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Robin Hood

a fragment (1847)

Southey, Robert (1774-1843)

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ROBIN HOOD: A Fragment.

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SONNETS.

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ROBIN HOOD: A Fragment.

ROBIN HOOD.
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

[_]

The first part of this poem has been doubtfully attributed to Robert Southey.

“The richest jewel in all the heavenly treasure,
That ever yet unto the earth was shown,
Is perfect concord,—the only perfect pleasure
That wretched earth-born men have ever known;
For many hearts it doth confound in one,
That whatso one doth speak, or will, or do,
With one consent they all agree thereto.”
Sir J. Davies. Orchestra.

I. PART I.—R.S.

I.

Happy, the adage saith, that Bride
Upon whose nuptial day
The sun shines fairly forth;—
That Corpse upon whose bier
The rains of heaven descend.
O! Emma! fairest, loveliest of thy sex!
O! Lady!—heavenly-minded as high born,

That faith was shaken by thy fate
In Loxley's pleasant bowers,
And throughout Sherwood's groves and greenwood glades,
And all along the winding banks of Trent.

II.

For sure, if ever on a marriage day
Approving angels smiled
Upon their happy charge,
'Twas when her willing hand
Was to Lord William given.
The noble to the noble—blooming youth
To manhood in its comeliness and prime:
Beauty to manliness and worth to worth;
The gentle to the brave—
The generous to the good.

III.

Yet not a sunbeam that May morning pierced
The dense and heavy canopy of clouds
Which poured their drenching stores continuous down.

Amid the thickest shade
The deer sought shelter—not a vernal song
Rose from the cheerless groves.—
Loxley's loud bells, which should have sent
Their sweet and merry music far and wide
Throughout all Sherwood on that joyful day,
Flung with vain effort then their jubilant peal
To the deaf storm that scatter'd it.
The wind alone was heard,
And in its intervals, the heavy rain
Incessant pattering on the leafy woods.

IV.

Alas! the Lady Emma's passing bell
Was heard when May returned!
And when through Loxley's gate
She on her bier was borne,
The deer were sporting in the sunny glades;
Birds warbled—streams were sparkling—new-born flowers
Diffused their fragrance on the breath of Spring.
There was joy in the air,

There was joy in the woods,
There was joy in the waters,
Joy everywhere but in the heart of man.

V.

Doubly was that vain adage thus disproved;
Doubly to all who knew
The gentle lady, happy in her lord
Even to the height of wedded blessedness:
And then so holy in her life,
So meek of heart—so bountiful of hand,
That oft it had been said,
With sad presageful feeling all too true,
Heaven would not leave that angel long
In this unworthy world.

VI.

A mournful day for Sherwood,—ne'er till then
Had that old forest seen
A grief so general, since the oaks
From immemorial time had shadowed it;
A mournful day for Loxley's pleasant bowers

Now to be left forlorn!
A mournful day for Lindsey and for Kyme,
For Huntingdon; for all Fitzhood's domains
A day of evil and abiding woe.

VII.

The cradle had been dressed;
Alas! the mother's bier hath been required.—
The gossips who had there
For happiest office met
With busy pride convened in joyful hour.—
The guests who had been bidden there
To glad festivity,
Repass in funeral train,
(True mourners they) the melancholy gate;
And for the pancakes which officious joy
Made ready, never doubting such event,
The arval bread is doled.

VIII.

Woe for that hospitable hall;
Woe for the vassals of Fitzhood's domains,

So envied late, as in their lord
Above all vassals blest,—
Their lord, the just, the bountiful, the good,
Is lost to them this day!
Earl William, when the Lady Emma died,
Died to the world:—He buries in her grave
His earthly hopes and fears—
His earthly cares and ties he casts away—
The hour which hath bereaved Fitzhood
Hath widowed many a wife,
And many a child doth it leave fatherless.

IX.

For when Earl William found
That prayers and vows availed not to arrest
The inevitable hour;
He with a virile effort, self-controlled,
Closed like a miser's treasure, in his heart,
That grief of griefs.—His tears,
As if their springs were dry, forbore to flow—
His countenance was changed:

Its anguish and its agony intense
Had passed away; nor these alone.—
The wonted radiance which enlightens it,
The sunshine of the soul,
The warm benevolence,
Delighting to diffuse
Its own redundant happiness
Which there for ever shone:—
All were departed thence; and in their stead
A cold and fixed serenity like death
Had set its stamp severe.

X.

Earl William, when the rites are done,
Sets forth upon his journey to defend
The holy Sepulchre!
Short was the notice which was sent abroad
Throughout the forest—“follow him who list.”
They who are ready, with their lord
Will from the church begin their pilgrimage.
They who remain to set

Their house in order, at the post
Will join him with what speed they may.

XI.

With less alacrity
The summons of their dread liege lord the king
Would there have been obeyed
Than that sad invitation was, by Knight,
And Squire, and Serving-man,
And simple Forester.
Oh! call not men ungrateful, if sometimes
A monster of ingratitude is found!
The crime is monstrous—men and beasts
Bear witness it is so; for not alone
Speaking humanity disowns the stain;
Even the dumb world doth manifest
That uncontaminate nature hath no part
In the abhorred offence.

XII.

This day's example proved
That grateful love esteems

No sacrifice too painful—none too great.
With prompt, unhesitating faith, not then
Repining, nor hereafter to repent.
Wives in their youth were left,
And parents in their age,
And children who required a father's care:
Last blessings were received,
And last embraces given,
And last adieus were breathed from bleeding hearts.

XIII.

Behold the strange procession move along,
A mix'd and mournful train!
First the cross-bearer comes,
Lifting the standard of our faith on high,—
Memorial of our Lord, in whose dear name,
In sure and certain hope,
The dead are laid to rest.
The white-robed choristers came next,
Singing the funeral psalm,

With solemn intonation sad and sweet.
How pale and dim a flame
The yellow wax emits,
Where the tall tapers two and two are borne,
Less by their light descried
Than by their transient smoke,
Which, fleeting as the breath of mortal life,
Melts in the air, and is for ever gone.

XIV.

Then on the bier, in serecloths swathed
And grave-clothes garmented,
Comes what was late the human tabernacle
Of that immortal spirit, whom perhaps
A sense of earthly love
Saddens in heaven that hour;—
A poor forsaken tenement of clay,
Yet in its ruins to be reverenced still
With human feelings and religious awe,
And natural piety.

XV.

A pitiable sight,
Behind the mother's bier,
Weeping, as well she may, the nurse
Bears in his chrysome robe the new-born babe:
Sweetly he sleeps the while,
Insensate as that mother's lifeless clay.
On either hand, in funeral pomp,
The escutcheons of De Vere and Beauchamp spread
Their mournful blazonry;
Behind, for war displayed,
The banner of Fitzhood!
That banner which when last
Earl William hung in Loxley's hall on high,
His happy heart had breathed
A silent prayer to heaven
It might hang idly there,
Till after many a year had filled
Its inoffensive course;
Some duteous hand might then
Suspend it o'er his hearse.

XVI.

A pious hope—an honourable pride!
For wheresoever in the field
Those bands engrailed were seen,
Sure token had they given;
That on that side the rightful cause was found—
Sure confidence that all
Which worth and knightly prowess might achieve,
Would that day there be done.
Fair promise and success
Against all vantages;
And if such vantage made all valour vain,
Even then a never-failing pledge
Of honour and renown.

XVII.

So Trent had witnessed on that famous day,
When thro' his high-swoln stream
The standard-bearer bore his precious charge,
Exulting in such office; while his steed
Breasting with ample chest

The rapid waters, eyed the bank in hope,
And with straightforward effort won
Aslant his fearless way.
Quailed at that unexpected sight,
The embattled enemy
Renewed their charge, like men subdued in soul;
And Lincoln, from its rescued walls,
Beheld the brave Usurper beaten down.

XVIII.

So Test had witnessed in an hour,
When Fortune turned away her face unjust:
And Wilton, when again
To the right cause she gave the meed
Of Victory well deserved:
For whensoe'er to fields of civil strife,
Gloucester the wise, the prudent, and the good,
Went forth, by fatal circumstance compelled,
There was that banner seen;
A sure support in need,
Then Huntingdon was found;

In peace or war, in weal or woe,
The noble Robert's trust
In that tried friend was placed:
Brethren in soul they were, whom kindred worth
Had heart to heart allied.

XIX.

Alas! that banner heretofore
Had gone forth cheerfully;
Boldly displayed with hope it had gone forth
With willing hearts, and hands alert,
And glad fidelity;
And thoughts of that dear happiness,
Which, when the fight was done,
Awaited its return.
In funeral silence now it passed the gate,
Where loud hurrahs, with joyful augury,
Were wont to usher it:
And for the clarion's voice, which should have breathed
Anticipant of victory,
Its spirit-stirring note,

The deep-toned dirge was heard before—
The horsemen's pace behind—
With regular foot-fall slow;
And from the woods around,
The descant blithe of blackbird and of thrush,
And woodlark's louder, livelier, richer strain;
An unpremeditated concert wild
Of joyous natural sounds;
Which gave to human grief
A keener edge that hour.

XX.

Full six score spears hath Sherwood sent:
Thirty have joined from Lindsey and from Kyme;
The rest are on the way,
And with the men of Huntingdon,
Will on the march fall in.
Young Ingelram is there, for whom
Lilias is left to mourn,
And deem her gentle heart
Unhappily bestowed

On one who, at the will of his liege lord,
Hath left it now to break.
High-minded youth! he bears that grief
As deeply rooted in his own;
Nor will it cease to rankle there,
Till, yielding to the fatal force
Of fell disease, by Syrian suns induced,
He sinks, his strength subdued;
And from his dying lips
The name of that beloved maid is heard,
In his last aspirations, breathed to Heaven.

XXI.

Not with less sacrifice
The good Sir Gilbert goes—
Better will he endure the hour,
When, like a lion taken in the toils,
The Saracens will close their victims in,
And from all sides against the Christian dog,
Sure of its stroke, the scimitar descends;—
Better will he endure

That hour of brave despair,
Of faithful hope and death;
Than when upon Idonea's lips this morn
He prest a parting kiss,
And o'er his only Boy
(A three years' darling) breathed,
With anguish ill subdued,
His valediction in a last embrace.

XXII.

Look now at Reginald!
There is no heaviness upon his brow;
No sorrow in that reckless eye;
No trouble in that sensual countenance;
No bodings in that hard and hollow heart:
He, when he breaks away from natural ties,
Not more obstruction feels
Than what, upon a still autumnal day,
The stag perceives upon his antlered crest,
From threads of gossamer,
That spread and float along the tangled sky;
Even the parental tears that fell for him

Will presently be dried.
Reginald leaves no loves;
Bears with him no regret—
No fond remembrance, and no sad presage—
Nor doth one generous hope,
Nor one religious aspiration, stir
Within his worthless breast:
For he unto himself is all in all.
So he may find his fill
Of animal content,
He cares not where or how.
As little it imports
How, where, or when the inevitable hour
May overtake him, nor if worms at home,
Sea sharks, or Syrian dogs,
Jackalls and vultures share their fitting prey.

XXIII.

