful tears, that starting
Dim the brightness of her face!”
There are two tall trees above you, by the high east window growing,
Underneath them, slumber sweetly, lapt in silence deep, serene;
Save, when pealing in the distance, organ notes towards you flowing
Echo—with a pause between!
256

And that pause?—a voice shall fill it—tones that bless'd you daily, nightly,
Well belov'd, but not sufficing, Sleepers, to awake you now,
Though so near he stand, that shadows from your trees may tremble lightly
On his book and on his brow!
Sleep then ever! Neither singing of sweet birds shall break your slumber,
Neither fall of dew, nor sunshine, dance of leaves, nor drift of snow,
Charm those dropt lids more to open, nor the tranquil bosoms cumber
With one care for things below!
It is something, the assurance, that you ne'er shall feel like sorrow,
Weep no past and dread no future—know not sighing—feel not pain—
Nor a day that looketh forward to a mournfuller to-morrow—
“Clouds returning after rain!”
257

It shall never be your portion, like your father's and your mother's,
To keep watch by infant pillows, and receive the parting sigh—
And to dread that Angel-waiters for the spirits of your brothers
Draw yet nigher and more nigh!
In the strain of anguish'd feeling, this one thought shall breathe of healing,
Though their feet be sorely wearied by the roughness of the way—
And your father and your mother thus shall comfort one the other,
In this dark and gloomy day:—
“Your day breaketh, precious children, in its beams each soul awaketh—
What though night be closing round us, dark and dreary to the view—
Though the light our eyes forsaketh—clear and sweet afar it breaketh
Into endless day for you!”
29th October, 1849.
258

KATIE, AGED FIVE YEARS.

[ASLEEP IN JESUS.]

All rough winds are hush'd and silent, golden light the meadow steepeth,
And the last October roses daily wax more pale and fair;
They have laid a gather'd blossom on the breast of one who sleepeth
With a sunbeam on her hair.
Calm, and drap'd in snowy raiment she lies still, as one that dreameth,
And a grave sweet smile hath parted dimpled lips that may not speak;
Slanting down, that narrow sunbeam like a ray of glory gleameth
On the sainted brow and cheek.
259

There is silence! They who watch her, speak no word of grief or wailing,
In a strange unwonted calmness they gaze on and cannot cease,
Though the pulse of life beat faintly, thought shrink back, and hope be failing,
They, like Aaron, “hold their peace.”
While they gaze on her, the deep bell with its long slow pauses soundeth;
They are silent—father—mother—love has nothing more to say:
Beating time to feet of Angels leading her where love aboundeth
Tolls the heavy bell this day.
In their hearts, to its deep tolling, they count over all her meetness
To lie near their hearts and soothe them in all sorrows and all fears;
Her short life lies spread before them, but they cannot tell her sweetness,
Easily as tell her years.
260

Only daughter—Ah! how fondly Thought around that lost name lingers,
Oft when lone your mother sitteth, she shall weep and droop her head,
She shall mourn her baby-sempstress, with those imitative fingers,
Drawing out her aimless thread.
In your father's Future cometh many a sad uncheer'd to-morrow,
But in sleep shall three fair faces heavenly-calm towards him lean—
Like a three-fold cord shall draw him through the weariness of sorrow,
Nearer to the things unseen.
They must spare you, little Katie, with that smile of God's own giving,
Side by side with your sweet brothers in one grave must make you room;
Cover your exceeding beauty—more than beauty of the living—
With the shadows of the tomb!
261

With the closing of your eyelids close the dreams of expectation,
And so ends the fairest chapter in the records of their way:
Therefore—O thou God most holy—God of rest and consolation,
Be Thou near to them this day!
Be Thou near, when they shall nightly, by the bed of infant brothers,
Hear their soft and gentle breathing, and shall bless them on their knees;
And shall think how coldly falleth the white moon-light on the others,
In their bed beneath the trees.
Be Thou near, when they, they only, bear those faces in remembrance,
And the number of their children strangers ask them with a smile;
And when other child-like faces touch them by the strong resemblance
To those turn'd to them erewhile.
262

Be Thou near, each chasten'd Spirit for its course and conflict nerving,
Let Thy voice say, “Father—mother—lo! thy treasures live above!
Now be strong, be strong, no longer cumber'd overmuch with serving
At the shrine of human love.”
Let them sleep! In course of ages e'en the Holy House shall crumble,
And the broad and stately steeple one day bend to its decline,
And high arches, ancient arches bow'd and deck'd in clothing humble
Creeping moss shall round them twine.
Ancient arches, old and hoary, sunny beams shall glimmer through them,
And invest them with a beauty we would fain they should not share,
And the moonlight slanting down them, the white moonlight shall embue them
With a sadness dim and fair.
263

Then the soft green moss shall wrap you, and the world shall all forget you,
Life, and stir, and toil, and tumult unawares shall pass you by;
Generations come and vanish: but it shall not grieve nor fret you,
That they sin, or that they sigh.
And the world, grown old in sinning, shall deny her first beginning,
And think scorn of words which whisper how that all must pass away;
Time's arrest and intermission shall account a vain tradition,
And a dream, the reckoning day!
'Till His blast, a blast of terror, shall awake in shame and sadness
Faithless millions to a vision of the failing earth and skies,
And more sweet than song of Angels, in their shout of joy and gladness,
Call the dead in Christ to rise!
264

Then, by One Man's intercession, standing clear from their transgression,
Father—mother—you shall meet them fairer than they were before,
And have joy with the Redeemèd, joy ear hath not heard—heart dreamèd,
Ay for ever—evermore!
3rd November, 1849.
THE END.
previous section A Rhyming Chronicle of Incidents and Feelings
no next section