And this too, might of Ulpho have been said;
And this too of himself—
Self-judged—did Ulpho deem.
Born with an iron frame,

His heart had, in the mould
Of that obdurate age,
Received its impress. War had seemed to him
Man's proper element,
The one sole business not to be disdained—
The only pastime worthy of pursuit.
Nor when, beneath the Leech's hand he lay,
And felt the smart of wine
Within his open wounds,
And saw, for so it seemed, the face of death,
Did that sharp discipline
Abate the fiery fever of his mind.
But cooler years had overtaken him,
And imperceptibly
The example of Earl William's lovely life
Had sunk into his heart,
Like gentle rain upon an herb whose root
Retains the sap of life,—
Green when its leaves have withered with long drought;
And when he willingly obeyed
This day's unhappy call,
'Twas with a hope that, in the Holy War,

He might atone for deeds,
Which, when they rose again
Within his secret soul,
At every visitation wore
A bloodier, blacker hue.—
There went not in Earl William's company
A wiser, nor a sadder man that day.

XXIV.

With what a different mien
Did Hereward bestride his stately steed!
The cloud that overcast his countenance
Is but a passing grief,
The livery of the hour.
Tears he hath shed upon his sister's neck,
Upon his mother's knees,
When, kneeling, he received
Her blessing, dutifully felt,
And from a soul which found
Support in piety,
Devoutly, painfully, and firmly given.
Tears he hath shed when girding on
His honoured father's sword,

Which on the wall had hung,
A mournful relic, Test's fatal day,
Whereon his father fell.
And when the old hearth-dog
Fawned round his parting steps,
And lifted an imploring look of love,
Tears had burst forth and freely flown.
Yet in those eyes thus dimmed
Heroic hope was seen,
And youthful aspiration; for this day
Fulfils his heart's desire.
Soon shall he now behold
Strange countries, and the pomp of glorious war;
Soon on the misbelievers shall he prove
His spirit not degenerate: in the joy
Of faith shall kiss the Holy Sepulchre,
And offering there the accepted sacrifice
Of his accomplished vow,
Return—so he anticipates—to hang
Once more upon the wall his father's sword,
Thrice-hallowed then, and over it the palm
To Christian merits due and knightly worth.

II. PART II.—C.S.

I.

Majestically slow
The sun goes down in glory—
The full-orbed autumn sun;
From battlement to basement,
From flanking tower to flanking tower,
The long-ranged windows of a noble hall
Fling back the flamy splendour.
Wave above wave below,
Orange, and green, and gold,
Russet and crimson,
Like an embroidered zone, ancestral woods,
Close round on all sides:
Those again begirt
In wavy undulations of all hues
To the horizon's verge by the deep forest.

II.

The holy stillness of the hour,
The hush of human life,

Lets the low voice be heard—
The low, sweet, solemn voice
Of the deep woods—
Its mystical murmuring
Now swelling into choral harmony—
Rich, full, exultant;
In tremulous whispers next,
Sinking away,
A spiritual undertone,
Till the cooing of the woodpigeon
Is heard alone;
And the going in the tree-tops,
Like the sound of the sea
And the tinkling of many streamlets.

III.

But hark! what sonorous sound
Wakens the woodland echoes?
Again, and yet again—
That long, deep, mellow tone
Slow swinging thro' the motionless air.—
From yonder knoll it comes,

Where the grey gables of an ancient pile
Between the forest waves
(More sombrous there)
Are just discernible.
Again;—how sweetly solemn!
How soothing sweet the sound!
And hark!—a heavenlier still—a holy chaunt—
Ave Maria! 'tis the vesper bell.

IV.

From the battlemented height
Of the baronial hall,
Slowly retire the sunbeams:
And where they lingering lie
(As in love loth to depart)
On the fair terrace underneath,
Longer and blacker fall the pointed shadows
Of the dwarfed yews, pyramidally clipt,
Each in its wrought-stone vase,
Along the heavy spiral balusters
At regular distance set.

V.

What a strange stillness reigns!
No sound of life within,
No stir of life without:
The very fountain in that trellis'd flower court
The terrace overlooks,
Sends up from the unfailing source
Its sparkling jet no longer—
The leaden Nereid, with her empty urn
Half-buried in fallen leaves, where she lies low
In her green, slimy basin.

VI.

What a strange stillness reigns!
Grass grows in the vast courts,
Where, if a loosened stone falls,
Hollow reverberations ring around,
Like the voices of Desolation.
No hurrying to and fro of gay retainers,
No jostling claimants at the Buttery-hatch:
Hushed the great stable-yard;
No hoof-stamp in the stall,

No steed led forth,
No hawk in training,
Not a hound in leash;
No jingling bridles and sharp sound of spur,
And gibe and jest—loud laugh and snatch of song,
And call and quick command
'Mongst grooms and gallants there.
No sight nor sound
Of life or living thing;
Only at intervals, a deep-mouthed bay,
And the clanking of chains,
When, from his separate watch,
One mastiff answers another:
Or a cat steals along in the shadow—
Or a handmaiden crosses—just seen, and gone;
Or a grey-headed Servitor.

VII.

See! to their lofty eyries
The Martens are coming home:
With a strange boldness, methinks,
As in right of sole possession.

How they sweep round the silent walls!
And over the terrace now
Are wheeling in mad gyrations.
And hark! to that stir within—
'Tis the ringing laugh of a Baby,
That sweetest of human sounds.
“Wouldst thou follow the Martens, my sweet one?
My bird! wouldst thou fly away,
And leave thine old Nurse all alone?” cries a voice;
And the sound of a kiss is heard,
And the murmur of infant fondness,
Like the crooning of a dove.

VIII.

And see, where the terrace abuts
That northern flanking tower,
From a side entrance—
Window and portal both—
With musical laugh and scream,
And gibberings unintelligibly sweet,
And pretty passion, scuffling the small feet,
A child comes tottering out,

Eagerly straining on its leading-strings,
From her upholding hand who follows close—
That old devoted woman.
And side by side, and step for step, sedate,
Serious as with that woman joined in trust,
Paces a noble wolf-dog,—
His grave eye
Incessant glancing at the infant Heir.

IX.

The infant Heir!—E'en so.
In those blue veins, with delicate tracery
Marbling the pearly fairness
Of that large open brow,
The blood of Beauchamp and Fitzhood
Flows mingled.
And this is Loxley—
His father's hall ancestral,
His mother's bridal bower.
And as he stretches out his little hands
Toward that butterfly,
Its airy flight,

As if in mockery of the vain pursuit,
Leads on his eager eye
(All reckless he,)
To where she slumbers yonder,
In that grey pile, from whence the vesper bell
Resounded late,
Sleeping the dreamless sleep.

X.

Six months thrice told
Have taught those tottering feet
The first unstable steps,
And with a double row of pearl complete
Have lined those rosy lips,
And tuned that tongue
To stammer “Father!” with its earliest prayer.
“Of such little ones,” God hath said,
By the mouth of his dear Son,
That their Angels do always behold him.
In the day of battle, who knows
But the prayer of his child may come
Between Earl William's head
And the Moslem scimitar!

XI.

For in the Holy Land he tarries yet—
The good Earl William:
For the safe rearing of his infant Boy
Confiding under God—
(God over all)
Whose servant and whose soldier
Doubly signed,
He doth avouch himself—
To the fond guardianship
Of his dead Lady's nurse,
Old faithful Cecily,
And of his venerable almoner,
Good Father Hugh;
The same who joined his hand,
In holy marriage vow,
With the lost Emma;
Who, at the close of the short bridal year,
Pronounced beside her grave,
With tremulous voice,
The sentence on all living,
“Dust to Dust:”

And, e'er the clangour of the closing vault
Through the long echoing arches
Died away,
Had dedicated to the Lord
The motherless innocent,
The infant Robert.

XII.

So in forsaken Loxley's halls
Sole rulers they remained;—
Of the deserted child
Sole guardians;—
That grey-haired Man of God,
And faithful woman old.
And with a deep devotedness of love,
And feudal fealty,
Ennobled by affection,
And sense of higher duty,—as of those
Who to a greater than their earthly liege-lord
Must one day give account,—
Did each discharge his trust,
According to the measure of his gifts,

And as befitted each
In his own proper station.

XIII.

And much delighted, he,
That good old man,
(Learned, as good,
And as the unlearned, simple),
To share with Cicely her pious task
Of earliest teaching.
And when the beautiful Babe,
With hands devoutly folded palm to palm,
Held up within his own,
Murmured the first short prayer;
Or all i' th' midst,
With innocent irreverence broke off
Into contagious mirth;
Or with grave mimickry
Slipping his fair curled head
Into the rosary at the Father's girdle,
Made show to tell the beads;
Or to lie hidden

Quite lost, forsooth!
I' th' folds of his dark robe,
Then would the venerable man
Fall into visions oft,
Prefiguring to himself
A time when on the tablets of that mind,
So unimpressible now,
He should write precious things;
And with God's blessing, of one noble scion
Make a ripe scholar,
Aye—a clerk—(who knows?)
Learned as royal Beauclerc!

XIV.

Good Father Hugh!
'Twas a right pleasant dream;
But as the little Robert throve apace,
From baby-hood to boy-hood
Making fast progress,
And of excellent parts
Gave promise;
Quick-witted sense and shrewdness—

Noble nature—
Gentle and generous, as brave and bold—
Loving withal, and truthful;
Yet, sooth to say,—
And the good Father still
Would muse perplext upon that verity,—
Small aptness shewed the boy,
And liking less
For serious task 'soever:
Neither at sight of horn-book,
Or lettered page so fair
Illuminated—beautiful to see—
With large red capitals,
Sparkled his dark blue eyes.
And evermore he failed
To count aright the numerals, all a-row
Ranged in fair order;
Whereas, strange to tell,
And true as strange,
Let Hubert the old huntsman but fling down
(Humouring the child)
His arrows all a-heap,

And lo! as at a glance the tale was told,
True to a feather.

XV.

And at his pastime in the Hall, where now
For warlike trophy scarce a spear was left
Propping the dusty banners,
Of every stag whose antlers branched around
He could tell every story,
True, as taught
By that old Huntsman,
Missing not a tittle.
Whereas, of daintiest legend,
Treating of saint, or martyr holiest,
Or sage profound,
For delectation and improvement both
Culled by the Father, and recounted oft
With persevering patience;
No single circumstance,
Sentence or syllable, could he retain,
Not for an hour!—
Marvelled the good man much.

“This thing,” thought he, “is hard to understand;”
But strong in faith and hope
He kept his even course,
Casting his bread upon the waters,
To find—God willing—
After many days.

THE THREE SPANIARDS.

R. S.

Hear in Homeric verse the fateful tale of a shipwreck,
Which, in the Mexican Gulf, the Licentiate Alonzo Zuazo
Suffered long ago. I found the story in Spanish,
Told in that noble tongue by old Oviedo of Valdez,
Who from Zuazo himself received the faithful relation.
Strange and sad the tale, but one to be fitly related;
For it is good for men to hear of bodily evils
Resolutely met; and when power hath failed for resistance,
Meekly borne; it is good to hear of moral endurance,
Hope in extremity held; and when hope could be held no longer,
Of resignation then, on fervent piety founded,
And by faith sustained, which, tho' not without superstition,
Manifested here its strength, and its truth, and its virtue.

Thus it befell Francesco de Garay, the Adelantado,
Who sought to share in the spoils of the golden Mexican empire;
Asked and obtained from the court what then was eagerly granted
In those early days, the command of the Province Panneo,
To be by him subdued. Forthwith a gallant armada
From Jamaica thitherward bound set sail; but arriving
In a haven of Cuba, he there heard news that already
Cortes, whose grant was unknown, had taken possession.
Evil news to him, for he in this fleet had expended,
Lavish in confident hope, the fruits of his former plunder.
Should he assert his right in arms?—The issue was doubtful,
Certain the loss of lives, ill spent for private ambition,
And by the Emperor great would surely be deemed the disservice
Done to him and the Christian cause: best therefore he thought it
That he should treat at once on terms of friendly accordance,
Such as might profit each and save the sinful effusion
Of Spanish blood. Whom now should he charge with this critical errand?

Grave must the agent be, and one whose habits were rather
Those of the gown than the sword, yet who with practical knowledge
Both of the times and the ways of men, could skilfully temper
Legal and just demands, so gaining his end by persuasion.
Such a man was at hand—the Licentiate Alonzo Zuazo,
Then unemployed, having just resigned the rule of the island:
One of high repute for his parts, to the Adelantado
Well known, and to Cortes himself an acceptable person.
He, with Diego Velasquez, the governor, duly perpending
What good haply might here be done, what evil averted,
Not for selfish aim, but for this sole consideration,
Took on himself this weighty charge, as bound by his duty
To God and the King of Spain. It fortuned then in the harbour
There was a caravel ready for sea, too little of burden,
Somewhat indeed, too slight for the gulf it would have to encounter;
But of late repaired and refitted. This vessel he freighted,
Put himself on board with no small part of his fortune,

And from the port of Zaqua took his final departure,
Himself for the happy success of his mission commending
Unto all Saints, but chiefly to Mary the mother of mercies.
Coasting along they went, till they came to Cape St. Anton,
Of that long isle the westermost point, which leaving behind them,
Into the gulf they launched, and steered their course eastward across it,—
Miserable men!—little deeming to what they were destined.

Many days with contrary winds they there had contended,
When at length at the midnight hour a terrible tempest
Overtook their slender bark, which was now by the billows
Lifted high upon the swell;—anon, with rapid impulsion,
Hurried precipitate down. Now o'er the mast they impended,
Then o'er the reeling bark they broke with a thundering downfall,
And the dark depths yawned beneath, as if to engulf her;
Nothing availed the pilot's art, nor the skill of the helmsman,

In that madness of sea and sky; nor the sailors' exertions,
Nor Zuazo's remorseful mind, which, collected in danger,
Placing in Heaven his hope, otherwise hopeless, Put in use all human means [OMITTED]

MARCH.

R. S.

Rough is thine entrance, March! the Traveller,
Seated at evening by his inn fireside,
Harks to the hollow blast that heralds thee,
And stirs the blazing fire, and to the hearth
Draws nearer, thinking of to-morrow's road.
Old Ocean labours with the incumbent storm,
And heaves his waves convulsed; the mariner
Beholds their curling heads and sheeted slope,
And when the wet blast and the heavy spray
Beat on him, weary, stiff and shivering,
He thinks in sorrow of the distant port.
Rough is thine entrance, March! but welcome thou,
The harbinger of Spring.

The noontide walk
Not undelightful now, though thro' the wood,

The greenwood lingering still, no gentle gale
Around the foliage of o'erhanging boughs
Melodious moves: what though the vernal mead
No rich profusion spreads of golden flowers
That laugh luxuriant in the summer sun,
Yet o'er the sober green the willing eye
Dwells with a tranquil joy: what though the grove
Lifts not its leafy honours now, adorned
With mid-year freshness, or the many hues
Of autumn; pleasant is it to behold
The grey ash spreading wide its naked arms;
The beech, beneath whose red, dry, rustling leaves
Bursts the young bud secure, or the broad elm,
Thro' all whose infinite branching the new sap
Flows first revived and brightens the brown bud.
Pleasant the earlier dawn, the warmer ray
Of noon, the evening twilight's lengthening hour.
Rough is thine entrance, March! yet welcome thou.
We know the better season draweth nigh,
And welcome the rude winds that herald it.

THE MURDER GLEN.

This is a dreary spot as eye shall see;
Yet a few moments linger here with me,
And let us rest (the air is warm and still)
In the dry shelter of this heathery hill.
Though all about looks barren, bleak, and drear,
Something of pleasantness methinks is here—
This little patch of greensward at our feet;
This thymy bank our soft empurpled seat;
This od'rous air, and the low humming sound
(An under-tone of life) that murmurs round—
Yes—this is pleasantness; but all beyond
Seems smitten with a curse.—That sullen pond,
Black as its moory marge;—that one scathed tree,
And the lone hovel, ruined, roofless, free

To every straggling foot and wandering wind,
In the cold shadow of that hill behind,
That shuts in with its dark, bare, barren swell,
The deathlike stillness of the gloomy dell;
There seems a curse upon the savage scene,
There is a curse methinks where guilt hath been,
So deep, so deadly, as hath left the Tale
Connected with this wild sequestered vale.
Not always, as some theorists pretend,
Doth guilt in this life come to fitting end;
Not often here is God's unerring plan
Made plain to proud, presumptuous, purblind man;
Enough for him, enough the word which saith
Sin's path is Hellward, and her wages Death.
But now and then the thunderbolt descends,
And strikes e'en here, for wise and gracious ends;
To rouse, to warn, to strike the scoffers dumb,
Who cry, “Lo! vengeance tarries—will it come?”

Some ten years back, whoe'er from hence had viewed,
As we do now, yon cheerless solitude,
Had seen it then a drear, unlovely spot,

But not deserted. From the lonely cot
Curled a blue smoke-wreath in the morning air,
And signs and sounds of life were stirring there,
Too oft of strife, of violence, and hate.
There dwelt a wretched man, his wretched mate,
And their one child, a gibbering idiot boy,
“Fruit of th' adultress”—no fond parent's joy,
Nor sad one's comfort;—sent as for a sign
And fearful foretaste of the wrath divine.

None knew from whence the unsocial strangers came
For a long season, nor their real name,
But guessed them wedded, for the boy was born
Just as they settled in that home forlorn.
Nor doctor, nurse, nor gossip to the birth
Was timely summon'd; but the man rushed forth
One day in urgent haste (for peril pressed)
To seek assistance. From old Martha Best
I've heard the story—(to her dying day
She told it shuddering)—in what fearful way
She found the woman in her travail throes,
Convulsed with spirit pangs more fierce than those,

And how she groaned some name, and to some deed
Wildly alluded, that with startling speed
Brought her dark partner to the pillow near;
And how he stooped, and whispered in her ear,
Not words of love,—but something that she heard
With a cold shudder; whispering faint a word
Sounding like “Mercy!”—and the stern man's brow
Grew sterner as he said—“Remember now.”
And as he lingered near the wretched bed,
How hard she clench'd her teeth, and drew her head
Beneath the coverlet, lest pain should wring
From her parched lips the interdicted thing.
“‘Old drivelling fool!’ he called me,” quoth the dame,
“When I just hinted at the parson's name,
And talked of comfort to the troubled breast,
From prayer with him, and evil deeds confest.
‘Old drivelling fool!’ he called me, with a curse
That made my flesh creep, and the look was worse
With which he spoke it. Well!—the babe was born—
Jesu preserve us!—'twas a luckless morn
That saw its birth:—a foul, misshapen thing,
Scarce human:—round the blue swoll'n neck a ring,

Livid and black, and marks like finger prints
Murderously dented: Not before nor since
Such sight beheld I. When the mother saw,
Christ! what a face was hers!—The lower jaw
Dropt as in death, and with a ghastly stare,
Pointing the tokens, she gasped out—‘There! there!’
‘Hell is against us’—with a savage shout
Yelled the dark, fearful man, and rushing out,
Was seen no more till midnight brought him back,
Silent and sullen. There was neither lack
Of food nor cordials in the house that night,
And the red peat-fire gave a cheerful light,
And a large dip was burning; yet for all
The very flesh upon my bones did crawl
With fearful thinking; I could hardly brook
Upon that loathly, helpless thing to look
As on my lap it lay; and in his sleep,
Through the thin boards, I heard the father keep
A restless muttering:—The King's crown to gain,
I'd not live over that long night again!”

Such was the midwife's story; and strange things

Were guessed and rumoured, till low whisperings
Grew louder by degrees, and busy folk
Of information and the Justice spoke.
But from th' accuser's part all kept aloof—
They had no facts to rest on;—not a proof
Of the foul deed suspected:—The strange pair
Gave no offence to any; straight and fair
Were their few dealings at the village shop;
And though the man was never known to stop
A needless minute, or look up the while,
Or speak a needless word, or seen to smile,
His pay was punctual, if th' amount was small—
Time—if they waited—might unravel all:
And so in part it did. There came a man
From a far distant town (an artisan),
To try for health his native country air,
In his own village. While sojourning there,
He heard the talk of that mysterious pair,
And as he listened, with impatient tone,
Striking the table, said—“Two years agone,
I heard a trial in our county court
For a most cruel murder; in such sort,

And by such hands alleged to have been done,
As made the heart sick. An unnatural son
Sinfully mated with his father's wife
(A youthful stepdame), 'gainst the husband's life
Conspired with her—'twas so the indictment read—
And suddenly the old man in his bed
Was found a blackening corse;—a livid mark
Circling his throat about, and, purply dark,
Prints of a murd'rous hand. At next assize
They stood their trial, as I said;—all eyes
Looked loathingly in court. I saw them there,
Just such as you describe this stranger pair.
A tall dark man, with close curled locks like jet,
And overhanging brow, and mouth hard set,
And a down look withal. She slim and fair,
Of a white fairness; light-blue eyes, and hair
Inclining to be red; of middle size,
With something of a cast about her eyes,—
Or it might seem so, as she stood that day
With her wild look, that wandered every way
And never fixed. The crime was proven plain
To plain men's judgments, but your lawyers strain

The truth through mill-stones, till it filters out
A puddle of perplexity and doubt.
They were acquitted, but forsook the place,
Pursued by curses.—Could I see the face
Of one but for a moment, I should know,
Had I last seen it twenty years ago,
The features printed on my mind so strong
That fearful trial day.”—

“'Twill not be long,”
The eager listeners cried, “before Black Will
Comes with his empty meal-bag to the mill,
Or to the shop for his few errands there;
The woman seldom comes, and now 'tis rare
To see her, since that changeling babe was born,
So far from her own door as that old thorn,
Where she would stand and pore as in a book
On the dark pool beneath, with fixed look.”
Not long the sojourner, with patient will,
Haunted the shop, and watched about the mill:
Not long the curious rustics to their friend
Looked for the fateful word, all doubt to end,—

Earlier than wont the dark-browed stranger came,—
The watcher saw—and shuddering, said—“The same.”

The tale ran round through all the country-side;
“Murder will out” triumphant guessers cried:—
“'Twas not for nothing,” said old Martha Best,
“God's finger on the babe those prints impressed;
And on the father's scowling brow so dark,
As on Cain's forehead, set a fearful mark.
But who could have believed,—so slight, so fair,—
That woman such an awful deed could dare?
'Tis true—she never looked one in the face;
Bad sign!—And not a creature in the place
Ever could draw her into social chat,
Nor him to step into the Cricket Bat,
And take his part in cheerful glass or song—
Such strange reserve betokened something wrong—
So with a nat'ral horror, and a mind
More humanly severe than Christian kind,
Each cast his stone, and left the wretched pair
To perish in their sin and their despair.
It is a wholesome horror in the main

That shrinks impulsive from the wretch whose stain
Stamps him accurst in blood's own damning dye.
Out on the mawkish, morbid sympathy
That wets white handkerchiefs with maudlin wo
When “gifted” murderers to the gallows go,
And “interesting” felons to the cord
Bow their heroic necks, and meet the law's award.—
But vulgar minds, with unenlarged view,
Hating the guilt, abhor the guilty too;
And such “good haters” scarce can comprehend
How He, the Sinless, is the sinner's friend.
Ah! had some faithful servant of his Lord,
Some pious pastor, with the saving word
Of gospel truth, those branded outcasts sought,
Who knows what blessed change he might have wrought?
“Despair and die!” hath dragged down many a soul
Christ's blood was shed for, to eternal dole.
“Repent and live!” the Hellward course hath staid
Of many a one for whom that price was paid.
Shepherds, who slumber on your watch, beware!
Ye have account to render of your care;
Nor will the plea avail ye in that day

That while ye slept, the wolf bore off his prey;
Nor that the case was hopeless—futile plea!
“Hope against hope” your battle-cry should be—
Then—if all fail at last—your souls from blood are free.

A wide, wild district, half uncultured moor,
Skirted by sea and forest, thick with poor,
Is the vast parish, on whose utmost verge
Lies this lone valley. The deep booming surge
Full three miles off we hear, but Sabbath bell
Sounds faintly tinkling in this dreary dell
On stillest day, with favouring breeze to boot.
To this far border, gospel-shodden foot
Comes rarely, tidings of great joy to bring.
“Who needs my ministry has but to ring,”
Cries the good rector, “at the rectory door—
I always come when called for, and what more
Could fifty curates, if I kept them, do?”
Ah, reverend Michael! fitter far for you
The post you occupied so long and well
In your old college, ere this living fell.
No Sabbath to God's house those outcasts brought;

Them, in their dreary dwelling, no man sought,
Nor priest, nor layman, woman, man, nor child;
And every eye that measured them, reviled.
For household needs still drew them now and then
(Seldom as might be) to the homes of men—
The oftenest he; but once or twice a-year,
For homely articles of female gear,
With her stern partner to the shop she came,
A shrinking customer without a name,
Served in cold silence, that had insult been
Perchance, but for the man's determined mien
Of dark defiance. Change of look and tone
Early informed him of his secret known;
And from that moment, with a deadly hate,
He cursed his kind, and dared its worst from Fate;
Returning loathing looks with dogged stare,
That said, “Ye know me now—'tis well—beware!”
And they who loathed, by those fierce glances cowed,
Shrinking aside, breathed curses “deep not loud.”
And curious children, eager, yet afraid,
Hung on the murderer's steps;—but if he made
A motion as to turn, quick scowered away,

Like blossoms scattered in a gusty day.
Till once, two braggart boys, with bullying boast,
Dared one another which should venture most;
And while their awestruck mates in ambush lay,
Fronted the Ogres in their homeward way;
And one squeaked “Murder!” in his impish note—
And one made mouths, and pointed to his throat,
Then ran;—but pounced on with a tiger bound,
Both at a blow were levelled with the ground.
Mothers! who owned those graceless ones, for you
'Twas well that woman was a mother too,
And hung upon the arm upraised to give
A second blow that none might feel and live.

A mother! ay—how black soe'er in part,
The outcast creature's was a mother's heart
To the poor wailing object, that while nursed
At her sad breast, the father called “accurst.”
And now again, who looked might often see
Her crouching form beneath that old scathed tree
By the dark water, to her bosom prest
The hapless babe, that still she lulled to rest

With rocking motion, as of one in pain,
With a low, crooning, melancholy strain.
Oh! to conceive, as there she sat forlorn,
The thoughts of those long hours of loneness born;
The yearning thoughts of happy childish days,
Her father's cottage, and her pleasant plays
With little brothers and young sisters dear;
And how they grew together many a year,
By pious parents trained in the Lord's love and fear.

Then—the changed after-time! the contrast dark!
Passion's fierce storm, and Virtue's found'ring bark,
The step by step in Falsehood's blinding lead,
From guilty thought unchecked to guilty deed—
The trust abused—the violated vow—
The consummated crime—the hopeless now,
And the dread future. Lost, unhappy soul!
Daredst thou in fancy fix that fearful goal?
No; or Despair had into Madness burst;
And coldly calm she seemed, like one who knows the worst.
“The grief that's shared is lightened half,” some say;
Not in all cases—Can it take away

A grain of bitterness from us to know
One dearer than ourselves partakes the wo?
And when a load unblest the double share,
Wretched community of crime and care;
Is either cheered beneath the crushing weight
By mutual suffering of his groaning mate?
And then a band of sin is one of straw—
Count not thereon, contemners of God's law!
None but pure hearts, love-linked, in sorrow closer draw.

Cast out from fellowship of all their kind,
Each other's all—did their forlornness bind
More fast the union of that guilty pair?
Ay, with the festering fastness of despair.
No loving little one, with angel smile,
Was sent to win them from themselves a while,
In whose young eyes the eyes that could not brook
Each other's furtive glance might fondly look.
No lisping prattler was in mercy given
To lift its little sinless hands to heaven,
And stammer out the prayer that pardon sought
For one who dared not utter what she taught.

I've said, their first—their only one was sent,
Not as a blessing, but a punishment.
No white-winged messenger, no silvery dove,
Dear welcome pledge of peace, and hope, and love,
But of fierce discord here, and fiercer wrath above.
“'Twould be a mercy if the Lord who gave
Soon took him back”—the midwife muttered grave
“God gave him not,” the abhorring father cried;
“Would in the birth the hell-marked imp had died!”
But to her heart the mother drew it near,
Whispering—“My wretched infant! hide thee here.”

And year by year (the changeling lived and throve)
More doting fond became that only love
That ever in this woeful world it knew,
More doting for the father's hate it grew,
And to the mother soon that hate extended too.
She had borne meekly many a cutting word,
And many a bitter taunt in silence heard,
Or only, when her sullen partner cried,
“Would, ere I saw thy face, that thou hadst died,”
Bowing her head—“Amen!” she softly sighed.

But when the crawling idiot in its play
Stumbled unconscious in its father's way,
And the foot spurned him, and the savage curs'd—
Then all the mother into fury burst,
And “Have a care!” she shrieked, with gestures wild,
“I have been very patient—but my child!
Harm not my child, or dread what I may dare—
I may yet speak what—Villain! have a care.”
Beneath her flashing look the ruffian's eye
Quailed, as he muttered indistinct reply;
“And deadly white he turned,” said wandering Wat
The Pedlar, who, to many a lonely spot
Hawking his wares, had found his plodding way
To the drear dwelling in the glen that day.
“I'm an old man,” said Walter—“far I've been,
Much of mankind and of their ways I've seen,
And oftentimes folk's secrets in their looks
Can read, as plain as some read printed books.
So now and then, in my own quiet way,
I make a lucky guess, and now should say,
Touching this woman—mind, it's only guess—
Sinner she may be, but no murderess.”

So spake Sir Oracle, in cosy chat
On the oak settle at the Cricket Bat,
The evening of his visit to the glen—
And Walter's sayings had their weight with men;
And women listened with relenting heart,
Wondering—“Could one who did a mother's part
So fondly by her idiot child, have done
(Helping the hand of that unnatural son)
A deed it chilled the blood to think upon?
He who his wretched babe could so abuse—
Would that in him the gallows had its dues!”

Year followed year, those dues were owing still,
Satan had work in hand yet for “Black Will.”
That he was active in his master's cause
None doubted, though evading still the laws.
No longer from all intercourse with men
He dwelt secluded in that moorland glen;
Strange faces there were not unfrequent seen
Of men, rough seafarers of reckless mien,
And something wild and lawless in their look—
With those, for days and weeks, he now forsook

His joyless home. The beach convenient lay,
And a snug creek, a little cunning bay,
Where boats and small craft might at anchor lie
For days unnoticed, if exciseman's eye,
Or hated officer's, with sharp survey,
Ranged not the coast. Unorganised that day
The naval guard; the civil watch I ween
Then kept, too civil to be over keen:
The local bearings (sea and forest near)
Favoured more trades than one; the royal deer
Made not worse venison though the buck was slain
Without a warrant; and some folks were fain
To fancy tea and Hollands were, to choose,
Best flavoured, when they paid the King no dues.
Then customers who favoured the free trade,
No curious, inconsiderate questions made,
When goods that never had the Channel crost
Were offered at a reasonable cost.
What if a smuggler now and then was hung
For worse than smuggling—from their souls they flung
Accusing qualms, for “how could they have thought
Unfairly come by, what they fairly bought?”

Laws interdict, and parsons preach in vain,
While such (encouraging who might restrain)
Whet with their ready pay the thirst for lawless gain.

Now sometimes, with a timid consciousness
That if none favoured some abhorred her less
Left lonely and unaided, from the dell
The woman ventured forth, when twilight fell
With friendly dimness on her flushing shame,
To seek the village shop; and with her came
A heavy armful long, then, tottering slow,
A dragging weight, that child of sin and woe—
Poor fool, whom she her “precious one!” would call—
Ay—for he loved her, and he was her all.
“Mammam! mammam!” the stammering creature's cry,
If wandered from its face the only eye
Could read in his, and fondly there detect
A lovelier light than that of intellect.
“Mammam! mammam!”—'twas all resembling speech
To common ears that stammering tongue could reach;
“But oh! my Charlie, in his own dear way,”
Affirmed the mother, “everything can say—

And he has far more sense than some believe—
Could you but see him when he sees me grieve—
And when I'm sick, he'll creep about the house,
Or sit beside me, quiet as a mouse—
And but a baby still, as one may say—
Just eight—and growing handier every day.”
Oh! mother's love, of most mysterious kind!
So strong! so weak! so piercing, and so blind!

“'Twas pitiful, whatever she might be,”
All said, “that mother and her boy to see—
Hanging for him would be an end too mild,
That parricide who hated his own child;
A poor afflicted thing, but still his own.”
And there were cruel doings, 'twas well known,
At that lone house, whence oftentimes arose
Wild sounds of sharp contention, oaths, and blows,
And the shrill treble of a childish cry,
Heart-piercing in its helpless agony;
And more than once, thrust out into the night,
Mother and child had lain till morning light
Huddled together, the cold earth their bed,

The door-sill pillowing her houseless head—
Happy for them when signal from the bay
Summoned their tyrant from his home away,
With his wild mates to cruise, perhaps for many a day.
But watchful eyes at last were on the glen,
Notorious now the haunt of lawless men;
Dépôt of contraband, and even, 'twas thought,
Of things worse come by, for concealment brought.
Twice with their warrant the suspected ground
And house men keenly searched, but nothing found;
While the dark owner carelessly stood by,
And sneering thanked them for their courtesy,
And bade them look again, and more minutely pry.

Thus baffled oft, suspicion never slept,
But quiet watch about the place was kept,
Where everything unusual that befell,
Comings and goings, all were noted well.
There had been jovial doings overnight—
Late from the lattice flashed the ruddy light,
And midnight was at hand, when from the door
Staggered the parting guests with drunken roar—

“At daybreak—mind!”—“At daybreak, there I'll be”—
And the door closed the parting colloquy.
Then from within proceeded sounds more faint—
A low, sad, sobbing murmur of complaint,
Not long unbroken by a harsher tone—
And then a curse—a scuffling—and a groan—
Something that sounded like a heavy fall;
And then the listeners said—'twas quiet all;
And gladly from that dismal place they came—
Such broils were frequent in that house of shame.

They watched the skiff's departure from the bay—
“Best lie in wait for her return”—said they,
“Useless to watch about his den to-day,
No—nor to-morrow”—but a shepherd told
On the third morn, how, fancying from his fold
A straggler to the glen its way had found,
He followed in its track: and on the ground,
By the pond-side said he, saw something lie,
A whitish heap—“That's sure my lamb! said I—
And dead enough if so:—but then I heard
As I came closer—(and methought it stirred)—

A feeble plaint—as from a dying lamb—
I stopt and hearkened—'twas—‘Mammam! Mammam!’
Charlie! said I—for lying all alone,
'Twas simple Charlie made that piteous moan;
Undressed, as if just taken from his bed,
Cold as a stone, with open eyes like lead
Fixed on the dull black water—when at length
I stooped to lift him, with his little strength
(Little enough—the creature was half dead)
He made resistance, turning still his head
Toward the pond, and murmuring o'er and o'er,
‘Mammam! Mammam!’ as to the house I bore;
And there he lies—not long alive to lie—
Come quickly if you'd help him ere he die;
The door I found ajar—within—without—
No living soul. Bad work has been I doubt.”

Quickly they ran: but when they reached the place,
There lay the idiot with his poor wan face
Close to the water's edge!—although in bed
The shepherd left him, motionless—he said—
And still he made the same distressful moan,

Though faint and fainter every faltering tone;—
And still his eyes were turned with dying ray
To the dark pond, as on its brink he lay.

“'Tis not for nothing, idiot though he be,”
All said—“he gazes there so earnestly—
And one stooped down, and peering closely, thought
He something saw:—and poles and hooks were brought,
And grappled a dead weight—upfloated white
A woman's dress—one heave—and dragged to sight,
On a pale corse looked down the cheerful morning light.

“Mammam! Mammam!”—with one loud rapturous cry
(Life's last) the dying idiot bounded high,
And falling forward, sank to quiet rest,
Never to waken, on his mother's breast.

I've told my story—needs it still to tell
How that the double murd'rer in this dell,
And in this country, has no more been seen?
That his dark act that woman's end had been.
Proceedings at the inquest pointed clear—

There was a bloody fracture by her ear,
Fitting a mallet, that with hair and gore
Stuck on, was found upon the cottage floor—
His own apparel gone, and all of worth
The lonely house contained. Upon this earth
If somewhere still the ruffian roams secure,
God knows;—hereafter, his reward is sure.

One parting look upon the still sad scene,
Where so much misery, so much guilt has been,
And such a tragic act in the great play,
Life's melodrame. As calm, as still the day,
As bright the sun was shining over head,
When by that water lay the ghastly dead—
And then perhaps some little bird as now
Perched on that old scathed hawthorn's topmost bough,
Poured forth a strain as joyous and as clear
(Careless of human woes) as now we hear—
Unconscious bird! no living thing but thee
Stirs the deep stillness with a voice of glee—
The village children, if they venture near,
Sink their loud gladness into whispering fear—

No rustic lovers haunt the unblest ground—
No tenant for the hated house is found—
Our country people call it—“Black Will's den”—
And this unlovely spot—“The Murder Glen.”

WALTER AND WILLIAM.

“'Twill be a wild rough night upon the Moor:
And hark! though three miles off, the sullen roar
Of that deep-booming surge. God's mercy keep
The wayfarer, and wanderer on the deep.
The moon's but young—she'll give no help to night:
Look out, my boys! if Beacon-head burns bright;
And, lads! take Carter Joe with ye, and see
All snug about the place; more 'specially
At the new Penfold—and dun Peggy, too,
Give her and her sick foal a passing view—
Old Mark away, I've lost my right-hand man;
You must replace him.”—

Off the striplings ran,
Proud happy boys! forth rushing in their haste,

Ere well the words their father's lips had pass'd;
The elder's arm, with loving roughness, thrown
Round his young brother's neck—the fair-hair'd one.
“God bless the lads! and keep them ever so,
Hand in hand brothers, wheresoe'er they go,”
Eyeing them tenderly, the father said
As the door closed upon them: then his head,
Sighing, let fall on his supporting palm,
And, like the pausing tempest, all was calm.

Facing her husband, sate a Matron fair,
Plying her sempstress task. A shade of care
Darken'd her soft blue eyes, as to his face
(Drawn by that sigh) they wander'd, quick to trace
The unseen, by sympathy's unerring sight—
Reading his heart's thoughts by her own heart's light.

Ten years twice told had pass'd since Helen Græme
For Walter Hay's exchanged her virgin name.
Of life's vicissitudes they'd had their share,
Sunshine and shade; yet in his eyes as fair,
And dearer far than the young blooming Bride

Was she the long-tried partner; who espied
No change in him, but such as gave a cast
More tender to the love would time outlast.
They had rejoiced together at the birth
Of six fair infants: sorrowing to the earth
(With mutual sorrow, but submissive heart)
Committed three. Hard trial 'twas to part
(Young parents!) with their first-born bud of bliss;
And they who follow'd!—with the last cold kiss
Their hearts seem'd breaking, that on each they press'd.
But He so will'd it “who doth all things best.”
Out of their sight they hid their early dead,
And wept together—and were comforted.
And of their loved ones, now a lovely three
Were left, that well a parent's boast might be.
Those two bold blithesome boys of stature near,
(Their ages differing only by a year,)
Walter and William named in reminiscence dear,
And a small sister, like a green-hill Fay,
Younger by six—a little Helen Hay,
The household darling. To her father's ear,
'Twas ever music that sweet name to hear.

And now she sate, as still as still could be,
Her little stool drawn close beside his knee:
Her paly ringlets so profusely shed,
In the warm hearth-glow gleaming golden red,
As o'er the book upon her lap she bent,
On Jack the Giant-killer's feats intent.

Fit subject for some limner's skill had been,
That quiet, tender-toned, heart-soothing scene,
All in fine keeping! the old spacious room,
Half hall, half kitchen, dark'ning into gloom,
As it receded from that cavern vast—
The open hearth whence blazing oak logs cast
Rich, ruddy beams on rafter, beam, and wall,
'Twixt monstrous shadows that fantastic fall.
And all around, in picturesque array,
Hung rustic implements for use and play,
For manly sport and boyish holiday.
Basket, and net, and rifle, rod, and spear,
Coil'd lines, and weather-season'd fishing gear,
And bills and hedging gloves; and, modell'd neat,
A little schooner, (Willy's proudest feat,)

Matching a mimic plough, with graver thought
“On improved principles,” by Walter wrought—
Proud folk the parents of those works, I wot!
And tatter'd straw hats, plaited once so white
And neat, in leisurely long winter night,
By the boy brothers, while their father read
From one of those brown volumes overhead,
(No mindless untaught churl was Walter Hay,)
Some pleasant theme, instructive, grave, or gay:
His list'ning household men, and maids, and all,
Assembled round him in his rustic hall;
Together closing the laborious day,
As in the good old time, the good old way.
There stood a spinning-wheel, whose humming sound
Accompanied the reader's voice, not drown'd.
There hung a half-done cabbage-net; and there,
Nursing her kitten in the old stuff chair,
Purred a grave Tabby; while a faithful friend,
A worn-out Sheep-Dog, to his long life's end
Fast hastening, slumbered at his master's feet.
It was a pleasant picture!—very sweet
To look upon, its beautiful repose—
One earthly scene, undimm'd by human woes.

Alas! was ever spot on earth so blessed,
Where human hearts in perfect peace might rest?
One bosom sorrow, one corroding thought,
(The dark thread with his woof of life enwrought,)
Helped on the work of time with Walter Hay,
Stole half the brightness of his smile away,
And streaked in manhood's prime his dark curl'd locks with gray.
A hasty quarrel, an intemperate cup,
A hard word spoken when the blood was up,
A blow as madly dealt, but not in hate,
Repented soon and sorely, but too late—
Too late!—Ah! simple words of solemn sense,
Avenging disregarded Providence!

Remembrance of these things, and what ensued,
It was, that clouded oft his sunniest mood,
Casting a dark cold shadow o'er the life
Perhaps too prosperous else. His gentle wife
Whose wife-like tenderness could scarce descry
A fault in him she honoured, oft would try
To pluck away the thorn he sternly pressed

(Severe in self-infliction) to his breast.
“Not yours alone,” she soothingly would say,
“The blame of what befell that luckless day;
You had borne much my husband! well I know,
Much, before anger overcame you so:
And both of you that night had made too free
(Alas! that youth should so unthinking be!)
With the good ale in careless company.
How could you bear such taunts before them all,
As he—unjust and violent—let fall?
He knew your heart, to him so warm and kind,
That passion could but for a moment blind;
Passion, that love as suddenly would check,
And cast you all-repentant on his neck:
But he was gone before a word could pass—
Gone in his furious mood, before the glass
Ceased ringing, where he dash'd it on the floor
With that rash oath—to see thy face no more!”

“But I—but I—that ever it should be
Betwixt us so!—had told him bitterly
I never more desired his face to see.

100

I prosperous—He, a disappointed man—
Quick tempered, spirit vex'd. Say what you can,
Dear comforter! you cannot take away
The stinging mem'ry of that fatal day.”
Thus soothingly, a thousand times before
The loving wife had uttered o'er and o'er
Mild consolation; on his heart that fell
Balmy, though there no settled peace might dwell:
And thus again, that night whereof I tell,
They talked together; on his long-drawn sigh
Following, their low-voiced, love-toned colloquy.
And all the while, intent upon her book,
The little maid sat still; an upward look,
(As played her father's hand with her soft hair,)
Now and then glancing at the parent pair,
Her heart's contentment full, assured they both were there.

Loud burst the storm, that fitfully suppress'd,
Had for a moment sobbed itself to rest.
Creaked doors and casements, clattering came the rain,
And the old wall's stout timbers groaned again.
“Would they were back—that I could hear their tread!”

101

Listening anxiously, the mother said:
“God help, this fearful night, the houseless poor!
One would not turn a dog out from one's door.”

“No—not a dog.—And yet I had the heart,
To let him homeless from my home depart
On such another night. Full well I mind,
As the door opened, how the rain and wind
Flashed in his face, and wellnigh beat him back.
Then—had I stretched a hand out!—What lone track,
Unfriended since, hath he been doomed to tread?
Where hath he found a shelter for his head?
In this hard world, or with the happy dead?”

“Nay, doubt it not, my husband!” said the wife,
“He hath been long at rest, where care and strife,
And pain and sorrow enter not. We know
That when he left us, nineteen years ago,
He went a-shipboard straight, and crossed the seas
To that far fatal coast, where fell disease
Strikes down its thousands,—that he went ashore,
And up the country, and was seen no more.

102

Had he not perished early, we had heard
Tidings ere long by letter or by word;
For he too had a loving heart, that bore
No malice when the angry fit was o'er.
Be comforted, dear husband! he's at rest,
And let us humbly hope, for Christ's sake—blessed.”

“Hark, mother, hark! I'm sure they're coming back!”
Cried little Helen—who with Valiant Jack
Had parted for the night—“That's Willy's call
To Hector, as they turn the garden wall.
Lizzy! come quick and help me let them in—
They must be wet, poor brothers, to the skin.”
The rosy maid, already at the door,
Lifted the latch; and bounding on before,
(His rough coat scattering wide a plenteous shower,)
Hector sprang in, his master close behind,
Half spent with buffeting the rain and wind;
Gasping for breath and words a moment's space,
His eager soul all glowing in his face.

“Where's Walter?” cried the mother, pale as death—
“What's happened?” ask'd both parents in a breath.

103

“Safe, Mother dear! and sound—I tell you true—
But, Father! we can't manage without you;
Walter and Joe are waiting there down-bye,
At the old cart-house by the granary.
As we came back that way, a man we found
(Some shipwrecked seaman) stretch'd upon the ground
In that cold shelter. Very worn and weak
He seem'd, poor soul! at first could hardly speak;
And, as we held the lantern where he lay,
Moaned heavily, and turned his face away.
But we spoke kindly—bade him be of cheer,
And rise and come with us—our home was near,
Whence our dear father never from his door
Sent weary traveller—weary, sick, or poor.
He listened, turned, and lifting up his head,
Looked in our faces wistfully, and said—
‘Ye are but lads—(kind lads—God bless you both!)
And I, a friendless stranger, should be loth,
Unbidden by himself, to make so free
As cross the rich man's threshold: this for me
Is shelter good enough; for worse I've known—
What fitter bed than earth to die upon?’

104

He spoke so sad, we almost wept; and fain
Would have persuaded him, but all in vain;—
He will not move—I think he wants to die,
And so he will, if there all night he lie.”

“That shall he not,” the hearty yeoman said,
Donning his rough great-coat; “a warmer bed
Shall pillow here to-night his weary head.
Off with us, Willy! our joint luck we'll try,
And bring him home, or know the reason why.”

Warm hearts make willing hands; and Helen Hay
Bestirred her, while those dear ones were away,
Among her maidens, comforts to provide
'Gainst their return: still bustling by her side
Her little daughter, with officious care,
(Sweet mimicry!) and many a matron air
Of serious purpose, helping to spread forth
Warm hose and vestments by the glowing hearth.
From the old walnut press, with kindly thought,
Stout home-spun linen, white and sweet, was brought
In a small decent chamber overhead,

105

To make what still was call'd “The Stranger's bed.”
For many a lone wayfarer, old and poor,
Sick or sore wearied, on the dreary moor
Belated, at the hospitable door
Of the Old Farm ask'd shelter for the night,
Attracted by the far-seen, ruddy light
Of the piled hearth within.—“A bit of bread
And a night's shelter,” was the prayer oft said,
Seldom in vain;—for Walter would repeat,
With lowly reverence, that assurance sweet—
“How he the stranger's heart with food and rest
Who cheers, may entertain an angel guest;”
Or, giving in Christ's name, for his dear sake be blessed.

Oft they look'd out into the murky night
Tempestuous, for the streaming lantern light;
And hearkened (facing bold the driving sleet)
For sound of nearing voices—coming feet.
And there it gleams—and there they come at last—
Fitfully sinking, swelling on the blast;
Till clustering forms from out the darkness grow,
Supporting one, with dragging steps and slow,
Feebly approaching.—

106

“Hold the lantern low—
Courage, my friend! we've but a step to go,”
The yeoman's cheerful voice was heard to say.
“Hillo! good folks there—here, my Helen Hay,
Little and great—I've brought you home a guest
Needs your good tending,—most of all needs rest;
Which he shall find this blessed night, please God,
On softer pallet than the cold bare sod.”

As they the threshold passed, the cheerful light
Flash'd from within; and shading quick his sight,
(Pained by the sudden glare,) upon his brow
The wayworn man his ragged hat pulled low;
Bowed down his head, and sighed in such a tone
Deep drawn and heavy, 'twas almost a groan.
They helped him on, (for he could hardly stand,)
And little Helen drew him by the hand,
Whispering—“Poor man!”—At that, a moment's space
Halting, he fix'd his eyes on the young face
Of her who spoke those pitying words so mild,
And tremulously said—“God bless thee, child!”

107

The strong supporting arm—'twas Walter Hay's—
Tighten'd its clasp, and with a searching gaze
Quick turned, he peered in those strange features;—then
(For they were strange) drew back his head again,
Shaking it gently with a sorrowful smile.
The matron and her maids came round the while,
Toward the high-back'd Settle's warmest nook
To lead the weary man; but with a look
Still downcast and aside, he shrunk away,
Articulating faintly, “Not to-day—
Not there to-night. Rest only! only rest!”
So to the allotted room they brought their guest,
And laid him kindly down on the good bed,
With a soft pillow for his old grey head.
The long, thin, straggling locks, that hung adown
His hollow cheeks, had scarce a tinge of brown
Streaking their wintry white; and sorely marr'd
Was all his face: thick seamed, and deeply scarred,
As if in many battles he had fought
Among the foremost.—

“From the first, I thought,”

108

Said the young Walter, as he came below,
“The fine old fellow had dealt many a blow
For England's glory, on her wooden walls.”
The father smiled. “Not every one who falls
In fight, my son! may fall in a good cause—
As fiercely in resistance to the laws
Men strive, as in upholding them”—

“But here
I'm sure we've a true sailor, father dear!
No lawless, wicked man. When you were gone,
Willy and I some little time stay'd on—
(Mother had sent us up with some warm drink,
Made comforting)—and then you cannot think
How pleasantly, though sadly, he look'd up,
And ask'd our names as he gave back the cup;
And when we told them, took a hand of each,
While his lips moved as if in prayer—not speech,
With eyes so fixed on us, and full of tears.”
“Perhaps,” said William, “lads about our years
He might be thinking of—far, far away,
Or dead;—his own dear children. Who can say!”

109

“Ay, who indeed can say, boys?—who can tell
The deep, deep thoughts, in human hearts that dwell
Long buried, that some word of little weight
Will call up sudden from their slumbering state,
So quickened into life, that past things seem
Present again—the present but a dream.
Boys! in a book was lent me long agone,
I read what since I've often thought upon
With deepest awe. At the great Judgment-Day
Some learned scholars—wise and holy—say
That in a moment all our whole life past
Shall be spread out as in a picture vast—
Re-acted as it were, in open sight
Of God, and men, and angels; the strong light,
Indwelling conscience—serving to illume
The changeful All, complete from birth to doom.
Methinks—with humble reverence I speak—
I've been led sometimes to conception weak
Of that deep meaning, when a sudden ray
Has called, as 'twere from darkness into day,
Long past, forgotten things.—Oh! children dear!
Lay it to heart, and keep the record clear
That all unveiled, that day, must certainly appear.”

110

Thus, as was oft his wont, religious truth
The pious father taught their tender youth,
As apposite occasion led the way;
No formal teacher stern. Nor only they,
The filial listeners, fixed attention gave
To his wise talk; with earnest looks and grave
His rustic household, at the supper board
Assembled all, gave heed to every word
Uttered instructive; and when down he took
And opened reverently the blessed Book;
With hearts prepared, on its great message dwelt:
And when around, in after prayer they knelt,
Forgot not, e'er they rose, for him to pray
Master and Teacher,—Father, they might say,
Who led them like his own, the happy, heavenward way.

“Did you take notice, wife”—the husband said,
The busy well-spent day thus finished,
When all except themselves were gone to rest—
“Did you take notice, when our stranger guest
Spoke those few words to Helen, of his tone?
It thrilled my very heart through: so like one
These nineteen years unheard.”

111

“I scarce gave heed
To anything,” she said, “but his great need
Of help, poor soul! so faint he seemed and low.”
“Well, well,” rejoined her husband, “even now
I seem to hear it:—Then, into my brain,
Wild thoughts came crowding; quickly gone again,
When I looked hard, but not a line could trace
Familiar in that weatherbeaten face.
That lost one, were he living now, would be
Younger a year and many months than me—
Than this time-stricken man, by many a year,
But, oh! these thoughts will haunt me, Helen, dear!
These sudden fancies, though so oft before
I've proved them vain, and felt all hope was o'er.”

“Only for this world, husband mine!” she said,
“They live in Heaven, whom here we count as dead,
And there we all shall meet, when all is finished.”

“God grant it!” fervently he said; “and so
To bed, good wife! I must be up, you know,
And off by daybreak, on my townward way,

112

Where, business done, be sure I shall not stay
A needless minute. Yet I guess 'twill be
Dark night before my own snug home I see.
Mind a low chair and cushion in the cart
Be set for Mark. God bless his poor old heart!
Though from the hospital they send him back
Blind and incurable, he shall not lack
Comfort or kindness here; his service done
Of sixty years wellnigh, to sire and son.
I miss him every where; but most of all
Methinks at prayer-time, the deep solemn fall,
Tremblingly fervent, of his long ‘Amen!’
'Twill glad my heart to hear that sound again.”

The Supper-board was spread—the hearth piled high—
All at the Farm look'd bright expectancy
Of him who ever seemed too long away,
If absent from his dear ones but a day:
Old Mark, too, coming home! what joy to all!—
Ye know not, worldlings, what glad festival
Pure hearts of simplest elements can make—
Ye, whose palled sense, poor pleasure scarce can take
At feasts, where lips may smile, but hearts so often ache.

113

There was a sudden rush from the old hall,
Children, and men, and maids, and dogs, and all
Save her, who, with a deeper gladness, stayed
Quietly busied; and far back in shade
(Forgotten there awhile) the stranger guest.
But quiet though she seemeth, with the rest
Be sure her heart went forth those wheels to meet;
And now they stop: and loving voices greet,
Mingling confusedly; yet every one
She hears distinct: as harmonist each tone
Of his full chord,—distinct as if alone.

And there he comes, (sight gladdening every eye,)
The darling young one in his arms throned high,
Her warm cheek to his cold one closely pressed.
And there those two blithe boys, and all the rest,
So crowd about old Mark with loving zeal.
The blind man weeps, and fondly tries to feel
Those fair young faces he no more must see.
“Give us warm welcome, Dame!” cried cheerily
Her husband, as their greeting glances met;
“We're cold enough, I warrant, and sharp set—

114

But here's a sight would warm the dead to life,
Clean hearth, bright blaze, heaped board, and smiling wife!”

Lightly he spake,—but with a loving look
Went to her heart, who all its meaning took:
And briskly she bestirr'd herself about,
And with her merry maids, heaped smoking out
The savoury messes. With unneeded care
Set nearer still, the goodman's ready chair:
Then helped uncase him from his rough great-coat,
Then gave a glance that all was right to note:
Welcomed old Mark to his accustomed seat
With that heart-welcoming, so silver sweet;
And, all at last completed to her mind,
Call'd to the board with cheerful bidding kind;
Where all stood round in serious quietness,
Till God's good gifts the master's voice should bless.
But, with a sudden thought, as glancing round,
“I thought,” he said, “another to have found
Among us here to-night.” “And he is here,”
Exclaim'd the wife—“forgotten though so near!”

115

Then turning where the stranger sat far back,
She said—“Forgive us friend! our seeming lack
Of Christian courtesy: Draw near, and share
With hearty welcome, of our wholesome fare.”
Silent and slow, the bashful guest obeyed,
Still shrinkingly, as to presume afraid;
And when his host with kindly greeting pressed,
Bowed down his head—deep down upon his breast,
Answering in words so low you scarce could hear—
But the quick sense of blindness caught them clear;
And in a tone which thrill'd through every heart,
The sightless man, with a convulsive start,
Called out—“As God's in heaven, (His will be done,)
That was the voice of my dead master's son!”

“Mark! Mark! what say'st, old man?” cried sharply out
His Master, as he rose and turned about
(Trembling exceedingly) his guest to face;
Who at that outcry, staggering back a pace,
(He also trembled, and look'd like to fall,)
Leant back—a heavy weight—against the wall.

116

One might have heard a pin fall on the ground,
There was such deep and sudden silence round:
Except that two or three breathed audibly,
(Those wondering boys, whose eager hearts beat high,)
And little Helen sobbed, she knew not why.

There fixèd, foot to foot, and breast to breast,
And face to face, stood Walter and his Guest—
And neither stirr'd a limb, nor wink'd an eye,
(The stranger's sought the ground still droopingly,)
Nor spoke, till many minutes had gone by;
Then, as if life upon his utterance hung,
In low, deep accents, loosened first his tongue,
Upon the other's shoulder as he laid
His right hand slowly, Walter softly said—
“Dear brother William!” An electric start
Answer'd that touch, deep-thrilling to the heart,
And that soft whisper'd word. Their meeting eyes,
Full of fond yearnings, tender memories,
All in a moment told—explain'd—confessed—
Absolved.—And Walter fell on William's breast.

177

ON SEEING LAID THE FIRST STONE OF PENINGTON CHURCH—1838.

On this day's purpose, Lord!
Send down thy blessing;
Hear thou the suppliant hearts
Thy throne addressing:—
Let thy light shine on this appointed place;
And perfect our imperfect work, thro' grace.

Full well, O Lord! we know,
That temples made with hands
Thou needest not, whose power
Creation spans;
Yet dwellest oft in shrines—not molten gold—
But some poor humble heart of human mould.

178

But thou hast pledged thy word,
Where two or three
Are gathered in thy name,
Thyself will be.
Thus we behold, by Faith's far-stretching eye,
Thy presence in the future Sanctuary.

Therefore we lay this stone,
And humbly pray—
Be with us, Lord! and bless
Our act this day.
Be with their hearts and counsels who direct,
And with the builder's hand, Almighty Architect!

But chiefly be with those
Shall hither come,
When, consecrated, stands
The finished dome.
On all, O Father! let thy Spirit rest—
People and Priest—on all—in every breast.

179

On this day's purpose, Lord!
Send down thy blessing:
Hear thou the suppliant hearts
Thy throne addressing:—
Let thy light shine on this appointed place;
And perfect our imperfect work, thro' grace.

180

TO A YOUNG SOUTH AMERICAN SPANIARD.

Stranger, from a land of sunshine!
What, returning, wilt thou tell
Of the sunless land thou leavest,
With, perhaps, a last farewell?

Wilt thou, of thy young experience,
When the story shall be told,
Say that, like our dull cold climate,
Hearts and minds are dull and cold?

No; a less ungentle record
Of the past thou'lt bear away;
“Good and evil have I met with,
Strength and weakness,” thou wilt say.

181

Truth and error—coldness, kindness—
All the good I bear in mind;
All remembrance of the evil
Leave, with England's fogs, behind.

190

ABRAM AND THE FIRE-WORSHIPPER.

A RABBINICAL LEGEND:

In his tent door, at eventide,
The Father of the Faithful stands,
With upraised hands,
Shading his sight
From the low slanting light,
As thro' the Palms, on either side,
And over the red sands,
And thro' the burning haze,
He sends afar a wistful gaze,
Belated traveller haply to discern,
And make him turn
Into the tent that night,
An honoured guest,
To comfort there his heart with food and rest.

191

And lo!
As at the wish appears,
Bowed down with weight of years
More than of weariness, an aged man.
White was his beard as snow,
Feeble and slow
His tottering gait;
And Abram doth not wait,
But while one ran
To bid prepare the bath, makes haste to meet
The slow advancing feet:
And “Turn in here, my Father, and eat bread,
And with thy servant rest to-night,” he said.

They have washed the desert sands
From the stranger's burning feet;
They have poured upon his hands
Pure water, cool and sweet,
And now they set on meat;
And with sweet sense of rest
The way-worn guest
Prepares to eat.

192

But—“Hold!”—with lowering brow
Of dark surprise
The entertainer cries—
“Man! what art thou
That bowest not the head,
Nor prayer hast said
To the Most High, before thou breakest bread?”

Meekly the Man replies,
Uplifting his dim eyes,
(Dim now with tears
As with his hundred years,)
“Oh! let not my Lord's ire
Wax hot against me now;
Thy servant doth not bow
To Gods of wood or stone;
I worship One alone
To whom all souls aspire—
The Everliving One,
The sacred fire.”

“Hence, Heathen, from my door!
Pollute my place no more!”

193

In zeal for the true God, cries Abram then;
“Nor there must thou be laid
Under that palm tree's shade;
'Twould wither at the root,
Nor evermore bear fruit,
Accursed among men!
Back to the howling wilderness again;
Go forth, and see
If there thy God will seek and cherish thee.”

Meekly the man obeys;
He takes his staff,
(While from behind is heard a mocking laugh,)
And foot-sore, and in pain,
And hungry and athirst, goes forth again
Into the lonesome night:
Nor for that sight
Relenteth Abram; in the tent he stays,
Sternly resolved, and says,
With self-complacency devout,
“I have done well,—I have cast out

194

The unbelieving thing abhorred;
So be it ever with thy foes, O Lord!”

Then spake a Voice, and said,
“Where, Abram, is thy guest?”—
“Thou knowest best
Who knowest all things!” straight, withouten dread,
Abram replies:
“Thou knowest well, All-wise,
That I am very jealous for thy name,
And strong to put to shame
Thine enemies;
And even now,
(His hundred years of sin be on his head)
Have I not thrust out one, who unto thee
Never made vow,
Nor bent the knee?
All-just! for this good deed remember me.”

“Ill, Abram, hast thou done,”
The Voice made answer then,—
“Have I not set the sun
To shine upon all men,

195

Mine—every one.—
And could'st not thou forbear
One hour with him, an hundred years my care?
Whom I have borne with, tho' he knew me not,
He, the untaught.—
Go, bring thy brother back,
Nor let him lack
Love's service; peradventure so to win,
From ignorant sin
Of foul idolatry,
A soul for me.”

The word was spoken,
The heart of pride was broken;
Gone was the blindness—
Altered to loving-kindness
The zealot mood:
“Lord! thou alone art good,
And I am nought.
The ill that I have wrought
Forgive me now;
There is none good but Thou!”

196

So Abram spake, heart-chastened;
And forth, in anxious quest
Of the despised guest
—Despised no longer—hastened.
Nor long in vain
He, with his Servants, sought;
Small progress had he made, that Man forlorn,
Aged, and weak, and worn:
And found, they bring him to the tent again
With tenderest care,
To honourable entertainment there,
Soft rest and choicest fare:
And Abram waited on his guest that night,
Self-humbled in his sight.

197

THE THREE SISTERS.

[_]

Loch Awe.—Three large Ash-trees by the road-side are know by the name of the Three Sisters, from the persons who planted them; and this was all we heard. A more durable monument these Sisters, whoever they were, might have left, but not a more beautiful nor a more affecting one, under whatever circumstances they may have planted the trees which have already so long survived them,—whether in the joyousness of childhood, with no fore-thought and fore-feeling to disturb their enjoyment; or perhaps with too much of that feeling, when they were about to be separated for the first time, or for ever. Mr. Southey's Scotch Journal, p. 247.

Stop, Traveller! rest and contemplate
A moment on thy way,
Those three fair spreading Ashen trees,
That gently in the noon-day breeze
Wave light their feathery spray.

Thou walkest on thy worldly way,
And seek'st the crowded mart.
Yet pause—thou never wilt repent
(Stolen from the world) these moments spent
In quietness of heart.

198

“The world is too much with us” all—
It is a blessed thing
To find a little resting-place,
A secret nook—a charmed space,
Safe from its entering.

Where hoarded thoughts, pure, spiritual,
Imaginative, holy,
(Released awhile from clinging clay,)
May revel—innocently gay,
Or mildly melancholy.

Where Memory's inward eye may dwell
On consecrated treasures,
Too precious to be gazed upon
Where Life's cold common round runs on,
Of heartless cares and pleasures.

Where Fancy may in Cloudland build,
Or smallest earthly space,
As here—and so we come at last
To an old story of the past,
Connected with this place—

199

Yet not a story:—just a sketch—
A shadowy outline rude;
Such as, methinks, 'twere pleasant play
To sit and fill this summer day,
With apt similitude.

These Ash trees—(mark their number well;
Their equal growth you see,
Their equal ages: vigorous, green
As their first leafy prime was seen)—
Are called—“The Sisters Three.”

By whom—or after whom so called,
None living now can say;
Nor planted how long since—nor more
Than that the name they bear, they bore
In a long distant day,

Memorial of a mortal three
Who set them where they stand,
Their pensile branches still to wave
When long long mouldered in the grave,
Each planter Sister's hand—

200

Unsculptured, fragile monument!
Who wills, may read in thee
—Reading with thoughtful heart, and mind
To dreamy questioning inclined—
A touching mystery.

What were those Sisters?—young or old?—
Of high or humble birth?
Simple or wise—admired or scorned?
Loved and lamented, or unmourned
Passed they away from earth?—

Came they in joyous childhood here,
From sad fore-feeling free,
To set—by hands parental led—
The Sapling trees that overhead
Inarch so loftily?

Or hither, in short after-time,
(Tears from their young eyes starting)
Came they with saddened mien sedate,
And arms entwined, to consecrate
The eve of a first parting?

201

Each calling by a Sister's name
The youngling Ash then set;
And blessing, as she turned away,
The frail memorial of a day
It stands recording yet.

Or was it, of the Sisters three
When two were dead and gone,
That, all-absorbed in mournful thought,
This spot the sad survivor sought—
The last and lonely one!—

This spot, in childish joyance oft
Where they had played together,
Merry as blossoms on the bough,
Or birds, their fairy sports I trow
Scarce startled from the heather.

Two soundly sleep in distant graves—
And one stands all alone,
Fading and failing fast—with her
To perish the last chronicler
Of those to dust gone down.—

202

So thought she, reasoning with herself,
Perchance, that thing forlorn;
And, gazing sadly round, sighed on—
“Here all will look when we are gone
As we had ne'er been born!”

A natural thought! most natural,
The fond desire to leave
Some record (than elaborate tomb
More fitting here) of those for whom
None would be left to grieve.

And so perhaps she caused to plant
These trees that self-same day.—
Traveller! I've dreamt my dream—Grudge not
Thy tarriance in this quiet spot—
Pass peaceful on thy way.

210

TO A CENTAGENARIAN ON HER HUNDREDTH BIRTHDAY.

Aged handmaid of the Lord,
Humbly waiting on his word;
Peace be with thee!—Peace and love
On Earth beneath—In Heaven above.

Thou between two worlds dost stand:
Long so near the better land,
That from thence a wandering ray
Seems about thy brow to play;

That, on Life's extremest shore,
From the rough road travelled o'er,
Calmly resting, thou may'st cry
“Now is my salvation nigh.”

Pilgrim of an hundred years!
Loosened from life's hopes and fears,

211

What hast thou to do but wait
(Almost there) at Heaven's gate?

All the little space between
Pleasant still, and fresh and green;
So the greenness of the heart
Lives in thee,—youth's better part.

Types and tidings of good cheer
Comfort thee throughout the year;
From thy Bible's countless store
To the spring-flowers at thy door.

Bursting from their wintry tomb,
There again those bright ones bloom;
Pass a few short seasons o'er
Of life and death, to wake no more.

But when Earth gives up her trust
—Aye, every grain of human dust—
Far other wakening thine shall be,
Death swallowed up in Victory.

212

TO EMILY.

A Little bird has sung to me
That my small cousin Emily
Betrays a turn for rhyming:
Well pleased I heard that little bird,
For in my day, such rhyming play
I too have spent some time in,

And found it pretty pastime too;
And more than that I'll say to you,
Let who will differ widely:
“An idle trade,” by some 'tis said,—
But so you see, all trades may be,
If followed ill, or idly.

213

Who giveth all, gives all things good;
So runs, if rightly understood,
The truth of this same story:
The gifts of song to Him belong,
And grateful love will best improve
The talent, to His glory.

232

TO A WIDOWED FRIEND.

November, 1845.

The first young leaves were budding
When my dear one dying lay;
The withered last are dropping,
As thine has past away.

But they've met in the land of summer,
In the land where there's no decay,
Where God is their portion for ever,
And his presence eternal day.

Would we draw them down from their glory,
Would we call them back from their bliss,
To sorrow again and suffer
In such a world as this?

233

Oh, no!—by the love we bore them—
By the love that can never die;
That sprang up in Time to be ripened
In immortality.

Oh, no!—by our own high calling;
Oh, no!—by the hope so sure,
If casting on Christ our burthen,
We faithfully endure.

We have yet to do, and to suffer,
As our lonely paths we tread,
And the sinking heart of the mourner
Will often die with the dead.

But not in the grave to linger
With dust and darkness there;
For the stone hath been rolled away
From the door of the Sepulchre.

234

“Lift up the hands that hang down, then”—
“The hands and the feeble knees;”
Let us go on our way rejoicing,
As “one who believing, sees.”—

Sees Christ, over Death victorious,
Returning in bright array,
With his Saints in the faith departed,
All—all in his train that day!

236

SONNETS.

237

WRITTEN IN THE FLY-LEAF OF MY FATHER'S OLD COPY OF IZAAK WALTON'S COMPLETE ANGLER.

As fondly these discoloured leaves I turn,
Outsteal, methinks, sweet breathings of the May;
Of flower-embroidered fields, and new-mown hay,
And sound of oaten pipe, and “trotting burn,”
And lark and milkmaid's song. Among the fern
And blue bells once again I seem to lie,
A happy child; my father angling nigh,
Intent, as 'twere our daily bread to earn,
On his mute pastime. In that quiet nook
Nestling, o'ershadowed by a pollard beach,
And poring dear old Izaak! on thy book,
Lessons I learnt the schools can never teach,—
Lessons that time can ne'er efface, nor age
Nor worldly teachings, from the heart's warm page.

238

ON HEARING FOR THE FIRST TIME THE BELLS FROM A NEW CHURCH

As on my churchward path I walked to-day,
Another church bell from the west first heard
(Sound “pleasanter than song of earliest bird”)
With the soft air came mingling. On my way
I paused a moment, for the Voice said—“Stay,
And listening, lift thine heart in silent prayer,
That I to many a long closed ear, may bear
The call awakening:—Lift thine heart and pray
That many to their father's house so brought,
(Some careless, or but curious,) there may find
And taste the well with living waters fraught:
And going forth renewed in heart and mind,
May walk hereafter, ever faithful found,
Like pilgrims to a better country bound.”

1838.

239

TO THE CROWN PRINCE OF HANOVER.

“Whom the Lord loves he chastens.” Upon thee
Betimes, O Prince! the loving hand severe
Was laid, to give the world assurance clear
How sweet the uses of adversity.
How perfect, more than outward sense, may be
The inward vision, purged by heavenly truth,
Which gave thee to discern in blooming youth
Things that pertain to Heaven. So fixing free
Thy faith immutable, that, all prepared,
On the unerring will thou dost await,
Whether to give thee back the sense impaired,
Or, dooming darkness for thy mortal state,
To open first thine eyes where they shall meet
The Saviour's, smiling from the mercy-seat.

1841.

240

TO THE MOTHER OF LUCRETIA AND MARGARET DAVIDSON.

O lady! greatly favoured, greatly tried—
Was ever glory, ever grief like thine,
Since hers, the Mother of the Man Divine,
The Perfect One—The Crowned—The Crucified?
Wonder and joy, high hope and chastened pride
Thrilled thee, intently watching hour by hour
The fast unfolding of each human flower,
In hues of more than mortal brilliance dyed.
And then the blight—the fading—the first fear—
The sickening hope—the doom—the end of all—
Heart withering, if indeed all ended here.—
But from the dust, the coffin, and the pall,
Mother bereaved! thy tearful eyes upraise—
Mother of Angels! join their songs of praise.

241

[Oh, pleasant Cloud-land! many a structure fair]

Oh, pleasant Cloud-land! many a structure fair
In thy romantic region have I reared,
When life was new and countless paths appeared,
Leading to happiness. Even early care
(For it came early) scarcely could impair
The ærial masonry; rebuilt as fast
As by unkind reality down-cast.
But then the springs of youth began to wear
Of Youth and Hope: the toppling fabrics fell
Each after other crushed—the Builder last,
Storm-beat to earth. But there I cannot dwell;
Too hard the soil—too cold the bitter blast—
The soil too treacherous.—I must away
To the warm regions of the perfect day.

242

[Unthinking youth! How prodigal thou art]

Unthinking youth! how prodigal thou art,
Lavish and reckless of thy priceless wealth,
Time, talents, energies, occasion, health,
And large capacity of mind and heart
For knowledge—happiness. The spendthrift's part
Thou playest, and the wanton's: all the while
Stealthily dodging thee with bony smile,
Coldly derisive, and uplifted dart,
The fell Anatomy.—A wakening day,
Tardy and startling comes—“I will arise;
And gird my loins, and get me on my way
And overtake Time yet,” the dreamer cries;
But on he speeds who never yet would wait,
And that fell watcher whispers now—“Too late!”

243

[Forgive, O Father! the infirmity]

Forgive, O Father! the infirmity
Of thy poor child of dust; that when I muse
On things to come, my wildered thoughts refuse
To dwell upon the glorious imagery
That clothes thy promises:—Heaven's hierarchy,
“Thrones, dominations,” uncreated Light,
The Everlasting and the Infinite.
But oh! the blessedness by faith to see
That pitying face divine of him who bore
Our mortal nature, shedding human tears
For human sorrows: and with him, no more
To weep—to be the sport of hopes and fears,
Our own—our best beloved—upon his breast,
Till the time comes, who take their happy rest.

244

[On, on upon our mortal course we go]

On, on upon our mortal course we go,
Striving and struggling, pressing forward all
To the same goal—a grave; and many fall
On all sides, out of sight e'er well we know
Whither or how,—the way still crowded so
With others in advance; till here and there
(As when the woodman's axe is laying bare
Old forest stems) appears a gap.—And lo!
The foremost rank grows thin—they drop away
Faster and faster on those steps we tread,
Till scarce a straggler on our path doth stray;
And now the last is gone. The narrow bed
For us lies ready—our life's tale is told
To the concluding leaf.—We are the old.

245

[“Patient I am, resigned and calm,” ye say]

“Patient I am, resigned and calm,” ye say;
Yet there are seasons of strong agony,
Unseen by all but the All-seeing Eye,
When Nature passionately breaks away,
Like a long pent-up torrent, from all stay
Of reason and of grace, and I could cry—
“Give me this thing, O Lord! or let me die;”
But that a hand upon my lips doth lay
Its merciful restraint; and then, like rain,
Streams gently down a heart-relieving shower;
And self-rebuked, the soul prepares again,
Strengthened in weakness, to abide her hour
And the Lord's leisure; casting, as most meet,
Her all—her sins and sorrows—at His feet.

246

TO AN OLD FAMILY PORTRAIT.

Oh, lovely Lady! my fair Ancestress!
Of all familiar faces I have known
From earliest recollection, thine alone
In my declining day of dark distress
Looks on me now with pitying gentleness,
All others far away. Those earnest eyes,
Melting, methinks, with living sympathies,
Meet mine, and to a heart in heaviness
Discourse with eloquent utterance passing speech.
Thou hast known sorrow in thy little day,
For thou wert human: thy sweet patience teach
(That thou wert patient those mild features say)
To thy sad daughter, in her strange estate
Sore tried—so mated, yet so desolate.

247

[We came together at life's eventide]

We came together at life's eventide,
Fast friends of twenty years; cementing now
For brief duration here, with holiest vow,
Our earthly union, sealed and sanctified
By an immortal hope. His mind would guide,
His strength support, methought, my feeble frame,
God strengthening both; in him the vital flame
Burnt up so brightly yet:—so side by side,
Mutually comforting, we might descend
The downward way slow dark'ning; but than death
Worse darkness was at hand—more doleful end—
Not worst—not final. When with life's poor breath
All here is finished, gloriously restored,
Thee shall I meet, beloved! in likeness of thy Lord!

248

ON MY HUSBAND'S BIRTHDAY.

Sixty and seven hast thou fulfilled this day,
My Husband, of the appointed years of man;
Now resting from thy labours a brief span
Before the final close. I dare not pray
That the mysterious veil be drawn away
Which parts thee from this world and all its woes:
So parted, thou dost hold perhaps—God knows—
Higher communion, for thy portion lay
In a fair heritage—“an heavenly.”—Aye,
When goodliest here, toward that better land
Thy thoughts still tended, and with all thy might
The Master's work committed to thine hand
Thou didst—deep mindful of the coming night.
Lord! in thine own good time make thou his darkness light!

University of Virginia Library

ROBIN HOOD: A Fragment.

ROBIN HOOD.[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable.

I. PART I.—R.S.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

XXI.

XXII.

XXIII.

XXIV.

II. PART II.—C.S.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

THE THREE SPANIARDS.

MARCH.

THE MURDER GLEN.

WALTER AND WILLIAM.

ON SEEING LAID THE FIRST STONE OF PENINGTON CHURCH—1838.

TO A YOUNG SOUTH AMERICAN SPANIARD.

ABRAM AND THE FIRE-WORSHIPPER.

A RABBINICAL LEGEND:

THE THREE SISTERS.

TO A CENTAGENARIAN ON HER HUNDREDTH BIRTHDAY.

TO EMILY.

TO A WIDOWED FRIEND.

SONNETS.

WRITTEN IN THE FLY-LEAF OF MY FATHER'S OLD COPY OF IZAAK WALTON'S COMPLETE ANGLER.

ON HEARING FOR THE FIRST TIME THE BELLS FROM A NEW CHURCH

TO THE CROWN PRINCE OF HANOVER.

TO THE MOTHER OF LUCRETIA AND MARGARET DAVIDSON.

[Oh, pleasant Cloud-land! many a structure fair]

[Unthinking youth! How prodigal thou art]

[Forgive, O Father! the infirmity]

[On, on upon our mortal course we go]

[“Patient I am, resigned and calm,” ye say]

TO AN OLD FAMILY PORTRAIT.

[We came together at life's eventide]

ON MY HUSBAND'S BIRTHDAY.

ROBIN HOOD.
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.